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REPRESENTATIVE AMERICAN PLAYS 
 
REPRESENTATIVE 
 AMERICAN PLAYS 
 
 EDITED WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR HOBSON QUINN 
 
 University of PeoBsylvania 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1922 
 
r. 
 
 
 Copyright, 1917, by 
 
 The Century Co. 
 
 Published January, 1917. 
 
 Reprinted 1917, 1919 
 
 Second Edition, Revised, 1920 
 
 
 Printed in U. S. A. 
 
TO 
 
 H. McK. Q. 
 
 But for whose eyes and whose heart 
 This book had never existed. 
 
PKEFACE 
 
 This volume is the realization of a long-cherished desire to bring together 
 in a form convenient to readers and students of the drama a number of rep- 
 resentative American plays. It is the first attempt to include in one collection 
 a series of plays which illustrate the development of our native drama from 
 its beginning to the present day. No other branch of our native literature has 
 been so inaccessible. The work of the elder playwrights is preserved largely 
 in rare editions or in manuscript and that of the newer generation has fre- 
 quently remained unpublished through considerations of a nature which for- 
 tunately obtain less and less, as the real significance of our drama is becoming 
 better appreciated. 
 
 In selecting the plays, the first consideration, obviously, was that they 
 should have been written by native Americans. The only exception to this 
 principle of selection has been made in the case of Dion Boucicault, who is so 
 significant a force in our dramatic history that his inclusion seemed necessary. 
 At the outset also, it was determined that no play should be selected which had 
 not had actual stage representation by a professional company. The closet 
 drama is interesting in its place, but its significance is slight compared to that 
 of the acted play. This consideration, for example, determined the exclusion 
 of the satiric plays of the Eevolution, as there is no certain evidence that they 
 were performed even by amateurs. Preference has been given to the plays 
 dealing with native themes, sixteen of the twenty-five plays being laid in this 
 country, while in two others American characters appear. Care has been 
 taken also to include, so far as possible, the principal types of play into which 
 our drama has run, so that if the book is used in connection with a course of 
 lectures upon the American Drama, the material will be at hand to illustrate 
 its development. The comparison of the military plays, Andre, The Triumph at 
 Plattshurg, Shenandoah, and Secret Service, or of the social comedies, The Con- 
 trast, Fashion, Her Great Match and The New York Idea, will be found 
 most interesting, while a contrast between The Prince of Parthia and Francesca 
 da Rimini will illustrate the growth in the field of romantic tragedy where our 
 earlier drama scored so many triumphs. No play, however, has been chosen sim- 
 ply for its interest as a type ; all have had to justify themselves on the score of 
 their intrinsic excellence and the difficulty has been to choose among the wealth 
 of material. In the cases of the modern plays, questions of copyright have some- 
 times interfered to restrict the freedom of choice. It is a matter of regret that 
 
 vii 
 
PREFACE 
 
 the work of James A. Heme could not be represented and that the choice of a 
 play by Clyde Fitch had to fall outside of those included in his "Memorial Edi- 
 tion. ' ' But it is a satisfaction to the editor to note how few changes had to be 
 made from the first list of selections. 
 
 Before each play, a brief introduction explains its significance and gives a 
 biographical sketch of the author, together with necessary information concern- 
 ing his plays. No pains have been spared to make these introductions accurate, 
 and the editor has fortunately had at his disposal not only the usual histories 
 of the theatre, but also manuscript sources such as the Bird and Boker Papers 
 and the Diary of William ^Yood, the Manager of the Chestnut Street Theatre 
 in Philadelphia, as well as the printed sources that are included in the Clothier 
 Collection of American Plays in the Library of the University of Pennsylvania. 
 In the cases of the modern plays the information has been checked in nearly 
 every ease by the playwrights themselves. In each of the introductions a se- 
 lected bibliography has been given. It has seemed unnecessary to cumber these 
 with long lists of magazine articles of a fugitive character but it is hoped that 
 the references given will be found helpful. A general bibliography of books 
 relating to the American Drama has been placed at the end of the volume. 
 
 In each introduction is given also the source of the text. Where it was 
 possible to obtain acting versions of the older texts, the differences between 
 these and the reading versions have been indicated. In general where emenda- 
 tions have been made, they have been included in square brackets. The spell- 
 ing has followed that of the original text, and the stage directions have been 
 reprinted in the older plays as originally given. Several of the modern plays 
 have been revised by the authors and their wishes have naturally been followed 
 both as to text and stage directions. Some slight alterations have been made 
 even here for the sake of uniformity, and where the preparation of the text has 
 fallen on the editor alone, he has tried to present the stage directions in a read- 
 able form, according to modern standards of technique. 
 
 Many friends have helped in the preparation of this volume. Of primary 
 importance was the establishment, through the generosity of Mr. Morris L. 
 Clothier, of the Library of American Plays which bears his name. The con- 
 tinued interest in the collection of its donor and of the Chairman of the Library 
 Committee, Dr. Joseph G. Rosengarten, has been of a degree of service that 
 is difficult to measure. Special acknowledgments are made in the separate in- 
 troductions to those who have aided in the cases of individual plays. Mention 
 must be made here, however, of the help rendered by Mr. Augustus Thomas 
 and Mr. Percy MacKaye, in connection with plays not their own. Valuable 
 suggestions concerning the sources of the older plays have been made by my 
 colleagues, Professor J. P. W. Crawford and Professor Arthur C. Rowland, 
 and here, too, should be acknowledged the generous help in collation of texts 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 and preparation of bibliography rendered by Dr. John L. Haney, by my col- 
 leagues in the English Department, Dr. A. C. Bangh, Mr. F. A. Laurie, Jr., 
 Mr. Clement Foust, and by my Assistant, Mr. R. A. Robinson. The greatest 
 help of all, however, came from her to whom this book is dedicated and for whose 
 service there can be no adequate acknowledgment. 
 
 University of Pennsylvania, October, 1916. A. H. Q, 
 
 Note to Revised Edition. 
 
 The Editor has taken the opportunity of the fourth printing of the collection 
 to bring up to date the references to the work of living playwrights, including 
 the dates of performance of plays produced since October, 1916. Dates of 
 revivals of the older plays have also been indicated and the most significant plays 
 and works of reference published since that date have been noted. These addi- 
 tions to the Bibliography have been made to the individual chapters where they 
 refer to the dramatists included in this volume. In addition, a list of the most 
 important works in the general field of American Drama has been added to the 
 General Bibliography at the end of the volume. 
 
 The Editor takes pleasure in acknowledging many kind expressions of 
 appreciation and helpful criticism which he has reflected in the revision so far as 
 was possible. If he had had no other reward than the satisfaction which has come 
 to him from the recent growth of interest in our native drama, which perhaps 
 this volume and those whose publication it has inspired, have had their share in 
 producing, he would have been rewarded for the labor of preparing it. 
 
 April, 1920. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Prince of Parthia ... . Thomas Godfrey 1 
 
 The Contrast Itoyall Tyler 434^ 
 
 Andre William Dunlap ..... 79P^ 
 
 Superstition James Nelson Barker .... 109 
 
 John Howard Payne^ 
 Charles the Second i ^„ , . , . > . . . 141 
 
 y 
 
 Washington Irving J 
 
 The Triumph at Plattsburg . . Richard Penn Smith . . . .16^ 
 
 Pocahontas, or The Settlers of 
 
 Virginia George Washington Parke Custis 181 
 
 The Broker of Bogota .... Bohert Montgomery Bird . . . 209 
 
 Tortesa the Usurer Nathaniel Parker Willis . . . 253 
 
 Fashion Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie . . 29^*^^ 
 
 Francesca da Rimini ..... George Henry Boker .... 329 
 
 Leonora, or the World's Own . . Julia Ward Howe 385 
 
 The Octoroon, or Life in Louis- 
 iana Dion Boucicault 429 
 
 Rip Van Winkle ,..»., As played hy Joseph Jefferson . 459 
 
 Hazel Kirke Steele MacKaye 493 
 
 Shenandoah ....... Bronson Howard 533 
 
 Secret Service William Gillette 573 
 
 r David Belasco . ^ 
 
 Madame Butterfly -{ ,_ )-.... 649 
 
 [ John Luther Long j 
 
 Her Great Match ...... Clyde Fitch 665 
 
 The New York Idea Langdon Mitchell 709 
 
 The Witching Hour Augustus Thomas 763 
 
 The Faith Healer ...... William Vaughn Moody . . .805 
 
 The Scarecrow . Percy MacKaye 841 
 
 The Boss Edward Sheldon 879 
 
 He and She Rachel Crothers 925 
 
THE 
 PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 BY 
 
 Thomas Godfrey 
 
THE PRINCE OF PAETHIA 
 
 The Prince of Parthia is the first play written by an American to be per- 
 formed in America by a professional company of actors. It was written by 
 Thomas Godfrey, born December 4^ 1736, in Philadelphia, the son of Thomas 
 Godfrey, the inventor of the sea-quadrant. According to his biographer he was 
 educated at ''an English School" in that city. He was also a pupil of William 
 Smith, Provost of the College of Philadelphia, and had as companions, Benja- 
 min West, and Francis Hopkinson, the first original poet-composer in the colo- 
 nies. Having been released from his indentures to a watch maker, he became in 
 1758 a lieutenant in the Pennsylvania militia for the expedition against Fort 
 Duquesne. The next year he accepted a position as a factor in North Carolina 
 where he stayed for three years and where he brought to completion The Prince 
 of Parthia. Godfrey had probably seen the American Company act in Philadel- 
 phia in 1754 when, owing to the opposition to the theatre, the actors had been 
 forced to play in a warehouse belonging to William Plumsted, one of the Trus- 
 tees of the College, on Water Street. Being a pupil of William Smith, Godfrey 
 had almost certainly attended the benefit which the American Company gave 
 for the Charity School of the College, June 19, 1754. He may have offered the 
 play to David Douglass, the Manager of the reorganized American Company, as 
 early as 1759, but it was not acted until after Godfrey's death. He died August 
 3, 1763, in North Carolina, and The Prince of Parthia, together with his other 
 poems, was published in 1765 by his friend, Nathaniel Evans, with an account 
 of Godfrey. The play was produced on April 24, 1767, according to the follow- 
 ing advertisement which appeared in No. 1272 of The Pennsylvania Journal and 
 the Weekly Advertiser, Thursday, April 23, 1767. 
 
 BY AUTHORITY, 
 
 Never Performed Before. 
 
 By the American Company, 
 
 At the New Theatre, in Southwark, 
 
 on Friday, the Twenty-fourth of April, will be 
 
 presented, A Tragedy written by the late ingenious ^ 
 
 Mr. Thomas Godfrey, of this city, called the 
 
 PRINCE of PARTHIA 
 
 The Principal Characters by Mr. Hallam, 
 
 Mb. Douglass, Mr. Wall, Mr. Morris, 
 
 Mr. Allyn, Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Broad- 
 
 3 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 BELT, Mr. Greville, Mrs. Douglass, 
 
 Mrs. Morris, Miss Wainwright, and 
 
 Miss Cheer 
 
 To which will be added, A Ballad Opera, called 
 
 The CONTRIVANCES. 
 
 To begin exactly at Seven o'clock. Vivant Rex & Begina, 
 
 Seilhamer, in his History of the American Theatre, suggests a probable 
 cast, based on the advertisement, which he curiously attributes to the Pennsyl- 
 vania Chronicle, in which it does not appear. Considering the relative im- 
 portance of the actors in the American Company, it is likely that this cast is 
 correct, and it is given here, with an indication that is only problematical. A 
 similar advertisement but without the actors' names appeared in The Pennsyl- 
 vania Gazette of the same date. 
 
 The Prince of Parthia was revived by the Zelosophic Society of the Univer- 
 sity of Pennsylvania on March 26, 1915, at the New Century Drawing Room, 
 Philadelphia, and proved to be an actable play, though the absence of any comedy 
 element was noticeable. The play shows clearly the influence of HamUif Julius 
 CcBsar, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, and also of Beaumont's Maid's Tragedy, but 
 the blank verse is flexible and dignified and the correspondence of Godfrey 
 proves that he conceived it with the purpose of actual stage representation and 
 not merely as a closet play. 
 
 For an account of Godfrey see Juvenile Poems on Various Subjects, with 
 The Prince of Parthia, by Nathaniel Evans, Philadelphia, 1765, and for criticism 
 of the play, see Moses Coit Tyler, A History of American Literature during the 
 Colonial Time, 2 vols.. New York, 1878, Vol. 2, pp. 244-251, and George 0. 
 Seilhamer, History of the American Theatre, 3 vols., Philadelphia, 1888, Vol. 1, 
 Chap. 18. 
 
 The Prince of Parthia is now reprinted, for the first time, from the original 
 edition of 1765, 
 
 Note to Second Edition. 
 
 Shortly after the appearance of the first edition, a very interesting reprint 
 of The Prince of Parthia was edited by Archibald Henderson, Boston, 1917. 
 Mr. Henderson has reproduced the costumes worn by the members of the 
 Zelosophic Society at the revival in 1915, has investigated the sources of the 
 play in Parthian history and has written attractively of the life in Philadelphia 
 and in Wilmington, North Carolina, that surrounded Godfrey, 
 
JUVENILE POEMS 
 
 ON 
 
 VARIOUS SUBJECTS- 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 PRINCE OF PARTHIA, 
 
 A 
 
 TRAGEDY. 
 
 BYTHELATE 
 
 Mr THOMAS GOD FRET, Junt 
 
 of Philadelphia. 
 To which is prefixed. 
 
 Some ACCOUNT of the Author and his TFRifiNGS. 
 
 Poeta nafcitur non fit, HoR« 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 Printed by Henry Miller, in Second-Street, 
 
 M DCC LXV. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAE 
 
 MEN 
 Artabanus, King of Parthia [Mr. Douglass] 
 
 Arsaces, ^ r [Mr. Hallam] 
 
 Vardanes, L his Sons [Mr. Tomlinson] 
 
 GoTARZES, [Mr. Wall] 
 
 Barzaphernes, Lieutenant-General, under Arsaces [Mr. Allyn] 
 
 Lysias, ] f. [Mr. Broadbelt] 
 
 y Officers at Court. 4 
 Phraates, [Mr. Greville] 
 
 Bethas, a Noble Captive [Mr. Morris] 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Thermusa, the Queen [Mrs. Douglass] 
 
 EvANTHE, belov 'd by Arsaces [Miss Cheer] 
 
 Cleone, her Confidante [Miss Wainwright] 
 
 Edessa, Attendant on the Queen [Mrs. Morris] 
 
 Guards and Attendants 
 Scene, Ctesiphon 
 
THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. The Temple of the Sun. ' 
 GOTAEZES and Phraates. 
 
 GOTARZES. He comes, Arsaces comes, my 
 
 gallant Brother 
 (Like shining Mars in all the pomp of 
 
 conquest ) 
 Triumphant enters now our joyful gates ; 
 Bright Victory waits on his glitt'ring car. 
 And shows her fav'rite to the wond'ring 
 
 croud ; 
 While Fame exulting sounds the happy 
 
 name 
 To realms remote, and bids the world ad- 
 mire. 
 Oh ! 't is a glorious day : — let none pre- 
 sume 
 T' indulge the tear, or wear the gloom of 
 
 sorrow ; 
 This day shall shine in Ages yet to come, 
 And grace the Parthian storv^ 
 Phraates. Glad '^Ctes'phon ^ 
 
 Pours forth her numbers, like a rolling 
 
 deluge. 
 To meet the blooming Hero ; all the ways, 
 On either side, as far as sight can stretch, 
 Are lin'd with crouds, and on the lofty 
 
 walls 
 Innumerable multitudes are rang'd. 
 On ev'ry countenance impatience sate 
 With roving eye, before the train ap- 
 
 pear'd. 
 But when they saw the Darling of the 
 
 Fates, 
 They rent the air with loud repeated 
 
 shouts ; 
 The Mother show'd him to her infant Son, 
 And taught his lisping tongue to name 
 
 Arsaces : 
 E'en aged Sires, whose sounds are 
 
 scarcely heard, 
 By feeble strength supported, tost their 
 
 caps. 
 And gave their murmur to the general 
 
 voice. 
 
 1 Ctesiphon, a large village on the left f^ank pf t^e 
 
 GoTARZES. The spacious streets, which 
 
 lead up to the Temple, 
 Are strew'd with flow'rs ; each, with fran- 
 tic joy. 
 His garland forms, and throws it in the 
 
 way. 
 What pleasure, Phraates, must swell his 
 
 bosom. 
 To see the prostrate nation all around 
 
 him, 
 And know he 's made them happy ! to 
 
 hear them 
 Tease the Gods, to show'r their blessings 
 
 on him! 
 Happy Arsaces! fain I'd imitate 
 Thy matchless worth, and be a shining 
 
 joy! 
 Phraates. Hark! what a shout was that 
 
 which pierc'd the skies ! 
 It seem'd as tho' all Nature's beings 
 
 join'd, 
 To hail thy glorious Brother. 
 GoTARZES. Happy Parthia! 
 
 Now proud Arabia dreads her destin'd 
 
 chains. 
 While shame and rout disperses all her 
 
 sons. 
 Barzaphernes pursues the fugitives, 
 The few whom fav'ring Night redeem'd 
 
 from slaughter; 
 Swiftly they fled, for fear had wing'd 
 
 their speed. 
 And made them bless the shade which 
 
 saf'ty gave. 
 Phraates. What a bright hope is ours, 
 
 when those dread pow'rs 
 Who rule yon heav'n, and guide the mov'- 
 
 ments here. 
 Shall call your royal Father to their joys : 
 In blest Arsaces ev'ry virtue meets; 
 He 's gen'rous, brave, and wise, and good. 
 Has skill to act, and noble fortitude 
 To face bold danger, in the battle firm. 
 And dauntless as a Lion fronts his foe. 
 Yet is he sway'd by ev'ry tender passion. 
 Forgiving mercy, gentleness and love; 
 Which speak the Hero friend of human- 
 kind. 
 Gotarzes. And let me speak, for 'tis to 
 
 him I owe 
 
THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 That here I stand, and breathe the com- 
 mon air, 
 
 And 't is my pride to tell it to the world. 
 
 One luckless day as in the eager chace 
 
 My Courser wildly bore me from the rest, 
 
 A monst'rous Leopard from a bosky 
 fen 
 
 Rush'd forth, and foaming lash'd the 
 ground, 
 
 And fiercely ey'd me as his destin'd 
 quarry. 
 
 My jav'lin swift I threw, but o'er his 
 head 
 
 It erring pass'd, and harmless in the air 
 
 Spent all its force ; my f alchin ^ then I 
 seiz'd, 
 
 Advancing to attack my ireful foe, 
 
 When furiously the savage sprung upon 
 me. 
 
 And tore me to the- ground; my treach'- 
 rous blade 
 
 Above my hand snap'd short, and left 
 me quite 
 
 Defenceless to his rage; Arsaces then, 
 
 Hearing the din, flew like some pitying 
 pow'r. 
 
 And quickly freed me from the Monster's 
 paws, 
 
 Drenching his bright lance in his spotted 
 breast. 
 Phraates. How diff'rent he from arro- 
 gant Vardanes? 
 
 That haughty Prince eyes with a stern 
 contempt 
 
 All other Mortals, and with lofty mien 
 
 He treads tlie earth as tho' he were a God. 
 
 Nay, I believe that his ambitious soul, 
 
 Had it but pow'r to its licentious wishes, 
 
 Would dare dispute with Jove the rule of 
 heav'n ; 
 
 Like a Titanian son with giant insolence. 
 
 Match with the Gods, and wage immortal 
 war, 
 
 'Til their red wrath should hurl him head- 
 long down, 
 
 E'en to destruction's lowest pit of horror. 
 GoTARZES. Methinks he wears not that be- 
 coming joy 
 
 Which on this bright occasion gilds the 
 court; 
 
 His brow's contracted with a gloomy 
 frown, 
 
 Pensive he stalks along, and seems a prey 
 
 To pining discontent. 
 Phraates. Arsaces he dislikes, 
 
 For standing 'twixt him, and the hope of 
 Empire ; 
 
 1 Falchion, a broad curved convex-edged sword. 
 
 While Envy, like a rav'nous Vulture 
 
 tears 
 His canker'd heart, to see your Brother's 
 
 triumiDh. 
 Gotarzes. And yet Vardanes owes that 
 
 hated Brother 
 As much as I ; 't was summer last, as we 
 Were bathing in Euphrates' flood, Var- 
 danes 
 Proud of strength would seek the further 
 
 shore ; 
 But ere he the mid-stream gain'd, a 
 
 poignant pain 
 Shot thro' his well-strung nerves, con- 
 tracting all, 
 And the stiff joints refus'd their wonted 
 
 aid. 
 Loudly he cry'd for help, Arsaces heard. 
 And thro' the swelling waves he rush'd 
 
 to save 
 His drowning Brother, and gave him life, 
 And for the boon the Ingrate pays him 
 
 hate. 
 Phraates. There's something in the 
 
 wind, for I' ve observ'd 
 Of late he much frequents the Queen's 
 
 apartment. 
 And fain would court her favour, wild is 
 
 she 
 To gain revenge for fell Vonones' death. 
 And firm resolves the ruin of Arsaces. 
 Because that fill'd with filial piety, 
 To save his Royal Sire, he struck the bold 
 Presumptuous Traitor dead; nor heeds 
 
 she 
 The hand which gave her Libert}^, nay 
 
 rais'd her 
 Again to Royalty. 
 Gotarzes. Ingratitude, 
 
 Thou hell-bom fiend, how horrid is th^ 
 
 form! 
 The Gods sure let thee loose to scourge 
 
 mankind, 
 And save them from an endless waste of 
 
 thunder. 
 PpiRAATES. Yet I 've beheld this now so 
 
 haughty Queen, 
 Bent with distress, and e'en by pride for- 
 sook, 
 When following thy Sire's triumphant 
 
 car. 
 Her tears and ravings mov'd the sense- 
 less herd, 
 And pity blest their more than savage 
 
 breasts. 
 With the short pleasure of a moment's 
 
 softness. 
 Thy Father, conquer'd by her charms, 
 
 (for what 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 9 
 
 Can charm like mourning beauty) soon 
 
 struck oit' 
 Her chams, and rais'd lier to his bed and 
 
 throne. 
 Adorn'd the brows of her aspiring Son, 
 The fierce Vonones, with the regal crown 
 Of rich Armenia, once the happy rule 
 Of Tisaphernes, her deceased Lord. 
 GoTARZES. And he in wasteful war re- 
 
 turn'd his thanks, 
 Refus'd the homage he had sworn to pay. 
 And spread Destruction ev'rywhere 
 
 around, 
 'Til from Arsaces' hand he met the fate 
 His crimes deserv'd. 
 Phraates. As yet your princely Brother 
 Has 'scap'd Thermusa's rage, for still re- 
 siding 
 In peaceful times, within his Province, 
 
 ne'er 
 Has fortune blest her with a sight of him, 
 On whom she 'd wreck her vengeance. 
 GOTARZES. She has won 
 
 By spells^ I think, so much on my fond 
 
 father. 
 That he is guided by her will alone. 
 She rules the realm, her pleasure is a 
 
 law. 
 All offices and favours are bestow'd, 
 As she directs. 
 Phraates. But see, the Prince, Vardanes, 
 Proud Lysias wnth him, he whose soul is 
 
 harsh 
 With jarring discord. Nought but mad- 
 ding rage. 
 And ruffian-like revenge his breast can 
 
 know, 
 Indeed to gain a point he '11 condescend 
 To mask the native rancour of his heart. 
 And smooth his venom'd tongue with 
 
 flattery. 
 Assiduous now he courts Vardanes^ 
 
 friendship, 
 See, how he seems to answer all his 
 
 gloom, 
 And give him frown for frown. 
 GOTARZEs. Let us retire, 
 
 And simn them now; I know not what it 
 
 means, 
 But chilling horror shivers o'er my limbs. 
 When Lysias I behold. — 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Vardanes and Lysias. 
 
 (Shout.) 
 Lysias. That shout proclaims 
 
 Arsaces' near approach. 
 
 Vardanes. Peace, prithee peace. 
 
 Wilt thou still shock me with that hated 
 
 sound, 
 And grate harsh discord in my offended 
 
 ear? 
 If thou art fond of echoing the name. 
 Join with the servile croud, and hail his 
 
 triumph. 
 Lysias. I hail him? By our glorious 
 
 shining God, 
 I 'd sooner lose my speech, and all my 
 
 days 
 In silence rest, conversing with my 
 
 thoughts. 
 Than hail Arsaces. 
 Vardanes. Yet, again his name, 
 
 Sure there is magic in it, Parthia 's 
 
 drunk 
 And giddy with the joy; the houses' 
 
 tops 
 With gaping spectators are throng'd, nay 
 
 wild 
 They climb such precipices that the eye 
 Is dazzl'd with their daring; ev'ry 
 
 wretch 
 Who long has been immur'd, nor dar'd 
 
 enjoy _ • 
 
 The common benefits of sun and air, 
 Creeps from his lurking place; e'en fee- 
 ble age. 
 Long to the sickly couch eonfin'd, stalks 
 
 forth. 
 And with infectious breath assails the 
 
 Gods. 
 ! curse the name, the idol of their joy. 
 Lysias. And what 's that name, that thus 
 
 they should disturb 
 The ambient air, and weary gracious 
 
 heav'n 
 With ceaseless bello wings? Vardanes 
 
 sounds 
 With equal harmony, and suits as well 
 The loud repeated shouts of noisy joy. 
 Can he bid Chaos Nature's rule dissolve, 
 Can he deprive mankind of light and day, 
 And turn the Seasons from their destin'd 
 
 course ? 
 Say, can he do all this, and be a God? 
 If not, what is his matchless merit? 
 
 What dares he, 
 Vardanes dares not? Blush not, noble 
 
 prince, 
 For praise is merit's due, and I will give 
 
 it; 
 E'en mid the croud w^iich waits thy 
 
 Brother's smile, 
 I 'd loud proclaim the merit of Vardanes. 
 Vardanes. Forbear this warmth, your 
 
 friendship urges far. 
 
10 
 
 THE PKINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Yet know your love shall e'er retain a 
 place 
 
 In my remembrance. There is something 
 here — {Fuintnuj to Ins breast.) 
 
 Another tune and I will give thee all ; 
 
 But now, no more. — 
 Lysias. You may command my service, 
 
 I 'm happy to obey. Of late your 
 Brother 
 
 Delights in hind'ring my advancement, 
 
 And ev'ry boaster 's rais'd above my 
 merit, 
 
 Barzaphernes alone commands his ear, 
 
 His oracle in all. 
 Vardanes. I hate Arsaces, 
 
 Tho' he 's my Mothers son, and church- 
 men say 
 
 There 's something sacred in the name of 
 Brother. 
 
 My soul endures him not, and he 's the 
 bane 
 
 Of all my hopes of greatness. Like the 
 sun 
 
 He rules the day, and like the night's 
 pale Queen, 
 
 My fainter beams are lost when he ap- 
 pears. 
 
 And this because he came into the world, 
 
 A moon or two before me : What 's the 
 diff'rence, 
 
 That he alone should shine in Empire's 
 seat? 
 
 I am not apt to trumpet forth my praise, 
 
 Or highly name myself, but this I '11 
 speak. 
 
 To him in ought, I 'm not. the least infe- 
 rior. 
 
 Ambition, glorious fever ! mark of Kings, 
 
 Gave me immortal thirst and rule of 
 Empire. 
 
 Why lag'd my tardy soul, why droop'd 
 the w^ng, 
 
 Nor forward springing, shot before his 
 speed 
 
 To seize the prize? — 'T was Empire — 
 Oh ! 't was Empire — 
 Lysias. Yet, I must think that of supe- 
 rior mould 
 
 Your soul was form'd, fit for a heav'nly 
 state. 
 
 And left reluctant its sublime abode. 
 
 And painfully obey'd the dread command, 
 
 When Jove's controuling fate forc'd it 
 below. 
 
 His soul was earthly, and it downward 
 mov'd, 
 
 Swift as to the center of attraction, 
 Vardanes. It might be so — But I 've 
 another cause 
 
 To hate this Brother, ev'ry way my rival ; 
 In love as well as glory he 's above me ; 
 I dote on fair Evanthe, but the charmer 
 Disdains my ardent suit, like a miser 
 He treasures up her beauties to himself: 
 Thus is he form'd to give me torture 
 
 ever. — 
 But hark, they 've reach'd the Temple, 
 Didst thou observe the croud, their eager- 
 ness, 
 Each put the next aside to catch a look, 
 Himself w^as elbow'd out? — Curse, 
 curse their zeal — 
 Lysias. Stupid folly ! 
 Vardaxes. I '11 tell thee, Lysias, 
 
 This many-headed monster multitude, 
 Unsteady is as giddy fortune's wheel, 
 As woman fickle, varying as the wind ; 
 To day they this way course, the next 
 
 they veer, 
 And shift another point, the next an- 
 other. 
 Lysias. Curiosity 's another name for 
 man. 
 The blazing meteor streaming thro' the 
 
 air 
 Commands our wonder, and admiring 
 
 eyes, 
 With eager gaze we trace the lucent path, 
 'Til spent at length it slirinks to native 
 
 nothing. 
 While the bright stars which ever steady 
 
 glow, 
 Unheeded shine, and bless the world be- 
 low. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Queen and Edessa. 
 
 Queen. Oh ! give me way, the haughty vic-^ 
 tor comes. 
 Surrounded by adoring multitudes; 
 On swelling tides of praise to heav'n 
 
 they raise him; 
 To deck their idol, they rob the glorious 
 
 beings 
 Of their splendor. 
 Edessa. My royal Lady, 
 
 Chace hence these passions. 
 Queen. Peace, forever peace, 
 
 Have I not cause to hate this homicide? 
 'T was by his cursed hand Vonones fell, 
 Yet fell not as became his gallant spirit. 
 Not by the warlike arm of chief re- 
 
 nown'd. 
 But by a youth, ye Gods, a beardless 
 stripling. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 11 
 
 Stab'd by his dastard falchin from be- 
 hind; 
 For well I know he fear'd to meet 
 
 Vo nones, 
 As princely warriors meet with open 
 
 daring, 
 But shrunk amidst his guards, and gave 
 
 him death. 
 When faint with wounds, and weary with 
 
 the fight. 
 Edessa. With anguish I have heard his 
 
 hapless fate, 
 And mourn'd in silence for the gallant 
 
 Prince. 
 Queen. Soft is thy nature, but alas! 
 
 Edessa, 
 Thy heart 's a stranger to a mother's 
 
 sorrows, 
 To see the pride of all her wishes blasted ; 
 Thy fancy cannot paint the storm of 
 
 grief, 
 Despair and anguish, which my breast 
 
 has known. 
 Oh! shower, ye Gods, your torments on 
 
 Arsaces, 
 Curs'd be the morn which dawned upon 
 
 his birth. 
 Edessa. Yet, I intreat — 
 Queen. Away! for I will curse — 
 
 may he never know a father's fond- 
 
 ness, 
 Or know it to his sorrow, may his hopes 
 Of joy be cut like mine, and his short life 
 Be one continu'd tempest: if he lives, 
 Let him be curs'd with jealousy and fear. 
 And vext with anguish of neglecting 
 
 scorn ; 
 May tort'ring hope present the flowing 
 
 cup. 
 Then hasty snatch it from his eager 
 
 thirst. 
 And when he dies base treach'ry be the 
 
 means. 
 Edessa. Oh ! calm your spirits. 
 Queen. Yes, I '11 now be calm, 
 
 Calm as the sea wlien the rude waves are 
 
 laid. 
 And nothing but a gentle swell remains; 
 My curse is heard, and I shall have re- 
 venge : 
 There 's something here which tells me 
 
 't will be so. 
 And peace resumes her empire o'er my 
 
 breast. 
 Vardanes is the Minister of Vengeance; 
 Fir'd by ambition, he aspiring seeks 
 T' adorn his brows with Farthias diadem; 
 
 1 've f ann'd the fire, and wrought him up 
 
 to fury, 
 
 Envy shall urge him forward still to 
 
 dare, 
 And discord be the prelude to destruc- 
 tion. 
 Then this detested race shall feel my hate. 
 Edessa. And doth thy hatred then extend 
 so far. 
 That innocent and guilty all alike 
 Must feel thy dreadful vengeance? 
 Queen. Ah! Edessa, 
 
 Thou dost not know e'en half my mighty 
 
 wrongs. 
 But in thy bosom I will pour my sorrows. 
 Edessa. With secrecy I ever have repaid 
 
 Your confidence. 
 Queen. I know thou hast, then hear. 
 
 The changeling King who oft has kneel'd 
 
 before me, 
 And own'd no other pow'r, now treats me 
 With ill dissembl'd love mix'd with dis- 
 dain, 
 A newer beauty rules his faithless heart, 
 Which only in variety is blest ; 
 Oft have I heard him, when wrapt up in 
 
 sleep, 
 And wanton fancy rais'd the mimic scene, 
 Call with unusual fondness on Evanthe, 
 While I have lain neglected by his side, 
 Except sometimes in a mistaken rapture 
 He 'd clasp me to his bosom. 
 Edessa. Oh! Madam, 
 
 Let not corroding jealousy usurp 
 Your Royal breast, unnumber'd ills at- 
 tend 
 The wretch who entertains that fatal 
 guest. 
 Queen. Think not that I '11 pursue its 
 wand'ring fires, 
 No more I '11 know perplexing doubts 
 
 and fears, 
 And erring trace suspicion's endless 
 
 maze. 
 For, ah ! I doubt no more. 
 Edessa. Their shouts approach. 
 
 Queen. Lead me, Edessa, to some peace- 
 ful gloom. 
 Some silent shade far from the walks of 
 
 men, 
 There shall the hop'd revenge my 
 
 thoughts employ. 
 And sooth my sorrows with the coming 
 
 joy. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Evanthe and Cleone. 
 
 Evanthe. No, I 'U not meet him now, for 
 love delights 
 
12 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 In the soft pleasures of the secret shade, 
 
 And shuns the noise and tumult of the 
 croud. 
 
 How tedious are the hours which bring 
 him 
 
 To my fond panting heart! for oh! to 
 those 
 
 Who live in expectation of the bliss, 
 
 Time slowly creeps, and ev'ry tardy min- 
 ute 
 
 Seems mocking of their wishes. Say, 
 Cleone, 
 
 For you beheld the triumph, midst his 
 pomp, 
 
 Did he not seem to curse the empty show, 
 
 The pageant greatness, enemy to love, 
 
 Which held him from Evanthef haste, to 
 tell me, 
 
 And feed my greedy ear with the fond 
 
 tale- 
 Yet, hold — for I shall weary you with 
 questions. 
 
 And ne'er be satisfied — Beware, Cleone, 
 
 And guard your heart from Love's de- 
 lusive sweets. 
 Cleone. Is Love an ill, that thus you cau- 
 tion me 
 
 To shun his pow'r? 
 EvANTHE. The Tyrant, my Cleone, 
 
 Despotic rules, and fetters all our 
 thoughts. 
 
 Oh! wouldst thou love, then bid adieu to 
 peace, 
 
 Then fears will come, and jealousies in- 
 trude. 
 
 Ravage your bosom, and disturb your 
 quiet, 
 
 E'en pleasure to excess will be a pain. 
 
 Once I was free, then my exulting heart 
 
 Was like a bird that hops from spray to 
 spray. 
 
 And all was innocence and mirth; but, 
 lo! 
 
 The Fowler came, and by his arts decoy'd. 
 
 And soon the Wanton cag'd. Twice fif- 
 teen times 
 
 Has Cynthia dipt her horns in beams of 
 ^ light. 
 
 Twice fifteen times has wasted all her 
 brightness, 
 
 Since first I knew to love ; 't was on that 
 day 
 
 When curs'd Vonones fell upon the plain, 
 
 The lovely Victor doubly conquer'd me. 
 Cleone. Forgive my boldness, Madam, if 
 I ask 
 
 What chance first gave you to Vonones' 
 pow'r? 
 
 Curiosity thou know'st is of our sex. 
 
 Evanthe. That is a talk will wake me to 
 new sorrows. 
 
 Yet thou attend, and I will tell thee all. 
 
 Arabia gave me birth, my father held 
 
 Great Offices at Court, and was reputed. 
 
 Brave, wise and loyal, by his Prince be- 
 lov'd. 
 
 Oft has he led his conqu'ring troops, and 
 forc'd 
 
 From frowning victory her awful hon- 
 ours. 
 
 In infancy I was his only treasure, 
 
 On me he wasted all his store of fond- 
 ness. 
 
 Oh! I could tell thee of his wond'rous 
 goodness. 
 
 His more than father's love and tender- 
 ness. 
 
 But thou wouldst jeer, and say the tale 
 was trifling; 
 
 So did he dote upon me, for in childhood 
 
 My infant charms, and artless innocence 
 
 Blest his fond age, and won on ev'ry^ 
 heart. 
 
 But, oh! from this sprung ev'ry future 
 ill, 
 
 This fatal beauty was the source of all. 
 Cleone. 'T is often so, for beauty is a 
 flow'r 
 
 That tempts the hand to pluck it. 
 Evanthe. Full three times 
 
 Has scorching summer fled from cold 
 winter's 
 
 Ruthless blasts, as oft again has spring 
 
 In sprightly youth drest nature in her 
 beauties. 
 
 Since bathing in NipJiates' ^ silver 
 stream. 
 
 Attended only by one fav'rite maid; 
 
 As we were sporting on the wanton 
 waves, 
 
 Swift from the wood a troop of horsemen 
 rush'd. 
 
 Rudely they seiz'd, and bore me trem- 
 bling off. 
 
 In vain Edessn. with her shrieks assail'd 
 
 The heav'ns, for heav'n was deaf to both 
 our pray'rs. 
 
 The wretch whose insolent embrace con- 
 fin'd me, 
 
 (Like thunder bursting on the guilty 
 soul) 
 
 With curs'd Vonones' voice pour'd in my 
 ears 
 
 A hateful tale of love; for he it seems 
 
 Had seen me at Arabia's royal court. 
 
 And took those means to force me to his 
 arms. 
 
 iThe Tigris. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 13 
 
 Cleone. Perhaps you may gain some- 
 
 tliing from the Captives 
 Of your lost Parents. 
 EvANTHE. This I mean to trj^, 
 
 Soon as the night hides Nature in her 
 
 darkness, 
 Veil'd in the gloom we '11 steal into their 
 
 prison. 
 But, oh! perhaps e'en now my aged Sire 
 May 'mongst the slam lie weltring on the 
 
 field, 
 Pierc'd like a riddle through with 
 
 num'rous wounds, 
 While parting life is quiv'ring on his lips, 
 He may perhaps be calling on his 
 
 Evanth e. 
 Yes, ye great Pow'rs who boast the name 
 
 of mercy, 
 Ye have deny'd me to his latest moments, 
 To all the offices of fihal duty. 
 To bind his wounds, and wash them with 
 
 my tears, 
 Is this, is this your mercy? 
 Cleoxe. Blame not heav'n, 
 
 For heav'n is just and kind; dear Lady, 
 
 drive 
 These black ideas from your gentle 
 
 breast ; 
 Fancy delights to torture the distressed, 
 And fill the gloomy scene with shadowy 
 
 ills. 
 Summon your reason, and you '11 soon 
 
 have comfort. 
 Evanthe. Dost thou name comfort to me, 
 
 my Cleone, 
 Thou who know'st all my sorrows? plead 
 
 no more, 
 'Tis reason tells me I am doubly 
 
 wretched. 
 Cleone. But hark, the music strikes, the 
 
 rites begin. 
 And, see, the doors are op'ning. 
 EvANTHE. Let 's retire ; 
 
 My heart is now too full to meet him 
 
 here. 
 Fly swift, ye hours, till in his arms I 'm 
 
 prest. 
 And each intruding care is hush'd to rest. 
 
 Scene 5. The Scene draws and discovers, 
 in the inner Part of the Temple, a large 
 Image of the Sun, with an Altar before 
 it. Around Priests and Attendants. 
 
 King, Arsaces, Vardanes, Gotarzes, 
 Phraates, Lysias, with Bethas in 
 chains. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Parent of Light, to thee belong 
 
 Our grateful tributary songs; 
 
 Each thankful voice to thee shall rise, 
 
 And chearful pierce the azure skies; 
 
 While in thy praise all earth combines, 
 
 And Echo in the Chorus joins. 
 
 All the gay pride of blooming May, 
 
 The Lily fair and blushing Rose, 
 To thee their early honours pay, 
 
 And all their heav'nly sweets disclose. 
 The feather'd Choir on ev'ry tree 
 
 To hail thy glorious dawn repair, 
 While the sweet sons of harmony 
 
 With Hallelujahs fill the air, 
 
 'Tis thou hast brae'd the Hero's arm, 
 And giv'n the Love of praise to warm 
 His bosom, as he onward flies. 
 And for his Country bravely dies. 
 Thine *s victory, and from thee springs 
 Ambition's fire, which glows in Kings. 
 
 King. {Coming forward.) Thus, to the 
 
 Gods our tributary songs. 
 
 And now, oh ! let me welcome once again 
 
 My blooming victor to his Father's arms ; 
 
 And let me thank thee for our safety: 
 
 Parthia 
 Shall thank thee too, and give her grate- 
 ful praise 
 Tq her Deliverer. 
 Omnes. All hail! Arsaces! 
 
 King. Thanks to my loyal friends. 
 Vardanes. {Aside.) 
 
 Curse, curse the sound, 
 E'en Echo gives it back with int'rest, 
 The joyful gales swell with the pleasing 
 
 theme. 
 And waft it far away to distant hills. 
 
 that my breath was poison, then in- 
 
 deed 
 
 1 'd hail him like the rest, but blast him 
 
 too. 
 Arsaces. My Royal Sire, these honours 
 
 are unmerited. 
 Beneath your prosp'rous auspices I 
 
 fought. 
 Bright vict'ry to your banners joyful 
 
 flew. 
 And favour'd for the Sire the happy son. 
 But lenity should grace the victor's 
 
 laurels, 
 Then, here, my gracious Father — 
 King. Ha! 'tis Bethas! 
 
 Know'st thou, vain wretch, what fate 
 
 attends on those 
 Who dare oppose the pow'r of mighty 
 
 Kings, 
 
14 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 AVliom lieav'n delights to favour? sure 
 
 some God 
 Who sought to punish you for impious 
 
 deeds, 
 'T was urg'd you forward to insult our 
 
 arms, 
 And brave us at our Royal City's gates. 
 Bethas. At honour's call, and at my 
 
 King's command. 
 The' it were even with my single arm, 
 
 again 
 I 'd brave the multitude, which, like a 
 
 deluge, 
 O'erwhelm'd my gallant handful; yea 
 
 wou'd meet 
 Undaunted, all the fury of the torrent. 
 'T is honour is the guide of all my ac- 
 tions, 
 The ruling star by which I steer thro' 
 
 life, 
 And shun the shelves of infamy and vice. 
 King. It was the thirst of gain which drew 
 
 you on; 
 'Tis thus that Av'rice always cloaks its 
 
 views, 
 Th' ambition of your Prince you gladly 
 
 snatch'd 
 As opportunity to fill your coffers. 
 It was the plunder of our palaces. 
 And of our wealthy cities, fill'd your 
 
 dreams, 
 And urg'd you on your way; but you 
 
 have met 
 The due reward of your audacity. 
 Now shake your chains, shake and de- 
 light your ears 
 With the soft music of your golden fet- 
 ters. 
 Bethas. True, I am fall'n, but glorious 
 
 was my fall. 
 The day was brav'ly fought, we did our 
 
 best, 
 But victory 's of heav'n. Look o'er yon 
 
 field. 
 See if thou findest one Arabian back 
 Disfigured with dishonourable wounds. 
 No, here, deep on their bosoms, are en- 
 
 grav'd 
 The marks of honour ! 't was thro' here 
 
 their souls 
 Flew to their blissful seats. Oh! why 
 
 did I 
 Survive the fatal day? To be this slave, 
 To be the gaze and sport of vulgar 
 
 crouds. 
 Thus, like a shackl'd tyger, stalk my 
 
 round, 
 And grimly low'r upon the shouting 
 
 herd. 
 
 Ye Gods!— 
 King. Away with him to instant death. 
 Arsaces. Hear me, my Lord, 0, not on 
 
 this bright day. 
 Let not this day of joy blush with his 
 
 blood. 
 Nor count his steady loyalty a crime, 
 But give him life, Arsaces humbly asks it, 
 And may you e'er be serv'd with honest 
 
 hearts. 
 King. Well, be it so; hence, bear him to 
 
 his dungeon; 
 Lysias, we here commit him to thy 
 
 charge. . 
 Bethas. Welcome my dungeon, but more 
 
 welcome death. 
 Trust not too much, vain Monarch, to 
 
 your pow'r, 
 Know fortune places all her choicest 
 
 gifts 
 On ticklish heights, they shake with ev'ry 
 
 breeze, 
 And oft some rude wind hurls tliem to 
 
 the ground. 
 Jove's thunder strikes the lofty palaces, 
 While the low cottage, in humility, 
 Securely stands, and sees the mighty 
 
 ruin. 
 What King can boast, to morrow as to 
 
 day, 
 Thus, happy will I reign? The rising 
 
 sun 
 May view him seated on a splendid 
 
 throne. 
 And, setting, see him shake the ser\dle 
 
 chain. {Exit guarded.) 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 King, Arsaces, Vardanes, Gotarzes,^ 
 Phraates. 
 
 GOTARZES. Thus let me hail thee from the 
 croud distinct. 
 For in the exulting voice of gen'ral joy 
 My fainter sounds were lost, believe me, 
 
 Brother, 
 My soul dilates with joy to see thee thus. 
 Arsaces. Thus let me thank thee in this 
 
 fond embrace. 
 Vardanes. The next will be my turn, 
 Gods, I had rather 
 Be eirel'd in a venom'd serpent's fold. 
 GoTARZES. O, my lov'd Brother, 't is my 
 humble boon. 
 That, when the war next calls you to the 
 
 field, 
 I may attend you in the rage of battle. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 15 
 
 By imitating thy heroic deeds, 
 Perhaps, I may rise to some little worth, 
 Beneath thy care I '11 try my feeble 
 
 wings. 
 Till taught by thee to soar to nobler 
 
 heights. 
 King. Why that 's my boy, thy spirit 
 
 speaks thy birth. 
 No more I '11 turn thee from the road to 
 
 glory, 
 To rust in slothfulness, with lazy Gowns- 
 men. 
 GOTARZES. Thanks, to my Sire, I 'm now 
 
 completely blest. 
 Arsaces. But, I 've another Brother, 
 
 where 's Vardanes f 
 King. Ha! what, methinks, he lurks be- 
 hind the croud, 
 And wears a gloom which suits not with 
 
 the time. 
 Vardanes. Doubt not my Love, tho' I lack 
 
 eloquence. 
 To dress my sentiments and catch the 
 
 ear, 
 Tho' plain my manners, and my language 
 
 rude. 
 My honest heart disdains to wear dis- 
 guise. 
 Then think not I am slothful in the race. 
 Or, that my Brother springs before my 
 
 Love. 
 Arsaces. Far be suspicion from me. 
 Vardanes. So, 'tis done, 
 
 Thanks to dissembling, all is well again. 
 King. Now let us, forward, to the Temple 
 
 go, 
 And let, with cheerful wine, the goblets 
 
 flow; 
 Let blink-ey'd Jollity his aid afford, 
 To crown our triumph, round the festive 
 
 board : 
 But, let the wretch, whose soul can know 
 
 a care, 
 Far from our joj^s, to some lone shade 
 
 repair, 
 In secrecy, there let him e'er remain. 
 Brood o'er his gloom, and still increase 
 
 his pain. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. A Prison. 
 
 Lysias, alone. 
 
 The Sun set frowning, and refreshing Eve 
 Lost all its sweets, obscur'd in double 
 gloom. 
 
 This night shall sleep be stranger to these 
 
 eyes. 
 Peace dwells not here, and slumber flies the 
 
 shock ; 
 My spirits, like the elements, are war[r]ing, 
 And mock the tempest with a kindred 
 
 rage — 
 I, who can joy in nothing, but revenge, 
 Know not those boasted ties of Love and 
 
 Friendship ; 
 Vardanes I regard, but as he gives me 
 Some hopes of vengeance on the Prince 
 
 Arsaces — 
 But, ha! he comes, wak'd by the angry 
 
 storm, 
 'T is to my wish, thus would I form de- 
 signs. 
 Horror should breed beneath the veil of 
 
 horror, 
 And darkness aid conspiracies — He 's 
 
 here — 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Vardanes and Lysias. 
 
 Lysias. Welcome, my noble Prince. 
 Vardanes. Thanks, gentle friend; 
 
 Heav'ns! what a night is this! 
 Lysias. 'T is filled with terror ; 
 
 Some dread event beneath this horror 
 
 lurks, 
 Ordain'd by fate's irrevocable doom; 
 Perhaps Arsaces' fall — and angry 
 
 heav'n 
 Speaks it, in thunder, to the trembling 
 
 world. 
 Vardanes. Terror indeed! it seems as 
 
 sick'ning Nature 
 Had giv'n her order up to gen'ral ruin ; 
 The Heav'ns appear as one continu'd 
 
 flame, 
 Earth with her terror shakes, dim night 
 
 retires. 
 And the red lightning gives a dreadful 
 
 day? 
 While in the thunder's voice each sound 
 
 is lost; 
 Fear sinks the panting heart in ev'ry 
 
 bosom, 
 E'en the pale dead, affrighted at the 
 
 horror, 
 As tho' unsafe, start from their marble 
 
 gaols, 
 And howling thro' the streets are seek- 
 ing shelter. 
 Lysias. I saw a flash stream thro' the 
 
 angry clouds, 
 
16 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 And bend its course to where a stately 
 
 pine 
 Behind the garden stood, quickly it seiz'd, 
 And wrapt it in a fiery fold, the trunk 
 Was shiver'd into atoms, and the 
 
 branches 
 Off were lopt, and wildly scatter'd round. 
 Vardanes. Why rage the elements, they 
 
 are not curs'd 
 Like me? Evanthe frowns not angry on 
 
 them, 
 The wind may play upon her beauteous 
 
 bosom 
 Nor fear her chiding, light can bless her 
 
 sense. 
 And in the floating mirror she beholds 
 Those beauties which can fetter all man- 
 kind. 
 Earth gives her joy, she plucks the fra- 
 grant rose, 
 Pleas'd takes its sweets, and gazes on its 
 
 bloom. 
 Lysias. My Lord, forget her, tear her 
 
 from your breast. 
 Who, like the Phoenix, gazes on the sun. 
 And strives to soar up to the glorious 
 
 blaze. 
 Should never leave Ambition's brightest 
 
 object. 
 To turn, and view the beauties of a 
 
 flow'r. 
 ITardanes. 0, Lysias, chide no more, for, 
 
 I have done. 
 Yes, I '11 forget this proud disdainful 
 
 beauty ; 
 Hence with vain love — Ambition, now, 
 
 alone. 
 Shall guide my actions, since mankind 
 
 delights 
 To give me pain, I '11 study mischief too, 
 And shake the earth, e'en like this raging 
 
 tempest. 
 Lysias. A night like this, so dreadful to 
 
 behold, 
 Since my remembrance's birth, I never 
 
 saw. 
 Vardanes. E'en such a night, dreadful as 
 
 this, they say. 
 My teeming Mother gave me to the 
 
 world. 
 Whence by those sages who, in knowl- 
 edge rich. 
 Can pry into futurity, and tell 
 AVhat distant ages will produce of won- 
 der, 
 My days were deem'd to be a hurricane; 
 My early life prov'd their prediction 
 
 false ; 
 Beneath a sky serene my voyage began. 
 
 But, to this long uninterrupted calm, 
 Storms shall succeed. 
 Lysias. Then haste, to raise the tempest; 
 My soul disdains this one eternal round. 
 Where each succeeding day is like the 
 
 former. 
 Trust me, my noble Prince, here is a 
 
 heart 
 Steady and firm to all your purposes. 
 And here 's a hand that knows to execute 
 Whate'er designs thy daring breast can 
 
 form, 
 Nor ever shake with fear, 
 Vardanes. And I will use it, 
 
 Come to my bosom, let me place thee 
 
 here. 
 How happy am I clasping so much vir- 
 tue! 
 Now, by the light, it is my firm belief, 
 One mighty soul in common swells our 
 
 bosoms. 
 Such sameness can't be match'd in diff'- 
 
 rent beings. 
 Lysias. Your confidence, my Lord, much 
 
 honours me. 
 And when I act unworthy of your love 
 May I be hooted from Society, 
 As tho' disgraceful to the human kind. 
 And diiv'n to herd among the savage 
 
 race. 
 Vardanes. Believe me, Lysias, I do not 
 
 know 
 A single thought which tends toward sus- 
 picion. 
 For well I know thy worth, when I af- 
 front it, 
 By the least doubt, may I be ever curs'd 
 With faithless friends, and by his dagger 
 
 fall 
 Whom my deluded wishes most would 
 
 favour. 
 Lysias. Then let 's no longer trifle time 
 
 away, 
 I 'm all impatience till I see thy brows 
 Bright in the glories of a diadem; 
 My soul is fill'd with anguish when I 
 
 think 
 That by weak Princes worn, 'tis thus 
 
 disgrac'd. 
 Haste, mount the throne, and, like the 
 
 morning Sun, 
 Chace with your piercing beams those 
 
 mists away. 
 Which dim the glory of the Parthian 
 
 state : 
 Each honest heart desires it, numbers 
 
 there are 
 Ready to join you, and support your 
 
 cause, 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 17 
 
 Against th' opposing faction. 
 Vardaxes. Sure some God, 
 
 Bid you thus call me to my dawning hon- 
 ours, 
 And joyful I obey the pleasing summons. 
 Now by the powers of heav'n, of earth 
 
 and hell. 
 Most solemnly I swear, I will not know, 
 That quietude which I was wont to 
 
 know, 
 'Til I have climb'd the height of all my 
 
 wishes, 
 Or fell, from glory, to the silent grave. 
 Lysias. Nobly resolv'd, and spoken like 
 
 Vardanes, 
 There shone my Prince in his superior 
 
 lustre. 
 Vardanes. But, then, Arsaces, he 's a 
 
 fatal bar — 
 0! could I brush this busy insect from 
 
 me, 
 Which envious strives to rob me of my 
 
 bloom, 
 Then might I, like some fragrant op'ning 
 
 flow'r. 
 Spread all my beauties in the face of 
 
 day. 
 Ye Gods ! why did ye give me such a soul, 
 (A soul, which ev'ry way is form'd for 
 
 Empire ) 
 And damn me with a younger Brother's 
 
 right? 
 The diadem should set as well on mine, 
 As on the brows of any lordly He ; 
 Nor is this hand weak to enforce com- 
 mand. 
 And shall I steal into my grave, and give 
 My name up to oblivion, to be thrown 
 Among the common rubbish of the times ? 
 No: Perish first, this happy hated 
 
 Brother. 
 Lysias. I always wear a dagger for your 
 
 service, 
 I need not speak the rest — 
 When humbly I intreated of your 
 
 Brother 
 T' attend him as Lieutenant in this war, 
 Frowning contempt, he haughtily reply'd, 
 He entertain'd not Traitors in his serv- 
 ice. 
 True, I betray 'd Orodes, but with cause, 
 He struck me, like a sorry abject slave, 
 And still withheld from giving what he 'd 
 
 promis'd. 
 Fear not Arsaees, believe me, he shall 
 Soon his Quietus have — But, see, he 
 
 comes, — 
 What can this mean? Why at this 
 
 lonely hour, 
 
 And unattended? — Ha! 'tis oppor- 
 tune — 
 
 I '11 in, and stab him now I heed not what 
 
 The danger is, so I but have revenge. 
 
 Then heap perdition on me. 
 Vardanes. Hold, awhile— 
 
 'T would be better could we undermine 
 him, 
 
 And make him fall by Artahanus' doom. 
 Lysias. Well, be it so — 
 Vardanes. But let us now retire, 
 
 We must not be observ'd together here. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Arsaces, alone. 
 
 'T is here that hapless Bethas is confin'd ; 
 He who, but yesterday, like angry Jove, 
 When punishing the crimes of guilty 
 
 men, 
 Spread death and desolation all around, 
 While Parthia trembl'd at his name; is 
 
 now 
 Unfriended and forlorn, and counts the 
 
 hours. 
 Wrapt in the gloomy horrors of a gaol. — 
 How dark, and hidden, are the turns of 
 
 fate! 
 His rigid fortune moves me to compas- 
 sion. 
 ! 't is a heav'nly virtue when the heart 
 Can feel the sorrows of another's bosom. 
 It dignifies the man : The stupid wretch 
 Who knows not this sensation, is an 
 
 image, 
 And wants the feeling to make up a 
 
 life— 
 I '11 in, and give my aid to sooth his sor- 
 rows. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Vardanes and Lysias. 
 
 Lysias. Let us observe with care, some- 
 thing we, yet. 
 
 May gather, to give to us the vantage; 
 
 No matter what 's the intent. 
 Vardanes. How easy 'tis 
 
 To cheat this busy, tattling, censuring 
 world ! 
 
 For fame still names our actions, good or 
 bad. 
 
 As introduc'd by chance, which ofttimes 
 throws 
 
,'8 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Wrong lights on objects; vice she dresses 
 up 
 
 In tlie bright form, and goodliness, of 
 virtue, 
 
 While virtue languishes, and pines neg- 
 lected, 
 
 Rob[b]'d of her lustre— But, let 's for- 
 ward, Lijsias — 
 
 Thou know'st each turn in this thy 
 dreary rule, 
 
 Then lead me to some secret stand, from 
 whence, 
 
 Unnotic'd, all their actions we may view. 
 Lysias. Here, take your stand behind — 
 See, Bethas comes. 
 
 {They retire.) 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Bethas, alone. 
 
 To think on Death, in gloomy solitude, 
 In dungeons and in chains, when expec- 
 tation 
 Join'd with serious thought describe him 
 
 to us. 
 His height'n'd terrors strike upon the 
 
 soul 
 With awful dread; imagination rais'd 
 To frenzy, plunges in a sea of horror. 
 And tastes the pains, the agonies of 
 
 dying— 
 Ha! who is this, perhaps he bears my 
 
 fate? 
 It must be so, but, why this privacy"? 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 Arsaces and Bethas. 
 
 Arsaces. Health to the noble Bethas, 
 
 health and joy! 
 Bethas. A steady harden'd villain, one 
 experienc'd 
 
 In his employment ; ha ! where 's thy 
 dagger? 
 
 It cannot give me fear ; I 'm ready, see, 
 
 My op'ning bosom tempts the friendly 
 steel. 
 
 Fain would I cast this tiresome being off. 
 
 Like an old garment worn to wretched- 
 ness. 
 
 Here, strike for I 'm prepar'd. 
 Arsaces. Oh! view me better. 
 
 Say, do I wear the gloomy ruffian's 
 frown? 
 
 Bethas. Ha ! 't is the gallant Prince, the 
 brave Arsaces, 
 
 And Bethas' Conqueror. 
 Arsaces. And Bethas' friend, 
 
 A name I 'm proud to wear. 
 Bethas. Away — away — 
 
 Mock with your jester to divert the court, 
 
 Fit Scene for sportive joys and frolic 
 mirth ; 
 
 Thinkst thou I lack that manly constancy 
 
 Which braves misfortune, and remains 
 unshaken ? 
 
 Are these, are these the emblems of thy 
 friendship, 
 
 These rankling chains, say, does it gall 
 like these? 
 
 No, let me taste the bitterness of sorrow. 
 
 For I am reconcil'd to wretchedness. 
 
 The Gods have empty'd all their mighty 
 store. 
 
 Of hoarded Ills, upon my whiten'd age; 
 
 Now death — but, oh ! I court coy death in 
 vain. 
 
 Like a cold maid, he scorns my fond com- 
 plaining. 
 
 'T is thou, insulting Prince, 't is thou 
 hast dragg'd 
 
 My soul, just rising, down again to earth. 
 
 And clogg'd her wings with dull mortal- 
 ity, 
 
 A hateful bondage! Why — 
 Arsaces. A moment hear me — 
 
 Bethas. Why dost thou, like an angry 
 vengeful ghost, 
 
 Glide hither to disturb this peaceful 
 gloom ? 
 
 What, dost thou envy me my miseries, 
 
 My chains and flinty pavement, where I 
 oft 
 
 In sleep behold the image of the death I 
 wish. 
 
 Forget my sorrows and heart-breaking" 
 anguish ? 
 
 These horrors I would undisturb'd en- 
 joy, 
 
 Attended only by my silent thoughts; 
 
 Is it to see the wretch that you have 
 made, 
 
 To view the ruins of unhappy Bethas, 
 
 And triumph in my grief? Is it for 
 this 
 
 You penetrate my dark joyless prison? 
 Arsaces. Oh! do not injure me by such 
 suspicions. 
 
 Unknown to me are cruel scoffs and jests; 
 
 My breast can feel compassion's tender- 
 ness. 
 The warrior's warmth, the soothing joys 
 of friendship. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 19 
 
 When adverse bold battalions shook the 
 earth, 
 
 And horror triumph'd on the hostile 
 field, 
 
 I sought you with a glorious enmity, 
 
 And arm'd my brow with the stern frown 
 of war. 
 
 But now the angry trumpet wakes no 
 more 
 
 The youthful champion to the lust for 
 blood. 
 
 Retiring rage gives place to softer pas- 
 sions, 
 
 And gen'rous warriors know no longer 
 hate. 
 
 The name of foe is lost, and thus I ask 
 
 Your friendship. 
 Bethas. Ah! why dost thou mock me 
 
 thus? 
 Arsaces. Let the base coward, he who ever 
 shrinks, 
 
 And trembles, at the slight name of dan- 
 ger. 
 
 Taunt, and revile, with bitter gibes, the 
 wretched ; 
 
 The brave are ever ^ to distress a friend. 
 
 Tho' my dear country^, (spoil'd by waste- 
 ful war, 
 
 Her harvests blazing, desolate her towns, 
 
 i^.nd baleful ruin shew'd her hag [g] arc! 
 face) 
 
 Call'd out on me to save her from her 
 foes. 
 
 And I obey'd, yet to your gallant prow- 
 ess. 
 
 And unmatch'd deeds, I admiration gave. 
 
 But now my country knows the sweets of 
 safety. 
 
 Freed from her fears; sure now I may 
 indulge 
 
 My just esteem for your superior virtue. 
 Bethas. Yes, I must think you what you 
 would be thought, 
 
 For honest minds are easy of belief. 
 
 And always judge of others by them- 
 selves, 
 
 But often are deceiv'd ; yet Parthia breeds 
 not 
 
 Virtue much like thine, the barb'rous 
 clime teems 
 
 With nought else but villains vers'd in ill. 
 Arsaces. Dissimulation never mark'd my 
 looks. 
 
 Nor flatt'ring deceit e'er taught my 
 tongue. 
 
 The tale of falsehood, to disguise my 
 thoughts : 
 
 1 The text is obscure here. The meaning is "The 
 lOrave are always a friend to distress." 
 
 To Virtue, and, her fair companion^ 
 
 Truth, 
 I 've ever bow'd, their holy precepts kept, 
 And seann'd by them the actions of my 
 
 life. 
 Suspicion surely ne'er disturbs the brave, 
 They never know the fears of doubting 
 
 thoughts ; 
 But free, as are the altars of the Gods, 
 From ev'ry hand receive the sacrifice. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 
 Arsaces, Bethas, Evanthe, and Cleone. 
 
 Evanthe. Heav'ns! what a gloom hangs 
 round this dreadful place. 
 Fit habitation for the guilty mind ! 
 Oh! if such terrors wait the innocent, 
 Which tread these vaults, what must the 
 
 impious feel. 
 Who 've all their crimes to stare them in 
 the face? 
 Bethas. Immortal Gods ! is this reality ? 
 Or meer ^ illusion ? am I blest at last. 
 Or is it tg torment me that you 've rais'd 
 This semMance of Evanthe to my eyes ? 
 It is ! it is ! 't is she ! — 
 Arsaces. Ha! — what means this? — 
 
 She faints! she faints! life has forsook 
 
 its seat, 
 Pale Death usurps its place — Evanthe, 
 
 Oh! 
 Awake to life! — Love and Arsaces 
 call!— 
 Bethas. Off — give her to my arms, my 
 warm embrace 
 Shall melt Death's icy chains. 
 Cleone. She lives ! she lives ! — 
 
 See, on her cheeks the rosy glow returns. 
 Arsaces. joy! joy! her op'ning eyes, 
 again. 
 Break, like the morning sun, a better day. 
 Bethas. Evanthe! — 
 Evanthe. Oh! my Father! — 
 
 Arsaces. Ha! — her Father! 
 
 Bethas. Heav'n tliou art kind at last, and 
 this indeed 
 Is recompense for all the ills I've past; 
 For all the sorrows which my heart has 
 
 known, 
 Each wakeful night, and ev'ry day of 
 
 anguish. 
 This, this has sweet'n'd all my bitter cup, 
 And gave me once again to taste of joy, 
 Joy which has long been stranger to this 
 bosom. 
 
 1 Mere. 
 
20 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Hence — hence disgrace — off, ignominy 
 oft"— 
 
 But one embrace — I ask but one embrace, 
 
 And 't is deny'd. 
 EvANTHE. 0, yes, around thy neck 
 
 I '11 fold my longing arms, tliy softer fet- 
 ters, 
 
 Thus press thee to my happy breast, and 
 kiss 
 
 Away those tears that stain thy aged 
 cheeks. 
 Bethas. Oh! 'tis too much! it is too 
 much! ye Gods! 
 
 Life 's at her utmost stretch, and bursting 
 near 
 
 With heart-swoln ecstasy ; now let me die. 
 Arsaces. What marble heart 
 
 Could see this scene unmov'd, nor give a 
 tear? 
 
 My eyes grow dim, and sympathetic pas- 
 sion 
 
 Falls like a gushing torrent on my bosom. 
 EvANTHE. ! happy me, this place, which 
 lately seem'd 
 
 So fill'd with horror, now is pleasure's 
 circle. 
 
 Here will I fix my seat; my pleasing 
 task 
 
 Shall be to cherish thy remaining life. 
 
 All night I '11 keep a vigil o'er thy slum- 
 bers. 
 
 And on my breast repose thee, mark thy 
 dreams. 
 
 And when thou wak'st invent some pleas- 
 ing tale. 
 
 Or with my songs the tedious hours be- 
 guile. 
 Bethas. Still let me gaze, still let me gaze 
 upon thee. 
 
 Let me strain ev'ry nerve with ravish- 
 ment, 
 
 And all my life be center'd in my vision. 
 
 To see thee thus, to hear thy angel voice, 
 
 It is, indeed, a luxury of pleasure ! — 
 
 Speak, speak again, for oh ! 't is heav'n 
 to hear thee! 
 
 Celestial sweetness dwells on ev'ry ac- 
 cent ; — 
 
 Lull me to rest, and sooth my raging joy, 
 
 Joy whicli distracts me with unruly trans- 
 ports. 
 
 Now, by thy dear departed Mother's 
 shade. 
 
 Thou brightest pattern of all excellence, 
 
 Thou who in prattling infancy hast blest 
 me, 
 
 I wou'd not give this one transporting 
 moment. 
 
 This fullness of delis'ht. for all— but. ah ! 
 
 'T is vile. Ambition, Glory, all is vile. 
 To the soft sweets of love and tenderness. 
 Evanthe. Now let me speak, my throb- 
 bing heart is full, 
 I '11 tell thee all, — alas ! I have forgot — 
 'T 'as slipt me in the tumult of my joy. 
 And yet I thought that I had much to say. 
 Bethas. Oh! I have curs'd my birth, in- 
 deed, I have 
 Blasphem'd the Gods, with unbecoming 
 
 passion, 
 Arraign'd their Justice, and defy'd their 
 
 pow'r, 
 In bitterness, because they had deny'd 
 Thee to support the weakness of my age. 
 But now no more I '11 rail and rave at 
 
 fate, 
 All its decrees are just, complaints are 
 
 impious. 
 Whate'er short-sighted mortals feel, 
 
 springs from 
 Their blindness in the ways of Provi- 
 dence ; 
 Sufficient wisdom 't is for man to know 
 That the great Ruler is e'er wise and 
 good. 
 Arsaces. Ye figur'd stones ! 
 
 Ye senseless, lifeless images of men, 
 Who never gave a tear to others' woe. 
 Whose bosoms never glow'd for others^ 
 good, 
 
 weary heav'n with your repeated 
 
 pray'rs, 
 And strive to melt the angry pow'rs to 
 
 pity, 
 
 That ye may truly live. 
 Evanthe. Oh ! how my heart 
 
 Beats in my breast, and shakes my trem- 
 bling frame ! 
 
 1 sink beneath this sudden flood of joy. 
 Too mighty for my spirits. 
 
 Arsaces. My Evanthe, 
 
 Thus in my arms I catch thy falling beau- 
 ties, 
 
 Chear thee; and kiss thee back to life 
 again : 
 
 Thus to my bosom I could ever hold thee. 
 
 And find new pleasure. 
 Evanthe. 0! my lov'd Arsaces, 
 
 Forgive me that I saw thee not before. 
 
 Indeed my soul was busily employ'd. 
 
 Nor left a single thought at liberty. 
 
 But thou, I know, art gentleness and 
 love. 
 
 Now I am doubly paid for all my sor- 
 rows, 
 
 For all my fears for thee. 
 Arsaces. Then, fear no more : 
 
 Give to guilty wretches painful terrors: 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 21 
 
 Whose keen remembrance raises horrid 
 
 forms, 
 Shapes that in spite of nature shock their 
 
 souls 
 With dreadful anguish; but thy gentle 
 
 bosom, 
 Where innocence beams light and gayety, 
 Can never know a fear, now shining joy 
 Shall gild the pleasing scene. 
 EvANTHE. Alas! this joy 
 
 I fear is like a sudden flame shot from 
 Th' expiring taper, darkness will ensue. 
 And double night I dread enclose us 
 
 round. 
 Anxiety does yet disturb my breast. 
 And frightful apprehension shakes my 
 
 soul. 
 Bethas. How shall I thank you, ye bright 
 
 glorious beings! 
 Shall I in humble adoration bow. 
 Or fill the earth with your resounding 
 
 praise ? 
 No, this I leave to noisy hypocrites, 
 A Mortal's tongue disgraces such a 
 
 theme ; 
 But heav'n delights where silent grati- 
 tude 
 Mounts each aspiring thought to its 
 
 bright throne, 
 N"or leaves to language aught ; words may 
 
 indeed 
 From man to man their several wants 
 
 express, 
 Heav'n asks the purer incense of the 
 
 heart. 
 Arsaces. I'll to the King, ere he retires 
 
 to rest, 
 Nor will I leave him 'til I 've gain'd 
 
 your freedom; 
 His love will surely not deny me this. 
 
 Scene 8. 
 
 Vardanes and Lysias {come forward). 
 
 Lysias. 'T was a moving scene, e'en my 
 rough nature 
 
 Was nighly melted. 
 Vardanes. Hence coward pity — 
 
 What is joy to them, to me is torture. 
 
 Now am I rack'd with pains that far ex- 
 ceed 
 
 Those agonies, which fabling Priests re- 
 late. 
 
 The damn'd endure : The shock of hope- 
 less Love, 
 
 Unblest with any views to sooth ambition, 
 
 Rob me of all my reas'ning faculties. 
 
 Arsaces gains Evanthe, fills the throne, 
 
 While I am doom'd to foul obscurity. 
 
 To pine and grieve neglected. 
 Lysias. My noble Prince, 
 
 Would it not be a master-piece, indeed. 
 
 To make this very bliss their greatest ill. 
 
 And damn them in the very folds of joy? 
 Vardanes. This I will try, and stretch my 
 utmost art, 
 
 Unknown is yet the means — We Tl 
 think on that — 
 
 Success may follow if you'll lend your 
 aid. 
 Lysias. The storm still rages — I must 
 to the King, 
 
 And know what further orders ere he 
 sleeps : 
 
 Soon I '11 return, and speak my mind 
 more fully. 
 Vardanes. Haste, Lysias, haste, to aid me 
 with thy council; 
 
 For without thee, all my designs will 
 prove 
 
 Like night and chaos, darkness and con- 
 fusion ; 
 
 But to thy word shall light and order 
 spring. — 
 
 Let coward Schoolmen talk of Virtue's 
 rules, 
 
 And preach the vain Philosophy of fools ; 
 
 Court eager their obscurity, afraid 
 
 To taste a joy, and in some gloomy shade 
 
 Dream o'er their lives, while in a mourn- 
 ful strain 
 
 They sing of happiness they never gain. 
 
 But f orm'd for nobler purposes I come, 
 
 To gain a crown, or else a glorious tomb. 
 
 end of the second act. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. The Palace. 
 
 Queen and Edessa. 
 
 Queen. Talk not of sleep to me, the God 
 
 of Rest 
 Disdains to visit where disorder reigns; 
 Not beds of down, nor music's softest 
 
 strains, 
 Can charm him when 't is anarchy within. 
 He flies with eager haste the mind dis- 
 
 turb'd. 
 And sheds his blessings where the soul 's 
 
 in peace. 
 Edessa. Yet, hear me, Madam ! 
 
oo 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Queen. Hence, away, Edessa, 
 
 For thou know'st not the pangs of jeal- 
 ousy. 
 Say, has he not forsook my bed, and left 
 
 me 
 Like a lone widow mourning to the night ? 
 This, with the injury his son has done me, 
 If I forgive, may heav'n in anger show'r 
 Its torments on me — Ha ! is n't that 
 the King? 
 Edessa. It is your Royal Lord, great 
 
 Artahanus. 
 Queen. Leave me, for I would meet him 
 here alone, 
 Something is lab 'ring in my breast — 
 
 Scene 2. 
 King and Queen. 
 
 King. This leads 
 
 To fair Evanthe's chamber — Ha! the 
 Queen. 
 Queen. Why dost thou start ? so starts the 
 guilty wretch, 
 
 When, by some watchful eye, prevented 
 from 
 
 His dark designs. 
 King. Prevented! how, what meanest 
 
 thou? 
 Queen. Art thou then so dull? cannot thy 
 heart. 
 
 Thy changeling heart, explain my mean- 
 ing to thee, 
 
 Or must upbraiding 'wake thy appre- 
 hension ? 
 
 Ah! faithless, tell me, have I lost those 
 charms 
 
 Which thou so oft hast sworn could warm 
 old age. 
 
 And tempt the frozen hermit from his 
 cell. 
 
 To visit once again our gayer world ? 
 
 This, thou hast sworn, perfidious as thou 
 art, 
 
 A thousand times; as often hast thou 
 sworn 
 
 Eternal constancy, and endless love. 
 
 Yet ev'ry time was perjur'd. 
 King. Sure, 'tis frenzy. 
 
 Queen. Indeed, 'tis frenzy, 'tis the 
 height of madness. 
 
 For I have wander'd long in sweet de- 
 lusion. 
 
 At length the pleasing Phantom chang'd 
 its form. 
 
 And left me in a wilderness of woe. 
 
 King. Prithee, no more, dismiss those 
 
 jealous heats; 
 Love must decay, and soon disgust arise, 
 Where endless jarrings and upbraidings 
 
 damp 
 The gentle flame, which warms the lover's 
 
 breast. 
 Queen. Oh! grant me patience heav'n! 
 
 and dost thou think 
 By these reproaches to disguise thy guilt ? 
 No, 't is in vain, thy art 's too thin to 
 
 hide it. 
 King. Curse on the marriage chain! — the 
 
 clog, a wife. 
 Who still will force and pall us with the 
 
 joy, 
 
 Tho' pow'r is wanting, and the will is 
 
 cloy'd. 
 Still urge the debt when Nothing's left 
 
 to pay. 
 Queen. Ha ! dost thou own thy crime, nor 
 
 feel the glow 
 Of conscious shame? 
 King. Why should I blush, if heav'n 
 
 Has made me as I am, and gave me pas- 
 sions ? 
 Blest only in variety, then blame 
 The Gods, who form'd my nature thus, 
 
 not me. 
 Queen. Oh! Traitor! Villain! 
 King. Hence — away — 
 
 No more I '11 wage a woman's war with 
 
 words. {Exit.) 
 
 Queen. Down, down ye rising passions, 
 
 give me ease. 
 Or break my heart, for I must yet be 
 
 calm — 
 But, yet, revenge, our Sex's joy, is mine; 
 By all the Gods! he lives not till the 
 
 morn. 
 Who slights my love, shall sink beneath 
 
 my hate. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 Queen and Vardanes. 
 
 Vardanes. What, raging to the tempest? 
 
 Queen. Away ! — aw^ay ! — 
 
 Yes, I will rage — a tempest 's here within. 
 Above the trifling of the noisy elements. 
 Blow[,] ye loud winds, burst with your 
 
 violence, 
 For ye but barely imitate the storm 
 That wildly rages in my tortur'd breast — 
 The King — the King — 
 
 Vardanes. Ha! what? — the King? 
 
 Queen. Ei^anthe ' — 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 23 
 
 Vaedaxes. You talk like riddles, still ob- 
 scure and short, 
 
 Give me some cue to guide me thro' this 
 maze. 
 Queen. Ye pitying pow'rs! — oh! for a 
 poison, some 
 
 Curs'd deadly draught, that I might blast 
 her beauties. 
 
 And rob her eyes of all tlieir fatal lustre. 
 Vardanes. What, blast her charms? — 
 dare not to think of it — 
 
 Shocking impiety; — the num'rous sys- 
 tems 
 
 Which gay creation spreads, bright blaz- 
 ing suns. 
 
 With all th' attendant planets circling 
 round, 
 
 Are not worth half the radiance of her 
 eyes. 
 
 She 's heav'n's peculiar care, good spir'ts 
 hover 
 
 Round, a shining band, to guard her 
 beauties. 
 Queen. Be they watchful then; for should 
 remissness 
 
 Taint the guard, I '11 snatch the oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 And hurl her to destruction. 
 Vardanes. Dread Thermusa, 
 
 Say, what has rous'd this tumult in thy 
 soul? 
 
 Why dost thou rage with unabating 
 'fury, 
 
 Wild as the winds, loud as the troubl'd 
 sea? 
 Queen. Yes, I will tell thee — Evanthe — 
 curse her — 
 
 With charms — Would that my curses 
 had the pow'r 
 
 To kill, destroy, and blast where e'er I 
 hate. 
 
 Then would I curse, still curse, till death 
 should seize 
 
 The dying accents on my falt'ring tongue, 
 
 So should this world, and the false 
 changeling man 
 
 Be buried in one universal ruin. 
 Vardanes. Still err'st thou from the pur- 
 pose. 
 Queen. Ha ! 't is so— 
 
 Yes, I will tell thee— for I know[,] fond 
 fool, 
 
 Deluded wretch, thou dotest on Evan- 
 the — 
 
 Be that thy greatest curse, be curs'd like 
 me. 
 
 With jealousy and rage, for know, the 
 King, 
 
 Thy father, is thy rival. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Vardanes, alone. 
 
 Ha! my rival! 
 How knew she that? — yet stay — she's 
 
 gone — ^my rival. 
 What then? he is Arsaces' rival too. 
 Ha ! — this may aid and ripen my designs — 
 Could I but fire the King wath jealousy, 
 And then accuse my Brother of Intrigues 
 Against the state — ha ! — join'd with Bethas, 
 
 and 
 Confed'rate w^ith th' Arabians — 't is most 
 
 likely 
 That jealousy would urge him to belief. 
 I '11 sink my claim until some fitter time, 
 'Til opportunity smiles on my purpose. 
 Lysias already has receiv'd the mandate 
 For Bethas' freedom: Let them still pro- 
 ceed, 
 This harmony shall change to discord soon. 
 Fortune methinks of late grows wond'rous 
 
 kind. 
 She scarcely leaves me to employ myself. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 King, Arsaces, Vardanes. 
 
 King. But where 's Evanthe? Where's 
 
 the lovely Maid? 
 Arsaces. On the cold pavement, by her 
 
 aged Sire, 
 The dear companion of his solitude. 
 She sits, nor can persuasion make her 
 
 rise; 
 But in the wild extravagance of joy 
 She weeps, then smiles, like April's sun, 
 
 thro' show'rs. 
 While with strain'd eyes he gazes on her 
 
 face. 
 And cries, in ecstasy, "Ye gracious 
 
 pow'rs ! 
 "It is too much, it is too much to bear!" 
 Then clasps her to his breast, while down 
 
 his cheeks 
 Large drops each other trace, and mix 
 
 with hers. 
 King. Thy tale is moving, for my eyes 
 
 o'erflow — 
 How slow does Lysias with Evanthe 
 
 creep ! 
 So moves old time when bringing us to 
 
 bliss. 
 Now war shall cease, no more of war I '11 
 
 have, 
 
24 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Death knows satiety, and pale destruc- 
 tion 
 
 Turns loathing from his food, thus forc'd 
 on iiim. 
 
 The trifling dust, the cause of all this 
 ruin, 
 
 The trade of death shall ursre no more. — 
 
 Scene 6. 
 
 King, Arsaces, Vardanes, Evanthe, 
 Lysias. 
 
 King. Evanthe! — 
 
 See pleasure's goddess deigns to dignify 
 
 The happy scene, and make our bliss 
 complete. 
 
 So Venus, from her heav'nly seat, de- 
 scends 
 
 To bless the gay Cythera with her pres- 
 ence; 
 
 A thousand smiling graces wait the god- 
 dess, 
 
 A thousand little loves are flutt'ring 
 round, 
 
 And joy is mingl'd with the beauteous 
 train. 
 Evanthe. ! Royal Sir, thus lowly to the 
 ground 
 
 I bend, in humble gratitude, accept 
 
 My thanks, for this thy goodness, words 
 are vile 
 
 T' express the image of my lively 
 thought. 
 
 And speak the grateful fulness of my 
 heart. 
 
 All I can say, is that I now am happy. 
 
 And that thy giving hand has made me 
 blest. 
 King. 0! rise, Evanthe, rise, this lowly 
 posture 
 
 Suits not with charms like thine, they 
 should command, 
 
 And ev'ry heart exult in thy behests ; — 
 
 But, Where's thy aged Siref 
 Evanthe. This sudden turn 
 
 Of fortune has so wrought upon his 
 frame. 
 
 His limbs could not support him to thy 
 presence. 
 Arsaces. This, this is truly great, this is 
 the Hero, 
 
 Like heav'n, to scatter blessings 'mong 
 mankind. 
 
 And e'er delight in making others happy. 
 
 Cold is the praise which waits the victor's 
 trinmph, 
 
 (Who thro' a sea of blood has rush'd to 
 
 glory). 
 To the o'erflowings of a grateful heart, 
 By obligations conquer'd : Yet, extend 
 Thy bounty unto me. (Kneels.) 
 
 King. Kal rise, Arsaces. 
 
 Arsaces. Not till you grant my boon. 
 King. Speak, and 't is thine — 
 
 Wide thro' our kingdom let thy eager 
 
 wishes 
 Search for some jewel worthy of thy 
 
 seeing ; 
 Something that 's fit to show the donor's 
 
 bounty, 
 And by the glorious sun, our worship'd 
 
 God, 
 Thou shalt not have denial; e'en my 
 
 crown 
 Shall gild thy brows with shining beams 
 
 of Empire. 
 With pleasure I '11 resign to thee my 
 
 honours, 
 I long for calm retirement's softer joys. 
 Arsaces. Long may you wear it, grant it 
 
 bounteous heav'n. 
 And happiness attend it; 'tis my pray'r 
 That daily rises with the early sweets 
 Of nature's incense, and the lark's loud 
 
 strain. 
 'T is not the unruly transport of ambi- 
 tion 
 That urges my desires to ask your crown; 
 Let the vain wretch, who prides in gay 
 
 dominion, 
 Who thinks not of the great ones' weighty 
 
 cares, 
 Enjoy his lofty wish, wide spreading 
 
 rule. 
 The treasure which I ask, put in the 
 
 scale, 
 Would over-balance all that Kings can 
 
 boast. 
 Empire and diadems. 
 King. Away, that thought — 
 
 Name it, haste — speak. 
 Arsaces. For all the dang'rous toil. 
 
 Thirst, hunger, marches long that I 've 
 
 endur'd. 
 For all the blood I 've in thy service 
 
 spent. 
 Reward me wdth Evanthe. 
 King. Ha ! what said'st thou ?— 
 
 Vardanes. (Aside.) The King is mov'd, 
 
 and angry bites his lip — 
 Thro' my benighted soul all-chearing 
 
 hope 
 Beams, like an orient sun, reviving joy. 
 Arsaces. The stern Vonones ne'er could 
 
 boast a merit 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 25 
 
 But loving her. 
 King. Ah! curse the hated name — 
 
 Yes, I remember when the fell ruffian 
 Directed all his fury at my hf e ; 
 Then sent, by pitying heav'n, t' assert 
 
 the right 
 Of injur'd Majesty, thou, Arsaces, 
 Taught him the duty he ne'er knew be- 
 fore, 
 And laid the Traitor dead. 
 Arsaces. • My Royal Sire! 
 
 Lysias. My Liege, the Prince still kneels. 
 King. Ha! — rebel, off — 
 
 {Strikes him.) 
 What, Lysias J did I strike thee? forgive 
 
 my rage — 
 The name of curs'd Vonones fires my 
 
 blood, 
 And gives me up to wrath. — 
 Lysias. I am your slave, 
 
 Sway'd by your pleasure — when I forget 
 
 it. 
 May this keen dagger, which I mean to 
 
 hide. 
 
 Deep in his bosom, pierce my vitals 
 
 thro'. (Aside.) 
 
 King. Did'st thou not name Evanthef 
 
 Arsaces. I did, my Lord ! 
 
 And, say, whom should I name but her, 
 
 in whom 
 My soul has center'd all her happiness? 
 Nor can'st thou blame me, view her 
 
 wond'rous charms. 
 She 's all perfection ; bounteous heav'n 
 
 has form'd her 
 To be the joy, and wonder of mankind; 
 But language is too vile to speak her 
 
 beauties. 
 Here ev'ry pow'r of glowing fancy's 
 
 lost: 
 Rose blush secure, ye lilies still enjoy 
 Your silver whiteness, I '11 not rob your 
 
 charms 
 To deck the bright comparison; for here 
 It sure must fail. 
 King. He 's wanton in her praise — 
 
 (Aside.) 
 I tell thee, Prince, hadst thou as many 
 
 tongues. 
 As days have wasted since creation's 
 
 birth, 
 They were too few to tell the mighty 
 theme. 
 EvANTHE. I'm lost! I'm lost! (Aside.) 
 Arsaces. Then I '11 be dumb for ever. 
 
 King. rash and fatal oath! is there no 
 way, 
 No winding path to shun this preci- 
 pice, 
 
 But must I fall and dash my hopes to 
 
 atoms ?' 
 In vain I strive, thought but perplexes 
 
 me. 
 Yet shews no hold to bear me up — now, 
 
 hold 
 My heart awhile — she 's thine — 't is done. 
 Arsaces. In deep 
 
 Prostration, I thank my Royal Father. 
 King. A sudden pain shoots thro' my 
 
 trembling breast — 
 Lend me thy arm, Vardanes — cruel 
 
 pow'rs ! 
 
 Scene 7. 
 Arsaces and Evanthe. 
 
 EvANTHE. (After a pause.) E'er since 
 
 the dawn of my unhappy life 
 Joy never shone serenely on my soul; 
 Still something interven'd to cloud my 
 
 day. 
 Tell me, ye pow'rs, unfold the hidden 
 
 crime 
 For which I 'm doom'd to this eternal 
 
 woe, 
 Thus still to number o'er my hours with 
 
 tears? 
 The Gods are just, I know, nor are de- 
 crees 
 In hurry shuffl'd out, but where the bolt 
 Takes its direction justice points the 
 
 mark. 
 Yet still in vain I search within my 
 
 breast, 
 I find no sins are there to shudder at — 
 Nought but the common frailties of our 
 
 natures. 
 ArsaceSj — Oh ! — 
 Arsaces. Ha ! why that look of anguish? 
 Why didst thou name me with that sound 
 
 of sorrow? 
 Ah ! say, why stream those gushing tears 
 
 so fast 
 From their bright fountain? Sparkling 
 
 joy should now 
 Be lighten'd in thine eye, and pleasure 
 
 glow 
 Upon thy rosy cheek; — ye sorrows 
 
 hence — 
 'T is love shall triumph now. 
 Evanthe. Oh! (SigJis.) 
 
 Arsaces. What means that sigh ? 
 
 Tell me why heaves thy breast with such 
 
 emotion ? 
 Some dreadful thought is lab'ring for a 
 
 vent. 
 
26 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Haste, give it loose, ere streugtlien'd by 
 
 continement 
 It wrecks thy frame, and tears its snowy 
 
 prison. 
 Is sorrow then so pleasing that you hoard 
 
 it 
 With as much love, as misers do their 
 
 gold '? 
 Give me my share of sorrows. 
 EvANTHE. Ah ! too soon 
 
 You '11 know what I would hide. 
 Aesaces. Be it from thee — 
 
 The dreadful tale, when told by thee, 
 
 shall please; 
 Haste, to produce it with its native ter- 
 rors. 
 My steady soul shall still remain un- 
 shaken ; 
 For who wlien bless'd with beauties like 
 
 to thine 
 Would e'er permit a sorrow to intrude? 
 Far hence in darksome shades does sor- 
 row dwell, 
 Where hapless wretches thro' the awful 
 
 gloom. 
 Echo their woes, and sighing to the 
 
 winds, 
 Augment with tears the gently murm'ring 
 
 stream ; 
 But ne'er disturbs such happiness as 
 
 mine. 
 EvANTHE. Oh! 'tis not all thy boasted 
 
 happiness. 
 Can save thee from disquietude and care ; 
 Then build not too securely on these joys, 
 For envious sorrow soon will undermine. 
 And let the goodly structure fall to ruin. 
 Arsaces. I charge thee, by our mutual 
 
 vows, Evanthe, 
 Tell me, nor longer keep me in suspense : 
 Give me to know the utmost rage of fate. 
 Evanthe. Then know — impossible! — 
 Arsaces. Ha! dost thou fear 
 
 To shock me?— 
 Evanthe. Know, thy Father — loves 
 
 Evanthe. — 
 Arsaces. Loves thee? 
 Evanthe. Yea, e'en to distraction loves 
 
 me. 
 Oft at my feet he 's told the moving tale, 
 And woo'd me with the ardency of youth. 
 I pitied him indeed, but that was all, 
 Thou would'st have pitied too. 
 Arsaces. I fear 't is true ; 
 
 A thousand crouding circumstances speak 
 
 it. 
 Ye cruel Gods ! I 've wreck'd a Father's 
 
 peace^ 
 
 Oh! bitter thought! 
 Evanthe. Didst thou observe, Arsaces, 
 
 How reluctant he gave me to thy arms? 
 Arsaces. Yes, I observ'd that when he . 
 gave thee up, 1 
 
 It seem'd as tho' he gave his precious life. 
 
 And who 'd forego the heav'n of thy love ? 
 
 To rest on thy soft swelling breast, and 
 in 
 
 Sweet slumbers sooth each sharp intrud- 
 ing care? 
 
 Oh ! it were bliss, such as immortals taste, ■ j 
 
 To press thy ruby lips distilling sweets, || 
 
 Or circl'd in thy snowy arms to snatch ■' 
 
 A joy, that Gods — 
 Evanthe. Come, then, my much-lov'd ii 
 
 Prince, I 
 
 Let 's seek the shelter of some kind re- 
 treat. 
 
 Happy Arabia opens wide her arms, 
 
 There may we find some friendly soli- 
 tude. 
 
 Far from the noise and hurry of the 
 Court. 
 
 Ambitious views shall never blast our 
 joys. 
 
 Or tyrant Fathers triumph o'er our wills : 
 
 There may we live like the first happy 
 pair 
 
 Cloth'd in primeval innocence secure. 
 
 Our food untainted by luxurious arts, 
 
 Plain, simple, as our lives, shall not de- 
 stroy 
 
 The health it should sustain; while the 
 clear brook 
 
 Affords the cooling draught our thirsts 
 to quench. 
 
 There, hand in hand, we '11 trace the 
 citron grove. 
 
 While with the songsters' round I join 
 my voice, "^ 
 
 To hush thy cares and calm thy ruffl'd 
 soul: 
 
 Or, on some flow'ry bank reclin'd, my 
 strains 
 
 Shall captivate the natives of the stream, 
 
 While on its crystal lap ourselves we 
 view. 
 Arsaces. I see before us a wide sea of 
 sorrows, 
 
 Th' angry waves roll forward to o'er- 
 whelm us. 
 
 Black clouds arise, and the wind whistles 
 loud. 
 
 But yet, oh! could I save thee from the 
 wreck. 
 
 Thou beauteous casket, where my joys 
 are stor'd^ 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 27 
 
 Let the storm rage with double violence, 
 
 Smiling I 'd view its wide extended hor- 
 rors. 
 EvAXi'HE. 'T is not enough that we do 
 know the ill, 
 
 Say, shall we calmly see the tempest rise, 
 
 And seek no shelter from th' inclement 
 sky. 
 
 But bid it rage? — 
 Arsaces. Ha ! will he force thee from me? 
 
 What, tear thee from my fond and bleed- 
 ing heart? 
 
 And must I lose thee ever? dreadful 
 word ! 
 
 Never to gaze upon thy beauties more ? 
 
 Never to taste the sweetness of thy lips? 
 
 Never to know the joys of mutual love? 
 
 Never! — Oh! let me lose the pow'r of 
 thinking, 
 
 For thouglit is near allied to desperation. 
 
 Whv, cruel Sire — why did you give me 
 'life. 
 
 And load it with a weight of wretched- 
 ness? 
 
 Take back my being, or relieve my sor- 
 rows — 
 
 Ha! art thou not Evanthef — Art thou 
 not 
 
 The lovely Maid, who bless'd the fond 
 Arsaces f — (Raving. ) 
 
 EvANTHE. 0, my lov'd Lord, recall your 
 scatter'd spir'ts, 
 
 Alas! I fear your senses are unsettl'd. 
 Arsaces. Yes, I would leave this dull and 
 heavy sense. 
 
 Let me grow mad; perhaps, I then may 
 gain 
 
 Some joy, by kind imagination form'd, 
 
 Beyond reality. — 0! my Evanthe! 
 
 Why was I curs'd with empire? born to 
 rule ? — 
 
 Would I had been some humble Peasant's 
 son. 
 
 And thou some Shepherd's daughter on 
 the plain; 
 
 My throne some hillock, and my flock my 
 subjects, 
 
 My crook my sceptre, and my faithful 
 dog 
 
 My only guard; nor curs'd with dreams 
 of greatness. 
 
 At early dawn I 'd liail the coming day. 
 
 And join the lark the rival of his lay; 
 
 At sultry noon to some kind shade re- 
 pair, 
 
 Thus joyful pass the hours, my only care, 
 
 To guard my flock, and please the >aeld- 
 ing Fair. 
 
 Scene 8. 
 
 King. — Vardanes, behind the Scene. 
 
 King. I will not think, to think is tor- 
 ment — Ha I 
 See, how they twine! ye furies cut their 
 
 hold. 
 Now their hot blood beats loud to love's 
 
 alarms ; 
 Sigh presses sigh, while from their 
 
 sparkling eyes 
 Flashes desire — Oh! ye bright heav'nly 
 
 beings, 
 Who pitying bend to suppliant Lovers' 
 
 pray'rs, 
 And aid them in extremity, assist me! 
 Vardanes. Thus for the Trojan, mourn'd 
 
 the Queen of Carthage; 
 So, on the shore she raving stood, and 
 
 saw 
 His navy leave her hospita])le shore. 
 In vain she curs'd the wind which fill'd 
 
 their sails, 
 And bore the emblem of its change away. 
 ( Co m es fo r wa rd. ) 
 King. Vardanes — ha ! — come here, I know 
 
 thou lov'st me. 
 Vardanes. I do[,] my Lord; but, so.y, 
 
 what busy villain 
 Durst e'er approach your ear, with 
 
 coz'ning tales. 
 And urge you to a doubt ? 
 King. None, none[,] believe me. 
 
 I '11 ne'er oppress thy love with fearful 
 
 doubt — 
 A little nigher — let me lean upon thee — 
 And thou be my support — for now I 
 
 mean 
 T' unbosom to thee free without re- 
 straint : 
 Search all the deep recesses of my soul, 
 And open ev'ry darling thought before 
 
 thee. 
 Which long I 've secreted with jealous 
 
 care. 
 Pray, mark me well. 
 Vardanes. I will, my Royal Sire. 
 
 King. On Anna thus reclin'd the love-sick 
 
 Dido ; 
 Thus to her cheek laid hers with gentle 
 
 pressure, 
 And wet her sister with a pearly show'r, 
 Which fell from her sad eyes, then told 
 
 her tale, 
 While gentle Anna gave a pitying tear, 
 And own'd 't w^as moving — thou canst 
 
 pity too, 
 
28 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 I know thy nature tender and engaging. 
 Vardanes. Tell me, my gracious Lord, 
 
 what moves you thus"? 
 Why is your breast distracted with these 
 
 tumults? 
 Teach me some method how to sooth your 
 
 sorrows, 
 And give your heart its former peace and 
 
 joy; 
 
 Instruct, thy lov'd, Vardanes. — 
 King. Yes, I '11 tell thee ; 
 
 But listen with attention while I speak; 
 And 3'et I know 't will shock thy gentle 
 
 soul, 
 And horror o'er thee '11 spread his palsy 
 
 hand. 
 0, my lov'd Son! thou fondness of my 
 
 age! 
 Thou art the prop of my declining years, 
 In thee alone I find a Father's joy, 
 Of all my offspring : But Arsaces — 
 Vardanes. Ha ! 
 
 My Brother! — 
 King. A}^ — why dost start? — thy Brother 
 Pursues me with his hate: and, while 
 
 warm life 
 Rolls the red current tliro' my veins, de- 
 lights 
 To see me tortur'd; with an easy smile 
 He meets my suff'rings, and derides my 
 pain. 
 Vardanes. Oh ! 
 
 King. What means that hollow groan? — 
 Vardanes, speak. 
 Death's image sits upon thy pallid cheek. 
 While thy low voice sounds as when mur- 
 murs run 
 Thro' lengthen'd vaults — 
 Vardanes. ! my foreboding thoughts, 
 
 (Aside.) 
 'T was this disturb'd my rest ; when sleep 
 
 at night 
 Lock'd me in slumbers; in my dreams I 
 
 saw 
 My Brother's crime — yet, death! — it can- 
 not be — 
 King. Ha ! — what was that ? — 
 Vardanes. ! my dread Lord, some 
 
 Villain 
 Bred up in lies, and train'd in treach'ry, 
 Has injur'd you by vile reports, to stain 
 My Princely Brother's honour. 
 King. Thou know'st more. 
 
 Thy looks confess what thou in vain 
 
 wouldst hide — 
 And hast thou then conspir'd against mo 
 
 too. 
 And sworn concealment to vour prac- 
 tices?— 
 
 Thy guilt- 
 Vardanes. Ha! guilt! — what guilt? — 
 
 King. Nay, start not so — 
 
 I' 11 know your purposes, spite of tliy art. 
 Vardanes. 0! ye Great Gods! and is it ij 
 
 come to this? — I 
 
 My Royal Father [,] call your reason 
 
 home. 
 Drive these loud passions hence, that thus 
 
 deform you. 
 My Brother — Ah! what shall I say? — Ji 
 
 My Brother |l 
 
 Sure loves you as he ought. 
 King. Ha ! as he ought ? — 
 
 Hell blister thy evasive tongue — I '11 
 
 know it — 
 I will ; I '11 search thy breast, thus will I 
 
 open 
 A passage to your secrets — yet resolv'd — 
 Yet steady in your horrid villany — 
 'T is fit that I from whom such monsters 
 
 sprung 
 No more should burthen earth — Ye 
 
 Parricides ! — 
 Here plant your daggers in this hated 
 
 bosom — 
 Here rive my heart, and end at once my 
 
 sorrows, 
 I gave thee being, that's the mighty 
 
 crime. 
 Vardanes. I can no more — here let me 
 
 bow in anguish — 
 Think not that I e'er join'd in his de- 
 signs. 
 Because I have conceal'd my knowledge 
 
 of them ; 
 I meant, by pow'rful reason's friendly 
 
 aid, 
 To turn him from destruction's dreadful 
 
 path. 
 And bring him to a sense of what he 
 
 ow'd 
 To you as King and Father. 
 King. Say on — I '11 hear. 
 
 Vardanes. He views thy sacred life with 
 
 envious hate. 
 And 't is a bar to his ambitious hopes. 
 On the bright throne of Empire his 
 
 plum'd wishes 
 Seat him, while on his proud aspiring 
 
 brows 
 He feels the pleasing weight of Royalty. 
 But when he w\ikes from these his airy 
 
 dreams, 
 (Delusions form'd by the deceiver liope, 
 To raise him to the glorious height of 
 
 greatness) 
 Then Imrl him from proud Empire to 
 
 subjection. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 29 
 
 Wild wrath will quickly swell his haughty 
 
 breast, 
 Soon as he finds 't is but a shadowy bless- 
 ing.— 
 'T was fav'ring accident diseover'd to me 
 All that I know; this Evening as I stood 
 Alone, retir'd, in the still gallery. 
 That leads up to th' apartment of my 
 
 Brother, 
 T' indulge my melancholy thoughts, — 
 King. Proceed — 
 
 Vardanes. a wretch approach'd -with 
 wary step, his eye 
 Spoke half his tale, denoting villany. 
 In hollow murmurs thus he question'd 
 
 me. 
 Was I the Prince ? — I answer'd to con- 
 tent him — 
 Then in his hand he held this paper 
 
 forth. 
 "Take this," says he, "this Bethas greets 
 
 thee with, 
 "Keep but your word our plot will meet 
 
 success." 
 I snatch'd it with more rashness than 
 
 discretion, 
 Which taught him his mistake. In haste 
 
 he drew. 
 And aim'd his dagger at my breast, but 
 
 paid 
 His life, a forfeit, for his bold presum- 
 ing. 
 King. Villain! Villain! 
 Vardanes. Here, read this, my Lord — 
 
 I read it, and cold horror froze my blood. 
 And shook me like an ague. 
 King. Ha !— what 's this ?— 
 
 "Doubt not Arabia's aid, set me but free, 
 "I '11 easy pass on the old cred'lous King, 
 "For fair Evantlie's Father."— Thus to 
 atoms — 
 
 {Tears the paper into pieces.) 
 Oh! could I tear these cursed traitors 
 thus. 
 Vaedanes. Curses avail you nothing, he 
 has pow'r, 
 And may abuse it to your prejudice. 
 King. I am resolv'd — 
 Vardanes. Tho' Pris'ner in his camp. 
 
 Yet, Bethas was attended like a Prince, 
 As tho' he still commanded the Arabians. 
 'T is true, when they approach'd the royal 
 
 city, 
 He threw them into chains to blind our 
 
 eyes, 
 A shallow artifice — 
 King. That is a Truth. 
 
 ^^ ARDANES. And, yet, he is your Son. 
 King. Ah! that indeed— 
 
 Vardanes. Why that still heightens his 
 impiety^ 
 To rush to empire thro' his Father's 
 
 blood, 
 And, in return of life, to give him death. 
 King. Oh! I am all on fire, yes, I must 
 tear 
 These folds of venom from me. 
 Vardanes. Sure 't was Lysias 
 
 That cross'd the passage now. 
 King. 'T is to my wish. 
 
 I '11 in, and give him orders to arrest 
 My traitor Son and Bethas. — Now, 
 
 Vardanes, 
 Indulge thy Father in this one request — 
 Seize, with some horse, Evanthe, and 
 
 bear her 
 To your command — Oh ! I '11 own my 
 
 weakness — 
 I love with fondness mortal never knew" — 
 Not Jove himself, when he forsook his 
 
 heav'n. 
 And in a brutal shape disgrac'd the God, 
 E'er lov'd like me. 
 Vardanes. I will obey you, Sir. 
 
 Scene 9. 
 
 Vardanes, alone. 
 
 I '11 seize her, but I '11 keep her for myself, 
 It were a sin to give her to his age- 
 To twine the blooming garland of the spring 
 Around the sapless trunks of wither'd 
 
 oaks — 
 The night, methinks, grows ruder than it 
 
 was. 
 Thus should it be, thus nature should be 
 
 shock'd, 
 And Prodigies, affrighting all mankind. 
 Foretell the dreadful business I intend. 
 The earth should gape, and swallow cities 
 
 up. 
 Shake from their haughty heights aspiring 
 
 tow'rs. 
 And level mountains with the vales below; 
 The Sun amaz'd should frown in dark 
 
 eclipse. 
 And light retire to its unclouded heav'n; 
 While darkness, bursting from her deep re- 
 cess. 
 Should wrap all nature in eternal night. — 
 Ambition, glorious fever of the mind, 
 'T is that which raises us above mankind; 
 The shining mark which bounteous heav'n 
 
 has gave. 
 From vulgar souls distinguishing the brave. 
 
 END OF the third ACT. 
 
30 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. A Prison. 
 GOTARZES and Phraates. 
 
 Phraates. Oh! fly my Prince, for safety 
 
 dwells not here, 
 Hence let me urge thy flight with eager 
 
 haste. 
 Last night thy Father sigli'd his soul to 
 
 bliss, 
 Base murther'd — 
 GoTARZES. Murther'd? ye Gods! — 
 
 Phraates. Alas ! 't is true. 
 
 Stabb'd in his slumber by a traitor's 
 
 hand; 
 I scarce can speak it — horror choaks my 
 
 words — 
 Lysias it w^as w4io did the damned deed, 
 Urg'd by the bloody Queen, and his curs'd 
 
 rage. 
 Because the King, thy Sire, in angry 
 
 mood. 
 Once struck him on his foul dishonest 
 
 cheek. 
 Suspicion gave me fears of this, when 
 
 first 
 I heard, the Prince, Arsaces, was im- 
 prisoned, 
 By fell Vardanes^ wiles. 
 GoTARZES. Oh ! horror ! horror ! 
 
 Hither I came to share my Brother's sor- 
 rows. 
 To mingle tears, and give him sigh for 
 
 sigh ; 
 But this is double, double weight of woe. 
 Phraates. 'T is held as yet a secret from 
 
 the world. 
 Frighted by hideous dreams I shook off 
 
 sleep. 
 And as I mus'd the garden walks along, 
 Thro' the deep gloom, close in a neigh- 
 
 b'ring walk, 
 Vardanes with proud Lysias I beheld. 
 Still eager in discourse they saw not me, 
 For yet the early dawn had not ap- 
 
 pear'd ; 
 I sought a secret stand, where hid from 
 
 view, 
 I heard stem Lysias, hail the Prince 
 
 Vardanes 
 As Parthia's dreaded Lord— " 'T is 
 
 done," he cry'd, 
 " 'T is done, and Artahanus is no more. 
 "The blow he gave me is repay'd in 
 
 blood ; 
 "Now shall the morn behold two rising 
 
 suns: 
 
 ^^ Vardanes, thou, our better light, shalt ., 
 bring |< 
 
 "Bright day and joy to ev'ry heart." "| 
 
 GoTARZES. Why slept 
 
 Your vengeance, oh! ye righteous Gods'? 
 Phraates. Then told 
 
 A tale, so fiU'd with bloody circumstance, 
 
 Of this damn'd deed, that stiffen'd me 
 with horror. 
 
 Vardanes seem'd to blame the hasty act. 
 
 As rash, and unadvis'd, by passion urg'd, 
 
 Which never yields to cool reflection's 
 
 place. 1 
 
 But, being done, resolv'd it secret, least I; 
 
 The multitude should take it in their ■ 
 wise 
 
 Authority to pry into his death. 
 
 Arsaces was, by assassination, 
 
 Doom'd to fall. Your name was men- 
 tion'd also — 
 
 But hurried by my fears away, I left 
 
 The rest unheard — 
 GOTARZES. What can be done? — Reflec- 
 tion, why wilt thou 
 
 Forsake us, when distress is at our heels ? 
 
 Phraates, help me, aid me with thy coun- 
 cil. 
 Phraates. Then stay not here, fly to Bar- 
 zaphernes. 
 
 His conqu'ring troops are at a trivial 
 distance ; 
 
 Soon will you reach the camp; he lov'd 
 your Brother, 
 
 And your Father with affection serv'd; 
 haste 
 
 Your flight, whilst yet I have the city- 
 guard. 
 
 For Lysias, I expect, takes my command. 
 
 I to the camp dispatch'd a trusty slave. 
 
 Before the morn had spread her blushing 
 veil. 
 
 Away, you '11 meet the Gen'ral on the- 
 road. 
 
 On such a cause as this he '11 not delay. 
 GoTARZES. I thank your love — 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Phraates, alone. 
 
 I '11 wait behind, my stay 
 May aid the cause; dissembling I must 
 
 learn. 
 Necessity shall teach me how to vary 
 My features to the looks of him I serve. 
 I '11 thrust myself disguis'd among the 
 
 croud, 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 31 
 
 And fill their ears with murmurs of the 
 
 deed : 
 Whisper all is not well, blow up the sparks 
 Of discord, and it soon will flame to rage. 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Queen aitd Lysias. 
 
 Queen. Haste, and show me to the Prince 
 Arsaces, 
 Delay not, see the signet of Vardanes. 
 Lysias. Royal Thermusa, why this eager- 
 ness? 
 This tumult of the soul"? — what means 
 
 this dagger? 
 Ha ! — I suspect — 
 Queen. Hold — for I '11 tell thee, Lysias. 
 'Tis — oh! I scarce can speak the mighty 
 
 joy— 
 
 I shall be greatly blest in dear revenge, 
 'Tis vengeance on Arsaces — ^j^es, this 
 
 hand 
 Shall urge the shining poniard to his 
 
 heart, 
 And give him death — yea, give the ruffian 
 
 death ; 
 So shall I smile on his keen agonies. 
 Lysias. Ha ! I am robb'd of all my hopes 
 
 of vengeance. 
 Shall I then calmly stand with all my 
 
 wrongs, 
 And see another bear away revenge? 
 Queen. For what can Lysias ask revenge, 
 
 to bar 
 His Queen of hers? 
 Lysias. Was I not scom'd, and spurn'd. 
 With haughty insolence? Like a base 
 
 coward 
 Refus'd whate'er I ask'd, and call'd a 
 
 boaster? 
 My honour sullied, with opprobrious 
 
 words, 
 Which can no more its former brightness 
 
 know, 
 'Til, with his blood, I 've wash'd the 
 
 stains away. 
 Say, shall I then not seek for glorious 
 
 vengeance ? 
 Queen. And what is this, to the sad 
 
 Mother's griefs, 
 Her hope cut off, rais'd up with pain and 
 
 care ? 
 Hadst thou e'er supported the lov'd 
 
 Prattler? 
 Hadst thou, like me, hung o'er his in- 
 fancy, 
 
 Wasting in wakeful mood the tedious 
 
 night. 
 And watch'd his sickly couch, far mov'd 
 
 from rest. 
 Waiting his health's return? — Ah! hadst 
 
 thou known 
 The parent's fondness, rapture, toil and 
 
 sorrow. 
 The joy- his actions gave, and the fond 
 
 wish 
 Of something yet to come, to bless my 
 
 age. 
 And lead me down with pleasure to the 
 
 grave. 
 Thou wouldst not thus talk lightly of my 
 
 wrongs. 
 But I delay — 
 Lysias. To thee I then submit. 
 
 Be sure to wreck ^ a double vengeance on 
 
 him; 
 If that thou knowest a part in all his 
 
 body. 
 Where pain can most be felt, strike, 
 
 strike him there — 
 And let him know the utmost height of 
 
 anguish. 
 It is a joy to think that he shall fall, 
 Tho' 'tis another hand which gives the 
 
 blow. 
 
 Scene 4 
 
 Arsaces and Bethas. 
 
 Arsaces. Why should I linger out my joy- 
 less days. 
 When length of hope is length of misery? 
 Hope is a coz'ner, and beguiles our cares. 
 Cheats us with empty shews of happiness. 
 Swift fleeting joys which mock the faint 
 
 embrace ; 
 We wade thro' ills pursuing of the 
 
 meteor. 
 Yet are distanc'd still. 
 Bethas. Ah ! talk not of hope — 
 
 Hope fled when bright Astrcea spurn'd 
 
 this earth, 
 And sought her seat among the shining 
 
 Gods; 
 Despair, proud tyrant, ravages my 
 
 breast, 
 And makes all desolation. 
 Arsaces. How can I 
 
 Behold those rev'rent sorrows, see those 
 
 cheeks 
 Moist with the dew which falls from thy 
 
 sad eyes, 
 
 1 Wreak. 
 
32 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Nor imitate distraction's frantic tricks, 
 
 And chace cold lifeless reason from her 
 throne? 
 
 I am the fatal cause of all this sorrow, 
 
 The spring of ills, — tc know me is un- 
 happiness; — 
 
 And mis'ry, like a hateful plague, pur- 
 sues 
 
 My wearied steps, and blasts the spring- 
 ing verdure. 
 Bethas. No; — It is I that am the source 
 of all. 
 
 It is my fortune sinks you to this 
 trouble ; 
 
 Before you shower'd your gentle pity on 
 me. 
 
 You shone the pride of this admiring 
 world. — 
 
 Evanthe springs from me, whose fatal 
 charms 
 
 Produces all this ruin. — Hear me heav'n ! 
 
 If to another love she ever yields, 
 
 And stains her soul with spotted false- 
 hood's crime, 
 
 If e'en in expectation tastes a bliss, 
 
 Nor joins Arsaces with it, I will -WTreck 
 
 My vengeance on her, so that she shall be 
 
 A dread example to all future times. 
 Arsaces. Oh! curse her not, nor threaten 
 her with anger, 
 
 She is all gentleness, yet firm to truth. 
 
 And blest with ev'ry pleasing virtue, free 
 
 From levity, her sexes ^ character. 
 
 She scorns to chace the turning of the 
 wind; 
 
 Varying from point to point. 
 Bethas. I love her, ye Gods ! 
 
 I need not speak the greatness of my 
 love. 
 
 Each look which straining draws my soul 
 to hers 
 
 Denotes unmeasur'd fondness ; but mis'ry, 
 
 Like a fretful peevish child, can scarce 
 tell 
 
 What it would wish, or aim at. 
 Arsaces. Immortals, hear! 
 
 Thus do I bow my soul in humble 
 pray'r — 
 
 Thou, King of beings, in whose breath 
 is fate, 
 
 Show'r on Evanthe all thy choicest bless- 
 ings. 
 
 And bless her with excess of happiness; 
 
 If yet, there is one bliss reserv'd in store, 
 
 And written to my name, oh ! give it her, 
 
 And give me all her sorrows in return. 
 Bethas. 'Rise, 'rise my Prince, this good- 
 ness o'erwhelms me, 
 1 Sex's. 
 
 She 's too unworthy of so great a passion. 
 Arsaces. I know not what it means, I 'm 
 
 not as usual. 
 Ill-boding cares, and restless fears op- 
 press me. 
 And horrid dreams disturb, and fright, 
 
 my slumbers; 
 But yesternight, 't is dreadful to relate. 
 E'en now I tremble at my waking 
 
 thoughts, 
 Methought, I stood alone upon the shore. 
 And, at my feet, there roll'd a sea of 
 
 blood. 
 High wrought, and 'midst the waves, ap- 
 
 pear'd my Father, 
 Struggling for life; above him was Var- 
 
 danes, 
 Pois'd in the air, he seem'd to rule the 
 
 storm, 
 And, now and then, would push my 
 
 Father down, 
 And for a space he 'd sink beneath the 
 
 waves. 
 And then, all gory, rise to open view, 
 His voice in broken accents reach'd my 
 
 ear, 
 And bade me save him from the bloody 
 
 stream ; 
 Thro' the red billows eagerly I rush'd. 
 But sudden woke, benum'd with chilling 
 
 fear. 
 Bethas. Most horrible indeed! — but let it 
 
 pass, 
 'T is but the offspring of a mind dis- 
 
 turb'd. 
 For sorrow leaves impressions on the 
 
 fancy. 
 Which shew most fearful to us lock'd in 
 
 sleep. 
 Arsaces. Thermusa! ha! — what can be 
 
 her design? 
 She bears this way, and carries in her. 
 
 looks 
 An eagerness importing violence. 
 Retire — for I would meet her rage alone. 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Arsaces and Queen. 
 
 Arsaces. What means the proud Ther- 
 musa by this visit, 
 Stoops heav'n-born pity to a breast like 
 
 thine? 
 Pity adorns th' virtuous, but n'er dwells 
 Where hate, revenge, and rage distract 
 the soul. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 33 
 
 Sure, it is hate that hither urg'd thy 
 steps, 
 
 To view misfortune with an eye of tri- 
 umph. 
 
 I know thou lov'st me not, for I have 
 dar'd 
 
 To cross thy purposes, and, bold in cen- 
 sure, 
 
 Spoke of thy actions as they merited. 
 
 Besides, this hand 'twas slew the curs'd 
 Vonones. 
 QuEEX. And darst thou[,] insolent [,] to 
 name Vonones? 
 
 To heap perdition on thy guilty soul? 
 
 There needs not this to urge me to re- 
 venge — 
 
 But let me view this wonder of man- 
 kind. 
 
 Whose breath can set the bustling world 
 in arms. 
 
 I see no dreadful terrors in his eye, 
 
 Nor gathers chilly fears arouiid my heart, 
 
 Nor strains my gazing eye with admira- 
 tion, 
 
 And, tlio' a woman, I can strike the blow. 
 Arsaces. Why gaze you on me thus? why 
 hesitate! 
 
 Am I to die? 
 QuEEX. Thou art — this dagger shall 
 
 Dissolve thy life, thy fleeting ghost I '11 
 send 
 
 To wait Vonones in the shades below. 
 Arsaces. And even there I '11 triumph 
 
 over him. 
 Queen. 0, thou vile homicide! thy fatal 
 hand 
 
 Has robb'd me of all joy; Vonones, to 
 
 Thy Manes ^ this proud saeriliee 1 give. 
 
 That hand which sever'd the friendship 
 of thy 
 
 Soul and body, shall never draw again 
 
 Imbitt'ring tears from sorr'wing mother's 
 eyes. 
 
 This, with the many tears I 've shed, re- 
 ceive — (Offers to stab him.) 
 
 Ha ! — I 'd strike ; what holds my hand ? 
 't is n't pity. 
 Arsaces. Nay, do not mock me, with the 
 shew of death. 
 
 And yet den^'^ the blessing; I have met 
 
 Your taunts with equal taunts, in hopes 
 to urge 
 
 The blow with swift revenge; but since 
 that fails, 
 
 I '11 woo thee to compliance, teach my 
 tongue 
 
 Persuasion's winning arts, to gain thy 
 soul; 
 
 1 Shades. 
 
 I '11 praise thy clemency, in dying accents 
 Bless thee for this, thy charitable deed. 
 Oh! do not stand; see, how my bosom 
 
 heaves 
 To meet the stroke; in pity let me die, 
 'T is all the happiness I now can know. 
 Queen. How sweet the eloquence of dying 
 
 men! 
 Hence Poets feign'd the music of the 
 
 Swan, 
 When death upon her lays his icy hand, 
 She melts away in melancholy strains. 
 Arsaces. Play not thus cruel with my 
 
 poor request. 
 But take my loving Father's thanks, and 
 
 mine. 
 Queen. Thy Father cannot thank me now. 
 Arsaces. He will, 
 
 Believe me, e'en whilst dissolv'd in 
 
 ecstacy 
 On fond Evanthe's bosom, he will pause. 
 One moment from his joys, to bless the 
 
 deed. 
 Queen. What means this tumult in my 
 
 breast f from whence 
 Proceeds this sudden change? my heart 
 
 beats high, 
 And soft compassion makes me less than 
 
 woman : 
 I '11 search no more for what I fear to 
 
 know. 
 Arsaces. Why drops the dagger from thy 
 
 trembling hand? 
 Oh ! yet be kind — 
 Queen. No : now I 'd have thee live, 
 
 Since it is happiness to die: 'T is pain 
 That I would give thee, thus I bid thee 
 
 live; 
 Yes, I would have thee a whole age a 
 
 dying. 
 And smile to see thy ling'ring agonies. 
 All day I 'd watch thee, mark each 
 
 heighten'd pang. 
 While springing joy should swell my 
 
 panting bosom; 
 This I would have — But should this 
 
 dagger give 
 Thy soul the liberty it fondly wishes, 
 'T would soar aloft, and mock my faint 
 
 revenge. 
 Arsaces. This mildness shews most foul, 
 
 thy anger lovely. 
 Think that 't was I who blasted thy fond 
 
 hope, 
 Vonones now lies number'd with the 
 
 dead, 
 And all your joys are buried in his grave ; 
 My hand untimely pluck'd the precious 
 
 flow'r. 
 
34 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Before its shining beauties were dis- 
 
 play'd. 
 Queen. Woman ! Woman ! where 's thy 
 
 resolution ? 
 Where 's thy revenge ? Where 's all thy 
 
 hopes of vengeance? 
 Giv'n to the winds — Ha! is it pity? — 
 
 No — 
 I fear it wears another softer name. 
 I'll think no more, but rush to my re- 
 venge, 
 In spite of foolish fear, or woman's soft- 
 ness; 
 Be steady now my soul to thy resolves. 
 Yes, thou shalt die, thus, on thy breast, I 
 
 write 
 Thy instant doom — ha! — ye Gods! 
 
 {Queen starts, as in great fright, at 
 
 hearing something.) 
 Arsaces. Why this pause? 
 
 Why dost thou idly stand like imag'd 
 
 vengeance. 
 With harmless terrors threatning on thy 
 
 brow, 
 With lifted arm, yet canst not strike the 
 
 blow? 
 Queen. It surely was the Echo to my 
 
 fears, 
 The whistling wind, jDerhaps, which 
 
 mimick'd voice; 
 But thrice methought it loudly cry'd, 
 
 "forbear." 
 Imagination hence — I '11 heed thee not — 
 {Ghost of Artabanus rises.) 
 Save me — oh! — save me — ye eternal 
 
 pow'rs ! — 
 See! — see it comes, surrounded with 
 
 dread terrors — 
 Hence — hence! nor blast me with that 
 
 horrid sight — 
 Throw off that shape, and search th' in- 
 fernal rounds 
 For horrid forms, there 's none can shock 
 
 like thine. 
 Ghost. No; I will ever wear this form, 
 
 thus e'er 
 Appear before thee; glare upon thee 
 
 thus, 
 'Til desperation, join'd to thy damn'd 
 
 crime. 
 Shall wind thee to the utmost height of 
 
 frenzy. 
 In vain you grasp the dagger in your 
 
 hand, 
 In vain you dress your brows in angry 
 
 frowns. 
 In vain you raise your threatning arm 
 
 in air, 
 Secure, Arsaces triumphs o'er your rage. 
 
 Guarded by fate, from thy accurs'd re- 
 venge, 
 Thou canst not touch his life; the Gods ' 
 
 have giv'n 
 A softness to thy more than savage soul 
 Before unknown, to aid their grand de- 
 signs. 
 Fate yet is lab'ring with some great event, 
 But what must follow I 'm forbid to i| 
 broach — |' 
 
 Think, think of me, I sink to rise again, 
 To play in blood before thy aking sight. 
 And shock thy guilty soul with hell-born 
 
 horrors — 
 Think, think of Artabanus 1 and despair — 
 
 {Sinks.) 
 Queen. Think of thee, and despair? — yes, 
 I '11 despair — 
 Yet stay, — oh! stay, thou messenger of 
 
 fate! 
 Tell me — Ha! 'tis gone — and left me 
 wretched — 
 Arsaces. Your eyes seem fix'd upon some 
 dreadful object, 
 Horror and anguish cloath your whiten'd 
 
 face. 
 And your frame shakes with terror; I 
 
 hear you speak 
 As seeming earnest in discourse, yet hear 
 No second voice. 
 Queen. What! saw'st thou nothing? 
 Arsaces. Nothing. 
 
 Queen. Nor hear'd? — 
 Arsaces. Nor hear'd. 
 
 Queen. Amazing spectacle! — 
 
 Cold moist'ning dews distil from ev'ry 
 
 pore, 
 I tremble like to palsied age — Ye Gods ! 
 Would I could leave this loath'd detested 
 
 being ! — 
 
 Oh ! all my brain 's on fire — I rave ! I 
 
 rave! — {Ghost rises again.) 
 
 Ha ! it comes again — ^see, it glides along — 
 
 See, see, what streams of blood flow from 
 
 its wounds ! 
 A crimson torrent — Shield me, oh! 
 shield me, heav'n. — 
 Arsaces. Great, and righteous Gods ! — 
 Queen. Ali ! frown not on me — 
 
 Why dost thou shake thy horrid locks 
 
 at me? 
 Can I give immortality? — 't is gone — 
 
 {Ghost sinks.) 
 It flies me, see, ah! — stop it, stop it, 
 haste — 
 Arsaces. Oh, piteous sight! — 
 Queen. Hist! prithee hist! — oh death! 
 
 I 'm all on fire — now freezing bolts of 
 ice 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 35 
 
 Dart tliro' my breast — Oh! burst ye 
 
 cords of life — 
 Ha! who are ye? — Why do ye stare 
 
 upon me ? — 
 Oh! — defend me, from these bick'ring 
 
 Furies ! 
 Arsaces. Alas! her sense is lost, distress- 
 ful Queen! 
 Queen. Help me, thou King of Gods ! oh ! 
 
 help me ! help ! 
 See! they envir'n me round — Voncnes 
 
 too, 
 The foremost leading on the dreadful 
 
 troop — 
 But there, Vardanes beck'ns me to shun 
 Their hellish rage — I come, I come ! 
 Ah! they pursue me, with a scourge of 
 
 fire. — {Runs out distracted.) 
 
 Scene 6. 
 Arsaces, alone. 
 
 Oh ! — horror ! — on the ground she breath- 
 less lies. 
 
 Silent, in death's cold sleep; the wall 
 besmear'd 
 
 With brains and gore the marks of her 
 despair. 
 
 guilt! how dreadful dost thou ever 
 shew! 
 
 How lovely are the charms of innocence ! 
 
 How beauteous tho' in sorrows and dis- 
 tress ! — 
 
 Ha! — what noise? — 
 
 (Clashing of swords.) 
 
 Scene 7. 
 
 Arsaces, Barzaphernes and Gotarzes. 
 
 Barzaphernes. At length we 've f orc'd 
 our entrance — 
 
 my lov'd Prince! to see thee thus, in- 
 deed, 
 
 Melts e'en me to a woman's softness ; see 
 
 My eyes o'erflow — Are these the orna- 
 ments 
 
 For Royal hands? rude manacles! oh 
 shameful ! 
 
 Is this thy room of state, this gloomy 
 gaol? 
 
 Without attendance, and thy bed the 
 pavement ? 
 
 But, ah! how diff'rent was our parting 
 last! 
 
 When flush'd with vict'ry, reeking from 
 the slaughter, 
 
 You saw Arabia's Sons scour o'er the 
 plain 
 
 In shameful flight, before your conqu'r- 
 ing sword; 
 
 Then shone you like the God of battle. 
 Arsaces. Welcome ! — 
 
 Welcome, my loyal friends! Barzapher- 
 nes! 
 
 My good old soldier, to my bosom thus! 
 
 Gotarzes, my lov'd Brother! now I'm 
 happy.— 
 
 But, say, my soldier, why these threat- 
 ning arms? 
 
 Why am I thus releas'd by force? my 
 Father, 
 
 I should have said the King, had he re- 
 lented, 
 
 He 'd not have us'd this method to en- 
 large ^ me. 
 
 Alas! I fear, too forward in your love, 
 
 You '11 brand me with the rebel's hated 
 name. 
 Barzaphernes. I am by nature blunt — the 
 soldier's manner. 
 
 Unus'd to the soft arts practis'd at courts. 
 
 Nor can I move the passions, or dis- 
 guise 
 
 The sorr'wing tale to mitigate the smart. 
 
 Then seek it not: I would sound the 
 alarm, 
 
 Loud as the trumpet's clangour, in your 
 ears; 
 
 Nor will I hail you, as our Parthia's 
 King, 
 
 'Till you 've full reveng'd your Father's 
 murther. 
 Arsaces. Murther? — good heav'n! 
 Barzaphernes. The tale requires some 
 
 time; 
 
 And opportunity must not be lost ; 
 
 Your traitor Brother, who usurps your 
 rights, 
 
 Must, 'ere his faction gathers to a head, 
 
 Have from his brows his new-bom 
 honours torn. 
 Arsaces. What, dost thou say, murther'd 
 by Vardanes? 
 
 Impious parricide! — detested villain! — 
 
 Give me a sword, and onward to the 
 charge, 
 
 Stop gushing tears, for I will weep in 
 blood. 
 
 And sorrow with the groans of dying 
 men. — 
 
 Revenge ! revenge ! — oh ! — all my soul 's 
 on fire! 
 
 iFree. 
 
36 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 GOTARZES. 'T was not Vardanes struck the 
 
 fatal blow, 
 Though, great in pow'r usurp'd, he dares 
 
 support 
 The actor, vengeful Lysias; to his breast 
 He clasps, with grateful joy, the bloody 
 
 villain ; 
 Who soon meant, with ruffian wiles, to cut 
 You from the earth, and also me. 
 Arsaces. Just heav'ns! — 
 
 But, gentle Brother, how didst thou elude 
 The vigilant, suspicious, tyrant's craft [?] 
 GoTARZES. Phraates, by an accident, ob- 
 
 tain'd 
 The knowledge of the deed, and warn'd 
 
 by liim 
 I bent my flight toward the camp, to seek 
 Protection and revenge ; but scarce I 'd 
 
 left 
 The city when I o'ertook the Gen'ral. 
 Barzapherxes. 'Ere the sun 'rose I 
 
 gain'd th' intelligence: 
 The soldiers when they heard the dread- 
 ful tale, 
 First stood aghast, and motionless with 
 
 horror. 
 Then suddenly, inspir'd mth noble rage. 
 Tore up their ensigns, calling on their 
 
 leaders 
 To march them to the city instantly. 
 I, with some trusty few, with speed came 
 
 forward. 
 To raise our friends within, and gain 
 
 your freedom. 
 Nor hazard longer, by delays, your safety. 
 Already faithful Phraates has gain'd 
 A num'rous party of the citizens ; 
 With these we mean t' attack the Royal 
 
 Palace, ^ 
 Crush the bold tyrant with surprize, while 
 
 sunk 
 In false security; and vengeance wreck, 
 'Ere that he thinks the impious crime be 
 
 known. 
 Arsaces. ! parent being, Ruler of yon 
 
 heav'n ! 
 Who bade creation spring to order, hear 
 
 me. 
 What ever sins are laid upon my soul, 
 Now let them not prove heavy on this 
 
 day, 
 To sink my arm, or violate my cause. 
 The sacred rights of Kings, my Coun- 
 try's wrongs. 
 The punishment of fierce impiety, 
 And a lov'd Father's death, call forth my 
 
 sword. — 
 
 Now on ; I feel all calm within my breast, 
 
 And ev'ry busy doubt is hush'd to rest; 
 Smile heav'n propitious on my virtuous 
 
 cause, 
 Nor aid the wretch who dares disdain 
 
 your laws. 
 
 END OF the fourth ACT. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene 1. The Palace. The curtain rises, 
 slowly, to soft music, and discovers 
 EvANTHE sleeping on a sofa; after the 
 music ceases, Vardanes enters. 
 
 Vardanes. Now shining Empire standing 
 at the goal, 
 Beck'ns me forward to increase my 
 
 speed; 
 But, yet, Arsaces lives, bane to my hopes, 
 Lysias I '11 urge to ease me of his life, 
 Then give the villain up to punishment. 
 The shew of justice gains the changeling 
 
 croud. 
 Besides, I ne'er will harbour in my bosom 
 Such serpents, ever ready with their 
 
 stings — 
 But now one hour for love and fair 
 
 Evanthe — 
 Hence with ambition's cares — see, where 
 
 reclin'd, 
 In slumbers all her sorrows are dismiss'd, 
 Sleep seems to heighten ev'ry beauteous 
 
 feature. 
 And adds peculiar softness to each grace. 
 She weeps — in dreams some livel}^ sor- 
 row pains her — 
 I '11 take one kiss — oh ! what a balmy 
 
 sweetness ! 
 Give me another — and another still — 
 For ever thus I 'd dwell upon her lips. ^ 
 Be still my heart, and calm unruly trans- 
 ports. — 
 Wake her, with music, from this mimic 
 death. {Music sounds.) 
 
 Song. 
 Tell me, Phillis, tell me why, 
 
 You appear so wond'rous coy, 
 When that glow, and sparkling eye, 
 
 Speak you want to taste the joy? 
 Prithee give this fooling o'er, 
 Nor torment your lover more. 
 
 While youth is warm within our veins, 
 And nature tempts us to be gay, 
 
 Give to pleasure loose the reins, 
 Love and youth fly swift away. 
 
 Youth in pleasure should be spent, 
 
 Age will come, we '11 then repent. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 37 
 
 EvANTHE. (Waking.) I come ye lovely 
 
 shades — Ha! am I here? 
 Still in the tyrant's palace"? Ye bright 
 
 pow'rs ! 
 Are all my blessings then but vis'onary? 
 Methought I was arriv'd on that blest 
 
 shore 
 Where happy souls for ever dwell, 
 
 crown'd with 
 Immortal bliss; Arsaces led me through 
 The flow'ry groves, while all around me 
 
 gleam'd 
 Thousand and thousand shades, who wel- 
 
 com'd me 
 With pleasing songs of joy — Vardanes, 
 
 ha !— 
 Vardanes. Why beams the angry light- 
 ning of thine eye 
 Against thy sighing slave? Is love a 
 
 crime ? 
 Oh ! if to dote, with such excess of pas- 
 sion 
 As rises e'en to mad extravagance 
 Is criminal, I then am so, indeed. 
 EvANTHE. Away! vile man! — 
 Vardanes. If to pursue thee e'er 
 
 With all the humblest offices of love, 
 If ne'er to know one single thought that 
 
 does 
 Not bear thy bright idea, merits scorn — 
 Eva^'THe: Hence from my sight — nor let 
 
 me, thus, pollute 
 Mine eyes, with looking on a wretch like 
 
 thee. 
 Thou cause of all my ills ; I sicken at 
 Thy loathsome presence — 
 Vardanes. 'T is not always thus, 
 
 Nor dost thou ever meet the sounds of 
 
 love 
 With rage and fierce disdain: Arsaces, 
 
 soon. 
 Could smooth thy brow, and melt thy icy 
 
 breast. 
 EvANTHE. Ha ! does it gall thee ? Yes, he 
 
 could, he could; 
 Oh! when he speaks, such sweetness 
 
 dwells upon 
 His accents, all my soul dissolves to love. 
 And warm desire ; such truth and beauty 
 
 join'd ! 
 His looks are soft and kind, such gentle- 
 ness 
 Such virtue swells his bosom! in his eye 
 Sits majesty, commanding ev'ry heart. 
 Strait as the pine, the pride of all the 
 
 grove. 
 More blooming than the spring, and 
 
 sweeter far. 
 Than asphodels or roses infant sweets. 
 
 Oh! I could dwell forever on his praise, 
 Yet think eternity w^as scarce enough 
 To tell the Inighty theme; here in my 
 
 breast 
 His image dwells, but one dear thought 
 
 of him. 
 When fancy paints his Person to my eye. 
 As he was wont in tenderness dissolv'd, 
 Sighing his vows, or kneeling at my feet. 
 Wipes off all mem'ry of my wretched- 
 ness. 
 Vardanes. I know this brav'ry is affected, 
 yet 
 It gives me joy, to think my rival only 
 Can in imagination taste thy beauties. 
 Let him, — 't will ease him in his solitude. 
 And gild the horrors of his prison-house, 
 Till death shall— 
 EvANTHB. Ha! what was that? till death 
 — ye Gods! 
 Ah, now I feel distress's tort 'ring pang — 
 Thou canst not villain — darst not think 
 his death — 
 
 mis'ry! — 
 
 Vardanes. Naught but your kindness 
 
 saves liim. 
 Yet bless me, with your love, and he is 
 
 safe; 
 But the same frown which kills my grow- 
 ing hopes. 
 Gives him to death. 
 Evanthe. horror, I could die 
 
 Ten thousand times to save the lov'd 
 
 Arsaces. 
 Teach me the means, ye pow'rs, how to 
 
 save him! 
 Then lead me to what ever is my fate. 
 Vardanes. Not only shall he die, but to 
 thy view 
 
 1 '11 bring the scene, those eyes that take 
 
 delight 
 
 In cruelty, shall have enough of death. 
 
 E'en here, before thy sight, he shall ex- 
 pire. 
 
 Not sudden, but by ling'ring torments; 
 all 
 
 That mischief can invent shall be prac- 
 tised 
 
 To give him pain; to lengthen out his woe 
 
 I '11 search around the realm for skillful 
 men. 
 
 To find new tortures. 
 Evanthe. Oh ! wrack not thus my soul ! 
 Vardanes. The sex o'erflows with various 
 humours, he 
 
 Who catches not their smiles the very 
 moment, 
 
 Will lose the blessing — I '11 improve this 
 softness. — {Aside to her.) 
 
38 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 — Heav'n never made thy beauties to 
 destroy, 
 
 They were to bless, and not to blast man- 
 kind; 
 
 Pity should dwell within thy lovely 
 breast, 
 
 That sacred temple ne'er was form'd for 
 hate • 
 
 A habitation; but a residence 
 
 For love and gaiety. 
 EvANTHE. Oh! heav'ns! 
 
 Vardanes. That sigh. 
 
 Proclaims your kind consent to save 
 
 Arsaces. {Laying hold of her.) 
 
 EvANTHE. Ha! villain, off — unhand me — 
 
 hence — 
 Vardanes. In vain is opportunity to 
 those, who spend 
 
 An idle courtship on the fair, they well 
 
 Deserve their fate, if they 're disdain' d : 
 — her charms 
 
 To rush upon, and conquer opposition, 
 
 Gains the Fair one's praise; an active 
 lover 
 
 Suits, who lies ^ aside the coxcomb's 
 empty whine. 
 
 And forces her to bliss. 
 EvANTHE. Ah! hear me, hear me. 
 
 Thus kneeling, with my tears, I do im- 
 plore thee: 
 
 Think on my innocence, nor force a joy 
 
 Which will ever fill thy soul with an- 
 guish. 
 
 Seek not to load my ills with infamy. 
 
 Let me not be a mark for bitter scorn, 
 
 To bear proud virtue's taunts and mock- 
 ing jeers. 
 
 And like a flow'r, of all its sweetness 
 robb'd. 
 
 Be trod to earth, neglected and disdain'd. 
 
 And spum'd by ev'ry vulgar saucy foot. 
 Vardanes. Speak, speak forever — music 's 
 in thy voice. 
 
 Still attentive will I listen to thee. 
 
 Be hush'd as night, charm'd with the 
 magic sound. 
 EvANTHE. Oh ! teach me, heav'n, soft mov- 
 ing eloquence. 
 
 To bend his stubborn soul to gentleness. — 
 
 Where is thy virtue? Where thy 
 princely lustre? 
 
 Ah! w^lt thou meanly stoop to do a 
 wrong. 
 
 And stain thy honour with so foul a blot ? 
 
 Thou who shouldst be a guard to inno- 
 cence, 
 
 Leave force to brutes — for pleasure is not 
 found 
 
 X Lays. 
 
 Where still the soul 's averee ; horror and 
 
 guilt. 
 Distraction, desperation chace her hence. \ 
 Some happier gentle Fair one you may 
 
 find. 
 Whose yielding heart may bend to meet 
 
 your flame, 
 In mutual love soft joys alone are found ; 
 When souls are drawn by secret 
 
 sympathy. 
 And virtue does on virtue smile. 
 Vardanes. No more— 
 
 Her heav'nly tongue will charm me from th' 
 
 intent. — 
 Hence coward softness, force shall make 
 
 me blest. 
 EvANTHE. Assist me, ye bless't pow'rs! — 
 
 oh ! strike, ye Gods ! 
 Strike me, with thunder dead, this mo- 
 ment, e'er 
 I suffer violation — 
 Vardanes. 'T is in vain, 
 
 The idle pray'rs by fancy'd grief put up, 
 Are blown by active winds regardless by, 
 Nor ever reach the heav'ns. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 EvANTHE, Vardanes, and Lysia^. 
 
 Lysias. Arm, arm, my Lord ! — 
 
 Vardanes. Damnation ! why this interrup- 
 tion now? — 
 Lysias. Oh ! arm ! my noble Prince, the 
 foe 's upon us. 
 Arsaces, by Barzaphernes releas'd, 
 Join'd with the citizens, assaults the 
 
 Palace, 
 And swears revenge for Artabanus' 
 death. 
 Vardanes. Ha! what? revenge for Arta- 
 hanus' death? — 
 'T is the curse of Princes that their coun- 
 sels, 
 Which should be kept like holy mysteries. 
 Can never rest in silent secrecy. 
 Fond of employ, some cursed tattling 
 
 tongue 
 Will still divulge them. 
 Lysias. Sure some fiend from hell. 
 
 In mischief eminent, to cross our views. 
 Has giv'n th' intelligence, for man could 
 not. 
 Evanthe. Oh! ever blest event!— All- 
 gracious heav'n ! 
 This beam of joy revives me. 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 39 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 Vardanes, Evanthe, Lysias, to them, an 
 Officer. 
 
 Officer. Haste ! my Lord ! 
 
 Or all will soon be lost; tho' thrice re- 
 puls'd 
 
 By your e'erfaithful guards, they still re- 
 turn 
 
 With double fury. 
 Vardanes. Hence, then, idle love — 
 
 Come forth, my trusty sword — curs' d mis- 
 fortune ! — 
 
 Had I but one short hour, without re- 
 luctance, 
 
 I 'd meet them, tho' they brib'd the pow'rs 
 of hell, 
 
 To place their furies in the van: Yea, 
 rush 
 
 To meet this dreadful Brother 'midst the 
 war — 
 
 Haste to the combat — Now a crown or 
 death — 
 
 The wretch who dares to give an inch of 
 ground 
 
 Till I retire, shall meet the death he 
 shun'd. 
 
 Away — away! delays are dang'rous 
 now — 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Evanthe, alone. 
 
 Now heav'n be partial to Arsaces' cause, 
 Nor leave to giddy chance when virtue 
 
 strives ; 
 Let victory sit on his warlike helm. 
 For justice draws his sword: be thou his 
 
 aid, 
 And let the opposer's arm sink with the 
 
 weight 
 Of his most impious crimes — be still my 
 
 heart, 
 For all that thou canst aid him with is 
 
 pray'r. 
 Oh ! that I had the strength of thousands 
 
 in me! 
 Or that my voice could wake the sons of 
 
 men 
 To join, and crush the tyrant ! — 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Evanthe and Cleone. 
 
 Evanthe. My Cleone — 
 
 Welcome thou partner o£ my joys and 
 sorrows. 
 
 Cleone. Oh! yonder terror triumphs un- 
 
 controul'd,^ 
 And glutton death seems never satisfy'd. 
 Each soft sensation lost in thoughtless 
 
 rage. 
 And breast to breast, oppos'd in furious 
 
 war. 
 The fiery Chiefs receive the vengeful 
 
 steel. 
 O'er lifeless heaps of men the soldiers 
 
 climb 
 Still eager for the combat, while the 
 
 ground 
 Made slipp'ry by the gushing streams of 
 
 gore 
 Is treach'rous to their feet. — Oh! hor- 
 rid sight ! — 
 Too much for me to stand, my life was 
 
 chill'd, 
 As from the turret I beheld the fight. 
 It forc'd me to retire. 
 Evanthe. What of Arsaees? 
 
 Cleone. I saw him active in the battle, 
 
 now. 
 Like light'ning, piercing thro' the thickest 
 
 foe. 
 Then scorning to disgrace his sword in 
 
 low 
 Plebeian blood — loud for Vardanes 
 
 call'd— 
 To meet him singly, and decide the war. 
 Evanthe. Save him, ye Gods! — oh! all 
 
 my soul is fear — 
 Fly, fly Cleone, to the tow'r again, 
 See how fate turns the ballance ; and pur- 
 sue 
 Arsaees with thine eye; mark ev'ry blow. 
 Observe if some bold villain dares to urge 
 His sword presumptuous at my Hero's 
 
 breast. 
 Haste, my Cleone, haste, to ease my 
 
 fears. 
 
 Scene 6. 
 Evanthe, alone. 
 
 Ah! — what a cruel torment is suspense! 
 
 My anxious soul is torn 'twixt love and 
 fear. 
 
 Scarce can I please me with one fancied 
 bliss 
 
 Which kind imagination forms, but rea- 
 son. 
 
 Proud, surly reason, snatches the vain 
 
 joy, 
 
 And gives me up again to sad distress. 
 
40 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 Yet I can die, and should A rsaces fall 
 This fatal draught sliall ease me of my 
 sorrows. 
 
 Scene 7. 
 Cleone, alone. 
 
 Oh! horror! horror! horror! — cruel 
 
 Gods!— 
 I saw him fall — I did — pierc'd thro' with 
 
 wounds — 
 Curs'd! curs'd Vardanes! — hear'd the 
 
 gen'ral cry, 
 Which burst, ^s tho' all nature had dis- 
 
 solv'd. 
 Hark! how they shout! the noise seems 
 
 coming this way. 
 
 Scene 8. 
 
 Arsaces, Gotarzes, Barzaphernes and 
 Officers, with Vardanes and LysiaS; 
 prisoners. 
 
 Arsaces. Thanks to the ruling pow'rs who 
 blest our arms, 
 Prepare the sacrifices to the Gods, 
 And grateful songs of tributary praise. — 
 Gotarzes, fly, my Brother, find Evanthe, 
 And bring the lovely mourner to my 
 arms. 
 Gotarzes. Yes, I '11 obey you, with a will- 
 ing speed. {Exit Gotarzes.) 
 Arsaces. Thou, Lysias, from yon tow'rs 
 aspiring height 
 Be hurl'd to death, thy impious hands are 
 
 stain'd 
 With royal blood — Let the traitor's 
 
 body 
 Be giv'n to hungry dogs. 
 Lysias. Welcome grim death ! '— 
 
 I 've fed thy maw with Kings, and lack 
 
 no more 
 Revenge — Now, do thy duty. Officer. 
 Officer. Yea, and would lead all traitors 
 gladly tlms, — 
 The boon of their deserts. 
 
 Scene 9. 
 
 Arsaces, Vardanes, Barzaphernes. 
 
 Arsaces. But for Vardanes, 
 
 The Brother's name forgot — 
 Vardanes. You need no more, 
 
 I know the rest — Ah ! death is near, my 
 
 wounds 
 Permit me not to live — my breath grows 
 
 short, 
 Curs'd be Phraates arm which stop'd my 
 
 sword. 
 Ere it had reach'd thy proud exulting 
 
 heart. 
 But the wretch paid dear for his pre- 
 suming ; 
 A just reward. — 
 Arsaces. He sinks, yet bear him up — 
 
 Vardanes. Curs'd be the multitude which 
 
 o'erpow'r'd me. 
 And beat me to the ground, cover'd with 
 
 wounds — 
 But, oh ! 't is done ! my ebbing life is 
 
 done — 
 I feel death's hand upon me — Yet, I 
 
 die 
 Just as I wish, and daring for a crown. 
 Life without rule is my disdain; I scorn 
 To swell a haughty Brother's sneaking 
 
 train, 
 To wait upon his ear with flatt'ring tales. 
 And court his smiles; come, death, in thy 
 
 cold arms, 
 Let me forget Ambition's mighty toil. 
 And shun the triumphs of a hated 
 
 Brother — 
 ! bear me off — Let not his eyes enjoy 
 My agonies — My sight grows dim with 
 
 death. {They bear him off.) 
 
 Scene the Last. 
 
 Arsaces, Gotarzes, Barzap^iernes, and 
 Evanthe supported. 
 
 Evanthe. Lead me, oh! lead me, to my 
 lov'd Arsaces, 
 Where is he? — 
 Arsaces. Ha ! what 's this ? Just heav'ns ! 
 
 — my fears — 
 Evanthe. Arsaces, oh ! thus circl'd in thy 
 arms, 
 I die without a pang. 
 Arsaces. Ha ! die ? — why stare ye, 
 
 Ye lifeless ghosts f Have none of ye a 
 
 tongue 
 To tell me I 'm undone ? 
 Gotarzes. Soon, my Brother, 
 
 Too soon, you'll know it by the sad ef- 
 fects ; 
 And if my grief will yet permit my 
 
 tongue 
 To do its office, thou shalt hear the tale, 
 Cleone, from the turret, view'd the battle^ 
 
THOMAS GODFREY 
 
 41 
 
 And on Phraates fix'd her erring sight, 
 
 Thy brave unhappy friend she took for 
 thee, 
 
 By his ^arb deceiv'd, which like to thine 
 he wore. 
 
 Still with her eye «he f oUow'd him, where- 
 e'er 
 
 He pierc'd the foe, and to Vardanes 
 sword 
 
 She saw him fall a hapless victim, then, 
 
 In agonies of grief, flew to Evanthe, 
 
 And told the dreadful tale — the fatal 
 bowl 
 
 I saw — 
 Arsaces. Be dumb, nor ever give again 
 
 Fear to the heart, with thy ill-boding 
 voice. 
 Evanthe. Here, I '11 rest, till death, on 
 thy lov'd bosom. 
 
 Here let me sigh my— Oh! the poison 
 works — 
 Arsaces. Oh! horror! — 
 ^SvANTHE. Cease — this sorrow pains me 
 more 
 
 Than all the wringing agonies of death. 
 
 The dreadful parting of the soul from 
 this, 
 
 Its wedded clay — Ah ! there — that pang 
 shot thro' 
 
 My throbbing heart — 
 Arsaces. Save her, ye Gods! — oh! save 
 her! 
 
 And I will bribe ye with clouds of in- 
 cense ; 
 
 Such num'rous sacrifices, that your al- 
 tars 
 
 Shall even sink beneath the mighty load. 
 Evanthe. When I am dead, dissolv'd to 
 native dust, 
 
 Yet let me live in thy dear mem'ry — 
 
 One tear will not be much to give 
 Evanthe. 
 Arsaces. My eyes shall e'er two running 
 fountains be. 
 
 And wet thy urn with everflowing tears, 
 
 Joy ne'er again within my breast shall 
 find 
 
 A residence — Oh! speak, once more — 
 Evanthe. Life 's just out — 
 
 My Father — Oh! protect his honour'd 
 age, 
 
 And give him shelter from the storms of 
 fate, 
 
 He 's long been fortune's sport — Sup- 
 port me — Ah ! — 
 
 I can no more — my glass is spent — fare- 
 well — 
 
 Forever — Arsaces ! — oh ! (Dies. ) 
 
 Arsaces. Stay, oh! stay. 
 
 Or take me with thee — dead ! she 's cold 
 
 and dead! 
 Her eyes are clos'd, and all my joys are 
 
 flown — 
 Now burst ye elements, from your re- 
 straint, 
 Let order cease, and chaos be again. 
 Break! break tough heart! — oh! torture 
 
 — life dissolve — 
 Why stand ye idle? Have I not one 
 
 friend 
 To kindly free me from this pain? One 
 
 blow, 
 One friendly blow would give me ease. 
 Barzaphernes. The Gods 
 
 Foref end ! — Pardon me, Royal Sir, if I 
 Dare, seemingly disloyal, seize your 
 
 sword, 
 Despair may urge you far — 
 Arsaces. Ha! traitors! rebels! — 
 
 Hoary rev'rend Villain! what, disarm 
 
 me? 
 Give me my sword — what, stand ye by, 
 
 and see 
 Your Prince insulted? Are ye rebels 
 
 all?— 
 Barzaphernes. Be calm, my gracious 
 
 Lord! 
 Gotarzes. Oh ! my lov'd Brother ! 
 
 Arsaces. Gotarzes too! all! all! conspir'd 
 
 against me ? 
 Still, are ,ye all resolv'd that I must live, 
 And feel the momentary pangs of 
 
 death?— 
 Ha! — this, shall make a passage for my 
 
 soul — 
 
 (Snatches Barzaphernes' sword.) 
 Out, out vile cares, from your distress'd 
 
 abode — (Stahs himself.) 
 
 Barzaphernes. Oh ! ye eternal Gods ! 
 Gotarzes. Distraction! heav'ns! 
 
 I shall run mad — 
 Arsaces. Ah ! 't is in vain to grieve — 
 
 The steel has done its part, and I 'm at 
 
 rest. — 
 Gotarzes wear my crown, and be thou 
 
 blest, 
 Cherish Barzaphernes, my trusty chief — 
 I faint, oh! lay me by Evanthe' s side — 
 Still wedded in our deaths — Bethas — 
 Barzaphernes. ■ Despair, 
 
 My Lord, has broke his heart, I saw him 
 
 stretch'd, 
 Along the flinty pavement, in his gaol — 
 Cold, lifeless — 
 Arsaces. He 's happy then — had he 
 
 heard 
 This tale, he'd — Ah! Evanthe chides 
 
 my soul, 
 
42 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA 
 
 For ling'ring here so long — another pang 
 And all the world, adieu — oh! adieu! — 
 
 {Dies.) 
 
 GOTARZES. Oh ! — 
 
 Fix me, heav'n, immoveable, a statue, 
 And free me from o'erwhelming tides of 
 grief. 
 Barzaphernes. Oh! my lov'd Prince, I 
 soon shall follow thee; 
 Thy laurel'd glories [,] whither are they 
 
 fled?— 
 Would I had died before this fatal day ! — 
 Triumphant garlands pride my soul no 
 
 more. 
 No more the lofty voice of war can 
 
 charm — 
 And why then am I here? Thus then — 
 {Offers to stab himself.) 
 GOTARZES. Ah ! hold, 
 
 Nor rashly urge the blow — think of me, 
 
 and 
 Live — My heart is ^vrung with stream- 
 ing anguish. 
 Tore with the smarting pangs of woe, 
 
 yet, will I 
 Dare to live, and stem misfortune's bil- 
 lows. 
 Live then, and be the guardian of my 
 youth, 
 
 And lead me on thro' virtue's rugged 
 
 path. 
 Barzaphernes. 0, glorious youth, thy 
 
 words have rous'd the 
 Drooping genius of my soul ; thus, let me 
 Clasp thee, in my aged arms; yes, I will 
 
 live — 
 Live, to support thee in thy kingly rights, 
 And when thou 'rt firmly fix'd, my task 's 
 
 perform'd. 
 My honourable task — Then I '11 retire. 
 Petition gracious heav'n to bless my work. 
 And in the silent grave forget my cares. 
 Gotarzes. Now, to the Temple, let us on- 
 ward move, 
 And strive t' appease the angry pow'rs 
 
 above. 
 Fate yet may have some ills reserv'd in 
 
 store, 
 Continu'd curses, to torment us more. 
 Tho', in their district, Monarchs rule 
 
 alone, 
 Jove sways the mighty Monarch on his 
 
 throne : 
 Nor can the shining honours which they 
 
 wear, 
 Purchase one joy, or save them from one 
 
 care. 
 
 FINIS 
 
THE CONTRAST 
 
 BY 
 
 Royall Tyler 
 
THE CONTRAST 
 
 The Contrast is the second play written by an American, to be produced 
 in America by a professional company. It is our first comedy, and while its 
 central theme is the contrast between native worth and affectation of foreign 
 manners it is of especial significance as introducing to our stage in the character 
 of '' Jonathan" the shrewd, yet uncultivated type of New England farmer which 
 has since become known as the "Stage Yankee." The example of The Contrast 
 in introducing a Yankee character was soon followed. In 1792, The Yorker's 
 Stratagem, or Banana's Wedding, by J. Robinson, was based upon the attempt 
 of the hero "Amant" to win the hand of the heroine by pretending to be a 
 simple Yankee merchant. In 1807 Barker introduced the character of "Nathan 
 Yank" in his comedy, Tears and Smiles. The first Yankee character, however, 
 which permanently held the stage was that of "Jonathan Ploughboy" in Samuel 
 Woodworth's play of The Forest Bose, or American Farmers. It was a kind 
 of opera, originally produced at the Chatham Theatre, New York, October 6, 
 1825. The characters are all conventional but that of "Jonathan" which had 
 some flavor of realit}^ This play was produced in London and as far west as 
 California. The character of ' ' Jonathan ' ' w^as acted at first by Alexander Simp- 
 son and later by Henry Placide, G. H. Hill and J. S. Silsbee. The success of 
 The Forest Rose doubtless encouraged others, for we find J. H. Hackett, the 
 actor, first telling Yankee stories in plays of another character and then modify- 
 ing Colman's Who Wants a Guinea? to introduce the character of "Solomon 
 Swap" and under the title of Jonathan in England producing the play in 
 England with success. Among the other well known Yankee plays were Yankee 
 Land (1834) introducing "Lot Sap Sago" and The Vermont Wool Dealer, 
 (1840), whose hero was called "Deuteronomy Dutiful." Both of these plays 
 were written by C. A. Logan. Joseph S. Jones, a prolific playwright, created 
 the character of "Jedediah Homebred" in The Green Mountain Boy (1833) 
 and "Solon Shingle" in The People's Lawyer (1839). These Yankee plays 
 are most interesting on account of their historical value. As we read them now 
 they seem trivial and conventional and the Yankee characters are introduced 
 into the midst of surroundings with which they have usually little to do. Their 
 farcical character, however, made them definite and their homeliness of expres- 
 sion gave them an appearance of reality which probably w^on them their popu- 
 larity. They point forward, of course, to a time when James A. Heme and 
 others produced more significant work in the same field. 
 
 45 
 
40 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The author of The Contrast, Royall Tyler, was born in Boston, July 18, 
 1757. He graduated from Harvard College and, after studying law, became 
 aide-de-camp to General Benjamin Lincoln during the Revolution and later 
 during Shays 's Rebellion. Coming to New York City on a mission connected 
 with Shays 's Rebellion, he became interested in the theatre and wrote The Con- 
 trast, which was performed at the John Street Theatre, April 16, 1787, by the 
 American Company, under Hallam and Henry. The principal part, that of 
 "Jonathan," Avas played by Thomas Wignell. It was repeated several times in 
 New York and was played in Baltimore (1787-8), in Philadelphia (1790) and 
 in Boston. It was revived on June 6, 7, and 8, 1912, in connection with a 
 Pageant given at Brattleboro, Vermont. 
 
 Tyler wTote a farce, May Day in Town or New York in an Uproar, which 
 Avas performed at the John Street Theatre on May 18, 1787. He then returned 
 to Boston, where he wrote in 1797, A Georgia Spec or Land in the Moon, which 
 dealt with the rage for speculating in Georgia lands of the Yazoo Purchase. It 
 was first played in Boston and later in New York at the John Street Theatre, 
 December 20, 1797. According to Dunlap's manuscript Diary, A Georgia Spec, 
 which he calls A Good Spec, was repeated February 12, 1798. Major F. W. 
 Childs, of Brattleboro, Vermont, where Royall Tyler lived from 1801 to 1826, 
 states in a recent letter that there exists in manuscript a play of Tyler's called 
 The Duelists, performed at the Federal Street Theatre in Boston in 1797. Tyler 
 also wrote a romance, The Algerine Captive (1797) but devoted himself definitely 
 to the profession of law, becoming Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Ver- 
 mont in 1807. He died in August, 1826. 
 
 Tyler gave the copyright of The Contrast to Thomas Wignell and the latter 
 published- it in Philadelphia in 1790, with an introduction in which he states 
 that "it was written by one who never critically studied the rules of the drama, 
 and indeed had seen but few of the exhibitions of the stage ; it was undertaken 
 and finished in the course of three weeks." It was reprinted by the Dunlap 
 Society in 1887 with an introduction by Thomas J. McKee. The other plays of 
 Tyler are not now available. 
 
 The present edition is based upon a copy of the edition of 1790, which be- 
 longed to William B. Wood, the Philadelphia Manager. 
 
 Note to Second Edition. 
 On January 16 and 18, 1917, The Contrast was played under the auspices of 
 the American Drama Committee of the Philadelphia Drama League at the Broad 
 Street Theatre in connection with the celebration of the American Drama Year. 
 The cast was drawn from the "Plays and Players" of Philadelphia, and the 
 production revealed the truly remarkable qualities of the play, which was staged 
 under the direction of Mrs. Otis Skinner. 
 
THE 
 
 CONTRAST, 
 
 A 
 
 COMEDY; 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS: 
 
 WRITTEN BY A 
 
 CITIZEN oi THL UNITED STATES; 
 
 Performed with Applaufe at the Theatres in New-York, 
 Philadelphia, and Maryland; 
 
 AND PUBLISHED (under an AJJlgnment of the Copy.RightJ b y 
 
 THOMAS WIGNELL. 
 
 Primus ego in patriam 
 
 ^onio deduxi vertice Mufas. 
 
 ViKGIt. 
 
 (Imitated.) 
 
 Firft on our fhores I try Thalia's powers. 
 And bid the laughing, u/efulMzid. be ours. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 fROM THE pivEss OF PRICHARD & HALLt in market street* 
 
 BETWEEN SECOND AND FRONT STREETS, 
 
 M. oec. xc. 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 Written by a Young Gentleman of Kew-York, and Spoken by Mr. Wignell 
 
 Exult each patriot heart ! — this night is shewn 
 
 A piece, which we may fairly call our own ; 
 
 Where the proud titles of "My Lord ! Your Grace !" 
 
 To humble Mr. and plain Sir give place. 
 
 Our Author pictures not from foreign climes 
 
 The fashions, or the follies of the times; 
 
 But has confin'd the subject of his w^ork 
 
 To the gay scenes — the circles of New-Y"ork. 
 
 On native themes his Muse displays her pow'rs; 
 
 If ours the faults, the virtues too are ours. 
 
 Why should our thoughts to distant countries roam, 
 
 When each refinement may be found at home? 
 
 Who travels now to ape the rich or great, 
 
 To deck an equipage and roll in state; 
 
 To court the graces, or to dance with ease, 
 
 Or by hypocrisy to strive to please? 
 
 Our free-born ancestors such arts despis'd; 
 
 Genuine sincerity alone they priz'd; 
 
 Their minds, with honest emulation fir'd. 
 
 To solid good — not ornament — aspir'd; 
 
 Or, if ambition rous'd a bolder flame, 
 
 Stern virtue throve, where indolence was shame. 
 
 But modern youths, with imitative sense. 
 Deem taste in dress the proof of excellence; 
 And spurn the meanness of your homespun arts, 
 Since homespun habits would obscure their parts; 
 Whilst all, which aims at splendour and parade. 
 Must come from Europe, and be ready made. 
 Strange ! we should thus our native worth disclaim, 
 And check the progress of our rising fame. 
 Yet one, whilst imitation bears the sway. 
 Aspires to nobler heights, and points the way. 
 Be rous'd, my friends! his bold example view; 
 Let your own Bards be proud to copy you! 
 Should rigid critics reprobate our play. 
 At least the patriotic heart will say, 
 "Glorious our fall, since in a noble cause. 
 "The bold attempt alone demands applause." 
 Still may the wisdom of the Comic Muse 
 Exalt your merits, or your faults accuse, 
 
 4§ 
 
PROLOGUE 49 
 
 But think not, 't is her aim to be severe ; — 
 We all are mortals, and as mortals err. * 
 If candour pleases, we are truly blest; 
 Vice trembles, when compelled to stand confess'd. 
 Let not light Censure on your faults, offend, 
 Which aims not to expose them, but amend. 
 Thus does our Author to your candour trust; 
 Conscious, the free are generous, as just. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 New York Maryland 
 
 Col. Manly Mr. Henry Mr. Hallam 
 
 Dimple Mr. Hallam Mr. Harper 
 
 Vanrough Mr. Morris Mr. Morris 
 
 Jessamy Mr. Harper Mr. Biddle 
 
 Jonathan Mr. Wignell Mr. Wignell 
 
 Charlotte Mrs. Morris Mrs. Morris 
 
 Maria Mrs. Harper Mrs. Harper 
 
 Letitia ; Mrs. Kenna Mrs. Williamson 
 
 Jenny Miss Tuke Miss W. Tuke 
 
 Servants 
 Scene, New York 
 
 N. B. The lines marked with inverted commas, *'thus'* are omitted in the 
 representation. 
 
 [For the sake of uniformity in this collection, the portions omitted in repre- 
 sentation are enclosed in brackets of this character <>.] 
 
THE CONTRAST 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. An Apartment at Charlotte's. 
 
 Charlotte and Letitia discovered. 
 
 Letitia. And so, Charlotte, you really 
 think the pocket-hoop unbecoming. 
 
 Charlotte. No, I don't say so ; It may be 
 very becoming to saunter round the house 
 of a rainy day ; to visit my grand-mamma, 
 or go to Quakers' meeting: but to swim 
 in a minuet, with the eyes of fifty well- 
 dressed beaux upon me, to trip it in the 
 Mall, or w^alk on the battery, give me the 
 luxurious, jaunty, flowing, bell-hoop. It 
 would have delighted you to have seen me 
 the last evening, my charming girl! I 
 was dangling o'er the battery with Billy 
 • Dimple; a knot of young fellows were 
 upon the platform; as I passed them I 
 faultered with one of the most bewitch- 
 ing false steps you ever saw, and then 
 recovered myself with such a pretty con- 
 fusion, flirting my hoop to discover a 
 jet black shoe and brilliant buckle. Gad ! 
 how my little heart thrilled to hear the 
 confused raptures of — "Demme, Jack, 
 what a delicate foot!" "Ha! General, 
 what a well-turn'd — " 
 
 Letitia. Fie! fie! Charlotte, {stopping her 
 mouth) I protest you are quite a liber- 
 tine. 
 
 Charlotte. Why, my dear little prude, 
 are we not all such libertines? Do you 
 think, when I sat tortured two hours 
 under the hands of my friseur, and an 
 hour more at my toilet, that I had any 
 thoughts of my aunt Susan, or my cousin 
 Betsey? though they are both allowed 
 to be critical judges of dress. 
 
 Letitia. Why, who should we dress to 
 please, but those who are judges of its 
 merit ? 
 
 Charlotte. Why a creature who does not 
 know Buff on from Souflee — Man! — my 
 Letitia — Man! for whom we dress, walk, 
 dance, talk, lisp, languish, and smile. 
 Does not the grave Spectator assure us, 
 that even our much bepraised difiidence, 
 modesty, and blushes, are all directed to 
 
 51 
 
 make ourselves good wives and mothers 
 as fast as we can. Why, I '11 undertake 
 with one flirt of this hoop to bring more 
 beaux to my feet in one week, than the 
 grave Maria, and her sentimental circle, 
 can do, by sighing sentiment till their 
 hairs are grey. 
 
 Letitia. Well, I won't argue with you; 
 you always out talk me ; let us change the 
 subject. I hear that Mr. Dimple and 
 Maria are soon to be married. 
 
 Charlotte. You hear true. I was con- 
 sulted in the choice of the wedding 
 clothes. She is to be married in a deli- 
 cate white sattin, and has a monstrous 
 pretty brocaded lutestring for the second 
 day. It would have done you good to 
 have seen with what an affected indiffer- 
 ence the dear sentimentalist <turned 
 over a thousand pretty things, just as if 
 her heart did not palpitate with her ap- 
 proaching happiness, and at last made 
 her choice, and> arranged her dress with 
 such apathy, as if she did not know that 
 plain white sattin, and a simple blond 
 lace, would shew her clear skin, and dark 
 hair, to the greatest advantage. 
 
 Letitia. But they say her indifference to 
 dress, and even to the gentleman himself, 
 is not entirely affected. 
 
 Charlotte. How ? 
 
 Letitia. It is whispered, that if Maria 
 gives her hand to Mr. Dimple, it will be 
 without her heart. 
 
 Charlotte. Though the giving the heart 
 is one of the last of all laughable con- 
 siderations in the marriage of a girl of 
 spirit, yet I should like to hear what anti- 
 quated notions the dear little piece of 
 old fashioned prudery has got in her 
 head. 
 
 Letitia. Why you know that old 
 Mr. John-Richard-Robert- Jacob-Isaac- 
 Abraham-Cornelius Van Dumpling, Billy 
 Dimple's father, (for he has thought fit to 
 soften his name, as well as manners, dur- 
 ing his English tour) was the most inti- 
 mate friend of Maria's father. The old 
 folks, about a year before Mr. Van 
 Dumpling's death, proposed this match: 
 the young folks were accordingly intro- 
 
52 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 duced, and told they must love one 
 another. Billy was then a good natured, 
 decent, dressing young fellow, with a 
 little dash of the coxcomb, such as our 
 young fellows of fortune usually have. 
 At this time, I really believe she thought 
 she loved him; and had they then been 
 married, I doubt not, they might have 
 jogged on, to the end of the chapter, a 
 good kind of a sing-song lack-a-daysaical 
 life, as other honest married folks do. 
 
 Charlotte. Why did they not then 
 marry ? 
 
 Letitia. Upon the death of his father, 
 Billy went to England to see the world, 
 and rub oft* a little of the patroon rust. 
 During his absence, Maria like a good 
 girl, to keep herself constant to her nown 
 true-love, avoided company, and betook 
 herself, for her amusement, to her books, 
 and her dear Billy's letters. But, alas! 
 how many ways has the mischievous 
 demon of inconstancy of stealing into a 
 woman's heart! Her love was destroyed 
 by the very means she took to support it. 
 
 Charlotte. How? — Oh! I have it — some 
 likely young beau found the way to her 
 study. 
 
 Letitia. Be patient, Charlotte — your head 
 so runs upon beaux. — Why she read 
 Sir Charles Grandison, Clarissa Harlow, 
 Shenstone, and the Sentimental Journey ; 
 and between whiles, as I said, Billy's let- 
 ters. But as her taste improved, her love 
 declined. The contrast was so striking 
 betwixt the good sense of her books, and 
 the flimsiness of her love-letters, that she 
 discovered she had unthinkingly engaged 
 her hand without her heart ; and then the 
 whole transaction managed by the old 
 folks, now appeared so unsentimental, 
 and looked so like bargaining for a bale 
 of goods, that she found she ought to 
 have rejected, according to every rule of 
 romance, even the man of her choice, if 
 imposed upon her in that manner — Clary 
 Harlow would have scorned such a match. 
 
 Charlotte. Well, how was it on Mr. 
 Dimple's return? Did he meet a more 
 favourable reception than his letters'? 
 
 Letitia. Much the same. She spoke of 
 him with respect abroad, and with con- 
 tempt in her closet. She watched his 
 conduct and conversation, and found that 
 he had by travelling acquired the wicked- 
 ness of Lovelace without his wit, and tlie 
 politeness of Sir Charles Grandison with- 
 out his generosity. The ruddy youtli 
 who washed his face at the cistern every 
 
 morning, and swore and looked eternal 
 love and constancy, was now metamor- 
 phosed into a flippant, palid, polite beau, 
 who devotes the morning to his toilet, 
 reads a few pages of Chesterfield's let- 
 ters, and then minces out, to put the in- 
 famous principles in practice upon every - 
 woman he meets. I 
 
 Charlotte. But, if she is so apt at con- ■ 
 juring up these sentimental bugbears, 
 why does she not discard him at once? 
 
 Letitia. Why, she thinks her word too 
 sacred to be trifled with. Besides, her 
 father, who has a great respect for the 
 memory of his deceased friend, is ever 
 telling her how he shall renew his years 
 in their union, and repeating the dying 
 injunctions of old Van Dumpling. 
 
 Charlotte. A mighty pretty story ! And 
 so you would make me believe, that the 
 sensible Maria would give up Dumpling 
 manor, and the all-accomplished Dimple 
 as a husband, for the al)surd, ridiculous 
 reason, forsooth, because she despises and 
 abhors him. Just as if a lady could not 
 be privileged to spend a man's fortune, 
 ride in his carriage, be called after his 
 name, and call him her nown dear lovee 
 when she wants money, without loving 
 and respecting the great he-creature. 
 Oh! my dear girl, you are a monstrous 
 prude. 
 
 Letitia. I don't say what I would do; I 
 only intimate how I suppose she wishes 
 to act. 
 
 Charlotte. No, no, no! A fig for senti- 
 ment. If she breaks, or wishes to break, 
 with Mr. Dimple, depend upon it, she 
 has some other man in her eye. A 
 woman rarely discards one lover, until 
 she is sure of another. — Letitia little 
 thinks what a clue I have to Dimple's 
 conduct. The generous man submits to 
 render himself disgusting to Maria, in 
 order that she may leave him at liberty 
 to address me. I must change the sub- 
 ject. {Aside, and rings a hell.) 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Frank, order the horses to. — Talking 
 of marriage — did you hear that Sally 
 Bloomsbury is going to be married next 
 week to Mr. Indigo, the rich Carolinian? 
 
 Letitia. Sally Bloomsbury married! — 
 Why, she is not yet in her teens. 
 
 Charlotte. I do not know how tliat is, 
 but, you may depend upon it, 't is a done 
 affair. I have it from the best authority. 
 There is my aunt Wyerley's Hannah 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 53 
 
 (you know Hannah — though a black, she 
 is a wench that was never caught in a lie 
 in her hfe) ; now Hannah has a brother 
 who courts Sarah, Mrs. Catgut the mil- 
 liners girl, and she told Hannah's 
 brother, and Hannah, who, as I said be- 
 fore, is a girl of undoubted veracity, told 
 it directly to me, that Mrs. Catgut was 
 making a new cap for Miss Bloomsbury, 
 which, as it was very dressy, it is very 
 probable is designed for a wedding cap: 
 now, as she is to be married, who can 
 it be to, but to Mr. Indigo? Why, there 
 is no other gentleman that visits at her 
 papa's. 
 
 Letitia. Say not a word more, Charlotte. 
 Your intelligence is so direct and well 
 grounded, it is almost a pity that it is 
 not a piece of scandal. 
 
 Charlotte. Oh! I am the pink of pru- 
 dence. Though I cannot charge myself 
 with ever having discredited a tea-party 
 
 . by my silence, yet I take care never to 
 report any thing of my acquaintance, 
 especially if it is to their credit, — dis- 
 credit, I mean — until I have searched to 
 the bottom of it. It is true, there is 
 infinite pleasure in this charitable pur- 
 suit. Oh! how delicious to go and con- 
 dole with the friends of some backsliding 
 sister, or to retire with some old dowager 
 or maiden aunt of the family, who love 
 scandal so well, that they cannot forbear 
 gratifying their appetite at the expence 
 of the reputation of their nearest rela- 
 tions! And then to return full fraught 
 with a rich collection of circumstances, to 
 retail to the next circle of our acquaint- 
 ance under the strongest injunctions of 
 secrecy, — ha, ha, ha ! — interlarding the 
 melancholy tale with so many doleful 
 shakes of the head, and more doleful, 
 "Ah ! who would have thought it ! so ami- 
 able, so prudent a young lady, as we all 
 thought her, what a monstrous pity! 
 well, I have nothing to charge myself 
 with; 1 acted the part of a friend, I 
 warned her of the principles of that 
 rake, I told her what would be the conse- 
 quence; I told her so, I told her so." — 
 Ha, ha, ha! 
 Letitia. Ha, ha, ha! Well, but Char- 
 lotte, you don't tell me what you think 
 of Miss Bloomsbury's match. 
 Charlotte. Think! why I think it is 
 probable she cried for a plaything, and 
 they have given her a husband. Well, 
 well, well, the puling chit shall not be 
 deprived of her plaything: 'tis only ex- 
 
 changing London dolls for American 
 babies — Apropos, of babies, have you 
 heard what Mrs. Affable's high-flying no- 
 tions of delicacy have come to? 
 
 Letitia. Who, she that was Miss Lovely? 
 
 Charlotte. The same; she married Bob 
 Affable of Schenectady. Don't you re- 
 member? 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. Madam, the carriage is ready. 
 
 Letitia. Shall we go to the stores first, or 
 visiting ? 
 
 Charlotte. I should think it rather too 
 early to visit; especially Mrs. Prim: you 
 know she is so particular. 
 
 Letitia. Well, but what of Mrs. Affable? 
 
 Charlotte. Oh, I'll tell you as we go; 
 come, come, let us hasten. I hear Mrs. 
 Catgut has some of the prettiest caps ar- 
 rived, you ever saw. I shall die if I have 
 not the first sight of them. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. A Room in Van Rough's House. 
 Maria sitting disconsolate at a Table, 
 with Books, etc. 
 
 Song. 
 I 
 
 The sun sets in night, and the stars shun 
 the day; 
 
 But glory remains when their lights fade 
 away ! 
 
 Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in 
 vain, 
 
 For the son of Alknomook shall never com- 
 plain. 
 
 II 
 
 Remember the arroAvs he shot from his 
 bow ; 
 
 Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid 
 low : 
 
 Why so slow? — do you wait till I shrink 
 from the pain? 
 
 No — the son of Alknomook will never com- 
 plain. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Remember the wood where in ambush we 
 lay; 
 
 And the scalps which we bore from your 
 nation away : 
 
 Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my 
 pain; 
 
 But the son of Alknomook can never com- 
 plain. 
 
 IV 
 
 I go to the land where my father is gone; 
 His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his 
 son: 
 
54 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 Death comes like a friend, he relieves me 
 
 from pain; 
 And thy son, Oh Alknomook! has scorn'd 
 
 to complain. 
 
 There is something in this song which 
 ever calls forth my affections. The 
 manly virtue of courage, that fortitude 
 which steels the heart against the keenest 
 misfortunes, which interweaves the laurel 
 of glory amidst the instruments of tor- 
 ture and death, displa3^s something so 
 noble, .so exalted, that in despite of the 
 prejudices of education, I cannot but ad- 
 mire it, even in a savage. The prepos- 
 session which our sex is supposed to en- 
 tertain for the character of a soldier, is, 
 I know, a standing piece of raillery 
 among the wits. A cockade, a lapell'd 
 coat, and a feather, they will tell you, are 
 irresistible by a female heart. Let it be 
 so. — Who is it that considers the help- 
 less situation of our sex, that does not 
 see we each moment stand in need of a 
 protector, and that a brave one too. 
 <Formed of the more delicate materials 
 of nature, endowed only with the softer 
 passions, incapable, from our ignorance 
 of the world, to guard against the wiles 
 of mankind, our security for happiness 
 often depends upon their generosity and 
 courage: — Alas! how little of the 
 former do we find.> How inconsistent! 
 that man should be leagued to destroy 
 that honour, upon which, solely rests his 
 respect and esteem. Ten thousand temp- 
 tations allure us, ten thousand passions 
 betray us ; yet the smallest deviation from 
 the path of rectitude is followed by the 
 contempt and insult of man, and the 
 more remorseless pity of woman: years 
 of penitence and tears cannot wash away 
 the stain, nor a life of virtue obliterate 
 its remembrance. <Reputation is the 
 life of woman; yet courage to protect 
 it, is masculine and disgusting; and the 
 only safe asylum a woman of delicacy 
 can find, is in the arms of a man of 
 honour. How naturally then, should we 
 love the brave, and the generous; how 
 gratefully should we bless the arm raised 
 for our protection, when nerv'd by virtue, 
 and directed by honour !> Heaven 
 grant that the man with whom I may 
 be connected — may be connected! — 
 Whither has my imagination transported 
 me — whither does it now lead me? — 
 Am I not indissolubly engaged <by every 
 obligation of honour, which my own con- 
 
 sent, and my father's approbation can 
 give,> to a man who can never share 
 my affections, and whom a few days 
 hence, it will be criminal for me to dis- 
 approve — to disapprove ! would to heaven 
 that were all — to despise. For, can the 
 most frivolous manners, actuated by the 
 most depraved heart, meet, or merit, any- 
 thing but contempt from every woman 
 of delicacy and sentiment? 
 
 (Van Rough, without. Mary!) 
 
 Ha, my father's voice— Sir! — 
 
 (Enter Van Rough.) 
 
 Van Rough. What, Mary, always singing 
 doleful ditties, and moping over these 
 plaguy books. 
 
 Maria. I hope, Sir, that it is not criminal 
 to improve my mind with books; or to 
 divert my melancholy with singing at my 
 leisure hours. 
 
 Van Rough. W^hy, I don't know that, 
 child ; I don't know that. They us 'd 
 to say when I was a young man, that if 
 a woman knew how to make a pudding, 
 and to keep herself out of fire and water, 
 she knew enough for a wife. Now, what 
 good have these books done you? have 
 they not made you melancholy? as you 
 call it. Pray, what right has a girl of 
 your age to be in the dumps ? hav n't you 
 every thing your heart can wish; an't 
 you going to be married to a yojung 
 man of great fortune; an't you going to 
 have the quit-rent of twenty miles 
 square ? 
 
 Maria. One hundredth part of the land, 
 and a lease for life of the heart of a man 
 I could love, would satisfy me. 
 
 Van Rough. Pho, pho, pho! child; non-^ 
 sense, downright nonsense, child. This 
 comes of your reading your story-books; 
 your Charles Grandisons, your Sentimen- 
 tal Journals, and your Robinson Crusoes, 
 and such other trumpery. No, no, no! 
 child, it is money makes the mare go; 
 keep your eye upon the main chance, 
 Mary. 
 
 Maria. Marriage, Sir, is, indeed, a very 
 serious affair. 
 
 Van Rough. You are right, child ; you are 
 right. I am sure I found it so to my 
 cost. 
 
 Maria. I mean, Sir, that as marriage is a 
 portion for life, and so intimately in- 
 volves our happiness, we cannot be too 
 considerate in the choice of our compan- 
 ioii. 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 55 
 
 Van Rough. Right, child; very right. A 
 young woman should be very sober when 
 she is making her choice, but when she 
 has once made it, as you have done, I 
 don't see why she should not be as merry 
 as a grig; I am sure she has reason 
 enough to be so — Solomon says, that 
 "there is a time to laugh, and a time to 
 weep"; now a time for a young woman 
 to laugh is when she has made sure of a 
 good rich husband. Now a time ta cry, 
 according to you, Mary, is when she is 
 making choice of him: but, I should 
 think, that a young woman's time to cry 
 was, when she despaired of getting one. — 
 Why, there was your mother now; to be 
 sure when I popp'd the question to her, 
 she did look a little silly; but when she 
 had once looked down on her apron- 
 strings, as all modest young women us'd 
 to do, and drawled out ye-s, she was as 
 brisk and as merry as a bee. 
 
 Maria. My honoured mother, Sir, had no 
 motive to melancholy; she married the 
 man of her choice. 
 
 Van Rough. The man of her choice! 
 And pray, Mary, an't you going to marry 
 the man of your choice — what trumpery 
 notion is this? — It is these vile books 
 {throwing them away). I 'd have you to 
 know, Mary, if you won't make young 
 Van Dumpling the man of your choice, 
 you shall marry him as the man of my 
 choice. 
 
 Maria. You terrify me. Sir. Indeed, Sir, 
 I am all submission. My will is yours. 
 
 Van Rough. Why, that is the way your 
 mother us'd to talk. "My will is yours, 
 my dear Mr. Van Rough, my will is 
 yours" : but she took special care to have 
 her own way though for all that. 
 
 Maria. Do not reflect upon my mother's 
 memory, Sir — 
 
 Van Rough. Why not, Mary, why not? 
 She kept me from speaking my mind all 
 her life, and do you think she shall hen- 
 peek me now she is dead too? Come, 
 come; don't go to sniveling: be a good 
 girl, and mind the main chance. I '11 see 
 you well settled in the world. 
 
 Maria. I do not doubt your love. Sir; and 
 it is my duty to obey you. — I will en- 
 deavor to make my duty and inclination 
 go hand in hand. 
 
 Van Rough. Well, well, Mary; do you be 
 a good girl, mind the main chance, and 
 never mind inclination. — Why, do you 
 know that I have been down in the cellar 
 this very morning to examine a pipe of 
 
 Madeira which I purchased the week you 
 were born,^ and mean to tap on your 
 wedding day. — That pipe cost me 
 fifty pounds sterling. It was well worth 
 sixty pounds; but I over-reached Ben 
 Bulkhead, the supercargo : I '11 tell 
 you the whole story. You must know 
 that— 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. Sir, Mr. Transfer, the broker, is 
 below. ( Exit. ) 
 
 Van Rough. Well, Mary, I must go. — 
 Remember, and be a good girl, and mind 
 the main chance. {Exit.) 
 
 Maria. {Alone.) How deplorable is my 
 situation ! How distressing for a daugh- 
 ter to find her heart militating with her 
 filial duty! I know my father loves me 
 tenderly, why then do I reluctantly obey 
 him? <Heaven knows! with what re- 
 luctance I should oppose the will of a 
 parent, or set an example of filial dis- 
 obedience>; at a parent's command I 
 could wed aukwardness and deformity. 
 <Were the heart of my husband good, I 
 would so magnify his good qualities with 
 the eye of conjugal affection, that the 
 defects of his person and manners should 
 be lost in the emanation of his virtues. > 
 At a father's command, I could embrace 
 poverty, Were the poor man my hus- 
 band, I would learn resignation to my 
 lot ; I would enliven our frugal meal with 
 good humour, and chase away misfortune 
 from our cottage with a smile. At a 
 father's command, I could almost sub- 
 mit, to what every female heart knows 
 to be the most mortifying, to marry a 
 weak man, and blush at my husband's 
 folly in every company I visited. — But 
 to marry a depraved wretch, whose only 
 virtue is a polished exterior; <who is 
 actuated by the unmanly ambition of 
 conquering the defenceless; whose heart, 
 insensible to the emotions of patriotism, 
 dilates at the plaudits of every unthink- 
 ing girl>: whose laurels are the sighs 
 and tears of the miserable victims of his 
 specious behaviour. — Can he, who has 
 no regard for the peace and happiness 
 of other families, ever have a due regard 
 for the peace and happiness of his own? 
 Would to heaven that my father were not 
 so hasty in his temper! Surely, if I 
 were to state my reasons for declining 
 this match, he would not compel me to 
 marry a man — whom, though my lips 
 
56 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 may solemnly promise to honour, I find 
 my heart must ever despise. {Exit.} 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 (Enter Charlotte and Letitia.) 
 
 Charlotte. {At entering.) Betty, take 
 those things out of the carriage and carry 
 them to my chamber; see that you don't 
 tumble them. — My dear, I protest, I 
 think it was the homeliest of the whole. 
 I declare I was almost tempted to return 
 and change it. 
 
 Letitia. Why would you take it? 
 
 Charlotte. <Didn't Mrs. Catgut say it 
 was the most fashionable? 
 
 Letitia. But, my dear, it will never sit 
 becomingly on you. 
 
 Charlotte. I know that; but did not you 
 hear Mrs. Catgut say it was fashionable? 
 
 Letitia. Did you see that sweet airy cap 
 with the white sprig? 
 
 Charlotte. Yes, and I longed to take it; 
 but,> my dear, what could I do? — Did 
 not Mrs. Catgut say it w^as the most fash- 
 ionable; and if I had not taken it, w^as 
 not that aukward gawky, Sally Slender, 
 ready to purchase it immediately? 
 
 <Letitia. Did you observe how she tum- 
 bled over the things at the next shop, and 
 then went off without purchasing any 
 thing, nor even thanking the poor man 
 for his trouble? — But of all the auk- 
 ward creatures, did you see Miss Blouze, 
 endeavouring to thrust her unmerciful 
 arm into those small kid gloves? 
 
 Charlotte. Ha, ha, ha, ha !> 
 
 Letitia. Then did you take notice, with 
 what an affected warmth of friendship 
 she and Miss Wasp met? when all their 
 acquaintances know how much pleasure 
 they take in abusing each other in every 
 company? 
 
 Charlotte. Lud! Letitia, is that so ex- 
 traordinary? Why, my dear, I hope you 
 are not going to turn sentimentalist. — 
 Scandal, you know, is but amusing our- 
 selves with the faults, foibles, follies and 
 reputations of our friends; — indeed, I 
 don't know why we should have friends, 
 if we are not at liberty to make use of 
 them. But no person is so ignorant of 
 the world as to suppose, because I amuse 
 
 myself with a lady's faults, that I am 
 obliged to quarrel with her person, every 
 time we meet; believe me, my dear, we 
 should have very few acquaintances at 
 that rate. 
 
 (Servant enters and deliv-ers a letter 
 to Charlotte, and Exit.) 
 
 Charlotte. You '11 excuse me, my dear. 
 {Opens and reads to herself.) 
 
 Letitia. Oh, quite excusable. 
 
 Charlotte. As I hope to be married, my 
 brother Henry is in the city. 
 
 Letitia. What, your brother. Colonel 
 Manly? 
 
 Charlotte. Yes, my dear; the only 
 brother I have in the world. 
 
 Letitia. Was he never in this city? 
 
 Charlotte. Never nearer than Harlem 
 Heights, where he lay with his regiment. 
 
 Letitia. What sort of a being is this 
 brother of yours? If he is as chatty, as 
 pretty, as sprightly as you, half the belles 
 in the city will be pulling caps for him. 
 
 Charlotte. My brother is the very coun- 
 terpart and reverse of me : I am gay, he 
 is grave ; I am airy, he is solid ; I am ever 
 selecting the most pleasing objects for 
 my laughter, he has a tear for every piti- 
 ful one. And thus, whilst he is plucking 
 the briars and thorns from the path of 
 the unfortunate, I am strewing my own 
 path with roses. 
 
 Letitia. My sweet friend, not quite so po- 
 etical, and little more particular. 
 
 Charlotte. Hands off, Letitia. I feel 
 the rage of simile upon me; I can't talk 
 to you in any other way. My brother 
 has a heart replete with the noblest sen- 
 timents, but then, it is like — it is like — 
 Oh! you provoking girl, you have de- 
 ranged all my ideas — it is like — Oh ! I" 
 have it — his heart is like an old maiden 
 lady's band-box; it contains many costly 
 things, arranged w^ith the most scrupulous 
 nicety, yet the misfortune is, that they 
 are . too delicate, costly, and antiquated, 
 for common use. 
 
 Letitia. By what I can pick out of your 
 flowery description, your brotlier is no 
 beau. 
 
 Charlotte. No, indeed ; he makes no pre- 
 tension to the character. He 'd ride, or 
 rather fly, an hundred miles to relieve a 
 distressed object, or to do a gallant act 
 in the service of his country : but, should 
 you drop your fan or bouquet in his pres- 
 ence, it is ten to one that some beau at 
 the farther end of the room would have 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 57 
 
 the honour of presenting it to you, before 
 he had observed that it fell. I '11 tell 
 you one of his antiquated, anti-gallant 
 notions. — He said once in my presence, 
 in a room full of company — would you 
 believe it — in a large circle of ladies, that 
 the best evidence a gentleman could give 
 a young lady of his respect and alfection, 
 was, to endeavour in a friendly manner to 
 rectify her foibles. I protest I was crim- 
 son to the eyes, upon reilectmg tliat I 
 was known as his sister. 
 
 Letitia. Insupportable creature! tell a 
 lady of her faults I If he is so grave, I 
 fear I have no chance of captivating liim. 
 
 Charlotte. <His conversation is like a 
 rich old fashioned brocade, it will stand 
 alone; every sentence is a sentiment. 
 Now j'ou may judge what a time I had 
 with him, in my twelve months' visit to 
 my father. He read me such lectures, 
 out of pure brotherly affection, against 
 the extremes of fashion, dress, flirting, 
 and coquetry, and all the other dear 
 things which he knows I doat upon, that, 
 I protest, his conversation made me as 
 melancholy as if I had been at church; 
 and heaven knows, though I never prayed 
 to go there but on one occasion, yet I 
 would have exchanged his conversation 
 for a psalm and a sermon. Church is 
 rather melancholy, to be sure; but then 
 I can ogle the beaux, and be regaled 
 with "here endeth the first lesson"; but 
 his brotherly here, you would think had 
 no end.> You captivate him! Why, my 
 dear, he would as soon fall in love with 
 a box of Italian flowers. There is Maria 
 now, if she were not engaged, she might 
 do something. — Oh! how I should like 
 to see tliat pair of pensorosos together, 
 looking as grave as two sailors' wives of 
 a stormy night, with a flow of sentiment 
 meandering through their conversation 
 like purling streams in modern poetry. 
 
 Letitia. Oh! my dear fanciful — 
 
 Charlotte. Hush ! I hear some person 
 coming through the entry. 
 
 {Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. Madam, there 's a gentleman be- 
 low who calls himself Colonel JManly; do 
 you chuse to be at home? 
 
 Charlotte. Shew him in. {Exit Serv- 
 ant.) Now for a sober face. 
 
 {Enter Colonel Manly.) 
 
 Manly. My dear Charlotte, I am happy 
 that I once more enfold you within the 
 
 arms of fraternal affection. I know you 
 are going' to ask (amiable impatience!) 
 how our parents do, — the venerable pair 
 transmit you their blessing by me — they 
 totter on the verge of a well-spent life, 
 and wish only to see their children set- 
 tled in the world, to depart in peace. 
 
 Charlotte. I am very happy to hear that 
 they are well. {Coolly.) Brother, wiU 
 you give me leave to introduce you to our 
 uncle's ward, one of my most intimate 
 friends. 
 
 Manly. {Saluting Letitia.) I ought to 
 regard your friends as my own. 
 
 Charlotte. Come, Letitia, do give us a 
 little dash of your vivacity; my brother 
 is so sentimental, and so grave, that I 
 protest he '11 give us the vapours. 
 
 Manly. Though sentiment and gravity, I 
 know, are banished the polite world, yet, 
 I hoped, they might find some counte- 
 nance in the meeting of sucii near con- 
 nections as brother and sister. 
 
 Charlotte. Positively, brother, if you go 
 one step further in this strain, you will 
 set me crying, and that, you know, would 
 spoil my eyes; and then I should never 
 get the husband which our good papa 
 and mamma have so kindly wished me — 
 never be established in the world. 
 
 Manly. Forgive me, my sister — I am no 
 enemy to mirth; I love your sprightli- 
 ness; and I hope it will one day enliven 
 the hours of some worthy man; but when 
 I mention the respectable authors of my 
 existence, — the cherishers and protectors 
 of my helpless infancy, whose hearts 
 glow with such fondness and attachment, 
 that they would willingly lay down their 
 lives for my welfare, you will excuse me, 
 if I am so unfashionable as to speak of 
 tliem with some degree of respect and 
 reverence. 
 
 Charlotte. "Well, well, brother; if you 
 won't be gay, we '11 not differ ; I will be 
 as grave as you wish. {Affects gravity.) 
 And so, brother, j^ou have come to the 
 city to exchange some of your commuta- 
 tion notes for a little pleasure. 
 
 Manly. Indeed, you are mistaken; my 
 errand is not of amusement, but business ; 
 and as I neither drink nor game, my ex- 
 pences will be so trivial, I shall have no 
 occasion to sell my notes. 
 
 Charlotte. Then you won't have occa- 
 sion to do a very good thing. Why, 
 there was the Vermont General — he came 
 down some time since, sold all his musty 
 notes at one stroke, and then laid the 
 
58 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 cash out in trinkets for bis dear Fanny. 
 I want a dozen pretty things myself; 
 have you got the notes with you? 
 
 Manly. I shall be ever willing to eon- 
 tribute as far as it is in my power, to 
 adorn, or in any way to please my sister; 
 yet, I hope, I shall never be obliged for 
 this, to sell my notes. I may be roman- 
 tic, but I preserv^e them as a sacred de- 
 posit. Their full amount is justly due 
 to me, but as embarrassments, the natu- 
 ral consequences of a long war, disable 
 my country from supporting its credit, 
 I shall wait with patience until it is rich 
 enough to discharge them. If that is not 
 in my day, they shall be transmitted as 
 an honourable certificate to posterity, 
 that I have humbly imitated our illus- 
 trious Washington, in having exposed 
 my health and life in the service of my 
 country, without reaping any other re- 
 ward than the glory of conquering in 
 so arduous a contest. 
 
 Charlotte. Well said heroics. Why, my 
 dear Henry, you have such a lofty way of 
 saj^ing things, that I protest I almost 
 tremble at the thought of introducing 
 you to the polite circles in the city. The 
 belles would think you were a player 
 run mad, with your head filled with old 
 scraps of tragedy: and, as to the beaux, 
 they might admire, because they would 
 not understand you. — But, however, I 
 must, I believe, venture to introduce you 
 to two or three ladies of my acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Letitia. And that will make him ac- 
 quainted with thirty or forty beaux. 
 
 Charlotte. Oh! brother, you don't know 
 what a fund of happiness you have in 
 store. 
 
 Manly. I fear, sister, I have not refine- 
 ment sufficient to enjoy it. 
 
 Charlotte. Oh! you cannot fail being 
 pleased. 
 
 Letitia. Our ladies are so delicate and 
 dressy. 
 
 Charlotte. And our beaux so dressy and 
 delicate. 
 
 Letitia. Our ladies chat and flirt so agree- 
 ably. 
 
 Charlotte. And our beaux simper and 
 bow so gracefully. 
 
 Letitia. With their hair so trim and 
 neat. 
 
 Charlotte. And their faces so soft and 
 sleek. 
 
 Letitia. Their buckles so tonish and 
 bright. 
 
 Charlotte. And their hands so slender 
 and white. 
 
 Letitia. I vow, Charlotte, we are quite 
 poetical. 
 
 Charlotte. And then, brother, the faces 
 of the beaux are of such a lily white hue 1 
 None of that horrid robustness of con- 
 stitution, that vulgar corn-fed glow of 
 health, which can only serve to alarm 
 an unmarried lady with apprehensions, 
 and prove a melancholy memento to a 
 married one, that she can never hope for 
 the happiness of being a widow. I will 
 say this to the credit of our city beaux, 
 that such is the delicacj'- of their com- 
 plexion, dress, and address, that, even 
 had I no reliance upon the honour of the 
 dear Adonises, I would trust myself in 
 any possible situation with them, without 
 the least apprehensions of rudeness. 
 
 Manly. Sister Charlotte! 
 
 Charlotte. Now, now, now brother {in- 
 terrupting him), now don't go to spoil 
 my mirth with a dash of your gravity;, 
 I am so glad to see you, I am in tip-top 
 spirits. Oh! that you could be with us 
 at a little snug party. There is Billy 
 Simper, Jack C basse, and Colonel Van 
 Titter, Miss Promonade, and the two 
 Miss Tambours, sometimes make a party, 
 with some other ladies, in a side-box at 
 the play. Everything is conducted with 
 such decorum, — first we bow round to the 
 company in general, then to each one in 
 particular, then we have so many in- 
 quiries after each other's health, and we 
 are so happy to meet each other, and it is 
 so many ages since we last had that 
 pleasure, <and, if a married lady is in 
 company, we have such a sweet disserta- 
 tion upon her son Bobby's chin-cough> 
 then the curtain rises, then our sensibil- 
 ity is all awake, and then by the mere 
 force of apprehension, we torture some 
 harmless expression into a double mean- 
 ing, which the poor author never dreamt 
 of, and then we have recourse to our fans, 
 and then we blush, and then the gentle- 
 men jog one another, peep under the fan, 
 and make the prettiest remarks; and 
 then we giggle and they simper, and they 
 giggle and we simper, and then the cur- 
 tain drops, and then for nuts and 
 oranges, and then we bow, and it 's pray 
 Ma'am take it, and pray Sir keep it, and 
 oh ! not for the world, Sir : and then the 
 curtain rises again, and then we blush, 
 and giggle, and simper, and bow, all over 
 again. Oh! the sentimental charms of a 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 59 
 
 side-box conversation! {All laugh.) 
 
 Manly. Well, sister, I join heartily with 
 you in the laugh ; for, in my opinion, it is 
 as justifiable to laugh at folly, as it is 
 reprehensible to ridicule misfortune. 
 
 Charlotte. Well, but brother, positively, 
 I can't introduce you in these clothes: 
 why, your coat looks as if it were calcu- 
 lated for the vulgar purpose of keeping 
 yourself comfortable. 
 
 Manly. This coat was my regimental coat 
 in the late war. The public tumults of 
 our state have induced me to buckle on 
 the sword in support of that government 
 which I once fought to establish. I can 
 only say, sister, that there was a time 
 when this coat was respectable, and some 
 people even thought that those men who 
 had endured so many winter campaigns 
 in the service of their country, without 
 bread, clothing, or pay, at least deserved 
 that the poverty of their appearance 
 should not be ridiculed. 
 
 Charlotte. We agree in opinion entirely, 
 brother, though it would not have done 
 for me to have said it: it is the coat 
 makes the man respectable. In the time 
 of the war, when we were almost fright- 
 ened to death, why, your coat was re- 
 spectable, that is, fashionable; now an- 
 other kind of coat is fashionable, that is, 
 respectable. And pray direct the taylor 
 to make yours the height of the fashion. 
 
 Manly. Though it is of little consequence 
 to me of what shape my coat is, yet, as 
 to the height of the fashion, there you 
 will please to excuse me, sister. You 
 know my sentiments on that subject. I 
 have often lamented the advantage which 
 the French have over us in that particu- 
 lar. In Paris, the fashions have their 
 dawnings, their routine and declensions, 
 and depend as much upon the caprice of 
 the day as in other countries; but there 
 every lady assumes a right to deviate 
 from the general ton, as far as will be of 
 advantage to her own appearance. In 
 America, the cry is, what is the fashion? 
 and we follow it, indiscriminately, be- 
 cause it is so. 
 
 Charlotte. Therefore it is, that when 
 large hoops are in fashion, we often see 
 many a plump girl lost in the immensity 
 of a hoop petticoat, whose want of height 
 and em-bon-point would never have been 
 remarked in any other dress. When the 
 high head-dress is the mode, how then do 
 we see a lofty cushion, with a profusion 
 of gauze, feathers, and ribband, sup- 
 
 ported by a face no bigger than an apple; 
 whilst a broad full-faced lady, who really 
 would have appeared tolerably handsome 
 in a large head-dress, looks with her 
 smart chapeau as masculine as a soldier. 
 
 Manly. But remember, my dear sister, 
 and I wish all my fair country-women 
 would recollect, that the only excuse a 
 young lady can have for going extrava- 
 gantly into a fashion, is, because it makes 
 her look extravagantly handsome. — 
 Ladies, I must wish you a good morning. 
 
 Charlotte. But, brother, you are going 
 to make home with us. 
 
 Manly. Indeed, I cannot. I have seen 
 my uncle, and explained that matter. 
 
 Charlotte. Come and dine with us, then. 
 We have a family dinner about half past 
 four o'clock. 
 
 Manly. I am engaged to dine with the 
 Spanish ambassador. I was introduced 
 to him by an old brother officer; and in- 
 stead of freezing me with a cold card of 
 compliment to dine with him ten days 
 hence, he, with the true old Castilian 
 frankness, in a friendly manner, asked 
 me to dine with him to-day — an honour 
 I could not refuse. Sister, adieu — 
 Madam, your most obedient — {Exit.) 
 
 Charlotte. I will wait upon you to the 
 door, brother; I have something particu- 
 lar to say to you. {Exit.) 
 
 Letitia {alone). What a pair! — She the 
 pink of flirtation, he the essence of every- 
 thing that is outre and gloomy. — I 
 think I have completely deceived Char- 
 lotte by my manner of speaking of Mr. 
 Dimple ; she 's too much the friend of 
 Maria to be confided in. He is certainly 
 rendering himself disagreeable to Maria, 
 in order to break with her and proffer his 
 hand to me. This is what the delicate 
 fellow hinted in our last conversation. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. The Mall. 
 
 {Enter Jessamy.) 
 
 Positively this Mall is a very pretty 
 place. I hope the city won't ruin it by 
 repairs. To be sure, it won't do to speak 
 of in the same day with Ranelagh or 
 Vauxhall ; however, it 's a fine place for 
 a young fellow to display his person to 
 advantage. Indeed, nothing is lost here; 
 the girls have taste, and I am very happy 
 to find they have adopted the elegant 
 
60 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 London fashion of looking back, after a 
 genteel fellow like me has passed them. 
 Ah! who comes here? This, by his auk- 
 wardness, must be the Yankee colonel's 
 servant. I '11 accost him. 
 
 {Enter Jonathan.) 
 
 Votre tres — humble serviteur. Mon- 
 sieur. I understand Colonel Manly, the 
 Yankee officer, has the honour of your 
 services. 
 
 Jonathan. Sir ! — ' 
 
 Jessamy. I say, Sir, I understand that 
 Colonel Manly has the honour of having 
 you for a servant. 
 
 Jonathan. Servant! Sir, do you take 
 me for a neger, — I am Colonel Manly's 
 waiter. 
 
 Jessamy. A true Yankee distinction, egad, 
 without a difference. Wh}^, Sir, do you 
 not perform all the offices of a servant? 
 Do 3^ou not even blacken his boots? 
 
 Jonathan. Yes; I do grease them a bit 
 sometimes; but I am a true blue son of 
 liberty, for all that. Father said I 
 should come as Colonel Manly's waiter to 
 see the world, and all that; but no man 
 shall master me : my father has as good a 
 farm as the colonel. 
 
 Jessamy. Well, Sir, we will not quarrel 
 about terms upon the eve of an acquaint- 
 ance, from which I promise myself so 
 much satisfaction, — therefore sans cere- 
 monie — 
 
 Jonathan. What ? — 
 
 Jessamy. I say, I am extremely happy to 
 see Colonel Manly's waiter. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, and I vow, too, I am 
 pretty considerably glad to see you — but 
 what the dogs need of all this outlandish 
 lingo? Who may you be, Sir, if I may 
 be so bold? 
 
 Jessamy. I have the honour to be Mr. 
 Dimple's servant, or, if you please, 
 waiter. We lodge under the same roof, 
 and should be glad of the honour of your 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Jonathan. You a waiter! By the living 
 jingo, you look so topping, I took you 
 for one of the agents to Congress. 
 
 Jessamy. The brute has discernment not- 
 withstanding his appearance. — Give me 
 leave to say I wonder then at your fa- 
 miliarity. 
 
 Jonathan. Why, as to the matter of that, 
 Mr. — pray, what's your name? 
 
 Jessamy. Jessamy, at your service. 
 
 Jonathan. Why, I swear we don't make 
 any great matter of distinction in our 
 
 state, between quality and other folks. 
 
 Jessamy. This is, indeed, a levelling prin- 
 ciple. I hope, Mr. Jonathan, you have 
 not taken part with the insurgents. 
 
 Jonathan. Why, since General Shays has 
 sneaked off, and given us the bag to 
 hold, I don't care to give my opinion ; but 
 you '11 promise not to tell — put your ear 
 this way — you won't tell? — I vow, I 
 did think the sturgeons were right, 
 
 Jessamy. I thought, Mr. Jonathan, you 
 Massachusetts men always argued with a 
 gun in your hand. — Why didn't you 
 join them? 
 
 Jonathan. Why, the colonel is one of 
 those folks called the Shin — shin — dang 
 it all, I can't speak them lignum vitse 
 words — you know who I mean — there is 
 a company of them — they wear a China 
 goose at their button-hole — a kind of gilt 
 thing. — Now the colonel told father 
 and brother, — you must know there are, 
 let me see — there is Elnathan, Silas, and 
 Barnabas, Tabitha — no, no, she 's a she- 
 tarnation, now I have it — there 's Elna- 
 than, Silas, Barnabas, Jonathan, that 's I 
 — seven of us, six went into the wars, and 
 I staid at home to take care of mother. 
 Colonel said that it was a burning shame 
 for the true blue Bunker-hill sons of lib- 
 erty, w^ho had fought Governor Hutchin- 
 son, Lord North, and the Devil, to have 
 any hand in kicking up a cursed dust 
 against a government, which we had every 
 mother's son of us a hand in making. 
 
 Jessamy. Bravo ! — Well, have you been 
 abroad in the city since your arrival? 
 What have you seen that is curious and 
 entertaining ? 
 
 Jonathan. Oh! I have seen a power of 
 fine sights. I went to see two marblcr^ 
 stone men and a leaden horse, that stands 
 out in doors in all weathers; and when 
 I came where they was, one had got no 
 head, and t' other wer 'nt there. They 
 said as how the leaden man was a damn'd 
 tory, and that he took wit in his anger 
 and rode off in the time of the troubles. 
 
 Jessamy. But this was not the end of 
 your excursion. 
 
 Jonathan. Oh, no; I went to a place they 
 call Holy Ground. Now I counted this 
 was a place where folks go to meeting; 
 so I put my hymn-book in my pocket, 
 and walked softly and grave as a min- 
 ister; and when I came there, the dogs a 
 bit of a meeting-house could I see. At 
 last I spied a young gentlewoman stand- 
 ing by one of the seats^ which they have 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 61 
 
 here at the doors — I took her to be the 
 deacon's daughter, and she looked so 
 kind, and so obhging, that I thought I 
 would go and ask her the way to lecture, 
 and would you think it — she called me 
 dear, and sweeting, and honey, just as if 
 we Avere married; by the living jingo, I 
 had a month's mind to buss her. 
 
 Jessamy. Well, but how did it end? 
 
 Jonathan. Why, as I was standing talk- 
 ing with her, a parcel of sailor men- and 
 boys got round me, the snarl headed curs 
 fell a-kicking and cursing of me at such 
 a tarnal rate, that, I vow, I was glad to 
 take to my heels and split home, right off, 
 tail on end like a stream of chalk. 
 
 jESSAiiY. Why, my dear friend, you are 
 not acquainted with the city; that girl 
 you saw was a. — {Whispers.) 
 
 Jonathan. Mercy on my soul! was that 
 young woman a harlot! — Well, if this 
 is New York Holy Ground, what must 
 the Holy-day Ground be ! 
 
 jESSA^iY. Well, you should not judge of 
 the city too rashly. We have a number 
 of elegant fine girls here, that make a 
 man's leisure hours pass very agreeably. 
 I would esteem it an honour to announce 
 you to some of them. — Gad! that an- 
 nounce is a select word; I wonder where 
 I picked it up. 
 
 Jonathan. I don't want to know them. 
 
 Jessamy. Come, come, my dear friend, I 
 see that I must assume the honour of 
 being the director of your amusements. 
 Nature has give us passions, and youth 
 and opportunity stimulate to gratify 
 them. It is no shame, my dear Blueskin, 
 for a man to amuse himself with a little 
 gallantry. 
 
 Jonathan. Girl huntry! I don't alto- 
 gether understand. I never played at 
 that game. I know how to play hunt the 
 squirrel, but I can't play anything with 
 the girls ; I am as good as married. 
 
 Jessamy. Vulgar, horrid brute! Mar- 
 ried, and above a hundred miles from his 
 wife, and think that an objection to his 
 making love to every woman he meets! 
 He never can have read, no, he never 
 can have been in a room with a volume of 
 the divine Chesterfield. — So you are 
 married ? 
 
 Jonathan. No, I don't say so; I said I 
 w^as as good as married, a kind of prom- 
 ise. 
 
 Jessamy. As good f^ married! — 
 
 Jonathan. Why, yes ; there 's Tabitha 
 Wymen, the deacon's daughter, at home. 
 
 she and I have been courting a great 
 while, and folks say as how we are to be 
 married ; and so I broke a piece of money 
 with her when we parted, and she prom- 
 ised not to spark it with Solomon Dyer 
 while I am gone. You would n't have 
 me false to my true love, would you? 
 
 Jessamy. May be you have another reason 
 for constancy; possibly the young lady 
 has a fortune? Ha! Mr. Jonathan, the 
 solid charms ; the chains of love are never 
 so binding as when the links are made of 
 gold. 
 
 Jonathan. Why, as to fortune, I must 
 needs say her father is pretty dumb rich ; 
 he went representative for our town last 
 year. He will give her — let me see — four 
 times seven is — seven times four — nought 
 and carry one; — he will give her twenty 
 acres of land — somewhat rocky though — 
 a bible, and a cow. 
 
 Jessamy. Twenty acres of rock, a bible, 
 and a cow! Why, my dear Mr. Jona- 
 than, we have servant maids, or, as you 
 would more elegantly express it, wait- 
 'resses, in this city, who collect more in 
 one year from their mistresses' east 
 clothes. 
 
 Jonathan. You don't say so! — 
 
 Jessamy. Yes, and I '11 introduce you to 
 one of them. There is a little lump of 
 flesh and delicacy that lives at next door, 
 wait'ress to Miss Maria ; we often see her 
 on the stoop. 
 
 Jonathan. But are you sure she would 
 be courted by me? 
 
 Jessamy. Never doubt it; remember a 
 faint heart never — blisters of my tongue 
 — I was going to be guilty of a vile 
 proverb; flat against the authority of 
 Chesterfield. — I say there can be no 
 doubt, that the brilliancy of your merit 
 will secure you a favourable reception. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, but what must I say to 
 her? 
 
 Jessamy. Say to her! whj^, my dear 
 friend, though I admire your profound 
 knowledge on every other subject, yet, 
 you will pardon my saying, that your 
 want of opportunity^ has made the female 
 heart escape the poignancy of your pene- 
 tration. Say to her! — Why, when a 
 man goes a-courting, and hopes for suc- 
 cess, he must begin with doing, and not 
 snying. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, what must I do? 
 
 Jessamy. Why, when you are introduced 
 you must make five or six elegant 
 bows. 
 
62 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 Jonathan. Six elegant bows! I under- 
 stand that; six, you say? Well — 
 
 Jessamy. Then you must press and kiss 
 her hand; then press and kiss, and so on 
 to her hps and cheeks; then talk as much 
 as you can about hearts, darts, flames, 
 nectar and ambrosia — the more inco- 
 herent the better. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, but suppose she should 
 be angry with I? 
 
 Jessamy. Why, if she should pretend — 
 please to observe, Mr. Jonathan — if she 
 should pretend to be offended, you must — 
 But I '11 tell you how my master acted in 
 such a case: He was seated by a young 
 lady of eighteen upon a soplia, plucking 
 with a wanton hand the blooming sweets 
 of youth and beaut3\ When the lady 
 thought it necessary to check his ardour, 
 she called up a frown upon her lovely 
 face, so irresistably alluring, that it 
 would have warmed the frozen bosom of 
 age : remember, said she, putting her deli- 
 cate arm upon his, remember 3'our char- 
 acter and my honour. My master in- 
 stantly dropped upon his knees, with eyes 
 swimming with love, cheeks glowing with 
 desire, and in the gentlest modulation of 
 voice, he said — My dear Caroline, in a 
 few months our hands will be indissolubly 
 united at the altar; our hearts I feel are 
 already so — the favours you now grant 
 as evidence of your affection, are favours 
 indeed; yet when the ceremony is once 
 past, what will now be received with rap- 
 ture, will then be attributed to duty. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, and what was the conse- 
 quence ? 
 
 Jessamy. The consequence!— Ah! for- 
 give me, my dear friend, but you New- 
 England gentlemen have such a laudable 
 curiosity of seeing the bottom of every 
 thing; — why, to be honest, I confess I 
 saw the blooming cherub of a conse- 
 quence smiling in its angelic mother's 
 arms, about ten months afterwards. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, if I follow all your 
 plans, make them six bows, and all that; 
 shall I have such little cherubim conse- 
 quences ? 
 
 Jessamy. Undoubtedly. — What are you 
 musing upon? 
 
 Jonathan. You say you '11 certainly make 
 me acquainted? — Why, I was thinking 
 then how I should contrive to pass this 
 broken piece of silver — won't it buy a 
 sugar-dram ? 
 
 Jessamy. Wliat is that, the love-token 
 from the deacon's daughter? — You 
 
 come on bravely. But I must hasten to 
 my master. Adieu, my dear friend. 
 
 Jonathan. Stay, Mr. Jessamy — must I 
 buss her when I am introduced to her? 
 
 Jessamy. I told you, you must kiss her. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, but must I buss her? 
 
 Jessamy. Why, kiss and buss, and buss 
 and kiss, is all one. 
 
 Jonathan. Oh! my dear friend, though 
 you have a profound knowledge of all, a 
 puguancy ^ of tribulation, you don't 
 know everything. {Exit.) 
 
 Jessamy (alone). Well, certainly I im- 
 prove; my master could not have insinu- 
 ated himself with more address into the 
 heart of a man he despised. — Now will 
 this blundering dog sicken Jenny with 
 his nauseous pawings, until she flies into 
 my arms for very ease. How sweet will 
 the contrast be, between the blundering 
 Jonathan, and the courtly and accom- 
 plished Jessamy! 
 
 end of the second act. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. Dimple's Room. 
 
 Dimple discovered at a Toilet, Reading. 
 
 "Women have in general but one ob- 
 ject, which is their beauty." Very true, 
 my lord; positively very true. ''Nature 
 has hardly formed a woman ugly enough 
 to be insensible to flattery upon her per- 
 son." Extremely just, my lord; every 
 day's delightful experience confirms this. 
 "If her face is so shocking, that she must, 
 in some degree, be conscious of it, her 
 figure and air, she thinks, make ample 
 amends for it." The sallow Miss Wan 
 is a proof of this. — Upon my telling 
 the distasteful wretch, the other day, that 
 her countenance spoke the pensive lan- 
 guage of sentiment, and that Lady Wort- 
 ley Montague declared, that if the ladies 
 were arrayed in the garb of innocence, 
 the face would be the last part which 
 would be admired as Monsieur Milton 
 expresses it, she grin'd horribly a ghastly 
 smile. "If her figure is deformed, she 
 thinks her face counterbalances it." 
 
 (Enter Jessamy with letters.) 
 
 1 There is an obsolete word "pugnancy" meaning 
 "opposition" but this is probably an attempt to imi- 
 tate Jessamy's "poignancy." See p. 61. 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 63 
 
 Dimple. Where got you these, Jessamy'? 
 Jessamy. Sir, the English packet is ar- 
 rived. 
 
 (Dimple opens and reads a letter en- 
 closing notes.) 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 "I have drawn bills on you in favour 
 of Messrs. Van Cash and Co. as per mar- 
 gin. I have taken up your note to Col. 
 Piquet, and discharged your debts to my 
 Lord Lurcher and Sir Harry Rook. I 
 herewith enclose you copies of the bills, 
 which I have no doubt will be immedi- 
 ately honoured. On failure, I shall em- 
 power some lawyer in your country to 
 recover the amounts. 
 
 "I am, Sir, 
 
 "Your most humble servant, 
 "John Hazard." 
 
 Now, did not my lord expressly say, 
 that it was unbecoming a well-bred man 
 to be in a passion, I confess I should be 
 ruffled. (Reads.) "There is no accident 
 so unfortunate, which a wise man may 
 not turn to his advantage; nor any acci- 
 dent so fortunate, which a fool will not 
 turn to his disadvantage." True, my 
 lord: but how advantage can be derived 
 from this, I can't see. Chesterfield him- 
 self, who made, however, the worst prac- 
 tice of the most excellent precepts, was 
 never in so embarrassing a situation. I 
 love the person of Charlotte, and it is 
 necessary I should command the fortune 
 of Letitia. As to Maria! — I doubt not 
 by my sang-froid behavior I shall com- 
 pel her to decline the match; but the 
 blame must not fall upon me. A pru- 
 dent man, as my lord says, should take 
 all the credit of a good action to himself, 
 and throw the discredit of a bad one upon 
 others. I must break with Maria, marry 
 Letitia, and as for Charlotte — why, Char- 
 lotte must be a companion to my wife. — 
 Here, Jessamy! 
 
 [Enter Jessamy.) 
 
 (Dimple folds and seals two letters.) 
 
 Dimple. Here, Jessamy, take this letter 
 to my love. (Gives one.) 
 
 Jessamy. To which of your honour's 
 loves? — Oh! (reading) to Miss Letitia, 
 your honour's rich love. 
 
 Dimple. And this (delivers another) to 
 Miss Charlotte Manly. See that you de- 
 liver them privately. 
 
 Jessamy. Yes, your honour. (Going.) 
 
 Dimple. Jessamy, who are these strange 
 lodgers that came to the house last night 1 
 
 Jessamy. Why, the master is a Yankee 
 colonel; I have not seen much of him; 
 but the man is the most unpolished ani- 
 mal your honour ever disgraced your eyes 
 by looking upon. I have had one of the 
 most outre conversations with him! — 
 He really has a most prodigious effect 
 upon my risibility. 
 
 Dimple. I ought, according to every rule 
 of Chesterfield, to wait on him and in- 
 sinuate myself into his good graces. — 
 Jessamy, wait on the colonel with my 
 compliments, and if he is disengaged, I 
 will do myself the honour of paying him 
 my respects. — Some ignorant unpol- 
 ished boor — 
 
 (Jessamy goes off and returns.) 
 
 Jessamy. Sir, the colonel is gone out, and 
 Jonathan, his servant, says that he is 
 gone to stretch his legs upon the Mall — 
 Stretch his legs! what an indelicacy of 
 diction ! 
 
 Dimple. Very well. Reach me my hat 
 and sword. I '11 accost him there, in my 
 way to Letitia's, as by accident; pretend 
 to be struck with his person and address, 
 and endeavour to steal into his confidence. 
 Jessamy, I have no business for you at 
 present. (Exit.) 
 
 Jessamy. (Taking up the hook.) My 
 master and I obtain our knowledge from 
 the same source; — though, gad! I think 
 myself much the prettier fellow of the 
 two. (Surveying himself in the glass.) 
 That w^as a brilliant thought, to insinu- 
 ate that I folded my master's letters for 
 him; the folding is so neat, that it does 
 honour to the operator. I once intended 
 to have insinuated that I WT:'ote his let- 
 ters too ; but that w^as before I saw them ; 
 it won't do now; no honour there, posi- 
 tively. — "ISTothing looks more vulgar 
 (reading affectedly), ordinary, and illib- 
 eral, than ugly, uneven, and ragged nails ; 
 the ends of which should be kept even 
 and clean, not tipped with black, and 
 cut in small segments of circles" — Seg- 
 ments of circles! surely my lord did not 
 consider that he wrote for the beaux. 
 Segments of circles! what a crabbed 
 term ! Now I dare answer, that my mas- 
 ter, with all his learning, does not know 
 that this means, according to the present 
 mode, to let the nails grow long, and then 
 cut them off even at top. (Laughing 
 without.) Ha! that's Jenny's titter. I 
 protest I despair of ever teaching that 
 
CA 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 girl to laugh; she has something so 
 execrably natural in her laugh, that I 
 declare it absolutely discomposes my 
 nerves. How came she into our house ! — 
 (Calls.) Jenny! 
 
 (Enter Jenny.) 
 
 Jessamy. Prythee, Jenny, don't spoil your 
 fine face with laughing. 
 
 Jenny. Why, mustn't I laugh, Mr. Jes- 
 sani}^ ? 
 
 Jessamy. You may smile; but, as my lord 
 says, nothing can authorise a laugh. 
 
 Jenny. Well, but I can't help laughing — 
 Have you seen him, Mr. Jessamy? Ha, 
 ha, ha! 
 
 Jessamy. Seen whom? — 
 
 Jenxy. Why, Jonathan, the New-England 
 colonel's servant. Do you know he was 
 at the play last night, and the stupid 
 creature don't know where he has been. 
 He would not go to a play for the world ; 
 he thinks it was a show, as he calls it. 
 
 Jessamy. As ignorant and unpolished as 
 he is, do you know, Miss Jenny, that I 
 propose to introduce him to the honour 
 of your acquaintance. 
 
 Jenny. Introduce him to me! for what? 
 
 Jessamy. Why, my lovely girl, that you 
 may take him under your protection, as 
 Madam Ramboulliet did young Stan- 
 hope; that you may, by your plastic 
 hand, mould this uncouth cub into a gen- 
 tleman. He is to make love to you. 
 
 Jenny. Make love to me! — 
 
 Jessamy. Yes, Mistress Jenny, make love 
 to you; and, I doubt not, when he shall 
 become domesticated in your kitchen, 
 that this boor, under your auspices, will 
 soon become un aimahJe petit Jonathan. 
 
 Jenny. I must say, Mr. Jessamy, if he 
 copies after me, he will be vastly mon- 
 strously polite. 
 
 Jessamy. Stay here one moment, and I. 
 will call him. — Jonathan! — Mr. Jona- 
 than!— (Calls.) 
 
 Jonathan. (Within.) Holla! there. — 
 (Enters.) You promise to stand by me 
 — six bows you say. (Bows.) 
 
 Jessamy. Mrs. Jenny, I have the honour 
 of presenting Mr. Jonathan, Colonel 
 Manly's waiter, to you. I am extremely 
 happy that I have it in my power to 
 make two worthy people acquainted with 
 each other's merit. 
 
 Jenny. So, Mr. Jonathan, I hear you 
 were at the phay last niglit. 
 
 Jonathan. At the play! why, did you 
 
 think I went to the devil's drawing- 
 room ! 
 
 Jenny. The devil's drawing'-room ! 
 
 Jonathan. Yes; why an't cards and dice 
 the devil's device ; and tiie play-house the 
 shop where the devil hangs out tlie vani- 
 ties of the w^orld, upon the tenterhooks 
 of temptation. I believe you have not 
 heard how they WTre acting the old boy 
 one night, and the wicked one came 
 among them sure enough ; and went right 
 oft' in a storm, and carried one quarter 
 of the play-liouse with him. Oh ! no, no, 
 no! you won't catch me at a play-house, 
 I warrant you. 
 
 Jenny. Well, Mr. Jonathan, though I 
 don't scruple your veracity, I have some 
 reasons for believing you were there; 
 pray, where were you about six o'clock? 
 
 Jonathan. Why, I went to see one Mr. 
 Morrison, the hocus pocus man ; they 
 said as how he could eat a case knife. 
 
 Jenny. Well, and how did you find the 
 place? 
 
 Jonathan. As I was going about here 
 and there, to and again, to find it, I saw 
 a great croud of folks going into a long 
 entry, that had lantherns over the door; 
 so I asked a man, whether that was not 
 the place where they played hocus pocus f 
 He was a very civil kind man, though he 
 did speak like the Hessians; he lifted up 
 his eyes and said — "they play hocus 
 pocus tricks enough there. Got knows, 
 mine friend." 
 
 Jenny. Well — 
 
 Jonathan. So I w^ent right in, and they 
 shewed me away clean up to the garret, 
 just like a meeting-house gallery. And 
 so I saw a power of topping folks, all 
 sitting round in little cabbins, <just like 
 father's corn-cribs ;> — and then there 
 was such a squeaking with the fiddles, 
 and such a tamal blaze with the lights, 
 my liead was near turned. At last the 
 people that sat near me set up such a 
 hissing — hiss — like so many mad cats; 
 and then they went thump, thump, 
 thump, just like our Peleg threshing 
 wheat, and stampt away, just like the 
 nation; and called out for one Mr. 
 Langolee, — I suppose he helps act<s> 
 the tricks. 
 
 Jenny. Well, and what did you do all 
 tliis time? 
 
 Jonathan. Gor, I — I liked tlie fun, and 
 so I thumpt away, and liiss'd as lustily 
 ns the best of 'em. One saik)r-looking 
 man that sat by me, seeing me stamp, and 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 65 
 
 knowing I was a eutc fellow, because I 
 could make a roaring noise, clapt me on 
 
 the shoulder and said, you are a d d 
 
 hearty cock, smite my timbers ! I told 
 him so I was, but I thought he need not 
 swear so, and make use of such naughty 
 words. 
 
 jESSAiiY. The savage ! — Well, and did you 
 see the man with his triclis? 
 
 JONATiiAX. Why, I vow^, as I was looking 
 out for him, they lifted up a great green 
 cloth, and let us look right into the next 
 neighbour's house. Have you a good 
 many houses in New York made so in 
 that 'ere w^ay? 
 
 Jenxy. Not many: but did you see the 
 family ? 
 
 JoNATHAisr. Yes, swamp it; I see'd the 
 family. 
 
 Jexxy. Well, and how did you like them? 
 
 Jonathan. Why, I vow they were pretty 
 much like other families; — there was a 
 poor, good natured, curse of a husband, 
 and a sad rantipole of a wife. 
 
 Jenny. But did you see no other folks? 
 
 Jonathan. Yes. There w^as one young- 
 ster, they called him Mr. Joseph; he 
 talked as sober and as pious as a min- 
 ister; but like some ministers that I 
 know, he was a fly tike in his heart for 
 all that: He was going to ask a young 
 w^oman to spark it with him, and — the 
 Lord have merc^^ on my soul! — she was 
 another man's wife. 
 
 Jessa^iy. The Wabash! 
 
 Jenny. And did you see any more folks? 
 
 Jonathan. Why they came on as thick 
 as mustard. For my part, I thought the 
 house was haunted. There was a soldier 
 fellow, who talked about his row de dow 
 dow, and courted a young woman: but 
 of all the cute folk I saw^, I liked one 
 little fellow— 
 
 Jenny. Aye! who was he? 
 
 Jonathan. Why, he had red hair, and a 
 little round plump face like mine, only 
 not altogether so handsome. His name 
 was Darby: — that was his baptizing 
 name, his other name I forgot. Oh! 
 it was, Wig — Wag — Wag-all, Darby 
 Wag-all; — pray, do you know" him? — I 
 should like to take a sling with him, 
 or a drap of cyder with a pepper-pod 
 in it, to make it warm and comfort- 
 able. 
 
 Jenny. I can't say I have that pleasure. 
 
 Jonathan. I wish you did, he is a cute 
 fellow. But there was one thing I 
 didn't like in that Mr. Darby; and that 
 
 was, he was afraid of some of them 'ere 
 shooting irons, such as your troopers 
 wear on training days. Now, I 'm a true 
 born Yankee American son of liberty, 
 and I never was afraid of a gun yet in 
 all my life. 
 
 Jenny. Well, Mr. Jonathan, you were 
 certainly at the play-house. 
 
 Jonathan. I at the play-house! — Why 
 didn't I see the play then? 
 
 Jenny. Why, the people you saw were 
 players. 
 
 Jonathan. Mercy on my soul! did I see 
 the wicked players? — Mayhap that 'ere 
 Darby that I liked so, was the old ser- 
 pent himself, and had his cloven foot in 
 his pocket. Why, I vow, now I come to 
 think on 't, the candles seemed to burn 
 blue, and I am sure where I sat it smelt 
 tarnally of brimstone. 
 
 Jessamy. Well, Mr. Jonathan, from your 
 account, which I confess is very accu- 
 rate, you must have been at the play- 
 house. 
 
 Jonathan. Why, I vow I began to smell 
 a rat. When I came away, I went to 
 the man for my money again: you want 
 your money, says he; yes, says I; for 
 what, says he; why, says I, no man shall 
 jocky me out of my money; I paid my 
 money to see sights, and the dogs a bit 
 of a sight have I seen, unless you call 
 listening to people's private business a 
 sight. Why, says he, it is the School for 
 Scandalization. — The School for Scan- 
 dalization ! — Oh, ho ! no wonder you 
 New York folks are so cute at it. when 
 you go to school to learn it: and so I 
 jogged off. 
 
 Jessamy. My dear Jenny, my master's 
 business drags me from you; would to 
 heaven I knew no other servitude than 
 to your charms. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, but don't go; you won't 
 leave me so. — 
 
 Jessamy. Excuse me. — Remember the 
 cash. {Aside to him, and — Exit.) 
 
 Jenny. Mr. Jonathan, won't you please 
 to sit down. Mr. Jessamy tells me you 
 wanted to have some conversation with 
 me. 
 
 {Having brought forward two cliairs, 
 they sit.) 
 
 Jonathan. Ma'am ! — 
 
 Jenny. Sir ! — 
 
 Jonathan. Ma'am ! — 
 
 Jenny. Pray, how do you like the city, 
 Sir? 
 
 JoNATHAir. Ma'am ! — 
 
66 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 Jenny. I say, Sir, how do you like New 
 York? 
 
 Jonathan. Ma'am ! — 
 
 Jenny. The stupid creature! but I must 
 pass some little time with him, if it is 
 only to endeavour to learn, whether it 
 was his master that made such an abrupt 
 entrance into our house, and my young 
 mistress's heart, this morning. (Aside.) 
 As you don't seem to like to talk, Mr. 
 Jonathan — do you sing? 
 
 Jonathan. Gor, I — I am glad she asked 
 that, for I forgot what Mr. Jessamy bid 
 me say, and I dare as well be hanged as 
 act what he bid me do, I 'm so ashamed. 
 (Aside.) Yes, Ma'am, I can sing — I 
 can sing Mear, Old Hundred, and Ban- 
 gor. 
 
 Jenny. Oh! I don't mean psalm tunes. 
 Have you no little song to please the 
 ladies; such as Roslin Castle, or the 
 Maid of the Mill? 
 
 Jonathan. Why, all my tunes go to 
 meeting tunes, save one, and I count you 
 won't altogether like that 'ere. 
 
 Jenny. What is it called? 
 
 Jonathan. I am sure you have heard 
 folks talk about it, it is called Yankee 
 Doodle. 
 
 Jenny. Oh! it is the tune I am fond of; 
 and, if I know anything of my mistress, 
 she would be glad to dance to it. Pray, 
 sing ? 
 
 Jonathan. ( Sings. ) 
 
 Father and I went to camp, 
 
 Along with Captain Goodwin; 
 
 And there we saw the men and boys, 
 
 As thick as hasty pudding. 
 
 Yankee Doodle do, etc. 
 
 And there we saw a swamping gun. 
 Big as log of maple, 
 On a little deuced cart, 
 A load for father's cattle. 
 
 Yankee Doodle do, etc. 
 
 And every time they fired it off. 
 
 It took a horn of powder, 
 
 It made a noise — like father's gun. 
 
 Only a nation louder. 
 
 Yankee Doodle do, etc. 
 
 There was a man in our town. 
 His name was 
 
 No, no, that won't do. Now, if I was 
 with Tabitha Wymen and Jemima Caw- 
 ley, down at father Chase's, I shouldn't 
 mind singing this all out before them — 
 you would be affronted if I was to sing 
 that, though that's a lucky thought; if 
 
 you should be affronted, I have some- 
 thing dang'd cute, which Jessamy told 
 me to say to you. 
 
 Jenny. Is that all! I assure you I like 
 it of all things. 
 
 Jonathan. No, no; I can sing more, 
 some other time, when you and I are bet- 
 ter acquainted, I '11 sing the whole of it 
 — no, no — that 's a fib — I can't sing but 
 a hundred and ninety verses: our Ta- 
 bitha at home can sing it all. — (Sings.) 
 
 Marblehead 's a rocky place, 
 And Cape-Cod is sandy; 
 Charleston is burnt down, 
 Boston is the dandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle do, etc. 
 
 I vow, my own town song has put me 
 into such topping spirits, that I believe 
 I '11 begin to do a little, as Jessamy says 
 we must when we go a courting — (Runs 
 and kisses her.) Burning rivers! cool- 
 ing flames! red hot roses! pig-nuts! 
 hasty-pudding and ambrosia! 
 
 Jenny. What means this freedom! you 
 insulting wretch. (Strikes him.) 
 
 Jonathan. Are you affronted? 
 
 Jenny. Affronted! with what looks shall 
 I express my anger? 
 
 Jonathan. Looks! w4iy, as to the matter 
 of looks, you look as cross as a witch. 
 
 Jenny. Have you no feeling for the deli- 
 cacy of my sex? 
 
 Jonathan. Feeling! Gor, I — I feel the 
 delicacy of your sex pretty smartly 
 (ruhhing his cheek), though, I vow, I 
 thought when you city ladies courted 
 and married, and all that, you put feel- 
 ing out of the question. But I want to 
 know whether you are really affronted, 
 or only pretend to be so? 'Cause, if 
 you are certainly right down affronted," 
 I am at the end of my tether; — Jessamy 
 did n't tell me what to say to you. 
 
 Jenny. Pretend to be affronted ! 
 
 Jonathan. Aye, aye, if you only pretend, 
 you shall hear how I '11 go to work to 
 make, cherubim consequences. 
 
 (Runs up to her.) 
 
 Jenny. Begone, you brute! 
 
 Jonathan. That looks like mad; but I 
 won't lose my speech. My dearest 
 Jenny — your name is Jenny, I think? 
 My dearest Jenny, though I have the 
 highest esteem for the sweet favours you 
 have just now granted me — Gor, that 's 
 a fib though, but Jessamy says it is not 
 wicked to tell lies to the women, 
 (Aside.) I say, though I have the high- 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 67 
 
 est esteem for the favours you have just 
 now granted me, yet, you will consider, 
 that as soon as the dissolvable knot is 
 tied, they will no longer be favours, but 
 only matters of duty, and matters of 
 course. 
 
 Jenny. Marry you! you audacious mon- 
 ster! get out of my sight, or rather let 
 me fly from you. {Exit hastily.) 
 
 Jonathan. Gor! she's gone off in a 
 swinging passion, before I had time to 
 think of consequences. If this is the 
 way with your city ladies, give me the 
 twenty acres of rock, the bible, the cow, 
 and Tabitha, and a little peaceable 
 bundling. 
 
 Scene 2. The Mall. 
 
 {Enter Manly.) 
 
 It must be so, Montague ! and it is not 
 all the tribe of Mandevilles shall con- 
 vince me, that a nation, to become great, 
 must first become dissipated. Luxury is 
 surely the bane of a nation: Luxury! 
 which enervates both soul and body, by 
 opening a thousand new sources of en- 
 joyment, opens, also, a thousand new 
 sources of contention and want: Lux- 
 ury! which renders a people weak at 
 home, and accessible to bribery, corrup- 
 tion, and force from abroad. When the 
 Grecian states knew no other tools than 
 the axe and the saw, the Grecians were 
 a great, a free^ and a happy people. 
 TJie kings of Greece devoted their lives 
 to the service of their country, and her 
 senators knew no other superiority over 
 their fellow-citizens than a glorious pre- 
 eminence in danger and virtue. They 
 exhibited to the world a noble spectacle, 
 — a number of independent states united 
 by a similarity of language, sentiment, 
 manners, common interest, and common 
 consent, in one grand mutual league of 
 protection. — And, thus united, long 
 might they have continued the cherishers 
 of arts and sciences, the protectors of 
 the oppressed, the scourge of tyrants, 
 and the safe asylum of liberty: But 
 when foreign gold, and still more per- 
 nicious, foreign luxury, had crept among 
 them, they sapped the vitals of their 
 virtue. The virtues of their ancestors 
 .were only found in their writings. 
 Envy and suspicion, the vices of little 
 minds, possessed them. The various 
 
 states engendered jealousies of each 
 other; and, more unfortunately, growling 
 jealous of" their great federal councih 
 the Amphictyons, they forgot that their 
 common safety had existed, and would 
 exist, in giving them an honourable ex- 
 tensive prerogative. The common good 
 was lost in the pursuit of private inter- 
 est; and that people, who, by uniting, 
 might have stood against the world in 
 arms, by dividing, crumbled into ruin; — 
 their name is now only known in tlie 
 page of the historian, and what they once 
 were, is all we have left to admire. Oh! 
 that America! Oh! that my country, 
 would in this her day, learn the things 
 which belong to her peace! 
 
 {Enter Dimple.) 
 
 Dimple. You are Colonel Manly, I pre- 
 sume? 
 
 Manly. At your service, Sir. 
 
 Dimple. My name is Dimple, Sir. I 
 have the honour to be a lodger in the 
 same house with you, and hearing you 
 were in the Mall, came hither to take the 
 liberty of joining you. 
 
 Manly. You are very obliging, Sir. 
 
 Dimple. As I understand you are a 
 stranger here, Sir, I have taken the lib- 
 erty to introduce myself to your ac- 
 quaintance, as possibly I may have it in 
 my power to point out some things in 
 this city worthy your notice. 
 
 Manly. An attention to strangers is wor- 
 thy a liberal mind, and must ever be 
 gratefully received. But to a soldier, 
 who has no fixed abode, such attentions 
 are particularly pleasing. 
 
 Dimple. Sir, there is no character so re- 
 spectable as that of a soldier. And, in- 
 deed, when we reflect how much we owe 
 to those brave men who have suffered so 
 much in the service of their country, and 
 secured to us those inestimable blessings 
 that we now enjoy, our liberty and inde- 
 pendence, they demand every attention 
 which gratitude can pay. For my own 
 part, I never meet an officer, but I em- 
 brace him as my friend, nor a private 
 in distress, but I insensibly extend my 
 charity to him. — I have hit the Bum[p]- 
 kin off very tolerably. (Aside.) 
 
 Manly. Give me your hand, Sir! I do 
 not proffer this hand to everybody; but 
 you steal into my heart. I hope I am 
 as insensible to flattery as most men; 
 but I declare (it may be my weak side), 
 that I never hear the name of soldier 
 
68 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 mentioned with respect, but I experience 
 a thrill of pleasure, which I never feel 
 on any otlier occasion. 
 
 Dimple. Will you give me leave, my dear 
 colonel, to confer an obligation on my- 
 self, by shewing you some civilities dur- 
 ing your stay here, and giving a similar 
 opportunity to some of my friends? 
 
 Manly. Sir, I thank you; but I believe 
 my stay in this city will be very short. 
 
 Dimple. I can introduce you to some men 
 of excellent sense, in whose company 
 you will esteem yourself liappy; and, by 
 way of amusement, to some fine girls, 
 who will listen to your soft things with 
 pleasure. 
 
 Manly. Sir, I should be proud of the 
 honour of being acquainted with those 
 gentlemen; — but, as for the ladies, I 
 don't understand you. 
 
 Di:mple. Why, Sir, I need not tell you, 
 that when a young gentleman is alone 
 with a young lady, he must say some 
 soft things to her fair cheek — indeed 
 the lady will expect it. To be sure, 
 there is not much pleasure, when a man 
 of the world and a finished coquet meet, 
 who perfectly know each other; but how 
 delicious is it to excite the emotions of 
 joy, hope, expectation, and delight, in 
 the bosom of a lovely girl, who believes 
 every tittle of what you say to be serious. 
 
 Manly. Serious, Sir! In my opinion, 
 the man, who, under pretensions of mar- 
 riage, can plant thorns in the bosom of 
 an innocent, unsuspecting girl, is more 
 detestable than a common robber, in the 
 same proportion, as private violence is 
 more despicable than open force, and 
 money of less value than happiness. 
 
 Dimple. How he awes me by the superi- 
 ority of his sentiments. (Aside.) As 
 you say, Sir, a gentleman should be cau- 
 tious how he mentions marriage. 
 
 Manly. Cautious, Sir ! <No person more 
 approves of an intercourse between the 
 sexes than I do. Female conversation 
 softens our manners, whilst our dis- 
 course, from the superiority of our lit- 
 erary advantages, improves their minds. 
 But, in our young country, where there 
 is no such thing as gallantry, when a 
 gentleman speaks of love to a lady, 
 whether he mentions marriage, or not, 
 she ought to conclude, either that he 
 meant to insult her, or, that his inten- 
 tions are the most serious and honour- 
 able. > How mean, how cruel, is it, by 
 a thousand tender assiduities, to win the 
 
 affections of an amiable girl, and though 
 you leave her virtue unspotted, to betray 
 her into the appearance of so many ten- 
 der partialities, that every man of deli- 
 cacy would suppress his inclination to- 
 wards her, by supposing her heart 
 engaged! Can any man, for the trivial 
 gratification of his leisure hours, affect 
 the happiness of a whole life! His not 
 having spoken of marriage, may add to 
 his perfidy, but can be no excuse for his 
 conduct. 
 
 Dimple. Sir, I admire your sentiments; 
 — they are mine. The light observations 
 that fell from me, were only a principle 
 of the tongue; they came not from the 
 heart — my practice has ever disapproved 
 these principles. 
 
 Manly. I believe you. Sir. I should 
 with reluctance suppose tJiat those per- 
 nicious sentiments could find admittance 
 into the heart of a gentleman. 
 
 Dimple. I am now. Sir, going to visit a 
 family, where, if you please, I will have 
 the honour of introducing you. Mr. 
 Manly's ward. Miss Letitia, is a young 
 lady of immense fortune; and his niece, 
 Miss Charlotte Manly, is a young lady 
 of great sprightliness and beauty. 
 
 Manly. That gentleman, Sir, is my uncle, 
 and Miss Manly my sister. 
 
 Dimple. The devil she is! (Aside.) 
 Miss Manly your sister, Sir? I rejoice 
 to hear it, and feel a double pleasure in 
 being known to you. — Plague on him! 
 I wish he was at Boston again with all 
 my soul. (Aside.) 
 
 Manly. Come, Sir, will you go? 
 
 Dimple. I will follow you in a moment. 
 Sir. (Exit Manly.) Plague on it! 
 this is unlucky. A fighting brother is a 
 cursed appendage to a fine girl. Egad-l 
 I just stopped in time; had he not dis- 
 covered himself, in two minutes more I 
 should have told him how well I was 
 with his sister. — Indeed, I cannot see the 
 satisfaction of an intrigue, if one can't 
 have the pleasure of communicating it to 
 our friends. (Exit.) 
 
 end of the third act. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. Charlotte's Apartment. 
 
 (Charlotte leading in Maria.) 
 
 Charlotte. This is so kind, my sweet 
 friend, to come to see me at this moment. 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 I declare, if I were going to be married 
 in a few days, as you are, I should 
 scarce have found time to visit my 
 friends. 
 
 Maria. Do you think then that there is an 
 impropriety in it? — How should you 
 dispose of your time? 
 
 Charlotte. Why, I should be shut up in 
 my chamber; and my head would so run 
 upon — upon — upon the solemn ceremony 
 that I was to pass through — I declare 
 it would take me above two hours merely 
 to learn that little monosyllable — Yes. 
 Ah! my dear, your sentimental imagina- 
 tion does not conceive what that little 
 tiny word implies. 
 
 Maria. Spare me your raillery, my sweet 
 friend; I should love your agreeable 
 vivacity at any other time. 
 
 Charlotte. Wliy this is the very time to 
 amuse you. You grieve me to see you 
 look so unhappy. 
 
 Maria. Have I not reason to look so? 
 
 < Charlotte. 
 
 What new grief distresses 
 
 you 
 
 Maria. Oh! how sweet it is, w^hen the 
 heart is borne down with misfortune, to 
 recline and repose on the bosom of 
 friendship ! Heaven knows, that, al- 
 though it is improper for a young lady 
 to praise a gentleman, yet I have ever 
 concealed Mr. Dimple's foibles, and 
 spoke of him as of one whose reputation 
 I expected would be linked with mine: 
 but his late conduct towards me, has 
 turned my coolness into contempt. He 
 behaves as if he meant to insult and dis- 
 gust me; whilst my father, in the last 
 conversation on the subject of our mar- 
 riage, spoke of it as a matter which laid 
 near his heart, and in which he would 
 not bear contradiction. 
 
 Charlotte. This works well: oh! the 
 generous Dimple. I '11 endeavour to ex- 
 cite her to discharge him. (Aside.) 
 But, my dear friend, your happiness de- 
 pends on yourself: — Why don't you dis- 
 card him? Though the match has been 
 of long standing, I would not be forced 
 to make myself miserable: no parent in 
 the world should oblige me to marry the 
 man I did not like. 
 
 Maria. Oh! my dear, you never lived 
 with your parents, and do not know 
 what influence a father's frowns have 
 upon a daughter's lieart. Besides, what 
 have I to allege against Mr. Dimple, to 
 justify myself to the world? He carries 
 himself so smoothly, that every one 
 
 would impute the blame to me, and call 
 me capricioys. 
 
 Charlotte. And call her capricious! 
 Did ever such an objection start into 
 the heart of woman? For my part, I 
 wish I had fifty lovers to discard, for no 
 other reason, than because I did not 
 fancy them.> My dear Maria, you will 
 forgive me; I know your candour and 
 confidence in me; but I have at times, 
 I confess, been led to suppose, that some 
 other gentleman was the cause of your 
 aversion to Mr. Dimple. 
 
 Maria. No, my sweet friend, you may be 
 assured, that though I have seen many 
 gentlemen I could prefer to Mr. Dimple, 
 yet I never saw one that I thought I 
 could give my hand to, until this morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Charlotte. This morning! 
 
 Maria. Yes; — one of the strangest acci- 
 dents in the world. The odious Dimple, 
 after disgusting me with his conversa- 
 tion, had just left me, when a gentleman, 
 who, it seems, boards in the same house 
 with him, saw him coming out of our 
 door, and the houses looking very much 
 alike, he came into our house instead of 
 his lodgings ; nor did he discover his mis- 
 take until he got into the parlour, where 
 I was: he then bowed so gracefully; 
 made such a genteel apology, and looked 
 so manly and noble! — 
 
 Charlotte. I see some folks, though it 
 is so great an impropriety, can praise a 
 gentleman, when he happens to be the 
 man of their fancy. (Aside.) 
 
 Maria. I don't know how it was, — I hope 
 he did not think me indelicate — but I 
 asked him, I believe, to sit down, or 
 pointed to a chair. He sat down, and 
 instead of having recourse to observa- 
 tions upon the weather, or hackneyed 
 criticisms upon the theatre, he entered 
 readily into a conversation worthy a 
 man of sense to speak, and a lady of 
 delicacy and sentiment to hear. He was 
 not strictly handsome, but he spoke the 
 language of sentiment, and his eyes 
 looked tenderness and honour. 
 
 Charlotte. Oh! (eagerly) you senti- 
 mental grave girls, when your hearts are 
 once touched, beat us rattles a bar's 
 length. And so, you are quite in love 
 with this he-angel? 
 
 Maria. In love with him! How can you 
 rattle so, Charlotte? am I not going to 
 be miserable? (Sighs.) In love with a 
 gentleman I never saw but one hour in 
 
70 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 ray life, and don't know his name! — No: 
 I only wished that the man I shall 
 marry, may look, and talk, and act, just 
 like him. Besides, my dear, he is a mar- 
 ried man. 
 
 Charlotte. Why, that was good natured. 
 — He told you so, I suppose, in mere 
 charity, to prevent your falling in love 
 with him? 
 'Maria. He didn't tell me so (peevishly) ; 
 he looked as if he was married. 
 
 Charlotte. How, my dear, did he look 
 sheepish ? 
 
 Maria. I am sure he has a susceptible 
 heart, and the ladies of his acquaintance 
 must be very stupid not to — 
 
 Charlotte. Hush! I hear some person 
 coming. 
 
 <i{Enter Letitia.) 
 
 Letitia. My dear Maria, I am happy to 
 see you. Lud ! what a pity it is that you 
 have purchased your wedding clothes. 
 
 Maria. I think so. {Sighing.) 
 
 Letitia. Why, my dear, there is the 
 sweetest parcel of silks come over you 
 ever saw. Nancy Brilliant has a full 
 suit come; she sent over her measure, 
 and it fits her to a hair; it is immensely 
 dressy, and made for a court-hoop. I 
 thought they said the large hoops were 
 going out of fashion. 
 
 Charlotte. Did you see the hat? — Is it 
 a fact, that the deep laces round the bor- 
 der is still the fashion ?> 
 
 Dimple. {Within.) Upon my honour, 
 Sir! 
 
 Maria. Ha! Dimple's voice! My dear, 
 I must take leave of you. There are 
 some things necessary to be done at our 
 house. — Can't I go through the other 
 room? 
 
 {Enter Dimple and Manly.) 
 
 Dimple. Ladies, your most obedient. 
 Charlotte. Miss Van Rough, shall I 
 
 present my brother Henry to you? 
 
 Colonel Manly, Maria, — Miss Van 
 
 Rough, brother. 
 Maria. Her brother! {Turns and sees 
 
 Manly.) Oh! my heart! The very 
 
 gentleman I have been praising. 
 Manly. The same amiable girl I saw this 
 
 morning ! 
 Charlotte. Why, you look as if you were 
 
 acquainted. 
 Manly. I unintentionally intruded into 
 
 this lady's presence this morning, for 
 
 which she was so good as to promise me 
 her forgiveness. 
 Charlotte. Oh! ho! is that the case! 
 Have these two penserosos been to- 
 gether? Were they Henry's eyes that 
 looked so tenderly? {Aside.) And so 
 you promised to pardon him? and could 
 you be so good natured? — have you 
 really forgiven mm? I beg you would 
 do it for my sake. {Whispering loud to 
 Maria.) But, my dear, as you are in 
 such haste, it would be cruel to detain 
 you: I can show you the way through 
 the other room. 
 
 Maria. Spare me, my sprightly friend. 
 
 Manly. The lady does not, I hope, intend 
 to deprive us of the pleasure of her com- 
 pany so soon. 
 
 Charlotte. She has only a mantua- 
 maker who waits for her at home. But, 
 as I am to give my opinion of the dress, 
 I think she cannot go yet. We were 
 talking of the fashions when you came 
 in; but I suppose the subject must be 
 changed to something of more impor- 
 tance now. — Mr. Dimple, will you fa- 
 vour us with an account of the public 
 entertainments ? 
 
 Dimple. Why, really, Miss Manly, you 
 could not have asked me a question more 
 mal-apropos. For my part, I must con- 
 fess, that to a man who has travelled, 
 there is nothing that is worthy the name 
 of amusement to be found in this city. 
 
 Charlotte. Except visiting the ladies. 
 
 Dimple. Pardon me, Madam; that is the 
 avocation of a man of taste. But, for 
 amusement, I positively know of nothing 
 that can be called so, unless you dignify 
 with that title the hopping once a fort- 
 night to the sound of two or three 
 squeaking fiddles, and the clattering of 
 the old tavern windows, or sitting to see 
 the miserable mummers, whom you call 
 actors, murder comedy, and make a farce 
 of tragedy. 
 
 Manly. Do you never attend the theatre. 
 Sir? 
 
 Dimple. I was tortured there once. 
 
 Charlotte. Pray, Mr. Dimple, was it a 
 tragedy or a comedy? 
 
 Dimple. Faith, Madam, I cannot tell; for 
 I sat with my back to the stage all the 
 time, admiring a much better actress 
 than any there; — a lady who played the 
 fine woman to perfection ;— though, by 
 the laugh of the horrid creatures around 
 me, I suppose it was comedy. Yet, on 
 second thoughts, it might be some hero 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 71 
 
 in a tragedy, dying so comically as to 
 set the whole house in an uproar. — Colo- 
 nel, I presume you have been in Europe? 
 
 Manly. Indeed, Sir, I was never ten 
 leagues from the continent. 
 
 Dimple. Believe me. Colonel, you have an 
 immense pleasure to come; and when 
 you shall have seen the bigilliant exhibi- 
 tions of Europe, you will learn to de- 
 spise the amusements of this country as 
 much as I do. 
 
 Manly. Therefore I do not wish to see 
 them ; for I can never esteem that knowl- 
 edge valuable, which tends to give me a 
 distaste for my native country. 
 
 Dimple. Well, Colonel, though you have 
 not travelled, you have read. 
 
 Manly. I have, a little: and by it have 
 discovered that there is a laudable par- 
 tiality, which ignorant, untravelled men 
 entertain for everything that belongs to 
 their native country. I call it laudable; 
 — it injures no one; adds to their own 
 happiness; and, when extended, becomes 
 the noble principle of patriotism. Trav- 
 elled gentlemen rise superior, in their 
 own opinion, to this: but, if the con- 
 tempt which they contract for their 
 country is the most valuable acquisition 
 of their travels, I am far from thinking 
 that their time and money are well 
 spent. 
 
 Maria. What noble sentiments! 
 
 Charlotte. Let my brother set out from 
 where he will in the fields of conversa- 
 tion, he is sure to end his tour in the 
 temple of gravity. 
 
 Manly. Forgive me, my sister. I love 
 my countrj^; it has its foibles undoubt- 
 edly; — some foreigners will with pleas- 
 ure remark them — but such remarks fall 
 very ungracefully from the lips of her 
 citizens. 
 
 DniPLE. You are perfectly in the right. 
 Colonel — America has her faults. 
 
 Manly. Yes, Sir; and we, her children, 
 should blush for them in private, and 
 endeavour, as individuals, to reform 
 them. But, if our country has its errors 
 in common with other countries, I am 
 proud to say America, I mean the United 
 States, have displayed virtues and 
 achievements which modern nations may 
 admire, but of which they have seldom 
 set us the example. 
 
 Charlotte. But, brother, we must intro- 
 duce you to some of our gay folks, and 
 let you see the city, such as it is. Mr. 
 Dimple is known to almost every family 
 
 in town; — he will doubtless take a pleas- 
 ure in introducing you. 
 
 Dimple. I shall esteem every service I 
 can render your brother an honour. 
 
 Manly. I fear the business I am upon 
 will take up all my time, and my family 
 will be anxious to hear from me. 
 
 Maria. His family! But what is it to 
 me that he is married! (Aside.) Pray, 
 how did you leave your lady. Sir? 
 
 Charlotte. My brother is not married 
 {observing her anxiety)) it is only an 
 odd way he has of expressing himself. 
 — Pray, brother, is this business, which 
 you make your continual excuse, a 
 secret ? 
 
 Manly. No, sister: I came hither to so- 
 licit the honourable Congress that a 
 number of my brave old soldiers may be 
 put upon the pension-list^ who were, at 
 first, not judged to be so materially 
 wounded as to need the public assistance. 
 — My sister says true: [To Maria.) 
 I call my late soldiers my family. — 
 Those who were not in the field in the 
 late glorious contest, and those who were, 
 have their respective merits; but, I con- 
 fess, my old brother-soldiers are dearer 
 to me than the former description. 
 Friendships made in adversity are last- 
 ing; our countrymen may forget us; but 
 that is no reason why we should forget 
 one another. But I must leave you; my 
 time of engagement approaches. 
 
 Charlotte. Well, but brother, if you will 
 go, will you please to conduct my fair 
 friend home? You live in the same 
 street ; — I was to have gone with her my- 
 self — {Aside.) A lucky thought. 
 
 Maria. I am obliged to your sister. Sir, 
 and was just intending to go. {Going.) 
 
 Manly. I shall attend her with pleasure. 
 {Exit with Maria, followed by Dim- 
 ple and Charlotte.) 
 
 Maria. Now, pray don't betray me to 
 your brother. 
 
 < Charlotte. {Just as she sees him make 
 a motion to take his leave.) One word 
 with you, brother, if you please. 
 
 {Follows them out.) 
 {Manent Dimple and Letitia.) 
 
 Dimple. You received the billet I sent 
 
 you, I presume? 
 Letitia. Hush ! — Yes. 
 Dimple. When shall I pay my respects 
 
 to you? 
 Letitia. At eight I shall be unengaged. 
 {Be-enter Charlotte.) 
 
72 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 Dimple. Did my lovely angel receive my 
 
 billet? {To Charlotte.) 
 Charlotte. Yes. 
 Dimple. What -hour shall I expect with 
 
 impatience? 
 Charlotte. At eight I shall be at home, 
 
 unengaged. 
 Dimple. Unfortunate! I have a horrid 
 
 engjigement of business at that hour.— 
 
 Can't you finish your visit earlier, and 
 
 let six be the happy hour? 
 Charlotte. You know your influence 
 
 over me. > {Exeunt severally.) 
 
 Scene 2. Van Rough's House. 
 (Van Rough, alone.) 
 
 It cannot possibly be true! The son 
 of my old friend can't have acted so un- 
 advisedly. Seventeen thousand pounds! 
 in bills! — Mr. Transfer must have been 
 mistaken. He always appeared so pru- 
 dent, and talked so well upon money- 
 matters, and even assured me that he in- 
 tended to change his dress for a suit of 
 clothes which would not cost so much, 
 and look more substantial, as soon as he 
 married. No, no, no ! it can't be ; it 
 cannot be. — But, however, I must look 
 out sharp. I did not care what his prin- 
 ciples or his actions were, so long as he 
 minded the main chance. Seventeen 
 thousand pounds! — If he had lost it in 
 trade, why the best men may have ill- 
 luck; but to game it away, as Transfer 
 says — why, at this rate, his w^iole estate 
 may go in one night, and, w^iat is ten 
 times worse, mine into the bargain. No, 
 no ; Mary is right. Leave women to look 
 out in these matters; for all they look 
 as if they did n't know a journal from a 
 ledger, when their interest is concerned, 
 they know what's what; they mind the 
 main chance as well as the best of us. — 
 I wonder Mary did not tell me she knew 
 of his spending his money so foolishly. 
 Seventeen thousand pounds! Why, if 
 my daughter was standing up to be mar- 
 ried, I would forbid the banns, if I 
 found it was to a man who did not mind 
 the main chance. — Hush ! I hear some- 
 body coming. 'T is Mary's voice : a man 
 with her too ! I should n't be surprized 
 if this should be the other string to her 
 bow. — Aye, aye, let them alone; women 
 understand the main chance. — Though, 
 i' faith^ I '11 listen a little. 
 
 {Retires into a closet.) 
 
 (Manly leading in Maria.) 
 
 Manly. I hope you will excuse my speak- 
 ing upon so important a subject, so 
 abruptly; but the moment I entered your 
 room, you struck me as the lady whom 
 I had long loved in imagination, and 
 never hoped to see. 
 
 Maria. Indeed, Sir, I have been led to 
 hear more upon this subject than I ought. 
 
 Manly. Do you then disapprove my suit, 
 Madam, or the abruptness of my intro- 
 ducing it? If the latter, my peculiar 
 situation, being obliged to leave the city 
 in a few days, will, I hope, be my ex- 
 cuse; if the former, I will retire: for I 
 am sure I would not give a moment's 
 inquietude to her, whom I could devote 
 my Ufe to please. I am not so indelicate 
 as to seek your immediate approbation; 
 permit me only to be near you, and by a 
 thousand tender assiduities to endeavour 
 to excite a grateful return. 
 
 Maria. I have a father, whom I would die 
 to make happy — he will disapprove — 
 
 Manly. Do you think me so ungenerous 
 as to seek a place in your esteem with- 
 out his consent? You must — you ever 
 ought to consider that man as unworthy 
 of you, who seeks an interest in your 
 heart, contrary to a father's approba- 
 tion. A young lady should reflect, that 
 the loss of a lover may be supplied, but 
 nothing can compensate for the loss of 
 a parent's affection. Yet, why do you 
 suppose your father would disapprove? 
 In our country, the affections are not 
 sacrificed to riches, or family aggrandize- 
 ment: — should you approve, my family 
 is decent, and my rank honourable. 
 
 Maria. You distress me. Sir. 
 
 Manly. Then I will sincerely beg youi 
 excuse for obtruding so disagreeable a 
 subject and retire. (Going.) 
 
 Maria. Stay, Sir! your generosity and 
 good opinion of me deserve a return; but 
 why must I declare what, for these few 
 hours, I have scarce suffered myself to 
 think? — I am — 
 
 Manly. What?— 
 
 Maria. Engaged, Sir; — and, in a few 
 days, to be married to the gentleman you 
 saw at your sister's. 
 
 Manly. Engaged to be married! And 
 have I been basely invading the rights of 
 another? Why liave you permitted this? 
 — Is this the return for the partiality 1 
 declared for you? 
 
 Maria. You distress me. Sir. What 
 
EOYALL TYLER 
 
 73 
 
 would you have me say? You are too 
 generous to wish the truth: ought I to 
 say that I dared not suffer myself to 
 think of my engagement, and that I am 
 going to give my hand without my heart? 
 — Would you have me confess a partial- 
 ity for you? If so, your triumph is 
 complete ; and can be only more so, when 
 days of misery, w^ith the man I cannot 
 love, w^ill make me think of him whom 
 I could prefer. 
 Maxly. {After a pause.) We are both 
 unhappy; but it is your duty to obey 
 your parent, — mine to obey my honour. 
 Let us, therefore, both follow the path 
 of rectitude; and of this we may be as- 
 sured, that if we are not happy, we shall, 
 at least, deserve to be so. Adieu! I 
 dare not trust myself longer with you. 
 {Exeunt severally.) 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene 1. Dimple's Lodgings. 
 Jessamy meeting Jonathan. 
 
 Jessamy. Well, Mr. Jonathan, what suc- 
 cess with the fair? 
 
 Jonathan. Why, such a tarnal cross tike 
 you never saw! — You would have 
 counted she had lived upon crab-apples 
 and vinegar for a fortnight. But what 
 the rattle makes you look so tarnation 
 glum? 
 
 Jessamy. I was thinking, Mr. Jonathan, 
 what could be the reason of her carrying 
 herself so coolly to you. 
 
 Jonathan. Coolly, do you call it? Why, 
 I vow, she was fire-hot angry: may be 
 it was because I buss'd her. 
 
 Jessamy. No, no, Mr. Jonathan; there 
 must be some other cause: I never yet 
 knew a lady angry at being kissed. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, if it is not the young 
 woman's bashfulness, I vow I can't con- 
 ceive why she sliou'd n't like me. 
 
 Jessamy. May be it is because you have 
 not the Graces, Mr, Jonathan. 
 
 Jonathan. Grace! Why, does the young 
 woman expect I must be converted be- 
 fore I court her? 
 
 Jessamy. I mean graces of person; for 
 instance, my lord tells us that we must 
 cut off our nails even at top, in small 
 segments of circles; — though you won't 
 
 understand that — In the next place, you 
 must regulate your laugh. 
 
 Jonathan. Maple-log seize it! don't I 
 laugh natural? 
 
 Jessamy. That 's the very fault, Mr. Jon- 
 athan. Besides, you absolutely misplace 
 it. I was told by a friend of mine that 
 you laughed outright at the play the 
 other night, when you ought only to have 
 tittered. 
 
 Jonathan. Gor! I — what does one go 
 to see fun for if they can't laugh ? 
 
 Jessamy. You may laugh; — but you must 
 laugh by rule. 
 
 Jonathan. Swamp it — laugh by rule! 
 Well, I should like that tarnally. 
 
 Jessamy. Why you know^, Mr. Jonathan, 
 that to dance, a lady to play with, her 
 fan, or a gentleman with his cane, and 
 all other natural motions, are regulated 
 by art. My master has composed an 
 immensely pretty gamut, by which any 
 lady, or gentleman, with a few years' 
 close application, may learn to laugh as 
 gracefully as if they were born and bred 
 to it. 
 
 Jonathan. Mercy on my soul ! A gamut 
 for laughing — just like fa, la, sol? 
 
 Jessamy. Yes. It comprises every possi- 
 ble display of jocularity, from an ajfet- 
 tuoso smile to a piano titter, or full 
 chorus fortissimo ha, ha, ha! My mas- 
 ter employs his leisure-hours in marking 
 out the plays, like a cathedral chanting- 
 book, that the ignorant may know where 
 to laugh; and that pit, box, and gallery 
 may keep time together, and not have a 
 snigger in one part of the house, a 
 
 broad grin in the other, and a d d 
 
 grum look in the third. How delightful 
 to see the audience all smile together, 
 then look on their books, then twist their 
 mouths into an agreeable simper, then 
 altogether shake the house with a general 
 ha, ha, ha ! loud as a full chorus of Han- 
 del's, at an Abbey-commemoration. 
 
 Jonathan. Ha, ha, ha I that 's dang'd 
 cute, I swear. 
 
 Jessamy. The gentlemen, you see, will 
 laugh the tenor; the ladies will play the 
 counter-tenor; the beaux will squeak the 
 treble; and our jolly friends in the gal- 
 lery a thorough bass, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Jonathan. Well, can't you let me see 
 that gamut? , 
 
 Jessamy. Oh! yes, Mr. Jonathan; here it • 
 is. {Takes out a book.) Oh! no, this 
 is only a titter with its variations. Ah, 
 here it is. {Takes out another.) Now 
 
74 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 you must know, Mr. Jonathan, this is a 
 piece written by Ben Jonson, which I 
 have set to my master's gamut. The 
 places where you must smile, look grave, 
 or laugh outright, are marked below 
 the line. Now look over me. — "There 
 was a certain man" — now you must 
 smile. 
 
 Jonathan. Well, read it again; I war- 
 rant I '11 mind my eye. 
 
 Jessamy. "There was a certain man, who 
 had a sad scolding wife," — now you must 
 laugh. 
 
 Jonathan. Tarnation ! That 's no laugh- 
 ing matter, tiiough. 
 
 Jessamy. "And she lay sick a-dying;" — 
 now you must titter. 
 
 Jonathan. What, snigger when the good 
 woman 's a-dying ! Gor, I — 
 
 Jessamy. Yes; the notes say you must — 
 "And she asked her husband leave to 
 make a will," — now you must begin to 
 look grave; — "and her husband said" — 
 
 Jonathan. Ay, what did her husband 
 say? — Something dang'd cute, I reckon. 
 
 Jessamy. "And her husband said, you 
 have had your will all your life time, and 
 would you have it after you are dead 
 too?" 
 
 Jonathan. Ho, ho, ho! There the old 
 man was even with her; he was up to 
 the notch — ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Jessamy. But, Mr. Jonathan, you must 
 not laugh so. Why, you ought to have 
 tittered piano, and you have laughed 
 fortissimo. Look here; you see these 
 marks, A. B. C. and so on; these are the 
 references to the other part of the book. 
 Let us turn to it, and you will see the 
 directions how to manage the muscles. 
 This {turns over) was note D you blun- 
 dered at. — "You must purse the mouth 
 into a smile, then titter, discovering the 
 lower part of the three front upper 
 teeth." 
 
 Jonathan. HowM read it again. 
 
 Jessamy. "There was a certain man" — 
 very well! — "who had a sad scolding 
 wife," — why don't you laugh? 
 
 Jonathan. Now, that scolding wife sticks 
 in my gizzard so pluckily, that I can't 
 laugh for the blood and nowns of me. 
 Let me look grave here, and I '11 laugli 
 your belly full wliere the old creature 's 
 a-dying.— 
 
 Jessamy. "And she asked her husband" 
 — {Bell rings.) My .master's bell! he's 
 returned, I fear — Here, Mr. Jonatlian, 
 take tliis gamut; and, I make no doubt 
 
 but with a few years' close application, 
 you may be able to smile gracefully. 
 
 {Exeunt severally.) 
 
 Scene 2. Chaelotte's Apartment. 
 
 {Enter Manly.) 
 
 Manly. What, no one at home? How 
 unfortunate to meet the only lady my 
 heart was ever moved by, to find her 
 engaged to another, and confessmg her 
 partiality for me! Yet engaged to a 
 man, who, by her intimation, and his 
 libertine conversation with me, I fear, 
 does not merit her. Aye ! there 's the 
 sting ; for, were I assured that Maria was 
 happy, my heart is not so selfish, but 
 that it would dilate in knowing it, even 
 though it were with another. — But to 
 know she is unhappy! — I must drive 
 these thoughts from me. Charlotte has 
 some books; and this is what I believe 
 she calls her little library. 
 
 {Enters a closet.) 
 
 {Enter Dimple leading Letitia.) 
 
 Letitia. And will you pretend to say, 
 now, Mr. Dimple, that you propose to 
 break with Maria? Are not the banns 
 published? Are not the clothes pur- 
 chased? Are not the friends invited? 
 In short, is it not a done affair? 
 
 Dimple. Believe me, my dear Letitia, I 
 would not marry her. 
 
 Letitia. Why have you not broke with 
 her before this, as you all along deluded 
 me by saying you would? 
 
 Dimple. Because I was in hopes she 
 would ere this have broke with me. 
 
 Letitia. You could not expect it. 
 
 Dimple. Nay, but be calm a moment; 
 't was from my regard to you that I did 
 not discard her. 
 
 Letitia. Regard to me! 
 
 Dimple. Yes; I have done everything in 
 my power to break with her, but the 
 foolish girl is so fond of me, that noth- 
 ing can accomplish it. Besides, how can 
 I offer her my hand, when my heart is 
 indissolubly engaged to you? — 
 
 I/ETiTiA. There may be reason in this ; but 
 why so attentive to Miss Manly? 
 
 Dimple. Attentive to Miss Manly! For 
 heaven's sake, if you have no better 
 opinion of my constancy, pay not so ill 
 a compliment to my taste. 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 75 
 
 <Letitia. Did I not see you whisper her 
 to-day ? 
 
 Dimple. Possibly I might — but something 
 of so very trifling a nature, that I have 
 already forgot what it was. 
 
 Letitia. I believe, she has not forgot it. 
 
 Dimple. My dear crGature,> how can you 
 for a moment suppose I should have any 
 serious thoughts of that trifling, gay, 
 flighty coquette, that disagreeable — 
 
 {Enter Charlotte.) 
 
 Dimple. My dear Miss Manly, I rejoice 
 to see you; there is a charm in your con- 
 versation that always marks your en- 
 trance into company as fortunate. 
 
 Letitia. Where have you been, my dear? 
 
 Charlotte. Why, I have been about to 
 twenty shops, turning over pretty things, 
 and so have left twenty visits unpaid. 
 I wish you would step into the caniage 
 and whisk round, make my apology, and 
 leave my cards where our friends are 
 not at home; that you know will serve 
 as a visit. Come, do go. 
 
 Letitia. So anxious to get me out! but 
 I '11 watch you. (Aside.) Oh! yes, I '11 
 go; I want a little exercise. — Positively 
 (Dimple offering to accompany her), Mr. 
 Dimple, you shall not go, why, half my 
 visits are cake and caudle visits; it 
 won't do, you know, for j^ou to go. — 
 {Exit, but returns to the door in the 
 back scene and listens.) 
 
 Dimple. This attachment of your brother 
 to Maria is fortunate. 
 
 Charlotte. How did you come to the 
 knowledge of it? 
 
 Dimple. I read it in their eyes. 
 
 Charlotte. And I had it from her 
 mouth. It would have amused you to 
 have seen her! She that thought it so 
 great an impropriety to praise a gentle- 
 man, that she could not bring out one 
 word in your favour, found a redun- 
 dancy to praise him. 
 
 Dimple. I have done everything in my 
 power to assist his passion there: your 
 delicacy, my dearest girl, would be 
 shocked at half the instances of neglect 
 and misbehaviour. 
 
 Charlotte. I don't know how I should 
 bear neglect; but Mr. Dimple must mis- 
 behave himself, indeed, to forfeit my 
 good opinion. 
 
 Dimple. Your good opinion, my angel, is 
 the pride and pleasure of my heart ; and 
 if the most respectful tenderness for 
 you and an utter indifference for all your 
 
 sex besides, can make me worthy of your 
 esteem, I shall richly merit it. 
 
 Charlotte. All my sex besides, Mr. Dim- 
 ple—you forgot your tete-a-tete with 
 Letitia. 
 
 Dimple. How can you, my lovely angel, 
 cast a thought on that insipid, wry- 
 mouthed, ugly creature! 
 
 Charlotte. But her fortune may have 
 charms? 
 
 Dimple. Not to a heart like mine. The 
 man who has been blessed with the good 
 opinion of my Charlotte, must despise 
 the allurements of fortune. 
 
 Charlotte. I am satisfied. 
 
 Dimple. Let us think no more on the odi- 
 ous subject, but devote the present hour 
 to happiness. 
 
 Charlotte. Can I be happy, when I see 
 the man I prefer going to be married to 
 another? 
 
 Dimple. Have I not already satisfied my 
 charming angel that I can never think of 
 marrying the puling Maria. But, even 
 if it were so, could that be any bar to 
 our happiness; for, as the poet sings — 
 
 "Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, 
 '"Spreads his light wings, and in a moment 
 flies." 
 
 Come then, my charming angel! why de- 
 lay our bliss! The present moment is 
 ours; the next is in the hand of fate. 
 
 {Kissing her.) 
 
 Charlotte. Begone, Sir! By your delu- 
 sions you had almost lulled my honour 
 asleep. 
 
 Dimple. Let me lull the demon to sleep 
 again with kisses. 
 
 {He struggles with her; she screams.) 
 
 {Enter Manly.) 
 
 Manly. Turn, villain! and defend your- 
 self.— 
 
 {Draws. Van Rough enters and beats 
 down their swords.) 
 Van Rough. Is the devil in you? are you 
 going to murder one another? 
 
 {Holding Dimple.) 
 Dimple. Hold him, hold him, — I can com- 
 mand my passion. 
 
 {Enter Jonathan.) 
 
 Jonathan. What the rattle ails you? 
 Is the old one in you? Let the colonel 
 alone, can't you? I feel chock full of 
 fight, — do you want to kill the colonel? — 
 
 Manly. Be still, Jonathan; the gentle- 
 man does not want to hurt me. 
 
76 
 
 THE CONTRAST 
 
 Jonathan. Gor ! I — I wish he did ; I 'd 
 shew him Yankee boys phiy, pretty 
 quick — Don't you see you have fright- 
 ened the young woman into the hys- 
 trikesf 
 
 Van Rough. Pray, some of you explain 
 this; what has been the occasion of all 
 this racket? 
 
 Manly. That gentleman can explain it to 
 you ; it will be a very diverting story for 
 an intended father-in-law to hear. 
 
 Van Rough. How was this matter, Mr. 
 Van Dumpling? 
 
 Dimple. Sir, — upon my honour — all I 
 know is, that I was talking to this young 
 lady, and this gentleman broke in on us, 
 in a very extraordinary manner. 
 
 Van Rough. Why, all this is nothing to 
 the purpose: can you explain it, Miss? 
 {To Charlotte.) 
 
 {Enter Letitia tlirough tlie hack scene.) 
 
 Letitia. I can explain it to that gentle- 
 man's confusion. Though long be- 
 trothed to your daughter {to Van 
 Rough), yet allured by my fortune, it 
 seems (with shame do I speak it), he 
 has privately paid his addresses to me. 
 I was drawn in to listen to him by his 
 assuring me that the match was made by 
 his father without his consent, and that 
 he proposed to break with Maria, 
 whether he married me or not. But 
 whatever were his intentions respecting 
 your daughter, Sir, even to me he was 
 false ; for he has repeated the same story, 
 with some cruel reflections upon my per- 
 son, to Miss Manly. 
 
 Jonathan. What a tarnal curse! 
 
 Letitia. Nor is this all, Miss Manly. 
 When he was with me this very morning, 
 he made the same ungenerous reflections 
 upon the weakness of your mind as he 
 has so recently done upon the defects of 
 my person. 
 
 Jonathan. What a tarnal curse and 
 damn too! 
 
 Dimple. Ha! since I have lost Letitia, I 
 believe I had as good make it up with 
 Maria — Mr. Van Rough, at present I 
 cannot enter into particulars; but, I be- 
 lieve I can explain everything to your 
 satisfaction in private. 
 
 Van Rough. There is another matter, 
 Mr. Van Dumpling, which I would have 
 you explain: — pray. Sir, have Messrs. 
 Van Cash and Co. presented you those 
 bills for acceptance? 
 
 Dimple. The deuce! Has he heard of 
 
 those bills ! Nay, then, all 's up with 
 Maria, too ; but an aif air of this sort can 
 never prejudice me among the ladies; 
 they will rather long to know what the 
 dear creature possesses to make him so 
 agreeable. {Aside.) Sir, you'll hear 
 from me. {To Manly.) 
 Manly. And you from me. Sir. — 
 Dimple. Sir, you wear a sword. — 
 Manly. Yes, Sir: — This sword was pre- 
 sented to me by that brave Gallic hero, 
 the Marquis De La Fayette. I have 
 drawn it in the service of my country, 
 and in private life, on the only occasion 
 where a man is justified in drawing his 
 sword, in defence of a lady's honour. I 
 have fought too many battles in the 
 service of my country to dread the im- 
 putation of cowardice. — Death from a 
 man of honour would be a glory you do 
 not merit; you shall live to bear the in- 
 sult of man, and the contempt of that 
 sex, wiiose general smiles afforded you 
 all your happiness. 
 Dimple. You won't meet me. Sir? — Then 
 
 I '11 post you for a coward. 
 Manly. I'll venture that. Sir. — The rep- 
 utation of my life does not depend upon 
 the breath of a Mr. Dimple. I would 
 have you to know, however, Sir, that I 
 have a cane to chastise the insolence of 
 a scoundrel, and a sword and the good 
 laws of my country, to protect me from 
 the attempts of an assassin. — 
 Dimple. Mighty well ! Very fine, indeed ! 
 — ladies and gentlemen, I take my leave, 
 and you will please to observe, in the 
 case of my deportment, the contrast be- 
 tween a gentleman, who has read Ches- 
 terfield and received the polish of Eu- 
 rope, and an unpolished, untravelled 
 American. {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Maria.) 
 
 Maria. Is he indeed gone? — 
 
 Letitia. I hope never to return. 
 
 Van Rough. I am glad I heard of those 
 bills ; though it 's plaguy unlucky : I 
 hoped to see Mary married before I 
 died. 
 
 Manly. Will you permit a gentleman, 
 Sir, to offer himself as a suitor to your 
 daughter? Though a stranger to you, 
 he is not altogether so to her, or un- 
 known in this city. You may find a son- 
 in-law of more fortune, but you can 
 never meet witli one who is richer in love 
 for her, or respect for you. 
 
ROYALL TYLER 
 
 77 
 
 Van Rough. Why, Mary, you have not 
 let this gentleman make love to you with- 
 out my leave? 
 
 Manly. I did not say, Sir — 
 
 Maria. Say, Sir! — I — the gentleman, to 
 be sure, met me accidentally. 
 
 Van Rough. Ha, ha, ha! Mark me, 
 Mary; young folks think old folks to be 
 fools; but old folks know young folks 
 to be fools. — Why, I knew all about this 
 affair: — This was only a cunning way 
 I had to bring it about — Hark ye! I 
 was in the closet when you and he were 
 at our house. {Turns to the company.) 
 I heard that little baggage say she loved 
 her old father, and would die to make 
 him happy! Oh! how I loved the little 
 baggage! — And you talked very pru- 
 dently, young man. I have inquired 
 into your character, and find you to be 
 a man of punctuality and mind the main 
 chance. And so, as you love Mary, and 
 Mary loves you, you shall have my con- 
 sent immediately to be married. I '11 set- 
 tle my fortune on you, and go and live 
 with you the remainder of my life. 
 
 Manly. Sir, I hope — 
 
 Van Rough. Come, come, no fine 
 speeches; mind the main chance, young 
 man, and you and I shall always agree. 
 
 Letitia. I sincerely wish you joy (ad- 
 vancing to Maria) ; and hope your par- 
 don for my conduct. 
 
 Maria. I thank you for your congratula- 
 tions, and hope we shall at once forget 
 
 me ; you 
 
 the wretch who has given us so much 
 disquiet, and the trouble that he has oc- 
 casioned. 
 
 Charlotte. And I, my dear Maria, — 
 how shall I look up to you for forgive- 
 ness? I, who, in the practice of the 
 meanest arts, have violated the most 
 sacred rights of friendship? I can 
 never forgive myself, or hope charity 
 from the world, but I confess I have 
 much to hope from such a brother; and 
 I am happy that I may soon say, such 
 a sister. — 
 
 Maria. My dear, you distress 
 have all my love. 
 
 Manly. And mine. 
 
 Charlotte. If repentance can entitle me 
 to forgiveness, I have already much 
 merit; for I despise the littleness of my 
 past conduct. I now find, that the heart 
 of any w^orthy man cannot be gained by 
 invidious attacks upon the rights and 
 characters of others; — by countenancing 
 the addresses of a thousand; — or that 
 the finest assemblage of features, the 
 greatest taste in dress, the genteelest ad- 
 dress, or the most brilliant wit, cannot 
 eventually secure a coquette from con- 
 tempt and ridicule. 
 
 Manly. And I have learned that probity, 
 virtue, honour, though they should not 
 have received the polish of Europe, will 
 secure to an honest American the good 
 graces of his fair countrywoman, and, I 
 hope, the applause of THE PUBLIC. 
 
 the end. 
 
ANDRE 
 
 BY 
 
 William Dunlap 
 
ANDRE 
 
 Andre represents the tragedy of American history. It was not the first 
 historical tragedy, but its predecessors were either school pieces like Brecken- 
 ridge's Battle of Bunker Hill or else, like John Burk's dramatization of the same 
 conflict, were of little worth. 
 
 William Dnnlap was born February 19, 1766, at Perth Amboy, New Jersey. 
 He grew up with a fondness for the theatre, and saw many of the productions 
 of the British soldiers in New York City during the Eevolution. From 1784 
 to 1787, he spent in England and there saw the best actors of that period. 
 Returning to New York, he was inspired by the success of The Contrast to write 
 plays. His first play to be performed, The Father or American Shandyism, was 
 plaj^ed by the American Company at the John Street Theatre, New York, Sep- 
 tember 7, 1789, and was a comedy of manners. His career as a playwright, 
 which lasted until 1828, his activity as the manager of the American Company 
 from 1796 to 1805, and his invaluable History of the American Theatre, make 
 him the most important figure in our early dramatic history. He was connected 
 with the tiieatre again from 1810 to 1811, but his most important work was 
 done before 1805. He became Assistant Paymaster General of New York State 
 from 1813 to 1816. Dunlap died in 1839. 
 
 Dunlap wrote or adapted more than sixty plays. Of the various fields in 
 whi^h he worked, the' most significant were first, his plays based on native 
 material, and second, his adaptations from the German and from the French. 
 To the first group belong beside The Father, Darty's Return, played November 
 24, 1789, and printed in 1789, interesting on account of its association with 
 Washington; Andre; The Glory of Columbia; and Yankee Chronology, an ac- 
 count of the fight between the Constitution and the Guerriere, played September 
 9, 1812, nine days after the battle, and printed in the same year. His last play, 
 A Trip to Niagara, performed November 28, 1828, and printed in 1830, was 
 upon a native theme. 
 
 The Stranger, his first adaptation from the German of Kotzebue, was played 
 December 10, 1798. It was made from an English version, but its success en- 
 couraged him to study German, and he adapted at least thirteen plays of 
 Kotzebue, the best being False Shame, or the American Orphan in Germany, a 
 domestic comedy played December 11, 1799, and printed in 1800; The Virgin 
 of the Sun, a play laid in Peru, performed March 12, 1800, and printed the 
 same year, and Fraternal Discord, a domestic drama, played October 24, 1800, 
 
 81 
 
82 INTRODUCTION 
 
 and printed in 1809. He also adapted Ahaellino the Great Bandit, from the 
 German of Zchokke, performed February 11, 1801, and printed in 1802, while 
 from a French source he produced The Voice of Nature, played February 4, 
 1803, and published in the same year. 
 
 One of the best of his plays, printed in 1807 as Leicester and played April 
 24, 1794, as The Fatal Deception, is a verse tragedy laid in Elizabethan England. 
 
 'Andre was performed at the Park Theatre, New York, March 30, 1798, 
 It was received, Dunlap tells us, with warm applause, until Cooper, who acted 
 "Bland," in pleading for Andre's life, tore the American cockade from his 
 casque and threw it from him. The incident was hissed, but the play proceeded 
 and a change m the lines was made on the second night, which removed the 
 cause of the trouble. The new lines have been inserted in their proper places 
 in this edition. 
 
 On July 4, 1803, Dunlap produced a version of Andre, much changed, 
 called The Glory of Columbia. The first Act deals with Andre's capture, and 
 the last Act occurs at Yorktown. Washington is introduced with his officers and 
 then Andre 's captors come in and there is a general glorification of the American 
 arms. Andre was more of a unit than The Glory of Columbia and the dramatic 
 action was more intelligible. The Glory of Columbia, however, was printed in 
 1817 and held the stage as late as 1847. 
 
 Dunlap 's plays must be read usually in the early editions, difficult now to 
 obtain. The proposed Collected Edition in ten volumes seems to have been 
 carried only to three; Vol. I, Philadelphia, 1806 and Vols. 2 and 3, New York, 
 1816. 
 
 Darby ^s Return has been reprinted in an appendix to Washington and the 
 Theatre, by Paul Leicester Ford, Dunlap Society Reprint. New York, 1899. 
 Andre was reprinted by the Dunlap Society with a very interesting introduction 
 by Brander Matthews, New York, 1887. The Father was reprinted by the 
 Dunlap Society with an introduction by T. J. McKee, New York, 1887. Dun- 
 lap's History of the American Theatre, New York, 1832, or in better form, 
 London, 1833, should be consulted for his life and for a description of his plays. 
 For a complete bibliography of his plays prepared by the present editor, see the 
 Cambridge History of American Literature (Vol. I, pp. 496-499). 
 
 The present text is based on the edition of 1798. With the permission of 
 the editor of the Dunlap Society Reprint, Professor Brander Matthews, that 
 text has also been used in the preparation of this volume. 
 
 Note to Revised Edition. 
 A scholarly biography, William Dunlap, a Study of His Life and Works, 
 by Oral S. Coad, was published in 1917. A complete Bibliography is included. 
 
ANDRE; 
 
 A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS: 
 
 AS PERFORMED BY THE OLD AMERICAN COMPANY, 
 NEW-YORK, MARCH 30, 1798. 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 AUTHENTIC DOCUMENTS 
 
 RESPECTING 
 
 MAJOR ANDR^', 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 LETTERS TO Miss SEWARD, 
 
 THE 
 
 COW CHACE, 
 PROCEEDINGS OF THE COURT MARTIAL, (3c, 
 
 COPY RIGHT SECURED, 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 
 Printed by T. &> J. SWORDS, No. 99 Pearl-ftreet. 
 — 1798.— 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 Spoken by Mr. Martin. 
 
 A Native Bard, a native scene displays, 
 And claims your candour for his daring layss 
 Daring, so soon, in mimic scenes to shew, 
 "What each remembers as a real woe. 
 Who has forgot when gallant Andre died ? 
 A name by Fate to Sorrow's self allied. 
 Who has forgot, when o'er the untimely bier^ 
 Contending armies paus'd, to drop a tear. 
 
 Our Poet builds upon a fact to-night; 
 Yet claims, in building, every Poet 's right ; 
 To choose, embellish, lop, or add, or blendy 
 Fiction with truth, as best may suit his end ; 
 Which, he avows, is pleasure to impart. 
 And move the passions but to mend the heart. 
 
 0, may no party spirit blast his views. 
 Or turn to ill the meanings of the ]\Iuse ; 
 She sings of wrongs long past. Men as they were, 
 To instruct, without reproach, the Men that are ; 
 Then judge the Story by the genius shown. 
 And praise, or damn it, for its worth alone. 
 
CHARACTEES 
 
 General, dress, American staff uniform, blue, faced with buff, large 
 gold epaulets, cocked hat, with the black and white cockade, in- 
 dicating the union with France, buff waistcoat and breeches, 
 boots Mr. Hallaix 
 
 M 'Donald, a man of forty years of age, uniform nearly the same as 
 
 the first Mr. Tyler 
 
 Seward, a man of thirty years of age, staff uniform Mr. Martin 
 
 Andre, a man of twenty-nine years of age, full British uniform 
 
 after the first scene Mr. Hodgkinson 
 
 Bland, a youthful but military figure, in the uniform of a Captain 
 of horse — dress, a short blue coat, faced with red, and trimmed 
 with gold lace, two small epaulets, a white waistcoat, leather 
 breeches, boots and spurs ; over the coat, crossing the chest from 
 the right shoulder, a broad buff belt, to which is suspended a 
 manageable hussar sword; a horseman's helmet on the head, 
 decorated as usual, and the union cockade affixed Mr. Cooper 
 
 Melville, a man of middle age, and grave deportment; his dress 
 a Captain's uniform when on duty; a blue coat with red fac- 
 ings, gold epaulet, white waistcoat and breeches, boots and 
 cocked hat, with the union cockade Mr. Williamson 
 
 British Officer Mr. Hogg 
 
 AMERICx^JT Officer Mr. Miller 
 
 Children Master Stockwell and Miss Hogg 
 
 American Sergeant Mr. Seymour 
 
 American Officers and Soldiers, &c. 
 
 Mrs. Bland Mrs. Melmoth 
 
 HoNORA Mrs. Johnson 
 
 Scene, the Village of Tappan, Encampment, and adjoining country. Time, ten 
 
 hours. 
 
ANDRE 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. A Wood seen by star-light; an 
 Encampment at a distance appearing be- 
 tween the trees. 
 
 {Enter Melville.) 
 
 Melville. The solemn hour, "when night 
 and morning meet," 
 
 Mysterious time, to superstition dear, 
 
 And superstition's guides, now passes 
 by; 
 
 Deathlike in solitude. The sentinels, 
 
 In drowsy tones, from post to post send 
 on 
 
 The signal of the passing hour. "All's 
 well," 
 
 Sounds through the camp. Alas, all is 
 not well; 
 
 Else, why stand I, a man, the friend of 
 man. 
 
 At midnight's depth, deck'd in this mur- 
 derous guise. 
 
 The habiliment of death, the badge of 
 dire 
 
 Necessitous coercion. 'T is not well. 
 
 — In vain the enlighten'd friends of suf- 
 fering man 
 
 Point out, of war, the folly, guilt, and 
 madness. 
 
 Still, age succeeds to age, and war to 
 war; 
 
 And man, the murderer, marshals out in 
 hosts 
 
 In all the gaiety of festive pomp. 
 
 To spread around him death and deso- 
 lation. 
 
 How long! how long! — 
 
 — Methinks I hear the tread of feet this 
 way. 
 
 My meditating mood may work me woe. 
 
 (Draws.) 
 
 Stand, whoso'er thou art. Answer. 
 Who's there? 
 
 • 
 {Enter Bland.) 
 
 Bland. A friend. 
 
 Melville. Advance and give the 
 
 countersign. 
 
 87 
 
 Bland. Hudson. 
 Melville. What, Bland! 
 
 Bland. Melville, my friend, you here? 
 
 Melville. And well, my brave young 
 friend. But why do you. 
 At this dead hour of night, approach the 
 
 camp 
 On foot, and thus alone? 
 Bland. I have but now 
 
 Dismounted, and from yon sequester'd 
 
 cot. 
 Whose lonely taper through the crannied 
 
 wall 
 Sheds its faint beams and twinkles midst 
 
 the trees. 
 Have I, adventurous, grop'd my dark- 
 some way. 
 My servant and my horses, spent with 
 
 toil. 
 There wait till morn. 
 Melville. Why waited not yourself? 
 
 Bland. Anxious to know the truth of 
 those reports 
 Which, from the many mouths of busy 
 
 fame. 
 Still, as I pass'd, struck varying on my 
 
 ear. 
 Each making th' other void. Nor does 
 
 delay 
 The color of my hasteful business suit. 
 I bring dispatches for our great Com- 
 mander ; 
 And hasted hither with design to wait 
 His rising, or awake him with the sun. 
 Melville. You will not need the last, for 
 the blest sun 
 Ne'er rises on his slumbers; by the dawn 
 We see him mounted gaily in the field, 
 Or find him wrapt in meditation deep, 
 Planning the welfare of our war-worn 
 land. 
 Bland. Prosper, kind Heaven, and rec- 
 ompense his cares. 
 Melville. You're from the South, if I 
 
 presume aright? 
 Bland. I am; and, Melville, I am fraught 
 with news. 
 The South teems with events — convul- 
 sing ones. 
 The Briton, there, plays at no mimic 
 war; 
 
88 
 
 ANDRfi 
 
 With gallant face be moves, and gal- 
 lantly is met. 
 
 Brave spirits, rous'd by glory, throng 
 our camp; 
 
 The hardy hunter, skilFd to fell the 
 deer. 
 
 Or start the sluggish bear from covert 
 rude; 
 
 And not a clown that comes, but from 
 his youth 
 
 Is trained to pour from far the leaden 
 death, 
 
 To climb the steep, to struggle with the 
 stream, 
 
 To labor firmly under scorching skies, 
 
 And bear, unshrinking, winter's rough- 
 est blast. 
 
 This, and that heaven-inspir'd enthusi- 
 asm 
 
 Which ever animates the patriot's breast, 
 
 Shall far outweigh the lack of discipline. 
 Melnille. Justice is ours; what shall 
 
 prevail against her? 
 Bland. But as I pass'd along, many 
 strange tales 
 
 And monstrous rumors have my ears as- 
 sail'd: 
 
 That Arnold had prov'd false; but he 
 was ta'en 
 
 And hung, or to be hung — I know not 
 what. 
 
 Another told that all our army, with 
 their 
 
 Much-lov'd Chief, sold and betray'd, were 
 captur'd. 
 
 But as I nearer drew, at yonder cot 
 
 'T was said that Arnold, traitor like, had 
 fled; 
 
 And that a Briton, tried and prov'd a 
 
 spy, 
 
 Was, on this day, as such, to suffer 
 death. 
 Melville. As you drew near, plain truth 
 advanced to meet you. 
 'T is even as you heard, my brave young 
 
 friend. 
 Never had people on a single tlirow^ 
 More interest at stake ; when he who held 
 For us the die prov'd false and play'd us 
 
 foul. 
 But for a circumstance of that nice kind, 
 Of cause so microscopic that the tongues 
 Of inattentive men call it the effect 
 Of chance, we must have lost the glori- 
 ous game. 
 Bland. Blest, blest be heaven! whatever 
 
 was the cause! 
 Melville. The blow ere this had fallen 
 that would have bruis'd 
 
 The tender plant which we have striven 
 
 to rear, 
 Crush'd to the dust, no more to bless this 
 
 soil. 
 Bland. What warded off the blow? 
 Melville. The brave young man, who this 
 
 day dies, was seiz'd 
 Within our bounds, in rustic garb dis- 
 
 guis'd. 
 He oft'er'd bribes to tempt the band that 
 
 seiz'd him; 
 But the rough farmer, for his country 
 
 arm'd, 
 That soil defending which his plough- 
 share turn'd, 
 Those laws his father chose and he ap- 
 
 prov'd. 
 Cannot, as mercenary soldiers may. 
 Be brib'd to sell the public weal for 
 
 gold. 
 Bland. 'T is well. Just Heaven ! grant 
 
 that thus may fall 
 All those who seek to bring this land to 
 
 woe. 
 All those, who, or by open force, or dark 
 And secret machinations, seek to shake 
 The Tree of Liberty, or stop its growth. 
 In any soil where thou hast pleased to 
 
 plant it. 
 Melville. Yet not a heart but pities and 
 
 would save him; 
 For all confirm that he is brave and vir- 
 tuous ; 
 Known, but till now, the darling child of 
 
 Honor. 
 Bland. (Contemptuously.) And how is 
 
 call'd this — honorable spy? 
 Melville. Andre 's his name. 
 Bland. (Much agitated.) Andre! 
 INIelville. Aye! Major Andre. 
 
 Bland. Andre ! — no, my friend, you 're, 
 
 sure deceiv'd — 
 I '11 pawn my life, my ever sacred fame. 
 My General's favor, or a soldier's honor. 
 That gallant Andre never yet put on 
 The guise of falsehood. 0, it cannot be ! 
 Melville. How might I be deceiv'd? 
 
 I 've heard him, seen him. 
 And what I tell, I tell from well-prov'd 
 
 knowledge ; 
 No second tale-bearer who heard the 
 
 news. 
 Bland. Pardon me, Melville. 0, that 
 
 well-known name, 
 So link'd with circumstances infamous! 
 My friend must pardon me. Thou wilt 
 
 not blame 
 When I shall tell what cause I have to 
 
 love him; 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 89 
 
 What cause to think him nothing more 
 the pupil 
 
 Of Honor stern, than sweet Humanity. 
 
 Rememberest thou, when eover'd o'er 
 with wounds 
 
 And left upon the field, I fell the prey 
 
 Of Britain? To a loathsome prison- 
 ship 
 
 Confin'd, soon had I sunk, victim of 
 death, 
 
 A death of aggravated miseries; 
 
 But, by benevolence urg'd, this best of 
 men. 
 
 This gallant youth, then favor'd, high in 
 power, 
 
 Sought out the pit obscene of foul dis- 
 ease, 
 
 Where I and many a suffering soldier 
 lay, 
 
 And, like an angel, seeking good for man, 
 
 Restor'd us light and partial liberty. 
 
 Me he mark'd out his own. He nurst 
 and cur'd. 
 
 He lov'd and made his friend. I liv'd 
 by him. 
 
 And in my heart he liv'd, till, when ex- 
 chang'd. 
 
 Duty and honor call'd me from my 
 friend. 
 
 Judge how my heart is tortur'd. — Gra- 
 cious Heaven, 
 
 Thus, thus to meet him on the brink of 
 death — 
 
 A death so infamous. Heav'n grant my 
 prayer. (Kneels.) 
 
 That I may save him, inspire my heart 
 
 With thoughts, my tongue with words 
 that move to pity. (Rises.) 
 
 Quick, Melville, show me where my 
 Andre lies. 
 
 Melville. Good wishes go with you. 
 J jLAND. I'll save my friend. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene, the Encampment hij star-light. 
 
 (Enter the General, M'Donald, and 
 Seward.) 
 
 General. 'T is well. Each sentinel upon 
 his post 
 Stands firm, and meets me at the bayo- 
 net's point; 
 While in his tent the weary soldier lies, 
 The sweet reward of wholesome toil en- 
 joying; 
 Resting secure as erst within his cot 
 He careless slept, his rural labor o'er; 
 Ere Britons dar'd to violate those laws. 
 
 Those boasted laws by which themselves 
 are govern'd. 
 
 And strove to make their fellow-subjects 
 slaves. 
 Seward. They know to whom they owe 
 
 their present safety. 
 General. I hope they know that to them- 
 selves they owe it; 
 
 To that good discipline which they ob- 
 serve. 
 
 The discipline of men to order train'd 
 
 Who know its value, and in whom 'tis 
 virtue ; 
 
 To that prompt hardihood w^ith which 
 they meet 
 
 Or toil or danger, poverty or death. 
 
 Mankind who know not whence that 
 spirit springs. 
 
 Which holds at bay all Britain's boasted 
 power, 
 
 Gaze on their deeds astonish'd. See the 
 youth 
 
 Start from his plough and straightway 
 play the hero; 
 
 Unmurmuring bear such toils as vet- 
 erans shun; 
 
 Rest all content upon the dampsome 
 earth ; 
 
 Follow undaunted to the deathful 
 charge ; 
 
 Or, when occasion asks, lead to the 
 breach. 
 
 Fearless of all the unusual din of war, 
 
 His former peaceful mates. patriot- 
 ism! 
 
 Thou wondrous principle of godlike ac- 
 tion. 
 
 Wherever liberty is found, there reigns 
 
 The love of country. Now the self-same 
 spirit 
 
 Which fill'd the breast of great Leoni- 
 das 
 
 SavcIIs in the hearts of thousands on 
 these plains, 
 
 Thousands who never heard the hero's 
 tale. 
 
 'T is this alone which saves thee, my 
 country ! 
 
 And, till that spirit flies these western 
 shores, 
 
 No power on earth shall crush thee. 
 Seward. 'T is wondrous ! 
 
 The men of other climes from this shall 
 see 
 
 How easy 'tis to shake oppression off; 
 
 How all-resistless is a union'd people; 
 
 And hence, from our success (which, by 
 my soul, 
 
 I feel as much secur'd as though our foes 
 
90 
 
 ANDRE 
 
 Were now within their floating prisons 
 
 hous'd, 
 And their proud prowls all pointing to 
 
 the east), 
 Shall other nations break their galling 
 
 fetters, 
 And re-assume the dignity of man. 
 M'DoNALD. Are other nations in that 
 
 happy state, 
 That, having broke Coercion's iron yoke, 
 They can submit to Order's gentle voice, 
 And walk on earth self -ruled? I much 
 
 do fear it. 
 As to ourselves, in truth, I nothing see, 
 In all the wondrous deeds which we per- 
 form. 
 But plain effects from causes full as 
 
 plain. 
 Rises not man forever 'gainst oppres- 
 sion? 
 It is the law of life; he can't avoid it. 
 But when the love of property unites 
 With sense of injuries past and dread of 
 
 future, 
 Is it then wonderful that he should brave 
 A lesser evil to avoid a greater? 
 General. {Sportively.) 'T is hard, quite 
 
 hard, we may not please ourselves, 
 By our great deeds ascribing to our 
 
 virtue. 
 Seward. M'Donald never spares to lash 
 
 our pride. 
 M'Donald. In truth I know of naught to 
 
 make you proud. 
 I think there 's none within the camp 
 
 that draws 
 "With better will his sword than does 
 
 M'Donald. 
 I have a home to guard. My son is — 
 
 butcher'd — 
 Seward. Hast thou no nobler motives for 
 
 thy arms 
 Than love of property and thirst for. 
 
 vengeance? 
 M'Donald. Yes, my good Seward, and 
 
 yet nothing wondrous. 
 I love this country for the sake of man. 
 My parents, and I thank them, cross'd 
 
 the seas. 
 And made me native of fair Nature's 
 
 world. 
 With room to grow and thrive in. I 
 
 have thriven; 
 And feel my mind unshackled, free, ex- 
 panding, 
 Grasping with ken unbounded mighty 
 
 thouglits. 
 At w^liich, if chance my mother had, good 
 
 dame, 
 
 In Scotia, our revered parent soil. 
 Given me to see the day, I should have 
 
 shrunk 
 Affrighted. Now, I see in this new 
 
 world 
 A resting spot for man, if he can stand 
 Firm in his place, while Europe howls 
 
 around him, 
 And all unsettled as the thoughts of vice. 
 Each nation in its turn threats him with 
 
 feeble malice. 
 One trial, now, we prove; and I have 
 
 met it. 
 General. And met it like a man, my 
 
 brave M'Donald. 
 M'Donald. I hope so; and I hope my 
 
 every act 
 Has been the offspring of deliberate 
 
 judgment ; 
 Yet feeling seconds reason's cool resolves. 
 ! I could hate, if I did not more pity 
 These bands of mercenary Europeans, 
 So wanting in the common sense of na- 
 ture. 
 As, without shame, to sell themselves for 
 
 pelf 
 To aid the cause of darkness; murder 
 
 man — 
 Without inquiry murder, and yet call 
 Their trade the trade of honor — high- 
 
 soul'd honor — 
 Yet honor shall accord in act with false- 
 hood. 
 0! that proud man should e'er descend 
 
 to play 
 The tempter's part, and lure men to their 
 
 ruin ! 
 Deceit and honor badly pair together. 
 Seward. You have much shew of reason; 
 
 yet, methinks 
 What you suggest of one, whom fickle- 
 
 Fortune, 
 In her changeling mood, hath hurl'd, un- 
 
 pitying. 
 From her topmost height to lowest mis- 
 ery, 
 Tastes not of charity. Andre, I mean. 
 M'Donald. I mean him, too; sunk by 
 
 misdeed, not fortune. 
 Fortune and chance, 0, most convenient 
 
 words ! 
 Man runs the wild career of blind ambi- 
 tion. 
 Plunges in vice, takes falsehood for his 
 
 buoy. 
 And when he feels the waves of ruin 
 
 o'er him. 
 Curses, "in good set terms,'' poor Lady 
 
 Fortune, 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 91 
 
 General. {Sportively to Seward.) His 
 mood is all untoward; let us leave 
 him. 
 
 The' he maj^ think that he is bound to 
 rail, 
 
 We are not bound to hear him. {To 
 M'DoNALD.) Grant you that? 
 M'DoNALD. 0, freely, freely! You I 
 
 never rail on. 
 General. No thanks for that; youVe 
 
 courtesy for office. 
 M'DoNALD. You slander me. 
 General. Slander that would not wound. 
 
 Worthy M'Donald, though it suits full 
 well 
 
 The virtuous man to frown on all mis- 
 deeds, 
 
 Yet ever keep in mind that man is frail ; 
 
 His tide of passion struggling still with 
 Reason's 
 
 Fair and favorable gale, and adverse 
 
 Driving his unstable Bark upon the 
 
 Rocks of error. Should he sink thus 
 shipwreck'd, 
 
 Sure, it is not Virtue's voice that tri- 
 umphs 
 
 In his ruin. I must seek rest. Adieu! 
 {Exeunt General and Seward.) 
 M'Donald. Both good and great thou 
 art; first among men; 
 
 By nature, or by early habit, grac'd 
 
 With that blest quality which gives due 
 force 
 
 To every faculty, and keeps the mind 
 
 In healthful equipoise, ready for action; 
 
 Invaluable temperance — by all 
 
 To be acquired, yet scarcely known to 
 any. {Exit.) 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene, a Prison. Andre discovered, in a 
 pensive posture, sitting at a table; a 
 hook by him and candles; his dress neg- 
 lected, his hair dishevelled; he rises and 
 comes forward. 
 
 Andre. Kind Heaven be thank'd for that 
 I stand alone 
 
 In this sad hour of life's brief pilgrim- 
 age! 
 
 Single in misery; no one else involving. 
 
 In grief, in shame, and ruin. 'T is my 
 comfort. 
 
 Thou, my thrice honor'd sire, in peace 
 went'st down 
 
 Unto the tomb, nor knew to blush, nor 
 knew - 
 
 A pang for me. And thou, revered 
 matron, 
 
 Could'st bless thy child, and yield thy 
 breath in peace! 
 
 No wife shall weep, no child lament my 
 loss. 
 
 Thus may I consolation find in what 
 
 Was once my woe. I little thought to 
 joy 
 
 In not possessing, as I erst possest. 
 
 Thy love, Honora! Andre's death, per- 
 haps. 
 
 May cause a cloud pass o'er thy lovely 
 face; 
 
 The pearly tear may steal from either 
 eye; 
 
 For thou mayest feel a transient pang, 
 nor wrong 
 
 A husband's rights: more than a tran- 
 sient pang 
 
 mayest thou never feel! The mom 
 
 draws nigh 
 To light me to my shame. Frail nature 
 
 shrinks — 
 And is death then so fearful? I have 
 
 brav'd 
 Him, fearless, in the field, and steel'd my 
 
 breast 
 Against his thousand horrors; but his 
 
 cool, 
 His sure approach, requires a fortitude 
 Which naught but conscious rectitude 
 
 can give. 
 
 {Retires, and sits leaning.) 
 
 {Enter Bland, unperceived by Andre.) 
 
 Bland. And is that Andre? 0, how 
 changed ! Alas ! 
 Where is that martial fire, that generous 
 
 warmth. 
 Which glow'd his manly countenance 
 
 throughout. 
 And gave to every look, to every act. 
 The tone of high chivalrous animation? 
 Andre, my friend, look up ! 
 Andre. Who calls me friend? 
 
 Bland. Young Arthur Bland. 
 Andre. {Rising.) That name sounds like 
 a friend's. {With emotion.) 
 
 1 have inquired for thee — wish'd much 
 
 to see thee — 
 I prythee take no note of these fool's 
 
 tears — 
 My heart was full — and seeing thee — 
 Bland. {Embracing him.) Andre! 
 
 I have but now arrived from the South—' 
 
92 
 
 ANDRE 
 
 Nor heard — till now — of this — I cannot 
 speak. 
 
 Is this a place? — 0, thus to find my 
 friend ! 
 Andre. Still dost thou call me friend? 
 I, who dared act 
 
 Against my reason, my declared opinion ; 
 
 Against my conscience and a soldier's 
 fame? 
 
 Oft in the generous heat of glowing 
 youth. 
 
 Oft have I said how fully I despis'd 
 
 All bribery base, all treacherous tricks 
 in war: 
 
 Rather my blood should bathe these hos- 
 tile shores, 
 
 And have it said, "he died a gallant sol- 
 dier," 
 
 Than with my country's gold encourage 
 treason. 
 
 And thereby purchase gratitude and 
 fame. 
 Bland. Still mayest thou say it, for thy 
 
 heart 's the same. 
 Andre. Still is my heart the same, still 
 may I say it; 
 
 But now my deeds will rise against my 
 words ; 
 
 And should I dare to talk of honest truth, 
 
 Frank undissembling pro])it3^ and faith, 
 
 Memory would crimson o'er my burning 
 cheek, 
 
 And actions retrospected choak the tale. 
 
 Still is my heart the same. But there 
 has past 
 
 A dav, an hour, which ne'er can be re- 
 call'd. 
 
 Unhappy man! Tho' all thy life pass 
 pure; 
 
 Mark'd by benevolence thy every deed; 
 
 The out-spread map, which shows the 
 way thou 'st trod, 
 
 Without one devious track or doubtful 
 line ; 
 
 It all avails thee naught, if in one hour. 
 
 One hapless hour, thy feet are led 
 astray ; — 
 
 Thy happy deeds all blotted from re- 
 membrance ; 
 
 Cancel'd the record of thy former good. 
 
 Is it not hard, my friend ? Is 't not un- 
 just? 
 Bland. Not every record cancel'd. — 0, 
 there are hearts 
 
 Where Virtue's image, when 'tis once 
 engraved. 
 
 Can never know erasure. 
 Andre. Generous Bland! 
 
 (Takes his hand.) 
 
 The hour draws nigh which ends my 
 life's sad story. 
 
 I should be firm — 
 Bland. By heaven, thou shalt not die! 
 
 Thou dost not sure deserve it. Betray'd, 
 perhaps — 
 
 Condemn'd without due circumstance 
 made known? 
 
 Thou didst not mean to tempt our offi- 
 cers? 
 
 Betray our yeoman soldiers to destruc- 
 tion? 
 
 Silent ! Nay, then 't was from a duteous 
 wish 
 
 To serve the cause thou wast in honor 
 bound. — 
 Andre. Kind is my Bland, who to his 
 generous heart 
 
 Still finds excuses for his erring friend. 
 
 Attentive hear and judge me. — 
 
 Pleas'd with the honors daily shower'd 
 upon me, 
 
 I glow'd with martial heat my name to 
 raise 
 
 Above the vulgar herd, who live to die. 
 
 And die to be forgotten. Thus I stood, 
 
 When avarice or ambition Arnold 
 tempted, 
 
 His country, fame, and honor to betray, 
 
 Linking his name to infamy eternal. 
 
 In confidence it w^as to me proposed 
 
 To plan with him the means which should 
 ensure 
 
 Thy country's downfall. Nothing then 
 I saw 
 
 But confidential favor in the service. 
 
 My country's glory, and my mounting 
 fame; 
 
 Forgot my former purity of thought, 
 
 And high-ton'd honor's scruples disre- 
 garded. 
 Bland. It was thy duty so to serve thy 
 
 country. 
 Andre. Nay, nay; be cautious ever to ad- 
 mit 
 
 That duty can beget dissimulation. 
 
 On ground, unoccupied by either part, 
 
 Neutral esteem'd, I landed, and was met. 
 
 But ere my conference was with Arnold 
 clos'd. 
 
 The day began to dawn; I then was told 
 
 That till the night I must my safety seek 
 
 In close concealment. Within your 
 posts convey'd, 
 
 I found myself involved in unthought 
 dangers. 
 
 Night came. I sought the vessel which 
 had borne 
 
 Me to the fatal spot; but she was gone. 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 93 
 
 Retreat that way cut oft', again I sought 
 Concealment with the traitors of your 
 
 army. 
 Arnold now granted passes, and I doff'd 
 My martial garb, and put on curs'd dis- 
 guise. 
 Thus in a peasant's form I pass'd your 
 
 posts ; 
 And when, as I conceiv'd, my danger 
 
 o'er, 
 Was stopt and seiz'd by some returning 
 
 scouts. 
 So did ambition lead me, step by step. 
 To treat with traitors, and encourage 
 
 treason ; 
 And then, bewilder'd in the guilty scene, 
 To quit my martial designating badges. 
 Deny my name, and sink into the spy. 
 Bland. Thou didst no more than was a 
 
 soldier's duty. 
 To serve the part on which he drew his 
 
 sword. 
 Thou shalt not die for this. Straight 
 
 wdll I fly— 
 I surely shall prevail — 
 Andre. It is in vain. 
 
 All has been tried. Each friendly argu- 
 ment — 
 Bland. All has not yet been tried. The 
 
 powerful voice 
 Of friendship in thy cause has not been 
 
 heard. 
 My General favors me, and loves my 
 
 father — 
 My gallant father! would that he were 
 
 here! 
 But he, perhaps, now wants an Andre's 
 
 care, 
 To cheer his hours — perhaps now lan- 
 guishes 
 Amidst those horrors whence thou sav'd'st 
 
 his son. 
 The present moment claims my thought. 
 
 Andre, 
 I fly to save thee ! 
 Andre. Bland, it is in vain. 
 
 But, hold — there is a service thou may'st 
 
 do me. 
 Bland. Speak it. 
 
 Andre. 0, think, and as a soldier think, 
 How I must die — the manner of my 
 
 death — 
 Like the base rufi&an, or the midnight 
 
 thief, 
 Ta'en in the act of stealing from the 
 
 poor. 
 To be turn'd off the felon's — murderers 
 
 cart, 
 A mid-air spectacle to gaping clowns; — 
 
 To run a short, an envied course of 
 glory, ' 
 
 And end it on a gibbet. — 
 Bland. Damnation ! 
 
 Andre. Such is my doom. 0, have the 
 manner changed, 
 
 And of mere death I '11 think not. Dost 
 thou think—? 
 
 Perhaps thou canst gain that — ? 
 Bland. {Almost in a plirenzy.) Thou 
 
 shalt not die. 
 Andre. Let me, 0, let me die a soldier's 
 death. 
 
 While friendly clouds of smoke shroud 
 from all eyes 
 
 My last convulsive pangs, and I 'm con- 
 tent. 
 Bland. {With increasing emotion.) Thou 
 shalt not die ! Curse on the laws of 
 war! 
 
 If worth like thine must thus be sacri- 
 ficed 
 
 To pohcy so cruel and unjust, 
 
 I will forswear my country and her 
 service ; 
 
 I '11 hie me to the Briton, and with fire, 
 
 And sword, and every instrument of 
 death 
 
 Or devastation, join in the work of war! 
 
 What! shall worth weigh for nought ? I 
 will avenge thee! 
 Andre. Hold, hold, my friend; thy coun- 
 try's woes are full. 
 
 What! wouldst thou make me cause an- 
 other traitor? 
 
 No more of this; and, if I die, believe 
 me. 
 
 Thy country for my death incurs no 
 blame. 
 
 Restrain thy ardor — but ceaselessly en- 
 treat 
 
 That Andre may at least die as he lived, 
 
 A soldier. 
 
 Bland. By heaven thou shalt not die ! 
 
 (Bland rushes off; Andre looks after 
 
 him wit] I an expression of love and 
 
 gratitude, then retires up the stage. 
 
 Scene closes.) 
 
 Scene, the General's Quarters. 
 
 {Enter M'Donald and Seward, in conver- 
 sation.) 
 
 M'DoNALD. {Coming forward.) Three 
 thousand miles the Atlantic wave 
 rolls on, 
 
94 
 
 ANDRfi 
 
 Whicli bathed Columbia's shores, ere, on 
 the strand 
 
 Of Europe, or of Africa, their conti- 
 nents, 
 
 Or sea-girt isles, it chafes. 
 Seward. 0, would to heaven 
 
 That in midway between these sever'd 
 worlds 
 
 Rose barriers, all impassable to man. 
 
 Cutting off intercourse, till either side 
 
 Had lost all memory of the other! 
 M'DoNALD. What spur now goads thy 
 
 warm imagination? 
 Seward. Then might, perhaps, one land 
 on earth be found, 
 
 Free from th' extremes of poverty and 
 riches ; 
 
 Where ne'er a scepter'd tyrant should be 
 known, 
 
 Or tyrant lordling, curses of creation; — 
 
 Where the faint shrieks of woe-exhausted 
 age. 
 
 Raving, in feeble madness, o'er the corse 
 
 Of a polluted daughter, stained by lust 
 
 Of viand-pampered luxury, might ne'er 
 be heard; 
 
 Where the blasted form of much abused 
 
 Beauty, by villany seduced, by knowl- 
 edge 
 
 All unguarded, might ne'er be viewed, 
 flitting 
 
 Obscene, 'tween lamp and lamp, i' th' 
 midnight street 
 
 Of all-defiling city; where the child — 
 M'DoNALD. Hold! Shroud thy raven im- 
 agination. 
 
 Torture not me with images so curst! 
 Seward. Soon shall our foes, inglorious, 
 fly these shores. 
 
 Peace shall again return. Then Eu- 
 rope's ports 
 
 Sliall pour a herd upon us, far more fell 
 
 Than those, her mercenary sons, who now 
 
 Threaten our sore chastisement. 
 M'DoNALD. -Prophet of ill, 
 
 From Europe shall enriching commerce 
 flow. 
 
 And many an ill attendant; but from 
 thence 
 
 Shall likewise flow blest science. Eu- 
 rope's knowledge. 
 
 By sharp experience bought, we should 
 appropriate ; 
 
 Striving thus to leap from that simplic- 
 ity, 
 
 With ignorance curst, to that simplicity, 
 
 By knowledge blest; unknown the gulf 
 between. 
 Seward. Mere theoretic dreaming. 
 
 M'DoNALD. Blest wisdom 
 
 Seems, from out the chaos of the social 
 world, 
 
 Where good and ill in strange commix- 
 ture float, 
 
 To rise, by strong necessity impell'd; 
 
 Starting, like Love divine, from womb of 
 Night, 
 
 Illuming all, to order all reducing; 
 
 And showing by its bright and noontide 
 blaze 
 
 That happiness alone proceeds from jus- 
 tice. 
 Seward. Dreams, dreams ! Man can know 
 
 naught but ill on earth. 
 M'DoNALD. I '11 to my bed, for I have 
 watch'd all night; 
 
 And may my sleep give pleasing repeti- 
 tion 
 
 Of these my waking dreams! Virtue's 
 incentives. (Exit.) 
 
 Seward. Folly's chimeras rather: guides 
 to error. 
 
 {Enter Bland, preceded hy a Sergeant.) 
 
 Sergeant. Pacquets for the General. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Bland. Seward, my friend! 
 
 Seward. Captain, I 'm glad to see the hue 
 of health 
 Sit on a visage from the sallow south. 
 Bland. The lustihood of youth hath yet 
 defied 
 The parching sun, and chilling dew of 
 
 even. 
 The General— Seward— ? 
 Seward. I will lead you to him. 
 
 Bland. Seward, I must make bold. Leave 
 us together. 
 When occasion offers. 'T will be friendly. 
 Seward. I will not cross your purpose. 
 
 (Exeunt. y. 
 
 Scene, a Chamber . 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Bland.) 
 
 Mrs. Bland. Yes, ever be this day a fes- 
 tival 
 In my domestic calendar. This mom 
 Will see my husband free. Even now^ 
 
 perhaps. 
 Ere yet Aurora flies the eastern hills, 
 Shunning the sultry sun, my Bland em- 
 barks. 
 Already, on the Hudson's dancing wave, 
 He chides the sluggish rowers, or suppli- 
 cates 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 95 
 
 For gales propitious ; that bis eager arms 
 
 May clasp his wife, may bless his little 
 ones. 
 
 0, bow the tide of joy makes my heart 
 bound, 
 
 Glowing with high and ardent expecta- 
 tion ! 
 
 {Enter two Children.) 
 
 First Child. Here we are, Mamma, up, 
 and dress'd already. 
 
 Mrs. Bland. And why were ye so early? 
 
 First Child. Why, did not you tell us 
 that Papa was to be home to-day ? 
 
 Mrs. Bland. I said, perhaps. 
 
 •Second Child. (Disappointed.) Perhaps! 
 
 First Child. I don't like perhaps's. 
 
 ►Second Child. No, nor I neither; nor 
 "may-be-so's." 
 
 Mrs. Bland. We make not certainties, 
 my pretty loves ; 
 I do not like "perhaps's" more than you 
 do. 
 
 Second Child. 0, don't say so. Mama! 
 for I 'm sure I hardly ever ask you 
 anything but you answer me with "may 
 be so," — "perhaps," — or "very likely." 
 "Mamma, shall I go to the camp to-mor- 
 row, and see the General?" "May be so, 
 my dear." Hang "may be so," say I ! 
 
 Mrs. Bland. Well said, Sir Pertness! 
 
 First Child. But I am sure, Mama, you 
 said, that, to-day. Papa would have his 
 liberty. 
 
 Mrs. Bland. So your dear father, by his 
 letters, told me. 
 
 Second Child. Why, then, I am sure he 
 will be here to-day. When he can come 
 to us, I 'm sure he will not stay among 
 those strange Englishmen and Hessians. 
 I often wish'd that I had wings to lly, 
 for then I would soon be with him. 
 
 Mrs. Bland. Dear boy! 
 
 {Enter Servant, and gives a letter to 
 Mrs. Bland.) 
 
 Servant. An express. Madam, from New 
 York to Head-quarters, in passing, deliv- 
 ered this. 
 Second Child. Papa's coming home to- 
 day, John. 
 
 {Exeunt Servant and Children.) 
 Mrs. Bland. What fears assail me! 0, 
 I did not want 
 A letter now ! 
 
 {She reads in great agitation, exclaim- 
 ing, while her eyes are fixed on the 
 paper:) 
 
 My husband ! doomed to die ! 
 Retaliation ! 
 {She looks forward with wildness, con- 
 sternation, and horror.) 
 To die, if Andre dies! He dies to-day! 
 My husband to be murdered! And to- 
 day! 
 To-day, if Andre dies! Retaliation! 
 
 curst contrivance! Madness relieve 
 
 me! 
 
 Burst, burst, my brain! Yet — Andre is 
 not dead; 
 
 My husband lives. {Looks at the let- 
 ter.) "One man has power." 
 
 1 fly to save the father of my children! 
 
 {Rushes out.) 
 
 end of the second act. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene, the General's quarters. The Gen- 
 eral and Bland come forward. 
 
 General. {Papers in his hand.) Cap- 
 tain, you are noted here with hon- 
 orable 
 
 Praises. Depend upon that countenance 
 
 From me, which you have prov'd your- 
 self so richly 
 
 Meriting. Both for your father's virtues 
 
 And your own, your country owes you 
 honor — 
 
 The sole return the poor can make for 
 service. 
 Bland. If from my country ought I 've 
 merited. 
 
 Or gain'd the approbation of her cham- 
 pion. 
 
 At any other time I should not dare. 
 
 Presumptuously, to show my sense of it; 
 
 But now my tongue, all shameless, dares 
 to name 
 
 The boon, the precious recompense, I 
 wish, 
 
 Which, granted, pays all service, past or 
 future, 
 
 O'erpays the utmost I can e'er achieve. 
 General. Brief, my young friend, briefly, 
 
 your purpose. 
 Bland. If I have done my duty as a sol- 
 dier ; 
 
 If I have brav'd all dangers for my coun- 
 try; 
 
 If my brave father has deserved aught; 
 
 Call all to mind — and cancel all — but 
 grant 
 
 My one request — mine, and humanity's. 
 
96 
 
 ANDRfi 
 
 General. Be less profuse of words, and 
 name your wish; 
 
 If fit, its titness is the best assurance 
 
 That not in vain you sue; but, if unjust. 
 
 Thy merits, nor the merits of thy race, 
 
 Cannot its nature alter, nor my mind, 
 
 From its determined opposition change. 
 Bland. You hold the fate of my most 
 lov'd of friends; 
 
 As gallant soldier as e'er fac'd a foe, 
 
 Bless'd with each polish'd gift of social 
 life, 
 
 And every virtue of humanity. 
 . To me, a savior from the pit of death, 
 
 To me, and many more, my countrymen. 
 
 Oh, could my words pourtray him Avliat 
 he is! 
 
 Bring to your mind the blessings of his 
 deeds, 
 
 "While thro' the fever-heated, loathsome 
 holds 
 
 Of floating hulks, dungeons obscene, 
 where ne'er 
 
 The dewy breeze of morn, or evening's 
 coolness, 
 
 Breath'd on our parching skins, he 
 pass'd along, 
 
 Diffusing blessings; still liis power ex- 
 erting. 
 
 To alleviate the woes which ruthless war. 
 
 Perhaps thro' dire necessity, lieap'd on 
 us; 
 
 Surely the scene would move you to for- 
 get 
 
 His late intent — (tho' only serving then 
 
 As duty prompted) — and turn the rigor 
 
 Of War's iron law from him, the best of 
 men. 
 
 Meant only for the worst. 
 General. Captain, no more. 
 
 Bland. If Andre lives, the prisoner finds 
 a friend; 
 
 Else helpless and forlorn — 
 
 All men will bless the act, and bless thee 
 for it. 
 General. Think'st thou thy country 
 would not curse the man 
 
 Who, by a clemency ill-tim'd, ill-judg'd, 
 
 Encourag'd treason? That pride en- 
 courag'd. 
 
 Which, by denying us the rights of na- 
 tions, 
 
 Hath caus'd those ills which thou hast 
 now pourtray'd? 
 
 Our prisoners, brave and generous peas- 
 antry, 
 
 As rebels have been treated, not as men. 
 
 'T is mine, brave yeomen, to assert your 
 rights; 
 
 'T is mine to teach the foe, that, though 
 array'd 
 
 In rude simplicity, ye yet are men. 
 
 And rank among the foremost. Oft 
 their scouts. 
 
 The very refuse of the English arms, 
 
 Unquestion'd, have our countrymen con- 
 sign'd 
 
 To death, when captur'd, mocking their 
 agonies. 
 Bland. Curse them! {Checking himself .) 
 Yet, let not censure fall on Andre. 
 
 0, there are Englishmen as brave, as 
 good. 
 
 As ever land on earth might call its own ; 
 
 And gallant Andre is among the best! 
 General. Since they have hurl'd war on 
 us, we must show 
 
 That by the laws of war we will abide; 
 
 And have the power to bring their acts 
 for trial 
 
 To that tribunal, eminent 'mongst men. 
 
 Erected by the policy of nations. 
 
 To stem the flood of ills, which else fell 
 war 
 
 Would pour, uncheck'd, upon the sicken- 
 ing world, 
 
 Sweeping away all trace of civil life. 
 Bland. To pardon him would not encour- 
 age ill. 
 
 His case is singular; his station high; 
 
 His qualities admir'd; his virtues lov'd. 
 General. No more, my good young 
 friend: it is in vain. 
 
 The men entrusted with thy country's 
 rights 
 
 Have weigh'd, attentive, every circum- 
 stance. 
 
 An individual's virtue is by them 
 
 As highly prized as it can be by thee. 
 
 I know the virtues of this man and love^ 
 them. 
 
 But the destiny of millions, millions 
 
 Yet unborn, depends upon the rigor 
 
 Of this moment. The haughty Briton 
 laughs 
 
 To scorn our armies and our councils. 
 Mercy, 
 
 Humanity, call loudly, that we make 
 
 Our now despised power be felt, vindic- 
 tive. 
 
 Millions demand the death of this young 
 man. 
 
 My injur'd country, he his forfeit life 
 
 Must yield, to shield thy lacerated breast 
 
 From torture. {To Bland.) Thy mer- 
 its are not overlook'd. 
 
 Promotion shall immediately attend thee. 
 Bland. {With contemptuous irony.) Par- 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 97 
 
 don me, sir, I never shall deserve it. 
 {With increasing heat.) The country 
 that forgets to reverence virtue; 
 
 That makes no difference 'twixt the sor- 
 did wretch 
 
 Who, for reward, risks treason's penalty, 
 
 And him unfortunate, whose duteous 
 service 
 
 Is, by mere accident, so chang'd in form 
 
 As to assume guilt's semblance, I serve 
 not: 
 
 Scorn to serve. I have a soldier's honor, 
 
 But 't is in union with a freeman's judg- 
 ment, 
 
 And wlien I act, both prompt. Thus 
 from my helm 
 
 I tear what once I proudly thought, the 
 badge 
 
 Of virtuous fellowship. {Tears tJie 
 cockade from his helmet.) My 
 sword I keep. {Puts on his helmet.) 
 
 Would, Andre, thou hadst never put 
 thine off. 
 
 Then hadst thou through opposers' hearts 
 made way 
 
 To liberty, or bravely pierc'd thine own ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 General. Rash, headstrong, maddening 
 boy ! 
 
 Had not this action past without a wit- 
 ness. 
 
 Duty would ask that thou shouldst rue 
 thy folly— 
 
 But, for the motive, be the deed forgot- 
 ten. {Exit.) 
 
 ScEXE, a Village. At a distance some 
 tents. In front muskets, drums, and 
 other indications of soldiers' quarters. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Bland and Children, at- 
 tended by Melville.) 
 
 Melville. The General's doors to you are 
 ever open. 
 But why, mv worthy friend, this agita- 
 tion? 
 Our colonel, your husband — 
 Mrs. Bland. {In tears, gives him the let- 
 ter.) Read, Melville. 
 First Child. Do not cry, Mama, for 
 I 'm sure if Papa said he w^ould come 
 home to-day, he will come yet ; for he al- 
 ways does what he says he will. 
 Mrs. Bland. He cannot come, dear love; 
 
 they will not let him. 
 Second Child. Why, then, they told him 
 lies. 0, fye upon them! 
 
 Melville. {Returning the letter.) Fear 
 nothing,* Madam, 'tis an empty 
 threat : 
 
 A trick of policy. They dare not do it. 
 Mrs. Bland. Alas, alas! what dares not 
 power to do? 
 
 What art of reasoning, or what magic 
 words. 
 
 Can still the storm of fears these lines 
 have raised? 
 
 The w^ife's, the mother's fears? Ye in- 
 nocents. 
 
 Unconscious on the brink of what a 
 perilous 
 
 Precipice ye stand, unknowing that to- 
 day 
 
 Ye are cast down the gulph, poor babes, 
 ye weep 
 
 From sympathy. Children of sorrow, 
 nurst, 
 . Nurtur'd, 'midst camps and arms; un- 
 knowing man. 
 
 But as man's fell destroyer; must ye 
 now, 
 
 To crown your piteous fate, be father- 
 less? 
 
 0, lead me, lead me to him! Let me 
 kneel. 
 
 Let these, my children, kneel, till Andre, 
 pardon'd, 
 
 Ensures to me a husband, them a father. 
 Melville. Madam, duty forbids further 
 attendance. 
 
 I am on guard to-day. But see your 
 son; 
 
 To him I leave your guidance. Good 
 wishes 
 
 Prosper you. {Exit Melville.) 
 
 {Enter Bland.) 
 
 Mrs. Bland. My Arthur, my Arthur! 
 Bland. My mother! {Embracing her.) 
 Mrs. Bland. My son, I have been wishing 
 For you — 
 
 (Bursts into tears, unable to proceed.) 
 Bland. But whence this grief, these tears, 
 my mother? 
 Why are these little cheeks bedew'd with 
 sorrow ? 
 {lie kisses the children, who exclaim, 
 Brother, brother!) 
 Have I done aught to cause a mother's 
 sadness? 
 Mrs. Bland. No, my brave boy! I oft 
 have fear'd, but never 
 Sorrow'd for thee. 
 Bland. High praise! Then bless me, 
 Madam ; 
 
ANDRE 
 
 For I have pass'd through many a bus- 
 tling scene 
 
 Since I have seen a father or a mother. 
 Mrs, Blanu. Bless thee, my boy! 0, 
 bless him, bless him, Heaven! 
 
 Render him worthy to support these 
 babes, 
 
 So soon, perhaps, all fatherless — de- 
 pendant. 
 Bland. What mean'st thou, Madam? 
 
 Why these tears? 
 Mrs. Bland. Thy father — 
 
 Bland. A prisoner of war — I long have 
 known it — 
 
 But made so without blemish to his 
 honor, 
 
 And soon exchang'd, returns unto his 
 friends, 
 
 To guard these little ones, and point and 
 lead 
 
 To virtue and to glory. 
 Mrs. Bland. Never, never! 
 
 His life, a sacrifice to Andre's manes,^ 
 
 Must soon be offer'd. Even now, en- 
 dungeon'd, 
 
 Like a vile felon on the earth he lies, 
 
 His death expecting. Andre's execution 
 
 Gives signal for the murder of thy fa- 
 ther — 
 
 Andre now dies! 
 Bland. {Despairingly.) My father and 
 
 my friend! 
 Mrs. Bland. There is but one on earth 
 can save my husband — 
 
 But one can pardon Andre. 
 Bland. Haste, my mother! 
 
 Tliou wilt prevail. Take with thee in 
 each hand 
 
 An unoffending child of him thou 
 weep'st. 
 
 Save — save them both! This way — 
 haste — lean on me. {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene, the General's Quarters. 
 
 {Enter the General and M'Donald.) 
 
 General. Here have I intimation from 
 the foe, 
 That still they deem the spy we have 
 
 condemn'd, 
 Merely a captive; by the laws of arms 
 From death protected; and retahation, 
 As tliey term it, threaten, if we our pur- 
 pose hold. 
 Bland is the victim they have singled out, 
 Hoping his threaten'd death will Andre 
 
 save. 
 
 1 Shade. 
 
 M'Donald. If I were Bland I boldly 
 
 might advise 
 My General how to act. Free, and in 
 
 safety, 
 I will now suppose my counsel needless. 
 
 {Enter an American Officer.) 
 
 Officer. Another flag hath from the foe 
 arrived. 
 And craves admittance. 
 General. Conduct it hither. 
 
 {Exit Officer.) 
 Let us, unwearied hear, unbias'd judge, 
 Whate'er against our martial court's de- 
 cision, 
 Our enemies can bring. 
 
 {Enter British Officer^ conducted by the 
 American Officer.) 
 
 General. You are welcome, sir. 
 
 What further says Sir Henry? 
 British Officer. This from him. 
 
 He calls on you to think what weighty 
 woes 
 
 You now are busy bringing on your 
 country. 
 
 He bids me say, that if your sentence 
 reach 
 
 The prisoner's life (prisoner of arms he 
 deems him, 
 
 And no spjO on him alone it falls not. 
 
 He bids me loud proclaim it: and declare, 
 
 If this brave officer, Ijy cruel mockery 
 
 Of war's stem law, and justice' feign'd 
 pretence. 
 
 Be murder'd; the sequel of our strife, 
 bloody. 
 
 Unsparing and remorseless, you will 
 make. 
 
 Think of the many captives in our 
 power. 
 
 Already one is mark'd; for Andre 
 mark'd ; — 
 
 And when his death, unparallel'd in war, 
 
 The signal gives, then Colonel Bland 
 must die. 
 General. 'T is well, sir; bear this mes- 
 sage in return. 
 
 Sir Henry Clinton knows the laws of 
 arms: 
 
 He is a soldier, and, I think, a brave one. 
 
 The prisoners he retains he must account 
 for. 
 
 Perhaps the reckoning 's near. I, like- 
 wise, am 
 
 A soldier; entrusted by my country. 
 
 What I shall judge most for that coun- 
 try's good, 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 99 
 
 When doubtful, I con- 
 never her ene- 
 
 That shall I do. 
 suit 
 
 My country's friends 
 mies. 
 
 In Andre's case there are no doubts ; 't is 
 clear : 
 
 Sir Henry Clinton knows it. 
 British Officer. Weigh consequences. 
 General. In strict regard to consequence 
 I act; 
 
 And much should doubt to call that ac- 
 tion right, 
 
 Howe'er specious, whose apparent end 
 
 Was misery to man. That brave officer 
 
 Whose death you threaten, for himself 
 drew not 
 
 His sword — his country's wrongs arous'd 
 his mind; 
 
 Her good alone his aim; and if his fall 
 
 Can further fire that country to resist- 
 ance, 
 
 He will, with smiles, yield up his glorious 
 life. 
 
 And count his death a gain; and tho' 
 Columbians 
 
 Will lament his fall, they will lament in 
 blood. 
 
 (General walks up the stage.) 
 M'DoNALD. Hear this, hear this, man- 
 kind! 
 British Officer. Thus am I answered? 
 
 {Enter a Sergeant with a letter.) 
 
 Sergeant. Express from Colonel Bland. 
 (Delivers it and exit.) 
 General. With your permission. 
 
 (Opens it.) 
 British Officer. Your pleasure, sir. It 
 
 may my mission further. 
 M'Donald. Bland, my countryman, 
 
 surely I know thee! 
 General. 'T is short; I will put form 
 
 aside, and read it. 
 (Reads.) ''Excuse me, my Commander, 
 for having a moment doubted your vir- 
 tue; but you love me. If you waver, let 
 this confirm you. My wife and children, 
 to you and my country. Do your duty.'' 
 Report this to your General. 
 British Officer. I shall, sir. 
 
 (Bows, and exit with American Of- 
 ficer. ) 
 General. Bland, my countryman! 
 
 (Exit, with emotion.) 
 M'Donald. Triumph of virtue! 
 
 Like him and thee, still be Americans. 
 Then, tho' all-powerful Europe league 
 against us, 
 
 And pour in arms her legions on our 
 shores ; - 
 
 Who is so dull would doubt their shame- 
 ful flight? 
 
 Who doubt our safety, and our glorious 
 triumph ? 
 
 Scene, the Prison. 
 
 (Enter Bland.) 
 
 Bland. Lingering, I come to crush the 
 bud of hope 
 My breath has, flattering, to existence 
 
 warmed. 
 Hard is the task to friendship! hard to 
 
 say 
 To the lov'd object, there remains no 
 
 hope, 
 No consolation for thee ; thou must die 
 The worst of deaths, no circumstance 
 abated. 
 (Enter Andre, in his uniform and 
 dress' d. ) 
 Andre. Is there that state on earth which 
 
 friendship cannot cheer? 
 Bland. Little I bring to cheer thee, 
 
 Andre. 
 Andre. I understand. 'T is well. 'T will 
 soon be past. 
 Yet, 'twas not much I asked. A sol- 
 dier's death, 
 A trifling change of form. 
 Bland. Of that I spoke not. 
 
 By vehemence of passion hurried on, 
 I pleaded for thy precious life alone; 
 The which denied, my indignation barr'd 
 All further parley. But strong solicita- 
 tion 
 Now is urg'd to gain the wish'd-for favor. 
 Andre. What is 't o'clock? 
 Bland. 'T is past the stroke of nine. 
 
 Andre. Why, then, 't is almost o'er. But 
 to be hung — 
 Is there no way to escape that infamy ? 
 What then is infamy? — no matter — no 
 matter. 
 Bland. Our General hath received an- 
 other flag. 
 Andre. Soliciting for me? 
 Bland. On thy behalf. 
 
 Andre. I have been ever favor'd. 
 Bland. Threat'nings, now; 
 
 No more solicitations. Harsh, indeed. 
 The import of the message; harsh, in- 
 deed. 
 Andre. I am sorry for it. Would that I 
 were dead. 
 
100 
 
 andkS 
 
 And all was well with those I leave be- 
 hind. 
 Bland. Such a threat! Is it not enough, 
 just Heaven, 
 That I must lose this man? Yet there 
 
 was left 
 One for my soul to rest on. But, to 
 
 know 
 That tlie same blow deprives them both 
 of life— 
 Andre. What mean'st thou, Bland? 
 
 Surely my General 
 Threats not retaliation. In vengeance 
 Dooms not some better man to die for 
 
 me? 
 Bland. The best of men. 
 Andre. Thou hast a father, captive — 
 
 I dare not ask — 
 Bland. That father dies for thee. 
 
 Andre. Gracious Heaven, how woes are 
 heap'd upon me! 
 What! cannot one, so trifling in life's 
 
 scene, 
 Fall, without drawing such a ponderous 
 
 ruin? 
 Leave me, my friend, awhile — I yet have 
 
 life— 
 A little space of life — let me exert it 
 To prevent injustice. — From death to 
 
 save 
 Thy father, thee to save from utter deso- 
 lation. 
 Bland. What mean'st thou, Andre? 
 Andre. Seek thou the messenger 
 
 Who brought this threat. I will my last 
 
 entreaty 
 
 Send by him. My General, sure, will 
 
 grant it. 
 
 Bland. To the last thyself! (Exit.) 
 
 Andre. If, at this moment, 
 
 Wiien the pangs of death already touch 
 
 me. 
 Firmly my mind against injustice strives, 
 And the last impulse to my vital powers 
 Is given by anxious wishes to redeem 
 My fellow-men from pain; surely my 
 
 end, 
 Ilowe'er accomplish'd, is not infamous. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 END OP THE THIRD ACT. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene, the Encampment. 
 
 {Enter M'Donald and Bland.) 
 
 Bland. It doth in truth appear, that as 
 a— spy — 
 
 Detested w^ord! — brave Andre must bv 
 view'd. 
 
 His sentence he confesses strictly just. 
 
 Yet sure, a deed of mercy from thy 
 hand, 
 
 Could never lead to ill. By such an 
 act, 
 
 The stern and blood-stain'd brow of War 
 
 Would be disarm'd of half its gorgon 
 hoiTors ; 
 
 More humanized customs be induced; 
 
 And all the race of civilized man 
 
 Yet sure, a deed of mercy, from thy 
 suit; 
 
 'T will well become thy character and 
 station. 
 M'Donald. Trust me, young friend, I am 
 alone the judge 
 
 Of wiiat becomes my character and sta- 
 tion ; 
 
 And having judg'd that this young Brit- 
 on's death. 
 
 Even 'though attended by thy father's 
 murder, 
 
 Is necessary, in these times accurs'd. 
 
 When every thought of man is ting'd 
 with blood, 
 
 I will not stir my finger to redeem them. 
 
 Nav, much I wonder. Bland, having so 
 ■' oft 
 
 The reasons for this neeedsary rigor 
 
 Enforced upon thee, thou wilt still per- 
 sist 
 
 In vain solicitations. Imitate 
 
 Thy father! 
 Bland. My father knew not Andre. 
 
 I know his value ; owe to him my life ; 
 
 And gratitude, that first, that best of 
 virtues, — 
 
 Without the which man sinks beneath the 
 brute, — 
 
 Binds me in ties indissoluble to him. 
 M'Donald. That man-created virtue 
 blinds thy reason. 
 
 Man owes to man all love; when exer- 
 cised. 
 
 He does no more than duty. Gratitude, 
 
 That selfish rule of action, which com- 
 mands 
 
 That we our preference make of men, 
 
 Not for their worth, but that they did us 
 service. 
 
 Misleading reason, casting in the way 
 
 Of justice stumbling-blocks, cannot be 
 virtue. 
 Bland. Detested sophistry! 'T was An- 
 dre sav'd me. 
 M'Donald. He sav'd thy life, and thou 
 art grateful for it. 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 10] 
 
 How self intrudes, delusive, on man's 
 thoughts. 
 
 He sav'd thy life, yet strove to damn thy 
 country ; 
 
 Doom'd millions to the haughty Briton's 
 yoke; 
 
 The best and foremost in the cause of 
 virtue 
 
 To death, by sword, by prison, or the 
 halter ; 
 
 His sacrifice now stands the only bar . 
 
 Between the wanton cruelties of war 
 
 And our much-suffering soldiers; yet 
 when weigh'd 
 
 With gratitude, for that he sav'd thy 
 life, 
 
 These things prove gossamer, and bal- 
 ance air; — 
 
 Perversion monstrous of man's moral 
 sense ! 
 Bland. Rather perversion monstrous of 
 all good 
 
 Is thy accurs'd, detestable opinion. 
 
 Cold-blooded reasoners, such as thee, 
 would blast 
 
 All warm affection ; asunder sever 
 
 Every social tie of humanized man. 
 
 Curst be thy sophisms, cunningly con- 
 triv'd 
 
 The callous coldness of thy heart to cover, 
 
 And screen thee from the brave man's 
 detestation ! 
 M'DoNALD. Boy, boy! 
 Bland. Thou knowest that Andre 's not 
 
 a spy. 
 M'DoNALD. I know him one. Thou hast 
 
 acknowledg'd it. 
 Bland. Thou liest! 
 
 M'DoNALD. Shame on thy ruffian tongue! 
 How passion 
 
 Mars thee! I pity thee. Thou canst 
 not harm, 
 
 By words intemperate, a virtuous man. 
 
 I pity thee ; for passion sometimes sways 
 
 My older frame, through former un- 
 check'd habit; 
 
 But when I see the havoc which it makes 
 
 In others, I can shun the snare ac- 
 curst, 
 
 And nothing feel but pity. 
 Bland. (Indignantly.) Pity me! {Ap- 
 proaches him, and speaks in an un- 
 der voice.) 
 
 Thou canst be cool, yet, trust me, passion 
 sways thee. 
 
 Fear does not warm the blood, yet 't is 
 a passion. 
 
 Hast thou no feeling? I have call'd thee 
 liarl 
 
 M'Donald. If thou could'st make me one, 
 
 I then might grieve. 
 Bland. Thy coolness goes to freezing; 
 
 thou 'rt a coward ! 
 M'Donald. Thou knowest thou tell'st a 
 
 falsehood. 
 Bland. Thou shalt know 
 
 None with impunity speaks thus of me. 
 That to rouse thy courage! {Touches 
 him gently with his open hand, in 
 crossing him. M'Donald looks at 
 him unmoved.) Dost thou not 
 
 yet feel? 
 M'Donald. For thee I feel. And, tho' 
 another's acts 
 Cast no dishonor on the worthy man, 
 I still feel for thy father. Yet, remem- 
 ber, 
 I may not, haply, ever be thus guarded; 
 I may not always the distinction make, 
 However just, between the blow intended 
 To provoke, and one that 's meant to 
 injure. 
 Bland. Hast thou no sense of honor? 
 M'Donald. Truly, yes: 
 
 For I am honor's votary. Honor, with 
 
 me, 
 Is worth; 'tis truth; 'tis virtue; 'tis a 
 
 thing 
 So high preeminent, that a boy's breath, 
 Or brute's, or madman's blow can never 
 
 reach it. 
 My honor is so much, so truly mine. 
 That none hath power to wound it, save 
 myself. 
 Bland. I will proclaim thee through the 
 
 camp a coward. 
 M'Donald. Think better of it. Proclaim 
 
 not thine own shame. 
 Bland. I '11 brand thee, — damnation ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 M'Donald. passion, passion! 
 
 A man who values fame far more than 
 
 life; 
 A brave young man; in many things a 
 
 good; 
 Utters vile falsehoods; adds injury to 
 
 insult ; 
 Striving with blood to seal such foul 
 
 injustice; 
 And all from impulse of unbridled feel- 
 ing. {Pause.) 
 Here comes the mother of this head- 
 strong boy. 
 Severely rack'd. What shall allay her 
 
 torture ? 
 For common consolation, 7? erf, is insult. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Bland and Children.) 
 
102 
 
 ANDRE 
 
 Mrs. Bland. my good friend! 
 M'DoNALD. (Taking her hand.) 
 
 I know thy cause of sorrow. 
 Art thou now from our Commander? 
 Mrs. Bland. {Drying her tears and as- 
 suming dignity.) I am. 
 But vain is my entreaty. All unmov'd 
 He hears my words, he sees my desperate 
 
 sorrow. 
 Fain would I blame his conduct, — but I 
 
 cannot. 
 Strictly examin'd, with intent to mark 
 The error which so fatal proves to me^ 
 My scrutiny but ends in admiration. 
 Thus when the prophet from the hills of 
 
 Moab, 
 Look'd down upon the chosen race of 
 
 Heaven, 
 With fell intent to curse, ere yet he 
 
 spake. 
 Truth all resistless, emanation bright 
 From great Adonai, fill'd his froward 
 
 mind. 
 And chang'd the curses of his heart to 
 blessings. 
 M'DoNALD. Thou payest high praise to 
 
 virtue. Whither now? 
 Mrs. Bland. I still must hover round this 
 spot until 
 My doom is known. 
 M'DoNALD. Then to my quarters, lady; 
 
 There shall my mate give comfort and 
 
 refreshment : 
 One of your sex can best your sorrows 
 
 soothe. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene, the prison. 
 
 (Enter Bland.) 
 
 Bland. Where'er I look, cold desolation 
 meets me. 
 
 My father — Andre — and self-condemna- 
 tion. 
 
 Why seek I Andre now? Am I a man 
 
 To soothe the sorrows of a suffering 
 friend? 
 
 The weather-cock of passion! fool ine- 
 briate ! 
 
 Who could with ruffian hand strive to 
 provoke 
 
 Hoar wisdom to intemperance ! who could 
 lie! 
 
 Aye, swagger, lie, and brag! — Liar! 
 Damnation ! 
 
 0, let me steal away and hide my head, 
 
 Nor view a man, condemned to harshest 
 death, 
 
 Whose words and actions, wiien by mine 
 
 compar'd. 
 Show white as innocence and bright as 
 
 truth. 
 I now would shun him, but that his 
 
 shorten'd 
 Thread of life gives me no line to play 
 
 with. 
 He comes with smiles, and all the air of 
 
 triumph. 
 While I am sinking with remorse and 
 
 shame ; 
 Yet he is doom'd to death, and I am 
 
 free. 
 
 (Enter Andre.) 
 
 Andre. Welcome, my Bland! Cheerly, a 
 welcome hither! 
 
 I feel assurance that my last request 
 
 Will not be slighted. Safely thy father 
 
 Shall leturn to thee. (Holding out a 
 paper.) See what employment 
 
 For a dying man. Take thou these 
 verses ; 
 
 And, after my decease, send them to her 
 
 Whose name is woven in them; whose 
 image 
 
 Hath controul'd my destiny. Such to- 
 kens 
 
 Are rather out of date. Fashions 
 
 There are in love as in all else; they 
 change 
 
 As variously. A gallant knight, ere- 
 while. 
 
 Of Coeur de Lion's day, would, dying, 
 send 
 
 His heart home to its mistress; degen- 
 erate 
 
 Soldier, I send but some blotted paper. 
 Bland. If 't would not damp thy present 
 cheerfulness, 
 
 I would require the meaning of thy 
 words. 
 
 I ne'er till now did hear of Andre's mis- 
 tress. 
 Andre. Mine is a story of that common 
 kind, 
 
 So often told, with scanty variation, 
 
 That the pall'd ear loaths the repeated 
 tale. 
 
 Each young romancer chuses for his 
 theme 
 
 The Avoes of youthful hearts, by the cold 
 hand 
 
 Of frosty age, armVl with parental 
 power. 
 
 Asunder torn. But I long since have 
 ceas'd 
 
 To mourn; well satisfied that she I love, 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 103 
 
 Happy in holy union with another, 
 Shares not my wayward fortunes. Nor 
 
 would I 
 Now these tokens send, remembrance to 
 
 awaken, 
 But that I know her happy; and the 
 
 happy 
 Can think on misery and share it not. 
 Bland. (Agitated. ) 
 
 Some one approaches. 
 Andre. Why, 't is near the time ! 
 
 But tell me, Bland, say, — is the manner 
 chang'd? 
 Bland. I hope it, but I yet have no as- 
 surance. 
 Andre, Well, well! 
 HoNORA. (Without.) I must see him. 
 Andre. Whose voice was that? 
 
 My senses! — Do I dream? (Leans on 
 Bland.) 
 
 (Enter Honora.) 
 
 HoNORA. Where is he? 
 
 Andre. 'T is she! 
 
 (Starts from Bland and advances to- 
 wards Honora; she rushes into his 
 arms.) 
 Honora. It is enough! He lives, and I 
 shall save him. 
 (She faints in the arms of Andre.) 
 Andre. She sinks — assist me, Bland! 0, 
 save her, save her! 
 (Places her in a chair and looks ten- 
 derly on her.) 
 Yet, why should she awake from that 
 
 sweet sleep? 
 Why should she ope her eyes — (wildly) 
 
 — to see me hung ! 
 What does she here? Stand o&— (ten- 
 derly) — and let her die. 
 How pale she looks! How worn that 
 
 tender frame! — 
 She has known sorrow! Who could in- 
 jure her? 
 Bland. She revives — Andre — soft, bend 
 her forward. 
 (Andre kneels and supports her.) 
 Honora. Andre ! — 
 Andre. Lov'd excellence! 
 
 Honora. Yes, it is Andre! 
 
 (Rises and looks at him.) 
 No more deceived by visionary forms, 
 By him supported — (Leans on him.) 
 Andre. Why is this? 
 
 Thou dost look pale, Honora — sick and 
 
 wan — 
 Languid thy fainting limbs — 
 Honora. All will be well. 
 
 But was it kind to leave me as thou 
 
 did'st? ' 
 So rashly to desert thy vow-link'd wife? 
 Andre. When made another's both by 
 
 vows and laws — 
 Honora. (Quitting his support.) What 
 
 meanest thou? 
 Andre. Did'st thou not marry him? 
 
 Honora. Marry ! 
 
 Andre. Did'st thou not give thy hand 
 aAvay 
 From me? 
 HoxoRA. 0, never, never. 
 Andre. Not married? 
 
 Honora. To none but thee, and but in will 
 
 to thee. 
 Andre. blind, blind wretch! — Thy 
 
 father told me — 
 Honora. Thou wast deceived. They hur- 
 ried me away. 
 Spreading false rumors to remove thy 
 
 love — 
 (Tenderly.) Thou did'st too soon be- 
 lieve them. 
 Andre. Thy father — 
 
 How could I but believe Honora's 
 
 father? 
 And he did tell me so. I reverenc'd 
 
 age, 
 Yet knew age was not virtue. I be- 
 lieved 
 His snowy locks, and yet they did de- 
 ceive me ! 
 I have destroy'd myself and thee ! — Alas, 
 Ill-fated maid, why did'st thou not for- 
 get me? 
 Hast thou rude seas and hostile shores 
 
 explor'd 
 For this? To see my A^ath? Witness 
 my shame? 
 Honora. I come to bless thee, Andre, and 
 shall do it. 
 I bear such offers from thy kind Com- 
 mander 
 As must prevail to save thee. Thus the 
 
 daughter 
 May repair the ills her cruel sire in- 
 flicted. 
 My father, dying, gave me cause to think 
 That arts were us'd to drive thee from 
 
 thy home; 
 But what those arts I knew not. An 
 
 heiress left. 
 Of years mature, with power and lib- 
 erty, 
 I straight resolv'd to seek thee o'er the 
 
 seas. 
 A long-known friend, who came to join 
 her lord, 
 
104 
 
 ANDKE 
 
 Yielded protection and lov'd fellow- 
 ship. — 
 
 Indeed, when I did hear of thy estate, 
 
 It almost kill'd me; — I w^as weak be- 
 fore — 
 Andre. 'T is I have murder'd thee ! 
 HoNORA. All shall be well. 
 
 Thy General heard of me, and instant 
 form'd 
 
 The plan of this my visit. I am strong, 
 
 Compar'd with what I was. Hope 
 strengthens me; 
 
 Nay, even solicitude supports me now; 
 
 And when thou shalt be safe, thou wilt 
 support me. 
 Andre. Support thee! — Heaven! 
 What!— and must I die? 
 
 Die! — and leave lier thus — suffering — 
 unprotected ! 
 
 {Enter Melville and Guard.) 
 
 Melville. I am sorry that my duty 
 should require 
 Ser\'ice, at which my heart revolts; but, 
 
 sir. 
 Our soldiers wait in arms. All is pre- 
 par'd — 
 HoxORA. To death! Impossible! Has 
 my delay. 
 Then, murder'd him? A momentary res- 
 pite — 
 Melville. Lady, I have -no power. 
 Bland. Melville, my friend, 
 
 This lady bears dispatches of high im- 
 port, 
 Touching this business; — should they ar- 
 rive too late — 
 HoNORA. For pity's sake, and heaven's, 
 conduct me to him; 
 And wait the issue of our conference. 
 0, 't would be murder of the blackest 
 
 dye. 
 Sin execrable, not to break thy orders — 
 Inhuman, thou art not. 
 Melville. Lady, thou say'st true; 
 
 For rather would I lose my rank in arms. 
 And stand cashier'd for lack of disci- 
 pline, 
 Than gain 'mongst military men all 
 
 praise. 
 Wanting the touch of sweet humanity. 
 HoNORA. Thou grantest my request? 
 Melville. Lady, I do. 
 
 Retire! {Soldiers go out.) 
 
 Bland. I know not what excuse, to mar- 
 tial men. 
 Thou canst advance for this; but to tliy 
 
 heart 
 Thou wilt need wne, good Melville. 
 
 Andre. Honora! 
 
 HoNORA. Cheer up, I feel assur'd. Hope 
 wings my flight, 
 To bring thee tidings of much joy to 
 come. 
 {Exit Honora, with Bland and Mel- 
 ville. ) 
 Andre. Eternal blessings on thee, match- 
 less woman! — 
 If Death now comes, he finds the veriest 
 
 coward 
 That e'er he dealt withal. I cannot think 
 Of dying. Void of fortitude, each 
 
 thought 
 Clings to the world — the world that holds 
 Honora! {Exit.) 
 
 end of the fourth act. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 Scene, the Encampment. 
 
 {Enter Bland.) 
 
 Bland. Suspence — uncertainty — man's 
 
 bane and solace! 
 How racking now to me! My mother 
 
 comes. 
 Forgive me, my father, if in this war, 
 This wasting conflict of my 'wildering 
 
 passions, 
 Memory of thee holds here a second 
 
 place ! 
 M'Donald comes with her. I would not 
 
 meet him; 
 Yet I will do it. Summon up some cour- 
 age- 
 Confess my fault, and gain, if not his 
 
 love. 
 At least the approbation of my judg- 
 ment. 
 {Enter Mrs. Bland and Children, 
 with M'Donald.) 
 Bland. Say, Madam, is there no change 
 of counsel, 
 Or new determination? 
 Mrs, Bland. Nought new, my son. 
 
 The tale of misery is told unheard. 
 The widow's and the orphans' sighs 
 Fly up, unnoted by the e3-e of man, 
 And mingle, undistinguish'd, with the 
 
 w4nds. 
 My friend {to M'Donald), attend thy 
 duties. I must away. 
 Second Child. You need not cry. 
 Mama, the General will do it, I am 
 sure, for I saw him cry. He tum'd away 
 his head from you, but I saw it. 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAF 
 
 105 
 
 Mrs. Bland. Poor thing! Come, let us 
 home and weep. Alas ! 
 
 I can no more, for war liatli made men 
 rocks. 
 
 {Exeunt Mrs. Bland ayid. Children.) 
 Bland. Colonel, I used thee ill this morn- 
 ing. 
 M'Donald. No ! 
 
 Thyself thou used'st most vilely, I re- 
 member. 
 Bland. Myself sustained the injury, most 
 true; 
 
 But the intent of what I said and did 
 
 Was ill to thee alone ; I 'm sorry for it. 
 
 See'st thou these blushes'? They proceed 
 from warmth 
 
 As honest as the heart of man e'er felt; 
 
 But not with shame unmingled, while I 
 force 
 
 This tongue, debased, to own it slander'd 
 thee. 
 
 And utter'd — I could curse it — utter'd 
 falsehood. 
 
 Howe'er misled by passion, still my mind 
 
 Retains that sense of honest rectitude 
 
 Which makes the memory of an evil deed 
 
 A troublesome companion. I was 
 wrong. 
 M'Donald. Why, now, this glads me; for 
 thou now art right. 
 
 0, may thy tongue, henceforward, utter 
 naught 
 
 1 The lines marked < > were omitted after the 
 first night and the following were inserted. (See 
 Introduction.) 
 
 Bland. Noble M'Donald, truth and hon- 
 or's champion! 
 
 Yet think not strange that my intemper- 
 ance wrong'd thee: 
 
 Good as thou art! for, would'st thou, 
 can'st thou, think it? 
 
 My tongue unbridled, hath the same of- 
 fence. 
 
 With action violent, and boisterous tone, 
 
 Hurl'd on that glorious man, whose pious 
 labors 
 
 Shield from every ill his grateful coun- 
 try. 
 
 That man, whom friends to adoration 
 love, 
 
 And enemies revere. Yes, M'Donald, 
 
 Even in the presence of the first of men 
 
 Did I abjure the service of my country. 
 
 And reft my helmet of that glorious 
 badge 
 
 Which graces even the brow of Washing- 
 ton. 
 
 How shall I see him more? 
 
 But Truth's sweet precepts, in fair Vir- 
 tue's cause! 
 
 Give me thy hand. {Takes his hand.) 
 Ne'er may it grasp a sword 
 
 But in defence of justice. 
 Bland. Yet, erewhile, 
 
 A few short hours scarce past, when this 
 vile hand 
 
 Attempted on thee insult; and was 
 raised 
 
 Against thy honor; ready to be raised 
 
 Against thy life. If this my deep re- 
 morse — 
 M'Donald. No more, no more! 'Tis 
 past. Remember it 
 
 But as thou would'st the action of an- 
 other, 
 
 By thy enlighten'd judgment much con- 
 demn'd ; 
 
 And serving as a beacon in the storms 
 
 Thy passions yet may raise. Remorse is 
 vice; 
 
 Guard thee against its influence debas- 
 ing. 
 
 Say to thyself: "I am not what I ivas; 
 
 I am not now the instrument (?f vice; 
 
 I 'm changed ; I am a man ; Virtue's firm 
 friend ; 
 
 Sever'd forever from my former self; 
 
 No link, but in remembrance salutary." 
 <Bland.^ How all men tower above me! 
 M'Donald. Nay, not so. 
 
 M'Donald. Alive himself to every gener- 
 ous impulse. 
 
 He hath excused the impetuous warmth 
 of youth. 
 
 In expectation that thy fiery soul, 
 
 Chasten'd by time and reason, will receive 
 
 The stamp indelible of godlike virtue. 
 
 To me, in trust, he gave this badge dis- 
 claim'd, 
 
 With power, when thou should'st see thy 
 wrongful error. 
 
 From him, to reinstate it in thy helm. 
 
 And thee in his high favor. 
 
 {Gives the cockade.) 
 Bland. {Takes the cockade and replaces 
 it.) Shall I speak my thoughts of 
 thee and him ? 
 
 No ! let my actions henceforth show what 
 thou 
 
 And he have made me. Ne'er shall my 
 helmet 
 
 Lack again its proudest, noblest orna- 
 ment. 
 
 Until my country knows the rest of 
 peace. 
 
 Or Bland the Deace of death. {Exit.) 
 
106 
 
 ANDRE 
 
 Above what once thou wast, some few do 
 
 rise; 
 None above what thou art. 
 Bland. It shall be so. 
 M'DoNALD. It is so. 
 
 Bland. Then to prove it. 
 
 For I must yet a trial undergo, 
 That will require a consciousness of vir- 
 tue. (Exit.) 
 M'DoNALD. 0, what a temper doth in man 
 reside ! 
 How capable of yet unthought perfec- 
 tion! {Exit.)> 
 
 Scene, the General's quarters. 
 {Enter General and Sewahd.) 
 
 General. Ask her, my friend, to send by 
 
 thee her pacquets. {Exit Seward.) 
 0, what keen struggles must I undergo ! 
 Unbless'd estate! to have the power to 
 
 pardon ; 
 The court's stern sentence to remit; — 
 
 give life; — 
 Feel the strong wish to use such blessed 
 
 power ; 
 Yet know that circumstances strong as 
 
 fate 
 Forbid to obey the impulse. 0, I feel 
 That man should never shed the blood of 
 
 man! 
 
 {Enter Seward.) 
 
 Seward. Naught can the lovely suitor 
 satisfy, 
 But conference with thee, and much I 
 
 fear 
 Refusal would cause madness. 
 General. Yet to admit, 
 
 To hear, be tortur'd, and refuse at last — 
 Seward. Sure never man such spectacle 
 of sorrow. 
 Saw before. Motionless the rough-hewn 
 
 soldiers 
 Silent view her, or walk aside and weep. 
 General. {After a pause.) Admit her. 
 (Seward goes out.) 0, for the art, 
 the precious art, 
 To reconcile the sufferer to his sorrows! 
 (HoNORA rushes in, and throws herself 
 wildly on her knees before him; he 
 endeavors to raise her.) 
 HONORA. Nay, nay, here is my place, or 
 here, or lower, 
 Unless thou grant'st his life. All forms 
 
 away! 
 Thus will I clasp thy knees, thus cling to 
 thee — 
 
 I am his wife — 't is I have ruin'd him — 
 0, save him! Give him to me! Let us 
 
 cross 
 The mighty seas, far, far — ne'er to of- 
 fend again — 
 {The General turns away, and hides 
 his eyes with his hand.) 
 
 {Enter Seward and an Officer.) 
 
 General. Seward, support her; my heart 
 is torn in twain. 
 (Honora, as if exhausted, suffers her- 
 self to be raised, and leans on Sew- 
 ard.) 
 Officer. This moment, sir, a messenger 
 arrived 
 With well confirm'd and mournful in- 
 formation. 
 That gallant Hastings, by the lawless 
 
 scouts 
 Of Britain taken, after cruel mockery 
 With show of trial and of condemna- 
 tion, 
 On the next tree was hung. 
 Honora. {Wildly.) 0, it is false. 
 
 General. Why, why, my country, did I 
 hesitate? {Exit.) 
 
 (Honora sinks, faints, and is borne off 
 by Seward and Officer.) 
 
 Scene, the Prison. 
 
 (Andre meeting Bland.) 
 
 Andre. How speeds Honora? {Pause.) 
 Art thou silent, Bland? 
 
 Why, then, I know my task. The mind 
 of man, 
 
 If not by vice debas'd, debilitated, 
 
 Or by disease of body quite unton'd, 
 
 Hath o'er its thoughts a power — energy^ 
 divine. 
 
 Of fortitude the source and every vir- 
 tue— 
 
 A godlike power, which e'en o'er circum- 
 stance 
 
 Its sov'reignty exerts. Now from my 
 thoughts, 
 
 Honora! Yet she is left alone — ex- 
 pos'd — 
 Bland. 0, Andre, spurn me, strike me to 
 the earth; 
 
 For what a wretch am I in Andre's 
 mind. 
 
 That he can think he leaves his love 
 alone, 
 
 And I retaining life ! 
 Andre. Forgive me. Bland. 
 
WILLIAM DUNLAP 
 
 107 
 
 My thoughts glanc'd not on thee. Imag- 
 ination 
 Pictur'd only, then, her orphan state, 
 
 helpless ; 
 Her weak and grief-exhausted frame. 
 
 Alas! 
 This blow will kill her. 
 Bland. {Kneeling.) Here, do I myself 
 Devote, my fortune consecrate, to thee, 
 To thy remembrance, and Honora's serv- 
 ice. 
 Andre. Enough! Let me not see Jier 
 more — nor think of her — 
 Farewell, farewell, sweet image! Now 
 for death. 
 Bland. Yet that thou should'st the fe- 
 lon's fate fulfil — 
 Damnation! My blood boils. Indigna- 
 tion 
 Makes the current of my life course 
 
 wildly 
 Through its round and maddens each 
 emotion. 
 Andre. Come, come, it matters not. 
 Bland. I do remember, 
 
 When a boy at school, in our allotted 
 
 tasks, 
 We, by our puny acts, strove to pourtray 
 The giant thoughts of Otway. I was 
 
 Pierre. 
 0, thou art Pierre's reality — a soldier. 
 On whose manly brow sits fortitude en- 
 
 amor'd ; 
 A Mars, abhorring vice, yet doom'd to 
 
 die 
 A death of infamy; thy corse expos'd 
 To vulgar gaze — halter' d — distorted — 
 oh— 
 {Pauses, and then adds in a low hol- 
 low voice:) 
 Pierre had a friend to save him from 
 
 such shame — 
 And so hast thou. 
 Andre. No more, as thou dost love me. 
 
 Bland. I have a sword, and arm, that 
 
 never fail'd me. 
 Andre. Bland, such an act would justly 
 thee involve, 
 And leave that helpless one thou sworest 
 
 to guard 
 Expos'd to every ill. 0, think not of 
 it! 
 Bland. If thou wilt not my aid — take it 
 thyself. 
 
 {Draws and offers his sivord.) 
 Andre. No, men will say that cowardice 
 did urge me. 
 In my mind's weakness, I did wish to 
 shun 
 
 That mode of death which error rep- 
 resented 
 
 Infamous: now let me rise superior; 
 
 And with a fortitude too true to start 
 
 From mere appearances, show your coun- 
 try 
 
 That she, in me, destroys a man who 
 might 
 
 Have liv'd to virtue. 
 Bland. {Sheathing his sword.) I will 
 not think more of it; 
 
 I was again the sport of erring passion. 
 Andre. Go thou and guide Honora from 
 
 this spot. 
 Honora. {Entering.) Who shall oppose 
 his wife ? I will have way ! 
 
 They, cruel, would have kept me from 
 thee, Andre. 
 
 Say, am I not thy wife? Wilt thou 
 deny me? 
 
 Indeed I am not dress'd in bridal trim. 
 
 But I have travelled far: — rough was 
 the road — 
 
 Rugged and rough — that must excuse my 
 dress. 
 
 {Seeing Andre's distress.) Thou art 
 not glad to see me. 
 Andre. Break my heart ! 
 
 Honora. Indeed, I feel not much in 
 spirits. I wept but now. 
 
 {Enter Melville and Guard.) 
 
 Bland. {To Melville.) Say nothing. 
 Andre. I am ready. 
 
 Honora. {Seeing the Guard.) Are 
 
 they here? 
 Here again — the same — but they shall 
 
 not harm me. 
 I am with thee, my Andre — I am safe — 
 And tJiou art safe with me. Is it not 
 so? {Clinging to him.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Bland.) 
 
 Mrs. Bland. Where is this lovely victim? 
 
 Bland. Thanks, my mother. 
 
 Mrs. Bland. M'Donald sent me hither. 
 
 My woes are past. 
 
 Thy father, by the foe released, already 
 
 Is in safety. This be forgotten now; 
 
 And every thought be turn'd to this sad 
 
 scene. 
 Come, lady, home with me. 
 Honora. Go home with thee? 
 
 Art thou my Andre's mother? We will 
 
 home 
 
 And rest, for thou art weary — ^very 
 
 weary. {Leans on Mrs. Bland.) 
 
 (Andre retires to the Guard, and goes 
 
 off with them, looking on her to the 
 
108 
 
 ANDRE 
 
 last, and with an action of extreme 
 tenderness takes leave of her. Mel- 
 ville and Bland accompany him.) 
 HONORA. Now we will go. Come, love! 
 Where is he? 
 7VII gone ! — I do remember — I awake — 
 They have him. Murder! Help! 0, 
 save him ! save him ! 
 (HoNORA attempts to follow, hut falls. 
 Mrs. Bland kneels to assist her. 
 Scene closes.) 
 
 Scene, the Encampment. 
 
 (Procession to the execution of Andre. 
 First enter Pioneers — Detachment of 
 Infantry — Military Band of Music — 
 Infantry. The Music having passed 
 off, enter Andre between Melville 
 and American Officer; they sor- 
 rowful, he cheerfully conversing as 
 he passes over the stage.) 
 
 Andre. It may in me be merely preju- 
 dice. 
 
 The effect of young opinion deep en- 
 graved 
 
 Upon the tender mind by care parental; 
 
 But I must think your country has mis- 
 took 
 
 Her interests. Believe me, but for this 
 I should 
 
 Not willingly have drawn a sword 
 against her. 
 
 (They how their heads in silence.) 
 
 Opinion must, nay, ought to sway our 
 actions ; 
 
 Therefore — 
 
 (Having crossed the stage, he goes out 
 as still conversing with them. An- 
 other detachment of Infantry, with 
 muffled and craped drums, closes the 
 procession; as soon as they are off — 
 
 Scene. 
 
 draws and discovers the distant view 
 
 of the encampment.) 
 (Procession enters in same order as 
 before, proceeds up the stage, and 
 goes off the opposite side.) 
 
 (Enter M'Donald, leading Bland, who 
 looks wildly hack.) 
 
 Bland. T dare not thee resist. Yet why, 
 why 
 
 Thus hurry me awayf — 
 M'Donald. Would'st thou behold— 
 
 Bland. 0, name it not ! 
 M'Donald. Or ^vould'st thou, by thy 
 
 looks 
 
 And gestures wild, o'erthrow that manly 
 calmness 
 
 Which, or assumed or felt, so well be- 
 comes thy friend? 
 Bland. What means that cannon's sound? 
 M'Donald. (After a pause.) Signal 
 
 of death 
 
 Appointed. Andre, thy friend, is now 
 no more. 
 Bland. Farewell, farewell, brave spirit! 
 ! let my countrymen, 
 
 Henceforward when the cruelties of war 
 
 Arise in their remembrance; when their 
 ready 
 
 Speech would pour forth torrents in 
 their foe's dispraise, 
 
 Think on this act accurst, and lock com- 
 plaint in silence. 
 
 (Bland throws himself on the earth.) 
 M'Donald. Such are the dictates of the 
 heart, not head. 
 
 0, may the children of Columbia still 
 
 Be taught by every teacher of mankind, 
 
 Each circumstance of calculative gain. 
 
 Or wounded pride, which prompted our 
 oppressors ; 
 
 May every child be taught to lisp the 
 tale; 
 
 And may, in times to come, no foreign 
 force, 
 
 No European influence, tempt to mis- 
 state. 
 
 Or awe the tongue of eloquence to si- 
 lence. 
 
 Still may our children's children deep 
 abhor 
 
 The motives, doubly deep detest the ac-^ 
 tors ; 
 
 Ever remembering that the race who 
 plann'd. 
 
 Who acquiesced, or did the deeds ab- 
 hor'd, 
 
 Has pass'd from off the earth; and, in 
 its stead, 
 
 Stand men who challenge love or detes^ 
 tation 
 
 But from their proper, individual deeds 
 
 Never let memory of tlie sire's offence 
 
 Descend upon the son. 
 
 curtain drops. 
 
SUPERSTITION 
 
 BY 
 
 James Nelson Barker 
 
SUPERSTITION 
 
 Superstition is one of the earliest plays based upon Colonial history. Five 
 y€;ars before Cooper used the theme of the regicides in The Wept of Wishton 
 Wish and eleven years before Hawthorne published The Gray Champion, Barker 
 had placed on the stage the dramatic story of the old Puritan issuing from his 
 solitude to lead the villagers to victory against the Indians. This theme is inter- 
 woven with that of the intolerance of the Puritans and their persecution for 
 witchcraft. 
 
 James Nelson Barker was born in Philadelphia, June 17, 1784. He had 
 a public career of some distinction, as he became captain of an artillery regi- 
 ment during the "War of 1812, was elected Mayor of Philadelphia in 1820, was 
 Collector of the Port from 1829 to 1838, and from 1838 to his death was Comp- 
 troller of the United States Treasury. He died in Washington, D. C, March 
 9, 1858. 
 
 Barker represents the play based upon a native theme. After a tentative 
 effort, based on Cervantes, called The Spanish Rover, and a masque, A7nerica, 
 neither printed nor performed, he wrote a comedy of American life, Tears and 
 Smiles, acted March 4, 1807, at the Chestnut Street Theatre, and printed in 
 Philadelphia in 1808. At the first Joseph Jefferson's suggestion, he put in the 
 character of ''Nathan Yank," thus forming a link between the character of 
 ''Jonathan" in The Contrast and the later "Jonathan Ploughboy" in The Forest 
 Rose of Woodworth. The Embargo or What News? was ^cted on March 16, 1808, 
 at the Chestnut Street Theatre. It supported the policy of the Embargo Act. 
 
 The Indian Princess or La Belle Sauvage, the earliest play on the Poca- 
 hontas story, was performed at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, April 
 6, 1808. Durang gives an interesting account of the commotion caused by the 
 persecution of Webster the singer which prevented the piece from being heard. 
 It was an opera for which the music was written by Bray, and it was acted after- 
 wards in other places and printed in 1808. Marmion, or The Battle of Flodden 
 Field, a dramatization of Scott's poem, was acted first in New York, at the 
 Park Theatre, April 13, 1812. William Wood, the Manager of the Chestnut 
 Street Theatre, says that it was announced in Philadelphia as by Thomas Morton, 
 the English playwright, in order to avoid the neglect usually accorded to native 
 playwrights, and that after running several nights with success, the author's 
 name was announced, when the audiences fell off. Durang, however, in his 
 History of the Philadelphia Stage, says "it lost none of its attraction after the 
 
 111 
 
112 INTRODUCTION 
 
 mask was removed'* and the statement of receipts in Wood's Diary siiows no 
 falling off of importance. It was printed in 1816. Barker's play, The Armour- 
 er's Escape or Three Years at Nootka Sound, which was acted at the Chestnut 
 Street Theatre, March 21, 1817, had a peculiar interest since John Jewitt, 
 armorer of the ship Boston, on whose adventures the play was based, acted the 
 leading part himself. How to Try a Lover, a comedy, printed in 1817, was 
 never acted, though it was cast and put in rehearsal. It is easily one of the 
 best of Barker's plays. 
 
 Superstition was first acted at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, 
 JMarch 12, 1824. Wood tells us it was acted ''with deserved applause." F. C. 
 Wemyss, who acted "George Egerton," speaks in his Twenty-six Years of the 
 Life of an Actor Manager of the success of the play, and states that Wood did 
 not put the play on oftener because Mrs. Duff in the character of ''Mary" out- 
 shone Mrs. Wood in "Isabella." "I have been surprised," he adds, "that no 
 manager ever rescued so good a play from oblivion." 
 
 Barker 's plays are now hard to obtain. Marmion was reprinted, with Super- 
 stition, in 1826, in the "Acting American Theatre" of Lopez and Wemyss. An 
 account of Barker's plays, written by himself, is to be found in Dunlap's History 
 of the American Theatre, Vol. 2, pp. 308-316. 
 
LOPEZ AKB WiaMYSS^ 
 
 EDITION. 
 
 THE 
 
 ACTING AMITRICAJJ THEATRE. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF 
 
 SUPERSTITION, 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES N. BABKER, ESQ, 
 
 AUXiFOR Of MARMION A TRAGEDY, &C. 
 .^ITB i PORTRAIT OF 
 
 laZlS. DUFF, 
 
 MARY. 
 
 ThQ Play* carefhllj corrected from the Prorfipt books ot' tk& 
 THILADELPHIA THEATRE. 
 
 '%l SI. Lopez, Prompter. 
 
 iXJJJLISHED BY A. R. POOLE, CHESNUT STREET, 
 
 FOR THE PROPRIETORS. 
 
 And to be had of all th^^rinclpal booksellers in ^0 
 
 VmTED BlMTES. 
 
 fritf© 1« uon-TObscnbcfs, Fifty cefi*« 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAE 
 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 Performed (First time) March 12, 1824. 
 
 Sir Reginald Egerton Mr. Warren 
 
 George Egerton Mr. Wemyss 
 
 Eavensworth Mr. Darley 
 
 Walford Mr. Wheatly 
 
 Charles Mr. Wood 
 
 The Unknown Mr. Duff 
 
 Judge Mr. Greene 
 
 First Villager Mr. Hathwell 
 
 Second Villager .Mr. Jones 
 
 Messenger Mr. Bignall 
 
 First Officer Mr. Johnston 
 
 Second Officer Mr. Murray 
 
 Edward Mr. Parker 
 
 Boy Master H. Mestayer 
 
 Second Judge Mr. Mestayer 
 
 Officer Mr. J. Mestayer 
 
 Villagers, Indians, Sups. 
 
 Isabella Mrs. Wood 
 
 Mary Mrs. Duff 
 
 Alice Mrs. Durang 
 
 Lucy Mrs. Greene 
 
 Female Villagers Mrs. Mestayer, Bignall, Murray, Misses Parker, 
 
 Hathwells, Mestayers. 
 
 Scene in New England, about the year 1675. 
 Time, a little more than Twenty-four hours. 
 
SUPERSTITION 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. A Village at a little distance. 
 In front, on the left of the Stage, the cot- 
 tage of Ravensworth; a handsome rus- 
 tic building. A large mansion, on an 
 eminence nearer the Village, on the 
 right. 
 
 {Enter from the Cottage, Mary and 
 Alice.) 
 
 Mary. Nay, come away, dear Alice, every 
 moment 
 
 Of your brief visit must be wholly mine; 
 
 Let 's leave our fathers to their grave 
 discourse 
 
 Of witch and wizard, ere we laugh out- 
 right. 
 Alice. It is a subject that the country 
 round 
 
 Deems a most solemn one. 
 Mary. True : but to me, 
 
 'T is not the less absurd on that account. 
 Alice. This levity 's misplac'd : your fa- 
 ther claims 
 
 Your love and reverence — 
 Mary. And I do revere him, 
 
 And love him dearly, Alice; do I not? 
 
 How often have I striven to melt bis 
 sternness; 
 
 And, when my heart was sick of its own 
 cares, 
 
 Lock'd up my selfish sorrows from his 
 view. 
 
 And tried, by every filial endearment. 
 
 To win his smiles. E'en when his brow 
 was darkest; 
 
 I 've brav'd its terrors ; hung upon his 
 neck. 
 
 And spoken of my mother : how sweet 
 
 It were methought, even to weep with 
 him. 
 Alice. You're an enthusiast, Mary. Ah, 
 beware. 
 
 Lest this impetuous current of your feel- 
 ing 
 
 Urge you, one day, against the perilous 
 rock. 
 Mary. I 'm young, and youth is ardent, 
 and should be 
 
 115 
 
 Cheerful, and full of bright and sunny 
 
 thoughts; 
 I w^ould be if I dared. You, too, are 
 
 young. 
 Yet may be happy ; for you have a parent 
 Who, tho' he guide you safely down the 
 
 stream. 
 Does not, like angry pilots, chide, e'en 
 
 louder 
 Than the loud storm. 
 Alice. His high and holy office 
 
 May, haply give to your good father's 
 
 manner, 
 A grave solemnity, perhaps, a harsh- 
 ness — 
 Mary. And why a harshness "? Sure, ah 
 sure. Religion 
 Descends not like the vulture in its 
 
 wrath ; 
 But rather like the mild and gentle dove, 
 Emblem of peace and harbinger of joy, 
 Love in its eye and healing on its wing; 
 With pure and snowy plumage, downy 
 
 soft, 
 To nestle in the bosom of its votaries. 
 Alice. I cannot argue; I'm content to 
 follow 
 Where e'er our fathers lead. For you, I 
 
 fear 
 You 've learn'd too much from this mys- 
 terious stranger. 
 ]\Iary. Alice, join not you with the slan- 
 derous crowd. 
 Against a noble lady, whom you know 
 
 not. 
 For me, be satisfied I never more 
 Perhaps, shall see her : I 've obeyed my 
 
 father; 
 And must, tho' it should break my heart : 
 tho' Charles — 
 
 (Pauses and crosses.) 
 Alice. And what of Charles? 
 Mary. Her son — 
 
 Alice. I know : her son, 
 
 And what of him? 
 Mary. This very day, 'tis said, 
 
 He will be here — 
 Alice. Expell'd, they say, from college. 
 Mary. Disgrae'd— 'T is false: Charles 
 cannot be disgrae'd; 
 If envy, persecution, drive him thence, 
 
116 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 They but disgrace themselves, and not 
 
 poor Charles. 
 Alice. Mary"? 
 Mary. Yes; take my secret; take it 
 
 quickly, 
 Or it will burst my heart. 
 Alice. Nay, but be calm. 
 
 Mary. You shall know all — surely you'll 
 
 pity, Alice, 
 And perhaps, pardon me. Three years 
 
 ago 
 When Charles's mother first came here to 
 
 live ; 
 From England, w^as it not — tlie village 
 
 then 
 Had scarce begun to hate her, for as 
 
 yet 
 She had not lavish'd charities abroad, 
 To purchase up ingratitude and envy. 
 Being her nearest neighbour, (my dear 
 
 mother 
 Was then alive,) there rose at once be- 
 tween us 
 That intercourse which neighbourhood 
 
 compels 
 At times, e'en with the most reserved. 
 
 The lady, 
 I know not why, unless out of her good- 
 ness. 
 Graced me with her regard, and when my 
 
 mother 
 Died, she took the desolate child to her 
 
 l30som. 
 Alice. 'T was kindly done. 
 Mary. she was goodness all, 
 
 Her words, so sweet and soothing; as she 
 
 spoke, 
 Alice, methought I saw my sainted 
 
 mother 
 Lean o'er the bright edge of a silvery 
 
 cloud 
 And smile upon her happy orphan 
 
 girl,— 
 And there was Charles, so busy still 
 
 around me, 
 Exhausting all his boyish gallantries. 
 With brotherly affection. — 
 Alice. Charles, still Charles'? 
 
 Mary. Can I forget it! — 
 Alice. Nay, go on. 
 
 Mary. The winter 
 
 Soon pass'd away, and then the spring 
 
 came on 
 With all its flowers, and still the earliest 
 
 blossom 
 Was cull'd for me. 0, we were then so 
 
 happy — 
 I alwnys lov'd the spring. Young nature 
 
 then 
 
 Came to me like a play-mate. Ere the 
 
 snows 
 Had left the hills, I've often wander'd 
 
 forth, 
 And, all impatient for the verdure, 
 
 clear'd 
 A patch of infant green; or even turn'd 
 With mighty effort, some recumbent 
 
 stone. 
 To find the fresh grass under it. 
 Alice. This is childish. 
 
 Mary. I was a child, then, — would I were 
 e'en now, 
 As then I was — my life, I fear, will 
 
 prove 
 A wintry waste with no green spot to 
 cheer it; 
 Alice. More visionary still. 
 Mary. Well, to my story :— 
 
 My father took me home, I think it 
 
 was 
 About the time you came into the village, 
 Fell superstition now had spread around. 
 Reports — I scarce know what they meant 
 
 — arose 
 Concerning Isabella; and my father 
 Made gloomier by my mother's death, 
 
 and yielding 
 His strong mind to the doctrine of the 
 
 times, 
 Grew daily still more stern, until at 
 
 length, 
 At peril of his curse, he bade me never 
 To hold communion with that family. 
 Alice. And you obeyed? 
 Mary. All that I could, I did. 
 
 But the tales they tell — the horrid 
 
 stories — 
 Her very virtues they distort to crimes. 
 And for poor Charles, his manliness and 
 
 spirit. 
 The gayety of youth and innocence, 
 In him are vices. Could I help defend- 
 ing, 
 Knowing them as I did: — all others 
 
 hating. 
 Could I help loving! — 
 Alice. Loving, Mary? 
 
 Mary. Ay; most deeply, strongly loving 
 
 Charles and his mother. 
 Alice. But sure you have not seen this 
 
 Charles? 
 Mary. Not often. — 
 
 Nay, frown not, friend, for how could I 
 
 avoid it. 
 When chance insisted on an interview? 
 Alice. Have ye met lately? 
 Mary. Yes. 
 
 Alice. Wliat pass'd between von? 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 117 
 
 Mary. A pliglit of faith: A vow to live 
 or die, 
 
 Each for the other. 
 Alice. Lost, lost girl. 
 
 Mary. Why, ay, 
 
 It may be so ; if so, 't is Heaven's will. 
 
 You have my secret, Alice. 
 
 {Enter from the House, Ravensworth 
 and Walford.) 
 
 Alice. Peace; our fathers. 
 
 {They retire into house.) 
 Rav. No, Walford, no : I have no charity 
 For what you term the weakness of our 
 
 nature. 
 The soul should rise above it. It was this 
 That made the fathers of this land pre- 
 vail, 
 When man and the elements opposed, 
 
 and win 
 Their heritage from the heathen. 
 Walf. True ; the times 
 
 Impos'd a virtue, almost superhuman. 
 But surely, the necessity is pass'd 
 For trampling on our nature. 
 Rav. We have grown 
 
 Luke-warm in zeal, degenerate in 
 
 spirit ; — 
 I would root out with an unsparing hand. 
 The weeds that choke the soil; — pride 
 
 and rank luxury 
 Spring up around us; — alien sectaries. 
 Spite of the whip and axe, infest our 
 
 limits ; 
 Bold infidelity, dark sorcery — 
 Walf. Nay, 
 
 Nay, Ravensworth — 
 Rav. I tell thee, Walford, yea : 
 
 The powers of darkness are at work 
 
 among us. 
 Not distant we have seen the fagot blaze, 
 And soon the stake may ask its victim 
 here. 
 Walf. What victim point you at ? 
 Rav. Turn your eye — thither 
 
 Upon yon haughty mansion — you have 
 heard?— 
 Walf. Much idle rumour. 
 Rav. Do you deem it so. 
 
 Whence then, and who is this imperious 
 
 dame, 
 That holds herself above her fellow crea- 
 tures, 
 And scorns our church's discipline: her 
 
 means — 
 Her business here? 
 Walf. The ignorant and envious 
 
 May find. ir» her superior intellect — 
 
 E'en in her ample wealth and proud re- 
 serve ' 
 Food for their hate, and therefore their 
 
 suspicion ; 
 But for us, Ravensworth — 
 Rav. No more, ere long, 
 
 These questions must be answer'd. 
 Walf. Be it so ; 
 
 I shall be ready in all lawful ways 
 To seek the truth. 
 Rav. 'T is well, we soon may need you. 
 
 What public tidings hear you? 
 Walf. That King Philip 
 
 Our savage foe, after his late defeat. 
 Has gained his rocky hold, where he now 
 
 lies. 
 With scarce a fragment of his former 
 force. 
 Rav. Where are our troops? 
 Walf. They watch the enemy. 
 
 Rav. They should have followed up their 
 victory^, 
 To the extermination of the heathen. — 
 Has there aught chanc'd in the village? 
 Walf. There have aiTived 
 
 Two persons from the court of Charles. 
 Rav. More vanity! 
 
 What do they here? 
 Walf. The elder, it is said. 
 
 Brings letters to the government. 
 
 {Crosses.) 
 
 Rav. Charles Stuart, 
 
 Is gTOwing much concern'd about the 
 
 people 
 His family have scourg'd, hunted and 
 
 driven 
 From shed and shelter in their native 
 
 land. 
 We needs must thank that most paternal 
 
 care, 
 That, when the expos'd infant climbs to 
 
 manhood 
 Comes for the first time, then, to claim 
 his service. 
 Walf. You broach a startling topic^ 
 But the day wears — 
 Fare thee well, Ravensworth, 
 Rav. Farewell, farewell, 
 
 {Exit Walford.) 
 Timid, weak-minded man. 
 
 {Enter Mary, from House.) 
 
 Come hither, daughter. 
 Mary. Father! {Bunning to him.) 
 
 Rav, What mean these tears? 
 
 Mary, I cannot check them. 
 
 Rav, They do displease me, tears can only 
 flow 
 
118 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 From frailty or from folly, dry them 
 straight, 
 
 And listen to me. I have heard, the son 
 
 Of this strange woman is returning- 
 home, 
 
 And will again pollute our neighbour- 
 hood ; 
 
 fiomeniber my command, and shun his 
 presence 
 
 As you would shun the adder. If re- 
 port 
 
 Err not, his course of boyhood has been 
 run 
 
 "Without one gleam of virtue to redeem 
 
 The darkness of his vices. 
 ]\Iary. I '11 obey — 
 
 To the utmost of my power. — But, my 
 dear father, 
 
 May not report err sometimes'? You 
 were wont 
 
 To instruct me never to withhold the 
 truth ; 
 
 And fearlessly to speak in their defence, 
 
 Whom I could vindicate from calumny; 
 
 That to protect the innocent, the ab- 
 sent — 
 Rav. How 's this ! the innocent — and 
 calumny 1 
 
 And whence do you presume to throw 
 discredit 
 
 On general report. — Wbat can you 
 know? 
 Mary. Not much perhaps, of late: wliile 
 I remain'd 
 
 At his mother's — he was in his boyhood 
 then ; 
 
 I knew him well; and there's one inci- 
 dent 
 
 Much dwelt on to his prejudice, that I 
 
 Was witness to — if you would bid me tell 
 it. 
 "Ray. 0, by all means, come, your romance. 
 Mary. 'T is truth. 
 
 It was a wintry day, the snow was deep, 
 
 And the chill rain had fallen and was 
 frozen, 
 
 That all the surface was a glittering 
 crust. — 
 
 We were all gather'd in the lady's hall, 
 
 That overlook'd the lawn; a poor stray 
 fawn 
 
 Came limping toward us. It had lost, 
 perhaps, 
 
 Its dam, and chas'd by cruel hunters, 
 came 
 
 To seek a refuge with us. Every bound 
 
 The forlorn creature made, its little feet 
 
 Broke through the crust, and we could 
 mark that one 
 
 Of its delicate limbs was broken. A rude 
 
 boy 
 Follow'd it fast, as it would seem, to 
 
 kill it; 
 I could not choose but wish its life were 
 
 sav'd, 
 And at the word Charles ran and took 
 
 it up. 
 And gave it to me, and I cherish'd it 
 And bound its broken limb up; and it 
 
 liv'd. 
 And seem'd to thank me for my care of it. 
 Rav. But was this alH Was not the vil- 
 lage lad assailed and beaten'? 
 Mary. He was rude and churlish, 
 
 And would have forc'd the animal from 
 
 Charles. 
 And tho' 't was on his mother's grounds, 
 
 Charles proffer'd him 
 The price of the fawn. But nothing 
 
 would content him, 
 x\nd he struck Charles; he was a larger 
 
 boy, 
 But did not prove the stronger — so he 
 
 went 
 And made the village all believe his story. 
 That Charles had robb'd and beaten him, 
 
 for Charles 
 Had none to speak for him. 
 Rav. No more of this — 
 
 And never let me hear the name you've 
 
 utter'd 
 Pass from your lips again. It is enough 
 I know this youth for a lewd libertine; 
 The woman, for a scoffer at things sacred, 
 At me, and at my functions — and per- 
 haps, 
 Given to practices, that yet may need 
 A dreadful expiation. Get you gone, 
 And on your knees petition that you may 
 
 not 
 Deserve my malediction. 
 Mary. I obey. 
 
 {Exit Mary, into cottage, followed hjj 
 Ravensworth.) 
 
 {Enter George Egertox, followed hy 
 Sir Reginald, both in shooting 
 dresses. ) 
 
 George. By Heaven a lovely creature ! 
 Sir R. Softly, George, 
 
 Is this the game you point at"? Have a 
 
 care. 
 You 're not in London now, where our 
 
 gay monarch 
 Sets such a fine example, in these matters. 
 They '11 have no poaching here, that I can 
 tell you, 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 119 
 
 Among' their wives and (laughters. These 
 
 same roundheads, 
 That crop their hair so short — a plague 
 
 upon 'em — 
 Will cut your ears as close, if you 're 
 caught meddling'. 
 George. Why whai a heathen region have 
 we come to. 
 What a deuce, uncle, did you bring me 
 
 here for*? 
 To shoot at bears and panthers ; pleasant 
 
 sport ; 
 No women : zounds ; I '11 back to court 
 
 again — 
 No women! 
 Sir R. None : the old they burn for 
 
 witches, 
 The young they keep clos'd up, (like flies 
 
 in amber) 
 In adamantine ice. — 
 George. They should be hang'd 
 
 For treason against nature. Let the old 
 
 ones 
 Freeze, 'tis their charter; but youth 
 should have fire. 
 Sib R. They 've good laws here for gal- 
 lants — t' other day 
 They put a man i' the stocks because he 
 
 kiss'd 
 His wife o' Sunday. 
 George. They were in the right. 
 
 Kiss his own wife ! it is a work- day busi- 
 ness; 
 Play-days and holy-days are made for 
 lovers. 
 Sir R. To lay hands on a maid here's 
 
 present death. 
 George. It might be so in London, and no 
 lives lost : 
 The law were a dead letter there — 
 Sir R. And widows 
 
 May not be spoken to, under the pain 
 Of fine and pillory. 
 George. Uncle, let 's embark, 
 
 The' for the north pole ; this clime is too 
 
 cold — • 
 Or to some catholic country, where a man 
 May have flesh sometimes: here 'tis al- 
 ways lent. 
 Sir R. No: you must stay, your stomach 
 
 must endure it. 
 George. I' faith, dear uncle, being a cava- 
 lier, 
 A gentleman of honour and of breeding, 
 I marvel much you could come hither ; but 
 The greater wonder is, you'd have me 
 
 with you. 
 Knowing my humour. 
 Sir R. Troth, my gentle nephew, 
 
 Knowing your humour, I could do no 
 
 better ^ 
 Than take you from the sphere of 
 
 Charles's court; 
 From Rochester, and his dissolute com- 
 panions. 
 To cool your blood here in the wilderness. 
 George. Well ! there may come a time. 
 Sir R. As for my voyage, 
 
 Perhaps it was a royal jest ; or haply 
 My clothes had grown too rusty for the 
 
 court. 
 Or Charles was tired of the old cavalier, 
 Who had fought some battles for him, 
 
 and consum'd 
 Some certain paltry acres — all he had — 
 And having left no vacant place at court, 
 He sent me here Ambassador. 
 George. But uncle. 
 
 Is that your character'? 
 Sir R. Much the same thing, 
 
 In Christian countries, nephew; I 'm a 
 spy. 
 George. The devil! 
 
 Sir R. Yes ; we read in ancient history. 
 
 Of Kings and Emperors, who have kept 
 
 the men 
 Who help'd them to the Throne, (by 
 
 simply putting 
 Their fathers out o' the way) — about 
 
 their, persons, 
 As their prime friends. But Charles, be- 
 ing advis'd 
 That this was in bad taste, and took place 
 
 only 
 In semi-barbarous courts, finds it decor- 
 ous 
 To grow a little angry with the persons 
 That kill'd his father. And being told, 
 
 besides, 
 That his most loving and beloved sub- 
 jects 
 This side the water — who, by the way, he 
 
 never 
 Thought of before — had given food and 
 
 shelter 
 To certain of the regicides, he sends me 
 To— 
 George. Well, Sir? 
 
 Sir R. Nothing. Come, 'tis growing 
 
 late. 
 We must regain our cottage. In the 
 
 morning, 
 We leave the village. 
 George. 'Gad, with all my soul — 
 
 And so to England? 
 Sir R. Not so fast, good Springal, 
 
 We must have patience yet. Come, let 's 
 begone. 
 
120 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 George. I '11 see her in the morning, tho' 
 they hang me. 
 
 {Exeunt, George looking back.) 
 
 END OP ACT ONE. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. A Forest. In the background 
 an insulated caverned rock. Night. 
 The Unknown enters bg a bridge formed 
 of the trunk of a tree, icliicli is let down 
 from the rock. {His dress is of Skins: 
 his general appearance, wild — but his 
 air and manner dignified. He is armed.) 
 
 Unk. Yes : it is near the dawn — the dawn ! 
 when man 
 
 Again shall greet his fellow man, and na- 
 ture, 
 
 Through all her living kingdom shall re- 
 joice. 
 
 I only of the human race, condemn'd 
 
 To shun my species, and in caves of night 
 
 Shut out the common day. Ye glorious 
 stars, 
 
 I gaze on you — I look on you, ye Heav- 
 ens, 
 
 "With an unblenehing eye. You read the 
 heai-t. 
 
 And you can judge the act. If I was 
 wrong; 
 
 If innocent blood rest on me — here I 
 stand 
 
 To pay the dreadful forfeiture, — let fall 
 
 In drops of fire your red-hot vengeance 
 on me. 
 
 Am I a murderer? Is the mark of Cain 
 
 Imprinted on my front! — I would not 
 murmur — 
 
 But as I am but man, forgive it Heaven. 
 
 Torn from the beings that I fondly 
 lov'd. — 
 
 For nineteen years an outlaw and a wan- 
 derer — 
 
 Proscribed and hunted like the ravening 
 wolf ; — 
 
 A price set on my felon head — A felon ! 
 
 Am I so, Heaven! Did these wounds, 
 received 
 
 In thy holy cause, stream with a felon's 
 blood. 
 
 Was it a felon's courage nerved my arm, 
 
 A felon's zeal that burn'd within my 
 heart? 
 
 Yet this I could endure — but when I 
 think 
 
 Of thee, my child— my daughter— Ha ! a 
 
 step! 
 Perhaps a beast of prey! I fear nol 
 
 that, 
 The panther is my co-mate and my 
 
 brother ; 
 Man only is mine enemy — He comes. 
 
 {Retires into cave.) 
 
 {Enter Charles, in a neat hunting 
 dress of green, cap, etc., a short 
 sword, or couteau-de-chasse slung, 
 and a gun in his hand.) 
 
 Charles. Each step I take but plunges 
 me the deeper 
 In this wild labyrinth. — Here 's a 
 
 pretty scene 
 For those whose love o' the picturesque, 
 
 could make them 
 Forget their bed and supper. My poor 
 
 mother 
 Will be so disappointed — and, dear Mary, 
 Will not your hopes, too, rise with the 
 
 lark : I '11 on. 
 But whither? May I not be straying 
 
 further : 
 I must needs make my couch e'en here. — 
 
 What's this? 
 A bridge; and further on, methinks, a 
 
 cavern, 
 'Twill serve — But hold — perhaps I 
 
 shall disturb 
 Some wild beast in his lair. Tut! 'tis 
 
 some hunter 
 Has made his cabin here — I '11 try. 
 
 {Going to cavern.) 
 Unk. Pass not. 
 
 {Enters from cave.) 
 Charles. You speak commaiulingly. 
 UxK. And may, when strangers 
 
 Intrude upon my privacy. That cave 
 Is mine, my castle. 
 Charles. It must be confess'd 
 
 You play the Castellain right courte- 
 ously. 
 UxK. No trifling, boy. Are you a spy? — 
 
 What are you? 
 Charles. My answer 's here. 
 
 {Levelling his gun.) 
 Unk. Tut, overweening child, 
 
 Level thy weapon at the timid deer 
 That fears thy puny skill. The withered 
 
 leaf 
 Stirr'd by the falling nut, or passing 
 
 breeze. 
 Startles as much as does thy idle menace. 
 Charles. To prove it is not idle — 
 Unk. Hold, rash boy; 
 
 If but this tube is rais'd, thou perish'st. 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 121 
 
 For years, as many as thou telFst of life, 
 
 i 've wielded it. 
 Charles. I 've had some practice, too. 
 
 Unk. Do you provoke your fate! — But 
 hold; no, no — 
 
 Though 't were my sole security, no blood. 
 
 He spoke of his mother too; I '11 not de- 
 prive 
 
 The mother of her child — Hear me, 
 bold youth. 
 
 'Tis meet that I should know so much 
 of thee, 
 
 As to be well assur'd thou com'st not 
 hither. 
 
 At this dark hour, for evil purpose — 
 tell me — 
 
 I do not now command, but I request 
 thee — 
 
 AVherefore this visit? 
 Charles. Now, sir, that your question 
 
 Is one a gentleman may give reply to, 
 
 I '11 frankly tell you. I 've a mother 
 lives, 
 
 I trust, in the next town. A short time 
 since 
 
 I left her, for the second time, for col- 
 lege. 
 
 To make a second trial for the honours, 
 
 I think, with due humility, I 'd merited. 
 
 Their worships as before play'd with my 
 patience, 
 
 Till I grew tired of it, and told them so. 
 
 In good round terms. Glad of the fit 
 excuse. 
 
 They just discover'd then, I was too wild 
 
 For their strait limits, and so they ex- 
 pell'd me. 
 Unk. You speak but lightly of a circum- 
 stance 
 
 That an ingenuous and aspiring youth, 
 
 And, such you seem, might wtII think 
 serious. 
 Charles. I cannot be a hypocrite, and 
 deem 
 
 The acts of solemn folly serious. 
 
 When I shall cease to scorn malevolence 
 
 And learn to reverence cant and super- 
 stition, 
 
 Then, not till then, I'll weep at my ex- 
 pulsion. 
 Unk. But to your tale. 
 Charles. 'T is told: I turn'd my back 
 
 On my grave censors; seized my hunter's 
 arms. 
 
 And struck in to the wilderness for home ; 
 
 Which by the forest route I hoped to 
 reach 
 
 Ere the light closed to-day. I was de- 
 ceived. 
 
 Night came upon me; yet, I travell'd 
 
 on. 
 For by a civil horseman that pass'd by 
 I had sent letters bidding them exj^ect me. 
 Briefly, when I had fairly lost myself 
 I met a hunter, whose bark cabin stands 
 A few miles hence. He put me in the 
 
 track. 
 And pointed out a certain star to steer 
 
 by; 
 
 But passing clouds, and intervening 
 
 boughs. 
 And perhaps thoughts of home, and 
 
 those at home, 
 Marr'd my astronomy. I lost my star, 
 And then I lost my path, and then my- 
 self. 
 And so, through swamp and thicket, 
 
 brake and bramble, 
 I 've scrambled on thus far — and, there 's 
 my story. 
 Unk. Your way was perilous — Did you 
 
 meet nothing*? 
 Charles. Not much. Sometimes a snake 
 I trod on coil'd 
 Around my leg, but I soon shook him 
 
 off; 
 A howl at times approach'd — and as I 
 
 pass'd, 
 The brake stirr'd near me with some 
 
 living thing 
 Beside myself — but this was all. 
 Unk. 'T was wrong, 
 
 Rashly to tempt these dangers. If your 
 
 air 
 Deceive me not, you are of foreign birth. 
 Charles. Not four years since, we left 
 
 our native England. 
 Unk. England ! 
 
 Charles. But why 's a mysteiy. We 're 
 not known 
 Nor understood here; we're of another 
 world. 
 Unk. Your name ? 
 Charles. 'T is Charles Fitzroy. 
 
 Unk. Fitzroy! Your mother's? 
 
 Charles. You 're somewhat curious ; Isa- 
 bella. 
 Unk. Ha! 
 
 Charles. What is it moves you? 
 
 Unk. Isabella, say you? 
 
 Charles. This strong emotion — 
 Unk. It is nothing, nothing. — 
 
 Or — is it strange that I should feel emo- 
 tion 
 At the sad tale you tell ? 
 Charles. Sad tale! 
 
 Unk. I wander. — 
 
 I 've been a solitary man so long" 
 
122 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 That— 'T is no matter.— What dost 
 think me, youth"? 
 Charles. A hunter who loves freedom and 
 the forest ; 
 Who 'd rather kill his venison in the 
 
 Avood 
 Than toil for it in the town. Am I not 
 right 1 
 Unk. 'T is true — I am — a hunter — 
 Charles. But a strange one. — 
 
 But come, sir, will you put me on my 
 way? 
 Unk. Will you not rather enter my poor 
 cave 
 And take its shelter till the morning 
 
 breaks f 
 'T will not be long. 
 Charles. I cannot lose a moment 
 
 In selfish rest, while those who love me 
 suffer. 
 Unk. Give me your hand then. I 'm your 
 
 friend. 
 Charles. I thank you. 
 
 'T is the first cordial grasp I 've had 
 from man. 
 UxK. Poor youth! But hold — Give me 
 your solemn promise 
 To keep this meeting secret. 
 Charles. I hate secrets; 
 
 Lovers alone should have them. 
 UxK. There are reasons : — 
 
 I cannot now disclose them — solemn rea- 
 sons — 
 I do implore you — 
 Charles. Sir, be satisfied; 
 
 I '11 not reveal it. 
 Unk. Nor allude to it, 
 
 However press' d — Nor give the darkest 
 
 hint 
 That such a man as I exist ! 
 Charles. I promise. 
 
 Unk. I 'm satisfied. Your words are 
 from the heart. 
 Fidelity and truth sit on your brow. 
 The blush of morn begins to tinge the 
 
 east; 
 You are not far from home ; you '11 soon 
 
 embrace 
 Your mother, Charles. Come, this way 
 lies the path. {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. An open Wood near the cottage 
 of Raven SW'ORTH. Earhj dawn. 
 
 {Enter George Egerton.) 
 
 George. Poor uncle! little does your vi- 
 sion dream, 
 
 (Being abed) what ramble I'm upon. 
 
 A hopeful enterprize, this of my un- 
 cle's — 
 
 To tame me in a wild wood. Ay, and 
 then 
 
 His bug-bear stories of the laws — con- 
 found 'em. 
 
 Last night the}'- spoil'd the sweetest vi- 
 sion for me; 
 
 Methought I saw this beauteous puritan. 
 
 The parson's daughter; well, I woo'd 
 and won — 
 
 A thing of course — But going to em- 
 brace her, 
 
 I hugg'd — my pillow, think youf no; a 
 pillory ! 
 
 Well : I 'm resolved in spite of dream 
 and omen, 
 
 To see her, if I can, before we go. 
 
 I 've three hours, good ; and three hours 
 may do much. — 
 
 By Vulcan, the intruding and lame God, 
 
 My uncle limping this way! Gout con- 
 found him. 
 
 A royal oak! Bend your umbrageous 
 branches, 
 
 And saving me, be twice immortalized. 
 {Conceals himself in a tree.) 
 
 {Enter Sir Reginald.) 
 
 Sir R. S 'blood ! the young rebel, what a 
 
 march he 's led me ! 
 Tortur'd too, all the route, like a poor 
 
 prisoner 
 By my own natural enemy the gout. 
 The worst oft is I cannot find the 
 
 rascal, 
 I've been around the house. And I'd 
 
 ha' sworn 
 That was his mark. If I but catch him — 
 
 Hey! 
 
 {Enter Mary.) 
 
 A pretty girl — I 'faith, a pretty girl! 
 I '11 speak to her, I will ; there 's no one 
 
 near — 
 Hem! Save you lady — 
 Mary. {Who is anxioush/ looking another 
 way.) Would you aught with me, 
 sir! 
 Sir R. Aught*? Yes, egad: a very pretty 
 girl — 
 My dear, I — that is — 
 George. So, so, my grave uncle. — 
 
 Sir R. I meant to say — 't is somewhat 
 early, child. 
 For youth like yours — She 's beautiful by- 
 gad;— 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 123 
 
 To leave your downy slumbers — 
 George. Poetry ! 
 
 Maey. It is my custom, sir — But age like 
 yours 
 May suffer from the chill air of the 
 morning. 
 George. A brave girl, faith : 
 Mary. (Aside.) 'T is one of those 
 
 strange persons, 
 My father spoke of — would that he 
 would go. 
 Sir R. Why, as you say, my dear, — that 
 
 is — in fact — 
 George. Nay, charge again, brave cavalier. 
 Sir R. In truth then, 
 
 My errand here so early, was to seek 
 A runagate nephew. 
 George. Meaning me. — 
 
 Sir R. a rascal ! 
 
 Pray, lady, have you met him*? 
 Mary. Sir, I know not 
 
 The person you enquire for. 
 Sir R. I '11 describe him. 
 
 George. Now for a flattering portrait. 
 Sir R. {Aside.) I'll disgust her 
 
 Lest he, perchance, should meet her — 
 
 He 's a fellow 
 Of an indifferent person, which his tailor 
 Cannot make handsome; yet he thinks 
 
 himself 
 The only true Adonis. He has language 
 If you can understand it. When he 
 
 speaks, 
 'T is in a lisp or oath. His gait 's be- 
 tween 
 A swagger and a dance. His grin 's from 
 
 France, 
 His leer from Cyprus. He 's a Turk in 
 
 morals, 
 And is of that religion no man knows 
 
 of: 
 In fine, he 's as ridiculous as dangerous — 
 A mongrel thing; a slip of the coxcomb, 
 
 madam. 
 Grafted upon the rake. 
 Mary. Sir, you describe 
 
 A monster. 
 Sir R. You have hit it : that is he, 
 
 Should he approach you shun him. 
 Mary. "" Sir, I shall. 
 
 George. Here 's a kind uncle : but I '11 be 
 reveng-'d. 
 
 (Sir Reginald hows and exit.) 
 Mary. He should have come last night : yet 
 here 's the morning. 
 And yet he comes not. He cannot have 
 
 pass'd me. 
 Is it because this is his homcAvard path 
 That I am loitering here ? I fear it is — 
 
 0, I am most imprudent — most forget- 
 ful— ^ 
 
 I fear most sinful. 
 George. {Descending, and comes down the 
 stage on the left.) 
 
 Now he 's out of sight. 
 
 And now for the encounter — Madam, 
 your slave. 
 
 Nay start not; I am not the monster, 
 lady. 
 
 That gouty person pictur'd. Did you 
 know him 
 
 But half so well as I, you 'd not believe 
 him. 
 
 Or did you but know me, but half so 
 well 
 
 As I would have you, and you would be- 
 lieve him 
 
 To be the most transcendant of ro- 
 mancers. 
 
 Bunyan's book, madam, is true history, 
 
 To that he speaks. He was a soldier 
 once. 
 
 But was cashier'd for lying. Mande- 
 ville. 
 
 The greatest liar of antiquity. 
 
 May be hereafter quoted as authentic. 
 
 When he 's believ'd — And I 'm his 
 nephew, too ! 
 
 A pleasant jest: he kept the wild beasts, 
 madam. 
 
 In London, till they turn'd him off for 
 stealing 
 
 The lion's supper — Yet a single moment. 
 Mary. What would you, sir? 
 George. You see, before you, lady. 
 
 The most unfortunate young fellow 
 breathing, 
 
 Banish'd to this strange country for the 
 crime 
 
 Of being too susceptible — and sentenc'd 
 
 To die a lingering death upon the rack. 
 
 Unless your smile reprieve him. 
 Mary. This is strange: 
 
 I do not understand you. 
 George. If my words 
 
 Lack meaning, lady, look into my eyes, 
 
 And thro' them to my heart, and see en- 
 shrin'd 
 
 Your worshipp'd image there — 
 Mary. Most wonderful, 
 
 What language is 't you speak, sir"? 
 George. Ma'am: what language*? 
 
 English, I think. The pretty simpleton! 
 
 Bred in the woods, to her a metaphor 
 
 Is Heathen Greek. Madam, those fool- 
 ish figures 
 
 Are nil the mode at court; and mean, my 
 dear. 
 
124 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 In simple phrase — 
 ;Mary. I pray, sir, let me pass — 
 
 George. Not yet, my child — 
 Mary. Sure 't is a madman. 
 
 George, True, 
 
 And therefore treat me soothing-ly and 
 
 kindly, 
 For of all madmen, your mad lover's 
 
 maddest. 
 Do you not fear me ? 
 Mary. No. 
 
 George. Why, then you love me. 
 
 Come; I have seen such clouds before; 
 
 they tell 
 Of coming sunshine — nay, you must not 
 
 go.— 
 I will be monstrous kind to thee, and love 
 
 thee 
 Most constantly — 
 Mary. Release me. 
 
 George. Ay, and take thee 
 
 To England, child, and make thee there, 
 
 my dear, 
 The envy of thy sex. 
 Mary. If you 're a gentleman — 
 
 George. The conscious grove would blush 
 its green leaves red, 
 Should i give back. 
 Mary. Do vou not fear the 
 
 laws? 
 George. Nor law, nor gospel now — Come, 
 
 come, 't is folly — 
 Mary. Heav'n: help, help! 
 
 {Enter Charles, and comes down to 
 centre.) 
 
 Charles. Ruffian, unhand the lady ! 
 
 George. So j)eremptory, boy*? 
 Charles. Do you delay *? 
 
 { Throws him of.) 
 George. Curse on my haste : I have forgot 
 
 my sword. 
 Mary. Charles! 
 
 Charles. My dearest Mary ; my belov'd ! 
 (Mary retires up.) 
 George. Hum; is it so? But s 'death ! I 
 must n't bear it. 
 Hark ye, Sir. 
 Charles. Well, Sir. 
 
 G?:ORGE. I shall find a time. — 
 
 Charles. Best make it. 
 George. When ? 
 
 Charles. Two hours lience, in the giovc 
 
 East of the village. 
 George. I shall meet you there. 
 
 But look ye, sir, be punctual : I 've en- 
 gagements. 
 Charles. I shall not fail you. 
 
 George. 'Gad, a pretty fellow. 
 
 I '11 pink him first, and then I 'li patron- 
 ize him. {Exit.) 
 Mary. O Charles! what pass'd between 
 you? surely, surely 
 You will not honour him with further 
 notice. 
 Charles. Speak not of him — he is not 
 worth a thought — 
 We can employ our time to better pur- 
 pose. 
 Tell me, have yet the calumnies against 
 
 me, 
 Found shelter here? 
 Mary. You know they have not, Charles. 
 But I have much to tell you — We must j 
 
 part! 
 Heav'n ! is not that my father? Oh, it is ! 
 He comes this way; but has not yet 
 
 descried ns — 
 Ah ! fly, fly quickly ! 
 Charles. Fly? 
 
 Mary. Yes, if you wish 
 
 That we should ever meet — 
 Charles. But shall we meet ! 
 
 Mary. That way — behind the trees — 
 quickly, quickly ! 
 
 (Charles goes up.) J 
 Charles. {From the Grove.) But tell \ 
 me, Mary, will you walk this way 
 In the evening? 
 Mary. It is impossible; my father 
 
 Forbids my walks — 
 Charles. Why then, one place remains — 
 One only — I will visit you to-night — 
 You do not answer — Shall I? 
 Mary. begone ! 
 
 {Exit Charles, behind the trees.) 
 Did I consent? I fear he'll think I 
 
 did. 
 My father comes — should he have seen- 
 
 us part ! 
 Am I the guilty creature that I feel? 
 He 's here — I cannot look him in the face. 
 
 {Enter Ravensworth, looks at Mary 
 sternly for some time.) 
 
 Rav. 'T is well; that air of shame becomes 
 you well. 
 Is this your duty? Did I not forbid 
 These lonely walks? But get you home; 
 
 anon, 
 I'll talk Willi you. 
 Mary. {As she goes out.) 
 
 He did not see him ! 
 Rav, Home. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 125 
 
 ScEXE 3. An xipartment at Isabella's. 
 
 {Enter Isabella, meeting Lucy.) 
 
 IsA. Speak ; is he yet in sight *? 
 Lucy. No, madam. 
 
 IsA. Go, 
 
 ! go again, good Lucy, and be swift 
 When he appears. {Exit Lucy.) My 
 
 poor, poor boy ! my Charles — 
 To be thus treated, and thy gentle heart 
 So full of kindness to all living crea- 
 tures : 
 To have thy asjDirations after fame, 
 Thus rudely scorn'd, thy youthful hopes 
 
 thus blighted ! 
 But he deserves it not ; there 's comfort 
 
 yet, 
 
 And he may rise above it. — Not yet 
 
 come. 
 He promis'd, and he would not break 
 
 his word. 
 And to his mother, without serious 
 
 cause — 
 The way is full of peril, and I Iviiow 
 His temper shuns not danger. Gracious 
 
 Heav'n ! 
 If I should lose him — him, the only 
 
 being — 
 
 {Enter Lucy, hastily.) 
 
 Now, Lucy, quick ! 
 Lucy. Madam, he is in sight ; 
 
 And flj' ing up the avenue. 
 ISA. Thank Heaven ! 
 
 {Enter Charles.) 
 
 Charles. Mother ! 
 
 IsA. My sou. {Falls into his arms.) 
 
 Charles. My. ever dearest mother ! 
 
 ISA. O Charles, how could you thus delay 
 your coming'? 
 
 The night was pass'd in watch. 
 Charles. I gi-ieve to know it 
 
 I was benighted in the forest, mother. 
 
 And lost my way. 
 ISA. Alas ! thou art spent with toil. 
 
 Charles. Not much. 
 
 IsA. Poor Charles: And so they 
 
 have expelled thee — 
 
 Expeird ! 
 Charles. Nay, piy'thee let ns forget it. 
 ISA. " Wretches ! 
 
 I could have borne all else — but to dis- 
 grace thee — 
 
 To spurn thee from them — thee ! I could 
 endure 
 
 The daily persecutions that assail me 
 
 With patience and with firmness — But I 
 
 have the'e. 
 Come, let us in: you need rest and re- 
 freshment. 
 You shall not leave me soon again, my 
 
 son — 
 I am a child without you. 
 Charles. {Aside.) My poor mother. 
 
 IsA. But let us in — 
 Charles. I '11 follow you, my mother. 
 
 I will but give an order. {Exit Isabella.) 
 Edward. 
 
 {Enter Edward.) 
 
 Edw. Sir. 
 
 Charles. Go, get my rapier ready, wrap 
 it close, 
 And some hour hence, not later, choose 
 
 a time. 
 And speed with it to the wood, east of the 
 
 village. 
 There wait my coming. 
 Edw. Yes, sir. 
 
 Charles. But be sure 
 
 That no one see it. 
 Edw. I '11 be careful, sir. 
 
 {Exit Edward.) 
 
 {Enter Isabella.) 
 
 ISA. Fve, sir; is this your breeding*? must 
 
 I wait? 
 Charles. Forgive me, madam, I am ready 
 
 now. {Exeunt.) 
 
 END OP ACT TWO. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. An open Wood. 
 {Enter Charles, followed hy Edward.) 
 
 Charles. Give me the sword; remain at 
 
 the edge of the wood; 
 If any one approach, haste to inform me. 
 {Exit Edward.) 
 I am here first, 'tis well. My mother 
 
 thinks 
 It is a softer interview I seek ; 
 And while she cautioned me, her sad smile 
 
 seem'd 
 To sanction what she fear'd. My dear, 
 
 kind mother. 
 And should I fall — well : it would be my 
 
 fate. 
 We are but barques npon the sea of life. 
 And when the storm is up, we greet the 
 
 port, 
 
126 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 Or meet the rock, as destiny determines, 
 Spile of our feeble efforts. Mary, too! 
 These thouuhts are not in season. 
 Here 's my man. 
 
 {Enter George Egerton, hastily.) 
 
 Well met, sir. 
 George. Sir, I kiss your hands. I' faith, 
 I 've had a race to get here. My wise 
 
 uncle 
 Hung- round me like a bride in the first 
 
 month — 
 Or rather like a wife in the second year, 
 When jealousy commences. — Come on, 
 sir. 
 Charles. Best breathe awhile; I have the 
 
 advantage of you. 
 George. You will not keep it long. My 
 greater skill 
 Will give me still the odds. 
 Charles. It may be so. 
 
 Yet you may be deceived. My masters 
 
 flattei^d 
 Or I, too, have some science. 
 George. I 'm glad of it ; 
 
 For you 're a pretty fellow, and deserve 
 To fall with credit. Come, sir, to your 
 
 guard. 
 We shall be interrupted. 
 Charles. Better so, 
 
 Than that we fight unfairly. You pant 
 still, sir. 
 George. You are a soul of honour, and, 
 were 't possible — 
 But no ; the person of an Egerton 
 Must never be profan'd. Come, Sir, 
 en garde. 
 Charles. If you will have it so. 
 George. I will. 
 
 Charles. Come on then. 
 
 [They fight. George is wounded.) 
 George. I 'm pink'd egad ; who would 
 have thought it? ^S' death! 
 I 'm out of practice. 
 Charles. Here, Sir, on this bank. 
 
 Your head against this tree — Your 
 
 wound 's not deep 
 I hope. How feel you now? 
 George. I' faith, but faintly. 
 
 {Enter Edward.) 
 
 Edw. There is a gentleman approaching. 
 
 Sir. 
 George. It is my uncle, like a keen old 
 sportsman. 
 In at the death. Pry'thee begone, my 
 
 friend, 
 'T were well you were not known. 
 Charles. This handkerchief — 
 
 So, press it close — I '11 haste to send you 
 
 aid.— 
 But for the lady's fame, and your own 
 
 honour. 
 The cause of this our meeting is a secret. 
 George. It shall be so : I thank you. But 
 
 away! 
 
 {Exeunt Charles and Edward.) 
 That's a fine lad. But where i' the 
 
 devil's name, 
 Leam'd he to fence? I wonder, now I 
 
 think on 't, 
 Who '11 write my epitaph. My uncle 
 
 can't, 
 He has no genius. I would do 't myself. 
 Had I an amanuensis: let me see — 
 Hie jacet — {Faints.) 
 
 {Enter Sir Reginald.) 
 
 Sir R. Gracious Heav'n, what is this ! 
 
 My nephew bleeding, dead! no, he but 
 faints. 
 
 With loss of blood. Soft, he revives; 
 why, nephew — 
 
 My poor mad George, how fares it? 
 George. How d' ye, uncle ? 
 
 Is 't day or night ? Faith my eyes twin- 
 kle strangely. 
 Sir R. Cheerly, George, cheerly, we '11 do 
 well enough, — 
 
 What shall I do? — But how came this 
 about? 
 
 Was't fairly done? 
 George. According to the rules. 
 
 Should I die, uncle, and my adversary 
 
 E'er be discover'd, testify for him — 
 
 He kill'd me like a gentleman and Chris- 
 tian. 
 Sir R. a duel! ah, George, George. But 
 zounds! do the roundheads 
 
 Fight duels too ! a pretty school I 've 
 chosen 
 
 To teach you prudence in! will no one 
 come! 
 
 {Enter Two Men, with a Bier.) 
 
 Ah, you are welcome, set it down, so, so. 
 George. A pretty ominous conveyance, 
 
 this. 
 Sir R. I pry'thee hold thy peace, and get 
 
 thee in. 
 George. A gTain of opium now, were 
 worth a jewel, 
 Uncle, I '11 never fight again without it. 
 Sir R. Be quiet, George — you waste your 
 strength. So, so. 
 {The men take him up and are about 
 moving.) 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 127 
 
 George. Head foremost if you please, my 
 worthy friends; 
 'Tis but fair play — heels first perhaps, 
 to-morrow. 
 {The men carry him a few paces.) 
 Halt, if it please ye, gentlemen, one mo- 
 ment. 
 Two hobbles more and I 'm defunct. — 
 
 Pray, general. 
 Drill those recruits to the step. In camp, 
 
 now, uncle, 
 It were a pleasure to be carried out. 
 Sir R. Wilt hold thy peace then ? 
 George. Yes. — The left foot, uncle — 
 
 Sir R. Now, gentlemen, at the word 
 "march" lift up 
 The left foot each of you, and so move 
 on. 
 George. Right, uncle. 
 Sir R. Hold your tongue. March ! 
 
 George. Ay; so, so. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. The Village. 
 
 {Enter Charles and Edward.) 
 
 Charles. Can it be true! the savages so 
 
 near? 
 Edw. It is so said. 
 
 Charles. Edward, do you return, 
 
 And see the unfortunate gentleman I 
 
 wounded 
 Placed in security. I '11 hasten home. 
 
 {Exit Edward.) 
 
 My first care is my mother — then for 
 
 Mary! {Exit Charles.) 
 
 {Enter Walford, meeting Alice.) 
 
 Walf. A\nienee this alarm f 
 Alice. father, we are lost. 
 
 A hunter has come in nigh dead with 
 
 speed, 
 With tidings that the savages are coming. 
 Walf. How near? 
 
 Alice. Alas ! a few miles from the village. 
 Walf. Is 't possible ! can they have thus 
 eluded 
 Our watchful troops! we must prepare — 
 welcome! 
 
 {Enter Ravensworth.) 
 
 Heard you the fearful tidings. Ravens- 
 worth? 
 Ray. I have, and will you now believe., our 
 sins 
 
 Bring these afflictions on us? We have 
 
 murderei-s 
 Lurking among us. 
 Walf. How ! 
 
 Rav. This moment pass'd me. 
 
 The relative of the Knight, Sir Reginald ; 
 Dying, or dead. 
 Walf. Whose was the act? 
 
 Rav. Whose was 't? 
 
 The act of him, whose every act is crime. 
 The son of this dark woman. 
 Walf. How is it known ? 
 
 Rav. His sword and handkerchief stain'd 
 both with blood. 
 And mark'd with his vile name, were 
 
 found in the wood. 
 He has not Jbeen one day yet in the vil- 
 lage, 
 And lo! these visitations. On the in- 
 stant 
 He must be dealt with. 
 Walf. First for our defence — 
 
 What do you counsel? 
 Rav. Prayer and sacrifice. 
 
 Walf. 'T is too late now, we must take 
 other means. 
 
 {The Villagers enter, exhibiting signs 
 of wild affright.) 
 
 Walf. Hark ye, my friend, have messen- 
 gers been sent 
 To warn the seatter'd settlers round? 
 1st Villa. They have. 
 
 Walf. Why rings not the alarum bell ! 
 1st Villa. I know not, 
 
 Unless the exposed position of the 
 church — 
 Walf. Go, some of you and do it. — 
 Hasten, friends, 
 Seize every man his arms. 
 
 {Exeunt Villagers.) 
 
 Rav. Behold where comes 
 
 In all her pride, one of the moving causes 
 
 Of all this horror — mark with what an 
 
 air. 
 How tranquil and compos'd she looks 
 
 around 
 Upon the growing evil — safe, 'midst the 
 
 fury 
 Of her own tempest. 
 
 {As he speaks; Enter Isabella; the 
 women shrink from her in fear. 
 Alice gazes upon her with interest; 
 Ravensworth fixes his eyes sternly 
 upon her. She remains unmoved.) 
 Walf. Ravensworth, forbear. 
 
 Is this a time. — 
 
 [Enter 2d Villager.) 
 
128 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 Now, friend, what news have you"? 
 2d Villa. They have begun to issue from 
 the wood. — 
 
 {Enter Sir Reginald.) 
 
 Sir R. What is this I hear? the savages 
 approaching- ! 
 Now plague upon this gout ! — But I 've 
 
 an arm left 
 That yet can wield a sword. 
 Walf. Your nephew, Sir, 
 
 May need your care. You 're strange to 
 our wild warfare. 
 Sir R. True ; I 'd forgot poor George. 
 They '11 cut thro' me 
 Before they get a hair of him. {Retires.) 
 
 {Re-enter 1st Vill*ager.) 
 
 Walf. How now? 
 
 1st Villa. We 've rallied at the church ; 
 but want a leader. 
 
 Walf. You shall not want one longer. 
 
 Alice. 0, my father! 
 
 Walf. Heav'n bless you, my dear daugh- 
 ter. Follow me. 
 {Exit Walford, followed hij Vil- 
 lagers. Distant yell. The alarm 
 hell rings, a feiv distant and strag- 
 gling shots heard. Houses at a dis- 
 tance beginning to blaze; — a pause 
 of the hell.) 
 
 Ray. Now, where 's your son ? 
 
 Isa. Gone, Sir, to save your daughter. 
 
 Ray. My daughter ! I 'd forgot. — Is she 
 not here. 
 {Runs wildly around. Bell rings. 
 The shots are nearer and more fre- 
 quent. The blaze increases.) 
 
 Ray. My daughter! where, where 's my 
 daughter ! 
 
 {Enter Charles, hearing Mary.) 
 
 Charles. There, Sir. 
 
 (Rayensworth receives her, and for a 
 moment yields to his paternal feel- 
 ing. But instantly withdraws from 
 Charles with a scowl. Charles, 
 after affectionately recognizing his 
 mother, rushes out. Alice joins 
 Mary; who is prevented from ad- 
 dressing Isabella, by her father's 
 frown. Isabella maintains her dig- 
 nity and composure. Alarm con- 
 tinues, shouts, yells, etc.) 
 
 {The Villagers enter in disorder, followed 
 by Charles and Walford.) 
 
 Charles. One effort more. 
 
 Walf. It is impossible, 
 
 Panic has seiz'd them all and we must 
 perish. 
 {The bell has ceased. A dreadful yell. 
 The Villagers turn and are about 
 to fly in despair, when 
 
 Enter the Unknown.) 
 
 Unk. Turn back for shame — as ye are 
 men, turn back! 
 
 As ye are husbands, fathers, turn, and 
 save 
 
 From death and violation those ye love. — 
 
 If this not move you, as ye are Chris- 
 tian men 
 
 And do believe in God, tempt not his 
 wrath 
 
 By doubting thus his providence. Be- 
 hold 
 
 I am sent to save you. 
 Omnes. Save us, save us. 
 
 Walf. Say, 
 
 What shall we do ; we 're ready to obey 
 thee. 
 Unk. Front then and bear yourselves like 
 men — 'T is well. 
 
 The savage sees us rally; and the pause 
 
 His caution grants, secures us the advan- 
 tage. 
 {He passes rapidly along the line, di- 
 viding them into three bodies. Then 
 addresses Walford and Charles.) 
 
 This band be yours — this yours — Quick, 
 lead them forth. 
 
 And each by a rapid circuit, turn the 
 foe 
 
 By either flank. This will I lead myself 
 
 Against his front — holding him thus in 
 check 
 
 Until I hear the horn sound your ar- 
 rival — 
 
 Then while perplex'd he hesitates be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Rush to the onset all — close on the 
 heathen. 
 
 And shower destruction on him — haste 
 away. 
 {Exeunt Unkxov^n, Walford and 
 Charles, leading their bands.) 
 Isa. How awful is this pause, that but 
 precedes 
 
 The shock that may o'erwhelm us. God, 
 to thee. 
 
 The mother turns. Not for myself, 
 
 Not for my sinful self — ^but for my son — 
 
 My innocent son I plead. Cut him not 
 off 
 
 In the blossom of his days. , 
 Ray. Mark, if the hag 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 129 
 
 Mutter not, even now, her incantations. 
 
 {A few scattering shot heard.) 
 The fronts have met, and from the forest 
 
 coverts, 
 Exchange their cautious fire. 
 
 {A bugle sounds, answered hy another 
 from a different quarter. Shouts, 
 Yells, a general and continued dis- 
 charge of musketry. Shouts and 
 bugles.) 
 Ray. The crisis has arrived — the fire has 
 ceased, 
 And now the closer work of death com- 
 mences. 
 Ascend yon tree, and say what thou ob- 
 servest. 
 
 {To a boy, icho ascends the tree.) 
 Boy. I see them now. The Indians stand 
 dismay'd. 
 We 're pouring now upon them from the 
 
 forest. 
 From every side. — Now, now the Indians 
 
 turn — 
 They meet — they close — they're strug- 
 gling man to man. 
 Sword, knife and tomahawk are glanc- 
 ing. 
 ISA. Heaven ! 
 
 Protect, protect my Charles! 
 Alice. Save my dear father. {Shout.) 
 
 Rav. What shout is that? Hear ye the 
 
 savage yellt 
 Boy. No, no, 't was ours, — we 've con- 
 quer'd — and they come, 
 Dragging their prisoners with them. 
 Here 's my father. 
 
 {Enter 1st Villager shouting "Victory," 
 meets and caresses the boy.) 
 
 {General Shout, Bugles. Enter Wal- 
 FORD, Charles, Villagers, with In- 
 DiA^q- Prisoxers. They arrange 
 themselves on each side; the Indians 
 in the background. Charles flies to 
 his mother, luho sinks on her knees 
 in his embrace. Alice joins her fa- 
 ther, various groups formed. Mary 
 manifests much interest for 
 Charles, who regards her tenderly. 
 Ravexsworth preserves his suspi- 
 cious and reserved demeanour.) 
 
 {Enter the UxKXOWx. He passes down 
 the centre. All gaze on him luith awe, 
 and stretch forth their hands towards 
 him, bending their bodies.) 
 
 UxK. No; not to me this homage — net to 
 man 
 
 Is your this day's deliverance owing. 
 
 There— ^ 
 To heaven address your gratitude. To 
 
 God 
 Stretch forth your hands and raise your 
 
 swimming eyes. 
 Before Jehovah bend your bodies down, 
 And from your humble hearts pour out 
 
 the flood 
 Of Thankfulness. It was his care that 
 
 watch'd 
 His eye that saw; his arm that smote the 
 
 heathen — 
 His be the praise and glory. 
 
 {All bend in adoration. The Ux- 
 
 KXOWN casts a glance at Isabella, 
 
 and exclaims as he goes out,) 
 
 Yes; 'tis she. {Exit Uxkxowx.) 
 {After a short pause, they raise their 
 
 heads and look around anxiously for 
 
 the UxKXOWX".) 
 
 {Enter Sir Reginald.) 
 
 Walf. Has this thing been'? Where is 
 
 he? did he pass you? 
 Sir R. Who? 
 
 Walf. Our mysterious leader — 
 
 Sir R. I saw him not. 
 
 Walf. Was 't an earthly being ? 
 Alice. my father! 
 
 It was not mortal. 
 Charles. In the fight his arm, 
 
 Like the fierce lightning wither'd where 
 it fell. 
 Sir R. You speak of wonders ! 
 Rav. Woman, what think you — 
 
 Was it an angel — or a fiend? 
 Walf. What mean you? 
 
 (Isabella turns from him proudly. 
 Charles represses his anger on ex- 
 changing glances with Mary.) 
 Rav. You '11 know anon. Walf ord, you 
 bleed. {Crosses to Walford.) 
 
 Walf. A trifle. 
 
 Rav. He does not bleed — 
 Walf. I think not ; yet he dar'd 
 
 The thickest of the fight. 
 Rav. Can you not see? 
 
 Do you but mark? 
 Walf. Your meaning is most dark. 
 
 Rav. The murkiest night must fly before 
 the day; 
 Illusion, strong as Hell must yield to 
 
 Truth. 
 You understand me not — No matter — 
 
 come — 
 Let these vile heathens be securely plac'd 
 To await their certain death — then to the 
 temple — 
 
130 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 There, to the Throne of Mercy to pre- 
 sent 
 
 Our sacrifice of prayer and of thanks- 
 giving. 
 {Exeunt Charles, Isabella, and 
 others.) 
 
 END OF ACT THREE. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1.^ Before tlie house of Ravens- 
 worth. 
 
 {Enter Ravensayorth from the house, 
 meeting Walford.) 
 
 Ray. You come in happy time; I would 
 have sought you 
 Walford, my soul is sick, even to death. 
 To look upon the miseries, our sins 
 Bring down upon us. But I am re- 
 
 solv'd ; — 
 This day's events at length have steel'd 
 
 my heart 
 Against the accursed cause; who must 
 
 not longer 
 Pollute, unquestion'd thus, our whole- 
 some air. 
 Walf. You know the cause then? 
 Ray. Who can know this woman, 
 
 This Isabella, and be ignorant ! 
 But she must answer it — the time is 
 
 come; 
 She and her son must answer for their 
 
 deeds. 
 And since my letters to the government 
 Have f ail'd to bring their aid — ourselves, 
 
 my friend, 
 Must call them to the judgment seat. 
 Walf. Not so ; 
 
 Your efforts have been crown'd with sad 
 
 success. 
 Commissioners have even now arriv'd, — 
 I came to let you know it. 
 Ray. Thanks, my friend, 
 
 You make me happ5\ 
 Walf. Happy, Ravensworth ! 
 
 Ray. And should I not rejoice that guilt 
 like theirs 
 Should cease to spread its poison thro' 
 the land? 
 Walf. Where shall we find the evidence 
 
 of guilt ? 
 Ray. The trial shall produce it, doubt it 
 not; 
 Meantime, methinks the general belief 
 
 1 This scene was omitted in the representation. 
 
 In their dark crimes; the universal hor- 
 ror 
 
 Inspir'd e'en by their presence — as if 
 nature 
 
 Shudder'd instinctively at what was mon- 
 strous. 
 
 And hostile to its laws, were, of them- 
 selves, 
 
 A ground to rest the charge on. 
 Walf. Ah, my friend, 
 
 If reason in a mind like yours, so form'd, 
 
 So fortified by knowledge, can bow down 
 
 Before the popular breath, what shall 
 protect 
 
 From the all-with'ring blasts of super- 
 stition 
 
 The unthinking crowd, in whom cre- 
 dulity, 
 
 Is ever the first bom of ignorance? 
 Ray. Walford, what meanest thou by su- 
 perstition ! 
 
 Is there in our religion aught forbidding 
 
 Belief in sorcery! Look Ihro' this land, 
 
 Or turn thine eyes abroad — are not the 
 men 
 
 Most eminent for piety and knowledge — 
 
 The shining lights of a benighted age. 
 
 Are they not, too, believers? 
 Walf. There have been, 
 
 In every age, among the learn'd, divines, 
 
 Statesmen, philosophers, astronomers. 
 
 Who have upheld with much ability, 
 
 The errors they believ'd in. Abstract 
 points 
 
 In science, may be safely tolerated, 
 
 Altho' erroneous — But there may be doc- 
 trines. 
 
 So fatal in their influence, that, until 
 
 Their truth is manifest, 'twere well not 
 cast them. 
 
 With lavish hand, among the multitude..^ 
 Ray. And is not sorcerj^ manifest as day? 
 
 Have not our senses testified unto it? 
 Walf. We have heard infant witnesses 
 aver it, 
 
 And seen them while they seem'd to suf- 
 fer it; 
 
 We have heard wretches in despair con- 
 fess it. 
 
 And have seen helpless creatures perish 
 for it ; 
 
 And yet — 
 Ray. What yet? 
 
 Walf. Ravensworth! these things 
 
 Have happened : on a day of gloom and 
 terror. 
 
 When but to doubt was danger, to deny, 
 death ; 
 
 When childish petulance, e'en idiocy, 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 131 
 
 Were gravely listened to, when mere sus- 
 picion, 
 Could, with a hint destroy, and coward 
 
 malice, 
 With whispers, reach'd at life; when 
 
 frenzy's flame. 
 Like fire in tow, ran thro' the minds of 
 
 men, 
 Fann'd by the breath of those in highest 
 
 places, 
 E'en from the bench, yea, from the sacred 
 
 desk. 
 Rav. Hold, Walford, I have held thee as 
 
 my friend. 
 For many years, beware — 
 Walf. I know thy power 
 
 Over the multitude, but fear it not. 
 I have discharged my duty, fare thee 
 
 well. 
 Rav. Stay, Walford, thou art honest, but 
 
 mistaken. 
 We will dispute no more. But tell me, 
 
 friend. 
 Have the commissioners enquired for me"? 
 Walf. They have. Before they enter on 
 
 their duties. 
 They 'd have thy counsel. 
 Rav. Tliey shall have it straight, 
 
 I '11 go to them at once. 'T is almost 
 
 night — 
 There is no hour to lose, I pray thee, 
 
 Walford, 
 As I may haply, be detain'd abroad. 
 Let thy good Alice stay here with my 
 
 daughter 
 Till my return. 
 Walf. Most willingly. I '11 haste. 
 
 And bring her hither. 
 Rav. Nay, we '11 go together. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. An Apartment at Isabella's. 
 
 {Enter Isabella and Chaeles.) 
 
 IsA. Ungrateful people ! 
 Charles. Had they not presum'd 
 
 To cloud your clear name with their 
 
 viperous breath, 
 I could forgive them. 'T was not for the 
 
 herd 
 I drew my sword. 
 ISA. Unthankful wretches; what! 
 
 Upon the very act that saved their lives, 
 To found a charge that might endanger 
 thine ! 
 Charles. 'T is even so : I am in league, it 
 seemS; 
 
 With fiends, so say their worships; and 
 
 the sti'anger. 
 Is no less, than the prince of fiends him- 
 self. 
 Nothing is too ridiculous for those 
 Whom bigotry has brutaliz'd, I laugh 
 At their most monstrous folly. 
 ISA. But such folly, 
 
 When it infects the crowd, is dangerous. 
 Already we 've had proof what dreadful 
 
 acts 
 Their madness may commit, and each 
 
 new day 
 The frenzy spreads. We are suspected 
 
 too — 
 Then your imprudent duel — my son. 
 We must remove from hence. 
 Charles. Remove, from hence'? 
 
 ISA. Yes ; ere the monsters catch us in the 
 
 toils 
 They are preparing. 
 Charles. Mother, you w^ere wont 
 
 To bear a mind whose firmness could 
 
 resist 
 Your sex's common weaknesses! 
 ISA. I know not 
 
 How it is, Charles, but dark and sad 
 
 forebodings 
 Hang o'er my subdued spirit; and I 
 
 tremble 
 E'en for thy life. 
 Charles. Banish those thoughts, my 
 
 mother. 
 ISA. I try, but cannot. — Yes; we will 
 
 hence; my son. 
 Tho' on the verge, perhaps, of that dis- 
 covery 
 The hope of which has held me here so 
 
 long. 
 We will begone to-morrow. 
 Charles. So soon, mother? 
 
 IsA. You do not wish it. Charles, a 
 
 mother's eye 
 Can penetrate the heart. The gentle 
 
 Mary — 
 She will be left behind — is it not so? 
 But this is boyish, you are yet too young 
 To entertain such fantasies — and then 
 You know her father — sadder still my 
 
 son; 
 Well, we '11 not cross the ocean — we '11 
 
 but seek 
 The nearest spot that is inhabited 
 By rational beings. And besides, your 
 
 youth 
 Will wear a j^ear or two. How say you. 
 
 Charles, 
 Are you contented? 
 Charles. You 're the best of mothers. 
 
132 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 And were my heart strings fasten'd to 
 the spot, 
 
 I 'd with you, tho' they sunder'd. But 
 you spoke 
 
 A moment since, of some discovery 
 
 You were near making: what discovery *? 
 ISA. It was an inadvertence — 
 Charles. Must I never 
 
 Hope to enjoy your confidence'? 
 ISA. Not now — 
 
 Another time, my son. 
 Charles. Another time — 
 
 'T is ever thus you put my questions by. 
 
 Rather forbid me e'er again to ask 
 
 Of what so much concerns me, and I 
 promise 
 
 However hard the task, I will obey you. 
 
 I trust you have ne'er found me disobedi- 
 ent! 
 ISA. You have been all a mother's heart 
 could wish. 
 
 You ask but what you have a right to 
 ask, 
 
 And I have always purposed a fit time — 
 
 When that your age were ripe enough — 
 Charles. Well, mother, 
 
 Has not that time arrived? 
 ISA. Your age, dear Charles, 
 
 Has scarce reach'd manhood yet. 'T is 
 true, your courage, 
 
 Your conduct amidst danger — manly vir- 
 tues, — 
 
 Are well approv'd. Your judgment too 
 — so much, 
 
 A mother may believe and say — is far 
 
 Beyond the years you count. But there 's 
 a quality; 
 
 A virtue it may be, which is the growth 
 
 Only of minds well disciplin'd; which 
 looks 
 
 On human actions with a liberal eye. 
 
 That knows the weakness of the human 
 heart. 
 
 Because it feels it; and will not con- 
 demn 
 
 In others, what itself is conscious of — 
 
 That will not with the tyrant prejudice. 
 
 Without allowance or extenuation, 
 
 Yea, without hearing pass its dreadful 
 sentence. 
 Charles. And am I such a one'?^ thanks 
 to my nature. 
 
 Which I feel is not quite so vile. My 
 breeding, 
 
 1 This passage is confused. It should probably 
 read: Thanks to my nature, 
 
 Which I feel is not so vile, and to my breeding 
 Whicli has been liberal, nay, tlianks to those 
 Who daily here exhibit its deformity, 
 I scorn this monster prejudice. 
 
 Which has been liberal. Nay thanks to 
 
 those 
 Who daily here exhibit its deformity, 
 I scorn this monster prejudice. 
 ISA. And yet— 
 
 Should you — I could not live if you 
 
 should hate me. 
 Charles. Hate you, my mother'? Had 
 
 not all your actions 
 Been, as I 've seen them, noble ; all your 
 
 precepts 
 As I have ever found them, full of good- 
 ness. 
 Could I recall the tenderness you 've 
 
 shewn 
 Towards me, and cease to love you. — 
 
 Never, never! 
 All crimes however great, dwindle to 
 
 atoms 
 Near filial ingratitude; the heart 
 That is that monster's throne, ne'er knew 
 
 a virtue. 
 IsA. Ah! how shall I commence! — What 
 
 would you know. 
 Charles. Why you left England? Why 
 
 in this wilderness. 
 Amidst a race that scorn, that shun and 
 
 loathe us, 
 
 You linger 
 mother ; 
 
 Who is my father"? 
 ISA. Ah ! 
 
 Charles. 
 
 out existence "? Chiefly, 
 
 {Taking her hand.) 
 
 {Turning awag.) 
 
 In our own England, 
 
 At school, among my frank and laugh- 
 ing mates. 
 
 When they have put this question, it was 
 done 
 
 In merry mood, and I could bear it — 
 well — 
 
 Although I could not answer it ; but here, 
 
 mother — to these cold and selfish be- 
 ings, 
 
 Their smooth tongues dipp'd in bitter- 
 ness, their eyes 
 
 Scowling suspicion — what can I reply? 
 IsA. Poor boy, poor boy! Well, Charles, 
 the time is come 
 
 And if my spirits fail not — you shall 
 know all. 
 
 Your father — but I cannot, no, I cannot 
 
 Commence my story there. — I was left, 
 Charles, 
 
 W^ithout a parent's care, just at that age 
 
 That needs it most. I had ne'er known 
 my mother. 
 
 And was scarce fifteen when my father's 
 fate 
 
 Forc'd him to abandon child and home 
 and country; 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 133 
 
 For lie had been a patriot, as be deemed 
 
 it, 
 Or, as bis destiny decreed, a traitor. — 
 He tied to this new world. 
 Charles. Does be yet livef 
 
 ISA. Alas! I know not, rumours came to 
 England 
 That be survived. It was to find my 
 
 fatber. 
 And on my knees implore bis benedic- 
 tion ; — 
 Haply, sbould be forgive, to minister 
 Unto bis age's comfort — I came bitber. 
 Charles. 'T is strange, if living, be sbould 
 seek concealment, 
 After tbe general amnesty. 
 ISA. 0! Charles; 
 
 He was excepted in that act of mercy ; 
 He bad done that, tbe king might never 
 pardon. 
 Charles. Unhappy man ! 
 ISA. Most true, — But let me haste 
 
 To close my dark recital. I was plac'd 
 In charge of a kinsman — a perfidious 
 
 villain 
 Whose avarice sold, betray'd me. — my 
 
 son. 
 It is not fit thy ears sbould bear tbe tale, 
 And from my lips. I wept, implor'd, re- 
 sisted — 
 Riches and pleasure tempted me in vain 
 Coupled with shame. But hellish craft 
 
 at length 
 Triumph'd over credulous vanity — The 
 
 altar 
 Was made tbe scene of sacrilegious mock- 
 ery, 
 Tbe holy vestments of the priest, became 
 A profane masking habit — 
 Charles. Power of Justice ! 
 
 Could you behold this and forbear to 
 strike ! 
 ISA. The illusion vanisb'd, and I fled, I fled 
 
 In horror and in madness. 
 Charles. Dreadful, dreadful! 
 
 ISA. It was thy birth that sav'd me from 
 destruction — 
 I had thee to live for, and I liv'd; deep 
 
 bid 
 In solitude, under an assum'd name, 
 Thou wer't rear'd, Charles, amidst thy 
 mother's tears. 
 Charles. An assum'd name — in solitude 
 — Shame, shame! 
 Why not unmask the villain to the world, 
 And boldly challenge what was yours"? 
 ISA. His rank — 
 
 Charles. No rank sbould shield injustice. 
 Quick, inform me 
 
 Who was tbe wretch? Give me tbe vil- 
 lain's name. 
 ISA. He was thy fatber, Charles. 
 Charles. In the sight of Heaven 
 
 I here disclaim and curse — 
 IsA. Forbear, forbear — 
 
 Or curse me too — 
 Charles. His name, his name — 
 
 ISA. You will destroy me! 
 
 {She falls into his arms.) 
 Charles. What have I done? I will be 
 calm — forgive me. 
 
 {Enter Lucy.) 
 
 Lucy. A person from the village, madam, 
 asks 
 
 To be admitted to your presence. 
 IsA. How ! 
 
 Does be declare bis business? 
 Lucy. He declines it, 
 
 Until he see yourself. 
 ISA. Admit him, Lucy. 
 
 {Exit Lucy.) 
 
 Charles. Madam, you tremble still, let 
 
 me support you. 
 IsA. No; I must learn to overcome this 
 
 weakness. 
 
 {Enter Messenger.) 
 
 Now, Sir, I 'm she you ask for — to your 
 business. 
 ]\Iess. My business is with both. ' You, 
 Isabella 
 And Charles, surnam'd Fitzroy, are cited 
 
 both. 
 By a commission of the government. 
 To attend them at their session on the 
 
 morrow 
 At nine in the morning. 
 Charles. And to what purpose? 
 
 Mess. That 
 
 You'll learn from them, farewell. 
 
 {Exit Messenger.) 
 
 Charles. Why farewell, gravity. 
 
 IsA. What can this mean? 
 Charles. They do not know themselves. 
 IsA. I fear I 've been too tardy. 
 Charles. Nay, 'tis nothing. 
 
 To question us, perhaps, upon our means. 
 
 And pack us from the parish, nothing 
 more. 
 
 But, madam, you were interrupted, ere 
 
 I learn'd the name — 
 ISA. Not at this moment, Charles. 
 
 Charles. Well then, enough of sorrow for 
 to-day — 
 
 I v/ill return anon, and laugh with you 
 
134 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 At the absurdities of these strange peo- 
 ple. 
 At supper we '11 discuss our plans for the 
 
 future. 
 We may be happy yet. — 
 ISA. But whither go you? 
 
 Charles. I ought to visit him I wounded, 
 madam, 
 And perhaps I may gather in the village, 
 Something that may concern us — and per- 
 haps — 
 ISA. Well do not be long absent; it is 
 
 night. 
 Charles. I will not, madam: I shall soon 
 return. 
 
 {Exit Charles.) 
 
 ISA. He does not feel the danger, his frank 
 spirit, 
 His careless youth, disdains it. We must 
 
 fly.- 
 
 {Enter Lucy.) 
 
 Bid Edward, with all speed, prepare the 
 
 horses. 
 Then follow to my chamber. We must 
 
 prepare 
 In all haste, for a journey — 
 Lucy. Madam, a journey — 
 
 To-night"? 
 IsA. To-night: it is most necessary. So, 
 bid Edward 
 Be secret. 
 Lucy. He is here. 
 
 Edw. {Within.) You cannot pass. 
 
 {Enter Edward.) 
 
 IsA. What noise is this*? 
 
 Edw. Madam, in spite of me 
 
 They press into your presence. 
 ISA. We are lost ! 
 
 {Enter several Officers.) 
 
 1st. Officer. For that we do we have 
 
 sufficient warrant. 
 ISA. What means this rudeness? 
 1st Officer. Answer; where 's your 
 
 son? 
 ISA. He is not in the house. 
 1st Officer. {To attendants who go out.) 
 
 Go you, make search. 
 ISA. Again I ask, what is your business 
 
 here? 
 1st Officer. Read {hands her a paper). 
 ISA. Gracious Heav'n ! Is this the charge 
 
 against us! 
 But why this second visit ! we are cited 
 To answer in the morning. 
 
 1st Officer. But the judges 
 
 Have chang'd their mind. Your chamber 
 
 is your prison 
 'Til you are sent for. We '11 attend you 
 thither. 
 IsA. But one word with my servant — 
 1st Officer. Not one word; 
 
 It is forbidden, come — 
 IsA. My son, my son! {She exchanges 
 significant looks with Lucy, and Exit 
 guarded. ) 
 Lucy. I understand {going.) 
 2nd Officer. And so do we — our duty. 
 
 You are not to stir hence, nor hold dis- 
 course 
 One with another. Lead them in — away. 
 {Officers lead off Lucy, and Edward.) 
 
 Scene 3. Before the house of Ravens- 
 worth 
 
 {Enter Mary from house.) 
 
 He does not come. I do not wish it, 
 sure — 
 
 At least I ought not. But has he for- 
 gotten ?— 
 
 That is impossible. — Perhaps he fears — 
 
 no! Charles never fears — should he 
 
 not come — 
 
 1 ought to hope he could not — ah! a 
 
 figure. 
 Stealing between the trees — should it be 
 
 he: 
 But may it not be a stranger! ah, let me 
 
 fly: 
 
 {Exit, into the house.) 
 {Enter Charles cautiously.) 
 
 'T was she, her white robe, emblem of her 
 innocence. 
 
 Dispels the darkness of the libertine 
 night. 
 
 And all around her 's purity and bright- 
 ness. 
 
 She is alone. As I pass'd thro' the vil- 
 lage 
 
 I learn'd her father was in council 
 there. — 
 
 She is alone and unprotected quite — 
 
 She loves me and confides in me — be that, 
 
 Tho' passion mount to madness, her pro- 
 tection. 
 
 The door is f asten'd, right ; a common 
 guest 
 
 Comes by a common passage — there are 
 posterns 
 
 And wicUets for the lover. Let me try, 
 
 {Exit behind the house.) 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 135 
 
 Scene 4. A chamber; a window in the flat; 
 a light burning near the window. 
 
 Mary discovered, a book in her hand. 
 
 I cannot read, — my thoughts are all con- 
 fusion, 
 If it be he, will he not think the light 
 Was plae'd designedly. I will remove it. 
 {Goes towards the window, starts on 
 Charles appearing at it.) 
 Charles. Be not alarm'd, my Mary: it 
 
 is I. 
 Mary. Charles, how could you"? — 
 Charles. How could I refrain 
 
 When that the beacon light so fairly 
 
 blaz'd 
 From steering to this haven? 
 Mary. There ! I f ear'd 
 
 You would presume to think — 
 Charles. But I think nothing — 
 
 Presume, know nothing, but that thou, 
 
 my Mary, 
 Art the divinest creature on the earth 
 And I the happiest — my best, my dear- 
 est, 
 That thou might'st live forever near this 
 
 heart ; 
 And why not there forever! What pre- 
 vents it, 
 What can — what shall"? My beauteous, 
 my beloved. 
 Mary. No more; 
 
 This warmth alarms me — hear me, 
 
 Charles — 
 I've given to thee my heart and maiden 
 
 vow, 
 0, be content — and — leave me — 
 Charles. Leave thee, Love'? 
 
 Mary. Before you teach me to despise my- 
 self; 
 Ere you yourself despise me. 
 Charles. Have I, Mary, 
 
 Have I deserv'd that from thee? Lo, 
 
 I 'm calm — 
 And gaze upon thee as the pilgrim looks 
 Upon the shrine he kneels at; the pure 
 
 stars 
 Look not on angels with a holier light. 
 Mary. I do believe you, Charles — but 
 this meeting. 
 So rash, so — 
 Charles. 'T was presumptuous in me, 
 Mary, 
 I do confess it. 
 Mary. Still you mistake me, Charles, 
 
 I do not say, I did not wish you here — 
 Yet I must wish you gone. It is so 
 wrong — 
 
 I am so much to blame — 
 Charles. ' I will not stay. 
 
 To give you pain. 
 Mary. But do not go in anger — 
 
 Charles. Anger ! at you ! 
 Mary. A happier time will come — 
 
 Each moment now is full of peril, 
 
 Charles ; 
 My father may return, and should he find 
 you!— 
 Charles. One word and I will leave you. 
 You will hear. 
 To-morrow, that we 've left this place for 
 ever. 
 Mary. How, Charles? 
 Charles. My mother has resolv'd to fly 
 The persecutions that surround her here 
 And we depart to-morrow — if we may — 
 For we 're already cited — 
 Mary. Heav'ns ! for what ? 
 
 Charles. It can be nothing surely. But, 
 dear Maiy, 
 Tho' absent, ah remember there is one 
 Who lives for you alone. 
 Mary. Charles, can you doubt it? 
 
 Charles. And should there, Mary, should 
 there come an hour 
 Propitious to our loves; secure and 
 
 safe — 
 Suspicion dead, her eye, nor ear to mark 
 
 us — 
 And should the lover that adores .you, 
 
 Mary, 
 Appear at that blest hour, with certain 
 
 means 
 To bear you far from cruelty and slav'ry. 
 To love and happiness? — 
 Mary. No more, no more — 
 
 Charles. Would you consent? 
 Mary. tempt me not to sin — 
 
 'T would break my father's heart — 
 Charles. Give me your promise. 
 
 {Enter Ravensworth, Walford, 
 Alice.) 
 
 Mary. {Observing her father.) Unhand 
 me, oh unhand me — Father, father! 
 {Faints in Charles' arms.) 
 Rav. Thy father's here to save thee, hap- 
 less girl. 
 And hurl confusion on thy base betrayer. 
 Charles. {Attending only to Mary.) 
 
 She 's dead, she 's dead ! 
 Ray. Haste, tear her from his arms 
 
 Ere the pollution of his touch destroy 
 her. 
 
 (Alice and Walford convey Mary 
 out.) 
 
136 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 Charles. And have I killed her! {gazing 
 
 after her.) 
 Rav. Wretch, and do you mourn 
 
 Over the clay, that would have kill'd the 
 
 soul? 
 
 {Re-enter Walford.) 
 
 Walf. She has revived, and calls for thee, 
 
 my friend, 
 Charles. She lives, she lives! Then I 
 
 defy my fate. 
 Rav. Outcast from Heav'n, thy doom is 
 near at hand. 
 Walford, we '11 strait convey him to the 
 
 church, 
 Where by this time the judges have as- 
 sembled. 
 To try his sinful mother. 
 Charles. How ? my mother ! 
 
 And have ye laid your sacrilegious hands 
 Upon my mother? 
 Rav. Silence wretched youth. 
 
 I will but see my daughter — meantime 
 
 Walford, 
 Guard well your prisoner. 
 Charles. Guard me! heartless father, 
 
 That feelest not the ties of blood and 
 
 nature — 
 Think you, at such an hour, I 'd quit my 
 mother ? 
 
 {Exeunt Ravensworth, Charles and 
 Walford. ) 
 
 end of act four. 
 
 ACT FIVE. 
 
 Scene 1. A Wood. {Stage dark.) 
 
 {Enter the UNKNO^VN.) 
 
 At length, unseen by human eye, I 've 
 
 gain'd 
 Her neighbourhood. The village lies be- 
 fore me ; 
 And on the right rises the eminence 
 On which she dwells — She dwells! who 
 
 dwells? heart 
 Hold till thou art assur'd. Such were 
 
 the features. 
 The stately form of her, whose cherish'd 
 
 image. 
 Time spares my widow'd heart, fresh and 
 
 unchang'd. — 
 I must be satisfied. — The night has 
 
 fallen 
 Murky and thick; and in the western 
 
 Heavens, 
 
 The last of day was shrouded in the folds 
 Of gathering clouds, from whose dark 
 
 confines come, 
 At intervals, faint flashes, and the voice 
 Of muttering thunder: there will be a 
 
 storm. 
 How is it that I feel, as never yet 
 I felt before, the threatening elements; 
 My courage is bow'd down and cowers, as 
 
 though 
 The lowering canopy would fall in 
 
 streams 
 Of death and desolation. Dark portents, 
 Hence ! There 's a Heaven beyond the 
 
 tempest's scope. 
 Above the clouds of death. Wing your 
 
 flight thither. 
 Thoughts — hopes, desires; there is your 
 
 resting place. {Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. The interior of the Church. 
 {Arranged as a Hall of Justice.) Pas- 
 sages lead to doors on each side of the 
 desk. The Judges seated at the desk. 
 Charles stands on the left, near thi? 
 Judges. Isabella nearer the front; on 
 the same side Ravensworth, Walford, 
 Mary, and Alice; on the opposite side, 
 Villagers, Officers, etc. 
 
 Judge. Ye have heard the charge — but ere 
 ye answer to it 
 Bethink ye well. Confession may do 
 
 much 
 To save you from the penalty; or miti- 
 gate 
 Your punishment. Denial must. deprive 
 
 you 
 Of every hope of mercy. — Answer then — 
 And first, j^ou, madam. 
 ISA. Sorcery! Gracious Heaven! 
 
 Is it necessary, in this age of light, 
 And before men and Christians, I should 
 
 deny 
 A charge so monstrous! 
 Judge. Answer to the question. 
 
 ISA. We are not guilty then; so aid us 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Judge. S[)eak for yourself alone. Will 
 you disclose 
 Who — what 3'e are? 
 IsA. I am a gentlewoman- 
 
 JNlore I cannot disclose. 
 Jl'dge. Say, wherefore, madam, 
 
 You came among us? 
 IsA. Sir, I came to seek 
 
 A father. 
 Judge. Who is he ? 
 
 ISA. I dare not name him* 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 13< 
 
 Rav. Mark yon, how she prevaricates? 
 Judge. What evidence 
 
 Have you against this woman*? 
 Ray. Ye all remember 
 
 The terror and despair that fill'd each 
 
 bosom 
 When the red comet, signal of Heaven's 
 
 wrath, 
 Shook its portentous fires above our 
 
 heads. 
 Ye all have seen, and most of ye have 
 
 felt 
 The afflictions which this groaning land 
 
 is vex'd with — 
 Our smiling fields withered by blight and 
 
 blast. 
 The fruitful earth parch'd into eddying 
 
 dust, — 
 On our fair coast the strewings of wreck'd 
 
 commerce ; 
 In town and city, fire and pestilence, 
 And famine, walking their destroying 
 
 rounds — 
 Our peaceful villages, the scene of slaugh- 
 ter. 
 Echoing the savage yell, and frenzied 
 
 shriek 
 Of maid and matron, or the piercing wail 
 Of widows and of orphans — 
 Judge. We deplore 
 
 The evils you recite; but what avails 
 Their repetition here; and how do they 
 Affect the cause in question? 
 Rav. Shall we forget 
 
 That worldly pride and irreligious light- 
 ness, 
 Are the provoking sins, which our grave 
 
 synod 
 Have urg'd us to root out ? Turn then to 
 
 her, 
 Swelling with earth-born vanitj^, to her 
 Who scorns religion, and its meek pro- 
 fessors ; 
 And, to this hour — until compell'd, ne'er 
 
 stood 
 Within these holy walls. 
 Judge. Yet this is nothing, 
 
 Touching the charge against her — ^you 
 
 must be 
 Less vague and general. Produce your 
 
 proofs. 
 Rav. There are two witnesses at hand; her 
 
 servants — 
 Who have confess'd she had prepared to 
 
 . fly 
 
 This very night — a proof most clear and 
 
 potent 
 Of conscious guilt. But why refer to 
 
 this ! 
 
 Each one that hears me is a witness of it, 
 
 It is the village horror. Call, at random, 
 
 One from the crowd, and mark if he will 
 dare 
 
 To doubt the thing I speak of. 
 Judge. 'T must not be. 
 
 Nor can we listen further. 
 IsA. I beseech you 
 
 Let him proceed; let him endeavour still, 
 
 To excite the passions of his auditors; 
 
 It will but shew how weak he deems his 
 proof 
 
 Who lays such stress on prejudice. I 
 fear not. 
 
 But I can answer all his accusations. — 
 
 If I intended flight — need I remind you 
 
 Of what your fathers — what yourselves 
 have done? 
 
 It was not conscious guilt bade them or 
 you 
 
 Escape from that, was felt was persecu- 
 tion — 
 
 If I have thought the manner of my wor- 
 ship 
 
 A matter between Heaven and my con- 
 science. 
 
 How can ye blame me, who in caves and 
 rocks 
 
 Shunning the church, offer'd your secret 
 prayers ? 
 
 Or does my state offend? Habit and 
 taste 
 
 May make some difference, and humble 
 things 
 
 Seem great to those more humble; yet I 
 have used 
 
 My little wealth in benefits. Your saints 
 
 Climb'd to high places — Cromwell to the 
 highest — 
 
 As the sun seeks the eminence from w^hich 
 
 He can diffuse his beams most bounte- 
 ously. 
 Rav. The subtle jDower she serves does not 
 withhold 
 
 The aid of sophistiy. 
 Isa. I pray my judges 
 
 To shield me from the malice of this 
 man, 
 
 And bring me to the trial. I will meet 
 it, 
 
 As it concerns myself with firm indiffer- 
 ence ; 
 
 But as it touches him w%om I exist in, 
 
 With hope that my acquittal shall dis- 
 solve 
 
 The fetters of my son. 
 Rav. (Aside.) That must not be. 
 
 Judge. Bring forth your proofs, and let 
 the cause proceed. 
 
138 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 Rav. Perhaps it is the wealviiess of the 
 father 
 Prompts the suggestion — But I have be- 
 thought me, 
 It were most tit this youth should first be 
 
 dealt with, 
 'Gainst whom there are a host of wit- 
 nesses 
 Ready to testify — unless his actions, 
 Obvious and known, are proof enough — 
 
 his life 
 Which is a course of crime and profli- 
 
 g'aey, 
 Ending, with contemplated rape and mur- 
 der. 
 ISA. What do I hear? 
 Judge. How say you? rape and murder ! 
 Rav. The victim of his bloody purpose 
 lingers 
 Upon the verge of death — Here are the 
 
 proofs 
 That point out the assassin! (Showing 
 the sword and handkerchief, which 
 are held hi/ a Villager who is stand- 
 ing near him.) For the violence — 
 Myself, my daughter here — 
 Mary. father, father! 
 
 Judge. These things are terrible. But you 
 forget. 
 They are not now the charge. 
 Rav. What matters it, 
 
 Whether by hellish arts of sorceiy 
 He wrought upon the maiden, — or with 
 
 force 
 Attempted violation — Let him answer — 
 Denying one, he but admits the other. 
 Judge. Bid him stand forth. We wait 
 
 your answer, youth. 
 Charles. You wait in vain — I shall not 
 
 plead. 
 Judge. Not plead! 
 
 Rav. [Aside.) This is beyond my hopes. 
 ISA. Charles, my son ! 
 
 Judge. What do you mean ? 
 Charles. Simply, sir, that I will not 
 
 Place myself on my trial here. 
 Judge. Your reason? 
 
 Do you question then the justice of the 
 court? 
 Rav. He does, no doubt he does. 
 Charles. However strong 
 
 Might be the ground for question — 't is 
 
 not that 
 Determines me to silence. 
 Judge. If you hope 
 
 To purchase safety by this contumacy; 
 'T is fit you be aware that clinging there. 
 You may pull ruin on your head. 
 Charles. I know 
 
 The danger I incur, but dare to meet it. 
 ISA. Charles, reflect — 
 Charles. Mother my soul is fixed; 
 
 They shall not call yon maiden to the bar. 
 Tremble not, weep not, pure and timid 
 
 soul, 
 They shall not question thee. 
 Rav. Hence with thy spells — 
 
 Take thine eyes off my child, ere her weak 
 
 frame 
 Yield to the charm she shakes with — 
 hence I say ! 
 (Mary attempts to speak, hut is pre- 
 vented hy her Father.) 
 Judge. Prisoner, attend: at once inform 
 the court 
 Of all you know concerning the strange 
 
 being. 
 Who, like a supernatural visitant, 
 Appear'd this day among us. What con- 
 nexion 
 Subsists between you? 
 Charles. None. I know him not. 
 
 Rav. And yet this morning, ere the dawn 
 had broken. 
 They were both seen together in the for- 
 est. 
 Holding mysterious converse. Here's a 
 
 witness 
 Who will avouch the fact; and that the 
 
 stranger 
 With the first day-beam, vanished from 
 his sight. 
 Isa. {Aside.) He never told me this. 
 
 Can he have met him? 
 Judge. Look on these things. They are 
 mark'd with your name. 
 And stain'd with blood. They were 
 
 found near the spot 
 
 Where a poor wretch lay bleeding. Can 
 
 you explain it? ^ 
 
 Charles. They are mine — I do confess it. 
 
 I encountered 
 
 A person near that spot, and wounded 
 
 him 
 In honourable duel. Nothing more 
 Can I explain. 
 Mary. {Struggling.) father, let me 
 
 speak. 
 Rav. Silence! Now answer me, and let 
 the powers 
 Of darkness, that sustain you in your 
 
 pride. 
 Yield and abandon you unto your fate. 
 Did you not robber like, this night break 
 
 in 
 My unguarded house, and there, with 
 
 ruffian force 
 Attempt the honour of this maiden? 
 
JAMES NELSON BARKER 
 
 139 
 
 IsA. Heaven ! 
 
 Rav. D' ye hesitate ! you dare not answer 
 nay. 
 
 For here are witnesses to your confu- 
 sion, 
 
 Who saw you clasp her in your vile em- 
 brace, 
 
 And heard her shrieks for help. Nay, 
 here 's the maiden, 
 
 Who will herself aver it. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Father, father ! 
 
 Rav. Come forth, my child. 
 
 [Attempting to lead her forward.) 
 
 Charles. Forbear ! it shall not need. 
 
 Rav. Do you confess *? 
 
 Charles. What e'er you will. 
 
 ISA. 'T is past. 
 
 (Mary faints in the arms of Alice.) 
 
 Rav. Hear ye tliis, Judges ! People, hear 
 
 ye this? {Storm commences.) 
 
 And why do we delay! His doom were 
 
 death, 
 Disdaining as he has to make his plea 
 To the charge of sorcery. Now, his full 
 
 confession. 
 Which ye have heard, dooms him a second 
 time. 
 {Storm increases; Thunder and Light- 
 ning. ) 
 Then why do ye delay *? The angry 
 
 Heavens — 
 Hark, how they chide in thunder ! Mark 
 their lightnings. 
 {The storm rages; the Judges rise; all 
 is confusion; the people and two offi- 
 cers gather around Charles; officers 
 seize him.) 
 ISA. Save him! Heaven! As ye are 
 
 men, have mercy! 
 Rav. No; not beneath this roof: among 
 the tombs. 
 Under the fury of the madden'd sky; 
 Fit time and place ! 
 Charles. {As they are dragging him out.) 
 
 Mary ; my mother ! Mary ! 
 IsA. My son ! 
 
 {Leans nearly fainting in Lucy's 
 arms.) 
 Mary. {Reviving.) Who calls me'? 
 
 Ah! What would ye do'? 
 He 's innocent — he 's mj'- betroth'd — my 
 
 husband ! 
 He came with m^y consent — he 's inno- 
 cent ! 
 Rav. Listen not to her ; 't is his hellish 
 magic 
 Speaks in her voice — away! 
 Mary. Charles, my Charles! — 
 
 {She faints.) 
 
 {They bear Charles out. The storm 
 continues.) 
 Rav. It is accomplish'd. 
 
 {Enter the Unknown.) 
 
 Unk. What? what is accomplish'd'? 
 
 Rav. Who 'rt thou that ask'st ? 
 Unk. Nay, answer me. They tell 
 
 Of dreadful deeds ye are performing 
 
 here. — 
 How 's this ! Has death been here among 
 you"? 
 Rav. Yes, 
 
 Whatever thou may 'st be, death has been 
 
 here 
 Guided by Heaven's vengeance. 
 Unk. Who is this*? 
 
 'T is she, 't is she ! Dost know me, Isa- 
 bella'? 
 IsA. Is it not — •? 
 
 Unk. 'Tis thy father. 
 
 IsA. Father, father! 
 
 Have I then found thee! But my son! 
 my son ! 
 Unk. Unhappy child, be calm — I know 
 thy story. 
 And do forgive and bless thee. 
 ISA. Thanks, my father. — 
 
 {Struggling to speak.) 
 But— 
 Unk. What means this'? 
 IsA. 0, for a moment's strength — 
 
 Haste — haste — they murder him^— my 
 son — 
 Unk. Thy son, 
 
 0, where? 
 IsA. There — there — Heaven ! it is too 
 late! 
 {They enter with a Bier, carrying 
 Charles. The Unknown leads 
 Isabella slowly towards it.) 
 
 {Enter Sir Reginald.) 
 
 Sir R. fatal tardiness! and yet I came 
 The instant that I learned it. Bloody 
 
 monsters ! 
 How will ye answer this*? Behold these 
 
 papers. 
 They're from the king! They bid me 
 
 seek a lady, 
 Nam'd Isabella, whom he espoused in 
 
 secret 
 And her son Charles Fitzroy — And is it 
 
 thus — 
 
 {Enter George Egerton, pale and 
 weak.) 
 
 George, look there! 
 George. 0, brave, unhappy youth ! 
 
140 
 
 SUPER STTTTON 
 
 My generous foe, my honourable con- 
 queror ! 
 Mary. (Reviving.) Nay, ye shall not de- 
 tain me — I will go. 
 
 And tell them all. Before I could not 
 speak 
 
 My father held me here fast by the 
 throat. 
 
 Why will you hold me*? they will murder 
 hira — 
 
 Unless I speak for him. He spoke for 
 me — 
 
 He sav'd my honour ! Ah ! what 's here *? 
 Heaven! 
 
 'T is he — is he asleep'? — No, it is not 
 he.— 
 
 I 'd think 't were he, but that his eyes 
 are swolFn 
 
 Out of their sockets — and his face is 
 black 
 
 With settled blood. — It is a murder'd man 
 
 You 've brought me to — and not my 
 Charles — my Charles! 
 
 He was so young and lovely. — Soft, soft, 
 soft! 
 
 Now I remember. — They have made you 
 look so. 
 
 To fright me from your love. It will not 
 do— 
 
 I know you well enough — I know those 
 lips 
 
 Tho' I have never touch'd them. There, 
 love, there, 
 
 It is our nuptial kiss. They shall not 
 cheat us — 
 
 Hark in thine ear, how we will laugh at 
 them. 
 {Leans her head down on the body, as 
 if ivhispering.) 
 Sir R. Alas ! poor maniac. 
 
 (Isabella wlio, supported by her 
 father, had been bending over the 
 body in mute despair, is now sink- 
 ing.) 
 UxK. Daughter — Isabella — 
 
 IsA. Father — {Looking up in his face.) 
 UxK. You will not leave me, Isabella ? 
 
 ISA. I would remain to comfort you, my 
 father. 
 
 But there 's a tightness here. — For nine- 
 teen years 
 
 He was my only stay on earth — my good, 
 My duteous son. Ere I found thee, my 
 
 father. 
 The cord was snapp'cl — Forgive me — 
 (Isabella falls^ and is received in the 
 arms of Lucy.) 
 UxK. Bless thee, child — 
 
 I will not linger long behind thee. 
 
 {Storm subsides.) 
 
 Sir R. Sir, 
 
 If you 're that lady's father, I have here 
 
 A pardon for you from the king. 
 
 UxK. I thank him ; 
 
 But it is now too late. — She 's gone. — 
 
 The world 
 Has nothing left for me — deep in the 
 
 wilderness, 
 I '11 seek a grave, unknown, unseen by 
 man. — 
 Walf. How fares your hapless friend? 
 Alice. Her cold cheek rests 
 
 Against his cheek — not colder — 
 Walf. Place your hand 
 
 Upon her heart : is there no beating 
 there ? 
 Alice. There is no beating there — She 's 
 
 dead ! 
 Rav. Dead, dead ! — 
 
 (Ravensworth, ivho thro' this scene^ 
 had shewn the signs of stern and set- 
 tled despair, occasionally casting his 
 eyes upon his daughter, or raising 
 them to Heaven, but withdrawing 
 them again in utter hopelessness, now 
 sinks groaning into the arms of 
 Walford. Isabella is on her knees, 
 on the upper side of the bier, leaning 
 on Lucy. The Uxkxown, with his 
 hands clasp'd, bends over his daugh- 
 ter. Alice is kneeling at the side 
 of her friend. Sir Reginald and 
 George Egertox stand near the head 
 of the bier. Lucy and Edward be- 
 hind their mistress. The back 
 ground filled up by the Judges, Vil- 
 lagers, etc. The Curtaix falls 
 amidst a burst of the Storm, accom- 
 panied by Thunder and Lights 
 ning.) 
 
CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 BY 
 
 John Howard Payne 
 
CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 Charles the Second illustrates the Comedy of Manners and represents the 
 influence of the French stage upon ours. It is the brightest and the most finished 
 of Payne's comedies. 
 
 John Howard Payne was born in New York City, June 9, 1791. He was 
 brought up in Boston, and was carefully educated under the direction of his 
 father, the head of a school. By the age of thirteen he had decided to go upon 
 the stage and was sent into a mercantile house in New York City by his parents 
 to cure him of the desire. He found time, however, to publish the Thespian 
 Mirror, from December 28, 1805, to May 31, 1806, which contained dramatic 
 criticism of a fair character. He also wrote his first play, Julia or The Wanderer, 
 performed at the Park Theatre on February 7, 1806, and printed in the same 
 year. He seems to have been a charming as well as a precocious youth, and 
 through the interest of friends, especially John E. Seaman, he was sent to Union 
 College, where he remained from July, 1806, to November, 1808, as a private 
 pupil preparing to enter the Sophomore Class, under President Nott's instruc- 
 tion. Owing to a misunderstanding with his patron but also prompted by his 
 continued desire to act, Payne made his debut on February 24, 1809, as ''Young 
 Norval" in Home's play of Douglas, at the old Park Theatre in New York. He 
 acted also in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Washington and other cities in 1809 and 
 in 1811 and 1812. He had not been, however, as successful as he desired and 
 in 1813 he welcomed an opportunity to go abroad for a year's study and travel. 
 He did not return to this country till 1832, when his activities among the 
 Indians and later his consulship at Tunis from 1842 to 1845 lie outside of our 
 special interest. He died April 9, 1852, at Tunis. 
 
 Payne Vv^rote or adapted over sixty plays. Much of his work consisted in 
 translation from the French drama of his own time, or in the adaptation of 
 English plays. His historical tragedy of Brutus, for example, played first at 
 Drury Lane, London, December 3, 1818, is, according to his own statement, a 
 compound of seven earlier plays on the same theme. 
 
 In domestic tragedy, his play of Richelieu or the Broken Heart is of con- 
 siderable merit, although it is not original, being based on La Jeunesse de 
 Richelieu, of Alexandre Duval. It was played first at Drury Lane, February, 
 1826, and was performed frequently in this country as The Bankrupt's Wife. 
 In comedy, Charles II is representative. Payne wrote most frequently, however, 
 a form of melodrama, such as Therese, or the Orphan of Geneva, produced first 
 
 143 
 
144 INTRODUCTION 
 
 at Drury Lane, February 2, 1821. Forrest frequently acted "Carwin" in 
 this play. Clari, or the Maid of Milan, an opera, derives its interest chiefly from 
 the fact that it contains the song of "Home, Sweet Home.'' It was first played 
 at Covent Garden, May 8, 1823, and at the Park Theatre, New York, November 
 12, 1823. 
 
 Charles the Second or The Merry Monarch was first played at the Theatre 
 Koyal, Covent Garden, London, May 27, 1824. It was acted at the Park Theatre, 
 New York, October 25, 1824. 
 
 The comedy is of especial interest on account of Washington Irving 's joint 
 authorship in it. Irving collaborated more than once with Payne but insisted 
 on his share being concealed. In The Life and Letters of Washington Irving 
 by Pierre Irving (1883), an account is given of Irving 's sending the manuscript 
 to Payne, in November, 1823, after having revised it and added to it some new 
 ideas. The idea of ' ' Captain Copp ' ' constantly trying to sing a song, and never 
 being able to complete it, was conceived by Irving to meet the English taste for 
 broad fun. In the introduction by Payne in the edition of 1824 he refers to the 
 literary friend to whom he is '^indebted for invaluable touches." 
 
 The work of both authors had as a model, a French play. La Jeunesse de 
 Henri V, by Alexandre Duval (1760-1838), one of the leading dramatists 
 of France at the time. Duval's play, performed at the Theatre-Frangais, June 
 9, 1806, which was one of his most successful efforts, was in its turn based on 
 another, Charles II en certain lieu, by Mercier, and, according to Duval, even 
 this was based on an earlier English play. Duval was forced by the censor 
 to change his hero from Charles II to Henry V of England, with consequent 
 anachronisms. Payne restored the rightful king to his own, but took the main 
 plot from Duval and even the names of the principal characters are the same, 
 with the exception of that of the heroine, who is "Betty'' in the original. The 
 dialogue at times follows the original though never slavishly and at times it 
 differs radically, especially in the first and last Acts. 
 
 John Howard Payne, Dramatist, Poet, Actor and Author of ^^Honie Sweet 
 Home!'' by Gabriel Harrison, revised ed. Philadelphia, 1885, is the standard 
 life of Payne. The Early Life of John Howard Payne, by W. T. Hanson, Boston, 
 1913, is valuable for the first period of Payne's life. His important plays have 
 frequently been reprinted. Charles II, Brutus, Therese, Love in Humhle Life, 
 Peter Smink, The Two Galley Slaves, Mrs. Smith, or the Wife and the Widoiv, 
 'T was I, or the Truth a Lie, can still be obtained in the Samuel French 
 series. For a complete Bibliography by the present editor, see the Cambridge 
 History of American Literature. La Jeunesse de Henri V can be found in 
 CEuvres Completes d' Alexandre Duval, Paris, 1822, Vol. 6. 
 
 The present edition of Charles II is a reprint of the rare London edition of 
 1824, which differs from the American reprints and is a better text. 
 
CHARLES THE SECONJ> ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MERRY MONARCH. 
 
 A COMEDY, 
 
 IN THREE ACTS, 
 
 (wiTtt SOME songs): 
 
 IFIRST PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAi^ COVENT GARDEN, 
 ON THURSDAY EVENING, MAY 27, 1824. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, 
 
 Author of Brutus, Clari, Therese, Accusation, Adeline, Alt Pacha, 
 
 The Two Galley Slaves, Love in Humble Life, Mrs. Smith, 
 
 and various other Pieces. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 tdNGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1824. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 King Charles II Mr. C. Kemble 
 
 Rochester Mr. Jones 
 
 Edward (a page) Mr. Duruset 
 
 Captain Copp Mr. Fawcett 
 
 Two pages. Servants. 
 
 Lady Clara Mrs. Fancit 
 
 Mary (adopted daughter of Copp) Miss M. Tree 
 
CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. The Royal Palace. 
 
 {Enter Rochester and Lady Clara.) 
 
 Lady C. Yes, my lord, her majesty will 
 have it, that you are the chief cause of 
 the king's irregularities. 
 
 ROCH. Oh, I '11 warrant it : and of his not 
 loving her, too — is it not so *? 
 
 Lady C. I did not say that; but, in truth, 
 my lord, your continual jests on the mar- 
 ried state — 
 
 RocH. Heaven bless it ! 
 
 Lady C. Your contmual ridicule of mar- 
 ried men — 
 
 RocH. Heaven help them! 
 
 Lady C. Your licentious example, and still 
 more licentious poetry — 
 
 RoCH. What 's coming next *? 
 
 Lady C. All these, I say, make you the 
 most dangerous of men. 
 
 RocH. Dangerous ! My dear Lady Clara, 
 you make me vain. 
 
 Lady C. It is well known that you are the 
 king's prime companion in all his ex- 
 cesses. 
 
 RocH. What, is my loyalty to be made my 
 reproach? Must I not stand by my 
 monarch in all his moods'? Would you 
 have me weep, when my sovereign laughs *? 
 Would you have me whine, when my 
 sovereign calls for a jolly song'? No, 
 no, my lady, that might have done in the 
 days of Praise-God-Barebones and the 
 Roundheads; but times are altered. — 
 We have a merry monarch to reign over 
 us — A merry monarch makes a merry 
 court — so God save the jovial king, and 
 send him boon companions ! 
 
 Lady C. (Laughing.) 1 see it is in vain 
 to reason with you. 
 
 RocH. Then give over the attempt. — Let 
 us talk of something of a nearer and a 
 dearer interest — of your merits and my 
 most ardent flame. 
 
 Lady C. Ah, me ! I fear, like many other 
 of your flames, it will but end in smoke. 
 — You talk of being desperately in love, 
 — what proof have you ever given? 
 
 "RocH. What proof? Am I not ready to 
 
 147 
 
 give the greatest proof a man can offer — 
 to lay down this sweet bachelor life, and 
 commit matrimony for your sake *? 
 
 Lady C. Well, this last, I must say, com- 
 ing from a Rochester, is a most convinc- 
 ing proof. I have heard you out, listen 
 now to me. (Rochester hows.) I will 
 propose a bargain. — If, by your ascend- 
 ancy over the king, you can disgust him 
 with these nocturnal rambles, and bring 
 him back to reason — 
 
 RocH. Your ladyship forgets one of my 
 talents. 
 
 Lady. C. Which is if? 
 
 RocH. That of getting myself banished 
 two or three times a year. 
 
 Lady C. And if the woman you profess to 
 love should offer to partake your exile? — 
 
 RocH. I am a lost man — I surrender. — 
 That last shot reached my heart. 
 
 Lady C. {Sighing.) Ah, my lord — if 
 that heart were only worth your head ! — 
 Well, is it agreed? 
 
 RocH. It is your will — I undertake the 
 sacrifice — but, madam, bear in mind my 
 recompense. 
 
 Lady C. You may hope for everything. 
 Adieu, my lord. — I now begin to believe 
 in your passion, since you are willing to 
 make a sacrifice to it, even of your follies. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 RocH. (Alone.) A pretty task I have un- 
 dertaken, truly! I — Rochester — become 
 reformer ! And, then, the convert I have 
 to work upon ! Charles, who glories in 
 all kinds of rambling frolics! — True, he 
 has had none but pleasant adventures as 
 yet. — If I should trick him into some 
 ridiculous dilemma? — My whole life has 
 been a tissue of follies, and I am called a 
 man of wit. I am now to attempt a ra- 
 tional act, and I shall be called a mad- 
 man ! — Well, be it so — matrimony will be 
 sure to bring me to my senses. 
 
 {Enter Edward, languidly,) 
 
 RocH. Ah! here comes my young protege 
 — How downcast he seems! How now, 
 Edward, what 's the matter with you, 
 boy? 
 
 Edw. (Sighing.) Nothing, my lord. 
 
148 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 Koch. Good heaven, what a sigh to heave 
 up notliing with ! Tell me the truth this 
 instant. Hast thou dared to fall in 
 love "/ 
 
 Edw. I hope, my lord, there is no harm in 
 indulging- an honest attachment. 
 
 RocH. An honest attachment ! A young 
 halt'-fledged page about court, who has 
 hardly tried his wings in the sunshine of 
 beauty, to talk of an honest attachment. 
 Why, thou silly boy, is this the fruit of 
 all the lessons I have given thee? 
 
 Edw. Did not your lordship tell me, that 
 one of the first duties of a page was to 
 be zealous in his devotion to the fair? 
 
 Rocii. Yes; but I told thee to skim over 
 the surface of beauty, just dipping your 
 wings, like a swallow, not plumping in 
 like a goose — I told you to hover from 
 flower to flower like a butterfly, not to 
 bury yourself in one like a bee. An 
 honest attachment ! — What a plebeian 
 phrase ! — There 's a wife and seven chil- 
 dren in the veiy sound of it. 
 
 Edw. My lord, I know your talent for 
 putting things in a whimsical light, but, 
 could you see the object of my passion — 
 
 RoCH. Nay, a truce with all description. — 
 But who, pray, is the object of this hon- 
 est attachment? 
 
 Edw. {Embarrassed.) My lord! 
 
 RoCH. One of the maids of honour, I '11 be 
 bound, who has privately been petting 
 you with sweetmeats, and lending you 
 love-tales. 
 
 Edw. No, my lord. 
 
 RocH. Some veteran belle about court, too 
 well known to the veteran beaux, and 
 anxious to take in a new comer. 
 
 Edw. No such thing, my lord. 
 
 RoCH. Pray, then, give me some clue. 
 What is the name of your beauty? 
 
 Edw. Her name, my lord, is Mary. 
 
 RocH. Mary! a very pretty, posy-like 
 name — And what sequestered spot may 
 the gentle Mary embellish with her pres- 
 ence? 
 
 Edw. She lives at the Tav — Nay, my 
 lord, promise not to laugh. 
 
 RocH. Far be it from me to laugh in so 
 serious a matter, 
 this fair one? 
 
 Edw. Why, then, my lord, she inhabits the 
 tavern of the Grand Admiral, in Wap- 
 ping. 
 
 RocH. Usquebaugh and tobacco! the tav- 
 ern of the Grand Admiral ! — Ha ! ha! ha! 
 — An honest attachment for some pretty 
 bar-maid ! 
 
 Come, the residence of 
 
 Edw. No, my lord, no bar-maid, I assure 
 you. Her uncle keeps the tavern. 
 
 RocH. {With mock gravitij.) Oh, I ask 
 pardon, then she is heiress apparent to 
 the tap-room, and you no doubt look for- 
 ward to rise in the state through the dig- 
 nities of drawer, tapster, and head- 
 waiter, until you succeed to the fair hand 
 of the niece, and the copper nose of the 
 uncle, and rule with spigot in hand over 
 the fair realms of Wapping. You, who 
 I flattered myself would have made the 
 torment and delight of all the pretty 
 women at court ! — you to be so completely 
 gulled at the very outset, — the dupe of a 
 green girl, and some old rogue of a pub- 
 lican ! 
 
 Edw. Indeed, indeed, my lord, you do the 
 uncle injustice. He is a perfectly hon- 
 est, upright man — an old captain of a 
 cruiser. 
 
 RocH. Worse and worse! Some old buc- 
 caneer, tired of plajdng the part of a 
 monster at sea, has turned shark on shore. 
 And do you dare to appear in such a 
 house with the dress of a royal page? 
 
 Edw. Oh! I have taken care to avoid 
 that. I have introduced myself into the 
 house as a music-master. 
 
 RocH. And your musical name, gentle sir? 
 
 Edw. Georgiui, at your service. 
 
 RocH. Ha ! ha ! ha ! veiy soft and Italian- 
 isli — I'll warrant this heroine bar-maid 
 will turn out some unknown princess, car- 
 ried off by the old buccaneer landlord, 
 in one of his cruisings. 
 
 Edw. Your lordship is joking; but, really, 
 at times, I think she is not wliat she 
 seems. 
 
 RocH. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I could have sworn 
 it. But silence — I hear his majesty dis- 
 mount. Run to where your duty calls — 
 we '11 take another opportunity to discuss 
 the merits of this Wapping Princess. 
 
 Edw. {Goes out, muttering.) There's 
 many a true thing said in jest. I am 
 certain her birth is above her condition. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Rocir. I must see this paragon of bar- 
 maids — She must be devilish pretty! 
 The case admits of no delay — I '11 see her 
 this very evening. Hold ! Why not ful- 
 fil my promise to Lady Clara at the same 
 time? It is decided: — I'll give his 
 majesty my first lesson in morals this 
 very night. But, he comes. 
 
 {Enter Charles.) 
 
JOHN HOWAKD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 149 
 
 Chas. Good day, my lord! — What, mus- 
 ing! I never see thee with that air of 
 graxe cogitation, but I am sure there is 
 some mischief devising. 
 
 RocH. On the contrary, I am vehemently 
 tempted to reform. 
 
 CiiAS. Reform ! ha ! ha ! ha ! why, man, no 
 one will credit thy conversion ! Is not 
 thy name a by-word? Do not mothers 
 frighten their daughters with it, as for- 
 merly with that of Belzebub? Is not 
 thy appearance in a neighborhood a sig- 
 nal for all the worthy burghers to bar 
 their windows and put their womankind 
 under lock and key'? — Art thou not, in 
 melancholy truth, the most notorious 
 vscapegrace in the kingdom"? 
 
 Rocii. Heaven forefend that in anything 
 I should take precedence of your majesty. 
 
 Chas. But what proof do you give of your 
 conversion ? 
 
 RocH. The most solemn — I am going to 
 be married. 
 
 Chas. Married! — And who, pray, is the 
 lady you have an idea of rendering miser- 
 able? 
 
 RocH. The Lady Clara. 
 
 Chas. The Lady Clara! The brilliant, 
 > the discreet, the virtuous Lady Clara ! 
 She niai-ry Rochester ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 RocH. Ah, my liege, heaven has given her 
 a superabundance of virtues. — She will 
 be able to make a very virtuous man of 
 me with her superfluity. 
 
 Chas. Well, when thou art married, I 
 will undertake to write thy epithalami- 
 um. 
 
 RoCH. Then your majesty may at once in- 
 voke the Muses. All is settled. {With 
 great gravity.) As soon as the rites are 
 solemnized, I shall quit the court, and its 
 mundane ])leasures, and retire wdth my 
 lovely bride to my castle at Rochester, 
 under permission of my creditors, the 
 faithful garrison of that fortress. 
 
 Chas. What! is your castle again in 
 pledge ■? 
 
 RocH. No, my liege, not again. It has 
 never, to my knowledge, been exactly out 
 of keeping. A castle requires a custo- 
 dian. 
 
 Chas. Ah, Rochester! Rochester! Thou 
 art an extravagant dog. I see I shall 
 be called on to pay these usurers at 
 last. 
 
 RocH. Your majesty is ever bounteous. I 
 should not have dared to solicit, and 
 certainly shall not presume to de- 
 clme. 
 
 Chas. Ha! ha! Thou art an arrant jug- 
 gler, and hast an admirable knack of ex- 
 tracting a gift out of an empty hand. 
 But, to business, — where shall we pass 
 the night ? 
 
 RocH. {Assuming a serious air.) I must 
 beg your majesty to excuse me this even- 
 ing — I have an engagement of a grave 
 and important nature. 
 
 Chas. Grave and important ! Thou liest, 
 Rochester, or thine eyes speak false — and 
 whither does this grave engagement take 
 thee? 
 
 RocH. To the tavern of the Grand Ad- 
 miral in Wapping ! 
 
 Chas. I thought it was some such haunt. 
 And the object of this business? 
 
 RocH. A young girl, beautiful as an angel, 
 and virtuous as a dragon — about whom 
 there hangs a mystery that I must in- 
 vestigate. 
 
 Chas. A mysterious beauty! It is a case 
 for royal scrutiny — I will investigate it 
 myself. 
 
 RocH. But, my liege — 
 
 Chas. No buts. Provide disguises. We 
 will go together. {With mock gravity.) 
 I like to study human nature in all its 
 varieties, and there is no school equal to 
 a tavern. There 's something of philoso- 
 23hy in this — one often gets a useful les- 
 son in the course of a frolic. 
 
 RocH. {Aside.) It shall go hard but your 
 majesty shall have one to-night. 
 {Aloud.) Ah, how few, except myself, 
 give your majesty credit for your philoso- 
 phy! And yet, by many, I am con- 
 sidered the partaker of your majesty's 
 excesses. 
 
 Chas. Partaker ! what a calumny ! you are 
 the promoter of them. 
 
 RocH. The world will judge me in this 
 instance with even more severity than 
 your majesty has done, should any dis- 
 agreeable adventure be the result. 
 
 Chas. Psha ! I take the consequences on 
 myself. Provide two seamen's dresses, 
 a purse well filled, and arrange every- 
 thing for nine precisely. Till then, fare- 
 well. {Exit.) 
 
 Roch. I will attend your majesty. So! 
 the plot is in train. I'll off to Lady 
 Clara, and report progress. Let me see. 
 This night the lesson. To-morrow my 
 disgrace. Within eight days my mar- 
 riage, and then, at my leisure, to repent 
 and reform. {Exit.) 
 
 END OF act the FIRST. 
 
150 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 ACT TWO. 
 
 Scene 1. Outside of Copp's Tavern, the 
 Grand Admiral. A view of the Thames 
 and Wapping. 
 
 {Enter Mary from the House.) 
 
 (Voices, within.) Wine! wine! house! — 
 waiter ! — more wine, ho ! Huzza ! huzza ! 
 hnzza ! 
 
 IMary. What a noise those sailors make in 
 llie bar-room — nothing but singinii", and 
 huighinii', and shouting — I should like to 
 take a ])eep at them — but no — my uncle 
 forbids me to show myself in the public 
 rooms — he scarcely lets me be seen by 
 the guests — he brings me up more like a 
 young lady than the niece of a tavern 
 keeper — ( walks about restless ) . Heigho ! 
 what a tiresome long day! what shall I 
 do with myself? Avhat can be the matter 
 with me? I wonder what can keep Mr. 
 Ceorgini away? For three days he has 
 not been here to give me a lesson — no 
 matter — (pettishly) — I don't care — I 
 shall forget all my singing, that 's cer- 
 tain — he was just teaching me such a 
 pretty song, too — all about love — T '11 
 try it — (attempts to sing) — no, I can't — 
 it 's all out of my head — well, so much 
 the better! I suppose he is teaching it 
 to some fine lady scholar — let him, I don't 
 care — I don't believe he '11 find her so apt 
 a scholar. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Oh! not when other eyes may read 
 My heart upon my clieek, 
 Oh! not when other ears can hear 
 Dare I of love to speak — 
 But when the stars rise from the sea. 
 Oh then I think of tliee, dear love! 
 Oh then I think of thee. 
 
 When o'er the olives of the dell 
 The silent moonlight falls, 
 And when upon the rose, the dew 
 Hangs scented coronals, 
 And buds close on the chestnut tree, 
 Oh then I think of thee, dear love! 
 Oh then 1 think of thee. 
 
 (Enter Copp.) 
 
 CoPP. What, Mary, my little blossom, 
 what cheer? what cheer? Keep close, 
 my little heart — why do you stir out of 
 port? Here be cruisers abroad. 
 
 Mary. Who are those people, uncle, that 
 make such a noise? 
 
 Copp. Two hearty blades — mad roysters — 
 oons how they drink. I was obliged to 
 l^art company, old cruiser as I am, or 
 they would soon have had me on my 
 beam ends. 
 
 Mary. Are they sailors, uncle? 
 
 Copp. To be sure they are: wdio else 
 would fiing about money as they do, and 
 treat a wdiole bar-room? The tallest in 
 particular is a very devil. Hollo, Cap- 
 tain Copp, cries he every minute, another 
 bottle to treat my brother tars. 
 
 Mary. By their swaggering about so, they 
 must be very rich. 
 
 Copp. Pho, child, 't is n't the deepest laden 
 shijDS that make the most rolling. 
 
 Mary. But they spend their money so 
 freely. 
 
 Copp. A sure sign that it 's running out. 
 The longest cable must come to an end. 
 He that pays out fastest, will soonest be 
 brought up with a round turn. 
 
 Mary. To what ship do they belong? 
 
 Copp. That 's more than I can say. Sup- 
 pose they 're a couple of man of war's 
 men just paid off, who think they 've a 
 Spanish mine in each pocket — (shout of 
 laughter from within). Ah, the jolly 
 tars! I was just the same at their 
 age. 
 
 Mary. I should like to have a look at 
 them. 
 
 Copp. Avast, there — what, trust thee in 
 the way of two such rovers? No, no, I 
 recollect too well what it was to get on 
 shore after a long voyage. The first 
 glimpse of a petticoat — whew ! up board- 
 ing pikes and grappling irons! — (Recol- 
 lecting himself.) Ahem — no, no, child, 
 mustn't venture in these latitudes. 
 
 Mary. Ah, my good uncle, you are al- 
 ways so careful of me. 
 
 Copp. And why not? What else have I 
 in the whole world to care for, or to care 
 for me? Thou art all that 's left to me 
 out of the family fleet — a poor slight 
 little pinnace. I 've seen the rest, one 
 after another, go down ; it shall go hard 
 but I '11 convoy thee safe into port. 
 
 Mary. I fear I give you a great deal of 
 trouble, my dear uncle. 
 
 Copp. Thou 'rt the very best lass in the 
 wdiole kingdom, and I love thee as I 
 loved my poor brother ; that 's because 
 you 're his very image. To be sure, you 
 iiave n't his jolly nose, and your little 
 mouth is but a fool to his. But then, 
 there are his eyes, and his smile, and the 
 good humoured cut of bis face — (sigh- 
 
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 151 
 
 ing) — poor Philip! What! I'm going 
 again, like the other night — {wiping his 
 eyes). Psha! let's change the subject, 
 because, d 'ye see, sensibility and all that, 
 it does me no good — none — so let 's talk 
 of something else. What makes thee so 
 silent of late, my girl? I 've not heard a 
 song from thee these three days ! 
 
 Mary. It 's three days since I 've seen my 
 music-master. 
 
 Copp. Well, and can't you sing without 
 him? 
 
 Mary. Without him I can't sing well. 
 
 Copp. And what 's become of him? 
 
 Mary {pettishly). I can't tell, it's very 
 tiresome. If he did not mean to come 
 again, he might have said so. 
 
 Copp. Oddsfish, neglect thee — neglect his 
 duty I-^^I '11 break him on the spot. Thou 
 shalt have another master, my girl. 
 
 Mary {eagerly). Oh, no, on no account; 
 I dare say he is not well, some accident 
 has happened. Besides, there is no other 
 teacher in town equal to him, he sings 
 with such feeling. 
 
 Copp. Ah ! girl, if I had my old messmate. 
 Jack Rattlin, here, he 'd teach thee to 
 sing. He had a voice — faith it would 
 make all the bottles dance, and glasses 
 jingle on the table! — Talk of feeling! 
 Why, when Jack would sit of an evening 
 on the capstan when on watch, and sing 
 about sweethearts and wives, and jolly 
 tars, and true lover's knots, and the 
 roaring seas, and all that ; smite my tim- 
 bers, but it was enough to melt the heart 
 of a grampus. Poor Jack, he taught 
 me the only song I ever knew, it's a 
 main good one though — 
 
 {Sings a Stave.) 
 
 In the time of the Rump, 
 As old Admiral Trump, 
 With his broom swept the chops of the Chan- 
 nel: 
 And his crew of Tenbreeches, 
 Those Dutch sons of 
 
 Mary {putting her hand on his mouth). 
 Oh, uncle, uncle, don't sing that horrible 
 rough song. 
 
 Copp. Rough? that's the beauty of it. 
 It rouses one up, pipes all hands to quar- 
 ters like a boatswain's call. Go in, 
 Mary, but go in at the other door; don't 
 go near the bar: go up to your own 
 room, my dear, and your music-master 
 will come to you presently, never fear. 
 
 {Exit Mary.) 
 
 Voice, within. Hollo — ^house! waiter! 
 
 Captain Copp ! another bottle, my hearty 
 fellow. 
 Copp. There they go again! I can't 
 stand it any longer. I am an old cruiser, 
 and can't hear an engagement without 
 longing to be in the midst of it. Avast, 
 though {stopping short), these lads are 
 spending too much money. Have a care, 
 friend Copp, don't sink the sailor in the 
 publican; don't let a free-hearted tar 
 ruin himself in thy house — no, no, faith. 
 If they want more wine they shall have 
 it ; but they shall drink as messmates, not 
 as guests. So have at you, boys; it's 
 my turn to treat now. — 
 
 {Exit Copp.) 
 
 Scene 2. A Room in Copp's House. 
 
 {Enter Mary.) 
 
 Mary. How provoking this absence of 
 Mr. Georgini ! It would be serving him 
 right to let my uncle discharge him: but 
 then I should like just to learn that song 
 he is teaching me — hark! — How my 
 heart beats ! Hark ! I '11 wager it 's 
 Georgini — I have a gift of knowing peo- 
 ple before I see them — my heart whis- 
 pers me — 
 
 {Enter Edward, as Georgini.) 
 
 Mary. So, sir, you are come at last, are 
 you? I had supposed you did not intend 
 to come any more, and was about to look 
 out for another teacher. 
 
 Edv7. Pardon me for my absence — you 
 have no idea what I have suffered. 
 
 Mary {with anxiety). Suffered! — Have 
 you been ill, then? 
 
 Edw. Very ill — 
 
 Mary. Indeed! and what was your com- 
 plaint? 
 
 Edv7. {smiling). The not seeing you. 
 
 Mary {half piqued, half pleased). Mighty 
 fine, sir; it is a complaint that you might 
 have cured in a moment. — I have been 
 angry, sir — very angry at your neglect — 
 don't smile, sir— I won't be laughed at — 
 
 Edw. Laugh at you! — Can you suspect 
 me of such a thing? — I do but smile from 
 the pleasure of seeing you again — noth- 
 ing but circumstances that I could not 
 control caused my absence. 
 
 Mary {softening). Well, it's very pro- 
 voking to be interrupted in one's lessons 
 just in the middle of a new song — I'll 
 
152 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 warrant you 've been teaching it all over 
 
 town. 
 Edw. Indeed, I teach it to no one but 
 
 yourself — for no one else can do it such 
 
 justice. 
 Mary [smiling), 'i^ay, now you are flat- 
 tering — have you brought it with you? 
 Edw. Here it is — if you please, we will 
 
 sing it at once. 
 Mary. Yes — but — but — don't look so 
 
 steadily at me while I sing — it puts me 
 
 out; and then — and then — I don't know 
 
 what I 'm singing. 
 Edw. AYhat! — have you fear of me, then? 
 Mary. Oh! yes; I fear that I may not 
 
 please you. 
 Edw. (apart). Amiable innocence ! for the 
 
 world would I not betray thee. 
 
 Duetto. 
 Love one day essayed to gain 
 
 Entrance into Beauty's bower, 
 Many a toil, and many a chain, 
 
 Guarded round the precious flower. 
 But Love laid aside his bow. 
 
 Veiled his wing, hid his dart, 
 Entered more than Beauty's bower, 
 
 Entered also Beauty's heart. 
 Hence was the sweet lesson learnt. 
 
 Fond hearts never should despair, 
 Kept with truth, and led by hope. 
 
 What is there Love may not dare? 
 
 {Enter Copp, a little gay, singing.) 
 
 "In the time of the Rump," &c. 
 
 Aha ! master crotchet and quaver, so 
 you've come at last, have you? What 
 the deuce did you stay away for, and let 
 my little girl get out of tune? 
 
 Edw. Oh! I have explained all, sir, and 
 made my peace. 
 
 Copp. Ah, she 's a forgiving little bag- 
 gage, and amazing fond of music — why, 
 she 's always on the lookout for you an 
 hour before the time. 
 
 Mary. Never mind, uncle. Are your 
 strange companions here still? 
 
 Copp. Here still? ay, and likely to stay 
 here — ha ! ha ! ha ! — no getting rid of 
 them — they 're a couple of devils, of 
 right down merry devils, ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 They 've flustered me a little, i' faith. 
 
 Edw. You seem to have a great deal of 
 company in the house, sir; I'll take my 
 leave. 
 
 Copp. You shall take no such thing — you 
 shall take tea with us, my little semi- 
 breve, and we'll have a lesson of music 
 
 too. Oddsfish! you shall give me a les- 
 son — I am confoundedly out of practice, 
 and can't turn my old song for the life 
 of me. (Begins.) "In the time of the 
 Rump" — 
 
 Mary. Never mind the song now, uncle, 
 we must have tea first, and Mr. Georgini 
 will help me make it. 
 
 Copp. Ay, faith, and we '11 add a bowl of 
 punch and a flask of old Madeira to 
 make a set out — my two messmates in 
 the other room are to be of the party. 
 
 Mary. What, those wild sailors who have 
 been keeping the house in an uproar? 
 
 Copp. To be sure — they're good lads, 
 though they have a little of the devil in 
 them. — They asked to clink the cup with 
 me, and you know I can't well refuse, by 
 trade, to clink the cup with any one. In 
 troth, they had put me in such rare good 
 humour — ha! ha! ha! — that I could not 
 refuse them for the life of me. 
 
 Mary. But they are such a couple of 
 harebrains — 
 
 Copp. Oh! don't be afraid — they are 
 rough, but good-natured — sailor-like : 
 besides, am not I always within hail? 
 One of them, I see, is heaving in sight 
 already. Come with me, my girl, and 
 help to prepare the punch and get the 
 tea — you, my king of crotchets, will stay 
 and receive our guests — make yourself 
 at home. — (Sings as he goes,) "In the 
 time of the Rump" — 
 
 (Exeunt Copp and Mary.) 
 
 Edw. Here 's a transformation ! from a 
 court page behold me master of cere- 
 monies at a Wapping tavern! (starts). 
 Good heaven ! whom have we here ? The 
 Earl of Rochester in that rude garb ! 
 
 (Enter Rochester.) 
 
 RocH. The shouts of those jolly fellows 
 began to turn my brain — his majesty is 
 in fine humour to get into a scrape; and 
 if he does, to make his difficulties more 
 perplexing, I have secured his purse, so 
 that he cannot bribe his way out of 
 them— Hey ! Edward ? 
 
 Edw. (confused). My lord Rochester — 
 
 RoCH. Silence, you rogue! I am no lord 
 here, no Rochester. I am a seaman — 
 my name Tom Taffrel. The king, my 
 messmate, is Jack Mizen. 
 
 Edw. The king with you! — (aside). I 
 see it all — he 's after Mary — ah ! I am 
 lost. 
 
 RocH. Don't be alarmed, friend Georgini; 
 
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 153 
 
 none but the most innocent motives have 
 brought us here — 
 
 Edw. Innocent motives bring you and the 
 king, at night, to a tavern in Wapping, 
 where there is a beautiful girl'? Ah! my 
 lord, my lord — 
 
 RocH. Nay, to convince you that you have 
 nothing to fear, I permit you to remam 
 with us — (aside) He may assist my 
 scheme — (aloud) You must play off 
 your character of music-master upon the 
 king. 
 
 Edw. Impossible! His majesty will rec- 
 ognise my features. 
 
 RocH. Psha! you have not been a page 
 a month; he probably has not seen your 
 face three times. But take care how you 
 act ; the least indiscretion on your part — 
 
 Edw. Ah ! my lord, I am too much inter- 
 ested in keeping the secret. 
 
 RocH. That is not all. In whatever situ- 
 ation the king may find himself, whatever 
 chagrin he may suffer, I forbid you to 
 assist him in the slightest manner. You 
 are to see in him only the sailor. Jack 
 Mizen. 
 
 Edw. Should his majesty chance to incur 
 any danger, my lord, I can never be 
 passive. In such case, I have but one 
 course. 
 
 RocH. There can be no danger — I shall 
 mj'Self watch over his safety. 
 
 Edw. That decides me — I think I appre- 
 hend the object, and will obey your 
 lordship. 
 
 RocH. The king approaches — Silence! let 
 each resume his part. 
 
 (Enter Charles.) 
 
 Chas. Well, messmate, shall we soon see 
 this marvellous beauty'? 
 
 Edw. (apart). So — this is his majesty's 
 innocent motive! 
 
 RocH. Peace, friend Jack, here 's one of 
 her admirers — her music-master — 
 
 Chas. Ah! you teach the young lady 
 music, do you'? (looking earnestly at 
 him). Zounds! how like he is to the 
 page you gave me lately. 
 
 Edw. (apart). Ah! my face strikes him. 
 
 RocH. Hum — I can't say I see much re- 
 semblance. He is taller than Edward, 
 and older, and the expression of his coun- 
 tenance is not the same. 
 
 Chas. No, no, not altogether, but there is 
 a something — 
 
 RocH. Why, to tell the truth, the page had 
 a wild fellow for a father — and, your 
 majesty knows, likenesses are stamped 
 
 at random about the world sometimes. 
 Chas. (laugliing). I understand — dupli- 
 cate impressions — like enough. 
 
 (Enter Mary and Servant with Tea.) 
 
 Mary (to Servant). Set the table in this 
 room. 
 
 Chas. (to Rochester). By heaven, she's 
 a divinity! 
 
 Edw. (low to Rochester). What does he 
 say? 
 
 RocH. (to Edw.). That your divinity is a 
 devilish fine girl. 
 
 Chas. (to Rochester). Amuse this con- 
 founded singing-master. I wish to have 
 a duo with his mistress. — He '11 only mar 
 music. 
 
 RocH. (to Edward, with an air of great 
 business). My good Mr. Georgini, I 
 have something particular to say to you — 
 (drawing him to a corner). His majesty 
 (suppressing a laugh) fancies that you 
 are uncomfortable, and requests me to 
 amuse you. 
 
 Edw. Yes, that he may have Mary all to 
 himself — (Drawing near her.) 
 
 RoCH. (drawing him hack). Come, don't 
 be childish. What, you pretend to fol- 
 low my lessons, and want complaisance! 
 (Charles has been making advances to 
 Mary, who appears at first a little shy.) 
 
 Chas. Do let me assist you, my pretty 
 lass. 
 
 Mary. Don't trouble yourself, sir; Mr. 
 Georgini is to help me make tea. 
 
 Edw. (breaking from Rochester). I am 
 here, madam — what can I do to help you'? 
 
 Chas. (puts the kettle, as if accidentally, 
 against his hand. Dryly). Take care, 
 young man, you may scald your fingers. 
 
 RocH. (drawing Edward back, and speak- 
 ing low). Why, what a plague, boy, are 
 you doing'? 
 
 (Charles continues to assist Mary, 
 mingling little gallantries, and blun- 
 dering in attempts to assist.) 
 
 Edw. (aside, and struggling with Roches- 
 ter). I shall go mad! 
 
 Mary. Oh, dear sir, you're so kind, you 
 quite put me out — (laughing) — hey! — 
 you have taken my hand instead of the 
 teapot. I will not say you are awkward, 
 sir, but really, you have the oddest man- 
 ner of assisting — nay — let go my hand, I 
 beg. 
 
 Chas. By Heaven, it is a beautiful one! 
 
 Mary. Nay, nay — pray, sir — (withdraw- 
 ing her hand with smiling confusion). 
 
154 
 
 CHAKLES THE SECOND 
 
 (Apart.) Upon my word, I don't see 
 
 any thing so very rude in these people. 
 Edw. (endeavoring to get away from 
 
 Kochester). Let me go, I entreat you; 
 
 I can stand this no longer. 
 ROCH. (holding him, and suppressing a 
 
 laugh). Psha! man, if you think to 
 
 marry, or rise at court, you must learn to 
 
 be deaf and blind upon occasion. 
 Chas. (in rather an under-tone to Mary). 
 
 And how is it possible so pretty a lass 
 
 should not be married"? 
 Mary. Married — ^bless me! I never 
 
 thought of such a thing. 
 Chas. No? never? and yet surrounded by 
 
 lovers. 
 Mary. Lovers ! I have n't one, sir. 
 Chas. Indeed! and what is that young 
 
 man, fidgeting yonder? 
 Mary. He? — he is my singing-master, 
 
 sir. 
 Chas. And he sings to some purpose, I '11 
 
 warrant. 
 Mary. Delightfully. 
 Chas. And gives you a love-song now and 
 
 then? 
 Mary. Oh, often, often. 
 Chas. I thought so — he has it in his coun- 
 tenance. 
 Edw. (to RocH.). You must let me go — 
 
 you see I am wanted. 
 RocH. Upon my word, they are getting on 
 
 amazingly well without you. 
 Chas. (to Mary). And so you are fond of 
 
 music, my pretty lass? 
 Mary, Oh, I love it of all things. 
 Chas. A pretty hand to beat time with 
 
 (taking her hand). 
 Mary. Sir — (withdrawing it). 
 Chas. And as pretty a little mouth to 
 
 warble a love-song. I- warrant, there 
 
 come none but sweet notes from these 
 
 lips. (Offers to kiss her.) 
 Mary (resisting). Sir, give over — let me 
 
 go, sir. — Mr. Georgini — help, help! 
 (Edward hursts from Rochester, who 
 is laughing. At this moment 
 
 Enter Copp.) 
 
 CoPP. Avast there, messmate! what the 
 devil, yard arm and yard arm with my 
 niece ! 
 
 (Charles desists, a little confused — 
 Edward approaches Mary.) 
 Mary (flurried). I am glad you are come, 
 
 uncle — this rude stranger — 
 Copp (taking her arm under his). Thun- 
 der and lightning — what! insult Captain 
 
 Copp's niece in his own house ! Fire and 
 furies ! 
 
 Chas. (pretending to he a little gay). I 
 insult your niece, messmate ? Since when 
 has an honest tar's kissing a pretty girl 
 been considered an insult? As to the 
 young woman, if she takes offence at a 
 l^iece of sailor civility, why, I ask par- 
 don, that 's all. 
 
 Copp (softened). Oh, as to a piece of ci- 
 vility, d 'ye see, that alters the case ; but, 
 guns and blunderbusses! if any one 
 should dare — 
 
 RocH. Come, come, uncle Copp, what a 
 plague! you were a youngster once, and 
 a frolicsome one, I '11 warrant. I see it 
 in your eye — what — didst ever think it a 
 crime to kiss a pretty girl in a civil way. 
 
 Copp. No, no, in a civil way, no, certainly ; 
 I can make allowance when a lad and a 
 lass, and a bottle, come pretty near each 
 other — odds fish — you say right, at your 
 age, I was a rattler myself. — Come, 
 Mary, no harm done. Come, lads, take 
 your seats — (They seat themselves. Ed- 
 ward attempts to place himself by Mary. 
 — Charles interferes, and takes the 
 place.) Come, my girl, pour out the tea 
 — I '11 fill out the punch, and we '11 have 
 a time of it, i 'faith — Come, I'll give 
 you a jolly song to begin with — (Sings.) 
 
 In the time of the Rump, 
 As old Admiral Trump — 
 
 Mary (apart). That odious song! — come, 
 uncle, never mind the song, take a cup 
 of tea — (offering one). 
 
 Copp. What, drown my song and myself 
 
 in warm water? ha! ha! no, faith — not 
 
 while there 's a drop in the punch bowl. 
 
 (Mary helps Edward and Rochester, 
 
 omitting Charles.) 
 
 Chas. (low to Mary). Am I then ex- 
 cluded ? 
 
 Mary (looking down). I thought punch 
 would be more to your liking, sir. 
 
 Chas. Then punch be it — Come, clink 
 with me, neighbour Copp — clink with me, 
 my boy. 
 
 Copp. Oh ! I 'm not proud, I '11 clink with 
 anybody — that 's to say, mind ye, when 
 the liquor is good, and there's a good 
 fellow in the case. 
 
 Chas. (rising). Well, here goes — To the 
 health of Mary, the fair maid of Wap- 
 ping. 
 
 Copp. With all my heart, here 's to her 
 health— the darling child— Oh ! messmate, 
 
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 155 
 
 there you touch a soft corner of my 
 heart — did you but know how I love this 
 little girl. Psha ! I 'm a foolish old fel- 
 low, and when I have got punch, and 
 sensibility, and all that on board — Come, 
 let 's talk of something else. 
 
 Mary. My dear uncle — 
 
 Chas. I don't wonder at your loving her, 
 I can't help feeling a kind of admiration 
 for her myself — {offering to take her 
 hand). 
 
 Copp. Softly, shipmate, no grappling — 
 admire at a distance as much as you 
 please, but hands off. Come, my lads, 
 a merry song — I love to sing when I 
 drink. (Sings.) 
 
 In the time of the Rump, 
 As old Admiral Trump — 
 
 Mary. Not that song, my dear uncle — I 
 entreat — 
 
 Copp. Ah, I recollect — ha! ha! my poor 
 song; ha ! ha ! — well, well, since you don't 
 like me to sing, sing it for me yourself, 
 Mary. 
 
 Chas. Ay, a song from the charming 
 Mary (significantly), I dare say your 
 master has some pretty love-song for you. 
 
 Edw. Oh, yes — I have brought one of the 
 latest in vogue — one by the most fash- 
 ionable poet of the day — the Earl of 
 Rochester. 
 
 Copp. Rochester? fire and fury — roast 
 Rochester! a rascally rogue! — the devil 
 take Rochester, and his song, too ! 
 
 Chas. Bravo! Captain Copp — another 
 broadside, old boy. 
 
 RocH. Why, what the deuce, neighbor — 
 has your powder magazine taken fire'? 
 Why, what has Rochester done to you, to 
 occasion such a terrible explosion? 
 
 Copp. What's that to you? What have 
 you to do with my family secrets'? 
 Rochester! His very name makes my 
 blood boil — 
 
 Mary. My dear uncle, be calm. You 
 promised never to speak on this subject. 
 
 RocH. Why, what connexion can there be 
 between you and Rochester? 
 
 Copp. No matter, he has been put to the 
 proof, that's enough. (To Mary.) 
 Don't be uneasy — I '11 say no more about 
 it, my girl. You know me — when I say 
 mum, that 's enough. 
 
 Chas. This affair seems curious — I must 
 have an explanation. (With an air of 
 authority.) It is my pleasure — 
 
 Copp. Your pleasure, quotha — and who 
 
 the devil are you? You're a pleasant 
 blade. (Sturdily.) But it's not my 
 pleasure, messmate, look ye. 
 
 Chas. (Recollecting himself.) I mean to 
 say, that I feel a deep interest in your 
 welfare. 
 
 Copp (gruffly). Thank ye, thank 'e, — but 
 I am not used to such warm friends on 
 such short acquaintance. (Apart.) 1 
 wonder is it myself, or my niece, this 
 chap has fallen in love with at first 
 sight? 
 
 Chas. (apart to Rochester). I am curi- 
 ous to know what charge they have 
 against you. 
 
 RocH. (apart to Charles). And so am I, 
 and I '11 make this old buccaneer speak 
 plain, before we leave him. 
 
 Chas. You have misunderstood me, friend 
 Copp. I am no defender of Rochester. 
 I know him to be a sad fellow. 
 
 Copp. As destitute of feeling as a stock- 
 fish. 
 
 Edw. He is a great genius, however. 
 
 Copp. He is an evil genius, I know. 
 
 Edw. He has a very clear head — 
 
 Copp. But a very black heart. 
 
 RoCH. This Rochester is a sad light- 
 headed fellow, that 's notorious ; but will 
 you have the goodness, my blunt Captain 
 Copp, to mention one heartless act of hi^? 
 
 Copp (loudly). Ay, that I will. Is it not 
 a burning shame — 
 
 Mary. My dear uncle, you forget your 
 promise. 
 
 Copp. Let me alone, girl, let me alone — 
 you 've nothing to fear ; I have you un- 
 der convoy. 
 
 RocH. Out with it, what is his crime? 
 
 Copp. Crime ! Is it not a burning shame, 
 I say, to disclaim his own niece — to keep 
 from her every stiver of her little for- 
 tune, and leave her to pass her days in a 
 tavern, when she has a right to inhabit 
 a palace? 
 
 Edw. (eagerly). What do I hear? 
 
 RocH. What, and is this young woman 
 the niece? How can that be? 
 
 Copp. Simply enough. Her father, Philip 
 Copland, married a sister of Lord Roch- 
 ester. 
 
 RocH. (apart). Philip Copland is indeed 
 the name. 
 
 Chas. This is most singular. And this 
 Philip Copland was your brother? 
 
 Copp. Ay, but worth a dozen of me — a 
 steady man, an able officer, an ornament 
 of the regular na^^. I was always a 
 wild dog, and never took to learning — 
 
156 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 ran away from school — shipped myself 
 on board a privateer. In time I became 
 captain, and returned from my last 
 cruise just in time to receive poor Philip's 
 last breath — his sand was almost run out. 
 "Brother," said he, "I feel that my cruis- 
 ing- is over; but there's my little g:irl. 
 Take care of her for my sake, and never 
 bother the Rochesters again." — "Brother," 
 said I, "it 's a bargain ; tip us your fist 
 on it, and die in peace, like a good Chris- 
 tian." He grasped my hand, and gave it 
 a gentle squeeze. I would have shook 
 his, but it grew cold in mine, and poor 
 Philip was no more! 
 
 {With great feeling.) 
 
 Mary. My dear uncle — {laying her hand 
 on his shoulder). 
 
 CoPP {rousing himself). But the girl was 
 left, the girl was left {embracing her) ; 
 and {taking her arm under his) — and 
 I '11 keep my word to my poor brother, 
 and take care of her as long as I have 
 breath in my body. 
 
 Chas. Well, brother Tom, what do you 
 think of all tins'? 
 
 RocH. It touches me to the soul. 
 
 Chas. And so you took home the child"? 
 
 Mary. Oh! yes: and my uncle's bounty 
 and kindness have taken care of his poor 
 girl ever since. 
 
 Copp. Oh! you should have seen what a 
 little thing it was, — a little chubby-faced 
 thing of four years old, no higher 
 than a handspike. Now she's a grown 
 girl. 
 
 Chas. And you have given her a good 
 education, it appears"? 
 
 Copp. And why not? What tho' Z^m a 
 dunce, that 's no reason that Mary Cop- 
 land should be a fool. Her father was 
 a man of parts. 
 
 Chas. And you have given up your voy- 
 ages for her"? 
 
 Copp. To be sure. Could I have a child 
 running after me about deck? I sold 
 my ship, and bought this tavern, where 
 I receive none but good fellows, who 
 drink, and smoke, and talk to me of 
 voyages and battles all day long. 
 
 Chas. But ambition might have induced 
 you— 
 
 Copp. Ambition! you don't know me; my 
 only ambition is to marry my niece to 
 some honest citizen, and give her a dower 
 of one thousand pounds, with as much 
 more when old Captain Copp takes his 
 long nap. 
 
 Roch. {apart). Generous fellow ! {Aloud.) 
 
 Let me advise you to apply to the Earl 
 of Rochester. 
 
 Edw. Oh! yes, he will provide an honor- 
 able match for your niece. 
 
 Mary {piqued). Much obliged, Mr. 
 Georgini, but nobody asked your advice. 
 
 Copp. Apply to him ! — no — no — I '11 have 
 nothing to do with the Rochesters. 
 
 Chas. But why not apply to the king him- 
 self? 
 
 Copp. Oddsfish! they say he is not much 
 better — he 's a wild devil — a gi'eat friend 
 of Rochester — and birds of a feather, 
 you know — 
 
 Chas. {apart). Now comes my turn. 
 
 Roch. True enough. Captain Copp; they 
 say he is a rover — rambles about at night 
 — frolics in taverns. 
 
 Copp. Well, let him cruise, so he does not 
 cruise into my waters. He 's a desperate 
 rogue among the petticoats, they say — 
 well, I like a merry heart, wh6rever it 
 beats. — Charley has some good points, 
 and if I could but give him a piece of 
 my mmd — 
 
 Chas. What would it be, friend Copp? 
 
 Copp. To keep more in port, anchor him- 
 self at home, and turn that fellow, Roch- 
 ester, adrift — there might then be some 
 hopes of him. — But, come, ^tis getting 
 late — now, friends, it 's time to turn out, 
 and turn in — these are late hours for the 
 Grand Admiral — come, a parting cup. 
 {To IMary.) See that the fires are out, 
 my girl, and all hands ready for bed. 
 
 Mary. I will, but no more drinking, uncle. 
 
 Copp. Well, well — no more — only one 
 parting cup. 
 
 Mary. Only one — recollect, you have 
 promised — no more. {Exit Mary.) 
 
 Copp. Only this last drop. — Come, my 
 lads, this farewell cup, and then you must 
 push your boats. 
 
 Roch. Now to execute my plan. {Mak- 
 ing signs that the king will pay.) Hist, 
 Captain Copp ! 
 {Whispers while Charles is drinking.) 
 
 Copp. Ay, ay, all right. 
 
 Roch. {low to Edward). Follow me 
 quietly — I 've something to say to you. 
 {Apart, and chuckling as he goes out.) 
 Now, brother Jack, I think you '11 soon 
 find yourself among the breakers! 
 
 {Exit, folloived by Edward.) 
 
 Copp. Now, messmate, let 's square ac- 
 counts, — {handing a paper) here's a 
 note of your expenses — ^you see I charge 
 nothing for the last two bottles — nor for 
 the tea-table — that 's my treat. 
 
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 157 
 
 Chas. {looking over the paper). Um ! 
 wine — punch — wine — punch — total five 
 pounds ten — a mere trifle! 
 
 Copp. Do you call that a trifle? — Gad, 
 messmate, you must have made good 
 prizes in your last cruise — or you 've 
 high wages, mayhap. 
 
 Chas. {laughing). Ay, ay, I'm pretty 
 well paid — Here, Tom Taffrel, pay 
 Copp's bill, and let's be off. — {Looking 
 round.) Hey — where is he*? 
 
 Copp. Oh ! he went olf in a great hurry — 
 he said he had to be aboard ship, but 
 that you would pay the bill. 
 
 -Chas. With all my heart. {Apart.) 
 It 's odd that he should leave me alone — 
 my raillery has galled him. — Poor Roch- 
 ester, {laughing,) how ill some people 
 take a joke! (feeling in his pockets). 
 Five pounds ten, you say"? 
 
 Copp. Just so — five pounds ten. 
 
 Chas. {searching in all his pockets). 
 Well! tliis is the oddest thing — I am cer- 
 tain I had my purse. 
 
 Copp. {apart). My neighbour seems rather 
 in a quandary. 
 
 Chas. {feeling more eagerly). Some one 
 has picked my pocket. 
 
 Copp. Avast there, friend — none but hon- 
 est people frequent the Grand Admiral. 
 — {Apart.) I begin to suspect this spark, 
 who spends so freely, is without a stiver 
 in his pocket. 
 
 Chas. All I know, is, that one of these 
 honest people must have taken my 
 purse. 
 
 Copp. Come, come, messmate — I am too 
 old a cruiser to be taken in by so shallow 
 a manoeuvre — I understand all this — 
 your companion makes sail — you pretend 
 to have been robbed — it 's all a cursed 
 privateering trick — clear as day. 
 
 Chas. Friend Copp — if you will wait till 
 to-morrow, I '11 pay you double the sum. 
 
 Copp. Double the sum ! ! — thunder and 
 lightnmg! what do you take me for? — 
 Look ye, neighbour, to an honest tar in 
 distress, my house and purse are open — 
 to a jolly tar who wants a caper, and 
 has no coin at hand, drink to-day and 
 pay to-morrow is the word — ^but to a 
 sharking land lubber, that hoists the col- 
 ours of a gallant cruiser, to play off the 
 tricks of a pirate, old Copp will show him 
 his match any day. 
 
 Chas. A land lubber"? 
 
 Copp. Ay, a land lubber. — D 'ye think I 
 can't see through you, and your shallow 
 sailor phrases. — Who the devil are you? 
 
 — none of the captains know you — what 
 ship do you belong to? 
 
 Chas. What ship? why, to — to — {apart) 
 what the deuce shall I say? 
 
 Copp. A pretty sailor, truly — not know 
 the name of his ship — a downright 
 swindler — a barefaced impudent swindler 
 — comes into my house, kicks up a bob- 
 bery, puts every thing in an uproar — 
 treats all the guests — touzles my nieee — 
 and then wants to make off without pay- 
 ing. 
 
 Chas. {apart). How shall I get out of 
 this cursed scrape? — Oh, happy thought, 
 my watch — {aloud) hearkee. Captain 
 Copp — if I have n't money, may be this 
 will do as w^ell — what say you to my 
 watch as pledge? 
 
 Copp {taking the watch). Let me see it — 
 um — large diamonds. {Shaking his head.) 
 
 Chas. {gayly). Well — that's worth your 
 five pounds ten — ^liey? 
 
 Copp. Um — I don't know that: — if the 
 diamonds are false, it is not worth so 
 much — if real, none but a great lord 
 could own it — {turning quick to him), — 
 how did you come by this watch? 
 
 Chas. It 's my own. 
 
 Copp. Your own! A common sailor own 
 a watch set with large diamonds! I'll 
 tell you what, messmate,, it 's my opinion 
 as how you stole this watch. 
 
 Chas. Stole it? Give back my watch, 
 fellow, or I'll— 
 
 Copp. Softly, my lad, keep cool, or I '11 
 have you laid by the heels in a twinkling. 
 
 Chas. {apart). What a bull-dog! Well, 
 sir, what do you intend to do? 
 
 Copp. Lock you up here for the present, 
 and have you lodged in limbo immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 Chas. Will you not listen to reason? 
 
 Copp {going). Yes, through the key-hole! 
 {From the door.) You shall have news 
 of me presently, my fine fellow. {Exit.) 
 
 Chas. Was ever monarch in such a pre- 
 dicament? — a prisoner in a tavern — to be 
 presently dragged through the streets as 
 a culprit — and to-morrow sung in lam- 
 poons, and stuck up in caricatures all 
 through the city — What is to be done? 
 This Copp seems a man of probity, sup- 
 pose I avow myself to him? Um! will 
 he credit me, and will he keep the mat- 
 ter secret? This sturdy veteran may be 
 an old cruiser under the Commonwealth : 
 if so, what have I not to apprehend? 
 Alone — unarmed, at midnight {shaking 
 his head). Charles! Charles! wilt thou 
 
158 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 never learn wisdom'? Yes; let me but 
 get out of tills scrape, and I renounce 
 these rambling humours for ever. (A 
 noise of unlocking the door.) Hark! 
 some one comes. 
 
 {Enter Edward and Mary. Several Serv- 
 ants quaintly dressed, and armed, appear 
 at the door.) 
 
 Mary. Place yourselves outside and guard 
 the passages. 
 
 Chas. They are placing sentinels. 
 
 Edw. (apart). The earl has given me my 
 lesson : no flinching. 
 
 Mary. I am afraid to go near him. I 
 wish my uncle had not set us this task. — 
 (Mary is armed with an old cutlass, 
 Edward with a long rusty pistol or car- 
 bine.) 
 
 Edw. Be not afraid, I am here to defend 
 you. 
 
 Chas. (advancing). What! my pretty 
 Mary in arms? 
 
 Mary. Ah, don't come near me! Wliat a 
 ferocious ruffian it is ! 
 
 Chas. (gallantly). Was that delicate 
 hand made to grasp so rude a weapon *? 
 
 Edw. (low to Mary). Don't let him touch 
 your hand, or you are lost. 
 
 Mary (drawing hack). He does not look 
 so very ferocious, neither. Fie, sir, fie ! 
 what, steal the jewels of the crown"? 
 
 Chas. Is it, then, known already? 
 
 Mary. Yes, indeed, all is known. My un- 
 cle took the watch to our neighbour, the 
 jeweller, who knew it instantly. It be- 
 longs to his royal majesty himself. 
 
 Chas. Confusion ! 
 
 Edw. (low to Mary). You hear he con- 
 fesses. — (Aloud.) Well, Captain Copp 
 will be here presently with the magis- 
 trate. Here will be a fine piece of work. 
 All Wapping is already in an uproar. 
 
 Chas. (eagerly). My friends, it is of the 
 highest importance that I should escape 
 before they come. 
 
 Mary. I have not a doubt of it. Oh ! you 
 culprit ! 
 
 Chas. (with insinuation). And would 
 Mary, the pretty Marj^, see me dragged 
 to prison? I won't» believe it. That 
 sweet face bespeaks a gentle heart. 
 
 Mary. Poor creature! I can't but pity 
 him. 
 
 Chas. (with gallantry). I never saw a 
 pretty woman yet, that would not help 
 a poor fellow in distress — (apart) She 
 yields. But I need other bribes for 
 my gentleman — I have it — my ring. 
 
 (Aloud.) Assist me to escape, and take 
 this ring as a pledge of what I will do. 
 It is of great value. 
 
 Mary. What a beautiful diamond ring! 
 How it sparkles! Don't touch it, 
 Georgini, it 's a stolen ring. 
 
 Edw. And for that very reason I take it. 
 We can return botli together to the right 
 owner. 
 
 Mary (apart to Edward); He certainly 
 has something genteel in his air. This 
 unfortunate man may, perhaps, belong 
 to decent people. 
 
 Chas. I do indeed; my family is consid- 
 ered very respectable. Ah, bless that 
 sweet face! I knew^ a hard heart could 
 not belong to it. 
 
 Edw. (apart). Egad, I must get him off, 
 or he '11 win his pretty jailor, culprit as 
 she thinks him. 
 
 Mary (taking Edward apart). How peni- 
 tent he seems, and his countenance is 
 rather amiable too! What will they do 
 with him? 
 
 Edw. (carelessly). Hum — ^why, they'll 
 hang him, of course. 
 
 Mary. Heavens! will they touch his life? 
 oh, horrible ! and so good looking a man ! 
 I w^ould not have his death upon my 
 mind for the whole world (earnestly). 
 
 Chas. (Who has been traversing the 
 apartment uneasily, and eyeing them oc- 
 casionally.) Will this consultation never 
 end ! I dread the arrival of the officers, 
 
 Mary (aloud). Let us assist him to es- 
 
 cape 
 
 Chas. Thanks, my generous girl: there's 
 nothing like a petticoat in time of trou- 
 ble. 
 
 Edw. How shall we get him off? The 
 door is guarded. 
 
 Chas. Ay, but the window. 
 
 Edw. (eagerly). No, not the window, you 
 may hurt yourself. 
 
 Chas. (surprised). You are very consid- 
 erate, my friend. 
 
 Mary. Oh ! it is not very high, and opens 
 into a lane that leads to the river. 
 
 Chas. (opening the tvindow). Psha! it's 
 nothing; with your assistance, I shall be 
 on the ground in an instant. 
 
 Mary. It is, perhaps, very wrong in me to 
 let you escape; but I beg you to listen 
 to a word of advice. 
 
 Chas. Oh, yes, I hear you. 
 
 Mary. It is on condition that you change 
 your course of life. 
 
 Chas. Yes, yes, I '11 change it, I warrant 
 you. 
 
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 159 
 
 Mary. And not drink, nor rove about this 
 
 way at night. 
 Chas. Not for the world. 
 Mary. And steal no more, for it will 
 
 bring you to a shameful end. 
 Chas. {getting out of the window, assisted 
 
 by Mary). An excellent sermon! But 
 
 I must steal — one kiss to impress it on 
 
 my memory! 
 Edw. Did he steal a kiss, Mary? 
 Mary. Oh, yes, he did indeed. 
 Edw. Stop thief ! stop thief ! 
 Chas. {descending outside). Tell uncle 
 
 Copp to put it in the bill ! 
 Edw. I hear them coming. {Looks out of 
 
 the icindow.) He's safe down — he's off 
 
 — {apart) — now I'm easy. 
 Mary. But what shall we say to my uncle ? 
 Edw. I '11 manage that ; only say as I say, 
 
 and fear nothing. (Copp heard outside 
 
 the door.) 
 Copp. This way — this wav. 
 Edw. Stop thief! stop thief! {To 
 
 Mary.) Cry out as I do. 
 Mary {feebly). Stop the thief! stop the 
 
 thief! I can't. 
 
 {Enter Copp, with a double-barrelled gun, 
 followed by two Servants.) 
 
 Copp. Hollo — ^what the devil's to pay 
 here? 
 
 Edw. The culprit has jumped out of the 
 window. 
 
 Mary. Oh, yes, out of the window ! 
 
 Copp. Thunder and lightning ! why did n't 
 you stop him? 
 
 Edw. I was too far off. The young lady 
 attemjited, but he kissed her, and leaped 
 out like a greyhound. 
 
 Copp. Fire and furies! — kissed her? 
 
 Mary. Yes, uncle, but he didn't hurt me. 
 
 Edw. And he said you might put it in the 
 bill. 
 
 Copp. Guns and blunderbusses! this is 
 running up an account with a vengeance 
 {looking out of the window). I see 
 something in the offing; we may overhaul 
 him yet. Come along, all hands to the 
 chase ! Get to your room, Mary, there 's 
 no knowing what might happen if this 
 pirate should fall foul of you again. 
 Come along — away with you all — divide 
 at the street door — scour the three pas- 
 sages — I '11 show him what it is to come 
 in the way of an old cruiser! — {Bustle — 
 Copp fires off his gun out of the window 
 after Charles. Curtain falls.) 
 
 END of act second. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene. The Royal Palace. 
 
 (Enter Edward, in his habit, as a Page.) 
 
 Edw. I've had a hard scramble of it, to 
 get here, and dress in time. The king 
 must arrive presently, though my light 
 heels have given me a good start of him. 
 Hark ! a noise in the king's private stair- 
 case — Softly, then, softly, {seats him- 
 self in an arm-chair at the door of the 
 king's chamber, and pretends to sleep). 
 
 [Enter Charles, his dress in disorder.) 
 
 Chas. Confound tlie city! what a journey 
 it is! 
 
 Edw. (aside). Especially to foot passen- 
 gers. 
 
 Chas. I began to think I should never 
 find the palace. (Sitting down.) Phew! 
 I shall not forget this night in a hurry. 
 Forced to escape like a thief, — to risk 
 my neck from a window, — hunted about 
 the streets by that old buccaneer and his 
 crew ! Egad ! I fancy I can hear old 
 Copp's voice, even now, like a huntsman 
 giving the view-halloo, as I doubled 
 about the mazes of Wapping. 
 
 Edw. (Aside, and suppressing a laugh.) 
 A royal hunt, truly! 
 
 Chas. Well, thank fortune, I am safe 
 home at last, and seen by nobody but my 
 confidential valet. 
 
 Edw. (Aside.) And the most discreet of 
 pages. 
 
 Chas. (Seeing Edward.) So, the page 
 already in waiting. Deuce take him ! he 
 is exactly in the door-way of my cham- 
 ber. So, so! Lady Clara coming! Oh, 
 then, all 's over ! 
 
 (Enter Lady Clara, goes to Edward.) 
 
 Lady C. What! asleep at this hour, Ed- 
 ward? 
 
 Edw. I beg your pardon, my lady — I am 
 waiting bis majesty's rising. 
 
 Lady C. You will come, and let the queen 
 know when the king is visible (perceives 
 Charles). Heavens! your majesty in 
 this dress? 
 
 Chas. (affecting an unembarrassed air). 
 What ! it amuses you, ha ! ha ! My regu- 
 lar morning dress, I assure you. I have 
 taken a whim for gardening lately, and, 
 every morning, by day-light, I am on the 
 terrace, planting, transplanting, and 
 
160 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 training. Ob ! you should see how busy 
 I am, particularly among the roses. 
 
 Lady C. I have no doubt your majesty 
 has an eye for every fresh one that 
 blows. — But, how quiet you have been in 
 these pursuits! 
 
 Chas. One does not want all the world to 
 know of one's caprices. But what has 
 procured me the pleasure of seeing your 
 ladyship so early? 
 
 Lady C. The queen, sire, knowing how 
 deeply you were immersed in affairs of 
 state, last night, sent me to enquire how 
 your majesty had slept. 
 
 Chas. Very restless — very restless — I 
 tumbled and tossed about sadly. 
 
 Lady C. Ah ! why does not your majesty 
 take more care of yourself? You devote 
 yourself too much to your people. This 
 night-work will be too much for you. 
 
 Chas. Why, yes, if it were often as severe 
 as last night. 
 
 Lady C. Indeed, your majesty must give 
 up these midnight labours to your min- 
 isters. 
 
 Chas. {apart). To my ministers, ha! ha! 
 Egad! I should like to see old Claren- 
 don and Ormond hob or nobbing with 
 uncle Copp, struggling for kisses with 
 Mary, and scouring the lanes of Wap- 
 ping at full speed. — {aloud). Well, my 
 Lady Clara, have you anything further 
 to communicate? 
 
 Lady C. Might I presume, I have a fa- 
 vour to request of your majesty. An 
 author, in whose cause I take a warm 
 interest, has offended a person high in 
 power, and is threatened with a prose- 
 cution. 
 
 Chas. The blockhead! let him write 
 against me only, and they '11 never trou- 
 ble him. 
 
 Lady C. His pardon depends upon your 
 majesty — would you but deign to sign it! 
 
 Chas. {Apart.) Sinner that I am, it 
 would but ill become me to be severe. — 
 {Aloud.) Lady Clara, you look amaz- 
 ingly well this morning — I can refuse 
 you nothing. — {Signs the paper.) And 
 now, to make my toilette — {aside) — Safe 
 at last ! she suspects nothing. 
 
 Lady C. {smiling). He thinks he has de- 
 ceived me. — Oh, these men, these men ! 
 how they will impose upon us easy, sim- 
 ple, knowing women! 
 
 {Exeunt Lady Clara and Edward.) 
 {Enter Copp and Mary.) 
 Copp. Oddsfish ! I never knew such a 
 piece of work to get into a house before. 
 
 If that good-looking gentlewoman had 
 not seen us from the window, and taken 
 our part, hang me, if I don't think they 
 would have turn'd us adrift. 
 
 Mary. What beautiful rooms! 
 
 Copp. Gingerbread finery! I would not 
 change the bar-room of the Grand Ad- 
 miral for the best of them. But what a 
 bother to give a watch back to the right 
 owner ! Why, there 's no finding the 
 king in his own house. — Now, for my 
 part, I always stand on the threshold, 
 and if any one comes, there 's my hand. — 
 Tip us your bone, says I, and make your- 
 self welcome. — That 's what I call acting 
 like a king of good fellows. 
 
 Mary. Oh, uncle, I have always heard say, 
 that the king is very kind and affable; 
 and, I dare say, when you hand him back 
 his watch, he will behave with generosity. 
 
 Copp. Generosity! Why, dost think, girl, 
 I'd take a reward? No, no! — They say 
 Charley 's not overstocked with the 
 shiners. — I want none of them. To be 
 sure, he may do the civil thing — ^he may 
 ask us to stay, and take pot-luck, per- 
 haps. 
 
 Mary. Pot-luck, uncle! 
 
 Copp. Ay, in a friendly way, d'ye see? 
 And I don't care if I did, if it were only 
 to see how royalty messed. But, where 
 the deuce is the king to be found? Oh! 
 yonder is a fine gimcrack young gentle- 
 man, who, perhaps, can tell us — I '11 hail 
 him. Yo-ho ! messmate ! 
 
 {Exit, hallooing after Edward.) 
 
 Mary. What a beautiful place this is! 
 But, without content, grandeur is not to 
 be envied. The humble and the good, 
 may be as happy in a cottage as a palace. 
 
 Becitative — Mary. 
 
 Thrice beautiful! Alas! that here 
 Should ever come a frown or tear; 
 But not beneath the gilded dome 
 Hath happiness its only home. 
 
 Not in the pictured halls, 
 Not amid marble walls 
 Will young Love dwell. 
 
 Love's home 's the heart alone, 
 That heart, too, all his own. 
 Else, Love, farewell! 
 
 {Enter Copp, pulling in Edward, who 
 tries to hide his face.) 
 
 Copp. Come along, young man — don't be 
 
 so bashful — ^you need n't mind us. 
 Edw. {aside). Let me put on a steady 
 
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 161 
 
 face — {aloud) — You come to speak to his 
 majesty'? 
 
 Mary. Yes, Sir, we come — {apart) — Dear 
 uncle, those features — how my heart 
 beats! — Did you ever see such a resem- 
 blance, uncle? 
 
 Copp {looking at Edward). Oddsfish! he 
 is like, indeed ! — But it can't be him ! 
 
 Mary. I like Mr. Georgini's face better — 
 it is more animated. 
 
 Copp. Don't talk to me of that Georgini. 
 Didst not tell me, he took a ring of that 
 land-pirate? — and, then, to disappear so 
 suddenly. — Fire and fury! if I catch 
 him — 
 
 Edw. No swearing in the king's palace. 
 
 Copp. Well, well, true ; no swearing. But, 
 thunder and lightning! what keeps the 
 king so long? 
 
 Edw. I think I hear him. Step into that 
 apartment — a lady will introduce you. 
 
 Copp. Ah ! the same that I saw at the win- 
 dow; — very well. But, I say. Mister, 
 don't keep me waiting. Just hint to the 
 king, that I 've no time to lose. Tell 
 him, there 's a launch at Wapping to-day 
 — busy times at the Grand Admiral. 
 
 Mary. Let us retire, uncle. I dare say 
 we shall be sent for in good time. 
 
 Copp. Very well, veiy well. But, do 
 think of the Grand Admiral — all aback 
 for want of me. If the king loses his 
 watch again, the devil take me — Oh ! I 
 forgot — I must n't swear in the king's 
 palace. {Exeunt Copp and Mary.) 
 
 Edw. This will be a w^iimsical court pres- 
 entation, truly! His majesty's perplexi- 
 ties are not yet over. 
 
 {Enter Charles in his riding dres3 ) 
 
 Chas. Has Rochester appeared? 
 
 Edw. Not yet. Sire. 
 
 Chas. {apart). What could be his motive 
 for the cruel trick he played me? 
 
 Edw. Your majesty asked for Lord Roch- 
 ester; here he comes with Lady Clara. 
 
 Chas. Pish ! Lady Clara is one too many 
 here. I shall not be able to explain my- 
 self before her. No matter — he shall 
 not escape me. 
 
 (Enter Rochester and Lady Clara.) 
 
 RoCH. May I venture to ask, if your maj- 
 esty has passed a comfortable night? 
 
 Chas. Indilt'erent, my lord — {low, to 
 Mm) — Traitor! 
 
 Lady C. {smiling). I understood his lord- 
 ship had assisted your majesty in your 
 labours. 
 
 Roch. Not throughout, my lady. An ac- 
 cident obliged me to leave his majesty in 
 rather a moment of perplexity. 
 
 Chas. {angrily). Yes, his lordship left 
 the whole weight of — busin3ss — upon my 
 shoulders. 
 
 Roch. I doubt not your majesty got 
 through with your usual address. 
 
 Chas. {apart). Pertidious varlet! 
 
 {Aloud.) My lord, you will please to 
 present yourself in my study at two 
 o'clock. I have something particular to 
 say to you. 
 
 Roch. Deign to dispense with my attend- 
 ance, sire. I quit London in a few mo- 
 ments for my estate, as I mentioned yes- 
 terday. I am a great offender. — It is 
 time to exile myself from court, and turn 
 hermit. 
 
 Chas. {harshly). I approve the project; 
 but will take the liberty of choosing your 
 hermitage myself. 
 
 Roch. {low to Lady Clara). The king is 
 furious against me. 
 
 Lady C. Courage, my lord — all will end 
 w^ell. 
 
 Copp (shouting outside). What the devil 
 is the meaning of this ? Am I to be kept 
 here all day? 
 
 Chas. What uproar is that? 
 
 Lady C. Oh ! two persons, whom I met 
 this morning, seeking to speak with his 
 majesty, on some personal concern. As 
 I know him to be so accessible to the peo- 
 ple, I undertook to present them. 
 
 Chas. Just now it is impossible. 
 
 Lady C. I am very soriy, especially on 
 the young girl's account. 
 
 Chas. A young girl, did you say? 
 
 Lady C. Beautiful as an angel! 
 
 Chas. Oh ! since you take such interest in 
 her, Lady Clara — (to Edward,) — Show 
 them in. 
 
 (Enter Copp and Mary.) 
 
 Edw. (preceding them). Come in — ^liis 
 majesty consents to hear you. 
 
 Copp. I 'm taken all aback — my courage 
 begins to fail me. 
 
 Mary. What have you to fear, my dear 
 uncle? 
 
 (Keeps her eyes modestly cast down.) 
 
 Copp. Fear! it isn't fear, look ye. But, 
 somehow, I never fell in with a king be- 
 fore in all my cruisings. 
 
 Chas. (Apart.) Copp and his niece! 
 here's a pretty rencontre. 
 
 (Summoning up dignity.) 
 
162 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 Copp. Well, I suppose I must begin. — 
 Oddsfisb ! I had it all settled in my head, 
 and now, the deuce a word can 1 muster 
 up. 
 
 Maky. Come, uncle, courage! I never 
 saw you so cast down before. 
 
 CoPP. Well, then, what I have to say is 
 this — Mr. King. — {Low.) Hey, Mary, 
 what is it I had to say"? 
 
 Chas. What is your name, my good 
 friend ? 
 
 Copp. Copp, at your service; that is to 
 sa}^, Coppland, or Captain Copp, as they 
 call me. And here's Mary, my niece, 
 who, though I say it, is one of the best 
 girls— 
 
 {While talking, he looks down and 
 fumbles with his cap.) 
 
 Mary. But, that 's not the point, uncle. 
 
 Copp. Eh ! true, very true, always keep to 
 the point, like a good helmsman. First 
 and foremost, then, you must know, my 
 lord — when I say my lord, I mean your 
 majesty. 
 
 Chas. {Apart.) Egad, he's as much 
 puzzled as I was, to give an account of 
 myself. 
 
 Copp. {Still looking down.) In finis — 
 primo to begin — you mast know, then, 
 tliat I command, that is to say, I keep 
 the Grand Admiral, as honest a tavern as 
 your majesty would wish to set your 
 foot in — none but good company ever 
 frequent it, excepting when a rogue or so 
 drops in, in disguise — last night, for 
 instance, a couple of gallows knaves, sav- 
 ing your majesty's presence — Ah ! if I 
 could only lay eyes on them again — I 
 should know 'em, wherever I saw 'em — 
 one in particular had a confounded hang- 
 ing look — a man about the height of — 
 {Eyeing Rochester, stops short.) 
 Mary! Maiy! if there isn't one of the 
 very rogues! 
 
 Mary. My dear uncle, hush, for heaven's 
 sake! {Apart.) That wine is still in 
 his head. 
 
 Chas. {Apart.) Rochester's face seems 
 to puzzle him. 
 
 Copp. I'll say no more; for the more I 
 look — {Low to Mary.) hang me, if it 
 is n't himself, 
 
 ]\Iary. Hush, I entreat you — I Avill speak 
 for you — {Takes his place, her eyes still 
 modestly cast down.) My uncle has 
 thought it his duty to inform your maj- 
 esty, that two strangers came to his house 
 last night, and after calling for a great 
 deal of wine, were unable to pay, and 
 
 went off, leaving a valuable watch in 
 pledge, which has proved to belong to 
 your majesty. (Rochester and Lady 
 Clara in bye play express great delight 
 at the manner of Mary.) 
 
 Copp. {Apart, rubbing his hands.) Oh! 
 bless her ! she talks like a book. 
 
 Mary. My uncle being an honest man, has 
 brought the watch to your majesty. 
 
 Copp. Yes, by St. George, and here it is. 
 The sharpers, to be sure, have run off 
 with five pounds ten of my money, but 
 that 's neither here nor there — I don't 
 say that, because I expect you to pay it, 
 you know. — In short, without more pa- 
 laver, {Crossing, and giving it.) here's 
 the watch — {Glancing at the King, stops 
 short, and gives a long whistle.) whew! 
 {Treads so f tig back.) — {Low to Mary.) 
 Smite my timbers! if it be n't the other 
 rogue ! 
 
 Mary. What ails you, uncle? surely, you 
 are losing your senses to speak thus of 
 his majesty! 
 
 Copp. {Low to her.) Majesty, or no maj- 
 esty, I '11 put my hand in the fire on 't 
 he 's the other. 
 
 Chas. The watch is certainly mine. 
 
 Lady C. Your majesty's? 
 
 {Smiling significantly at Rochester.) 
 
 ROCH. {Affecting astonishment.) Your 
 majesty's w^atch? 
 
 [Chas. Even so; and I might have lost it, 
 but for this man 's honesty. I shall be 
 more on my guard in future. 
 
 {Looking sternly at Rochester.) 
 
 Mary. {Looking at Charles and Roches- 
 ter.) The voice and the face are 
 astonishinglv alike. But it is impossi- 
 ble.] 
 
 Copp {Rapping his forehead.) I have it 
 — I see how it is. — {Low to Mary.) 
 We 've made a pretty kettle of fish of it. 
 The king, you know, is said to cruise un- 
 der false colours. 
 
 Mary. Mercy on me ! what will become of 
 us? 
 
 Copp. {To Mary.) Let me alone — it's 
 one of the king's mad frolics — but never 
 you mind — I'll get you off — {Aloud.) 
 Your majesty will not be angry with my 
 little fool of a niece. The two strangers 
 might be very w^orthy joeople — many a 
 man has a gallows look, and is an honest 
 fellow for all that. — The truth is, they 
 were a brace of merry wags. — Besides, if 
 I had known for certain, I would n't for 
 the world — ha ! ha ! — because, d 'ye see — 
 honour bright — mum! {Turning to 
 
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 163 
 
 Mary.) Come, I think I've got you 
 pretty well out of the scrape, hey? 
 
 CiiAS. Captain Copp, I am aware of all 
 that passed at your house. 
 
 CoPP. Ah! your majesty knows, that he 
 who cracks a joke must not complain if 
 he should chance to pinch his fingers. 
 
 Chas. True, Captain. But was there not 
 question of one Rochester? 
 
 Copp. Why, craving your majesty's par- 
 don, I did let slip some hard truths aloout 
 him. 
 
 ROCH. And do you know him of whom you 
 s])oke so bluntly ? 
 
 Copp. Not I, thank heaven! But I only 
 said, what everybody says — and what 
 everybody says, you knoAv, must be 
 true. 
 
 Chas. Spoken like an oracle — and did not 
 you say, that this pretty lass was his 
 niece ? 
 
 Copp. Ay, as to that matter, I '11 stick to 
 that, proof in hand. Make a reverence, 
 Mary, and no thanks to Rochester for the 
 relationship. 
 
 Chas. I will take care that he shall make a 
 suitable provision for his niece, or pro- 
 vide her an honourable husband. 
 
 RocH. I can assure your majesty, you only 
 anticipated his intentions. 
 
 Copp. Avast there! — I don't give up my 
 girl. 
 
 RoCH. But you will choose a match suited 
 to her noble family. 
 
 Copp. I '11 choose for her an honest man ; 
 but no ranticumscout companion to suit 
 that Earl of Rochester you talk of. — 
 {Chuckling and winking.) To tell the 
 truth between friends, and all in confi- 
 dence, I had a match in my eye, a young 
 music master. — Nay, don't blush, girl — I 
 know there was a sneaking kindness in 
 the case. 
 
 Chas. I oppose that match. That young 
 man received a ring last night, but has 
 not had the honesty, like Captain Copp, 
 to seek the owner. 
 
 (Mary involuntarily springs forward 
 to defend Edward against the charge, 
 which Lady Clara and Rochester 
 observe and smile at.) 
 
 Edw. (Advancing.) He only waited a 
 suitable moment to return it to your 
 majesty. [Kneels and presents it.) 
 
 Chas. How! Edward! — The resemblance 
 is no longer a wonder. 
 
 Copp. AMiat, little crotchet and quaver! 
 Aha! ha! ha! there's witchcraft in all 
 this. 
 
 Mary. Oh, heavens! Georgini a gentle- 
 man ! But my heart knew it. 
 
 Chas. It is in vain, Lady Clara, to at- 
 tempt concealment. Behold the heroes 
 of the adventure. 
 
 Lady C. Pardon me, sire, I knew it all 
 along — I was in the plot. 
 
 Chas. How? 
 
 Lady C. Her majesty, the queen, was at 
 the head of it. If the earl be guilty, it 
 is we who induced him, and should un- 
 dergo the punishment. 
 
 Chas. I understand the whole. But the 
 treacheiy of this earl I cannot forgive. 
 He shall not obtain my pardon. 
 
 Lady C. {Producing a paper.) It is al- 
 ready obtained. Your majesty, ever 
 merciful, has signed it. 
 
 Chas. What! he, too, is the author for 
 whom you have interested yourself. — 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! fairly taken in at all points. 
 Rochester, thou hast conquered. 
 
 (Rochester kneels.) 
 
 Copp. {Passionately.) Thunder and light- 
 ning! this man Rochester! — come along, 
 girl, come along! 
 
 Mary. What, can he be that hard-hearted 
 man? He does not look so cruel, uncle. 
 
 Copp. {Taking her under his arm.) 
 Come along, girl, come along. 
 
 Roch. One moment, Captain Copp. 
 (Copp stops, and looks fiercely at him.) 
 It is true, I am Rochester — a sad fellow, 
 no doubt, since all the world says so — 
 but there is one grievous sin which I will 
 not take to my conscience, for it is against 
 beauty. I am not the Rochester who dis- 
 claimed this lovely girl — he was my 
 predecessor, and is dead. 
 
 Copp. {Sternly.) Dead! — gone to his 
 long reckoning. — {Pauses.) May Heaven 
 deal kindlier with him than he did with 
 this orphan child! 
 
 Mary. That 's my own uncle ! 
 
 Chas. I have pardoned you, Rochester; 
 but my eyes are opened to the follies 
 which I have too frequently partaken. 
 From this night I abjure them. 
 
 Roch. And T, my liege, {Bowing to Lady 
 Clara) will mortify myself Avith matri- 
 mony, and hope to reform into a very 
 rational and submissive husband. {Tak- 
 ing Lady Clara's hand.) 
 
 Chas. There yet remains a party to be 
 disposed of. What say you, Captain 
 Copp? — What say you, my Lord of 
 Rochester? Must we not find a husband 
 for our niece ? 
 
 Copp, Fair and softly, your majesty — 
 
164 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND 
 
 craving your majesty's pardon, I can't 
 give up my right over my little girl. 
 This lord is an uncle — I can't gainsay it; 
 but he 's a new-found uncle. — I have 
 bred her, and fed her, and been her uncle 
 all her life, haven't I, Mary? 
 
 Mary. Oh, sir, you have been a father to 
 nie! 
 
 COPP. ]\Iy good little iiirl — my darling girl. 
 — Take thee away from thy own uncle'? 
 Pshaw ! Ha ! ha ! I shall grow silly 
 and soft again! Ha! ha! 
 
 Chas. You are right, captain — ^you alone 
 ought to dispose of her. But I hope to 
 propose a match that shall please all 
 parties. — What think you of my page — 
 the music-master, who brought back the 
 ring"? I shall present him with a com- 
 mission in my own regiment. 
 
 Edw. Oh! so much goodness! 
 
 Copp. Your majesty has fathomed my own 
 wishes. 
 
 RocH. And mine. 
 
 Edw. And mine. 
 
 {Approaching Mary.) 
 
 Mary. And — {Extending her hand.) — 
 and mine. 
 
 CoPP. So, here we are, all safe in port, 
 after last night's squall. Oddsfish! I 
 feel so merry! — my girl's provided for 
 — I have nothing now to care for — I '11 
 keep open house at the Grand Admiral — 
 I '11 set all my liquor a-tap — I '11 drown 
 all Wapping in wine and strong beer — 
 I '11 have an illumination — I '11 make a 
 bonfire of the Grand Admiral — I '11 give 
 up business for the rest of mj- life — I '11 
 sing "In the time of the Rump" — 
 
 (Mary runs down and stops him.) 
 
 Chas. Captain Copp, I am your debtor 
 — five pounds ten? — accept this watch as 
 a mark of mj^ esteem. The ring I re- 
 serve for the lovely Mary. {Putting it 
 on her finger.) And now, {Beckoning 
 all the characters to the front with an air 
 of mystery.) let me particularly enjoin 
 on all present, the most profound secresy 
 in regard to our whimsical adventures at 
 Wapping. 
 
 CoPP. {Clapping his finger to his lips.) 
 Honour bright! — Mum! 
 
THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 BY 
 
 Richard Penii Smith 
 
The Triumph at Plattshurg is here printed for the 
 first time from the original manuscript through the 
 courtesy of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. 
 
THE TEIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 The Triumph at Plattshurg represents the historical play dealing with the 
 war of 1812. Richard Penn Smith,, its author, was born in Philadelphia, March 
 13, 1799, the grandson of Provost William Smith, the patron of Thomas God- 
 frey. He was educated at IVIount Airy, and was admitted to the Bar. He 
 succeeded Duane as Editor of The Aurora, in 1822, but after five years spent in 
 journalism, he returned to the practice of law. According to his biographers 
 he had a wide knowledge of French and English drama which indeed is shown 
 directly in several of the plays. He died August 12, 1854, at the family seat 
 at the Falls of Schuylkill, near Philadelphia. 
 
 He wrote twenty plays, fifteen of which were performed. His first play to be 
 acted, Quite Correct, was produced at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, 
 May 27, 1828. It is a farce altered from the French, as was also Is She a 
 Brigand, played at the Arch Street Theatre, in 1833. The largest group of 
 Smith's plays may be called romantic comedy or melodrama. The most important 
 plays in this group are The Disowned, a melodrama, played first at the Balti- 
 more Theatre, March 26, 1829, and printed in Philadelphia in 1830, A Wife 
 at a Venture, an oriental comedy, played first at the Walnut Street Theatre, 
 Philadelphia, July 25, 1829, The Sentinels, or the Two Sergeants, a clever play 
 on the theme of fidelity, adapted from the French, performed at the Chestnut 
 Street Theatre, December, 1829, and The Deformed, a verse play, based on 
 Dekker's Honest Whore, played first at the Chestnut Street Theatre, February 
 4, 1830, and printed the same year. According to Durang and Rees, The 
 Disowned and The Deformed were afterwards acted in London. 
 
 Smith also wrote a blank verse tragedy, Caius Marius, for Edwin Forrest, 
 which the latter produced at the Arch Street Theatre, on January 12, 1831, and 
 later in other places. It has not survived, except in fragments. 
 
 Smith did his most significant work, however, in the field of historical drama. 
 The Eighth of January, in which General Jackson is the central figure, was 
 played at the Chestnut Street Theatre, January 8, 1829, and was very popular, 
 being repeated in New York, Baltimore and Washington, and, as late as 1848, 
 being put on at the Broadway Theatre, New York. It was printed in Phila= 
 delphia in 1829. William Penn, a play in three acts, has as central theme the 
 intervention of Penn to save the life of an Indian chief, Tammany, by name. 
 It was first played at the Walnut Street Theatre, Dec. 25, 1829, and seems to 
 have been revived as late as 1842. 
 
 167 
 
168 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Triumph at Plattshurg is the best of the national plays of Smith. He 
 has avoided actual historical characters, and the conflict is kept in the back- 
 ground, while IMcCrea's danger keeps the element of suspense alive. It was 
 first played at the Chestnut Street Theatre, January 8, 1830, with a strong 
 cast, and was repeated. Apparently the scenery was quite effective and the 
 national appeal met with a response. 
 
 For biography of Richard Penn Smith, see a sketch by Morton McMichael 
 in The Miscellaneous Works of the late Richard Penn Smith, edited 
 by H. W. Smith, Philadelphia, 1856, and an anonymous sketch in Burton's 
 Gentleman's Magazine, Vol. V, p. 119 (September, 1839). For accounts of the 
 performances of the plays, see Charles Durang, History of the Philadelphia 
 Stage, Series 2, Chaps. 51, 55, 56. 
 
 The published plays of Penn Smith, The Eighth of January, (1829), The 
 Disowned, (1830), The Deformed, (1830), Quite Correct, (1835), Is She a 
 Brigand, (1835), and The Daughter, (1836), all printed in Philadelphia, are 
 hard to obtain. The following plays are in manuscript form in the Historical 
 Society of Pennsylvania, in Philadelphia: The Pelican, A Wife at a Venture, 
 The Sentinels, William Penn, The Triumph at Plattshurg, The Bomhardment of 
 Algiers, The Solitary or the Man of Mystery, Shakespeare in Love, and The 
 Last Man. Smith's novel The Forsaken was published in Philadelphia in 1831. 
 
 The present text is based on the manuscript copy, for whose use the editor 
 is indebted to the courtesy of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, especially 
 of the Librarian, Dr. John W. Jordan, and of the Assistant Librarian, Mr. 
 Ernest Spofford. The original program, found with the manuscript, has been 
 
 reprinted here. 
 
 Note to Revised Edition. 
 
 An authoritative life of Penn Smith has been published under the title of 
 The Life and Writings of Richard Penn Smith with a Reprint of His Play, The 
 Deformed, 1830, by Bruce Welker McCullough, 1917. (University of Pennsyl- 
 vania Thesis.) 
 
Chesnut Stree t* 
 
 Boxes 75 cents. — Pit 37 1-2 cents — Gallery 25 cents: 
 
 Saturday Evening, 
 
 January 9, 1330, 
 
 Second night ©f a 
 JV«tr Patriotic l^rama 
 
 Written expressly for this Theatre, called 
 THE 
 
 AT J/L 
 
 Plattsbiirg*, 
 
 AVITH NEW SCENERY. 
 
 PAINTCU BY MR RI.INAGLE. 
 
 Major M Cren ^Ir. Foot. I :d SoM-r Mr Forreat. 
 
 Captain ?taiily. Mr. lioirbotham. | ScnuntI, Mr Ilcnry. 
 
 An.lrew Muckleijraith Mr. Maifwood. j 
 
 Capiiin IVaho.ly., . -iVr J Jefferson. \ Elinor M'Crea. ..Mrs. Roper. 
 
 Corpxnl Pcdhoily,. .iVr. M Uou^al. j Mrs. !Vlucklegraith,3//-« Turner. 
 
 Dr. I)rench,. . . . . . . ..^/r llathotH. j Lucy Mt.is Waring. 
 
 Itt SdIJicf Mr Watson J Mrs. Drcncfi Miss Armstrong 
 
 American aiul English Soldier*. Citizens, Village Girls, &.c. 
 In the course of the Piece the following 
 
 Scenery, Incidents, &c» 
 
 View of the Tillage of 
 
 Ptattshurg, 
 
 Fopt Moreau. 
 
 T.WKKN 0,\ CLniBERL.\i\'D HEAD; 
 
 Tlirougli liic windows of winch is a View of 
 
 Lake Chaniplain, 
 
 Arrival and Capture of the 
 
 British Fleet. 
 
 TltlUMPH OF THE 
 
 American Arms, 
 
 PROGRAM OF THE SECOND NIGHT 
 Reproduced from the original Program in the possession 
 of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. 
 
[M anil script} 
 
 CHARACTEES 
 
 Major M'Crea Mr. Foot 
 
 Captain Stanley [Mr.] Rowbotham 
 
 Andre Macklegraitii [Mr.] Maywood 
 
 Captain Peabody [Mr.] J. Jefferson 
 
 Corporal Peabody [Mr.] M'Dougal 
 
 Dr. Drench [Mr.] Hathwell 
 
 Elinor M 'Cre^v Mrs. Roper 
 
 Mrs. Macklegraith Mrs. Turner 
 
 LiucY Miss Waring' 
 
 ]\Irs. Drench ..,,<... ,o. » Miss Armstrong 
 
THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 SCEXE 1. The village of Plattshurg, in 
 fro7it of Fort Moreau. The fort prac- 
 ticable. Flag flying, Sentinel on duty; 
 villagers cross stage removing property. 
 
 {Enter Corporal Peabody with soldiers.) 
 
 Corporal. Halt. Stand at ease. Good 
 people, what is the meaning of all this 
 confusion and consternation'? You could 
 not be more alarmed if the whole village 
 were already in flames about your ears. 
 
 Dr. Drexcii. And so it will be, corporal, 
 if we stay here a few hours longer. The 
 ease is a des]:)era1e one I assure you, be- 
 yond the reach of medicine. Is not Sir 
 George Prevost, with many thousand 
 troops, already within a few miles of the 
 village? 
 
 Corporal. Very true, but I calculate he 
 will have to come nearer before he takes 
 the village, and that you know he cannot 
 do without having a taste of the quality 
 of the Green Mountain Boys. 
 
 Dr. Drexch. Exactly as you say, but I 
 would just as leave be down at Whitehall 
 during the operation, so I '11 move my- 
 self and plunder out of harm's way. 
 Must have an eye to the main chance, 
 corporal, and take care of my property, 
 you know. 
 
 Corporal. The surest way to take care of 
 it is to defend it with a musket in your 
 hand. I have one at your service, doc- 
 tor. 
 
 Dr. Drexch. Thank ye, thank ye kindly, 
 just as much as though I had accepted 
 of it ; but no occasion at present. 
 
 Corporal. What, doctor, not afraid to . 
 look upon death at this time of day? 
 
 Dr. Drexch. Afraid ! La ! no, that 's my 
 trade, and that I may continue to exer- 
 cise it, I decline your polite offer. 
 
 AxDRE. (Without.) Stand out o' the 
 way, man, and make room for Andre 
 Macklegraith, w^ho would see the general. 
 
 Corporal. What noise is that? 
 
 Dr. Drexch. It is Andre Macklegraith, 
 the miller. 
 
 {Enter Axdre.) 
 
 171 
 
 Axdre. Corporal Peabody, it warms the 
 cockles o' my heart to see your good 
 natured face at this present speaking, 
 though you ken weel enow, that the time 
 ha' been, and that na lang syne, when I 
 would ha' preferred your room to your 
 company any day in the week, and ha' 
 been the gainer by it. 
 
 Corporal. Twist me, but I guessed as 
 much, Andre, but what has worked this 
 sudden change in your feelings ? 
 
 Axdre. Our feud 's at an end, corporal, — 
 Our feud 's at an end. Take a pinch o' 
 sneezer out o' my mull, and that you ken 
 will be as binding as though we drank 
 out o' the same cup together, and the 
 ceremony is more economical — take a 
 good pinch, man, you 're welcome.— Ah ! 
 doctor, I cry you mercy, it glads one to 
 see your gracious physiognomy; and how 
 does the w^orld wag with you, man? 
 
 Dr. Drexch. Only so, so. 
 
 Corporal. The war is about to drive him 
 from the village, Andre. 
 
 Axdre. The doctor is right. It is an old 
 saw, ye ken, that twa of a trade can 
 never agree, and the war I am thinking 
 will do business upon a larger scale than 
 the doctor. — Ha! Ha! do you take my 
 meaning? 
 
 Corporal. Yes, and so does the doctor 
 too ; but he makes a wry face in taking it. 
 
 Axdre. Well I have done as much in swal- 
 lowing his nostrums. — Ha ! Ha ! — Never 
 look vexed, doctor. — A harmless jest will 
 break no bones, and Andre, you ken right 
 weel, is not the churl that would hurt as 
 much as a hair upon his neighbor's head. 
 Well, Corporal Peabody, as I was say- 
 ing, our feud 's at an end. You know I 
 always counted you a bonnie laddie when 
 you used to come to my mill on Dead 
 Creek with your grist of white wheat, and 
 as fine wheat it w^as as any that grew in 
 Clinton County, that I will say for it. 
 
 Corporal. And heavy tolls came out of it 
 too, Andre. 
 
 Axdre. Ha! Ha! Let Andre alone for 
 that man; but de'il a grain more did he 
 take than his lawful toll. Ye canna say 
 that ever Andre Macklegraith lost sight 
 of the golden rule, which bids him do as 
 
172 
 
 THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 he would be done by. Well, as I was 
 saying, ye came oft to the mill with your 
 grist, and ye came often without any 
 grist at all, and by my troth you soon 
 wore out your welcome, for I found out 
 that Lucy my handmaid was the attrac- 
 tion. Ha! laddie, say 1 not true? 
 
 Corporal. Why now I reckon you had 
 some reason for you[r] suspicion. 
 
 Andre. Ah ! let Andre alone for seeing as 
 far into a millstone as he that picks it. 
 I had taken a fancy to the lassie mysel, 
 and with my old mither's consent, will 
 make Lucy, Mrs. Maeklegraith, before 
 we are many days older. — So, corporal, 
 our feud 's at an end. 
 
 Corporal. But have you Lucy's consent 
 out and out? 
 
 Andre. Why you simpleton, do you think 
 she could refuse Andre Maeklegraith? 
 I should like to see the lassie who would 
 turn her back upon a man of my sub- 
 stance. — Take another pinch o' sneezer. 
 Take it, you 're welcome, and should be 
 glad to see you at the mill again when 
 Lucy and mysel are bone of one bone — 
 but not till then, mind ye. 
 
 Corporal. You are what I call a shocking 
 polite feller. 
 
 Andre. Let Andre alone for that, he kens 
 bravely how to conduct himself in a be- 
 seeming manner in all company. But 
 w^iere is General Macomb; I have come 
 here in person to speak to the general 
 himself. 
 
 Corporal. You speak to the general ; you? 
 
 Andre. Yes, Andre Maeklegraith the mil- 
 ler would speak to General Macomb. 
 What's wonderful in all that? We live 
 in a free land, man, and it would be 
 strange indeed if the voice of the lowly 
 could not reach the ears of those above 
 them. 
 
 Corporal. And what would you say to the 
 general? 
 
 Andre. An affair of interest, but as he is 
 not here I will even open my budget to 
 you. Some scouts of the enemy have 
 appeared in the neighborhood of my mill, 
 and as I am afraid they may set fire to 
 my property, and in one hour consume 
 the rakings and scrapings of many toil- 
 some years, of a painstaking man, I 
 would just ask the general to be so oblig- 
 ing as to send a company or two to pro- 
 tect me and mine from the fire and sword 
 of the invader. 
 
 Corporal. And you think that he will 
 grant your request? 
 
 Andre. Think, man! Hoot, hoot awa! 
 how can he get over it? Does not youP 
 constitution protect every man, rich and 
 poor, in the peaceful enjoyment of his 
 property, and if you let an honest citizen 
 suffer in this manner, how can you hope 
 for emigration? "^ 
 
 Corporal. Why now there is something in 
 that. 
 
 Andre. Something.— A mickle deal. Let 
 him refuse my reasonable request, and 
 by the cross of Saint Andrew, 1 '11 come 
 John Doe and Richard Roe over him. 
 
 Corporal. And do you wish the soldiers 
 to guard Lucy also? If you do, I'm 
 your man. 
 
 Andre. And do you think Andre daft or 
 dighted, to set a fox to take care of his 
 pullet. — She would be in good hands, by 
 my truly. — No, no, if they only keep the 
 Philistines out of the mill, they may let 
 me alone to take care of the lassie. 
 Come, show me the way to the general's 
 headquarters that I may speak to him 
 wuth my own tongue, for I never liked do- 
 ing things by deputy. Come along, Doc- 
 tor; never look so gloomy, man; my jest 
 was a keen one, it must be allowed, but 
 heed it not, it broke no bones, and if it 
 had, you have the skill to make all whole 
 again. — 
 
 (March. Exeunt. ) 
 
 Scene 2. A street in Plattsburg. 
 (Enter Elinor followed hy Mrs. Drench.) 
 
 Mrs. Drench. ^Y[ly do you leave us? and 
 whither are you going, Miss Elinor? 
 
 Elinor. I have already told you, to the 
 enemy's camp, to seek a husband who, 
 I fear has deserted me. Six weeks have 
 elapsed since I heard from him — ]\Iy 
 foreboding heart tells me that a fearful 
 destiny aw^aits me, — ! Stanley, I did 
 not merit this cruel treatment at your 
 hands. 
 
 Mrs. D. Let him go for a good for noth- 
 ing fellow as he is. 
 
 Elinor. Alas, you did not know him or 
 you would not speak thus harshly. He 
 appeared to me to be the very soul of 
 honor. — 
 
 Mrs. D. And so they all appear until they 
 are found out. Never trust to appear- 
 ances. 
 
 Elinor. He had been taken prisoner, and 
 while on his_parol, he boarded at my 
 
RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 173 
 
 father's farm in Vermont. He was so 
 kind and obliging that my father and all 
 of lis looked upon him as one of the 
 family. We were much together; he be- 
 came particular in his attentions to me, 
 and my inexperienced heart was alas! 
 but too sensible to his accomplishments. 
 
 Mrs. D. Well, miss, I sympathize with 
 you for before I married Dr. Drench I 
 was precisely in the same sitiation with a 
 young cornet in the militia. These mili- 
 tary men ! 
 
 Elinor. He pressed me to consent to a 
 secret marriage, urging as an excuse that 
 my father would never sanction our union 
 during the continuance of hostilities. 
 My heart was his, and I finally gave him 
 my hand without my father's knowledge. 
 He left me shortly after our marriage 
 and I have not heard from him since. 
 0! Stanley! 
 
 Mrs. D. 0! the Bluebeard. I should like 
 him to serve me so once. He 'cl find his 
 match, I war'nt him. 
 
 Elinor. My situation now became daily 
 more irksome. I felt that I had been 
 betrayed; I feared to make known the 
 dreadful secret to my father ; I fled from 
 my paternal roof, in quest of my hus- 
 band. — I have not heard from my home 
 since I left it, which is now more than a 
 week; my father is ignorant of my fate, 
 and perhaps he mourns me for dead. 
 Bitterly do I repent of the imprudent 
 step I have taken. 
 
 Mrs. D. Will you not return, ma'am, to 
 our housed 
 
 Elinor. No, accept my gratitude for the 
 protection yo\x have already given me. — 
 My determination is made. I will search 
 out my husband and satisfy myself 
 whether I am his lawful wife, or a wretch 
 indeed. 
 
 Mrs. D. But the soldiers, ma'am. 
 
 Elinor. They are men, and being such, 
 they will not insult a woman in distress. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. Andre's Mill. View of the 
 Lake. Boat near the mill. Distant can- 
 non. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Macklegraith and Lucy 
 from mill.) 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Hark! Lucy, a skirmish is 
 taking place and at no great distance 
 from us. This war is a dreadful thing; 
 
 it destroys everything like peace and 
 comfort. A^d my poor son Andre, what 
 can prevent his return? I fear some 
 ill has befallen him. — 
 
 Lucy. No danger of that, ma'am; Mr. 
 Macklegraith is too wise and prudent. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. He would go to Plattsburg in 
 spite of all I could say. He had better 
 have staid at home to protect us. — See, 
 Lucy, a soldier approaches in haste. 
 
 {Enter Major McCrea.) 
 
 Major McCrea. At length I have eluded 
 their pursuit. Good woman, do you in- 
 habit this mill"? 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Yes, sir. 
 
 Major McCrea. Are you alone? 
 
 Mrs. Mack. For the present. My son 
 Andre has gone to the village. 
 
 Major McCrea. I am pursued and my 
 fate is inevitable unless you afford me 
 an asylum and conceal me from my ene- 
 mies. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. It is impossible. We every 
 instant expect a guard to take possession 
 of the mill and they will certainly dis- 
 cover you. 
 
 Major McCrea. You are from Scotland 
 and several years ago lived in Vermont 
 upon the estate of Major McCrea. Is it 
 not so? 
 
 Mrs. Mack. It is, but how have you learnt 
 my history? 
 
 Major McCrea. Look at me well. — Ten 
 years and recent affliction may have 
 wrought great change in me. He who 
 gave you shelter in your time of need, 
 now request [s] protection in his turn. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Major McCrea ! Never can I 
 repay the debt of gratitude that I owe. 
 But by what chance do I see you here 
 alone? 
 
 Major McCrea. A melancholy one. You 
 remember my little Elinor — she was but 
 a little flaxen headed girl when you knew 
 her — She grew up as beautiful as her 
 mother — She was the pride of my heart — 
 the comfort of my age — at least, I 
 thought so, but what is blinder than par- 
 ental love! — 0! who would be a father, 
 and in his dotage fondly nourish a viper 
 in his bosom until it gains sufficient 
 strength to sting him to the soul ! 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Nay sir, give not way to your 
 feelings. 
 
 Major McCrea. She left me. Can you 
 credit it; fled from her fond father's 
 house — reckless of the misery she entailed 
 upon me — ! the ungrateful — but I will 
 
 ■^>- 
 
174 
 
 THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 not curse her — She has broke [n] my 
 heart, but she is still my child and I will 
 not curse her. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Have you received no tidings 
 of her yet, sir? 
 
 Major McCrea. This morning- I heard 
 that she had just left the village, and 
 hoping that she might have sought pro- 
 tection mider your roof, I left my station 
 and came in pursuit of her, but she is 
 not here, alas ! she is not here. 
 
 {Distant drums.) 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Hark! sir, the enemy ap- 
 proaches. If you remain here you will 
 certainl}^ be taken prisoner. Is there 
 nothing we can do to save you*? 
 
 Major McCrea. You have said that your 
 son is not here. Get me a suit of his 
 apparel ; I will pass for j^our son. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Pass for my son ! 
 
 Major McCrea. Where are his clothes? 
 AYe have no time to lose. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Follow me, sir, and I will get 
 you a suit. 
 
 Major McCrea. {To Mrs. M.) Do you 
 remain here and give me timely notice 
 when danger approaches. 
 
 {Exit with Lucy into the mill.) 
 
 Mrs. Mack. What an astonishing adven- 
 ture. I am thankful that an opportunity 
 has occurred for me to evince my gTati- 
 tude to him who protected the widow and 
 her son for years. AYhat. so soon re- 
 turned? 
 
 {Enter Lucy.) 
 
 Lucy. I have given him the cloathes, 
 ma'am, but I did not stay to help him 
 on with them because he is a man. 
 
 ]\1rs. Mack. You are a prudent girl. A 
 young woman ought not to expose her- 
 self. Ah ! the soldiers here already. We 
 are lost. — {Goes to mill.) Major, have 
 you finished? Hasten or your fate is 
 inevitable. 
 
 {Enter Captain Stanley and soldiers.) 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Halt. — Be not alarmed, 
 good woman. No injui^ is intended; I 
 have merely come to station a sentinel at 
 this place. Have you any men in your 
 family? 
 
 Mrs. Mack. My son Andre, sir. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Where is he? 
 
 Mrs. Mack. He is — 
 
 Lucy. In the mill, sir. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. I would speak to him. 
 — {Goes to mill.) 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Do not put yourself to the 
 
 trouble sir : I will go in search of him. 
 Capt. Stanley. No ; I wish to satisfy my- 
 self that he is alone in the mill. My 
 
 friends, follow me. 
 Mrs. ]\Iack. Heavens! what shall we do! 
 Lucy. He is lost. 
 
 {As soldiers are about to go into mill, 
 Enter from mill Major McCrea in 
 a miller's dress.) 
 Major McCrea. Here I am, my friends — 
 
 what would you have? — Captain Stanley 
 
 — I must be on my guard. {Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Mack. 0! fortunate! 
 Capt. Stanley. Are you the owner of this 
 
 mill? 
 Major McCrea. No, not as long as my 
 
 mother lives. 
 Capt. Stanley. Well, friend, I ought to 
 
 advise you that I have orders to place an 
 
 advance sentinel on this spot. 
 Major McCrea. Then address alone can 
 
 save me. {Aside.) 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Be not concerned; the 
 
 females of your family shall be respected. 
 Major McCrea. I doubt it not ; you do 
 
 not wage war with women. Well I am 
 
 glad of the measure, it will protect my 
 
 mill from depredators. — Captain, my 
 
 mother is a fine fresh looking old lady for 
 
 sixty five, is she not? 
 Mrs. Mack. The captain can see plain 
 
 enough, son, that you don't know my age. 
 
 I am not sixty-five. 
 Lucy. She must be that full out if slie 
 
 intends to pass for the mother of the 
 
 major. — {Aside. ) 
 Major McCrea. I think, mother, you 
 
 would take off a few years. 
 Capt. Stanley. Women are liable to those 
 
 mistakes. — Have you any spirits in the 
 
 house, my good fellow? 
 Major McCrea. Certainly, and good too. 
 
 Mother, give us some brandy. 
 Mrs. Mack. But, my son, we have none. 
 Major McCrea. Have none? Ah! true, 
 
 it is all out, but if you would like some 
 
 whiskey — 
 Capt. Stanley. Anything. 
 Mrs. Mack. We have a little whiskey still 
 
 left. 
 Major McCrea. Then let us have it. — 
 
 {Exit Mrs. M.) You appear fatigued. 
 Capt. Stanley. Yes; we have had some 
 
 skirmisliing on Cumberland Head, and 
 
 no rest since. 
 Major McCrea. The first virtue of a sol- 
 dier is to endure fatigue. 
 Capt. Stanley. Why, comrade, from your 
 
RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 175 
 
 step, I should guess that you have been 
 a soldier in your time. 
 
 (Re-enter Mrs. Mack. — with bottle d'c.) 
 
 Major McCrea. I have served a campaign 
 and know something of the world. At 
 the age of fifteen I left my father's 
 house ; a juvenile frolic — you recollect, 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Yes, the libertine, but he is 
 now likely to be settled in life for this 
 is his intended. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. A charming creature. — 
 Here ['s] to a speedy and happy mar- 
 riage. {Brinks.) 
 
 Lucy. Happy. 0! never fear, sir, after 
 our marriage we shall never quarrel. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. That 's well, an excellent 
 resolution, but more frequently made 
 than kept, my pretty one. 
 
 (Enter Andre.) 
 
 Andre. At last I am at home again, thanks 
 to as good a pair of shanks as ever grew 
 among the highlands o' bonny Scotland. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. How unfortunate! See, my 
 son has returned. 
 
 Major McCrea. No matter. — 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Do not betray yourself. 
 
 Major McCrea. Fear nothing ; be on your 
 guard and take your cue from me. 
 
 Andre. The detachment here already! 
 This General Macomb is a practical man 
 in the way of business, and kens right 
 weel what is due from the government to 
 an honest citizen who pays his taxes on 
 the nail when called upon. But how is 
 this! the carls have red coats upon their 
 backs. Are ye the volunteers from York, 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 Capt. Stanley. No, we are his majesty's 
 soldiers from the Eighty-second. 
 
 Andre. The de'il's blessings on you for 
 the information. 
 
 Major McCrea. Ah! brother, I am de- 
 lighted that you have returned so soon. 
 
 Andre. Brother! and who may this oily 
 tongued carl be with my ane clothes 
 upon his back, and Lucy hanging on his 
 arm with as little shame as if she were a 
 canty quean. And these desperado sol- 
 diers here ! — My mill 's besieged and 
 Andre Macklegraith 's a ruined man. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Don't be alarmed, friend, 
 you have nothing to fear from us. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Yes, Andre, these gentlemen 
 have told your brother that they have 
 come to protect us. 
 
 Andre. My brother! How, mother, are 
 you, too, in tlie same ridiculous story'? 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Come, my boy, and take a 
 social cup with us. 
 
 Andre. No; I'm not athirst. A bonny 
 kettle o' fish is this'. The first steals my 
 liquor and then asks me to drink with 
 him. I would not as much as take a 
 pinch o' sneezer with such a knave, and 
 that's more economical. 
 
 Major McCrea. Why, brother, you will 
 not be such a churl as to refuse"? 
 
 Andre. Brother again ! and what the de'il 
 man made you my brother? You are 
 none of my father's begetting unless in- 
 deed over the left shoulder, and such it 
 would not be beseeming in me to ac- 
 knowledge in my good mother's presence. 
 
 Major McCrea. Your folly will anger me. 
 
 Andre. My folly! Hoot awa! I take 
 myself to be as wise a man as ever stood 
 upon your shanks. 
 
 Major McCrea. Go brother, go into the 
 house; you know not what you say. Go 
 into the house. 
 
 Andre. I won't. I 'm not a fool. Hear 
 me. 
 
 Lucy. Come Andre, come with me. 
 
 Andre. I won't; and the de'il fly away 
 with me if I stir a peg until I see the 
 siftings of the plot against me. 
 
 Major McCrea. Poor fellow. — Captain, 
 he is sometimes a little touched — you un- 
 derstand me. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Oh! perfectly! 
 
 Mrs. Mack. He is a good hearted boy, 
 but when he takes a drop too much. — 
 
 Andre. A drop too much ! Why, mother, 
 not a mouthful has passed my windpipe 
 since breakfast, saving and excepting an 
 cup of molasses and water, which I swal- 
 lowed out of pure friendship for Dr. 
 Drench. And well you know that a hale 
 man might swill a pale ^ full of such like 
 taplash 2 and not become heady. — But 
 how is this, mother, that you combine with 
 my enemies against your own flesh and 
 blood*? — And Lucy too, whom I intend at 
 no distant day to make Mistress Mackle- 
 graith — 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Ha! Ha! An odd fel- 
 low ! why he '11 take your sweetheart from 
 you presently, comrade. 
 
 Andre. His sweetheart ! Am I awake ! 
 
 Lucy. This is one of the causes of his 
 strange behaviour. He loves me, but as 
 
 1 Pail. 
 
 2 Poor or stale malt liquor, the refuse of the 
 tap. 
 
176 
 
 THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 I ^i>ive the preference to bis brother, he 
 disowns bini, and acts in a manner that 
 frightens us all. 
 Andre. What a shocking lie ! It 's gross 
 
 , enpwgh to choak ^ the throat of the Witch 
 
 [^y€t Endor. 
 Capt. Stanley. Go in, my friend, and 
 compose yourself. A little sleep will do 
 you good. 
 Andre. I dinna want to sleep. By my 
 troth, a pretty piece of work. Here 
 comes a thief that I never before set my 
 eyes upon, who calls himself my brother, 
 steals the betrothed of my heart from 
 me, seduces my mother, wears my clothes 
 and uses my mill, and then I am told to 
 go to sleep for it will do me good. Who 
 the de'il could sleep with all that upon 
 his conscience? 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Pray keep your temper, son. 
 Capt. Stanley. Poor fellow, he is very 
 far gone. 
 
 Lucy. Very far gone indeed, sir. — Ah ! do 
 not come nigh me. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Take care, he is danger- 
 ous. 
 
 Andre. But, mother, I am in my sound 
 senses. Can't you put in a word to show^ 
 that you have not quite cast me off? 
 
 Mrs. Mack. Why are you so unwilling to 
 acknowledge your brother then"? 
 
 Andre. Simply because I can't exactly re- 
 member him, never having had the pleas- 
 ure of seeing him before. Indeed, 
 mother, if you say he is my brother it 
 does not become me to gainsay it, and I, 
 like a dutiful son, will acknowledge the 
 kin, provided he will get about his busi- 
 ness speedily and leave me my cloathes, 
 my lassie and my mill in no worse condi- 
 tion than he found them. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. It is dangerous to let him 
 run at large — I wonder you have the 
 courage to trust him so near you, 
 
 Andre. The fault 's on his side, it is he 
 that 's near me. 
 
 Major McCrea. My friend, my brother, T 
 beg of you to go in for a moment with 
 your mother. 
 
 Andre. And leave the lassie alone in your 
 clutches ! Andre may be confounded, but 
 he is nae sic <in> a fool as that. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Get in, comrade, or do 
 you require the help of my foot to assist 
 you? 
 
 Andre. No, I can walk on my own shanks 
 well enow. — 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Charge. — {The platoon 
 
 1 Choke, 
 
 charge bayonet and advance toward 
 Andre.) 
 
 Andre. How, do you make me a prisoner 
 in my own house! Horrible, horrible! 
 and all this in a free country, and towards 
 an honest and harmless citizen, who pays 
 his lawful taxes regular down upon the 
 nail. Ken ye what ye do upon your own 
 responsibility. I shall make it all known 
 to General Macomb, and if he don't call 
 you to a severe account, by the cross of 
 Saint Andrew, I '11 come John Doe and 
 Richard Roe over you at the next assizes. 
 {They push him in and close the door.) 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Ha, ha, ha! a comical 
 fellow. 
 
 Major McCrea. Thanks, comrade, he is 
 more violent than usual, but a few mo- 
 ments' reflection and he will become paci- 
 fied. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. I hope so.— I must leave 
 you sooner than I would wish in order 
 to station the sentinels. — {Selects one sol- 
 dier from the platoon and stations him.) 
 —Adieu, comrade. Platoon, to the right 
 face; forward march. 
 
 {Exit with soldiers.) 
 
 jMajor McCrea. Good woman, I shall 
 never forget this proof of your attach- 
 ment. Sooner or later I will recompense 
 your generosity. 
 
 Mrs. Mack. I am paid, sir, in the oppor- 
 tunity of serving you. 
 
 Major McCrea. Go to your son and dissi- 
 pate the alarm that tliis strange adven- 
 ture lias occasioned. Tell him who I am, 
 and doubtless he will aid in my escape. 
 
 {Exeunt Mrs. Mack. & Lucy into the 
 mill. ) 
 
 {Enter Elinor.) 
 
 Elinor. I am faint with fatigue and 
 fright. Here is a place of shelter where 
 I may rest until I recover sufficient 
 strength to pursue my search. Alas! 
 how severely is my disobedience punished. 
 
 Sentinel. Stand, give the word. 
 
 Elinor. I know it not. 
 
 Sentinel. You cannot pass, then. 
 
 Major McCrea. Elinor, my child. 
 
 Elinor. Whose voice is that. My father! 
 
 Sentinel. His child ! This is not the mil- 
 ler then. 
 
 Maj. McCrea. She faints. A glass of 
 water, for heaven's sake. 
 
 Sentinel. I cannot leave my post, 
 
 (Enter Andre.) 
 
 y 
 
RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 177 
 
 Andre. What noise is this? 
 
 Ma J. McCrea. Look up, my child ; you are 
 in your father's arms once more and he 
 for<>ives you all. — Look up. She revives. 
 Andre Macklegraith, some water for the 
 love of heaven. 
 
 Andre. Ye ken me for Andre weel enough 
 now, and I ken ye too. Why call ye so 
 loud for water man, when the lake is so 
 near at hand? Carry your bairn to the 
 shore and help yourself to what you need. 
 
 Maj. McCrea. Lnf eeling monster ! 
 
 AxDRE. Nay, no abuse, bat follow Andre's 
 advice. — Even a fool may at times give 
 good advice to a wise man. — Help your- 
 self, I say, and ye '11 have no cause to 
 find fault with your servant. Hoot man, 
 to the shore, you '11 find a boat there, 
 make the best use on't and trust to me. 
 
 {Apart.) 
 (Col. McCrea supports Elinor to the 
 shore.) 
 
 Sentinel. I reckon, friend, you are not 
 much troubled with Christian charity. 
 
 Andre. That 's my affair — Charity is a 
 fine topic to talk about and preach about 
 too, but I have remarked that where there 
 is a large stock of charity, there is usually 
 a small stock to answer its demands. 
 Charity is an ungrateful guest, for it is 
 sure to rob the man who entertains it. 
 Take a pinch o' sneezer. A large pinch 
 man, you[']r[e] hearty welcome. 
 
 {Boat pushes of.) 
 
 Sentinel. Death ! He has escaped. Hold 
 on, or I '11 fire. 
 
 Andre. Fire at a lassie ? Shame, where 's 
 your manhood. — {Fires. — Andre strikes 
 the gun up. Enter soldiers, Mrs. Mack. 
 and Lucy. Boat disappears. Curtain 
 drops.) 
 
 end of act first. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. A tavern on Cumberland Head. 
 Folding window through which is seen a 
 view of the lake. Discovered. Four 
 British soldiers drinking, and Captain 
 Peabody, the landlord. Cannon at inter- 
 vals.) 
 
 1st Soldier. Well, comrades, the army is 
 prepared to commence the grand assault, 
 and in a few hours we shall behold his 
 majesty's flag waving over the fortress 
 of Plattsburg. 
 
 Landlord. I 'U bet you all the grog in my 
 bar to a chew tobacco that you have 
 missed a figure in your calculation, 'cor- 
 poral. 
 
 1st Soldier. What 's that you say. Land- 
 lord? 
 
 Landlord. I am thinking that if you ever 
 march into Plattsburg it will be under a 
 flag of a different color than that you 
 display at present. 
 
 1st Soldier. Ha! Ha! why, you don't 
 suppose that experienced soldiers are to 
 be beaten by a handful of ragged militia, 
 do you? 
 
 Landlord. Yes, I do, and they will be 
 switched like tarnation too. Take my 
 word for it, corporal, you'll have your 
 red jackets drubbed off of your backs, 
 and if you are so fortunate as to return 
 alive, I calculate you '11 cut a more sorry 
 figure than the ragged militia you jeer 
 at. 
 
 2d Soldier. The fellow 's mad. 
 
 Landlord. Cuter than you think for. 
 You seem not to reflect that the enemy 
 you despise are fighting for their homes, 
 and remember 't is the nature of a man 
 to fight despert fierce when a foe's at his 
 threshold. 
 
 1st Soldier. Then why don't you turn out 
 with your rifie on your shoulder, since 
 you are surrounded with your enemies? 
 
 Landlord. Mayhap I '11 answer that ques- 
 tion when occasion offers, but business in 
 the mean time, you know, must be at- 
 tended to, and if I can make an honest 
 penny or two out of you before your 
 affairs are settled, it 's nothing to Uncle 
 Sam, you know. Old Captain Peabody 
 will make it up to him in the long run 
 I '11 war'nt it. 
 
 {Enter Major McCrea and Elinor.) 
 
 Major. We have mistaken the path, my 
 child, and here we are on Cumberland 
 Head instead of approaching Plattsburg. 
 Cheer up, Elinor. 
 
 Elinor. I am faint, very faint. 
 
 {[He] supports her to a chair.) 
 
 Major. Landlord, some wine. — The walk 
 has been too much for you. Yield not 
 to your feelings. A few moments' rest 
 will refresh you. 
 
 Elinor. 0, my father, this unmerited 
 kindness overwhelms me with confusion. 
 
 Major. You are still my child, Elinor, 
 though a villain persuaded you for a 
 time to forget your father. 
 
 Landlord. Take a glass of Mrs. Peabody's 
 
178 
 
 THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 currant wine, miss; it is the right stuff, 
 I '11 war'nt it, and a glass or two will 
 make you feel all over quite a different 
 person. 
 
 Elixor. You are very kind, but I had 
 rather not. 
 
 Landlord. Then here 's your health. 
 Help yourself sir, there 's not a head- 
 ache in a hogshead, as the saying is, — 
 Bless me the young women is rather 
 faintish. Lead her into that room and 
 Mrs. Peabody will comfort the poor 
 eritur. — 
 
 {Exeunt Major and Elinor.) 
 
 {Enter Captain Stanley.) 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Soldiers, really it is time 
 for you to be upon duty, if you wish to 
 partake of the brilliant achievement that 
 is about to crown his majesty's arms. 
 
 Landlord. Now I calculate they had bet- 
 ter be off of duty, lest the brilliant 
 achievement turn out like that affair of 
 General Proctor's. You 've heard tell 
 on 't, I reckon ■? If you ha' n't, I '11 give 
 you the whole story from first to last. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Pon honor, landlord, you 
 should confine your conversation to gin 
 slings and apple toddy, and such pro- 
 fessional topics as you understand, and 
 not hazard an opinion on military mat- 
 ters. 
 
 Landlord. Now that beats all nature that 
 Captain Peabody's opinion on military 
 affairs should go for nothing. I reckon, 
 captain, that you are yet to learn that I 
 was a major in the Vermont militia for 
 ten years, and never missed a training 
 day, that my father served under old 
 Ethan Allen and was at the taking of 
 Ticonderoga, and that my son Nathan is 
 a corporal in the sarvice at this present 
 speaking. Rat it, we are a military fam- 
 ily, root and branch, and you will find 
 that I can look upon a field of battle 
 with the eye of a soldier though I do not 
 carry a laced coat upon my back. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. I will not dispute the 
 judgment of so experienced an officer, 
 but I will lay my honor to a brass far- 
 thing that I sup in Plattsburg tonight. 
 
 Landlord. An even bet I reckon, and no 
 doubt you will win it, for you will cer- 
 tainly sup there if you have any appetite 
 for supper. {Cannon.) 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Hark! the British fleet is 
 already under weigh. The attack soon 
 begins. — ^A fine sight that, Landlord. 
 
 {Looking out.) 
 
 Landlord. Why they do sail trim enough 
 for sartin, but I calculate they'll follow 
 the example set by the squadron on Lake 
 Erie. 
 
 {Enter Major McCrea.) 
 
 Major. Captain Peabody, my daughter 
 has recovered sufficient strength to walk. 
 Can you direct us the shortest route to 
 the village. 
 
 Landlord. That I can for sartin, — but 
 wait a few moments and I '11 be your 
 guide, for I guess I may have a little 
 business in that quarter myself. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Ha! what do I see? The 
 fellow who escaped from the mill this 
 morning. This time, however, your 
 Yankee ingenuity shall not avail. Ho, 
 there guards. 
 
 Landlord. Why, captain, for sartin you 
 dont want a platoon of red coats to take 
 an unarmed man. 
 
 (Stanley approaches [the'] Major.) 
 
 Major. Stand back, come not within the 
 reach of my arm or you will receive a 
 token that you will remember the longest 
 day you live. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Why, what a ruffian it is. 
 Ho, guards — {Enter soldiers.) seize upon 
 that spy. — 
 
 Landlord. No, I reckon you don't. Young 
 man, you forget that I'm the landlord 
 of this inn, that I keep an orderly house, 
 and I '11 just inform you that if you are 
 for kicking up a dust here, by zounds 
 I '11 be for turning you out neck and 
 heels. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Obey my orders. 
 
 Major. Let them come on, Major,^ I fear 
 not now all that he can do; he has done 
 his worst already. 
 
 {Enter Elinor.) 
 
 Elinor. My father's voice. — soldiers here 
 —Ah! Stanley. 
 
 {Sinks in her father's arms.) 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Elinor! — Her father. 
 
 Major. Look on me, villain, you know me 
 now, and look here upon the victim of 
 your treachery, — I received you beneath 
 my humble roof in full confidence, my 
 hospitality was extended towards you, 
 and like the serpent that had been 
 warmed into life you spread dismay into 
 my little family. — You stung me to the 
 heart, but the hour of retribution has 
 come. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Confusion! 
 
 1 Evidently an error for "Captain." 
 
RICHARD PENN SMITH 
 
 179 
 
 Major. I did hope to have met you in 
 battle, and there have glutted my private 
 vengeance, but the cup that my soul 
 thirsted for is within my grasp sooner 
 than I anticipated. I knew you not this 
 morning when we met, as the villain who 
 had betrayed my child, or we had not 
 parted as we did. She has since con- 
 fessed all to me, — I know the full extent 
 of my debt to you — the account between 
 us is a fearful one, and now it must be 
 settled. — Take your choice. — {Producing 
 pistols.) 
 
 Elinor. ! my father — Stanley ! 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Hear me speak, sir. 
 
 Major. It is useless. The shame of my 
 child can only be washed out with your 
 blood. — Come, sir, we lose time. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Her shame'? Colonel 
 McCrea, in what instance has my conduct 
 been such as to inflict shame upon those 
 connected with me? 
 
 Major. Insolence! Look there, and thy 
 conscience if not seared with crime, will 
 :answer the question. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. I do look there and find 
 no cause to blush either for myself or 
 for my wife. 
 
 Major. Your wife ! 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Yes, as firmly as a heart 
 overflowing with love and the marriage 
 ceremony can make. {Embrace.) 
 
 Elinor. Why, father, I am sure that I 
 told you we were privately married. 
 
 Major. True, true, I remember now, but 
 I supposed it nothing more than the 
 common artifice of a seducer. Then you 
 did not intend to desert my child'? 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Desert her! not while I 
 have life. I married her secretly, fear- 
 ing that under existing circumstances you 
 would not consent. I was at Montreal 
 when I received word that my exchange 
 had been effected, and at the same time 
 instructions to join my regiment with- 
 out delay. I obeyed, and though I have 
 written repeatedly to Elinor, repeating 
 my vows of unalterable affection, it 
 seems that all my letters have miscarried. 
 
 Elinor. Forgive me, Stanley, that I could 
 for a single moment doubt your truth. 
 
 Capt. Stanley. Appearances were against 
 me, 't is true, but frequently the most 
 innocent appear the most guilty, since a 
 temporary shade was cast even upon the 
 spotless fame of my Elinor. — 
 
 Landlord. As true a saying as ever passed 
 the lips of Deacon Tibbets. 
 
 Major. Young man, your deportment is 
 
 such as to command my confidence. — 
 Take her, sh^ is yours. — Should you sur- 
 vive the approaching conflict, remember, 
 I depend upon your honor. — {Cannon.) 
 — Hark ! the conflict has begun. — Major 
 — {Apart.) it is time for us to be else- 
 where — Can you accompany me. — 
 Landlord. {Apart.) 1 will but get my 
 rifle. — I may have use for it, you know. 
 This way. — 
 
 {Exeunt Major and Landlord. The 
 British fleet is seen through the large 
 window sailing on the lake. Tab- 
 leau. — scene closes.) 
 
 Scene 2. A street in Plattsburg. Alarm. 
 
 {Enter Corporal Peabody with soldiers.) 
 
 \ 
 
 Corporal Peabody. Here, boys, we can 
 take a breathing spell and then to it 
 again. Our forts stand it bravely, and 
 the enemies' assault has already dimin- 
 ished in vigor. Look out on our little 
 fleet. Every shot tells. — {Cannon.) 
 Huzza, there goes the main mast of the 
 brig Linnet. — 
 
 {Enter Dr. Drench.) 
 
 What 's the matter, doctor'? 
 Dr. Drench. I wish I was safe down at 
 
 Whitehall with all my plunders as I had 
 
 intended. The town will be taken, and 
 
 then the jig 's up with the whole of us. 
 Corporal Peabody. Stay where you are, 
 
 man. 
 Dr. Drench. ! there 's no. danger of my 
 
 going away at present. Never fear that. 
 Corporal Peabody. Stay and you will 
 
 have practice plenty before sunset. 
 
 Huzza ! — Look there ! — The Confiance 
 
 has struck. 
 
 {Enter Andre.) 
 
 Andre. The Saranac runs blood. The 
 days of Culloden and Falkirk have come 
 upon us. At the bridge the flght was 
 fearful, and our men played the part of 
 Samson among the Philistines and slew 
 their thousands. Take a pinch o' sneezer, 
 and tell me where will I And General Ma- 
 comb. 
 
 Corporal. In Fort Moreau I reckon. But 
 what would you have with the general at 
 such a time'? 
 
 Andre. Nothing more than to gratulate 
 him. — A slight breaking out o' family 
 
180 
 
 THE TRIUMPH AT PLATTSBURG 
 
 pride, for you must know that the Gen- 
 eral and myself are cousins. 
 
 Corporal. It 's the first I heard of it. 
 How do you make it ouf? 
 
 Andre. Plain enough, man. He 's a Ma- 
 comb and I am a Macklegraith, and that 's 
 sutTieient to make us Scotch cousins all 
 the world over. 
 
 Corporal. And what do you say to Com- 
 modore Macdonough *? 
 
 Andre. I have no doubt that he is ane of 
 the same family. — Doctor, I am glad to 
 see you again, but I must be bold to say, 
 the beveridge you gave me this morning 
 was but ill adapted to^ the condition of 
 my stomach, but then 'twas better than 
 your physic, (Alarm.) 
 
 Corporal. Hark, the attack on Fort 
 Brown is renewed. Forward, Com- 
 rades. — 
 
 Andre. Go on, Corporal, I '11 follow you. 
 
 Dr. Drench. I won't. 
 
 (Exeunt, Drench [on] opposite side.) 
 
 Scene Last. View of Lake Champlain, 
 and shipping. 
 
 (Enter Major McCrea, Captain Peabody, 
 Capt. Stanley, Elinor, soldiers and 
 prisoners.) 
 
 Major McCrea. My countrymen, another 
 wreath has been added to the chaplet of 
 American glory. A never dying wreath. 
 Two brilliant victories at the same mo- 
 
 ment have been achieved. The invader 
 has been driven back, with great loss, and 
 their leader has tied in consternation and 
 dismay. The hostile fleet is ours; they 
 attacked our little armament confident of 
 success, but behold the valiant Mac- 
 donough now bringing the crestfallen 
 enemy in triumph into the harbor of 
 Plattsburg. — 
 
 (The fleet appears. Music.) 
 
 All. Huzza ! huzza ! — 
 
 Capt. Peabody. Well, captain, you see I 
 understood something about military mat- 
 ters though I was educated in the militia. 
 — (To Stanley.) 
 
 Capt. Stanley. You have fought bravely, 
 and I feel it no disgrace to be conquered 
 by so magnanimous a foe. For myself I 
 have but little cause to regret being a 
 prisoner, as I shall no longer be sep- 
 arated from her whom most I love. 
 
 (Enter Andre.) 
 
 Major McCrea. Bless you, my children, 
 bless you, my days will close in peace. — 
 Andre, I must ask your pardon for the 
 dilemma in which I placed you this morn- 
 ing. — 
 
 Andre. Hoot, think no more of it. Major, 
 think no more of it, but join your voice 
 with mine in a wish which no one here 
 w^ill say nay to. 
 
 Major McCrea. Name it. 
 
 Andre. Long life to Ma[c]donnough, Ma- 
 comb, and Macklegraith, three as brave 
 men as ever trod in shoe leather. 
 
 All. Huzza, Huzza. — 
 
 THE END 
 
POCAHONTAS 
 
 OR 
 
 THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 BY 
 
 George Washington Parke Custis 
 
POCAHONTAS 
 
 Pocahontas or the Settlers of Virginia represents the plays on Indian themes 
 and also the drama written in the South. The first Indian play to be written by 
 an American was the tragedy of Ponteach or The Savages of America, by Major 
 Eobert Rogers (1766). This was not acted. There were many Indian dramas in 
 the first half of the nineteenth century — the earliest by an American to be per- 
 formed being Barker's Indian Princess, (1808). It began the series of the Poca- 
 hontas plays, the theme being used by Custis in 1830 in the play now reprinted, 
 by the Englishman, Robert Dale Owen, in his Pocahontas, acted February 8, 
 1838, at the Park Theatre, New York, in which Charlotte Cushman played 
 ''Rolfe," and by Mrs. Charlotte Barnes Conner in her Forest Princess, played 
 in Philadelphia, February 16, 1848. Finally the motive ran to satire in John 
 Brougham's burlesque of Pocahontas or the Gentle Savage, produced at Wal- 
 lack's Theatre, New York, on December 24, 1855. Custis 's drama is especially 
 significant in a comparative study of the Pocahontas plays. Its author is de- 
 serving of recognition, if for nothing else, for his self-restraint in not endowing 
 Pocahontas with the ability to speak blank verse. But his dramatic instinct 
 showed itself most definitely in his handling of the theme. The trouble with 
 the Pocahontas plays in general is that the most dramatic incident, the saving 
 of Smith's life, comes too early in the play. The other playwrights in their 
 endeavor to follow history have sacrificed dramatic effectiveness. Custis, with 
 cheerful courage, took liberties with actual facts in order to put the striking 
 event in the last Act. 
 
 Perhaps the most significant of the Indian plays in general was Metamora 
 or the Last of the Wampanoags, written for Edwin Forrest by John A. Stone, 
 and produced at the Park Theatre, New York, December 15, 1829. Forrest 
 played in this for many years. So far as the editor is aware, Metamora exists 
 only in the manuscript of the name part in the Forrest Home, at Holmesburg, 
 Pennsylvania. The language of the fragment is bombastic, but the play was ef- 
 fective and was widely imitated. Besides the Pocahontas series, the most im- 
 portant Indian play that has survived seems to have been Dr. Bird's Oralloossa 
 (1832), laid in Peru. Very few of the forty Indian plays of which record has 
 been made, have come down to us. They were popular between 1830 and 1850, 
 but they were usually artificial and their picture of the Indian was not a true one. 
 
 George Washington Parke Custis was born at Mount Airy, Maryland, April 
 
 183 
 
18 1 IXTRODUCTION 
 
 30, 1781. He was the son of John Parke Custis, the stepson of Washington, 
 whose early death, of camp fever incurred in the Yorktown campaign, brought 
 his two younger children under the direct charge of President and Mrs. Wash- 
 ington at Mount Vernon. Here young Custis grew up and here he lived till 
 Mrs. Washington's death, when he built his house at Arlington, opposite Wash- 
 ington City. He was appointed a cornet of horse in the army of the United 
 States in 1799 but did not see active service at that time, although he afterwards 
 became a volunteer during the War of 1812. After his marriage to MaryXee 
 Fitzhugh in 1804 he lived on his large estate and devoted himself to the care 
 of it. He was a writer of prose and verse and a speaker of ability, but with 
 the instincts of the Southern landed proprietor he published comparatively 
 little. After the visit of Lafayette to this country in 1824, he wrote his enter- 
 taining Conversatio7is with Lafayette, and in 1826 he began in the United States 
 Gazette his recollections of the private life of Washington which were continued 
 in The National Intelligencer and which were published by his daughter in 
 1861. He died October 10, 1857. 
 
 His first play, The Indian Prophecy, was performed in Philadelphia at 
 the Chestnut Street Theatre, July 4, 1827. According to the title page of the 
 printed play, it was performed also in Baltimore and Washington. The same 
 authority describes it as "A National Drama in two Acts founded upon a most 
 interesting and romantic occurrence in the life of General Washington." In 
 1770, while on a surveying expedition to the Kanawha region in Virginia, Wash- 
 ington was visited by an Indian chief who told him that he had been the leader 
 of the Indians at Braddock's defeat and that although their best marksmen had 
 levelled their pieces at Washington they had been prevented from killing him 
 by a higher power. The chief went on to prophesy that Washington would never 
 die in battle but would live to be the chief and founder of a mighty empire. 
 This incident, which is given in Custis 's Recollections, became the climax of the^ 
 play which is otherwise but a series of conversations between Woodford, a cap- 
 tain of rangers, Maiona, his wife, and their Indian protegee, Manetta, daughter 
 of the chief ]\Ienawa, w^ho delivers the prophecy. The play was published in 
 Georgetown in 1828 as *'By the author of the Recollections." 
 
 Pocahontas or the Settlers of Virginia, was played first at the Walnut Street 
 Theatre, Philadelphia, January 16, 1830, and was performed for twelve nights, 
 among them Washington 's Birthday. Elaborate preparations were made for the 
 production of the play, the theatre being closed from January 11th to January 
 16th. Durang states that it was received with great applause. On December 
 28, 1830, John Barnes produced it for his benefit at the Park Theatre, New 
 York, playing "Hugo." It is probable, therefore, that The Forest Princess, 
 written afterward by his daughter, Charlotte Barnes Conner, was inspired by 
 
POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 185 
 
 Custis's play, since she undoubtedly witnessed the performance, in which her 
 mother took the part of ' 'Pocahontas.'^ The play was published in Philadel- 
 phia in 1830. That it was played again seems certain, for the Clothier Collec- 
 tion includes a prompt copy belonging to John Sefton, the manager of Niblo's 
 Theatre, in New York, and of the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, under 
 E. A. Marshall. In this copy the parts of ''Hugo," "Mowbray," "Namoutac" 
 and "Mantea" are omitted and the play is much cut. 
 
 On May 16, 1830, Custis's play of The Railroad, a national drama, was 
 performed at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia. Durang, in his account, 
 tells us that a locomotive steam carriage was introduced in the last act, which 
 whistled as it went out ! It moved off the stage to the music of the ^ ' Carrolton 
 March," composed for the occasion by Mr. Clifton of Baltimore. 
 
 At the request of the manager of the Baltimore Theatre, Custis wrote a 
 play called North Point or Baltimore Defended, in celebration of the battle of 
 North Point, on whose anniversary, September 12, 1833, it was produced. It 
 was completed according to the author in nine hours and was "a two-act piece 
 with two songs and a finale." His Eighth of January was played January 8, 
 1834, at the Park Theatre, New York. He- seems also to have written an Indian 
 play, The Pawnee Chief, but accurate information concerning this is wanting. 
 An account of Custis is given in Recollections and Private Memoirs of Washing- 
 ton, hy his Adopted Son, George Washington Parke Custis, with a Memoir of 
 the Author hy his Daughter [Mary Custis Lee] , Philadelphia, 1861. The original 
 source of Pocahontas was Captain John Smith's Generall Historic of Virginia, 
 New England and the Summer Isles (1624), as Smith's earlier True Relation 
 (1608) does not mention the salvation of Smith by Pocahontas. For accounts of 
 the productions of the plays, see Charles Durang, History of the Philadelphia 
 Stage, Series 2, Chapters 52 and 53, and Joseph N. Ireland, Records of the New 
 York Stage, Vol. I, p. 644. 
 
OR, 
 
 THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA, 
 
 A NATIONAL DRAIIIA, 
 
 IN THREE ACTS 
 
 Performed at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, twelve nights, wiii 
 great Buccees. 
 
 WRITTEN BT 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CUSTIS, ESQi 
 
 Of Arlington House, Author of the Rail Road, Pawnee Ciiief. &c. &c. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA EDITIONi 
 
 O ALKX&NDKR, VtU 
 
 i83a 
 
PEEFiVCE 
 
 The national story upon which the play of POCAHONTAS is founded, was 
 a tempting one for a dramatist, and more could not have been made of it than 
 has been done in the present instance. Mr. WASHINGTON CUSTIS, in this 
 production, has fully proved his capability as an author. The plot keeps up a 
 lively interest; its gradual development, judging from the effect the piece pro- 
 duces on representation, is at once natural, and decidedly dramatic; and, no 
 doubt, when supported by good actors, it will always be received with the same 
 success that characterized its representation at the Walnut Street Theatre. 
 This drama was peculiarly fortunate in being produced by that celebrated melo- 
 dramatic director, the late Mr. S. Chapman. Had the piece been his own he 
 could not have displayed a greater desire to render it effective ; and his persona- 
 tion of Captain Smith will long be the theme of unqualified praise. The part 
 of jMatacoran was excellently played by Mr. CLARKE ; Mr. BALL, a very young 
 actor, showed considerable promise in ]\Iaster Rolfe, and Messrs. PORTER and 
 GREENE, in their respective parts of Powhatan and Hugo, were very success- 
 ful; the heroine, Pocahontas, found an able representative in Mrs. GREENE. 
 Indeed, few pieces have been more successful than this drama, and Mr. WASH- 
 INGTON CUSTIS has done the stage considerable service, by showing the re- 
 sources for dramatic materials in the annals of American history; and we 
 anticipate with pleasure his future productions, whether historical or otherwise. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAE 
 
 ENGLISH 
 
 Captain Smith Mr. S. Chapman 
 
 Lieutenant Percy Mr. Allen 
 
 :\LvsTER Rolfe Mr. Ball 
 
 ]\LvsTER West Mr. Thompson 
 
 Barclay Mr. Waldegrave 
 
 Hugo De Redmond Mr. Greene 
 
 ]\Iowbray Mr. Bloom 
 
 INDIANS 
 
 Powhatan Mr. Porter 
 
 ]\Iatacoran Mr. Clarke 
 
 Selictaz Mr. James 
 
 Namoutac Mr. Garson 
 
 Princess Pocahontas. Mrs. Greene 
 
 Omaya Mrs. Hathwell 
 
 Mantea Mrs. Slater 
 
POCAHONTAS 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. The hanks of James' River. 
 View of the river — two ships and a sloop 
 at anchor in the distance — on one side of 
 the stage a hut — composed of mats and 
 reeds; on the other rocks and cliffs. In- 
 dians on the cliffs gazing at the shipping, 
 and making signs to each other. 
 
 {Enter Matacoran and Selictaz, as from 
 the chase; Matacoran with a light hunt- 
 ing spear in his hand, Selictaz carry- 
 ing his bow and game — down rocks.) 
 
 Selictaz. There, my prince, behold the 
 great canoes. Have 1 not told thee 
 truly? 
 
 Matacoran. They are call'd barques, and 
 bear the adventurous English in search 
 of their darling gold, the god they wor- 
 ship! Away to Weorocomoco, and re- 
 port this coming to the king. I will fol- 
 low quickly on thy track. Fly with thy 
 utmost speed — away. — {Exit Selic- 
 taz.) Barclay! English! come forth. 
 {Striking with his spear against the 
 hut.) 
 
 {Enter Barclay.) 
 
 Barclay. Give you good morrow, Prince. 
 So early return'd from the chase ; yet, by 
 your game, it would seem you have not 
 drawn an idle bow. 
 
 Matacoran. Tell me. Englishman, are 
 those the barques of thy country; or 
 those wild rovers of which I have heard 
 thee speak, who, acknowledged by no 
 country, are consider'd enemies by all? 
 
 Barclay. {Aside, with ecstasy.) 'T is 
 the flag of England. Prince, those are 
 the barques so long expected with suc- 
 cours for the colony. — {Aside.) Alas! 
 they have come too late. 
 
 Matacoran. Why do they remain at rest? 
 wliy not approach the shore? 
 
 Barclay. They await some signal of rec- 
 ognition from those they expect to find 
 here. I have bethought me of the old 
 pennon under which I sail'd when first 
 leaving my native land to seek adven- 
 
 tures in the New World. From amid 
 the wreck of our misfortunes, I have pre- 
 serv'd the flag with the fondness of an 
 old man's treasure. An' it please you. 
 Prince, I will ascend the clifi:, and wav- 
 ing the well-known signal of friendship, 
 they of the ships will answer with their 
 ordnance, and presently prepare to land. 
 
 Matacoran". Do as thou hast propos'd, 
 and with the least delay. (Barclay en- 
 ters the hut, then returns hearing a flag, 
 ascends the cliff and waves it. A gun is 
 fired from the ship; Matacoran starts, 
 Indians utter cries, and fly from the cliffs 
 in great terror.) 'T is well; and now. 
 Englishman, hear me. The strangers, 
 no doubt, will question thee as to the 
 fate of thy comrades; beware of thy 
 speech in reply, lest they become alarm'd 
 at thy tale. Speak of the great King's 
 virtues and clemency; how he sav'd thy 
 life, that thou might teach his people the 
 arts of the white man; and hath given 
 thee lands and wives; and how his fa- 
 vours have made thee forget that ever 
 thou wert a native of countries beyond 
 the sea. 
 
 Barclay. Since I have taken service with 
 the great King, I have not much to com- 
 plain of; but all his favours, and his 
 kingdom in the bargain, can never make 
 me forget Old England, the land of my 
 birth and affections; and tho' far distant 
 from her, she is ever present to my sleep- 
 ing and waking thoughts, while my 
 heart, at sight of those vessels, yearns 
 for the embrace of my countrymen. 
 Surely, Prince Matacoran, the brave in 
 war, the just in peace, the favourite of 
 his king, the friend of his country, must 
 admire that patriotic feeling in another, 
 which he himself possesses in no ordi- 
 nary degree. 'T is one of the first of the 
 virtues, and one of the last that will 
 abandon the generous bosom. 
 
 Matacoran. You 're right ; — but if you 
 English so love your own country, why 
 cross the wide sea to deprive the poor 
 Indian of his rude and savage forests? 
 But see, the smaller barques approach 
 laden with the strangers; hear me — look 
 
 189 
 
190 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 well to thyself. I must on to Weoroco- 
 moco, and report to tlie king. Be as- 
 sur'd of his favour, if thou prove faith- 
 ful — but, if false, beware of his anger, 
 for it is ten'ible. 
 
 Barclay. That, Prince, we can only judge 
 of by imagination. No victims having 
 ever surviv'd, so as to be able to speak 
 feelingly on that subject. 
 
 Matacoran". Look well to thyself, thou 
 knowest Matacoran, and by this time 
 thou should'st know how to value his 
 friendship and protection; and see, the 
 spear of Matacoran is sharp. 
 
 {Exit Matacoran.) 
 
 Barclay. Yes, and unsparing as 't is 
 keen. They come, my countrymen come; 
 I will retire, and observe them from a 
 distance. {Exit Barclay into the hut.) 
 
 {Boats arrive with Smith, Percy, 
 ROLFE, West, and Soldiers. Trum- 
 pet sounds — Smith draws his sword 
 and leaps ashore. Farmer of Smith 
 home hy Percy. — Three Turks' 
 heads on a field; motto — Vincere est 
 Vivere, Accordamus.) 
 
 Smith. God save the King! Lieutenant, 
 advance my banner — and now plant it 
 deep, where nor force, nor fraud, shall 
 ever root it out again. This goodly land, 
 which the brave Raleigh nam'd from the 
 virgin Queen, we will possess for her 
 successor, the royal James; whom God 
 preserve, and grant a long and prosper- 
 ous reign over these fair realms. Wel- 
 come, comrades, welcome to Virginia. 
 
 Percy. A right fair and goodly land it 
 seemeth, but sadly deficient of inhabit- 
 ants. We have only seen some fishers in 
 light canoes, which at approach of our 
 barques, and discharge of our ordnance, 
 skimm'd like dolphins o'er the waves, and 
 soon vanished from our sight. 
 
 RoLFE. It was surely no savage hand 
 which hung the English pennon from the 
 cliffs. Here seems to be a dwelling, and 
 tho' rude, is yet of better structure than 
 the Indian native wigwam. — What ho! 
 there! within! 
 
 {Enter Barclay.) 
 
 Barclay. Save ye, noble sirs. 
 
 Smith. Thy tongue is English, but the 
 freshness of health so mark'd in the 
 natives of Albion's salubrious isle, is 
 marvellously chang'd in thy complexion, 
 which is as tawney as a Morisco's. How 
 fares the world with thee, comrade ! wert 
 
 thou of Weymouth's or of Grenville's 
 crews ? 
 
 Barclay. Thou see'st. Sir Cavalier, the 
 solitary remnant of all the English, 
 whom ambition and avarice have sent at 
 various times to settle and to perish in 
 this inhospitable land. Mine is a tale 
 of sorrow. 
 
 Smith. Let it be a short one, then; for 
 we have come not to mourn over past 
 misfortunes, but to prevent future ones. 
 To your tale. 
 
 Barclay. Soon after the departure of the 
 ships, the colonists, divided amongst 
 themselves, threw off all rule, and instead 
 of fortifying the tower, and cultivating 
 the soil, began to oppress and plunder 
 the natives, who, in return, waylaid and 
 slew them. The wily Powhatan, profit- 
 ing by our disunions and the weak state 
 to which sickness had reduced us, sur- 
 pris'd and laid waste the settlement, ere 
 a second harvest had ripen'd for our use. 
 I was alone preserv'd by the influence 
 of the powerful Prince Matacoran, the 
 general and chief counsellor to the King. 
 
 Smith. Thy tale is as sombre as thy vis- 
 age. But come, thy condition shall be 
 mended; thou shalt take service nnder 
 thine own liege lord, our gracious mas- 
 ter. Thou canst materially aid us in our 
 enterprise here, and the reward of thy 
 fidelity shall be lands and privileges in 
 this colony, which, trust me, profiting by 
 the experience of those who have gone 
 before us, we shall know how to conquer, 
 aye, and to hold too ; or, if thou would'st 
 rather seek thy guerdon in thy native 
 land, thou shalt be recommended in our 
 despatches to the royal James. 
 
 Barclay. My allegiance is due to my 
 rightful sovereign, w^iom I will well and 
 truly serve. But, Sir Cavalier, I am 
 now old, and my long sojourn from my 
 native land would make me a stranger 
 and friendless there, while I have here 
 much consideration from the grandees of 
 tlie savage court. My children, altho' 
 the offspring of an aboriginal mother, 
 are dear to me, and so may it please 
 your gracious pleasure, I would prefer 
 to end my days in Virginia. 
 
 Smith. Be it so, I understand thee. Be 
 secret and thou wilt be safe. Go gain us 1 
 what intelligence thou canst. f' 
 
 {Exit Barclay.) 
 
 West. I do not much like this renegado. 
 
 Smith. By my faitli, Master West, but 
 we are of the condition of the host, who. 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 191 
 
 having but one flaggon for the use of all 
 his guests, must serve peer, and peasant 
 alike; now be our thirst for intelligence 
 ever so great, we must drink from this 
 renegado, our only cup. 
 
 Percy. The ruthless hand of Powhatan 
 has indeed so lopp'd the branches from 
 the colonial tree, as to have left only this 
 Wiisted and wither'd stump. But let 
 Esperance, the motto of the Percy, bear 
 us out at every need. 
 
 ROLFE. From the tale of this renegade 
 countryman of ours, I opine that in the 
 Kmg Powhatan we shall meet with a 
 savage of no ordinary sort; an' he pos- 
 sess as much courage, as 't is said he hath 
 craft, he may prove to us a troublesome 
 customer. 
 
 Smith. For my part, having held war- 
 fare with wild Tartar and Hern, the sav- 
 ages of the Old World, I care not how 
 soon I break a lance with his savage 
 majesty of the New. But come, my mas- 
 ters, let 's to our muster, and prepare 
 our array for the morrow's pageant. 
 'T is fitting that we appear in our best 
 harness, and that in its best burnish too, 
 that we may strike upon the minds of 
 the natives here, fair impressions of our 
 might and grandeur. I pray of you, 
 worthy sirs, that ye appear in all your 
 braveries, for ye well know that first im- 
 pressions are strongest, whether in love 
 or warfare. Allons! we will pitch our 
 camp and array our forces, and to-mor- 
 row on to the savage court, where we will 
 invest his heathen majesty wdth the 
 crown and mantle sent to him by the 
 Lord's anointed; then demand, in behalf 
 of our gracious sovereign, dominion in 
 and over the countries from the moun- 
 tains to the sea, and if denied us — why 
 then — Bieu et mon Droit — for God and 
 our right. (Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 Scene 2. The interior of the hut of Bar- 
 clay. — Mantea mending a net. 
 
 [Enter Pocahontas and Omaya, with bas- 
 kets of shells.) 
 
 Pocahontas. The blessings of this fair 
 morning upon you, Mantea, and good 
 father Barclay. Do you know, that 
 while with Omaya, gathering shells upon 
 the beach, we heard a noise of thunder, 
 and looking out upon the wide sea, we 
 beheld those great canoes which bear the 
 
 English, from one of which a white cloud 
 arose; it seem'd as tho, it contain'd the 
 spirit of sound, it floated awhile majes- 
 tically in the air, and then disolv'd away ; 
 and while we gaz'd upon a spectacle so 
 new and imposing, came to land the 
 lesser canoes fill'd with the gallant stran- 
 gers. Oh, 't was a rare sight to behold 
 the chiefs as they leap'd on shore, deck'd 
 in all their braveries ; their shining arms, 
 their lofty carriage, and air of command, 
 made them seem like beings from a 
 higher world, sent here to amaze us with 
 their glory. 
 
 Mantea. The English, my princess, have 
 indeed arriv'd, and Barclay has gone to 
 join his countrymen, while I have been 
 so lost in fear and wonder, as to remain 
 without the power even to look abroad. 
 Whether this coming may prove of ill or 
 good to Virginia we shall soon determine. 
 I fear we shall have sad times again. 
 
 Pocahontas. Come good, come ill, Poca- 
 hontas will be the friend of the English. 
 I know not how it is, but my attachments 
 became fix'd upon the strangers the first 
 moment I beheld them. Barclay has told 
 me much of his native isle, and I liave 
 listen'd to his tale with all the admira- 
 tion of a young untutor'd mind. But 
 now I can well believe all that I have 
 heard of that fair land, when I see that 
 it doth produce such noble creatures. 
 
 Mantea. Lady, beware how you make 
 known your fondness for these strangers. 
 Recollect you not, that your hand is des- 
 tin'd to reward Prince Matacoran for his 
 exploits against the English in the late 
 wars? Powhatan so wills it. 
 
 Pocahontas. Matacoran is the sworn en- 
 emy of tlie whites, and implacable in his 
 hatred; but sooner shall the sun cease to 
 shine, and the waters to flow, than Poca- 
 hontas be the wife of Matacoran. 
 
 Mantea. This powerful prince is the gen- 
 eral and chief counsellor to the king, and 
 first in his favor and affection, renovvn'd 
 in war, and wise in council. 
 
 Pocahontas. Matacoran is brave, yet he 
 lacks the best attribute of courage — 
 mercy. Since the light of the Christian 
 doctrine has shone on my before be- 
 nighted soul, I liave learn'd that mercy is 
 one of the attributes of the divinity I 
 now adore. To good father Barclay I 
 owe the knowledge which I liave acquir'd 
 of the only true God, whose worship I 
 in secret perform; and rather than be 
 the bride of that fierce and vindictive 
 
192 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 prince, I would fly to the depths of the 
 forests, and take up my abode with the 
 panther. 
 
 {Enter Barclay and Namoutac.) 
 
 Barclay. My princess — let me say my 
 own good child, this poor hut is always 
 made cheerful and happy by thy pres- 
 ence. Know you my companion? 
 
 Omaya. Ah! it is, it is indeed Namoutac. 
 
 Pocahontas. Thy love hath made thee 
 sharp-sighted, girl; thou hast the Van- 
 tage of me. 
 
 Barclay. 'T is indeed Namoutac, tho' 
 scarcely to be recognized as the wild In- 
 dian boy who used to climb like a squir- 
 rel for birds' nests, and dive in the rivers 
 for shells. Namoutac can tell you much 
 of his travels, and of the English who 
 have just landed in Virginia. 
 
 Omaya. Tell m-e, Namoutac, whether the 
 English maidens wear their plumes as 
 high as we do, and whether in painting 
 they use most, the red or the yellow. 
 
 Namoutac. Indeed, girl, I believe the 
 English dames carry their heads to the 
 full as lofty as ye do here, and they have 
 quite as much red on their cheeks, tho' 
 the yellow is not admired. 
 
 Barclay. Cannot you tell the princess 
 somewhat of your adventures'? 
 
 Namoutac. Were I to live to the age of 
 Powhatan, I could not relate a thou- 
 sandth part of the wonders I have seen, 
 or the persons I have met with in that 
 world of itself. Agreeably to the orders 
 of my king, I commenc'd notching a stick 
 for every person I met, but soon threw 
 it away in despair, as all the sticks in 
 Virginia would not suffice to notch down 
 the numbers in yon mighty realm. 
 
 Omaya. Indeed, Namoutac, I do not think 
 your travels abroad have much improv'd 
 your taste in dress; I think you look'd 
 far handsomer when you w^re formerly 
 plum'd and painted among the young- 
 warriors in attendance on the king. 
 
 Pocahontas. Do tell me truly, Indian, 
 what effects have your travels abroad 
 had upon your attachments to your 
 native country? 
 
 Namoutac. In good truth, lady, I can say, 
 all which I have seen has impress'd me 
 with the most exalted ideas of the power 
 and grandeur of a people, who are as 
 gods are to men. Still amid all the 
 splendours of the courts of Europe, I 
 have never forgot my native land, but 
 long'd to re-visit even its poverty and 
 
 nothingness; while amid the pomp and 
 pageantry of England, I sighed for the 
 sports of our rude forests, and tiie wild, 
 free life of an Indian. I wish'd to be 
 away from the restraints of civiliz'd so- 
 ciety, to throw off the cumbrous dress 
 which fetter'd my limbs, and re-assume 
 my primitive nakedness and liberty; to 
 enjoy the hunt and the dance, and again 
 to become a son of Virginia. 
 
 Pocahontas. How call you the chiefs of 
 the English lately arrived? 
 
 Namoutac. The leader is Smith, a re- 
 nown'd chieftain in the three quarters 
 of the world; his lieutenant, Master 
 Percy, kinsman to the great Werowance 
 Northumberland, whose territory alone 
 could produce more bowmen than the 
 whole kingdom of Powhatan; then Mas- 
 ter West, related to the noble Lord de la 
 War; then Master Rolfe, of gentle blood, 
 with others of lesser note. I must to the 
 king. Plow my heart will throb as I re- 
 visit Weorocomoco and its well-remem- 
 ber'd scenes, where the earliest and hap- 
 piest days of my life have been pass'd. 
 
 Omaya. And so you have not forgot the 
 Weorocomoco and the merry dances we 
 us'd to have there. I long to see you 
 dress'd and painted as becomes you; for 
 really, Namoutac, in these clothes you are 
 hardly tolerable. 
 
 Namoutac. The sun shines for the last 
 time upon Namoutac the English. Its 
 morning beams will cheer him while 
 roaming in his native forests, seeking the 
 favourite haunts of his youth, dress'd 
 in the garb of his country, his limbs will 
 again become vigorous and elastic, he 
 will be as swift as the deer of the hills, 
 his heart will be as light as the feathers 
 of his plume; such will soon be Na- 
 moutac the Indian. Namoutac the Eng- 
 lish, will be no more. {Exit Namoutac.) 
 
 Barclay. Behold the force of early hab- 
 its, as exemplified in this young native. 
 Princess, the strangers are bound to your 
 father's court, and soon as the presents 
 are landed, will invest Powhatan with 
 the regalia sent by the English monarch. 
 It will be an imposmg spectacle. 
 
 Pocahontas. But I must hasten to We- 
 orocomoco, to prepare fitting entertain- 
 ments for such noble guests. Omaya, we 
 will take the near way path. 
 
 Omaya. We shall soon overtake Namou- 
 tac, and then we will fly by him to shew 
 our speed, while in his clumsy clothes ht 
 will come toiling after us. 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 193 
 
 Pocahontas. Adieu, Mantea — adieu, good 
 father Barclaj^ — soon will I be here 
 again; for I am no where so happy as 
 under this hospitable roof. 
 
 {Exit Pocahontas and Omaya.) 
 Barclay. Come, Mantea, you may now 
 gaze on the ships without fear of the 
 English. This way; be not alarm'd. 
 
 (Exeunt both.) 
 
 Scene 3. A wood. 
 
 {Enter Rolfe.) 
 
 RoLFE. I am completely lost amid the 
 mazes of this interminable wood. My 
 companions, intent on the pursuit of 
 game, have left me to indulge in the 
 contemplation of the sublime and beau- 
 tiful, which is every where to be found 
 in the wild and picturesque scenery of 
 these interesting regions. What a. vast 
 and splendid park this savage king pos- 
 sesses here; how insignificant appear our 
 European pleasure grounds, where a few 
 trees have been planted and train'd by 
 the hand of art, when compar'd with 
 these noble forests, planted by the hand 
 of nature. Our pieces of water, too, as 
 they are called, where a few small fishes 
 are fed and fatten'd, to those magnifi- 
 cent rivers, which, rising in the moun- 
 tains, traverse the country for some hun- 
 dred miles, then rush with indescribable 
 grandeur to the sea. And the contrast 
 holds equally good with regard to ani- 
 mals; in the European parks a herd of 
 tame stags lie lazily about the keeper's 
 lodge ; in the forests of Virginia, the wild 
 buck arouses him from his leafy lair, 
 flashes his bright eye indignant on his 
 pursuers, and then bounds gracefull}^ 
 away over these interminable lawns. 
 Verily, things are on a great scale in this 
 New World. I will rest me awhile on 
 this shady bank, till our hunter's horn 
 announces the conclusion of the chase. 
 {Reclines on a hank.) 
 
 (Enter Pocahontas and Omaya.) 
 
 Omaya. Why, lady, you tire; Namoutac 
 cannot be far before us. 
 
 Pocahontas. Indeed, girl, I am not much 
 us'd to racing of late; I would fain take 
 breath awhile. Hereabouts is the shady 
 bank and the old oak at which w^e us'd 
 
 to rest; we wdll stop but for a moment, 
 and then restime our chase of Namoutac. 
 Come — ah ! 't is occupied, and by a 
 stranger. (Discovers Rolfe.) 
 
 Rolfe. (Coming forward.) But will be 
 most cheerfully relinquished, maidens, to 
 your better use. 'T is a pleasant seat, 
 and invites the weary to comfort and 
 repose; I pray you rest from your fa- 
 tigue. 
 
 Pocahontas. Thanks, courteous stranger; 
 altho' our journey has been somewhat 
 rapid, we have but little need of rest. 
 
 Rolfe. The duties of a Cavalier to your 
 sex are the same whether in the Old 
 World or the New; I therefore pray ye 
 accept my service. Say whither do ye 
 roam thro' these extensive forests? 
 Seek ye your friends, or is it in the 
 mere wantonness of health and spirits 
 attendant on the gay morning of life, 
 that ye have come abroad to gather 
 flowers in this wild garden of nature? 
 
 Pocahontas. We go, Sir Cavalier, to We- 
 orocomoco, the abode of Powhatan, the 
 sovereign of these countries; where, if 
 report speaks truth, we may soon ex- 
 pect the English. 
 
 Rolfe. I am greatly mistaken, if I am not 
 addressing the Princess Pocahontas, the 
 favourite daughter of the king, and the 
 friend of Barclay. 
 
 Pocahontas. Such is my name and char- 
 acter. 
 
 Rolfe. Again I tender my duteous serv- 
 ice; and tho' I should be but a bad 
 guide in the forest, yet I may afford ye 
 protection on your way. 
 
 Pocahontas. The paths are well known 
 to us whose feet so often traverse them, 
 and ere the shadows of the trees are 
 much more aslant, we shall reach the 
 abode of Powhatan. Adieu, courteous 
 stranger, at Weorocomoeo we shall meet 
 again. 
 
 (Exeunt Pocahontas and Omaya.) 
 
 Rolfe. What gone! why they have flitted 
 away like the nimble fawns which start 
 from the thicket to avoid the hunter's 
 aim. And see, they now hold on their 
 light and rapid course, and are now hid- 
 den by the luxuriant foliage. How full 
 of grace and courtesy is this princess — 
 savage, should I say. By my faith, and 
 such be the damsels of the savage court, 
 we shall need all the advantages of our 
 civilization when we appear before them. 
 (Horn sounds.) Aha! 't is our wild gal- 
 lants; they have at length stricken the 
 
194 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 deer, and now blow a mort. Here they 
 are. 
 
 {Enter Percy and West.) 
 
 Percy. Well, Master Rolfe, still given to 
 meditation ! but if our eyes have not de- 
 eeiv'd -us, thou art not solitary in thy 
 musings — surely we saw something of 
 the female form glide swiftly away, as 
 tho' alarmed at our coming. Perhaps 
 some sylvan deity of these shades, who 
 pitying thy forlorn and solitary state, 
 came to amuse thee, and to sing wood 
 notes wild, as a cure for thy melancholy. 
 
 West. Or rather say the driads of this 
 wood, who finding him absorb'd in 
 dreamy musings on his absent love, came 
 to console the hapless swain, and try if 
 the tawny maidens of Virginia could not 
 make him forget the fair dames of Eu- 
 rope. What say you, Master Rolfe? 
 
 Rolfe. Why, my merry masters, I say 
 that ye are bad woodsmen, and have shot 
 wide of your mark; an' ye draw no bet- 
 ter bow at the stag, your arrow had as 
 well remain'd in its quiver. 
 
 Percy. We '11 guess no more. Master 
 Rolfe, but are all attention to your story. 
 
 Rolfe. Well, you must know, that while 
 resting on this bank, and listening for 
 echoes from your horn, came tripping 
 by no less a personage than the Princess 
 Pocahontas, and a light-footed damsel, 
 her hand-maiden, and after a few words 
 of fair and courteous speech, they van- 
 ished like fairies from a moon beam. 
 
 Percy. And so. Sir Knight of the Wood, 
 a fair princess has form'd thy adventure ; 
 but, if I mistake not, thou wilt yet have 
 to win by sword and lance, and not by 
 soft and gentle dalliance of words. Our 
 valiant captain doubts the sincerity of 
 the friendship with which we are to be 
 receiv'd, and bids us all look to our 
 arms. Now his experience of Turk, Tar- 
 tar, and Hun, will make him keep a wary 
 eye upon the proceedings of his savage 
 majesty here, and at all events be pre- 
 par'd for the worst. 
 
 West. Master Rolfe looks grave. My 
 broider'd doublet to a carman's frock 
 but he is in love with this dark princess. 
 
 Percy. A match, I say, between Master 
 Rolfe, and the tawney daughter of Vir- 
 ginia. 
 
 West. Agreed, agreed. 
 
 Rolfe. My meeting with the damsel was 
 purely accidental; still let me say, that 
 the' of dark complexion, she is well fa- 
 
 vour'd both in form and feature, of ad- 
 mir'd carriage, courteous and discreet in 
 discourse. 
 
 West. Excellently well describ'd. A 
 match, a match, I say : but hark'ee. Mas- 
 ter Rolfe, an' ye succeed your father-in- 
 law Pohawtan, who they say is well- 
 stricken in years, and become king of 
 these realms, I pray ye make me, your 
 old camarado, your master of the horse. 
 
 Rolfe. Well, my merry masters, here 's a 
 hand to each of you, and right royally I 
 swear, to grant all your wishes, and a 
 thousand largesses beside, so soon as I 
 wed the princess, succeed Powhatan, and 
 become sovereign lord of these realms. 
 The day I mount the throne of Pawmun- 
 kee, thou. Master West, slialt mount the 
 horse of state, thou Master Percy, the 
 viceregal seat in the government of the 
 gold mountains; while our valiant cap- 
 tain, as commander of the forces, will 
 march to the conquest of the Monecans, 
 and tribes far westward toward the set- 
 ting sun. Now, my bon camarados and 
 merry wags, having dispos'd of the gifts 
 of royalty, I become plain Master Rolfe 
 again, and propose that we burnish our 
 harness for the morning's pageant, as it 
 is fitting we appear in proper knightly 
 array where a princess is to be won. 
 Lieutenant, we wait thy leading. 
 
 Percy. Nay, my liege, we thy humble 
 squires, know better our places than to 
 precede the heir presumptive to a throne. 
 
 Rolfe. What! at your waggeries again — 
 well, ye shall be pleasur'd. AUons, my 
 noble vassals, allons. {Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. The palace of Powhatan at We- 
 orocomoco. Powhatan seated on a 
 throne which is covered with hear skins. 
 Powhatan wearing a coronet of feath- 
 ers, and a robe of skins, a spear in his 
 hand; on his right the Princess, on his 
 left, Omaya, with fans of feathers, dou- 
 ble rows of guards with spears, bows and 
 arrows. 
 
 {Enter Matacoran.) 
 
 Matacoran. The English have airiv'd, is 
 it tlie great King's pleasure the strangers 
 be brought before him? 
 
 Powhatan. Bring they the presents? 
 
 Matacoran. They do, great King. 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 195 
 
 Powhatan. And their guns? 
 
 Matacoran. They have weighty guns in 
 their boats, such as ten of the strongest 
 of our warriors could not lift. 
 
 Powhatan. I like not their guns. 
 
 Matacoran. They say these great pieces 
 are brought to give salvos of welcome at 
 thy coronation, such as is due at the 
 coronation of a king. 
 
 Powhatan. Well, be it so, introduce tlie 
 strangers to my greatness. 
 
 {Flourish of trumpets. Soldiers 
 marching. Drums and trumpets. 
 Banner of Smith home hy Rolfe. 
 Smith, uncovered, bearing a scroll. 
 Percy bearing a coronet. West, 
 the mantle. Soldiers.) 
 
 Powhatan. English, ye are welcome to 
 
 the dominions of Powhatan — welcome. 
 Smith. Great King, I will display, and 
 read my credentials, which are under the 
 sign manual of my sovereign, and the 
 great seal of England. {Reads.) "To 
 the high and mighty Powhatan, sovereign 
 of Pawmunkee. These. We, James, by 
 the grace of God, of Great Britain, 
 France, and Ireland, King; Defender of 
 the faith; greet thee well, and by these 
 presents we do command our trusty and 
 well beloved cavalier and captain. Smith, 
 that he do invest thee with a crown, which 
 we have sent as a token of our love; and 
 to acknowledge thee by right and title 
 as holding the realm of Virginia in vas- 
 salage of us, and our heirs, forever. 
 And we do further command our right 
 trusty and well-beloved cousin, Percy of 
 Northumberland, that he do invest thee 
 with the scarlet mantle as a badge of thy 
 royalty, to be worn as such by thee, and 
 thine heirs, forever. Sign manual and 
 great seal of England." 
 
 (Smith and Percy, bearing coronet 
 
 and mantle, invest Powhatan with 
 
 them.) 
 
 Smith. In the name of the most puissant 
 
 James, I crown thee King. {Flourish.) 
 
 Percy. And I thus invest thee with the 
 
 mantle of royalty. Hail to the King. 
 
 (Flourish.) 
 
 Smith. God save the great Powhatan, 
 
 King of Paw^munkee. {Flourish.) 
 
 {Flourish of drums and trumpets. 
 
 Cannon fired without — at the firing 
 
 the Indians exhibit great terror. 
 
 Powhatan leaves Ms throne. Smith 
 
 re-seats him.) 
 
 Smith. Our shew of gratulation hath 
 
 alarm'd your highness; it is now over, 
 dismiss thy- terrors. These ceremonies 
 were commanded by my royal Master, as 
 due to the coronation of so great a King 
 as thou. I pray your highness, that ye 
 will be pleas'd to visit us at James' 
 Town and inspect the presents. 
 
 Powhatan. If your king has sent me 
 presents, I also am a king; this is my 
 land, you must come to me, not I to you. 
 Yet, Captain Smith, many do inform me 
 that your coming hither is to invade my 
 people, and possess my country. We 
 fear your arms, now lay them aside, for 
 they are useless in times of peace. 
 
 Smith. Great King, thou art falsely in- 
 form'd; we came not only to be friendly 
 with thee, but to aid thee with our arms 
 in thy wars with the Monecans. 
 
 Powhatan. It suiteth not with my great- 
 ness to have foreign aid in my wars. 
 Captain Smith; I am old, and have seen 
 the death of my people for three gen- 
 erations. I know the difference between 
 peace and war better than any one in my 
 country. I am old, and soon must die. 
 This tale, that thou art come to destroy 
 my country with thy arms, troubleth me, 
 and affrighteth my people. What can 
 ye gain by war, when we can fly to the 
 woods, whereby ye must perish for want 
 of food. Think ye that Powhatan is so 
 simple as not to know that it is better 
 to eat good meat, laugh, and receive pres- 
 ents from you, than to live in the woods, 
 eat acorns, and be hunted by you, that if 
 a twig break every one cryeth, there 
 Cometh Captain Smith! thus ending my 
 miserable life, and leaving my pleasures 
 to you. Be assur'd of our love, and come 
 not with guns and swords, as if to invade 
 your foes. 
 
 Smith. King! — our arms are a part of 
 our apparel; had we intended to do you 
 a harm, what has there been to prevent 
 us? View kindly as friends those who 
 would be terrible to thee as foes. 
 
 Powhatan. Well, Captain Smith, ye are 
 a great Werowance; ^ we will be kind to 
 thee, and accept thy presents. But come, 
 my favourite daughter hath entertain- 
 ment for thee in a dance. Come, the 
 dance, I say, the dance. 
 
 (Smith, Percy, Rolfe, and West are 
 placed on stools in the centre of the 
 stage. Suddenly come dancing in 
 from each side Indian ■ girls with 
 
 1 Ruler. 
 
19G 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 hows and arrows, tlien youths with 
 spears; tliey present the weapons as 
 if to slay them, retire, and bring in 
 pine branches, which they hold over 
 the English in form of a canopy. 
 The English rise, the dancers form 
 in two lines, the King, having Po- 
 cahontas and Omaya on each side 
 of him, leads the way, the English 
 folloiv, the Indians holding the pine 
 branches over the train. Exeunt all 
 but Matacoran, who, during these 
 ceremonies, stands apart, his arms 
 folded, and looking sternly on. He 
 comes forward.) 
 Matacoran. And lick we feet which soon 
 will trample us in the dust, fold we to our 
 bosoms those serpents which will soon 
 entangle us in their coils, and then sting 
 us to the death. Why this idle page- 
 antry of crowning him a king, who is a 
 king already! The coming of these pal- 
 lid strangers bodes no good. Matacoran 
 despises their friendship and disdains 
 their gifts; and swears^ by the heroic 
 fame of his fathers, eternal enmity to the 
 invader, and devoted fidelity to his king 
 and country. {Exit Matacoran.) 
 
 Scene 2. Interior of Barclay's hut. 
 {Enter Mantea and Rolfe.) 
 
 Mantea. Be seated, good sir; rest thee 
 awhile, and such hospitality as this poor 
 hut can afford, shall ever be at the serv- 
 ice of Barclay's countrymen. 
 
 Rolfe. Thank thee, good dame. I left 
 thy husband but a little while ago. I 
 came to expedite the landing of the 
 stores and presents. — Who have we here? 
 
 {Enter Pocahontas and Omaya.) 
 
 Pocahontas. Mother, I have hasten'd to 
 tell thee how we receiv'd the noble 
 strangers. {Sees Rolfe.) Ha! the 
 handsome Cavalier! 
 
 Rolfe. Lady, you have made the English 
 for ever your debtors, by the kind and 
 flattering manner in which you receiv'd 
 them. Of a truth, we were all most 
 happy and content while at Weoroco- 
 moco. 
 
 Pocahontas. Our means were small com- 
 par'd to the quality of our guests; yet, 
 such as they were, most freely offer'd, 
 and we hope most pleasingly receiv'd. 
 
 Rolfe. May we not hope, lady, that thou 
 
 wilt not always bury thy rare qualities 
 in these wilds; thou should'st to England, 
 where many will approve thy visit, and 
 thou find much to admire. 
 
 Omaya. Oh do, dear lady; we shall be so 
 delighted. Namoutac has told us of the 
 royal court, and of the great ladies there, 
 who are of such circumference that they 
 could not enter the door of our king's 
 palace, and so laden with braveries that 
 pages are employ'd to carry them. 
 
 Pocahontas. I fear that a Virginian fe- 
 male would be but a poor personage 
 where there is so much show and 
 grandeur. 
 
 Rolfe. Pardon me, lady, thy worth and 
 dignity will not be obscur'd, even by the 
 state and splendour of the English court ; 
 the one is the genuine adornment of na- 
 ture, the other the mere effect of art. 
 An' ye will go, I could hope to be your 
 squire; and trust me, lady, the kindness 
 which you have shewn to my countrymen 
 will be remember'd to thee in England. 
 
 Omaya. Oh do, dear lady, go ; and we will 
 carry with us our best plumes, and good 
 store of red paint; and when my lady is 
 deck'd in her armlets and blue beads, 
 she will appear as royally as the best of 
 them. 
 
 Pocahontas. Good girl, thy warm imag- 
 ination foresees manj^ pleasures in the 
 far country, while thy long and faithful 
 attachment to me, makes it sure, that if 
 I go abroad, thou shalt accompany me. 
 
 Omaya. Thank 'ee, thank 'ee, dear lady ; 
 and when we come back, I shall take care 
 to show Namoutac what it is to have 
 travell'd — I shall indeed. 
 
 {Enter an Indian, with fruit.) 
 
 Indian. Barclay bade me give this fruit 
 to an English Cavalier I should find here. 
 He begs you will look to its seed imme- 
 diately ; it hath a rare seed, and ye '11 find 
 it worthy of your notice. 
 
 Rolfe. {Opens the fruit and discovers a 
 billet.) Aha! something in the wind. 
 {Aside.) Indian, I find indeed it is a 
 most pleasant fruit, and of a winning 
 flavour; tell Barclay the seed will be well 
 car'd for. — Away. {Exit Indian.) 
 
 Rolfe. {Reads.) "A panther lurks near 
 the great oak, and will molest the gentle 
 doe an' there be no lion to guard her on 
 her way." — How 's this, the princess 
 menac'd; treachery abroad! her safety 
 be my care. Lady, it behooves thee to re- 
 turn to Weorocomoco without delay, but 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 197 
 
 as a i)antlier lias been seen near the great 
 oak, I will guard thee on thy way in 
 safety to thy father's palace. 
 
 Pocahontas. Nay, good Sir Cavalier, we 
 will not intrude so much upon thy cour- 
 tesy. We have often tarried at the great 
 oak, sometimes to enjoy the shade of its 
 spreading branches, sometimes to shelter 
 in its ample hollow from the summer 
 shower, yet have we never seen beast 
 other than the pretty deer that graze in 
 the forest, or the nimble squirrel, leap- 
 ing from tree to tree, chattering to its 
 mates. 
 
 ROLFE. Not only duty and honour, but a 
 warmer impulse, bids me be thy pro- 
 tector. I long to prove my sincerity: 
 let 's away — an' the panther spring, I 
 will defend my charge, aye, to the very 
 death. 
 
 (Exeunt Pocahontas, O^iaya, and Rolfe.) 
 
 Mantea. The good Spirit guard them in 
 safety. Here comes my husband, he 
 seems in haste, and much disordered. 
 
 (Enter Barclay.) 
 
 Barclay. Where is the princess and the 
 Cavalier? 
 
 Mantea. Gone, and the cavalier gone with 
 her. 
 
 Barclay. Heaven be prais'd, then all is 
 well. Hear me, Mantea — I have just 
 discovered a horrible conspiracy to sur- 
 prise and murder my countrymen; and 
 the Indians knowing the attachment of 
 the princess to the English, have caus'd 
 Namoutac to lie in ambush at the oak, 
 to seize the amiable girl and bear her off, 
 till the conspiracy is completed. Hap- 
 pily my billet has been read and under- 
 stoodj and the brave Cavalier will, I 
 trust, defeat the plan, and protect the 
 dear child from harm. Be secret on 
 your life. 
 
 Mantea. Return ye to Weorocomoco to 
 give the alarm to the English? 
 
 Barclay. I dare not leave this place; the 
 Prince Matacoran has order'd me to re- 
 main here in charge of the presents; al- 
 tho' no one would steal them, for they 
 consist of a grindstone, of which the 
 Indians know not the use, and two demi- 
 culverins, which twenty could not carry 
 away. I have had no means of com- 
 munication with my countrymen but by 
 the billet — Heaven send them a safe de- 
 liverance. 
 
 Mantea. I think I have discover'd that 
 
 the princess and cavalier are not indif- 
 ferent to each other. 
 Barclay. 'T is well; but let women alone, 
 whether savage or civiliz'd, for linding 
 out the secrets of her sex. Hear me, 
 Mantea, be silent, be secret, if it is in 
 the nature of a woman to keep a secret; 
 your life, your husband's life, your chil- 
 dren's lives depend upon your prudence 
 in the matter of this conspiracy. Come, 
 take up the nets, and let 's to our fish- 
 ing; we must appear as if nothing had 
 happen'd a little while — and then — 
 
 (Exeunt Mantea and Barclay.) 
 
 Scene 3. A wood, within which is a tem- 
 ple of matting and poles — an image of 
 the Okee, or God — a Priest prostrate 
 before it. 
 
 Powhatan. Now, priest — what says Okee ; 
 is he propitious? 
 
 Priest. Great king, the god will indulge 
 thy prayer, but demands a heavy sacri- 
 fice. 
 
 Powhatan. Well, fifteen youths, I sup- 
 pose, will content the Okee. 
 
 Priest. Fifteen^ my king! Okee de- 
 mands an hundred. 
 
 Powhatan. Enormous! Why at' that 
 rate, I shall soon have none to offer; my 
 kingdom will be depopulated. Go, try 
 if he will not be content with fifty. 
 
 Priest. I dare not provoke the god; he 
 will not be question'd a second time. 
 
 Powhatan. An hundred! I never gave 
 more than fifty in all my wars. 
 
 Priest. Thy wars were with Monecans — 
 the English are not Monecans. 
 
 Powhatan. If I give an hundred youths 
 to the sacrifice, what am I promis'd, 
 priest ? 
 
 Priest. The entire discomfiture of all thy 
 enemies. 
 
 Powhatan. But their guns — ? 
 
 Priest. Will become harmless as blunted 
 arrows — their lightnings may flash, their 
 thunders roll, but they will be no more 
 than the rumbling and glare from the 
 summer cloud, where no bolt descends to 
 shiver the pine. 
 
 Powhatan. Ensure me the head of Cap- 
 tain Smith, and the hundred is granted. 
 Go, select the youths, array them in their 
 white vestmentSj our affairs admit of no 
 delay. 
 
198 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 Priest. All thy enemies shall be in thy 
 power — so the god has promis'd. 
 
 {Exit Priest.) 
 
 Powhatan. But a little while, and these 
 proud invaders will share the fate of 
 their countrymen. They have brought 
 me a crown, 't were better to have been 
 an hoe or a hatchet. They ask the lands 
 from the mountains to the sea; but will 
 they be content with part, when their ob- 
 ject is to take the whole? This Smith 
 is a warrior; his air and manner is that 
 of command — and then their dreadful 
 fire arms. My daughter, too, favours 
 these English; but I have sent Namou- 
 tac with a party, to seize and bear her 
 to a distance, till my scheme has taken 
 effect. I '11 to the prince and hold deep 
 counsel; and, ere another moon, I trust 
 that my land will be rid of these for- 
 midable invaders. {Exit Powhatan.) 
 
 Scene 4. A wood. The great Oak in the 
 centre — a hollow in its side. 
 
 {Enter Rolfe.) 
 
 ROLFE. I have preceded my charge that I 
 may reconnoitre the enemy, and see if 
 the coast be clear. This is the spot al- 
 luded to in Barclay's billet. What a 
 giant of the forest is here! Centuries 
 have witness'd its growth, centuries have 
 witness'd its prime, and centuries will 
 elapse ere its final decay, — within its 
 vast hollow, a cavalier, arm'd cap-a-pie, 
 with lance in rest, might caracole a steed, 
 and yet touch not the sides. But hark! 
 I hear footsteps approaching; I will take 
 Vantage of the cover this mighty tree 
 affords, and form my ambuscade. 
 
 {Enters the tree.) 
 (Namoutac and Indians come through 
 the wood.) 
 
 Namoutac. Hide ye in the adjoining 
 thickets, and when ye shall hear my 
 whoop, rush forth, seize the princess and 
 Omaya, and bear them to the canoes, 
 which shall convey them to Pawmunkee. 
 — Down, down, they are coming. 
 
 {Indians hide.) 
 
 {Enter Pocahontas a^id Omaya.) 
 
 Pocahontas. Here is the great oak. 
 
 Omaya. And nothing seems to disturb the 
 stillness of the scene, save the birds, 
 which sing in joyous melody, and the 
 playful squirrel, which pursues his gam- 
 bols amid the limbs of this aged father 
 of the forest, All is peace, and sure no 
 
 cruel animal lurks hereabout to destroy 
 two such harmless beings as we are. 
 {Whoop heard. Namoutac and In- 
 dians rush forth to seize Poca- 
 hontas and Omaya — at the same 
 moment Rolfe comes from the tree, 
 fires a pistol, Indians run off scream- 
 ing.) 
 
 Namoutac. Aha I Sir Cavalier, is it thou "l 
 why you have really spoil'd a pleasant 
 frolic. 
 
 Rolfe. Villain! confess thy treachery, or 
 you die. {Presents a instol.) 
 
 Namoutac. A love affair, Master Rolfe, 
 nothing more. I wish'd to surprise the 
 damsels, and bear off' Omaya, after the 
 manner of love affairs, of which I have 
 heard report in thy country; nothing 
 more. Master Rolfe — nothing more. 
 
 Rolfe. Rascal, in my country where love 
 affairs are conducted by treachery and 
 outrage to the female parties, they end in 
 the death of the traitors. Now you have 
 play'd your part in this love affair, I 
 shall play mine by shooting you thro' 
 the head. {Presenting pistol.) 
 
 Omaya. Oh, good Sir Cavalier, do spare 
 poor Namoutac; his travels have turn'd 
 his brain — he would not have behav'd so 
 when he was only an Indian. 
 
 Rolfe. Begone, fellow! and when you 
 next propose to alarm an innocent fe- 
 male, beware lest you find an English 
 cavalier for her protector. {Exit Na- 
 moutac.) Thy guileless heart, my prin- 
 cess, knows not yet of the ways of 
 treachery and deceit. This alarming af- 
 fair happily ended, let us proceed. 
 
 Pocahontas. Whatever may have been 
 the intention of those who surpris'd us, 
 thy gallant deliverance claims our grati- 
 tude and regard. 
 
 Rolfe. A regard, dear lady, which I hope 
 will be mutually increased on our fur- 
 ther acquaintance. Yet speak not so fa- 
 vourably of a service which every cava- 
 lier is bound to render to thy sex. Come, 
 let 's on with our journey; and the gentle 
 fawn of Virginia need fear no panther 
 when the lion of England doth guard 
 her on her way. {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 5. Wood. Distant view of Weoro- 
 comoco. 
 
 {Enter Matacoran and Selictaz.) 
 
 Matacoran. Go, Selictaz, to all the tribes 
 fiiendly to Powhatan, bid them muster 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 199 
 
 their warriors and repair to Weoroco- 
 moco; promise them much bounty at the 
 hands of the king, and great rewards in 
 the spoils of the English. 
 
 Selictaz. 1 go, my prince, but opine they 
 will come in but tardily, the tribes do so 
 much fear the arms of the English. 
 
 Matacoran. Bid them not fear those noisy 
 weapons; the thunder rolls not always, 
 and in its pauses our arrows will enter 
 our enemies' bosoms, and our spears 
 strike home. Tempt their avarice, Selic- 
 taz, by saying much of the riches of the 
 strangers; say the king will relieve his 
 people from the burthens lately impos'd 
 — say every thing to induce the distant 
 tribes to give their aid in driving these 
 accurs'd English into the sea. 
 
 Selictaz. You shall be obey'd ; and I hope 
 to return with many of these fierce and 
 hardy warriors. 
 
 Matacoran. Yet stay, thou can'st not well 
 be spar'd; we shall have need of thee in 
 a daring enterprize that will be this night 
 attempted. Go, send Yaamayden; teach 
 him as I have taught thee; and say fur- 
 ther, that Matacoran will lead in the war, 
 and uphold the fame and manhood of the 
 Indian. — Go. {Exit Selictaz.) 
 
 {Enter Indian.) 
 
 Indian. The king awaits thee near the 
 ancient tomb. 
 
 Matacoran. I come. (£Ja^it Indian.) All 
 now is prepar'd, an' if Powhatan do not 
 shrink from the trial our success is cer- 
 tain ; and from the fate of Smith and his 
 comrades these pallid adventurers will 
 learn in future better to respect the cour- 
 age and ability of the Indian, than with 
 a few score of followers to expect to 
 overcome and conquer a country inhab- 
 ited by thousands of warlike men. The 
 accepted moment is at hand, and ere an- 
 other sun shall rise to cheer with its 
 beams the too confident English^ the 
 spear of Matacoran will have drank 
 deeply of their blood, or Matacoran be 
 gather'd to his fathers, to enjoy the hap- 
 piness reserv'd for the brave. 
 
 {Exit Matacoran.) 
 
 Scene 6. a wood — on one side of the 
 stage the ruins of a tomb, in large letters 
 thereon, "Madoc, 1170.'' 
 
 {Enter Pocahontas.) 
 
 Pocahontas. 'T is superstitious awe gives 
 privacy to this tomb, erected by the first 
 
 conquerors of this country, and sup- 
 pos'd to contain the ashes of Madoc, their 
 chief. What could have caus'd Namou- 
 tac to lie in wait with arm'd men to sur- 
 prise us in the wood, when but for the 
 brave Cavalier, what might not have been 
 our fate? All is not well. — Ah! here 
 comes the king and with him Matacoran ; 
 they are in deep conference, and seek 
 this secluded spot to hold their councils. 
 Could I but learn the subject of their de- 
 bate, it might throw much light upon late 
 events. Time was, I should have fear'd 
 to enter this sepulchre, but since the light 
 of true faith dispell'd the first darkness 
 of my mind, this solemn place with all its 
 wild tales has no terrors for me. The 
 prince being engag'd in this conference 
 bodes no good to my English. I will re- 
 tire into the tomb, and may learn that 
 which will enable me to protect him who 
 so late protected me. 
 
 (Pocahontas goes into the tomb.) 
 
 {Enter Powhatan and Matacoran.) 
 
 Powhatan. To-night say'st thou? and the 
 plan so well arrang'd that the English 
 cannot escape? I have order'd the sac- 
 rifice of an hundred youths to the god; 
 Okee would not for less ensure me the 
 destruction of my enemies, the possession 
 of their riches, and the heads of their 
 chiefs. 
 
 Matacoran. 'Tis well to sacrifice to the 
 gods; but, believe me, king, the gods of 
 the English are as much superior to our 
 gods, as their guns are superior to our 
 bows and arrows. But if we cannot suc- 
 ceed by open force, we must resort to 
 stratagem. Hear my plan. The feasts 
 of the coronation being over, the Eng- 
 lish will return to the vicinity of their 
 ships. I have selected for their guide 
 Selictaz, who will conduct them to the 
 old ruinous hunting lodge on the banks 
 of the river; there supplied with good 
 victuals, they Avill feast and carouse, for 
 not like we do the English prepare for 
 war, by fasting and hardihood; they are 
 a people who have much regard for the 
 belly and after eating they will sleep; 
 then, my king, we w^ill approach and pin 
 them to the soil they so greedily covet. 
 
 Powhatan. A good plan; but keep they 
 no watch to alarm the sleepers of dan- 
 ger? 
 
 Matacoran. Barclay has told me, that 
 English warriors guard their camp by a 
 cbarm'd word, which, if spoken by a foe. 
 
200 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 makes that foe a friend. Now Selictaz 
 is directed to obtain that charm'd word, 
 which is always given out when the guard 
 is set. That obtained, we proceed secure 
 to the work of death. 
 
 Powhatan. Brave and wise Matacoran, 
 success to thee; and the English once de- 
 stroy'd, name thy reward; a still greater 
 Werowance shalt thou be, and rule over 
 the countries conquer'd from the Mone- 
 cans.^ Bring me the head of Captain 
 Smith, and thou shalt be second only to 
 the king. 
 
 Matacoran. Since first I enter'd the ranks 
 of men, I have been in the service of my 
 country; how faithfully, how daringly I 
 have serv'd her, the renown of thy arms, 
 
 king ! will best declare. Yet of all the 
 spoils of war, what hath been the share 
 of Matacoran? None — for Matacoran 
 fought not for wealth, but for glory and 
 Pocahontas. Now he must fight for 
 glory and his country. 
 
 Powhatan. Nay, my prince, be of good 
 heart, the girl is young and knows not 
 thy worth. Drive out the English from 
 my shores, and the choicest of my gifts 
 and my beloved daughter, shall be thy 
 reward. — I sw^ear it. 
 
 Matacoran. No — as an unwilling bride I 
 would not receive even Pocahontas to my 
 arms. She has seen the strangers, and 
 no longer looks upon an Indian warrior 
 with favour or regard. 'T is no matter 
 — Matacoran must have done with love. 
 Glory and his country must return and 
 possess his soul. Talk not of reward, 
 king; thou hast often seen me return 
 from the combat cover' d with mine own 
 and my enemy's blood — say, did Mata- 
 coran ever ask reward? Tho' he hath 
 added country to thy kingdom, and led 
 many captives to thy feet, one boon alone 
 he crav'd, and 'twas her whose image 
 nerv'd his arm in battle, and sooth'd the 
 agonies of his many wounds — her who in- 
 spir'd the generous passion which 
 bloom'd in his boyhood, and ripen'd in 
 the man. 
 
 Pow^HATAN. Your loug and constant at- 
 tachment deserves the possession of its 
 object. Pocahontas shall be thine. — 
 
 • Again I swear it. 
 
 Matacoran. While I now bid adieu to a 
 hopeless passion, the remembrance of 
 once happy days clings in fondest twin- 
 ings around my hearty and soothes me, as 
 
 1 Monacan, a nation to the west of Powhatan. 
 
 the mild radiance of twilight continues 
 to shed its comforts on nature after the 
 departure of the brighter sun. In my 
 gay morning of life I sought renown in 
 all the manly games, that my brow might 
 receive the wreath from the hand of Po- 
 cahontas. How oft have I launched my 
 light canoe, when the angry waves had 
 driven our boldest fishers to the land, and 
 drenched with the spray, have gain'd the 
 distant shore to procure rare shells for 
 the armlets of her I lov'd. How oft 
 have I plung'd into the depths of the for- 
 ests, and pierc'd with my arrows the bird 
 of many dyes, that with its beauteous 
 feathers I might plume the coronet of 
 Pocahontas. Aye, I have dar'd death in 
 an hundred battles, that, when returning 
 victorious, Pocahontas m.ight hail me 
 with honour to the brave. 
 
 Powhatan. My good and gallant prince, 
 I swear my daughter shall — 
 
 Matacoran. Enough, enough — 't is the ex- 
 piring struggle of love. Now Matacoran 
 breathes alone of war, and pants for the 
 combat. The bowmen await their chief. 
 Adieu, my king — Matacoran will deliver 
 his country from her invaders, or soon 
 exist only in his fame. 
 
 (Exit Matacoran.) 
 
 Powhatan. How brave and noble is this 
 prince! and then that silly girl of mine 
 to reject his love, and place her affec- 
 tions upon these pale-fac'd strangers. 
 But Namoutac has by this time remov'd 
 her afar, till the English are destroy'd, 
 and Matacoran returns victorious to 
 claim her as his bride. This night, this 
 eventful night, Powhatan, old king, thou 
 hast need of all thy craft and energ}'-, or 
 soon thy white head will no longer wfiar 
 the crown so lately plac'd upon it. The 
 sun which rises to-morrow will either be- 
 hold thee a victorious king, or a humbled 
 prisoner. {Exit Powhatan.) 
 
 (Pocahontas comes from the tomb.) 
 
 Pocahontas. What have I heard! treach- 
 ery and massacre against those whom 
 they so lately receiv'd with every shew of 
 hospitality and kindness. And Mataco- 
 ran — he the brave and noble — and the 
 reward of his achievement to be the hand 
 of Pocahontas. No, chieftain, no. 
 •When Pocahontas rewards courage it 
 must be unmix'd with treachery. Na- 
 moutac's conduct is explain'd. What is 
 to be done? Can I fly to the English 
 whom Selictaz leads on to sacrifice? The 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 201 
 
 bands of Matacoran beset the path on 
 every side; the river is the only hope. 
 (A flash of lightning.) Ha! a storm is 
 brewing, and how will these little hands, 
 us'd only to guide the canoe in sportive 
 race on a smooth and glassy surface, 
 wage its struggling way, when raging bil- 
 lows uprear their foamy crests'? Brave 
 English, gallant, courteous Rolfe. 
 (Thunder.) Night comes on apace — Oh, 
 night of horror! (Clasps her hands and 
 looks up to heaven as if in prayer.) 
 Thank thee, good Spirit; I feel thy holy 
 influence on my heart. English Rolfe, I 
 will save thee, or Pocahontas be no more. 
 
 (Bushes out.) 
 
 Scene 7. A hunting lodge composed of 
 mats and poles. View of the river. 
 
 (Enter Selictaz, leading the English. 
 Indians following with baskets on their 
 heads.) 
 
 Selictaz. Rest ye here, my noble captain, 
 and your good companions. The king, 
 most careful of thy persons, commends 
 thee to this rude lodge as a shelter against 
 the falling dews, and the storm that 
 seems fast gathering; and of his gracious 
 bounty has sent ye good store of victual. 
 
 Smith. The king is most royal in his 
 bounty, and most ample in his stores. 
 
 Seltctaz. The king desires that ye will 
 not spare the victual, but feast and be 
 merry. (Aside.) 'Twill be thy last 
 feast. 
 
 Smith. On your return, present our hum- 
 ble duty to his highness; and had we a 
 flask of good Rhenish here, in troth we 
 would drink a deep carouse to his higli- 
 ness's health, and that of his daughter, 
 our esteem'd good friend. 
 
 Selictaz. Had ye not better lay aside 
 your armour? Sure it will hinder your 
 rest. 
 
 Smith. The English soldier is so us'd to 
 his iron panoply that it seems as light to 
 him as thy thin harness is to thee. Lieu- 
 tenant, prepare for the night. 
 
 Percy. The watch-word, an' so please ye, 
 and we '11 set the guard. 
 
 (Selictaz gives attention.) 
 
 Smith. What ye like; suppose thine own 
 fair mistress. 
 
 Rolfe. What say ye to the Princess Poca- 
 hontas, our well approv'd friend? 
 
 Smith. The princess then, with all my 
 heart. 
 
 West. Aha! Master Rolfe, remember the 
 wood — thou hast an arrow in thy heart — 
 deep, deep, I say. 
 
 Percy. This charm'd word wall protect us 
 in our rest, but disturb the sleep of our 
 bon camarado. 
 
 West. Of a truth, she is the friend of the 
 English. 
 
 Smith. Be that the watch-word — Poca- 
 hontas, the friend of the English. 
 
 (Selictaz retires satisfied.) 
 
 Percy. So please ye, any further orders? 
 
 Smith. None. And now to rest, each in 
 his soldier's cloak, his shield his pillow, 
 and embracing his arms as he w^ould soft 
 and yielding beauty. Gentle sirs, good 
 rest to ye, and many sweet dreamings of 
 your lady loves ; while wrapped up in my 
 roquelaire, I will think awhile; till lull'd 
 by the measur'd pacing of the guard, and 
 the wild plaintive notes Virginia night 
 birds sing, I too shall slumber. The 
 guardian spirits which watch o'er the 
 soldier's rude couch, keep ye all in their 
 holy keeping. Give ye good night — good 
 night. 
 
 (Slow music — curtain falls.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. The hunting lodge as before. 
 Night. Thunder and lightning. The 
 river appears agitated. English asleep. 
 Soldier on guard. Pocahontas is seen in 
 a canoe struggling with the waves; she 
 lands, and approaches the guard; a pad- 
 dle in her hand.) 
 
 Soldier. Who comes there? Stand. 
 
 Pocahontas. Oh, for breath (leaning on 
 her paddle). I fear that I shall expire 
 ere I can save them. 
 
 Soldier. What, ho! I say, the watch- 
 word, or I fire. (Presenting his piece.) 
 
 Pocahontas. 'T is Pocahontas comes — 
 Pocahontas, the friend of the English. 
 
 Soldier. Right — Pass. 
 
 Pocahontas. What, are they so still, and 
 death so near? English, arouse ye, or ye 
 die. 
 
 Smith. (Starting up.) Who calls? Is 
 it day-dawn already? Ah, my mistress, 
 what can have brought thee abroad, and 
 the elements so rude and angiy? Surely 
 thou has held some revelry to-night, and 
 supposing that we poor soldiers are but 
 
202 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 illy content, have tripp'd down with thy 
 light-footed damsels, and will again sur- 
 prise us with a masquerade. But that 
 my beard is grizzled, and my face marvel- 
 lously ill-favour'd by sears of foreign 
 service, I might hope this visit was made 
 to me, and receive tliee as my lady love. 
 
 Pocahontas. A more fearful fate awaits 
 thee; — even now, Matacoran at the head 
 of seven hundred bowmen, all chosen 
 from my father's guard, comes to sur- 
 prise and slay thee. Arm, arm; I pray 
 thee arm, and away. 
 
 Smith. To arms there, ho! {English 
 spring up, arm, and are mustered by 
 Percy.) By my faith tho', mistress, it 
 would be but of ill savour to the fame of 
 English cavaliers, were they to fly from 
 the foe, leaving thee a distrest damsel be- 
 hind. What say ye, Master Percy, could 
 w^e expect favour from our dames were 
 such ill fame to befall us? 
 
 Percy. Let the enemy come, we will bide 
 their brunt. The Percy fears no odds. 
 
 ROLFE. We are but eighteen in all; but 
 then our men-at-arms are all veteran sol- 
 diers bred in battle, and for our captain, 
 a braver heart never throbb'd against a 
 corslet. 
 
 Smith. Thank ye, my stout and worthy 
 gentlemen. We will give this prince a 
 right soldierly welcome — first a volley of 
 hail shot, and then on him with sword 
 and target. 
 
 Pocahontas. Nay, nay, your courage will 
 not avail ye, the darkness will mar the 
 superiority of your arms, while from 
 every side will fly the poison'd arrows. 
 Can Pocahontas ask a boon, which the 
 EngHsh will deny? 
 
 Smith. After thy generous service, lady, 
 thy boon is granted ere 't is ask'd. 
 
 Pocahontas. Then fly ! ! fly, my Eng- 
 lish, ere 'tis too late. Fly, I beseech 
 
 ye. 
 
 Smith. Thou hast prevailed. But thou 
 must bear us company; within our steely 
 circle we will place our protectress, and 
 the harm that reaches her must first de- 
 stroy us. 
 
 Pocahontas. No, I must return; should 
 the king learn that I have preserv'd thee, 
 not even his belov'd daughter will escape 
 his wrath. Pocahontas gone, who will 
 befriend the English? 
 
 Smith. Lady, thy nobleness wins all our 
 hearts. Grant me, I pray ye, a single 
 feather of thy plume. {She gives a 
 feather.) This will I wear on my helm. 
 
 — Aye, and when the chivalry of Europe 
 hold tournament in honour of their 
 dames, I, thine own true knight, will ap- 
 pear in the lists, proclaim the Princess 
 Pocahontas the most peerless of her sex, 
 and shiver a lance in honour of the flower 
 of Virginia. {Exeunt all the English.) 
 Pocahontas. Now all is well — yet how 
 the wind roars among the lofty pines, 
 the heaving surge beats heavily on the 
 shore, while the blazing sky serves to 
 light Matacoran on his way. I must 
 launch my little barque, and as it tosses 
 amid the foam and fury of the waves, 
 feel sure that good and guardian Spirit, 
 which urg'd me to the rescue of my fel- 
 low creatures, will not forsake me amid 
 the dangers of the storm. {Pocahontas 
 re-embarks, and is seen at first strug- 
 gling with the waves. — Exit.) 
 
 (Matacoran, Selictaz, and Indians 
 enter. They rush to the spot where 
 a lamp burns j and' where Smith was 
 sleeping. ) 
 
 Matacoran. Now, soldiers, strike, and 
 spare not ; strike for your country — Hah, 
 escap'd! {Turning to Selicitaz.) Vil- 
 lain! thou hast deceiv'd me, and thou 
 shalt die. Where are the English? 
 
 Selicitaz. Dread chief, an' I play ye 
 false, let my bosom receive your spear. 
 I left them buried in sleep, what hath 
 alarm'd them I know not. Some spirit, 
 my Prince, some spirit has come to their 
 aid, and marr'd thy purpose. 
 
 Matacoran. Be it a good or evil spirit, I 
 defy its power. Let 's on, the day is 
 dawning — we dare do by courage what 
 we have fail'd ia by surprise. On, I say. 
 {As they are going off, they meet 
 Indians with Hugo de Redmond 
 prisoner. Indians carrying his mus- 
 ket, shield, and sword.) 
 
 Matacoran. Stop — who have we here? 
 
 Indian. Prince, we found this old war- 
 rior lost in the mazes of the forest. We 
 have disarm'd and brought him here to 
 abide thy pleasure. 
 
 Matacoran. Who art thou? How cam'st 
 thou away from thy companions? 
 
 Hugo. So please ye. Sir Savage, I am 
 Hugo de Redmond, an old man-at-arms 
 in the service of King James. My 
 limbs are stiff, I had sat me down to 
 await the day dawn, when these painted 
 devils sprang upon me, and master'd my 
 arms; an' my match had not gone out, 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 203 
 
 they would not have found me an easy 
 conquest. 
 Matacoran. Where is thy leader and his 
 
 warriors ? 
 Hugo. Not far off. 
 
 Matacoran. What are the numbers of the 
 English warriors'? 
 
 Hugo. Including the soldiers in the 
 barques, about three-score. 
 
 Matacoran. Ha! not more? 
 Hugo. An' I be not greatly mistaken, 
 you '11 find 'em enough. 
 
 Matacoran. Do not deceive me; we In- 
 dians have strange tortures for our pris- 
 oners; we stick them full of splinters 
 from the oily pine, and then light them 
 into flame, and dance round, singing their 
 funeral songs. 
 
 Hugo. Sure, an' the devil's own dance it 
 must be. Well, old Hugo has stood fire 
 in the four quarters of the Old World, 
 and it matters little if he die by fire in 
 the New. I was born in a camp, cradled 
 in a buckler, and these white locks and 
 batter'd arms, are proofs of my long and 
 faithful service. I am thy prisoner, Sir 
 Savage, do with me as you list. 
 
 Matacoran. I like thy boldness. An' I 
 give ye liberty what will ye do? 
 
 Hugo. Rejoin my banner with all speed. 
 
 Matacoran. And then — 
 
 Hugo. Fight the enemies of my king and 
 country. 
 
 Matacoran. I like thee, old Warrior. 
 Thou shalt return to thy chief, and tell 
 him that Matacoran admires his valour, 
 and bids him to the combat. 
 
 Hugo. On my life an' he '11 not baulk ye 
 in your bidding. 
 
 Matacoran. Thy sword and shield I keep 
 in pledge, which thou may'st redeem in 
 battle; take thy other arms, a brave sol- 
 dier should never be unarm'd. Thou'rt 
 free — Go. 
 
 Hugo. Thank 'ee, Sir Savage. Here 's 
 my hand, in an hour hence it will seek 
 thy life in battle. Hugo hopes to re- 
 deem his arms where the combat thickens. 
 Farewell, noble, generous enemy, fare- 
 well. {Exit Hugo.) 
 
 Matacoran. Soldiers! the hour is come. 
 Be not alarm'd at their noisy arms ; grap- 
 ple with the foe, and his thunder will 
 cease. We exceed them in numbers, of 
 twenty to one — shame if they overcome 
 us. They liave great store of riches, win 
 but the battle, and take all my share; this 
 trusty blade will be all my spoil. On, 
 comrades, on — the spirits of thy fathers. 
 
 thy king, country, all, will behold thy 
 battle. On to victory! 'T is Matacoran 
 leads the way. {Exeunt cheering.) 
 
 Scene 2. Woody country. View of 
 James River. Reports of musketry. In- 
 dians fly in terror across the stage. 
 
 {Enter Matacoran and Selictaz.) 
 
 Matacoran. Fly, Selictaz, to the rear, and 
 bid the guards receive these cowards on 
 their spear points, and turn them back 
 upon the English. {Exit Selictaz.) 
 Now to my chosen guard, and form them 
 on the river bank. The rout continues! 
 Stop, cowards ! Ah, those dreadful arms. 
 Stop — 't is your general calls you. 
 
 {Exit Matacoran.) 
 
 {Enter Smith, Percy, Rolfe, West, and 
 Soldiers.) 
 
 Smith. Well done for the onset; spare 
 your shot, and press them, brave com- 
 rades, w^ith sword and target. Be my 
 banner, like the eagle of Virginia, soar- 
 ing above our battle, nor let it rest from 
 its majestic flight, till it perches in tri- 
 umph on the palace of Powhatan. On, 
 I say ! let my war cry be Victory and Vir- 
 ginia! {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. A Wood. Alarms. Reports of 
 musketry. 
 
 {Enter Smith, pressed hy many Indians. 
 Smith tvith an Indian tied to his left 
 arm, uses him as a buckler; he throws 
 the Indian from him dead. Smith is 
 forced over the hank, and appears as 
 fighting in the water. The Indians over- 
 power, and hear him off in their arms.) 
 
 {Enter Matacoran.) 
 
 Matacoran. There, now, stand flrm: and 
 if their armour should resist your arrows 
 it will not repel a spear when thrust by 
 the vigour of a brave man's arm. See, 
 your prince advances first to meet the 
 foe. Indians, place your trust in the 
 spear, in courage, and Matacoran. {Dis- 
 charge of musketry heard, two Indians 
 fall dead, the rest fly in disorder, uttering 
 loud cries.) All is lost. Oh! cowards, 
 your general's curse, the curse of your 
 king and country attend your flight. 
 
204 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 What remains now to face the foe, 
 nought but despair end Matacoran. 
 
 {English enter and attack Matacoran, 
 who defends himself bravely — he is 
 beaten down on one knee. Hugo 
 enters and covers him with his buck- 
 ler.) 
 
 Hugo. Spare, comrades, spare the prince; 
 't is your father Hugo commands ye. 
 {English desist. Matacoran rises.) 
 Brave, generous chief, the fortune of war 
 is against thee, but thy courage demands 
 esteem from thy enemies. 
 
 Matacoran. I have fought to the last, 
 courted death, and hop'd to fall with my 
 falling country. 
 
 Hugo. Prince, I now claim my old arms, 
 and am happy that the act of their re- 
 demption has been in saving the life of 
 a gallant enemy. 
 
 Matacoran. {Giving up sword and buck- 
 ler.) There! in my hands they have 
 been unfortunate, but not dishonour'd. 
 
 Hugo. When I was thy prisoner, thou 
 said'st that a brave man should never be 
 without arms, restor'd to me a part of 
 mine; I admir'd tliy courtesy then, and 
 now offer thee in return a sword just 
 Hesh'd in this its maiden battle. Look, 
 Prince, when old Hugo's wars are ended, 
 and his last peace made, it will remind 
 thee that honour and generosity could 
 dwell in the bosom of so humble a being 
 as a poor English man-at-arms. 
 
 Matacoran. Good old warrior, I accept 
 thy gift, tho' it comes too late ; for Mata- 
 coran has fought the last of his country's 
 battles. Thy countrymen I can never 
 love; but honour bids me say, they have 
 about them much to admire. Lead on, 
 lead your prisoner to your chief. 
 
 {Exeunt all.) 
 
 Scene 4. Interior of Barclay's hut. 
 {Enter Barclay — meeting Mantea.) 
 
 Mantea. Hath the thunder ceas'd — how 
 fares the English"? 
 
 Barclay. It still echoes among the pines. 
 Three wounded English are just brought 
 down to be embark'd — they report that 
 our leader, the vaUant Smith, is taken 
 and carried to Weoroeomoco. It seems 
 impossil)le to believe it. 
 
 Mantea. Oh ! sad, sad day for us all. 
 
 Barclay. Do not so soon despond — tho' 
 
 a leader be slain, English soldiers are 
 not long without another. The brave 
 Percy may by this time have restor'd the 
 day. The daring valour of Smith led 
 him too far in pursuit of the flying en- 
 emy, when slipi)ing from a bank into the 
 river, he was overpower'd by numbers, 
 and the hero, before whom hundreds had 
 fled, was taken and carried captive to . 
 Powhatan. {Knocking at the door.) 
 Be still, on your life. Who's there? 
 ( Without. ) Mowbray ! 
 
 {Barclay opens the door.) 
 
 {Enter Mowbray.) 
 
 Barclay. My dear friend and country- 
 man, what news, what news? 
 
 Mowbray. Good. — Victory to the English, 
 thanks to the gallant Percy. 
 
 Barclay. And our leader — but I can see 
 by thy looks — taken, Smith taken? 
 
 Mowbray. 'T is even so. His chivalric 
 courage bore him head-long on the foe, 
 when tired with slajdng them, accident 
 threw him into the water, where the 
 weight of his armour, and the numbers 
 who press'd upon him, render'd resist- 
 ance vain, and he was borne off on the 
 shoulders of the Indians. 
 
 Barclay. I trust the captain made his 
 peace with God before the battle, for 
 Powhatan allows his prisoners no time 
 for prayer; and ere this the gallant soul 
 of Smith is join'd to the souls of those 
 made perfect in another and a better 
 world. 
 
 Mowbray. Let 's still indulge a hope. 
 Percy, Rolfe, and West, learning the fate 
 of their leader, furiously charg'd the In- 
 dians sword in hand, routed, and pursued 
 them towards the savage capital. Amid 
 the rout <e> and carnage, one Indian, 
 Prince Matacoran, was unappall'd; he 
 fought like a lion, disdaining to fly, till 
 old Hugo de Redmond, the father of our 
 men, rush'd to the rescue, cover'd the 
 chief with his buckler, bidding the sol- 
 diers spare so gallant an enemy. By 
 this act of generosity calling forth shouts 
 of admiration from our ranks. 
 
 Barclay. And the Prince — the brave, the 
 stern Matacoran? ■ 
 
 Mowbray. Despoil'd of his arms, he is I 
 led in chains, an hostage for the safety 
 of the valiant Smith : ere this our troops 
 have reach'd the savage capital, the sol- \ 
 diers rending the air with cries for their 
 ador'd commander, 
 
 Barclay. Come, Mantea, let 's on to We- 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 205 
 
 orocomoco. An' our leader lives, Vir- 
 ginia is ours. 
 Mowbray. Aye, Virginia will be ours — 
 Victory and Virginia! {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 5. The palace of Powhatan. 
 Guards, etc. 
 
 {Enter Powhatan, meeting Pocahontas 
 and Omaya.) 
 
 Powhatan. A strange tale this I hear of 
 Namoutac and the Cavalier in the great 
 tree. Namoutac is a fool, and deserv'd 
 to be shot for his idle frolic. But, girl, 
 something of greater moment claims at- 
 tention. How comes it that ye continue 
 to refuse the Prince as thy husband, the 
 pride of my kingdom, the favourite of 
 its king? 
 
 Pocahontas. I love not Matacoran, my 
 affections are plac'd on another. 
 
 Powhatan. Hear me, girl! the Prince is 
 now engaged in combat with the English, 
 whom he expects to destroy or drive 
 from Virginia. An' he perform either 
 of which good services thou shalt be his 
 reward — aye, the bride of Matacoran. 
 
 Pocahontas. An' the Prince conquer the 
 English, he will find better reward in 
 their spoils, than in me, an unloving 
 wife. 
 
 Powhatan. He asks not reward, nay, re- 
 fuses even thy ungrateful self; but I 
 have sworn, yea, solemnly sworn, thou 
 shalt be his, so prepare yourself to obey 
 my will. 
 
 {Enter Selictaz, in great haste.) 
 
 Powhatan. Ha! what news, Selictaz? 
 what of the Prince ? how goes the battle ? 
 speak, if thou canst gather as much 
 breath. An' thy news be great as thy 
 haste, 't will be worth relating. 
 
 Selictaz. Great King ! Smith ! the leader 
 Smith. — {Panting.) 
 
 Powhatan. Well — Smith is not near We- 
 orocomoco, I hope! 
 
 Selictaz. Aye, great King, very near. 
 
 Powhatan. {Alarmed.) Guards there! 
 say quickly thy say — 
 
 Selictaz. Smith is a prisoner, and will 
 be here anon. 
 
 Powhatan. Ha! prisoner! Smith a pris- 
 oner! and alive! Smith a prisoner! 
 
 Selictaz. 'T is even so — Smith is thy 
 prisoner, and alive. 
 
 Powhatan. Far beyond my hopes, thanks 
 to the gods, and the brave Matacoran. 
 Aha! girl, what say'st thou now to thy 
 darling English, thy valiant Smith? 
 Aha! wilt thou not now be the bride of 
 Matacoran, the victorious Matacoran? 
 
 Pocahontas. Never! the' he were victor 
 of the world. 
 
 Powhatan. Oh! joy, joy; say, Selictaz, 
 how long before the remaining English 
 are brought captives to my feet. 
 
 Selictaz. That, King, is a very doubtful 
 matter; for tho' the leader is taken, the 
 battle doth not abate. In truth, my 
 King, there seemeth to be many Smiths 
 in the field; they fight as tho' they were 
 all Smiths. 
 
 Powhatan. How fares the Prince? 
 
 Selictaz. I left him at his wonted place, 
 the thickest of the battle. {A yell.) 
 But hark, I hear the Indians who bear 
 the captive Smith on their shoulders to 
 make the greater haste to thy presence. 
 Shall I usher them in? 
 
 Powhatan. Wait yet a moment, while I 
 ascend my throne, and put on the crown 
 and mantle, that I may receive the pris- 
 oner in the royalt}^ of his own making. 
 Come, girl, take thy place at my side — 
 take thy place, I say. 
 
 Pocahontas. Excuse me, father, I 'm not 
 us'd to such sights. I am not well. 
 
 Powhatan. Thou wilt be well when the 
 
 English are destroy'd. Take thy place. 
 
 (Pocahontas and Omaya take their 
 
 places on the throne. Powhatan 
 
 ascends and seats himself on the 
 
 throne.) 
 
 Powhatan. Now bring the captive to my 
 feet. Take with thee my guard, Selictaz, 
 lest he may escape. 
 
 (Selictaz and guard go out and re- 
 turn with Smith, his clothes stained 
 and in disorder, his plumes broken. 
 Indians hearing his arms.) 
 
 Powhatan. Thou 'rt welcome. Captain 
 Smith, tho' thou now com'st with not 
 quite so gallant a train as when thou 
 last did deign to visit my poor house. 
 
 Smith. My train will be here anon. 
 
 Powhatan. Aye, as captives like thyself. 
 
 Smith. No! but as conquerors, to plant 
 my banner in victory on the throne where 
 thou now sittest. 
 
 Powhatan. How ! and their leader taken ? 
 
 Smith. That 's no matter, the Percy does 
 battle in my stead; and were he to fall, 
 I would say, as old King Hal said of the 
 Percy who fell at Chevy Chase, good he 
 
20G 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 was, but thank God I 've many as good 
 as he. 
 
 Powhatan. Captain Smith, the king ad- 
 mires thy boldness. Wliat would'st thou 
 give for thy ransom? No doubt all the 
 rich lading of thy barques; but then, 
 Captain Smith, I would not set thee at 
 liberty; for my people would fear thee, 
 tho' thou wert in chains. 
 
 Smith. Not a rusty nail would I give for 
 ransom. I tell thee again, old fool, 't is 
 not thee but we are the conquerors in 
 this fray — that my banner, borne on the 
 wings of victory, will soon be planted on 
 thy throne — my war cry be heard in thy 
 palace, and the royal James be sovereign 
 of Virginia. 
 
 Pow^HATAN. Bold man, thou speak'st as 
 tho' thou wert king, and I a captive. 
 
 Smith. Accident overcame me; give me 
 again but my sword and buckler, and see 
 with what ease I '11 cut my way thro' thy 
 guards — aye, and with their king to com- 
 mand them. 
 
 Powhatan. 'T is too much — thou shalt 
 die, and that forthwith. 
 
 Smith. 'T is well. 
 
 Powhatan. Yet the king is merciful — is 
 there aught thou would wish to say ere 
 the blow fall? {A noise of musketry at 
 a distance. ) Hah ! thy moments are few. 
 Executioners, bring forth the stone of 
 sacrifice; and hark'ee, see that ye pro- 
 vide your heaviest clubs ; and their heads 
 be as hard as their hearts, ye will need 
 your heaviest weapons. 
 
 {Executioners bring in the stone, and 
 poise their clubs, as if prepared for 
 sacrifice. ) 
 
 Pocahontas. Oh! father! shew mercy to 
 the brave unfortunate. 
 
 Omaya. Spare, oh! King, the noble pris- 
 oner! 
 
 Powhatan. Silence both. 
 
 Pocahontas. Delay, father, only till 
 thou canst hear more of the battle — 
 spare, spare the gallant Smith, thy 
 daughter, thy favourite 'tis who im- 
 plores thee. 
 
 Powhatan. Hah! thy tone is chang'd. 
 The prisoner shall die, and that anon. 
 
 Pocahontas. Only till one other messen- 
 ger arrives. Mercy, mercy. 
 
 Powhatan. Guards! take these silly girls 
 away. 
 
 {Guards remove Pocahontas and 
 Omaya to the rear of the throne — 
 guarding them there.) 
 
 Powhatan. Captain Smith, if you have 
 
 aught to say, be brief, for thine hour is 
 come. 
 
 Smith. Thanks for thy savage courtesy. 
 Hear me. When the blow is struck, and 
 Smith ceases to live, but in his fame, do 
 with my senseless corse as thou listeth; 
 thou wilt find upon it many scars of 
 honourable service. It matters not, 
 whether it shall gorge the maws of thy 
 cannibals, or be urn'd in marble, to await 
 the slower progress of the worm. My 
 heart preserve; give it my lieutenant, to 
 be by him embalm'd and convey'd to 
 England. That England, for whose 
 glory it did so truly beat in life, will 
 give it place amid the cemeteries of her 
 illustrious dead. 
 
 Powhatan. It shall be done, the king is 
 merciful. 
 
 Smith. Plant my banner on my grave, 
 the three Turks' heads, the cognizance of 
 my achievement on the plains of Tran- 
 sylvania, that when the chivalry of Eu- 
 rope shall hereafter pass that w^ay, they 
 may low^er pennon and lance in memory 
 of Smith. 
 
 Powhatan. The king admires thy warlike 
 fame; that too shall be done. 
 
 Smith. Give my gold chain to thy admi- 
 rable daughter; it was given me by 
 Charitza, the most peerless lady of the 
 Old World, and I now bestow it on Poca- 
 hontas, the most peerless of the New. I 
 have done, proceed in thy bloody work. 
 {Noise of musketry nearer than before.) 
 Ah, 'tis the glorious sounds of war, 
 which for the last time I hear. Brave 
 Percy, good lieutenant, spare thy shot, 
 and on them with sword and target. See 
 my pennon, how gaily it flies above the 1 
 smoke — look on it, my veterans, and it f 
 will remind you of your lost commander. 
 Hah! they fly! now, Percy, press them 
 home. Give them not time to rally — 
 well done. Now, comrades, shout my 
 war cry in their despairing ears — Vic- 
 tory and Virginia! aye, victory and Vir- 
 ginia. 
 
 (Smith, exhausted, sinks into the arms 
 of the Indians, who bind him, and * 
 lay his head on the stone of sacri- 
 fice.) 
 
 Selictaz. {Hastily, and in affright.) 
 From the height, king, I beheld our 
 army flying before the English like unto 
 a herd of frighten'd deer, while the 
 smoke from the enemy's guns can plainly 
 be perceiv'd as it curls amongst the tops 
 of the loftiest pines. 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKE CUSTIS 
 
 207 
 
 Powhatan. Take with thee my chosen 
 guard, and fly to the succour of the 
 Prince — quick, away. 
 
 {Exeunt Selictaz and guards.) 
 Powhatan. Executioners, I shall wave 
 my fan of feathers thrice, and then 
 cry strike. When you hear that w^ord, 
 let fall your weapons and with 
 all thy force. Now attend — once, 
 • twice — 
 
 {Waves the fan of feathers, Poca- 
 hontas breaks from her guard, and 
 rushes to the feet of the king.) 
 Pocahontas. King — father, if ever thy 
 poor child found favour in thy sight, 
 spare, spare the noble prisoner ; 't is 
 Pocahontas, thy darling, who entreats 
 thee — her, whom from infancy thou hast 
 cherished in thy bosom. Spare, spare; 
 here will I embrace thy feet, till thou 
 shalt forget the king, and once again be 
 the father. 
 Powhatan. Away, girl — away. 
 
 {Noise of musketry still nearer.) 
 Pocahontas. Hark! hear you not those 
 dreadful arms; think that ere long thou 
 may have to ask that mercy thou now 
 deny'st — Spare. 
 Powhatan. Hah, impossible — attend there, 
 thrice. {Waves the fan.) The word 
 alone remains — attend. 
 
 {Executioners raise their clubs.) 
 Pocahontas. {Rising with dignity.) At- 
 tend, but first to me. Cruel king, the 
 ties of blood which bound me to thee 
 are dissever'd, as have been long those of 
 thy sanguinary religion; for know that 
 I have abjur'd thy senseless gods, and 
 now worship the Supreme Being, the 
 true Manitou, and the Father of the Uni- 
 verse; 'tis his Almighty hand that sus- 
 tains me, 'tis his divine spirit that 
 breathes in my soul, and prompts Poca- 
 hontas to a deed which future ages will 
 admire. 
 
 {She rushes down from the throne, 
 throws herself on the body of 
 Smith, raises her arms, and calls to 
 the executioners to *^ Strike''; they 
 drop their weapons. Powhatan 
 descends, raises up and embraces his 
 daughter.) 
 Powhatan. I am subdued, unbind the 
 prisoner. My child, my child. 
 
 (Smith is unbound, and kneels to the 
 Princess. Reports of musketry 
 close at hand. Percy, Rolfe, West, 
 and soldiers enter, sword in hand, 
 driving Indians before them, Percy 
 
 mounts the throne and plants the 
 banner there.) 
 
 Percy. Victory — victory and Virginia. 
 God save King James, Sovereign of Vir- 
 ginia. 
 
 {Drums and trumpets. Soldiers shout. 
 Percy, West, and Rolfe embrace 
 Smith. Matacoran is brought in, 
 in chains, guarded.) 
 
 Percy. Thanks to God, we have arriv'd in 
 time to the rescue of our noble com- 
 mander. 
 
 Smith. Nay, dear and valued friends^ 
 you must be content with victory. My 
 rescue is due to her before whom I kneel 
 in admiration and gratitude. {Kneels.) 
 
 Percy. Thanks, noble mistress^ thanks for 
 the life of our belov'd Captain. An' we 
 had not knowledge of thy excelling worth 
 before this, thou would'st now amaze us 
 with thy virtues. {Kneels.) 
 
 West. Honour thanks thee, England will 
 thank thee, while Virginians to remotest 
 ages will venerate thy fame, and genius 
 hand thee over to immortality. {Kneels.) 
 
 Rolfe. And love thanks thee. {Kneels.) 
 
 Hugo. An old soldier's thanks for pre- 
 serving the life of a rever'd comander. 
 
 {Kneels.) 
 
 Mowbray. In behalf of all the veterans, 
 who have grown grey under the com- 
 mand of Smith, thanks, noble lady, 
 thanks. — Long live the flower of Vir- 
 ginia. {Shouts.) 
 
 Smith. And now let me place my gold 
 chain, the symbol of the preux chevalier, 
 and which I bequeath'd to this lady at 
 my death, around the neck of her who 
 hath preserv'd my life. 
 
 Percy. And bind two in thy golden 
 shackle, the good and gallant Master 
 Rolfe, and thou wilt unite the hands of 
 those whose hearts have long since been 
 united. 
 
 Smith. Aha! Master Rolfe, do ye plead 
 guilty to the charge? 
 
 Rolfe. Aye, and glory in the guilt. 
 
 Smith. What sayeth the lady? 
 
 Pocahontas. She will most cheerfully 
 submit to wear the chain which binds 
 her to the honour'd master of her fate, 
 even tho' the chain were of iron instead 
 of gold. 
 
 Smith. May every happiness attend this 
 union of virtue and honour. 
 
 All. Amen, amen. 
 
 Percy. So please ye, the prisoner. 
 
 {Enter Matacoran, guarded.) 
 
20^ 
 
 POCAHONTAS, OR THE SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA 
 
 Smith. Aye, true, unbind him; the brave 
 honour the brave alike in misfortune and 
 prosperity. 
 
 Hugo. So please ye to favour your vet- 
 eran Hugo, let this grateful task be mine. 
 When I was a prisoner, this chief re- 
 leas'd me, and gave me a chance to re- 
 deem mine arms, and now old Hugo 
 performs the most pleasing duty of all 
 his long and arduous services — to relieve 
 a fallen enemy. 
 
 {Takes off Matacoran's chains.) 
 
 Smith. Chief, our wars are ended; thy 
 noble bearing claims all our esteem. 
 Thou hast fought for thy country — we 
 for ours. Let 's in future be friends, 
 and join in friendship those hands, 
 which lately wielded the weapons of en- 
 mity. Mataeoran shall be of power and 
 influence in the country which he hath so 
 gallantly defended, and shall hold of the 
 royal James posts of honour and trust 
 in the newly acquired colony of Virginia. 
 
 Matacoran. Hear me, chief. Know that 
 Mataeoran scorns thy friendship, and 
 hates all thy kind. The fortune of war 
 is on thy side; thy gods are as much 
 greater than the gods of the Indian, as 
 thine arms are greater than his. But al- 
 tho' thy gods and thine arms have pre- 
 vail'd, say did not Matacoran fight 
 bravely in the last of his country's bat- 
 tles? and when his comrades fled, singly 
 did he face the thunders of his foe. 
 Now that he can no longer combat the 
 invaders he will retire before them, even 
 to where tradition says, there rolls a 
 western wave. There, on the utmost 
 verge of the land which the Manitou 
 gave to his fathers, when grown old by 
 time, and his strength decay'd, Mata- 
 coran will erect his tumulus, crawl into 
 it and die. But when in a long distant 
 
 day, posterity shall ask where rests that 
 brave, who disdaining alliance with the 
 usurpers of his country, nobly dar'd to 
 be wild and free, the finger of renown 
 will point to the grave of Matacoran. 
 (Matacoran rushes out.) 
 
 Smith. Brave, wild, and unconquerable 
 spirit, go whither thou wilt, the esteem 
 of the English goes with thee. 
 
 Powhatan. Captain Smith, after what 
 hath pass'd thou might well distrust my 
 friendship for the future. But experi- 
 ence makes even an Indian wise. We 
 cannot resist thee as enemies, therefore, 
 it becomes us to be thy friends. In the 
 name of Virginia, I pledge friendship to 
 the English, so long as grass grows and 
 water runs. 
 
 Smith. And dost consent to the union of 
 thine admirable daughter with worthy 
 Master Rolfe? 
 
 Powhatan. Aye, and let their union be a 
 pledge of the future union between Eng- 
 land and Virginia. 
 
 {Enter Barclay^ Mantea and Namoutac.) 
 
 Powhatan. And mine be the privilege of 
 giving away the bride. And may the 
 fruits of this union of virtue and honour 
 be a long line of descendants, inheriting 
 those principles, gifted with rare talents, 
 and the most exalted patriotism. Now 
 it only remains for us to say, that look- 
 ing thro' a long vista of futurity, to the 
 time when these wild regions shall be- 
 come the ancient and honour'd part of 
 a great and glorious American Empire, 
 may we hope that when the tales of early 
 days are told from the nursery, the 
 library, or the stage, that kindly will be 
 received the national story of Pocahon- 
 tas, or the Settlement of Virginia. 
 
 curtain falls. 
 
THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 BY 
 
 Robert Montgomery Bird 
 
The Broker of Bogota is printed for the first time, 
 from the original manuscript presented to the Library 
 of the University of Pennsylvania hy Mr. Robert 
 Montgomery Bird. 
 
THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 The BroJcer of Bogota represents the romantic verse tragedy, written under 
 the inspiration of Edwin Forrest. It represents also the interest in the Spanish 
 colonies in America, in which its anthor, Robert JMontgomery Bird, laid so many 
 of the scenes of his plays and novels. Bird was born February 5, 1806, in New 
 Castle, Delaware. After completing his school life at Germantown Academy, 
 near Philadelphia, he entered the Medical School of the University of Pennsyl- 
 vania, graduating on April 6, 1827. Although he started practice and at a later 
 time (1841-3) was a member of the Faculty of the Pennsylvania IMedical College 
 in Philadelphia, medicine was never the main interest in his life. While still 
 attending the University he was writing iplays, and completed in 1827 two ro- 
 mantic tragedies, The Coivled Lover and Caridorf, and two comedies, A City 
 Looldng Glass (1828) and News of the Night, both dealing with life in Phila- 
 delphia. None of these w^as acted. 
 
 Pelopidas or The Fall of the Polemarchs, a tragedy laid in Thebes, was 
 finished in 1830 and was accepted by Edwin Forrest. It was, however, not played 
 by him, probably since it did not provide an opportunity for Mr. Forrest prop- 
 erly to exhibit his talent. Instead The Gladiator, which was based on the revolt 
 of Spartacus against the tyranny of Rome, was substituted and was played for 
 the first time in New York City, September 26, 1831, at the Park Theatre, 
 and for the first time in Philadelphia at the Arch Street Theatre, October 24, 
 1831. The Gladiator has been produced by Edwin Forrest, John McCullough, 
 Robert Downing and other actors, hundreds of times since that day. Of Dr. 
 Bird's other successful plays, the first, Oralloossa, was produced for the first time 
 at the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, October 10, 1832, and was a tragedy 
 founded on the Spanish Conquest of Peru. It was successful, running at its 
 initial presentation for five nights against the strong counter-attraction of the 
 Kembles at the Chestnut Street Theatre, but it never had the wide popularity of 
 The Gladiator. 
 
 The BroJi'er of Bogota was put on at the Bowery Theatre in New York, 
 February 1 2, 1834, and was played by Forrest at least thirty years. Among the 
 Bird manuscripts is a letter from Forrest to Dr. Bird, dated February 12, 1834, 
 in which he says: "I have just left the theatre — your tragedy was performed 
 and crowned with entire success. The Broker of Bogota will live when our vile 
 trunks are rotten. ' ' Certainly in the character of ' ' Febro, ' ' with his middle-class 
 mind, lifted into tragedy by his passionate love for his children and his betrayal 
 
 211 
 
212 INTRODUCTION 
 
 by liis oldest and best loved son, Bird drew one of the most living portraits in 
 our dramatic history. The clever entanglement of ''Febro" largely by circum- 
 stances and the climax of the fourth act in which '^ Juana" denounces ''Ramon," 
 must have been effective on the stage. 
 
 Bird abandoned his dramatic work at the height of success. Discouraged 
 by his financial dealings with Forrest, which brought the author a total of five 
 thousand dollars, while the actor made a fortune out of The Gladiator alone, and 
 prevented from publishing his plays, partly by the copyright laws and partly by 
 Forrest's opposition, he turned to fiction and produced several novels, Calavar 
 (1834:), The Infidel (1835), both dealing with Cortez's expedition, and Nick of 
 the Woods (1837), a story of Indian life in Kentucky, which was put on the stage 
 by Louisa Medina and was widely popular. The Infidel w^as dramatized by 
 Benjamin H. Brewster, and played in Philadelphia in 1835. Dr. Bird travelled 
 extensively in this country and visited England in 1834, then after some ex- 
 cursions into politics settled in Philadelphia as editor and part proprietor of the 
 North American and died January 23, 1854. 
 
 None of his plays has been published. The present editor was fortunate 
 enough to find The Broker of Bogota and Oralloossa in manuscript at the Forrest 
 Home at Holmesburg, Pennsylvania, but it remained for Mr. Clement Foust, of 
 the English Department of the University of Pennsylvania, to discover a com- 
 plete collection of the manuscripts of Dr. Bird in the possession of the latter 's 
 grandson, Mr. Robert M. Bird, who has generously presented them to the Library 
 of the University of Pennsylvania. Mr. Foust has in preparation a life of Dr. 
 Bird, a critical edition of The Gladiator and the other important plays, and a 
 selection from among the many interesting letters to and from Dr. Bird con- 
 tained in his correspondence with other writers. Among the most interesting of 
 these is a letter from Dr. Bird's son. Rev. Frederick M. Bird, requesting per- 
 mission from Forrest, who apparently held the copyrights, to publish his father's 
 plays and, in answer, Forrest's curt refusal. Each of the plays exists in several 
 forms and the present text of The Broker of Bogota has been prepared by Mr. 
 Foust after a comparative study of the manuscripts. Through his courtesy the 
 editor is able to reproduce it here. 
 
 The text is based primarily upon the complete manuscript copy, made by Mrs. 
 Bird, the wife of the dramatist. This has been collated with the two autograph 
 copies, neither of which is complete, and the resultant text represents, in Mr. 
 Foust 's judgment, the reading the dramatist preferred. This text was then 
 compared with the acting version, at the Forrest Home. Additions from this 
 acting version are indicated by square brackets while words, lines, or scenes 
 omitted in stage production are enclosed in brackets of this form < > . 
 
 For discussions of Bird's plays, see James Rees, The Dramatic Authors of 
 
INTRODUCTION 213 
 
 America, Philadelphia, 1845, and his Life of Edwiii Forrest, Philadelphia, 
 [1874] ; W. R. Alger, Life of Edwin Forrest, Philadelphia, 1877; Lawrence Bar- 
 rett, Edwin Forrest, Boston, 1882, who gives (p. 51) the east of The Gladiator 
 at Drury Lane, October 17, 1836 ; Charles Durang, History of the Philadelphia 
 Stage, Third Series, Chaps. 16, 25 ; P. C. Wemyss, Tiuenty-six Years of the Life 
 of an Actor Manager, New York, 18^7, Vol. 2, p. 239 ; E. P. Oberholtzer, Liter- 
 ary History of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, 1907„ 
 
 Note to Second Edition. 
 
 In 1919, Dr. Clement Foust published the Life and Dramatic Work of 
 Bohert Montgomery Bird, containing a reprint of The Broker of Bogota, and 
 printing for the first time The Gladiator, Pelopidas and Oralloossa. 
 
 On May 21, 1920, the Zelosophic Society of the University of Pennsylvania 
 reproduced The Broker of Bogota at the Bellevue-Stratford Ball Room, Phila- 
 delphia, under the direction of Mrs. William Merriman Price. The production 
 revealed clearly the great appeal of the play from the point of view of dramatic 
 structure, and the fine quality of the blank verse was apparent. As had been 
 expected, the characters of "Febro" played by Kirk Heselbarth, of the Class of 
 '21, and of '' Juana" played by Elizabeth Canning of the Class of '20, were the 
 most appealing, and it was interesting to seei that in a play written for Edwin 
 Forrest, the most effective scene (Act IV, Scene 4) was one in which he was not 
 on the stage. 
 
CHAB.ACTERS 
 
 [Bowery Theatre, New York City, February 12, 1834.] 
 
 Marques De Palmera, Viceroy of New Granada Mr. H. Gale 
 
 Fernando, his son Mr. G. Jones 
 
 Baptista Febro, the broker Mr. E. Forrest 
 
 Ramon f, . 1 Mr. Ingersoll 
 
 „ < his sons y 
 
 Francisco t J Mr. Connoi- 
 
 Mendoza, a merchant, father of Juana Mr. Farren 
 
 Antonio De Cabarero, a profligate, friend of Ramon Mr. H. Wallack 
 
 Pablo, an inn keeper Mr. McClure 
 
 SiLVANO, servant of Febro 
 
 Leonor, daughter of Febro Mrs. Flynn 
 
 JuANA, daughter of IMendoza Mrs. McClure 
 
 Gentlemen of ^he Court, Citizens, Alguazils. 
 
 Scene, Santa Fe De Bogota. 
 
THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. The Street near Febro's house. 
 {Enter Mendoza and Ramon.) 
 
 Mendoza. You have your answer. Come 
 no more near my house : I '11 have no 
 disobedient, disinherited sons there. 
 <Come no more near to me.> 
 
 Ram. Sefior Mendoza, you make my un- 
 happiness my crime and condemn me for 
 my misfortune. 
 
 Men. Truly, I have so learned to crimi- 
 nate misfortune ever since I found that, 
 when one grief springs from ill fate, 
 twenty come from our own faults. I 
 have never known a young man sink in 
 the world, without finding he had over- 
 burdened himself with follies. 
 
 Ram. If you will listen to me, I will show 
 you how much you wrong me. 
 
 Men. Wrong you? I wrong you not: 
 you are your own wronger. <I should 
 be glad to be rid of you.> 
 
 Ram. You treat me with much shame, 
 sehor; but, for your daughter's sake, I 
 forgive you. 
 
 Men. So would I that your father did 
 you for my daughter's sake; for then 
 might I think of you for a son. But 
 now, you must pardon me — Think no 
 more of that. 
 
 Ram. Seiior Mendoza, I have your prom- 
 ise to wed Juana. 
 
 Men. I made that promise when you were 
 
 . your father's heir; and I break it, now 
 
 that you are your father's outcast. I 
 
 will have no discarded son for my child's 
 
 husband, believe that. 
 
 Ram. My father will restore me to his 
 favor. 
 
 Men. When he does that, I will perhaps 
 take thee to mine, — not before. <Fare 
 thee well, serior.> 
 
 Ram. Sehor Mendoza, it is said you will 
 marry Juana <to another? 
 
 Men. And if I do, sefior, who is to gain- 
 say me ?> 
 
 Ram. To Marco, the young merchant of 
 Quito? 
 
 Men. Content thee, sefior Ramon, Marco 
 is neither discarded nor poor, nor ill 
 spoken of; and will be a good husband 
 for a good man's daughter. <Farewell 
 — Come to me no more.> 
 
 Ram. By heaven, it shall not be! 
 
 Men. Oho! it shall not be! You are the 
 King of Castile, sefior <Ramon!> 
 You will have fathers marry their chil- 
 dren to men of your choosing! 
 
 Ram. Senor, you will break my heart. 
 It is enough to lose my father, my fam- 
 ily — all — yet you will rob me of my be- 
 trothed wife. 
 
 Men. Betrothed to Baptista Febro's heir, 
 not to Ramon the penniless and house- 
 less. <You are scurrilous.> I will 
 talk with you no more. Farewell^and 
 come no more near me: my daughter is 
 not for you. (Exit.) 
 
 Ram. Misery follow thee, thou false old 
 churl, 
 And age's torments! till they rack as 
 
 sore 
 As the fresh pangs and agonies of youth. 
 Perhaps his daughter is not much averse : 
 Yet many an oath, with many a sigh, of 
 
 old, 
 Breathed she for truth and loving con- 
 stancy. 
 
 (Enter Cabarero.) 
 
 Cab. Hola, Ramon! brother Sorrowful! 
 Sefior Will-o'-the-wisp! are you there? 
 I have been seeking <for> you. 
 
 Ram. I should think then thou hadst some 
 execution upon me; for who else now 
 seek me but my creditors? 
 
 Cab. Why, thy true friends, thy true 
 friends (for am not I a host?), thy true 
 friends, Cabarero. Come now, hast thou 
 been petitioning thy father? 
 
 .Ram. I tell thee, I had better ask an alms 
 of the cutthroat on the highway, than of 
 my father. 
 
 Cab. <An alms!> Oh, thou art the 
 smallest-souled pretty fellow in all Gra- 
 nada here. Why dost thou talk of an 
 alms? Art thou not thy father's eldest 
 son? 
 
 215 
 
216 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Ram. Had I been the youngest, I should 
 liave been the happier. 
 
 Cab. Yea, tliou shouldst have been a 
 counter of beads, a beggar of blessings, 
 a winner of the elder brother's portion. 
 Pish! thy brother Francisco is a rogue; 
 he has ousted thee from thine inherit- 
 ance. 
 
 Ram. If any one have done that, thou art 
 tlie man. I am ruined, Cabarero, and 
 thou art my destroyer. 
 
 <Cab. Now, I think thou art repenting 
 of thy sins; but thou goest about it the 
 wrong way.> 
 
 Ram. Look, Cabarero, there is my father's 
 roof. There is no swallow twittering 
 under its eaves, that has a merrier heart 
 or a gayer song, than were mine once, 
 when I was a boy under it. 
 
 Cab. Ay, faith, and that wast because 
 thou wert a boy, a silly boy. Now wert 
 thou a man, a discreet and reasonable 
 man, thou wouldst be even as merry as 
 before. <Thou dost not think thou wert 
 born to be always in a grin?> 
 
 Ram. I was the eye of my mother, the 
 heart of — <my f ather> ; my sister loved 
 me ; my brother — <ay, and my brother.> 
 — ay, they all loved me; and there was 
 no one that did not smile on me, from 
 the priest at the confessional to the beg- 
 gar at the door. By St. James, I had 
 many friends then; and I deserved their 
 favor, for I was of good fame and un- 
 corrupted. 
 
 Cab. I see thou art a man whose head is 
 likely to be as empty as his pockets. 
 'Slife! uncorrupted? <Thy nose uncor- 
 rupted!> Bad luck is the lot of the 
 best. 
 
 Ram. Antonio, I say, thou bast destroyed 
 me. Until I knew thee, I abhorred 
 shame, and <it is true> my hand was as 
 stainless as an infant's. 
 
 Cab. It was thy father's scurvy eovetous- 
 ousness that put thee on to showing thy 
 spirit. 
 
 Ram. Thou didst delude me. By the 
 heaven which has deserted me, I did not 
 think this hand could rob! 
 
 Cab. Pho, thou art mad! Remember 
 thou art in the street. 
 
 Ram. That is the word, Antonio. — I 
 robbed him — robbed him like a base 
 thief: and then I became the outcast. 
 
 Cab. And then thou becam'st a fool! 
 Thou didst but take <what was> a part 
 of thine inheritance. 
 
 Ram. <And> yet he forgave me that! 
 
 Cab. He did not hang thee, for that 
 would have brought shame on his house. 
 [Forgave thee!] He forced thee to be 
 foolish, and then discarded thee — turned 
 thee off like a sick servant — abandoned 
 thee. 
 Ram. <I think he should not have done 
 
 that. Had he forgiven me that! 
 Cab. Forgive! Nay, he forgave old Mig- 
 uel the mule-driver a debt that would 
 have kept thee in bread for a year; and 
 yet it was evident to all that Miguel 
 cheated him. But to forgive his own 
 flesh and blood is another matter. 
 Ram. He forgave Miguel because he be- 
 sought his pardon: I have not yet be- 
 sought him. Dost thou remember the 
 holy history of the prodigal ?> Per- 
 haps if I humble myself to him, he will 
 forgive me. 
 Cab. If thou art of that mind, thou may'st 
 see, o' the instant, how he will spurn 
 thee. Look, he is here, with thy sister, 
 and — Pho! thou tremblest! — 'Tis Men- 
 doza, father of thy fair Juana. 
 
 (Febro, with Leonor and Mendoza, 
 
 crosses the stage.) 
 
 Ram. He has discarded me too, and Juana 
 
 is given to another. How can I entreat 
 
 him? See, he will not look upon me! 
 
 Leox. Father, will you not speak? It is 
 
 my brother Ramon. 
 
 Feb. The carrion vulture with him. — Get 
 
 thee in. 
 
 I would I had no sons — What ? in, I say ! 
 
 {Exit Leoxor into the house.) 
 
 Seilor Mendoza, what you have said is 
 
 well: 
 I must needs own the contract was too 
 
 rash — 
 We are both agreed it shall not bind us 
 
 more. 
 I hear young Marco is a worthy man: 
 Give him your daughter and heaven bless 
 
 the match. 
 Will you enter, senor? 
 Men. I thank your favor, no. 
 
 This thing despatched, I will to other _j 
 
 business. 
 Good evening, seilor. 
 Feb. You will be happy, friend — 
 
 Take no wild hothead boy to be your son : 
 Look to his friends : If Marco have but one 
 Loves mirth more than integrity, discard 
 
 "him. 
 These gadflies are our curses — Fare you 
 well. 
 {Exeunt Mendoza and Febro, the lat- 
 ter into the house.) 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 217 
 
 Cab. Oh! o' my conscience, a loving fa- 
 ther! 
 
 Ram. He gave me no encouragement to 
 speak to him. Had he but looked upon 
 me kindly, that look would have cast me 
 
 Cab. What, at his feet? Not if he were 
 twenty times your father. <'Slid. at his 
 feet! Why> he would have spurned 
 thee. Didst thou hear? He has ab- 
 solved Mendoza from the match, — robbed 
 thee of Juana, — nay, and absolutely 
 counselled the merchant to marry her to 
 your rival. A loving and merciful fa- 
 ther! He ruins thee every way. Were 
 he mine own father, I would — 
 
 Ram. What wouldst thou do? Thou 
 wouldst not kill him? 
 
 Cab. By mine honor, no. I hold any 
 bodily harm done to one's parent alto- 
 gether inexpiable. But I would not for- 
 give him. 
 
 Ram. I will not! 
 
 Cab. Why, that was said like a man. 
 
 Ram. He forgives not me, he pardons not 
 a folly, and how shall I forgive a cru- 
 elty? For a single weakness, he pun- 
 ishes me with all degradation and mis- 
 ery; expels me from his house; looks not 
 on me in the street; leagues with those 
 who wrong me; leaves me penniless and 
 perishing; and even persuades another 
 to break faith with me, and give my be- 
 trothed to a stranger: And how shall 
 I forgive him? 
 
 Cab. Why, thou shalt not. 
 
 Ram. I will not. I am even a desperate 
 man; and so I will yield me up to the 
 wrath of desperation. Art thou my true 
 friend? 
 
 Cab. Else may I have no better hope than 
 purgatory. 
 
 Ram. We will kill the merchant of Quito. 
 
 Cab. No, the saints forbid! no murder. 
 He hath not money enough w^itli him. 
 
 Ram. Why, thou dost not think I will 
 slay him for money? 
 
 Cab. And for what else should you be so 
 bloody-minded? Thou art not mad 
 enough to cut his throat because he loves 
 thy mistress? 
 
 Ram. Thou knowest, if he live, he will 
 marry her. 
 
 Cab. Oh! she detests him, and loves you. 
 
 Ram. Yet will she wed none her father 
 mislikes; and her father likes not me. 
 
 Cab. Wherefore? Because you have lost 
 your father's favor? No. Because you 
 are called a wild fellow, and hate chap- 
 
 els? No. Because you are no longer 
 the hopefuh heir to Baptista Febro, the 
 rich broker? Ay: there lies his disgust, 
 thence comes his indignation. Now were 
 you the veriest rogue in Bogota, he 
 would love you well, so you had but 
 money. 
 
 Ram. Why do you tell me that? I know 
 he is mercenary; nothing will win his 
 heart but money, a curse on it! I would 
 I were rich for Juana's sake; but for 
 myself, I care not for gold — It has been 
 the ruin of me. 
 
 Cab. Thou speakest like an innocent 
 goose. Money, <sirrah!> 'tis the es- 
 sence of all comfort and virtue. Thou 
 carest not for gold! Give me gold, and 
 I will show thee the picture of philoso- 
 phy, the credential of excellence, the 
 corner-stone of greatness. It is wisdom 
 and reputation — the world's rehgion, 
 mankind's conscience; and what is man 
 without it? Pah! 'T is as impossible 
 honesty should dwell easily in an empty 
 pocket, as good humor in a hollow stom- 
 ach, or wit in a full one. Didst thou 
 ever see integrity revered in an old 
 coat, or un worthiness scorned in a new? 
 <Thou carest not for gold!> 'Slife, it 
 made my blood boil to hear you say 
 so. 
 
 Ram. Well, after all, as money or mur- 
 der must rid me of my rival, tell ine how 
 one can be more easily come at than the 
 other. 
 
 Cab. Why, you rogue, there is our silver 
 mine! We have been hunting it long; 
 we must needs be near the vein. 
 
 Ram. That stratagem is growing stale. I 
 sware but this morning to an old friend, 
 of whom I desired to borrow money that 
 we had discovered the tomb of Bochica 
 the Indian emperor, which was doubtless 
 as full of gold as the Inca's grave in 
 Peru; but the knave laughed at me, 
 <and said if I found no gold in it, I 
 should have plenty brass. > 
 
 Cab. The rascal! and he lent thee no 
 money ? 
 
 Ram. Not a real. 
 
 Cab. There is no gratitude among friends. 
 <Do thy good offices to strangers; and 
 courtesy will teach them the grace of 
 thankfulness. Canst thou cheat no- 
 body? 
 
 Ram. Cheat, Antonio? 
 
 Cab. Pho ! be not in a passion. All 's 
 honest that fetches money. > We must 
 have gold, or Juana is lost. 
 
218 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Ram. Ay — Set me to what roguery you 
 will, so it may regain her. 
 
 Cab. The tomb of Bochica, the Indian 
 emperor! I know not by what halluci- 
 nation it liappens, but I never hear thee 
 mention that, without thinking of the 
 vaults of thy father. 
 
 Ram. Hah! 
 
 Cab. Now, were he not thy father, couldst 
 thou not have the heart to rob him? 
 
 Ram. Rob him! 
 
 Cab. That is, as long as he oppresses thee 
 so tyrannically. Faith, I would even 
 steal mine own share. 
 
 Ram. Thou dost not seriously advise me 
 to be such a villain? 
 
 Cab. No, good faith — I? I was jesting. 
 But I will tell thee what thou shalt do. 
 Thou shalt ask him for money. 
 
 Ram. And have him spurn me again? 
 
 Cab. Tell him thou art in danger of a 
 prison. 
 
 Ram. I will go near him no more. No 
 more begging! The prison first. 
 
 Cab. <Why, we must have money. I am 
 soiTy to tell thee, some evil rogues have 
 disparaged us among the free gamesters, 
 and they will be free with us no more.> 
 Pablo the innkeeper is wrathful with 
 thee, and says he must have money for 
 thy food and lodging. 
 
 Ram. The villain! He has had my last 
 dollar. 
 
 Cab. He is not so merciful as thy father; 
 but he has harboured thee long. 
 Hearken — I will go to thy father. 
 
 Ram. Thou ! 
 
 Cab. And entreat him for thee very pit- 
 eously. 
 
 Ram. <He will fill thy pockets with 
 curses. 
 
 Cab. Why, then I will cheat him. 
 
 Ram. Cheat him? 
 
 Cab. Oh, thou dost not care?> 
 
 Ram. You may rob him, if you will: I 
 care not. 
 
 Cab. I will cheat him with good security, 
 and will fetch thee the money. <But I 
 must not give thee too much hope: he 
 will think I borrow it for thee, and will 
 refuse me. But> do thou in the mean- 
 while endeavor to speak with Juana. 
 Marco must not have her. 
 
 Ram. Not if any new dye upon my 
 soul can preserve her. <Do wliat you 
 will, or can; and if you fail, we will 
 consider another way to amend our for- 
 tunes.> 
 
 Cab. All the men of Bogota are our ene- 
 
 mies — How many of them have money 
 in thy father's hands? 
 
 Ram. Why more than I can tell thee. 
 But what has that to do with their en- 
 mity? 
 
 Cab. So much that if one were to break 
 Baptista's vaults, we should have much 
 feeding of grudges. 
 
 Ram. Say no more of this. 
 
 Cab. Look, here comes thy friend Men- 
 doza again! 
 
 Ram. Where? Nay, thou art mistaken: 
 'tis another, and a greater than Men- 
 doza, and one not more our friend. 
 Seest thou nothing beyond that muffled 
 cloak? It is the Viceroy. 
 
 Cab. The Viceroy! I warrant me, he is 
 spying over us. What does he in dis- 
 guise ? and near thy father's house ? 
 
 Ram. Perhaps I could tell thee. But let 
 us be gone. He hardens my father 
 against me. — Let him not see us. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. A room in Febro's house. 
 (Enter Febro and Leonor.) 
 
 Feb. Come hither, Leonora. What, my 
 
 girl. 
 That stranger youth I bade thee see no 
 
 more, 
 Dost thou still speak with him? 
 Leon. Alack, dear father, 
 
 I hope you are not angry. 
 <Feb. Is it so? 
 
 Comes he still near thee? 
 Leon. Oh, I am sure indeed, 
 
 I never gave him countenance.> 
 Feb. I charged thee 
 
 Give him such scorn, if still he followed" 
 
 thee. 
 As should have driven him from thee: 
 
 for, indeed. 
 These trashbrained idlers, that do fol- 
 low thee. 
 Sighing in chapel, staring in the street, 
 And strumming silly lovesongs at thy 
 
 window. 
 They are but things of naught, — base, 
 
 lazy rogues. 
 That hunt for rich men's daughters for 
 
 their prey. 
 And now they haunt thy steps the more, 
 
 because 
 The broker, weak old Febro, that must 
 
 die, 
 In natural course of age, ere many years. 
 Hath but two heirs to share his hoards^ 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 219 
 
 7 EON. Dear father, 
 
 Will you not then forgive my brother 
 Ramon? 
 
 I know he is very sorry he e'er grieved 
 you; 
 
 And on his heart your wrath must needs 
 be heavy. 
 f^EB. If thou believ'st so, then, in time, 
 beAvare 
 
 It fall not upon thine. <In sooth, I 
 think, 
 
 Thou art leagued with him to vex me. — > 
 ye saints ! 
 
 Punish these villains that seduce men's 
 sons. 
 
 Making them villains; and with ven- 
 geance follow 
 
 The knaves that teach our daughters dis- 
 obedience. 
 Leon. Dear father, none shall teach me 
 
 that. 
 Feb. They shall not, 
 
 When thou seest no more rogue Rolandos. 
 Leon. Father, 
 
 Indeed, I think, he is honest. 
 Feb. Nay, a knave! 
 
 He doth not come to me, but ever shuns 
 me. 
 
 He hath no friends; no man in Bogota 
 
 Hath made acquaintance with him: he 
 flies all 
 
 Like a scared thief, save only thee alone, 
 
 <And comes to thee like one, cloaked, 
 almost masked, 
 
 As when he followed thee from the car- 
 nival. 
 
 Now were my Ramon what in youth he 
 was. 
 
 He should be thy protector, and soon 
 drive me 
 
 This wasp away. 
 Leon. If he return again,> 
 
 I '11 bid him come no more ; — I will in- 
 deed. 
 
 Till he has talked with you, and satis- 
 fied you. 
 Feb. Why there 's my girl ! Let him but 
 come to me; 
 
 I '11 tell him that I mean thee for an- 
 other. 
 Leon. Another, father! I do not wish to 
 
 marry. 
 Feb. Thus silly maids will talk! Why, 
 thou poor finch, 
 
 A gentleman hath asked thee for his 
 wife, — 
 
 Rich, I assure thee, virtuous, honorable. 
 
 And a hidalgo. 
 Leqn, And so is Roland^ too. 
 
 Feb. Speak'st thou of Roland? Thou 
 
 wilt anger me. 
 He a hidalgo ! By my faith, I think. 
 Some heathenish villain, that with magic 
 
 arts 
 Hath wound about thy spirits. He I 
 
 meant. 
 Is Baltasar, son of Don Lucas Moron. 
 Dost thou name him and Roland in a 
 
 breath? 
 I' faith, thou stirr'st me, — 
 
 {Enter Silvano.) 
 
 What would'st thou, Silvano? 
 SiLV. A customer to your worship. 
 Feb. It is a holiday. 
 
 I will no business do today. 
 SiLV. Your favor 
 
 Must pardon me. It is his Excellency. 
 Feb. His Excellency! oh thou foolish 
 knave. 
 To leave him waiting! — 
 
 (Enter Palmera.) 
 
 Please, your noble highness, 
 Pardon my silly fellow. 
 
 Palm. Good Baptista, 
 
 Forget my state, — it is too cumbersome. 
 I am even your humble suitor and poor 
 
 friend. — 
 My pretty Leonor! Now, by my life, 
 Which like a desert river, flows away, 
 I would some green and flourishing j^lant 
 
 like thee 
 Had rooted by my current : then indeed 
 I should have seen the surges of my age 
 Dash with a sweet contented music on, 
 Nor thought their course was sterile. 
 
 Feb. _ A silly maid. 
 
 Your highness is too good. — Go, Leonora. 
 
 {Exeunt Leonora <iand Silvano.>) 
 
 < A silly maid ! and yet, or I do dream. 
 
 Loving and true. And yet — But that 's 
 
 no matter. — 
 I am at your highness' bidding.> 
 
 Palm. Sit down, Baptista. — 
 
 Oh, then, I must be viceroy and com- 
 mand you. — 
 I have much to say to thee. 
 
 Feb. I am sorry your grace 
 
 Did not command me to the palace. 
 
 Palm. No. 
 
 Perhaps I have a reason I could tell you. 
 Febro, you have my confidence, and 
 
 know, 
 What were a wonder unto other men. 
 How one can sit upon a viceroy's chair, 
 Yet heap no wealth about him. 
 
 Feb, Please your highness^ 
 
220 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Your predecessors on Granada's throne, 
 Ne'er found a lack of gain; and, sooth 
 
 to say, 
 I do remember when no mine could yield. 
 Though by a thousand Indians daily 
 
 wrought, 
 So rich a revenue as the rod of state 
 In one man's hands, were but that man 
 
 the viceroy. 
 Palm. Such was its wealth, and such may 
 
 be again, 
 To him with heart to use it. But for 
 
 myself, 
 I cannot stoop to use those under means. 
 That fill the purse of office; and I would 
 
 gnaw 
 Sooner my food from off my barren 
 
 trappings, 
 Than gild them vilely with the fruits of 
 
 fraud. 
 Sales, bribes, exactions, and monopolies, 
 The rich dishonor of prerogative. 
 <I will this kingdom leave with no man's 
 
 curse, 
 And no man's scorn; and to mine own 
 
 land bear 
 Even the poor burden that I brought 
 
 with me. 
 An honest pride and pure integrity. 
 'T is from this thought that I make use 
 
 of thee. 
 Out of that lean estate I have, to win 
 Such gain as my necessities require. 
 And such as though my state must keep 
 
 it secret, 
 I have no shame to grasp at. 
 Feb. Would indeed 
 
 This principle should come with your 
 
 successor.> 
 Palm. I have some gold^ which I would 
 
 have you place 
 Even at what profitable trade you can. 
 But not in peril; for indeed it is 
 After some worthless antique lands in 
 
 Spain, 
 The only portion I can give my son. 
 But now arrived in Bogota. 
 Feb. Your highness 
 
 Shall faithfully be served. 
 Palm. I doubt not that. 
 
 Soon as you will, some trusty messenger 
 Send to the court, and he shall bear the 
 
 gold. 
 Feb. My son shall be despatched. 
 Palm. Your son, Baptista ! 
 
 Feb. My son Francisco, — I dare assure 
 
 your highness, 
 A trusty youth, and most unequalled 
 
 son. 
 
 Palm. In sooth, I thought you meant his 
 
 elder brother. 
 Feb. Francisco, please your grace, — an 
 
 excellent boy, 
 <Mine only hope and comfort, — a duti- 
 ful son.> 
 It is a holiday, and the youths have left 
 Their prisoned warehouses, and look for 
 
 mirth 
 In the gay squares and streets, — all but 
 
 Francisco. 
 He nooks him at his desk, and still pores 
 
 o'er 
 The weary mysteries of accounts, as 
 
 though 
 Wisdom, as well as wealth, were writ 
 
 among them. 
 Palm. A commendable zeal. But tell me, 
 
 Febro, — 
 This should have been the elder brother's 
 
 office. 
 Pardon me, Febro; but beshrew my 
 
 heart, 
 I speak to thee in friendship, when I 
 
 meddle 
 In family affairs. You are too harsh : 
 Indeed it is the towntalk, your severity 
 To your discarded son. 
 Feb. It is the towntalk ! 
 
 The town will disobedience teach to chil- 
 dren, 
 Then censure fathers, who do punish 
 
 them. 
 This is the course, and justice of the 
 
 town ! 
 Palm. But still, men say, the penance you 
 
 inflict 
 Is all too heavy for his boyish follies. 
 Feb. Follies ! No doubt, they told your 
 
 excellency 
 He idled at his task, sometimes made^ 
 
 blunders. 
 Played truant oft, and sometimes laughed 
 
 at chapel — 
 Such follies! 
 Palm. No, I must needs own, for truth. 
 They were of darker color, — running 
 
 forth 
 With youths disorderly and riotous. 
 Unto the tavern and the gaming-house. 
 Feb. Riotous friends! 
 
 Drinking, and gambling! Sir, these are 
 
 such follies 
 In youth, as fraud and robbery in men; 
 And lie who clouds his dawn of life with 
 
 such 
 Shall have a fouller tempest for its close. 
 Palm. And yet these are such ills as gen- 
 tleness 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 221 
 
 Might best reprove; and, for those after 
 
 crimes, 
 Surely your son has not plunged into 
 them? 
 Feb. I do not say it! There is no man 
 dare say it. — 
 I say, my Ramon is a foolish boy. 
 Your b.ighness cannot say I e'er accused 
 
 him 
 Of aught but folly. 
 Palm. The more unwise your anger, 
 
 Which may compel him into crime. 
 
 Baptista, 
 He is the only one of your three children 
 Whose weakness vexes you. 
 Feb. I'll not say that. 
 
 Palm. What, Febro? And the paragon, 
 
 Francisco ? 
 I'eb. He never gave me pain. 
 Palm. And Leonor? 
 
 My pretty Leonor? 
 Feb. The world's best daughter! 
 
 Palm. foolish man, that art not yet 
 content, 
 W^hen heaven that crowns thee with two 
 
 perfect joys. 
 Dashes a little gall upon the third! 
 <W^ilt thou be harsher than all other 
 
 sires. 
 Because thou art happier? Oh, believe 
 
 me Febro, 
 There is no father but must much for- 
 give; 
 There is no father but must much la- 
 ment ;> 
 And I, that have but one child to mine 
 
 age, 
 And him would have an angel in my love, 
 Even see him tainted with the spots of 
 
 youth, 
 And envy thee that hast such bliss with 
 thine. 
 Feb. Sir, I have heard the young Fer- 
 nando bore him 
 Like a most just and virtuous gentleman. 
 Palm. And yet, though but few days in 
 Bogota, 
 His heart is tangled in a low intrigue, 
 A base amour. But shall I drive him 
 
 from me? 
 I will not ape thy cruelty, but bid thee 
 Follow mine own mild counsels, which 
 
 will give thee 
 Thy son again, a loving penitent. 
 Feb. Sir, I would have him feel in sharp 
 extreme 
 The bitter issues of his degradation. 
 'T is need he feel them. 
 Palm. They oppress him now: 
 
 I saw him sad and moody near thy 
 
 house, ^ 
 Humbled to earth. 
 Feb. Ay! but with Cabarero! 
 
 The villain that seduced him into folly. 
 And still cajoles him on. He has his 
 
 choice, — 
 That caitiff, or his father — He has his 
 choice ! 
 Palm. Well, well^ think better of him. 
 He loves the man. 
 Who seems to be his fast unflinching 
 
 friend. 
 Think of my counsel. 
 Feb. At your highness' feet! 
 
 Francisco shall attend you to the pal- 
 ace, — 
 What, boy! Francisco! 
 Palm. I prythee, keep thy house. 
 
 I will not have thee follow to the doors. 
 Feb. Your excellency's slave. 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. The street at Febro's door. 
 [Enter Silvano and Fernando.) 
 
 SiLV. I do wonder at your presumption, 
 seiior Rolando. 
 
 Fern. And I do wonder at thine honesty. 
 If thou wilt not for money, oh then for 
 love bear my message to the fair .Leonor. 
 
 SiLV. To peep from the window, and see 
 how prettily thou wilt kiss thy hand to 
 her! Art thou really a hidalgo? 
 
 Fern. I am really a hidalgo, a Spanish 
 hidalgo. 
 
 SiLV. And your worship does really love 
 my mistress? 
 
 Fern. My worship does most devoutly 
 adore your divine mistress. 
 
 SiLV. And if you gain her good will, you 
 will make her your worship's wife? 
 
 Fern. If I gain her good will, I will fly 
 straightway to the altar; <If not, I will 
 e'en betake me to the halter.> 
 
 SiLV. Why, if thou wert an honest gen- 
 tleman, thou would'st demand her of her 
 father. He would be glad to have a 
 hidalgo for a son. 
 
 Fern. Oh, thou art a silly fellow. I am 
 a poor hidalgo, which is naught to a rich 
 commoner. 
 
 SiLV. Senor Rolando, I like thy face in- 
 different well; but I think thou art some 
 rogue, and no noble. 
 
 Fern. If tliou wilt be as loving as I am 
 noble, hear my petition, and beseech my 
 
222 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 young divinity to look from the window. 
 
 SiLv. Who knows? AVhy, seiior Febro is 
 within. 
 
 Fern. How sliall he hear the silver voice 
 of his daughter, wlien his ears are filled 
 with the golden jingle of his coffers'? 
 
 SiLV. Well, stay a moment till his ex- 
 cellency goes. 
 
 Fern. His excellency! What excellency? 
 
 SiLV. W^hy, his excellency the Viceroy. 
 <He is a great friend of my master.> 
 
 Fern. Oh! fire and furies! the Viceroy! 
 Now, I remember me, I have to meet a 
 friend in the great square. 
 
 SiLV. Stay, senor Hidalgo, here comes his 
 excellency. Seiior, you are a rogue! 
 God be with you! {Exit Fernando.) 
 Well, thou art a mysterious, good-for- 
 notliing, agreeable rascal, I v/arrant me; 
 and someliow, I begin to love thee. But 
 thou hast a wholesome dread of great 
 men. 
 
 (Enter, from house, Palmera, Febro, 
 and Francisco. Leonor appears at 
 the door.) 
 
 Feb. Heaven keep your excellence a thou- 
 sand years! 
 
 Thou hast thy charge, Francisco. — 
 Heaven save your highnesS ! 
 {Exeunt Palmera and Francisco.) 
 
 Silvano, hast thou heard more things of 
 Ramon? 
 SiLV. Please your worship, I heard he was 
 
 last night at Mateo's gambling house. 
 Feb. The wretched boy! 
 SiLV. And, please your worship, he hurt 
 
 one with his dagger for calling him a 
 
 cheat. 
 Feb. a cheat ! Would he had never been 
 
 born! 
 SiLV. But then, it was a slander; or how 
 
 should he have stabbed a man for telling 
 
 the truth? 
 Feb. Ay, slander, Silvano ! He could not 
 
 cheat. 
 SiLV. <And the gambler's boy that told 
 
 me, he is a most notorious liar. 
 Feb. I cannot but believe it was a lie.> 
 SiLV. And then, if he had clieated, he 
 
 should have had money; whereas, they 
 
 say, he is in great poverty; and Pablo 
 
 the innkeeper threatens to put him in 
 
 prison. 
 Feb. In prison! I have been too harsh. 
 Stlv. <But that, I tliink, is only to make 
 
 your worship pay his debts; for Pablo is 
 
 reckoned to be a rascal. 
 
 Feb. Will Ramon agree to this roguery? 
 
 I will not pay a real.> 
 SiLV. Please your worship, I have heard 
 
 no more of his doings. 
 Feb. Well, I did love him well,— but 
 
 that 's no matter. 
 My Rachel loved him too, as her first 
 
 born; 
 And, for a boy, he was the lovingest one 
 Mine eyes ere looked upon. <Get in, 
 
 Leonora. 
 Why wilt thou stand at doors, to be gazed 
 
 on 
 By these young bawbling wantons of the 
 
 town? 
 They '11 smirk at thee, and wink, and kiss 
 
 their hands : 
 I know them very well, — such gewgaw 
 
 brains^ 
 And hearts of rotten stone, and trash and 
 
 lies — 
 Wilt thou not hear me? What? {Exit 
 
 Leonora.) By all the saints, 
 She is the very apple of mine eye. 
 She does not love this fellow : — the whim 
 
 of girls, 
 To have well-favored youths a-wooing 
 
 them. — > 
 I know that rogue — is it not Cabarero ? 
 Oh, the base villain! had he been but 
 
 hanged 
 Six years agone, or ere he looked upon 
 My foolish boy ! — Well, will he speak 
 
 with me? 
 
 {Enter Cabarero.) 
 
 Come, let us in. 
 Cab. Hola, you money- vender ! 
 
 You reverend old blood-grater of the 
 poor! 
 
 Tarry, I '11 speak with you. 
 Feb. Now all the saints 
 
 Give me a little patience. 
 Cab. Come, how stand 
 
 Your vaults and money bags? Still fill- 
 ing, filling. 
 
 Like the horseleech's paunch, and crying 
 "More!"? 
 
 I '11 be thy customer. What rate today? 
 
 Not cent per cent, with tenth of gross for 
 premium ? 
 
 Be reasonable, and I '11 deal with thee. 
 
 These are hard times, faith. 
 Feb. I will not be angry, 
 
 Why should I with a rascal? Seiior, 
 base fellow, 
 
 You may go hang or drown — I '11 give 
 you naught. 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 223 
 
 Cab. No, by mine honor^ no, you will not 
 give me, 
 Else should the devil grow weary of the 
 
 earth. 
 And leave 't to angels. Give me indeed ! 
 
 When pesos 
 Change to perditions, ducats to damna- 
 tion, 
 Then will I look for gifts. But how now, 
 
 senor 'I 
 'Slid, I believe you are angry ! — What 's 
 
 the news? 
 How fares my Httle soul, fair Leonor? 
 Upon my faith, she's an exceeding girl: 
 What portion will you give her? Some- 
 times I 
 Do think of marriage; and hidalgo blood 
 Has often stooped to gutters. 
 Feb. Which is to say, 
 
 Your honor might be bribed to marry 
 her? 
 Cab. Noble 's a noble dower ; and so I say, 
 
 Verily so, if well thou portion'st her. 
 Feb. Then shalt thou hear it — When she 
 weds a man 
 Like thee, her portion shall be cords and 
 
 ratsbane. 
 Curses and misery! Oh, thou bold bad 
 
 man. 
 How canst thou look me in the face, nor 
 
 think 
 Of ruin'd Ramon? 
 Cab. I do think of him, 
 
 And wonder at the rage that ruins him. 
 Feb. Sirrah ! 
 
 Cab. Why, how you fume? I 
 
 come to you 
 To borrow money — good faith, a thou- 
 sand ducats — 
 At highest rates of interest, with surety 
 Of good sufficient names, to be repaid 
 Out of my new discovered silver mine. — 
 I say, good names. 
 Feb. Were they angelical. 
 
 Thou shouldst not have a doit to hang 
 thyself. 
 Cab. Harkee, old sir — I meant a part 
 thereof 
 To feed thy starving Ramon. 
 Feb. Knave, thou liest! 
 
 It is to tempt him on to further shame. 
 To deeper ruin ! 
 Cab. Thou art angry^ — I forgive thee. 
 
 But know, unless thou send'st him money 
 
 straight. 
 He will be lodged in prison. Ope thy 
 
 heart ; 
 Send him some gold. 
 Feb. Art thou his friend? 
 
 Cab. His best. 
 
 Feb. <Thou^ lovest my Ramon — ay, and 
 thou lovest gold:> 
 I '11 teach thee how to serve him as a 
 
 friend. 
 And how to win thee money. 
 Cab. Speak that how. 
 
 Feb. Leave Bogota forever; swear me 
 that: 
 Get thee from hence to Spain ; and I will 
 
 give thee 
 A thousand ducats. 
 Cab. Faitli, now you speak in jest! 
 
 Feb. I say, I '11 give them to thee, nay, 
 and more. 
 Swear me but that, and keep thine oath. 
 Cab. a thousand? 
 
 A thousand ducats to leave Bogota? 
 No, not for five ! 
 Feb. Wilt thou not go for five ? 
 
 Cab. Art thou in earnest? 
 Feb. So may the saints befriend me; 
 
 Get thee to Spain; leave Ramon unto 
 
 me, 
 And thou shalt have five thousand duc- 
 ats. 
 Cab. 'Slid! 
 
 I take thy offer. Give me the gold. 
 Feb. Soft, soft: 
 
 I '11 have thine oath before a notary ; 
 Find thee conveyance unto Carthegena; 
 Pay thee a portion when tiiou art em- 
 barked, 
 And count the rest, in yearly sums, to 
 
 thee, 
 Only in Spain. 
 Cab. Five thousand on the nail. 
 
 Paid here in Bogota ; to which e'en add 
 A thousand yearly to be paid in Spain, 
 During my term of life. 
 Feb. grasping villain! 
 
 Thou wouldst have all, and yet wilt go 
 
 with none. 
 If thou wilt more, there 's money in my 
 
 vaults ; 
 Break them, and rob me ! 
 Cab. Oh ! dost thou invite me ? 
 
 Feb. Rob me, thou knave, that I may 
 have thy life ! 
 Do me that crime, and hang ! 
 Cab. Most antique churl. 
 
 Thou shalt be sorry for this fantasy. 
 Thou hast no gold for Ramon? 
 Feb. Hence, begone! 
 
 And a deep curse go with thee, a father's 
 
 curse ! 
 Got thee to fraud and crime, to theft and 
 
 murder. 
 Become notorious to thyself, and sleep. 
 
224 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Dreaming of gibbets, to wake up to 
 
 racks ; 
 Rob other sires of other sons; bring wo 
 On other houses; till the general curse 
 Heaped like a mountain o'er thy head, 
 
 reach heaven, 
 And wall thee in its fiery hell forever! 
 Hence, monster, hence! (Exeunt.) 
 
 END OF ACT ONE. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. A street near Mendoza's house. 
 
 (Enter Ramon and Pablo.) 
 
 Pab. I am a poor man, seilor Ramon: I 
 must have money. 
 
 Ram. Wert thou as penniless as a beg- 
 gar, still couldst thou have nothing of 
 me; for I am poorer. 
 
 Pab. Thy father is the richest man in 
 Bogota. He should pay for thy food. 
 
 Ram. Get thee to him, and tell him so. 
 Look, thou insatiate rogue, I have signed 
 and countersigned all thy villainous ob- 
 ligations; I have owned me here thy 
 debtor, and confessed thou canst justly 
 hale me to prison. <What more can I 
 do? If thou canst use these to any hon- 
 est purposes, or dishonest either, I care 
 not. Get thee to my father. If he will 
 give thee money, I am content; if not, 
 't is but a word to the alguazil, and thou 
 shalt have so much satisfaction as my 
 incarcerated misery can give thee.> 
 
 Pab. Thou knowest I should be loath to 
 be so unfriendly. 
 
 Ram. I know, thou art as much a cor- 
 morant as the rest <and as rapacious for 
 my lean and impoverished body as ever 
 thou wert in my days of fatness.> Get 
 thee away : I have one honest friend left, 
 whom I would not willingly have to see 
 me in thy company. 
 
 Pab. Why, I hope thou art not ashamed 
 of me? 
 
 Ram. No, I am now ashamed of nothing. 
 The grace in me that would have once 
 blushed at unworthiness, is gone; and I 
 have nothing left for contempt but my- 
 self — myself. Go, get money, if thou 
 canst; it is thy only hope; thy stay will 
 only rob me of my last. Go, I prythee. 
 
 Pab. Well, God be with you. If I can 
 cheat your father, you shall have some 
 of the gain. (Exit.) 
 
 Ram. Thus doth severity still goad me on 
 Into a hateful villainy; and chains me 
 <Whate'er my sighs for better liberty> 
 To fellowship with rogues more vile than 
 
 I. 
 Thou drivest me, father, to this noose of 
 
 shame ; 
 And wilt not bate thy wTath, till I am 
 
 dead. — 
 
 (Enter Juana.) 
 I looked for thee, Juana ! for I knew 
 Though all else had deserted me, thou 
 
 couldst not. 
 Juan. Ramon, I have few words to speak 
 
 to thee; 
 And even with these, I lay upon my soul 
 The sin of disobedience. 
 Ram. Ay, indeed! 
 
 You will obey your sire ! 
 Juan. What else should I ? 
 
 I am his only child; in whom, in sooth, 
 
 Heaven would not pardon an unfilial act. 
 
 Ram. Speak boldly; leave me, like the 
 
 rest, and fear not; 
 Say, Marco is a rich and honored man. 
 And Ramon lost to wealth and reputa- 
 tion : 
 There 's none but will commend thee. 
 Juan. Say not that: 
 
 Thou know'st, I never loved thee for thy 
 
 wealth ; 
 For, sooth, I liked thee best when that 
 
 was gone; 
 With thy hard father's heart: and, for 
 
 thy name. 
 These evil tales destruction speaks of 
 
 thee. 
 But spur me on to be thy advocate. 
 I never gave them faith. — 
 Ram. Lies ! that are ever 
 
 Writ, by contempt, upon the poor man's 
 
 brow, 
 But puffed, by flattery, from all jewelled 
 
 fronts. 
 But yesterday men found the rich man's 
 
 son 
 Worthy and honorable, without stain; 
 Today they find the fallen outcast's face 
 Charged with the sinful leprosy of 
 
 years — 
 An hour for transformation ! 
 Juan. They will find thee 
 
 Stainless again, when thou art fortu- 
 nate. 
 Hark to me, Ramon : there are not many 
 
 days. 
 Ere I am lost to thee. Unless thou find 
 Before they pass, some happy road to 
 
 wealth, 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 225 
 
 Fortune will come too late to purchase 
 
 me. 
 Get gold, and win my father's heart 
 
 again 
 Ere he do marry me to Marco. 
 Ram. Heaven 
 
 Smite his false, churlish heart ! 
 Juan. Curse not my father: 
 
 Do that which shall appease him. 
 Ram. Marry thee? 
 
 He had not thought it without thine own 
 consent ! 
 Juan. How thou dost wound me, Ramon! 
 
 bright saints, 
 
 It was but now, as, at my lattice sitting, 
 I looked down on the gardens of our 
 
 sires, 
 Which, in their days of friendship, our 
 
 blest childhood. 
 Did make one common paradise. — I 
 
 thought 
 Even of the thousand hours there, hand 
 
 in hand, 
 AVe had roamed among the blossoms. 
 
 All this time 
 My father was beseeching me for Marco. 
 I saw no Marco, at the lemon-tree; 
 It was not Marco, from the chirimoya. 
 Had stolen the fragrant buds to crown 
 
 me with; 
 It was not he had caught the humming 
 
 bird, 
 To keep him radiant in my memory ; 
 I saw naught there but Ramon, and my 
 
 heart 
 Even while I wept, was hardened to my 
 
 father; 
 And with that sin, and with those tears, 
 
 1 won 
 
 A last grace for thee — still a week of 
 
 trial; 
 A week wherein if fortune smile upon 
 
 thee 
 The rites with Marco shall not be en- 
 forced. 
 Ram. And how shall fortune smile again? 
 Juan. <I '11 teach thee : 
 
 Give o'er all thought of mines; they will 
 
 delude thee 
 On to a golden madness, but no wealth. 
 Ram. What else remains ?> 
 Juan. Thy father, 
 
 <Ramon, thy father.> 
 Ram. My tyrant! my destroyer! 
 Juan. Speak not thus, — 
 
 Though harsh and most unjust, thy 
 father, Ramon ! 
 Ram. Wed Marco ! Now by heaven, not 
 even for thee 
 
 Will I be spurned again. 
 Juan. - Ramon, not spurned. 
 
 Ram. Thou dost not know what wrong my 
 
 sire has done me. 
 This wreck thou seest of what I was, 
 
 this shred 
 Of my rent happiness, this squalid relic 
 Of a once fair and ample reputation, 
 This misery of heart and character — 
 'T is what my father makes me ! No, 
 
 thou knowst not 
 The depth of wrong he has done me. 
 Juan. Still remember 
 
 Y/hat e'er thy suffering, that his wrath, 
 
 first springing 
 From the base slanders of thine enemies, 
 Tliine own rough pride still kindles. 
 
 Nay, my Ramon — 
 I know his nature; and, though much 
 
 incensed. 
 His heart is yearning to forgive thee, 
 Ram. Ay! 
 
 I have found it so ! 
 Juan. Thou didst not personally 
 
 Sue to him. Go thyself, go — send no 
 
 more 
 Thy friend to him. I like not Cabarero ; 
 I fear he is not the true friend you be- 
 lieve him. 
 Go to him, Ramon, and beseech his par- 
 don. 
 Think, if thou gain'st him, thou gain'st 
 
 me. t 
 
 Ram. Well, well — 
 
 This day already did I go before him. 
 He frowned and passed me by; and, as 
 
 to mad me 
 With the extreme of most vindictive 
 
 wrath. 
 Did while I stood hard by, advise thy 
 
 father 
 To marry thee to Marco. 
 Juan. <Then heaven help me, 
 
 There is no hope! 
 Ram. Perhaps I '11 find a mine.> 
 
 Juan. Alas, once more, once more beseech 
 
 him, Ramon. 
 Seek him alone, humble thyself before 
 
 him. 
 I will beseech him too. It cannot be, 
 He has learned to hate thee. I will aid 
 
 thy suit. 
 Once more, once more, or I am lost for- 
 ever. 
 Ram. Well, well, I'll think of it.— But 
 
 wed not Marco. 
 Juan. Not till the week be o'er; but after 
 
 that 
 I have sworn to do my father's bidding. 
 
226 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 'T was by that oath, I gained this week 
 for thee. 
 
 (Enter Mendoza.) 
 
 Alack, I am torn from thee ! 
 Men. What, silly girl! 
 
 Get thee to house. Thou wilt not win 
 
 this pupi^et 
 By wooing her i' the street. One last 
 
 word, Seiior, 
 A week hence is my daughter's wedding 
 
 day. 
 
 (Exit Mendoza, witli Juana.) 
 Ram. If I do go to him, he will not hear 
 
 me — 
 A week? — Nay, though with tears I 
 
 should conjure him 
 Ere he have brought a smile upon his 
 
 face, 
 New words of new misdeeds will turn 
 
 its light 
 Into a fiercer flame: he must needs find 
 Fresh stains of degradation — I will not 
 
 ^ go. 
 If he have thought to pardon me at all, 
 I '11 know't by Cabarero. 
 
 (Enter Cabaeero.) 
 
 Ram. What, Antonio? 
 
 What said my father? 
 
 Cab. Your father? Humph!— Is Febro 
 your father? I think we have all along 
 made a mistake. Wliat said he? I am 
 afraid it will not comfort thee to hear. 
 We will not talk it in the street; thou 
 wilt rehsh it better over a cup of wine. 
 
 Ram. He has rejected my suit? 
 
 Cab. Wilt thou hear how? Let us begone 
 to Pablo's ; for, I swear to thee, rage and 
 despair are making me very thirsty. 
 
 Ram. He will give me no relief ? 
 
 Cab. W^ilt thou search my pockets? I 
 offered him good security. It is true, the 
 names were not so honestly written; but 
 he asked not to see them. — Not a penny, 
 not a penny; not even to save thee from 
 perdition. — Pho, how thou sighest! 
 Come, shall we go to drink? Humph! 
 — if thou knewest how foolish 'tis to be 
 melancholy. — Now have I been thinking, 
 a quarter of a minute, how much tliy 
 silly face looks like an epitaph — a mor- 
 sel of silent lamentation over thy dead 
 and buried hopes. Well, thou art con- 
 tent to give up Juana? 
 
 Ram. Because Febro, the broker, loves me 
 not! — I will call him father no more. — 
 He would neither lend to you, wlio could 
 give him the securities of law; nor to 
 
 me, who have some of the claims of 
 nature ? 
 
 Cab. Not a penny. 'Sfuries, had you but 
 seen how he reviled me like a dog ! And 
 the more I begged him in thy name, the 
 more ^^athfully did he abuse me. Lend 
 thee money? said he; I will lend thee the 
 pangs of purgatory: Lend thee money! 
 I will lend thee the whipping post. 
 Thou knowst he was thy father, other- 
 wise I had pulled him by the beard. 
 Send me then comfort to thy afflicted and 
 perishing son, quoth I, with a moderate 
 supplicatory air. / luill see him jailed, 
 doomed and hanged first, said he. 
 
 Ram. He did not say this? 
 
 Cab. Oh, not in such brief measures, to be 
 sure: but that was the end of a ten min- 
 utes' malediction. 
 
 Ram. <Why then good luck to him and 
 no more begging. Whose throat shall 
 we cut? Money must be had. 
 
 Cab. Thy father has most shamefully 
 treated thee, that 's certain.> 
 
 Ram. I will forget it when he has driven 
 me to the grave, not sooner. Money 
 must be had — and within a week. Men 
 have been guilty of parricide. <Money, 
 money ! Have you no money ? 
 
 Cab. Here is a handful [of] shabby pista- 
 reens, if thou art famishing. Let us go 
 and drink a toast to Marco's fair wife.> 
 
 Ram. Shall we hang, drown, rob, or com- 
 mit murder? I will now do any villainy 
 thou canst recommend me. 
 
 Cab. Most unnaturally wronged, and un- 
 naturally abandoned. This should ex- 
 cuse any vengeance. Thou must do thy- 
 self right. And thy milkfaced brother 
 shall have thine inheritance ! Thou must 
 right thyself — 
 
 Ram. Before the week end; or I am in 
 prison, and Juana married. 
 
 Cab. I could teach thee a way. Come let 
 us begone. 'Sblood! are there no scav- 
 engers? — What have we here? By the 
 mass, a key! Now might this belong to 
 a rich man's door, and — 
 
 Ram. Hah! 
 
 Cab. Why what is the matter with thee? 
 Is it gold? a basilisk? 
 
 Ram. The lost key of my father's vault! 
 
 Cab. Ho, have the saints forgot thee? 
 Whj^, here is vengeance! wealth! Juana! 
 — It is not thy father's key? 
 
 Ram. I have handled it a thousand times ! 
 'T was lost a month ago. 
 
 Cab. Ha, ha ! tliy father bade me rob him ! 
 Give me the key. Look — thou art poor, 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 227 
 
 miserable; this will make thee happy. 
 Did destiny put it under thy foot for 
 nothing ? — Hark 'ee — this is the true 
 mine ! Come, Juana is waiting for thee ! 
 A little wine will put thee out of this 
 stare, — and this will help thee to thine 
 inheritance. (Exeunt.) 
 
 <ScENE 2. The street before Febro's 
 door. 
 
 {Enter Leonor and Fernando.) 
 
 Fern. Trust me, sweet Leonor, I have 
 good cause 
 To hide me from thy father. 
 Leon. It is no cause 
 
 Of a good man, that makes him shun the 
 good. 
 Fern. The best, that have infirmities, are 
 worst 
 Under their proper passions; and the 
 
 foible. 
 Which, in thy sire, to other men, seems 
 
 harmless, 
 May make him, in mine eyes, detestable. 
 Leon. What is 't that makes you say so ^ 
 If indeed. 
 As I will not believe, thou lovest me, 
 My sire should seem an angel in thine 
 eyes. 
 Fern. And so he should, did I not know, 
 in his, 
 My own poor image would be devilish. 
 Leon. Well, I care not. You will be 
 sorry soon, 
 When I am wedded to another. 
 Fern. Wedded ! 
 
 You do but tell me this to mock my heart. 
 Then laugh me out of sorrow. 
 Leon. No indeed: 
 
 'T was but this morning that my father 
 
 said, 
 I should be married to Don Baltasar. 
 And I do think, because you will not do 
 As love would still have taught you, for 
 
 my sake. 
 It will be best to marry Baltasar. 
 Fern. To marry Baltasar! You cannot 
 think 
 To be so false. What, wed? and Balta- 
 sar? 
 Leon. He asks my father for me. 
 Fern. So would I ; 
 
 But that I know, the answer to my 
 
 prayer 
 Would be, the curse to look on thee no 
 more. 
 Leon. Not if thou beest an honest gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Fern. Honest I know not, for this love 
 might ^eem 
 
 To my stern father, subtle and deceitful; 
 
 But so far honest, I would rather give 
 
 These limbs up, to be torn by wild horses. 
 
 Than ever do thee wrong. Sweet Le- 
 onor, 
 
 Know, if I seek thy sire, he will demand 
 me 
 
 My father's name; whereat I needs must 
 speak 
 
 Such hateful syllables, as will turn his 
 heart 
 
 As by a fiendish magic, into coals; 
 
 And if he do not kill me (as, indeed 
 
 The sudden pang of rage may urge him 
 to) 
 
 At least, he '11 drive me from thy face 
 forever. 
 
 I am the son of his worst enemy. 
 Leon. Alas, he has no enemies. I ne'er 
 heard him 
 
 Speak of an enemy. 
 Fern. The fiercest rage 
 
 Hides, like the wolf, from daylight; the 
 rough vulture 
 
 Asleep upon his perch, doth seem as 
 harmless 
 
 As the poor innocent dove that 's nested 
 by. 
 
 And Febro, brooding o'er a secret hate, 
 
 Maj^ veil his anger with a face of peace. 
 
 Why should he speak of enemies to thee ? 
 Leon. Art thou indeed his enemy? 
 Fern. No, not I. 
 
 I did forget the rage my father taught me 
 
 Soon as I looked on thee. — Wed Balta- 
 sar? 
 
 Leon. I will not marry Baltasar. 
 Fern. But lo, 
 
 Thy sire will have thee forced. 
 Leon. ^ What shall I do ? 
 
 Some maids would be so silly, they would 
 
 fly 
 
 If much persuaded. 
 Fern. If thou look'st upon me 
 
 Howe'er my fearful thoughts may start 
 at folly 
 
 I will persuade thee. 
 Leon. Not unless he force me! 
 
 He '11 ne'er forgive me. 
 Fern. thou simple sweet, 
 
 If thy sire foam, mine o^ti will anger 
 more. 
 
 But we '11 forget them. 
 Leon. Come to me again, 
 
 And then perhaps I will — And if I do. 
 
 My father will be so lonely. But then 
 indeed 
 
228 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 He will forgive my brother: and, with 
 
 my brother, 
 He will be happy! yes, indeed, more 
 
 happy 
 Than with poor me. 
 Fern. ^ Thou dost persuade thyself; 
 
 And, in thy arguments, I am resolved. 
 We will fly. 
 Leox. Not till he force me ! 
 Fern. Shall I wait? 
 
 Till thou art married? Get thyself pre- 
 pared : 
 And see thou have not store of bags and 
 
 boxes, 
 As will overload a caravan of mules — 
 Tonight I '11 come for thee. 
 Leon. No, not so soon. 
 
 Get thee away. There comes my brother 
 
 Francisco ! — 
 But come to me again, — yes, come again ! 
 ^ (Exeunt.) > 
 
 < Scene 3. A room in Febro's house. 
 (Enter Febro and Silvano, with books.) 
 
 Feb. That money lent to Tomas Cata- 
 lan, — 
 
 Four thousand marks, — is it not due to- 
 day? 
 
 I' faith, 't was yesterday. Where is 
 Francisco ? 
 
 Doth he so slur my books? Why this 
 way was 
 
 With Ramon, when he 'gan to change 
 and fall, — 
 
 Four thousand marks — Threatened with 
 prison too ! — 
 
 A good, safe man. — His mother ne'er 
 dreamed this, — 
 
 Threatened with prison — penniless — for- 
 sook. 
 
 Why then perhaps the penance is too 
 sore; 
 
 His excellency says it is too heavy: 
 
 He is a good man^ and a wise man too. 
 
 And it may be, if I deny him more, 
 
 Necessity may force him to such guilt. 
 
 As will his ancient follies make seem vir- 
 tues. 
 
 Poverty has an angel's voice, to plead 
 
 Excuse of sin. — The town doth talk of 
 me, 
 
 They call me overharsh; and Cabarero 
 
 Says, it is I myself that ruin him. 
 
 He '11 lose his bride too. Think'st thou 
 not, Silvano, 
 
 I might to Pablo's go, and no man see 
 me? 
 SiLV. To Pablo's, senor? 
 
 Feb. No, let him come to me. I will do 
 
 naught to make men stare at me. 
 SiLv. The saints forbid!— I think he has 
 not his mind. 
 Rob him! and go to Pablo's! or have 
 
 Pablo, 
 That low, base, scurvy rascal, come to 
 him I 
 Feb. Say he be jailed, the lesson then is 
 ended ; 
 The foul familiar parts from him; and 
 
 he 
 Repents him in his bonds. But that dis- 
 grace 
 May break his heart : I have known men 
 
 die of shame. 
 For that, to lofty spirits, is such an air 
 As kills the lusty miner in the rift; 
 A breath is fatal. 
 SiLV. Talk you of killing, master? 
 
 Feb. foolish fellow, why dost thou stare 
 at me? 
 Methinks Francisco tarries overlong. 
 SiLV. He comes, sir. 
 
 (Enter Francisco, hearing gold.) 
 
 Feb. Get thee hence — look to the door. 
 Thy duty. (Exit Silvano.) 
 
 Fran. Father, I have brought the gold: 
 An excellent sum too. Shall I to the 
 vaults? 
 Feb. Look, boy, where are thy wits? I 
 find me here 
 Four thousand marks that yesterday were 
 
 due. 
 And not yet rendered. 
 Fran. From Tomas Catalan? 
 
 Father, I saw him yesterday indeed, 
 And he desired me fetch it home today. 
 Feb. Why that was well. But wherefore 
 spoke you not? 
 Will you do all and with no word from 
 me? 
 Fran. Father, I told you, and you did 
 
 consent. 
 Feb. Did I so, boy? Ay, now I recollect 
 me, — 
 This plague o' the heart doth dull the 
 
 wit. 'T was well. 
 And Joseph Lucas^ have you heard of 
 
 him? 
 Is 't true his mine is flooded ? 
 Fran. Deluged, father. 
 
 Utterly lost. 
 Feb. And he hath nothing left 
 
 To pay me back that mine (I think I am 
 
 mad 
 To lend such sum to any mortal man) 
 That mine of pesos I did lend to him? 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 Fran. No, nothing, father; he is wholly 
 
 ruined. 
 Feb. I shall be ruined too ! Why 't was a 
 fortune 
 For any man, a rich and princely for- 
 tune : 
 I slaved out years to win it. I shall be 
 
 ruined. 
 
 I may live to see you brought to want. 
 
 Fkan. "^ No, father. 
 
 Lose twice as much, enough remains for 
 
 us. 
 
 Feb. You will have enough with Ramon's 
 
 portion ! 
 Fran. Father, 
 
 Forgive my brother, give my portion to 
 
 him. — 
 1 will live happy in a monastery. 
 To know he is content and you with 
 him. 
 Feb. Thou art my loving boy! — Get thee 
 to Catalan; 
 Bring me that money; and when thou 
 
 hast marked it, 
 And also that his excellency gave thee, 
 Store me both in the vault. 
 Fran. Shall I not have 
 
 The masons to wall up the garden door*? 
 The match-key, father, of the outer 
 
 door, — 
 Some rogue may find it. 
 Feb. It is about the house; 
 
 I did myself mislay it ; and I will find it, 
 Soon as these troubles vex my mind no 
 
 more. 
 But ne'ertheless, we '11 wall the door to- 
 morrow. 
 Get thee away; be swift; and after that 
 Make haste to mark the coin and store it 
 safely. 
 Fran. Father? 
 
 Feb. What wilt thou? 
 
 Fran. Father, when I am come 
 
 To Catalan's door, I shall be nigh to 
 Pablo's. 
 Feb. Ay ! 
 Fran. If I might but speak then with my 
 
 brother — 
 Feb. Get thee to Catalan; speak to none 
 but Catalan; 
 And think of none but Catalan. Or in- 
 deed. 
 If thou must think of Ramon, let thy 
 
 dreams 
 Bring thee instruction, and inform thy 
 
 heart 
 What is the end of disobedience — sor- 
 row, 
 Abasement, shame, neglect, abandonment. 
 
 Think of thy brother, but be far from 
 him.> {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 4. The street before Febro's house. 
 (Enter Mendoza and SiLVAro.) 
 
 Men. It is very strange. 
 
 SiLV. He grieves, sir, much for his son; 
 and I think that sorrow is e'en setting 
 him crazy. 
 
 Men. He talked with that debauched fel- 
 low, Cabarero? 
 
 SiLV. Ay, sefior ; with the decayed and dis- 
 reputable hidalgo, Cabarero — about 
 Spain, and Carthagena, and a ship, and 
 five thousand ducats. Seilor, would a 
 wise man invite another to rob him? 
 
 Men. To rob him? 
 
 SiLV. Pie said, there was money in his 
 vaults. He might have told him, he 
 could break in from the garden, and the 
 cellar. To be sure he said he would 
 hang him, when it should come to be dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Men. I have seen in him no sign of do- 
 tage, nor of madness; but this savors of 
 both. 
 
 SiLV. And what should make him think of 
 Pablo? He asked me, might he not go 
 to Pablo, and no one see him ! 
 
 Men. This is still as strange; for Pablo 
 is notoriously suspected to be a rogue. 
 
 SiLV. He talked of killing too ; <and with 
 poisons as deadly as the foul air of a 
 mine.> Now had he thought of killing 
 Pablo, I should not esteem him so mad; 
 but to think of going to Pablo ! That is 
 most lunatic-like. 
 
 Men. He shall not need that; for, see, 
 here comes the knave Pablo to him. 
 
 (Enter Pablo.) 
 
 Pab. God save your worship, Senor Men- 
 doza. Good e'en, honest Silvano. Is 
 
 your master at home? 
 SiLV. Why if he be at home, what is that 
 
 to you? 
 Pab. So much that I must even beg of 
 
 your friendship to be admitted to speak 
 
 with him. 
 SiLV. <To be dinged over the head with 
 
 an old ledger, or a bundle of ingots? 
 
 Why thou graceless, besotted vagabond! 
 
 what puts it into thy mind to think he 
 
 would lend thee anything? 
 Pab. Why if I have good security, why 
 
 not? I am as honest a man as another, 
 
230 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 I care not who knows it. I have busi- 
 ness with Senor Febro, your master; and 
 you were best tell him so, for it concerns 
 him to know. 
 
 Men. If thou wert not beyond the belief 
 of an honest man, thy impudence would 
 utterly ruin the fame of an honest man,> 
 How canst thou have the folly to think 
 that Febro will speak with thee? 
 Pr'ythee g'et thee gone, ere he come out 
 and do thee some violence. 
 
 Pab. Who knows? I am here on mine 
 own business ; and I will have the law of 
 any one that hinders me. 
 
 SiLV. If thou wilt have the law, it must 
 come to thee in shape of a halter. Go, 
 you rogue, get you gone. — Law! were 
 there any law in Bogota, thou shouldst 
 have been the first chapter of its execu- 
 tion. 
 
 Pab. I will not go till I see Seiior Febro ; 
 and if you cease not reviling me, you 
 rascal crumb-eater! you door-hinge! you 
 cloak-thumper ! you hook for an old hat ! 
 I '11 beat your bones into brickdust. 
 You rascal ! You will have me in a pas- 
 sion? You will deny me to see your 
 master? You will call me scurvy 
 names ? — 
 
 Men. Out, sirrah! will you brawl before 
 Febro's door? See, your insolence has 
 drawn him forth, and now you will an- 
 swer it. 
 
 (Enter Febro.) 
 
 SiLV. Ay, now look, you rascal; now you 
 will be talked to. 
 
 Pab. Good, your worship, Seiior Febro! 
 I have ^ message from your son. 
 
 Feb. From Ramon? 
 
 Pab. From Ramon, seiior; and this noisy, 
 idle, lick-mouthed platter-monger — 
 
 SiLV. Please, your worship, I said you 
 would speak with no such base fellow. 
 
 Feb. You were overf orward, sirrah ! 
 
 Men. What, Febro ! it is not creditable to 
 notice such a man. 
 
 Feb. Good friend, you shall pardon me — 
 I will be mine own adviser. Senor Men- 
 doza, you are welcome. If you fear the 
 taint of his presence, you can walk by. 
 
 Men. {Apart to Silvano.) We will ob- 
 serve tliis interview from a distance. 
 
 {Exit, with Silvano.) 
 
 Feb. Now, sirrah, what message sends 
 Ramon by such a messenger? 
 
 Pab. I hope your favor will pardon me — 
 
 I have h?irbored the young m\ox long, 
 
 Feb. Speak the message, and no more. 
 He sends thee to me for money? 
 
 Pab. Hoping your excellent mercy will 
 pity his misery, which is greater than he 
 can bear, and my poverty, which en- 
 forces me to pray your goodness for 
 some relief. 
 
 Feb. Why, what care I for thy poverty? 
 
 Pab. My friendship for the young man 
 has brought me into great necessity; and 
 here he acknowledges, unless I am paid, 
 I may justly throw him into prison. 
 But I hope your worship will not compel 
 me. 
 
 Feb. <A thousand ducats! Thou art a 
 lying knave: where got'st thou a thou- 
 sand ducats to lend him ? 
 
 Pab. 0, there is much of that that was 
 the cost of his food and lodging; and 
 then for the rest, I borrowed ii, to help 
 him open his mine. But 'twas opened' 
 without profit, the money was swallowed, 
 my creditor is enraged ; and now the end 
 is this — I must send Seiior Ramon to 
 prison, or go myself which he here con- 
 fesses, and prays your bounty to protect 
 us both. 
 
 Feb. And hast thou the impudence to 
 suppose I will give thee a penny to save 
 thee from this fate? 
 
 Pab. No, seiior, but I think you will do 
 this much to save Ramon — whereby I 
 shall be saved myself.> 
 
 Feb. Do as thou wilt; thou shalt have no 
 money. Put him in prison — I am con- 
 tent. He shall have nothing to keep him 
 from the fangs of thee and thy compan- 
 ions, whom he has chosen his friends. 
 
 Pab. Truly, sir, misfortune is no elector 
 of friendships, as, by mine honesty, I 
 know full well. I am myself forced by^ 
 my necessities to love men I hate; and 
 surely, I think, Seiior Ramon would not, 
 unless obliged by his misfortunes will- 
 ingly consort with men of my degree. 
 
 <Feb. Dost thou speak this in honesty 
 and humility? or is it a lure to deceive 
 me? 
 
 Pab. Oh, sir, I have known better days; 
 and therefore do I pity Seiior Ramon, 
 because I see him treading the same path 
 of folly, which led me into my present 
 baseness. 
 
 Feb. I have mistaken thee!> 
 
 Pab. I have counselled him, too, against 
 his gambling and his drinking; for, be- 
 sides that I saw how such courses would 
 utterly ruin him, I liad no hopes of ever 
 being paid for the cost of supplying him, 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 231 
 
 Feb. Oh, then, if thy interest run the 
 same way with thy humanity, I have 
 much reason to believe thee honest. 
 
 Pab. Truly, it is a sad sight to see a 
 young man led astray by evil compan- 
 ions — a young man, and good. 
 
 Feb. Young, and once good! 
 
 Pab. I cautioned him that Cabarero was 
 a most dangerous companion; it was no 
 honor to be friends with such a hidalgo. 
 
 Feb. Thou didst ! 
 
 Pab. In faith, I told him, Don Antonio 
 had been the ruin of every young man 
 he had sworn love to; and he might see 
 what good had come of his friendship, 
 when he looked on his own wretchedness. 
 
 Feb. <Is it possible I have wronged thee 
 so much?> Thou didst tell him this? 
 Well, what said he? 
 
 Pab. He wept, and said, his father's se- 
 verity had left him no other choice — 
 
 Feb. Ah ! 
 
 Pab. And swore if thou wouldst forgive 
 him, he would never more speak with 
 Cabarero. But, he knew, thou wouldst 
 not. 
 
 Feb. Tell me the truth, Pablo, and thou 
 shalt not be sorry. Did Ramon say this? 
 What! never more speak with Cabarero. 
 
 Pab. I were but an infidel to belie him — 
 he said this, with many tears — 
 
 Feb. With tears? 
 
 Pab. Crying, in his despair, it was no 
 matter, thou hadst forsaken him and the 
 sooner his ruin was accomplished, the 
 better ; thou wouldst have no more shame, 
 when he was in his grave. 
 
 Feb. In his grave? Is he reduced to this 
 despair ? 
 
 Pab. Despair indeed! All last night 
 while Cabarero was drinking, he did 
 nothing but kiss an old rosary, that he 
 wears round his neck, with a devout pas- 
 sion <that nothing but great misery 
 could breed up in a young man.> 
 
 Feb. That rosary did I give him, in his 
 youth. 
 It is enough — he is not all depraved. 
 Pablo! mine own eyes shall be witness 
 Of his contrition; and haply, if I find 
 What thou hast spoken is to them con- 
 firmed, 
 Thou shalt have all that he does rightly 
 
 owe thee, 
 And more, to mark my favor. 
 
 Pab. Please your worship, 'tis very true 
 — A thousand ducats, seiior. 
 
 Feb. Till I am satisfied thou ghalt have 
 nothing. 
 
 Tonight, I '11 come to thee, and suddenly 
 Appear before him; <when, indeed, if 
 
 sorrow 
 Be working at his heart, it needs must 
 
 out 
 Into a bursting penitence. > 
 Pab. God bless your worship. 
 
 I '11 have Antonio set aside. 
 Feb. That villain! 
 
 I have had sinful dreams, and sometimes, 
 
 almost 
 Have thought to buy some rogue to take 
 
 his life. 
 <I fear me, Ramon cannot be my 
 
 Ramon, 
 While Cabarero lives to tempt him.> 
 Pab. 0, your worship, 
 
 There are men, who for a recompense 
 
 would put him 
 Out of the way — Perhaps a thousand 
 
 ducats — 
 At most two thousand — yes, in faith, two 
 
 thousand. 
 With some few charges to escape the law. 
 Might have him cared for. 
 Feb. Nay, leave him to heaven: 
 
 I '11 buy no Ramon at the price of blood. 
 <After the nightfall, I will come to 
 
 thee.> 
 Be sure thou dost not speak of mine in- 
 tent— 
 <Thou shalt have nothing else:, speak 
 
 not a word.> 
 Expect me — Now, away. 
 Pab. Alack, your worship 
 
 Will give me no rehef? Some little 
 
 money 
 To buy the boy a supper — w^e are very 
 
 wretched ! 
 Feb. What, wanting food? 0, heaven, 
 
 my strictness runs 
 Into a wicked, barbarous cruelty! 
 Here 's gold — Buy food ; but say not 
 
 whence it comes. 
 I '11 bear enough to free him from thy 
 
 hands. 
 After the vespers — Mark me, after ves- 
 pers. 
 <Away now, thou shalt see me after 
 
 vespers !> (Exeunt.) 
 
 end of act second. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. A room in Pablo's Inn. 
 (Enter Cabarero and Pablo.) 
 Cab. After the vespers ? he will come him- 
 self? Every way, this is extravagaat 
 
232 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 good fortune. He will bring gold too? 
 Better still! That gold, were lie an an- 
 gel, shall witness him out of heaven. 
 He shall call me rogue and cur, and such 
 vile names, and not be remembered? he 
 shall gibe me when I offer to ennoble 
 his dowdy daughter? Oh, I have often 
 dreamed how he should repent him! 
 
 Pab. Come, 'slife, this will be too improb- 
 able, and dangerous. 
 
 Cab. He would hire thee to assassinate me 
 too? 
 
 Par. Ay, never believe me else : he offered 
 me two thousand ducats to slay thee. 
 But I told him thou wert my true friend 
 and I would not kill thee for so little. 
 
 Cab. a rope for a dagger! a gibbet for a 
 ditch! Oh, I see him, as in a picture, 
 with the priest at his side, the hangman 
 at his neck, and the multitude hooting 
 him to the scaffold, and all the while, I 
 am rattling his dollars in my pocket! 
 
 Pab. <I tell thee, I liks not this plan. 
 Here are two others: — First — we will 
 take Ramon into our counsel, reconcile 
 liim with his father and use him for our 
 banker. 
 
 Cab. Hang him, no: his milk and water 
 cowardice will keep us beggars. If his 
 father forgive him, he will repent and 
 forsake us. 
 
 Par. Why, then — as the old man will 
 bring a thousand ducats with him — we 
 may help him to a ditch, and so make 
 sure of that: for otherwise, he will see 
 I am cheating him, and give me notliing. 
 
 Cab. No killing! — except by the laws. 
 Every way, I assure thee, this plan is 
 the best. It is easiest, it veils us from 
 suspicion, and it makes us most profit. 
 If we are in danger, it is our only 
 safety.> 
 
 Pab. Well, I understand all— But if the 
 viceroy should hang me? 
 
 Cab. Thou art the king's witness, thy life 
 is secure ; 't is but a week in prison, and 
 thou comest out purified with a pardon. 
 
 Par. a week in prison ! Before the week 
 is over, they may sift out the truth and 
 give me to Satan. 
 
 Car. Why, then, we will bribe thee out 
 of the jailer's hands, though it should 
 cost a thousand pesos. 
 
 Par. That's too much! I will get a man 
 out for half that. 
 
 Cab. Wouldst thou be economical with 
 tliine own neck? Thy share shall not be 
 the less, whatsoever be the cost. 
 
 I^AB, Th^ story will be too incredible. 
 
 Cab. Is not Ramon a good witness? 
 Who shall resist his testimony? 
 
 Par. But will he appear? 
 
 Car. As surely as thou shalt; for he has 
 that baseness of cowardice, he will sell 
 the lives of all his friends, to save the 
 worthlessness of his own. 
 
 Par. I must have a full third. 
 
 Car. a full half! Methinks that were 
 but scurvy generosity to share our gains 
 with this whining, unnatural rogue, who 
 is but the cipher of the triumvirate! 
 
 Par. I think so too! <'T is but honest 
 to cheat him who cheats his father.> 
 
 Cab. Remember th^at every coin carries 
 the private mark of the broker; where- 
 fore we must bury it till the hue and cry 
 be over, and then melt it into ingots, as 
 if it came from a mine. Harkee! — we 
 will bury it in two portions, in one a 
 thousand pesos or so; tliis shalt thou 
 show the officers. But the other thou 
 must swear was hidden from thee. 
 
 Par. <I warrant me; but if you deceive 
 me, I will impeach you, by St. Geron- 
 imo, I will! 
 
 Cab. Fear not; I can do nothing without 
 thee. We will to Spain together. 
 
 Pab. With all my heart, and without 
 Ramon? 
 
 Cab. Oh, he will marry Mendoza's daugh- 
 ter ; and in the rapture of his matrimony, 
 what will be the loss of a little money to 
 liim?> 
 
 Pab. Well, I am agreed: I long for the 
 vesper bell. But remember, I say, Caba- 
 rero, no roguery! 
 
 Cab. Not a little, I tell thee: we w^ill rob 
 and cheat like honest gentlemen and 
 friends, <and enjoy our good fortune to- 
 gether.> Come, I left Ramon at the 
 bottle, and now he will be brave enough 
 to lead to the vaults of darkness, or — 
 his father. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. A room in Febro's house. 
 
 {Enter Leonor and Fernando.) 
 
 Leon. Pray you, begone; I did not prom- 
 ise you; 
 And if my father hear you, oh, dear 
 
 saints, 
 I shall have no more peace to stay with 
 him. 
 FeRxN^. Wilt thiou then stay and marry 
 Baltasar? 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 233 
 
 Now, wert thou half as wise as other 
 maids, 
 
 Thou wouldst not fright at this brave 
 opportunity. 
 
 But chain me on the instant. Silly love ! 
 
 Though I am mad enough to fly tonight. 
 
 Tomorrow may my father's strength pre- 
 vail, 
 
 And bond me to another. 
 Leon. Indeed, indeed! 
 
 And is there fear your sire will be so 
 cruel? 
 Fern. Nay, very certain. The anger of 
 your father 
 
 Is but a matchlight, kindling on the in- 
 stant. 
 
 And, on the instant, with a sigh put out ; 
 
 But my sire's rage will be a conflagra- 
 tion. 
 
 <Lit in a mine, and roaring on forever. 
 
 Oh, I could tell the stories of my sire, 
 
 And of myself, if so I durst, would make 
 thee 
 
 Instant and resolute. For know, thou 
 doubter, 
 
 Whate'er his worth, my father loves me 
 well: 
 
 And know I not how long I might have 
 courage 
 
 To act the sin will lose me all that love. 
 
 And gain me all that fury.> Where- 
 fore, quick! 
 
 While our fates smile on us, let us be- 
 gone. 
 Leon. In sooth, 'tis wrong. 
 Fern. Why, here 's a delicate bundle 
 
 Might grace the shoulder of a soldier's 
 spouse, 
 
 As sister to a knapsack. 
 Leon. Alack, for pity! 
 
 'T will break my father's heart. 
 Fern. <It shall be mended. 
 
 Now, with my life> I '11 warrant liis 
 forgiveness : 
 
 Would I could hope my father's! A 
 rogue am I. — 
 
 Thou know'st not at how rich a cost I 
 buy thee. 
 
 Come, do not weep: I swear, this flight 
 will bring thee 
 
 Nothing but happiness. 'T is I alone 
 
 Will feel the punishment. 
 Leon. And wilt thou feel it? 
 
 I am determined then I will not fly, — 
 
 Thus to bring trouble to thee. 
 Fern. <Why, liere 's a wind, 
 
 Fooling the compass! and yet so sweet 
 and pleasant. 
 
 Breathing the gentle odors of true love. 
 
 That I'll forgive it. Fear not thou for 
 
 me;> ' 
 Whate'er of state and men's considera- 
 tion, 
 Whate'er of hope, or what of certainty. 
 To rise to greatness, I give up for thee, 
 <I give up with good will — at first, with 
 
 fear 
 And strong reluctance, but, at this goou 
 
 hour 
 With joy and pride ;> for now I know 
 
 that fate 
 May hide more happiness in a lowlj' 
 
 cot, 
 Than e'er the thrones in great men's pal- 
 aces. 
 <So to a cot we '11 hie us, in some nook 
 Of a delicious valley, where the moun- 
 tains. 
 Walling us in with azure, up to heaven, 
 Shut out all things but heaven. > 
 Leon. 0, heaven be with me! 
 
 I fear to fly. Come thou some other 
 
 time : 
 Let me think more of this. Come back 
 
 tomorrow — 
 Let me think more ; and, as I think, once 
 
 more 
 Look on my father's face. 
 Fern. A thousand times, 
 
 After tonight, for he will soon forgive 
 
 thee. — ■ 
 Nay, look not back. 
 Leon. Ah! hark! we are discovered! — 
 Another time — He is stirring in the 
 vault ! 
 Fern. Pause not, the door is open. 
 Leon. It is too late : 
 
 I hear my brother's step! Awaj^, Ro- 
 lando ! 
 Fern. This comes of trembling! 
 Leon. Tomorrow night — 
 
 Fern. Tomorrow ! 
 
 Farewell, and dream of me. (Exit.) 
 
 Leon. He '11 see the bundle ! — 
 {Enter Juana.) 
 My friend and Ramon's love! She saw 
 Rolando ! 
 Juan. Whv, Leonor, does no one watch 
 the door? 
 This might invite a robbery. 
 Leon. Odd's heart, a robbery! 
 
 Juan. And how you tremble ! 
 Leon. I am not af eard ! 
 
 My father is in the vaults; and so I am 
 
 not 
 Afeard of him or any other man. 
 Juan. Afeard of him! Oh! you are 
 much confused. 
 
234 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Afraid of him! Why, sure it was no 
 
 rogue, 
 Although, good sooth, he mufifled up his 
 
 face, 
 As he brushed by me — Tell me, Leonor — 
 I thought 'twas Ramon! 
 Leon. And perhaps it was — 
 
 Juan. Was it indeed! and did he see his 
 
 father? 
 And will his father pardon him? — Oh, 
 
 for pity ! 
 How could it be so, when so timorously 
 He stole away, and stole away from me? 
 <Why shouldst thou hide it from me?> 
 Leon. Did you see anybody? 
 
 Why Ramon was not here. 
 Juan. Who could it be? 
 
 Sure you are not ignorant, some man — 
 
 some stranger, 
 Cloaked to the eyes, was stealing through 
 
 the house? 
 Indeed you should call your father. 
 Leon. He would be angry — 
 
 Frightened, I mean — 
 Juan. Oho ! a bundle nicely tied 
 
 In a fair Eastern kerchief! and a man 
 Stealing away! and then these thousand 
 
 blushes, 
 And contradictions! — 
 Leon. Oh, my dear Juana! 
 
 You '11 not betray me ! 
 Juan. Shall I laugh at thee? 
 
 I will not frown; I am not one of those 
 That step between true hearts, and break 
 
 them — Go ; 
 Think what thou doest, before thou art 
 
 resolved ; 
 Think what thou doest, before thou leav- 
 
 est thy father; 
 Think of him well; think of thy brothers 
 
 too; 
 Think of thy lover, is he good and 
 
 worthy ; 
 <Think of thyself, thy maiden reputa- 
 tion — > 
 Think of thyself; then, if thy heart con- 
 firms thee, 
 Follow the guidance of thy love, and go, 
 <With heaven to comfort thee — I will 
 
 not stay thee. 
 I would have no heart suffer, save my 
 
 own.> 
 But be not rash, be not precipitate : 
 Methinks your flight would break your 
 
 father's heart. 
 Leon. I will not leave him, for I know 
 
 indeed, 
 (Heaven pardon me that e'er I should 
 
 forget it!) 
 
 He is wo enough for Ramon. 
 Juan. Is he indeed? 
 
 If that be so, then have I happier hopes 
 
 To charm his anger into loving pardon. 
 
 I came to be his suitor. 
 Leon. Shall I call him? 
 
 And yet I fear to have you pray him 
 now. 
 
 He has been vexed a thousand times to- 
 day. 
 
 And was a little strange and irritable. 
 
 These crosses move him deeper than of 
 
 old- 
 Tomorrow will be better. 
 Juan. Think not so. 
 
 The happiness, almost the life of Ra- 
 mon 
 
 Rests on a speedy pardon. 
 Leon. He is in the vault 
 
 About some project. If you '11 wait 
 awhile, 
 
 Francisco will come back, and call him 
 forth— 
 
 Nay, there 's my brother ! 
 
 {Enter Mendoza and Silvano.) 
 
 Men. I tell thee, good Silvano, 
 
 It is impossible. 
 SiLV. Ask my mistress else. 
 
 Juan. Father ! 
 
 Leon. What is the senor's will? 
 
 Men. By heaven! 
 
 There 's roguery afoot ! Where is your 
 
 father? 
 There are knaves a-robbing him. 
 
 {Exit Silvano.) 
 
 Leon. Good sir, for pity, 
 
 What do you mean? My father, these 
 
 two hours, 
 Has been i' the vaults. 
 Men. I say it cannot bel 
 
 There are ruffians in the garden : by this 
 
 hand, 
 I saw a lantern twice flash through the 
 
 trees. 
 Heard voices murmuring and — 
 
 {Re-enter Silvano.) 
 
 SiLV. The vault is locked: 
 
 Heaven guard him well, my master is 
 not there! 
 
 I '11 to the garden. {Exit.) 
 
 Leon. He did not come out! 
 
 Perhaps they have murdered him! 
 Men. What, help! ho, help! 
 
 Here 's villainy ! foul, bloody villainy ! 
 
 {Enter Francisco.) 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 235 
 
 0, wretched boy, your father's vaults 
 
 are robbed, 
 And he perhaps is murdered! 
 
 {Exit Francisco.) 
 Leon. Give him help: 
 
 He is old and feeble. 
 Juan. <Do not be dismayed. > 
 
 (Ee-enter SilvanO; hearing a cloak.) 
 
 SiLV. Thieves! thieves! we are robbed! 
 the garden gate is open, 
 The cellar wall broke through, the vault 
 exposed. 
 
 {Re-enter Francisco.) 
 
 This found I hanging on a cactus bush; 
 
 This morn I noted it on Pablo's back. 
 
 I know the robber! 
 Fran. Run thou for alguazils, 
 
 And follow me to Pablo's — Sister, fear 
 not: 
 
 The door is locked, my father is not 
 there — 
 
 It is no murder, but a robbery. 
 
 Seiior Mendoza, will you go with me, 
 
 Or tarry here, and break this to my 
 father? 
 Men. Nay, I will go with you — Stay with 
 the girl. (To Juana.) 
 
 my life, the strangest marvel! 
 Robbed by Pablo ! 
 
 We must be quick — A most strange vil- 
 lainy! {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. A room in Pablo's Inn. 
 
 {Enter Pablo, Ramon, and Cabarero 
 each hearing a hag of coin.) 
 
 Cab. Victoria! Thou art revenged, en- 
 riched and beatified; the mine is found, 
 and Juana is thine own! We will melt 
 these dollars into ingots, show them to 
 Mendoza, and, tomorrow, thou wilt be 
 in paradise. 
 
 Ram. In hell, I think; for what devil is 
 blacker than I? But he forced me to 
 it! 
 
 Cab. Ay, he forced thee to it. 
 
 Ram. We are followed too; I hear the 
 hue and cry! Let us escape — Do you 
 not hear? 
 
 Cab. I hear the beating of thy silly heart. 
 Why what a cowardly poor-spirited 
 knave hath vile liquor made thee! — Pa- 
 blo, thou art the king of cheats — Wine, 
 and a crucible, and a roaring hot fire — 
 
 Hark! 
 
 I tell thee, thou art mad! All is safe. 
 
 Ram. Hark,* hark, Antonio! 
 
 Cab. 'T is the rumbling of a cart. Fy 
 upon thy white gizzard! Wilt thou 
 never make a rascal of spirit? 
 
 {A knocking.) 
 
 Ram. \ 
 
 Pab. J 
 
 Ram. We are lost ! we are lost ! 
 
 Cab. {To Pablo.) Down with thee to 
 the door, and be wise. 
 
 {Exit Pablo [Cabarero hides the gold].) 
 
 Ram. We are undone! 
 
 Cab. I will stab thee, if thou goest on with 
 this clamor. 
 
 Ram. Antonio ! 
 
 Cab. Art thou not now a rascal? and why 
 shouldst thou not have the wit and cour- 
 age of a rascal? Put on a face of iron, 
 and harden thy nerves into the same 
 metal. — This is a friend — Lo, he comes 
 to spy on thee! 
 
 {Ee-enter Pablo, conducting Febro 
 [Febro hearing a hag of coin.]) 
 
 He can never forgive thee now^ remem- 
 ber that. — Good even, Seilor Febro, j^ou 
 are very welcome. 
 Feb. Away, bad man! I'll have no 
 
 words with thee. 
 My office here is full of love and peace. 
 And hath no part in thee, except to steal 
 A victim from thee. Hark thee, Ramon, 
 
 boy; 
 Thou once wert good, and dutiful and 
 
 loving — 
 Loving, I say, and then, besides, thou 
 
 wert 
 The first life of thy mother. What thou 
 
 wert 
 To mine own old affections, I '11 not 
 
 speak. 
 Thou hast acted many follies; yet, be- 
 cause 
 <0f mine own weakness, and because I 
 
 know> 
 They have weighed thee down with heavy 
 
 misery, 
 I am willing to forgive them. 
 Ram. Hah ! 
 
 Feb. <Forgive them!> 
 
 One thing alone — and if thy heart yet 
 
 holds 
 A grain of love, it will not start at that; 
 <One thing alone will bear thee back 
 
 again 
 Into my house — perhaps my heart too.> 
 
 Bid 
 
236 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Farewell unto this man, who loves thee 
 
 not; 
 Know him no more; and here am I to 
 
 free thee 
 From his bad thraldom — Look, I have 
 gold with me. 
 
 {Displaying a hag.) 
 Enough to ransom thee. 
 Ram. What, gold! 
 Feb. . I heard 
 
 How far thy miseries had carried thee. 
 Ram. What gold"/ hah! gold for me? 
 Feb. Thou seest ! enough 
 
 Perhaps o' the present, to discharge thy 
 
 debts. 
 And make thee good and happy once 
 again. 
 Ram. Ha! ha! 
 
 Thou couldst relent then? Why thou 
 
 art gone mad — 
 Thou bring'st me money! It is too late. 
 <Cab. {Apart to Ra:\ion.) Well said! 
 Thou art a man. He waited his pleas- 
 ure. What has he made thee?> 
 Feb. Ramon, my son ! 
 Ram. Oho! thy son! 
 
 Why what a father had that son? a 
 
 father 
 Who, while forgiveness would have 
 
 wrought the son 
 Into a hol}^ penitent, gave him wrath. 
 And turned him to perdition — What a 
 
 father ! 
 To do this mischief to his child; and 
 
 when 
 He saw his child i' the gulf of hell, to 
 
 taunt him 
 With words of pardon ! 
 Cab. Bravo ! a proper spirit ! 
 
 Thou seest, old man! thou wouldst not 
 
 hearken to me. 
 Oho, I begged you; but you called me 
 
 rogue — 
 Villain, and rogue. — 
 Feb. Ramon, thou knowst not what thou 
 sayest. Perhaps 
 I was too hard witli thee ; but I repent me, 
 Wilt thou have pardon? love and par- 
 don? 
 Ram. Yea; 
 
 Curses for pardon, and a knife for love ! 
 I am not thy son ; the thing that was thy 
 
 Ramon 
 Is perislied ! lost, forever lost ! no atom 
 That once was his, left breathing, — all 
 
 destroyed, 
 And made the elements of fiends — Oh, 
 
 hence! 
 Away! old maniac, hence! 
 
 Feb. Do I live 
 
 And listen to my boy? 
 Pab. Hark! 
 
 Voices within. Thieves! 
 
 Feb. 0, heaven, 
 
 Thou judgest sorely! Is it so indeed? 
 Would I had died or ere I heard these 
 
 w^ords, 
 These worse than death! Well, God be 
 
 with thee, Ramon : 
 Thou hast killed thy father. 
 Voices. Thieves! thieves! thieves! 
 
 {Enter Francisco, Silvano, Mendoza, 
 with Alguazils. As they enter, 
 Cabarero seizes upon Febro.) 
 
 Cab. Stand fast! 
 
 Old rogue, dost think to 'scape! The 
 
 laws will have thee. 
 The laws, I say, hah! 
 Fran. Father ! 
 
 Cab. Off, thou cub! 
 
 Touch not the rogue. Your prisoner, of- 
 ficers ! 
 Febro, the robber of Febro! 
 Fran. Villain and fiend! 
 
 {He is held.) 
 Feb. What is the matter, son? Will no 
 man drag 
 This fellow from me? 
 Cab. Your prisoner, officers! 
 
 A felon knave. 
 Fran. 0, father! f ather !— Brother ! 
 Why don't you speak? Why don't you 
 kill the villain? 
 Cab. {Apart to Ramon.) Away with 
 thee! {Exit ^a-mo^.) 
 
 Your prisoner, officers! 
 Whom I do here accuse, with witnesses 
 More perfect than myself, of robbery 
 And fraud upon his trust. And here 
 
 you have 
 In his own hands, part ^f his felony; 
 And, there i' the corner, more of his 
 vile crime. 
 Feb. Thou raving ruffian! 
 Men. What, Antonio? 
 
 Chargest thou Febro with self-robbery? 
 Feb. Why, who is robbed? 
 Fran. 0, father! 
 
 Cab. It shall be proved. 
 
 Pab. I claim the royal mercy. 
 Men. Shake off this stare, 
 
 Art thou insane? They do accuse thee, 
 
 Febro, 
 Of robbing thine own vaults. 
 Febro. Do I not dream? 
 
 Men. <!Thy doors are broke. 
 Feb. I am ruined! 
 
 [ 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 237 
 
 Cab. Hark! he owns it! 
 
 It shall be proved before his excellency, 
 
 Perfectly proved, with witnesses enough. 
 
 Here 's Pablo, his accomplice, has con- 
 fessed. > 
 Fran. 0, father! 
 Feb. Robbed? 
 
 Cab. <Take him before the viceroy — 
 
 Feb. I'll have the villain for ten thou- 
 sand ducats: 
 
 I '11 have it proclaimed. 
 Fran. 0, father! 
 Feb. Robbed? 
 
 Cab. Away?> 
 
 — He apes amaze. Carry him to the vice- 
 roy. 
 
 It shall be proved before his excellency. 
 [All. Away! Away! Away!] 
 {Exeunt [Omnes. Febro in the hands of 
 the AlguazW].) 
 
 END OF act third. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. A room in the vice-regal palace. 
 
 {Enter the Viceroy, attended.) 
 
 Palm. They are insane that say't — the 
 
 broker robbed ! 
 And Febro turned a rogue ! Now surely 
 
 madness 
 May sweep o'er nations like a pestilence, 
 And folly, like a corporal epidemic. 
 Fever the minds of all. What is't but 
 
 madness, 
 Could fill the city with this riotous cry, 
 Febro is robbed. Febro hath done a 
 
 fraud? 
 <I know the man — sure of all men most 
 
 honest, 
 And — I did think — most cautious. Yet 
 
 it may be. 
 As my fear whispers me, he has been 
 
 robbed. 
 And those — I know, I feel, how that may 
 
 be— 
 Those who have suffered in his losses, 
 
 raise, 
 From grief and rage, the cry of vil- 
 lainy — > 
 What! do they bring their fury to the 
 
 palace? 
 1st Officer. Even so, your excellency; 
 
 they have dragged 
 The broker to the gates, and cry for justice. 
 
 Palm. Justice for all! Set them before 
 
 us straight. 
 That he who needs it most, this poor old 
 
 man. 
 May be protected from the accusers' 
 
 rage, 
 And they be taught how foolishly they 
 
 wrong him. 
 
 {Enter Cabarero, Ramon, Mendoza, 
 
 Francisco, with officers bringing 
 Febro and Pablo. Cabarero, and 
 some others, crying Justice! jus- 
 tice!) 
 
 Palm. What now, ye violent and thought- 
 less men. 
 
 What crime you are committing, know 
 you not. 
 
 Thus, with rude hands, dishonoring the 
 body, 
 
 And, with rude tongues, the name and 
 reputation, 
 
 Of a most honest worthy citizen? 
 Cab. Your excellency is deceived; this 
 man 
 
 Is a most subtle and confirmed rogue, 
 
 <As will be witnessed to your excel- 
 lency. 
 Palm. What, Febro! dost thou hear? 
 What means this charge? 
 
 Why do I find thee thus?> 
 Fran. Oh, noble viceroy, 
 
 Punish these men, that, with such slan- 
 derous hate. 
 
 Destroy my father. 
 Cab. The prisoner, please your highness, 
 
 Has been discovered in a knavish fraud. 
 Palm. Hold thy peace, yet. — What, Fe- 
 bro! 
 Feb. I will speak — 
 
 Thou rogue, I '11 have thee howl ! Ay, 
 by my troth. 
 
 And every man of them. Are they all 
 crazed ? 
 
 <0h, I am glad to see your excel- 
 lency — 
 
 These rogues ! these rogues ! 0, but that 
 I have lost 
 
 My faculties in wonder, I could speak 
 
 Till they were struck with shame. What 
 is the matter ?> 
 
 Their cry is, I am robbed. I know not 
 that; 
 
 <Pray you discharge me, let me see to 
 it. 
 
 I cannot think 't ; and yet it may be so. 
 
 I may be robbed (heaven pity mine old 
 age!) 
 
238 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 And many wronged with me — But 't is 
 not that.'^ 
 
 What do they mean? I pray, your high- 
 ness, mark them. 
 
 They charge me with dishonest prac- 
 tices. 
 
 Dishonest practices! If there be law, 
 
 I will have vengeance on them. 
 Palm. So thou shalt. 
 
 To the extreme of justice — Good Men- 
 doza — 
 
 Thou art the calmest here; speak what 
 thou knowst 
 
 Of this same robbery. Is there a rob- 
 bery? 
 
 <Hath any man been spoiled of prop- 
 erty ?> 
 
 Have Febro's chests been broken? 
 Men. Please, your highness, 
 
 'T is even too true; and true it is (I 
 say it 
 
 With shame and sorrow, and with much 
 amazement) 
 
 There are particulars of damning mo- 
 ment, 
 
 That show connivance where one would 
 not think it. 
 Feb. By heaven! 'tis false! "Who is 
 there could connive 
 
 Of all my house? Will any say 'twas 
 I? 
 
 <Ay, they do say it; they do charge it 
 on me!> 
 
 Pray, good j'our excellency, search this 
 well; 
 
 <Pray you, be quick, and let me know it 
 all. 
 
 There is some plot against me; I am 
 robbed. 
 
 Well, is not that enough? I am then 
 ruined — 
 
 If robbed, why ruined; for, of all still 
 left, 
 
 There 's not enough to cover o'er that 
 loss. 
 
 That will bring many into need. Search 
 well;> 
 
 Find me the rogues, and give me back my 
 gold; 
 
 I can with that pay all, and more than 
 all. 
 Palm. Febro, I pity thee. — this looks not 
 well — 
 
 Say'st thou, connivance? <In some 
 hour of madness. 
 
 Spirits of virtue have themselves for- 
 got, 
 
 And, in one deed, turned villains. > 
 Speak, Mendozaj 
 
 Utter the charge, if charge thou hast to 
 make; 
 
 <Tell me thy tale, if any wrong thou 
 know'st;> 
 
 And, in my quality of arbiter, 
 
 I will forget who is the man accused, 
 
 And judge him as a stranger. 
 Feb. Let him speak; 
 
 I do defy him; let him speak; let all. 
 
 All men, my foemen and my friends 
 alike, 
 
 I do defy to speak a wrong of me ! 
 <Men. Until today, I dreamed no wrong 
 of Febro; 
 
 Nor, please your highness, could I dream 
 it now. 
 
 But that I think he has not his proper 
 mind. 
 Feb. Why that may be; you keep me still 
 bewildered. 
 
 Knowing myself all ruined, but not how ; 
 
 Traduced, maligned, but wherefore ig- 
 norant. 
 
 Despatch, Mendoza, for I have no fear. 
 
 You will be sorry to have thought this 
 wrong. 
 
 Not in my mind! In sooth, j^ou do dis- 
 tract me.> 
 Men. Please, your excellency, 
 
 Pablo, the innkeeper, here throws him- 
 self 
 
 On the king's mercy; and, himself avow- 
 ing 
 
 Accomplice in the act, Baptista charges 
 
 To have been his leader. 
 Fran. Oh, your noble highness, 
 
 This is an open villainy. That Pablo 
 
 Is a notorious rogue, <a thief and 
 liar,> 
 
 Not to be hearkened to by honest men. 
 Palm. Silence, Francisco; be not over-^ 
 rash ; 
 
 Thy father shall have justice. 
 Men. Noble sir, 
 
 What the youth says of Pablo is most 
 true; 
 
 No honest man should hearken to his 
 speech ; 
 
 Yet Febro spoke with him, and I my- 
 self 
 
 Witnessed the conference. 
 Feb. Why, so I did; 
 
 I spoke with him. 
 Palm. Peace, Febro, Heaven 
 
 be with thee! 
 
 <This is a cloud that gathers to a 
 storm !> 
 
 He spoke with Pablo? 
 Men. Yes, and gave him money. 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 239 
 
 His man Silvano there stood at my side, 
 And watched him with me. <At my 
 
 words of wonder, 
 (For truth 'twas wonderful to see the 
 
 broker 
 In earnest speech with such a man as 
 
 Pablo) 
 Silvano> [and] told me how, short time 
 
 before, 
 Febro demanded, if he might not steal 
 To Pablo unobserved; and did assure me 
 He feared his master was not in his 
 
 mind; 
 Wherefore, in proof, he told me how, 
 
 before, 
 Febro had talked with sefior Cabarero, 
 Inviting him to robbery and flight, 
 And such wild things as surely proved 
 him mad. 
 Cab. Put me on oath, and let me swear 
 
 this true. 
 Feb. Why this is true. 
 Fran. O, father! father! 
 
 Palm. Febro ! 
 
 Feb. I say ^t is true ; where is the need to 
 
 swear it? 
 Palm. Febro, be wise; — I pity thee. 
 Feb. I never 
 
 Thought to conceal it. Without fear, I 
 
 own it; 
 I talked with Cabarero, and did urge him 
 To rob me. — 
 Cab. He confesses! 
 
 Fran. Pray you, stop him: 
 
 He knows not what he says — 0, father! 
 Feb. Boy, 
 
 Did I e'er teach thee then to lie ? — I own 
 
 it' 
 I bade him rob me, <at the evil urgings 
 
 Of my bad fancy ;> for I hoped that 
 
 act 
 Might bring him to the scaffold; and I 
 
 thought. 
 If he were dead, Ramon, my outcast 
 
 Ramon, 
 Might be mine own again. 
 Cab. Now by my faith, 
 
 That Ramon, whom he seems to love so 
 
 well. 
 He kept in want and misery, and knew 
 
 it. 
 For Ramon I besought him, he denied 
 
 me. 
 He owns the urging — ay, he urged me 
 
 sore. 
 I will not say with what rich tempting 
 
 offers. 
 In sooth, I thought him mad; for where- 
 fore should he. 
 
 In his old age, invent so wild a fraud? 
 
 'Tis true, he had had losses — and per- 
 haps 
 
 These same had turned his brains ; where- 
 fore I hope 
 
 Your excellency will be merciful. 
 
 Sure he was mad; though subtle and dis- 
 creet 
 
 In the vile plan he showed me. 
 Feb. 0, thou villain! 
 
 I am sorry I did spare thee. For a little 
 
 I could have bought thy life. — Your 
 highness 
 
 Hears him! 
 Cab. Your highness hears him! Pablo 
 will confess 
 
 He would have bought him to assassinate 
 me. 
 
 It was not safe for him to have me live; 
 
 But nevertheless I bring not that against 
 him. 
 Feb. It is not true; and Pablo knows I 
 told him. 
 
 We would this bad man leave to heaven. 
 Palm. Still Pablo ! 
 
 And wilt thou still, unhappy, Febro, 
 darken 
 
 Thy hope by such admissions? What, 
 indeed ! 
 
 Hold speech with Pablo? and on such 
 black subjects? 
 
 Talk with a wretch about another's mur- 
 der? 
 Feb. I talked with Pablo; will your high- 
 ness blame me? 
 
 It was of Ramon, and his miseries; 
 
 I gave him money too — ^it was for Ra- 
 mon! 
 
 I sought his house, but it was still for 
 Ramon ! 
 Cab. And Ramon should have been his 
 accessory ! 
 
 (Apart to Ramon.) Peace, <on thy 
 life!> There is good proof of this ; 
 
 Wilt not your excellency list to Pablo? 
 
 The bark was ready on the river; seek 
 it; 
 
 It waits for Febro — Pablo can speak all. 
 Palm. He shall be heard. Speak thou 
 
 again, Mendoza. 
 
 I am amazed and shocked. What 
 know'st thou more, 
 
 To make this madness yet more prob- 
 able ? 
 Men. My terrace roof overlooks Bap- 
 tista's garden. 
 
 I sat above, to breathe the vesper air; 
 
 And twice or thrice, I marked a glim- 
 mering lamp 
 
240 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Among the shrubs, and, in the end, a 
 
 light 
 Flashing as from an open door, where 
 
 was 
 No door, save one ne'er opened. <This 
 
 thing moved me; 
 And giving all my faculties to watch, 
 Forthwith I heard low murmurs as of 
 
 voices, 
 And, once or twice, the crashing of 
 
 men's feet 
 Along the pebbled alleys.> Straight I 
 
 ran 
 To give the alarm. Febro was in the 
 
 vault. 
 And all the evening had been; so I 
 
 learned 
 From his affrighted daughter, who was 
 
 sure 
 (And so Silvano) he had not passed out. 
 Judge my surprise to find the door well 
 
 locked, 
 And Febro vanished! how, but through 
 
 the door 
 That opened on the garden? and with 
 
 what, 
 Save the rich treasures which were there 
 
 no more? 
 Fran. Alas, the key that oped that gar- 
 den door. 
 Was lost a month ago; and my poor 
 
 father 
 Tomorrow would have walled it up. 
 Palm. Tomorrow ? 
 
 For a whole month he left his vaults ex- 
 posed? 
 This — Leave the substance of confiding 
 
 men 
 To a month's accidents and knaveries! — 
 This looks but darkly. Speak; what 
 
 more, Mendoza? 
 Men. Some wild words dropped from 
 
 mine own daughter's lips: 
 She had abruptly visited the house, 
 And stumbled on a man close muffled up. 
 Who brushed by her, and fled; and, in 
 
 addition, 
 Found Leonor confounded and per- 
 turbed. 
 Her mantle in her hand, and at her side 
 A bundle, seemingly prepared for 
 
 flight.— 
 Feb. My daughter! If thou beest a man 
 
 and father. 
 Discharge me straight, and let me save 
 
 my cliild. 
 That slave Rolando! 0, I see it now; 
 He is the rogue ! 't is he has broke my 
 
 vaults, 
 
 And steals my girl away! — Let me be- 
 gone. 
 My Leonor! — I'll give you up my life. 
 If you seek that; but let me save my 
 child! 
 Palm. Stay. My heart bleeds for theCo 
 I cannot free thee. 
 This charge is heavy, and most like to 
 truth. 
 Feb. You have no heart! — Francisco, you 
 are free; 
 Tou have not robbed, nobody calls you 
 
 rogue — 
 Get thee to home, and to thy sister. 
 Fran. Father ! 
 
 Feb. Save me thy sister, or I '11 live to 
 curse thee! — {Exit Francisco.) 
 I thought your excellency was a man! 
 You gave me friendship too. 
 Palm. I did, Baptista, 
 
 And will — disprove this fearful charge. 
 
 Feb. My child! 
 
 You keep me here, to set me mad with 
 
 charges 
 That make me seem a rogue; and all the 
 
 while 
 Dishonor seeks my child — A step might 
 save her! 
 Men. Let him be satisfied; his girl is 
 safe; 
 I left Juana with her. 
 Feb. Heaven reward thee ! 
 
 I will forgive thee all thou hast said 
 
 against me. 
 She has not fled! How could I think 
 
 she would? 
 Fly from me in my wretchedness! and 
 
 with 
 The man that robbed me ! 
 Cab. Is not this well carried? — 
 
 (Apart to Ramon.) Hold up thy hea^ 
 — Thou seest how fortune helps us. 
 Palm. Hast thou still more, Mendoza? 
 Men. Silvano here 
 
 Picked up the cloak of Pablo. 
 Pab. I am guilty, 
 
 I lost it in the garden. 
 Men. But little more 
 
 Have I to say, but, haply, that most 
 
 fatal. 
 With officers, we followed to the inn ; 
 And there, in the hands of Cabarero, 
 
 stood 
 Unhappy Febro. 
 Feb. Ay, most miserable! 
 
 <Ramon, why didst thou say those 
 
 things to- me? 
 I think they have turned my brain! 
 Men, Wretched Baptista ;> 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 241 
 
 With still, even in his frightened grasp, 
 
 a bag 
 Of the same coin that had that moment 
 vanished. 
 Feb. I took it there — Why look ye thus 
 upon me? y 
 
 I bore it with me to redeem my soq^ 
 Cab. Ay, sooth, with three bags more! 
 {Apart to Ramon.) Think of 
 Juana ! 
 <This thing is for a time.> Seiior 
 
 Mendoza 
 Will say he found them : faith, 't w^as 
 
 Pablo brought them. 
 I can attest how this was all discovered. 
 Palm. Mendoza, is this true? 
 Men. Indeed most true; 
 
 Here is the gold. 
 Palm. What fiend possessed thee, Febro? 
 Feb. Well, do you judge it true? How 
 got it there? 
 I do not know; I took but one bag with 
 
 me. 
 To save my boy. 
 Palm. Whom didst thou counsel with? 
 Alas, all weighs against thee. Hadst 
 
 thou spoke 
 But to thy daughter, or thy man, of 
 this. 
 Feb. I spoke with none: and wherefore 
 should I speak? 
 Will Pablo charge me? Pablo did de- 
 ceive me; 
 He told me lies of Ramon. 
 Cab. There again! 
 
 He told some truths — ^he told where they 
 
 had hid 
 Their ruffian spoils. 
 Feb. He did ! and are they found ? 
 
 All will be well again ! Confess all, Pa- 
 blo, 
 Where didst thou hide the gold? 
 Palm. <Now, but that I 
 
 Here see the wanderings of a dotish man, 
 I should pronounce this folly innocence. 
 Febro, attend: thy star is darkening 
 
 fast; 
 And the old trunk, whose wealthy 
 
 branches hid 
 The secret rot that hollowed at its heart. 
 Is trembling in the tempest: lo, the 
 
 bolt 
 Comes to the earth, and hisses at thy 
 
 front 
 A moment, ere it fells thee.> Speak no 
 
 more, 
 If not more wisely — Thou, Mendoza, art. 
 In all thou hast said, confirmed? 
 Men. I am. 
 
 Palm. And thou, Antonio, on thy hopes 
 
 of heaven, 
 Speak'st but the truth? 
 Cab. I do. < {Apart 
 
 to Ramon.) Shudder no more. — > 
 And Pablo will swear all as I have said. 
 If they do find the gold he swore they 
 
 buried, 
 'T will show his truth. 
 Men. They have already found it; 
 
 Yet a small part alone — some thousand 
 
 ducats. 
 Palm. Thou swear'st this, Pablo? 
 Pab. Yes, your highness, yes : 
 
 I hope for mercy! 
 Palm. Tell mine officers 
 
 Where lie the greater profits of thy 
 
 crime. 
 Pab. I know no more ; I left the bags with 
 
 Febro, 
 And him i' the garden, that I might 
 
 straight bury 
 Mine own share in the place whereof 
 
 I told them. 
 As for the rest, good faith, I know no 
 
 more; 
 Febro had charge of that. 
 Feb. Now, were heaven just, 
 
 Thou shouldst die with this slander in 
 
 thy throat. 
 Monster of falsehood! Has it come to 
 
 this? 
 Is 't true ? is 't possible ? a man like me, 
 Old, — in the twilight of my years, and 
 
 looking 
 Into the dusky midnight of my grave, — 
 An old man that has lived a life, whereon 
 No man hath found a stain <0h! you 
 
 are mad. 
 To think this thing of me.> A fraud? 
 
 a fraud! 
 What! I commit it? with these gray 
 
 hairs too? 
 And without aim, — save to enrich this 
 
 rogue. 
 That swears away my life? 
 Palm. Aimless, indeed. 
 
 Unnatural, and most incredible; 
 And therefore easily disproved, hadst 
 
 thou 
 One proof beyond its wonder. <Give 
 
 me proof; 
 Discredit not this knave, I know him 
 
 well; 
 But show thou wert not with him, — or 
 
 for what; 
 And hadst no gold with thee — or where- 
 fore hadst it; 
 Or do what will be better for thy soul, — 
 
242 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Rouse from this dotisli fit tliat has trans- 
 formed thee,> 
 
 Repent, confess, deliver up the sj^oils 
 
 <0f thy unhallowed avarice; and, in 
 memory 
 
 Of thy once stainless fame (no more un- 
 sullied )> 
 
 And in regard of years that should be 
 reverend, 
 
 In pity and in peace, we will discharge 
 thee. 
 Feb. I do repent me — of my miseries; 
 
 I do confess — that I am wronged and 
 lost, 
 
 Robbed, and traduced, and by collusion 
 slain. 
 
 Trapped by false witnesses, and by an 
 unjust judge 
 
 Unrighteously condemned. 
 Palm. Say'st thou, Baptista ! 
 
 ^An unjust judge?' 'unrighteously con- 
 demned f 
 
 What say the witnesses? thy friend, 
 Mendoza ? 
 
 Will he traduce thee? What Antonio 
 here? 
 
 Does he gain aught to harm thee ? What 
 this Pablo? 
 
 Who prates his own life into jeopardy? 
 
 And what — By heaven, I would have 
 spared thee that! — 
 
 What says thy son? 
 Feb. My son! my Ramon! Ky, let Ra- 
 mon speak. — 
 
 Hah! what! does Ramon charge me? 
 Palm. Hear'st thou, Ramon? 
 
 Cab. < {Apart to Ramon.) Wilt thou be 
 
 ruined ?> 
 Feb. Ramon? 
 
 Palm. Dost thou see ! 
 
 Horror hath made him dumb. Had he 
 a word 
 
 To aid thy misery, he had spoken it. 
 Feb. Dost thou accuse me, boy? I do 
 defy thee! 
 
 What! swear against thy father? Ope 
 thy lips; 
 
 < Speak what thou canst. Oh, now I 
 have been mad! — > 
 
 Thou know'st full well for what I sought 
 thee out. 
 
 Why art thou silent? <Lo, a w^ord of 
 thine 
 
 Would clear up all; speak thou that 
 word. AcQuse me? 
 
 My son accuse me?> By the curse, not 
 yet 
 
 Uttered nor thought of — by the father's 
 curse. 
 
 That wilt convert thy bosom to a hell. 
 Ne'er to be quenched by penitence and 
 
 prayers. 
 Speak, and speak truly. 
 Palm. Stand aside. 
 
 Feb. Ha, ha! 
 
 One word clears all; and he will speak 
 
 it. Hark! 
 (Ramon, endeavoring to speak, falls 
 
 into a swoon.) 
 My son ! my son ! oh, you have killed my 
 
 Ramon ! 
 Palm. 'Tis thou hast done it. <What! 
 
 though thou wert so cruel. 
 Though thou hadst driven him from thy 
 
 roof and love, 
 He could not speak the word that should 
 
 destro}^ thee.> 
 Bear him away; his silence speaks 
 
 enough, 
 I will not force him to unlock his lips. 
 In the unnatural charge. 
 
 (Ramon is led out.) 
 Art thou content? 
 All speaks thy guilt. Confess; repair 
 
 thy fault; 
 Disgorge thy spoils. 
 Feb, Do with me what you will, 
 
 You have robbed and ruined me among 
 
 you all, 
 <What care I now how soon you take 
 
 my life?> 
 You make me out a felon, and have 
 
 turned, — 
 Heaven plague you all — ^have turned my 
 
 children 'gainst me. 
 Palm. Obstinate still? Confess, and take 
 
 our mercy. 
 Feb. The mercy of oppressors! Heaven 
 
 confound you! 
 I know why you condemn me, ay, full,^ 
 
 well: 
 <I could have paid you all — I have 
 
 claims yet;> 
 You kill me for your losses. — When you 
 
 will: 
 The grave is quiet, and Heaven will yet 
 
 avenge me. 
 Palm. Amazed and sorrowing, we pro- 
 nounce thee guilty 
 Of a most mad, most base, and wicked 
 
 fraud, 
 For which our laws of Spain demand 
 
 thy life. 
 Yet, in respect of thy augmented 
 
 years. 
 We spare thee that. Depart; live and 
 
 repent thee. 
 What property still openly is thine 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 243 
 
 We seize for benefit of the man}' 
 
 wronged. 
 We give thee life, but judge thee igno- 
 minious. 
 And to remain in ward of officers, 
 In thine own house, till all be satis- 
 fied. 
 Feb. Why you were better take my life 
 at once; 
 < You leave me naught to feed me ! and> 
 
 the air 
 You grant me leave to breathe, is but the 
 
 poison 
 Of a corrupted reputation. Kill me; 
 What matters it? Your mercy is a 
 
 name 
 For a new rack, wherewith you will tor- 
 ment me — 
 The rack of shame and pitiless degrada- 
 tion. 
 A rogue! — a felon! — 
 
 (Febro is led out.) 
 Palm. <Poor wretch! I'll think of 
 thee; 
 I have a dream — and though all seem to 
 
 speak thee 
 Dotard and knave, it shows me other 
 
 things 
 But hide them yet. 
 Cab. May it please your excellency, 
 Permit me to depart, and look to Ra- 
 mon, 
 A very unhappy man. 
 Palm. Away ! 
 
 {Exit Cabarero.) 
 Palm Thou, Pablo, 
 
 We do adjudge to prison, to resolve 
 More fitly of thy fate. 
 Pab. i claim the royal pardon. 
 
 Palm. I '11 find if thou hast won it. 
 
 (Pablo is led out.) 
 Look to it, officers : this man, Antonio 
 Watch strictly; have him ever in your 
 
 eyes; 
 Give him no passage from the gates. 
 
 For Pablo, 
 Fright him with words of death, and find 
 
 what secrets 
 May drop from terror. Watch me Ra- 
 mon too. 
 I have strange fancies, — but these hints 
 
 will serve you. 
 Mendoza, have thine eye upon Baptista; 
 What misery may come to him thou 
 
 know'st ; 
 Let him not want, nor 'let his children 
 
 suffer. 
 What cost soever thou art at to help 
 them. 
 
 I will requite thee; look to them to- 
 night;. 
 Tomorrow come to me again; I have 
 A thought to hold discourse on — but not 
 now.> {Exeunt.) 
 
 < Scene 2. The street before the Palace. 
 {Enter Cabarero and Ramon.) 
 
 Ram. The Viceroy has given him his life? 
 Well, I am glad of that.— Else should I 
 have confessed all. His freedom too! 
 
 Cab. Ay, I tell thee, — his life and free- 
 dom, — all which is contrary to law. — 
 Such a fraud is a matter for hanging. 
 
 Ram. And thou thought'st, when thou 
 persuadest me to witness against him, 
 that he should die! 
 
 Cab. By my faith, no: — I knew his life 
 was in no danger. I told thee the vice- 
 roy was too much his friend. 
 
 Ram. He will come to want, Antonio! 
 We will send him money. 
 
 Cab. 'Slife, this is superfluous — and full 
 of risk. 
 
 Ram. I tell thee, he shall have money and 
 relief, though it bring me to the gal- 
 lows. 
 
 Cab.^ Wilt thou be wise? 
 
 Ram*. He was coming to me with pardon ! 
 With money to relieve me! and with 
 that money did I witness him to destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 Cab. Foh! thou said'st not a word. 
 
 Ram. Hah ! that 's true : no man can ac- 
 cuse me — I said nothing against him. — 
 But my silence — my silence damned him, 
 and it damns me. There is no fiend like 
 to me. Witness against my father ! Kill 
 my father! — Cain killed his brother, and 
 his forehead was marked with the finger 
 of God.— I— I— What is justice? I 
 have no mark, who have killed my 
 father ! 
 
 Cab. Faith, not a jot — there is no mark 
 about thee. — 
 
 Ram. Thou liest, — it is here, — my soul is 
 sealed with horror — black, black, — the 
 leprosy of an Ethiop — the gangrene of a 
 demon — all darkness — darkness — of hor- 
 ror. 
 
 Cab. Why, thou madman, wilt thou be- 
 tray thyself? Think of Juana. 
 
 Ram. Have I not bought her, even with 
 my soul's perdition? How shall I look 
 her in the face? 
 
 Cab. Hark 'ee ! I am tired of thy whin- 
 
244 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 ing. If thou wilt be a man, I am tliy 
 friend still; — if thou wilt endanger thy- 
 self, and me too, by thy puling, boyish 
 fright, I will leave thee to manage thine 
 own affairs. — By my faith, 1 will. 
 
 Ram. Desert me not, or I have lost Juana. 
 — Give me thy advice; I will follow thy 
 bidding. 
 
 Cab. Let us depart. — Thy father is com- 
 ing. — They are turning him from the 
 pahice. 
 
 Ram. Horror! — I cannot look on him. 
 Away! away! — (Exeunt.)'^ 
 
 < Scene 3. A room in Febro's house. 
 (Enter Francisco and Leonor.) 
 
 Fran. Ask me not a word, not now, — 
 not now, — I will tell thee anon. — Our 
 father is alive, I tell thee, — alive and 
 well: — Is not that enough? It will 
 break her heart, — Is not that enough? 
 At the palace, I tell thee, sister. 
 
 Leon. I am glad of that. — He is safe with 
 the Viceroy. And the robbers, Fran- 
 cisco ? 
 
 Fran. Yes, yes! — heaven will discover 
 them. — The robbers! the robbers! Sis- 
 ter, you have done wrong to entertain a 
 lover in secret. My father accuses laim 
 of the robbery. 
 
 Leon. Him! brother! Rolando! what, 
 Rolando ! Oh, he was with me. He is 
 a gentleman. My father does him a 
 great wrong. — 
 
 Fran. It may be so. Heaven protect 
 thee. — Receive him no more. Tarry 
 here; I will to the vault a moment, — I 
 will be near thee. (Exit Francisco.) 
 
 (Enter Fernando.) 
 
 Leon. Oh, Rolando, Rolando, my brother, 
 my father — 
 
 Pern. Peace, Leonor, I overheard thy 
 brotlier, — Dost thou think me a robber'? 
 
 Leon. What, tJwuf You must forgive 
 my poor father. — This robbery has per- 
 plexed him sorely. But what disturbs 
 thee? Thou art very pale, Rolando! 
 
 Fern. Listen: this moment is the last I 
 can look upon thee — 
 
 Leon. Rolando ! 
 
 Fern. If thou wilt fly with me, I will give 
 up my father — my hopes — my station — 
 everything, for thee; if tliou wilt not, I 
 can never look upon thee more. 
 
 Leon. You are jesting with me, Rolando! 
 
 Oh, I can never leave my father. 
 Fern. Heaven bless thee, Farewell. 
 Leon. Rolando ! 
 Fern. We must forget one another — I 
 
 could tell thee a reason — but thou wilt 
 
 hear it from others. 
 Leon. O, my father! my father! 
 Fern. I will love thee better, and forever 
 
 — Thou Shalt be happier too. Thou fliest 
 
 from misery. (Exeunt.) 
 
 (Re-enter Francisco, with a Rosary.) 
 
 Fran. This is enough to sear mine eyes 
 forever, 
 
 And turn my heart to ashes. — Wretched 
 brother ! 
 
 Thrice wretched father! Leonor, ho! 
 Leonor ! 
 
 Sister! Sister! Gone! oh, vanished! — 
 Heaven, 
 
 Thou art awroth with us! What, sis- 
 ter! sister! (Exit.)> 
 
 Scene 4. The street before Mendoza's 
 house. 
 
 (Enter Juana and Ramon.) 
 
 Juan. Prosperity, — wealth, — happiness ! — 
 They come too late. 
 Oh, Ramon, Ramon! talk'st thou thus to 
 
 me? 
 Witness against thy father! say no more 
 Of happy fortune ; but disprove this tale, 
 That racks my heart with horror. — 
 
 Happy indeed! 
 Thou art awroth with us! What, dis- 
 prove it: 
 Witness against thy father! Didst thou,. 
 
 Ramon ! 
 Say no, and make me happy. 
 Ram. They deceived thee — 
 
 I spake no word against him, — not a 
 
 word, . 
 No man can charge me that. 
 Juan. JSTo, not a word! — 
 
 They charge not that. But thou wert 
 
 there against him! 
 Thy presence was enough! 
 Ram. Reproach no more: 
 
 I chose not to be with his enemies — 
 They dragged me with them. Speak of 
 this no more. 
 Juan. Of this forever, till thou clear up 
 all! 
 Ramon, thou know'st me not. — Be thou 
 the man 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 245 
 
 My heart has pictured thee, oppressed 
 
 but worthy, 
 Sore tempted, but with yet a noble spirit, 
 That tlirones its nakedness on a rock of 
 
 honor ; 
 And poor and wretched though thou be, 
 
 deserted. 
 Contemned and hated — nay, by all men 
 
 cursed — 
 Still do I rest thy friend and advocate — 
 Thy more than friend, thy loving wife 
 
 forever ! 
 RAii. I am what thou behold'st — thy long 
 
 betrothed. 
 Once faith-preserved, and ever faithful 
 
 Ramon — 
 One and the same. 
 Juan. Ah, no, no more the same — 
 
 Thy father, Ramon ! — 
 Ram. Who, for thy love, have borne 
 
 Sorrow and wrath, and dreamed they 
 
 were not ills, 
 Locked hands with shame, and deemed 
 
 me undefiled, 
 Councilled with villainy, and thought it 
 
 virtue. 
 Because it pointed out a path to thee. 
 Jtjan. a word 
 
 And I have done with thee. — Then for 
 
 what fate 
 Heaven has in store, the altar or the 
 
 grave — 
 I shall not care'. — This do they charge 
 
 thee, Ramon — 
 Thy father was accused by noted 
 
 knaves — 
 His son — no, no — his son did not accuse 
 
 him; 
 But when adjured — (thou tremblest!) 
 
 When adjured 
 By the poor father, j^ea, besought, to 
 
 speak 
 Against the charge vhicli he did know 
 
 was false. 
 Condemned his father "with accusing 
 
 looks — 
 With a dumb lip assented, and with that 
 
 silence 
 Sealed him to shame and death! 
 Ram. What could I more? 
 
 I did all this for thee. 
 Juan. For me ! for me ! 
 
 Thou might'st have stabbed thy brother 
 
 in the dark. 
 Bartered thy sister for a villain's 
 
 gold. 
 Done an3i;hing unnatural and base, 
 And told me, 't was for me ! for me ! for 
 
 me! 
 
 Ram. Thou art unjust. — In this is grief 
 enough,' 
 Without thy keen reproaches. — What 
 
 could I more? 
 I held my peace. — Wouldst thou have 
 had me charge him? 
 Juan. Didst thou then know him guilty? 
 Speak me that. 
 Upon thy soul's eternal welfare speak. 
 Speak me the truth. — What, dost thou 
 
 know him guilty? 
 Know him a felon? 
 Ram. This is then thy fear : — 
 
 Thou scom'st the felon's son? 
 Juan. Hah! if I do? 
 
 What, trap him to't?— Wo's me! 
 Ram. Juana, time will show 
 
 Who is the guilty wretch — 
 Juan. Oh, Time will show! 
 
 Give it not up to time ! By all the grief 
 That stains thy sire's gray hairs — by all 
 
 the pure 
 And solemn magic round thy mother's 
 
 grave, 
 I charge thee speak the truth. — ^Thou 
 
 dost not think 
 Thy father's guilty? 
 Ram. Nay, Juana! 
 
 Juan. Speak, 
 
 Or never speak me more. — Tremble not 
 
 — speak — 
 Thou dost not think him guilty? — 
 Ram. No, — no,— 
 
 Juan. Wretch ! — 
 
 Thy lips were dumb, and thou didst 
 
 know him innocent! 
 You heard him slandered, and stood si- 
 lent by! 
 You saw him perish, and held back the 
 
 truth 
 That would have saved him ! 
 Ram. Is it come to this? 
 
 Is this the guerdon to reward my 
 love? 
 Juan. Love! Did I love thee! What, 
 this spirit, that, in 
 A case of flesh, was all of adamant — 
 A disguised devil! Is it come, to this? 
 Thou say'st that well. — For now I know 
 
 thee well, 
 And hate thee — yes, abhor thee! 
 Ram. Still unjust, 
 
 Thou kill'st me for my faith. 
 Juan. Now do I know 
 
 They spoke the truth, who called thee 
 
 base and vile — 
 This fiendish act is warranty enough 
 For any depth of lowness. — Oh, how 
 fallen 
 
246 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Thou art now, Ramon ! A year, a month 
 
 ago !— 
 But tliat no more. — I could have died for 
 
 thee, 
 Hadst thou held fast to thine integrity — 
 Now, though it break my heart, I cast 
 
 thee from me 
 Forever, forever — I '11 never see thee 
 
 more. 
 Ram. Thou mak'st me mad. — The wrongs 
 
 that I have done 
 I did for thee. — I had no other hope. 
 No other way to win thee. Dost thou 
 
 leave me? — 
 Then I am lost, — and nothing left with 
 
 me 
 But the sharp goadings of a vain re- 
 pentance. 
 False hearted maid! 'tis thou hast led 
 
 me on 
 Into this gulf of crime: What but a 
 
 hope 
 To win thee, could have made me what 
 
 I am 
 A thief and parricide! 
 Juan. Oh, heaven, that opest 
 
 Mine ej^es upon this horror, still sup- 
 port me — 
 A thief! a thief! 
 Ram. I said not that. 
 
 Juan. A demon 
 
 Blacker than all! Confess thy crime 
 
 and die. 
 Confess, for all shall know thee! — 0, 
 
 away, 
 And perish in the desert, — I denounce 
 
 thee — 
 What ho, my father — ho! 
 Ram. Juana ! 
 
 Juan. Father ! 
 
 Justice! there shall be justice done to 
 
 all,— 
 Justice, I tell thee, monster, though I 
 
 die — 
 Justice, ho, father! 
 
 {Enter Mendoza — Ramon flies.) 
 
 Men. What's the matter, girl? 
 
 That wretched Ramon! — 
 Juan. ' To the palace, father — 
 
 Quick, lead me to the Viceroy. 
 Men. Art thou raving? 
 Juan. Oh, father, I've a story for his 
 highness. 
 
 Will make all rave. — And let me speak 
 it now, 
 
 While I have strength. 
 Men, Come in, compose thyself — 
 
 <Thou art disturbed, and know'st not 
 
 what thou say'st. 
 The palace, indeed — Thou art fitter for 
 
 thy couch — 
 So wan and ghastly. — > 
 Juan. The palace, father, the palace! 
 
 {He leads her in.) 
 
 END OF ACT FOURTH. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene 1. A room in Febro's house. 
 
 {Enter Silvano and Febro.) 
 
 Feb. a rogue! a felon! convicted and 
 condemned ! 
 No wretch upon the street more given to 
 
 scorn — 
 No mine-slave, fretting under blows and 
 
 lashes. 
 Held to more shame. — Robbed, and for 
 
 reparation 
 Despoiled of all — even of my children's 
 
 bread — 
 And a good honest name too. — Well, in- 
 deed. 
 Heaven looks upon the sparrow's un- 
 fledged brood. 
 When murderers kill the dam — And Ra- 
 mon too! 
 Well, I 've two children yet ; — < where 
 
 is Francisco? 
 And Leonor? my children ?> It is true, 
 Their sire brings shame upon them — But 
 
 I think 
 They will not turn upon me — Dost thou 
 
 hear me? 
 Where is Francisco? 
 SiL. Oh, alas, dear master. 
 
 The house is empty. 
 Feb. Ah! 
 
 SiL. The doors all open — 
 
 No living creatures present but ourselves. 
 
 Feb. <My children, I tell thee! 
 
 SiL. Master !> 
 
 Feb. 0, blest heaven, 
 
 Strike me to death, for I am desperate — 
 
 My children leave me: — Turn my heart 
 
 to earth. 
 Ere I do curse them! 
 SiL. I think, I ho]>e 
 
 My mistress now is with Mendoza's 
 dauiihter. 
 Feb. Why, so she is! I should have 
 tliousrht of that — 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 247 
 
 I dare be sworn she is — Francisco too — 
 Where should he be, but with his sister? 
 
 —Go- 
 Fetch them to me. And tell them not to 
 
 fear 
 I '11 weigh upon them long — this wrong 
 
 will end 
 Ere many daj^s, and then men will forget 
 To charge them with the shame of their 
 dead father. 
 SiLV. Francisco, sir! 
 
 {Enter Francisco.) 
 
 Feb. My daughter, boy, — my Leonor! 
 
 Where did you leave your sister? 
 Fran. <0, dear father, 
 
 You '11 curse me when I tell you ! 
 Feb. Fled, boy, fled!— 
 
 Ha! ha! eloped! — dishonored! 
 Fran. Father, dear father! 
 
 Feb. Drugged to the bottom! — No gall 
 and venom now, 
 But I must drink them! With a villain 
 
 fled! 
 From shame to deeper shame — And in 
 
 mine hour 
 Of misery too! Oh, curse her! curse 
 her! 
 Fran. Father — 
 
 Be not so rash — she may be yet recov- 
 ered — 
 Feb. I gave her to thy charge !> 
 Fran. Oh, dear my father, 
 
 I left her but an instant — but an instant 
 Looked through the vault — and in that 
 
 instant she 
 Was stolen away — Father, I followed 
 
 her — 
 Saw her, at distance, with the ravisher — 
 He bore her to the palace. 
 Feb. To the palace! 
 
 A ruffian of the guard — a Spanish ruf- 
 fian 
 Shall steal my child, and have the 
 
 Court's protection — 
 I '11 have her back though the proud 
 
 viceroy's self 
 Should bar against me with his villains 
 all— 
 Fran. Father, I followed to the door — 
 the guards 
 Denied me entrance, though I prayed it 
 
 of them — 
 Struck me back with their staves, and 
 
 with rude voices 
 Taunted and menaced me. 
 Feb. Why back again! 
 
 Thou wert the felon's son — that was the 
 reason 
 
 They jeered thee with thine infamy — 
 Thou seest! 
 
 'T is infamy to bear the name of Febro. 
 
 Struck thee back with their staves! be- 
 cause thou sought'st 
 
 To save thy sister! They shall strike 
 me too — 
 
 The blows that bruise the body are not 
 much, 
 
 When that the heart is crushed — Come 
 thou with me — 
 
 A felon though I be, I will have en- 
 trance — 
 
 Though infamous and lost, I will have 
 justice. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. A room in the palace. 
 (Palmera and others discovered.) 
 
 Palm. Frighted with death, and will not 
 
 make confession? 
 I know not why — all circumstances bring 
 New confirmation of the broker's guilt, 
 And yet, witliin my breast, some gentle 
 
 spirit 
 Whispers me doubt, and plays the advo- 
 cate. 
 That Pablo leave not yet — Hark to. me, 
 
 officer; 
 Carry him to the rack, but harm him 
 
 not — 
 <Place him before the engine, let his 
 
 fancy 
 Work on its terrors, till it paints his 
 
 joints 
 Crackling and sundering, his sinews 
 
 bursting. 
 His strong bones crashing in the or- 
 deal — 
 Nay, for an instant bind him to the 
 
 wheel,> 
 Make him believe that ye will torture 
 
 him, — 
 (Yet torture not, ye shall not harm a 
 
 hair — ) 
 Thus far put on the executioner, 
 <And, in his terror, if no words of 
 
 guilt 
 Burst from his lips, my conscience 
 
 doubts no more. 
 And the poor mad old man is lost for- 
 ever.> (Exit Officer,) 
 
 Febro. (Within.) I will have entrance! 
 
 Villains, stand aside! 
 I'll see the Viceroy, and I'll have my 
 
 daughter ! 
 
248 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 Palm. What now! the broker! At this 
 midnight hour, 
 Madding before the palace! 
 
 {Re-enter Officer.) 
 
 Off. Please, your excellency, 
 Febro is struggling with the guards for 
 
 entrance, 
 He will not be driven back, — he calls 
 
 your highness, 
 And raves about his daughter. 
 Palm. He is distracted: — 
 
 Let him come in — Poor wretch, I pity 
 him. 
 
 (Enter Febro, Francisco, and Silvano.) 
 
 <What now, old man? What is the 
 
 matter with thee?> 
 Feb. You bar your doors against me, 
 
 and you put 
 Armed rogues therein to thrust me back 
 
 with staves. 
 And keep my daughter from me. 
 Palm. What would you, Febro? 
 
 My doors are shut against the ignomini- 
 ous. 
 Feb. Ay, ignominious ! But I '11 have 
 
 my child — 
 <I '11 have my daughter ; fetch her to 
 
 me straight,> 
 Were you a crowned king, I '11 have her ! 
 Palm. Now 
 
 What fiend hath seized thee, Febro? If 
 
 thy child 
 Have fled from thee, heaven pity thy 
 
 gray hairs, 
 Why shouldst thou seek her here? 
 Feb. Why, she is here! 
 
 Your rogue has stolen her; you know 
 
 that well — 
 And you protect him. <0h, heaven 
 
 visit you 
 With pangs and misery>. Give me 
 
 back my child — 
 Give me my daughter, and I will for- 
 give you 
 The other mischiefs you have done me. 
 Palm. Alas, 
 
 'T is madness fills thee with this fantasy : 
 <How should thy child be here! 
 Feb. Will you not yield her?> 
 
 I do beseech you, give me back my 
 
 child— 
 My loving Leonor! Oh, now, for pity, 
 
 {He kneels.) 
 Be just to me. Look on me, noble sir. 
 You have broke my heart, but give me 
 
 back my daughter. 
 
 Palm. Rise up, thou old and miserable 
 man, 
 
 I pity thee, but know not of thy child. 
 Feb. {Arising.) I do demand her; keep 
 her, if you dare! 
 
 What if I be a miserable man, 
 
 A gray, old, broken, miserable man, 
 
 A most dishonest and convicted felon. 
 
 Ashes upon my head, and, in my heart. 
 
 Anguish that 's measureless — a man de- 
 spised. 
 
 Stained, shunned, shut out from all 
 men's sympathies? 
 
 I have my rights, and, though so friend- 
 less, seek them; 
 
 I have my rights, and, though so poor, 
 will speak them; 
 
 <I have my rights, and, though so weak, 
 will have them.> 
 
 I ask my child, and, by my life, I '11 have 
 her. 
 
 I say I '11 have her. — Some ruffian of 
 your guard 
 
 Ravished her from me, while you kept 
 me here — 
 
 Rolando — 
 Palm. Again art thou deceived, 
 
 I have no villains in my keeping, Febro, 
 
 And know, — of all my household, there 
 is none 
 
 So named Rolando. 
 Feb. 'Tis a false name, then, 
 
 The wretch is here — he has my daughter 
 too — 
 
 Francisco followed him, and saw him 
 enter, 
 
 My daughter with him. 
 Palm. Say'st thou this, Francisco? 
 Fran. I do, my lord; I followed him, and 
 saw him 
 
 Pass, with my sister, through the private 
 gate— 
 Palm. What ho, my guard! — the axeman 
 with, his block! 
 
 Let every man o' the court appear be- 
 fore me. 
 
 Thou shalt have justice, Febro, on the 
 head 
 
 Of him that wrongs thee. 
 
 (All come in.) 
 
 If thou know'st the man. 
 Point me him out among this multitude. 
 Dishonored though thou be, by all the 
 
 saints, 
 There is no man so noble, that shall 
 
 WTong thee. 
 And pay no reckoning to thy miseries. 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 249 
 
 Feb. Hah! no, no, tliou art not Rolando 
 —No- 
 Dost thou not see him, boy? <Is he not 
 here? 
 
 Mine eyes are dimming.> Let the vil- 
 lain speak, 
 
 If he will straightway give me up my 
 child, 
 
 I will forgive him; — yea — and will pur- 
 sue 
 
 This thing no further. 
 Fran. Rolando is not here. 
 
 Palm. Thou seest, thou wert mistaken, 
 
 boy. 
 Fran. Your highness, no — 
 
 I saw them well, Rolando and my sis- 
 ter — 
 
 She turned her face, when I did call to 
 her; 
 
 Rolando dragged her on. — 
 Palm. Are all men here ? 
 
 This moves me much. Search thou the 
 palace o'er. {To an Officer.) 
 
 Every man's lodge, even to mine own 
 apartments. 
 
 Let no man stay thee. (Exit Officer.) 
 Hath any of the guard 
 
 Fled from the palace? The ruffian shall 
 be found ; 
 
 I '11 search the city for him. 
 
 (Enter Fernando.) 
 
 Feb. Hah! 
 
 Fran. Rolando ! 
 
 Feb. Ha! ha! the rogue! the villain! I 
 have him fast! 
 Give up my child! 
 Palm. How! Febro! 
 
 Feb. This is the man! 
 
 Palm. <My son! my son! Down from 
 my seat of pomp. 
 Into the earth of shame; I am as mis- 
 erable. 
 As T\Tetched now as Febro. Dost thou 
 
 charge him? 
 What him, Baptista?> This is my son, 
 Fernando ! 
 Feb. Thy son? Thy son shall ruin my 
 poor girl. 
 And break my heart! Oh, wretch, 
 
 where is my daughter? 
 <Thou didst delude her from me! 
 
 Ruined, ruined! 
 Howl thou in hell for this ! yes, howl, f or- 
 
 ever!> 
 Thou hast stolen the dearest daughter of 
 
 the earth. 
 And given her up to shame; oh, heaven 
 distract thee. 
 
 Make thy heart mad, but not thy brain, 
 
 that thou 
 May'st rot within, and have a sense of it ! 
 <F£RN. Oh, saints, avert this curse, so 
 undeserved. 
 Most rash old man.> 
 Palm. Didst thou ensnare the girl? 
 
 <0h, wretched boy!> 
 Fern. Dear father! Father, pardon! 
 
 (Kneeling.) 
 Feb. You hear him? He confesses. <0 
 
 bitter wretch !> 
 Palm. Stand up before me as a criminal, 
 What — to his chambers! Bring the 
 
 maiden forth. 
 Old man, thou shalt have justice, though 
 
 the gift 
 Leave me all childless. 
 
 (Some officers go out.) 
 Fern. Father ! 
 
 Palm. Peace, false wretch — 
 
 Thy judge — no more thy father. (A 
 noise.) More woes to mad us! 
 {Cries of "Fehro is innocent F') 
 What cry is this? 
 
 (Ramon and Cabarero are brought 
 in, and Juana a^id Mendoza.) 
 Juan. Justice, your excellency! 
 
 Justice for Febro! Villains have en- 
 trapped him! 
 False witnesses have sworn his life away, 
 And there thou seest the falsest ! 
 Feb. <0h, the villain! 
 
 Give me my daughter, and then judge 
 the rogues. > 
 Palm. Speak, maiden, speak — if heaven 
 have left me now 
 One satisfaction greater than the grave, 
 'T will be to right this wronged man. 
 
 Which is he 
 Thou call'st the falsest witness? 
 Juan. Look — 'tis Ramon — 
 
 Feb. Ramon, my son! 
 Juan. He did confess to me, 
 
 He knew his father innocent. 
 Feb. Oho, you hear! 
 
 I knew my boy would right me. 
 
 (Going toward Ramon.) 
 
 Juan. Hence, stand back. 
 
 Touch not corruption — look on him no 
 
 more. 
 I do denounce him to your excellency. 
 As one conspiring 'gainst his father's 
 life. 
 Palm. Oh, most unnatural — 
 Feb. Hearken not to her — 
 
 My Ramon ne'er conspired against 
 me. 
 Juan, Hear me. 
 
250 
 
 THE BROKER OF BOGOTA 
 
 He was my betrothed spouse, and well 
 
 I loved him: — 
 I give him up to justice, and accuse him, 
 Even on his own admission, that he is — 
 I live to say 't — a false witness and a 
 
 robber ! 
 <Palm. Can this be so?> 
 
 Feb. Oh, thou unnatural girl! 
 
 Hearken no more, your highness — she 
 
 belies him. — 
 
 {Re-enter 1st Officer.) 
 
 Ramon is wronged, and very innocent. 
 1st Off. Please, your excellency, 
 
 Pablo, in terror of the rack, confesses, — 
 Feb. Pablo 's the rogue and robber. 
 1st Off. He confesses 
 
 Himself participant in the robbery — 
 Cab. He lies, base knave! 
 1st Off. And charges, with his oath, 
 
 This man, Antonio, and the broker's son 
 
 Ramon, to be his principals. 
 Palm. Just heaven ! 
 
 And I have wronged thee, Febro? 
 Feb. Pablo 's a rogue ! 
 
 <What, Ramon f Ramon rob me? Ra- 
 mon, my son !> 
 
 I warn your highness, Pablo is a rogue, 
 
 Not to be trusted. 
 Cab. An atrocious rogue — 
 
 A rogue foresworn — and moved to this 
 invention 
 
 By terror of the wheel. 
 Fran. Brother, confess — 
 
 Ram. Away — 
 
 Fran. Confess, and save thy father's 
 life- 
 Repair the wrongs which thou hast done 
 him. 
 Feb. Sirrah, 
 
 What dost thou mean? 
 Fran. What, not a word? Oh, heaven. 
 
 Look down with pity on my father now! 
 
 Oh, now, your highness, spare my broth- 
 er's life. 
 
 For he is guilty of the robbery. 
 <Cab. Hark to the cub I — next he accuses 
 
 me.> 
 Feb. Why, thou base boy, dost thou ac- 
 cuse thy brother? 
 
 Thy brother, wretch? 
 Fran. Father, I do; forgive me. 
 
 Feb. I curse thee, devil! 
 Fran. Oh, curse me not, my father — 
 
 I charge him to save thee— Hear me, my 
 father — 
 
 Thou know'st this rosary — 
 Feb. 'T is Ramon's — ay — 
 
 It was his mother's, and to keep her ever 
 
 Before his eyes — his pure and holy 
 
 mother — 
 With mine own hands I hung it round 
 
 his neck. 
 To be tlie talisman of his memory. 
 Fran. Father, this found I in the vault. 
 Feb. The vault! 
 
 Ramon! my son! My Ramon! — 
 Ram. Guilty! guilty! 
 
 Give me to death — for I have killed my 
 
 father ! 
 I am the robber and the parricide — 
 The doomed and lost — the lost — oh, lost 
 forever! {Rushes out.) 
 
 Palm. Secure young Ramon: — This vile 
 Antonio too — 
 This devil-born destroyer of men's sons: 
 I '11 make him an example. Look to 
 
 them — 
 Have them in waiting. 
 
 (Cabarero is taken out. Mendoza 
 goes with them.) 
 Fy, how now, Baptista? 
 We have done thee wrong? 
 Feb. Well, boy, w^e will go home — 
 
 Confess and pray — Call Leonor! 
 Fran. Oh, father! 
 
 Palm. His wits are fled — oh, fate, these 
 thunderpeals 
 So flashing through the heart, have done 
 
 their work. 
 And the mind's temple tumbles into ruin. 
 Arouse thee, Febro ! Thy wealth shall be 
 
 restored — 
 Lucas, the miner, hath his pit recovered. 
 And paj^s thee back a golden recom- 
 pense. 
 Fran. He thinks no more of that. 
 Palm. Thy daughter, Febro! 
 
 Feb. I '11 have you moan for this ! 
 Palm. Thou shalt have justice. 
 
 (Leonor is brought in.) 
 Behold thy daughter! Thou shalt have 
 justice full. 
 Feb. My child! my child! 
 Leon. Dear father! {Kneels.) 
 
 Feb. man of stone! 
 
 Was I not wo enough, but you must steal 
 My seraph from me? 
 Palm. Name thou his punishment. 
 If it be death, the knave shall die. 
 Fern. {Kneeling.) Forgive me! 
 
 I could not speak while Febro seemed a 
 
 felon ; 
 Punish me now, since he is innocent. 
 I stole thy daughter, but I wronged her 
 
 not; 
 Sire, I deceived thee, but I am no vil- 
 lain — 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD 
 
 251 
 
 Revoke thy curse; and, father, bless my 
 wife! 
 Feb. Is it even so? thy wife? 
 Palm. Naught else is left 
 
 For reparation — I the rites acknowledge 
 And as my daughter here do welcome 
 her. 
 Feb. Thy wife! thy honored wife! — You 
 do receive her? 
 Why, now we shall be happy — Heaven 
 
 be thanked! 
 Ha, ha ! a noble husband for my daugh- 
 ter! 
 <A virtuous, honorable gentleman !> 
 I '11 make thee rich ! She 's worthy of a 
 
 king. — 
 Happy! happy! {A cry.) 
 
 (Re-enter Mendoza, with an officer.) 
 Men. Alas, your highness, Ramon — 
 Feb. Hah, Ramon! — Oh, thy white and 
 quivering lips 
 Speak a new horror! 
 
 Mex. Pitying his grief, 
 
 And agony gf mind, we led him forth 
 On the balcony, where, confessing 
 
 straight 
 In what dark corner he had hid the 
 
 gold, 
 0' the sudden, with a shriek of despera- 
 tion, 
 He flung him from the height — and — 
 Palm. Heaven ! 
 
 Men. So perished. 
 
 [Feb. God, God, God!] (Yebro falls.) 
 <Palm. What, Febro? Hast this last 
 blow cracked thy heart? 
 There comes no sin without its sequent 
 
 wo; — 
 No folly but begets its punishment; 
 And heaven, that strikes the malefactor 
 
 down. 
 Even with the greater culprits smites the 
 
 less — 
 The rigid sire and disobedient son. > 
 
TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 BY 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis 
 
TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 Tortesa the Usurer is a representative of the romantic comedy in verse. 
 While not nearly so frequently written as the verse tragedy, this form of play 
 had some notable examples, such as Boker's Betrothal. The author of Tortesa, 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis, was born in Portland, Maine, January 20, 1806, of 
 Puritan ancestry. He was educated at the Boston Latin School and graduated 
 from Yale College in 1827. While in college he wrote verse, much of it of a 
 religious character, which represented a phase of his development out of which 
 he later passed entirely. In 1831 he went to New York City and with George 
 R. ]\Iorris and Theodore S. Fay published the New York Mirror. The next five 
 years he spent in Europe and the East, meeting everywhere interesting people 
 and reflecting his experiences in letters to the Mirror which were published in his 
 Pencillings hy the Way (1835). After his return to this country in 1836 he 
 spent some time in Washington and lived for five years at Glenmary, a spot near 
 the head-waters of the Susquehanna River, where he wrote his Letters from 
 Under a Bridge (1839), probably the best of his prose work, and it was during 
 this most significant period of Willis's life that his plays were written. Financial 
 necessity compelled him to return to New York, however. In 1843 he became 
 editor of the New Mirror and in 1846 of the Home Journal. The last years of 
 his life were spent in a heroic effort to keep the Journal going, despite the draw- 
 back of ill health. One of the most appealing phases of our literary history 
 reflects his generosity toward the other writers of the time, especially toward 
 Poe. His defense of Poe which he published in the Home Journal as an answer 
 to Griswold's attack, is a fine example of true sympathy and understanding 
 combined with rare delicacy of expression. Willis died January 20, 1867. 
 
 His first play, Bianca Visconti, was written in competition for a prize offered 
 by Josephine Clifton for the best play suited to her talents. It was first played 
 at the Park Theatre, New York, August 25, 1837, and was performed afterward 
 in Boston and Philadelphia. It was played as late as May, 1852, by Miss M. 
 Davenport in Philadelphia. It is a verse tragedy, laid in Milan in the fourteenth 
 century, and is based on the history of the real Francesco Sforza w^ho married 
 the natural daughter of Philip Visconti and later became Duke of Milan. In 
 the same year, November 29, 1837, Miss Clifton produced a comedy by Willis, 
 called The Kentiichy Heiress, which w^as not successful. 
 
 Tortesa the Usurer was written for James W. Wallack, who produced it at 
 the National Theatre in New York, April 8, 1839, playing ''Tortesa." It was 
 
 255 
 
256 INTRODUCTION 
 
 very successful and was considered by Wallack to contain one of his best parts. 
 When after the burning of the National Theatre in 1839 the elder Wallack re- 
 turned for a time to England, he produced Tortesa at the Surrey Theatre, 
 London, in August, 1839. He afterward played "Tortesa" frequently, and the 
 first professional appearance of Lester Wallack, his son, was in the character 
 of "Angelo" when he supported his father in this English tour. In this country 
 the play was acted as far south as IMobile, Alabama, where E. S. Connor played 
 *'Angelo" in 1845, the part he had acted with Wallack in 1839. 
 
 In character delineation, in the use of practical stage devices, and in the 
 manner in which the playwright has, without making the language stilted, placed 
 such excellent poetry in the mouths of the characters, Tortesa the Usurer is note- 
 worthy. The influence of Romeo and Juliet and of The Winter's Tale is probably 
 sufficiently evident. The direct source of the play goes back to the Florentine 
 story of Genevra degli Amieri, who was married to Francesco Agolanti while in 
 love with Antonio Rondinelli, and who apparently died and was buried.^ Coming 
 to life during the night she escaped from the vault and was refused admittance 
 by her husband, her father and her uncle, all of whom thought she was a spirit. 
 She then went to Antonio 's house and w^as tenderly and considerately treated by 
 him. They were afterwards married, the former marriage being annulled. The 
 story, which suggested merely the main outlines of one incident in the play, is to 
 be found in the story of La Sepolta Viva, by Domenico Maria ]\Ianni, translated 
 by Thomas Roscoe in his Italian Novelists, London, 1825, vol. 4. Eugene Scribe 
 wrote an opera on the theme with the title of Guido et Genevra ou La Teste de 
 Florence, played and published in 1838. This is so different from Willis's play 
 that it is unlikely that he used it as a source, unless he took the idea of Genevra 
 rising from the tomb from it instead of from the Italian. Scribe made Guido a 
 sculptor, but his art plays no part in the play as in Angelo's case. Shelley 
 also used the theme in his fragment, Genevra. 
 
 Tortesa the Usurer and Bianca Yisconti were published in 1839 in New York^ 
 and also in London. They are now hard to obtain. For references to the plays, 
 see Ireland, Records of the Neiv York Stage, Vol. 2, p. 283; Lester Wallack, 
 Memories of Fifty Years, New York, 1889, p. 35. For the Life of Willis, see 
 Henry H. Beers, Nathaniel Parker Willis, American Men of Letters Series, Bos- 
 ton, 1893, and for an interesting criticism of Tortesa, see Poe's articles in Bur- 
 ton's Gentleman's Magazine, August, 1839, later expanded and incorporated in a 
 discussion of The American Drama, in the American Whig Eevieiv, August, 1845. 
 They are to be found in vol. 10, p. 27, and vol. 13, p. 33, of the Virginia edition 
 of Poe's works. 
 
TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 A FHsiy, 
 
 BY N. P. NA^ILLIS. 
 
 NEW-YORKs 
 
 PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL COLMAN, 
 
 BROADWAY 
 
 1839. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAE 
 
 [National Theatre, New York City, April 8, 1839.] 
 
 Duke of Florence j\Ir. Rogers 
 
 Count Falcone Mr. T. Matthews 
 
 ToRTESA, — a usurer ]\Ir. AA^allack 
 
 Angelo, — a young painter Mr. Conner 
 
 ToMASO, — his servant Mr. Lambert 
 
 Isabella De Falcone Miss Monier 
 
 ZiPPA, — a Glover 's daughter Mrs. W. Sef ton 
 
 Other characters — a Counsellor, a page, the Count's Secretary, a Tradesman, 
 a Monk, Lords, Ladies, Officer, Soldiers, etc. 
 
TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. (A drawing-room in Tortesa's 
 house. Servant discovered reading the 
 bill of a tradesman, who is in attend- 
 ance.) 
 
 Servant (reading). "Silk hose, doublet 
 of white satin, twelve shirts of lawn." 
 He '11 not pay it to-day, good mercer ! 
 
 Tradesman. How, master Gaspar*? When 
 I was assured of the gold on delivery *? 
 If it be a credit account, look you, there 
 must be a new bill. The charge is for 
 ready money. 
 
 Servant. Tut — tut — man, you know not 
 w4iom you serve. My master is as likely 
 to overpay you if you are civil, as to 
 keep you a year out of your money if 
 you push him when he is cross'd. 
 
 Tradesman. Why, this is the humor of a 
 spendthrift, not the careful way of a 
 usurer. 
 
 Servant. Usurer! humph. Well, it may 
 be he is — to the rich ! But the heart of 
 the Signor Tortesa, let me tell you, is 
 like the bird's wing — the dark side is 
 turned upwards. To those who look up 
 to him he shows neither spot nor stain. 
 Hark! I hear his wheels in the court. 
 Step to the ante-room — for he has 
 that on his hands to-day which may 
 make him impatient. Quick! Give 
 way ! I '11 bring you to him if I can 
 find a time. 
 
 Tortesa {speaking without). What ho! 
 Gaspar ! 
 
 Servant. Signor ! 
 
 Tortesa. My keys ! Bring me my keys ! 
 
 {Enter Tortesa, followed hy Count 
 Falcone. ) 
 
 Come in. Count. 
 Falcone. You 're well lodged. 
 
 Tortesa. The Duke waits for you 
 
 To get to horse. So, briefly, there 's the 
 
 deed! 
 You have your lands back, and your 
 
 daughter 's mine — 
 So ran the bargain ! 
 Falcone {coldly), SWshetrotWd^^iv, 
 to you! 
 
 Tortesa. Not a half hour since, and you 
 
 hold the parchment ! 
 A free transaction, see you ! — for you 're 
 
 paid, 
 And I 'm but promised! 
 Falcone {aside). (What a slave is this, 
 To give my daughter to! My daughter? 
 
 Psha! 
 I '11 think but of my lands, my precious 
 
 lands!) 
 Sir, the Duke sets forth — 
 Tortesa. Use no ceremony! 
 
 Yet stay! A word! Our nuptials fol- 
 low quick 
 On your return? 
 Falcone. That hour, if it so please you ! 
 Tortesa. And what 's the bargain if her 
 
 humor change? 
 Falcone. The lands are yours again— 't is 
 
 understood so. 
 Tortesa. Yet, still a word! You leave 
 
 her with her maids. 
 I have a right in her by this betrothal. 
 Seal your door up till you come back 
 
 again ! 
 I 'd have no f oplings tampering with my 
 
 wife ! 
 None of your painted jackdaws from the 
 
 court. 
 Sneering and pitying her! My lord 
 
 Falcone ! 
 Shall she be private? 
 Falcone {aside). (Patience! for my 
 
 lands!) 
 You shall control my door, sir, and my 
 
 daughter ! 
 Farewell now! {Exit Falcone.) 
 
 Tortesa. Oh, omnipotence of money! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! Why, there 's the haughtiest 
 
 nobleman 
 That walks in Florence. Re! — whom I 
 
 have bearded — 
 Checked— made conditions to — shut up 
 
 his daughter — 
 And all with money! They should pull 
 
 down churches 
 And worship it! Had I been poor, that 
 
 man 
 Would see me rot ere give his hand to me^ 
 I — as I stand here — dress' d thus — look- 
 thus — ■■ 
 
 259 
 
 mg 
 
 The same in 
 purse—; 
 
 All — save money in my 
 
260 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 He would have scorn 'd to let me come so 
 near 
 
 That I could breathe on him! Yet, that 
 were little — 
 
 For pride sometimes outdoes humility, 
 
 And your great man will please to be 
 familiar, 
 
 To show how he can stoop. But halt you 
 there ! 
 
 He has a jewel that you may not name! 
 
 His wife 's above you ! You 're no com- 
 pany 
 
 For his most noble daughter! You are 
 brave — 
 
 'T is nothing! comely — nothing! honor- 
 able — 
 
 You are a phoenix of all human virtues — 
 
 But, while your blood's mean, there's a 
 frozen bar 
 
 Betwixt you and a lady, that will melt — 
 
 Not with religion — scarcely with the 
 grave — 
 
 But like a mist, with money! 
 
 {Enter a Servant.) 
 
 Servant, Please you, sir! 
 
 A tradesman waits to see you ! 
 ToRTESA. Let him in ! 
 
 {Exit Servant.) 
 What need have I of forty generations 
 To build my name up? I have bought 
 
 with money 
 The fairest daughter of their haughtiest 
 
 line! 
 Bought her! Falcone's daughter for so 
 
 much! 
 No wooing in't! Ha! ha! I harp'd on 
 
 that 
 Till my lord winced! "My bargain!" 
 
 still "my bargain." 
 Nought of my hride! Ha! ha! 'T was 
 
 excellent ! 
 
 {Enter Tradesman.) 
 
 What's thy demand? 
 Tradesman. Ten ducats, please your 
 
 lordship ! 
 ToRTESA. Out on "your lordship !" There 
 are twelve for ten! 
 Does a lord pay like that? Learn some 
 
 name sweeter 
 To my ears than "Your lordship !" I 'm 
 
 no lord! 
 Give me thy quittance! Now, begone! 
 Who waits? 
 Servant. The Glover's daughter, please 
 you, sir ! 
 
 {Enter Zippa.) 
 
 ToRTESA. Come in, 
 
 My pretty neighbor! What! my bridal 
 
 gloves ! 
 Are they brought home? 
 Zippa. The signor pays so well, 
 
 He 's well served. 
 ToRTESA. Um ! why, pertinently answered ! 
 And yet, my pretty one, the words were 
 
 sweeter 
 In any mouth than yours ! 
 Zippa. That's easy true! 
 
 ToRTESA. I would 'twere liking that had 
 spurr'd your service — 
 Not money, Zippa, sweet ! 
 
 {She presents her parcel to him, with 
 a meaning air.) 
 Zippa. Your bridal gloves, sir! 
 
 ToRTESA {aside). (What a fair shrew it 
 is!) My gloves are paid for! 
 And will be thrown aside when worn a 
 little. 
 Zippa. What then, sir! 
 ToRTESA. Why, the bride is paid for, too ! 
 And may be thrown aside, when worn a 
 little! 
 Zippa. You mock me now ! 
 ToRTESA. You know Falcone's palace. 
 
 And lands, here, by Fiesole? I bought 
 
 them 
 For so much money of his creditors. 
 And gave them to him, in a plain, round 
 
 bargain. 
 For his proud daughter! What think 
 you of that? 
 Zippa. What else but that you loved her! 
 ToRTESA. As 1 love 
 
 The thing I give my money for — no more ! 
 Zippa. You mean to love her? 
 ToRTESA. 'T was not in the bargain ! 
 
 Zippa. Why, what a monster do you make 
 yourself ! 
 Have you no heart ? ^ 
 
 Tortesa. a loving one, for you ! 
 
 Nay, never frown! I marry this lord's 
 
 daughter 
 To please a devil that inhabits me ! 
 But there's an angel in me — not so 
 
 strong — 
 And this last loves you ! 
 Zippa. ' Thanks for your weak angel I 
 
 I 'd sooner 't w^ere the devil ! 
 Tortesa. Both were yours ! 
 
 But for the burning fever that I have 
 To pluck at their proud blood. 
 Zippa. Why, this poor lady 
 
 Cannot have harm'd you ! 
 Tortesa. Forty thousand times ! 
 
 She 's noble-born — there 's one wrong in 
 her cradle! 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 261 
 
 She 's proud — why, that makes every 
 pulse an insult — 
 
 Sixty a minute ! She 's profuse in smiles 
 
 On those who are, to me, as stars to glow- 
 worms — 
 
 So I 'm disparaged ! I have pass'd her 
 
 by, 
 
 Summer and winter, and she ne'er looked 
 on me! 
 
 Her youth has been one tissue of eon- 
 tempt ! 
 
 Her lovers, and her tutors, and her heart, 
 
 Taught her to scorn the low-born — that 
 am I! 
 
 Would you have more ? 
 ZiPPA. Why, this is moon-struck 
 
 madness. 
 ToRTESA. I 'd have her mine, for all this — 
 jewell'd, perfumed — 
 
 Just as they 've w^orshipped her at court 
 — my slave ! 
 
 They 've mewed her breath up in their 
 silken beds — 
 
 Blanch'd her wdth baths — fed her on deli- 
 cate food — 
 
 Guarded the unsunn'd dew upon her 
 skin— 
 
 For some lord's pleasure ! If I could not 
 get her. 
 
 There 's a contempt in that, would make 
 my forehead 
 
 Hot in my grave ! 
 ZiPPA. {Aside.) (Now Heaven forbid 
 
 mi I fingers 
 
 Should make your bridal gloves!) For- 
 give me, Signer ! 
 
 I '11 take these back, so please you ! 
 
 {Takes up the parcel again.) 
 TORTESA. {Not listening to her.) But 
 
 for this — 
 
 This devil at my heart, thou should'st 
 have wedded 
 
 The richest commoner in Florence, Zippa ! 
 
 Tell me thou wouldst ! 
 ZiPPA. {Aside.) (Stay! stay! A 
 
 thought ! If I 
 
 Could feign to love him, and so work on 
 him 
 
 To put this match oif . and at last to break 
 it— 
 
 'T is possible — and so befriend this lady, 
 
 Whom, from my soul, I pity! Nay, I 
 will!) 
 
 Signor Tortesa! 
 ToRTESA. You 've been dreaming now, 
 
 How you would brave it in your lady- 
 gear ; 
 
 Was't not so"? 
 
 /4PPA. 
 
 No. 
 
 Tortesa. What then"? 
 
 Zippa. ^ I had a thought, 
 
 If I dare speak it. 
 Tortesa. Nay, nay, speak it out ! 
 
 Zippa. I had forgot your riches, and I 
 thought 
 How lost you were ! 
 Tortesa. How lost? 
 
 Zippa. Your qualities. 
 
 Which far outweigh your treasure, 
 
 thrown away 
 On one who does not love you ! 
 Tortesa. Thrown away*? 
 
 Zippa. Is it not so to have a gallant shape. 
 And no eye to be proud on 't — to be 
 
 full 
 Of all that makes men dangerous to 
 
 women. 
 And marry where you 're scorn'd ? 
 Tortesa. There 's reason there ! 
 
 Zippa. You 're wise in meaner riches ! 
 You have gold, 
 'T is out at interest ! — lands, palaces. 
 They bring in rent. The gifts of nature 
 
 only, 
 Worth to you, Signor, more than all your 
 
 gold, 
 Lie profitless and idle. Your fine stat- 
 ure — 
 Tortesa. Why — so, so ! 
 Zippa. Speaking eyes — 
 
 Tortesa. Ay— passable ! 
 
 Zippa. Your voice, uncommon musical — 
 Tortesa. Nay, there, 
 
 I think you may be honest ! 
 Zippa. And your look. 
 
 In all points lofty, like a gentleman ! 
 {Aside.) (That last must choke him !) 
 Tortesa. You 've a judgment, 
 
 Zippa, 
 That makes me wonder at you ! We are 
 
 both 
 Above our breeding — I have often 
 
 thought so — 
 And lov'd you — but to-day so more than 
 
 ever. 
 That my revenge must have drunk up my 
 
 life, 
 To still sweep over it. But w4ien I think 
 Upon that proud lord and his scornful 
 
 daughter — 
 I say not you 're forgot — myself am 
 
 lost — 
 And love and memory with me ! I must 
 
 go 
 And visit her ! I '11 see you to the door — 
 Come, Zippa, come ! 
 Zippa. {Aside.) (I, too, will visit 
 
 her! 
 
 ^ 
 
262 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 You 're a brave Signer, but against two 
 
 women 
 You '11 find your wits all wanted ! ) 
 ToRTESA. Come away! 
 
 I must look on my bargain ! my good bar- 
 
 gam i 
 Ha ! ha ! my bargain! 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. {The Painter's Studio. Angelo 
 painting. Tomaso in the foreground, ar- 
 ranging a meagre repast.) 
 
 Tomaso. A thriee-pick'd bone, a stale 
 crust, and — excellent water ! Will you to 
 breakfast. Master Angelo 1 
 
 Angelo. Look on this touch, good Tomaso, 
 if it be not life itself— [Draws him before 
 his easel.) Now, what think'st thou? 
 
 Tomaso. Um — fair! fair enough! 
 
 Angelo. No more"? 
 
 Tomaso. Till it mend my breakfast, I will 
 never praise it! Fill me up that out- 
 line, Master Angelo! {Takes up the 
 naked bone.) Color me that water! To 
 what end dost thou dabble there? 
 
 Angelo. I am weary of telling thee to 
 what end. Have patience, Tomaso ! 
 
 Tomaso. {C oaxingly .) Would'st thou but 
 paint the goldsmith a sign, now, in good 
 fair letters ! 
 
 Angelo. Have I no genius for the art, 
 think'stthou? 
 
 Tomaso. - T/iowf ha!ha! 
 
 Angelo. By thy laughing, thou wouldst 
 say no ! 
 
 Tomaso. Thou a genius! Look! Master 
 Angelo ! Have I not seen thee every day 
 since thou wert no bigger than thy pencil ? 
 
 Angelo. And if thou hast? 
 
 Tomaso. Do I not know thee from crown 
 to heel?. Dost thou not come in at that 
 door as I do? — sit down in that chair as I 
 do? — eat, drink, and sleep, as I do? 
 Dost thou not call me Tomaso, and I thee 
 Angelo ? 
 
 Angelo. Well? 
 
 Tomaso. Then how canst thou have 
 genius? Are there no marks? Would I 
 clap thee on the back, and say good mor- 
 row? Nay, look thee ! would I stand here 
 telling thee in my wisdom what thou art, 
 if thou wert a genius? Go to. Master 
 Angelo! I love thee well, but thou art 
 comprehensible ! 
 
 Angelo. But think'st thou never of my 
 works, Tomaso? 
 
 Tomaso. Thy works ! Do I not grind thy 
 paints'? Do I not see thee take up thy 
 
 palette, place thy foot thus, and dab 
 here, dab there? I tell thee thou hast 
 never done stroke yet, I could not take 
 the same brush and do after thee. Thy 
 works, truly ! 
 
 Angelo. How think'st thou would Dona-< 
 tello paint, if he were here? 
 
 Tomaso. Donatello! I will endeavor to 
 show thee! {Takes the palette and 
 brush with a mysterious air.) The pic- 
 ture should be there! His pencil, 
 {Throws down Angelo's pencil, and 
 seizes a broom.) his pencil should be as 
 long as this broom! He should raise it 
 thus — with his eyes rolling thus — and 
 with his body thrown back thus ! 
 
 Angelo. What then? 
 
 Tomaso. Then he should see something in 
 the air — a sort of a hm-ha-r-r-rrrr-(you 
 understand.) And he first strides off 
 here and looks at it — then he strides off 
 there and looks at it — then he looks at his 
 long brush — then he makes a dab! dash! 
 flash! {Makes three strokes across 
 Angelo's picture.) 
 
 Angelo. Villain, my picture! Tomaso! 
 {Seizes his sword.) With thy accursed 
 broom thou hast spoiled a picture Dona- 
 tello could ne'er have painted! Say thy 
 prayers, for, by the Virgin ! — 
 
 Tomaso. Murder ! murder ! help ! Oh, my 
 good master ! Oh, my kind master ! 
 
 Angelo. Wilt say thy prayers, or die a 
 sinner? Quick! or thou 'rt dead ere 'tis 
 thought on ! 
 
 Tomaso. Help ! help ! mercy ! oh mercy ! 
 
 {Enter the Duke hastily, followed by 
 Falcone and attendants.) 
 
 Duke. Who calls so loudly? What! 
 
 drawn swords at mid-day? 
 
 Disarm him ! Now, what mad-cap youth 
 
 art thou ? ( To Angelo. ) 
 
 To fright this peaceful artist from his 
 
 toil? 
 Rise up, sir ! ( To Tomaso. ) 
 
 Angelo. (Aside.) (Could my luckless 
 
 star have brought 
 The Duke here at no other time!) 
 Duke. (Looking round on the pictures.) 
 
 Why, here 's 
 Matter worth stumbling on ! By Jove, a 
 
 picture 
 Of admirable work! Look here, Fal« 
 
 cone ! 
 Did'st think there was a hand unknpwn in 
 
 Florence 
 Could lay o» color with a skill like this? 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 263 
 
 ToMASO. {Aside to Angelo.) Did'st 
 
 thou hear that? 
 (Duke and Falcone admire the pic- 
 tures in dumb show.) 
 Angelo. {Aside to Tomaso.) (The 
 
 palette 's on thy thumb — 
 Swear 't is thy work ! ) 
 ToiiASO. Mine, master'? 
 
 Angelo. Seest thou not 
 
 The shadow of my fault will fall upon it 
 While I stand here a culprit *? The Duke 
 
 loves thee 
 As one whom he has chanc'd to serve at 
 
 need, 
 And kindness mends the light upon a pic- 
 ture, 
 I know that well ! 
 Falcoxe. {To Tomaso.) The Duke 
 
 would know your name. Sir ! 
 Tomaso. {As Angelo pulls him hy the 
 sleeve. ) Tom — Angelo, my lord ! 
 
 Duke. ( To Falcone.) We 've fallen 
 
 here 
 Upon a treasure ! 
 Falcone. 'Twai a lucky chance 
 
 That led you in, my lord ? 
 Duke. I blush to think 
 
 That I might ne'er have found such ex- 
 cellence 
 But for a chance cry, thus! Yet now 
 
 't is found 
 I '11 cherish it, believe me. 
 Falcone. 'T is a duty 
 
 Your Grace is never slow to. 
 Duke. I 've a thought — 
 
 If you '11 consent to it *? 
 Falcone. Before 't is spoken. 
 
 My gracious liege ! 
 Duke. You know^ how well my 
 
 duchess 
 Loves your fair daughter. Not as maid 
 
 of honor 
 Lost to our service, but as parting child. 
 We grieve to lose her. 
 Falcone. My good lord ! 
 
 Duke. Nay, nay — 
 
 She is betroth'd now, and you needs must 
 
 wed her ! 
 My thought was, to surprise my grieving 
 
 duchess 
 With a resemblance of your daughter, 
 
 done 
 By this rare hand, here. 'T is a thought 
 
 well found, 
 You '11 say it is ! 
 Falcone. {Hesitating.) Your Grace is 
 bound away 
 On a brief journey. Were 't not best put 
 oft 
 
 Till our return? 
 Duke. {Laughing.) I see you fear to 
 
 let 
 The sun shine on your rose-bud till she 
 
 bloom 
 Fairly in wedlock. But this painter, see 
 
 you, 
 
 Is an old man, of a poor, timid bearing, 
 And may be trusted to look close upon 
 
 her. 
 Come, come ! I '11 have my way ! Good 
 Angelo, {To Tomaso.) 
 
 A pen and ink! And you, my lord Fal- 
 cone! 
 Write a brief missive to your gentle 
 
 daughter 
 T' admit him privately. 
 Falcone. I will, Duke. 
 
 {Writes.) 
 
 Angelo. {Aside.) (Now 
 
 Shall I go back or forwards'? If he 
 
 writes 
 Admit this Angelo, why, I ^m he, 
 And that rare phoenix, hidden from the 
 
 world. 
 Sits to my burning pencil. She's a 
 
 beauty 
 Without a parallel, they say in Florence. 
 Her picture '11 be remembered ! Let the 
 
 Duke 
 Rend me with horses, it shall ne'er be said 
 I dared not pluck at Fortune ! ) 
 Tomaso. {Aside to At^GEhO.) Signor! 
 Angelo. (Hush! 
 
 Betray me, and I '11 kill thee !) 
 Duke. Angelo ! 
 
 Angelo. {Aside to Tomaso.) Speak, or 
 
 thou diest ! 
 Tomaso. {To the Duke.) My lord! 
 Duke. Thou hast grown old 
 
 In the attainment of an excellence 
 Well worth thy time and study. The 
 
 clear touch, 
 Won only by the patient toil of years. 
 Is on. your fair works yonder. 
 Tomaso. {Astonished.) Those, my 
 
 lord? 
 Duke. I shame I never saw them until 
 now, 
 But here 's a new beginning. Take this 
 
 missive 
 From Count Falcone to his peerless 
 
 daughter. 
 I 'd have a picture of her for my palace. 
 Paint me her beauty as I know you can, 
 And as you do it well, my favor to you 
 Shall make up for the past. 
 Tomaso. (As Angelo pulls his sleeve.) 
 Your Grace i? kind ! 
 
264 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 Duke. For this rude youth, name you his 
 
 punishment! ( Twrws io Angelo.) 
 
 His sword was drawn upon an unarm'd 
 
 man. 
 He shall be fined, or, as you please, im- 
 prisoned. 
 Speak! 
 TOMASO. If your Grace would bid him 
 
 pay— 
 Duke. What sum? 
 
 ToMASO. Some twenty flasks of wine, my 
 gracious liege. 
 If it so please you. 'T is a thriftless 
 
 servant 
 I keep for love I bore to his dead father. 
 But all his faults are nothing to a thirst 
 That sucks my cellar drv ! 
 Duke. "^He 's well let off ! 
 
 Write out a bond to pay of your first 
 
 gains 
 The twenty flasks ! 
 AxGELO. Most willingly, my 
 
 liege. ( Writes. ) 
 
 Duke. (To Tomaso.) Are you content '? 
 ToiiASO. Your Grace, I am ! 
 
 Duke. Come then ! 
 
 Once more to horse! Nay, nay, man, 
 
 look not black ! 
 Unless your daughter were a wine-flask, 
 
 trust me 
 There 's no fear of the painter ! 
 Falcone. So I think, 
 
 And you shall rule me. 'T is the rough- 
 est shell 
 Hides the good pearl. Adieu, Sir ! 
 
 {To TOMASO.) 
 
 {Exeunt Duke and Falcone. Ax- 
 gelo seizes the missive from Tomaso, 
 and strides up and down the stage, 
 reading it exultingly. After looking 
 at him a moment, Tomaso does the 
 same with the bond for the twenty 
 flasks. ) 
 Axgelo. Give the letter ! 
 
 Oh, here is golden opportunity — . 
 
 The ladder at my foot, the prize above, 
 
 And angels beckoning upwards. I will 
 paint 
 
 A picture now, that in the eyes of men 
 
 Shall live like loving daylight. They 
 shall cease 
 
 To praise it for the ' constant glory of 
 it. 
 
 There's not a stone built in the palace 
 wall 
 
 But shall let thro' the light of it, and 
 Florence 
 
 Shall be a place of pilgrimage for ever 
 
 To see the work of low-born Angelo. 
 
 Oh, that the world were made without a 
 
 night, 
 That I could toil while in my fingers play 
 This dexterous lightning, wasted so in 
 
 sleep. 
 I '11 out, and muse how I shall paint this 
 
 beauty, 
 So, wile the night away. {Exit.) 
 
 Tomaso. {Coming forward with his bond.) 
 Prejudice aside, that is a pleasant-looking 
 piece of paper! {Holds it off, and re- 
 gards it with a pleased air.) Your bond 
 to pay, now, is an ill-visaged rascal — you 
 would know him across a church — nay — 
 with the wind fair, smell him a good 
 league! But this has, in some sort, a 
 smile. It is not like other paper. It 
 reads mellifluously. Your name is in the 
 right end of it for music. Let me dwell 
 upon it! {Unfolds it, and reads.) "I, 
 Tomaso, promise to pay" — stay! "I, 
 Tomaso, — I, Tomaso, promise to pay to 
 Angelo, my master, twenty flasks of 
 wine!" {Rubs his eyes, and turns the 
 note over and over.) There 's a damnable 
 twist in it that spoils all. ^' I, Tomaso," 
 — why, that 's I. And "I promise to 
 13ay" — Now, I promise no such thing! 
 {Turns it upside down, and after trying 
 in vain to alter the reading, tears it in 
 two.) There are some men that cannot 
 write ten words in their own language 
 without a blunder. Out, filthy scraps. 
 If the Glover's daughter have not com- 
 passion upon me, I die of thirst ! I '11 
 seek her out ! A pest on ignorance ! 
 {Pulls his hat sulkily over his eyes, and 
 
 walks off.) 
 
 Scene 3. An Apartment in the Falcone 
 Palace. 
 
 (Angelo discovered listening.) 
 
 Angelo. Did I hear footsteps'? {He lis- 
 tens.) Fancy plays me tricks 
 
 In my impatience for this lovely wonder ! 
 
 That window 's to the north. The light 
 falls cool. 
 
 I '11 set my easel here, and sketch her — 
 Stay! 
 
 How shall I do thaf? Is she proud or 
 sweet ? 
 
 Will she sit silent, or converse and smile? 
 
 Will she be vexed or pleased to have a 
 stranger 
 
 Pry through her beauty for the soul 
 that 'sin it? 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 265 
 
 Nay, then I hear a footstep — she is here ! 
 
 {Enter Isabella, reading her father's 
 missive.) 
 
 Isabella. ''The Duke would have your pic- 
 ture for the duchess 
 Done by this rude man, Angelo! Re- 
 ceive him 
 With modest privacy, and let your kind- 
 ness 
 Be measured by his merit, not his garb." 
 Angelo. Fair lady ! 
 Isabella. Who speaks? 
 Angelo. Angelo ! 
 
 Isabella. You 've come, Sir, 
 
 To paint a dull face, trust me ! 
 Angelo. (Aside.) (Beautiful, 
 
 Beyond all dreaming!) 
 Isabella. I 've no smiles to show you. 
 
 Not ev'n a mock one ! Shall I sit ? 
 Angelo. No, lady! 
 
 I '11 steal your beauty while you move, as 
 
 well! 
 So you but breathe, the air still brings to 
 
 me 
 That which outdoes all pencilling. 
 Isabella. {Walking apart.) His voice 
 Is not a rude one. What a fate is mine, 
 When ev'n the chance words on a poor 
 
 youth's tongue, 
 Contrasted with the voice which I should 
 
 love, 
 Seems rich and musical ! 
 Angelo. {To himself, as he draws.) How 
 like a swan. 
 Drooping his small head to a lily-cup, 
 She curves that neck of pliant ivory ! 
 I '11 paint her thus I 
 Isabella. {Aside.) Forgetful where 
 
 he is, 
 He thinks aloud. This is, perhaps, the 
 
 rudeness 
 My father fear'd might anger me. 
 Angelo. What color 
 
 Can match the clear red of those glorious 
 
 lips'? 
 Say it were possible to trace the arches. 
 Shaped like the drawn bow of the god of 
 
 love- 
 How tint them, after"? 
 Isabella. Still, he thinks not of me. 
 
 But murmurs to his picture. 'T were 
 
 sweet praise. 
 Were it a lover whispering it. I '11 listen. 
 As I walk, still. 
 A.NGELO. They say, a cloudy veil 
 
 Hangs ever at the crystal-gate of heaven. 
 To bar the issue of its blinding glory. 
 So droop those silken lashes to an eye 
 
 Mortal could never paint ! 
 Isabella. " There 's flattery, 
 
 Would draw down angels ! 
 Angelo. Now, what alchymy 
 
 Can mock the rose and lily of her cheek ! 
 I must look closer on 't ! {Advancing.) 
 
 Fair lady, please you, 
 I '11 venture to your side. 
 Isabella. Sir ! 
 
 Angelo. {Examining her cheek.) There's 
 a mixture 
 Of white and red here, that defeats my 
 
 skill. 
 If you '11 forgive me, I '11 observe an in- 
 stant. 
 How the bright blood and the transparent 
 
 pearl 
 Melt to each other ! 
 Isabella. {Receding from him.) You're 
 
 too free, Sir ! 
 Angelo. {With surprise.) Madam! 
 
 Isabella. {Aside.) And yet, I think not 
 so. He must look on it. 
 To paint it well, 
 Angelo. Lady ! the daylight 's precious ! 
 Pray you, turn to me! In my studj'-, 
 
 here, 
 I 've tried to fancy how that ivory shoul- 
 der 
 Leads the white light off from your arch- 
 ing neck. 
 But cannot, for the envious sleeve that 
 
 hides it. 
 Please you, displace it ! 
 
 {Raises his hand to the sleeve.) 
 Isabella. Sir, you are too bold ! 
 
 Angelo. Pardon me, lady ! Nature's mas- 
 terpiece 
 Should be beyond your hiding, or my 
 
 , praise ! 
 Were you less marvellous, I were too 
 
 bold; 
 But there 's a pure divinity in beauty, 
 Which the true eye of art looks on with 
 
 reverence. 
 Though, like the angels, it were all un- 
 clad! 
 You have no right to hide it ! 
 Isabella. How? No right? 
 
 Angelo. 'T is the religion of our art, fair 
 madam ! 
 That, by oft looking on the type divine 
 In which we first were moulded, men re- 
 member 
 The heav'n they 're born to ! You 've an 
 
 errand here. 
 To show how look the angels. But, as 
 
 Vestals 
 Cherish the sacred fire, yet let the priest 
 
266 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 Light bis lamp at it for a thousand altars, 
 So is your beauty uiiassoiled. though I 
 Ravish a copy for the shut-out world! 
 Isabella. {Aside.) Here is the wooing 
 
 that should win a maid! 
 Bold, yet respectful — free, yet full of 
 
 honor ! 
 I never saw a youth with gentler eyes ; 
 I never heard a voice that pleased me 
 
 more; 
 Let me look on him? 
 
 {Enter ToRTESA, unperceived.) 
 
 Angelo. In a form like yours, 
 
 All parts are perfect, madam! yet, un- 
 seen. 
 Impossible to fancy. With your leave 
 I '11 see your hand unglov'd. 
 Isabella. {Removing her glove.) I 
 
 have no heart 
 To keep it from you, signor ! There it is ! 
 Angelo. {Taking it in his own.) Oh, 
 
 God! how beautiful thy works may 
 
 be! 
 Inimitably perfect ! Let me look 
 Close on the tracery of these azure veins ! 
 With what a delicate and fragile thread 
 They weave their subtle mesh beneath the 
 
 skin. 
 And meet, all blushing, in these rosy 
 
 nails ! 
 How soft the texture of these tapering 
 
 fingers ! 
 How exquisite the wrist! How perfect 
 
 all! {ToRTESA rushes forward.) 
 
 ToRTESA. Now have I heard enough! 
 
 Why, what are you. 
 To palm the hand of my betrothed bride 
 With this licentious freedom? (Angelo 
 
 turns composedly to his work.) And 
 
 you, madam ! 
 With a first troth scares cold upon your 
 
 lips- - 
 Is this your chastity ? 
 Isabella. My father's roof 
 
 Is over me ! I 'm not your wife ! 
 ToRTESA. Bought ! paid for ! 
 
 The wedding toward — have I no right in 
 
 you? 
 Your father, at my wish, bade you be 
 
 private ; 
 Is this obedience ? 
 Isabella. Count Falcone's will 
 
 Has, to his daughter, ever been a law; 
 This, in prosperity — and now, when 
 
 chance 
 Frowns on his broken fortunes, I were 
 
 dead 
 To love and pity, were not soul and body 
 
 Spent for his smallest need! I did eon- 
 sent 
 To wed his ruthless creditor for this ! 
 I would have sprung into the sea, the 
 
 grave. 
 As questionless and soon! My troth is 
 
 yours ! 
 But I 'm not wedded yet, and till I am. 
 The hallowed honor that protects a maid 
 Is round me, like a circle of bright 
 
 fire! 
 A savage would not cross it — nor shall 
 
 you! 
 I ^m mistress of my presence. Leave me, 
 
 Sir! 
 ToRTESA. There 's a possession of some 
 
 lordly acres 
 Sold to Falcone for that lily hand ! 
 The deed ^s delivered, and the hand 's my 
 
 own! 
 I '11 see that no man looks on 't. 
 Isabella. Shall a lady 
 
 Bid you begone twice? 
 Tortesa, Twenty times, if 't please 
 
 you! 
 {She looks at Angelo, icho continues 
 
 tranquilly painting.) 
 Isabella. Does he not wear a sword? Is 
 
 he a coward. 
 That he can hear this man heap insult 
 
 on me. 
 And ne'er fall on him? 
 Tortesa. Lady ! to your chamber ! 
 
 I have a touch to give this picture, here, 
 But want no model for 't. Come, come. 
 {Offers to take her by the arm.) 
 Isabella. Stand back! 
 
 Now, will he see this wretch lay hands on 
 
 me, 
 And never speak? He cannot be a cow- 
 ard! 
 No, no ! some other reason — not a coward ! 
 I could not love a coward ! 
 Tortesa. If you will. 
 
 Stay where you 're better miss'd — 't is at 
 
 your pleasure; 
 I '11 hew your kisses from the saucy lips 
 Of this bold painter — look on 't, if you 
 
 will! 
 And first, to mar his picture ! 
 
 {He strikes at the canvas, when An- 
 gelo suddenly draws, attacks, and 
 
 disarms him.) 
 Angelo. Hold! What wouldst 
 
 thou? 
 Pool! madman! dog! What wouldst 
 
 thou with my pictare? 
 Speak! — But thy life would not bring 
 
 back a ray 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 267 
 
 Of precious daylight, and I cannot waste 
 it! 
 
 Begone! begone! {Throws Tortesa's 
 sword from the window, and returns 
 to his picture.) I'll back to para- 
 dise! 
 
 'T was this touch that he marr'd ! So ! 
 fair again ! 
 TORTESA. {Going out.) I'll find you, Sir, 
 when I 'm in cooler blood ! 
 
 And, madam, you! or Count Falcone for 
 you. 
 
 Shall rue this scorn! {Exit.) 
 
 Isabella. {Looking at AngeijO.) Lost 
 
 in his work once more! 
 
 I shall be jealous of my very picture ! 
 
 Yet one who can forget his passions so — 
 
 Peril his life, and, losing scarce a breath, 
 
 Turn to his high, ambitious toil again — 
 
 Must have a heart for whose belated wak- 
 ing 
 
 Queens might keep vigil! 
 Angelo. Twilight falls, fair lady! 
 
 I must give o'er! Pray heaven, the 
 downy wing 
 
 Of its most loving angel guard your 
 beauty ! 
 
 Good night ! 
 Isabella. Good night! 
 
 {She looks after him a moment, and 
 then walks thoughtfully of the 
 stage. ) 
 
 END OP THE FIRST ACT. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. (Tomaso discovered sitting at his 
 supper, ivith a bottle of water before 
 him. ) 
 
 Tomaso. Water! {Sips a little with a 
 grimace.) I think, since the world was 
 drowned in it, it has tasted of sinners. 
 The pious throat refuses it. Other habits 
 grow pleasant with use — but the drinking 
 of water lessens the liking of it. Now, 
 why should not some rivers run wme"? 
 There are varieties in the eatables — will 
 any wise man tell me why there should 
 be but one drinkable in nature — and that 
 water? My mind's made up — it's the 
 curse of transgression. {A rap at the 
 door. ) Come in ! 
 
 {Enter Zippa, with a basket and 
 bottle.) 
 
 Zippa. Good even, Tomaso ! 
 
 Tomaso. Zippa! I had a presentiment — 
 
 Zippa. What! of my coming? 
 
 Tomaso. No— of thy bottle! Look! I 
 was stinting myself in water to leave 
 room ! 
 
 Zippa. The reason is superfluous. There 
 would be room in thee for wine, if thou 
 wert drowned in the sea. 
 
 Tomaso. God forbid! 
 
 Zippa. What — that thou shouldst be 
 drowned ? 
 
 Tomaso. No — but that bemg drowned, I 
 should have room for wine. 
 
 Zippa. Why, now ?— why ? 
 
 Tomaso. If I had room for wine, I should 
 w^ant it — and to want wine in the bottom 
 of the sea, were a plague of Sodom. 
 
 Zippa. Where 's Angelo ? 
 
 Tomaso. What's in thy bottle? Show! 
 Show ! 
 
 Zippa. Tell me where he is — ^what he has 
 done since yesterday — what thought on — 
 what said — how he has looked, and if he 
 still loves me; and when thou art thirsty 
 with truth-telling — (dry work for such a 
 liar as thou art,) — thou shalt learn what 
 is in my bottle ! 
 
 Tomaso. Nay — learning be hanged ! 
 
 Zippa. So says the fool ! 
 
 Tomaso. Speak advisedly! Was not 
 Adam blest till he knew good and evil? 
 
 Zippa. Right for once. 
 
 Tomaso. Then he lost Paradise by too 
 much learning. 
 
 Zippa. Ha! ha! Hadst thou been con- 
 sulted, we should still be there ! 
 
 Tomaso. Snug ! I would have had my in- 
 heritance in a small vineyard ! 
 
 Zippa. Tell me what I ask of thee, 
 
 Tomaso. Thou shalt have a piece of news 
 for a cup of wine — pay and take — till thy 
 bottle be dry! 
 
 Zippa. Come on, then! and if thou must 
 lie, let it be flattery. That 's soonest for- 
 given. 
 
 Tomaso. And last forgotten! Pour out! 
 {She pours a cup full, and gives him.) 
 The Duke was here yesterday. — 
 
 Zippa. Lie the first ! 
 
 Tomaso. And made much of my master's 
 pictures. 
 
 Zippa. Nay — that would have made two 
 good lies. Thou 'rt prodigal of stuff ! 
 
 Tomaso. Pay two glasses, then, and square 
 the reckoning! 
 
 Zippa. Come ! Lie the third ! 
 
 Tomaso. What wilt thou wager it 's a lie, 
 that Angelo is painting a court lady for 
 the duchess? 
 
268 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 ZIPPA. Oh, Lord ! Take the bottle ! They 
 say there 's truth in wine — but as truth is 
 impossible to thee, drink thyself, at least, 
 down to probabilities! 
 
 ToMASO. Look you there ! When was vir- 
 tue encouraged f Here have I been tell- 
 ing- God's truth, and it goes for a lie. 
 Hang virtue ! Produce thy cold chicken, 
 and I '11 tell thee a lie for the wings and 
 two for the side-bones and breast. {Of- 
 fers to take the chicken.) 
 
 ZiPPA. Stay ! stay ! It 's for thy master, 
 thou glutton! 
 
 ToMASO. Who 's ill a-bed, and forbid meat. 
 (Angelo enters.) I would have told thee 
 so before, but feared to grieve thee. 
 (She would have a lie!) 
 
 ZiPPA. {Starting up.) 111! Angelo ill! 
 Is he very ill, good Tomaso'? 
 
 ToMASO. Very! {Seizes the chicken, as 
 Angelo claps him on the shoulder.) 
 
 Angelo. Will thy tricks never end*? 
 
 ToMASO. Ehem! ehem! {Thrusts the 
 chicken into his pocket.) 
 
 Angelo. How art thou, Zippa? 
 
 ZiPPA. Well, dear Angelo! {Giving him 
 her hand.) And thou wert not ill, in- 
 deed? 
 
 Angelo. Never better, by the test of a 
 true hand! I have done work to-day, I 
 trust will be remembered ! 
 
 ZiPPA. Is it true it 's a fair lady *? 
 
 Angelo. A lady with a face so angelical, 
 Zippa, that — 
 
 ZiPPA. That thou didst forget mine? 
 
 Angelo. In truth, I forgot there was such 
 a thing as a world, and so forgot all in it. 
 I was in heaven ! 
 
 ToMASO. {Aside, as he picks the leg of 
 the chicken.) (Prosperity is excellent 
 whitewash, and her love is an old 
 score ! ) 
 
 Zippa. {Bitterly.) 1 am glad thou wert 
 pleased, Angelo ! — very glad ! 
 
 ToMASO. {Aside.) (Glad as an eel to be 
 fried.) 
 
 Zippa. {Aside.) ("In Heaven," was he! 
 If I pay him not that, may my brains rot ! 
 By what right, loving me, is he "in 
 Heaven" with another?) 
 
 ToMASO. {Aside.) (No more wine and 
 cold chicken from that quarter!) 
 
 Zippa. {Aside.) (Tortesa loves me, and 
 my false game may be played true. If 
 he wed not Falcone's daughter, he will 
 wed me, and so I am revenged on this 
 fickle Angelo! I have the heart to do 
 it!) 
 
 Angelo. What dost thou muse on, Zippa ? 
 
 Zippa. On one I love better than thee, Sig- 
 
 nor 
 
 Angelo. What, angry? {Seizes his pen- 
 cil.) Hold there till I sketch thee! By 
 Jove, thou 'rt not half so pretty when 
 thou 'rt pleased ! 
 
 Zippa. Adieu, Signor! your mockery will 
 have an end! {Goes out with an angry 
 air. ) 
 
 Angelo. What! gone? Nay, I'll come 
 with thee, if thou 'rt in earnest! What 
 whim's this? {Takes up his hat.) Ho, 
 Zippa! {Follows in pursuit.) 
 
 ToMASO. {Pulls the chicken from his 
 pocket.) Come forth, last of the chick- 
 ens! She will ne'er forgive him, and so 
 ends the succession of cold fowl! One 
 glass to its memory, and then to bed! 
 {Drinks, and takes up the candle.) A 
 woman is generally unsafe — but a jealous 
 one spoils all confidence in drink. 
 
 {Exit, muttering.) 
 
 Scene 2. {An Apartment in the Falcone 
 Palace. Enter Servant, shewing in 
 Zippa.) 
 
 Servant. Wait here, if 't please you! 
 Zippa. Thanks! {Exit Servant.) 
 
 My heart misgives me! 
 'T is a bold errand I am come upon — 
 And I a stranger to her! Yet, per- 
 chance 
 She needs a friend — the proudest do 
 
 sometimes — 
 And mean ones may be welcome. Look! 
 she comes ! 
 Isabella. You wished to speak with me ? 
 Zippa. I did — but now 
 
 My memory is crept into my eyes ; 
 I cannot think for gazing on your beauty ! 
 Pardon me, lady ! 
 Isabella. You 're too fair yourself 
 
 To find my face a wonder. Speak! 
 Who are you? 
 Zippa. Zippa, the Glover's daughter, and 
 
 your friend ! 
 Isabella. My' friend ? 
 Zippa. I said so. You 're a noble lady 
 
 And I a low-born maid — yet I have come 
 To offer you my friendship. 
 Isabella. This seems strange ! 
 
 Zippa. I '11 make it less so, if you '11 give 
 
 me leave. 
 Isabella. You '11 please me ! 
 Zippa. Briefly — for the time is precious 
 To me as well as you — I have a lover. 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 269 
 
 A true one, as I think, who yet finds bold- 
 ness 
 To seek your hand in marriage. 
 Isabella. How *? We 're rivals ! 
 
 ZiPPA. Tortesa loves me, and for that I 'd 
 wed him. 
 Yet I 'm not sure I love him more than 
 
 you— 
 And you must hate him. 
 Isabella. So far freely spoken — 
 
 What was your thought in coming to me 
 now? 
 Zippa. To mar your match with him, and 
 
 so make mine ! 
 Isabella. Why, free again! Yet, as you 
 love him not 
 'T is strange you seek to wed him! 
 Zippa. Oh, no, madam ! 
 
 Woman loves once unthinkingly. The 
 
 heart 
 Is born with her first love, and, new to 
 
 Breathes to the first wind its delicious 
 
 sweetness. 
 But gets none hack! So comes its bitter 
 
 wisdom ! 
 When next we think of love, 't is who 
 
 loves us! 
 I said Tortesa loved me ! 
 Isabella. You shall have him 
 
 With all my heart! See — I'm your 
 
 friend already ! 
 And friends are equals. So approach, 
 
 and tell me. 
 What was this first love like, that you 
 
 discourse 
 So prettily upon? 
 Zippa. {Aside.) (Dear Angelo! 
 
 'T will be a happiness to talk of him!) 
 I loved a youth, kind madam ! far beneath 
 The notice of your eyes, unknown and 
 
 poor. 
 Isabella. A handsome youth? 
 Zippa. Indeed, I thought him so ! 
 
 But you would not. I loved him out of 
 
 pity; 
 
 No one cared for him. 
 Isabella. Was he so forlorn ? 
 
 Zippa. He was our neighbor, and I knew 
 his toil 
 Was almost profitless ; and 't was a pleas- 
 ure 
 To fill my basket from our wasteful 
 
 table, 
 And steal, at eve, to sup with him. 
 Isabella. {Smiling.) Why, that 
 
 Was charity, indeed! He loved you for 
 
 it- 
 Was 't not so ? 
 
 Zippa. He was like a brother to me — 
 
 The kindest Jbrother sister ever had. 
 I built my hopes upon his gentleness : 
 He had no other quality to love. 
 Th' ambitious change — so do the fiery- 
 hearted : 
 The lowly are more constant. 
 Isabella. And yet, he 
 
 Was, after all, a false one? 
 Zippa. Nay, dear lady ! 
 
 I '11 check my story there ! 'T would end 
 
 in anger. 
 Perhaps in tears. If I am not too bold, 
 Tell me, in turn, of all your worship- 
 pers — 
 Was there ne'er one that pleased you ? 
 Isabella. {Aside.) (Now could I 
 
 Prate to this humble maid, of Angelo, 
 Till matins rang again!) My gentle 
 
 Zippa ! 
 I have found all men prompt to talk of 
 
 love. 
 Save only one. I will confess to you. 
 For that one could I die ! Yet, so unlike 
 Your faithless lover must I draw his pic- 
 ture. 
 That you will wonder how such opposites 
 Could both be loved of women. 
 Zippa. Was he fair, 
 
 Or brown? 
 Isabella. In truth, I marked not his com- 
 plexion. 
 Zippa. Tall? 
 
 Isabella. That I know not. 
 
 Zippa. Well — robust, or slight? 
 
 Isabella. I cannot tell, indeed! I heard 
 him speak — 
 Looked in his eyes, and saw him calm and 
 
 angered — 
 And see him now, in fancy, standing 
 
 there — 
 Yet know not limb or feature ! 
 Zippa. You but saw 
 
 A shadow, lady ! 
 Isabella. Nay — I saw a soul! 
 
 His eyes were light with it. The fore- 
 head lay 
 Above their fires in calm tranquillity, 
 As the sky sleeps o'er thunder-clouds. 
 
 His look 
 Was mixed of these — earnest, and yet 
 
 subdued — 
 Gentle, yet passionate — sometimes half 
 
 god-like 
 In its command, then mild and sweet 
 
 again, 
 Like a stern angel taught humility ! 
 Oh ! when he spoke, my heart stole out to 
 him! 
 
270 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 There was a spirit-echo in his voice — 
 A sound of thought — of under-j:)laying 
 
 music — 
 As if, before it ceased in human ears, 
 The echo was caught up in fairy-land ! 
 ZiPPA. Was he a courtier, madam"? 
 Isabella. He 's as lowly 
 
 In birth and fortunes, as your false one, 
 
 Zippa ! 
 Yet rich in genius, and of that ambition, 
 That he '11 outlast nobility with fame. 
 Have you seen such a man? 
 Zippa. Alas ! sweet lady ! 
 
 My life is humble, and such wondrous 
 
 men 
 Are far above my knowing. I could wish 
 To see one ere I died ! 
 Isabella. You shall, believe me ! 
 
 But while we talk of lovers, we forget 
 In how brief time you are to win a hus- 
 band. 
 Come to my chamber, Zippa, and I '11 see 
 How with your little net you '11 snare a 
 
 bird 
 Fierce as this rude Tortesa! 
 Zippa. We will find 
 
 A way, dear lady, if we die for it ! 
 Isabella. Shall we'? Come with me, 
 then! {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. {An apartment in the Falcone 
 Palace. Tortesa alone waiting the re- 
 turn of the Count.) 
 
 Tortesa. {Musing.) There are some lux- 
 uries too rich for purchase. 
 
 Your soul, 't is said, will buy them, of the 
 devil — 
 
 Money 's too poor ! What would I not 
 give, now. 
 
 That I could scorn what I can hate and 
 ruin! 
 
 Scorn is the priceless luxury ! In heaven, 
 
 The angels pity. They are blest to do so ; 
 
 For, pitying, they look down. We do 't 
 by scorn! 
 
 There lies the privilege of noble birth ! — 
 
 The jewel of that bloated toad is scorn! 
 
 You may take all else from him. You — 
 being mean — 
 
 May get his palaces — may wed his daugh- 
 ter — 
 
 Sleep in his bed — have all his peacock 
 menials 
 
 Watching your least glance, as they did 
 "my lord's"; 
 
 And, well-possess'd thus, you may pass 
 him by 
 
 On his own horse; and while the vulgar 
 crowd 
 
 Gape at your trappings, and scarce look 
 on him — 
 
 He, in his rags, and starving for a crust — 
 
 You '11 feel his scorn, through twenty 
 coats of mail, 
 
 Hot as a sun-stroke ! Yet there 's some- 
 thing for us ! 
 
 Til' archangel fiend, when driven forth 
 from heaven, 
 
 Put on the serpent, and found sweet re- 
 venge 
 
 Trailing his slime through Eden! So 
 Willi! 
 
 {Enter Falcone, booted and spurred.) 
 
 Falcone. Good morrow, signor. 
 Tortesa. Well-arrived, my lord! 
 
 How sped your riding"? 
 Falcone. Fairly ! Has my daughter 
 
 Left you alone"? 
 Tortesa. She knows that I am here. 
 
 Nay — she '11 come presently ! A word in 
 private. 
 
 Since we 're alone, my lord ! 
 Falcone. I listen, signor! 
 
 Tortesa. Your honor, as I think, out- 
 weighs a bond"? 
 Falcone. 'T was never questioned. 
 Tortesa. On your simple word. 
 
 And such more weight as hangs upon the 
 troth 
 
 Of a capricious woman, I gave up 
 
 A deed of lands to you. 
 Falcone. You did, 
 
 Tortesa. To be 
 
 Forfeit, and mine again— the match nqt 
 made"? 
 Falcone. How if you marr'd it"? 
 Tortesa. I? I 'm not a boy ! 
 
 What I would yesterday, I will to-day! 
 
 I 'm not a lover — 
 Falcone. How "? So near your bridal, 
 
 And not a lover"? Shame, sir! 
 Tortesa. My lord count. 
 
 You take me for a fool ! 
 Falcone. Is 't like a fool 
 
 To love a high-born lady, and your bride"? 
 Tortesa, Yes; a thrice-sodden fool — if it 
 were I ! 
 
 I 'm not a mate for her — you know I am 
 not! 
 
 You knoAv that, in her heart, your 
 haughty daughter 
 
 Scorns me — ineffably! 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 Falcone. You seek occasion 
 
 To slight her, signor? 
 ToRTESA. No ! I '11 maiTy her 
 
 If all the pride that cast down Lucifer 
 
 Lie in her bridal-ring! But, mark me 
 still! 
 
 I 'm not one of your humble citizens. 
 
 To bring my money-bags and make you 
 rich — 
 
 That, when we walk together, I may take 
 
 Your shadow for my own ! These limbs 
 are clay — 
 
 Poor, common clay, my lord! And she 
 that weds me. 
 
 Comes down to my estate. 
 Falcone. By this you mean not 
 
 To shut her from her friends'? 
 ToRTESA. You '11 see your daughter 
 
 By coming to my house — not else ! D' ye 
 think 
 
 I '11 have a carriage to convey my wife 
 
 Where she will hear me laughed at? — 
 buy fine horses 
 
 To prance a measure to the mocking jeers 
 
 Of fools that ride with her*? Nay — keep 
 a table 
 
 Where I 'm the skeleton that mars the 
 feast? 
 
 No, no — no, no! 
 Falcone. {Aside.) (With half the prov- 
 ocation, 
 
 I w^ould, ere now, have struck an em- 
 peror ! 
 
 But baser pangs make this endurable. 
 
 I'm poor — so patience!) What was it 
 beside 
 
 You would have said to me? 
 ToRTESA. But this: Your daughter 
 
 Has, in your absence, covered me with 
 scorn ! 
 
 We'll not talk of it — if the match goes 
 on, 
 
 I care not to remember it! {Aside.) 
 {She shall— 
 
 And bitterly!) 
 Falcone. {Aside.) (My poor, poor Isa- 
 bella ! 
 
 The task was too much !) 
 Tortesa. There 's a cost of feeling— 
 
 You may not think it much — I reckon it 
 
 A thousand pounds per day — in playing 
 thus 
 
 The suitor to a lady cramm'd with pride ! 
 
 I 've writ you out a bond to pay me for it ! 
 
 See here ! — to pay me for my shame and 
 pains, 
 
 If I should lose your daughter for a wife, 
 
 A thousand pounds per day — dog cheap 
 at that! 
 
 Sign it, my lord, or give me back my 
 
 deeds, ^ 
 And traffic cease between us ! 
 Falcone. Is this earnest. 
 
 Or are you mad or trifling? Do I not 
 Give you my daughter with an open 
 
 hand? 
 Are you betroth'd, or no ? 
 
 {Enter a Servant.) 
 
 Who's this? 
 Servant. A page 
 
 Sent from the Duke. 
 Falcone. Admit him ! 
 
 {Enter Page, with a letter.) 
 
 Page. For my lord, 
 
 The Count Falcone. 
 Tortesa. {Aside.) (In a moment more 
 I would have made a bond of such as- 
 surance 
 Her father on his knees should bid me 
 take her. 
 {Looking at Falcone, who smiles as he 
 reads. ) 
 What glads him now?) 
 Falcone. You shall not have the bond ! 
 Tortesa. No? {Aside.) (Here 's a change! 
 What hint from Duke or devil 
 Stirs him to this ? ) My lord, 't were best 
 
 the bridal 
 Took place upon the instant. Is your 
 
 daughter 
 Ready within? 
 Falcone. You '11 never wed my daughter ! 
 
 {Enter Isabella.) 
 
 Tortesa. My lord ! 
 
 Falcone. She 's fitlier mated ! Here she 
 comes ! 
 My lofty Isabella ! My fair child ! 
 How dost thou, sweet ? 
 Isabella. {Embracing him.) Come home, 
 and I not know it! 
 Art well? I see thou art! Hast ridden 
 
 hard? 
 My dear, dear father! 
 Falcone. Give me breath to tell thee 
 
 Some better news, my lov'd one ! 
 Isabella. Nay, the joy 
 
 To see you back again 's enough for now. 
 There can be no news better, and for this 
 Let 's keep a holiday twixt this and sun- 
 set! 
 Shut up your letter, and come see my 
 flowers, 
 
272 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 And hear my birds sing, will you"? 
 
 Falcone. Look, my darling, 
 
 Upon this first! (Holds up the letter.) 
 
 Isabella. No ! you shall tell me all 
 
 You and the Duke did — where you slept, 
 
 where ate, 
 Whether you dream'd of me — and, now I 
 
 think on 't. 
 Found you no wild-flowers as you cross'd 
 the mountains'? 
 Falcoxe. My own bright child! (Looks 
 
 fondly upon her.) 
 Tortesa. (Aside.) ('T will mar your 
 
 joy, my lord! 
 To see the Glover's daughter in your 
 
 palace, 
 And your proud daughter houseless !) 
 Falcone. (To Isabella.) You '11 not 
 
 hear 
 The news I have for you? 
 Tortesa. (Advancing.) Before you tell it, 
 
 I '11 take my own again! 
 Isabella. (Aside.) (Tortesa here!) 
 
 (Curtseys.) 
 
 1 crave your pardon, sir ; I saw you not ! 
 
 (Oh, hateful monster!) (Aside.) 
 
 Falcone. Listen to my news, 
 
 Signor Tortesa! It concerns you, trust 
 
 me! 
 
 Isabella. (Aside.) (More of this hateful 
 
 marriage ! ) 
 Tortesa. Tell it briefly. 
 
 My time is precious ! 
 Falcone. Sir, I '11 sum it up 
 
 In twenty words. The Duke has infor- 
 mation. 
 By what means yet I know not, that my 
 
 need 
 Spurs me to marry an unwilling daugh- 
 ter. 
 He bars the match! — redeems my lands 
 
 and palace, 
 And has enrich'd the yomig Count 
 
 Julian, 
 For whom he bids me keep my daughter's 
 
 hand ! 
 Kind, royal master! (Reads the note to 
 himself. ) 
 Isabella. (Aside.) (Never.) 
 
 Tortesa. (Aside, with suppressed rage.) 
 
 ('Tis a lie! 
 He 's mad, or plays some trick to gain the 
 
 time — 
 Or there 's a woman hatching deviltry ! 
 We'll see.) (Looks at Isabella.) 
 
 Isabella. (Aside.) (I '11 die first! Sold 
 and taken back, 
 Then thrust upon a husband paid to take 
 me I 
 
 To save my father I have weigh'd my- 
 self, 
 Heart, hand, and honor, against so much 
 
 land!— 
 I — Isabella ! I 'm not hawk nor hound, 
 And, if I change my master, I will choose 
 him! 
 Tortesa. (Aside.) She seems not over- 
 pleased ! 
 Page. Your pardon. Count ! 
 
 I wait your answer to the Duke ! 
 Falcone. My daughter 
 
 Shall give it you herself. W^hat sweet 
 
 phrase have you, 
 Grateful and eloquent, to bear your 
 
 thanks? 
 Speak, Isabella ! 
 Isabella. (Aside.) (There's but one way 
 left! 
 Courage, poor heart, and think on An- 
 gelo ! ) 
 
 (Advances suddenly to Tortesa.) 
 Signor Tortesa ! 
 Tortesa. Madam ! 
 
 Isabella. There 's my hand ! 
 
 Is 't yours, or no? 
 Tortesa. There was a troth between us ! 
 Isabella. Is 't broke? 
 Tortesa. I have not broke it ! 
 
 Isabella. Then w4iy stand you 
 
 Mute as a statue, when 't is struck asun- 
 der 
 Without our wish or knowledge? Would 
 
 you be 
 Half so indifferent had you lost a horse? 
 Am I worth having? 
 Tortesa. Is my life worth having? 
 
 Isabella. Then are you robb'd ! Look to 
 
 it! 
 Falcone. Is she mad? 
 Tortesa. You '11 marry me? 
 Isabella. I will! 
 
 Falcone. By heaven you shall not ! 
 
 What, shall my daughter wed a leprosy — 
 A bloated money-canker? Leave her 
 
 hand! 
 Stand from him, Isabella ! 
 Isabella. Sir! you gave me 
 
 This "leper" for a husband, three days 
 
 gone; 
 I did not ask my heart if I could love 
 
 him! 
 I took him with the meekness of a child. 
 Trusting my father! I was shut up for 
 
 him — 
 Forc'd to receive no other company — 
 My wedding-clothes made, and the match 
 
 proclaim'd 
 Through Florence! 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 273 
 
 Falcone. Do you love him? — tell me 
 
 quickly ! 
 Isabella. You never ask'd me that when 
 
 I was bid 
 To wed him! 
 Falcone. I am dumb ! 
 
 ToRTESA. Ha ! ha ! well put ! 
 
 At him again, ^Bel! Well! I've had 
 
 misgivings 
 That there was food in me for ladies' 
 
 liking. 
 I 've been too modest ! 
 Isabella (aside). (Monster of disgust !) 
 Falcone. My daughter! I would speak 
 
 with you in private! 
 
 Signor! you'll pardon me. 
 
 Isabella. Go you, dear father! 
 
 I'll follow straight. {Exit Falcone.) 
 
 ToRTESA {aside). . (She loiters for a kiss! 
 
 They 're all alike ! The same trick woos 
 
 them all!) 
 Come to me, 'Bel! 
 Isabella {coldly). Tomorrow at this hour 
 You '11 find the priest here, and the brides- 
 maids waiting. 
 Till then, adieu! (Exit.) 
 
 ToRTESA. Hola! what, gone? Why, 
 
 Bella ! 
 Sweetheart ! I say ! So ! She would 
 
 coy it with me ! 
 Well, well, to-morrow ! 'T is not long, 
 
 and kisses 
 Pay interest by seconds ! There's a leg! 
 As she stood there, the calf shewed hand- 
 somely. 
 Faith, 't is a shapely one ! I wonder 
 
 now, 
 Which of my points she finds most ad- 
 mirable ! 
 Something I never thought on, like as 
 
 not. 
 We do not see ourselves as others see 
 
 us. 
 'T would not surprise me now, if 't were 
 
 my beard — 
 My forehead ! I 've a hand indifferent 
 
 white ! 
 Nay, I 've been told my waist was neatly 
 
 turn'd. 
 We do not see ourselves as others see us ! 
 How goes the hour? I'll home and fit 
 
 my hose 
 To tie trim for the morrow. {Going 
 
 out.) Hem! the door's 
 Lofty. I like that! I will have mine 
 
 raised. 
 Your low door makes one stoop ! {Exit.) 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. 
 
 (Angelo discovered in his studio, painting 
 upon the picture of Isabella.) 
 
 Angelo. My soul is drunk with gazing on 
 
 this face. 
 I reel and faint with it. In what sweet 
 
 world 
 Have I traced all its lineaments before? 
 I know them. Like a troop of long-lost 
 
 friends. 
 My pencil wakes them with its eager 
 
 touch. 
 And they spring up, rejoicing. Oh, I '11 
 
 gem 
 The heaven of Fame with my irradiate 
 
 pictures, 
 Like kindling planets — but this glorious 
 
 one 
 Shall be their herald, like the evening 
 
 star, 
 First-lit, and lending of its fire to all. 
 The day fades — but the lamp burns on 
 
 within me. 
 My bosom has no dark, no sleep, no 
 
 change 
 To dream or calm oblivion. I work on 
 When my hand stops. The light tints 
 
 fade. Good night. 
 Fair image of the fairest thing on earth, 
 Bright Isabella ! 
 
 {Leans on the rod with which he guides 
 
 his hand, and remains looking at his 
 
 picture.) 
 
 (Enter Tomaso, with two hags of money.) 
 
 ToMASO. For the most excellent painter, 
 Angelo, two hundred ducats ! The genius 
 of my master flashes upon me. The 
 duke's greeting and two hundred ducats! 
 If I should not have died in my blind- 
 ness but for this eye-water, may I be 
 hanged. {Looks at Angelo.) He is 
 studying his picture. What an air there 
 is about him — lofty, unlike the vulgar! 
 Two hundred ducats! (Observes An- 
 GELo's hat on the table.) It strikes me 
 now that I can see genius in that hat. 
 It is not like a common hat. Not like 
 a bought hat. The rim turns to the 
 crown with an intelligence. {Weighs the 
 ducats in his hand.) Good heavy ducats. 
 What it is to refresh the vision ! I have 
 looked round, ere now, in this very 
 chamber, and fancied that the furniture 
 expressed a melancholy dulness. When 
 
274 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 he bath talked to me of his pictures, I 
 have seen the chairs smile. Nay, as if 
 shamed to listen, the very table has looked 
 foolish. Now, all about me expresseth 
 a choice peculiarity — as you would say, 
 how like a genius to have such chairs! 
 What a painter-like table! Two hun- 
 dred ducats! 
 
 AxGELO. What hast thou for supper"? 
 
 ToMASO. Two hundred ducats, my great 
 master. 
 
 Angelo (absently). A cup of wine! 
 Wine, Tomaso! (Sits down.) 
 
 ToMASO. (So would the great Donatello 
 have sat upon his chair! His legs thus! 
 His hand falling thus!) (Aloud.) 
 There is nought in die cellar but stale 
 beer, my illustrious master! (Now, it 
 strikes me that his shadow is unlike an- 
 other man's — of a pink tinge, somehow — 
 yet that may be fancy.) 
 
 Angelo. Hast thou no money? Get wine, 
 I say! 
 
 Tomaso. I saw the duke in the market- 
 place, who called me Angelo (we shall 
 rue that trick yet), and with a gracious 
 smile asked me if thou hadst paid the 
 twenty flasks. 
 
 Angelo [not listening). Is there no wine"? 
 
 Tomaso. I said to his grace, no! Pray 
 mark the sequel: In pity of my thirst, 
 the duke sends me two — ahem! one hun- 
 dred ducats. Here they are ! 
 
 Angelo. Didst thou say the wine was on 
 the lees? 
 
 Tomaso. With these fifty ducats we shall 
 buy nothing but wine. (He will be rich 
 with fifty.) 
 
 Angelo. What saidst thou? 
 
 Tomaso. I spoke of twenty ducats sent 
 thee by the duke. Wilt thou finger them 
 ere one is spent? 
 
 Angelo. I asked thee for wine — I am 
 parched. 
 
 Tomaso. Of these ten ducats, think'st 
 thou we might spend one for a flask of 
 better quality? 
 
 Angelo. Lend me a ducat, if thou hast 
 one, and buy wine presently. Go! 
 
 Tomaso. I'll lend it thee, willingly, my 
 illustrious master. It is my last, but as 
 much mine as thine. 
 
 Angelo. Go! Go! 
 
 Tomaso. Yet wait ! There 's a scrap of 
 news. Falcone's daughter marries Tor- 
 tesa, the usurer. To-morrow is the 
 bridal. 
 
 Angelo. How ? 
 
 Tomaso. I learned it in the market-place! 
 
 There will be rare doings! 
 Angelo. Dog! Villain! Thou hast lied? 
 
 Thou dar'st not say it ! 
 Tomaso. Hey! Art thou mad? Nay — 
 borrow thy ducat where thou canst ! I '11 
 spend that's my own. Adieu, master! 
 {Exit Tomaso, and enter Tortesa with 
 a complacent smile.) 
 Angelo. Ha ! — well arrived ! 
 
 (Draws his sword.) 
 Tortesa. Good eve, good Signor Painter. 
 Angelo. You struck me yesterday. 
 Tortesa. I harmed your picture — ' 
 
 For which I 'm truly sorry — but not you I 
 Angelo. Myself! myself! My picture is 
 myself ! 
 What are my bones that rot ? Is this my 
 
 hand?— 
 Is this my eye ? 
 Tortesa. I think so. 
 
 Angelo. No, I say ! 
 
 The hand and eye of Angelo are there ! 
 There — there — (Points to his pictures.) 
 — immortal ! Wound me in the flesh, 
 I will forgive you upon fair excuse. 
 'T is the earth round me — 't is my shell — 
 
 my house; 
 But in my picture lie my brain and 
 
 heart — 
 My soul — my fancy. For a blow at these 
 There 's no cold reparation. Draw, and 
 
 quickly ! 
 I 'm in the mood to fight it to the death. 
 Stand on your guard! 
 Tortesa. I will not fight with you. 
 
 Angelo. Coward ! 
 Tortesa. I'm deaf. 
 
 Angelo. Feel then ! 
 
 (Tortesa catches the blow as he strikes 
 him, and coldly flings back his hand.) 
 Tortesa. Nay, strike me not ! 
 
 I '11 call the guard, and cry out like a 
 woman. 
 Angelo (turning from him contemptu- 
 ously). What scent of dog's meat 
 brought me such a cur! 
 It is a whip I want, and not a sword. 
 Tortesa (folding his arms). I have a use 
 for life so far above 
 The stake you quarrel for, that you may 
 
 choose 
 Your words to please yourself. They'll 
 
 please me, too. 
 Yet you 're in luck. I killed a man on 
 
 Monday 
 For spitting on my shadow. Thursday's 
 
 sun 
 Will dry the insult, though it light on me! 
 Angelo. Oh, subtle coward ! 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 275 
 
 ToRTESA. I am what you will, 
 
 So I'm alive to marry on the morrow! 
 'T is well, by Jupiter! Shall you have 
 
 power 
 With half a breath to pluck from me a 
 
 wife ! 
 Shall I, against a life as poor as yours — 
 Mine being precious as the keys of 
 
 Heaven — 
 Set all upon a throw, and no odds 
 
 neither? 
 I know what honor is as well as you ! " 
 I know the weight and measure of an 
 
 insult — 
 What it is worth to take or fling it back. 
 I have the hand to fight if I've a mind; 
 And I 've a heart to shut my sunshine in, 
 And lock it from the scowling of the 
 
 world, 
 Though all mankind cry "Coward !" 
 Angelo. Mouthing braggart! 
 
 ToRTESA. I came to see my bride, my Isa- 
 bella ! 
 Show me her picture ! 
 
 {Advances to look for it.) 
 Angelo. Do but look upon 't, 
 
 By heaven's fair light, I '11 kill you ! 
 
 (Draics.) 
 
 ToRTESA. Soft, she 's mine ! 
 
 She loves me ! and with that to make life 
 
 precious, 
 I have the nerve to beat back Hercules, 
 If you were he ! 
 Angelo {attacking him). Out! Out! 
 
 thou shameless liar! 
 ToRTESA {retreating on the defence). Thy 
 blows and words fall pointless! 
 Nay, thou 'rt mad ! 
 But I '11 not harm thee for her picture's 
 sake! 
 Angelo. Liar! she hates thee! 
 
 {Beats him off the stage and returns, 
 closing the door violentlj/.) 
 
 So! once more alone! 
 
 {Takes Isabella's picture from the 
 
 easel, and replaces it with Zippa's.) 
 
 Back to the wall, deceitful loveliness! 
 
 And come forth, Zippa, fair in honest 
 
 truth ! 
 I '11 make thee beautiful ! 
 
 {Takes his pencil and palette to paint. 
 A knock is heard.) 
 
 Who knocks ? Come in ! 
 
 {Enter Isabella, disguised as a monk.) 
 
 Isabella. Good morrow, signor! 
 Angelo {turning sharphj to the monk). 
 
 There 's a face, old monk, 
 
 Might stir your blood — ha 1 You shall 
 
 tell me, i;ow, 
 Which of these heavenly features hides 
 
 the soul! 
 There is one! I have worked upon the 
 
 picture 
 Till my brain 's thick — I cannot see like 
 
 you. 
 Where is 't? 
 Isabella {aside). (A picture of the 
 Glover's daughter! 
 What does he, painting her!) Is 't for 
 
 its beauty 
 You paint that face, sir? 
 Angelo. Yes — th' immortal beauty ! 
 
 Look here! What see you in that face? 
 The skin— 
 Isabella. Brown as a vintage-girl's I 
 Angelo. The mouth — 
 
 Isabella. A good one 
 
 To eat and drink withal! 
 Angelo. The eye is — 
 
 Isabella. Grey I 
 
 You '11 buy a hundred like it for a penny ! 
 Angelo. A hundred eyes? 
 Isabella. No. Hazel-nuts ! 
 
 Angelo. The forehead- 
 
 How find you that? 
 Isabella. Why, made to match the rest ! 
 I '11 cut as good a face out of an apple — 
 For all that 's fair in it ! 
 Angelo. Oh, heaven, how dim 
 
 Were God's most blessed image did all 
 
 eyes 
 Look on 't like thine ! Is 't by the red 
 
 and white — 
 Is 't by the grain and tincture of the 
 
 skin — 
 Is 't by the hair's gloss, or the forehead's 
 
 arching. 
 You know the bright inhabitant? I tell 
 
 thee 
 The spark of their divinity in some 
 Lights up an inward face — so radiant. 
 The outward lineaments are like a veil 
 Floating before the sanctuary — forgot 
 In glimpses of the glory streaming 
 through ! 
 Isabella {mournfully). Is Zippa's face so 
 
 radiant ? 
 Angelo. Look upon it ! 
 
 You see thro' all the countenance she 's 
 true! 
 Isabella. True to you, signor! 
 Angelo. To herself, old man I 
 
 Yet once, to me, too! {Dejectedly.) 
 
 Isabella (asi<^e). (Once to him! Caxi 
 
 Zippa 
 Have dared to love a man like Angelo I 
 
276 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 I think she dare not. Yet if he, indeed, 
 Were the inconstant lover that she told 
 
 of— 
 The youth who was "her neighbor!") 
 
 Please you, signor! 
 Was that fair maid your neighbor? 
 Angelo. Ay — the best ! 
 
 A loving sister weie not half so kind! 
 I never supp'd without her company. 
 Yet she was modest as an unsunn'd lily. 
 And bounteous as the constant perfume 
 
 of it. 
 Isabella (aside). ('Twas he, indeed! 
 
 Oh ! what a fair outside 
 Has falsehood there! Yet stay! If it 
 
 were I 
 Who made him false to her? Alas, for 
 
 honor, 
 I must forgive him — tho' my lips are 
 
 w^eary 
 With telling Zippa how I thought him 
 
 perjured! 
 I cannot trust her more — I '11 plot 
 
 alone!) 
 [Turns, and takes her own picture from 
 
 the wall.) 
 Isabella. What picture's this, turned to 
 
 the wall, good signor? 
 AxGELO. A painted lie ! 
 Isabella. A lie! — nay — pardon me! 
 
 I spoke in haste. Methought 'twas like 
 
 a lady 
 I 'd somewhere seen ! — a lady — Isabella ! 
 But she was true! 
 Angelo. Then 't is not she I 've drawn. 
 
 For that 's a likeness of as false a face 
 As ever devil did his mischief under. 
 Isabella. And yet methinks 't is done 
 
 most lovingly! 
 You must have thought it fair to dwell 
 
 so on it. 
 Angelo. Your convent has the picture of 
 
 a saint 
 Tempted, while praying, by the shape of 
 
 woman. 
 The painter knew that woman was the 
 
 devil, 
 Yet drew her like an angel! 
 Isabella (aside). (It is true 
 
 He praised my beauty as a painter may — 
 No more — in words. He praised me as 
 
 he drew — 
 Feature l^y feature. But who calls the 
 
 lip 
 To answer for a perjured oath in love? 
 How should love breathe — how not die, 
 
 choked for utterance. 
 If words were all. He loved me with his 
 
 eyes. 
 
 He breathed it. Upon every word he 
 
 spoke 
 Hung an unuttered Avorship that his 
 
 tongue 
 Would spend a life to make articulate. 
 Did he not take my hand into his own? 
 And, as his heart sprang o'er that bridge 
 
 of veins. 
 Did he not call to mine to pass him on 
 
 it- 
 Each to the other's bosom ! I have sworn 
 To love him — wed him — die with him — 
 
 and yet 
 He never heard me — but he knows it well. 
 And, in his heart holds me to answer 
 
 for it. 
 I '11 try once more to find this anger out. 
 If it be jealousy — why — then, indeed, 
 He '11 call me black, and I '11 forgive it 
 
 him! 
 For then my errand 's done, and I '11 
 
 away 
 To play the cheat out that shall make 
 
 him mine.) 
 (Turns to Angelo.) Fair signor, by 
 
 your leave, I 've heard it said 
 That in the beauty of a human face 
 The God of Nature never writ a lie. 
 Angelo. 'T is likely true ! 
 Isabella. That howsoe'er the features 
 
 Seem fair at first, a blemish on the soul 
 Has its betraying speck that warns you 
 
 of it. 
 Angelo. It should be so, indeed ! 
 Isabella. Nay — here 's a face 
 
 Will show at once if it be true or no. 
 At the first glance 't is fair ! 
 Angelo. Most heavenly fair! 
 
 Isabella. Yet, in the lip, methinks, there 
 
 lurks a shadow — 
 Something — I know not what — but in it^ 
 
 lies 
 The devil you spoke of ! 
 Angelo. Ay — but 'tis not there! 
 
 Not in her lip ! Oh, no ! Look else- 
 where for it. 
 'T is passionately bright — but lip more 
 
 pure 
 Ne'er passed unchallenged through the 
 
 gate of heaven. 
 Believe me, 't is not there ! 
 Isabella. How falls the light? 
 
 I see a gleam not quite angelical 
 About the eye. Maybe the light falls 
 
 wrong — 
 Angelo (drawing her to another position). 
 
 Stand here! D 'ye see it now? 
 Isabella. 'T is just so here ! 
 
 Angelo (sweeps the air with his brush).. 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 277 
 
 There 's some curst cobweb hanging- from 
 
 the wall 
 That blurs your sight. Now, look again ! 
 Isabella. I see it 
 
 Just as before. 
 Angelo. What ! still '? You 've turn'd an 
 eyelash 
 Under the lid. Try how it feels w^ith 
 
 winking. 
 Is 't clear? 
 Isabella. 'T was never clearer ! 
 AxGELO. Then, old man ! 
 
 You 'd best betake you to your prayers 
 
 apace 
 
 For you 've a failing sight, death's sure 
 
 forerunner — 
 And cannot pray long. Why, that eye 's 
 
 a star. 
 Sky-lit as Hesperus, and burns as clear. 
 If you e'er marked the zenith at high 
 
 noon. 
 Or midnight, when the blue lifts up to 
 
 God— 
 Her eye 's of that far darkness ! 
 Isabella {smiling aside). 
 
 Stay — 'tis gone! 
 A blur was on my sight, which, passing 
 
 from it, 
 I see as you do. Yes — the eye is clear. 
 The forehead only, now I see so well. 
 Has in its arch a mark infallible 
 Of a false heart beneath it. 
 Angelo. Show it to me! 
 
 Isabella. Between the eyebrows there ! 
 Axgelo. I see a tablet 
 
 Whereon the Saviour's finger might have 
 
 writ 
 The new commandment. When I painted 
 
 it 
 I plucked a just-blown lotus from the 
 
 shade, 
 And shamed the white leaf till it seemed 
 
 a spot — 
 The brow was so much fairer! Go! old 
 
 man, 
 Thy sight fails fast. Go ! Go ! 
 Isabella. The nostril 's small — 
 
 Is't not"? 
 Angelo. No ! 
 
 Isabella. Then the cheek 's awry so 
 
 near it. 
 It makes it seem so ! 
 Angelo. Out ! thou cavilling fool ! 
 
 Thou 'rt one of those whose own deform- 
 
 ity 
 
 Makes all thou seest look monstrous. Go 
 
 and pray 
 For a clear sight, and read thy missal 
 
 with it. 
 
 Thou art a priest, and livest by the altar, 
 Yet dost thou recognize God's imprest 
 
 seal, 
 Set on that glorious beauty ! 
 Isabella {aside). (Oh, he loves me! 
 
 Loves me as genius loves — ransacking 
 
 earth 
 And ruffling the forbidden flowers of 
 
 heaven 
 To make celestial incense of his praise. 
 High-thoughted Angelo! He loves me 
 
 well! 
 With what a gush of all my soul I thank 
 
 him — 
 But he's to win yet, and the time is 
 
 precious.) 
 ( To Angelo. ) Signor, I take my leave. 
 Angelo. Good day, old man ! 
 
 And, if thou com'st again, bring new 
 
 eyes with thee. 
 Or thou wilt find scant welcome. 
 Isabella. You shall like 
 
 These same eyes well enough when next 
 
 I come! {Exit.) 
 
 Angelo. A crabbed monk! {Turns the 
 
 picture to the wall again.) I '11 hide 
 
 this fatal picture 
 From sight once more, for till he made 
 
 me look on 't 
 I did not know my weakness. Once 
 
 more, Zippa, 
 I '11 dwell on thy dear face, and with my 
 
 pencil 
 Make thee more fair than life, and try 
 
 to love thee! {A knock.) 
 
 Come in! 
 
 {Enter Zippa.) 
 
 Zippa. Good day, Signor Angelo! 
 
 Angelo. Why, Zippa! is't thou? is't 
 
 thou, indeed! 
 Zippa. Myself, dear Angelo ! 
 Angelo. Art well? 
 Zippa. Ay ! 
 
 Angelo. Hast been well? 
 Zippa. Ay ! 
 Angelo. Then why, for three long days, 
 
 hast thou not been near me? 
 Zippa. Ask thyself, Signor Angelo ! 
 Angelo. I have — a hundred times since I 
 
 saw thee. 
 Zippa. And there was no answer? 
 Angelo. None ! 
 Zippa. Then shouldst thou have ask'd the 
 
 picture on thy easel ! 
 Angelo. Nay — I understand thee not. 
 Zippa. Did I not find thee feasting thy 
 
 eyes upon it? 
 Angelo. True — thou didst. 
 
278 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 ZiPPA. And art thou not enamoured of it 
 — wilt tell me truly*? 
 
 Angelo {smiling). 'T is a fair face! 
 
 ZiPPA. Oh, unkind Angelo! 
 
 Angelo. Look on 't ! and, seeing- its beauty, 
 if thou dost not forgive me, I will never 
 touch pencil to it more. 
 
 ZiPPA. I '11 neither look on 't, nor forgive 
 thee. But if thou wilt love the picture of 
 another better than mine, thou shalt paint 
 a new one! (As she rushes up to dash it 
 from the easel, Angelo catches her arm^ 
 and points to the picture. She looks at 
 it, and, seeing her own portrait, turns 
 and falls on his bosom.) My picture! 
 and I thought thee so false! Dear, dear 
 Angelo! I could be grieved to have 
 wronged thee, if joy would give me time. 
 But thou 'It forgive me*? 
 
 AxGELO. Willingly! Willingly! 
 
 ZiPPA. And thou lovest me indeed, in- 
 deed ! Nay, answer not ! I will never 
 doubt thee more! Dear Angelo! Yet — 
 {Suddenly turns from Angelo with a 
 troubled air.) 
 
 Angelo. What ails thee now*? (Zippa 
 takes a rich veil from under her cloak, 
 throws it over her head, and looks on the 
 ground in embarrassed silence.) Dost 
 thou stand there for a picture of Silence"? 
 
 Zippa. Alas! dear Angelo! When I said 
 I forgave and lov'd thee, I forgot that I 
 was to be married to-morrow ! 
 
 Angelo. Married! to whom"? 
 
 Zippa. Tortesa, the usurer! 
 
 Angelo. Tortesa, saidst thou"? 
 
 Zippa. Think not ill of me, dear Angelo, 
 till I have told thee all! This rich 
 usurer, as thou knowest, would for am- 
 bition marry Isabelle de Falcone. 
 
 Angelo. He would, I know. 
 
 Zippa. But for love, he would marry your 
 poor Zippa. 
 
 Angelo. irwou' you that *? 
 
 Zippa. He told me so the day you anger'd 
 me with the praises of the court lady you 
 were painting. What was her name, 
 Angelo'? 
 
 Angelo {composedly). I — I'll tell thee 
 presently! Go on! 
 
 Zippa. Well — jealous of this unknown 
 lady, I vow'd, if it broke my heart, to 
 wed Tortesa. He had told me Isabella 
 scorn'd him. I flew to her palace. She 
 heard me, pitied me, agreed to plot with 
 me that I might wed the usurer, and then 
 told me in confidence that there was a 
 poor youth whom she loved and would 
 fain marry. 
 
 Angelo {in breathless anxiety). Heard 
 
 you his name"? 
 Zippa. No! But as I was to wed the 
 richer and she the poorer, she took my 
 poor veil, and gave me her rich one. 
 Now canst tliou read the riddle"? 
 Angelo (aside). (A "poor vouth!" 
 What if it is I"? She ^'loves and will 
 wed him!" Oh! if it were I!) 
 Zippa. Nay, dear Angelo ! be not so an- 
 gry! I do not love him! Nay — thou 
 knowst I do not ! 
 Angelo (aside). (It may be — nay — it 
 must ! But I will know ! If not, I may 
 as well die of that as of this jealous mad- 
 ness.) (Prepares to go out.) 
 Zippa. Angelo! where go you"? Forgive 
 me, dear Angelo ! I swear to thee I love 
 him not ! 
 Angelo. I '11 know who that poor youth 
 is, or suspense will kill me! 
 
 (Goes out hastily, without a look at 
 Zippa. She stands silent and amazed 
 for a moment.) 
 Zippa. Why cares he to know who that 
 poor youth is? "Suspense will kill 
 him*?" Stay! a light breaks on me! If 
 Isabella were the Court lady whom he 
 painted! If it were Angelo whom she 
 loved! He is a poor youth! — The pic- 
 ture ! The picture will tell all ! 
 
 (Hurriedly turns round several pic- 
 tures turned to the wall, and last of 
 all, Isabella's. Looks at it an in- 
 stant, and exclaims) 
 Isabella ! 
 
 (She drops on her knees, overcome 
 with grief, and the scene closes.) 
 
 Scene 2. A Lady's dressing-room in the 
 Falcone Palace. Isabella discovered 
 ivith two phials. 
 
 Isabella. Here is a draught will still the 
 
 breath so nearly. 
 The keenest-eyed will think the sleeper 
 
 dead, — 
 And this kills quite. Lie ready, trusty 
 
 friends, 
 Close by my bridal veil! I thought to 
 
 baffle 
 My ruffian bridegroom by an easier cheat ; 
 But Zippa 's dangerous, and if I fail 
 In mocking death, why death indeed be 
 
 w^elcome ! 
 
 (Enter Zippa angrily.) 
 Zippa. Madam ! 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 279 
 
 Isabella. You come rudely! 
 
 ZiPPA. If I offend you more, I still have 
 cause — 
 Yet as the "friend" to whom you gave a 
 
 husband, 
 (So kind you were!) I might come un- 
 announced ! 
 Isabella. What is this anger? 
 ZiPPA. I 'm not angry, madam ! 
 
 Oh, no ! I 'm patient ! 
 Isabella. What's your errand, then*? 
 
 ZiPPA. To give you back your costly bridal 
 veil 
 And take my mean one. 
 Isabella. 'T was your wish to change. 
 'T was you that plotted we should wed 
 
 together — 
 You in my place, and I in yours — was 't 
 not? 
 ZiPPA. Oh, heaven ! you 're calm ! Had 
 you no plotting, too? 
 You 're noble born, and so your face is 
 
 marble — 
 I 'm poor, and if my heart aches, 't will 
 
 show through. 
 You 've robb'd me, madam ! 
 Iabella. I? 
 
 ZiPPA. Of gold — of jewels! — 
 
 Gold that would stretch the fancy but to 
 
 dream of. 
 And gems like stars! 
 Isabella. You're mad! 
 ZiPPA. His love was worth them ! 
 
 Oh, what had you to do with Angelo? 
 Isabella. Nay — came you not to wed Tor- 
 tesa freely? 
 What should you do with Angelo? 
 ZiPPA. You mock me ! 
 
 You are a woman, though your brow 's a 
 
 rock, 
 And know what love is. In a ring of 
 
 fire 
 The tortured scorpion stings himself, to 
 
 die — 
 But love will turn upon itself, and grow 
 Of its own fang immortal ! 
 Isabella. Still, you left him 
 
 To wed another? 
 ZiPPA. 'T is for that he 's mine ! 
 
 What makes a right in any thing, but 
 
 pain? 
 The diver's agony beneath the sea 
 Makes the pearl his — pain gets the 
 
 miser's gold — 
 The noble's coronet, won first in battle. 
 Is his by bleeding for't — and Angelo 
 Is ten times mine because I gave him 
 
 up- 
 Crushing my heart to do so ! 
 
 Isabella. Now you plead 
 
 Against yourself. Say it would kill me 
 
 quite. 
 If you should wed him? Mine's the 
 
 greater pain. 
 And so the fairer title! 
 ZiPPA {falling on her knees). 
 
 I implore you 
 Love him no more! Upon my knees I 
 
 do! 
 He 's not like you ! Look on your snow- 
 white arms! 
 They 're f orm'd to press a noble to your 
 
 breast — 
 Not Angelo ! He 's poor — and fit for 
 
 mine! 
 You would not lift a beggar to your 
 
 lips ! — 
 You would not lean from your proud 
 
 palace-stairs 
 To pluck away a heart from a poor girl 
 Who has no more on earth! 
 Isabella. I will not answer! 
 
 ZiPPA. Think what it is! Love is to you 
 
 like music — 
 Pastime ! You think on 't when the 
 
 dance is o'er — 
 When there 's no revel — when your hair 's 
 
 unbound, 
 And its bright jewels with the daylight 
 
 pale — 
 You w<r.nt a lover to press on the hours 
 That iag till night again ! But I — ■■ 
 Isabella. Stop there! 
 
 I love him better than you've soul to 
 
 dream of! 
 ZiPPA {rising). 'T is false! How can 
 
 you ? He 's to you a lamp 
 That shines amid a thousand just as 
 
 bright ! 
 What 's one amid your crowd of wor- 
 shippers ? 
 The glow-worm 's bright — but oh ! 't is 
 
 wanton murder 
 To raise him to the giddy air you breathe. 
 And leave his mate in darkness! 
 Isabella. Say the worm 
 
 Soar from the earth on his own wing — 
 
 what then ? 
 ZipPA. Fair reasons cannot stay the heart 
 
 from breaking. 
 You've stol'n my life, and you can give 
 
 it back ! 
 Will you — for heaven's sweet pity? 
 Isabella. Leave my presence ! 
 
 {Aside.) (I pity her — but on this fatal 
 
 love 
 Hangs my life, too.) What right have 
 
 such as you 
 
280 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 To look with eyes of love on Aiii^elo'? 
 ZiPPA. What right ? 
 
 Isabella. I say so. Where 's the 
 
 miracle 
 
 Has made you fit to climb into the sk}^ — 
 
 A moth — and look with love upon a 
 
 star ! 
 
 ZiPPA {mournfully). I 'm lowly bom, alas ! 
 
 Isabella. Your soul 's low born ! 
 
 Forget your anger and come near me, 
 
 Zippa, 
 For e'er ^ I 'm done yon '11 wonder ! 
 
 Have you ever, 
 VTheu Angelo was silent, mark'd his 
 
 eye- 
 How, of a sudden, as 't were touch'd with 
 
 fire, 
 There glows unnatural light beneath the 
 lid? 
 Zippa. I have — I 've thought it strange ! 
 Isabella. Have you walk'd with him 
 
 When he has turn'd his head, as if to list 
 To music in the air — but you heard 
 
 none — 
 And presently a smile stole through his 
 
 lips, 
 And some low words, inaudible to you. 
 Fell from him brokenly. 
 Zippa. Ay — ^many times ! 
 
 Isabella. Tell me once more! Hast 
 never heard him speak 
 With voice unlike his own — so melan- 
 choly, 
 And yet so sweet a voice, that, were it 
 
 only 
 The inarticulate moaning of a bird. 
 The very tone of it had made you weep*? 
 Zippa. 'T is strangely true, indeed ! 
 Isabella. Oh, heaven! You say so — 
 
 Yet never dreamt it was a spirit of light 
 Familiar with you ! 
 Zippa. How"? 
 
 Isabella. W'hy, there are seraphs 
 
 Who walk this common world, and want, 
 
 as we do — 
 Here, in our streets — all seraph, save in 
 
 wings — 
 The look, the speech, the forehead like a 
 
 god— 
 And he the brightest ! 
 Zippa (incredulously). Nay — I 've known 
 
 him long! 
 Isabella. Why, listen ! There are worlds, 
 thou doubting fool! 
 Farther to flee to than the stars in 
 
 heaven, 
 Wliich Angelo can walk as we do this — 
 And does — while you look on him ! 
 Zippa. Angelo ! 
 
 1 Ere. 
 
 Isabella. He 's never at your side one 
 
 constant minute 
 Without a thousand messengers from 
 
 thence! 
 (0 block! to live with him, and never 
 
 dream on 't ! ) 
 He plucks the sun's rays open like a 
 
 thread. 
 And knows what stains the rose and not 
 
 the lily- 
 He never sees a flower but he can tell 
 Its errand on the earth — (they all have 
 
 errands — 
 You knew not that, oh dulness!) He 
 
 sees shapes 
 Flush'd with immortal beauty in the 
 
 clouds — 
 (You 've seen him mock a thousand on his 
 
 canvas, 
 And never wonder'd!) Yet you talk of 
 
 love ! 
 What love you"? 
 Zippa. Angelo — and not a dream ! 
 
 Take you the dream and give me Angelo ! 
 You may talk of him till my brain is 
 
 giddy— 
 But, oh, you cannot praise him out of 
 
 reach 
 Of my true heart. — He's here, as low 
 
 as I!— 
 Shall he not wed a woman, flesh and 
 
 blood? 
 Isabella. See here! There was a small, 
 
 earth-creeping mole. 
 Born by the low nest of an unfledged 
 
 lark. 
 They lived an April youth amid the 
 
 grass — 
 The soft mole happy, and the lark no 
 
 less. 
 And thought the bent sky leaned upon. 
 
 the flowers. 
 By early ]\Iay the fledgling got his wings ; 
 And, eager for the light, one breezy 
 
 dawn, 
 Sprang from his nest, and buoyantly 
 
 away, 
 Fled forth to meet the morning. Newly 
 
 born 
 Seem'd the young lark, as in another 
 
 world 
 Of light, and song, and creatures like 
 
 himself. 
 He soar'd and dropp'd, and sang unto 
 
 the sun, 
 And pitied every thing that had not 
 
 wings — 
 But most the mole, that wanted even eyes 
 To see tlie light he floated in ! 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 281 
 
 ZiPPA. Yet still 
 
 She watch'd bis nest, and fed him when 
 
 he came — 
 Would it were Angelo and I indeed ! 
 Isabella. Nay, mark! The bird grew 
 
 lonely in the sky. 
 There was no echo at the height he flew ! 
 And when the mist lay heavy on his wings 
 His song broke, and his flights were 
 
 brief and low — 
 And the dull mole, that should have sor- 
 rowed with him, 
 Joy'd that he sang at last where she 
 
 could hear! 
 ZiPPA. Why, happy mole again ! . 
 Isabella. Not long! — for soon 
 
 He found a mate that loved him for liis 
 
 wings! 
 One who with feebler flight, but eyes 
 
 still on him. 
 Caught up his dropp'd song in the mid- 
 dle air. 
 And, with the echo, cheered him to the 
 
 sun! 
 ZiPPA (aside). (I see! I see! His soul 
 
 was never mme! 
 I was the blind mole of her hateful 
 
 story ! 
 No, no! he never loved me! True, we 
 
 ate. 
 And laugh'd, and danced together — but 
 
 no love — 
 He never told his thought when he was 
 
 sad! 
 His folly and his idleness were mine — 
 No more! The rest was lock'd up in his 
 
 soul! 
 I feel my heart grow black!) Fair 
 
 madam, thank you ! 
 YouVe told me news! (She shall not 
 
 have him neither. 
 If there 's a plot in hate to keep him 
 
 from her! 
 I must have room to think, and air to 
 
 breathe — 
 I choke here!) Madam, the blind mole 
 
 takes leave! 
 Isabella. Farewell! (Exit Zippa.) 
 
 {Takes the phial from the table.) 
 And now, come forth, sweet comforter ! 
 I '11 to my chamber with this drowsy poi- 
 son. 
 And from my sleep I wake up Angelo's, 
 Or wake no more! (Exit.) 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. (A sumptuous Drawing-room in 
 the Falcone Palace. Guests assembled 
 for the bridal Lords and ladies prome- 
 nading, and a band of musicians in a 
 gallery at the side of the stage.) 
 
 1st Lord. Are we before the hour? or 
 does the bridegroom 
 Affect this tardiness*? 
 2nd Lord. We're bid at twelve. 
 
 1st Lord. 'T is now past one. At least we 
 should have music 
 To wile the time. [To the musicians.) 
 Strike up, good fellows! 
 2nd Lord. Why, 
 
 A man who 's only drest on holidays 
 Makes a long toilet. Now, I '11 warrant 
 
 he 
 Has vex'd his tailor since the break of 
 
 day 
 Hoping to look a gentleman. D 'ye 
 know him? 
 1st Lord. I Ve never had occasion ! 
 2nd Lord. Poor Falcone ! 
 
 He'd give the best bleed in his veins, I 
 
 think, 
 To say as much ! 
 1st Lord. How's this! I see no stir 
 
 Among the instruments. Will they not 
 play? 
 2nd Lord. Not they ! I ask'd before you, 
 and they 're bid 
 To strike up when they hear Tortesa's 
 
 horses 
 Prance thro' the gateway — not a note till 
 then! {Music plays.) 
 
 1st Lord. He comes ! 
 
 {Enter Tortesa, dressed over-richly.) 
 
 ToRTESA. Good day, my lords! 
 
 1st Lord. Good day ! 
 
 2nd Lord, The sky 
 
 Smiles on you, Signor! 'T is a happy 
 
 omen 
 They say, to wed in sunshine. 
 Tortesa. Why, I think 
 
 The sun is not displeased that I should 
 wed. 
 1st Lord. We 're happy, Sir, to have you 
 
 one of us. 
 Tortesa. What have I been till now! I 
 was a man 
 Before I saw your faces ! Where 's the 
 
 change? 
 Have I a tail since? Am I gTOwn a 
 T^onkev % 
 
28*2 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 (LoKDS whisper together, mid icalJc 
 
 from him,.) 
 Oh, for a mint to coin the world again 
 And melt the mark of gentlemen from 
 
 clowns ! 
 It puts me out of patience! Here's a 
 
 fellow 
 That, by much rubbing against better 
 
 men. 
 Has, like a penny in a Jew's close pocket. 
 Stolen the color of a worthier coin, 
 And thinks he rings like sterling cour- 
 tesy! 
 Yet look! he cannot phrase you a good 
 
 morrow, 
 Or say he 's sad, or glad, at any thing. 
 But close beneath it, rank as verdigrease. 
 Lies an insulting rudeness! He was 
 
 "happy" 
 That I should now be one of them. 
 
 Now! Now! 
 As if, till no IV, I 'd been a dunghill grub. 
 And was but just turn'd butterfly! 
 
 {A Lady advances.) 
 
 Lady. Fair Sir, 
 
 I must take leave to say, were you my 
 
 brother. 
 You 've made the choice that would have 
 
 pleas'd me best ! 
 Your bride 's as good as fair. 
 ToRTESA. I thank you. Madam ! 
 
 To be your friend, she should be — good 
 
 and fair! 
 {The Lady turns, and walks up the 
 
 stage.) 
 How like a drop of oil upon the sea 
 Falls the apt word of woman! So! her 
 
 ''brother" ! 
 Why, there could be no contumely there! 
 I might, for all I look, have been her 
 
 brother, 
 Else her first thought had never coupled 
 
 us. 
 I '11 pluck some self-contentment out of 
 
 that ! 
 
 (Enter suddenly the Count's Secretary.) 
 
 How now! 
 Secretary. I 'm sent. Sir, with unwel- 
 come tidings. 
 Tortesa. Deliver them the quicker ! 
 Secretary. I shall be 
 
 Too sudden at the slowest. 
 Tortesa. Pshaw! what is't'? 
 
 I 'm not a girl ! Out with your news at 
 once! 
 
 Are my ships lost? 
 
 Secretary. {Hesitatingly.) The lady Isa- 
 bella— 
 Tortesa. What? run away! 
 Secretary. Alas, good Sir ! she 's dead ! 
 Tortesa. Bah! just as dead as I! Why, 
 thou dull blockhead! 
 Cannot a lady faint, but there must be 
 A trumpeter like thee to make a tale 
 on't? 
 Secretary. Pardon me, Signor, but — 
 Tortesa. Who sent you hither'? 
 
 Secretary. My lord the Count. 
 Tortesa. {Turning quickly aside.) He 
 put it in the bond, 
 That if by any humor of my own. 
 Or accident that sprang not from him- 
 self. 
 Or from his daughtei'^s will, the match 
 
 were marr'd, 
 His tenure stood intact. If she were 
 
 dead — 
 I don't believe she is — ^but if she were. 
 By one of those strange chances that do 
 
 happen — 
 If she were dead, I say, the silly fish 
 That swims with safety among hungry 
 
 sharks 
 To run upon the pin-hook of a boy. 
 Might teach me wisdom. {The Secre- 
 tary comes forward, narrating 
 eagerly to the company.) Now, 
 what says this jackdaw? 
 Secretary. She had refused to let her 
 
 bridesmaids in — 
 Lady. And died alone? 
 Secretary. A trusty serving maid 
 
 Was with her, and none else. She 
 
 dropp'd away, 
 The girl said, in a kind of weary sleep. 
 1st Lord. Was no one told of it? 
 Secretary. The girl watch'd by her,-^ 
 
 And thought she slept still ; till, the music 
 
 sounding. 
 She shook her by the sleeve, but got no 
 
 answer ; 
 And so the truth broke on her! 
 Tortesa. {Aside.) (Oh, indeed! 
 
 The plot is something shallow ! ) 
 2nd Lord. Might we go 
 
 And see her as she lies? 
 Secretary. The holy father 
 
 Who should have married her, has check'd 
 
 all comers. 
 And staying for no shroud but bridal 
 
 dress, 
 He bears her presently to lie in state 
 In the Falcone chapel. 
 Tortesa. {Aside.) (AYorse and worse— 
 They take me for a fool!) 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 283 
 
 1st Lohd. But why such baste'? 
 
 Secretary. I know not. 
 All. Let us to the chapel ! 
 
 TORTESA. (Drawing his sword, and step- 
 ping between them and the door.) 
 
 Hold! 
 Let no one try to pass ! 
 1st Lord. What mean you, Sir! 
 
 ToRTESA. To keep you here till you have 
 got your story 
 Pat to the tongue — the truth on 't, and 
 no more! 
 Lady. Have you a doubt the bride is dead, 
 
 good Signor? 
 ToRTESA. A palace, see you, has a tricky 
 air! 
 When I am told a tradesman's daugh- 
 ter 's dead, 
 I know the coffin holds an honest corse, 
 Sped, in sad earnest, to eternity. 
 But were 1 stranger in the streets to-day, 
 And heard that an ambitious usurer, 
 With lands and money having bought a 
 
 lady 
 High-born and fair, she died before the 
 
 bridal, 
 I would lay odds with him that told me 
 
 of it 
 She 'd rise again — before the resurrec- 
 tion. 
 So stand back all ! If I 'm to fill today 
 The pricking ears of Florence with a 
 
 lie, 
 The bridal guests shall tell the tale so 
 
 truly. 
 And mournfully, from eyesight of the 
 
 corse. 
 That ev'n the shrewdest listener shall be- 
 lieve. 
 And I myself have no misgiving of it. 
 Look! where they come! {Door opens to 
 funeral music, and the body of Isa- 
 bella is borne in, preceded by a 
 Monk, and followed by Falcone 
 and mourners. Tortesa confronts 
 the Monk.) What's this you bear 
 away "? 
 Monk. Follow the funeral, but stay it not. 
 Tortesa. If thereon lie the lady Isabella, 
 
 I ask to see her face before she pass ! 
 Monk. Stand from the way, my son, it 
 
 cannot be! 
 Tortesa. What right have you to take me 
 for a stone"? 
 See what you do! I stand a bridegroom 
 
 here. 
 A moment since the joyous music playing 
 Which promised me a fair and blushing 
 bride. 
 
 The flowers are fragrant, and the guests 
 
 made welcome ; 
 And while my heart beats at the opening 
 
 door. 
 And eagerly I look to see her come, — 
 There enters in her stead a covered corse ! 
 And when I ask to look upon her face — 
 One look, before my bride is gone foi^ 
 
 ever, — 
 You find it in your hearts to say me 
 
 nay!— 
 Shame ! Shame ! 
 Falcone. {Fiercely.) Lead on ! 
 Tortesa. My lord, by covenant — 
 
 By contract writ and seal'd — by value 
 
 rendered — 
 By her own promise — nay, by all, save 
 
 taking. 
 This body 's mine ! I '11 have it set down 
 
 here 
 And wait my pleasure! See it done, my 
 
 lord. 
 Or I will, for you ! 
 Monk. {To the bearers.) Set the body 
 
 down ! 
 Tortesa. {Takes the veil from the face.) 
 Come hither all! Nay, father, look not 
 
 black! 
 If o'er the azure temper of this blade 
 There come no mist, when laid upon her 
 
 lips, 
 I '11 do a penance for irreverence, 
 And fill your sack with penitential goLl! 
 Look well! {Puts his sword blade to 
 
 Isabella's lips, and after watching 
 
 it with intense interest a moment, 
 
 drops on his knees beside the bier.) 
 
 She 's dead indeed ! Lead on ! 
 {The procession starts again to fune- 
 real music, and Tortesa follows 
 
 last.) 
 
 Scene 2. A Street in Florence. The 
 funereal music dying away in the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 {Enter Zippa, straining her eyes to look 
 after it.) 
 
 Zippa. 'T is Angelo that follows close be- 
 hind, 
 
 Laying his forehead almost on her bier! 
 
 His heart goes with her to the grave ! 
 Oh, Heaven ! 
 
 Will not Tortesa pluck out of his hand 
 
 The tassel of that pall? {She hears a 
 footstep. ) Stay, stay, he 's here ! 
 
 {Enter Tortesa, musing. Zippa stands 
 aside.) 
 
284 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 ToRTESA. I 've learned to-day a lord may 
 be a Jew, 
 I 've learned to-day that grief may kill a 
 
 lady ; 
 Which touches me the most I cannot say, 
 For I could fight Falcone for my loss 
 Or weep, with all my soul, for Isabella. 
 (ZiPPA touches him on the shoulder.) 
 ZiPPA. How is 't the Signor follows not his 
 
 bride? 
 ToRTESA. I did — but with their melancholy 
 step 
 I fell to musing, and so dropp'd behind — 
 But here 's a sight I have not seen to-day ! 
 {Takes her hand smilingly.) 
 ZipPA, What's that? 
 
 ToRTESA. A friendly face, my honest 
 
 Zippa ! 
 Art well? What en^and brings thee 
 forth? 
 Zippa. None, Sig-nor! 
 
 But passing by the funeral, I stopped, 
 Wondering to see the bridegroom lag 
 
 behind. 
 And give his sacred station next the cross 
 To an obtrusive stranger. 
 ToRTESA. Which is he? 
 
 Zippa. (Points after Angelo.) Look 
 
 there ! 
 ToRTESA. His face is buried in his 
 
 cloak. 
 Who is't? 
 Zippa. Not know him ? Had I half the 
 
 cause 
 That you have, to see through that mum- 
 ming cloak. 
 The shadow of it would speak out his 
 name ! 
 ToRTESA. What mean you? 
 Zippa. Angelo! What right has he 
 
 To weep in public at her funeral? 
 ToRTESA. The painter? 
 Zippa. Ay — the peasant Angelo! 
 
 Was 't not enough to dare to love her 
 
 living, 
 But he must fling the insult of his tears 
 Betwixt her corse and you? Are you not 
 
 mov'd? 
 Will you not go and pluck him from your 
 place? 
 ToRTESA. No, Zippa! for my spirits are 
 more apt 
 To grief than anger. I 've in this half 
 
 hour 
 Remember'd much I should have thought 
 
 on sooner, — 
 For, had I known her heart was capable 
 Of breaking for the love of one so 
 low, 
 
 I would have done as much to make her 
 
 his 
 As I have done, in hate, to make her 
 
 mine. 
 She lov'd him, Zippa. {Walks hack in 
 
 thought.) 
 Zippa. {Aside.) (Oh, to find a way 
 
 To pluck that fatal beauty from his eyes ! 
 'T is twilight, and the lamp is lit above 
 
 her, 
 And Angelo will watch the night out 
 
 there, 
 Gazing with passionate worship on her 
 
 face. 
 But no! he shall not!) 
 Tortesa. (Advancing.) Come ! what busy 
 
 thought 
 Yexes your brain now? 
 Zippa. Were your pride as quick 
 
 As other men's to see an insult, Signor! 
 I had been spared the telling of my 
 
 thought. 
 Tortesa. You put it sharply ! 
 Zippa. Listen ! you are willing 
 
 That there should follow, in your place 
 
 of mourner, 
 A youth, who, by the passion of his grief 
 Shews to the world he 's more bereaved 
 
 than you ! 
 
 Tortesa. Humph! well! 
 
 Zippa. Still follows he without rebuke; 
 
 And in the chapel where she lies to-night, 
 
 Her features bared to the funereal lamp, 
 
 He '11, like a mourning bridegroom, keep 
 
 his vigil, 
 As if all Florence knew she was his 
 
 own. 
 Tortesa. Nay, nay! he may keep vigil if 
 
 he will ! 
 The door is never lock'd upon the dead 
 Till bell and mass consign them to the 
 
 tomb ; 
 And custom gives the privilege to all 
 To enter in and pray — and so may he. 
 Zippa. Then learn a secret which I fain 
 
 had spared 
 My lips the telling. Question me not 
 
 how, 
 But I have chanced to learn, that Angelo, 
 To-night, will steal the body from its 
 
 hier! 
 Tortesa. To-night! What! Angelo! 
 
 Nay, nay, good Zippa ! 
 If he 's enamoured of the corse, 't is 
 
 there — 
 And he may watch it till its shape decay, 
 And holy church will call it piety. 
 But he who steals from consecrated 
 
 ground. 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 285 
 
 Dies, by the law of Florence. There's 
 
 no end 
 To answer in 't. 
 ZiPPA. You know not, Angelo ! 
 
 You think not with what wild, delirious 
 
 passion 
 A painter thirsts to tear the veil from 
 
 beauty. 
 He painted Isabella as a maid, 
 Coy as a lily turning- from the sun. 
 Now she is dead, and, like a star, that 
 
 flew 
 Flashing and hiding thro' some fleecy 
 
 rack, 
 But suddenly sits still in cloudless heav- 
 ens, 
 She slumbers fearless in his steadfast 
 
 gaze. 
 Peerless and unforbidding. 0! to him 
 She is no more your bride! A statue 
 
 fairer 
 Than ever rose enchanted from the stone, 
 Lies in that dim-lit chapel, clad like life. 
 Are you too slow to take my meaning 
 
 yet? 
 He cannot loose the silken boddice there! 
 He cannot, there upon the marble breast 
 Shower the dark locks from the golden 
 
 comb ! 
 TORTESA. Hold ! 
 ZiPPA. Are you mov'd ? Has he no 
 
 end to compass 
 In stealing her away from holy ground ■? 
 Will you not lock your bride up from his 
 
 touch? 
 ToRTESA. No more! no more! I thought 
 
 not of all this ! 
 Perchance it is not true. But twilight 
 
 falls. 
 And I will home to doff this bridal gear. 
 And, after, set a guard upon the corse. 
 We '11 walk together. Come ! 
 ZiPPA. (Aside.) (He shall not see her!) 
 
 {Exeunt. ) 
 
 Scene 3. {A Street in front of the Fal- 
 cone Palace. Night. Enter Isabella in 
 her white bridal dress. She falters to 
 her father's door, and drops exhausted.) 
 
 Isabella. My brain swims round ! I '11 
 
 rest a little here! 
 The night's cold, chilly cold. Would I 
 
 could reach 
 The house of Angelo! Alas! I thought 
 He would have kept one night of vigil 
 
 near me, 
 
 Thinking me dead. Bear up, good heart ! 
 
 Alas! ^ 
 I faint! Where am I? {Looks around.) 
 
 'T is my father's door. 
 My undirected feet have brought me 
 
 home — 
 And I must in, or die! {Knocks with a 
 painful effort.) So ends my dream ! 
 Falcone. (From above.) Who's that 
 
 would enter to a mourning house? 
 Isabella. Your daughter! 
 Falcone. Ha ! what voice is that I 
 
 hear? 
 Isabella. Poor Isabella's. 
 Falcone. Art thou come to tell me, 
 
 That with unnatural heart I killed my 
 
 daughter ? 
 Just Heaven! thy retribution follows 
 
 fast! 
 But, oh, if holy and unnumbered masses 
 Can give thee rest, perturb'd and rest- 
 less spirit! 
 Haunt thou a weeping penitent no more ! 
 Depart ! I '11 in, and pass the night in 
 
 prayer 
 
 So shalt thou rest ! Depart ! 
 
 {He closes the window, and Isabella 
 drops with her forehead to the mar- 
 ble stair.) 
 
 {Enter Tomaso, with a bottle in his hand.) 
 
 ToMASO. It 's like the day after the deluge. 
 Few stirring and nobody dry. I 've been 
 since twilight looking for somebody that 
 would drink. Not a beggar athirst in all 
 Florence! I thought that, with a bottle 
 in my hand, I should be scented like a 
 wild boar. I expected drunkards would 
 have come up out of the ground — like 
 worms in a shower. When was I ever so 
 difficult to find by a moist friend? Two 
 hundred ducats in good wine and no com- 
 panion ! I '11 look me up a dry dog. I '11 
 teach him to tipple, and give up the fel- 
 lowship of mankind ! 
 
 Isabella. {Faintly.) Signer! 
 
 Tomaso. Hey ! What ! 
 
 Isabella. Help, Signor! 
 
 Tomaso. A woman! Ehem! {Approach- 
 ing her.) Would you take something to 
 drink by any chance? {Offers her the 
 bottle.) No? Perhaps you don't like to 
 drink out of the bottle. 
 
 Isabella. I perish of cold ! 
 
 Tomaso. Stay! Here's a cloak! My 
 master 's out for the night, and you shall 
 home with me. Come! Perhaps when 
 you get warmer, you'd like to drink a 
 little. The wine 's good ! {Assists her in 
 
286 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 rising.) By St. Genevieve, a soft hand! 
 Come! 1 '11 bring you where there 's fire 
 and a clean flagon. 
 
 Isabella. To any shelter, Signor! 
 
 ToMASO. Shelter! nay, a good house, and 
 two hundred ducats in ripe wine. 
 Steady, now! (This shall pass for a 
 good action ! If my master smell a rat, 
 I'll face him out the woman's honest!) 
 This way, now! Softly! That's w^ell 
 stepp'd ! Come ! 
 
 {Goes out, assisting her to walk.) 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene 1. (Angelo's Studio. A full-length 
 picture, in a large frame, stands on the 
 floor against an easel, placed nearly in 
 the centre of the room. Two curtains, so 
 arranged as to cover the picture when 
 drawn together. Angelo stands in an 
 imploring attitude near the picture, his 
 pencil and palette in his hands, appealing 
 to Isabella, who is partly turned from 
 him in an attitude of refusal. The hack 
 wall of the room such as to form a natural 
 ground for a picture.) 
 
 AxGELO. Hear me, sweet ! 
 Isabella. No, we '11 keep a holiday. 
 
 And waste the hours in love, and idleness. 
 You shall not paint to-day, dear Angelo ! 
 Angelo. But listen ! 
 
 Isabella. Nay, I 'm jealous of my 
 
 picture ; 
 For all you give to that is stol'n from 
 
 me. 
 I like not half a look that turns aw^ay 
 Without an answer from the eyes it met ! 
 I care not you should see my lips' bright 
 
 color 
 Yet wait not for the breath that floats 
 between ! 
 Angelo. AYilt listen *? 
 Isabella. Listen? Yes! a thousand 
 
 years ! 
 But there 's a pencil in those restless 
 
 fingers, 
 Which you 've a trick of touching to your 
 
 lips — 
 And while you talk, my hand would do as 
 
 well! 
 And if it 's the same tale you told before 
 Of certain vigils you forgot to keep. 
 Look deep into my eyes till it is done — 
 For, like the children's Lady-in-the-well, 
 
 I only hark because you 're looking in ! 
 Will you talk thus to me? 
 Angelo. Come night I wdll ! 
 
 But close upon thy voice, sweet Isabella ! 
 A boding whisper sinks into mine ear 
 Which tells of sudden parting! If 'tis 
 
 false, — 
 We shall have still a lifetime for our love, 
 But if 'tis true, oh, think that, in my 
 
 picture. 
 Will lie the footprint of an angel gone! 
 Let me but make it clearer! 
 Isabella. Now, by heaven ! 
 
 I think thou lov'st the picture, and not 
 
 me! 
 So different am I, that, did I think 
 To lose thee presently, by death or part- 
 ing, 
 For thy least word, or look, or slightest 
 
 motion — 
 Nay, for so little breath as makes a sigh 
 I would not take, to have it pass un- 
 
 treasured. 
 The empire of a star! 
 
 {While she was uttering this reproach, 
 
 Angelo has looked at her with de- 
 light, and touched his portrait with a 
 
 few^ rapid strokes.) 
 Angelo. My picture 's done ! 
 
 {Throws his pencil to the ground.) 
 Break, oh enchanted pencil! thou wilt 
 
 never 
 On earth again, do miracles so fair! 
 Oh, Isabella ! as the dusky ore 
 Waits for the lightning's flash to turn to 
 
 gold— 
 As the dull vapor waits for Hesperus, 
 Then falls in dew-drops, and reflects a 
 
 star — 
 So waited I that fire upon thy lips, 
 To make my master-piece complete in 
 
 beauty ! 
 Isabella. This is ambition when I look'd 
 
 for love. 
 The fancy flattering where the heart 
 
 should murmur. 
 I think you have no heart ! 
 Angelo. Your feet are on it ! 
 
 The heart is ever lowly with the fortunes, 
 Tho' the proud mind sits level with a 
 
 king! 
 I gave you long ago both heart and soul, 
 But only one has dared to speak to you ! 
 Yet, if astonishment will cure the dumb, 
 Give it a kiss — 
 Isabella. {Smiling.) Lo! Where it 
 
 speaks at last ! 
 
 {A loud knock is heard.) 
 Hark, Angelo! 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 287 
 
 {He flies to the window, and looks out.) 
 Angelo. Tortesa with a guard ! 
 
 Alas ! that warning voice ! They 've 
 
 traced thee hither! 
 Lost ! Lost ! 
 Isabella. {Ilastihj drawing tJie curtain,^ 
 and disappearing heliind it.) No! 
 No ! defend thy picture only, 
 And all is well yet ! 
 Angelo. Thee and it with life ! 
 
 {Draws his sword, and stands before 
 the curtains in an attitude of defi- 
 ance.) 
 
 {Enter Tortesa, with officers and guard.) 
 
 What is your errand"? 
 Tortesa, I 'm afraid, a sad one ! 
 
 For, by your drawn sword and defying 
 air. 
 
 Your conscious thought foretells it. 
 Angelo. Why, — a blow — 
 
 ( You took one, Signor, w^hen you last 
 were here — 
 
 If you've forgot it, well!) — but, com- 
 monly. 
 
 The giver of a blow needs have his sword 
 
 Promptly in hand. You '11 pardon me ! 
 Tortesa. I do! 
 
 For, if my fears are just, good Signor 
 painter ! 
 
 You 've not a life to spare upon a quar- 
 rel! 
 
 In brief, the corse of a most noble lady 
 
 Was stol'n last night from holy sanctu- 
 ary. 
 
 I have a warrant here to search your 
 house ; 
 
 And, should the body not be found 
 therein, 
 
 I 'm bid to see the picture of the lady — 
 
 W^hereon, (pray mark me!) if I find a 
 trace 
 
 Of charms fresh copied, more than may 
 beseem 
 
 The modest beauty of a living maid, 
 
 I may arrest you on such evidence 
 
 For instant trial! 
 Angelo. Search my house and welcome ! 
 
 But, for my picture, tho' a moment's 
 glance 
 
 Upon its pure and hallowed loveliness 
 
 Would give the lie to your foul thought 
 of me. 
 
 It is the unseen virgin of my brain ! 
 
 And as th' inviolate person of a maid 
 
 Is sacred ev'n in the presence of the law. 
 
 My picture is my own — to bare or cover ! 
 
 Look on it at your peril! 
 
 Tortesa. {To the guard.) Take his sword. 
 {The gua^-ds attack and disarm him.) 
 Angelo. Coward and villain ! 
 
 (Tortesa parts the curtains with his 
 sword, and Angelo starts amazed to 
 see Isabella^ with her hands crossed 
 on her breast, and her eyes fixed on 
 the ground, standing motionless in 
 the frame which had contained his 
 picture. The tableau deceives Tor- 
 tesa, who steps back to contemplate 
 what he supposes to be the portrait 
 of his bride.) 
 Tortesa. Admirable work! 
 
 'T is Isabella's self ! Why, this is won- 
 drous ! 
 The brow, the lip, the countenance — how 
 
 true! 
 I would have sworn that gloss upon the 
 
 hair. 
 That shadow from the lash, were nature's 
 
 own — 
 Impossible to copy! {Looks at it a mo- 
 ment in silence.) Yet methinks 
 The color on the cheek is something faint ! 
 Angelo. {Hurriedly.) Step this way 
 
 farther ! 
 Tortesa. {Changing his position.) Ay 
 — 'tis better here! 
 The hand is not as white as Isabella's — 
 But painted to the life! If there's a 
 
 feature 
 That I would touch again, the lip, to 
 
 me, 
 Seems wanting in a certain scornfulness 
 Native to her! It scarcely marr'd her 
 
 beauty. 
 Perhaps 't is well slurr'd over in a pic- 
 ture! 
 Yet stay! I see it, now I look again! 
 How excellently well! {Guards return 
 from searching the house.) What! ' 
 found you nothing "? 
 Soldier. {Holding up Isabella's veil.) 
 
 This bridal veil — no more. 
 Angelo. {Despairingly.) Oh! luckless 
 
 star ! 
 Tortesa. Signor ! you '11 trust me when I 
 say I 'm sorry 
 With all my soul! This veil, I know it 
 
 well — 
 Was o'er the face of that unhappy lady 
 When laid in sanctuary. You are silent ! 
 Perhaps you scorn to satisfy me here ! 
 I trust you can — in your extremity! 
 But I must bring you to the Duke! 
 Lead on ! 
 Angelo. An instant! 
 Tortesa. {Courteously.) At your pleasure! 
 
288 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 Angelo. {To Isabella, as he passes close 
 to her.) I conjure you, 
 
 By all our love, stir not ! 
 Isabella. {Still motionless.) Farewell! 
 (ToRTESA motions for Angelo to pre- 
 cede him with the guard, looks once 
 more at the picture, and with a ges- 
 ture expressive of admiration, fol- 
 lows. As the door closes, Isabella 
 steps from the frame.) 
 Isabella. I '11 follow 
 
 Close on thy steps, beloved Angelo! 
 And find a way to bring thee home again ! 
 My heart is light, and hope speaks cheer- 
 ily! 
 And lo ! bright augui-y ! — a friar's hood 
 For my disguise! Was ever omen 
 
 fairer ! 
 Thanks! my propitious star! 
 
 {Envelopes herself in the hood, and 
 goes out hastily.) 
 
 Scene 2. {A Street. Enter Tomaso, with 
 his hat crushed and pulled sulkily over 
 his eyes, his clothes dirty on one side, and 
 other marks of having slept in the street. 
 Enter Zippa from the other side, meeting 
 him. ) 
 
 Zippa. Tomaso! Is 't thou? Where's 
 
 Angelo ? 
 Tomaso. It is I, and I don't know ! 
 Zippa. Did he come home last night? 
 Tomaso. ^'Did he come home!" Look 
 
 there! (Pulls off his hat, and shews his 
 
 dirty side.) 
 Zippa. Then thou hast slept in the street! 
 Tomaso. Ay ! 
 Zippa. And what has that to do with the 
 
 coming home of Angelo f 
 Tomaso. What had thy father to do with 
 
 thy having such a nose as his? (Zippa 
 
 holds up a ducat to him.) What! gave 
 
 thy mother a ducat? — cheap as dirt! 
 Zippa. Blockhead, no! I'll give thee the 
 
 ducat if thou wilt tell me, straight on, 
 
 what thou know'st of Angelo! 
 Tomaso. I will — and thou shalt see how 
 
 charity is rewarded. 
 Zippa. Begin ! — begin ! 
 Tomaso. Last night, having pray'd later 
 
 than usual at vespers — 
 Zippa. Ehem ! 
 Tomaso. I was coming home in a pious 
 
 frame of mind — 
 Zippa. — And a bottle in thy pocket. 
 Tomaso. No ! — in my hand. What should 
 
 I stumble over — 
 
 Zippa. — But a stone. 
 
 Tomaso. A woman! 
 
 Zippa. Fie ! what 's this you 're going to 
 tell me? 
 
 Tomaso. She was dying with cold. Full 
 of Christian charity — 
 
 Zippa. — And new wine. 
 
 Tomaso. Old wine, Zippa ! The wine was 
 old! 
 
 Zippa. Well ! 
 
 Tomaso. I took her home. 
 
 Zippa. Shame! — at thy years? 
 
 Tomaso. And Angelo being out for the 
 night — 
 
 Zippa. There! there! you may skip the 
 particulars. 
 
 Tomaso. I say my own bed being in the 
 garret — 
 
 Zippa. Well, well ! 
 
 Tomaso. I put her into Angelo's. 
 
 Zippa. Oh, unspeakable impudence! 
 Didst thou do that? 
 
 Tomaso. I had just left her to make a 
 w^ine jDosset, (for she was well nigh dead,) 
 when in popped my master, — finds her 
 there — asks no questions, — kicks me into 
 the street, and locks the door! There's 
 the reward of virtue ! 
 
 Zippa. Did be not turn out the woman, 
 too? 
 
 Tomaso. Not as I remember. 
 
 Zippa. Oh, worse and worse! And thou 
 hast not seen him since? 
 
 Tomaso. I found me a soft stone, said my 
 prayers, and went to sleep. 
 
 Zippa. And hast thou not seen him to-day? 
 
 Tomaso. Partly, I have ! 
 
 Zippa. Where? Tell me quickly! 
 
 Tomaso. Give me the ducat. 
 
 Zippa. {Gives it him.) Quick! say on! 
 
 Tomaso. I have a loose recollection, that,- 
 lying on that stone, Angelo called me by 
 name. Looking up, I saw two Angelos, 
 and two Tortesas, and soldiers with two 
 spears each. {He figures in the air with 
 his finger as if trying to remember.) 
 
 Zippa. {Aside.) (Ha! he is apprehended 
 for the murder of Isabella ! Say that 
 my evidence might save his life! Not 
 unless he love me ! ) Which way went he, 
 Tomaso? (Tomaso points.) This way? 
 (Then has he gone to be tried before the 
 Duke.) Come with me, Tomaso! Come. 
 
 Tomaso. Where? 
 
 Zippa. To the Duke's palace! Come! 
 (Takes his arm.) 
 
 Tomaso. To the Duke's palace? There'll 
 be kicking of heels in the ante-chamber! 
 — Dry work! I'll spend thy ducat as 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 289 
 
 we go along. Shall it be old wine, or 
 new? (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. (Hall of Judgment in the Ducal 
 Palace. The Duke upon a raised throne 
 on the left. Falcone near his chair, and 
 Angelo on the opposite side of the stage 
 with a guard. Isabella behind the 
 guard disguised as a monk. Tortesa 
 stands near the centre of the stage, and 
 ZiPPA and ToMASO in the left corner, 'lis- 
 tening eagerly. Counsellors at a table, 
 and crowd of spectators at the sides and 
 rear. ) 
 
 Duke. Are there more witnesses'? 
 Counsellor. No more, my liege ! 
 
 Duke. None for the prisoner? 
 Counsellor. He makes no defence 
 
 Beyond a firm denial. 
 Falcone. Is there wanting 
 
 Another proof, my liege, that he is 
 guilty? 
 Duke. I fear he stands in deadly peril, 
 Count. 
 
 (To the Counsellor.) 
 
 Sum up the evidence. (He reads.) 
 
 Counsellor. 'T is proved, my liege, 
 
 That for no honest or sufficient end. 
 
 The pris'ner practised on your noble 
 
 Grace 
 And Count Falcone a eontriv'd deceit. 
 Whereby he gain'd admittance to the 
 lady. 
 
 (ToMASO exhibits signs of alarm.) 
 Duke. Most true! 
 
 Counsellor. That, till the eve before 
 
 her death. 
 He had continual access to the palace; 
 And, having grown enamoured of the 
 
 bride, 
 Essay'd by plots that never were matured, 
 And quarrels often forced on her be- 
 trothed, 
 To stay the bridal. That, against the 
 
 will 
 Of her most noble father and the Duke, 
 The bride was resolute to keep her troth; 
 And so, preparing for the ceremony, 
 Upon her bridal morning was found dead. 
 'T is proved again — that, while she lay in 
 
 state, 
 The guard, at several periods of the 
 
 night, 
 Did force the pris'ner from the chapel 
 
 door; 
 And when the corse was stoFn from sanc- 
 tuary 
 
 All search was vain, till, in the pris'ner's 
 
 hands 
 Was found the veil that shrouded her. 
 
 To these 
 And lighter proofs of sacrilege and mur- 
 der 
 The prisoner has opposed his firm de- 
 nial — 
 No more! 
 Duke. Does no one speak in his behalf ? 
 Tortesa. My liege ! so far as turns the evi- 
 dence 
 Upon the prisoner's quarrels with myself, 
 I'm free to say that they had such oc- 
 casion 
 As any day may rise 't wixt men of honor. 
 As one of those aggriev'd by his offences, 
 You '11 wonder I 'm a suitor for his par- 
 don — 
 But so I am! Besides that there is room 
 To hope him innocent, your Grace's realm 
 Holds not so wondrous and so rare a 
 
 painter ! 
 If he has killed the lady Isabella, 
 'T is some amends that in his glorious pic- 
 ture 
 She's made immortal! If he stole her 
 
 corse, 
 He can return, for that disfigured dust. 
 An Isabella fresh in changeless beauty! 
 Were it not well to pardon him, my 
 Lord? 
 Isabella. {Aside. ) Oh, brave Tortesa ! 
 Duke. You have pleaded kindly 
 
 And eloquently, Signor! but the law 
 Can recognize no gift as plea for pardon. 
 For his rare picture he will have his 
 
 fame; 
 But if the Isabella he has painted 
 Find not a voice to tell his innocence. 
 He dies at sunset ! 
 Isabella. {Despairingly.) He is dead to 
 me! 
 Yet he shall live ! 
 
 {She drops the cowl from her shoul- 
 ders, and with her arms folded, walks 
 slowly to the f^et of the Duke.) 
 Falcone. {Rushing forward.) My daugh- 
 ter! 
 Angelo. {With a gesture of agony.) 
 
 Lost ! 
 Tortesa. Alive ! 
 
 ZiPPA. {Energetically.) Tortesa '11 have 
 her 
 (Isabella retires to the back of the 
 stage with her father, and kneels to 
 him, imploring in dumb show; the 
 Duke and others watching.) 
 Tortesa. (Aside.) So! all's right again? 
 
290 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 Now for my lancte, or Isabella'? — Stay! 
 'T is a bravo i^irl, by Heaven! (Reflects 
 
 a moment.) A sleeping draught, 
 And so to Angelo ! Her love for me 
 A counterfeit to take suspicion off! 
 It was well done ! 1 feel my heart warm 
 
 to her! [Eeflects again.) 
 
 Where could he hide her from our search 
 
 to-day? 
 
 (Looks round at Isabella.) 
 No? Yet the dress is like! It was the 
 
 picture ! 
 Herself — and not a picture! Now, by 
 
 Heaven, 
 A girl like that should be the wife of 
 
 Caesar ! 
 
 [Presses his hand upon his heart.) 
 I Ve a new feeling here ! 
 
 (Falcone comes forward, followed hy 
 
 Isabella ivitli gestures of supplica- 
 tion.) 
 Falcone. I will not hear you ! 
 
 My liege, I pray you keep the prisoner 
 In durance till my daughter 's fairly wed. 
 He has contriv'd against our peace and 
 
 honor. 
 And howsoe'er this marvel be made clear. 
 She stands betroth'd, if he is in the mind, 
 To the brave Signer, yonder! 
 Duke. This were well — 
 
 What says Tortesa? 
 ToRTESA. If my liege permit, 
 
 I will address my answer to this lady. 
 
 ( Turns to Isabella.) 
 For reasons which 1 need not give you 
 
 now. 
 Fair Isabella ! I became your suitor. 
 My motives were unworthy you and me — 
 Yet I was true — I never said I lov'd 
 
 you! 
 Your father sold you me for lands and 
 
 money — 
 (Pardon me, Duke! And you, fair Isa- 
 bella ! 
 You will — ere I am done!) I push'd my 
 
 suit! 
 The bridal day came on, and clos'd in 
 
 mounaing; 
 For the fair bride it dawn'd upon was 
 
 dead. 
 I had my shame and losses to remember — 
 But in my heart sat sorrow uppermost, 
 And pity — for I thought your heart was 
 
 broken. 
 (Isabella begins to discover interest 
 
 in his story, and Angelo watches her 
 
 with jealous eagerness.) 
 I see you here again! You are my 
 
 bride! 
 
 Your father holds me to my bargain f )r 
 
 you! 
 The lights are burning on the nuptial 
 
 altar — 
 The bridal chamber and the feast, all 
 
 ready ! 
 What stays the marriage now? — my new- 
 horn love! 
 That nuptial feast were fruit from Para- 
 dise — 
 I cannot touch it till you bid me wel- 
 come! 
 That nuptial chamber were the lap o:P- 
 
 Heaven — 
 I cannot enter till you call me in! 
 
 [Takes a ring from his hosom.) 
 Here is the golden ring you should have 
 
 worn. 
 Tell me to give it to my rival there— 
 I '11 break my heart to do so ! 
 
 [Holds it toward Angelo.) 
 Isabella. [Looking at her father.) 
 
 Would I might ! 
 ToRTESA. You shall, if 't please you ! 
 Falcone. I command thee, never! 
 
 My liege, permit me to take home my 
 
 daughter ! 
 And, Sign or, you — if you would keep 
 
 your troth — 
 To-morrow come, and end this halting 
 
 bridal! 
 Home! Isabella! 
 
 (Takes his daughter's hand.) 
 Tortesa. [Taking it from him.) Stay! 
 she is not yours ! 
 My gracious liege, there is a law in 
 
 Florence, 
 That if a father, for no guilt or shame, 
 Disown, and shut his door upon his 
 
 daughter, 
 She is the child of him who succors her; 
 Who, by the shelter of a single night, 
 Becomes endowed with the authority 
 Lost by the other. Is 't not so? 
 Duke. So runs 
 
 The law of Florence, and I see your 
 
 drift— 
 For, look my lord! [To Falcone.) if 
 
 that dread apparition 
 You saw last night, was this your living 
 
 daughter. 
 You stand within the peril of that law. 
 Falcone. My liege! 
 
 Isabella. [Looking admiringly at Tor- 
 tesa.) Oh, noble Sigiior! 
 Tortesa. [To Isabella.) Was't well 
 done? 
 Shall I give Angelo the ring? 
 
 [As she is about to take it from him, 
 
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 
 
 291 
 
 ToMASO steps in behind, and pulls 
 Isabella by the sleeve.) 
 ToMASO. Stay there ! 
 
 What wilt thou do for dowry? I'm thy 
 
 father? 
 But — save some flasks of Aviue — 
 Isabella. {Sorrowfully.) Would I were 
 richer 
 For thy sake, Angelo ! 
 
 (ToRTESA looks at her an instant, and 
 then steps to the table and writes.) 
 Angelo. {Coming forward with an ef- 
 fort.) Look, Isabella! 
 I stand between thee and a life of sun- 
 shine. 
 Thou wert both rich and honor'd, but for 
 
 me! 
 That thou couldst wed me, beggar as I 
 
 am. 
 Is bliss to think on — but see how I rob 
 
 thee! 
 I have a loving heart — but am a beg- 
 gar! 
 There is a loving heart — {Points to ToR- 
 TESA.) With wealth and honor! 
 (ToRTESA steps between them, and 
 hands a paper to Angelo.) 
 ToRTESA. {To Isabella.) Say thou wilt 
 
 wed the poorer? 
 Isabella. {Offers her hands to Angelo.) 
 
 So I will! 
 Tortesa. Then am I blest, for he 's as rich 
 as I — 
 Yet, in his genius, has one jewel more! 
 Isabella. What say'st thou? 
 
 (Angelo reads earnestly.) 
 
 Tortesa. In a mortal quarrel, lady ! 
 
 'T is thought ill-luck to have the better 
 
 sword ; 
 For the good angels, who look sorrowing 
 
 on. 
 In heavenly pity take the weaker side ! 
 Isabella What is it, Angelo? 
 Angelo. A deed to me 
 
 Of the Falcone palaces and lands, 
 And all the moneys forfeit by your 
 
 father ! — 
 By Heaven, I '11 not be mock'd ! 
 Tortesa. The deed is yours — 
 
 What mockery in that? 
 Isabella. {Tenderly to Tortesa.) It is 
 not kind 
 To make refusal of your love a pain ! 
 Tortesa. I would 't would kill you to re- 
 fuse me, lady! 
 So should the blood plead for me at your 
 
 heart ! 
 Shall I give up the ring? 
 
 {Offers it.) 
 
 Isabella. {Hesitatingly.) Let me look 
 
 on it ! ^ 
 Tortesa. {Withdrawing it.) A moment 
 yet! You'll give it ere you think! 
 Oh, is it fair that Angelo had days, 
 To tell his love, and I have not one hour? 
 How know you that I cannot love as well? 
 Isabella. 'T is possible ! 
 Tortesa. Ah ! thanks ! 
 
 Isabella. But I have given 
 
 My heart to him! 
 Tortesa. You gave your troth to me! 
 
 If, of these two gifts you must take back 
 
 one, 
 Rob not the poorer! Shall I keep the 
 ring? (Isabella looks down.) 
 
 Angelo. She hesitates ! I 've waited here 
 too long ! 
 
 {Tears the deed in two.) 
 Perish your gift, and farewell, Isabella! 
 Isabella. {Advancing a step with clasp' d 
 hands.) You'll kill me, Angelo! 
 Come back! 
 Tortesa. {Seizing him by the hand as he 
 hesitates, and flinging him back with 
 a strong effort.) He shall! 
 Angelo. Stand from my path! Or, if 
 you care to try 
 Some other weapon than a glozing tongue. 
 Follow me forth where we may find the 
 room! 
 Tortesa. You shall not go. 
 Angelo. {Draws.) Have at thee then! 
 {Attacks Tortesa, who disarms him, 
 and holds his sword-point to his 
 breast. Duke and others come for- 
 ward.) 
 Tortesa. The bar 
 
 'Twixt me and heaven, boy! is the life I 
 
 hold 
 Now at my mercy! Take it, Isabella! 
 And with it the poor gift he threw 
 
 awaj^ ! 
 I '11 write a new deed ere you 've time to 
 
 marry, 
 So take your troth back with your bridal 
 
 ring, 
 And thus I join you! 
 
 {Takes Isabella's hand, but Angelo 
 refuses his.) 
 Angelo. {Proudly.) Never! But for 
 me. 
 The hand you hold were joyfully your 
 
 own ! 
 Shall I receive a life and fortune from 
 
 you. 
 
 Yet stand 'twixt you and that? 
 Isabella. {Turning from Angelo.) 
 Thou dost not love me ! 
 
292 
 
 TORTESA THE USURER 
 
 ToRTESA. Believe it not! He does! An 
 instant more 
 
 I '11 brnsh this new-spun cobweb from his 
 eyes. {Crosses to Zippa.) 
 
 Fair Zippa! in this eross'd and tangled 
 world 
 
 Few wed the one they could have lov'd 
 the best, 
 
 And fewer still wed well for happiness! 
 
 We each have lost to-day what best we 
 love. 
 
 But as the drops that mingled in the sky, 
 
 Are torn apart in the tempestuous sea. 
 
 Yet with a new drop tremble into one, 
 
 We two, if you 're content, may swim to- 
 gether ! 
 
 What say you? 
 Zippa. (Giving her hand.) I have thought 
 on it before, 
 
 When I believed you cold and treacher- 
 ous. 
 
 'T is easy when I know you kind and 
 noble. 
 ToRTESA. To-morrow, then, we '11 wed ; 
 and now, fair Signor, 
 
 {To Angelo.) 
 
 Take you her hand, nor fear to rob Tor- 
 tesa! 
 
 {Turns to the Duke.) 
 
 Shall it be so, my liege ? 
 Duke. You please me well. 
 
 And if you '11 join your marriage feasts 
 
 together 
 I '11 play my part, and give the brides 
 
 away 
 
 ToRTESA. Not so, my liege! I could not 
 
 see her ived him. 
 To give her to him has been all I could; 
 For I have sought her with the dearest 
 
 pulses 
 That quicken in my heart, my love and 
 
 scorn. 
 She 's taught me that the high-born may 
 
 be true. 
 I thank her for it — but, too close on that 
 Follow'd the love, whose lightning flash 
 
 of honor 
 Brightens, but straight is dark again ! 
 
 My liege. 
 The poor who leap up to the stars for 
 
 duty 
 Must drop to earth again ! and here, if 't 
 
 please you, 
 I take my feet forever from your palace, 
 And, match'd as best beseems me, say 
 
 farewell. 
 {Takes Zippa's hand, and the curtain 
 
 drops. ) 
 
 THE END. 
 
FASHION 
 
 BY 
 
 Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie 
 
FASHION 
 
 Fashion, while not our first dramatic social satire, for that honor belongs to 
 The Contrast, is of special interest as inspiring a series of plays dealing with the 
 follies of those who aspire to secure an assured position without being aware of 
 social values. The best of this later series is Nature's NoUeman, by Henry 0. 
 Pardey, (1851), for Mrs. Bateman's Self, (1856), E. G. Wilkins' You7ig Neiv 
 York, (1856), and Cornelius Mathews' False Pretences, or Both Sides of Good 
 Society (1856) are merely caricature. 
 
 Anna Cora Ogden, the author of Fashion, was born in Bordeaux, France, 
 in 1819, the daughter of Samuel G. Ogden, of New York, who was tried and 
 acquitted for complicity in the Miranda expedition to liberate South America. 
 She was interested in the stage from childhood, taking the part of a judge 
 in a French version of Othello when she was five years of age. At fourteen she 
 had put on an English translation of Voltaire's Alzire at her home in Flatbush. 
 She married James Mowatt, a barrister in New York, when she was fifteen. 
 At sixteen she published her first literary venture, a poetical romance, Pelayo 
 or the Cavern of Covadonga. Being threatened with tuberculosis of the lungs, 
 she took a sea voyage and went to London and to Hamburg, and later to Paris, 
 where she saw Rachel act, and where she wrote Gulzara or the Persian Star, a 
 play in six acts which was acted afterwards at her home in Flatbush by her 
 sisters, and on two other occasions, at least. It was published in the New World 
 in 1840. Mr. Mowatt lost his fortune and Mrs. Mowatt began to give public 
 readings with considerable success. Notwithstanding her constant struggle 
 against ill health, she wrote copiously for the leading magazines, sometimes con- 
 tributing several articles under different names to the same journal. Her novel 
 of The Fortune Hunter (1842), had quite a wide sale and was translated into 
 German. Her other novel, Evelyn, a domestic story, was published after her 
 debut, in 1845. 
 
 Fashion was produced first at the Park Theatre, New York, March 24, 1845. 
 An interesting account of its production is given in her Autobiography, It ran 
 for three weeks and was withdrawn only owing to engagements of stars at the 
 Park Theatre. It was played in Philadelphia at the "Walnut Street Theatre 
 while the New York engagement was on. The success of the play and also her 
 financial necessities induced her to go on the stage and she made her debut at 
 the Park Theatre as *' Pauline" in the Lady of Lyons, on June 13, 1845. Her 
 modest accounts of her stage beginning show that she made a success from the 
 
 295 
 
296 INTRODUCTION 
 
 lirst and she toured the country, going as far south as New Orleans. She played 
 ''Gertrude" in Fashion for the first time in Philadelphia apparently and repeated 
 it in other places several times but the part was not a favorite one with her. 
 
 During the summer of 1847 she wrote Armand, the Child of the People, 
 intending the name part for E. L. Davenport, her leading man, and the part of 
 ' ' Blanche ' ' for herself. It was produced at the Park Theatre, September 27, 1847, 
 with success and " Blanche ' ' became one of her leading characters. It is a comedy 
 melodrama, laid in the time of Louis XV, partly in blank verse. Mrs. iMowatt 
 appeared at the Theatre Royal, Manchester, December 7, 1847, as ''Pauline" 
 and made so favorable an impression that she and Davenport were engaged to 
 tal^e IMacready's place at the Theatre Royal, Marylebone, London, when the 
 latter came to America. During this engagement she put on Armand, January 
 18, 1849, when it ran twenty-one consecutive nights. Fashion was played at 
 the Royal Olympic Theatre, where she and ]\Ir. Davenport w^ere playing, on 
 January 9, 1850, and ran for tw^o weeks. In January, 1851, she went to Dublin 
 and was given a w^onderful reception. Mr. Mowatt died in 1851 and she re- 
 turned to America on July 9th of that year. She continued her stage career 
 under the discouragement of ill health and accident until 1854, when, after a 
 long illness, she retired. Her last performance was on June 3, 1854, at Niblo's 
 Garden, in the character of "Pauline," in which she had made her debut. It 
 was made the occasion for a great testimonial to her. In 1854 she published 
 her Autohiography, a fascinating account of her experiences from childhood to 
 that time. She married William F. Ritchie, of the Richmond Enquirer, June 
 7, 1854. 
 
 Her later publications include a number of works of fiction, the most im- 
 portant of w^hich is 31imic Life, or Before and Behind the Curtain, (1855), a 
 series of stories dealing with life on the stage in which her own experiences are 
 to a certain extent reflected. After 1861 she lived mostly abroad and died in 
 London, July 28, 1870. 
 
 For an interesting contemporary criticism see Edgar A. Poe, The New 
 Comedy hy Mrs. Mowatt, Broadway Journal, ]\larch 29, 1845, and Mrs. Mowatt's 
 Comedy, Broadway Journal, April 5, 1845, reprinted in the Virginia Edition of 
 Poe's AVorks, Vol. 12, pp. 112-121 and 124-129. His criticisms of her acting may 
 be found in Vol. 12, pp. 184-192, also reprinted from the Broadway Journal, of 
 July 19 and 26, 1845. 
 
 Fashion was published in London in 3850, and was reprinted, with Armand, 
 in Boston, in ]855. The present edition is based upon a collation of these two 
 texts, which differ very slightly. 
 
 The play was revived by the Zelosophic Society of the University of Penn- 
 sylvania, May 19, 1919, on which occasion its acting qualities were clearly shown. 
 
FASHION; 
 
 OB, 
 
 LIFE IN NEW YORK. 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA CORA MOWATT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "ARMAND," *'*EVELYN," "THE FORTUNE HUNTER." 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 ** Howe'er it be — it seems to me 
 
 'Tis only noble to be good ; 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 LONDON : 
 W. NEWBERY, 6, KING STREET, HOLBORN 
 
 1850. 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Park Theatre, New- 
 York, 1845 
 
 Adam Trueman Mr. Chippendale 
 
 Count Jolimaitre, a fashionable 
 
 European Importation Mr. Crisp 
 
 Colonel Howard, an officer in 
 
 the United States Army ]\Ir. Dyott 
 
 Mr. Tiffany, a New York Mer- 
 chant ]\Ir. Barry 
 
 T. Tennyson Twinkle, a modern 
 
 Poet Mr. DeWalden 
 
 Augustus Fogg, a drawing room 
 
 appendage IMr. J. Howard 
 
 Snobson, a rare species of confi- 
 dential clerk IMr. Fisher 
 
 Zeke, a colored servant Mr. Skerrett 
 
 jMrs. Tiffany, a lady who imag- 
 ines herself fashionable Mrs. Barry 
 
 Prudence, a maiden lady of a 
 
 certain age Mrs. Knight 
 
 IMillinette, a French lady's maid Mrs. Dyott 
 
 Gertrude, a governess I\Iiss Ellis 
 
 Seraphina Tiffany, a belle iMiss Horn 
 
 Royal Olympic 
 
 Theatre, London 
 
 1850 
 
 Mr. E. Davenport 
 
 Mr. A. Wigan 
 
 Mr. Belton 
 
 Mr. J, Johnstone 
 
 Mr. Kinloch 
 
 Mr. J. Howard 
 
 Mr. H. Scharf 
 My. J. Herbert 
 
 ]\Irs. H. iMarston 
 
 jMrs. Parker 
 j\rrs. A. AVigan 
 Miss F. Vining 
 Miss Gougenheim 
 
FASHION 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. A splendid Drawing Room in 
 the House of Mrs. Tiffany. Open fold- 
 ing doors, discovering a Conservatory. 
 On either side glass windows down to 
 the ground. Doors on right and left. 
 Mirror, couches, ottomans, a table with 
 albums, beside it an arm chair. Milli- 
 NETTE dusting furniture. Zeke in a 
 dashing livery, scarlet coat. 
 
 Zeke. Dere 's a coat to take de eyes ob 
 all Broadway! Ah! Missy, it am de fix- 
 in's dat make de natural born gemman. 
 A libery for ever ! Dere 's a pair ob in- 
 suppressibles to 'stonish de colored pop- 
 ulation. 
 
 MiLLiNETTE. Oh, oui, Mousieur Zeke. 
 {Very politely.) I not comprend one 
 word he say! {Aside.) 
 
 Zeke. I tell 'ee what, Missy, I 'm 'stordi- 
 nary glad to find dis a bery 'speetabul 
 like situation ! Now, as you 've made de 
 acquaintance ob dis here family, and 
 dere you Ve had a supernumerary ad- 
 vantage ob me — seeing dat I only re- 
 ceibed my appointment dis morning. 
 What I wants to know is your publicated 
 opinion, privately expressed, ob de do- 
 mestic circle. 
 
 Mil. You mean vat espece, vat kind of 
 personnes are Monsieur and Madame 
 Tiffany? Ah! Monsieur is not de same 
 ting as Madame, — not at all. 
 
 Zeke. Well, I s'pose he ain't altogether. 
 
 Mil. Monsieur is man of business, — Ma- 
 dame is lady of fashion. Monsieur 
 make de money, — Madame spend it. 
 Monsieur nobody at all, — Madame every- 
 body altogether. Ah! Monsieur Zeke, 
 de money is all dat is necessaire in dis 
 country to make one lady of fashion. 
 Oh! it is quite anoder ting in la belle 
 France! 
 
 Zeke. A bery lucifer explanation. Well, 
 now we 've disposed ob de heads ob de 
 family, who come next? 
 
 Mil. First, dere is Mademoiselle Sera- 
 phina Tiffany. Mademoiselle is not at 
 all one proper personne. Mademoiselle 
 
 Seraphina is one coquette. Dat is not 
 de mode in la belle France; de ladies, 
 dere, never learn la coquetrie until dey 
 do get one husband. 
 
 Zeke. I tell ^ee what. Missy, I disrepro- 
 bate dat proceeding altogeder! 
 
 Mil. Vait! I have not tell you all la 
 famille yet. Dere is Ma'mselle Prudence 
 — Madame's sister, one very bizarre per- 
 sonne. Den dere is Ma'mselle Gertrude, 
 but she not anybody at all; she only 
 teach Mademoiselle Seraphina la mu- 
 sique. 
 
 Zeke. Well now, Missy, what 's your own 
 special def unctions? 
 
 Mil. I not understand, Monsieur Zeke. 
 
 Zeke. Den I '11 amplify. What 's de na- 
 ture ob your exclusive services? 
 
 Mil. Ah, oui! je comprend. I am Ma- 
 dame's femme de chambre — her lady's 
 maid, Monsieur Zeke. I teach Madame 
 les modes de Paris, and Madame set de 
 fashion for all New York. You see. 
 Monsieur Zeke, dat it is me, moi-meme, 
 dat do lead de fashion for all de Ameri- 
 can beau monde! 
 
 Zeke. Yah ! yah ! yah ! I hab de idea by 
 de heel. Well now, p'raps you can 'lus- 
 trify my officials? 
 
 Mil. Vat you will have to do? Oh! 
 much tings, much tings. You vait on 
 de table, — you tend de door, — you clean 
 de boots, — you run de errands, — you 
 drive de carriage, — you rub de horses, — 
 you take care of de flowers, — you carry 
 de water, — you help cook de dinner, — 
 you wash de dishes, — and den you al- 
 ways remember to do everyting I tell 
 you to! 
 
 Zeke. Wheugh, am dat all? 
 
 Mil. All I can tink of now. To-day is 
 Madame's day of reception, and all her 
 grand friends do make her one petite 
 visit. You mind run fast ven de bell do 
 ring. 
 
 Zeke. Run ? If it was n't for dese super- 
 fluminous trimmings, I tell 'ee what, 
 Missy, I 'd run — 
 
 Mrs. Tiffany. {Outside.) Millinette! 
 
 Mil. Here comes Madame! You better 
 
 299 
 
300 
 
 FASHION 
 
 Zeke. Look aliea, Massa Zeke, does n't dis 
 open rich! {Aside.) {Exit Zeke.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Tiffany, dressed in the most 
 extravagant height of fashion.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Is everytliing in order, Milli- 
 nette? Ah! very elegant, very elegant, 
 indeed! There is a jenny -say s-quoi look 
 about this furniture, — an air of fashion 
 and gentility perfectly bewitching. Is 
 there not, Millinette? 
 
 Mil. Oh, oui, Madame! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. But where is Miss Seraphina? 
 It is twelve o'clock; our visitors will be 
 pouring in, and she has not made her 
 appearance. But I hear that nothing is 
 more fashionable than to keep people 
 waiting. — None but vulgar persons pay 
 any attention to punctuality. Is it not 
 so, Millinette? 
 
 Mil. Quite comme il faut. — Great per- 
 sonnes always do make little personnes 
 wait, Madame. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. This mode of receiving visitors 
 only upon one specified day of the week 
 is a most convenient custom! It saves 
 the trouble of keeping the house contm- 
 ually in order and of being always 
 dressed. I flatter myself that I was the 
 first to introduce it amongst the New 
 York ee-light. You are quite sure that 
 it is strictly a Parisian mode, Millinette? 
 
 Mil. Oh, oui, Madame; entirely mode de 
 Paris. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. This girl is worth her weight 
 in gold. {Aside.) Millinette, bow do 
 you say arm-chair in French? 
 
 Mil. Fauteuil, Madame. 
 
 Mrs. Tip. Fo-tool! That has a foreign 
 — an out-of-the-wayish sound that is per- 
 fectly charming — and so genteel! There 
 is something about our American words 
 decidedly vulgar. Fowtool! how refined. 
 Fowtool! Arm-chair! what a difference! 
 
 Mil. Madame have one charmante pro- 
 nunciation. Fowtool {mimicking aside) 
 charmante, Madame! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Do you think so, Millinette? 
 Well, I l)elieve' I liave. But a woman of 
 refinement and of fashion can always 
 accommodate herself to everything for- 
 eign! And a week's study of that in- 
 valuable work — "French without a Mas- 
 ter/' has made me quite at home in the 
 court language of Europe! But where 
 is the new valet? I'm rather sorry that 
 he is black, but to obtain a white Ameri- 
 can for a domestic is almost impossible; 
 and they call this a free country ! What 
 
 did you say was the name of this new 
 servant, Millinette? 
 
 Mil. He do say his name is Monsieur 
 Zeke. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Ezekiel, I suppose. Zeke! 
 Dear me, such a vulgar name will com- 
 promise the dignity of the whole fam- 
 ily. Can you not suggest something 
 more aristocratic, Millinette? Something 
 French I 
 
 Mil. Oh, oui, Madame; Adolph is one 
 very fine name. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. A-dolph! Charming! Ring 
 the bell, Millinette! (Millinette rings 
 the hell.) I will change his name im- 
 mediately, besides giving him a few di- 
 rections. • 
 
 {Enter Zeke. Mrs. Tiffany addresses him 
 with great dignity.) 
 
 Your name, I hear, is Ezekiel. — I con- 
 sider it too plebeian an appellation to be 
 uttered in my presence. In future you 
 are called A-dolph. Don't reply, — never 
 interrupt me when I am speaking. 
 A-dolph, as my guests arrive, I desire 
 that you will inquire the name of every 
 person, and then announce it in a loud, 
 clear tone. That is the fashion in Paris. 
 (Millinette retires up the stage.) 
 Zeke. Consider de office discharged. Mis- 
 sus. {Speaking very loudly.) 
 Mrs. Tif. Silence! Your business is to 
 
 obey and not to talk. 
 Zeke. I 'm dumb. Missus ! 
 Mrs. Tif. {Pointing up stage.) A-dolph, 
 
 place that fowtool behind me. 
 Zeke. {Looking about him.) I hab n't 
 got dat far in de dictionary yet. No 
 matter, a genus gets his learning by 
 nature. 
 
 {Takes up the table and places it he- 
 hind Mrs. Tiffany, then expresses 
 in dumb show great satisfaction. 
 Mrs. Tiffany, as she goes to sit, 
 discovers the mistake.) 
 Mrs. Tif. You dolt! Where have you 
 lived not to know that fow-tool is the 
 French for arm-chair? What igno- 
 rance! Leave the room this instant. 
 (Mrs. Tiffany draws forward an arm- 
 chair and sits. Millinette comes 
 forward suppressing her merriment 
 at Zeke's mistake and removes the 
 table.) 
 Zeke. Dem 's de defects ob not having a 
 libery education. {Exit.) 
 
 (Prudence peeps in.) 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 301 
 
 Pru. I wonder if any of the fine folks 
 have come yet. Not a soul, — I knew 
 they had n't. There 's Betsy all alone. 
 {Walks in.) Sister Betsy! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Prudence! how many times 
 have I desired you to call me Elizabeth? 
 Betsy is the height of vulgarity. 
 
 Pru. Oh ! I forgot. Dear me, how spruce 
 •we do look here, to be sure, — everything 
 in first rate style now, Betsy. (Mrs. T. 
 looks at her angrily.) Elizabeth, I 
 mean. Who would have thought, when 
 you and I were sitting behind that little 
 mahogany-colored counter, in Canal 
 Street, making up flashy hats and caps — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Prudence, what do you mean? 
 Millinette, leave the room. 
 
 Mil. Oui, Madame. 
 
 (Millinette pretends to arrange the 
 books upon a side table, but lingers 
 to listen.) 
 
 Pru. But I always predicted it, — I al- 
 ways told you so, Betsy, — I always said 
 you were destined to rise above your 
 station ! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Prudence! Prudence! have I 
 not told you that — • 
 
 Pru. No, Betsy, it was I that told you, 
 when we used to buy our silks and rib- 
 bons of Mr. Antony Tiffany — ^'talking 
 Tony/' you know we used to call him, 
 and when you always put on the finest 
 bonnet in our shop to go to his, — and 
 when you staid so long smiling and chat- 
 tering with him, I always told you that 
 something would grow out of it — and 
 didn't it? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Millinette, send Seraphina here 
 instantly. Leave the room. 
 
 Mil. Oui, Madame. So dis Americaine 
 ladi of fashion vas one milliner? Oh, 
 vat a fine country for les marchandes des 
 modes! I shall send for all my relation 
 by de next packet! {Aside.) 
 
 {Exit Millinette.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Prudence! never let me hear 
 you mention this subject again. Forget 
 what we have been, it is enough to re- 
 member that we are of the upper ten 
 thousand! 
 
 (Prudence goes up and sits down.) 
 
 {Enter Seraphina, very extravagantly 
 dressed. ) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How bewitchingly you look, 
 my dear! Does MilHnette say that that 
 head dress is strictly Parisian? 
 
 Seraphina. Oh, yes. Mamma, all the 
 rage! They call it a lady's tarpaulin, 
 
 and it is the exact pattern of one worn 
 by the Princess Clementina at the last 
 court ball. 
 Mrs. Tif. Now, Seraphina, my dear, 
 don't be too particular in your attentions 
 to gentlemen not eligible. There is 
 Count Jolimaitre, decidedly the most 
 fashionable foreigner in town, — and so 
 refined, — so much accustomed to associ- 
 ate with the first nobility in his own 
 country that he can hardly tolerate the 
 vulgarity of Americans in general. You 
 may devote yourself to him. Mrs. 
 Proudacre is dying to become acquainted 
 with him. By the by, if she or her 
 daughters should happen to drop in, be 
 sure you don't introduce them to the 
 Count. It is not the fashion in Paris to 
 introduce — Millinette told me so. 
 
 {Enter Zeke.) 
 
 Zeke. {In a very loud voice.) Mister T. 
 
 Tennyson Twinkle! 
 Mrs. Tif. Show him up. {Exit Zeke.) 
 Pru. I must be running away! {Going.) 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. T. Tennyson Twinkle— a 
 very literary young man and a sweet 
 poet! It is all the rage to patronize 
 poets! Quick, Seraphina, hand me tha- 
 magazine. — Mr. Twinkle writes for it. 
 (Seraphina hands the magazine, Mrs. 
 Tiffany seats herself in an arm- 
 chair and opens the book.) 
 Pru. {Returning.) There's Betsy trying 
 to make out that reading without her 
 spectacles. 
 
 {Takes a pair of spectacles out of her 
 pocket and hands them to Mrs. Tif- 
 fany.) 
 There, Betsy, I knew you were going to 
 ask for them. Ah! they're a blessing 
 when one is growing old! 
 Mrs. Tif. What do you mean. Prudence? 
 A woman of fashion never grows old! 
 Age is always out of fashion. 
 Pru. Oh, dear! what a delightful thing 
 it is to be fashionable. 
 
 {Exit Prudence. Mrs. Tiffany re- 
 sumes her seat.) 
 
 {Enter Twinkle. He salutes Seraphina.) 
 
 Twin. Fair Seraphina! the sun itself 
 grows dim. 
 Unless you aid his light and shine on 
 him! 
 Sera. Ah ! Mr. Twinkle, there is no such 
 
 thing as answering you. 
 Twin. {Looks around and perceives Mrs. 
 Tiffany.) The "New Monthly Vernal 
 
302 
 
 FASHION 
 
 Galaxy." Reading my verses by all 
 that 's charming ! Sensible woman ! I 
 won't interrupt her. (Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. (Rising and coming forward.) 
 Ah! Mr. Twinkle, is that you? I was 
 perfectly abime at the perusal of your 
 very distingue verses. 
 
 Twin. I am overwhelmed, Madam. Per- 
 mit me. (Taking the magazine.) Yes, 
 they do read tolerably. And you must 
 take into consideration, ladies, the rapid- 
 ity with which they were written. Four 
 • minutes and a half by the stop watch! 
 The true test of a poet is the velocity 
 with which he composes. Really they do 
 look very prettily, and they read toler- 
 ably — quite tolerably — very tolerably, — 
 especially the first verse. (Reads.) 
 "To Seraphina T ." 
 
 Sera. Oh! Mr. Twinkle! 
 
 Twin. (Reads.) "Around my heart" — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How touching! Really, Mr. 
 Twinkle, quite tender! 
 
 Twin. (Recommencing.) "Around my 
 heart"— 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh, I must tell you, Mr. 
 Twinkle! I heard the other day that 
 poets were the aristocrats of literature. 
 That 's one reason I like them, for I 
 do dote on all aristocracy! 
 
 Twin. Oh, Madam, how flattering! Now 
 pray lend me your ears! (Reads.) 
 
 "Around my heart thou weavest" — 
 
 Sera. That is such a sweet commence- 
 ment, Mr. Twinkle! 
 
 Twin. (Aside.) I wish she wouldn't in- 
 terrupt me! (Reads.) "Around my 
 heart thou weavest a spell" — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Beautiful! But excuse me one 
 moment, while I say a word to Seraph- 
 ina! Don't be too affable, my dear! 
 Poets are very ornamental appendages 
 to the drawing room, but they are al- 
 ways as poor as their own verses. They 
 don't make eligible husbands! (Aside 
 to Seraphina.) 
 
 Twin. Confound their interruptions! 
 (Aside.) My dear Madam, unless you 
 pay the utmost attention you cannot 
 catch the ideas. Are you ready? Well, 
 now you shall hear it to the end! 
 (Reads.) 
 
 "Around my heart thou weavest a spell 
 "Whose"— 
 
 (Enter Zeke.) 
 
 Zeke. Mister Augustus Fogg! A bery 
 misty lookin young gemman? (Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Show him up, Adolph! 
 
 (Exit Zeke.) 
 
 Twin. This is too much! 
 
 Sera. Exquisite verses, Mr. Twinkle, — 
 exquisite ! 
 
 Twin. Ah, lovely Seraphina! your smile 
 of approval transports me to the summit 
 of Olympus. 
 
 Sera. Then I must frown, for I would 
 not send you so far away. 
 
 Twin. Enchantress! It's all over with 
 her. (Aside.) 
 
 (Retire up and converse.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Fogg belongs to one of our 
 oldest families, — to be sure he is the 
 most difficult person in the world to en- 
 tertain, for he never takes the trouble to 
 talk, and never notices anything or any- 
 body, — but then I hear tliat nothing is 
 considered so vulgar as to betray any 
 emotion, or to attempt to render oneself 
 agreeable ! 
 
 (Enter Mr. Fogg, fashionably attired hut 
 in very dark clothes.) 
 
 Fogg. (Bowing stiffly.) Mrs. Tiffany, 
 
 your most obedient. Miss Seraphina, 
 
 yours. How d'ye do, Twinkle? 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Fogg, how do you do? 
 
 Fine weather, — delightful, is n't it ? 
 Fogg. I am indifferent to weather, 
 
 Madam. 
 Mrs. Tif. Been to the opera, Mr. Fogg? 
 
 I hear that the how monde make their 
 
 dehutt there every evening. 
 Fogg. I consider operas a bore, Madam. 
 Sera. (Advancing.) You must hear Mr. 
 
 Twinkle's verses, Mr. Fogg! 
 Fogg. I am indifferent to verses. Miss 
 
 Seraphina. 
 Sera. But Mr. Twinkle's verses are ad-^ 
 
 dressed to me! 
 Twin. Now pay attention, Fogg! 
 
 (Reads) — 
 
 "Around my heart thou weavest a spell 
 
 "Whose magic I" — 
 
 (Enter Zeke.) 
 
 Zeke. Mister — No, he say he ain't no 
 Mister — 
 
 Twin. "Around my heart thou weavest a 
 spell 
 "Whose magic I can never tell !" 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Speak in a loud, clear tone, 
 A-dolph ! 
 
 Twin. This is terrible! 
 
 Zeke. Mister Count Jolly-made-her ! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Count Jolimaitre! Good gra- 
 cious! Zeke, Zeke — A-dolph I mean, — 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 303 
 
 Dear me, what a mistake! (Aside.) 
 Set that chair out of the way, — put that 
 table back. Seraphina, my dear, are you 
 all in order? Dear me! dear me! Your 
 dress is so tumbled! (Arranges her 
 dress.) What are you grinning at? 
 (To Zeke.) Beg the Count to honor us 
 by walking up! (Exit Zeke.) 
 
 Seraphina, my dear (aside to her), re- 
 member now what I told you about the 
 Count. He is a man of the highest, — 
 good gracious! I am so flurried; arid 
 nothing is so ungenteel as agitation! 
 what will the Count think! Mr. 
 Twinkle, pray stand out of the way! 
 Seraphina, my dear, place yourself on 
 my right! Mr. Fogg, the conservatory 
 — beautiful flowers, — pray amuse your- 
 self in the conservatory. 
 
 Fogg. I am indifferent to flowers, Madam. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Dear me ! the man stands right 
 in the way, — just where the Count must 
 make his entray! (Aside.) Mr. Fogg, 
 — pray— 
 
 (Enter Count Jolimaitre, very dashingly 
 dressed, wears a moustache.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh, 
 
 Count, this unexpected 
 inexpressible pleas- 
 
 honor — 
 
 Sera. Count, this 
 ure — 
 
 Count. Beg you won't mention it. 
 Madam ! Miss Seraphina, your most de- 
 voted! (Crosses.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What condescension! (Aside.) 
 Count, may I take the liberty to in- 
 troduce — Good gracious! I forgot. 
 (Aside.) Count, I was about to remark 
 that we never introduce in America. All 
 our fashions are foreign. Count. 
 
 (Twinkle, who has stepped forward 
 to be introduced, shows great indig- 
 nation.) 
 
 Count. Excuse me. Madam, our fashions 
 have grown antediluvian before you 
 Americans discover their existence. 
 You are lamentably behind the age — 
 lamentably! Ton my honor, a for- 
 eigner of refinement finds great diffi- 
 culty in existing in this provincial at- 
 mosphere. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How dreadful. Count! I am 
 very much concerned. If there is any- 
 thing which I can do. Count — 
 
 Sera. Or I, Count, to render your situa- 
 tion less deplorable — 
 
 Count. Ah! I find but one redeeming 
 charm in America — the superlative love- 
 liness of the feminine portion of crea- 
 
 tion, — and the wealth of their obliging 
 papas. (Aside-.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How flattering! Ah! Count, I 
 am afraid you will turn the head of my 
 simple girl here. She is a perfect child 
 of nature. Count. 
 
 Count. Very possibly, for though you 
 American women are quite charming, 
 yet, demme, there 's a deal of native rust 
 to rub off! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Rustf Good gracious. Count! 
 where do you find any rust? (Looking 
 about the room.) 
 
 Count. How very unsophisticated I 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Count, I am so much ashamed, 
 — pray excuse me! Although a lady of 
 large fortune, and one, Count, who can 
 boast of the highest connections, I blush 
 to confess that I have never travelled, — 
 while you. Count, I presume are at 
 home in all the courts of Europe. 
 
 Count. Courts? Eh? Oh, yes. Madam, 
 very true. I believe I am pretty well 
 known in some of the courts of Europe 
 — police courts. (Aside, crossing.) In 
 a word. Madam, I had seen enough of 
 civilized life — wanted to refresh myself 
 by a sight of barbarous countries and 
 customs — had my choice between the 
 Sandwich Islands and New York — chose 
 New York! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How complimentary to our 
 country! And, Count, I have no doubt 
 you speak every conceivable language? 
 You talk English like a native. 
 
 Count. Eh, what? Like a native? Oh, 
 ah, demme, yes, I am something of an 
 Englishman. Passed one year and eight 
 months with the Duke of Wellington, six 
 months with Lord Brougham, two and 
 a half with Count d'Orsay — knew them 
 all more intimately than their best 
 friends — no heroes to me — had n't a se- 
 cret from me, I assure you, — especially 
 of the toilet. (Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Think of that, my dear! Lord 
 Wellington and Duke Broom! (Aside 
 to Seraphina.) 
 
 Sera. And only think of Count d'Orsay, 
 Mamma! (Aside to Mrs. Tiffany.) I 
 am so wild to see Count d'Orsay! 
 
 Count. Oh! a mere man milliner. Very 
 little refinement out of Paris! Why, at 
 the very last dinner given at Lord — 
 Lord Knowswho, would you believe it. 
 Madam, there was an individual present 
 who wore a black cravat and took soup 
 twice! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How shocking ! the sight of him 
 
304 
 
 FASHION 
 
 would have spoilt my appetite! Think 
 wliat a great man he must be, my dear, 
 to despise lords and counts in that way. 
 {Aside to Seraphina.) I must leave 
 them together. {Aside.) Mr. Twinkle, 
 your arm. I have some really very for- 
 eign exotics to show you. 
 
 Twin. I fly at your command. I w^sh 
 all her exotics w^ere blooming in their 
 native soil! {Aside, and glancing at the 
 Count.) 
 
 Mrs. TiF. Mr. Fogg, will you accompany 
 us? My conservatory is wtII worthy a 
 visit. It cost an immense sum of money. 
 
 Fogg. I am indifferent to conservatories, 
 Madam; flowers are such a bore! 
 
 Mrs. TiF. I shall take no refusal. Con- 
 servatories are all the rage, — I could not 
 exist without mine! Let me show you, 
 — let me show you. 
 
 {Places her arm through Mr. Fogg's, 
 without his consent. Exeunt Mrs. 
 Tiffany, Fogg, and Twinkle into 
 the conservatory, where they are 
 seen walking about.) 
 
 Sera. America, then, has no charms for 
 you, Count? 
 
 Count. Excuse me, — some exceptions. I 
 find you, for instance, particularly 
 charmmg! Can't say I admire your 
 country. Ah! if you had ever breathed 
 the exhilarating air of Paris, ate creams 
 at Tortoni's, dined at the Cafe Royale, 
 or if you had lived in London — felt at 
 home at St. James's, and every after- 
 noon driven a couple of Lords and a 
 Duchess through Hyde Park, you would 
 find America — where you have no kings, 
 queens, lords, nor ladies — insupportable! 
 
 Sera. Not while there was a Count in it? 
 
 {Enter 2eke, very indignant.) 
 
 Zeke. Where's de Missus? 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Tiffany, Fogg, and 
 Twinkle, from the conservatory.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Whom do you come to an- 
 nounce, A-dolph? 
 
 Zeke. He said he wouldn't trust me — no, 
 not el)en wid so much as his name; so I 
 would n't trust him up stairs, den he ups 
 wid his stick and I cuts mine. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Some of Mr. Tiffany's vulgar 
 acquaintances. I shall die with shame. 
 {Aside.) A-dolph, inform him that I 
 am not at home. {Exit Zeke.) 
 
 My nerves are so shattered, I am ready 
 to sink. Mr. Twinkle, that fow tool, if 
 you please! 
 
 Twin. What? What do you wish, 
 Madam? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. The ignorance of these Amer- 
 icano! {Aside.) Count, may I trouble 
 you? That fow tool, if you please! 
 
 Count. She's not talking English, nor 
 French, but I suppose it's American. 
 {Aside.) 
 
 True. {Outside.) Not at home! 
 
 Zeke. No, Sar — Missus say she's not at 
 home. 
 
 True. Out of the way, you grinning nig- 
 ger! 
 
 {Enter Adam Trueman, dressed as a 
 
 farmer, a stout cane in his hand, his 
 
 hoots covered with dust. Zeke 
 
 jumps out of his way as he enters.) 
 
 {Exit Zeke.) 
 
 True. Where 's this woman that 's not at 
 home in her own house? May I be shot ! 
 if I wonder at it ! I should n't think 
 she 'd ever feel at home in such a show- 
 box as this! {Looking round.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What a plebeian looking old 
 farmer! I wonder w^ho he is? {Aside.) 
 Sir — {advancing very agitatedly) what 
 do 3'ou mean. Sir, by this oii'dacious con- 
 duct? How dare you intrude yourself 
 into my parlor? Do you know who I 
 am, Sir? {With great dignity.) You 
 are in the presence of Mrs. Tiffany, Sir! 
 
 True. Antony's wife, eh? Well now, I 
 might have guessed that — ha! ha! ha! 
 for I see you make it a point to carry 
 half your husband's shop "upon your 
 back! No matter; that's being a good 
 helpmate — for he carried the whole of 
 it once in a pack on his own shoulders — 
 now you bear a share! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How dare you, you imperti- 
 nent, 016'dacious, ignorant old man ! It 's 
 all an invention. You're talking of 
 somebody else. What will the Count 
 think! {Aside.) 
 
 True. Why, I thought folks had better 
 manners in the city! This is a civil 
 welcome for your husband's old friend, 
 and after my coming all the way from 
 Catteraugus to see you and yours! 
 First a grinning nigger tricked out in 
 scarlet regimentals — 
 Mrs. Tif. Let me tell you. Sir, that liv- 
 eries are all the fashion! 
 True. The fashion, are they? To make 
 men wear the badge of servitude in a 
 free land, — that's the fashion, is it? 
 Hurrah, for republican simplicity! I 
 will venture to say now, that you have 
 your coat of arms too! 
 
ANNA CORA MOW ATT RITCHIE 
 
 305 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Certainly, Sir; you can see it 
 on the panels of my voyture. 
 
 True. Oh! no need of that. I know 
 wliat your escutcheon must be ! A band- 
 box rampant with a bonnet couchant, 
 and a peddlar's pack passant! Ha, ha, 
 ha! that shows both houses united! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Sir! you are most profoundly 
 ignorant,^ — what do you mean by this in- 
 solence, Sir? How shall I get rid of 
 him? (Aside.) 
 
 True. {Looking at Seraphina.) I hope 
 that is not Gertrude! {Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Sir, I 'd have you know that — 
 Seraphina, my child, walk with the gen- 
 tlemen into the conservatory. 
 
 {Exeunt Seraphina, Twinkle, Fogg 
 into conservatory.) 
 Count Jolimaitre, pray make due al- 
 lowances for the errors of this rustic! 
 I do assure you, Count — {Whispers to 
 him.) 
 
 True. Count ! She calls that critter with 
 a shoe brush over his mouth. Count ! To 
 look at him, I should have thought he 
 was a tailor's walking advertisement! 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Count. {Addressing Trueman whorti he 
 has been inspecting through his eye- 
 glass.) Where did you say you be- 
 longed, my friend? Dug out of the 
 ruins of Pompeii, eh? 
 
 True. I belong to a land in which I re- 
 joice to find that you are a foreigner. 
 
 Count. What a barbarian ! He doesn 't 
 see the honor I 'm doing his country ! 
 Pray, Madam, is it one of the aboriginal 
 inhabitants of the soil? To what tribe 
 of Indians does he belong — the Pawnee 
 or Choctaw? Does he carry a toma- 
 hawk? 
 
 True. Something quite as useful, — do you 
 see that? {Shaking his stick.) 
 
 (Count runs behind Mrs. Tiffany.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh, dear! I shall faint! Mil- 
 linette! {Approaching.) Millinette! 
 
 {Enter Millinette, without advancing 
 into the room.) 
 
 MiLLi. Oui, Madame. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. A glass of water! 
 
 {Exit Millinette.) 
 Sir, {crossing to Trueman) I am shocked 
 at your plebeian conduct ! Tis is a gen- 
 tleman of the highest standing, Sir ! He 
 is a Count, Sir! 
 
 {Enter Millinette, bearing a salver with 
 a glass of water. In advancing towards 
 
 Mrs. Tiffany, she passes in front of the 
 Count, starts and screams. The Count, 
 after a start of surprise, regains his com- 
 posure, plays with liis eye glass, and 
 looks perfectly unconcerned.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What is the matter? What is 
 the matter? 
 
 Milli. Noting, noting, — only — {Looks 
 at Count and turns away her eyes again.) 
 only — noting at all! 
 
 True. Don't be afraid, girl! Why, did 
 you never see a live Count before ? He 's 
 tame, — I dare say your mistress there 
 leads him about by the ears. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. This is too much! Millinette, 
 send for Mr. Tiffany instantly! 
 {Crosses to Millinette, wlio is going.) 
 
 Milli. He just come in, Madame! 
 
 True. My old friend! Where is he? 
 Take me to him, — I long to have one 
 more hearty shake of the hand! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. {Crosses to him.) Count, 
 honor me by joining my daughter in tlie 
 conservatory, I will return immediately. 
 (Count bows and walks towards con- 
 servatory, Mrs. Tiffany following 
 part of the way and then returning 
 to Trueman.) 
 
 True. What a Jezebel ! These women al- 
 ways play the very devil with a man, and 
 yet I don't believe such a damaged bale 
 of goods as that {looking at Mrs. Tif- 
 fany) has smothered the heart of little 
 Antony ! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. This way, Sir, sal vous plait. 
 {Exit with great dignity.) 
 
 True. Sal vous plait. Ha, ha, ha! 
 We'll see what Fashion has done for 
 him. {Exit.) 
 
 END OF act first. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. Inner apartment of Mr. Tif- 
 fany's Counting House. Mr. Tiffany, 
 seated at a desk looking over papers. 
 Mr. Snobson, on a high stool at another 
 desk, with a pen behind his ear. 
 
 Snobson. {Rising, advances to the front 
 of the stage, regards Tiffany and shrugs 
 his shoulders.) How the old boy frets 
 and fumes over those papers, to be sure ! 
 He 's working himself into a perfect 
 fever — ex-actly, — therefore bleeding 's 
 the prescription! So here goes! 
 
306 
 
 FASHION 
 
 (Aside.) Mr. Tiffany, a word with you, 
 if you please, Sir? 
 
 TiF. {Sitting still.) Speak on, Mr. Snob- 
 son, I attend. 
 
 Snob. What I have to say, Sir, is a mat- 
 ter of the first importance to the credit 
 of the concern — the credit of the con- 
 cern, Mr. Tiffany! 
 
 TiF. Proceed, Mr. Snobson. 
 
 Snob. Sir, you 've a handsome house — 
 fine carriage — nigger in livery — feed on 
 the fat of the land — everything first 
 rate — 
 
 TiF. Well, Sir? 
 
 Snob. My salary, Mr, Tiffany! 
 
 TiF. It has been raised three times within 
 the last year. 
 
 Snob. Still it is insufficient for the neces- 
 sities of an honest man, — mark me, an 
 honest man, Mr. Tiffany. 
 
 TiF. (Crossing.) What a weapon he has 
 made of that word! (Aside.) Enough 
 — another hundred shall be added. Does 
 that content you? 
 
 Snob. There is one other subject, which 
 I have before mentioned, Mr. Tiffany, — 
 your daughter, — what 's the reason you 
 can't let the folks at home know at once 
 that I'm to be the 7nanf 
 
 TiF. Villain! And must the only seal 
 upon this scoundrel's lips be placed there 
 by the hand of my daughter? (Aside.) 
 Well, Sir, it shall be as you desire. 
 
 Snob. And Mrs. Tiffany shall be in- 
 formed of your resolution? 
 
 TiF. Yes. 
 
 Snob. Enough said ! That 's the ticket ! 
 The CREDIT of the concern's safe, Sir! 
 (Returns to liis seat.) 
 
 TiF. How low have I bowed to this in- 
 solent rascal ! To rise himself he mounts 
 upon my shoulders, and unless I can 
 shake him off he must crush me! 
 (Aside.) 
 
 (Enter TRUEiiAN.) 
 
 True. Here I am, Antony, man! I told 
 you I 'd pay you a visit in your money- 
 making quarters. (Looks around.) But 
 it looks as dismal here as a cell in the 
 States' prison! 
 
 TiF. (Forcing a laugh.) Ha, ha, ha! 
 States' prison! You are so facetious! 
 Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 True. Well, for the life of me I can't 
 see anything so amusing in that! I 
 I should think the States' prison plaguy 
 uncomfortable lodgings. And you laugh, 
 
 man, as though you fancied yourself 
 there already. 
 
 Tip. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 True. (Imitating him.) Ha, ha, ha! 
 What on earth do you mean by that ill- 
 sounding laugh, that has nothing of a 
 laugh about it! This /as/i /o/i-worship 
 has made heathens and hypocrites of you 
 all! Deception is your household God! 
 A man laughs as if he were crying, and 
 cries as if he were laughing in his sleeve. 
 Everything is something else from what 
 it seems to be. I have lived in your 
 house only three days, and I 've heard 
 more lies than were ever invented dur- 
 ing a Presidential election! First your 
 fine lady of a wife sends me word that 
 she 's not at home — I walk up stairs, 
 and she takes good care that I shall not 
 be at home — wants to turn me out of 
 doors. Then you come in — take your 
 old friend by the hand — whisper, the 
 deuce knows w^hat, in your wife's ear, 
 and the tables are turned in a tangent! 
 Madam curtsies — says she 's enchanted to 
 see me — and orders her grinning nigger 
 to show me a room. 
 
 TiF. We were exceedingly happy to wel- 
 come you as our guest! 
 
 True. Happy? You happy? Ah, An- 
 tony! Antony! that hatchet face of 
 yours, and those criss-cross furrows tell 
 quite another story! It's many a long 
 day since you were happy at anything! 
 You look as if you 'd melted down your 
 flesh into dollars, and mortgaged your 
 soul in the bargain! Your warm heart 
 has grown cold over your ledger — your 
 light spirits heavy with calculation! 
 You have traded away your youth — your 
 hopes — your tastes, for wealth! and new 
 you have the wealth you coveted, what 
 does it profit you? Pleasure it cannot 
 buy; for you have lost your capacity for 
 enjoyment — Ease it will not bring; for 
 the love of gain is never satisfied! It 
 has made your counting-house a peni- 
 tentiary, and your home a fashionable 
 museum where there is no niche for you ! 
 You have spent so much time ciphering 
 in the one, that you find yourself at last 
 a very cipher in the other! See me, 
 man! seventy-two last August! — strong 
 as a hickory and every whit as sound ! 
 
 TiF. I take the greatest pleasure in re- 
 marking your superiority. Sir. 
 
 True. Bah ! no man takes pleasure in re- 
 marking the superiority of another! 
 W^hy the deuce, can't you speak the 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 307 
 
 truth, man? But it's not the fashion 
 I suppose! I have not seen one frank, 
 open face since — no, no, I can't say that 
 either, though lying is catching! 
 There 's that girl, Gertrude, who is try- 
 ing to teach your daughter music — but 
 Gertrude was bred in the country! 
 
 TiF. A good girl; my wife and daughter 
 lind her very useful. 
 
 True. Useful? Well, I must say you have 
 queer notions of use! — But come, cheer 
 up, man! I'd rather see one of -your 
 old smiles, than know you'd realized 
 another thousand! I hear you are mak- 
 ing money on the true, American, high 
 pressure system — better go slow and sure 
 — the more steam, the greater danger of 
 the boiler's bursting! All sound, I 
 hope? Nothing rotten at the core? 
 
 Tif. Oh, sound — quite sound! 
 
 True. Well, that's pleasant — though I 
 must say you don't look very pleasant 
 about it! 
 
 Tif. My good friend, although I am solv- 
 ent, I may say, perfectly solvent — yet 
 you — the fact is, you can be of some as- 
 sistance to me! 
 
 True. That's the fact is it? I'm glad 
 we 've hit upon one fact at last ! Well — 
 (SNObsON, who during this conversa- 
 tion has been employed in writing, 
 but stops occasionally to listen, now 
 gives vent to a dry chuckling laugh.) 
 
 True. Hey? What's that? Another of 
 those deuced ill-sounding, city laughs! 
 {Sees Snobson.) Who's that perched 
 up on the stool of repentance — eh, An- 
 tony? 
 
 Snob. The old boy has missed his text 
 there — that's the stool of repentance! 
 {Aside and looking at Tiffany's seat.) 
 
 Tif. One of my clerks — my confidential 
 clerk ! 
 
 True. Confidential? Why he looks for 
 all the world like a spy — the most in- 
 quisitorial, hang-dog face — ^ugh! the 
 sight of it makes my blood run cold! 
 Come, {crosses) let us talk over mat- 
 ters where this critter can't give us the 
 benefit of his opinion! Antony, the 
 next time you choose a confidential clerk, 
 take one that carries his credentials in 
 his face — those in his pocket are not 
 worth much without! 
 
 {Exeunt Trueman and Tiffany.) 
 
 Snob. {Jumping from his stool and ad- 
 vancing.) The old prig has got the tin, 
 or Tiff would never be so civil! All 
 right — Tiff will work every shiner into 
 
 the concern — all the better for me! 
 Now I '11 go and make love to Seraphina. 
 The old woman need n't try to knock me 
 down with any of her French lingo! 
 Six months from to-day if I ain't driving 
 my two footmen tandem, down Broad- 
 way — and as fashionable as Mrs. Tif- 
 fany herself, then I ain't the trump I 
 thought I was ! that 's all. {Looks at 
 his watch.) Bless me! eleven o'clock 
 and I have n't had my julep yet ! Snob- 
 son, I 'm ashamed of you! {Exit.) 
 
 Scene 2. The interior of a beautiful con- 
 servatory; walk through the centre; 
 stands of flower pots in bloom; a couple 
 of rustic seats. Gertrude, attired in 
 lohite, with a white rose in her hair; 
 tvatering the flowers. Colonel Howard 
 regarding her. 
 
 How. I am afraid you lead a sad life 
 here, Miss Gertrude? 
 
 Ger. {Turning round gaily.) What! 
 amongst the flowers? 
 
 {Continues her occupation.) 
 
 How. No, amongst the thistles, with 
 which Mrs. Tiffany surrounds you; the 
 tempests, which her temper raises! 
 
 Ger. They never harm me. Flowers and 
 herbs are excellent tutors. I learn pru- 
 dence from the reed, and bend until the 
 storm has swept over me! 
 
 How. Admirable philosophy! But still 
 this frigid atmosphere of fashion must 
 be uncongenial to you? Accustomed to 
 the pleasant companionship of your kind 
 friends in Geneva, surely you must re- 
 gret this cold exchange? 
 
 Ger. Do you think so ? Can you suppose 
 that I could possibly prefer a ramble in 
 the woods to a promenade in Broadway? 
 A wreath of scented wild flowers to a 
 bouquet of these sickly exotics? The 
 odour of new-mown hay to the heated 
 air of this crowded conservatory? Or 
 can you imagine that I could enjoy the 
 quiet conversation of my Geneva friends, 
 more than the edifying cMt-chat of a 
 fashionable drawing roomf But I see 
 you think me totally destitute of taste? 
 
 How. You have a merry spirit to jest 
 thus at your grievances! 
 
 Ger. I have my mania, — as some wise 
 person declares that all mankind have, — 
 and mine is a love of independence! 
 In Geneva, my wants were supplied by 
 two kind old maiden ladies, upon whom 
 I know not that I have any claim. I 
 
308 
 
 FASHION 
 
 had abilities, and desired to use them. I 
 came here at my own request; for here 
 I am no longer dependent! Voila tout, 
 as Mrs, Tili'any would say. 
 
 How. Believe me, I appreciate the confi- 
 dence you repose in me! 
 
 Ger. Confidence! Truly, Colonel How- 
 ard, the confidence is entirely on your 
 part, in supposing that I confide that 
 which I have no reason to conceal ! I 
 think I informed you that Mrs. Tiffany 
 only received visitors on her reception 
 day — slie is therefore not prepared to see 
 you. Zeke — Oh ! I beg his pardon — 
 Adolph, made some mistake in admitting 
 you. 
 
 How. Nay, Gertrude, it was not Mrs. Tif- 
 fany, nor Miss Tift'any, whom I came to 
 see; it — it was — 
 
 Ger. The conservatory perhaps? I will 
 leave you to examine the flowers at lei- 
 sure! {Crosses.) 
 
 How. Gertrude — listen to me. If I only 
 dared to give utterance to what is hover- 
 ing upon my lips! [Aside.) Gertrude! 
 
 Ger. Colonel HoAvard! 
 
 How. Gertrude, I must — must — 
 
 Ger. Yes, indeed you must, must leave 
 me! I think I hear somebody coming — 
 Mrs. Titifany would not be well pleased 
 to find you here — pray, pray leave me — 
 that door- will lead you into the street. 
 {Hurries him out through door; takes 
 up her watering pot, and commences 
 watering flowers, tying up branches, 
 &c.) 
 What a strange being is man! "Why 
 should he hesitate to say — nay, why 
 should I prevent his saying, what I 
 would most delight to hear? Truly man 
 is strange — but woman is quite as in- 
 comprehensible ! 
 
 {Walks about gathering flowers.) 
 
 [Enter Count Jolimaitre.) 
 
 Count. There she is — the, bewitching lit- 
 tle creature! Mrs. Tift'any and her 
 daughter are out of ear-shot. I caught 
 a glimpse of their feathers floating down 
 Broadway, not ten minutes ago. Just 
 tiie opportunity I have been looking for! 
 Now for an engagement with this cap- 
 tivating little piece of prudery ! Ton 
 honor, I am almost afraid she will not 
 resist a Count long enough to give value 
 to the conquest. {Approaching her.) 
 Ma belle petite, were you gathering roses 
 for me? 
 
 Ger. {Starts on first perceiving him, but 
 
 instantly regains her, self-possession.) 
 The roses here. Sir, are carefully guarded 
 with thorns — if you have the right to 
 gather, pluck for yourself! 
 
 Count. Sharp as ever, little Gertrude! 
 But now that we are alone, throw off this 
 frigidity, and be at your ease. 
 
 Ger. Permit me to be alone, Sir, that I 
 may be at my ease! 
 
 Count. Very good^ ma belle, well said! 
 [Applauding her with his hands.) 
 Never yield too soon, even to a title! 
 But as the old girl may find her way back 
 before long, we may as well come to par- 
 ticulars at once. I love you; but that 
 you know already. [Bubbing his eye- 
 glass unconcernedly with his handker- 
 chief.) Before long I shall make Made- 
 moiselle Seraphina my wufe, and, of 
 course, you shall remain in the family! 
 
 Ger. [Indignantly.) Sir — 
 
 Count. Ton my honor you shall! In 
 France we arrange these little matters 
 without difficulty! 
 
 Ger. But I am an American! Your con- 
 duct proves that you are not one! 
 
 [Going, crosses.) 
 
 Count. [Preventing her.) Don't run 
 away, my immaculate petite Americaine! 
 Demme, you 've quite overlooked my con- 
 descension — the difference of our sta- 
 tions — you a species of upper servant — 
 an orphan — no friends. 
 
 [Enter Trueman unperceived.) 
 
 Ger. And therefore more entitled to the 
 respect and protection of every true 
 gentleman! Had you been one, you 
 would not have insulted me! 
 
 Count. My charming little orator, pa- 
 triotism and declamation become you par- 
 ticularly! [Approaches her.) I feel 
 quite tempted to taste — 
 
 True. [Thrusting him aside.) An Amer- 
 ican hickory -switch ! [Strikes him.) 
 Well, how do you like it? 
 
 Count. Old matter-of-fact! [Aside.) 
 Sir, how dare you? 
 
 True. My stick has answered that ques- 
 tion! 
 
 Ger.- Oh! now I am quite safe! 
 
 True. Safe! not a bit safer than before! 
 All women would be safe, if they knew 
 how virtue became them ! As for you, 
 Mr. Count, what have you to say for 
 yourself? Come, speak out! 
 
 Count. Sir, — aw — aw — you don't under- 
 stand these matters! 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 309 
 
 Trl'E. That's a fact! Not having had 
 your experience, I don't believe I do 
 understand them! 
 
 Count. A piece of pleasantry — a mere 
 joke — 
 
 True. A joke was it? I'll show you a 
 joke worth two of that ! I '11 teach you 
 the way we natives joke- with a puppy 
 who don't respect an honest woman! 
 [Seizing him.) 
 
 Count. Oh ! oh ! demme — you old ruffian ! 
 let me go. What do you mean? 
 
 True. Oh ! a piece of pleasantry — a mere 
 joke — very pleasant isn't it? 
 
 [Attempts to strike liim again; 
 Count struggles with him. Enter 
 Mrs. Tiffany hastily, in her bon- 
 net and shatul.) 
 
 l^RS. TiF. What IS the matter? I am 
 pei'fectly ahime with terror. Mr. True- 
 man, what has happened? 
 
 True. Oh! we have been joking! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. [To Count, who is re-arrang- 
 ing his dress.) My dear Count, I did 
 not expect to find you here — how kind of 
 you! 
 
 True. Your dear Count has been show- 
 ing his kindness in a very foreign man- 
 ner. Too foreign I think, he found it 
 to be relished by an unfashio7iahle na- 
 tive! What do you think of a puppy, 
 who insults an innocent girl all in the 
 w^ay of kindness? This Count of yours 
 — this importation of — 
 
 Count. My dear Madam, demme, permit 
 me to explain. It would be unbecoming 
 — demme — particular unbecoming of you 
 — aw — aw — to pay any attention to this 
 ignorant person. [Crosses to True- 
 man.) Anything that he says concern- 
 ing a man of my standing — aw — the 
 truth is, Madam — 
 
 True. Let us have the truth by all means, 
 — if it is only for the novelty's sake! 
 
 Count. [Turning his hack to TruemaN.) 
 You see. Madam, hoping to obtain a few 
 moments' private conversation with Miss 
 Seraphina — with Miss Seraphina I say 
 and — aw — and knowing her passion for 
 flowers, I found my way to your very 
 tasteful and recherche conservatory. 
 [Looks about him approvingly.) Very 
 beautifully arranged — does you great 
 credit, madam! Here I encountered this 
 young person. She was inclined to be 
 talkative; and I indulged her with — with 
 a — aw — demme — a few commo?i places! 
 What passed between us was mere harm- 
 less badinage — on my part. You, 
 
 madam, you — so conversant with our 
 European manners — you are aware that 
 when a man^of fashion — that is, when a 
 woman — a man is bound — amongst noble- 
 men, you know — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. I comprehend you perfectly^ — 
 parfittement, my dear Count. 
 
 Count. 'Pon my honor, that 's very ob- 
 liging of her. [Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. I am shocked at the plebeian 
 forwardness of this conceited girl ! 
 
 True. [Walking up to Count.) Did you 
 ever keep a reckoning of the lies you tell 
 in an hour? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Trueman, I blush for you! 
 [Crosses to Trueman.) 
 
 True. Don't do that — 3'ou have no blushes 
 to spare! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. It is a man of rank whom you 
 are addressing, Sir! 
 
 True. A rank villain, Mrs. Antony Tif- 
 fany! A rich one he would be, had he 
 as much gold as brass! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Pray pardon him, Count; he 
 knows nothing of Itow ton! 
 
 Count. Demme, he 's beneath my notice. 
 I tell you what, old fellow — (Trueman 
 raises his stick as Count approaches, the 
 latter starts back) the sight of him dis- 
 composes me — aw — I feel quite uncom- 
 fortable — aw — let us join your charming 
 daughter? I can't do you the honor to 
 shoot you. Sir — [to Trueman) you are 
 beneath me — a nobleman can't fight a 
 commoner! Good bye, old Truepenny! 
 I — aw — I 'm insensible to your inso- 
 lence ! 
 
 [Exeunt Count and Mrs. Tiffany.) 
 
 True. You won't be insensible to a cow 
 hide in spite of your nobility ! The next 
 time he practises any of his foreign fash- 
 ions on you, Gertrude, you '11 see how 
 I '11 wake up his sensibilities ! 
 
 Ger. I do not know what I should have 
 done without you, sir. 
 
 True. Yes, you do — you know that you 
 would have done well enough ! Never 
 tell a lie, girl! not even for the sake of 
 pleasing an old man! When you open 
 your lips let your heart speak. Never 
 tell a lie ! Let your face be the looking- 
 glass of your soul — your heart its clock 
 — Avhile your tongue rings the hours ! 
 But the glass must be clear, the clock 
 true, and then there 's no fear but the 
 tongue will do its duty in a woman's 
 head! 
 
 Ger. You are very good. Sir ! 
 
 True. That's as it may be! — How my 
 
310 
 
 FASHION 
 
 lieart warms towards her! (Aside.) 
 Gertrude, I hear that you have no 
 mother? 
 
 Gkr. Ah! no, Sir; I wish I had. 
 
 True. So do I! Heaven knows, so do I! 
 [Aside, and with emotion.) And you 
 have no father, Gertrude? 
 
 Ger. No, Sir— I often wish I had! 
 
 True. {Hurriedly.) Don't do that, 
 girl! don't do that! Wish you had a 
 mother — but never wish that you had a 
 father again ! Perhaps the one you had 
 did not deserve such a child! 
 
 {Enter Prudence.) 
 
 Pru. Seraphina is looking for you, Ger- 
 trude. 
 Ger. I will go to her. {Crosses.) Mr. 
 Trueman, you will not permit me to 
 thank you, but you cannot prevent my 
 gratitude! {Exit.) 
 
 True. {Looking after her.) If falsehood 
 harbours there, I '11 give up searching 
 after truth! 
 
 {Crosses, retires up the stage mus- 
 ingly, and commences examining the 
 flowers.) 
 Pru. What a nice old man he is to be 
 sure! I wish he would say something! 
 {Aside.) 
 
 {Crosses, walks after him, turning 
 when he turns — after a pause,) 
 Don't mind me, Mr. Trueman ! 
 
 Oh! no, don't be 
 -I was n't minding 
 
 True. Mind you ? 
 afraid {crosses.)- 
 
 you. Nobody seems to mind you much ! 
 {Continues walking and examining the 
 flowers — Prudence folloivs.) 
 
 Pru. Very pretty flowers, ain't they? 
 Gertrude takes care of them. 
 
 True. Gertrude? So I hear — {advanc- 
 ing) I suppose you can tell me now who 
 this Gertrude — 
 
 Pru. Who she 's in love with ? I knew 
 you were going to say that ! I '11 tell 
 you all about it ! Gertrude, she 's in love 
 with — Mr. Twinkle ! and he 's in love 
 with her. And Seraphina she 's in love 
 with Count Jolly — what-d' ye-eall-it : but 
 Count Jolly don't take to her at all — but 
 Colonel Howard — he 's the man — he 's 
 desperate about her! 
 
 True. Why you feminine newspaper! 
 Howard in love with that quintessence of 
 affectation ! Howard — the only, frank, 
 straightforward fellow that I 've met 
 since — I '11 tell him my mind on the sub- 
 ject! And Gertrude hunting for happi- 
 
 ness in a rhyming dictionary! The 
 girl 's a greater fool than I took her for ! 
 
 (Crosses.) 
 
 Pru. So she is — you see I know all about 
 them ! 
 
 True. I see you do ! You Ve a wonder- 
 ful knowledge — wonderful — of other peo- 
 ple's concerns! It may do here, but take 
 my word for it, in the county of Cat- 
 teraugus you 'd get the name of a great 
 busy-body. But perhaps you know that 
 too? 
 
 Pru. Oh! I always know what's com- 
 ing. I feel it beforehand all over me. 
 I knew something was going to happen 
 the day you came here — and what 's 
 more I can always tell a married man 
 from a single — I felt right off that you 
 were a bachelor! 
 
 True. Felt right off I was a bachelor did 
 you? you were sure of it — sure? — quite 
 sure? (Prudence assents delightedly.) 
 Then you felt wrong! — a bachelor and a 
 widower are not the same thing ! 
 
 Pru. Oh ! but it all comes to the same 
 thing — a widower 's as good as a bach- 
 elor any day! And besides I knew that 
 you were a farmer right ojf. 
 
 True. On the spot, eh? I suppose you 
 saw cabbages and green peas growing 
 out of my iiat? 
 
 Pru. No, I didn't — but I knew all about 
 you. And I knew — (looking down and 
 fidgeting with her apron) I knew you 
 were for getting married soon ! For last 
 night I dream't I saw your funeral going 
 along the streets, and the mourners all 
 dressed in white. And a funeral is a 
 sure sign of a wedding, you know! 
 (Nudging him with her elbow.) 
 
 True. (Imitatiyig her voice.) Well I 
 can't say that I know any such thing! 
 you know! (Nudging her back.) 
 
 Pru. Oh! it does, and there's no getting 
 over it! For my part, I like farmers — 
 and I know all about setting hens and 
 turkeys, and feeding chickens, and lay- 
 ing eggs, and all that sort of thing! 
 
 True. May I be shot! if mistress news- 
 paper is not putting in an advertisement 
 for herself! This is your city mode of 
 courting I suppose, ha, ha, ha! (Aside.) 
 
 Pru. I 've been west, a little ; but I never 
 was in the county of Catteraugus, my- 
 self. 
 
 True. Oh! you were not? And you have 
 taken a particular fancy to go there, eh ? 
 
 Pru. Perhaps I should n't object — 
 
 True. Oh! — ah! — so I suppose. Now 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 311 
 
 pay attention to what I am going to say, 
 for it is a matter of great importance to 
 yourself. 
 
 Peu. Now it 's coming — I know what he 's 
 going to say! (Aside.) 
 
 True. The next time you want to tie a 
 man for life to your apron-strings, pick 
 out one that don't come from the county 
 of CatteraugTis — for greenhorns are 
 scarce in those parts, and modest women 
 plenty! (Exit.) 
 
 Pru. Now who'd have thought lie was 
 going to say that! But I won't give 
 him up yet — I won't give him up. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 END OF ACT SECOND. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. Mrs. Tiffany's Parlor. Enter 
 Mrs. Tiffany, followed by Mr. Tif- 
 fany. 
 
 TiF. Your extravagance will ruin me, 
 Mrs. Tiffany! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. And your stinginess will ruin 
 me, Mr. Tiffany! It is totally and toot 
 a fate impossible to convince you of the 
 necessity of keeping up appearances. 
 There is a certain display which every 
 woman of fashion is forced to make! 
 
 TiF. And pray who made you a woman of 
 fashion ? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What a vulgar question! All 
 women of fashion, Mr. Tiffany — 
 
 Tif. In this land are self-constituted, 
 like you. Madam — and fashion is the 
 cloak for more sins than charity ever 
 covered! It was for fashion's sake that 
 you insisted upon my purchasing this 
 expensive house — it was for fashion's 
 sake that you ran me in debt at every 
 exorbitant upholsterer's and extravagant 
 furniture warehouse in the city — it was 
 for fashion's sake that you built that 
 ruinous conservatory — hired more serv- 
 ants than they have persons to wait upon 
 — and dressed your footman like a harle- 
 quin! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, you are thor- 
 oughly plebeian, and insufferably Amer- 
 ican, in your grovelling ideas! And, 
 pray, what was the occasion of these very 
 mal-ap-pro-pos remarks? Merely be- 
 cause I requested a paltry fifty dollars 
 to purchase a new style of head-dress-— 
 a bijou of an article just introduced in 
 France. 
 
 Tif. Time was, Mrs. Tiffany, when you 
 manufacti^red your own French head- 
 dresses — took off their first gloss at the 
 public balls, and then sold them to your 
 shortest-sighted customers. And all you 
 knew about France, or French either, 
 was what you spelt out at the bottom of 
 your fashion plates — but now you have 
 grown so fashionable, forsooth, that you 
 have forgotten how to speak your 
 mother tongue! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, Mr. Tiffany! 
 Nothing is more positively vulgarian — 
 more unaristocratie than any allusion to 
 the past! 
 
 Tif. Why I thought, my dear, that aris- 
 tocrats lived principally upon the past — 
 and traded in the market of fashion with 
 the bones of their ancestors for capital? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, such vulgar re- 
 marks are only suitable to the counting 
 house, in my drawing room you should — 
 
 Tif. Vary my sentiments with my lo- 
 cality, as you change your manners with 
 your dress! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, I desire that you 
 will purchase Count d'Orsay's "Science 
 of Etiquette," and learn how to conduct 
 yourself — especially before you appear 
 at the grand ball, which I shall give on 
 Friday ! 
 
 Tif. Confound your balls. Madam; they 
 make footballs of my money, while you 
 dance away all that I am worth! A 
 pretty time to give a ball when you 
 know that I am on the very brink of 
 bankruptcy ! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. So much the greater reason 
 that nobody should suspect your cir- 
 cumstances, or you would lose your credit 
 at once. Just at this crisis a ball is ab- 
 solutely necessary to save your reputa- 
 tion! There is Mrs. Adolphus Dasha- 
 way — she gave the most splendid fete of 
 the season — and I hear on very good au- 
 thority that her husband has not paid his 
 baker's bill in three months. Then there 
 was Mrs. Honeywood — 
 
 Tif. Gave a ball the night before her 
 husband shot himself — perhaps you wish 
 to drive me to follow his example? 
 
 (Crosses.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Good gracious! Mr. Tiffany, 
 how you talk ! I beg you won't mention 
 anything of the kind. I consider black 
 the most unbecoming color. I 'm sure 
 I 've done all that I could to gratify you. 
 There is that vulgar old torment, True- 
 man, who gives one the lie fifty times a 
 
312 
 
 FASHION 
 
 day — liaven't I been very civil to liim? 
 TiF. ' Civil to his icealth, Mrs. Tiffany! 
 I tokl you tliat he was a rich, old farmer 
 — the early friend of my father — my 
 own benefactor — and that I had reason 
 to think he might assist me in my pres- 
 ent embarrassments. Your civility was 
 bought — and like most of your own pur- 
 chases has yet to be ^ja/cZ for. (Crosses.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. And will be, no doubt! The 
 condescension of a woman of fashion 
 should command any price. Mr. True- 
 man is insupportably indecorous — he 
 has insulted Count Jolimaitre in the 
 most outrageous manner. If the Count 
 was not so deeply interested — so ahime 
 witli Seraphina, I am sure he would 
 never honor us by his visits again! 
 
 Tif. So much the better — he shall never 
 marry my daughter! — I am resolved on 
 that. Why, Madam, I am told there is 
 in Paris a regular matrimonial stock 
 company, who fit out indigent dandies 
 for this market. How do I know but 
 this fellow is one of its creatures, and 
 that he has come here to increase its 
 dividends by marrying a fortune? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Nonsense, Mr. Tiffany. The 
 Count, the most fashionable young man 
 in all New York — the intimate friend of 
 all the dukes and lords in Europe — not 
 marry my daughter? Not permit Sera- 
 phina to become a Countess? Mr. Tif- 
 fany, you are out of your senses! 
 
 Tif. That would not be very wonderful, 
 considering how many years I have been 
 united to you, my dear. Modern physi- 
 cians pronounce lunacy infectious! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, he is a man of 
 fashion — 
 
 Tif. Fashion makes fools, but cannot 
 feed them. By the bye, I have a request, 
 — since you are bent upon ruining me 
 by this ball, and there is no help for it, 
 — I desire that you will send an invita- 
 tion to my confidential clerk, Mr. Snob- 
 son. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Snobson! Was there ever 
 such an you-nick demand! Mr. Snob- 
 son would cut a pretty figure amongst 
 my fashionable friends! I shall do no 
 such thing, Mr. Tiffany. 
 
 Tif. Then," Madam, the ball shall not take 
 place. Have I not told you that I am 
 in the power of this man? That there 
 are circumstances which it is hai)py for 
 you that you do not know — which you 
 cannot comprehend, — but which render 
 it essential that you should be civil to 
 
 Mr. Snobson? Not you merely, but 
 Seraphina also? He is a more appro- 
 priate match for her than your foreign 
 favorite. 
 
 Mr. Tif. A match for Seraphina, indeed! 
 [Crosses.) Mr. Tiffany, you are deter- 
 mined to make a fow pas. 
 
 Tif. Mr. Snobson intends calling this 
 morning. {Crosses.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. But, Mr. Tiffany, this is not 
 reception day — my drawing-rooms are in 
 the most terrible disorder — 
 
 Tif. Mr. Snobson is not particular — he 
 must be admitted. 
 
 Zeke. 
 
 {Enter Zeke.) 
 Mr. Snobson. 
 
 {Enter Snobson, exit Zeke.) 
 
 Snobson. How dye do, Marm? {Crosses.) 
 How are you? Mr. Tiffany, your 
 most ! — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. {Formally.) Bung jure. Cem- 
 ment vow porte vow, Monsur Snohson? 
 
 Snob. Oh, to be sure — very good of you — 
 fine day. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. {Pointing to a chair with great 
 dignity.) Sassoyez vow, Monsur Snob- 
 son. 
 
 SxoB. I wonder what she's driving at? 
 I ain't up to the fashionable lingo yet! 
 {Aside.) Eh? what? Speak a little 
 louder, Marm? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What ignorance! {Aside.) 
 
 Tif. I presume Mrs. Tiffany means that 
 you are to take a seat. 
 
 Snob. Ex-actly — very obliging of her — so 
 I will. {Sits.) No ceremony amongst 
 friends, you know — and likely to be 
 nearer — you understand? 0. K., all cor- 
 rect. How is Seraphina? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Miss Tiffany is not visible this 
 morning. {Retires up.) 
 
 Snob. Not visible? {Jumping up.) I 
 suppose that 's the English for can't see 
 her? Mr. Tiffany, Sir — {walking up to 
 him) Avhat am I to understand by this 
 de-fal-ca-tion. Sir? I expected your 
 word to be as good as your bond — beg 
 pardon, Sir — I mean better — consider- 
 ably better — no humbug about it, Sir. 
 
 Tif. Have patience, Mr. Snobson. 
 
 {Rings bell.) 
 
 {Enter ^ Zeke.) 
 
 Zeke, desire my daughter to come here. 
 Mrs. Tif. {Coming down.) Adolph — I 
 say, Adolph — 
 
 (Zeke straightens himself and assumes 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 313 
 
 foppish airs, as he turns to Mrs. 
 Tiffany.) 
 
 TiF. Zeke. 
 
 Zeke. Don't know any such nigga, Boss. 
 
 TiF. Do as I bid you instantly, or off with 
 your livery and quit the house! 
 
 Zeke. Wheugh! I 'se all dismission! 
 
 {Exit,) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. A-dolph, A-dolph! 
 
 {Calling after him.) 
 
 Snob. I brought the old boy to his bear- 
 ings, did n't I though ! Pull that string, 
 and he is sure to work right. {Aside.) 
 Don't make any stranger of me, Marm — 
 I 'm quite at home. If you 've got any 
 odd jobs about the house to do up, I 
 sha'n't miss you. I '11 amuse myself 
 with Seraphina when she comes — we '11 
 get along very cosily by ourselves. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Permit me to inform you, Mr. 
 Snobson, that a French mother never 
 leaves her daughter alone with a young 
 man — she knows your sex too well for 
 that ! 
 
 Snob. Very ^zs-obliging of her — but as 
 w^e 're none French — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. You have yet to learn, Mr. 
 Snobson, that the American ee-light — the 
 aristocracy — the how-ton — as a matter 
 of conscience, scrupulously follow the 
 foreign fashions. 
 
 Snob. Not when they are foreign to their 
 interests, Marm — for instance — {enter 
 Seraphina). There you are at last, eh. 
 Miss? How d'3^e do? Ma said you 
 were n't visible. Managed to get a peep 
 at her, eh, Mr. Tiffany? 
 
 Sera. I heard you were here, Mr. Snob- 
 son, and came w^ithout even arranging 
 my toilette; you will excuse my negli- 
 gence ? 
 
 Snob. Of everything but me, Miss. 
 
 Sera. I shall never have to ask your par- 
 don for that, Mr. Snobson. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Seraphina— child— really— 
 
 {As she is approaching Seraphina, 
 Mr. Tiffany plants himself in front 
 of his wife.) 
 
 Tif. Walk this way. Madam, if you 
 please. To see that she fancies the surly 
 fellow takes a weight from my heart. 
 
 {Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, it is highly im- 
 proper and not at all distingue to leave 
 a young girl— 
 
 {Enter Zeke.) 
 
 ^r:KE. Mr. Count Jolly-made-her ! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Good gracious! The Count — 
 
 Oh, dear! — Seraphina, run and change 
 your dress, — no there 's not time ! 
 A-dolph, admit him. {Exit Zeke.) Mr. 
 Snobson, get out of the way, will you? 
 Mr. Tiffany, what are you doing at home 
 at this hour? 
 
 {Enter Count Jolimaitre, ushered hy 
 Zeke.) 
 
 Zeke. Dat 's de genuine article ob a gem- 
 man. {Aside.) {Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. My dear Count, I am overjoyed 
 at the very sight of you. 
 
 Count. Flattered myself you 'd be glad to 
 see me, Madam — knew it was not your 
 jour de reception. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. But for you. Count, all days — 
 
 Count. I thought so. Ah, Miss Tiffany, 
 on my honor, you're looking beautiful. 
 
 {Crosses.) 
 
 Sera. Count, flattery from you — 
 
 Snob. What? Eh? What's that you 
 say? 
 
 Sera. Nothing but what etiquette re- 
 quires. {Aside to him.) 
 
 Count. {Regarding Mr. Tiffany through 
 his eye glass.) Your worthy Papa, I 
 believe? Sir, your most obedient. 
 
 (Mr. Tiffany bows coldly; Count re- 
 gards Snobson through his glass, 
 shrugs his shoulders and turns 
 away.) 
 
 Snob. {To Mrs. Tiffany.) Introduce 
 me, will you? I never knew a Count in 
 all my life — what a strange-looking ani- 
 mal! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr. Snobson, it is not the fash- 
 ion to introduce in France! 
 
 Snob. But, Marm, we 're in America. 
 (Mrs. T. crosses to Count.) The 
 woman thinks she 's somewhere else than 
 where she is — she wants to make an 
 alibi f {Aside.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. I hope that we shall have the 
 jDleasure of seeing you on Friday eve- 
 ning. Count? 
 
 Count. Really, madam, my invitations — 
 my engagements — so numerous — I can 
 hardly answer for myself: and you 
 Americans take offence so easily — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. But, Count, everybody expects 
 you at our ball — you are the principal 
 attraction — 
 
 Sera. Count, you 7nust come! 
 
 Count. Since you insist — aw — aw — 
 there 's no resisting you, Miss Tiffany. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. I am so thankful. How can I 
 repay your condescension! (Count and 
 Seraphina converse.) Mr. Snobson, 
 
314 
 
 FASHION 
 
 will you walk this way? — I have such a 
 cactus in full bloom — remarkable flower! 
 Mr. Tiffany, pray come here — I have 
 something particular to say. 
 
 Tip. Then speak out, my dear — I thought 
 it was highly improper just now to leave 
 a girl with a young man? 
 
 {Aside to her.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh, but the Count — that is dif- 
 ferent ! 
 
 Tip. I suppose you mean to say there 's 
 nothing of the man about him? 
 
 {Enter Millinette with a scarf in her 
 hand.) 
 
 Mil. Adolph tell me he vas here. 
 {Aside.) Pardon, Madame, I bring dis 
 scarf for Mademoiselle. 
 Mrs. Tip. Very well, Millinette ; you know 
 best what is proper for her to wear. 
 (Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany and Snobsox 
 retire up; she engages the attentio?i 
 of both gentlemen.) 
 (Millinette crosses towards Sera- 
 PHINA, gives the Count a threaten- 
 ing look, and commences arranging 
 the scarf over Seraphina's shoul- 
 ders. ) 
 Mil. Mademoiselle, permettez-moi. Per- 
 fide! {Aside to Count.) If Mademoi- 
 selle vil stand tranquille one petit mo- 
 ment. {Turns Seraphina's hack to the 
 Count, and pretends to arrange the 
 scarf.) I must speak vid you to-day, or 
 I tell all — you find me at de foot of de 
 stair ven you go. Prends garde! {Aside 
 to Count.) 
 Sera. What is that you say, Millinette? 
 Mil. Dis scarf make you so very beauti- 
 ful, Mademoiselle — Je vous salue, mes 
 dames. {Curtsies.) {Exit.) 
 
 Count. Not a moment to lose! {Aside.) 
 Miss Tiffany, I have an unpleasant — ^^a 
 particularly unpleasant piece of intelli- 
 gence — you see, I have just received a 
 letter from my friend — the — aw — the 
 Earl of Airshire ; the truth is, the EarFs 
 daughter — beg you won't mention it — 
 has distinguished me by a tender pen- 
 chant. 
 Sera. I understand — and they wish you 
 to return and marry the young lady; but 
 surely you will not leave us. Count? 
 Count. If you bid me sta}^ — I shouldn't 
 have the conscience — I could n't afford to 
 tear myself away. I 'm sure that 's hon- 
 est. {Aside.) 
 Sera. Oh, Count! 
 Count. Say but one word — say that you 
 
 should n't mind being made a Countess — 
 and I '11 break with the Earl to-morrow. 
 
 Sera. Count, this surprise — but don't 
 tliink of leaving the country, Count — we 
 could not pass the time without you! I 
 — yes — yes. Count — I do consent ! 
 
 Count. I thought she would! {Aside, 
 while he embraces her.) Enchanted, 
 rapture, bliss, ecstacy, and all that sort 
 of thing — words can't express it, but you 
 understand. But it must be kept a se- 
 cret — postively it must! If the rumour 
 of our engagement were whispered 
 abroad — the Earl's daughter — the deli- 
 cacy of my situation, aw — you compre- 
 hend? It is even possible that our nup- 
 tials, my charming Miss Tiffany, our 
 nuptials must take place in private! 
 
 Sera. Oh, that is quite impossible! 
 
 Count. It's the latest fashion abroad — 
 the very latest. Ah, I knew that would 
 determine you. Can I depend on your 
 secrecy ? 
 
 Sera. Oh, yes! Believe me. 
 
 Snob. {Coming forward in spite of Mrs. 
 Tiffany's efforts to detain him.) Why, 
 Seraphina, hav[e] n't you a word to 
 throw to a dog? 
 
 Tip. I should n't think she had after wast- 
 ing so many upon a puppy. (Aside.) 
 
 {Enter Zeke, wearing a three-cornered 
 hat.) 
 
 Zeke. Missus, de bran new carriage am 
 below. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Show it up, — I mean, Very 
 well, A-dolph. {Exit Zeke.) 
 
 Count, my daughter and I are about to 
 take an airing in our new voyture, — 
 will you honor us with your company? 
 
 Count. Madam, I — I have a most press- 
 ing engagement. A letter to write to the 
 Earl of Airshire — who is at present re- 
 siding in the Isle of Skye. I must bid 
 you good morning. 
 
 Mrs. Tip. Good morning, Count. 
 
 {Exit Count.) 
 
 Snob. / 'm quite at leisure, ( crosses to 
 Mrs. T.) Marm. Books balanced — 
 ledger closed — nothing to do all the after- 
 noon, — I 'm for you. 
 
 Mrs. Tip. {Without noticing him.) 
 Come, Seraphina, come ! 
 
 {As they are going Snobson follows them.) 
 
 Snob. But, Marm — I was saying, Marm, 
 I am quite at leisure — not a thing to do ; 
 have I, Mr. Tiffany? 
 
 Mrs. Tip. Seraphina, child — your red 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 315 
 
 shawl — remember — Mr. Snobson, hon 
 
 swear! 
 
 (Exit, leading Seraphixa.) 
 Snob. Swear! Mr. Tiffanj^, Sir, am I 
 
 to be fobbed off with a bon swear? 
 
 D — n it, I will swear ! 
 TiF. Have patience, Mr. Snobson, if you 
 
 will accompany me to the counting 
 
 house — 
 Snob. Don't count too much on me, Sir. 
 
 I '11 make up no more accounts until 
 
 these are settled ! I '11 run down and 
 
 jump into the carriage in spite of her 
 
 hon swear. {Exit.) 
 
 TiF. You '11 jump into a hornet's nest, if 
 
 you do! Mr. Snobson, Mr. Snobson! 
 {Exit after Mm.) 
 
 Scene 2. Housekeeper's room. 
 
 {Enter Millinette.) 
 
 Mil. I have set dat bete, Adolph, to vatch 
 for him. He say he would come back 
 so soon as Madame's voiture drive from 
 de door. If he not come — but he vill — 
 he vill — he hien etourdi, but he have hon 
 coeur. 
 
 {Enter Count.) 
 
 Count. Ah! Millinette, my dear, you see 
 what a good-natured dog I am to fly at 
 your bidding — 
 
 Mil. Fly? Ah! trompeur! Vat for you 
 fly from Paris? Vat for you leave me 
 — and I love you so much? Ven you 
 sick — you almost die — did I not stay bj' 
 you — take care of you — and you have no 
 else friend? Vat for you leave Paris? 
 
 Count. Never allude to disagreeable sub- 
 jects, mon enfant! 1 was forced by un- 
 controllable circumstances to fly to the 
 land of liberty — 
 
 Mil. Vat you do vid all de money I give 
 you? The last sou I had — did I not 
 give you? 
 
 Count. I dare say you did, ma petite — 
 wish you 'd been better supplied ! 
 {Aside.) Don't ask any questions here 
 — can't explain now — the next time we 
 meet — 
 
 Mil. But, ah! ven shall ve meet — ven? 
 You not deceive me, not any more. 
 
 Count. Deceive you ! I 'd rather deceive 
 myself — I wish I could ! I 'd persuade 
 myself you were once more washing linen 
 in the Seine! {Aside.) 
 
 Mil. I vil tell you ven ve shall meet — On 
 
 Friday night Madame give one grand 
 ball — 3'ou come sans douie — den ven de 
 supper is served — de Americans tink of 
 noting else ven de supper come — den you 
 steal out of de room, and you find me 
 here — and you give me one grand ex- 
 planation! 
 
 {Enter Gertrude, unperceived.) 
 
 Count. Friday night — while supper is 
 serving — parole dlionneur I will be here 
 — I will explain every thing — ^my sud- 
 den departure from Paris — my — demme, 
 my countship — every thing! Now let 
 me go — if any of the family should dis- 
 cover us — 
 
 Ger. {Who during the last speech has 
 gradually advanced.) They might dis- 
 cover more than you think it advisable 
 for them to know! 
 
 Count. The devil! 
 
 Mil. Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle Gertrude! 
 
 Count. {Recovering himself.) My dear 
 Miss Gertrude, let me explain — aw — 
 aw — nothing is more natural than the 
 situation in which you find me — 
 
 Ger. I am inclined to believe that, Sir. 
 
 Count. Now — 'pon my honor, that 's not 
 fair. Here is Millinette will bear wit- 
 ness to what I am about to say — 
 
 Ger. Oh, I have not the slightest doubt 
 of that. Sir. 
 
 Count. You see, Millinette happened to 
 be lady's-maid in the family of — of — the 
 Duchess Chateau D'Espagne — and I 
 chanced to be a particular friend of the 
 Duchess — very particular I assure you! 
 Of course I saw Millinette, and she, 
 demme, she saw me! Didn't you, Mil- 
 linette ? 
 
 Mil. Oh! oui — Mademoiselle, I knew him 
 ver veil. 
 
 Count. Well, it is a remarkable fact that 
 — being in correspondence with this very 
 Duchess — at this very time — 
 
 Ger. That is sufficient, Sir — I am already 
 so well acquainted with your extraor- 
 dinary talents for improvisation, that I 
 will not further tax your invention — 
 
 Mil. Ah! Mademoiselle Gertrude do not 
 betray us — have pity! 
 
 Count. {Assuming an air of dignity.) 
 Silence, Millinette! My word has been 
 doubted — the word of a nobleman! I 
 will inform m}^ friend, Mrs. Tiffany, of 
 this young person's audacity. {Going.) 
 
 Ger. His own weapons alone can foil this 
 villain! {Aside.) Sir — Sir — Count! 
 {At the last word the Count turns.) 
 
316 
 
 FASHION 
 
 Perhaps, Sir, the least said abuut this 
 matter the better! 
 
 Count. {DeUghtedlij.) The least said? 
 We won't say anything at all. She 's 
 coming round — could n't resist me. 
 (Aside.) Cliarming Gertrude — 
 
 Mil. Quoi? Vat that you say? 
 
 Count. My sweet, adorable Millinette, 
 hold your tongue, will you? {Aside to 
 her.) 
 
 Mil. (Aloud.) No, I vill not! If you 
 do look so from out your eyes at her 
 again, I vill tell all ! 
 
 Count. Oh, I never could manage two 
 women at once, — jealousy makes the 
 dear creatures so spiteful. The only 
 valor is in flight! (Aside.) Miss Ger- 
 trude, I wish you good morning. Mil- 
 linette, mon enfant, adieu. (Exit.) 
 
 Mil. But I have one word more to say. 
 Stop, Stop! (Exit after him.) 
 
 Ger. (Musingly.) Friday night, while 
 supper is serving, he is to meet Millin- 
 ette here and explain — what? This man 
 is an impostor! His insulting me — his 
 familiarity with Millinette — his whole 
 conduct— prove it. If I tell Mrs. Tif- 
 fany this she will disbelieve me, and one 
 word may place this so-called Count on 
 . his guard. To convince Seraphina would 
 be equally difficult, and her rashness and 
 infatuation may render her miserable for 
 life. No — she shall be saved! I must 
 devise some plan for opening their eyes. 
 Truly, if I cannot invent one, I shall be 
 the first woman who was ever at a loss 
 for a stratagem — especially to punish a 
 villain or to shield a friend. (Exit.) 
 
 END of act third. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. Ball room splendidly illumi- 
 nated. A curtain hung at the further 
 end. Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany, Seraph- 
 ina, Gertrude, Fogg, Twinkle, Count, 
 Snobson, Colonel Howard, a number 
 of guests — some seated, some standing. 
 As the curtain rises, a cotillion is danced; 
 Gertrude dancing with Howard, Sera- 
 phina with Count. 
 
 Count. (Advancing with Seraphina to 
 the front of the stage. ) To-morrow tlien 
 — to-morrow — I may salute you as ray 
 bride — demme, my Countess! 
 
 (Enter Zeke, with refreshments.) 
 
 Sera. Yes, to-morrow. 
 
 (As the Count is about to reply, 
 
 Snobson thrusts himself in front of 
 
 Seraphina.) 
 
 Snob. You said you 'd dance w^ith me, 
 
 MisG — now take my fin, and we '11 walk 
 
 about and see what's going on. 
 
 (Count raises his eye-glass, regards 
 Snobson, and leads Seraphina 
 away; Snobson follows, endeavor- 
 ing to attract her attention, but en- 
 countering Zeke, bearing a waiter 
 of refreshments; stops him, helps 
 himself, and puts some in his 
 pockets.) 
 Here 's the treat ! get my to-morrow's 
 luncheon out of Tiff. 
 
 (Enter Trueman, yawning and rubbing 
 his eyes.) 
 
 True. What a nap I 've had, to be sure I 
 (Looks at his watch.) Eleven o'clock, 
 as I 'm alive ! Just the time when coun- 
 try folks are comfortably turned in, and 
 here your grand turn-out has hardly be- 
 gun yet. (To Tiffany, who ap- 
 proaches.) 
 
 Ger. (Advancing.) I was just coming 
 to look for you, Mr. Trueman. I be- 
 gan to fancy that you were paying a 
 visit to dream-land. 
 
 True. So I was, child — so I was — and I 
 saw a face — like yours — but brighter! — 
 even brighter. (To Tiffany.) There's 
 a smile for you, man! It makes one 
 feel that the world has something worth 
 living for in it yet ! Do you remember a 
 smile like that, Antony? Ah! I see 
 you don't — but I do — I do! (Much 
 moved.) 
 
 How. (Advancing.) Good evening, Mr^ 
 Trueman. (Offers his hand.) 
 
 True. That's right, man; give me your 
 whole hand ! When a man offers me the 
 tips of his fingers, I know at once there 's 
 nothing in him worth seeking beyond his 
 fingers ends. 
 
 (Trueman and Howard, Gertrude and 
 Tiffany converse.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. (Advancing.) I'm in such a 
 fidget lest that vulgar old fellow should 
 disgrace us by some of his plebeian re- 
 marks! What it is to give a ball, when 
 one is forced to invite vulgar people ! 
 (Mrs. Tiffany advances towards 
 Trueiman; Seraphina stands con- 
 versing flippantly with the gentle- 
 men who surround her; amongst 
 them is Twinkle, who having taken 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 317 
 
 a magazine from his pocket, is read- 
 ing to her, much to the undisguised 
 annoyance of Snobson.) 
 Dear nie, Mr. Trueman, you are very 
 late — quite in the fashion, I declare! 
 True. Fashion! And pray what is 
 fashion, madam? An agreement be- 
 tween certain persons to live without us- 
 ing their souls! to substitute etiquette 
 for virtue — decorum for purity — man- 
 ners for morals! to affect a shame for 
 the works of their Creator! and expend 
 all their rapture upon the works of their 
 tailors and dressmakers! 
 Mrs. Tif. You have the most ow-tray 
 ideas, Mr. Trueman — quite rustic, and 
 deplorably American! But pray walk 
 this way. 
 
 (Mrs. Tiffany and Trueman go up.) 
 Count. {Advancing to Gertrude, How- 
 ard a short distance behind her.) Miss 
 Gertrude — no opportunity of speaking 
 to you before — in demand you know! 
 Ger. I have no choice, I must be civil to 
 him. {Aside.) What were you re- 
 marking, Sir? 
 Count. Miss Gertrude — charming Ger — 
 aw — aw — I never found it so difficult to 
 speak to a woman before. {Aside.) 
 Ger. Yes, a very charming ball — ^many 
 
 beautiful faces here. 
 Count. Only one ! — aw — aw — one — the 
 fact is — 
 
 {Talks to her in dumb show.) 
 How. What could old Trueman have 
 meant by saying she fancied that puppy 
 of a Count — that paste jewel thrust upon 
 the little finger of society. 
 Count. Miss Gertrude^aw — 'pon my 
 honor — you don't understand — really — 
 aw — aw — will you dance the polka with 
 me? 
 
 (Gertrude bows and gives him her 
 hand; he leads her to the set form- 
 ing; Howard remains looking after 
 them.) 
 How. Going to dance with him too! A 
 few days ago she would hardly bow to 
 him civilly — could old Trueman have had 
 reasons for what he said? {Retires up.) 
 {Dance, the polka; Seraphina, after 
 having distributed her bouquet, vin- 
 aigrette and fan amongst the gen- 
 tlemen, dances with Snobson.) 
 Pru. {Peeping in as dance concludes.) I 
 don't like dancing on Friday; sometliing 
 strange is always sure to happen ! I '11 
 be on the look out. 
 
 {Remains peeping and concealing her- 
 
 self when any of the company ap- 
 proach.). 
 
 Ger. {Advancing hastily.) They are 
 preparing the supper — now if I can only 
 dispose of Millinette while I unmask this 
 insolent pretender! {Exit.) 
 
 Pru. {Peeping.) What's that she said? 
 It 's coming ! 
 
 {Re-enter Gertrude, bearing a small bas- 
 ket filled with bouquets; approaches 
 Mrs. Tiffany; they walk to the front of 
 the stage.) 
 
 Ger. Excuse me, Madam — I believe this is 
 just the hour at wdiich you ordered sup- 
 per? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Well, what 's that to you ! So 
 you 've been dancing with the Count — 
 how dare you dance with a nobleman — 
 youf 
 
 Ger. I will answer that question half an 
 hour hence. At present I have some- 
 thing to propose, which I think will grat- 
 ify you and please your guests. I have 
 heard that at the most elegant balls in 
 Paris, it is customary — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What? what? 
 
 Ger. To station a servant at the door 
 with a basket of flowers. A bouquet is 
 then presented to every lady as she 
 passes in — I prepared this basket a short 
 time ago. As the company walk in to 
 supper, might not the flowers be dis- 
 tributed to advantage? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How distingue! You are a 
 good creature, Gertrude — there, run and 
 hand the bokettes to them yourself! 
 You shall have the whole credit of the . 
 thing. 
 
 Ger. Caught in my own net! {Aside.) 
 But, Madam, / know so little of fashions 
 — Millinette, being French herself, will 
 do it with so much more grace. I am 
 sure Millinette — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. So am I. She will do it a 
 thousand times better than you^there 
 go call- her. 
 
 Ger. {Giving basket.) But, Madam, 
 pray order Millinette not to leave her 
 station till supper is ended — as the com- 
 pany pass out of the supper room she 
 may find that some of the ladies have 
 been overlooked. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. That is true — very thoughtful 
 of you, Gertrude. {Exit Gertrude.) 
 What a recherche idea! 
 
 {Enter Millinette.) 
 
 Here, Millinette, take this basket. Place 
 yourself there, and distribute these bo- 
 
318 
 
 FASHION 
 
 kettes as the company i)ass in to supper; 
 but remember not to stir from the spot 
 until supper is over. It is a French 
 fashion you know, Milhnette. I am so 
 delighted to be the first to introduce it 
 — it will be all the rage in the bow- 
 monde! 
 Mil. Mon Dieu! dis vill ruin all! 
 (Aside.) Madame, Madame, let me tell 
 you, Madame, dat in France, in Paris, 
 it is de custom to present les bouquets 
 ven every body first come — long before 
 de supper. Dis vould be outre! barhare! 
 not at all la mode! Ven dey do come 
 in — dat is de fashion in Paris! 
 Mrs. Tif. Dear me! Millinette, w4iat is 
 the difference ? besides I 'd have you to 
 know that Americans always improve 
 upon French fashions ! here, take the bas- 
 ket, and let me see that you do it in the 
 most you-nick and genteel manner. 
 (Millinette poutingly takes the bas- 
 ket and retires up stage. A march. 
 Curtain hung at the further end of 
 the room is drawn back, and dis- 
 closes a room, in the centre of which 
 stands a supper table, beautifully 
 decorated and illuminated; the com- 
 pany promenade two by two into the 
 supper room; Millinette presents 
 bouquets as they pass; Count leads 
 Mrs. Tiffany.) 
 True. {Encountering Fogg, who is hurry- 
 ing alone to the supper room.) Mr. 
 Fogg, never mind the supper, man! 
 Ha, ha, ha! Of course you are indif- 
 ferent to suppers ! 
 Fogg. Indifferent! suppers — oh, ah — no, 
 Sir — suppers? no — no — I'm not indif- 
 ferent to suppers! 
 
 [Hurries away towards table.) 
 True. Ha, ha, ha ! Here 's a new dis- 
 covery I 've made in the fashionable 
 world! Fashion don't permit the crit- 
 ters to have heads or hearts, but it allows 
 them stomachs! {To Tiffany, who ad- 
 vances.) So it 's not fashionable to feel, 
 but it 's fashionable to feed, eh, An- 
 tony? ha, ha, ha! 
 
 (Trueman and Tiffany retire to- 
 wards supper room. Enter Ger- 
 trude, followed by Zeke.) 
 Ger. Zeke, go to the supper room in- 
 stantly, — whisper to Count Jolimaitre 
 that all is ready, and that he must keep 
 his appointment without delay, — then 
 watch him, and as he passes out of the 
 room, place yourself in front of Milli- 
 nette in such a manner, that the Count 
 
 cannot see her nor she him. Be sure that 
 they do not see each other — every thing 
 depends upon that. {Crosses.) 
 
 Zeke. Missey, consider dat business 
 brought to a scientific conclusion. 
 
 {Exit into supper room. Exit Ger- 
 trude.) 
 Pr*u. {Who has been listening.) What 
 can she want of the Count? I always 
 suspected that Gertrude, because she is 
 so merry and busy! Mr. Trueman 
 thinks so much of her too — I '11 tell him 
 this ! There 's something wrong — but it 
 all comes of giving a ball on a Friday! 
 How astonished the dear old man will be 
 w^ien he finds out how much I know! 
 {Advances timidly towards the supper 
 room.) 
 
 Scene 2. Housekeeper's room; dark 
 stage; table, two chairs. 
 
 {Enter Gertrude, with a lighted candle in 
 her hand.) 
 
 Ger. So far the scheme prospers ! and yet 
 this imprudence — if I fail? Fail! to 
 lack courage in a difficulty, or ingenuity 
 in a dilemma, are not woman's failings! 
 
 {Enter Zeke, with a napkin over his arm, 
 and a bottle of champagne in his hand.) 
 
 Well, Zeke— Adolph! 
 
 Zeke. Dat 's right, Missey ; I feels just 
 now as if dat was my legitimate title ; dis 
 here 's de stuff to make a nigger feel 
 like a gemman! 
 
 Ger. But he is coming? 
 
 Zeke. He 's coming! {Sound of a cham- 
 pagne cork heard.) Do you hear dat, 
 Missey? Don't it put you all in a frothy 
 and make you feel as light as a cork? 
 Dere 's nothing like the union brand, to 
 wake up de harmonies ob de heart. 
 
 {Drinks from bottle.) 
 
 Ger. Remember to keep watch upon the 
 outside — do not stir from the spot ; when 
 I call you, come in quickly with a light — 
 now, will you be gone! 
 
 Zeke. I 'm off, Missey, like a champagne 
 cork wid de strings cut. {Exit.) 
 
 Ger. I think I hear the Count's step. 
 {Crosses, stage dark; she blows out can- 
 dle.) Now if I can but disguise my 
 voice, and make the best of my French. 
 
 {Enter Count.) 
 
 Count. Millinette, where are you? How 
 am I to see you in the dark? 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 319 
 
 Ger. {Imitating Millinette's voice in a 
 whisper.) Hush! parle bas. 
 
 Count. Come here and give me a kiss. 
 
 Ger. Non — non — {retreating alarmed, 
 
 Count follows) make haste, I must 
 know all. 
 
 Count. You did not use to be so deuced 
 particular. 
 
 Zeke. {Without.) No admission, gem- 
 man ! Box office closed, tickets stopped ! 
 
 True. {Witltout.) Out of my way; do 
 you want me to try if your head is as 
 hard as my stick? 
 
 Ger. What shall I do? Ruined, ruined! 
 {She stands with her hands clasped in 
 speechless despair.) 
 
 Count. Halloa! they are coming here, 
 Millinette! Millinette, why don't you 
 speak? Where can I hide myself? 
 {Running about stage, feeling for a 
 door.) Where are all your closets? If 
 I could only get out — or get in some- 
 where; may I be smothered in a clothes' 
 basket, if you ever catch me in such a 
 scrape again! {His hand accidentally 
 touches the knob of a door opening into 
 a closet. ) Fortune's favorite yet ! I 'm 
 safe! 
 
 {Gets into closet and closes door. 
 Enter Prudence, Trueman, Mrs. 
 Tiffany, and Colonel Howard, 
 followed by Zeke, bearing a light; 
 lights up.) 
 
 Pru. Here they are, the Count and Ger- 
 trude ! I told you so ! 
 
 {Stops in surprise on seeing only Ger- 
 trude.) 
 True. And you see what a lie you told! 
 Mrs. Tif. Prudence, how dare you create 
 this disturbance in my house? To sus- 
 pect the Count too — a nobleman! 
 How. My sweet Gertrude, this foolish old 
 
 woman would — 
 Pru. Oh ! you need n't talk — I heard her 
 make the appointment — I know he 's 
 here — or he 's been here. I wonder if 
 she has n't hid him away ! 
 
 {Runs peeping about the room.) 
 True. {Following her angrily.) You're 
 what I call a confounded — troublesome 
 — meddling — old — prying — {as he says 
 the last word, Prudence opens closet 
 where the Count is concealed.) Thun- 
 der and lightning ! 
 Pru. I told you so i 
 
 {They all stand aghast; Mrs. Tiffany, 
 with her hands lifted in surprise and 
 anger; Trueman, clutching his stick; 
 
 Howard, looking with an expression 
 of bewildered horror from the 
 Count to Gertrude.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. {Shaking her fist at Gf.rtrvd-e.) 
 You depraved little minx! this is the 
 meaning of your dancing with the Count ! 
 
 Count. {Stepping from the closet and 
 advancing.) I don't know v/hat to make 
 of it! Millinette not here! Miss Ger- 
 trude — oh ! I see— a disguise — the girl 's 
 desperate about me — the way with them 
 all. {Aside.) 
 
 True. I *m choking — I can't speak — Ger- 
 trude — no — no — it is some horrid mis- 
 take! {Partly aside, changes his tone 
 suddenly.) The villain! I'll hunt the 
 truth out of him, if there 's any in — 
 {crosses, approaches Count threaten- 
 ingly) do you see this stick? You made 
 its first acquaintance a few days ago; 
 it is time you were better known to each 
 other. 
 
 {As Trueman attempts to seize him. 
 Count escapes, and shields himself 
 behind Mrs. Tiffany, Trueman fol- 
 lowing.) 
 
 Count. You ruffian! would you strike a 
 woman ? — Madam — my dear Madam — 
 keep off that barbarous old man, and I 
 will explain! Madam, with — aw — your 
 natural bon gout — aw — your fashionable 
 refinement — aw — your — aw — ^-our knowl- 
 edge of foreign customs — 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh! Count, I hope it ain't a 
 foreign custom for the nobility to shut 
 themselves up in the dark with young 
 women? We think such things dreadful 
 in America. 
 
 Count. Demme — aw — hear what I have 
 to say. Madam — I '11 satisfy all sides — I 
 am perfectly innocent in this affair — 
 'pon my honor I am ! That young lady 
 shall inform you. that I am so herself ! — 
 can't help it, sorry for her. Old matter- 
 of-fact won't be convinced any other 
 way, — that club of his is so particularly 
 unpleasant! {Aside.) Madam, I was 
 summoned here malgre moi, and not 
 knowing whom I was to meet — Miss 
 Gertrude, favor the company by saying 
 whether or not you directed — that — aw 
 — aw — that colored individual to conduct 
 me here? 
 
 Ger. Sir, you well know — 
 
 Count. A simple yes or no will suffice. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Answer the Count's question 
 instantly. Miss. 
 
 Ger. I did — but — 
 
 Count. You hear, Madam — 
 
320 
 
 FASHION 
 
 True. I won't believe it — I can't! Here, 
 you nigger, stop rolling up your eyes, 
 and let us know whether she told you to 
 bring that critter here"? 
 
 Zeke. I 'se refuse to gib ebidence; dat 's 
 de device ob de skilfullest counsels ob de 
 day! -Can't answer, Boss — neber git a 
 word out ob dis child — Yah! yah! 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Ger. Mrs. Tiffany, — Mr. Trueman, if you 
 will but have patience — 
 
 True. Patience ! Oh, Gertrude, you 've 
 taken from an old man something better 
 and dearer than his patience — the one 
 bright hope of nineteen years of self- 
 denial — of nineteen years of — 
 
 {Throws himself upon a chair, his head 
 leaning on table.) 
 
 Mrs. Tip. Get out of my house, you ow- 
 dacious — you ruined — you ahime young 
 woman! You will corrupt all my fam- 
 ily. Good gracious! don't touch me, — 
 don't come near me. Never let me see 
 your face after to-morrow. Pack. 
 
 {Goes up.) 
 
 How. Gertrude, I have striven to find 
 some excuse for you — to doubt — to dis- 
 believe — but this is beyond all endur- 
 ance! {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Millinette in haste.) 
 
 Mil. I could not come before — {Stops 
 in surprise at seeing the persons assem- 
 bled.) Mon Dieu! vat does dis mean? 
 
 Count. Hold your tongue, fool! You 
 will ruin everything, I will explain to- 
 morrow. {Aside to her.) Mrs. Tiffany 
 — Madam — my dear Madam, let me con- 
 duct you back to the ball-room. {She 
 takes his arm.) You see I am quite in- 
 nocent in this matter; a man of my 
 standing, you know, — aw, aw^ — you com- 
 prehend the whole affair. 
 
 {Exit Count leading Mrs. Tiffany.) 
 
 Mil. I will say to him von vord, I will ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Ger. Mr. Trueman, I beseech you — I in- 
 sist upon being heard, — I claim it as a 
 right ! 
 
 True. Right? How dare you have the 
 face, girl, to talk of rights? {Comes 
 down.) You had more rights than you 
 thought for, but you have forfeited them 
 all! All right to love, respect, protec- 
 tion, and to not a little else that you don't 
 dream of. Go, go ! I '11 start for Cat- 
 teraugus to-morrow, — I Ve seen enough 
 of what fashion can do! {Exit.) 
 
 Pru. {Wiping her eyes.) Dear old man, 
 
 how he takes on ! I '11 go and console 
 him! [Exit.) 
 
 Ger. This is too much! How heavy a 
 penalty has my imprudence cost me! — 
 his esteem, and that of one dearer — my 
 home — my — {Burst of lively music 
 from ball-room.) They are dancing, and 
 I — I should be weeping, if pride had not 
 sealed up my tears. 
 
 {Slie sinks into a chair. Band plays 
 the polka behind till Curtain falls.) 
 
 end op act fourth. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene 1. Mrs. Tiffany's Drawing Room 
 — same Scene as Act First. Gertrude 
 seated at a table, with her head leaning 
 on her hand; in the other hand she holds 
 a pen. A sheet of paper and an ink- 
 stand before her. 
 
 Ger. How shalM write to them? What 
 shall I say? Prevaricate I cannot — 
 {rises and comes forward) and yet if I 
 write the truth — simple souls! how can 
 they comprehend the motives for my con- 
 duct? Nay — the truly pure see no im- 
 aginary evil in others! It is only vice, 
 that reflecting its own image, suspects 
 even the innocent. I have no time to 
 lose — I must prepare them for my re- 
 turn. {Resumes her seat and writes.) 
 What a true pleasure there is in daring 
 to be frank! {After writing a few lines 
 more pauses.) Not so frank either, — 
 there is one name that I cannot mention. 
 Ah! that he should suspect — should 
 despise me. {Writes.) 
 
 {Enter Trueman.) 
 
 True. There she is! If this girl's soul 
 had only been as fair as her face, — yet 
 she dared to speak the truth, — I '11 not 
 forget that! A woman who refuses to 
 tell a lie has one spark of heaven in her 
 still. {Approaches Jier.) Gertrude, 
 
 (Gertrude starts and looks up.) 
 what are you writing there? Plotting 
 more mischief, eh, girl? 
 
 Ger. I was writing a few lines to some 
 friends in Geneva. 
 
 True. The Wilsons, eh? 
 
 Ger. {Surprised, rising.) Are you ac- 
 quainted with them, Sir? 
 
 True. I shouldn't wonder if I was. I 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 321 
 
 suppose you have taken good care not to 
 mention the dark room — that foreign 
 puppy in the closet — the pleasant sur- 
 prise — and all that sort of thing, eh? 
 
 Ger. I have no reason for concealment, 
 Sir! for I have done nothing of which I 
 am ashamed ! 
 
 True. Then I can't say much for your 
 modesty. 
 
 Ger. I sliould not wish you to say more 
 than I deserve. 
 
 True. There's a bold minx! (Aside.) 
 
 Ger. Since my affairs seem to have excited 
 your interest — I will not say curiosity, 
 perhaps you even feel a desire to inspect 
 my correspondence? There, {handing 
 the letter) I pride myself upon my good 
 nature, — you may like to take advantage 
 of it? 
 
 True. With what an air she carries it off ! 
 (Aside.) Take advantage of it? So I 
 will. (Reads.) What's this? "French 
 chambermaid — Count — impostor — infatu- 
 ation — Seraphina — Millinette — disguised 
 myself — expose him." Thunder and 
 lightning! I see it all! Come and kiss 
 me, girl! (Gertrude evinces surprise.) 
 No, no — I forgot — it won't do to come 
 to that yet ! She 's a rare girl ! I 'm 
 out of my senses with joy! I don't 
 know what to do with myself! Tol, de 
 rol, de rol, de ra. (Capers and sings.) 
 
 Ger. What a remarkable old man! 
 (Aside.) Then you do me justice, Mr. 
 Trueman ? 
 
 True. I say I don't! Justice? You're 
 above all dependence upon justice! 
 Hurrah ! I 've found one true woman 
 at last? True? (Pauses tJt ought fully.) 
 Humph! I didn't think of that flaw! 
 Plotting and manoeuvering — not much 
 truth in that? An honest girl should be 
 above stratagems ! 
 
 Ger. But my motive, Sir, was good. 
 
 True. That 's not enough — your actions 
 must be good as well as your motives! 
 Why could you not tell the silly girl 
 that man was an impostor? 
 
 Ger. I did inform her of my suspicions 
 — she ridiculed them; the plan I chose 
 was an imprudent one, but I could not 
 devise — 
 
 True. I hate devising! Give me a 
 w^oman with the firmness to be frank! 
 But no matter — I had no right to look 
 for an angel out of Paradise; and I am 
 as happ3^ — as happy as a Lord! that is, 
 ten times happier than any Lord ever 
 was! Tol, de rol, de rol! Oh! you — 
 
 you — I '11 thrash every fellow that says 
 a word against you ! 
 
 Ger. You will have plenty of employment 
 then. Sir, for I do not know of one just 
 now who would speak in my favor! 
 
 True. Not one, eh? Why, where 's your 
 dear Mr. Twinkle? I know all about it 
 — can't say that I admire your choice of 
 a husband ! But there 's no accounting 
 for a girl's taste. 
 
 Ger. Mr. Twinkle ! Indeed you are quite 
 mistaken ! 
 
 True. No— really? Then you're not 
 taken with him, eh? 
 
 Ger. Not even with his rhymes. 
 
 True. Hang that old mother meddle- 
 much ! What a fool she has made of me. 
 And so you 're quite free, and I may 
 choose a husband for you myself? 
 Heart-whole, eh? 
 
 Ger. I — I — I trust there is nothing un- 
 sound about my heart. 
 
 True. There it is again. Don't prevari- 
 cate, girl! I tell you an evasion is a lie 
 in contemplation, and I hate lying! 
 Out with the truth! Is vour heart free 
 or not? 
 
 Ger. Nay, Sir, since you demand an an- 
 swer, permit me to demand by what right 
 3^ou ask the question? 
 
 (Enter Howard.) 
 
 Colonel Howard here! 
 
 True. I 'm out again ! What 's the Col- 
 onel to her? (Retires up.) 
 
 How. (Crosses to her.) I have come, 
 Gertrude, to bid you farewell. To-mor- 
 row I resign my commission and leave 
 this city, perhaps for ever. You, Ger- 
 trude, it is you who have exiled me! 
 After last evening — 
 
 True. (Coming forward to Howard.) 
 What the plague have you got to say 
 about last evening? 
 
 How. Mr. Trueman! 
 
 True. What have you got to say about 
 last evening? and what have you to say 
 to that little girl at all? It's Tiffany's 
 precious daughter you 're in love with. 
 
 How. Miss Tiffany? Never! I never 
 had the slightest pretension — 
 
 True. That lying old woman ! But I 'm 
 glad of it! Oh! Ah! Um! (Look- 
 ing significantly at Gertrude and then 
 at Howard.) I see how it is. So you 
 don't choose to marry Seraphina, eh? 
 Well now, whom do you choose to marry? 
 {Glancing at Gertrude.) 
 
 How. I shall not marry at all! 
 
322 
 
 FASHION 
 
 True. You won't? {Looking at them 
 hath again.) Why you don't mean to 
 say that you don't like — 
 
 {Points with his thumb to Gertrude.) 
 
 Ger. Mr. Trueman, I may have been 
 wrong to boast of my good nature, but 
 do not presume too far upon it. 
 
 How. You like frankness, Mr. Trueman, 
 therefore I will speak plainly. I have 
 long cherished a dream from which I 
 was last night rudely awakened. 
 
 True. And that *s what you call speaking 
 plainly? Well, I differ with you! But 
 I can guess what you mean. Last night 
 you suspected Gertrude there of — {an- 
 grily) of what no man shall ever sus- 
 pect her again while I 'm above ground ! 
 You did her injustice, — it was a mistake ! 
 There, now that matter 's settled. Go, 
 and ask her to forgive you, — she 's 
 woman enough to do it! Go, go! 
 
 How. Mr. Trueman, you have forgotten 
 to whom you dictate. 
 
 True. Then you won't do it? you won't 
 ask her pardon? 
 
 How. Most undoubtedly I will not — not 
 at any man's bidding. I must first 
 know — 
 
 True. You won't do it? Then if I don't 
 give you a lesson in politeness — 
 
 How. It will be because you find me your 
 tutor in the same science. I am not a 
 man to brook an insult, Mr. Trueman! 
 but we '11 not quarrel in presence of the 
 lady. 
 
 True. Won't we? I don't know that— 
 
 Ger. Pray, Mr. Trueman — Colonel How- 
 ward, pray desist, Mr. Trueman, for my 
 sake! (Taking hold of his arm to hold 
 him hack.) Colonel Howard, if you will 
 read this letter it will explain everything. 
 {Hands letter to Howard, who reads.) 
 
 True. He don't deserve an explanation! 
 Didn't I tell him that it was a mistake? 
 Refuse to beg your pardon ! I '11 teach 
 him, I '11 teach liim ! 
 
 How. {After reading.) Gertrude, how 
 have I wronged you! 
 
 True. Oh, you'll beg her pardon now? 
 
 {Between them.) 
 
 How. Hers, Sir, and yours! Gertrude, 
 I fear — 
 
 True. You need n't, — she '11 forgive you. 
 You don't know these women as well as 
 I do, — they're always ready to pardon; 
 it 's tlieir nature, and tliey can't help it. 
 Come along, I left Antony and his wife 
 in the dining room ; we '11 go and find 
 them. I 've a story of my own to tell ! 
 
 As for you, Colonel, you may follow. 
 Come along. Come along! 
 
 {Leads out Gertrude, followed by 
 Howard. ) 
 
 {Enter Mr. and Mrs. Tiffany, Mr. Tif- 
 fany with a bundle of bills in his hand.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. I beg you won't mention the 
 subject again, Mr. Tiffany. Nothing is 
 more plebeian than a discussion upon 
 economy — nothing more ungenteel than 
 looking over and fretting over one's 
 bills ! 
 
 Tif. Then I suppose, my dear, it is quite 
 as ungenteel to pay one's bills? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Certainly! I hear the ee-light 
 never condescend to do anything of the 
 kind. The honor of their invaluable 
 patronage is sufficient for the persons 
 they employ! 
 
 Tif. Patronage then is a newly invented 
 food upon w4iich the w^orking classes fat- 
 ten? What convenient appetites poor 
 people must have! Now listen to what 
 I am going to say. As soon as my 
 daughter marries Mr. Snobson — 
 
 {Enter Prudence, a three-cornered note 
 in her hand.) 
 
 Pru. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall we 
 do ! Such a misfortune ! Such a dis- 
 aster! Oh, dear! oh, hear! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Prudence, you are the most tire- 
 some creature! What is the matter? 
 
 Pru. {Pacing up and down the stage.) 
 Such a disgrace to the whole family! 
 But I always expected it. Oh, dear! oh, 
 dear! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. {Following her up and down 
 the stage.) What are you talking about, 
 Prudence? Will you tell me what has^ 
 happened? 
 
 Pru. {Still pacing, Mrs. Tiffany fol- 
 lowing.) Oh! I can't, I can't! You'll 
 feel so dreadfully! How could she do 
 such a thing! But I expected nothing 
 else! I never did, I never did! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. {Still following.) Good gra- 
 cious! what do you mean. Prudence? 
 Tell me, will you tell me? I shall get 
 into such a passion! What is the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Pru. {Still pacing.) Oh, Betsy, Betsy! 
 That your daughter should have come to 
 that ! Dear me, dear me ! 
 
 Tif. Seraphina? Did you say Seraphina? 
 What has happened to her? what has 
 she done? 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 323 
 
 {Following Prudence wp and down 
 the stage on the opposite side from 
 Mrs. Tiffany.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. [Still following.) What has 
 she done? what has she clone? 
 
 PRU. Oh! something dreadful — dreadful 
 — shocking ! 
 
 Tip. {Still following.) Speak quickly 
 and plainly — you torture me by this de- 
 lav, — Prudence, be calm, and speak! 
 What is it? 
 
 Pru. {Stopping.) Zeke just told nie — 
 he carried her travelling trunk himself — 
 she gave him a whole dollar! Oh, my! 
 
 Tif. Her trunk? where? where? 
 
 Pru. Round the corner! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What did she want with her 
 trunk? You are the most vexatious 
 creature. Prudence! There is no bear- 
 ing your ridiculous conduct ! 
 
 Pru. Oh, you will have worse to bear — 
 worse ! Seraphina 's gone ! 
 
 Tif. Gone! where? 
 
 Pru. Off! — eloped — eloped with the 
 Count! Dear me, dear me! I always 
 told you she would ! 
 
 Tif. Then I am ruined! 
 
 {Stands with his face buried in his 
 hands.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh, what a ridiculous girl! 
 And she might have had such a splendid 
 wedding! What could have possessed 
 her? 
 
 Tif. The devil himself possessed her, for 
 she has ruined me past all redemption! 
 Gone, Prudence, did you say gone? Are 
 you sure they are gone? 
 
 Pru. Didn't I tell you so! Just look at 
 this note — one might know by the very 
 fold of it— 
 
 Tif. {Snatching the note.) Let me see 
 it! {Opens the note and reads.) "My 
 dear Ma, — When you receive this I shall 
 be a countess ! Is n't it a sweet title ? 
 The Count and I were forced to be mar- 
 ried privately, for reasons which I will 
 explain in my next. You must pacify 
 Pa, and put him in a good humour be- 
 fore I come back, though now I 'm to 
 be a countess I suppose I shouldn't 
 care!" Undutiful huzzy! "We are go- 
 ing to make a little excursion and will 
 be back in a week 
 
 "Your dutiful daughter — Seraphina." 
 A man's curse is sure to spring up at 
 his own hearth, — here is mine ! The sole 
 curb upon that villain gone, I am wholly 
 in his power! Oh! the first downward 
 step from honor — he who takes it can- 
 
 not pause in his mad descent and is sure 
 to be hurried on to ruin! 
 Mrs. Tif. Why, Mr. Tiffany, how you do 
 take on! And I dare say to elope was 
 the most fashionable way after all! 
 
 {Enter Trueman, leading Gertrude, and 
 followed hy Howard.) 
 
 True. Where are all the folks? Here, 
 Antony, you are the man I want. 
 We 've been hunting for you all over the 
 house. Why — what's the matter? 
 There 's a face for a thriving city mer- 
 chant ! Ah ! Antony, you never wore 
 such a hang-dog look as that when you 
 trotted about the country with your pack 
 upon your back! Your shoulders are 
 no broader now — but they 've a heavier 
 load to carry — that 's plain ! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Mr, Trueman, such allusions 
 are highly improper! What would my 
 daughter, the Countess, say! 
 
 Ger. The Countess? Oh! Madam! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Yes, the Countess ! My daugh- 
 ter Seraphina, the Countess dee Joli- 
 maitre! What have you to say to that? 
 No wonder you are surprised after your 
 recherche, ahime conduct! I have told 
 you already. Miss Gertrude, that you 
 were not a proper person to enjoy the 
 inestimable advantages of my patron- 
 age. You are dismissed — do you under- 
 stand ? Discharged ! 
 
 True. Have you done ? Very well, it 's 
 my turn now. Antony, perhaps what I 
 have to say don't concern you as much as 
 some others — but I want you to listen to 
 me. You remember, Antony, {his tone 
 becomes serious), a blue-eyed, smiling 
 girl— 
 
 Tip. Your daughter. Sir? I remember 
 her well. 
 
 True. None ever saw her to forget her! 
 Give me your hand, man. There — that 
 will do ! Now let me go on. I never 
 coveted wealth — yet twenty years ago I 
 found myself the richest farmer in Cat- 
 teraugus. This cursed money made my 
 girl an object of speculation. Every idle 
 fellow that wanted to feather his nest 
 was sure to come courting Ruth. There 
 was one — my heart misgave me the in- 
 stant I laid eyes upon him — for he was a 
 city chap, and not over fond of the 
 truth. But Ruth — ah ! she was too pure 
 herself to look for guile ! His fine words 
 and hi^ fair looks — the old story — she 
 was taken with him — I said, "no" — but 
 the girl liked her own way better than 
 
324 
 
 FASHION 
 
 her old father's — girls always do! and 
 one morning — the rascal robbed me — not 
 of my money, he would have been wel- 
 come to that — but of the only treasure I 
 cherished — my daughter ! 
 TiF. But you forgave her! 
 True. I did! I knew she would never 
 forgive herself — that was }3unishment 
 enough! The scoundrel thought he was 
 marr^dng my gold with my daughter — 
 he was mistaken! I took care that they 
 should never want; but that was all. 
 She loved him — what will not woman 
 love? The villain l)roke her heart — 
 mine w^as tougher, or it would n't have 
 stood what it did. A 3'ear after they 
 were married, he forsook her! She came 
 back to her old home — her old father! 
 It could n't last long — she pined — and 
 Joined — and — then — she died ! Don't think 
 me an old fool — though I am one — for 
 grieving won't bring her back. 
 
 (Bursts into tears.) 
 
 TiF. It was a heavy loss! 
 
 True. So heavy, that I should not have 
 cared how soon I followed her, but for 
 the child she left! As I pressed that 
 child in my arms, I swore that my un- 
 lucky wealth should never curse it, as it 
 had cursed its mother! It was all I had 
 to love — but I sent it away — and the 
 neighbors thought it was dead. The 
 girl was brought up tenderly but hum- 
 bly by my wdfe's relatives in Geneva. 
 I had her taught true independence — 
 she had hands — capacities — and should 
 use them! Money should never buy her 
 a husband! for I resolved not to claim 
 her until she had made her choice, and 
 found the man who was willing to take 
 her for herself alone. She turned out a 
 rare girl ! and it 's time her old grand- 
 father claimed her. Here he is to do 
 it! And there stands Ruth's child! 
 Old Adam's heiress! Gertrude, Ger- 
 trude! — my child! 
 
 (Gertrude rushes into Ms arms.) 
 
 Pru. (After a pause.) Do tell; I want 
 to know ! But I knew it ! I always said 
 Gertrude would turn out somebody, after 
 all! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Dear me! Gertrude an heiress! 
 My dear Gertrude, I always thought 
 you a very charming girl — quite you- 
 NiCK — an heiress! I must give her a 
 ball ! I '11 introduce her into society my- 
 self — of course an heiress must make a 
 sensation! (Aside.) 
 
 How. I am too bewildered even to wish 
 
 her joy. Ah ! there will be plenty to do 
 that now — but the gulf between us is 
 wider than ever. (Aside.) 
 True. Step forward, young man, and let 
 us know what you are muttering about. 
 I said I would never claim her until 
 she had found the man who loved her 
 for herself. I have claimed her — yet I 
 never break my word — I think I have 
 found that man! and here he is. 
 (Strikes Howard on the shoulder.) 
 Gertrude 's yours ! There — never say a 
 word, man — don't bore me with your 
 thanks — you can cancel all obligations 
 by making that child happy! There — 
 take her! — Well, girl, and what do you 
 say? 
 
 Ger. That I rejoice too much at having 
 found a parent for my first act to be one 
 of disobedience! 
 
 (Gives her hand to Howard.) 
 
 True. How very dutiful! and how disin- 
 terested ! 
 
 (Tiffany retires up — and paces the 
 stage, exhibiting great agitation.) 
 
 Pru. (To Trueman.) All the single 
 folks are getting married! 
 
 True. No they are not. You and I are 
 single folks, and we 're not likely to get 
 married. 
 
 Mrs. Tip. My dear Mr. Trueman — my 
 sweet Gertrude, when my daugliter, the 
 Countess, returns, she will be delighted 
 to hear of this deenooment! I assure 
 you that the Countess will be quite 
 charmed ! 
 
 Ger. The Countess? Pray, Madam, 
 where is Seraphina? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. The Countess dee Jolimaitre, 
 my dear, is at this moment on her way 
 to — to Washington! Where after visit- 
 ing all the fashionable curiosities of the 
 day — including the President — she will 
 return to grace her native city ! 
 
 Ger. I hope you are only jesting, Madam? 
 Seraphina is not married? 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Excuse me, my dear, my daugh- 
 ter had this morning the honor of being 
 united to the Count dee Jolimaitre! 
 
 Ger. Madam! He is an impostor! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Good gracious! Gertrude, how 
 can you talk in that disrespectful way of 
 a man of rank? An heiress, my dear, 
 should have better manners! The 
 Count — 
 
 (Enter Millinette, crying.) 
 
 Mil. Oh! Madame! I will tell everyting 
 — oh ! dat monstre ! He break my heart ! 
 
ANNA CORA MOW ATT RITCHIE 
 
 325 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Millinette, what is the matter? 
 
 Mil. Oh ! he promise to marry me — I love 
 him much — and now Zeke say he run 
 away vid Mademoiselle Seraphina! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. What insolence! The girl is 
 mad! Count Johmaitre marry my 
 femmy de chamber! 
 
 Mil. Oh! Madame, he is not one Count, 
 not at all ! Dat is only de title he go by 
 in dis country. De foreigners always 
 take de large title ven dey do come here. 
 His name a Paris vas Gustave Tread- 
 mill. But he not one Frenchman at all, 
 but he do live one long time a Paris. 
 First he live vid Monsieur Vermicelle — 
 dere he vas de head cook! Den he live 
 vid Monsieur Tire-nez, de barber! 
 After dat he live w^id Monsieur le 
 Comte Frippon-fin — and dere he vas le 
 Comte's valet! Dere, now I tell every- 
 ting I feel one great deal better! 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh! good gracious! I shall 
 faint! Not a Count! What will every- 
 body say ? It 's no such thing ! I say 
 he is a Count! One can see the foreign 
 jenny says quoi in his face ! Don't you 
 think I can tell a Count when I see one ? 
 I say he is a Count! 
 
 (Enter Snobson, his hat on — his hands 
 thrust in his pocket — evidently a little 
 intoxicated. ) 
 
 Snob. I won't stand it ! I say I won't ! 
 
 Tif. (Rushing up to him.) Mr. Snob- 
 son, for heaven's sake — (Aside.) 
 
 Snob. Keep off ! I 'm a hard customer 
 to get the better of! You'll see if I 
 don't come out strong! 
 
 True. (Quietly knocking off Snobsox's 
 hat with his stick.) Where are your 
 manners, man? 
 
 Snob. My business ain't with you, Cat- 
 teraugus ; you 've waked up the wrong 
 passenger ! — Now the way I '11 put it 
 into Tiff will be a caution. I '11 make 
 him wince! That extra mint julep has 
 put the true pluck in me. Now for it ! 
 (Aside.) Mr. Tiffany, Sir — you needn't 
 think to come over me, Sir — you '11 have 
 to get up a little earlier in the morning 
 before you do that, Sir! I'd like to 
 know. Sir, how you came to assist your 
 daughter in running away with that for- 
 eign loafer? It was a downright swin- 
 dle, Sir. After the conversation I and 
 you had on that subject she was n't your 
 property. Sir. 
 
 True. What, Antony, is that the way 
 your city clerk bullies his boss? 
 
 Snob. You 're drunk, Catteraugus — don't 
 expose your-splf — you 're drunk ! Taken 
 a little too much toddy, my old boy! 
 Be quiet ! I '11 look after you, and they 
 won't find it out. If you want to be 
 busy, you may take care of my hat — I 
 feel so deuced weak in the chest, I don't 
 think I could pick it up myself. — Now 
 to put the screw J to Tiff. (Aside.) Mr. 
 Tiffany, Sir — you have broken your 
 word, as no virtuous individual — no hon- 
 orable member — of — the — com — mu — ni 
 -ty- 
 
 Tif. Have some pity, Mr. Snobson, I be- 
 seech you ! I had nothing to do with my 
 daughter's elopement! I will agree to 
 anything you desire — your salary shall 
 be doubled — trebled — (Aside to him.) 
 
 Snob. (Aloud.) No you don't. No brib- 
 ery and corruption. 
 
 Tif. I implore you to be silent. You 
 shall become partner of the concern, if 
 you please — only do not speak. You are 
 not yourself at this moment. 
 
 (Aside to him.) 
 
 Snob. Ain't I, though? I feel twice my- 
 self. I feel like two Snobsons rolled 
 into one, and I 'm chock full of the 
 spunk of a dozen! Now Mr. Tiffany, 
 Sir — 
 
 Tif. I shall go distracted! Mr. Snobson, 
 
 if you have one spark of manly feeling — 
 
 (Aside to him.) 
 
 True. Antony, why do you stand disput- 
 ing with that drunken jackass? 
 Where 's your nigger? Let him kick the 
 critter out, and be of use for once in his 
 life. 
 
 Snob. Better be quiet, Catteraugus. This 
 ain't your hash, so keep your spoon out 
 of the dish. Don't expose yourself, old 
 boy. 
 
 True. Turn him out, Antony! 
 
 Snob. He daren't do it! Ain't I up to 
 him? Ain't he in my power? Can't I 
 knock him into a cocked hat with a 
 word ? And now he 's got my steam up 
 — I will do it! 
 
 Tif. (Beseechingly.) Mr. Snobson — my 
 friend — 
 
 Snob. It 's no go — steam 's up — and I 
 don't stand at anything! 
 
 True. You won't stand here long unless 
 you mend your manners — 3'OU 're not tiie 
 first man I 've upset because he did n't 
 know his place. 
 
 Snob. I know where Tiff's place is, and 
 that 's in the States' Prison! It 's be- 
 spoke already. He would have it ! He 
 
326 
 
 FASHION 
 
 would n't take pattern of me, and behave 
 like a gentleman! He's a forger, Sir! 
 (Tiffany throws himself into a chair in 
 an attitude of despair; the others stand 
 transfixed with astonishment.) He's 
 been forging Dick Anderson's endorse- 
 ments of his notes these ten months. 
 He 's got a couple in the bank that will 
 send him to the wall anyhow — if he can't 
 make a raise. I took them there myself ! 
 Now you know what he 's worth. I said 
 I 'd expose him, and I have done it ! 
 Mrs. Tif. Get out of the house! You 
 ugly, little, drunken brute, get out! 
 It 's not true. Mr. Trueman, put him 
 out; you have got a stick — put him out! 
 
 {Enter Seraphina, in her bonnet and 
 shawl — a parasol in her hand.) 
 
 Sera. I hope Zeke hasn't delivered my 
 note. 
 
 {Stops in surprise at seeing the per- 
 sons assembled.) 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh, here is the Countess! 
 
 {Advances to embrace her.) 
 
 Tif. {Starting from his seat, and seizing 
 Serafhina violently by the arm.) Are 
 — you — married ? 
 
 Sera. Goodness, Pa, how you frighten 
 me ! No, I 'm not married, quite. 
 
 Tif. Thank heaven. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. {Drawing Seraphina aside.) 
 What 's the matter ? Why did you come 
 back? 
 
 Sera. The clergyman was n't at home — 
 I came back for my jewels — the Count 
 said nobility couldn't get on without 
 them. 
 
 Tif. I may be saved yet! Seraphina, my 
 child, you will not see me disgraced — 
 ruined! I have been a kind father to 
 you — at least I have tried to be one — 
 although your mother's extravagance 
 made a madman of me! The Count is 
 an impostor — you seemed to like him — 
 {pointing to Snobson). Heaven forgive 
 me! {Aside.) Marry him and save 
 me. You, Mr. Trueman, you will be my 
 friend in this hour of extreme need — 
 you will advance the sum which I re- 
 quire — I pledge myself to return it. 
 My wife — my child — who will support 
 them were I — the thought makes me 
 frantic! You will aid me? You had a 
 child yourself. 
 
 True. But I did not sell her — it was her 
 own doings. Shame on you, Antony! 
 Put a price on your own flesh and blood ! 
 \ Shame on such foul traffic! 
 
 Tif. Save me — I conjure you — for my 
 father's sake. 
 
 True. For your father's son's sake I 
 will not aid you in becoming a greater 
 villain than you are! 
 
 Ger. Mr. Trueman — Father, I should say 
 — save him — do not embitter our happi- 
 ness by permitting this calamity to fal'^ 
 upon another — 
 
 True. Enough — I did not need your 
 voice, child. I am going to settle this 
 matter my own way. 
 
 {Goes up to Snobson — who has seated 
 himself and fallen asleep — tilts him 
 out of the chair.) 
 
 Snob. {Waking up.) Eh? Where 's the 
 fire ? Oh ! it 's you, Catteraugus. 
 
 True. If I comprehend aright, you have 
 been for some time aware of your prin- 
 cipal's forgeries? 
 
 {As he says this, he beckons to How- 
 ard, who advances as witness.) 
 
 Snob. You 've hit the nail, Catteraugus ! 
 Old chap saw that I was up to him six 
 months ago; left off throwing dust into 
 my eyes — 
 
 True. Oh, he did! 
 
 Snob. Made no bones of forging Ander- 
 son's name at my elbow. 
 
 True. Forged at your elbow? You saw 
 him do it? 
 
 Snob. I did. 
 
 True. Repeatedly. 
 
 Snob. Re — pea — ted — ly. 
 
 True. Then you. Rattlesnake, if he goes 
 to the States' Prison, you'll take up 
 your quarters there too. You are an ac- 
 complice, an accessory! 
 
 (Trueman walks away and seats him- 
 self, Howard rejoins Gertrude. 
 Snobson stands for some time be- 
 wildered.) 
 
 Snob. The deuce, so I am! I never 
 thought of that! t must make myself 
 scarce. I'll be off! Tif, I say, Tif! 
 {Going up to him and speaking confi- 
 dentially) that drunken old rip has got 
 us in his power. Let 's give him the slip 
 and be off. They want men of genius 
 at the West, — we 're sure to get on ! 
 You — you can set up for a writing mas- 
 ter, and teach copying signatures ; and 
 I — I'll give lectures on temperance! 
 You won't come, eh? Then I'm off 
 without you. Good bye, Catteraugus! 
 Which is the way to California? 
 
 {Steals off.) 
 
 True. There 's one debt your city owes 
 me. And now let us see what other nui^ 
 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 
 
 327 
 
 sances we can abate. Antony, I 'm not 
 given to preaching, therefore I shall not 
 say much about what you have done. 
 Your face speaks for itself, — the crime 
 has brought its punishment along with 
 it. 
 
 TiF. Indeed it has, Sir! In one year I 
 have lived a century of misery. 
 
 True. I believe you, and upon one con- 
 dition I will assist you — 
 
 TiF. My friend — my first, ever kind 
 friend, — only name it! 
 
 Teue. You must sell your house and all 
 these gew gaws, and bundle your wife 
 and daughter off to the country. There 
 let them learn economy, true independ- 
 ence, and home virtues, instead of for- 
 eign follies. As for yourself, continue 
 your business — but let moderation, in fu- 
 ture, be your counsellor, and let hon- 
 esty be your confidential clerk. 
 
 TiF. Mr. Trueman, you have made exist- 
 ence once more precious to me! My 
 wife and daughter shall quit the city to- 
 morrow, and — 
 
 Pru. It 's all coming right ! It 's all 
 coming right ! We '11 go to the county 
 of Catteraugus. 
 
 {Walking up to Trueman.) 
 
 True. No, you won't, — I make that a 
 stipulation, Antony; keep clear of Cat- 
 teraugus. None of your fashionable ex- 
 amples there! 
 
 (Jolimaitre appears in the Conserva- 
 tory and peeps into the room un- 
 perceived.) 
 
 Count. What can detain Seraphina? 
 We ought to be off ! 
 
 Mil. (Turns rounds perceives him, runs 
 and forces him into the room.) Here 
 he is! Ah, Gustave, mon cher Gustave! 
 I have you now and we never part no 
 more. Don't frown, Gustave, don't 
 frown — 
 
 True. Come forward, Mr. Count! and 
 for the edification of fashionable society 
 confess that you 're an impostor. 
 
 Count. An impostor? Why, you abomi- 
 nable old — 
 
 True. Oh, your feminine friend has told 
 us all about it, the cook — the valet — bar- 
 ber and all that sort of thing. Come, 
 confess, and something may be done for 
 you. 
 
 Count. Well, then, I do confess I am no 
 count; but really, ladies and gentlemen, 
 I may recommend myself as the most 
 capital cook. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. Oh, Seraphina! 
 
 Sera. Oh, Ma ! 
 
 {TKey embrace and retire up.) 
 
 True. Promise me to call upon the whole 
 circle of your fashionable acquaintances 
 with your own advertisements and in 
 your cook's attire, and I will set you up 
 in business to-morrow. Better turn 
 stomachs than turn heads! 
 
 Mil. But you will marry me? 
 
 Count. Give us your hand, Millinette! 
 Sir, command me for the most delicate 
 pate — the daintiest croquette a la royale 
 — the most transcendent omelette soufflee 
 that ever issued from a French pastry- 
 cook's oven. I hope you will pardon 
 my conduct, but I heard that in America, 
 where you pay homage to titles while 
 you profess to scorn them — where Fash- 
 ion makes the basest coin current — 
 where you have no kings, no princes, no 
 nobility — 
 
 True. Stop there! I object to your use 
 of that word. When justice is found 
 only among lawyers — health among 
 physicians — and patriotism among poli- 
 ticians, then may you say that there is 
 no nobility where there are no titles! 
 But we have kings, princes, and nobles 
 in abundance — of Nature's stamp, if not 
 of Fashion's, — we have honest men, 
 warm hearted and brave, and we have 
 women — gentle, fair, and true, to whom 
 no title could add nobility. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Pru. I told you so! And now you hear 
 and see. 
 I told you Fashion would the fashion be ! 
 
 True. Then both its point and moral I 
 distrust. 
 
 Count. Sir, is that liberal? 
 
 How. ., Or is it just? 
 
 True. The guilty have escaped! 
 
 Tif. Is, therefore, sin 
 
 Made charming ? Ah ! there 's punish- 
 ment within! 
 Guilt ever carries his own scourge along. 
 
 Ger. Virtue her own reward ! 
 
 True. You 're right, I 'm wrong. 
 
 Mrs. Tif. How we have been deceived! 
 
 Pru. I told you so. 
 
 Sera. To lose at once a title and a beau! 
 
 Count. A count no more, I 'm no more 
 of account. 
 
 True. But to a nobler title you may 
 mount, 
 
328 
 
 FASHION 
 
 And be in time — who knows? — an hon- 
 est man! 
 Count. Eh, Millinette ? 
 Mil. Oh, out — I know you can ! 
 
 Ger. (To audience.) But ere we close 
 the scene, a word with you, — 
 We charge you answer, — Is this picture 
 true? 
 
 Some little mercy to our efforts show, 
 
 Then let the world your honest verdict 
 know. 
 
 Here let it see portrayed its ruling pas- 
 sion. 
 
 And learn to prize at its just value — 
 Fashion. 
 
FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 BY 
 
 George Henry Boker 
 
Reprinted from the original autograph manuscripts 
 through the courtesy of Mrs. George Boker. 
 
FEANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Francesca da Binmii marks the climax of romantic tragedy in this country. 
 It illustrates also the tendency to lay. the scenes of romantic plays in Italy, Spain, 
 or France; our playwrights feeling apparently that the removal of the scene of 
 such plays from their native land was an essential. With Boker, however, the 
 choice was based on broader lines and was justified by his real understanding 
 of the characters and their story. 
 
 George Henry Boker was born in Philadelphia, October 6, 1823, coming from 
 a well established family, and graduating from Princeton College in 1842. He 
 studied law but never practised it, and after marriage and some foreign travel, 
 devoted his entire attention to his literary w^ork. His first publication. The 
 Lesson of Life and other Poems (1848), consisted of lyric and ethical verse, and 
 except for the sonnets gave no indication of his later ability. He next published 
 Galaynos, his first play, in 1848. This was played wdthout his permission being 
 asked, by Samuel Phelps, at the Sadlers Wells Theatre in London on May 10, 
 
 1849, and was successful. It was first performed in this country by James E. 
 Murdoch at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, January 20, 1851, run- 
 ning for nine nights, and was several times played in Chicago, Albany,- and 
 Baltimore. E. L. Davenport appeared as "Calaynos" at the Walnut Street 
 Theatre in April, 1855. In this first tragedy, Boker showed where his strength 
 lay, that is in the representation of strong passion in verse. Galaynos is based 
 on the dislike of the Spaniard for ]\Ioorish blood, and in a masterly way he rep- 
 resented the pride of race on both sides that resulted inevitably in disaster. 
 
 Anne Boleyn, his next play, w^as intended for the stage, but was not acted. 
 It was published in 1850, and there are evidences that Charlotte Cushman was 
 considering it, at one time. The Betrothal was first played at the Walnut Street 
 Theatre, Philadelphia, on September 25, 1850, where it ran for ten nights, 
 according to Durang, "with as brilliant success as ever greeted any production 
 within the w^alls of the edifice." It w^as played in New York, November 18, 
 
 1850, and had two successful runs, and was put on in London in 1853. The 
 Betrothal is a romantic comedy in verse, concerned with the rescue of Costanza 
 di Tiburzzi from the proposed marriage to Marzio, a rich merchant, who has her 
 father in his power. It is a distinct advance over Galaynos and Anne Boleyn 
 in dramatic effectiveness. 
 
 The World a Mash, a prose comedy, with occasional passages in blank verse, 
 was played for eight nights at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, begin- 
 
 331 
 
332 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ning April 21, 1851. The scene is laid in London in 1851 and the plot is one 
 of intrigue with an accompaniment of social satire. It was never printed and 
 exists to-day in manuscript. It is not one of Boker's strong plays. 
 
 The Widoiv's Marriage, written in 1852, was accepted by Marshall, the man- 
 ager of the Walnut Street Theatre, but as he was unable to find a proper actress 
 to take the leading part of "Lady Goldstraw," the play was not acted. It is 
 a comedy, in blank verse, laid in England at the time of George II, the plot 
 being concerned with a trick played upon a vain old widow by which she is 
 cured of her foolishness. 
 
 Leonor de Guzman, his next play, was a tragedy based on Spanish history, of 
 the time of Alphonso XII of Castile, whose mistress, Leonor, is the heroine. 
 The hatred of Queen Maria for her rival and her revenge are the main motives 
 of the play, which is a pow^erful one. It was first played at the Walnut Street 
 Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1853, Avith Julia Dean as "Leonor." It was 
 successful both in Philadelphia and New York, where it was put on at the Broad- 
 way Theatre, April 24, 1854. 
 
 Francesca da Bimini was played for the first time at the Broadway Theatre, 
 New York, September 26, 1855, continuing till October 5th. E. L. Davenport 
 acted "Lanciotto," Mme. Ponisi, "Francesca," and M. Lanergan, "Paolo," 
 If was well received, but its great vogue came later w^hen it was revived by Law- 
 rence Barrett at Haverly's Theatre, Philadelphia, September 14, 1882, Mr. Bar- 
 rett playing "Lanciotto," Mr. Otis Skinner, "Paolo," and Miss Marie Wain- 
 wright, "Francesca." Mr. Barrett played this part for several years. On 
 August 22, 1901, i\Ir. Otis Skinner revived the play at the Grand Opera House, 
 Chicago, Mr. Skinner playing "Lanciotto," Mr. Aubrey Boucicault playing 
 ' ' Paolo, ' ' and Miss IMarcia Van Dresser,- ' ' Francesca. ' ' It was played throughout 
 the winter during the season of 1901-02. 
 
 Of all American plays written before the Civil War Francesca da Rimini 
 shows the most vitality. This has been due partly to the lofty conception of 
 Lanciotto 's character, the sympathetic interpretation of the medieval woman in 
 Francesca, and the noble expression in a blank verse that has rarely been 
 excelled in English. But in addition to these literary qualities, the strength of 
 Francesca da Rimini lies in its qualities as an acting play. It has never been 
 put on the stage as it is printed. The printed version represents Boker's best 
 judgment of the form in which it should be read, but in 1853 an acting version 
 was prepared by Boker, and in 1882 another version was made by ]\Ir. Barrett. 
 In preparing the present text, the printed version, checked by the original auto- 
 graph manuscript, has been taken as the basis. In indicating how the play was 
 actually performed, the acting version of 1853 has been taken as the standard. 
 When in this version lines have been omitted, these have been indicated by 
 brackets of this character <> and insertions are shown by square brackets. 
 
INTRODUCTION 333 
 
 Certain changes in entire scenes have been indicated in the notes. To have in- 
 dicated also all the changes made in the acting version of 1882 would have led to 
 confusion, but some of the most important alterations have been mentioned in 
 the notes. The acting version was corrected by Boker so that "Paolo'* should 
 be pronounced as two syllables. These corrections have been followed, but in 
 those portions of the play which were omitted on the stage, Boker made no 
 corrections. There are in consequence certain inconsistencies in the text so far 
 as the pronunciation of this word is concerned but the editor has naturally left 
 the lines as Boker wrote them. 
 
 Franccsca was the last of Boker 's plays to be actually performed. There is 
 an autograph manuscript of a play, The Bankrupt, dated 1853, which is a prose 
 melodrama, laid apparently in Philadelphia in 1850, and which is the poorest 
 of all the plays. Konigsniark, published in 1869 but written probably before 
 1857, is a closet play laid in Hanover in 1694. In 1885 and 1886, encouraged 
 by the revival of Francesca da Bimini, Boker wrote two plays on the same theme, 
 Nydia and Glaucus. They were written probably for Mr. Barrett, though they 
 were never played, and are based on the Last Days of Pompeii of Bulwer. They 
 are, however, entirely original in expression and contain some of the best verse 
 that Boker wrote. 
 
 Boker 's public career was a distinguished one. From 1871 to 1875 he was 
 Minister to Turkey and from 1875 to 1878 Minister to Russia. He took an 
 active part on the Union side during the war, his poetry, such as ''The Black 
 Regiment" and the "Dirge for a Soldier" being representative. He died in 
 Philadelphia, January 2, 1890. 
 
 Boker 's plays and poems were published in two volumes in 1856 and were 
 reprinted in 1857, 1883, and 1891. This collected edition contains Calaynos, 
 Anne Boleyn, Leonor de Guzman, Francesca da Rimini, The Betrothal, and The 
 Widow's Marriage. Koningsmark was published in 1869 and Francesca da 
 Rimini has been republished in a popular edition. The other plays exist in 
 manuscript in the possession of Mrs. George Boker of Philadelphia, to whose 
 courtesy the editor is indebted for an opportunity to collate the manuscripts. 
 Among these manuscripts is included biographical material and information 
 concerning the plays on which this introduction is based. An interesting con- 
 temporary criticism by Charles Godfrey Leland is to be found in Sartain's 
 Magazine, Vol. YIII (1851), pp. 369-78. See also R. H. Stoddard, George Henry 
 Boker, Lippincott's Magazine, Vol. XLV (1890), p. 856; C. G. Leland, George 
 Henry Boker, The American, Vol. XIX (1890), p. 392; E. P. Oberholtzer, The 
 Literary History of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, 1906, and A. H. Quinn, The 
 Dramas of George Henry Boker, Publications of the Modern Language Associa- 
 tion of America, Vol. XXXII, No. 2 (1917). 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1.^ Bimini. The Garden of^ the 
 Palace. Paolo and a number of noble- 
 men are discovered, seated under an ar- 
 bor, surrounded by Rene and other 
 Troubadours, and attendants. 
 
 Paolo. I prithee, Rene, charm our ears 
 again 
 With the same song you sang me yester- 
 day. 
 Here are fresh listeners. 
 Rene. Really, my good lord, 
 
 My voice is out of joint. A grievous 
 cold — ( Coughs. ) 
 
 Paolo. A very grievous, but convenient 
 cold, 
 Which always racks you when you would 
 not sing. 
 'Rene. O, no, my lord! Besides, I hoped 
 to hear 
 My ditty warbled into fairer ears. 
 By your own lips ; to better purpose, too. 
 {The Noblemen all laugh.) 
 <FiRST Nobleman. Rene has hit it. 
 Music runs to waste 
 In ears like ours. 
 Second Nobleman. Nay, nay; chaunt on, 
 
 sweet Count. 
 Paolo. {Coughing.) Alack! you hear, 
 
 I 've caught poor Rene's cough. 
 First N. That would not be, if we wore 
 petticoats. {The others laugh.) 
 
 Paolo. 0, fie! 
 
 First N. So runs the scandal to our ears. 
 Second N. Confirmed by all our other 
 
 senses. Count. 
 First N. Witnessed by many a doleful 
 sigh, poured out 
 By many a breaking heart in Rimini. 
 Second N. Poor girls! 
 First N. {Mimicking a lady.) Sweet 
 Count ! sweet Count Paolo ! ! 
 Plant early violets upon my grave! 
 Thus go a thousand voices to one tune. 
 {The others laugh.) 
 
 1 In the acting version of 1853 the play begins 
 with Act Second, Scene One. and there is a note 
 in Boker's hand, directing that when Lanciotto 
 is the prominent part, the whole of that scene is 
 to be omitted, and the play is to begin a« in the 
 present reading version. 
 
 Paolo. 'Ods mercy ! gentlemen, you do me 
 
 wrong. 
 First N. And by how many hundred, more 
 
 or less? 
 Paolo. Ah ! rogues, you 'd shift your sins 
 
 upon my shoulders. 
 Second N. You 'd bear them stoutly. 
 First N. It were vain to give 
 
 Drops to god Neptune. You 're the sea 
 
 of love 
 That swallows all things. 
 Second N. We the little fish 
 
 That meanly scull about within your 
 depths. 
 Paolo. Go on, go on! Talk yourselves 
 fairly out. 
 
 (Pepe laughs without.)'^ 
 But, hark! here comes the fool! Fit 
 
 company 
 For this most noble company of wits ! 
 
 {Enter Pepe, laughing violently.) 
 
 Why do you laugh? 
 
 Pepe. I 'm laughing at the world. 
 
 It has laughed long enough at me ; and so 
 I '11 turn the tables. Ho ! ho ! ho ! I 've 
 
 heard 
 A better joke of Uncle Malatesta's 
 Than any I e'er uttered. {Laughing.) 
 
 All. Tell it, fool. 
 
 Pepe. Why, do you know — upon my life, 
 the best 
 And most original idea on earth: 
 A joke to put in practice, too. By Jove ! 
 I '11 bet my wit 'gainst the stupidity 
 Of the best gentlemen among you all. 
 You cannot guess it. 
 
 All. 
 
 Tell us, tell us, fool. 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 Guess it, guess it, fools. 
 
 Paolo 
 
 Come, disclose, disclose! 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 He has a match afoot. — 
 
 All. 
 
 A match! 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 A marriage. 
 
 All. 
 
 Who?— who? 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 A marriage in his family. 
 
 All. 
 
 But, who? 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 Ah ! there 's the point. 
 
 All. 
 
 [Count] Paolo? 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 No. 
 
 First 
 
 N. The others are well wived. 
 
 
 Shall we turn Turks? 
 
 335 
 
336 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Pepe. Why, there 's the summit of his 
 joke, good sirs. 
 
 By all the sacred symbols of my art — 
 
 By cap and bauble, by my tinkling bell — 
 
 He means to marry Lanciotto ! 
 
 {Laughs violently.) 
 All. (Laughing.) Ho! — 
 Paolo. Peace! peace! What tongue dare 
 echo yon fool's laugh? 
 
 Nay, never raise your hands in wonder- 
 ment; 
 
 I '11 strike the dearest friend among ye 
 all 
 
 Beneath my feet, as if he were a slave, 
 
 Who dares insult my brother with a 
 laugh ! ^ 
 <Pepe. By Jove ! ye 're sad enough. 
 Here 's mirth's quick cure ! 
 
 Pretty Paolo has a heavy fist, 
 
 I warn you, sirs. Ho ! ho ! I trapped 
 them all; (Laughing.) 
 
 Now I '11 go mar old Malatesta's mes- 
 sage. (Aside.) (Exit.) 
 Paolo. Shame on ye, sirs! I have mis- 
 taken you. 
 
 I thought I harboured better friends. 
 Poor fops. 
 
 Who 've slept in down and satin all your 
 years. 
 
 Within the circle Lanciotto charmed 
 
 Round Rimini with his most potent 
 sword ! — 
 
 Fellows whose brows would melt beneath 
 a casque, 
 
 Whose hands would fray to grasp a 
 brand's rough hilt. 
 
 Who ne'er launched more than braggart 
 threats at foes! — 
 
 Girlish companions of luxurious girls! 
 
 Danglers round troubadours and wine- 
 cups ! — Men 
 
 "WTiose best parts are their clothes! bun- 
 dles of silk. 
 
 Scented like summer! rag-men, nothing 
 more ! — 
 
 Creatures as generous as monkeys — 
 brave 
 
 As hunted hares — courteous as grinning 
 apes — 
 
 1 In the acting versions, the following lines, in 
 Boker's hand, are here substituted for the lines 
 enclosed in brackets < >. 
 
 All. Pardon, my lord ! 
 Paolo. (With a troubled air.) Oh, par- 
 don ^s easily said. 
 
 But do you credit if? 
 Rene. Almost. The jests 
 
 Of impish Pepe seldom fail in truth. 
 
 Grateful as serpents — useful as lap- 
 dogs — 
 (During this, the Noblemen steal off.) 
 By heaven, I am alone! So let me be. 
 Till Lanciotto fill the vacant room 
 Of these mean knaves, whose friendship 
 is but breath. (Exit.)^ 
 
 Scene 2. The Same. A Hall in the 
 Castle. 
 
 (Enter Malatesta and Lanciotto.) 
 
 Malatesta. Guido, ay, Guido of Ravenna, 
 
 son — 
 Down on his knees, as full of abject 
 
 prayers 
 For peace and mercy as a penitent. 
 Lanciotto. His old trick, father. While 
 
 his wearied arm 
 Is raised in seeming prayer, it only rests. 
 Anon, he '11 deal you such a staggering 
 
 blow. 
 With its recovered strength, as shall con- 
 vert 
 You, and not him, into a penitent. 
 Mal. No, no; your last bout leveled him. 
 
 He reeled, 
 Into Ravenna, from the battle-field. 
 Like a stripped drunkard, and there 
 
 headlong fell — 
 <A mass of squalid misery, a thing 
 To draw the jeering urchins. I have 
 
 this _ 
 From faithful spies. There 's not a hope 
 
 remains 
 To break the shock of his great over- 
 throw. > 
 I pity Guido. 
 Lan. 'S death! go comfort him! 
 
 I pity those who fought, and bled, and^ 
 
 died. 
 Before the armies of this Ghibelin. 
 I pity those who halted home with wounds 
 Dealt by his hand. I pity widowed eyes 
 That he set running; maiden hearts that 
 
 turn, 
 Sick with despair, from ranks thinned 
 
 down by him; 
 
 Paolo. Forgive me my hot temper, gen- 
 tlemen, 
 I must seek Lanciotto. This strange 
 
 news. 
 If true may bring a blessing or a curse ! 
 Let us walk on. How fair the morning 
 is! 
 (Exit thoughtfully, the others follow- 
 ing.) 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 337 
 
 Mothers that shriek, as the last stragglers 
 flmg 
 
 Their feverish bodies by the fountain- 
 side, 
 
 Dumb with mere thirst, and faintly point 
 to him, 
 
 Answering the dame's quick questions. 
 1 have seen 
 
 Unburied bones, and skulls — that seemed 
 to ask. 
 
 From their blank eye-holes, vengeance at 
 my hand — 
 
 Shine in the moonlight on old battle- 
 tields ; 
 
 And even these — the happy dead, my 
 lord— 
 
 I pity more than Guido of Ravenna! 
 Mal. What would you have"? 
 Lan. I 'd see Ravenna burn, 
 
 Flame into heaven, and scorch the flying 
 clouds ; 
 
 I 'd choke her streets with ruined palaces ; 
 
 I 'd hear her women scream with fear 
 and grief. 
 
 As I have heard the maids of Rimini. 
 
 All this I 'd sprinkle with old Guido's 
 blood. 
 
 And bless the baptism. 
 Mal. You are cruel. 
 
 Lan. Not I; 
 
 But these things ache within my fretting 
 brain. 
 
 The sight I first beheld was from the 
 arms 
 
 Of my wild nurse, her husband hacked 
 to death 
 
 By the fierce edges of these Ghibelins. 
 
 One cut across the neck — I see it now. 
 
 Ay, and have mimicked it a thousand 
 times, 
 
 Just as I saw it, on our enemies. — 
 
 "Why, that cut seemed as if it meant to 
 bleed 
 
 On till the judgement. My distracted 
 nurse 
 
 Stooped down, and paddled in the run- 
 ning gore 
 
 With her poor fingers ; then a prophetess. 
 
 Pale with the inspiration of the god, 
 
 She towered aloft, and with her drip- 
 ping hand 
 
 Three times she signed me with the holy 
 cross. 
 
 'T is all as plain as noon-day. Thus she 
 spake, — 
 
 "May this spot stand till Guido's dearest 
 blood 
 
 Be mingled with thy own !" The sol- 
 diers say, 
 
 In the close battle, when my wrath is up, 
 The dead 'man's blood flames on my 
 
 vengeful brow 
 Like a red planet ; and when war is o'er, 
 It shrinks into my brain, defiling all 
 My better nature w^ith its slaughterous 
 
 lusts. 
 Howe'er it be, it shaped my earliest 
 
 thought, 
 And it will shape my last. 
 Mal. You moody churl! 
 
 You dismal knot of superstitious dreams ! 
 <Do you not blush to empty such a head 
 Before a sober man ? Why, son, the 
 
 world 
 Has not given o'er its laughing humour 
 
 yet. 
 
 That you should try it with such vaga- 
 ries. — Poh !> 
 I'll get a wife to teach you common 
 
 sense. 
 Lan. a wife for me! (LaugJiing.) 
 
 Mal. Ay, sir, a wife for you. 
 
 <You shall be married, to insure your 
 
 wits.> 
 Lan". 'T is not your wont to mock me. 
 Mal. <How now, son ! 
 
 I am not given to jesting.> I have 
 
 chosen 
 The fairest wife in Italy for you. 
 <You won her bravely, as a soldier 
 
 should : 
 And when you 'd woo her, stretch your 
 
 gauntlet out 
 And crush her fingers in its steely grip.> 
 If you will plead, I w^een, she dare not 
 
 say— 
 '^^f by your leave. < Should she refuse, 
 
 howe'er. 
 With that same iron hand you shall go 
 
 knock 
 Upon Ravenna's gates, till all the town 
 Ring with your courtship. > I have 
 
 made her hand 
 The price and pledge of Guido's future 
 
 peace. 
 Lan. All this is done ! 
 Mal. Done, out of hand; and now 
 
 I wait a formal answer, nothing more. 
 <Guido dare not decline. No, by the 
 
 saints, 
 He'd send Ravenna's virgins here in 
 
 droves. 
 To buy a ten days' truce. 
 Lan". Sir, let me say. 
 
 You stretch paternal privilege too far. 
 To pledge my hand without my own con- 
 sent. 
 Am I a portion of your household stuff, 
 
338 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 That you should trade me off to Guido 
 thus'?> 
 
 Who is the lady I am bartered for"? 
 Mal. Franeesea, Guido's daughter. — 
 Never frown; 
 
 It shall be so! 
 Lan. By heaven, it shall not be ! 
 
 My blood shall never mingle with his race. 
 Mal. According to your nurse's prophecy, 
 
 Fate orders it. 
 LAN. Ha! 
 
 Mal. Now, then, I have struck 
 
 The chord that answ^ers to your gloomy 
 thoughts. 
 
 Bah ! on your sibyl and her prophecy ! 
 
 <Put Guido's blood aside, and yet, I say, 
 
 Marry you shall. 
 Lan. 'T is most distasteful, sir.> 
 
 Mal. Lanciotto, look ye ! You brave gen- 
 tlemen, 
 
 So fond of knocking out poor people's 
 brains. 
 
 In time must come to have your own 
 knocked out: 
 
 What, then, if you bequeath us no new 
 hands. 
 
 To carry on your business, and our house 
 
 Die out for lack of princes'? 
 Lan. Wed my brothers : 
 
 They '11 rear you sons, I '11 slay you 
 enemies. 
 
 Paolo and [fair] Franeesea! Note their 
 names; 
 
 They chime together like sweet marriage- 
 bells. 
 
 A proper match. 'T is said she 's beau- 
 tiful; 
 
 And he is the delight of Rimini, — 
 
 The pride and conscious centre of all 
 eyes. 
 
 The theme of poets, the ideal of art, 
 
 The earthly treasury of Heaven's best 
 gifts ! 
 
 I am a soldier ; from my very birth. 
 
 Heaven cut me out for terror, not for 
 love. 
 
 <I had such fancies once, but now — > 
 Mal. Pshaw! son, 
 
 <My faith is bound to Guido; and if 
 you 
 
 Do not throw off your duty, and defy, 
 
 Through sickly scruples, my express 
 commands. 
 
 You '11 yield at once.> No more : I '11 
 
 have it so! {Exit.) 
 
 Lan. Curses upon my destiny ! What, I — 
 
 Ho! I have found my use at last — 
 What. I. (Laughing.) 
 
 Ij the great twisted monster of the wars, 
 
 The brawny cripple, the herculean dwarf, 
 
 The spur of panic, and the butt of 
 scorn — 
 
 I be a bridegroom! Heaven, was I not 
 cursed 
 
 More than enough, when thou didst fash- 
 ion me 
 
 To be a type of ugliness, — a thing 
 
 By whose comparison all Rimini 
 
 Holds itself beautiful ? Lo ! here I stand, 
 
 A gnarled, blighted trunk! There's not 
 a knave 
 
 So spindle-shanked, so wry-faced, so in- 
 firm, 
 
 Who looks at me, and smiles not on him- 
 self. 
 
 <And I have friends to pity me — great 
 Heaven ! 
 
 One has a favorite leg that he bewails, — 
 
 Another sees my hip with doleful 
 plaints, — 
 
 A third is sorry o'er my huge swart 
 arms, — 
 
 A fourth aspires to mount my very 
 hump, 
 
 And thence harangue his weeping broth- 
 erhood !> 
 
 Pah ! it is nauseous ! Must I further 
 bear 
 
 The sidelong shuddering glances of a 
 wife*? 
 
 The degradation of a showy love. 
 
 That over-acts, and proves the mummer's 
 craft 
 
 Untouched by nature ■? And a fair wife, 
 too!— 
 
 Franeesea, whom the minstrels sing 
 about ! 
 
 <Though, by my side, what woman were 
 not fair? 
 
 Circe looked well among her swine, no 
 doubt ; 
 
 Next me, she 'd pass for Venus. Ho ! 
 ho! ho! {Laughing.) 
 
 Would there were something merry in my 
 laugh !> 
 
 Now, in the battle, if a Ghibelin 
 
 Cry, "Wry-hip ! hunchback !" I can tram- 
 ple him 
 
 Under my stallion's hoofs ; or haggle him 
 
 Into a monstrous likeness of myself : 
 
 But to be pitied, — to endure a sting 
 
 Thrust in by kindness, with a sort of 
 smile ! — 
 
 'S death ! it is miserable ! 
 
 {Enter Pepe.) 
 
 Pepe. My lord — 
 
 Lan. My fool! 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 339 
 
 Pepe. We'll change our titles when your 
 bride's bells ring — 
 <Ha, cousin? 
 IjAn. Even this poor fool has eyes, 
 
 To see the wretched plight in which 1 
 stand. (Aside.) 
 
 How, gossip, howf 
 Pepe. I, being the court-fool, 
 
 Am lord of fools by my prerogative.> 
 Lan. Who told you of my marriage •? 
 Pepe. Rimini ! 
 
 A frightful liar; but true for once, I 
 
 fear. 
 The messenger from Guido has returned, 
 And the whole town is wailing over him. 
 Some pity you, and some the bride ; but I, 
 Being more catholic, I pity both. 
 Lan. Still, pity, pity! {Aside. Bells 
 
 toll.) Ha! whose knell is that? 
 Pepe. Lord Malatesta sent me to the 
 tower. 
 To have the bells rung for your mar- 
 riage-news. 
 How, he said not ; so I, as I thought fit. 
 Told the deaf sexton to ring out a knell. 
 
 {Bells toll.) 
 How do you like if? 
 Lan. Varlet, have you bones, 
 
 To risk their breaking ? I have half a mind 
 To thrash you from your motley coat! 
 
 {Seizes him.) 
 
 Pepe. Pardee ! 
 
 Respect my coxcomb, cousin. Hark! ha, 
 
 ha! {Laughing.) 
 
 {Bells ring a joyful peal.) 
 
 Some one has changed my music. 
 
 Heaven defend! 
 How the bells jangle! Yonder gray- 
 beard, now, 
 Rings a peal vilely. <He 's more used 
 
 to knells, 
 And sounds them grandlj^> Only give 
 
 him time, 
 And, I '11 be sworn, he '11 ring your knell 
 out yet. 
 <Lax. Pepe, you are but half a fool. 
 Pepe. My lord, 
 
 I can return the compliment in full. 
 Lan. So, you are ready. 
 Pepe. truth is always so.> 
 
 Lan. I shook you rudely; here's a florin. 
 
 {Offers money.) 
 Pepe. No : 
 
 My wit is merchandise, but not my hon- 
 our. 
 Lan. Your honour, sirrah ! 
 Pepe. Why not? You great lords 
 
 Have something you call lordly honour; 
 pray. 
 
 May not a fool have foolish honour too ? 
 Cousin, you laid your hand upon my 
 
 coat — 
 'T was the first sacrilege it ever knew — 
 And you shall pay it. Mark! I promise 
 
 you. 
 Laist. {Laughing.) Ha, ha! you bluster 
 
 well. Upon my life. 
 You have the tilt-yard jargon to a breath. 
 Pepe, if I should smite you on the 
 
 cheek — 
 Thus, gossip, thus — (Strikes him) what 
 
 would you then demand? 
 Pepe. Your life! 
 Lan". (Laughing). Ha, ha! there is tht, 
 
 camp-style, too — 
 A very cut-throat air! How this shrewd 
 
 fool 
 Makes the punctilio of honor show! 
 Change helmets into coxcombs, swords to 
 
 baubles, 
 And what a figure is poor chivalry ! 
 Thanks for your lesson, Pepe. (Exit.) 
 Pepe. Ere I 'm done, 
 
 You'll curse as heartily, you limping 
 
 beast ! 
 <Ha! so we go — Lord Lanciotto, look! 
 (Walks ah out J mimicking him.) 
 Here is a leg and camel-back, forsooth, 
 To match your honour and nobility! 
 You miscreated scarecrow, dare you 
 
 shake, 
 Or strike in jest, a natural man' like 
 
 me?— 
 You cursed lump, you chaos of a man. 
 To buffet one whom Heaven pronounces 
 
 good!> (Bells ring.) 
 
 There go the bells rejoicing over you : 
 I'll change them back to the old knell 
 
 again. 
 You marry, faugh! Beget a race of 
 
 elves ; 
 Wed a she-crocodile, and keep within 
 The limits of your nature ! Here we go, 
 Tripping along to meet our promised 
 
 bride. 
 Like a rheumatic elephant! — ha, ha! 
 
 (Laughing.) 
 (Exit J mimicking Lanciotto.) 
 
 Scene 3.i Tht 
 
 Same. A Boom in the 
 Same. 
 
 1 There was no scene change in the acting ver- 
 sion. There is a clash of arms indicated without 
 and Lanciotto begins his speech 
 
 Was that a signal, made by heaven itself 
 To warn my soul against this coming 
 marriage? 
 
340 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 {Enter Lanciotto, hastily.) 
 
 Lanciotto. <Wliy do these prodigies en- 
 viron me? 
 In ancient Rome, the words a fool might 
 
 drop, 
 From the confusion of his vagrant 
 
 thoughts. 
 Were held as omens, prophecies; and 
 
 men 
 Who made earth tremble with majestic 
 
 deeds. 
 Trembled themselves at fortune's lightest 
 
 threat. > 
 I like it not. My father named this 
 
 match 
 While I boiled over with vindictive 
 
 wrath 
 Towards Guido and Ravenna. Straight 
 
 my heart 
 Sank down like lead; a w^eakness seized 
 
 on me, 
 A dismal gloom that I could not resist; 
 I lacked the power to take my stand, and 
 
 say — 
 Bluntly, I will not ! <Am I in the toils? 
 Has fate so weakened me, to work its 
 
 end? 
 There seems a fascination in it, too, — 
 A morbid craving to pursue a thing 
 Whose issue may be fatal. > Would 
 
 that I 
 Were in the wars again! These mental 
 
 weeds 
 Grow on the surface of inactive peace. 
 I 'm haunted by myself. Thought preys 
 
 on thought. 
 My mind seems crowded in the hideous 
 
 mould 
 That shaped my body. What a fool am I 
 To bear the burden of my wretched life, 
 To sweat and toil under the world's 
 
 broad eye, 
 Climb into fame, and find myself — 0, 
 
 what ?— 
 A most conspicuous monster ! Crown my 
 
 head, 
 Pile Ca3sar's pariDle on me — and what 
 
 then? 
 My hump shall shorten the imperial robe, 
 <My leg peep out beneath the scanty 
 
 hem. 
 My broken hip shall twist the gown 
 
 awry;> 
 And pomp, instead of dignifying me, 
 Shall be by me made quite ridiculous. 
 The faintest cowaa^d would not bear all 
 
 this: 
 Prodigious courage must be mine, to live; 
 
 To die asks nothing but weak will,i <and 
 
 Feel like a craven. Let me skulk away 
 Ere life o'ertask me. 
 
 {Offers to stab himself. )'> 
 
 {Enter Paolo.) 
 
 Paolo. {Seizing his hand.) Brother! 
 
 what is this? 
 Lanciotto, are you mad? Kind Heaven!' 
 
 look here — 
 Straight in my eyes. Now answer, do^ 
 
 you know 
 How near you were to murder? Dare^ 
 
 you bend 
 Your wicked hand against a heart I love f 
 Were it for you to mourn your wilful 
 
 death. 
 With such a bitterness as would be ours. 
 The wish would ne'er have crossed you. 
 
 <While we 're bound 
 Life into life, a chain of loving hearts, 
 Were it not base in you, the middle link, 
 To snap, and scatter all?> Shame, 
 
 brother, shame! 
 <I thought you better metal.> 
 Lan. [Nay, Paolo, you mistake, 
 
 I did but think upon Death's sweet relief; 
 I dare not practise it. But spare your 
 
 words.] 
 I know the seasons of our human grief, 
 And can predict them without almanac. 
 A few sobs o'er the body, and a few 
 Over the coffin ; then a sigh or two. 
 Whose windy passage dries the hanging 
 
 tear; 
 Perchance, some wandering memories, 
 
 some regrets; 
 Then a vast influx of consoling 
 
 thoughts — 
 Based on the trials of the sadder days 
 Which the dead missed; and then a smil- 
 ing face 
 Turned on to-morrow. Such is mortal 
 
 grief. 
 It writes its histories within a span. 
 And never lives to read them. 
 Paolo. Lanciotto, 
 
 I heard the bells of Rimini, just now, 
 Exulting o'er your coming marriage-day, 
 
 1 In the acting version of 1853 these lines are 
 insei'ted here. 
 
 {Draws and gazes upon his dagger.) 
 What floods 
 Of joy might enter through the wound. 
 
 thou 'dst give 
 Had I but hardihood. 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 341 
 
 <While you conspire to teach them 
 
 gloomier sounds. > 
 Why are you sad 1 
 Lan. [Sad] Paolo, I am wretched; 
 
 Sad 's a faint word. But of my mar- 
 riage-bells — 
 Heard you the knell that Pepe rang? 
 Paolo. 'T was strange : 
 
 <A sullen antic of his crabbed wit.> 
 Lan. It was portentous. All dumb things 
 
 find tongues 
 Against this marriage. As I passed the 
 
 hall, 
 My armour glittered on the wall, and I 
 Paused by the harness, as before a friend 
 Whose well-known features slack our 
 
 hurried gait; 
 Francesca's name was fresh upon my 
 
 mind. 
 So I half-uttered it. Instant, my sword 
 Leaped from its scabbard, as with sud- 
 den life. 
 Plunged down and pierced into the oaken 
 
 floor, 
 Shivering with fear ! Lo ! while I gazed 
 
 upon it — 
 Doubting the nature of the accident — 
 Around the point appeared a spot of 
 
 blood. 
 Oozing upon the floor, that spread and 
 
 spread — 
 As I stood gasping by in speechless hor- 
 ror — 
 Ring beyond ring, until the odious tide 
 Crawled to my feet, and lapped them, 
 
 like the tongues 
 Of angry serpents! <0, my God! I 
 
 fled 
 At the first touch of the infernal stain !> 
 Go — you may see — go to the hall! 
 <Paolo. Fie! man. 
 
 You have been ever played on in this 
 
 sort 
 By your wild fancies. When your heart 
 
 is hio-h. 
 You make them playthings; but in lower 
 
 moods. 
 They seem to sap the essence of your 
 
 soul. 
 And drain your manhood to its poorest 
 
 dregs. 
 Lan. Go look, go look !> 
 Paolo. {Goes to the door, and returns.) 
 There sticks the sword, indeed, 
 Just as your tread detached it from its 
 
 sheath ; 
 Looking more like a blessed cross, I think, 
 Than a bad omen. As for blood — Ha, 
 
 ha! {Laughing.) 
 
 It sets mine dancing. Pshaw ! away with 
 
 this! ' 
 Deck up your face with smiles. Go trim 
 
 yourself 
 For the young bride. New velvet, gold, 
 
 and gems. 
 Do wonders for us. Brother, come ; I '11 
 
 be 
 Your tiring-man, for once. 
 Lan. Array this lump — 
 
 Paolo, bark! There are some human 
 
 thoughts 
 Best left imprisoned in the aching heart. 
 Lest the freed malefactors should dis- 
 
 pread 
 Infamous ruin with their liberty. 
 There 's not a man — the fairest of ye 
 
 all— 
 Who is not fouler than he seems. This 
 
 life 
 Is one unending struggle to conceal 
 Our baseness from our fellows. Here 
 
 stands one 
 In vestal whiteness w^ith a lecher's lust ; — 
 There sits a judge, holding law's scales 
 
 in hands 
 That itch to take the bribe he dare not 
 
 touch ; — 
 Here goes a priest with heavenward eyes, 
 
 whose soul 
 Is Satan's council-chamber; — there a doc- 
 tor. 
 With nature's secrets wrinkled round a 
 
 brow 
 Guilty with conscious ignorance; — and 
 
 here 
 A soldier rivals Hector's bloody deeds — 
 Out-does the devil in audacity — 
 With craven longings fluttering in a 
 
 heart 
 That dares do aught but fly! Thus are 
 
 we all 
 Mere slaves and alms-men to a scornful 
 
 world, 
 That takes us at our seeming. 
 Paolo. Say 'tis true; 
 
 What do you drive at? 
 Lan. At myself, full tilt. 
 
 I, like the others, am not what I seem. 
 Men call me gentle, courteous, brave. — 
 
 They lie! 
 I'm harsh, riade, and a coward. Had I 
 
 nerve 
 To cast my devils out upon the earth, 
 I 'd show this laughing planet what a 
 
 hell 
 Of envy, malice, cruelty, and scorn, 
 It has forced back to canker in the heart 
 Of one poor cripple ! 
 
342 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Paolo. <Ha!> [Cripple!] 
 
 Lan. Ay, now 't is out ! 
 
 A word I never breathed to man before. 
 
 Can you, who are a miracle of grace, 
 
 Feel what it is to be a wreck like me"? 
 
 Paolo, look at me. Is there a line, 
 
 In my whole bulk of wretched contraries, 
 
 That nature in a ni^^htmare ever used 
 
 Upon her shapes till now? Find me the 
 man. 
 
 Or beast, or tree, or rock, or nameless 
 thing. 
 
 So out of harmony with all things else, 
 
 And I '11 go raving with bare happi- 
 ness, — 
 
 Ay, and I '11 marry Helena of Greece, 
 
 And swear I do her honor ! 
 <Paolo. Lanciotto, 
 
 I, who have known you from a stripling 
 up, 
 
 Never observed, or, if I did, ne'er 
 weighed 
 
 Your special difference from the rest of 
 men. 
 
 You 're not Apollo — 
 Lan". No ! 
 
 Paolo. Nor yet are you 
 
 A second Pluto. Could I change with 
 you — 
 
 My graces for your nobler qualities — 
 
 Your strength, your courage, your re- 
 nown — by heaven. 
 
 We'd e'en change persons, to the finest 
 hair. 
 Lan. You should be flatterer to an em- 
 peror. 
 Paolo. I am but just.> Let me beseech 
 you, brother, 
 
 To look with greater favor on yourself; 
 
 <Nor suffer misty phantoms of your 
 brain 
 
 To take the place of sound realities> 
 
 Go to Ravenna, wed your bride, and lull 
 
 Your cruel delusions in domestic peace. 
 
 <Ghosts fly a fireside : 't is their wont to 
 stalk 
 
 Through empty houses, and through 
 empty hearts. 
 
 I know Francesca will be proud of you. 
 
 Women admire you heroes. Rusty sages. 
 
 Pale poets, and scarred warriors, have 
 been 
 
 Their idols ever; while we fair plump 
 fools 
 
 Are elbowed to the wall, or only used 
 
 For vacant pastime. > 
 Lan. To Ravenna f — no! 
 
 In Rimini they know me; at Ravenna 
 
 I 'd be a new-come monster, and exposed 
 
 To curious wonder. <There will be pa- 
 rade 
 Of all the usual follies of the state; 
 Fellows with trumpets, tinselled coats, 
 
 and wands, 
 Would strut before me, like vain mounte- 
 banks 
 Before their monkeys. Then, I should be 
 
 stared 
 Out of my modesty ;> and when they 
 
 look. 
 How can I tell if 'tis the bridegroom's 
 
 face 
 Or hump that draws their eyes'? I will 
 
 not go. 
 To please you all, I'll marry; but to 
 
 please 
 The wonder-mongers of Ravenna — Ha! 
 [Dear] Paolo, now I have it. You shall 
 
 go, 
 To bring Francesca ; and you '11 speak of 
 
 me, 
 Not as I ought to be, but as I am. 
 If she draw backward, give her rein ; and 
 
 say_ 
 That neither Guido nor herself shall feel 
 The weight of my displeasure. You may 
 
 say, 
 I pity her — 
 Paolo. For what? 
 
 Lan. For wedding me. 
 
 In sooth, she '11 need it. Say — 
 Paolo. Nay, Lanciotto, 
 
 I '11 be a better orator in your behalf, 
 Without your promptings. 
 Lan. She is fair, 't is said ; 
 
 And, [my] dear Paolo, if she please your 
 
 eye. 
 And move your heart to anything like 
 
 love. 
 Wed her yourself. The peace would 
 
 stand as firm 
 By such a match. 
 Paolo. (Laughing.) Ha ! that is right : 
 
 be gay ! 
 Ply me with jokes ! I 'd rather see you 
 
 smile 
 Than see the sun shine. 
 Lan. I am serious, 
 
 I '11 find another wife, less beautiful. 
 More on my level, and — 
 Paolo. An empress, brother. 
 
 Were honoured by your hand. You are 
 
 by much 
 Too humble in your reckoning of your- 
 self. 
 I can count virtues in you, to supply 
 Half Italy, if they were parcelled out. 
 Look up ! 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 343 
 
 Lan. I cannot : Heaven has bent me down. 
 [But] to you, Paolo, I could look, how- 
 
 ever. 
 Were my hump made a mountain. Bless 
 
 him, God! 
 Pour everlasting bounties on his head! 
 <Make Croesus jealous of his treasury, 
 Achilles of his arms, Endymion 
 Of his fresh beauties, — though the coy 
 
 one lay 
 Blushing beneath Diana's earliest kiss,. 
 On grassy Latmos; and may every good, 
 Beyond man's sight, though in the ken 
 
 of heaven, > 
 Round his fair fortune to a perfect end ! 
 0, you have dried the sorrow of my eyes ; 
 My heart is beating with a lighter pulse ; 
 The air is musical; the total earth 
 Puts on new beauty, and within the arms 
 Of girdling ocean dreams her time away. 
 And visions bright to-morrows! 
 
 (Enter Malatesta and Pepe.) 
 
 Malatesta. Mount, to horse ! 
 
 <Pepe. (Aside.) Good Lord! he's smil- 
 ing ! What 's the matter now ? 
 Has anybody broken a leg or back'? 
 Has a more monstrous monster come to 
 
 life? 
 Is hell burst open? — heaven burnt up? 
 
 What, what 
 Can make yon eyesore grin? — I say, my 
 
 lord. 
 What cow has calved? 
 Paolo. |Your mother, by the bleat. 
 
 Pepe. Right fairly answered — for a gen- 
 tleman ! 
 When did you take my trade up ? 
 Paolo. When your wit 
 
 Went begging, sirrah. 
 Pepe. Well again ! My lord, 
 
 I think he '11 do. 
 Mal. For what? 
 
 Pepe. To take my place. 
 
 Once fools were rare, and then my office 
 
 sped; 
 But now the world is overrun with them : 
 One gets one's fool in one's own family, 
 Without much searching. 
 Mal. Pepe, gently now.> 
 
 Lanciotto, you are waited for. The train 
 Has passed the gate, and halted there for 
 you. 
 Lan. I go not to Ravenna. 
 Mal. Hey ! why not ? 
 
 Paolo. For weighty reasons, father. 
 Will you trust 
 Your greatest captain, hope of all the 
 Guelfs, 
 
 With crafty Guido? Should the Ghibe- 
 
 lins 
 Break faith, and shut Lanciotto in their 
 
 walls — 
 Sure the temptation would be great 
 
 enough — 
 What would you do? 
 Mal. I 'd eat Ravenna up ! 
 
 Pepe. Lord! what an appetite! 
 Paolo. But Lanciotto 
 
 Would be a precious hostage. 
 Mal. True ; you 're wise ; 
 
 Guido 's a fox. Well, have it your own 
 
 way. 
 What is your plan ? 
 Paolo. I go there in his place. 
 
 Mal. Good! I will send a letter with the 
 
 news. 
 Lan. I thank you, brother. 
 
 (Apart to Paolo.) 
 Pepe. Ha ! ha ! ha !— ! ! (Laughing.) 
 Mal. Pepe, what now? 
 Pepe. 0! lord, 0!— ho! ho! ho! 
 
 (Laughing.) 
 < Paolo. Well, giggler? 
 Pepe. Hear my fable, uncle. 
 
 Mal. Ay. 
 
 Pepe. Once on a time, Vulcan sent Mer- 
 cury 
 To fetch dame Venus from a romp in 
 
 heaven. 
 Well, they were long in coming, as he 
 
 thought ; 
 And so the god of spits and gridirons 
 Railed like himself — the devil. But — 
 
 now mark — 
 Here comes the moral. In a little while, 
 Vulcan grew proud, because he saw plain 
 
 signs 
 That he should be a father; and so he 
 Strutted through hell, and pushed the 
 
 devils by. 
 Like a magnifico of Venice. Ere long. 
 His heir was born; but then — ho! ho! — 
 
 the brat 
 Had wings upon his heels, and thievish 
 
 ways, 
 And a vile squint, like errant Mer- 
 cury's, 
 Which honest Vulcan could not under- 
 stand ; — 
 Can you ?> 
 Paolo. 'S death! fool, I'll have 
 
 you in the stocks. 
 Father, your fool exceeds his privilege. 
 Pepe. (Apart to Paolo.) Keep your 
 own bounds, <Paolo. In the stocks 
 I 'd tell more fables than you 'd wish to 
 hear. 
 
344 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 And so ride forth. > But, cousin, don't 
 
 forget 
 To take Laneiotto's picture to the bride. 
 Ask her to choose between it and your- 
 self. 
 I '11 count the moments, while she hesi- 
 tates. 
 And not grow gray at it. 
 <Paolo. Peace, varlet, peace! 
 
 Pepe. {Apart to him.) Ah, now I have 
 it. There 's an elephant 
 Upon the scutcheon; show her that, and 
 
 say- 
 Here 's Lanciotto in our heraldry !> 
 Paolo. Here 's for your counsel ! 
 
 {Strikes Pepe, who runs behind Mala- 
 
 TESTA.) 
 
 Mal. Son, son, have a care! 
 
 We who keep pets must bear their peeks 
 
 sometimes. 
 
 Poor knave ! Ha ! ha ! thou 'rt growing 
 
 villainous. (Laugh and pats Pepe.) 
 
 Pepe. Another blow! another life for 
 
 that! {Aside.) 
 
 Paolo. Farewell, Lanciotto. You are 
 
 dull again. 
 Lax. Nature will rule. 
 Mal.. Come, come! 
 
 Lan. God speed you, brother ! 
 
 I am too sad; my smiles all turn to 
 sighs. 
 Paolo. More cause to haste me on my 
 happy work. 
 
 {Exit with Malatesta.) 
 Pepe. I 'm going, cousin. 
 Lan. Go. 
 
 Pepe. Pray, ask me where. 
 
 Lax. Where, then? 
 
 Pepe. To have my jewel carried home : 
 
 And, as I 'm wise, the carrier shall be 
 A thief, a thief, by Jove ! The fashion 's 
 new. ( Exit. ) 
 
 Lan". In truth, I am too gloomy and ir- 
 rational. 
 [And] Paolo must be ridit. I always 
 
 had 
 These moody hours and dark presenti- 
 ments. 
 Without mischances following after 
 
 them. 
 The camp is my abode. A neighing 
 
 steed, 
 A fiery onset, and a stubborn fight. 
 Rouse my dull blood, and tire my body 
 
 down 
 To quiet slumbers when the day is o'er. 
 And night above me spreads her span- 
 gled tent, 
 Lit by the dying cresset of the moon. 
 
 Ay, that is it ; I 'm homesick for the 
 camp. {Exit.) 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. Ravenna. A Room in Guido's 
 Palace. 
 
 {Enter Guido and a Cardinal.) 
 
 Cardinal. I warn thee, Count. 
 Guido. I '11 take the warning, father, 
 
 On one condition : show me but a way 
 For safe escape. 
 Car. I cannot. 
 
 GuL There's the point. 
 
 <We Ghibelins are fettered hand and 
 
 foot. 
 There 's not a florin in my treasury ; 
 Not a lame soldier, I can lead to war; 
 Not one to man the walls. A present 
 
 siege. 
 Pushed with the wonted heat of Lanci- 
 otto, 
 Would deal Ravenna such a mortal blow 
 As ages could not mend. Give me but 
 
 time 
 To fill the drained arteries of the land.> 
 The Guelfs are masters, we their slaves; 
 
 <and we 
 Were wiser to confess it, ere the lash 
 Teach it too sternly.> It is well <for 
 
 you> 
 To say you love Francesca. So do I ; 
 But neither you nor I have any voice 
 For or against this marriage. 
 Car. 'T is too true. 
 
 GuL Say we refuse: Why, then, before 
 a week, 
 We'll hear Lanciotto rapping at our 
 
 door. 
 With twenty hundred ruffians at his 
 
 back. 
 What 's to say then '? My lord, we waste 
 
 our breath. 
 <Let us look fortune in the face, and 
 
 draw 
 Such comfort from the wanton as we 
 may.> 
 Car. And yet I fear — 
 GuL You fear! and so do I. 
 
 I fear Lanciotto as a soldier, though. 
 More than a son-in-law\ 
 Car. But have you seen him? 
 
 Gui. Ay, ay, and felt him, too. I 've seen 
 him ride 
 The best battalions of my horse and foot 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 345 
 
 Down like mere stubble: I have seen his 
 
 sword 
 Hollow a square of pikemen, with the 
 
 ease 
 You 'd scoop a melon out. 
 Car. Report declares him 
 
 A prodigy of strength and ugliness. 
 Gui. Were he the devil — But why talk of 
 this*?— 
 Here comes Francesea. 
 <Car. Ah, unhappy chiM! 
 
 Gui. Look you, my lord ! you '11 make the 
 best of it; 
 You will not whimper.> Add your 
 
 voice to mine, 
 Or woe to poor Ravenna ! 
 
 (Enter Francesca and Ritta.) 
 
 Francesca. Ha! my lord — 
 
 And you, my father! — But do I intrude 
 Upon your counsels? How severe you 
 
 look! 
 Shall I retire'? 
 Gui. No, no. 
 
 <Fran. You moody men 
 
 Seem leagued against me. As I passed 
 
 the hall, 
 I met your solemn Dante, with huge 
 
 strides 
 Pacing in measure to his stately verse. 
 The sweeping sleeves of his broad scarlet 
 
 robe 
 Blew out behind, like wide-expanded 
 
 wings. 
 And seemed to buoy him in his level 
 
 flight. 
 Thinking to pass, without disturbing him, 
 I stole on tip-toe ; but the poet paused, 
 Subsiding into man, and steadily 
 Bent on my face the lustre of his eyes. 
 Then, taking both my trembling hands 
 
 in his — 
 You know how his God-troubled fore- 
 head awes — 
 He looked into my eyes, and shook his 
 
 head. 
 As if he dared not speak of what he saw ; 
 Then muttered, sighed, and slowly turned 
 
 away 
 The weight of his intolerable brow. 
 When I glanced back, I saw him, as 
 
 before. 
 Sailing adown the hall on out-spread 
 
 wings. 
 Indeed, my lord, he should not do these 
 
 things : 
 They strain the weakness of mortality 
 A jot too far. As for poor Ritta, she 
 Fled like a doe, the truant. 
 
 Yes, forsooth: 
 terrible about the 
 
 Ritta. 
 
 There 's something 
 man. 
 
 Ugh! if he touched me, I should turn to 
 ice.> ^ 
 
 I wonder if Count Lanciotto looks — 
 Gui. Ritta, come here. {Takes her apart.) 
 RiT. My lord. 
 
 Gui. 'T was my command. 
 
 You should say nothing of Count Lan- 
 ciotto. 
 RiT. Nothing, my lord. 
 Gui. You have said nothing, then'? 
 
 RiT. Indeed, my lord. 
 Gui. 'T is well. Some years ago, 
 
 My daughter had a very silly maid, 
 
 Who told her sillier stories. So, one 
 
 This maiden whispered something I for- 
 bade— 
 In strictest confidence, for she was sly: 
 What happened, think you*? 
 RiT. I know not, my lord. 
 
 Gui. I boiled her in a pot. 
 RiT. Good heaven! my lord. 
 
 Gui. She did not like it. I shall keep 
 that pot 
 Ready for the next boiling. 
 
 (Walks hack to the others.) 
 
 RiT. Saints above! 
 
 I wonder if he ate her! Boil me — me! 
 
 I '11 roast or stew with pleasure ; but to 
 
 boil 
 Implies a want of tenderness, — or rather 
 A downright toughness — in the matter 
 
 boiled. 
 That's slanderous to a maiden. What, 
 
 boil me — 
 Boil me ! ! mercy, how ridiculous ! 
 
 (Retires, laughing.) 
 
 K (Enter a Messenger.) 
 
 Messenger. Letters, my lord, from great 
 
 Prince Malatesta. 
 
 (Presents them, and exit.) 
 Gui. (Aside.) Hear him, ye gods! — ■ 
 
 ''from great Prince Malatesta!" 
 
 1 In place of the above speech, the acting 
 version continues Guide's speech as follows: 
 
 We spoke of you, 
 Francesca, your betrothed is on the way : 
 Perhaps, even now, he 's riding toward 
 
 Ravenna. 
 Count Lanciotto is not used to wait, 
 And looks to find you in your fairest 
 
 trim. 
 I have his father's hand to this effect. 
 
346 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Greeting, no doubt, his little cousin 
 
 Guido. 
 Well, well, just so we see-saw up and 
 down. {Beads.) 
 
 "Fearing our treachery/' — by heaven, 
 
 that 's blunt. 
 And Malatesta-like ! — "he will not send 
 His son, Lanciotto, to Ravenna, hut" — 
 But what? — a groom, a porter*? or will 
 
 he 
 Have his prey sent him in an iron 
 
 cage? 
 By Jove, he shall not have her ! ! 
 
 no, no; 
 "He sends his younger son, the Count 
 
 Paolo, 
 To fetch Francesca hack to Rimini." 
 That 's well, if he had left his reasons 
 
 out. 
 And, in a postscript — by the saints, 't is 
 
 droll !— 
 " 'T would not he icorth your lordship's 
 
 while, to shut 
 Paolo in a prison; for, my lord, 
 I'll only pay his ransom in plain steel: 
 Besides, he 's not worth having." Is 
 
 there one. 
 Save this ignoble offshoot of the Goths, 
 Who 'd write such garbage to a gentle- 
 man? 
 Take that, and read it. 
 
 {Gives letter to Cardinal.) 
 Car. I have done the most. 
 
 She seems suspicious. 
 Gui. Ritta's work. 
 
 Car. Farewell! {Exit.) 
 
 Fran. Father, you seem distempered. 
 Gui. No, my child, 
 
 I am but vexed. Your husband 's on the 
 
 road. 
 Close to Ravenna. What 's the time of 
 day? 
 Fran. Past noon, my lord. 
 Gui. We must be stirring, then.> 
 
 Fran. I do not like this marriage. 
 Gui. But I do. 
 
 Fran. But I do not. Poh! to be given 
 away. 
 Like a fine horse or falcon, to a man 
 Whose face I never saw ! 
 RiT. That 's it, my lady. 
 
 Gui. Ritta, <run down, and see if my 
 great pot 
 Boils to your liking.> 
 RiT. <{ Aside.) 0! that pot again !> 
 
 My lord, my heart betrays me; but you 
 
 know 
 How true 'tis to my lady {Exit.) 
 
 Fran. What ails Ritta? 
 
 Gui. The ailing of your sex, a running 
 tongue. 
 
 Francesca, 'tis too late to beat retreat. 
 
 Old Malatesta has me — you, too, child — 
 
 Safe in his clutch. <If you are not 
 content, 
 
 I must unclose Ravenna, and allow 
 
 His son to take you.> Poh, poh! have 
 a soul 
 
 Equal with your estate. A prince's child 
 
 Cannot choose husbands. Her desires 
 must aim, 
 
 Not at herself, but at the public good. 
 
 <Both as your prince and father, I com- 
 mand; 
 
 As subject and good daughter, you'll 
 obey. 
 Fran. I knew that it must be my des- 
 tiny. 
 
 Some day, to give my hand w^ithout my 
 heart ; 
 
 But— 
 Gui. But, and I will butt you back 
 again ! 
 
 When Guido da Polenta says to you, 
 
 Daughter, you must be married, — what 
 were best? 
 Fran. 'T were best Francesca, of the self- 
 same name. 
 
 Made herself bridal-garments. 
 
 {Laughing.) 
 Gui. Right ! ' 
 
 Fran. My lord,> 
 
 Is Lanciotto handsome — ugly — fair — 
 
 Black — sallow — crabbed — kind — or what 
 is he? 
 Gui. <You '11 know ere long. I could not 
 alter him, 
 
 To please your taste.> 
 Fran. You always put me off; 
 
 You never have a whisper in his prais^. 
 Gui. The world reports it. — Count my sol- 
 diers' scars. 
 
 And you may sum Lanciotto's glories 
 up. 
 Fran. I shall be dutiful, to please you, 
 father. 
 
 <If aught befall me through my blind 
 submission, 
 
 Though I may suffer, you must bear the 
 sin. 
 
 Beware, my lord, for your own peace of 
 mind!> 
 
 My part has been obedience ; and now 
 
 I play it over to complete my task ; 
 
 And it shall be with smiles upon my 
 lips,— 
 
 Heaven only knows with what a sinking 
 heart ! {Exeunt. ) 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 347 
 
 Scene 2. The Same. Before the Gates of 
 the City. The walls hung with banners 
 and flowers, and crowded ivith citizens. 
 At the side of the scene is a canopied 
 dais, with chairs of state upon it. 
 Music, bells, shouts, and other sounds of 
 rejoicing, are occasionally heard. 
 
 {Enter Guido, the Cakdinal, Noblemen, 
 Knights, Guards, with banners and 
 arms.) 
 
 Guido. My lord, I'll have it so. You 
 
 talk in vain. 
 Paolo is a marvel in his way : 
 I 've seen him often. If Franeesca take 
 A fancy to his beauty, all the better; 
 For she may think that he and Laneiotto 
 Are like as blossoms of one parent 
 
 branch. 
 <In truth, they are, so far as features 
 
 go- 
 Heaven help the rest! Get her to 
 
 Rimini, 
 By any means, and I shall be content.> 
 The fraud cannot last long; but long 
 
 enough 
 To win her favor to the family. 
 <Cardixal. 'T is a dull trick. Thou hast 
 
 not dealt with her 
 Wisely nor kindly, and I dread the end 
 If, when this marriage was enjoined on 
 
 thee, 
 Thou hadst informed Franeesca of the 
 
 truth, 
 And said, now, daughter, choose between 
 Thy peace and all Ravenna's; who that 
 
 knows 
 The constant nature of her noble heart 
 Could doubt the issue ? There 'd have 
 
 been some tears. 
 Some frightful fancies of her husband's 
 
 looks ; 
 And then she'd calmly walk up to her 
 
 fate. 
 And bear it bravely. Afterwards, per- 
 chance, 
 Laneiotto might prove better than her 
 
 fears, — 
 No one denies him many an excellence, — 
 And all go happily. But, as thou 
 
 wouldst plot. 
 She '11 be prepared to see a paragon. 
 And find a satyr. It is dangerous. 
 Treachery with enemies is bad enough, 
 AVith friends 't is fatal. 
 Gui. Has your lordship done'? 
 
 Car. Never, Count Guido, with so good a 
 
 text. 
 
 Do not stand looking sideways at the 
 
 truth; ^ 
 Craft has become thy nature. Go to her. 
 Gui. I have not heart. 
 Car. I have. (Going.) 
 
 Go. Hold, Cardinal! 
 
 My plan is better. Get her off my hands. 
 And I care not. 
 Car. What will she say of thee. 
 
 In Rimini, when she detects the cheat ? 
 Gui. I '11 stop my ears up. 
 Car. Guido, thou art weak, 
 
 And lack the common fortitude of man. 
 Gui. And you abuse the license of your 
 garb. 
 To lessen me. My lord, I do not dare 
 To move a finger in these marriage-rites. 
 Franeesca is a sacrifice, I know, — 
 A limb delivered to the surgeon's knife. 
 To save our general health. A truce to 
 
 this. 
 Paolo has the business in his hands : 
 Let him arrange it as he will ; for I 
 Will give Count Malatesta no pretext 
 To recommence the war. 
 Car. Farewell, my lord. 
 
 I '11 neither help nor countenance a fraud. 
 You crafty men take comfort to your- 
 selves. 
 Saying, deceit dies with discovery. 
 'T is false; each wicked action spawns a 
 
 brood, 
 And lives in its succession. You, who 
 
 shake 
 Man's moral nature into storm, should 
 
 know 
 That the last wave which passes from 
 
 your sight 
 Rolls in and breaks upon eternity ! 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Gui. Why, that 's a very grand and solemn 
 thought : 
 I '11 mention it to Dante. Gentlemen,> 
 What see they from the wall? 
 
 Nobleman. The train, my lord. 
 
 Gui. Inform my daughter. 
 
 Nob. She is here, my lord. 
 
 (Enter Francesca, Ritta, Ladies and At- 
 tendants. ) 
 
 Francesca. See, father, what a merry face 
 I have, 
 And how my ladies glisten ! I will try 
 To do my utmost, in my love for you 
 And the good people of Ravenna. Now, 
 As the first shock is over, I expect 
 To feel quite happy. X will wed the 
 Count, 
 
348 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Be he whate'er he may. <I do not speak 
 In giddy recklessness. I 've weighed it 
 
 all,— 
 'Twixt hope and fear, knowledge and ig- 
 norance, — 
 And reasoned out my duty to your wish. 
 I have no yearnings towards another love : 
 So, if I show my husband a desire 
 To fill the place with which he honors me. 
 According to its duties, even he — 
 Were he less noble than Count Lan- 
 
 ciotto — 
 Must smile upon my efforts, and reward 
 Good will Tvith willing grace.> One 
 
 pang remains. 
 Parting from home and kindred is a thing 
 None but the heartless, or the miserable, 
 Can do without a tear. This home of 
 
 mine 
 Has filled my heart with two-fold happi- 
 ness. 
 Taking and giving love abundantly. 
 Farewell, Ravenna! If I bless thee not, 
 'T is that thou seem'st too blessed; and 
 
 't were strange 
 In me to offer what thou 'st always given. 
 <Gui. {Aside.) This is too much! If 
 she would rail a while 
 At me and fortune, it could be endured.> 
 {Shouts and music within.) 
 Fran. Ha! there's the van just breaking 
 through the wood ! 
 Music ! that 's well ; a welcome forerunner. 
 Now, Ritta — here — come talk to me. 
 
 Alas! 
 How my heart trembles! What a world 
 
 to me 
 Lies 'neath the glitter of yon cavalcade! 
 Is that the Count "? 
 Ritta. Upon the dapple-gray? 
 
 Fran. Yes, yes. 
 RiT. No ; that 's his — 
 
 Gui. {Apart to her.) Ritta! 
 RiTT. Ay ; that 's — that 's — 
 
 <Gui. Ritta, the pot! {Apart to her.) 
 RiT. ! but this lying chokes ! 
 
 {Aside.) > 
 Ay, that 's Count Somebody, from 
 Rimini. 
 Fran. I knew it was. Is that not glori- 
 ous*? 
 RiT. My lady, what ? 
 
 Fran. To see a cavalier 
 
 Sit on his steed with such familiar grace. 
 RiT. To see a man astraddle on a horse ! 
 
 It don't seem much to me. 
 Fran. Fie! stupid girl! 
 
 <But mark! the minstrels thronging 
 round the Count! 
 
 Ah! that is more than gallant horseman- 
 ship. 
 The soul that feeds itself on poesy, 
 Is of a quality more fine and rare 
 Than H^eaven allows the ruder multitude. 
 I tell you, Ritta, when you see a man 
 Beloved by poets, made the theme of 
 
 song, 
 And chaunted down to ages, as a gift 
 Fit for the rich embalmment of their 
 
 verse. 
 There 's more about him than the patron's 
 
 gold.> 
 If that 's the gentleman my father chose, 
 He must have picked him out from all 
 
 the world. 
 The Count alights. Why, what a noble 
 
 grace 
 Runs through his slightest action! Are 
 
 you sad? 
 You, too, my father? Have I given you 
 
 cause ? 
 I am content. If Lanciotto's mind 
 Bear any impress of his fair outside, 
 We shall not quarrel ere our marriage- 
 day. 
 <Can I say more? My blushes speak 
 
 for me : 
 Interpret them as modesty's excuse 
 For the short-comings of a maiden's 
 
 speech. > 
 RiT. Alas! dear lady! {Aside.) 
 Gui. {Aside.) <'Sdeath! my plot has 
 
 failed, 
 By overworking its design.> Come, 
 
 come; 
 Get to your places. See, the Count draws 
 
 nigh. 
 (GuiDO and Francesca seat themselves 
 
 upon the dais, surrounded by Ritta, 
 
 Ladies, Attendants , and Guards. 
 
 Music, shouts, ringing of bells. 
 
 Enter Men-at-arms, with banners; 
 
 Pages bearing costly presents on 
 
 cushions; then Paolo, surrounded by 
 
 Noblemen, Knights, Minstrels, and 
 
 followed by other Men-at-arms. 
 
 They range themselves opposite the 
 
 dais. ) 
 Gui. Ravenna welcomes you, my lord, 
 
 and I 
 Add my best greeting to the general voice. 
 This peaceful show of arms from Rimini 
 Is a new pleasure, stranger to our sense 
 Than if the East blew zephyrs, <or the 
 
 balm 
 Of Summer loaded rough December's 
 
 gales. 
 And turned his snows to roses.> 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 349 
 
 Paolo. 
 
 Noble sir, 
 
 We looked for welcome from your cour- 
 tesy, 
 Not from your love, <but this unhoped 
 
 for sight 
 Of smiling faces, and the gentle tone 
 In which you greet us, leave us naught to 
 
 win 
 Within your hearts. > I need not ask, 
 
 my lord. 
 Where bides the precious object of" my 
 
 search ; 
 For I was sent to find the fairest maid 
 Ravenna boasts, among her many fair. 
 I might extend my travel many a league. 
 And yet return, to take her from your 
 
 side. 
 I blush to bear so rich a treasure home. 
 As pledge and hostage of a sluggish 
 
 peace; 
 For beauty such as hers was meant by 
 
 Heaven 
 To spur our race to gallant enterprise. 
 And draw contending deities around 
 The dubious battles of a second Troy. 
 Gui. Sir Count, you please to lavish on my 
 
 child 
 The high-strained courtesy of chivalry; 
 <Yet she has homely virtues that, I hope. 
 May take a deeper hold in Rimini, 
 After the fleeting beauty of her face 
 Is spoiled by time, or faded to the eye 
 By its familiar usage. 
 Paolo. As a man 
 
 Who ever sees Heaven's purpose in its 
 
 works,> 
 I must suppose so rare a tabernacle 
 Was framed for rarest virtues. Pardon 
 
 me 
 <My public admiration. If my praise 
 Clash with propriety, and bare my words 
 To cooler judgment, 't is not that I wish 
 To win a flatterer's grudged recompense. 
 And gain by falsehood what I'd win 
 
 through love.> 
 When I have brushed my travel from my 
 
 garb, 
 I '11 pay my court in more befitting style 
 (Music. Exit with his train.) 
 Gui. (Advancing.) Now, by the saints, 
 
 Lanciotto's deputy 
 Stands in this business with a proper 
 
 grace. 
 Stretching his lord's instructions till they 
 
 crack. 
 <A zealous envoy! Not a word said he 
 Of Lanciotto — not a single word ; 
 But stood there, staring in Francesca's 
 
 face 
 
 With his devouring eyes. — By Jupiter,> 
 I but half Ifke it ! 
 Fran. (Advancing.) Father? 
 GuL Well, my child. 
 
 Fran. How do you like — 
 Gui. The coxcomb ! I 've done well ! 
 
 Fran. No, no ; Count Lanciotto ? 
 Gui. Well enough. 
 
 But hang this fellow — hang your depu- 
 ties! 
 I '11 never woo by proxy. 
 Fran. Deputies ! 
 
 And woo by proxy ! 
 Gui. Come to me anon. 
 
 I 'U strip this cuckoo of his gallantry ! 
 
 (Exit with Guards.) 
 Fran. Ritta, my father has strange ways 
 
 of late. 
 RiT. I wonder not. 
 Fran. You wonder not ? 
 
 RiT. No, lady: 
 
 <He is so used to playing double games. 
 That even you must come in for your 
 
 share. 
 Plague on his boiling! I will out with 
 
 it. (Aside.)'^ 
 Lady, the gentleman who passed the 
 gates — 
 Fran. Count Lanciotto? As I hope for 
 grace, 
 A gallant gentleman! How well he 
 
 spoke ! 
 With what sincere and earnest courtesy 
 The rounded phrases glided from his lips ! 
 He spoke in compliments that seemed like 
 
 truth. 
 Methinks I'd listen through a summer's 
 
 day, 
 To hear him woo. — And he must woo to 
 
 me — 
 I '11 have our privilege — ^he must woo a 
 
 space, 
 Ere I '11 be won, I promise. 
 RiT. But, my lady, 
 
 Hb '11 woo you for another. 
 Fran. He?— ha! 
 
 ha! (Laughing.) 
 1 should not think it from the prologue, 
 Ritta. 
 RiT. Nor. I. 
 
 Fran. Nor any one. 
 
 RiT. 'T is not the Count— 
 
 'T is not Count Lanciotto. 
 Fran. Gracious saints! 
 
 Have you gone crazy? Ritta, speak 
 
 again. 
 Before I chide you. 
 RiT. 'T is the solemn 
 
 truth. 
 
350 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 That gentleman is [the] Count Paolo, 
 
 lady, 
 Brother to Lanciotto, and no more 
 Like him than — t)ian — 
 Frax. Than what "? 
 
 <KiT. Count Guido's pot. 
 
 For boiling waiting-maids, is like the bath 
 Of Venus on the arras. > 
 Fran. [But] Are j'ou mad, — 
 
 Quite mad, poor Rittaf 
 RiT. Yes; perhaps I am, 
 
 <Perhaps Lanciotto is a proper man — 
 Perhaps I lie — jDerhaps I speak the 
 
 truth— 
 Perhaps I gabble like a fool. ! heavens. 
 That dreadful pot!> 
 Fran. Dear Ritta ! — 
 
 RiT. By the mass. 
 
 They shall not cozen you, <my gentle 
 
 mistress ! 
 If my lord Guido boiled me, do you think 
 I should be served up to the garrison. 
 By way of pottage? Surely they would 
 not waste me. 
 Fran. You are an idle talker. Pranks like 
 these 
 Fit your companions. You forget your- 
 self. 
 RiT. Not you, though, lady.> Boldly I 
 repeat. 
 That he who looked so fair, and talked so 
 
 sweet. 
 Who rode from Rimini upon a horse 
 Of dapple-gray, and walked through yon- 
 der gate, 
 Is not Count Lanciotto. 
 Fran. This you mean ? 
 
 RiT. I do, indeed ! 
 
 Fran. Then I am more abused — 
 
 More tricked, more trifled with, more 
 
 played upon — 
 By him, my father, and by all of you. 
 Than anything, suspected of a heart. 
 Was ever yet ! 
 RiT. [But] in Count Paolo, lady, 
 
 Perchance there was no meditated fraud. 
 Fran. How, dare you plead for him ? 
 RiT. I but suppose : 
 
 Though in your father — ! I dare not 
 say. 
 Fran. I dare. It was ill usage, gross 
 abuse. 
 Treason to duty, meanness, craft — dis- 
 honour ! 
 What if I 'd thrown my heart before the 
 
 feet 
 Of til is sham husband ! cast my love away 
 Upon a counterfeit ! <I was prepared 
 To force affection upon any man 
 
 Called Lanciotto. Anything of silk, 
 Tinsel, and gewgaws, if he bore that 
 
 name. 
 Might have received me for the askinsr. 
 
 Yes, 
 I was inclined to venture more than half 
 In this base business — shame upon my 
 
 thoughts ! — 
 All for my father's peace and poor 
 
 Ravenna's. 
 And this Paolo, with his cavalcade, 
 His minstrels, music, and his pretty airs, 
 His showy person, and his fulsome talk, 
 Almost made me contented with my lot. 
 ! what a fool> in faith, I merit it — 
 <Trapped by mere glitter! What, an 
 
 easy fool !> 
 Ha ! ha ! I 'm glad it went no further, 
 
 girl; {Laughing.) 
 
 I 'm glad I kept my heart safe, after all. 
 There was my cunning. I have paid 
 
 them back, 
 I warrant you ! I '11 marry Lanciotto ; 
 <I '11 seem to shuffle by this treachery. 
 
 No! 
 I '11 seek my father, put him face to face 
 With his own falsehood ; and I '11 stand 
 
 between, 
 Awful as justice, meting out to him 
 Heaven's dreadful canons 'gainst his con- 
 scious guilt. 
 I '11 marry Lanciotto. On my faith, 
 I would not live another wicked day 
 Here, in Ravenna, only for the fear 
 That I should take to lying, with the 
 
 rest.> 
 Ha ! ha ! it makes me merry, when I think 
 How safe I kept this little heart of mine ! 
 
 (Laughing.) 
 (Exit, with Attendants.) 
 <RiT. So, 'tis all ended — all except my^ 
 
 boiling. 
 And that will make a holiday for some. 
 Perhaps I'm selfish. Fagot, axe, and 
 
 gallows. 
 They have their uses, after all. They 
 
 give 
 The lookers-on a deal of harmless sport. 
 Though one may suffer, twenty hundred 
 
 laugh ; 
 And that 's a point gained. I have seen a 
 
 man — 
 Poor Dora's uncle — shake himself with 
 
 glee. 
 At the bare thought of the ridiculous 
 
 style 
 In which some villain died. "Dancing," 
 
 quoth he, 
 "To the poor music of a single string ! 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 351 
 
 Biting," quoth he, "after his head was of£ ! 
 What use of that?" Or, "Shivering," 
 
 quoth he, 
 "As from an ague, with his beard afire !" 
 And then he 'd roar until his ugly mouth 
 Split at the corners. But to see me boil — 
 ! that will be the queerest thing of all ! 
 I wonder if they '11 put me in a bag. 
 Like a great suet-ball ? I '11 go, and tell 
 Count Guido, on the instant. How he '11 
 
 laugh 
 To think his pot has got an occupant ! 
 I wonder if he really takes delight 
 In such amusements'? Nay, I have kept 
 
 faith : 
 I only said the man was not Lanciotto; 
 No word of Lanciotto's ugliness. 
 I may escape the pot, for all. Pardee! 
 I wonder if they '11 put me in a bag ! 
 
 {Exit, laughing.)^ 
 
 Scene 3. The Same. A Boom in Guido's 
 Palace. 
 
 {Enter Guido and Ritta.) 
 
 <RlTTA. There now, my lord, this is the 
 whole of it : 
 I love my mistress more than I fear you. 
 If I could save her finger from the axe, 
 I 'd give my head to do it. So, my lord, 
 I am prepared to stew. 
 Guido. Boil, Ritta, boil. 
 
 RiT. No ; I prefer to stew. 
 Gui. And I to boil. 
 
 RiT. 'T is very hard, my lord, I cannot 
 choose 
 My way of cooking. I shall laugh, I vow. 
 In the grim headsman's face, when I re- 
 member 
 Thai I am dying for my lady's love. 
 I leave no one to shed a tear for me ; 
 Father nor mother, kith nor kin, have I, 
 To say, "Poor Ritta!" o'er my lifeless 
 
 clay. 
 They all have gone before me, and 't were 
 
 well 
 If I could hurry after them. 
 Gui. Poor child! {Aside.) 
 
 But, baggage, said you aught of Lan- 
 ciotto? 
 RiT. No, not a word; and he's so ugly, 
 
 too! 
 Gui. Is he so ugly? 
 RiT. Ugly ! he is worse 
 
 Than Pilate on the hangings. 
 Gui. Hold your tongue 
 
 Here, and at Rimini, about the Count, 
 
 And you shall prosper. 
 
 RiT. 
 
 Am I not to boil? 
 
 Gui. No, child. But be discreet at Rimini. 
 Old Malatesta is a dreadful man — 
 Far worse than I — he bakes his people, 
 
 Ritta; 
 Lards them, like geese, and bakes them in 
 
 an oven. 
 RiT. Fire is my fate, I see that. 
 Gui. Have a care 
 
 It do not follow you beyond this world. 
 Where is your mistress ? 
 RiT. In her room, my lord. 
 
 After I told her of the Count Paolo, 
 She flew to have an interview with you; 
 But on the way — I know not why it was — 
 She darted to her chamber, and there 
 
 stays 
 Weeping in silence. It would do you 
 
 good — 
 More than a hundred sermons — just to 
 
 see 
 A single tear, indeed it would, my lord. 
 Gui. Ha ! you are saucy. I have humored 
 
 you 
 Past prudence, malpert! Get you to 
 
 your room ! {Exit Ritta.) 
 
 More of my blood runs in yon damsel's 
 
 veins 
 Than the world knows. Her mother to a 
 
 shade ; 
 The same high spirit, and strange martyr- 
 wish 
 To sacrifice herself, body and soul, 
 For some loved end. All that she did for 
 
 me; 
 And yet I loved her not. ! memory ! 
 The darkest future has a ray of hope, 
 But thou art blacker than the sepulchre! 
 Thy horrid shapes lie round, like scattered 
 
 bones. 
 Hopeless forever ! I am sick at heart. 
 The past crowds on the present: as I 
 
 sowed, 
 So am I reaping. Shadows from myself 
 Fall on the picture, as I trace anew 
 These rising spectres of my early life. 
 And add their gloom to what was dark 
 
 before. 
 0! memory, memory! How my temples 
 
 throb! {Sits.) 
 
 {Enter Francesca, hastily.) 
 
 Francesca. My lord, this outrage — {He 
 looks up.) Father, are you ill? 
 You seem unhappy. Have I troubled 
 
 you? 
 You heard how passionate and bad I was, 
 When Ritta told me of the Count Paolo. 
 
352 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Dear father, calm yourself; and let me 
 ask 
 
 A child's forgiveness. 'T was undutiful 
 
 To doubt your wisdom. It is over now, 
 
 I only thought you might have trusted 
 me 
 
 With any counsel. 
 Gui. (Aside.) Would I had ! 
 Fran. Ah ! well, 
 
 I understand it all, and you were right. 
 
 Only the danger of it. Think, my lord, 
 
 If I had loved this man at the first sight : 
 
 We all have heard of such things. Think, 
 again. 
 
 If I had loved him — as I then supposed 
 
 You wished me to — 't would have been 
 very sad. 
 
 But no, dear sir, I kept my heart secure. 
 
 Nor will I loose it till you give the word. 
 
 I 'm wiser than you thought me, you per- 
 ceive. 
 
 But when we saw him, face to face, to- 
 gether. 
 
 Surely you might have told me then. 
 Gui. Francesca, 
 
 My eyes are old — I did not clearly see — 
 
 Faith, it escaped my thoughts. Some 
 other things 
 
 Came in my head. I was as ignorant 
 
 Of Count Paolo's coming as yourself. 
 
 The brothers are so like. 
 Fran. Indeed ? 
 
 Gui. Yes, yes. 
 
 One is the other's counterpart, in fact ; 
 
 And even now it may not be — ! shame ! 
 
 I lie by habit. (Aside.)'^ 
 Fran. Then there is hope? [Ritta may be 
 deceived.] 
 
 He may be Lanciotto, after all? 
 
 ! joy— 
 
 [Enter a Servant.) 
 
 Servant. The Count Paolo. (Exit.) 
 
 Fran. [Ah.] Misery ! 
 
 That name was not Lanciotto ! 
 
 <Gui. Farewell, child. 
 
 I '11 leave you with the Count : he '11 make 
 
 it plain. 
 It seems 't was Count Paolo. (Going.) 
 
 Fran. Father ! 
 
 Gui. Well. 
 
 Fran. You knew it from the first ! (Exit 
 GuiDO.) Let me begone: 
 I could not look him in the face again 
 With the old faith. Besides, 't would 
 
 anger him 
 To have a living witness of his fraud 
 Ever before him; and I could not trust — 
 Strive as I might — my happiness to him, 
 
 As once I did. I could not lay my hand 
 Upon his shoulder, and look up to him. 
 Saying, dear father, pilot me along 
 Past this dread rock, through yonder nar- 
 row strait. 
 Saints, no! The gold that gave my life 
 
 away 
 
 Might, even then, be rattling in his purse, 
 
 • Warm from the buyer's hand. Look on 
 
 me, Heaven ! 
 
 Him thou didst sanctify before my eyes. 
 
 Him thou didst charge, as thy great 
 
 deputy, 
 With guardianship of a weak orphan 
 
 girl. 
 Has fallen from grace, has paltered with 
 
 his trust ; 
 I have no mother to receive thy charge, — 
 
 ! take it on thyself ; and when I err, 
 Through mortal blindness. Heaven, be 
 
 thou my guide !> 
 
 Worse cannot fall me. Though my hus- 
 band lack 
 
 A parent's tenderness, he yet may have 
 
 Faith, truth, and honour — the immortal 
 bonds 
 
 That knit together honest hearts as one. 
 
 Let me away to Rimini. Alas! 
 
 It wring? my heart to have outlived the day 
 
 That I can leave my home with no re- 
 gret! (Weeps.) 
 
 (Enter Paolo.) 
 
 Paolo. Pray, pardon me. (Going.) 
 
 Fran. You are quite welcome. Count. 
 
 A foolish tear, a weakness, nothing more : 
 
 But present weeping clears our future 
 
 sight. 
 They tell me you are love's commissioner, 
 A kind of broker in the trade of hearts : 
 Is it your usual business? or may I 
 Flatter myself, by claiming this essay 
 As your first effort? 
 Paolo. Lady, I believed 
 
 My post, at starting, one of weight and 
 
 trust ; 
 When I beheld you, I concluded it 
 A charge of honor and high dignity. 
 
 1 did not think to hear you underrate 
 Your own importance, by dishonouring 
 
 me. 
 
 <Fran. You are severe, my lord. 
 
 Paolo. No, not severe; 
 
 Say candid, rather. I am somewhat hurt 
 By my reception. If I feel the wound, 
 'T is not because I suffer from the jest. 
 But that your lips should deal it. 
 
 Fran. Compliments 
 
 Appear to be the staple of your speech. 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 353 
 
 You ravish one with courtesy, you pour 
 Fine words upon one, till the listening 
 
 head 
 Is bowed with sweetness. Sir, your talk 
 
 is drugged; 
 There 's secret poppy in your sugared 
 
 phrase. 
 I '11 taste before I take it. 
 Paolo. Gentle lady — 
 
 Fran. I am not gentle, or I missed my 
 
 aim. 
 I am no hawk to fly at every lure. 
 You courtly gentlemen draw one broad 
 
 rule — 
 All girls are fools. It may be so, in 
 
 truth, 
 Yet so I '11 not be treated. 
 Paolo. Have you been ? 
 
 If I implied such slander by my words, 
 They wrong my purpose. If I compli- 
 ment, 
 'T is not from habit, but because I 
 
 thought 
 Your face deserved my homage as its due. 
 When I have clearer insight, and you 
 
 spread 
 Your inner nature o'er your lineaments. 
 Even that face may darken in the shades 
 Of my opinion. For mere loveliness 
 Needs inward light to keep it always 
 
 bright. 
 All things look badly to unfriendly eyes. 
 I spoke my first impression ; cooler 
 
 thought 
 May work strange changes. 
 Fran. Ah, Sir Count, at length 
 
 There 's matter in your words. 
 Paolo. Unpleasant stuff. 
 
 To judge by your dark brows. I have 
 
 essayed 
 Kindness and coldness, yet you are not 
 
 pleased. 
 Fran. How can I be ? 
 Paolo. How, lady*? 
 
 Fran. Ay, sir, how'?> 
 
 Your brother — my good lord that is to 
 
 be— 
 Stings me with his neglect; and in the 
 
 place 
 He should have filled, he sends a go-be- 
 tween, 
 A common carrier of others' love; 
 How can the sender, or the person sent, 
 Please overmuch'? Now, were I such as 
 
 you, 
 I 'd be too proud to travel round the land 
 With other people's feelings in my heart ; 
 Even to fill the void which you confess 
 By such employment. 
 
 Paolo. Lady, 't is your wish 
 
 To nettle me,4o break my breeding down. 
 And see what natural passions I have 
 
 hidden 
 Behind the outworks of my etiquette. 
 I neither own nor feel the want of 
 
 heart 
 With which you charge me. You are 
 
 more than cruel; 
 <You rouse my nerves until they ache 
 
 with life. 
 And then pour fire upon them. For my- 
 self 
 I would not speak, unless you had com- 
 
 pelled.> 
 My task is odious to me. Since I came, 
 Heaven bear me witness how my traitor 
 
 heart 
 Has fought against my duty; and how 
 
 oft 
 I wished myself in Lanciotto's place. 
 Or him in mine. 
 Fran. You riddle. 
 
 Paolo. Do I? Well, 
 
 Let it remain unguessed. 
 <Fran. You wished yourself 
 
 At Rimini, or Lanciotto here'? 
 You may have reasons. 
 Paolo. Well interpreted! 
 
 The Sphinx were simple in your skilful 
 hands ! 
 Fran. It has become your turn to sneer. 
 Paolo. But I 
 
 Have gall to feed my bitterness, while 
 
 you 
 Jest in the wanton ease of happiness. 
 Stop ! there is peril in our talk. 
 Fran. As how? 
 
 Paolo. 'T is dangerous to talk about one's 
 self; 
 It panders selfishness. > My duty waits. 
 Fran. My future lord's affairs'? I quite 
 forgot 
 Count Lanciotto. 
 Paolo. I, too, shame upon me. (Aside.) 
 Fran. Does he resemble you? 
 Paolo. Pray, drop me, lady. 
 
 Fran. Nay, answer me. 
 Paolo. Somewhat — in feature. 
 
 Fran. Ha ! 
 
 Is he so fair? 
 Paolo. No, darker. He was tanned 
 
 In long campaigns, and battles hotly 
 
 fought. 
 While I lounged idly with the trouba- 
 dours. 
 Under the shadow of his watchful sword. 
 Fran. In person? 
 Paolo. He is shorter, I believe. 
 
354 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 But broader, stronger, more compactly 
 kiiit. 
 Fran. What of his mind'? 
 Paolo. Ah, now you strike the key ! 
 
 A mind just fitted to his history, 
 An equal balance 'twixt desert and fame. 
 <No future chronicler shall say of him. 
 His fame outran his merit; or his merit 
 Halted behind some adverse circum- 
 stance. 
 And never won the glory it deserved. > 
 My love might weary you, if I rehearsed 
 The simple beauty of his character; 
 His grandeur and his gentleness of heart, 
 His warlike fire and peaceful love, his 
 
 faith, 
 His courtesy, his truth. <I '11 not deny 
 Some human weakness, to attract our 
 
 love. 
 Harbors in him, as in the rest of us. 
 Sometimes against our city's enemies 
 He thunders in the distance, and devotes 
 Their homes to ruin. When the brand 
 
 has fallen, 
 He ever follows with a healing rain, 
 And in his pity shoulders by revenge. 
 A thorough soldier, lady. He grasps 
 
 crowns. 
 While I pick at the laurel. 
 Fran. Stay, my lord I 
 
 I asked your brother's value, with no 
 
 wish 
 To hear you underrate yourself. Your 
 
 worth 
 May rise in passing through another's 
 
 lips.> 
 Lanciotto is perfection, then? 
 Paolo. To me: 
 
 Others may think my brother over- 
 nice 
 Upon the point of honour; over-keen 
 To take offence where no offence is 
 
 meant ; 
 A thought too prodigal of human life, 
 Holding it naught when weighed against 
 
 a wrong; 
 <Suspicious of the motives of his 
 
 friends ; 
 Distrustful of his own high excellence; 
 And with a certain gloom of tempera- 
 ment. 
 When thus disturbed, that makes him 
 
 terrible 
 And rash in action. I have heard of 
 
 this. 
 I never felt it. I distress you, lady'?> 
 Perhaps I throw these points too much 
 
 in shade. 
 By catching at an enemy's report. 
 
 But, then, Lanciotto said, "You '11 speak 
 
 of me. 
 Not as I ought to be, but as I am." 
 He loathes deceit. 
 Fran. That's noble! Have you done? 
 
 I have observed a strange reserve, at 
 
 times, 
 <An over-carefulness in choosing 
 
 words,> 
 Both in my father and his nearest 
 
 friends. 
 When speaking of your brother; as if 
 
 they 
 Picked their way slowly o'er rocky 
 
 gTound, 
 <Fearing to stumble. Ritta, too, my 
 
 maid, 
 WTien her tongue rattles on in full career, 
 Stops at your brother's name, and with a 
 
 sigh 
 Settles herself to dismal silence. 
 
 Count,> 
 These things have troubled me. From 
 
 you I look 
 For perfect frankness. Is there naught 
 
 withheld? 
 <Paolo. {Aside.) 0, base temptation! 
 
 What if I betray 
 His crippled person — imitate his limp — 
 Laugh at his hip, his back, his sullen 
 
 moods 
 Of childish superstition? — tread his 
 
 heart 
 Under my feet, to climb into his place ? — 
 Use his own warrant 'gainst himself ; and 
 
 say, 
 Because I loved her, and misjudged your 
 
 jest. 
 Therefore I stole her? Why, a common 
 
 thief 
 Would hang for just such thinking t 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! {Laughing.) 
 
 1 reckon on her love, as if I held 
 The counsels of her bosom. No, I sweai 
 Francesea w^ould despise so mean a deed. 
 Have I no honour either? Are my 
 
 thoughts 
 All bound by her opinion? 
 Fran. This is strange ! 
 
 Is Lanciotto's name a spell to all? 
 I ask a simple question, and straight you 
 Start to one side, and mutter to your- 
 self. 
 And laugh, and groan, and play the 
 
 lunatic. 
 In such a style that you astound me more 
 Than all the others. It appears to me 
 I have been singled as a common dupe 
 By every one, What mystery is this 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 355 
 
 Surrounds Count Lanciotto 1 If there be 
 
 A single creature in the universe 
 
 Who has a right to know him as he is, 
 
 I am that one. 
 Paolo. I grant it. You shall see, 
 
 And shape your judgment by your own 
 remark. > 
 
 All that my honour calls for I have said. 
 Fran. <I am content. Unless I greatly 
 err, 
 
 Heaven made your breast the seat of 
 honest thoughts. > 
 
 You know, my lord, that, once at Ri- 
 mini, 
 
 There can be no retreat for me. By you, 
 
 Here at Ravenna, in your brother's name, 
 
 I shall be solemnly betrothed. And 
 now 
 
 I thus extend my maiden hand to you; 
 
 If you are conscious of no secret guilt. 
 
 Take it. 
 Paolo. I do. {Takes her hand.) 
 
 Fran. You tremble! 
 
 Paolo. With the hand. 
 
 Not with the obligation. 
 Fran. Farewell, Count! 
 
 T' were cruel to tax your stock of com- 
 pliments, 
 
 That waste their sweets upon a tram- 
 melled heart; 
 
 Go fly your fancies at some freer game. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Paolo. 0, heaven, if I have faltered and 
 am weak, 
 
 'Tis from my nature! Fancies, more 
 accursed 
 
 Than haunt a murderer's bedside, throng 
 my brain — 
 
 Temptations, such as mortal never bore 
 
 Since Satan whispered in the ear of 
 Eve. 
 
 Sing in my ear — and all, all are ac- 
 cursed ! 
 
 At heart I have betrayed my brother's 
 trust, 
 
 Francesca's openly. Turn where I 
 will. 
 
 As if enclosed within a mirrored hall, 
 
 I see a traitor. Now to stand erect. 
 
 Firm on my base of manly constancy; 
 
 Or, if I stagger, let me never quit 
 
 The homely path of duty, for the ways 
 
 That bloom and glitter with seductive 
 sin! {Exit.) 
 
 ^ [In the acting version of 1882, everybody 
 was sent on and the act ended with Paolo 
 taking Francesca's hand and speaking the 
 words, "On to Rimini!"] 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1.^ Rimini. A room in the Castle. 
 Lanciotto discovered reading. 
 
 Lanciotto. ! fie, philosophy ! This 
 Seneca 
 Revels in wealth, and whines about the 
 
 poor! 
 Talks of starvation while his banquet 
 
 waits. 
 And fancies that a two hours' appetite 
 Throws light on famine! Doubtless he 
 
 can tell. 
 As he skips nimbly through his dancing- 
 girls. 
 How sad it is to limp about the world 
 A sightless cripple! Let him feel the 
 
 crutch 
 Wearing against his heart, and then I 'd 
 
 hear 
 This sage talk glibly; or provide a pad. 
 Stuffed with his soft philosophy, to ease 
 His aching shoulder. Pshaw; he never 
 
 felt, 
 Or pain would choke his frothy utter- 
 ance. 
 <'T is easy for the doctor to compound 
 His nauseous simples for a sick man's 
 
 health ; 
 But let him swallow them, for his disease. 
 Without wry faces. Ah! the tug is 
 
 there.> 
 Show me philosophy in rags, in want, 
 Sick of a fever, with a back like mine. 
 Creeping to wisdom on these legs, and I 
 Will drink its comforts. Out! away 
 
 with you! 
 There 's no such thing as real philosophy ! 
 {Throws down the hook.) 
 
 {Enter Pepe.) 
 
 Here is a sage who '11 teach a courtier 
 
 The laws of etiquette, a statesman rule, 
 
 A soldier discipline, a poet verse. 
 
 And each mechanic his distinctive trade; 
 
 Yet bring him to his motley, and how 
 wide 
 
 He shoots from reason! We can under- 
 stand 
 
 All business but our own, and thrust ad- 
 vice 
 
 In every gaping cranny of the world ; 
 
 While habit shapes us to our own dull 
 work. 
 
 And reason nods above his proper task. 
 
 Just so philosophy would rectify 
 
 1 In the acting version of 1853 this scene is 
 placed in Act Second. 
 
356 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 All things abroad, and be a jade at home. 
 <Pepe, what think you of the Emperor's 
 
 aim 
 Towards Hungary? 
 Pepe, a most unwise design; 
 
 For mark, my lord — 
 Lan". Why, there ! the fact cries out. 
 
 Here 's motley thinking for a diadem ! — 
 Ay, and more wisely in his own regard. 
 Pepe. You flout me, cousin. 
 Lan. Have you aught that's new? — 
 
 Some witty trifle, some absurd conceit? 
 Pepe. Troth, no. 
 
 Lan. Why not give up the Emperor, 
 
 And bend your wisdom on your duties, 
 
 Pepe? 
 Pepe. Because the Emperor has more 
 
 need of wisdom 
 Than the most barren fool of wit. 
 Lan. Well said! 
 
 Mere habit brings the fool back to his 
 
 art.> 
 This jester is a rare philosopher. 
 Teach me philosophy, good fool. 
 Pepe. No need. 
 
 You '11 get a teacher when you take a 
 
 wife. 
 If she do not instruct you in more arts 
 Than Aristotle ever thought upon. 
 The good old race of woman has de- 
 clined 
 Into a sort of male stupidity. 
 <I had a sweetheart once, she lectured 
 
 grandly; 
 No matter on what subject she might hit, 
 'T was all the same, she could talk and 
 
 she would, 
 She had no silly modesty; she dashed 
 Straight in the teeth of any argument. 
 And talked you deaf, dumb, blind. 
 
 Whatever struck 
 Upon her ear, by some machinery, 
 Set her tongue wagging. Thank the 
 
 Lord, she died ! — 
 Dropped in the middle of a fierce 
 
 harangue. 
 Like a spent horse. It was an even 
 
 thing, 
 Whether she talked herself or me to 
 
 death. 
 The latest sign of life was in her tongue ; 
 It wagged till sundown, like a serpent's 
 
 tail. 
 Long after all the rest of her was cold. 
 Alas ! poor Zippa ! 
 Lan. Were you married, fool? 
 
 Pepe. Married! Have I the scars upon 
 
 me? No; 
 I fell in love ; and that was bad enough, 
 
 And far enough for a mere fool to go. 
 Married ! why, marriage is love's purga- 
 tory. 
 Without a heaven beyond. 
 
 Lan. 
 
 Fie, atheist! 
 
 Would you abolish marriage? 
 Pepe. Yes. 
 
 LAN. What? 
 
 Pepe. Yes. 
 
 Lan. Depopulate the world? 
 Pepe. No fear of that. 
 
 I 'd have no families, no Malatesti, 
 
 Strutting about the land, with pedigrees 
 
 And claims bequeathed them by their an- 
 cestors ; 
 
 No fellows vapouring of their royal 
 blood ; 
 
 No one to seize a whole inheritance. 
 
 And rob the other children of the earth. 
 
 By Jove, you should not know your fa- 
 thers, even! 
 
 I 'd have you spring, like toadstools, from 
 the soil — 
 
 Mere sons of women — nothing more nor 
 less — 
 
 All base-born, and all equal. There, my 
 lord, 
 
 There is a simple commonwealth for you ! 
 
 In which aspiring merit takes the lead, 
 
 And birth goes begging. 
 Lan. It is so, in truth ; 
 
 And by the simplest means I ever heard. 
 Pepe. Think of it, cousin. Tell it to your 
 friends. 
 
 The statesmen, soldiers, and philoso- 
 phers ; 
 
 Noise it about the earth, and let it stir 
 
 The sluggish spirits of the multitudes. 
 
 Pursue the thought, scan it, from end to 
 end. 
 
 Through all its latent possibilities. 
 
 It is a great seed dropped, I promise yoU^ 
 
 And it must sprout. Thought never 
 wholly dies; 
 
 It only wants a name — a hard Greek 
 name — 
 
 Some few apostles, who may live on it — 
 
 A crowd of listeners, with the average 
 dulness 
 
 That man possesses — and we organize; 
 
 Spread our new doctrine, like a general 
 plague ; 
 
 Talk of man's progress and development, 
 
 Wrongs of society, the march of mind. 
 
 The Devil, Doctor Faustus, and what not; 
 
 And, lo! this pretty world turns upside 
 down. 
 
 All with a fool's idea ! 
 Lan. By Jupiter, 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 357 
 
 You hit our modern teachers to a hair! 
 
 I knew this fool was a philosopher. 
 
 Pepe is right. Mechanic means advance ; 
 
 Nature bows down to Science' haughtj^ 
 tread, 
 
 And turns the wheel of smutty artifice ; 
 
 New governments arise, dilate, decay, 
 
 And foster creeds and churches to their 
 tastes : 
 
 At each advance, we cry, "Behold, the 
 end!" 
 
 Till some fresh wonder breaks upon the 
 age. 
 
 But man, the moral creature, midst it all 
 
 Stands still unchanged; noT moves to- 
 wards virtue more. 
 
 Nor comprehends the mysteries in him- 
 self. 
 
 More than when Plato taught academies. 
 
 Or Zeno thundered from bis Attic porch. 
 Pepe. I know not that; I only want my 
 scheme 
 
 Tried for a while. I am a politician, 
 
 A wrongs-of-man man. Hang philoso- 
 phy! 
 
 Let metaphysics swallow, at a gulp, 
 
 Its last two syllables, and purge itself 
 
 Clean of its filthy humours ! I am one 
 
 Ready for martyrdom, for stake and fire. 
 
 If I can make my gTeat idea take root ! 
 
 Zounds! cousin, if I had an audience, 
 
 I 'd make you shudder at my eloquence ! 
 
 I have an itching to reform the world. 
 Lan". Begin at home, then. 
 Pepe. Home is not my sphere ; 
 
 Heaven picked me out to teach my fel- 
 low-men. 
 
 I am a very firebrand of truth — 
 
 A self -consuming, doomed, devoted 
 brand — 
 
 That burns to ashes while I light the 
 world ! 
 
 I feel it in me. I am moved, inspired. 
 
 Stirred into utterance, by some mystic 
 power 
 
 Of which I am the humble instrument. 
 Lan". a bad digestion, sage, — a bilious 
 turn, 
 
 A gnawing stomach, or a pinching shoe. 
 Pepe. ! hear, but spare the scoffer ! 
 Spare the wretch 
 
 Who sneers at the anointed man of truth ! 
 
 When we reached that, I and my fol- 
 lowers 
 
 Would rend you limb from limb. There ! 
 — ha! ha! ha! (Laughing.) 
 
 Have I not caught the slang these fel- 
 lows preach; 
 
 A grand, original idea, to back it; 
 
 And all the stock in trade of a reformer 1 
 Lan. You have indeed; nor do I wonder, 
 Pepe. 
 Fool as you are, I promise you success 
 In your new calling, if you '11 set it up. 
 The thing is far too simple.> 
 
 {Trumpet sounds within.) 
 
 Pepe. Hist! my lord. 
 
 Lan. That calls me to myself. 
 
 Pepe. At that alarm. 
 
 All Rimini leaped up upon its feet. 
 
 Cousin, your bridal-train. You groan! 
 
 'Ods wounds! 
 Here is the bridegroom sorely malcon- 
 tent— 
 The sole sad face in Rimini. Since 
 
 morn, 
 A quiet man could hardly walk the 
 
 streets, 
 For flowers and streamers. All the town 
 
 is gay. 
 Perhaps 't is merry o'er your misery. 
 Lax. Perhaps; but that it knows not. 
 Pepe. Yes, it does: 
 
 It knows that when a man's about to 
 
 wed. 
 He 's ripe to laugh at. Cousin, tell me, 
 
 now. 
 Why is [Count] Paolo on the way so 
 
 long? 
 Ravenna 's but eight leagues from Ri- 
 mini — 
 Lan. That 's just the measure of your 
 tongue, good fool. 
 You trouble me. I 've had enough of 
 
 you— 
 Begone ! 
 <Pepe. I 'm going ; but you see I limp. 
 
 Have pity on a cripple, gentle Count. 
 
 {Limps.) 
 Lan. Pepe ! 
 Pepe. A miracle, a miracle ! 
 
 See, see, my lord, at Pepe's saintly name 
 The lame jog on.> 
 Malatesta. {Without.) Come, Laneiotto! 
 Lan. Hark ! 
 
 My father calls. 
 Pepe. If he were mine, I 'd go — 
 
 That 's a good boy ! 
 
 {Pats Lanciotto's hack.) 
 
 Lan. {Starting.) Hands off! you 'U rue 
 
 it else! {Exit.) 
 
 Pepe. {Laughing.) Ha! ha! I laid my 
 
 hand upon his hump ! 
 
 Heavens, how he squirmed! And what 
 
 a wish I had 
 To cry, Ho! camel! leap upon his back, 
 And ride him to the devil! <So, we've 
 had 
 
358 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 A pleasant flitting round philosophy! 
 The Count and fool bumped heads, and 
 
 struck ideas 
 Out by the contact! Quite a pleasant 
 
 talk— 
 A friendly conversation, nothing more — 
 'Twixt nobleman and jester.> Ho! my 
 
 bird, 
 I can toss lures as high as any man. 
 So, I amuse you with my harmless wit? 
 Pepe 's your friend now — you can trust 
 
 in him — 
 An honest, simple fool ! Just try it once, 
 You ugly, misbegotten clod of dirt ! 
 Ay, but the hump — the touch upon the 
 
 hump — 
 The start and wriggle — that was rare! 
 
 Ha! ha! {Exit, laughing.) 
 
 Scene 2.^ The Same. The Grand Square 
 before the Castle. Soldiers on guard, 
 with banners. Citizens, in holiday 
 dresses, cross the scene. The houses are 
 hung with trophies, banners, and gar- 
 lands. 
 
 {Enter Malatesta, with guards, attend- 
 ants. ) 
 
 Malatesta. Captain, take care the streets 
 
 be not choked up 
 By the rude rabble. Send to Csesar's 
 
 bridge 
 A strong detachment of your men, and 
 
 clear 
 The way before them. <See that noth- 
 ing cheek 
 The bride's first entrance into Rimini. 
 Station your veterans in the front. 
 
 Count Guido 
 Comes with his daughter, and his eyes 
 
 are sharp. 
 Keep up a show of strength before him, 
 
 sir; 
 And set some laborers to work upon 
 The broken bastion. > Make all things 
 
 look bright; 
 As if we stood in eager readiness, 
 And high condition, to begin a war. 
 Captain. I will, my lord. 
 Mal. Keep Guido in your eye ; 
 
 And if you see him looking over-long 
 On any weakness of our walls, just file 
 Your bulkiest fellows round him; <or 
 
 get up 
 A scuffle with the people; anything — 
 
 1 In both acting versions this scene begins the 
 Third Act. 
 
 Even if you break a head or two — to 
 
 draw 
 His vision oif. But where our strength 
 
 is great. 
 Take heed to make him see it.> You 
 conceive ? 
 Capt. Trust me, my lord. 
 
 {Exit with guards.) 
 
 {Enter Pepe.) 
 
 Pepe. Room, room ! A hall ; a hall ! 
 
 I pray you, good man, has the funeral 
 passed'? 
 Mal. Who is it asks? 
 Pepe. Pepe of Padua, 
 
 A learned doctor of uncivil law. 
 Mal. But how a funeral? 
 Pepe. You are weak of wit. 
 
 Francesca of Ravenna 's borne to church. 
 
 And never issues thence. 
 Mal. How, doctor, pray? 
 
 Pepe. Now, for a citizen of Rimini, 
 
 You're sadly dull. Does she not issue 
 thence 
 
 Fanny of Rimini? A glorious change, — 
 
 A kind of resurrection in the flesh! 
 <Mal. {Laughing.) Ha! ha! thou cun- 
 ning villain ! I was caught. 
 
 I own it, doctor. 
 Pepe. {Aside.) This old fool would laugh 
 
 To see me break a straw, because the bits 
 
 Were of unequal length. My character 
 
 Carries more dulness, in the guise of wit. 
 
 Than would suffice to break an ass's 
 back.> {Distant shouts and music.) 
 
 Hark! here comes Jeptha's daughter, 
 jogging on 
 
 With timbrels and with dances. 
 Mal. Jeptha's daughter! 
 
 How so? 
 Pepe. Her father's sacrifice. 
 
 Mal. {Laughing.) <Ho! ho! 
 
 You '11 burst my belt ! ! you outrage- 
 ous wretch. 
 
 To jest at Scripture ! 
 Pepe. You outlandish heathen, 
 
 'T is not in Scripture ! 
 Mal. Is it not? 
 
 Pepe. No more 
 
 Than you are in heaven. Mere Hebrew 
 history. 
 
 She went up to the mountains, to bewail 
 
 The too-long keeping of her honesty. 
 
 There 's woman for you ! there 's a char- 
 acter ! 
 
 What man would ever think of such a 
 thing? 
 
 Ah ! we of Rimini have little cause 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 359 
 
 For such a sorrow. Would she 'd been 
 
 my wife! 
 I '11 marry any woman in her case. 
 Mal. Why, Pepe? 
 
 Pepe. Why? because, in two months' 
 
 time, 
 Along comes father Jeptha with his 
 
 knife, 
 And there 's an end. Where is your sac- 
 rifice ? 
 Where 's Isaac, Abraham '? Build your 
 
 altar up: 
 One pile will do for both. 
 Mal. That 's Scripture, sure. 
 
 Pepe. Then I'm a ram, and you may 
 slaughter me 
 In Isaac's stead.> 
 Mal. Here comes the vanguard. Where, 
 
 Where is that laggard? 
 Pepe. At the mirror, uncle, 
 
 Making himself look beautiful. He 
 comes, {Looking out.) 
 
 Fresh as a bridegroom! Mark his dou- 
 blet's fit 
 Across the shoulders, and his hose! — 
 By Jove, he nearly looks like any other 
 man! 
 Mal. You'd best not let him hear you- 
 Sirrah, knave, 
 I have a mind to swinge you ! 
 
 {Seizes his ear.) 
 
 Pepe. <Loose my ear! 
 
 You've got the wrong sow, swineherd !> 
 
 You 're unjust. 
 Being his father, I was fool sufficient 
 To think you fashioned him to suit your- 
 self. 
 By way of a variety. The thought 
 Was good enough, the practice damnable. 
 Mal. Hush! or I'll clap you in the pil- 
 lory. 
 
 <, {Enter Lanciotto.)> 
 
 Pepe. {Sings.) Ho, ho, ho, ho! — old 
 Time has wings — 
 We 're born, we mourn, we wed, we bed. 
 We have a devilish aching head ; 
 So down we lie, 
 And die, and fry; 
 And there 's a merry end of things ! 
 
 {Music, within.) 
 Here come Ravenna's eagles for a roost 
 In Rimini! The air is black with them. 
 When go they hence? Wherever yon 
 
 bird builds, 
 The nest remains for ages. Have an eye. 
 Or Malatesta's elephant may feel 
 The eagle's talons. 
 
 Lanciotto.^ You 're a raven, croaker. 
 
 Pepe. And you no white crow, to insure 
 
 us luck. 
 Mal. There 's matter in his croak. 
 Pepe. There always is ; 
 
 But men lack ears. 
 Mal. Then eyes must do our work. 
 
 <01d Guido shall be looked to. If his 
 
 force 
 Appear too great, I '11 camp him out of 
 town. 
 Lan. Father, you are a sorry host. 
 Mal. Well, well, 
 
 I 'm a good landlord, though.> I do not 
 
 like 
 This flight of eagles more than Pepe. 
 
 _ 'S death! 
 Guido was ever treacherous. 
 <Lan. My lord. 
 
 You mar my holiday by such a thought. 
 My holiday! Dear saints! it seems to 
 
 me 
 That all of you are mocking me.> 
 Pepe. So — -so — 
 
 Guido was ever treacherous? — so — so! 
 Mal. So — so ! How so ? 
 Pepe. What if this treachery 
 
 Run in the blood? We'll tap a vein 
 then — so ! 
 Mal. Sew up your mouth, and mind your 
 
 fooling, fool! 
 Pepe. Am I not fooling? Why, my lord, 
 I thought 
 The fooling exquisite. 
 <LA]sr. {Aside.) This thoughtless knave 
 Hits near us sometimes with his random 
 
 shafts. 
 Marriage for me ! I cannot comprehend, 
 I cannot take it to my heart ; the thing 
 Seems gross, absurd, ridiculous. Ah! 
 
 well. 
 My father bears the folly of it all ; 
 I 'm but an actor in his comedy. 
 My part is bad, but I must through with 
 it. {Betires.)^ 
 
 {Shouts and music within.) 
 Pepe. Look ! here 's the whole parade ! 
 <Mark yonder knave — 
 The head one with the standard. Nature, 
 
 nature ! 
 Hadst thou a hand in such a botch-work? 
 
 Why, 
 A forest of his legs would scarcely make 
 A bunch of fagots. > Mark old Guido, 
 
 too! 
 He looks like Judas with his silver. Ho ! 
 Here 's news from sweet Ravenna ! 
 
 1 In tlie acting version Malatesta has this line 
 as Lanciotto is not on the stage. 
 
360 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Mal. (Laughing.) Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Pepe. Ah ! now the bride ! — that 's some- 
 thmg — she is toothsome. 
 Look you, my lord — now, while the prog- 
 ress halts — 
 Cousin Paolo, has he got the damps'? 
 Mercy! to see him, one might almost 
 
 think 
 'T was his own marriage. What a dole- 
 ful face! 
 The boy is ill. He caught a fever, uncle. 
 Travelling across the marshes. Physic! 
 
 physic ! 
 <If he be really dying, get a doctor. 
 And cut the matter short. 'T were mer- 
 ciful.> 
 Mak For heaven's sake, cease your 
 clamor! I shall have 
 No face to meet them else. 'T is strange, 
 
 for all: 
 What ails [poor] Paolo? 
 Pepe. Dying, by this hand! 
 
 Mal. Then I will hang you. 
 Pepe. Don't take up my craft. 
 
 Wit's such a stranger in your brain 
 
 that I 
 Scarce knew my lodger venturing from 
 
 your mouth. 
 Now they come on again. 
 Mal. Stand back ! 
 
 <Pepe. {Looking round.) The bridegroom? 
 He flies betimes, before the bride shows 
 fight. 
 [Walks hack, looking for Lanci- 
 
 OTTO.)> 
 
 (Music, shouts, ringing of hells. En- 
 ter Men-at-arms^ with banners, 
 GuiDO, Cardinal, Knights, Attend- 
 ants; then Paolo, conducting Fran- 
 CESCA, followed hy Ritta, Ladies, 
 Pages, and other Men-at-Arms. 
 They file around the stage, and halt.) 
 
 Mal. Welcome to Rimini, Count Guido ! 
 Welcome. 
 And fair impressions of our poor abode, 
 To you, my daughter! You are well re- 
 turned. 
 My [dear] son, Paolo! Let me bless 
 you, son. 
 
 (Paolo approaches.) 
 How many spears are in old Guido's 
 train? (Apart to Paolo.) 
 
 Paolo. Some ten-score. 
 Mal. Footmen ? 
 
 Paolo. Double that. 
 
 Mal. 'T is well. 
 
 Again I bid you welcome! Make no 
 show 
 
 Of useless ceremony with us. Friends 
 Have closer titles than the empty name. 
 <We have provided entertainment, 
 
 Count, 
 For all your followers, in the midst of 
 
 us. 
 We trust the veterans of Rimini 
 May prove your soldiers that our cour- 
 tesy 
 Does not lag far behind their warlike 
 
 zeal.> 
 Let us drop Guelf and Ghibelin hence- 
 forth. 
 Coupling the names of Rimini and Ra- 
 venna 
 As bridegroom's to his bride's. 
 Guido. Count Malatesta, 
 
 <I am no rhetorician, or my words 
 Might keep more even with the love I 
 
 feel:> 
 Simply, I thank you. With an honest 
 
 hand 
 I take the hand which you extend to me. 
 And hope our grasp may never lose its 
 
 warmth. — 
 You marked the bastion by the water- 
 side? 
 Weak as a bulrush. 
 
 (Apart to a Knight.) 
 Knight. Tottering weak, my lord. 
 
 Gui. Remember it ; and when you 're pri- 
 vate, sir, 
 Draw me a plan. 
 Knight. I will, my lord. 
 
 GuL How's this? 
 
 I do not see my future son-in-law. 
 Mal. Lanciotto ! 
 
 Lan. (Advancing.) I am here, my lord.^ 
 Francesca. (Starting.) ! heaven ! 
 
 Is that my husband, [fair] Count Paolo? 
 
 You, 
 You then, among the rest, have played 
 
 me false! 
 He is — (Apart to Paolo.) 
 
 Paolo. My brother. 
 
 Lan. (Aside.) Ha! she turns from me. 
 <Pepe. (Approaching Lanciotto, sings.) 
 Around, around the lady turned, 
 
 She turned not to her lord; 
 She turned around to a gallant, gallant 
 knight. 
 Who ate at his father's board. 
 A pretty ballad ! all on one string though. 
 Lan. Pepe, go hence! (Pepe retires.) 
 
 (Aside.) I saw her start and pale,> 
 Turn[s] off with horror; as if she had 
 seen — 
 
 1 In the acting versions, Lanciotto comes on here 
 for the first time in this act, 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 361 
 
 What? — simply me. For, am I not 
 
 enough, 
 And something- over, to make ladies quail, 
 Start, hide their faces, whisper to their 
 
 friends. 
 Point at me — dare she"? — and perform 
 
 such tricks 
 As women will when monsters blast their 
 
 sight? 
 ! saints above me, have I come so low f 
 <Yon damsel of Ravenna shall bewait 
 That start and shudder. I am mad, mad, 
 
 mad!> 
 I must be patient. They have trifled 
 
 with her : 
 Lied to her, lied! <There 's half the 
 
 misery 
 Of this broad earth, all crowded in one 
 
 word. 
 Lied, lied ! — Who has not suffered from a 
 
 lie'?> 
 They're all aghast — all looking at me, 
 
 too. 
 Francesca 's whiter than the brow of 
 
 fear; 
 <Paolo talks. — Brother, is that well 
 
 meant ?> 
 What if I draw my sword, and fight my 
 
 way 
 Out of this cursed town? 'T would be 
 
 relief. 
 <Has shame no hiding-place? I\e 
 
 touched the depth 
 Of human infamy, and there I rest.> 
 By heaven, I '11 brave this business out ! 
 
 Shall they 
 Say at Ravenna that Count Laneiotto, 
 Who 's driven their shivering squadrons 
 
 to their homes. 
 Haggard with terror- turned before their 
 
 eyes 
 And slunk away ? They '11 look me from 
 
 the field. 
 When we encounter next. Why should 
 
 not I 
 Strut with my shapeless body, as old 
 
 Guido 
 Struts with his shapeless heart ? I '11 do 
 
 it! {Offers, hut shrinks hack.) 
 
 'S death ! 
 <Am I so false as to forswear myself ?> 
 Lady Francesca ! 
 
 {Approaches Francesca.) 
 Fran. Sir — my lord — 
 
 Lan. Dear lady, 
 
 I have a share in your embarrassment. 
 And know the feelings that possess you 
 
 now. 
 Fran. 0! you do not. 
 
 Paolo. {Advancing.) My lady — 
 Lan. Gentle brother. 
 
 Leave this to me. (Paolo retires.) 
 
 Fran. Pray do not send him off. 
 
 Lan. 'T is fitter so. 
 Fran. He comforts me. 
 
 Lan. Indeed? 
 
 Do you need comfort? 
 Fran. No, no — pardon me! 
 
 But then — he is — you are — 
 Lan. Take breath, and speak. 
 
 Fran. I am confused, 'tis true. But, 
 then, my lord. 
 You are a stranger to me; and [Count] 
 
 Paolo 
 I 've known so long ! 
 Lan. Since yesterday. 
 
 Fran. Ah! well: 
 
 But the relationship between us two 
 Is of so close a nature, while the knowl- 
 edge. 
 That each may have of each, so slender is 
 That the two jar. Besides, [Count] 
 
 Paolo is 
 Nothing to me, while you are everything. 
 Can I not act? {Aside.) 
 
 Lan. I scarcely understand. 
 
 You say your knowledge of me, till to- 
 day, 
 Was incomplete. Has naught been said 
 
 of me 
 [Either] by Count Paolo or your father? 
 Fran. Yes ; 
 
 But nothing definite. 
 Lan. Perchance, no hint 
 
 As to my ways, my feelings, manners, 
 
 or — 
 Or — or — as I was saying — ha ! ha ! — or — 
 
 {Laughing.) 
 As to my person? 
 Fran. 
 
 Lan. To what? 
 Fran. Your — person. 
 
 Lan. That's the least of all. 
 
 {Turns aside.) 
 Now, had I Guido of Ravenna's head 
 Under this heel, I 'd grind it into dust ! 
 <False villain, to betray his simple child ! 
 And thou, Paolo — not a whit behind--- 
 Helping his craft with inconsiderate 
 
 love !> 
 Lady Francesca, when my brother left, 
 I charged him, as he loved me, to conceal 
 Nothing from you that bore on me: and 
 
 now 
 That you have seen me, and conversed 
 
 with me. 
 If you object to anything in me, — 
 Go, I release you. 
 
 Nothing, as to that. 
 
362 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Fran. But Ravenna's peace'? 
 
 Lan. Shall not be periled. 
 
 Gui. {Coming behind, whispers her.) 
 
 Trust liim not, my child; 
 I know his ways; he'd rather fight than 
 
 wed. 
 'T is but a wish to have the war afoot. 
 Stand firm for poor Ravenna ! 
 Lan. Well, my lady, 
 
 Shall we conclude a lasting- peace be- 
 tween us 
 By truce or marriage rites'? 
 Gui. {Whispers her.) The devil tempts 
 thee: 
 Think of Ravenna, think of me! 
 Lan. My lord, 
 
 I see my father waits you. 
 
 (GuiDO retires.) 
 Fran. Gentle sir. 
 
 You do me little honour in the choice. 
 Lan. My aim is justice. 
 Fran. Would you cast me off? 
 
 Lan. Not for the world, if honestly ob- 
 tained ; 
 Not for the world would I obtain you 
 falsely. 
 Fran. The rites were half concluded ere 
 
 we met. 
 Lan. Meeting, would you withdraw"? 
 Fran. No. Bitter word! {Aside.) 
 
 Lan. No ! Are you dealing fairly "? 
 Fran. I have said. 
 
 Lan. 0! rapture, rapture! Can it be 
 that I— 
 Now I '11 speak plainly; for a choice like 
 
 thine 
 Implies such love as woman never felt. 
 Love me ! Then monsters beget miracles, 
 And Heaven provides where human 
 
 means fall short. 
 Lady, I '11 worship thee ! I '11 line thy 
 
 path 
 With suppliant kings! Thy waiting- 
 maids shall be 
 Unransomed princesses! Mankind shall 
 
 bow 
 One neck to thee, as Persia's multitudes 
 Before the rising sun! From this small 
 
 town. 
 This centre of my conquests, I will spread 
 An empire touching the extremes of 
 
 earth ! 
 I'll raise once more the name of ancient 
 
 Rome; 
 And what she swayed she shall reclaim 
 
 again ! 
 If I grow mad because you smile on me. 
 Think of the glory of thy love ; and know 
 How hard it is, for such an one as I, 
 
 To gaze unshaken on divinity! 
 
 There 's no such love as mine alive in 
 
 man. 
 From every corner of the frowning earth, 
 It has been crowded back into my heart. 
 Now, take it all ! If that be not enough. 
 Ask, and thy wish shall be omnipotent ! 
 Your hand. {Takes her hand.) It wavers. 
 Fran. So does not my heart. 
 
 Lan. Bravo! Thou art every way a sol- 
 dier's wife; 
 Thou shouldst have been a Caesar's ! Fa- 
 ther, hark! 
 I blamed your judgment, only to perceive 
 The weakness of my own. 
 Mal. What means all this"? 
 
 Lan. It means that this fair lady — though 
 I gave 
 Release to her, and to Ravenna — placed 
 The liberal hand, which I restored to her. 
 Back in my own, of her own free good- 
 will. 
 Is it not wonderful? 
 Mal. How so"? 
 
 Lan. How so ! 
 
 <Paolo. Alas ! 't is as I feared ! 
 
 ( Aside.) "> 
 
 Mal. You 're humble ?— How <? 
 
 Lan. <Now shall I ci-y aloud to all the 
 
 world. 
 
 Make my deformity my pride, and say, 
 
 Because she loves me, I may boast of if? 
 
 { Aside. )y' 
 No matter, father, I am happy; you, 
 As the blessed cause, shall share my hap- 
 piness. 
 Let us be moving. Revels, dashed with 
 
 wine, 
 Shall multiply the joys of this sweet day ! 
 There 's not a blessing in the cup of life 
 I have not tasted of within an hour! .^ 
 <Fran. {Aside.) Thus I begin the prac- 
 tice of deceit. 
 Taught by deceivers, at a fearful cost. 
 The bankrupt gambler has become the 
 
 cheat. 
 And lives by arts that erewhile ruined 
 
 me. 
 Where it will end, heaven knows; but 
 
 I— 
 I have betrayed the noblest heart of 
 all!i> 
 Lan. Draw down thy dusky vapours, sul- 
 len night — 
 Refuse, ye stars, to shine upon the 
 
 world — 
 Let everlasting blackness wrap the sun, 
 
 1 Both acting versions omit this speech, which is 
 essential to the tragedy. 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 363 
 
 And whisper terror to the universe! 
 We need ye not ! we '11 blind ye, if ye 
 
 dare 
 Peer with lack-lustre on our revelry ! 
 I have at heart a passion, that would 
 
 make 
 All nature blaze with recreated light ! 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. The Same. An Apartment in 
 the Castle. 
 
 (Enter Lanciotto.) 
 
 Lanciotto. It cannot be that I have 
 
 duped myself. 
 That my desire has played into the hand 
 Of my belief ; yet such a thing might be. 
 We palm more frauds upon our simple 
 
 selves 
 Than knavery puts upon us. Could I 
 
 trust 
 The open candor of an angel's brow, 
 I must believe Francesca's. But the 
 
 tongue 
 Should consummate the proof upon the 
 
 brow. 
 And give the truth its word. The fault 
 
 lies there. 
 I 've tried her. Press her as I may to it, 
 She will not utter those three little 
 
 words — 
 "I love thee." She will say, "I '11 marry 
 
 you;— 
 I '11 be your duteous wife ; — I '11 cheer 
 
 your days ; — 
 I '11 do whate'er I can." But at the point 
 Of present love, she ever shifts the 
 
 ground. 
 Winds round the word, laughs, calls me 
 
 ^^nfidel!— 
 How can I doubt f So, on and on. 
 
 But yet. 
 For all her dainty ways, she never says, 
 Frankly, I love thee. I am jealous — 
 
 true! 
 Suspicious — true! distrustful of my- 
 self ; — 
 She knows all that. <Ay, and she like- 
 wise knows, 
 A single waking of her morning breath 
 Would blow these vapours off. I would 
 
 not take 
 The barren offer of a heartless hand, 
 If all the Indies cowered under it.> 
 
 Perhaps she loves another"? No; she 
 
 said, 
 "I love you. Count, as well as any man" ; 
 <And laughed, as if she thought that 
 
 precious wit. 
 I turn her nonsense into argument, 
 And think I reason. Shall I give her 
 
 up^ 
 Rail at her heartlessness, and bid her go 
 Back to Ravenna^ But she clings to me. 
 At the least hint of parting.> Ah ! 't is 
 
 sweet, 
 Sweeter than slumber to the lids of pain. 
 To fancy that a shadow of true love 
 May fall on this God-stricken mould of 
 
 woe. 
 From so serene a nature. <Beautiful 
 Is the first vision of a desert brook. 
 Shining beneath its palmy garniture, 
 To one who travels on his easy way; 
 What is it to the blood-shot, aching eye 
 Of some poor wight who crawls with 
 
 gory feet. 
 In famished madness, to its very brink; 
 And throws his sun-scorched limbs upon 
 
 the cool 
 And humid margin of its shady strand. 
 To suck up life at every eager gasp? 
 Such seems Francesca to my thirsting 
 
 soul; 
 Shall I turn off and die?> 
 
 (Enter Pepe.) 
 
 Pepe. Good-morning, cousin! 
 
 Lan. Good-morning to your foolish maj- 
 esty! 
 Pepe. The same to your majestic foolerjM 
 Lan. You compliment! 
 Pepe. I am a troubadour, 
 
 A ballad-monger of fine mongrel ballads, 
 
 And therefore running o'er with elegance. 
 
 Wilt hear my verse? 
 Lan. With patience? 
 
 Pepe. No, with rapture. 
 
 You must go mad — weep, rend your 
 clothes, and roll 
 
 Over and over, like the ancient Greeks, 
 
 When listening to the Iliad. 
 Lan. Sing, then, sing! 
 
 And if you equal Homer in your song. 
 
 Why, roll I must, by sheer compulsion. 
 Pepe. Nay, 
 
 You lack the temper of the fine-eared 
 Greek. 
 
 You will not roll; but that shall not dis- 
 grace 
 
 My gallant ballad, fallen on evil times. 
 
 (Sings.) 
 
364 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 My father had a blue-black head, 
 
 My uncle's head was reddish — maybe, 
 
 My mother's hair was noways red, 
 Sing high ho! the pretty baby! 
 
 Mark the simplicity of that ! 'T is called 
 "The Babe's Confession," spoken just 
 
 before 
 His father strangled Lim. 
 Lan. Most marvellous! 
 
 You struggle with a legend worth your 
 
 art. 
 Pepe. Now to the second stanza. Note 
 
 the hint 
 I drop about the baby's parentage: 
 So delicately too! A maid might sing, 
 And never blush at it. <Girls love these 
 
 songs 
 Of sugared wickedness. They '11 go 
 
 miles about, 
 To say a foul thing in a cleanly way. 
 A decent immorality, my lord, 
 Is art's specific. Get the passions up, 
 But never wring the stomach. > 
 Lan. Triumphant art! 
 
 (Pepe sings.) 
 
 My father combed his blue-black head, 
 My uncle combed his red head — maybe, 
 
 My mother combed my head, and said. 
 Sing high ho! my red-haired baby. 
 
 Lan. Fie, fie! go comb your hair in pri- 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 vate. 
 
 the 
 
 CPE. What ! 
 
 Will you not hear"? Now comes 
 
 tragedy. {Sings.) 
 
 My father tore my red, red head. 
 My uncle tore my father's — maybe, 
 
 My mother tore both till they bled — 
 Sing high ho! your brother's baby! 
 
 Lan. Why, what a hair-rending! 
 
 Pepe. Thence wigs arose; 
 
 A striking epoch in man's history. 
 <But did you notice the concluding line, 
 Sung by the victim's mother"? There's 
 a hit ! 
 
 "Sing high ho! your brother's baby!" 
 
 Which brother's, pray you 9 That's the 
 mystery. 
 
 The adumbration of poetic art, 
 
 And there I leave it to Derplex man- 
 kind.> 
 
 It has a moral, fathers should regard, — 
 
 A black-haired dog breeds not a red- 
 haired cur. 
 
 <Treasure this knowledge : you 're about 
 to wive; 
 
 And no one knows what accident — 
 
 Lan. Peace, fool!> 
 
 So all this cunning thing was wound 
 
 about, 
 To cast a jibe at my deformity? 
 
 {Tears of Pepe's cap.) 
 There lies your cap, the emblem that pro- 
 tects 
 Your head from chastisement. Now, 
 
 Pepe, hark! r 
 
 Of late you 've taken to reviling me ; 
 Under your motley, you have dared to 
 
 jest 
 At God's inflictions. Let me tell you, 
 
 fool. 
 No man e'er lived, to make a second jest 
 At me, before your time! 
 Pepe. Boo! Bloody-bones! 
 
 If you're a coward — which I hardly 
 
 think— 
 You '11 have me flogged, or put into a cell, 
 Or fed to wolves. If you are bold of 
 
 heart. 
 You '11 let me run. Do not ; I '11 work 
 
 you harm ! 
 I, Beppo Pepe, standing as a man, 
 Without my motley, tell you, in plain 
 
 terms, 
 I '11 work you harm — I '11 do you mischief, 
 
 man! 
 Lan. I, Lanciotto, Count of Rimini, 
 
 Will hang you, then. Put on your jin- 
 gling cap ; 
 You please my father. But remember, 
 
 fool. 
 No jests at me! 
 Pepe. I will try earnest next. 
 
 Lan. And I the gallows. 
 Pepe. Well, cry quits, cry quits ! 
 
 I '11 stretch your heart, and you my neck 
 
 — quits, quits! 
 Lan. Go, fool ! Your weakness bounds 
 
 your malice. 
 Pepe. Yes. 
 
 So you all think, you savage gentlemen, 
 Until you feel my sting. Hang, hang 
 
 away! 
 It is an airy, wholesome sort of death. 
 Much to my liking. When I hang, my 
 
 friend. 
 You '11 be chief mourner, I can promise 
 
 you. 
 Hang me! I've quite a notion to be 
 
 hung: 
 I '11 do my utmost to deserve it. Hang ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Lan. I am bemocked on all sides. My 
 
 sad state 
 Has given the licensed and unlicensed 
 
 fool 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 365 
 
 Charter to challenge me at every turn. 
 The jester's laughing bauble blunts my 
 
 sword, 
 His gibes cut deeper than its fearful 
 
 edge ; 
 And I, a man, a soldier, and a prince. 
 Before this motley patchwork of a man. 
 Stand all appalled, as if he were a glass 
 Wherein I saw my own deformity. 
 
 Heaven ! a tear — one little tear — to 
 
 wash 
 This aching dryness of the heart away ! 
 
 {Enter Paolo.) 
 
 <Paolo. What ails the fool*? He passed 
 
 me, muttering 
 The strangest garbage in the fiercest tone. 
 "Ha ! ha !" cried he, "they made a fool of 
 
 me — 
 A motley man, a slave ; as if I felt 
 No stir in me of manly dignity ! 
 Ha! ha! a fool — a painted plaything, 
 
 toy— 
 For men to kick about this dirty world ! — 
 My world as well as theirs. — God's world, 
 
 I trow ! 
 
 1 will get even with them yet — ^lia ! ha ! 
 In the democracy of death we '11 square. 
 Ill crawl and lie beside a king's own 
 
 son; 
 Kiss a young princess, dead lip to dead 
 
 lip; 
 Pull the Pope's nose; and kick down 
 
 Charlemagne, 
 Throne, crown, and all, where the old 
 
 idiot sprawls. 
 Safe as he thinks, rotting in royal state !" 
 And then he laughed and gibbered, as if 
 
 drunk 
 With some infernal ecstasy. 
 Lan. Poor fool! 
 
 That is the groundwork of his malice, 
 
 then, — 
 His conscious difference from the rest of 
 
 men? 
 I, of all men, should pity him the most. 
 Poor Pepe! I'll be kinder. I have 
 
 wronged 
 A feeling heart. Poor Pepe !> 
 Paolo. [What, Lanciotto, art thou] Sad 
 
 agam 
 
 Where has the rapture gone of yester- 
 day"? 
 Lan. Where are the leaves of summer"? 
 Where the snows 
 
 Of last year's Winter? Where the joys 
 and griefs 
 
 That shut our eyes to yesternight's re- 
 pose, 
 
 And woke not on the morrow"? <Joys 
 
 and griefs, 
 Huntsmen and hounds, ye follow us as 
 
 game. 
 Poor panting outcasts of your forest- 
 law! 
 Each cheers the others, — one with wild 
 
 halloos, 
 And one with whines and howls. — A 
 
 dreadful chase. 
 That only closes when horns sound a 
 mort! 
 Paolo. Thus ever up and down !> Arouse 
 yourself. 
 Balance your mind more evenly, and 
 
 hunt 
 For honey in the wormwood. 
 Lan. Or find gall 
 
 Hid in the hanging chalice of the rose : 
 Which think you better"? If my mood 
 
 otfend. 
 We '11 turn to business, <to the empty 
 
 cares 
 That make such pother in our feverish 
 
 life.> 
 When at Ravenna, did you ever hear 
 Of any romance in Francesca's life"? 
 A love-tilt, gallantry, or anything 
 That might have touched her heart"? 
 Paolo. Not lightly even. 
 
 I think her heart as virgin as her hand. 
 Lan. Then there is hope. 
 Paolo. Of what"? 
 
 Lan. Of winning her. 
 
 Paolo. Grammercy! Lanciotto, are you 
 sane"? 
 You boasted yesterday — 
 Lan. And changed to-day. 
 
 Is that so strange"? I always mend the 
 
 fault 
 Of yesterday with wisdom of to-day. 
 She does not love me. 
 Paolo. Pshaw! she marries you: 
 
 'T were proof enough for me, 
 Lan. Perhaps, she loves you. 
 
 Paolo. Me, Lanciotto, me! For mercy's 
 sake, 
 Blot out such thoughts — they madden 
 
 me! What, love — 
 She love — yet marry you ! 
 Lan. It moves you much. 
 
 'T was but a fleeting fancy, nothing more. 
 Paolo. You have such wild conjectures ! 
 Lan. Well, to me 
 
 They seem quite tame; they are my bed- 
 fellows. 
 Think, to a modest woman, what must be 
 The loathsome kisses of an unloved man — 
 A gross, coarse ruffian ! 
 
366 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Paolo. 0, good heavens, forbear ! ^ 
 
 Lan. What shocks you sof 
 
 Paolo. The picture which you draw, 
 
 Wronging yourself by horrid images. 
 Lan. Until she love me, till I know, be- 
 yond 
 The cavil of a doubt, that she is mine — 
 Wholly, past question — do you think 
 
 that I 
 Could so afflict the woman whom I love? 
 Paolo. You love her, Lanciotto! 
 Lan. Next to you. 
 
 Dearer than anything in nature's scope. 
 Paolo. {Aside.) 0! Heaven, that I must 
 bear this! <Yes, and more, — 
 More torture than I dare to think up- 
 on, 
 Spreads out before me with the coming 
 
 years. 
 And holds a record blotted with my 
 
 tears, 
 As that which I must suffer !> 
 Lan. Come, Paolo, [come] 
 
 <Come> help me [to] woo. I need your 
 
 guiding eye, 
 To signal me, if I should sail astray. 
 Paolo. 0! torture, torture! (Aside.) 
 
 1 The following lines in Boker's handwriting 
 were substituted in the acting version of 1853 for 
 the remainder of the scene, which had already been 
 cut as indicated. 
 
 Paolo.^ Oh ! good heaven, forbear ! 
 
 But this is idle talk. {Bells ring.) 
 Your marriage bells 
 
 Are pealing on the air. The guests at- 
 tend. 
 
 Bestir you, if you are not yet attired 
 
 Quite to your liking. 
 Lanciotto. Does he mock me, too"? 
 
 Nay, I more wrong myself in wronging 
 him. (Aside.) 
 
 {Enter Rene, Troubadours and Noble- 
 men.) 
 
 Rene. Bestir yourselves, good gentlemen. 
 The church 
 Awaits your presence, Count Lanciotto, 
 
 come! 
 Can you be slow to win so fair a prized 
 1st Nobleman. Go fetch the bride. Count 
 Paolo. This command 
 Your father bade me bear you. 
 Paolo. Break, my heart ! 
 
 Why stretch the torture through another 
 
 day? (Aside.) 
 Come, brother, hasten! (Exit.) 
 
 Lanciotto. As you will. In sooth, 
 
 You all look joyous. Are you honest, 
 then, 
 
 Lan. You and I, perchance, 
 
 Joining our forces, may prevail at last. 
 They call love like a battle. As for me, 
 I 'm not a soldier equal to such wars. 
 Despite my arduous schooling. <Tutor 
 
 me 
 In the best arts of amorous strategy. 
 I am quite raw, Paolo. Glances, sighs, 
 Sweets of the lip, and arrows of the eye. 
 Shrugs, cringes, compliments, are new 
 
 to me; 
 And I shall handle them with little art.> 
 Will you instruct me*? 
 Paolo. < Conquer for yourself. 
 
 Two captains share one honour: keep it 
 
 all. 
 What if I ask to share the spoils'? 
 Lan. (Laughing.) Ha! ha! 
 
 I '11 trust you, brother. > Let us go to 
 
 her : 
 Francesca is neglected while we. jest. 
 I know not how it is, but your fair face. 
 And noble figure, always cheer me up. 
 More than your words ; there 's healing in 
 
 them, too. 
 For my worst griefs. Dear brother, let 
 
 us in. (Exeunt.) 
 
 To urge this marriage? If I once say, 
 
 no! 
 Not all the fathers that begot their kind 
 Since man was man can shake my uttered 
 
 will. 
 1st. Nobleman. Think of the bride, my 
 
 lord. 
 Rene. Oh! such a slight. 
 
 To hurl your no against her whispered 
 
 yes. 
 Lan. So be it then, I have called in the 
 
 Avorld 
 To counsel with me, and you all approve 
 The love-sick yearnings of my heart. 
 
 God, 
 I trust I do no creature shaped by thee. 
 In thy own image — not in mine — a wrong 
 By mating with the fairest of them all! 
 Marriage! why, marriage is, like birth 
 
 and death 
 The common lot of all. Then why should 
 
 I, 
 
 Who never feared the sternest mood of 
 
 man, 
 Fear woman at her tenderesf? Gently, 
 
 sirs: 
 Let us walk softly to the sacred church; 
 Mindful that other rites than marriages 
 Make it a portal opening into Heaven. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 367 
 
 Scene 2.^ The Same. A Chamber in the 
 Same. Fraxcesca and Ritta discovered 
 at the bridal toilet. 
 
 <RiTTA. {Sings.) 
 
 Ring high, ring high! to earth and sky; 
 
 A lady goes a-wedding; 
 The people shout, the show draws out. 
 And smiles the bride is shedding. 
 
 No bell for you, ye ragged few; 
 
 A beggar goes a-wedding; 
 The people sneer, the thing 's so queer, 
 
 And tears the bride is shedding. 
 
 Ring low, ring low! dull bell of woe. 
 One tone will do for either; 
 
 The lady glad, and beggar sad. 
 Have both lain down together. 
 
 Fbancesca. a mournful ballad! 
 RiT. I scarce knew I sang.> 
 
 I 'm weary of this wreath. These orange- 
 flowers 
 Will never be adjusted to my taste: 
 Strive as I will, they ever look awry. 
 <My fingers ache ! 
 Fran. Not more than my poor head. 
 
 There, leave them so. 
 RiT. That 's better, yet not well. 
 
 Fran. They are but fading things, not 
 worth your pains: 
 They '11 scarce outlive the marriage merri- 
 ment. > 
 Ritta, these flowers are hypocrites; they 
 
 show 
 An outside gayety, yet die within. 
 Minute by minute. You shall see them 
 
 fall, 
 Black with decay, before the rites are 
 o'er. 
 RiT. How beautiful you are ! 
 Fran. Fie, flatterer! 
 
 White silk and laces, pearls and orange- 
 flowers, 
 Would do as much for any one. 
 RiT. No, no ! 
 
 You give them grace, they nothing give 
 
 to you. 
 <Why, after all, you make the wreath 
 
 look well; 
 But somewhat dingy, where it lies against 
 Your pulsing temple, sullen with dis- 
 grace. > 
 Ah! well, your Coun^ should be the 
 
 proudest man 
 That ever led a lady into church, 
 Were he a modern Alexander. Poh ! 
 What are his trophies to a face like that "? 
 
 1 This scene was omitted in the 1882 version, and 
 a portion of it put in Scene 1. 
 
 Fran. I seem^ to please you, Ritta. 
 RiT. Please yourself, 
 
 And you will please me better. You are 
 
 sad: 
 T marked it ever since you saw the Count. 
 I fear the splendor of his victories. 
 And his sweet grace of manner — for, in 
 
 faith. 
 His is the gentlest, grandest character. 
 Despite his — 
 Fran. Well? 
 
 RiT. Despite his — 
 
 Fran. Ritta, what? 
 
 RiT. Despite his difference from Count 
 Paolo, [lady].— 
 
 (Francesca staggers.) 
 
 What is the matter? {Supporting her.) 
 
 Fran. Nothing; mere fatigue. 
 
 Hand me my kerchief. I am better now. 
 
 What were you saying? 
 
 RiT. <That I fear the Count 
 
 Has won your love. 
 Fran. Would that be cause for fear? 
 
 {Laughing.) 
 
 RiT. ! yes, indeed ! Once — long ago — I 
 
 was 
 
 Just fool enough to tangle up my heart 
 
 With one of these same men. 'T was 
 
 terrible ! 
 Morning or evening, waking or asleep, 
 I had no peace. Sighs, groans, and 
 
 standing tears, 
 Counted my moments through the blessed 
 
 day. 
 And then to this there was a dull, strange 
 
 ache 
 Forever sleeping in my breast, — a numb- 
 ing pain, 
 That would not for an instant be forgot. 
 ! but I loved him so, that very feeling 
 Became intolerable. And I believed 
 This false Giuseppe, too, for all the 
 
 sneers. 
 The shrugs and glances, of my intimates. 
 They slandered me and him, yet I be- 
 lieved. 
 He was a noble, and his love to me 
 Was a reproach, a shame, yet I believed. 
 He wearied of me, tried to shake me off, 
 Grew cold and formal, yet I would not 
 
 doubt. 
 ! lady, I was true ! Nor till I saw 
 Giuseppe walk through the cathedral door 
 With Dora, the rich usurer's niece, upon 
 The very arm to which I clung so oft. 
 Did I so much as doubt him. Even 
 
 then — 
 More is my shame — I made excuses for 
 him. 
 
368 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 ''Just this or that bad forced him to the 
 
 course : 
 Perhaps, he loved me yet — a little yet. 
 His fortune, or his family, had driven 
 My poor Giuseppe thus against his heart. 
 The low are sori'y judges for the great. 
 Yes, yes, Giuseppe loved me!" But at 
 
 last 
 I did awake. It might have been with 
 
 less: 
 There was no need of crushing me, to 
 
 break 
 My silly dream up. In the street, it 
 
 chanced, 
 Dora and he went by me, and he 
 
 laughed — 
 A bold, bad laugh — right in my poor pale 
 
 face. 
 And turned and whispered Dora, and she 
 
 laughed. 
 Ah ! then I saw it all. I 've been awake, 
 Ever since then, I warrant you. And 
 
 now 
 I only pray for him sometimes, when 
 
 friends 
 Tell his base actions towards his hapless 
 
 wife. 
 ! I am lying — I pray every night ! 
 
 (Weeps.) 
 Fran. Poor Ritta. (Weeping.) 
 
 RiT. No ! blest Ritta ! Thank kind 
 
 heaven. 
 That kept me spotless when he tempted 
 
 me. 
 And my weak heart was pleading with his 
 
 tongue. 
 Pray, do not weep. You spoil your eyes 
 
 for me. 
 But never love; oh! it is terrible! 
 Fran. I '11 strive against it. 
 RiT. Do: because, my lady. 
 
 Even a husband may be false, you know ; 
 Ay, even to so sweet a wife as you. 
 Men have odd tastes. They '11 surfeit on 
 
 the charms 
 Of Cleopatra, and then turn aside 
 To woo her blackamoor. 'T is so, in 
 
 faith; 
 Or Dora's uncle's gold had ne'er outbid 
 The boundless measure of a love like 
 
 mine. 
 Think of it, lady, to weigh love with gold ! 
 What could be meaner"? 
 Fran. Nothing, nothing, Ritta. 
 
 Though gold 's the standard measure of 
 
 the world. 
 And seems to lighten everything beside. 
 Yet heap the other passions in the 
 
 scale, 
 
 And balance them 'gainst that which gold 
 
 outweighs — 
 Against this love — and you shall see how 
 
 light 
 The most supreme of them are in the 
 
 poise ! 
 I speak by book and history; for love 
 Slights my high fortunes. Under cloth 
 
 of state 
 The urchin cowers from pompous eti- 
 quette, 
 Waiving his function at the scowl of 
 
 power. 
 And seeks the rustic cot to stretch his 
 
 limbs 
 In homely freedom. I fulfill a doom. 
 We who are topmost on this heap of life 
 Are nearer to heaven's hand than you 
 
 below ; 
 And so are used, as ready instruments. 
 To work its purposes. Let envy hide 
 Her witless forehead at a prince's name, 
 And fix her hopes upon a clown's content. 
 You, happy lowly, know not what it is 
 To groan beneath the crowned yoke of 
 
 state. 
 And bear the goadings of the sceptre. 
 
 Ah! 
 Fate drives us onward in a narrow way. 
 Despite our boasted freedom.> 
 
 (Enter Paolo, with Pages hearing torches.) 
 
 Gracious saints! [my lord] 
 What brought you here? 
 Paolo. The bridegroom waits. 
 
 Fran. He does? 
 
 Let him wait on forever ! I '11 not go ! 
 ! dear [dear] Paolo — 
 Paolo. Sister ! 
 
 Fran. It is well. , 
 
 I have been troubled with a sleepless | 
 night. ' 
 
 My brain is wild. I know not what I 
 
 say. 
 Pray, do not call me sister ; it is cold. 
 <I never had a brother, and the name 
 Sounds harshly to me. When you speak 
 
 to me,> 
 Call me Francesca. 
 Paolo. You shall be obeyed. 
 
 Fran. I would not be obeyed. I 'd have 
 you do it 
 Because — because you love me — as a sis- 
 ter — 
 And of your own good-will, not my com- 
 mand. 
 Would please me, — Do you understand? 
 Paolo. Too well! (Aside.) 
 
 'T is a nice difference. 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 369 
 
 Fran. Yet you understand? 
 
 Say that you do. 
 Paolo. I do. 
 
 Fran. That pleases me. 
 
 'T is flattering if our — friends appreciate 
 Our nicer feelings. 
 Paolo. I await you, lady. 
 
 Fran. Ritta, my gloves. — Ah, yes, I have 
 them on; 
 Though I 'm not quite prepared. Ar- 
 range my veil ; 
 It folds too closely. That will do ; retire. 
 (Ritta retires.) 
 [And] So, Count Paolo, you have come, 
 
 hot haste, 
 To lead me to the church, — to have your 
 
 share 
 In my undoing? And you came, in 
 
 sooth, 
 Because they sent you? You are very 
 
 tame! 
 And if they sent, was it for you to come ? 
 Paolo. Lady, I do not understand this 
 scorn. 
 I came, as is my duty, to escort 
 My brother's bride to him. When next 
 
 you 're called, 
 I '11 send a lackey. 
 <rRAN. I have angered you. 
 
 Paolo. With reason: I would not appear 
 to you 
 
 Low and contemptible. 
 Fran. Why not to me? 
 
 Paolo. Lady, I '11 not be catechized. 
 Fran. Ha! Count! 
 
 Paolo. No ! if you press me further, I will 
 say 
 A word to madden you. — Stand still! 
 
 You stray 
 Around the margin of a precipice. 
 I know what pleasure 't is to pluck the 
 
 flowers 
 That hang above destruction, and to gaze 
 • Into the dread abyss, to see such things 
 As may be safely seen. 'T is perilous : 
 The eye grows dizzy as we gaze below, 
 And a wild wish possesses us to spring 
 Into the vacant air. Beware, beware! 
 Lest this unholy fascination grow 
 Too strong to conquer ! 
 Fran. You talk wildly. Count; 
 
 There 's not a gleam of sense in what you 
 
 say; ^ 
 I cannot hit your meaning. 
 Paolo. Lady, come!> 
 
 Fran. Count, you are cruel ! (Weeps.) 
 Paolo. ! no ; I would be kind. 
 
 <But now, while reason over-rides my 
 heart 
 
 And seeming anger plays its braggart 
 
 part — > 
 In heaven's name, come ! 
 Fran. One word — one question more : 
 
 Is it your wish this marriage should pro- 
 ceed? 
 Paolo. It is. 
 Fran. Come on! You shall not take 
 
 my hand : 
 I '11 walk alone — now, and forever ! 
 Paolo. {Taking her hand.) Sister! 
 
 {Exeunt Paolo and Francesca, with 
 
 Pages. ) 
 <RiTTA. ! misery, misery ! — it is plain 
 
 as day — 
 She loves Paolo ! Why will those I love 
 Forever get themselves ensnared, and 
 
 heaven 
 Forever call on me to succor them? 
 Here was the mystery, then — the sighs 
 
 and tears. 
 The troubled slumbers, and the waking 
 
 dreams ! 
 And now she 's walking through the 
 
 chapel-door. 
 Her bridal robe above an aching heart. 
 Dressed up for sacrifice. 'T is terrible ! 
 And yet she '11 smile and do it. Smile, 
 
 for years, 
 Until her heart breaks; and the nurses 
 
 ask 
 The doctor of the cause. He '11 answer 
 
 too. 
 In hard thick Latin, and believe himself. 
 
 ! my dear mistress ! Heaven, pray tor- 
 
 ture me ! 
 Send back Giuseppe, let him ruin me. 
 And scorn me after; but, sweet heaven, 
 
 spare her ! 
 
 1 '11 follow her. ! what a world is this I 
 
 {Exit.)> 
 
 Scene 3. The Same. Interior of the 
 Cathedral. Lanciotto, Francesca, Pa- 
 olo, Malatesta, Guido, Ritta, Pepe, 
 Lords, Knights, Priests, Pages, a hridal- 
 train of Ladies, Soldiers, Citizens, At- 
 tendants, discovered before the High 
 Altar. Organ music. The rites being 
 over, they advance. 
 
 Malatesta. By heaven — 
 Pepe. ! uncle, uncle, you 're in church ! 
 Mal. I '11 break your head, knave ! 
 Pepe. I claim sanctuary. 
 
 Mal. Why, bridegroom, will you never 
 kiss the bride? 
 We all are mad to follow you. 
 
370 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Pepe. Yes, yes ; 
 
 <Here was [Count] Paolo wetting his 
 
 red lips 
 For tlie last minute. Kiss, and> give 
 <him> [us] room. 
 Mal. You heaven-forsaken imp, be quiet 
 
 now! 
 Pepe. Then there 'd be naught worth hear- 
 ing. 
 Mal. Bridegroom, come! 
 
 Pepe. Lord! he don't like it! Hey! — I 
 told you so — 
 He backs at the first step. Does he not 
 
 know 
 His trouble 's just begun'? 
 Lanciotto. Gentle Francesca, 
 
 Custom imposes somewhat on thy lips : 
 I'll make my levy. {Kisses her. The 
 others follow.) (Aside.) Ha! she 
 shrank! I felt 
 Her body tremble, and her quivering lips 
 Seemed dying under mine! I heard a 
 
 sigh, 
 Such as breaks hearts — 0! no, a very 
 
 groan ; 
 And then she turned a sickly, miserable 
 
 look 
 On pallid Paolo, and he shivered, too! 
 There is a mystery hangs around her, — 
 
 ay, 
 
 [And] Paolo knows it, too. — By all the 
 saints, 
 
 I'll make him tell it, at the dagger's 
 point ! 
 
 Paolo! — here! [here!] I do adjure you, 
 brother. 
 
 By the great love I bear you, to reveal 
 
 The secret of Francesca's grief. 
 Paolo. I cannot. 
 
 Lan. She told you nothing? 
 Paolo. Nothing. 
 
 Lan. Not a word'? 
 
 Paolo. Not one. 
 
 Lan. What heard you at Ravenna, then *? 
 Paolo. Nothing. 
 Lan. Here? 
 
 Paolo. Nothing. 
 
 Lan. Not the slightest hint?— 
 
 Don't stammer, man! Speak quick! I 
 am in haste. 
 Paolo. Never. 
 Lan. What know you? 
 
 Paolo. Nothing that concerns 
 
 Your happiness, Lanciotto. If I did. 
 
 Would I not tell unquestioned? 
 Lan. Would you not? 
 
 You ask a question for me : answer it. 
 Paolo. I have. 
 Lan. You juggle, you turn deadly pale. 
 
 Fumble your dagger, stand with head 
 
 lialf round, 
 Tapping your feet. — You dare not look 
 
 at me! 
 By Satan! [now,] Count Paolo, let me 
 
 say. 
 You look much like a full-convicted thief ! 
 Paolo. Brother ! — 
 Lan. Pshaw ! brother ! You deceive me, 
 
 sir: 
 You and that lady have a devil's league. 
 To keep a devil's secret. Is it thus 
 You deal with me? Now, by the light 
 
 above, 
 I 'd give a dukedom for some fair pretext 
 To fly you all! She does not love me? 
 
 Well, 
 I could bear that, and live away from 
 
 her. 
 Love would be sweet, but want of it be- 
 comes 
 An early habit to such men as I. 
 But you — ah ! there 's the sorrow — whom 
 
 I loved 
 An infant in your cradle; you who grew 
 Up in my heart, with every inch you 
 
 gained ; 
 You whom I loved for every quality. 
 Good, bad, and common, in your natural 
 
 stock; 
 Ay, for your very beauty ! It is strange, 
 
 you'll say. 
 For such a crippled horror to do that. 
 Against the custom of his kind ! ! yes, 
 I love, and you betray me! 
 Paolo. Lanciotto, 
 
 This is sheer frenzy. Join your bride. 
 Lan. I '11 not ! 
 
 What, go to her, to feel her very flesh 
 Crawl from my touch? to hear her sigh 
 
 and moan. 
 As if God plagued her? Must I come to 
 
 that? 
 <Must I endure your hellish mysteiy • 
 With my own wife, and roll my eyes away 
 In sentimental bliss ?> No, no! until 
 I go to her, with confident belief 
 In her integrity and candid love, 
 I '11 shun her as a leper. 
 
 [Alarm-bells toll.) 
 Mal. What is that? 
 
 {Enter, hastily, a Messenger in disorder.) 
 
 Messenger. My lord, the Ghibelins are 
 
 up— 
 Lan. And I 
 
 Will put them down again ! I thank thee, 
 
 heaven, 
 For this unlooked-for aid! {Aside.) 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 371 
 
 [GuiDO. My lord, believe 
 
 I had no hand nor heart m this new trial. 
 Malatesta. We do not doubt you. 
 GuiDO. Else I must depart. 
 
 Mal. Pray you remain. He longs to lead 
 the war 
 Despite his protest.] Friend, what force 
 have they? {To Messenger.) 
 
 Lan. It matters not, — nor yet the time, 
 place, cause, 
 Of their rebellion. I would throttle it, 
 Were it a riot, or a drunken brawl ! 
 Mal. Nay, son, your bride — 
 Lan. My bride will pardon me ; 
 
 Bless me, perhaps, as I am going forth : — 
 Thank me, perhaps, if I should ne'er re- 
 turn. _ (Aside.) 
 A soldier's duty has no bridals in it. 
 Paolo. Laneiotto, this is folly. Let me 
 take 
 Your usual place of honour. 
 Lan. [Laughing.) Ha! ha! ha! 
 What! thou, a tilt-yard soldier, lead my 
 
 troops ! 
 My wife will ask it shortly. Not a word 
 Of opposition from the new-made bride? 
 Nay, she looks happier. 0! accursed 
 
 day. 
 That I was mated to an empty heart! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 <Mal. But, son — 
 LAN. Well, father? 
 
 Pepe. Uncle, let him go. 
 
 He '11 find it cooler on a battle-field 
 Than in his — 
 Lan. Hark ! the fool speaks oracles.> 
 
 You, soldiers, who are used to follow me. 
 And front our charges, emulous to bear 
 The shock of battle on your forward 
 
 arms, — 
 Why stand ye in amazement? Do your 
 
 swords 
 Stick to their scabbards with inglorious 
 
 rust? 
 Or has repose so weakened your big 
 
 hearts. 
 That you can dream with trumpets at 
 
 your ears? 
 Out wdth your steel! It shames me to 
 
 behold 
 
 Such tardy welcome to my war-worn 
 
 blade! (Draws.) 
 
 (The Knights and Soldiers draw.) 
 
 Ho! draw our forces out! Strike camp, 
 
 sound drums. 
 And set us on our marches! As I live, 
 I pity the next foeman who relies 
 On me for mercy ! Farewell ! to you 
 all— 
 
 To all alike — a soldier's short farewell! 
 
 (Going.) 
 
 (Paolo stands before him.) 
 
 Out of my way, thou juggler! (Exit.) 
 
 Paolo. He is gone 1 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 <ScENE 1.1 The Same. The Garden of 
 the Castle. 
 
 (Enter Pepe, singing.) 
 
 Pepe. 'T is jolly to walk in the shady green- 
 wood 
 With a damsel by your side; 
 'T is jolly to walk from the chapel- 
 door, 
 With the hand of your pretty bride ; 
 'T is jolly to rest your weary head, 
 When life runs low and hope is fled, 
 
 On the heart where you confide: 
 'T is jolly, jolly, jolly, they say, 
 They say — but I never tried. 
 
 Nor shall I ever till they dress their girls 
 In motley suits, and pair us, to increase 
 The race of fools. 'T would be a noble 
 
 thing, 
 A motley woman, had she wit enough 
 To bear the bell. But there 's the misery : 
 You may make princes out of any stuff; 
 Fools come by nature. She '11 make fifty 
 
 kings — 
 Good, hearty tyrants, sound, cruel gov- 
 ernors — 
 For one fine fool. There is Paolo, now, 
 A sweet-faced fellow with a wicked 
 
 heart — 
 Talk of a flea, and you begin to scratch. 
 Lo! here he comes. And there's fierce 
 
 crookback's bride 
 Walking beside him — 0, how gingerly ! 
 Take care, my love ! that is the very pace 
 We trip to hell with. Hunchback is 
 
 away — 
 That was a fair escape for you; but, 
 
 then. 
 The devil's ever with us, and that's 
 
 worse. 
 See, the Ravenna gigglet. Mistress Ritta, 
 And melancholy as a cow. — How's this? 
 I '11 step aside, and watch you, pretty 
 
 folks. 
 
 (Hides behind the bushes.) 
 
 (Enter Paolo and Francesca, followed by 
 
 1 In the 1853 version, this entire scene was 
 omitted. It was restored in the 1882 version. 
 
372 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 RiTTA. Re seats himself in an arhor, and 
 reads.) 
 Francesca. Ritta. 
 RiTTA. My lady. 
 
 Fran. You look tired. 
 
 RiT. I 'm not. 
 
 Fran. Go to your chamber. 
 RiT. I would rather stay, 
 
 If it may please you. I require a walk 
 And the fresh atmosphere of breathing 
 
 flowers, 
 To stir my blood. I am not very well. 
 Fran. I knew it, child. Go to your cham- 
 ber, dear. 
 Paolo has a book to read to me. 
 RiT. What, the romance? I should so love 
 to hear! 
 I dote on poetry; and Count Paolo 
 Sweetens the Tuscan with his mellow 
 
 voice. 
 I 'm weary now, quite weary, and would 
 rest. 
 Fran. Just now you wished to walk. 
 RiT. Ah! did I so? 
 
 Walking-, or resting, I would stay with 
 you. 
 Fran. The Count objects. He told me, 
 yesterday. 
 That you were restless while he read to 
 
 me; 
 And stirred your feet amid the grass, and 
 
 sighed, 
 And yawned, until he almost paused. 
 RiT. Indeed 
 
 I will be quiet. 
 Fran. But he will not read. 
 
 RiT. Let me go ask him. 
 
 {Runs toward Paolo.) 
 Fran. Stop ! Come hither, Ritta. 
 
 {She returns.) 
 I saw your new embroidery in the hall, — 
 The needle in the midst of Argus' eyes; 
 It should be finished. 
 RiT. I will bring it here. — 
 
 0, no ! my finger 's sore ; I cannot work. 
 Fran. Go to your room. 
 RiT. Let me remain, I pray. 
 
 'T is better, lady; you may wish for me; 
 I know you will be sorry if I go. 
 Fran. I shall not, girl. Do as I order 
 you. 
 Will you be headstrong? 
 RiT. Do you wish it, then? 
 
 Fran. Yes, Ritta. 
 RiT. Yet you made pretexts enough. 
 
 Before you ordered. 
 Fran. You are insolent. 
 
 Will you remain against my will? 
 RiT. Yes, lady ; 
 
 Rather than not remain. 
 Fran. Ha ! impudent ! 
 
 RiT. You wrong me, gentle mistress. 
 Love like mine 
 Does not ask questions of propriety. 
 Nor stand on manners. I would do you 
 
 good. 
 Even while you smote me; I would push 
 
 you back. 
 With my last effort, from the crumbling 
 
 edge 
 Of some high rock o'er which you toppled 
 me. 
 Fran. What do you mean? 
 RiT. I know. 
 
 Fran. Know what? 
 
 RiT. Too much 
 
 Pray, do not ask me. 
 Fran. Speak ! 
 
 RiT. I know — dear lady, 
 
 Be not offended — 
 Fran. Tell me, simpleton ! 
 
 RiT. Y^ou know I worship you; you know 
 I 'd walk 
 Straight into ruin for a whim of yours; 
 You know — 
 Fran. I know you act the fool. Talk 
 
 sense ! 
 RiT. I know Paolo loves you. 
 Fran. Should he not ? 
 
 He is my brother. 
 RiT. More than brother should. 
 
 Fran. Ha ! are you certain ? 
 RiT. Yes, of more than that. 
 
 Fran. Of more ? 
 
 RiT. Yes, lady ; for you love him, too. 
 
 I Ve said it ! Fling me to the carrion 
 
 crows, 
 Kill me by inches, boil me in the pot 
 Count Guido promised me, — but, 0, be- 
 ware ! 
 Back, while you may ! Make me the suf- 
 ferer. 
 But save yourself! 
 Fran. Now, are you not ashamed 
 
 To look me in the face with that bold 
 
 brow ? 
 I am amazed ! 
 RiT. I am a woman, lady; 
 
 I too have been in love; I know its ways. 
 Its arts, and its deceits. Your frowning 
 
 face. 
 And seeming indignation, do not cheat. 
 Your heart is in my hand. 
 Paolo. {Calls.) Francesca! 
 
 Fran. Hence,, 
 
 Thou wanton-hearted minion ! hence, I 
 
 say !— 
 And never look me in the face again ! — 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 373 
 
 Hence, thou insulting slave ! 
 RiT. {Clinging to her.) lady, lady — 
 
 Fran. Begone. {Throws her o/f.) 
 
 RiT. I have no friends — no one to love — 
 
 0, spare me ! 
 Fran. Hence ! 
 
 RiT. Was it for this I loved — 
 
 Cared for you more than my own hap- 
 piness — 
 Ever at heart your slave — without a wish 
 For greater recompense than your stray 
 smiles ? 
 Paolo. {Calls.) Franeesca! 
 Fran. Hurry ! 
 
 RiT. I am gone. Alas! 
 
 God bless you, lady! God take care of 
 
 you, 
 When I am far away ! Alas, alas ! 
 
 {Exit weeping.) 
 Fran. Poor girl! — but were she all the 
 world to me. 
 And held my future in her tender grasp, 
 I 'd cast her off, without a second thought. 
 To savage death, for dear Paolo's sake! 
 Paolo, hither ! Now he comes to me ; 
 I feel his presence, though I see him not. 
 Stealing upon me like the fervid glow 
 Of morning sunshine. Now he comes too 
 
 near — 
 He touches me — heaven! 
 Paolo. Our poem waits. 
 
 I have been reading while you talked with 
 
 Ritta. 
 How did you get her off? 
 Fran. By some device. 
 
 She will not come again. 
 Paolo. I hate the girl : 
 
 She seems to stand between me and the 
 
 light. 
 And now for the romance. Where left 
 we off? 
 Fran. Where Lancelot and Queen Gue- 
 nevra strayed 
 Along the forest, in the youth of May. 
 You marked the figure of the birds that 
 
 sang 
 Their melancholy farewell to the sun — 
 Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified — 
 Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's 
 
 grave. 
 Was it not there? No, no; 'twas where 
 
 they sat 
 Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish 
 That neither uttered. 
 Paolo. {Turning over the hook.) Here 
 it is. {Beads.) 
 
 "So sat 
 Guenevra and Sir Lancelot" — 'T were 
 well 
 
 To follow them in that. 
 
 {They sit upon a hank.) 
 Fran. I listen : read. 
 
 Nay, do not; I can wait, if you desire. 
 
 Paolo. My dagger frets me; let me take it 
 
 off. {Rises.) 
 
 In thoughts of love, we '11 lay our 
 
 weapons by. 
 
 {Lays aside his dagger, and sits again.) 
 
 Draw closer: I am weak in voice to-day. 
 
 {Reads.) 
 "So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot, 
 
 Under the blaze of the descending sun, 
 But all his cloudy splendors were forgot. 
 Each bore a thought, the only secret 
 one. 
 Which each had hidden from the other's 
 heart. 
 That with sweet mystery well-nigh 
 overrun. 
 Anon, Sir Lancelot, with gentle start, 
 
 Put by the ripples of her golden hair, 
 Gazing upon her with his lips apart. 
 He marvelled human thing could be so 
 fair; 
 Essayed to speak ; but, in the very deed. 
 His words expired of self-betrayed 
 despair. 
 Little she helped him, at his direst need. 
 Roving her eyes o'er hill, and wood, 
 and sky. 
 Peering intently at the meanest weed; 
 Ay, doing aught but look in Lancelot's 
 eye. 
 Then, with the small pique of her velvet 
 shoe. 
 Uprooted she each herb that blossomed 
 nigh; 
 Or strange wild figures in the dust she 
 drew; 
 Until she felt Sir Lancelot's arm 
 around 
 Her waist, upon her cheek his breath like 
 dew. 
 While through his fingers timidly he 
 wound 
 Her shining locks; and, haply, when he 
 brushed 
 Her ivory skin, Guenevra nearly 
 swound : 
 For where he touched, the quivering sur- 
 face blushed, 
 Firing her blood with most contagious 
 heat. 
 Till brow, cheek, neck, and bosom, all 
 were flushed. 
 Each heart was listening to the other 
 beat. 
 As twin-born lilies on one golden stalk, 
 
374 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Drooping with Summer, in warm lan- 
 guor meet, 
 So met their laces. Down the forest 
 walk 
 Sir Lancelot looked — he looked east, * 
 west, north, south — 
 No soul was nigh, his dearest wish to 
 balk : 
 She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the 
 mouth." {Kisses Francesca.) 
 
 I '11 read no more ! 
 
 {Starts up, dashing down i'he hook.) 
 
 Fran. Paolo ! 
 
 Paolo. I am mad ! 
 
 The torture of unnumbered hours is o'er, 
 
 The straining cord has broken, and my 
 
 heart 
 Riots in free delirium ! 0, heaven ! 
 I struggled with it, but it mastered me ! 
 I fought against it, but it beat me down ! 
 I prayed, I w^pt, but heaven was deaf 
 
 to me; 
 And every tear rolled backward on my 
 
 heart. 
 To blight and poison! 
 Frax. And dost thou regret 1 
 
 Paolo. The love*? No, no! I'd dare it 
 all again, 
 Its direst agonies and meanest fears, 
 For that one kiss. Away with fond re- 
 morse ! 
 Here, on the brink of ruin, we two stand ; 
 Lock hands wdth me, and brave the fear- 
 ful plunge! 
 Thou canst not name a terror so profound 
 That I will look or falter from. Be 
 
 bold ! 
 I know thy love — I knew it long ago — 
 Trembled and fled from it. But now I 
 
 clasp 
 The peril to my breast, and ask of thee 
 A kindred desperation. 
 Fran. {Throwing herself into his arms.) 
 
 Take me all, — 
 Body and soul. The women of our clime 
 Do never give away but half a heart : 
 I have not part to give, part to with- 
 hold. 
 In selfish safety. When I saw thee first. 
 Riding alone amid a thousand men, 
 Sole in the lustre of thy majesty, 
 And Guido da Polenta said to me, 
 "Daughter, behold thy husband!" with a 
 
 bound 
 My heart went forth to meet thee. He 
 
 deceived. 
 He lied to me — ah ! that 's the aptest 
 
 word — 
 And I believed. Shall I not turn again, 
 
 And meet him, craft with craft? Paolo, 
 
 love, 
 Thou 'rt dull — thou 'rt dying like a feeble 
 
 fire 
 Before the sunshine. Was it but a blaze, 
 A flash of glory, and a long, long night ? 
 Paolo. No, darling, no! You could not 
 
 bend me back; 
 My course is onward; but my heart is 
 
 sick 
 With coming fears. 
 Fran. Away with them ! Must I 
 
 Teach thee to love*? and reinform the ear 
 Of thy spent passion with some sorcery 
 To raise the chilly dead ? 
 Paolo. Thy lips have not 
 
 A sorceiy to rouse me as this spell. 
 
 {Kisses her.) 
 
 Fran. I give thy kisses back to thee again : 
 
 And, like a spendthrift, only ask of thee 
 
 To take while I can give. 
 
 Paolo. Give, give forever! 
 
 Have w^e not touched the height of human 
 
 bliss? 
 And if the sharp rebound may hurl us 
 
 back 
 Among the prostrate, did we not soar 
 
 once ? — 
 Taste heavenly nectar, banquet with the 
 
 gods 
 On high Olympus ? If they cast us, now. 
 Amid the furies, shall we not go down 
 With rich ambrosia clinging to our lips. 
 And richer memories settled in our 
 
 hearts? 
 Francesca. 
 Fran. Love ? 
 
 Paolo. The sun is sinking low 
 
 Upon the ashes of his fading pyre, 
 And gray possesses the eternal blue; 
 The evening star is stealing after him. 
 Fixed, like a beacon, on the prow of 
 
 night ; ^ 
 The world is shutting up its heavy eye 
 Upon the stir and bustle of to-day ; — 
 On what shall it awake? 
 Fran. On love that gives 
 
 Joy at all seasons, changes night to day. 
 Makes sorrow smile, plucks out the 
 
 barbed dart 
 Of moaning anguish, pours celestial balm 
 In all the gaping wounds of earth, and 
 
 lulls 
 The nervous fancies of unsheltered fear 
 Into a slumber sweet as infancy's ! 
 On love that laughs at the impending- 
 sword. 
 And puts aside the shield of caution : 
 
 cries, 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 375 
 
 To all its enemies, "Come, strike me 
 
 now! — 
 Now, while I bold my kingdom, while my 
 
 crown 
 Of amaranth and myrtle is yet green, 
 Undimmed, un withered; for I cannot 
 
 tell 
 That I shall e'er be happier!" Dear 
 
 Paolo, 
 Would you lapse down from misery to 
 
 death. 
 Tottering through sorrow and infirmity'? 
 Or would you perish at a single blow. 
 Cut off amid your wildest revelry. 
 Falling among the wine-cups and the 
 
 flowers. 
 And tasting Bacchus when your drowsy 
 
 sense 
 First gazed around eternity? Come, 
 
 love! 
 The present whispers joy to us; we'll 
 
 hear 
 The voiceless future when its turn arrives, 
 Paolo. Thou art a siren. Sing, forever 
 
 sing; 
 Hearmg thy voice, I cannot tell what fate 
 Thou hast provided when the song is 
 
 o'er ; — 
 But I will venture it. 
 Feaist. In, in, my love! 
 
 {Exeunt. ) 
 
 (Pepe steals from behind the hushes.) 
 
 Pepe. 0, brother Lanciotto! — 0, my 
 
 stars ! — 
 If this thing lasts, I simply shall go 
 
 mad! 
 {Laughs, and rolls on the ground.) 
 
 Lord ! to think my pretty lady puss 
 Has tricks like this, and we ne'er know 
 
 of it! 
 
 1 teU you, Lanciotto, you and I 
 Must have a patent for our foolery! 
 "She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the 
 
 mouth !" — 
 
 There 's the beginning ; where 's the end 
 of it? 
 
 poesy ! debauch thee only once. 
 
 And thou 'rt the greatest wanton in the 
 world ! 
 
 cousin Lanciotto — ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 {Laughing.) 
 
 Can a man die of laughter? Here we 
 sat; 
 
 Mistress Francesca so demure and calm; 
 
 Paolo grand, poetical, sublime! — 
 
 Eh! what is this? Paolo's dagger? 
 good ! 
 
 Here is more proof, sweet cousin broken- 
 back. 
 
 "In thoughts of love, we '11 lay our 
 weapons by !" 
 
 {Mimicking Paolo.) 
 
 That 's very pretty ! Here 's its counter- 
 part : 
 
 In thoughts of hate, we '11 pick them up 
 again! {Takes the dagger.) 
 
 Now for my soldier, now for crook- 
 backed Mars! 
 
 Ere long all Rimini will be ablaze. 
 
 He '11 kill me ? Yes : what then ? That 's 
 nothing new, 
 
 Except to me : I '11 bear for custom's sake. 
 
 More blood will follow; like the royal 
 sun, 
 
 I shall go down in purple. Fools for 
 luck ; 
 
 "IChe proverb holds like iron. I must run, 
 
 Ere laughter smother me. — 0, ho, ho, ho ! 
 {Exit, laughing.)'^ 
 
 Scene 2. A camp among the Hills. Be- 
 fore Lanciotto's tent. 
 
 {Enter, from the tent, Lanciotto.) 
 
 Lanciotto. The camp is strangely quiet. 
 
 Not a sound 
 Breaks nature's high solemnity. <The 
 
 sun 
 Repeats again his every-day decline ; 
 Yet all the world looks sadly after him. 
 As if the customary sight were new. 
 Yon moody sentinel goes slowly by, 
 Through the thick mists of evening, with 
 
 his spear 
 Trailed at a funeral hold. Long shadows 
 
 creep 
 From thing beyond the furthest range of 
 
 sight. 
 Up to my very feet. These mystic 
 
 shades 
 Are of the earth; the light that causes 
 
 them, 
 And teaches us the quick comparison, 
 Is all from heaven. Ah! restless man 
 
 might crawl 
 With patience through his shadowy des- 
 tiny, 
 If he were senseless to the higher light 
 Towards which his soul aspires. > How 
 
 grand and vast 
 Is yonder show of heavenly pageantry ! 
 How mean and narrow is the earthly 
 
 stand 
 From which we gaze on it! <Magnifi- 
 
 cent, 
 God, art thou amid the sunsets ! Ah,> 
 
376 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 What heart in Rimini is softened now, 
 Towards my defects, by this grand 
 
 spectacle ? 
 Perchance, [deai'] Paolo now forgives the 
 
 wrong' 
 Of my hot spleen. Perchance, Francesca 
 
 now 
 Wishes me back, and turns a tenderer eye 
 On my poor person and ill-mannered 
 
 ways; 
 Fashions excuses for me, schools her heart 
 Through duty into love, and ponders o'er 
 The sacred meaning in the name of wife. 
 Dreams, dreams! Poor fools, we squan- 
 der love away 
 On thankless borrowers; when bankrupt 
 
 quite. 
 We sit and wonder of their honesty. 
 Love, take a lesson from the usurer, 
 And never lend but on security. 
 <Captain ! 
 
 (Enter a Captain.) 
 
 Captain. My lord. 
 
 Lan. They worsted us to-day. 
 
 Capt. Not much, my lord. 
 Lan. With little loss, indeed. 
 
 Their strength is in position. Mark you, 
 
 sir. 
 (Draws on the ground with his sword.) 
 Here is the pass; it opens towards the 
 
 plain, 
 With gradual widening, like a lady's fan. 
 The hills protect their flanks on either 
 
 hand; 
 And, as you see, we cannot show more 
 
 front 
 Than their advance may give us. Then, 
 
 the rocks 
 Are sorry footing for our horse. Just 
 
 here. 
 Close in against the left-hand hills, I 
 
 marked 
 A strip of wood, extending down the 
 
 gorge : 
 Behind that wood dispose your force ere 
 
 dawn. 
 I shall begin the onset, then give ground, 
 And draw them out; while you, behind the 
 
 wood, 
 Must steal along, until their flank and 
 
 rear 
 Oppose your column. Then set up a 
 
 shout. 
 Burst from the wood, and drive them on 
 
 our spears. 
 They have no outpost in the wood, I 
 
 know; 
 
 'T is too far from their centre. On the 
 
 morrow. 
 When they are flushed with seeming vic- 
 tory. 
 And think my whole division in full rout, 
 They will not pause to scrutinize the 
 
 wood; 
 So you may enter boldly. We will use 
 The heart to-day's repulse has given to 
 
 them, 
 For our advantage. Do you understand? 
 Capt. Clearly, my lord. 
 Lan. If they discover you. 
 
 Before you gain your point, wheel, and 
 
 retreat 
 Upon my rear. If your attack should 
 
 fail 
 To strike them with a panic, and they 
 
 turn 
 In too great numbers on your small com- 
 mand. 
 Scatter your soldiers through the wood: 
 Let each seek safety for himself. 
 Capt. I see> 
 
 Lan. [What, Marco! ho! (To Page who 
 enters.)] 
 Have Pluto shod; he cast a shoe to-day: 
 Let it be done at once. My helmet, too. 
 Is worn about the lacing ; look to that. 
 < Where is my armorer? 
 Capt. At his forge. 
 
 Lan. Your charge 
 
 Must be at sunrise — just at sunrise, sir — 
 Neither before nor after. You must 
 
 march 
 At moonset, then, to gain the point ere 
 
 dawn. 
 
 That is enough. 
 
 Capt. Good-even! (Going.) 
 
 Lan. Stay, stay, stay!> 
 
 My sword-hilt feels uneasy in my grasp; 
 
 (Gives his sword.) 
 
 Have it repaired; and grind the point. 
 
 < Strike hard! 
 I 'U teach these Ghibelins a lesson. 
 
 (Loud laughter within.) 
 What is that clamor? Ha !> 
 
 (Enter hastily Pepe, tattered and travel- 
 stained.) 
 
 Pepe. News from Rimini ! 
 
 (Falls exhausted.) 
 
 Lan. Is that you, Pepe? <Captain, a 
 
 good-night! (Exii? Captain. )> 
 
 I never saw you in such straits before. 
 
 Wit without words ! 
 
 Pepe. That 's better than— !— !— 
 
 (Panting.) 
 Words without wit. 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 377 
 
 Lan. (Laughing.) You'll die a jester, 
 
 Pepe. 
 Pepe. If so, I '11 leave the needy all my wit. 
 You, you shall have it, cousin. — ! ! ! 
 
 (Panting.) 
 
 Those devils in the hills, the Ghibelins, 
 
 Ran me almost to death. My lord — ha! 
 
 ha! (Laughing.) 
 
 It all comes back to me — ! Lord 'a 
 
 mercy — 
 The garden, and the lady, and the Count ! 
 Not to forget the poetry — ho! ho! 
 
 (Laughing.) 
 ! cousin Lanciotto, such a wife. 
 And such a brother! Hear me, ere I 
 burst ! 
 Lan. You 're pleasant, Pepe ! 
 Pepe. Am I ?— Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 
 (Laughing.) 
 You ought to be; your wife's a — 
 LAN. What^ 
 
 Pepe. A lady — 
 
 A lady, I suppose, like all the rest. 
 I am not in their secrets. Such a fellow 
 As [fine] Count Paolo is your man for 
 
 that. 
 I '11 tell you something, if you '11 swear a 
 bit. 
 Lan. Swear whaf? 
 
 Pepe. First, swear to listen till the 
 
 end. — 
 ! you may rave, curse, howl, and tear 
 
 your hair; 
 But you must listen. 
 Lan. For your jest's sake? Well. 
 
 Pepe. You swear f 
 Lan. I do. 
 
 Pepe. Next, swear to know the truth. 
 
 Lan. The truth of a fool's story ! 
 Pepe. You mistake. 
 
 Now, look you, cousin! You have often 
 
 marked — 
 I know, for I have seen — strange glances 
 
 Between [Count] Paolo and your lady 
 wife. — 
 Lan. Ha! Pepe! 
 Pepe. Now I touch you to the quick. 
 
 I know the reason of those glances. 
 Lan. Ha ! 
 
 Speak ! or I '11 throttle you ! 
 
 (Seizes him.) 
 
 Pepe. Your way is odd. 
 
 Let go my <gullet> [throat then] and 
 
 I '11 talk you deaf. 
 Swear my last oath: only to know the 
 truth. 
 Lan. But that may trouble me. 
 Pepe, Your honour lies — 
 
 Your precious honour, cousin Chivalry — 
 Lies bleeding -with a terrible great gash. 
 Without its knowledge. Swear! 
 Lan. My honour"? Speak! 
 
 Pepe. You swear ■? 
 
 Lan. I swear. Your news is ill, per- 
 chance*? 
 Pepe. III! would I bring it else"? Am I 
 inclined 
 To run ten leagues with happy news for 
 
 you? 
 0, Lord, that's jolly! 
 Lan. You infernal imp, 
 
 Out with your story, ere I strangle you ! 
 Pepe. Then take a fast hold on your two 
 great oaths, 
 To steady tottering manhood, and attend. 
 Last eve, about this hour, I took a stroll 
 Into the garden. — ^Are you listening, 
 cousin ? 
 Lan. I am all ears. 
 
 Pepe. Why, so an ass might say. 
 
 Lan. Will you be serious? 
 
 Pepe. 
 
 Wait a while, and we 
 
 Will both be graver than a church-yard. 
 
 Well, 
 Down the long walk, towards me, came 
 
 your wife. 
 With [the] Count Paolo walking at her 
 
 side. 
 It was a pretty sight, and so I stepped 
 Into the bushes. Ritta came with them; 
 And lady Fanny had a grievous time 
 To get her off. That made me curious. 
 Anon, the pair sat down upon a bank. 
 To read a poem ; — the tenderest romance. 
 All about Lancelot and Queen Guenevra. 
 The Count read well — I '11 say that much 
 
 for him — 
 Only he stuck too closely to the text. 
 Got too much wrapped up in the poesy. 
 And played Sir Lancelot's actions, out 
 
 and out. 
 On Queen Francesca. Nor in royal parts 
 Was she so backward. When he struck 
 
 the line — 
 "She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the 
 
 mouth;" 
 Your lady smiled, and, by the saints 
 
 above. 
 Count Paolo carried out the sentiment ! 
 Can I not move you? 
 Lan. With such trash as this? 
 
 And so you ran ten leagues to tell a lie ? — 
 Run home again. 
 Pepe. I am not ready yet. 
 
 After the kiss, up springs our amorous 
 
 Count, 
 Flings Queen Guenevra and Sir Lancelot 
 
378 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Straight to the devil; growls and snaps 
 
 liis teeth, 
 Laughs, weeps, howls, dances ; talks about 
 
 his love, 
 His madness, suffering, and the Lord 
 
 knows what, 
 Bullying the lady like a thief. But she, 
 All this hot time, looked cool and mis- 
 chievous ; 
 <Gave him his halter to the very end,> 
 And when he calmed a little, up she steps 
 And takes him by the band. You should 
 
 have seen 
 How tame the furious fellow was at once ! 
 How he came down, snivelled, and cowed 
 
 to her. 
 And fell to kissing her again ! It was 
 A perfect female triumph ! Such a scene 
 A man might pass through life and never 
 
 see. 
 More sentiment then followed, — ^buckets 
 
 full 
 Of washy words, not worth my memory. 
 But all the while she wound his Countship 
 
 up. 
 Closer and closer; till at last — tu! — 
 
 wit !— 
 She scoops him up, and off she carries 
 
 him. 
 Fish for her table! <Follow, if you 
 
 can; 
 My fancy fails me.> All this time you 
 
 smile ! 
 Lan. You should have been a poet, not a 
 
 fool. 
 Pepe. I might be both. 
 Lan. You made no record, then? 
 
 Must this fine story die for want of ink? 
 Left you no trace in writing? 
 Pepe. None. 
 
 Lan. Alas ! 
 
 Then you have told it? 'T is but stale, 
 
 my boy ; 
 I 'm second hearer. 
 Pepe. You are first, in faith. 
 
 Lan. In truth? 
 Pepe. In sadness. You have got it 
 
 fresh. 
 <I had no time; I itched to reach j^our 
 
 ear.> 
 Now go to Rimini, and see yourself. 
 You '11 find them in the garden. Lovers 
 
 are 
 Like walking ghosts, they always haunt 
 
 the spot 
 Of their misdeeds. 
 Lan-. But have I heard you out? 
 
 You told me all? 
 Pepe. All; I have nothing left. 
 
 Lan. Why, you brain-stricken idiot, to 
 trust 
 Your story and your body in my grasp ! 
 
 {Seizes him.) 
 Pepe. Unhand me, cousin ! 
 Lan. When I drop you, Pepe, 
 
 You '11 be at rest. 
 Pepe. I will betray you — ! 
 
 Lan. Not till the judgment day. 
 
 {They struggle.) 
 Pepe. {Drawing Paolo's dagger.) Take 
 
 that! 
 Lan. {Wresting the dagger from him.) 
 Well meant, 
 But poorly done ! Here 's my return. 
 
 {Stabs him.) 
 
 Pepe. 0! beast! {Falls.) 
 
 This I expected; it is naught — Ha! ha! 
 
 {Laughing.) 
 I '11 go to sleep ; but you — what you will 
 
 bear ! 
 Hunchback, come here ! 
 <Lan. Fie ! say your prayers. > 
 
 Pepe. Hark, hark ! 
 
 [Your brother] <Paolo> hired mc, 
 swine, to murder you. 
 Lan. That is a lie; you never cared for 
 
 gold. 
 Pepe. He did, I say! I'll swear it, by 
 heaven ! 
 Do you believe me? 
 Lan. No ! 
 
 Pepe. You lie! you lie! 
 
 Look at the dagger, cousin — Ugh! — 
 good-night! {Dies.) 
 
 Lan. ! horrible ! It was a gift of 
 mine — 
 He never laid it by. Speak, speak, fool, 
 speak! {Shakes the body.) 
 
 How didst thou get it ? — speak ! Thou 'rt 
 
 warm — not dead — 
 Thou hast a tongue — ! speak ! Come, 
 
 come, a jest — 
 Another jest from those thin mocking 
 
 lips! 
 Call me a cripple — ^hunchback — what thou 
 
 wilt; 
 But speak to me! He cannot. Now, by 
 
 heaven, 
 I '11 stir this business till I find the truth ! 
 Am I a fool? It is a silly lie. 
 Coined by yon villain with his last base 
 
 breath. 
 What ho! without there! 
 
 {Enter Captain and Soldiers.) 
 
 Captain. Did you call, my lord? 
 
 Lan. Did Heaven thunder? Are you 
 deaf, you louts? 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 379 
 
 Saddle my horse ! <Wliat are you star- 
 ing at ? 
 Is it your first look at a dead man'? 
 
 Well, 
 Then look your fill. Saddle my horse, I 
 
 say !> 
 Black Pluto — stir! Bear that assassin 
 
 hence. 
 Chop him to pieces, if he move. My 
 horse ! 
 <Capt. My lord, he 's shoeing. 
 Lan. Did I ask for shoes'? 
 
 I want my horse. Run, fellow, run! 
 
 Unbarbed — 
 My lightest harness on his back. Fly, 
 fly! {Exit a Soldier,) 
 
 {The others pick up i'he body.) 
 Ask him, I pray you, if he did not lie ! 
 Capt. The man is dead, my lord. 
 Lan. {Laughing.) Then do not ask 
 
 him !> 
 
 {Exeunt Soldiers with the body.) 
 By Jupiter, I shall go mad, I think ! 
 
 {Walks about,) 
 Capt. Something disturbs him. Do you 
 mark the spot 
 Of purple on his brow"? 
 
 {Apart to a Soldier.) 
 
 Soldier. Then blood must flow. 
 
 Lan. Boy, boy! {Enter a Page.) My 
 
 cloak and riding-staff. Quick, quick ! 
 
 How you all lag! {Exit Page.) I ride 
 
 to Rimini. 
 Skirmish to-morrow. Wait till my re- 
 turn — 
 I shall be back at sundown. You shall 
 
 see 
 What slaughter is then ! 
 
 1 In the acting version of 1853, the following 
 speech of Lanciotto occupies the rest of the scene. 
 
 (Laneiotto continues) 
 I wish no guard, I ride alone. My 
 
 Paolo— 
 A boy whom I have trotted on my knee ; 
 And young Francesca with her angel 
 
 face ! — 
 Ah, but I saw the signals of your eyes 
 Made and returned. Now, if there be one 
 
 grain 
 Of solid truth in all this hideous lie, 
 I cannot answer for the work thou 'It do 
 {To the dagger.) 
 Thou edged and pointed instrument of 
 
 wrath 
 Laid in my hand by Justice! Glorious 
 
 race 
 Of iron men, and women far too proud 
 
 Capt. 
 
 Ho! turn out a guard! — 
 
 Lan. I wish no guard ; I ride alone. 
 
 ^ <C. {Re-enter Page, with a cloak and staff.) 
 
 {Taking them.) Well done! 
 Thou art a pretty boy. — And now my 
 horse ! 
 
 {Eni^er a Soldier.) 
 
 Soldier. Pluto is saddled — 
 
 Lai^. 'T is a damned black lie ! 
 
 Sol. Indeed, my lord — 
 
 Lax. ! comrade, pardon me : 
 
 I talk at random. What, Paolo, too, — 
 
 A boy whom I have trotted on my knee ! 
 
 Poh ! I abuse myself by such a thought. 
 
 Francesca may not love me, may love 
 
 him — 
 Indeed she ought; but when an angel 
 
 comes 
 To play the wanton on this filthy earth, 
 Then I '11 believe her guilty. Look you, 
 
 sir! 
 Am I quite calm"? 
 Capt. Quite calm, my lord. 
 
 Lan. You see 
 
 No trace of passion on my face'? — No 
 
 sign 
 Of ugly humours, doubts; or fears, or 
 
 aught 
 That may disfigure God's intelligence'? 
 I have a grievous charge against you, sir, 
 That may involve your life; and if you 
 
 doubt 
 The candour of my judgment, choose your 
 time: 
 
 To be michaste, ye whisper in my ear 
 The vengeance due to your dishonored 
 
 son! 
 Let me embrace it, lest your scornful hiss. 
 Drive your degraded offspring from your 
 
 tombs. 
 And cast him on a dunghill! Must I 
 
 lash 
 My broken spirit into flame with dreams '? 
 No, no ! mighty ancestry, your words, 
 Erewhile a whisper, tear the vault of 
 
 heaven, 
 With thunder upon thunder. Blood, 
 
 blood, blood! 
 Ye shout, and I re-echo it ! To horse ! — 
 0, give me wings, not feet, to make my 
 
 way; 
 That like a famished eagle scenting blood, 
 I may swoop down on sleeping Rimini! 
 {Exeunt omnes.) 
 
380 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Shall I arraign you now'? 
 Capt. Now, if you please. 
 
 I '11 trust my cause to you and innocence 
 At any time. I am not conscious — 
 Lan. Pshaw ! 
 
 I try myself, not you. And I am calm — 
 That is your verdict — and dispassionate *? 
 Capt. So far as I can juds^e. 
 Lan. 'T is" well, 'tis well! 
 
 Then I will ride to Rimini. Good-night ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 {The others look after him, amazedly, 
 and exeunt.)^ 
 
 Scene 3. Rimini. The Garden of the 
 Castle. 
 
 {Enter Paolo and Francesca.) 
 
 Francesca. Thou hast resolved 
 Paolo. I 've sworn it. 
 
 Fran. Ah, you men 
 
 Can talk of love and duty in a breath ; 
 Love while you like, forget when you are 
 
 tired. 
 And salve your falsehood with some 
 
 wholesome saw; 
 But we, poor women, when we give our 
 
 hearts, • 
 Give all, lose all, and never ask it back. 
 Paolo. What couldst thou ask for that I 
 
 have not given? 
 With love I gave thee manly probity, 
 Innocence, honor, self-respect, and peace. 
 Lanciotto will return, and how shall I — 
 ! shame, to think of it ! — how shall I 
 
 look 
 My brother in the face? take his frank 
 
 hand? 
 Return his tender glances? I should 
 
 blaze 
 With guilty blushes. 
 Fran. Thou canst forsake me, then, 
 
 To spare thyself a little bashful pain ? 
 [But] Paolo, dost thou know what 't is 
 
 for me, 
 <A woman — nay, a dame of highest 
 
 rank — 
 To lose my purity? to walk a path 
 Whose slightest slip may fill my ear with 
 
 sounds 
 That hiss me out to infamy and death ?> 
 Have I no secret pangs, no self-respect, 
 No husband's look to bear? <0! worse 
 
 than these, 
 I must endure his loathsome touch ; be 
 
 kind 
 
 When he would dally with his wife, and 
 
 smile 
 To see him play thy part. Pah ! sicken- 
 ing thought ! 
 From that thou art exempt.> Thou 
 
 shalt not go ! 
 Thou dost not love me ! 
 Paolo. Love thee! Standing here. 
 
 With countless miseries upon my head, 
 I say, my love for thee grows day by 
 
 day. 
 It palters with my conscience, blurs my 
 
 thoughts 
 Of duty, and confuses my ideas 
 Of right and wrong. Ere long, it will 
 
 persuade 
 My shaking manhood that all this is just. 
 Fran. Let it! I'll blazon it to all' the 
 
 world. 
 Ere I Avill lose thee. <Nay, if I had 
 
 choice. 
 Between our love and my lost innocence, 
 I tell thee calmly, I would dare again 
 The deed which we have done.> ! thou 
 
 art cruel 
 To fly me, like a coward, for thine ease. 
 <When thou art gone, thou 'It flatter thy 
 
 weak heart 
 With hopes and speculations ; and thou 'It 
 
 swear 
 I suffer naught, because thou dost not 
 
 see.> 
 I will not live to bear it. 
 Paolo. Die, — 't were best ; 
 
 'T is the last desperate comfort of our 
 
 sin. 
 <Fran. I'll kill myself! 
 Paolo. And so would I, with joy; 
 
 But crime has made a craven of me. ! 
 For some good cause to perish in ! Some- 
 thing 
 A man might die for, looking in God's 
 
 face; 
 Not slinking out of life with guilt like 
 
 mine 
 Piled on the shoulders of a suicide !> 
 Fran. Where wilt thou go? 
 Paolo. I care not; anywhere 
 
 Out of this Rimini. The very things 
 That made the pleasures of my inno- 
 cence 
 Have turned against me. There is not a 
 
 tree. 
 Nor house, nor church, nor monument, 
 
 whose face 
 Took hold upon mj^ thoughts, tliat does 
 
 not frown 
 Balefully on me. <From their marble 
 
 tombs 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 381 
 
 My ancestors scowl at me; and the night 
 Thickens to hear their hisses. I would 
 
 piay, 
 But heaven jeers at it.> Turn where er 
 
 1 will, 
 A curse pursues me. [Ay, thy very face 
 Is black with curses.] 
 Fran. Heavens ! 0, say not so ! 
 
 I never cursed thee, love; <I never 
 
 moved 
 My little finger, ere I looked to thee . 
 For my instruction. > 
 Paolo. But thy gentleness 
 
 Seems to reproach me; and, instead of 
 
 joy, 
 It whispers horror! 
 Frax. Cease! cease! 
 
 Paolo. I must go. 
 
 <Fran. And I must follow. All that I 
 call life 
 Is bound in thee. I could endure for thee 
 More agonies than thou canst catalogue — 
 For thy sake, love — ^bearing the ill for 
 
 thee! 
 With thee, the devils could not so contrive 
 That I Avould blench or falter from my 
 
 love ! 
 "Without thee, heaven were torture ! 
 Paolo. I must go. {Going. )^ 
 
 Frax. 0! no[, no,] — ^Paolo — dearest! — 
 
 {Clinging Iro him.) 
 Paolo. Loose thy hold ! 
 
 'T is for thy sake, and Lanciotto's ; I 
 Am as a cipher in the reckoning. 
 I have resolved. Thou canst but stretch 
 
 the time. 
 Keep me to-day, and I will fly to-mor- 
 row — 
 Steal from thee like a thief. 
 
 {Struggles with her.) 
 
 Frax. [Ah,] Paolo — love — 
 
 <Indeed, you hurt me! — Do not use me 
 
 thus !> 
 Kill me, but do not leave me. I will 
 
 laugh — 
 A long, gay, ringing laugh — if thou wilt 
 
 draw 
 Thy pitying sword, and stab me to the 
 heart ! 
 
 {Enter Lanciotto behind.) 
 
 Nay, then, one kiss ! 
 Laxciotto. {Advancing between them.) 
 Take it : 't will be the last. 
 Paolo. Lo! Heaven is just! 
 <Frax. The last ! so be it. 
 
 {Kisses Paolo.) 
 Lax. Ha ! 
 
 Dare you these tricks before my very 
 face? ' 
 Frax. Why not ? I 've kissed him in the 
 sight of heaven; 
 Are 'you above if? 
 Paolo. Peace, Francesca, peace !> 
 
 Lax. [Count] Paolo — why, thou sad and 
 downcast man. 
 Look up ! I have some words to speak 
 
 with thee. 
 Thou art not guilty'? 
 Paolo. Yes, I am. But she 
 
 Has been betrayed ; so she is innocent. 
 Her father tampered with her. I — 
 Frax. 'T is false! 
 
 The guilt is mine. <Paolo> [your 
 
 brother] was entrapped 
 By love and cunning, [by my — ] <I 
 
 am shrewder far 
 Than you suspect.> 
 Paolo. Lanciotto, <shut thy ears;> 
 
 She would deceive thee. 
 Lax. Silence, both of you ! 
 
 Is g-uilt so talkative in its defence? 
 Then, let me make you judge and advo- 
 cate 
 In your own cause. You are not guilty ? 
 Paolo. Yes. 
 
 Lax. Deny it^but a word — say no. Lie, 
 lie! 
 And I '11 believe. 
 Paolo. I dare not. 
 
 Lax. Lady, you? 
 
 Frax. If I might speak for him — 
 Lax. It cannot be : 
 
 Speak for yourself. Do you deny your 
 guilt? 
 Frax. No ! I assert it ; but — 
 Lax. In heaven's name, hold ! 
 
 Will neither of you answer no to me ? 
 A nod, a hint, a sign, for your escape. 
 Bethink you, life is centered in this thing. 
 Speak ! I will credit either. No reply? 
 What does your crime deserve? 
 Paolo. Death. 
 
 Frax. Death to both. 
 
 Lax. Well said! You speak the law of 
 Italy; 
 And by the dagger you designed for me. 
 In Pepe's hand, — your bravo? 
 Paolo. It is false ! 
 
 If you received my dagger from his hand. 
 He stole it. 
 Lax. There, sweet heaven, I knew! 
 
 And now 
 You w411 deny the rest? You see, my 
 
 friends. 
 How easy of belief I have become! — 
 How easy 't were to cheat me ! 
 
382 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 Paolo. No; enough! 
 
 I will not load my groaning spirit more; 
 A lie would crush it.^ 
 <Lan. Brother, once you gave 
 
 Life to this wretched piece of workman- 
 ship, 
 When my own hand resolved its over- 
 throw. 
 Revoke the gift. 
 
 {Offers to stab himself.) 
 Paolo. {FrevenHng him.) Hold, homi- 
 cide! 
 Lan. But think, 
 
 You and Francesca may live happily. 
 After my death, as only lovers can. 
 Paolo. Live happily, after a deed like 
 
 tliis!>2 
 Lan. Now, look ye! there is not one hour 
 of life 
 Among us three. [Count] Paolo, you are 
 
 armed — 
 You have a sword, I but a dagger: see! 
 I mean to kill you. 
 <Fran. {Whispers Paolo.) Give thy 
 
 sword to me. 
 Paolo. Away ! thou 'rt frantic !> I will 
 never lift 
 This wicked hand against thee. 
 Lax. Coward, slave ! 
 
 Art thou so faint *? Does Malatesta's 
 
 blood 
 Run m thy puny veins'? Take that ! 
 
 {Strikes him.) 
 
 1 The speech of Lanciotto given below is sub- 
 stituted in Boker's handwriting in the acting ver- 
 sion of 1853 for the lines omitted (as far as 2), 
 
 [Lanciotto. Then this nameless deed, — 
 At which our nature cannot even blush, 
 So pale is she with horror — is confessed'? 
 Alas! Francesca, whom I loved at sight! 
 {Turns to her.) 
 Why, woman, what harm did I do to 
 
 thee — 
 What else but love thee — when I saw thee 
 
 come. 
 Like a descending angel bearing peace 
 Into my lonely life'? Wouldst thou con- 
 vert 
 My very virtues into crime'? Make love 
 Do murder, tempted by thy loveliness'? 
 Fool that I was to credit thee! Thy 
 
 lies. 
 Fair-faced deluder, in the sight of 
 
 Heaven, 
 Make thee more monstrous than this 
 
 blighted trunk! 
 Speak! Is the devil that inspires thee 
 
 dumb'? 
 
 Paolo. And more: 
 
 Thou canst not offer more than I will 
 
 bear. 
 
 <Lan. Oh, Paolo, what a craven has thy 
 
 guilt 
 
 Transformed thee to! Why,> I have 
 
 seen the time 
 When thou 'dst have struck at heaven for 
 
 such a thing! 
 Art thou afraid? 
 Paolo. I am. 
 
 Lan. 0! infamy! 
 
 Can man sink lower? I will wake thee, 
 
 though : — 
 Thou shalt not die a coward. See! look 
 here! 
 
 {Stabs Francesca.) 
 Fran. 0!— 0!— {Falls.) 
 
 Paolo. Remorseless man, dare you do 
 
 this, 
 And hope to live? Die, murderer! 
 
 {Draws, rushes at him, but pauses.) 
 Lan. Strike, strike ! 
 
 Ere thy heart fail. 
 Paolo. I cannot. 
 
 {Throws away his sword.) 
 
 Lan. Dost thou see 
 
 Y^on bloated spider — hideous as myself — 
 
 Climbing aloft, to reach that wavering 
 
 twig"? 
 When he has touched it, one of us must 
 
 die. 
 Here is the dagger. — Look at me, I say! 
 
 Cast out thy devil! Speak, speak, for 
 
 your lives! 
 She cannot! {Turns to FaoIjO.) Paolo, 
 
 is there aught to say, — 
 In thy boy's voice, as thou hast often 
 
 hung 
 With silken arms about my armed necky 
 In days, oh ! not forgotten, let me trust '? 
 Brother, my brother, it must be that I 
 Am ill, bewildered, in a nightmare, — 
 
 Speak! 
 Say but a word, and wake me to myself ! 
 He too is speechless ! Yet there sails the 
 
 moon; 
 And this is earth beneath me; and there 
 
 stands 
 A misty shape that one time was my wife ; 
 And there a shade that personates the 
 
 man 
 Whom I loved most of men; and only I 
 Ah ! only I am changed so horribly ! 
 For if I be not mad, I am in a hell 
 To which sin's vision were a paradise ! 
 {A pause, during which he looks from 
 
 one to the other.)] 
 
GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 383 
 
 Keep your eyes from that woman! 
 
 Look, think, choose! — 
 Turn here to me: thou shalt not look at 
 her!>i 
 Paolo. 0, heaven! 
 LAN. • 'T is done ! 
 
 Paolo. {Struggling with him.) 0! Lan- 
 • eiotto, hold ! 
 Hold, for thy sake. Thou wilt repent 
 this deed. 
 Lan. I know it. 
 
 <Fran". {Rising.) Help! — 0! murder! 
 
 — ^lielp, help, help!> 
 
 {Site totters towards them, and falls.) 
 
 [Malatesta. {WitJwut.) Help! this 
 
 way, — this way — help! help! help!] 
 
 Lan. Our honour, boy ! 
 
 {Stahs Paolo, he falls.) 
 <Fran. Paolo ! 
 
 Paolo. Hark! she calls. 
 
 I pray thee, brother, help me to her side. 
 (Lanciotto helps him to Francesca.) 
 Lan. Why, there! 
 Paolo. God bless thee !> 
 
 Lan. Have I not done well? 
 
 What were the honor of the Malatesti, 
 With such a living slander fixed to it 1 
 <Cripple! that's something — cuckold! 
 
 that is damned ! 
 You blame me? 
 Paolo. No. 
 
 Lan. You, lady? 
 
 Fran. No, my lord. 
 
 Lan. May God forgive you!> We are 
 even now : 
 Your blood has cleared my honour, and 
 
 our name 
 Shines to the world as ever. 
 <Paolo. !— !— 
 
 Fran. Love, 
 
 Art suffering? 
 Paolo. But for thee. 
 
 Fran. Here, rest thy head 
 
 Upon my bosom. Fie upon my blood ! 
 It stains thy ringlets. Ha! he dies! 
 
 Kind saints, 
 I was first struck, why cannot I die first ? 
 Paolo, wake ! — God's mercy ! wilt thou go 
 Alone — without me? Prithee, strike 
 again ! 
 
 1 In the 1853 version the following lines were 
 substituted for the above speech. 
 
 [Dost thou see 
 Yon dusky cloud that slowly steals along; 
 Like a shrewd thief upon a traveller. 
 To blot the glory of the jocund moon? 
 When it has dimmed the lustre of her 
 edge. 
 
 Nay, I am better — love — now — ! 
 
 {Dies.) 
 Lan. {Sinks upon Jiis knees.) Great 
 
 heaven !> 
 Malatesta. {Without.) This way, I 
 heard the cries. 
 
 {Enter ivith Guido, and Attendants.) 
 
 GuiDO. 0! horrible! 
 
 Mal. ! bloody spectacle ! Where is thy 
 
 brother ? 
 Lan. So Cain was asked. <Come here, 
 old men ! You shrink 
 From two dead bodies and a pool of 
 
 blood — 
 You soldiers, too ! Come here ! 
 
 {Drags Malatesta and Guido for- 
 ward.) 
 Mal. !— !— 
 
 Lan. You groan ! 
 
 What must I do, then?> Father, here 
 
 it is, — 
 The blood of Guido mingled with our 
 
 own, 
 As my old nurse predicted. And the spot 
 Of her infernal baptism burns my brain 
 Till reason shudders! <Down, upon 
 
 your knees ! 
 Ay, shake them harder, and perchance 
 
 they '11 wake. 
 Keep still! Kneel, kneel! You fear 
 
 them? I shall prowl 
 About these bodies till the day of doom. 
 Mal. What hast thou done? 
 Gui. Francesca ! — ! my child ! 
 
 Lan. Can howling make this sight more 
 terrible ? 
 Peace! You disturb the angels up in 
 
 heaven, 
 While they are hiding from this ugly 
 
 earth. 
 Be satisfied with what you see. You two 
 Began this tragedy, I finished it. 
 Here, by these bodies, let us reckon up 
 Our crimes together.> Why, how still 
 
 they lie! 
 A moment since, they walked, and talked, 
 
 and kissed ! 
 Defied me to my face, dishonored me ! 
 
 She '11 shrink behind it to avoid the sight 
 She else might see on this disfigured earth, 
 When it has crossed her, one of us, who 
 
 now 
 Is touched to wonder by her radiance 
 Shall gaze upon her with an altered 
 
 face — 
 As pale, and cold and vacant as her own.] 
 
384 
 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 
 
 They had the power to do it then; but 
 now, 
 
 Poor souls, who '11 shield them in eter- 
 nity? 
 
 Father, the honor of our house is safe ; 
 
 <I have the secret. I will to the wars, 
 
 And do more murders, to eclipse this one. 
 
 Back to the battles; there I breathe in 
 peace ; 
 
 And I will take a soldier's honour back. — 
 
 Honour! what's that to me now? Ha! 
 ha! ha! (Laughing.) 
 
 A great thing, father! I am very ill.> 
 I killed thy son for honour: thou mayst 
 chide. 
 
 God ! I cannot cheat myself with words \ 
 
 1 loved him more than honour — more 
 
 than life — 
 
 This man, [my] Paolo — this stark, bleed- 
 ing corpse! 
 
 ^ Here let me rest, till God awake us all ! 
 (Falls on Paolo's body.) 
 
 1 In the 1853 version, the last line is 
 
 Here let me rest, till all together wake! 
 
LEONORA 
 
 OR 
 
 THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 BY 
 
 Julia Ward Howe 
 
LEONOEA OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Leonora or The ^YorWs Own represents the movement in the late fifties 
 which, under the encouragement of managers like the elder Wallack and Laura 
 Keene, brought into the theatre pieces of significant dramatic literature. Un- 
 fortunately, this movement was checked by the Civil War, and by the system of 
 travelling companies for which Boucicault was responsible. The play represents 
 also the work of that group of writers, centered in Boston and distinguished in 
 other fields, of which ]\Irs. Howe was a part, even although she was not of 
 New England origin. 
 
 Julia Ward Howe was born in New York City, May 27, 1819, the daughter 
 of Samuel Ward, a leading New York banker. Her family on both sides went 
 back to Revolutionary stock. She was interested in plays from early childhood, 
 writing a drama at the age of nine. Her education, nominally completed at 
 sixteen, but really only then beginning, was wide and thorough, especially in 
 languages. Her social life in New York was a broad one, and early in her 
 career she was brought into relations with the New England group. In 1843 
 she married Samuel Gridley Howe, Director of the Perkins Institution for the 
 Blind, the first to teach a blind deaf mute, Laura Bridgman, and a leader in the 
 cause of Grecian independence. After a European trip, they settled in Boston, 
 with which her future life is definitely associated. Her first volume of poems, 
 Passion Flowers, was published in 1853, and in 1857 a second. Words for the 
 Hour, followed. A Trip to Guha (1859) reflected her experiences there. Her 
 greatest contribution was of course The Battle Hymn of the RepuNic, which 
 appeared on the front page of the Atlantic Monthly for February, 1862. The 
 inspiration came to her at night and, rising, she traced the lines roughly for 
 fear they would escape. In the morning, before looking at her notes she found 
 that every line had left her memory. Later Lyrics, her third volume of poems, 
 appeared in 1865, and in 1867 she went to Greece to help the Cretans, studying 
 Greek at the same time. In 1868 she helped to found the first Woman's Club 
 in New England. In 1876 her husband died and the remainder of her long life 
 was devoted to woman's interests and to social betterment. In 1898, her last 
 volume of poems, From Sunset Bidge, appeared and in 1899 her Reminiscences. 
 She died October 17, 1910. 
 
 She was dramatic by nature and her whole existence was a struggle against 
 the oppression of others and for what she considered to be right. Her interest 
 
 387 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 in the stage was constant from childhood, but her first serious dramatic work was 
 Leonora or The World's Own, produced first at Wallack's Theatre, New York, 
 March 16, 1857, with Matilda Heron and the elder Sothern in the leading parts. 
 It ran for over a week, and was considered to be a success. It was later repeated 
 in Boston. Her brother, Samuel, wrote her from New York : 
 
 ** Leonora still draws the best houses ; there was hardly standing room on Fri- 
 day night''; and again: "Mr. Russell went last night, a second time, bought the 
 libretto, which I send you by this mail — declares there is not a grander play in 
 our language. He says that it is full of dramatic vigor, that the interest never 
 flags — but that unhappily — Miss H — with the soul and self abandonment of a 
 great actress, lacks that grace of elocution, which should set forth the beauties 
 of your verses. ' ' 
 
 In 1864 she was asked to write a play for Edwin Booth, and the theme of 
 Hippolytus was chosen. The play was written through the summer of that year, 
 but owing to other engagements, Booth had to postpone consideration of it. 
 Finally E. L. Davenport agreed to produce it, Charlotte Cushman being selected 
 to play "Phgedra" to Booth's "Hippolytus." Rehearsals were progressing 
 when a difficulty arose and reasons were given for not performing the play that 
 did not seem satisfactory to Mrs. Howe or to the principal actors. The real 
 difficulty was that there was no sufficiently good part for the manager's wife. 
 This failure caused her to give up play writing, though not her interest in the 
 theatre. In 1878 she impersonated "Queen Elizabeth" in a public reading for 
 charity, in which Madame Ristori acted "Maria Stuart." Hippolytus was pro- 
 duced, after Mrs. Howe's death, by Miss Margaret Anglin, in Boston. 
 
 For the life of Mrs. Howe, see her Beminiscences, 1899, and Julia Ward 
 Howe, by Laura E. Richards and Maud Howe Elliott, 2 vols., Boston, 1915, to 
 which the editor acknowledges his indebtedness. For references to the plays, see 
 Brown, T. A., A History of the New York Stage, vol. 1, p. 492, and Ireland, J. N., 
 Records of the Neiv York Stage, vol. 2, p. 659. A cast has been reconstructed 
 from these sources which is in all essentials correct. 
 
 The present text is based on the original edition of the play, published as 
 The World's Own, Boston, 1857. 
 
THE OEIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Wallack's Theatre, New York, March 16, 1857. 
 
 Count Lothair Mr. E. A. Sothern 
 
 EdWxVrd, an artist ♦. Mr. John Dyott 
 
 Lorenzo, friend to Edward Mr. C. Walcot 
 
 Boniface, an inn-keeper Mr. C. Peters 
 
 The Prince Mr. G. S. Lee 
 
 HuoN, 1 Mr. Reynolds 
 
 Berto, m^obles, friends of Lothair Mr. H. B. Phillips 
 
 Orsetti, Mr. Jeffries 
 
 Jacques, a villager. 
 Jacob, a Jew. 
 
 Leonora, the Qneen of the village Miss Matilda Heron 
 
 Katchen, her friend and servant Mrs. Vernon 
 
 Bertha, ] f Miss Mary Gannon 
 
 SusANNE, ^village girls <j Miss Fanny Dean 
 
 LouLOU, Miss Peters 
 
 A Flower Girl Miss Charlotte Thompson 
 
 Countess Helen, wife to Count Lothair Mrs. J. H. Allen 
 
 Arthur, son of Lothair. 
 
 ZiNGARA, a gypsy Miss Sylvester 
 
 Peasants, Courtiers, Masks, Guards. 
 
 The scene in the first two acts is laid in a village in the mountains of Pied- 
 mont, near the Italian frontier; in the third act, in an Italian town. The last 
 two acts are supposed to take place at the court of a small Italian principality. 
 
 The time is in the early part of the eighteenth century. 
 
LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene 1. A Village Green, with peasants 
 dancing to the sound of rustic music. 
 In the front stand Edward and Jacques, 
 looking on. The dance ceases; the vil- 
 lagers disperse. 
 
 Edward. Comes Leonora to the dance no 
 more? 
 I thought to find her here. 
 Jacques. In other ways 
 
 She wanders, with the stranger from the 
 
 inn, 
 That supercilious Signor Prettyman, 
 Whose pleasure-travel stopped, some 
 
 ' three weeks since, 
 For the repairing of a carriage-spring. 
 Edward. Three weeks to set so small a 
 matter right? 
 Your smiths are bunglers. 
 Jacques. {Significantly.) There'll be 
 
 more to mend, 
 And worse, I fear. 
 Edward. What mean you? 
 
 Tell me straight. 
 You speak in riddles I am loath to read. 
 Dares he aspire to Leonora's love? 
 Jacques. Aspire ? I tell you he 's a gen- 
 tleman, 
 A man of courts — no rustic. He aspire? 
 He has won, and wears it most familiarly. 
 Edward. {Aside.) I've heard enough, — 
 yet let me learn the worst. 
 Are they betrothed, then? 
 Jacques. Do you dream such men 
 
 Marry such maidens ? They are matched 
 
 in naught 
 On earth, save pride and beauty. 
 Edward. Matched in beauty? 
 
 The matchless mated? Could her pride 
 
 avail 
 To shield her better treasures, I 'd for- 
 give it; 
 But all your words imply is new to me. 
 Who went away two weary years ago. 
 With other thoughts of her. You can 
 
 relate 
 Doubtless, how all befell. Where did 
 
 they meet? 
 How grew this liking? 
 
 391 
 
 Jacques. I '11 inform you straight. 
 
 At such an evening festival as this, 
 
 .Just over, ere the dancing was at end. 
 
 The stranger passed, and saw what we 
 have seen. 
 
 He had left his carriage at the smithy 
 yonder. 
 
 For some repair, and, to beguile an hour. 
 
 With listless air was wandering hither, 
 thither. 
 
 The music, haply, lured him to this spot. 
 
 But with a vacant and abstracted brow. 
 
 Scarce deigned he look upon the village- 
 girls 
 
 In holiday attire; — nay, scarcely paused 
 
 Before the waterfall, our hamlet's pride, 
 
 That many a foreign artist comes to 
 view. 
 
 The band, dividing, passed to either 
 side. 
 
 And from the ranks moved Leonore 
 alone. 
 
 To the majestic measure that she loves. 
 
 White were her garments, white her 
 twisted scarf. 
 
 And white the flowers that garlanded her 
 brow, 
 
 Proclaiming her the hamlet's maiden- 
 queen. 
 Edward. 0, I have often seen her thus. 
 And he? 
 
 Did this arrest him? 
 Jacques. Such a sudden spark 
 
 Woke in his eye, it grew a flash, a flame, 
 
 A thought, a purpose, and a destiny. 
 
 I saw his breathing to her steps keep 
 time. 
 
 Unconscious she, — her movement mas- 
 tered him. 
 
 So gazed he, 'ware of naught on earth 
 beside, 
 
 Drunk with her beauty, till she stopped 
 to rest, 
 
 And turning, saw him. — 
 Edward. Saw, but heeded not? 
 
 Jacques. Surprised to stillness, with a 
 sudden shock, 
 
 As seeing one foreshadowed in a dream, 
 
 She stood, intense and tremulous; a 
 blush 
 
 (The only element her beauty lacks), 
 
392 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Reddened like sunset, from her fair white 
 brow 
 
 To the soft limits of her virgin vest. 
 
 'T was but a moment, — pale and recom- 
 posed, 
 
 She launched an ice-bolt from her scorn- 
 ful eyes, 
 
 And swift, but stately, vanished from 
 the scene. 
 Edward. 0, happy pride ! 0, rescue sent 
 of Heaven! 
 
 She 's safe ! Those eyes have deadly 
 weaponry. 
 Jacques. Be not too sure. The peril is 
 not past. 
 
 She wears the vizard of her maidenhood 
 
 Haughtily close, I grant you; but her 
 heart 
 
 May prove the traitor in the citadel. 
 Edward. Proceed. How looked the 
 stranger when she left? 
 
 In gloom or anger? 
 Jacques. He was still, and smiled; 
 
 The languid features showed a new in- 
 tent. 
 
 Beckoning his servant with a lordly gest,^ 
 
 He briefly said, "We go not hence to- 
 night." 
 Edward, And then? 
 
 Jacques. 0, then I know not 
 
 what befell. 
 
 Soon he was seen at Leonora's side. 
 
 Close as her shadow; — nay, we see her 
 not 
 
 Without him. In the shelter of her cottage 
 
 They pass snug days, of which the world 
 knows naught 
 
 Save the perpetual hum of lover's voices. 
 
 And now and then two heads that come 
 to view, 
 
 Touching almost, within the vine-clad 
 window. 
 
 He has taught her foreign music, foreign 
 ways. 
 
 Unknown among our mountains : daintier 
 work 
 
 Has put to shame the wholesome spin- 
 ning-wheel. 
 
 Books, too, they have, — plays, novels and 
 such trash. 
 
 Her table feeds him, and when day is 
 done, — 
 Edward. She surely does not wander 
 
 forth alone? 
 Jacques. No, not alone — his escort never 
 
 fails. 
 Edward. 0, strange imprudence! 0, ill- 
 counselled girl! 
 
 1 Gesture. 
 
 How stands she scathless from the vil- 
 lage gossips? 
 Jacques. They're nursing scandal that 
 will soon take wing 
 
 And fly abroad, croaking its evil tale. 
 
 The time 's not come ; he has not left her 
 yet. 
 Edward. There 's an abyss of woe ! Yes, 
 he must leave her! 
 
 Who shall stand up to be her savior 
 then? 
 
 I 've seen fair women tread those dan- 
 gerous ways. 
 
 Snatching the flowers that hide the fatal 
 pit;— 
 
 But thou, my Leonora? 
 Jacques. It grows late. 
 
 And supper waits. 
 Edward. He thinks upon his meat! 
 
 Good Jacques, go before me to the inn, 
 
 I '11 seek you there anon, and make 
 amends 
 
 For present dulness, by some tales of 
 travel, 
 
 Enlivened by a friendly cup of wine; — 
 
 I would remain a moment here alone. 
 Jacques. (Going.) Edward, they 're very 
 
 like to come this way. 
 Edward. Well — let them come — I 'm now 
 beyond surprise. (Exit Jacques.) 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Edward. He knew not that his words w^re 
 murderous. 
 
 Else, surely, he had not plunged back the 
 steel 
 
 To widen out the ghastly wound he made. 
 (Looks around him.) 
 
 Dark days of absence, comforted with 
 hope 
 
 Faithful and fervent, — waking, sleeping 
 dreams. 
 
 Enfolding one fair vision, — longing 
 thoughts 
 
 Intensified by distance, struggling ever 
 
 Back to the charmed limits of her life. 
 
 The rustic haunts that she made beauti- 
 ful— 
 
 Was this the end ye led to? Even this. 
 
 0, swift and sudden sorrow! Leonora 
 
 Lost, — grant it Heaven! — not to herself, 
 but me. 
 
 The very heart of innocent delight 
 
 Plucked out and trampled by a love pro- 
 fane! 
 
 She w^as not mine, — true, true; what was 
 I then 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 393 
 
 To claim her? An unmannered, blush- 
 ing boy, 
 
 That durst not lift my looks or thoughts 
 to her, 
 
 Till the voice said, "Go forth and win 
 renown ! 
 
 Thou hast gifts to gather glory — use 
 them well. 
 
 When all men praise thee, she may turn 
 her eyes. 
 
 Those fairest eyes, upon thee, and dis- 
 cern. 
 
 Not angrily, thy merit in thy love." 
 
 Fired with this thought I took the pil- 
 grim's staff, 
 
 Following the lofty dream with breath- 
 less steps; 
 
 I, who had been content in lowliness! 
 
 Nor have I stayed for pleasure or repose, 
 
 Such restless need has urged, me to this 
 hour, — 
 
 This hour, the goal of striving and suc- 
 cess, — 
 
 This hour, that smites success with emp- 
 tiness. 
 
 But I hear voices, — no, we must not 
 meet ; 
 
 This rock shall spare them an unwelcome 
 sight. 
 
 {Hides behind a rock.) 
 
 Scene 3. 
 
 (Enter Lothair and Leonora.) 
 
 Leonora. How soft the shadows gather in 
 our train. 
 Holding the dead Day's pall, while we 
 
 go forth, 
 Bearing heart-incense for her funeral! 
 This was a day on whose enamelled brow 
 No marring break of separation came; 
 One golden web of happiness she wove; 
 Wherefore, God rest thee, gentle Day — 
 sleep well! 
 Lothair. And this, the very charmed twi- 
 light hour, 
 When pilgrim Love, his finger on his 
 
 lips, 
 Binds all to mystery. 
 Leonora. Shall we rest here? 
 
 Lothair. A little further. 
 Leonora. You are still the guide, 
 
 Leading, each day, to joys undreamed be- 
 fore. 
 Into the sunset's fiery heart we fly, 
 i^s in the rose the bee for ravishment. 
 
 I know not places, when I walk with 
 
 you; 
 I only know they are no earthly ways 
 We tread together. 
 Lothair. Yet my Leonore 
 
 At sudden fancies stays her pretty steps. 
 Like to a tricksome steed that feigns 
 
 alarm 
 When he is froward. 
 Leonora. Nay, I do not feign; 
 
 I love the light; the very blaze of noon 
 Frights not my courage; on my hardy 
 
 brow 
 It lays a blessing and a kiss at once. 
 So dear I prize it, I could walk abroad. 
 Were you so minded, through the mar- 
 ket-place, 
 With dauntless presence, saying to the 
 
 world. 
 Behold Lothair, — behold my love for him. 
 That seeks its sanction in the face of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Lothair. Hush! hush! fair child; that is 
 
 no more to seek; 
 The heavens attest the love I bear you, 
 
 list'ning 
 To God's high name invoked; th' attend- 
 ant stars 
 Give countenance to nuptials of the heart 
 Where other priesthood were profanity. 
 {Giving a ring.) 
 This jewel shall record for thee my vows 
 Beyond the power of distance or of 
 
 doubt. 
 Wearing it, thou becom'st my gentle 
 
 thrall, 
 Bounden to follow where thy master 
 
 bids. 
 Leonora. Blest in obedience, when the 
 
 word is, follow! 
 Though through hell's tortures led the 
 
 burning way; 
 The fear were, you might stay my eager 
 
 steps 
 With the cold ban of separation. 
 Ev'n then I w^ould be dutiful till death. 
 And keep my faith unbroken to the 
 
 end. 
 But we '11 not think of that. Friend, 
 
 Lover, Master! 
 Why, Master seems the crowning name 
 
 of all. 
 As you pronounce it; — so command your 
 
 slave, 
 Only remembering that she yields to 
 
 you, 
 For faultless guidance, all she owes to 
 
 God! 
 
 {Exeunt, he leading the way.) 
 
394 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 Edward. {Coming from his concealment.) 
 
 I did not think t' have heard their stolen 
 words, 
 
 That stamp my sorrow beyond remedy! 
 
 But now my course is plain; an orphan 
 she, 
 
 Brotherless, friendless; I must urge her 
 right 
 
 With this fine wooer; she shall be his 
 wife, 
 
 Or he must try my weapon ere he sleeps, 
 
 And this shall be Love's crowning sacri- 
 fice. 
 
 Still, still, my heart! this only can avail. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 {Enter Bertha.) 
 
 Bertha. I've heard enough! If lost in- 
 deed be lost. 
 
 Why need I follow further for their 
 hurt? 
 
 'T is no mean pleasure, certainly, to spin 
 
 A rival's ruin from her smiling lips. 
 
 Snatching Love's silver cord to strangle 
 her. 
 
 Yet this delights me most, that I was 
 there, 
 
 Breaking the charmed circle of their 
 love. 
 
 When least they deemed this possible; 
 the veil 
 
 Was lifted from their hearts, and I, their 
 foe, 
 
 Stood near, to profit by their confidence. 
 
 Whatever mischief I may bring to pass. 
 
 This shall sting deepest — this give dead- 
 liest wound; 
 
 Thus from her very bosom I shall pluck. 
 
 Warm with her breath, the crimson 
 flower of shame 
 
 That crowns my triumph with her in- 
 famy. {Exit Bertha.) 
 
 Scene 6. A Room in the Inn. Various 
 tables are about; at one of which are 
 seated Edward and Jacques, with wine. 
 
 Jacques. You sit uneasily, and have not 
 
 drunk 
 One manly measure since the wine was 
 
 brought. 
 For shame! fill up the beaker; clear your 
 
 brow; 
 
 So much for mere good-fellowship; — to 
 
 drink 
 With an old comrade, ay, a friend of 
 
 youth. 
 Looking as if the very hangman pledged 
 
 you! 
 Edward. Pardon, good Jacques! 
 Jacques. Pardon I '11 accord 
 
 Only to better conduct. You forget 
 You promised to beguile this evening 
 
 hour 
 With copious annals of these sumptuous 
 
 years 
 Passed in the gold-and-purple lap of 
 
 Rome. 
 Edward. {Rising and lifting his cap.) 
 You touch a theme most fervent in my 
 
 thoughts. 
 I must be worn and wasted out of life 
 When I respond not to that sacred name. 
 {Reseating himself.) 
 Though not the gold and purple of the 
 
 robe 
 Enchant the eyes devout that worship 
 
 Beauty. 
 The splendors you would name were irk- 
 some to me. 
 As guests that stay when you would be 
 
 alone 
 With one you love. (Still run my 
 
 thoughts on that?) 
 For those that seek them, Rome has 
 
 pomps and shows. 
 And men may play the villain or the 
 
 child 
 Before her, with majestic sufferance; 
 To them that love her, she unfolds her 
 
 heart. 
 Calm with the mighty sorrow, greatly 
 
 borne. 
 Yet oft, from Contemplation's high^ 
 
 ground, 
 I 've stooped to see the garish multitude ; 
 The pontiff, borne behind his triple 
 
 crown. 
 Ablaze with jewels, fanned with costly 
 
 plumes 
 Of Indian birds,^the coffin following 
 Unseen, but close and certain, while a 
 
 crowd, 
 That loved him not, did heartless rev- 
 erence ; 
 And men whose hope of power must pass 
 
 beyond 
 His deathbed, gave the kiss of fealty, 
 Caressing in the gray, decrepit man. 
 The idol each has longing to become. 
 Such devil's service do the lips of men 
 When the heart deigns to falsehood. 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 395 
 
 On mine eyes 
 Flashed the rude torchlight of their pa- 
 geantry, 
 Leaving its dazzle only. The divine 
 Mingles no whisper with these paeans 
 
 loud; 
 Flies, startled, to congenial solitudes, 
 Where marble heroes keep the pensive 
 
 grace 
 Of the old time, that stood for Deity; 
 And where, immortal, hang upon the 
 
 walls 
 Th' intenser glories of Jerusalem. 
 There, in a labyrinth of high delights 
 I wandered, winding Memory's golden 
 
 thread, — 
 There my weak faith, that bound and 
 
 bleeding lay, 
 Rose free, before the touch of Raphael. 
 Jacques. Spoken with Southern fervor, 
 
 on my word! 
 Your diction smacks not of the mountain 
 
 phrase 
 Familiar to your childhood. 
 Edward. 'Tis the theme 
 
 Lends finer meaning to the peasant's 
 
 tongue ; 
 But while we talk at random, it grows 
 
 late, (Aside.) 
 
 (And Leonora's lattice shows no light.) 
 
 {He rises, looks at the clock, goes to 
 
 the window.) 
 Jacques. Why do you look so wildly at 
 
 the clock. 
 And at the silent cottage opposite? 
 You have not come to your own story 
 
 yet. 
 
 Talk further; tell me of your first suc- 
 cess. 
 Edward. (Eesuming his seat.) You can 
 
 remember when I drew a head 
 In charcoal, on a whitewashed village 
 
 wall? 
 A figure followed; then, a straggling 
 
 group ; 
 Then, all I could imagine, till men traced 
 My ramblings by my work. 
 Jacques. If I remember? 
 
 Did you not spoil our kitchen in those 
 
 days 
 Just newly plastered, with a chevalier 
 In armor, squinting every way at once. 
 For which you fled, my father at your 
 
 back? 
 Edward. And you behind him, pleading 
 
 loud for me? — 
 Well, to be brief, I grew a sturdy boy. 
 That would not tend the herds, or hunt 
 
 the chamois; 
 
 And so the pastor taught me as he could; 
 But toil gre^ needful for my daily 
 
 bread. 
 While my heart sickened to give up its 
 
 dream. 
 And sink to sordid cares of vulgai 
 
 life. 
 Untried, the airy footing of its hope. 
 So, things were dim before me, till one 
 
 day 
 A stranger, visiting the parsonage, 
 Looked at my sketches, questioned my 
 
 intent, 
 Then gave a purse, and, staying not for 
 
 thanks, 
 Said, "Take this gold, and follow art in 
 
 Rome. 
 If you are diligent, I shall be paid; 
 If not, this ruins neither you nor me." 
 I have been diligent, — that's all my 
 
 merit ; 
 The love, the aptitude, were nature's 
 
 gifts. 
 This year, my picture, at the Acad- 
 emy, 
 Drew the great prize, and when my name 
 
 was called, 
 A voice behind me said, "I am repaid." 
 I turned and saw th' Unknown, whose 
 
 generous gift 
 Unlocked for me the iron doors of Fate : 
 But now he wore th' insignia of his 
 
 rank. 
 And when he offered me his princely 
 
 hand. 
 From the pleased crowd approving mur- 
 murs came. 
 That rose, till plaudits blent his name 
 
 with mine. {Aside.) 
 
 She comes not yet, and I am idle here! 
 0, could I rush to save her! 
 
 {Enter Servants, hearing lights.) 
 
 Who are these? 
 Jacques. They wait upon the stranger, 
 who returns 
 At easy leisure from his evening ram- 
 ble; 
 Love wanders late, they say, nor fears 
 the dark. {Yawning.) 
 
 I judge 'tis nigh eleven of the clock. 
 Edward. [Looking towards window.) 
 And Leonora lights her evening 
 lamp. 
 dim, uncertain light! Comes he this 
 way? 
 Jacques. Ay; that should be his step. 
 Edward. This happens well. 
 
396 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Scene 7. The above. 
 
 {Enter Lothair, escorted by Servants 
 with lights.) 
 
 Lothair. (To Servants.) Bid them bring 
 supper to my room, and wine. 
 
 {Exit Servants.) 
 Edward. {Aside.) What, — you '11 carouse ? 
 I '11 bear you company. 
 
 {Rising, and accosting Lothair.) 
 A word with you, sir! 
 Lothair. {Haughtily.) I am not at lei- 
 sure. 
 If you have business, seek my servant 
 
 yonder. 
 He keeps my books. 
 Edward. My business is with you. 
 
 Sir, you walk late. 
 Lothair. {Commanding himself.) As I 
 
 am wont to do ! 
 Edward. And in good company, I war- 
 rant me! 
 Lothair. I choose my own companions, 
 and endure 
 None others. Stand aside, sir! Let me 
 pass! 
 Edward. When I am satisfied I '11 give 
 you way. 
 But, by my faith in God, no moment 
 
 sooner. 
 You have mysterious habits, noble sir! 
 You come unquestioned, and depart un- 
 known; 
 You find your way to honest, humble 
 
 roofs. 
 And palm yourself on inexperienced 
 
 girls ; 
 And if the fairest should be fatherless. 
 And in unguarded beauty dwell alone. 
 You'd violate her maiden sanctity. 
 And bring dishonoring ruin on her head. 
 That 's what I think of you ! 
 Lothair. What gives you right 
 
 T' insult me thus? Detain me at your 
 peril ! 
 Edward. A moment longer. You were 
 best give ear; 
 One reparation lies within your pow- 
 er,— 
 The right to bear your name, whate'er it 
 
 be, — 
 Give it ; — you have no choice but infamy. 
 Lothair. Upon my word, this passes suf- 
 ferance ! 
 I '11 hear no more. Your hand upon my 
 
 cloak? 
 Nay, have it then ; there 's for your in- 
 solence ! 
 Carlo! {Calls.) 
 
 Edward. {Drawing his rapier.) A blow! 
 Draw, coward ! for your life. 
 We '11 try the issue thus ! Heaven help 
 the right! 
 Lothair. I '11 not cross weapons with a 
 village ■ brawler, 
 Nor perish vilely by his hand. 
 
 {Going to the window.) 
 
 What, ho ! 
 
 Help, friends! I am attacked. Here's 
 
 treachery ! 
 
 Edward. None but your own, you villain ! 
 
 Draw, I say! 
 Lothair. {Draws, but retreats.) Where 
 
 are my servants? 
 Jacques. Edward, are you mad? 
 
 Edward. I 'd have his life-blood, though 
 my mother stood 
 Covering his caitiff body with her own! 
 (Edward makes a deadly pass at 
 Lothair. Leonora leaps in at the 
 window, in her night-dress, and 
 rushes between the combatants with 
 a shriek.) 
 Leonora. Ah, I have saved him! 
 
 {Turning to Edward, and pointing to 
 her breast.) 
 
 Here, strike here, good friend! 
 He 's safe ; I have no further need of 
 
 life. 
 Lothair, they have not harmed you? 
 Edward. Leonore ! 
 
 Leonora. What, Edward? thou, my 
 friend, my friend of youth, 
 Th' assassin, who would take my life in 
 
 his? 
 This is too much ! Put up your luckless 
 
 sword. 
 I see, you knew not that I loved this 
 
 man; i 
 
 Some sudden passion moved you, on I 
 
 some point 
 Of that strange lunacy that men call 
 
 honor. 
 I can forgive you. I will make your 
 
 peace. 
 You will not? 0, be sure, then, you 
 
 shall wound 
 The saints in heaven, within God's crys- 
 tal armor. 
 Ere you attain him, shielded by my love ! 
 Edward. I have no heart to harm the 
 meanest thing 
 Your love could rest upon. 'T was for 
 
 your sake, — 
 Yours only. 
 Leonora. For my sake depart in peace ! 
 This is no time for further speech. To- 
 morrow 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 397 
 
 You shall explain this foolish fray; and 
 
 I, 
 
 Whom most it wrongs, will promise to 
 forgive. 
 Edward. I have an explanation to de- 
 mand, 
 Before I offer one. 
 LoTHAiR. Make good your claim, 
 
 And I will not be wanting. 
 Leonora. What! — no more. 
 
 Edward, there lies your way. I '11 fol- 
 low straight. 
 (Jacques draws Edward away, at the 
 same moment Leonora rests on the 
 shoulder of Lothair. A noise of 
 people is heard, and lights appear 
 behind the scenes.) 
 Jacques. Edward, the house is rising in 
 alarm ; 
 Let us avert the scandal of this scene 
 Before your quarrel grow the village 
 talk. {To Leonora.) 
 
 My pretty one, this is no place for you. 
 Come home with us. 
 Leonora. I stay but for a word. 
 
 Lothair, this evening might have been 
 
 our last! 
 0, thought beyond all tears ! Look in 
 
 these eyes. 
 These eyes to which thou art the uni- 
 verse, 
 And say we meet to-morrow 1 
 Lothair. Do not doubt. 
 
 Surely we meet. 
 Leonora. So sits my heart at rest. 
 
 Serenely anchored; never storm can rise 
 To shake its peace, while thou dost har- 
 bor it. 
 We meet to-morrow. I shall dream till 
 
 then, 
 Dream of thy voice, and sleep as on thy 
 
 breast. 
 Good-night. Leonora's angel stays with 
 
 thee! 
 To-morrow ! 
 Lothair. {Looking suddenly in her eyes, 
 and holding her hand.) 
 
 Ay, to-morrow, fare thee well ! 
 (Edward and Jacques take Leonora 
 forcibly away.) 
 
 Scene 8. Boniface, Servants, Lothair. 
 
 Boniface. What is the matter? 
 Servant. {To Lothair.) Are you hurt, 
 
 my lord? 
 Lothair. How durst you loiter when you 
 
 heard me call? 
 
 Servant. I was alone, and stayed to 
 
 gather help. 
 Lothair. You come when need is passed, 
 — a coward knave 
 That saves his own throat first. Nay, 
 
 I '11 not strike you ; 
 The hangman should do that. Go to my 
 
 room! 
 See that you render better service there, 
 Or dread the reckoning. So, good Boni- 
 face, 
 These are your country manners, fair 
 
 and simple. 
 A quiet traveller seeks his inn at night, 
 And is insulted, — what say I? — attacked 
 With ready weapons, — threatened for 
 his life! 
 Boniface. A gentleman assaulted in my 
 house ? 
 I 've been an innkeeper these thirty 
 
 years. 
 And never seen the like! You are not 
 hurt? 
 Lothair. I thank you, — no. 
 Boniface. What daring man was this 
 
 That set upon you? 
 Lothair. I should ask you that. 
 
 Two brigands, with their faces half con- 
 cealed. 
 Boniface. Brigands, assassins, in our 
 
 quiet village? 
 Lothair. One finds them everywhere. 
 You see, they leapt 
 In at the window. 
 Boniface. On my life, 'tis true! 
 
 I must alarm the hamlet. 
 Lothair. Let them go. 
 
 They had the worst of it, I promise 
 
 you. 
 'Tis ill to hunt such gentry in the dark; 
 They have one at advantage. 
 Boniface. Very true; 
 
 But I '11 report this matter to the judge. 
 Lothair. To-morrow ! No one loses time, 
 you know. 
 By taking it. Be vigilant with bolt 
 And bar. I '11 close this friendly win- 
 dow up 
 That lent such invitation to the rogues. 
 {Closes window.) 
 Take heed no further, honest Boniface. 
 D'ye know a youth called Edward? 
 Boniface. If I know him? 
 
 One of our own; a quiet youth enough. 
 Before he left us. 
 Lothair. Wherefore did he go? 
 
 Boniface. He thought himself above his 
 father's lot. 
 An artist would be be, — a gentleman; 
 
398 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 And some rich man (a greater fool than 
 
 he, 
 For all his money) gave him means 
 
 thereto. 
 What of him? 
 LoTHAiR. Nothing. Did you tell me 
 
 where 
 He learned his art? I have forgot. 
 Boniface. In Rome. 
 
 They say that he consorts with noble- 
 men. 
 Could he molest my lord? 
 LoTHAiR. No, no, — not he. 
 
 Good host, it may be I shall send for 
 you. 
 Boniface. I 'm always wakeful to your 
 lordship's will; 
 Meantime I take my leave. 
 Lothair. Good-night, good friend! 
 
 Scene 9. 
 
 Lothair. (Solus.) This foolish tangle 
 
 must be cut at once. 
 Ere life and limb draw after. 
 
 (Goes to window.) 
 Leonore ! 
 There lies she, 'neath yon lattice, where 
 
 so oft 
 The summer wind has sped our mutual 
 
 sighs, 
 Freighted for love's sweet commerce; — 
 
 from my eyes 
 Thick walls conceal her; but my daring 
 
 thought 
 O'erleaps the bounds of slumber's sa- 
 
 credness, 
 To seize her as she lies. Her shadowy 
 
 hair, 
 Flinging its wild delights from brow to 
 
 breast, 
 While the fair arms are twin-enclasped 
 
 above. 
 In such repose as lends its thrill to mar- 
 ble. 
 Sleep holds the high-strung frame in 
 
 mastery ; 
 But I command him. Not of childish 
 
 joys 
 Thou dreamest, longing for thy mother's 
 
 breast, 
 Nor of tliy beauty's virgin festivals. 
 Lo! tlie magician smites the crystal 
 
 doors, 
 Ceases the hymn, and in the miiTor clear 
 The mystic angels vanish. Innocence 
 Dissolves, a pearl, in Passion's fervent 
 
 cup. 
 
 By Heaven, a costly draught for queen- 
 like lips. 
 
 That, peace contemning, offer life for 
 love. 
 
 And close on all thereafter! Perish thus 
 
 The cold to-morrow of a day like this ! 
 (He walks up and down in agitation; 
 then more calmly.) 
 
 Hold fast the visioned sweetness, Leo- 
 nore ! 
 
 Tliou hast sipt the goblet at its brim. 
 Not I, 
 
 But Fate, conceals the poison in the 
 dregs. 
 
 Nay, never chide me, 'twas thy will, thy 
 will. 
 
 Thy beauty spread its banner to the 
 sun; 
 
 I passed, and it stood there to challenge 
 me. 
 
 Unequal combat followed, — not for thee 
 
 The odds; for thee nor rescue, nor re- 
 pair. 
 
 Yield thee; the conquered from the con- 
 queror's eyes 
 
 Claims the unwonted tribute of a tear. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. A Bedroom in Leonora's Cot- 
 tage. A bed with drawn curtains. 
 
 {Enter Katchen, on tiptoe.) 
 
 Katchen. She slumbers late, poor child! 
 
 The morning meal 
 Grows cold with waiting ; here 's a letter, 
 
 too. 
 That came an hour ago. She shall not 
 
 see it 
 Till she has prayed, and dressed, and 
 
 broken fast. 
 
 {Hides letter in her hosom.) 
 Ev'n lovers must be fed ; and I 've ob- 
 served 
 That, has she but a billet from his hand, 
 She will not eat, nor speak, nor hear me 
 
 speak; 
 But wanders like a creature in a dream. 
 And, looking at me with those great, 
 
 fixed eyes. 
 Sees, Heaven knows what — not anything 
 
 that is. 
 Ah, me ! those ej^es — those eyes ! I 've 
 
 seen of late 
 A thousand signs that bode no good. 
 
 Well, well. 
 Would slie but take my counsel, — talk 
 
 of that!— 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 399 
 
 Would I take hers, could we but change 
 
 in age 
 And circumstance? I cannot swear, 
 
 forsooth ! 
 Edward 's returned, — true-hearted, faith- 
 ful Edward; 
 I always praised him to my wayward 
 
 girl. 
 But she, — there is a fate in likings, 
 
 too, 
 An ill one, sometimes. All may yet be 
 
 well. 
 Meanwhile my slow affection waits to 
 
 help, 
 Should the far need I dare not think of, 
 
 come. 
 Leonora. {Pushing hack the curtains.) 
 Where am I? Is this waking? Did I 
 
 sleep? 
 0, not if slumber be forgetfulness. 
 My dreams but shadowed out my daily 
 
 thought. 
 And that which makes my being, since 
 
 its end 
 Was given. Forbid it, God! that sleep 
 
 should come 
 So deep that I could let his image drop. 
 And lose the sacred nearness he has 
 
 sworn 
 To make eternal. Death itself hath not 
 This power; since death brings heaven, 
 
 and heaven must give 
 His presence, or be forfeit to my faith. 
 {Looking at the ring.) 
 What 's this ? The crystal prison of a 
 
 smile? 
 Love's fervor, looking from a thousand 
 
 eyes 
 Jn one? Nay, more, — the gem that 
 
 makes me his. 
 Bound, as a shining seal, upon my hand ; 
 Lothair has brought me many a precious 
 
 flower, 
 Whose dead delight is woven in my life. 
 But when he swore undying love, his 
 
 pledge 
 Was this immortal emblem. {Kisses it.) 
 Katchen here? 
 Good-morrow. Do not plague me with 
 
 thy breakfast; 
 I am full, and would not eat. But hast 
 
 thou not 
 A morsel I could greedily devour? 
 A letter — not a letter? Give it me? 
 Katchen. {Shaking her head.) I have 
 
 new milk, with the fresh morning in 
 
 The cakes, and curds, and hill-side straw- 
 berries ; 
 
 If you ask more, you 're but a fro ward 
 child. 
 
 And cannot be indulged. I 've spread it 
 out 
 
 I' the garden-porch, where best you love 
 to sit. 
 Leonora. Yes, we have held some merry 
 banquets there, 
 
 Lothair and I, and thou didst serve us 
 well. 
 
 Dost thou remember when he brought 
 the wine, 
 
 The costly foreign wine, so full of fire, 
 
 And drank it to my praise? So kind 
 he shared 
 
 Our simple pleasures, and our humble 
 fare, — 
 
 And he a creature of another world, 
 
 A thing to walk on sunbeams! Do I 
 speak 
 
 As if these things were past, when he 
 shall come 
 
 To bring the benediction of the day 
 
 Before his wont, and shame his messen- 
 ger? 
 
 So, — help me dress; give me the gown 
 he chose; 
 
 Lace quick the bodice; smooth this tan- 
 gled hair, 
 
 And I '11 wear roses in it. 0, my white 
 ones! 
 
 How did I crush them? 
 Katchen. Marry, in your sleep 
 
 You held them. 
 Leonora. Bring me others, — not like 
 
 these ; 
 
 The red shall blossom in my hair to- 
 day. 
 
 With warmer meaning. Haste, be quick, 
 good Katchen! 
 
 A day has but so many hours in all. 
 
 What if he came at once, and I should 
 lose 
 
 Some precious moments of his com- 
 pany ? — 
 
 It is no day till I have seen Lothair ! 
 
 {A loud knock below.) 
 
 Who knocks? Look out, dear Katchen! 
 is it he? 
 Katchen. {Going to the window.) 'T is 
 
 Bertha. 
 Leonora. An ungracious, envious girl! 
 
 And never more unwelcome than to-day. 
 Katchen. She has her comrades with her. 
 Leonora. That is strange; 
 
 They should be busy at their wheels ere 
 this. 
 
 Tell her I will not see her. 
 Katchen, Be advised, 
 
400 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Do her no slight. I '11 say you 're com- 
 ing straight. 
 Leonora. If you will have it so, — I '11 
 wait on them. (Exit Katchen.) 
 And I must braid my hair without the 
 
 flowers ! 
 Well, they will be the fresher when he 
 
 comes ; 
 Tliat 's well, at least. — 
 Katchen. {Without.) Stay, she'll be 
 
 down forthwith. 
 Bertha. (Without.) She need not be so 
 formal with her friends; 
 We 're bound to save her ladyship these 
 
 steps. 
 Nay, — stand aside, — we will come in. 
 Leonora. What means this? 
 
 Scene 2. The above. 
 
 (Enter Bertha and companions.) 
 
 Leonora. Good-morrow, Bertha; would 
 
 you aught with me? 
 Bertha. Our homage, gracious countess, 
 we would pay. 
 
 And ask, how doth your precious health 
 to-day? 
 Leonora. Why, I am well. What mean 
 these words of yours — 
 
 These mocking looks? Why do you call 
 me countess? 
 Bertha. Such is your worthy title, we 
 infer. 
 
 After those sacred nuptials of the heart, 
 
 At which the priest, indeed, did not at- 
 tend. 
 
 Having good cause for absence, — as I 
 judge ! 
 
 The bridal ring, see, girls! upon her 
 finger. 
 
 That is a troth-ring for a village maid, 
 
 A school prize for the first in modesty. 
 
 Pardon, your virtuous, blushing excel- 
 lence ! 
 
 We '11 call you Countess, Duchess, Para- 
 gon, 
 
 Whate'er your la'ship pleases; but 
 henceforth 
 
 We please to keep no company with you. 
 Leonora. I stand amazed at these injuri- 
 ous words. 
 
 Dare you insult me thus? And, if you 
 dare. 
 
 What moves your malice to break out on 
 me 
 
 Who never wronged you? These, my 
 village mates, 
 
 Are they come here to cast their jibes 
 
 upon 
 An unoffending comrade? Loulou, 
 
 Blanche, 
 Susanne, are you become my enemies? 
 I thought you loved me. 
 Girls. Bertha speaks for us. 
 
 Leonora. Nay, take your miserable pleas- 
 ure then; 
 I leave it for the meanest. Yet, be sure, 
 I have a friend whose watchful love and 
 
 zeal 
 Shield me from outrage. Vex me not 
 
 too far. 
 Or he may answer. 
 Bertha. Hef How brave she talks! — 
 
 He 's gone ! 
 Leonora. Who 's gone ? 
 Bertha. Your spiritual spouse, 
 
 Count, duke, or devil. 
 Leonora. (To herself.) Do I heed 
 
 these words? (To Bertha.) 
 
 Bertha, your envious heart is strong in 
 
 hate. 
 Weak in invention — he is close at hand. 
 Bertha. He's gone, I say! 
 Leonora. They want to make me mad, 
 
 For cruel laughter; so, I will not rave. 
 
 (To them.) 
 I do not doubt my being, person, place. 
 Nor that my usual senses help my 
 
 thought ; 
 Here are my old surroundings, — here 
 
 myself ; 
 Yonder 's the sun, that stands for God 
 
 in heaven, 
 And morning clouds that do him rever- 
 ence; 
 The trees, the waters are unchanged; 
 
 't is there. 
 The glorious world I walked in yester- 
 day. 
 Now, if there 's truth in aught that I 
 
 discern. 
 There is no need to question. He 's not 
 gone! 
 Susanne. My father 's master of the post, 
 you know; 
 His horses left at daybreak. 
 Leonora. That may be. 
 
 What need I care what traveller ordered 
 them? 
 Bertha. Perhaps his empty chamber at 
 the inn. 
 The bed unruffled, would confirm your 
 • faith. 
 Leonora. (Suddenly.) His chamber, — 
 
 who has seen it? 
 Bertha, and girls. All of us! 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 401 
 
 Leonora. There is no truth in this; and 
 yet, and yet, — 
 I cannot live until it be disproved. 
 Bertha. She changes countenance. 
 Leonora. I '11 seek him there, 
 
 Or anywhere, to rid myself of you. 
 Bertha. Think you we'll stay? We 
 would not miss the scene 
 For the brave diamond in your wedding- 
 ring! 
 Leonora. Beware, lest shame o'ertake'the 
 shameless tongue: — 
 Kiitchen, I cannot tarry, — follow me! 
 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. A Chamber at the Inn. A bed 
 that has not been slept in; various marks 
 of confusion, — papers scattered about. 
 Boniface, at a table with money. 
 
 Boniface. I care not what the man may 
 be, — I know 
 
 His gold is good, and he right free 
 withal ; 
 
 No haggling at the price of wine and 
 wax, 
 
 Nor hint, nor question, — paid and pock- 
 eted. 
 
 YovLT half-way people now. Lord, how 
 they save 
 
 Their candle-ends, and, better than your- 
 self 
 
 Can count you every morsel you have 
 served ! 
 
 (Looking at the bill.) 
 
 Come, come, old Boniface, if things go 
 on 
 
 In this wise, we shall have our daughter 
 portioned, 
 
 Our age kept warm with comfort, as is 
 right. 
 
 God send me many gentlemen like him ! — 
 
 What noise is that without? 
 
 Scene 4. The above. 
 
 (Enter Leonora, followed by Bertha and 
 her comrades. Leonora stands a mo- 
 ment and looks around her in surprise.) 
 
 Boniface. Well, girls, what now? 
 
 Leonora. (To Boniface.) I do not see 
 
 him. Where is Count Lothair? 
 Boniface. What 's that to you ? 
 Leonora. Enough, enough, good friend! 
 Say where he is. 
 
 Boniface. Why, gone where'er he likes. 
 As you metHinks may see. This was his 
 room. 
 Leonora. Was? What an idle jest is 
 this (So, so, 
 Let me not anger him.) So, Boniface, 
 Bertha and you contrived this merry 
 
 trick, — 
 A harmless one, that cannot ruffle me. 
 But now, if you and she have laughed 
 
 enough, 
 Be kind, and tell me, whither went the 
 count. 
 Boniface. A trick, indeed ! I 've told 
 you all I know, 
 And so much more than I had need. 
 
 He 's gone ; 
 Whither, and wherefore, you must ask 
 elsewhere. 
 Leonora. Here 's money for thee — tell 
 
 me, pray thee, tell! 
 Boniface. I want no money, and have 
 naught to tell. 
 Where are your wits? 
 Bertha. They left her when he came; 
 
 Now that he 's gone — who knows ? — they 
 may return. 
 Leonora. ! ye are all in league to tor- 
 ture me, 
 Like fiends, who know how falsehoods 
 vex the soul! 
 
 (Enter Edward.) 
 
 Boniface. Well, we shall hold a rural 
 chapter here; 
 The syndic next. So, will you go in 
 
 peace ? 
 Or must I hunt this hubbub from my 
 house ? 
 Leonora. I will not stir until I know the 
 truth. 
 So, Heaven be kind to me! 
 Edv^ard. Leonora here? 
 
 I sought an interview with Count Lo- 
 thair, 
 Or one who bears that name. 
 Boniface. The count again; 
 
 He left at daybreak. 
 Edward. I am much surprised; 
 
 He promised me a meeting. 
 Boniface. Did he so? 
 
 Well, you '11 not meet him here ! 
 Leonora. Is this a dream, 
 
 Or truth, that breaks with lurid glare 
 upon me? 
 (Going up to Edward with violence.) 
 You had your weapon at his throat, last 
 night; 
 
402 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 I rushed to part you; with my naked 
 
 breast 
 I shielded, rescued him whose life is 
 
 mine; 
 But what befell when I was there no 
 
 more? 
 Confess, explain, — his blood lies at your 
 
 door. 
 Edward. {With astonishment.) His 
 
 blood? 
 Leoxora. Say how you did it. Where 
 
 ye met? 
 Does he lie bleeding in the copsewood 
 
 yonder? 
 Or have you dug his grave with hasty 
 
 hands? 
 
 where? where? 
 
 Bertha. 'T is better than a play ! 
 
 Leonora. Say, if he 's dead, I '11 leave 
 you all in peace; 
 
 Why should I stay to plague you with 
 my moan. 
 
 Who never knew such sorrow ? I '11 de- 
 part; {To Edward.) 
 
 But bid them lead me gently to the 
 spot, 
 
 Where, like a fallen sun, his beauty lies 
 
 Veiled in the death-cloud. Ah, I see it 
 now! 
 
 1 see him dead before me! 
 
 Edward. Leonora ! 
 
 Am I condemned to speak the sentence 
 
 out 
 That renders death itself a boon of 
 
 peace? 
 He lives — you are deserted and betrayed ! 
 Bertha. Did we not tell you so an hour 
 ago? 
 But she is struck with blinding idiocy, 
 And, having played the wanton, plays 
 the fool. 
 Boniface. What does she hold by? 
 There 's his money paid. 
 Trunks, boxes, servants, all are packed 
 
 and gone; 
 So, mistress, let us make an end of 
 this. 
 Katchen. {Suddenly.) Ah, me, that let- 
 ter! Come with me, dear child! 
 Here 's something that may make all 
 right. 
 Leonora. Give here! {She reads it.) 
 
 Bertha. Look af her, will you? See 
 tliose eyes of hers, 
 That bloodless face, that swol'n vein in 
 
 her forehead. 
 So, Leonora, you believe us now? 
 Leonora. Believe you? Never! 
 
 (She falls.) 
 
 Edward. Stand back, all of you ! 
 
 {He raises her head. Bertha makes 
 a gesture of defiance. Katchen 
 bends over her. Scene changes.) 
 
 Scene 5. The Place in front of the Inn. 
 Various youths and maidens in groups, 
 as if conversing. 
 
 {Enter Bertha.) 
 
 Bertha. All has befallen as I told you, 
 boys ; 
 Leonora is deserted by her Count. 
 She slighted you and all of us for him; 
 So, let us raise a friendly voice or two 
 To speed her homeward; — rather, let's 
 
 unite 
 To hunt her from our village. 
 First Youth. Where is she? 
 
 Bertha. {Pointing to the inn.) Yonder, 
 — within. She fainted; on my life 
 She had need, I think. Let 's help her 
 to her senses. {Sings.) 
 
 "Leonore, come to the door, 
 Your true-love is a-waiting, 
 With clerk and priest for nuptial feast, 
 And we to see your mating." 
 
 Join in the chorus, will you? 
 First Youth, Willingly. 
 
 All Sing. 
 
 "With clerk and priest for nuptial feast, 
 And we to see your mating." 
 
 Bertha. Now that I call a tolerable song. 
 
 I made it on the moment. 
 Second Youth. Brava, Bertha! 
 
 Hurra, I say, for Bertha ! 
 All. One verse more! 
 
 {Enter Edward.) 
 
 First Youth. Here's Edward! 
 Edward. Let these ribald strophes cease; 
 
 They outrage decency. 
 Second Youth. Ho, sirrah, Edward! 
 
 We '11 sing as long as suits us, and as 
 
 loud. 
 Why should our song disturb you? 
 Edward. Listen, friends! 
 
 Within those walls a suffering creature 
 
 waits, 
 New-smit with sorrow; let her pass in 
 
 peace 
 To her own door. So much I ask of 
 you. 
 Bertha. Think not that she shall pass 
 without our greeting. 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 403 
 
 Let her come forth, and show her bridal- 
 ring,— 
 The ring, — ho ! ho ! the glistering diamond 
 
 ring! 
 Let 's form a ring to view the bridal-ring ! 
 
 {They shout.) 
 
 A ring! a ring! to view the bridal-ring! 
 
 Edward. {With forced calmness.) I 
 
 know the goodness of your hearts 
 
 belies 
 
 The roughness of your manners. So, 
 
 good friends. 
 Depart in peace; it is not well to mock. 
 The evil daj^ may come to all of us. 
 Bertha and Others. There, Parson Ed- 
 ward, you have preached enough! 
 The music 's better suited to our taste. 
 
 {Sings.) 
 
 "Whip, spur, and gallop, and the steed 's 
 away, 
 The steed that bore her lover. 
 She may wait for him ever and a day; 
 It boots not, — courtship's over!" 
 
 Now chorus! 
 
 All Sing. 
 
 "Leonore, come to the door, 
 And keep your true-love ever more." 
 
 {As they sing, the door opens, and 
 Leonora slowly emerges, veiled, and 
 leaning upon Katchen. They 
 form a ring around her.) 
 Bertha. Take off that veil, — let 's see 
 your pretty face. 
 Don't hide your maiden blushes. Inno- 
 cence! {They shout.) 
 Off with the veil, or it shall hang in 
 tatters ! 
 Edward. Leonora, fear not ! I '11 stand 
 up for you 
 Against the world! Who dares impede 
 
 her way. 
 Or follow her with one injurious word, 
 Accounts for it to me. 
 Leonora. {Lifting her veil.) When I 
 need help, 
 I have a knee to bend, a voice to call. 
 And God is not so far but he can hear. 
 I thank you, Edward! 
 
 {She passes out. Edward follows.) 
 First Youth. That 's strange, by Jove ! 
 Second Youth. He was her lover once. 
 Bertha. Pitiful soul! his suit may pros- 
 per now. 
 Good luck attend your wooing, Signor 
 Edward ! 
 {They pair off, and depart in con- 
 fusion. ) 
 
 Scene 6. The same. 
 
 {Enter Edward.) 
 
 Edward. She must not stay for further 
 insult here. 
 
 Best she departs at once. Yet whither 
 go, 
 
 Since disappointment lies along her way. 
 
 And the grim host, at ending, is De- 
 spair? 
 
 I '11 follow at a distance, for defence 
 
 And counsel. She has need of me, al- 
 though 
 
 Her heart is rebel to the thought. That 
 need 
 
 Makes me her follower. Why did they 
 mock, 
 
 Those cruel ones, because I shielded her 
 
 From their rude pleasure? Was it 
 strange that I, 
 
 Who loved her, should stand up to plead 
 her cause 
 
 Against the brutal judgment of the 
 crowd ? 
 
 Had I kept back, because she loved me 
 not. 
 
 Because she loved a wretch who sought 
 her ruin, 
 
 Because the evil left her for the good 
 
 To help and cherish, what an empty 
 name, 
 
 A thing to scoff and spit upon, were love ! 
 
 Scene 7. Leonora; Katchen. 
 
 Katchen. So, they have fairly chased us 
 from the village ! 
 I never thought to see this evil day. 
 
 {Weeps.) 
 Leonora. Stay not for tears; or, if 
 thou 'rt loth to go, 
 Return, and let me take my way alone. 
 Katchen. Thou know'st I cannot choose 
 but go with thee; 
 Yet leaving in this wise is hard indeed. 
 Leonora. Now, Katchen, I must hold you 
 to a bond. 
 Or you shall try no further step with 
 
 me. 
 The way I seek is swift and terrible! 
 Faith, with its fervent passion, hurries 
 
 me, 
 Ev'n as it blindly guides yon flock in 
 
 air. 
 Whose whitherward is known to God 
 
 alone. 
 Can you be strong and steadfast? 
 Katchen. Help of Heaven 
 
404 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Forsake me else! yet, do not chide the 
 
 thought, — 
 I would that Edward bore us company! 
 Leonora. Edward ! 
 Katchen. The bravest, faithfulest of 
 
 friends. 
 Leonora. I would not be his debtor. 
 Katchen. Can you choose? 
 
 Did he not raise you, fainting, in his 
 
 arms? 
 Did he not silence Bertha and her crew, 
 With such an earnest, valiant counte- 
 nance ? 
 Leonora. Hush, Katchen ! never speak of 
 
 things like these. 
 I do forbid your mention of this day 
 In all our future converse. I must walk 
 Without a weight would drag me down 
 
 to hell. 
 {Looking towards the setting sun.) 
 My way lies where the morning-red is 
 
 clear ; 
 Where purple shadows stream towards 
 
 golden light, 
 When the Day gathers up liis wide-blown 
 
 robes 
 For the cold plunge of darkness. I shall 
 
 tread 
 Where angels watch that spring-tide 
 
 flowers may rise; 
 Rest where the vestal evening trims her 
 
 lamp 
 For prayer and offering; all the loving 
 
 helps 
 Of nature will impel me towards the 
 
 spot, 
 The goal of fate, to which all ways must 
 
 lead, — 
 0, towards my love! 0, Katchen, to- 
 wards my love! 
 Katchen. Doubt not that Qod shall guide 
 
 us. Let us go! 
 (Exeunt slowly, Leonoua leading the 
 
 way.) 
 
 Scene 8. A Room in- an Inn. 
 
 LoTHAiR. I 've travelled like the devil in a 
 storm. 
 
 Leaving this folly league on league be- 
 hind. 
 
 Gods, what a game I played! Was this 
 for me? 
 
 A man who sees the danger in the pleas- 
 ure, 
 
 And draws the fang before the serpent's 
 head 
 
 Rests on his bosom t ¥w, Lothair! 
 Confes? 
 
 No school-boy could have done a wilder 
 thing. 
 
 And yet, I swear, I am a cautious man! 
 (Goes to window.) 
 
 A tiresome journey, and a gloomy night; 
 
 A night for dreams to bring those 
 troubles back 
 
 Our will holds banished from our wak- 
 ing thought. 
 
 Beside my bed, last night, a Fury stood, 
 
 Whose stony eyelids nailed me where I 
 
 While with an evil smile she drew a 
 
 blade. 
 Red from her heart, and held it aimed 
 
 at mine. 
 But, as I waited for the death-blow fain, 
 As that should end my agony, she flung 
 The weapon from her for a Lounce ^-like 
 
 spring ; 
 And with wild hands about my neck, and 
 
 shrieks 
 More wild, more dismal than the ghosts J 
 
 in hell, 1 
 
 She dragged me down a bottomless 
 
 abyss, 
 Whose very vacancy seemed sharp with 
 
 pangs. 
 I woke in torment. Bah ! I '11 dream no 
 
 more! 
 Why should I, when there 's better to be 
 
 done? 
 Orsetti 's here, with Huon and Alberto, 
 And other nobles; they have sent for 
 
 me. 
 I am not merry, — but 'tis time to break 
 This sombre web that suits not with my 
 
 humor. 
 So, ye distasteful fantasies, depart! 
 Here 's for gay gossip, and a night at 
 
 cards ; 
 And generous wine, the princely friend 
 
 of man, 
 That helps him, like a father, out of 
 
 straits. 
 With such a twinkling, swaggering sober- 
 ness. 
 Back, — I can blow you backward with 
 
 a breath. 
 Ye owlet brood ! Here 's for the old 
 
 Lothair! (Goes.) 
 
 Scene 9. An apartment hrilliantly lighted. 
 In the further part of the room a table 
 covered with wines and fruits. In front 
 a smaller one, with cards and dice. At I 
 the latter are seated Huon and Berto. i 
 
 1 Reading — edition of 1857. Misprint for "ounce," 
 a lynx, or dialectic French lounce (Fr. I'once). 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 405 
 
 Orsetti, and others, stand near. Lo- 
 renzo looks on. 
 
 HuON. Berto, your throw. 
 
 Berto. I can but lose again. 
 
 What shall we venture? 
 HuON. Twenty ducats more. 
 
 Berto. Nay, I 'd as lief risk forty. 
 HuoN. As you will; 
 
 The luck is mine to-night. 
 
 Berto. Try sixty, then, 
 
 For better fortune. {They throw.) 
 
 There they go again, 
 
 Here, Huon, take the purse, and pay 
 
 yourself, 
 To save me reck'ning. 
 Huon. What a careless dog! 
 
 'Fore Heaven ! the men are few to whom 
 
 I'd lend 
 My purse, with gold uncounted. 
 Berto. I 've a tree. 
 
 You know, upon the old paternal lands. 
 That bears such fruit for shaking. 
 Huon. Have a care 
 
 You strip it not, with wasteful hus- 
 bandry ! 
 Good Berto, nay, I 'm loth to cost you 
 
 more; 
 Let the dice rest, — they 're not for you 
 to-night. 
 Berto. The thought is pleasant, that a 
 paltry sum 
 Like this, could make a famine in my 
 
 coffers. 
 Here 's for another rattle ! 
 Huon. Here 's Lothair. 
 
 Scene 10. The above. 
 
 (Lothair enters.) 
 
 .All. Welcome, fair Count! 
 Lothair. Welcome to all of you ! 
 
 Berto. {Shaking hands.) 'T is long 
 since we have seen you. Tell us, 
 now, 
 Where have you lain perdu this blessed 
 time? 
 Lothair. These thirty days of midsum- 
 mer have passed 
 Ev'n as they might, with one whose 
 
 health required 
 A country regimen and mountain air. 
 Huon. Fie! fie! Lothair; don't lie to 
 
 friends like these! 
 Berto. How 's your aunt's lap-dog ? 
 Orsetti. And the good Arch-Priest, 
 
 Your venerable uncle, — how is he? 
 Lothair. All well, — I thank you kindly, 
 — very well. 
 
 Berto. Speak like a man, and let your 
 comrades know 
 
 What mischief you have wrought with- 
 out their help. 
 Huon. Give him some wine first. 
 
 {Pours.) 
 Lothair. Yes, my throat is dry. 
 
 I drink, good Berto, to your better 
 luck; 
 
 For surely you 've been playing, — and 
 as surely 
 
 The odds have gone against you. 
 Berto. On my life 
 
 You guess discreetly. What of that, my 
 boy? 
 
 Gold 's for the spending, be it lost or 
 won; 
 
 Though I could wish I had your star, 
 Lothair, 
 
 In every venture. 
 Lothair. This is generous wine, — 
 
 A wine to sing about ; though 't is a point 
 
 How far the wine and singing go to- 
 gether. 
 Berto. What say you? 
 Lothair. Why, your poets cannot drink 
 
 As we. They settle on the goblet's brim 
 
 Already half-intoxicate with song. 
 
 The fiery vapor is enough to turn 
 
 Their sublimated brains; while you and 
 I 
 
 Plunge to the muzzle, like a steed at 
 water. 
 
 And keep the heavenly madness for our- 
 selves 
 
 Which they, not having, sing to all the 
 world. 
 Huon. True, true; your men who linger 
 in ideas 
 
 Are not the men for pleasure. As with 
 wine, 
 
 So is 't with women. Your true wor- 
 shipper 
 
 Can never pass the outer circle dim 
 
 Of their enchantments; he is lost, trans- 
 fixed 
 
 In admiration, while the vision fair, 
 
 Dissolving, leaves him empty as before. 
 
 So have I seen one introduced at court. 
 
 Stand gaping at resplendent sover- 
 eignty, 
 
 Until the favorable moment passed. 
 
 And left him but his wonder for his 
 pains. 
 
 Another presses forward, gains the eye, 
 
 The ear of power; gets pension, title, 
 place. 
 
 While our poor clown has nothing asked 
 or had. 
 
40G 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Lorenzo. But could the prince or lady 
 
 stand to choose, 
 Would they not, think you, crown the 
 
 modest heart 
 With high deserving? 
 IIuox. It concerns us not 
 
 To force conclusions. Take things as 
 
 they are. 
 Orsetti. Your woman-hunter tires down 
 
 his prey 
 With the true game-dog instinct ; 't is the 
 
 love 
 Of conquest, not the feeble thing he 
 
 hunts. 
 Incites him. 
 LoTHAiR. (Indicating Lorenzo.) Berto, 
 
 who is he that spoke 
 Just now? 
 Berto. (To Lothair.) A stranger 
 
 chance threw in our way. 
 I have not heard his name, or else forgot 
 
 it. 
 'Tis a green, peevish youth; let's med'- 
 
 cine him 
 With something stronger than his 
 
 mother's milk, 
 Scarce out of him, I judge. 
 Lothair. Indeed, poor babe! 
 
 He 's come into a proper nursery. 
 Eh, Berto? I will look to him anon. 
 HuoN. 'T is an impertinence to reason 
 
 thus. 
 When one, of great authority in these 
 And other matters, sits at wine with us. 
 Lothair is here, the keenest, luckiest, 
 In these high sports; the man who never 
 
 missed 
 His game; who has the pleasure, and 
 
 escapes 
 The useless reckoning. Come, Don Juan 
 
 mine. 
 Unfold for us thy catalogue, as long 
 And blooming as a florist's; let us hear 
 What new adventures have beguiled this 
 
 month. 
 They should be many, for Lothair lives 
 
 not 
 A week that brings not its intrigue to 
 
 pass. 
 As surely as its Sunday. 
 Berto. {Filling Lothair's glass.) Drink 
 
 again. 
 Lothair. {After drinking.) He should 
 
 miscall, who named me woman- 
 hunter : 
 Hunted were nearer truth. The crea- 
 tures know 
 Too well the natural softness of my 
 
 heart, 
 
 Not to abuse it. Angels, shall we call 
 them? 
 
 Women are angels; but, like Lucifer, 
 
 They have a natural tendency to fall, 
 
 And drag us after. 
 Berto. 0, you handsome dog! 
 
 Will you pretend to ignore the temp- 
 ter's part? 
 
 You play the victim? 
 Lothair. On my life, I may. 
 
 The pretty dears are deep in provocation. 
 
 The very germ of womanhood's a hook 
 
 With a bait on it. How they angle for 
 us! 
 
 They madden us with pinidence; at tlie 
 last 
 
 They pass the palm of conquest to our 
 sex. 
 
 Through subtle instinct, when, in truth, 
 we were 
 
 The sought, the wooed, the conquered. 
 Thus it goes. 
 
 Ah, they have led me many a weary 
 dance ! 
 
 Would they but henceforth leave me to 
 myself, 
 
 'T were worth the thanking. Berto, give 
 more wine. {Drinks.) 
 
 HuON. They '11 hang about you while 
 your beauty stays. 
 
 Your vigor, and your fortune. Let these 
 go,— 
 
 As, in a merrj^, swashing life, they 
 may,— 
 
 You need not shun the women. 
 Lorenzo. Gentlemen, 
 
 I am not forward, in such company, 
 
 To speak of things most sacred : 't is the 
 fault 
 
 Of words of yours, if mine grow vehe- 
 ment. 
 
 I think we call those Women, who up- 
 hold 
 
 Faint hearts and strong, with angel 
 countenance ; 
 
 Who stand for all that 's high in Faith's 
 resolve. 
 
 Or great in Hope 's first promise. 
 Women they 
 
 Whose shadows, passing, heal the fevered 
 brow, 
 
 And were a thing for grateful lips to 
 press. 
 
 Were 't not that men like you and Judas 
 kiss! 
 
 Remembrances like these, with all of us. 
 
 Lie nearer to the heart than to the lips. 
 
 But such let not an hour like this pro- 
 fane; 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 407 
 
 We name them not o'er goblets emptied 
 
 oft, 
 But, pouring once to them the sacred 
 
 wine, 
 Shatter the vase forever ! 
 
 Weaker forms, 
 Where blood overmasters brain, and 
 
 stops drawn out 
 Let the full rush of passion oversweep 
 Thouglit's modest labor at the finger- 
 board, 
 Are near us in our daily lives. For 
 
 these, 
 Justice has yet an earnest word to say; 
 Ev'n the frail creature with a moment's 
 
 bloom, 
 That pays your pleasure with her sac- 
 rifice, 
 And, having first a marketable price, 
 Grows thenceforth valueless, — e'en such 
 
 an one, 
 Lifted a little from the mire, and purged 
 By hands severely kind, will give to 
 
 view 
 The germ of all we honor, in the form 
 Of all that we abhor. You fling a jewel 
 Where wild feet tramp, and crushing 
 
 wheels go by; 
 You cannot tread the splendor from its 
 
 dust; 
 So, in the shattered relics, shimmers yet 
 Through tears and grime, the pride of 
 
 womanhood. 
 A man, — I would show courtesy to all ; — 
 {With emphasis.) 
 Forbearance, even, to some. Were I a 
 
 king. 
 To woman I would lift my coronet ! 
 Loth AIR. (ToHuon.) See how the crim- 
 son flashes to his brow! 
 This is some virgin-souled enthusiast. 
 Huon, we were of his opinion once! 
 Eheu ! that time seems further than it is. 
 But you and I have seen the world, my 
 
 boy! 
 Berto. Sir, you have spoken honestly and 
 
 well; 
 But you'll not hold to these illusions 
 
 long. 
 Lorenzo. {With solemnity.) If it please 
 
 God, may life depart from me 
 Ere I lose faith in woman's nobleness! 
 LoTHAiR. A madman's prayer! 
 Huon. What need of prayer at all? 
 
 I must confess my patience serves me 
 
 not 
 To stay a sermon, where we ask a toast. 
 But, has our reverend father breathed 
 
 his zeal, 
 
 We '11 hear Lothair upon another 
 theme, — 
 
 The story of a month in mountain-land. 
 Lothair. (To Huon.) Why, yes. Gods! 
 I '11 astound the Puritan. 
 
 Yet 't is a simple story, — briefly this : 
 
 A traveller in an unknown neighbor- 
 hood, 
 
 Detained by breaking of a carriage- 
 wheel. 
 
 That proved a very wheel of Fortune to 
 him. 
 
 Through invitation of two glorious eyes. 
 
 Sealed by the sanction of two lovely lips, 
 
 Became the captive of two swan-like 
 arms, 
 
 And stayed, content, in their captivity, 
 
 Till — till — in fact, he thought it best to 
 go. 
 
 I trust I am decorous in my style; 
 
 Hints to the wise, you know! — my 
 story 's done. 
 Berto. It runs as smoothly as a nursery- 
 tale; 
 
 But 't is too vague in outline. Give some 
 facts 
 
 To mark the doubtful footprints of your 
 friend. 
 Huon. {With irony.) I hope he did not 
 
 harm an innocent girl. 
 Orsetti. Few men have that good for- 
 tune, I 'm afraid. 
 Lothair. You shall not mar the conquest 
 of my friend. 
 
 Cynic — this was a bud whose virgin heart 
 
 Found its first summer in the glow of 
 his. 
 
 Such summers are unthrifty, as you 
 know; 
 
 All they have gathered falls in autumn's 
 lap. 
 
 Perhaps she mourns him. He desires it 
 not, — 
 
 Why should she? Life and love are left 
 her still; 
 
 No funeral pyre awaits to end them 
 both. 
 
 I talk as though the thing were seri- 
 ous; 
 
 That you have leave to laugh at, if you 
 will. 
 Huon. Could you not shed some peniten- 
 tial tears'? 
 
 Methinks you grow pathetic. 
 Orsetti. {With mock pathos.) On my 
 word. 
 
 It is a very touching history. 
 Berto. Why can't you tell us what the 
 girl was like? 
 
408 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 As handsome as the last one? No, not 
 
 quite. 
 LoTiiAiR. Handsome? You shall not find 
 
 her counterpart 
 'T wixt this and the Circassian nurseries. 
 Gentles, that was a woman! Such an 
 
 eye, 
 Such lips, such shoulders, Passion's ec- 
 
 Attempered by the snow-hue of her skin, 
 Like wine in ice, to madness exquisite. 
 HuON. He always vapors of his women 
 thus; 
 She was some sunburnt dowdy, very 
 like! 
 LoTHAiR. {Taking out a portrait.) See 
 for yourself; confess that beautiful, 
 Or let me call you night-owls, blind 
 worms, moles. 
 Huo^r. {Considering the portrait.) 
 Humph! let me see! Upon my word, 
 not bad! 
 Orsetti. Give me the shadowy pleasure 
 of a look. 
 'Fore Heaven, you 've wronged the sover- 
 eign, sir! Such charms 
 Are naturally rescript to royalty. 
 HuoN. That 's true ; you '11 give me her 
 address and name? 
 
 (Lorenzo takes the portrait.) 
 LoTHAiR. You could not win her, Berto, 
 with your gold; 
 Nor Huon, with his devil's enterprise. 
 No sordid bargain gave my suit suc- 
 cess. 
 She loved me. 
 HuON. 0, you're modest! — in 
 
 that case 
 Why did you leave her? 
 LoTHAiR. That 's the worst of it. 
 
 I thought to spend another joyous 
 
 month ; 
 But circumstances intervened. A broil, 
 A jealous rival. Were it not for these 
 I had not been with you, my friends, to- 
 night. 
 HuON. {With meaning.) Better em- 
 ployed your countship would have 
 been. 
 LoTHAiR. {Significantly.) Perhaps. 
 Lorenzo. {Coming forward.) Are you 
 
 the hero of your tale? 
 Huon. It needs no prophet to declare us 
 
 that. 
 Lorenzo. And is this portrait hers of 
 whom you spake? 
 
 (LOTHAiR nods assent.) 
 Lorenzo. You had the heart to leave your 
 evil mark, — 
 
 The foulest, — on this glorious brow ; these 
 
 eyes. 
 Tender and passionate; these faultless 1, 
 lips, I 
 
 Whose silence cries to God like victims' 
 
 blood! 
 Say, was it yours, the deed that you 
 
 aver, 
 Or is this empty boasting? It is true! i 
 Then, let me give your villainy its name, 7 
 And tell you that a blow from this right 
 
 hand 
 Were just, — had it deserved so mean a 
 service. 
 LOTHAIR. {Starting.) Hell's fury! do 
 
 you dare to tell me this? 
 Huon. Come on ! Draw swords ; we '11 
 
 stand to see fair play. 
 Lorenzo. I am no partner for a midnight 
 brawl. 
 The morning sun may shame you to your 
 senses; {Throws down a card.) 
 
 If not, I fling you here my honest name. 
 And when we meet, may God protect the 
 right. {Exit.) 
 
 Obsetti. {After a moment's silence.) 
 Go, saucy cockerel! we're well rid of 
 thee. 
 Huon. Lothair, my man, you should have 
 
 let him blood. 
 Berto. He was too quick with his im- 
 pertinence. 
 Huon. I '11 be the bearer of your line to- 
 morrow. 
 Lothair. {Suddenly.) The portrait, ha! 
 Up, l3oys, and follow him! 
 
 {They all rush out.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 Scene 1. A Boom in an Inn. 
 
 Edward. {Solus.) Thither and thither 
 
 by her frenzy led. 
 0, the wild errand, with the frantic end ! 
 O, piteous lavishing of holy gifts 
 On a remorseless idol, absent, dumb! 
 I chide, and I grow like her, wandering 
 
 on, 
 Seeking new places, plunging into 
 
 crowds. 
 With eyes intent to ravel out their web. 
 And seize the thread of Fate. On lonely 
 
 heaths 
 Like her I see no spot so poor and bare 
 But it should yield him, like a spell of 
 
 joy, 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 409 
 
 Could her foot touch the right stone. 
 
 Swifter hope 
 Leads her, in towns where strangers con- 
 gregate; 
 Then, how^ she threads the narrow ways 
 
 between 
 The booths; heeds not the bestial and 
 
 profane, 
 Hears not the music, murderous of tune ! 
 Nor would she know, if angels stood and 
 
 sang. 
 She listens only to the far-off pipe 
 That draws her, with its thin-worn 
 
 melody. 
 Through the flushed present to the far- 
 off goal, — 
 A dim, gray vista, with a sudden red 
 That drops, death-quenched, ere you can 
 
 wdn to it. (After a pause.) 
 
 To-day her hope 's in fuller heart than 
 
 ever; 
 A market-town hangs simmering in our 
 
 way; 
 "There will be many people there," she 
 
 says, 
 "Who knows? who knows f Indeed, 
 
 poor child! who knows? 
 So, here we are. That step upon the 
 
 stairs 
 Is like Lorenzo's; could I think it he? 
 {The door opens.) 
 
 Scene 2. The above. 
 
 (Lorenzo enters.) 
 
 Edward. It is, indeed! (They embrace.) 
 Lorenzo. Edward, we meet at last. 
 
 'T is a kind chance that brings us face 
 to face. 
 
 {Looking at him.) 
 Why ! you 've much altered, man ! What 
 
 mean these looks? 
 You turn away; your brow is worn and 
 sad. 
 Edward. I 've been at work, you know, 
 with over-zeal. 
 Sketching by midnight, working up by 
 
 day. 
 No one grew ever great in any art 
 Who did not with this pallor paint him- 
 self. 
 Lorenzo. No — that 's not it ! Some sor- 
 row weighs you down; 
 Is it too great for words ? You '11 tell 
 
 it me 
 In time. I have no rest until I share it. 
 Edward. {With forced gaijetij.) Who 
 talks of sorrow? — Give us bread and 
 wine, 
 
 And this shall be a feast. 'T is nigh a 
 
 year 
 Since we have pledged each other. Boy, 
 
 this way! 
 A flask of Rhenish! 
 Lorenzo. I am not athirst. 
 
 {Boy places wine on a small table. 
 They sit. Edward pours.) 
 Here's to our meeting {They drink.) 
 Lorenzo. Tell of your return. 
 
 How was 't ? Auspicious ? Did the maid- 
 en smile? 
 Edward. She smiles no more ! The girl I 
 loved is dead! 
 That is, I think of her as if she were. 
 Talk of your travels; you have much to 
 tell! 
 Lorenzo. This is most strange! 
 Edward, You 're 
 
 all the way from Rome; 
 Have you no tidings? 
 Lorenzo. Nothing worthy note. 
 
 Edward. What of your journey? 
 Lorenzo. Prosperous enough, 
 
 But bare of incident. Nay, on my word, 
 I had a story freshly in my thoughts, 
 When your pale face suggested other 
 themes. 
 Edward. Adventures wait for gallant 
 knights like you. 
 Proceed, — I 'm eager for your narra- 
 tive. 
 Lorenzo. I chanced among some brag- 
 garts at their wine 
 One evening ; — wherefore, let 's not fill 
 
 too oft; — 
 In the full flush of lustihood were they, 
 With rank and money to their mind, I 
 
 think ! 
 And one of them the man for women's 
 
 eyes ;— 
 You know the sort. Had one a sister, 
 
 now, 
 God rest her in her grave ere wooed of 
 him! 
 Edward. Ay, say you so? You would 
 not pray amiss. 
 Proceed. 
 Lorenzo. His presence was profane to 
 me 
 Before his lips unlocked their evil treas- 
 ures. 
 The talk soon turned on amorous enter- 
 prise ; 
 All turned to him as one supremely 
 
 versed ; 
 And he, with some new-glowing conquest 
 
 crowned. 
 Told its loose tale; resigned its heroine 
 
410 
 
 LEONORA, OK THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 To hints, and shrugs, and jeers, which, 
 
 on my word. 
 If women feel as we, should burn like 
 
 hell, 
 And bring shame's scarlet to a wan- 
 ton's cheek. 
 Edward. (Aside.) This might be he, or 
 any one. { Aloud.) 
 
 Say on! 
 Lorenzo. He had a portrait; it was hers, 
 he said; 
 His boon companions (such men have 
 
 no friends) 
 Drove on their jesting till he showed it 
 them. 
 Edward. It was — ? 
 
 Lorenzo. God's pity! what a 
 
 face it was! 
 Like something, too, that I have seen in 
 
 dreams. 
 Or in a picture; but more beautiful. 
 It seemed to plead for rescue at my 
 
 hands, 
 And so — I snatched it. 
 Edwakd. Have you brought it here? 
 
 Lorenzo. Behold ! 
 Edward. 'T is she ! I knew it 
 
 from the first! 
 Lorenzo. Edward, you falter! — tell me, 
 
 why is this? 
 Edward. Had I his heart's blood! had I 
 
 that, Lorenzo! 
 Lorenzo. You 've known her, then — the 
 
 victim of this man? 
 Edward. Ask this grief-hardened bosom, 
 these parched ej'es. 
 Whose tears have left their burning bed 
 
 a-dry, 
 If I have known her! 
 Lorenzo. All grows clear to me, — 
 
 'T was in a sketch of yours I saw the 
 
 face; 
 This was your Leonora! 
 Edward. Name her not! 
 
 Lorenzo. Poor maid! poor Edward! 
 
 Help is idle here. 
 Edward. Justice remains. We '11 talk of 
 that anon. 
 Say, did you leave his baseness un- 
 chastised ? 
 Lorenzo. I had it in my heart to strike 
 him down; 
 But what, — 't is pitiful to harm a cow- 
 ard; 
 I smote him only with a shameful word, 
 And, spurning, left him to his fellows' 
 scorn. 
 Edward. 0, worthy friend ! 't was well, 
 't was nobly done ; 
 
 But it seems little to my angry heart. 
 I could become a fiend, to plot his ruin. 
 Lorenzo. God needs not men like you, 
 
 nor me, for that. 
 Such wretches twine the slip-noose for 
 
 themselves. 
 What we can do for her were first to 
 
 seek. 
 Where is she? 
 Edward. Searching the wide 
 
 world for him. 
 With me to help her. 
 Lorenzo. Then she 's nigh at hand. 
 
 And hanging still upon a treacherou-s 
 
 hope. 
 Can you unmask him to her? 
 Edward. Such a task 
 
 Affection's utmost should require of me. 
 (After a pause.) 
 Give me that portrait. You should fol- 
 low me; 
 Your statement only can establish mine. 
 Support me. Heaven ! beneath the weight 
 
 of woe 
 I bear to her. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 3. A Street. Leonora, Katchen. 
 
 Leonora. I know not why I am so light 
 
 to-day. 
 I seem to breathe the sunshine, taste the 
 
 flowers, 
 Weave rainbow clothing from this golden 
 
 air, 
 The morning's gift, that scatters heaven 
 
 abroad. 
 He is not distant, Katchen. Do not 
 
 smile ! 
 To-day, be sure, he lives in happiness. 
 And from his heart the first glad over- 
 flow 
 Sends its wide circlings of delight to 
 
 mine. 
 'T is such a day shall bring us face to 
 
 face; 
 Nay, never shake thy head. I will not 
 
 bear 
 Doubt in my presence; — better walk 
 
 alone; — 
 For, Kiitchen, I 'm as sure of meeting 
 
 him. 
 As next year's spring-tide, if I live so 
 
 long. 
 And I shall see what has become a 
 
 vision, — 
 So long, so far I follow it, — and sink. 
 To die, perhaps, — what matter? — on his 
 
 breast. 
 
 (She clasps her hands ^ and pauses.) 
 
JULIA WARD HO^YE 
 
 411 
 
 I fear I 've been unclutif ul, of late ; 
 For though I have miraculous support 
 To pierce the devious ways, as some pale 
 
 moon 
 Threads the dim vapors, striving towards 
 
 her heaven, 
 Yet, wlien the wavering columns of the 
 
 day 
 Give way, and swift the weight of dark- 
 ness falls, 
 Crushing my hope and me, I sink, so 
 
 low 
 The grave itself seems near me; but at 
 
 morn 
 The little prisoner finds its wing again. 
 Katchen. Alas, my child! who knows 
 
 what nights and morrows, 
 What days and years, this search shall 
 
 link together? 
 You 'U drop me, somewhere, in a wayside 
 
 grave, 
 But you may perish on some lonely 
 
 moor, 
 Where ev'n poor Katchen's comfort were 
 
 not scorned, 
 Where unblest brutes and wicked ghosts 
 
 may strive 
 To cheat your bones of Christian burial. 
 Leonora. I do not love you when your 
 
 speech runs thus; 
 'T were best would you and Edward go 
 
 your ways. 
 And leave me to myself. 
 Katchen. Not while I live. 
 
 {Enter Flower-Girl. ) 
 
 Leonora. Forgive me, Katchen; I was 
 harsh, indeed. 
 See, the fresh roses ! Hither, little maid ! 
 You need not bear them further; we are 
 
 poor. 
 But Katchen will not grudge this shin- 
 ing coin 
 That buys a priceless joy of memory. 
 Flower-Girl. Keep it, I pray! you're 
 welcome to the flowers. 
 I 'd rather give to you than sell to some. 
 Leonora. Not so, dear child; you have 
 your bread to earn, 
 And must keep thrifty commerce with 
 your wares. 
 Katchen. Thank God if they can give 
 
 you honest life. 
 Flower-Girl. What else? I earn the lit- 
 tle that I need, 
 And keep my friends and favorite cus- 
 tomers ; 
 Lovers are generous with their gold, you 
 know, 
 
 And love needs flowers to help its blush- 
 ing tale." 
 
 One buys my freshest violets every day. 
 
 And, flinging thrice their value, looks not 
 back, 
 
 Hurrying to the street beyond the square, 
 
 Where, from a window, leans his lady- 
 love. 
 Leonora. God keep them happy! I 
 have chosen these. 
 
 (Taking flowers.) 
 Flower-Girl. And some buy rosemary, 
 to strew on graves, 
 
 And some, rich garlands for a wedding- 
 feast. 
 
 Or lilies, for the altar of their saint, 
 
 You see, it is my fortune that they fade. 
 
 God, when he made them so, remembered 
 us. (Exit.) 
 
 Leonora. 'T is w^ild to flaunt with posies 
 in the street, — 
 
 But, could I meet him, I 'd be thus ar- 
 rayed ; 
 
 The white and red, for Love and Truth, 
 just here, 
 
 Where the thin folds are gathered on 
 my breast. 
 
 This was the toilet of my happiest days, 
 
 And still it seems familiar. Hearken, 
 Katchen ! 
 
 Should God recall my spirit ere we 
 meet. 
 
 And heaven, not earth, unfold that bliss- 
 ful hour, 
 
 'T is thus thou shalt adorn me for my 
 bier; 
 
 Thus wil'l I make my progress to the 
 tomb, — 
 
 For he might pass me, fading in my 
 shroud, 
 
 And smile to see me still attired for him. 
 [Suddenly turning her head.) 
 
 There comes a sound of horses' hoofs this 
 way — 
 
 0, ever, when I hear it, leaps my heart! 
 
 (Enter Lothair and Helen at the further 
 end of the stage; they walk along as in 
 the street. Leonore and Katchen have 
 retired a little in the background.) 
 
 Lothair. (To Helen.) 'Twill rest you, 
 
 love, to walk this quaint old street. 
 
 And hunt its treasures, while the horses 
 
 stand. 
 The tedious chariot wearies us and them; 
 Grand, like our state, but slow and irk- 
 some too. 
 Helen. I thank you. I was eager to de- 
 scend, 
 
412 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Cramped with long sitting. Will our 
 
 boy be safe, 
 Think you? 
 LoTHAiR. Why, what should harm 
 
 him where he sits? 
 You mothers travel wide to find a fear. 
 Leonora. Lothair ! 
 
 {She tries to advance, hut falls sense- 
 less. ) 
 Helen. What girl is this? 
 Lothair. Some sickly fool! 
 
 Let us walk further ; there 's the market- 
 place; 
 The palace with the pictures is beyond. 
 Helen. She knows your name. 
 Lothair. Only by miracle. 
 
 I should be tasked, indeed, to tell you 
 
 hers. 
 Come, we lose time. 
 Katchen. {Springing before him.) 
 Stay, Count Lothair! for shame, 
 If not for pity. 
 Lothair. {Angrily.) Shame is lost, I 
 think. 
 When things like you patrol the streets 
 
 by day! 
 Release my arm, or take this! 'tis your 
 fault. {Striking her.) 
 
 Helen. {Screams.) Ah! do not strike 
 her! 
 (Katchen drops her hold, with a cry 
 of pain.) 
 Lothair. {Dragging Helen along.) 
 Madam, come away! 
 Helen. Let me go back to help her ! 
 See! she lies 
 Upon the flinty bosom of the street. 
 Lothair. Go at your peril, madam! It 
 beseems 
 My rank that you should parley with a 
 
 wench ! 
 Come on, I say! 
 Helen. Heaven help thee, wretched one ! 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
 Katchen. {Bending over Leonora.) 
 
 Shall I recall her to this heartless world? 
 
 The dead will move her envy, when she 
 
 wakes. 
 
 {Reenter Flower-Girl. ) 
 
 But she must wake. Help, child! your 
 friend lies here. 
 Girl. Alas! what shall I do? 
 Katchen. Bring water straight; 
 
 The fountain yonder. 
 Girl. {Runs and returns.) Yes, I have 
 
 it here. 
 Katchhn. Pour on her temples; see, she 
 breathes, she stirs! 
 
 Be not in haste, sad eyes, to open here! 
 
 Keep still a while, poor heart ! you 're 
 
 happier so. 
 
 Leonora. {Opens her eyes.) Lothair! 
 
 not here? I saw him in a dream; 
 
 No, no ! he 's gone, alas ! he knew me not ; 
 
 I must be altered! 
 
 {Springs to her feet, seizes the 
 Flower-Girl hy the shoulder.) 
 
 Which way did he go? 
 Speak! speak! you cheat me of this 
 precious time. 
 Girl. I met a noble as I came this way, 
 
 And on his arm a lady. 
 Leonora. Do not prattle, — 
 
 Where saw'st thou him? 
 Girl. Beyond the market-place; 
 
 But they walked rapidly. 
 Leonora. That way? 
 
 Girl. That way. (Leonora goes.) 
 
 Katchen. Leonora! Leonora! my own 
 child. 
 Stay, if you love me! 
 Leonora. {Looking hack.) Not for 
 God in heaven! 
 
 Scene 4. A Room in an Inn. 
 
 {Enter Lothair and Helen.) 
 
 Lothair. {Aside.) All safe, thank 
 
 Heaven! {Aloud.) 
 
 Dear Helen, rest you here; 
 
 I bade them bring the choicest grapes 
 
 and wine. 
 You must take some refreshment, for we 
 
 leave 
 Within the hour. I go to seek our 
 grooms. 
 Helen. You need not send the fruit. 1 
 never felt 
 Further from hunger than I do to-day. 
 Lothair. Why are you grown so sudden 
 cold and strange? 
 Your very voice seems altered. Do not 
 
 say 
 
 It was that silly business in the street, — 
 
 A scene well-acted; poh! the merest jest. 
 
 Helen. I will say nothing. 
 
 Lothair. Helen, change that tone; 
 
 Look like yourself, or I shall think you 
 
 jealous. 
 Of what? — a thing I would not stoop to 
 
 pick 
 From off the pavement. 
 Helen. Do not slander lier; 
 
 My woman's heart will take no pleasure 
 in it. 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 413 
 
 I saw lier face ; it was no wicked one, 
 But very young and beautiful. 
 LoTHAiR. My child, 
 
 Y"ou do not know the world. These 
 
 shameless w^omen 
 Can simulate all virtues for their ends. 
 Even the blushing gift of modesty 
 They trade with, when occasion calls for 
 
 it. 
 But that I could not keep my angel wife 
 In such vile presence, I had shamed 'the 
 
 creatures 
 Back to the noisome sewers where they 
 live. 
 Helen". What sound without? 
 Leonora. (Without.) 1 know that he is 
 here ! 
 
 (Enter Leoxora. Lothair's hand seeks 
 his dagger. He starts forward; Helen 
 intervenes.) 
 
 Helen. Now, by God's life! this woman 
 shall have speech! 
 (Lothair stands transfixed. Leonora 
 advancing, holds him at arm's 
 length, gazing fixedly at him. After 
 some moments she turns abruptly 
 from him, and sinks upon a seat.) 
 Leonora. 'T is he ! I did not dream, nor 
 was I mad, 
 
 In all the 'wildered ruin of my heart. 
 
 'T is he, unchanged in form and counte- 
 nance ; 
 
 No death-like pang has left its rigid 
 mark 
 
 Along his features. Is it not for this, 
 
 Because he is unchanged, that, here in 
 sight, 
 
 I do not know him, — cannot speak to 
 him? 
 
 There is a gulf of agony between us, 
 
 Silent and deep, which I have crossed 
 alone, — 
 
 And he stands there, and we are parted 
 still. 
 
 Lothair, — if it be thou indeed, — dissolve 
 
 This icy spell with one familiar word. 
 
 0, smile! 0, speak! Give me the old, 
 dear name. 
 
 And loose those arms that keep me from 
 thy heart! 
 (Going nearer to him, she stops sud- 
 denly.) 
 
 He dares not smile, nor speak; a sullen 
 glow 
 
 And leaden pallor alternate upon 
 
 The cheek that used to shame mine, prest 
 to it. (With a cry.) 
 
 It is not hej no time could change him 
 
 so! (She perceives Helen.) 
 
 We 're not alone ! What lady pale and 
 
 still 
 Looks like a ghost upon us? Pray you, 
 
 madam, 
 Know you this gentleman as Count 
 Lothair? (Helen hows assent.) 
 
 And you, — his sister, or his friend? 
 Helen. His wife. 
 
 Leonora. You 're merry, madam ! Who- 
 soe'er you be 
 Your jesting is ill-chosen and worse- 
 timed. 
 Helen. (With dignity.) I do not jest. 
 Leonora. Lothair, — what may this mean? 
 Helen. Speak, sir, the truth. 
 Lothair. (With effort.) This lady is my 
 
 wife. 
 Leonora. What strength shall hold me up 
 to suffer this? 
 Let me hear all, — is this your wedded 
 wife? 
 Lothair. Surely she is. 
 Leonora. And I, God, betrayed! 
 
 Do you remember me? These eyes, these 
 
 lips, 
 This bosom, — was it you who ravished 
 
 all 
 The poor girl's dower? This very lock 
 
 of hair 
 Has lost its fellow, — do you know its 
 
 fate? 
 Upon your heart you swore that it 
 
 should lie 
 Till death, — upon the heart that swelled 
 
 with pleasure 
 To ecstasy, you said, when I drew 
 
 nigh. 
 Sweet words, — sweet breath, — a madness 
 
 of delight 
 In which my soul passed from me! 
 
 Could I die. 
 And think him not a villain, I would 
 
 bless 
 The hand that stabbed me! Say it is 
 
 not true; 
 Say that you love me still ! 
 Lothair. Mere raving this, — 
 
 You know not what you say. Your 
 
 words offend 
 One who has rights. 
 Leonora. She '11 waive those rights a 
 
 moment, — 
 Let your heart speak this once before we 
 
 part 
 Forever, — do you love me? 
 Lothair. No ! 
 
 Leonora. 0, fiend! 
 
414 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 But 't is not true ! Your lips belie your 
 heart. 
 
 Your policy deems fit to cast me off, 
 
 But you will keep my image in your 
 thoughts 
 
 Sacred and dear. 
 LoTiiAiR. Upon my word, not I ! 
 
 Leonora. Then am I wronged as never 
 woman was, 
 
 And such a sin cries out to Heaven for 
 vengeance. 
 Loth AIR. Let me advise you to depart in 
 peace; 
 
 You need not stay to criminate your- 
 self. 
 
 Our journey presses, — we must go from 
 hence. 
 Leonora. Not yet, — I have a word or two 
 to say 
 
 In quietness, — and you must wait so 
 long. 
 
 When were you wed, — before those days, 
 or since? 
 Lothair. In early youth. 
 Leonora. {Pressing her hands to her 
 head. ) 
 
 Fail me not now, my thoughts! 
 
 Did you not give your hand as world- 
 lings do, 
 
 A bargain for a bargain, loving not? 
 
 Your friends persuaded you, your for- 
 tunes urged, 
 
 You took her coldly, — wanting but her 
 dowser, 
 
 And when you met me, love sprang 
 rashly up 
 
 In your despite, to avenge the hollow 
 vow? 
 Lothair. (Aside.) I wonder that my 
 patience holds to this, — (Aloud.) 
 
 I loved this lady, and I love her now, 
 
 As I can love none other. Can you 
 think 
 
 That you might waken passion's fer- 
 vency, 
 
 Where she, the pure, the peerless, passed 
 in vain? 
 
 Regard the perfect outline of her face. 
 
 That takes its mould from princely an- 
 cestry ; 
 
 Think, too, — this angel is so merciful 
 
 That even you have leave to speak be- 
 fore her; 
 
 Consider this, — ay, ponder what it 
 means. 
 
 Then dare to ask me if I love my wife! 
 Leonora. And what was I? 
 Lothair. A love-lorn village girl; 
 
 The ready partner of a vain amour, 
 
 Which grief of mine must purge for 
 fault of both. 
 
 With shame in this dear presence I con- 
 fess 
 
 You did beguile me of some tenderness. 
 
 For which I crave the pardon of this 
 saint. 
 
 And you were best implore it and be- 
 gone! 
 Leonora. I hear it all as voices in a 
 dream. 
 
 But as for feeling, I 've no feeling left. 
 
 Thus was it best, — why, tliis was merci- 
 ful!— 
 
 All 's over so, — I was about to go. 
 
 Distraction waits upon the threshold 
 yonder, 
 
 To mock me as I pass. The stones i' the 
 street. 
 
 That bore my hasty hitherward steps, 
 will stand 
 
 And laugh as I go hence. The bridal 
 flowers, — 
 
 Why should I keep them at my bosom 
 more ? — 
 
 Lie there forever, — ye, the sweet of 
 earth ! 
 
 But, ! this ring, — in whose solemnity 
 
 My life's whole thought lay centred, — 
 how shall this 
 
 Stand in remembrance as a thing pro- 
 fane? 
 
 Madam, I lay it, sobbing, at your feet. 
 
 Happier than I, who have no refuge 
 there. 
 Helen. If pity can alleviate thy pain, — 
 Leonora. Nay, madam, — I came hither in 
 my right; 
 
 Respect my ruin, — fling no alms, I pray! 
 Lothair. You 'd weary Heaven's compas- 
 sion with your pride. 
 
 Let all this end, — you 've cost us time 
 enough. 
 
 (Enter Arthur.) 
 
 Helen. (Going towards him.) 
 
 My child! 
 Leonora. I see, — his features, with her 
 hair. 
 Come hither. 
 Lothair. Helen, take the child away! 
 
 (In an undertone to Leonora, show- 
 ing his dagger.) 
 If e'er you venture in my path again 
 This shall decide between us! 
 Leonora. (Catching up the child.) 
 
 Little one, 
 I liave thee; thou art fair and innocent 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 415 
 
 Hist! Shall I tell thee what thy father 
 is? 
 
 He is what thou wert better die than 
 
 hear. {Putting the child down.) 
 
 Go from me! God has justice, Count 
 
 Lothair ; 
 When it draws nigh your door, remem- 
 ber me! (Exit.) 
 Lothair. She's gone at last! Thank 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Helen. {Looking after her.) 
 
 Unhappy one. 
 Let not thy vengeful prayer send judg- 
 ment back 
 Where thou wert let depart uncom- 
 f orted ! 
 {He kneels at her feet. Scene 
 changes.) 
 
 Scene 5. 
 {Enter HuoN and Berto.) 
 
 Bbrto. What kept Lothair so long? He 
 
 went at last 
 In moody haste, his wife upon his arm; 
 I stopped him, . and essayed a friendly 
 
 jest. 
 "I 'm in no mood for your frivolity ! " 
 He gruffly said. Frivolity, indeed! 
 HuON". I fancy he has met an unloved 
 
 ghost, 
 For, through the arras (I was lodged 
 
 next door), 
 I heard hot speech and angry argument; 
 And, looking out thereafter, I espied 
 A woman dashing headlong from his 
 
 door. 
 With wild, quick step she spurned the 
 
 crabbed stair 
 But, turning at its base, her countenance 
 Flashed full upon me, like a certain 
 
 one, — 
 Well, well, I '11 keep this matter to my- 
 self. 
 Berto. What was she like? 
 HuoN. Oh, like a dream of youth! 
 
 Go back, good Berto; bid my carriage 
 
 stand 
 Yonder behind the church. Command 
 
 my men 
 To be in readiness, lest I should call. 
 Berto. What's in your fancy, now? 
 HuON. A merry plan; 
 
 Do but my errand — we shall meet ere 
 
 long. 
 Berto. (Am I his pack-horse?) I will 
 
 see it done. 
 
 HuoN. Farewell. A prosperous journey 
 to us both, {Exit Berto.) 
 
 HuoN". It was that glorious cast-off of 
 Lothair's. 
 
 I knew her from the portrait; following, 
 
 I saw her rush dishevelled, down the 
 street. 
 
 Like a wild thing affrighted at itself; 
 
 And I determined that she should be 
 mine. 
 
 If wit of man can compass woman's 
 soul. 
 
 A woman's beauty is a power on earth, 
 
 A woman's passion is a power in hell ! 
 
 This one, I see, is eminent in both; 
 
 And now 's the time to catch her at re- 
 bound, 
 
 And beat my lord with his own tennis- 
 ball. 
 
 Look where she comes ! A sight to scare 
 the fiend! 
 
 Marble and lightning! she is terrible! 
 
 Scene 6. The same. 
 {Enter Leonora.) 
 
 Leonora. Let no one say I 've wept. 
 
 From these seared eyes 
 Poisons may drop, but never human 
 
 tears. 
 Some deadly power is in me. Were he 
 
 here, 
 My breath should wither him. One sud- 
 den look 
 Should bid the life-blood curdle at his 
 
 heart. 
 Never to leave it more. Let me not 
 
 think! 
 Avenging God! I was a woman once, — 
 A thing to nourish children at my breast. 
 And hear their angels whisper through 
 
 my dreams, 
 As she does nightly, pillowed on his 
 
 breast. 
 With sorer travail now shall deeds of 
 
 wrath 
 And ghastly horror claim their birth 
 
 from me. 
 HuON. {Taking her hg the arm.) 1 am 
 
 your friend. So, give me leave to 
 
 speak, 
 Nor pluck your sleeve away as if you 
 
 feared. 
 What if I knew your story, — knew your 
 
 wrong. 
 And him who wronged you, handsome 
 
 Count Lothair? 
 
416 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Leonora. (Shrieks.) 
 
 HuoN. Do not shriek! The precious 
 
 moments crowd 
 Close on each other. Will you come 
 
 with me? 
 I '11 help you to revenge. 
 Leonora. {Drops upon her knees.) 
 
 On my knees 
 To that dear purpose I devote my life. 
 
 (Rises.) 
 
 But you, — why should I trust your faith, 
 
 your power? 
 
 HuON. (Showing a badge.) Stay not to 
 
 question. For my power behold 
 
 A sign that makes men tremble. For 
 
 my faith, 
 I can but swear fidelity to you. 
 Leonora. (Scornfully.) Is there an oath 
 can bind a gentlemail? 
 Promise revenge, and you shall use my 
 
 life. 
 
 Beyond it, as you will; but that shall be 
 
 The earnest of my service — not its wage ! 
 
 HuON. (Holding up a dagger). I swear! 
 
 Leonora. By him who is at home in hell. 
 
 And in our hearts. 
 HuON. The oath is singular. 
 
 Leonora. Take it! 
 HuON. By him I swear. 
 
 Leonora. Then I am yours. 
 
 (She gives him her hand; as they go, 
 enter from the same side Edward 
 and Lorenzo.) 
 Edward. 'T is she ! 't is Leonora ! 
 Lorenzo. In what hands! 
 
 This was his vile companion. 
 Edward. Leonora ! 
 
 Come with us where your faithful 
 
 Katchen waits. 
 Grieved at your long delay. 
 Leonora. I will not come! 
 
 My path is chosen; it is wide of yours. 
 Edward. Your brain is crazed; you know 
 not what you say. 
 While love and sorrow waste themselves 
 
 on you, 
 You cling for succor to an arm like 
 
 this, 
 Weak with the falsehood of the heart 
 
 beneath. 
 Come with your true friends. 
 HuON. (Drawing his sword.) You will 
 find it ill 
 To meddle in my matters. 
 Edward. Help, Lorenzo! 
 
 HuoN. (Calls.) What, ho! my people! 
 Lorenzo. (Drawing.) You remember 
 
 me? 
 Release that lady! 
 
 (HuON fights with Lorenzo. His 
 servants rush in.) 
 Edward. For your own soul's sake, 
 
 I pray you, Leonora! 
 Leonora. Spare your words; 
 
 My will is turned and set like adamant. 
 Me shall you ne'er see more! 
 
 (HuON wounds Lorenzo. His serv- 
 ants and he carry off Leonora.) 
 Edward. Have after them! 
 
 Lorenzo. I cannot, — I am wounded; has- 
 ten you! 
 Edward. (Rushing after them; stops.) 
 Too late! the carriage passes, swift as 
 
 hell! 
 0, those black steeds! With one defiant 
 
 smile, 
 She disappears — the last of Leonora ! 
 
 (Lorenzo totters and falls.) 
 
 My friend, you 're pale and bleeding. 
 
 What is this? 
 
 Lorenzo. 'T is only death, that comes to 
 
 all men once, — 
 
 To me less welcome, from so base a hand. 
 
 But what, — the action hath a solemn 
 
 strain. 
 That calms men's passions for the scene 
 
 beyond. , 
 
 How hot and rash was I an hour j 
 agone, — ' 
 
 Ten minutes, — and how tamely I 'ie 
 
 down 
 Never to rise again! 
 Edward. You shall not die! 
 
 Help is at hand. I '11 bear you in my 
 
 arms i 
 
 To where the surgeon's knowledge shall 1 
 
 avail. 
 Soft, — let me raise you. 
 Lorenzo. Think of her, of her! 
 
 My need is ended; hers is just begun. 
 Remember, though my blood be vilely 
 
 shed. 
 It is in Mercy's holy cause I die! 
 Edward. (Assisting him.) Heaven send 
 
 us help! I cannot lose you thus! 
 Lorenzo. How the day darkens! Ev'n 
 the sun grows cold! 
 Lay me down gently! kiss me, my own | 
 Edward! (Dies.) 
 
 Edward. Ah, God! he dies! My love is 
 changed to hate! 
 The noblest heart of men I ever knew. 
 Slain for her wanton pleasure! Go, I 
 
 curse thee! 
 Thou cankered blossom! — ay, thou poi- 
 son-sweet ! 
 'T were better die than love thee ! My 
 Lorenzo ! 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 417 
 
 This was the only brother of my heart, 
 And Leonora is his murderer! 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. A Street. 
 
 (Enter two Courtiers.) 
 
 First Courtier. Strange things have 
 happened since you left our court. 
 
 Huon is banished; Berto sent away 
 
 On some wild errand to an Indian 
 prince 
 
 One never heard of, never hopes to see. 
 Second Courtier. You 've gained in los- 
 ing reprobates like these. 
 First Courtier. Yes, truly; but the ques- 
 tion. Who goes next? 
 
 Leaves anxious silence at the hearts of 
 all. 
 
 And they whose wisdom never is at fault 
 
 Fill up the gap with stories of their own. 
 Second Courtier. What do they say? 
 First Courtier. One thing in various 
 
 shapes ; 
 
 But you shall hear it as 'tis most be- 
 lieved. 
 
 There is a woman near the prince's heart 
 
 Who guides him, as a pilot guides the 
 helm. 
 
 They say her chamber 's floored with 
 amethyst. 
 
 And hung with beaten gold; while jewels 
 take 
 
 The counterfeit of flowers; the lily's cup 
 
 Presented stands in pearl and emerald, 
 
 While clustered rubies emulate the rose. 
 
 And she in whom these splendors con- 
 centrate 
 
 Outvies them in her youth's magnifi- 
 cence. 
 Second Courtier. Have any seen her? 
 First Courtier. Would she walk abroad, 
 
 Think you, for common men to look 
 upon? 
 
 She's veiled, and does not pass her 
 chamber-door ; 
 
 Yet her malignant eyes are everywhere. 
 
 So runs the common talk. 
 Second Courtier. Poh! poh! a myth. 
 
 'T is thus the vulgar mind impersonates 
 
 Its idle dreaming of the things that rule. 
 First Courtier. They say she has a 
 wicked loveliness, 
 
 A seraph's beauty, with a demon's heart; 
 
 So, all that goes amiss is laid to her. 
 
 There creeps a shadow 'twixt the peo- 
 ple's love 
 
 And the good prince, so frank and 
 
 debonair ^ — 
 'T is hers, the Lady of the evil eye. 
 Second Courtier. What says Lothair? 
 First Courtier. I know not what he 
 
 says,— 
 But he is changed of late. How he is 
 
 changed ! 
 He wears the scars of trouble on his 
 
 brow. 
 And his fair eyes look otherwise than 
 
 when 
 They glanced about for conquests. 
 Second Courtier. Poor Lothair! 
 
 He was a trifler, for a man of parts, 
 And very handsome. Is the Countess 
 
 well? 
 First Courtier. I scarcely know. They 're 
 
 much retired from court. 
 'T is said, the money-lenders press him 
 
 hard. 
 Those vultures circle in the van of ruin. 
 And fan it onward with their eager 
 
 wings. 
 But, talking of our gossip, here he 
 
 comes, 
 And at his side, a noted usurer. 
 
 (Enter Lothair, — Jacob following.) 
 
 Lothair. You shall not bend me to your 
 purposes 
 To-night. Go hence, and let me see the 
 
 world 
 Without your shadow! (Jacob retires.) 
 Second Courtier. Shall we speak to him? 
 First Courtier. What, ho, — Lothair! 
 Lothair. (Starting.) I greet you, gen- 
 tlemen ! 
 Pardon the rudeness of an absent man. 
 Who lives much in his own ill-company. 
 First Courtier. I would but ask you 
 where your wits are flown. 
 That I might volunteer to bring them 
 
 back. 
 What, man! are you bewitched? or does 
 
 the Jew 
 Feed on your heart's blood? 
 Lothair. He 's a mine of shrewdness, 
 
 A serviceable imp. 
 First Courtier. I know him well. 
 
 Trust me, you '11 find him mine and 
 
 countermine. 
 D 'ye go to court ? The prince receives 
 to-night. 
 Lothair. I have forsaken gayeties, of 
 
 late. 
 Second Courtier. And gayety hath, ir 
 turn, forsaken you. 
 
418 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 First Courtier. Break from these moody, 
 melancholy ways; 
 Let the world see your handsome face 
 again. 
 LOTHAIR. The world is changed ; it pleases 
 
 me no more. 
 First Courtier. Man! man! you grow 
 distempered in your mind. 
 What 's changed — the music ? for the bet- 
 ter, then, — 
 The wine, the women, or our gracious 
 
 prince ? 
 Your whims have spider-webbed your 
 
 pane of glass. 
 So to your eye the face of earth is dark. 
 LoTHAiR. It may be so. 
 First Courtier. Then fling this 
 
 humor off, 
 And smile abroad upon your favorites; 
 Or, if you seek distraction, try the cards. 
 LoTHAiR. Have with you, gentlemen! 
 Your friendly cheer 
 Should be the earnest of auspicious for- 
 tunes. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. Zingara, Jacob. 
 
 ZiNGARA. The hospitable night hath 
 
 spread her tent, 
 Lighting the torches that the gypsy 
 
 loves, 
 For the dark feast of Eblis. Stolen 
 
 things 
 Have sweetest savor thus, and thou and 
 
 I, 
 
 Whose torment is the Christian's holi- 
 day, 
 May plot their ruin, and defy their 
 wrath. 
 Jacob. You 're wild of speech. I bear a 
 sober mind. 
 Entirely giv'n to the affair in hand. 
 ZiNGARA. Fit instrument of her who hires 
 us 
 To spy upon each other. 
 Jacob. She is right; 
 
 Albeit, the thing is needless in our case. 
 Since love of money and of mischief vie 
 To speed us on our errand. 
 ZiNGARA. Has yours sped? 
 
 Jacob. Not ill, indeed; the fish is in the 
 net. 
 And though he flounders in his element. 
 Trust me, I '11 bring him heedfully to 
 shore. 
 ZiNGARA. It is a joy to bait these Chris- 
 tian hounds, 
 
 And set them on to tear each other's 
 
 bones. 
 I know no pleasure like it. 
 Jacob. What's your task? 
 
 ZiNGARA. The thing I can do Joetter than 
 another, — 
 To steal a creature with fair silken 
 
 locks. 
 And bring it to my mistress. 
 Jacob. So! a dog? 
 
 ZiNGARA. Why, Jacob, you are quick to 
 guess, — a 'dog, 
 A certain favorite spaniel of the count's ; 
 Or, if you will, a laml), a lad3^-bird, 
 A thing whose loss shall make them howl 
 
 again, 
 I promise you! 
 Jacob. You '11 need my help for that. 
 
 ZiNGARA. Your help, indeed ! I '11 ask it 
 when I do. 
 I own I 'd rather keep the little 
 
 wretch ; 
 I 'd crop its curls and sell them ; it i 
 should drudge, I 
 
 Curse, steal, lie for me, when 't were big 
 enough. 
 Jacob. Could you not bring another in 
 
 its place? 
 ZiNGARA. That were to caper in the iaws 
 of hell. 
 I tell you, Jacob, I 'm afraid of her. 
 She is so sweetly, coldly terrible. 
 Besides, she knows it by the father's 
 eyes. 
 Jacob. Hist, then! a hasty footstep comes 
 this way. (Lothair rushes in.) 
 
 LOTHAIR. {Wildly.) Hence! I am mad 
 to think on what I 've seen ! 
 
 (Jacob approaches.) 
 Who 's this that dares to stop a des- 
 perate man? -^ 
 Jacob. 'Tis Jacob. 
 Lothair. I '11 confound thee ! 
 
 give me way 
 
 Jacob. I '11 call to-morrow. 
 Lothair. In the devil's time! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Jacob. Whose fault is 't, if you lose at 
 cards. Sir Count? 
 We are a little hot and rash to-night. 
 And must have leave a while to vent our 
 
 spleen. 
 'T is but a flare-up in a wasted socket; 
 To-morrow he '11 be black and still 
 
 enough. 
 But see the signal in the turret yon- 
 der. — 
 It calls for both of us — away ! 
 Zingara. Away ! 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 419 
 
 Scene 3. A Room in Lothair's Palace. 
 LoTHAiR, Helen. 
 
 LoTHAiR. Helen, see at your feet a ruined 
 
 man, 
 Give liim quick shelter from the fiend 
 
 abroad. 
 I know I stabbed you to the heart, poor 
 
 wife! 
 But that great heart must shield and 
 
 save me now. 
 Helen. You come so wildly, with these 
 
 staring eyes. 
 That bloodless face; — compose yourself 
 
 a while, 
 Then tell me what befell? 
 LOTHAIR. The list is long 
 
 Of your misfortunes, purchased by my 
 
 crimes ; 
 But, pray you, draw the bolt, ere I be- 
 gin. 
 (Helen holts the door, and returns to 
 
 him. ) 
 First, then, your fortune 's wasted to the 
 
 winds ; 
 Your dowry, ay, your boy's inherit- 
 ance. 
 Your very diamonds, forfeit to the Jew. 
 Helen. I have expected this. I know not 
 
 why. 
 What further? 
 LoTHAiR. Are you greedy of despair, 
 
 That thus you drain it down, and ask 
 
 for more? 
 Helen. Who stops to taste a poison, 
 
 drop by drop? 
 I could have begged your bread from 
 
 door to door, 
 Once, and not thought it scorn. So, let 
 
 that pass. 
 Give me the last, the worst calamity. 
 LoTHAiR. {Looking about him.) Come 
 
 nearer, then. I have an enemy, 
 Whether in flesh and blood it walks the 
 
 earth, 
 Or whether 'tis a wild, avenging ghost, 
 I know not. You believe in miracles. 
 Give credence to the tears of pictured 
 
 eyes, — (With meaning.) 
 
 Think you a portrait could have speech? 
 
 It can. 
 flELEN. Your madness almost lends itself 
 
 to me. 
 So swift these sudden horrors shock the 
 
 brain ; 
 But I must calm you with good coun- 
 tenance. 
 Call back your senses; tell me what you 
 
 saw. 
 
 LoTHAiR. You know I have not crossed 
 the palaj3e gate 
 
 Since Avhat you wot of. I was there, 
 to-night ; 
 
 A friend persuaded me; and I, heart- 
 worn 
 
 With cares and losses, flung myself his 
 way. 
 
 The Prince — well, well, no matter how 
 he seemed; 
 
 I passed beyond, to seat myself at cards ; 
 
 Duke Cesarini was my adversary. 
 
 Our play was high, and mine most for- 
 tunate. 
 
 Winning a sum to ransom my estates. 
 
 "Enough," cried I. "Not so," the duke 
 rejoined, 
 
 "Are you not bound to give me my re- 
 venge?" 
 
 Just as I spoke, methought, a sudden 
 gleam 
 
 Flashed on me from a portrait opposite; 
 
 I looked, I saw the unmistakable face, 
 
 I heard these words, "Revenge is slow, 
 but sure!" 
 Helen. Who was 't you saw? 
 LoTHAiR. One whom I cannot name. 
 
 Ah, God! she was not as she used to be. 
 
 Tender, and fresh, and passionate in 
 love ; 
 
 She seemed a ghost escaped from hope- 
 less hell, 
 
 All her fair features gathered up to 
 give 
 
 A fiend's expression of malignity. 
 
 "It is your work!" she whispered, as I 
 gazed ; 
 
 Then she was gone, and all around grew 
 dim. 
 Helen. And then? 
 
 LoTHAiR. I heard one call, 
 
 "Play on, Lothair!" 
 
 I flung a card down blindly, in the mist; 
 
 The winner laughed aloud, and all was 
 lost! 
 Helen. How did this end? 
 Lothair. I raised my eyes at length. 
 
 And saw a well-known picture on the 
 wall, 
 
 A Fornarina that was always there. 
 
 I staggered from the room, and hurried 
 here. 
 Helen. What have you suffered ere you 
 came to this! 
 
 Unhappy man! your brain is over- 
 wrought, 
 
 You see its phantoms as realities. 
 
 Go in, — persuade your weary eyes to 
 rest- 
 
420 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 I '11 calm your throbbing temples on my 
 
 conch. 
 Why should we waste our grief on for- 
 tunes lost? 
 Far from the dang'rous splendors of the 
 
 court, 
 We '11 lead a happier, wiser life ; and I 
 Will be your own fond Helen, as of old. 
 You see I have forgiv'n, forgotten all, 
 Save that you need the love I promise 
 you. 
 LoTHAiR. faultless-tempered, true 
 woman's heart! 
 Thy love re-conquered, let all treasures 
 go ! 
 {He sinks into her arms. A knock is 
 heard without. They start in alarm. 
 The knock is repeated.) 
 Helen. (Going to the door.) Who 
 
 knocks ? 
 Voice. (Without.) A friend. 
 
 Helen. What seek you at this hour? 
 Voice. I must have instant speech with 
 Count Lothair. 
 'T is at his peril if you bar the door. 
 Helen. (To Lothair.) Go in, — leave 
 
 me to deal with him alone. 
 Lothair. So far my manhood hath not 
 left me yet. (Going to the door.) 
 You say you are a friend to Count Lo- 
 thair ; 
 How shall I trust you? 
 Voice. By three angles bound, 
 
 Three arcs, one circle, and the mystic 
 
 word 
 We only speak in presence. 
 Lothair. He must enter. 
 
 Whate'er your errand, welcome, in God's 
 name! 
 
 (Enter Messenger, hooded and cloaked.) 
 
 Lothair. I know you not. 
 Messenger. (Showing a blazon.) You 
 know the badge I wear. 
 One of the ancient Brotherhood am I, 
 Fellow of yours and Huon's. 
 Lothair. Whoso bears 
 
 That mark, is in my house as light and 
 
 air. 
 Ev'n on my death-bed I attend his need. 
 How can I serve you? 
 Messenger. Nowise in tlie world ; 
 
 'T is I must serve you. We should 
 speak alone. 
 Lothair. Leave us, dear Helen! 
 Helen. Do not bid me go; 
 
 Let the new danger, falling, crush us 
 both, 
 
 Nor single one to bear the other's tor- 
 ture. 
 Lothair. Fear not, — 'tis one of a Fra- 
 ternity 
 
 Whom fearful oaths have bound for mu- 
 tual help; 
 
 And, though 'tis like we never met be- 
 fore, 
 
 We are, till death, beholden to each other. 
 
 Helen. I 'm loath to leave you. Heav'n 
 
 protect us all! (Exit.) 
 
 (Lothair, Messenger.) 
 Lothair. Well, friend? 
 Messenger. My errand is best quick- 
 
 est done; 
 Great needs must crowd the wheels of 
 
 strategy. 
 Who, single-handed, keeps the pass of 
 
 Fate, 
 Should have a far eye, and a fearless 
 
 hand. 
 I can but warn you of the danger nigh, 
 And trust your high resolve to save your- 
 self. 
 Lothair. Speak plainly. 
 Messenger. You are ruined 
 
 wdth the Prince; 
 Your fellows met the doom of banish- 
 ment; 
 Your turn is next, — not banishment, but 
 death. 
 Lothair. I cannot find a sin against my 
 Prince 
 In my most deep remembrance. He and I 
 Are of one age, — were play-fellows in 
 
 youth. 
 And friends thereafter. Should he do 
 
 me harm, 
 When naught could move him to it? 
 Messenger. Let me ask. 
 
 How did you vex the demon of the pat- 
 ace? 
 Lothair. Your words strike deadly ter- 
 ror through my veins. 
 What mean you? 
 Messenger. Why — the Prince's 
 
 Favorite ; 
 'T is she doth lead him to these cruelties, 
 So new, so strange. She draws him with 
 
 a hair; 
 She binds him in a chain of perfumed 
 
 breath. 
 Padlocked with kisses. What she wills, 
 
 he does; 
 Our lives are in her hand. 
 Lothair. 0, hideous dream! — 
 
 Who is she? 
 Messenger. God and Satan only know. 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 421 
 
 No man has seen her; but her evil 
 
 power 
 
 Shows its malignant presence every- 
 where. 
 LoTHAiR. Is this a nightmare? 
 Messenger. Do not think it such. 
 
 Your time is short; — the morrow is your 
 
 own ; 
 Beyond that, nothing but eternity. 
 LoTHAiR. Can I not fly? 
 Messenger. Your every 
 
 step is watched — 
 Spies are about you in your very bed. 
 LoTHAiR. Great Heaven! What help re- 
 mains ? 
 Messenger. One sole resource, 
 
 The deed of Brutus, swift and terrible! 
 Cleave the false heart, and let the mur- 
 derous arm 
 Drop powerless, ere the fatal bolt be 
 hurled. (Shows a dagger.) 
 
 LOTHAIR. (Turning away his head.) No, 
 
 no ! not bloodshed ! 
 Messenger. Whose blood ? 
 
 His, or yours? 
 What if I had your sentence in my 
 bosom. (Takes out a paper.) 
 
 Caught on its way? — Read this. 
 LoTHAiR. It is not signed. 
 
 Messenger. It wants a signature that will 
 not fail. 
 Why, man, we would not leave the task 
 
 to you; 
 A dozen stouter hearts and surer hands 
 Direct the swift-descending tool of death. 
 We only want your name and counte- 
 nance ; 
 Record them here. 
 
 (Showing a parchment.) 
 
 LoTHAiR. I must have time to think. 
 
 Leave me this night ; come back at early 
 
 dawn. 
 I shall be ready. 
 Messenger. It will be too late. 
 
 Necessity is not a merchant's clerk. 
 To be put off from payment for a day! 
 Give me your name, or keep your tardy 
 
 courage 
 For the confessor and the headsman's 
 axe. 
 LoTHAiR. Give here! (Signs.) 
 
 Messenger. So, so! — ^the thing 
 
 is bravely done; 
 I give you rendezvous to-morrow night ^ 
 At the Redoubt. You '11 meet a domino 
 In black and j^ellow. Touch your vizard 
 
 thus. 
 And he shall bring you to our com- 
 pany.— 
 
 Now go to rest, and think your life is 
 safe. ' (Exit.) 
 
 LoTHAiR. He 's gone, as if the earth had 
 swallowed him. 
 
 I do not rightly know what I have done, 
 
 Such horrors hedge my footsteps every- 
 where. 
 
 Shall I lie down? For me is no re- 
 pose. 
 
 Sleep shall o'ercome me with her awful 
 shapes. 
 
 And pin me helpless in my agony. 
 
 There is one refuge. Death shall find 
 me there! 
 
 Helen ! to thy protecting arms I come ! 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Scene 4. A Boom in the Palace. 
 
 Leonora. I had not thought t' have found 
 mankind so \dle! 
 
 I looked for shame, at least, where vil- 
 lains trade 
 
 In blood and falsehood. I discern it 
 not. 
 
 Where'er I need an instrument of ill 
 
 To speed my dreadful work, straight- 
 way appears. 
 
 As from an ambush, some vile human 
 tool 
 
 That begs my using. Royalty itself 
 
 Takes service with its sceptre and iti^ 
 sword. 
 
 Staining its dainty fingers in my quarrel. 
 
 Thus, all things favor me save yonder 
 Heaven, 
 
 Whose stern compression keeps my fore- 
 head bent, 
 
 Lest evil eyes, aspiring to its sunshine. 
 
 Should dare to claim its promise. What 
 of that? 
 
 Avenging God! it is thy work I do. 
 
 Though Thou disown it. Smile where 
 Thou likest best, 
 
 I do not seek thy favor. Downward lies 
 
 My way; but, ere I plunge, the shrieks 
 of one 
 
 Dragged struggling from the bosom of 
 delight. 
 
 And hurled before, make hideous sacri- 
 fice, 
 
 And spread my fall, as soft as feathery 
 night. 
 
 (A pause. She hears a step.) 
 
 The Prince? 
 
 (Enter the Prince.) 
 Prince. You sent for me, my Beautiful? 
 
422 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Leonora. Forgive me, gentle sovereign, if 
 
 I erred. 
 Prince. You know how dear these pre- 
 cincts are to me! 
 How sacred, — how my leaping heart 
 
 awaits 
 Your messenger, — too seldom and too 
 
 slow 
 For my desires! The Prince can sum- 
 mon all 
 But Leonora ; she must summon him. 
 Leonora. I am too much beholden to your 
 goodness 
 To find a ready answer. Gratitude 
 Weighs down my utterance ; let me rather 
 
 break 
 At once th' unwelcome business of this 
 
 hour. 
 Set for me by my duty. 
 Prince. Do not fear! 
 
 Ill tidings should be sweet, love, told by 
 you. 
 Leonora. 0, how my woman's nature 
 hates this work! 
 I must unmask a traitor to your eyes. 
 Suspecting long, I hold the proofs at 
 
 last; 
 But guilt so black, my heart had ne'er 
 
 alleged. 
 I pause and tremble with the dreadful 
 
 work ; — 
 The Count Lothair conspires to take your 
 life! 
 Prince. Lothair! My fairest, you are 
 misinformed. 
 He 's an offender in another sense. 
 Lothair's worst treasons are to woman- 
 kind. 
 Leonora. A man that can betray a 
 woman's love 
 Avoids no crime for its enormity. 
 Prince. You must not be too stem, my 
 Puritan ! 
 Our courtiers keep not the chivalrous 
 
 faith 
 Of their grim grandsires. 
 Leonora. Pardon! I forgot 
 
 The times we live in. I have surely 
 
 heard 
 That loyalty to Sovereigns and to 
 
 Women 
 Went out of date together. 
 Prince. You are keen! 
 
 I pity him who is your enemy. 
 Leonora. But Count Lothair, — 
 Prince. Call him a reprobate, 
 
 A man capricious, thriftless, passion- 
 ate. 
 Do you HQt see he has too little weight 
 
 For good or evil? Like this sword of 
 
 mine. 
 With jewelled hilt and gold-encrusted 
 
 blade, 
 'T is a rare bauble for a holiday — 
 For service, now, what fool would bor- 
 row it? 
 Leonora. Read but this document. 
 
 {Giving paper.) 
 Prince. (Reading.) I am amazed! 
 
 His name upon the villainous enrolment? 
 Why, this is unimagined infamy! 
 What could have brought him to it? 
 Leonora. Urgent need. 
 
 With hope and promise of high dignity. 
 How often is a daring public deed 
 Hatched vilely from the occasion of the 
 
 hour, 
 As from an egg a viper! 
 Prince. 'T is most true. 
 
 I know that he hath been in straits of 
 
 late, 
 And thought to help him for his father's 
 
 sake, 
 And for a careless friendship that I 
 
 bear him; 
 While his false eyes took measure of my 
 
 throat ! 
 Such faith doth follow princes. Are 
 
 you sure 
 
 He signed this devil's patent knowingly, 
 
 Having possessed the tenor of the bond? 
 
 Leonora. My royal master, look into this 
 
 face; 
 
 A sad one, — you are pleased to say, a 
 
 fair. 
 You would not think it were a marble 
 
 mask 
 Of falsehood, that should put his crime 
 to shame? 
 Prince. The very words are impious!^ 
 Leonora. Hear me, then! 
 
 By every feature that you love, I swear 
 Lothair 's a perjured, faithless^ ruth- 
 less villain! 
 Prince. Your oath is awful; it com- 
 mands my faith 
 As 't were a word from God. 
 Leonora. I thank your Grace 
 
 Prince. 0, I am sad to think upon this 
 man, 
 Whose thankless graces made him dear 
 
 to me! 
 I thought him gentle, spite of grievous 
 faults. {With emotion.) 
 
 I loved him! 
 Leonora. How this tenderness of heart 
 
 Exalts the hate I bear him ! 
 Prince, We fiust act 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 423 
 
 When should the deed be done? 
 Leonora. This very night. 
 
 I Ve a device shall bring him in our 
 
 toils ; 
 Sign but this warrant — leave the rest to 
 me. 
 Prince. Must he then die? 
 Leonora. Justice should turn on us 
 
 Her awful anger did we falter here. 
 Think, 'tis my life he plots against, 
 
 sweet prince! 
 And for the love you bear me, waver 
 not! 
 Prince. Those lips can never miss the 
 thing they ask. 
 Ev'n this sad boon I grant them. 
 
 (Signs.) 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene 1. A Dark Room in the Palace. 
 Several figures in masks stand in the 
 hackg round. In front, Leonora and 
 the Prince, also masked. On the left, 
 wearing no mask, the Messenger. 
 
 Leonora. Well met. The hour and the 
 
 man approach. 
 Prince. I hear a step along the corridor. 
 Leonora. My trusty messenger has 
 brought him safe, 
 Through winding paths, to meet his fel- 
 lows here. 
 Prince. Who is that yonder? 
 Leonora. He to whose keen scent 
 
 We owe the tracing of this shameful 
 
 plot. 
 He shall be spokesman. 
 
 [Enter Lothair, blindfold, led also by a 
 mask. ) 
 
 Messenger. Take the bandage off. 
 
 Lothair. (Looks around him.) Where 
 am I? 
 
 Messenger. In the presence of your 
 friends. 
 
 Lothair. Why are they masked? 
 
 Messenger. In risks so desperate, 
 
 Men must be cautious of their fellow- 
 ship. 
 These wait to be assured of your good 
 faith. 
 
 Lothair. Whatever other treason I in- 
 tend, 
 I mean none here. 
 
 Messenger. Turn, then, and tell 
 
 them so. 
 
 Lothair. Methinks my coming hither was 
 enough, "- 
 Without more words. 
 Messenger. You waver in your mind; 
 
 Men name you as a man of no resolve. 
 Lothair. Wait till I give you cause for 
 this reproach. 
 
 {Turning towards the others.) 
 Friends, I '11 not praise th' intent that 
 
 calls us here; 
 Not choice doth make it, but necessity. 
 Where sudden danger leaves no chance 
 
 of good. 
 It is the lesser evil we embrace. 
 Messenger. We are agreed; like must be 
 met by like. 
 A tyrant must be tyrannously quelled. 
 He has his troops, his hangman; — what 
 
 have we? 
 Only the resolute heart and daring hand. 
 Lothair. What else, indeed? The need 
 is imminent; 
 The remedy the only one in sight. 
 However we deplore its urgency. 
 Messenger. This paper bears your law- 
 ful signature? 
 Lothair. It is my name. 
 Messenger. Signed freely? 
 
 Lothair. As you know. 
 Messenger. Unmask, then, brothers in a 
 noble cause! 
 First by an oath devote yourselves to 
 
 death. 
 Or to success ; the tyrant's death, or ours ! 
 Your swords, quick! let them clang the 
 harsh refrain? 
 
 (They all draw their swords.) 
 Now, then, the watchword! give it, 
 Count Lothair! 
 Lothair. (With effort.) Death to the 
 
 tyrant! Infamy and death! 
 Leonora. (Unmasking.) Death to the 
 
 traitor first! 
 Lothair. What do I see? 
 
 Vengeance of God! 
 Leonora. Do you remember me? 
 
 Lothair. fool! I am betrayed! I see 
 it all! 
 Here was the tool, and there the cun- 
 ning hand! 
 Prince. (Unmasking.) And here the 
 breast at which your steel was 
 aimed ! 
 Lothair. My Prince, although in this as- 
 pect I stand, 
 I do implore your sovereign leave to 
 
 speak, 
 And show a thousand damning proofs 
 of crime 
 
424 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 In those who urged me to this enter- 
 prise. 
 Prince. What boots it, man, who tempted 
 you? The devil 
 Tempts every cutpurse, stabbing on the 
 
 road. 
 The gallows does not heed his argument. 
 Can you deny your guilt? 
 Leonora. Deny it? Yes, 
 
 He would deny the mother's face that 
 
 bore him, 
 Could it but serve his purpose. 
 LoTHAiR. I am dumb. 
 
 Prince. Chief of my guards, arrest this 
 gentleman ! 
 Strike off the spurs from his unknightly 
 
 heels. 
 To the state dungeon lead him. Give the 
 
 priest 
 And headsman leave to do their ghostly 
 
 work 
 At the cock's crow. His hours on earth 
 are numbered. 
 LoTHAiR. Grant but one mercy to a fallen 
 man. 
 For all your former favors, gracious 
 
 Prince ! 
 One parting moment with my wife and 
 
 child, — 
 The gift of tears, my only legacy ! 
 Leonora. (To the Prince.) The countess 
 is arrested. It is clear 
 She lent her aid in this. 
 Lothair. No! on my word! 
 
 Leonora. Traitor, that thing you lack; 
 
 you have no word! 
 Helen. (WitJwut.) Lothair! Lothair! 
 
 {She enters, escorted by two Guards, 
 breaking furiously from them.) 
 
 Let me have room, I say! 
 Our child! our Arthur! — 
 Lothair. What of him? 
 Helen. He 's lost ! 
 
 They say a gypsy lured him from the 
 
 house. 
 I only know he 's gone ! 0, God, he 's 
 gone! 
 
 {She comes close to Lothair.) 
 I went to kiss my darling in his bed, — 
 You know I always do, — he w^as not 
 
 there ! 
 He 's hiding now, I thought, and paused 
 
 a while, 
 To let the little creature have his play; 
 Then called, then shrieked, then searched 
 
 the wliole house over 
 In vain; tlien fled distracted through the 
 streetSi 
 
 Crying my child! my child! till these 
 
 men came 
 And brought me hither. 
 Lothair. God! must I bear this? 
 
 Helen. Why do you stand there ? we 
 
 must search the town. 
 He may be dead or dying while I 
 
 speak, 
 Or hidden where we ne'er shall see him 
 
 more! 
 Come with me, come! I have strength 
 
 for everything. 
 I '11 drag the sewers, dig the dung-heaps 
 
 through. 
 Search w^izard houses as the lightning 
 
 leaps ; 
 I '11 cope with witches, in their murder- 
 ous dens, 
 But I will bring him back! Nay, more; 
 
 methinks 
 I 'd tear the earth's hard bosom with 
 
 these hands, 
 If it could hide him. Who are these 
 
 that stare? 
 If they have children, they will lend us 
 
 aid, 
 And we will serve them all our mortal 
 
 lives ! 
 Lothair. Helen, I am a prisoner to the 
 
 state ; 
 My head is forfeit. This o'erwhelming 
 
 hour 
 Takes life and all its blessings at one 
 
 blow. 
 Helen. My sight grows dizzy. No, I '11 
 
 not sink down 
 Until I know the worst! 
 
 {Perceiving the Prince.) 
 
 Our Sovereign, too! 
 
 What does he here? 
 
 Prince. Your husband is a traitor. 
 
 And so condemned to meet a traitor's 
 
 doom ! 
 Helen. 'T is false, I say! 'T is slander- 
 ous as hell! 
 Who says Lothair is faithless to his 
 
 prince ? 
 {She sees Leonora, who comes for- 
 ward. ) 
 'T is she, the w^oman with the wicked 
 
 smile ! 
 She called the curse down; it has come 
 
 at last! 
 How the room darkens! Help me, dear 
 
 Lothair ! 
 0, to have kissed my boy before I die! 
 {She sinks, — Lothair bends over her.) 
 Part softly, Helen! 
 Leonora. She shall never kigs him ! 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 425 
 
 Prince. Convey her hence, and bid the 
 
 leech attend. 
 
 {They bear Helen away.) 
 
 LoTHAiR. {Coming close to Leonora.) 
 
 Fiend! are you satisfied? Is this 
 
 enough ? 
 Could not my ruin glut your greed of 
 
 blood, 
 But my i^ure wife, my guiltless child, 
 
 must perish, 
 To heap the measure of your fell re- 
 venge ? 
 'T was little that a nobleman should die. 
 Vilest of spiders, strangled in your web ! 
 Prince. Silence ! 
 Leonora. I pray your highness, 
 
 let him speak. 
 Lothair. Come to my dungeon, — I invite 
 
 you there, — 
 Come with your butchering myrmidons, 
 
 and hold 
 Your midnight feast of blood. The 
 
 torture waits 
 For her whose malice is its only term. 
 In life or death you shall not make me 
 
 moan. 
 I have not lived as I was born to live. 
 Nor kept the faith and courage of my 
 
 youth ; 
 But here, my steps find footing on the 
 
 grave. 
 With this brief breath, whose latest gasp 
 
 shall curse 
 The day we met, I give you back your 
 
 hate ; 
 I scorn j^ou, spit upon j^ou, and defy 
 
 you! 
 {The guards lead away Lothair. 
 
 Scene changes.) 
 
 Scene 2. Leonora's Bedchamher. On 
 the bed a child asleep. 
 
 TiEONORA. 'T was great, — 't was godlike ! 
 
 I have drunk to the full 
 The costly wine of vengeance; and I feel 
 Its mighty madness coursing through my 
 
 veins ! 
 What pang was left forgotten? What 
 
 disgrace ? 
 0, man, so gallant and so reckless once, 
 Crushing the poor girl's heart in your 
 
 white hands! 
 Where are you now? Your glozing 
 
 tongue is dumb; 
 The flashing falsehoods of your eyes are 
 
 spent ; 
 And Death and you, of all disguises 
 
 strip t, 
 
 Glare grimly on each other. 
 
 Here 's his boy ; — 
 
 I shall be mad, — no! I must see his 
 face. 
 {She goes to the bed, and draws the 
 curtain.) 
 
 These are the features of my girlhood's 
 dream ; 
 
 Thus looked my idol, ere it fell, — to 
 seam 
 
 The upturned forehead with the gash 
 of shame. 
 
 0, what a god he seemed! He stood on 
 clouds ; 
 
 Stars shot their glances through his 
 azure eyes 
 
 That were my Sun, my Heaven, my 
 Universe ! 
 
 It is the folly of my heart, to think 
 {A masked figure appears behind her.) 
 
 That something bears his form in yon- 
 der skies; 
 
 Some heavenly delight must look as he 
 did. 
 
 For things divine have twin-antipodes. 
 
 And Lucifer hath left his shining peer 
 
 Where he hath no hereafter. 
 
 Night wears on, 
 
 And brings no pause. The hours drop 
 off like pearls 
 
 Into the silver silence. 
 
 {Taking a phial from her bosom.) 
 Here 's a draught 
 
 Shall help me to a moment of repose. 
 
 With this concluding thought, — I am re- 
 venged ! 
 Mask. You shall not close your brilliant 
 eyes to-night. 
 
 My countess. I have work for them to 
 do. 
 
 The midnight summons up strange vis- 
 itors, 
 
 And here's a friend that knows you 
 through your paint, 
 
 And all your wicked bravery. 
 Leonora. What's this? 
 
 I am betrayed. 
 Mask. 'Twere justice if you 
 
 were, — 
 
 The only justice you are knowing to. 
 Leonora. I'll call my guards, — what, 
 
 ho! 
 Mask. All doors are closed; 
 
 Your sentinel is absent by my leave. 
 
 What if I stood. Heaven's righteous 
 messenger. 
 
 To deal with you a little in your sort? 
 
 You have o'erthrown your mortal en- 
 emy,— 
 
426 
 
 LEONORA, OR THE WORLD'S OWN 
 
 Who 's he that doth avenge mankind of 
 youf 
 Leonora. Your speech is haughty as your 
 voice is rude. 
 
 Talk as you will, — one thing alone dare 
 not, — 
 
 To tliink I fear you. 
 Mask. I could show you that 
 
 Should make you tremble. 
 Leonora. Show it tlien, — your face? 
 
 Mask. That has no office in this inter- 
 view. 
 
 If I could show you what you were and 
 are, 
 
 You 'd feel a keener anguish than your 
 foe 
 
 Who cannot cry to Heaven for cursing 
 you. 
 
 I had your portrait of a man who wore 
 
 That blushing slander of all woman- 
 hood {Shows picture.) 
 
 For very mockery. See, how fresh, how 
 pure ! 
 
 How dewy sweet a morsel for the fiend 
 
 In whose wide jaws she leaped with open 
 eyes! 
 Leonora. 'T is my young face, — my fair 
 and innocent face. 
 
 What wretch art thou, to torture me with 
 this? 
 Mask. She was as wild and arrogant in 
 her love 
 
 As in the hate to which the scorched bud 
 ripened. 
 
 Too proud to bear the fortune of her 
 sex; 
 
 Wronged ever more than wronging, save 
 this one, 
 
 She grew a fiend in malice. Help was 
 near 
 
 In faithful hearts, and in the priceless 
 power 
 
 To shame misfortune with true noble- 
 ness. 
 
 From loving hands held out she turned 
 away, 
 
 And plunged from passion into infamy; 
 
 Not for the weakness of a second love. 
 
 Or sordid need, or lust of leprous 
 splendour. 
 
 But for the ruin of one wretched soul. 
 
 She gave, what God till then held inno- 
 cent. 
 
 The glories of her youth. The prince's 
 mistress. 
 
 There is her portrait; you behold her 
 now! 
 Leonora. Is this enough? 
 Mask. Her measure is not full; — 
 
 The prince's love she might have ruled 
 for good. 
 
 As thieves are generous Avith unright- 
 eous gold. 
 
 The patient angel kept his record back; 
 
 Hope sent her leaping scouts along the 
 road; 
 
 Here she may pause, and tremble, and 
 turn back; 
 
 Here, when she meets the infant's plead- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 She may forgive the father. Further 
 still. 
 
 When all his heart-strings quiver in her 
 hand. 
 
 The thought may dawn, "Why should I 
 crush thee, worm?" 
 
 And she may dash her deadly purpose 
 down, 
 
 A costly offering, broken in God's face. 
 
 This, too, she did not. What remains 
 for her 
 
 But the Ghoul's feast, corruption, hor- 
 ror, blood? 
 Leonora. This man seems risen from the 
 depths of hell. 
 
 With all its torment burning in his 
 speech. 
 
 Speak; what remains? 
 Mask. The fate of ruined souls, — 
 
 To prosper and grow fat in wickedness. 
 
 I 've seen your prototj^pe a thousand 
 times : 
 
 Lucretia, — not the Heav'n-avenging 
 one, — 
 
 The poisoning Borgia, fiend-like, — false, 
 and cruel; 
 
 Or Messalina, with the cold sly look, 
 
 Or other dames, whose pictures give us 
 fright 
 
 Lest they should claim our human fel- 
 lowship. 
 
 Rather than you should grow a thing so 
 vile, 
 
 (Shows a dagger.) 
 
 Methinks 't were merciful to slay you 
 here; 
 
 A brother's deed, — if ev^n a brother's 
 love 
 
 Could follow you so far. 
 Leonora. (Snatches the dagger.) Give 
 here the steel. 
 
 Wrest not from me my right of sacri- 
 fice. 
 
 To one who loved me as a brother 
 should, 
 
 I give the latest struggle of my lieart. 
 
 (Stabs herself.) 
 Edward. ( Unmasking. ) Leonora I 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 427 
 
 Leonora. Edward, we are haply met! 
 
 Edward. 0, rash, heroic deed! 
 Leonora. Why should you grieve? 
 
 See how this life-blood lets the madness 
 
 out, 
 That pressed, so closely-packed, upon my 
 
 heart ; 
 And I grow calm at last; and, as in 
 
 dreams, 
 Behold the peaceful visions of my youth. 
 Deep in the mountain's heart the chalet 
 
 lies. 
 And, in the sun, the rustling waterfall 
 Leaps gladly evermore. A maiden band 
 Dance rustic measures to its cool re- 
 frain ; 
 And one in white moves, taller than the 
 
 rest. 
 D'ye see it, Edward? 
 Edward. I am there with you. 
 Leonora. Who 's he that passes with the 
 haughty eyes? 
 
 The tall girl stopped her dancing when 
 he came 
 
 That he might speak, and cheat her of 
 her soul. 
 
 Then, there was vengeance! what became 
 of it? 
 
 'Tis gone. I see you — ^know myself 
 again,— 
 
 And what I come from. We must save 
 Lothair, 
 
 Whose treason was the fruit of my de- 
 ceit. 
 
 Tell him I spoke forgiveness ere I died. 
 
 Help ! — I grow faint ! — So, let me lie at 
 rest! (Dies.) 
 
 Edward. See! she is dying! my beloved 
 is dying! 
 
 Ah, God! the parting struggle is at end. 
 
 Let the white shadow lie upon my heart, 
 
 The wreck of all that 's fair and ex- 
 cellent ; 
 
 A thing of tears and tenderness for- 
 ever! 
 
THE OCTOROON 
 
 OR 
 
 LIFE IN LOUISIANA 
 
 BY 
 
 Dion Boucicault 
 
THE OCTOROON 
 
 The Octoroon is a play of singular interest. Dealing with the slavery 
 question in 1859, it represented so truly the actual conditions in Louisiana that 
 it won the sympathy of Northerners and Southerners alike. It represents also 
 the genius of Boucicault in its maturity. 
 
 Dion Boucicault was born in Dublin, Ireland, upon either December 26, 
 1820, or December 20, 1822, though the evidence seems to point to the earlier 
 date. He was educated at private school, at London University, and at a col- 
 legiate school at Brentford, and after having been apprenticed to a civil engineer, 
 he broke away from that calling and devoted himself to the stage. His first ap- 
 pearance on the stage seems to have occurred in the spring of 1837, and in the 
 same year he probably wrote his first play, A Lover hy Proxy, which was not 
 accepted by Charles Mathews, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre. Mathews 
 did, however, accept his. next play, the comedy of London Assurance, played 
 March 4, 1841, which proved to be a great success and which has been revived 
 as late as 1913. 
 
 According to his latest biographer, Boucicault wrote or adapted one hundred 
 and twenty-four plays. We are concerned most with those he wrote upon Ameri- 
 can soil. Having married Miss Agnes Robertson, to be so long associated with 
 leading roles in his plays, he came to New York in 1853. He may be said to have 
 soon dominated the American stage. His significant works during the pe- 
 riods of his American residence, 1853 to 1860, and again from 1872 to his death, 
 fall into several groups. From the point of view of American drama, such plays 
 as The Octoroon, and The Poor of New York (1857) , an adaptation of Les Pauvres 
 de Paris, of Brisebar and Nus, to conditions of the panic of 1857, are most inter- 
 esting. Interesting also is his share of Rip Van Winkle, although this was not 
 first produced in this country, but was first played in London on September 4, 
 1865. 
 
 The second group includes the Irish plays. The earliest of these. The 
 Colleen Baton, was performed first at Laura Keene's Theatre, New York, March 
 29, 1860. It was founded on Gerald Griffin's novel, The Collegians, which had 
 first been dramatized by J. E. Wilks in London in 1831. Later in 1842 a ver- 
 sion by Louisa Medina was played in New York. Boucicault painted the Irish 
 character truly and sympathetically and followed his first success with many 
 others, the best of which were Arrah Na Pogiie (1864), The O'Dowd (1873) 
 and The Shaughraun (1874). 
 
 Another group would include his dramatization of the greater English novels ; 
 
 431 
 
432 INTRODUCTION 
 
 nmong tliein, Dot, a version of The Cricket on the Hearth (1859), Smike, founded 
 on Mcholas Nicklebij (1859) and The Trial of Effie Deans (1860), based on The 
 Heart of Midlothian. Other well-known plays which had distinct successes were 
 Jessie Brown or the Relief of Liicknow, acted first at Wallack's Theatre, Febru- 
 ary 22, 1858, and Led Astray, an adaptation from Octave Feuillet's La Tentation, 
 performed first at the Union Square Theatre, New York, December 8, 1873, which 
 Boucicault wrote while in California. 
 
 The Octoroon was first performed at the AVinter Garden, New York, Decem- 
 ber 5, 1859, Boucicault playing "Wahnotee," the Indian, and Mrs. Boucicault 
 "Zoe," and after the play had run a week, Boucicault and his wdfe withdrew on 
 account of a quarrel with the management and the play was continued without 
 them until January 21, 1860. The Octoroon w^as advertised widely and it was 
 a daring attempt to place upon the stage material of such an inflammable char- 
 acter. The skill with which Boucicault balanced the abstract belief in the wrong 
 of slavery with the concrete sympathy for Southern characters, satisfied audiences 
 everywhere. 
 
 The Octoroon was based on a novel by Mayne Eeid, The Quadroon, which 
 had been published in New York in 1856, dramatized in London and played at 
 the City of London Theatre. Boucicault, however, borrowed only the outlines 
 of the plot. In the novel an Englishman under the name of Edward Ruther- 
 ford saves a beautiful Creole, Eugenie Besancon, from drowning through the 
 explosion of the river steamboat, and falls in love with her quadroon slave, 
 Aurore. Through the dishonesty of her trustee, the Creole, Gayarre, 
 Eugenie loses her estate which is to be sold. Eugenie loves Rutherford 
 and, in male disguise, aids him in obtaining funds with which he trys to buy 
 Aurore at the slave auction but fails. After kidnapping Aurore he is about 
 to be lynched when he is saved by the sheriff, and at the ensuing trial it turns 
 out that Gayarre has embezzled funds belonging to Eugenie and that Aurore 
 has been freed by her former master. Rutherford and Aurore marry. 
 
 It will be seen that the theme of the contrast between North and South is 
 lacking in the novel, that the only characters that have any prototypes, such as 
 "George Peyton," ''Dora Sunnyside," "Zoe," and "McClosky," are entirely 
 different in the play, and that characters like ''Salem Scudder," "Wahnotee," 
 and "Old Pete" are creations of Boucicault. The very change of title shows 
 Boucicault 's sense of the picturesque. It is interesting to note that w^hen The 
 Octoroon was played in London, "Zoe" married "George Peyton," as "Aurore" 
 had married "Rutherford" in The Quadroon. The device of the accidental 
 photographing of the murder of "Paul" is found in The Filibuster, an English 
 novel by Albany Fonblanque (1859). 
 
 The following plays produced in America may be obtained in the reprints 
 of Samuel French or of the Dramatic Publishing Company of Chicago ; 
 
INTRODUCTION 433 
 
 To Parents and Guardians, Andy Blake, Jessie^ Brown, Grimaldi or the 
 Life of an Actress, The Queen of Spades, The Phantom, The Poor of New York, 
 The Pope of Eome, Pauvrette, The Octoroon, The Colleen Bawn, The O'Dowd, 
 Led Astray, The Shaughraun. 
 
 Among the plays written in England, London Assurance (1841), Old Beads 
 and You7ig Hearts (1844), Arrah na Pogue (1865), may be read as illustrating 
 his earlier and later period. 
 
 For biography see The Career of Dion Boucicault by Townsend Walsh, 
 Series 3, Vol. I, of the Dunlap Society Publications, New York, 1915, to which the 
 present editor acknowledges his indebtedness. Interesting accounts of individual 
 plays are to be found in Plays of the Present, by Clapp and Edgett, Series 2, 
 Extra Vol. of the Dunlap Society Publications, New York, 1902. For the re- 
 lation of The Quadroon with the play, see the novel itself. The Quadroon, or a 
 Lover's Adventures in Louisiana, New York, 1856, and Mayne Beid, a Memoir 
 of Bis Life, by Elizabeth Reid, London, 1887, pp. 215-217. 
 
 The present text is a reprint of the privately printed edition. 
 
THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHAEACTERS 
 
 At the Winter Garden, New York, December 5, 1859. 
 
 George Peyton Mr. A. H. Davenport 
 
 Salem Scudder Mr. Joseph Jefferson 
 
 Mr. Sunnyside Mr. George Holland 
 
 Jacob M'Closky Mr. T. B. Johnston 
 
 Wahnotee Mr. Dion Boucicault 
 
 Lafouche Mr. J. H. Stoddart 
 
 Captain Katts Mr. Harry Pearson 
 
 Colonel Pointdexter 
 Jules Thibodeaux 
 Judge Caillou 
 Jackson 
 
 Old Pete Mr. George Jamieson 
 
 Paul (a boy slave) Miss lone Burke 
 
 Solon 
 
 Mrs. Peyton Mrs. W. E. Blake 
 
 ZOE Miss Agnes Robertson 
 
 Dora Sunnyside Mrs. J. H. Allen 
 
 Grace 
 
 Minnie 
 
 Dido 
 
THE OCTOROON 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 The scene opens on a view of the Plantation 
 Terrebonne, in Louisiana. A branch of 
 the Mississippi is seen winding through 
 the Estate. A low built, but extensive 
 Planter's Dwelling, surrounded with a 
 veranda, and raised a few feet from the 
 ground, occupies the left side. On the 
 right stand a table and chairs. Grace 
 is discovered sitting at breakfast-table 
 with the negro children. 
 
 (Solon enters, from the house.) 
 
 Solon. Yah! you bomn'ble fry — git out — 
 
 a gen'leman can't pass for you. 
 Grace. {Seizing a fly whisk.) Hee! — ha 
 git out! 
 
 {She drives the children away: in es- 
 caping they tumble against Solon, 
 who falls with the tray ; the children 
 steal the bananas and rolls that fall 
 about.) 
 
 {Enter Pete, who is lame; he carries a mop 
 and pail. ) 
 
 Pete. Hey ! laws a inassey ! why, clar out ! 
 drop dat banana ! I '11 murder this yer 
 crowd. 
 
 {He chases children about; they leap 
 over railing at back.) {Exit So- 
 lon.) 
 Dem little niggers is a judgment upon 
 dis generation. 
 
 {Enter George, from the house.) 
 
 George. What's the matter, Pete? 
 
 Pete. It 's dem black trash, Mas'r George ; 
 dis ere property wants daring ; dem 's 
 getting too numerous round : when I gets 
 time I '11 kill some on 'em, sure ! 
 
 George. They don't seem to be scared by 
 the threat. 
 
 Pete. Stop, you varmin! stop till I get 
 enough of you in one place! 
 
 George. Were they all bom on this 
 estate? 
 
 Pete. Guess they nebber was born — dem 
 tmgs! what, dem? — get away! Born 
 here — dem darkies? What, on Terre- 
 bonne! Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r George; 
 dem black tings never was born at all; 
 
 dey swarmed one momin* on a sassa- 
 fras tree in the swamp; I cotched 'em; 
 dey ain't no 'count. Don't believe dey '11 
 turn out niggers when dey 're growed ; 
 dey '11 come out sunthin' else. 
 
 Grace. Yes, Mas'r George, dey was born 
 here; and old Pete is fonder on 'em dan 
 he is of his fiddle on a Sunday. 
 
 Pete. What? dem tings — dem? — get 
 away. {Makes blow at the children.) 
 Born here! dem darkies! What, on 
 Terrebonne? Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r 
 George, — no. One morning dey swarmed 
 on a sassafras tree in de swamp, and I 
 cotched 'em all in a sieve, — dat 's how 
 dey come on top of dis yearth — git out, 
 you, — ya, ya! {Laughs.) {Exit Grace.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Peyton, from the house.) 
 
 Mrs. p. So, Pete, you are spoiling those 
 children as usual! 
 
 Pete. Dat 's right, missus ! gib it to ole 
 Pete ! he 's allers in for it. Git away 
 dere! Ya! if dey ain't all lighted, like 
 coons, on dat snake fence, just out of 
 shot. Look dar! Ya, ya! Dem debils. 
 Ya! 
 
 Mrs. p. Pete, do you hear? 
 
 Pete. Git down dar ! I 'm arter you ! 
 
 {Hobbles off.) 
 
 Mrs. p. You are out early this morning, 
 George. 
 
 George. I was up before daylight. We 
 got the horses saddled, and galloped 
 down the shell road over the Piney 
 Patch; then coasting the Bayou Lake, 
 we crossed the long swamps, by Paul's 
 Path, and so came home again. 
 
 Mrs. p. {Laughing.) You seem already 
 familiar with the names of every spot 
 on the estate. 
 
 {Enter Pete, who arranges breakfast.) 
 
 George. Just one month ago I quitted 
 Paris. I left that siren city as I would 
 have left a beloved woman. 
 
 Mrs. p. No wonder! I dare say you left 
 at least a dozen beloved women there, 
 at the same time. 
 
 George. I feel that I departed amid uni- 
 versal and sincere regret. I left my 
 loves and my creditors equally incon- 
 solable. 
 
 435 
 
436 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 Mrs. p. George, you are incorrigible. 
 All! you remind me so much of your 
 uncle, the judge. 
 
 George. Bless his dear old handwriting, 
 it 's all I ever saw of him. For ten 
 years his letters came every quarter-day, 
 with a remittance and a word of advice 
 in his formal cavalier style; and then a 
 joke in the postcript, that upset the 
 dignity of the foregoing. Aunt, when 
 he died, two years ago, I read over those 
 letters of his, and if I did n't cry like a 
 baby — 
 
 Mrs. p. No, George; say you wept like a 
 man. And so you really kept those fool- 
 ish letters'? 
 
 George. Yes; I kept the letters, and 
 squandered the money. 
 
 Mrs. p. {Emhracing him.) Ah! why 
 were you not my son — you are so like 
 my dear husband. 
 
 {Enter Salem Scudder.) 
 
 Scud. Ain't he! Yes — when I saw him 
 and Miss Zoe galloping through the green 
 sugar crop, and doing ten dollars' worth 
 of damage at every stride, says I, how 
 like his old uncle he do make the dirt 
 
 fly. 
 
 George. 0, aunt ! what a bright, gay crea- 
 ture she is! 
 
 Scud. What, Zoe ! Guess that you did n't 
 leave anything female in Europe that can 
 lift an eyelash beside that gal. When 
 she goes along, she just leaves a streak 
 of love behind her. It 's a good drink 
 to see her come into the cotton fields — 
 the niggers get fresh on the sight of her. 
 If she ain't worth her weight in sun- 
 shine you may take one of my fingers 
 off, and choose which you like. 
 
 Mrs. p. She need not keep us waiting 
 breakfast, though. Pete, tell Miss Zoe 
 that we are waiting. 
 
 Pete. Yes, missus. Why, Minnie, why 
 don't you run when you hear, you lazy 
 crittur? {Minnie runs off.) Dat 's de 
 laziest nigger on dis yere property. 
 {Sitting down.) Don't do nuffin. 
 
 Mrs. p. My dear George, you are left in 
 your uncle's will heir to this estate. 
 
 George. Subject to your life interest and 
 an annuity to Zoe, is it not so? 
 
 Mrs. p. I fear that the property is so 
 involved tliat tlie strictest economy will 
 scarcely recover it. My dear husband 
 never kept any accounts, and we scarcely 
 know in what condition the estate really 
 
 IS. 
 
 Scud. Yes, we do, ma'am; it 's in a darnel: 
 bad condition. Ten years ago the judga 
 took as overseer a bit of Connecticut 
 hardware called M'Closky. The judge 
 did n't understand accounts — the over- 
 seer did. For a year or two all went 
 fine. The judge drew money like Bour- 
 bon whisky from a barrel, and never 
 turned off the tap. But out it flew, free 
 for everybody or anybody to beg, bor- 
 row, or steal. So it went, till one day 
 the judge found the tap wouldn't run. 
 He looked in to see what stopped it, and 
 pulled out a big mortgage. "Sign that," 
 says the overseer; "it 's only a formality." 
 "All right," says the judge, and aw^ay 
 v/ent a thousand acres; so at the end of 
 eight years, Jacob M'Closky, Esquire, 
 finds himself proprietor of the richest 
 half of Terrebonne — 
 
 George. But the other half is free. 
 
 Scud. No, it ain't; because, just then, 
 what does the judge do, but hire another 
 overseer — a Yankee — a Yankee named 
 Salem Scudder. 
 
 Mrs. p. 0, no, it was — 
 
 Scud. Hold on, now ! I 'm going to 
 straighten tliis account clear out. What 
 was this here Scudder? Well, he lived 
 in New York by sittin' with his heels up 
 in front of French's Hotel, and in- 
 ventin' — 
 
 George. Inventing what? 
 
 Scud. Improvements — anything, from a 
 stay-lace to a fire-engine. Well, he cut 
 that for the photographing line. He 
 and his apparatus arrived here, took the 
 judge's likeness and his fancy, who made 
 him overseer right oif . Well, sir, what 
 does this Scudder do but introduces his 
 inventions and improvements on this^ 
 estate. His new cotton gins broke 
 down, the steam sugar-mills burst up, 
 until he finished off with his folly 
 what Mr. M'Closky with his knavery 
 began. 
 
 Mrs. p. 0, Salem! how can you say so? 
 Haven't you worked like a horse? 
 
 ;S;CUD. No, ma'am, I worked like an ass — 
 an honest one, and that 's all. Now, Mr. 
 George, between the two overseers, you 
 and that good old lady have come to the 
 ground; tliat is the state of things, just 
 as near as I can fix it. 
 
 (Zoe sings without.) 
 
 CrEORGE. 'T is ZoC. 
 
 S.CUD. 0, I have not spoiled that anyhow. 
 I can't introduce any darned improve- 
 ment there. Ain't that a cure for old 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 437 
 
 age; it kinder lifts the heart up, don't 
 itf 
 
 Mks. p. Poor child! what will become of 
 her when I am gone ? If you have n't 
 spoiled her, I fear I have. She has had 
 the education of a lady. 
 
 George. I have remarked that she is 
 treated by the neighbors with a kind of 
 familiar condescension that annoyed me. 
 
 Sct'D. Don't you know that she is the 
 natural daughter of the judge, your 
 uncle, and that old lady thar just adored 
 anything her husband cared for; and 
 this girl, that another woman would 'a' 
 hated, she loves as if she 'd been her own 
 child. 
 
 George. Aunt, I am prouder and happier 
 to be your nephew and heir to the ruins 
 of Terrebonne, than I would have been 
 to have had half Louisiana without you. 
 
 (Enter Zoe, from the house.) 
 
 Zoe. Am I late? Ah! Mr. Scudder, good 
 morning. 
 
 Scud. Thank 'ye. I 'm from fair to mid- 
 dlin', like a bamboo cane, much the same 
 all the year round. 
 
 Zoe. No; like a sugar cane; so dry out- 
 side, one would never think there was so 
 much sweetness within. 
 
 Scud. Look here: I can't stand that gal! 
 if I stop here, I shall hug her right off. 
 (He sees Pete, who has set his pail down 
 up stage, and goes to sleep on it.) If 
 that old nigger ain't asleep, I 'm blamed. 
 HiUo ! 
 
 [He kicks pail from under Pete, and 
 lets him down. Exit.) 
 
 Pete. Hi! Debbel 's in de pail ! Wliar's 
 breakf ass ? 
 
 (Enter Solon and Dido with coffee-pot 
 and dishes.) 
 
 Dido. Bless'ee, Missey Zoe, here it be. 
 Dere 's a dish of penpans — jess taste, 
 Mas'r George — and here 's fried ba- 
 nanas; smell 'em do, sa glosh. 
 
 Pete. Hole yer tongue. Dido. Whar's 
 de coffee? (He pours it out.) If it 
 don't stain de cup, your wicked ole life 's 
 in danger, sure! dat right! black as nig- 
 ger; clar as ice. You may drink dat, 
 Mas'r George. (Looks off.) Yah ! here 's 
 Mas'r Sunnyside, and Missey Dora, jist 
 drove up. Some of you niggers run 
 and hole de bosses; and ta"ke dis, Dido. 
 (He gives her coffee-pot to hold, and 
 
 hobbles off, followed by Solon and 
 Dido.) ' 
 
 (Enter Sunnyside and Dora.) 
 
 Sunny. Good day, ma'am. (He shakes 
 hands with George.) I see we are just 
 in time for breakfast. (He sits.) 
 
 Dora. 0, none for me; I never eat. 
 
 (She sits.) 
 
 George. (Aside.) They do not notice 
 Zoe. — (Aloud.) You don't see Zoe, Mr. 
 Sunnyside. 
 
 Sunny. Ah! Zoe, girl; are you there? 
 
 Dora. Take my shawl, Zoe. (Zoe helps 
 her.) What a good creature she is. 
 
 Sunny. I dare say, now, that in Europe 
 you have never met any lady more beau- 
 tiful in person, or more polished in man- 
 ners, than that girl. 
 
 George. You are right, sir; though I 
 shrank from expressing that opinion in 
 her presence, so bluntly. 
 
 Sunny. Why so? 
 
 George. It may be considered offensive. 
 
 Sunny. (Astonished.) What? I say, 
 Zoe, do you hear that? 
 
 Dora. Mr. Peyton is joking. 
 
 Mrs. p. My nephew is not acquainted 
 with our customs in Louisiana, but he 
 will soon understand. 
 
 George. Never, aunt! I shall never un- 
 derstand how to wound the feelings of 
 any lady ; and, if that is the custom here, 
 I shall never acquire it. 
 
 Dora. Zoe, my dear, what does he mean? 
 
 Zoe. I don't know. 
 
 George. Excuse me, I '11 light a cigar. 
 
 (He goes up.) 
 
 Dora. (Aside to Zoe.) Isn't he sweet! 
 0, dear, Zoe, is he in love with anybody? 
 
 Zoe. How can I tell? 
 
 Dora. Ask him, I want to know; don't 
 say I told you to inquire, but find out. 
 Minnie, fan me, it is so nice — and his 
 clothes are French, ain't they? 
 
 Zoe. I think so ; shall I ask him that too ? 
 
 Dora. No, dear. I wish he would make 
 love to me. When he speaks to one he 
 does it so easy, so gentle ; it is n't bar- 
 room style; love lined with drinks, sighs 
 tinged with tobacco — and they say all 
 the women in Paris were in love with 
 him, which I feel I shall be. Stop fan- 
 ning me; what nice boots he wears. 
 
 Sunny. (To Mrs. Peyton.) Yes, ma'am, 
 I hold a mortgage over Terrebonne; 
 mine 's a ninth, and pretty near covers 
 all the property, except the slaves. I 
 
438 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 believe Mr. M'Closky lias a bill of sale 
 on them. 0, here he is. 
 
 {Enter M'Closky.) 
 
 Sunny. Good morning, Mr. M'Closky. 
 
 M'Closky. Good morning, Mr. Sunny- 
 side; Miss Dora, your servant. 
 
 Dora. [Seated.) Fan me, Minnie. — 
 (Aside.) I don't like that man. 
 
 M'Closky. (Aside.) Insolent as usual. 
 — (Aloud.) You begged me to call this 
 morning. I hope I 'm not intruding. 
 
 Mrs. p. My nephew, Mr. Peyton. 
 
 M'Closky. 0, how d'ye do, sir? (He 
 offers his hand, George hows coldly.) 
 (Aside.) A puppy — if he brings any of 
 his European airs here we '11 fix him. — 
 (Aloud.) Zoe, tell Pete to give my 
 mare a feed, will ye*? 
 
 George. (Angrily.) Sir! 
 
 M'Closky. Hillo! did I tread on ye? 
 
 Mrs. p. What is the matter with George? 
 
 Zoe. (She takes fan from Minnie.) Go, 
 Minnie, tell Pete; run! (Exit Minnie.) 
 
 Mrs. p. Grace, attend to Mr. M'Closky. 
 
 M'Closky. A julep, gal, that 's my break- 
 fast, and a bit of cheese. 
 
 George. (Aside to Mrs. Peyton.) E[ow 
 can you ask that vulgar ruffian to your 
 table ! 
 
 Mrs. p. Hospitality in Europe is a 
 courtesy; here, it is an obligation. We 
 tender food to a stranger, not because 
 he is a gentleman, but because he is 
 hungry. 
 
 George. Aunt, I will take my rifle down 
 to the Atchafalaya. Paul has promised 
 me a bear and a deer or two. I see my 
 little Nimrod yonder, with his Indian 
 companion. Excuse me, ladies. Ho! 
 Paul! (He enters house.) 
 
 Paul. (Outside.) I'ss, Mas'r George. 
 
 (Enter Paul with the Indian.) 
 
 Sunny. It 's a shame to allow that young 
 cub to run over the swamps and woods, 
 hunting and fishing his life away instead 
 of hoeing cane. 
 
 Mrs. p. The child was a favorite of the 
 judge, who encouraged his gambols. I 
 could n't bear to see him put to work. 
 
 George. (lietuming with rifle.) Come, 
 Paul, are you ready? 
 
 Paul. I'ss, Mas'r George. 0, golly! 
 ain't that a pooty gun. 
 
 M'Closky. See here, you imp; if I catch 
 you, and your redskin yonder, gunning 
 in my swamps, I '11 give you rats, mind. 
 
 Them vagabonds, when the game 's 
 about, shoot my pigs. 
 
 (Exit George Into house.) 
 
 Paul. You gib me rattan, Mas'r Clostry, 
 but I guess you take a berry long stick 
 to Wahnotee. Ugh, he make bacon of 
 you. 
 
 M'Closky. Make bacon of me, you young 
 whelp! Do you mean that I 'm a pig? 
 Hold on a bit. 
 
 (He seizes whip, and holds Paul.) 
 
 Zoe. 0, sir! don't, pray, don't. 
 
 M'Closky. (Slowly lowering his whip.) 
 Darn you, redskin, I '11 pay you off some 
 day, both of ye. 
 
 (He returns to table and drinks.) 
 
 Sunny. That Indian is a nuisance. Why 
 don't he return to his nation out West? 
 
 M'Closky. He 's too fond of thieving 
 and whiskey. 
 
 Zoe. No; Wahnotee is a gentle, honest 
 creature, and remains here because he 
 loves that boy with the tenderness of a 
 woman. When Paul was taken down 
 with the swamp fever the Indian sat out- 
 side the hut, and neither ate, slept, nor 
 spoke for five days, till the child could 
 recognize and call him to his bedside. 
 He who can love so well is honest — don't 
 speak ill of poor Wahnotee. 
 
 Mrs. p. Wahnotee, will you go back to 
 your people? 
 
 Wahnotee. Sleugh. 
 
 Paul. He don't understand; he speaks a 
 mash-up of Indian and Mexican. Wah- 
 notee Patira na sepau assa wigiran? 
 
 Wahnotee. Weal Omenee. 
 
 Paul. Says he '11 go if I '11 go with him. 
 He calls me Omenee, the Pigeon, and 
 Miss Zoe is Ninemoosha, the Sweetheart. 
 
 Wahnotee. (Pointing to Zoe.) Nine- 
 moosha. 
 
 Zoe. No, Wahnotee, we can't spare Paul. 
 
 Paul. If Omenee remain, Wahnotee will 
 die in Terrebonne. 
 
 (During the dialogue, Wahnotee has 
 taken George's gun.) 
 
 (Enter George.) 
 
 George. Now I 'm ready. 
 
 (George tries to regain his gun; 
 
 Wahnotee refuses to give it up; 
 
 Paul quietly takes it from him and 
 
 remonstrates with him.) 
 
 Dora. Zoe, he 's going ; I want liim to 
 
 stay and make love to me ; that 's what 
 
 I came for to-day. 
 
 Mrs. p. George, I can't spare Paul for 
 
 an hour or two; he must run over to 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 439 
 
 the landing; the steamer from New Or- 
 leans passed up the river last night, and 
 if there 's a mail they have thrown it 
 ashore. 
 
 Sunny. I saw the mail-bags lying in the 
 shed this morning. 
 
 Mrs. p. I expect an important letter 
 from Liverpool; away with you, Paul; 
 bring the mail-bags here. 
 
 Paul. I 'm 'most afraid to take Wahnotee 
 to the shed, there 's rum there. 
 
 Wahnotee. Rum ! 
 
 Paul. Come, then, but if I catch you 
 drinkin', 0, laws a mussey, you '11 get 
 snakes ! I '11 gib it you ! now mind. 
 
 {Exit with Indian.) 
 
 George. Come, Miss Dora, let me offer 
 you my arm. 
 
 Dora. Mr. George, I am afraid, if all we 
 hear is true, you have led a dreadful life 
 in Europe. 
 
 George. That 's a challenge to begin a 
 description of my feminine adventures. 
 
 Dora. You have been in love, then? 
 
 George. Two hundred and forty-nine 
 times! Let me relate you the worst 
 cases. 
 
 Dora. No! no! 
 
 George. I'll put the naughty parts in 
 French. 
 
 Dora. I won't hear a word! 0, you hor- 
 rible man! go on. 
 
 {Exit George and Dora to the house.) 
 
 M'Closky. Now, ma'am, I 'd like a little 
 business, if agreeable. I bring you 
 news; your banker, old Lafouche, of 
 New Orleans, is dead; the executors are 
 winding up his affairs, and have fore- 
 closed on all overdue mortgages, ■ so 
 Terrebonne is for sale. Here 's the 
 Picayune {Producing paper) with the 
 advertisement. 
 
 ZoE. Terrebonne for sale! 
 
 Mrs. p. Terrebonne for sale, and you, 
 sir, will doubtless become its purchaser. 
 
 M'Closky. Well, ma'am, I s'pose there 's 
 no law agin my bidding for it. The 
 more bidders, the better for you. You '11 
 take care, I guess, it don't go too cheap. 
 
 Mrs. p. 0, sir, I don't value the place for 
 its price, but for the many happy days 
 I've spent here; that landscape, flat and 
 uninteresting though it may be, is full of 
 charm for me; those poor people, born 
 around me, growing up about my heart, 
 have bounded my view of life; and now 
 to lose that homely scene, lose their 
 black, ungainly faces! O, sir, perhaps 
 you should be as old as I am, to feel as 
 
 I do, when my past life is torn away 
 from me. 
 
 M'Closky. I 'd be darned glad if some- 
 body would tear my past life away from 
 me. Sorry I can't help you, but the 
 fact is, you 're in such an all-fired mess 
 that you couldn't be pulled out without 
 a derrick. 
 
 Mrs. p. Yes, there is a hope left yet, and 
 I cling to it. The house of Mason 
 Brothers, of Liverpool, failed some 
 twenty years ago in my husband's 
 debt. 
 
 M'Closky. They owed him over fifty 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 Mrs. p. I cannot find the entry in my 
 husband's accounts; but you, Mr. 
 M'Closky, can doubtless detect it. Zoe, 
 bring here the judge's old desk; it is in 
 the library. {Exit Zoe to the house.) 
 
 M'Closky. You don't expect to recover 
 any of this old debt, do you? 
 
 Mrs. p. Yes; the firm has recovered it- 
 self, and I received a notice two months 
 ago that some settlement might be an- 
 ticipated. 
 
 Sunny. Why, with principal and interest 
 this debt has been more than doubled in 
 twenty years. 
 
 Mrs. p. But it may be years yet before 
 it will be paid off, if ever. 
 
 Sunny. If there 's a chance of it, there 's 
 not a planter round here who would n't 
 lend you the w^iole cash, to keep your 
 name and blood amongst us. Come, 
 cheer up, old friend. 
 
 Mrs. p. Ah! Sunnyside, how good you 
 are; so like my poor Peyton. 
 
 {Exit Mrs. Peyton and Sunnyside 
 to the house.) 
 
 M'Closky. Curse their old families — they 
 cut me — a bilious, conceited, thin lot of 
 dried up aristocracy. I hate 'em. Just 
 because my grandfather wasn't some 
 broken-down Virginia transplant, or a 
 stingy old Creole, I ain't fit to sit down 
 to the same meat with them. It makes 
 my blood so hot I feel my heart hiss. 
 I '11 sweep these Peytons from this sec- 
 tion of the country. Their presence 
 keeps alive the reproach against me that 
 I ruined them. Yet, if tliis money 
 should come ! Bah ! There 's no chance 
 of it. Then, if they go, they '11 take Zoe 
 — she '11 follow them. Darn that girl ; 
 she makes me quiver when I think of 
 her ; she 's took me for all I 'm worth. 
 {Enter Zoe from house, with the desk.) 
 0, here, do you know what the annuity 
 
440 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 the old judge left you is worth to-day? 
 Not a picayune. 
 
 ZoE. It 's surely worth the love that dic- 
 tated it; here are the papers and ac- 
 counts. {Putting the desk on the table.) 
 
 M'Closky. Stop, Zoe; come here! How 
 would you like to rule the house of the 
 richest planter on Atchafalaya — eh*? or 
 say the word, and I '11 buy this old bar- 
 rack, and you shall be mistress of Terre- 
 bonne. 
 
 Zoe. 0, sir, do not speak so to me! 
 
 M'Closky. Why not! look here, these 
 Peytons are bust; cut 'em; I am rich, 
 jine me ; I '11 set you up grand, and 
 we '11 give these first families here our 
 dust, until you '11 see their white skins 
 shrivel up with hate and rage; what 
 d' ye say? 
 
 Zoe. Let me pass! 0, pray, let me go! 
 
 M'Closky. What, you won't, won't ye? 
 If young George Peyton was to make 
 you the same offer, you 'd jump at it 
 pretty darned quick, I guess. Come, 
 Zoe, don't be a fool ; I 'd marry you if 
 I could, but you know I can't; so just 
 say what you want. Here, then, I '11 
 put back these Peytons in Terrebonne, 
 and they shall know you done it; yes, 
 they '11 have you to thank for saving 
 them from ruin. 
 
 Zoe. Do you think they would live here 
 on such terms? 
 
 M'Closky. Why not? We'll hire out 
 our slaves, and live on their wages. 
 
 Zoe. But I 'm not a slave. 
 
 M'Closky. No ; if you were I 'd buy you, 
 if you cost all I 'm worth. 
 
 Zoe. Let me pass! 
 
 M'Closky. Stop. 
 
 {Enter Scudder.) 
 
 Scud. Let her pass. 
 
 M'Closky. Eh? 
 
 Scud. Let her pass! 
 
 {He takes out his knife. Exit Zoe to 
 house.) 
 
 M'Closky. Is that you, Mr. Overseer? 
 
 {He examines paper.) 
 
 Scud. Yes, I 'm here, somewhere, inter- 
 ferin'. 
 
 M'Closky. {Sitting.) A pretty mess 
 you 've got this estate in — 
 
 Scud. Yes — me and Co. — we done it ; but, 
 as you were senior partner in the con- 
 cern, I reckon you got the big lick. 
 
 M'Closky. What d'ye mean? 
 
 Scud. Let me proceed by illustration. 
 {Sits.) Look thar! {Points with his 
 
 knife off.) D'ye see that tree? — it's 
 called a live oak, and is a native here; 
 beside it grows a creeper; year after 
 year that creeper twines its long arms 
 round and round the tree — sucking the 
 earth dry all about its roots — living on 
 its life — overrunning its branches, until 
 at last the live oak withers and dies out. 
 Do you know what the niggers round 
 here call that sight? they call it the 
 Yankee hugging the Creole. 
 
 M'Closky. Mr. Scudder, I've listened to 
 a great many of your insinuations, and 
 now I 'd like to come to an understand- 
 ing what they mean. If you want a 
 quarrel — 
 
 Scud. No, I 'm the skurriest crittur at a 
 fight you ever see; my legs have been 
 too well brought up to stand and see my 
 body abused ; I take good care of myself, 
 I can tell j^ou. 
 
 M'Closky. Because I heard that you had 
 traduced my character. 
 
 Scud. Traduced! Whoever said so lied. 
 I always said you were the darndest 
 thief that ever escaped a white jail to 
 misrepresent the North to the South. 
 
 M'Closky. {He raises hand to hack of 
 his neck.) What! 
 
 Scud. Take your hand down — take it 
 down. (M'Closky lowers his hand.) 
 Whenever I gets into company like 
 yours, I always start with the advantage 
 on my side. 
 
 M'Closky. What d 'ye mean ? 
 
 Scud. I mean that before you could draw 
 that bowie-knife, you wear down your 
 back, I 'd cut you into shingles. Keep 
 quiet, and let 's talk sense. You wanted 
 to come to an understanding, and I 'm 
 coming thar as quick as I can. Now, 
 Jacob M'Closky, you despise me because 
 you think I 'm a fool ; I despise you be- 
 cause I know you to be a knave. Be- 
 tween us we 've ruined these Peytons ; 
 you fired the judge, and I finished off 
 the widow. Now, I feel bad about my 
 share in the business. I 'd give half the 
 balance of my life to wipe out my part 
 of the work. Many a night I 've laid 
 awake and thought how to pull them 
 through, till I 've cried like a child over 
 the sum I could n't do ; and you know 
 how darned hard 't is to make a Yankee 
 cry. 
 
 M'Closky. Well, what's that to me? 
 
 Scud. Hold on, Jacob, I 'm coming to 
 that — I tell ye, I 'm such a fool — I can't 
 bear the feeling, it keeps at me like a 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 441 
 
 skin complaint, and if this family is sold 
 up— 
 
 M'Closky. What then? 
 
 Scud. (Rising.) I'd cut my throat — or 
 yours — yours I 'd prefer. 
 
 M'Closky. Would you now? why don't 
 you do it? 
 
 Scud. 'Cos I 's skeered to try ! I never 
 killed a man in my life — and civilization 
 is so strong in me I guess I could n't do 
 it — I'd like to, though! 
 
 M'Closky. And all for the sake of that 
 old woman and that young puppy — eh? 
 No other cause to hate — to envy me — to 
 be jealous of me — eh? 
 
 Scud. Jealous? what for? 
 
 M'Closky. Ask the color in your face: 
 d' ye think I can't read you, like a book ? 
 With your New England hypocrisy, you 
 would persuade yourself that it was this 
 family alone you cared for; it ain't — 
 you know it ain't — 't is the "Octoroon " ; 
 and you love her as I do; and you hate 
 me because I 'm your rival — that 's 
 where the tears come from, Salem Scud- 
 der, if you ever shed any — that 's where 
 the shoe pinches. 
 
 Scud. Wal, I do like the gal ; she 's a — 
 
 M'Closky. She 's in love with young 
 Peyton; it made me curse whar it made 
 you cry, as it does now; I see the tears 
 on your cheeks now. 
 
 Scud. Look at 'em, Jacob, for they are 
 honest water from the well of truth. I 
 ain't ashamed of it — I do love the gal; 
 but I ain't jealous of you, because I be- 
 lieve the only sincere feeling about you 
 is your love for Zoe, and it does your 
 heart good to have her image tliar; but 
 I believe you put it thar to spile. By 
 fair means I don't think you can get her, 
 and don't you try foul with her, 'cause 
 if you do, Jacob, civilization be darned, 
 I'm on you like a painter, and when 
 I 'm drawed out I 'm pizin. 
 
 {Exit Scudder to house.) 
 
 M'Closky. Fair or foul, I '11 have her — 
 take that home with you! {He opens 
 desk.) What's here — judgments? yes, 
 plenty of 'em; bill of costs; account with 
 Citizens' Bank— what 's this? "Judg- 
 ment, $40,000, 'Thibodeaux against Pey- 
 ton,' " — surely, that is the judgment 
 under which this estate is now adver- 
 tised for sale — {He takes up paper and 
 examines it) yes, "Thibodeaux against 
 Peyton, 1838." Hold on! whew! this is 
 worth taking to — in this desk the judge 
 used to keep one paper I want — this 
 
 should be it. (Beads.) "The free pa- 
 pers of my 'daughter Zoe, registered 
 February 4th, 1841." Why, judge, 
 was n't you lawyer enough to know that 
 while a judgment stood against you it 
 was a lien on your slaves? Zoe is your 
 child by a quadroon slave, and you 
 did n't free her ; blood ! if this is so, 
 she 's mine ! this old Liverpool debt — 
 that may cross me — if it only arrive too 
 late — if it don't come by this mail — 
 Hold on ! this letter the old lady expects 
 — that 's it ; let me only head off that 
 letter, and Terrebonne will be sold be- 
 fore they can recover it. That boy and 
 the Indian have gone down to the land- 
 ing for the post-bags ; they '11 idle on the 
 way as usual; my mare will take me 
 across the swamp, and before they can 
 reach the shed, I '11 have purified them 
 bags — ne'er a letter shall show this mail. 
 Ha, ha! — (Calls.) Pete, you old tur- 
 key-buzzard, saddle my mare. Then, if 
 I sink every dollar I 'm worth in her 
 purchase, I '11 own that Octoroon. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 The Wharf with goods, boxes, and hales 
 scattered about — a camera on a stand; 
 Dora being photographed by Scudder, 
 who is arranging photographic appara- 
 tus, George and Paul looking on at 
 back. 
 
 Scud. Just turn your face a leetle this 
 way — fix your — let 's see — look here. 
 
 Dora. So? 
 
 Scud. That 's right. (Putting his head 
 under the darkening apron.) It's such 
 a long time since I did this sort of thing, 
 and this old machine has got so dirty 
 and stiff, I 'm afraid it won't operate. 
 That 's about right. Now don't stir. 
 
 Paul. Ugh! she looks as though she war 
 gwine to have a tooth drawed! 
 
 Scud. I 've got four plates ready, in case 
 we miss the first shot. One of them is 
 prepared with a self-developing liquid 
 that I 've invented. I hope it will turn 
 out better than most of my notions. 
 Now fix yourself. Are you ready? 
 
 Dora. Ready ! 
 
 Scud. Fire! — one, two, three. 
 
 (Scudder takes out watch.) 
 
 Paul. Now it 's cooking ; laws mussey ! I 
 feel it all inside, as if I was at a lottery. 
 
 Scud. So! (Throws down apron.) That's 
 
442 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 enough. {Withdrawing slide, turns a)id 
 sees Paul. ) What ! what are you doing 
 there, you young varmint! Ain't you 
 took them bags to the house yet? 
 
 Paul. Now, it ain't no use trying to get 
 mad, Mas'r Scudder. I 'm gwine ! I 
 only come back to find Wahnotee; whar 
 is dat ign'ant Ingiun? 
 
 Scud. You '11 find him scenting round the 
 rum store, hitched up by the nose. 
 
 (Exit into the room.) 
 
 Paul. {Calling at the door.) Say, Mas'r 
 Scudder, take me in dat telescope? 
 
 Scud. {Inside the room.) Get out, you 
 cub! clar out! 
 
 Paul. You got four of dem dishes ready. 
 Gosh, wouldn't I like to hab myself 
 took ! What 's de charge, Mas'r Scud- 
 der? {He runs off.) 
 
 {Enter Scudder, from the room.) 
 
 Scud. Job had none of them critters on 
 his plantation, else he 'd never ha' stood 
 through so many chapters. Well, that 
 has come out clear, ain't it? 
 
 {Showing the plate.) 
 
 Dora. 0, beautiful! Look, Mr. Peyton. 
 
 George. {Looking.) Yes, very fine! 
 
 Scud. The apparatus can't mistake. When 
 I travelled round with this machine, the 
 homely folks used to sing out, "Hillo, 
 mister, this ain't like me!" "Ma'am," 
 says I, "the apparatus can't mistake." 
 "But, mister, that ain't my nose." 
 "Ma'am, your nose drawed it. The ma- 
 chine can't err — you may mistake your 
 phiz but the apparatus don't." "But, 
 sir, it ain't agreeable." "No, ma'am, the 
 truth seldom is." 
 
 {Enter Pete, puffing.) 
 
 Pete. Mas'r Scudder! Mas'r Scudder! 
 
 Scud. Hillo! what are you blowing about 
 like a steamboat with one wheel for? 
 
 Pete. You blow, Mas'r Scudder, when I 
 tole you : dere 's a man from Noo Aleens 
 just arriv'd at de house, and he 's stuck 
 up two papers on de gates: "For sale — 
 dis yer property," and a heap of oder 
 tings — an he seen missus, and arter he 
 shown some papers she burst out crying 
 — I yelled; den de corious of little nig- 
 gers dey set up, den de hull plantation 
 children — de live stock reared up and 
 created a purpiration of lamentation as 
 did de ole heart good to har. 
 
 Dora. What's the matter? 
 
 Scud. He 's come. 
 
 Pete. Dass it — I saw 'm ! 
 
 Scud. The sheriff from New Orleans has 
 taken possession — Terrebonne is in the 
 hands of the law. 
 
 {Enter Zoe.) 
 
 ZoE. 0, Mr. Scudder! Dora! Mr. Pey- 
 ton ! come home — there are strangers in 
 the house. 
 
 Dora. Stay, Mr. Peyton: Zoe, a word! 
 {She leads her forward — aside.) Zoe, 
 the more I see of George Peyton the bet- 
 ter I like him; but he is too modest — 
 that is a very impertinent virtue in a 
 man. 
 
 Zoe. I 'm no judge, dear. 
 
 Dora. Of course not, you little fool; no 
 one ever made love to you, and you can't 
 understand; I mean, that George knows 
 I am an heiress; my fortune would re- 
 lease this estate from debt. 
 
 Zoe. 0, I see! 
 
 Dora. If he would only propose to marry 
 me I would accept him, but he don't 
 know that, and he will go on fooling, in 
 his slow European wa}^, until it is too 
 late. 
 
 Zoe. What's to be done? 
 
 Dora. You tell him. 
 
 Zoe. What? that he isn't to go on fool- 
 ing in his slow — 
 
 Dora. No, you goose! twit him on his 
 silence and abstraction — I 'm sure it 's 
 plain enough, for he has not spoken two 
 words to me all the day; then joke round - 
 the subject, and at last speak out. I 
 
 Scud. Pete, as you came here, did you " 
 pass Paul and the Indian with the letter- 
 bags? 
 
 Pete. No, sar; but dem vagabonds neber 
 take the 'specable straight road, dey goes 
 by de swamp. {Exit up the path.y 
 
 Scud. Come, sir! 
 
 Dora. ( To Zoe. ) Now 's your time. — 
 {Aloud.) Mr. Scudder, take us with 
 you — Mr. Peyton is so slow, there 's no 
 getting him on. 
 
 {Exit Dora and Scudder.) 
 
 Zoe. They are gone! — {Glancing at 
 George.) Poor fellow, he has lost all. 
 
 George. Poor child! how sad she looks 
 now she has no resource. 
 
 Zoe. How shall I ask him to stay? 
 
 George. Zoe, will you remain here? I 
 wish to speak to you. 
 
 Zoe. {Aside.) Well, that saves trouble. 
 
 George. By our ruin you lose all. 
 
 Zoe. 0, I 'm nothing ; think of yourself. 
 
 George. I can think of notliing but the 
 image that remains face to face with 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 443 
 
 me; so beautiful, so simple, so confiding, 
 tligt I dare not express the feelings that 
 have grown up so rapidly in my heart. 
 
 ZoE. (Aside.) He means Dora. 
 
 George. If I dared to speak! 
 
 ZoE, That 's just what you must do, and 
 do it at once, or it will be too late. 
 
 George. Has my love been divined? 
 
 ZoE. It has been more than suspected. 
 
 George. Zoe, listen to me, then. I shall 
 see this estate pass from me without' a 
 sigh, for it possesses no charm for me; 
 the wealth I covet is the love of those 
 around me — eyes that are rich in fond 
 looks, lips that breathe endearing words; 
 the only estate I value is the heart of 
 one true woman, and the slaves I 'd have 
 are her thoughts. 
 
 Zoe. George, George, your words take 
 away my breath! 
 
 George. The w^orld, Zoe, the free struggle 
 of minds and hands is before me; the 
 education bestowed on me by my dear 
 uncle is a noble heritage which no sheriff 
 can seize; with that I can build up a 
 fortune, spread a roof over the heads I 
 love, and place before them the food I 
 have earned; I will work — 
 
 Zoe. AYork! I thought none but colored 
 people worked. 
 
 George. Work, Zoe, is the salt that gives 
 savor to life. 
 
 Zoe. Dora said you were slow; if she 
 could hear you now — 
 
 George. Zoe, you are young; your mirror 
 must have told you that you are beauti- 
 ful. Is your heart free? 
 
 Zoe. Free? of course it is! 
 
 George. We have known each other but 
 a few days, but to me those days have 
 been worth all the rest of my life. Zoe, 
 you have suspected the feeling that now 
 commands an utterance — you have seen 
 that I love you. 
 
 Zoe. Me! you love mef 
 
 George. As my wife, — the sharer of my 
 hopes, my ambitions, and my sorrows; 
 under the shelter of your love I could 
 watch the storms of fortune pass un- 
 heeded by. 
 
 Zoe. 3Iy love! 3Iy love? George, you 
 know not what you say! I the sharer 
 of your sorrows — your wife! Do you 
 know what I am? 
 
 George. Your birth — I know it. Has not 
 my dear aunt forgotten it — she who had 
 the most right to remember it? You 
 are illegitimate, but love knows no 
 prejudice. 
 
 Zoe. (Aside.) ^Alas! he does not know, 
 he does not know! and will despise me, 
 spurn me, loathe me, when he learns 
 who, what, he has so loved. — (Aloud.) 
 George, 0, forgive me! Yes, I love you 
 — I did not know it until your words 
 showed me what has been in my heart; 
 each of them awoke a new sense, and 
 now I know how unhappy — how very 
 unhappy I am. 
 
 George. Zoe, what have I said to wound 
 you? 
 
 Zoe. Nothing; but you must learn what 
 I thought you already knew. George, 
 you cannot marry me; the laws forbid 
 it! 
 
 George. Forbid it? 
 
 Zoe. There is a gulf between us, as wide 
 as your love, as deep as my despair ; but, 
 0, tell me, say you will pity me! that 
 you will not throw me from you like a 
 poisoned thing! 
 
 George. Zoe, explain yourself — your lan- 
 guage fills me with shapeless fears. 
 
 Zoe. And what shall I say? I — my 
 mother was — no, no — not her! Why 
 should I refer the blame to her? 
 George, do you see that hand you hold? 
 look at these fingers; do you see the 
 nails are of a bluish tinge? 
 
 George. Yes, near the quick there is a 
 faint blue mark. 
 
 Zoe. Look in my eyes; is not the same 
 color in the white? 
 
 George. It is their beauty. 
 
 Zoe. Could you see the roots of my hair 
 you would see the same dark, fatal mark. 
 Do you know what that is? 
 
 George. No. 
 
 Zoe. That is the ineffaceable curse of 
 Cain. Of the blood that feeds my heart, 
 one drop in eight is black — bright red 
 as the rest may be, that one drop poisons 
 all the flood; those seven bright drops 
 give me love like yours — hope like yours 
 — ambition like yours — life hung with 
 passions like dew-drops on the morning 
 flowers; but the one black drop gives me 
 despair, for I 'm an unclean thing — for- 
 bidden by the laws — I 'm an Octoroon ! 
 
 George. Zoe, I love you none the less; 
 tliis knowledge brings no revolt to my 
 heart, and I can overcome the obstacle. 
 
 Zoe. But I cannot. 
 
 George. We can leave this country, and 
 go far away where none can know. 
 
 Zoe. And our mother, she wiio from in- 
 fancy treated me with such fondness, 
 she who, as you said, has most reasoa 
 
444 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 to spurn me, can she forget what I am? 
 Will she gladly see you wedded to the 
 child of her husband's slave? No! she 
 would revolt from it, as all but you 
 would; and if I consented to hear the 
 cries of my heart, if I did not crush out 
 my infant love, what would she say to 
 the poor girl on whom she had bestowed 
 so much? No, no! 
 
 George. Zoe, must we immolate our lives 
 on her prejudice? 
 
 Zoe. Yes, for I 'd rather be black than 
 ungrateful! Ah, George, our race has 
 at least one virtue — it know^s how to 
 suffer ! 
 
 George. Each word you utter makes my 
 love sink deeper into my heart. 
 
 Zoe. And I remained here to induce you 
 to offer that heart to Dora! 
 
 George. If you bid me do so I will obey 
 you — 
 
 Zoe. No, no! if you cannot be mine, 0, 
 let me not blush when I think of you. 
 
 George. Dearest Zoe! 
 
 {Exit George mid Zoe.) 
 
 (As they exit, M'Closky rises from 
 
 behind a rock and looks after them.) 
 
 M'Closky. She loves him! I felt it — 
 and how she can love! {Advances.) 
 That one black drop of blood burns in 
 her veins and lights up her heart like a 
 foggy sun. 0, how I lapped up her 
 words, like a thirsty bloodhound ! I '11 
 have her, if it costs me my life! Yon- 
 der the boy still lurks with those mail- 
 bags; the devil still keeps him here to 
 tempt me, dam his yellow skin! I ar- 
 rived just too late, he had grabbed the 
 prize as I came up. Hillo ! he 's coming 
 this way, fighting with his Injiun. 
 
 {Conceals himself.) 
 
 {Enter Paul, wrestling with Wahnotee.) 
 
 Paul. It ain't no use now: you got to 
 gib it up! 
 
 Wahno. Ugh ! 
 
 Paul. It won't do! You got dat bottle 
 of rum hid under your blanket — gib it 
 up now, you — . Yar! {Wrenching it 
 from him.) You nasty, lying Injiun! 
 It 's no use you putting on airs ; I ain't 
 gwine to sit up wid you all night and 
 you drunk. Hillo ! war 's de crowd 
 gone? And dar 's de 'paratus — 0, 
 gosh, if I could take a likeness ob dis 
 child! Uh — uh, let's have a peep. 
 {Looking through camera.) 0, golly! 
 yar, you Walmotee! you stan' dar, I see 
 you. Ta deraine usti. 
 
 {Ue looks at Wahnotee through the 
 camera; Wahnotee springs hack 
 with an expression of alarm.) 
 
 Wahno. No tue Wahnotee. 
 
 Paul. Ha, ha ! he tinks it 's a gun. You 
 ign'ant Injiun, it can't hurt you ! Stop, 
 here 's dem dishes — plates — dat 's what 
 he can 'em, all fix: I see Mas'r Scudder 
 do it often — tink I can take likeness — 
 stay dere, Wahnotee. 
 
 Wahno. No, carabine tue. 
 
 Paul. I must operate and take my own 
 likeness too — how debbel I do dat? 
 Can't be ober dar an' here too — I ain't 
 twins. Ugh! ach! 'Top; you look, you 
 Wahnotee; you see dis rag, eh? Well 
 when I say go, den lift dis rag like dis, 
 see! den run to dat pine tree up dar 
 {Points) and back ag'in, and den pull 
 down de rag so, d' ye see ? 
 
 Wahno. Hugh ! 
 
 Paul. Den you hab glass ob rum. 
 
 Wahno. Rum ! 
 
 Paul. Dat wakes him up. Coute, Wah- 
 notee in omenee dit go Wahnotee, poina 
 la fa, comb a pine tree, la revieut sala, 
 la fa. 
 
 Wahno. Fire-water ! 
 
 Paul. Yes, den a glass ob fire-water; now 
 
 den. {Throwing mail-hags down and 
 
 sitting on them.) Pret, now den go. 
 
 (Wahnotee raises the apron and runs 
 
 off. Paul sits for his picture — 
 
 M'Closky appears.) 
 
 M'Closky. Where are they? Ah, yonder 
 goes the Indian! 
 
 Paul. De time he gone just 'bout enough 
 to cook dat dish plate. 
 
 M'Closky. Yonder is the boy — now is my 
 time ! What 's he doing ; is he asleep ? 
 {Advancing.) He is sitting on my 
 prize ! darn his carcass ! I '11 clear him 
 off there — he '11 never know what 
 stunned him. 
 
 {He takes Indian's tomahawk and 
 steals to Paul.) 
 
 Paul. Dam dat Injiun ! is dat him creep- 
 ing dar? I daren't move fear to spile 
 myself. 
 
 (M'Closky strikes him on the head — 
 he falls dead.) 
 
 M'Closky. Hooraw; the bags are mine — 
 now for it! — {Opening the mail-hags.) 
 What's here? Sunnyside, Pointdexter, 
 Jackson, Peyton; here it is — the Liver- 
 pool postmark, sure enough! — {Open- 
 ing letter — reads.) "Madam, we are in- 
 structed by the firm of Mason and Co., 
 to inform you that a dividend of forty 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 445 
 
 per cent, is payable on the 1st proximo, 
 this amount in consideration of position, 
 they send herewith, and you will find 
 enclosed by draft to your order, on the 
 Bank of Louisiana, which please ac- 
 knowledge — tlie balance will be paid in 
 full, with interest, in three, six, and nine 
 months — your drafts on Mason Brothers 
 at those dates will be accepted by La 
 Palisse and Compagnie, N. 0., so that 
 you may command immediate use of the 
 whole amount at once, if required. 
 Yours, etc., James Brown." What a 
 find! this infernal letter would have 
 saved all. {During the reading of letter 
 he remains nearly motionless under the 
 focus of the camera.) But now I guess 
 it will arrive too late — these darned U. S. 
 mails are to blame. The Injiun! he 
 must not see me. {Exit rapidly.) 
 
 (Wahnotee runs on, and pulls down 
 the apron. He sees Paul, lying on 
 the ground and speaks to him, think- 
 ing that he is shamming sleep. He 
 gesticulates and jabbers to him and 
 moves him with his feet, then kneels 
 down to rouse him. To his horror 
 he finds him dead. Expressing 
 great grief he raises his eyes and 
 they fall upon the camera. Rising 
 with a savage growl, he seizes the 
 tomahawk and smashes the camera 
 to pieces. Going to Paul he ex- 
 presses in pantomime grief, sorrow, 
 and fondness, and takes him in his 
 arms to carry him away.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 {A lioom in Mrs. Peyton's house showing 
 the entrance on which an auction bill is 
 pasted. Solon and Grace are there.) 
 
 Pete. {Outside.) Dis way — dis way. 
 
 {Enter Pete, Pointdexter, Jackson, La- 
 FOUCHE and Caillou.) 
 
 Pete. Dis way, genTmen; now, Solon — 
 Grace — dey 's hot and tirsty — sangaree, 
 brandy, rum. 
 
 Jackson. Well, what d'ye say, Lafouche 
 — d 'ye smile ? 
 
 {Enter Thibodeaux and Sunnyside.) 
 
 Thibo. I hope we don't intrude on the 
 
 family. 
 Pete. You see dat hole in dar, sar? I 
 
 was raised on dis yar plantation — neb- 
 
 ber see no^door in it — always open, sar, 
 for stranger to walk in. 
 Sunny. And for substance to walk out. 
 
 {Enter Ratts.) 
 
 Ratts. Fine southern style that, eh! 
 
 Lafouche. {Beading the bill.) "A fine, 
 well-built old family mansion, replete 
 with every comfort." 
 
 Ratts. There 's one name on the list of 
 slaves scratched, I see. 
 
 Lafouche. Yes ; No. 49, Paul, a quadroon 
 boy, aged thirteen. 
 
 Sunny. He's missing. 
 
 Point. Run away, I suppose. 
 
 Pete. {Indignantly.) No, sar; nigger 
 nebber cut stick on Terrebonne; dat boy 's 
 dead, sure. 
 
 Ratts. What, Picayune Paul, as we called 
 him, that used to come aboard my boat? 
 — poor little darkey, I hope not; many 
 a picayune he picked up for his dance 
 and nigger songs, and he supplied our 
 table with fish and game from the Ba- 
 yous. 
 
 Pete. Nebber supply no more, sar — neb- 
 ber dance again. Mas'r Ratts, you hard 
 him sing about de place where de good 
 niggers go, de last time. 
 
 Ratts. Well ! 
 
 Pete. Well, he gone dar hisself; why I 
 tink so — 'cause we missed Paul for some 
 days, but nebber tout nothin' till one 
 night dat Injiun Wahnotee suddenly 
 stood right dar 'mongst us — was in his 
 war paint, and mighty cold and grave 
 — he sit down by de fire. "Whar's 
 Paul?" I say — he smoke and smoke, but 
 nebber look out ob de fire; well know- 
 ing dem critters, I wait a long time — 
 den he say, "Wahnotee great chief;" 
 den I say nothing — smoke anoder time — 
 last, rising to go, he turn round at door, 
 and say berry low — 0, like a woman's 
 voice he say, "Omenee Pangeuk," — dat 
 is, Paul is dead — nebber see him since. 
 
 Ratts. That red-skin killed him. 
 
 Sunny. So we believe; and so mad are 
 the folks around, if they catch the red- 
 skin they '11 lynch him sure. 
 
 Ratts. Lynch him! Darn his copper 
 carcass, I 've got a set of Irish deck- 
 hands aboard that just loved that child; 
 and after I tell them this, let them get 
 a sight of the red-skin, I believe they 
 would eat him, tomahawk and all. Poor 
 little Paul! 
 
 Thibo. What was he worth? 
 
446 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 Ratts. Well, near on five hundred dol- 
 lars. 
 
 Pete. {Scandalized.) What, sar! You 
 p'tend to be sorry for Paul, and prize 
 him like dat! Five hundred dollars! 
 {To Thibodeaux.) Tousand dollars, 
 Massa Thibodeau. 
 
 {Enter Scudder.) 
 
 Scud. Gentlemen, the sale takes place at 
 three. Good morning, Colonel. It 's 
 near that now, and there 's still the sugar- 
 houses to be inspected. Good day, Mr. 
 Thibodeaux — shall we drive down that 
 way? Mr. Lafouche, why, how do you 
 do, sir ? you 're looking well. 
 
 Lafouche. Sorry I can't return the com- 
 pliment. 
 
 Ratts. Salem 's looking a kinder hol- 
 lowed out. 
 
 Scud. What, Mr. Ratts, are you going to 
 invest in swamps? 
 
 Ratts. No; I want a nigger. 
 
 Scud. Hush. 
 
 Pete. Eh! wass dat? 
 
 Scud. Mr. Sunnyside, I can't do this job 
 of showin' round the folks; my stomach 
 goes agin it. I want Pete here a min- 
 ute. 
 
 Sunny. I '11 accompany them certainly. 
 
 Scud. {Eagerly.) Will ye? Thank ye; 
 thank ye. 
 
 SuNXY. We must excuse Scudder, friends. 
 I '11 see you round the estate. 
 
 {Enter George and Mrs. Peyton.) 
 
 Lafouche. Good morning, Mrs. Peyton. 
 
 {All salute.) 
 Sunny. This way, gentlemen. 
 Ratts. {Aside to Sunnyside.) I say, I'd 
 like to say summit soft to the old woman ; 
 perhaps it would n't go well, would it ? 
 Thibo. No; leave it alone. 
 Ratts. Darn it, when I see a woman in 
 trouble, I feel like selling the skin off 
 my back. 
 
 {Exit Thibodeaux, Sunnyside, Ratts, 
 Pointdexter, Grace, Jackson, La- 
 fouche, Caillou, Solon.) 
 Scud. {Aside to Pete.) Go outside 
 there; listen to what you hear, then go 
 down to the quarters and tell the boys, 
 for I can't do it. 0, get out. 
 Pete. He said "I want a nigger." Laws, 
 mussey! What am goin' to cum ob us! 
 {Exit slowly, as if trying to conceal 
 himself. ) 
 George. My dear aunt, why do you not 
 
 move from this painful scene? Go with 
 Dora to Sunnyside. 
 
 Mrs. p. No, George; your uncle said to 
 me with his dying breath, "Nellie, never 
 leave Terrebonne," and I never will leave 
 it, till the law compels me. 
 
 Scud. Mr. George, I 'm going to say some- 
 thin' that has been chokin' me for some 
 time. I know you '11 excuse it. Thar 's 
 Miss Dora — that girl 's in love with you ; 
 yes, sir, her eyes are startin' out of her 
 head with it: now her fortune would re- 
 deem a good part of this estate. 
 
 Mrs. p. Why, George, I never suspected 
 this ! 
 
 George. I did, aunt, I confess, but — 
 
 Mrs. p. And you hesitated from motives 
 of delicacy? 
 
 Scud. No, ma'am; here's the plan of it. 
 Mr. George is in love with Zoe. 
 
 George. Scudder ! 
 
 Mrs. p. George! 
 
 Scud. Hold on, now! things have got so 
 jammed in on top of us, we ain't got 
 time to put kid gloves on to handle them. 
 He loves Zoe, and has found out that she 
 loves him. {Sighing.) Well, that's all 
 right; but as he can't marry her, and as 
 Miss Dora would jump at him — 
 
 Mrs. p. Why did n't you mention this be- 
 fore? 
 
 Scud. Why, because I love Zoe, too, and 
 I couldn't take that young feller from 
 her ; and she 's jist living on the sight 
 of him, as I saw her do; and they so 
 happy in spite of this yer misery around 
 them, and they reproachin' themselves 
 with not feeling as they ought. I 've 
 seen it, I tell you; and darn it, ma'am, 
 can't you see that 's what 's been a hok 
 lowing me out so — I beg your pardon. 
 
 Mrs. p. 0, George, — my son, let me call 
 you, — I do not speak for my own sake, 
 nor for the loss of the estate, but for 
 the poor people here: they will be sold, 
 divided, and taken away — they have 
 been born here. Heaven has denied me 
 children; so all the strings of my heart 
 have grown around and amongst them, 
 like the fibres and roots of an old tree in 
 its native earth. 0, let all go, but save 
 them ! With them around us, if we have 
 not wealth, we shall at least have the 
 home that they alone can make — 
 
 George. My dear mother — Mr. Scudder — 
 you teach me what I ought to do; if 
 Miss Sunnyside will accept me as I am, 
 Terrebonne shall be saved: I will sell 
 myself, but the slaves shall be protected. 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 447 
 
 Mrs, p. Sell yourself, George! Is not 
 Dora worth any man's — 
 
 Scud. Don't say that, ma'am; don't say 
 that to a man that loves another gal. 
 He 's going to do an heroic act ; don't 
 spile it. 
 
 Mrs. p. But Zoe is only an Octoroon. 
 
 Scud. She 's won this race agin the white, 
 anyhow ; it 's too late now to start her 
 pedigree. {As Dora enters.) Come, 
 Mrs. Peyton, take my arm. Hush! 
 here 's the other one : she 's a little too 
 thoroughbred — too much of the grey- 
 hound ; but the heart 's there, I believe. 
 {Exeunt Scudder and Mrs. Peyton.) 
 
 Dora. Poor Mrs. Peyton. 
 
 George. Miss Sunnyside, permit me a 
 word: a feeling of delicacy has sus- 
 pended upon my lips an avowal, which — 
 
 Dora. {Aside.) 0, dear, has he suddenly 
 come to his senses? 
 
 {Enter Zoe, stopping at hack.) 
 
 George. In a word, I have seen and ad- 
 mired you! 
 
 Dora. {Aside.) He has a strange way 
 of showing it. European, I suppose. 
 
 George. If you would pardon the abrupt- 
 ness of the question, I would ask you, 
 Do you think the sincere devotion of my 
 life to make yours happy would suc- 
 ceed? 
 
 Dora. {Aside.) Well, he has the oddest 
 way of making love. 
 
 George, You are silent? 
 
 Dora. Mr. Peyton, I presume you have 
 hesitated to make this avowal because 
 you feared, in the present condition of 
 affairs here, your object might be mis- 
 construed, and that your attention w^as 
 rather to my fortune than myself. {A 
 pause.) Why don't he speak? — I mean, 
 you feared I might not give you credit 
 for sincere and pure feelings. Well, 
 you wrong me. I don't think you cap- 
 able of anything else but — 
 
 George. No, I hesitated because an at- 
 tachment I had formed before I had the 
 pleasure of seeing you had not altogether 
 died out. 
 
 Dora. {Smiling.) Some of those sirens 
 of Paris, I presume, {Pausing.) I 
 shall endeavor not to be jealous of the 
 past; perhaps I have no right to be. 
 {Pausing.) But now that vagrant love 
 is — eh, faded — is it not? Why don't 
 you speak, sir? 
 
 George, Because, Miss Sunnyside, I have 
 not learned to lie. 
 
 Dora, Good gracious — who wants you to? 
 
 George. I do, but I can't do it. No, the 
 love I speak of is not such as you sup- 
 pose, — it is a passion that has grown up 
 here since I arrived; but it is a hopeless, 
 mad, wild feeling, that must perish. 
 
 Dora. Here! since you arrived! Impos- 
 sible: you have seen no one; whom can 
 you mean? 
 
 Zoe. {Advancing.) Me. 
 
 George. Zoe ! 
 
 Dora. You ! 
 
 Zoe. Forgive him, Dora; for he knew no 
 better until I told him. Dora, you are 
 right. He is incapable of any but sin- 
 cere and pure feelings — so are you. He 
 loves me — what of that? You know you 
 can't be jealous of a poor creature like 
 me. If he caught the fever, WTre stung 
 by a snake, or possessed of any other 
 poisonous or unclean thing, you could 
 pity, tend, love him through it, and for 
 your gentle care he would love you in 
 return. Well, is he not thus afflicted 
 now? I am his love — he loves an Oc- 
 toroon. 
 
 George. 0, Zoe, you break my heart ! 
 
 Dora. At college they said I was a fool — 
 I must be. At New Orleans, they said, 
 "She 's pretty, very pretty, but no 
 brains." I 'm afraid they must be right; 
 I can't understand a word of all this. 
 
 Zoe. Dear Dora, try to understand it with 
 your heart. You love George; you love 
 him dearly; I know it; and you deserve 
 to be loved by him. He will love you — 
 he must. His love for me will pass 
 away — it shall. You heard him say it 
 was hopeless. 0, forgive him and me! 
 
 Dora. {Weeping.) 0, why did he speak 
 to me at all then? You've made me 
 cry, then, and I hate you both ! 
 
 {Exit through room.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Peyton and Scudder, M'Clo- 
 
 SKY and POINTDEXTER, ) 
 
 M'Closky. I 'm sorry to intrude, but the 
 business I came upon will excuse me. 
 
 Mrs. Pey. Here is my nephew^, sir. 
 
 ZoE. Perhaps I had better go. 
 
 M'Closky. Wal, as it consarns you, per- 
 haps you better had. 
 
 Scud. Consarns Zoe? 
 
 M'Closky. I don't know; she may as well 
 hear the hull of it. Go on. Colonel — 
 Colonel Pointdexter, ma'am — the mort- 
 gagee, auctioneer, and general agent. 
 
 Point, Pardon me, madam, but do you 
 know these papers? 
 
448 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 {lie hands the papers to Mrs. Pey- 
 ton.) 
 
 Mrs. Pey. {Taking them.) Yes, sir; 
 they were tlie free papers of the girl 
 Zoe; but they were in my husband's sec- 
 retary. How came they in your pos- 
 session ? 
 
 M'Closky. I — I found them. 
 
 Gkorge. And you purloined them? 
 
 M'Closky. Hold on, you '11 see. Go on, 
 Colonel. 
 
 Point. The list of your slaves is incom- 
 plete — it wants one. 
 
 Scud. The boy Paul — we know it. 
 
 Point. No, sir, you have omitted the 
 Octoroon girl, Zoe. 
 
 Mrs. Pey. i Zoe 
 
 Zoe. j Me! 
 
 Point. At the time the judge executed 
 those free papers to his infant slave, a 
 judgment stood recorded against him; 
 while that was on record he had no right 
 to make away with his property. That 
 judgment still exists: under it and others 
 this estate is sold to-day. Those free 
 papers ain't worth the sand that 's on 
 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Pey. Zoe a slave! It is impossible! 
 
 Point. It is certain, madam: the judge 
 was negligent, and doubtless forgot this 
 small formality. 
 
 Scud. But the creditors will not claim the 
 gal? 
 
 M'Closky. Excuse me; one of the prin- 
 cipal mortgagees has made the demand. 
 {Exeunt M'Closky and Pointdexter. ) 
 
 Scud. Hold on yere, George Peyton; you 
 sit down there. You're trembling so, 
 you '11 fall down directly. This blow has 
 staggered me some. 
 
 Mrs. Pey. 0, Zoe, my child! don't chink 
 too liard of your poor father. 
 
 Zoe. I shall do so if you weep. See, I 'm 
 calm. 
 
 Scud. Calm as a tombstone, and with 
 about as much life. I see it in your 
 face. 
 
 George. It cannot be ! It shall not be ! 
 
 Scud. Hold your tongue — it must. Be 
 calm — darn the things; the proceeds of 
 this sale won't cover the debts of the 
 estate. Consarn those Liverpool Eng- 
 lish fellers, why could n't they send some- 
 thing by the last mail? Even a letter, 
 promising something — such is the feel- 
 ing round amongst the planters. Darn 
 me, if I couldn't raise thirty thousand 
 on the envelope alone, and ten thousand 
 more on the postmark. 
 
 George. Zoe, they shall not take you from 
 us while I live. 
 
 Scud. Don't be a fool; they'd kill you, 
 and then take her, just as soon as — stop: 
 old Sunnyside, he'll buy her; that'll 
 save her. 
 
 Zoe. No, it won't; we have confessed to 
 Dora that we love each other. How can 
 she then ask her father to free me? 
 
 Scud. What in thunder made you do 
 that? 
 
 Zoe. Because it was the truth, and I had 
 rather be a slave with a free soul, than 
 remain free with a slavish, deceitful 
 heart. My father gives me freedom — at 
 least he thought so. May Heaven bless 
 him for the thought, bless him for the 
 happiness he spread around my life. 
 You say the proceeds of the sale will not 
 cover his debts. Let me be sold then, 
 that I may free his name. I give him 
 back the liberty he bestowed upon me; 
 for I can never repay him the love he 
 bore his poor Octoroon child, on whose 
 breast his last sigh w^as drawn, into 
 whose eyes he looked with the last gaze 
 of affection. 
 
 Mrs. Pey. 0, my husband! I thank 
 Heaven you have not lived to see this 
 day. 
 
 Zoe. George, leave me ! I would be alone 
 a little while. 
 
 George. Zoe ! 
 
 {Turning away overpowered.) 
 
 Zoe. Do not weep, George. Dear George, 
 you now see what a miserable thing I 
 am. 
 
 George. Zoe ! 
 
 Scud. I wish they could sell me! I 
 brought half this ruin on this family, 
 with my all-fired improvements. I de- 
 serve to be a nigger this day — I feel 
 like one, inside. {Exit Scudder.) 
 
 Zoe. Go now, George — leave me — take her 
 with you. {Exit Mrs. Peyton and 
 George.) A slave! a slave! Is this a 
 dream — for my brain reels with the 
 blow? He said so. What! then I shall 
 be sold! — sold! and my master — 0! 
 {She falls on her knees, with her face in 
 her hands.) No — no master but one. 
 George — George — hush — they come! save 
 me! No, {Looks off.) 'tis Pete and the 
 servants — they come this way. {Enters 
 the inner room.) 
 
 {Enter Pete, Grace, Minnie, Solon, 
 Dido, and all Niggers.) 
 
 Pete. Cum yer now — stand round, 'cause 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 449 
 
 I 've got to talk to you darkies — keep 
 dem chil'ii quiet — don't make no noise, 
 de missus up dar bar us. 
 
 Solon. Go on, Pete. 
 
 Pete. Gen'l'men, my colored frens and 
 ladies, dar's mighty bad news gone 
 round. Dis yer prop'ty to be sold — old 
 Terrebonne — whar we all been raised, is 
 gwine — dey 's gwine to tak it away — 
 can't stop here nohow. 
 
 Omnes. 0-0 ! — 0-0 ! 
 
 Pete. Hold quiet, you trash o' niggers! 
 tink anybody wants you to cry ? Who 's 
 you to set up screeching? — be quiet! 
 But dis ain't all. Now, my cullud 
 brethren, gird up your lines, and listen 
 — hold on yer bref — it 's a comin'. We 
 touglit dat de niggers would belong to de 
 ole missus, and if she lost Terrebonne, 
 we must live dere allers, and we would 
 hire out, and bring our wages to ole 
 Missus Peyton. 
 
 Omnes. Ya! ya! Well— 
 
 Pete. Hush ! I tell ye, 't ain't so — we 
 can't do it — we 've ^ot to be sold — 
 
 Omnes. Sold! 
 
 Pete. Will you hush? she will har you. 
 Yes! I listen dar jess now — dar was ole 
 lady cryin' — Mas'r George — ah ! you seen 
 dem big tears in his eyes. 0, Mas'r 
 Scudder, he didn't cry zackly; both ob 
 his eyes and cheek look like de bad Bayou 
 in low season — so dry dat I cry for him. 
 {Raising It is voice.) Den say de missus, 
 " 'T ain't for de land I keer, but for 
 dem poor niggers — dey '11 be sold — dat 
 wot stagger me." "No," say Mas'r 
 George, "I 'd rather sell myself fuss ; 
 but (ley shan't suffer, nohow, — I see 'em 
 dam fuss." 
 
 Omnes. 0, bless 'um! Bless Mas'r 
 George. 
 
 Pete. Hole yer tongues. Yes, for you, 
 for me, for dem little ones, dem folks 
 cried. Now, den, if Grace dere wid her 
 chil'n were all sold, she '11 begin screechin' 
 like a cat. She didn't mind how kind 
 old judge was to her; and Solon, too, 
 he '11 holler, and break de ole lady's 
 heart. 
 
 Grace. No, Pete ; no, I won't. I '11 bear 
 it. 
 
 Pete. I don't tink you will any more, but 
 dis here will; 'cause de family spile 
 Dido, dey has. She nebber was worth 
 much a' dat nigger. 
 
 Dido. How dar you say dat, you black 
 nigger, you? I fetch as much as any 
 odder cook in Louisiana. 
 
 Pete. What's the use of your takin' it 
 kind, and comfortin' de missus' heart, if 
 Minnie dere, and Louise, and Marie, and 
 Julie is to spile it? 
 
 Minnie. We won't, Pete; we won't. 
 
 Pete. {To the men.) Dar, do ye hear 
 dat, ye mis'able darkies; dem gals is 
 worth a boat load of kinder men dem is. 
 Cum, for de pride of de family, let every 
 darky look his best for the judge's sake 
 — dat ole man so good to us^ and dat 
 ole woman — so dem strangers from New 
 Orleans shall say, Dem 's happy darkies, 
 dem's a fine set of niggers; every one 
 say when he's sold, "Lor' bless dis yer 
 family I 'm gwine out of, and send me as 
 good a home." 
 
 Omnes. W^e '11 do it, Pete ; we '11 do it. 
 
 Pete. Hush ! hark ! I tell ye dar 's some- 
 body in dar. Who is it? 
 
 Grace. It 's Missy Zoe. See ! see ! 
 
 Pete. Come along; she har what we say, 
 
 and she 's cryin' for us. None o' ye 
 
 . ign'rant niggers could cry for yerselves 
 
 like dat. Come here quite: now quite. 
 
 {Exeunt Pete and all the Negroes, 
 
 slowly.) 
 
 {Enter Zoe who is supposed to have over- 
 heard the last scene.) 
 
 Zoe. ! must I learn from these . poor 
 wretches how much I owe, and how I 
 ought to pay the debt? Have I slept 
 upon the benefits I received, and never 
 saw, never felt, never knew that I was 
 forgetful and ungrateful? 0, my 
 father! my dear, dear father! forgive 
 your poor child. You made her life too 
 happy, and now these tears will flow. 
 Let me hide them till I teach my heart. 
 0, my — my heart! 
 
 {Exit, with a low, wailing, suffocating 
 cry.) 
 
 {Enter M'Closky, Lapouche, Jackson, 
 Sunnyside and Pointdexter. ) 
 
 Point. Looking at his ivatch.) Come, 
 the hour is past. I think we may begin 
 business. Where is Mr. Scudder? 
 
 Jackson. I want to get to Ophelensis to- 
 night. 
 
 {Enter Dora.) 
 
 Dora. Father, come here. 
 
 SuxNY. Why, Dora, what 's the matter? 
 
 Your eyes are red. 
 Dora. Are they? thank you. I don't 
 
450 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 care, they were blue this morning, but 
 
 it don't signify now. 
 Sunny. My darling! who has been teas- 
 ing you? 
 Dora. Never mind. I want you to buy 
 
 Terrebonne. 
 Sunny. Buy Terrebonne! What for? 
 Dora. No matter — buy it! 
 Sunny. It will cost me all I 'm worth. 
 
 This is folly, Dora. 
 Dora. Is my plantation at Comptableau 
 
 worth this? 
 Sunny. Nearly — perhaps. 
 Dora. Sell it, then, and buy this. 
 Sunny. Are you mad, my love? 
 Dora. Do you want me to stop here and 
 
 bid for it? 
 Sunny. Good gracious, no! 
 Dora. Then I '11 do it if you don't. 
 Sunny. I will ! I will ! But for Heaven's 
 
 sake go — here comes the crowd. {Exit 
 
 Dora.) What on earth does that child 
 
 mean or want? 
 
 (Enter Scudder, George, Ratts, Caillou, 
 Pete, Grace, Minnie, and all the Ne- 
 groes. A large table is in the center of 
 the background. Pointdexter mounts 
 the table with his hammer, his clerk sit- 
 ting at his feet. The Negro mounts the 
 table from behind. The rest sit down.) 
 
 Point. Now, gentlemen, we shall proceed 
 to business. It ain't necessary for me 
 to dilate, describe or enumerate; Terre- 
 bonne is known to you as one of the 
 richest bits of sile in Louisiana, and its 
 condition reflects credit on them as had 
 to keep it. I '11 trouble you for that 
 piece of baccy. Judge — thank you — so, 
 gentlemen, as life is short, we '11 start 
 right off. The first lot on here is the 
 estate in block, with its sugar-houses, 
 stock, machines, implements, good dwell- 
 ing-houses and furniture. If there is no 
 bid for the estate and stuff, we '11 sell it 
 in smaller lots. Come, Mr. Thibodeaux, 
 a man has a chance once in his life — 
 here 's yours. 
 
 Thib. Go on. What's the reserve bid? 
 
 Point. The first mortgagee bids forty 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 Thib. Forty-five thousand. 
 
 Sunny. Fifty thousand. 
 
 Point. When you have done joking, gen- 
 tlemen, you '11 say one hundred and 
 twenty thousand. It carried that easy 
 on mortgage. 
 
 Lafouche. Then why don't you buy it 
 yourself, Colonel? 
 
 Point. I 'm waiting on your fifty thou- 
 sand bid. 
 
 Caillou. Eighty thousand. 
 
 Point. Don't be afraid : it ain't going for 
 that. Judge. 
 
 Sunny. Ninety thousand. 
 
 Point. We're getting on. 
 
 Thib. One hundred — 
 
 Point. One hundred thousand bid for this 
 mag — 
 
 Caillou. One hundred and ten thousand — 
 
 Point. Good again — one hundred and — 
 
 Sunny. Twenty. 
 
 Point. And twenty thousand bid. Squire 
 Sunnyside is going to sell this at fifty 
 thousand advance to-morrow. {Looking 
 round.) Where's that man from Mo- 
 bile that wanted to give one hundred and 
 eighty thousand? 
 
 Thib. I guess he ain't left home yet, 
 Colonel. 
 
 Point. I shall knock it down to the 
 Squire — going — gone — for one hundred 
 and twenty thousand dollars. {Raising 
 hammer.) Judge, you can raise the hull 
 on mortgage — goinf for half its value. 
 {Knocking on the table.) Squire 
 Sunnyside, you 've got a pretty bit o' 
 land. Squire. Hillo, darkey, hand me a 
 smash dar. 
 
 Sunny. I got more than I can work now. 
 
 Point. Then buy the hands along with 
 the property. Now, gentlemen, I 'm 
 proud to submit to you the finest lot of 
 field hands and house servants that was 
 ever offered for competition: i\\ey speak 
 for themselves, and do credit to their 
 owners. {Reading.) ''No. 1, Solon, a 
 guest boy, and a good waiter." 
 
 Pete. That 's my son — buy him, Mas'r 
 Ratts ; he 's sure to sarve you well. 
 
 Point. Hold your tongue! 
 
 Ratts. Let the old darkey alone — eight 
 hundred for that boy. 
 
 Calliou. Nine. 
 
 Ratts. A thousand. 
 
 Solon. Thank you, Mas'r Ratts : I die for 
 you, sar; hold up for me, sar. 
 
 Ratts. Look here, the boy knows and 
 likes me, Judge; let him come my way? 
 
 Calliou. Go on — I 'm dumb. 
 
 Point. One thousand bid. He 's yours, 
 Captain Ratts, Magnolia steamer. (So- 
 lon goes and stands behind Ratts.) 
 "No. 2, the yellow girl, Grace, with two 
 children — Saul, aged four, and Victoria, 
 five." {They get on table.) 
 
 Scud. That's Solon's wife and children, 
 Judge, 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 451 
 
 Grace. [To Ratts.) Buy me, Mas'r 
 
 Ratts, do buy me, sar? 
 Ratts. What in thunder should I do with 
 
 you and those devils on board my boat? 
 Grace. Wash, sar — cook, sar — anyting. 
 Ratts. Eight hundred agin, then — I '11 go 
 
 it. 
 Jackson. Nine. 
 Ratts. I 'm broke, Solon — I can't stop 
 
 the Judge. 
 Tpiib. What's the matter, Ratts? "I '11 
 
 lend you all you want. Go it, if you 're 
 
 a mind to. 
 Ratts. Eleven. 
 Jackson. Twelve. 
 Sunny. 0, 0! 
 Scud. {To Jackson.) Judge, my friend. 
 
 The Judge is a little deaf. Hello ! 
 
 {Speaking in his ear-trumpet.) This 
 
 gal and them children belong to that 
 
 boy Solon there. You 're bidding to 
 
 separate them, Judge. 
 Jackson. The devil I am! {Rising.) 
 
 I '11 take back my bid. Colonel. 
 Point. All right, Judge; I thought there 
 
 was a mistake. I must keep you. Cap- 
 tain, to the eleven hundred. 
 Ratts. Go it. 
 Point. Eleven hundred — going — going — 
 
 sold! "No. 3, Pete, a house servant." 
 Pete. Dat 's me — yer, I 'm comin' — stand 
 
 around dar. {Tumbles upon the table.) 
 Point. Aged seventy-two. 
 Pete. What 's dat ? A mistake, sar — 
 
 forty-six. 
 Point. Lame. 
 Pete. But don't mount to nuffin — kin 
 
 work cannel. Come, Judge, pick up. 
 
 Now 's your time, sar. 
 Jackson. One hundred dollars. 
 Pete. What, sar? me! for me — look ye 
 
 here! {He dances.) 
 
 George. Five hundred. 
 Pete. Mas'r George — ah, no, sar — don't 
 
 buy me — keep your money for some ud- 
 der dat is to be sold. I ain't no 'count, 
 
 sar. 
 Point. Five hundred bid — it's a good 
 
 price. He 's yours, Mr. George Peyton. 
 
 {Pete goes down.) ''No. 4, the Octoroon 
 
 girl, Zoe." 
 
 {Enter Zoe, very pale, and stands on table. 
 M'Closky who hitherto has taken no in- 
 terest in the sale, now turns his chair.) 
 
 Sunny. {Rising.) Gentlemen, we are all 
 acquainted with the circumstances of this 
 girl's position, and I feel sure that no 
 one here will oppose the family who de- 
 
 sires to redeem the child of our esteemed 
 and noble friend, the late Judge Peyton. 
 
 Omnes. Hear ! bravo ! hear ! 
 
 Point. While the proceeds of this sale 
 promises to realize less than the debts 
 upon it, it is my duty to prevent any 
 collusion for the depreciation of the 
 property. 
 
 Ratts. Darn ye ! You 're a man as well 
 as an auctioneer, ain't ye? 
 
 Point. What is offered for this slave? 
 
 Sunny. One thousand dollars. 
 
 M'Closky. Two thousand. 
 
 Sunny. Three thousand. 
 
 M'Closky. Five thousand. 
 
 George. Demon ! 
 
 Sunny. I bid seven thousand, which is 
 the last dollar this family possesses. 
 
 M'Closky. Eight. 
 
 Thibo. Nine. 
 
 Omnes. Bravo ! 
 
 M'Closky. Ten. It's no use, Squire. 
 
 Scud. Jacob M'Closky, you shan't have 
 that girl. Now, take care what you do. 
 Twelve thousand. 
 
 M'Closky. Shan't I! Fifteen thousand. 
 Beat that any of ye. 
 
 Point. Fifteen thousand bid for the Oc- 
 toroon. 
 
 {Enter Dora.) 
 
 Dora. Twenty thousand. 
 
 Omnes. Bravo ! 
 
 M'Closky. Twenty-five thousand. 
 
 Omnes. {Groan.) 0! 0! 
 
 George. Yelping hound — take that. 
 
 {He rushes on M'Closky. M'Closky 
 draws his knife.) 
 
 Scud. {Darting between them.) Hold 
 on, George Peyton — stand back. This 
 is your own house; we are under your 
 uncle's roof; recollect yourself. And, 
 strangers, ain't we forgetting there 's a 
 lady present? {The knives disappear.) 
 If we can't behave like Christians, let 's 
 try and act like gentlemen. Go on. Col- 
 onel. 
 
 Lafouche. He didn't ought to bid 
 against a lady. 
 
 M'Closky. 0, that's it, is it? Then I'd 
 like to hire a lady to go to auction and 
 buy my hands. 
 
 Point. Gentlemen, I believe none of us 
 have two feelings about the conduct of 
 that man; but he has the law on his side 
 — we may regret, but we must respect it. 
 Mr. M'Closky has bid twenty-five thou- 
 sand dollars for the Octoroon. Is there 
 any other bid? For the first time, 
 
452 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 tAventy-five thousand — last time! (Brings 
 hammer down.) To Jacob M'Closky, 
 tlie Octoroon girl, Zoe, twenty-five thou- 
 sand dollars. 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene. The Wharf. The Steamer "Mag- 
 nolia/' alongside, a hluff rock. Ratts 
 discovered, superintending the loading 
 of ship. 
 
 (Enter Lafouche and Jackson.) 
 
 Jackson. How long before we start, cap- 
 tain? 
 
 Ratts. Just as soon as we put this cot- 
 ton on board. 
 
 (Enter Pete, with a lantern, and Scudder, 
 with note hook.) 
 
 Scud. One hundred and forty-nine bales. 
 Can you take any more? 
 
 Ratts. Not a bale. I 've got engaged 
 eight hundred bales at the next landing, 
 and one hundred hogsheads of sugar at 
 Patten's Slide — that '11 take my guards 
 under — hurry up thar. 
 
 Voice. (Outside.) Wood's aboard. 
 
 Ratts. All aboard then. 
 
 (Enter M'Closky.) 
 
 Scud. Sign that receipt, captain, and save 
 me going up to the clerk. 
 
 M'Closky. See here — there 's a small 
 freight of turpentine in the fore hold 
 there, and one of the barrels leaks; a 
 spark from your engines might set the 
 ship on fire, and you '11 go with it. 
 
 Ratts. You be darned ! Go and try it, if 
 you 've a mind to. 
 
 Lafouche. Captain, you 've loaded up 
 here until the boat is sunk so deep in 
 the mud she won't float. 
 
 Ratts. (Calling off.) Wood up thar, 
 you Polio — hang on to the safety valve 
 — guess she '11 crawl off on her paddles. 
 (Shouts heard.) 
 
 Jackson. What's the matter? 
 
 (Enter Solon.) 
 
 Solon. We got him! 
 
 Scud. Who? 
 
 Solon. The Injiun! 
 
 Scud. Wahnotee? Where is he? D'ye 
 call running away from a fellow catch- 
 ing him? 
 
 Ratts. Here he comes. 
 Omnes. Where? Where? 
 
 (Enter Wahnotee. They are all about to 
 rush on him.) 
 
 Scud. Hold on ! stan' round thar ! no vio- 
 lence — the critter don't know what wc 
 mean. 
 
 Jackson. Let him answer for the boy 
 then. 
 
 M'Closky. Down with him — lynch him. 
 
 Omnes. Lynch him! (Exit Lafouche.) 
 
 Scud. Stan' back, I say ! I '11 nip the 
 first that lays a finger on him. Pete, 
 speak to the red-skin. 
 
 Pete. Whar 's Paul, Wahnotee? What's 
 come ob de cliild? 
 
 Wahnotee. Paul wunce — Paul pangeuk. 
 
 Pete. Pangeuk — dead ! 
 
 Wahnotee. Mort ! 
 
 M'Closky. And you killed him? 
 
 (They approach him.) 
 
 Scud. Hold on ! 
 
 Pete. Urn, Paul reste? 
 
 Wahnotee. Hugh vieu. (Goes.) Paul 
 reste ci! 
 
 Scud. Here, stay! (Examining the 
 ground.) The earth has been stirred 
 here lately. 
 
 Wahnotee. Weenee Paul. 
 
 (He points down, and shoivs by pan- 
 tomime how he buried Paul.) 
 
 Scud. The Injun means that he buried 
 him there ! Stop ! here 's a bit of leather 
 (Drawing out the mail-bags.) The mail- 
 bags that were lost! (Sees the toma- 
 hawk in Wahnotee's belt — draws it out 
 and examines it.) Look! here are marks 
 of blood — look thar, red-skin, what 's 
 that? 
 
 Wahnotee. Paul ! "^ 
 
 (Makes a sign that Paul was killed by 
 a blow on the head.) 
 
 M'Closky. He confesses it; the Indian 
 got drunk, quarrelled with him, and 
 killed him. 
 
 (Ee-enter Lafouche, with smashed appa- 
 ratus.) 
 
 Lafouche. Here are evidences of the 
 crime; this rum-bottle half emptied — 
 this pliotographie apparatus smashed — 
 and there are marks of blood and foot- 
 steps around the shed. 
 
 M'Closky. What more d 'ye want — ain't 
 that proof enough ? Lynch him ! 
 
 Omnes. Lynch him ! Lynch him ! 
 
 Scud. Stan' back, boj^s ! He 's an Injiun 
 — fair play. 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 453 
 
 Jackson. Try him, then — try him on the 
 spot of his crime. 
 
 Omnes. Try him! Try him! 
 
 Lafouche. Don't let him escape! 
 
 Ratts. I '11 see to that. {Drawing re- 
 volver.) If he stirs, I'll put a bullet 
 through his skull, mighty quick. 
 
 M'Closky. Come, form a court then, 
 choose a jury — we '11 fix this varmin. 
 
 {Enter Thibodeaux and Caillou.) 
 
 Thibo. What's the matter? 
 
 Lafouche. We 've caught this murder- 
 ing Injiun, and are going to try him. 
 (Wahnotee sits, rolled in blanket.) 
 
 Pete. Poor little Paul — poor little nigger! 
 
 Scud. This business goes agin me, Ratts 
 — 't ain't right. 
 
 Lafouche. We 're ready ; the jury 's im- 
 panelled — go ahead — who '11 be accuser ? 
 
 Ratts. M'Closky. 
 
 M'Closky. Me? 
 
 Ratts. Yes; you was the first to hail 
 Judge Lynch. 
 
 M'Closky. Well, what 's the use of ar- 
 gument whar guilt sticks out so plain; 
 the boy and Injiun were alone when last 
 seen. 
 
 Scud. Who says that? 
 
 M'Closky. Everybody — that is, I heard 
 so. 
 
 Scud. Say what you know — not what you 
 heard. 
 
 M'Closky. I know then that the boy was 
 killed with that tomahawk — the redskin 
 owns it — the signs of violence are all 
 round the shed — this apparatus smashed 
 — ain't it plain that in a drunken fit he 
 slew the boy, and when sober concealed 
 the body yonder? 
 
 Omnes. That 's it — that 's it. 
 
 Ratts. Who defends the Injiun? 
 
 Scud. I will; for it is agin my natur' to 
 b'lieve him guilty; and if he be, this 
 ain't the place, nor you the authority to 
 try him. How are we sure the boy is 
 dead at all? There are no witnesses but 
 a rum bottle and an old machine. Is it 
 on such evidence you 'd hang a human 
 being ? 
 
 Ratts. His own confession. 
 
 Scud. I appeal against your usurped au- 
 thority. This lynch law is a wild and 
 lawless proceeding. Here 's a pictur' 
 for a civilized community to afford ; yon- 
 der, a poor, ignorant savage, and round 
 him a circle of hearts, white with re- 
 venge and hate, thirsting for his blood: 
 you call yourselves judges — you ain't — 
 
 you 're a jury of executioners. It is such 
 scenes as these that bring disgrace upon 
 our Western life. 
 
 M'Closky, Evidence! Evidence! Give 
 us evidence. We 've had talk enough ; 
 now for proof. 
 
 Omnes. Yes, yes! Proof, proof! 
 
 Scud. Where am I to get it? The proof 
 is here, in my heart. 
 
 Pete. {Who has been looking about the 
 camera.) 'Top, sar! 'Top a bit! 0, 
 laws-a-mussey, see dis ! here 's a pictur' 
 I found stickin' in that yar telescope 
 machine, sar! look, sar! 
 
 Scud. A photographic plate. (Pete 
 holds his lantern up.) What's this, eh? 
 two forms! The child — 'tis he! dead — 
 and above him — Ah! ah! Jacob M'Clo- 
 sky, 't was you murdered that boy ! 
 
 M'Closky. Me? 
 
 Scud. You! You slew him with that 
 tomahawk; and as you stood over his 
 body with the letter in your hand, you 
 thought that no witness saw the deed, 
 that no eye was on you — but there was, 
 Jacob M'Closky, there was. The eye of 
 the Eternal was on you — the blessed sun 
 in heaven, that, looking down, struck 
 upon this plate the image of the deed. 
 Here you are, in the very attitude of 
 your crime! 
 
 M'Closky. 'T is false! 
 
 Scud. 'T is true ! the apparatus can't lie. 
 Look there, jurymen. {Showing plate to 
 jury.) Look there. 0, you wanted evi- 
 dence — you called for proof — Heaven 
 has answered and convicted you. 
 
 M'Closky. What court of law would re- 
 ceive such evidence? {Going.) 
 
 Ratts. Stop! this would! You called it 
 yourself; you wanted to make us mur- 
 der that Injiun ; and since we 've got our 
 hands in for justice, we '11 try it on you. 
 What say ye? shall we have one law for 
 the red-skin and another for the white? 
 
 Omnes. Try him! Try him! 
 
 Ratts. Who '11 be accuser ? 
 
 Scud. I will! Fellow-citizens, you are 
 convened and assembled he^e under a 
 higher power than the law. What 's the 
 law ? When the ship 's abroad on the 
 ocean, when the army is before the en- 
 emy, where in thunder 's the law ? It is 
 in the hearts of brave men, who can tell 
 right from wrong, and from whom jus- 
 tice can't be bought. So it is here, in 
 the wilds of the West, where our hatred 
 of crime is measured by the speed of 
 our executions — where necessity is law! 
 
454 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 I say, then, air you honest men? air you 
 truef Put your hands on your naked 
 breasts, and let every man as don't feel 
 a real American heart there, bustin' up 
 with freedom, truth, and right, let that 
 man step out — that 's the oath I put to 
 ye — and then say, Dam ye, go it! 
 
 Omnes. Go on! Go on! 
 
 Scud. No ! I won't go on ; that man 's 
 down. I won't strike him, even with 
 words. Jacob, your accuser is that pic- 
 ter of the crime — let that speak — defend 
 yourself. 
 
 M'Closky. (Drawing knife.) I will, 
 quicker than lightning. 
 
 Ratts. Seize him, then! (They rush on 
 M'Closky, and disarm him.) He can 
 fight though he 's a painter : claws all 
 over. 
 
 Scud. Stop ! Search him, we may find 
 more evidence. 
 
 M'Closky. Would you rob me first, and 
 murder me afterwards? 
 
 Ratts. (Searching him.) That 's his pro- 
 gramme — here 's a pocket-book. 
 
 Scud. (Opening it.) What's here? 
 Letters! Hello! To "Mrs. Peyton, 
 Terrebonne, Louisiana, United States." 
 Liverpool postmark. Ho ! I 've got 
 hold of the tail of a rat — come out. 
 (Reading.) What's this? A draft for 
 eighty-five thousand dollars, and credit 
 on Palisse and Co., of New Orleans, for 
 the balance. Hi ! the rat 's out. You 
 killed the boy to steal this letter from 
 the mail-bags — you stole this letter, that 
 the money should not arrive in time to 
 save the Octoroon; had it done so, the 
 lien on the estate would have ceased, and 
 Zoe be free. 
 
 Omnes. Lynch him! Lynch him! Down 
 with him ! 
 
 Scud. Silence in the court: stand back, 
 let the gentlemen of the jury retire, 
 consult, and return their verdict. 
 
 Ratts. I 'm responsible for the crittur — 
 go on. 
 
 Pete. (To Wahnotee.) See, Injiun; 
 look dar, (Showing him the plate.) see 
 dat innocent ; look, dar 's de murderer of 
 poor Paul. 
 
 Wapinotee. Ugh! (Examining the plate.) 
 
 Pete. Ya! as he? Closky tue Paul — kill 
 de child witli your tomahawk dar: 
 't was n't you, no — ole Pete alius say so. 
 Poor Injiun lub our little Paul. 
 
 (Wahnotee rises and looks at M'Clo- 
 sky — he is in his war paint and 
 fully armed.) 
 
 Scud. What say ye, gentlemen? Is the 
 prisoner guilty, or is he not guilty? 
 
 Omnes. Guilty ! 
 
 Scud. And what is to be his punishment? 
 
 Omnes. Death! (All advance.) 
 
 Wahnotee. (Crosses to M'Closky.) 
 Ugh! 
 
 Scud. No, Injiun; we deal out justice 
 here, not revenge. 'T ain't you he has 
 injured, 'tis the white man, whose laws 
 he has offended. 
 
 Ratts. Away with him — put him down 
 the aft hatch, till we rig his funeral. 
 
 M'Closky. Fifty against one! 0! if I 
 had you one by one alone in the swamp, 
 I 'd rip ye all. 
 
 (He is home off in boat struggling.) 
 
 Scud. Now, then, to business. 
 
 Pete. (Re-enters from boat.) 0, law, 
 sir, dat debil Closky, he tore hisself from 
 de gen'lam, knock me down, take my 
 light, and trows it on de turpentine bar- 
 rels, and de shed 's all afire ! 
 
 (Fire seen.) 
 
 Jackson. (Re-entering.) We are catch- 
 ing fire forward: quick, cut free from 
 the shore. 
 
 Ratts. All hands aboard there — cut the 
 starn ropes — give her headway! 
 
 All. Ay, ay! 
 
 (Cry of "Fire" heard — Engiyie hells 
 heard — steam whistle noise.) 
 
 Ratts. Cut all away, for'ard — overboard 
 with every bale afire. 
 
 (The Steamer moves off with the fire 
 still blazing.) 
 
 (M'Closky re-enters, swimming.) 
 
 M'Closky. Ha! have I fixed ye? Burn! 
 burn ! that 's right. You thought you 
 had cornered me, did ye? As I swam 
 down, I thought I heard something in 
 the water, as if pursuing me — one of 
 them darned alligators, I suppose — they 
 swarm hereabout — may they crunch 
 every limb of ye. (Exit.) 
 
 (Wahnotee is seen swimming. He 
 finds trail and follows M'Closky. 
 The Steamer floats on at back, burn- 
 ing.) 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 Scene L Negroes^ Quarters. 
 
 (Enter Zoe.) 
 
 Zoe. It wants an hour yet to daylight — 
 here is Pete's hut — ( Knocks, ) He sleeps 
 —no; I see a light. 
 
 * 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 455 
 
 Dido. {Enters from hut.) Who dat? 
 
 ZoE. Hush, aunty! 'T is I — Zoe. 
 
 Dido. Missey Zoe? Why you out in de 
 
 swamp dis time ob night; you catch de 
 
 fever sure — you is all wet. 
 Zoe. Where's Pete? 
 Dido. He gone down to de landing last 
 
 night wid Mas'r Scudder; not come back 
 
 since — kint make it out. 
 Zoe. Aunty, there is sickness up at the 
 
 house; I have been up all night beside 
 
 one who suffers, and I remembered that 
 
 when I had the fever you gave me a 
 
 drink, a bitter drink, that made me sleep 
 
 — do you remember it? 
 Dido. Didn't I? Dem doctors ain't no 
 
 'count; dey don't know nuffin. 
 Zoe. No; but you, aunty, you are wise — 
 
 you know every plant, don't you, and 
 
 w^iat it is good for? 
 Dido. Dat you drink is fust rate for red 
 
 fever. Is de folks' head bad? 
 Zoe. Very bad, aunty; and the heart 
 
 aches worse, so they can get no rest. 
 Dido. Hold on a bit, I get you de bottle. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 Zoe. In a few hours that man, my master, 
 
 will come for me : he has paid my price, 
 
 and he only consented to let me remain 
 
 here this one night, because Mrs. Peyton 
 
 promised to give me up to him to-day. 
 Dido. {Re-enters with phial.) Here 'tis 
 
 — now you give one timble-full — dat 's 
 
 nuff. 
 Zoe. All there is there would kill one, 
 
 wouldn't it? 
 Dido. Guess it kill a dozen — nebber try. 
 Zoe. It 's not a painful death, aunty, is 
 
 it? You told me it produced a long, 
 
 long sleep. 
 Dido. Why you tremble so? Why you 
 
 speak so wild? What you 's gwine to 
 
 do, missey? 
 Zoe. Give me the drink. 
 Dido. No. Who dat sick at de house? 
 Zoe. Give it to me. 
 Dido. No. You want to hurt yourself. 
 
 0, Miss Zoe, why you ask old Dido for 
 
 dis pizen? 
 Zoe. Listen to me. I love one who is 
 
 here, and he loves me — George. I sat 
 
 outside his door all night — I heard his 
 
 sighs — his agony — torn from him by my 
 
 coming fate ; and he said, "I 'd rather 
 
 see her dead than his !" 
 Dido. Dead ! 
 Zoe. He said so — then I rose up, and stole 
 
 from the house, and ran down to the 
 
 bayou; but its cold, black, silent stream 
 
 terrified me-^drowning must be so hor- 
 rible a death. I could not do it. Then, 
 as I knelt there, weeping for courage, 
 a snake rattled beside me. I shrunk 
 from it and fled. Death was there be- 
 side me, and I dared not take it. O! 
 I 'm afraid to die ; yet I am more afraid 
 to live. 
 
 Dido. Die ! 
 
 Zoe. So I came here to you; to you, my 
 own dear nurse; to you, who so often 
 hushed me to sleep when I was a cliild; 
 who dried my eyes and put your little 
 Zoe to rest. Ah ! give me the rest that 
 no master but One can disturb — the sleep 
 from w^hich I shall awake free! You 
 can protect me from that man — do let 
 me die without pain. 
 
 Dido. No, no — life is good for young ting 
 like you. 
 
 Zoe. ! good, good nurse : you will, you 
 will. 
 
 Dido. No — g' way. 
 
 Zoe. Then I shall never leave Terrebonne 
 — the drink, nurse; the drink; that I 
 may never leave my home — my dear, 
 dear home. You will not give me to 
 that man? Your own Zoe, that loves 
 you, aunty, so much, so much. {She 
 gets the phial.) Ah! I have it. 
 
 Dido. No, missey. 0! no — don't. 
 
 Zoe. Hush! {Runs off.) 
 
 Dido. Here, Solon, Minnie, Grace. 
 
 {They enter.) 
 
 All. Was de matter? 
 
 Dido. Miss Zoe got de pizen. {Exit.) 
 
 All. 0! 0! {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 2. In a Cane-hrake Bayou, on a 
 hank, with a canoe near hy, M'Closky 
 is seen asleep.) 
 
 M'Closky. Burn, burn! blaze away! 
 How the flames crack. I 'm not guilty ; 
 would ye murder me? Cut, cut the 
 rope — I choke — choke! — Ah! {Waking.) 
 Hello ! where am I ? Why, I w^as dream- 
 ing — curse it! I can never sleep now 
 without dreaming. Hush! I thought I 
 heard the sound of a paddle in the water. 
 All night, as I fled through the cane- 
 brake, I heard footsteps behind me. I 
 lost them in the cedar swamp — again 
 they haunted my path down the bayou, 
 moving as I moved, resting when I rested 
 — -hush! there again! — no; it was only 
 the wind over the canes. The sun is ris- 
 
456 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 ing. I must launch my dug-out, and put 
 for the bay, and in a few hours I shall 
 be safe from pursuit on board of one of 
 the coasting schooners that run from 
 Galveston to Matagorda. In a little time 
 this darned business will blow over, and 
 I can show again. Hark ! there 's that 
 noise again ! If it was the ghost of that 
 murdered boy haunting me! Well — I 
 did n't mean to kill him, did I ? Well, 
 then, what has my all-cowardly heart got 
 to skeer me so for? 
 
 {He gets in canoe and rows off. 
 Wahnotee appears in another ca- 
 noe. He gets out and -finds trail 
 and paddles off after M'Closkt.) 
 
 Scene 3. A cedar Swamp. 
 
 {Enter Scudder and Pete.) 
 
 Scud. Come on, Pete, we shan't reach the 
 house before midday. 
 
 Pete. Nebber mind, sa, we bring good 
 news — it won't spile for de keeping. 
 
 Scud. Ten miles w^e 've had to walk, be- 
 cause some blamed varmin onhitched our 
 dug-out. I left it last night all safe. 
 
 Pete. PVaps it floated away itself. 
 
 Scud. No; the hitching line was cut with 
 a knife. 
 
 Pete. Say, Mas'r Scudder, s'pose we go 
 in round by de quarters and raise de 
 darkies, den dey cum long wid us, and 
 we 'proach dat ole house like Gin'ral 
 Jackson when he took London out dar. 
 
 Scud. Hello, Pete, I never heard of that 
 affair. 
 
 Pete. I tell you, sa — hush! 
 
 Scud. What? 
 
 Pete. Was dat? — a cry out dar in the 
 swamp — dar again! 
 
 Scud. So it is. Something forcing its 
 way through the undergrowth — it comes 
 this way — it 's either a bear or a run- 
 away nigger. 
 
 {He draws a pistol. M'Closky rushes 
 on, and falls at Scudder's feet.) 
 
 Scud. Stand off — what are ye? 
 
 Pete. Mas'r Clusky. 
 
 M'Closky. Save me — save me! I can go 
 no farther. I heard voices. 
 
 Scud. Who's after you? 
 
 M'Closky. I don't know, but I feel it 's 
 death! In some form, human, or wild 
 beast, or ghost, it has tracked me through 
 the night. I fled; it followed. Hark! 
 there it comes — it comes — don't you 
 hear a footstep on the dry leaves ! 
 
 Scud. Your crime has driven you mad. 
 
 M'Closky. D 'ye hear it — nearer — nearer 
 —ah! 
 
 (Wahnotee rushes on, and attacks 
 M'Closky.) 
 
 Scud. The Injuin! by thunder. 
 
 Pete. You 'se a dead man, Mas'r Clusky 
 — you got to b'Heve dat. 
 
 M'Closky. No — no. If I must die, give 
 me up to the law; but save me from the 
 tomahawk. You are a white man ; you '11 
 not leave one of your own blood to be 
 butchered by the red-skin? 
 
 Scud. Hold on now, Jacob ; we 've got to 
 figure on that — let us look straight at 
 the thing. Here w^e are on the selvage 
 of civilization. It ain't our side, I be- 
 lieve, rightly; but Nature has said that 
 where the white man sets his foot, the 
 red man and the black man shall up 
 sticks and stand around. But what do 
 we pay for that possession? In cash? 
 No — in kind — that is, in protection, for- 
 bearance, gentleness, in all them goods 
 that show the critters the difference be- 
 tween the Christian and the savage. 
 Now, what have you done to show them 
 the distinction? for, darn me, if I can 
 find out. 
 
 M'Closky. For what I have done, let me 
 be tried. 
 
 Scud. You have been tried — honestly 
 tried and convicted. Providence has 
 chosen your executioner. I shan't inter- 
 fere. 
 
 Pete. 0, no; Mas'r Scudder, don't leave 
 Mas'r Closky like dat — don't, sa — 't ain't 
 what good Christian should do. 
 
 Scud. D'ye hear that, Jacob? This old 
 nigger, the grandfather of the boy you 
 murdered, speaks for you — don't that glD 
 through you? D'ye feel it? Go on, 
 Pete, you 've waked up the Christian 
 here, and the old hoss responds. 
 {He throws howie-knife to M'Closky.) 
 Take that, and defend yourself. 
 
 {Exeunt Scudder and Pete. Wah- 
 notee faces him. They fight. 
 M'Closky runs off, Wahnotee fol- 
 lows him. — Screams outside.) 
 
 Scene 4. Parlor at Terrebonne. 
 
 {Enter Zoe.) 
 
 ZOE. My home, my home! I must see 
 you no more. Those little flowers can 
 live, but I cannot. To-morrow they '11 
 
DION BOUCICAULT 
 
 457 
 
 bloom the same — all will be here as now, 
 and I shall be cold. 0! my life, my 
 happy life; why has it been so bright? 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Peyton and Dora.) 
 
 Dora. Zoe, where have you been? 
 
 Mrs. p. We felt quite uneasy about you. 
 
 Zoe. I 've been to the negro quarters. I 
 suppose I shall go before long, and I 
 wished to visit all the places, once again, 
 to see the poor people. 
 
 Mrs. p. Zoe, dear, I 'm glad to see you 
 more calm this morning. 
 
 Dora. But how pale she looks, and she 
 trembles so. 
 
 Zoe. Do I? {Enter George.) Ah! he 
 is here. 
 
 Dora. George, here she is. 
 
 Zoe. I have come to say good-by, sir; two 
 hard words — so hard, they might break 
 many a heart; mightn't they? 
 
 George. 0, Zoe! can you smile at this 
 moment ? 
 
 Zoe. You see how easily I have become 
 reconciled to my fate — so it will be wdth 
 you. You will not forget poor Zoe! but 
 her image will pass away like a little 
 cloud that obscured your happiness a 
 while — you will love each other; you are 
 both too good not to join your hearts. 
 Brightness will return amongst you. 
 Dora, I once made you weep; those were 
 the only tears I caused anybody. Will 
 you forgive me? 
 
 Dora. Forgive you — {Kisses her,) 
 
 ZoE. I feel you do, George. 
 
 George. Zoe, you are pale. Zoe! — she 
 faints ! 
 
 Zoe. No; a weakness, that's all — -a lit- 
 tle water. (Dora gets some water.) I 
 have a restorative here — will you pour 
 it in the glass? (Dora attempts to take 
 it.) No; not you — George. (George 
 pours the conteyits of the phial into 
 glass.) Now, give it to me. George, 
 dear George, do you love me? 
 
 George. Do you doubt it, Zoe? 
 
 Zoe. No! {She drinks.) 
 
 Dora. Zoe, if all I possess would buy 
 your freedom, I would gladly give it. 
 
 Zoe. I am free! I had but one Master 
 on earth, and he has given me my free- 
 dom! 
 
 Dora. Alas! but the deed that freed you 
 was not lawful. 
 
 Zoe. Not lawful — no — but I am going to 
 where there is no law — where there is 
 only justice. 
 
 George. Zoe,* you are suffering — your lips 
 are white — ^your cheeks are flushed. 
 
 Zoe. I must be going — it is late. Fare- 
 well, Dora. {Retiring.) 
 
 Pete. {Outside.) Whar's Missus — 
 whar 's Mas'r George ? 
 
 George. They come. 
 
 {Enter Scudder.) 
 
 Scud. Stand around and let me pass — 
 room thar! I feel so big with joy, crea- 
 tion ain't wide enough to hold me. Mrs. 
 Peyton, George Peyton, Terrebonne is 
 yours. It was that rascal M'Closky — 
 but he got rats, I swow — he killed the 
 boy, Paul, to rob this letter from the 
 mail-bags — the letter from Liverpool 
 you know — he sot fire to the shed — that 
 was how the steamboat got burned up. 
 
 Mrs. p. What d'ye mean? 
 
 Scud. Read — read that. 
 
 {He gives letter to them.) 
 
 George. Explain yourself. 
 
 {Enter Sunnyside.) 
 
 Sunny. Is it true? 
 
 Scud. Every word of it. Squire. Here, 
 
 you tell it, since you know it. If I was 
 
 to try, I 'd bust. 
 Mrs. p. Read, George. Terrebonne is 
 
 yours. 
 
 {Enter Pete, Dido, Solon, Minnie, and 
 Grace.) 
 
 Pete. Whar is she — whar is Miss Zoe? 
 
 Scud. What's the matter? 
 
 Pete. Don't ax me. Whar's de gal? I 
 
 say. 
 Scud. Here she is — Zoe! — water — she 
 
 faints. 
 Pete. No — no. 'T ain't no faint — she 's 
 
 a dying, sa: she got pizon from old Dido 
 
 here, this momin'. 
 George. Zoe ! 
 Scud. Zoe! is this true?^no, it ain't — 
 
 darn it, say it ain't. Look here, you 're 
 
 free, you know; nary a master to hurt 
 
 you now: you will stop here as long as 
 
 you 're a mind to, only don't look so. 
 Dora. Her eyes have changed color. 
 Pete. Dat 's what her soul 's gwine to do. 
 
 It 's going up dar, whar dere 's no line 
 
 atween folks. 
 George. She revives. 
 Zoe. {On the sofa.) George — where — 
 
 where — 
 George. 0, Zoe! what have you done? 
 Zoe. Last night I overheard you weeping 
 
458 
 
 THE OCTOROON 
 
 in your room, and you said, "I 'd rather 
 see her dead than so!" 
 
 George. Have I then prompted you to 
 this? 
 
 ZoE. No; but I loved you so, I could not 
 bear my fate; and then I stood between 
 your heart and hers. When I am dead 
 she will not be jealous of your love for 
 
 me, no laws will stand between us. Lift 
 me; so — (George raises her head) — let 
 me look at you, that your face may be 
 the last I see of this world. ! George, 
 you may, without a blush, confess your 
 love for the Octoroon. 
 
 {She dies. George lowers her head 
 gently and kneels beside her.) 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 AS PLAYED BY 
 
 Joseph Jefferson 
 
Copyright, 1895, by Dodd, Mead and Company 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Reprinted by special permission of the lieirs of Mr. Joseph 
 Jefferson and of Dodd, Mead and Company. 
 
EIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 Rip Van WinMe is a growth. The first attempts to dramatize Irving 's 
 story began about ten years after its publication in 1819. On May 26, 1828, a 
 play by that name was produced on the Albany stage by Thomas Flynn, written 
 by an anonymous native of that town. Durang tells us that in October, 1829, a 
 new drama founded on Washington Irving 's tale was produced for the first time 
 in Philadelphia. He further states that it was by John Kerr, an actor to whom 
 he refers as "Old Mr. Kerr" and that it had a long run of success. Kerr was 
 an English actor, who came to this country in 1827, with his two children, 
 a boy and girl. They were all members of the troupe brought by Francis C. 
 Wemyss for the Chestnut Street Theatre. This version was printed in Phila- 
 delphia without date, and gives the cast at the Walnut Street Theatre and at 
 Tottenham Street Theatre in London. In Philadelphia, W. Chapman and later 
 Hackett played "Rip" and J. Jefferson, "Knickerbocker." This may have been 
 the first Joseph Jefferson as he was still acting that season, or it may have been 
 John Jefferson, his son. The cast in London includes Master Kerr as ' ' Gustaff e ' ' 
 and Miss Kerr as "Lowenna," and the date of their arrival in Philadelphia 
 naturally indicates that this version had an earlier performance in London which, 
 indeed, seems to have been the case. Hackett also acted in a version prepared by 
 W. Bayle Bernard, and the second Joseph Jefferson had a version also. Charles 
 Burke, half brother to the third Joseph Jefferson, revised Kerr^s version and acted 
 "Rip" in it, at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia in 1850. Mr. Jefferson 
 himself acted in this version, taking the part of ' ' Seth Slough, ' ' the landlord of 
 the inn. While there are certain changes, notably in expression, Burke's ver- 
 sion is much like Kerr's. Mr. Jefferson tells us that the idea of acting "Rip" 
 came to him in the year 1859 when reading the life of Irving and he proceeded 
 first to work up his costume and then with some aid from the older versions to 
 produce a play in three acts which was acted in Washington. The play was dis- 
 appointing, although the character was there. In 1865 Mr. Jefferson requested 
 Dion Boucicault to revise the play, which he did and this composite drama was 
 produced at the Adelphi Theatre in London September 4, 1865. 
 
 This was a three-act version, and Mr. Jefferson later changed it to four acts 
 by dividing the first act into two. A comparison between the versions of Kerr 
 and Burke and that given in this volume will show many changes in the structure 
 of the plot. In the first place the plot is simpler and the ending is more natural. 
 The pathetic scene at the end of the second act in which Gretchen turns Rip 
 
 461 
 
462 INTRODUCTION 
 
 out of doors is not found in the earlier versions. In these there is a contract of 
 marriage between Rip's daughter and Gustave; in the Jefferson version this 
 becomes an acknowledgment that he makes to Derrick that he is to give him all 
 his property in exchange for sixteen pounds Derrick has given him. The love 
 story between Knickerbocker and Alice is eliminated and Knickerbocker's elec- 
 tion to Congress with the consequent political interest is omitted. The changes 
 in the plot, however, are not so significant as the changes in character drawing 
 and in language. Mr. Jefferson says in his introduction to the play: 
 
 "From the moment Rip meets the spirits of Heildrick Hudson and 
 his crew, I felt that the colloquial speech and lazy and commonplace actions of 
 Rip should cease. After he meets the elves, in the third act, the play drifts 
 from realism into idealism and becomes poetical. After this it is a fairy tale, 
 and the prosaic elements of the character should be eliminated, and because 
 Rip is a fairy he neither laughs nor eats in the fourth act." Another idea of 
 Mr. Jefferson's was to arrange that in his interview with the dwarfs no voice but 
 Rip's was to be heard, thus imparting a more lonely and desolate character 
 to the scene. 
 
 While the supernatural interest is, therefore, made more definite there is a 
 growth also in the depth of the human interest. Fewer characters are intro- 
 duced, and consequently there is more time to develop the relations of Rip, 
 his wife and his daughter. The language ow^es little to the earlier version — 
 outside of a few phrases in the last act, when Rip enters the village, the speeches 
 are practically all different. How much of this difference is due to Boucicault 
 it is of course now impossible to say, but since Mr. Jefferson undoubtedly made 
 changes from time to time it is safe to assume that by the time the play was 
 printed in 1895 it was mostly his own. The text of the play as given by him 
 was first published in that year by Dodd, Mead and Company, sumptuously il- 
 lustrated, with an introduction by Mr. Jefferson. Through the courtesy of the 
 Jefferson family, especially Mrs. Joseph Jefferson and Mr. Frank Jefferson, and 
 of Dodd, IMead and Company, the editor is able to reproduce this text. 
 
 The version by John Kerr, Rip Van Wmkle or The Demons of the Catskill 
 Mountains! A National Drama, Philadelphia, n. d. is hard to obtain. The ver- 
 sion by Charles Burke, Rip Van Winkle, a Legend of the Catskills, was published 
 by Samuel French as No. CLXXIV, of their "Standard Drama." 
 
 Joseph Jefferson was a member of the fourth generation of a family of 
 actors w^ho have borne prominent parts in theatrical history. Thomas Jefferson 
 (1728?-1807) his great-grandfather, an English actor, was the first of the line, 
 and his son, the first Joseph Jefferson (1774-1832), came to this country in 1795, 
 and after a short season in Boston, acted in New York until 1803. He then be- 
 came the leading comedian at the Chestnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia, and 
 on the stage of this city he remained for twenty-seven years. His son, the sec- 
 
INTRODUCTION 463 
 
 ond Joseph Jefferson (1804^1842), was also a comedian, though of lesser ability 
 than his father or his son. The third Joseph Jefferson, the son of the second 
 Joseph and the producer of the present play, was born in Philadelphia, Febru- 
 ary 20, 1829, and was on the stage from early childhood. During his early years, 
 his family moved from place to place, and in 1849 he came to New York, acting at 
 Chanfrau's New National Theatre. After several ventures and a trip to Europe 
 in 1856 he joined Laura Keene 's Company in New York. Here he became famous 
 for his performance of ''Asa Trenchard'^ in Our American Cousin, in 1857, the 
 play afterwards known as Lord Dundreary. In 1861 he sailed for Australia and 
 spent four years there, going to London in 1865, and acting "Rip Van Winkle" 
 as above described. He returned to America in 1866 and played the revised 
 version of ''Rip" at the Olympic Theatre on September 3d. Though he acted 
 other parts, notably, "Caleb Plummer," "Bob Acres," "Asa Trenchard," and 
 "Dr. Pangloss," he became so definitely associated with his most famous part, 
 that to most theatre-goers he is thought of as the impersonator of Rip Van 
 Winkle. In 1875 he made a second English tour. Mr. Jefferson was twice 
 married, first in 1850 to Miss Margaret C. Lockyer, a member of the company 
 at the National Theatre, New York, who died in 1861. In 1867 he married Miss 
 Sarah Warren, who survives him. Mr. Jefferson continued acting until less than 
 a year before his death, which occurred on April 23, 1905, at Palm Beach, Florida. 
 For biography of Mr. Jefferson, see The Autohiographif of Joseph Jefferson, 
 New York, 1890 ; William Winter, The Jeffersons, Boston, 1881 ; M. J. Moses, 
 Famous Actor Families in America, New York, 1906. For the development oi 
 the play, see H. S. Phelps, Players of a Century, Albany, 1880; C. Durang, 
 History of the Philadelphia Stage, Second Series, Chap. 48. 
 
PERSONS OP THE PLAY 
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 Derrick Von Beekman 
 Nicholas Vedder 
 
 Hi!NDRICK 
 
 Cockles 
 Seth Slough 
 Jacob Stein 
 
 Gretchen 
 
 Meenie 
 
 Katchen 
 
 Demons and Villagers 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. The village of Falling Waters, 
 set amid familiar and unmistakable 
 Hudson River scenery, with the shining 
 river itself and the noble heights of the 
 Kaatskills visible in the distance. In 
 the foreground, to the left of the stage, 
 is a country inn bearing the sign of 
 George III. In the wall of the inn, a 
 window closed by a solid wooden shutter. 
 To the right of the stage, an old cottage 
 with a door opening into the interior; 
 before the cottage stands a bench hold- 
 ing a wash-tub, with a washboard, soap 
 and clothes in the tub. In the centre of 
 the stage, a table and chairs, and on the 
 table a stone pitcher and two tin cups. 
 
 As the curtain rises, Gretchen is discov- 
 ered washing, and little Meenie sitting 
 near by on a low stool. The sound of a 
 chorus and laughter comes from the inn. 
 
 Gretchen". Shouting and drinking day 
 and night. {Laughter is heard from the 
 inn.) Hark how they crow over their 
 cups while their wives are working at 
 home, and their children are starving. 
 
 {Enter Derrick from the inn with a green 
 bag, followed by Nick Vedder. Der- 
 rick places his green bag on the table.) 
 
 Derrick. Not a day, not an hour. If the 
 last two quarters' rent be not paid by 
 this time tomorrow, out you go! 
 
 Nick. Oh, come, Derrick, you won't do it. 
 Let us have a glass, and talk the matter 
 over; good liquor opens the heart. 
 Here, Hendrick! Hendrick! 
 
 {Enter Hendrick.) 
 
 Hendrick. Yes, father. 
 
 Derrick. So that is your brat? 
 
 Nick. Yes, that is my boy. 
 
 Derrick. Then the best I can wish him 
 
 is that he won't take after his father, 
 
 and become a vagabond and a penniless 
 
 outcast. 
 Nick. Those are hard words to hear in 
 
 the presence of my child. 
 Hendrick. Then why don't you knock 
 
 him down, father? 
 
 465 
 
 Gretchen. ini tell you why — 
 
 Derrick. Gretchen ! 
 
 Gretchen. {Wiping her arms and com- 
 ing to front of tub.) It is because your 
 father is in that man's power. And 
 what 's the use of getting a man down, 
 if you don't trample on him? 
 
 Nick. Oh, that is the way of the world. 
 
 Gretchen. {To Hendrick.) Go in, boy. 
 I want to speak to your father, and my 
 words may not be fit for you to hear. 
 Yonder is my little girl; go and play 
 with her. 
 
 (Hendrick a,nd Meenie exeunt into 
 the cottage.) 
 
 Gretchen. Now, Derrick, Yedder is right ; 
 you won't turn him out of his house 
 yonder. 
 
 Derrick. And why not? Don't he owe 
 me a year's rent? 
 
 Gretchen. And what do you owe him? 
 Shall I sum up your accounts for you? 
 Ten years ago, this was a quiet village, 
 and belonged mostly to my husband, Rip 
 Van Winkle, a foolish, idle fellow. That 
 house yonder has since been his ruin. 
 Yes; bit by bit, he has parted with all 
 he had, to fill the mouths of sots and 
 boon companions, gathered around him 
 in yonder house. And you, Derrick — 
 you supplied him with the money to 
 waste in riot and drink. Acre by acre, 
 you 've sucked in his land to swell your 
 store. Yonder miserable cabin is the 
 only shelter we have left; but that is 
 mine. Had it been his, he would have 
 sold it you. Derrick, long ago, and 
 wasted its price in riot. 
 
 (Vedder, who has been enjoying Der- 
 rick's discomfiture during this 
 speech, is unable to control himself, 
 and at the end of the speech, bursts 
 into a loud laugh.) 
 
 Gretchen. Aye, and you too, Nick Ved- 
 der; you have ruined my husband be- 
 tween you. 
 
 Nick. Oh, come, Mrs. Van Winkle, 
 you 're too hard. I could n't refuse 
 Rip's money in the way of business; I 
 had my rent to pay. 
 
 Gretchen. And shall I tell you why you 
 can't pay it? it is because you have 
 
466 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 given Rip credit, and be lias ended by 
 drinking you out of bouse and borne. 
 Your window-sbutter is not wide enougb 
 to bold tbe score against bim; it is full 
 of cbalk. Deny it if you can. 
 
 Nick. I do deny it. Tbere now! 
 
 Gretchen. Tben wby do you keep tbat 
 sbutter closed ? I '11 sbow you wby. 
 (Goes to inn, opens shutter, holds it 
 open, pointing at KiP's score.) Tbat 's 
 wby, Nick Vedder, you 're a good man 
 in tbe main, if tbere is sucb a tbing. 
 (Derrick laughs.) Aye, and I doubt it. 
 {Turning on him.) But you are tbe 
 pest of tbis village; and tbe band of 
 every woman in it ougbt to belp pull 
 down tbat drunkard's nest of yours, 
 stone by stone. 
 
 Nick. Come, Dame Van Winkle, you 're 
 too bard entire; now a man must bave 
 bis odd time, and be 's none tbe worse 
 for being a jolly dog. 
 
 Gretchen. No, none tbe worse. He 
 sings a good song; be tells a good story 
 — ob, be 's a glorious fellow ! Did you 
 ever see tbe wife of a jolly dog? Well, 
 sbe lives in a kennel. Did you ever see 
 tbe cbildren of a jolly dogf Tbey are 
 tbe street curs, and tbeir bome is tbe 
 gutter. 
 
 {Goes up to the ivash-tuh, and takes re- 
 venge on the clothing she scrubs.) 
 
 Nick. {Getting up and approaching 
 Gretchen timidly.) I tell you wbat it 
 is. Dame Van Winkle, I don't know 
 wbat your bome may be, but judging 
 from tbe rows I bear over tbere, and 
 tbe damaged appearance of Rip's face 
 after baving escaped your clutcbes — 
 (Gretchen looks up angrily; Nick re- 
 treats a few paces hastily) — I sbould 
 say tbat a gutter was a luxurious abode 
 compared witb it, and a kennel a peace- 
 ful retreat. 
 
 {Exit hurriedly, laughing, to the inn. 
 Gretchen looks up angrily, and 
 throws the cloth she has been wring- 
 ing after him, then resumes wash- 
 ing. Derrick laughs at Vedder's 
 exit, walks up to Gretchen, and 
 puts one foot on the bench.) 
 
 Derrick. Is it true, Gretcben? Are you 
 truly miserable witb Rip? 
 
 Gretchen. Ain't you pleased to bear it? 
 Come tben and warm your beart at my 
 sorrow. Ten years ago I miglit bave 
 bad you, Derrick. But I despised you 
 for your miserly ways, and tbrew myself 
 away on a vagabond. 
 
 Derrick. You and I sbared bim between 
 us. I took bis estate, and you took bis 
 person. Now, I 've improved my balf . 
 Wbat bave you done witb yours? 
 
 Gretchen. I can't say tbat I bave pros- 
 pered witb it. I 've tried every means 
 to reclaim bim, but be is as obstinate 
 and perverse as a Dutcb pig. But tbe 
 worst in bim — and wbat I can't stand — 
 is bis good-bumour. It drives me fran- 
 tic wben, nigbt after nigbt, be comes 
 bome drunk and belplessly good-bu- 
 moured! Ob, I can't stand tbat! 
 
 Derrick. Wbere is be now? 
 
 Gretchen. We bad a tiff yesterday, and 
 be started. He bas been out all nigbt. 
 Only wait until be comes back! Tbe 
 longer be stops out, tbe worse it will be 
 for bim. 
 
 Derrick. Gretcben, you 've made a great 
 mistake, but tbere is time enougb to re- 
 pair it. You are comely still, tbrifty, 
 and tbat bard sort of grain tbat I most 
 admire in woman. {Looks cautiously 
 around. Leans on tub.) Wby not start 
 Rip for ever, and sbare my fortune? 
 
 Gretchen. Ob, no, Derrick ; you 've got 
 my busband in your clutcbes, but you 
 can't get tbem around me. If Rip 
 would only mend bis ways, be would see 
 bow mucb I love bim; but no woman 
 could* love you. Derrick; for woman is 
 not a domestic animal, glad to serve and 
 fawn upon a man for tbe food and sbel- 
 ter sbe can get ; and tbat is all sbe would 
 ever get from you. Derrick. 
 
 {Piling the clothes on the washboard, 
 and shouldering it.) 
 
 Derrick. Tbe time may come wben you 'U 
 cbange your tune. 
 
 Gretchen. Not wbile Rip lives, bad as 
 be is. {Exit into cottage.) 
 
 Derrick. Tben I '11 wait until you 've 
 killed bim. Her spirit is not broken 
 yet. But patience. Derrick, patience; in 
 anotber montb I '11 bave my claws on all 
 tbat remains of Rip's property — yonder 
 cottage and grounds ; tben I '11 try you 
 again, my lady. 
 
 {Enter Cockles, with papers in his hand, 
 running towards the inn.) 
 
 Derrick. How now, you imp? Wbat 
 
 brings you bere so full of a burry? 
 
 Some miscbief 's in your bead, or your 
 
 beels would not be so busy. 
 Cockles. I 've brougbt a letter for you 
 
 from my employer. There it is. 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 467 
 
 Derrick. {Examining letter.) Why, the 
 seal is broken! 
 
 Cockles. Yes, I read it as I came along. 
 
 Derrick. Now I apprenticed this vaga- 
 bond to my lawyer, and this is his grati- 
 tude. 
 
 Cockles. Don't waste your breath, 
 Nunky, for you '11 want it ; for when you 
 read that, if it don't take you short in 
 the wind, I '11 admire you. 
 
 Derrick. (Reads.) "You must obtain 
 from Rip Van Winkle a proper convey- 
 ance of the lands he has sold to you. 
 The papers he has signed are in fact 
 nothing but mortgages on his estate. If 
 you foreclose, you must sell the prop- 
 erty, which has lately much advanced in 
 value; and it would sell for enough to 
 pay off your loan, and all your improve- 
 ments would enure to the benefit of Rip 
 Van Winkle." 
 
 Cockles. There, now, see what you 've 
 been doing of! — wasting your money 
 and my expectations on another chap's 
 property. Do you want to leave me a 
 beggar ? 
 
 Derrick. (Reads.) "I enclose a deed 
 for him to sign that will make him safe." 
 
 Cockles. Of course he '11 sign it ; he 
 won't wait to be asked — he '11 be in such 
 a hurry. 
 
 Derrick. All my savings — all my money 
 — sunk in improving this village! 
 
 Cockles. Yes, instead of physicking Rip, 
 as you thought, you 've been coddling 
 him all the while. 
 
 Derrick. All these houses I 've built are 
 on another man's land. What shall I 
 do? 
 
 Cockles. Pull them down again; pull 
 them down. 
 
 Derrick. Ass! — dolt that I have been! 
 
 Cockles. Calling yourself names won't 
 mend it, Nunky. 
 
 Derrick. The imp is right. Rip must be 
 made to sign this paper. But how — 
 how? 
 
 Cockles. How ? How ? How 's a big 
 word sometimes, ain't it, Nunky? 
 
 Derrick. Rip would not do it if he knew 
 what he was about. But he can't read — 
 nor write, for the matter of that. But 
 he can make his cross, and I can cajole 
 him. 
 
 Cockles. Look sharp, Nunky. The man 
 that 's looking round for a fool and 
 picks up Rip Van AVinkle, will let him 
 drop again very quick. 
 
 Derrick. He is poor ; I '11 show him a 
 
 handful of money. He 's a drunkard ; 
 
 I '11 give hifii a stomachful of liquor. 
 
 Go in, boy, and leave me to work this; 
 
 and let this be a lesson to you hereafter; 
 
 beware of the fatal effects of poverty 
 
 and drink. 
 Cockles. Yes, — and parting with my 
 
 money on bad security. 
 
 (Exit. Laughter outside.) 
 Derrick. Here Tie comes now, surrounded 
 
 by all the dogs and children in the dis- 
 trict. They cling around him like flies 
 
 around a lump of sugar. 
 
 Rip enters, running and skipping, carry- 
 ing one small child pickaback, and sur- 
 rounded hy a swarm of others hanging 
 on the skirts of his coat. He is laugh- 
 ing like a child himself, and his merry 
 blue eyes twinkle with delight. He is 
 dressed in an old deerskin coat, a pair 
 of breeches which had once been red, 
 now tattered, patched, and frayed, 
 leather gaiters and shoes equally dilapi- 
 dated, a shapeless felt hat with a bit of 
 the brim hanging loose — the whole stained 
 and weather-worn to an almost uniform 
 clay-colour, except for the bright blue of 
 his jean shirt and the scarlet of his long 
 wisp of a necktie. One of the hoys car- 
 ries his gun.) 
 
 Rip. (Taking his gun from the boy.) 
 There, run along mit you; run along. 
 
 Derrick. (The children scamper off.) 
 The vagabond looks like the father of 
 the village. 
 
 Rip. (Who has stood laughing and 
 watching the children, suddenly calls 
 after them.) Hey! You let my dog 
 Schneider alone there; you hear that. 
 Sock der Jacob der bist eine for donner 
 spits poo — yah — 
 
 Derrick. Why, what 's the matter. Rip ? 
 
 Rip. (Coming down and shaking liands 
 with Derrick.) Oh, how you was, Der- 
 rick? how you was? 
 
 Derrick. You seem in trouble. 
 
 Rip. Oh, yah; you know them fellers. 
 Veil, I tole you such a funny thing. 
 (Laughing.) Just now, as me and 
 Schneider was comin' along through the 
 willage — Schneider 's my dawg ; I don't 
 know whether you know him? (Rip 
 always speaks of Schneider as if he were 
 a person, and one in whom his hearer 
 took as profound an interest as he does 
 himself.) Well, them fellers went and 
 tied a tin kettle mit Schneider's tail, and 
 how he did run then, mit i he kettle bang- 
 
468 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 ing about. Well, I didn't hi him 
 comin'. He run betwixt me and my 
 legs, an' spilt me an' all them children 
 in tlie mud ; — yah, that 's a fact. 
 
 (Rip leans his gun against the cot- 
 tage.) 
 Derrick. (Aside.) Now 's my time. 
 (Aloud.) Vedder! Vedder! (Vedder 
 appears at the door of the inn.) Bring 
 us a bottle of liquor. Bring us your 
 best, and be quick. 
 Nick. What's in the wind now? The 
 devil 's to pay when Derrick stands 
 treat ! 
 
 (Exit. Re-enters, -with hottle and 
 cups in left hand. Hands hottle to 
 Derrick. Rip lounges forward, 
 and perches on the corner of the 
 table.) 
 Derrick. (Rising and approaching Rip.) 
 Come, Rip, what do you say to a glass? 
 Rip. (Takes a cup and holds it to he 
 filled.) Oh, yah; now what do I gen- 
 erally say to a glass ? I say it 's a fine 
 thing — when there 's plenty in it. ( Ve 
 gates! Ve gates!) (Shakes hands with 
 Nick. ) And then I says more to what 's 
 in it than I do to the glass. Now you 
 would n't believe it — that 's the first one 
 , I 've had today. 
 Derrick. How so? 
 Rip. (Dryly.) Because I couldn't get it 
 
 before, I suppose. 
 Derrick. Then let me fill him up for you. 
 Rip. No, that is enough for the first one. 
 Nick. Come, Rip, a bumper for the first 
 
 one. 
 Rip. That is enough for the first one. 
 Derrick. Come, Rip, let me fill him up 
 
 for you. 
 Rip. [With ludicrous decision and dig- 
 nity.) I believe I know how much to 
 drink. When I says a thing, I mean 
 it. 
 Derrick. Oh, well — 
 
 ( Turns aside, and starts to fill his own 
 cup.) 
 Rip. All right; come along. (Holding 
 out his glass, and laughing at his own 
 inconsistency.) Here's your good health 
 and your families', and may they live 
 long and prosper! 
 
 (They all drink. At the end, Nick 
 
 smacks his lips and exclaims ^'Ah!'' 
 
 Derrick repeats the same and Rip 
 
 repeats after Derrick.) 
 
 Rip. (To Nick, sadly.) Ah, you may 
 
 well go "Ah!" and smack your chops 
 
 over that. You don't give me such 
 
 schnapps ^ when I come. Derrick, my 
 score is too big now. (Jerking his head 
 towards the shutter, he notices for the 
 first time that it is open.) What you go 
 and open that window for? — That's fine 
 schnapps, Nick. Where you got that? 
 
 Nick. That's high Dutch, Rip— high 
 Dutch, and ten years in bottle. Why, I 
 had that in the very day of your wed- 
 ding. We broached the keg under yon- 
 der shed. Don't you recollect ? 
 
 Rip. Is that the same? 
 
 Nick. Yes. 
 
 Rip. I thought I knowed that licker. 
 You had it ten years ago? (Laughing 
 suddenly.) I would not have kept it so 
 long. But stop, mein f reund ; that 's 
 more than ten years ago. 
 
 Nick. No, it ain't. 
 
 Rip. It's the same day I got married? 
 
 Nick. Yes. 
 
 Rip. Well, I know by that. You think 
 I forgot the day I got married? Oh, 
 no, my friend; I remember that day 
 long as I live. 
 
 (Serious for a moment. Takes off his 
 hat, and puts it oji the table.) 
 
 Derrick. Ah! Rip, I remember Gretchen 
 then, ten years ago. — Zounds, how I en- 
 vied you! 
 
 Rip. (Looking up, surprised.) Did you? 
 (Winks at Nick. Then, suddenly re- 
 membering.) So did I. You didn't 
 know what was comin'. Derrick. 
 
 Derrick. She was a beauty. 
 
 Rip. What, Gretchen? — Yes, she was. 
 She was a pretty girl. My ! My ! Yah, 
 we was a fine couple altogether. Well, 
 come along. 
 
 (Holding out his cup to Derrick, who' 
 fills it from the bottle.) 
 
 Nick. Yes, come along. 
 
 (Takes water pitcher from the table,, 
 and starts to fill up Rip's cup. Rip 
 stops him.) 
 
 Rip. (Who has been lounging against the' 
 table, sits on it, and puts his feet on the 
 chair.) Stop! I come along mitout 
 that, Nick Vedder. (Sententiously.) 
 Good licker and water is like man and 
 wife. 
 
 Derrick and Nick. How 's that, Rip ? 
 
 Rip. (Laughing.) They don't agree to- 
 gether. I always like my licker single. 
 Well, here 's your good health, and your 
 families', and may they live long and 
 
 prosper 
 
 (They all drink.} 
 
 1 Whiskey. 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 469 
 
 Nick. That 's right, Rip ; drink away, 
 and drown your sorrow. 
 
 Rip. {Drolly.) Yes; but she won't 
 drown. My wife is my sorrow, and you 
 cannick drown her. She tried it once, 
 but could n't do it. 
 
 Derrick and Nick. Why, how so? 
 
 Rip. [Puts doicn his cup mid clasps his 
 knee, still perched on the corner of the 
 table.) Didn't you know tliat Gretchen 
 like to got drown? 
 
 Derrick and Nick. No. 
 
 Rip. {Puts hat on.) That's the funniest 
 thing of the whole of it. It 's the same 
 day I got married ; she was comin' across 
 the river there in the ferry-boat to get 
 man-ied mit me — 
 
 Derrick and Nick. Yes. 
 
 Rip. Well, the boat she was comin' in got 
 upsetted. 
 
 Derrick- and Nick. Ah ! 
 
 Rip. Well, but she was n't in it. 
 
 Derrick and Nick. Oh! 
 
 Rip. {Explaining quite seriously.) No, 
 that 's what I say ; if she had been in 
 the boat what got upsetted, maybe she 
 might have got drowned. {More and 
 more reflective.) I don't know how it 
 was she got left somehow or other. 
 Women is always behind that way — al- 
 ways. 
 
 Derrick. But surely. Rip, you would 
 have risked your life to save such a glo- 
 rious creature as she was. 
 
 Rip. {Incredulously.) You mean I would 
 yump in and pull Gretchen out? 
 
 Derrick. Yes. 
 
 Rip. Oh, would I? {Suddenly remem- 
 bering.) Oh, you mean then — yes, I 
 believe I would then. {With simple 
 conviction.) But it would be more my 
 duty now than it was then. 
 
 Derrick. How so? 
 
 Rip. {Quite seriously.) Why, you see 
 when a feller gets married a good many 
 years mit his wife, he gets very much 
 attached to her. 
 
 Nick. {Pompously.) Ah, he does in- 
 deed. 
 
 Rip. {Winks at Derrick, and points at 
 Nick with his thumb.) But if Mrs. 
 Van Winkle was a-drowning in the 
 water now, an' she says to me, "Rip, 
 come an' save your wife!" I would say, 
 "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will yust go home 
 and think about it." Oh, no, Derrick, 
 if ever Gretchen tumbles in the water, 
 she 's got to swim now, you mind 
 that. 
 
 For me, is that? 
 
 Derrick. She was here just now, anx- 
 iously expecting you home. 
 
 Rip. I know she 's keeping it hot for 
 me. 
 
 Nick. What, your dinner, Rip? 
 
 Rip. No, the broomstick. 
 
 {Exit Nick into house, laughing.) 
 
 Rip. {Confidentially.) Derrick, whenever 
 I come back from the mountains, I al- 
 ways stick the game-bag in the window 
 and creep in behind. 
 
 Derrick. {Seating himself on the table 
 by the side of Rip.) Have you anything 
 now? 
 
 Rip. {Dropping into the chair Derrick 
 has just left. Leaning back, and putting 
 hands behind his head.) What for 
 game? No, not a tail, I believe, not a 
 feather. 
 
 {With humorous indifference.) 
 
 Derrick. {Touching Rip on the shoulder 
 and shaking a bag of money.) Rip, 
 suppose you were to hang this bagful of 
 money inside, don't you think it would 
 soothe her down, eh? 
 
 Rip. {Sitting up. 
 
 Derrick. Yes. 
 
 Rip. {With a shrewd glance.) Ain't you 
 yokin' mit me? 
 
 Derrick. No, Rip, I 've prospered with 
 the lands you 've sold me, and I '11 let 
 you have a loan on easy terms. I '11 
 take no interest. 
 
 Rip. {Getting up and walking for- 
 ward, with decision.) No, I'm afraid I 
 might pay you again some day, Der- 
 rick. 
 
 Derrick. And so you shall. Rip, pay me 
 when you please. {Puts the bag in 
 Rip's hands, and forces his fingers over 
 it, turns, and goes to the table, speaking 
 as he goes.) Say in twenty years — 
 twenty years from this day. Ah, where 
 shall we be then? 
 
 Rip. {Quizzically, and half to himself.) 
 I don't know about myself; but I think 
 I can guess where you'll be about that 
 time. 
 
 {Takes chair and sits down.) 
 
 Derrick. Well, Rip, I '11 just step into 
 the inn and draw out a little acknowl- 
 edgment. 
 
 Rip. {Who has been sitting, leaning for- 
 ward with his elbows on his knees, softly 
 chinking the bag of money in his hand, 
 looks up suddenly.) 'Knowledgment — 
 for what is that? 
 
 Derrick. Yes, for you to put your cross 
 to. 
 
470 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 Rip. (Indifferently.) All right; bring it 
 along. 
 
 Derrick. No fear of Gretclien now, eli, 
 Rip? 
 
 Rip. (Plunged in tJiought.) Ob, no. 
 
 Derrick. You feel quite comfortable 
 now, don't you, Rip? (Exit to inn.) 
 
 Rip. Oh, yah! (Suddenly becoming seri- 
 ous and much mystified at Derrick's 
 conduct.) Well, I don't know about 
 that Derrick! Derrick! (Holding up 
 the hag and chinking it.) It don't chink 
 like good money neither. It rattles like 
 a snake in a hole. (Grimly.) 
 
 Gretchen. (Inside the cottage.) Out 
 with that lazy, idle cur! I won't have 
 him here. Out, I say! 
 
 Rip. I 'm glad I 'm not in there now. I 
 believe that 's Schneider what she 's 
 lickin'; he won't have any backbone left 
 in him. (Sadly.) I would rather she 
 would lick me than the dog ; I 'm more 
 used to it than he is. (Gets up, and 
 looks in at the window.) There she is 
 at the wash-tub. (Admiring her energy, 
 almost envying it.) What a hard- 
 workin' woman that is! Well, some- 
 body must do it, I suppose. (With the 
 air of a profound moral reflection.) 
 She's comin' here now; she's got some 
 broomstick mit her, too. 
 
 (Rip snatches up his gun and slinks 
 off around the corner of the house.) 
 
 (Enter Gretchen" with hroomstick, fol- 
 lowed by Hendrick and Meenie, carry- 
 ing clothes-basket.) 
 
 Gretchen. Come along, children. Now, 
 you take the washing dow^n to Dame 
 Van Sloe's, then call at the butcher's 
 and tell him that my husband has not 
 got back yet, so I will have to go down 
 myself to the marsh, and drive up the 
 bull we have sold to him. Tell him the 
 beast shall be in his stable in half an 
 hour; so let him have the money ready 
 to pay me for it. (During this, Rip 
 has crept in and sat on the bench by the 
 side of the tub behind Gretchen.) Ah, 
 it is the last head of cattle we have left. 
 Houses, lands, beasts, everything gone 
 — everything except a drunken beast 
 who nobody would buy or accept as a 
 gift. Rip ! Rip ! w^ait until I get you 
 home! (Threatening an imaginary Rip 
 with broomstick. With a comical gri- 
 mace, Rip tiptoes back behind the 
 house.) Come, children, to work, to 
 work! (Exit.) 
 
 (Re-enter Rip, cautiously.) 
 
 Rip. (Laughing to himself.) She gone 
 to look after the bull. She better not 
 try the broomstick on him; he won't 
 stand it. 
 
 (Drops into the chair, with his back 
 to the audience.) 
 
 Hendrick. Oh, Meenie, there's your fa- 
 ther. 
 
 Rip. (Holds out his arms, and Meenie 
 runs into them. Taking her in his arms, 
 and embracing her with great tender- 
 ness.) Ah, little gorl, was you glad to 
 see your father come home? 
 
 Meenie. Oh, yes! 
 
 Rip. (Holding her close.) I don't believe 
 it, was you? Come here. (Getting up 
 and leading her to the chair by the side 
 of the table.) Let me look at you; I 
 don't see you for such a long time; come 
 here. I don't deserve to have a thing 
 like that belong to me. (Takes his hat 
 off as if in reverence.) You're too 
 good for a drunken, lazy feller like me, 
 that 's a fact. 
 
 (Bites his underlip, looks up, and 
 brushes away a tear.) 
 
 Meenie. (Kneeling by him.) Oh, no, 
 you are a good papa! 
 
 Rip. No, I was n't : no good father would 
 
 go and rob his child ; that 's what I 've 
 
 done. Why, don't you know, Meenie, 
 
 all the houses and lands in the village 
 
 was mine — they would all have been 
 
 yours when you grew up? Where they 
 
 gone now ? I gone drunk 'em up, that 's 
 
 where they gone. Hendrick, you just 
 
 take warnin' by that ; that 's what licker 
 
 do; see that? (Holds up the skirt of 
 
 coat.) Bring a man to hunger and rags." 
 
 Is there any more in that cup over 
 
 there? Give it to me. (Drinks.) 
 
 (Rip makes this confession with a 
 
 childlike simplicity. The tears come, 
 
 and he brushes them away once or 
 
 twice. When he asks for the cup, 
 
 at the end, it seems but the natural 
 
 conclusion of his speech.) 
 
 Hendrick. (Hands him cup.) Don't 
 cry. Rip; Meenie does not want your 
 money, for when I 'm a big man I shall 
 w^ork for her, and she shall have all I 
 get. 
 
 Meenie. Yes, and I '11 have Hendrick 
 too. 
 
 Rip. (Greatly amused.) You'll have 
 Hendrick, too. (With mock gravity.) 
 Well, is this all settled? 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 471 
 
 Hendrick. Yes, Meenie and me have 
 made it all up. 
 
 Rip. I didn't know, I only thought you 
 might speak to me about it, but if it 's 
 all settled, Meenie, then git married mit 
 him. {Laughing silently, and suddenly.) 
 You goin' to marry my daughter? well, 
 now, that 's very kind of you. Marry 
 one another? {The children nod. Rip, 
 with imynense seriousness. ) Well, here 's 
 your good health, and your family, may 
 they live long and prosper. {To Hen- 
 DRiCK.) What you goin' to do when 
 3^ou get married, and grow up and so? 
 {Leans forward.) 
 
 Hendrick. I 'm not going to stop here 
 with father; oh, no, that won't do. I'm 
 going with Uncle Hans in his big ship 
 to the North Pole, to catch w^hales. 
 
 Rip. Goin' to cotch wahales mit the North 
 Pole? That's a long while away from 
 here. 
 
 Hendrick. Yes, but uncle will give me 
 ten shillings a month, and I will tell him 
 to pay it all to Meenie. 
 
 Rip. There ! He 's goin' to pay it all to 
 you ; that 's a good boy, that 's a good 
 boy. 
 
 Meenie. Yes, and I '11 give it all to you 
 to keep for us. 
 
 Rip. {With one of his little explosive 
 laughs.) I wouldn't do that, my dar- 
 lin'; maybe if you give it to me, you 
 don't get it back again. Hendrick! 
 {Suddenly earnest.) You shall marry 
 Meenie when you grow up, but you 
 must n't drink. 
 
 Hendrick. {Slapping Rip on the knee.) 
 I '11 never touch a drop. 
 
 Rip. {Quite seriously.) You won't, nor 
 me either; shake hands upon it. Now 
 we swore off together. {With a change 
 of tone.) I said so so many times, and 
 never kept my word once, never. 
 
 {Drinks.) 
 
 Hendrick. I 've said so once, and I '11 
 keep mine. 
 
 Derrick. {Outside.) Well, bring it 
 along with you. 
 
 Rip. Here comes Derrick; he don't like 
 some children; run along mit you. 
 
 {Exit children with basket.) 
 
 {Enter Derrick from inn with document.) 
 
 Derrick. There, Rip, is the little ac- 
 knowledgment. {Handing it to him.) 
 
 Rip. 'Knowledgment. {Putting on hat.) 
 For what is that? 
 
 Derrick. That is to say I loaned you the 
 
 money. 
 Rip. {Lounging back in his chair.) I 
 
 don't want that; I would lose it if I had. 
 
 it, {Fills his cup from the bottle.) I 
 
 don't want it. {Blandly.) 
 
 Derrick. Don't you? But I do. 
 Rip. {With simple surprise.) For what? 
 Derrick. Why, for you to put your cross 
 
 to. Why, bless me, I 've forgotten my 
 
 pen and ink. 
 
 {Enter Cockles.) 
 
 But luckily here comes my nephew with 
 it. {Aside.) And in time to witness 
 the signature. 
 
 Rip. Say, Derrick, have you been writing 
 all that paper full in the little time you 
 been in the house there? 
 
 {Turns the paper about curiously. 
 Pours out more schnapps.) 
 
 Derrick. Yes, every word of it. 
 
 Rip. Have you? Well, just read it out 
 loud to me. 
 
 {With an air of great simplicity.) 
 
 Derrick. {Aside.) Does he suspect? 
 {Aloud.) Why, Rip, this is the first 
 time you ever wanted anything more 
 than the money. 
 
 Rip. {Clasping his hands behind his head 
 with an air of lordly indifference.) Yes, 
 I know; but I got nothing to do now. 
 I 'm a little curious about that, some- 
 how. 
 
 Cockles. {Aside to Derrick.) The fish 
 has taken the ground bait, but he 's curi- 
 ous about the hook. 
 
 Derrick. {Aside.) I dare not read a 
 word of it. 
 
 Cockles. {Aside.) Nunkey 's stuck. 
 
 Derrick. Well, Rip, I suppose you don't 
 want to hear the formalities. 
 
 Rip. The what? 
 
 Derrick. The preliminaries. 
 
 Rip. {Indolently.) I'll take it all— Bill, 
 Claws, and Feathers. 
 
 {Leans forward and rests his head on 
 his hand, and looks at the ground.) 
 
 Derrick. "Know all men by these pres- 
 ents, that I, Rip Van Winkle, in consid- 
 eration of the sum of sixteen pounds 
 received by me from Derrick Von Beek 
 man" — {Looks around at Cockles; they 
 wink knowingly a" each other. Contin- 
 ues as if reading. Watching Rip.) — 
 "Do promise and undertake to pay the 
 same in twenty years from date." (Rip 
 looks up; as he does so, Derrick drops 
 his eyes on document, then looks as if 
 
472 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 he had just finished reading.) There, 
 now are you satisfied? 
 
 Rip. {Takes the document. In childlike 
 surprise.) Well, well, and does it take 
 all that pen and ink to say such a little 
 thing like that? 
 
 Derrick. Why, of course it does. 
 
 Cockles. {Aside to Derrick.) Oh, the 
 fool! he swallows it whole, hook and all. 
 
 Rip. {Spreading the paper on the table.) 
 Where goes my cross. Derrick? 
 
 Derrick. {Pointing.) There, you see 
 I 've left a nice little white corner for 
 you. 
 
 Rip. {Folds up paper in a leisurely man- 
 ner and puts it in game-hag.) W-e-1-1, 
 I '11 yust think about it. 
 
 {Looks up at Derrick innocently.) 
 
 Derrick. Think about it? Why, what's 
 the matter. Rip, isn't the money cor- 
 rect? 
 
 Rip. Oh, yes, I got the money all right. 
 {Chuckling.) Oh! you mean about 
 signing it. {Rising. At a loss for a 
 moment.) Stop, yesterday was Friday, 
 wasn't it? 
 
 Derrick. So it was. 
 
 Rip. {With an air of conviction.) Well, 
 I never do nothing like that the day after 
 Friday, Derrick. 
 
 (Rip walks away towards his cottage.) 
 
 Derrick. {Aside.) The idiot! what can 
 that signify? But I must not arouse his 
 suspicions by pressing him. {Aloud.) 
 You are right, Rip; sign it when you 
 please ; but I say, Rip, now that you 're 
 in funds, won't you help your old friend 
 Nick Vedder, who owes me a year's rent ? 
 
 Rip. {Coming hack to the tahle.) Oh, 
 yah, I will wipe off my schore, and stand 
 treat to the whole willage. 
 
 Derrick. Run, boy, and tell all the neigh- 
 bours that Rip stands treat. 
 
 Rip. {Leans on hack of chair.) An', 
 Cockles, tell them we '11 have a dance. 
 
 Cockles. A dance! {Runs off.) 
 
 Derrick. And I '11 order the good cheer 
 for you. {Exit.) 
 
 Rip. So do! so do! {Cogitating dubi- 
 ously.) I don't understand it. 
 
 {Re-enter Hendrick with the basket over 
 his head, followed by Meenie.) 
 
 Oh, you've come back? 
 
 Hendrick. Yes, we 've left the clothes. 
 
 Rip. Meenie, you take in the basket. 
 {Exit Meenie with the basket into the 
 cottage. Hendrick is following.) Hen- 
 drick, come here. (Hendrick kneels be- 
 
 tween Rip's knees.) So you are going to 
 marry my daughter? (Hendrick nods.) 
 So, so. That 's very kind of yer. (Ab- 
 ruptly.) Why you don't been to school 
 today, you go to school some times, don't 
 you? 
 
 Hendrick. Yes, when father can spare 
 me. 
 
 Rip. What do you learn mit that school, 
 — pretty much something? {Laughing 
 at his mistake.) I mean, everything? 
 
 Hendrick. Yes; reading, writing and 
 arithmetic. 
 
 Rip. Reading, and what? 
 
 Hendrick. And writing, and arithmetic. 
 
 Rip. {Puzzled.) Writing and what? 
 
 Hendrick. Arithmetic. 
 
 Rip. {More puzzled.) What meticks is 
 that? 
 
 Hendrick. Arithmetic. 
 
 Rip. {With profound astonishment and 
 patting Hendrick's head.) I don't see 
 how the little mind can stand it all. Can 
 you read? 
 
 Hendrick. Oh, yes! 
 
 Rip. {With a serious affectation of in- 
 credulity. ) I don't believe it ; now, I 'm 
 just goin' to see if you can read. If you 
 can't read, I won't let you marry my 
 daughter. No, sir. {Very drolly.) 
 I won't have nobody in my family what 
 can't read. {Taking out the paper that 
 Derrick has given him.) Can you read 
 ritmatics like that? 
 
 Hendrick. Yes, that 's writing. 
 
 Rip. {Nonplussed.) Oh! I thought it 
 was reading. 
 
 Hendrick. It 's reading and writing, too. 
 
 Rip. What, both together. {Suspiciously 
 looking at the paper.) Oh, yes; J 
 did n't see that before ; go long with it. 
 
 Hendrick. {Reads.) "Know all men by 
 these presents" — 
 
 Rip. {Pleased, leaning back in his chair.) 
 Yah ! that 's right, what a wonderful 
 thing der readin' is; why you can read 
 it pretty nigh as good as Derrick, yes 
 you do; go long. 
 
 Hendrick. "That I, Rip Van Winkle"— 
 
 Rip. {Taking off his hat, and holding it 
 with his hands behind his head.) Yah, 
 that 's right ; you read it yust as well as 
 Derrick; go long. 
 
 Hendrick. "In consideration of the sum 
 of sixteen pounds received do hereby sell 
 and convey to Derrick Von Beekman all 
 my estate, houses, lands whatsoever" — 
 
 {Hat drops.) 
 
 Rip. {Almost fiercely.) What are you 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 473 
 
 readin', some ritmatics what ain't down 
 there : where you got that ? 
 
 {Looking sharply at Hendrick.) 
 
 Hendrick. {Pointing.) There. Houses! 
 Lands, whatsoever. 
 
 Rip. {Looking not at the paper hut at 
 Hendrick very earnestly, as if turning 
 over in his mind whether the hoy has 
 read it correctly. Then satisfied of the 
 deception Derrick has practiced upon 
 him and struck hy the humour of fhe 
 way in which he has discovered it, he 
 laughs exultantly and looks towards the 
 inn-door through which Derrick disap- 
 peared a short time hefore.) Yes, so 
 it is. Go long mit the rest. 
 
 {He leans forward, and puts his ear 
 close to Hendrick, so as not to 
 miss a word.) 
 
 Hendrick. "Whereof he now holds pos- 
 session by mortgaged deeds, from time 
 to time executed by me." 
 
 Rip. {Takes paper, and looks towards the 
 inn fiercely exultant.) You read it bet- 
 ter than Derrick, my boy, much better. 
 {After a moment's pause, recollects him- 
 self. Kindly to Hendrick.) That will 
 do, run along mit you. 
 
 {Exit Hendrick.) 
 
 Rip. Aha, my friend. Derrick! I guess 
 you got some snakes in the grass. Now 
 keep sober, Rip; I don't touch another 
 drop so long what I live; I swore off 
 now, that 's a fixed fact. 
 
 {Enter Derrick, Vedder, Stein, and vil- 
 lagers.) 
 
 Derrick. Come, Rip, we '11 have a rouse. 
 Rip. {Seriously; half fiercely still.) 
 
 Here, Nick Vedder, here is the gelt; 
 
 wipe off my score, and drink away. I 
 
 don't join you; I swore off. 
 Nick. Why, Rip, you 're king of the 
 
 feast. 
 Rip. {Ahsently, still intent on Derrick.) 
 
 Am I dat? 
 Omnes. Swore off? What for? 
 Rip. I don't touch another drop. 
 Jacob Stein. {Coming down towards 
 
 Rip with cup.) Come, Rip, take a glass. 
 Rip. {Turning on him, almost angry.) 
 
 Jacob Stein, you hear what I said? 
 Stein. Yes. 
 Rip. {Firmly.) Well, when I said a 
 
 thing, I mean it. 
 
 {Leans hack in his chair with his hands 
 hehind his head.) 
 Stein. Oh, very well. 
 
 {Turns away; Nick comes down and 
 
 holds cup under Rip's nose. Rip 
 looks to see if they are watching 
 him. He can resist no longer, and 
 takes the cup.) 
 Rip. {Laughing.) Well, I won't count 
 
 this one. Here 's your good health and 
 
 your families', may they all live long 
 
 and prosper. 
 Derrick. Here come the fiddlers and the 
 
 girls. 
 
 {Enter girls.) 
 
 (Rip walks over and closes the shutter 
 which has held his score, then re- 
 turns and seats himself on a low 
 stool, and keeps time to the music 
 as the villagers dance. Finally, the 
 rhythm fires his hlood. He jumps 
 to his feet, snatches one of the girls 
 away from her partner, and whirls 
 into the dance. After a round or 
 two, he lets go of her, and pirouettes 
 two or three times hy himself. Once 
 more he catches her in his arms, and 
 is in the act of emhracing her, when 
 he perceives Gretchen over her 
 shoulder. He drops the girl, who 
 falls on her knees at Gretchen's 
 feet. There is a general laugh at his 
 discomfiture, in which he joins half- 
 heartedly. As the curtain descends. 
 Rip is seen pointing at the girl as 
 if seeking, like a modern Adam, to 
 put the hlame on her.) 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene 1. The dimly lighted kitchen of 
 Rip's cottage. The door and window 
 are at the hack. It is night, and 
 through the window a furious storm can 
 he seen raging, ivith thunder, lightning, 
 and rain. A fire smoulders on the 
 hearth, to the right, and a candle gutters 
 on the table in the centre; a couple of 
 chairs, a low stool, and a little cuphoard, 
 meagrely provided with cups and plates, 
 complete the furniture of the room. 
 Between the door and the window a 
 clothes-horse, with a few garments hang- 
 ing on it, forms a screen. To the left 
 is a small door leading to the other rooms 
 of the cottage. 
 
 {As the curtain rises, Meenie is seen sit- 
 ting hy the window, and Gretchen en- 
 
474 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 ters, takes off cloak, and throws a broom- 
 stick on the table.) 
 
 Gretchen. Meenie! Has your father 
 come yet? 
 
 Meenie. No, mother. 
 
 Gretchen. So much the better for him. 
 Never let him show his face in these 
 doors again — never! 
 
 Meenie. Oh, mother, don't be so hard on 
 him. 
 
 Gretchen. I 'm not hard ; how dare you 
 say so. (Meenie approaches her.) 
 There, child, that father of yours is 
 enough to spoil the temper of an angel. 
 I went down to the marsh to drive up the 
 bull. I don't know what Rip has been 
 doing to the beast; he was howling and 
 tearing about. I barely escaped with my 
 life. {A crash outside.) What noise is 
 that? 
 
 Meenie. That 's only Schneider, father's 
 dog. 
 
 Gretchen. {Picking up broomstick.) 
 Then I '11 Schneider him. I won't have 
 him here. {Exit through the door lead- 
 ing to the rest of the cottage.) Out, you 
 idle, vagabond cur; out, I say! 
 
 Meenie. {Following her to the door, and 
 crying.) Oh, don't, don't hurt the poor 
 thing ! 
 
 {Re-enter Gretchen.) 
 
 Gretchen. He jumped out of the win- 
 dow before I could catch him. He 's 
 just like his master. Now, what are you 
 crying for? 
 
 Meenie. Because my poor father is out 
 in all this rain. {A peal of thunder is 
 heard.) Hark, how it thunders! 
 
 Gretchen. Serve him right — do him 
 good. Is the supper ready? 
 
 Meenie. Yes, mother; it is there by the 
 fireside. {Pointing to the soup-bowl by 
 the fire.) Shall I lay the table? 
 
 Gretchen. Yes. {Again it thunders.) 
 It 's a dreadful night ; I wonder where 
 Rip is? 
 
 Meenie. {Bringing the cups and platters 
 from the sideboard, together with a loaf 
 of bread.) Shall I lay the table for 
 two, mother, or for three? 
 
 Gretchen. For two, girl ; he gets no sup- 
 per here tonight. {Another peal of 
 thunder.) Mercy, how the storm rages! 
 the fool, to stop out in such a down- 
 pour. I liope he 's found shelter. I 
 must look out the old suit I washed and 
 mended for him last week, and put them 
 
 by the fire to air. The idiot, to stop 
 out in such a down-pour ! I '11 have him 
 sick on my hands next ; that 's all I want 
 to complete my misery. {She fetches 
 clothes from the horse and hangs them 
 on the back of the chair in front of the 
 fire.) He knows what I am suffering 
 now, and that 's what keeps him out. 
 {Lightning.) Mercy, what a flash that 
 was! The wretch will be starved with 
 the cold! Meenie! 
 
 Meenie. Yes, mother. 
 
 Gretchen. You may lay the table for 
 three. {There is a knock at the outer 
 door.) There he is now! 
 
 {Enter Hendrick, who shakes rain from 
 his hat.) 
 
 Where 's Rip ? Is he not at your 
 father's? 
 Hendrick. No; I thought he was here. 
 Gretchen. He 's gone back to the moun- 
 tain. He 's done it on purpose to spite 
 me. 
 Hendrick. {Going to the fire.) Shall I 
 run after him, and bring him home? I 
 know the road. We 've often climbed it 
 together. 
 Gretchen. No; I drove Rip from his 
 house, and it 's for me to bring him back 
 again. 
 Meenie. {Still arranging the supper ta- 
 ble.) But, mother — {She pauses, with 
 embarrassment.) If he hears your voice 
 behind him, he will only run away the 
 faster. 
 Gretchen. Well, I can't help it; I can't 
 rest under cover, while he is out in the 
 storm. I shall feel better when I 'm out- 
 side sharing the storm with him. Sit 
 down, and take your suppers. I '11 take 
 my cloak along with me. 
 
 {Exit. Meenie has seated herself by 
 the window. Hendrick carries 
 stool to the centre of the stage, in 
 front of the table.) 
 Hendrick. Meenie ! Meenie ! 
 Meenie. Eh ? 
 
 (Hendrick beckons to her. She runs 
 to him. He stops her suddenly, then 
 puts the stool down with great de- 
 liberation, and sits on it, while 
 Meenie kneels beside him.) 
 Hendrick. {In a very solemn tone.) I 
 hope your father ain't gone to the moun- 
 tains tonight, Meenie? 
 Meenie. {In distress.) Oh, dear! he will 
 
 die of the cold there. 
 Hendrick. {Suddenly.) Sh! (Meenie 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 475 
 
 starts.) It ain't for that. {Mysteri- 
 ously.) I've just heard old Clausen, 
 over at father's, saying, that on this 
 very night, every twenty years, the 
 ghosts — 
 
 Meenie. {Catching his wrist.) The 
 what? 
 
 Hendrick. {In an awed tone.) The 
 ghosts of Hendrick Hudson, and his pi- 
 rate crew, visit the Kaatskills above here. 
 {The two children look around, 
 frightened.) 
 
 Meenie. Oh, dear! did he say so? 
 
 Hendrick. Sh! {Again they look 
 around, frightened.) Yes; and the 
 spirits have been seen there smoking, 
 drinking, and playing at tenpins. 
 
 Meenie. Oh, how dreadful! 
 
 Hendrick. Sh! {He goes cautiously to 
 the chimney, and looks up, while Meenie 
 looks under the table; then he returns 
 to the stool, speaking as he comes.) 
 Yes; and every time that Hendrick Hud- 
 son lights his pipe there 's a flash of 
 lightning. {Lightning and Meenie gives 
 a gasp of fear.) And when he rolls the 
 balls along, there is a peal of thunder. 
 {Loud rumbles of thunder. Meenie 
 screams and throws herself into Hen- 
 drick's arms.) Don't be frightened, 
 Meenie ; I 'm here. 
 
 {In a frightened tone, but with a 
 manly effort to be courageous.) 
 
 {Re-enter Gretchen with her cloak.) 
 
 Gretchen. Here, stop that! {The chil- 
 dren separate quickly. Hendrick looks 
 up at the ceiling and whistles, with an 
 attempt at unconsciousness , and Meenie 
 assumes an innocent and unconcerned 
 expression.) Now, don't you be filling 
 that child's head with nonsense, but re- 
 main quietly here until I return. Hush, 
 what noise is that? There is someone 
 outside the window. 
 
 {She steps behind the clothes-horse. 
 Rip appears at the window, which 
 he opens, and leans against the 
 frame.) 
 Rip. Meenie ! 
 
 Meenie and Hendrick. {Trying to make 
 him perceive Gretchen, by a gesture in 
 her direction.) Sh! 
 
 (Rip turns, and looks around outside 
 to see what they mean, then, dis- 
 covering nothing, drops his hat in 
 at the window, and calls again, cau- 
 tiously.) 
 Rip, Meenie ! 
 
 Meenie and Hendrick. {With the same 
 warning gesture.) Sh ! 
 
 (Gretchen shakes her fist at the chil- 
 dren, who assume an air of inno- 
 cence.) 
 Rip. What's the matter? Meenie, has 
 the wild-cat come home? (Rip readies 
 in after his hat. Gretchen catches him 
 by his hair, and holds his head down.) 
 Och, my darlin', don't do that, eh! 
 Hendrick and Meenie. {Who run to- 
 wards Gretchen.) Don't, mother! 
 don't, mother! don't! 
 Rip. {Imitating their tone.) Don't, 
 mother, don't! Don't you hear the chil- 
 dren? Let go my head, won't you? 
 {Getting angry.) 
 Gretchen. No ; not a hair. 
 Rip. {Bantering.) Hold on to it then, 
 
 what do I care? 
 Hendrick and Meenie. {Catching Gret- 
 chen's dress.) Don't, mother! Don't, 
 mother ! Don't ! 
 
 (Gretchen lets go of Rip, and turns 
 upon them. They escape, and dis- 
 appear through the door to the left.) 
 Rip. {Getting in through tJie window, and 
 coming forward, apparently drunk, but 
 jolly; and his resentment for the treat- 
 ment he has just received is half hu- 
 morous.) For what you do dat, hey? 
 You must want a bald-headed husband, 
 I reckon! 
 
 (Gretchen picks up chair, and bangs 
 it down; Rip imitates her with the 
 stool. She sits down angrily, and 
 slaps the table. Rip throws down 
 his felt hat with a great show of 
 violence, and it makes no noise, then 
 seats himself on the stool.) 
 Gretchen. Now, then! 
 Rip. Now, den; I don't like it den, neider. 
 {When Rip is drunk, his dialect grows 
 more pronounced.) 
 Gretchen. Who did you call a wildcat? 
 Rip. {With a sudden little tipsy laugh, 
 and confused.) A wildcat — dat 's when 
 I come in at the window? 
 Gretchen. Yes ; that 's when you came 
 
 in the window. 
 Rip. {Rising, and with a tone of finality.) 
 
 Yes ; that 's the time I said it. 
 Gretchen. Yes ; and that 's the time I 
 
 heard it. 
 Rip. {With drunken assurance.) That's 
 all right; I was afraid you wouldn't 
 hear it. 
 Gretchen. Now who did you mean by 
 that wildcat? 
 
476 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 Rip. (Confused.) Who did I mean? 
 Now, let me see. 
 
 Gretchen. Yes; who did you mean? 
 
 Rip. How do I know who-oo I mean? 
 {With a sudden inspiration.) Maybe 
 it 's the dog Schneider, I call that. 
 
 Gretchen. (Incredulously.) The dog 
 Schneider; that's not likely. 
 
 Rip. (Argumentatively.) Of course it is 
 likely ; he 's my dog. I '11 call him a 
 wildcat much as I please. 
 
 (Conclusively. He sits down in the 
 chair on which, his clothes are warm- 
 ing, in front of the fire.) 
 
 Gretchex. And then, there 's j^our dis- 
 graceful conduct this morning. What 
 have you got to say to that? 
 
 Rip. How do I know what I got to say to 
 that, when I don't know w^iat I do-a, 
 do-a? (Hiccoughs.) 
 
 Gretchen. Don't know what you do-a-oo ! 
 Hugging and kissing the girls before my 
 face ; you thought I would n't see you. 
 
 Rip. (Boldly.) I knowed you would — I 
 knowed you would; because, because — 
 (Losing the thread of his discourse.) 
 Oh-h, don' you bodder me. 
 
 (He turns and leans his head against 
 the hack of the chair.) 
 
 Gretchen. You knew I was there? 
 
 Rip. (Laughing.) I thought I saw you. 
 
 Gretchen. I saw you myself, dancing 
 with the girl. 
 
 Rip. You saw the girl dancin' mit me. 
 (Gretchen remembers Rip's clothes, 
 and goes over to see if he is wet, and 
 pushes him towards the center of the 
 stage. Rip mistakes her intention.) 
 You want to pull some more hair out of 
 my head? 
 
 Gretchen. Why, the monster! He isn't 
 wet a bit ! He 's as dry as if he 'd been 
 aired ! 
 
 Rip. Of course I'm dry. (Laughing.) 
 I 'm always dry — always dry. 
 
 Gretchen. (Examines game-hag, and 
 pulls out a flask, which she holds under 
 Rip's >zose.) Why, what 's here ? AYhy, 
 it 's a bottle — a bottle ! 
 
 Rip. (Leaning against the tahle.) Yes; 
 it's a bottle. (Laughs.) You think I 
 don't know a bottle when I see it? 
 
 Gretchen. That 's pretty game for your 
 game-bag, ain't it? 
 
 Rip. (Assuming an innocent air.) Some- 
 body must liave put it there. 
 
 Gretchen. (Putting the flask in her 
 loocket.) Then, you don't get it again. 
 
 Rip, (With a show of anger.) Now 
 
 mind if I don't get it again — well — all 
 there is about it — (Breaking down.) I 
 don't want it. I have had enough. 
 
 (With a droll air of conviction.) 
 
 Gretchen. I 'm glad you know when 
 you 've had enough. 
 
 Rip. (Still leaning against the tahle.) 
 That 's the way mit me. I 'm glad I 
 know when I got enough — (Laughs.) 
 An' I 'm glad when I 've got enough, 
 too. Give me the bottle; I want to 
 put it in the game-bag. 
 
 Gretchen. For what? 
 
 Rip. (Lounging off the tahle, and com- 
 ing forward and leaning his arms on 
 Gretchen's shoulders.) So that I can't 
 drink it. Here 's the whole business — 
 (He slides his hand down to Gret- 
 chen's pocket and tries to find the 
 hottle while he talks to her.) Here's 
 the whole business about it. What is 
 the use of anybody — well — wash the use 
 of anybody, anyhow — well — oh — (Miss- 
 ing the pocket.) What you talkin' 'bout 
 (Suddenly his hand slips in her pocket, 
 and he begins to pull the hottle out, with 
 great satisfaction.) Now, now I can tell 
 you all 'bout it. 
 
 Gretchen. (Discovering his tactics, and 
 pushing him away.) Pshaw! 
 
 Rip. If you don't give me the bottle, I 
 just break up everything in the house. 
 
 Gretchen. If you dare! 
 
 Rip. If I dare ! Have n't I done it two 
 or three times before? I just throw 
 everything right out of the window. 
 (Rip throws the plates and cups on the 
 floor and overturns a chair, and 
 seats himself on the table. Gret- 
 chen picks them up again.) 
 
 Gretchen. Don't Rip; don't do that!^ 
 Now stop, Rip, stop! (Gretchen hangs 
 down a chair by the table and seats her- 
 self.) Now, then, perhaps you will be 
 kind enough to tell where you 've been 
 for the last two days. TVhere have you 
 been? Do you hear? 
 
 Rip. WHiere I've been? Well, it's not 
 my bottle, anyhow. I borrowed that 
 bottle from another feller. You want 
 to know where I been? 
 
 Gretchen. Yes; and I will know. 
 
 Rip. (Good-humouredly.) Let's see. 
 
 Last night I stopped out all night. 
 
 Gretchen. But why? 
 
 Rip. Why? You mean the reason of it? 
 
 Gretchen. Yes, the reason. 
 
 Rip. {Inconsequently.) The reason is 
 why? Don't bother me. 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 477 
 
 Gretchen. {Emphasizing each word with 
 a hang on the table.) Why — did — you 
 — stop — out — all — night ? 
 
 Rip. {Imitating her tone.) Because — I 
 
 — want — to — get — up — early — in — the — 
 
 morning. {Iliccongh.) Come don't get 
 
 so mad mit a feller. Why, I've been 
 
 fillin' my game-bag mit game. 
 
 (Rip gets down off the table, and 
 Gretchen" comes towards him and 
 feels his game-bag.) 
 
 Gretchex. Your game-bag is full of 
 game, is n't it ? 
 
 Rip. {Taking her hand and holding it 
 away from her pocket.) That? Why, 
 that would n't hold it. {Finding his way 
 into Gretchen's pocket.) Now I can 
 tell you all about it. You know last 
 night I stopped out all night — 
 
 Gretchen. Yes; and let me catch you 
 again. {H^ is pulling the bottle out, 
 when Gretchen catches him, and slaps 
 his hand.) You paltry thief! 
 
 Rip. Oh, you ain't got no confidence in 
 me. Now what do you think was the 
 first thing I saw in the morning? 
 
 {Bragging a chair to the front of the 
 stage.) 
 
 Gretchen. I don't know. What? 
 
 Rip. {Seating himself.) A rabbit. 
 
 Gretchen. {Pleased.) I like a rabbit. 
 I like it in a stew. 
 
 Rip. {Looking at her, amused.) I guess 
 you like everything in a stew — every- 
 thing w^hat 's a rai)bit I mean. Well, 
 there was a rabbit a-feedin' mit the 
 grass, — you know they always come out 
 early in der mornin' and feed mit the 
 grass ? 
 
 Gretchen. Never mind the grass. Go 
 on. 
 
 Rip. Don't get so patient; you wait till 
 you get the rabbit. {Humorously.) 
 Well, I crawl up — 
 
 Gretchen". Yes, yes! 
 
 Rip. {Becoming interested in his own 
 powers of invention.) An' his little tail 
 was a-stickin' up so — 
 
 {With a gesture of his forefinger.) 
 
 Gretchen. {Impatiently.) Never mind 
 his tail. Go on. 
 
 Rip. {Bemonstrating at her interrup- 
 tion.) The more fatter the rabbit, the 
 more whiter is his tail — 
 
 Gretchen. Well, wtII, go on. 
 
 Rip. {Taking aim.) Well, I haul up — 
 
 Gretchen. Yes, yes! 
 
 Rip. And his ears was a-stickin' up 
 so — 
 
 {Making Jhe two ears with his two 
 forefingers.) 
 
 Gretchen. Never mind his ears. Go on. 
 
 Rip. I pull the trigger. 
 
 Gretchen. {Eagerly.) Bang went the 
 gun, and — 
 
 Rip. {Seriously.) And the rabbit run 
 away. 
 
 Gretchen. {Angrily.) And so you shot 
 nothing ? 
 
 Rip. How will I shot him when he run 
 away? {He laughs at her disappoint- 
 ment.) There, don't get so mad mit a 
 feller. Now I 'm going to tell you what 
 I did shot ; that 's what I did n't shot. 
 You know that old forty-acre field of 
 ours? 
 
 Gretchen. {Scornfully.) Ours! Ours, 
 did you say? 
 
 Rip. {Shamefacedly.) You know the one 
 I mean well enough. It used to be ours. 
 
 Gretchen. {Regretfully.) Yes; it used, 
 indeed ! 
 
 Rip. It ain't ours now, is it? 
 
 Gretchen. {Sighing.) No, indeed, it is 
 not. 
 
 Rip. No? Den I won't bodder about it. 
 Better let somebody bodder about that 
 field what belongs to it. Well, in that 
 field there 's a pond ; and what do you 
 think I see in that pond? 
 
 Gretchen. I don't know. Ducks? 
 
 Rip. Ducks! More an' a thousand. 
 
 Gretchen. {Walking to where broom- 
 stick is.) More than a thousand ducks? 
 
 Rip. I haul up again — 
 
 Gretchen. {Picking up broomstick.) 
 Yes, and so will I. And if you miss fire 
 this time — 
 
 {Site holds it threateningly over Rip's 
 shoulder.) 
 
 Rip. {Looking at it askance out of the 
 corner of his eye, then putting up his 
 hand and pushing it aside.) You will 
 scare the ducks mit that. Well, I take 
 better aim this time as I did before. I 
 pull the trigger, and — bang! 
 
 Gretchen. How many down? 
 
 Rip. {Indifferently.) One. 
 
 Gretchen. {Indignantly.) What! only 
 one duck out of a thousand? 
 
 Rip. Who said one duck? 
 
 Gretchen. You did! 
 
 Rip. {Getting up and leaning on the back 
 of the chair.) I didn't say anything of 
 the kind. 
 
 Gretchen. You said "one." 
 
 Rip. Ah! One. But I shot more as one 
 duck. 
 
478 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 Gretchen. Did you? 
 
 Rip. {Crosses over, and sits on the low 
 stool, laughing silently.) I shot our old 
 bull. (Gretchen flings down the 
 broomstick, and throws herself into the 
 chair at the right of the table, in dumb 
 rage.) I didn't kill him. I just sting 
 him, you know. Well, then the bull 
 come right after me; and I come right 
 away from him. 0, Gretchen, how you 
 would laugh if you could see that — 
 {With a vain appeal to her sense of 
 humor.) the bull was a-eomin', and I 
 was a-goin'. Well, he chased me across 
 the field. I tried to climb over the 
 fence so fast what I could, — {Doubles 
 up with his silent laugh.) an' the bull 
 come up an' save me the trouble of 
 that. Well, then, I rolled over on the 
 other side. 
 
 Gretchen. {With disgust.) And then 
 you went fast asleep for the rest of the 
 dav. 
 
 Rip. ^ That 's a fact. That 's a fact. 
 
 Gretchen. {Bursting into tears, and 
 burying her head in her arms on the 
 table.) 0, Rip, you'll break my heart! 
 You will. 
 
 Rip. Now she's gone crying mit herself! 
 Don't cry, Gretchen, don't cry. My 
 d-a-r-1-i-n,' don't cry. 
 
 Gretchen. {Angrily.) I will cry. 
 
 Rip. Cry 'way as much as you like. 
 What do I care? All the better soon as 
 a woman gets cryin' ; den all the danger 's 
 over. (Rip goes to Gretchen, leans 
 over, and puts his arm around her.) 
 Gretchen, don't cry; my angel, don't. 
 {He succeeds in getting his hand into 
 her pocket, and steals the bottle.) Don't 
 cry, my daarlin'. {Humorously.) 
 Gretchen, won't you give me a little 
 drop out of that bottle what you took 
 away from me? 
 
 {He sits on the table, just behind her, 
 and takes a drink from the bottle.) 
 
 Gretchen. Here 's a man drunk, and ask- 
 ing for more. 
 
 Rip. I wasn't. I swore off. {Coax- 
 ingly.) You give me a little drop an' I 
 won't count it. 
 
 Gretchen. {Sharply.) No! 
 
 Rip. {Drinking again.) Well, den, 
 
 here 's your good health, an' your family, 
 
 and may they live long and prosper! 
 
 {Puts bottle in his bag.) 
 
 Gretchen. You unfeeling brute. Your 
 wife 's starving. And, Rip, your child 's 
 in rags. 
 
 Rip. {Holding up his coat, and heaving 
 a sigh of resignation.) Well, I'm the 
 same way; j'ou know dat. 
 
 Gretchen. {Sitting up, and looking ap- 
 pealingly at RiP.) Oh, Rip, if you 
 would only treat me kindly! 
 
 Rip. {Putting his arms around her.) 
 Well, den, I will. I 'm going to treat 
 you kind. I '11 treat you kind. 
 
 Gretchen. Why, it would add ten years 
 to my life. 
 
 Rip. {Over her shoulder, and after a 
 
 ■ pause.) That's a great inducement; it 
 is, my darlin'. I know I treat you too 
 bad, an' you deserve to be a widow. 
 
 Gretchen. {Getting up, and putting her 
 arms on Rip's shoulder.) Oh, Rip, if 
 5^ou would only reform! 
 
 Rip. Well, den, I will. I won't touch an- 
 other drop so long as I live. 
 
 Gretchen. Can I trust you? 
 
 Rip. You must n't suspect me. 
 
 Gretchen. {Embracing him.) There, 
 then, I will trust you. {She takes the 
 candle and goes to fetch the children.) 
 Here, Hendrick, Meenie? Children, 
 where are you? 
 
 {Exit through the door on the left.) 
 
 Rip. {Seats himself in the chair to the 
 right of the table, and takes out flask.) 
 Well, it 's too bad ; but it 's all a woman's 
 fault anyway. When a man gets 
 drinkin' and that, they ought to let him 
 alone. So soon as they scold him, he 
 goes off like a sky-rocket. 
 
 {Re-enter Gretchen and the children.) 
 
 Gretchen. {Seeing the flask in Rip's 
 hand.) I thought as much. 
 
 Rip. {Unconscious of her presence.) 
 How I did smooth her down! I must 
 drink her good health. Gretchen, here 's 
 your good health. {About to drink.) 
 
 Gretchen. {Snatching the bottle, and us- 
 ing it to gesticulate with.) Oh, you pal- 
 try thief! 
 
 Rip. {Concerned for the schnapps.) 
 What you doin' ? You '11 spill the licker 
 out of the bottle. {He puts in the cork.) 
 
 Gretchen. {Examining the flask.) 
 Why, the monster, he 's emptied the bot- 
 tle!^ 
 
 Rip. That's a fac'. That 's a fac'. 
 
 Gretchen. {Throwing down the flask.) 
 Then that is the last drop you drink 
 under my roof! 
 
 Rip. What! What! 
 
 (Meenie approaches her father on 
 tiptoe, and kneels beside him.) 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 479 
 
 GRETCHEi^. Out, you drunkard! Out, 
 you sot ! You disgrace to your wife and 
 to your child! This house is mine. 
 
 Rip. {Dazed, and a little sobered.) 
 Yours ! Yours ! 
 
 Gretchen. {Raising her voice above the 
 storm, which seems to rage more fiercely 
 outside.) Yes, mine, mine! Had it 
 been yours to sell, it would have gone 
 along with the rest of your land. Out 
 then, I say — {Pushing open the door.) 
 for you have no longer any share in me 
 or mine. {A peal of thunder.) 
 
 Meenie. {Running over, and kneeling by 
 Gretchen.) Oh, mother, hark at the 
 storm ! 
 
 Gretchen. {Pushing her aside.) Be- 
 gone, man, can't you speak*? Are you 
 struck dumb? You sleep no more under 
 my roof. 
 
 Rip. {Who has not moved, even his arm 
 remaining outstretched, as it was when- 
 Meenie slipped from his side, murmurs 
 in a bewildered, incredulous way.) 
 Why, Gretchen, are you goin' to turn 
 me out like a dog? (Gretchen points 
 to the door. Rip rises and leans against 
 the table with a groan. His conscience 
 speaks.) Well, maybe you are right. 
 {His voice breaks, and with a despairing 
 gesture.) I have got no home. I will 
 go. But mind, Gretchen, after what you 
 say to me tonight, I can never darken 
 your door again — never — {Going to- 
 wards the door.) I will go. 
 
 Hendrick. {Running up to Rip.) Not 
 into the storm, Rip. Hark, how it thun- 
 ders! 
 
 Rip. {Putting his arm around him.) 
 Yah, my boy; but net as bad to me as 
 the storm in my home. I will go. 
 
 {At the door by this time.) 
 
 Meenie. {Catching Rip's coat.) N©, 
 father, don't go! 
 
 Rip. {Bending over her tenderly, and 
 holding her close to him.) My child! 
 Bless you, my child, bless you! 
 
 (Meenie faints. Rip gives a sobbing 
 sigh.) 
 
 Gretchen. {Relenting.) No, Rip — I — 
 
 Rip. {Waving her off.) No, you have 
 drive me from your house. You have 
 opened the door for me to go. You may 
 never open it for me to come back. 
 {Leaning against the doorpost, overcome 
 by his emotion. His eyes rest on Mee- 
 nie, who lies at his feet.) You say I 
 have no share in this house. {Points to 
 Meenie in profound despair.) Well, 
 
 see, then, I .wipe the disgrace from your 
 door. 
 
 {He staggers out into the storm.) 
 Gretchen. No, Rip! Husband, come 
 back! 
 
 (Gretchen faints, and the curtain 
 falls.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene 1. A steep and rocky clove in the 
 Kaatskill Mountains, down which rushes 
 a torrent, swollen by the storm. Over- 
 head, the hemlocks stretch their melan- 
 choly boughs. It is night. 
 
 (Rip enters, almost at a run, with his head 
 down, and his coat-collar turned up, 
 beating his way against the storm. 
 With the hunter's instinct, he protects 
 the priming of his gun with the skirt of 
 his jacket. Having reached a compara- 
 tively level spot, he pauses for breath, 
 and turns to see what has become of his 
 dog.) 
 
 Rip. {Whistling to the dog.) Schneider! 
 Schneider ! What 's the matter with 
 Schneider? Something must have scared 
 that dog. There he goes head over heels 
 down the hill. Well, here I am again — 
 another night in the mountains! 
 Heigho! these old trees begin to know 
 me, I reckon. {Taking off his hat.) 
 How are you, old fellows? Well, I like 
 the trees, they keep me from the wind 
 and the rain, and they never blow me 
 up ; and when I lay me down on the 
 broad of my back, they seem to bow their 
 heads to me, an' say: Go to sleep, Rip, 
 go to sleep. {Lightning.) My, what a 
 flash that was ! Old Hendrick Hudson 's 
 lighting his pipe in the mountains to- 
 night ; now, we '11 hear him roll the big 
 balls along. {Thunder. Rip looks back 
 over the path he has come and whistles 
 again for his dog.) Well, I — no — 
 Schneider! No; whatever it is, it's on 
 two legs. Why, what a funny thing is 
 that a comin' up the hill? I thought 
 nobody but me ever come nigh this 
 place. 
 
 {Enter a strange dwarfish figure, clad all 
 in gray like a Dutch seaman of the 
 seventeenth century, in short-skirted 
 doublet, hose, and high-crowned hat 
 drawn over his eyes. From beneath the 
 
480 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 latter his long gray heard streams down 
 till it almost touches the ground. He 
 carries a keg on his shoulder. He ad- 
 vances slowly towards Rip, and, hy his 
 gesture, begs Rip to set the keg down for 
 him. Rip does so, and the dwarf seats 
 himself upon it.) 
 
 Rip. {With good-humoured sarcasm.) 
 Sit down, and make yourself comfort- 
 able. {A long pause and silence.) 
 What? What's the matter? Ain't ye 
 goin' to speak to a feller? I don't want 
 to speak to you, then. Who you think 
 you was, that I want to speak to you, 
 any more than you want to speak to me ; 
 you hear what I say? (Rip pokes the 
 dwarf in the rihs, who turns, and looks 
 up. Rip retreats hastily.) Donner an' 
 Blitzen! What for a man is das? I 
 have been walking over these mountains 
 ever since I was a boy, an' I never saw 
 a queer looking codger like that before. 
 He must be an old sea-snake, I reckon. 
 {The dwarf approaches Rip, and mo- 
 tions Rip to help him up the moun- 
 tain with the keg.) 
 Rip. Well, why don't you say so, den? 
 You mean you would like me to help you 
 up with that keg? {The dwarf nods in 
 the affirmative.) Well, sir, I don't do 
 it. {The dwarf holds up his hands in 
 supplication.) No, there's no good you 
 speakin' like that. I never seed you be- 
 fore, did I? {The dwarf shakes his 
 head. Rip, with great decision, walking 
 away, and leaning against a tree.) I 
 don't want to see you again, needer. 
 What have you got in that keg, 
 schnapps? {The dwarf nods.) 1 don't 
 believe you. {The dwarf nods more af- 
 firmatively.) Is it good schnapps? 
 {TJie dwarf again insists.) Well, I'll 
 help you. Go 'long; pick up my gun, 
 there, and I follow you mit that keg on 
 my shoulder. I '11 follow you, old 
 broadchops. 
 
 {As Rip shoulders the keg, a furious 
 blast whirls up the valley, and seems 
 to carry him and his demon com- 
 panion before it. The rain that fol- 
 lows blots out the landscape. For a 
 few moments, all is darkness. Grad- 
 ually, the topmost peak of the 
 Kaatskill Mountains becomes visible, 
 far above the storm. Stretching 
 below, the country lies spread out 
 like a map. A feeble and watery 
 moonlight shows us a weird group^ 
 
 gathered upon the peak, — Hendrick 
 Hudson, and his ghostly crew. In 
 the foreground, one of them poises 
 a hall, about to bowl it, while the 
 others lean forward in attitudes of 
 watchful expectancy. Silently he 
 pitches it; and, after a momentary 
 pause, a long and rumbling peal of 
 thunder reverberates among the val- 
 leys below. At this moment, the 
 demon, carrying Rip's gun, appears 
 over the crest of the peak in the 
 background, and Rip toils after with 
 the keg on his shoulder. Arrived at 
 the summit, he drops the keg on his 
 knee, and gasps for breath.) 
 Rip. {Glancing out over the landscape.) 
 I say, old gentleman, I never was so high 
 up in the mountains before. Look down 
 into the valley there; it seems more as 
 a mile. I — {Turning to speak to his 
 companion, and perceiving another of 
 the crew.) You're another feller! 
 {The second demon nods assent.) 
 You 're that other chap's brother? 
 {The demon again assents. Rip carries 
 the keg a little further, and comes face 
 to face with a third.) You're another 
 brother? {The third demon nods as- 
 sent. Rip takes another step, and per- 
 ceives Hendrick Hudson in the centre, 
 surrounded hy many demons.) You're 
 his old gran'father? (Hudson nods. 
 Rip puts down the keg in perplexity, not 
 untinged with alarm.) Donner and 
 Blitzen! here's the whole family; I 'm a 
 dead man to a certainty. 
 
 {The demons extend their arms to 
 
 Hudson, as if inquiring what they 
 
 should do. lie points to Rip, th^ 
 
 do the same.) 
 
 Rip. My, my, I suppose they're speakin' 
 
 about me! {Looking at his gun, which 
 
 the first demon has deposited on the 
 
 ground, and which lies within his reach.) 
 
 No good shootin' at 'em; family's too 
 
 big for one gun. 
 
 (Hendrick Hudson advances, and 
 
 seats himself on the keg facing Rip. 
 
 The demons slowly surround the 
 
 two.) 
 
 Rip. {Looking about him with growing 
 
 apprehension.) My, my, I don't like 
 
 that kind of people at all! No, sir! 
 
 I don't like any sech kind. I like that 
 
 old gran'father worse than any of them. 
 
 {With a sheepish attempt to be genial, 
 
 and appear at his ease.) How you was, 
 
 old gentleman? I didn't mean to in- 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 481 
 
 trude on you, did I? (Hudson shakes 
 his head.) What? {No reply.) I'll 
 tell you how it was; I met one of your 
 gran'children, I don't know which is the 
 one — {Glancing around.) They're all 
 so much alike. Well — {Embarrassed 
 and looking at one demon.) That's the 
 same kind of a one. Any way, this one, 
 he axed me to help him up the mountain 
 mit dat keg. Well, he was an old fel- 
 ler, an' I thought I would help him. 
 {Pauses, troubled by their silence.) 
 Was I right to help him? Hudson 
 nods.) I say, was I right to help him? 
 (Hudson nods again.) If he was here, 
 he would 3'Ust tell you the same thing 
 any way, because — {Suddenly perceiv- 
 ing the demon he had met below.) 
 Why, dat's the one, ain't it? {The 
 demon nods.) Yes: dat is the one, dat 's 
 the same kind of a one dat I met. Was 
 I right to come? (Hudson nods ap- 
 proval.) I didn't want to come here, 
 anyhow ; no, sir, I did n't want to come 
 to any such kind of a place. {After a 
 pause, seeing that no one has anything 
 to say.) I guess I better go away from 
 it. (Rip picks up his gun, and is about 
 to return hy the way he came; but the 
 demons raise their hands threateningly, 
 and stop him. He puts his gun down 
 again.) I didn't want to come here, 
 anyhow — {Grumbling to himself, then 
 pulling himself together with an effort, 
 and facing Hudson.) Well, old gentle- 
 man, if you mean to do me anj^ harm, 
 just speak it right out — {Then with a 
 little laugh.) Oh! I will die game — 
 {Glancing around for a means of escape, 
 and half to himself.) If I can't run 
 away. 
 
 (Hudson extends a cup to Rip, as if 
 inviting him to drink.) 
 Rip. {Doubtfully.) You want me to 
 drink mit you? (Hudson nods. Rip 
 approaches him cautiously, unable to re- 
 sist the temptation of a drink.) Well, 
 I swore off drinkin' ; but as this is the 
 first time I see you, I won't count this 
 one — {He takes the cup. Hudson 
 holds up another cup. Rip is reassured, 
 and his old geniality returns.) You 
 drink mit me? We drink mit one an- 
 other? Hudson nods affirmatively. 
 Rip feels at home under these familiar 
 circumstances, and becomes familiar and 
 colloquial again.) What's the matter 
 mit you, old gentleman, anyhow? You 
 go and make so {Imitating the demon) 
 
 mit your head every time; was you deaf? 
 (Hudson shakes his head.) Oh, nein. 
 {Laughing at his error.) If you was 
 deaf, you would n't hear what I was 
 sayin'. Was you dumb? (Hudson 
 nods yes.) So? You was dumb? 
 (Hudson nods again.) Has all of your 
 family the same complaint? (Hudson 
 nods.) All the boys dumb, hey? All 
 the boys dumb. {All the demons nod. 
 Then, suddenly, as if struck with an 
 idea.) Have you got any girls? (Hud- 
 son shakes his head.) Don't you? 
 Such a big family, and all boys? 
 
 (Hudson nods.) 
 Rip. ( With profound regret. ) That 's a 
 pity ; my, that 's a pity. Oh, my, if you 
 had some dumb girls, what wives they 
 would make — {Brightening up.) Well, 
 old gentleman, here 's your good health, 
 and all your family — {Turning, and wav- 
 ing to them.) — may they live long and 
 prosper. 
 
 (Rip drinks. As he does so, all the 
 demons lean forward, watching the 
 effect of the liquor. Rip puts his 
 hand to his head. The empty cup 
 falls to the ground.) 
 Rip. {In an awed and ecstatic voice.) 
 What for licker is that! {As he turns, 
 half reeling, he sees Hudson holding out 
 to him another cup. He snatches it 
 with almost frantic eagerness.) Give 
 me another one! {He empties it at a 
 draught. A long pause follows during 
 which the effect of the liquor upon Rip 
 becomes apparent; the light in his eyes 
 fades, his exhilaration dies out, and he 
 loses his grasp on the reality of his sur- 
 roundings. Finally, he clasps his head 
 with both hands, and cries in a muffled, 
 terrified voice.) Oh, my, my head was 
 so light, and now, it 's heavy as lead ! 
 {He reels, and falls heavily to the 
 ground. A long pause. The demons 
 begin to disappear. Rip becomes dimly 
 conscious of this, and raises himself on 
 his elbow.) Are you goin' to leave me, 
 boys? Are you goin' to leave me all 
 alone? Don't leave me; don't go away. 
 {With a last effort.) I will drink your 
 good health, and your family's — 
 
 {He falls back heavily, asleep ) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
482 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene 1. As the curtain rises, the same 
 high peaks of the Kaatskills, and the 
 far-stretching valley below, are disclosed 
 in the gray light of dawn. 
 
 Rip is still lying on the ground, as in the 
 last act, hut he is no longer the Rip we 
 knew. His hair and heard are long and 
 white, hleached hy the storms that have 
 rolled over his head during the twenty 
 years he has been asleep. 
 
 As he stirs and slowly rises to a half-sit- 
 ting posture, we see that his former 
 picturesque rags have become so dilapi- 
 dated that it is a matter of marvel how 
 they hold together. They have lost all 
 traces of color^ and have assumed the 
 neutral tints of the moss and lichens that 
 cover the rocks. 
 
 His voice, when he first speaks, betrays 
 even more distinctly than his appear- 
 ance the lapse of time. Instead of the 
 full round tones of manhood, he speaks 
 in the high treble of feeble old age. His 
 very hands have grown old and weather- 
 beaten. 
 
 Rip. {Staring vacantly around.) 1 won- 
 der where I was. On top of the Kaats- 
 kill Mountains as sure as a gun ! Won't 
 my wife give it to me for stopping out 
 all night? I must get up and get home 
 with myself. {Trying to rise.) Oh, I 
 feel very bad! Vat is the matter with 
 my elbow f {In trying to rub it, the 
 
 ' other one gives him such a twinge that 
 he cries out.) Oh! the other elbow is 
 more badder than the other one. I must 
 have eotehed the rheumatix a-sleepin' 
 mit the wet grass. {He rises with great 
 difficulty.) Och! I never had such 
 rheumatix like that. {He feels himself 
 all over, and then stands for a moment 
 pondering, and bewildered by a strange 
 memory.) I wasn't sleeping all the 
 time, needer. I know I met a queer 
 kind of a man, and we got drinkin' and 
 I guess I got pretty drunk. Well, I 
 must pick up my gun, and get home mit 
 myself. {After several jDainful at- 
 tempts, he succeeds in picking up his 
 gun, which drops all to pieces as he lifts 
 it. Rip looks at it in amazement.) My 
 gun must have cotched tlie rheumatix 
 too. Now, that 's too bad. Them fel- 
 lows have gone and stole my good gun, 
 and leave me this rusty old barrel. (Rip 
 begins slowly to climb over the peak 
 
 towards the path by which he had as- 
 cended, his memory seeming to act auto- 
 matically. When he reaches the highest 
 point, where he can look out over the 
 valley, he stops in surprise.) Why, is 
 that the village of Falling Waters that 
 I see? Why, the place is more than 
 twice the size it was last night. I — 
 {He sinks down.) I don't know whether 
 I am dreaming, or sleeping, or waking. 
 {Then pulling himself together with a 
 great effort, and calling up the image of 
 his wife to act as whip and spur to his 
 waning powers, he says, with humorous 
 conviction, as he gets up painfully, 
 again: — ) I go home to my wife. 
 She '11 let me know whether I 'm asleep 
 or awake or not. {Almost unable to 
 proceed.) I don't know if I will ever 
 get home, my k-nees are so stiff. My 
 backbone, it 's broke already. 
 
 {As the curtain falls, Rip stands lean- 
 ing on the barrel of his gun as on a 
 staff, with one hand raised, looking 
 out over the valley.) 
 
 Scene 2. A comfortable-looking room in 
 Derrick's house. As the curtain rises, 
 Meenie and Gretchen enter. Meenie 
 is a tall young woman of twenty-six, and 
 Gretchen is a matronly figure with 
 white hair. They are well dressed, and 
 have every appearaiice of physical and 
 material prosperity. 
 
 Gretchen. I am sent to you by your fa- 
 ther, Meenie. 
 
 Meenie. Oh, don't call him so; he is not 
 my father! He is your husband, 
 mother; but I owe him no love. And 
 his cruel treatment of you — 
 
 Gretchen. Hush, child ! Oh, if he heard 
 3^ou, he would make me pay for every 
 disrespectful word you utter. 
 
 Meenie. Yes; he would beat you, starve 
 and degrade you. You are not his wife, 
 mother, but his menial. 
 
 Gretchen. My spirit is broken, Meenie. 
 I cannot resent it. Nay, I deserve it; 
 for as Derrick now treats me, so I 
 treated your poor father when he was 
 alive. 
 
 Meenie. You, mother? You, so gentle? 
 You, who are weakness and patience it- 
 self? 
 
 Gretchen. Yes; because for fifteen years 
 I have been Derrick's wife. But it was 
 my temper, my cruelty, that drove your 
 father from our home twenty years ago. 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 483 
 
 You were too young then to remember 
 him. 
 
 Meenie. No, mother, I recollect dear fa- 
 ther taking me on his knee, and saying 
 to Hendrick that I should be his wife; 
 and I promised I would. 
 
 Gretchen. Poor Kip ! Poor, good-na- 
 tured, kind creature that he was! How 
 gentlj^ he bore with me; and I drove 
 him like a dog from his home. I hunted 
 him into the mountains, where he per- 
 ished of hunger or cold, or a prey to 
 some wild beast. 
 
 Meenie. Don't cry, mother! 
 
 {Enter Derrick, now grown old and hent 
 over his cane, and infinitely more dis- 
 agreeable titan before. He, too, has 
 thriven, and is dressed in a handsome 
 full suit of black silk.) 
 
 Derrick. Snivelling again, eh? Teach- 
 ing that girl of yours to be an obstinate 
 hypocrite ? 
 
 Meenie. Oh, sir, she — 
 
 Derrick. Hold your tongue, Miss. Speak 
 when you 're spoken to. I '11 have you 
 both to understand that there 's but one 
 master here. Well, mistress, have you 
 told her my wishes; and is she prepared 
 to obey them? 
 
 Gretcheist. Indeed, sir, I was trying to — 
 
 Derrick. Beating about the bush, pre- 
 varicating, and sneaking, as you usually 
 do. 
 
 Meenie. If you have made her your slave, 
 you must expect her to cringe. 
 
 Derrick. {Approaching her threaten- 
 ingly.) What's that? 
 
 Gretchen. Meenie ! Meenie ! For Heav- 
 en's sake, do not anger him ! 
 
 Derrick. {Raising his cane.) She had 
 better not. 
 
 Meenie. {Defiantly.) Take care how 
 you raise your hand to me, for I '11 keep 
 a strict account of it. And when Hen- 
 drick comes back from sea, he '11 make 
 you smart for it, I promise you. 
 
 Derrick. Is the girl mad? 
 
 Meenie. He thrashed your nephew once 
 for being insolent to me. Go and ask 
 him how Hendrick pays my debts; and 
 then when you speak to me you '11 mind 
 your stops. 
 
 Derrick. {To Gretchen.) Oh, you shall 
 pay for this! 
 
 Gretchen. No, Derrick, indeed, indeed I 
 have not urged her to this! 0, Meenie, 
 do not speak so to him ; for my sake for- 
 bear! 
 
 Meenie. For your sake, yes, dear mother. 
 I forgot that he could revenge himself 
 on you. 
 
 Derrick. As for your sailor lover, Hen- 
 drick Vedder, I 've got news of him at 
 last. His ship, the Mayflower, was lost 
 three years ago, off Gape Horn. 
 
 Meenie. No, no. Not lost? 
 
 Derrick. If you doubt it, there 's the 
 Shipping Gazette, in on my office table. 
 You can satisfy yourself that your sailor 
 bully has gone to the bottom. 
 
 Gretchen. Oh, sir, do not convey the 
 news to her so cruelly. 
 
 Derrick. That 's it. Because I don't 
 sneak and trick and lie about it, I 'm 
 cruel. The man 's dead, has been dead 
 and gone these two years or more. The 
 time of mourning is over. Am I 
 going to be nice about it this time of 
 day? 
 
 Meenie. Then all my hope is gone, gone 
 forever ! 
 
 Derrick. So much the better for you. 
 Hendrick's whole fortune was invested 
 in that ship. So there 's an end of him 
 and your expectations. Now you are 
 free, and a beggar. My nephew has a 
 fancy for you. He will have a share of 
 my business now, and my money when 
 — when I die. 
 
 Gretchen. Do not ask her to decide 
 now ! 
 
 Derrick. Why not? If she expects to 
 make a better bargain by holding off, 
 she 's mistaken. 
 
 Gretchen. How can you expect her to 
 think of a husband at this moment? 
 
 Derrick. Don't I tell you the other one 
 is dead these two years? 
 
 Gretchen. {Leading Meenie away.) 
 Come, my child. Leave her to me, sir; 
 I will try and persuade her. 
 
 Derrick. Take care that you do; for if 
 she don't consent to accept my offer, she 
 shall pack bag and baggage out of this 
 house. Aye, this very day! Not a 
 penny, not a stitch of clothes but what 
 she has on her back, shall she have! 
 Oh, I 've had to deal with obstinate 
 women before now, and I 've taken them 
 down before I 've done with them. You 
 know who I mean? Do you know who 
 I mean? Stop. Answer me! Do you 
 know who I mean? 
 
 Gretchen. {Submissively.) Yes, sir. 
 
 Derrick. Then why didn't you say so 
 before? Sulky, I suppose. There, you 
 may be of. (Exeunt,) 
 
484 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 Scene 3. The village of Falling Waters, 
 which has grown to he a smart and flour- 
 ishing town, hut whose chief features 
 remain unchanged. 
 
 To the left, as of yore, is the inn, hearing 
 scarcely any mark of tJte lapse of time, 
 save that the sign of George III has heen 
 replaced hy a portrait of George Wash- 
 ington. To the right, wJtere Rip's cot- 
 tage used to stand, nothing remains, 
 however, hut the hlackened and crum- 
 hling ruins of a chimney. A tahle and 
 chairs stand in front of the inn porch. 
 
 Into tliis familiar scene Rip makes his en- 
 trance, hut not as hefore, — in glee, with 
 children clinging ahout him. Faint, 
 weak, and weary, he stumhles along, fol- 
 lowed hy a jeering, hooting moh of vil- 
 lagers; while the children hide from him 
 in fear, hehind their elders. His eyes 
 look dazed and uncomprehending, and 
 he catches at the hack of a chair as if in 
 need of physical as well as mental sup- 
 port. 
 
 Katchen. {As Rip enters.) Why, what 
 queer looking creature is this, that all 
 the boys are playing — 
 
 Seth. Why, he looks as though he ^s been 
 dead for fifty years, and dug up again! 
 
 Rip. My friends, Kanst du Deutsch 
 sprechenf 
 
 First Villager. I say, old fellow, you 
 ain't seen anything of an old butter-tub 
 with no kiver^ on, no place about here, 
 have you? 
 
 Rip. {Bewildered, hut with simplicity.) 
 What is that? I don't know who that is. 
 
 Second Villager. I say, old man, who 's 
 your barber? 
 
 {The crowd laughs, and goes off re- 
 peating, "Who's your harherf" 
 Some of the children remain to stare 
 at Rip; hut when he holds out his 
 hand to them, they, too, run off 
 frightened.) 
 
 Rip. Who's my barber; what dey mean 
 by dat? {Noticing his heard.) Why is 
 that on me? I didn't see that before. 
 My beard and hair is so long and white. 
 Gretchen won't know me with that, when 
 she gets me home. {Looking towards 
 the cottage.) Why, the home's gone 
 away ! 
 
 (Rip hecomes more and more puzzled 
 like a man in a dream who sees un- 
 familiar things amid familiar sur- 
 roundings, and cannot make out 
 what has happened; and as in a 
 
 1 Cover. 
 
 dream a man preserves his individ- 
 uality, so Rip stumhles along 
 through his bewilderment, exhibit- 
 ing flashes of his old humour, wit, 
 and native shrewdness. But with 
 all this he never laughs.) 
 
 Seth. I say, old man, hadn't you better 
 go home and get shaved? 
 
 Rip. {Looking ahout for the voice.) 
 What? 
 
 Seth. Here, this way. Hadn't you bet- 
 ter go home and get shaved? 
 
 Rip. My wife will shave me when she gets 
 me home. Is this the village of "Falling 
 Waters" where we was? 
 
 Seth. Yes. 
 
 Rip. {Still more puzzled, not knowing his 
 face.) Do you live here? 
 
 Seth. Well, rather. I was born here. 
 
 Rip. {Reflectively.) Then you live here? 
 
 Seth. Well, rather; of course I do. 
 
 Rip. {Feeling that he has hold of some- 
 thing certain.) Do you know where I 
 live? 
 
 Seth. No; but I should say you belong 
 to Noah's Ark. 
 
 Rip. {Putting his hand to his ear.) That 
 I belong mit vas? 
 
 Seth. Noah's Ark. 
 
 Rip. {Very much hurt.) Why w^ill you 
 say such thing like that? {Then, with 
 a flash of humour, and drawing his heard 
 slowly through his fingers.) Well, look 
 like it, don't I? {Beginning all over 
 again to feel for his clue.) My friend, 
 did you never hear of a man in this place 
 whose name was Rip Van Winkle? 
 
 Seth. Rip Van Winkle, the laziest, 
 drunken vagabond in the country? 
 
 Rip. {Somewhat taken ahack hy this de^ 
 scription, hut obliged to concur in it^ 
 Yah, that is the one; there is no mis- 
 taking him, eh? 
 
 Seth. I know all about him. 
 
 Rip. {Hopefully.) Do you? 
 
 Seth. Yes. 
 
 Rip. {Quite eagerly.) Well, if you know 
 all about him; well, what has become of 
 him? 
 
 Seth. What has become of him? Why, 
 bless your soul, he 's been dead these 
 twenty years! 
 
 Rip. {Looking at Seth.) Then I am 
 dead, I suppose. So Rip Van Winkle 
 was dead, eh? 
 
 Seth. Yes; and buried. 
 
 Rip. {Humorously.) I'm sorry for 
 that; for he was a good fellow, so he 
 was. 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEJi^FERSON 
 
 485 
 
 Seth. (Aside.) There appears to be 
 something queer about this old chap; I 
 wonder who he is. [Rising and taking 
 chair over to Rip.) There, old gentle- 
 man, be seated. 
 
 Rip. (Seating himself with great diffi- 
 culty, assisted by Seth.) Oh, thank 
 you ; every time I move a new way, I get 
 another pain. My friend, where is the 
 house what you live in? 
 
 Seth. (Pointing at inn.) There. 
 
 Rip. Did you live there yesterday? 
 
 Seth. Well, rather. 
 
 Rip. No, it is Nick Vedder what live in 
 that house. Where is Nick Vedder? 
 
 Seth. Does he? Then I wish he'd pay 
 the rent for it. Why, Nick Vedder has 
 been dead these fifteen years. 
 
 Rip. Did you know Jacob Stein, what was 
 with him? 
 
 Seth. No ; but I Ve heard of him. He 
 was one of the same sort as Rip and 
 Nick. 
 
 Rip. Yes, them fellows was all pretty 
 much alike. 
 
 Seth. Well, he went off the hooks a short 
 time after Rip. 
 
 Rip. Where has he gone? 
 
 Seth. Off the hooks. 
 
 Rip. What is that, when they go off the 
 hooks? 
 
 Seth. Why, he died. 
 
 Rip. (With a?i air of hopelessness.) Is 
 there anybody alive here at all? (Then, 
 with a sudden revulsion of feeling, con- 
 vinced of the impossibility of what he 
 hears.) That man is drunk what talks 
 to me. 
 
 Seth. Ah, they were a jolly set, I reckon. 
 
 Rip. Oh, they was. I knowed them all. 
 
 Seth. Did you? 
 
 Rip. Yes, I know Jacob Stein, and Nick 
 Vedder, and Rip Van Winkle, and the 
 whole of them. (A neiv idea strikes 
 him, and he beckons to Seth, whom he 
 asks, very earnestly.) Oh, my friend, 
 come and see here. Did you know 
 Schneider? 
 
 Seth. Schneider! Schneider! No, I never 
 heard of him. 
 
 Rip. (Sirnply.) He was a dog. I thought 
 you might know him. Well, if dat is so, 
 what has become of my child Meenie, 
 and my wife Gretchen? Are they gone, 
 too? (Turning to look at tJie ruins of 
 the house.) Yah, even the house is 
 dead. 
 
 Seth. Poor, old chap! He seems quite 
 cast down at the loss of his friends. I '11 
 
 step in and ^et a drop of something to 
 cheer liim up. (Exit.) 
 
 Rip. (Puzzling it out with himself.) I 
 can't make it out how it all was; because 
 if this here is me, what is here now, and 
 Rip Van Winkle is dead, then who am 
 I? That is w^iat I would like to know. 
 Yesterday, everybody was here; and now 
 they was all gone. (Very forlorn.) 
 
 (Re-enter Seth, followed by the villagers.) 
 
 Seth. (Offering Rip the cup.) There, 
 old gent, there 's a drop of something to 
 cheer you up. 
 
 Rip. (Shaking hands with Seth and 
 Katchen.) Oh, thank you. I — I — I 
 swore off; but this is the first time what 
 I see you. I won't count this one. 
 (His voice breaks.) My friend, you 
 have been very kind to me. Here is 
 your good health, and your family's, and 
 may they all live long and prosper! 
 
 Seth. I say, wife, ain't he a curiosity fit 
 for a show? 
 
 Rip. (Aside.) That gives me courage to 
 ask these people anodder question. (He 
 begins with difficulty.) My friend, I 
 don't know whether you knowed it or 
 not, but there was a child of Rip, — 
 Meenie her name was. 
 
 Seth. Oh, yes; that's all right. 
 
 Rip. (With great emotion, leaning for- 
 icard.) She is not gone? She is not 
 dead? No, no! 
 
 Seth. No; she is alive. 
 
 Rip. (Sinking back with relief.) Meenie 
 is alive. It 's all right now, — all right 
 now. 
 
 Seth. She 's the prettiest girl in the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 Rip. I know dat. 
 
 Seth. But if she wastes her time waiting 
 on Hendrick Vedder, she '11 be a middle- 
 aged woman before long. 
 
 Rip. (Incredulously.) She's a little child, 
 only six years old. 
 
 Seth. Six-and-twenty, you mean. 
 
 Rip. (Thinking they are making fun of 
 him.) She's a little child no bigger 
 than that. Don't bodder me; I don't 
 like that. 
 
 Seth. Why, she 's as big as her mother. 
 
 Rip. (Very much surprised that Seth 
 knows Gretchen.) What, Gretchen? 
 
 Seth. Yes, Gretchen. 
 
 Rip. Isn't Gretchen dead? 
 
 Seth. No. She 's alive. 
 
 Rip. (With mixed emotions.) Gretchen 
 is alive, eh! Gretchen 's alive I 
 
486 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 Seth. Yes; and married again. 
 
 Rip. {Fiercely.) How would she do such 
 
 a thing like that? 
 Seth. Why, easy enough. After Rip 
 
 died, she was a widow, was n't she ? 
 Rip. Oh, yes. I forgot about Rip's being 
 
 dead. Well, and then? 
 Seth. Well, then Derrick made love to 
 
 her. 
 Rip. {Surprised, and almost amused.) 
 
 What for Derrick? Not Derrick Von 
 
 Beekman ? 
 Seth. Yes, Derrick Von Beekman. 
 Rip. {Still more interested.) Well, and 
 
 then? 
 Seth. Well, then her affairs went bad; 
 
 and at last she married him. 
 Rip. {Turning it over in his mind.) Has 
 
 Derrick married Gretchen? 
 Seth. Yes. 
 Rip. {With a flash of his old humour, hut 
 
 still with no laughter.) Well, I didn't 
 
 think he would come to any good; I 
 
 never did. So she cotched Derrick, eh? 
 
 Poor Derrick! 
 Seth. Yes. 
 Rip. Well, here 's their good health, and 
 
 their family's, and may they all live long 
 
 and prosper! {Drinks.) 
 
 Seth. Now, old gent, hadn't you better 
 
 be going home, wherever that is? 
 Rip. {With conviction.) Where my home 
 
 was ? Here 's where it is. 
 Seth. What, here in this village? Now 
 
 do you think w^e 're going to keep all the 
 
 half-witted strays that choose to come 
 
 along here? No; be off with you. 
 
 Why, it 's a shame that those you belong 
 
 to should allow such an old tramp as you 
 
 to float around here. 
 Villagers. {Roughly, and trying to push 
 
 him along.) Yes; away with him! 
 Rip. {Frightened, and pleading with 
 
 them.) Are you going to drive me away 
 
 into the hills again? 
 First Villager. Yes; away with him! 
 
 He 's an old tramp. 
 
 {Enter Hendrick, with stick and bundle, 
 followed by some of the women of the 
 village.) 
 
 Villagers. Away with him! 
 
 Hendrick. {Throwing down bundle.) 
 Avast there, .mates. Where are you 
 towing that old hulk to? What, you 
 won't? {Pushing crowd aside, and go- 
 ing forward.) Wiiere are you towing 
 that old hulk to? 
 
 Seth. Who are you? 
 
 Hendrick. I 'm a man, every inch of me ; 
 and if you doubt it, I '11 undertake to 
 remove the suspicions from any two of 
 you in Ave minutes. Ain't you ashamed 
 of yourselves? Don't you see the poor 
 old creature has but half his w4ts? 
 
 Seth. Well, this is no asylum for worn 
 out idiots. 
 
 Villagers. {Coming forward.) No, it 
 ain't ! 
 
 Hendrick. Ain't it? 
 
 Omnes. No, it ain't. 
 
 Hendrick. Then I '11 make it a hospital 
 for broken heads if you stand there 
 much longer. Clear the decks, you 
 lubberly swabs! {Drives them aside. 
 Turns to Rip, wJio stands bewildered.) 
 What is the cause of all this? 
 
 Rip. {Helplessly.) I don't know, do you? 
 
 Hendrick. {To villagers.) Do any of 
 you know him? 
 
 First Villager. No; he appears to be a 
 stranger. 
 
 Hendrick. {To Rip.) You seem bewil- 
 dered. Can I help you? 
 
 Rip. {Feebly.) Just tell me where I live. 
 
 Hendrick. And don't you know? 
 
 Rip. No; I don't. 
 
 Hendrick. Why, what's your name? 
 
 Rip. {Almost childishly.) 1 don't know; 
 but I believe I know vat it used to be. 
 My name, it used to be Rip Van Winkle. 
 
 Villagers. {In astonishment.) Rip Van 
 Winkle? 
 
 Hendrick. Rip Van Winkle? Impossi- 
 ble! 
 
 Rip. {Pathetically feeble, and old. ) Well, 
 I w^ould n't swear to it mj'self . I tell 
 you how it was: Last night, I don't 
 know about the time, I went away up 
 into the mountains, and while I was 
 there I met a queer kind o' man, and 
 we got drinkin'; and I guess I got pretty 
 drunk. And then I went to sleep ; and 
 when I woke up this morning, I was 
 dead. {All laugh.) 
 
 Hendrick. Poor old fellow ; he 's crazy. 
 Rip Van Winkle has been dead these 
 twenty years. I knew him when I was 
 a child. 
 
 Rip. {Clutching at a faint hope.) You 
 don't know me? 
 
 Hendrick. No; nor anybody else here, it 
 seems. 
 
 {The villagers, finding that there is to 
 be no amusement for them, straggle 
 off to their occupations.) 
 
 Seth. {As he goes into the inn.) Why, 
 wife, he 's as cracked as our old teapot. 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 487 
 
 Rip. {With simple pathos.) Are we so 
 soon forgot when we are gone"? No one 
 remembers Rip Van Winkle. 
 
 Hendrick. Come, cheer up, my old 
 hearty, and you shall share my break- 
 fast. {Assists Rip to sit at the table. 
 Rip has fallen into a dream again. 
 To Katchen.) Bring us enough for 
 three, and of your best. 
 
 Katchen. That I will. {Exit into inn.) 
 
 Hendrick. So here I am, home again. 
 And yonder 's the very -spot where, five 
 years ago, I parted from Meenie. 
 
 Rip. {Roused by the name.) What, 
 Meenie Van Winkle? 
 
 Hendrick. And she promised to remain 
 true to Hendrick Vedder. 
 
 Rip. Oh, yah; that was Nick Vedder's 
 son. 
 
 Hendrick. {Turning to Rip.) That's 
 me. 
 
 Rip. {Resentfully.) That was you! You 
 think I'm a fool? He's a little child, 
 no bigger than that, — the one I mean. 
 
 Hendrick. How mad he is! 
 
 {Enter Katchen from inn with tray, on 
 which is laid a breakfast. She puts it 
 on table, and exits into inn.) 
 
 There, that 's right. Stow your old 
 locker full while I take a cruise around 
 yonder house, where, five years ago, I 
 left the dearest bit of human nature that 
 was ever put together. I '11 be back di- 
 rectly. Who comes here ? It 's surely 
 Derrick and his wife. Egad, I 'm in 
 luck; for now the old birds are out, 
 Meenie will surely be alone. I '11 take 
 advantage of the coast being clear, and 
 steer into harbour alongside. {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Derrick, followed by Gretchen.) 
 
 Derrick. So you have come to that con- 
 clusion, have you? 
 
 Gretchen. I cannot accept this sacrifice. 
 
 Rip. {Starting from his reverie, and turn- 
 ing to look at her.) Why, that is Gret- 
 chen's voice. {As he recognizes her, 
 and sees how aged she is.) My, my! Is 
 that my wife? 
 
 Derrick. Oh, you can't accept! Won't 
 you kindly allow me a word on the sub- 
 ject? 
 
 Rip. {Aside, humorously.) No, indeed, 
 she will not. Now, my friend, you are 
 going to coteh it. 
 
 Gretchen. There is a limit even to my 
 patience. Don't drive me to it. 
 
 Rip. {Aside, ^ drolly.) Take care, my 
 friend; take care. 
 
 Derrick. Look you, woman; Meenie has 
 consented to marry my nephew. She 
 has pledged her word to do so on con- 
 dition that I settle an annuity on you. 
 
 Gretchen. I won't allow my child to 
 break her heart. 
 
 Derrick. You won't allow? Dare to 
 raise your voice, dare but to speak ex^ 
 cept as I command you, you shall re- 
 pent it to the last hour of your life. 
 
 Rip. {Expectantly.) Now she'll knock 
 him down, flat as a flounder. 
 
 Derrick. {Sneeringly.) You won't al- 
 low? This is something new. Who are 
 you; do you think you are dealing with 
 your first husband? 
 
 Gretchen. Alas, no; I wish I was. 
 
 Rip. {Lost in wonderment.) My, my, if 
 Rip was alive, he never would have be- 
 lieved it! 
 
 Derrick. So you thought to get the upper 
 hand of me, when you married me; 
 didn't you? 
 
 Gretchen. I thought to get a home for 
 my little girl — shelter, and food; want 
 drove me to your door, and I married 
 you for a meal's victuals for my sick 
 child. 
 
 Derrick. So you came to me as if I was 
 a poor-house, eh? Then you can't com- 
 plain of the treatment you received. 
 You sacrificed yourself for Meenie, and 
 the least she can do now, is to do the 
 same for you. In an hour, the deeds 
 will be ready. Now, just you take care 
 that no insolent interference of yours 
 spoils my plans; do you hear? 
 
 Gretchen. Yes, sir. 
 
 Derrick. Why can't you be kind and af- 
 fectionate to her, as I am to you. There, 
 go and blubber over her; that's your 
 way. You are always pretending to be 
 miserable. 
 
 Gretchen. Alas, no sir! I am always 
 pretending to be happy. 
 
 Derrick. Don't cry. I won't have it; 
 come now, none of that. If you come 
 home today with red eyes, and streaky 
 cheeks, I '11 give you something to cry 
 for ; now you know what 's for supper. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Rip. {Still amazed.) Well, if I hadn't 
 seen it, I never would have believed it ! 
 
 Gretchen, {Absorbed in Iter grief.) Oh, 
 TVTetch that I am, I must consent, or 
 that man will surely thrust her out of 
 doors to starve, to beg, and to become — : 
 
488 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 {Seeing Rip.) Yes, to become a thing 
 of rags and misery, like that poor soul. 
 Rip. She always drived the beggars away; 
 I suppose I must go. 
 
 {Getting up, and starting to go.) 
 Gretchen. {Taking penny from her 
 pocket.) Here, my poor man, take this. 
 It is only a penny; but take it, and may 
 God bless you, poor wanderer, so old, so 
 helpless. Why do you come to this 
 strange place, so far from home? 
 Rip. {Keeping his face turned away from 
 her.) She don't know me; she don't 
 know me ! 
 Gretchen. Are you alone in the world? 
 Rip. {Trying to bring himself to look di- 
 rectly at Gretchen.) My wife asks me 
 if I 'm alone. 
 Gretchen. Come with me. How feeble 
 he is; there, lean on me. Come to yon- 
 der house, and there you shall rest your 
 limbs by the fire. 
 
 (Gretchen takes his arm, and puts it 
 in her own. As they move towards 
 her house. Rip stops, and, with an 
 effort, turns and looks her full in 
 the face, with a penetrating gaze, as 
 if imploring recognition, hut there 
 is none; and, sadly shaking his head, 
 he shrinks into himself, and allows 
 her to lead him tottering off.) 
 
 Scene 4. The same room in Derrick's 
 home as in Scene 2. 
 
 {Enter Derrick.) 
 
 Derrick. I don't know what women were 
 invented for, except to make a man's life 
 miserable. I can get a useful, hard- 
 working woman to kee^ my house clean, 
 and order my dinner for me, for half 
 that weak, snivelling creature costs me. 
 
 {Enter Cockles.) 
 
 Cockles. Well, uncle, what new^s ; w^ill she 
 have me? 
 
 Derrick. Leave it to me; she must, she 
 shall. 
 
 Cockles. If she holds out, what are we 
 to do? It was all very well, you marry- 
 ing Rip's widow, that choked off all in- 
 quiry into his affairs; but here's Meenie, 
 Rip's heiress, who rightly owns all this 
 property ; if we don't secure her, we 're 
 not safe. 
 
 Derrick. You 've got rid of Hendrick 
 Vedder ; that '^ one obstacle removed, 
 
 Cockles. I 'm not so sure about that. 
 His ship was wrecked on a lonely coast; 
 but some of the crew may have, unfor- 
 tunately, been saved. 
 
 Derrick. If he turns up after you 're 
 married, what need you care? 
 
 Cockles. I 'd like nothing better; I 'd like 
 to see his face when he saw my arm 
 around his sweetheart — my wife. But 
 if he turns up before our marriage — 
 
 Derrick. I must put the screw on some- 
 where. 
 
 Cockles. I '11 tell you, Meenie will do 
 anything for her mother's sake. Now 
 you are always threatening to turn her 
 out, as she turned out Rip. That 's the 
 tender place. Meenie fears more for her 
 mother, than she cares for herself. 
 
 Derrick. Well, what am I to do? 
 
 Cockles. Make Gretchen independent of 
 you; settle the little fortune on her, 
 that you are always talking about do- 
 ing, but never keeping your word. The 
 girl will sell herself to secure her mother's 
 happiness. 
 
 Derrick. And it would be a cheap rid- 
 dance for me. I was just talking about 
 it to Gretchen this morning. You shall 
 have the girl; but I hope you are not 
 going to marry her out of any weak feel- 
 ing of love. You 're not going to let her 
 make a fool of you by and by? 
 
 Cockles. I never cared for her until she 
 w^as impudent to me, and got that sailor 
 lover of hers to thrash me; and then I 
 began to feel a hunger for her I never 
 felt before. 
 
 Derrick. That 's just the way I felt for 
 Gretchen. 
 
 Cockles. 'T ain't revenge that I feel; it 's 
 enterprise. I want to overcome a diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 Derrick. {Chuckling.) And so you 
 shall. Come, we '11 put your scheme in 
 train at once; and let this be a warning 
 to you hereafter, never marry another 
 man's widow. 
 
 Cockles. No, uncle ; I '11 take a leaf out 
 of your book, and let it be a warning to 
 her. {Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene 5. A plain sitting-room in Der- 
 rick's house. A table stands in the cen- 
 tre with several chairs around it. There 
 are cups, a jug, and a workbasket on 
 the table. As the curtain rises, Meenib 
 is discovered seated/ 1?y the table. 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 489 
 
 Meenie. Why should I repine? Did my 
 mother hesitate to sacrifice her life to 
 make a home for me? No; these tears 
 are ungrateful, selfish. 
 
 {The door at the hack opens.) 
 
 (Gretchen enters, leading Rip, who seems 
 very feeble and a little wild,) 
 
 Gretchen. Come in and rest a while. 
 
 Rip. This your house, your home? 
 
 Gretchen. Yes. Meenie, Meenie, bring 
 him a chair. 
 
 Rip. {Turning aside so as to shield his 
 face from Meenie.) Is that your 
 daughter ? 
 
 Gretchen. Th^t is my daughter. 
 
 Rip. {Looking timidly at Meenie, as 
 Gretchen helps him into a chair.) I 
 thought you was a child. 
 
 Gretchen. {Crossing to go into another 
 room, and speaking to Meenie, who 
 starts to follow her.) Stay with him 
 until I get some food to fill his wallet. 
 Don't be -frightened, child, he is only a 
 simple, half-witted creature whose mis- 
 ery has touched my heart. 
 
 {Exit. Meenie takes her workhasket 
 and starts to follow.) 
 
 Rip. {Holding out his hand to detain her, 
 and speaking with hardly suppressed ex- 
 citement.) One moment, my dear. 
 Come here, and let me look at you. 
 {Pathetically.) Are you afraid? I 
 won't hurt you. I only want to look at 
 you; that is all. Won't you come? 
 (Meenie puts down her workhasket; 
 and Rip is relieved of his great fear that 
 she might leave him. His excitement in- 
 creases as he goes on in his struggle to 
 make her recognize him.) Yes, I tliought 
 you would. Oh, yah, that is Meenie! 
 But you are grown! (Meenie smiles.) 
 But see the smile and the eyes! That is 
 just the same Meenie. You are a 
 woman, Meenie. Do you remember 
 something of your father? 
 
 {He looks at her eagerly and anx- 
 iously, as if on her answer hung his 
 reason and his life.) 
 
 Meenie. I do. I do. Oh, I wish he was 
 here now! 
 
 Rip. {Half rising in his chair, in his ex- 
 
 ■ citement.) Yah? But he isn't? No? 
 No? 
 
 Meenie. No ; he 's dead. I remember him 
 so well. No one ever loved him as I did. 
 
 Rip. No; nobody ever loved me like my 
 child. 
 
 Meenie. Never shall I forget his dear, 
 good face. Tell me — 
 
 Rip. {Eagerly and expectantly.) Yah? — 
 
 Meenie. Did you know him? 
 
 Rip. {Confused hy her question, and 
 afraid to answer.) Well — I thought I 
 did. But I — When I say that here, in 
 the village, the people all laugh at me. 
 
 Meenie. He is wandering. 
 
 {She starts to go.) 
 
 Rip. {Making a great effort of will, and 
 resolved to put the question of his iden- 
 tity to the test.) Don't go away from 
 me. I want you to look at me now, and 
 tell me if you have ever seen me before. 
 
 Meenie. {Surprised.) No. 
 
 Rip. {Holding out his arms to her.) Try, 
 my darlin', won't you? 
 
 Meenie. {Frightened.) What do you 
 mean? Why do you gaze so earnestly 
 and fondly on me? 
 
 Rip. {Rising from his chair, in tremhling 
 excitement, and approaching her.) I 
 am afraid to tell you, my dear, because 
 if you say it is not true, it may be it 
 would break my heart. But, Meenie, 
 either I dream, or I am mad; but I am 
 your father. 
 
 Meenie. My father! 
 
 Rip. Yes ; but hear me, my dear, and then 
 you will know. {Trying to be logical 
 and calm, hut labouring under great ex- 
 citement.) This village here is the vil- 
 lage of Falling Waters. Well, that was 
 my home. I had here in this place my 
 wife, Gretchen, and my child Meenie — 
 little Meenie — {A long pause, during 
 which he strives to reassemble his ideas 
 and memories more accurately.) and my 
 dog Schnei(}er. That 's all the family 
 what I 've got. Try and remember me, 
 dear, won't you? {Pleadingly.) I 
 don't know when it was — This night 
 there was a storm; and my wife drived 
 me from my house; and I went away — 
 I don't remember any more till I come 
 back here now. And see, I get back now, 
 and my wife is gone, and my home is 
 gone. My home is gone, and my child 
 — my child looks in my face, and don't 
 know who I am! 
 
 Meenie. {Rushing into his arms.) I do! 
 Father! 
 
 Rip. {Sobbing.) Ah, my child! Some- 
 body knows me now! Somebody knows 
 me now! 
 
 Meenie. But can it be possible? 
 
 Rip. Oh, yah; it is so, Meenie! {With a 
 patheth return of his uncertainty.) 
 
490 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 Don't say it is not, or you will kill me 
 if you do. 
 
 Meenie. No. One by one your features 
 come back to my memory. Your voice 
 recalls that of my dear father, too. I 
 cannot doubt; yet it is so strange. 
 
 Rip. Yah, but it is me, Meenie; it is me. 
 
 Meenie. I am bewildered. Surely mother 
 will know you. 
 
 Rip. (Smiling.) No, I don't believe 
 she '11 know me. 
 
 Meenie. She can best prove your iden- 
 tity. I will call her. 
 
 Rip. No. You call the dog Schneider. 
 He '11 know me better than my wife. 
 (They retire to a sofa in the back- 
 ground, ivhere Rip sits with his arm 
 around Meenie.^) 
 
 (Enter Derrick, with documents.) 
 
 Derrick. What old vagabond is this? 
 (Meenie starts to resent insult.) 
 
 Rip. Don't you say a word. 
 
 Derrick. Here, give him a cold potato, 
 and let him go. (To Gretchen, ivlio 
 has entered, followed by Cockles. 
 Gretchen seats herself in the chair at 
 the right of the table.) Come you here, 
 mistress. Here are the papers for the 
 young couple to sign. 
 
 Cockles. (Aside.) And the sooner, the 
 better. Hush, Uncle, Hendrick is here. 
 
 Derrick. Young Vedder? Then we must 
 look sharp. (To Gretchen.) Come, 
 fetch that girl of yours to sign this deed. 
 
 Gretchen. Never shall she put her name 
 to that paper with my consent. Never. 
 
 Derrick. Dare you oppose me in my own 
 house? Dare you preach disobedience 
 under my roof? 
 
 Gretchen. I dare do anything when my 
 child's life 's at stake. No, a thousand 
 times, no! You shall not make of her 
 what you have of me. Starvation and 
 
 1 In reply to a question why "Rip" should sit 
 with his arm around "Meenie," during the next 
 scene, when the other persons in the driuna are still 
 present, and are still ignorant of his identity, Mr 
 Jefferson said: "The other persons are occupied 
 with their own affairs, and are not svipposed to see 
 this. It is natural that 'Rip' should embrace his 
 daughter whom he has just found, but the others are 
 not supposed to see this. It is like a side speech on 
 a stage. I went to a Chinese theatre once, and after 
 the Chinese lady got through with her song, they 
 brought her a glass of gin; she turned her back to 
 the audience, and drank it. as much as to say, 'That's 
 not in the play.' We are dealing with the impos- 
 sible all the time on the stage ; and we have got 
 to make it appear possible. Dramatically, things 
 may often be right, when, realistically, they are 
 wrong. What we do is often tlie result of averag- 
 ing the thing, determining how far good taste will 
 admit of an error, you see ; like the discord in music, 
 — not good in itself, but good in its place." 
 
 death are better than such a life as I 
 lead. 
 
 Derrick. (liaising cane.) Don't provoke 
 me. 
 
 Gretchen. (Kneeling.) Beat me, starve 
 me. You can only kill me. After all, I 
 deserve it. (Rising.) But Meenie has 
 given her promise to Hendrick Vedder, 
 and she shall not break her word. 
 
 Cockles. (Seated at right of table.) 
 But Hendrick Vedder is dead. 
 
 (The door is flung open, and Hendrick 
 enters. ) 
 
 Hendrick. That 's a lie ! He 's alive ! 
 
 Gretchen and Meenie. (Rushing to 
 him.) Alive! 
 
 Hendrick. ( To Meenie.') I 've heard all 
 about it. They made you believe that I 
 was dead. (To Derrick.) Only wait 
 till I get through here. (Embracing 
 Meenie.) What a pleasure I've got to 
 come! (To Derrick.) And what a 
 thrashing I 've brought back for you two 
 swabs. 
 
 Derrick. (Angrily.) Am I to be bullied 
 under my own roof by a beggarly sailor? 
 Quit my house all of you. (Seizes Gret- 
 chen, and drags her away from the 
 crowd.) As for you, woman, this is 
 your work, and I '11 make you pay for 
 it. 
 
 Gretchen. Hendrick, save me from him. 
 He will kill me. 
 
 Hendrick. Stand off! 
 
 Derrick. (Raising cane.) No; she is my 
 wife, mine. 
 
 Gretchen. Heaven help me, I am! 
 
 (Rip has risen from the sofa, and 
 come forward, and leans against the 
 centre of the table, witli one hand irt 
 his game-bag. lie is fully awake 
 now, and has recovered all his old 
 shrewdness.) 
 
 Rip. Stop. I am not so sure about that. 
 If that is so, then what has become of 
 Rip Van Winkle? 
 
 Cockles. He's dead. 
 
 Rip. That 's another lie. He 's no more 
 dead than Hendrick Vedder. Derrick 
 Von Beekman, you say this house and 
 land was yours? 
 
 Derrick. Yes. 
 
 Rip. Where and what is the paper what 
 you w\anted Rip Van Winkle to sign 
 when he was drunk, but sober enough 
 not to do it? (Taking an old paper out 
 of game-bag, and turning to Hendrick.) 
 Have you forgot how to read? 
 
AS PLAYED BY JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 491 
 
 Hexdkiok. No. 
 
 Rip. Then you read that. 
 
 (Hendkick takes the document from 
 Rip, and looks it over.) 
 
 Derrick. What does this mad old vaga- 
 bond mean to say? 
 
 Rip. I mean, that is my wife, Gretchen 
 Van Winkle. 
 
 Gretchen. [Hushing to Rip.) Rip! 
 Rip! 
 
 Cockles. I say, uncle, are you going to 
 stand that? That old impostor is going 
 it under your nose in fine style. 
 
 Derrick. I'm dumb with rage. (To the 
 villagers, who have come crowding in.) 
 Out of my house, all of you! Begone, 
 you old tramp ! 
 
 Hendrick. Stay where you are. {To 
 Derrick.) This house don't belong to 
 you. Not an acre of land, not a brick 
 in the town is yours. They have never 
 ceased to belong to Rip Van Winkle; and 
 this document proves it. 
 
 Derrick. 'T is false. That paper is a 
 forger3^ 
 
 Hendrick. Oh, no, it is not ; for I read it 
 to Rip twenty years ago. 
 
 Rip. Clever boy! Clever boy! Dat 's 
 the reason I did n't sign it then. Derrick. 
 
 Derrick. (J.pproac/</wY/ Hexdrick.) And 
 do you think I 'm fool enough to give up 
 my property in this way? 
 
 Hendrick. No. You 're fool enough to 
 hang on to it, until we make you refund 
 to Rip every shilling over and above the 
 paltry sum you loaned him upon it. 
 Now^, if you are wise, vou '11 take a hint. 
 There 's the door. Go ! And never let 
 us see your face again. 
 
 Rip. Yaii; give him a cold potato, and let 
 him go. 
 
 {Exit Derrick in a great rage. All 
 the villagers laugh at him.) Hen- 
 drick follows him to the door.) 
 
 Cockles, {kneeling to Meenie.) 0, 
 Meenie ! Meenie ! 
 
 Hendrick. {Coming down, and taking 
 him by the ear.) I '11 Meenie you! 
 
 {Takes him and pushes him out. All 
 the villagers laugh. Meenie gives 
 Rip a chair.) 
 
 Gretchen. {Kneeling by the side of 
 Rip.) 0, Rip! I drove you from your 
 home ; but do not desert me again. I '11 
 never speak an unkind word to you, and 
 you shall never see a frown on my face. 
 And Rip — 
 
 Rip. Yah. 
 
 Gretchen. You may stay out all night, 
 if you like. 
 
 Rip. {Leaning back in his chair.) No, 
 thank you. I had enough of that. 
 
 Gretchen. And, Rip, you can get tight 
 as often as you please. 
 
 Rip. ( Taking . bottle, and filling the cup 
 from it.) No; I don't touch another 
 drop. 
 
 Meenie. {Kneeling by the other side of 
 Rip.) Oh, yes, you will, father. For 
 see, here are all the neighbours come to 
 w^elcome you home. 
 
 (Gretchen offers Rip the cup.) 
 
 Rip. {With all his old kindliness and hos- 
 pitality.) Well, bring in all the chil- 
 dren, and the neighbours, and the dogs, 
 and — {Seeing the cup which- Gret- 
 chen is offering to him.) I swore off, 
 you know. Well, I won't count this one ; 
 for this w^ill go down with a prayer. I 
 will take my cup and pipe and tell my 
 strange story to all my friends. Here is 
 my child Meenie, and my wife Gretchen, 
 and my boy Hendrick. I '11 drink all 
 your good health, and I '11 drink your 
 good health, and your families', and may 
 they all live long and prosper! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 BY 
 
 Steele MacKaye 
 
Copyright, 1860, by J. S. MacIvaye 
 
 Copyright, 1908, by M. M. MacKaye 
 [In Renewal] 
 
 Copyright in Great Britain and Ireland, and in all Countries 
 Subscribing to the Bern Convention, 
 
 Published, 1916. 
 
 Special Notice. 
 
 This play in its printed form is designed for the reading 
 public only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by 
 copyright, both in the United States and in Great Britain, and 
 no puhlic or private performance — professional or amateur — 
 may he given icithout the loritten permission of the owner of 
 the copyright and the payment of royalty. As the courts have 
 also ruled that the public reading of a play, for pay or 
 where tickets are sold, constitutes a "performance," no such 
 reading may be given except under conditions as above stated. 
 Anyone disregarding the author's rights renders himself liable 
 to prosecution. For permission to perform or read in pitllic 
 this play, communication should he sent to Mrs. Steele Mac- 
 Kaye, in care of the puhlishers. 
 
HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 Eazel Kirke represents the domestic drama of the late seventies, and the 
 work of a singularly interesting pioneer in the dramatic and theatrical history 
 of this country. (James) Steele MacKaye was born June 6, 1842, at Fort Por- 
 ter, in 'Buffalo, New York. His father. Colonel James M. MacKaye, a promi- 
 nent lawyer and art connoisseur, was an abolitionist and a friend of Garrison, 
 Emerson, and Lincoln. As a lad, Steele MacKaye studied art first at Newport 
 under William Hunt in 1858 and 1859 and later in Paris in the Ecole des 
 Beaux Arts and under Gerome, Couture, and others. The Civil War brought 
 him back to this country and he served for eighteen months, in the Seventh 
 Regiment of New York and then in Colonel Burney's regiment, where he had 
 the rank of Major. Illness compelling his retirement, he went again to Paris, 
 and here, while executing commissions as an expert buyer of paintings, he became 
 interested in photo-sculpture and afterwards introduced it into this country. On 
 his return to Paris in 1869 he met Francois Delsarte and became his disciple in 
 his classes in expression. The war of 1870 broke up this occupation and he re- 
 turned to America where by lecturing on the principles of Delsarte, he secured 
 funds with which he aided his master who had been ruined by the war.. His 
 initial lecture given in Boston, March 21, 1871, marks an epoch in our theatrical 
 history, since his gospel was that of quiet natural force in expression as op- 
 posed to the artificial, over-emphatic style of the day. To express these ideas 
 further he appeared on the stage in New York at the St. James Theatre, Janu- 
 ary 8, 1872, in his adaptation of Washington Allston's novel Monaldi, in which 
 Francis Durivage was his collaborator. His success was real in all but financial 
 return, and worn out with his first efforts as a manager he returned to Paris, 
 studying and acting in French at the Conservatoire, under Regnier, where he 
 played ''Hamlet" among other parts and then going to England, where he be- 
 came acquainted with Charles Reade and Tom Taylor. Under the latter 's 
 management, he acted "Hamlet" from May 3, 1873, to August of the same year 
 in London and the provinces. After that, except for occasional benefits he 
 acted only in his own plays, his most important parts being ''Dunsfan Kirke," 
 "Arthur Carringford" and "Aaron Rodney" in Hazel Kirke, "Paul Kau- 
 var" and "Duroc" in Paul Kauvar, and "John Fleming" in Won at Last. 
 
 Steele MacKaye 's work as a teacher was of great significance. He founded 
 and conducted four schools of expression, the most important being the Lyceum 
 Theatre School in New York which began in 1884, This school, through Mac- 
 
 495 
 
496 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Kaye 's association with the Frohmans and Mr. David Belasco, had a strong influ- 
 ence on the future of the stage, while his direct influence on his many pupils is 
 hard properly to estimate. As an organizer and stage manager he had to his 
 credit two theatres, numerous theatrical companies, and the Spectatorium at Chi- 
 cago in 1893. He built the Madison Square Theatre and the Lyceum Theatre in 
 New York, modeling the former on the Theatre Francais, and hoping to bring 
 together a permanent company of artists. He planned also to pay properly the 
 dramatists who were to write plays for his company. Yet, so careless was he 
 in financial dealings, that his contract with the capitalists who controlled the 
 theatre gave him but a salary of $5,000 yearly and he shared in none of the 
 profits of Hazel Kirke, which amounted to $200,000 in two years. His final 
 achievement as an organizer and director was the Spectatorium in Chicago in 
 connection with the "World's Fair in 1893, a great project which failed owing 
 to the financial crisis of that summer. In this immense auditorium he was 
 planning to produce The World Finder, a "Spectatorio" based on the Colum- 
 bus story. He died February 25, .1894, having lived to see some of his ideas 
 vindicated on a smaller scale in the production of a working model of the 
 original plan, known as the Scenitorium, on February 5, 1894. 
 
 As a dramatist, Steele MacKaj^e represents the transition from the older 
 theatrical tradition to the newer realism. His work was not by any means free 
 from the older devices, but there is a decided advance in the naturalness of the 
 characters and in the quietude of expression. His acted plays were as follows: 
 
 Monaldi, with Francis Durivage, first produced at the St. James Theatre, 
 New York, January 8, 1872 ; Marriage, adapted from the French of Octave Feuil- 
 let's Julie, first produced at the St. James Theatre, New York, February 12, 
 1872; Arkivright's Wife, with Tom Taylor, first produced at the Theatre Eoyal, 
 Leeds, England, July 7, 1873 ; Rose Micliel, based on the French of Ernest Blum, 
 produced for the first time at the Union Square Theatre, New York, November 
 23, 1875 ; Queen and Woman, with J. V. Pritchard, first produced at the Brooklyil 
 Theatre, Brooklyn, New York, February 14, 1876; Twins, with A. C. Wheeler, 
 produced for the first time at Wallack's Theatre, New York, April 12, 1876 ; Won 
 at Last, produced at Wallack's Theatre, New York, December 10, 1877; Through 
 the Dark, produced for the first time at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, 
 IMarch 10, 1879; An Iron Will, produced for the first time at Low's Opera House, 
 Providence, Rhode Island, October 27, 1879 ; its revision. Hazel Kirke, produced 
 for the first time at the Madison Square Theatre, New York, February 4, 1880 ; 
 A FooVs Errand, a dramatization of Judge Tourgee's novel, first produced at the 
 Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, October 26, 1881 ; Dakolar, based on Georges 
 Ohnet's Le Maitre de Forges, first produced at the Lyceum Theatre, New 
 York, April 6, 1885; In Spite of All, a play based on Sardou's Andrea, first 
 produced at the Lyceum Theatre, New York^ September 15^ 1885 ; Blenzi, based 
 
INTRODUCTION 497 
 
 on Bulwer Lytton 's novel of the same name, first perf armed at Albaugh 's Opera 
 House, Washington, December 13, 1886; The Drama of Civilization, a pageant 
 from W. F. Cody's ''Wild West," first performed at the Madison Square Garden, 
 New York, November 27, 1887; Anarchy, first performed at the Academy of 
 Music, Buffalo, New York, May 30, 1887, and afterward revised as Paul Kauvar, 
 at the Standard Theatre, New York, December 24, 1887 ; A Nolle Rogue, first 
 performed at the Chicago Opera House, Chicago, Illinois, July 3, 1888 ; An Ar- 
 rant Knave, first produced at the Chicago Opera House, Chicago, Illinois, Sep- 
 tember 30, 1889; Colonel Tom, first produced at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, 
 Massachusetts, January 20, 1890; Money Mad, first produced at the Standard 
 Theatre, New York, April 7, 1890. 
 
 Of these nineteen plays, none was an utter failure, nearly all were successes 
 in their day, and three, Hazel Kirke, Won at Last, and Paul Kauvar, were 
 played for years in stock. Hazel Kirke was written in the town of Dublin, New 
 Hampshire, where Steele MacKaye spent the summers of 1878 and 1879. The 
 heroine's name was suggested by the sprigs of hazel boughs nearby. It was first 
 played under the title of An Iron Will. It had been the intention of its author 
 to present it at the Madison Square Theatre, but owing to delay in the comple- 
 tion of that theatre it was first produced in Providence, Rhode Island, October 
 27, 1879, and taken on tour through Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and 
 other cities. On February 4, 1880, the play was put on at the Madison Square 
 Theatre under the present name, and ran consecutively for about two years. It 
 has continued on the stage for thirty years and in America has been acted at the 
 same time by ten companies. It has been produced in England, Australia, Japan, 
 Hawaii, and elsewhere. Its success has been due to its human qual- 
 ity, and to the fact that it appeals to the primary instincts. It was noteworthy 
 in the absence of ''the stage villain" — the incidents were developed naturally, 
 and it points forward in our stage technique. 
 
 Hazel Kirke has so far been the only play of Steele MacKaye 's to be pub- 
 lished. It was privately printed in New York in 1880 and has been reprinted 
 in the Samuel French series. For permission to reprint the play, the ed- 
 itor is indebted to the courtesy of Mrs. Steele MacKaye who, with her son, ]\Ir. 
 Percy MacKaye, has carefully collated the two editions, and prepared a definitive 
 text and furnished valuable biographical and critical information. The present 
 editor also acknowledges his indebtedness to the article on ' ' Steele MacKaye, Dy- 
 namic Artist of the American Theatre, ' ' by Percy MacKaye, The Drama, Nos. 4 
 and 5, November, 1911, and February, 1912. 
 
 Mr. MacKaye has in preparation a memorial volume dealing with the work 
 of his father and in this volume Hazel Kirke and Paul Kauvar are to be included. 
 
The original cast of Hazel Kirke, as first produced at the Madison Square Thea- 
 tre, New York City, February 4th, 1880 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 A Comedy Drama in Four Acts, written expressly for this Theatre 
 
 STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Hazel Kirke Miss Effie Ellsler 
 
 Dolly Dutton Miss Gabrielle Du Sauld 
 
 Emily Carringford [Lady Travers] Mrs. Cecil Rush 
 
 jMercy Kirke Mrs. Thomas Whiffen 
 
 Clara, a maid Miss Annie Ellsler 
 
 Arthur Carringford [Lord Travers] Mr. Eben Plympton 
 
 DuNSTAN Kirke Mr. C. W. Couldock 
 
 Aaron Rodney Mr. Dominick Murray 
 
 PiTTACUs Green Mr. Thomas Whiffen 
 
 jMethuselah Miggins [called Met] Mr. Joseph Frankau 
 
 Barney O'Flynn, a valet Mr. Edward Coleman 
 
 Joe, a miller Mr. Fred P. Barton 
 
 Dan, a miller Mr. George Grey 
 
 Thomas, a servant Mr. Henry Jones 
 
 Millers, Servants, etc. 
 
 ACT I. — Scene. — Exterior of Blackburn Mill. 
 ACT II. — Scene. — A boudoir in the villa of Fairy Grove. 
 ACT III.— Scene.— Kitchen of Blackburn Mill. Night. 
 ACT IV.- Scene.— Kitchen of Blackburn Mill. Morning. 
 
 100th performance. May 11, 1880. 
 
 300th performance November 29, 1880. 
 
 Withdrawn May 31, 1881, after 486 consecutive performances. 
 
HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene. Exterior of Dunstan Kirke's 
 mill. At right, exterior of house, open- 
 ing into courtyard; at left, a large gate- 
 way. Walls to courtyard covered with 
 vines; view of mill-iuheel in background. 
 Down right, a bench ; down left, a rustic 
 table and two chairs; a pile of empty 
 hags up stage center; broom in porch; 
 piano visible within. As curtain rises, 
 Joe is discovered marking bags; mil- 
 ler boys cross behind the wall, ivith hags 
 of grain on their shoulders. 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Inside.) Now, then, Dan, 
 
 you dolt — more bags! Be off, boys! 
 Dan. {Appearing behind wall, to Joe.) 
 
 More bags — more bags for market. 
 Joe. Drat it. Give me time to mark 'em, 
 
 can't ye? 
 Dan. Oh! I don't care how long ye take 
 
 — but old man Kirke is gettin' into one 
 
 of his tempers. 
 Joe. Oh! His tempers be hanged! I'm 
 
 doin' my best — no man can do more. 
 
 (Met. is heard outside playing a pipe.) 
 
 There 's that young ne'er-do-weel, Me- 
 
 thusaleh Miggins, blowing that frightful 
 
 pipe o' his again! 
 Dan. Aye, and he 's always a-blowin' it. 
 . By the way, wherever did Maister Kirke 
 
 find the creature? 
 Joe. He was left on Maister Kirke's 
 
 hands b\^some help he had, who had the 
 
 impudence to die, and leave this baby 
 
 for maister to take care on. He growed 
 
 up the mischievous booby ye see him — 
 
 and nobody can do nothin' wi' him. 
 Dan. Except Mistress Hazel Kirke. She 
 
 can manage him wi' a look. 
 DuNSTAN. {Outside.) Hi there! Are 
 
 ye never coomin' wi' those bags? 
 Dan. There goes the miller. Hoorry, 
 
 man ! or we '11 all be killed. 
 Joe. {Handing bags to him.) Here, take 
 
 these and coom back for more. 
 Dun STAN. {Outside.) Will ye bring 
 
 those bags, ye lazy dolts? 
 Dan. {Running off.) Aye, aye — I'm 
 
 coomin'. {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Mercy.) 
 
 Mercy. {Calls.) Dolly! Dolly, child! 
 Dolly. {Inside.) Aye, aye, aunt. 
 Mercy. Hoorry! Bring the bundles for 
 
 market into the courtyard, lass. 
 
 {Millers appear with bags on their 
 shoulders.) 
 Dan. {Bushing in.) Bags! More bags, 
 
 Joe! 
 Joe. {Handing hags.) Here ye are, I '11 
 
 bring the rest myself. 
 
 {Takes up hags; passes through gate- 
 way behind wall, and disappears 
 right.) 
 Mercy. {Impatiently.) Dolly! Dolly, 
 
 lass — what 's keepin' ye ? 
 Dolly. {Entering with bundles.) Here I 
 
 am. Aunt Mercy. 
 Mercy. Has thee got the homespun, lass? 
 Dolly. Aye — here 't is, bundled and ready 
 
 to go. 
 Mercy. That's a good child. Here, tie 
 
 it up wi' the rest o' these. 
 Dolly. {Tying bundles.) La, Aunt 
 
 Mercy! Is Uncle Kirke going to take 
 
 all these to market wi' him? 
 Mercy. Aye, girl — times be hard, and 
 
 money must be had for Hazel's wedding- 
 day. 
 Dolly. Hazel's wedding day! 
 Mercy. Aye, child, that '11 soon be now. 
 
 Her father has decided that Hazel must 
 
 marry Squire Rodney within three 
 
 months. 
 Dolly. Oh! How I hate that Squire 
 
 Rodney ! 
 Mercy. Hate him? What for, pray? 
 Dolly. For stealing our Hazel away from 
 
 her happiness. 
 Mercy. What dost mean, girl? 
 Dolly. You're going to make Hazel 
 
 marry Squire Rodney for gratitude, but 
 
 it won't do. Aunt Mercy — Gratitude is 
 
 not the stuff to make a happy marriage 
 
 of. 
 Mercy. Peace, lass — peace! 
 Dolly. La, Aunt Mercy ! Thee 'd say 
 
 peace to the wicked one himself, if he 
 
 were here. 
 Mercy. I think he be here indeed, Dolly 
 
 — in thy temper. 
 Dolly. Temper! Well, who has a better 
 
 right to a temper: — my mother was thy 
 
 499 
 
500 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 husband's sister, and all the world knows 
 that Dunstan Kirke has the worst tem- 
 per in all Lancashire! 
 
 Dunstan {Outside, in rage.) Coom! 
 Coom! off wi' 3'e — don't lollop around 
 here all day! {Millers cross as before, 
 with hags, followed by Dunstan.) 
 Hoorry to market, and don't loaf, for 
 I '11 be after ye wi' the young colt, as 
 fast as ever I can. 
 
 {He goes out after them behind the 
 wall. ) 
 
 Mercy. Is everything here, Dolly? 
 
 Dolly. Aye, all I had to get. 
 
 Dunstan. {Outside, left.) Here! here, I 
 say ! Stand round and make them things 
 right. So — and — so and so — don't ye 
 see? 
 
 Dolly. Talk of tempers — listen to Uncle 
 Kirke, raging like a maddened bull. 
 
 Met. {Flying across.) Hi! look out, 
 he 's comin'! {Exit.) 
 
 Dunstan. {Entering excitedly.) Drat 
 'em ! drat 'em, I say ! They 're enough 
 to make a divil o' a saint, so they are! 
 
 Mercy. {Soothingly.) There, there, dear 
 heart, have patience, patience. 
 
 Dunstan. Patient ! I am patient — pa- 
 tient as an angel. — Confound 'em. It 's 
 taken me all day to get 'em off. (Hazel 
 sings outside. As he listens, Dunstan's 
 anger passes away, and he sinks into a 
 chair near the table.) Ah! that does me 
 good ! that does me good ! My Hazel 's 
 a lasSj bless her, to gladden a feyther's 
 heart: as modest as a girl should be, 
 and as fine-mannered and accomplished 
 as any lady i' the land. 
 
 {Enter Rodney, left, with samples of 
 grain.) 
 
 Mercy. Yes, she 's well eddicated, now. 
 
 Dunstan. Thanks to Squire Rodney,' God 
 bless him. 'T was he got her the lamin'. 
 
 Dolly. And he '11 be well paid for it too, 
 when she 's his wife. 
 
 Dunstan. Weel, that '11 soon be now — 
 that '11 soon be now. 
 
 (Mercy and Dolly go in the house.) 
 
 Rodney. {Advancing.) I'm not so sure 
 of that. 
 
 Dunstan. Ah ! Maister Rodney, I do de- 
 clare, here at last ! An' what 's that 
 ye 're not so sure on ? 
 
 Rodney. {Sits at left of table.) That 
 Hazel will ever be my wife. 
 
 Dunstan. {Seated at right.) Not be thy 
 wife ! Why, man, what 's coom to thee, 
 man, to say so strange a word? Didn't 
 
 ye save me from ruin, and the whole mill 
 from changin' hands, seven year ago, and 
 did n't Hazel promise then to be your 
 wife, and did n't ye send her oft' to school, 
 that she might learn to be the lady o' 
 Rodney Hall? 
 
 Rodney. True, Dunstan, but she was only 
 fourteen then, and I in my forties; but 
 I forgot that when she came of age I 'd 
 be fifty and growing old. There 's many 
 a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, ye 
 know. 
 
 Dunstan. Why! whatever do ye mean, 
 man? 
 
 Rodney. Why, I mean accidents may hap- 
 pen, and a young girl's heart may 
 change. 
 
 Dunstan. Oh! no, no! 
 
 Rodney. Ever since you saved young 
 Carringford from drowning, and 
 brought him in here, I 've noticed a 
 change in Hazel's manner to me. You 
 don't look with my eyes, Dunstan, you 
 don't see what I see. 
 
 Dunstan. And what dost see, sir? 
 
 Rodney. I see a fine, handsome, brave 
 young man lying ill and helpless; I see 
 a lovely young girl waiting upon him, 
 nursing him back to life ; I see two young 
 hearts looking at each other through 
 young eyes; talking to each other with 
 young tongues; touching each other with 
 young hands, and — well, Dunstan, I 
 know what this must come to soon. 
 
 Dunstan. Maister Rodney, there is a 
 holy book, that my bairn reads to us 
 every day. Dost think that she can ever 
 forget that the book commands us to 
 keep our faith? 
 
 Rodney. Ah! Dunstan, when the heart 
 S]:)eaks, all other voices are dumb. 
 
 Dunstan. {Bising.) A promise be a 
 promise! {Striking the table.) If my 
 child were to break her word, I 'd drive 
 her out as I would a scorpion on my 
 hearth. Everybody knows the metal 
 I 'm made on. What I say, I '11 do. 
 {He strikes the table again.) And I tell 
 thee now, Aaron Rodney, that this day 
 three months Hazel Kirke shall be thy 
 wife. 
 
 Hazel. {Outside.) Thanks, I've found 
 them — I '11 go myself. 
 
 Rodney. {Rising.) Hush! That's her 
 voice, she 's coming ! Not a word of my 
 fears to her! 
 
 Dunstan. Oh ! That 's all right. 
 
 Hazel. {Entering, porch, right, goes to 
 Dunstan.) Here, father, are some let- 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 501 
 
 ters I want you to post. You won't for- 
 get? 
 DuNSTAN, Notliing that thee can ask, lass 
 — not while thy face shines as bright 
 wi' innocence as it does now! But look, 
 child, there 's Maister Rodney, child. 
 
 {Enter Mercy and Dolly.) 
 
 Hazel. Good-morning, Mr. Rodney. 
 
 {She gives her hand.) 
 
 DuNSTAN. Nay, lass, don't mind us, .give 
 him a kiss — a good, hearty, honest girl's 
 kiss. 
 
 Hazel. {Laughing.) That's something 
 I never refused him yet. (Rodney kisses 
 her; she turns to Mercy.) Now, mother, 
 have you given father the list of things 
 you want? 
 
 Mercy. Not yet, lass — sit down and write 
 it for him. 
 
 (Hazel sits at table and writes.) 
 
 DuNSTAN. {To Rodney.) Well, now, 
 what girl could have given a franker 
 kiss than that? 
 
 Rodney. Aye, Dunstan, 'twas frank 
 enough ; 't was frank enough. 
 
 Dunstan. To be sure it was. 
 
 Hazel. {Going to Dunstan.) Here, 
 father, is the list of things for you to 
 get. 
 
 Dunstan. A' reet, girl. Now, wife, where 's 
 the stuff for me to take to market? 
 {All begin to load him with things.) 
 
 Dolly. Here 's the rags and the hose. 
 
 Mercy. And here 's the homespun. 
 
 Rodney. And here are my samples of 
 grain. 
 
 Hazel. And here are my letters. Be sure 
 you don't forget the list! 
 
 Dunstan. No, girl, I shan't forget any- 
 thing. I am not the forgettin' kind. 
 {Going, stops and turns.) Ah! I'm 
 forgettin' one thing now, to ask after 
 Maister Carringford. How is he this 
 mornin', lass? 
 
 Hazel. Better, I think. 
 
 Dunstan. Ah ! he better be. He 's been 
 here more nor a month. He 's a long 
 time a-gettin' well. 
 
 Hazel. But think how horribly he was 
 hurt! {Exit Rodney.) 
 
 Dunstan. Aye, but I 've seen older 
 bones sooner mended. It 's time he were 
 well and off to his work; this is no place 
 for idle hands. Give him a hint, girl — 
 and here, my darling, gi' me a partin' 
 kiss. {He kisses her.) God be wi' ye, 
 child, and keep ye always the blessin' 
 ihat ye are. {Exit.) 
 
 Hazel. {Sitting.) Ah! thank heaven! 
 
 he cannot *see the wickedness in my 
 
 wretched, wretched heart. 
 Joe. {Outside.) Get out of this! 
 
 Met. {Outside.) 
 
 that! 
 Hazel. 
 Dolly. 
 
 Met. 
 Hazel. 
 
 Hi! Hold on! take 
 {A crash is heard.) 
 {Starting.) What's that? 
 Oh I another row between Joe and 
 
 Joe is always abusing poor Met. 
 {Cries are heard outside.) 
 
 (Met rushes in.) 
 
 Met. {Hiding behind Hazel.) Save me! 
 save me! 
 
 (Joe enters.) 
 
 Joe. {With a stick.) Where is he? Let 
 me get at him. 
 
 Hazel. No, no, you shall not touch him. 
 
 Joe. {In rage.) I will, and no woman 
 shall stop me! 
 
 Met. {Squaring off.) Come on, Joe! 
 I 'd rather fight than blow my pipe. 
 
 Dolly. {Laughing.) Ha, ha! The boy 
 has found a bit of pluck at last. 
 
 Hazel. {Soothingly.) Let him alone. 
 There, there, Joe, let him alone; no more 
 of this — leave him to me, and I '11 punish 
 him for you. 
 
 Met. I 'd rather be punished by you, 
 missus, than petted by a' the rest. 
 
 Hazel. Well, then, come with me. 
 
 Met. {Suspiciously.) Are ye goin' to 
 Maister Carringford? 
 
 Hazel. Why do you ask that? 
 
 Met. Because if ye are, I won't go. — J 
 hate him! 
 
 Hazel. Hate him? What for? 
 
 Met. Because you love him so. 
 
 Hazel. {Severely.) How dare you say 
 that? 
 
 Met. Because it 's true. 
 
 Hazel. {With mock severity, extending 
 her hand.) Met, come with me this in- 
 stant, sir. 
 
 Met. Where ? 
 
 Hazel. To pick some flowers. 
 
 Met. Oh ! then I '11 go, mistress — then 
 I '11 go. {He takes her hand, turns at 
 gate, bahs at Joe, and goes out with 
 Hazel. Joe starts after him.) 
 
 Dolly. {Holding Joe back.) Oh! never 
 mind that fellow. Come, come, Joe — I 
 w^ant you to help me bring my things 
 out here. — It 's cooler working here than 
 inside. 
 
 Joe. {Going with her.) All right, Miss 
 
502 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 Dolly, show me the things you want. 
 {They go into the house.) 
 
 {Enter Barney, followed by Dan.) 
 
 Dan. Here 's the house and this be the 
 mill ye 're askin' after. {Exit.) 
 
 Barney. Thankee ! thankee ! So there 's 
 the mill-dam, where my master was 
 drowned about six weeks since. 
 
 Dolly. {Appears at the door with Joe, 
 carrying table.) Take care now, Joe — 
 don't spill the potatoes. 
 
 Barney. {Stepping aside.) Some one 
 coming ; I '11 step aside and recognog 
 the situation. 
 
 (Dolly and Joe place the table left.) 
 
 Dolly. There, now ; that 's all I want of 
 you. Go and look after Met. 
 
 Joe. {Going.) Look after Met? I'd 
 rather look after the fiend himself. 
 {Exit. Barney comes forward and 
 coughs.) 
 
 Dolly. {Turns.) Who's this? 
 
 Barney. Only myself, Miss. 
 
 Dolly. And who are you? 
 
 Barney. Barney O'Flynn — the lackey of 
 my lord. 
 
 Dolly. And who 's he ? 
 
 Barney. One of your lodgers, I belave. 
 
 Dolly. A lord lodging here ! Ye 're 
 wrong, man; this is no place for lords. 
 
 Barney. True enough, darlin', true 
 enough, darlin' — but still my lord is here. 
 
 Dolly. Will you give me the lie in my 
 own house? Get out of this, ye un- 
 mannerly brute! 
 
 {Raises broom and chases him.) 
 
 Barney. Hould now! hould now! hould! 
 sure, here 's his own direcshon in my 
 own hand this minute. {lie shows a let- 
 ter.) Lord Travers, at Dunstan Kirke's 
 mill, Blackburn, Lancashire — Isn't this 
 Lancashire ? 
 
 Dolly. Yes. 
 
 Barney.. And isn't this the mill of Dun- 
 stan Kirke? 
 
 Dolly. Yes. 
 
 {She turns and slaps her broom at 
 him. ) 
 
 Barney. Very well, thin. Lord Travers is 
 here, just as sure as I 'm Barney 
 O'Flynn, an' there 's the proof av it, a 
 letter calling Master Arthur home to 
 onst. 
 
 Dolly. Arthur — Arthur Carringford! 
 
 Barney. Yes, of course, he 's Lord Trav- 
 ers, and my master. 
 
 Dolly. Mr. Carringford a lord! 
 
 Barney. Of course he 's a lord — of course 
 he 's a lord, and I 've been sent down 
 from London to take him home, in a 
 howl of a hurry too. Where is he? 
 
 Dolly. There — {pointing right) in the 
 house. 
 
 Barney. Oh! he is, is he? Now ain't you 
 ashamed of yourself, and you were going 
 to drive me out of tins! {Imitating 
 her.) "Will ye give me the lie in my 
 own house?" Never mind, darlin', I for- 
 give ye, I forgive — 
 
 Dolly. {Striking him with the broom.) 
 Get out o' this, ye fool! {Exit Barney, 
 with a howl into the house.) Mr. Car- 
 ringford a lord! And in love with 
 Hazel too! Aye he is — I know he is — I 
 can see it in his face every time he looks 
 at her. Ah! if poor Hazel were only 
 free, she might be Lady Travers, rich 
 and grand! He has her heart already, 
 aye, and except for Mr. Rodney, he 'd 
 have her hand as wtII. {Goes to table 
 and begins to clean carrots.) Ah! if I 
 were Hazel, I know what I 'd do. I 'd 
 marry the man I loved in spite of all the 
 world. (Green is heard singing outside 
 ^'The King's Highway.") Ah! who's 
 that fine young swell coming this way? 
 
 (Green enters humming; sees her, stops, 
 strikes an attitude, sings "My face is my 
 fortim.e, sir, she said." Dolly stares, 
 amazed.) 
 
 What sort of a creature is this? 
 
 {Holding a carrot in her hand, she 
 moves toward him.) 
 
 Green. Stand where you are. 
 
 You 're the sweetest picture of surprise, 
 That ever yet has blessed my eyes ! ^ 
 
 Oh ! 't is true, and by my soul I swear it ! 
 {Pointing to the wall.) Will you per- 
 mit me? 
 
 Dolly. Permit ye what? 
 
 Green. To change the situation — thus. 
 {He leaps over the wall.) Ha! ha! 
 
 Dolly. Who are ye, sir? 
 
 Green. A hunter of heroes. 
 
 Dolly. What brings you here? 
 
 Green. A tyrant called Curiosity. 
 
 Dolly. La, the man is mad! 
 
 Green. No, I grieve to say I 'm not. 1 
 wish I were: — madmen are monsters, 
 everything monstrous is fascinating, but 
 I, alas ! I 'm not fascinating, am I ? 
 
 Dolly. La, man! I don't know what ye 
 are. 
 
 Green. You may not believe it, but I 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 503 
 
 once was born, a baby too! Oh! I tell 
 you funny things have happened to me. 
 At the early age of one minute, (Dolly 
 starts) I howled to see the world. 
 
 Luckily my father made 
 
 A handsome fortune in lemonade, 
 
 By aid of which aid, I am glad to say 
 
 I am enabled now to-day 
 
 To see the world and have my way; 
 
 That way, remark, is this: 
 
 (Dolly, slightly frightened, looks at 
 Green in astonishment during this 
 tirade. ) 
 
 Green. I go where I please, say what I 
 please, and please where I can; do you 
 understand ? 
 
 Dolly. Not a single word you say. 
 
 Green. That's just what I supposed. 
 Then I will be plain with you: plain in 
 fact; to be plain in feature is impossible. 
 I was born — is that clear? 
 
 Dolly. {Keeps her eye on Green, won- 
 dering.) Of course. 
 
 Green. And bom queer. 
 
 Dolly. That's clearer still. 
 
 Green. 
 
 That queerness born in me, 
 Now brings me here to thee — 
 For let me tell you here 
 That this is how I 'm queer. 
 
 (Dolly starts hack.) A monster or a 
 hero I adore; ordinary mortals I de- 
 test; they are too much like Pittacus 
 Green. 
 
 Dolly. And who is Pittacus Green ? 
 
 Green. The humble and devoted slave 
 now gazing in those lovely eyes. {See- 
 ing the carrot in her hand.) Will you 
 permit me to relieve you of the ponderous 
 vegetable that cumbers these fair hands? 
 Ah, yes! Thank you. 
 
 {He takes it to the table.) 
 
 Dolly. And so you are Pittacus Green? 
 
 Green. That is my distinguished name: 
 Pit-ta-cus Green, or, as I am called for 
 short, Pitty Green, which is maddening! 
 If it was Pitty Brown, Black, or Blue, 
 but Pitty Green — it 's so hanged appro- 
 priate. Of course everybody does pity 
 Green. You may not believe it, but they 
 say I 'm cracked. 
 
 {Very serious, he slowly crosses to 
 right center.) 
 
 Dolly. {Drawing hack.) I knew it. 
 
 Green. Don't be alarmed. It's lovely to 
 be cracked! 
 
 Dolly. Lovely to be cracked ! 
 
 Green. Of * course. Convince men that 
 you are cracked, and they will let you 
 do the oddest things. They '11 smile in- 
 stead of frown, and I, to gain a smile 
 from lips like yours, again I 'd play any 
 game. Do you understand me now? 
 
 Dolly, {Laughing.) I 'd be a donkey if 
 I didn't. I understand and like you, 
 too, and {frankly) there 's Dolly Dut- 
 ton's hand to prove it. 
 
 Green. You maj^ not believe it, but you 're 
 an angel! Dolly Dutton! So your 
 name is Dolly Dutton? Delightful 
 Dolly Dutton. D, D, D, indeed! You 
 are an angel. {Pointing to her hand.) 
 Will you permit me? 
 
 Dolly. Anything that 's honest. 
 
 (Green attempts to kiss her hand. 
 She snatches her hand away and he 
 kisses his own hand.) 
 
 Green. 'T is honest. Fair exchange is no 
 robbery. Ah! I see! Consider me a 
 beggar at your feet. 
 
 Dolly. Now tell me truly — what it is 
 that brings you here. 
 
 Green. As I said before, a monster or a 
 hero I adore. 
 
 Dolly. And do you expect to find a mon- 
 ster here? 
 
 Green. Yes, one in particular, Dunstan 
 Kirke, the miller of Blackburn Mill. He 
 is the monster that I mean, the rarest 
 monster ever seen. A monster of good- 
 ness, who, during the last ten years, has 
 saved from death by drowning at least 
 forty souls, with their bodies attached 
 to them. 
 
 Dolly. And so you 're here to see my 
 surly old uncle, who saves other folks, 
 perhaps, while he destroys his own 
 daughter. 
 
 Green. Destroys his own daughter? Su- 
 perb! Does he destroy her often? I 
 mean is he taken so frequently? A 
 charming old creature! Sit down. 
 {Politely bowing, showing chair.) Make 
 yourself at home; I do. Tell me all 
 about him. {He sits at the table.) 
 
 Dolly. {Joining him at the table.) 
 Well, sir, you 've heard of the many he 's 
 saved. Have you heard of the one he 's 
 sold? 
 
 Green. No! Someone sold? Delightful! 
 Who was it? 
 
 Dolly. The pride of this family, sir, my 
 cousin. Hazel Kirke ; she 's the one that 's 
 sold. 
 
 Green, Oh! Is she? Indeed! poor 
 
504 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 thing, I synipatliize ; I 've been sold my- 
 self. Who sold her? 
 
 Dolly. Her own father, Dunstan Kirke, 
 your hero! 
 
 Green. Dear me! Why did he do it? 
 
 Dolly. Because he loves his old mill more 
 than anything else in the world. Seven 
 years ago the bank that held my uncle's 
 savings broke, and the old man was 
 about to lose the mill, when Aaron Rod- 
 ney loaned him money without interest 
 or security. 
 
 Greex. He was a jolly old idiot! What 
 was his little game? 
 
 Dolly. When the mill was safe, Dunstan 
 Kirke asked the 'Squire what he could 
 do to prove his thankfulness. 
 
 Green. Oh! ho! I smell a rat. 
 
 Dolly. "Sir," said the 'Squire, "you have 
 a daughter whom I like; give me leave 
 to send her off to school, have her taught, 
 and then become my wife and the lady of 
 Rodney Hall." 
 
 Green. Just so. That 's the rat I smelt. 
 Ah! ha! precisely — Rodney goes to her, 
 makes love to her, fills her mind with 
 gaudy pictures, chromos, thromos, and 
 tells her of the good his wealth will do 
 for her and hers; and so she, a thought- 
 less child, makes a rash promise to an 
 old scoundrel, which promise is sure to 
 play the dev — Mephistopheles with them 
 both. 
 
 Dolly. Why, man, how did you know 
 that? 
 
 Green. Quite simply; I guessed it. 
 {Rising slightly, he leans over the table.) 
 
 Dolly. Well, then, ye 're not so much of 
 a fool as ye look. 
 
 Green. Bless you for those kind words! 
 {Drawing hack.) Tell me, what became 
 of your cousin? 
 
 Dolly. Seven years ago she was sent to 
 school; six months ago she returned. 
 
 Green. Then she was awfully fond of old 
 Rod, of course? 
 
 Dolly. She 's proud and silent, sir, but 
 I, who love her, read her heart, and I 
 know that Aaron Rodney is not the man 
 she loves. 
 
 Green. Egad! The situation inspires 
 me! Wliat would you say if I were to 
 clear your Cousin Hazel of her bargain 
 with the 'Squire? 
 
 Dolly. {Rises and goes toward the house.) 
 I 'd say ye were the best man that ever 
 crossed the threshold of Blackburn 
 Mill. 
 
 Green. {Excited, follows her.) That be- 
 
 ing the case, what would you give me to 
 have it done? 
 
 Dolly. Anything I 've got. 
 
 Green. Even your heart? 
 
 Dolly. La, man ! I have n't got any. 
 
 Green. Haven't you? Well, then, would 
 you give this fashionable substitute? 
 
 Dolly. Oh, yes, if ye 'd care to take it. 
 {Sticking out a dirty hand.) 
 
 Green. {Taking it.) H'm! It's a little 
 mouldy, misty, mildewy, millery, the soil 
 of honest labor, I mean. Yes, this is 
 romance, and I 'm the Roman. I '11 be 
 your best man ; I '11 outwit old Rod or 
 die. 
 
 Dolly. But how, man? How? 
 
 Green. You may not believe it, but I 
 once had a mother; funny things have 
 happened to me. That mother, she never 
 could wind a yarn without making a 
 snarl, and I could never undo the snarl 
 without telling a yam. 
 
 Dolly. What of that? 
 
 Green. I have great faith in the power of 
 a yarn to undo a snarl. Now there 's a 
 snarl in this family; give me the leave 
 to tell yarns enough, and I '11 guarantee 
 to undo the snarl. Ha! ha! ha! Why, 
 bless me, it 's perfectly delightful ! 
 {He paces up and down, Dolly follow- 
 ing him.) I'm tempted to play a new 
 role, turn dramatist in real life ! We 've 
 only to manage a little to make the play 
 what we please. There 's the stern 
 father, Dunstan Kirke; the heavy vil- 
 lain, old Rod; the pretty victim. Hazel 
 Kirke ; the scheming cousin, that 's you ; 
 the good-natured idiotic busy-body, — 
 
 Dolly. That's you; and why do you 
 stop? 
 
 Green. Confound it, there 's something 
 lacking ! We '11 imagine here 's our 
 Andromeda chained to a rock, and about 
 to be devoured by a dragoon — no, a 
 dragon: — wanted, the hero, Perseus, to 
 deliver her. Where shall we get a hero? 
 As Byron says: "I want a hero; an 
 uncommon want, when every month 
 sends forth a new one." — that 's Don 
 Juan. Egad! I have it! We'll ad- 
 vertise. (Arthur whistles outside.) 
 Hello ! How 's this ? Who 's that ? 
 
 Dolly. Only one of my uncle's patients. 
 
 Green. Who is he? 
 
 {Enter Arthur.) 
 
 Dolly. Here he comes ; find out for your- 
 self. 
 Green. Fate, I thank thee! The con- 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 505 
 
 quering hero comes. {He goes right.) 
 
 Arthur. Ah, Miss Dolly ! Have you seen 
 my dog? 
 
 Dolly. Perhaps he 's with Hazel. She 
 went off with' Met a little while ago. 
 Shall I find her for you? 
 
 Arthur. You 're very kind ; if it is n't 
 too much trouble. I should be glad of 
 a little of Miss Hazel's company, if she 's 
 at leisure. You know I must soon leave 
 this dear old place. 
 
 (He sits at the table.) 
 
 Dolly. I '11 try to find her, sir. 
 
 {Exit left center.) 
 
 Green. {Looks at Arthur and starts.) 
 Ye great gods of war! 
 
 Arthur. {Noticing him for the first 
 time.) Ha! What idiot is this? 
 
 Green. It is, it is ! By the bolts of Jove, 
 it is! 
 
 Arthur. {Coolly.) Indeed! Is it? — what 
 is? 
 
 Green. You is — am — you are — Either 
 I 'm a cow, or this is Lord Travers ! 
 
 Arthur. {Rising angrily.) Who is Lord 
 Travers? 
 
 Green. You is — am — are. Look at me 
 sharp. Don't you remember P. G.? 
 Have you forgotten our tiger hunt in 
 India? Ah! there was a monster worth 
 meeting: he met you and treed you too. 
 Can't you recall your old comrade of the 
 jungle, Pittacus, the mouse that freed 
 you, the lion ? Why, it was the proudest 
 shot of my life ! 
 
 Arthur. {Extending his hand.) On my 
 word! Is it possible — you here? 
 
 Green. Of course I am! {Wringing Ar- 
 thur's hand.) And, bless my soul, how 
 glad I am to see you. 
 
 Arthur. Hold on, stop; do you know 
 what you are doing? 
 
 Green. What am I doing? 
 
 Arthur. The arm you are torturing is 
 only half mended. 
 
 Green. Gracious! What do you mean? 
 
 Arthur. That this is a broken arm but 
 slightly convalescent. 
 
 Green. {Seizing a carrot from the table.) 
 Travers, I 'm a brute ! Take that indi- 
 gestible vegetable and crack my skull! 
 {He offers the carrot.) 
 
 Arthur. {Sitting again.) Thanks, dear 
 boy, it 's cracked enough already. 
 
 Green. Yes, precisely; I see your ven- 
 geance is complete. (Green keeps the 
 carrot and seats himself.) 
 
 Arthur. Now tell me how you found me 
 out? 
 
 Green. Oh!^ Quite naturally! By acci- 
 dent, the usual way. How did you get 
 
 here? 
 
 Arthur. Came to Lancashire to escape 
 the tiresome nonsense of town life; went 
 shooting with my dog, attempted to cross 
 the stream by a tree that lay over it, 
 just above the dam there. {Points.) 
 
 Green. The what? 
 
 Arthur. The dam. 
 
 Green. Oh! dam! 
 
 Arthur. Slipped like a fool, fell, broke 
 my arm in falling and sank unconscious 
 into the water. 
 
 Green. {Breaking the carrot in two.) 
 Merciful powers! 
 
 Arthur. My dog sprang in and held me 
 above the surface; Kirke, the miller, 
 caught sight of us, and jumped in; 
 pulled me out and lodged me here, where 
 I 've had the best of care for six weeks. 
 
 Green. {Holds up each half of the car- 
 rot, to represent the sold and the saved, 
 and at end of his speech, places the small 
 half on top of the other and holds it 
 upright.) Great fortune! I see it all. 
 It 's the saved and the sold, side by side, 
 beneath the same roof; she is the sold, 
 and you are now the saved. Two hearts 
 with but a single stock. Travers, my 
 dear boy, you may not believe it, but 
 there 's more than accident in this ar- 
 rangement. 
 
 Arthur. Undoubtedly, but your exclama- 
 tions are somewhat obscure. 
 
 Green. Look here, old man, let 's get to 
 business. Time flies. I helped you 
 when you were in a carrot — no, no — I 
 mean a stew, a pickle; and now you 
 must help me. 
 
 Arthur. With pleasure! How can I do 
 it? 
 
 Green. By falling desperately in love. 
 
 Arthur. {Laughing.) Oh! Falling in 
 love ! Why, that 's your business ; you 
 were always falling in love. 
 
 Green. Of course, why not? "I love to 
 live, and I live to love." As the poet 
 says, "Come live with me and be my 
 love." 
 
 Arthur. Eccentric dog! You always 
 manage to make logic and delight agree. 
 
 Green. Ah ! Travers, I 've met my fate at 
 last! 
 
 Arthur. Nonsense! You were always 
 meeting your fate. Who is it this time? 
 
 Green. Dolly Dutton, the miller's niece. 
 
 Arthur. You '11 find her rather a Uvely 
 fate, I fancy. 
 
506 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 Green. Precisely ! I know I shall, that 's 
 the way I like 'em. She 's a perfect 
 monster. 
 
 Arthur. Monster? 
 
 Green. Yes, a monster of beauty and 
 goodness; but come, I say again, will 
 you do me a favor and fall in love? 
 
 Arthur. Certainly, with whom? 
 
 Green. With a friend of mine. Will you 
 do it? 
 
 Arthur. Certainly. I find there 's noth- 
 ing easier than to fall ; I 've tried one 
 element, I 've no fear to try another. 
 With whom must I fall in love? 
 
 Green. An angel in a fix; Hazel Kirke, 
 the miller's daughter. 
 
 Arthur. [Sternly.) Stop, sir; I shall 
 not tolerate nonsense that touches her 
 good name. Understand this at once. 
 
 Green. {Staring.) Capital! I'm more 
 than satisfied ! I 'm ecstatic. You 're 
 in love with her already. 
 
 Arthur. {Rising angrily.) Sir! (Hazel 
 sings outside. Green crosses to right 
 center. Arthur goes to the gate, starts, 
 returns slowly and seats himself. At the 
 end of the song he goes to Green.) 
 Green, Miss Kirke is coming. I 'm 
 known here simply as Arthur Carring- 
 ford; you must not betray my title; it 
 would only raise a barrier between me 
 and the golden hearts to whom I owe so 
 much. 
 
 Green. {Taking his hand.) Travers, I 
 honor your sentiments, and will respect 
 your wish. 
 
 Dolly. {Appearing at gate.) Here she 
 is, Mr. Carringford. 
 
 {Enter Hazel, with a basket of flowers, 
 followed hy Met.) 
 
 Hazel. {At gate, to Met.) Now, Met, go 
 to Mother Weedbury's cottage and cut 
 some wood for the poor thing, and stop 
 there till I come. I will be there to help 
 her with the children this afternoon. 
 
 Met. All right. Missus, I '11 go ; but mind 
 it 's for you, not for the old woman. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Hazel. Good-morning, Mr. Carringford. 
 
 Arthur. Good-morning, Miss Hazel, I 'm 
 glad to have a glimpse of you at last. 
 
 Met. {Appearing in gate.) Hi! Missus, 
 I say, may I go by the big woods? 
 
 Hazel. No, Met, take the straight path. 
 
 Green. And follow your nose. {Exit 
 Met. ) I 'm afraid you 've given him a 
 terrible task; if he follows his nose he 
 will have a long journey before he gets 
 
 to the end of it. Still, a brute with a 
 long nose generally has some scents 
 about him, ha, ha, ha! Do you see? 
 you may not believe it, but that 's a joke. 
 (Hazel notices him with surprise.) Oh! 
 Excuse me! (Green speaks aside to 
 Arthur.) Travers, don't you see what 
 an idiot I am making of myself? Have 
 mercv! Why don't you present me to 
 the lady? 
 
 Arthur. Miss Kirke, permit me to pre- 
 sent a very dear old friend, Mr. Pittacus 
 Green. 
 
 Hazel. {Extending her hand.) He's 
 doubly welcome, as your friend, and for 
 his own frank face. 
 
 Green. {Clasping her hand.) Ah! Miss 
 Kirke, I 'm a very old-fashioned young 
 fool. Will you permit me? {Kisses her 
 hand.) I am your slave. {Aside.) 
 Pittacus, there 's no use, you 're an as- 
 sassin from this hour; the one dear pur- 
 pose of your life is to get Squire Rod- 
 ney cremated without delay. 
 
 {Enter Rodney hy the gate. He watches 
 Hazel.) 
 
 Hazel. Let me share my treasures. {She 
 places a flower in Green's coat.) There, 
 what do you say to that? 
 Green. I say nothing, nothing! I am 
 dumb with delight. {Aside.) Decid- 
 edly, old Rod is a doomed man. 
 
 (Pittacus goes toward the wall and 
 sees Rodney appear in the gate- 
 way.) 
 Hazel. (To Arthur, em&arrassef?.) Will 
 
 you accept a flower? 
 Arthur. {Taking it.) Thanks. 
 
 {lie withdraws a little.) 
 Rodney. {Coming forward.) Hazel, now 
 ye 've serv^ed the others, can't ye think 
 o' me a little? 
 Hazel. {Starting ; then with composure.) 
 I beg your pardon. I did not see you, 
 Mr. Rodney; you are welcome to what 
 remains. 
 
 {She hands him the basket.) 
 Rodney. {Taking out leaves.) Emblem 
 of my hopes, nothing but leaves; dead 
 and withered leaves ! 
 
 {Tie puts the basket on the table, and 
 
 goes out through the gate.) 
 
 Green. {Looking after him.) As Dr. 
 
 Hamlet says, that 's nux vomica for the 
 
 gentleman. 
 
 Arthur. {Coming down, right, speaks to 
 
 Green.) Let us go, we're in the way. 
 
 — Miss Hazel, if you '11 permit me, I '11 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 507 
 
 take my friend to my room for a talk 
 of old times. 
 
 Hazel. Sorry to lose you. 
 
 (Arthur goes out.) 
 
 Greex. My dear Miss Kirke, you may not 
 believe it," but, by the justice of Jove, 
 we '11 meet again. 
 
 (Hazel goes out through the gate. 
 Green sings "We shall meet again/' 
 and goes towards the porch.) 
 
 Dolly. [Barring his passage.) Stop! 
 stop! stop! 
 
 Green. [Ending his song with a trill.) 
 I must finish in the right key. 
 
 Dolly. Well, now, look here; you prom- 
 ised me to free my cousin Hazel from 
 her bargain with the Squire. When are 
 you going to begin? 
 
 Green. The very next time I meet old 
 Ram Rod. He was here just now. If 
 there 's a timid bone in his body, I '11 
 make him come to terms, and he '11 die 
 a bachelor, just as sure as — you 're the 
 prettiest girl that ever blest my eyes. 
 
 Dolly. La, Mr. Green, you 're too full of 
 sweet words, I 'm thinking. 
 
 Green. Dear me, if my words were only 
 as sweet as your face, I 'd put 'em on 
 the market and bust up the sugar trade, 
 I would. 
 
 Dolly. Hoity toity, man! [Going.) 
 Keep your promise, Master Green, an' 
 I '11 keep mine. 
 
 [She goes out through the porch.) 
 
 Green. [Looking after her, at door.) 
 Pittacus, you may not believe it, but the 
 day that girl was born was the brightest 
 in all the year! Oh, love! love! love! 
 Romeo and Juliet! Oh, roses! Nightin- 
 gales! balconies, rope ladders, and vari- 
 ous things attached to the passion of 
 love! At last, poor Pitty, you have a 
 work to do. And what a work! To 
 save two young and loving hearts from 
 misery and a monster! [Turns and sees 
 Rodney coming.) Stars of the summer 
 night, far in yon azure height! The 
 monster ! 
 
 [Enter Rodney, hy gate.) 
 
 Why, you 're the very man I want to see. 
 
 Rodney. Well, sir, I 'm here and easily seen. 
 
 Green. [At right of table.) You'll per- 
 mit me? [He shows a chair. Rodney 
 drops into the chair at left of table.) 
 First, then, let me inform you that 
 
 I 'm Captain Green, of Her Majesty's marine. 
 But I 'm not so verdant as my name may seem ! 
 
 I know a wronged man when I see him, 
 sir, and permit me to assure you, sir, 
 that you are one. 
 
 [He sits at right of table.) 
 
 Rodney. Indeed, sir, how am I wronged? 
 
 Green. As Shakespeare, a poet, says: 
 "She who steals my heart steals trash: 
 'twas mine, 'tis hers, and hath been 
 slave to thousands; but she who filches 
 from me my purse, robs me of that 
 which much enriches her, and leaves me 
 poor indeed." (Rodney laughs.) Do 
 you see the point? 
 
 Rodney. No, it 's a little dull. 
 
 Green. Then I '11 sharpen it. A certain 
 rich Squire saves a certain poor father 
 from ruin, and spends a little* fortune 
 in having the daughter taught to become 
 his wife — that is the taking of the purse. 
 
 Rodney. Well? 
 
 Green. Before the wedding 's had, and 
 the purse is paid for, a good-for-nothing 
 young fellow tumbles into a ditch, is 
 fished out by the father, nursed by the 
 daughter, and that is the stealing of the 
 heart — do you understand? 
 
 Rodney. I think I do. 
 
 Green. Do you see the danger? 
 
 Rodney. Not yet. 
 
 Green. Why, it 's as plain as your face, 
 ha, ha, ha, ha ! You see, women are curi- 
 ous creatures. You may not believe it, 
 but the silly fools prefer hearts to pen- 
 nies; youth and beauty they like better 
 than age and ugliness. Do you see now? 
 
 Rodney. [Rises.) Thanks to your ex- 
 treme politeness, I should think I might. 
 [He crosses to gate.) 
 
 Green. Squire, there 's but one way out 
 of this: Threaten to fight the fellow, 
 challenge him and frighten him away. 
 Do you take? 
 
 Rodney. [At gate.) I do. 
 
 Green. Spoken like a man. When shall 
 the fight begin? 
 
 (Dolly enters, watching them from the 
 porch.) 
 
 Rodney. Without delay. 
 
 (Dolly draws back in door, right.) 
 
 Green. You 're a hero, sir, a man of 
 nerve ; I 'm proud to know you. Count 
 on me, count on me, sir, to fix things 
 right. [He offers his hand. Rodney 
 does not take it, but lifts his hat and 
 goes out.) Still, Squire, I'm exceed- 
 ingly proud to know you. [With de- 
 light.) Splendissimus ! Gloria et vic- 
 toria .' 
 
508 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 Dolly. {In disgust, coming forward.) 
 So, sir, you be mighty thick with Maister 
 Rodney now! 
 
 Green. Exactly; but my thickness is the 
 thinnest thickness that ever was thicked; 
 do you understand that? 
 
 Dolly. My heart, man! Ye daze me 
 dumb with your talk. 
 
 Green. My dear, the snarl is settled. 
 He 's the easiest ass to manage I ever 
 met. Before another day, he '11 chal- 
 lenge Carringford and go in haste 
 {Pointing downward.) — to heaven. 
 
 Dolly. {In astonishment.) To heaven! 
 
 Green. Then, Miss Dolly, your cousin 
 will be free, and you '11 be bound, yes, 
 bound," to keep your promise: your 
 heart, your hand, or both. 
 
 Dolly. You '11 get my hand over your 
 head if you don't mind. 
 
 Green. Delightful! I'd like that— let 
 me show you how. {Taking her hand, 
 he lifts it over his head.) There, over 
 my head, so. {Putting it round his neck, 
 he kisses her.) — And so! 
 
 Dolly. {Flinging him off.) How dare 
 you, sir? 
 
 Green. Now I 've done my part, it is 
 your turn. (Dolly pretends to strike 
 him.) Oh, no, not that! 
 
 Mercy. {Outside.) All right, Mr. Rod- 
 ney, I '11 tell Dunstan what ye say. 
 
 Green. Whose honey-laden organ is that? 
 
 Dolly. That 's Hazel's mother. 
 
 Green. Dear me! Hazel had a mother? 
 
 Dolly. Why, of course, she has her now. 
 
 Green. Oh! I see, funny things happen 
 to others as well as me! Well, then, 
 now, seriously your part is to see her 
 mother, and tell her you know that Rod- 
 ney is not the man that Hazel loves. 
 
 Dolly. I 'd never dare do that. 
 
 Green. What ! would you desert me now ? 
 upon the verge of great success? No! 
 Courage! Speak! and your cousin will 
 be blest. 
 
 {Enter Mercy at door.) 
 
 Ah ! Here she comes ! I '11 leave her 
 to the tender mercies of your tongue. 
 {He goes to the table for his hat.) 
 Madame, will you permit me? (He 
 takes the hat, going.) I'll humbly take 
 my leaf. {Takes a leaf from the basket. 
 At door.) Madame, in the words of the 
 immortal bard, Avon, if all the world 
 were in the right, you and I would never 
 be in the wrong. This was sometime a 
 paradox, but now — {Sings, "When the 
 
 bloom is on the rye.") you may not 
 
 believe it, it 's true, it 's true ! 
 
 {Exit through the porch, putting on 
 his hat.) 
 Mercy. Dolly, who be that? 
 Dolly. A man named Pitty Green. 
 Mercy. Pitty Green! An odd name, an' 
 
 he seems queer a bit, here! 
 
 {Points to her forehead.) 
 Dolly. That 's all right. Aunt, so long as 
 
 he's sound here. {Points to her heart.) 
 Mercy. Aye, that's true, Dolly, that's 
 
 true. 
 Dolly. Aunt Mercy! ' 
 Mercy. Well, Dolly? 
 Dolly. Did ye mark the look in HazePs 
 
 face this morning, when her father told 
 
 her Mr. Carringford had been here long 
 
 enough ? 
 Mercy. What sort o' look, girl? 
 Dolly. A pale, frightened, suffering look, 
 . Aunt; she's in love with Mr. Carring- 
 ford, as sure as I 'm a living woman. 
 Mercy. {Starting.) My heart, child! 
 
 does thee really mean what thee says? 
 Dolly. Indeed I do. 
 
 {Enter Hazel.) 
 
 But hush! Here she comes. 
 
 Hazel. Mother dear, be sure to let me 
 know when father returns. You won't 
 forget? Don't forget it, please. 
 
 Mercy. Where's thee goin', child? 
 
 Hazel. I 'm going to take my drawing 
 lesson from Mr. Carringford. 
 
 Mercy. Thee can wait a bit. I 've a 
 word to say to thee. Dolly, thee '11 find 
 work in the house. 
 
 Dolly. All right, aunt. {Exit.) 
 
 Mercy. {Sitting left.) Hazel, child, come 
 here and kneel at my feet as thee did" 
 when a little one, and I taught thee to 
 pray. (Hazel kneels beside her.) My 
 child, many i' this world may say they 
 love thee, but none '11 ever do it as I do. 
 Thee may have loads o' friends and lov- 
 ers too, but thee can never have but one 
 mother. Well, child, can't thee trust 
 her? 
 
 Hazel. Trust her? Have I ever dis- 
 trusted her? 
 
 Mercy. Aye, thee 's distrustin' her now — 
 there 's that in thy heart she ought to 
 know. 
 
 Hazel. {Embarrassed.) Why, mother, 
 what do you mean? 
 
 Mercy. Oh! Thee knows well eno' what 
 I mean ; I 've been foolish, child, and 
 blind. I forgot the dangers o' youthful 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 509 
 
 blood, and I felt too sure o' thy promise 
 to be Aaron Rodnej^'s wife. But my 
 eyes are open now ; I 've discovered thy 
 secret, lass; and I must speak to thee. 
 
 Hazel. {In anguish.) Oh! mother, spare 
 me — spare me — it is too late! It is too 
 late! 
 
 {Buries her face in Mercy's lap.) 
 
 Mercy. {In horror, rising.) Too late! 
 
 what does thee mean, child? Speak! 
 
 Lift up thy head and look me i' the "face. 
 
 (Hazel looks her in the face.) 
 
 Hazel. Mother ! 
 
 Mercy. {Believed.) Ah! it's a' reet, 
 thee can look me i' the eye still, like an 
 honest lass. But oh! I see it all now. 
 That Maister Cairingford be a bad man 
 — a bad man. 
 
 Hazel. {Indignantly.) Mother! 
 
 Mercy. There 's no use, Hazel — I know 
 all thee 'd say for him ! But thy f ey- 
 ther saved his life, and cherished him 
 in his house, and this is his gratitude, 
 to make love to thee — the plighted wife 
 o' another man. 
 
 Hazel. No, mother, you wrong him! He 
 has never spoken a word of love to me 
 in his life. 
 
 Mercy. An' has thee been won then wi'- 
 out wooing? 
 
 Hazel. Oh! how can I tell? All that I 
 know is that day by day his voice has 
 grown sweeter, his words wiser, his very 
 presence more precious. I did not real- 
 ize how empty my life would be without 
 him, till now the time has come for him 
 to go. It seems as if the shadow of 
 death were upon my heart — it has grown 
 so dull and heavy — so dull and heavy! 
 
 Mercy. Does thee say he has never told 
 thee that he loves thee? 
 
 Hazel. Never! And yet I know he does. 
 Wlien my back is turned I can feel his 
 eyes upon me. — I saw them once by ac- 
 cident in the glass. I knew all then, for 
 I saw in them my own misery — my own 
 love. 
 
 {She goes to Mercy's arms.) 
 
 Mercy. My poor child! But we must do 
 
 the right, if it kills us. There 's but one 
 
 remedy for this, the short and sharp one. 
 
 {Starts to go.) 
 
 Hazel. Where are you going, mother? 
 
 Mercy. He must leave this house at once. 
 
 ( Going. ) 
 
 Hazel. {Stops her.) No, it is not for 
 you to send him away; that is my duty. 
 It will be less of insult to him, and less 
 of agony to me. 
 
 Mercy. Theg has not the strength to do 
 it. 
 
 Hazel. I will find it! Send him here to 
 me, and I promise you I will tell him 
 we must part at once. 
 
 Mercy. {Speaks as she goes.) Aye, it's 
 better so. Perhaps thee '11 fret less if 
 thee send him away. Thee shall have it 
 thy way, Hazel, child. (Hazel comes to 
 her and she kisses her.) Courage, lass, 
 be strong i' the battle today, and thee '11 
 be rich i' the triumph tomorrow. 
 
 {She goes out through the porch.) 
 
 Hazel. What am I going to do? Drive 
 away the happiness that heaven sends 
 me? Insult the man I honor most — and 
 all for what? To keep the rash promise 
 of a silly, thoughtless girl, and so break 
 two harmless loving hearts! {She 
 crosses to the table, and sits at right.) 
 Oh! I must not think of it or I shall 
 rebel. 
 
 {Enter Arthur.) 
 
 Arthur. {Coming to the table.) Why, 
 Hazel, what's the matter? {She rises 
 coldly. He checks himself.) Pardon 
 me, Miss Kirke, I have just learned that 
 you wished to speak to me. 
 
 Hazel. {With emotion, looks about the 
 room.) Mr. Carringford, I have sent 
 for you to say what may sound strangely 
 from me — but you must leave this place 
 at once. 
 
 Arthur. Leave this — ? May I know 
 why? 
 
 Hazel. No, not from my lips. 
 
 Arthur. Do you wish me to go? 
 
 Hazel. {With nervous vehemence.) Yes, 
 yes, go quickly! 
 
 (Rodney enters, unseen by them.) 
 
 Arthur. {After a pause; sadly.) Yes, 
 you are right — I will go — I was going. 
 {Extending his hand.) Bid me good- 
 bye. {She turns her face away; extends 
 her hand. He takes it, kisses it tenderly. 
 She falls sobbing in the chair; he leans 
 over her.) Hazel! You must have 
 mercy upon me, and let me speak. 
 
 Hazel. No, I beseech you, leave me — 
 leave me without a word. 
 
 (Arthur tur^is to go.) 
 
 Rodney. {Coming forward.) Stay, Mr. 
 Carringford, one word with me. I know. 
 (Arthur stares; Hazel turns in con- 
 sternation; Rodney controls his emo- 
 tion.) I know that you love Hazel, and 
 that she loves you. (Hazel draws 
 
510 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 back.) Have no fear, Hazel, child, I'm 
 not the man to rail at ye. (Hazel looks 
 at him.) I shall only — 
 
 {He pauses, staggers.) 
 
 Hazel. {Rushing to him.) Oh! Mr. Rod- 
 ney! 
 
 Rodney. Nay, it 's nothing, lass — it 's 
 nothing ! I 'm a bit dazed — that 's all. 
 {He sinks into chair, hiding his face 
 in his hands.) 
 
 Hazel. {Kneeling.) Oh! Mr. Rodney, 
 forgive us — forgive us! He did not 
 know, for I was resolved to do my duty 
 to you. 
 
 {She hows her head on his knees.) 
 
 Rodney. Nay, nay, now — no more o' 
 that ! Tliere 's misery enough i' this 
 world without an old thing like me mak- 
 ing more of it. Don't weep, child, don't 
 weep. Every tear you shed falls like 
 hot lead on my heart. There, there, 
 child, cheer up, cheer up, and we '11 see 
 what 's best to be done. 
 
 Hazel. You do not hate me, then? 
 
 Rodney. Hate ye? Aaron Rodney will 
 never live to see the day he can hate ye. 
 No, lass, I love ye still, God help me; 
 love ye too well to ask anything save 
 your own happiness. I only fear for 
 w4iat your father may do ; you know how 
 headstrong he is, and how wildly he 
 rages at things he thinks are wrong. 
 
 Hazel. I cannot help the past, but I can 
 be brave for the future. I can do my 
 duty, keep my promise — 
 
 Rodney. And become my wife? No, 
 child, no. {He walks away.) I would 
 not ask it of ye. But this is a bad af- 
 fair. Hazel. A bad affair. I did not 
 know how far things had gone, or I 
 would not have done what I have done. 
 
 Arthur. What have you done? 
 
 Rodney. I have written to your mother, 
 Mr. Carringford, begging her to call you 
 away from this place at once. I know 
 the pride of your race, sir, and I know 
 too well your mother will never consent 
 to your marriage with this child, and I 
 warn ye, if ye seek to dishonor her — ■ 
 there is no living power will prevent me 
 from murdering you. 
 
 Arthur. And I should deserve something 
 worse if I could be false to her. 
 
 Rodney. {Taking his hand.) I believe 
 ye, lad, I believe ye, and I '11 not stand 
 in your way. 
 
 Hazel. Oh! Mr. Rodney, my noble 
 friend ! 
 
 Rodney. Aye, lass, only thy friend now, 
 
 but stanch till death. {Holding Hazel's 
 hand.) Mr. Carringford, this child has 
 been bound up in my heart ever since, 
 as a little one, I held her on my knee. 
 Well, sir, for the sake of her happiness, 
 I '11 cancel my prior claim to her hand 
 in your favor, but you must promise me 
 to love and cherish her so long as life 
 shall last. 
 
 Arthue. I promise. 
 
 {He approaches them.) 
 
 Rodney. Give me your hand. As far as 
 it lies in my power, I here bestow upon 
 you a treasure that I would have sacri- 
 ficed life itself to obtain. Take her, sir, 
 take her, and for her sake may heaven 
 be with you both. 
 
 {He extends his left hand to Arthur, 
 and is joining their hands, when 
 Dunstan is heard outside; instantly 
 they separate.) 
 
 Dunstan. {Outside.) There, there! No 
 matter yet, let the horses stand till I 've 
 taken in these things. 
 
 Rodney. Your father's back. Hazel. 
 Not a word to him of what has passed 
 between us. I must speak with him my- 
 self first, but I cannot do it now ; I 've 
 not the strength to meet him yet. I '11 
 go this way. {In the porch he turns, 
 extending his arms. She goes to him; 
 he kisses her forehead.) Have no fear, 
 child ! I '11 do what I can to soften him, 
 and so God bless you, my darling, God 
 bless you. {He goes out.) 
 
 Arthur. {Taking her hand.) This is the 
 bitterest and sweetest moment of my life. 
 
 {Enter Dunstan with bundles. They 
 separate.) 
 
 Dunstan. Ah ! lass, and here 's thy bun^ 
 dies. I got thy things, but left the rest 
 for Farmer Kennedy to bring along. 
 
 Hazel. Thanks, father, but how quickly 
 you 've returned. 
 
 Dunstan. Aye, lass, there was a letter 
 at post, so I hurried home. They said 
 it was for me. Here, lass, read it for 
 me. — Let me hear what it says. {He 
 hands her the letter; she opens it and 
 starts.) Well, lass, and what says the 
 letter? (Hazel becomes faint; he as-, 
 sists her to a chair.) My heart, child, 
 what be the matter? There, sit down, 
 sit down. What 's the trouble : is it bad 
 news? Out with it. Who's it from? 
 Let 's hear. 
 
 Hazel. It is signed, "Emily Carringford." 
 (Arthur starts.) 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 511 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Looking at him.) What ha' 
 she got to say to me? Read it, lass, 
 what does she say? 
 
 Hazel. (Aside.) There's no use, I shall 
 be forced to read it. "Dunstan Kirke: 
 Dear Sir, I have been startled by learn- 
 ing of my son's presence in your home, 
 and deeply pained by hearing of his con- 
 duct with your child — ." 
 
 DiTNSTAN. Eh? What be that? What 
 be that? 
 
 Hazel. "I have besought him to return 
 to me instantly. If he refuses, I call on 
 you to add the force of your commands 
 to my prayers." 
 
 Dunstan. Aye, aye, it 's getting clearer, 
 it 's getting clearer. Go on, child, what 
 more does she say? 
 
 Hazel. "I cannot describe my indigna- 
 tion at the thought of my son's love 
 for — " {She breaks down.) 
 
 Dunstan. {Sternly.) Stop there, lass. 
 That 's enough ! — Ye need read no more ! 
 {To Arthur.) Mr. Carringford, I've 
 only gotten one child in all the world, 
 and God knows I love her better than 
 my life. Well, sir, I 'd rather bury her 
 wi' my own hands than have her faith- 
 less to her word. Now, ye know she be 
 the plighted wife o' Aaron Rodney. 
 Well, then, are ye a serpent I 've cher- 
 ished in my breast to bite me and mine? 
 Have ye dared to think o' making love 
 to Hazel Kirke? 
 
 Arthur. Fate threw me helpless at her 
 feet ; 't was her hands nursed me back to 
 life. Well, sir, I confess what I could 
 not wish to help — I learned to love 
 her! 
 
 Dunstan. Hazel, thee hears what he says, 
 and thee knows the duty of an honest 
 girl. Bid him begone at once. 
 
 Hazel. No, father, I cannot. 
 
 Dunstan. {Astounded.) What's that 
 thee says? 
 
 Hazel. If he must go, I — should go, for 
 I, too, am guilty. 
 
 Dunstan. What! My child avows dis- 
 honor? 
 
 Hazel. Father, hear me ! 
 
 Dunstan. Hear thee ! No, no ; I 've 
 
 heard too much already. {Advancing.) 
 
 I could take thy shameless heart out. 
 
 (Hazel, with a cry of fear, draws 
 
 hack into Arthur's arms.) 
 
 Arthur. {Shielding her.) Stand back, 
 sir, stand back! 
 
 {Enter Dolly and Mercy from the house. 
 
 Millers appear behind the wall and in 
 the gateway.) 
 
 Dunstan. What! In that man's arms? 
 Before my very eyes? Out on thee, 
 thou foul disgrace! Hear thy father's 
 curse ! 
 
 Mercy. {In anguish.) No, no; she is thy 
 child, thine only child! 
 
 Dunstan. Begone! Thou misbegotten 
 bairn, begone. I cast thee out adrift, 
 adrift forever from thy feyther's love, 
 and may my eyes no more behold thee. 
 
 Hazel. {Extending her arms toward 
 Mercy with a cry.) Mother! Mother! 
 
 Dunstan. {Waving her back.) Stand 
 back ; she 's lost to thee forever ! 
 
 (Hazel recoils into Arthur's arms; 
 he leans over her.) 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene. Interior of villa at Fairy Grove; 
 a room bright with sunlight. On table 
 at left are cigarettes and matches, also a 
 bell; water and glass are on 'Stand at 
 right. 
 
 At rise of curtain, Clara, a servant, is dis- 
 covered dusting the room. Outside a 
 pipe is heard playing. 
 
 Clara. {Looking off.) There's that 
 worthless boy blowing his pipe again, 
 instead of minding the garden. Why 
 did Mr. Carringford ever bring the 
 ninny here? 
 
 {Enter Met. with pipe, dressed as a gar- 
 dener, and carrying flowers.) 
 
 Met. Hi ! I say. Mistress Clara, where 's 
 the missus? 
 
 Clara. What do you want of her? 
 
 Met. Here 's some flowers I 've been pick- 
 ing for her. Where is she, I say? 
 
 Clara. She 's about here somewhere, cry- 
 ing, I suppose. 
 
 Met. Cryin'? What do you mean? 
 
 Clara. For the last three days she seems 
 to be awfully put out about something. 
 
 Met. My heart! what be the matter wi' 
 her? 
 
 Clara. Oh ! She 's so lonely, I suppose. 
 She goes nowhere, sees nobody, and for 
 a week her husband has been away. I 
 never knew him to stay so long from her 
 
512 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 before. I 'm afraid there 's something 
 wrong here, Met. What can it be? 
 
 Met. How should I know? 
 
 Clara. You knew the missus before she 
 came here, didn't you? 
 
 Met. What makes ye think that? 
 
 Clara. Because she brought you here. 
 
 Met. No, she did n't bring me here ; I fol- 
 lowed her; and I'd follow her to the 
 end of the earth if she 'd let me. 
 
 Clara. {Sitting down.) Let me see. 
 That was just one year ago. Where did 
 she come from? 
 
 Met. That 's her business, not yours. 
 
 Clara. Who was she before Mr. Carring- 
 ford married her? 
 
 Met. a lady, every inch of her, and too 
 good for him. 
 
 Clara. Why too good for him? 
 
 Met. Now, look ye here, lass, why is it 
 that he brings no one here to see her? 
 Why is it his mother and none of his 
 folks don't never come near here at all? 
 
 Clara. I don't know. 
 
 Met. Why, of course not. Ye don't know 
 
 , nothing, you don't. {Looking out of the 
 
 window right.) There she be on the 
 
 shore o' the park lake. I '11 take her the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 Clara. {Rises.) Hold on. Met., tell me 
 first — 
 
 Met. I '11 tell ye nothin', and that 's more 
 than ye desarve. {Exit.) 
 
 Clara. There 's a secret somewhere about 
 this house; I can smell it in the air, and 
 that boy knows what it is, but he 's as 
 close as the grave, and as devoted to my 
 mistress as a miser to his gold. {Stops 
 suddenly at window and looks out.) 
 Well, I declare, what sort of a man is 
 this coming up the path? How he mut- 
 ters and shakes his head as though he 
 were crazy. What can he want here? 
 I must call Barney to get rid of him. 
 
 {She goes right.) 
 {Enter Rodney, left.) 
 
 Rodney. Young woman, one moment, 
 
 please. 
 Clara. {Turning.) Well, sir, what is it? 
 Rodney. Is this place called Fairy Grove? 
 Clara. Yes, sir; this is Fairy Grove. 
 Rodney. {Looking round, dubiously.) 
 
 So this is where he has hidden her! 
 Clara. There he goes, muttering and 
 
 shaking his head. 
 Rodney. So she 's here, surrounded by 
 
 luxury and never dreaming of her shame 
 
 — never dreaming of her shame. {Grow- 
 
 ing excited.) I have found you at last, 
 Arthur Carringford, and you shall right 
 the wrong you 've done her, or I shall 
 have your life — your life! 
 
 Clara. {Approaching him.) Good man, 
 what do you want here? 
 
 Rodney. {Turning to her.) Is your mis- 
 tress in? 
 
 Clara. You mean Mrs. Carringford? 
 
 Rodney. {Intensely.) Is she called that 
 here? 
 
 Clara. Is who called what, sir? 
 
 Rodney. Your mistress, is she in? 
 
 Clara. Certainly. Do you want to see her? 
 
 Rodney. {Startled.) No, no; it would 
 only frighten her. But you know she is 
 not — No, no, not for the world! It 
 would sadden her to see me. What am 
 I saying? What am I saying? 
 
 Clara. {Aside.) I must get Barney here 
 at once. 
 
 {She runs to door at right.) 
 
 Rodney. {Turns and sees her going.) 
 Stop! Come back! {Clara returns.) 
 Don't go till ye tell me — 
 
 Clara. Tell you what, sir? 
 
 Rodney. Does he treat her well? Is she 
 happy here? 
 
 Clara. {Astonished.) I don't know. — 
 What do you mean, sir? 
 
 Rodney. If he made her unhappy, I 'd 
 tear his heart out. 
 
 Clara. {Terrified, screams, and runs 
 right, calling:) Barney! Barney! 
 (Rodney follows and brings her back.) 
 
 Rodney. Hush ! Be quiet ! or you '11 
 bring her here. If you make a noise 
 she '11 come. Don't fear. I mean no 
 harm. I '11 go now. I only want to be 
 sure I 've found the right place. What 's 
 your name? "^ 
 
 Clara. Clara, sir. 
 
 Rodney. Clara! — a goodly name and you 
 have a kind face. I '11 trust j-ou with a 
 message. Tell Hazel for me — I mean 
 your mistress — tell her not to grieve. 
 Tell her heaven has her in its blessed 
 keeping. Tell her that I 'm near at hand 
 to guard her life, to enforce her rights; 
 tell her this, please, from me. 
 
 Clara. Who are you, sir? 
 
 Rodney. I'm Mr. — {Checks himself.) 
 A friend, that's all, a friend! She 
 must not know my name; you won't tell 
 her that, will you? 
 
 Clara. I don't know it, sir. 
 
 Rodney. True, that 's good ; take this. 
 {Handing her money.) 
 
 Clara. What is it? 
 
 I 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 513 
 
 Rodney. Gold. Money. 
 
 Clara. I — I — don't want it, sir — would n't 
 take it for the world! 
 
 Rodney. Yes, take it, to pay for the serv- 
 ice I want of you. {Taking her hand.) 
 Watch him, see how he treats her. {Go- 
 ing.) Now to return to this man's 
 mother; bring her here and learn her 
 decision at once. {At door.) You are 
 to tell me all when we meet again. 
 
 {He goes out at left.) 
 
 Clara. {Looking after him.) Meet 
 again! Not if I see you first! The 
 man 's as crazy as a loon ! 
 
 {Looks at the money.) 
 
 {Enter, right, Barney, singing.) 
 
 Barney. Is that you, darlin' ? What 's 
 that ye 're lookin' af? 
 
 Clara. Gold, I think. I can hardly be- 
 lieve it 's real though. 
 
 Barney. {Snatching, examines the 
 money.) Faith! that's pure gold, sure 
 enough, the genuine article, like your- 
 self, heaven bless you. Ah! Clara, this 
 is the sovereign of the world, but you, 
 you 're the sovereign of my heart. 
 
 {Turns away.) 
 
 Clara. Ah ! ha ! Barney, no nonsense, give 
 me my money. 
 
 Barney. {Comes hack.) And how do I 
 know it 's yours ? 
 
 Clara. Didn't you snatch it out of my 
 hand just now? 
 
 Barney. Sure, that don't prove it's 
 yours. 
 
 Clara. Come, come now, give me my 
 money. 
 
 Barney. Where did ye get it? 
 
 Clara. From a crazy creature who was 
 here just now. 
 
 Barney. Crazy, was he? 
 
 Clara. Yes. 
 
 Barney. Of course he was crazy, or he 
 would n't have given it to you. I '11 go 
 and find that lunatic and restore his 
 fortune. {Going.) 
 
 Clara. {Following him.) Barney 
 
 O'Flynn, will you give me that sover- 
 eign? 
 
 Barney. How can I give what is n't my 
 own, dear? 
 
 Clara. Do you mean to keep it yourself? 
 
 Barney. Keep it! No, indeed, I mane 
 to exchange it. 
 
 Clara. For what, Barney? 
 
 Barney. For the sweetest thing a man 
 could drame of, wan pf your kisses, my 
 darlin', 
 
 {She screaxns, flings him off, and goes 
 out right, as Arthur enters left 
 with overcoat on arm, smoking a 
 cigarette.) 
 
 Arthur. Well, Barney! 
 
 Barney. {Starting.) Mealy murther! 
 Master, ye frightened me ; sure, sir, I 'm 
 glad ye 're back again. 
 
 Arthur. {Tossing his overcoat to Bar- 
 ney. ) Where 's my wife ? 
 
 Barney. Your wife, sir? 
 
 Arthur. Certainly, my wife. 
 
 Barney. {With a cough.) Oh! yes, cer- 
 tainly, she 's in the garden, I belave. 
 
 Arthur. {Sitting at the table.) Let her 
 know that I 've arrived. 
 
 Barney. All right, sir. {Going, he looks 
 hack.) He's in one of his quare moods 
 again. He 's getting tired of this al- 
 ready. I knew it! I knew it! I knew 
 it ! He '11 end it soon — they always do. 
 Ah! there's nothing like a Scotch mar- 
 riage on the wrong side of the line to 
 save the trouble of a divorce and chate 
 the lawyers. {Exit.) 
 
 Arthur. {Taking out a letter, reads.) 
 "My dear Travers, your mother is in a 
 very dangerous condition. To-day she 
 arose for the first time in six months, 
 laboring under some great excitement 
 that is giving her temporary strength; 
 she asks the most searching questions 
 concerning you. She grows more impa- 
 tient every day for your marriage with 
 Lady Maud." {Folding the letter.) 
 Strange ; very strange ; I hoped for good 
 news. Ah! will this never end? Shall 
 I never be able to show the world the 
 noble woman who is my wife? 
 
 {He falls iti a reverie.) 
 
 (Hazel runs in. Seeing him, she creeps 
 up hehind and puts her hands over his 
 eyes. He exclaims gladly:) 
 
 Hazel ! Hazel ! 
 Hazel. Ah! you are back at last, my 
 
 darling. 
 Arthur. {Emhracing her.) Apparently. 
 Hazel. Oh ! I 'm so glad, so glad ; I 've 
 
 been almost dead with loneliness. 
 Arthur. Have you really missed me then 
 
 so much? 
 Hazel. More than you will ever know or 
 
 care, I fear. 
 Arthur. Oh! I love to have you miss 
 
 me. 
 Hazel. Of course you do; you wouldn't 
 
 love me if you did n't. 
 
514 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 Arthur. And you 're not tired yet of 
 these iron bonds of matrimony? 
 
 Hazel. I call them golden bonds. 
 
 Arthur. And so they are, so they are, 
 darling. May they always hold us heart 
 to heart. 
 
 Hazel. {Saddens.) Heigh ho! (Rises.) 
 
 Arthur. Heigh ho? {Amazed.) AVell, 
 well, what does this mean? 
 
 Hazel. Oh ! Only a silly thought. I 'm 
 superstitious ; too much happiness is dan- 
 gerous, sometimes, you know, that 's all. 
 
 Arthur. {Taking her hand.) Little 
 woman, do you know I 'm not blind — 
 there 's something troubles you. What is 
 it? 
 
 Hazel. {Imitating him.) Big man, do 
 you know I 'm not blind, and there 's 
 something troubles you? What it is? 
 
 Arthur. Come, come, dear, I 'm in 
 earnest. 
 
 Hazel. {Sobered.) And so am I, dear. 
 For the last few weeks, whenever you 've 
 been at home, you 've been so silent and 
 moody. Oh, Arthur, can't you trust me 
 with your sorrow as well as with your 
 joy? Come, dear, tell me what troubles 
 you, darling? 
 
 Arthur. Business, that 's all. But you, 
 Hazel, you have no such excuse for sad- 
 ness. 
 
 Hazel. I, sad? {Laughing, she rises.) 
 Why, I 'm the gayest creature in the 
 world. 
 
 Arthur. {Holds her hands.) You try to 
 be before me, but when you 've supposed 
 me absent, I 've seen you in tears. Have 
 I not done all that I could to make you 
 happy? 
 
 {He puts his arms about her.) 
 
 Hazel. {Ardently.) Oh, indeed you 
 have ! 
 
 Arthur. Then why have I failed? 
 
 Hazel. Failed! You have not failed! 
 You have made me too happy. My hap- 
 piness startles me sometimes, I so little 
 deserve it. I confess at moments I am 
 haunted. 
 
 Arthur. Haunted by what, dear? 
 
 Hazel. {Going to the couch at right.) I 
 hardly know — a vague, uncertain dread. 
 This past year has been so strange, the 
 way we met, our secret marriage in 
 Scotland — 
 
 Arthur. Yes, but you know why our 
 marriage had to be so secret. 
 
 Hazel. Yes, because your proud mother 
 had set her heart upon another marriage 
 for you. 
 
 Arthur. My mother has been determined 
 to make me the husband of Maud Weth- 
 erby; she has been very ill for years. 
 To have acknowledged my marriage with 
 you would surely have been to kill her. 
 So I was forced to have our marriage 
 take place in the way that offered least 
 risk of discovery by her. 
 
 Hazel. Oh! my darling, I do hate this 
 hiding ! It gives our marriage the color of 
 a crime. How much longer must it last? 
 
 Arthur. I have been hoping every day 
 that my mother would grow strong 
 enough to learn the news that you are 
 my precious little wife, but I am disap- 
 pointed; she is no better. — I even fear 
 she is growing worse. 
 
 Hazel. Your mother deceived! My 
 father broken-hearted! Oh! it is hor- 
 rible! {She moves away.) 
 
 Arthur. {Angrily.) What a fool I've 
 been! {He paces the floor.) 
 
 Hazel. {In dismay.) What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Arthur. I 've been stupid enough to 
 fancy that my love — my devotion — might 
 suffice to make you forget — to make you 
 happy ! 
 
 Hazel. {Going to him.) And so they do, 
 dear. I was wrong to confess these 
 foolish fears to you. Say you forgive 
 me? 
 
 Arthur. {Embracing her.) Forgive you? 
 No, little woman, it is for you to for- 
 give ! 
 
 Hazel. Forgive what, dear? 
 
 Arthur. {Gravely.) Forgive me that I 
 have not rendered you the open honor 
 that was due you as my wife. 
 
 {He turns his head away.) 
 
 Hazel. How strangely you say that!^ 
 What can you mean? 
 
 Arthur. No matter now, dear. {Affect- 
 ing gaiety, lie crosses to left of table.) 
 Away with gloomy thoughts ; all 's well 
 that ends well! Where are my ciga- 
 rettes. Hazel? No objection to my 
 smoking, dear? 
 
 Hazel. Oh, no. On the contrary, I '11 
 light one for you. 
 
 Arthur. Thanks, that will be delightful. 
 Equal to the task? 
 
 Hazel. {Gaily taking a cigarette from 
 tit e table.) Don't burn me! Take care! 
 {He lights match, while she draws on the 
 cigarette, lights it, and hands it to him 
 with a cough.) There, take the horrid 
 thing! {She goes away.) 
 
 Arthur. {Smoking, he follows her and 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 515 
 
 puts liis arm around her.) Horrid 
 thing ! Wiiy, I declare, it 's the most de- 
 licious cigarette I ever smoked in my 
 life. Thanks, little woman, may all our 
 sorrows end like this, in smoke and a 
 kiss. {He kisses Iter.) 
 
 (Enter Green, at center, a sun umbrella 
 over his head, and laden with sporting 
 traps. He coughs.) 
 
 I declare, — it 's our dear old Pitty. 
 
 (Hazel and Arthur separate.) 
 
 Green. 'T is true, 't is Pitty, and pity 
 't is, 't is true ! You may not believe it, 
 but these things are a bore, and this has 
 two bores. 
 
 {He holds up a double-barrelled gun.) 
 
 Hazel. {Laughing, goes to Green.) 
 Talk of matrimonial misery and band- 
 boxes! What are they to the awful 
 doom of a bachelor devoted to sport? 
 
 Green. Oh! I say, don't make sport of a 
 man in mortal agony. Come to the res- 
 cue, take the umbrageous curio. {Hand- 
 ing Hazel his umbrella.) The idea! bill- 
 ing and cooing still, a year after mar- 
 riage, too. It 's an outrage on society. 
 
 Arthur. {Having unloaded him.) So it 
 is, Green! Now, tell us to what do we 
 owe your sudden advent here? 
 
 Green. To the same old lady, Dame Ru- 
 mor, the despot of my life. 
 
 Hazel. (Laughing.) All! What mon- 
 strous thing has she reported here? 
 
 Green. Monstrous bliss! The fame of 
 your fishes, the taste of your game, the 
 sound of your kisses is wafted on the 
 breath of rumor to the uttermost end 
 of an envious world. So here am I, 
 with all my senses, wild to see, hear, 
 smell, taste, and touch. I '11 begin with 
 touch. Give me your fists, ye pair of 
 blissful curiosities! (Taking them by 
 the hands, he points to her hand.) Will 
 you permit me? (She laughs. He 
 kisses her hand.) Won't you share your 
 monstrosities Avith me? 
 
 Hazel. (With laughter.) All we can. 
 
 Green. All but the kisses, I suppose. 
 
 Arthur. I don't see how we can reserve 
 much else. 
 
 Hazel. (Sitting down.) But what are 
 you going to give us for letting you into 
 our paradise? 
 
 Green. For you I have some news, and 
 for that mortal I have a sermon. 
 
 Arthur. Well, let it be a galloping ser- 
 mon, then. I '11 go and order the horses 
 at once. (Strikes the bell on table.) 
 
 Green. Capital ! 
 
 Hazel. Sermon or ride? 
 
 Green. Capital, my dear, referred to his 
 
 going. 
 Arthur. I 'm off. Beware, I have my 
 
 eye upon you. 
 Green. Keep your ear off, that 's all we 
 
 ask. 
 
 (Enter Barney, right.] 
 
 Pick 
 
 Arthur. (Pointing to the tackle. 
 up those things and follow me. 
 
 (Exit, left.) 
 
 Barney. (Taking the things.) I will, 
 sir; I will, sir; I will, sir. Bad luck to 
 the game; they've got divil the chance 
 now. (Exit.) 
 
 Hazel. Now for your news! 
 
 Green. I 'm just from Blackburn Mill. 
 
 Hazel. And you have letters for me? 
 
 Green. No, not yet. Your father de- 
 clares that the first who writes you shall 
 leave his house. 
 
 Hazel. (Sadly.) Is he still so angry 
 with me, then? 
 
 Green. Angry with you ? That 's put- 
 ting it mild. I call him the pig-head- 
 edest old hard-heart I ever knew. He 
 won't let them breathe your name. 
 
 Hazel. How did you learn this? 
 
 Green. Dolly told me. 
 
 Hazel. (Puzzled.) Dolly, is that, what 
 you call her? 
 
 Green. Oh, yes, if a person's name is 
 Dolly, no harm to call her so, is there? 
 Oh! I forgot, you don't know.^ do you? 
 
 Hazel. Know what? 
 
 Green. Why, about Dolly. She 's done 
 for! 
 
 Hazel, Done for? 
 
 Green. Yes, going to make a fool of her- 
 self. 
 
 Hazel. How ? 
 
 Green. By becoming the better half of P. 
 Green. Pity, is n't it ? 
 
 Hazel. (Amazed.) Do you mean to say 
 you 're going to marry my cousin ? 
 
 Green. Oh. no! She's going to marry 
 me. 
 
 Hazel. Oh, I am so glad ! 
 
 (Offers her hand in congratulation.) 
 
 Green. You may not believe it, but so am 
 I. Will you permit me? 
 
 (He kisses her hand.) 
 
 Hazel. (Sitting on the couch.) Now sit 
 right down here by me, and tell me all 
 about it. 
 
 Green. (Sitting.) Oh! it was just like 
 Dolly herself, short and sweet. After 
 
516 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 you left Laucasliire, the doors of the old 
 mill were sternly closed, especially against 
 me. But it did n't matter, you see. I 
 always have an object in life, so I sud- 
 denly became interested in dams — mill- 
 dams. There was one near the mill: 
 there always is a dam attached to a mill. 
 I used to visit that dam and sketch that 
 dam — the sight of anything damned was 
 a relief to me. Weeks passed, but the 
 door of the old mill remained closed. 
 Fever ensued; I got dam on the brain and 
 went muttering damn, damn, all day. 
 However, nothing could dampen the ardor 
 of my disease. At last the crisis ap- 
 peared, Dolly appeared, and took Pitty, 
 Yes, she relieved my delirium, and to en- 
 sure a curse, consented to become a 
 ma -dam. 
 
 Hazel. {Laughing.) You dear, silly old 
 thing. So you're going to become my 
 cousin. 
 
 Green. Bless me, so I am. I did n't think 
 of that! {Takes her hand.) Will you 
 now permit me"? 
 
 {He kisses her hand.) 
 
 (Arthur enters at left.) 
 
 Arthur. {Approaching them.) Hallo 
 there ! I say ! I say ! 
 
 Green. {Coolly.) So do I — I say. I not 
 only say, but I do, don't I*? Will you 
 permit me? {He kisses Hazel's hand 
 again.) I say, cousinship is good. A 
 duty I owe to society, cousinship, my 
 boy, cousinship. 
 
 {He kisses Hazel, then rises and walks 
 away.) 
 
 Arthur. {To Hazel.) What does the 
 rascal mean *? 
 
 Hazel. Something wonderful. He means — 
 
 Green. Hush! Quietly; his nerves are 
 weak. Have you ordered the horses'? 
 
 Arthur. Yes, but — 
 
 Green. Stop ! but me no buts, but say I 
 make peace. Hazel, my dear, go and get 
 ready to ride and leave this reprobate to 
 the tender mercies of the family prime 
 minister, your cousin Pit. 
 
 Hazel. {Laughing as she goes.) Oh! 
 very well. Don't forget the sermon. 
 
 {Exit, right.) 
 
 Arthur. Now, sir, please explain ! 
 
 {He slaps Green on the hack.) 
 
 Green. I explain? Why, sir, I've trav- 
 elled three hundred miles to make you 
 explain. 
 
 Arthur, Explain what? 
 
 Green. {Handing to Arthur a slip of 
 newspaper.) That, sir. 
 
 Arthur. {Reading.) "Another impor- 
 tant engagement in high life announced — 
 that of Lord Travers to Lady Maud 
 Wetherby." 
 
 Green. Yes, sir; that, sir, is a cutting 
 from the Morning Post — a most respec- 
 table paper, and very reliable authority. 
 
 Arthur. {Laughing.) Evidently. 
 
 Green. {Solemnly.) Well, what are you 
 laughing at? I don't see anything to 
 laugh at. 
 
 Arthur. Don't you? Then suppose you 
 look in the glass. 
 
 Green. Come, come, sir, this is a most seri- 
 ous matter. 
 
 Arthur. Clearly, a most solemn affair; 
 almost as awful as the paragTaph about 
 you a few weeks since. 
 
 Green. About me? 
 
 Arthur. Something like this: "We un- 
 derstand that, after long and serious 
 consideration, the Hon. P. Green has de- 
 cided to become — a bachelor !" What do 
 you think of that? 
 
 Green. I think it is a lie. 
 
 Arthur. That's what I think of this. 
 
 {He tears the newspaper cutting and 
 throws it in the waste basket.) 
 
 Green. There's no analogy in the cases, 
 sir. How can I become a bachelor since 
 I am one? 
 
 Arthur. How can I marry since I am 
 married ? 
 
 Green. But confound it, sir, you're not 
 married ! 
 
 (Arthur turns on Green.) 
 
 Arthur. If I 'm not married, then you 
 must be an old maid. 
 
 Green. Eh? What? I don't see thatt 
 Do you dare to say that in consequence 
 of your villainy my sex is to suffer? 
 No, sir, it 's your manhood, not mine, 
 that 's at stake ! 
 
 Arthur. Are you mad? 
 
 Green. Yes, sir, I am, blind mad. Who 
 wouldn't be under the circumstances? 
 
 Arthur. {Irritated.) Under what cir- 
 cumstances? 
 
 Green. Why, sir, you commit a crime, and 
 when I am about to implore you not to 
 commit another, you impeach my sex, 
 sir. You actually impeach my sex. 
 
 Arthur. By Jove! You are insane! 
 
 Green. Insane! I wish I could say as 
 much for you. Insanity is the only ex- 
 cuse for such exasperating, outrageous, 
 scoundrelly conduct as yours. 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 1 
 
 517 
 
 Arthur. Good heavens, Green! Are you 
 really serious'? 
 
 Green. Serious? I should think so. I'm 
 as serious as an avalanche, an earthquake 
 and a volcano boiled down into one. 
 
 Arthur. What a frightful row about 
 nothing ! 
 
 Green. Nothing'? Is it nothing to de- 
 ceive an honest girl into believing she 's 
 a married woman when she is n't *? Is it 
 nothing to marry one woman and swear 
 to love and honor her, when you love, if 
 you don't honor, another *? Is it nothing 
 to betray where you are trusted mosf? 
 Is it nothing to be a smooth, cool, calcu- 
 latmg villain, and sit there and look as 
 innocent and serene as an angel? 
 
 Arthur. My dear boy, of whom are you 
 talking? 
 
 Greex. {Staggered.) Oh! this is wicked, 
 Travers. It's pure malignant cruelty. 
 Have n't I always been a loyal friend ? 
 
 Arthur. Of course you have. 
 
 Green. {Sitting down.) Then why 
 could n't you have trusted me ? 
 
 Arthur. I 've never distrusted you. 
 
 Green. Oh, yes, you have ; you dealt with 
 me in a beastly mean manner! You've 
 made me an unconscious accomplice in a 
 piece of business I despise. 
 
 Arthur. There you go again. I vow it 's 
 enough to irritate a saint. Can't you tell 
 me plainly what in the world you mean ? 
 
 Green. What ! do you mean to say on your 
 honor you don't understand ? 
 
 Arthur. I mean to say that your gabble 
 for the last half-hour has been Pata- 
 gonian gibberish to me. 
 
 {He moves about the room.) 
 
 Green. Patty— Gibb— Gabby? Can it be 
 possible ! 
 
 Arthur. Can what be possible? 
 
 Green. Can it be possible that you don't 
 understand your own situation ? 
 
 Arthur. What is my situation? 
 
 Green. Travers, you 're either the most ac- 
 complished hypocrite or the biggest fool 
 m the world. Take your choice. 
 
 Arthur. Enough of this — come to the 
 point. What do you mean? 
 
 Green. As I said before, that's precisely 
 what I've travelled three hundred miles 
 to make you tell me. What is it you 
 mean? {Rises.) 
 
 Arthur. {Disgusted.) Ah! if this is one 
 
 of your peculiar jokes, it 's in very bad 
 
 taste. {Going.) I'll leave you to find 
 
 the fun of it yourself. 
 
 Green. {Astonished.) A joke! The 
 
 idea ! It 's no use, that flooi*s me ! 
 {Running after Arthur, brings Mm 
 hack.) Here, Travers, come back, there 
 must be some mistake ! I give in ; you 've 
 turned the tables on me. I '11 explain 
 myself. 
 
 Arthur. Well, begin. 
 
 Green. {Hesitating.) Confound it — 
 
 Arthur. What 's the matter now ? 
 
 Green. I don't know how to begin — it 's 
 such an awful business. You see I 've 
 been sneaking about the old mill lately, 
 and a rumor reached me there that just 
 covered me with goose flesh. 
 
 Arthur. Whoever suspected you of any 
 other covering? 
 
 Green. Yes, I see my name is — oh! hang 
 my name — let 's get to the point. It 
 seems Squire Rodney has been looking 
 into your affairs, and, by Jove ! he swears 
 you 've deceived Hazel Kirke ! 
 
 Arthur. Deceived her? How? 
 
 Green. He says that your marriage to her 
 was a pretence, a farce, a lie. 
 
 Arthur. And you, my friend, have be- 
 lieved him? 
 
 Green. How could I help it? The whole 
 thing is so circumstantial! He declares 
 that he has positive proof that you went 
 towards Scotland with the pretence of 
 marrying Hazel by Scottish law, but that 
 you cunningly stopped on the border, and 
 went through the flimsy Scotch ceremony 
 upon English ground. 
 
 Arthur. It's an infamous slander! 
 
 Green. Can you prove that? 
 
 Arthur. I '11 soon convince you. 
 
 {He strikes the hell.) 
 
 Green. How ? 
 
 Arthur. By the testimony of a witness to 
 my marriage — Barney. 
 
 Green. Barney ! He 's the very one that 
 Rodney named as your accomplice. 
 
 {Enter Barney.) 
 
 Arthur. Absurd ! Barney, I want — 
 
 Green. Hold on! {Stopping Arthur, he 
 speaks to him aside.) I'll question him. 
 We Avant to get at the truth, you know, 
 and these chaps easily slip into a lie. 
 
 Arthur. I don't understand. 
 
 Green. You will presently. Barney, your 
 master called you because the time has 
 come for us to settle a certain matter, 
 and we wish to be sure everything is all 
 right, you know. 
 
 Barney. All right, sir. Faith, sir, I 'm at 
 your service. 
 
 Green. Well, then, my good Barney, tell 
 
518 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 lis frankly, are you quite sure that the 
 place where Lord Travers went through 
 the ceremony of marriage with Miss 
 Kirke was not in Scotland? 
 
 Arthur. {Starting.) I protest — 
 
 Green. As you 're an honest man, keep 
 quiet. Answer my question, Barney. 
 
 Barney. I will, sir, when my master bids 
 me. 
 
 (Green looks in astonishment at 
 Arthur.) 
 
 Arthur. {Aside, astonished.) What a 
 strange thing for him to say ! 
 
 Green. Shall he answer my question? 
 
 Arthur. (Looks at him in suspicion.) 
 Certainly; Barney, speak freely. 
 
 Barney. {To Green.) Well, then, sir, 
 your question be a mighty quare one. 
 
 Green. Ah ! In what respect "? 
 
 Barney. Do ye think I 'd betray my mas- 
 ter? 
 
 Green. Oh ! of course not. 
 
 Barney. I was brought up in the service 
 of the gentry, sir, all my life. Do you 
 be after taking me for a fool? 
 
 {He turns to Arthur.) 
 
 Green. No, I never judge a man by his 
 looks. 
 
 Barney. Looks is it? Well, I know how 
 to look after my master's interests, sir, 
 and that^s look enough for me; so of 
 course I took good care to have such a 
 marriage as he wanted come off in the 
 wrong place. 
 
 (Arthur starts. He faces Barney, 
 leaning against the table.) 
 
 Green. {Looking at Arthur.) What 
 place was that ? 
 
 Barney. Faith! the wrong place for a 
 Scotch marriage is the English side of the 
 Scottish line. 
 
 Arthur. {Going to him appalled.) Do 
 you mean to say that the inn you took us 
 to was on the border, but not in Scotland ? 
 
 Barney. {Astonished.) Of course I do, 
 sir. 
 
 Arthur. {Frenzied.) You miserable, 
 dastardly villain, I could brain you ! 
 
 {He grasps him hy the throat.) 
 
 Barney. Sure, sir, I only followed your 
 own orders. 
 
 Arthur. {Amazed.) Followed my or- 
 ders? 
 
 Barney. To the letther, sir. Did n't you 
 come to me all of a suddint one night, at 
 the old tavern in Blackburn, and did n't 
 you say, "Barney, I want to get married 
 to oust secretly, in Scotland"? 
 
 Arthur. I did, you rascal. 
 
 Barney. Did n't ye tell me to take ye to 
 the borders? 
 
 Arthur. Well ? 
 
 Barney. Well, sir, and so I did. To the 
 borders of matrimony, as I thought ye 
 intended. 
 
 Arthur. {Shaking him.) Idiot! Scoun- 
 drel! Wretch! (Gree-r interferes, say- 
 ing '^ Travers! Travers!" and frees Bar- 
 ney. In agony, Arthur turns away.) 
 Hazel dishonored — deceived, and by me — 
 by me ! Oh ! It is horrible ! horrible ! 
 {He rushes again at Barney.) 
 
 Green. (Interposing.) There's some- 
 thing better to be done now. 
 
 Arthur. Yes, you are right. We will go 
 find a curate — and I will marry her at 
 once. {To Barney.) Imbecile! I'm 
 about to take measures partially to amend 
 the outrage that you have committed. 
 Let us have no more mistakes — tell my 
 wi — {Pauses; then with ardor.) Yes, 
 before heaven and my own heart, she is 
 my wife ! Tell my wife that I have been 
 called away, but will return soon. And, 
 understand, not a word of this to anyone. 
 
 Barney. Not for the world. 
 
 Arthur. {To Green.) Come, let us 
 hurry; every instant now is torture till 
 Hazel is my wife. 
 
 {They both hasten out.) 
 
 Barney. Faith, thin, I can't make this out 
 for the life o' me ! He 's lost his head as 
 well as his heart entirely, and to a pea- 
 sant's child, too. Eh! Who's this old 
 party coming up the w^alk? It's Squire 
 Rodney. That bodes no good to this 
 house ! 0, murther ! Who 's that be- 
 hind him? If it is n't Lady Travers her- 
 self! The powers purtect us — she's 
 found us out! Oh, dear! oh, dear! may 
 the powers purtect us ! what shall we do, 
 at all at all ! Whist ! She 's here. 
 
 {Enter Rodney, followed hy Lady Travers, 
 old, very ill, leaning on the arm of a 
 footman iil livery.) 
 
 Rodney. This is the place, my lady, and 
 
 this is the man. 
 Lady Travers. Barney, is that you? 
 Barney. Yes, your ladyship, I belave it is. 
 
 {Aside.) I 'm not quite sure. 
 L.DY T. I thought you were abroad with 
 
 my son. 
 Barney. Yes, ma'am, I 'm with your son, 
 
 and sure I fale abroad too — leastways, I 
 
 don't fale at home. 
 Lady T. (Faintly.) A chair! (Rodney 
 
 helps her to a chn,ir.) Water! (BARNEY 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 519 
 
 gives her a glass of water. She drinks it, 
 handing back the glass.) Is my son 
 here*? 
 
 (Rodney withdraws a little.) 
 
 Barney. No, my lady. 
 
 Lady T. {Aside.) So much the better! 
 {Aloud.) Is the lady of the house in'? 
 
 Barney. Is it Lady Travers ye mane, my 
 lady? 
 
 Lady T. (Sternly.) It is not Lady Trav- 
 ers that I mean. 
 
 Barney. (Aside.) She knows all! 
 {Aloud.) She is in, my Lady. 
 
 Lady T. Inform her that a lady would 
 speak with her on important business. 
 
 Barney. (Going.) I will, my lady. 
 
 Lady T. Stay — not a word of who it is. 
 
 Barney. Oh ! not for the world, my lady. 
 
 Lady T. And, Barney — 
 
 Barney. Yes, my lady? 
 
 Lady T. When I strike twice on this bell 
 come here instantly. Do you under- 
 stand? 
 
 Barney. I do, very well, my lady. 
 
 Lady T. You may go. 
 
 Barney. Thank you, my lady. (Aside, 
 going.) Faith! I wish I were anyrv^here 
 out of this. (Exit.) 
 
 Lady T. Thomas, return to the carriage 
 and wait till I send for you. (Servant 
 bows and goes out.)' Mr. Rodney, I deem 
 it best I should see this girl alone. 
 
 Rodney. Yes, madam, you are right. 'T is 
 best I should go ! But, oh ! madam, have 
 pity upon her; break all gently; let your 
 woman's heart feel for a woman's 
 wrongs ! 
 
 Lady T. It does, for wrongs of which he 
 little dreams. 
 
 Rodney. I have been merciful to you, 
 madam ; you must be merciful to her. 
 
 Lady T. How have you been merciful to 
 me? 
 
 Rodney. How? Madam, when I first 
 learned the truth, I started out to find 
 your son, to take his life for wronging 
 her. Yes — 
 
 Lady T. Ah ! 
 
 Rodney. Yes, but I thought of you, his 
 mother, and I said, "I will spare him for 
 her sake, for she will force him to do his 
 duty." 
 
 Lady T. And so she will ! 
 
 Rodney. I knew it, my lady ! I knew it ! 
 
 Lady T. (Aside.) A duty more impera- 
 tive than to this low-born girl. 
 
 Rodney. Believing this, I sought you out 
 and told you all, for, believe me, madam, 
 I never should have brought you here to 
 
 put this chiM to shame, except it were to 
 save her from that shame itself. 
 
 Lady T. And so you 're sure her marriage 
 to my son — 
 
 Rodney. Alas ! my lady, it was none at all 
 — none at all ! 
 
 Lady T. (Aside.) Thank heaven for 
 that! (Aloud.) You may go and wait 
 for me at the inn. 
 
 Rodney. I will, my lady. Oh, madam, I 
 will pray heaven to bless you for this 
 day's noble work! (Exit.) 
 
 Lady T. His blessings are worse than any 
 curse! Why is this girl so long in com- 
 ing? This suspense is sapping all my 
 strength. 
 
 (Enter Hazel.) 
 
 Ah ! She 's here. 
 
 Hazel. (Coming forward in wonder.) 
 You wished to see me, madam? 
 
 Lady T. I did. Please be seated near me. 
 (Hazel goes for a chair. Lady Travers 
 speaks aside.) The old stoiy, the fatal 
 power of a handsome face ! 
 
 Hazel. (Aside, as she is getting the 
 chair.) What a strange commanding- 
 tone ! I wonder who she is? 
 
 (Returning, she sits near Lady Trav- 
 ers^ who speaks after a pause.) 
 
 Lady T. I am Lady Travers. (Hazel 
 starts.) You need not fear me; I have 
 not come to curse, but to beg. 
 
 Hazel. To beg of me? But why, madam, 
 why? 
 
 Lady T. Because in your hands lies the 
 honor of an old and noble family. I see 
 shining in your eyes the womanhood that 
 has so bewitched my son. And see, to 
 that womanhood, I kneel to beg, implore 
 a fearful sacrifice from you. 
 
 (She kneels.) 
 
 Hazel. (Helping her back to the chair.) 
 Oh, madam, you shall not kneel! You 
 shall not kneel ! (Aside.) What can she 
 mean? (Aloud.) Madam, ask any 
 sacrifice I can make in honor, and I will 
 gladly make it for your son. 
 
 Lady T. Alas! You do not know what 
 you promise. Listen ! My husband had 
 a ward whose fortune he wrongfully used 
 and lost. Upon his dying bed he con- 
 fessed this to me, and made me promise to 
 hide his shame, by marrying our only son 
 to this ward. 
 
 Hazel. Well, madam? 
 
 Lady T. I promised, and I have lived since 
 but to keep my word and save our honor. 
 
 Hazel. Oh, madam! How terrible! 
 
620 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 Lady T. My son never knew why I was so 
 determined to make this match, but he, 
 to humor me, promised to marry Lady 
 Maud! Suddenly I heard he was living' 
 here with you; with grief and shame I 
 gathered strength enough to drag myself 
 here, to implore you to save us all. 
 
 Hazel. Oh, what can I do? What can I 
 do? 
 
 Lady T. Be heroic for his sake; fly from 
 him, and save him from disgrace ! 
 
 Hazel. From disgrace? 
 
 Lady T. Yes, within a month Lady Maud 
 will come of age, and demand a settle- 
 ment of her estate. Nothing but her 
 marriage to ray son can save him from 
 ruin and shame. 
 
 Hazel. Oh, how horrible! My punish- 
 ment begins. I, who should prove his 
 blessing, am his curse! Beggary, hu- 
 miliation and shame stare him in the face, 
 and all — all because of me! 
 
 Lady T. Then leave him — fly from him at 
 once. 
 
 Hazel. And never see him in this world 
 again? No, no, you ask more than I 
 have strength to do — besides, what use is 
 that? I am his wife, his wretched, 
 wretched wife! 
 
 Lady T. What if you were not his wife? 
 
 Hazel. Ah ! Then perhaps heaven would 
 give me the courage to fly for his sake. 
 
 Lady T. (Bising.) It will, heroic girl, for 
 he is free. — You are not his wife ! 
 
 Hazel. {Turns, stunned.) Not his wife? 
 
 Lady T. As he has deceived me by loving 
 you, so he has betrayed you by a pre- 
 tended marriage. 
 
 Hazel. He! Arthur? Betrayed me? 
 'T is false ! I '11 not believe it ! Give me 
 the proofs! The proofs! 
 
 Lady T. {Sways, gasps.) Ah! Have 
 mercy or I shall die ! 
 
 Hazel. {Throwing herself at her feet.) 
 Oh, madam ! forgive me. I will be wise, 
 calm, patient, only take back the cruel 
 words that disgrace the man I love. Tell 
 me that Arthur is not false, and I will 
 leave him, bear disgTace or death, only 
 so that he may be free from every stain. 
 
 Lady T. Poor child! {Strikes the hell 
 twice.) Would that I could spare you 
 this blow ! But there is at stake a thing 
 of greater value than your happiness or 
 my life — the good name of an old and 
 honorable race. 
 
 {Enter Barney.) 
 
 This man will tell you I speak the truth, 
 
 when I say you are not the wife of 
 Arthur Carringford. 
 
 (Hazel rises, Barney starts.) 
 
 Hazel. This man? Why, he was witness 
 of my marriage. 
 
 Lady T. A Scotch marriage upon English 
 ground, and so, illegal, worthless, void. 
 
 Hazel. ( To Barney. ) Can this be true ? 
 
 Barney. Heaven forgive us, miss, but it is. 
 
 Hazel. True? This, then, is what he 
 meant when he said he had not done his 
 duty to me as a wife. He, Arthur, my 
 brave, gentle Arthur, has deceived me. 
 betrayed me, and I trusted him as though 
 he were a god. Oh, my heart is breaking. 
 
 {She sobs.) 
 
 Lady T. {Rising, goes and puts her arms 
 about her.) Courage, child, courage. 
 
 Hazel. {Breaking from her.) Courage 
 for what? To face the agony of love de- 
 ceived here in my own heart? To face 
 the taunting finger of a cruel world point- 
 ing at my shame? No, never! He shall 
 right my wrong. He shall make me an 
 honorable wife, or — I will — 
 
 Lady T. {Staggering.) Stop! Child, 
 stop ! Or you will add my murder to his 
 other crimes ! 
 
 {She clutches her chair for support.) 
 
 Hazel. Murder? No, forgive me, I. have 
 done wrong enough. I see it all! It is 
 my father's curse, my father's curse! 
 Oh, God! {Taking off her jewels, she 
 puts them on the table.) Madam! you 
 have asked me to fly for his sake, the sake 
 of the man who has so degraded me. 
 Here is my answer. I accepted these as 
 tokens of love, given to an honored wife. 
 I scorn them now. He shall have all — 
 all! {About to take off her wedding- 
 ring, she stops.) No, not this. My mar^ 
 riage ring! {Kisses it.) This I have 
 bought with a wife's love, a Avoman's per- 
 dition ! This I will keep ! ( Going. ) 
 The rest I leave forever. — I go to cover 
 up his infamy with my shame — and may 
 heaven forgive you all ! 
 
 {Exit. Lady Travers staggers and 
 falls back rigid in her chair.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene. Evening; kitchen at Blackburn 
 Mill; door lit by glow of fire; clothes 
 horse with toivels on it before the fire; at 
 right, clock and cupboard, in which are 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 521 
 
 pipe, matches, tobacco, food, and dishes; 
 a lighted candle on the table, centre. 
 Mercy and Dolly are discovered at the 
 table, which is between two chairs. They 
 are ironing; the room is dim; the clock 
 is striking. 
 
 Mercy. Eight o^eloek ! It 's time for eve- 
 ning prayers. Dolly, go to the mill, and 
 call Joe and Dan. 
 
 Dolly. All right, aunt. 
 
 (Exit, right.) 
 
 Mercy. Now to put awa' the linen. {She 
 does so in drawers at right, and returns to 
 the table. Outside a pipe is heard play- 
 ing. Mercy starts.) What's that"? 
 {She listens, the pipe stops.) Strange! 
 Met used to play that tune, and it sounds 
 like Met's pipe, too. What can it mean *? 
 Has he left Hazel? Aye, perhaps he's 
 coom to see me, with news of her. 
 {Opens the door and calls.) Met, Met! 
 Is that you? Met, Met ! Is it you? 
 
 (Met. enters, pale, ragged, haggard.) 
 
 Coom in, lad, coom in and tell us the 
 news! What's the word? Speak, lad, 
 speak. 
 
 Met. I want her — where is she? 
 
 Mercy. Who? 
 
 Met. Hazel — I want her — I 've tramped 
 four hundred miles to find her. 
 
 Mercy. My heart, lad! What are ye 
 sayin' ? 
 
 Met. I must see Hazel — she 's here. 
 
 Mercy. Hazel! Hazel! Here? No, she 's 
 not here. (Met staggers to a chair.) 
 Mercy on us, what's coom to thee, lad? 
 
 Met. Not here? Where can she be, where 
 can she be? 
 
 Mercy. Wi' her hoosband, I suppose. 
 
 Met. No, no, she left him a month ago. 
 
 Mercy.* Left him! Why? 
 
 Met. I don't know — I don't know ! 
 
 Mercy. Where did she go? 
 
 Met. {Who is seated.) Why, I thought 
 she'd coom here, so I followed her on 
 foot, but {rising) I '11 go back again ; I '11 
 walk till I die, but I '11 find her. 
 
 Mercy. Ah, what are you saying, Met? 
 
 Met. {At the door, turns back to Mercy.) 
 I 'm sayin' there's something wrong; that 
 man's mother came to the house ; she was 
 found dead there and Hazel gone. 
 
 Mercy. Great heavens. Met ! You frighten 
 me! 
 
 Met. Hazel is somewhere, wandering now, 
 as I have been for a month, ill;, cold, 
 
 starving, perhaps, as I am ! But I '11 go 
 to her; I must. I will find her. 
 
 Mercy. Stop, an' I '11 go with you, lad. 
 
 Met. {Takes her hands.) Oh, mistress, 
 heaven will bless you for that word. 
 
 Mercy. But you must wait till after pray- 
 ers ; Dunstan would miss me if I went off 
 now; he'd ask questions, and oh. Met, 
 he must hot know — he's been very ill — 
 this news would kill him. 
 
 Met. Then, mistress, you go to the master, 
 I '11 run down to Squire Rodney's house ; 
 if I can find him, he '11 help me. 
 
 {Goes to the door.) 
 
 Mercy. {Following him.) Aye, so he will, 
 lad. Go, then, go quickly; I will meet 
 you at his house within an hour. 
 
 Met. Never fear, missus, we'll find her 
 now for sure. {Exit.) 
 
 Mercy. So we will — so we will. Now to 
 get ready to find her. 
 
 (Mercy crosses to door at left.) 
 
 (Dolly enters, followed by Joe and Dan.) 
 
 Dolly. We 're all here now. Aunt Mercy. 
 Mercy. Aye, aye, all but the one who 
 
 ought to be here the most. 
 Dolly. {Taking up a lighted candle.) 
 
 What do you mean, aunt? 
 Mercy. I cannot tell thee now; tomorrow, 
 perhaps. Coom, coom, child, coom. 
 {She hurries within, left. The others 
 follow her, closing the door. The 
 room is left in darkness. There is a 
 pause, then a knock on the outer 
 door. The knocking is repeated; the 
 door opens; Green appears, looks 
 around, then beckons outside.) 
 
 (Arthur enters.) 
 
 Arthur. Well? 
 
 Green. Not a soul in sight; quiet as the 
 grave. 
 
 Arthur. Look yonder, she may be inside. 
 (Green opens the door at left, draws 
 back and removes his hat.) Well? 
 
 Green. They are at prayers. 
 
 Arthur. {Removing his own hat.) And 
 Hazel? 
 
 Green. She is not among them. 
 
 Arthur. {Sits in chair at right of table.) 
 Oh, shall I never find her? Never see 
 her precious face again? 
 
 {A psalm is sung outside, they listen 
 reverently.) 
 
 Green. Their prayers are over now; 
 they '11 soon be here, and when they come, 
 we '11 ask them if they have heard any- 
 thing of your — of her. 
 
522 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 Arthur. And if she has not been here, 
 what are we to do"? 
 
 Green. {Sits at left.) Well, you may not 
 believe it, but I '11 be hanged if I know. 
 
 Arthur. I have searched for her every- 
 where without discovering a trace. My 
 last hope has been to find her here. If we 
 fail now, I shall believe the worst. 
 
 Green. And what is that? 
 
 Arthur. That she has taken her own life 
 — murdered by me! (Rising.) Oh, the 
 thought will drive me mad ! 
 
 (Green, rising, follows him, pacifying, 
 and pats him on the shoulder.) 
 
 Green. (Starting.) They '11 soon be here ! 
 
 Arthur. What of it 1 
 
 Green. We forget — they '11 recognize you ! 
 
 Arthur. What if they do"? 
 
 Green. The old miller hates you ! If he 
 knows where Hazel is, you are the one 
 man in the world he '11 keep her hidden 
 from. 
 
 Arthur. What 's to be done ? 
 
 Green. You must leave me till Dolly 
 comes. Once I set her tongue at work, 
 we '11 soon know all. Go, wait outside 
 till I 've had a chance to make her talk. 
 
 Arthur. (Going.) You '11 find me at the 
 old seat near the lock. The moment you 
 get news — 
 
 Green. I'll fly like lightning to tell you. 
 
 Arthur. (In the doorway.) If I do* not 
 find her this time, I shall despair — de- 
 spair — (Exit.) 
 
 Green. (At door.) Poor fellow, he's 
 broken-hearted, and I feel as if I 've no 
 more backbone than a caterpillar ! 
 
 Dolly. (Inside.) All right, aunt, I'm 
 going. 
 
 Green. Dolly's voice ! She 's coming, 
 
 she '11 see me ! The shock might shake 
 
 her. I '11 spare her feelings for a while. 
 
 (Leaves glove on the table and hides 
 
 behind the clothes horse.) 
 
 (Enter Dolly with basket and candle, light- 
 ing up the room. She is followed by 
 Joe and Dan.) 
 
 Joe and Dan. Good-night! 
 
 Dolly. Don't forget to tell Squire Rod- 
 ney that Uncle Kirke wants to see him 
 here to-night. 
 
 Dan. Very good, Miss Dolly, I '11 tell the 
 Squire myself. 
 
 (Exit right, followed by Joe.) 
 
 Dolly. (Going to the table, sees glove.) 
 Dear me! Wliat 's this"? — a glove! 
 Whose glove"? A man's! (Smells; 
 sternly.) Pittacus! (Turns glove.) 
 
 As sure as I 'm a woman ! So he 's been 
 here, he 's been here and gone away with- 
 out a word! (Green looks out, unseen 
 by Dolly.) Oh, that's just like the 
 heartless brute. — Six weeks since he left 
 me, promising to go and see Hazel and 
 send me news of her; not a word since 
 then. (Tearfully.) Oh, these men! 
 these men ! Why are they ever made ? 
 I can't see the use o' the faithless things. 
 (Green comes up behind her. She con- 
 tinues snappishly.) Oh, don't I wish I 
 had him here now, how I 'd make his 
 ears burn and his head ache! (Green 
 dodges behind the clothes horse.) How 
 I 'd warm the brass of his cheeks for 
 him! (She slaps the glove across her 
 hand, then puts it in her apron pocket. 
 Beginning to take clothes from the horse, 
 she slams them into the basket. While 
 she does so, Green dodges behind clothes 
 that remain, comically trying to conceal 
 himself.) The base deceitful hypocrite! 
 (Slams a towel in the basket) pretending 
 he couldn't live a day without me! 
 (Same.) And then leaving me here — 
 (Same) for weeks and weeks (Same) 
 w^ith a breaking heart ! (Green snatches 
 off the last towel.) Mercy! Who's 
 thaf? (Recoiling to chair at right of 
 table, she tips it over and falls. There, 
 as she stares up at Green, he peers over 
 at her.) What! So you're there, Mr. 
 Green? 
 
 (Rising, she picks up the chair.) 
 
 Green. No, Dolly, I 'm not there, I 'm 
 here. I was there, Dolly, but I 've just 
 moved. — Dolly, I 'm not Green now, I 'm 
 blue, truly blue, to see you so severe. 
 (Kneeling near Dolly.) Dolly, oh, 
 Dolly, pity Blue! 
 
 Dolly. (Sternly.) What are you doing 
 here, sir? 
 
 Green. Kneeling, I believe. You luay not 
 believe me, 't is not an kneesy thing for 
 me to do. (Rises, rubbing his knees.) 
 Ha, ha! d'ye see? 
 
 Dolly. Yes, I see a donkey. 
 
 (She turns away.) 
 
 Green. (Following and embracing her 
 very lovingly, sings to the air of "Comin' 
 thro' the rye":) 
 
 If a donkey see a donkey 
 
 Need a donkey sigh? 
 And if jv donkey kiss a donkey 
 
 Need a donkey cry? 
 
 (Kisses her.) 
 Dolly. Don't! don't touch me, sir! 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 523 
 
 {She crosses left, and moves basket to 
 the floor.) 
 
 Green. "Sir" to me? That's queer. 
 
 Dolly. Queer"? I should thmk it was, 
 queer. 
 
 {She busies herself about the room, 
 paying no attention to him, while 
 she moves the clothes horse and 
 basket.) 
 
 Green. Dolly, Dolly, I say! 
 
 Dolly. Who cares what you say*? 
 
 Green. But, Dolly, I want — 
 
 Dolly. Who cares what you wanf? 
 
 Green. But really, my darling — 
 
 Dolly. Don't dare to darling me after — 
 after what 's happened. 
 
 Green. What 's happened ? 
 
 Dolly. Oh, you know well enough. 
 
 {She sits in chair at left of table, and 
 slaps the glove on the table.) 
 
 Green. Don't jag my glove about in that 
 manner! {Aside.) Oh, I see, Hazel's 
 been here, and told Dolly everything, and 
 she thinks I 've been an accomplice in 
 this infernal business ! {Aloud.) Don't, 
 Dolly, don't ! 
 
 Dolly. Don't what, sir? 
 
 Green. Suspect me ; I 'm not the man who 
 did it. 
 
 Dolly. {Excited, amazed.) You're not 
 the man who did it ? 
 
 Green. I am not that man. 
 
 Dolly. {Aside.) Not the man, who de- 
 serted me all these weeks'? He is not the 
 man, and he says this to my face! 
 {Rises, exploding.) Oh, you brazen 
 rogue ! 
 
 Green. It wasn't me who did it — it was 
 Barney, Barney O'Flynn. 
 
 Dolly. Barney O'Flynn, who's she? 
 
 Green. He is n't a she, she 's a he. 
 
 Dolly. What are you talking about? 
 
 Green. Barney O'Flynn. 
 
 Dolly. Wliatofher? 
 
 Green. Hang it — ^he isn't a her — she's a 
 him! 
 
 Dolly. {Tartly.) What is she? 
 
 Green. Look here, I say Barney 's a man 
 — male, masculine, first person singular, 
 of the Irish gender — do you understand? 
 
 Dolly. {Arms akimbo.) Oh — so you pre- 
 tend it 's a man that 's kept you away 
 all this time, do you? 
 
 {She sits at right of table.) 
 
 Green. {Sitting at left.) Yes, and the 
 most unmitigated ass of a man I ever 
 saw. Dolly, if Hazel told you — that I 
 was to blame — 
 
 Dolly. {Leaning over the table.) Hazel 
 
 tell me? How could she tell me any- 
 thing? 
 Green. {Puzzled.) Eh? 
 Dolly. I have n't seen her blessed face for 
 
 over a year — and never will see it again, 
 
 I 'm afraid. 
 Green. {Astonished.) Hasn't Hazel 
 
 been here ? Has she be — 
 Dolly. Here? 
 Green. {Stammering.) Don't you know? 
 
 — No, she don't! 
 Dolly. Know what? 
 Green. {Stuttering.) I — I mean that she 
 
 must be — I that — n-nothing. 
 Dolly. What do you mean by all this 
 
 talk? 
 Green. N-nothing, except — that is — I only 
 
 mean — to — to — hang it — I don't know 
 
 what I 'm talking about. 
 Dolly. {Fiercely.) Pittacus — you're de- 
 ceiving me! Something's happened; 
 
 don't deny it. 
 Green. I don't — ^yes — I don't — no — I do. 
 Dolly. Where 's Hazel ? 
 Green. Bless me — that's — that's what I 
 
 wanted you to tell me. 
 Dolly. Then you don't know where she is? 
 Green. No, ding it — I wish I did. 
 Dolly. Have n't you seen her, then ? 
 Green. Oh, yes, that is, no — not since — I 
 
 say I saw, I saw that I see, saw — oh, 
 
 what am I see-sawing about? I say that 
 
 I see, that I saw that I see — 
 Dolly. Not since when? 
 Green. Well, since the deluge, if you will 
 
 have it — since she ran away. 
 Dolly. Ran away — from whom? 
 Green. From her — that is — {Looking at 
 
 her, then dropping his eyes as he says) 
 
 Lord Travers. 
 Dolly. From her husband, you mean? 
 Green. Y-yes, I suppose I do. 
 Dolly. Suppose you do? Don't you 
 
 know he 's her husband? 
 Green. {Utterly broken, rises.) I don't 
 
 — don't know anything. I only know 
 
 that life 's a nuisance — and it 's a swindle 
 
 that ever I was born. 
 Dolly. {Kneeling to him, as he sits 
 
 again.) Pittacus, Pittacus ! You 're hid- 
 ing something — what 's come to Hazel ? 
 
 Why has she run away — why do you talk 
 
 to me so strangely? 
 Green. Dolly, my darling, hang it ! Don't 
 
 look so miserable — and I '11 try to tell you 
 
 all — you see — 
 DuNSTAN. {Inside, calling.) Dolly, Dolly, 
 
 child! 
 Dolly. {Starting.) That's her father— 
 
524 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 he 's wanting' me — hurry — tell me quickly. 
 
 Green. No, no, not now ! He '11 come and 
 hear me, and he must never know. I 
 must run, dear. — Meet me outside near 
 the old tree, where we used to talk so 
 much. The moon is shining! I'll tell 
 you all. 
 
 {Rising, he starts to go.) 
 
 Dolly. All right, I '11 go to you the mo- 
 ment I get away from my micle. 
 
 DuxSTAN. {Inside.) Dolly, child, are you 
 never eoomin"? 
 
 Dolly. Yes, uncle, I 'm coming. 
 
 Green. {Detaining her.) Why don't the 
 old bear come here to you? 
 
 Dolly. Why, poor dear heart ! He 's 
 blind. 
 
 Green. Blind ! 
 
 Dolly. Yes, just after you went away, he 
 got news of some kind that made him 
 awfully ill. For days he was out of his 
 mind, raving about Hazel; and when the 
 fever went away, it left him blind. 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Appearing in the doorway, 
 very old and broken.) Why, Dolly, child, 
 what keeps thee so long, when thee hears 
 me call? 
 
 (Dolly runs to him.) 
 
 Dolly. Here I be. {Leading him to 
 chair.) I had work to finish here, uncle. 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Sitting.) Bring me my pipe, 
 child. — I have much thinkin' to do to- 
 night, an' nothin' helps me to think like 
 my pipe. 
 
 Dolly. All right, nncle dear, I '11 bring 
 it to ye. {She goes to Green, sees him 
 out of the door, where he points outside, 
 seeming to ask her if she 'II meet him. 
 She motions "Yes.'' He kisses her 
 loudly and goes out.) 
 
 DuNSTAN. What be that? 
 
 Dolly. {Getting his pipe.) What 's what, 
 uncle? 
 
 Dun STAN. That noise. 
 
 Dolly, ^^^lat noise, uncle? 
 
 DuNSTAN. 'T were a noise that sounded 
 like a kiss, girl. 
 
 Dolly. {Filling his pipe.) Oh, it must 
 have been the — the — sputtering of the 
 fire. 
 
 DuNSTAN. The only fire I ever heard 
 spooter like that be the fire o' love, lass. — 
 Who 's been here? 
 
 Dolly. When, uncle? 
 
 DuNSTAN. Just now. 
 
 Dolly. Here 's your pipe, uncle ; — will I 
 light it for you? 
 
 {Striking a match.) 
 
 DuNSTAN. Aye, lass, do. {As she lights 
 
 his pipe.) I wish thee could only light 
 my eyes as easy as thee lights the pipe. 
 Dolly. Oh, uncle, don't talk like that. I 
 can't abide it. 
 
 (Dolly puts her arm round Dunstan's 
 
 neck, and places her cheek against 
 
 his head. ) 
 
 DuNSTAN. There, there, child, I 'm a weak 
 
 old fool to bother thee with my burdens. 
 
 Go, find thy Aunt Mercy; she be above 
 
 stairs; tell her I must see her, and then 
 
 get to bed. 
 
 Dolly. All right, uncle. {Going.) I'll 
 
 not go to bed this night till I 've got news 
 
 of Hazel. {Exit.) 
 
 (Hazel appears outside, looking 
 
 through the window. Opening the 
 
 casement, pale and ragged, she sees 
 
 DuNSTAN, and pauses.) 
 DuNSTAN. {Laying down his pipe, with a 
 sigh.) There's no use, even the pipe 
 can't comfort me to-night. I moost tell 
 my poor wife a' now.. It 's hard, bitter 
 hard, to leave the auld mill — a pauper, 
 too — but it moost be done. Better star- 
 vation, death, anything, than more debt 
 to Squire Rodney. Oh, that child o' 
 mine, my only bairn, why should she have 
 been her feyther's curse? Oh, my old 
 heart is heavy to-night! would that I 
 were dead, would that I were dead! {He 
 sohs. Hazel moans and drops her head 
 on the sill. Dunstan starts up.) Hark, 
 what's that? Who's there? Some one 
 at the window. Who is it ? Is there any 
 one there? That 's strange. 
 
 {He feels his way toward the windoiv.) 
 
 {Enter Mercy.) 
 
 Mercy. What art doin' there, Dunstan?- 
 
 Dunstan. I could ha' sworn, wife, that I 
 heard some one at the window. 
 
 Mercy. {Starting.) Some one at the win- 
 dow? 
 
 Dunstan. Aye, I heard a noise like a 
 moan, and then, when I cried out, it 
 seemed as though the window were closed 
 quick and sharp like. 
 
 Mercy. {Aside.) My darling child, I 
 know it is! I know it is! I can feel it 
 here. What if it were Hazel? Yes, it 
 is my child, she may be there, longin' to 
 return! {She takes Dunstan to his 
 chair.) Come, Dunstan, sit down, and 
 let me speak to thee. Perhaps I can 
 make thee understand the noise at the 
 window. 
 
 (Hazel appears as before.) 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 525 
 
 DuNSTAN. (Sitting.) What dost think it 
 were, wife? 
 
 Mercy. Dost know what day this be, 
 sweetheart ? 
 
 DuNSTAN. Thursday, I believe. 
 
 Mercy. Yes, Thursday, the 10th day of 
 October. 
 
 DuNSTAN. Ah ! Ah-a-a-h ! 
 
 Mercy. This day, two and twenty year 
 ago, our Hazel were born. 
 
 DuNSTAN. Hist, wife, hist! Don't 'mind 
 me o' that now. 
 
 Mercy. Oh, feyther, dear, why not? why 
 not? That w^ere a sweet day to us, then. 
 
 DuNSTAN. Aye, but it be a bitter day to 
 us now. 
 
 Mercy. Feyther, what if thy child were at 
 thy door now, longin' to coom back to 
 the old house? 
 
 DuNSTAN. I 'd bid her begone. 
 
 Mercy. Oh, Dunstan! 
 
 DuNSTAN". I 'd point at these sightless eyes 
 an' say, "This be thy work." I 'd point 
 at thee, and say, "Look at thy mother 
 (The wind sounds outside.) a beggar wi' 
 thy feyther in the street ; thy work, too." 
 
 Mercy. What dost mean, Dunstan? 
 
 Dunstan. I mean, Mercy, wife, that the 
 end be coom. I owe everything we gotten 
 in the world to Squire Rodney — an' debt 
 to him I can bear no longer now. I 've 
 sent for him to coom this very night and 
 take possession o' the mill — and to-mor- 
 row thee and I an' Dolly moost wander 
 out beggars, but beggars no longer to the 
 man our flesh and blood has wronged. 
 
 Mercy. Oh, Dunstan, can thee never for- 
 give? 
 
 Dunstan. Never! {The wind sounds.) 
 Strangers she chose; to strangers let her 
 look, for she be dead to us forever! 
 (Hazel, with moan of despair, disap- 
 pears, leaving the window open. Dun- 
 stan starts.) Hark — that moan again! 
 
 Mercy. {Going to the window.) Aye and 
 see — the window 's open ! Oh, Dunstan, 
 what if it be our child, our Hazel ! 
 
 Dunstan. Hoot, woman, it were the wind ! 
 {It sounds again.) There's a storm 
 coomin' up. Maister Rodney 'ull not be 
 here to-night. Better lock up the mill. 
 Close the window, wife, and bolt the door, 
 then get thee to bed. (Mercy goes to 
 the window and looks out. Dunstan 
 feels his way to the door.) Mercy, I'll 
 go once more over the old mill I 've loved 
 so long and these hands have tended 
 so well. Good-night, wife! Good-night, 
 wife ! Good-night ! 
 
 Mercy. Good-night, Dunstan, and may the 
 angels be wi' you, this last night i' the 
 old mill. — An' my child may be out in 
 the night — homeless and hungry! — No, 
 no ; I '11 go for Maister Rodney. He will 
 save Hazel, an' he's able to break the 
 iron o' her feyther's will. 
 
 {Exit, weeping.) 
 
 (Hazel appears at the window; slowly 
 opening the door, she steals wearily in, 
 and shivers over the fire.) 
 
 Hazel. Oh, how cold I am! But no fire 
 will ever warm me again. {Looking 
 about her.) And this is home, the home 
 that I have lost, the home I have cursed ! 
 My father's chair! How often have I 
 sat here upon his lap, my arms about his 
 neck, and heard him sing his dear old 
 songs! How often have I knelt here at 
 my mother's feet and prayed as I can 
 never pray again! {She sinks on her 
 knees by the chair.) As I never can pray 
 again ! Oh, father, father ! Heaven has 
 heard your curse. 
 
 {With a sob, she buries her face in 
 chair. Dunstan appears, right. 
 He gropes across the room, places his 
 hand on the back of the chair at 
 which she kneels; Hazel draws back 
 with a groan. He starts.) 
 Dunstan. What be that? {The wind 
 sounds. ) Nothing but the sobbing of the 
 storm. Ah, it does me good to hear it. 
 It sounds like the voice of my own heart. 
 Dear old mill, my eyes will never, never 
 more behold thee, and my hands have felt 
 thy timbers for the last, last time. 
 (Hazel follows him across the room, re- 
 moves a chair from his path, kisses the 
 lapel of his coat.) But God's will be 
 done ! God's will be done. 
 
 {He gropes his way to the door left, 
 lifts his hands in prayer, and passes 
 out. Hazel goes back and bows her 
 head on the arm of the chair.) 
 
 (Rodney enters. His coat is closely but- 
 toned up.) 
 
 Rodney. A fearful night! Dunstan has 
 sent for me. What for, I cannot imagine. 
 Perhaps he has word of Hazel. I won- 
 der — Is that you, Dolly — asleep? 
 (Hazel starts and looks up. Rodney, 
 recognising her, draws back, then kneels 
 at her feet.) Here? Back again? Oh, 
 Hazel, my angel, my poor sufferin' saint 
 — bless ye for coming back! You've 
 
52G 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 brought life, salvation, joy once more to 
 the old mill ! 
 
 Hazel. {Rises and starts to go, right.) 
 Oh, Mr. Rodney, don't kneel to me, don't 
 speak to me ! Let me go, let me go, and 
 carry the misery and shame I bring, away 
 from here, forever! 
 
 RODXEY. {Stopping her.) Let you go 
 nowf Never! You bring misery and 
 shame here? No, no, girl, that 's not true, 
 that 's not true ! 
 
 Hazel. Oh, but you do not know! 
 
 RODXEY. Yes, child, I know all. I know 
 that a villain wronged ye, but the friend's 
 heart, the mother's arms, the father's 
 home all are open to ye now. 
 
 Hazel. Mr. Rodney, you don't know what 
 you say. My father but now, a moment 
 ago, declared he would never own me in 
 this world again. To-morrow he leaves 
 this dear old mill, driven by my broken 
 promise, by my shame. 
 
 RoDXEY. What, quit the mill, girl*? No, 
 that shall never be. 
 
 Hazel. Ah, sir, who can prevent it now"? 
 
 RoDXEY. You, girl, you. 
 
 Hazel. I *? Impossible ! He would never 
 accept a service from me, now. 
 
 RoDXEY. Yes, girl, one service, one that 
 would pay his debt to me a thousand- 
 fold. 
 
 Hazel. What service is that? 
 
 RoDXEY. Keep the old promise; become 
 mj'' wife. 
 
 Hazel. {Amazed.) Oh, Mr. Rodney, and 
 would you marry me, now? 
 
 RODXEY. Yes, and be the proudest man on 
 earth to call you wife. 
 
 Hazel. {Turns from him.) Oh, sir! — 
 I— 
 
 RoDXEY. {Takes her hand.) I know all 
 ye 'd say, child : your heart has been 
 another's — ^you could never give me a 
 wife's love. Why, Hazel, dear, I do not 
 ask it. If you will but marry me, it 's 
 only as a beloved daughter I will hold ye, 
 a daughter I shall have the right to 
 cherish and to guard. 
 
 Hazel. {Leaving him.) Oh, what shall I 
 do, what shall I do ? 
 
 Rodxey. Be brave, girl; marry me, save 
 your father — bless your mother — bring 
 happiness to us all once more; speak — 
 promise you '11 do this. 
 
 Hazel. Yes, on one condition. 
 
 Rodxey. And what is that, child? 
 
 Hazel. {Utterli/ heart-broken.) Call my 
 father — he is blind — he cannot see me. 
 If he consents to let me pay his debt to 
 
 you, you shall have my hand, and I will 
 
 be your wife. 
 R.ODXEY. {Kissing her hand.) Noble girl! 
 
 Heaven will reward ye for this resolution. 
 
 I '11 call your father instantly. Wait 
 
 here. — You '11 see — all wdll yet be well. 
 {Exit, left. The wind sounds.) 
 Hazel. Another promise I have made this 
 
 noble man. This time I '11 keep my word 
 
 in spite of my own miserable heart. 
 
 {Enter Rodxey and Dunstax together.) 
 
 DuxsTAX. Why, Maister Rodney, is that 
 you, sir? How did ye get in? The door 
 was bolted. 
 
 (Hazel places a chair for Dunstax.) 
 
 Rodxey. Some good angel must have 
 drawn the bolt, then ; but enough of that. 
 You sent for me. I was delayed. I am 
 here at last. Tell me, what 's the good 
 word to-night, Dunstan? 
 
 DuxSTAX^. {Sitting.) Maister Rodney, 
 you 've been a good friend to us. For 
 eight long years I 've been in debt to ye — 
 a debt I thought my child would pay, but 
 — well, when she broke her faith and left 
 us, I strove hard to make the old mill 
 earn enough to pay the money that I 
 owed ye. Fever laid hold on me and left 
 me blind ; all hope of work for me is over 
 now. And I have but one way to pay my 
 debt, and that is to gi' ye up the mill. 
 
 Rodxey. {Leaning over Duxstax's chair.) 
 And do ye think I '11 take it? 
 
 DuxSTAX. Yes, for I shall leave it. I owe 
 ye too much a'ready; I an' mine have 
 wronged ye every way. I '11 do penance 
 for my child as a beggar in the street. 
 
 Rodxey. No, no, Dunstan. Let Hazel do- 
 penance for herself; let all be as it was; 
 let her pay your debt by marrying me. 
 
 Dux^STAX. She, many you? 
 
 Rodx^ey. Aye, why not? you know she's 
 free. 
 
 (Hazel gradually sinks down in front 
 
 of DuXSTAX.) 
 
 DuxsTAX. Free of what? Of stains o' 
 shame? 
 
 Rodxey. Come, come, sir, no more o' that. 
 
 DuxsTAX. No, no, sir, she can never pay 
 debt o' mine. 
 
 Rodxey. Dunstan, will you hear me — 
 
 DuxsTAX. No, no, not one word ! (Hazel 
 kneels before him.) If she were now 
 before my very face, kneeling at my feet, 
 prayin' for my consent to marry ye, I 'd 
 tell her nay, never ! I 'd tell her she had 
 wronged ye bad enough wi'out seeking to 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 527 
 
 make ye the hoosband of a dishonored 
 creetur like herself. 
 
 {The wind moans. Hazel falls to the 
 ground.) 
 
 Rodney. (Baising her.) Silence, hard- 
 hearted man ! Silence, for fear the curse 
 of heaven may fall upon your iron will, 
 and break its strength forever. 
 
 {He places Hazel in chair.) 
 
 DuNSTAN. Mr. Rodney, I only do my- duty, 
 sir, to you and my own pride. 
 
 Rodney. So you '11 not consent to have her 
 marry me'? 
 
 DuNSTAN. Never ! 
 
 Rodney. Very well, then, I'll do all I can 
 to induce her to marry me without your 
 consent. 
 
 DuNSTAN. A'reet, sir, a'reet! Good- 
 night, Maister Rodney; if you have no 
 objection, I'll see ye out now and bolt 
 the door. 
 
 {He rises and starts for the door.) 
 
 Rodney. {Intercepts and leads him left.) 
 Not yet; go call Mercy and bid her come 
 here. 
 
 DuNSTAN. Mercy *? What do ye want o' 
 her? 
 
 Rodney. Good advice, that you can neither 
 give nor take. 
 
 DuNSTAN. A'reet, sir. I'll tell Mercy 
 that you want to speak to her, but mind 
 this — Mercy has given her word not to set 
 eyes upon her child wi'out my consent. I 
 warn ye she '11 not lie ; no, not even to 
 please you, Maister Rodney, and so good- 
 night. Good-night, Maister Rodney, 
 good-night. {Exit.) 
 
 Rodney. {Going to Hazel, who sits dazed 
 in chair.) Oh, heart of iron! Hazel, 
 don't mind that now. All the world 
 knows that a mother's love — Hazel, Hazel, 
 dear! {He touches her. She starts as 
 if in dream.) Hazel! Hazel, child, in 
 heaven's name speak to me! 
 
 Hazel. {Rising.) Mr. Rodney, do you 
 love me still •? 
 
 Rodney. More than life — or all the world 
 — but as a father. Hazel, dear, a father, 
 and no other way. 
 
 Hazel. If you love me, leave me — let me 
 alone tonight ; tomorrow will settle all for 
 the best, I hope. 
 
 Rodney, Must I leave you, then? 
 
 Hazel. If you care for my happiness. 
 
 Rodney. But we '11 meet again? 
 
 Hazel. I hope so — {He kisses her hand. 
 She murmurs aside) in heaven. 
 
 Rodney. Then, good-night, my darling; 
 your mother's coming; you can rest on 
 
 her heart and be at peace. Good-night, 
 Hazel! May pitying angels guard and 
 bless you. {Exit, right.) 
 
 Hazel. All is over; I know the worst now, 
 and I know what I must do. I '11 go, 
 and there in the water that has brought 
 so much misery to this home, I '11 drown 
 my sorrows and my sins. {Going.) 
 Good-bye, old home — farewell, sweet 
 memories, fond hopes — farewell, mother, 
 father, life — life — life ! 
 
 {She goes out. The wind moans 
 louder. After a pause, Dunstan 
 speaks outside.) 
 
 Dunstan. Mercy, Mercy, where be ye? 
 
 {Entering.) 
 
 Why don't ye answer me? Mercy has 
 gone, Maister Rodney ; where can she be ? 
 Oh, why don't ye answ^er? No one here, 
 the house deserted! What can it mean? 
 — Maister Rodney, Maister Rodney! 
 
 Met. {Outside.) Help! help! She's 
 drowning! Drowning! Hazel's drown- 
 ing ! I saw her jump in — it 's Hazel, 
 Hazel! {Rushing across at hack.) 
 Hurry, help, help ! 
 
 Dunstan. {In horror.) Hazel, drown- 
 ing! Dying! Here, before my face? 
 No, no, I'll save her! Ah, heaven! I 
 cannot! I am blind! {Falling on his 
 knees.) Oh, God! this is thy punish- 
 ment ! I was blind when I drove her out 
 — and now, when I could save her — I 
 cannot see — I cannot see — I cannot see ! 
 {He falls to the ground.) 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene. Same as Act Third; morning; the 
 fire is out, the table cleared, a jug of 
 water and a mug on the table. Dolly 
 discovered asleep in a chair, near the 
 table, head in arms. 
 
 {Enter Green, smoking a cigarette, and 
 singing a line of ^' Molly Bawn.^') 
 
 Green. {Calls gently.) Doll! Dolly! 
 Dolly don't answer ; Dolly 's in heaven 
 now. Sleep is a delightful don't-care-a- 
 ducat sort of state, and yet who would 
 sleep always? Not I — nor shall she. 
 How lovely she looks — yes, a veritable 
 sleeping beauty ; but her time has come — 
 the prince is here, and will wake her with 
 
528 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 a kiss. Will you permit me? Of course 
 she will. [He kisses her. Dolly makes 
 motion as though brushing away a fly.) 
 She takes me for a fly — I '11 fly it 
 again. {He kisses her.) She's the kind 
 of a fish that won't rise at a fly. Fire in 
 the shape of a kiss is a failure — we '11 
 try what smoke will do. 
 
 {He puffs smoke in her face.) 
 
 DOLLT. {Awakes with a sneeze.) Pah! — 
 smoke! Where's the fire? 
 
 Greex. {Leans against the table.) Here 
 — here — in my breast — consuming my 
 heart for you. 
 
 Dolly. {Going to him.) Oh, Pittacus, 
 I 'm so glad you 've come ! I have so 
 much to tell you! Such queer things 
 have happened. 
 
 Greex. Strange ! Let 's hear it. I adore 
 queer things — that 's Avhy I adore you, 
 
 {Embraces her.) 
 
 Dolly. No nonsense now; listen, and ex- 
 plain if you can. 
 
 Greex. I can explain everything — except 
 the power a woman has to make a don- 
 key of a man. 
 
 Dolly. No nonsense now. Last night, 
 after I returned from my meeting with 
 you — when you told me all about my poor 
 dear Hazel — {She wipes her eyes.) 
 
 Greex. Well? 
 
 Dolly. I found Uncle Dunstan lying here 
 — unconscious — on the floor. I was ter- 
 ribly frightened — called for help — there 
 was no one in the house — even Aunt 
 Mercy had disappeared — gone off to 
 Squire Rodney's house, to meet that crazy 
 creature, Met. 
 
 Greex. What did you do? 
 
 Dolly. You won't believe me when I tell 
 you. 
 
 Greex. I dare say I won't, but tell me to 
 fill in the time. 
 
 Dolly. AVell, sir, I dragged that big man 
 into the other room and laid him on the 
 lounge myself! There! 
 
 Greex. The tale is a tough one, but — 
 {Takes her hand and arm; she throws up 
 her arm; he feels her muscle.) you may 
 not now believe it — but I believe it 
 now. 
 
 Dolly. Aunt Mercy came in soon after; 
 we worked for hours until w^e brought him 
 to. We 've been up with him all night 
 long, for ever since he came to con- 
 sciousness, he's been out of his head. 
 
 Greex. Out of his head! What an un- 
 pleasant position for the rest of his body ! 
 Oh, I see, you mean out of his mind; 
 
 that 's nothing, when you 're used to it as 
 I am. 
 
 Dolly. You are? 
 
 Greex. Yes, and it 's all your fault. 
 
 Dolly. What do ye mean? 
 
 Greex. It 's very queer, but I have always 
 noticed that, if you ever remarked it, it 
 is a peculiar physiological fact, while a 
 man may lose his mind without its affect- 
 ing his heart — he can rarely have an af- 
 fection of the heart, without running the 
 risk of losing his mind. {Embracing 
 her.) Now, I say, darling, did you ever 
 feel as if you were losing your mind? 
 
 Dolly. Never ! 
 
 Greex. That 's because you 've no mind 
 to lose. 
 
 Dolly. {Pushing him off.) Not on your 
 account, sir. 
 
 (Mercy appears left.) 
 Hush — my aunt — 
 
 (Greex draw^ away, right.) 
 
 Mercy. {Looking back as she comes.) At 
 last he seems to be asleep. {Turns and 
 sees Greex.) What, you here, Mr. 
 Green? 
 
 Greex. {Embarrassed.) Well, madam — 
 you may not believe it — but I rather 
 think I am. 
 
 Mercy. And Hazel — my child — have you 
 any news of her? 
 
 Greex. {Confused.) Well, you see — that 
 is — {Aside to Dolly.) Does she know 
 the truth? 
 
 Dolly. Nothing from me. 
 
 Mercy. Well, sir — can't you answer me? 
 
 Greex. Yes, of course — that is, I could if 
 you — I — we — only knew what you meant. 
 
 Mercy. Ah, sir! Something terrible has 
 happened. — I feel it in my heart — but. 
 I 'm so dazed with grief, I can't quite 
 make it out. Last night Met appeared; 
 told me Hazel had left her husband and 
 could not be found. I promised to join 
 Met at Aaron Rodney's house. I went 
 there late last night; neither Met nor 
 Maister Rodney was there. I hurried 
 home and found my husband dangerously 
 ill. What happened while I Avas gone I 
 cannot say, but I think Hazel must have 
 come and — 
 
 Greex and Dolly. {Together, eagerly.) 
 Well— well? 
 
 Mercy. I fear he heard her — had a fit of 
 rage — drove her out again, and was 
 struck down by the power of his passion. 
 
 Greex. Impossible! If Hazel had been 
 here she would not have gone without a 
 word to you. 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 529 
 
 When I awoke this morning, he 
 
 Mercy. It's hard to think it, and yet I 
 cannot tell — I cannot tell. 
 
 {Enter Rodney.) 
 
 Ah, thank heaven! Maister Rodney, 
 have you seen Hazel ? 
 
 Rodney. Certainly — here. 
 
 All. Here? 
 
 Rodney. Last night. We were to meet 
 again this morning. 
 
 Mercy. Where ? 
 
 Rodney. Here. 
 
 Mercy. Then she is coming-! 
 
 Rodney. Coming'? Has she gone? 
 
 Mercy. We do not know. 
 
 Green. (Starting.) Good heavens! I 
 have an idea. 
 
 Dolly. What is it ? 
 
 Green. I see it all.- — Shes' gone with her 
 husband. 
 
 IVIercy. Her husband! 
 
 Green. He came down here to look for 
 her ; when I returned to our lodgings last 
 night he was not there. I did n't mind 
 it, for ever since she left him he 's had a 
 fashion of w^andering out at night till 
 very late. 
 
 Rodney. Well — well — go on. 
 
 Green 
 
 was not in his room. 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Inside; calling.) Water, 
 
 water ! 
 
 Mercy. Hark — 't is Dunstan. 
 
 Dun STAN. {Appearing in doorway, fol- 
 lowed hy Joe.) Water, water, water! 
 
 Rodney. What does this mean? 
 
 Mercy. He 's raving again. 
 
 Dunstan. Water — quick, quick — I 'm 
 
 burning up ! I 'm burning up ! (Dolly 
 gives him water.) This is the lake that 
 burneth forever — remorse, remorse, re- 
 morse! (Dolly holds the glass for Dun- 
 stan; about to drink, he pauses; then 
 puts the glass from him.) Water — no, 
 no — take it away — 't was water killed her. 
 
 Rodney. What's that he says? 
 
 Dunstan. Hark, I hear that cry again! 
 Oh, God — save her — save her — she 's 
 drowning, drowning ! 
 
 All. Drowning ? 
 
 Dunstan. Hush — not so loud — see how 
 sweetly she is sleejDing. 
 
 Mercy. {With a cry.) Ah! my child is 
 drowned, drowned. 
 
 {She falls on Rodney's breast.) 
 
 Rodney. No, no — it cannot be. 
 
 {He supports Mercy to a chair near 
 the fireplace.) 
 
 Dunstan. Hush, not so loud, you '11 wake 
 
 her ! Yes^ she was drowned ! I did it — I 
 held her till she died — I could n't help it. 
 Something forced me on. What was it? 
 What was it? This hard, hard, hard 
 heart of mine ! 
 
 Rodney. Horrible ! Horrible ! 
 
 (Dolly sobs.) 
 
 Dunstan. See, see ! there she goes to the 
 mill — she beckons me ! Quite right, lass ; 
 quite right, lass. Yes, yes — I 'm cooming, 
 cooming, cooming! {He starts toward 
 the right; Joe leads him.) Yes, take me 
 to the mill, take me to the mill! The 
 noise there will drown the awful voices 
 here, here, here ! 
 
 {Striking his forehead, he goes out 
 with Joe.) 
 
 Rodney. (Aside.) And this is the bitter 
 end of all ! No, no ; there 's something 
 still to do. (To Green.) There is a 
 duty here for you and for me. — Let us 
 go. 
 
 Mercy. (Starting up.) Where are ye go- 
 ing? 
 
 Rodney. To search for Hazel — there! 
 
 (He points off. Outside Met's pipe 
 plays merrily. All start and listen.) 
 
 Mercy. Hark! 'T is Met, 'tis Met! and 
 he has news of her. 
 
 {She hastens to the door.) 
 
 (Met. rushes in.) 
 
 All. Hazel — where 's Hazel? 
 
 Met. She 's saved ! 
 
 All. Saved? 
 
 Met. Ves, by her husband. 
 
 All. Her husband? 
 
 Mercy. Where is she, lad ? Where is she ? 
 
 Met. Coming here with him. God bless 
 him! God bless him! 
 
 Green. How did he save her? 
 
 Met. Last night, when she fell in the river 
 ■ — I called for help and jumped in. The 
 river was runnin' strong, and when I 
 caught her in my arms, she was uncon- 
 scious. I was growin' faint and begin- 
 nin' to despair — when I saw a man stand- 
 in' on the bank. I shouted ; he heard, and 
 plunged in — 
 
 All. Go on, brave boy — go on ! 
 
 Met. It was Hazel's husband — and, ah — 
 it 's a stout heart, and a strong arm he 
 has. He landed us both near Farmer 
 Woodford's house. There he took Hazel, 
 and there he nursed her back to life — as 
 she had nursed him a year before. 
 
 Mercy. Thank heaven — thank heaven ! 
 
 {She weeps for joy. ) 
 
530 
 
 HAZEL KIRKE 
 
 (Hazel appears at right, followed by 
 Arthur.) 
 
 Hazel. {Holding out her arms.'; Mother! 
 Mother ! 
 
 All. Hazel ! 
 
 Mercy. {Embracing her.) My ohild — 
 precious child! 
 
 {All gather round them with delight, 
 Met. dancing ecstatically.) 
 
 Green. Ah — will you permit me? 
 
 (He kisses Hazel's hand.) 
 
 Rodney. {To Arthur.) You've won her 
 now, sir, and I can't help believing you 
 mean to right her wrongs. 
 
 Arthur. Ah, sir, how can I right such 
 wrongs as hers'? 
 
 Rodney. By making her indeed your wife. 
 
 Arthur. {Handing him a letter.) My 
 answer to that is this. (Rodney takes 
 the letter and goes to the window.) Oh, 
 Green, this is a happy day, but I thank 
 heaven my mother never lived to see 
 it. 
 
 Green. Why do you say that ? 
 
 Arthur. I told you of the shame that was 
 overhanging our house *? 
 
 Green. You did. 
 
 Arthur. Well, I ordered my solicitor to 
 settle my estate, and satisfy every claim 
 of Lady Maud's against my father, if it 
 took the last penny I had in the world. 
 He observed my orders, and there remains 
 to me now — nothing. 
 
 Green. Nothing'? 
 
 Arthur. Nothing but my own hands; my 
 own brains, and the endless weaUh of my 
 love for her. {He points at Hazel.) 
 
 Green. {Grasping his hand.) Travers, I 
 congratulate you. You 're above a lord 
 now — you 're every inch a man. 
 
 Rodney. {Coming forward.) Ah, my 
 friends! Can this be possible? Here is 
 indeed cause for rejoicing. From this 
 letter I gather that the inn at which the 
 ceremony was performed was not on the 
 English, but on the Scottish side of the 
 border; therefore your marriage with 
 Hazel was a legal one after all, and it 
 seems that Barney, the scoundrel, was the 
 only one to blame. 
 
 {He embraces Hazel.) 
 
 Green. Oh, no, don't blame Barney, but 
 blame the world that educated him. We 
 ought to be satisfied that he did not put 
 it on the Irish side of the border. 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Inside.) Save her! Do ye 
 hear me"? Save her! 
 
 Hazel. Hark ! What 's that ? 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Inside.) Where is she"? 
 Where is she? 
 
 Mercy. Oh, Hazel, it is your father. 
 
 Hazel. He will not drive me out again? 
 
 Mercy. No, no ; he shall not ; he cannot do 
 it now. 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Appearing at the door, fol- 
 lowed by Joe and Dan.) Let me get at 
 her, let me get at her! Fools, stand 
 back — give her air — air ! 
 
 Hazel. Heaven help me ! he 's mad, mad ! 
 What shall we do, what shall we do? 
 
 Rodney. Sing the song you used to sing 
 to him so long ago — it may calm his 
 wretched soul and soothe his brain. 
 
 (Hazel sings.) 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Stands listening.) Her voice 
 — from heaven — singing to me the old 
 song ! No, it 's gone ; I hear her shriek 
 for help — it 's Hazel ! She 's drowning — 
 let me out of this! Where's the door? 
 Bring me a light — a light ! 
 
 (Hazel takes his hand.) 
 
 Mercy. {Comes to them.) Have patience, 
 poor heart, have patience. 
 
 DuNSTAN. {Mistaking Hazel for Mercy.) 
 Who be that, Mercy,— thee? 
 
 Mercy. Aye, Dunstan, I be here at thy 
 side. 
 
 Dunstan. I 'm glad thee 's coom — but why 
 did n't thee bring a light ? I 'm so weary 
 o' this darkness. 
 
 (Arthur brings a chair.) 
 
 Mercy. Patience, dear heart, the light will 
 coom — the light will coom. 
 
 Dunstan. Aye, Mercy, wife, thee always 
 brings the light to my heart, my faithful, 
 loving wife. 
 
 (Arthur and Hazel place Dunstan in 
 the chair. Hazel returns to Mercy.) 
 
 Mercy. No, no, Dunstan, don't say that, 
 for I have a sin to confess to thee. 
 
 Dunstan. {Sitting.) Thee — a sin to con- 
 fess to me? I'll not believe it. 
 
 Mercy. It's true, Dunstan; I've broken 
 my promise to thee. 
 
 Dunstan. Broken thy promise? 
 
 Mercy. I've seen our child — wi'out thy 
 consent. 
 
 Dunstan. {Starting up.) Seen Hazel! 
 Yes, yes, I know — I know — thee 's seen 
 her poor dead face — thee 's not seen her. 
 No, she 's there — above — praying to 
 God to forgive me — forgive me — forgive 
 me. 
 
 Mercy. No, Dunstan, no, it 's not her body 
 alone I 've seen, but her soul too, shining 
 in her eyes, wi' living love for thee — her 
 feyther. 
 
STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 531 
 
 DuNSTAN. (Bising.) Then she's alive — 
 
 saved ! 
 Mercy. {Goes to Dunstan; Hazel kneels 
 
 before him. Arthur stands hehind 
 
 him.) Aye, Dunstan, by her hoosband. 
 
 The man who took her from thee has 
 
 brought her back to thy old arms. 
 Dunstan. Where is she'? Where is she"? 
 Mercy. Stretch forth thy hands and feel 
 
 her face. 
 Dunstan. {Feeling her face.) Who's 
 
 this •? 
 Hazel. Thy child — thine only child. 
 Dunstan. {With a cry falls hack in the 
 
 chair, dragging her upon his breast.) 
 
 Hazel, Hazel, coom to my heart ! My 
 
 child, my child! 
 Rodney. At last, Dunstan, the iron of thy 
 
 will has melted in the fire of a father's 
 
 love. 
 Dolly. {Embraces Green.) Oh, Pittacus, 
 
 my happiness is perfect now! 
 Green. You mav not believe it, but so is 
 
 mine — No, stop — not quite. 
 
 {He steps forward, speaking to the 
 audience.) 
 
 Will you permit me"? — Thank you. — 
 
 'T was our way, 
 From earliest time, of winding up a 
 
 play ; 
 A kindly custom, — actors know its worth. 
 Peace after pain, and after sadness, 
 
 mirth. 
 
 You 've seen tonight a conscientious man 
 Offend his soul as only conscience can; 
 You 've seen the sufferings that he caused 
 
 and felt 
 Ere yet his iron will was forced to melt; 
 You guess the lesson we would fain in- 
 still. 
 That human heart is more than human 
 
 will. 
 You've dropped your tears, perhaps, — 
 
 pray let me now beguile 
 Your friendly faces of one parting smile. 
 You 've seen me drifting through this 
 
 troubled scene 
 And turning everything — well — turning 
 
 one thing, {taking Dolly's hand) 
 
 Green. 
 'T is nature's general and her favorite 
 
 tint. 
 And therefore — well — I merely drop the 
 
 hint — 
 Green though I am, I 've brought these 
 
 lovers through. 
 And what I 've done for them I '11 do for 
 
 you. 
 Don't brood on care — the trouble that you 
 
 make 
 Is always hard to bear, and harder still to 
 
 shake ; 
 Smile on the world — the trouble that is 
 
 sent 
 In patience take it as your punishment. 
 He wins who laughs — ^he doesn't care a 
 
 rap, he. 
 And so, like Pittacus, he 's always happy. 
 
SHENANDOAH 
 
 BY 
 
 Bronson Howard 
 
Copyright, 1897, by Bronson Howard 
 
 All Rights, Includixg that of Performance, Reserved 
 
 Reprinted from the privately printed edition, by permission 
 of the Society of American Dramatists and Composers, from a 
 copy furnished by Samuel French. 
 
SHENANDOAH 
 
 Shenandoah represents the Civil War play. It also represents the work of 
 the playwright who illustrates in his career the development of modern Ameri- 
 can drama. Bronson Crocker Howard was born in Detroit, Islichigan, October 
 7, 1842, the son of Charles Howard, a merchant of Detroit, who was at one time 
 Mayor of the city. After being educated at the local schools in Detroit, he pre- 
 pared for Yale College, but did not enter, owing to eye trouble. He began news- 
 paper work in Detroit, and wrote plays. The first of these to be performed was 
 a dramatization of an episode in Les Miserahles under the title of Fantine, which 
 was played in Detroit in 1864. In 1865 Mr. Howard came to New York and 
 after he had had the usual struggles to obtain a hearing, Augustin Daly put on 
 Saratoga at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, December 21, 1870. The play was a great 
 success, running one hundred and one nights. It is a comedy, bordering on farce, 
 reflecting the manners of 1870 and concerned with the adventures of Bob Sackett, 
 who is engaged to be married to four girls at once. It was adapted for the Eng- 
 lish stage by Frank Marshall and produced by Sir Charles (then Mr.) Wynd- 
 ham under the title of Brighton at the Court Theatre, London, May 25, 1874. 
 Later Mr. Wyndham played it in Germany in a German translation. 
 
 Diamonds, a comedy, produced in New York September 26, 1872, and Moor- 
 croft or The Double Wedding, a comedy, played in New York, October 17, 1874, 
 and partly suggested by a short story by John Hay, were not so significant as The 
 Banker's Daughter, produced first at Hooley's Theatre, Chicago, September 4, 
 1873, as Lillian's Last Love, and under its final title at the Union Square Theatre, 
 New York, September 30, 1878. This play, based on the theme of a woman's 
 self-sacrifice for her father's sake, through which she marries a man she does 
 not love, still holds the stage. An interesting account of the building of this 
 play is given in Mr. Howard's The Autobiography of a Play. 
 
 Next came in rapid succession, Old Love Letters, a charming one-act play, 
 based on the return of a package of letters between two former lovers, which 
 was played at the Park Theatre, New York, August 31, 1878; Hurricanes, a 
 comedy produced first in Chicago at Hooley's Theatre, May 27, 1878, and later 
 in England under the title Truth; Wives, a comedy adapted from Moliere's Ecole 
 des Femmes and Ecole des Maris, played at Daly's Theatre, New York, October 18, 
 1879, and Fun in a Green Boom, a comedy played at Booth's Theatre, New York, 
 April 10, 1882. His next most significant play was Young Mrs. Winthrop, a 
 study of the estrangement of a husband and wife through circumstances and 
 their reconciliation through their child. It was first played at the Madison Square 
 
 535 
 
536 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Theatre, New York, October 9, 1882. A very successful comedy, One of Our 
 Girls, the scene of which is laid in France, was first played at the Lyceum 
 Theatre, New York, November 10, 1885. Met hy Chance, a romantic play, per- 
 formed at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, January 11, 1887, was not a success, 
 but on September 26 of the same year The Henrietta began its career at the 
 Union Square Theatre. This is a dramatization of the motives that move Wall 
 Street and in it Mr. William H. Crane and Mr. Stuart Robson achieved one of 
 the great successes of their joint careers. It has been revived by Mr. Crane 
 who is still playing in a revision of it. Baron Rudolf, written originally in 1881, 
 was played in New York, October 25, 1887. Shenandoah came in 1888 and 
 Aristocracy, a comedy in which social types, both national and international, are 
 contrasted was put on first at Palmer's Theatre, New York, November 14, 1892. 
 Peter Stuyvesant, an historical comedy, written in collaboration with Mr. Brander 
 Matthews, and played at Wallack's Theatre, New York, October 2, 1899, was 
 the last play of Mr. Howard's to be performed. Knave and Queen and Kate, 
 the latter a clever international play, have not been performed. Mr. Howard 
 died at Avon, New Jersey, August 4, 1908. 
 
 Shenandoah, which he wrote at the height of his career, was first put on at 
 the Boston Museum on November 19, 1888. It was based upon an earlier work 
 which Mr. Howard had produced in Louisville, Kentucky, about twenty years 
 before and at its first tryout in Boston it was not a success. After revision, how- 
 ever, it was brought out at the Star Theatre, New York, September 9, 1889, and 
 ran in New York, during the entire season. It has proved to be the most popular 
 of Mr. Howard 's plays. 
 
 Saratoga (1870), and Yowig Mrs. Winthrop (1882), have been published 
 by Samuel French. Kate was published in 1906 by Harper and Brothers. 
 The Henrietta has been published in England by French, but in this country has 
 been only privately printed. The same is true of Old Love Letters, The Banker's 
 Daughter, Shenandoah and Aristocracy. The present text of Shenandoah is 
 based on the privately printed edition prepared by Mr. Howard. It was 
 furnished the editor by Samuel French through the courtesy of the Society of 
 American Dramatists and Composers. 
 
 For biography of Mr. Howard, see the volume In Memoriam — Bronson How- 
 ard, published by the American Dramatists Club, New York, 1910. This contains 
 a biography by H. P. Mawson, an appreciation by Brander Matthews, The Autobi- 
 ography of a Play by Bronson Howard and a list of the plays with the original 
 casts. The Autobiography of a Play has been reprinted with an introduction 
 by Augustus Thomas in the Publications of the Dramatic Museum of Columbia 
 University, New York, 1915. See also Plays of the Present, ed. by J. B. Clapp 
 and E. F. Edgett, Pub. of the Dunlap Society, New York, 1902, and The American 
 Dramatist, Montrose J. Moses, New York, 1911. 
 
INTRODUCTION 537 
 
 Of especial interest is the article on Bronson Howard in William Archer's 
 English Dramatists of Today (1882), in which Mr. Archer, while pointing out 
 Mr. Howard 's merits, accuses him of vulgarity for certain expressions in Saratoga, 
 which are not included in the play, and which were therefore, most probably in- 
 serted by the English adaptor. 
 
 [FROM PREFACE TO SHENANDOAH] 
 
 In ACT I, just before the opening of the war, Haverhill is a Colonel in the 
 Regular Army. Kerchival West and Robert Ellingham are Lieutenants in 
 his regiment, having been classmates at West Point. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Charleston Harbor in 1861. After the Ball 
 
 The citizens of Charleston knew almost the exact hour at which the attack 
 on Fort Sumter would begin, and they gathered in the gray twilight of the 
 morning to view the bombardment as a spectacle. — Nicolay, Campaigns of the 
 Civil War, Vol. I, 
 
 ''I shall open fire in one hour." — Beauregard's last message to Major An- 
 derson. Sent at 3 :20 A. M., April 12, 1861. 
 
 ACTS II AND III 
 
 The Union Army, under General Sheridan, and the Confederate Army, 
 under General Early, were encamped facing each other about twenty miles south 
 of Winchester, on Cedar Creek. * * ^ Gen. Sheridan was called to Washington. 
 Soon after he left, a startling despatch was taken by our own Signal Officers 
 from the Confederate Signal Station on Three Top Mountain. — Fond, Camp. 
 Civ. War, Vol. XI. 
 
 On the morning of Oct. 19th, the Union Army was taken completely by 
 surprise. Thoburn's position was swept in an instant. Gordon burst suddenly 
 upon the left flank. The men who escaped capture streamed through the camps 
 along the road to Winchester. — Pond, supra. 
 
 Far away in the rear was heard cheer after cheer. — Three years in the Sixth 
 Corps. 
 
 ACT TV 
 
 Washington, 1865. Residence of General Buckthorn 
 
 I feel that we are on the eve of a new era, when there is to be great harmony 
 between the Federal and Confederate, — Gen Grant's Memoirs, 
 
CASTS OF SHENANDOAH 
 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 First New York 
 
 
 Boston Museum, 
 
 Production 
 
 
 Nov. 19, 1888 
 
 Star Theatre, N.Y., 
 September 9, 1889 
 
 Officers 
 
 Thomas L. Coleman 
 
 Wilton Lackaye 
 
 of Sher- 
 
 John B. jMason 
 
 Henry Miller 
 
 idan's 
 
 Henry M. Pitt 
 
 jMorton Selton 
 
 Cavalry 
 
 Edgar L. Davenport 
 
 G. W. Bailey 
 
 General Haverhill 
 
 Colonel Kerchival West. 
 
 Captain Heartsease 
 
 Lieutenant Frank Bedloe 
 Major-General Francis Buck- 
 thorn, Commander of the 19th 
 
 Army Corps C. Leslie Allen 
 
 Sergeant B.sjiket George W. AVilson 
 
 Colonel Robert Ellingham, 10th 
 
 Virginia ; Charles J. Bell 
 
 Captain Thornton, Secret Service, 
 
 C. S. A Willis Granger 
 
 Mrs. Constance Haverhill Annie M. Clarke 
 
 Gertrude Ellingham Viola Allen 
 
 IMadeline West Helen Dayne 
 
 Jenny Buckthorn Miriam 'Leary 
 
 Mrs. Edith Haverhill Grace Atwell 
 
 Hardwick, Surgeon George Blake 
 
 Captain Lockwood, U. S. Signal 
 
 Corps Herbert Potter 
 
 Lieutenant of Signal Corps 
 
 Lieutenant of Infantry 
 
 Corporal Dunn James Nolan 
 
 Benson Charles S. Abbe 
 
 Old Margery Kate Ryan 
 
 Janette ^liss Harding 
 
 WiLKiNS Henry MacDonna 
 
 Harry Harwood 
 James 0. Barrows 
 
 Lucius Henderson 
 
 John E. Kellerd 
 Dorothy Dorr 
 Viola Allen 
 Nanette Comstock 
 Effie Shannon 
 Alice B. Haines 
 W. L. Dennison 
 
 C. C. Brandt 
 Harry Thorn 
 George IMaxwell 
 W. J. Cummings 
 William Barnes 
 Mrs. Haslam 
 Esther Drew 
 
SHENANDOAH 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Charleston Harbor in 1861. 
 Ball." 
 
 ''After the 
 
 Scene. The Interior of a Southern Resi- 
 dence on the shore of Charleston Harbor. 
 Large double doors at the rear of the 
 stage are open. A large, wide window, 
 ivith low sill, extends down the right side 
 of the stage. A veranda is seen through 
 the doors and the window. There is a 
 wide opening on the left with a corridor 
 beyond. The furniture and appoint- 
 ments are quaint and old-fashioned, but 
 the general tone of the walls and uphol- 
 stery is that of i'lie old Colonial period in 
 its more ornamental and decorative phase, 
 as shown in the early days of Charleston. 
 Old candlesticks and candelabra, with 
 lighted candles nearly burned down, light 
 the room, and in addition the moon-light 
 streams in. Beyond the central doors and 
 the window there is a lawn, with South- 
 ern foliage, extending down to the shores 
 of the harbor; a part of the bay lies in 
 the distance, with low-lying land beyond. 
 The lights of Charleston are seen over the 
 water along the shore. The gray twi- 
 light of early morning gradually steals 
 over the scene as the Act progresses. 
 As the curtain rises, Kerchival West is 
 sitting in a chair, his feet extended and 
 his head thrown back, a handkerchief over 
 his face. Robert Ellingham strolls in 
 on the veranda, beyond the window, 
 smoking. He looks to the right, starts 
 and moves to the window; leans agaif.st 
 the upper side of the window and looks 
 across. 
 
 Ellingham. Kerchival ! 
 
 Kerchival. {Under the handkerchief.) 
 
 Eh? H'm! 
 Elling. Can you sleep at a time like this *? 
 
 My own nerves are on fire. 
 Ker. Fire? Oh — yes — I remember. Any 
 
 more fire-works, Bob? 
 Elling. A signal rocket from one of the 
 
 batterieS; now and then, {He goes up be- 
 
 yond the window. Kerchival arouses 
 himself, taking the handkerchief from his 
 eyes.) 
 Ker. What a preposterous hour to be up. 
 The ball was over an hour ago, all the 
 guests are gone, and it 's nearly four 
 o'clock. {Looking at his watch.) Ex- 
 actly ten minutes of four. {He takes out 
 a cigar.) Our Southern friends assure 
 us that General Beauregard is to open fire 
 on Fort Sumter this morning. I don't 
 believe it. {Lighting the cigar and ris- 
 ing, he looks out through the window.) 
 There lies the old fort — solemn and grim 
 as ever, and the flag-staff stands above it, 
 like a warning finger. If they do fire 
 upon it {shutting his teeth for a moment 
 and looking down at the cigar in his 
 hand) the echo of that first shot will be 
 heard above their graves, and Heaven 
 knows how many of our own, also; but 
 the flag will still float! — over the graves 
 of both sides. 
 
 (Ellingham enters from the central door 
 and approaches him.) 
 
 Are you Southerners all mad, Robert ? 
 Elling. Are you Northerners all blind? 
 (Kerchival sits down.) We Virginians 
 would prevent a war if we could. But 
 your people in the North do not believe 
 that one is coming. You do not under- 
 stand the determined frenzy of my fellow 
 Southerners. Look! {Pointing toward 
 the rear of the stage.) Do you see the 
 lights of the city, over the water? The 
 inhabitants of Charleston are gathering, 
 even now, in the gray, morning twilight, 
 to witness the long-promised bombard- 
 ment of Fort Sumter. It is to be a gala 
 day for them. They have talked and 
 dreamed of nothing else for weeks. The 
 preparations have become a part of their 
 social life — of their amusement — their 
 gayeties. This very night at the ball — 
 here — in the house of my own relatives — 
 what was their talk? What were the 
 jests they laughed at? Sumter! War! 
 Ladies were betting bonbons that the 
 United States would not dare to flre a 
 
 539 
 
540 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 shot in return, and pinning- ribbons on 
 the breasts of their "heroes." There was 
 a signal rocket from one of the forts, and 
 the young men who were dancing here 
 left their partners standing on the floor to 
 return to the batteries — as if it were the 
 night before another Waterloo. The 
 ladies themselves hurried away to watch 
 the ''spectacle" from their own verandas. 
 You won't see the truth ! I tell you, Ker- 
 chival, a war between the North and 
 South is inevitable ! 
 
 Ker. And if it does come, you Virginians 
 will join the rest. 
 
 Ellixg. Our State will be the battle 
 ground, I fear. But eveiy loyal son of 
 Virginia will follow her flag. It is our 
 religion ! 
 
 Ker. My State is New York. If New 
 York should go against the old flag, New 
 York might go to the devil. That is my 
 religion. 
 
 Elling. So differently have we been 
 taught what the word "patriotism" 
 means ! 
 
 Ker. You and I are officers of the same 
 regiment of the United States Regular 
 Army, Robert; we w^ere classmates at 
 West Point, and we have fought side by 
 side on the plains. You saved my scalp 
 once ; I 'd have to wear a wig, now, if 
 you had n't. I say, old boy, are we to be 
 enemies ? 
 
 Elling. {Laying Ms hand over his shoul- 
 der.) My dear old comrade, whatever 
 else comes, our friendship shall be un- 
 broken ! 
 
 Ker. Bob! {Looking up at him.) I only 
 hope that we shall never meet in battle ! 
 
 Elling. In battle? The idea is horrible! 
 
 Ker. {Bising and crossing to him.) My 
 dear old comrade, one of us will be wrong 
 in this great fight, but we shall both be 
 honest in it. {He gives his hand; El- 
 LixGHAM grasps it warmly, then turns 
 away.) 
 
 Ellixg. Colonel Haverill is watching the 
 forts, also ; he has been as sad to-night as 
 we have. Next to leaving you, my great- 
 est regret is that I must resign from his 
 regiment. 
 
 Ker. You are his favorite officer. 
 
 Elling. Naturally, perhaps; he was my 
 guardian. 
 
 {Enter Haverill from the rear. He walks 
 down, stopping in the center of the 
 stage.) 
 
 Haverill, Kerchival! I secured the nec- 
 
 essaiy passports to the North yesterday 
 afternoon; this one is yours; 1 brought 
 it down for you early in the evening. 
 (Kerch, takes the paper and goes to the 
 luindow.) I am ordered direct to Wash- 
 ington at once, and shall start with Mrs. 
 Haverill this forenoon. You will report 
 to Captain Lyon, of the 2d Regiment, in 
 St. Louis. Robert! I have hoped for 
 peace to the last, but it is hoping against 
 hope. I feel certain, now, that the fatal 
 blow will be struck this morning. Our 
 old regiment is already broken up, and 
 you, also, will now resign, I suppose, like 
 nearly all your fellow Southerners in the 
 Service. 
 
 Elling. You know how sorry I am to 
 leave your command. Colonel ! 
 
 Haver. I serv^ed mider your father in 
 Mexico ; he left me, at his death, the guar- 
 dian of you and your sister, Gertrude. 
 Even since you became of age, I have felt 
 that I stood in his place. But you must 
 be your sister's only guardian now. Your 
 father fell in battle, fighting for our com- 
 mon country, but you — 
 
 Elling. He would have done as I shall do, 
 had he lived. He was a Virginian ! 
 
 Haver. I am glad, Robert, that he was 
 never called upon to decide between two 
 flags. He never knew but one, and we 
 fought under it together. {Exit.) 
 
 Elling. Kerchival ! Something occurred 
 in this house to-night w^hich — which I 
 should n't mention under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances, but I — I feel that it may 
 require my further attention, and you, 
 perhaps, can be of service to me. 
 Mrs. Haverill, the wife of the Colo- 
 nel — 
 
 Ker. Fainted away in her room. 
 
 Elling. You know? 
 
 Ker. I was one of the actors in the little 
 drama. 
 
 Elling. Indeed ! 
 
 Ker. About half-past nine this evening, 
 while the ladies Avere dressing for the ball, 
 I was going upstairs; I heard a quick, 
 sharp cry, sprang forward, found myself 
 at an open door. Mrs. Haverill lay on 
 the floor inside, as if she had just reached 
 the door to cry for help, when she fell. 
 After doing all the unnecessary and use- 
 less things I could think of, I rushed out 
 of the room to tell your sister, Gertrude, 
 and my own sister, Madeline, to go and 
 take care of the lady. Within less than 
 twenty minutes afterwards, I saw Mrs. 
 Haverill sail into the drawing-room, a 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 541 
 
 thing- of beauty, and with the glow of 
 perfect health on her cheek. It was an 
 immense relief to me when I saw her. 
 Up to that time I had a vague idea that I 
 had committed a murder. 
 
 Ellixg. Murder ! 
 
 Ker. M — m. A guilty conscience. Every 
 man, of course, does exactly the wrong- 
 thing when a woman faints. When I 
 rushed out of Mrs. Haverill's room, I 
 left my handkerchief soaked with water 
 upon her face. I must ask her for it, it 's 
 a silk one. Luckily, the girls got there 
 in time to take it off ; she would n't have 
 come to if they hadn't. It never oc- 
 curred to me that she 'd need to breathe in 
 my absence. That 's all I know about 
 the matter. What troubles you^ I sup- 
 pose eveiy woman has a right to faint 
 
 . whenever she chooses. The scream that 
 I heard was so sharp, quick and intense 
 that— 
 
 Ellixg. That the cause must have been a 
 serious one. 
 
 Ker. Yes!, So I thought. It must have 
 been a mouse. 
 
 Ellixg. Mr. Edward Thornton has occu- 
 pied the next room to that of Mrs. 
 Haverill to-night. 
 
 Ker. {Quickly.) What do you mean? 
 
 Ellixg. During the past month or more 
 he has been pressing, not to say insolent, 
 in his attentions to Mrs. Haverill. 
 
 Ker. I 've noticed that myself. 
 
 Ellixg. And he is an utterly unscrupu- 
 lous man; it is no fault of mine that he 
 was asked to be a guest at this house to- 
 night. He came to Charleston, some 
 years ago, from the North, but if there 
 are any vices and passions peculiarly 
 strong in the South, he has carried them 
 all to the extreme. In one of the many 
 scandals connected with Edward Thorn- 
 ton's name, it was more than whispered 
 that he entered a lady's room unex- 
 pectedly at night. But, as he killed the 
 lady's husband in a duel a few days after- 
 wards, the scandal dropped. 
 
 Ker. Of course; the gentleman received 
 ample satisfaction as an outraged hus- 
 band, and Mr. Thornton apologized, I 
 suppose, to his widow. 
 
 Ellixg. He has repeated the adventure. 
 
 Ker. Do — you — think — thaf? 
 
 Ellixg. I was smoking on the lawn, and 
 glanced up at the window; my eyes may 
 have deceived me, and I must move cau- 
 tiously in the matter ; but it could n't have 
 been imagination ; the shadow of Edward 
 
 Thornton's face and head appeared upon 
 
 the curtain.' 
 Ker. WTiew ! The devil ! 
 Ellixg. Just at that moment I, too, heard 
 
 the stifled scream. 
 
 {Enter Edward Thornton.) 
 
 Thorxtox. Gentlemen ! 
 
 Ellixg. Your name was just on my 
 tongue, Mr. Thornton. 
 
 Thorxtox. I thought I heard it, but you 
 are welcome to it. Miss Gertrude has 
 asked me to ride over to Mrs. Pinckney's 
 with her, to learn if there is any further 
 news from the batteries. I am very glad 
 the time to attack Fort Sumter has come 
 at last ! 
 
 Ellixg. I do not share your pleasure. 
 
 Thorxtox. You are a Southern gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Ellixg. And you are a Northern "gentle- 
 man." 
 
 Thorxtox. A Southerner by choice; I 
 shall join the cause. 
 
 Ellixg. We native Southerners will de- 
 fend our own rights, sir; you may leave 
 them in our keeping. It is my wish, Mr. 
 Thornton, that you do not accompany my 
 sister. 
 
 Thorxtox. Indeed ! 
 
 Ellixg. Her groom, alone, will be suffi- 
 cient 
 
 Thorxtox. As you please, sir. ' Kindly 
 oifer my excuses to Miss Gertrude. You 
 and I can chat over the subject later in 
 the day, when we are alone. {Moving up 
 the stage.) 
 
 Ellixg. By all means, and another sub- 
 ject, also, perhaps. 
 
 Thorxtox. I shall be entirely at your 
 service. {Exit to the veranda.) 
 
 Ellix^g. Kerchival, I shall learn the whole 
 truth, if possible, to-day. If it is what 
 I suspect — what I almost know — I will 
 settle with him myself. He has insulted 
 our Colonel's wife and outraged the hos- 
 pitality of my friends. {Walking to the 
 right.) 
 
 Ker. {Walking to the left.) I think it 
 ought to be my quarrel. I 'm sure I 'm 
 mixed up in it enough. 
 
 Madelixe. {Without, calling.) Kerchi- 
 val! 
 
 Ellixg. Madeline. {Aside, starting, Ker- 
 chival looks across at him sharply.) 
 
 Ker. {Aside.) 1 distinctly saw Bob give 
 a start when he heard Madeline. Now, 
 what can there be about my sister's voice 
 to make a man jump like that? 
 
542 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Gert. {WitJiout.) Brother Robert! 
 
 Ker. Gertrude! {Aside, starting, El- 
 LiNGHAM looks at him sharply.) How 
 the tones of a woman's voice thrill 
 through a man's soul ! 
 
 {Enter Madeline.) 
 
 Madeline. Oh, Kerchival — here you are. 
 
 {Enter Gertrude, from the apartment, in a 
 riding habit, with a whip.) 
 
 Gert. Robert, dear! {Coming down t*o 
 Robert; they converse in dumb show.) 
 
 Madeline. Where are your held glasses'? 
 I 've been rummaging all through your 
 clothes, and swords, and sashes, and 
 things. I 've turned everything in your 
 room upside down. 
 
 Ker. Have you? 
 
 Madeline. I can't find your glasses any- 
 where. I want to look at the forts. 
 Another rocket went up just now. {Buns 
 up the stage and stands on the piazza 
 looking off.) 
 
 Ker. a sister has all the privileges of a 
 wdfe to upset a man's things, without her 
 legal obligation to put them straight 
 again. {Glances at Gertrude.) I wish 
 Bob's sister had the same privileges in my 
 room that my own has. 
 
 Gert. Mr. Thornton is n't going with me, 
 you say? 
 
 Elling. He requested me to offer you his 
 apologies. 
 
 Ker. May I accompany you? (Elling- 
 HAM turns to the window on the right.) 
 
 orERT. My groom, old Pete, will be with 
 me, of course ; there 's no particular need 
 of anyone else. But you may go along, 
 if you like. I 've got my hands full of 
 sugar plums for Jack. Dear old Jack — 
 he always has his share when we have 
 company. I 'm going over to Mrs. Pinck- 
 ney's to see if she 's had any more news 
 from General Beauregard; her son is on 
 the General's staff. 
 
 Madeline. {Looking of to the right.) 
 There 's another rocket from Fort John- 
 son; and it is answered from Fort Moul- 
 trie. Ah! (Angrily.) General Beaure- 
 gard is a bad, wicked man! {Coming 
 down.) 
 
 Gert. Oh ! Madeline ! You are a bad, 
 wicked Northern girl to say such a thing. 
 
 Mad. I am a Northern girl. 
 
 Gert. And I am a Southern girl. {They 
 face each other.) 
 
 Ker. {Dropping into a chair.) The war 
 has begun. 
 
 (Ellingham has turned from the win- 
 dow; he strolls across the stage, 
 watching the girls.) 
 
 Gert. General Beauregard is a patriot. 
 
 Mad. He is a Rebel. 
 
 Gert. So am I. 
 
 Mad. Gertrude ! — You — you — 
 
 Gert. Madeline ! — You — 
 
 Mad. I— I— 
 
 Gert. I — 
 
 Both. — 0-h ! {Bursting into tears and 
 rushing into each other's arms, sobbing, 
 then suddenly kissing each other vigor- 
 ously. ) 
 
 Ker. I say. Bob, if the North and South 
 do fight, that will be the end of it. 
 
 Gert. I 've got something to say to you, 
 Madeline, dear. {Confidentially and 
 turning with her arms about her 
 waist. The girls sit down talking ear- 
 nestly. ) 
 
 Elling. Kerchival, old boy! There's — 
 there 's something I 'd like to say to you 
 before we part to-day. 
 
 Ker. I 'd like a word with you, also ! 
 
 Mad. You don't really mean that, Ger- 
 trude — with me? 
 
 Elling. I 'm in love with your sister, 
 Madeline. 
 
 Ker. The devil you are ! 
 
 Elling. I never suspected such a thing 
 until last nigbt. 
 
 Gert. Robert was in love with you six 
 weeks ago. (Madeline kisses her.) 
 
 Ker. I 've made a discovery, too. Bob. 
 
 Mad. I 've got something to say to you, 
 Gertrude. 
 
 Ker. I 'm in love with your sister. 
 
 Elling. {Astonished.) You are? 
 
 Mad. Kerchival has been in love with you 
 for the last three months. (Gertrude 
 ofers her lips — they kiss.) 
 
 Ker. I fell in love with her the day before 
 yesterday. {The two genHemen grasp 
 each other's hands warmly.) 
 
 Elling. We understand each other, Ker- 
 chival. {He turns up the stage and stops 
 at the door.) Miss Madeline, you said 
 just now that you w^ished to watch the 
 forts. Would you like to walk down to 
 the shore ? 
 
 Mad. Yes ! {Bising and going up to him. 
 He takes one of her hands in his own and 
 looks at her earnestly.) 
 
 Elling. This will be the last day that we 
 shall be together, for the present. But 
 we shall meet again — sometime — if we 
 both live. 
 
 ]\Iad. If we both live ! You mean — if you 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 543 
 
 live. You must go into this dreadful war, 
 if it conies. 
 
 Blling. Yes, Madeline, I must. Come let 
 us watch for our fate. 
 
 {Exeunt to the veranda.) 
 
 Ker. {Aside.) I must leave Charles- 
 ton to-day. {He sighs.) Does she love 
 me? 
 
 Ger. I am ready to start, Mr. West, when 
 you are. 
 
 Ker. Oh! Of course, I forgot. {Ris- 
 ing.) I shall be delighted to ride at your 
 side. 
 
 Gert. At my side! {Rising.) There 
 is n't a horse in America that can keep 
 by the side of my Jack, when I give him 
 his head, and I 'm sure to do it. You may 
 follow us. But you can hardly ride in 
 that costume; while you are changing it, 
 I '11 give Jack his bonbons. {Turning to 
 the window.) There he is, bless him! 
 Pawing the ground, and impatient for me 
 to be on his back. Let him come, Pete. 
 {Holding up honhons at window.) I 
 love you. 
 
 Ker. Eh*? {Turning suddenly.) 
 
 Gert. {Looking at him.) What"? 
 
 Ker. You were saying — 
 
 Gert. Jack ! {Looking out. The head of 
 a large black horse appears through the 
 window.) You dear old fellow. {She 
 feeds him with honhons.) Jack has been 
 my boy ever since he was a little colt. I 
 brought you up, didn't I, Jack*? He's 
 the truest, and kindest, and best of 
 friends; I wouldn't be parted from him 
 for the world, and I 'm the only woman 
 he '11 allow to be near him. 
 
 Ker. {Earnestly.) You are the only 
 woman. Miss Gertrude, that I — 
 
 Gert. Dear Jack! 
 
 Ker. {Aside.) Jack embarrasses me. 
 He 's a third party. 
 
 Gert. There! That will do for the pres- 
 ent. Jack. Now go along with Pete ! If 
 you are a very good boy, and don't let 
 Lieutenant Kerchival West come within a 
 quarter of a mile of me, after the first 
 three minutes, you shall have some more 
 sugar plums when we get to Mrs. Pinck- 
 ney's. {An old negro leads the horse 
 away. Gertrude looks around at Ker- 
 chival. ) You have n't gone to dress, 
 yet ; we. shall be late. Mrs. Pinckney 
 asked a party of friends to witness the 
 bombardment this morning, and break- 
 fast together on the piazza while they are 
 looking at it. We can remain and join 
 them, if you lika 
 
 Ker. I hope they won't wait for break- 
 fast until the bombardment begins. 
 
 Gert. I '11 bet you an embroidered cigar- 
 case, Lieutenant, against a box of gloves 
 that it will begin in less than an hour. 
 
 Ker. Done! You will lose the bet. But 
 you shall have the gloves ; and one of the 
 hands that go inside them shall be — 
 {Taking one of her hands; she withdraws 
 it.) 
 
 Gert. My own — until some one wins it. 
 You don't believe that General Beaure- 
 gard will open fire on Fort Sumter this 
 morning ? 
 
 Kjer. No ; I don't. 
 
 Gert. Everything is ready. 
 
 Ker. It 's so much easier to get everything 
 ready to do a thing than it is to do it. I 
 have been ready a dozen times, this very 
 night, to say to you. Miss Gertrude, that 
 I — that I — {Pauses.) 
 
 Gert. {Looking down and tapping her 
 skirt with her whip.) Well"? 
 
 Ker. But I did n't. 
 
 Gert. {Glancing up at" him suddenly.) I 
 dare say, General Beauregard has more 
 nerve than you have. 
 
 Ker. It is easy enough to set the batteries 
 around Charleston Harbor, but the man 
 who fires the first shot at a woman — 
 
 Gert. Woman ! 
 
 Ker. At the American flag — must have 
 nerves of steel. 
 
 Gert. You Northern men are so slow, to — 
 
 Ker. I have been slow; but I assure you, 
 Miss Gertrude, that my heart — 
 
 Gert. What subject are we on now? 
 
 Ker. You were complaining because I was 
 too slow. 
 
 Gert. I was doing nothing of the kind, 
 sir ! — let me finish, please. You Northern 
 men are so slow, to believe that our 
 Southern heroes — Northern men and 
 Southern heroes — ^you recognize the dis- 
 tinction I make — you won't believe that 
 they will keep their promises. They have 
 sworn to attack Fort Sumter this morn- 
 ing, and — they — will do it. This "Ameri- 
 can Flag" you talk of is no longer our 
 fiag : it is foreign to us ! — It is the flag of 
 an enemy ! 
 
 Ker. {Tenderly and earnestly.) Am I 
 your enemy? 
 
 Gert. You have told me that you will re- 
 turn to the North, and take the field. 
 
 Ker. Yes, I will. {Decisively.) 
 
 Gert. You will be fighting against my 
 friends, against my own brother, against 
 me. We shall be enemies. 
 
544 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Ker. {Firmly.) Even that, Gertrude — 
 {She looks around at him, he looks 
 squarely into her eyes as he proceeds) — 
 if you will have it so. If my country 
 needs my services, I shall not refuse them, 
 though it makes us enemies! {She 
 wavers a moment, under strong emotion, 
 and turns away; sinks upon the seat, her 
 elboiv on the hack of it, and her tightly- 
 clenched fist against her cheek, looking 
 away from him.) 
 
 Gert. 1 will have it so ! I am a Southern 
 woman ! 
 
 Ker. We have more at stake between us, 
 this morning, than a cigar-case and a box 
 of gloves. (Turning up the stage.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Haverill from apartment.) 
 
 Mrs. H. Mr. West ! I 've been looking for 
 you. I have a favor to ask. 
 
 Ker. Of me*? — with pleasure. 
 
 Mrs. H. But I am sorry to have inter- 
 rupted you and Gertrude. {As she 
 passes down Kerchival moves up the 
 stage. Gertrude mes. ) {Apart.) There 
 are tears in your eyes, Gertrude, dear! 
 
 Gert. {Apart.) They have no right 
 there. 
 
 Mrs. H. {Apart.) I'm afraid I know 
 what has happened. A quarrel ! and you 
 are to part with each other so soon. Do 
 not let a girl's coquetry trifle with her 
 heart until it is too late. You remember 
 the confession you made to me last night? 
 
 Gert. {Apart.) Constance! {Starting.) 
 That is my secret; more a secret now than 
 ever. 
 
 Mrs. H. (Apart.) Yes, dear; but you do 
 love him. (Gertrude moves up the 
 stage.) 
 
 Gert. You need not ride over with me, 
 Mr. West. 
 
 Ker, I can be ready in one moment. 
 
 Gert. I choose to go alone ! Old Pete will 
 be with me; and Jack, himself, is a charm- 
 ing companion. 
 
 Ker. If you prefer Jack's company to 
 mine — 
 
 Gert. I do. (Exit' on the veranda.) 
 
 Ker. Damn Jack! But you will let me 
 assist you to mount. (Exit after her.) 
 
 Mrs. H. We leave for the North before 
 noon, but every hour seems a month. If 
 my husband should learn what happened 
 in my room to-night, he would kill that 
 man. What encouragement could I have 
 given him'? Innocence is never on its 
 guard — but, (drawing up) the last I re- 
 member before I fell unconscious, he was 
 
 crouching before me like a whipped cur! 
 
 (She starts as she looks out of the win- 
 dow.) There is Mr. Thornton, now — Ah ! 
 (Angrily.) No — I must control my own 
 indignation. I must keep him and 
 Colonel Haverill from meeting before we 
 leave Charleston. Edward Thornton 
 w^ould shoot my husband down without re- 
 morse. But poor Frank! I must not 
 forget him, in my own trouble. I have 
 but little time left to care for his welfare. 
 
 (Re-enter Kerchival.) 
 
 Ker. You said I could do you a favor, 
 Mrs. Haverill'? 
 
 Mrs. H. Yes, I wanted to speak with you 
 about General Haverill's son, Frank. I 
 should like you to carry a message to 
 Charleston for me as soon as it is light. 
 It is a sad errand. You know too well 
 the great misfortune that has fallen upon 
 my husband in New York. 
 
 Ker. His only son has brought disgrace 
 upon his family name, and tarnished the 
 reputation of a proud soldier. Colonel 
 Haverill's fellow officers sympathize with 
 him most deeply. 
 
 Mrs. H. And poor young Frank ! I could 
 hardly have loved the boy more if he had 
 been my own son. If he had not himself 
 confessed the crime against the bank, I 
 could not have believed him guilty. He 
 has escaped from arrest. He is in the 
 City of Charleston. I am the only one in 
 all the world he could turn to. He was 
 only a lad of fourteen when his father 
 and I were married, six years ago; and 
 the boy has loved me from the first. His 
 father is stern and bitter now in his 
 humiliation. This note from Frank was 
 handed to me while the companj^ were 
 here last evening. I want you to find 
 him and arrange for me to meet him, if 
 you can do it with safety. I shall give 
 you a letter for him. 
 
 Ker. I '11 get ready at once ; and I will 
 do all I can for the boy. 
 
 Mrs. H. And — Mr. West! Gertrude and 
 Madeline have told me that — that — I was 
 under obligations to you last evening. 
 
 Ker. Don't mention it. I merely ran for 
 them, and I — I 'm very glad you did n't 
 choke — before they reached you. I trust 
 you are quite well now? 
 
 Mrs. H. I am entirely recovered, thank 
 you. And I will ask another favor of 
 you, for we are old friends. I desire 
 very much that General Haverill should 
 not know that — that any accident oc- 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 545 
 
 eurred to me to-night — or that my health 
 has not been perfect. 
 
 Ker. Certainly, madam ! 
 
 Mrs. H. It would render him anxious with- 
 out cause. 
 
 Ker. (Aside.) It looks as if Robert was 
 right; she doesn't want the two men to 
 meet. 
 
 (Enter Haverill, a white silk handkerchief 
 in his hand.) 
 
 Havetl. Constance, my dear, I 've been all 
 over the place looking for you. I 
 thought you were in your room. But — 
 by the way, Kerchival, this is your hand- 
 kerchief ; your initials are on it. 
 
 (Kerchival turns and stares at him 
 a second. Mrs. Haverill starts 
 slightly and turns front. Haverill 
 glances quickly from one to the 
 other, then extends his hands toward 
 Kerchival, with the handkerchief. 
 Kerchival moves to him and takes 
 it. Mrs. Haverill drops into the 
 chair. ) 
 
 Ker. Thank you. (He walks up and exits 
 ivith a quick glance hack. Haverill 
 looks at Mrs. Haverill, who sits nerv- 
 ously, looking away. He then glances up 
 after Kerchival. A cloud comes over 
 his face and he stands a second in 
 thought. Then, with a movement as if 
 brushing away a passing suspicion, he 
 smiles pleasantly and approaches Mrs. 
 H. ; leaning over her.) 
 
 Haver. My fair Desdemona! (Smiling.) 
 I found Cassio's handkerchief in your 
 room. Have you a kiss for me"? (She 
 looks up, he raises her chin with a finger 
 and kisses her.) That 's the way I shall 
 smother you. 
 
 Mrs. H. (Rising and dropping her head 
 upon his breast.) Husband! 
 
 Haver. But what is this they have been 
 telling me*? 
 
 Mrs. H. What have they said to you"? 
 
 Haver. There was something wrong with 
 you in the early part of the evening ; you 
 are trembling and excited, my girl ! 
 
 Mrs. H. It was nothing, John ; I — I — was 
 ill, for a few moments, but I am well now. 
 
 Haver. You said nothing about it to me. 
 
 Mrs. H. Do not give it another thought. 
 
 Haver. Was there anything besides your 
 health involved in the affair *? There was, 
 (Aside.) How came this handkerchief 
 in her room"? 
 
 Mrs. H. My husband! I do not want to 
 say anything more — at — at r>resent — 
 
 about what happened to-night. There 
 has never been a shadow between us — will 
 you not trust me*? 
 
 Haver. Shadow! You stand in a bright 
 light of your own, my wife; it shines 
 upon my whole life — there can be no 
 shadow there. Tell me as much or as 
 little as you like, and in your own time. 
 I am sure you will conceal nothing from 
 me that I ought to know. I trust my 
 honor and my happiness to you, abso- 
 lutely. 
 
 Mrs. H. They will both be safe, John, in 
 my keeping. But there is something else 
 that I wish to speak with you about; 
 something very near to your heart — your 
 son! 
 
 Haver. My son ! 
 
 Mrs. H. He is in Charleston. 
 
 Haver. And not — in prison*? To'^me he is 
 nowhere. I am childless. 
 
 Mrs. H. I hope to see him to-day ; may I 
 not take him some kind word from you? 
 
 Haver. My lawyers in New York had in- 
 structions to provide him with whatever 
 he needed. 
 
 Mrs. H. They have done so, and he wants 
 for nothing; he asks for nothing, except 
 that I will seek out the poor young wife — 
 only a girl herself — whom he is obliged to 
 desert, in New York. 
 
 Haver. His marriage was a piece of .reck- 
 less folly, but I forgave him that. 
 
 Mrs. H. I am sure that it was only after 
 another was dependent on him that the 
 debts of a mere spendthrift were changed 
 to fraud — and crime. 
 
 Haver. You may tell him that I will pro- 
 vide for her. 
 
 Mrs. H. And may I take him no warmer 
 message from his father? 
 
 Haver. I am an officer of the United 
 States Army. The name which my son 
 bears came to me from men who had 
 borne it with honor, and I transmitted it 
 to him without a blot. He has disgraced 
 it, by his own confession. 
 
 Mrs. H. / cannot forget the poor mother 
 who died when he was born; her whose 
 place I have tried to fill, to both Frank 
 and to you. I never saw her, and she is 
 sleeping in the old graveyard at home. 
 But I am doing what she would do to- 
 day, if she were living. No pride — no 
 disgrace — could have turned her face 
 from him. The care and the love of her 
 son has been to me the most sacred duty 
 which one woman can assume for an- 
 other. 
 
546 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Haver. You have fulfilled that duty, Con- 
 stance. Go to my son ! 1 would go with 
 you, but he is a man now; he could not 
 look into my eyes, and I could not trust 
 myself. But I will send him something? 
 which a man will understand. Frank 
 loves you as if you were his own mother ; 
 and I — I would like him to — to think 
 tenderly of me, also. He will do it when 
 he looks at this picture. {Taking a 
 miniature from his pocket.) 
 
 Mrs. H. Of me ! 
 
 Haver. I have never been without it one 
 hour, before, since we were married. He 
 will recognize it as the one that I have 
 carried through every campaign, in every 
 scene of danger on the Plains; the one 
 that has always been with me. He is a 
 fugitive from justice. At times, when 
 despair might overcome him, this may 
 give him nerve to meet his future life 
 manfully. It has often nerved me, ivhen 
 I might have failed without it. Give it to 
 him, and tell him that I send it. ( Giving 
 her the miniature.) I could not send a 
 kinder message, and he will understand it. 
 {Turning, he stands a moment in thought. 
 Thorntox appears at the window look- 
 ing at them quietly^ over his shoulder, a 
 cigar in his hand. Mrs. Haverill sees 
 him, and starts with a suppressed breath, 
 then looks at Haverill, who moves away. 
 He speaks aside.) My son! My son! 
 We shall never meet again! {Exit.) 
 
 (Mrs. H. looks after him earnestly, 
 then turns and looks at Thornton, 
 drawing up to her full height. 
 Thornton moves up the stage, be- 
 yond the window.) 
 
 Mrs. H. Will he dare to speak to me 
 again ? 
 
 {Enter Thornton ; he comes down the stage 
 quietly. He has thrown away the cigar.) 
 
 Thorn. Mrs. Haverill! I wish to offer 
 you an apology. 
 
 Mrs. H. I have not asked for one, sir ! 
 
 Thorn. Do you mean by that, that you 
 will not accept one"? 
 
 Mrs. H. {Aside.) What can I say? 
 {Aloud.) Oh, Mr. Thornton! — for my 
 husband's sake, I — 
 
 Thorn. Ah! You are afraid that your 
 husband may become involved in an un- 
 pleasant affair. Your solicitude for his 
 safety, madame, makes me feel that my 
 offense to-night was indeed unpardon- 
 able. No gentleman can excuse himself ' 
 
 for making such a mistake as I have 
 made. I had supposed that it was Lieu- 
 tenant Kerchival West, who — 
 
 Mrs. H. What do you mean, sir"? 
 
 Thorn. But if it is your husband that 
 stands between us — 
 
 Mrs. H. Let me say this, sir: whatever I 
 may fear for my husband, he fears noth- 
 ing for himself. 
 
 Thorn. He knows? {Looking at her, 
 keenly.) 
 
 {Enter Kerchival West, now in riding 
 suit.) 
 
 {He stops, looking at them.) 
 You are silent. Your husband does know 
 what occurred to-night; that relieves my 
 conscience. {Lightly.) Colonel Haverill 
 and I can now settle it between us. 
 
 Mrs. H. No, Mr. Thornton ! My husband 
 knows nothing, and, I beg of you, do not 
 let this horrible affair go further. {Sees 
 Kerchival.) 
 
 Ker. Pardon me. {Stepping forward.) 
 I hope I am not interrupting you. 
 {Aside.) It was Thornton. {Aloud.) 
 You said you would have a letter for me 
 to carry, Mrs. Haverill. 
 
 ]\iRS. H. Yes, I — I will go up and write it 
 at once. {As she leaves she stops and 
 looks back. Aside.) I wonder how 
 much he overheard. 
 
 Ker. {Quietly.) I suppose eight o'clock 
 will be time enough for me to go? 
 
 Mrs. H. Oh, yes! {glancing at him a mo- 
 ment) — quite. {Exit.) 
 
 Ker. {Quietly.) Mr. Thornton! you are 
 a scoundrel ! Do I make myself plain ? 
 
 Thorn. You make the fact that you de- 
 sire to pick a quarrel with me quite plain, 
 sir; but I choose my own quarrels an^d 
 my own enemies. 
 
 Ker. Colonel Haverill is my commander, 
 and he is beloved by every officer in the 
 regiment. 
 
 Thorn. On what authority, may I ask, do 
 you— 
 
 Ker. The honor of Colonel Haverill's wife 
 is mider our protection. 
 
 Thorn. Under your protection? You 
 have a better claim than that, perhaps, 
 to act as her champion. Lieutenant Ker- 
 chival West is Mrs. Haverill's favorite 
 officer in the regiment. 
 
 Ker. {Approaching him.) You dare to 
 suggest that I — 
 
 Thorn. If I accept your challenge, I shall 
 do so not because you are her protector, 
 but my rival. 
 
 » 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 547 
 
 Ker. Bah! {Striking him sharply on the 
 cheek with his glove. The two men stand 
 facing each other a moment.) Is it my 
 quarrel now? 
 
 Thorn. I think you are entitled to my at- 
 tention, sir. 
 
 Ker. My time here is limited. 
 
 Thorn. We need not delay. The Bayou 
 La Forge is convenient to this place. 
 
 Ker. I '11 meet you there, with a friend, at 
 once. 
 
 Thorn. It will be light enough to see the 
 sights of our weapons in about one hour. 
 {They boio to each other, and Thorn- 
 ton goes out.) 
 
 Ker. I 've got ahead of Bob. 
 
 Gert. {Without.) Whoa! Jack! Old 
 boy ! Steady, now — that 's a good fel- 
 low. 
 
 Ker. She has returned. I must know 
 whether Gertrude Ellingham loves me — 
 before Thornton and I meet. He is a 
 good shot. 
 
 Gert. {Without, calling.) — h! Pete! 
 You may take Jack to the stable. Ha — 
 ha — ha! {She appears at window; to 
 Kerchival.) Old Pete, on the bay 
 horse, has been doing his best to keep up 
 with us; but Jack and I have led him 
 such a race! Ha — ^lia — ha — ha! {Dis- 
 appearing beyond the window.) 
 
 Ker. Does she love me *? 
 
 Gert. {Entering at the rear and coming 
 down.) I have the very latest news from 
 the headquarters of the Confederate 
 Army in South Carolina. At twenty 
 minutes after three this morning General 
 Beauregard sent this message to Major 
 Anderson in Fort Sumter : "I shall open 
 fire in one hour !" The time is up ! — and 
 he will keep his word! {Turning and 
 looking out of the window. Kerchival 
 moves across to her.) 
 
 Ker. Gertrude ! I must speak to you ; we 
 may never meet again; but I must know 
 the truth. I love you. {Seizing her 
 hand.) Do you love me? {She looks 
 around at him as if about to speak; hesi- 
 tates.) Answer me! {She looks down 
 with a coquettish smile, tapping her skirt 
 with her riding whip.) Well? {A dis- 
 tant report of a cannon, and low rum- 
 bling reverberations over the harbor. 
 Gertrude turns suddenly, looking out. 
 Kerchival draws up, also looking off.) 
 
 Gert. A low — bright — line of fire — in the 
 sky! It is a shell. {A second's pause; 
 she starts slightly). It has burst upon 
 the fort. {Looks over her shoulder at 
 
 Kerchival, drawing up to her full 
 height.) 'iN'ow! — do you believe that we 
 Southerners are in deadly earnest? 
 
 Ker. We Northerners are in deadly earn- 
 est, too. I have received my answer. 
 {He crosses quickly and then turns ^) 
 We are — enemies! {They look at each 
 other for a moment.) 
 
 {Exit Kerchival.) 
 
 Gert. Kerchival! {Moving quickly half 
 across stage, looking after him eagerly, 
 then stops.) Enemies! {She drops into 
 the chair sobbing bitterly. Another dis- 
 tani" report, and low, long reverberations 
 as the curtain descends.) 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 The scene is the exterior of the Ellingham 
 Homestead in the Shenandoah Valley. 
 Three Top Mountain is seen in the dis- 
 tance. A corner of the house, with the 
 projecting end of the veranda is seen on 
 the left. A low wall extends from the 
 veranda across the stage to the center, 
 then with a turn to the right it is con- 
 tinued off the stage. There is a wide 
 opening in the wall at the center, with a 
 low. heavy stone post, with fiat top, on 
 each side. Beyond the wall and the 
 opening, a road runs across the stage. 
 At the back of this road there is an eleva- 
 tion of rock and turf. This slopes up to 
 the rear, is level on the top about twelve 
 feet, then slopes down to the road, and 
 also out behind the wood, which is seen at 
 the right. The level part in the centre 
 rises to about four feet above t-he stage. 
 Beyond this elevation in the distance is a 
 broad valley, with Three Top Mountain 
 rising on the right. The foliage is ap- 
 propriate to Northern Virginia. Rustic 
 seats and table are on the right. There is 
 a low rock near the stone post. When 
 curtain rises it is sunset. As the act pro- 
 ceeds this fades into twilight and then 
 brightens into moonlight. At the rise of 
 the curtain a trumpet signal is heard, very 
 distant. Gertrude and Madeline are 
 standing on the elevation. Gertrude is 
 shading her eyes with her hand and look- 
 ing off to the left. Madeline stands a 
 little below her, on the incline, resting her 
 arm about Gertrude's waist, also looking 
 off. 
 
 Gert. It is a regiment of Union Cavalry. 
 The Federal troops now have their lines 
 
548 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 three miles beyond us, and only a month 
 ago the Confederate Army was north of 
 Winchester. One army or the other has 
 been marching up and down the Shenan- 
 doah Valley for three years. I wonder 
 what the next change will be. We in 
 Virginia have had more than our share of 
 the war. [Looking off.) 
 
 Mad. You have, indeed, Gertrude. 
 {Walking down to a seat,) And we at 
 home in Washington have pitied you so 
 much. But everybody says that there 
 will be peace in the valley after this. 
 {Dropping into the seat.) 
 
 Gert. Peace! {Coming down.) That word 
 means something very different to us 
 poor Southerners from what it means to 
 you. 
 
 Mad. I know, dear; and we in the North 
 know how you have suffered, too. We 
 were very glad when General Buckthorn 
 was appointed to the command of the 
 Nineteenth Army Corps, so that Jenny 
 could get permission for herself and me 
 to come and visit you. 
 
 Gert. The old General will do anything 
 for Jenny, I suppose. 
 
 Mad. Yes. {Laughing.) W^e say in 
 Washington that Jenny is in command of 
 the Nineteenth Army Corps herself. 
 
 Gert. I was never more astonished or de- 
 lighted in my life than when you and 
 Jenny Buckthorn rode up, this morning, 
 with a guard from Winchester; and 
 Madeline, dear, I — I only wish that my 
 brother Robert could be here, too. Do 
 you remember in Charleston, darling — 
 that morning — when I told you that — 
 that Robert loved you? 
 
 Mad. He — [looking down) — ^he told me 
 so himself only a little while afterwards, 
 and while we were standing there, on the 
 shore of the bay — the — the shot was fired 
 which compelled him to enter this awful 
 war — and me to return to my home in 
 the North. 
 
 Gert. I was watching for that shot, too. 
 {Turning.) 
 
 Mad. Yes — {rising) — you and brother 
 Kerchival — 
 
 Gert. We won't talk about that, my dear. 
 We were speaking of Robert. As T told 
 you this morning, I have not heard from 
 him since the battle of Winchester, a 
 month ago. Oh, Madeline! the many, 
 many long weeks, like these, Ave have suf- 
 fered, after some terrible battle in which 
 he has been engaged. I do not know, 
 now% whether he is living or dead. 
 
 Mad. The whole war has been one long sus- 
 pense to me. {Dropping her face into 
 her hands.) 
 
 Gert. My dear sister! {Placing her arm 
 about her waist and moving to the left.) 
 You are a Northern girl, and I am a 
 Rebel — but we are sisters. {They mount 
 the veranda and pass out. An old coun- 
 tryman comes in. He stops and glances 
 back, raises a broken portion of the 
 capstone of the post, and places a letter 
 under it. Gertrude 7ms stepped back 
 on the veranda and is watching him. 
 He raises his head sharply, looking at her 
 and bringing his finger to his lips. He 
 drops his head again, as with age, and 
 goes out. Gertrude moves down to the 
 stage and up to the road, looks to the 
 right and left, raises the broken stone, 
 glancing back as she does so, then takes 
 the letter and moves down.) Robert is 
 alive! It is his handwriting! {She 
 tears open the wrapper.) Only a line 
 from him! and this — a dispatch — and 
 also a letter to me ! Why, it is from Mrs. 
 Haverill — from Washington — with a 
 United States postmark. {She reads 
 from a scrap of paper.) "The enclosed 
 dispatch must be in the hands of Captain 
 Edward Thornton before eight o'clock to- 
 night. We have signaled to him from 
 Three Top Mountain, and he is waiting 
 for it at the bend in Oak Run. Our 
 trusty scout at the Old Forge will carry 
 it if you will put it in his hands." The 
 scout is not there, now; I will carry 
 it to Captain Thornton myself. I — I 
 have n't my own dear horse to depend on 
 now; Jack knew every foot of the way 
 through the woods about here; he could 
 have carried a dispatch himself. I can't- 
 bear to think of Jack; it's two years 
 since he was captured by the enemy — and 
 if he is still living — I — I suppose he is 
 carrying one of their officers No ! Jack 
 would n't fight on that side. He was a 
 Rebel — as I am. He was one of the 
 Black Horse Cavalry — ^liis eyes always 
 flashed towards the North. Poor Jack! 
 my pet. {Brushing her eyes.) But this 
 is no time for tears. I must do the best 
 I can with the gray horse. Captain 
 Thornton shall have the dispatch. 
 {She reads from note.) "I also inclose a 
 letter for you. I found it in a United 
 States mail-bag which we captured from 
 the enemy." Oh — that 's the way Mrs. 
 Haverill's letter came — Ha — ha — ha — by 
 way of the Rebel army! {Opens it; 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 549 
 
 reads.) ''My Darling Gertrude: When 
 Colonel Kerehival West was in Washing- 
 ton last week, on his way from Chat- 
 tanooga, to serve under Sheridan in the 
 Shenandoah Valley, he called upon me. 
 It was the first time I had seen him since 
 the opening of the war. I am certain 
 that he still loves you, dear." {She 
 kisses the letter eagerly^ then draws up.) 
 It is quite immaterial to me whether Ker- 
 ehival West still loves me or -not. 
 (Reads.) "I have kept your secret, my 
 darling." — Ah! My secret! — "but I was 
 sorelj^ tempted to betray the confidence 
 you reposed in me at Charleston. If 
 Kerehival West had heard you say, as I 
 did, when your face was hidden in my 
 bosom, that night, that you loved him 
 with your whole heart — " — Oh! I could 
 bite my tongue out now for making that 
 confession — [She looks down ai letter 
 tcith a smile.) "I am certain that he still 
 loves you." {A Trumpet Signal. She 
 kisses the letter repeatedly. The Signal 
 is repeated louder than at first. She 
 starts, listening.) 
 
 (Jenny Buckthorn runs in, 
 veranda.) 
 
 the 
 
 Jen. Do you hear, Gertrude, they are 
 going to pass this very house. {A Mili- 
 tary band is playing "John Brown" in the 
 distance. A chorus of soldiers is heard.) 
 I 've been watching them through my 
 glass ; it is Colonel Kerehival West's regi- 
 ment. 
 
 Gert. {Eagerly, then coldly.) Colonel 
 West's ! It is perfectly indifferent to me 
 whose regiment it is. 
 
 Jen. Oh! Of course. {Coming down.) 
 It is equally indifferent to me; Captain 
 Heartsease is in command of the first 
 troop. {Trumpet Signal sounds.) Col- 
 umn right! {She runs up to the road. 
 Looking ojf to the left.) They are com- 
 ing up the hill. 
 
 Gert. At my very door! And Kerehival 
 West in command ! I will not stand here 
 and see them pass. The dispatch for 
 Captain Thornton! I will carry it to 
 him as soon as they are gone. {Exit up 
 the veranda, the hand and chorus increas- 
 ing in volume.) 
 
 Jen. Cavalry! That's the branch of the 
 service I was bom in ; I was in a fort at 
 the time — on the Plains. Sergeant Bar- 
 ket always said that my first baby squall 
 was a command to the garrison; if any 
 officer or soldier, from my father down. 
 
 failed to obey my orders, I court-mar- 
 tialed him on the spot. I '11 make 'em 
 pass in review. {Jumping up on the 
 rustic seat.) Yes! {Looking of to the 
 left.) There's Captain Heartsease him- 
 self, at the head of the first troop. 
 Draw sabre! {With parasol.) Present! 
 {Imitating the action. The hand and 
 chorus are now full and loud; she swings 
 the parasol in time. A trumpet Signal. 
 Band and chorus suddenly cease.) Halt! 
 Why, they are stopping here. {Trumpet 
 Signal sounds.) Dismount! I — I won- 
 der if they are going to— I do believe — 
 {Looking eagerly. Trumpet Signal.) 
 Assembly of Guard Details! As sure as 
 fate, they are going into camp here. We 
 girls will have a jolly time. {Jumping 
 down.) Ha — ha — ha — ha! Let me see. 
 How shall I receive Captain Heartsease? 
 He deserves a court-martial, for he stole 
 my lace handkerchief — at Mrs. Gray- 
 son's reception — in Washington. He was 
 called away by orders to the West that 
 very night, and we have n't met since. 
 {Sighs.) He's been in lots of battles 
 since then; I suppose he's forgotten all 
 about the handkerchief. We girls, at 
 home, don't forget such things. We 
 are n't in battles. All we do is to — to 
 scrape lint and flirt with other officers. 
 
 {Enter Captain Heartsease, followed hy 
 Colonel Robert Ellingham, then stops 
 at the gate.) 
 
 Heart. This way, Colonel Ellingham. 
 {They enter. As they come down 
 Heartsease stops suddenly, looking at 
 Jenny, and puts up his glasses.) Miss 
 Buckthorn ! 
 
 Jen. Captain Heartsease! 
 
 Heart. {Very quietly and with perfect 
 composure.) I am thunderstruck. The 
 unexpected sight of you has thrown me 
 into a fever of excitement. 
 
 Jen. Has if? {Aside.) If he gets so ex- 
 cited as that in battle it must be awful. 
 {Aloud.) Colonel Ellingham! 
 
 Elling. Miss Buckthorn! You are visit- 
 ing my sister *? I am what may be called 
 a visitor — by force — myself. 
 
 Jen. Oh ! You 're a prisoner ! 
 
 Elling. I ventured too far within the 
 Union lines to-night, and they have picked 
 me up. But Major Wilson has kindly ac- 
 cepted my parole, and I shall make the 
 best of it. 
 
 Jen. Is Major Wilson in command of the 
 regiment *? 
 
550 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Heart. Yes. Colonel West is to join us 
 at this point, during the evening. 
 
 Elling. I am very glad you are here, Miss 
 Buckthorn, with Gertrude. 
 
 Jen. Somebody here will be delighted to 
 see you, Colonel. 
 
 Elling. My sister can hardly be pleased 
 to see me as a prisoner. 
 
 Jen. Not your sister. {Passing him and 
 crossing to the veranda. She turns and 
 beckons to him. She motions with her 
 thumb, over her shoulder. He goes up 
 the steps of the veranda and turns.) 
 
 Elling. What do you mean ? 
 
 Jen. I mean this — {Reaching up her face, 
 he leans down, placing his ear near her 
 lips) — somebody else's sister! When 
 she first sees you, be near enough to catch 
 her. 
 
 Elling. I understand you! Madeline! 
 {Exit on veranda. Jenny runs up steps 
 after him, then stops and looks back at 
 Heartsease over the railing. Hearts- 
 ease takes a lace handkerchief from his 
 pocket.) 
 
 Jen. I do believe that 's my handkerchief. 
 {A guard of Sentries marches in and 
 across the stage in the road. The 
 Corporal in command orders halt and 
 a sentry to post, then marches the 
 guard out. The sentry stands with 
 his back to the audience, afterwards 
 moving out and in, appearing and 
 disappearing during the Act.) 
 
 Heart. Miss Buckthorn! I owe you an 
 apology. After I left your side, the last 
 time we met, I found your handkerchief 
 in my possession. I assure you, it was 
 an accident. 
 
 Jen. {Aside, pouting.) I thought he in- 
 tended to steal it. {Aloud.) That was 
 more than a year ago. {Then brightly.) 
 Do you always carry it with you? 
 
 Heart. Always; there. {Indicating his 
 left breast pocket.) 
 
 Jen. Next to his heart ! 
 
 Heart. Shall I return it to you? 
 
 Jen. Oh, if a lace handkerchief can be of 
 any use to you, Captain, during the hard- 
 ships of a campaigTi — you — you may keep 
 that one. You soldiers have so few com- 
 forts — and it 's real lace. 
 
 Heart. Thank you. {Betiirning the hand- 
 kerchief to his pocket.) Miss Buck- 
 thorn, your father is in command of the 
 Nineteenth Army Corps. He doesn't 
 like me. 
 
 Jen. I know it. 
 
 Heart. But you are in command of him. 
 
 Jen. Yes ; I always have been. 
 
 Heart. If ever you decide to assume com- 
 mand of any other man, I — I tinist you 
 w411 give me your orders. 
 
 Jen. {Aside, starting back.) If that was 
 intended for a proposal, it 's the queer- 
 est-shaped one I ever heard of. {Aloud.) 
 Do you mean. Captain, that — that you — 
 I must command myself now. {Shoul- 
 dering her parasol.) 'Bout — face! 
 March! {Turning squarely around, 
 marching up and out, on the veranda.) 
 
 Heart. I have been placed on waiting 
 orders. {Stepping up the stage and 
 looking after her; then very quietly and 
 without emotion.) 1 am in an agony of 
 suspense. The sight of that girl always 
 arouses the strongest emotions of my na- 
 ture. 
 
 {Enter Colonel Kerchival West, lookini^ 
 at the paper in his hand. The sentinel, 
 in the road, comes to a salute.) 
 
 Colonel West ! 
 
 Ker. Captain ! 
 
 Heart. You have rejoined the regiment 
 sooner than we expected. 
 
 Ker. {Looking at the paper.) Yes; Gen- 
 eral Haverill is to meet me here at seven 
 o'clock. Major Wilson tells me that some 
 of your company captured Colonel 
 Robert Ellingham, of the Tenth Virginia. 
 
 Heart. He is here under parole. 
 
 Ker. And this is the old Ellingham home- 
 stead. {Aside.) Gertrude herself is 
 here, I suppose ; almost a prisoner to me, 
 like her brother ; and my troops surround 
 their home. She must, indeed, feel that 
 I am her enemy now. Ah, well, war is 
 w^ar. {Aloud.) By the bye, Heartsease, 
 a young Lieutenant, Frank Bedloe, has 
 joined our troop ? 
 
 Heart. Yes; an excellent young officer. 
 
 Ker. I sent for him as I came through the 
 camp. Lieutenant Frank '"Bedloe" is 
 the son of General Haverill. 
 
 Heart. Indeed! Under an assumed 
 name ! 
 
 Ker. He was supposed to have been killed 
 in New Orleans more than a year ago; 
 but he was taken prisoner instead. 
 
 Heart. He is here. 
 
 Ker. I should never have known him; 
 with his full beard and bronzed face. 
 His face was as smooth as a boy's when I 
 last met him in Charleston. 
 
 {Enter Lieutenant Frank Bedloe; he 
 stops J saluting.) 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 551 
 
 Frank. You wished me to report to you, 
 Colonel? 
 
 Ker. You have been assigned to the regi- 
 ment during my absence. 
 
 Frank. Yes, sir. 
 
 (Kerchival moves to liim and grasps 
 his hand; looks into his eyes a mo- 
 ment before speaking.) 
 
 Ker. Frank Haverill. 
 
 Frank. You — you know me, sir*? 
 
 Ker. I saw Mrs. Haverill while I" was 
 passing through Washington on Satur- 
 day. She told me that you had escaped 
 from prison in Richmond, and had re- 
 entered the service. She did not know 
 then that you had been assigned to my 
 regiment. I received a letter from her, 
 in Winchester, this morning, informing 
 me of the fact, and asking for my good 
 ofhces in your behalf. But here is the 
 letter. {Taking a letter from wallet and 
 giving it to him.) It is for you rather 
 than for me. I shall do everything I can 
 for you, my dear fellow. 
 
 Frank. Thank you, sir. {He opens the 
 letter, dropping the envelope upon the 
 table.) Kind, thoughtful and gentle to 
 my faults, as ever — {Looking at the let- 
 ter) — and ahvaj^s thinking of my v\'el- 
 fare. My poor little wife, too, is under 
 her protection. Gentlemen, I beg of you 
 not to reveal my secret to my father. 
 
 Ker. General Haverill shall know nothing 
 from us, my boy, you have my word for 
 that. 
 
 Heart. Nothing. 
 
 Ker. And he cannot possibly recognize 
 you. What with your full beard, and 
 thinking as he does, that you are — 
 
 Frank. That I am dead. I am dead to 
 him. It would have been better if I had 
 died. Nothing but my death — not even 
 that — can wipe out the disgrace which I 
 brought upon his name. 
 
 Heart. General Haverill has arrived. 
 
 {Enter General Ha\terill, with a Staf 
 Officer.) 
 
 Frank. {Bloving down.) My father! 
 
 Haver. {After exchanging salutes with the 
 three officers, he turns to the Staff Officer, 
 giving him a paper and brief instructions 
 in dumb shotv. The Officer goes out over 
 the incline. Another Staff Officer en- 
 ters, salutes and hands him a paper, 
 then stands up.) Ah! The men are 
 ready. {Looking at the paper, then to 
 Kerchival.) Colonel! I have a very 
 important matter to arrange with you; 
 
 there is not a moment to be lost. I will 
 ask Captain Heartsease to remain. 
 (Frank salutes and starts up the stage; 
 Haverill looks at him, si-arting slightly; 
 raises his hand to detain him.) One mo- 
 ment ; your name ! 
 
 Heart. Lieutenant Bedloe, General, of my 
 own troop, and one of our best officers. 
 (Haverill steps to Frank, looking 
 into liis face a moment.) 
 
 Haver. Pardon me! {He steps down the 
 stage. Frank moves away from him, 
 then stops and looks back at him. 
 Haverill stands up a moment- in 
 thought, covers his face ivith one hand, 
 then draws up.) Colonel W^est! We 
 have a most dangerous piece of work for 
 a young officer — (Frank starts joyfully) 
 — to lead a party of men, whom I have 
 already selected. I cannot order an offi- 
 cer to undertake anything so nearly hope- 
 less; he must be a volunteer. 
 
 Frank. Oh, sir, General ! Let me be their 
 leader. 
 
 Haver. I thought you had passed on. 
 
 Frank. Do not refuse me, sir. (Haver- 
 ill looks at him a moment. Heartsease 
 and Kerchival exchange glances.) 
 
 Haver. You are the man we need, my 
 young friend. You shall go. Listen! 
 We wish to secure a key to the cipher dis- 
 patches, which the enemy are now sending 
 from their signal station on Three Top 
 Mountain. There is another Confederate 
 Signal Station in the valley, just beyond 
 Buckton's Ford. {Pointing to the left.) 
 Your duty will be this : First, to get in- 
 side the enemy's line; then to follow a 
 path through the woods, with one of our 
 scouts as your guide; attack the Station 
 suddenly, and secure their code, if pos- 
 sible. I have this moment received word 
 that the scout and the men are at the fort, 
 now, awaiting their leader. Major Mc- 
 Candless, of my staff, will take you to the 
 place. {Indicating the Staf Officer. 
 Frank exchanges salutes with him.) My 
 young friend ! I do not conceal from you 
 the dangerous nature of the work on 
 which I am sending you. If — if you do 
 not return, I — I will write, myself, to 
 your friends. {Taking out a note book.) 
 Have you a father living? 
 
 Frank. My — father — is — is — he is — 
 
 Haver. I understand you. A mother? 
 Or— 
 
 Ker. I have the address of Lieutenant 
 Bedloe's friends, General. 
 
 Haver. I will ask you to give it to me, if 
 
55^ 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 necessary. {He extends his hand.) 
 Good-bye, my lad. (Frank moves to 
 him. Haverill grasps his hand, 
 warmly.) Keep a brave heart and come 
 back to us. 
 
 (Frank moves up the stage. Exit 
 Staff Officer.) 
 
 Frank. He is my father still. (Exit.) 
 
 Haver. My dead boy's face! {Dropping 
 his face into both hands.) 
 
 Heart. {Apart to Kerchival.) He shall 
 not go alone. {Aloud.) General! Will 
 you kindly give me leave of absence from 
 the command? 
 
 Haver. Leave of absence! To an officer 
 in active service — and in the presence of 
 the enemy"? 
 
 Ker. {Taking his hand. Apart.) God 
 bless you, old fellow! Look after the 
 boy. 
 
 Hav. a — ^h — {With a sudden thought, 
 turns.) I think I understand you, Cap- 
 tain Heartsease. Yes; you may have 
 leave of absence. 
 
 Heart. Thank you. {He salutes. Haver- 
 ill and Kerchival salute. Exit Hearts- 
 ease.) 
 
 Ker. Have you any further orders for me, 
 General ? 
 
 Haver. I wish you to understand the great 
 importance of the duty to which I have 
 just assigned this young othcer. General 
 Sheridan started for Washington this 
 noon, by way of Front Royal. Since his 
 departure, we have had reason to believe 
 that the enemy are about to move, and 
 we must be able to read their signal dis- 
 patches, if possible. {Sitting down.) I 
 have ordered Captain Lockwood, of our 
 own Signal Corps to report to you here, 
 with officers and men. {He takes up the 
 empty envelope on table, unconsciously, 
 as he speaks, tapping it on the table.) 
 If Lieutenant Bedloe succeeds in getting 
 the key to the enemy's cipher, we can sig- 
 nal from this point — {pointing to the ele- 
 vation) — to our station at Front Ro^^al. 
 Men and horses are waiting there now, 
 to carry forward a message, if necessary, 
 to General Sheridan himself. ( He starts 
 suddenly, looking at the envelope in his 
 hand; reads address. Aside.) "Colonel 
 Kerchival West" — in my wife's handwrit- 
 
 ing 
 
 Ker. I '11 attend to your orders. 
 
 Haver. Postmarked at Washington, yes- 
 terday. {Reads.) "Private and confi- 
 dential." {Aloud.) Colonel West! I 
 found a paragraph, to-day, in a paper 
 
 published in Richmond, taken from a 
 prisoner. I will read it to you. {He 
 takes a newspaper slip from his wallet 
 and reads.) "From the Cltarleston Mer- 
 cury. Captain Edward Thornton, of the 
 Confederate Secret Service, has been as- 
 signed to duty in the Shenandoah Val- 
 ley. Our gallant Captain still bears 
 upon his face the mark of his meeting, 
 in 1861, with Lieutenant, now Colonel 
 Kerchival West, who is also to serve 
 in the valley, with Sheridan's Army. 
 Another meeting between these two men 
 would be one of the strange coincidences 
 of the Avar, as they were at one time, if 
 not indeed at present, interested in the 
 same beautiful woman." {Rises.) I 
 will ask you to read the last few lines, 
 yourself. {Crossing, he hands Kerchi- 
 val the slip.) 
 
 Ker. {Reading.) "The scandal connected 
 with the lovely wife of a Northern officer, 
 at the opening of the war, was over- 
 shadowed, of course, by the attack on 
 Fort Sumter; but many Charlestonians 
 will remember it. The lady in defense 
 of whose good name Captain Thornton 
 fought the duel" — he defended her good 
 name ! — "is the wife of General Haverill, 
 who will be Colonel West's immediate 
 commander." {He pauses a moment, 
 then hands back the slijj.) General! I 
 struck Mr. Thornton, after a personal 
 quarrel. 
 
 Haver. And the ealise of the blow ? There 
 is much more in this than I have ever 
 known of. I need hardly say that I do 
 not accept the statement of this scandal- 
 ous paragraph as correct. I will ask you 
 to tell me the whole story, frankly, as man 
 to man. 
 
 Ker. {After a moment's thought.) I will 
 tell you — all — frankly. General. 
 
 {Enters Sergeant Barket.) 
 
 Barket. Colonel Wist? Adjutant Rollins 
 wishes to report — a prisoner — just cap- 
 tured. 
 
 Haver. We Avill meet again later, to-night 
 when the camp is at rest. We are both 
 soldiers, and have duties before us, at 
 once. For the present. Colonel, be on the 
 alert; we must watch the enem}'-. {He 
 moves up the stage. Barket salutes. 
 Haverill stops and looks at envelope in 
 his hands, reading.) "Private and confi- 
 dential." _ {Exit.) 
 
 Ker. Sergeant Barket ! Lieutenant Bed- 
 loe has crossed the enemy's line, at Buck- 
 
 J 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 553 
 
 ton's Ford, with a party of men. I wish 
 you to ride to the ford yourself, and re- 
 main there, with your horse in readiness 
 and fresh. As soon as any survivor of 
 the party returns, ride back with the first 
 news at full speed. 
 
 Barket. Yes, sir. (Starting.) 
 
 Ker. You say a prisoner has been cap- 
 tured ? Is it a spy 1 
 
 Barket. Worse — a petticoat. 
 
 Ker. a female prisoner ! {Dropping into 
 the seat.) 
 
 Barket. I towld the byes your honor 
 would n't thank us fer the catchin' of her. 
 The worst of it is she's a lady; and 
 what 's worse still, it 's a purty one. 
 
 Ker. Tell Major Wilson, for me, to let her 
 take the oath, and everything else she 
 wants. The Government of the United 
 States will send her an apology and a new 
 bonnet. 
 
 Barket. The young lady is to take the 
 oath, is it ? She says she '11 see us 
 damned first. 
 
 Ker. a lady, Barket? 
 
 Barket. Well! she didn't use thim exact 
 words. That 's the way I understand her 
 emphasis. Ivery time she looks at me, 
 I feel like getting under a boom-proof. 
 She was dashing through the woods on a 
 gray horse, sur; and we had the divil's 
 own chase. But we came up wid her, at 
 last, down by the bend in Oak Run. Just 
 at that moment we saw the figure of a 
 Confederate officer, disappearing among 
 the trays on the ither side. 
 
 Ker. a— h! 
 
 Barket. Two of us rayturned wid the 
 girl; and the rist wint after the officer. 
 Nothing has been heard of thim yet. 
 
 Ker. Have you found any dispatches on 
 the prisoner*? 
 
 Barket. Well ! — yer honor, I 'm a bache- 
 lor, meself ; and I 'm not familiar with the 
 taypography of the sex. We byes are in 
 mortal terror for fear somebody might 
 order us to go on an exploring expedition. 
 
 Ker. Tell them to send the prisoner here, 
 Barket, and hurry to Buckton's Ford 
 yourself, at once. 
 
 Barket. As fast as me horse can carry me, 
 sir, and it 's a good one. [Exit.) 
 
 Ker. I 'd rather deal with half the Con- 
 federate army than with one woman, but 
 I must question her. They captured her 
 down by the Bend in Oak Run. (Taking 
 out the map, and looking at it.) I see. 
 She had just met, or was about to meet, 
 a Confederate officer at that point. It is 
 
 evident that she was either taking him a 
 dispatch or was there to receive one. 
 Oak Run. (Corporal Dunn and two 
 soldiers enter, with Gertrude as a 
 prisoner. They stop, Kerchival sits, 
 studying the map. Gertrude glances at 
 him and marches down wiMi her head 
 erect; she stops, with her hack to him.) 
 
 Corp. Dunn. The prisoner, Colonel West ! 
 
 Ker. Ah ! Very well. Corporal ; you can 
 go. (Rising; he motions the guard to re- 
 tire. Corp. Dunn gives the necessary 
 orders and exit with guard.) Be seated, 
 madam. (Gertrude draws up, folding 
 her arms and planting her foot, spitefully. 
 Kerchival shrugs his shoulders. Aside.) 
 I wish they 'd capture a tigTess for me, 
 or some other female animal that I know 
 how to manage better than I do a woman. 
 (Aloud.) I am very sorry, madam; but, 
 of course, my duty as a military officer is 
 paramount to all other considerations. 
 You have been captured within the lines 
 of this army, and under circumstances 
 which lead me to think that you have im- 
 portant dispatches upon your person. I 
 trust that you will give me whatever you 
 have^ at once. I shall be exceedingly 
 sorry if you compel me to adopt the ex- 
 treme — and the very disagreeable course 
 — for both of us — of having — you — I — I 
 hesitate even to use the word, madame — 
 but, military law is absolute — having 
 you— 
 
 Gert. Searched! If you dare, Colonel 
 West! (Turning to him suddenly and 
 drawing up to her full height.) 
 
 Ker. Gertrude Ellingham! (Springs 
 across to her, with his arms extended.) 
 My dear Gertrude ! 
 
 Gert. (Turning her hack upon him.) 
 Not "dear Gertrude" to you, sir! 
 
 Ker. Not ?— Oh ! I forgot. 
 
 Gert. (Coldly.) I am your prisoner. 
 
 Ker. Yes. (Drawing up firmly, with a 
 change of manner.) We will return to 
 the painful realities of war. I am very 
 sorry that you have placed yourself in a 
 position like this, and, believe me, Ger- 
 trude — (With growing tenderness.) — I 
 am still more sorry to be in such a posi- 
 tion myself. (Resting one hand on her 
 arm, and his other arm about her waist.) 
 
 Gert. (After looking down at his hands.) 
 You don't like the position'? (He starts 
 hack, draining up with dignity.) Is that 
 the paramount duty of a military offi- 
 cer? 
 
 Ker. You will please hand me wiiatever 
 
554 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 dispatches or other papers may be in your 
 possession. 
 Gert. [Looking away.) You will force 
 me, I suppose. I am a woman ; you have 
 the power. Order in the guard ! A Cor- 
 poral and two men — you 'd better make it 
 a dozen — I am dangerous! Call the 
 whole regiment to arms! Beat the long 
 roll! I won't give up, if all the armies 
 of the United States surround me. 
 
 [Enter General Buckthorn.) 
 
 Ker. General Buckthorn ! [Saluting.) 
 
 Buck. Colonel West. 
 
 Gert. [Aside.) Jenny's father! (Buck- 
 thorn glances at Gertrude, who still 
 stands looking away. He moves down to 
 Kerchival. ) 
 
 Buck. [Apart, gruffly.) I was passing 
 with my staff, and I was informed that 
 you had captured a woman bearing dis- 
 patches to the enemy. Is this the one"? 
 
 Ker. Yes, General. 
 
 Buck. Ah ! [Turning, he looks at Jier.) 
 
 Gert. I wonder if he will recognize me. 
 He has n't seen me since I w^as a little 
 girl. [She turns toward him.) 
 
 Buck. [Turning to Kerchival and punch- 
 ing him in the rihs.) Fine young 
 woman ! — [He turns and hows to her very 
 gallantly, removing his hat. She hows 
 deeply in return) A-h-e-m! [Suddenly 
 pulling himself up to a stern, military 
 air; then gruffly to Kerchival, extending 
 his hand.) Let me see the dispatches. 
 
 Ker. She declines positively to give them 
 up. 
 
 Buck. Oh! Does she"? [Walks up the 
 stage thoughtfully, and turns.) My dear 
 young lady ! I trust you will give us no 
 further trouble. Kindly let us have those 
 dispatches. 
 
 Gert. [Looking away.) I have no dis- 
 patches, and I would not give them to you 
 if I had. 
 
 Buck. What! You defy my authority "? 
 Colonel West, I command you! Search 
 the prisoner! 
 
 (Gertrude turns suddenly towards 
 Kerchival, facing him defiantly. 
 He looks across at her, aghast. A 
 moment's pause.) 
 
 Ker. General Buckthorn — I decline to 
 obey that order. 
 
 Buck. You — you decline to obey my 
 order! [Moves down to him fiercely.) 
 
 Ker. [Apart.) General! It is the woman 
 I love. 
 
 Buck. [Apart.) Is it? Damn you, sir! 
 
 I would n't have an officer in my army 
 corps who would obey me, under such cir- 
 cumstances. I '11 have to look for those 
 dispatches myself. 
 
 Ker. [Facing him, angrily.) If you dare, 
 General Buckthorn ! 
 
 Buck. [Apart.) Blast your eyes! I'd 
 kick you out of the army if you 'd let me 
 search her; but it's my military duty to 
 swear at you. [To Gertrude.) Colonel 
 West has sacrificed his life to protect you. 
 
 Gert. His life ! 
 
 Buck. I shall have him shot for insubor- 
 dination to his commander, immediately. 
 [Gives Kerchival a huge wink, and 
 turns up stage.) 
 
 Gert. Oh, sir ! General ! I have told you 
 the truth. I have no dispatches. Be- 
 lieve me, sir, I have n't so much as a piece 
 of paper about me, except — 
 
 Buck. Except? [Turning sharply.) 
 
 Gert. Only a letter. Here it is. [Taking 
 letter from the hosom of her dress.) 
 Upon my soul, it is all I have. Truly, it 
 is. 
 
 Buck. [Taking tlie letter.) Colonel West, 
 you're reprieved. [Winks at Kerchi- 
 val, who turns away, laughing. Buck- 
 thorn reads letter.) "Washington" — 
 Ho — ho! From within our own lines — 
 "Colonel Kerchival West" — 
 
 Ker. Eh? 
 
 Gert. Please, General! — Don't read it 
 aloud. 
 
 Buck. Very well ! I won't. 
 
 Ker. [Aside.) I wonder what it has to 
 do with me. 
 
 Buck. [Beading. Aside.) "If Kerchival 
 West had heard you say, as I did — m — m 
 — that you loved him with your whole 
 heart — " [He glances up at Gertrude, 
 who drops her head, coyly.) This is a 
 very important military document. 
 [Turns to the last page.) "Signed, Con- 
 stance Haverill." [Turns to- front page.) 
 "My dear Gertrude!" Is this Miss Ger- 
 trude EUingham? 
 
 Gert. Yes, General. 
 
 Buck. I sent my daughter, Jenny, to your 
 house, with an escort, this morning. 
 
 Gert. She is here. 
 
 Buck. [Tapping her under the chin.) 
 You 're an arrant little Rebel, my dear ; 
 but I like you immensely. [Draws up w 
 suddenly, ivith an Ahem!, then turns to ■ 
 Kerchival.) Colonel West, I leave this 
 dangerous young woman in your charge. 
 (Kerchival approaches.) If she dis- 
 obeys you in any way, or attempts to 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 555 
 
 escape — read that letter! {Giving Mm 
 
 the letter.) 
 Gert. Oh! General! 
 Buck. But not till then. 
 Ker. {Tenderly, taking her hand.) My — 
 
 prisoner ! 
 Gert. {Aside.) I could scratch my own 
 
 eyes out — or his, either — rather than have 
 
 him read that letter. 
 
 {Enter Corporal Dunn, with a guard of 
 four soldiers and Captain Edward 
 Thornton as a prisoner.) 
 
 Ker. Edward Thornton ! 
 
 Gert. They have taken him, also ! He has 
 the dispatch! 
 
 Dunn. The Confederate Officer, Colonel, 
 who was pursued by our troops at Oak 
 Run, after they captured the young lady. 
 
 Buck. The little witch has been communi- 
 cating with the enemy ! 
 
 Ker. {To Gertrude.) You will give me 
 your parole of honor until we next meet 1 
 
 Gert. Yes. {Aside.) That letter! lam 
 his prisoner. {She walks up the steps, 
 looking back at Captain Thornton, and 
 then leaves the stage.) 
 
 Ker. We will probably find the dispatches 
 we have been looking for now, General. 
 
 Buck. Prisoner! You will hand us what 
 papers you may have. 
 
 Thorn. I will hand you nothing. 
 
 Buck. Colonel ! 
 
 (Kerchival motions to Thornton, who 
 looks at him sullenly.) 
 
 Ker. Corporal Dunn! — search the pris- 
 oner. (Dunn steps to Thornton, taking 
 him hy the shoulder and turning him 
 rather roughly so that Thornton's hack 
 is to the audience. Dunn throws open 
 his coat, takes the paper from his breast, 
 hands it to Kerchival, who gives it to 
 Buckthorn.) Proceed with the search. 
 (Dunn continues the search. Buck- 
 thorn drops upon the seat, lights a 
 match and looks at the paper.) 
 
 Buck. {Heading.) "General Rosser will 
 rejoin General Early with all the cavalry 
 in his command, at — " This is impor- 
 tant. 
 
 {Continues to read with matches. The 
 Corporal hands a packet to Kerchi- 
 val. He removes the covering.) 
 
 Ker. {Starting.) A portrait of Mrs. 
 Haverill! {Re touches Corporal Dunn 
 on the shoulder quickly and motions him 
 to retire. Dunn falls back to the guard. 
 Kerchival speaks apart to Thornton. 
 
 who has turned front.) How did this 
 portrait come into your possession'? 
 Thorn. That is my affair, not yours ! 
 Buck. Anything else. Colonel *? 
 Ker. {Placing the miniature in his 
 
 pocket.) Nothing! 
 Thorn. {Apart, over Kerchival's shoul- 
 der. ) A time will come, perhaps, when I 
 can avenge the insult of this search, and 
 also this scar. {Pointing to a scar on his 
 face. ) Your aim was better than mine in 
 Charleston, but we shall meet again; give 
 me back that picture. 
 Ker. Corporal ! Take your prisoner ! 
 Thorn. Ah ! 
 
 {He springs viciously at Kerchival; 
 Corporal Dunn springs forward, 
 seizes Thornton and throws him 
 hack to the Guard. Kerchival 
 walks to the right, Dunn stands with 
 his carbine levelled at Thornton, 
 looks at Kerchival, who quietly mo- 
 tions him out. Corporal Dunn 
 gives the orders to the men and 
 marches out, with Thornton.) 
 Buck. Ah! {Still reading with matches.) 
 Colonel! {Rising.) The enemy has a 
 new movement on foot, and General 
 Sheridan has left the army! Listen! 
 {Reads from dispatches with matches.) 
 "Watch for a signal from Three Top 
 Mountain to-night." 
 Ker. We hope to be able to read that sig- 
 nal ourselves. 
 Buck. Yes, I know. Be on your guard. 
 I will speak with General Haverill, and 
 then ride over to General Wright's head- 
 quarters. Keep us informed. 
 Ker. I will, General. 
 
 {Saluting. Buckthorn salutes and 
 exit.) 
 Ker. "Watch for a signal from Three Top 
 Mountain to-night." {Looking up at 
 Mountain.) We shall be helpless to read 
 it unless Lieutenant Bedloe is successful. 
 I only hope the poor boy is not lying 
 dead, already, in those dark woods be- 
 yond the ford. {Re turns down, taking 
 the miniature from his pocket.) How 
 came Edward Thornton to have this por- 
 trait of Mrs. Haverill in his possession? 
 (Gertrude runs in on the veranda.) 
 Gert. Oh, Colonel West ! He 's here ! 
 {Looks hack.) They are coming this way 
 with him. 
 Ker. Him! Who? 
 Gert. Jack. 
 Ker. Jack ! 
 Gert. My own horse ! 
 
556 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Ker. Ah, I remember! He and I were ac- 
 quainted in Charleston. 
 
 Gert. Two troopers are passing" through 
 the camp with him. 
 
 Ker. He is not in your possession? 
 
 Gert. He was captured at the battle of 
 Fair Oaks, but I recognized him the mo- 
 ment I saw him; and I am sure he knew 
 me, too, when I went up to him. He 
 whinnied and looked so happy. You are 
 in command here — {Running down.) 
 — you will compel them to give him up to 
 me? 
 
 Ker. If he is in my command, your pet 
 shall be returned to you. I '11 give one 
 of my own horses to the Government as a 
 substitute, if necessary. 
 
 Gert. Oh, thank you, my dear Kerchival ! 
 {Going to him; he takes her hand, looking 
 into her eyes.) I — I could almost — 
 
 Ker. Can you almost confess, at last, Ger- 
 trude, that you — love me? {Tenderly; 
 she draws hack, hanging her head, hut 
 leaving her hand in his.) Have I been 
 wrong? I felt that that confession was 
 hovering on your tongue when we were 
 separated in Charleston. Have I seen 
 that confession in your eyes since we met 
 again to-day — even among the angry 
 flashes which they have shot out at me? 
 During all this terrible war — in the camp 
 and the trench — in the battle — I have 
 dreamed of a meeting like this. You are 
 still silent ? 
 
 {Her hand is still in his. She is look- 
 ing down. A smile steals over her 
 face, and she raises her eyes to his, 
 taking his hand in hoth her own.) 
 
 Gert. Kerchival! I — {Enter Bexson. 
 She looks around over her shoulder. 
 Kerchival looks up. A trooper leading 
 a large hlack horse, now caparisoned in 
 military saddle, hridle, follows Bexsox 
 across; another trooper follows.) Jack! 
 {She runs up the stage, meeting the 
 horse. Kerchival turns.) 
 
 Ker. Confound Jack! That infernal 
 horse was always in my way ! 
 
 Gert. {With her arm ahout her horse's 
 neck.) My darling old fellow! Is he 
 not beautiful, Kerchival? They have 
 taken good care of him. How soft his 
 coat is! 
 
 Ker. Benson, explain this! 
 
 Bexsox. I was instructed to show this 
 liorse and his leader through the lines, 
 sir. 
 
 Ker. What are your orders, my man? 
 {Moving up, the trooper hands him a 
 
 paper. He moves down a few steps, 
 reading it.) 
 
 Gert. You are to be mine again. Jack, 
 mine! {Resting her cheek against the 
 horse's head and patting it.) The Col- 
 onel has promised it to me. 
 
 Ker. Ah! {With a start, as he reads the 
 paper. Gertrude raises her head and 
 looks at him.) This is General Sheri- 
 dan's horse, on his way to AYinchester, for 
 the use of the General when he returns 
 from Washington. 
 
 Gert. General Sheridan's horse? He is 
 mine ! 
 
 Ker. I have no authority to detain him. 
 He must go on. 
 
 Gert. I have hold of Jack's bridle, and 
 you may order your men to take out their 
 sabres and cut my hand off. 
 
 Ker. {He approaches her and gently takes 
 her hand as it holds the hridle.) I would 
 rather have my own hand cut off, Ger- 
 trude, than bring tears to your eyes, but 
 there is no alternative! (Gertrude re- 
 leases the hridle and turns front, h rushing 
 her eyes, her hand still held in his, his 
 hack to the audience. He returns the 
 order and motions troopers out; they 
 move out, with the horse. Kerchival 
 turns to move. Gertrude starts after the 
 horse; he turns quickly to check her.) 
 You forget — that — you are my prisoner. 
 
 Gert. I will go ! 
 
 Ker. General Buckthorn left me special 
 instructions — {taking out the wallet and 
 letter) — in ease you declined to obey my 
 orders — 
 
 Gert. Oh, Colonel! Please don't read 
 that letter. {She stands near him, drop- 
 ping her head. He glances up at her 
 from the letter. She glances up at hint 
 and drops her eyes again.) I will obey 
 you. 
 
 Ker. {Aside.) What the deuce can there 
 bein that letter? 
 
 Gert. Colonel West ! Your men made me 
 a prisoner this afternoon ; to-night you 
 have robbed me, by your own orders, of 
 — of — Jack is only a pet, but I love him ; 
 and my brother is also a cflptive in your 
 hands. When we separated in Charles- 
 ton you said that we were enemies. 
 What is there lacking to make those 
 words true to-day? You are my enemy! 
 A few moments ago you asked me to 
 make a confession to you. You can 
 judge for yourself whether it is likely to 
 be a confession of — love — or of hatred! 
 
 Ker. Hatred ! 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 557 
 
 Gert. {Facing him.) Listen to my con- 
 fession, sir! From the bottom of my 
 heart — 
 
 Ker. Stop ! 
 
 Gert. I will not stop ! 
 
 Ker. I command you. 
 
 Gert. Indeed! {He throivs open the wal- 
 let in his hand and raises the letter.) 
 Ah! {She turns away; turns again, as 
 if to speak. He half opens the letter. 
 She stamps her foot and walks up steps 
 of the veranda. Here she turns again.) 
 I tell you, I — {He opens the letter. 
 She turns, and exits with a spiteful step.) 
 
 Ker. I wonder if that document orders me 
 to cut her head off! {Returning it to 
 wallet and pocket.) Was ever lover in 
 such a position •? I am obliged to cross 
 the woman I love at every step. 
 
 {Enter Corporal Dunn, very hurriedly.) 
 
 DuxN. A message from Adjutant Rollins, 
 sir! The prisoner, Capt. Thornton, 
 dashed away from the special guard 
 which was placed over him, and he has 
 escaped. He had a knife concealed, and 
 two of the Guard are badly wounded. 
 Adjutant Rollins thinks the prisoner is 
 still within the lines of the camp — in one 
 of the houses or the stables. 
 
 Ker. Tell Major Wilson to place the re- 
 mainder of the Guard under arrest, and 
 to take every possible means to recapture 
 the prisoner. (Corp. Duxn salutes, and 
 exit.) So! Thornton has jumped his 
 guard, and he is armed. I wonder if he 
 is trying to get away, or to find me. 
 From what I know of the man, he does n't 
 much care which he succeeds in doing. 
 That scar which I gave him in Charleston 
 is deeper in his heart than it is in his face. 
 {A signal light suddenly appears on 
 Three Top Mountain. The "Call") Ah! 
 — the enemy's signal! 
 
 {Enter Captain Lockwood, followed hy 
 the Lieutenant of Signal Corps.) 
 
 Captain Lockwood ! You are here ! Are 
 your signalmen with you *? 
 Lock. Yes, Colonel; and one of my Lieu- 
 tenants. 
 
 {The Lieutenant is looking up at the 
 signal with his glass. Captain 
 Lockwood does the same.) 
 
 (Haverill enters, followed hy two staf 
 officers.) 
 
 Haver. {As he enters.) Can you make 
 anything of it, Captain? 
 
 Lockwood. Nothing, General! Our serv- 
 ices are quite useless unless Lieutenant 
 Bedloe returns with the key to their sig- 
 nals. 
 
 Haver. A — h ! We shall fail. It is time 
 he had returned, if successful. 
 
 Sentinel. {Without.) Halt! Who goes 
 there? (Kerchival runs up the stage 
 and half way up the incline, looking off.) 
 Halt! {A shot is heard without.) 
 
 Barket. {Without.) Och! — Ye mur- 
 
 therin spalpeen ! 
 
 Ker. Sentmel! Let him pass; it is Ser- 
 geant Barket. 
 
 Sentinel. {Wilrhout.) Pass on. 
 
 Ker. He didn't give the countersign. 
 News from Lieutenant Bedloe, General ! 
 
 Barket. {Hurrying in, up the slope.) 
 Colonel Wist, our brave byes wiped out 
 the enemy, and here 's the papers. 
 
 Ker. Ah! {Taking the papers. — Then to 
 Lockwood.) Is that the key? 
 
 Lock. Yes. Lieutenant ! 
 
 (Lieutenant hurries up to the eleva- 
 tion, looking through his glass. 
 Lockwood opens the hook.) 
 
 Haver. What of Lieutenant Bedloe, Ser- 
 geant? 
 
 Barket. Sayreously wounded, and in the 
 hands of the inimy ! 
 
 Haver. {Sighing.) A — h. 
 
 Barket. {Coming down the stone Steps.) 
 It is reported that Captain Heartsease 
 was shot dead at his side. 
 
 Ker. Heartsease dead! 
 
 Lieut, of Signal Corps. {Reading Sig- 
 nals. ) Twelve — Twenty-two — Eleven. 
 
 Barket. Begorra! I forgot the Sintinil 
 entirely, but he did n't forget me. {Hold- 
 ing his left arm.) 
 
 Haver. Colonel West! We must make 
 every possible sacrifice for the immediate 
 exchange of Lieutenant Bedloe, if he is 
 still living. It is due to him. Colonel 
 Robert Ellingham is a prisoner in this 
 camp; offer him his own exchange for 
 young Bedloe. 
 
 Ker. He will accept, of course. I will 
 ride to the front with him myself. Gen- 
 eral, and show him through the lines. 
 
 Ha\t]r. At once! (Kerchival crosses 
 front and exit on the veranda.) Can you 
 follow the dispatch. Captain? 
 
 Lock. Perfectly; everything is here. 
 
 Haver. Well! 
 
 Lieut, of Signal Corps. Eleven — Twenty- 
 two — One — Twelve. 
 
 Lock. {From the hook.) '^General Long- 
 street is coming with — " 
 
558 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Haver. Longstreet ! 
 
 Lieut, of Signal Corps. One — Twenty- 
 one. 
 
 Lock. "With eighteen thousand men." 
 
 Haver. Longstreet and his corps! 
 
 Lieut, of Signal Corps. Two — Eleven — 
 Twenty-two. 
 
 Lock. "Sheridan is away!" 
 
 Haver. They have discovered his absence ! 
 
 Lieut, of Signal Corps. Two — Twenty- 
 two — Eleven — One — Twelve — One. 
 
 Lock. "We will crush the Union Army be- 
 fore he can return." 
 
 Haver. Signal that dispatch from here to 
 our Station at Front Royal. Tell them 
 to send it after General Sheridan — and 
 ride for their lives. (Lockv^OOD hurries 
 out.) Major Burton! We will ride to 
 General Wright's headquarters at once — 
 our horses ! 
 
 [The noise of a struggle is heard with- 
 out.) 
 
 Barket. What the devil is the row out 
 there? 
 
 {Exit, also one of the Staff Officers.) 
 
 Ha\t:r. {Looking off to the left.) What 
 is this ! Colonel West wounded ! 
 
 {Enter Kerchival West, his coat throivn 
 open, with Ellingham, Barket assist- 
 ing. ) 
 
 Elling. Steady, Kerchival, old boy ! You 
 
 should have let us carry you. 
 Ker. Nonsense, old fellow! It's a mere 
 touch with the point of the knife. I — 
 I 'm faint — with the loss of a little blood 
 —that 's all. Bob !— I— 
 
 {He reels suddenly and is caught by 
 Ellingham as he sinks to the 
 ground, insensible.) 
 Elling. Kerchival. {Kneeling at his 
 
 side. ) 
 Haver. Go for the Surgeon! {To the 
 Staff Officer, who goes out quickly on 
 veranda.) How did this happen? 
 
 {Enter Corporal Dunn and Guard, with 
 Thornton. He is in his shirt sleeves and 
 disheveled, his arms folded. They march 
 down.) 
 
 Captain Thornton! 
 
 Ellixg. We were leaving the house to- 
 gether; a hunted animal sprang suddenly 
 across our path, like a panther. {Look- 
 ing over his shoulder.) There it stands. 
 Kerchival ! — my brother ! 
 
 Corp. Dunn. We had just brought this 
 prisoner to bay, but I 'm afraid we were 
 too late. 
 
 Haver. This is assassination, sir, not war. 
 
 If you have killed him — 
 Thorn. Do what you like with me; we 
 need w^aste no words. I had an old ac- 
 count to settle, and I have paid my debt. 
 Elling. General Haverill! I took these 
 from his breast when he first fell. 
 
 {Handing up wallet and miniature to 
 
 Haverill. Haverill starts as he 
 
 looks at the miniature. Thornton 
 
 watches him.) 
 
 Haver. {Aside.) My wife 's portrait ! 
 
 Thorn. If I have killed him — your honor 
 
 will be buried in the same grave. 
 Haver. Her picture on his breast! She 
 gave it to him — not to my son ! 
 
 {Dropping into the seat. Capt. Lock- 
 v^OOD enters with a Signalman, who 
 has a burning torch on a long pole; 
 he hurries up the elevation. Capt. 
 Lock WOOD stands below, facing him. 
 Almost simultaneously with the en- 
 trance of the Signalman, Gertrude 
 runs in on veranda.) 
 Gert. They are calling for a surgeon! 
 Who is it? Brother! — you are safe. 
 Ah ! ( Uttering a scream, as she sees 
 Kerchival, and falling on her knees at 
 his side.) Kerchival! Forget those last 
 bitter w^ords I said to you. Can't you 
 hear my confession? I do love you. 
 Can't you hear me? I love you! 
 
 {The Signalman is swinging the torch 
 as the curtain descends, Lockwood 
 looking out to the right.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 The scene is the same as in the Second Act. 
 It is now bright daylight, with sunshine 
 flecking the foreground and bathing the 
 distant valley and mountains. As the 
 curtain rises Jenny Buckthorn is sitting 
 on the low stone post, in the center of the 
 stage, looking toivard the left. She imi- 
 tates a Trumpet Signal on her closed fists. 
 
 Jenny. What a magnificent line ! Guides- 
 posts! Every man and every horse is 
 eager for the next command. There 
 comes the flag! {As the scene progresses 
 trumpet signals are heard ivithout and 
 she follows their various meanings in her 
 speech.) To the standard! The regi- 
 ment is going to tlie front. Oh! I do 
 wish I could go with it. I always do, the 
 moment I hear the trumpets. Boots and 
 Saddles! Mount! I wish I was in com- 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 559 
 
 mand of the regiment. It was born in 
 me. Fours right ! There they go ! Look 
 at those horses' ears! Forward. {A 
 miliiary hand is heard without, playing 
 "The Battle Cry of Freedom." Jenn^ 
 takes the attitude cf holding a bridle and 
 trotting,) Rappity — plap — plap — plap, 
 etc. {She imitates the motions of a soh 
 dier on horseback, stepping down to the 
 rock at side of post; thence to the ground 
 and about the stage, with the various 
 curvettings of a spirited horse. A chorus 
 of soldiers is heard without, with the 
 band. The music becomes more and more 
 distant. Jenny gradually stops as the 
 music is dying away, and stands, listen- 
 ing. As it dies entirely away, she sud- 
 denly starts to an enthusiastic attitude.) 
 Ah ! If I were only a man ! The 
 enemy! On Third Battalion, left, front, 
 into line, march ! Draw sabres ! Charge ! 
 {Imitates a trumpet signal. As she 
 finishes, she rises to her full height, with 
 both arms raised, and trembling with en- 
 thusiasm.) Ah! {She suddenly drops 
 her arms and changes to an attitude and 
 expression of disappointment — pouting.) 
 And the first time Old Margery took me 
 to Father, in her arras, she had to tell him 
 I was a girl. Father was as much dis- 
 gusted as I was. But he 'd never admit 
 it ; he says I 'm as good a soldier as any 
 of 'em — just as I am. 
 
 {Enter Barket, on the veranda, his arm in 
 a sling.) 
 
 Barket. Miss Jenny! 
 
 Jenny. Barket! The regiment has 
 marched away to the front, and we girls 
 are left here, with just you and a cor- 
 poral's guard to look after us. 
 
 Barket. I 've been watching the byes me- 
 silf. {Coming down.) If a little mili- 
 tary sugar-plum like you. Miss Jenny, 
 objects to not goin' wid 'em, what do you 
 think of an ould piece of hard tack like 
 me? I can't join the regiment till I've 
 taken you and Miss Madeline back to 
 Winchester, by your father's orders. But 
 it isn't the first time I've escorted you. 
 Miss Jenny. Many a time, when you was 
 a baby, on the Plains, I commanded a 
 special guard to accompany ye's from 
 one fort to anither, and we gave the com- 
 mand in a whisper, so as not to wake ye's 
 up. 
 
 Jenny. I told you to tell Father that I 'd 
 let him know when Madeline and I were 
 ready to go. 
 
 Barket. I tojild him that I 'd as soon move 
 a train of army mules. 
 
 Jenny. I suppose we must start for home 
 again to-day"? 
 
 Barket. Yes, Miss Jenny, in charge of an 
 ould Sargeant wid his arm in a sling and 
 a couple of convalescent throopers. This 
 department of the United States Army 
 will move to the rear in half an hour. 
 
 Jenny. Madeline and I only came yester- 
 day morning. 
 
 Barket. Whin your father got ye's a pass 
 to the front, we all thought the fightin' 
 in the Shenandoey Valley was over. It 
 looks now as if it was just beginning. 
 This is no place for women, now. Miss 
 Gertrude Ellingham ought to go wid us, 
 but she won't. 
 
 Jenny. Barket! Captain Heartsease left 
 the regiment yesterday, and he has n't re- 
 joined it ; he is n't with them, now, at the 
 head of his company. Where is he? 
 
 Barket. I can't say where he is. Miss 
 Jenny. {Aside.) Lyin' unburied in the 
 woods, where he was shot, I 'm afraid. 
 
 Jenny. When Captain Heartsease does re- 
 join the regiment, Barket, please say to 
 him for me, that — that I — I may have 
 some orders for him, when we next meet. 
 {Exit, on veranda.) 
 
 Barket. Whin they nixt mate. They tell 
 us there is no such thing as marriage in 
 Hiven. If Miss Jenny and Captain 
 Heartsease mate there, they '11 invint 
 somethin' that 's mighty like it. While I 
 was lyin' wounded in General Buck- 
 thorn's house at Washington, last sum- 
 mer, and ould Margery was taking care 
 of me, Margery tould me, confidentially, 
 that they was in love wid aitch ither ; and 
 I think she was about right. I 've often 
 seen Captain Heartsease take a sly look 
 at a little lace handkerchief, just before 
 we wint into battle. {Looking off the 
 stage.) Here's General Buckthorn him- 
 self. He and I must make it as aisy as 
 we can for Miss Jenny's poor heart. 
 
 {Enter General Buckthorn.) 
 
 Buck. Sergeant Barket! You haven't 
 
 started with those girls yet? 
 Barket. They're to go in half an hour, 
 
 sir. 
 Buck. Be sure they do go. Is General 
 
 Haverill here? 
 Barket. Yes, sur; in the house with some 
 
 of his staff, and the Surgeon. 
 Buck, Ah! The Surgeon. How is Col- 
 
560 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 onel West, this morning, after the' wound 
 he received last night *? 
 
 Barket. He says, himself, that he's as 
 well as iver he was; but the Colonel and 
 Surgeon don't agray on that subject. 
 The dochter says he must n't lave his room 
 for a month. The knife wint dape; and 
 there 's somethin' wrong inside of him. 
 But the Colonel, bein' on the outside him- 
 silf, can't see it. He 's as cross as a bear, 
 baycause they would n't let him go to the 
 front this morning, at tlie head of his 
 regiment. I happened to raymark that 
 the Chaplain was prayin' for his ray- 
 covery. The Colonel said he 'd court- 
 martial him if he did n't stop that — 
 quick; there's more important things for 
 the Chaplain to pray for in his official 
 capacity. Just at that moment the trum- 
 pets sounded, "Boots and Saddles." I 
 had to dodge one of his boots, and the 
 Surgeon had a narrow escape from the 
 ither one. It was lucky for us both his 
 saddle was n't in the room. 
 
 iJUCK. That looks encouraging. I think 
 Kerchival will get on. 
 
 >>ARKET. Might I say a word to you, sur, 
 about Miss Jenny *? 
 
 Buck. Certainly, Barket. You and old 
 Margery and myself have been a sort of 
 triangular mother, so to speak, to the 
 little girl since her own poor mother left 
 her to our care, when she was only a 
 baby, in the old fort on the Plains. {He 
 unconsciously rests his arm over Barket's 
 shoulder, familiarly, and then suddenly 
 draws up.) Ahem! {Gruffly.) What 
 is it? Proceed; 
 
 Barket. Her mother's bosom would have 
 been the softest place for her poor little 
 head to rest upon, now, sur. 
 
 Buck. {Touching his eyes.) Well! 
 
 Barket. Ould Margery tould me in Wash- 
 ington that Miss Jenny and Captain 
 Heartsease were in love wid aitch ither. 
 
 Buck. {Starting.) In love! 
 
 Barket. I approved of the match. 
 
 Buck. What the devil ! 
 
 (Barket salutes quickly and starts up 
 stage and out. Buckthorn moves 
 up after him, and stops at the post. 
 Barket stops in the road.) 
 
 Barket. So did ould Margery. 
 
 Buck. {Angrily.) March! (Barket sa- 
 lutes suddenly and marches off.) Hearts- 
 ease! That young jackanapes! A mere 
 fop ; he '11 never make a soldier. My girl 
 in love with — bah ! I don't believe it ; 
 she 's too good a soldier, herself, 
 
 {Enter Haverill, on the veranda.) 
 
 Ah, Haverill! 
 
 Haver. General Buckthorn! Have you 
 heard anything of General Sheridan 
 since I sent that dispatch to him last 
 evening ? 
 
 Buck. He received it at midnight and sent 
 back word that he considers it a ruse of 
 the enemy. General Wright agrees with 
 him. The reconnoissance yesterday 
 showed no hostile force, on our right, and 
 Crook reports that Early is retreating up 
 the valley. But General Sheridan may, 
 perhaps, give up his journey to Wash- 
 ington, and he has ordered some changes 
 in our line, to be executed this afternoon 
 at four o'clock. I rode over to give you 
 your instructions in person. You may 
 order General McCuen tc go into camp 
 on the right of Meadow Brook, with the 
 second division. 
 
 (Haverill is writing in his note-hook.) 
 
 {Enter Jenny, on the veranda.) 
 
 Jenny. Oh, Father ! I 'm so glad you 've 
 
 come. I 've got something to say to you. 
 
 {Running down and jumping into his 
 
 arms, kissing him. He turns with 
 
 her, and sets her down, squarely on 
 
 her feet and straight before him.) 
 
 Buck. And I 've got something to say to 
 you — about Captain Heartsease. 
 
 Jenny. Oh! That's just what I wanted 
 to talk about. 
 
 Buck. Fall in ! Front face ! {She jumps 
 into military position, turning towards 
 him.) What 's this I hear from Sergeant 
 Barket ? He says you 've been falling in 
 love. 
 
 Jenny. I have. {Saluting.) 
 
 Buck. Young woman! Listen to my 
 orders. Fall out! {Turns sharply and 
 marches to Haverill.) Order the Third 
 Brigade of Cavalry, under Colonel 
 Lowell, to occupy the left of the pike. 
 
 Jenny. Father! {Running to him and 
 seizing the tail of his coat.) Father, 
 dear! 
 
 Buck. Close in Colonel Powell on the ex- 
 treme left — {slapping his coat-tails out 
 of Jenny's hands, without looking 
 around) — and hold Custer on the second 
 line, at Old Forge Road. That is all at 
 present. {Turning to Jenny.) Good- 
 bye, my darling! {Kisses her.) Re- 
 member your orders ! You little pet ! 
 {Chuckling, as he taps her chin; draws up 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 561 
 
 suddenly and turns to Haverill.) Gen- 
 eral ! I bid you good-day. 
 Haver. Good-day, General Buckthorn. 
 {They salute wii'h great dignity. 
 BucKTiiORX starts up stage; Jenny 
 springs after him, seizing his coat- 
 tails.) 
 Jenny. But I want to talk with you, 
 Father ; I can't fall out. I— I— have n't 
 finished yet. 
 
 {Clinging to his coat, as BucktSORN 
 marches out rapidly, in the road, 
 holding back with all her might.) 
 Haver. It may have been a ruse of the 
 enemy, but I hope that General Sheridan 
 has turned back from Washington. 
 {Loohiyig at his note-hook.) We are to 
 make changes in our line at four o'clock 
 this afternoon. {Returning the hook to 
 his pocket, he stands in thought.) The 
 Surgeon tells me that Kerchival West will 
 get on well enough if he remains quiet ; 
 otherwise not. He shall not die by the 
 hand of a common assassin f he has no 
 right to die like that. My wife gave my 
 own picture of herself to him — not to my 
 son — and she looked so like an angel when 
 she took it from my hand! They were 
 both false to me, and they have been true 
 to each other. I will save his life for 
 myself. 
 
 {Enter Gertrude, on the veranda.) 
 
 Gert. General Haverill! {Anxiously, 
 coming down.) Colonel West persists 
 in disobeying the injunctions of the Sur- 
 geon. He is preparing to join his regi- 
 ment at the front. Give him your orders 
 to remain here. Compel him to be 
 prudent ! 
 
 Haver. {Quickly.) The honor of death at 
 the front is not in reserve for him. 
 
 Gert. Eh? What did you say, General? 
 
 Haver. Gertrude ! I wish to speak to you, 
 as your father's old friend; and I was 
 once your guardian. Your father was 
 my senior officer in the Mexican War. 
 Without his care I should have been left 
 dead in a foreign land. He, himself, aft- 
 erwards fell fighting for the old flag. 
 
 Gert. The old flag*. {Aside.) My father 
 died for it, and he — {looking toward the 
 left) — is suffering for it — the old flag! 
 
 Haver. I can now return the kindness 
 your father did to me, by protecting his 
 daughter from something that may be 
 worse than death. 
 
 Gert. What do you mean ? 
 
 Haver. Last^ night I saw you kneeling at 
 the side of Kerchival West ; you spoke to 
 him with all the tender passion of a 
 Southern woman. You said you loved 
 him. But you spoke into ears that could 
 not hear you. Has he ever heard those 
 words from your lips? Have you ever 
 confessed your love to him before? 
 
 Gert. Never. Why do you ask? 
 
 Haver. Do not repeat those words. Keep 
 your heart to yourself, my girl. 
 
 Gert. General! Why do you say this to 
 me? And at such a moment — when his 
 life— 
 
 Haver. His life! {Turning sharply.) It 
 belongs to me ! 
 
 Gert. Oh! 
 
 Ker. Sergeant! {Without. He steps 
 into the road, looking hack. Haverill 
 comes down.) See that my horse is ready 
 at once. General! {Saluting.) Are 
 there any orders for my regiment be- 
 yond those given to Major Wilson, in my 
 absence, this morning? I am about to 
 ride on after the troops and reassume my 
 command. 
 
 Haver. {Quietly.) It is my wish, Colonel, 
 that you remain here under the care of 
 the Surgeon. 
 
 Ker. My wound is a mere trifle. This 
 may be a critical moment in the campaign, 
 and I cannot rest here. I must be with 
 my own men. 
 
 Haver. {Quietly.) I beg to repeat the 
 wish I have already expressed. 
 
 (Kerchival walks to him, and speaks 
 apart, almost under his hreath, but 
 very earnest in tone.) 
 
 Ker. I have had no opportunity, yet, to 
 explain certain matters, as you requested 
 me to do yesterday; but whatever there 
 may be between us, you are now interfer- 
 ing with my duty and my privilege as a 
 soldier; and it is my right to be at the 
 head of my regiment. 
 
 Haver. {Quietly.) It is my positive order 
 that you do not reassume your command. 
 
 Ker. General Haverill, I protest against 
 this— 
 
 Haver. {Quietly.) You are under arrest, 
 sir. 
 
 Ker. Arrest ! 
 
 Gert. Ah ! 
 
 (Kerchival unclasps his belt and of- 
 fers his sword to Haverill.) 
 
 Haver. ( Quietly. ) Keep your sword ; I 
 have no desire to humiliate you ; but hold 
 j^ourself subject to further orders from 
 
562 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Kek. My regiment at the front ! — and I 
 under arrest ! (Exit.) 
 
 Haver. Gertrude! If your heart refuses 
 to be silent — if you feel that you must 
 confess your love to that man — hrst tell 
 him what I have said to you, and refer 
 him to me for an explanation. (Exit.) 
 
 Gert. What can he mean"? He would 
 save me from something' worse than death, 
 he said. "His life — It belongs to me!" 
 What can he mean"? Kerchival told me 
 that he loved me — it seems many years 
 since that morning in Charleston — and 
 when we met again, yesterday, he said 
 that he had never ceased to love me. I 
 will not believe that he has told me a 
 falsehood. I have given him my love, my 
 whole soul and my faith. {Drawing up 
 to her full height.) My perfect faith! 
 
 (Jenny runs in, to the road, and up the 
 slope. She looks down the hill, then 
 toward the left and enters.) 
 
 Jenny. A flag of truce, Gertrude. And a 
 party of Confederate soldiers, with an 
 escort, coming up the hill. They are 
 carrying someone; he is wounded. 
 
 {Enter, up the slope, a Lieutenant of In- 
 fantry with an escort of Union Soldiers, 
 their arms at right shoulder, and a party 
 of Confederate Soldiers hearing a rustic 
 stretcher. Lieutenant Frank Bedloe 
 lies on the stretcher. Major Hard wick, 
 a Confederate Surgeon, walks at his side. 
 Madeline appears at the veranda, watch- 
 ing them. Gertrude stands with her 
 hack to the audience. The Lieutenant 
 gives orders in a low tone, and the front 
 escort moves toward the right, in the 
 road. The Confederate hearers and the 
 Surgeon pass through the gate. The 
 rear escort moves on in the road, under 
 the Lieutenant's orders. The hearers 
 halt in the front of the stage; on a sign 
 from the Surgeon, they leave the stretcher 
 on the ground, stepping hack.) 
 
 Maj. Hard. Is General Haverill here? 
 
 Gert. Yes; what can we do, sir"? 
 
 Mad. The General is just about mounting 
 with his staff, to ride away. Shall I go 
 for him, sir? 
 
 Maj. Say to him, please, that Colonel 
 Robert Ellingham, of the Tenth Virginia, 
 sends his respects and sympathy. He in- 
 structed me to bring this young officer to 
 this point, in exchange for himself, as 
 agreed upon between them last evening. 
 (Exit Madeline.) 
 
 Jenny. Is he unconscious or sleeping, sir"? 
 
 Maj. Hovering between life and death. I 
 thought he would bear the removal better. 
 He is waking. Here, my lad! {Placing 
 his canteen to the lips of Frank, who 
 moves, reviving.) We have reached the 
 end of our journey. 
 
 Frank. My father ! 
 
 Maj. He is thinking of his home. 
 
 (Frank rises on one arm, assisted hy 
 the Surgeon.) 
 
 Frank. I have obeyed General Haverill's 
 orders, and I have a report to make. 
 
 Gert. We have already sent for him. 
 {Stepping to him.) He will be here in a 
 moment. 
 
 Frank. {Looking into her face, brightly.) 
 Is not this — Miss — Gertrude Ellingham? 
 
 Gert. You know me? You have seen me 
 before ? 
 
 Frank. Long ago! Long ago! You 
 know the wife of General Haverill? 
 
 Gert. I have no dearer friend in the 
 world. 
 
 Frank. She will give a message for me to 
 the dearest friend I have in the world. 
 My little wife! I must not waste even 
 the moment we are waiting. Doctor! 
 My note-book! {Trying to get it from 
 his coat. The Surgeon takes it out. 
 A torn and hlood-stained lace handker- 
 chief also falls out. Gertrude kneels at 
 his side.) Ah! I — I — have a message 
 from another — {holding up the hand- 
 kerchief) — from Captain Heartsease. 
 (Jenny makes a quick start towards 
 hini. ) He lay at my side in the hospital, 
 when they brought me away ; he had only 
 strength enough to put this in my hand, 
 and he spoke a woman's name; but I — 
 I — forget what it is. The red spots 
 upon it are the only message he sent. 
 (Gertrude takes the handkerchief and 
 looks hack at Jenny, extending her 
 hand. Jenny moves to her, takes 
 the handkerchief and turns hack, 
 looking down on it. She drops her 
 face into her hands and goes out sob- 
 bing, on the veranda.) 
 
 {Enter Madeline on the veranda.) 
 
 Mad. General Haverill is coming. I was 
 just in time. He was already on his 
 horse. 
 
 Frank. Ah! He is coming. {Then sud- 
 denly.) Write! Write! (Gertrude 
 writes in the note-book as he dictates.) 
 "To— my wife— Edith :— Tell our little 
 ^on, when he is old enough to know — how 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 563 
 
 his father died; not how he lived. And 
 tell her who filled my own mother's place 
 so lovingly — she is your mother, too — 
 that my father's portrait of her, w^hieh she 
 gave to me in Charleston, helped me to 
 be a better man!" And — Oh! I must 
 not forget this^"It was taken away from 
 me while I was a prisoner in Richmond, 
 and it is in the possession of Captain 
 Edward Thornton, of the Confederate 
 Secret Service. But her face is still be- 
 side your own in my heart. My best — 
 warmest, last — love — to you, darling." 
 I will sign it. 
 
 (Gertrude holds the hook, and he signs 
 it, then sinks hack very quietly, sup- 
 ported hy the Surgeon. Gertrude 
 rises and lualks away.) 
 Mad. General Haverill is here. 
 
 {The Surgeon lays the fold of the 
 hlanket over Frank's face and rises.) 
 Gert. Doctor ! 
 Maj. He is dead. 
 
 (Madeline, on the veranda, turns and 
 looks away. The Lieutenant orders 
 the guard, '^Present Arms.") 
 
 {Enter Haverill, on the veranda. He sa- 
 lutes the guard as he passes. The Lieu- 
 tenant orders, "Carry Arms." Haverill 
 comes down.) 
 
 Hav"er. I am too late*? 
 Maj. I 'm sorry. General. His one eager 
 thought as we came was to reach here in 
 time to see you. 
 
 (Haverill moves to the hier, looks 
 down at it, then folds hack the hlan- 
 ket from the face. He starts slightly 
 as he first sees it.) 
 Haver. Brave boy ! I hoped once to have 
 a son like you. I shall be in your father's 
 place to-daj^, at your grave. {He re- 
 places the hlanket and steps hack.) We 
 will carry him to his comrades in the 
 front. He shall have a soldier's burial, 
 in sight of the mountain-top beneath 
 which he sacrificed his young life; that 
 shall be his monument. 
 Maj. Pardon me, General. We Virgin- 
 ians are your enemies, but you cannot 
 honor this young soldier more than we do. 
 Will you allow my men the privilege of 
 carrying him to his grave'? 
 
 (Haverill inclines his head. The Sur- 
 geon motions to the Confederate Sol- 
 diers, u'ho step to the hier and raise 
 it gently.) 
 Ha\t:r. Lieutenant ! 
 
 {The Lieutenant orders the guard "Left 
 
 Face." The Confederate hearers 
 move through the gate, preceded hy 
 Lieutenant Hardwick. Haverill 
 draws his sword, reverses it, and 
 moves up hehind the hier with howed 
 head. The Lieutenant orders "For- 
 ward March," and the cortege disap- 
 pears. While the girls are still 
 watching it, the heavy sound of dis- 
 tant artillery is heard, with hooming 
 reverherations among the hills and in 
 the valley.) 
 Mad. What is that sound, Gertrude? 
 Gert. Listen ! 
 
 {Another and more prolonged distant 
 sound, with long reverherations.) 
 Mad. Again ! Gertrude ! 
 
 (Gertrude raises her hand to command 
 silence; listens. Distant cannon 
 again. ) 
 Gert. It is the opening of a battle. 
 Mad. Ah! {Running down stage. The 
 
 sounds are heard again, prolonged.) 
 Gert. How often have I heard that sound ! 
 ( Coming down. ) This is war, Madeline ! 
 You are face to face with it now. 
 Mad. And Robert is there ! He may be in 
 the thickest of the danger — at this very 
 moment. 
 Gert. Yes. Let our prayers go up for 
 him; mine do, with all a sister's heart. 
 
 (Kerchival enters on veranda, without coat 
 or vest, his sash ahout his waist, looking 
 hack as he comes in.) 
 
 Kerchival ! 
 
 Ker. Go on ! Go on ! Keep the battle to 
 yourselves. I 'm out of it. {The distant 
 cannon and reverherations are rising in 
 volume.) 
 
 Mad. I pray for Robert Ellingham — and 
 for the cause in which he risks his life! 
 (Kerchival looks at her, suddenly; also 
 Gertrude. ) Heaven forgive me if I am 
 wrong, but I am praying for the enemies 
 of my country. His people are my peo- 
 ple, his enemies are my enemies. Heaven 
 defend him and his, in this awful hour. 
 
 Ker. Madeline ! My sister ! 
 
 Mad. Oh, Kerchival ! {Turning and drop- 
 ping her face on his hreast.) I cannot 
 help it — I cannot help it ! 
 
 Ker. My poor girl! Every woman's 
 heart, the world over, belongs not to any 
 country or any flag, but to her husband — 
 and her lover. Pray for the man you 
 love, sister — it would be treason not to. 
 (Passes her hefore him to the left of the 
 stage. Looks across to Gertrude.) Am 
 
564 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 I right? (Gertrude drops her head. 
 Madeline moves up veranda and out.) 
 Is what I have said to Madeline true'? 
 
 Gert. Yes! {Looks up.) Kerehival! 
 
 Ker. Gertrude! {Hurries across to her, 
 clasps her in his arms. He suddenly stag- 
 gers and brings his hand to his breast.) 
 
 Gert. Your wound ! 
 
 {Supporting him as he reels and sinks 
 into seat.) 
 
 Ker. Wound! I have no wound! Y^ou 
 do love me ! {Seizing her hand.) 
 
 Gert. Let me call the Surgeon, Kerehival. 
 
 Ker. You can be of more service to me 
 than he can. {Detaining her. Very 
 heavy sounds of the battle; she starts, 
 listening.) Never mind that! It's only 
 a battle. You love me! 
 
 Gert. Be quiet, Kerehival, dear. I do love 
 you. I told you so, when you lay bleed- 
 ing here, last night. But you could not 
 hear me. {At his side, resting her arm 
 about him, stroking his head.) I said 
 that same thing to — to — another, more 
 than three years ago. It is in that letter 
 that General Buckthorn gave you. (Ker- 
 CHIVAL starts.) No — no — you must be 
 very quiet, or I will not say another word. 
 If you obey me, I will repeat that part 
 of the letter, every word; I know it by 
 heart, for I read it a dozen times. The 
 letter is from Mrs. Haverill. 
 
 Ker. {Quietly.) Go on. 
 
 Gert. "I have kept your secret, my dar- 
 ling, but I was sorely tempted to betray 
 the confidence you reposed in me at 
 Charleston. If Kerehival West — {she re- 
 tires backivard from him as she proceeds) 
 — had heard you say, as I did, when your 
 face was hidden in my bosom, that night, 
 that you loved him with your whole 
 heart—" 
 
 Ker. Ah! . 
 
 {Starting to his feet. He sinks hack. 
 She springs to support him.) 
 
 Gert. I will go for help. 
 
 Ker. Do not leave me at such a moment as 
 this. You have brought me a new life. 
 {Bringing her to her knees before him 
 and looking down at her.) Heaven is 
 just opening before me. {His hands 
 drop suddenly and his head falls back.) 
 
 Gert. Ah! Kerehival! You are dying! 
 {Musketry. A sudden sharp burst of 
 musketry, mingled ivith the roar of 
 artillery near by. Kerchival starts, 
 seizing Gertrude's arm and holding 
 her away, still on her knees. He 
 looks eagerly toward the left) 
 
 Ker. The enemy is close upon us ! 
 
 (Barket runs in, up the slope.) 
 
 Barket. Colonel Wist! The devils have 
 sprung out of the ground. They're 
 pouring over our lift flank like Noah's 
 own flood. The Union Army has started 
 back for Winchester, on its way to the 
 North Pole ; our own regiment. Colonel, is 
 coming over the hill in full retrate. 
 Ker. My own regiment! {Starting up.) 
 Get my horse, Barket. {Turns.) Ger- 
 trude, my life! {Embraces Gertrude.) 
 Barket. Your horse is it f I 'm wid ye ! 
 There's a row at Finnegan's ball, and 
 we 're in it. {Springs to the road, and 
 runs out.) 
 Ker. {Turns away. Stops.) I am under 
 arrest. 
 
 {The retreat begins. Fugitives begin 
 to straggle across the stage from the 
 left.) 
 Gert. You must not go, Kerchival ; it will 
 
 kill you. 
 Ker. Arrest be damned! {Starts up 
 toward the center, raising his arms above 
 his head with clenched fist, and rising to 
 full height.) Stand out of my Avay, you 
 cowards ! 
 
 {They cower away from him as he 
 rushes out among them. The stream 
 of fugitives passing across the stage 
 swells in volume. Gertrude runs 
 through them and up to the elevation, 
 turning. ) 
 Gert. Men! Are you soldiers'? Turn 
 back ! There is a leader for you ! Turn 
 back ! Fight for your flag — and mine ! — 
 the flag my father died for ! Turn back ! 
 {She looks out toward the left and then 
 turns totvard the front.) He has been, 
 marked for death already, and I — I can 
 only pray. {Dropping to her knees.) 
 {The stream of fugitives continues, now 
 over the elevation also. Rough and> 
 torn uniforms, bandaged arms and 
 legs; some limping and supported by 
 others, some dragging their muskets 
 after them, others without muskets, 
 others using them as crutches. There 
 is a variety of uniforms, both cav- 
 alry and infantry; flags are draggled 
 on the ground, the rattle of near 
 musketry and roar of cannon con- 
 tinue; two or three wounded fugi- 
 tives drop down beside the hedge. 
 Benson staggers in and drops upon 
 a rock near the post Artillerists, 
 rough, torn and wounded, drag and 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 565 
 
 force a field-piece across. Corporal 
 Dunn, wounded, staggers to the top 
 of elevation. There is a lull in the 
 sounds of the battle. Distant cheers 
 are heard tvithout.) 
 Dunn. Listen, fellows! Stop! Listen! 
 Sheridan! General Sheridan is coming! 
 {Cheers from those on stage. Gertrude 
 rises quickly. The ivounded soldiers rise, 
 looking over the hedge. All on stage 
 stop, looking eagerly toward the ■ left. 
 The cheers without come nearer, with 
 shouts of ^'Sheridan! Sheridan!^') The 
 horse is down; he is worn out. 
 Gert. No ! He is up again ! He is on my 
 Jack ! Now, for your life. Jack, and for 
 me! You've never failed me yet. {The 
 cheers without now swell to full volume 
 and are taken up hy those on the stage. 
 The horse sweeps hi/ with General Sheri- 
 dan.) Jack! Jack!! Jack!!! 
 
 {Waving her arms as he passes. She 
 throws up her arms and falls hack- 
 ward, caught hy Dunn. The stream 
 of men is reversed and surges across 
 the stage to the left, in the road and 
 on the elevation, with shouts, and 
 throwing up of hats. The field-piece 
 is forced up the slope with a few 
 hold, rough movements; the artiller- 
 ists are loading it, and the stream of 
 returning fugitives is still surging 
 hy in the road as the curtain falls.) 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 4. living room in the residence of General 
 Buckthorn in Washington. There is a 
 fireplace slanting 'upivard from the left 
 toward the center of the stage. On the 
 right toward the center there is a small 
 alcove. On the left there is an opetiing 
 to the hall with a stair-case heyond. 
 There is a door on the right and a wide 
 opening with portieres leads on the left 
 toward another room. There is an up- 
 right piano toward the front of the stage 
 on the right and an armchair and low 
 stool stand hefore the fireplace. A small 
 table is set for tea. It is afternoon; 
 Mrs. Haverill, in an armchair, is rest- 
 ing her face upon her hand, and looking 
 into the fire. Edith is on a low stool at 
 Tier side, sewing a child's garment. 
 
 Edith. It seems hardly possible that the 
 war is over, and that General Lee has 
 really surrendered. There is music in the 
 
 streets nearly all the time, now, and 
 everybody looks so cheerful and bright. 
 {Distant fife and drums are heard playing 
 ''.Johnnie Comes Marching Home." 
 Edith springs up and runs up to window, 
 looking out.) More troops returning! 
 The old tattered battle-flag is waving in 
 the wind, and people are running after 
 them so merrily. Every day, now, seems 
 like a holiday. The war is over. All the 
 women ought to feel very happy, whose — 
 whose husbands are — coming back to 
 them. 
 
 Mrs, H. Yes, Edith ; those women whose — • 
 husbands are coming back to them. 
 {Still looking into the fire.) 
 
 Edith. Oh! {Dropping upon the stool^ 
 her head upon the arm of the chair.) 
 
 Mrs. H. {Resting her arm over her.) My 
 poor, little darling! Your husband will 
 not come back. 
 
 Edith. Frank's last message has never 
 reached me. 
 
 Mrs. H. No; but you have one sweet 
 thought always w4th you. Madeline West 
 heard part of it, as Gertrude wrote it 
 down. His last thought was a loving one, 
 of you. 
 
 Edith. Madeline says that he was thinking 
 of you, too. He knew that you were tak- 
 ing such loving care of his little one, and 
 of me. You have always done tha.t, since 
 you first came back from Charleston, and 
 found me alone in New York. 
 
 Mrs. H. I found a dear, sweet little daugh- 
 ter. {Stroking her head.) Heaven sent 
 you, darling! You have been a blessing 
 to me. I hardly know how I should have 
 got through the past few months at all 
 without you at my side. 
 
 Edith. What is your own trouble, dear? 
 I have found you in tears so often; and 
 since last October, after the battle of 
 Cedar Creek, you — you have never shown 
 me a letter from — from my — Frank's 
 father. General Haverill arrived in 
 Washington yesterday, but has not been 
 here yet. Is it because I am here? He 
 has never seen me, and I fear that he has 
 never forgiven Frank for marrying me. 
 
 Mrs. H. Nonsense, my child ; he did think 
 the marriage was imprudent, but he told 
 me to do everything I could for you. If 
 General Haverill has not been to see 
 either of us, since his arrival in Wash- 
 ington, it is nothing that you need to 
 worry your dear little head about. How 
 are you getting on with your son's ward- 
 robe? 
 
56G 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Edith. Oh ! Splendidly ! Frankie is n't 
 a baby any longer ; he 's a man, now, and 
 he has to wear a man's clothes. {Holding 
 up a little pair of trousers, with maternal 
 pride. ) He 's rather young- to be dressed 
 like a man, but I want Frank to grow up 
 as soon as possible. I long to have him 
 old enough to understand me when I re- 
 peat to him the words in which General 
 Haverill told the whole world how his 
 father died! (Rising.) And yet, even 
 in his official report to the Government, 
 he only honored him as Lieutenant Bed- 
 loe. He has never forgiven his son for 
 the disgrace he brought upon his name. 
 
 Mrs. H. I know him so well — (rising) — 
 the unyielding pride, that conquers even 
 the deep tenderness of his nature. He 
 can be silent, though his own heart is 
 breaking. (Aside.) He can be silent, 
 too, though my heart is breaking. (Drop- 
 ping her face in her hand.) 
 
 Edith. Mother! (Putting her arm about 
 her.) 
 
 (Enter Jannette.) 
 
 Jan. a letter for you. Madam. 
 
 Mrs. H. (Taking note. Aside.) He has 
 answered me. (She opens and reads the 
 letter, and inclines her head to J An- 
 nette, who goes out to the hall. Aloud.) 
 General Haverill will be here this after- 
 noon, Edith. (Exit.) 
 
 Edith. There is something that she can- 
 not confide to me, or to anyone. Gen- 
 eral Haverill returned to Washington 
 yesterday, and he has not been here yet. 
 He will be here to-day. I always trem- 
 ble when I think of meeting him. 
 
 (General Buckthorn appears in the 
 hall.) 
 
 Buck. Come right in; this way, Barket. 
 Ah, Edith! 
 
 Barket. (Entering.) As I was saying, 
 sur — just after the battle of Sayder 
 Creek began — 
 
 Buck. (To Edith.) More good news! 
 The war is, indeed, over now ! 
 
 Barket. Whin Colonel Wist rode to the 
 front to mate his raytrating rigiment — 
 
 Buck. General Johnston has surrendered 
 his army, also; and that, of course, does 
 end the war. 
 
 Edith. I 'm very glad that all the fighting 
 is over. 
 
 Buck. So am I; but my occupation, and 
 old Barket's, too, is gone. Always at 
 work on new clothes for our little sol- 
 dier? 
 
 Edith. He 's growing so, I can hardly 
 make them fast enough for him. But 
 this is the time for his afternoon nap. 
 I must go now, to see if he is sleeping 
 soundly. 
 
 Buck. Our dear little mother! (Tapping 
 her chin.) I alw'ays claim the privilege 
 of my wliite hair, you know. (She puts 
 up her lips; he kisses her. She goes 
 out.) The sweetest young widow I ever 
 saw! (Barket coughs. Buckthorn 
 turns sharply; Barket salutes.) Well! 
 What the devil are you thinking about 
 now? 
 
 Barket. The ould time, sur. Yer honor 
 used to claim the same privilege for 
 brown hair. 
 
 Buck. You old rascal! What a memory 
 you have ! You were telling me for the 
 hundredth time about the battle of Cedar 
 Creek ; go on. I can never hear it often 
 enough. Kerchival West was a favorite 
 of mine, poor fellow! 
 
 Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
 Creek began, when the Colonel rode to 
 the front to mate his raytrating rigi- 
 ment — 
 
 Buck. I '11 tell Old Margery to bring in 
 tea for both of us, Barket. 
 
 Barket. For both of us, sur? 
 
 Buck. Yes; and later in the evening 
 we '11 have something else, together. 
 This is a great day for all of us. I'm 
 not your commander to-day, but your 
 old comrade in arms — (Laying his arm 
 over Barket's shoulder) — and I 'm glad 
 I don't have to pull myself up now every 
 time I forget my dignity. Ah! you and 
 I will be laid away before long, but we '11 
 be together again in the next world, 
 won't we, Barket? 
 
 Barket. Wid yer honor's permission. 
 
 (Saluting.) 
 
 Buck. Ha — ha — ha! (Laughing.) If we 
 do meet there, I 'm certain you '11 salute 
 me as your superior officer. There 's 
 old Margery, now. (Looking toward 
 the door and calling.) Margery! Tea 
 for two! 
 
 Margery. (Without.) The tay be wait- 
 ing for ye, sur; and it be boilin' over 
 wid impatience. 
 
 Buck. Bring up a chair, Barket. 
 
 (Sitting down in the arm-chair.) 
 
 Barket. (Having placed table and draw- 
 ing up a chair.) Do j'ou know, Gineral, 
 I don't fale quite aisy in my moind. 
 I 'm not quite sure that Margery will let 
 us take our tay together. 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 567 
 
 ( Sits do wn, doub t fully. ) 
 
 Buck. I hadn't thought of that. I — 
 {Glancing to the right.) — I hope she will, 
 Barket. But, of course, if she won't — 
 she 's been commander-in-chief of my 
 household ever since Jenny was a baby. 
 
 Barket. At Fort Duncan, in Texas. 
 
 Buck. You and Old Margery never got 
 along very well in those days; but I 
 thought you had made it all up; she 
 nursed you through your wound, -last 
 summer, and after the battle of Cedar 
 Creek, also. 
 
 Barket. Yis, sur, bliss her kind heart, 
 she 's been like a wife to me ; and that 's 
 the trouble. A man's wife is such an 
 angel when he 's ill that he dreads to get 
 well; good health is a misfortune to him. 
 Auld Margery and I have had anither 
 misunderstanding. 
 
 Buck. I '11 do the best I can for both of 
 us, Barket. You were telling me about 
 the battle of — 
 
 Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
 Creek began, whin Colonel Wist rode 
 to the front to mate his raytrating rigi- 
 ment — 
 
 (Enter Old Margery, with a tea-tray. 
 She stops abruptly, looking at Barket. 
 He squirms in Ms chair. Buckthorn 
 rises and stands with his hack to the 
 mantel. Old Margery moves to the ta- 
 ble, arranges things on it, glances at 
 Barket, then at Buckthorn, who looks 
 up at the ceiling, rubbing his chin. Old 
 Margery takes up one of the cups, with 
 saucer.) 
 
 Old Marg. I misunderstood yer order, 
 sur. I see there 's no one here but yer- 
 self. (Going.) 
 
 Buck. Ah, Margery! (She stops.) Bar- 
 ket tells me that there has been a slight 
 misunderstanding between you and him. 
 
 Old Marg. Day before yisterday, the 
 ould Hibernian dhrone had the kitchen 
 upside down, to show anither old mili- 
 thary vagabone loike himself how the 
 battle of Sayder Creek was fought. He 
 knocked the crame pitcher into the bas- 
 ket of clane clothes, and overturned some 
 raspberry jam and the flat-irons into a 
 pan of fresh eggs. There has been a 
 misunderstanding betwane us. 
 
 Buck. I see there has. I suppose Barket 
 was showing his friend how Colonel 
 Kerchival West rode forward to meet 
 his regiment, when he was already 
 wounded dangerously. 
 
 Old Marg. Bliss the poor, dear young 
 man! He 'and I was always good 
 frinds, though he was something of a 
 devil in the kitchen himself, whin he got 
 there. (Wiping her eye with one cor- 
 ner of her apron.) And bliss the young 
 Southern lady that was in love wid him, 
 too. (Changing the cup and wiping the 
 other eye with the corner of her apron.) 
 Nothing was iver heard of ayther of 
 thim after that battle was over, to this 
 very day. 
 
 Buck. Barket was at Kerchival's side 
 when he rode to the front. (Old Mar- 
 gery hesitates a moment, then moves to 
 the table, sets down the cup and mar dies 
 out. Buckthorn sits in the arm-chair 
 again, pouring tea.) I could always 
 find some way to get Old Margery to do 
 what I wanted her to do. 
 
 Barket. You're a great man, Gineral; 
 we 'd niver have conquered the South 
 widout such men. 
 
 Buck. Now go on, Barket; you were in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
 Creek began, whin — 
 
 (Enter Jannette, with a card, which she 
 hands to Buckthorn.) 
 
 Buck. (Reading card.) Robert EUing- 
 ham! (Rises.) I will go to him. [To 
 Jannette.) Go upstairs and tell Miss 
 Madeline to come down. 
 
 Jannette. Yes, sir. (Going.) 
 
 Buck. And, Jannette, simply say there is 
 a caller; don't tell her who is here. 
 (Exit Jannette. Buckthorn follows 
 her out to the hall.) EUingham! My 
 dear fellow! 
 
 (Extending his hand and disappear- 
 ing.) 
 
 Barket. Colonel EUingham and Miss 
 Madeline — lovers ! That 's the kind o' 
 volunteers the country nades now! 
 
 (Enter Buckthorn and Ellingham.) 
 
 Buck. (As he enters.) We 've been fight- 
 ing four years to keep you out of Wash- 
 ington, Colonel, but we are delighted to 
 see you within the lines, now. 
 
 Elling. I am glad, indeed. General, to 
 have so warm a welcome. But can you 
 tell me anything about my sister, Ger- 
 trude? 
 
 Buck. About your sister? Why, can't 
 you tell us? And have you heard noth- 
 ing of Kerchival West on your side of 
 the line? 
 
568 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 Elltng. All I can tell you is this: As 
 soon as possible after our surrender at 
 Appomattox, I made my way to the 
 Shenandoah Valley. Our home there is 
 utterly deserted. I have hurried down 
 to Washington in the hopes that I might 
 learn something of you. There is no 
 human being about the old homestead; 
 it is like a haunted house — empty, and 
 dark, and solitary. You do not even 
 know where Gertrude is? 
 
 Buck. We only know that Kerchival was 
 not found among the dead of his own 
 regiment at Cedar Creek, though he fell 
 among them during the fight. The three 
 girls searched the field for him, but he 
 was not there. As darkness came on, 
 and they were returning to the house, 
 Gertrude suddenly seized the bridle of a 
 stray horse, sprang upon its back and 
 rode away to the South, into the woods 
 at the foot of Three Top Mountain. 
 The other two girls watched for her in 
 vain. She did not return, and we have 
 heard nothing from her since. 
 
 Elling. Poor girl! I understand what 
 was in her thoughts, and she was right. 
 We captured fourteen hundred prison- 
 ers that day, although we were defeated, 
 and Kerchival must have been among 
 them. Gertrude rode away, alone, in 
 the darkness, to find him. I shall return 
 to the South at once and learn where 
 she now is. 
 
 (Jannette has re-entered, down the 
 stairs. ) 
 
 Jannette. Miss Madeline will be down 
 in a moment. {Exit in hall.) 
 
 Barket. (Aside.) That name wint 
 through his chist like a rifle ball. 
 
 Buck. Will you step into the drawing- 
 room. Colonel? I will see Madeline my- 
 self, first. She does not even know that 
 you are living. 
 
 Elling. I hardly dared ask for her. Is 
 she well? 
 
 Buck. Yes; and happy — or soon will be. 
 
 Elling. Peace, at last! 
 
 {Exit to the apartment. Buckthorn 
 closes the portieres.) 
 
 Buck. I ought to prepare Madeline a lit- 
 tle, Barket; you must help me. 
 
 Barket. Yis, sur, I will. 
 
 {Enter Madeline, down the stairs.) 
 
 Madeline. Uncle! Jannette said you 
 wished to see me; there is a visitor here. 
 Who is it? 
 
 Barket. Colonel Robert Ellingham. 
 Mad. Ah! {Staggering.) 
 Buck. {Supporting her.) You infernal 
 idiot ! I '11 put you in the guard-house ! 
 Barket. You wanted me to help ye, Gin- 
 
 eral. 
 Mad. Robert is alive — and here? 
 
 {Rising from his arms, she moves to 
 the portieres, holds them aside, 
 peeping in; gives a joyful start, 
 tosses aside the portieres and runs 
 through. ) 
 Buck. Barket ! There 's nothing but that 
 
 curtain between us and Heaven. 
 Barket. I don't like stayin' out o' Hiven, 
 myself, sur. Gineral ! I '11 kiss Ould 
 Margery — if I die for it! {Exit.) 
 
 Buck. Kiss Old Margery ! I '11 give him 
 a soldier's funeral. 
 
 {Enter Jenny from hall, demurely.) 
 
 Ah! Jenny, my dear! I have news for 
 you. Colonel Robert Ellingham is in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Jenny. Oh! I am delighted. {Starting.) 
 
 Buck. A-h-e-ml 
 
 Jen. Oh! — exactly. I see. I have some 
 news for you, papa. Captain Hearts- 
 ease has arrived in Washington. 
 
 Buck. Oh! My dear! I have often con- 
 fessed to you how utterly mistaken I was 
 about that young man. He is a soldier 
 — as good a soldier as you are. I '11 ask 
 him to the house. 
 
 Jen. {Demurely.) He is here now. 
 
 Buck. Now? 
 
 Jen. He 's been here an hour ; in the 
 library. 
 
 Buck. Why! Barket and I were in the 
 library fifteen minutes ago. 
 
 Jen. Yes, sir. We were in the bay-win- 
 dow; the curtains were closed. 
 
 Buck. Oh ! exactly ; I see. You may tell 
 him he has my full consent. 
 
 Jen. He has n't asked for it. 
 
 Buck. Has n't he ? And you 've been in 
 the bay-window an hour? Well, my 
 darling — I was considered one of the 
 best Indian fighters in the old army, but 
 it took me four years to propose to your 
 mother. I '11 go and see the Captain. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Jen. I wonder if it will take Captain 
 Heartsease four years to propose to me. 
 Before he left Washington, nearly two 
 years ago, he told everj^body in the circle 
 of my acquaintance, except me, that he 
 was in love with me. I '11 be an old lady 
 in caps before our engagement com- 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 569 
 
 mences. Poor, dear mother! The idea 
 of a girl's waiting four years for a 
 chance to say, "Yes." It 's been on the 
 tip of my tongue so often, I 'm afraid 
 it '11 pop out, at last, before he pops the 
 question. 
 
 {Enter Buckthorn and Heartsease from 
 the hall.) 
 
 Buck. Walk right in. Captain ; this is the 
 family room. You must make yourself 
 quite at home here. 
 
 Heartsease. Thank you. 
 
 {Walking down toward the right.) 
 
 Buck. My dear! {Apart to Jenny.) 
 The very first thing he said to me, after 
 our greeting, was that he loved my 
 daughter. 
 
 Jen. Now he 's told my father ! 
 
 Buck. He 's on fire ! 
 
 Jen. Is he? {Looking at Heartsease, 
 who stands quietly stroking his mus- 
 tache.) Why doesn't he tell mef 
 
 Buck. You may have to help him a little ; 
 your mother assisted me. When you 
 and Jenny finish your chat, Captain — 
 {Lighting a cigar at the mantel) — you 
 must join me in the smoking room. 
 
 Heart. I shall be delighted. By the 
 way, General — I have been in such a 
 fever of excitement since I arrived at 
 this house — 
 
 Jen. (Aside.) Fever? Chills! 
 
 Heart. That I forgot it entirely. I have 
 omitted a very important and a very sad 
 commission. I have brought with me 
 the note-book of Lieutenant Frank Bed- 
 loe — otherwise Haverill — in which Miss 
 Gertrude EUingham wrote dow^n his last 
 message to his young wife. 
 
 Jen. Have you seen Gertrude? 
 
 Buck. {Taking the book.) How did this 
 note-book come into your possession? 
 
 Heart. Miss EUingham visited the prison 
 in North Carolina where I was detained. 
 She was going from hospital to hospital, 
 from prison to prison, and from burial- 
 place to burial-place, to find Colonel 
 Kerchival West, if living — or some rec- 
 ord of his death. 
 
 Buck. Another Evangeline! Searching 
 for her lover through the wilderness of 
 this great war! 
 
 Heart. I was about to be exchanged at 
 the time, and she requested me to bring 
 this to her friends in Washington. She 
 had not intended to carry it away with 
 her. I was not exchanged, as we then 
 expected, but I afterwards escaped from 
 
 prison to General Sherman's Army. 
 
 Buck. I will carry this long-delayed mes- 
 sage to the widowed young mother. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Jen. I remember so well, when poor 
 Lieutenant Haverill took out the note- 
 book and asked Gertrude to write for 
 him. He — he brought me a message at 
 the same time. 
 
 {Their eyes meet. He puts up his 
 glasses. She turns away, touching 
 her eyes.) 
 
 Heart. I — I remember the circumstances 
 you probably allude to ; that is — when he 
 left my side — I — I gave him my — I 
 mean your — lace handkerchief. 
 
 Jen. It is sacred to me! 
 
 Heart. Y-e-s — I would say — is it? 
 
 Jen. {Wiping her eyes.) It was stained 
 with the life-blood of a hero! 
 
 Heart. I must apologize to you for its 
 condition. I hadn't any chance to have 
 it washed and ironed. 
 
 Jen. {Looking around at him, suddenly; 
 then, aside.) What could any girl do 
 with a lover like that? 
 
 {Turning up the stage.) 
 
 Heart. {Aside.) She seems to remem- 
 ber that incident so tenderly! My blood 
 boils ! 
 
 Jen. Didn't you long to see your — your 
 friends at home — when you were in 
 prison. Captain? 
 
 Heart. Yes — especially — I longed espe- 
 cially. Miss Buckthorn, to see — 
 
 Jen. Yes! — to see — 
 
 Heart. But there were lots of jolly fel- 
 lows in the prison. 
 
 (Jenny turns away.) 
 
 Heart. We had a dramatic society, and 
 a glee club, and an orchestra. I was 
 one of the orchestra. I had a banjo, 
 with one string; I played one tune on 
 it, that I used to play on the piano, with 
 one finger. But, Miss Buckthorn, I am 
 a prisoner again, to-night — your pris- 
 oner. 
 
 Jen. {Aside.) At last! 
 
 Heart. I '11 show you how that tune went. 
 {Turns to the piano and sits.) 
 
 Jen. {Aside.) Father said I'd have to 
 help him, but I don't see an opening. 
 (Heartsease plays part of an air 
 with one finger and strikes two or 
 three ivrong notes.) 
 
 Heart. There are two notes down there, 
 somewliere, that I never could get right. 
 The fellows in pi;ison used to dance 
 while I played — {Playing) — that is, the 
 
570 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 lame ones did; those that weren't lame 
 could n't keep the time. 
 
 Jen. You must have been in great dan- 
 ger, Captain, when you escaped from 
 X)rison. 
 
 Heart. Y-e-s. I was badly frightened 
 several times. One night I came face to 
 face, on the road, with a Confederate 
 Officer. It was Captain Thornton. 
 
 Jen. Oh! What did you do? 
 
 Heart. I killed him. {Very quietly, and 
 trying the tune again at once. JEnter 
 Jannette, from the hall; she glances 
 into the room and goes up the stairs.) I 
 used to skip those two notes on the banjo. 
 It 's very nice for a soldier to come home 
 from the war, and meet those — I mean 
 the one particular person — that he — j^ou 
 see, when a soldier loves a woman, as — 
 as — 
 
 Jen. {Aside.) As he loves me. 
 
 {Approaches him.) 
 
 Heart. As soldiers often do — {Plays; she 
 turns away, petulantly ; he plays the 
 tune through correctly.) That's it! 
 
 Jen. {Aside.) I 'm not going to be made 
 love to by piece-meal, like this, any 
 longer. {Aloud.) Captain Heartsease! 
 Have you anything in particular to say 
 to me? {Re looks up.) 
 
 Heart. Y-e-s. {Rising.) 
 
 Jen. Say it! You told my father, and 
 all my friends, that you were in love 
 with me. Whom are you going to tell 
 next? 
 
 Heart. I am in love with you. 
 
 Jen. It was my turn. 
 
 Heart. {Going near to her.) Do you 
 love me? 
 
 Jen. {Laying her head quietly on his 
 breast.) I must take time to consider. 
 
 Heart. {Quietly.) I assume that this 
 means ''Yes." 
 
 Jen. It isn 't the way a girl says "No." 
 
 Heart. My darling! 
 
 Jen. Why! His heart is beating as fast 
 as mine is! 
 
 Heart. {Quietly.) 1 am frantic with 
 joy. {He kisses her. She hides her 
 face on his breast. Enter Mrs. Haver- 
 iLL_, down-stairs, followed by Jannette. 
 Mrs. Haverill stops suddenly. Jan- 
 nette stands in the doorway. Hearts- 
 ease inclines his head to her, quietly 
 looking at her over Jknny.) I am de- 
 lighted to see you, after so long an ab- 
 sence; I trust that we shall meet more 
 frequently liereafter. 
 
 Jen. {Looking at him). Eh? 
 
 Heart. {Looking down at her.) I think, 
 perhaps, it might be as well for us to 
 repair to another apartment, and con- 
 tinue our interview, there! 
 
 Jen. {Dropping her head on his breast 
 again.) This room is very comfortable. 
 
 Mrs. H. Jenny, dear! 
 
 (Jenny starts up; looks from Mrs. 
 Haverill to Heartsease.) 
 
 Jen. Constance ! I — 'Bout face ! March ! 
 {She turns and goes out.) 
 
 Mrs. H. I am glad to see you again, Cap- 
 tain, and happy as well as safe. 
 
 Heart. Thank you, Madam. I am 
 
 happy. If you will excuse me, I will 
 
 join — my father — in the smoking-room. 
 
 (Mrs. Haverill inclines her head, and 
 
 Heartsease walks out.) 
 
 Mrs. H. Jannette! You may ask Gen- 
 eral Haverill to come into this room. 
 {Exit Jannette. Mrs. Haverill walks 
 down the stage, reading a note.) "I 
 have hesitated to come to you person- 
 ally, as I have hesitated to write to you. 
 If I have been silent, it is because I could 
 not bring my hand to w^rite what was in 
 my mind and in my heart. I do not 
 know that I can trust my tongue to 
 speak it, but I will come." 
 
 {Enter Haverill, from the hall; he stops.) 
 
 Haver. Constance ! 
 
 Mrs. H. My husband! May I call you 
 husband? After all these months of 
 separation, with your life in almost daily 
 peril, and my life — what? Only a 
 weary longing for one loving word — and 
 you are silent. 
 
 Haver. May I call you wife? I do not 
 wish to speak that word except with^ 
 reverence. You have asked me to come 
 to you. I am here. I will be plain, 
 direct and brief. Where is the portrait 
 of yourself, which I gave you, in 
 Charleston, for my son? 
 
 Mrs. H. Your son is dead, sir; and my 
 portrait lies upon his breast, in the 
 grave. (Haverill takes the miniature 
 from his pocket and holds it towards her 
 in his extended hand. She starts back.) 
 He gave it to you? And you ask me 
 where it is? 
 
 Haver. It might have lain in the grave of 
 Kerchival West! 
 
 Mrs. H. Ah! 
 
 Haver, Not in my son's. I found it 
 upon his breast. {She turns front, 
 dazed.) Well! I am listening! It 
 was not I that sought this interview^ 
 
BRONSON HOWARD 
 
 571 
 
 madam; and if you prefer to remain 
 silent, I will go. You know, now, why 
 I have been silent so long. 
 
 Mrs. H. My only witnesses to the truth 
 are both dead. I shall remain silent. 
 {Turning towards Mm.) We stand be- 
 fore each other, living, but not so happy 
 as they. We are parted, forever. Even 
 if you should accept my unsupported 
 word — if I could so far forget my pride 
 as to give it to you — suspicion would 
 still hang between us. I remain silent. 
 (Haverill looks at her, earnestly, for 
 a moment , then approaches her.) 
 
 Haver. I cannot look into your eyes and 
 not see truth and loyalty there. Con- 
 stance ! 
 
 Mrs. H. No, John! (Checking him.) I 
 will not accept your blind faith! 
 
 (Moving.) 
 
 Haver. (Looking down at the picture in 
 his hand.) My faith is blind;, blind as 
 my love ! I do not wish to see ! 
 
 (Enter Edith. She stops and looks at 
 Haverill. He raises his head and looks 
 at her.) 
 
 Edith. This is General Haverill? (Drop- 
 ping her eyes.) I am Edith, sir. 
 
 Haver. (Gently.) My son's wife. (Kisses 
 her forehead.) You shall take the place 
 he once filled in my heart. His crime 
 and his disgrace are buried in a distant 
 grave. 
 
 Edith. And you have not forgiven him, 
 even yet? 
 
 Mrs. H. Is there no atonement for poor 
 Frank's sin — not even his death? Can 
 you only bury the wrong and forget the 
 
 Haver. The good? 
 
 Mrs. H. Your own words to the Govern- 
 ment, as his commander! 
 
 Haver. What do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. H. "The victory of Cedar Creek 
 would have been impossible without the 
 sacrifice of this young officer." 
 
 Haver. My own words, yes — but — 
 
 Edith. "His name must take its place 
 forever, in the roll of names which his 
 countrymen honor." 
 
 Haver. Lieutenant Bedloe! 
 
 Mrs. H. Haverill! You did not know? 
 
 Haver. My — son. 
 
 Edith. You did not receive mother's let- 
 ter?— after his death? 
 
 Haver. My son! (Sinking upon a chair.) 
 I left him alone in his grave, unknown; 
 but my tears fell for him then, as they 
 
 do now. He died before I reached him. 
 
 Edith. Father! (Laying her hand gently 
 on his shoulder.) You shall see Frank's 
 face again. His little son is lying asleep 
 upstairs ; and when he wakes up, Frank's 
 own eyes will look into yours. I have 
 just received his last message. I will 
 read it to you. (She opens the note- 
 hook and reads.) "Tell our little son 
 how his father died, not how he lived. 
 And tell her who filled my own mother's 
 place so lovingly." {She looks at Mrs. 
 Haverill, moves to her and hides her 
 face in her bosom.) My mother! 
 
 Mrs. H. Edith— my child! Frank loved 
 us both. 
 
 Edith. (Reading.) "Father's portrait of 
 her, which she gave to me in Charleston 
 — (Haverill starts) — helped me to be a 
 better man." 
 
 Haver. (Rising to his feet.) Constance! 
 
 Edith. (Reading.) "It was taken from 
 me in Richmond, and it is in the posses- 
 sion of Captain Edward Thornton." 
 
 Haver. One moment! Stop! Let me 
 think! (Edith looks at him.) Thorn- 
 ton was a prisoner — and to Kerchival 
 West. A dispatch had been found upon 
 him — he was searched! (He moves to 
 her and takes both her hands in his own, 
 bowing his head over them.) My head 
 is bowed in shame. 
 
 Mrs. H. Speak to me, John, as you used 
 to speak ! Tell me you still love me ! 
 
 Haver. The — the words will come — but 
 they are — choking me — now. (He 
 presses her hand to his lips.) 
 
 Mrs. H. We will think no more of the 
 past, except of what was bright in it. 
 Frank's memory, and our own love, will 
 be with us always. 
 
 (Enter Buckthorn, followed by Hearts- 
 ease. ) 
 
 Buck. Haverill! You are back from the 
 war, too. It begins to look like peace in 
 earnest. 
 Haver. Yes. Peace and home. 
 
 (Shaking hands with him. Mrs. 
 Haverill joins Edith.) 
 
 (Enter Barket.) 
 
 Barket. Gineral! (Buckthorn moves 
 to him. Haverill joins Mrs. Haverill 
 and Edith. Barket speaks apart, twist- 
 ing one side of his face.) 1 kissed her! 
 
 Buck. Have you sent for a surgeon? 
 
 Barket. I felt as if the inimy had sur- 
 
572 
 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 prised us agin, and Sheridan was sixty 
 miles away. 
 
 Haver. This is old Sergeant Barket. 
 (Barket salutes.) You were the last 
 man of us all that saw Colonel West. 
 
 Barket. Just afther the battle of Sayder 
 Creek began — whin Colonel Wist rode 
 to the front to mate his retrayting rigi- 
 ment — the byes formed in line, at sight 
 of him, to raysist the victorious inimy. 
 It was just at the brow of a hill — about 
 there, sur — {pointing with his cane) and 
 — here! {He takes the tray from the 
 table and sets it on the carpet, then lays 
 the slices of bread in a row.) That be 
 the rigiment. {All are interested. 
 Madeline and Ellingham enter, and 
 look on. Barket arranges the two cups 
 and saucers in a row.) That be the in- 
 imy's batthery, sur. 
 
 (Enter Margery. She goes to the table, 
 then looks around, sharply at Barket.) 
 
 Old Marg. Ye ould Hibernian dhrone! 
 What are yez doin' wid the china on the 
 floor? You'll break it all! 
 
 Buck. Ah — Margery! Barket is telling 
 us where he last saw Colonel Kerchival 
 West. 
 
 Old Marg. The young Colonel ! The tay- 
 cups and saucers he's the inimy's bat- 
 thery ? Yez may smash 'em, if ye loike ! 
 
 Buck. Go on, Barket. 
 
 (Jenny and Heartsease have entered, 
 as Barket proceeds, the whole party 
 
 lean forward, intensely interested. 
 Gertrude enters in the hall, looks in, 
 beckons as if to some one without, 
 and Kerchival follows. They move 
 to the center of the stage, back of 
 the rest and listen unseen.) 
 
 Barket. Just as the rigiment was ray- 
 formed in line, and Colonel Wist wa?' 
 out in front — widout any coat or hat, 
 and wid only a shtick in his hand — we 
 heard cheers in the rear. Gineral Sheri- 
 dan was coming! One word to the men 
 — and we swept over the batthery like a 
 whirlwind! {Slashing his cane through 
 the cups and saucers.) 
 
 Old Marg. Hoo-roo ! 
 
 Barket. The attack on the lift flank was 
 cheeked. But when we shtopped to take 
 breath. Colonel Wist was n't wid us. 
 (Gertrude turns lovingly to Kerchival. 
 He places his arm about her.) Heaven 
 knows where he is now. Afther the bat- 
 tle was over, poor Miss Gertrude wint 
 off by hersilf into the wilderness to find 
 him. 
 
 Ker. My wife! You saved my life, at 
 last. {Embracing her.) 
 
 Barket. They '11 niver come together in 
 this world. I saw Miss Gertrude, my- 
 self, ride away into the woods and dis- 
 appear behind a school-house on the bat- 
 tle-field, over there. 
 
 Gert. No, Barket — {All start and look) — 
 it was the little church; we were married 
 there this morning! 
 
SECRET SERVICE 
 
 A DRAMA OF "tHE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY' 
 
 IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 William Gillette 
 
copybight, 1898, by wiliiam gillette 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. 
 Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved. 
 Applications for the right of performing this piece with amor 
 teurs must he made to the publisher, Samuel French, New 
 York. Applications for professional perform,ances must be 
 made to Messrs. Sanger and Jordan, 1432 Broadway, New York. 
 
 Reprinted by permission of Mr. Williamr Oillette and by 
 special arrangement with Samuel French. 
 
SECRET SEEVICE 
 
 Secret Service represents another phase of the Civil War from that por- 
 trayed in Shenandoah. It is also the most representative play of its author. 
 William Gillette was born at Hartford, Connecticut, July 24, 1855, the son of 
 Francis Gillette, at one time Senator of the United States. At the beginning of 
 his stage career, he took special courses at Harvard and Boston Universities and 
 the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and as early as 1875, acted in 
 Across the Continent at New Orleans. His first professional appearance was at 
 the Globe Theatre, Boston, as ''Guzman" in Faint Heart Never Won Fair Lady, 
 September 15, 1875. After a number of stage successes, he produced his first 
 play The Professor at the Madison Square Theatre, New York, June 1, 1881, in 
 which he played "Professor Hopkins," and at the same theatre, on October 29, 
 3881, his play Esmeralda, founded on a story of Mrs. Francis Hodgson Bur- 
 nett, was first performed. On September 29, 1884, he appeared at the Comedy 
 Theatre, New York, in Bigty's Secretary, adapted by him from Von Moser's 
 Der BiUiothekar. The same night, Mr. A. M. Palmer brought out Mr. Charles 
 Hawtrey's version of the same play, called The Private Secretary and a contest 
 ensued. As Mr. Gillette had made the proper arrangements with the German 
 playwright, while Mr. Hawtrey had not, a compromise resulted in his continu- 
 ing his version, somewhat modified, under Mr. Palmer's management, under the 
 title of The Private Secretary. 
 
 His first Civil War play, Held hy the Enemy, was produced at the Criterion 
 Theatre, Brooklyn on February 22, 1886, the part of ''Thomas Henry Beene" 
 being taken by Mr. Gillette. It was afterward produced at the Madison Square 
 Theatre, New York City, in August, 1886. The play is laid in the South, and has 
 as its main interest the love of a Southern girl for a Northern soldier. It was 
 acted at the Princess Theatre, London, April 2, 1887. A Legal Wreck, a play 
 dealing with the life in a sea coast town in New England, was first played at the 
 Madison Square Theatre, New York, August 14, 1888. All the Comforts of Home, 
 an amusing farce comedy, adapted from the German, was produced at the Boston 
 Museum, March 3, 1890, and next came Mr. Wilkinson's Widows, a similar type 
 of play, depicting the complications consequent upon a man marrying two 
 women, supposedly on the same day. Its first New York production was at Proc- 
 tor's Theatre, March 30, 1891. Too Much Johnson, his next important play, a 
 clever farce, was first produced in Holyoke, ]\Iassachusetts, October 25, 1894, 
 and was put on at the Standard Theatre, New York City, November 26, 1894. 
 
 575 
 
576 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 For this play he borrowed from La Plantation Thomasin, by Maurice Ordonneau, 
 the idea of the trip to a tropical island, but the main plot and the central char- 
 acters were original. After a successful career in this country, Mr. Gillette ap- 
 peared as "Augustus Billings" in this play in London, at the Garrick Theatre, 
 April 18, 1898. In the meantime he had produced Secret Service, and a very 
 successful farce comedy, Because She Loved Him So, from the French play. 
 Jalousie, of Bisson and Leclerq, played first in New Haven, October 28, 1898. 
 After a "tryout" at Wilkes-Barre and Buffalo, Sherlock Holmes was first put 
 on in New York City at the Garrick Theatre, November 6, 1899, and after touring 
 this country, Mr. Gillette began a long run in the title role at the Lyceum Theatre 
 in London, on September 9, 1901. He next appeared in a one-act play. The 
 Painful Predicament of Sherlock Holmes, on March 23, 1905, at the Metropolitan 
 Opera House, New York City, and on September 13, 1905, at the Duke of York's 
 Theatre in London, he played for the first time the character of "Dr. Carring- 
 ton" in his comedy of Clarice. Returning to this country he toured in Clarice 
 and then appeared at the Criterion Theatre, New York, October 19, 1908, in the 
 character of "Maurice Brachard" in Samson, adapted by him from the French 
 of Henri Bernstein. His last play. Electricity, produced first at the Park Thea- 
 tre, Boston, September 26, 1910, was an attempt to make use of modern electrical 
 devices in a farcical situation but was not successful. Other plays of Mr. Gillette 
 of less significance are She (1887), Settled Out of Court (1892), Ninety Days 
 (1893), The Red Owl (1907), That Little Affair of Boyd's (1908), Ticey (1908), 
 The Rohher (1909), Among Thieves (1909). Mr. Gillette has continued his ca- 
 reer on the stage, taking part in the all-star revival of Diplomacy in 1914-15 
 and appearing in his own plays in 1915-16. 
 
 Secret Service was first performed at the Broad Street Theatre, Philadel- 
 phia, as The Secret Service, May 13, 1895. It was at first only moderately suc- 
 cessful, but when it was put on at the Garrick Theatre, New York, October 5, 
 1896, Mr. Gillette appearing in the character of "Lewis Dumont" for the first 
 time, it was a pronounced success. The play ran until March 6, 1897, when it 
 was taken to Boston and afterward on tour. On May 15, 1897, Mr. Gillette made 
 his first appearance on the London stage at the Adelphi Theatre in this play, at 
 the beginning of a run which lasted till August 4. The play was acted by Eng- 
 lish companies afterward and a French version by Pierre Decourcelle was played 
 at the Theatre de la Renaissance in Paris on October 2, 1897. During the season 
 of 1915-16 Secret Service was revived with Mr. Gillette in the part of "Lewis 
 Dumont." The exact number of performances up to the present day is 1791. 
 
 In Secret Service, Mr. Gillette carried to its highest point the conception of 
 a cool, resourceful man of action. This same character appears in serious situa- 
 tions in Held by the Enemy and Sherlock Holmes, and in farcical situations in 
 All the Comforts of Home and Too Much Johnson. It is the unifying quality in 
 
SECRET SERVICE 577 
 
 Mr. Gillette 's work, and the form of realism which he has contributed to the stage 
 in America is distinctly important and distinctly American. 
 
 Esmeralda, Held hy the Enemy, Too Much Johnson, and Secret Service have 
 been published by Samuel French and All the Comforts of Home by Dick 
 and Fitzgerald. Electricity appeared in The Drama, for December, 1913, and 
 will be reprinted shortly by Samuel French. A Legal Wreck has been pub- 
 lished in novel form. For a lecture by Mr. Gillette ''On the Illusion of the 
 First Time in Acting" see the publications of the Dramatic Museum of Colum- 
 bia University, Series 2, Vol. 1, New York, 1915. 
 
 For biographical details see Who's Who in the Theatre (1912), and for in- 
 formation concerning the plays, Plays of the Present, by J. B. Clapp and E. F. 
 Edgett, New York, 1902, to which the present editor acknowledges his indebted- 
 ness, as also to the courtesy of Mr. Francis E. Reid, of the Empire Theatre. The 
 editor, however, is indebted in the largest measure to Mr. Gillette himself who 
 has furnished him accurate information concerning the dates and circumstances 
 of production of the plays, much of which has hitherto been unavailable in print. 
 
 For criticism see Norman Hapgood, The Stage in America, 1901, Chap. 3, 
 pp. 61-79. 
 
 The text has been revised with the greatest care by Mr. Gillette, and the al- 
 terations have been so marked that this edition of Secret Service may almost be 
 looked upon as a new creation. It represents, so far as is possible in print, the 
 actual stage production as Mr. Gillette directs it. For this reason, although its 
 form is different from that of the other plays in the volume, the editor has re- 
 printed the manuscript exactly as Mr. Gillette prepared it, feeling sure that 
 readers of the book will be interested in seeing the interpretation of his own work 
 by a dramatist who is also an actor and stage director. 
 
 For permission to use the text the editor is indebted to Mr. Gillette and to 
 Samuel French. ^ 
 
AN EVENING IN RICHMOND DURING THE WxVR OF THE REBELLION AT A TIME 
 WHEN THE NORTHERN FORCES WERE ENTRENCHED BEFORE THE CITY AND ENDEAV- 
 ORING BY ALL POSSIBLE MEANS TO BREAK DOWN THE DEFENSES AND CAPTURE THE 
 CONFEDERATE CAPITAL. 
 
 DRAWING-ROOM AT 
 ACT I GEN. VARNEYS HOUSE EIGHT O'CLOCK 
 
 FRANKLIN" STREET 
 
 ACT II THE SAME PLACE NINE O'CLOCK 
 
 ACT in;^^r;,tl^;™; ten o'clock 
 
 ACT IV ^rrHrs^t^Ar ELEVEN O'CLOCK 
 
 WHILE NO SPECIAL EFFORT HAS BEEN MADE IN THE DIRECTION OF HISTORICAL AC- 
 CURACY THE MANAGEMENT TAKES THE LIBERTY OF REMINDING THE PUBLIC THAT 
 THE CITY OF RICHMOND AT THE TIME SET FORTH IN " SECRET SERVICE" WAS IN A 
 STATE OF THE UTMOST EXCITEMENT AND CONFUSION. WOUNDED AND DYING WERE 
 BEING BROUGHT IN FROM THE DEFENSES BY THE CAR-LOAD. CHURCHES, LIBRARIES 
 AND PUBLIC BUILDINGS WERE CONVERTED INTO HOSPITALS. OWING TO THE SCARCITY 
 OF SURGEONS AND MEDICAL ATTENDANTS WOMEN AND EVEN YOUNG GIRLS ASSISTED 
 AT THE DRESSING OF WOUNDS AND NURSED THE SUFFERERS DAY AND NIGHT. OTHER 
 WOMEN WERE OCCUPIED SEWING COARSE AND HEAVY SAND BAGS FOR THE STRENGTH- 
 ENING OF THE FORTIFICATIONS. STRICT MILITARY DISCIPLINE WAS IMPOSSIBLE. 
 COURTS MARTIAL IF HELD AT ALL WERE COMPOSED OF ANY AVAILABLE MATERIAL, 
 EVEN PRIVATE CITIZENS SERVING IP NECESSARY. Tl^QOPS WERE BEING HURRIED I^ 
 FROM THE SOUTH AND NO CAREFUL SCRUTINY WAS ATTEMPTED. THIS MADE IT POS- 
 SIBLE FOR MANY NORTHERN SECRET SERVICE MEN TO ENTER THE CITY AND REMAIN 
 THERE IN VARIOUS DISGUISES. IN THE MIDST OF THIS TROUBLE A BRAVE ATTEMPT 
 AT GAYETY WAS KEPT UP CHIEFLY BY THE YOUNG PEOPLE — IN A DESPERATE EN- 
 DEAVOR TO DISTRACT THEIR MINDS FROM THE TERRIBLE SITUATION. THERE WERE 
 DANCES AND *' STARVATION PARTIES" SO CALLED BECAUSE OF THE NECESSARILY LIM- 
 ITED FARE PROVIDED, AND THE BOOMING OF THE GREAT SIEGE GUNS OFTEN SOUNDED 
 ABOVE THE STRAINS OF A DREAMY WALTZ OR THE LIVELY BEAT OF A POLKA. 
 
CAST OF CHAEACTERS 
 
 Garrick Theatre, New York, October 5, 1896. 
 
 General Nelson Randolph, commanding in Richmond . . Mr. Joseph Brennan 
 Mrs. General Varney, wife of a Confederate officer of high 
 
 rank Miss Ida Waterman 
 
 Edith Varney, her daughter Miss Amy Busby 
 
 Wilfred Varney, her youngest son Mr. Walter Thomas 
 
 Caroline Mitford, from across the street Miss Odette Tyler 
 
 Lewis Dumont, United States Secret Service — known in Richmond 
 
 as Captain Thorne jMr. AVilliam Gillette 
 
 Henry Dumont, United States Secret Service — Lewis Dumont 's 
 
 brother Mr. ]\I. L. Alsop 
 
 Mr. Benton Arrelsford, Confederate Secret Service Mr. Campbell Gollan 
 
 Miss Kittridge, sewing for the hospitals Miss Meta Brittain 
 
 Martha, negro house servant Miss Alice Leigh 
 
 Jonas, negro house servant Mr. H. D. James 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell, President 's detail ]\Ir. Francis Neilson 
 
 Lieut. Foray, first operator military telegraph lines Mr. William B. Smith 
 
 Lieut. Allison, second operator military telegraph lines .... Mr. Louis Duval 
 Lieut. Tyree, artillery 
 Lieut. Ensing, artillery. 
 
 Sergeant Wilson Mr. I. N. Drew 
 
 Sergeant Ellington Mr. Henry Wilton 
 
 Corporal Matson Mr. H. A. Morey 
 
 Cavalry Orderly 
 Artillery Orderly 
 Hospital IMessenger 
 First War Dept. Messenger 
 Second War Dept. Messenger 
 Third War Dept. Messenger 
 Fourth War Dept. IMessenger 
 Telegraph Office Messenger A 
 Telegraph Office Messenger B 
 Eddinger 
 
SECRET SERVICE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The Scene is a drawing-room in General 
 Varney's House on Franklin Street in 
 Richmond. 
 
 Eight o'Clock. 
 
 A riclily furnished room. — Southern char- 
 acteristics. 
 
 Fireplace on the left side. A wide door or 
 arch up L. or L. C. set diagonally, open 
 to a front hall. The portieres on this 
 door or arch draw, completely closing 
 the opening. A stairway is seen through 
 this door or arch, in the hall, at the hack, 
 ascending from a landing a few steps 
 high hack of the center of the opening, 
 and rising off to the left. Entrance to 
 the front hall — which communicates witli 
 other parts of the house, or via front 
 door to the street, is off L. helow stairs. 
 Entrance to the dining-room and kitchen 
 off B. helow stairs. Both of these open-^ 
 ings are hack of the wide door or arch 
 up L. CJ- A wide door up C. opens to 
 a hack parlor which is heing used for 
 women who come, there to sew and work 
 for hospitals. In elahorate production, 
 when the doors are opened, these wome^i 
 are seen in the room at the hack, seated 
 at tahles luorking. Two double French 
 ivmdows on the right side, one up stage 
 set ohlique, and one down, hoth opening 
 to a wide veranda. There is shruhbery 
 heyond the veranda and vines on the 
 halustrade and the posts of the veranda — 
 which must he in the line of sight for the 
 whole house outside the upper of these 
 two windows. Both these windows are 
 "French,^' extending down to the floor, 
 and opening and closing on hinges. They 
 also have curtains or draperies which can 
 easily he drawn to cover them. Below 
 the window down R. a writing desk and 
 a chair. Between these icindows stand 
 a pedestal and a vase of flowers to he 
 knocked over hy Thorne in Act IV. 
 A chair near the pedestal. A chair and 
 
 1 Entrances and exits marked "Up L. C. to L." 
 and "Up L. C. to R." indicate to front hall, or to 
 door to dining room and back of house, respec- 
 tively; and "Up L. C. from L." and "Up L. C. 
 from R." indicate coming from front hall or from 
 dining room, respectively. 
 
 a cabinet R. of C. door against wall. 
 Table up C. or trifle L. of C, on which 
 is a lamp and vase of flowers. Couch 
 down R. C. Small table and two chairs 
 L. C. Chair each side of the fireplace 
 at the left. Hall seat in the hall. Ped- 
 estal and statue on the landing in the 
 hall. Dark or nearly dark outside the 
 windows R. with moonlight effect. The 
 lights are on in the hall outside the door 
 up left and in the room up center hut 
 are not glaring. The light in the room 
 itself is full on hut is shaded so that it 
 gives a subdued effect. No fire is in the 
 fireplace. The portieres on both windows 
 closed at the rise. Windows are closed 
 at the rise. 
 
 [At the rise of the curtain low distant boom 
 of cannonading rolls in the distance and 
 quiets down — then is heard again.] 
 
 [Miss Kittridge, one of the women who 
 are sewing for the hospitals, enters C. D. 
 and comes down C. a little. She stops, 
 listens to the sound of cannon with, some 
 anxiety, — and crosses to the window up 
 R. and looks out. Flashes on her face. 
 She turns and goes down toward the table 
 at the left. She gatJiers up the pieces of 
 cloth and linen rags that are on the table. 
 Looks toward the window again. Then 
 she takes the cloth off at the door up C, 
 closing it carefidly after her.] 
 
 [Sound of a heavy door closing outside up 
 Left.] 
 
 [Enter at the door tip L. C. from L. Wil- 
 fred Varney, a hoy of about sixteen — 
 impetuous — Southern — -black-eyed — dark 
 hair. He is fairly well dressed, hut in a 
 suit that has evidently been worn for 
 some time, and of a dark shade. He 
 comes rapidly into the room, looking 
 about. Goes to the door ivhich he opens 
 a little way and looks off. Closes it, goes 
 to ivindow up R. Throws open the por- 
 tieres and windows and looks anxiously 
 off. Red flashes on hacking. Distant 
 boom and low thunder of cannon.] 
 
 [Enter Martha, an old negro servant, 
 through the door at the foot of the stairs. 
 Wilfred^ turning, sees her, and crosses 
 toward her.] 
 
 581 
 
582 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Wilfred. Where's Mother? 
 Martha. She 's up staai's with Mars How- 
 ard sah. 
 Wilfred. I 've got to see 'er ! 
 Martha. Mars Howard he's putty bad 
 dis ebenin' — I dunno 's she 'd want to 
 leave 'im — I '11 go up an' see what she 
 says. 
 
 [Exit door up L. and up the stairway.] 
 [Wilfred, left alone, moves restlessly 
 about, especially when low rumble 
 of distant cannon is heard. Effect 
 of passing artillery in the street out- 
 side. — On hearing it he hurries to 
 the window and looks out, continuing 
 to do so while the sounds of the 
 passing guns, horses and men are 
 heard. While he is at the window 
 B., Mrs. Vaeney enters, coming 
 down the stairway and on at door 
 U. L. C. She is quiet, pale, with 
 white or nearly white hair and a 
 rather young face. Her dress is 
 black and though rich, is plain. Not 
 in the least "dressy" or fashion- 
 able. — In manner she is calm and 
 self-possessed. She stops and looks 
 at Wilfred a moment. — He turns 
 and sees her. — Martha follows her 
 down the stairway and exits door at 
 foot of the stairway.] 
 Wilfred. [Goes toward Mrs. Varney.] 
 
 Howard isn't worse is he? 
 Mrs. Varney. [Meeting Wilfred near c] 
 
 I 'm afraid so. 
 Wilfred. Anything I can do? 
 Mrs. Varney. [Shakes head] No — no. — 
 We can only wait — and hope. [Wil- 
 fred walks away a little as if he could 
 not quite say the thing on his mind] 
 I 'm thankful there 's a lull in the can- 
 nonading. Do they know why it stopped? 
 [Boom of cannon — a low distant rum- 
 ble] 
 Wilfred, [r. c] It hasn't stopped al- 
 together — don't you hear? 
 Mrs. Varney. [c] Yes, but compared 
 to what it was yesterday — you know it 
 shook the house. Howard sulfered 
 dreadfully! [Wilfred suddenly faces 
 her] 
 Wilfred. So did I, Mother! [Slight 
 
 pause] [Loiu boom of cannon] 
 Mrs. Varney. You! 
 
 Wilfred. When I hear those guns and 
 know the fighting 's on, it makes 
 
 me 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Goes toiuard table l. c. 
 Interrupting quickly] Y'es yes — we all 
 
 suffered — we all suffered dear! [Sits R. 
 of table L. c] 
 
 Wilfred. Mother — you may not like it 
 but you must listen — [Going toward her] 
 — you must let me tell you how 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Wilfred ! [He stops speak- 
 ing. — She takes his hand in hers ten- 
 derly. — A brief pause] I know. 
 
 Wilfred. [Low pleading voice] But it's 
 true Mother ! I can't stay back here any 
 longer ! It 's worse than being shot to 
 pieces! I can't do it! [Mrs. Varney 
 looks steadily into Wilfred's face but 
 says nothing. Soon she turns away a 
 little as if she felt tears coming into her 
 eyes] Why don't you speak? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Turning to him. A faint 
 attempt to smile] I don't know what to 
 say. 
 
 Wilfred. Say you won't mind if I go 
 down there and help 'em ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. It would n't be true : 
 
 Wilfred. I can't stay here! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. You 're so young ! 
 
 Wilfred. No younger than Tom Kittridge 
 — no younger than Ell Stuart — nor cousin 
 Stephen — nor hundreds of the fellows 
 fighting down there I — See Mother — 
 they 've called for all over eighteen — that 
 was weeks ago ! The seventeen call may 
 be out any minute — the next one after 
 that takes me! Do I want to stay back 
 iiere till they order me out! I should 
 think not! [Walks about to G. Stops 
 and speaks to Mrs. Varney] If I was 
 hit with a shell an' had to stay it would 
 be different ! But I can't stand this — I 
 can't do it Mother! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Rising and going to him] 
 I '11 write to your Father. 
 
 Wilfred. Why that '11 take forever ! You 
 don't know where his Division is — they 
 change 'em every day! I can't wait for 
 you to write. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Speaks finally] I could n't 
 let you go without his consent! You 
 must be patient ! [Wilfred starts slowly 
 across toward door L. witli head lowered 
 in disappointment, — but not ill-naturedly. 
 Mrs. Varney looks yearningly after him 
 a moment as he moves away, then goes 
 toward him] Wilfred! [Wilfred 
 turns and meets her and she holds 
 him and smooths his hair a little 
 with her hand] Don't feel bad that 
 you have to stay here with your mother 
 a little longer! 
 
 Wilfred. Aw — no it isn't that! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Darling boy — I know it I 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 583 
 
 You want to fight for your country — and 
 I 'm proud of you ! I want my sons to 
 do their duty! But with your father 
 commanding a brigade at the front and 
 one boy lying wounded — perhaps mor- 
 tally — [Pause. — Mrs. Varney turns 
 and moves aicay a few steps toward R.] 
 
 Wilfred. [After pause — goes to her] 
 You will write to Father to-night — ^won't 
 you"? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Yes — yes ! I '11 write to 
 him. [Door hell is heard ringing in dis- 
 tant part of the house. — Wilfred and 
 Mrs. Varney both listen. — Martha en- 
 ters up L. c. from R. and crosses outside 
 door up L. c. on her way to the front 
 door, going off up l. to l. — Heavy sound 
 of door off up L. — In a moment she re- 
 turns up L. from L. and stands in the 
 wide doorway up l. c] 
 
 Martha. Hit's one o' de men fum de 
 hossiple ma'am. [Wilfred hurries to 
 door up l. and exits to L. to see the mes- 
 
 Mrs. Varney. We 've just sent all the 
 bandages we have Martha. 
 
 Martha. He says dey's all used up, an' 
 two more trains juss come in crowded 
 full o' wounded sojers — an' mos' all of 
 'em drefful bad! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Is Miss Kittridge here yet 1 
 
 Martha. Yass 'm, she 's yeah. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Ask her if they 've got 
 enough to send. Even if it 's only a lit- 
 tle let them have it. What they need 
 most is bandages. 
 
 Martha. [Crossing toward door up c] 
 Yaas 'm. [Exits door up c. — Mrs. Var- 
 ney goes toward the door up L. c. Stops 
 near the door and speaks a word to Mes- 
 senger who is waiting at front door out- 
 side to L. to attract his attention — then 
 beckons him] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Oh — [Beckoning] Come 
 in please! [She moves toward c. — Mes- 
 senger appears at the door up L. c. from 
 L. He is a crippled soldier in battered 
 Confederate uniform. His left arm is in 
 a sling] What hospital did you come 
 from'? 
 
 Messenger. [Bemains up near door up 
 L. c] The Winder ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Have you been to St. 
 Paul's? You know the ladies are work- 
 ing there to-night. 
 
 Messenger. Yes — but they hain't a-work- 
 in' for the hospitals, ma'am — they 're 
 a-making of sandbags for the fortifica- 
 tions. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. I do hoj)e we can give you 
 something. 
 
 Messenger. Yes ma'am. [Miss Kitt- 
 ridge enters at door up c. bringing a 
 small bundle of lint, etc. — Mrs. Varney 
 moves doivn and soon seats herself on 
 couch down R. c] 
 
 Miss Kittridge. This is all there is now. 
 [She hands the package to the Messen- 
 ger] If you '11 come back in an hour 
 we'll have more. [Messenger takes 
 package and exits at door up L. c. to l. — 
 Sound of heavy door closing outside up 
 L.] We 're all going to stay to-night, 
 Mrs. Varney. There 's so many more 
 wounded come in it won't do to stop now. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [On couch] No no — we 
 mustn't stop. 
 
 Miss Kittridge. [Near c] Is — is your 
 son — is there any change ■? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. I'm afraid the fever's in- 
 creasing. 
 
 Miss Kittridge. Has the Surgeon seen 
 him this evening*? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. No — oh no ! [Shaking her 
 head] We could n't ask him to come 
 twice — with so many waiting for him at 
 the hospital. 
 
 Miss Kittridge. But they could n't refuse 
 you Mrs. Varney ! — There 's that man go- 
 ing right back to the hospital ! I '11 call 
 him and send word that — [Starting to- 
 ward the door up L.] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Bises] No no — I can't 
 let you! 
 
 [Miss Kittridge stops and turns to 
 Mrs. Varney in surprise] 
 
 Miss Kittridge. Not for — ^j^our own son*? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Think how many own sons 
 must be neglected to visit mine twice ! 
 [Sound of door outside up l. — Enter 
 Edith Varney at door up l. c. from 
 L. — a light quick entrance — coming 
 from outside — hat in hand as if tak- 
 ing it off as she comes in] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Meeting Edith] Edith 
 dear ! How late you are ! You must be 
 tired to death ! 
 
 Edith. Oh no I'm not! — Besides, I 
 have n't been at the hospital all day. 
 Good-bye Miss Kittridge — I want to tell 
 Mama something. 
 
 Miss Kittridge. dear! [Turning up] 
 I '11 get out of hearing right quick ! 
 [Goes out at door up c] 
 
 Edith. [Up to door lightly and calling 
 after Miss Kittridge] I hope you don't 
 mind ! 
 
 Miss Kittridge. [As she exits up c] 
 
684 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Mercy no — I should think not! [Edith 
 closes the door and goes to Mrs. Varney 
 taking her down stage to chair r. of 
 table L. c. — Mrs. Varney sits in chair 
 and Edith on stool close to her on her h., 
 in front of the table] 
 
 Edith. Mama — what do you think? What 
 do you think? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. What is it dear? 
 
 Edith. I 've been to see the President ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Mr. Davis! 
 
 Edith. Um hm! [Assent] An' I asked 
 him for an appointment for Captain 
 Thorne on the War Department Tele- 
 g-raph Service — an' he gave it to me — a 
 Special Commission Mama — appointing 
 him to duty here in Richmond — a very 
 important position — so now he won't 
 have to be sent back to the front — an' 
 it '11 be doing his duty just the same! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. But Edith — ^you don't 
 
 Edith. Yes it will, Mama! The Presi- 
 dent told me they needed a man who mi- 
 derstood telegraphing and who was of 
 high enough rank to take charge of the 
 Service! And you know Cap'n Thorne 
 is an expert ! Since he 's been here in 
 Richmond he 's helped 'em in the tele- 
 graph office over an' over again — Lieu- 
 tenant Foray told me so ! [Mrs. Varney 
 sloicly rises and moves away toward c. — 
 After a slight pause] Now Mama, 
 you 're going to scold an' behave dread- 
 fully — an' you must n't — because it 's all 
 fixed — an' there 's no trouble — an' the 
 commission '11 be sent over here in a few 
 minutes — just as soon as it can be made 
 out ! An' the next time he comes I 'm to 
 hand it to him myself! [Turiis l. 
 a7id moves away a little beyond the table 
 L. c] 
 
 Mrs. Varney, [Moves back toward table 
 L. c] He 's coming this evening. 
 
 Edith. [Turns quickly at down l. and 
 looks at Mrs. Varney an instant before 
 speaking — then in low voice] How do 
 you know? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Moving toward table l. c] 
 This note came half an hour ago. 
 [Reaching toward the note to get it for 
 Edith. — Edith however sees the note in- 
 stantly, and impulsively snatches it and 
 goes toward r. with it] 
 
 Edith. Has it been here — all this time? 
 [Takes note from the already opened en- 
 velope as she pauses near c. and eagerly 
 glances at it] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [After a moment] You 
 sje what he says — this '11 be his last call. — 
 
 He 's got his orders to leave. [Sits R. of 
 table L. c] 
 
 Edith. [Sitting on couch r. c] Why it 's 
 too ridiculous! Just as if the Commis- 
 sion from the President would n't super- 
 sede everything! It puts him at the 
 head of the Telegraph Service! He'll 
 be in the command of the Department ! — 
 He says — [Glancing at note] '"good-by 
 call" does he! All the better— it'll be 
 that much more of a surprise. [Rising 
 and going toward Mrs. Varney] Now 
 Mama, don't you breathe — I want to tell 
 him myself! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. But Edith dear— I don't 
 quite approve of your going to the Presi- 
 dent about this. 
 
 Edith. [Changing from light manner 
 to earnestness] But listen. Mama — I 
 could n't go to the War Department peo- 
 ple — Mr. Arrelsford 's there in one of 
 the offices — and ever since I refused him 
 you know how he 's treated me ! — 
 [Slight deprecatory motion from MiSS 
 Varney] If I 'd applied for the ap- 
 pointment there he 'd have had it re- 
 fused — and he 'd have got them to order 
 Cap'n Thorne away right off — I know he 
 would — and — [Stands motionless as she 
 til inks of it] That 's where his orders to 
 go came from! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. But my dear 
 
 Edith. It is, Mama! [Slight pause] 
 Is n't it lucky I got that commission to- 
 day ! [Emphasis on "Is n't." — Crossing 
 down R. — at R. c. near lounge] [Door 
 bell lings in distant part of the house. — 
 Jonas appears above door up l. c. from 
 R. and goes off l. to front door. — Mrs. 
 Varney moves up stage a little waiting 
 to see who it is. — Edith listening.—^ 
 Heavy sound of door closing outside up 
 L. — Jonas eyiters at the door up l. c. 
 from L.] 
 
 Jonas. [Coming down r. of Mrs. Var- 
 ney] It 's a officer, ma'am. He saj^s 
 he's fum de President — an' — [Hands a 
 card to Mrs. Varney] he's got ter see 
 Miss Edith pussonully. 
 
 Edith. [Going up c. a little. — Low voice] 
 It 's come, Mama ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Rises and goes up c] 
 Ask the gentleman in. [Jonas exits at 
 door up L. c. to L. — Mrs. Varney gives 
 Edith the card] 
 
 Edith. [After a glance at the card] Oh 
 yes! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Do you know 
 who it is? 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 585 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] No ! But he 's from 
 the President so it must be the Commis- 
 sion! 
 
 [Enter Jonas at door up l. c. from L. He 
 comes on a little way, bowing someone 
 in] 
 
 [Enter Lieut. Maxwell at door up l. c. 
 from L. — He is a very dashing young 
 officer, handsome, polite and dressed. in a 
 showy and perfectly fitting uniform. — 
 Jonas exits at door up l. c. to r. — Mrs. 
 Varney advances a little] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. Good evening. [Bow- 
 ing] [Mrs. Varney hows slightly. — To 
 Mrs. Varney] Have I the honah of ad- 
 dressing- Miss Varney'? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [c] I am Mrs. Varney, 
 sir. [Emphasizing "Mrs." a little] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell, [l. c. — Bowing to Mrs. 
 , Varney] Madam — I 'm very much 
 afraid this looks like an intrusion on my 
 part, but I come from the President and 
 he desires me to see Miss Varney person- 
 ally! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Inclining her head gra- 
 ciously] Anyone from the President 
 could not be otherwise than welcome. — 
 This is my daughter. [Indicating Edith 
 who is R. c] 
 
 (Lieut. Maxwell hows to Edith and 
 she returns the salutation. He then 
 walks across to her, taking a large 
 brown envelope from his belt] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. Miss Varney, the Presi- 
 dent directed me to deliver this into your 
 hands — with his compliments. [Handing 
 the envelope to Edith] He is glad to 
 be able to do this not only at your re- 
 quest, but as a special favor to your fa- 
 ther, General Varney. 
 
 Edith. [Taking envelope] Oh thank 
 you! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Won't you be seated, Lieu- 
 tenant <? 
 
 Edith. [In front] yes — do! [Holds 
 envelope pressed very tight against her 
 side] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. Nothing would please 
 me so much I assure you — but I 'm com- 
 pelled to be back at the President's house 
 right away — I 'm on duty this evening. — 
 Would you mind writing me off a line or 
 two Miss Varney — just to say you have 
 the communication'? 
 
 Edith. Why certainly! — [Takes a step or 
 two toward desk at right] You want a 
 receipt — I — [Stops hesitating — then turns 
 
 and crosses^ toward door up L.] I'll go 
 upstairs to my desk — it won't take a min- 
 ute! [Turns at door] And — could I 
 put in how much I thank the President 
 for his kindness"? 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell, [c] I'm very sure 
 he 'd be more than pleased ! [Edith 
 exits at door up L. c. and hastens up the 
 stairway] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Moving forward slowly] 
 We have n't heard so much cannonading 
 to-day. Lieutenant. Do they know what 
 it means'? 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Going forward with 
 Mrs. Varney] I don't think they're 
 quite positive ma'am, but they can't help 
 lookin' for a violent attack to follow. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. I don't see why it should 
 quiet down before an assault! 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Near c] It might be 
 some signal, ma'am, or it might be they 're 
 moving their batteries to open on a spe- 
 cial point. They 're tryin' ev'ry way to 
 break through our defenses — ev'ry way 
 they know ! 
 
 [Boor hell rings in distant part of 
 house] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. It 's very discouraging ! 
 [Seats herself R. of table l. c] We can't 
 seem to drive them back this time ! 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. No ma'am, but we're 
 holding 'em where they are ! They 're no 
 nearer, now than they were six weeks ago, 
 an' they '11 never get in unless they do it 
 by some scurvy trick — that 's where the 
 danger lies ! [Heavy sound of door out- 
 side up L.] 
 
 [Enter Edith coming lightly and quickly 
 down the stairway up L.] 
 
 Edith. [Entering at door up l. c. from 
 stairivay, with a note in her hand, and 
 ivithout the official envelope, which she 
 has left in her room] Is Lieutenant Max- 
 well — [Seeing him down stage with Mrs. 
 Varney and going across toward him] 
 yes! 
 
 [Lieut. Maxwell moves up r. c. meet- 
 ing Edith] 
 
 [Jonas enters at door up l. c. from l. as 
 Edith reaches c, showing in Captain 
 Thorne] 
 
 Jonas. [As he enters and stands hack for 
 Thorne to pass] Will you jess kinely 
 step dis way suh ! 
 
 [Mrs. Varney rises and moves down 
 in front of and then up L. of table. — 
 Maxwell meets Edith up r. c] 
 
586 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Edith. [Meeting Maxwell up r. c] I 
 did ii't know but you — [-67ie stops — hear- 
 ing Jonas up l. — and quickly turns, look- 
 ing off L.] Oh! — Captain Tliorne! 
 
 [Enter Captain Thorxe at door up l. c. 
 from L., meeting and shaking hands with 
 Edith up l. c. — Thorne wears the uni- 
 form of a Confederate Captain of Artil- 
 lery. It is somewhat ivorn and soiled. 
 Lieut. Maxwell turned and moved up 
 a little on Edith's entrance, remaining a 
 little R. of c. — Jonas exits door up l. c. 
 to R.] 
 
 Edith. [Up l. c. — Giving Thorne her 
 hand briefly] We were expecting you ! — 
 Here *s Captain Thorne, mama ! 
 
 [Mrs. Varney moves up l. c. meeting 
 Thorne and shaking hands with him 
 graciously. — Edith turns away and 
 goes to Lieut. Maxwell up r. c. — 
 Thorne and Mrs. Varney move up 
 C. near small table and converse] 
 Edith, [r. c] I wasn't so very long 
 writing it, was I Lieutenant? [She 
 hands Lieut. Maxwell tlie note] 
 Lieut. Maxwell, [r. c] I 've never seen 
 a quicker piece of work, Miss Varney. 
 [Putting the note in belt or pocket] 
 When you want a clerkship ovah at the 
 Government offices you must shorely let 
 me know ! 
 Edith. [Smilingly] You 'd better not 
 commit yourself — I might take you at 
 your word ! 
 Lieut. Maxwell. Nothing would please 
 me so much I 'm sure ! All you 've got to 
 do is just to apply! 
 Edith. Lots of the girls are doing it — 
 they have to, to live ! Are n't there a 
 good many where you are'? 
 Lieut. Maxwell. Well we don't have so 
 many as they do over at the Treasury. I 
 believe there are more ladies there than 
 men! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Comes down a little] 
 Perhaps you gentlemen have met ! — 
 [Glancing toward Lieut. Maxwell and 
 hack to Thorne] 
 
 [Thorne shakes head a little and takes 
 a step forward l. c. facing Max- 
 well] 
 Mrs. Varney. [Introducing] Cap'n 
 
 Thome — Lieutenant Maxwell. 
 Thorne. [Slight inclination of head] 
 
 Lieutenant. 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Returning bow pleas- 
 antly] I have n't had that pleasure — 
 
 though I 've heard the Cap'n's name men- 
 tioned several times! 
 
 Thorne. Yes? [Mrs. Varney awrf Edith 
 are looking at Maxwell] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [As if it were rather 
 amusing] In fact, Cap'n, there 's a gen- 
 tleman in one of our offices who seems 
 mighty anxious to pick a fight with 
 you! 
 
 [Edith is suddenly serious and a look 
 of apprehension spreads over Mrs. 
 Varney's face] 
 
 Thorne. [Easily] Pick a fight ! Really ! 
 Why what office is that, Lieutenant? 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Slightly annoyed] 
 The War Office, sir! 
 
 Thorx^e. Oh dear ! I did n't suppose you 
 had anybody in the War Office who 
 wanted to fight ! 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Almost angry] An' 
 why not, sir? 
 
 Thorne. [Easily] Well he'd hardly be 
 in an office would he — at a time like "this? 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Trying to be light 
 again] I 'd better not tell him that, 
 Cap'n — he'd certainly insist on havin' 
 you out! 
 
 Thorne. [Moving down L. c. with Mrs. 
 Varney] That would be too bad — to in-, 
 terfere with the gentleman's office hours! 
 [Thorne and Mrs. Varney move down 
 L. c. near table — in conversation] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [To Edith] He doesn't 
 believe it Miss Varney, — but it 's certainly 
 true, an' I dare say you know who the 
 
 Edith. [Quickly interrupting Maxwell — 
 low voice] Please don't Lieutenant! — 
 I — [An apprehensive glance toward 
 Thorne] I 'd rather not — [With a slight 
 catch of breath] — talk about it! 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [After short pause of^ 
 surprise] Yes, of course! — I didn't J 
 know there was any I 
 
 Edith. [Interrupting again, with attempt 
 to turn it off] Yes! [A rather nervous 
 effort to laugh lightly] — You know 
 there 's always the weather to fall back 
 on ! 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Picking it up easily] 
 Yes — an' mighty bad weather too — most 
 of the time! 
 
 Edith. [Laughingly] Yes — is n't it ! 
 [They laugh a little and go on talking 
 and laughing to themselves, moving to- 
 ward R. upper window for a moment and 
 soon move across toward door up L. as 
 if Maxwell were going] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Back of table l. c, r. of 
 Thorne] From your note Captain 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 587 
 
 Tliorne, I suppose you 're leaving us 
 soon. Your orders have come. 
 
 Thorne. [Back of table l.c. — l. of Mrs. 
 Varxey] Yes — Mrs. Varney, they have. 
 — I 'm very much afraid this '11 be my last 
 call. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Is n't it rather sudden *? It 
 seems to me they ought to give you a 
 little time. 
 
 Thorne. [Slight smile] We have to be 
 ready for anything you know! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [With a sigh] Yes — I 
 know ! — It 's been a great pleasure to 
 have you drop in on us while you were 
 here. We shall quite miss your visits. 
 
 Thorne. [A slight formality in manner] 
 Thank you Mrs. Varney — I shall never 
 forget what they 've been to me. 
 
 [Maxwell is taking leave of Edith 
 up c] 
 
 Edith. [Up c] Lieutenant Maxwell is 
 going, Mama ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. So soon! Excuse me a 
 moment, Captain ! [Goes hurriedly to- 
 ward Maxwell. — Thorne goes doivn l. 
 of table l. c. 7zear mantel] 1 'm right 
 sorry to have you hurry away, Lieu- 
 tenant. We shall hope for the pleasure 
 of seeing you again, [r. of Maxwell] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. I shall certainly call, 
 Mrs. Varney — if you '11 allow me. — 
 [Crosses toward door] — Cap'n ! [Salut- 
 ing Thorne from near door up l.] 
 
 Thorne. [Turning from mantel. Half 
 salute] Lieutenant ! 
 
 Maxwell. Miss Varney! Mrs. Varney! 
 [Bowing to each. Exiis door up L. c. to 
 l. — Mrs. Varney follows Maxwell of 
 at door up L. c. to L. speaking as she 
 goes] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [As she goes off with Max- 
 well] Now remember Lieutenant, 
 you, 're to come sometime when duty 
 does n't call you away so soon ! 
 
 [Edith turns and moves slonly to table 
 up c. on Maxwell's exit] 
 
 Lieut. Maxwell. [Outside. — Voice get- 
 ting more dista7it] Trust me to attend 
 to that, Mrs. Varney! 
 
 [Sound of heavy door closing off up L.] 
 
 Thorne. [Moving toward Edith who is 
 up c. at small table] Shall I see Mrs. 
 Varney again? 
 
 Edith. [Getting a rose from vase on table 
 up c] Oh yes — you '11 see her again I 
 
 Thorne. [At the little table up l.c. near 
 Edith — on her left] I have n't long to 
 stay. 
 
 Edith. Oh — not long! 
 
 Thorne. No-^I 'm sorry to say. 
 
 Edith. [Moving slowly down l. c] Well 
 — do you know — I think you have more 
 time than you really think you have! 
 It would be odd if it turned out that 
 way — would n't it ? [Playing with the 
 flower in her hand] 
 
 Thorne. [Who moves down l. c as Edith 
 does] Yes — but it won't turn out that 
 way. 
 
 Edith. Yes — but you — [She stops as 
 Thorne is taking the rose from her hand 
 — which she ivas holding up in an absent 
 icay as she talked. — Thorne at the same 
 time holds the hand she had it in. She 
 lets go of the rose and draws away her 
 hand] 
 [Slight pause] 
 
 Edith. [A little embarrassed] You know 
 — you can sit down if you want to! 
 [Indicating chair at L. of table] 
 
 Thorne. [Smiles a little] Yes — I see. 
 [He has the rose] 
 
 Edith. [Sits r. of table l.c] You'd 
 better! — I have a great many things to 
 say! 
 
 Thorne. Oh — you have! 
 
 Edith. [Nodding. — Her left hand is on 
 the table] Yes. 
 
 Thorne. I have only one. 
 
 Edith. [Looking up at him] And — that 
 is •? 
 
 Thorne. [Leaning toward her over table, 
 and covering her hand with his] Good- 
 bye. 
 
 Edith. But I don't really think you'll 
 have to say it! 
 
 Thorne. [Earnestly — looking down into 
 her eyes] 1 know I will! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice — more serious] Then 
 it '11 be because you want to ! 
 
 Thorne. [Quickly] Oh no! It will be 
 — because I must. 
 
 Edith. [Rising slowly and looking at him 
 a little mischievously as she does so] 
 Oh — because you must! [Thorne nods 
 a little — saying "yes'' with his lips. — 
 Edith walks toward C. thinking how to 
 tell him. — He watches her. — She sud- 
 denly turns back and goes again to table 
 l. c] You don't know some things I 
 do! [She sits in chair r. of table] 
 
 Thorne. [Laughing a little first] 1 
 think that 's more than likely Miss Var- 
 ney! [Moves to l. of table and seats 
 himself in chair facing Edith] Would 
 you mind telling me a few so I can some- 
 w4iat approach you in that respect*? 
 
 Edith. [Seriously] I wouldn't mind 
 
588 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 telling you one, and that is, it 's very 
 wrong for you to think of leaving Rich- 
 mond 3'et ! 
 
 Thorne. Ah — but you don't 
 
 Edith. [Breaking quickly in'\ Oh yes I 
 do! 
 
 Thorne. [Looking up at Iter amused'] 
 Well— what? 
 
 Edith. Whatever you were going to say! 
 Most likely it was that there 's something 
 or other I don't know about! — But I 
 know this — [Looking away front — eyes 
 lowered a little] you were sent here only 
 a few weeks ago to recover from a very 
 bad wound — [Thorne looks down and a 
 little front quickly] — and you haven't 
 nearly had time for it yet ! 
 
 Thorne. [As if amused] Ha ha — yes. 
 [Looking up at Edith with usual expres- 
 sion] I do look as if the next gentle 
 breeze would blow me away, don't I*? 
 
 Edith. [Turning to him earnestly — half 
 rising] No matter how you look, you 
 ought not — Oh — [Rising fully and turn- 
 ing away from him] You're just mak- 
 ing fun of it like you always do! [Goes 
 up c. a little. — Turns to Thorne again 
 a little up c] No matter! You can 
 make all the fun you like, but the whole 
 thing is settled and you aren't going 
 away at all! 
 
 [Thorne has risen with Edith and 
 stands near table L. c. watching her 
 smilingly — his hat in left hand] 
 
 Thorne. Oh — I'm not! 
 
 Edith. No — ^you're not! Doesn't that 
 surprise you"? 
 
 Thorne. Well rather! [Puts hat on table 
 and moves up near Edith going hack of 
 table] Now you 've gone into the 
 proiDhesying business perhaps you 
 would n't mind telling me what I am 
 going to do? 
 
 Edith. [Up C. a little. Turning to him] 
 I would n't mind at all — an' it 's this — 
 you see I've been to the — [Hesitates] 
 Now ! I 'm almost afraid to tell you ! 
 
 Thorne. [Near Edith — left of her] 
 Don't tell me Miss Vamey — because it 's 
 true that my orders have come — I 'm 
 leaving tonight. 
 
 [Edith looks at Thorne an instant — 
 then turns and goes R. C. and sits on 
 couch. Turns and looks at him from 
 there] 
 
 Edith. [After looking at Thorne an in- 
 stant] Where — to the front? 
 
 Thorne. [Moving easily across to the 
 couch where Edith sits] Well — [Little 
 
 laugh] you see we — [Sits on couch R. c. 
 near Edith] we can't always tell where 
 orders will take us Miss Varney. 
 
 Edith. But listen ! Supposing there were 
 other orders — from a higher authority — 
 appointing you to duty here? 
 
 Thorne. [Eyes lowered before him] It 
 would n't make any difference. 
 
 Edith. [Sudden alarm] You don't — ^you 
 don't mean you'd go — in spite of them? 
 [Thorne raises his eyes to hers in slight 
 surprise and looks at her an instant. 
 Then he nods affirmatively] But if it 
 proved your first order was a mistake — 
 and — [In her earnestness she makes a lit- 
 tle motion with her left hand within his 
 reach] 
 
 Thorne. [Catching her hand and holding 
 it close in both of his] My first order 
 is n't a mistake Miss Varney. — I — I don't 
 suppose I shall ever see you — [He stops 
 suddenly — then rises quickly and moves 
 up R. c. a little, standing faced up toward 
 window] 
 
 [After watching Thorne until he is 
 motionless Edith rises and crosses 
 up C. to L. of him] 
 
 Edith. [Up c. — With a new apprehen- 
 sion] Is it — is it something danger- 
 ous? 
 
 Thorne. [Turning to Edith and speaking 
 lightly] Well I hope so — enough to 
 make it interesting! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] Don't be angry if I 
 ask you again about your orders — ^I — Oh 
 I must know! 
 
 Thorne. Why? 
 
 Edith. Tell me! — ^Please tell me! 
 
 Thorne. I can't do that Miss Varney. 
 
 Edith. You need n't! I know! [Thornte 
 very slight apprehensive glance to down 
 L. but instantly back to her] They 're 
 sending you on some mission where death 
 is almost certain ! They '11 sacrifice your 
 life because they know you are fearless 
 and will do anything! There's a chance 
 for you to stay here in Richmond and be 
 just as much use — and I 'm going to ask 
 you to do this ! It is n't your life alone 
 — there are other lives to think of — 
 that 's why I ask you ! — It may not sound 
 well — but — you see 
 
 Thorne. [Catching her hands passion- 
 ately] Ah my clear one — my dear — my 
 
 darling — how can I [Suddenly stops. 
 
 Recovers control of himself] No! 
 [Head turned slightly away] You 
 shan't have this against me too ! 
 
 Edith. Oh no! No! I could never have 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 589 
 
 against 
 
 you!- 
 
 -Wliat do you 
 
 anytliinj 
 mean ? 
 
 Thorne. [Holding her hands close] I 
 mean that I must go — my business is 
 elsewhere — I ought never to have seen 
 you or spoken to you — but I had to come 
 to this house — and you were here — and 
 now it's only you in the — [Stops. Re- 
 leases her hands. Turns blindly R. 
 Then turns L. starting toward door up 
 L. c] Your mother — I'll say good-bye 
 to her! 
 
 Edith. [Stepping quickly in his way] 
 No! — You must listen! [Thorne stops 
 before her near c] They need you here 
 in Richmond more than anywhere else — 
 the President told me so himself! — Your 
 orders are to stay! You are given a 
 Special Commission on the War Depart- 
 ment Telegraph service, and you 
 
 Thorxe. [Quickly, decisively, but in sub- 
 dued voice] No no ! I won't take it ! I 
 could n't take it Miss Varney ! 
 
 Edith. You'll do that much for me! 
 
 Thorxe. [Seizing her hands again] It 's 
 for you that I '11 do nothmg of the kind ! 
 If you ever think of me again remember 
 that I refused it! 
 
 Edith. [Breaking into Thorne's last few 
 words] You can't refuse ! It 's the 
 President's request — it 's his order ! 
 [Breaking away from him and going to- 
 ward door up L. c] Please wait a min- 
 ute ! I left it upstairs and you '11 see for 
 yourself that 
 
 Thorxe. Don't get it Miss Varney! 
 [Following her] I won't look at it ! 
 
 Edith. [Stops and turns] But I want 
 you to see what it is ! It puts you at the 
 head of everything! You have entire 
 control ! When you see it I know you '11 
 accept! Please wait! [Edith exits at 
 door up L. c. and runs lightly up the 
 stairway] 
 
 Thorxe. [Following her up toward stair- 
 way] Miss Yarney — I can't 
 
 Edith. [As she goes] Oh yes you can! 
 [Thorxe stands looking up the stair- 
 way after Edith for an instant. 
 Then turns and hurries down to the 
 table at L. c. and seizing his hat and 
 the rose starts rapidly up towards 
 door up L. c. as if to go. — As Thorxe 
 starts down for hat sound of heavy 
 door closing outside up L.] 
 
 [Enter at door up L. c. from L. Carolixe 
 MiTFORD, skipping in lightly, and cross- 
 ing in front of Thorxe — who has stepped 
 
 up out of the way. — She is breathless 
 from having run across the street. — Her 
 dress is made of her great grandmother's 
 wedding gown — as light and pretty as 
 possible — with a touch of the old-fash- 
 ioned in cut and pattern. She is very 
 young and charming] 
 
 Caroline. [Comes quickly on to c. Stops 
 abruptly] Oh! — Cap'n Thorne! 
 
 Thorxe. [Saluting mechanically] Miss 
 Mitford ! [Turns and looks up the stair- 
 way again] 
 
 Carolixe. [Saluting] Yes of co'se — I 
 forgot ! — How lucky this is ! You 're just 
 the very person I wanted to see! [Going 
 toward couch at R. c] . I'll tell you all 
 about it in just a minute ! Goodness me ! 
 [Sits on couch] 1 'm all out o' breath — 
 just runnin' ovah from our house ! [De- 
 votes herself to breathing for a moment] 
 
 Thorxe. [Going quickly down to Caro- 
 lixe at R. c] Miss Mitford — would you 
 do something for me! 
 
 Carolixe. Why of co'se I would! 
 
 Thorxe. [Rapidly] Thank you very 
 much! — Tell Miss Varney when she 
 comes down — Just say good-night for me 
 and tell her I 've gone ! 
 
 Carolixe. [Pretending astonishment] Why 
 I w^ould n't do such a thing for the wide 
 wide w^orld! It would be a wicked 
 dreadful lie — because you won't be gone ! 
 
 Thorxe. Well I 'm sorry you look at it 
 that way. — Good-night Miss Mitford! 
 [Turns to go] 
 
 Carolixe. [Jumping to her feet and run- 
 ning round on his left between him and 
 the door] No no! — You don't seem to 
 understand ! I 've got something to say 
 to you! 
 
 Thorxe. [Hurriedly] Yes — I understand 
 that all right — but some other time ! 
 [Trying to pass Carolixe] 
 
 Carolixe. [Detaining him] No no no ! — 
 Wait! [Thorxe stops] There isn't 
 any other time ! It 's to-night ! — We 're 
 going to have a Starvation Party! 
 
 Thorxe. Good heavens — another of those 
 things ! 
 
 Carolixe. Yes we are ! It 's goin' to be 
 ovah at mah house this time ! Now we '11 
 expect you in half an hour. [Her finger 
 up to emphasize the time] 
 
 Thorxe. Thank you very much Miss Mit- 
 ford, but I can't come! [Indicating of 
 L.] I've got to be — 
 
 Carolixe. [Interrupting] N — n — n — 
 [Until she quiets him] Now that 
 
590 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 would n't do at all ! 
 Would 
 
 You went to Mamie 
 you treat me like 
 
 Jones's ! 
 that ? 
 
 Thorne. Mamie Jones — that was last 
 week Thursday— [Caroline trying to 
 stop him with ''now now — now!" etc.] 
 and her mother — [Caroline louder with 
 ''now — now!" — Thorne raises his voice 
 
 above the din] Her mother 
 
 [As Caroline is still going on he gives 
 it up and turns front in despair] 
 
 Caroline. [When quiet has come. — Very 
 distinctly] Now there is n't any use o' 
 talkin' ! 
 
 Thorne. Yes I see that ! 
 
 Caroline. Did n't you promise to obey 
 v/hen I gave orders'? Well these are or- 
 ders! 
 
 Thorne. [Turning to her for a last at- 
 tempt] Yes, but this time 
 
 Caroline. This time is just the same as all 
 the other times only worse! [Turns 
 away and goes to hack of table l. c. and 
 picks up something from table] 
 
 [Thorne turns and goes a little way 
 toward up r. c. as if discouraged] 
 
 Caroline. [Without turning] Besides 
 that, she expects it. 
 
 [Thorne turns and looks across at 
 Caroline] 
 
 Thorne. What did you say? 
 
 Caroline. [At table l. c. — Smelling a 
 flower daintily. Facing front] I say 
 she expects it — that 's all ! 
 
 Thorne. Who do you mean"? [Moves 
 toward her to C. enquiringly] 
 
 Caroline. [Turns and looks at him] 
 Who? 
 
 Thorne. 
 
 Caroline. 
 you? 
 
 Thorne. 
 
 Caroline. 
 you s'pose 
 time? 
 
 Thorne. You mean — you mean she ex- 
 pects me to — [Slight motion of hand to- 
 ward door up L. c] 
 
 Caroline. Why of co'se she does! — Just 
 to take her ovah that 's all ! — Goodness 
 me — you need n't stay if you don't want 
 to ! Now I '11 go an' tell her you 're 
 waiting — that 's what I '11 do ! [Starts 
 up toward door up l. c. — Stops and 
 turns] You won't go now? [Emphasize 
 -go^'] 
 
 Thorne. [Hesitating] Well — e — I — I 
 
 If she expects it Miss Mitford [Moving 
 y,p toward Caroline] I '11 wait an' take 
 
 [Assent] Um hm! 
 [Innocently] Who 
 
 expects 
 
 [Assent again] Ah ha! 
 AVhy Edith of co'se ! Who did 
 I was talkin' about all this 
 
 her over — but I can't stay at your party 
 a minute! 
 
 Caroline. I thought you 'd come to your 
 senses some time or other! — You don't 
 seem to quite realize w^hat you 've got to 
 do! — See here, Mr. Captain — [Taking 
 hold of the left sleeve of his coat and 
 bringing him down C. a little way] Was 
 she most ready? 
 
 Thorne. Well — e — how do I — how — 
 
 Caroline. What dress did she have on? 
 
 Thorne. Dress? — Why I hardly 
 
 Caroline. Oh you men! Why she 's only 
 got two! 
 
 Thorne. [Believed] Yes — well then veiy 
 likely this was one of them, Miss Mit- 
 ford! 
 
 Caroline. [Starting up toward door up 
 L. c] Oh^ no mattali — I 'm going up 
 anyhow! [Thorne moves up c. as Caro- 
 line goes up L. c. — Caroline stops up 
 l. c. near door and turns back to 
 Thorne] Cap'n Thome — you can wait 
 out there on the veranda! [Pointing to 
 window up R.] 
 
 Thorne. [Glances where site points — then 
 to her] Yes of course — but if I wait 
 right here I can see her when she 
 
 Caroline. [Majestically] Those are or- 
 ders! [Thorne looks at her an instant 
 — tlien salutes and wheels about making 
 complete military turn to R. and marches 
 toward the icindow at up R. — Caroline 
 is watching him admiringly. Speaks as 
 Thorne reaches up r. c] It's cooler 
 outside you know! 
 
 Thorne. [Turning to her at up R. C. and 
 standing in stiff mUitary attitude] Par- 
 don me Miss Mitford — orders never have 
 to be explained! 
 
 Caroline. That 's right ! — I take back th^ 
 explanation ! [Taking one step to her 
 R. as she gives an odd little salute] 
 
 Thorne. [With deferential salute in 
 slight imitation of hers — but with step 
 to his left] That's right Miss Mitford 
 — take it back! [Turns and is reaching 
 to pull aside curtains of icindow up R. 
 with right hand] 
 
 Caroline. And — oh yes — Cap'n! 
 
 [Thorne turns to her again question- 
 ingly — right hand still holding cur- 
 tain behind him] 
 
 Caroline. [A peremptory order] Smoke! 
 [For an instant Thorne does not un- 
 derstand. Then he sees it and re- \ 
 lapses at once into easy manner, I 
 stepping forward a little and feeling 
 with right hand in breast of coat 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 591 
 
 front for cigar — turning somewhat 
 to front] 
 
 Thorxe. [As above] Oh — lia lia — [Smil- 
 ing] you mean one of those Nashville 
 sto — 
 
 Caroline. Silence sir ! [Thorne looks at 
 her quickly] Orders never have to be ex- 
 plained ; 
 
 Thorxe. [With salute] Right again Miss 
 Mitford — orders never have to be ex- 
 plained ! [Salutes, turns and goes off at 
 'Window up R.] 
 
 Caroline. [Looks admiringly after 
 Thorxe] He's splendid! If Wilfred 
 was only like that! [Moves down c. 
 slowly, thinking it over] But then — our 
 engagement 's broken off anyhow so 
 what's the diff! — Only — if he was like 
 that I 'd. — no ! I don't think I would 
 either! [Shakes her head] No! — Still 
 — I must say it would make a heap of 
 difference! An' then if he was like 
 
 that [In same tone — seeing Mrs. 
 
 Varxey close to her] Why how dy do! 
 
 [Mrs. Varxey has entered on earlier 
 
 cue, at door up l. c. from L., and 
 
 noticing Carolixe has come down to 
 
 her on her left] 
 
 Mrs. Varxey. Why Caroline dear, what 
 are you talking about all to yourself? 
 
 Caroline. [Confused] Oh — just — I was 
 just saying you know — that — why I don't 
 know — I don't really know what I was 
 goin' to — e — Do you think it's goin' to 
 rain? 
 
 Mrs. Varxey. Dear me, child — I have n't 
 thought about it ! — Why what have you 
 got on? Is that a new dress? 
 
 Carolixe. New dress! Well I should 
 think it was — I mean is! These are my 
 great grandmother's mother's weddin' 
 clothes ! Are n't they just the most beau- 
 fleist you ever saw ! Just in the nick of 
 time too! I was on my very last rags, 
 an' I did n't know what to do — an' Mama 
 gave me a key and told me to look in an 
 old horsehair trunk in the attic — an' I 
 did^and these were in it! [Takes a 
 dance step or two, holding skirt out] 
 Just in time for the Starvation party to- 
 night! Ran ovah to show it to Edith — 
 where is she? 
 
 Mrs. Varxey. She won't be over to-night, 
 I 'm afraid. [Crosses to R. c] 
 
 Caroline, [c] Oh yes she will! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. But I 've just come down 
 dear ! 
 
 Caroline, Yes but I'm just going up 
 dear! [Turns and rum off at door up 
 
 L. c. and up the stairway, disappearing 
 at the upper landing. — Mrs. Varney 
 alone a moment. After a little she moves 
 forward in thought. Then turns to desk 
 R. and prepares to write a letter. Sud- 
 denly Caroline races down the stairs 
 again and runs lightly on at door up 
 L. c. — Mrs. Varney looks up surprised. — 
 Caroline hurries across toward window 
 up R. as if going out] You see Caroline, 
 it was no use! 
 Caroline. [Turning] No use! [Comes 
 down in front of couch near Mrs. Var- 
 ney] 
 Mrs. Varney. [At desk r.] Why you 
 
 don't mean — in this short time 
 
 Caroline. Goodness me ! I did n't stop 
 
 to argue with her — I just told her ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Told her what, child ! 
 
 Caroline. Why — that Cap'n Thorne was 
 
 waitin' for her out yere on the v'randah ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. But she is n't going is she ? 
 
 Caroline. Well, I wouldn't like to say 
 
 for sure — [Moving nearer Mrs. VaRney 
 
 and in lower voice] but you just watch 
 
 which dress she has on when she comes 
 
 down ! Now I '11 go out there an' tell 
 
 him she '11 be down in a minute — then 
 
 the whole thing's finished up all round! 
 
 [Turns l. and goes around couch and up 
 
 toward window up r. speaking as she 
 
 goes] I have more work getting people 
 
 fixed up so they can come to my party 
 
 than it would take to run a blockade into 
 
 Savannah every fifteen minutes! [She 
 
 runs lightly off at window up R.] 
 
 [Mrs. Varney looks after Caroline 
 with a smile and then taking some 
 paper and envelopes in her hand, 
 rises and moves as if to go to door 
 up L. — Enter Wilfred at door up 
 L. c. from L. coming in as though 
 he wished to avoid being seen, and 
 looking off up the stairway as he en- 
 ters. He carries a large bundle 
 stujfed loosely under his coat, which 
 is done up in a paper. He turns 
 quickly seeing Mrs. Varney and 
 makes a very slight movement as if 
 to better conceal the package he car- 
 ries. Stands looking at her] 
 Mrs. Varxey. What have you got there 
 
 Wilfred? 
 Wilfred. Here ? 
 
 Mrs. Varxey. Yes — under your coat. 
 Wilfred. Oh — this! [Tapping the place 
 where his coat protrudes] Why it 's 
 only a — that is, it 's one of the — e — Have 
 you written that letter yet ? 
 
591 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Miia. Vauxey. No dear, I Ve been too 
 
 busy. But I 'm going* to do it right now. 
 
 [Mrs. Varney goes across to door up 
 
 L. c. — Near the door she glances round a 
 
 little anxiously at Wilfred. — Wilfred is 
 
 looking at her. — Then she turns and exits 
 
 at door up L. c. and goes up the stairicay] 
 
 [Wilfred turns away after she has 
 
 gone. Glances round room. Goes 
 
 to table down L. c. and begins to 
 
 undo the package cautiously. He 
 
 has hardly more than loosened the 
 
 paper when Caroline appears at 
 
 window up R.] 
 
 Caroline. [Speaking off at window up r.] 
 
 Those are orders Cap'n — an' orders never 
 
 have to be explained ! 
 
 [Wilfred hurriedly stuffs the loosened 
 bundle inside his coat again'] 
 Thorne. [Outside the ivindow up R.] 
 Right you are Miss Mitford! I'll see 
 that they 're carried out ! 
 
 [Caroline enters through windoiv up R. 
 closiyig it after her, but does not close the 
 portieres. — Wilfred is about to start to- 
 ward down L. — Caroline turning from 
 window r. sees Wilfred. — Both stand an 
 instant] 
 
 Caroline. [After the pause] Good eve- 
 ning Mr. Vamey! [Emphasize "Mr. 
 Varney"] 
 
 Wilfred. [Coldly] Good evening Miss 
 Mitford! [Emphasize "Miss Mitford"] 
 [Both now start rapidly toward door up 
 L. c, but as it brings them toward each 
 other they stop simultaneously up l. in 
 order to avoid meeting in the cloorway] 
 
 Caroline. Excuse me — I 'm in a great 
 hurry ! 
 
 Wilfred. That 's plain enough ! [Looks 
 at her] Another party I reckon ! 
 ["Party" with contemptuous emphasis] 
 
 Caroline. You reckon perfectly correct — 
 it is another party! [Turns and moves 
 slowly down toward c] 
 
 Wilfred. Dancing! [Moves down h. c] 
 
 Caroline. Well — what of it ! W^hat 's 
 the matter with dancing I 'd like to know ! 
 
 Wilfred, [d. c] Nothing 's the matter 
 with it — if you w^ant to do it ! [Stands 
 looking away to down l.] 
 
 Caroline. Well I want to do it fast 
 enough if that 's all you mean ! [Turns 
 away a little toward r.] 
 
 Wilfred. [An emphatic turn toward her] 
 But I must say it 's a pretty way to 
 carry on — with the sound of the cannon 
 not six miles away! 
 
 [Wilfred is dead in earnest not only 
 in this scene but throughout the en- 
 tire performance. To give the faint- 
 est idea tliat he thinks there is any- 
 thing humorous about his lines or 
 behavior would be inexcusable] 
 
 Caroline. [Turning back to him] Well 
 what do you want us to do — sit down and 
 cry about if? — A heap o' good that would 
 do now would n't it '^. 
 
 Wilfred. Oh — I haven't time to talk 
 about it! [Turns up as if to go] 
 
 Caroline. Well it was you who started 
 out to talk about it — I 'm right sure I 
 didn't! 
 
 [Wilfred stops dead on Caroline's 
 speech, and after a quick glance to 
 see that no one is near, goes down to 
 her] 
 
 Wilfred. You need n't try to fool me ! I 
 know well enough how you 've been car- 
 rying on since our engagement was 
 broken off! Half a dozen officers pro- 
 posing to you — a dozen for all I know ! 
 
 Caroline. What difference does it make? 
 I haven't got to marry 'em have I'? 
 
 Wilfred, [l. c] Well — [Twist of head] 
 it is n't very nice to go on like that I 
 must say — proposals by the wholesale! 
 [Turning away] 
 
 Caroline. [c] Goodness gracious — 
 what 's the use of talking to me about it *? 
 They We the ones that propose — I don't! 
 
 Wilfred. [Turning on her l. c] Well 
 what do you let 'em do it for? 
 
 Caroline, [c] How can I help it? 
 
 Wilfred. Ho! [Sneer] Any girl can 
 help it ! — You helped it with me all right ! 
 
 Caroline. Well — [An odd little glance to 
 floor in front] that was different ! 
 
 Wilfred. And ever since you threw me" 
 ovah — 
 
 Caroline. [Looking up at him indig- 
 nantly] Oh! — I didn't throw you ovah 
 — you just went ovah! [Turns away to 
 R. a little] 
 
 Wilfred. Well I went over because you 
 walked off alone, with Major Sillsby that 
 night we were at Drury's Bluff an' en- 
 couraged him to propose — [Caroline 
 looks round in wrath] Yes — [Advancing 
 to c] encouraged him! 
 
 Caroline, [r. c] Of co'se I did! I 
 did n't want 'im hangin' round forever 
 did I ? That 's the on'y way to jBnish 'em 
 off! 
 
 Wilfred, [c] You want to finish too 
 many of 'em off! Nearly every officer 
 in the 17th Virginyab, I 'U be sworn I 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 593 
 
 Caroline. Well what do you want me to 
 do — string a placard round my neck say- 
 ing' "No proposals received here — apply 
 at the office !" Would that make you feel 
 any better *? 
 
 Wilfred. [Throwing it of loith pretended 
 carelessness] Oh — it does n't make any 
 difference to me what you do ! [Turns 
 away] 
 
 Caroline. Well if it does n't make any 
 difference to you, it doesn't even make 
 as much as that to me! [Turns and goes 
 to couch at R. C. and sits on left end 
 of it] 
 
 Wilfred. [Turning on her again] Oh — 
 it does n't ! I think it does though ! — 
 You looked as if you enjoyed it pretty 
 well while the 3rd Virginyah w^as in the 
 city! 
 
 Caroline. [Jumping to her feet] En- 
 joyed it! I should think I did! I just 
 love every one of 'em ! They 're on their 
 way to the front ! They 're going to 
 fight for us — an' — an' ^ie for us — an' I 
 love 'em! [Turns front] 
 
 Wilfred. Well why don't you accept one 
 of 'em an' done with it! 
 
 Caroline. How do you know but what 
 I 'm going to % 
 
 Wilfred. [Goes toward her a little] I 
 suppose it '11 be one of those smart young 
 fellows with a cavalry uniform ! 
 
 Caroline. It '11 be some kind of a uni- 
 form — I can tell you that ! It won't be 
 anybody that stays here in Richmond — ■ 
 
 Wilfred. [Unable for a few seconds to 
 say anything. Looks about room help- 
 lessly. Then speaks in low voice] Now 
 I see what it was ! I had to stay in Rich- 
 mond — an' so you — an' so 
 
 Caroline. [In front of couch r. c] Well 
 — [Looking down — playing with some- 
 thing with her foot] that made a heap o' 
 difference! [Looks up. — Different tone] 
 Why I was the on'y girl on Franklin 
 Street that did n't have a — a — [Hesitates] 
 — someone she was engaged to at the 
 front! The on'y one! Just thiiik what 
 it was to be out of it like that! [Wil- 
 fred simply looks at her] Why you 've 
 no idea what I suffered ! Besides, it 's 
 our — it 's our duty to help all we can ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Looking up toward front] 
 Help ! [Thinking of the trousers under 
 his coat] 
 
 Caroline. Yes — help ! There are n't many 
 things we girls can do — I know that well 
 enough ! But Colonel Woodbridge — he 's 
 one o' Morgan's men you know — well he 
 
 told MolliO' Pickens that the boys fight 
 twice as well when they have a — a sweet- 
 heart at home! [Wilfred glances 
 quickly about as he thinks] 
 
 Wilfred. He said that did he ! 
 
 Caroline. Yes — an' if we can make 'em 
 fight twice as w^ell why we just ought to 
 do it — that 's all ! We girls can't do 
 much but we can do something! 
 
 Wilfred. [Short pause. — He makes an 
 absent-minded motion of feeling of the 
 package under his arm] You 're in 
 earnest are you"? 
 
 Caroline. Earnest ! 
 
 Wilfred. You really . want to help — all 
 you can! 
 
 Caroline. Well I should think I did! 
 
 Wilfred. Yes — but do you now? 
 
 Caroline. Of co'se — that 's what I say ! 
 
 Wilfred. An' if I was — [Glances around 
 cautiously] — if I was going to join the 
 army — would you help mef 
 
 Caroline. [Looking front and down. — 
 Slight embarrassment] Why of co'se I 
 w^ould — if it w^as anything I could do ! 
 [Emphasize "do'' slightly] 
 
 AYilfred. [Earnestly — quite near her] 
 Oh it 's something you can do all right ! 
 
 Caroline, [r. c. — Hardly daring to look 
 up] What is it? 
 
 Wilfred. [Unrolling a pair of old gray 
 army trousers taking them from' under 
 his coat so that they unfurl before her on 
 cue] Cut these off! [Short pause. — 
 Caroline looking at trousers. — Wilfred 
 looking at her. Wilfred soon goes on 
 very earnestly, holding trousers before 
 his own legs to measure] They're about 
 twice too. long! All you got to do is to 
 cut 'em off about there, an' sew up the 
 ends so they won't ravel out ! 
 
 Caroline, [r. c, — The idea beginning to 
 dawn on her] Why they 're for the 
 Army! [Taking trousers and hugging 
 them to her — legs hanging down] 
 
 Wilfred, [c] Sh ! — Don't speak so loud 
 for heaven's sake ! [A glance back as if 
 afraid of being overheard] I 've got a 
 jacket here too ! [Shows her a small 
 army coat] Nearly a fit — came from the 
 hospital — Johnny Seldon wore it — he 
 
 w^on't want it any more you know 
 
 an' he w^as just about my size! 
 
 Caroline. [r. c. — Low voice] No — ^he 
 won't want it any more. [Stands think- 
 ing] 
 
 Wilfred, [c. — After a slight pause] 
 Well ! — What is it ! — I thought you said 
 you wanted to help ! 
 
SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Caroline. [QuicJdy] Oh yes — I do! I 
 do! 
 
 Wilfred. Well go on — what are you wait- 
 in- for? 
 
 Caroline, [r. c. near end of coiicli] Yes! 
 Yes ! [Hurriedly drops on knees on Jloor 
 and takes hold, spreading trousers out ex- 
 actly and patting them smooth'] This is 
 the place isn't it? [Pointing to near 
 the knees'] 
 
 Wilfred. No — not up there — Here ! [In- 
 dicating about five inches from the hot- 
 torn of the trouser leg] 
 
 Caroline. Oh yes — I see! [Hurriedly 
 snatches pins from her dress. Puts one 
 in mouth and one in place Wilfred indi- 
 cates. All very rapid and earnest. 
 Takes hold of other leg of trousers. 
 Speaking as if pin in mouth. Innocently 
 — and without looking up] The other 
 one just the same? [A musical rise to 
 voice at end of this. — Wilfred does not 
 deign to reply. — Caroline hearing noth- 
 ing looks up at him] Oh yes, o' co'se! 
 [She quickly puts pin in other leg of 
 trousers] 
 
 [From this time on Caroline's de- 
 meanor toward Wilfred is entirely 
 changed. It is because he is going 
 to join the army] 
 
 [Caroline on floor with trousers and coat 
 takes hold of the work with enthusiasm — 
 very busy — pins — etc. — etc.] Do you 
 see any scissors around anywhere! 
 [Wilfred dashes about looking on tables, 
 after throwing jacket on end of couch 
 R. c] This won't never tear — [Trying 
 to tear off the trousers' leg] — for all I 
 can do! 
 
 Wilfred. [First looking on table down 
 L. c. and picking up the paper jacket 
 was wrapped in. Getting a work-basket 
 from table up C. and quickly bringing it] 
 There must be some in here! [Hands 
 the scissors out of the basket to Caro- 
 line. — As she reaches up from her posi- 
 tion on the floor to take them, she looks 
 in Wilfred's face an instant — then 
 quickly down to work again. Then she 
 works with head down. — Wilfred leaves 
 wrapping paper up stage out of the way] 
 [Brief pause. — Caroline working. — 
 Wilfred standing near c. looking 
 down at her] 
 
 Caroline. [On her knees r. c. near couch. 
 Low voice — not looking up at him] 
 When are you goin' to wear 'em? 
 
 Wilfred. [Rather gruffly] When they 're 
 cut off! 
 
 [Caroline looks up at him. Thread 
 or scissors in mouth] 
 
 Caroline. You mean — you're really 
 
 Wilfred. Um hm! [Assent] 
 
 Caroline. But your mother 
 
 Wilfred. She knows. 
 
 Caroline. Oh ! 
 
 Wilfred. She's going to write the Gen- 
 eral to-night. 
 
 Caroline. But how about if he won't let 
 you? 
 
 Wilfred. [With boyish determination — 
 hut keeping voice down] I '11 go just 
 the same! 
 
 Caroline. [Suddenly jumps to her feet 
 dropping everything on the floor and 
 catches his hand] Oh I'm so glad! 
 Why it makes another thing of it ! When 
 I said that about staying in Richmond I 
 did n't know ! Oh, I do want to help all 
 I can! 
 
 Wilfred. [Who has been regarding her 
 burst of enthusiasm rather coldly] You 
 do! 
 
 Caroline. Indeed — indeed I do! 
 
 Wilfred. Then cut those off for Heaven's 
 sake! 
 
 Caroline. Oh yes! [She catches up 
 trousers, jacket, etc., and sits quickly on 
 lounge and excitedly paws them over] 
 Where shall I cut 'em? 
 
 Wilfred. The same place — I haven't 
 grown any! 
 
 Caroline. Dear me — I don't know where 
 it was! 
 
 Wilfred. You stuck some pins in ! 
 
 Caroline. [Finding p)ins] Oh yes — here 
 they are ! [Seizing the trousers and go- 
 ing to work, soon cutting off one of the 
 legs] 
 
 Wilfred. That 's it ! 
 
 Caroline. When did you say she was go- 
 ing to write? 
 
 Wilfred. To-night. 
 
 Caroline. [Looking up with distrust] 
 She does n't want you to go does she ? 
 
 Wilfred. I don't reckon she does — very 
 much! 
 
 Caroline. She '11 tell him not to let you ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Looks at her with wide open 
 eyes] No ! 
 
 Caroline. That 's the way they always do ! 
 
 Wilfred. The devil! 
 
 Caroline. I should think so! 
 
 Wilfred. What can I do? 
 
 Caroline. Write to him yourself! 
 
 Wilfred. Good idea! 
 
 Caroline. Then you can just tell him 
 what you like t 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 595 
 
 Wilfred. I '11 tell him I can't stay here ! 
 Caroline. [Excitedly rising — letting the 
 jacket fall on floor at one side] Tell him 
 you 're coming anyhow ! 
 Wilfred. I will! 
 
 Caroline. Whether he says so or not! 
 Wilfred. Then he'll say so won't he? 
 Caroline. 0' co'se he will — there ain't 
 
 anythin' else to say! 
 Wilfred. I '11 do it ! [Starts to go up l. 
 Stops and goes hack to Caroline] Say 
 — you 're pretty good! [Catching one of 
 Caroline's hands impulsively. — Caro- 
 line looks down at work on floor] 1 '11 
 go upstairs an' write it now! [Starts 
 toward door up L. c. — Caroline watches 
 him. — He turns hack and she looks 
 quickly down again] Finish those things 
 as soon as you can an' leave 'em here — 
 in the hall closet ! [Indicating outside l.] 
 Caroline. [Nodding her head] Yes — I 
 
 will. 
 Wilfred. An' don't let anyone see 'em 
 
 whatever you do ! 
 Caroline. [Shaking her head] No — I 
 won't. 
 
 [Wilfred hurries off at door up l. c. 
 to L. — Caroline looks after him with 
 expression of ecstasy — lapsing into 
 dreaminess as she turns to front. 
 Suddenly recollects with a start and 
 a little "0" and slipping down on 
 floor near couch she goes excitedly 
 to work on the trousers, cutting at 
 the other leg with violence and rapid- 
 ity, getting it nearly cut through so 
 that later it dangles hy a few threads. 
 Suddenly she stops work and listens. 
 Then with great haste she gathers up 
 all the things she can, leaving the 
 jacket however where it fell, and 
 jumps to her feet with them in her 
 arms, hugging the confused bundle 
 close against her and hastily tucking 
 in portions that hang out so that 
 Mrs. Varney won't see what it is] 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Varney door up l. c. coming 
 down the stairway and into the room] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Oh Caroline — you haven't 
 
 gone yet ! 
 Caroline. Not quite ! — I mean not yet ! — 
 
 It does n't begin for an hour you know ! 
 Mrs. Varney. What doesn't begin? 
 Caroline. The party! 
 Mrs. Varney. Oh — then you have plenty 
 
 of time! [Turning as if to go up c] 
 'Caroline. [Hastening across toward door 
 
 up L, c. with her arms fidl of things] 
 
 Yes — but I'il have to go now sure 
 
 enough ! [Near c. she drops the scissors] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Up c. — Turning] You 
 
 dropped your scissors dear! 
 Caroline. Oh! [Coming hack for them] 
 I — I thought I heard something! [In 
 picking them up she lets the cut-off end 
 of a trouser leg fall hut does not notice 
 it and goes toward door up l. c] 
 Mrs. Varney. [Coming down c] What 
 
 are you making, Caroline ? 
 Caroline. [Turning near door up l. c] 
 Oh — I — I was just altering a dress — 
 that's all! [Turning to go] 
 Mrs. Varney. [Stooping and picking up 
 the piece of trouser leg] Here Carrie ! — 
 you dropped a — a — [Looks at it] 
 Caroline. [Hurrying to Mrs. Varney 
 and snatching the piece — stuffing it in 
 with rest] Oh yes ! — Ha ha ! [Looks at 
 Mrs. Varney an instant. The other 
 piece of the trouser leg is hanging hy its 
 shred in full sight] That — that was one 
 of the sleeves! [Turns and hurries off 
 at door up l. c. and exits to R. at door 
 near foot of stairway] 
 
 [Mrs. Varney after a moment turns 
 and goes toward door up c. — Seeing 
 something on the couch r. c. she 
 stops and goes to pick it up. On 
 coming to it she finds the little gray 
 soldier's jacket left hy Caroline in 
 her hasty scramble. She stoops and 
 picks it up and stands for a moment 
 looking at it] 
 [After a brief pause the sound of hur- 
 ried opening of front door outside 
 left and tramp of heavy feet in the 
 hall is heard] 
 [Mrs. Varney looks up and across up 
 left, letting the coat fall on the 
 couch] 
 
 [Enter Mr. Benton Arrelsford at door 
 up L. c. from L. — He is a tall fine looking 
 Southern man of about thirty-five or 
 forty, dressed in citizen's clothes — black 
 frock coat, and of rather distinguished 
 appearance. He is seen outside door up 
 L. c. hurriedly placing a guard of Con- 
 federate soldiers at doors outside up left 
 and also at foot of stairway. — Mrs. Var- 
 ney, much surprised, moves toward door 
 up L. c. — Mr. Arrelsford at the same 
 time and as noiselessly as possible, has- 
 tens into the room] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [As he enters] Mr. Ar- 
 relsford! [Goes toward c. up a little] 
 Arrelsford. [Comes quickly across to 
 
596 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Speaks in a low voice 
 and rapidlij] I was obliged to come in 
 without ceremony Mi's. Varney. You '11 
 understand when I tell you what it is! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. And those men — [Motions 
 toward guard outside door up L. c] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] They 're on 
 guard at the doors out there! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] On guard! — 
 You mean that in this house you 
 
 Arrelsford. I 'm very much afraid Mrs. 
 Varney, that we 've got to put you to a 
 little inconvenience. [Glances about caii- 
 tiouslif. — Mrs. Varney stands aston- 
 ished] Is there anybody in that room'? 
 [Pointing to door up c] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Yes. 
 
 Arrelsford. Who? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. There are quite a number 
 of ladies there — sewing- for the hospitals. 
 
 Arrelsford. Kindly come this way a lit- 
 tle. [Going down l. c. with Mrs. Var- 
 ney] One of your servants has got him- 
 self into trouble, Mrs. Varney, an' we 're 
 compelled to have him watched! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. One of my servants! — ^Why 
 what kind of trouble? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Pretty serious 
 ma'am — that 's the way it looks now !— 
 You 've got an old white-haired niggah 
 here 
 
 Mrs. Varney. You mean Jonas'? 
 
 Arrelsford. I believe that 's his name ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. You suspect him of some- 
 thing! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Keeping voice down] We 
 don't suspect — ^we know what he 's done ! 
 [Glances round before going on] He's 
 been down in the Libby Prison under pre- 
 tense of selling something to the Yankees 
 we 've got in there, an' he now has on 
 his person a wiitten communication from 
 one of those Yankees which he intends to 
 deliver to another one that 's here in 
 Richmond! [Arrelsford goes around 
 in front of table and up L. of it to near 
 door up L. c] 
 
 [Mrs. Varney stands motionless a 
 second. She soon recovers] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Send for the man ! [Start- 
 ing to move up stage and toward l.] 
 Let us see if there 's any truth in such 
 a — 
 
 Arrelsford. [Up l. c. near r. upper cor- 
 ner of table l. c. — Quickly stopping her] 
 No! Not yet! [Glances quicklij round 
 at doors and windows — then speaks in 
 lowered voice but with great intensity 
 and clearness] I 've got to get that 
 
 paper ! If he 's alarmed he '11 destroy it ! 
 I 've got to have it ! It 's the clue to one 
 o' their cursed plots ! They 've been 
 right close on this town for months — 
 trying to make a break in our defenses 
 and get in. This is some rascally game 
 they 're at to weaken us from the inside ! 
 — Two weeks ago we got word from one 
 of our agents over there in the Yankee 
 lines telling us that two brothers — Lewis 
 and Henry Dumont — ^liave been under 
 Secret Service orders to do some rascally 
 piece of work here in Richmond. We 
 had close descriptions of these two men 
 but we 've never been able to lay our 
 hands on 'em till last night! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Up c. and a little l. near 
 Arrelsford. — Intense whisper] You've 
 got them'? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Up l. c. — Low voice, but 
 intense] We 've got one o' them ! An' 
 it won't take long to run down the 
 othah ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] The one — 
 the one you caught — ^was he here in Rich- 
 mond •? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] No — he was 
 brought in last night with a lot o' men 
 we captured making a raid. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Y^ou mean he was taken 
 prisoner? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Nods affirmatively. — Glances 
 round] Let himself be taken ! That 's 
 one of their tiicks for getting through 
 our lines when they want to bring a mes- 
 sage or give some signal. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. They — they actually get 
 into Libby Prison? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice. Great intens- 
 ity] Yes! Damn them! [This oath 
 indistinctly between his teeth] But we" 
 were on the lookout for this man an' we 
 spotted him mighty quick! I gave or- 
 ders not to search him or take away his 
 clothes but to put him in with the others 
 and keep the closest watch on him that 
 was ever kept on a man ! Here was one 
 of the Dumont brothers an' we knew 
 from his coming in that the othah must 
 be here in the city waiting to hear from 
 him, an' he 'd send him a message the 
 first chance he got! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] But Jonas! 
 — How could he 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low and intense] Easy 
 enough! — Easy enough! He comes down 
 to Libby to sell goubers to the prisoners 
 — we let 'im pass in — he fools around 
 awhile until he gets a chance to brush 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 597 
 
 against this man Dumont — we 're watch- 
 ing, an' we see a bit of paper pass be- 
 tween 'em! The old nigger's got that 
 paper on 'im now ma'am, an' besides 
 these men in heah I 've got a dozen more 
 on the outside watehmg him through the 
 windows! [Turns and moves up, glanc- 
 ing off up L. with some anxiety] 
 
 Mrs. 'Yarxey. [After slight pause turns 
 and speaks in intense hut subdued voice 
 — almost ichisper] The man he gives it 
 to ! He 's the one we want ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Approaching her quickly. — 
 Lou- voice but intense] Yes — but I can't 
 wait long! If the niggah sees a man or 
 hears a sound he '11 destroy it before we 
 can jump in on 'im — an' I must have 
 that paper! [Strides quickly up, Mrs. 
 Yarney following a step or two. — 
 Speaking off' up L. in low but sharp 
 voice] Corporal! 
 
 [Enter Corporal at door up l. c. from l. — 
 He salutes and stands in the large arched 
 doorway] 
 
 How is it now*? 
 Corporal. [Low voice] All quiet sir! 
 [Arrelsford and Mrs. Yarxey face 
 each other] 
 Arrelsford. [Low, intense] It won't do 
 
 to wait — I 've got to get that paper ! 
 
 It 's the key to the game they 're trj^ing 
 
 to play an' w^e must have it! 
 Mrs. Yarxey. [Intense. — Half whisper] 
 
 No no — the man who 's going to play it ! 
 
 Get him! 
 Arrelsford. [Low — intense] That paper 
 
 the nigger 's got might give us a clue ! 
 
 If not I '11 make him tell who it was 
 
 for — damn it I'll shoot it out of him! 
 
 [Turns to Corporal] How quick can 
 
 you get at him from that door! [Poitit- 
 
 ing off' up L. c. to door R. of stairway] 
 Corporal. [No salute. Low voice] It's 
 
 through a hallway sir — and across the 
 
 dining-room. 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Well, take two 
 
 men and 
 
 Mrs. Yarxey. [Interrupting — touching 
 
 Arrelsford to stop him. Low voice] 
 
 Why not keep your men out of sight and 
 
 let me send for him — here? 
 Arrelsford. [After a second's thought. 
 
 Low voice] That 's better — we '11 get 'im 
 
 in here ! While you 're talking to him 
 
 they can nab him from behind! [Turns 
 
 to Corporal] You heard ! 
 Corporal. [Low voice] Yes sir. 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Keep your 
 
 men out of §ight — get 'em back there in 
 the hall — an' while w^e 're making him 
 talk send a man down each side and pin 
 him ! Hold 'im stiff ! He must n't de- 
 stroy any paper he 's got ! Look out for 
 that! 
 
 [Corporal salutes and exits with men 
 door up L. c. and to l. — After exit 
 of Corporal and Men, Mrs. Yar- 
 ney moves swiftly to L. side, and 
 taking the bell-cord in her hand, 
 turns toward Arrelsford. — Pause. — 
 Both motionless for four seconds] 
 Mrs. Yarxey. [After the motionless 
 pause. — Loiv voice — but distinct] Now 
 Mr. Arrelsford? 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Yes. 
 
 [Mrs. Yarney rings the bell. — Short 
 
 pause. — Enter Martha at door -up 
 
 L. c. from R. She stands up l. c. 
 
 below the doorway] 
 
 Mrs. Yarxey. [Down l. near mantel] Is 
 
 there anyone I can send to the hospital 
 
 Martha? 
 
 Martha. [Up l. c] Luther's out yere, 
 
 mam. 
 Mrs. Yarney. Luther? [Considers] No 
 
 — he 's too small. I don't want a boy. 
 Martha. Jonas is yere, mam — if you 
 
 want him. 
 Mrs. Yarney. Oh, Jonas — ^yes ! Tell him 
 
 to come here right away. 
 Martha. Yaas 'm. [Exits at door up l. 
 c. to R.] 
 
 [Mrs. Yarney crosses back of table 
 L. c. to E. c. and sits on couch. — 
 Arrelsford waits up c] 
 
 [Old Jonas appears at the door up l. C. 
 coming from R. — He is a thick-set gray- 
 haired old negro. — He comes a few steps 
 into the room] 
 
 [Mrs. Yarxey looks at Jonas and he 
 at her.— At first he is entirely un- 
 suspecting, but in a moment, seeing 
 Arrelsford standing up c. his eyes 
 shift restlessly for an instant] 
 
 Mrs. Yarney. [On couch r. c] Jonas 
 
 Jonas. [Vp'L.c] Yes'm. 
 
 Mrs. Yarney. Have you any idea why I 
 
 sent for you? 
 Jonas. I heers you was wantin' to sen' to 
 de hossiple ma'am. 
 
 [Corporal and Men enter very quietly up 
 L. c. from L. and on to behind Jonas] 
 
 Mrs. Yarney. Oh — then Martha told you? 
 
 [Corporal motions to Men and two 
 
 instantly step forward — one on each 
 
SECRET SERVICE 
 
 side of JoxAS, and stand there mo- 
 tionless] 
 Jonas. Wall she didn't ezzackly say 
 what you — [Sees man each side of him 
 and stops in the midst of his speech. 
 He does not start, hut is frozen with 
 terror. Expression of face scarcely 
 changes. Soon he lowers his eyes and 
 then begins stealtJiily to get Iiis right 
 hand toward his inside breast pocket] 
 [Corporal gives a sharp order. — The 
 two Men instantly seize JoxAS. — 
 Corporal quickly feels in his pock- 
 ets. — JoxAS struggles desperately 
 but in an instant the Corporal has 
 the paper ichich he hands — with a 
 salute — to Arrelsford. — Mrs. Var- 
 NEY has risen as Men seized Jonas] 
 Arrelsford. [r. of Men and Jonas] 
 See if there 's anything more ! [Arrels- 
 ford stands watching tlie search] 
 
 [Corporal quickly searches Jonas — 
 feeling rapidly along body, arms, 
 down each leg, etc.. Men raising his 
 arms above head, etc., for the pur- 
 pose. Pushes fingers down into slip- 
 pers — which are sufficiently loose for 
 this. — After the search Men release 
 Jonas and stand guard one on each 
 side of him] 
 Corporal. [Rises and comes to salute] 
 That's all sir! 
 
 [Arrelsford turns quickly away to 
 lamp on table up c. opening the 
 paper as he does so. — Mrs. Varney 
 watches him intently. — Arrelsford 
 reads the paper quickly and at once 
 wheels round on Jonas coming down 
 R. of him] 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice — hut sharp and 
 telling] Who was this for? [Jonas 
 stands silent] If you don't tell it 's go- 
 ing to be mighty bad for you! [Jonas 
 stands silent] [After a pause Arrels- 
 ford turns to Mrs. Varney] I'm right 
 sorry ma'am but it looks like we 've got 
 to shoot 'im! [Eyeing Jonas a mo- 
 ment — then goes down c] Corporal! 
 [Motions Corporal to approach. — Cor- 
 poral steps to Arrelsford on salute. — 
 To Corporal in a low voice] Take 
 him outside and get it out of him! 
 String him up till he talks ! You under- 
 stand ! [Corporal salutes and is about 
 to turn] Here! [Corporal turns hack 
 to Arrlesford on salute. — Arrelsford 
 glances toward the ivindows at r. and 
 then to L.] Go down on that side — back 
 of the house! [Indicating up l.] And 
 
 keep it quiet! Nobody must know of 
 this! Not a soul! 
 
 [Corporal salutes again and goes up 
 to Men. Gives a low-voiced order. — 
 Men turn on order and march Jonas 
 off at door up l. c. and off" l. All 
 very quick with military precision. 
 The Corporal goes with them. — ■ 
 Arrelsford stands watching exit of 
 Jonas and Men until they are gone 
 and the sound of the closing of heavy 
 front door is heard outside left. He 
 then turns to Mrs. Varney. — Ar- 
 relsford and Mrs. Varney keep 
 voices down to nearly a whisper in 
 the coming scene — but speak with 
 the utmost force and intensity] 
 Mrs. Varney. [Indicating the paper in 
 Arrelsford's hand] Was there any- 
 thing in that — 
 Arrelsford. [Near Mrs. Varney on her 
 L.] We've got the trick they want to 
 play! 
 Mrs. Varney. But not the man — not the 
 
 man who is to play it? 
 Arrelsford. I did n't say that ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. 
 
 to himf 
 Arrelsford. I 
 
 You mean there 's a clue — 
 mean there 's a clue to 
 Do you 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Will it answer? 
 know who it is? Do you 
 
 Arrelsford. [Interrupting] As plain as 
 if we had his name! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Thank God! [3Iotionless 
 an instant — then she extends her hand 
 for the paper] Let me see! [Arrels- 
 ford momentary hesitation — then hands 
 her the paper. — She looks at paper, then 
 reads it aloud — not too easily] "AT- 
 TACK TO-NIGHT— PLAN 3— USE" 
 TELEGRAFB.."— [Slight motion or 
 sound from Arrelsford to quiet her, and 
 a quick glance about. — After the glance 
 about by Arrelsford she goes on in low 
 voice] What does it mean? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Takes paper from her. 
 Low voice hut incisive] They attack to- 
 night ! — The place where they strike is 
 indicated by "Plan 3." [Finger on the 
 words on paper in his hand] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Plan three ? 
 
 Arrelsford. He knows what they mean 
 by that! — It's arranged beforehand! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. And — the last — the last 
 there! [Excited motion toward the 
 paper in Arrelsford's hands] "Use 
 Telegraph"?— What does that 
 
 Arrelsford. He 's to use our War De- 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 599 
 
 partment Telegraph Lines to send some 
 false order and weaken that position — 
 the one they mdicate by "Plan Three" — 
 so they can break through and come down 
 on the city! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Oh! [A breathless ex- 
 clamation of indignation. — A second's 
 pause — then suddenly] But the man — 
 the man who is to do this — there 's noth- 
 ing about him! 
 
 Arrelsford. There is something about 
 him! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Rapidhj — almost run to- 
 gether] What? Where? I don't see 
 it! 
 
 Arrelsford. "Use Telegraph" ! [A pause. 
 — Both stand motionless regarding one 
 another. — Arrelsford goes on after 
 playing this pause to the limit] We 
 know every man on the Telegraph Serv- 
 ice — and every man of them 's true ! 
 But there 's some who want to get on 
 that service that we don't know quite so 
 well! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Indicating the paper] 
 He would be one — of course ! 
 
 Arrelsford. There aren't so very many! 
 [These speeches given suggestively — 
 icith slight pause after each. — All very 
 low voice and intense] It is n't every 
 man that 's an expert ! — The niggah 
 brought this paper to your house, Mrs. 
 Varney ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. My — [Hesitates — begin- 
 ning to realise] — my house you say! 
 
 Arrelsford. For more than a month your 
 daughter has been working to get an 
 appointment for someone on the Tele- 
 graph Service — perhaps she could give 
 us some idea — [Stops in the midst of 
 speech and stands looking at Mrs. 
 Varney] 
 
 [A moment's pause. — Suddenly Mrs. 
 Varney turns and hurries to window 
 up R. and quickly pulls curtains to- 
 gether, turning and facing back to 
 Arrelsford at same instant] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Almost ivhisper — but with 
 utmost intensity] IS HE THERE? 
 [Mrs. Varney nods affirmatively. She 
 then comes down toward Arrelsford] 
 Could he hear what we said? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Shakes head negatively. 
 Almost whisper] He 's at the further 
 end! [Comes back to R. of Arrelsford. 
 — Arrelsford glances at windows r. nerv- 
 ously. — Mrs. Varney — after a pause — in 
 low voice] You have a description you 
 say! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Nods affirmatively] At 
 the office. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Then this man — this Cap- 
 tain Thorne — 
 
 Arrelsford. [Breaking in savagely but in 
 low voice] There is no Captain Thorne ! 
 This fellow you have in your house is 
 Lewis Dumont! 
 
 [Short pause] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. You mean — he came here 
 to— 
 
 Arrelsford. [With vindictive fury break- 
 ing through in spite of himself — yet voice 
 subdued al-most to a sharp whisper] He 
 came to this town — he came to this house 
 — knowing your position and the in- 
 fluence of your name — for the sole pur- 
 pose of getting some hold on our De- 
 partment Telegraph Lines ! — He 's cor- 
 rupted your servants — he 's thick with 
 the men in the telegraph office — what he 
 has n't done God A'mighty knows ! But 
 Washington ain't the only place where 
 there 's a Secret Service ! We 've got one 
 here in Richmond! Oh — [A shake of 
 his head] two can play at that game — an' 
 it 's my move now ! [Goes up R. c. a 
 few steps] 
 
 [Enter Edith Varney running rapidly 
 down the stairway up left and in at door 
 up L. c. — She wears a white dress' and 
 has in her hand the large official envelope 
 which she took upstairs at the end of her 
 first scene. — Arrelsford goes toward 
 windows up R.] 
 
 Edith. [As she runs down the stairway] 
 Mama! Mama! — Quick Mama! [Mrs. 
 Varney hurries toward door up l. c. to 
 meet her. — Arrelsford turns in surprise 
 looking toward door up l. c. — Edith 
 meeting Mrs. Varney] Under my win- 
 dow — in the garden — they 're hurting 
 someone frightfully — I 'm sure they are ! 
 Oh — come! [Starting toward door to 
 lead the way. — Mrs. Varney stands look- 
 ing at Edith. — Edith stops surprised 
 that Mrs. Varney does not follow] If 
 you are n't coming I '11 go myself ! 
 [Turning to go] It's terrible! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Wait, Edith! [Edith 
 stops up l. c. and turns back to Mrs. 
 Varney. — Mrs. Varney goes to her and 
 brings her a little way down L. c] I 
 must tell you something — it will be a 
 terrible shock I'm afraid! [Edith 
 moves down with Mrs. Varney. — Ar- 
 relsford turns away a little — standing 
 
600 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 tiear r. c. uatching window] A man we 
 trusted as a friend has shown himself a 
 treacherous conspirator against us! 
 Edith. [After a slight pause. — Low 
 voice] Who? [Pause. — ]\Irs. Varney 
 cannot bring herself to speak the name] 
 Who is it "? 
 Arrelsford. [Swinging round on her at R. 
 — Low voice — suppressed vindictiveness] 
 It is the gentleman, Miss Varney, whose 
 attentions you have been pleased to ac- 
 cept in the place of mine ! 
 
 [Short pause. — Edith white and mo- 
 tionless looking at Arrelsford. 
 Soon she turns her face appealing 
 to her mother. — Mrs. Varney nods 
 slowly in a/firmation] 
 Edith. [Low voice] Is it Mr. Arrelsford 
 
 who makes this accusation? 
 Arrelsford. [Breaking out hotly hut 
 keeping voice in suppressed voice] Yes 
 — since you wish to know! From the 
 first I 've had my suspicions that this — 
 [He stops on seeing Edith's move toward 
 tJie window up b.] 
 
 [Edith, on cue ''Yes'' quickly thrusts 
 envelope containing commission into 
 belt or ivaist of Iter dress, and starts 
 rapidly toward the window up R. 
 crossing Mrs. Varxey. — x\rrels- 
 FORD breaks off in liis speech and 
 steps before her] 
 Arrelsford [r. c. — Low voice — speaking 
 
 rapidly] Where are you going? 
 Edith, [c. — Low voice] For Captain 
 
 Thorne. 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Not now! 
 Edith. ■ [Turning with flashing indignation 
 on Arrelsford] Mr. Arrelsford, if this 
 is something you 're afraid to say to him 
 — don't you dare say it to me! 
 Arrelsford. [Indignantly. — Low voice] 
 
 Miss Varney, if you 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [l. c. — Interrupting 
 quickly. — Low voice] Edith — listen to 
 me! [Edith turns quickly to Mrs. Var- 
 ney] Mr. Arrelsford has good reasons 
 for not meeting Captain Thorne just 
 now! 
 Edith. I should think he had! [Quick 
 turn back to Arrelsford] The man 
 who said that to his face wouldn't live 
 to speak again ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. My dear, you don't 
 
 Edith, [c] Mama — this man has left 
 his desk in the War Department so that 
 he can have the pleasure of persecuting 
 me! He's never attempted anything in 
 the active service before! And when I 
 
 ask him to face the man he accuses he 
 turns like a coward! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Angrily, but keeping voice 
 down] Mrs. Varney, if she thinks — 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] I think nothing! I 
 know that a man of Captain Thome's 
 character is above suspicion ! 
 
 Arrelsford [Low voice] His character! 
 [Sneeringly] Where did he come from? 
 — Who is he? 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] Who are you? 
 
 Arrelsford. That 's not the question ! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] Neither is it the 
 question who he is! If it were I'd 
 answer it — the answer above all others — 
 he 's a soldier who has fought and been 
 wounded for his countiy! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Loiv voice but incisive] 
 We're not so sure of that! 
 
 Edith. [After a pause of indignation] 
 He brought us letters from General 
 Stonewall Jackson and from — 
 
 Arrelsford. [Quick and sharp] Jack- 
 son was killed before his letter was pre- 
 sented ! 
 
 Edith. What does that signify if he wrote 
 it? 
 
 Arrelsford Nothing — if he wrote it! 
 [Accent on "if' with vindictive fury] 
 
 Edith. Mr. Arrelsford — if you mean — 
 [Mrs. Varney goes to Edith putting her 
 hand on Edith's arm] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Listen Edith ! 
 They have proofs of a conspiracy on our 
 Government Telegraph Lines. [Arrels- 
 ford says "Sh" and goes to window up 
 R. — Edith turns from Arrelsford and 
 looks before her, listening on mention of 
 "Telegraph Lines." — Mrs. Varney leads 
 Edith a little l. of c. — Arrelsford 
 stands near window up r.] A treacher- 
 ous conspiracy on the War Department 
 lines to the front. Two men in the 
 Northern Secret Service have been sent 
 here to carry it out. One is in Libby 
 Prison. He 's just been brought in — and 
 he allowed himself to be taken prisoner 
 so as to get in here and bring a message 
 to the other. Our old Jonas went there 
 to-day — secretly took that message from 
 him and brought it here! [Edith turns 
 toward Mrs. Varney sharply.] Yes 
 Edith — he brought it to this house! 
 We 've just had Jonas in and found that 
 paper on him! 
 
 [Arrelsford quietly moves down r. 
 looking of through curtains at win- 
 dows down r.] 
 
 Edith. [Rapidly — desperately — in low 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 601 
 
 voice] But be lias n't said it was for 
 
 [Heavi/ sound of front door closing 
 outside L.] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice hut incisively] 
 Not yet — but be will! [Edith looks at 
 Arrelsford not comprehending. — Enter 
 Corporal at door up l. c. from l. — He 
 stands on salute. — Ladies turn to him. — 
 Edith breathless with anxiety. — Mrs. 
 Varxey calm hut intent. — Arrelsford 
 goes quickly across from R. c. to Cor- 
 poral up l. 0. Low voice] Well — 
 wbat does be say*? 
 
 Corporal. [Low voice] Notbing! — He 
 won't speak! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Sharply, hut voice subdued] 
 Won't speak! Wbat bave you done"? 
 
 Corporal. Stining' bim up tbree times 
 and 
 
 Arrelsford. [Enraged but keeping his 
 voice down] Well string bim up again ! 
 If be won't speak sboot it out of bim! 
 Kill tbe dog! [Comes blindly down l. — 
 Corporal salutes and exits at door up 
 L., c. to L. — Arrelsford turns to ladies 
 coming down L. hack of table] We don't 
 need tbe niggab's evidence — tbere 's 
 enougb witbout it ! [Takes his hat from 
 table] 
 
 Edith. [Up c. — Low voice] Tbere is 
 notbing! 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. of table l. c. — Low voice] 
 By twelve o'clock to-nigbt you '11 bave 
 all tbe proof you want ! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] Tbere 's no proof 
 at all ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] I '11 sbow it to 
 you at tbe telegi'apb office ! Do you dare 
 go tbere witb me*? 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] Dare! [Moves to- 
 ward him,] I will go witb you! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] I'll call for 
 you in balf an bour! [Goes toward 
 door up L. c] 
 
 Edith. Wait! [Arrelsford stops and 
 turns to her up L. c] Wbat are you go- 
 ing to do? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Comes down hack of table. 
 — Low voice but incisive] I 'm going to 
 let bim get tbis paper! Wben be looks 
 at it be '11 know wbat tbey want bim to 
 do — and tben we '11 see bim try to 
 do it! 
 
 Edith, [l. c] You're going to spy on 
 bim — bound bim like a criminal! 
 
 Arrelsford. I 'm going to prove wbat be 
 is! 
 
 Edith. Tben prove it openly! Prove it 
 at once ! It 's a sbame to let a suspicion 
 
 like tbat rest on an bonorable man ! Let 
 bim come in bere and — 
 
 Arrelsford [Low voice] Impossible ! 
 [Goes down l. of table a little.] 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] Tben do sometbing 
 else but do it now! [Turning away goes 
 up c. a little, speaks desperately] We 
 must know tbat be — tbat be 's innocent ! 
 We must know tbat! [A thought. 
 Turns to Arrelsford] You say — 
 [Arrelsford makes a movement to go] 
 Wait! Wait! [Arrelsford stops] 
 
 You say .tbe man in Libby Prison is his 
 brother — that 's what you said — bis 
 brother ! Bring bim bere ! Go to the 
 prison and bring that man bere ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. of table speaking across 
 it. Subdued exclamation] What! 
 
 Edith. Let them meet ! Bring them face 
 to face! Then you can see whether 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice. — Speaks rap- 
 idly] You mean — bring them together 
 bere? 
 
 Edith. Yes! Here! — Anywhere! Wher- 
 ever you please! 
 
 Arrelsford. As if tbe prisoner was try- 
 ing to escape? 
 
 Edith. Any way you like — but end it ! 
 
 Arrelsford. When 1 
 
 Edith. Now! Now! — I won't bave such 
 a suspicion as tbat banging over bim ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [After instant's thought] 
 I 'm willing to try tbat ! — Can you keep 
 bim bere? [With a motion toward win- 
 dows R.] 
 
 Edith. [Scarcely more than a movement 
 of lips] Yes. 
 
 Arrelsford. It won't be more than half 
 an hour. — Be out there on tbe veranda. — 
 When I tap on the glass bring bim into 
 tbis room and leave bim alone! You 
 understand — alone ! 
 
 Edith. [Hardly more than a whisper] 
 Yes. [Turns away toward front] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Goes rapidly toward door 
 up L. C. — Stops and turns near door] I 
 rely on you Miss Varney to give bim no 
 hint or sign that we suspect — 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Interrupting Arrelsford 
 indignantly] Mr. Arrelsford! 
 
 [Edith does not notice anything] 
 [Arrelsford stands an instant — then 
 bows stiffly and exits at door up L. c. 
 to L. — Sound of closing of heavy 
 door outside L. shortly after his dis- 
 appearance. — Edith stands where 
 she was as if stunned. — Mrs. Varney 
 remains R. c. looking after Arrels- 
 ford — then turns to Edith] 
 
602 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Edith. [After pause — not looking round 
 — nearlfi whisper'] Mama! [Reaches 
 out her hand as if feeling for help or 
 support. — Mrs. Varney comes down to 
 Edith on her left and takes her liand] 
 Mama ! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] I 'm here, 
 Edith!- 
 
 [Pause. — Edith thinking of something 
 — her eyes wide open — staring va- 
 cantly before her] 
 Edith. [Holding tight to Mrs. Varney's 
 hand] Do you think — do y.ou think — 
 that could be what he meant? [Mrs. 
 Varney looking intently at Edith] 
 The Commission I got for him — this aft- 
 ernoon — you know! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Yes — yes! 
 Edith. The Commission — from the Presi- 
 dent — for the — for the Telegraph Serv- 
 ice! He — he — refused to take it! 
 Mrs. Varney. Refused! 
 Edith. [Nodding a little — hardly able to 
 speak] He said — he said it was for me 
 that he could not ! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Sudden deep emphasis] 
 
 It 's true then ! 
 Edith. [Turning quickly to Mrs Varney 
 and trying to stop her hy putting her 
 hand over her mouth. Speaking rapidly, 
 breathlessly — yet not in loud voice] No 
 no ! Don't say it ! — Don't say it ! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Putting Edith's hand 
 
 away] Yes ! 
 Edith. Oh no! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Infamous traitor ! They 
 ought to lash him through the streets of 
 Richmond ! 
 Edith. [Impulsively trying to stop Mrs. 
 Varney] No Mama! No — no — no! 
 [She stops. A moment's pause. She real- 
 izes the truth. Speaks in almost a whis- 
 per] Yes — yes — [Fainter and fainter] 
 Yes — yes — [Stops — pauses — stands erect 
 — looks about — makes very slight motion 
 asking Mrs. Varney to leave her] 
 
 [Mrs. Varney turns quietly and leaves 
 the. room going out at the door up 
 L. C. and to L. — Edith stands sup- 
 porting herself without knowing that 
 she does so — one hand on a table or 
 back of chair. — Soon coming to her- 
 self she turns and goes toward the 
 window up R. When near c. she 
 hesitates, stands there a moment 
 looking toward the window, then 
 brushes her hand quickly across her 
 eyes and takes the President's Com- 
 mission from her waist or belt. She 
 
 looks at it a moment, folds it slowly 
 and puts it back again. Walks to 
 the window, throws aside the curtains 
 and pushes it open] 
 [Upon Edith pushing open the window 
 up R. Captain Thorne outside r. at 
 some distance, makes sound with 
 chair as though he rose and pushed 
 or set it back, and the sound of his 
 footsteps outside approaching the 
 window briskly follows at once. — 
 Edith moves back away from the 
 window and across to up L. c. near 
 table, and stands there looking across 
 at the window up R. for an instant, 
 but soon turning away, so that she 
 is not looking at Thorne as he enters. 
 — After footsteps and after Edith 
 is motionless at up L. c. Captain 
 Thorne walks easily and unsuspi- 
 ciously into the room at window up 
 R., glancing about as he does so — not 
 seeing Edith until he is a little way 
 in. Upon seeing her he stops an in- 
 ■stant where he is, and then goes di- 
 rectly across to her and is about to 
 take her hand as he speaks] 
 Thorne. [Coming to Edith up l. c] 
 
 Miss Varney 
 
 Edith. [Quickly snatching her hand away 
 and shrinking backward to left a step 
 or two. — Speaks rapidly — breathlessly — 
 with almost a gasp] No — don't touch 
 me! [A second's pause. — She recovers 
 almost instantly] Oh — it was you! 
 [Smiling as if at her own stupidity] 
 Why how perfectly absurd I am! 
 [Crossing in front of Thorne lightly and 
 going to window at up R.] I'm sure I 
 ought to be ashamed of myself! [Turns 
 to him at R.] Do come out a minute — 
 on the veranda.- — I want to talk to you 
 about a whole lot o' things ! There 's 
 half an hour yet before the party! 
 [Turning to go] Isn't it a perfectly 
 lovely evening! [She exits at the win- 
 dow up R. with forced gaiety of manner, 
 disappearing in the darkness] 
 
 [Thorne stands looking at Edith when 
 she first speaks. As she crosses R. 
 he is looking down a little but looks 
 slowly up toward front and turns a 
 little after her crossing, looking at 
 her as she stands for a moment in 
 the window up R. After her exit he 
 slowly turns toward front and his 
 eyes glance about and down once as 
 he weighs the chances] 
 Edith. [After brief pause for above — 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 603 
 
 calling gaily from outside up r. not too 
 near the window'] Oh, Cap'n Thorne! 
 [Entrphasis on 'Oh'] 
 
 [Thorne turns quickly looking off R. 
 again. Hesitates an instant. Makes 
 
 [CURTAIN] 
 
 up his mind. Walks rapidly to win- 
 dow up R. A very slight hesitation 
 there — without stopping. Exits at 
 window up R. — Ring as Thorne 
 passes out at the window] 
 
ACT II 
 
 Scene : — The same room. 
 
 Nine o'clock. 
 
 Furniture as in Act I. Electric calciums 
 for strong moonlight outside both win- 
 dows at R. Portieres are closed at both 
 windows. 
 
 [Mrs. Varney discovered seated at desk 
 down R. — She is not busy with anything 
 but sits there to see that no one goes out 
 to the veranda at n. — Sound of closing of 
 door outside l. — Enter Miss Kittridge 
 at door up l. c. from l. — The door up c. 
 stands ajar as if she had recently come 
 out] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Was it the same man'? 
 
 Miss Kittridge. [Pausing up c] No — 
 they sent another this time. 
 
 Mrs. Varney, Did you have anything 
 ready '? 
 
 Miss Kittridge. Oh yes — I gave him 
 quite a lot. We 've all been at the band- 
 ages — that's what they need most. 
 [Mrs. Varney rises. Seems preoccupied. 
 Goes across to up L. and looks off. — Miss 
 Kittridge watches her rather anxiously] 
 Did you want anything Mrs. Varney'? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Turning at up l.] No — 
 I — nothing thank you. [Miss Kittridge 
 is turning to go, but stops luhen Mrs. 
 Varney speaks again. — Mrs. Varney 
 goes nearer to Miss Kittridge] Per- 
 haps it would be just as well if any of 
 the ladies want to go, to let them out the 
 other way — through the dining room I 
 mean. We 're expecting someone here 
 on important business. 
 
 Miss Kittridge. I '11 see to it Mrs. Var- 
 ney. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Thank you. [Exit Miss 
 Kittridge at door up c. — Mrs. Varney 
 stands a moment, then goes down l. and 
 rings bell. Crosses to R. c, going back 
 of table L. c. Then goes slowly up c. 
 waiting] [Enter Martha at door up 
 L. c. from R.] Did Miss Caroline go 
 home"? 
 
 Martpia. [Up L. c. near door] No 'm — 
 she 's been out yere in de kitchen fur a 
 while. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. In the kitchen ! 
 
 C04 
 
 Martha. Yaas 'm. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. What has she been doing? 
 
 Martha. She been mostly sewin' and be- 
 havin' mighty strange about sumHn a 
 great deal o' de time. I bleeye she gittin' 
 ready to go home now. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Ask her to come here a 
 moment. 
 
 Martha. Yaas 'm. [Martha turns and 
 exits up L. c. to R.] [Mrs. Varney waits 
 a little. Then goes forward r. c. a few 
 steps] [Enter Caroline at door up l. c. 
 from R. She comes into the room trying 
 to look perfectly innocent] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [r. c] Caroline — [Caro- 
 line goes down c. with Mrs. Varney. 
 She is expecting to hear something said 
 about the sewing she has been doing] 
 Are you in a huiTy to get home"? Be- 
 cause if you can wait a few minutes while 
 I go up stairs to Howard it will be a great 
 help. 
 
 Caroline. [Looking round in some doubt] 
 You want me to — just waif? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Yes. — You see I — [Hesi- 
 tates a little] — I don't want anyone to go 
 out on the veranda — just now. 
 
 Caroline. [Doubtfully] Oh. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Edith and — and — 
 
 Caroline. — And Captain Thorne 
 
 (Mrs. Varney nods very slightly] 
 
 Caroline. [Suddenly comprehending] 
 Oh yes! [Glances toward windows R.] 
 I know how that is! — I'll attend to it 
 Mrs. Varney! [Crosses to up n. c] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Yes — if you will — just 
 while I 'm upstairs— it won't be long! 
 [Goes to door up l. c. Turns at door] 
 Be careful won't you dear! [Exit at 
 door up L. c. and up the stairway] 
 
 Caroline. [Up r. c] Careful !— Well I 
 should think so ! As if I did n't know 
 enough for that ! [Goes toward tcindoiv 
 up R. and pauses up R. C. Her face is 
 radiant with the imagined romance of the 
 situation. Goes to window up R. and 
 peeps out slyly through curtains. After 
 a moment she turns, an idea having oc- 
 curred to her, and quickly rolls the couch 
 up across before the window. Kneels on 
 it with her back to the audience and tries 
 to peep through curtains again. — Enter 
 Wilfred Varney door up l. c. from l. 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 605 
 
 coming in cautiously and as if he had 
 been watching for an opportunity. He 
 stops just within the door and looks hack 
 up stairway. He has on the trousers 
 wliich (Caroline fixed for him in the pre- 
 vious act, and also the Army Jacket. — 
 Carolixe rises and turns from the couch 
 up R. and sees ^YILFRED. — He turns to 
 her. — She stands adoring him in his uni- 
 form] 
 
 [These clothes are not hy any means 
 new. — The trousers must he all right 
 as to length though showing strange 
 folds and awkwardness at bottom 
 from being cut off and sewed hy an 
 amateur. But on no account must 
 there be anything grotesque or laugh- 
 able] 
 
 Carolixe. [Up r. Subdued exclamation 
 as she sees Wilfred in uniform] Oh ! 
 
 Wilfred, [l. c. — Low voice — speaking 
 across from door] Mother isn't any- 
 where around is she? 
 
 Carolixe. [Coming out to up c] She — 
 she just went upstairs. 
 
 Wilfred. [Down l. c. a little] I'm not 
 running away — but if she saw me with 
 these things on she might feel funny. 
 
 Carolixe. [Half to herself] She might 
 not feel so very funny! 
 
 Wilfred. Well — [Going over to desk 
 down r, a7id taking papers and letters 
 from pockets] — you know how it is with 
 a feller's mother. [Carolixe nods af- 
 firmatively from up c] [Wilfred busi- 
 ness of hurriedly finding letter among 
 others — feeling in different pockets for 
 it — so that he speaks without much think- 
 ing what he says] Other people don't 
 care — but mothers — well — they 're dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 Carolixe. [c. — Speaks absently] Yes — 
 other people don't care! [Moves over 
 toward up l. — The thought of Wilfred 
 actually going gives her a slight sinking 
 of the heart at which she herself is sur- 
 prised] 
 
 Wilfred. I 've written that letter to the 
 General ! — Here it is — on'y I 've got to 
 end it off some way ! [Pulls a chair 
 sideways to desk and half sits on it — 
 intent on finishing the letter. — Business 
 with pen, etc. and running hand into his 
 hair impetuously] I 'm not going to say 
 '•Your loving son" or any such rubbish as 
 that ! It would be an almighty let-down ! 
 I love him of course — that 's all right you 
 know — but this is n't that kind of a letter ! 
 [Pointing out writing on letter and speak- 
 
 ing as if he supposed Carolixe was at 
 his shoulder] I 've been telling him — 
 [Looking round sees that Carolixe is 
 standing at a considerable distance up 
 L. c. looking at him] — What's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Carolixe. Nothing — ! That is — I was 
 only 
 
 Wilfred. I thought you wanted to help! 
 
 Carolixe. [Quickly] Oh yes — I do! I 
 do! [Goes down at once to Wilfred at 
 desk] 
 
 Wilfred. [Looks in her face an instant. — 
 A slight pause] [Carolixe stammer- 
 ingly asks] The — ^the — [Indicating his 
 trousers by a little gesture] — are they 
 how you Avanted 'em? 
 
 Wilfred. What? 
 
 Carolixe. Those things. [Pointing to 
 trousers Wilfred is wearing] 
 
 Wilfred. [Glances at legs] Oh — they We 
 all right! — Fine! — Now about this letter 
 — tell me what you think! [Turning to 
 letter again] 
 
 Carolixe. Tell me what you said ! 
 
 Wilfred. Want to hear it? 
 
 Carolixe. I 've got to have n't I ? How 
 could I help you if I did n't know what 
 it was all about! 
 
 Wilfred. You 're pretty good ! [Looks 
 at her hriefiy] You wiU help me won't 
 you? [Catching hold of her r. hand as 
 she stands near him on his L.] 
 
 Carolixe. 0' co'se I will — [After an in- 
 stant's pause draws hand away from him] 
 — about the letter! 
 
 Wilfred. That's what I mean! — It's 
 mighty important you know! Every- 
 thing depends on it ! 
 
 Carolixe. Well I should think so! 
 [Carolixe gets chair from up between 
 windows and pulls it around near Wil- 
 fred on his left, and sits looking over the 
 letter while he reads] 
 
 Wilfred. I just gave it to him stroiig ! 
 
 Carolixe. That 's the way to give it to 
 him! 
 
 Wilfred. You can't fool round with him 
 much ! He means business ! But he '11 
 find out I mean business too ! 
 
 Carolixe. That 's right — everybody means 
 business! — What did you say? 
 
 Wilfred. I said this! — [Beads letter] 
 "General Ranson Varney — Commanding- 
 Division Anny of Northern Virginia — 
 Dear Papa ! This is to notify you that 
 I want you to let me come right now ! 
 If you don't I '11 come anyhow^ — that 's 
 all! The seventeen call is almost out — 
 
GOG 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 the sixteen comes next an' 1 'm not going 
 to wait for it ! Do you think I 'm a 
 damned coward *? Tom Kittridge has 
 gone! He was killed yesterday at Cold 
 Harbor. Billy Fisher has gone. So has 
 Cousin Stephen and he ain't sixteen. He 
 lied about his age but I don't want to do 
 that unless you make me. Answer this 
 right now or not at all !" 
 
 Caroline. That ^s splendid! 
 
 Wilfred. [Surprised and delighted] Do 
 you think so*? 
 
 Caroline. It 's just the thing ! 
 
 Wilfred. But how 'm I going to end it *? 
 
 Caroline. Why just end it! 
 
 Wilfred. How "? 
 
 Caroline. Sign your name. 
 
 Wilfred. Nothing else*? 
 
 Caroline. What else is there*? 
 
 Wilfred. Just "Wilfred"? 
 
 Caroline. 0' eo'se! 
 
 Wilfred. [Looks at her an instant then 
 turns suddenly to desk and writes his 
 name] That 's the thing! [Holds it up] 
 Will the rest of it do? 
 
 Caroline. Do! 1 should think so! 
 [Rising] I wish he had it now! [Goes 
 toward c] 
 
 Wilfred. [Rising] So do I! — It might 
 take two or three days! [Moves toward 
 c] I can't wait that long! — Why the 
 Seventeen call might — [Stops. — Thinks 
 frowningly] 
 
 Caroline. [Suddenly turning at c] I '11 
 tell you what to do ! — Telegraph ! [Wil- 
 fred looks at her — she at him. — After an 
 instant he glances at the letter] 
 
 Wilfred, [c. at r.] Whew! [A whis- 
 tle] 1 have n't got money enough ! 
 
 Caroline, [c. at l.] 'T won't take so 
 very much ! 
 
 Wilfred. Do you know what they 're 
 charging now? Over seven dollars a 
 word! 
 
 Caroline. Let 'em charge ! We can cut it 
 down so there 's only a few words an' it 
 means just the same! [They both go at 
 the letter each holding it on his or her 
 side] You know the address won't cost a 
 thing ! 
 
 Wilfred. Won't it? 
 
 Caroline. No ! They never do ! There 's 
 a heap o' money saved right now ! We 
 can use that to pay for the rest ! [Wil- 
 fred looks at her a little puzzled] What 
 comes next? [Both look over the let- 
 ter] 
 
 Wilfred. [Looks at letter] "Dear 
 Papa"— 
 
 Caroline. Leave that out ! [Both scratch 
 at it with pens or pencils] 
 
 Wilfred. I didn^t care much for it any- 
 way! 
 
 Caroline. He knew it before. 
 
 Wilfred. Of course he did!— I'm glad 
 it 's out ! 
 
 Caroline. So'm I!— What's next? 
 [Reading] "This-is-to-notify-you-that-I 
 want-you-to-let-me-come-right-now.'* We 
 might leave out that last "to." 
 
 Wilfred and Caroline. [Reciting it off 
 together experimentally to see how it 
 reads without the "to''] "I-w^ant-you — 
 let-me-come-right-now." [After instant's 
 thought both shake heads] 
 
 Wilfred. [Shaking head] No! 
 
 Caroline. [Shaking head] No! 
 
 Wilfred. It does n't sound right. 
 
 Caroline. That 's only a little word any- 
 how ! 
 
 Wilfred. So it is. What's after that? 
 [Both eagerly look at letter] 
 
 Caroline. Wait — here it is! [Reads] 
 "If-you-don't — I '11 — come — anyhow — 
 that 's — all." [They consider] 
 
 Wilfred. We might leave out "that 's 
 all." 
 
 Caroline. [Quickly] No! Don't leave 
 that out ! It 's very important. It 
 does n't seem so but it is ! It shows — 
 [Hesitates] well — it shows that 's all 
 there is about it ! That one thing might 
 convince him ! 
 
 Wilfred. We've got to leave out some- 
 thing ! 
 
 Caroline. Yes — but not that! Perhaps 
 there 's something in the next ! 
 [Reads] "The-seventeen-call-is-almost- 
 out"— That 's got to stay ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Reads] "The-sixteen-comes- 
 next." 
 
 Caroline. That 's got to stay ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Shaking head] Yes! 
 
 Caroline. [Taking it up] "And-I'm- 
 not-going-to-wait-for-it !" [Shaking her 
 head without looking up] No ! No ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Shaking head] No! 
 
 Caroline. We '11 find something in just a 
 minute! [Reading] "Do-you-think-I 'm- 
 a-damned-coward !" [Both look up from 
 the letter simultaneously and gaze at each 
 other in silence for an instant] 
 
 Wilfred. [After the pause] We might 
 leave out the 
 
 Caroline. [Breaking in on him with al- 
 most a scream] No ! [They again re- 
 gard each other] 
 
 Wilfred. [After the paus" 
 
 Tviat c^amn 's 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 607 
 
 going to cost us seven dollars and a 
 half! 
 Caroline. It 's worth it ! Why it 's the 
 best thing you 've got in the whole thing ! 
 Your papa 's a general in the army ! 
 He '11 understand that ! What 's next *? 
 I know there 's something now. 
 Wilfred. [Reads] "Tom-Kittridge-has- 
 gone. He-was-killed-yesterday-at-Cold- 
 Harbor." 
 Caroline. [Slight change in tone — a little 
 lower] Leave out that about his [Very 
 slight catch of breath] about his being 
 killed. 
 AYilfred. [Looking at Caroline] But he 
 
 was ! 
 Caroline. [She is suddenly very quiet] 
 I know he was — but you haven't got to 
 tell him the news have you? 
 Wilfred. That's so! [They hoth cross 
 
 off' the words] 
 Caroline. [Becoming cheerful again] 
 How does it read now*? [They are both 
 looking' over the letter] 
 Wilfred. It reads just the same — except 
 
 that about Tom Kittridge. 
 Caroline. [Looking at Wilfred aston- 
 ished] Just the same! After all this 
 work ! 
 
 [They look at one another rather as- 
 tounded, then suddenly turn to the 
 letter again and study over it earn- 
 estly. — Sound of door bell in dis- 
 tant part of house. — Soon after 
 Martha crosses outside up l. c. com- 
 ing from door r. of stairway and 
 disappearing outside up L. c. to l. — 
 Sound of door off L. — A moment 
 later she enters up l. c. from l. and 
 goes up the stairway carrying a large 
 envelope. — Wilfred and Caroline 
 are so absorbed in work that they do 
 not observe the hell or Martha's 
 movements] 
 Caroline. [Looking up from letter] 
 
 Everything else has got to stay ! 
 Wilfred. Then we can't telegraph — it 
 
 would take hundreds of dollars! 
 Caroline. [With determination] Yes we 
 can ! [Wilfred looks at her. — She takes 
 the letter] I'll send it! [Backing up a 
 Utile toward door up L. c] 
 Wilfred. How can you — 
 Caroline. Never you mind ! 
 Wilfred. [Follows her up a little] See 
 here! [Taking hold of the letter] I'm 
 not going to have you spending money ! 
 Caroline. Ha — no danger ! I have n't 
 got any to spend ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Releases hold on letter] Then 
 what are you going to do? 
 
 Caroline. [Turning up toward door up 
 L. c. with letter] Oh — I know! [Turns 
 toward Wilfred] I reckon Douglass 
 Stafford '11 send it for me ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Quickly to her] No he won't! 
 [They face each other. — Caroline sur- 
 prised] 
 
 Caroline. What 's the reason he won't 1 
 
 Wilfred. [Slight ptause] If he wants to 
 send it for me he can — but he won't send 
 it for you! 
 
 Caroline. What do you care so long as he 
 sends it ? 
 
 Wilfred. [Up c. — Looking at Caroline — 
 slight change of tone] Well — I care! — 
 that 's enough ! [They look at each other, 
 then both lower eyes, looking in different 
 directions] 
 
 Caroline. [Up l. c] Oh well — if you 
 feel like that about it — ! [Turns away 
 down L. c] 
 
 Wilfred. [Up c. — Eyes lowered] That's 
 the way I feel ! [Pause. — Wilfred* Zoo A-s 
 up at her — then moves down toward her] 
 You — you won't give up the idea of help- 
 ing me because I feel like that — will you? 
 
 Caroline. [Impulsively, with start and 
 turn toward AYilfred] Mercy no — I '11 
 help you all I can — [Wilfred impulsively 
 takes her hand as if in gratitude and so 
 quick that she draws it away and goes on 
 with only a slight break] — about the 
 letter ! 
 
 Wilfred. That's what I mean! [They 
 stand an instant, Caroline looking down, 
 Wilfred at her] 
 
 Caroline. [Suddenly turning toward desk 
 and crossing him ^o R.] I 'm going to 
 see if we can't leave out something else! 
 [Sits at desk. — Wilfred goes down r. 
 near her on her l. and stands looking 
 over her, intent on the letter] 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Varney, coming down the 
 stairway and into the room at door up 
 L. c. — She has an open letter in her hand. 
 Also brings a belt and cap rolled up to- 
 gether. She pauses near the door and 
 motions someone who is outside up L. c. 
 to come in — then comes in a little way. — 
 Martha follows her down and exits 
 through door r. of stairway] 
 
 [Enter an orderly up L. c. from L. just 
 from his horse after a long ride. Dusty, 
 faded and bloody uniform; yellow stripes. 
 Face sunburned and grim. He stands 
 near the door up l. c. waiting, without 
 
608 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 effort to he precise or formal, but never- 
 theless being entirely soldierly. — Mrs. 
 Yarney waits up L. c. until he enters^ 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Turning to Wilfred and 
 moving toward c] Wilfred ! [Wilfred 
 and Caroline turn quickly. They both 
 stare motionless for a moment^ Here 's a 
 letter from your Father. He sent it by 
 the orderly, [Wilfred moves a step or 
 tico toward Mrs. Varney and stands look- 
 ing at her. — Caroline slowly rises with 
 her eyes on Mrs. Varney. — Mrs. Varney 
 speaks calmly but with the measured 
 quietness of one who is controlling her- 
 self] He tells me — [She stops a little 
 but it is only her voice that fails. Holds 
 letter toward Wilfred] You read it! 
 [Wilfred, after a glance at Caroline, 
 steps quickly to Mrs. Varney and 
 takes the letter. Reads it — Mrs. 
 Varney looking away a little as he 
 does so. — Caroline's eyes upon Wil- 
 fred as he reads. — The Orderly 
 faced to r. on obliqued line of door. 
 — Wilfred finishes very soon — only 
 two or three seconds necessary. He 
 glances at the Orderly, then hands 
 the letter to his Mother as he steps 
 across to him] 
 Wilfred. [Standing before the Orderly] 
 The General says I 'm going* back with 
 you! 
 Orderly. [Saluting] His orders sir! 
 Wilfred. When do we start '? 
 Orderly. Soon as you can sir — I 'm wait- 
 ing ! 
 Wilfred We '11 make it right now ! 
 [Wilfred turns and walks quickly to his 
 Mother] You won't mind. Mother? 
 [Mrs. Varney does not speak, but 
 quietly strokes the hair back from his 
 forehead with a trembling hand — and 
 only once. She then hands him the 
 belt and cap. Old and worn cap. 
 Belt that has seen service] 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Your brother 
 wanted you to take these — I told him you 
 were going. [Wilfred takes them. 
 Puts on the belt at once] He says he 
 can get another belt — when he wants it. 
 You 're to have his blanket too — I '11 get 
 it. [She crosses Wilfred and goes off at 
 door up l. c. to L., going back of 
 Orderly] 
 
 [Wilfred finishing adjusting the belt. 
 — Caroline motionless down r. but 
 now looking down at the floor — 
 facing nearly front] 
 
 Wilfred. [Suppresses excitement] Fits 
 as if it was made for me! [To orderly] 
 I'll be with you in a jiffy! [Wilfred 
 goes to Caroline] We won't have to 
 send that now — [indicating letter they 
 have been working on] will we? [Wil- 
 fred stands on her l. — Caroline shakes 
 her head a little without looking up — 
 then slowly raises left hand in which she 
 has the letter and holds it out to him, her 
 eyes still on the floor. — Wilfred takes the 
 letter mechanically and keeps it in his 
 hand during the next few lines, tearing 
 it up absent-mindedly] You 're pretty 
 good — to help me like you did! You 
 can help me again if you — if you want 
 to! [Caroline raises her eyes and looks 
 at him] I 'd like to fight twice as well 
 if — [Hesitates. — Caroline looks at 
 him an instant longer and then looks 
 down without speaking] . Good-bye! 
 [Wilfred holds out his hand. — Caroline 
 puts her hand in his without looking at 
 him] Perhaps you'll write to me about 
 — about helping me fight twice as well! 
 I would n't mind if you telegraphed ! 
 That is — if you telegraphed that you 
 would ! [Slight pause. Wilfred hold- 
 ing Caroline's hand boyishly. — Caro- 
 line looking down. — Wilfred trying to 
 say something but not ffnding the words. 
 — Enter Mrs. Varney at door up l. c. 
 from L. — Wilfred hears her and turns — 
 leaving Caroline and meeting his mother 
 near c. — She brings an army blanket 
 rolled up and tied. — Wilfred takes it 
 and slings it over his shoulder] Good- 
 bye mother! [He kisses her rather hur- 
 riedly. — Mrs. Varney stands passive] 
 You won't mind, will you! [Wilfred 
 crosses at once to Orderly] Ready sh'! 
 [Saluting. — Orderly turns and marches 
 off at door up left. — Wilfred follows the 
 Orderly. — Brief pause] 
 
 [The opening and heavy closing of the 
 door outside left is heard, and then 
 it is still. — Mrs. Varney is the first 
 to move. She turns and walks 
 slowly up a few steps, her back to 
 the audience, but with no visible emo- 
 tion. It is as if her eyes filled with 
 tears and she turned away. — When 
 Mrs. Varney stops up c. Caroline 
 moves a Utile, her eyes still down, 
 walking slowly across toward the 
 door up L. c. — Mrs. Varney hears 
 her and turns in time to speak just 
 before she reaches the door up l. c] 
 Mrs. Varney. Going, dear? [Caroline 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 609 
 
 nods her head a little without looking 
 round^ Oh yes! {Speaks icith a shade 
 of forced cheerfulness] Your party of 
 course! You ought to be there! [Caro- 
 line stops and speaks hack into the room 
 without looking at Mrs. Varney] 
 
 Caroline. [Subdued voice. With a sad 
 little shake of head] There won't — 
 there won't be any party to-night. [Exit 
 at door up l. c. to l.] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [After an instanfs wait 
 starts toward door up l. c] Caroline! 
 Stop a moment! [J.^ door] I don't 
 want you to go home alone! [She goes 
 down L. and rings the hell] 
 
 Caroline. [Outside up l.] Oh I don't 
 mind ! 
 
 [Sounds of front door and heavy steps 
 of men outside up left. — Mrs. Var- 
 ney goes tip l. c. looking off, and 
 then retires hack a little to up c] 
 
 [Enter Arrelsford and two soldiers at the 
 door up l. c. from L. — Arrelsford mo- 
 tions men to stand at the door and goes 
 quickly to Mrs. Varney up c] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Is he — f [A 
 
 motion toward window at r.] 
 Mrs. Varney. [To Arrelsford, hardly 
 
 ahove a whisper] Yes! 
 
 [Enter Caroline at door up l. c. from l.] 
 
 Caroline. [Up Jj.c] Oh Mrs. Varney — 
 there 's a heap o' soldiers out yere ! Yon 
 don't reckon anything 's the mattah do 
 you? 
 
 [Enter Martha at door up l. c. from door 
 R. of stairway. — Arrelsford goes hack of 
 Mrs. Varney to r. — Looks through cur- 
 tains of window down R.] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Hastening to Caroline] 
 Sh ! — No — there 's nothing the matter ! 
 Martha, I want you to go home with Miss 
 Mitford — at once! [Urging Caroline 
 off] Good night dear ! [Kissing her] 
 
 Caroline. [Up l. c] Good night! 
 [Looks up in Mrs. Varney's face] You 
 don't reckon she could go with me to — 
 [Hesitates] to somewhere else, do you*? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Up l. c, r. of Caroline] 
 Why where do you want to go*? 
 
 Caroline. Just to — just to the telegraph 
 office! 
 
 [Arrelsford turns sharply and looks 
 at Caroline from window down r.] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Now! At this time of 
 night ! 
 
 Caroline. I 've got to ! Oh, it 's very im- 
 portant business! 
 
 [Arrelsford r. watching Caroline] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Of course, then, Martha 
 must go with you ! Good night ! 
 
 Caroline. Good night! [Exit Caroline 
 and Martha at door up l. c. to l.] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Calling off up l. c. to l.] 
 Martha, don't leave her an instant! 
 
 Martha. [Outside l. or just going] 
 No 'm — I '11 take care ! 
 
 [Martha does not com.e into room for 
 foregoing scene. She remains hack 
 of archway or opening up L. c. — 
 Heavy sound of door outside up L.] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Going up c. quickly — low, 
 sharp voice] What is she going to do 
 at the telegTaph office'? — What is if? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Going down l. c. a little. 
 Low voice] 1 've no idea ! [Accent on 
 first syllahle of "idea"] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Has she had 
 any conversation with him? [Motion to- 
 te ard R.] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Why — they 
 were talking together here — early this 
 evening ! But it is n't possible that Caro- 
 
 line could have any- 
 
 Arrelsford. [Interrupting. Low voice] 
 Anything is possible! [Goes over to 
 Corporal at up l. c. quickly, passing 
 hack of Mrs. Varney. — Mrs. Varney 
 moves to up R. c. as Arrelsford crosses 
 at hack] Have Eddinger follow that 
 girl ! She 's going to the telegraph office. 
 — Don't let her get any despatch off until 
 I see it ! Make no mistake about that ! 
 [Corporal exits with salute at door up 
 L. c. to L. — Brrief pause. — Arrelsford 
 turns to Mrs. Varney] Are they both 
 out there? [Motioning tov'ard veranda 
 at r] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Up r. c. — Low tone] 
 Yes ! — Did you bring the man from Libby 
 Prison? 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. of her. — Lotv voice] 
 The guard 's holding him out in the street. 
 When she gets Thorne in here and leaves 
 him alone I '11 have them bring him up to 
 that window [Pointing to window up R.] 
 and then shove him into the room. 
 
 [Corporal re-appears at the door up 
 L. c. from L. and awaits further or- 
 ders. — Arrelsford and Mrs. Var- 
 ney continue in low tones] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [r. c] Where shall i 
 
 Arrelsford. Out there [Pointing up l. 
 and going toward door a little] where you 
 can get a view of this room ! 
 
610 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Mrs. Varney. But if he sees me 
 
 Arrelsford. He won't if it 's dark in the 
 hall! [Tiims to Corporal and gives or- 
 der in low distinct voice] Shut off those 
 lights out there! [Indicating lights out- 
 side the door or archway up left. — Cor- 
 poral exits up L. c. to L. — An instant 
 later the lights outside up L. go off] We 
 can close these curtains can't we*? 
 Mrs. Varney. Yes. [Arrelsford draws 
 curtains or portieres across at door or 
 arch w a) I up l. c] 
 
 [Corporal and Men are out of sight 
 behind the drawn curtains] 
 Arrelsford. [Turning front] I don't 
 want much light in here! [Indicating 
 drawing-room] 
 
 [Arrelsford goes to table up c. and 
 
 turns down the lamp. — Mrs. Varney 
 
 turns down lamp on desk down R. — 
 
 Stage in dim light] 
 
 Arrelsford. [C are f idly moves couch away 
 
 from window up R. and opens portieres 
 
 of window. — Almost in a whisper] Now 
 
 open those curtains ! — Carefully ! — -Don't 
 
 attract attention ! [Indicating window 
 
 doivn R.] 
 
 [Mrs. Varney very quietly draws hack 
 the curtains to window down r. — 
 Moonlight on through window down 
 R. covering as much of stage as pos- 
 sible. Moonlight also strong on 
 barking up R. and cdso in across room 
 from ill ere] 
 Arrelsford. [Moving over to up L. c. — 
 Speaking across to Mrs. Varney after 
 the lights are down] Are those women 
 in there yet? [Indicating door up c] 
 Mrs. Varney. Yes. 
 
 Arrelsford. Where's the key? [Mrs. 
 Varney moves noiselessly to the door up 
 c] Is it on this side? 
 
 [Mrs. Varney turns and nods affirma- 
 tively] 
 Arrelsford. Lock the door! 
 
 [Mrs. Varney turns the key as noise- 
 lessly as possible. — Edith suddenly 
 appears at ivindow up R. coming on 
 quickly and closing the ivindow after 
 her. — Mrs. Varney and Arrelsford 
 both turn and stand looking at 
 her. 
 Edith. [Going down r. c. and stretching 
 out left hand toward Mrs. Varney. — 
 Very low voice — but breathlessly] 
 Mama! [Mrs. Varney hurries forward 
 with her c. — Edith on her r. — Arrels- 
 ford remains up l. c. looking on] I 
 want to speak to you! 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Low tone. — Stepping 
 forward] We can't wait ! 
 
 Edith. [c] You must! [Arrelsford 
 moves back protestingly. — Edith turns to 
 Mrs. Varney. — Almost a whisper] I 
 can't — I can't do it ! Oh — let me go ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [c. — Very low voice] 
 Edith ! You w^ere the one "who 
 
 Edith. [Almost a whisper] I was sure 
 then !' 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Has he confessed? 
 
 Edith. [Quickly] No no! [Glance to- 
 ward Arrelsford] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice — sharp] Don't 
 speak so loud! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] What is it 
 Edith — you must tell me! 
 
 Edith. [Almost a whisper] Mama — he 
 
 loves me! [Breathless] — Yes — and I 
 
 Oh — let someone else do it ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. You don't mean that you — 
 [Arrelsford comes forward quickly l. c] 
 
 Edith. [Seeing Arrelsford approach and 
 crossing Mrs. Varney to him] No no! 
 Not now! Not now! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [c. r. — Low voice] More 
 reason now than ever! 
 
 Arrelsford. [c. l. — Low voice] We must 
 go on! 
 
 Edith, [c. — Turning desperately upon 
 Arrelsford. — Low voice] Why are you 
 doing this? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Because I 
 please ! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice — but with force] You- 
 never pleased befo-.-e! Hundreds of sus- 
 picious cases have come up — hundreds of 
 men have been run down — but you pre- 
 ferred to sit at your desk in the War 
 Department ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Edith! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] We won't dis- 
 cuss that now! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] No — ^we'll end it! 
 I '11 have nothing more to do with the 
 aifair ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] You won't! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Low voice] Edith — ! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] Nothing at all! — 
 Nothing ! — Nothing ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice but with vehe- 
 mence] At your own suggestion Miss 
 Varney, I agreed to a plan by which we 
 could criminate this friend of yours — 
 or establish his innocence. At the criti- 
 cal moment — when eveiything 's ready, 
 you propose to withdraw — making it a 
 failure and perhaps allowing him to es- 
 cape altogether! 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 611 
 
 Mrs. Yarxey. [Low voice] I can't al- 
 low you to do this Edith! 
 Edith. [Low voice — desperately] He 's 
 there I — the man is there — at the further 
 end of the veranda ! What more do you 
 want of me! 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice. Sharp. In- 
 tense] Call him into this room! If 
 anyone else should do it he 'd suspect — 
 he 'd be on his guard ! 
 Edith. [After pause. Low voice] Tery 
 well— I '11 call him into this room. 
 [Turning away as if to do so] 
 Arrelsford. [Loiv voice] One thing 
 more! [Edith turns hack to him] I 
 want him to have this paper! [Holding 
 out paper that was taken from Jonas in 
 Act I] Tell him where it came from — 
 tell him the old niggah got it from a pris- 
 oner in Libby ! 
 Edith. [Quietly. Low voice] Why am 
 
 I to do this'? 
 Arrelsford. [Low hut very strong] Why 
 not? If he's innocent where 's the 
 harm'? — If not — if he's what I think he 
 is — the message on that paper will send 
 him to the telegTaph office to-night and 
 that 's just where we want him ! 
 Edith. [Low voice] I never promised 
 
 that ! 
 Arrelsford. [Hard sharp voice though 
 suhdued] Do you still believe him inno- 
 cent? 
 
 [Pause. — Edith sloicly raises her head 
 erect. Looks Arrelsford full in the 
 face] 
 Edith. [Ahnost whisper] I still — ^believe 
 
 him — innocent ! 
 Arrelsford. Then why are you afraid to 
 give him this? [Indicating paper] 
 [Pause. — Edith turns to Arrelsford. 
 Stretches out her hand for the paper. 
 — Arrelsford puts the paper in 
 Edith's hand. — Arrelsford and 
 Mrs. Varney watch her. — She turns 
 and moves up a few steps toward 
 the window. Stops and stands lis- 
 tening up l. c. — Noise of chair heing 
 set hack on veranda outside r.] 
 Edith. [Low voice] Captain Thome 's 
 
 coming. 
 Arrelsford. [Going to door up l. c. and 
 holding curtains hack] This way Mrs. 
 Varney ! — Quick ! — Quick ! [Arrelsford 
 and Mrs. Varney hasten off at the door 
 up L. closing portieres after them] 
 
 [Edith moves across to down l. c. and 
 stands near table. — Sound of 
 Thorne's footsteps on veranda out- 
 
 side windows r. — Edith slowly turns 
 toward the window up r. and stands 
 looking at it with a fascinated dread. 
 — Thorne opens the window up R. 
 and enters at once, coming a few 
 steps into the room. He stops and 
 stands an instant looking at Edith 
 as she looks strangely at liim. Then 
 he goes to her] 
 Thorne. [Low voice — near Edith] Is 
 
 anything the matter? 
 Edith. [Slightly shakes her head hefore 
 speaking. — Nearly a whisper] Oh no ! 
 [Emphasize "no.'' — Stands looking up in 
 his face] 
 Thorne. [Low voice] You 've been away 
 
 a long time! 
 Edith. [Low voice] Only a few minutes ! 
 Thorne. [Low voice] Only a few years. 
 Edith. [Easier] Oh — if that's a few 
 years — [Turning away front a little] 
 what a lot of time there is! 
 Thorne. [Low voice] There's only to- 
 night ! 
 Edith. [Turning to him. A breathless in- 
 terrogation] What ! 
 Thorne. [Taking her hands and drawing 
 her into his arms] There 's only to-night 
 and you in the world! — Oh — see what 
 I 've been doing ! I came here deter- 
 mined not to tell you that I love you — 
 I love you — I love you — and for the last 
 half hour I 've been telling you nothing 
 else ! Ah, my darling — there 's only to- 
 night and you! 
 Edith. [A breathless whisper] No no — 
 you mustn't! [A quick apprehensive 
 glance around toward left and back] — 
 not now! [Her head is turned a little 
 ffway from him] 
 
 [Thorne, still holding her, is m&tion- 
 less an instant. Then he gives a 
 lightning-quick glance about — to R. 
 and up — and almost instantly his 
 eyes are back to her. He slowly re- 
 leases her and stands back a step] 
 Thorne. [Loiu voice] Don't mind what 
 I said Miss Varney — I must have forgot- 
 ten myself. Believe me I came to make 
 a friendly call and — and say good-bye. 
 [Bowing slightly] Permit me to do so 
 now. [Turns up at once making turn to 
 L. and walks toward door up l. c] 
 Edith. [Quickly across to c. as Thorne 
 goes] Oh!— Cap'n Thorne! [This is 
 timed to stop Thorne just before he 
 reaches the closed portieres of door up 
 l. c. — Thorne turns up l. c. and looks 
 at Edith. — Calcium across from window 
 
612 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 R. on him. — Edith trying to he natural — 
 hut her lightness somewhat forced^ Be- 
 fore you go 1 — [Slight quiver in her 
 voice] — I wanted to ask your advice 
 about something! [She stands near c. 
 turned a little to front] 
 
 [Thorne looks at her motionless an 
 instant. Then turns his head slowly 
 toward the portieres on his left. 
 Turns hack to Edith at c. again and 
 at once moves down to her on her l.] 
 
 Thorne. [As he comes down to Edith] 
 Yes? 
 
 Edith. What do you think— this means'? 
 [Holds the piece of paper out toward 
 Thorne hut avoids looking in his face] 
 
 Thorne. [l. of Edith. Stepping quickly 
 to her and taking the paper easily] 
 Why, what is itt [A half-glance at the 
 paper as he takes it] 
 
 Edith. It's a — [Hesitates slightly. Re- 
 covers at once and looks up at him 
 h rightly] That 's what I w^ant you to 
 tell me. 
 
 Thorne. [Looking at the paper] Oh — 
 you don't know ! 
 
 Edith. [Shaking her head slightly] No. 
 [Stands waiting — eyes averted. — Thorne 
 glances quickly at her an instant on pe- 
 culiar tone of ^'no"] 
 
 Thorne. [Looking again at the paper] 
 A note from someone? 
 
 Edith. It might be. 
 
 Thorne. [Glancing ahout] Well, it's 
 pretty dark here! [Sees the low-turned 
 lamp on desk down r. and crosses to it] 
 If you '11 excuse me I '11 turn up this 
 lamp a little — [Comes to desk] then we 
 can see what it is. [Turns up lamp. — 
 Lights on foot 1-2] There we are! 
 [Looks at paper, holding it down in light 
 from lamp. Heads as if with much dif- 
 ficulty] "Attack .... to-night" .... 
 There's something about "Attack to- 
 night" — [Turns easily to Edith] Could 
 you make out what it was? 
 
 [Edith shakes head negatively. Her 
 lips move, hut she cannot speak. 
 She turns away] 
 
 [Thorne looks at her a second — then a 
 slow turn of head {turning it to his L, ) 
 glancing up stage. — Then quickly turns 
 to examine the paper again] "Attack 
 .... to-night .... plan .... three." 
 [Looks up to front as if considering. 
 Repeats] Plan three! [Considering 
 again. — Slight laugh] Well — this thing 
 must be a puzzle of some kind. Miss Var- 
 ney. [Turning to Edith] 
 
 Edith. [Slowly. Strained voice, as if 
 forcing herself to speak] It was taken 
 from a Yankee prisoner! 
 
 Thorne. [Instantly coming from former 
 easy attitude into one showing interest 
 and surprise. Looking at Edith] So! 
 — Yankee prisoner eh? [While speaking 
 he is holding paper in right hand as if to 
 look at it again when he finishes speak- 
 ing to Edith] 
 
 Edith. Yes — down in Libby ! — He gave it 
 to one of our servants — old Jonas! 
 
 Thorne. [Turning quickly to paper] 
 Why here — this might be something — 
 [Looks again at the paper] "Attack to- 
 night — plan three — use Telegraph — " 
 [Second's pause. He looks up front] 
 Use telegraph ! [Turns quickly to Edith 
 and goes toward her] This might be 
 something important Miss Varney! 
 Looks like a plot on our Department 
 TelegTaph Lines! Who did Jonas give 
 it to? 
 
 Edith. No one! 
 
 Thorne. No one! — Well — how — how — 
 
 Edith. We took it away from him! 
 
 Thorne. Oh! [An "Oh!" meaning "What 
 a pity!"] [Starting at once as if to 
 cross ahove Edith to door up L. c] 
 That was a mistake! 
 
 Edith. [Detaining him. — Speaks rapidly 
 — almost a whisper] What are you go- 
 ing to do? 
 
 Thorne. [Strong. Determined] Find 
 that nigger and make him tell who this 
 paper w^as for — he 's the man we want ! 
 [Crossing hack of her — toward door up 
 L. c] 
 
 Edith. [Turning quickly to him] Cap'n 
 Thorne — they 've lied about you ! 
 
 Thorne. [Wheeling round like a flash iip 
 L. c. and coming down quickly to her] 
 Lied about me! What do you mean? 
 [Seizing her hands and looking in her 
 face to get the answer there] 
 
 Edith. [Quick — hreathless — very low — al- 
 most whisper] Don't be angry — I did n't 
 think it would be like this! 
 
 Thorne. [With great force] Yes — but 
 what have you done? 
 
 Edith. [Breaking loose from him and 
 crossing to L.] No! 
 
 Thorne. [As she crosses hefore him — try- 
 ing to detain her] But I must 
 know! 
 
 [Sound of heavy door outside l. and of 
 steps and voices in the hall — "Here! 
 This way!" etc.] 
 
 Corporal, [Speaking outside door up l. c. 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 613 
 
 to h.] This way I Look out on that side 
 
 will you^ 
 
 [TiiORXE on hearing Corporal etc. 
 backs away to R. C. keeping his eyes 
 on door up L. c. and at same time 
 snatching revolver from holster. 
 Stands motionless down L. C. — eyes 
 on door — revolver ready] 
 Edith. Oh! [Going rapidly up L.] — I 
 
 don't want to be here! [She exits door 
 
 up L. and goes up stairs out of the way 
 
 of the soldiers] 
 
 [Enter at once on exit of Edith, Corporal 
 tuith two men at door up L. c. from L. — 
 They cross rapidly toward window up R., 
 Corporal leading carrying a lighted lan- 
 tern. — Thorxe, seeing Corporal, at once 
 breaks position and moves across towards 
 up c. as men cross, ivatching Corporal 
 who is up R. c. directing his men] 
 
 Corporal. [Near window up r.] Out 
 here ! Look out now ! 
 
 [The men exit at window up R.] 
 Thorxe. [Quick on Corporal's speech so 
 as to stop him at R. c] What is it Cor- 
 poral? [Putting revolver back into hol- 
 ster] 
 
 [Thorxe stands up c. in light from 
 window up R. facing Corporal] 
 Corporal. [Turning at up r. c. and salut- 
 ing] Prisoner sir — broke out o' Libby ! 
 We 've run him down the street — he 
 turned in here somewhere! If he comes 
 in that way [Indicating the window down 
 R.] would you be good enough to let us 
 know! 
 Thorxe. Go on, Corporal ! [Starts across 
 to window down R.] I '11 look out for 
 this window ! 
 
 [Exit Corporal window up b..] 
 [Thorxe strides rapidly to window 
 down r. Pushes curtains back each 
 side and stands within the window 
 looking off. Right hand on revolver 
 in holster. Left hand holding cur- 
 tains back. — 2Ioonlight on through 
 window down R. across stage and 
 also from window up R. — Dead pause 
 for an instant. — Suddenly the two 
 men who crossed with Corporal ap- 
 pear at window up R. holding Hexry 
 DuMOXT. With a sudden movement 
 they force him on through the win- 
 dow into the room and disappear 
 quickly outside off to R. — Dumoxt 
 stands an instant where he landed up 
 R. c. — Looks back through window up 
 
 R., not comprehending ichat is going 
 on. He gives a quick glance about 
 the room. DuiioxT wears a worn and 
 tattered uniform of a United States 
 Cavalry private. He is pale as from 
 lack of food — but not emaciated or 
 ill. — Hold this Tableau : — Thorxe 
 standing motionless just iitthin the 
 window down R. his eyes sharply 
 ivatching off to R., his hand on the 
 butt of his revolver; — Dumoxt up 
 R. C, holding position he came to on 
 being forced into the room, with 
 enough light through window up R. 
 to show the blue of his uniform. — 
 After a second's pause Dumoxt 
 turns from the ivindow and looks 
 sloivly about the room, taking in the 
 ■various points like a caged animal, 
 turning his head very slowly as he 
 looks one way and another. Soon he 
 moves a few steps down toward c. 
 and pauses. Turns and makes out a 
 doorway up L. c. and after a glance 
 round, he walks rapidly toward it. 
 Just before he reaches the door the 
 blades of four bayonets come down 
 into position between the drawn cur- 
 tain or portieres, barring his exit 
 there. — Light from outside window R. 
 to strike across on blades of bayonets. 
 — Very slight steely click of bayonets 
 striking together as they come down 
 into position. — Dumox^t stops in- 
 stantly and stands motionless. — 
 Thorxe at ivindow down R. turns 
 sharply on click of bayonets looking 
 into room, and advancing a few steps 
 in as he does so, coming to a stand 
 with right hand on chair that is near, 
 and trying to see who it is on the 
 opposite side of the room. — Bayonets 
 withdrawn at once after they are 
 shown. — DuiioXT turn^ from the 
 door and begins to move slowly down 
 at L. along the wall. Just as he is 
 coming around table down L. toward 
 c. he sees Thorxe and stops dead. — 
 Both men motionless, their eyes upon 
 each other. — Hold it several seconds. 
 — Dumoxt makes a start as if to 
 escape through ivindow up R., mov- 
 ing across toward it] 
 Thorxe. [Quick and loud order as Du- 
 moxt starts toward window] Halt! — 
 You 're a prisoner ! 
 
 [Dumoxt, after instant's hesitation on 
 Thorxe's order, starts rapidly to- 
 ward window up r. again. — Thornk 
 
614 • 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 heads him o/J', meeting him up R. c. 
 and seizes him] 
 Thorne. [As he heads Dumont off] 
 Halt ! I say ! 
 
 [Dumont grapples with Thorne and 
 the two men struggle together, mov- 
 ing quickly down stage to l. c, very 
 close to front — getting as far as pos- 
 sible from those who are watching 
 them] 
 Thorne. [Loud voice, as they struggle 
 down stage] Here's your man Cor- 
 poral! What are you waiting for! 
 Here 's your man I say ! 
 Dumont. [When they are down as far as 
 possible — holding Thorne motionless an 
 instant and hissing out between his teeth, 
 without pause or infiectioyi on the words] 
 ATTACK TO-NIGHT— PLAN THREE 
 —TELEGRAPH— DO YOU GET IT? 
 Thorne. [Quick on it] YES! 
 
 [This dialogue in capitals shot at each 
 
 other with great force and rapidity — 
 
 and so low that people outside door 
 
 up L. could not hear] 
 
 Dumont. [Low voice — almost whisper] 
 
 They're watching us! Shoot me in the 
 
 Ipcr t 
 
 Thorne. [Holding Dumont motionless] 
 
 No no ! I can't do that ! 
 Dumont. You must ! 
 
 [They are struggling desperately — but 
 with little movement] 
 Thorne. [Quick on it] I can't shoot my 
 
 own brother! 
 Dumont. It's the only way to throw 'em 
 
 off the scent ! 
 Thorne. Well I won't do it anyhow ! 
 Dumont. If you won't do it I will ! Give 
 me that gun! [Pushing left arm out to 
 get revolver] 
 Thorne. [Holding Dumont's arm hack 
 motionless] No no Harry ! You '11 hurt 
 yourself ! 
 Dumont. [Struggling to get revolver] 
 Let me have it ! 
 
 [They are now struggling in real des- 
 peration, moving quickly up c. as 
 they do so, coming into light from 
 windows at r] 
 Thorne. [Calling out as he struggles up c. 
 ivith Dumoxt] Here 's your man Cor- 
 poral ! What 's the matter with you ! 
 [Dumont gets hold of Thorxe's re- 
 voli-er and pulls it out of holster] 
 Thorne. [.Is Dumoxt holds him up c. and 
 is getting revolver] — [Loud — aspirated — 
 sharp] Look out HaiTy! You'll hurt 
 yourself! [Get$ hi§ B, hand on revolver 
 
 to hold it] [Dumox'^t manages with his 
 L. hand to wrench Thorxe's hand loose 
 from the revolver and hold it up while he 
 seizes the weapon with his r. hand and 
 pulls it out of the holster. At the same 
 time he shoves Thorne off toward down 
 r.] 
 Thorx^e. [As Dumont throws him off r.] 
 Look out! [As Dumont throws 7'hornb 
 off toward down R. he backs quickly — • 
 with same motion — up c. the revolver in 
 his right hand. — Before Thorx^e can re- 
 cover and turn at right Dumont fires. — 
 There is a quick sharp scream from ladies 
 outside up L. c. behind portieres. — Du- 
 mont staggers down c. and falls, holding 
 the revolver in his hand until he is down 
 and then releasing it, so that it lies on the 
 floor near liim] 
 Thorx^e. [Back against chair at R. — which 
 he teas flung against] Harry — ^you 've 
 shot yourself! [Instantly on this he 
 dives for the revolver that Dumox^t has 
 dropped and gets it, coming up on same 
 motion with it in right hand and stands in 
 careless attitude just over Dumox^t's 
 body to R. of it. — Blends voices heard out- 
 side up L. and outside windows r. and 
 up R.] 
 
 [Instantly on Thorne stooping to 
 snatch up revolver, enter at up L. c. 
 through the portieres Arrelsford 
 and Men followed by Edith, Mrs. 
 Varx^ey and Miss Kittridge, and 
 from windows up r. and R. the Cor- 
 poral and Men. — Arrelsford runs 
 at once to table up c. and turns up 
 the lamp. — Others stand on tableau — 
 Mrs. Varney and Edith at left. 
 Miss Kittridge up l. Men in door- 
 way and up R. C. near window] 
 [Lights full on instantly on Arrels- 
 ford reaching the lamp] 
 Arrelsford, Mrs. Yarx'ey, Edith, Miss 
 Kittridge, Corporal, Men. [As they 
 enter] Where is he! — What has he 
 done ! — He 's shot the man ! — This way 
 now! [These different exclamations 
 from the different characters and nearly 
 together as they rush into the room, but 
 quieting down at once as they see Thorne 
 standing over Dumoxt] 
 Thorx'^e. [Instantly on people stopping 
 quiet. — With easy swing of revolver 
 crossing toward c. as he brings it up to 
 put back into holster] There 's your 
 prisoner Corporal — look out for him! 
 [Stands at r. c, putting revolver back 
 into hoUter] 
 
 [CURTAIN] 
 
ACT III 
 
 Scenes : — Tlie War Department Telegraph 
 Office. 
 
 Ten o'clock 
 
 Plain and somewhat battered and grimy 
 room on the second floor of a public 
 building. Moldings and stucco-work 
 broken and discolored. Stained and 
 smoky walls. Large ivindows — the glass 
 covered with grime and cobwebs. Plaster 
 fallen or knocked from walls and ceiling 
 in some places. All this from neglect 
 — not from bombardment. The building 
 was once a handsome one, but has been 
 put to war purposes. Very large and 
 high double doors up E. C. obliqued. 
 These doors open to a corridor showing 
 plain corridor-backing of a public build- 
 ing. This door must lead off well to E. 
 so that it shall not interfere with window 
 showing street up L. C. Three wide 
 French windows up l. and l. c. obliqued 
 a little and opening down to floor, with 
 
 - balcony outside extending e. and L. and 
 showing several massive white columns, 
 bases at balcony and extending up out of 
 sight as if for several stories above. 
 Part of the building with columns shown 
 in perspective, as if a wing. Backing of 
 windows showing night view of city roofs 
 and buildings as from height of second 
 floor. Large disused fireplace with elab- 
 orate marble mantel in bad repair and 
 very dirty on e. side behind telegraph 
 tables. Door up c. opening to cupboard 
 with shelves on which are battery jars and 
 telegraph office truck of various kinds. 
 Boom lighted by gas on e. above E. tele- 
 graph table, several burners branching 
 from a main pipe and all to turn on and 
 off easily by means of one cock in main 
 pipe, just above the telegraph table. 
 Show evening through windows up L. — 
 dark, with lights of buildings very faint 
 and distant, keeping general effect outside 
 window of darkness in order to avoid 
 distracting attention from interior of 
 room. Electric Calciums {moonlight) to 
 throw on at windows up l. c. and L. on 
 cues, and also to hold on the massive 
 white columns and on the characters who 
 go out on the balcony. Corridor outside 
 
 615 
 
 door up E. c. not strongly illuminated. 
 In the room itself fair light but not bril- 
 liant. Plain, solid table with telegraph 
 instruments down e. c. Another plain 
 plank table with instruments along wall 
 at right side. Table down e. c. braced 
 to look as if fastened securely to the floor. 
 Also see that wire connections are prop- 
 erly made from all the instruments in the 
 room to wires running up the wall on 
 right side, thence across along ceiling to 
 up L. c. and out through broken lights in 
 half circle windows above the French 
 windows at up L. c. This large bunch 
 of wires leading out, in plain sight, is 
 most important. Large office clock over 
 mantel set at 10 o'clock at opening and to 
 run during the Act. 
 
 Two instruments, A. and D., on table down 
 E. c. — A. is at E. end of table and is the 
 only one regularly used at that table, D. 
 being for emergency. Two instruments, 
 B. and C. on long table at E. against fire- 
 place. B. is at lower end of table, c. at 
 upper end. One chair at table down e. c. 
 Two chairs at table E. One chair up c. 
 No sound of cannonading in this Act. 
 
 [At opening there are two Operators at 
 work, one at table down e. c, one at table 
 on E. side. They are in old gray uni- 
 forms, but in shirt sleeves. Coats are 
 hung up or thrown on chairs. Busy 
 click-effect of instruments from an instant 
 before curtain rises, and continues. 
 After first continued clicking for a mo- 
 ment there are occasional pauses. Mes- 
 sengers A. and B. near door up e. c. Mes- 
 senger No. 3 in front of door c. talking 
 to messenger No. 4. Messenger No. 2 
 looking out of middle window over L.] 
 
 Second Opeeatoe. [Lieut. Allison] [At 
 table E. — instrument b. — finishing writing 
 a dispatch] Ready here! [Messenger a. 
 steps quickly forward and takes dispatch] 
 Department! The Secretary must have 
 it to-night! [Messengee salutes and 
 exits quickly at door up E. c. tvith dis- 
 patch. — Short pause. — Other Messengers 
 standing on attention] 
 
 First Operator. [Lieut. Foray] [At 
 table down R. c. — instrument A.] Ready 
 here! [Messenger b,— steps quickly 
 
616 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 down and takes dispatch from First 
 Operator] To the President — General 
 Watson — marked private ! [Messenger 
 B. salutes and exits quickly doors up R. c] 
 [Business continues a short' time as be- 
 fore. — Busy clicking of instruments. 
 calls of sentries fat below in the 
 square. — Second Operator at r. 
 moves to another instrument when it 
 begins to click and answers caW] 
 
 [First Messenger enters hurriedly at doors 
 up r. c. and comes down l. of table R. c. 
 with dispatch^ 
 
 First Messenger. Major Bridg-man ! 
 First Operator. [Looking up from work'] 
 
 Bridgman ! Where 's that "? 
 Second Messenger. [Glances at dispatch] 
 
 Longstreet's Corps. 
 First Operator. That 's yours Allison. 
 [Resumes loork at instrument a.] 
 
 [Second Operator holds out hand for 
 dispatch. — First Messenger crosses 
 back of table R. c. gives it to him and 
 exits at door up R. — Second Oper- 
 ator sends message on instrument b. 
 — Sound of band of music in distance 
 increasing very gradually. — Messen- 
 gers go to windows up L. c. and look 
 out but glance now and then at 
 Operators] 
 Second Messenger. [Opening c. window 
 and looking out ivhile music is coming on 
 and still distant] What 's that going up 
 Main Street? 
 Third Messenger. [Looks out] Rich- 
 mond Grays ! 
 Second and Fourth Messengers. [To- 
 gether] No ! 
 
 [Messengers look out through middle 
 window up l.] 
 Second Messenger. That 's what they are, 
 
 sure enoug'h ! 
 Third Messenger. They're sending 'em 
 
 down the river! 
 Second Messenger. Not to-night ! 
 Fourth Messenger. Seems like they was, 
 
 though ! 
 Third Messenger. I did n't reckon they 'd 
 send the Grays out without there was 
 something going on ! 
 Fourth Messenger. How do you know 
 
 but what there is"? 
 Second Messenger. To-night ! Why good 
 
 God ! It 's as quiet as a tomb ! 
 Fourth Messenger. I reckon that 's 
 what 's worrying 'em ! It 's so damned 
 unusual! 
 
 [Sound of band gradually dies away. 
 
 Before music is quite off, First 
 Operator finishes a dispatch from in- 
 strument A. and calls] 
 First Operator. Ready here! [Third 
 Messenger comes down to him to l. of 
 table R. c. and takes dispatch] Depart- 
 ment — from General Lee — duplicate to 
 the President! 
 
 [Third Messenger salutes and exits 
 quickly at doors up R. c. Business 
 goes on. — Enter an Orderly, doors 
 up R. c. Goes quickly down to First 
 Operator. Second and Fourth 
 Messengers stand talking near win- 
 dows up L. c] 
 Orderly, [l. of table r. c. salutes] The 
 Secretary would like to know if there 's 
 anything from General Lee come in since 
 nine o'clock this evenmg. 
 First Operator. Just sent one over an' a 
 
 duplicate went out to the President. 
 Orderly. The President 's with the Cabi- 
 net yet — he did n't go home ! They want 
 an operator right quick over there to take 
 down a cipher. 
 First Operator. [Calling out to Second 
 
 Operator] Got anything on, Charlie? 
 Second Operator. Not right now ! 
 First Operator. Well go over to the De- 
 partnaent^ — they want to take down a 
 cipher. 
 
 [Second Operator gets coat and exits 
 doors up R. c. putting coat on as he 
 goes, followed by the Orderly who 
 came for him. — Business and click of 
 instruments goes on. — Doors up R. C. 
 are opened from the outside by a 
 couple of young officers in showy and 
 untarnished uniforms, who stand in 
 most polite attitudes icaiting for a 
 lady to pass in. — First Operator 
 very busy ivriting at table R. C. taking 
 message from instrument A.] 
 First Young Officer. Right this way. 
 
 Miss Mitford! 
 Second Young Officer. Allow me. Miss 
 Mitford! This is the Department TeJe- 
 graph office ! 
 
 [Enter at the doors up R. c. Caroline 
 
 Mitford. — The young officers follow 
 
 her in. — Martha enters after the 
 
 officers, and waits near door well up 
 
 stage] 
 
 Caroline. [Coming down c. as she comes 
 
 in. Speaks in rather subdued manner 
 
 and without vivacity, as if her mind 
 
 were upon what she came for] Thank 
 
 you! 
 
 First Young Officer. [On her l.] I 'm 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 617 
 
 afraid you've gone back on the Army, 
 
 Miss Mitf ord ! 
 
 [Caroline looks at First Young 
 Officer] 
 Caroline. [c.J Gone where"? 
 Second Young Officer. \^0n Caroline's 
 
 r.] Seems like we ought to a' got a 
 
 salute as you w^ent by ! 
 Caroline. Oh yes! [Salutes in perfunc- 
 tory and absent-minded manner and turns 
 
 away glancing about room and moving 
 
 down a step or two'] Good evening! 
 
 [Nodding to one of the Messengers wait- 
 ing up L. c] 
 Second Messenger. [Touching cap and 
 
 stepping quickly to Caroline to L. of 
 
 First Young Officer] Good evening, 
 
 Miss Mitf ord ! Could we do anything for 
 
 you in the office to-night "? 
 
 [First Messenger remains up near 
 window] 
 Caroline. I want to send a telegram ! 
 
 [The three officers stand looking at 
 Caroline quieted for a moment by 
 her serious tone] 
 Second Young Officer. I'm afraid 
 
 you 've been havin' bad news, Miss Mit- 
 
 ford? 
 Caroline, [c] No — [Shaking her 
 
 head] No! I mean — ^not specially. 
 First Young Officer, [l. c] Maybe 
 
 some friend o' yours has gone down to the 
 
 front ! 
 Caroline. [Beginning to be interested] 
 
 Well supposing he had — would you call 
 
 that bad news'? 
 First Young Officer. Well I didn't 
 
 know as you 'd exactly like to 
 
 Caroline. Then let me tell you — as you 
 
 did n't know — that all my friends go 
 
 down to the front ! 
 Second Young Officer. I hope not all 
 
 Miss Mitf ord ! 
 Caroline. Yes — all ! If they did n't they 
 
 would n't be my friends! 
 First Young Officer. But some of us are 
 
 obliged to stay back here to take care of 
 
 you. 
 Caroline. Well there's altogether too 
 
 many trying to take care of me ! You 're 
 
 all discharged! [Goes across to down L.] 
 
 [Third Messenger enters doors up r. c. 
 and joins Fourth Messenger up l. c. 
 near upper ivindow. — Officers fall back a 
 little, looking rather foolish but entirely 
 good-natured] 
 
 Second Young Officer, [c] Well — if 
 
 we 're reaHy discharged Miss Mitf ord, 
 looks like we 'd have to go ! 
 
 First Young Officer, [l. c] Yes — but 
 we 're mighty sorry to see you in such bad 
 spirits Miss Mitf ord ! 
 
 Second Young Officer and Second Mes- 
 senger, [l. c. and c. — Murmuring nearly 
 together] Yes indeed we are. Miss Mit- 
 ford! 
 
 Caroline. [Turning on them at down l.] 
 Would you like to put me in real good 
 spirits'? 
 
 First Young Officer. Would we ! 
 
 Second Young Officer. You try us once ! 
 
 Second Messenger. I reckon there ain't 
 anything we 'd like bettah ! 
 
 Caroline, [l.] Then I'll tell you just 
 how to do it! [They listen eagerly] 
 Start out this very night and never stop 
 till you get to where my friends are — 
 lying in trenches and ditches and earth- 
 works between us and the Yankee 
 guns ! 
 
 Second Young Officer, First Young 
 Officer, Second Messenger. [Remon- 
 strating] But really. Miss — ^You don't 
 mean — [etc.] 
 
 Caroline. Fight Yankees a few days and 
 lie in ditches a few nights till those uni- 
 forms you 've got on look like they 'd been 
 some use to somebody ! If you 're so 
 mighty anxious to do something for me, 
 that 's what you can do ! [Turning away 
 to L.] It 's the only thing I want ! 
 
 [The Young Officers stand rather dis- 
 couraged an instant] 
 
 First Operator. [Business] Ready here ! 
 [Third Messenger steps quickly down to 
 L. of table r. c] Department! Com- 
 missary General's office! [Third Mes- 
 senger salutes, takes dispatch and exits 
 doors up R. c. — Second Messenger re- 
 turns to Fourth Messenger during this, 
 and stands with him near window up 
 L. c] 
 
 [Messenger a. enters quickly at doors 
 up R. c. and comes down to First 
 Operator l. of table r. c. handing 
 him a dispatch and at once makes his 
 exit again doors up R. c. — First and 
 Second Young Officers exit deject- 
 edly at doors up R. c. after this Mes- 
 senger] 
 
 Caroline. [Going across ivith determined 
 air to R. c. near First Operator when she 
 sees an opportunity] Oh Lieutenant 
 Foray ! [Accent on "Oh"] 
 
 First Operator. [Turns and rises quickly 
 with half salute. — Caroline gives a little 
 
618 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 attempt at a military salute] Beg your 
 pardon Miss! [Gets his coat which is on 
 chair or table near at R. and hastily starts 
 to put it on] I did n't know 
 
 Caroline. [Up c. a little] No no — don't! 
 I don't mind. You see — I came on busi- 
 ness! 
 
 First Operator. [Puts on coat] Want to 
 send something- out 1 
 
 Caroline. Yes! That's it. — I mean I 
 do. 
 
 First Operator. [Going to her, crossing 
 back of table R. c] 'Fraid we can't do 
 anything for you here ! This is the War 
 Department Miss. 
 
 Caroline. I know that — ^but it 's the on'y 
 way to send, an' I — [Sudden loud click of 
 instrument b. on table r. — First Oper- 
 ator turns and listens] 
 
 First Operator. [Crossing back of table 
 R. c] Excuse me a minute, won't you'? 
 [Going to lower instrument on table R. 
 and answering. Writing down message, 
 etc.] 
 
 Caroline. Yes — I will. [A trifle discon- 
 certed, stands uneasily near c] [Speaks 
 absently while she watches him] I '11 — 
 excuse you — of co'se. 
 
 First Operator. Ready here! [Second 
 Messenger down quickly to l. of First 
 Operator at table r.] Department! 
 Quick as you can — they 're waiting for 
 it! [Second Messenger takes dispatch 
 — salutes and exits at door up R. First 
 Operator rises and crosses to Caroline 
 who is up c. — To Caroline] Now what 
 was it you wanted us to do Miss? 
 
 Caroline, [c] Just to [Short gasp] to 
 send a telegram. 
 
 First Operator, [r. c] I reckon it 's 
 private business'? 
 
 Caroline. [Looking at him with wide open 
 eyes] Ye — yes ! It 's — private ! — Oh yes 
 — I should say so ! 
 
 First Operator. Then you '11 have to get 
 an order from some one in the depart- 
 ment. [Goes to back of table R. c. and 
 picks up papers] 
 
 Caroline. That 's what I thought [taking 
 out a paper] so I got it. [Hands it to 
 Operator] 
 
 First Operator. [Glancing at paper] 
 Oh — Major Selwin! 
 
 Caroline. Yes — he — he 's one of my 
 
 First Operator. It 's all right then ! [In- 
 strument B. calls. Quickly picks up a 
 small sheet of paper and a pen and places 
 them on table L. c. near Caroline and 
 pushes chair up with almost the same 
 
 movement] You can write it here Miss 
 [This is on upper side of telegraph table 
 down R. c] 
 Caroline. Thank you. [Sits at table- 
 looks at small sheet of paper — picks out 
 large sheet — smooths it out. She starts 
 writing] 
 
 [First Operator returns to table at 
 down R. and answers call and sits — ■ 
 writes hurriedly, taking down dis- 
 patch. — Caroline earnestly writing 
 — pausing an instant to think once or 
 twice and a nervous glance toward 
 First Operator. — First Operator 
 very busy. — Martha standing mo- 
 tionless up stage, waiting — her eyes 
 fixed on the telegraph instruments. — 
 Caroline bus. of start and drawing 
 away suspiciously on loud click of 
 instrument A. near her. Moves over 
 to L. side of table, looking suspi- 
 ciously at the instrument. Puts pen 
 in mouth — gets ink on tongue — makes 
 wry face. After writing she care- 
 fully folds up her despatch, and 
 turns down a corner. — First Oper- 
 ator when nearly through, motions 
 to Fourth Messenger and speaks 
 hurriedly] 
 First Operator. [Still writing] Here! 
 [Fourth Messenger comes down quickly 
 L. of First Operator and business] De- 
 partment! Try to get it in before the 
 President goes! [Handing Fourth 
 Messenger dispatch. — Fourth Messen- 
 ger salutes and exits at doors up R, c. — 
 First Operator rising, to Caroline] Is 
 that ready yet Miss? 
 Caroline. [Rising, hesitating, getting l. 
 of and a little above table r. c] Yes, but 
 I — [Finally starts to hand it up to IfiimJ 
 Of course you've — [Hesitates] You've 
 got to take it ! 
 First Operator. [Near Caroline on her 
 R. — A brief puzzled look at her] Yes of 
 course. 
 
 [She hands him the dispatch.^ — He at 
 
 once opens it] 
 
 Caroline. [Sharp scream] Oh! [Quickly 
 
 seizes the paper out of his hand. They 
 
 stand looking at one another a little l. of 
 
 and aboie table R. c] Why I didn't tell 
 
 you to read it ! 
 
 First Operator. [After look at her] 
 
 Well what did you want? 
 Caroline. I want you to send it ! 
 First Operator. How am I going to send 
 
 it if I don't read it ? 
 Caroline. [After looking at him in con- 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 619 
 
 sternaiion] 
 say 
 
 Do — you — mean — to — 
 
 First Operator. I 've got to spell out 
 
 every word ! Did n't you know that "? 
 Caroline. [Sadly, and shaking her head 
 from side to side] Oh — I must have — 
 but I — [Carolixe pauses trying to think 
 
 ivhat to do] — you see 
 
 First Operator. Would there be any 
 
 harm in my 
 
 Caroline. [Turning on him icith sudden 
 
 vehemence] "Why I wouldn't have you 
 
 see it for worlds! My gracious! [She 
 
 soon opens the dispatch and looks at it] 
 
 First Operator. [Good-naturedly] Is it 
 
 as bad as all that! 
 Caroline. Bad! It isn't bad at all! 
 On'y — I only don't want it to get out all 
 over the town — that 's all ! 
 First Operator. It won't ever get out 
 from this office Miss. [Caroline Zoo As 
 steadfastly at First Operator] We 
 would n't be allowed to mention anything 
 outside ! 
 Caroline. [A doubtful look at him] You 
 
 would n't ! 
 First Operator. Xo Miss. All sorts of 
 
 private stuff goes through here. 
 Caroline. [With new hope] Does if? 
 First Operator. Every day! Now if 
 
 that 's anything important 
 
 Caroline. [Impulsively] yes — it 's 
 
 [Recovering herself] — it is! 
 First Operator. Then I reckon you 'd bet- 
 ter trust it to me. 
 
 [Caroline looks at Operator a mo- 
 ment] 
 Caroline. Ye — yes — I reckon I had! 
 [She hesitatingly hands him her tele- 
 gram] 
 
 [First Operator takes the paper and 
 
 at once turns to the- table k. as if to 
 
 send it on instrument B.] 
 
 Caroline. [Quickly] Oh stop! [First 
 
 Operator turns and looks at her from 
 
 table down R.] Wait till I — [Turns 
 
 and goes up stage toward door hurriedly] 
 
 I don't want to be here — while you spell 
 
 out every word! Oh no — I couldn't 
 
 stand that ! 
 
 [First Operator stands good-naturedly 
 icaiting. — Caroline takes hold of 
 ISIartha to start out of door with 
 her. — Enter Eddinger — a private in 
 a gray uniform — at doors up r. c. — 
 Caroline and Martha sfa^id back 
 out of his way. — He glances at them 
 and at once goes down to First 
 Operator on his l., salutes and hands 
 
 him a ivritten order and crosses in 
 front of table R. c. to L. c, wheels 
 and stands at attention facing r. — 
 First Operator looks at the order, 
 glances at Eddinger, then at Caro- 
 line. — Caroline and IMartha move 
 as if to go out at doors up r. c] 
 
 First Operator. Wait a minute please! 
 [Caroline and Martha stop and turn 
 toward First Operator] Are you Miss 
 Mitford? 
 
 Caroline. Yes — I 'm Miss Mitf ord ! 
 
 First Operator. I don't understand this! 
 Here 's an order just come in to hold back 
 any dispatch you give us. 
 
 Caroline. [After looking speechless at 
 First Operator a moment] Hold back 
 any — hold back — 
 
 First Operator. Yes Miss. And that 
 ain't the worst of it I 
 
 Caroline. Wh — what else is there? 
 [Comes down c. a little way looking at 
 First Operator with wide open eyes. — 
 ]\Iartha remains up near door up r.] 
 
 First Operator, [r.] This man has 
 orders to take it back with him. 
 
 [There is a slight pause] 
 
 Caroline, [c] [Rather weakly] Take 
 it back with him? [Brief pause — then 
 suddenly icith great anionation] Take 
 what back with him? 
 
 First Operator. [Near table down r.1 
 Your dispatch Miss. [Caroline simply 
 opens mouth and sloivly draws in her 
 breath] There must be some mistakej but 
 that 's what the order says. 
 
 Caroline. [With unnatural calmness] 
 And where does it say to take it back 
 to? 
 
 First Operator. [Looks at the order] 
 The name is Arrelsf ord ! [Brief pause] 
 
 Caroline. The order is for that man — 
 [Indicating Eddinger l. c] to take my 
 dispatch back to Mr. Arrelsf ord? 
 
 First Operator. Yes Miss. 
 
 Caroline. An' does it say in there what 
 I 'm to be doin' in the meantime? 
 
 First Operator. [Shakes head] No Miss. 
 
 Caroline. That 's too bad ! 
 
 First Operator. I 'm right sorry this has 
 occurred Miss, and — 
 
 Caroline. Oh — there is n't any occasion 
 yet for your feeling sorry — because it 
 hasn't occuiTed! And besides that it 
 is n't goin' to occur ! [Becoming excited] 
 When it does you can go aroun' bein' 
 sorry all you like! Have you got the 
 faintest idea that I 'm goin' to let him 
 take my telegram away with him and 
 
620 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 show it to that man! 
 pose- 
 
 Do you sup- 
 
 Martha. [Coming forward a step from 
 up R. C. near the door. Breaking in, in 
 a voice like a siren'\ No — sir! You 
 ain't a goin' ter do it — you can be right 
 sure you ain't ! 
 
 First Operator, [r.] But what can I do 
 Miss? 
 
 Caroline. [c. — Advancing'\ It's per- 
 fectly simple what you can do — you can 
 either send it, or liand it back to me — 
 that 's what you can do ! 
 
 Martha. [Calling out from up R. c] 
 Yes suh — that 's the very best thing you 
 can do! An' the sooner you do it the 
 quicker it '11 be done — I kin tell you that 
 right now ! 
 
 First Operator. But this man has come 
 here with orders to 
 
 Caroline. [Going defiantly to Eddinger 
 ayid facing liim] Well this man can go 
 straight back and report to Mr. An^els- 
 ford that he was unable to carry out his 
 ordei-s! [Defiant attitude toward Ed- 
 dinger L. c] That 's what he can do ! 
 
 Martha. [B'rom up r. c. — now thor- 
 oughly roused and coming to a sense of 
 her responsibility] Let 'im take it! 
 Let 'im take it ef he wants to so pow'fle 
 bad ! Just let tlie other one there give 
 it to 'im — an' then see 'im try an' git 
 out through this do' with it! [Standing 
 solidly before door up r. C. ivith folded 
 arms and ominously shaking head. 
 Martha talks and mumbles on half to 
 herself] 1 want to see him go by! I'm 
 just a' waitin' fur a sight o' him git tin' 
 past dis do' ! That 's what I 'm waitin' 
 fur! [Goes on talking half to herself, 
 quieting down gradually] I 'd like to 
 know what they s'pose it was I come 
 aroun' yere for anyway — these men with 
 their orders an' fussin' an' 
 
 First Operator. [When quiet is re- 
 stored] Miss Mitford, if I was to give 
 this dispatch back to you now it would 
 get me into a heap o' trouble. 
 
 Caroline. What kind of trouble "? 
 
 First Operator, [r.] Might be prison — 
 might be shot ! 
 
 Caroline. You mean to say they 
 might 
 
 First Operator. Sure to do one or the 
 other ! 
 
 Caroline. Just for givin' me back mj^ 
 own writin"? 
 
 First Operator. That 's all. 
 
 ('akoline. [After looking silently at 
 
 First Operator a moment] Then 
 you '11 have to keep it ! 
 
 First Operator. [After slight pause] 
 Thank you Miss Mitford ! 
 
 Caroline. [.4 siglt — reconciling herself to 
 the situation] Very well — that 's under- 
 stood! You don't give it back to me — 
 an' you can't give it to him — so nobody 's 
 disobeying any orders at all! [Turning 
 up and getting a chair from up c. and 
 bringing it forward] And that 's the 
 way it stands! [Banging chair down 
 close to Eddinger and directly between 
 him and the First Operator. Then 
 plumps herself down on the chair and 
 facing R., looks entirely unconcerned] 
 I reckon I can stay here as long as he 
 can! [Hcdf to herself] I haven't got 
 much to do! 
 
 First Operator. But Miss Mitford 
 
 Caroline. Now there ain't any good o' 
 talkin'! If you've got any telegraphin' 
 to do you better do it. I won't disturb 
 you! 
 
 [Rapid steps heard in corridor out- 
 side up R. — Enter Mr. Arrelsford 
 doors up R. c. coming in hurriedly, 
 somewhat flushed and excited. He 
 looks hastily about, and goes at once 
 down R. c] 
 
 Arrelsford. [r. c] What's this! Didn't 
 he get here in time? 
 
 First Operator, [r.] Are you Mr. Ar- 
 relsford? 
 
 Arrelsford. Yes. [Sharp glance at 
 Caroline] Are you holding back a 
 dispatch ? 
 
 First Operator. Yes sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. Why didn't he bring it? 
 
 First Operator. Well — Miss Mitford— 
 [Hesitates. A motion toward Caroline] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Comprehending] Oh! 
 [Crosses back of Caroline and Ed- 
 dinger to L.] Eddinger! [Eddinger 
 wheels to l. facing him] Report back 
 to Corporal Matson. Tell him to send a 
 surgeon to General Varney's house on 
 Franklin Street. He 's to attend to a 
 Yankee prisoner there who was shot — if 
 he is n't dead by this time ! [Moves 
 over to L. as Eddinger goes up. — Caro- 
 line turns and looks at Arrelsford on 
 hearing cue "prisoner," rising at same 
 time and pushing chair back up c. — 
 Eddinger salutes and exits quickly up r. 
 c, going back of Caroline. — Arrels- 
 ford turns and starts toward First Op- 
 erator] Let me see what that dis- 
 ])atch — 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 621 
 
 [First Operator stands r. ivith Caro- 
 line's dispatch in his hand. — Caro- 
 line steps quickly in front of Ar- 
 
 RELSFORD. ArRELSFORD StopS in 
 
 some surprise at Caroline's sudden 
 move] 
 
 Caroline. [Facing Arrelsford] I ex- 
 pect you think you're going to get my 
 telegram an' read it? 
 
 Arrelsford, [l. c] I certainly intend 
 to do so ! 
 
 Caroline, [c] Well there's a great big 
 disappointment loomin' up right in front 
 of you! 
 
 Arrelsford. [With suspicion] So! 
 You 've been trying to send out some- 
 thing you don't want us to see ! 
 
 Caroline. What if I have? 
 
 Arrelsford. Just this! You won't send 
 it — and I'll see it! [About to pass 
 Caroline] This is a case where — 
 [Caroline steps in front of Arrelsford 
 again so that he has to stop] 
 
 Caroline. This is a case where you ain't 
 goin' to read my private writin' — 
 [Sta7ids looking at him with blazing 
 eyes] 
 
 Arrelsford. Lieutenant — I have an order 
 here putting me in charge! Bring that 
 dispatch to me! 
 
 [First Operator about to move to- 
 ward Arrelsford ivith the dispatch 
 ichen Martha steps down in front 
 of him ivith ponderous tread and 
 stands facing him] 
 
 Martha, [r. c. — Facing r. to First Op- 
 erator] Mistah Lieutenant can stay 
 juss about whar he is! [Brief pause] 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — To First Operator] 
 Is that Miss Mitford's dispatch in your 
 hand? 
 
 First Operator, [r.] Yes sir! 
 
 Arrelsford. Read it! [Caroline turns 
 with a gasp of horror. — Martha turns 
 in slow anger. — First Operator stands 
 surprised for an instant] Read it out! 
 
 Caroline. You shan't do such a thing! 
 You have no right to read a private tele- 
 gTam — [etc.] 
 
 Martha. [Speaking with Caroline] No 
 sah ! He ain't no business to read her 
 letters — none whatsomever! [etc.] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Angrdy] Silence! [Caro- 
 line and Martha stop talking] If you 
 interfere any further with the business 
 of this office I '11 have you both put un- 
 der arrest! [To First Operator] 
 Read that dispatch! 
 
 [Caroline gasps breathless at Arrels- 
 
 ford — then turns and buries her 
 face on Martha's shoulder sob- 
 bing] 
 
 First Operator. [Reads with some dif- 
 ficulty] "Forgive me — Wilfred — dar- 
 ling — please — forgive — me — and — 
 I — will — help — ^you — all — I — can." 
 
 Arrelsford. That dispatch can't go! 
 [Turns and moves left a few steps] 
 
 Caroline. [Turning and facing Arrels- 
 ford] That dispatch can go ! An' that 
 dispatch will go! [Arrelsford turns 
 and looks at Caroline from l. — Martha 
 moves up on right side ready to exit, 
 standing well up c. and turning toward 
 Arrelsford] I know someone whose 
 orders even you are bound to respect and 
 someone who '11 come here with me an' 
 see that you do it! 
 
 Arrelsford. [l.] I can show good and 
 sufficient reasons for what I do ! 
 
 Caroline, [c] Well you'll have to 
 show good and sufficienter reasons than 
 vou 've shown to me — I can tell you that 
 Mr. Arrelsford! 
 
 Arrelsford. I give my reasons to my su- 
 periors Miss Mitford ! 
 
 Caroline. Then you '11 have to go 'round 
 givin' 'em to everybody in Richmond, 
 Mr. Arrelsford! [Saying which Caro- 
 line makes a deep courtesy and turns 
 and sweeps out through doors up r. c. 
 followed in the same spirit by Martha 
 who turns at the door and also makes a 
 profound courtesy to Arrelsford, going 
 off haughtily] 
 
 [First Operator sits down at table 
 R. c. and begins to write. — Arrels- 
 ford looks after Caroline an instant 
 and then goes rapidly over to First 
 Operator] 
 
 Arrelsford. Let me see that dispatch! 
 
 First Operator. [Slight doubt] You 
 said you had an order sir? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Impatiently] Yes — yes! 
 [Throws order down on telegraph table] 
 Don't waste time! 
 
 [First Operator p/cAs up order and 
 looks closely at it being careful to 
 show no haste] 
 
 First Operator. Department order sir? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Assenting shortly] Yes — 
 yes! 
 
 First Operator. I suppose you 're Mr. 
 Arrelsford all right? 
 
 Arrelsford. Of course! 
 
 First Operator. AVe have to be pretty 
 careful here. [Hands him Caroline's 
 telegram and goes on writing. — Arrels- 
 
622 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 FORD takes Caroline's telegram eagerly 
 and reads it. Thinks an instant] 
 
 Arrelsford. [c] Did she seem nervous 
 or excited when she handed this inf 
 
 First Operator. She certainly did! 
 
 Arrelsford. Anxious not to have it seen*? 
 
 First Operator. Anxious! I should say 
 so! She didn't want me to see it! 
 
 Arrelsford. We 've got a case on here 
 and she 's mixed up in it ! 
 
 First Operator. But that dispatch is to 
 young Vamey — the General's son! 
 
 Arrelsford. So much the worse if he 's 
 mixed up in it. The lying scoundrel has 
 made dupes of all of them — and this Mit- 
 f ord girl too ! 
 
 First Operator. Who 's that sir*? 
 
 Arrelsford. Well — no matter now. You '11 
 know before long ! It 's one of the 
 ugliest affairs we ever had ! I had them 
 put me on it and I 've got it down pretty 
 close! [Going across to l. c] We'll 
 end it right here in this office inside of 
 thirty minutes ! 
 
 [Enter a Private at doors up R. c. — He 
 comes down at once to Arrelsford] 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — To Private] Well 
 what is it? 
 
 Private, [l. c. — R. of Arrelsford] The 
 lady 's here sir ! 
 
 Arrelsford. Where is she'? 
 
 Private. Waiting down below — at the 
 front entrance. 
 
 Arrelsford. Did she come alone"? 
 
 Private. Yes sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. Show her the way up. 
 [Private salutes and exits at door up r. 
 — Arrelsford comes c. to First Oper- 
 ator] I suppose you've got a revolver 
 there? [First Operator brings up re- 
 volver in matter-of-fact way from shelf 
 beneath table with left hand and lays it 
 on table at his left without looking up 
 at Arrelsford — and scarcely interrupt- 
 ing his writing] 1 'd rather handle this 
 thing myself — but I might call on you. 
 Be ready — that 's all ! 
 
 First Operator. Yes sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. Obey any orders you get an' 
 send out all dispatches unless I stop you. 
 
 First Operator. Very well sir. [Soon 
 puts revolver back on shelf beneath table] 
 [Doors up R. C. are opening by the 
 Private last on, and Edith is shown 
 in. — Arrelsford meets her. — The 
 Private exits at doors up r. c. — 
 Edith stops a little way down from 
 doors and looks at Arrelsford. She 
 
 is slightly breathless — not from exer- 
 tion but owing to the situation] 
 Edith. I — I accepted your invitation Mr. 
 
 Arrelsford ! 
 Arrelsford. [Up q.] I 'm greatly obliged 
 Miss Varney ! As a matter of justice to 
 me it was — 
 Edith. [Interrupting] I did n't come 
 here to oblige you! I came to see^ — I 
 came to see that no more — [A slight 
 break before she can speak the word] 
 murders are committed in order to satisfy 
 your singular curiosity. [After brief 
 pause; moves down c] 
 
 [Arrelsford waits until Edith is 
 down c. and then goes down near 
 her on her left] 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Is the man 
 
 dead? 
 Edith. [Turning and looking at Arrels- 
 ford steadily] The man is dead. 
 
 [Arrelsford stands a few seconds 
 looking at Edith — then turns front 
 slowly. Turns to her again] 
 Arrelsford. [With cutting emphasis but 
 low voice] It 's a curious thing Miss 
 Varney that a Yankee prisoner more or 
 less should make so much difference to 
 you ! They 're dying dovv^n in Libby by 
 the hundreds! 
 Edith. At least they're not killed in our 
 houses — before our veiy eyes! [Turns 
 and moves up c] 
 
 [Enter an Orderly who is a Special Agent 
 of the War Department, at doors up 
 r. c. He comes quickly in and crosses 
 to Arrelsford l. c. Glances round to- 
 ward First Operator and quickly back 
 to Arrelsford] 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Low voice] Where 
 is he? Have you kept track of him? 
 
 Orderly, [l. c. — Low voice] He 's com- 
 ing up Fourth Street sir! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Loiv voice] Where has he 
 been? 
 
 Orderly. [Low voice] To his quarters 
 on Cary Street. We got in the next 
 room and watched him through a tran- 
 som. 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] What was he 
 doing? What was it? 
 
 Orderly. [Low voice] Working at some 
 pajDers or documents. 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] Could you see 
 them? Could you see what it was? 
 
 Orderly. [Low voice] Headings looked 
 like orders from the War Department, 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 623 
 
 Arrelspord. [Low voice] He's coming 
 in here with forged orders! 
 
 Orderly. [Low voice] Yes sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] His game is to 
 get control of these wires and then send 
 out dispatches to the front that '11 take 
 away a battery or division from some 
 vital point! 
 
 Orderly. [Low voice] Looks like it sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] And that vital 
 point is what the Yankees mean by "Plan 
 Three!" That's where they'll hit us. 
 [Glances round quickly considering. 
 Goes up L. to above line of middle win- 
 dow. Turns to Orderly] Is there a 
 guard in this building'? 
 
 Orderly. [Going up near Arrelsford on 
 his R. — Low voice] Not inside — there 's 
 a guard in front and sentries around the 
 barracks over in the square. 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] They could 
 hear me from this window, couldn't 
 they? 
 
 Orderly. [Low voice] The guard could 
 hear you sir. [A glance toward doors 
 R. c] He must be nearly here by this 
 time — you'd better look out! 
 
 Edith. [Up c. — Low voice] Where shall 
 I go? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Up l. — Low voice] Out- 
 side here on the balcony — I '11 be with . 
 you! 
 
 Edith. [Low voice] But — if he comes to 
 the wmidow! He may come here and 
 look out! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Low voice] We'll go 
 along to the next window and step in 
 there — out of sight. [To Orderly] 
 See if the window of the Commissary- 
 General's office is open. 
 
 [Orderly crosses Arrelsford and 
 steps quickly out of windows up l. 
 through middle window, and goes 
 off along balcony to l. He returns 
 at once, re-entering through middle 
 window] 
 
 Orderly. The next tvindow 's open sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. That's all I want of you — 
 report back to Corporal Matson. Tell 
 him to get the body of that prisoner out 
 of the Varney house — he knows where 
 it 's to go ! 
 
 Orderly. Very well sir ! [Salutes, crosses 
 and exits doors up r. c] 
 
 Arrelsford. [To Edith] This way 
 please. [Conducts Edith out through 
 middle window to the balcony up l. — 
 She exits to L. — Arrelsford is closing 
 the window to follow when he sees a 
 
 Messenger enter at doors up r. c, and 
 thereupon he stops just in the window 
 keeping out of sight of Messenger be- 
 hind window frame] 
 
 [Enter First Messenger at doors up e.g. — 
 He takes his position up stage waiting 
 for messages as before. — Arrelsford 
 eyes him sharply an instant — then comes 
 into the room a step or two] 
 
 Arrelsford. ' [From near window up l,] 
 Where did you come from? 
 
 First Messenger. [Up c] War De- 
 partment sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. Carrying dispatches'? 
 
 First Messenger. Yes sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. You know me don't you? 
 
 First Messenger. I 've seen you at the 
 office sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. I'm here on Department 
 business. All you 've got to do is to keep 
 quiet about it! [Exit Arrelsford at 
 middle window up h., which he closes 
 after him, and then disappears from view 
 along balcony to l.] 
 
 [Enter Second Messenger at door up r. c. 
 — He takes his place at up l, c. with 
 First Messenger. — First Operator 
 busy at table r. c. — A moment's wait. — 
 Enter Captain Thorne at doors up r. c. 
 As he comes down he gives one quick 
 glance about the room but almost in- 
 stantly to front again, so that it would 
 hardly be noticed. He wears cap and 
 carries an order in his belt. Goes down 
 at once to l. of table r. c. and faces 
 First Operator] 
 
 [First Operator on seeing Thorne 
 rises with off hand salute] 
 
 Thorne. [Saluting] Lieutenant! [Hands 
 First Operator the order ivhich he car- 
 ried in his belt] 
 
 [First Operator takes the order, opens 
 and looks at it] 
 
 First Operator. Order from the Depart- 
 ment. [Moves R. a little looking closely 
 at the order] 
 
 Thorne. [Motionless, facing to r.] I 
 believe so. [A quick glance at doors up 
 R. c. as Operator is looking at the order] 
 
 First Operator. They want me to take a 
 cipher dispatch ovah to the President's 
 house. 
 
 Thorne. [Moving to take First Oper- 
 ator's place at table — pulls chair back a 
 little and tosses cap over on table r.] 
 Yes — I 'm ordered on here till you get 
 back. [Goes to place back of table R. C, 
 
624 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 and stands arranging things on the table] 
 
 First Operator. [At table r. looking 
 front] That 's an odd thing. They told 
 me the President was down here with the 
 Cabinet! He must have just now gone 
 home I reckon. 
 
 Thorne. [Standing at table R. C. and ar- 
 ranging papers, etc.] Looks like it. If 
 he is n't there you 'd better wait. [Look- 
 ing through a bunch of dispatches as he 
 speaks] 
 
 First Operator. [Gets his cap from table 
 R. and puts it on. — At table R.] Yes — 
 I '11 Avait ! [Pause] You '11 have to look 
 out for Allison's wires, Cap'n — he was 
 called ovah to the Department. 
 
 [Thorne stops and eyes to front an 
 instant on mention of Allison] 
 
 Thorne. [Easy manner again] Ah ha — 
 Allison. 
 
 First Operator. Yes. 
 
 Thorne. Be gone long? [Thorne busi- 
 ness of throwing used sheets in waste- 
 basket and arranging a couple of large 
 envelopes ready for quick use] 
 
 First Operator. Well, you know how it 
 is — they generally whip around quite a 
 while before they make up their minds 
 what they want to do. I don't expect 
 they '11 trouble you much ! It 's as quiet 
 as a church down the river. [Starting 
 up toward doors up R. c] 
 
 Thorne. [Seeing a cigar on the table near 
 instrument] See here — wait a minute — 
 you 'd better not walk out and leave a — 
 [First Operator stops and turns back 
 to Thorne coming c. a little] well — 
 no matter — it's none of my business! 
 [Tapping with the end of a long envelope 
 on table where the cigar is] Still, if you 
 want some good advice, that 's a danger- 
 ous thing to do ! 
 
 First Operator. [Coming down nearer on 
 L.] Why what is it Cap'n? 
 
 Thorne. That! — [Striking at cigar with 
 envelope] Leave a cigar lying around 
 this office like that ! [Picks it up with L. 
 hand and lights a match with r.] Any- 
 body might walk in here any minute and 
 take it away ! [About to light cigar] I 
 can't watch your cigars all day — [Light- 
 ing cigar] 
 
 First Operator. [Grinning] Oh! — Help 
 yourself Cap'n ! 
 
 Thorne. [Suddenly snatching cigar out of 
 mouth with l. hand and looking at il] 
 What's the matter A\itli it?— Oii well— 
 I '11 take a chance. [Puts it in his mouth 
 and resumes lighting] 
 
 [First Operator hesitates a moment, 
 then goes nearer to Thorne on his 
 . L., L. of table R. c] 
 
 First Operator. [Low voice] Oh Cap'n 
 — if there 's any trouble around here 
 you '11 find a revolver under there. [In- 
 dicating shelf under table. — Thorne 
 stops lighting cigar an instant, letting 
 match blaze in his hand — eyes motionless 
 to front] 
 
 Thorne. [At once resuming nonchalance 
 — -finishing lighting cigar] What about 
 that? What makes you think — [Pulling 
 in to light cigar] there's going to be 
 trouble? 
 
 First Operator. Oh well, there might be ! 
 
 Thorne. [Tossing match away] Been 
 having a dream? 
 
 First Operator. Oh no — ^but you never 
 can tell! [Starts up toward doors up 
 R. c] 
 
 Thorne. [Cigar in mouth. — Going at 
 papers again] That 's right ! You 
 never can tell. [A thought] But see 
 here — hold on a minute ! [Reaching down 
 and getting revolver from shelf and toss- 
 ing it on table near l. end] If you never 
 can tell you 'd better take that along with 
 you. I 've got one of my own. [Rather 
 sotto voce] I can tell! 
 
 [Click of instrument A. — Thorne an- 
 swers on instrument A. at r. end of 
 table R. c. and slides into chair] 
 
 First Operator. Well, if you've got one 
 here, I might as well. [Takes revolver] 
 Look out for yourself Cap'n! [Goes up. 
 — Instrument a. begins clicking off a mes- 
 sage. — Tpiorne sits at table R. c. listening 
 and ready to take down what comes] 
 
 Thorne. [Listening to instrument at R.] 
 Same to you old man — and many happy^ 
 returns of the day! [Exit First Oper- 
 ator doors up R. c. — Thorne ivrites mes- 
 sage and briefly addresses a long envel- 
 ope. — Instrument a. stops receiving as 
 Thorne addresses envelope. — Thorne 
 0. K.'s dispatch and puts it in envelope 
 which he quickly seals] Ready here! 
 [First Messenger down to Thorne and 
 salutes L. of table R. c] Quartermaster- 
 General. [Handing dispatch to Messen- 
 ger] 
 
 First Messenger. Not at his office sir! 
 
 Thorne. Find him — he 's got to have it ! 
 
 First Messenger. Very well sir! [Sa- 
 lutes and exits quickly up R.] 
 
 [Brief pause. Silence. No instru- 
 ments clicking. — Thorne eyes front. 
 After a moment he turm slowly l. 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 625 
 
 looking to see if there is a Messen- 
 ger there. Sees there is one without 
 looking entirely around. — A second's 
 wait. — Instrument c. at upper end of 
 table R. begins to click. — Thorne 
 rises and going to instrument c. an- 
 swers call — drops into chair r. — 
 writes message — puts it in envelope 
 — and 0. K.'s call, etc.] 
 Thorne. Ready here! [Second Messen- 
 ger goes quickly across to L. of table R. C. 
 and salutes] Secretary of the Treasury 
 — marked private. — Take it to his house. 
 [Begins to read a dispatch he twitched 
 off from a file] 
 Second Messenger. He 's down yere at 
 
 the cabinet sir. 
 Thorne. Take it to his house and wait till 
 he comes! 
 
 [Second Messenger salutes and exits 
 doors up R. c. closing them after him. 
 — On the slam of doors after exit of 
 Messenger, Thorne crushes dis- 
 patch in his right hand and throws 
 it to floor — and wheels front — his 
 eyes on the instrument down r. c. — 
 all one quick movement. Then he 
 rises and with cat-like swiftness 
 springs to the doors up R. C. and lis- 
 tens — opens one of the doors a little 
 and looks off. He closes it quickly, 
 turning and moving swiftly to c, 
 and opens the door to cupboard up 
 C. glancing in, then moves to the 
 windows up l. c. Pushes the ivin- 
 dow up L. open a little and looks of 
 to balcony, beginning at same time 
 to unbuckle belt and unbutton coat. 
 Turns and moves down toward the 
 telegraph table R. C. at same time 
 throwing belt over to R. above R. 
 table, and taking off coat. Glances 
 back up L. — looks to see that a docu- 
 ment is in breast pocket of coat — 
 letting audience see that it is there — 
 and lays coat over back of chair 
 above table r. C. with document in 
 sight so that he can get it without 
 delay. Takes revolver from right 
 hip pocket and quickly but quietly 
 lays it on the table R. c. just to right 
 of instrument A. and then seizes key 
 of that instrument and gives a cer- 
 tain call: ( — ) Waits. 
 
 A glance rapidly to left. He is 
 standing at table — cigar in mouth. 
 
 Makes the call again :{ — ) 
 
 Waits again. Gives the call third 
 time: ( — ) Goes to lower 
 
 end of- table r. and half sits on it, 
 folding arms, eyes on instrument, 
 chewing cigar, with a glance or two 
 up stage, but his eyes back quickly 
 to instrument. Slides off table — 
 takes cigar out of his mouth with l. 
 hand and gives the call again with 
 
 right: ( — ) Puts cigar 
 
 in mouth again and turning and 
 walking toward up l. c. looking 
 about. Soon he carelessly throws 
 some scraps of torn paper — which 
 he took from, r. pocket — off up stage. 
 Just as he throws papers — facing to 
 L. — the call is answered: ( — . ... 
 . . . . ) Thorne is back at the 
 table R. c. in an instant and tele- 
 graphing rapidly — cigar in mouth. — 
 When he has sent for about five sec- 
 onds, steps are heard in corridor out- 
 side up R. — Thorne quickly strikes 
 a match — which is close at hand to 
 R. of instrument — and sinks into the 
 chair, appearing to be lazily lighting 
 his cigar as a Messenger comes in at 
 door up R. c] 
 
 [Fourth Messenger enters as soon as he 
 hears match strike, at doors up R, c. He 
 goes down at once to l. of table r. c. 
 ivith a dispatch, which he extends toward 
 Thorne as he salutes] 
 
 Fourth Messenger. Secretary of "War, 
 Cap'n! Wants to go out right now! 
 [Thorne tosses away match, takes dis- 
 patch and opens it. Fourth Messenger 
 salutes, turns and starts up toward doors 
 up R. c] 
 Thorne. Here ! Here ! What 's all this ! 
 [Looking at the dispatch. — Fourth Mes- 
 senger returns to Thorne — salutes] Is 
 that the Secretary's signature'? [Indi- 
 cating a place on the dispatch which he 
 holds in his hand] 
 Fourth Messenger. Yes sir — I saw him 
 sigii it. 
 
 [Thorne looks closely at the signature. 
 
 Turns it so as to get gas light from 
 
 R. Turns and looks sharply at the 
 
 Messenger] 
 
 Thorne. [Writing] Saw him sign it did 
 
 you? 
 Fourth Messenger. Yes sir. 
 
 [Thorne turns and laying dispatch on 
 table begins to 0. K. ii] 
 Thorne. [Writing] Got to be a little 
 
 careful to-night ! 
 Fourth Messenger. I can swear to that 
 
626 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 one sir. [Salutes — turns and goes up 
 
 and exits at doors up r. c] 
 
 [Thorxe listens — faced front — for 
 exit of Messenger, the dispatch in 
 his left hand. Instantly on slam of 
 doors up L. c. he puts cigar down at 
 end of table, rises, laying the dis- 
 patch down flat on table. Quickly 
 folds and very dexterously and rap- 
 idly cuts off the lower part of the 
 paper — which lias the signature of 
 the Secretary of War upon it — with 
 a paper knife, and holds it between 
 his teeth while he tears the rest of 
 the order in pieces, which he is on 
 the point of throwing into waste- 
 basket at L. of table, when he stops 
 and changes his mind, stuffing the 
 torn-up dispatch into his R. hand 
 trousers pocket. Picks up coat from 
 back of chair and takes the docu- 
 ment out of inside breast pocket. 
 Opens it out on table and quickly 
 pastes to it the piece of tlie real or- 
 der bearing the signature, wipes 
 quickly with handkerchief, puts 
 handkerchief back into R. trousers 
 pocket, picks up cigar which he laid 
 down on table and puts it in mouth, 
 at same time sitting and at once be- 
 ginning to telegraph rapidly on in- 
 strument A. — Thorne intent, yet 
 vigilant. — During business of 
 Thorne pasting dispatch, Arrels- 
 FORD appears outside windows up l. 
 on balcony at side of columns. He 
 m,otions off toward L. — Edith comes 
 into view there also. — Arrelsford 
 points toward Thorxe, calling her 
 attention to what he is doing. — They 
 stand at the window watching 
 Thorne — the strong moonlight 
 bringing them out sharply. — After a 
 few seconds Arrelsford accidentally 
 makes a slight noise with latch of 
 window. — Instantly on this faint 
 click of latch Thorne stops tele- 
 graphing and sits absolutely motion- 
 less — his eyes front. — Arrelsford 
 and Edith disappear instantly and 
 noiselessly on balcony to L. — Dead 
 silence. — After a motionless pause, 
 Thorne begins to fumble among 
 papers on the table with his left 
 hand, soon after raising the dispatch 
 or some other paper ivith that hand 
 in such a way that it ivill screen his 
 right hand and the telegraph instru- 
 ment on the key of which it rests, 
 
 from an observer on the left. While 
 he appears to be scanning this paper 
 or dispatch with the greatest atten- 
 tion, his right hand slowly slips of 
 the telegraph key and toward his re- 
 volver which lies just to the right of 
 the instrument. Reaching it, he very 
 slowly moves it over the right edge 
 of the table, and down against his 
 right leg. He then begins to push 
 things about on the table with his 
 left hand as if looking for some- 
 thing, and soon rises as if not able 
 to find it, and looks still more care- 
 fully, keeping the revolver close 
 against his right leg, out of sight 
 from windows up left. He looks 
 about on table, glances over to table 
 on right as if looking for what he 
 wanted there, puts cigar down on 
 table before him — after about to do 
 so once and taking a final puff — and 
 steps over to table at R. still looking 
 for something and now — as he turns 
 right — shifting revolver around in 
 front of him. As he looks about 
 among papers on table r. he raises 
 L. hand carelessly to tlie cock of the 
 gas bracket and suddenly shuts off 
 light. — Stage dark. — Instantly on 
 lights off, Thorne drops on one knee 
 behind {that is to R. of) table R. c. — 
 facing toward L. and revolver — with 
 table for a rest — covering windows 
 up L. — Light from windows up L. 
 gauged to strike across to Thorne 
 at table with revolver. — After hold- 
 ing it a short time, he begins slowly 
 to edge up stage first seizing chair 
 with his coat on it, and crouching 
 behind it — then moving up frorn^ 
 that crouched with revolver ready 
 and eyes on windows up L. until 
 within reach of doors up L. c. 
 Beaching behind him — without tak- 
 ing eyes or revolver off windows up 
 L. he finds big heavy bolt and sud- 
 denly slides it thus locking the doors 
 on the inside. From doors up R. c. 
 Thorne glides with a dash — throw- 
 ing aside the chair in the way — at 
 the door of cupboard up c. which 
 opens down stage and hinges on its 
 L. side. With motion of reaching it 
 he has it open — if not already open 
 — and pushes it along before him as 
 he moves left toward window. — 
 When moving slowly behind this 
 door with his eyes and revolver on 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 62T 
 
 window, the telegraph instrument 
 down R. C. suddenly gives two or 
 three sharp clicks. — THOR^'E makes 
 an instantaneous turn front covering 
 the instrument with revolver. See- 
 ing what it was he turns left again. 
 Just as he gets door nearly wide 
 open against wall at hack he dashes 
 at the upper window up left and 
 hangs it open with his left hand 
 covering all outside with revolver in 
 his right. In an instant he sees that 
 no one is there, and straightens up — 
 looking. He makes a quick spring 
 past first window stopping close he- 
 hind the upright hetween first and 
 second windows, and at same time 
 hanging these windows open and 
 covering with revolver. Sees no one. 
 Looks this way and that. Makes 
 quick dash outside and covers over 
 halustrade — as if someone might he 
 helow. In again quick. Looks 
 about with one or two quick glances. 
 Concludes he must have heen mis- 
 taken, and starts down toward table 
 R. c. Stops after going two or three 
 steps and looks hack. Turns and 
 goes rapidly down to table. Picks 
 up cigar with left hand. Puts re- 
 volver at right end of table with 
 right hand, and gets a match with 
 that hand. Stands an instant look- 
 ing left. Strikes match and is about 
 to relight cigar. Pause — eyes front. 
 Match burning. Listening. Looks 
 L. Lights cigar. As he is lighting 
 cigar thinks of gas being out, and 
 stepping to right, turns it on and 
 lights it with match he used for 
 cigar. — Lights full on. — Thorne 
 turns quickly, looking left as lights 
 on. Then steps at once — after 
 glancing quickly about room — to 
 telegraph table, puts down cigar 
 near upper R. corner of table with L. 
 hand and begins to telegraph with l. 
 hand, facing front. — Sudden sharp 
 report of revolver outside through 
 lower window, up l. with crash of 
 glass, and on it Arrelsford springs 
 on at middle window L. with revolver 
 in his hand. Thorne does not move 
 on shot except quick recoil from in- 
 strument, leaning back a little, ex- 
 pression of pain an instant. His L. 
 hand — with which he was telegraph- 
 ing — is covered with blood. He 
 stands motionless an instant. Eyes 
 
 then down toward his own revolver. 
 Slight pause. He makes a sudden 
 plunge for it getting it in his r. 
 hand. At same instant quick turn 
 on Arrelsford but before he can 
 raise the weapon Arrelsford covers 
 him with revolver and Thorne stops 
 ivhere he is, holding position] 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Covering Thorne] 
 Drop it! [Pause] Drop that gun or 
 you 're a dead man ! Drop it I say ! 
 [A moment's pause. — Thorne gradually 
 recovers to erect position, looking easily 
 front, and puts revolver on the table, 
 picking up cigar with same hand and 
 putting it casually into his mouth as if he 
 thought he 'd have a smoke after all, in- 
 stead of killing a man. He then gets 
 handkerchief out of pocket with r. hand 
 and gets hold of a corner of it not using 
 his l. — Arrelsford advances a step or 
 two, lowering revolver, but holding it 
 ready] Do you know why I did n't kill 
 you like a dog just now? 
 
 Thorne. [Low voice — as he twists hand- 
 kerchief around his wounded hand] Be- 
 cause you're such a damn bad shot. 
 
 Arrelsford. Maybe you'll change your 
 mind about that! 
 
 Thorne. [Speaks easily and pleasantly] 
 Well I hope so I 'm sure. It is n't pleas- 
 ant to be riddled up this way you know ! 
 
 Arrelsford. Next time you'll be riddled 
 somewhere else besides the hand! 
 There 's only one reason why you 're not 
 lying there now with a bullet through 
 your head! 
 
 Thorne. Only one eh? 
 
 Arrelsford. Only one! 
 
 Thorne. [Still fixing hand and sleeve] 
 Do I hear it? 
 
 Arrelsford. Simply because I gave my 
 word of honor to someone outside there 
 that I wouldn't kill you now! 
 
 [Thorne on hearing ^'Someone outside 
 there'' turns and looks at Arrels- 
 ford with interest] 
 
 Thorne. [Taking cigar out of mouth and 
 holding it in R. hand as he moves toward 
 Arrelsford] Ah ! Then it is n't a 
 pleasant little tete-a-tete between our- 
 selves! You have someone with you! 
 [Stopping near c. coolly facing Arrels- 
 ford] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Sarcastically] I have some- 
 one with me Captain Thorne! Someone 
 who takes quite an interest in what 
 you 're doing to-night ! 
 
 Thorne. Quite an interest, eh! That's 
 
1^28 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 kind I 'm sure. [Knocking the ashes 
 from his cigar with a finger of right 
 hand] Is the geutleman going to stay 
 out there all alone on the cold balcony, or 
 shall I have the pleasure [Enter Edith 
 from balcony up l. through the upper 
 window, 'where she stands supporting her- 
 self by the sides. She is looking toward 
 R. as if intending to go, but not able for 
 a moment, to move. Avoids looking at 
 Thorne] of inviting him in here and 
 having a charming little three-handed — 
 [Glancing toward l. he sees Edith and 
 stops motionless with eyes toward left. 
 After a moment he turns front and holds 
 position] 
 
 Edith. [Does not speak until after 
 Thorne looks front. — Low voice] I '11 
 go, Mr. Arrelsford ! 
 
 Arrelsford. Not yet Miss Varney! 
 
 Edith. [Coming blindly into the room a 
 few steps as if to get across to the doors 
 up r. c] I don't wish to stay — any 
 longer! [Moves toward R.] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Down l. c] One moment 
 please! We need you! 
 
 Edith. [Stopping up c] For what"? 
 
 Arrelsford. A witness. 
 
 Edith. You can send for me. I '11 be at 
 home. [About to start toward door] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Sharply] I '11 have to de- 
 tain you till I turn him over to the guard 
 — it won't take a moment ! [Steps to the 
 middle windovj up l. still keeping an eye 
 on Thorxe, and calls off in loud voice] 
 Corporal o' the guard! Corporal o' the 
 guard ! Send up the guard will you? 
 [Edith shrinks back up C. not knowing 
 what to do] 
 
 Voice. [Outside l. in distance — as if down 
 below in the street] What 's the matter 
 up there ! Who 's calling the guard ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [At window] Up here! 
 Department Telegraph! Send 'em up 
 quick ! 
 
 Voices. [Outside l. in distance as before] 
 Corporal of the Guard Post Four ! [Re- 
 peated more distant] Corporal of the 
 Guard Post Four! [Repeated again al- 
 most inaudible] Corporal of the Guard 
 Post Four ! Fall in the guard ! Fall in ! 
 [These orders gruff — indistinct — distant. 
 Give effect of quick gruff shouts of or- 
 ders barely audible. If Voices seem 
 close at hand it will be disastrous] 
 
 Edith. [Up C. — Turning suddenly upon 
 Arrelsford] I 'm going Mr. AiTels- 
 ford — I don't wish to be a witness ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — After an instant's 
 
 look at Edith — suspecting the reason for 
 her refusal] Whatever your feelings 
 may be Miss Varney, we can't permit 
 you to refuse! 
 Edith. [With determination] I do re- 
 fuse ! If you won't take me down to the 
 street I'll find the way out myself! 
 [Stops as she is turning to go, on hearing 
 the Guard outside] 
 
 [Sound of Guard outside running 
 
 through lower corridors. Tramp of 
 
 men coming up stairway and along 
 
 hallways outside up r. — Thorne 
 
 holds position looking steadily front, 
 
 cigar in right hand] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Loud voice to stop Edith] 
 
 You can't get out — the guard is here! 
 
 [Steps down l. c. with revolver, his eyes 
 
 on Thorne] 
 
 [Edith stands an instant and then as 
 the Guard is heard nearer in the cor- 
 ridor outside up r, she moves up to 
 window up l. and remains there un- 
 til sound of Guard breaking in the 
 door. Then she makes her exit of 
 to l. on balcony, disappearing so as 
 to attract no attention] 
 Arrelsford. [Shouting across to Thorne 
 above noise of Guard] I've got you 
 about where I want you at last! 
 [Thorne motionless. — Sound of hurried 
 tread of men outside up R. as if coming 
 on double quick toward the doors on the 
 bare floor of corridor] You thought you 
 was almighty smart — but you '11 find we 
 can match your tricks eveiy time ! 
 
 [Sound of the Guard coming outside 
 up R. suddenly ceases close to the 
 doors up R. c] 
 Sergeant of the Guard. [Close outside 
 door up R.] What's the matter here! 
 Let us in! 
 Thorne. [Loud, incisive voice. Still fac- 
 ing front] Break down the door Ser- 
 geant ! Break it down ! [As he calls 
 he begins to back up stage toward up R.] 
 [Officers and men outside at once begin 
 to smash in the door with the butts 
 of their muskets] 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Surprised] What 
 
 are you saying about it! 
 Thorne. [Up r. c] You want 'im in 
 here don't you ! 
 
 [Arrelsford moves up a little as 
 
 Thorne does, and covers him with 
 
 revolver] 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Through noise of 
 
 smashing door] Stand where you are! 
 
 [Thorne has backed up r. c. until 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 629 
 
 nearly hetiveen Arrelsford and the 
 door, so that tlte latter cannot fire on 
 him without hitting others. But he 
 must stand a trifle to right of line 
 the men ivill take in rushing across 
 to Arrelsford] 
 Thorne. [Up R. c. facing Arrelsford] 
 Smash in the door ! What are you wait- 
 ing for ! Smash it in Sergeant ! [Keeps 
 up this call till doors break down and 
 men rush in. — Doors are quickly battered 
 in and Sergeant and men dash through 
 and into the room. — Thorxe, coyitinuing 
 without break from last speech, above all 
 the noise, pointing to Arrelsford with l. 
 hand] Arrest that man! [Sergeant of 
 THE Guard and six men spring foriuard 
 past Thorne and seize Arrelsford be- 
 fore he can recover from his ■ astonish- 
 ment, throwing him backward to L. and 
 nearly down in the first struggle, but 
 pulling him to his feet and holding him 
 fast. — As soon as quiet Thorne moves 
 down c] He 's got in here with a re- 
 volver and he 's playing Hell with it ! 
 Arrelsford. [l. c] Sergeant — my orders 
 
 are — 
 Thorne. [At c. facing Arrelsford] 
 Damn your orders! You haven't got 
 orders to shoot everybody you see in this 
 office ! [Arrelsford makes a sudden ef- 
 fort to break loose] Get his gun away — 
 he'll hurt himself! [Turns e. at once 
 and goes to table R. c. putting his coat in 
 better position on back of chair, and then 
 getting things in shape on the table, at 
 same time putting cigar back in mouth 
 and smoking. — Sergeaxt and men twist 
 the revolver out of Arrelsford's hands] 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Continuing to strug- 
 gle and protest] Listen to me! Arrest 
 
 him ! He 's sending out a false 
 
 Sergeaa^t of the Guard, [l. c] Now 
 that '11 do ! [Silencing Arrelsford 
 roughly by hand across his mouth. — To 
 Thorxe] WTiat 's it all about, Cap'n*? 
 Thorne. [Standing at table R.C. arrang- 
 ing things] All about! I haven't got 
 the slightest — [Sudden snatch of cigar 
 out of mouth with r. hand and then 
 to Sergeant as if remembering some- 
 thing] He says he came out of some 
 office! Sending out dispatches here he 
 began letting off his gun at me. [Turns 
 back arranging things on table] Crazy 
 lunatic ! 
 Arrelsford. [Struggling to speak] It 's 
 a lie ! Let me speak — I 'm from the — 
 Sergeant op the Guard. [Quietly to 
 
 avoid laugh] Here! That'll do now! 
 
 [Silencing Arrelsford. To Thoene] 
 
 What shall we do with him? 
 Thorxe. [Tossing things into place on 
 
 table with one hand] I don't care a 
 
 damn — get him out o' here — that's all 
 
 I want! 
 Sergeant of the Guard. Much hurt 
 
 Cap'n? 
 Thorne. [Carelessly] Oh no — did one 
 
 hand up a little — I can get along with 
 
 the other all right. [Sits at table and 
 
 begins telegraphing] 
 Arrelsford. [Struggling desperately] 
 
 Stop him! He's sending a — Wait! 
 
 Ask Miss Varney! She saw him! Ask 
 
 her! Ask Miss Varney! [Speaks 
 
 wildly — losing all control of himself] 
 Sergeant of the Guard. [Breaking in on 
 
 Arrelsford] Here! Fall in there! 
 
 We'll get him out. [The guard quickly 
 
 falls in behind Arrelsford, who is still 
 
 struggling] Forward 
 
 [Enter an Officer striding in quickly at 
 doors up r.] 
 
 Officer. [Loud voice — above the noise] 
 Halt! The General! [Officer remains 
 up stage standing l. of doors up R.] 
 
 Sergeant of the Guard. [To Men] 
 Halt! [Men on motion from Sergeant 
 stand back, forming a double rank' behind 
 Arrelsford, two men holding him in 
 front rank. — All facing to center. Ser- 
 geant up L. c] 
 
 [Enter Major General Harrison Ran- 
 dolph striding in at doors up R. C. — 
 Caroline comes to doors after the Gen- 
 eral, and stands just within, up R. c. — 
 Arrelsford has been so astonished and 
 indignant at his treatment that he can't 
 find his voice at first. — Officers salute as 
 General Randolph comes in. — Thorne 
 goes on working instrument at table down 
 r. C. cigar between his teeth. He has the 
 dispatch with signature pasted on it, 
 spread on table before him] 
 
 General Randolph. [Comes down c. and 
 stops] What 's all this about refusing 
 to send Miss Mitford's telegram! Is it 
 some of your work, Arrelsford? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Breathless, violent, excited] 
 General ! — They 've arrested me ! — A con- 
 spiracy! — A — [Sees Thorne working at 
 telegraph instrument] Stop that man — 
 for God's sake stop him before it 's too 
 late! 
 
 [Caroline edging gradually up R. c. 
 
G30 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 quietly slips out at doors up R. c. 
 Make this exit unnoticed if possible] 
 
 General Randolph, [c] Stop him! 
 What do you mean? 
 
 TiiORNE. [Rising quickly with salute — 
 timed to speak on cue] He means me 
 sir ! He 's got an idea some dispatch I 'm 
 sending- out is a trick of the Yankees ! 
 
 Arrelsford. [Excitedly] It 's a con- 
 spiracy. He 's an impostor — a — a. 
 
 Thorn E. [Subdued voice] Why the man 
 must have gone crazy General! [Thorne 
 stands facing L. motionless] 
 
 Arrelsford. I came here on a case 
 for 
 
 General Randolph. [Sharply] Wait! — 
 I '11 get at this ! [To Sergeant — without 
 turning to him] What was he doing? 
 
 Sergeant of the Guard. [Up l. c. salut- 
 ing] He was firing on the Cap'n sir. 
 
 Arrelsford. He was sending out a false 
 order to weaken our lines at Cemetery 
 Hill and I — Ah! [Suddenly recollect- 
 ing] Miss Varney! [Looking excitedly 
 about] She was here — she saw it all! 
 
 General Randolph. [Gruffly] Miss 
 Varney ! 
 
 Arrelsford. Yes sir! 
 
 General Randolph. The General's daugh- 
 ter? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Nodding afirmatively with 
 excited eagerness] Yes sir! 
 
 General Randolph. What was she doing 
 here? 
 
 Arrelsford. She came to see for herself 
 whether he was gTiilty or not ! 
 
 General Randolph. Is this some personal 
 matter of yours? 
 
 Arrelsford. He was a visitor at their 
 house — I wanted her to know ! 
 
 General Randolph. Where is she now? 
 Where is Miss Varney? 
 
 Arrensford. [Looking about excitedly] 
 She must be out there on the balcony! 
 Send for her ! Send for her ! 
 
 General Randolph. [After looking at 
 Arrelsford in silence for a few seconds] 
 Sergeant! [Sergeant steps down l. of 
 General Randolph and salutes] Step 
 out there on the balcony. Present my 
 compliments to Miss Varney and ask her 
 to come in ! 
 
 [Sergeant salutes and steps quickly 
 out on the balcony through middle 
 window up l. Walks off along bal- 
 cony disappearing at L. Re-appears 
 walking back as far as balcony goes. 
 Turns and re-enters room, coming 
 down L. c. and saluting] 
 
 Sergeant of the Guard. [Saluting] No 
 one there sir! 
 
 [Thorne tur^is quietly and opening in- 
 strument A. begins to send dispatch, 
 picking up the forged order with l. 
 hand as if sending from that copy 
 and telegraphing luith r.] 
 Arrelsford. She must be there! She's 
 in the next office! The other window. 
 Tell him to — [Sees Thorne working at 
 instrument A.] Ah! [Almost a scream] 
 StojD him ! He 's sending it now ! 
 General Randolph. [To Thorne] One 
 moment Cap'n! [Thorne stops. Sa- 
 lutes. Drops dispatch in left hand to 
 table. — Pause for an instant — all holding 
 their positions. — General Randolph 
 after above pause — to Arrelsford] 
 What have you got to do with this? 
 Arrelsford. It 's a Department Case ! 
 They assigned it to me! 
 
 [Thorne picks up the forged dispatch 
 and examines it] 
 General Randolph. What's a Depart- 
 ment Case? 
 Arrelsford. The whole plot — to send the 
 order — it 's the Yankee Secret Service ! 
 His brother brought in the signal to- 
 night ! 
 
 [General Randolph looks sharply at 
 Arrelsford] 
 Thorne. [Very quiet and matter-of-fact] 
 This ought to go out sir — it 's very im- 
 portant. 
 General Randolph. Go ahead with it ! 
 [Thorne salutes and quickly turns to 
 instrument a. dropping dispatch on 
 table and begins sending rapidly as 
 he stands before the table, glancing 
 at the dispatch as he does so as if 
 sending from it] 
 Arrelsford. [Seeing what is going on] 
 
 No no ! It 's a 
 
 Gi^NERAL Randolph. Silence! 
 Arrelsford. [Excitedly] Do you know 
 
 what he 's telling them ! 
 General Randolph. No ! — Do you ? 
 
 Areelsford. Yes! If you '11 
 
 General Randolph. [To Thorne] Wait! 
 [Thorne stops telegraphing, coming at 
 once to salute, military position a step 
 back from table facing front] Where 's 
 that dispatch? [Thorne goes to Gen- 
 eral Randolph and hands him the dis- 
 patch with salute, then hack a step. — 
 General Randolph takes the dispatch. 
 To Arrelsford] What was it? What 
 has he been telling them? [Looks at dis- 
 patch in his hand] 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 631 
 
 Arrelsford. [Excitedly] He began to 
 give an order to withdraw Marston's 
 Division from its present position ! 
 General Randolph. That is perfectly 
 
 correct. 
 Arrelsford. Yes — by that dispatch — but 
 that dispatch is a forgery ! [Thorne 
 with a look of surprise turns sharply to- 
 ward Arrelsford] It 's an order to 
 withdraw a whole division from a vital 
 point ! A false order ! He wrote it him- 
 self ! [Thor-ne stands as if astounded] 
 General Randolph. Why should he write 
 it? If he wanted to send out a false 
 order he could do it without setting it 
 down on paper could n't he *? 
 Arrelsford. Yes — but if any of the oper- 
 ators came back they 'd catch him doing 
 it ! With that order and the Secretary's 
 signature he could go right on! He 
 • could even order one of them to send 
 it! 
 Gfneral Randolph. How did he get the 
 
 Secretary's signature? 
 Arrelsford. He tore it off from a genu- 
 ine dispatch! — Why General — look at 
 that dispatch in your hand! The Secre- 
 tary's signature is pasted on! I saw him 
 do it! 
 Thorne. [r. c] Why — they often come 
 that way! [Turns away toward front] 
 Arrelsford. [l. c] He's a liar! They 
 never do! 
 
 [Thorne turns on '^liar" and the two 
 
 men glare at each other a moment] 
 
 Thorne. [r. c. — Recovering himself] 
 
 General, if you have any doubts about 
 
 that dispatch send it back to the War 
 
 Office and have it verified! 
 
 [Arrelsford is so thunderstruck that 
 he starts hack a little unable to speak. 
 Stands with his eyes riveted on 
 Thorne until cue of telegraph click 
 helow] 
 General Randolph. [Speaks slowly, his 
 eyes on Thorne] Quite a good idea! 
 [Brief pause] Sergeant ! [Holding out 
 the dispatch. — Sergeant of the Guard 
 salutes and waits for orders] Take this 
 dispatch over to the Secretary's office 
 and — [Sudden loud click of telegraph in- 
 strument A. on table r. c. — General 
 Randolph stops — listening. To Thorne] 
 What's that? 
 
 [Arrelsford looking at the instrument. 
 Thorne stands motionless excepting 
 that he took his eyes of Arrelsford 
 and looked across to down h. listen- 
 ing] 
 
 Thorne. [After slight wait] Adjutant- 
 General Chesney. 
 General Randolph. From the front? 
 Thorne. Yes sir. 
 
 General Randolph. What does he say? 
 [Thorne turns and steps to the table 
 and gives quick signal on instrument 
 A. closing circuit to receive, and then 
 stands erect listening — eyes toward 
 front] 
 Thorne. His compliments sir — [Pause — 
 Continued click of instrument] He 
 asks — [Pause. — Continued click of in- 
 strument] for the vest— [Pause — con- 
 tinued click of instrument] of that dis- 
 patch — [Pause — continued click of in- 
 strument which then stops] It 's of vital 
 importance. [Thorne stands motion- 
 less] 
 General Randolph. [After very slight 
 pause abruptly turns and hands the dis- 
 patch back to Thorne] Let him have it ! 
 [Thorne hurried salute, takes dispatch — 
 sits at table and begins sending] 
 
 Arrelsford. General — if you 
 
 General Randolph. [Sharply to Arrels- 
 ford] That 's enough ! We '11 have you 
 examined at headquarters! [Hurried 
 steps in corridor outside up r. and enter 
 quickly at doors up R. the First Oper- 
 ator. He is breathless and excited] 
 Arrelsford. [Catching sight of First 
 Operator as he comes in] Ah! Thank 
 God! There's a witness! He was sent 
 away on a forged order! Ask him! 
 Ask him! [Pause. — First Operator 
 standing up stage R. C. looking at others 
 surprised — Thorne telegraphing grimly 
 and desperately] 
 General Randolph. [After instant's 
 pause during which click of instrument 
 is heard] Wait a moment, Cap'n! 
 
 [Thorne stops telegraphing, sits mo- 
 tionless, hand on the key, eyes 
 straight front. — An instant of dead 
 silence. — ^General Randolph moves 
 up c. a little to speak to First 
 Operator] 
 General Randolph. [Up c. to First 
 Operator. Gruffly] Where did you 
 come from? 
 First Operator. [Up r. c. — Not under- 
 standing what is going on. — Salutes] 
 There was some mistake sir ! 
 
 [Arrelsford gives gasp of triumph 
 quick on cue. — Brief pause of dead 
 silence] 
 General Randolph. Mistake eh? — Who 
 made it? 
 
G32 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 First Operator. I got an order to go to 
 the President's house, and when I got 
 there the President ! 
 
 TiiORXE. [Rising at telegraph table, on 
 cue '^President's house"] This delay will 
 be disastrous sir! Permit me to go on — 
 if there 's any mistake we can rectify it 
 afterwards! [Turns to instrument and 
 begins sending as he stands before it] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Crij of remonstrance] No! 
 
 General Raxdolpii. [Who has not given 
 heed to Thorxe's speech — to First 
 Operator] Where did you get the 
 order? 
 
 Arrelsford. He's at it again sir! 
 
 General Randolph. [Suddenlij sees what 
 Thorne is doing] Halt there! 
 [Thorne stops telegraphing] What are 
 you doing! [Stepping down c] I 
 ordered you to wait ! 
 
 Thorne. [Turns L. to General Ran- 
 dolph] I was sent here to attend to the 
 business of this office and that business 
 is going on! [Turning again as if to 
 telegraph] 
 
 General Randolph. [His temper rising] 
 It is not going on sir, until I 'm ready for 
 it! 
 
 Thorne. [Turning back to the General] 
 My orders come from the War Depart- 
 ment — not from you! This dispatch 
 came in half an hour ago — they 're call- 
 ing for it — and it 's my business to send 
 it out! [Turning at end of speech and 
 seizing the keg endeavors to rush off the 
 rest of the dispatch] 
 
 General Randolph. Halt ! [Thorne 
 goes on telegraphing. — To Sergeant of 
 the Guard] Sergeant! [Sergeant 
 salutes] Hold that machine there! 
 [Pointing at telegraph instrument. — 
 Sergeant of the Guard and two men 
 spring quicklg across to right. Sergeant 
 rushes against Thorne with arm across 
 his breast forcing him over to R. against 
 chair and table on right — chair a little 
 awag from table to emphasize with crash 
 as Thorne is flung against it — and holds 
 him there. — The two men cross bayonets 
 over instrument and stand motionless. 
 All done quickly, business-like and with 
 as little disturbance as possible. Gen- 
 eral Randolph strides down c. and 
 speaks across to Thorne] I '11 have you 
 court-martialed for this ! 
 
 Thorne. [Breaking loose from Sergeant 
 and coming down R.] You'll answer 
 yourself sir, for delaying a dispatch of 
 vital importance! 
 
 General Randolph. [Sharply] Do you 
 
 mean that! 
 Thorne. I mean that! And I demand 
 that you let me proceed with the business 
 of this office! 
 General Randolph. By what authority 
 
 do you send that dispatch'? 
 Thorne. I refer you to the Department ! 
 General Randolph. Show me your order 
 
 for taking charge of this office! 
 
 Thorne. I refer you to the Department ! 
 
 [Stands motiotdess facing across to l.] 
 
 [Edith appears at upper window up 
 
 L. coming on from balcony left, and 
 
 moves a little into room up L. c. — 
 
 Sergeant of the Guard remains at 
 
 R. above table when Thorne breaks 
 
 away from him] 
 
 General Randolph. By God then I '11 go 
 
 to the Department ! [Swings round and 
 
 strides up c. a little way] . Sergeant! 
 
 [Sergeant op the Guard salutes] 
 
 Leave your men on guard there and go 
 
 over to the War Office — my compliments 
 
 to the Secretary and will he be so good 
 
 as to 
 
 Arrelsford. [Suddenly breaking out on 
 seeing Edith up l. c] Ah! General! 
 [Pointing to Edith] Another witness! 
 Miss Varney! She was here! She saw 
 it all ! 
 
 [Thorne on Arrelsford's mention of 
 
 another witness glances quickly up 
 
 L. toward Edith, and at once turns 
 
 front and stands motionless, waiting. 
 
 — General Randolph turns left and 
 
 sees Edith] 
 
 General Randolph. [Up c. on r. bluffly 
 
 touching hat] Miss Vaniey! [Edith 
 
 comes forward a little l. of c] Do you 
 
 know anything about this? 
 
 Edith. [Speaks in low voice] About 
 
 what sir? 
 General Randolph. Mr. Arrelsford here 
 claims that Captain Thorne is acting 
 without authority in this office and that 
 you can testify to that effect. 
 Edith. [Very quietly, in low voice] Mr. 
 Arrelsford is mistaken — he has the high- 
 est authority. 
 
 [Arrelsford aghast. — General Ran- 
 dolph surprised. — Thorne facing l. 
 listening — motionless] 
 General Randolph. [After an instant's 
 
 pause] What authority has he? 
 Edith. [Drawing the Commission used in 
 Act I from her dress. While her voice 
 is low and controlled it trembles slightly 
 and she has to pause a little twice] The 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 633 
 
 authoi-ity — of the President — of the Con- 
 federate States of America! [Handing 
 the Commission to General Randolph. — 
 General Randolph takes the Commis- 
 sion and at once opens and examines it. 
 — Edith stands a moment where she was, 
 looking neither at Arrelsford nor 
 Thorne, then slowly retires up and 
 stands back of others out of the way] 
 General Randolph, [c. — Looking at the 
 Commission] What's this! Major's 
 Commission! Assigned to duty on the 
 Signal Corps! In command of the 
 Telegraph Department ! 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Breaking out] That 
 
 commission — let me explain how she 
 
 I beg you to 
 
 General Randolph. That '11 do ! — I sup- 
 pose this is a forgery too"? 
 
 Arrelsford. Let me tell you sir 
 
 General Randolph. You 've told me 
 enough! Sergeant — take him to head- 
 quarters ! 
 Sergeant of the Guard. [Quick salute] 
 Fall in there! [Motioning men at in- 
 strument. Men at instrument hurry 
 across to L. and fall into rank] Forward 
 march ! 
 
 [Sergeant and Guard quickly rush 
 Arrelsford across to doors up r. c. 
 and off — the Sergeant shouting to 
 him to keep quiet, and continuing to 
 until out of hearing outside up R.] 
 Arrelsford. [Resisting and protesting as 
 he is forced across and off at doors up 
 R. c. No! — For God's sake General — 
 listen to me ! It 's the Yankee Secret 
 Service ! Never mind me, but don't let 
 that dispatch go out ! He 's a damned 
 Yankee Secret Agent ! His brother 
 brought in the signal to-night ! [Etc.] 
 [Sou72ds of footsteps of the Guard 
 and voices of Arrelsford and Ser- 
 geant dying away down the corridor 
 outside up r. — Short pause. — 
 Thorne motionless through above 
 looking front. — General Randolph, 
 who crossed to up L. c. on men forc- 
 ing Arrelsford off^ goes down c. 
 and looks across at Thorne] 
 General Randolph. [Gruffly] Cap'n 
 Thorne! [Thorne comes to erect mili- 
 tary position. Turns L. and goes to the 
 General at c. saluting] It 's your own 
 fault Cap'n ! If you 'd had the sense to 
 mention this before we 'd have been saved 
 a damned lot o' trouble ! — There 's your 
 Commission ! [Handing Commission to 
 Thorne. — Thorne takes it saluting. — 
 
 General turns to go] I can't under- 
 stand why they have to be so cursed shy 
 about their Secret Service Orders! 
 [Goes up toward door up r. c. Stops 
 and speaks to First Operator who is 
 standing at R. of door] Lieutenant ! 
 [First Operator salutes] Take your 
 orders from Major Thorne. [Turns and 
 goes heavily off at doors up R. c. very 
 much out of temper] [Note. — General 
 must on no account emphasize "Major"] 
 [First Operator goes down r. and 
 sits at telegraph table on extreme R. 
 going to work on papers. — No noise. 
 — Thorne stands facing l., Commis- 
 sion in his R. hand, until the General 
 is of. Turns head slowly around to 
 front and looks across to r. watching 
 to see when the General is gone — at 
 the same time crushing the Commis- 
 sion in his right hand. After exit 
 of General he instantly glides to 
 telegraph instrument a. and begins 
 sending ivith r. hand — still holding 
 commission in it. — Edith comes 
 quickly down to Thorne on his left 
 and very near him] 
 Edith. [Speaks breathlessly in a half 
 whisper] Cap'n Thorne! [Thorne 
 stops telegraphing — hand still on key — 
 but does not look: at her. — She goes on 
 in low voice, hurried — breathless] That 
 Commission — gives you authority — long 
 enough to escape from Richmond ! 
 Thorne. Escape! After all this! Im- 
 possible! [Seizes key and begins to 
 send] 
 Edith. Oh! — You wouldn't do it — now! 
 [Thorne instantly stops telegraphing 
 and looks at her] 
 Edith. I brought it — to save your life! 
 I didn't think you'd use it — for any- 
 thing else! Oh — ^you would n't ! 
 
 [Thorne stands looking at her. — Sud- 
 den sharp call from instrument a. — 
 He instantly turns back to it. His 
 hand moves to grasp it — hovers un- 
 certainly over it as he hesitates. — 
 Edith sees his hand at the key again 
 — covers her face and moans, at the 
 same time turning away L. She 
 moves up to the doors up R. c. and 
 goes out. — Thorne stands in a des- 
 perate struggle with himself as in- 
 strument A. is clicking off the same 
 signal that he made when calling up 
 the front. He almost seizes the key 
 — then resists — and finally, with a 
 bang of right fist on the table, turns 
 
G34 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 and strides acroiis to up L. C. — the 
 Commission crushed in his R. hand] 
 First Operator, [ir/fo has been listening 
 to calls of instrument A. on table r. c.^ 
 rising at R. as Tiiorxe comes to a stand 
 up L. c] They're calling: for that dis- 
 patch sir! What shall I do? 
 Thorxe. [Turning quicJdij] Send it! 
 [First Operator drops into seat at 
 table R. C. and begins sending at 
 same time spreading out the dispatch 
 which he is sending from near left 
 end of table] 
 [Thorxe stands motionless an instant. 
 As Operator begins to send he turns 
 round a little up to R. slowly and 
 painfully, R. arm up across eyes in a 
 struggle with himself. Suddenly he 
 breaks away and dashes toward table 
 
 R. C] 
 
 Thorxe. No no — stop! [Seizes the dis- 
 patch from the table in his R. hand which 
 still has the Commission crumpled in it] 
 I can't do it! I can't do it! [First 
 Operator rises in surprise on Thorxe 
 seizing the dispatch, and stands facing 
 him. — Thorxe points at instrument un- 
 steadily] Revoke the order! It was a 
 mistake ! — I refuse to act under this Com- 
 mission ! [Throwing the papers in his R. 
 hand down on the floor — tit en turning 
 away to L. and walking uncertainly up 
 toward L. c. — turning there and after 
 slight hesitation walking across to doors 
 up R. c. — pausing an instant as he sup- 
 ports himself with hand on the upper 
 door as it stands open — then exits un- 
 steadily at doors up r. c. and passes out 
 of sight down the corridor to R.] 
 
 [CURTAIN] 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Eleven o'clock 
 
 [Scene: — Drawing room at General Var- 
 ney's. This is the same set as in Acts 
 I and II. — The furniture is somewhat dis- 
 ordered as if left as it was after the dis- 
 turbances at the close of the Second Act. 
 — Couch up R. where Arrelsford put it 
 end of Act II. Nothing is broken or up- 
 set. Half light in room. Lamps lighted 
 but not strong on. See that portieres on 
 ivindows down R. are closed. — Thunder of 
 distant cannonading and sounds of vol- 
 leys of musketry and exploding shells on 
 very strong at times during this act. 
 Quivering and rather subdued flashes of 
 light — {the artillery is some miles dis- 
 tant) — shown at windows R. on cues. 
 Violent and hurried ringing of church 
 bells in distant parts of the city — deep, 
 low tones booming out like fire bells. 
 Sounds of hurried passing in the street 
 outside of bodies of soldiers — artillery — 
 cavalry, etc. on cues, with many horse- 
 hoof and rattling gun carriage and chain 
 effects — shouting to horses — orders, 
 bugle calls, etc.] 
 
 [Note : — This thunder of cannonading, 
 shelling fortifications, musketry, flashes, 
 etc., mMst be kept up during the act, 
 coming in now and then where it will not 
 interfere ivith dialogue, and so arranged 
 that the idea of a desperate attack will 
 not be lost. Possible places for this effect 
 will be marked thus in the manuscript — 
 [XXX] 
 
 \_At rise of curtain, thunder of artillery and 
 flashes of light note and then. Ringing 
 of church and fire bells in distance] 
 
 [Caroline is discovered in window up r. 
 shrinking back against curtains and look- 
 ing out through the windoiu in a terified 
 way] 
 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Yarney coming hurriedly 
 down the stairway from up L. and enter- 
 ing through door or arch up l. c] 
 
 Mrs. Yarney. Caroline! [Caroline goes 
 to her. — She takes Caroline forward a 
 little] Tell me what happened'? She 
 
 It was at the 
 
 What 
 
 won't speak! Where has she been"? 
 AVhere was if? 
 Caroline. [Frightened] 
 
 telegraph office! 
 Mrs. Yarney. What did she do 
 happened there ? Do tiy to tell ! 
 
 [Flashes — cannonading — bells, etc., 
 kept up strong. Effect of passing 
 artillery begins in the distance very 
 faint] 
 Caroline. Oh I don't know! How can I 
 tell? I was afraid and ran out! [Alarm 
 bell very strong] It's the alarm bell, 
 Mrs. Yarney — to call out the reserves! — 
 That 's to call out the reserves ! 
 Mrs. Yarney. Yes^ — yes, I know it dear! 
 [A glance of anxiety toward windows 
 right] They 're making- a terrible attack 
 to-night. Lieutenant Maxwell was right ! 
 That quiet spell was the signal! [Ar- 
 tillery effect louder] 
 
 Caroline crosses timidly to tvindow 
 up r.] 
 Caroline [Turning to Mrs. Yarney and 
 speaking above the noise, which is not yet 
 on full] It 's another regiment of artil- 
 terj^ goin' by! They're sendin' 'em all 
 over to Cemetery Hill ! That 's where the 
 fighting is! Cemetery Hill! [Effect on 
 loud] 
 
 [Caroline watches from window. — 
 Mrs. Yarney crosses over left and 
 rings bell. — As artillery effect dies 
 away Martha enters door up L. c. 
 from R.] 
 Mrs. Yarney. [To Martha] Go up and 
 stay with Miss Edith till I come. Don't 
 leave her a moment Martha — not a mo- 
 ment! 
 Martha. No 'm — I won't. [She turns 
 and hastens off at door up L. c. and up 
 the stairway] 
 
 [Alarm bell and cannon on strong] 
 Mrs. Yarney. Do close the curtains Caro- 
 line! [Moves toward up c] 
 
 [Caroline closes the window curtains 
 at right] 
 Caroline. I 'm afraid they 're goin' to 
 have a right bad time to-night! [Going 
 to Mrs. Yarney] 
 Mrs. Yarney. Indeed I'm afraid so! — 
 Now try to think dear, who was at the 
 telegraph office ■? Can't you tell me some- 
 thing? 
 
 635 
 
()3G 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Caholixe. [Shaking her licad] No — only 
 
 — lliey arrested Mr. Arrelsford ! 
 Mrs. Varney. Mr. Arrelsford ! Why you 
 don't mean that he was — that he was 
 actually arrested ! 
 Caroline. Yes I do — an' I was glad of 
 it! — An' General Randolph — he came — 
 I went an' brought him there — an' Oh — 
 he was in a frightful temper! 
 Mrs. , Varxey. And Edith — now you can 
 
 tell me — what did slie do*? 
 Caroline. I can't Mrs. Varney — I don't 
 know! I just waited for her outside — 
 an' when she came out she could n't speak 
 — an' then we hurried home ! That 's all 
 I know Mrs. Varney — truly! 
 
 [Loud ringing of door hell in another 
 part of the house. — Caroline and 
 Mrs. Varney turn toward door up 
 L. c. — Noise of heavy steps outside 
 left and Arrelsford almost immedi- 
 ately strides into the room, folloiced 
 hy two privates, who stand at tlie 
 door^ 
 [Caroline steps hack up stage a little 
 as Arrelsford enters, and Mrs. Var- 
 ney faces him] 
 
 [XXX] 
 
 Arrelsford. [l. c. — Roughly] Is your 
 daughter in the house*? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [After a second's pai^se] 
 Certainly ! 
 
 [XXX] 
 
 Arrelsford. I '11 see her if you please ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. I don't know that she'll 
 care to receive you at present. 
 
 Arrelsford. What she cares to do at pres- 
 ent is of small consequence! Shall I go 
 up to her room with these men or will 
 you have her come down here to me*? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Neither one nor the other 
 until I know your business. 
 
 [Effect of passing cavalry and artil- 
 lery] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Excitedly] My business! 
 You '11 know mighty quick ! It 's a very 
 simple matter Mrs. Varney! Got a few 
 questions to ask! — Listen to that! [Can- 
 nonading becomes heavy] Now you 
 know what "Attack To-night Plan Three" 
 means ! Now you know ! 
 
 ;Mrs. Varney. Is that — Is that the attack 
 they meant ! 
 
 Arrelsford. That's the attack Madam ! 
 They 're breaking through our lines at 
 Cemetery Hill! That was PLAN 
 THREE! We're rushing over the re- 
 serves but they may not get there in time ! 
 
 — Now if you please I '11 see Miss ^'ar- 
 nev! 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Caroline 7ms crossed at back to door 
 
 up L. c. as if going out, but turns 
 
 near door to hear what Arrelsford 
 
 is saying] 
 
 Mrs. Varney, What has my daughter to 
 
 do with this? 
 Arrelsford. Do with it ! She did it ! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Astonished] What! 
 Arrelsford. Do you hear what I say — 
 she did it! 
 
 [Noise of passing Cavalry Officers go- 
 ing by singly] 
 Mrs. Varney. Impossible! 
 Arrelsford. Impossible or not as you 
 choose! — We had him there — in his own 
 trap — under arrest — under arrest you un- 
 derstand — when she brought in that Com- 
 mission ! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Horrified] You don't 
 
 mean she — 
 Arrelsford. I mean she put the game in 
 his hands! He got the w^ires! His 
 cursed dispatch went through! As soon 
 as I got to headquarters they saw the 
 trick! They rushed the guard back — 
 the scoundrel had got away ! But we 're 
 after him hot, an' if she knows where he 
 is — [About to turn toward door up l. c] 
 I '11 get it out of her ! 
 [XXX] 
 Mrs. Varney. You don't suppose my 
 
 daughter would — 
 Arrelsford. I suppose anything! 
 Mrs. Varney. I '11 not believe it ! 
 Arrelsford. We can't stop for what you 
 believe! [Turns to go up l. c] 
 
 [Alarm bells gradually cease'] 
 Mrs. Varney. Let me speak to her ! 
 
 [Passing cavalry effect has died away 
 by this time] 
 Arrelsford. I'll see her myself! [Going 
 up L.] 
 
 [Caroline has stepped quietly down so 
 that as Arrelsford turns to go to- 
 ward stairway she confronts him just 
 luitliin the door or arch up L. c] 
 Caroline. [Up l. c. between Arrelsford 
 and the door. — Almost on cue of his last 
 speech] Where is your order for this? 
 Arrelsford. [Stopped by Caroline up 
 L. c. — After an instant's surprise] I 've 
 got a word or two to say to you — after 
 I 've been upstairs! 
 Caroline. Show me your order for going 
 
 upstairs! 
 Arrelsford, Department business — I don't 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 637 
 
 require an order! [Moves as if to pass 
 her] 
 Caroline. [Stepping in his way again] 
 Ob, yoLi 've made a great mistake about 
 tbat ! Tbis is a piivate bouse ! It is n't 
 tbe telegrapb office! If you want to go 
 up any stairs or see anybody about any- 
 thing you'll have to bring an order! I 
 don't know mueb — but I know something 
 — an' tbat 's it ! [She turns and exits 
 door up L. c. and runs up the stairway] 
 [XXX light] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Turns sharply to Mrs. 
 Varney] Am I to understand Madam, 
 that you — 
 
 [Loud ringing of door hell in distant 
 part of house, followed almost im- 
 mediately by the sound of heavy door 
 outside L. and tramp of many feet 
 in the hallway] 
 [The sound of cavalry begins again] 
 [Arrelsford and Mrs. Varney turn] 
 
 [Enter at door or arch up l. c. from l. a 
 Sergeant a7id four men. Men are halted 
 up L. — Officer advances . to Mrs. Var- 
 ney. — Arrelsford steps back a little 
 up c] 
 
 Sergeant. [Touching his cap roughly] 
 Are you tbe lady tbat lives here ma'am *? 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [r. c] I am Mrs. Varney ! 
 
 Sergeant, [c] I've got an order to 
 search the house! [Shoiving Mrs. Var- 
 ney the order] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Coming quickly down l. c] 
 Just in time ! — I '11 go through the house 
 if you please! 
 
 Sergeant. [Roughly] You can't go 
 through on this order — it was issued to 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Varney. You were sent here to- 
 
 Sergeant. Yes ma'am! SoiTy to trouble 
 you but we '11 have to be quick about it ! 
 If we don't get him here w^e 've got to 
 follovv' down Franklin Street — he 's over 
 this way somewhere ! [Turns l. about to 
 give orders to men] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. Who"? Who is it you 
 
 Sergeant. [Turning hurriedly at l. c] 
 Man named Thome — Cap'n of Artillery — 
 that's what he went by! [Turns to his 
 men] Here — this way ! That room in 
 there! [Indicating room up c] Two of 
 you outside ! [Pointing to windows] 
 Cut off those windows, 
 
 [Two men run into room up c. and 
 two off at windows R. as indicated, 
 throwing open curtains and windows 
 as they do so. — Mrs. Varney stands 
 
 aside R. c. — Sergeant glances 
 quickly round the room — pushing 
 desk out and looking behind it, etc. — 
 Keep cavalry effects on and flashes 
 intermittently during this business. 
 — Also occasional low thunder of 
 distant artillery. Cavalry effects 
 distant — as if going down a street 
 several blocks away. — During bus. 
 Arrelsford goes to door l. and gives 
 an order to his men. Then he exits 
 door left. — Men who came with Ar- 
 relsford exit after him] 
 [As the cannonading begins again, the 
 two men who went off at door up C. 
 to search, re-enter shoving the old 
 negro Jonas roughly into the room. 
 — Re is torn and dirty and shows 
 signs of rough handling. — They force 
 him down c. a little way and he 
 stands crouching] 
 Sergeant, [r. c. — To men] Where did 
 
 you get that? 
 Private, [c] Hiding in a closet sir. 
 Sergeant. [Going c. — To Jonas] What 
 are you doing in there *? If you don't 
 answer me we '11 kick the life out of you ! 
 [Short pause. — To Mrs. Varney] Be- 
 longs to you I reckon*? 
 Mrs. Varney. [r. c] Yes — but they 
 
 want him for carrying a message — — 
 Sergeant. [Interrupting] Well if they 
 want him they can come an' get him — 
 we 're looking for someone else ! [Mo- 
 tions to men] Throw him back in there! 
 [Men shove Jonas off at door up c. — 
 Other men re-enter from windows at 
 right] Here — this room! Be quick 
 now! Cover that door! [Two men have 
 quick business of searching down R. and 
 .L — The other two men stand on guard 
 door up L. c] Sorry to disturb you 
 ma'am! [Bell rings in distant part of 
 house] 
 Mrs. Varney. Do what you please — I 
 have nothing to conceal! [Sound of 
 heavy door outside up L.] 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Voice of Orderly calling outside 
 up L.] 
 Orderly. [Outside up l.] Here! Lend 
 a hand will you ! 
 
 [Two men at door up left exit at left 
 to help someone outside] [Enter 
 the Orderly who took Wilfred away 
 in Act II. coming on hurriedly at 
 door up L. c. from l. — Stands just 
 below door — a few steps into room. 
 He is splashed ivith foam and mud 
 
638 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 from hard riding. He sees Ser- 
 geant and salutes. — Sergeant sa- 
 lutes Orderly and goes over, look- 
 ing out of icindow up R. — Mrs. 
 Varney upon seeing the Orderly 
 utters a low cry of alarm] 
 Orderly. I 've brought back the boy 
 
 ma am 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [r. c- 
 Oh ! What do you- 
 
 -Starting forward] 
 What 
 
 Orderly. We never got out there at all! 
 The Yankees made a raid down at Me- 
 ehanicsville not three miles out ! The 
 Home Guard was goin' by on the dead 
 run to head 'em off, an' before I knew it 
 he was in with 'em riding like mad! 
 There was a bit of a skinnish an' he got 
 a clip across the neck — nothing at all 
 ma'am — he rode back all the way an' — 
 [Cavalry effects die away gradually] 
 
 Mrs, Varxey. [Moving toward c] Oh — 
 Wilfred ! He 's— he 's hurt ! 
 
 Orderly. Nothing bad ma'am — don't up- 
 set yourself ! 
 
 Mrs. Varney. {Starts toward the door] 
 Where did you — [Stops on seeing Wil- 
 fred] [Enter Wilfred at door left sup- 
 ported by the two Men. — He is pale and 
 has a bandage about his neck. — Mrs. 
 Varney, after the sliglit pause on his en- 
 trance goes to him at once] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Going to Wilfred] Wil- 
 fred ! 
 
 Wilfred. [Weak voice — motioning Mrs. 
 Varney away] It's all right — it's all 
 right — you don't understand! [Tries to 
 free himself from the men icho are sup- 
 porting him] What do you want to hold 
 me like that for*? [Frees himself and 
 walks toward c. a little unsteadily] — You 
 see — I can walk all right! [Mrs. Var- 
 ney comes down anxiously on his right 
 and holds him] [Wilfred turns and 
 sees his mother and takes her hand with 
 an effort to do it in as casual a manner 
 as possible] How-dy-do Mother! — 
 Did n't expect me back so soon, did you'? 
 — Tell you how it was — [Turns and sees 
 Orderly. To Orderly] Don't you go 
 away now — I 'm going back w^ith you — 
 just wait till I rest up about a minute. — 
 See here ! They 're ringing the bells to 
 call out the reserves! [Starting iveakly 
 toward door l.] That settles it — I '11 go 
 right now! 
 
 [XXX] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Gently holding him back] 
 No no Wilfred — not now ! 
 
 [Note: Wilfred must get well over 
 
 to R. c. when he speaks to Mrs. 
 
 Varney, and not move back to left 
 
 more than a step or two, in order to 
 
 be near the couch] 
 
 [The cannonading sounds more loudly] 
 
 Wilfred. [Weakly] Not now! — You 
 
 hear that — you hear those bells — and tell 
 
 me — not nowM — I — [Sways a little] I — 
 
 [Mrs. Varney supports him tenderly] 
 
 Sergeant. [Quick undertone to Men] 
 
 Stand by there! [Wilfred faints. — 
 
 Mrs. Varney supports him, but almost 
 
 immediately the Two Men come to her 
 
 assistance. — Sergeant and Two Men 
 
 2DUsh the couch forward down R. c. and 
 
 they quickly lay him on it with his head 
 
 on the right. — Mrs. Varney goes to head 
 
 of couch and holds Wilfred's head as 
 
 they lay him down] 
 
 [Cannonading and other effects gradu- 
 ally cease] 
 Sergeant. [To one of the men] Find 
 some water will you*? [To Mrs. Var- 
 ney] Put his head down ma'am — put 
 his head down an' he '11 be all right in a 
 minute. 
 
 [A Private hurries off at door up l. c. 
 to R. on order to get water. — Ser- 
 geant gets chair from up c. and puts 
 it back of couch. — Mrs. Varney 
 goes back of couch attending to Wil- 
 fred. — Private re-enters with basin 
 of icater and gives it to Mrs. Var- 
 ney] 
 Officer. [To IMen] This way now! 
 
 [Men move quickly to door or arch up 
 L. c. — Officer gives quick directions 
 to Men at door. All exit at door up 
 L. c. — 07ie or two going r. and Ser- 
 geant with most of men going up 
 the stairway. — Orderly is left stand- 
 ing L. a little below door, exactly as 
 he was. — Mrs. Varney kneeling back 
 of Wilfred and bathing his head 
 tenderly — using her handkerchief] 
 Orderly. [After brief pause] If there 
 ain't anything else ma'am, I 'd better re- 
 port back. 
 Mrs. Varney. Yes — don't wait! — The 
 
 wound is dressed is n't it ? 
 Orderly. Yes ma'am — I took him to the 
 Winder Hospital — they said he 'd be on 
 his feet in a day or two — he only wants 
 to keep quiet a bit. 
 Mrs. Varney. Tell the General just how it 
 
 happened ! 
 Orderly. [Touching cap] I sure will 
 ma'am. [He turns and hurries off at 
 door up L. c. to l.] 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 639 
 
 [Short pause. — Mrs. Varney gently 
 bathing Wilfred's head and wrists] 
 [Sound of alarm hells dies away ex- 
 cepting that from a very distant one 
 which continues to ring in muffled 
 tones] [Caroline appears coming 
 down the stairway up L. absent- 
 mindedly, stopping when part way 
 down because site sees someone on 
 couch with Mrs. Yarney bathing 
 his head. She looks more intently. 
 Then suddenly starts and runs down 
 the rest of the way and into the room 
 at door up l. c. stopping dead when 
 a little way in and looking across at 
 what is going on. — Mrs. Varney 
 does not see her at first. — Caroline 
 stands motionless — face very white. 
 — Mrs. Varney after a moment's 
 pause sees Caroline] 
 Mrs. Varney. [Rising quickly] Caro- 
 line dear! [Goes to Caroline c] It's 
 nothing! [Holds Caroline, though the 
 girl seems not to know it, her face ex- 
 pressionless and her eyes fixed on Wil- 
 fred] He 's hardly hurt at all ! There 
 — there — don't you famt too, dear! 
 Caroline. [Very low voice] I'm not go- 
 ing to faint! [Sees the handkerchief in 
 Mrs. Varney's hand] Let me — [Takes 
 the handkerchief and goes across, to- 
 ward front of couch. Turns to Mrs. 
 Varney] — I can take care of him — I 
 don't need anybody here at all! [Goes 
 toward Wilfred] 
 
 Mrs. Varney. But Caroline 
 
 Caroline. [Still with a strange quiet. — 
 Looks calmly at Mrs. Varney] Mrs. 
 Varney — there 's a heap o' soldiers goin' 
 round upstairs — lookin' in all the rooms. 
 I reckon you 'd better go an' attend to 
 'em. 
 Mrs. Varney. Upstairs ! Why I did n't 
 
 know they 
 
 Caroline. Well they did. — I was keepin' 
 
 'em quiet as long as I could. 
 Mrs. Varney. I — I must go up and see to 
 it! [Turns and moves up l. c. — Turns 
 hack] You know what to do dear ! 
 Caroline. Oh yes! [Dropping down on 
 the floor beside Wilfred in front of 
 couch] 
 Mrs. Varney. Bathe his forehead — he 
 is n't badly hurt ! — I won't be long ! 
 [Exit hurriedly door up l. c. closing the 
 portieres or curtains together after her] 
 [Caroline on her knees close to Wil- 
 fred, tenderly bathing his forehead 
 and smoothing his hair] [Wilfred 
 
 soon begins to show signs of re- 
 viving] 
 
 Caroline. [Speaking to Wilfred in low 
 tone as he revives. — Not a continued 
 speech, but with pauses — ] Wilfred 
 dear ! — Wilfred ! You 're not hurt much 
 are you*? — Oh no — you're not! There 
 there! — You'll feel better in just a 
 minute! — Yes — just a minute! 
 
 Wilfred [Weakly. — Before he realizes 
 what has happened] Is there — are 
 you — [Looks round with wide open eyes] 
 
 Caroline. Oh Wilfred — don't you know 
 me? 
 
 Wilfred. [Looks at her for a moment be- 
 fore speaking. — Voice weak — but clear 
 and audible throughout this scene with 
 Caroline] What are you talking about ? 
 Of course I know you ! — Say — what am I 
 doing anyhow — taking a bath? 
 
 Caroline. No no! — You see Wilfred — 
 you just fainted a little an' 
 
 Wilfred. Fainted! [Caroline wo^s] I 
 fainted! [A weak attempt to rise. — Be- 
 gins to remember] Oh — [Sinks back 
 tceakly] — Yes of course! — I was in a 
 fight with the Yanks — an' got knocked — 
 [Begins to remember that he was 
 wounded. — He thinks about it a moment, 
 then looks strangely at Caroline] 
 
 Caroline. [After looking at Wilfred in 
 silence] Oh — what is it? 
 
 Wilfred. I '11 tell you one thing right 
 yere ! I 'm not going to load you up w4th 
 a cripple! Not much! 
 
 Caroline. Cripple ! 
 
 Wilfred. I reckon I 've got an ami 
 knocked off haven't I? 
 
 Caroline. [Quickly] No no! You have n't 
 Wilfred! [Shaking head emphatically] 
 They 're both on all right ! 
 
 Wilfred. [After thinking a moment. 
 Weak voice] Maybe I had a hand shot 
 away? 
 
 Caroline. Oh no — not a single one! 
 
 Wilfred. Are my — are my ears on all 
 right? 
 
 Caroline. [Looks on both sides of his 
 head] Yes — they 're all right Wilfred — 
 you need n't trouble about them a min- 
 ute! [Wilfred thinks a moment. Then 
 turns his eyes slowly upon her] 
 
 Wilfred. How many legs have I got left? 
 
 Caroline. [Looks to see] All of 'em — 
 Every one ! 
 
 [Last alarm hell ceases] 
 
 Wilfred. [After pause] Then — if there 's 
 enough of me left to — to amount to any- 
 thing — [Looks in Caroline's face a mo- 
 
640 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 meiit] you '11 take charge of it just the 
 same? — How about that? 
 
 Caroline. [After pause] That 's all 
 right too! [Caroline suddenly buries 
 her face on his shoulder. — Wilfred gets 
 hold of her hand and kisses it. — Caroline 
 suddenlji raises her head and looks at 
 him] I tried to send you a telegram — 
 an' they would n't let me ! 
 
 Wilfred. Did vou? [Caroline nods] 
 What did you say in it? [Pause] Tell 
 me what you said! 
 
 Caroline. It was something nice ! [Looks 
 away] 
 
 Wilfred. It was, eli? [Caroline nods 
 with her head turned away from him. — 
 Wilfred reaches up and turns her head 
 toward him again] You're sure it was 
 something nice ! 
 
 Caroline. Well I would n't have gone to 
 work an' telegraphed if it was something 
 had would I? 
 
 Wilfred. Well if it was good, wliy did n't 
 you send it? 
 
 Caroline. Goodness gracious! How 
 
 could I when they would n't let me ! 
 
 Wilfred. Would n't let you ! 
 
 Caroline. I should think not! [Moves 
 back a little for Wilfred's business of 
 getting up] Oh they had a terrible time 
 at the telegraph office ! 
 
 Wilfred. Telegraph office. [Tries to 
 recollect] Telegr — were you there 
 wiien — [Raising himself] 
 
 [Alarm bell begins to ring again in 
 distant part of the town] 
 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Caroline moves back a little fright- 
 ened — without getting up — watching 
 him. — Wilfred suddenly tries to get 
 up] That was it ! — They told me at 
 the hospital! [Attempts to rise] 
 [The cannonading becomes louder] 
 
 Caroline. [Rising] Oh, — you mustn't! 
 [Slie tries to prevent him from rising] 
 
 Wilfred. [Gets partly on his feet and 
 pushes Caroline away with one hand, 
 holding to the chair near the desk R. for 
 support with the other] He gets hold of 
 our Department Telegraph — sends out a 
 false order — weakens our defense at 
 Cemetery Hill — an' they 're down on us 
 in a minute! An' she gave it to him! — 
 My sister Edith ! She gave him the Com- 
 mission that allowed him to do it ! 
 
 Caroline, [l. of Wilfred] But you 
 don't know how the 
 
 Wilfred. [Imperiously] I know this — 
 if the General was here he'd see her! 
 
 The General is n't here — I '11 attend to it ! 
 [Sounds of cannon] 
 [Wilfred begins lo feel a dizziness and 
 holds to the desk or chair near it for 
 support. — Caroline starts toward 
 him in alarm. — He braces himself 
 erect again with an effort and mo- 
 tions her off. — She stops] 
 Wilfred. [Weakly but witlt clear voice, 
 and commandingly] Send her to me! 
 [Caroline stands almost frightened with 
 her eyes upon him] 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Varney coming down the 
 stairway and in at door up L-. c. — Caro- 
 line hurries toward her in a frightened 
 way — with a glance back at Wilfred] 
 
 Caroline. He wants to see Edith ! 
 Mrs. Varney. [Going toward Wilfred] 
 Not now Wilfred— you 're too weak and 
 ill! 
 
 [Caroline remains up c] 
 Wilfred, [r.] Tell her to come here! 
 Mrs. Varney. [l. of Wilfred] It won't 
 
 do any good — she won't speak! 
 Wilfred. I don't want her to speak — I 'm 
 
 going to speak to her! 
 Mrs. Varney. Some other time ! 
 Wilfred. [Leaves the desk or chair that 
 he held to and moves toward door up l. c. 
 as if to pass his mother and Caroline] 
 Very well — if you won't send her to me 
 
 —I '11 
 
 Mrs. Varney. [Stopping him] There 
 
 there ! If you insist I '11 call her ! 
 Wilfred. I insist! 
 
 [Cannonading] 
 Mrs. Varney. [Turns toward door and 
 goes a few steps, crossing Caroline. 
 Stops. Turns back to Caroline] Stay 
 with him dear! 
 Wilfred. [Weak voice but command- 
 ingly] No ! — I '11 see her alone ! 
 
 [Mrs. Varney looks at him an instant. 
 Sees that he means what he says. 
 Motions Caroline to come. — Caro- 
 line looks at Wilfred a moment, 
 then turns and slowly goes to door 
 up L. where Mrs. Varney is waiting 
 for her. Looks sadly back at Wil- 
 fred again, and then goes out with 
 Mrs. Varney at door up l. c. and 
 up the stairway] 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Wilfred stands motionless an instant 
 down R. c. as he was when the two 
 ladies left the room. — Noise of ap- 
 proaching men — low shouts — steps 
 on gravel, etc., outside up r., begins 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 G41 
 
 in distance. — On this Wilfred turns 
 and moves up C. looking off to right. 
 Then moves up into the doorway 
 opening up c. but does not open the 
 door] 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Alarm bell ceases. — Low sound of dis- 
 tant voices and the tramp of hurry- 
 ing feet quicklij growing louder and 
 louder outside right. — When it is on 
 strong, Thorxe appears springing 
 over balustrade of veranda above 
 window up R. and instantly runs for- 
 ward into the room backing close 
 against right wall below window and 
 holding curtain or hanging between 
 him and the window as he does so. 
 A stand with vase is thrown over 
 with this movement and crashes down 
 in front of lower window. He 
 stands there panting — face pale — 
 eyes hunted atid desperate and re- 
 volver clutched in right hand held 
 at ready. His left hand is bandaged 
 roughly. He has no hat, or coat, 
 hair is disheveled, shoes dusty, trous- 
 ers and shirt torn and soiled. As 
 the noise of his pursuers dies away 
 he turns into the room and makes a 
 rapid start across toward L. looking 
 quickly about as if searching for 
 someone] 
 [Wilfred — who has been watching 
 him from up c. in the doorway — 
 turns quickly down c. as Thorxe 
 crosses, coming right of him and 
 seizing him by right arm and shoul- 
 der] 
 Wilfred. [Seizing hold of Thorne's 
 right arm and shoulder as Thorne 
 crosses] Halt ! You 're under ar- 
 rest ! 
 Thorne. [With a quick glance back at 
 Wilfred] Wait a minute! [Shaking 
 loose from Wilfred] Wait a minute an' 
 I'll go with you! [Going up l. c. look- 
 ing this luay and that] 
 Wilfred. [A step toward Thorne as if 
 to follow] Halt I say! You're my 
 prisoner ! 
 Thorne. [Turning and going quickly to 
 Wilfred] All right — prisoner — any- 
 thing" you like! [Pushing his revolver 
 into Wilfred's hands] Here — take this! 
 Shoot the life out of me — but let me see 
 my brother first ! 
 Wilfred. [Taking the revolver] Your 
 
 brother ! 
 Thorne. [Nods — breathless] One look 
 
 in his face — one look — that 's all I ask ! 
 Wilfred. Where is he? 
 Thorne. [Breathless] I don't .know! 
 [Quick glance about. Points toward the 
 door up c] Maybe they took him in 
 there! [Striding up c. toward door as 
 he speaks] 
 Wilfred. [Springing up between Thorne 
 and the door and covering him with re- 
 volver] What is he doing'? 
 Thorne. [Facing Wilfred half way up 
 
 c] What! 
 Wilfred. [Still covering Thorne] 
 
 What 's he doing in there ? 
 Thorne. Nothing ! . . . He 's dead ! 
 
 [Wilfred looks at Thorne a moment. 
 
 Then begins to back slowly up to 
 
 door up c, keeping eyes on Thorne 
 
 and revolver ready but not aimed. — 
 
 Opens door up c. Quick look into 
 
 the room. Faces Thorne again] 
 
 Wilfred. It 's a lie ! — There 's no one 
 
 there ! — It 's another trick of yours ! 
 
 [Starts toward window up R. — half 
 
 backing so that he can still cover Thorne 
 
 with revolver] Call in the Guard! Call 
 
 the Guard! Captain Thorne is here in 
 
 the house! 
 
 [Wilfred exits at window r. calling 
 the Guard. His voice is heard out- 
 side R. growing fainter and fainter 
 in the distance] 
 [Thorne stands an instant after Wil- 
 fred disappears — then springs to the 
 door up c. Opens it and looks into 
 the room, going part ivay off at the 
 door. He glances this way and that 
 within the room, then attitude of 
 despair — left hand dropping from 
 frame of door to his side as he comes 
 to erect position — right hand retain- 
 ing hold of knob of door] 
 [On Thorne standing erect Edith en- 
 ters through the portieres of the door 
 up L. c. — expecting to find Wilfred. 
 She stands just within the doorway 
 to the L. of it] 
 [Thorne turns and comes out of room 
 up c, closing the door as he does so. 
 Turning away from the door — right 
 hand still on the knob — he sees 
 Edith and stops motionless facing 
 her] 
 [A pause for an instant] 
 Thorne. [Going toward Edith a step or 
 two] You wouldn't tell me would you! 
 He was shot in this room — an hour ago 
 — my brother Harry ! — I 'd like one look 
 in his dead face before they send me the 
 
042 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 same way ! Can't you tell me that much 
 Miss Varney? Where is he? If you 
 won't speak to me perhaps you '11 make 
 some sign so 1 '11 know ? It 's my brother 
 Miss Varney! [Edith looks in his face 
 an instant motionless — then turns and 
 moves slowly cloven L. c. and stands near 
 the table tliere] 
 
 [As Edith stops near table l. c. 
 Thorne turns away and goes toward 
 icindow up R. — Before he reaches it 
 there is a sudden hurst of shouts and 
 yells outside up R. — sliort and sav- 
 age. — Thorxe stops up R. c. on the 
 shouts and stands supporting him- 
 self a little by the upper wall or a 
 door frame. He turns front with a 
 grim smile — a flash from distant ar- 
 tillery action lighting liis face for an 
 instant from window R.] 
 Thorne. Ha ! — They 're on the scent at 
 last! [Muttering it to himself] They'll 
 get me now — and then it won't take long 
 to finish me off! [Turns toward Edith] 
 And as that '11 be the last of me — [Moves 
 toward her] As that '11 be the last of me 
 Miss Varney — [Comes down l. c. near 
 her] maybe you'll listen to one thing! 
 We can't all die a soldier's death — in the 
 roar of battle — our friends around us — 
 under the flag we love! — No — not all! 
 Some of us have orders for another kind 
 of work — desperate — dare-devil work — 
 the hazardous schemes of the Secret 
 Service. We fight our battles alone — no 
 comrades to cheer us on — ten thousand 
 to one against us — death at every turn ! 
 If we Avin we escape wdth our lives — if we 
 lose — dragged out and butchered lil^e 
 dogs — no soldier's gTave — not even a 
 trench with the rest of the boys — alone — 
 despised — forgotten ! These were my 
 orders Miss Varney — this is the death I 
 die to-night — and I don't want you to 
 think for one minute that I 'm ashamed 
 of it. 
 
 [Sudden shouts and noise of many men 
 running outside up r. and also out- 
 side up L. — Thorne swings round 
 and walks up C. in usual nonchalant 
 manner, and stands up C. waiting 
 and faced a little to R. of front, 
 leaning on side of door ivith out- 
 stretched right arm. He simply 
 waits — his face utterly atonic — no 
 attitude or expression of bravado 
 martyrdom] 
 [Edith moves to left and stands near 
 mantel] 
 
 [The shouts and stamping of running 
 feet grow quickly louder on both r. 
 and L. gauged so that as Thorne 
 stands motionless up c. squads of 
 Confederate soldiers rush in from 
 both windows R. and from door up 
 L. c. from L. — those on right headed 
 by the Sergeant who searched the 
 house early in tliis act, and those on 
 left by Corporal. — Wilfred Var- 
 ney with revolver still in his hand, 
 enters at window down r. in lead of 
 others, coming to r. c. and letting 
 men pass him. — The men from both 
 sides run savagely toward Thorne 
 and stand each side of him with 
 bayonets charged hoping for the or- 
 der to run him tlirouglt] 
 Sergeant. Halt! Halt! [The Men stand 
 
 motionless] 
 Wilfred, [r. c. — To Sergeant] There 's 
 
 your man Sergeant — I hand him over to 
 
 you! 
 Sergeant. [Up r. c. — Advancing to 
 
 Thorne and putting hand roughly on his 
 
 shoulder] Prisoner ! 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Enter Arrelsford hurriedly at door up 
 L, c. from L.] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Breaking through between 
 men at L.] AYhere is he? [Sees 
 Thorne] Ah! We've got him have 
 
 w^e 
 
 [Stands l. c. looking at Thorne] 
 
 Sergeant. Young Varney here captured 
 him sir! 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Varney door up l. c from 
 stairway. She goes down left side] 
 
 Arrelsford. So! — Run down at last! 
 [Thorne pays no attention to Arrei:s- 
 FORD. — He merely waits for the end of 
 the disturbance] Now you '11 find out 
 what it costs to play your little game 
 with our Government Telegxaph Lines! 
 [Turns to Sergeant] Don't waste any 
 time! Take him down the street and 
 shoot him full of lead! — Out with him! 
 [Turns and goes down L. c] 
 
 [Low shouts of approval from men, 
 and genercd movement as if to start, 
 the Sergeant at same time shoving 
 Thorne a little to swing him around 
 toward left] 
 Sergeant. [Willi other shouts] Come 
 
 along here ! 
 Wilfred. [A step toward c. — Revolver 
 still in hand. Speaking with all his 
 force] No! [Men and officers stand 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 643 
 
 motionless] Wliatever he is — whatever 
 he's dune — he has a right to a trial! 
 [Thorxe turns and looks at Wilfred] 
 Arkelsford. [Down l. c] General Tarle- 
 toii said to me, "If you find him shoot 
 him on sight !" 
 Wilfred. [Down r. c] I don't care 
 what General Tarleton said — I captured 
 the man — he 's in this house — and he 's 
 not going out without he 's treated fair ! 
 [Wilfred looks up toward Tiiorne. — 
 Their eyes meet. — After an instant 
 Tiiorne turns away up stage, resting left 
 hand against L. side of door frame] 
 Arrelsford. [Suddenly. Angrily] Well 
 — let him have it !— We '11 give him a 
 drum-head, boys — but it'll be the quick- 
 est drum-head ever held on earth! [To 
 Sergeant] Stack muskets here an' run 
 'em in for the court! 
 Sergeant. [Stepping a little down c. and 
 facing about — back to audience] Fall in 
 here! [Men break positions each side 
 and run up stage, falling quickly into a 
 double rank just above Sergeant. — 
 Thorne is up c. above this double rank] 
 Fall in the Prisoner! [Men separate R. 
 and L. leaving space at c. — Thorne steps 
 down into position and stands] Stack 
 — arms! [Front rank men stack. — Rear 
 rank men pass pieces forward. — Front 
 rank men lay them on stacks. — Sergeant 
 turns right to Mrs. Yarney and touches 
 cap] Where shall we find a vacant 
 room ma'am? 
 Mrs. Yarney. At the head of the stairs — 
 
 there 's none on this floor. 
 Sergeant. [Turning to mr.en] Escort — 
 left face! [Men left /ace— Thorne 
 obeying the order with them] Forward 
 — march! — File left! 
 
 [Soldiers witlt Thorne march rapidly 
 out of the room at door up L. c. and 
 disappear up the stairway outside 
 up L. — TJie Sergeant exits door up 
 L. c. and up stairway after men] 
 [Arrelsford exits after men door up 
 L. C. following them closely up the 
 stairway and o^f to L. — Wilfred fol- 
 lows off at door up l. c. and up the 
 stairway with some effort. — Mrs. 
 Yarney exits at door up l. c. and 
 off to left] 
 [Edith turns and crosses slowly to 
 window at right. Pauses a moment 
 there, flashes of light from distant 
 cannonading on her face. She 
 stands in windoiv right — partly hid- 
 den by curtains — looking off] 
 
 [The door^up c. slowly opens a little 
 way and the old negro Jonas looks 
 cautiously through from outside. 
 Soon he opens the door and comes 
 in almost crawling, and looking fear- 
 fully this ivay and that. After a 
 momen't his eyes light on the stacks 
 of muskets. He goes to the one up 
 L. c. — Looks about fearfully — ap- 
 prehensively. Hesitates an instant. 
 — During his next movements — artil- 
 lery and cavalry effects on strong. 
 Cannon and musketry fire in dis- 
 tance — alarm bells on strong — begin 
 as men go upstairs] 
 
 [Jonas makes up his mind. He drops 
 down on knees by stack of muskets 
 tip L. c. — snaps the breech lock of 
 one without moving it from the stack 
 — gets out the cartridge, looks at it, 
 bites it with his teeth and looks at it 
 again. Bites again and makes mo- 
 tions of getting the ball off and put- 
 ting it in his pocket. Puts cartridge 
 back in the musket, snaps the lock 
 shut, and moves on to the next. Ee- 
 peats the movement of taking the 
 cartridge out, but is much quicker, 
 biting off the ball at once. Repeats 
 more rapidly and quickly with an- 
 other musket, crawling quickly round 
 the stack. Moves over to stack at 
 R. c. Make scene as rapid as the 
 action will permit] 
 
 [As Jonas gets ivell to work on mus- 
 kets Edith turns at window up R. 
 and sees him. She stands a moment 
 motionless — then comes down on 
 right, and stands looking at him 
 without moving. — Jonas, who began 
 after leaving stack l. c. at upper 
 side of stack r. c. — has worked 
 around down stage on the stack, and 
 has come to the lower side. — Edith 
 stands near the desk at r. and drops 
 a book upon it, after the last mus- 
 ket but one, to make Jonas look up. 
 — Jonas looks up and sees Edith. 
 He stops] 
 
 [Effects of cannonading have gradually 
 
 been dying down to a low distant 
 
 rumble, and passing artillery and 
 
 cavalry discontinued. Alarm bells 
 
 in distance, however, are still heard] 
 
 Jonas. [After pause. Very low voice] 
 
 Dhey 's a-goin' ter shoot 'im — shoot 'im 
 
 down like a dog. Missy — an' I could n't 
 
 b'ar to see 'em do dat ! I w^ould n't like 
 
 to see 'im killed — I wouldn't like it no- 
 
644 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 ways! You won't say nuffin' 'bout dis — 
 fer de sake of ole Jonas what was always 
 so fond o' you — ebber sense ye was a lit- 
 tle chile! [He sees i^iat Edith does not 
 appear angrij, and goes on with his work 
 of getting the hidlet out of the last 
 cartridge] Ye see — I jiss take away dis 
 yer — an' den dar won't be no barm to 
 'im what-some-ebber — less 'n day loads 
 'em up agin ! [Sloivhj hobbles to his feet 
 as he speaks] When dey sliQots — an' he 
 jiss draps down, dey '11 roll 'im over inter 
 de gutter an' be off like dey was mad! 
 Den I can be near by — an' — [Suddenly 
 thinks of something. A look of blank 
 consternation comes over his face. He 
 speaks in almost ichisper] How's he 
 goin' ter know! Ef he don't drap down 
 dey '11 shoot him a^in — an' dey '11 hab 
 bullets in 'em nex time ! [Anxiously 
 glances around an instant] Dey '11 hab 
 bullets in 'em next time! [Looks about. 
 Suddenly to Edith] You tell 'im! 
 You tell him Missy — it 's de ony-est way ! 
 Tell 'im to drap down ! [Supplicatingly] 
 Do dis fur ole Jonas honey — do it fur 
 me — an' I '11 be a slabe to ye ez long ez 
 I lib! [Slight pause. — Sudden yell out- 
 side up left from a dozen men shut inside 
 a room on the floor above. — Joxas starts 
 and turns. Half ivhisper] Dey 's 
 a-goin' ter kill 'im ! 
 
 [Noise of heavy tramp of feet outside 
 up L. above — doors opening, etc. — 
 An indistinct order or two before 
 regular order heard. — Jonas goes 
 limping hurriedly to door up c] 
 Sergeant. [Outside up l. — Above] Fall 
 
 in ! — Right face ! — Forward — March ! 
 Jonas. [At door up c] Oh — tell 'im 
 Missy ! Tell 'im to drap doAvn for God's 
 sake! [Exit Jonas at door up c. care- 
 fully closing it after him] 
 [Cannonading stronger] 
 [After an instant's pause Edith 
 crosses to l. c. and stands waiting 
 near the table there, her face quite 
 expressionless] 
 [XXX] 
 
 [Wilfred enters from l. at top of stair- 
 way, comes down the stairs and into the 
 room at door up l. c. — Enter Caroline 
 at door up L. c. from l. as Wilfred goes 
 down C. She hurries after him with an 
 anxious glance up stairway and entering 
 at door up L. c] 
 Caroline. [Overtaking Wilfred — on his 
 L. — Loio voice] What are they — going 
 to do? 
 
 Wilfred, [c] Shoot him! 
 Caroline. When"? 
 Wilfred. Now. 
 
 Caroline. [Low exclamation of pitu] 
 Oh! 
 
 [Wilfred goes r. c. beloiv lounge. — 
 Caroline follows and stands near 
 him on his l. looking on as Soldiers 
 and others enter] 
 
 [Enter, coming down stairway up left at 
 back the Sergeant, followed by escort of 
 Soldiers. Tltey enter room at door or 
 archway up L. c. and turn r, marching 
 to position they were formerly in above 
 the stacks of muskets] 
 
 [Enter Arrelsford up l. from above fol- 
 lowing down the stairway after the escort 
 of Men. He comes in through door or 
 arch up l. c. and goes across to up r. c. — 
 Mrs. Varney enters at door up l. c. from 
 l. and goes down left side] 
 
 Sergeant. [TT7io is at c. facing up] 
 Halt! [Men halt] Left face! [Men 
 face front] 
 
 [Thorne enters at top of stairway up L. 
 and comes down unconcernedly and a 
 trifle absently — for his thoughts of cer- 
 tain persons far away. He is followed 
 by Corporal ivith his carbine. — Thorne 
 comes into position at l. of front line of 
 men. — Corporal stands at l. of Thorne] 
 
 Sergeant. [After Thorne is in position 
 at l. of Men] Take— arms! [Men at 
 once take muskets. All . very quick] 
 Carry — arms! [Bus. — Men stand i)i line 
 ivaiting] Fall in the Prisoner! [Thorne 
 walks in front of Men to c. and falls into 
 position] Left — face! [Thorne and 
 Men face to left on order] Forward — ^ 
 
 Edith. Wait! — [Motion of hand to stop 
 them without looking round. She con- 
 trols her voice with difficulty] Who is 
 the officer in command? 
 
 Sergeant. [Turning to Edith and touch- 
 ing cap awkwardly] I 'm in command, 
 Miss ! 
 
 Edith. I 'd like to — speak to the prisoner ! 
 
 Sergeant. Sorry Miss, but we have n't got 
 time! [Turns back to give order to 
 Mex] 
 
 Edith. [Sudden turn on him and hand 
 out] Oh — Wait! [Sergeant stops and 
 turns slowly toward her again] Only a 
 word! [Whispers it over to herself] 
 Only a word ! 
 
 [Sergeant hesitates an instant — turns 
 to Men and steps up l. c. a little] 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 645 
 
 Sergeant. Right face! [Men face to 
 front again on order. — Thorne obeying 
 order with others^ Fall out the prisoner! 
 [Thorne moves forward one step out of 
 rank and stands motionless] Now Miss! 
 Wilfred, [r. c. — Starting indignantly to- 
 ward c] No! 
 
 [Sergeant turns in surprise] 
 
 Caroline. [Holding to Wilfred and 
 
 speaking in a low voice] Oh Wilfred — 
 
 why can't she speak to him? She only 
 
 wants to say good-bye! 
 
 [Wilfred looks at Caroline. Then 
 
 with gesture to Sergeant indicates 
 
 that he may go on, and turns away 
 
 R. ivith Caroline] 
 
 Sergeant. [Turning to Thorne] The 
 
 lady! 
 
 [Thorne looking front as before. 
 Then he turns slowly and looks at 
 Sergeant. — Sergeant motions with 
 his head indicating Edith. — Thorne 
 walks down to her, stopping close on 
 her right, standing in military po- 
 sition, faced in same direction he 
 walked, a little to l. of front] 
 [Arrelsford up R. c. looking at Edith 
 and Thorne. — Caroline with Wil- 
 fred down R. c. gives an occasional 
 awed and frightened glance at 
 Thorne and Edith. — No movement 
 after the Sergeant's order to "fall 
 out the prisoner^' and Thorne's walk 
 to Edith] 
 [Edith, after slight pause, speaks 
 slowly, in almost a whisper and as 
 if with an effort, but without ap- 
 parent feeling, and without turning 
 to Thorne] 
 Edith. [Voice for Thorne alone to hear. 
 Slowly. Distinctly. Without inflection. 
 A slight occasional tremor. Pauses as 
 indicated] One of the servants — ^lias 
 taken the musket balls^ — out of the guns ! 
 If you care to fall on the gTound when 
 they tire — you may escape with your life ! 
 Thorne. [After motionless pause. — To 
 Edith. — Low voice] Do you wish me to 
 do this'? 
 Edith. [Low voice — without turning] 
 It's nothing to me. 
 
 [Thorne, with slight movement at the 
 cue, turns slowly away. — Brief 
 pause. — He turns toward Edith 
 again] 
 Thorne. [Very low voice] Were you re- 
 sponsible in any way for — [Edith shakes 
 her head slightly without looking at him. 
 — Thorne turns and walks right to c. — 
 
 Makes turn there and walks up c. and 
 turns to L. facing the Sergeant a little 
 R. of c. and out of the way of bayonets 
 in coming business] Sergeant — [As 
 if making an ordinary military report] 
 You 'd better take a look at your mus- 
 kets — they 've been tampered with. 
 
 Sergeant , [Snatching musket from man 
 nearest him] What the — [Quickly 
 snaps it open. Cartridge drops to floor. 
 Sergeant picks it up and looks at it] 
 Here! — [Handing musket hack to mam 
 — Turns to squad and gives orders 
 quickly as follows: Business on these 
 orders very effective if carried out 
 promptly and with precision] Squad — 
 ready ! [Men come in one movement 
 from "carry'' to position for loading] 
 Draw — cartridge! [Men draw car- 
 tridges, the click and snap of locks and 
 levers ringing out simultaneously along 
 the line] With ball cartridge — reload! 
 [Men quickly reload. Same bus. of 
 rapid click of locks and levers down the 
 line] Carry — arms! [Men come to 
 carry on the instant. Motionless. Eyes 
 front. — To Thorne — with off-hand sa- 
 lute] Much obliged sir! 
 
 Thorne. [Low voice. Off-hand — as if of 
 no consequence] That 's all right. 
 [Stands facing l. waiting for order to 
 fall in. — Wilfred, after Thorne's warn- 
 ing to officer about muskets, watches him 
 with open admiration] 
 
 Wilfred. [Suddenly walking up to 
 Thorne] I'd like to shake hands with 
 you! 
 
 [Thorne turns and looks at Wilfred, 
 who is just below him a little to his 
 right. A smile breaks gradually 
 over his face] 
 
 Thorne. [Smiling] Is this for yourself 
 — or your father"? 
 
 Wilfred. [Earnestly] For both of us 
 sir! [Putting out his hand a little way. 
 — Thorne grasps his hand. They look 
 into each other's faces a moment. — Wil- 
 fred turns away to down R. c. and goes 
 up back of couch to Caroline. — Thorne 
 looks after Wilfred to front an instant — 
 then turns l.] That's all. Sergeant! 
 
 Sergeant. [Lower voice than before] 
 Fall in the Prisoner! [Thorne steps to 
 place in the line and turns front] Es- 
 cort — left face ! [Men and Thorne left 
 face] Forward ma — [Sharp cry of 
 "Halt! Halt!" outside up l., followed 
 by bang of heavy door outside L.] 
 
 Sergeant. Halt! [Men stand motionless 
 
646 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 at left face. On seeing the Orderly ap- 
 proaching — just before he is on] Right 
 face ! 
 
 [Men and Thorne face to front] 
 
 [Enter quickly at door up- L. c. from L. an 
 Aid — wearing Lieutenant's uniform. — 
 Sergeant, faced front up l. c. just for- 
 ward of his men, salutes. — Aid salutes] 
 
 [XXX] 
 
 Aid. [Standing up l. c] General Ran- 
 dolph's compliments sir, and he 's on the 
 way with orders! 
 Arrelsford. [Up R. c] What orders, 
 Lieutenant? — Anything to do with this 
 case ? 
 Aid. [No salute to Arrelsford] I don't 
 know what the orders are, sir. He 's 
 been with the President. 
 Arrelsford. I sent word to the Depart- 
 ment we 'd got the man and were going 
 to drum-head him on the spot. 
 
 [Wilfred and Caroline move unob- 
 trusively to the upper side of couch] 
 Aid. Then this must be the ease sir. I 
 believe the General wishes to be present. 
 Arrelsford. Impossible ! We 've held the 
 court and I 've sent the finding to the 
 Secretary! The messenger is to get his 
 approval and meet us at the corner of 
 Copley Street. 
 Aid. I have no further orders sir! [Re- 
 tires up with quick military movement 
 and turns facing front. Stands motion- 
 less] 
 
 [The cannonading becomes louder] 
 [Sound of heavy door outside up L. 
 and the tread of the General as he 
 strides across the hall] 
 Sergeant. [Low voice to Men] Present 
 — arms! [Men present] 
 
 [Sergeant, Orderly, etc., on salute] 
 
 [Enter General Randolph at door up l. c. 
 from L, striding on hurriedly — returning 
 salutes as he goes down c. glancing about] 
 
 [Lieut. Foray, the First Telegraph Op- 
 erator, follows General Randolph in 
 at door up l. c. from l. He stands wait- 
 ing up L. c. near door, faced front, mili- 
 tary position] 
 
 Sergeant. [Low order to Men] Carry — 
 arms! [Men come to carry again] 
 
 General Randolph. Ah Sergeant! — [Go- 
 ing down and across to n.] Got the pris- 
 oner in here have you? 
 
 Bergeant, [Saluting] Just taking bim 
 out sir. 
 
 General Randolph, [c] Prison? 
 
 Sergeant. No sir — to execute the sen- 
 tence of the Court. 
 
 General Randolph. Had his trial then? 
 
 Arrelsford. [Stepping down r. c. with a 
 salute] All done according to regula- 
 tions, sir — the finding has gone to the 
 Secretary. 
 
 General Randolph, [r. to Arrelsford] 
 Found guilty I judge? 
 
 Arrelsford. Found guilty sir. — No time 
 now for hanging — the court ordered him 
 shot. 
 
 General Randolph. What were the 
 grounds for this ? 
 
 Arrelsford. Conspiracy against our gov- 
 ernment and the success of our arms by 
 sending a false and misleading dispatch 
 containing forged orders. 
 
 General Randolph. Court's been misin- 
 formed — that dispatch was never sent. 
 [Edith looks up with sudden breath- 
 less exclamation. — Wilfred turns 
 with surprise. — Others are greatly 
 astonished] 
 
 Arrelsford. [Coming down on right of 
 General] Why General — the dispatch 
 — I saw him 
 
 General Randolph. I say the dispatch 
 was n't sent ! I expected to arrive in 
 time for the trial and brought Foray 
 here to testify. [Calls to Lieutenant 
 Foray without looking round] Lieuten- 
 ant! 
 
 [Lieutenant Foray comes quickly 
 down L. o. facing General Ran- 
 dolph. — Salutes] 
 Did Captain Thorne send out any dis- 
 patches after we left you with him in the 
 office an hour ago? 
 
 Lieutenant Foray. No sir. I was just 
 going to send one under his order, but he 
 countermanded it. 
 
 General Randolph. What were his words 
 at the time? 
 
 Lieutenant Foray. He said he refused 
 to act under that commission. 
 
 [Edith turns toward Thorne and her 
 eyes are upon him for a moment] 
 
 General Randolph. That will do. Lieu- 
 tenant ! [Lieutenant Foray salutes 
 and retires tip l.] In addition we learn 
 from General Chesney that no complete 
 order was received over the wire — that 
 Marston's Division was not withdrawn — 
 that our position was not weakened in 
 any way and the attack at that point has 
 been repulsed. It 's plain, therefore, 
 that the Court has been acting vinder 
 
WILLIAM GILLETTE 
 
 647 
 
 error. The President for this reason 
 finds himself compelled to disapprove the 
 finding and it is set aside. 
 
 Arrelsford. [With great indignation] 
 General Randolph, this case was put in 
 my hands and I 
 
 General Randolph. [Interrupting hlufjiy, 
 hut without temper] Well I take it out 
 of your hands ! Report back to the War 
 Office with my compliments! [Crossing 
 to R. c] 
 
 [Arrelsford turns and starts toward 
 the door up L. c. but after proceed- 
 ing a few steps stops and turns] 
 
 Arrelsford. Hadn't I better wait and 
 see — 
 
 General Randolph. No — don't wait to 
 see anything. [Arrelsford looks at 
 General Randolph an instant^ then 
 turns and after raising his hat to the 
 ladies down left, walks with dignity out 
 at door up l. c. and exits to Jj.— Sound 
 of heavy door outside up L. closed with 
 force. — General Randolph in front of 
 couch R. c] Sergeant! [Sergeant 
 quickly down to General Randolph on 
 salute] Hold your men back there. I '11 
 see the prisoner. [Sergeant salutes, 
 turns, marches straight up from where 
 he is to the left division of the escort so 
 that he is a little to left of Thorne, and 
 turns front] 
 
 Sergeant. Order — arms! [Squad obeys 
 with precision] Parade — rest! [Squad 
 obeys order] Fall out the Prisoner! 
 [Thorne steps forward one step out of 
 the rank and stands] The General! 
 [Thorne starts down c. to General 
 Randolph. — As Thorne steps forward 
 on order — ^'The General" — Edith moves 
 quickly toward c. and intercepts him 
 about two-thirds of the way down, on his 
 left. — Thorne stopped by Edith shows 
 slight surprise for an instant, but quickly 
 recovers and looks straight front] 
 
 Edith. [To Thorne as she meets him. — 
 Impulsively. Low voice] Oh — why 
 did n't you tell me ! — I thought you sent 
 it ! I thought you — 
 
 General Randolph. [Surprised] Miss 
 Varney ! 
 
 Edith. [Crossing Thorne to the Gen- 
 eral] There 's nothing against him 
 General Randolph ! — He did n't send it 
 so there 's nothing to try him for 
 now! 
 
 General Randolph. You're very much 
 mistaken Miss Varney. The fact of his 
 being caught in our line§ witbput his uni- 
 
 form is enough to swing him off in ten 
 
 minutes. 
 
 [Edith moans a little, at same time 
 moving back from General a step] 
 General Randolph. Cap'n Thorne — 
 [Thorne steps down and faces the Gen- 
 eral] or whatever your name may be — 
 the President is fully informed regarding 
 the circumstances of your case, and I 
 need n't say that we look on you as a 
 cursed dangerous character ! There is n't 
 any doubt whatever that you 'd ought to 
 be extei-minated right now! — But consid- 
 ering the damned peculiarity of your be- 
 havior — and that you refused — for some 
 reason — to send that dispatch when you 
 might have done so, we 've decided to 
 keep you out of mischief some other way. 
 The Sergeant will turn you over to Major 
 Whitfield sir! [Sergeant up r. c. sa- 
 lutes] You '11 be held as a prisoner of 
 war! [Turns and goes R. a few steps] 
 [Edith turns suddenly to Thorne, 
 coming down before him as he faces 
 R.] 
 Edith. [Looking in his face. — Speaks in 
 low voice] Oh — that isn't nearly so 
 bad! 
 
 [Thorne holds her hand in his right] 
 Thorne. No—? 
 
 Edith. No ! — Because — sometime — 
 Thorne. [Low voice] Ah — if it's some- 
 time, there 's nothing else in the w^orld. 
 [Slight pause. — Edith sees Mrs. Var- 
 ney at L. and crosses to her, Thorne 
 retaining her hand as she crosses — 
 releasing it only when he has to] 
 Edith. Mamma, won't you speak to him'? 
 [Mrs. Varney and Edith l. talk 
 quietly] 
 Wilfred. [Suddenly leaving Caroline r. 
 C, striding down from behind couch to 
 Thorne, and extending hand] I 'd like 
 to shake hands with you! 
 Thorne. [Turning to Wilfred] What — 
 again? [Taking Wilfred's hand] 
 
 [Wilfred, shaking hands with Thorne 
 
 and crossing him to l. as he does so 
 
 — back to audience, laughing and 
 
 very jovial about it] 
 
 Caroline. [Coming quickly down on right 
 
 of Thorne] So would I! [Holding 
 
 out her hand] 
 
 [Thorne lets go Wilfred's hand — 
 now on his left — and takes Caro- 
 line's] 
 Wilfred. Don't you be afraid now — it '11 
 be all right! They'll give you a parole 
 and 
 
648 
 
 SECRET SERVICE 
 
 Caroline. [Breaking in enthusiastically] 
 A parole! Goodness gracious— they '11 
 i^ive you hundreds of 'em! [Turning 
 away ivith funny little comprehensive 
 gesture of both hands] 
 General Randolph. [Gruffly] One mo- 
 ment if you please! [Thorne turns at 
 once, facing General Randolph near c. 
 —Caroline and Wilfred go up R. c. to 
 above couch. — Edith stands l. c. — Mrs. 
 Varney near table l. c] There 's only 
 one reason on earth why the President 
 has set aside a certain verdict of death. 
 You held up that false order and made a 
 turn in our favor. We expect you to 
 make the turn complete and enter our 
 service. 
 Thorne. [After an instant's pause. — 
 Quietly] Why General— that 's impossi- 
 ble! 
 General Randolph. You can give us 
 
 your answer later! 
 Thorne. You have it now sir. 
 General Randolph. You'll very much 
 regret that decision sir. It means you '11 
 be held a prisoner here and kept in close 
 confinement until the Confederate Army 
 marches into Washington! 
 Thorne. Why General, you 're making me 
 
 a prisoner for life! 
 General Randolph. Nothing of the kind 
 sir ! You '11 see it in another light before 
 many days. And it wouldn't surprise 
 me if Miss Varney had something to do 
 with your change of views! 
 Edith. [Coming a little way toward c] 
 
 You're mistaken General Randolph — I 
 think he 's perfectly right ! 
 
 [Thorne turns to Edith] 
 General Randolph. [Gruffly] Oh you 
 do eh ! Very well — we '11 see what a lit- 
 tle prison life will do. [A sharp order] 
 Sergeant! [Sergeant comes down r. c. 
 and salutes] Report with the prisoner 
 to Major Whitfield! [Turns away to 
 front] 
 
 [Sergeant turns at once to Thorne. — 
 Thorne and Edith are looking into 
 each other's eyes. — Thorne takes 
 her hand and presses it against his 
 breast] 
 Thorne. [Low voice to Edith] What is 
 
 it — love and good-bye? 
 Edith. [Almost a whisper] No no — 
 only the first — and that one every day — 
 every hour — every minute — until we meet 
 again ! 
 Thorne. Until we meet again! 
 Sergeant, [r. c] Fall in the Prisoner! 
 [Thorne turns and walks up, quickly 
 taking his place in the Squad. — 
 Edith follows him up a step or two 
 as he goes, stopping a little l. of c] 
 Sergeant. Attention! [Squad comes to 
 attention] Carry — arms! [Squad comes 
 to carry] Escort— left— face ! [Squad 
 with Thorne— Ze/i face on the order] 
 Foi^ard— march ! 
 
 [Escort with Thorne marches out at 
 door up L. c. and off to L.] 
 
 [CURTAIN] 
 
MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 A TRAGEDY OF JAPAN 
 
 DRAMATIZED BY 
 
 David Belasco 
 From the Story by John Luther Long 
 
COFTEIGHT, 1897, BY THE CeNTUEY Co. 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Printed by permission of Mr. David Belasco and Mr. Jolin 
 Luther Long. 
 
MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 
 Madame Butterfly represents the spirit of romance which has never been 
 entirely absent from our stage and which seems to be in process of revival. It 
 represents also the dramatic ability of Mr. David Belasco working with the 
 material furnished by the imagination of Mr. John Luther Long. 
 
 David Belasco was born in San Francisco, July 25, 1853. Even before 
 he left school in the early seventies his mind was on the theatre, and 
 during the next few years he was callboy, actor, stage manager, adaptor, and 
 writer of plays. Mr. Belasco wrote or adapted twenty-two plays during his 
 career in California, beginning with A Christmas Night, in which he acted in 
 the Geary Street Hall, San Francisco, and including his share in The Moon- 
 light Marriage and Hearts of Oak, in which he collaborated with James A. 
 Heme. La Belle Busse, which he put on first at the Baldwin Theatre, San 
 Francisco, of which he Avas stage manager, attracted the attention of Eastern 
 managers and was produced by Lester AVallack at his theatre, May 8, 1882. 
 Shortly afterward Mr. Belasco became stage manager of the Madison Square 
 Theatre in -New York where his play. May Blossom, was produced April 12, 
 1884. After assisting Bronson Howard in Baron Rudolph in 1887, he became 
 associated with Henry C. DeMille in the writing of a number of plays, all. well 
 constructed and entertaining, if at times verging on the sentimental and melo- 
 dramatic. Of these The Wife was produced November 1, 1887, Lord Chum- 
 ley, in which Mr. E. H. Sothern starred, on August 21, 1888, and The Charity 
 Ball, November 19, 1889, all at the Lyceum Theatre, and all associated with the 
 sterling group of players then gathered together there. Men and Women, also 
 with DeMille, was produced at Proctor's Theatre, October 21, 1890. His next 
 significant play was The Girl I Left Behind Me, with Mr. Franklin Fyles, pro- 
 duced at the Empire Theatre, January 25, 1893, and having its initial per- 
 formance at the Sadler's Wells Theatre, London, January 6, 1893. The Heart 
 of Maryland, in which Mrs. Leslie Carter starred at the Herald Square Theatre 
 on October 22, 1895, represents the emotional melodrama of a popular kind, 
 and DuBarry, played at the National Theatre in Washington, December 12, 
 1901, the melodrama based on historical material. 
 
 The next period of his work, and probably the most artistic, was that in 
 which he was associated with ]\Ir. John Luther Long in the field of exotic ro- 
 mance. On ]\Iarch 5, 1900, at the Herald Square Theatre, Mr. Belasco pro- 
 duced his dramatization of Mr. Long's story of Madame Butterfly, in a com- 
 bination bill with his farce of Naughty Anthony, originally performed on 
 
 651 
 
652 INTRODUCTION 
 
 January 8th. After a month's run in New York, it was produced at the Duke 
 of York's Theatre, London, April 28, 1900, and ran for over two months. 
 During the next season, it was taken on tour throughout the United States. 
 It was eventually put into the form of grand opera by Signor Giacomo Puc- 
 cini. The play follows the language of the story almost entirely but there are 
 certain changes in the plot. In the book, "Pinkerton" does not return to the 
 house but leaves money with the consul for "Madame Butterfly," which she re- 
 fuses. The interview betv/een her and "Mrs. Pinkerton" takes place in the con- 
 sul's office; and "Madame Butterfly" lets her mother love conquer and after at- 
 tempting suicide decides to live. 
 
 Mr. Belasco and Mr. Long next collaborated in the writing of Adrea, a 
 romantic tragedy laid in the fifth century, a.d., produced January 11, 1905, 
 with a company headed by Mrs. Carter. On December 3, 1902, The Darling 
 of the Gods, by Mr. Belasco and Mr. Long, was produced. This is the roman- 
 tic tragedy of a Japanese princess, played by Blanche Bates, in which the 
 themes of love, loyalty, and patriotism were artistically blended. 
 
 The Girl of the Golden West, played first, November 14, 1905, and The 
 Rose of the Rancho, written with Mr. Richard Watson Tully, and played No- 
 vember 27, 1906, reflect Mr. Belasco 's knowledge of the West. The supernatural 
 romance was illustrated by The Return of Peter Grimm, played January 2, 1911. 
 His last play, Van Der Decken, was first played at Wilmington, Delaware, De- 
 cember 12, 1915. A complete list of IMr. Belasco 's plays since he came to New 
 York would number twenty-five, including adaptations from the French, such 
 as Valerie, from Sardou's Fernande (1886), Miss Helyett (1891), Zaza (1899), 
 The Lily (1909), The Secret (1913), one from the German, The Younger Son 
 (1893), and, to complete the list, Naughty Anthony (1900), Siveet Kitty Belairs 
 (1903), A Grand Army Man, with Miss Pauline Phelps and Miss Marion Short 
 (1907), and The Son-Daughter, with George Scarborough (1919). 
 
 Mr. Belasco 's career as a manager can only be alluded to here. He was a 
 pioneer in the movement toward natural methods in the theatre. Since 1905 
 he has produced his plays at his own theatre, where he has set a standard for 
 perfection of detail, especially for interesting effects of stage lighting. He 
 was the first to do away with footlights, and the "bridge of light" used in 
 Peter Grimm was unheralded and unseen, but the effect was true to nature. 
 
 Mr. John Luther Long was born in Pennsylvania in 1861. He read law 
 and was admitted to the bar, engaging in practice in Philadelphia. In addi- 
 tion to the plays noted above, he was one of the authors of The Dragon Fly, 
 produced in Philadelphia in 1905. Mr. Long has published also a number of 
 volumes of short stories. 
 
 The only play of Mr. Belasco 's now published is May Blossom, by the Sam- 
 uel French Company. For criticism of Adrea and The Darling of the Gods see 
 
 \ 
 
 i 
 
INTRODUCTIOlSr 653 
 
 William Winter, The Wallet of Time, Vol. 2, pp. 252-7 and pp. 328-32. Plays 
 of the Present, by J. B. Clapp and E. V. Edgett, will be found very useful for 
 individual plays. See also, David Belasco, My Life's Story 2v. N. Y., 1915; 
 W. P. Eaton, The American Stage of To-day, pp. 203-14. 
 
 The story of Madame Butterfly, printed originally in the Century Magazi/ne 
 in 1897, has also been issued in book form. The play is now published for the 
 first time through the courtesy of Mr. Belasco and Mr. Long from a manuscript 
 prepared especially for this collection. For the information concerning the 
 plays the editor is indebted to Mr. Belasco and to Mr. Thomas A. Curry of the 
 Belasco Theatre. 
 
 Note to Revised Edition. 
 
 An authoritative life of David Belasco in two volumes was published in 
 1918 prepared by the late William Winter. Of especial interest is also The 
 Theatre Through the Stage Door, by David Belasco, edited by L. V. Defoe, 
 New York, 1919. 
 
THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTEKS 
 
 Herald Square Theatre, New York, March 5, 1900. 
 
 Cho-Cho-San (Madame Butterfly) Miss Blanche Bates 
 
 Suzuki, her servant Miss Marie Bates 
 
 Mr. Sharpless, the American Consul Mr. Claude Gillingwater 
 
 Lieutenant B. F. Pinkerton, of the war ship Connecticut . .Mr. Frank Worthing 
 
 Yamadori, a citizen of New York Mr. Albert Bruning 
 
 The Nakodo, a marriage broker Mr. E. P. Wilks 
 
 Ka.te, Pinkerton 's wife Miss Katherine Black 
 
 '^Trouble" Little Kittie 
 
 Attendant Mr. William Lamp 
 
 Attendant Mr. Westropp Saunders 
 
 Note: During the scene in which Madame Butterfly waits at the shoji 
 for her lover, a night is supposed to pass and the story is resumed on the morn- 
 ing of the following day. 
 
MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 
 The play takes place in Japan in Madame 
 BuTTERFLY^s little house at the foot of 
 Higashi Hill, facing the harbor. Every- 
 thing in the room is Japanese save the 
 American locks and holts on the doors 
 and windows and an American flag fast- 
 ened to a tobacco jar. Cherry blossoms 
 are abloom outside, and inside. A sword 
 rack, a shrine on which lie a sword and 
 a pair of men's slippers, a chest of 
 drawers on top of which is a tray con- 
 taining two red poppies, rouge, powder 
 and hair ornaments, a stand for the to- 
 bacco jar and tea, are the only pieces of 
 furniture in the room. As the curtain 
 rises, Madame Butterfly is spraying 
 the growing flowers with a small water- 
 ing pot. She snips off two little bunches, 
 lays them on a plate of rice which she 
 sets reverently on the shrine, then kneels, 
 putting her hands on the floor, her fore- 
 head on them. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Oh, Shaka! Hail! 
 Hail! Also perceive! Look down! I 
 have brought a sacrifice of flowers and 
 new rice. Also, I am quite clean. I am 
 shivering with cleanness. Therefore 
 grant that Lef -ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton 
 may come back soon. 
 
 {She rises, clasps her hands, comes 
 dow/b to a floor cushion, and sits, 
 fanning herself.) 
 
 SuzUKL {Entering with a low bow.) 
 Madame Butterfly's wish? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Suzuki, inform me, 
 if it please you, how much more nearer 
 beggary we are today than yesterday? 
 
 SuzuKL Aye. {She takes some coins 
 from a small box in her sleeve, and lays 
 them in three piles on her palm, touch- 
 ing them as she speaks.) Rin, yen, 
 sen. . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Reprovingly.) Su- 
 zuki, how many time I tellin' you — no 
 one shall speak anythin' but those Unite' 
 State' languages in these Lef-ten-ant 
 Pik-ker-ton's house? {She pronounces 
 his name with much difficulty.) Once 
 more — an' I put you outside shoji! . . . 
 
 That 's one thin' aeverbody got recomlec' 
 account it's 'Merican house — his wife, 
 his maid. 
 
 Suzuki. {Mouthing to herself, making no 
 sound, counting on her fingers.) Two 
 dollar. 
 
 {She drops the money into the box, 
 giving it to Madame Butterfly.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 0, how we waste 
 my husban's be-autif ul moaneys ! Tha 's 
 shame! Mos' gone. 
 
 Suzuki. This moaney hav' kep' us two 
 year . . . Wha 's happen to us now, if 
 he don' come back? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Scoffing,^ putting 
 the money in her sleeve.) 0, if he don' 
 come back! . . . Course he come back! 
 He 's gone so long aceoun' he 's got busi- 
 ness in those his large country. If he 's 
 not come back to his house, why he sign 
 Japanese lease for nine hundred and 
 ninety nine year for me to live? Why 
 he put 'Merican lock to bolt it door, to 
 shut it window? Answer me those ques- 
 tion. 
 
 SuzuKL {Doubtfully.) I dunno. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Of course you 
 dunno! You don' know whichaever. 
 Wael I goin' tell you: to keep out those 
 which are out, and in, those which are in. 
 Tha's me. 
 
 {She rises, goes to the window and 
 looks out.) 
 
 Suzuki. But he don't writin' no ledder. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 'Merican men don' 
 naever write ledder — no time. 
 
 Suzuki. {Cynically.) Aye ... I don' 
 naever know 'Merica navy man with 
 Japanese wive come back. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Impassively, her 
 eyes narrowing.) Speak concerning 
 marriage once more, you die ! {She fans 
 herself. Suzuki salaams a^id backs 
 quickly towards the door. Madame But- 
 terfly claps her hands and Suzuki 
 pauses.) Don' come back! Lef-ten-ant 
 B. F. Pik-ker-ton don' come back ! Ha ! 
 Me! I know w'en he comes back — he 
 told me. Wen he goin' 'way, he say in 
 tha's doors: "Madame Butterfly, I have 
 had ver' nice times with my Japanese 
 
 655 
 
656 
 
 MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 
 sweets heart, so now I goin' back to my 
 own country and here 's moaney — an' 
 don' worry 'bout me — I come back w'en 
 'Robins nes' again!'" Ha-ha! Tha's 
 w'en he come back — w'en robins nes' 
 again. 
 
 {She sways her head triumphantly 
 from side to side, fanning herself.) 
 
 Suzuki. {Not impressed.) Yaes, I did n't 
 like ways he said it — like those . . . 
 
 {She imitates a flippant gesture of 
 farewell.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Laughing.) Aha, 
 that 's 'Merican way sayin' good-bye to 
 girl. Yaes, he come back w'en robins 
 nes' again. Shu'h! Shu'h! {She claps 
 her hands with delight. Suzuki, with a 
 look of unbelief starts to go.) Sa-ey! 
 Why no "shu'h" on you face for? Such 
 a fools! {Looking towards the win- 
 dow.) look! Suzuki — a robins. The 
 firs' these Spring ! Go, see if he 's stay 
 for nes'. 
 
 Suzuki. {Looking.) It is a robins, 
 Cho-Cho-San! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Running to the 
 window.) 0! 0! 
 
 Suzuki. But he 's fly away. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. ! How they are 
 slow this year! Sa-ey, see if you don' 
 fin' one tha 's more in-dus-trial an' do- 
 mestics. 
 
 Suzuki. {Looking out.) There are none 
 yet. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. But soon they nes' 
 now. Suzuki, w'en we see that ship 
 comin' in — sa-ey — then we goin' put 
 flowers aevery where, an' if it 's night, 
 we goin' hang up mos' one thousan' lan- 
 terns — eh-ha ? 
 
 Suzuki. No got moaney for thousan'. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Wael, twenty, 
 mebby; an' sa-ey, w'en we see him comin' 
 quick up path — {imitates) so — so — so — 
 {lifts her kimono and strides in a 
 masculine fashion) to look for liddle 
 wive — me — me jus' goin' hide behind 
 shoji {making two holes with her wet 
 finger in the low paper shoji and peeking 
 through) an' watch an' make believe me 
 gone 'way; leave liddle note — sayin': 
 "Goon-bye, sayonara. Butterfly." . . . 
 Now he come in. . . . {Hides.) Ah! 
 An' then he get angery! An' he say 
 all kinds of 'Merican languages — debbils 
 — hells! But before he get too angery, 
 me run out an' flew aroun' his neck! 
 {She illustrates with Suzuki, who is 
 carried away and embraces her with fer- 
 
 vor.) Sa-ey! You no flew roun' his 
 neck — jus' me. {They laugh in each 
 other's arms.) Then he'll sit down an' 
 sing tha 's liddle 'Merican song — 0, how 
 he '11 laugh. . . . {She sings as though 
 not understanding a word of it.) 
 
 "I call her the belle of Japan — of Japan 
 Her name it is O Cho-Cho-San, Cho-Cho-San! 
 Such tenderness lies in her soft almond eyes, 
 I tell you, she 's just 'ichi ban.' " 
 
 {Laughs.) Then I'll dance like w'en I 
 was Geisha girl. 
 
 {She dances as Sharpless, the Ameri- 
 can consul, appears in the doorway, 
 followed by the Nakodo.) 
 Nakodo. This is the house, your Excel- 
 lency. 
 Sharpless. {Removing his clogs outside.) 
 You may wait. 
 
 (Nakodo bows and Sharpless enters.) 
 
 1 beg pardon. ... 
 
 (Madame Butterfly still dancing, 
 begins the song again. Sharpless 
 goes to the door and knocks to at- 
 tract her attention.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Ah! 
 
 (Suzuki, bowing low, leaves the room.) 
 
 Sharpless. This is Madame Cho-Cho-San f 
 
 Madame Butterfly. No, I am Mrs. Lef- 
 ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton. 
 
 Sharpless. I see. . . . Pardon my inter- 
 ruption. ... I am Mr. Sharpless, the 
 American consul. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Once more salaam- 
 ing to the ground, drawing in her breath 
 between her teeth to express pleasure.^ 
 0, your honorable excellency, goon night, 
 — no, not night yaet : aexcuse me, I 'm 
 liddle raddle', — I mean goon mornin', 
 goon evenin'. Welcome to 'Merican 
 house, mos' welcome to 'Merican girl! 
 {Pointing to herself. They both bow.) 
 Be seat. (Sharpless sits on a cushion on 
 the, floor, and Madame Butterfly sits at 
 a little distance. There is a slight 
 pause.) How are those health? You 
 sleepin' good? How are that honorable 
 ancestors — are they well ? And those par- 
 ens'? That grandmother — how are she? 
 
 Sharpless. Thanks. They're all doing 
 well, I hope. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {She claps her 
 hands; Suzuki enters and puts the little 
 stand between them and leaves the room.) 
 Accept pipe, your excellency. 0, I for- 
 
 I 
 
DAVID BELASCO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 
 
 657 
 
 gettin' — I have still of those large Amer- 
 ican cigarette. 
 
 (Madame Butterfly gestures towards 
 Pinkerton's tobacco jar decorated 
 with the flag of his country.) 
 
 Sharpless. {Accepting a cigarette while 
 she fills her pipe.) Thanks. I 'm on a 
 little visit of inquiry, Madame Butter- 
 fly, — your name, I believe in our lan- 
 guage. Lieutenant Pinkerton wrote to 
 me to find out — 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Almost breathless.) 
 Ah, you have hear from him ? He is well ? 
 
 Sharpless. 0, he 's all right. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Believed.) Ah! 
 Tha 's mak' me mos' bes' happy female 
 woman in Japan — mebby in that whole 
 worl' — w'at you thing? 
 
 Sharpless. Ha — ha! {Puffing at the 
 cigarette.) Sawdust. Pinkerton must 
 have left these ! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 0! I so glad you 
 came. ... I goin' as' you a liddle ques- 
 tion. 
 
 Sharpless. Well ? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. You know 'bout 
 birds in those your country? 
 
 Sharpless. Something. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Tha's what I thing 
 — you know aeverything. Tha's why 
 your country sen' you here. 
 
 Sharpless. You flatter me. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 0, no, you got big 
 head. 
 
 Sharpless. Pinkerton again — I can hear 
 him! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 0, aexcuse me: I 
 forgettin' my manners. I got liddle 
 more raddle. {She offers him her pipe 
 which he gravely touches, returning it. 
 She touches it again, then puts it down.) 
 Now, what you know 'bout jus' robins? 
 
 Sharpless. What ? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 'Bout when do they 
 nes' again? Me, I thing it mus' be mor' 
 early in Japan as in America, accoun' 
 they nestin' here now. 
 
 Sharpless. 0, at the same time I fancy. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Disappointed.) 
 
 Yaes? . . . then they 's nestin' there. 
 {Then taking hope again.) Sa-ey, I tell 
 you — perhaps some time sooner, some 
 time later, jus' how they feel like. 
 
 Sharpless. Possibly. Why do you ask? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Because Lef -ten-ant 
 B. F. Pik-ker-ton say he will come back 
 to me w'en the robins nes' again. 
 
 Sharpless. {To himself.) Poor devil! 
 One of his infernal jokes. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Clapping her 
 hands.) Me, I thing it 's time. . . . I 've 
 wait so long. 
 
 (Suzuki enters with a tea-pot. Ma- 
 dame Butterfly gives Sharpless a 
 cup of tea.) 
 
 Nakodo. {Appearing at the door.) Tea, 
 most illustrious? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Ah! Enter, Na- 
 kodo. Your presence lights up my en- 
 tire house. {She gives him a cup. Ac- 
 cepting it, he goes up to a cushion and 
 sits.) Tha's bad man. W'en my hus- 
 ban 's gone 'way, he try for get me marry 
 again. 
 
 Nakodo. The rich Yamadori. Madame 
 Cho-Cho-San is very poor. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Bowing politely.) 
 0, liddle ol' frien'; those are my busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Nakodo. Rejected advice makes the heart 
 sad. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. We-el, if those heart 
 hurt you so much, you better not arrive 
 here no more. 
 
 Sharpless. Madame Butterfly; may I 
 ask — er — where are your people? 
 
 Nakodo. They have outcasted her ! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Sa-ey, tha 's f oanny ! 
 My people make me marry when I don' 
 want; now I am marry, they don' want. 
 Before I many Lef-ten-ant B. F. Pik- 
 ker-ton, my honorable Father — {she 
 bows low — Nakodo bows — Sharpless 
 bows) die — he's officer. These are his 
 sword . . . [pointing to an inscription) 
 't is written. . . . 
 
 {She holds out the sword that the in- 
 scription may be read.) 
 
 Nakodo. {Beading.) "To die with honor, 
 when one can no longer live with honor." 
 {He bows, then turns and bows to- 
 wards the shrine and goes back to 
 his cushion wliere he sits.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. He's kill' himself 
 accoun' he soldier of Emporer an' defeat 
 in battle. Then we get — — ver' poor. 
 Me? I go dance liddle. Also I thing 
 if some rich man wish me, I gettin' 
 marry for while, accoun' my grand- 
 mother, {she bows respectfully — Nakodo 
 bows — Sharpless politely nods) don' got 
 no food, no obi. Then ol' Nakodo, he 
 say a (Nakodo picks up his cushion and 
 moves down to join in the conversation) 
 man 's jus' as' him for nice wive for 
 three monse. Nakodo tell him he don' 
 know none more nizer as me. 
 
658 
 
 MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 
 Nakodo. {Salaaming.) Nizer as you. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Salaaming.) Nizer 
 as me. 
 
 Sharpless. {Looking from one to the 
 other.) Couldn't be nicer! . . . 
 
 {He salaams profoundly — Vaen all 
 salaam.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Then Nakodo say — 
 
 Nakodo. I say — I don' lig him account he 
 'Merica — jin. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. He also remark with 
 me tliat he is barbarian an' beas'. But 
 aeverj^one say: "Yaes, take him — take 
 him beas' — he 's got moaneys." So I say 
 for jus' liddle while, perhaps I can stan'. 
 So Nakodo bring him. . . . 
 
 Nakodo. . . . For look-at meeting. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Laughing.) Me? 
 Well, I thing that day Lef-ten-ant B. 
 F. Pik-ker-ton is jus' a god! Gold but- 
 ton — lace on his unicorn. At firs', I 
 frightened — he hoi' my hans' so close — 
 like — {she illustrates by giving hath 
 hands to Sharpless) and kizz. Japan- 
 ese girl no lig' kizz; but when Lef-ten- 
 ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton kizz me, I like ver' 
 much. . . . What's use lie? It's not 
 inside of me. {Noticing that her hands 
 are still in Sharpless'.) 0, I beg your 
 honorable pardon. {She tucks her hands 
 in her sleeves.) So we 's gettin' marry 
 and then his ship order away an' me — I 
 am jus' waitin' — sometimes cryin', some- 
 times watchin', but always waitin'. 
 
 Nakodo. {In the doorway — bowing with 
 servility.) My client, the prosperous 
 Yamadori, approaches for the third time 
 today. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Now I have my lid- 
 dle joke again. You wat;ch, he comes all 
 time to make smash with me. 
 
 Sharpless. Pinkerton's slang. 
 
 (Yamadori enters attended by two serv- 
 ants. Sharpless rises and bows cere- 
 moniously. Madame Butterfly does 
 not rise, but bends her head and fans 
 herself coquettishly. The two servants 
 squat.) 
 
 Yamadori. Mr. Shaipless : always a pleas- 
 ure to meet you here or in New York. 
 
 Sharpless. Thanks, Mr. Yamadori. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Coquettishly.) 
 
 You have somethin' nize say to me again 
 today? 
 
 Yamadori. Perseverance shall be the relig- 
 ion of my life until the capricious But- 
 terfly deigns to believe me. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. You goin' tell me 
 
 'gain you kill yourself I don' make kizz 
 with you? 
 
 Yamadori. {Very much embarrassed — 
 looking at consul.) 0! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. You can speak — 
 consul know — I been tellin' him 'bout 
 your liddle foolishness. 
 
 Yamadori. Such treatment, Mr. Sharp- 
 less, is one of the penalties we incur 
 when madly in love with a charming 
 woman. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Tha 's ver' nize. Ha- 
 ha! 
 
 {Winks behind her fan at Sharpless.) 
 
 Sharpless. Heavens! Pinkerton's very 
 wink. 
 
 (Madame Butterfly gives a cup of 
 tea to Yamadori who drinks it and 
 rolls a cigarette.) 
 
 Yamadori. {To Sharpless.) I am in 
 Japan for two months — a pleasure trip. 
 Do you blame me? 
 
 {Pointing to Madame Butterfly.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Aevery time he 
 come home, get 'nother woman: must 
 have mor'en eight now. 
 
 Yamadori, But I married them all. . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. he! He jus' 
 marry whenaever he thing 'bout it. 
 
 Yamadori. You shall be different. I will 
 bury you with my ancestors. {To 
 Sharpless.) I offered her a thousand 
 servants. 
 
 Nakodo. {Stunned.) Thousan'! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Ha! {Fans.) 
 
 Yamadori. And a palace to live in. 
 
 {The Nakodo is overcome by such gen- 
 erosity. ) 1 
 
 Madame Butterfly. He! I 
 
 Yamadori. Everything her heart can 
 wish. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Ha! Ha! 
 
 Yamadori. Is that not enough? {She 
 shakes her head.) Then in the presence 
 of this statesman of integrity, I will give 
 you a solemn writing. (Sharpless 
 gives him a quizzical glance.) Is that 
 enough ? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Wha 's good of that 
 to married womans? 
 
 {Pointing to herself.)' 
 
 Yamadori. According to the laws of 
 Japan, when a woman is deserted, she is 
 divorced. (Madame Butterfly stops 
 fanning and listens.) Though I have 
 travelled much abroad, I know the laws 
 of my own country. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. An' I know laws of 
 my husban's country. 
 
DAVID BELASOO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 
 
 659 
 
 Y'amadori. (To Sharpless.) She still 
 fancies herself married to the young of- 
 ficer. If your excellency would ex- 
 plain. . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {To Sharpless.) 
 Sa-ey, when some one gettin' married in 
 America, don' he stay marry? 
 
 Sharpless. Usually — yes. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Well, tha 's all right. 
 I 'm marry to Lef -ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker- 
 ton. 
 
 Yamadori. Yes, but a Japanese marriage ! 
 
 Sharpless. Matrimony is a serious thing 
 in America, not a temporary affair as it 
 often is here. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Yaes, an' you can't 
 like 'Merican mans. Japanese got too 
 many wive, eh? 
 
 Sharpless. {Laughing.) We are not al- 
 lowed more than one at a time. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Yaes, an' you can't 
 divorce wive like here, by sayin': "walk 
 it back to parent"— eh?? 
 
 Sharpless. 0, no. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Tha's right, aex- 
 actly. When I as' Lef -ten-ant B. F. 
 Pik-ker-ton, he explain those law to me 
 of gettin' divorce in those Unite' State'. 
 He say no one can get aexcept he stan' 
 up before Judge 2 — 3 — I — 7 — year. 
 Ver' tiresome. Firs' the man he got tell 
 those Judge all he know 'bout womans; 
 then womans, she got tell ; then some law- 
 yer quarrel with those Judge; the Judge 
 get jury an' as' wha' they thing — an' if 
 they don' know, they '11 all get put in 
 jails. Tha's all right! {Folds hands.) 
 
 Yamadori. Your friend has told her 
 everything she wanted him to tell her. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Wlio has paid no 
 attention.) Tha's ver' nize, too, that 
 'Merican God. 
 
 Sharpless. I beg your pardon? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Once times, Lef -ten- 
 ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton— 
 
 Yamadorl {Aside to Sharpless.) Pink- 
 erton again ! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. He 's in great 
 troubles, an' he said "God he'p me"; an' 
 sunshine came right out — and God he 
 did ! Tha 's ver' quick — Japanese gods 
 take more time. Aeverj^thing quick in 
 America. Ha — me — sometime I thing I 
 pray large American God to get him back 
 soon; but no use, — he don' know me 
 where I live. {Attracted by a sound.) 
 Wha's that? . . . You hear? 
 
 Sharpless. No. (Madame Butterfly 
 runs to the window and listens; then 
 
 takes up the glasses while Sharpless 
 speaks in a low voice to Yamadori.) 
 Lieutenant Pinkerton's ship was due 
 yesterday. His young wife from Amer- 
 ica is waiting here to meet him. {At the 
 word ^'wife/' Yamadori smiles — takes 
 his fan from his sleeve and fans himself. 
 The Nakodo, who is listening, is struck 
 by an idea and departs in such haste that 
 he tumbles over one of Yamadori's at- 
 tendants who jabbers at him,) I'm 
 devilish sorry for that girl. 
 
 Yamadori. Then tell her the truth. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Aexcuse me; but I 
 always hearin' soun' like ship gun — ha — 
 ha — tha 's naturels. 
 
 Yamadori. {Preparing to go.) Good 
 morning, Mr. Sharpless. {Shaking 
 hands. Turning to Madame Butter- 
 fly.) I leave you today. Tomorrow 
 the gods may prompt you to listen to 
 me! {He bows.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Bowing.) Mebby. 
 (Yamadori and attendants go off, bow- 
 ing. She turns to Sharpless.) Mebby 
 not. Sa-ey, somehow could n't you let 
 that Lef-ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker-ton know 
 they 's other all crazy 'bout me ? 
 
 Sharpless. Madame Butterfly, sit down. 
 {While she, struck by his solemn man- 
 ner, looks at him and obeys, he removes 
 the tea-pot and sits on the stand, to the 
 astonishment of Madame Butterfly.) 
 I am going to read you part of a letter 
 I have received from Pinkerton. 
 
 {He takes a letter from his pocket.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 0, jus' let me look 
 at those ledder! {She slips it under her 
 kimono on her heart and with an indrawn 
 breath, hands it back.) Now read quick, 
 you mos-' bes' nize man in all the whole 
 worl'. 
 
 Sharpless. {Beads.) "Find out about 
 that little Jap girl. What has become of 
 her? It might be awkward now. If 
 little Butterfly still remembers me, per- 
 haps you can help me out and make her 
 understand. Let her down gently. You 
 won't believe it, but for two weeks after 
 I sailed, I was dotty in love with her." 
 (Sharpless is amazed to see Madame 
 Butterfly convulsed with silent 
 joy.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Oh, all the gods how 
 it was sweet! 
 
 Sharpless. Why really — 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Tha's what I'm 
 afraid : that he loave' me so much he 's 
 goin' desert his country an' get in trouble 
 
660 
 
 MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 
 with American eagle — what you thing? 
 Oh, it 's more bedder I wait than those ! 
 
 Sharpless. {Folding the letter.) No use 
 — you can't understand. Madame But- 
 terfly, suppose this waiting should never 
 end; what would become of you? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Me? I could dance, 
 mebby, or — die? 
 
 Sharpless. Don't be foolish. I advise 
 you to consider the rich Yamadori's offer. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Astonished.) You 
 say those? You, 'Merican consul? — 
 when you know that me, I am marry? 
 
 Sharpless. You heard Yamadori: it is 
 not binding. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Yamadori lies! 
 
 Sharpless. His offer is an unusual op- 
 portunity for a girl who — for any Jap- 
 anese girl in your circumstances. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Enraged — she claps 
 her hands.) Suzuki! The excellent 
 gentleman — (bowing sarcastically) who 
 have done us the honor to call — he wish 
 to go huiriedly. His shoes — hasten 
 them ! 
 
 (Suzuki, who has entered carrying a 
 jar, gets Sharpless^ clogs and gives 
 them to him — then passes off with 
 her jar.) 
 
 Sharpless. (Holding the clogs awk- 
 wardly. ) I 'm really very sorry. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. No, no, don' be an- 
 gery. But jus' now you tol' me — 0, 
 gods! You mean — (Looks at him pit- 
 ifully.) I not Lef -ten-ant B. F. Pik-ker- 
 ton's wive — Me? 
 
 Sharpless. Hardly. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. 0, I — (She sways 
 slightly. Sharpless goes to her assist- 
 ance, but she recovers and fans her- 
 self.) Tha's all right. I got liddle 
 heart illness. I can't ... I can't some- 
 ways give up thingin' he'll come back 
 to me. You thing tha's all over? All 
 finish? (Dropping her - fan. Sharp- 
 less nods assent.) Oh, no! Loave don' 
 forget some thin's or wha 's use* of loave? 
 (She claps her hands — beckoning off.) 
 Loave 's got remember . . . (pointing) 
 some thin's! 
 
 (A child enters.) 
 
 Sptarpless. a child. . , . Pinkerton's? . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Showing a picture 
 o/ Pinkerton's.) Look! Look! (Hold- 
 ing it up beside the child's face.) Tha 's 
 jus' his face, same hair, same blue 
 eye. . . . 
 
 Sharpless. Does Lieutenant Pinkerton 
 know? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. No, he come after 
 he goe. (Looking at the child with 
 pride.) You thing fath-er naever comes 
 back — tha's v/hat you thing? He do! 
 You write him ledder; tell him 'bout one 
 bes' mos' nize bebby aever seen. . . . 
 Ha — ha! I bed all moaneys he goin' 
 come mos' one million mile for see those 
 chil'. Surely this is tie — bebby. Sa-ey, 
 you didn' mean what you said 'bout me 
 not bein' marry? You make liddle joke? 
 (Moved, Sharpless nods his head in as- 
 sent, to the great relief of Madame But- 
 terfly.) Ha! (She lays the baby's 
 hand in Sharpless'.) Shake hand con- 
 sul 'Merican way. 
 
 Sharpless. (Shaking hands with the 
 child.) Hm . . . hm . . . what's your 
 name ? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Trouble. Japanese 
 bebby always change it name. I was 
 thinkin' some day w'en he come back, 
 change it to Joy. 
 
 Sharpless. Yes . . . yes ... I '11 let him 
 know. 
 
 (Glad to escape, he takes an abrupt 
 departure.) 
 
 Suzuki. (In the distance, wailing.) Ay 
 ... ay ... ay .. . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Tha 's wail . . . 
 
 Suzukl (Nearer.) 0, Cho-Cho-San! 
 
 (Madame Butterfly goes to the door to 
 meet Suzuki.) Cho-Cho-San! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Speak! 
 
 Suzuki. We are shamed through the 
 town. The Nakodo — 
 
 Nakodo. (Appearing.) I but said the 
 child — (he points to the baby, whom 
 Madame Butterfly instinctively shel- 
 ters in her arms) was a badge of shame 
 to his father. In his country, there are 
 homes for such unfortunates and they 
 never rise above the stigma of their class. 
 They are shunned and cursed from birth. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Who has listened 
 stolidly — now with a savage cry, pushing 
 him away from her until he loses his bal- 
 ance and falls to the floor. ) You lie ! 
 
 Nakodo. (On the floor.) But Yama- 
 dori — 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Touching her 
 father's sword.) Lies! Lies! Lies! 
 Say again, I kill! Go . . . (The Na- 
 kodo goes quickly.) Bebby, he lies. . . . 
 Yaes, it 's lie. . . . When your fath-er 
 knows how they speak, he will take us 
 'way from bad people to his own country.. 
 
DAVID BELASCO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 
 
 661 
 
 I am finish liere. {Taking the American 
 flag from the tobacco jar and giving it 
 to the child.) Tlia 's your country — your 
 flag. Now wave like fath-er say w'en 
 excite — wave like "hell!" {Waves the 
 child's hand.) Ha'rh! Ha'rh! {A ship's 
 gun is heard.) Ah! (Madame But- 
 terfly and Suzuki start for the balcony. 
 Madame Butterfly runs back for the 
 child as the gun is heard again; then 
 returning to the shoji, looks through 
 the glasses.) Look! Look! Warship! 
 Wait . . . can't see name. . . . 
 
 Suzuki. Let me — 
 
 Madame Butterfly. No! Ah! Name is 
 "Con-nec-ti-cut" ! His ship ! He 's come 
 back! He's come back! {Laughing^ 
 she embraces Suzuki — then sinks to the 
 floor.) He's come back! Those robins 
 nes' again an' we didn' know! 0, 
 bebby, bebby — your fath-er come back! 
 Your fath-er 's come back ! ! ! 
 {Shaking a bough of cherry blossoms, 
 which fall on them both.) This is the 
 bes' nize momen' since you was bomed. 
 Now your name 's Joy ! Suzuki ; the 
 Moon Goddess sent that bebby straight 
 from Bridge of Heaven to make me cour- 
 age to wait so long. 
 
 SuzuKL Ah, ship 's in. . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Rising in great ex- 
 citement.) Hoarry, Suzuki, his room. 
 (Suzuki pulls out a screen to form a 
 little room.) We mus' hoarry — {Pick- 
 ing flowers from the pots and decorating 
 the room) like we got eagle's wings an' 
 thousan' feets. His cigarettes. (-S'e^- 
 ting the jar in the room.) His slipper. 
 (Suzuki gets them from the shrine.) 
 His chair, Suzuki — hustle! (Suzuki 
 hastens off. Madame Butterfly shakes 
 a cushion and drops it on the floor.) 
 His bed. (Suzuki enters with a steamer 
 chair, which she places upside down.) 
 Now his room fixed ! ( Suzuki closes the 
 shoji. Madame Butterfly adjusts the 
 chair and sets the lanterns about the 
 room.) Bring me my wides' obi, kan- 
 zashi for my hair, poppies — mus' look 
 ver' pretty! 
 
 :Suzuki. Rest is bes' beauty. He not 
 come yet. Sleep liddle firs'. . . . 
 
 3iADAME Butterfly. No, no time. {Tak- 
 ing up a small mirror and looking criti- 
 cally at herself.) He mus' see me look 
 mos' pretty ever. You thing I change 
 since he went away — not so beauty? 
 (Suzuki is silent.) W'at? ... I am! 
 ^Brandishing the mirror.) Say so! 
 
 Suzuki. Perhaps you rest liddle, once 
 more you get so pretty again. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Again f . . . 
 
 Suzuki. Trouble, tha's make change. . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Moach change. 
 {Still looking in the glass.) No, I am 
 no more pretty — an' he come soon. {On 
 her knees in front of Suzuki — resting her 
 forehead on the maid's feet.) Ah, Su- 
 zuki, be kin' with me — make me pretty 
 . . . don' say you can't — you moas'. 
 An' tomorrow, the gods will. Ah, yes! 
 You can — you can — you got to! Bring 
 powder, comb, rouge, henna, fix it hair 
 like on wedding day. (Suzuki brings 
 the toilet articles and they sit on the 
 floor. Suzuki puts the poppies and 
 pins in Madame Butterfly's hair, and 
 she, in turn, dresses the baby, envelop- 
 ing him in an obi, so wide that it almost 
 covers the child.) Now, bebby, when 
 you cry, he '11 sing you those liddle 'Meri- 
 can song he sing me when I cry — song 
 all 'Merican sing for bebby. {Sitting 
 with the baby in front of her, swaying it 
 by the arms, she sings.) 
 
 "Reg' a bye bebby, 
 
 Off in Japan, 
 
 You jus' a picture, 
 
 Off of a fan." 
 
 (Suzuki has found it very difficult to 
 finish the toilet, but at last she accom- 
 plishes it. Madame Butterfly lifts the 
 baby up, gives it a doll, then touches it 
 with rouge and adds a final dash of rouge 
 to her own face.) Now for watch for 
 pa-pa ! 
 
 {Putting the flag in the child's hand, 
 she takes it up to the window and 
 makes three holes in the shoji, one 
 low down for the baby. As the 
 three look through the shoji, they 
 form the picture she has already de- 
 scribed.) 
 
 {During the vigil, the night comes on. Su- 
 zuki lights the floor lamps, the stars 
 come out, the dawn breaks, the floor 
 lights flicker out one by one, the birds 
 begin to sing, and the day discovers Su- 
 zuki and the baby fast asleep on the 
 floor; but Madame Butterfly is awake, 
 still watching, her face white and 
 strained. She reaches out her hands and 
 rouses Suzukl) 
 
 Suzuki. {Starting to her feet, surprised 
 
662 
 
 MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 
 and looking about the room.) He no 
 come f 
 
 Madame Butterfly. No. . . . 
 
 Suzuki. {Pityingly.) Oh! 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {With an imperious 
 gesture.) No ^'Oh"! He will come. . . . 
 Bring fresh flowers. {She collects the 
 lanterns as Suzuki brings in fresh 
 flowers. Madame Butterfly tears up 
 the roses and throws their leaves in Pink- 
 erton's room. Then pointing to the up- 
 per part of the house.) Now I watch 
 from liddle look out place. {She picks 
 up the child whose doll drops from its 
 hand. Have mos' bes' nize breakfas' 
 ready w'en he come. 
 
 {She leaves the room and Suzuki goes 
 to prepare the breakfast.) 
 
 (The stage is empty. Very faintly a strain 
 of "I call her the Belle of Japan" is 
 heard. Madame Butterfly is singing 
 that she may not weep. A pause. Some 
 one knocks on the door. Lieutenant 
 Pinkerton's voice calls outside the 
 shoji.) 
 
 liiEUTENANT Pinkerton. Madame Butter- 
 fly? Madame Butterfly? {Coming into 
 the room, he looks about.) Butterfly? 
 
 Sharpless. {Following him.) They've 
 seen the ship — these decorations were not 
 here when I called. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Singing to hush 
 the baby.) 
 
 "Rog' — a — bye, bebby, 
 Off in Japan," 
 
 (Lieutenant Pinkerton listens to the 
 song coming from above.) 
 
 "You jus' a picture, 
 Off of a fan." 
 
 Lieutenant Pinkerton. She is watching 
 the ship. {Noticing the screened off part 
 of the room.) My room . . . just as it 
 used to look . . . my chair. {Picking 
 up the doll which the child has dropped.) 
 Poor kid ! Poor little devil ! . . . Sharp- 
 less," I thought when I left this house, 
 the few tears, sobs, little polite regrets, 
 would be over as I crossed the threshold. 
 I started to come back for a minute, but 
 I said to myself: "Don't do it; by this 
 time she 's ringing your gold pieces to 
 make sure they 're good." You know 
 that class of Japanese girl and — 
 
 Sharpless. {Seeing Nakodo who is at the 
 shoji.) Look here: I have something to 
 settle with you! (Nakodo comes in cau- 
 tiously.) Why did you seek out my 
 friend's wife at the pier? 
 
 Lieutenant Pinkerton. Why did you 
 tell her that story — the child and all? 
 Answer me? 
 
 Nakodo. {To Sharpless.) Your Excel- 
 lency, I but thought if trouble came be- 
 tween the two women, he would surely 
 break with Cho-Cho-San, and then she 
 would be glad to marry the rich Yama- 
 dori and I get big fee. (Exit.) 
 
 Sharpless. You'll never get it. {To 
 Pinkerton.) She '11 starve first. 
 
 Lieutenant Pinkerton. Sharpless, thank 
 God, that 's one thing I can do — money. 
 (He takes out an envelope containing 
 some money.) 
 
 Sharpless. What did your wife say, 
 Pinkerton ? 
 
 Lieutenant Pinkerton. Well, it was 
 rather rough on her, — only married four 
 months. Sharpless, my Kate 's an angel, 
 — she offered to take the child . . . made 
 me promise I 'd speak of it to Butterfly. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Calling from 
 above.) Suzuki? 
 
 Sharpless. She 's coming. 
 
 (Pinkerton instinctively draws be- 
 hind the screen.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. {Coming down the 
 stairs with the sleeping baby on her back, 
 calling.) Suzuki? Come for bebby. 
 {Kissing the child.) Nize liddle eye, 
 pick out of blue sky, all shut up. 
 
 Lieutenant Pinkerton. {Aside to 
 Sharpless, his eyes fixed on the mother 
 and child. ) I can't face it ! I 'm going. 
 Give her the money. 
 
 Suzuki. {Entering, and seeing Pinker- 
 ton as he passes out of the door.) Ah! 
 (Sharpless gives her a warning ges- 
 ture. ) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Seeing Suzuki's 
 astonished face.) Wha' — ? (She puts 
 the baby in Suzuki's arms. Suzuki 
 goes out quickly. Madame Butterfly 
 sees the Consul.) You! Oh! (Joy- 
 ously.) You seen him? 
 
 Sharpless. Yes. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. An' you tole him? 
 
 Sharpless. Well . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. But you tole him 
 ... of bebby? 
 
 Sharpless. Yes. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Wiping her dry 
 lips. ) Yaes . . . tha 's right. Tha 's 
 
DAVID BELASCO, JOHN LUTHER LONG 
 
 663 
 
 what I — as' you do . . . an'— an' what 
 he say? 
 Sharpless. Well . . . {Taking out the 
 envelope, and giving her the money 
 which she takes without looking at it.) 
 He said — er — he was crazy to see you 
 and — [Aside) What the devil can I 
 say! (To her.) You know he can't 
 leave the ship just yet. [Pointing to the 
 package in her hand.) That is in re- 
 membrance of the past. He wishes you 
 to be always happy, to have the best of 
 luck; he hopes to see you soon — and — 
 [The lies die out on his lips.) 
 Madame Butterfly. [Bending and kiss- 
 ing his hand.) All — all the gods in 
 the heavens bless you ! 
 
 [Overcome, she staggers. Sharpless 
 catches her, puts her into the chair 
 — she leans against him — her face 
 upraised, her eyes closed.) 
 
 (Kate, entering hurriedly.) 
 
 Kate. Has Lieutenant Pinkerton gone? 
 Has my husband been here? 
 
 (Madame Butterfly hears and opens 
 her eyes.) 
 
 Sharpless. For God's sake — [He looks at 
 Madame Butterfly whose eyes are fixed 
 on his with a look of despair.) Come, 
 we can overtake him. 
 
 Kate [In a lower voice.) Did he speak 
 to her of the — 
 
 Sharpless. No. 
 
 Kate. Then I will ask. [For the first 
 time seeing Madame Butterfly.) Is 
 this — (Sharpless nods and goes. There 
 is a short pause, while the two women 
 look at each other, then Madame Butter- 
 fly, still seated, slowly bows her head.) 
 Why, you poor little thing . . . who in 
 the world could blame you or . . . call 
 you responsible . . . you pretty little 
 plaything. 
 
 [Takes Madame Butterfly in her 
 arms.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly. [Softly.) No — 
 playthin' ... I am Mrs. Lef-ten-ant B. 
 F. — No — no — now I am, only — Cho- 
 Cho-San, but no playthin'. . . . [She 
 rises, then impassively.) How long you 
 been marry? 
 
 KIate. Four months. . . . 
 
 Madame Butterfly. [Counting on her 
 fingers.) Oh . . . four. 
 
 Kate. Won't you let me do something for 
 the child? Where is he? (Madame 
 Butterfly gestures toward the next 
 
 room. Kate,^ seeing the child.) Ah! 
 The dear little thing ! May I — 
 
 Madame Butterfly. No! Can look . . . 
 no can touch. ... 
 
 Kate. Let us think first of the child. For 
 his own good ... let me take him home 
 to my country, ... I will do all I would 
 do for my own. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. (Showing no emo- 
 tion.) He not know then — me — his 
 mother ? 
 
 Kate. It 's hard, very hard, I know ; but 
 would it not be better? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. [Taking the money 
 box from her sleeve, and giving the coins 
 to Kate. ) Tha 's his . . . two dollar. 
 All tha 's lef of his moaneys. ... I 
 shall need no more. . . . [She hands 
 Kate the envelope which Sharpless has 
 just given.) 1 lig if you also say I 
 sawry — no — no — no — glad — glad! I wish 
 him that same happiness lig he wish for 
 me . . . an' tell him ... I shall be 
 happy . . . mebby. Thang him . . . 
 Mister B. F. Pik-ker-ton for also that 
 kindness he have been unto me . . . an' 
 permit me to thang you, augustness, for 
 that same. . . . You — you mos' bes' lucky 
 girl in these whole worl'. . . . Goon- 
 night — 
 
 [She stands stolidly with her eyes 
 closed.) 
 
 Kate. [Wiping her eyes.) But the 
 child? 
 
 Madame Butterfly. Come back fifteen 
 minute. . . . [With closed eyes, she hows 
 politely.) Sayonara. (Kate reluc- 
 tantly goes.) God he'p me, but no sun 
 kin shine. (Suzuki, who has listened, 
 sinks at Madame Butterfly's feet.) 
 Don' cry, Suzuki, liddle maiden . . . ac- 
 eoun' I dizappoint, a liddle dizappoint' 
 — don' cry. . . . [Running her hand over 
 Suzuki's head — as she kneels.) Tha 's 
 short while ago you as' me res' — sleep. 
 . . . [Wearily.) Well — go way an' I 
 will res' now. ... I wish res' — sleep . . . 
 long sleep . . . an' when you see me 
 again, I pray you look whether I be not 
 beautiful again ... as a bride. 
 
 Suzuki. [Understanding, sobbing.) No — 
 no — no. 
 
 Madame Butterfly. So that I suffer no 
 more — goon bye, liddle maiden. (Su- 
 zuki does not go. Madame Butterfly 
 claps her hands, and sobbing, Suzuki 
 leaves the room. Madame Butterfly 
 bolts the shoji, and the door, lights fresh 
 incense before the shrine, takes down her 
 
664 
 
 MADAME BUTTERFLY 
 
 father's sword and reads the inscription:) 
 "To die with honor . . . when one can 
 no longer live with honor." . . . 
 
 {She draws her finger across the hlade, 
 to test the sharpness of the sword, 
 then picks up the hand glass, puts 
 on more rouge, re-arranges the pop- 
 pies in her hair, bows to the shrine, 
 and is about to press the blade of 
 the sword against her neck, when 
 the door is opened and the child is 
 pushed into the room by Suzuki, 
 who keeps out of sight. Madame 
 Butterfly drops the sword and 
 takes the baby in her arms. A 
 knocking is heard but she pays no 
 heed. She sets the child on a mat, 
 puts the American flag in its hand, 
 and picking up the sword, goes be- 
 hind the screen that the child may 
 not see what she is about to do. 
 A short pause — the sword is heard 
 to drop. Madame Butterfly re- 
 
 appears, her face deathly — a scarf 
 about her neck to conceal the wound. 
 Suzuki opens the door, sees the face 
 of her mistress — backs out of the 
 room in horror. Madame Butter- 
 fly drops to her knees as she readies 
 the child, and clasps it to her. A 
 hand is thrust through the shoji and 
 the bolt is drawn.) 
 
 (Kate enters quickly urging the reluctant 
 Pinkerton to follow her.) 
 
 Lieutenant Pinkerton. {Discerning 
 what she has done.) Oh! Cho-Cho-San! 
 {He draws her to him with the baby 
 pressed to her heart. She waves 
 the child's hand whidi holds the flag 
 — saying faintly.) 
 Madame Butterfly. Too bad those rob- 
 ins didn' nes' again. {She dies.) 
 
HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 BY 
 
 Clyde Fitch 
 
COPYBIGHT, 1916, BY ALICE M. FiTCH AND ThE CeNTUEY Co. 
 
 All Rights Reser\'ed 
 
 Printed, for the first time, from the original manuscript by 
 permission of Mrs. Alice M. Fitch. 
 
HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Her Great Match represents the international play of to-day. It stands 
 also for social comedy and it is representative of the work of its author in his 
 best period. 
 
 Clyde Fitch was born in Elmira, New York, May 2, 1865. His father was a 
 captain in the United States Army during the Civil War. He attended the 
 Holderness School, New Hampshire, and graduated from Amherst College in 
 1886, and was already noteworthy in his college days for his interest in costume 
 and rather luxurious accessories of life. He determined from the beginning to 
 devote himself to the stage, and settled in New York, supporting himself by giv- 
 ing readings and tutoring while waiting for recognition. This came first when 
 Richard ]\Iansfield produced his Beau Brummel at the IMadison Square Theatre, 
 May 17, 1890. This picture of the Georgian dandy remains one of his most 
 characteristic conceptions. Notwithstanding the success of this play and that of 
 Frederic Lemaitre (1890), in which Henry Miller starred. Fitch had to wait 
 and work hard before he attained a secure footing. He succeeded, however, in 
 becoming probably the most prolific and the most successful of American play- 
 wrights. He was indefatigable in his exertions and produced in twenty years 
 thirty-two original plays, besides twenty-three that were either adaptations from 
 the French or German, revisions of other men's work, or dramatizations of 
 novels. He lived surrounded by every luxury, and he made frequent trips to 
 Europe, and died at Chalons-sur-Marne, September 4, 1909. At the time of his 
 death, three plays, The City, A Modern Marriage, and The Manicure Girl, were 
 in rehearsal. 
 
 The early work of Clyde Fitch was tentative, but when he produced The 
 Climbers, January 21, 1901, he entered upon a more definite period of work- 
 manship, and showed himself a master in delineation of the actions and motives 
 of people moving in social relations. This social consciousness had been in his 
 work from the first, but Beau Brummel is not so significant since it reflected 
 the manners of an earlier day in England, and was a play of types rather than 
 real people. What is of the most significance, Fitch did not limit himself to 
 social satire ; his greatest plays have in them a central idea, which unifies the drama 
 and gives it body. In The StiMornness of Geraldine, played after a tryout in 
 New Haven, at the Garrick Theatre, New York, November 3, .1902, by Mary 
 Mannering, — the theme is the fidelity and trust of a woman for the man she loves. 
 In The Girl with the Green Eyes, produced by Clara Bloodgood in the leading 
 role at the Savoy Theatre, New York, December 25, 1902, the central idea is that 
 
G68 INTRODUCTION 
 
 of jealousy and its terrible effects. In The Truth, tried out in Cleveland, Ohio, 
 in October, 1906, and later played in New York with Clara Bloodgood as "Becky" 
 and in London in 1907 with Marie Tempest in the same part, there is a masterly 
 study of the effects of lying on the part of a woman who is not inherently bad but 
 who is incapable of resisting the temptation of the moment to prevaricate. In The 
 City, produced after his death, on December 21, 1909, at the Lyric Theatre, New 
 York City, there is a study of the effect upon people coming to the city from a 
 small town where they have been the principal family for many years. Even 
 in plays that are more frankly melodrama, such as The Woman in the Case 
 (1904), there was a well conceived unity of action since the theme turned upon 
 the devotion of a wife to a husband who has been accused of murder, and of her 
 saving him by her association with a woman of doubtful reputation who holds the 
 key to his release. 
 
 Fitch varied his social study with an international setting in The Coronet of 
 a Duchess (1904) and in Her Great Match, and he wrote several plays which had 
 an historical interest. Of these Nathan Kale, played first in Chicago, January 
 31, 1898, and Major Andre (1903), were tragedies of the Revolution, and Bar- 
 bara Frietchie, first put on in Philadelphia, October 10, 1899, was a tragedy of the 
 Civil War, in which the atmosphere of jMarjdand during the war is well portrayed. 
 His interest in a play representing a "period" is illustrated by Captain Jinks of 
 the Horse Marines (1901), laid in New York City in the early seventies. Fitch 
 succeeded quite well, too, in such a play as Lovers' Lane (1901), especially in his 
 interpretation of a child's mind. In The Girl and the Judge (1901), laid in a 
 Western town, he showed his ability in creating a situation, even if he did not 
 develop it to the best advantage. The most important plays of Fitch are as 
 follows: Beau Brummel (1890), Betty's Finish (1890), Frederic Lemaitre 
 (1890), A Modern Match (1891), Pamela's Prodigy (1891), The Masked Ball 
 from TjC Veglione of Bisson and Carre, (1892), The Social Swim (1893), His 
 Grace de Grammont (1894), April Weather (1894), Mistress Betty (1895),^ 
 (produced ten years later as The Toast of the Toicn), Nathan Hale (1898), The 
 Moth and the Flame (1898), The Cowboy and the Lady (Avith Willis Steel, 1899), 
 Barbara Frietchie (1899), The Climbers (1901), Captain Jinks of the Horse Ma- 
 rines (1901), Lovers' Lane (1901), The Last of the Bandies (1901), The Way of 
 the World (1901), The Girl and the Judge (1901), The Stubbornness of Ger- 
 aldine (1902), The Girl with the Green Eyes (1902), Her Own Way (1903), Glad 
 of It (1903), Major Andre (1903), The Coronet of a Duchess (1904), The Woman 
 in the Case (1904), Her Great Match (1905), The Truth (1906), The Straight 
 Boad (1906), A Happy Marriage (1909), The Bachelor (1909), The City (1909). 
 This list includes all his original plays. 
 
 Her Great Match was written by Fitch while in Sicily and was produced first 
 ia Syracuse, New York, September 1, 1905, and then brought out at the Criterion 
 
INTRODUCTION 669 
 
 Theatre, New York, September 4, 1905. It was successful and the contemporary 
 criticism praised the delightful effect of the love episodes and the realism of the 
 scene on the morning after the party. It is significant that in this international 
 contrast, Fitch has endowed his American characters with a proper sense of 
 social values without laying stress upon the matter at all, and that "Jo Sheldon*' 
 meets the Prince upon the human footing of a man and a girl charmingly in 
 love with one another. 
 
 The following plays have been published : Nathan Hale (R. H. Russell, 
 1899), (rep. by W. H. Baker), * Barbara Frietchie (Life Pub. Co., 1900), * Cap- 
 tain Jinks of the Horse Marines (Doubleday, Page and Co., 1902), * The Climhers 
 (1906), * The Girl with the Green Eyes (1905), * The StuMornness of Geraldine 
 (1906), ""The Truth (1907), ^ Her Own Way (1907), by Macmillan, * Beau 
 Brummel (John Lane, 1908). Those starred can be obtained in the Samuel 
 French reprints, and all of them, together with Lovers^ Lane, The Woman in 
 the Case, and The City, have been republished in the Memorial Edition, edited by 
 M. J. Moses and Virginia Gerson (Little, Brown and Co., 1915). 
 
 Her Great Match has never before been published. The present text is 
 printed from manuscript furnished the editor through the courtesy of Mrs. 
 Alice M. Fitch, Miss Virginia Gerson and Messrs. Ernst and Cane, to all of 
 whom the editor is indebted for information concerning Mr. Fitch. 
 
 For a bibliography of Clyde Fitch see A Beading List of Clyde Fitch, by 
 John A. Lowe, Bulletin of Bibliography, Vol. 7, p. 30, July, 1912. For biog- 
 raphy and criticism see Archie Bell, The Clyde Fitch I Knew, New York, 1909 ; 
 L. C. Strang, Players and Plays of the Last Quarter Century, Boston, 1902, Vol. 
 2, Chap. 6 ; Montrose J. Moses, The American Dramatist, Chap. 10 ; B. H. Clark, 
 The British and American Drama of Today, New York, 1915 ; and among many 
 articles, Martin Bernbaum, Clyde Fitch, an Appreciation, Independent, Vol. 67, 
 pp.123-131; W. P. Eaton, The Dramatist as Man of Letters, Scrilner's Maga- 
 zine, Vol. 46, pp. 490-97 ; Ada Patterson, How a Bapid-Fire Dramatist Writes 
 his Plays, Theatre, Vol. 7, pp. 14-16, January, 1907— practically a statement by 
 Fitch himself of his methods ; The American Stage Loses Clyde Fitch, Theatre, 
 Vol. 10, p. 112, October, 1909; Archie Bell, The Real Clyde Fitch, Theatre, 
 Vol. 10, pp. 158-160, November, 1909. For a criticism of Her Great Match, see 
 The Theatre, Vol. 5, p. 243, October, 1905. 
 
ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Criterion Theatre, New York, September 4, 1905. 
 
 Jo Sheldon Miss Maxine Elliott 
 
 Mrs. Sheldon Miss Madge Girdlestone 
 
 ViCTORLi Botes Miss Nellie Thorne 
 
 H. R. H. The Grand Duchess of Hohenhetstein . . . .Mme. Mathilde Cottrelly 
 
 Countess Casavetti Miss Suzanne Perry 
 
 H. R. H. The Crown Prince Adolph op Eastphalia Mr. Charles Cherry 
 
 Mr. Botes Mr. Herbert Standing 
 
 Cyril Botes Mr. Leon Quartermaine 
 
 Frank Wilton Mr. Felix Edwardes 
 
 Hallen Mr. Cory Thomas 
 
 Weeks Mr. Hodgson Taylor 
 
HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 The scene is a tent at a garden fete for 
 charity on the estate of Mr. Botes, in 
 Hertfordshire, England, on a Saturday 
 in July. Weeks and Hallen, two 
 young footmen in rather splendid liv- 
 eries, are arranging the tent for the use 
 of a fortune teller. A small table stands 
 in the center with a chair on each side. 
 The place is decorated with greens. 
 
 Weeks. Who is this yere Gypsy fortune 
 teller anyway? 
 
 Hallen. The American what's staying 
 here — Miss Sheldon. Ain't you 'eard 
 'em talking at table? 
 
 Weeks. No, I ain't 'eard. 
 
 Hallen. This is a queer family we 're in 
 anyway, however you looks at it. 
 
 Weeks. {With emphasis.) They pay 
 wages ! 
 
 Hallen. Faugh! Why not? A million- 
 aire brewer and a German to boot, ought 
 to be bigger 'n they is. 
 
 Weeks 'E ain't no German! 
 
 Hallen. Well! you heat me! Anybody 
 would think you was extra help in for 
 the day. The Guv'nor was born in East- 
 phalia and left there when 'e was ten 
 and came to London, and made 'is for- 
 tune 'ere! An' now 'e's got the idea of 
 being a Baron. Hold Botesy wants to 
 be a hancestor, that 's what ! See ? 
 
 Victoria. (Outside.) And this is Jo's 
 booth, Father — The Gypsy's tent. 
 
 [She enters from the left followed hy 
 Botes and Cyril, who has a dog with 
 him.) 
 
 Finished, Hallen? 
 
 Hallen. Quite, Miss. 
 
 Botes. Well, this looks all right. 
 
 Cyril. Don't it? I got it up from a pic- 
 ture of one I saw the Prince of Wales 
 had at Marlborough House! 
 
 "Victoria. (Laughing.) Then it's sure 
 to suit you and father! 
 
 Botes. Do you think it 's rich enough, 
 Cyril? Oughtn't you have a little gold 
 
 furniture ? Remember we 're entertain- 
 ing royalty for the first time, and we 
 don't want to mince matters. 
 
 Victoria. Give them plenty of lager, 
 father ! That 's gold enough for you. 
 And it 's a good chance to advertise the 
 BOTES BRAND! 
 
 Cyril. Sis! Don't be so funny! 
 
 Victoria. Father, if you ever get the title 
 you are so mad about, I propose for our 
 family crest — 
 
 Botes. What? 
 
 Cyril. (Quickly.) Don't ask her! 
 
 Victoria. A glass of lager, between two 
 money bags rampant, with a crown of 
 hope; and underneath for a motto, 
 "There is no fly in our amber." It will 
 sound better of course, in Latin! 
 
 Botes. Well, you can make fun of me, 
 Vic, but it is the serious ambition of my 
 life, and I 'm going to get a title if 
 there 's one for sale in Eastphalia ! 
 
 Cyril. That 's the spirit. Dad ! 
 
 Botes. For any price I can command. 
 
 Cyril. Right ho, old Pops! 
 
 Victoria. It will take three generations 
 to make your brand-new title worth bear- 
 ing. It '11 smell of varnish all through 
 Cyril's life. 
 
 Botes. Nonsense! If I get a Barony 
 from King George, I shall choose the 
 name of my old home. ^'Baron Arns- 
 herg'^! — hasn't that a fine old flavor? 
 
 Victoria. (Sniffing.) Not to me! I taste 
 rosin! 
 
 Cyril. But what I want to know is, why 
 should it be all right socially, to sell bad 
 champagne, and all wrong to make good 
 heerf 
 
 Victoria. Father, you '11 never get any 
 title to compare with your old one. 
 
 Botes. "Word of honor Botes." 
 
 Victoria. Yes! "Word of honor Botes." 
 
 Botes. Well, that came to me really from 
 my father. Just as I want to give a 
 Barony to Cyril. Father's simple word 
 in Arnsberg was as good as any docu- 
 ment that was ever signed and sealed 
 and witnessed. It was the catechism 
 Father taught me ! Never to break your 
 
 671 
 
672 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 word when once it was given. (Rising 
 as he continues.) , Be mighty careful 
 how you gave it, but once given no mat- 
 ter what it cost you, stand by it. No 
 matter what your temptation don't break 
 your word, break your neck rather. 
 
 Victoria. Hurrah for Grandfather! 
 
 Cyril. Out of date now. If you 'd started 
 your business on that principle nowa- 
 days, old chap, we 'd have to drink our 
 own beer and pay for it. 
 
 Botes. Speaking of paying for things — 
 I wish Mrs. Sheldon 'd pay for her auto- 
 mobile. The Pushard people wrote me 
 they must hold me responsible, as I in- 
 troduced her, and she pays no attention 
 to their bill. I suppose it 's all right ? 
 
 Victoria. Of course. Jo told me she had 
 a big fortune from her first husband. 
 
 Cyril. I say, the Prince is awfully gone 
 on Jo, ain't he ? But he would n't marry 
 her, would he? 
 
 Victoria. Why not? 
 
 Botes. I suppose he 'd make her his 
 morganatic wife. 
 
 Cyril. Well, what 's the matter with that? 
 
 Botes. Don't work well with Americans. 
 There was a lot of trouble over Prince 
 Jerome Bonaparte when he married a 
 Baltimore lady that way. 
 
 Cyril. Did he? 
 
 Victoria. It would never do for Jo ! She 
 does n't share your and Cj^il's titled am- 
 bitions! She has high ideas and high 
 ideals. 
 
 Botes. I don't think one season on the 
 Riviera goes quite to the bottom of any 
 young lady's character. It seems to me 
 Mrs. Sheldon knows her way about 
 pretty well. 
 
 Victoria. Jo is a very different thing 
 from her stepmother. 
 
 .Cyril. Rather! 
 
 Botes. Well, all the same I think Miss 
 Jo is — 
 
 Jo. (Outside.) Hush! Don't say it! I 
 am in hearing — unless it was something 
 very nice. Of course if it was something 
 very flattering, you can say it and I '11 
 wait outside. If it was something dis- 
 agreeable then I '11 come right in and 
 stop you. 
 
 Botes. It was very disagreeable. 
 
 Jo. I don't believe you! 
 
 (She enters from the left in gypsy cos- 
 tume, with a pack of cards; they all ex- 
 claim in approval of her dress.) 
 
 Botes. Splendid ! Splendid ! 
 
 Cyril. Bravo ! Bravo ! 
 
 Victoria. Lovely, Jo! Lovely! 
 
 Jo. Do you really like it? (They all ex- 
 claim again and try to see the hack.) 
 No, no, you mustn't look at the back. 
 It isn't finished there, — Vic, go around 
 to the back like a dear and see what 's 
 the matter. 
 
 Cyril. Vic is very near sighted. 
 
 Jo. Oh, is she!! 
 
 Botes. And very extravagant. She never 
 could make both ends meet, — it takes her 
 father! 
 
 Jo. Oh, does it! how is it, Vic? 
 
 Victoria. It needs a pin, that 's all. Has 
 anyone got a pin? 
 
 Jo. Gentlemen, here 's your chance. Has 
 either of you a pin? 
 
 (Botes and Cyril both look around in 
 mock eagerness.) 
 
 Cyril. Here 's a hammer and tacks ! 
 
 Jo. Won't do. 
 
 Victoria. Never mind, I Ve got one. — ■ 
 There ! 
 
 Jo. It 's finished. Thank you, gentlemen, 
 for your kind assistance. 
 
 Hallen. (Entering, to Botes.) A tele- 
 gram for you, sir. 
 
 Jo. (Quickly, without thinking.) Per- 
 haps Prince Adolf isn't coming. 
 
 Victoria. (Laughing.) Dear me! How 
 anxious we are! 
 
 Cyril. Oh ! Would n't it be awful ! 
 
 (Jo throws the cards at Cyril.) 
 
 Botes. Really, Miss Jo, I'm apt to re- 
 ceive one or two telegrams in the course 
 of a day. Listen! "I will give to my- 
 self the pleasure of to bring my aunt 
 the Grand Duchess of Hohenhetstein and 
 her suite at the Fete when you shall 
 kindly arrange to receive." 
 
 Victoria. Oh, heavens! 
 
 Botes. "My regards to your daughter. 
 Adolf." 
 
 Jo. Oh, you are a wretch. Wait till I 
 tell your fortune today. Then I 'U 
 punish you. 
 
 Botes. (Going out toward the left.) 
 Come along, Cyril, we must make ar- 
 rangements to receive the Grand Duchess. 
 Vic, you '11 be on hand." 
 
 Victoria. Oh, mercy — I suppose so. 
 
 Cyril. What I want to know is — hasn't 
 she come to look Miss Jo over? 
 
 Jo. Look here — I 'm what they call at 
 home an athletic girl ; and if you keep on 
 like this I '11 forget myself and go for 
 you! 
 
 Cyril. I wish you would. If you'd 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 6f3 
 
 grapple me once you could hang on as 
 long as you 'd want. I 'd like it. 
 
 Victoria. Where '11 you sit ? 
 
 Jo. Here. — and he there. 
 
 Victoria. He ? 
 
 Jo. (Embarrassed.) I mean he or she 
 or they, whoever is having their hand 
 told. 
 
 Victoria. (Laughing.) Oh, Jo — can you 
 read hands at all? 
 
 Jo. No — not really! I just guess at it. 
 I make them look me straight in the 
 eyes — 
 
 Victoria. Oh, well! then of course they 
 give up everything ! 
 
 Jo. And then I sort of feel my way and 
 I can tell when I 'm right. 
 
 Victoria. Well, I 've got a perfect plan ! 
 I shall be outside the tent there, and can 
 easily see those coming from the other 
 way. Cyril is to take his time giving 
 them their tickets, while I come in and 
 give you points quickly and when I ring 
 the bell, I rush out, and Cyril lets the 
 victim in! (She waits for an answer ^ 
 hut Jo is preoccupied and looking into 
 space.) Don't you think that's a fine 
 plan? (Then receiving no answer.) 
 Jo! (She turns Jo around.) You 
 haven't heard a word. 
 
 Jo. Yes I have, really. You 're going to 
 come in and tell me things, I know. 
 Vic! Tell me something new! 
 
 Victoria. What ? 
 
 Jo. Of course you 're all only teasing me 
 about Prince Adolf. You don't really 
 think I care for him. Do you? 
 
 Victoria. no! not at all, Jo! Not at 
 all! 
 
 Jo. Well! Anyway, you don't think he 
 thinks I care for him — do you? 
 
 Victoria. (Seriously.) I don't know a 
 woman in London who 'd have held her 
 own with him as you have. 
 
 Jo. I 've never thrown myself at any man's 
 head, not at any rate until he'd thrown 
 himself at my feet. 
 
 Victoria. Hasn't Prince Adolf? 
 
 Jo. Not at my feet yet, — he may be 
 about my knees — but not in earnest. 
 I 'm sure he does n't care a rap about 
 me. 
 
 Victoria. My dear, I '11 bet you a five 
 pound note for the Eastphalian suf- 
 ferers, that he talks, eats, drinks and 
 sleeps, laughs, sings, nothing but you! 
 
 Jo. (Embracing her.) Vic Botes, you're 
 the dearest girl that ever lived. 
 
 Victoria. Oh, am I? 
 
 Jo. Yes, and if it was n't for you I think 
 I 'd take the very first boat back to 
 America ! I 'm homesick. 
 
 Victoria. I shouldn't call it "Home"- 
 sick! 
 
 Jo. Vic, I don't ask this for any personal 
 reasons, you know that, it 's just my 
 curiosity's aroused; — did a Crown 
 Prince of any nation ever marry an 
 American girl? 
 
 Victoria. Of course I understand that 
 your question is purely impersonal! but 
 I can't say that I ever did hear of a 
 case. In fact, my dear, I don't think 
 an heir to a throne could marry any- 
 one not of royal blood, except in one 
 way. 
 
 Jo. What way? 
 
 Victoria. Morganatically. 
 
 Jo. Morganatically! You mean one wife 
 and then marry someone also for Queen ? 
 
 Victoria. Yes. 
 
 Jo. Well! The only American girl that 
 sort of a Crown Prince could get would 
 come from Utah. You can take your lit- 
 tle Jo's word for that. 
 
 Victoria. Of course a Prince can give up 
 his throne. An Austrian Grand Duke 
 became plain Monsieur Somebody or 
 other three or four years ago to marry 
 a Swiss girl, and they say they 're the 
 happiest couple in the world. 
 
 Jo. It would be an awfully big sacrifice 
 for a man, wouldn't it, to give up a 
 throne ? 
 
 Victoria. Not if he loved you. 
 
 Jo. No, I 'd give up fifty ! I 'd be glad 
 of the chance to have something big to 
 do to show how much I loved. Have 
 you ever been in love, Vic? 
 
 Victoria. No, men bore me. 
 
 Jo. Bore you? 
 
 Victoria. Yes ! I think they 're the most 
 selfish, egotistical creatures. 
 
 Jo. Oh, come, Vic! 
 
 Victoria. Want everything for them- 
 selves — 
 
 Jo. Wait a minute, my dear — has one 
 wanted you yet? 
 
 Victoria. No, thank heaven. 
 
 Jo. Oh well, just wait till one does, and 
 then you '11 thank heaven the other way 
 around. 
 
 Victoria. How do you know? unless 
 you 're in love yourself. 
 
 Jo. Oh, I just imagine. 
 
 (Mrs. Sheldon enters, speaking as she 
 does so, with a letter in her hand.) 
 
674 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Mrs. S. Anything private, or may I come 
 in? 
 
 Victoria and Jo. {Together.) No, no — 
 come in. 
 
 Mrs. S. They 're in great excitement at 
 the house getting ready to receive the 
 Grand Duchess with Prince Adolf, — and 
 I 've just had a dear letter from your 
 father, Jo. 
 
 Victoria. I suppose I ought to see if I 
 can help. 
 
 Jo. When am I to see the rest of the 
 Fete? 
 
 Victoria. I '11 come back for you or send 
 Cyril. {Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Your father is n't very well, Jo. 
 
 Jo. Oh, Mother Lena! 
 
 Mrs. S. Not seriously ill, but I confess 
 I 'm a little worried. He writes " I '11 
 be all right I know in a day or two; I 
 expect the next English mail if it brings 
 letters from you both will finish my cure. 
 Especially if it tells me you are both 
 coming home. Is n't it most time ? 
 You 've been gone five months, three 
 weeks, two days, and eighteen hours! 
 Give my very best love to my girl, Jo; 
 I know someone '11 be taking her from 
 me before long, but you are mine for 
 life, Lena, and I '11 never let you go 
 away again without me, law office or no 
 law office." 
 
 Mrs. S. I can tell his girl Jo one thing, 
 a woman is very lucky to have the de- 
 voted love of a man like your father. 
 
 Jo. And his girl Jo can tell you, her dear 
 father is lucky to have a woman like you. 
 Mother Lena, to make him so happy. 
 Bless you for it. 
 
 Mrs. S. Bless you! Jo dear, of course 
 you know what everyone here is talking 
 about? 
 
 Jo. No! What? 
 
 Mrs. S. Prince Adolf! 
 
 Jo. {Roguishly.) What about Prince 
 Adolf? 
 
 Mrs. S. Miss Josephine Sheldon! I was 
 not bom yesterday, and I ought to know 
 what I 'm talking about when I say this 
 young foreigner is head over heels in 
 love with you! 
 
 Jo. Mother Lena, he's only amusing him- 
 self, he 's not in earnest — any more than 
 I am. 
 
 Mrs. S. You're not in earnest? 
 
 Jo. {Hesitating.) I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. S. Where ignorance is bliss 'tis 
 folly to be — 
 
 Jo. Perhaps — but Mother Lena — he 
 
 could n't marry me ! He must marry 
 some Princess. 
 
 Mrs. S. If he loves you he will find a way. 
 It would be a great match, Jo. 
 
 Jo. That means nothing to rae. I will 
 only marry for one thing — Love! and I 
 could never love a man whom I didn't 
 honor down to the ground. 
 
 Mrs. S. You must n't ask too much. Men 
 are human. 
 
 Jo. So am I. I don't ask for an angel, I 
 wouldn't want one to live with — not in 
 this world. But the man I love must 
 want me, and only me, above everything 
 and everybody else, as I shall want him. 
 He must make me believe he would never 
 lie to me as I would never lie to him. He 
 must make me feel that the sea or the 
 desert would be home if he were there 
 with me; that there is no such thing as 
 loneliness for him or me in life with our 
 love between us, and no comradeship for 
 either of us in the world without each 
 other. That's what love means to me. 
 Mother Lena. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Meaningly.) When did you 
 think out all this? 
 
 Jo. {Smiling and turning away em^ 
 harrassed.) Lately! 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! 
 
 Jo. I know it 's a pretty big order ! 
 
 Mrs. S. Bend your head down! Here 
 is a present for you, to bring you good 
 luck today. 
 
 Jo. {As she does so.) But you mustn't 
 give me so many presents, and such 
 handsome ones. It reminds me — I 
 opened a bill that came for you today by 
 mistake. 
 
 Mrs. S. a bill? 
 
 Jo. From Streeter, the Bond Street Jewel- 
 ler. It looked like "Miss Sheldon" on 
 the envelope. Mother Lena, it 's for 
 3500 pounds— over $17,000. And they 
 say this is their last pressure for pay- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. S. It's an old, old bill we've had 
 some discussion about. 
 
 Jo. It said for articles bought since April 
 8th, this year. 
 
 Mrs. S. {A little coldly.) You read it 
 through very carefully. 
 
 Jo. Naturally — I thought it for me. 
 
 Mrs. S. Well, I have my own reasons for 
 not paying at present. 
 
 Jo. But it does n't somehow seem to me 
 quite right — not square. 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! 
 
 Jo. I 'm sorry, but you know I always say 
 
 k 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 675 
 
 just what I feel. Does Father know 
 about it? 
 
 Mrs. S. No — and mustn't. Remember, 
 he 's ill. 
 
 Jo. Mother Lena, you've not been spec- 
 ulating ? 
 
 Mrs. S. No, no! 1 tell you I have my 
 own reasons for not paying Streeter's 
 bill. 
 
 Hallen. (Entering.) Mrs. Sheldon? 
 
 Mrs. S. a gentleman to see me? 
 
 Hallen. Yes, madam, Hi brought him 
 'ere. 
 
 Mrs. S. Drop those curtains please, and 
 show him in here. 
 
 Hallen. Yes, madam. 
 
 Mrs. S. It 's a man I want to see on busi- 
 ness — a lawyer from home. 
 
 Jo. Vic is probably ready to show me 
 around by now. 
 
 Mrs. S. Now don't worry about that bill. 
 
 Jo. But it 's such an awful sum ! 
 
 Mrs. S. When I tell you to trust me it 's 
 all right. 
 
 Jo. But why run up a bill for so valuable 
 a pearl necklace or for such a tiara, if 
 you can't pay, and where are they? 
 
 Mrs. S. When I tell you it 's all right? 
 
 Jo. Forgive me — yes, I know I must be 
 wrong. 
 
 Mrs. S. There, that's sensible. And 
 now I want you to do me a little favor, 
 a little joke I want to play on Mr. 
 Botes. 
 
 Jo. What? 
 
 Mrs. S. You know how eager he is for a 
 title? 
 
 Jo. I think everyone knows that! 
 
 Mrs. S. I want you to tell his hand and 
 find a big honor for him in the near 
 future, — 
 
 Jo. I see ! The title he 's so crazy about. 
 
 Mrs. S. Of course. You know he hopes 
 to get a barony out of old King George 
 of Eastphalia. 
 
 Jo. I '11 find a coronet glued on to his life 
 line! How old is he? 
 
 Mrs. S. About sixty something. 
 
 Jo. Then I '11 find it right about the mid- 
 dle. The lines make a fool's cap rather, 
 but it '11 do for Mr. Botes' crown. Thank 
 you for the chain — it 's a beauty — but 
 vou ought n't — 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! 
 
 Jo. Oughtn't to spoil me as you do! 
 Goodbye. 
 
 (Enter Hallen, followed hy Wilton.) 
 
 (Exit Jo.) 
 
 Hallen. Mr. Wilton. 
 
 Mrs. S. Tho§e other curtains. 
 
 (The whole attitude and expression of 
 Mrs. Sheldon when she is alone, 
 changes. Her face grows hard and 
 worried and her body sinks into an 
 attitude of dejection. She pulls 
 herself together, however, as Hal- 
 len shows in Wilton.) 
 
 Mrs. S. (Turning pleasantly.) How do 
 you do? 
 
 Wilton. How do you do, Mrs. Sheldon? 
 
 Mrs. S. You know of course, that your 
 business is strictly private — and that I 
 don't wish anyone here to know any de- 
 tails of your errand? 
 
 Wilton. Oh yes. Mr. Prenter made me 
 quite understand that. 
 
 Mrs. S. Mr. Prenter is well? 
 
 Wilton. Not altogether — he is too much 
 worried. 
 
 Mrs. S. I am sorry; I sincerely hope, for 
 my own sake, that the bank's affairs are 
 in good condition. 
 
 Wilton. Mrs. Sheldon, I am Mr. Pren- 
 ter's lawyer, and I 've been sent over here 
 to come straight to the point. There 
 can be absolutely no more delay or eva- 
 sion. Unless you can send me back 
 by Tuesday's steamer from Liverpool 
 with two hundred and fifty thousand 
 dollars for the Central National Bank, 
 Mr. Prenter will be an utterly ruined 
 man, the Examiner will take charge of 
 the bank, and you will he indicted. 
 
 Mrs. S. But I am over here ! You would 
 have to procure extradition papers. 
 
 Wilton. That would be easy. Meanwhile 
 you would have the disgrace of exposure 
 all the same, for yourself and for your 
 husband. 
 
 Mrs. S. Mr. Sheldon knows nothing what- 
 ever about my business. 
 
 Wilton. He would have to prove it. We 
 have his signature on some of your 
 papers. 
 
 Mrs. S. I got those from him by decep- 
 tion. He thought he was witnessing 
 mortgages. 
 
 Wilton. Well, that 's not our business. 
 
 Mrs. S. Why doesn't Mr. Prenter help 
 himself? After all he 's more criminally 
 responsible than I. He 's President of 
 the bank and has made me these loans 
 illegally wi'thout the knowledge of the 
 other directors. To save himself he 
 ought — 
 
 Wilton. He can't! All he can raise k 
 one hundred thousand dollars — which is. 
 
676 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 not enough to carry on the business of 
 the bank. He 's a desperate, repentant 
 man, Mrs. Sheldon, and he 's made up 
 his mind. To prevent ruin all around 
 the cirectors must be told and you and 
 he suffer, unless you can furnish two 
 hundred and fifty thousand more — 
 
 Mrs. S. I came over here in the hopes of 
 raising the money, and if I have n't sent 
 it, it 's because I 've failed. I 've worked 
 like a slave over here. I 've bought 
 jewels I could n't pay for, and given 
 them as security in one direction, I 've 
 borrowed twice what sums I could on 
 the strength of my letters of introduc- 
 tion, and on the social success of my 
 step-daughter. And do j^ou know how 
 much I have managed to scrape together? 
 Twelve thousand pounds! Sixty thou- 
 sand dollars ! not a cent more ! 
 
 "WiLTOX. It 's worse than ruin to you, 
 Mrs. Sheldon. — It means prison. 
 
 Mrs. S. Don't! Don't! You go too far 
 when you say that to me. I acted in 
 good faith with Mr. Prenter. 
 
 WiLTOx. Bah! I don't believe in you, 
 Mrs. Sheldon. I believe these securities 
 j^ou boast of are fakes. Why not be 
 frank with me? 
 
 Mrs. S. {Rising, almost in tears.) How 
 dare you? {Then controllitig herself.) 
 Mr. Prenter controlled the bank funds! 
 I didn't! He was willing to accept the 
 usurious interest I promised! Save your 
 threats for your client, not me, Mr. Wil- 
 ton — and cable him today that he shall 
 have the two hundred and fifty thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 Wilton. You said as much before. 
 
 Mrs. S. And I say it again. When must 
 you sail back with the money? 
 
 Wilton. Tuesday noon. 
 
 Mrs. S. I will have definite news for you 
 by Monday; we return to town after to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Wilton. Will your definite news be in a 
 cash form? 
 
 Mrs. S. More than likely. 
 
 V/iLTON. It will be somewhat neces- 
 sary, as I hope I have made myself 
 clear. 
 
 Mrs. S. I don't want to hear what Mr. 
 Prenter begged. Cable him — "Every- 
 thing all right." He mustn't make a 
 fool of himself and tell the directors 
 anything. Thank you for coming over. 
 Can you find your way back? There's 
 a servant who will show you. {Calling.) 
 Weeks! Weeks! Mr. Prenter will do 
 
 nothing till he hears from you, you 're 
 
 sure? 
 Wilton. Yes. 
 
 (Weeks appears in the doorway.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Weeks, show this gentleman the 
 way back. And, Weeks? 
 
 Week. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. S. Ask Mr. Botes to be so kind as 
 to join me here. 
 
 Weeks. Here comes Mr. Botes, Madam. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. S. {In a conventionally agreeable 
 manner to Wilton.) Good-bye, Mr. 
 Wilton. Delighted to have seen you — 
 
 Wilton. Thank you. (Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. S. He might want some sort of a 
 guarantee from Jo ! To be sure we were 
 in earnest and meant business. I won- 
 der if he knows her handwriting? 
 
 Botes. {Outside.) Is Mrs. Sheldon here ? 
 
 Weeks. Yes, sir — she was just asking for 
 you. 
 
 (Botes enters from the left.) 
 
 Botes. Mrs. Sheldon, won't you help re- 
 ceive her Royal Highness? 
 
 Mrs. S. Delighted! But first, Mr. Botes, 
 can you give me just five minutes ? 
 
 Botes. Certainly ; I 've a special to bring 
 them down and I 'm sending a four- 
 horsed Victoria with postilions to tlie 
 station. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Rising.) Splendid! Mr. Botes? 
 {She holds out her hand.) 
 
 Botes. {Taking it.) Mrs. Sheldon! 
 
 Mrs. S. We're good friends, I hope? 
 
 Botes. So do I. 
 
 Mrs. S. Good. {With a pial grasp of 
 his hand, she drops it.) You're a man 
 about forty-five. 
 
 Botes. Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. S. And I'm forty. 
 
 Botes. No ! No ! Not yet. 
 
 Mrs. S. You're too kind. What I mean 
 is we 're two sensible people and I 'm 
 coming right straight to the point. You 
 don't make any secret of wanting a 
 title — a barony for your family. 
 
 Botes For my son ; the rest of my family 
 sticks up her nose at it. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Pleasantly.) Suppose I could 
 arrange your securing this title? 
 
 Botes. I did n't know you had them in 
 the States, except "Colonel" and "Judge.'" 
 
 Mrs. S. No, I 'm serious. I want forty 
 thousand pounds. Would you give it for 
 a title such as you wish? 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 677 
 
 Botes. Well, Mrs. Sheldon, you rather 
 take my breath away. 
 
 Mrs. S. What 's forty thousand pounds 
 to a man with millions if he can satisfy 
 his ambition, and that of his son? 
 
 Botes. It 's not the money that staggers 
 me. What title? How is it possible? 
 It must be some practical joke of yours 
 and Vic's. 
 
 Mrs. S. What a practical joke! (Sit- 
 ting down at the table.) May I trust 
 you? (He nods.) Jo is going to marry 
 the Crown Prince of Eastphalia. 
 
 Botes. It is settled? 
 
 Mrs. S. Practically. 
 
 Botes. Good ! 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo will give — a — all that passes 
 between us of course is buried? 
 
 Botes. I give you my word of honor. 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo will give you a guarantee of 
 a barony among the titles given in cele- 
 bration of her wedding to the Crown 
 Prince if you will give me the sum I ask 
 for. 
 
 Botes. You are speaking for her as well 
 as for yourself? 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes. You let her tell your hand 
 this afternoon. But I need hardly ask 
 you not to discuss the matter with her. 
 If we go on into this I am to be the 
 middle man — that Jo insists on. 
 
 Botes. Well, I can't say as I blame her. 
 It means a sort of shaky business for a 
 young lady to go in for. It is n't my 
 daughter's idea of Miss Jo at all ! I 'm 
 sure if I were to tell Vic she 'd refuse 
 to believe it. 
 
 Mrs. S. But you'll not tell your daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Botes. No, I 've given you my word, and 
 that 's my weak point, you know, not to 
 go back on my word. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Smiling.) I should call it a 
 strong point. 
 
 Botes. The marriage would have to be 
 morganatic ? 
 
 Mrs. S. That wouldn't limit your influ- 
 ence with Prince Adolf; — he loves 
 her! 
 
 Botes. Oh, I don't object if Jo does n't. 
 
 Mrs. S. If I give you a paper signed by 
 Jo agreeing to use every influence in her 
 power to have you granted this barony; 
 to make it a positive request of her hus- 
 band and her first one. 
 
 Botes. {Taking out his pocket hook — 
 doubtfully.) Of course that wouldn't 
 be really any guarantee. 
 
 Mrs. S, Perhaps not legally, but morally. I 
 
 And after all what's forty thousand 
 pounds to a multi-millionaire to risk? 
 
 Botes. Oh, come, I wouldn't be one if I 
 took that tack. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Leaving her hand on his arm.) 
 I know how you love your son — think 
 what it will mean to Cyril. 
 
 Botes. {Rising.) But it seems do unlike 
 your daughter. 
 
 Mrs, S. Jo has a right to be ambitious as 
 well as you and Cyril. 
 
 Botes. That 's true. 
 
 Mrs. S. And I 've got to have this money 
 — or a marriage of any kind won't be 
 possible. 
 
 Botes. {Approaching her.) Well, look 
 here, if you '11 bring me this signed by 
 Miss Jo,— I '11 risk it. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Reading.) "I give Augustus 
 Botes, Esq., my word of honor I am go- 
 ing to marry the Crown Prince Adolf, 
 and agree to use all my influence to have 
 a barony conferred on him, if not 
 amongst the honors given at my wedding, 
 then on my husband's coming to the 
 throne. This to be in — " In? 
 
 Botes. Exchange — 
 
 Mrs. S. —"Exchange for £40,000, given 
 to my step-mother the day this paper is 
 received. The receipt of which this ac- 
 knowledges — signed — " {Turning to him 
 and holding out her hand.) Thank 
 you. 
 
 Botes. {Looking away and not taking it.) 
 There are no thanks due, it's just busi- 
 ness. 
 
 (Victoria enters from the left.) 
 
 Victoria. Father ! Heaps of people have 
 arrived already in motors. Also the car- 
 avan is ready to go to the station to meet 
 your grandees. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Quickly.) Oh, then, I must go 
 to my place. Hullo, Jo. 
 
 {Exit Mrs. Sheldon- as Jo enters from the 
 left.) 
 
 Jo. Hullo, Lena. People are beginning 
 
 to come, and I 'm getting stage fright. 
 Victoria. Nonsense. 
 
 {Enter Cyril with a board.) 
 
 Cyril. They're off to the station. Great 
 day for us ! I should think it would end 
 our snubbing in this neighborhood. 
 
 Jo. Come along, Mr. Botes — {she comes 
 around to the right of the table and 
 takes Botes' hand. She then goes to 
 
678 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 the chair at the left of the table) — give 
 
 me your hand, I 'm going to start on you 
 
 — and get into practice. 
 Cyril. {Showing the board.) How's 
 
 this for a sandwich board? 
 
 {They all look at it and laugh.) 
 Botes. Hiawatha. 
 Cyril. The American Gypsy. 
 Jo. From Milwaukee. You'd better 
 
 study your American geography. 
 Botes. Have I time, Cyril? 
 Cyril. Yes, old boy — give us a guinea. 
 Botes. I say, you don't want me to pay. 
 
 I 'm getting up this blooming fete. And 
 
 think what it 's costing me. 
 Jo. Oh, but— Mr. Botes ! 
 Cyril. Oh but come on, old grand stand! 
 Victoria. Cyril '11 get it! 
 Cyril. Right y'are! (Botes gives him a 
 
 shilling.) A shilling! Make it short, 
 
 Jo. 
 
 (Botes sits by the table — Cyril puts 
 
 the money in the box.) 
 (Jo, with a smile and a wink to Vic- 
 toria, makes ready. Botes gives 
 her his hand, watching her search- 
 ingly all the time.) 
 Cyril. {Looking at his watch.) Father 
 
 can have a two minutes' future, that 's 
 
 aU. 
 Jo. Well — first — you have a generous 
 
 heart. 
 Victoria. {Doubtfully.) A what? 
 Botes. Well!!! 
 Jo. And two children. 
 Cyril. {Laughing.) Isn't it wonderful, 
 
 this palmistry? 
 Jo. A good daughter — and a bad son. 
 Victoria. Quite right. 
 Cyril. Bah ! You 're a fakir ! One min- 
 ute 's up. 
 Botes But all that 's my past. 
 Jo. Very well, I '11 begin in the middle of 
 
 your hand — I see a coronet. 
 Cyril. Really! or are you just making it 
 
 up? 
 Jo. Can't you see it there? 
 Cyril. Where? 
 Jo. A Baron's coronet? 
 Botes. {Looking hard at Jo.) Wonder- 
 ful, isn't it? 
 Cyril. Time's up, Father! {Exit.) 
 
 Jo. {Who is all through, intensely 
 
 amused.) A coronet for a guinea! 
 
 You can't complain at the price. 
 Botes. {Rises — meaningly, looking at her 
 
 closely.) I don't mind the price if I am 
 
 sure of getting it. 
 Weeks. {At the door, hurriedly, excited.) 
 
 Beg pardon, they 're passing the lodge, 
 sir. 
 
 Botes. Good Lord ! Where 's my hat ? 
 
 Jo. Lena put me up to teasing your fa- 
 ther, but I don't think I succeeded very 
 well, do you? 
 
 Victoria. Poor Father! He is like the 
 little boy in the advertisements — He 
 won't be happy till he gets it. What 
 sort of a man is your father ? I 've 
 often wondered. 
 
 Jo. {Sitting on the ground.) Oh, such 
 a dear old darling, Vic. We were n't 
 separated a day of our lives until he 
 married Mother Lena. He says he 
 would n't have married even then, but he 
 expected me to run off and leave him 
 any day. Only I haven't gone off as 
 quickly as he expected. And his mar- 
 riage has made a tiny little break — not 
 between him and me, — only in our lives 
 because, try as hard as I can, I can't 
 really love Mrs. Sheldon. 
 
 Cyril. Pst! Pst! Countess Casavetti. 
 
 Victoria. Who ? 
 
 Cyril. {Whispers strongly and disap- 
 pears.) Casavetti. 
 
 Jo. Oh, quickly — tell me something about 
 her. 
 
 Victoria. She is an American who mar- 
 ried a cheap Italian in a boarding house 
 in Florence. She 's a beastly little 
 woman — crazy about married men. 
 Takes everybody's husband away. They 
 call her the Housebreaker. 
 
 Jo. Where's her own husband? 
 
 Victoria. Oh, my dear! Lost a long 
 time ago in the shuffle. 
 
 Jo. But I don't see that this helps me 
 very much. 
 
 Victoria. Oh, you don't do yourself jus- 
 tice. 
 
 Jo. What's her latest? 
 
 Victoria. Tall ! 
 
 Jo. Dark or light? 
 
 Victoria. Dark. 
 
 Cyril. This way. 
 
 Countess. {Giggling as she enters.) 
 1 'm quite frightened. 
 
 Jo. You needn't be. 
 
 Countess. Of course you 're not really a 
 
 gypsy! 
 
 Jo. No, not really. 
 
 Countess. {Sitting by the table.) I 
 
 have n't the slightest idea who you are. 
 
 I hope you don't know me. 
 
 {Giving her left hand.) 
 Jo. I 'm sorry to say I never had the 
 
 pleasure of seeing you before in my life. 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 679 
 
 Countess. {Surprised.) But I 'm an ex- 
 tremely well-known woman in London 
 and having my portrait in the book of 
 beauty — unfortunately gave me added 
 notoriety. 
 
 Jo. {Looking at her left hand.) Too 
 bad! I see you have a great deal of 
 temperament. 
 
 Countess. Oh, where do you see that? 
 
 Jo. I mustn't give my trade away — but 
 I see you are a very ardent woman. " 
 
 Countess. It 's perfectly wonderful ! 
 You know I am. I adore men! 
 
 Jo. Well, I don't mind them myself. 
 
 Countess. Do you love every one f 
 
 Jo. No, I won't go so far as that — But 
 I think you 're what Cyril would call — 
 a flyer. 
 
 Countess. I rather like Cyril ! The trou- 
 ble is he 's not married and there 's no 
 excitement. 
 
 Jo. Oh, but he ^s young yet, he '11 keep, 
 and he 's sure to marry in time. You 
 must have your reserves. 
 
 Countess. That 's true ! How clever you 
 are. 
 
 {The "Watch on the Rhine'' is played 
 hy the hand in the distance. Jo and 
 the Countess lift their heads and 
 listen. ) 
 
 Countess The Royalties have arrived. 
 Do go on! 
 
 Jo. No — Yes, yes, it is there! 
 
 Countess. What ! ! 
 
 Jo. Do you want me to tell you every- 
 thing I see? 
 
 Countess. Oh, yes, please — everything. 
 
 (Vic enters.) 
 
 Jo. I see a married man coming across 
 your future. 
 
 Countess. {Excited.) Oh, is he coming 
 soon? 
 
 Jo. Very soon. 
 
 Countess. {Laughing with nervous de- 
 light.) What's he like? 
 
 Jo. Tall! 
 
 Countess. Oh, it's perfectly wonderful! 
 And is he dark? 
 
 Jo. Yes, dark. 
 
 Countess. Yes, that 's right. 
 
 Jo. Of course it 's right ; the hand never 
 lies. 
 
 Countess. I think it's perfectly amaz- 
 ing ! I 've always scoffed at this sort of 
 thing, you know! excuse me, but — are 
 you a lady, or are you paid for this? 
 
 Jo. I 'm doing this for my friend — I am 
 Miss Sheldon, an American. 
 
 Countess. {Quickly.) Don't tell me you 
 are the Miss Sheldon, the beauty who 
 was on the Riviera this winter? 
 
 Jo. No, I won't tell you that, but only 
 that I am Miss Jo Sheldon. 
 
 Countess. The one the Crown Prince of 
 Eastphalia is mad about? 
 
 Jo. There I can assure you you are very 
 wrong. 
 
 Countess. Not at all ! But I should never 
 have known you from your photograplis. 
 They do flatter, don't they? 
 
 Jo. Well, really! 
 
 Countess. Oh, you know what I mean! 
 I want to be taken by the same man — 
 you must give me his name and address. 
 
 {Re-enter Cyril.) 
 
 Cyril. You 've had your guinea's worth. 
 Countess Casavetti. 
 
 Countess. {Taking her parasol — rising 
 and going back of table to opening.) 
 Oh dear, do come to see me in London. 
 I am sure we would get on immensely, 
 and I should adore having you tell my 
 hand every day. 
 
 Cyril. Come, come, or it will be half a 
 crown extra. 
 
 Countess. Do lunch next Tuesday, I 've 
 a short blond one coming then. His 
 wife has died since I took him up, and 
 he rather bores me. ( Going. ) 1 'd love 
 to have you take him off my hands! 
 That 's a dear ! 0, your Royal High- 
 ness, how lucky I am, aren't I? Do 
 walk a step with me and let me tell you 
 all about the wonderful gypsy. 
 
 Jo. Well ! ! ! She is a pig ! She 's actu- 
 ally trying to walk off with my Prince! 
 
 Cyril. Your Prince? 
 
 Jo. Well, you know what I mean. 
 
 Cyril. You bet I do! 
 
 Jo. He is n't a married man. He 's none 
 of her business. 
 
 Victoria. {In the doorway, whispering.) 
 Pst! Cyril! Cyril! 
 
 Jo. Cyril! 
 
 Cyril. Prince? (Cyril rushes out.) 
 
 Victoria. Prince Adolf! 
 
 Jo. {Jumps up with a little scream of 
 joy.) Oh, hurrah! — she didn't keep 
 him long. I '11 reward him for that — if 
 I can! 
 
 Victoria. He only arrived here two min- 
 utes ago! It didn't take him long to 
 get here, did it? 
 
 Jo. Not very. 
 
 Victoria. {Insinuatingly.) I wonder if 
 
680 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 he knows by any chance who the gypsy 
 
 is? 
 Jo. (Mischievously.) I wonder! and by 
 
 the way you need n't wait, Vic — I 
 
 think I know all about him I need to. 
 Victoria. I thought I 'd just — 
 Jo. Well, you needn't think, my darling. 
 
 You can go away instead! 
 Victoria. No, I want to suggest that you 
 
 find a blonde woman "crossing his path." 
 Jo. You little beast! — I won't do any- 
 thing of the sort! — 0, but yes I will! 
 
 It will be great fun! Now ring your 
 
 little bell and run away. 
 Victoria. What 's your hurry ? 
 Jo. I'm not in a hurry, only — {pushing 
 
 her up to entrance) — please go away — 
 
 he might n't wait. 
 Victoria. Not wait! He'd wait till 
 
 Doomsday! {Exit.) 
 
 (Jo quickly moves the chair so they 
 are on the left and right of the 
 table.) 
 
 {Enter Prince Adolf. He comes down to 
 the table.) 
 
 Prince. Oh ! 
 
 Jo. {Curtseying.) Guten Tag, your 
 Royal Highness. 
 
 Prince. {Speaking in German.) If you 
 can speak German, then I will not talk 
 any more to you in English — 
 
 Jo. No ! No ! I can't really speak at all, 
 only the tiniest German! And you 
 speak English splendidly! 
 
 Prince. {Putting hat on table, he mo- 
 tions her to sit down.) Ach! Yah! I 
 spik what is you call der pidgin Eng- 
 lish! So! I have now come to you for 
 my future. Do you know that I was 
 much happy to ask mine future of your 
 hands? 
 
 Jo. 0, no, of yours. Come, put your 
 hand on the table, and let me read it! 
 
 Prince. {Disappointed.) On der table? 
 
 Jo. dear! What's the matter?— 
 
 Prince. They haf said you shall haf to 
 hold mine hand inside your hand to tell 
 me of it. 
 
 Jo. How much did you pay to come in the 
 tent? 
 
 Prince. One guinea. 
 
 Jo. 0, that is only for the table telhng. 
 It 's tw^o guineas for the charity, if I 
 tell it more — more sociably. 
 
 Prince. What is der charity? 
 
 Jo. Really a title for Mr. Botes. 
 
 Prince. What? 
 
 Jo. 0, no. I didn't mean that. Please 
 
 forget I said it. But surely you know, 
 it 's for the flood sufferers in Eastphalia? 
 
 Prince. So? 0, yes, I have forgot. 
 Goot! dere is de guinea. And now be- 
 gin. {Lifting his left hand and holding 
 it out.) Nein! Nein! dat was not com- 
 fortable — {he takes her left hand in his 
 right hand, and puts his left hand over 
 her right hand) — and I was frightened 
 for fear you shall drop it — please ! watch 
 out! hold it so! So! Dat is better! 
 
 Jo. Excuse me, who 's telling this for- 
 tune, you or I? 
 
 Prince. Ach! Gott! You! 
 
 {Looks lovingly at her, and squeezes 
 her hand.) 
 
 Jo. {Laughing.) Oh! but you mustn't 
 do that ! 
 
 Prince. What I do? 
 
 Jo. Squeeze my hand — you know per- 
 fectly well. And if you do it again I '11 
 give your money back and not tell you 
 a thing! {Pushing the coin.) 
 
 Prince. I beg pardons. 
 
 {Puts out his left hand and pushes the 
 coin back.) 
 
 Jo. {With mock severity.) That's bet- 
 ter. You must remember that you are 
 to let your hand lie perfectly quiet or 
 else the important lines won't show. 
 Whatever pressing is to be done, I must 
 do it. 
 
 Prince. Will you? {Eagerly.) 
 
 Jo. {Holding his left hand.) If it's nec- 
 essary to tell the lines. 
 
 Prince. I shall like dat immense — go on. 
 {Gazing into her eyes lovingly.) 
 
 Jo. You mustn't look at me like that, 
 either. 
 
 Prince. Why not? 
 
 Jo. It — it — sort of prejudices me aii^ 
 keeps me from seeing straight. 
 
 Prince. {Turning aivay and leaving hand 
 with Jo.) Well, I shall do me mein best 
 and look out away. Only now make a 
 beginning. 
 
 Jo. Well ! ! You have a lovely disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 Prince. Dat was not true, you shall be 
 one bad hand reader. 
 
 Jo. Wait a minute — that is the hand of 
 what you might be. Give me your other 
 hand. 
 
 Prince. You shall take bose when you 
 like. 
 
 {Turns to her, giving both.) 
 
 Jo. No, thank you — {putting the left 
 aivay, keeping the right) — I think one of 
 your hands, your Royal Highness, is all 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 681, 
 
 I can manage at a time. Now in this 
 
 hand is the line as you Ve made it your- 
 self, and it says you have spoiled your 
 
 disposition. 
 Prince. Well, dat vas not true either. 
 Jo. Thank you! I seem to have made a 
 
 good beginning ! ! ! 
 Prince. You haf not begin yet! It shall 
 
 take you one hour to begin, and one 
 
 more hour also to make finish. 
 
 {He kisses her hand; then takes' her 
 
 hand in both of his, and kisses it.) 
 
 Jo. {Taking her hand away.) Prince 
 
 Adolf! If you do anything like that 
 
 again I will begin and finish, at the same 
 
 time, and at once. 
 
 {Pushes coin toward him.) 
 Prince. Forgeef me! 
 
 {Pushes coin hack.) 
 Jo. I will — partially. 
 Prince. Thanks. 
 Jo. {Going on with the right hand.) 
 
 You are capable of loving very deeply. 
 Prince. Ah, dat was right!! 
 Jo. But I can't make out if it is loving 
 
 someone else, or yourself. 
 Prince. So! Well, you shall skip dat, I 
 
 know mineself dat answer. 
 
 {He leans over table. She looks up 
 at him, smiling; he smiles mean- 
 ingly back at her — she turns her 
 glance away — and then back to his 
 hand.) 
 Jo. You are very brave. 
 Prince. That vas nefer mein fault. Dere 
 
 vas nefer one Hohenhetstein a coward! 
 Jo. {Looking at him.) You will make a 
 
 splendid, kind, sensible, republican king! 
 
 — just like a President! 
 Prince. Is dat in mein hand? 
 Jo. Yes, and I know it 's in your heart 
 
 too. 
 Prince. I cannot guarantee dat! mein 
 
 heart is so full of something else just 
 
 now. 
 Jo. {Softly.) You are going to be loved 
 
 very, very deeply. 
 Prince. {Softly, hut excited — eager.) 
 
 Yes? 
 Jo. Yes! {She looks up at him a second 
 
 and then adds.) By your subjects! 
 Prince. {Angry.) Ach! Is dat all? 
 Jo. No- 
 Prince. {Softly again.) No? 
 Jo. {Softly.) No! 
 Prince. There was someone else? 
 Jo. Yes. 
 Prince. Yes? 
 
 {A pause. Jo looking at his hand, he 
 
 at her. ^ He places his free hand on 
 hers. She lifts it off and looking 
 up at him, points back to his hand.) 
 
 Jo. Yes, look. Your fate line is crossed 
 right here — by a blonde woman. 
 
 Prince. By a vat ! ! ! 
 
 Jo. By a blonde woman. 
 
 Prince. Neffer! {Takes his hand away.) 
 
 Jo. Yes, it 's there in your hand! 
 
 Prince. Damn it! Where! 
 
 Jo. Really!!! 
 
 Prince. 0, I beg your pardons! I beg 
 your pardons! but look once more — you 
 shall be mistaken, where was der blonde 
 lady? 
 
 Jo. There ! Don't you see — a lovely little 
 canary blonde! 
 
 Prince. Nein! I hate canaries! and I 
 see only one tall, beautiful, black-haired, 
 blue-eyed Juno! 
 
 Jo. well, that 's because you don't un- 
 derstand how to read a hand. 
 
 Prince. No, just look one other time and 
 see when you can't see with mein eyes^ 
 I see her dark! 
 
 Jo. But that 's the best I do : it 's impossi- 
 ble to go back upon your fate line. See I 
 there she is, a little blonde. 
 
 {Pointing it out in right hand.) 
 
 Prince. No, I was not willing to see her 
 — she was a lie! 
 
 Jo. No, she 's true. She crosses- your 
 fate line, just like Forty-second Street- 
 
 Prince. Vat vas dat? Forty-second 
 Street? 
 
 Jo. 0, it 's the — the equator of New 
 York; it crosses every important street 
 in the city and lands you in the water 
 at both sides. I 'm afraid she 's a stren- 
 uous lady, your blonde, and that you 've 
 got the water ahead of you. 
 
 Prince. {Looking disgustedly at his 
 hand.) It was all your joking. It has 
 all not nothing of truth at it. I tell you 
 what we do. Try now the other hand 
 once. 
 
 {The Prince holds out his left hand.) 
 
 Jo. It wouldn't do any good. That 
 hand 's only what you might have been. 
 
 Prince. Perhaps it was not too late yet 
 for me to be what I might have been. 
 
 Jo. Perhaps not! 
 
 {Enter Cyril and ViC.) 
 
 Cyril. I 'm sorry, sir, but time 's up. 
 
 And there 's a line out here waiting a 
 
 dozen deep. 
 Prince. But I vas not satisfied at mein 
 
 future. 
 
682 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Cyril. Try another! 
 
 Prince. {Rises, to Cyril.) Yes, she 
 haf told der wrong hand. Here is an- 
 other guinea. 
 
 (Jo sees Vic, and motions her quickly 
 to go back — she exits.) 
 
 Prince. Here vas two — I will haf der 
 two guinea kind. 
 
 Cyril. What 's the two guinea kind? 
 
 Jo. Never mind, I 'II see he gets it. 
 Good-bye, Cyril! 
 
 Cyril. Good what? 
 
 Jo. Good-bye. 
 
 Prince. Good-bye. 
 
 Cyril. Ah! Don't worry! — Good-bye! 
 
 (Cyril bows and exits.) 
 
 Prince. {Sitting and giving the right 
 hand.) Now! Try bose, and please be 
 good. 
 
 Jo. {Mischievously.) You've sort of dis- 
 couraged me, but I will try once more. 
 
 Prince. Do you not see some new lines 
 dis time? 
 
 Jo. Yes, here your life line breaks and 
 one side goes off at right angles! Can 
 that mean going away from your throne ? 
 
 Prince. How? 
 
 Jo. Perhaps a revolution in Eastphalia! 
 
 Prince. {Laughing.) 0, neffer! Ve vas 
 the smallest and der happiest Kingdom 
 in all Germany. 
 
 Jo. It could n't mean that you are going 
 to give up the throne ! 
 
 Prince. neffer! dat vas also as impos- 
 sible ! 
 
 Jo. Impossible! 
 
 Prince. Why should I mein throne give 
 up? Let us skip Pollittiks and go on 
 to the heart line. 
 
 Jo. You 're quite right. Why should you 
 give up your throne? By all means let 
 us skip pollittiks. Well, this hand says 
 you love much — 
 
 Prince. Yah ! 
 
 Jo. {Continues.) And often! 
 
 Prince. Nein! 
 
 Jo. And you are loved back often — 
 
 Prince. Nein, nein! 
 
 Jo. But not much. 
 
 Prince. {Angry.) What beastly hands 
 I do have for mineself. 
 
 Jo. Until— 
 
 {She looks up dramatically, but smil- 
 ing.) 
 
 Prince. Until? 
 
 Jo. Yes, you see — until that blonde 
 woman crosses fate line! 
 
 Prince. {Rises.) Nein, nein. 
 
 Jo. I 'm very sorry, I can't help it ! 
 
 maybe she 's a German Princess. She 
 
 evidently js your fate. 
 Prince. Miss Sheldon!!! 
 Jo. {Rising.) Sir? 
 Prince. Miss Sheldon, I tink you vas one 
 
 great big flirt! 
 Jo. Your Royal Highness, I tink you was 
 
 one little other! {Curtseys.) 
 
 Prince. {Angry — bows.) Good-bye — 
 
 {Turns and goes to door.) 
 Jo. Good-bye. You 're not really going ? 
 Prince. Not really! 
 Jo. Come back — come back. I '11 tell it 
 
 all over again. 
 Prince. You will! 
 Jo. No ! for nothing this time — we '11 see 
 
 if I can't change the color of that lady's 
 
 hair. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 The scene is the conservatory at Mr. 
 Botes' house in London on the follow- 
 ing Monday night. The room is semi- 
 circular with a green lattice work cov- 
 ered with ivy running around it. 
 Extending from the right toward the 
 center is a white marble carved bench. 
 Behind it a tier of pink rhododendron 
 bushes is in full bloom. On the left, 
 toward the rear, is a door leading to the 
 garden. Also on the left, but farther 
 forward are the doors which lead into 
 the drawing room. 
 
 Mrs. Sheldon is sitting on the marble 
 bench. Hallen and Weeks enter from 
 the garden, carrying a string of Japa- 
 enes lanterns. 
 
 Mrs. S. {To Hallen.) Have you told 
 Miss Sheldon I want her? 
 
 Hallen. Yes, madam, she 's here. 
 
 {Exeunt Hallen and Weeks.) 
 
 Jo. {Entering from the left.) They're i 
 clamoring for you, mother. Mr. Botes f 
 and Vic are at the head of the big stair- 
 case to receive the Grand Duchess. 
 
 Mrs. S. And Prince Adolf! 
 
 Jo. No, he 's at Buckingham Palace at a 
 state dinner, and is coming on by him- 
 self. 
 
 Mrs. S. Is there ink and paper any- 
 where? {pointedly) — down here? 
 
 Jo. {Motioning to the left.) In there — 
 there always is. 
 
 Mrs. S. I want to write a message for 
 you to take to Mr. Botes. I have my 
 gloves on. Does he know your hand- 
 writing? 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 683 
 
 Jo. No, I don't suppose so. What dif- 
 ference does that make ? I '11 write it if 
 you like. 
 
 Mrs. S. No, after all it's private busi- 
 ness ; perhaps he 'd rather — 
 
 Jo. Well, make haste or you'll be late. 
 How lovely it is out here — I wonder if 
 he'll— Ready, Mother? 
 
 Mrs. S. One minute. I 'm sealing it — 
 you won't mind, will you? 
 
 Jo. Not at all. It looks to me as if -you 
 and Mr. Botes were going into a part- 
 nership. 
 
 Mrs. S. (Lightly.) Well, if I could be 
 as lucky in business as Mr. Botes — 
 
 Jo. You could n't be because you 're so 
 generous. Even Mr. Botes' own chil- 
 dren acknowledge he 's the hardest fisted, 
 most miserly nice person they ever knew. 
 
 Mrs. S. Give that to Mr. Botes without a 
 word, except that I '11 join him in a 
 moment. 
 
 Jo. He 's frightfully bored at the idea of 
 having the old lady on his hands and at 
 the same time overjoyed at the chance. 
 And he's told me already three times 
 what the ball is costing him. 
 
 (She starts to leave.) 
 
 (Enter Hallen.) 
 
 Hallen. Here is Mrs. Sheldon, your 
 Royal Highness. 
 
 (Enter the Prince.) 
 
 Prince. Goodt eefning, Laties! 
 
 (Both women curtsey and say "good 
 evening.'' Mrs. Sheldon turns to 
 the seat at the right.) 
 Prince. I was lucky to find you bose to- 
 gether ! 
 Jo. And you are still more lucky, sir, in 
 that I am obliged to leave you at once, 
 if your Royal Highness will allow me, — 
 Prince. Please don't so Royal Highness 
 me, it make me what you — Miss Sheldon 
 'ave call "tired" not? 
 Jo. (To him, in mock aside.) Beware! 
 Mrs. Sheldon is very attractive, and you 
 see — she 's blonde — she 's nearly blonde. 
 (As she leaves the stage, the Prince 
 starts to follow her.) 
 Mrs. S. Prince Adolf. 
 Prince. (Turning to her.) Yah, Ma- 
 dame? 
 Mrs. S. I had intended asking for this 
 interview. Will you forgive me — if I 
 speak very, very frankly f 
 
 (The Prince steps toward her — em- 
 harrassed.) 
 
 Prince. Yah, bitte. If you please. 
 
 Mrs. S. People are gossiping very openly 
 about my step-daughter and your Royal 
 Highness. 
 
 Prince. Yes, I have heard dat today, and 
 I think only of what I shall do for to 
 make Miss Sheldon forgif me. 
 
 Mrs. S. Thank you! It will be easy. 
 Prince Adolf, if you love her. 
 
 Prince. If I love her! Ach, Gott! with 
 all mein hearts, with all mein — what you 
 call der oder ting — mein souls — mein 
 souls ! 
 
 Mrs. S. Then believe me, sir, Jo will for- 
 give you because — (pauses a moment, 
 then finishes in a lowered voice, hut im- 
 pressively) — she loves you too. 
 
 Prince. Nein, nein! She haf always 
 make joke at me. 
 
 Mrs. S. If you knew her as well as I do, 
 you 'd know that proved she cared. 
 
 Prince. And I may tell to her dat I loaf 
 her! 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes. And I speak for her father 
 as well as myself. (Conversationally.) 
 You know a marriage between your 
 Royal Highness and Jo can't be the con- 
 ventional one, but we are willing to trust 
 her happiness to you, and so I beg you 
 to put a stop to scandal before it begins, 
 and speak to Jo tonight. 
 
 Prince. I tank you one million times! 
 (Bows and kisses her hand.) 1 shall 
 speak with her so soon as possible when 
 she shall allow me. 
 
 (Enter Hallen.) 
 
 Hallen. Beg pardon, ma'am. Her Royal 
 Highness is arriving. (Exit.) 
 
 Mrs. S. I must help receive. 
 Prince. (Aside, as he leaves.) She 
 bores me. 
 
 (Mrs. Sheldon meets Jo, Vic, Cyril 
 in the doors on the left.) 
 Mrs. S. I 'm going to receive the Grand 
 Duchess. 
 
 (They all greet each other as they 
 meet.) 
 Cyril. Excuse me, but I am very busy. 
 
 (He goes to the bench with card.) 
 Jo. What are they going to do with her 
 
 Royal Highness? 
 Victoria. They 're going to show her 
 through the rooms and then dump her 
 and her suite on a dais in the Ball Room. 
 Jo. What are you doing there, Cyril? 
 Cyril. Oh, I '11 put you on. This is the 
 Spooners' Retreat, you know, or will 
 know before the evening 's over. 
 
684 
 
 HER GREAT MxVTCH 
 
 Jo. It depends upon who shows it to me. 
 
 Cyril. How many guesses do you give 
 me? 
 
 Jo. None. 
 
 Cyril. Well, I 'm giving it a finishing 
 touch. 
 
 Jo. {Reads on the card.) "A friendly 
 hint to Rheumatic couples." 
 
 Victoria. What? 
 
 Cyril. No, no. Romantic couples. Lis- 
 ten, _ Jo — you may find this very useful. 
 
 Jo. You silly person. 
 
 Cyril. {Reading card.) "Press the elec- 
 tric knob hanging on the side of the 
 lamp if you want moonlight only." 
 Watch! {Presses button and out go all 
 the lights, and only moonlight pours in 
 through the glass roof on the marhle 
 bench.) Wouldn't that make anyone 
 feel billy-and-coo-y ? 
 
 Victoria. Well, rather. 
 
 Jo. A little too light still for the Countess 
 Casavetti, is n't it ? She would want the 
 moon on an electric button too. 
 
 {She presses a button, and the lights 
 come on again.) 
 
 Cyril. 0, well, of course it 's really all 
 planned just for you and Adolf. 
 
 Vic and Jo. Cyril! 
 
 Jo. Allow me to inform you, Mr. Scally- 
 wag C>Til, that Prince Adolf and myself 
 parted at the fete on Saturday at sword 
 points. 
 
 Cyril. {Pins the card on the bushes.) 
 Well, if you want to make up, drag 
 him here, and press the button, the moon 
 will do the rest. 
 
 Jo. Our little misunderstanding — was 
 really Vic's fault. 
 
 Vic. Mine ? 
 
 Jo. Yes, I took your advice when I read 
 his hand, and told him a blonde woman 
 would be his destiny. 
 
 Cyril. Clever Vic! She was evidently 
 trying to sneak one for herself. 
 
 Vic. {Laughing.) It didn't do me much 
 good. 
 
 Cyril. Was that the third or fifth time 
 you told his hand? 
 
 Vic. ( Laughing. ) What ? 
 
 Jo. None of your business. 
 
 Cyril. {Laughing.) Jo hung on to his 
 hand like a terrier to a rat. 
 
 Jo. {Becomes serious and a little angry.) 
 Now look here, Cyril, I 've had just 
 about all the teasing on this subject I 
 care to put up with. It is n't funny any 
 longer; I don't care at all — or — in that 
 way — for Prince Adolf — any more than 
 
 he cares for me. Under the circum- 
 stances any more of your teasing will 
 not be in exactly the best of taste. 
 
 Cyril. {Wilts grotesquely.) Crushed! 
 
 Jo. {Slowly losing her anger.) Well, so 
 you ought to be. • 
 
 Cyril. {Rises, goes on his knees, touches 
 the floor with his forehead before her.) 
 Forgive me! 
 
 Jo. {Laughing.) I wish I couldn't. 
 
 Vic. {Looking off.) Cyril! Quick! 
 They 're coming ! 
 
 {The Duchess, Mr. Botes, and Mrs. 
 Sheldon are seen coming through 
 the room at left. Cyril gets up 
 hurriedly. They enter.) 
 
 Botes. This, ma'am, is the Flirtation 
 Corner. 
 
 Duchess. Ach! Schon, sehr schon. 
 
 Botes. And here are the young people. 
 My son and daughter — 
 
 Duchess. Goot eefning. 
 
 Botes. And the Goddess of Liberty come 
 over from the States. 
 
 Jo. Only to Cuba and the Philippines as 
 yet, your Royal Highness. 
 
 Duchess. I see Liberty vas becoming a 
 leetle crowded over dere. She vas be- 
 ginning to emigrate — {looking at her) — 
 Not? So! I find it not easy to recog- 
 nize the gypsy. {She notices Jo's em- 
 barrassment. To Cyril.) You vas in 
 love mit Mees Sheldon — not? 
 
 Cyril. Oh, something awful, ma'am. 
 
 Vic. Silly boy! 
 
 Jo. {Laughing.) Oh, no, not at all, 
 ma'am. Cyril knows me too well. 
 
 Duchess. {Laughing.) So? 
 
 Vic. {Comes to right of Jo and puts her 
 left arm around her.) That is not true, 
 ma'am. To know my American friend 
 is to love her the more. 
 
 Duchess. So ! 
 
 Jo. {Laughing.) Miss Botes is my best 
 friend, ma'am, she is prejudiced. 
 
 Duchess. So — after all, handsome is vat 
 handsome doos. Not? 
 
 Vic. Yes, and she does, ma'am. 
 
 Cyril. Yes, ma'am, she doos. 
 
 Duchess. So. {To Jo.) Compliment. 
 Are there other rooms? 
 
 Botes. No, ma'am. 
 
 Duchess. Den I shall ask will you let 
 me speag mit you a leedle and Mrs. Shel- 
 don here? 
 
 Botes. Certainly, ma'am. 
 
 (Mrs Sheldon looks startled.) 
 
 Duchess. {To Jo.) It ees not fair for 
 an old woman to monopolize der loafers' 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 685 
 
 comer. But I vill promise not geep him 
 long. 
 
 Botes. Vic, you 'd better be looking after 
 the guests. 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo, go in the garden, dear, and 
 I will join you. 
 
 Jo. No, I think I 'd better help Vic. 
 
 Vic. Yes, do. 
 
 (Vic and Jo leave together.) 
 
 Cyril. I want to see if the lanterns have 
 been placed all right. 
 
 [Exit through door at hack.) 
 
 Duchess. Will you all please to sit you 
 down, Misses. (Mrs. S. sits on bench, 
 Botes sits on seat at left of bench.) 
 Mine nephew has yesterday told me all. 
 Ach, lieber Adolf. It vas beautiful how 
 he loaf her. And so sad. {She gets 
 tearful.) He swears he shall kill him- 
 self mitout her. It vas peautiful. 
 
 Mrs. S. You sympathize with the young 
 people, ma'am? 
 
 Duchess. With all mein hearts. Aber, I 
 vas nutting. It vas the King who vas 
 der master of us all. When I haf seen 
 Miss Sheldon I telegraphed to mein 
 brudder and I haf only just now re- 
 ceived his answer before I come tonide, 
 and it makes necessary dat I say it out 
 to you at once. 
 
 (Botes and Mrs. S. exchange a ques- 
 tioning look.) 
 
 Duchess. Mein brudder does not know 
 what you mean quite about Mees Shel- 
 don and der Prince Adolf. 
 
 Botes. I beg your pardon, ma'am? 
 
 Duchess. You 'ave them brought much 
 together, not? 
 
 Botes. But always at the urgent request 
 of Prince Adolf, ma'am. 
 
 Duchess. You had made much better, 
 Misses, to have taken your daughter away 
 from here before dis — 
 
 Mrs. S. Miss Sheldon is only my step- 
 daughter. She is her own mistress. 
 
 Duchess. She haf not the air of an in- 
 triguante, but she shall haf known dat a 
 marriage between her and a heir to a 
 throne vas not possible. 
 
 Mrs. S. Perhaps my stepdaughter may 
 have been persuaded by Prince Adolf 
 that such was not the case. 
 
 Duchess. Ooch. You know what loafers 
 will say — you haf had loafers. Misses, 
 not? 
 
 Mrs. S. {With a cynical smile.) I have 
 been married twice, ma'am. 
 
 Duchess. So? Compliment! Aber, Mr. 
 Botes, you must »ot have encouraged 
 
 deir meetings. You vas one of us at 
 Eastphalia, King George haf very much 
 anger mit you for dis. 
 
 Botes. {Looking at Mrs. Sheldon.) I 
 assure you, ma'am, I did not know — 
 
 Mrs. S. {Quickly.) If the young people 
 wanted to meet, ma'am, they would have 
 managed it somewhere in spite of Mr. 
 Botes. {She looks meaningly at Botes.) 
 
 Duchess. So. Well, after dat I haf seen 
 Mees Sheldon on Saturday I haf writ- 
 ten a long letter to the King all about 
 vat I find vas der danger for Adolf and 
 dis message vas tooken at His Majesty, 
 by Colonel Toochberg, who haf come met 
 me ofer from Eastphalia for dat. He 
 is arrived dis afternoon because I haf, 
 just now before I come here, received 
 of His Majesty mein answer. He dis- 
 patches me by wire that Prince Adolf 
 shall return to Eastphalia by der Egs- 
 press tomorrow. Prince Adolf shall be 
 at once sent to Manchuria as our attache 
 of the Russian army. (Mrs. S. smiles to 
 herself.) I haf alles dis to tell mein 
 nephew here tonight. 
 
 {A long silence — the Duchess rises — 
 all rise, Botes goes toward the foun- 
 tain. ) 
 
 Duchess. I vas very sorry dat I must 
 speak all dose disagreeable tings. I loaf 
 loaf, and I loaf mein nephew, and she 
 vas very beautiful — Mees Sheldon. Ach! 
 if I shall let myself tink of it, it vas 
 terrible, loaf's young dream. Ach! 
 
 {Sniffles.) 
 
 Mrs. S. You have loved yourself, once, 
 ma'am, perhaps? 
 
 Duchess. Lieber Gott, yah. I have loafed 
 ven I vas a leedle girl. A soldier, just 
 a common soldier. His fader vas a 
 bootcher. Aber Himmel, he vas peauti- 
 ful, just like a imache. He stood on 
 sentry duty half of efery week outside 
 der palace door, and we haf neffer spoke 
 except mit our eyes. But we haf loafd 
 two years. {She is in tears, and blows 
 her nose heavily. After a moment's 
 pause — she steps forward.) So, und 
 den I haf married mein cousin, the Grand 
 Duke, because I vas a Princess — so it 
 always vas — and always shall be — we 
 must obey the laws of our family, and of 
 our country, and of our King. Mein 
 nephew and meinself shall return to East- 
 phalia tomorrow. You will like to have 
 a few words with Mrs. Sheldon. May I 
 please ask you to call your nice son to 
 take me back to the ball room? 
 
386 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Botes. Thank you, ma'am. 
 
 {He goes hack of the fountain, to door 
 hack at the rear and is heard calling 
 "Cyril — Cyril" — answered hy a dis- 
 tant "whoop" from Cyril.) 
 Mrs. S. {Aside to BucuESS.) Your Royal 
 Highness, is there not such a thing pos- 
 sible as a Morganatic marriage in your 
 country ? 
 Duchess. Yah, but I tink mein brudder 
 shall neffer consent to dat. It would 
 make one scandal I tink mit der people. 
 And any way der Kang commands "us to 
 come back tomorrow. Dat is der best 
 finish. Time shall cure, not? You say 
 yourself you haf twice married — then 
 you shall haf forgot once loving — not? 
 
 {Re-enter Cyril — followed hy Botes. 
 Botes stays hy the left entrance.) 
 
 Cyril. I 'm sorry you won't stay in the 
 Spooners' Comer with me, ma'am! 
 
 {Offers his arm.) 
 
 Duchess. {Laughing heartily.) Ach — 
 you vas a nice boy. (Cyril hows.) I 
 hope I haf showed tagt. It vas not easy 
 to do mein dooty, I vas glad it vas ofer. 
 And now, Mr. Botes, I am going with 
 all mein hearts to enjoy your peautiful 
 pardy. 
 
 {Takes his arm. Botes hows, and the 
 Duchess and Cyril exeunt.) 
 
 Botes. Well then, it's all off, is it? 
 
 {Disappointed.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Not at all. {Emphatically.) Jo 
 gave you a note just now — didn't you 
 open it? 
 
 Botes. Yes, but you can't hold me to this 
 agreement now. 
 
 Mrs S. If Jo is still willing to carry out 
 her share, why not? 
 
 Botes. How can she with the Prince's 
 father determined against it? 
 
 Mrs. S. Suppose the Prince disoheys his 
 father? It wouldn't be the first time in 
 history, royal or otherwise. 
 
 Botes. But is it likely? 
 
 Mrs. S. It's more than likely, it's cer- 
 tain. I have had a talk with him, only 
 a few minutes ago. Mr. Botes, it 's all 
 the more necessary now for you, if you 
 want an Eastplialian title, to stand by 
 us. With King George angry, and hold- 
 ing you to blame for the present state 
 of affairs — your only chance must be the 
 Prince Adolf. 
 
 Botes. When do you want the money? 
 
 Mrs. S. You promised to get it ready for 
 me today. 
 
 Botes. And I have. The securities are 
 in the hands of the Bank. All I have to 
 do is to write out a cheque. 
 
 Mrs. S. Write it out tonight. 
 
 Botes. {Pale and surprised.) Tonight! 
 
 Mrs. S. {Pleading.) Well, early tomor- 
 row morning. Mr. Botes — {puts her left 
 arm on his right shoulder) — you 've made 
 me trust you. I 've opened my heart to 
 you as I 've never done to any other man. 
 Don't disappoint me. Please don't. 
 
 Botes. {Facing her, half humorous, half 
 cynical.) You know it 's about the poor- 
 est business I ever went into. It would 
 take more than a day to find any real 
 security in it. 
 
 Mrs. S. But think what the Barony will 
 mean to you and your Cyril. Without 
 it you have now already everything in 
 the business world — with it, you will have 
 the social world at your feet, too. That 
 world which has up to now turned its 
 back on you and snubbed your son — 
 you '11 have that world to do what you 
 like with, men and women. For women 
 won't resist you, that I know — 
 
 (Botes turns to her — she has her left 
 arm on his right shoulder.) 
 
 Botes. {Turning to her.) You!!! 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes, I! {Looks him straight in 
 the face, holding her face close to his. 
 Botes looks and slowly hends nearer to 
 her — she very slightly moves a tiny hit 
 nearer and lifts her face — he kisses her.) 
 
 Mrs. S. {Looks down.) You don't really 
 dislike me then? 
 
 {With passion in her voice.) 
 
 Botes. I fancy I like you, — (Mrs. S. looks 
 at him) — all that's good for me. 
 
 {Keeps his eye on her.) 
 
 Mrs. S. {Laughing.) You brute, you. 
 You know you hurt my feelings by that. 
 You make me ^Tetched. 
 
 Botes. Well, cheer up. You shall have 
 the cheque tomorrow morning. (Mrs. S. 
 turns.) Oh, by the bye, is it to be made 
 out to you or to Miss Jo? 
 
 Mrs. S. To neither — to George W. Pren- 
 ter. 
 
 Botes. What name? 
 
 Mrs. S. Prenter— T— E— R— . President 
 of the Central National Bank of New 
 York. Does n't that give you confidence? 
 
 Botes. {Smiling.) Oh, I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. S. Send Jo here, and I '11 bring the 
 Prince. 
 
 Botes. Very good. 
 
 Mrs. S. And do forget how foolish I wa§ 
 just now. 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 687 
 
 Botes. Forget it! I hope not. Not if it 
 costs me £40,000 ! 
 
 {With a smile, he exits at left.) 
 Mrs. S. You prosaic ogre, you. 
 
 (Mrs. S. turns to the fountain, wets 
 her handkerchief in water, presses 
 it to her lips and to her forehead and 
 goes and sits on the bench.) 
 
 (Jo enters.) 
 
 Jo. It strikes me, Mrs. Sheldon, that you 
 
 are monopolizing the Lovers' Retreat — 
 
 I shall have to report you to father. 
 Mrs. S. My dear girl, this time I 'm only 
 
 holding Cupid's bower for you. 
 Jo. Really! Much obliged. {Looking.) 
 
 But as Cupid's Bower for me it is a lit- 
 tle too lonely even with you in it to meet 
 
 all the requirements. 
 Mrs. S. Wait till I wave my wand and 
 
 the Fairy Prince comes. 
 Jo. Very well, I '11 wait. But meanwhile 
 
 what did Mr. Botes mean by saying just 
 
 now, "Don't worry, I 've seen your 
 
 mother. It's all right"? 
 Mrs. S. He means your happiness, my 
 
 dear. 
 Jo. What has my happiness to do with 
 
 that selfish old person? 
 Mrs. S. {Secretively and impressively.) 
 
 Jo! 
 Jo. What? 
 Mrs. S. I 've had a very interesting and 
 
 very important talk with Prince Adolf. 
 Jo. Oh ! — I told him to beware of a blonde 
 
 woman ! 
 Mrs. S. Shall I warn you? 
 Jo. No!!! Warn me of what? 
 Mrs. S. He 's out in the garden now. 
 Jo. {Jealous.) With whom,? 
 Mrs. S. {Smiling.) Alone. 
 Jo. well, serves him right. He was 
 
 very rude to me when I told his hand 
 
 Saturday. 
 Mrs. S. He says on the contrary that you 
 
 always make fun of him. 
 Jo. If he knew me he 'd know that was a 
 
 sign that I liked him. 
 Mrs. S. That 's what I told him. 
 Jo. {Really pleased.) How dared you! 
 
 I am very angry. 
 Mrs. S. He is waiting out there all this 
 
 time alone for a chance to see you. 
 Jo. Oh, he probably has a cigar, and no 
 
 man 's very lonely when he has a cigar. 
 Mrs. S. Jo, it's coming out all right; he 
 
 loves you. 
 Jo. He doesn't. 
 Mrs, S. He told me so, 
 
 Jo. Well, he 'd much better have told me. 
 
 Mrs. S. Will you give him the chance? 
 
 Jo. No. 
 
 Mrs. S. You won't? 
 
 Jo. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. S. He 's waiting for a signal from 
 
 me that you are here, alone. 
 Jo. Don't you give it! 
 Mrs. S. {At door, at hack.) What? 
 Jo. I mean do. 
 
 (Mrs. S. goes to door at hack, and 
 calls ^'Prince Adolf!'') 
 Prince. {Off stage.) Yes, madame. 
 Mrs. S. May I speak to you a moment? 
 Prince. I comst. 
 
 (Mrs. S. nods and exits quickly.) 
 
 (Prince Adolf enters from the hack, comes 
 forward to the left of the fountain.) 
 
 Prince. {Looks about.) Yes, madame, I 
 vas here. {Laughing.) I tink you vas 
 your mother. 
 
 Jo. Thank you. I 'm sorry to disappoint 
 you. {She leans upon the basin of the 
 fountain.) Do you like gold fish? 
 
 Prince. I don't know — because — why? 
 {Leaning on the opposite side of foun- 
 tain. ) 
 
 Jo. 0, I don't know. I was just trying 
 to make conversation. 
 
 Prince. {Left of fountain.) They vas 
 slippery, like to a girl. 
 
 Jo. I thought you might like them because 
 they 're blonde. 
 
 Prince. Miss Jo, I wish you shall be seri- 
 ous mit me dis night. 
 
 Jo. Not before supper? 
 
 Prince. When shall you be serious? 
 
 Jo. Well; if I must make a positive date, 
 I should say about two thirty I shall be- 
 gin to feel rather serious. 
 
 Prince. Very goot. And while we wait 
 you shall give to me my future again. 
 
 Jo. Oh no, I will not. 
 
 Prince. Bitte! Let me gif yours at you 
 then now? 
 
 Jo. No, thank you. I know that you 'd 
 tell me that I am a flirt. 
 
 Prince. But are you? 
 
 Jo. I am! 
 
 Prince. And you haf flirted mit me? 
 
 Jo. I have. 
 
 Prince. For why? 
 
 Jo. For fun. 
 
 Prince. How was dat "for fun"? 
 
 Jo. It is like when you play a game. 
 
 Prince. What game? 
 
 Jo. {Desperate.) mercy! I never 
 heard so many questions I {She looks at 
 
688 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 him a second, smiling without speaking 
 
 and hears the music in the hall room.) 
 
 They 're dancing, Prince Adolf, don't 
 
 you want to dance? 
 Prince. {Goes behind fountain, close to 
 
 her.) Mit you? Yah. Always. 
 Jo. No, thank you — I don't care to dance. 
 Prince. Den I stay here all der night with 
 
 you. 
 Jo. no, you won't. I shall go to bed 
 
 about three o'clock. 
 Prince. You shall get tired? 
 Jo. Very. 
 
 Prince. I shall bore you? 
 Jo. (Satirically.) no! (Pretends to 
 
 yawn.) Excuse me. 
 Prince. You was already bored — not? 
 Jo. Suppose I ask a few questions now. 
 
 Aren't you bored? 
 Prince. Yah. 
 Jo. really — ^why? 
 Prince. Because I tink your mother have 
 
 tell me lies. 
 Jo. What did Mother Lena tell you ? 
 Prince. I am ashamed to say. 
 Jo. 0, Lena ! ! Was it so bad as that ? 
 Prince. She say dat you loaf me. 
 Jo. How dared she? (Very angry.) 
 
 No, it is n't true. 
 Prince. Yah, she say you loaf me. 
 Jo. Oh! (Her arm and her hand with 
 
 her glove on go into the water.) Oh! 
 Prince. allow me. Allow me dat I 
 
 dry it, please. 
 Jo. No, it 's horrid. I '11 take it off. 
 Prince. (Follows her.) Allow to me. 
 Jo. Yes, it is so horrid. I think I will 
 
 let you. 
 Prince. Tank you. (Unbuttons glove.) 
 Jo. Yes, but please hurry and take it 
 
 ofe. 
 
 Prince. So. (Starting very slowly to 
 take it off.) I was afraid to make too 
 quick, when I might hurt you. 
 
 Jo. 0, you needn't be afraid of that at 
 all. 
 
 Prince. Yah, Mrs. Sheldon haf said you 
 loaf me. 
 
 Jo. I heard you the first time you said 
 that. Mrs. Sheldon unfortunately some- 
 times wanders in her speech. 
 
 Prince. How vas dat? 
 
 Jo. (With pretended hauteur.) I am sur- 
 prised that you listened to her. 
 
 Prince. Listened? Gott! I will listen 
 to dat all mein life! 
 
 Jo. ( Very grandiloquently.) I 'm ashamed 
 of my mother. If you would just pull 
 a little on the glove I think it would 
 
 come off without any difficulty, now, 
 thank you. 
 
 Prince. (Smoothing it gently.) But if I 
 pull her I shall spoil her. 
 
 Jo. 0, it 's spoiled already. If you don't 
 pull, I will. 
 
 Prince. Very goot — I pull. (He pulls 
 off the glove.) Your arm vas vet — I 
 shall make him dry. 
 
 Jo. Thank you, I shall dry him myself. 
 
 Prince. Mit what? 
 
 Jo. I — don't — know — 
 
 Prince. I will make him dry mit mein 
 handkerchief. (He does so.) 
 
 Jo. You 're really working very hard this 
 evening, are n't you ? 
 
 Prince. this is nutting. 
 
 Jo. (Sits on the bench at right.) O 
 really. That will do then. Thank you. 
 
 Prince. No, I thank you. 
 
 Jo. Sit down, you must be tired. 
 
 Prince. No ! No ! 
 
 Jo. Oh! 
 
 Prince. No, I was tired only from the 
 teasing of me so much by you. 
 
 Jo. Prince Adolf! 
 
 Prince. Yes? Yes? 
 
 Jo. I want to explain the foolish remarks 
 Mrs. Sheldon made, and it is not teasing 
 this time, not a game. 
 
 Prince. Yah. 
 
 Jo. No! 
 
 Prince. I mean no. 
 
 Jo. Well, you must say what you mean, I 
 am going to. 
 
 Prince. Very well, I will too — I loaf you. 
 
 Jo. No, no. 
 
 Prince. Yes — yes. 
 
 Jo. No. Listen to me before you say any- 
 thing more. Mrs. Sheldon of course was 
 jesting and didn't mean what she said 
 to you. And you and I have been like 
 two children playing with fire. 
 
 Prince. Define fire. 
 
 Jo. Maybe — still, it 's time we grew up. 
 I frankly like you too much, Prince 
 Adolf — to keep on. You are a Prince 
 going back to your country to be King 
 some day, and I am an American girl 
 going back to my country — 
 
 Prince. Where you shall reign ofer many 
 hearts, dat I am sure. 
 
 Jo. I am a woman, I don't want to reign, 
 I want to be the subject. (He lifts her 
 hand quietly and kisses it.) Now that is 
 the end of our flirtation and the begin- 
 ning of our friendship, isn't it? (Bis- 
 ing.) Promise me you will forget what 
 Mrs. Sheldon said. It was n't true. 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 689 
 
 Prince. Not true? {S\e turns away and 
 slowly withdraws her hand, hut she does 
 not answer.) Nein. {Pleading.) 0, I 
 cannot neft'er forget dat. Besides, I 
 want not to forget. For all dat time out 
 dere until you haf called me, I haf 
 thought you loafed me. Come. (Takes 
 her hand.) Look. {Leading her to hack 
 hy door.) Look, do you see the stars 
 out there? 
 
 Jo. Yes, I see myriads of them. 
 
 {The Prince turns when Jo turns — 
 and they face each other at door.) 
 
 Prince. I haf to tell each one, "she loaf 
 me," "she loaf me." Dey shall neffer 
 allow me dat I forget. I vas happy ven 
 I belief dat. 
 
 Jo. Why did n't you tell the stars that you 
 loved me? 
 
 Prince. No use. 
 
 Jo. Oh! 
 
 Prince. Nein! Dey haf know dat al- 
 ready yet one long time. 
 
 Jo. How? 
 
 Prince. Because I haf dem told dat efery 
 night after der first efenmg I haf met 
 you. 
 
 Jo. (Softly.) Yes? 
 
 Prince. Yah. I walked me home efery 
 night since den just to be alone mit dose 
 stars, dey vas mein goot friends — dey 
 haf keep always ofer me — I see dem der 
 first time to Pall Mall and dere I tell 
 dem first. Den I see dem to Piccadilly. 
 Dey vas ofer mein head in Park Lane 
 last night. In Berkely Square der night 
 before. And alles times dey haf looked 
 at me and winked mit deir eyes when I 
 tell dem. And dey answer to me "Yah, 
 our leedle bruder, wir know that you love 
 her." And when dis night I did tell 
 dem der great good news, dat you was 
 not one flirt, but also you haf loaf me, 
 how dey dance for joy mit me. And 
 one haf sent me down one kees. 
 
 Jo. A kiss? 
 
 Prince. Yah. Mr. Cyril was in der 
 garten and he haf called it a "shooting 
 star," aber I know besser, it was one 
 kees. 
 
 Jo. Look and see if you can't see another 
 now. 
 
 Prince. For luck? 
 
 (He looks at her, then, on her nod, 
 looks out of door at hack.) 
 
 Jo. For luck. 
 
 (She softly rises, slowly leans for- 
 ward and kisses him. He turns 
 quickly and seizes her in his arms.) 
 
 Prince. Goot, it ees no lie? you loaf me? 
 
 Jo. No lie. I love you. 
 
 Prince. (With his armr ahout her.) But 
 
 — but— 
 Jo. Don't tell the stars anything more, 
 
 I 'm jealous of them. Tell it all to me. 
 Prince. There vas no stars outside now, 
 
 none, I see dem all, in side in your eyes. 
 (Music stops and Vic off the stage 
 calls ''Jo.'') 
 Vic. Jo! 
 Jo. Yes. 
 
 (Cyril pushes Vic on — Cyril is seen in 
 the door at the left.) 
 
 Vic. What is it? 
 
 Jo. What is what? 
 
 Vic. Cyril said you wanted me. 
 
 Jo. I don't. No such thing. 
 
 (Vic looks at Cyril. Cyril exits.) 
 
 Vic. 0, excuse me — (Very embarrassed.) 
 
 1 'm very sorry to have interrupted you — 
 
 (Edging away.) 
 
 Jo. not at all — you have n't interrupted 
 
 us — won't you sit down? 
 Vic. No I — excuse me — I 'm sorry — but 
 
 — I think the Duchess is going soon. 
 Prince. Miss Botes, I hope der musickers 
 
 will play some American music. 
 Vic. I '11 see that they do before you go. 
 (There is an awkward pause — suddenly.) 
 1 '11 ask them now. 
 
 (Exits at the left.) 
 Jo. Well, we 're sorry you can't stay. 
 
 Good-bye. 
 Prince. Miss Botes are blonde — What 
 
 about my future? 
 Jo. Oh, never mind Miss Botes. I 'm 
 blonde at heart. 
 
 (She moves to the seat and sits on 
 
 the bench at right of the fountain. 
 
 The Prince takes her left hand as 
 
 she sits.) 
 
 Prince. Who else do you loaf besides me 
 
 — what men? 
 Jo. My father. 
 Prince. Dat is all of us? 
 Jo. Yes, but I love him very, very, very 
 
 much. 
 Prince. As much as you loaf me? 
 Jo. (Slowly.) No. 
 
 Prince. Half as much as you love me? 
 Jo. No. 
 
 (She lowers her face and turns away,- 
 because of her tears.) 
 Prince. What does he call you — by name ? 
 Jo. (With emotion in her voice and not 
 turning.) His girl Jo. 
 
690 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Prince. Den also I will call you "His girl 
 Jo/' 
 
 Jo. No, please don't. Call me "Yowr girl 
 Jo." 
 
 Prince. Yah, I will. "Your girl Jo." 
 
 Jo. No, you don't understand. Whose 
 girl am I? 
 
 Prince. Mine ! 
 
 Jo. Yes. Then that 's what you 're to call 
 me. 
 
 Prince. yes, I see. Mein girl Jo! 
 
 Jo. {Seriously, softly.) I hope so. 
 
 Prince. Mein girl Jo — mein wife. 
 
 Jo. Yes. 
 
 Prince. You are not afraid of a fight? 
 
 Jo. A fight? 
 
 Prince. To get us married. 
 
 Jo. How a fight? 
 
 Prince. Mein fader was very angry. 
 
 Jo. I 'm sorry. What can we do ? Per- 
 haps — 
 
 Prince. Nein, nein. Der was no perhaps. 
 I haf told to mein Aunt I loaf you, and 
 dat when you loaf me, she haf come to 
 London for nuttings. 
 
 Jo. She came to prevent? 
 
 Prince. Yah. But I haf told her I was 
 a damn nant. 
 
 Jo. Adamant you mean? 
 
 Prince. Yah. My fader loaf me. I tink 
 he will give way for me. 
 
 Jo. And if he won't? 
 
 Prince. He must. How much do you 
 loaf me, my girl Jo? 
 
 Jo. How many stars did you see in the 
 garden ? 
 
 Prince. Ach! More den I shall count. 
 
 Jo. Just so much I "loaf" you. More 
 than I can count ! I 've told myself over 
 and over again that love between us was 
 impossible; I know everything is against 
 us. 
 
 Prince. We will come over alles — alles. 
 
 Jo. Can we? Can we? A hundred times 
 a day I 've determined I would never let 
 you see inside my heart. Nor let you 
 open yours to me. And yet — at the very 
 first real chance — I 've forgotten every- 
 thing — everything. 
 
 Prince. Except dat I loaf you. You haf 
 not forgot dat. 
 
 Jo. No, when I saw how deep inside your 
 heart I was already — I could n't keep my- 
 self outside your arms. 
 
 Prince. Meine Liebste. 
 
 Jo. Adolf. I don't see how it can be, and 
 yet if you think I 'm worth the fighting 
 for, I '11 fight with you. Because — I love 
 you. 
 
 Duchess. {Off stage.) Tank you for 
 
 bringing me. I could haf guessed mem 
 
 nephew vas in der Loafers' Cosy Corner. 
 
 (Jo and the Prince start and separate 
 
 and look at each other.) 
 
 Prince. I will tell it to her now. 
 
 {They rise as the Duchess enters.) 
 
 Duchess. Good eefning, Adolf. (To Jo.) 
 Good eefning again. {To Adolf.) I 
 was sorry to take you away but I shall 
 be going now, mein nephew. 
 
 Prince. Excuse me. Aunt Caroline, when 
 I do not go mit you. I shall stay a leetle 
 longer by Miss Sheldon, because, liebe 
 Tante, she haf just now done the honor of 
 saying she will be my wife. 
 
 Duchess. Adolf! 
 
 Prince. She loaf me after all — 
 
 Duchess. Your fader? — 
 
 Prince. — When he know how much I 
 loaf her — 
 
 Duchess. You haf no right to ask of her 
 what you know is impossible. 
 
 Prince. Aber. I will make it possible, 
 when mein fader know how good and 
 peautiful she are. 
 
 Duchess. I haf received a dispatch of 
 your father after you haf left dis eefning. 
 His Majesty haf seen Colonel Toochberg, 
 and orders you to leave mit me tomorrow. 
 You shall find a dispatch of your own 
 by your house when you go in. 
 
 Prince. I will answer make to mein fader. 
 I will send at him a dispatch meinself 
 mit explanation dat I cannot go. 
 
 Duchess. It shall be no good, my tear 
 poy. You must go back by me. It is 
 the King, your fader's command. His 
 Majesty haf ordered dat Prince Adolf 
 go by der noon express out to Manchuria 
 to represent our army dere mit Russia. 
 I regret alle, aber ich habe, I have warn- 
 ing given to Mrs. Sheldon and Mr. Botes. 
 Gude nit. (Jo curtseys and the Duch- 
 ess turns to Adolf.) You will stay here 
 a little to say good-bye. Goot. I will 
 wait a half hour longer in der ball room. 
 Eggscoose me, I was very sorry. ( Takes 
 Jo's hand.) I haf loafed meinself- — for- 
 gif me. But dis marriage cannot neffer 
 be, mein dear young lady. Der throne is 
 Adolf's destiny, and a Queen of royal 
 birth must share it with him. Dat is 
 der law of centuries in all our countries, 
 and he cannot overturn dat now in one 
 eefning. Good-bye. To Manchuria, the 
 day after tomorrow. 
 
 Jo. You have n't gone yet ? 
 
 Prince. That was true. 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 691 
 
 Jo. I 'm not frightened if you 're not. 
 
 Prince. Der King mein fader will do alles 
 he can for to separate us. 
 
 Jo. I don't believe any father of yours 
 could be so cruel. Not when he sees 
 you care so much for me — how much do 
 you care for me? 
 
 Prince. Alles — alles. 
 
 Jo. That 's almost enough. And when he 
 sees it is my life he is trying to take away 
 from me, no man who is your father, 
 King or no King, would be so cruel as 
 that. I don't believe any old laws made 
 half a million years ago can separate a 
 man and a woman today, who honestly 
 love each other as much as — 
 
 Prince. — As I do you. {They embrace.) 
 You haf belief in me? 
 
 Jo. I haf belief in you. 
 
 {Looking him straight in the eyes.) 
 
 Prince. I shall find me a way out for us. 
 
 Jo. There 's your "Amerikaner," Wagner. 
 
 Prince. I like dat. ( With his arm around 
 her.) Come, tomorrow we shall make 
 plans. Tonight let us forget alles 
 troubles — not? {They sit on bench — a 
 pause.) My girl Jo! I hope that our 
 stars can see us. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 A living room at Mr. Botes' London house. 
 On the right there is a settee, with an arm 
 chair near it and toward the rear a writ- 
 ing table. On the left there is a couch, 
 and by the window on the left a small 
 cane chair. There is an open fire place, 
 without fire, and other appropriate furni- 
 ture. Mr. Botes is sitting on the couch 
 reading a paper. He rises, crosses the 
 room and returns to the couch, evidently 
 in a bad humor. Hallen comes in and 
 sta7ids near the couch. 
 
 Botes. {Sitting on the couch.) Aren't 
 
 any of the family down yet? 
 Hallen. Mr. Cyril 's at breakfast, sir. 
 Botes. Good humor? 
 Hallen. Something hawful, sir! Threw 
 
 his heggs at me and swore for giving 'im 
 
 bad 'uns. {Bespect fully.) When I'm 
 
 sure they was as fresh, sir, as if I 'd laid 
 
 'em myself this morning. 
 Botes. And the ladies? Out of sorts too, 
 
 I suppose. 
 Ha-Llen. Yes, sir, leastways I 'ear as 
 
 Miss Victoria changed 'er mind three 
 
 times as to whether she 'd heat or not 
 heat, sir! * 
 
 Botes. Humph ! 
 
 Hallen. We ain't 'eard hanything ha- 
 gainst Miss Sheldon's spirits, sir. She 
 rang 'er bell before we 'd 'ad hour break- 
 fast, sir. Sent Weeks hout with a cable 
 to Hamerica. Yes, sir. Telling 'er 
 father of 'er hengagement to 'is Royal 
 'ighness. 
 
 Botes. {Turning to Hallen angrily.) It 
 was n't your business. 
 
 Hallen. No, sir — but — I read it really 
 without thinking, sir — ^very fine party 
 last night, sir. 
 
 Botes. Was it? 
 
 Hallen. Yes, sir, excuse me, sir. 
 
 Botes. Ought to have been. It cost 
 enough. 
 
 Hallen. Did it, sir? 
 
 (Mrs. Sheldon opens the door and enters, 
 dressed to go out. Botes turns and sees 
 her J rising.) 
 
 (Hallen exits.) 
 
 Botes. {On his dignity.) Good morning, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. S. {With forced good humor, com- 
 ing to front of arm chair.) Good morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Botes. {Standing and looking at her.) 
 Good morning. 
 
 {There is a moment's pause.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Well! Now all your doubts and 
 fears must be at rest. 
 
 Botes. I don't know, so far so good. 
 
 Mrs. S. come ! This is only the feeling 
 of "the morning after." You heard the 
 Prince announce to me last night that 
 Jo had promised to be his wife. Mr. 
 Botes, is it right of you to tantalize me 
 like this? The cheque must go to Amer- 
 ica with Mr. Wilton who leaves today at 
 one o'clock. You oughtn't to make me 
 ask for it again. 
 
 Botes. Of course I oughtn't to have 
 agreed to give you the cheque until the 
 marriage had taken place. 
 
 Mrs. S. Without your cheque today there 
 could be no marriage. Come, you hold 
 our share of the bargain and you prom- 
 ised me your cheque in exchange. 
 
 Botes. You made yourself very agreeable 
 last night — and I promised a good deal 
 that I would n't have in the cold light of 
 this morning. 
 
 Mrs. S. I could n't help showing you my 
 gratitude. You are a masterful man, one 
 that appeals to a woman like me, per^ 
 
692 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 haps more strongly than I should like to 
 acknowledge, for the very reason that 
 I know you can take care of yourself. 
 Keep faith with us as we have with you. 
 
 Botes. To tell the truth I almost wish I 
 had n't. 
 
 Mrs. S. How do you mean? 
 
 Botes. I 'm not sure I 'm not ashamed of 
 the whole business. 
 
 Mrs. S. I don't understand you. 
 
 Botes. 0, I know we 're all more or less 
 in the same boat. You 're the middle- 
 man, and Jo 's selling and I 'm buying. 
 
 Mrs. S. Buying what you want, and what 
 you agreed to buy. 
 
 Botes. Yes, but after all it 's a pretty low 
 down business for an established man of 
 my age, and for a nice seeming girl like 
 Jo. 
 
 Mrs. S. Business is business! 
 
 Botes. Yes, but wdien women mix up in 
 it — I don't know — It seems dirtier 
 than it does for men ! I 'm ashamed of 
 my daughter's friend ! There, now it 's 
 out and being ashamed of her, damn it 
 all, has made me ashamed of myself. 
 
 Mrs. S. Ashamed? 
 
 Botes. Yes ! I 've got a little of my 
 daughter Vic in me, after all. 
 
 Mrs. S. But you gave us your word. 
 
 Botes. Yes, I know. And of course I '11 
 stand by it, if I have to, but — (^.s Mrs. 
 S. places her hand on his arm he puts 
 her hand away.) No! No! Let me 
 keep my practical senses, please! 
 
 Mrs. S. And your word — come — Don't 
 keep me waiting any longer, or I sliall 
 think you are taking advantage of a 
 woman to break your word. 
 
 Botes. (Rising.) No, that could never 
 be said of my father's son. (He looks 
 straight in her face and she looks back 
 into his. There is a pause while he takes 
 a cheque from his pocket amongst other 
 papers.) Here is your cheque. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Taking it.) Thank you. Now 
 I must hurry to meet Mr. Wilton at 
 Euston Station. 
 
 (Vic enters and meets Mrs. Sheldon in 
 the doorway. ViC is in ill humor also, 
 but takes it more good naturedly.) 
 
 Vic. Good morning. (Mrs. Sheldon 
 passes out without replying.) Dear me! 
 Mrs. Sheldon seems to have got out of 
 tlie wrong side of bed too! How are 
 you, father? I'm cross as two sticks. 
 
 Botes. I 'm beastly ! 
 
 Vic. Don't let 's give any more parties. 
 
 I haven't slept a wink, the servants are 
 too disagreeable to live with ; I 've got a 
 ripping headache and wish I were dead, 
 or married. 
 
 Botes. No such luck — I wish you were the 
 latter — hand me my paper — and then I 'd 
 take chambers and live at a club. 
 
 Vic. Never! What would be the good 
 then of all the smart friends you 're 
 fishing for and that title you and Cyril 
 have your hearts set on. 
 
 Botes. Oh, damn the smart friends, — and 
 the title this morning! 
 
 (Enter Hallen, who gives Botes a card.) 
 
 Hallen. Would like to see you, sir — im- 
 portant. 
 
 Botes. (Reading the card.) Mr. George 
 Rudding, representing Streeter & Com- 
 pany, Bond Street. 
 
 Vic. (Crossly.) The jewelers. 
 
 Hallen. He asked first for Mrs. Sheldon, 
 but she 's gone out. He called yesterday 
 for Mrs. Sheldon and she sent word she 
 was out. And lie 's called before, sir. 
 
 Botes. Well, tell him to call again within 
 the hour, when Mrs. Sheldon will be in, 
 and then if she won't see him, then I 
 will. 
 
 PIallen. Yes, sir. 
 
 Vic. Hallen! 
 
 Hallen". Yes, miss? 
 
 Vic. Where are the letters? 
 
 Hallen. Tliere are n't hany for you, miss. 
 
 Vic. Aren't any? 
 
 Hallen. No, miss. 
 
 Vic. (Irritably.) 1 never heard of such 
 a thing. 
 
 Botes. Hallen. 
 
 Hallen. Yes, sir? 
 
 Botes. Call me a cab. 
 
 Hallen. At once, sir? 
 
 Botes. Well, w^ien did you suppose I 
 wanted it — next week? 
 
 Hallen. Excuse me, sir — but — 
 
 Botes. 0, go to the devil! 
 
 Hallen. Yes, sir! (Exits.) 
 
 Vic. (Quickly and loudly.) Father! 
 
 Botes. 0, leave me alone. Vic, you can't 
 read a paper through in this house. 
 
 (There is a pause during which Cyril en- 
 ters, glum — he yawns — sits down. Botes 
 and Vic yawn. Botes closes eyes and 
 drops the paper on his knees.) 
 
 Vic. (Leaning forward, staring vacantly,, 
 with a dead voice.) Good morning 
 Cyril. 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 Cyril. {To Vic.) Morning. (Yawns.) 
 
 Morning, governor! 
 Botes. Morning. 
 
 {There is another pause — ViC yawns 
 violently and rises with effort. She 
 looks at Botes — then at Cyril.) 
 Vic. mercy! are you going to smoke? 
 I 've got a splitting headache. 
 
 (Cyril looks at her, yawns again, and 
 with the air of a martyr puts away 
 the cigarette. As he slams the case 
 the noise awakens Botes.) 
 Cyril. {To Vic.) Selfish. {To Botes.) 
 I say, old chap, do you mind pushing 
 the bell, it 's nearer you. 
 Botes. Yes, I do mind. 
 Cyril. Vic, then, you push it — ^you 're up. 
 Vic. Yes, but I 'm on this side of the 
 room. 
 
 (Cyril with difficulty rises, and rings 
 the bell.) 
 
 {Enter Hallen.) 
 
 Hallen. Excuse me, sir — your cab is 
 
 ready. 
 Botes. Very good! 
 Cyril. Hallen, fix me a bromo seltzer in 
 
 the dining room and be quick. 
 Hallen. Yes, sir. 
 Botes. Fix two. 
 
 Hallen. Yes, sir. {Exit.) 
 
 Cyril. Lovely party! {There is a pause 
 
 — all look crossly at him.) Let 's give 
 
 another soon. 
 Vic. Oh! Lord! 
 Botes. Cyril ! 
 Cyril. Yes. 
 Botes. Cyril. 
 Cyril. I answered you. 
 Vic. He answered you. 
 Botes. CjtII, don't you want to go to the 
 
 bank for me? 
 Cyril. What for? 
 Botes. To stop payment on a cheque 
 
 I 've been foolish enough to give this 
 
 morning. 
 Cyril. You 'd better go yourself, old boy, 
 
 and learn a good lesson. (Botes, angry, 
 
 looks at Cyril.) Good Lord, if you're 
 
 going to be one of those cheque-givers 
 
 in your old age Vic and I might as well 
 
 throw up the game at once. 
 Botes. You won't go? 
 Cyril. {Angry.) No! Governor, I'm 
 
 not going to spoil you. You want to age 
 
 before your time. 
 Botes. Humph ! Cheek ! 
 
 {Enter Jo^ buoyant, gay and happy, she 
 
 almost dances into the room and almost 
 sings when 4he speaks.) 
 
 Jo. Good morning, everybody ! Is n't it a 
 lovely, lovely morning! 
 
 {There are loud, bare exclamations 
 from all.) 
 
 Vic. Mercy ! 
 
 Botes. Lord ! 
 
 Cyril. Is it! 
 
 {They all look up at her glumly and 
 gaze in astonished silence.) 
 
 Jo. Why! What's the matter? 
 
 Vic. My dear, we 're all dead tired, and 
 your spirits simply stagger us. 
 
 Cyril. Not a blessed one of us has slept 
 a wink. 
 
 Jo. Nor have I. 
 
 Vic. 0, my dear, did you toss about all 
 night too? 
 
 Jo. No, I think I sang straight through 
 the whole night ! softly, of course, to my- 
 self. 
 
 Botes. {Rising.) Excuse me. 
 
 Vic. With pleasure. 
 
 (Botes gives her a look as he leaves 
 the stage.) 
 
 Cyril. That's exactly how I feel, except 
 that I 've got a motor car inside my head. 
 Now I Ve got to smoke ! 
 
 Vic. Of course, Cyril, we are n't in love ! 
 
 Jo. {To Vic.) Have you a headache, 
 dear? 
 
 Vic. I did have, but your happiness is 
 curing it already. 
 
 Jo. I love you, Vic! 
 
 Vic. 0, do you! 
 
 Jo. Yes ! You 're a perfect old darling ! 
 I think Cyril's pretty nice too. Cyril, 
 I 've never kissed you, but I think I will 
 this morning. I feel fond of everybody ! 
 
 Cyril. No, you don't — no, you don't — I 'm 
 not up to kissing women this morning. 
 
 Jo. You impertinent rascal! as if I were 
 in earnest ! When I kiss you, you '11 
 know it. 
 
 Cyril. Hope so. 
 
 Jo. If your father had given me half a 
 chance I 'd have kissed him this morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Cyril. If you 'd kissed the Governor this 
 morning he 'd have bit ! 
 
 Jo. And aren't you going to congratu- 
 late me? 
 
 Cyril. I did this morning after the party, 
 about six — before I went to bed — but 
 you were sort of dotty and didn't know 
 what was going on. 
 
 Jo. Well, both of you congratulate me all 
 
(J94 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 over again. I want to be sure I didn't 
 dream it. 
 
 Vic. {liishig and going to Jo — hugs her.) 
 With all my heart! 
 
 Jo. You darling! I really do love you 
 awfully, Vic ! 
 
 Cyril. Well, I congratulate him. There! 
 There 's a pretty speech for you ! 
 
 Jo. 0! If you think that's a "pretty 
 speech" you ought to hear one of his! 
 And now, haven't you an engagement, 
 Cyril? 
 
 Cyril. No. 
 
 Jo. Not even with Countess Casavetti"? 
 
 Cyril. No, it 's too early for her. Her 
 theory is it 's the early worm that gets 
 caught by the bird! 
 
 Jo. Well, pretend you have an engage- 
 ment and go out anyway! Won't you? 
 
 Cyril. No, I 'm hanged if I Vill. 
 {Yawns.) Why? 
 
 Jo. Because! I want you to let me have 
 this room to myself, like a duck! Please 
 do! 
 
 Cyril. Why don't you take the whole 
 house! Last night you monopolized the 
 Spooners' Corner! 
 
 Vic. And I understand, didn't forget the 
 electric button! 
 
 Jo. Shh! {To Cyril.) Please, Cyril- 
 he 's coming to see me in a few minutes. 
 
 Cyril. Who? 
 
 Jo. He! 
 
 Cyril. Oh! My homage to your Royal 
 Highness — and I have an engagement 
 I 've just remembered with a bromo 
 seltzer. 
 
 Vic. lai go too! 
 
 Jo. No, not yet, he 's not coming for half 
 an hour. I want to talk to you alone. 
 Do you mind? 
 
 Vic. Of course I don't. 
 
 Jo. Vic ! He 's just sent me a message ! 
 
 Vic. Where is it? 
 
 Jo. I won't tell. But he says he 's coming 
 this morning to tell me a plan for our 
 marriage. 
 
 Vic. I wonder what it '11 be ? 
 
 Jo. I don't know, but I trust him, and 
 I 've cabled father before the servants 
 were really awake. He must know by 
 now. I finished with, "Jo's love on the 
 Happiest Day of Her Life!" Dear 
 father! And 0! Vic — {Running to 
 her, hugging her again.) I'm very fond 
 of you! {She kneels by ViC.) 
 
 Vic. 0, Jo! {Laughing.) 
 
 Jo. But there 's one I ^m more fond of, 
 look. {Goes to conservatory door up at 
 
 the right, pointing off into it.) Dear 
 room — {Throwing in a kiss.) You know 
 what happened when you all found us 
 in the dark ! We had pushed the electric 
 button and when we heard you coming 
 we tried to push the button back, and it 
 wouldn't budge! {Both laugh.) 
 
 Vic. Cyril knew you and Prince Adolf 
 were in there, and he slipped the connec- 
 tion from the hall. 
 
 {Enter Hallen.) 
 
 Jo. {Laughing.) He ought to be spanked ! 
 Hallen. The mail, miss. I brought 'em 
 
 at once, seeing as you seemed so anxious. 
 Vic. No, I wasn't anxious, Hallen — I 
 
 was cross — 
 Jo. Good morning, Hallen. Isn't it a 
 
 lovely morning? 
 Hallen. Yes, miss. 
 Jo. And was n't it a beautiful party last 
 
 night ? 
 Hallen. Yes, miss. 
 Jo. Wait, Hallen — I want to give you 
 
 something — oh dear, I haven't got my 
 
 purse-;^ Lend me something, Vic. Give 
 
 me a pound. 
 Vic. I have n't got it, my dear — I have 
 
 nothing but a five pound note. 
 Jo. Well, give me that. {Gives it to Hal- 
 len. ) Hallen, there 's a little something 
 
 for you. 
 Hallen. What for, miss? 
 Jo. You 've been so kind during our long 
 
 visit, and you can keep the change. 
 Hallen. Thank you, miss. This will 
 
 come in very 'andy, now, miss. 
 Jo. Will it, Hallen, why? 
 Hallen. To buy a baby carriage with, 
 
 miss. 
 Vic. You extravagant creature! What 
 
 in the world — 
 Jo. Now, my dearest Vic, don't question 
 
 me why I do anything today, come along ! 
 
 What do you call that? 
 Vic. What? 
 
 Jo. {Pointing to the window.) That! 
 Vic. a window! I call it a window! 
 Jo. I thought you would! Well, I don't. 
 
 I call it a picture-frame, because all I 
 
 see in it is — 
 Vic. {Laughing.) Really? All I see is 
 
 out of doors. 
 Jo. You have my sympathy. I suppose 
 
 you call that a mirror and see yourself 
 
 in it. 
 Vic. Exactly. 
 Jo. That only shows how vain you are. 
 
 Another picture frame. I look in it and 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 695 
 
 see nobody but him again. And what do 
 you call that? 
 
 (Vic looks at the door; Jo brings her 
 down the center and points to the 
 door at the left.) 
 
 Vic. Another picture frame, I suppose! 
 
 Jo. Not at all, that 's a door, thank good- 
 ness, because it will open soon and he '11 
 come in. {Taking the arm chair from 
 the left, she faces it against wall at left.) 
 And now, watch ! I 'm going to arrange 
 the room. 
 
 Vic. Why? What's the matter with the 
 room? 
 
 Jo. There 's a great deal the matter w^itli 
 it for an engaged couple. For one thing, 
 it's far too light. I wish Cyril had the 
 sun on an electric button too. (ViC 
 gets off the table.) Excuse me, dar- 
 ling, — (Jo pulls Phe table up to mantel — 
 Vic sits on the chair in the center. Jo 
 comes to the arm chair in the center.) 
 Get up ! This will be my chair, so ! 
 
 Vic. Jo, I 'm so tired. 
 
 Jo. 0, no! (She turns the chair around 
 — Vic sits on the sofa.) After all, the 
 sofa '11 be better. Come on, help me with 
 the sofa. 
 
 Vic. {Laughing, helps her — they w.ove 
 sofa so that it faces the center.) My 
 dear, you 're tearing the whole room to 
 pieces — father '11 be furious, you know 
 what an old maid he is. 
 
 Jo. I can't help that ! That is to keep me 
 from being an old maid. Now — {She 
 moves the arm chair so that it faces the 
 mantel.) I want to arrange it so that 
 we '11 have to sit on the sofa. 
 
 Vic. {Mischievously.) Why? {A pause.) 
 Why? 
 
 Jo. Well, when you're engaged, you'll 
 know why, and meanwhile, you can guess. 
 {She turns the arm chair to the wall.) 
 Chairs are very unsociable things when 
 you 're engaged. There ! 
 
 {The chairs are all away to one side 
 against the wall. Only the sofa is 
 conveniently placed and it is quite 
 by itself.) 
 
 Vic. {Amused, looking around.) I don't 
 think the room looks very well. 
 
 Jo. As the Duchess said — "Handsome is 
 as handsome does" — {As she does so, Jo 
 pulls cushion away and puts it at the 
 end of couch.) And this does very well 
 for us, thank you. {She arranges the 
 cushions at one end.) 0, my dear! 
 What an awfully big sofa! This sofa I 
 should call after instead of before ! This 
 
 is the kind you would have around your 
 silver wedding, for a family reunion! 
 Goodness, it 's so long ! Wait a minute. 
 More pillows! 
 
 (Vic turns and watches her; she gets 
 cushions from the settee. Vic 
 laughs.) 
 
 Vic. They don't match! 
 
 Jo. Who cares! He and I do! That's 
 all that 's necessary. {She places the 
 pillows so they occupy at least one half 
 of the sofa, leaving a very small place 
 for them to sit down.) There! How's 
 that? 
 
 Vic. {As if crushed in seat.) The most 
 uncomfortable seat I was ever in in my 
 life! You can't breathe. 
 
 Jo. My dear, who wants to breathe? 
 You don't think about breathing. — Of 
 course, it is rather crowdy now, it does 
 make a difference whom you share it 
 with. 
 
 Vic. Why don't you sit on his lap and be 
 done with it? 
 
 Jo. Don't be vulgar ! Although I 'm not 
 so sure I should mind that so awfully. 
 
 Vic. {Laughing.) Well, I suppose such 
 a thing has been done, even by a lady! 
 
 Jo. 0, I know you think I 've lost my 
 mind, but I have n't. It 's only my heart 
 I 've lost, Vic, only my heart ! And I 
 don't want to find it. You darling, I 
 don't want to find it! 
 
 Vic. {Pats her on the back.) 0, Jo. 
 
 Hallen. 'Er Royal 'Ighness, the Duch- 
 ess of Hohen'etstein. 
 
 {They rise as the Duchess comes forward.) 
 
 Vic. Jo. 
 
 Jo. Oh, Vic. 
 
 Duchess. I peg your pardons dat I come 
 so unannounced — And I vas afraid too 
 early! I see der servants have not yet 
 made time for to re-arrange der rooms. 
 (Jo turns to Vic and they laugh.) Eggs- 
 cuse me! 
 
 {Both the girls are confused.) 
 
 Vic. We are glad to see you, ma'am, at 
 any hour. 
 
 Duchess. I haf asked for Mrs. Sheldon, 
 but vas informed dat she vas out and 
 ven my visit vas of der greatest im- 
 portance and I haf put behind mein de- 
 parture from London to come and ven 
 it most concerns also Miss Sheldon — 
 I haf thought it better to see her, wid- 
 out Mrs. Sheldon. 
 
 Jo. Yes, ma'am. 
 
696 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Vic. Then, if you will excuse me, ma'am — 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Duchess. As you please. 
 
 Jo. Thank you. 
 
 Duchess. Please all sit down. This is a 
 dreadful pusiness. Ah, Ach! (Sighs.) 
 Adolf loaf you so much. 
 
 Jo. (Quietly.) I am very happy and 
 very proud of that, madame. He loves 
 me, I am sure, no more than I love him. 
 
 Duchess. We haf talked many hours, him 
 and me, and we haf both said peautiful 
 things about loaf, and we haf three times 
 sent dispatches at his fader — and now — 
 I bring you goot news. 
 
 Jo. (Rising, relieved.) 0! Thank you! 
 — Thank you ! — Thank you ! 
 
 Duchess. Yah! Adolf haf won me ofer 
 to his side! Vere loaf vas in it, I vas 
 always weak. I vas in loaf meinself 
 once. Himmel, vith such a angel! 
 Peautiful like a imache! He vas a sen- 
 try outside our palace; plue eyes, one 
 vas a leedle squinty but I liked dat ! We 
 haf neffer spoke — aber^ — perhaps I haf 
 told you dis pefore? 
 
 Jo. Yes, but I am glad to hear you tell it 
 now. Your love will make you kind to 
 me. 
 
 Duchess. Yah, for dat I haf my bruder 
 told all possible, and mine last dispatch 
 at him dis morning haf cost me one 
 pound two shilling. And my bruder is 
 goot— he haf give way. He is con- 
 sented — 
 
 Jo. (Overjoyed.) To our marriage! Of 
 course, I knew he would ! 
 
 Duchess. Yah! His Majesty will agree, 
 tanks for his kind heart, to a morganatic 
 marriage. 
 
 Jo. (Rising.) No! No! No! No! 
 
 Duchess. No? 
 
 Jo. You mean for me to share Adolf 
 with some other woman? Be half his 
 wife, and half his mistress? 
 
 Duchess. 0, you must not put dat so! 
 Der morganatic wife of der late King 
 Humbert of Italy, she haf been very 
 happy. Queen Margaret nefer haf in- 
 terfered with her in no way. She haf 
 had her own palace, and haf lived her 
 own life. 
 
 Jo. No, no — never such a marriage for 
 me! My home to be only half my hus- 
 band's? His home all some other 
 woman's? This woman who will share 
 his life's work with him, and her chil- 
 dren will be his heirs. 
 
 Duchess. You '11 be made a countess — 
 
 Jo. I don't care about that. 
 
 Duchess. (Continues.) Your children 
 will bear titles — 
 
 Jo. It isn't that, Madame! You don't 
 understand. I come from a dilferent 
 country where we give all, when we love, 
 and demand all back. I would n't shame 
 my country, I would n't shame my father ! 
 I wouldn't shame myself by accepting 
 what you offer me. 
 
 Duchess. We German wives do much 
 more dan dat for our husbands. 
 
 Jo. Yes, but your wives are their hus- 
 bands' servants, we women at my home 
 are our husbands' friends, we share every- 
 thing with them — the happiness and sor- 
 row, and even their work sometimes. At 
 home we stand hand in hand, equal, the 
 man and the woman — and that is the 
 pride and joy of our lives. 
 
 Duchess. But you cannot be Queen, my 
 dear girl — no woman can who is not of 
 royal blood, and it vas not only in our 
 family — it vas so in all royal families in 
 all the countries, dat is for why the 
 morganatic marriage — 
 
 Jo. No, no — don't talk to me any more 
 about it. Excuse me, but I won't listen. 
 I know you don't realize how I feel, I 
 know you can't realize what marriage 
 means to me — 
 
 Duchess. What did you expect? 
 
 Jo. I don't know — only I know I loved 
 him, and I know he loved me, and I 
 trusted him, and I do still. I have no 
 desire to be a Queen! If I could love 
 him more than I do, it would be if he 
 weren't a prince, but nobody — like me! 
 Then we could he happy nobodies to- 
 gether ! 
 
 Duchess. But you vas forgetting he viir 
 be King some day. 
 
 Jo. (Sits on left end of couch.) Must 
 he reign? He has a brother! Suppose 
 he wished to give it up? all up? 
 
 Duchess. (Breathless.) What! You 
 vould ask of him to give up the crown? 
 To make dat sacrifice? 
 
 Jo. Oh no, not if it 's a sacrifice. It 's 
 only if he should prefer my love. 
 
 Duchess. It isn't possible for Adolf to 
 give up the throne — for dat his fader 
 would nefer consent. 
 
 Jo. Isn't Adolf his own master? Any 
 boy of twenty-one at home — 
 
 Duchess. You cannot bring your Amer- 
 ican customs into our old countries, Miss 
 Sheldon, and the sooner you got that idea 
 out from your head, it vas better! The 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 697 
 
 family of der Hohenhetstein must all 
 obey der king who is deir head — 
 
 Jo. If I can't share alone Prince Adolf's 
 life, then even if it breaks my heart, your 
 Royal Highness, I can't help it — he must 
 make his choice. 
 
 Duchess. Aber, dere is no choice, I haf 
 now come to offer you de great honor 
 of dis marriage as I haf said. 
 
 Jo. What you call an honor, I call an in- 
 sult. 
 
 Duchess. {Rising.) Parding! 
 
 Jo. Forgive me, but my life's happiness 
 is at stake, and I must tell tiie truth. I 
 could n't bear it, Madame — if it were n't 
 that you come from the King, not from 
 Prince Adolf. 
 
 Duchess. I come from hose. 
 
 Jo. {With a cry from her throat.) No. 
 
 Duchess. Eggscoose. 
 
 Jo. Forgive me — but — 
 
 Duchess. I come from His Majesty and 
 Prince Adolf. 
 
 Jo. No. I can't believe this is the plan 
 Prince Adolf wrote me of this morning. 
 
 Duchess. So ! 
 
 Jo. This is his plan, you tell me? 
 
 Duchess. It is. 
 
 Jo. {Stronger.) Then, Madame, I don't 
 wonder Prince Adolf sent you rather 
 than come himself. 
 
 Duchess. So. 
 
 Jo. Yes. Because I tell you again that 
 what you offer me insults me. 
 
 Duchess. Insults you? 
 
 Jo {In angry tears.) Yes, Madame. 
 Please tell him what I say. So that at 
 least I needn't say it all again to him. 
 Excuse me. 
 
 {She curtseys in front of the Duchess 
 and leaves the stage crying.) 
 
 Duchess. {Watching her off.) Ach! 
 Gott! Even in tears she vas just so 
 peautiful as efer! When I weep I vas 
 nefer peautiful, I always haf to blow 
 my nose. 
 
 (Hallen, entering.) 
 
 Hallen. 'Is Royal 'Ighness. 
 
 Duchess. Mr. Botes? Was he in der 
 
 house, yet? 
 Hallen. No, your Royal ^Ighness. 
 Duchess. When he was in, please say I 
 
 would see him. 
 
 {The Prince enters. Hallen hows.) 
 
 Prince. {Eagerly.) Well, well? 
 
 {The Duchess motions to Hallen to 
 leave.) 
 
 Prince. Well— 
 
 Duchess. Acli. My poor boy. 
 
 Prince. What? 
 
 Duchess. Refuses. 
 
 Prince. Refuses? 
 
 Duchess. Yah. It is wonderful. 
 
 Prince. Aber. 
 
 Duchess. {In resentful surprise.) And 
 mit anger. 
 
 Prince. Anger? 
 
 Duchess. Yah. Anger at me, — and ex- 
 cooses. 
 
 Prince. For why? 
 
 Duchess. Dat I can't made oud. It vas 
 all talk aboud American women and laws, 
 and such. I don't suppose dey can haf 
 such marriages in America and she don't 
 understand. 
 
 Prince. Haf you explained mit her we 
 would be married bose by der Church 
 and by der Law also? 
 
 Duchess. She haf n't listened. She talk 
 about her own laws. 
 
 Prince. But haf you tell her about King 
 Humbert and about Arch Duke Ferdi- 
 nand of Austria and the Countess 
 Chokk? 
 
 Duchess. She say dat make no difference. 
 
 Prince. 0, dat is sure. She haf the 
 wrong idea. {Crossing to the bell.) 
 She haf got the wrong idea. I vill see 
 her meinself. It vas sure she don't un- 
 derstand. — How it vas different vith 
 mein country and her country. Perhaps 
 she don't know how she vill be really 
 mein missus, mein truly wife. No mat- 
 ter vich vas mein Queen. And by Gott ! 
 when she was not possible to be Queen 
 in Eastphalia, I vill have me no Queen 
 when I vas King. 
 
 Duchess. Your fader, he vill have some- 
 thing to say to dat; you must make a 
 Queen for der country. 
 
 {Enter Hallen.) 
 
 Prince. Please, I will see Miss Sheldon. 
 {HAi^hEi^i bows and leaves.) Yah. When 
 she see how I loaf her and dat I will 
 nefer loaf any but she — nobody all my 
 life but she, she will consent, not? If 
 she like, I vill go me to New York and 
 be married, or in Chikygo, or any- 
 where in a church or hotel. Only as she 
 vill be my wife. 
 
 Duchess.' {Speaking in German.) Don't 
 you see her before me — go into the con- 
 servatory, and I will send her in to you. 
 
 Prince. {Speaking in German.) Yes, 
 that will be better, 0, my dear Aunt, I 
 
w, 
 
 698 
 
 S2 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 love her. {Kissing iTer on each cheek.) 
 I love her better than all the world — she 
 must be my wife. 
 Duchess. {Hearing Jo coming.) Pst. 
 {She motions him off and he leaves. 
 There is a moment's pame and then 
 Jo enters from the left slowly, very 
 serious and dignified.) 
 Jo. {She stops, resenting what she thinks 
 is a trick.) Hallen told me his Royal 
 Highness wished to see me. 
 Duchess. Dat vas right. He vas in the 
 conservatory. 
 
 (Jo slowly goes toward it; as she 
 reaches the center of the stage the 
 Duchess speaks again and Jo 
 stops.) 
 Duchess. He says you don't haf under- 
 stand me. 
 Jo. {Hopefully.) Yes? 
 Duchess. Yes. He says it was not what 
 
 you haf think. 
 Jo. {Her face and manner lighting up.) 
 
 I knew it! I knew it! 
 Duchess. He vill himself make you un- 
 derstand. 
 
 {Motions her to go. Jo, with a total 
 change of mariner, walk, hearing, 
 hurries, almost runs, to the door of 
 the conservatory and off the stage, 
 hut is seen to close the door mean- 
 ingly and smile through the glass to 
 the Duchess. As the Duchess ap- 
 parently listens. Botes enters.) 
 Botes. {Apologizing.) I am so sorry — 
 Duchess. Ssh! {Her finger on her lips.) 
 They are in dere. {Pointing.) 
 
 Botes. {Whispers hack.) Who? 
 Duchess. Die two turtle doves. 
 
 {Chuckling.) 
 Botes. Oh. Miss Sheldon and — 
 Duchess. Yah. His Majesty is agreed 
 
 to a morganatic marriage. 
 Botes. {Delighted on his own account.) 
 
 Good. 
 Duchess.' But she haf refused dat. 
 Botes. {Forgetting himself.) Refused 
 him! But she can't! She's bound her- 
 self to marry the Prince. 
 Duchess. So? 
 
 Botes. I will make her accept Prince 
 Adolf, ma'am, and assure you I can do 
 it. 
 Duchess. (Bising and speaking impres- 
 sively.) Mr. Botes. 
 Botes. Yes, Madame? 
 Duchess. Don't do dat. It will pe one 
 real blessing if she refuse him. I tink 
 §he haf peculiar American ideas about 
 
 tings, as shall not pe good for Adolf. 
 So if he shall not inllooence her now yet 
 to accept him, it vas best all around dat 
 he gif her up. 
 
 Botes. {Moving to the right as if eagerly 
 listening.) But she will never let him 
 go. (The Duchess turns.) I know she 
 intends to marry the Crown Prince. 
 {The Duchess sits on the couch, motion- 
 ing him to sit down also.) Thank you. 
 {He sits heside her on the couch.) And 
 of course she understands she can only 
 do so morganatically. Her mother told 
 me as much. She cabled her father this 
 morning she was going to marry the 
 Crown Prince. 
 
 {The Prince enters slowly, hows hack 
 through the ojjen doorway, closes 
 the door and comes forward. Botes 
 rises.) 
 
 Botes. Your Royal Highness — 
 
 Prixce. She haf refused me also. 
 
 Duchess. For why? 
 
 Prince. She say she haf told you, and it 
 vas for you already to make it not neces- 
 sary for her to say de same ting ofer 
 again to me. 
 
 Duchess. She haf explain to you too dat 
 you insult — 
 
 Prince. {With his teeth set, and evi- 
 dently going over the scene in mind.) 
 Yah. 
 
 Duchess. {Angry.) She haf said alles 
 dat she haf said to me? 
 
 Prince. I tink she haf said alles and more 
 also. 
 
 Duchess. {Angry.) She haf no right. 
 
 Prince. Pardon, meine liebe Tante, she 
 haf all der right. 
 
 Duchess. What haf you answered? 
 
 Prince. Nuttings. ^ 
 
 Duchess. {Astounded.) Nuttings? 
 
 Prince. Yah. {He turns to the Duch- 
 ess.) Because all dat she haf said was 
 damn true. 
 
 Duchess. Adolf! 
 
 Prince. Yah. I offer to her anything, 
 except but everything. Alles or nut- 
 tings. Aunt Caroline, I vas ashamed 
 for meinself. 
 
 Duchess. But it vas not your fault, mein 
 dear boy. You cannot help dat you 
 vas der Crown Prince and she vas no- 
 body. 
 
 Prince. Now also ven it vas too late, I 
 see me. I could refuse to be King. 
 
 Duchess. Adolf ! 
 
 Prince. What is dat to me widout her? 
 Nuttings, 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 699 
 
 Duchess. Nefer. Your fader and your 
 country vill not permit dat. 
 
 Prince. I loaf mein fader and mein coun- 
 try, but I loaf her more. She tink I haf 
 insulted her. She say she loaf me not 
 no more. I haf insult her. Do you 
 know vat is the truth, Aunt Caroline? 
 
 Duchess. Vas? 
 
 Prince. I loaf her more dat she haf re- 
 fused me now what I haf offered her. 
 Efen mit all mein stupidness I can know 
 now how I shall haf touglit less of her, 
 efen withought knowing dat, when she 
 haf said yes to me just now. 
 
 Duchess. You tink dat because you are 
 in loaf, aber — 
 
 Prince. Kein Aber. I shall better haf 
 give up mein crown and mein fader, 
 throne and alles. Alles. Tonder blazes ! 
 
 Duchess. {Rising.) Adolf! Mein Gott! 
 
 Botes. The attractions of your title, sir. 
 
 Prince. You tink dat? I don't. I haf 
 lesson what is worth more den alles to 
 me one million times double. I hate de 
 whole King pusiness for dat it haf come 
 between she and me, and before I get 
 through mit him yet I will kick him alles 
 out. Egscoose me. (Exit.) 
 
 {The Duchess and Botes look at each 
 other a moment.) 
 
 Duchess. 0, this vas dreadful, Botes, 
 yah! 
 
 Botes. Yah ! 
 
 Duchess. And he shall be able to do it, 
 also. 
 
 Botes. Yah! Yah! 
 
 Duchess. He was always too republican. 
 He haf made such trouble for dat mit 
 his fader, mit his all too free notions. 
 You haf said, Mr. Botes, you haf influ- 
 ence mit her. You tink you can per- 
 suade her to the morganatic marriage ? 
 
 Botes. I feel sure I can. 
 
 Duchess. {Goes to Mm.) Mr. Botes, 
 you do dat, and I gif you my word 
 anything you vould ask, possible, my 
 bruder shall do for you. 
 
 Botes. King George, ma'am, could, if he 
 would, satisfy the chief ambition of my 
 life. 
 
 Duchess. So? What is dat. {As Botes 
 hesitates.) Speak out! Speak out! 
 
 Botes. I want a Barony, ma'am, not only 
 for myself, but for my son's sake. 
 
 Duchess. Goot ! You haf done much al- 
 ready for Eastphalia. I can safely gif 
 you my promise — if you will bring about 
 dis marriage as we want it. 
 
 Botes Yes? 
 
 Duchess. Der honor what you want will 
 come yours! 
 
 Botes. I will see Miss Sheldon at once. 
 
 Duchess. I go immediate — Gott in Him- 
 mel, Mr. Botes, dis loaf! It makes in- 
 digestion of all our senses. I know by 
 mein own experience, and you too, not? 
 
 Botes. {Slie takes his arm, humorously.) 
 Me too, ma'am ; I 've suffered something 
 dreadful ! 
 
 Duchess. {Laughs.) I thought so. 
 
 Thank Gott we are not any more so 
 
 young as mein nephew was. That would 
 
 be dreadful. {They exeunt.) 
 
 {The moment the room is empty, Jo's 
 
 face is seen stealing a look through 
 
 the glass doors. She enters. There 
 
 are traces of tears and real suffering 
 
 on her face. She also seems to he 
 
 thinking deeply. As she sits down, 
 
 Vic enters quickly with an eager, 
 
 happy curiosity.) 
 
 Yic. I heard him go downstairs! Well, 
 Jo! {She stops on seeing Jo's expres- 
 sion.) 0, mv dear old girl — did she tell 
 the truth after all? 
 
 Jo. Yes. 0, Vic! {She hursts into tears 
 and sohs through the following speech.) 
 I 'm so unhappy ! Why did he make me 
 own I loved him! Why did you let me 
 love him? I knew in the beginning it 
 was impossible, but somehow after I lost 
 my heart I lost my head ! I 'm so un- 
 happy — 0, Vic! 
 
 Vic. Dear old Jo ! I 'm so sorry. Did 
 you tell him what you told his aunt ? 
 
 Jo. Yes. Every word. 
 
 Vic. And what did he say? 
 
 Jo. Nothing. He just looked at me with- 
 out speaking. I wanted him to speak — 
 to take back what he said or say some- 
 thing else — anything else — I don't know 
 what — only I wanted to make him speak. 
 So I said "Goodbye.'^ Still he didn't 
 answer. And then I told him I didn't 
 love, him any longer. And I meant it 
 then — at least I thought I did — and still 
 he didn't speak — but just bowed and 
 left me. 
 
 Vic. The brute! 
 
 Jo. No! It's I've been a fool. What 
 did I expect? Only, Vic. 0, Vic— I 
 let myself go. And now, even while 
 I feel insulted at what he 's asked me, I 
 love him. I love him still, Vic. Can't 
 you shame me out of it? 
 
 Vic. Dear old girl. I 'm so sorry. 
 
 Jo. Only what '11 I do, Vic? Vic? 
 What '11 I do ? And only this morning 
 
700 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 I cabled my father and said it was the 
 happiest day of my life. 
 
 Vic. {Angry.) Jo, you must try and 
 realize Prince Adolf really could n't love 
 you as he should or he wouldn't offer 
 you the sort of thing he did. 
 
 Jo. {II er pride coming to her rescue, he- 
 gins to recover a little.) Yes, that's 
 true, that's true, isn't it? How dared 
 he? How dared he? How could he? 
 Say that to me again, Vic, Make me 
 believe it! Keep on telling me! 
 
 Vic. You would be pointed at always. 
 
 Jo. Yes, I know. I ought to hate him, 
 hate him! Why don't I? Why can't 
 we choose whom we shall love and whom 
 we shall hate! Life would be so much 
 easier. I will never see him again, any- 
 way. Never. Not unless he begs me to. 
 And I '11 never listen to one word of love 
 from him again so long as I live. Un- 
 less — he asks my pardon and owns his 
 way is wrong. 0, I 'm a fool wjth all 
 these unlesses — the thing is finished! It 
 must be! 
 
 Vic. I wish I could help you, dear.' 
 
 Jo. You 're so good to me, Vic. {Bis- 
 ing. ) But I 'm going home to my fa- 
 ther. His girl Jo is homesick for her 
 father. You understand, don't you, 
 dear? I want to go home. 
 
 {Enter Botes.) 
 
 Botes. {Angrily.) Well, I must say. 
 
 Vic. Yes, father. 
 
 Jo. Yes, Mr. Botes. 
 
 Botes. Well, Miss Jo! You've made a 
 nice mess of things. 
 
 Jo. What? 
 
 Botes. What the devil do you mean? 
 
 Vic and Jo. {Together.) I don't under- 
 stand you! 
 
 Botes. Don't understand me? 
 
 Jo. No. What do I mean by what? 
 
 Botes. Why, refusing Prince Adolf or 
 pretending to — 
 
 Jo. "Pretending to"! 
 
 Botes. Yes, after all the manoeuvering to 
 get him? 
 
 Vic. Father, you must n't say that. 
 
 Jo. Mr. Botes. 
 
 Botes. Vic, you 've been taken in by your 
 friend here. Miss Jo got him where she 
 wanted him, up to his eyes in love with 
 her. 
 
 Jo. That is — not true! 
 
 Vic. Of course it 's not ! 
 
 Botes. Bah ! Then she worked on my 
 fool ambition, holding in my face her 
 
 marriage, mind you, to get £40,000 out 
 of me! And now she wants to turn 
 around and pretend she won't have the 
 Prince at his price! What's the game? 
 
 Jo. Vic, do you know what your father 
 means ? 
 
 Botes. I mean the whole business looks 
 to me like a pretty cunning scheme to 
 get £40,000 for nothing! But I 'm a 
 little of a tartar myself, when it comes 
 to scheming. Are you in earnest in re- 
 fusing the Prince? 
 
 Jo. I am. 
 
 Botes. And what about my £40,000? 
 
 Vic. Father, you 're behaving brutally. 
 What are you complaining of? Has the 
 Prince borrowed money of you? 
 
 Botes. No, the Prince hasn't. {To Jo.) 
 What about the agreement you signed? 
 
 Jo. What agreement? 
 
 Botes. You '11 marry the Prince^ or you 'II 
 never g€t a penny of that £40,000 in 
 spite of my cheque ! I 've attended to 
 that this morning. 
 
 Jo. What cheque? 
 
 Botes. And have you forgotten the note 
 vou gave me last evening? 
 
 Vic. What note? 
 
 Jo. I don't know what was in that note! 
 
 Botes. {Very satirically.) Really! Then 
 vou didn't sign it, I suppose? 
 
 Jo": No! 
 
 Botes. No! 0, come. Miss Jo! Vic's 
 going to know the whole truth from me 
 sooner or later, so you may as well be 
 frank now. (Mrs. Sheldon opens the 
 door and enters.) Either you marry the 
 Prince and carry out your agreement, or 
 else — 
 
 Jo. What agreement, Mr. Botes? Mother 
 Lena ! 
 
 Botes. Perhaps Mrs. Sheldon may per- 
 suade you to be frank when she knows 
 the alternative. 
 
 Mrs. S. What are you telling Jo, Mr. 
 Botes? 
 
 Botes. First let me tell you that Miss Jo 
 has refused Prince Adolf! 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! That can't be true! 
 
 Jo. The marriage is impossible. 
 
 Botes. And what about my money? 
 
 Mrs. S. That is a private matter, Mr. 
 Botes. 
 
 Botes. Not any longer it is n't ! It 's 
 going to be as public as I can make it. 
 
 Jo. Mother Lena, Avhat does he mean 
 about his money? What does it all 
 mean? 
 
 Botes. It means just what I said — that 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 701 
 
 you are a couple of swindlers. {Turn- 
 ing to Vic. ) That 's what it means, Vic. 
 
 Vic. Father ! 
 
 Jo. What do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. S. How dare you? 
 
 Botes. Your friend and her mother en- 
 tered into an agreement with me that on 
 Miss Jo's marriage with Prince Adolf — 
 I was to get a Barony in exchange 
 for — 
 
 Jo. Mother Lena ! 
 
 Mrs. S. You gave me your word to keep 
 this private between you and me! 
 
 Jo. Keep what? Keep what between you 
 two? 
 
 Botes. And I kept it private till she 
 broke her word with me. 
 
 Jo. What word? 
 
 Botes. Your word to marry Prince 
 Adolf! 
 
 Mrs. S. Mr. Botes! 
 
 Jo. I never gave you any such word! 
 
 Botes. No, of course! You didn't give 
 me anything last night! 
 
 Mrs. S. Mr. Botes! 
 
 Jo. I told you I didn't know what was 
 in that envelope. Mrs. Sheldon gave it 
 to me to — 
 
 Mrs. S. Mr. Botes, if you will leave me 
 alone with Jo — 
 
 Botes. And you said you didn't sign it, 
 either ! 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo, don't answer! 
 
 Jo. No, I did not sign it. 
 
 Vic. Jo 's told you already, Father — 
 
 Botes. How is that, Mrs. Sheldon? 
 
 Mrs. S. I must ask you either to leave me 
 alone with Jo, or else she and I will 
 leave you! 
 
 Jo. No, I won't leave this room till I 've 
 found out something of what all this 
 means. 
 
 Botes. Excuse me. This all can end 
 right here if Miss Jo will say that she 
 has reconsidered and will marry Prince 
 Adolf as he wishes! {Pause.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Say it, Jo, for God's sake, say it! 
 
 Jo. No! 
 
 Botes. Then let me tell you both that I 've 
 been to my bank since I gave Mrs. Shel- 
 don that cheque and I 've stopped pay- 
 ment on it. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Beside herself.) What! You 
 cheat ! ! You — 
 
 Jo. {Seizing her arm and speaking very 
 sternly.) Mother Lena, what does this 
 mean? Tell me the truth! 
 
 Mrs. S. {Looking at her with an appeal- 
 ing gaze and trying to give her a hint.) 
 
 Tell him that you signed the agreement 
 and that you '11 stand by it. 
 
 Jo. No ! You know I did n't ! 
 
 Mrs. S. {Turning to Botes.) Mr. Botes, 
 leave us alone, please — she doesn't want 
 to speak the truth before your daughter! 
 
 Vic. Jo! 
 
 Jo. {Shaking her head slowly and then 
 turning to Botes.) Mr. Botes, will you 
 please leave me alone with Mrs. Sheldon 
 for a few minutes? 
 
 Vic. {Quickly and earnestly.) Yes, fa- 
 ther, you must. I ask it too. 
 
 Botes. {After a moment's hesitation.) 
 Very well. My daughter and I will wait 
 in the other room. The whole matter 
 was your own plan ; and now it 's 
 started, you 've both got to see it 
 through. If you want that cheque of 
 mine made good, Miss Jo marries the 
 Prince. {Going to conservatory on the 
 right.) Vic, I'll show you this. 
 
 (Vic goes to Botes afid he shows her 
 the agreement which he takes from 
 his pocket.) 
 
 Vic. What? 
 
 Botes. The paper Miss Jo gave me — then 
 things will be clearer to you. 
 
 {Exeunt Vic and Botes.) 
 
 Jo. Now quickly, what does all this 
 mean? What have you done? 
 
 Mrs. S. I am in desperate straits for 
 money — and a Mr. Wilton came over 
 here to save me — to save us — all, from 
 a terrible scandal. 
 
 Jo. Scandal ! 
 
 Mrs. S. To get $250,000 from me. 
 
 Jo. Why, why? 
 
 Mrs. S. {Ignoring her question.) I saw 
 how things were drifting between you 
 and Prince Adolf, and in desperation 
 I made this plan! I managed to 
 wheedle £40,000 out of Mr. Botes on the 
 strength of a barony which you are to 
 get for him on your marriage to Prince 
 Adolf. You know that would be the 
 easiest thing in the world for you. 
 
 Jo. It 's hard for me to follow you. I 
 can't realize. I still don't understand. 
 
 Mrs. S. You will marry him, won't you, 
 Jo? 
 
 Jo. But why do you need such a sum of 
 money ? 
 
 Mrs. S. We have n't time to discuss that 
 now. You will marry him, Jo? 
 
 Jo. And that paper — what was it? 
 
 Mrs. S. An agreement between you and 
 Mr. Botes. I signed your name to it. 
 
 Jo. {Outraged — rising.) You dared! 
 
702 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! You'll say you signed it, 
 won't you? 
 
 Jo. No! 
 
 Mrs. S. But you '11 marry Prince Adolf, 
 won't you? 
 
 Jo. No ! No ! You 've made it more im- 
 possible than ever. 
 
 Mrs. S. But say you '11 marry him, just 
 say so — till we get this money safe in 
 the hands of the bank at home. 
 
 Jo. {Looking at her in horror.) No! No! 
 
 Mrs. S. {Rer fear and excitement mount- 
 ing.) But if payment on Mr. Botes' 
 cheque is stopped, I '11 go — to prison. 
 
 Jo. {Horror-struck, breaks awaij from 
 Mrs. S.) What more have you done? 
 
 Mrs. S. Never mind — I tell you I '11 go to 
 prison ! 
 
 Jo. {Pause, looking at her quietly.) 
 Well?— 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! {She insinuates deter- 
 minedly.) I won't go alone! 
 
 Jo. {Looking at her after a moment, 
 startled.) What do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. S. Your father will go with me. 
 
 Jo. No! No! 
 
 Mrs. S. You must say that signature is 
 yours, and carry out this agreement. 
 
 Jo. No, no, I can't, less than ever now, 
 I tell you! There must be some way at 
 home to get this money? 
 
 Mrs. S. Do you think I 've not tried every 
 way? I owe money everywhere. At a 
 breath of trouble, we '11 be swamped here 
 by a score of people I 'm in debt to. 
 
 Jo. You don't deserve to be helped. 
 
 Mrs. S. O, I know you wouldn't do it 
 for me. But for your father. 
 
 Jo. He is n't responsible in any way for 
 what you 've done. 
 
 Mrs. S. I 've borrowed money illegally, 
 and as much in his name as my own. It 
 was easy enough for me to get your fa- 
 ther to sign any paper I asked him to. 
 He always took my word for what the 
 paper was. 
 
 Jo. Yes, he had faith in you. He loved 
 you. Poor father! 
 
 Mrs. S. He can't escape being punished, 
 if you don't do as I say. 
 
 Jo. No, no, I can't believe that! 
 
 Mrs. S. You will believe it! When it's 
 too late to help ! Will you let him go 
 to prison? (Jo simply stares at her. 
 There is a pause.) He will go! But I 
 have my chance, and I '11 take it ! 
 
 Jo. What do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. S. Your fatlier is there, they can 
 arrest him any minute, but I 'm over 
 
 here and if you let the crash come, be- 
 fore they can get the papers, I 'II be out 
 of reach in Belgium, where there 's no 
 extradition treaty. 
 
 Jo. You 've even looked that up ! 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes! 
 
 Jo. Oh! But my instinct was right that 
 kept me from loving you. You came 
 into our lives when my father and I were 
 the happiest couple in the world! Why 
 did you come, why? Why! Of course, 
 I know, to shield yourself behind my 
 father's reputation, to trade on his love! 
 To make him a cat's paw — to sacrifice 
 him, body and soul, if necessary, to save 
 your mean, contemptible self! You 
 ought to crawl and beg at my father's 
 feet for a crumb of forgiveness which 
 you don't deserve to get. You traitor — ■ 
 to everything and everybody! 
 
 Mrs. S. What are you going to do? 
 
 Jo. {Very quietly.) Of course I'm go- 
 ing to save my father. 
 
 Mrs. S. {Excited and eager — bending 
 over the couch.) How? 
 
 {There is a long pause while Jo stares 
 straight ahead of her.) 
 
 Mrs. S. How? 
 
 Jo. By any sacrifice that 's necessary. 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! You'll do it? 
 
 Jo. {Rising and drawing away in disgust 
 and almost fear of her.) Don't! Don't! 
 {Calls.) Mr. Botes! 
 
 (Botes and Victoria enter.) 
 
 Jo. Mr. Botes? 
 
 Botes. Yes. 
 
 Jo. It is true you have stopped payment 
 on the cheque you gave Mrs. Sheldon? 
 
 Botes. It is. 
 
 Jo. And is there no other way to pei^- 
 suade you to let us have that money, 
 than the way you told us of just now? 
 {He shakes his head.) If I will go into 
 any sort of service I can get, governess, 
 companion, secretary, into a shop, any- 
 thing — and every cent outside my bare 
 living you shall get ! 
 
 Vic. Jo'! 
 
 Botes. No ! 
 
 Vic. Father ! 
 
 Botes. No ! 
 
 Jo. Well, I accept. 
 
 Botes. {Taking out a paper.) Acknowl- 
 edge to my daughter you gave me this 
 paper, and give her your word you '11 
 stand by it. 
 
 Jo. Give it to me. 
 
 {She reads the paper.) 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 703 
 
 Vic. {Going to Jo and putting her hand 
 on Jo's shoulder.) You can't do it, Jo! 
 You know you can't ! 
 
 Jo. {To Vic.) Yes, I can. {Then 
 turning to Botes.) I signed this — and 
 gave it to you, and I '11 stand by it. 
 
 (Vic takes the paper — reads it.) 
 
 Botes. Good ! Write a note to Prince 
 Adolf asking him to call tliis afternoon, 
 that you have reconsidered. 
 
 Jo. Yes, but first you must give your 
 word of honor to your daughter that you 
 will make your cheque good today. 
 
 Botes. Certainly. 
 
 Vic. Father! 
 
 Botes. I give you my word, Vic, to make 
 good today the cheque I gave Mrs. 
 Sheldon. (Jo sits and ivrites. Botes 
 and Vic speak in lowered tones aside.) 
 What do you think of your friend now, 
 Vic? 
 
 Vic. She did n't sign that paper ! 
 
 Botes. What do you mean? 
 
 Vic. It 's all written in her mother's 
 hand; Jo didn't sign it. 
 
 Botes. Well, she 's going to live up to it. 
 That 's all that 's really necessary. 
 
 Vic. I couldn't tell you, father, how 
 shamefully I think you 're behaving. 
 Let them have the money. 
 
 Botes. What! And let the whole thing 
 go just as I 've got what I want in my 
 grasp! You talk like a — well — like a 
 woman, Vic. Ask Cyril what he says. 
 
 Vic. It 's shameful ! That 's all — shame- 
 ful. Jo! 
 
 Botes. {To Jo.) What have you writ- 
 ten? No more tricks! 
 
 Jo. {Handing the paper to ViC.) Read 
 it aloud. 
 
 Vic. {Reading.) Come this afternoon at 
 five — if you still want me — I will be the 
 sort of wife you wish. Josephine Shel- 
 don. 
 
 (Vic gives the note to Botes with a 
 look of contempt.) 
 
 Botes. That 's something like it, and 
 there 's no going back on that, eh ? 
 
 Jo. No! 
 
 Botes. It 's good business all around. 
 He gets what he wants, you get w^iat 
 you want, and I get what I want, and 
 all 's well that ends well. 
 
 Jo. Wait one minute, Mr. Botes. 
 
 Botes. Yes. 
 
 Jo. Suppose Prince Adolf should alter 
 his mind and not want me now, even at 
 his own price! 
 
 Botes. Humph! I'll risk that! 
 
 Jo. You see, I'm not willing for him to 
 marry me blindfolded. When he comes 
 this afternoon I intend to tell him all 
 the truth ! 
 
 Botes. {Turning to her.) What! 
 
 Jo. I intend to tell him wliy 1 We changed 
 my mind! Tell him of our agreement; 
 tell him for just how much he 's buying 
 me, and then, if he still wants the bar- 
 gain, I 'm his. 
 
 Botes. That 's against the whole spirit of 
 the agreement ! 
 
 Jo. But it 's within the letter of it. 
 
 Botes. Even then there 's nothing legally 
 binding in the letter of it. 
 
 Jo. Yes, but I 've made it with "Word of 
 Honor Botes" ! 
 
 Botes. It 's a damn trick. 
 
 Jo. Every business is full of tricks, ours 
 is n't different from the average ! 
 Whether we lose, you and I, our Prince 
 and our bargain, you won't lose your 
 money in the end, for I tell you tliat my 
 father and I will repay that cheque to 
 you — somehow, some time, I don't know 
 how — and from today on, I have only 
 one purpose in my life and that is to 
 repay you, and I will. 
 
 {Enter Hallen, who gives a cable to Jo, 
 wJto opens and reads it.) 
 
 Hallen. a cable for you, miss. {To 
 Botes.) The same man from Streeter's 
 again, sir. 
 
 Botes. {Turning his hack to the audience 
 —to Mrs. S.) For you! 
 
 Mrs. S. I won't see him. 
 
 Botes. Then I will! {Turning to Hal- 
 LEN.) Send this by hand at once — 
 {Exit Hallen.) And you won't agree, 
 Jo, not to tell your story to Prince 
 Adolf? 
 
 Jo. No. 
 
 Botes. No? The Prince is coming at 
 five — will you meet me here at half past 
 four — 
 
 Jo. Yes. 
 
 Botes. Vic, you come with me, I want to 
 hear what this man from Streeter's has 
 to say. (Botes exits by the door, Vie 
 following him slowly.) — and perhaps 
 your friend will find I have a trick to 
 take hers. 
 
 (Jo bows her head, too full of emotion 
 to trust herself to speak.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Jo! {Coming to the back of the 
 couch where Jo is sitting. Jo moves 
 away from her.) Jo! 
 
704 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 Jo. {Rises — her voice broken with sobs.) 
 Go away ! Go away ! 
 
 (Mrs. S. looks at her a moment^ and 
 
 then leaves the stage. Jo hears the 
 
 door shut. She lifts the cable, rises 
 
 and reads it again.) 
 
 Jo. "Great news for your devoted father! 
 
 Happy congratulations and God bless 
 
 my girl Jo on the happiest day of her 
 
 life!" 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 (The Scene is the same as in Act Third, 
 later on the same day. Victoria is sit- 
 ting at a table as Hallen comes in.) 
 
 Hallen. Your father is coming now, miss. 
 Vic. Very well, H alien. 
 
 {Enter Botes.) 
 
 Botes. Tell Miss Jo I want her here. 
 {Exit Hallen.) You want me, Vic? 
 
 Vic. I want to know if you have kept your 
 promise and made Mrs. Sheldon's note 
 good ? 
 
 Botes. Yes, and your friend must live np 
 to her side of the bargain. 
 
 Vic. Are you really going to hold Jo to 
 her word 1 
 
 Botes. Yes. 
 
 Vic. Jo is lending herself to this abom- 
 inable business of yours to protect some- 
 one else, I know. If I only had some 
 money of my own ! 
 
 Botes. Well, you have n't. I 'm too good 
 a business man for that. 
 
 Vic. It is heartless and brutal of you. 
 
 Botes. Hold on! after all I'm your fa- 
 ther. 
 
 Vic. {Almost breaking down, but still an- 
 gry.) I know it, and I'm ashamed of 
 you. 
 
 Botes. That's enough. 
 
 Vic. I won't live here with you if you do 
 this. 
 
 Botes. Please yourself. 
 
 Vic. But it 's a disgraceful marriage. He 
 is n't worthy of Jo or he would n't ask it 
 of her. That sort of man will tire of her 
 in a year and marry some princess, and 
 where will poor Jo be? It's too dread- 
 ful. 
 
 Botes. It 's her own fault, if she does n't 
 hold him. And anyway, it 's a good 
 enough marriage for a scheming 
 woman, — 
 
 Vic. She's not a scheming woman. 
 {Enter Jo.) 
 
 Jo. Yes, Mr. Botes'? 
 
 Botes. Ah, I 'm glad you 've come. Mrs. 
 Sheldon 's not satisfied with running up a 
 bill with Streeter's for several thousand 
 pounds, and another with the Panchard 
 people, but she 's been buying outrage- 
 ously on credit, my credit, at half a dozen 
 other shops. 
 
 Jo. But surely she means to pay. 
 
 Botes. What with? So far as I can 
 make out neither of you have a penny. 
 
 Jo. I have my own letter of credit, but 
 of course in face of any such amount, it 's 
 nothing. 
 
 Botes. I can't have Mrs. Sheldon arrested 
 for debt here in my house. That alone 
 might upset this marriage. So I 've told 
 my lawyer for the present I'll be re- 
 sponsible — for the present, you under- 
 stand. Unless you carry out your threat 
 and tell Prince Adolf everything. Do 
 that and Mrs. Sheldon can be arrested 
 and welcome. 
 
 {Enter Cyril.) 
 
 Cyril. {Giving Jo a note. Jo sits on 
 sofa. ) 1 say, Jo, here 's a note I found 
 on the hall table for you. The gov- 
 ernor's left word you and he weren't to 
 be interrupted — but that 's nonsense. I 
 won't have the governor putting on such 
 airs. I noticed a royal crown on the en- 
 velope — a love letter — and he only saw 
 you this morning. Rather wearing that, 
 don't you think? {Exit.) 
 
 Jo. It 's from Prince Adolf. He did n't 
 go to his hotel from here, and has only 
 just received my note. He writes to say- 
 that he refuses to consider the — 
 
 Botes. What ! 
 
 Jo. He says he withdraws his offer of mar- 
 riage and is following his note at once to 
 explain. 
 
 Botes. But good God! Then the whole 
 thing's up! 
 
 Jo. I hope so. 
 
 Botes. Vic, will you leave me alone with 
 your friend, please? The Prince will be 
 here in about twenty minutes. 
 
 Vic. No. 
 
 Jo. {Rising and taking ViC to the door.) 
 Don't be afraid. I 've got to fight this 
 battle out by myself and I might as well 
 begin now, 
 
 Vic. Whatever you do, Jo, I am with you. 
 
 Jo. Thank you. {Exit Vic. ) 
 
CLYDE FITCH 
 
 705 
 
 Botes. Now, why has Prince Adolf 
 changed his mind like this? 
 
 Jo. I will find out perhaps when he comes 
 this afternoon. 
 
 Botes. You seem pleased. 
 
 Jo. I don't believe there ever was a woman 
 so happy to be refused by the man she 
 loves. In spite of all the horrors of this 
 day, in spite of all the trouble I know I 
 must still fight through — in spite of the 
 fact that these very troubles make a mar- 
 riage even more impossible than it was 
 before! Still, I am happy! 
 
 Botes. Why ? 
 
 Jo. You could n't understand. 
 
 Botes. Why nof? {After a pause,) 
 Why not? 
 
 Jo. Because you're too selfish. Because 
 you 're too wrapt up in getting every- 
 thing you want for yourself at any sacri- 
 fice! Because you're too senseless to 
 other people's sufferings to sympathize 
 with anyone's joys but your own. You 
 belong to the eye for an eye and tooth for 
 a tooth school. You can't understand 
 how this note means to me, that after all, 
 he really loves me. 
 
 {Enter Hallen.) 
 
 Hallejst. Mr. Botes, may I speak with you 
 
 aside a moment, please? 
 Botes. What is it? {Goes to Hallen. 
 
 Hallen ivliispers aside to Botes. Botes 
 
 starts in great surprise.) What! Miss 
 
 Jo, do you know that your mother has 
 
 run away? 
 Jo. Run away? 
 
 Botes. Yes, run away — sneaked otf. 
 Jo. It can't be true. {Exit.) 
 
 Botes. {To Hallen.) How did you find 
 
 it out? 
 Hallen. Her maid told Miss Botes' maid, 
 
 hin confidence, as it were, but Maggie got 
 
 scared, and let it hout. 
 Botes. Does she know where she 's gone ? 
 Hallen. She has reason to suspect it 's 
 
 Brussels, sir. 
 Botes. Was anything said about Miss Jo? 
 Hallen. Everything was kept secret from 
 
 her, too, for fear she 'd stop them.^ 
 
 {Enter Jo and Vic. Botes motions 
 Hallen of.) 
 
 Jo. It 's true, she 's gone. Oh, Mr. Botes, 
 she 's gone. She told me this morning 
 she might do it. She left my father in 
 the lurch. 
 
 Botes. How do you mean? Left your 
 father in — 
 
 Jo. That money you have given her — 
 £40,000— it 's hers. 
 
 Botes. No, at her own request the cheque 
 was made out to a Mr. Prenter — presi- 
 dent of some New York bank. 
 
 Jo. Then I don't care what becomes of her. 
 
 Botes. You didn't know she was going? 
 
 Jo and Vic. No ! 
 
 Botes. You are really as surprised as you 
 seem? 
 
 Jo. Please, please! 
 
 Botes. You make a good story. 
 
 Jo. You don't believe me ! 
 
 Botes. My daughter does ! 
 
 Jo and Vic. Yes ! 
 
 Botes. Well, if Vic's right about you, 
 she 's right about me, too. 
 
 Jo. How? 
 
 Botes. That I 've treated you like a brute 
 and ought to be ashamed. 
 
 Vic. Yes. 
 
 Botes. Well, I believe I am ashamed. 
 
 Jo. Mr. Botes — 
 
 Botes. I 've pretty well come to the con- 
 clusion that you 're as innocent in the 
 whole business as Vic is, and I 've been a 
 blundering idiot. Now, I 've an idea that 
 if my representative in New York can 
 get hold of that lawyer who was here — 
 
 Vic. Mr. Wilton? 
 
 Jo. I can give you his address. 
 
 Botes. Good, I'll cable. It may be that 
 my money can be used as a loan to tide 
 over a temporary difficulty. There, Vic. 
 I 've practically asked your friend's 
 pardon. ( To Jo. ) That 's what I mean. 
 {Kisses Jo's hand.) How 's that, Vic? 
 
 Vic. Father, if you think I 'm going to 
 throw my arms around your neck and 
 thank you for coming to your senses, 
 you 're very much mistaken. I 'm glad 
 you 've waked up, but it '11 be a long 
 time before I can forget what you 've 
 made Jo suffer. 
 
 Botes. Well ! I 'm paying the bill — don't 
 forget that. 
 
 {Enter Hallen.) 
 
 Hallen {who is evidently under a great 
 stress of excitement and with difficulty 
 controlling his countenance.) Mr. Hoh- 
 en'etstein ! 
 
 Jo, Botes and Vic. Who? 
 
 Hallen. Mr. Hohen'etstein. 
 
 {Enter Prince Adolf, who hows. Exit 
 Hallen. Botes hows. Jo and Vic 
 start to curtsey. The Prince crosses to 
 Jo and stops her as she curtseys.) 
 
706 
 
 HER GREAT MATCH 
 
 All. Mr. Who? 
 
 Prince. Mr. Hohenhetstein ! 
 
 Vic. Your Royal — 
 
 Prince. Nein! Nein! Nicht mebr! 
 
 Botes. Your Royal High — 
 
 Prince. Nein! {To All.) Alles der 
 four hours since I hat* go away of your 
 house I haf been in der office of der dis- 
 patches I haf sent to mein fader and to 
 der Prime Minister. I haf arranched dat 
 I shall send a message at der Parliament. 
 {The Prince finishes triumphantly. 
 There is a moment's silence. Every- 
 body is too surprised to speak at 
 once.) 
 
 Botes. But you are not in earnest, sir? 
 
 Prince. yah ! And mein bruder he 
 was very happy! He vill like to be 
 King! 
 
 Botes. Your brother! 
 
 Prince. Yah! It vas one great big ma- 
 chinery to make roll around, but I haf 
 start him going! 
 
 Vic. {Bursting into a joyful exclama- 
 tion.) Prince Adolf! 
 
 Prince. {To Vic.) Nicht Prince! It 
 shall not alles be made immediate! It 
 shall take up one little time. Aber! 
 But ! I haf mein mind made up I vill 
 give me up der throne. I vill be Mr. 
 Hohenhetstein as mein Cousin at Austria 
 who is now Mr. Hapsburg in der Switzer^ 
 land! And I vill dat it begin here, in 
 dis house, now. For a special why ! 
 
 {Turns to Jo.) 
 
 Jo. But your father? 
 
 Prince. Mein fader know now I vas in 
 earnest, and he accepts. 
 
 Botes. But — 
 
 (Vic whispers to her father. He nods 
 that he understands, and they steal 
 out into the conservatory. They 
 close the windows, look for a moment 
 through windows, smiling, and dis- 
 appear. ) 
 
 Jo. {Sitting on the sofa.) Accepts! 
 
 Prince. Yah! I haf sent to him such a 
 dispatch, dere vas not possible any doubt 
 how I vas made up mein mind. {Pulling 
 the arm chair to the sofa he sits down.) 
 And he haf just answered to me, dat alles 
 considered it vas besser so. 
 
 Jo. Better? 
 
 Prince. Yah ! Dat I vas alles too much 
 republican. Dat ven I haf effer come to 
 der throne I shall play der teffle mit it. 
 Heinrich vill be king in mein place, and 
 mein fader — {He laughs.) Ach ! Lieber 
 fader! He haf ended der dispatch, ''for 
 
 der loaf of heffen stop now vere you vas, 
 and don't become one anarchist I" 
 
 Jo. But to give up being King — won't you 
 perhaps — some day — regret it? 
 
 Prince. No. I haf neffer like dat King 
 business, what vas it? It vas just to 
 wear alles a different uniform, haf your 
 picture taked and get shot at — dat vas 
 about all! But anyway — if I vas to 
 speak of der glory of der throne — of 
 mein country of good and happy people. 
 Yah ! If I vill spoke only of all der 
 great things, still, — neffer mind, I am a 
 modern, I am all for der new ideas, and 
 der new thought and I vas better in der 
 new country. Still again dat vas not 
 really why I gif him up! Vill you not 
 ask me for why I gif him up? 
 
 Jo. {Very softly.) No — I daren't. 
 
 Prince. Why not ? 
 
 Jo. For fear it might be for me — you 
 must n't — you must n't ! 
 
 Prince. You haf told me dis morning dat 
 you no longer haf loafed me. 
 
 Jo. Yes. 
 
 Prince. Dat vas ri^ht, nicht? 
 
 Jo. '{Softly.) No." 
 
 Prince. How vas dat, No? 
 
 Jo. {Ve7-y softly.) It vas a lie! 
 
 Prince. No! You shall forgif me for 
 what I haf asked from you dis morning! 
 
 Jo. Even this morning I wanted to forgive 
 you. 
 
 Prince. Goot! {Takes her hand.) Now 
 I tell you for who I gif up mein throne ! 
 I gif it up for you! 
 
 Jo. But something new has come up to 
 separate us ! Mrs. Sheldon has done dis- 
 honorable things and has run away! 
 
 Prince. Ven she haf run away, dat vas 
 all right den ! 
 
 Jo. It may bring a scandal upon my fa- 
 ther and on me. I could n't bring that 
 scandal to you to help me carry. 
 
 Prince. Vhy not? Das macht nichts. 
 
 Jo. What? 
 
 Prince. Dat makes nutting for me. I vill 
 ask nothing besser dan to carry scandals 
 for you alles ! 
 
 Jo. But don't you want to know what 
 Mrs. Sheldon has done? 
 
 Prince. Nein, das machts nichts! 
 
 Jo. But don't you want to know why I 
 sent you that note a few hours ago? 
 
 Prince. Nein! das macht nichts! 
 
 Jo. But I have nothing to give you in ex- 
 change for all you give up. 
 
 Prince, Das macht nichts! 
 
 Jo. But some day if you should regret? 
 
CLYDE FITCH . 707 
 
 Prince. Nef er ! I haf not much meinself 
 
 Prince. You loaf me again ? 
 
 to offer you. No position — not more. 
 
 Jo. The word is n't big enough ! 
 
 Jo. Das macht nichts! 
 
 Prince. I'll find me another! 
 
 Prince. And not much money either! 
 
 Jo. No, the word maeht nichts! 
 
 Jo. Das macht nichts! 
 
 Prince. NO ! ! 
 
 Prince. But I will make me a new life 
 
 {He takes her face in his hands and 
 
 and a new money alone! 
 
 they embrace.) 
 
 Jo. No, not alone. 
 
 
THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 BY 
 
 Langdon Mitchell 
 
Copyright, 1907, 1908, by Langdon Mitchell 
 
 All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. 
 Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved.- 
 Application for the right of performing this play may he made 
 to Alice Kauser, 1402 Broadway, New York, N. Y. 
 
 For amateur performances, permission must be secured from 
 Walter H. Baker and Company, Boston. 
 
 Reprinted by permission of Mr. Langdon Mitchell and 
 Walter H. Baker and Company. 
 
THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 The New York Idea represents American social comedy at its best. It por- 
 trays impersonally and artistically the effects of our divorce laws upon a group 
 of very human beings, indicating cleverly the restraining influence upon their 
 actions exercised by their varying respect for the importance of social values. 
 They are all, however, fully aware of these values. 
 
 Langdon Elwyn Mitchell was born in Philadelphia, February 17, 1862. He 
 is the son of the late Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, the physician and novelist. He was 
 educated at St. Paul's School, at Concord, New Hampshire, and after three years' 
 study abroad, studied law at Harvard and Columbia Universities and was ad- 
 mitted to the New York Bar in 1886. He has been a poet and playwright since 
 1883, his earlier works appearing under the pen-name of John Philip Varley. 
 His first published drama was Sylvian, a tragedy partly in verse, laid in Cordova 
 in the seventeenth century, published in Sylvian and Other Poems (1885). His 
 other poetical work .appeared under the title of Poems (1894). Love in the 
 Backwoods (1896) consisted of short stories and novelettes. In 1892 Mr. 
 Mitchell married Miss Marion Lea, of Philadelphia, who created the part of 
 ''Vida Phillimore" in The New York Idea. The dramatization of his father's 
 novel The Adventures of Frangois, played by Henry E. Dixey, was not success- 
 ful, but his play Becky Sharp, founded on Thackeray's Vanity Fair, and played 
 by Mrs. Fiske at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, September 12, 1899, was a decided 
 success for two years and was revived by Mrs. Fiske ten years later. So great 
 indeed was the success of the play that another American version was played 
 during 1900-1, until stopped by injunction, and two versions were given in Eng- 
 land during the season of 1901. 
 
 The New York Idea was first produced by Mrs. Fiske at the Lyric Theatre, 
 New York City, November 19, 1906, with the cast as given. It was a very suc- 
 cessful play and has been revived. Miss Grace George playing it in repertory 
 during the season of 1915-16. 
 
 Under the name of Jonathan's Tochter, The New York Idea was translated 
 into German and played at the Kammerspiel Theater, Berlin, under the direc- 
 tion of Max Reinhardt, October 7, 1916. The criticism in the Berlin newspapers, 
 especially the Vossische Zeitung, indicated that from the critics' point of view, 
 the comedy was a charming one, but that international complications prevented 
 at first, an impartial judgment of the play. Since then, it has had considerable 
 success and is now being translated into Danish, Swedish and Hungarian. 
 
 Mr. Mitchell wrote no plays for some years, but has recently resumed active 
 work. On October 11, 1916, at Atlantic City, New Jersey, his dramatization of 
 
 711 
 
712 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Thackeray's Pendennis was placed on the stage with Mr. John Drew in the 
 leading part of "Major Pendennis." After a satisfactory tryout, it was taken 
 to New York City. 
 
 The New York Idea was published in 1908 by W. H. Baker and Company. 
 It is here reprinted through the courtesy of Mr. Mitchell and the publishers- 
 The editor is indebted to Mr. Mitchell for a careful revision of the text made 
 especially for this volume. 
 
 For an interesting criticism of Becky Sharp, see William Winter, The Wallet 
 of Time, New York, 1913, vol. 2, pp. 273-286, and, for a very appreciative analysis 
 of The New York Idea see Mr. William Archer's notice of the play in The Lon- 
 don Tribune of May 27, 1907, reprinted in the published play. See also for 
 Becky Sharp, Plays of the Present, by J. B. Clapp and E. F. Edgett, New York, 
 1902, pp. 32-4. 
 
To Marion Lea 
 
THE OEIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Lyric Theatre, New York City, November 19, 1906 
 
 Philip Phillimore Mr. Charles Harbury 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore, his mother ]Miss Ida Vernon 
 
 The Reverend ^Matthew Phillimore, his brother Mr. Dudley Clinton 
 
 Grace Phillimore, his sister Miss Emily Stevens 
 
 ]\Iiss Heneage, his aunt Miss Blanche Weaver 
 
 William Sudley, his cousin Mr. William B. ]\Iack 
 
 Mrs. Vida Phillimore, his divorced wife Miss j\Iarion Lea 
 
 Brooks, her footman Mr. George Harcourt 
 
 Bexson, her maid Miss Belle Bohn 
 
 Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby Mr. George Arliss 
 
 John Karslake Mr. John IMason 
 
 ]\Irs. Cynthia Karslake, his divorced wife Mrs. Fiske 
 
 NoGAM, his valet Mr. Dudley Digges 
 
 Tim Fiddler Mr. Eobert V. Ferguson 
 
 Thomas, the Phillimores' family servant Mr. Richard Clarke 
 
 ACT I — Drawing-room in the Phillimore house, Washington Square. 
 Wednesday afternoon, at five o'clock. 
 
 ACT II — Mrs. Vida Phillimore 's Boudoir, Fifth Avenue. Thursday morn- 
 ing, at eleven. 
 
 ACT III — Same as Act I. Thursday evening, at ten. 
 
 ACT IV — John Karslake 's House, Madison Avenue. Thursday, at mid- 
 night. 
 
 Scene — New York. Time — The Present 
 
 i 
 
THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene. Living room in the house of 
 Philip Phillimore. Five o'clock of .an 
 afternoon of May. The general air and 
 appearance of the room is that of an old- 
 fashioned, decorous, comfortable interior. 
 There are no electric lights and no electric 
 hells. Two hell ropes as in old-fashioned 
 houses. The room is in dark tones in- 
 clining to somhre and of old-fashioned 
 elegance. 
 
 {The curtain rises, disclosing Miss Hene- 
 AGE, Mrs. Phillimore and Thomas. 
 Miss Hexeage is a solidly huilt, navrow- 
 minded woman in her sixties. She makes 
 no effort to look younger than she is, and 
 is expensively but quietly dressed, with 
 heavy elegance. She commands her 
 household and her family connection, and 
 on the strength of a large and steady in- 
 come feels that her opinion has its value. 
 Mrs. Phillimore is a semi-professional 
 invalid, refined and unintelligent. Her 
 movements are weak and fatigued. Her 
 voice is habitually plaintive and she is 
 entirely a lady without a trace of being 
 a woman of fashion. Thomas is an 
 easy -mannered, hut entirely respectful 
 family servant, un-English both in style 
 and appearance. He has no deportment 
 worthy of being so called, and takes an 
 evident interest in the affairs of the fam- 
 ily he serves. Miss Hexeage, seated at 
 the tea-table, faces the footlights. Mrs. 
 Phillimore is seated at the left side of 
 the table. Thomas stands near by. The 
 table is set for tea. There is a vase with 
 flowers, a silver match-box, and a large 
 old-fashioned tea urn on the table. The 
 ''Evening Post" is on the table. Miss 
 Heneage and Mrs. Phillimore both 
 have cups of tea. Miss Hexeage sits up 
 very straight, and pours tea for Grace, 
 who has just entered. She is a pretty 
 and fashionably dressed girl of twenty. 
 She speaks superciliously, coolly, and not 
 too fast. She sits on the sofa, and does 
 not lounge, wearing a gown suitable for 
 spring visiting, hat, parasol, and gloves.) 
 
 Grace. {As she crosses and sits down.) I 
 
 715 
 
 never in my life walked so far and found 
 so few people at home. {She pauses, 
 taking of her gloves, and somewhat 
 querulously continues ) The fact is the 
 nineteenth of May is ridiculously late to 
 be in town. 
 
 Miss Hexeage. Thomas, Mr. Phillimore's 
 sherry? 
 
 Thomas. The sherry, ma'am. (Thomas 
 indicates a table where the decanter is 
 set.) 
 
 Miss Hexeage. Mr. Phillimore's Post? 
 
 Thomas. {Pointing to the ''Evening Post" 
 on the tea-table.) The Post, ma'am. 
 
 Miss Hexeage. {Indicates the cup.) Miss 
 Phillimore. 
 
 (Thomas takes a cup of tea to Grace. 
 There is silence while they all sip tea. 
 Thomas goes back, fills the sherry 
 glass, remaining round and about 
 the tea-table. They all drink tea 
 during the following scene.) 
 
 Grace. The Dudleys were at home. They 
 wished to know when my brother Philip 
 was to be married, and where and how? 
 
 Miss Hexeage. If the Dudleys were per- 
 sons of breeding, they 'd not intrude their 
 curiosity upon you. 
 
 Grace. I like Lena Dudley. 
 
 Mrs. • Phillimore {Speaks slowly and 
 gently.) Do I know Miss Dudley? 
 
 Grace. She knows Philip. She expects 
 . an announcement of the wedding. 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. I trust you told her 
 that my son, my sister and myself are 
 all of the opinion that those who have 
 been divorced should remarry with mod- 
 esty and without parade. 
 
 Grace. I told the Dudleys Philip's wed- 
 ding was here, to-morrow. 
 
 Miss Hexeage. {To Mrs. Phillimore, 
 picking up a sheet of paper from the 
 table.) I have spent the afternoon, 
 Mary, in arranging and listing the wed- 
 ding gifts, and in writing out the an- 
 nouncements of the wedding. I think I 
 have attained a proper form of announce- 
 ment. {She takes the sheet of note paper 
 and gives it to Thomas.) Of course, the 
 announcement Philip himself made was 
 quite out of the question. (Grace 
 smiles.) However, there is mine. 
 
716 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 {She points to the paper. Thomas 
 gives the list to Mrs. Phillimore 
 and moves away.) 
 
 Grace. I hope you '11 send an announce- 
 ment to the Dudleys. 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Reading plaintively, 
 ready to make the best of things.) "Mr. 
 Philip Phillimore and Mrs. Cynthia Dean 
 Karslake announce their marriage, May 
 twentieth, at three o'clock, Nineteen A, 
 Washington Square, New York." {She 
 replaces paper on Thomas's salver.) It 
 sounds veiy nice. 
 
 (Thomas hands the paper to Miss 
 Heneage.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. In my opinion it barely 
 escapes sounding nasty. However, it is 
 correct. The only remaining question is 
 — to whom the announcement should not 
 be sent. {Exit Thomas.) I consider 
 an announcement of the wedding of two 
 divorced persons to be in the nature of 
 an intimate communication. It not only 
 announces the Avedding — it also announces 
 the divorce. {She returns to her tea- 
 cup.) The person I shall ask counsel of 
 is Cousin William Sudley. He promised 
 to drop in this afternoon. 
 
 Grace. Oh! We shall hear all about 
 Cairo. 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. William is judicious. 
 
 {Re-enter Thomas.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. {With finality.) Cousin 
 William wdll disapprove of the match un- 
 less a winter in Cairo has altered his 
 moral tone. 
 
 Thomas. {Announces,) Mr. Sudley. 
 
 {Enter William Sudley, a little oldish 
 gentleman. He is and appears thor- 
 oughly insignificant. But his opinion of 
 the place he occupies in the world is ex- 
 alted. Though he is filled with self-im- 
 portance, his manners, voice, presence 
 are all those of a man of breeding.) 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore and Miss Heneage. 
 
 {They rise and greet Sudley; a little 
 
 tremulously.) My dear William! 
 
 {Exit Thomas.) 
 Sudley. {He shakes hands with Mrs. 
 
 Phillimore^ soberly glad to see them.) 
 
 How d 'ye do, Mary ? A very warm May 
 
 you 're having, Sarah. 
 Grace. {She comes to him.) Dear Cousin 
 
 William ! 
 Miss Heneage. Was n't it warm in Cairo 
 
 when you left? 
 
 {She will have the strict truth, or noth- 
 
 ing; still, on account of Sudley's 
 impeccable respectability, she treats 
 him with more than usual leniency ) 
 
 Sudley. {Silting down.) We left Cairo 
 six weeks ago, Grace, so I 've had no 
 news since you wrote in February that 
 Philip was engaged. {Pause.) I need 
 not to say I consider Philip's engagement 
 excessively regrettable. He is a judge 
 upon the Supreme Court bench with a 
 divorced wife — and such a divorced wife ! 
 
 Grace. Oh, but Philip has succeeded in 
 keeping everything as quiet as possible. 
 
 Sudley. {Acidly,) No, my dear! He 
 has not succeeded in keeping his former 
 wife as quiet as possible. We had not 
 been in Cairo a week w^hen who should 
 turn up but Vida Phillimore. She went 
 ever;v^vhere and did everything no woman 
 should ! 
 
 Grace. {Unfeignedly interested.) Oh, 
 w^hat did she do'? 
 
 Slt)ley. She "did" Cleopatra at the tab- 
 leaux at Lord Errington's! She "did" 
 Cleopatra, and she did it robed only in 
 some diaphanous material of a nature so 
 transparent that — in fact she appeared to 
 be draped in moonshine. (Miss Hene- 
 age indicates the presence of Grace. 
 She rises.) That was only the beginning. 
 As soon as she heard of Philip's engage- 
 ment, she gave a dinner in honor of it! 
 Only divorcees were asked ! And she had 
 a dummy — yes, my dear, a dummy — at 
 the head of the table. He stood for 
 Philip— that is he sat for Philip! {He 
 rises, and goes up to table.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. {Irritated and disgusted.) 
 Ah! 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {With dismay and 
 pain.) Dear me! 
 
 Miss Heneage. {Confident of the value of 
 her opinion.) 1 disapprove of Mrs. 
 Phillimore. 
 
 Sudley. {Taking cigarette.) Of course 
 you do, but has Philip taken to Egyptian 
 cigarettes in order to celebrate my winter 
 at Cairo *? 
 
 Grace. Those are Cynthia's. 
 
 Sudley. {Thinking that no one is worth 
 knowing whom he does not know.) Who 
 is "Cynthia"? 
 
 Grace. Mrs. Karslake — She 's staying 
 here. Cousin William. She'll be down 
 in a minute. 
 
 Sudley. {Shocked.) You don't mean to 
 tell me—?—! 
 
 Miss Heneage. Yes, William, Cynthia is 
 Mrs. Karslake — Mrs. Karslake has no 
 
 1 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 717 
 
 New York house. I disliked the public- 
 ity of a hotel in the circumstances, and 
 accordingly when she became engaged to 
 Philip, I invited her here. 
 
 SuDLEY. {Suspicious and distrustful.) 
 And may I ask who Mrs. Karslake is*? 
 
 Miss Heneage. {With eonfidence.) She 
 was a Deane. 
 
 SuDLEY. {Walking about the room, sorry 
 to be obliged to concede good birth to any 
 but his own blood ) Oh, oh — well the 
 Deanes are extremely nice people. {Go- 
 ing to table.) Was her father J. Wil- 
 liam Deane? 
 
 Miss Heneage. {Nodding, still more se- 
 cure.) Yes. 
 
 SuDLEY, {Giving in with difficulty.) The 
 family is an old one. J. William Deane's 
 daughter? Surely he left a very consid- 
 erable — 
 
 Miss Heneage. Oh, fifteen or twenty mil- 
 lions. 
 
 SuDLEY. {Determined not to be dazzled.) 
 If I remember rightly she w^as brought 
 up abroad. 
 
 Miss Heneage. In France and England — 
 and I fancy brought up with a very gay 
 set in very gay places. In fact she is 
 what is called a "sporty" woman. 
 
 SuDLEY. {Always ready to think the 
 worst.) We might put up with that. 
 But you don't mean to tell me Philip has 
 the — the — the — assurance to marry a 
 woman who has been divorced by — 
 
 Miss Heneage. Not at all. Cynthia 
 Karslake divorced her husband. 
 
 SuDLEY. {Gloomily, since he has less fault 
 to find than he expected.) She divorced 
 him! Ah! {He sips his tea.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. The suit went by default. 
 And, my dear William, there are many 
 palliating circumstances. Cynthia was 
 married to Karslake only seven months. 
 There are no — {glancing at GIrace) no 
 hostages to Fortune! Ahem! 
 
 Sudley. {Still unwilling to be pleased.) 
 Ah ! What sort of a young woman is 
 she? 
 
 Grace. {With the superiority of one who 
 is not too popular.) Men admire her. 
 
 Miss Heneage. She's not conventional. 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Showing a faint sense 
 of justice.) 1 am bound to say she has 
 behaved discreetly ever since she arrived 
 in this house. 
 
 Miss Heneage. Yes, Mary — but I some- 
 times suspect that she exercises a degree 
 of self-control — 
 
 Sudley, {Glad to have something against 
 
 some one.)^ She claps on the lid, eh? 
 And you think that perhaps some day 
 she'll boil over? Well, of course fifteen 
 or twenty millions — but who's Karslake? 
 
 Grace. {Very superciliously.) He owns 
 Cynthia K. She 's the famous mare. 
 
 Miss Heneage. He's Henry Karslake's 
 son. 
 
 Sudley. {Beginning to make the best 
 of it.) Oh! — Henry! — Very respectable 
 family. Although I remember his father 
 served a term in the senate. And so the 
 wedding is to be to-morrow? 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Assenting.) To-mor- 
 row. 
 
 Sudley. {Rising, his respectability to the 
 front when he thinks of the ceremony. 
 Grace rises.) To-morrow. Well, my 
 dear Sarah, a respectable family with 
 some means. We must accept her. But 
 on the whole, I think it will be best for 
 me not to see the young woman. My dis- 
 approbation would make itself apparent. 
 
 Grace. {Whispering to Sudley.) Cyn- 
 thia's coming. {He doesn't hear.) 
 
 (Cynthia enters, absorbed in reading a 
 newspaper. She is a young creature in 
 her twenties, small and high-bred, full of 
 the love of excitement and sport. Her 
 manner is wide awake and keen and she 
 is evidently in no fear of the opinion of 
 others. Her dress is exceedingly elegant, 
 but with the elegance of a woman whose 
 chief interests lie in life out of doors. 
 There is nothing horsey in her style, and 
 her expression is youthful and ingenu- 
 ous.) 
 
 Sudley. {Sententiously and determinedly 
 epigrammatic.) The uncouth modern 
 young woman, eight feet high, with a 
 skin like a rhinoceros and manners like a 
 cave dweller — an habitue of the race- 
 track and the divorce court — 
 
 Grace. {Aside to Sudley.) Cousin Wil- 
 liam! 
 
 Sudley. Eh, oh! 
 
 Cynthia. {Coming down, reading, im- 
 mersed, excited, trembling. She lowers 
 the paper to catch the light.) "Belmont 
 favorite — six to one — Rockaway — Rose- 
 bud, and Flying Cloud. Slow track — 
 raw wind — hm, hm, hm — At the half, 
 Rockaway forged ahead, when Rosebud 
 under the lash made a bold bid for vic- 
 tory — neck by neck — for a quarter — when 
 Flying Cloud slipped by the pair and 
 won on the post by a nose in one forty 
 nine!" {Speaking with the enthusiasm 
 
718 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 of a sport.) Oh, I wish I'd seen the 
 dear thing do it. Oh, it's Mr. Sudley! 
 You must think me very rude. How do 
 you do, Mr. Sudley? 
 
 {She goes to Sudley.) 
 
 Sudley. (Bowing without cordiality.) 
 Mrs. Karslake. 
 
 {Pause; Cynthia feels he should say 
 sofnething. As he says nothing, she 
 speaks again.) 
 
 Cynthia. I hope Cairo was delightful? 
 Did you have a smooth voyage? 
 
 Sudley. {Pompously.) You must per- 
 mit me, Mrs. Karslake — 
 
 Cynthia. {With good temper, somewhat 
 embarrassed, and talking herself into 
 ease.) Oh, please don't welcome me to 
 the family. All that formal part is over, 
 if you don't mind. I 'm one of the tribe 
 now ! You 're coming to our wedding 
 to-morrow ? 
 
 Sudley. My dear Mrs. Karslake, I think 
 it might be wiser — 
 
 Cynthia. {Still with cordial good tem- 
 per.) Oh, but you must come! I mean 
 to be a perfect wife to Philip and all his 
 relations! That sounds rather miscel- 
 laneous, but you know what I mean. 
 
 Sudley. {Very sententiously.) I am 
 afraid — 
 
 Cynthia. {Gay and still covering her em- 
 barrassment.) If you don't come, it'll 
 look as if you were not standing by Philip 
 when he 's in trouble ! You '11 come, 
 won't you — but of course you will. 
 
 Sudley. {After a self-important pause.) 
 I will come, Mrs, Karslake {After a 
 pause.) Good-afternoon. {In a tone of 
 sorrow and light compassion.) Good- 
 bye, Mary. Good-aftemoon, Sarah. 
 (Sighing.) Grace, dear. (To Miss 
 Hexeage.) At what hour did you say 
 the alimony commences? 
 
 Miss Heneage. (Quickly and command- 
 ingly to cover his slip.) The ceremony is 
 at three p. m., William. 
 
 (Sudley goes toward the door.) 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. (With fatigued voice 
 and manner as she rises.) 1 am going to 
 my room to rest awhile. 
 
 (Mrs. Phillimore goes up.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. (To Sudley.) Oh, Wil- 
 liam, one moment — I entirely forgot! 
 I 've a most important social question to 
 ask you! (She goes up slowly to the 
 door with him.) In regard to the an- 
 nouncements of the wedding — whom they 
 shall be sent to and whom not. For in- 
 stance — the Dudleys — 
 
 (Exeunt Sudley and Miss Heneage, 
 talking.) 
 Cynthia. So that's Cousin William? 
 Grace. Don't you like him? 
 Cynthia. (Calmly sarcastic.) Like him? 
 I love him. He 's so generous. He 
 could n't have received me with more 
 warmth if I 'd been a mulatto. 
 
 (Thomas re-enters. Phillimore enters. 
 Philip Phillimore is a self-centered, 
 short-tempered, imperious member of the 
 respectable fashionables of New York. 
 He is well and solidly dressed and in man- 
 ner and speech evidently a man of fam- 
 ily. He is accustomed to being listened 
 to in his home circle and from the bench, 
 and it is practically impossible for him 
 to believe that he can make a mistake.) 
 
 Grace. (Outraged.) Really you know — 
 (Cynthia crosses the stage and sits at 
 the table.) Philip! 
 
 (Philip nods to Grace absent-mind- 
 edly. He is in his working suit and 
 looks tired. He comes down silently, 
 crosses to tea-table, and bends over 
 and kisses Cynthia on forehead. 
 He goes to his chair, which Thomas 
 has moved to suit him. He sits, and 
 sighs with satisfaction.) 
 Philip. Ah, Grace! (Exit Grace.) 
 Well, my dear, I thought I should never 
 extricate myself from the court room. 
 You look very debonnair ! 
 Cynthia. The tea 's making. You '11 
 
 have your glass of sherry? 
 Philip. (The strain of the day has evi- 
 dently been severe.) Thanks! (Taking 
 it from Thomas; sighing.) Ah! 
 Cynthia. I can see it 's been a tiring day 
 
 with you. 
 Philip. (As before.) Hm! 
 
 (He sips the tea.) 
 Cynthia Were the lawyers very long 
 
 winded ? 
 Philip. (Almost too tired for speech.) 
 Prolix to the point of somnolence. It 
 might be affirmed without inexactitude 
 that the prolixity of counsel is the som- 
 nolence of the judiciary. I am fatigued, 
 ah! (A little suddenly, awaking to the 
 fact that his orders have not been carried 
 out to the letter.) Thomas! My Post 
 is not in its usual place! 
 Cynthia. It's here, Philip. 
 
 (Thomas gets it.) 
 
 Philip. Thanks, my dear. (Opening the 
 
 "Post.") Ah! This hour with you — is 
 
 — is really the — the — (absently) the one 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 719 
 
 vivid moment of the day. {Reading.) 
 Hm — shocking attack by the president on 
 vested interests. Hm — too bad — but it 's 
 to be expected. The people insisted on 
 electing a desperado to the presidential 
 office — they must take the hold-up that 
 follows. {Pause; he reads ) Hm ! His 
 English is lacking in idiom, his spelling 
 in conservatism, his mind in balance, and 
 his character in repose. 
 
 Cynthia. {Amiable hut not very sympa- 
 thetic.) You seem more fatigued than 
 usual. Another glass of sherry, Philip *? 
 
 Philip. Oh, I ought not to — 
 
 Cynthia. I think you seem a little more 
 tired than usual. 
 
 Philip. Perhaps I am. {She pours out 
 sherry. Philip takes the glass.) Ah, 
 this hour is truly a grateful form of rest- 
 ful excitement. {Pause.) You, too, find 
 it — eh? {He looks at Cynthia.) 
 
 Cynthia. {With veiled sarcasm.) Decid- 
 edly. 
 
 Philip Decidedly what, my dear? 
 
 Cynthia. {As before.) Restful. 
 
 Philip. Hm! Perhaps I need the calm 
 more than you do. Over the case to-day 
 I actually — eh — {sipping) slumbered. I 
 heard myself do it. That 's how I know. 
 A dressmaker sued on seven counts. 
 {Reading newspaper.) Really, the in- 
 sanity of the United States Senate — you 
 seem restless, my dear. Ah — um — have 
 you seen the evening paper? I see there 
 has been a lightning change in the style 
 or size of hats which ladies — 
 
 {He sweeps a descriptive motion with 
 his hand, giving paper to Cynthia, 
 then moves his glass, reads, and 
 sips. ) 
 
 Cynthia. The lamp, Thomas. 
 
 (Thomas blows out the alcohol lamp 
 on the tea-table with difficulty. He 
 blows twice. Each time he moves 
 Philip starts. He blows again.) 
 
 Philip. {Irritably.) Confound it, Thomas! 
 What are you puffing and blowing at — ? 
 
 Thomas. It 's out, ma'am — ^yes, sir. 
 
 Philip. You 're excessively noisy, Thomas ! 
 
 Thomas. {In a fluster.) Yes, sir — I am. 
 
 Cynthia. {Soothing Thomas's wounded 
 feelings.) We don't need you, Thomas. 
 
 Thomas. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 Philip. Puffing and blowing and shaking 
 and quaking like an automobile in an 
 ecstasy! {Exit Thomas.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Not unsympathetically.) Too 
 bad, Philip! I hope my presence isn't 
 too agitating:' 
 
 Philip. Ah— it 's just because I value this 
 hour with you, Cynthia — this hour of tea 
 and toast and tranquillity. It 's quite as 
 if we were married — happily married — 
 already. 
 
 Cynthia. {Admitting that married life is 
 a blank, begins to look through paper.) 
 Yes, I feel as if we were married already. 
 
 Philip. {Not recognizing her tone.) Ah! 
 It 's the calm, you see. 
 
 Cynthia. {As before.) The calm? Yes 
 — yes, it 's — it 's the calm. 
 
 Philip. {Sighing.) Yes, the calm — the 
 Halcyon calm of — of second choice. 
 Hm ! {He reads and turns over leaves of 
 paper. Cynthia reads. Pause.) After 
 all, my dear — the feeling which I have 
 for you — is — is — eh — the market is in a 
 shocking condition of plethora ! Hm — 
 hm — and what are you reading? 
 
 Cynthia. {Embarrassed.) Oh, eh — well 
 ■ — I — eh — I 'm just running over the 
 sporting news. 
 
 Philip. Oh! {He looks thoughtful.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Beginning to forget Philip 
 and to remember more interesting mat- 
 ters.) I fancied Hermes would come in 
 an easy winner. He came in nowhere. 
 Nonpareil was ridden by Henslow — he ^s 
 a rotten bad rider. He gets nervous. 
 
 Philip. {Reading still.) Does he? Hm! 
 I suppose you do retain an interest in 
 horses and races. Hm — I trust some day 
 the — ah — law will attract — Oh {turn- 
 ing a page), here's the report of my 
 opinion in that dressmaker's case — Hag- 
 gerty vs. Phillimore. 
 
 Cynthia. Was the case brought against 
 you? {Puzzled.) 
 
 Philip. {A little uncomfortable.) Oh — 
 no. The suit was brought by Haggerty, 
 Miss Haggerty, a dressmaker, against the 
 — in fact, my dear, against the former 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Pause; he reads.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Curious about the matter.) 
 How did you decide it ? 
 
 Philip. I was obliged to decide in Mrs. 
 Phillimore's favor. Haggerty's plea was 
 preposterous. 
 
 Cynthia. Did you — did you meet the — the 
 — former — ? 
 
 Philip. No. 
 
 Cynthia. I often see her at afternoon 
 teas. 
 
 Philip. How did you recognize — 
 
 Cynthia. Why — {opening paper) be- 
 cause Mrs. Vida Phillimore's picture ap- 
 pears in every other issue of most of the 
 evening papers, And I must confess I 
 
720 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 was curious. But, I 'm sure you find it 
 veiy painful to meet her again. 
 
 PhClir {Slowly, considering.) No, — 
 would you find it so impossible to meet 
 Mr.— 
 
 Cyxthia. {Much excited and aroused.) 
 Philip ! Don't speak of him. He 's 
 nothing. He's a thing of the past. I 
 never think of him. I forget him! 
 
 Philip. {Somewhat sarcastic.) That's 
 extraordinarily original of you to forget 
 him. 
 
 Cyxthia. {Gently, and wishing to drop 
 the subject.) We each of us have some- 
 thing to forget, Philip — and John Kars- 
 lake is to me — Well, he 's dead ! 
 
 Philip. As a matter of fact, my dear, he 
 is dead, or the next thing to it — for he 's 
 bankrupt. {Pause.) 
 
 Cynthia. Bankrupt? {Excited and 
 moved ) Let 's not speak of him. I 
 mean never to see him or think about 
 him or even hear of him! 
 
 {He assents. She reads her paper. 
 He sips his tea and reads his paper. 
 She turns a page, starts and cries 
 out.) 
 
 Philip. God bless me ! 
 
 Cyxthia. It's a picture of — of — 
 
 Philip. John Karslake? 
 
 Cyx^thia. Picture of him, and one of me, 
 and in the middle between us "Cynthia 
 K!" 
 
 Philip. "Cynthia K"? 
 
 Cynthia. {Excited.) My pet riding 
 mare ! The best horse he has ! She 's 
 an angel even in a photograph ! Oh ! 
 {Reading.) "John Karslake drops a 
 fortune at Saratoga." 
 
 {Rises and goes up and down excitedly 
 Philip takes paper and reads.) 
 
 Philip. {Unconcerned, as the matter 
 hardly touches him.) Hem — ah — Ad- 
 vertises country place for sale — stables, 
 famous mare "Cynthia K" — favorite 
 riding mare of former Mrs. Karslake 
 who is once again to enter the arena of 
 matrimony with the well known and 
 higlily respected judge of — 
 
 Cynthia. {Sensitive and much dis- 
 turbed.) Don't! Don't, Philip, please 
 don't ! 
 
 Philip. My dear Cynthia — take another 
 paper — here's my Post! You'll find 
 nothing disagreeable in the Post. 
 
 (Cynthia takes the paper.) 
 
 Cynthia {After reading, sits near table.) 
 It 's much worse in the Post. "John 
 Karslake sells the former Mrs. Karslake's 
 
 jewels — the f anions necklace now at Tif- 
 fany's, and the sporty ex-husband sells 
 his wife's portrait by Sargent"! Philip, 
 I can't stand this. 
 
 {She puts the paper on table.) 
 Philip. Really, my dear, Mr. Karslake is 
 bound to appear occasionally in print — 
 or even you may have to meet him. 
 
 {Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Determined and distressed.) 
 
 I won't meet him! I won't meet him. 
 
 Every time I hear his name or "Cynthia 
 
 K's" I 'm so depressed. 
 Thomas. {Announcing with something 
 
 like reluctance.) Sir, Mr. Fiddler. Mr. 
 
 Karslake's trainer. 
 
 {Enter Fiddler.) 
 
 {He is an English horse trainer, a wide- 
 awake stocky well-groomed little 
 cockney. He knows his own mind 
 and sees life altogether through a 
 stable door. Well-dressed for his 
 station, and not young.) 
 
 Cyxthia. {Excited and disturbed.) Fid- 
 dler? Tim Fiddler? His coming is out- 
 rageous ! 
 
 Fiddler. A note for you, sir. 
 
 Cyxthia. {Impulsively.) Oh, Fiddler — 
 is that you? 
 
 Fiddler. Yes 'm ! 
 
 Cyn^thia. {In a half whisper, still speak- 
 ing on impulse.) How is she! Cynthia 
 K? How's Planet II and the colt and 
 Golden Rod? How's the whole stable? 
 Are they well? 
 
 Fiddler. No 'm — we 're all on the bum. 
 {Aside.) Ever since you kicked us over! 
 
 Cyxthia, {Reproving him, though 
 pleased.) Fiddler! 
 
 Fiddler, The horses is just simply gone to 
 Egypt since you left, and so 's the 
 guv'nor. 
 
 Cyxthia. {Putting an end to Fiddler.) 
 That will do. Fiddler. 
 
 Fiddler. I 'm waiting for an answer, sir. 
 
 Cyxthia. What is it, Philip ? 
 
 Philip. {Uncomfortable.) A mere mat- 
 ter of business. {Aside to Fiddler.) 
 The answer is, Mr Karslake can come. 
 The — the coast will be clear. 
 
 {Exit Fiddler.) 
 
 Cyxthia. {Amazed; rising.) You 're not 
 going to see him? 
 
 Philip. But Karslake, my dear, is an old 
 acquaintance of mine. He argues cases 
 before me. I will see that you do not 
 have to meet him. 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 721 
 
 (Cynthia crosses in excited dejection.) 
 
 (Enter Matthew. He is a high church 
 clergyman to a highly fashionable con- 
 gregation. His success is partly due to 
 his social position and partly to his ele- 
 gance of speech, hut chiefly to his inher- 
 ent amiability, which leaves the sinner in 
 happy peace and smiles on the just and 
 unjust alike.) 
 
 Matthew. [Most amiably.) Ah, my "dear 
 brother ! 
 
 Philip. Matthew. {Meeting him.) 
 
 Matthew. {Nodding to Philip.) Good 
 afternoon, my dear Cynthia. How 
 charming you look! (Cynthia sits at 
 the tea-table. To Cynthia ) Ah, — why 
 weren't you in your pew yesterday? I 
 preached a most original sermon. 
 {He lays his hat and cane on the divan.) 
 
 Thomas. {Aside to Philip.) Sir, Mrs. 
 Vida Phillimore's maid called you up on 
 the telephone, and you 're to expect Mrs. 
 Phillimore on a matter of business. 
 
 Philip. {Astonished and disgusted.) 
 Here, impossible! {To Cynthia.) Ex- 
 cuse me, my dear! 
 
 {Exit Philip, much embarrassed, fol- 
 lowed by Thomas.) 
 
 Matthew. {Coming down to chair, hap- 
 pily and pleasantly self-important.) No, 
 really, it was a wonderful sermon, my 
 dear. My text was from Paul — "It is 
 better to marry than to burn." It was a 
 strictly logical sermon. I argued — that, 
 as the grass withereth, and the flower 
 f adeth, — there is nothing final in Nature ; 
 not even Death ! And, as there is nothing 
 final in Nature, not even Death ; — so then 
 if Death is not final — why should mar- 
 riage be final? {Gently.) And so the 
 necessity of — eh — divorce ! You see f It 
 was an exquisite sermon ! All New York 
 was there! And all New York went 
 away happy ! Even the sinners — if there 
 were any! I don't often meet sinners — 
 do you? 
 
 Cynthia. {Indulgently, in spite of his 
 folly, because he is kind.) You're such 
 a dear, delightful Pagan! Here's your 
 tea! 
 
 Matthew. {Sipping his tea.) Why, my 
 dear — ^you have a very sad expression ! 
 
 Cynthia. {A little bitterly.) Why not? 
 
 Matthew. {With sentimental sweetness.) 
 I feel as if I were of no use in the world 
 when I see sadness on a young face. 
 Only sinners should feel sad. You have 
 committed no sin ! 
 
 Cynthia. (Impulsively.) Yes, I have! 
 
 Matthew. Eh ? 
 
 Cynthia. I committed the unpardonable 
 sin — whe — when I married for love ! 
 
 Matthew. One must not marry for any- 
 thing else, my dear! 
 
 Cynthia. Why am I marrying your 
 brother? 
 
 Matthew. I often wonder why? I won- 
 der why you didn't choose to remain a 
 free woman. 
 
 Cynthia. (Going over the ground she has 
 often argued with herself.) I meant to; 
 but a divorcee has no place in society. 
 I felt horridly lonely ! I wanted a friend. 
 Philip was ideal as a friend — for months. 
 Is n't it nice to bind a friend to you? 
 
 Matthew. Yes — yes ! 
 
 (He sets down the teacup.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Growing more and more ex- 
 cited and moved as she speaks.) To 
 marry a friend — to marry on prudent, 
 sensible grounds — a man — like Philip? 
 That 's what I should have done first, in- 
 stead of rushing into marriage — because 
 I had a wild, mad, sensitive, sympathetic 
 — passion and pain and fury — of, I don't 
 know what— that almost strangled me 
 with happiness! 
 
 Matthew. (Amiable and reminiscent.) 
 Ah — ah — in my youth — I, — I too! 
 
 Cynthia. (Coming back to her manner of 
 every day.) And besides — the day Philip 
 asked me I was in the dumps ! And now 
 — ^how about marrying only for love? 
 
 (Re-enter VsiiAV.) 
 
 Matthew.. Ah, my dear, love is not the 
 
 only thing in the world ! 
 Philip. (Speaking as he enters.) I got 
 
 there ioo late, she 'd hung up. 
 Cynthia. Who, Philip? 
 Philip. Eh — a lady — eh — 
 
 (Enter Thomas, flurried, with card on 
 salver.) 
 
 Thomas. A card for you, sir. Ahem — ■ 
 
 ahem — Mrs. Phillimore — that was, sir. 
 Philip. Eh? 
 
 Thomas. She's on the stairs, sir. (He 
 turns. Enter Vida. Thomas announces 
 her as being the best way of meeting the 
 difficulty.) Mrs. Vida Phillimore! 
 
 (Vida comes in slowly, with the air of 
 a spoiled beauty. She stops just in- 
 side the door and speaks in a very 
 casual manner. Her voice is lan- 
 guorous and caressing. She is 
 dressed in the excess of the French 
 
722 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 fashion and carries an outre parasol. 
 She smiles and comes, undulating, 
 to the middle of the stage. Exit 
 Thomas. ) 
 
 ViDA. How do you do, Philip. (Pause.) 
 Don't tell me I 'm a surprise ! I had 
 you called up on the 'phone and I sent 
 up my card — and, besides, Philip dear, 
 when you have the — the — habit of the 
 house, as unfortunately I have, you can't 
 treat yourself like a stranger in a strange 
 land. At least, I can't — so here I am. 
 My reason for coming was to ask you 
 about that B. and 0. stock we hold in 
 common. (To Matthew, condescend- 
 ingly, the clergy being a class of unfor- 
 tunates debarred by profession from the 
 pleasures of the world.) How do you 
 do? {Pause. She then goes to the real 
 reason of her visit.) Do be polite and 
 present me to your wife-to-be. 
 
 Philip. (Awkwardly.) Cynthia — 
 
 Cynthia. (Cheerfully, with dash, putting 
 the table between her and Vida.) We 're 
 delighted to see you, Mrs. Phillimore. I 
 need n't ask you to make yourself at 
 home, but will you have a cup of tea ? 
 (MATTHEV7 sits near the little table.) 
 
 Vida. (To Philip.) My dear, she's not 
 in the least what I expected. I heard 
 she was a dove ! She 's a very dashing 
 kind of a dove! (To Cynthia; coming 
 to tea-table.) My dear, I'm paying you 
 compliments. Five lumps and quantities 
 of cream. I find single life very thin- 
 ning. (To Philip, very calm and ready 
 to be agreeable to any man.) And how 
 well you 're looking ! It must be the ab- 
 sence of matrimonial cares — or is it a new 
 angel in the house'? 
 
 Cynthia. (Outraged at Vida's intrusion, 
 but polite though delicately sarcastic.) 
 It 's most amusing to sit in your place. 
 And how at home you must feel here in 
 this house where you have made so much 
 trouble — I mean tea. (Rising.) Do you 
 know it would be in much better taste if 
 you would take the place you 're accus- 
 tomed to"? 
 
 Vida. (As calm as before.) My dear, 
 I 'm an intruder only for a moment ; I 
 shan't give you a chance to score off me 
 again ! But I must thank you, dear 
 Philip, for rendering that decision in my 
 favor — 
 
 Philip. I assure you — 
 
 Vida. (Unable to resist a thrust at the 
 close of this speech.) Of course, you 
 would like to have rendered it against 
 
 me. It was your wonderful sense of jus- 
 tice, and that 's why I 'm so grateful — 
 if not to you, to your Maker ! 
 
 Philip. (He feels that this is no place 
 for his future wife. Rises quickly and 
 irascibly. To Cynthia.) Cynthia, I 
 would prefer that you left us. 
 
 (Matthew comes to the sofa and sits.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Determined not to leave the 
 field first, remains seated.) Certainly, 
 Philip ! 
 
 Philip. I expect another visitor who — 
 
 Vida. (With flattering insistence, to Cyn- 
 thia.) Oh, my dear — don't go! The 
 truth is — I came to see you ! I feel most 
 cordially towards you — and really, you 
 know, people in our position should meet 
 on cordial terms. 
 
 Cynthia. (Taking it with apparent calm, 
 but pointing her remarks.) Naturally. 
 If people in our position couldn't meet, 
 New York society would soon come to 
 an end. 
 
 (Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Vida. (Calm, but getting her knife in 
 too.) Precisely. Society's no bigger 
 than a band-box. Why, it 's only a mo- 
 ment ago I saw Mr. Karslake walking — 
 
 Cynthia. Ah ! 
 
 Thomas. (Announcing clearly. Every 
 one changes place, in consternation, 
 amusement or surprise. Cynthia moves 
 to leave the stage, but stops for fear of 
 attracting Karslake's attention.) Mr. 
 John Karslake! 
 
 (Enter Karslake. He is a powerful, gen- 
 erous personality, a man of affairs, 
 breezy, gay and careless. He gives the 
 impression of being game for any fate inr- 
 store for him. His clothes indicate sport- 
 ing propensities and his taste in waist- 
 coats and ties is brilliant. Karslake 
 sees first Philip and then Matthew. 
 Exit Thomas.) 
 
 Philip. How do you do? 
 
 John. ( Very gay and no respecter of per- 
 sons.) Good-afternoon, Mr. Phillimore. 
 H'ello — here's the church. (Crossing to 
 Matthew and shaking hands. He slaps 
 him on the back.) I hadn't the least 
 idea — how are youf By George, your 
 reverence, that was a racy sermon of 
 yours on Divorce! What was your text? 
 (Seeing Vida, and bowing very politely.) 
 Galatians 4:2: **The more the merrier," 
 or "Who next?" (Smiling.) As the 
 whale said after Jonah! 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 723 
 
 (Cynthia makes a sudden movement, 
 and turns her cup over. John faces 
 about quickly and they face each 
 other. John gives a frank start. 
 A pause.) 
 
 John. {Bowing; astounded, in a low 
 voice.) Mrs. Karslake — I was not 
 aware of the pleasure in store for me. 
 I understood you were in the country. 
 (Recovering, crosses to chair.) Perhaps 
 you '11 be good enough to make me a cup 
 of tea "? — that is if the teapot was n't lost 
 in the scrimmage. {Pause. Cynthia, 
 determined to equal him in coolness, re- 
 turns to the tea-tray.) Mr. Phillimore, I 
 came to get your signature in that mat- 
 ter of Cox vs. Keely. 
 
 Philip. I shall be at your service, but 
 pray be seated. 
 
 {He indicates a chair by tea-tahle.) 
 
 John. {Sitting beyond but not far from 
 the tea-table.) And I also understood 
 you to say you wanted a saddle horse. 
 
 Philip. You have a mare called — eh — 
 "Cynthia K"? 
 
 John. {Promptly.) Yes — she's not for 
 sale. 
 
 Philip. Oh, but she 's just the mare I had 
 set my mind on. 
 
 John. {With a touch of humor.) You 
 want her for yourself? 
 
 Philip. {A little flustered.) I — eh — I 
 sometimes ride. 
 
 John. {He is sure of himself now.) 
 She 's rather lively for you, Judge. Mrs. 
 Karslake used to ride her. 
 
 Philip. You don't care to sell her to me? 
 
 John. She 's a dangerous mare. Judge, 
 and she's as delicate and changeable as 
 a girl. I 'd hate to leave her in your 
 charge ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Eagerly, but in a low voice.) 
 Leave her in mine, Mr. Karslake ! 
 
 John. {After slight pause.) Mrs. Kars- 
 lake knows all about a horse, but — 
 {Turning to Cynthia.) Cynthia K 's 
 got rather tricky of late. 
 
 Cynthia. {Haughtily.) You mean to say 
 you think she'd chuck me'? 
 
 John. {With polite solicitude and still 
 humorous. To Philip.) I'd hate to 
 have a mare of mine deprive you of a 
 wife. Judge. (Rising.) She goes to 
 Saratoga next week, C. W. 
 
 ViDA. (Who has been sitting and talking 
 to Matthew for lack of a better man, 
 comes to talk to Karslake.) C. W. "? 
 
 John. (Rising as she rises.) Creditors 
 willing:. 
 
 Vida. {Crossing and sitting left of tea- 
 table.) I 'in sure your creditors are 
 willing. 
 
 John. Oh, they 're a breezy lot, my credit- 
 ors. They're giving me a dinner this 
 evening. 
 
 Vida. (More than usually anxious to 
 please. ) I regret I 'm not a breezy 
 creditor, but I do think you owe it to me 
 to let me see your Cynthia K! Can't 
 you lead her around to my house? 
 
 John. At what hour, Mrs. Phillimore? 
 
 Vida. Say eleven? And you, too, might 
 have a leading in my direction — 771 Fifth 
 Avenue. 
 
 (John bows. Cynthia hears and 
 notes this.) 
 
 Cynthia. Your cup of tea, Mr. Karslake. 
 
 John. Thanks. (John gets tea and sips 
 it.) I beg your pardon — ^you have for- 
 gotten, Mrs. Karslake — very naturally, it 
 has slipped from your memory, but I 
 don't take sugar. 
 
 (Cynthia, furious with him and her- 
 self. He hands cup back. She 
 makes a second cup.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Cheerfully; in a rage.) Sorry! 
 
 John. (Also apparently cheerful.) Yes, 
 gout. It gives me a twinge even to sit in 
 the shadow of a sugar maple ! First you 
 riot, and then you diet! 
 
 Vida. (Calm and amused; aside to Mat- 
 thew.) My dear Matthew, he's a dar- 
 ling! But I feel as if we were all taking 
 tea on the slope of a volcano ! 
 
 (Matthew sits.) 
 
 Philip. It occurred to me, Mr. Karslake, 
 you might be glad to find a purchaser for 
 your portrait by Sargent? 
 
 John. It 's not my portrait. It 's a por- 
 trait of Mrs. Karslake, and to tell you 
 the truth — Sargent 's a good fellow — 
 I 've made up my mind to keep it — to 
 remember the artist by. 
 
 (Cynthia is wounded by this.) 
 
 Philip. Hm ! 
 
 (Cynthia hands second cup of tea to 
 John.) 
 
 Cynthia. (With careful politeness.) 
 Your cup of tea, Mr. Karslake. 
 
 JOPIN. (Rising and taking tea with cour- 
 teous indifference.) Thanks — sorry to 
 trouble you. 
 
 (He drinks the cup of tea standing by 
 the tea-table.) 
 
 Philip. (To make conversation.) You're 
 selling your country place? 
 
 John. If I was long of hair — I 'd sell that. 
 
 Cynthia. (Excited. Taken out of her- 
 
724 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 self by the news.) You're not really 
 selling- your stable? 
 
 John. {Finishing his tea, he places empty 
 cup on tea-table and reseats himself.) 
 Every gelding I've got — seven foals and 
 a donkey! I don't mean the owner. 
 
 Cynthia. {Still interested and forgetting 
 the discomfort of the situation.) How 
 did you ever manage to come such a 
 cropper? 
 
 John. Streak of blue luck ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Quickly.) I don't see how 
 it 's possible — 
 
 John. You would if you'd been there. 
 You remember the head man? {Sits.) 
 Bloke? 
 
 Cynthia. Of course ! 
 
 John. Well, his wife divorced him for 
 beating her over the head with a bottle 
 of Fowler's Solution, and it seemed to 
 prey on his mind. He sold me — 
 
 Cynthia. {Horrified.) Sold a race? 
 
 John. About ten races, I guess. 
 
 Cynthia. {Incredulous.) Just because 
 he 'd beaten his wife ? 
 
 John. No. Because she divorced him. 
 
 Cynthia. Well, I can't see why that 
 should prey on his mind! 
 
 {Suddenly remembers.) 
 
 John. Well, I have known men that it 
 stroked the wrong way. But he cost me 
 eighty thousand. And then Urbanity 
 ran third in the thousand dollar stakes 
 for two-year-olds at Belmont. 
 
 Cynthia. {She throws this remark in.) I 
 never had faith in that horse. 
 
 John. And, of course, it never rains mon- 
 keys but it pours gorillas! So when I 
 was down at St. Louis on the fifth, I laid 
 seven to three on Fraternity — 
 
 Cynthia. Crazy ! Crazy ! 
 
 John. {Ready to take the opposite view.) 
 I don't see it. With her record she ought 
 to have romped it an easy winner. 
 
 Cynthia. {Pure sport.) She hasn't the 
 stamina ! Look at her barrel ! 
 
 John. Well, anyhow. Geranium finished 
 me! 
 
 Cynthia. You did n't lay odds on Ge- 
 ranium ! 
 
 John. Why not? She's my own mare — 
 
 Cynthia. Oh ! 
 
 John. Streak o' bad luck — 
 
 Cynthia. (Plainly anxious to say "I told 
 you so.'') Streak of poor judgment! 
 Do you remember the day you rode Billy 
 at a six foot stone wall, and he stopped 
 and you did n't, and there was a hornets' 
 nest (Matthew rises) on the other side. 
 
 and I remember you were hot just be- 
 cause I said you showed poor judgment? 
 {She laughs at the memory. A general 
 movement of disapproval. She remem- 
 bers the situation.) I beg your pardon. 
 
 Matthew. {Rising to meet Vida. Has- 
 tily.) It seems to me that horses are 
 like the fourth gospel. Any conversa- 
 tion about them becomes animated almost 
 beyond the limits of the urbane! 
 
 (Vida, disgusted by such plainness of 
 speech, rises and goes to Philip, who 
 waves her to a chair.) 
 
 Philip. {Formally.) I regret that you 
 have endured such reverses, Mr. Kars- 
 lake. (John quietly bows.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Concealing her interest, she 
 speaks casually.) You haven't men- 
 tioned your new English horse — Panto- 
 mime. What did he do at St. Louis? 
 
 John. {Sitting.) Fell away and ran 
 fifth. 
 
 Cynthia. Too bad. Was he fully accli- 
 mated? Ah, well — 
 
 John. We always differed — you remem- 
 ber — on the time needed — 
 
 Matthew. {Coming to Cynthia, speak- 
 ing to carry off the situation as well as to 
 get a tip. ) Is n't there a — eh — a race 
 to-morrow at Belmont Park? 
 
 John. Yes. I 'm going down in my auto. 
 
 Cynthia. {Evidently wishing she might 
 be going too.) Oh ! 
 
 Matthew. And what animal shall you 
 prefer? 
 
 {Covering his personal interest with 
 amiable altruism.) 
 
 John. I 'm backing Carmencita. 
 
 Cynthia. {Gesture of despair.) Carmen- 
 cita ! Carmencita ! 
 
 (Matthew goes to Vida.) 
 
 John. You may remember we always dif- 
 fered on Carmencita. 
 
 Cynthia, {Disgusted at John's dunder- 
 headedness.) But there's no room for 
 difference. She 's a wild, headstrong, dis- 
 satisfied, foolish little filly. The deuce 
 could n't ride her — she 'd shy at her o\vn 
 shadow^ — "Carmencita." Oh, very well, 
 then, I '11 wager you — and I '11 give you 
 odds too — "Decorum" will come in first, 
 and I '11 lay three to one he '11 beat Car- 
 mencita by five lengths ! How 's that for 
 fair? 
 
 John. {Never forgetting the situation.) 
 Sorry I 'm not flush enough to take 
 you. 
 
 Cynthia. (Impetuouslii.) Philip, dear, 
 you lend John enough for the w^ager. 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 725 
 
 Matthew. {As nearly horrified as so soft 
 a soul can he.) Ahem! Really — 
 
 John. It 's a sporty idea, Mrs. Karslake, 
 but perhaps in the circumstances — 
 
 Cynthia. {Her mind on her wager.) In 
 what circumstances'? 
 
 Philip. {With a nervous laugh.) It does 
 seem to me there is a certain impro- 
 priety — 
 
 Cynthia. {Bemembering the conventions, 
 which, for a moment, had actuallif es- 
 caped her.) Oh, I forgot. When horses 
 are in the air — 
 
 Matthew. {Pouring oil on troubled 
 waters. Crossing, he speaks to Vida at 
 hack of armchair, where she sits.) It 's 
 the fourth gospel, you see. 
 
 {Enter Thomas ivith a letter on a salver, 
 which he hands to Philip. 
 
 Cynthia. {Meekly.) You are quite 
 right, Philip. The fact is, seeing Mr. 
 Karslake again {laying on her indiffer- 
 ence with a trowel) he seems to me as 
 much a stranger as if I were meeting him 
 for the first time. 
 
 Matthew. {Aside to Yida.) We are in- 
 deed taking tea on the slope of a vol- 
 cano. 
 
 Vida. {She is about to go, hut thinks she 
 will have a last word with John.) I'm 
 sorry your f ortmies are so depressed, Mr. 
 Karslake. 
 
 Philip. {Looking at the card that Thomas 
 has just brought in.) Who in the world 
 is Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby? 
 
 {General move.) 
 
 John. Oh — eh — Cates-Darby ? (Philip 
 opens letter which Thomas has brought 
 with card.) That's the English chap I 
 bought Pantomime of. 
 
 Philip. {To Thomas.) Show Sir Wil- 
 frid Cates-Darby in. 
 
 {Exit Thomas. The prospect of an 
 Englishman with a handle to his 
 name changes Vida's plans and in- 
 stead of leaving the house, she goes 
 to the sofa, and sits there.) 
 
 John. He's a good fellow. Judge. Place 
 neax Epsom. Breeder. Over here to 
 take a shy at our races. 
 
 {Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Thomas. {Announcing.) Sir Wilfrid 
 Cates-Darby. 
 
 .{Enter Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby. He is 
 a high-bred, sporting! Englishman. His 
 
 manner, his dress and his diction are the 
 perfection of English elegance. His 
 movements are quick and graceful. He 
 talks lightly and ivith ease. He is full 
 of life and unsmiling good temper.) 
 
 Philip. {To Sir Wilfrid and referring 
 to the letter of introduction in his hand.) 
 1 am Mr. Phillimore. I am grateful to 
 Stanhope for giving me the opportunity 
 of knowing you, Sir Wilfrid. I fear you 
 find it warm*? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Delicately mopping his 
 forehead.) Ah, well — ah — warm, no — 
 hot, yes! Deuced extraordinary climate 
 yours, you know, Mr. Phillimore. 
 
 Philip. {Conventional.) Permit me to 
 present you to — {The unconventional sit- 
 uation pulls him up short. It takes him 
 a moment to decide how to meet it. He 
 makes up his mind to pretend that every- 
 thing is as usual, and presents Cynthia 
 first.) Mrs. Karslake. 
 
 (Sir Wilfrid bows, surprised and 
 doubtful.) 
 
 Cynthia. How do you dof 
 
 Philip. And to Mrs. Phillimore. (Vida 
 bows nonchalantly, hut with a view to 
 catching Sir Wilfrid's attention. Sir 
 Wilfrid bows, and looks from her to 
 Philip.) My brother — and Mr. Kars- 
 lake you know. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. How do, my boy? {Half 
 aside, to John.) No idea you had such 
 a charming little wife— What <?— Eh ? 
 (Karslake goes up to speak to Mat- 
 thew and Philip in the further 
 room.) 
 
 Cynthia. You'll have a cup of tea, Sir 
 Wilfrid? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {At table.) Thanks, aw- 
 fully. ( Very cheerfully. ) I 'd no idea 
 old John had a wife! The rascal never 
 told me! 
 
 Cynthia. {Pouring tea and facing the 
 facts.) I'm not Mr. Karslake's wife! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh!— Eh?— I see— 
 
 {Business of thinking it out.) 
 
 Vida. {Who has been ready for some time 
 to speak to him.) Sir Wilfrid, I 'm sure 
 no one has asked you how you like our 
 country? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Going to Vida and speak- 
 ing, standing by her at sofa.) Oh, well, 
 as to climate and horses, I say nothing. 
 But I like your American humor. I'm 
 acquiring it for home purposes. 
 
 Vida. {Getting down to love as the basis 
 of conversation.) Aren't you going to 
 
^26 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 acquire an American girl for home pur- 
 poses? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. The more narrowly I look 
 the agreeable project in the face, the 
 more I like it. Ought n't to say that in 
 the presence of your husband. 
 
 {He casts a look at Philip, who has 
 gone into the next room.) 
 
 ViDA. {Cheerful and unconstrained.) 
 He's not my husband! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Completely confused.) 
 Oh — eh? — my brain must be boiled. 
 You are — Mrs. — eh — ah — of course, now 
 I see! I got the wrong names! I 
 thought you were Mrs. Phillimore. {He 
 sits by her.) And that nice girl Mrs. 
 Karslake ! You 're deucedly lucky to be 
 Mrs. Karslake. John 's a prime sort. I 
 say, have you and he got any kids ? How 
 many? 
 
 ViDA. {Horrified at being suspected of 
 maternity, but speaking very sweetly.) 
 He 's not my husband. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {His good spirits all gone, 
 but determined to clear things up.) 
 Phew! Awfully hot in here! Who the 
 deuce is John's wife? 
 
 ViDA. He has n't any. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Who's Phillimore's wife? 
 
 ViDA. He hasn't any. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Thanks, fearfully! {To 
 Matthew, whom he approaches ; suspect- 
 ing himself of having lost his wits.) 
 Would you excuse me, my dear and Rev- 
 erend Sir — you 're a churchman and all 
 that — ^would you mind straightening me 
 out? 
 
 Matthew. {Most gracious.) Certainly, 
 Sir Wilfrid. Is it a matter of doc- 
 trine? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, damme — beg your par- 
 don, — no, it 's not words, it 's women. 
 
 Matthew. {Ready to be outraged.) 
 Women ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. It 's divorce. Now, the lady 
 on the sofa. — 
 
 Matthew. Was my brother's wife ; he di- 
 vorced her — incompatibility— -Rhode Is- 
 land. The lady at the tea-table was Mr. 
 Karslake's wife; she divorced him — de- 
 sertion — Sioux Falls. One moment — she 
 is about to marry my brother. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Cheerful again.) I'm 
 out ! Thought I never would be ! 
 Thanks! 
 
 (ViDA laughs.) 
 
 ViDA. {Not a whit discountenanced and 
 ready to please.) Have you got me 
 straightened out yet? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Straight as a die! I say, 
 you had lots of fun, didn't you? {Go- 
 ing back to sofa.) And so she ^s Mrs. 
 John Karslake? 
 
 ViDA. .{Calm, but secretly disappointed.) 
 Do you like her? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. My word! 
 
 ViDA. {Fully expecting personal flattery.) 
 Eh? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. She 's a box o' ginger ! 
 
 ViDA. You haven't seen many American 
 women ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, haven't I? 
 
 ViDA. If you '11 pay me a visit to-morrow 
 — at twelve, you shall meet a most charm- 
 ing young woman, who has seen you once, 
 and who admires you — ah ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I 'm there — what ! 
 
 ViDA. Seven hundred and seventy-one 
 Fifth Avenue. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Seven seventy-one Fifth 
 Avenue — at twelve. 
 
 Vida. At twelve. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Thanks! {Indicating Cyn- 
 thia.) She's a thoroughbred — you can 
 see that with one eye shut. Twelve. 
 {Shaking hands.) Awfully good of you 
 to ask me. {He joins John.) I say, my 
 boy, your former 's an absolute certainty. 
 {To Cynthia.) I hear you're about to 
 marry Mr. Phillimore, Mrs. Karslake? 
 (Karslake crosses to Vida; they both 
 go to sofa, where they sit.) 
 
 Cynthia. To-morrow, 3 p. m., Sir Wil- 
 frid. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Much taken with Cynthia, 
 he addresses her.) Afraid I've run into 
 a sort of family party, eh? {Indicating 
 Vida.) The Past and the Future — aw- 
 fully chic way you Americans have of 
 asking your divorced husbands and wives- 
 to drop in, you know — celebrate a chris- 
 tenin', or the new bride, or — 
 
 Cynthia. Do you like your tea strong? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Middlin'. 
 
 Cynthia. Sugar? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. One ! 
 
 Cynthia. Lemon ? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Just torture a lemon over it. 
 {He makes a gesture as of twisting a 
 lemon peel. She gives tea.) Thanks! 
 So you do it to-morrow at three? 
 
 Cynthia. At three, Sir Wilfrid. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Sorry! 
 
 Cynthia. Why are you sorry? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Hate to see a pretty woman 
 married. Might marry her myself. 
 
 Cynthia. Oh, but I 'm sure you don't ad- 
 mire American women. 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 727 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Admire you, Mrs. Kars- 
 lake — 
 
 Cynthia. Not enough to marry me, I 
 hope. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Marry you in a minute! 
 Say the word. Marry you now — here. 
 
 Cynthia. You don't think you ought to 
 know me a little before — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Know you? Do know you. 
 (Cynthia covers her hair with her 
 handkerchief. ) 
 
 Cynthia. What color is my hair"? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Pshaw ! 
 
 Cynthia. You see! You don't know 
 whether I 'm a chestnut or a strawberry 
 roan! In the States w^e think a few 
 months of friendship is quite necessary. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Few months of moonshine! 
 Never was a friend to a woman — thank 
 God, in all my life. 
 
 Cynthia. Oh — oh, oh! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Might as well talk about be- 
 ing a friend to a whiskey and soda. 
 
 Cynthia. A woman has a soul, Sir Wil- 
 frid. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Well, good whiskey is spirits 
 — dozens o' souls! 
 
 Cynthia. You are so gross! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Changing seat to above 
 table.) Gross *? Not a bit! Friendship 
 between the sexes is all fudge ! I 'm no 
 friend to a rose in my garden. I don't 
 call it friendship — eh — eh — a warm, 
 starry night, moonbeams and ilex trees, 
 ''and a spirit who knows how" and all 
 that — eh — {Getting closer to her.) You 
 make me feel awfully poetical, you 
 know — (Philip comes down, glances 
 nervously at Cynthia and Sir Wilfrid, 
 and walks up again.) What's the mat- 
 ter? But, I say — poetry aside — do you, 
 eh — {Looking around to place Philip.) 
 Does he — y' know — is he — does he go to 
 the head? 
 
 Cynthia. Sir Wilfrid, Mr. Phillimore is 
 my sober second choice. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Did you ever kiss him? I '11 
 bet he fined you for contempt of court. 
 Look here, Mrs. Karslake, if you 're mar- 
 ryin' a man you don't care about — 
 
 Cynthia. {Amused and excusing his au- 
 dacity as a foreigner's eccentricity.) 
 Really ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Well, I don't offer myself — 
 
 Cynthia. Oh ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Not this instant — 
 
 Cynthia. Ah ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. But let me drop in to-mor- 
 row at ten. 
 
 Cynthia. What country and state of 
 affairs do you think you have landed 
 in? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. New York, by Jove! Been 
 to school, too. New York is bounded on 
 the North, South, East and West by the 
 state of Divorce! Come, come, Mrs. 
 Karslake, I like your country. You 've 
 no fear and no respect — no can't and lots 
 of can. Here you all are, you see — your 
 former husband, and your new husband's 
 former wife — sounds like Ollendoft:! 
 Eh? So there you are, you see! But, 
 jokin' apart — why do you marry him? 
 Oh, well, marry him if you must! You 
 can run around the corner and get a 
 divorce afterwards — 
 
 Cynthia. I believe you think they throw 
 one in with an ice-cream soda ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Rising.) Damme, my dear 
 lady, a marriage in your country is no 
 more than a — eh — eh — what do you call 
 'em? A "thank you, ma'am." That's 
 what an American marriage is — a "thank 
 you, ma'am." Bump — bump — you 're 
 over it and on to the next. 
 
 Cynthia. You 're an odd fish ! What ? I 
 believe I like you! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. 'Course you do ! You '11 see 
 me when I call to-morrow — at ten? 
 We '11 run down to Belmont Park, eh ? 
 
 Cynthia. Don't be absurd ! 
 
 ViDA. {She has finished her talk with 
 John, and breaks in on Sir Wilfrid, who 
 has hung about Cynthia too long to suit 
 her.) To-morrow at twelve, Sir Wilfrid! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Twelve! 
 
 ViDA. {Shaking hands with John.) 
 Don't forget, Mr. Karslake — eleven 
 o'clock to-morrow. 
 
 John. {Bowing assent.) I won't! 
 
 ViDA. {Coming to the middle of the stage 
 and speaking to Cynthia.) Oh, Mrs. 
 Karslake, I 've ordered Tiffany to send 
 you something. It 's a sugar bowl to 
 sweeten the matrimonial lot! I suppose 
 nothing would induce you to call ? 
 
 Cynthia. {Distantly and careless of of- 
 fending.) Thanks, no — that is, is "Cyn- 
 thia K" really to be there at eleven? I 'd 
 give a gold mine to see her again. 
 
 ViDA. Do come! 
 
 Cynthia. If Mr. Karslake will accommo- 
 date me by his absence. 
 
 ViDA. Dear Mr. Karslake, you '11 have to 
 change your hour. 
 
 John. Sorry, I 'm not able to. 
 
 Cynthia. I can't come later for I 'm to be 
 married. 
 
728 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 John. It 's not as bad as that with me, but 
 I am to be sold up — Sheriff, you know. 
 Can't come later than eleven. 
 
 ViDA. {To Cynthia.) Any hour but 
 eleven, dear. 
 
 Cynthia. {Perfectly regardless of Vida, 
 and ready to vex John if possible.) 
 Mrs. Phillimore, I shall call on you at 
 eleven — to see Cynthia K. I thank you 
 for the invitation. Good-afternoon. 
 
 Vida. {Aside to John, crossing to speak 
 quietly to him.) It's mere bravado; she 
 won't come. 
 
 John. You don't know^ her. 
 
 {Pause. There is general embarrass- 
 ment. Sir Wilfrid plays with his 
 eye-glass. John is angry; Cynthia 
 is triumphant; Matthew is embar- 
 rassed; Vida is irritated; Philip is 
 puzzled; everybody is at odds.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {For the first time being a 
 witness to the pretty complications of 
 divorce, he speaks to Matthew.) Do 
 you have it as w^arm as this ordinarily*? 
 
 Matthew. {For whom these moments are 
 more than usually painful, and wiping his 
 brow.) It's not so much the heat as the 
 humidity. 
 
 John. {Looking at watch; lie is glad to 
 be off.) 1 shall be late for my creditors' 
 dinner. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Coming down.) Creditors' 
 dmner. 
 
 John. {Beading note.) Fifteen of my 
 sporting" creditors have arranged to give 
 me a blow-out at Sherry's, and I 'm ex- 
 pected right away or sooner. And by 
 the way, I was to bring my friends — if I 
 had any. So now 's the time to stand by 
 me! Mrs. Phillimore'? 
 
 Vida. Of course ! 
 
 John. {Ready to embarrass Cynthia, if 
 possible, and speaking as if he had quite 
 forgotten their former relations.) Mrs. 
 Karslake — I beg your pardon. Judge? 
 (Philip declines.) No? Sir Wilfrid? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I 'm with you ! 
 
 John. {To Matthew.) Your Rever- 
 ence? 
 
 ]\lATTiiEW. I regTet — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Is it the custom for cred- 
 itors — 
 
 John. Come on, Sir Wilfrid! (Thomas 
 opens the door.) Good-night, Judge — 
 Your Reverence — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Is it the custom — 
 
 John. Hang the custom ! Come on — I '11 
 show you a gang of creditors worth hav- 
 ing! 
 
 {Exit Sir Wilfrid with John, pre- 
 ceded by Vida. Matthew crosses 
 the stage, smiling, as if pleased, in a 
 Christian icay, with this display of 
 generous gaiety. He looks at his 
 watch. ) 
 Matthew. Good gracious ! I had no idea 
 the hour was so late. I 've been asked to 
 a meeting with Maryland and Iowa, to 
 talk over the divorce situation. {Exit. 
 His voice is heard off the stage.) Good- 
 afternoon ! Good-afternoon ! 
 
 (Cynthia is evidently much, excited. 
 The outer door slams. Philip comes 
 down the stage slowly. Cynthia 
 stands, her eyes wide, her breathing 
 rapid, until Philip speaks, when she 
 seems suddenly to realize her posi- 
 tion. There is a long pause.) 
 Philip. {With a superior air.) I have 
 seldom witnessed a more amazing cata- 
 clysm of jocundity ! Of course, my dear, 
 this has all been most disagreeable for 
 you. 
 Cynthia. {Excitedly.) Yes, yes, yes! 
 Philip. I saw how much it shocked your 
 
 delicacy. 
 Cynthia. {Distressed and moved.) Out- 
 rageous. (Philip sits.) 
 Philip. Do be seated, Cj^nthia. {Taking 
 up paper. Quietly.) Very odd sort of 
 an Englishman — that Cates-Darby! 
 Cynthia. Sir Wilfrid? — Oh, yes! \ Philip 
 settles down to paper. To herself.) 
 Outrageous ! I 've a great mind to go at 
 eleven — just as I said I would! 
 Philip. Do sit down, Cynthia ! 
 Cynthia. What? What? 
 Philip. You make me so nervous — 
 Cynthia. Sony — sorry. 
 
 {She sits down and seeing the paper, 
 she takes it, looking at the picture of 
 John Karslake.) 
 Philip. {Sighing with content.) Ah! 
 now that I see him, I don't wonder you 
 could n't stand him. There 's a kind of 
 — ah — spontaneous— i nebriety about him. 
 He is incomprehensible ! If I might with 
 reverence cross question the Creator, I 
 would say to him: "Sir, to what end or 
 purpose did you create Mr. John Kars- 
 lake?" I believe I should obtain no ade- 
 quate answer! However {sighing) at 
 last we have peace — and the Post! 
 (Philip, settling himself, reads paper; 
 C^ynthia looks at her paper, occasionally 
 looking across at Philip.) Forget the 
 dust of the arena — the prolixity of coun- 
 sel — the involuntary fatuity of things in 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 729 
 
 general. {Pause. He reads.) Compose 
 yourself ! 
 
 (Miss Heneage, Mrs. Phillimore and 
 Grace enter.) 
 
 (Cynthia sighs ivithout letting her sigh 
 he heard. She tries to compose her- 
 self. She glances at paper and then 
 hearing Miss Heneage, starts 
 slightly. Miss Heneage and Mrs. 
 Phillimore stop at table.) 
 Miss Heneage. {She carries a sheet of 
 paper.) There, my dear Mary, is the 
 announcement as I have now reworded it. 
 I took William's suggestion. (Mrs. 
 Phillimore takes and casually reads it.) 
 I also put the case to him, and he was of 
 the opinion that the announcement 
 should be sent only to those people who 
 are really in society. 
 
 {She sits near table. Cynthia braces 
 herself to bear the Phillimore con- 
 versation.) 
 Grace. I wish you'd make an exception 
 of the Dudleys. 
 
 (Cynthia rises and crosses to chair by 
 the table.) 
 Miss Heneage. And of course, that ex- 
 cludes the Oppenheims— the Vance- 
 Browns. 
 Mrs. Phillimore. It 's just as well to be 
 
 exclusive. 
 Grace. I do wish you 'd make an excep- 
 tion of Lena Dudley. 
 Miss Heneage. We might, of course, in- 
 clude those new Girardos, and possibly — 
 possibly the Paddingtons. 
 Grace. I do wish you would take in Lena 
 Dudley. {They are now sitting.) 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. The mother Dudley is 
 as common as a charwoman, and not 
 nearly as clean. 
 Philip. {Sighing, his own feelings as 
 usual to the fore.) Ah! I certainly am 
 f atig-ued ! 
 
 (Cynthia begins to sloivly crush the 
 newspaper she has been reading with 
 both hands, as if the effort of self- 
 repression were too much for her.) 
 Miss Heneage. {Making the best of a 
 gloomy future.) We shall have to ask 
 the Dudleys sooner or later to dine, Mary 
 — because of the elder girl's marriage to 
 that dissolute French Marquis. 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Plaintively.) 1 don't 
 like common people any more than I like 
 common cats and of course in my time — 
 Miss Heneage. I think I shall include the 
 Dudleys, 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. You think you'll in- 
 clude the Dudleys'? 
 Miss Heneage. Yes, I think I will include 
 the Dudleys! 
 
 [Here Cynthia gives up. Driven des- 
 perate by their chatter, she has 
 slowly rolled her newspaper into a 
 ball, and at this point tosses it vio- 
 lently to the floor and bursts into hys- 
 terical laughter.) 
 Mrs. Phillimore. Why, my dear Cyn- 
 thia — compose yourself. 
 Philip. {Hastily.) What is the matter, 
 Cynthia? {They speak together.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. W^hy, Mrs. Karslake, 
 
 what is the matter? 
 Grace. {She comes quickly forward, say- 
 ing.) Mrs. Karslake! 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene. Mrs. Vida Phillimore's boudoir. 
 The room is furnished to please an empty- 
 headed, pleasure-loving and fashionable 
 woman. The furniture, the ornaments, 
 what pictures there are, are all witness to 
 taste up-to-date. Two French icindows 
 open on to a balcony, from which the 
 trees of Central Park can be seen. There 
 is a table between them; a mirror and a 
 scent bottle upon it. A lady's writing 
 table stands between two doors, nearer 
 centre of stage. There is another door 
 near an open fireplace, which is filled with 
 potted plants and andirons, not in use. 
 Over it is a tall mirror. On the mantel- 
 piece are French clock, candelabra, and 
 vases. On a line with the fireplace, a 
 lounge, gay with silk pillows. A florist's 
 box, large and long, filled with American 
 Beauty roses is on a low table near the 
 head of the lounge. Small tables and 
 light chairs are here and there. At rise of 
 the curtain Benson is seen looking about 
 her. She is a neat and pretty little Eng- 
 lish lady's maid in black silk and a thin 
 apron. She comes down the stage still 
 looking about her, and inspects the flower 
 box; then goes to the door of Vida's room 
 and speaks to her. 
 
 Benson. Yes, ma'am, the flowers have 
 come. 
 
 {She holds the door open.) 
 
 (Vida, in a morning gown, enters, slowly. 
 She is smoking a cigarette in as aesthetic 
 a manner as she can, and is evidently 
 
730 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 turned out in her best style for con- 
 quest.) 
 
 ViDA. {Speaking with her hack to the 
 audience, always calm and, though civil, a 
 little disdainful of her servant.) Ter- 
 ribly garish light, Benson. Pull down 
 the — (Benson obeys.) Lower still — 
 that will do. {As she speaks, she goes 
 about the room, giving the furniture a 
 push here and there, arranging vases, 
 etc.) Men hate a clutter of chairs and 
 tables. {Stopping and taking up hand 
 mirror, standing with back to audience.) 
 I really think I 'm too pale for this light. 
 
 Benson. {Quickly, understanding what is 
 implied.) Yes, ma'am. {Exit Benson. 
 ViDA sits at the table. Knock at the 
 door.) Come! 
 
 {Enter Brooks.) 
 
 Brooks. {An ultra-English footman, in 
 plush and calves.) Any borders, m' lady? 
 
 ViDA. {Incapable of remembering the last 
 man, or of considering the new one.) 
 Oh, — of course ! You 're the new — 
 
 Brooks. Footman, m' lady. 
 
 YiDA. {As a matter of form.) Your 
 name ? 
 
 Brooks. Brooks, m' lady. 
 
 {Reenter Benson with rouge.) 
 
 ViDA. {Carefully giving instructions while 
 she keeps her eyes on the glass and is 
 rouged by Benson.) Brooks, I am at 
 home to Mr. Karslake at eleven, not to 
 any one else till twelve, when I expect Sir 
 Wilfrid Cates-Darby. 
 
 (Brooks is inattentive, watching Ben- 
 son.) 
 
 Brooks. Yes, m' lady. 
 
 ViDA. {Calm, but wearied by the ignorance 
 of the lower classes.) And I regret to 
 inform you. Brooks, that in America 
 there are no ladies, except salesladies ! 
 
 Brooks. {Without a trace of comprehen- 
 sion.) Yes, m' lady. 
 
 ViDA. I am at home to no one but the two 
 names I have mentioned. (Brooks bows 
 and goes out. She dabs on rouge while 
 Benson holds glass.) Is the men's club 
 room in order? 
 
 Benson. Perfectly, ma'am. 
 
 ViDA. Whiskev and soda? 
 
 Benson. Yes, ma'am, and the ticker 's been 
 mended. The British sporting papers 
 arrived this morning. 
 
 Yjda, {Looking at her watch which lies on 
 
 the dressing table.) My watch has 
 stopped. 
 
 Benson. {Glancing at the French clock on 
 the chimney-piece.) Five to eleven, 
 ma'am. 
 
 ViDA. {Getting promptly to work.) Hra, 
 hm, I shall be caught. {Rises.) The 
 box of roses, Benson! (Benson brings 
 the box of roses, uncovers the flowers and 
 places them at Vida's side.) My gloves 
 — the clippers, and the vase! {Each of 
 these things Benson places in turn within 
 Vida's range where she sits on the sofa. 
 She has the long box of roses at her side 
 on a small table, a vase of water on the 
 -floor by her side. She cuts the stems and 
 places the roses in the vase. When she 
 feels that she has reached a picturesque 
 position, in which any onlooker would see 
 in her a creature filled with the love of 
 flowers and of her fellow man, she says:) 
 There ! 
 
 {The door opens and Brooks enters; Vida 
 nods to Benson.) 
 
 Brooks. {Announcing stolidly.) Sir John 
 Karslake. 
 
 {Enter John, dressed in very nobby riding 
 togs.) 
 
 {He comes in gaily and forcibly. 
 Benson gives way as he comes down. 
 Exeunt Brooks and Benson. John 
 stops near the table. Yida, from 
 this point on, is busied with her 
 roses. ) 
 Vida. {Languorously, but with a faint sug- 
 gestion of humor.) Is that really you, 
 Sir John? 
 John. {Lively and far from being im- 
 pressed by Vida.) I see now where we 
 Americans are going to get our titles. 
 Good-morning! You look as fresh as 
 paint. {He takes chair.) 
 
 Vida. {Facing the insinuation with gentle 
 pain.) I hope you don't mean that? I 
 never flattered myself for a moment 
 you'd come. You're riding Cynthia K? 
 John. {Who has laid his gloves and riding 
 crop on the table.) Fiddler's going to 
 lead her round here in ten minutes ! 
 Vida. Cigars and cigarettes ! Scotch ? 
 
 {She indicates that he will find them on 
 a small table up stage.) 
 John. Scotch ! 
 
 {Going up quickly to the table and 
 helping himself to Scotch and selt- 
 zer.) 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 731 
 
 ViDA. And now do tell me all about yier! 
 {Putting in her last roses; she keeps 
 one rosebud in her hand, of a size 
 suitable for a man's buttonhole.) 
 
 John. {As he drinks.) Ob, sbe 's an ador- 
 able creature — delicate, high-bred, sweet- 
 tempered — 
 
 ViDA. {Showing her claws for a moment.) 
 Sweet-tempered *? Oh, you're describing 
 the horse ! By ^*her," I meant — 
 
 John. {Irritated by the remembrance of 
 his wife.) Cynthia Karslake*? I'd 
 rather talk about the last tornado. 
 
 {Sits.) 
 
 ViDA. {Soothing the savage beast.) There 
 is only one thing I want to talk about, 
 and that is, you! Why were you un- 
 happy? 
 
 John. {Still cross.) Why does a dollar 
 last such a short time ? 
 
 ViDA. {With curiosity.) Why did you 
 part? 
 
 John. Did you ever see a schooner towed 
 by a tug? Well, I parted from Cynthia 
 for the same reason that the hawser parts 
 from the tug — I could n't stand the tug. 
 
 ViDA. {Sympathizing.) Ah! {Pause.) 
 
 John. {Still cross.) Awful cheerful 
 morning chat. 
 
 ViDA. {Excusing her curiosity and coming 
 back to love as the only subject for seri- 
 ous conversation.) I must hear the story, 
 for I 'm anxious to know why I 've taken 
 such a fancy to you! 
 
 John. {Very nonchalantly.) Why do I 
 like you? 
 
 ViDA. {Doing her best to charm.) I won't 
 tell you — it would iSiatter you too much. 
 
 John. {Not a bit impressed by Vida, but 
 as ready to flirt as another.) Tell me ! 
 
 Vida. There 's a rose for you. 
 
 {Giving him the one she has in her 
 hand. ) 
 
 John. {Saying what is plainly expected 
 of him.) 1 want more than a rose — 
 
 Vida. {Putting this insinuation by.) You 
 refuse to tell me — ? 
 
 John. {Once more reminded of Cynthia, 
 speaks with sudden feeling.) There's 
 nothing to tell. We met, we loved, we 
 married, we parted; or at least we wran- 
 gled and jangled. {Sighing.) Ha! 
 Why weren't we happy? Don't ask me, 
 why ! It may have been partly my fault ! 
 
 Vida. {With tenderness.) Never! 
 
 John. {His mind on Cynthia.) But I 
 believe it 's all in the way a girl 's brought 
 up. Our girls are brought up to be 
 ignorant of life — they 're ignorant of 
 
 life. Life i§ a joke, and marriage is a 
 picnic and a man is a shawl-strap — 
 'Pon my soul, Cynthia Deane — no, I can't 
 tell you ! 
 
 {During the following, he walks about 
 in his irritation.) 
 
 Vida. ( Gently. ) Please tell me ! 
 
 John. Well, she was an heiress, an Ameri- 
 can heiress — and she 'd been taught to 
 think marriage meant burnt almonds and 
 moonshine and a yacht and three auto- 
 mobiles, and she thought — I don't know 
 what she thought, but I tell you, Mrs. 
 Phillimore, marriage is three parts love 
 and seven parts forgiveness of sins. 
 
 Vida. {Flattering him as a matter of 
 course.) She never loved you. 
 
 John. ( On whom she has made no im- 
 pression at all.) Yes, she did. For six 
 or seven months there was not a shadow 
 between us. It was perfect, and then 
 one day she went off like a pistol-shot ! I 
 had a piece of law work and could n't 
 take her to see Flashlight race the Mary- 
 land mare. The case meant a big fee, big 
 Kudos, and in sails Cynthia, Flashlight 
 mad! And will I put on my hat and 
 take her? No — and bang she goes off like 
 a stick o' dynamite — what did I marry 
 her for? — and words — pretty high words, 
 until she got mad, when she threw over a 
 chair and said, oh, well, — marriage was a 
 failure, or it was w^ith me, so I said she 'd 
 better try somebody else. She said she 
 would, and marched out of the room. 
 
 Vida. {Gently sarcastic.) But she came 
 back ! 
 
 John. She came back, but not as you 
 mean. She stood at the door and said, 
 "Jack, I shall divorce you." Then she 
 came over to my study table, dropped her 
 wedding ring on my law papers, and went 
 out. The door shut, I laughed ; the front 
 door slammed, I damned. {Pause. He 
 crosses to the window.) She never came 
 back. 
 
 {He comes back to where Vida sits. 
 She catches his hands.) 
 
 Vida. {Hoping for a contradiction.) 
 She 's broken your heart. 
 
 John. Oh, no! 
 
 {He crosses to the chair by the lounge.) 
 
 Vida. {Encouraged, begins to play the 
 game again.) You '11 never love again ! 
 
 John. (Speaking to her from the foot of 
 her sofa.) Try me! Try me! Ah, no, 
 Mrs. Phillimore, I shall laugh, live, love 
 and make money again ! And let me tell 
 you one thing — I 'm going to rap her on^ 
 
732 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 over the knuckles. She had a stick of a 
 Connecticut hiwyer, and he — well, to cut 
 a legal story short, since Mrs. Karslake 's 
 been in Europe, I have been quietly test- 
 ing the validity of the decree of divorce. 
 Perhaps you don't understand? 
 
 ViDA. {Letting her innate shrewdness ap- 
 pear.) Oh, about a divorce, everything! 
 
 John. I shall hear by this evening whether 
 the divorce will stand or not. 
 
 ViDA. But it 's to-day at three she mar- 
 ries — you won't let her commit big- 
 amy? 
 
 John. {Shaking his head.) I don't sup- 
 pose I 'd go as far as that. It may be 
 the divorce will hold, but any\\^ay I hope 
 never to see her again. 
 
 {He sits beside her facing up the stage 
 as she faces down.) 
 
 ViDA. Ah, my poor boy, she has broken 
 your heart. {Believing that this is her 
 psychological moment, she lags her hand 
 on his arm, but draws it back as soon as 
 he attempts to take it.) Now don't make 
 love to me. 
 
 John. {Bold and amused, but never taken 
 Jn.) Why not"? 
 
 ViDA. {With immense gentleness.) Be- 
 cause I like you too .much! {More 
 gaily.) I might give in, and take a no- 
 tion to like you still more ! 
 
 John. Please do! 
 
 ViDA. {With gush and determined to be 
 womanly at all hazards.) Jack, I believe 
 you'd be a lovely lover! 
 
 John. {As before.) Try me! 
 
 ViDA. {Not hoping much from his tone.) 
 You charming, tempting, delightful fel- 
 low, I could love you without the least 
 effort in the world, — but, no ! 
 
 John. {Playing the game.) Ah, well, 
 now seriously! Between two people who 
 have suffered and made their own mis- 
 takes — 
 
 ViDA. {Playing the game too, but not play- 
 ing it well.) But you see, you don't 
 really love me! 
 
 John. {Still ready to say what is ex- 
 pected.) Cynthia — Vida, no man can sit 
 beside you and look into your eyes with- 
 out feeling — 
 
 Vida. {Speaking the truth as she sees if, 
 seeing that her methods don't succeed.) 
 Oh ! ' That 's not love ! That 's simply- 
 well, my dear Jack, it 's beginning at the 
 wrong end. And the truth is you hate 
 Cynthia Karslake w^th such a whole- 
 hearted hate, that you have n't a moment 
 to think of any other woman, 
 
 John. , {With sudden anger.) I hate her! 
 
 Vida. {Very softly and most sweetly.) 
 Jack — Jack, I could be as foolish about 
 you as — oh, as foolish as anything, my 
 dear! And perhaps some day — perhaps 
 some day you '11 come to me and say, 
 Vida, I am totally indifferent to Cynthia 
 — and then — 
 
 John. And then? 
 
 Vida. {The ideal woman in mind.) Then, 
 perhaps, you and I may join hands and 
 stroll together into the Garden of Eden, 
 It takes two to find the Garden of Eden, 
 you know — and once we 're on the inside, 
 we '11 lock the gate. 
 
 John. {Gaily, and seeing straight through 
 her veneer.) And lose the key under a 
 rose-bush ! 
 
 Vida. {Agreeing very softly.) Under a 
 rose-bush! {Very soft knock.) Come! 
 (John rises quickly.) 
 
 {Enter Benson and Brooks.) 
 
 Brooks. {Stolid and announcing.) Mj'- 
 lady— Sir Wilf— 
 
 (Benson stops him with a sharp move- 
 ment and turns toward Vida.) 
 
 Benson. {With intention.) Your dress- 
 maker, ma'am, 
 
 (Benson waves Brooks to go. Exit 
 Brooks, very haughtily.) 
 
 Vida. {Wonder ingly.) My dressmaker, 
 Benson? {WitJt quick intelligence.) 
 Oh, of course, show her up. Mr. Kars- 
 lake, you won't mind for a few minutes 
 using my men's club room? Benson will 
 show you ! You '11 find cigars and the 
 ticker, sporting papers, whiskey; and, 
 if you want anything special, just 'phone 
 down to my "chef." 
 
 John. {Looking at his watch.) How 
 long? 
 
 Vida. {Very anxious to please.) Half a 
 cigar ! Benson will call you. 
 
 John. {Practical.) Don't make it too 
 long. You see, there 's my sheriff's sale 
 on at twelve, and those races this after- 
 noon. Fiddler will be here in ten min- 
 
 ' {Door opens.) 
 Vida. {To John.) Run along! {Exit 
 John. Vida suddenly practical, and 
 with a broad gesttire to Benson.) Ev- 
 erything just as it was, Benson! (Ben- 
 son whisks the roses out of the vase and 
 replaces them in the box. She gives 
 Vida scissors and empty vases, and when 
 Vida finds herself in precisely the same 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 733 
 
 position ichich preceded John's entrance, 
 she says:) There! 
 
 {Enter Brooks, as Vida takes a rose from 
 the bc(sket.) 
 
 Brooks. {Stolidh/.) Your ladyship's 
 dressmaker ! M 'lady ! 
 
 (Enter Sir Wilfrid in morning suit with 
 hoiitonniere.) 
 
 Vida. (With tender surprise and busy 
 with the roses.) Is that really you, Sir 
 Wilfrid ! I never flattered myself for 
 an instant that you 'd remember to come. 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Coming to her above end 
 of sofa.) Come? 'Course I come! 
 Keen to come see you. By Jove, you 
 know, you look as pink and white as a 
 huntin' mornin'. 
 Vida. {Ready to make any man as happy 
 
 as possible.) You'll smoke'? 
 Sir Wilfrid. Thanks! {He watches her 
 as she trims and arranges the flowers.) 
 Awfully long fingers you have ! Wish I 
 was a rose, or a ring, or a pair of shears ! 
 I say, d' you ever notice what a devil of 
 a fellow I am for originality, what? 
 {Unlike John, he is evidently impressed 
 by her.) You've got a delicate little den 
 up here ! Not so much low livin' and 
 high thinkin', as low lights and no 
 thinkin' at all, I hope — eh? 
 
 {By this time Vida has filled a vase 
 with roses arid rises to sweep by him 
 and if possible make another charm- 
 ing picture to his eyes.) 
 Vida. You don't mind my moving about? 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Impressed.) Not if you 
 don't mind my watchin'. {He sits on the 
 sofa.) And sayin' how well you do it. 
 Vida. It 's most original of you to come 
 here this morning. I don't quite see why 
 you did. 
 
 {She places the roses here and there, 
 as if to see their effect, and leaves 
 them on a small table near the door 
 through which her visitors entered.) 
 Sir Wilfrid. Admiration. 
 Vida. {Sauntering slowly toward the mir- 
 ror as she speaks.) Oh, I saw that you 
 admired her! And of course, she did 
 say she was coming here at eleven ! But 
 that was only bravado ! She won't come, 
 and besides, I 've given orders to admit 
 no one! 
 Sir Wilfrid. May I ask you — 
 
 {He throws this in in the middle of 
 her speech, which flows gently and 
 steadily on.) 
 
 Vida. And indeed, if she came now, Mr. 
 Karslake has gone, and her sole object in 
 coming was to make him uncomfortable. 
 {She goes toward the table: stopping a 
 half minute at the mirror to see that she 
 looks as she wishes to look.) Very dan- 
 gerous symptom, too, that passionate de- 
 sire to make one's former husband un- 
 happy ! But, I can't believe that your 
 admiration for Cynthia Karslake is so 
 warm that it led you to pay me this visit 
 a half hour too early in the hope of 
 seeing — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Rising; most civil, but 
 speaking his mind like a Briton.) I say, 
 would you mind stopping a moment! 
 {She smiles.) I'm not an American, 
 you know; I was brought up not to in- 
 terrupt. But you Americans, it 's differ- 
 ent with you! If somebody didn't in- 
 terrupt you, you 'd go on forever. 
 
 Vida. {She passes him to tantalize.) My 
 point is you come to see Cynthia — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {He believes she means it.) 
 I came liopin' to see — 
 
 Vida. {As before.) Cynthia! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Perfectly single-minded 
 and entirely taken in.) But I would 
 have come even if I 'd known — 
 
 Vida. {Evading him while he follows.) I 
 don't believe it! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {As before.) Give you my 
 word I — 
 
 Vida. {The same.) You're here to see 
 her! And of course — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Determined to be heard 
 because, after all, he 's a man.) May I 
 have the — eh — the floor? (Vida sits in 
 a chair.) 1 was jolly well bowled over 
 with Mrs. Karslake, I admit that, and I 
 hoped to see her here, but — 
 
 Vida. {Talking nonsense and knowing it.) 
 You had another object in coming. In 
 fact, you came to see Cynthia, and you 
 came to see me! What I really long to 
 know, is why you wanted to see me! 
 For, of course, Cynthia 's to be mar- 
 ried at three! And, if she wasn't she 
 would n't have you ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Not intending to wound; 
 merely speaking the flat truth.) Well, I 
 mean to jolly well ask her. 
 
 Vida. {Indignant.) To be your wife? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Why not? 
 
 Vida. {As before.) And you came here, 
 to my house — in order to ask her — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Truthful even on a subtle 
 point.) Oh, but that 's only my first rea- 
 son for coming, you know. 
 
■34 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 ViDA. {Concealing her hopes.) Well, 
 now I am curious — what is the second? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. [Simply.) Are you feelin' 
 pretty robust? 
 
 ViDA. I don't know! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Crossing to buffet.) Will 
 you have something, and then I '11 tell 
 you! 
 
 ViDA. {Gaily.) Can't I support the news 
 without — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Trying to explain his state 
 of mind, a thing he has never been able 
 to do.) Mrs. Phillimore, you see it's 
 this way. Whenever you're lucky, 
 you 're too lucky. Now, Mrs. Karslake 
 is a nipper and no mistake, but as I told 
 you, the very same evenin' and house 
 where I saw her — 
 
 {He attempts to take her hand.) 
 
 ViDA. {Gently rising and affecting a ten- 
 der surprise.) What! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Rising with her.) That's 
 it ! — You 're over ! 
 
 {He suggests with his right hand the 
 movement of a horse taking a hur- 
 dle.) 
 
 ViDA. {Very sweetly.) You don't really 
 mean — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Carried away for the mo- 
 ment by so much true womanliness.) I 
 mean, I stayed awake for an hour last 
 night, thinkin' about you. 
 
 ViDA. {Speaking to be contradicted.) 
 But, you 've just told me — that Cynthia — 
 
 Sir WilfriDu {Admitting the fact.) 
 Well, she did — she did bowl my wicket, 
 but so did you — 
 
 Vida. {Taking him very gently to task.) 
 Don't you think there 's a limit to — 
 
 {She sits.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Roused by so much loveli- 
 ness of soul.) Now, see here, Mrs. Phil- 
 limore ! You and I are not bottle babies, 
 eh, are we? You 've been married and — 
 I — I 've knocked about, and we both know 
 there 's a lot of stuff talked about — eh, 
 eh, well, you know: — the one and only — 
 that a fellow can't be awfully well 
 smashed by two at the same time, don't 
 you know ! All rubbish ! You know it, 
 and the proof of the puddin 's in the 
 eatin', I am! 
 
 Vida. {As before.) May I ask where I 
 come in? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Well, now, Mrs. Phillimore, 
 I '11 be frank with you, Cynthia 's my 
 favorite, but you 're runnin' her a close 
 second in the popular esteem! 
 
 Vida. {Laughing, determined not to take 
 
 offense.) What a delightful, original, 
 fantastic person you are! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Frankly happy that he 
 has explained everything so neatly.) I 
 knew you 'd take it that way ! 
 
 Vida. And what next, pray? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, just the usual, — eh, — 
 thing, — the — eh — the same old question, 
 don't you know. Will you have me if 
 she don't? 
 
 Vida. {A shade piqued, but determined 
 not to risk showing it.) And you call 
 that the same old usual question? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Yes, I know% but — but will 
 you? I sail in a week; we can take the 
 same boat. And — eh — eh — my dear Mrs. 
 — may n't I say Vida, I 'd like to see you 
 at the head of my table. 
 
 Vida. {With velvet irony.) With Cyn- 
 thia at the foot? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Practical, as before.) 
 Never mind Mrs. Karslake, — I admire 
 her — she 's — but you have your own 
 points ! And you 're here, and so 'm I ! — 
 damme, I offer myself, and my affections, 
 and I 'm no icicle, my dear, tell you that 
 for a fact, and, and in fact what 's your 
 answer! — (Vida sighs and shakes her 
 head.) Make it, yes! I say, you know, 
 my dear Vida — 
 
 {He catches her hands.) 
 
 Vida. {She slips them from him.) Un- 
 hand me, dear villain! And sit further 
 away from your second choice! What 
 can I say ? I 'd rather have you for a 
 lover than any man I know! You must 
 be a lovely lover! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I am! 
 
 {He makes a second effort to catch 
 her fingers.) 
 
 Vida. Will you kindly go further away 
 and be good! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Quite forgetting Cyn- 
 thia. ) Look here, if you say yes, we '11 
 be married — 
 
 Vida. In a month! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, no — this evening! 
 
 Vida. {Incapable of leaving a situation 
 unadorned.) This evening! And sail 
 in the same boat with you? And shall 
 we sail to the Garden of Eden and stroll 
 into it and lock the gate on the inside 
 and then lose the key — under a rose- 
 bush? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Pausing, and after consid- 
 eration, saying.) Yes; yes, I say — 
 that 's too clever for me ! 
 
 {He draws nearer to her to bring the 
 understanding to a crisis.) 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 735 
 
 ViDA. {A soft knock at the door.) My 
 
 maid — come ! 
 Sir Wilfrid. (Swinging out of his chair 
 
 and going to sofa.) Eh? 
 
 {Enter Benson.) 
 
 Benson. {To Vida.) The new footman, 
 ma'am — he 's made a mistake. He 's 
 told the lady you 're at home. 
 
 Vida. What lady? 
 
 Benson. Mrs. Karslake ; and she 's on the 
 stairs, ma'am. 
 
 Vida. Show her in. 
 
 (Sir Wilfrid has been turtung over 
 the roses. On hearing this, he faces 
 about with a long stemmed one in his 
 hand. He uses it in tJie following 
 scene to point his remarks.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {To Benson, who stops.) 
 One moment! {To Vida.) I say,. eh — 
 I'd rather not see her! 
 
 Vida. {Very innocently.) But you came 
 here to see her. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {A little flustered.) I'd 
 rather not. Eh, — I fancied I 'd find you 
 and her together — but her — {coming a 
 step nearer) findin' me with you looks 
 so dooced intimate, — no one else, d 'ye 
 see, I believe she 'd — draw conclusions — 
 
 Benson. Pardon me, ma'am — but I hear 
 Brooks coming! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {To Benson.) Hold the 
 door! 
 
 Vida. So you don't want her to know — ? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. ( To Vida. ) Be a good girl 
 now — run me off somewhere! 
 
 Vida. {To Benson.) Show Sir Wilfrid 
 the men's room. 
 
 {Enter Brooks.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. The men's room! Ah! 
 Oh! Eh! 
 
 Vida. (Beckoning him to go at once.) 
 Sir Wil— 
 
 (He hesitates, then as Brooks comes 
 on, he flings off with Benson.) 
 
 Brooks. Lady Karslake, milady! 
 
 Vida. Anything more inopportune! I 
 never dreamed she'd come — (Enter 
 Cynthia, veiled. She comes down 
 quickly.) My dear Cynthia, you don't 
 mean to say — (Languorously.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Rather short, and visibly agi- 
 tated. ) Yes, I 've come. 
 
 Vida. (Polite, but not urgent.) Do take 
 off your veil. 
 
 Cynthia. (Doing as Vida asks.) Is no 
 one here? 
 
 Vida. (As before.) Won't you sit down? 
 
 Cynthia. (Agitated and suspicious.) 
 Thanks, no — That is, yes, thanks. 
 Yes ! You have n't answered my ques- 
 tion? 
 
 (Cynthia waves her hand through the 
 smoke, looks at the smoke suspi- 
 ciously, looks for the cigarette.) 
 
 Vida. (Playing innocence in the first de- 
 gree.) My dear, what makes you imag- 
 ine that any one 's here ! 
 
 Cynthia. You 've been smoking. 
 
 Vida. Oh, puffing away! 
 
 (Cynthia sees the glasses on the 
 table.) 
 
 Cynthia. And drinking — a pair of 
 drinks? (She sees John's gloves on the 
 table at her elbow.) Do they fit you, 
 dear? (Vida smiles; Cynthia picks up 
 crop and looks at it and reads her own 
 name.) "Jack, from Cynthia." 
 
 Vida. (without taking the trouble to dou- 
 ble for a mere woman.) Yes, dear; it's 
 Mr. Karslake's crop, but I 'm happy to 
 say he left me a few minutes ago. 
 
 Cynthia. He left the house? (Vida 
 smiles.) I wanted to see him. 
 
 Vida. (With a shade of insolence.) To 
 quarrel ? 
 
 Cynthia. (Frank and curt.) I wanted 
 to see him. 
 
 Vida. (Determined to put Cynthia in the 
 wrong.) And I sent him away because 
 I did n't want you to repeat the scene of 
 last night in my house. 
 
 Cynthia. (Looks at John's riding crop 
 and is silent.) Well, I can't stay. I'm 
 to be married at three, and I had to play 
 truant to get here! 
 
 (Enter Benson.) 
 
 Benson. (To Vida.) There's a person, 
 ma'am, on the sidewalk. 
 
 Vida. What person, Benson? 
 
 Benson. A person, ma'am, with a horse. 
 
 Cynthia. (Happily agitated.) It 's Fid- 
 dler with Cynthia K. 
 
 (She goes up rapidly and looks out 
 back through the window.) 
 
 Vida. [To Benson.) Tell the man I'll 
 be down in five minutes. 
 
 Cynthia. (Looking down from the bal- 
 cony with delight.) Oh, there she is! 
 
 Vida. (Aside to Benson.) Go to the 
 club room, Benson, and say to the two 
 gentlemen I can't see them at present — 
 I '11 send for them when — 
 
 Benson. (Listening.) I hear some one 
 coming. 
 
 Vida. Quick ! 
 
730 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 (Benson leaves the door, which opens, 
 and John enters. John comes in 
 slowly, carelessly. Vida whispers 
 to Benson.) 
 
 Benson. {Crosses, goes close to John 
 and whispers.) Beg par — 
 
 Vida. {Under her breath.) Go back! 
 
 John. {Not understanding.) I beg par- 
 don! 
 
 Vida. {As before.) Go back! 
 
 John. {The same.) Can't! I've a date! 
 With the sheriff! 
 
 Vida. {A little cross.) Please use your 
 eyes. 
 
 John. {Laughing and flattering Vida.) 
 I am using my eyes. 
 
 Vida. {Fretted.) Don't you see there's 
 a lovely creature in the room? 
 
 John. {Again taking the loud upper- 
 hand.) Of course there is. 
 
 Vida. Hush ! 
 
 John. {Teasingly.) But what I want to 
 know is — 
 
 Vida. Hush ! 
 
 John. {Delighted at getting a rise.) — is 
 when we're to stroll in the Garden of 
 Eden— 
 
 Vida. Hush ! 
 
 John. — and lose the key. {To put a 
 stop to this, she lightly tosses her hand- 
 kerchief into his face.) By George, talk 
 about attar of roses! 
 
 Cynthia. {Up at window, excited and 
 moved at seeing her mare once more.) 
 Oh, she's a darling! {She turns.) A 
 perfect darling! (John starts; he sees 
 Cynthia at the same instant that she 
 sees him.) Oh! I didn't know you 
 were here. {Pause; then with ^Hake-it- 
 or-leave-it" frankness.) I came to see 
 you! 
 
 (John looks extremely dark and 
 angry; Vida rises.) 
 
 Vida. {To Cynthia, most gently, and 
 seeing there 's nothing to be made of 
 John.) Oh, pray feel at home, Cyn- 
 thia, dear! {Stands by door; to John.) 
 When I 've a nice street frock on, I '11 
 ask you to present me to Cynthia K. 
 
 {Exit Vida.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Agitated and frank.) Of 
 course, I told you yesterday I was com- 
 ing here. 
 
 John. {Irritated.) And I was to deny 
 myself the privilege of being here? 
 
 Cynthia. {Curt and agitated.) Yes. 
 
 John. {Beady to fight.) And you 
 guessed I would do that? 
 
 Cynthia. No. 
 
 John. What? 
 
 Cynthia. {Above table. She speaks 
 with agitation, frankness and good will.) 
 Jack — I mean, Mr. Karslake, — no, I 
 mean. Jack! I came because — well, you 
 see, it 's my wedding day ! — and — and — 
 I — I — was rude to you last evening. 
 I 'd like to apologize and make peace 
 with you before I go — 
 
 John. {Determined to be disagreeable.) 
 Before 3'ou go to your last, long home! 
 
 Cynthia. I came to apologize. 
 
 John. But you '11 remain to quarrel ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Still frank and kind.) I will 
 not quarrel. No ! — and I 'm only here 
 for a moment. I 'm to be married at 
 three, and just look at the clock! Be- 
 sides, I told Philip I was going to 
 Louise's shop, and I did — on the way 
 here; but, you see, if I stay too long 
 he '11 telephone Louise and find I 'm not 
 there, and he might guess I was here. 
 So you see I 'm risking a scandal. And 
 now, Jack, see here, I lay my hand on 
 the table, I 'm here on the square, and, 
 — what I want to say is, why — Jack, 
 even if we have made a mess of our 
 married life, let 's put by anger and 
 pride. It 's all over now and can't be 
 helped. So let 's be human, let 's be rea- 
 sonable, and let 's be kind to each other ! 
 Won't you give me your hand? (John 
 refuses.) 1 wish you every happiness! 
 
 John. {Turning away, the past ran- 
 kling.) I had a client once, a murderer; 
 he told me he murdered the man, and he 
 told me, too, that he never felt so kindly 
 to anybody as he did to that man after 
 he 'd killed him ! 
 
 Cynthia. Jack ! 
 
 John. {Unforgiving.) You murdered my 
 happiness ! 
 
 Cynthia. I won't recriminate! 
 
 John. And now I must put by anger and 
 pride! I do! But not self-respect, not 
 a just indignation — not the facts and my 
 clear memory of them ! 
 
 Cynthia. Jack ! 
 
 John. No ! 
 
 Cynthia. {With growing emotion, and 
 holding out her hand.) I give you one 
 more chance ! Yes, I 'm determined to 
 be generous. I forgive everything you 
 ever did to me. I 'm ready to be friends. 
 I wish you every happiness and every — 
 every — horse in the world! I can't do 
 more than that! {She offers her hand 
 again.) You refuse? 
 
 John. {Moved, but surly.) I like wild- 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 737 
 
 cats and J like Christians, but I don't 
 like Christian wildcats! Now I'm close 
 hauled, trot out your tornado! Let the 
 Tiger loose! It's the tamer, the man 
 in the cage that has to look lively and 
 use the red hot crowbar! But by Jove, 
 I 'm out of the cage ! I 'm a mere spec- 
 tator of the married circus! 
 
 {He puffs vigorously.) 
 
 Cynthia. Be a game sport then! Our 
 marriage was a wager; you wagered you 
 could live with me. You lost; you paid 
 with a divorce; and now is the time to 
 show your sporting blood. Come on, 
 shake hands and part friends. 
 
 John. Not in this world! Friends with 
 you, no! I have a proper pride. I 
 don't propose to put my pride in my 
 pocket. 
 
 Cynthia. {Jealous and plain spoken.) 
 Oh, I wouldn't ask you to put your 
 pride in your pocket while Vida's hand- 
 kerchief is there. (John looks angered.) 
 Pretty little bijou of a handkerchief! 
 (Cynthia takes handkerchief out.) 
 And she is charming, and divorced, and 
 reasonably well made up. 
 
 John. Oh, well, Vida is a woman. {Toy- 
 ing with handkerchief.) I 'm a man, a 
 handkerchief is a handkerchief, and as 
 some old Aristotle or other said, what- 
 ever concerns a woman, concerns me ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Not oblivious of him, hut in a 
 low voice.) Insufferable! Well, yes. 
 {She sits. She is too much wounded to 
 make any further appeal.) You 're per- 
 fectly right. There 's no possible har- 
 mony between divorced people! I with- 
 draw my hand and all good feeling. No 
 wonder I couldn't stand you. Eh? 
 However, that 's pleasantly past ! But 
 at least, my dear Karslake, let us have 
 some sort of beauty of behavior! If we 
 cannot be decent, let us endeavor to be 
 graceful. If we can't be moral, at least 
 we can avoid being vulgar. 
 
 John. Well — 
 
 Cynthia. If there 's to be no more mar- 
 riage in the world — 
 
 John. {Cynical.) Oh, but that's not it; 
 there 's to be more and more and more ! 
 
 Cynthia. {With a touch of bitterness.) 
 Very well ! I repeat then, if there 's to 
 be nothing but marriage and divorce, 
 and remarriage, and redivorce, at least, 
 at least, those who are divorced can 
 avoid the vulgarity of meeting each other 
 here, there, and everywhere ! 
 
 John. Oh, that 's where you come out ! 
 
 Cynthia. I thought so yesterday, and to- 
 day I know it. It's an insufferable 
 thing to a woman of any delicacy of 
 feeling to find her husband — 
 
 John. Ahem — former ! 
 
 Cynthia. Once a husband always — 
 
 John. {Still cynical.) Oh, no! Oh, 
 dear, no. 
 
 Cynthia. To find her — to find the man 
 she has once lived with — in the house of 
 — making love to — to find you here! 
 (John smiles and rises.) You smile, — • 
 but I say, it should be a social axiom, no 
 woman should have to meet her former 
 husband. 
 
 John. {Cynical and cutting.) Oh, I 
 don't know ; after I 've served my term 
 I don't mind meeting my jailor. 
 
 Cynthia. (John takes a chair near Cyn- 
 thia. ) It 's indecent — at the horse- 
 show, the opera, at races and balls, to 
 meet the man who once — It 's not civi- 
 lized ! It 's fantastic ! It 's half baked ! 
 Oh, I never should have come here! 
 {He sympathizes^ and she grows irra- 
 tional and furious.) But it's entirely 
 your fault ! 
 
 John. My fault? 
 
 Cynthia. {Working herself into a rage.) 
 Of course. What business have you to 
 be about — to be at large. To be at all! 
 
 John. Gosh ! 
 
 Cynthia. {As before.) To be where I 
 am ! Yes, it 's just as horrible for you 
 to turn up in my life as it would be for 
 a dead person to insist on coming back 
 to life and dinner and bridge! 
 
 John. Horrid idea! 
 
 Cynthia. Yes, but it 's you w^ho behave 
 just as if you were not dead, just as if 
 I 'd not spent a fortune on your funeral. 
 You do ; you prepare to bob up at after- 
 noon teas, — and dinners — and embarrass 
 me to death with your extinct person- 
 ality! 
 
 John. Well, of course we were married, 
 but it didn't quite kill me. 
 
 Cynthia. {Angry and plain spoken.) 
 You killed yourself for me — I divorced 
 you. I buried you out of my life. If 
 any human soul was ever dead, you are! 
 And there 's nothing I so hate as a gib- 
 bering ghost. 
 
 John. Oh, I say! 
 
 Cynthia. {With hot anger.) Go gibber 
 and squeak where gibbering and squeak- 
 ing are the fashion! 
 
 John. {Laughing and pretending to a 
 coldness he does not feel.) And so, my 
 
738 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 dear child, I 'm to abate myself as a nui- 
 sance! Well, as far as seeing you is 
 concerned, for my part it 's just like see- 
 ing a horse who 's chucked you once. 
 The bruises are 0. K., and you see him 
 with a sort of easy curiosity. Of course, 
 you know, he '11 jolly well chuck the next 
 man! — Permit me! (John picks up 
 gloves, handkerchief and parasol and 
 gives her these as she drops them one by 
 one in her agitation.) There's pleasure 
 in "the thought. 
 
 Cynthia. Oh ! 
 
 John. And now, may I ask you a very 
 simple question? Mere curiosity on my 
 part, but, why did you come here this 
 morning ? 
 
 Cynthia. I have already explained that 
 to you. 
 
 John. Not your real motive. Permit me ! 
 
 Cynthia. Oh ! 
 
 John. But I believe I have guessed your 
 real — permit me — your real motive! 
 
 Cynthia. Oh ! 
 
 John. {With mock sympathy.) Cynthia, 
 I am sorry for you. 
 
 Cynthia. H'm? 
 
 John. Of course we had a pretty lively 
 case of the fever — the mutual attraction 
 fever, and we were married a very short 
 time. And I conclude that 's what ^s the 
 matter with you! You see, my dear, 
 seven montlis of married life is too short 
 a time to cure a bad case of the fancies. 
 
 Cynthia. {In angry surprise.) What? 
 
 John. {Calm and triumphant.) That's 
 my diagnosis. 
 
 Cynthia. {Slowly and gathering herself 
 together.) I don't think I understand. 
 
 John. Oh, yes, you do; yes, you do. 
 
 Cynthia. {With blazing eyes.) What 
 do you mean? 
 
 John. Would you mind not breaking my 
 crop! Thank you! I mean {With po- 
 lite impertinence.) that ours was a case 
 of premature divorce, and, ahem, you 're 
 in love with me still. 
 
 {He pauses. Cynthia has one mo- 
 ment of fury, then she realizes at 
 what a disadvantage this places her. 
 She makes an immense effort, re- 
 covers her calm, thinks hard for a 
 moment more, and then, has sud- 
 denly an inspiration.) 
 
 Cynthia. Jack, some day you '11 get the 
 blind staggers from conceit. No, I 'm 
 not in love with you, Mr. Karslake, but 
 I shouldn't be at all surprised if she 
 were. She's just your sort, you know. 
 
 She's a man-eating shark, and you '11 be 
 a toothsome mouthful. Oh, come now, 
 Jack, what a silly you are ! Oh, yes, you 
 are, to get off a joke like that; me — in 
 love with — {She looks at him.) 
 
 John. Why are you here? {She laughs 
 and begins to play her game.) Why are 
 you here? 
 
 Cynthia. Guess! {She laughs.) 
 
 John. Why are you — 
 
 Cynthia. {Quickly.) Why am I here! 
 I '11 tell you. I 'm going to be married. 
 I had a longing, an irresistible longing 
 to see you make an ass of yourself just 
 once more! It happened! 
 
 John. {Uncertain and discomfited.) I 
 know better! 
 
 Cynthia. But I came for a more serious 
 purpose, too. I came, my dear fellow, 
 to make an experiment on myself. I 've 
 been with you thirty minutes; and — 
 {She sighs with content.) It 's all right! 
 
 John. What 's all right? 
 
 Cynthia. {Calm and apparently at peace 
 with the world.) I'm immune. 
 
 John. Immune ? 
 
 Cynthia. You 're not catching any more ! 
 Yes, you see, I said to myself, if I fly 
 into a temper — 
 
 John. You did! 
 
 Cynthia. If I fly into a temper when I 
 see him, well that shows I 'm not yet so 
 entirely convalescent that I can afford to 
 have Jack Karslake at my house. If I 
 remain calm I shall ask him to dinner. 
 
 John. {Routed.) Ask me if you dare! 
 
 {He rises.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Getting the whip hand for 
 good.) Ask you to dinner? Oh, my 
 dear fellow. (John rises.) I'm goings 
 to do much more than that. {She rises.) 
 We must be friends, old man ! We must 
 meet, we must meet often, we must show 
 New York the way the thing should be 
 done, and, to show you I mean it — I 
 want you to be my best man, and give me 
 away when I 'm married this afternoon. 
 
 John. {Incredulous and impatient.) You 
 don't mean that! {He puts back chair.) 
 
 Cynthia. There you are! Always sus- 
 picious ! 
 
 John. You don't mean that! 
 
 Cynthia. {Hiding her emotion under a 
 sportswoman^ s manner.) Don't I? I 
 ask you, come ! And come as you are ! 
 And I '11 lay my wedding gown to Cyn- 
 thia K that you won't be there! If 
 you 're there, you get the gown, and if 
 you 're not, I get Cynthia K ! — 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 739 
 
 John. {Determined not to be worsted.) 
 I take it! 
 
 Cynthia. Done! Now, then, we'll see 
 which of us two is the real sporting 
 goods! Shake! {They shake hands on 
 it.) Would you mind letting me have a 
 plain soda? (John goes to the table, 
 and, as he is rattled and does not regard 
 what he is about, he fills the glass three- 
 fourths full with whiskey. He comes to 
 Cynthia and gives her this. She looks 
 him in the eye with an air of triumph.) 
 Thanks. {Maliciously, as Vida enters.) 
 Your hand is a bit shaky. I think you 
 need a little King William. 
 
 (John shrugs his shoulders, and as 
 Vida immediately speaks, Cynthia 
 defers drinking.) 
 
 Vida. ( To Cynthia. ) My dear, I 'm 
 sorry to tell you your husband — I mean, 
 my husband — I mean Philip — he's ask- 
 ing for you over the 'phone. You must 
 have said you were coming here. Of 
 course, I told him you were not here, 
 and hung up. 
 
 {Enter Benson.) 
 
 Benson. {To Vida.) Ma'am, the new 
 footman 's been talking with Mr. Phiili- 
 more on the wire. (Vida makes a ges- 
 ture of regret.) He told Mr. Phillimore 
 that his lady was here, and if I can be- 
 lieve my ears, ma'am, he 's got Sir Wil- 
 frid on the 'phone now! 
 
 {Enter Sir Wilfrid.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Comes from room, per- 
 plexed and annoyed.) I say y' know — 
 extraordinary country; that old chap, 
 Phillimore, he 's been damned imperti- 
 nent over the wire ! Says I 've run off 
 with Mrs. Karslake — talks about "Lou- 
 ise" ! Now who the dooce is Louise ? 
 He 's comin' round here, too — I said 
 Mrs. Karslake wasn't here — {Seeing 
 Cynthia.) Hello! Good job! What a 
 liar I am! 
 
 Benson. {To Vida.) Mr. Fiddler, ma'am, 
 says the mare is gettin' very restive. 
 (John hears this and moves at once. 
 Exit Benson.) 
 
 John. {To Vida.) If that mare's rest- 
 ive, she '11 break out in a rash. 
 
 Vida. (To John.) Will you take me? 
 
 John. Of course. {They go to the door.) 
 
 Cynthia. {To John.) Tata, old man! 
 Meet you at the altar! If I don't, the 
 mare 's mine ! 
 
 (Sir Wilfrid looks at her amazed.) 
 
 Vida. {To Cynthia.) Do the honors, 
 
 dear, in my absence! 
 John. Come along, come along, never 
 mind them! A horse is a horse! 
 
 {Exeunt John and Vida, gaily and in 
 haste. At the same moment Cyn- 
 thia drinks what she supposes to be 
 her glass of plain soda. As it is 
 whiskey straight, she is seized with 
 astonishment and a fit of coughing. 
 Sir Wilfrid relieves her of the 
 glass.) 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Indicating contents of 
 glass.) I say, do you ordinarily take it 
 as high up — as seven fingers and two 
 thumbs? 
 Cynthia. {Coughs.) Jack poured it out. 
 Just shows how groggy he was! And 
 now. Sir Wilfrid — 
 
 {She gets her things to go.) 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, you can't go! 
 
 {Enter Brooks.) 
 
 Cynthia. I am to be married at three. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Let him wait. {Aside to 
 Brooks, whom he meets near the door.) 
 If Mr. Phillimore comes, bring his card 
 up. 
 
 Brooks. {Going.) Yes, Sir Wilfrid. ^ 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {To Brooks, as before.) 
 To me! {He tips' him.) 
 
 Brooks. {Bowing.) To you. Sir Wilfrid. 
 
 {Exit Brooks.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Returning to Cynthia.) 
 I 've got to have my innings, y' know ! 
 {He looks at her more closely.) I say, 
 you 've been crying ! — 
 
 Cynthia. King William! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. You are crying! Poor lit- 
 tle gal! 
 
 Cynthia. {Tears in her eyes.) 1 feel all 
 shaken and cold. 
 
 {Enter Brooks, with card.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Astonished and sympa- 
 thetic.) Poor little gal. 
 
 Cynthia. {As before.) I didn't sleep a 
 wink last night. {With disgust.) Oh, 
 what is the matter with me? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Why, it's as plain as a 
 pikestaff! You— (Brooks has brought 
 salver to Sir VVilfrid. A card lies 
 upon it. Sir Wilfrid takes it and says 
 aside to Brooks.) Phillimore? (Brooks 
 assents. Aloud to Cynthia, calmly de- 
 ceitful.) Who's Waldorf Smith? 
 (Cynthia shakes her head. To Brooks, 
 
740 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 returning card to salver.) Tell the gen- 
 tleman Mrs. Karslake is not here ! 
 
 {Exit Brooks.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Aware that she has no busi- 
 ness where she is.) I thought it was 
 Philip ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Telling the truth as if it 
 were a lie.) So did I! {With cheerful 
 confidence.) And now, Mrs. Karslake, 
 I '11 tell you why you 're cryin'. {He 
 sits beside her.) You're marryin' the 
 wrong man ! I 'm sorry for you, but 
 you 're such a goose. Here you are, 
 marryin' this legal luminary. What 
 for? You don't know! He don't know! 
 But I do ! You pretend you 're marry- 
 in' him because it 's the sensible thing ; 
 not a bit of it. You 're marryin' Mr. 
 Phillimore because of all the other men 
 you ever saw he 's the least like Jack 
 Karslake. 
 
 Cynthia. That 's a very good reason. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. There 's only one good rea- 
 son for marrying, and that is because 
 you '11 die if you don't ! 
 
 Cynthia. Oh, I 've tried that I 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. The Scripture says: "Try! 
 try ! again !" I tell you, there 's nothing 
 like a w'im! 
 
 Cynthia. What's that? W'im? Oh, 
 you mean a whim! Do please try and 
 say WMm! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {For the first time empha- 
 sizing his H in the word.) W/^im. You 
 must have a w'im — w'im for the chappie 
 you marry. 
 
 Cynthia. I had — for Jack. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Your w'im was n't wimmy 
 enough, my dear ! if you 'd had more of 
 it, and tougher, it would ha' stood y' 
 know ! Now, I 'm not proposin' ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Diverted at last from her own 
 distress.) I hope not! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, I will later ! It 's not 
 time yet! As I was saying — 
 
 Cynthia. And pray, Sir Wilfrid, when 
 will it be time? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. As soon as I see you have 
 a w'im for me! {Rising, he looks at his 
 watch.) And now, I'll tell you what 
 we '11 do ! We 've got just an hour to 
 get there in, my motor's on the corner, 
 and in fifty minutes we '11 be at Belmont 
 Park. 
 
 Cynthia. (Her sporting blood fired.) 
 Belmont Park! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. We '11 do the races, and 
 dine at Martin's — 
 
 Cynthia. {Tempted.) Oh, if I only * 
 
 could ! I can't ! I 've got to be mar- 
 ried ! You 're awfully nice ; I 've al- 
 most got a "w'im" for you already. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Delighted.) There you 
 are ! I '11 send a telegram ! 
 
 {She shakes her head. He sits and 
 writes at the table.) 
 
 Cynthia. No, no, no! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Reads what he writes.) 
 "Off with Cates-Darby to races. Please 
 postpone ceremony till seven-thirty." 
 
 Cynthia. Oh, no, it 's impossible ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Accustomed to have things 
 go his way.) No more than breathin'! 
 You can't get a w'im for me, you know, 
 unless we 're together, so together we '11 
 be! 
 
 {Enter John Karslake.) 
 
 And to-morrow you'll wake up with a 
 jolly little w'im — {Reads.) "Postpone 
 ceremony till seven-thirty." There. {He 
 puts on her cloak. /Sees John.) Hello! 
 
 John. {Surly.) Hello! Sorry to dis- 
 turb you. 
 
 Sir. Wilfrid. {Cheerful as possible.) 
 Just the man! {diving him the tele- 
 graph form.) Just step round and send 
 it, my boy. Thanks! (John reads it.) 
 
 Cynthia. No, no, I can't go! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Cockety-coo-coo-can't. I 
 say, you must! 
 
 Cynthia. {Positively.) No! 
 
 John. {Astounded.) Do you mean 
 you 're going — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Very gay.) Off to the 
 races, my boy! 
 
 John. {Angry and outraged.) MrSc 
 Karslake can't go with you there! 
 
 (Cynthia starts, amazed at his as- 
 sumption of marital authority, and 
 delighted that she will have an op- 
 portunity of outraging his sensi- 
 bilities.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oho! 
 
 John. An hour before her wedding ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Gay and not angry.) 
 May I know if it 's the custom — 
 
 John. {Jealous and disgusted.) It's 
 w^orse than eloping — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Custom, y' know, for the 
 husband, that was, to dictate — 
 
 John. {Thoroughly vexed.) By George, 
 there 's a limit ! 
 
 Cynthia. What? What? What? {Gath- 
 ers up her things.) What did I hear 
 you say? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Ah! 
 
 John. (Angry.) I say there's a limit — 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 741 
 
 Cynthia. {More and more determined to 
 arouse and excite John.) Oli, there's 
 a limit, is there? 
 
 John. There is! I bar the way! It 
 means reputation — it means — 
 
 Cynthia. {Enjoying her opportunity.) 
 We shall see what it means! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Aha! 
 
 John. {To Cynthia.) I'm here to pro- 
 tect your reputation — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {To Cynthia.) We-'ve 
 got to make haste, you know. 
 
 Cynthia. Now, I 'm ready — 
 
 John. {To Cynthia.) Be sensible. 
 You 're breaking off the match — 
 
 Cynthia. {Excitedly.) What's that to 
 you? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. It 's boots and saddles ! 
 
 John. {He takes his stand between them 
 and the door.) No thoroughfare! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Look here, my boy — ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Cat citing at the opportunity 
 of putting John in an impossible posi- 
 tion.) Wait a moment, Sir Wilfrid! 
 Give me the wire! {Facing him.) 
 Thanks! {Site takes the telegraph form 
 from him and tears it up.) There! Too 
 rude to chuck him by wire! But you, 
 Jack, you 've taken on yourself to look 
 after my interests, so I '11 just ask you, 
 old man, to run down to the Supreme 
 Court and tell Philip — nicely, you know 
 — I 'm off with Sir Wilfrid and where ! 
 Say I '11 be back by seven, if I 'm not 
 later ! And make it clear. Jack, I '11 
 marry him by eight-thirty or nine at the 
 latest! And mind you're there, dear! 
 And now. Sir Wilfrid, we 're off. 
 
 John. {Staggered and furious, giving 
 icay as they pass him.) I'm not the 
 man to — to carry — 
 
 Cynthia. {Quick and dashing.) Oh, yes, 
 you are. 
 
 John. — a message from you. 
 
 Cynthia. {Triumphant.) Oh, yes, you 
 are ; you 're just exactly the man ! 
 
 {Exeunt Cynthia and Sir Wilfrid.) 
 
 John. Great miracles of Moses! 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene. — The same as that of Act First, but 
 the room has been cleared of too much 
 furniture, and arranged for a wedding 
 ceremo7iy. The curtain rises on Mrs. 
 Phillimore reclining on the sofa, Miss 
 Hexeage is seated left of table, Sudley 
 is seated at its right, while Grace is on 
 
 the sofa. There are cushions of flowers, 
 alcove of flowers, flowers in vase, pink 
 and white hangings, wedding bell of roses, 
 calla lilies, orange blossoms, a ribbon of 
 white stretched in front of an altar of 
 flowers; two cushions for the couple to 
 kneel on; two candelabra at each side 
 of back of arch on pedestals. The cur- 
 tain rises. There is a momentary silence, 
 that the audience may take in these sym- 
 bols of marriage. Every member of the 
 Phillimore family is irritable, with sup- 
 pressed irritation. 
 
 Sudley. {Impatiently.) All very well, 
 my dear Sarah. But you see the hour. 
 Twenty to ten ! We have been here since 
 half -past two. 
 
 Miss Heneage. You had dinner? 
 
 Sudley. I did not come here at two to 
 have dinner at eight, and be kept waiting 
 until ten! And, my dear Sarah, when 
 I ask where the bride is — 
 
 Miss Heneage. {With forced composure.) 
 I have told you all I know. Mr. John 
 Karslake came to the house at lunch 
 time, spoke to Philip, and they left the 
 house together. 
 
 Grace. Where is Philip ? 
 
 Mrs. Phillmore. {Feebly irritated.) I 
 don't wish to be censorious or to express 
 an actual opinion, but I must say it's 
 a bold bride who keeps her future 
 mother-in-law waiting for eight hours. 
 However, I will not venture to — 
 
 (Mrs. Phillimore reclines again and 
 fades away into silence.) 
 
 Grace. {Sharply and decisively.) I do! 
 I'm sorry I went to the expense of a 
 silver ice-pitcher. 
 
 (Mrs. Phillimore sighs. Miss Hen- 
 eage keeps her temper with an ef- 
 fort which is obvious.) 
 
 {Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Sudley. {To Mrs. Phillimore.) For my 
 part, I don't believe Mrs. Karslake means 
 to return here or to marry Philip at all ! 
 Thomas. {To Miss Heneage.) Two tel- 
 egrams for you, ma'am ! The choir boys 
 have had their supper. 
 
 {Slight movement from every one; 
 Thomas steps back.) 
 Sudley. {Bises.) At last we shall know ! 
 Miss Heneage. From the lady! Prob- 
 ably! 
 
 (Miss Heneage opens telegram. She 
 reads first one at a glance, laying 
 it on salver again with a glance at 
 
742 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 SuDLEY. Thomas passes salver to 
 SuDLEY, who takes telegram.) 
 Grace. There 's a toot now. 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Feebly confused.) I 
 don't wish to intrude, but really I can't 
 imagine Philip marrying at midnight. 
 {As SuDLEY reads, Miss Heneage 
 opens the second telegram, but does 
 not read it.) 
 SuDLEY. {Reads.) "Accident, auto struck" 
 — something ! "Gasoline" — did some- 
 thing — illegible, ah! {Reads.) "Home 
 by nine forty-five! Hold the church!" 
 {General movement from all.) 
 Miss Heneage. {Profoundly shocked.) 
 "Hold the church!" William, she still 
 means to marry Philip ! and to-night, 
 too! 
 SuDLEY. It 's from Belmont Park. 
 Grace. {Making a great discovery.) She 
 
 went to the races! 
 Miss Heneage. This is from Phihp! 
 (Miss Heneage reads second telegram.) 
 "I arrive at ten o'clock. Have dinner 
 ready." (Miss Heneage motions to 
 Thomas to withdraw. Exit Thomas. 
 Miss Heneage looks at her watch.) 
 They are both due now. {Movement.) 
 What's to be done? 
 
 {She rises. Sudley shrugs shoulders.) 
 SuDLEY. {Rising.) After a young woman 
 has spent her wedding day at the races? 
 Why, I consider that she has broken the 
 engagement, — and when she comes, tell 
 her so. 
 Miss Heneage. I '11 telephone Matthew. 
 The choir boys can go home — her maid 
 can pack her belongings — and when the 
 lady arrives — 
 
 {Very distant toot of an auto-horn is 
 heard coming nearer and nearer. 
 Grace flies up stage and looks out 
 of door. Mrs. Phillimore does not 
 know what to do, or where to go. 
 Sudley moves about excitedly. 
 Miss Heneage stands ready to make 
 herself disagreeable.) 
 Grace. {Speaking rapidly and with ex- 
 citement.) I hear a man's voice. Cates- 
 Darby and brother Matthew. 
 
 {Loud toot. Laughter and voices off 
 back heard faintly. Grace looks out 
 of the door, and leaves it rapidly.) 
 Miss Heneage. Outrageous! 
 Sudley. Disgraceful ! 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Partly rising as voices 
 and horn are heard.) Shocking! I 
 shall not take any part at all, in the — 
 eh — {She fades away.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. {Interrupting her.) Don'1; 
 trouble yourself. 
 
 {Voices and laughter grow louder. 
 Cynthia's voice is heard.) 
 
 (Sir Wilfrid appears at the hack. He 
 turns and waits for Cynthia and Mat- 
 thew. He carries wraps. He speaks to 
 Cynthia, who is still off of stage. 
 Matthew's voice is heard and Cyn- 
 thia's. Cynthia appears at back, fol- 
 lowed by Matthew. As they appear, 
 Cynthia speaks to Matthew. Sir 
 Wilfrid carries a newspaper and a par- 
 asol. The hat is the one she wore in 
 Act Second. She is in get-up for auto. 
 Goggles, veil, an exquisite duster in latest 
 Paris style. All three come down rap- 
 idly. As she appears, Sudley and Miss 
 Heneage exclaim, and there is a general 
 movement.) 
 
 Sudley. 'P on my word ! 
 Grace. Hah ! 
 
 Miss Heneage. {Rising with shocked pro- 
 priety.) Shocking! 
 
 (Grace remains standing above sofa. 
 Sudley moves toward her. Miss 
 Heneage sits down again. Mrs. 
 Phillimore reclines on sofa. Cyn- 
 thia begins to speak as soon as she 
 appears and speaks fluently to the 
 end.) 
 Cynthia. No! I never was so surprised 
 in my life, as when I strolled into the 
 paddock and they gave me a rousing re- 
 ception — old Jimmy Withers, Debt Gol- 
 lup, Jack Deal, Monty Spiffles, the Gov- 
 ernor and Buckeye. All of my old ad- 
 mirers! They simply fell on my neck, 
 and, dear Matthew, what do you think I 
 did? I turned on the water main! 
 {Movements and murmurs of disappro- 
 bation from the family. Matthew indi- 
 cates a desire to go.) Oh, but you can't 
 go! 
 Matthew. I '11 return in no time ! 
 Cynthia. I 'm all ready to be married. 
 Are they ready? (Matthew waves a 
 pious, polite gesture of recognition to 
 the family.) I beg everybody's pardon! 
 {She takes off her wrap and puts it on 
 the back of a chair.) My goggles are so 
 dusty, I can't see who's who! {To Sir 
 Wilfrid.) Thanks! You have carried 
 it well! 
 
 {Takes parasol from Sir Wilfrid.) 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Aside to Cynthia.) When 
 
 may I—? 
 Cynthia. See you next Goodwood! 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 743 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Imperturhably.) Oh, I 'm 
 coming back! 
 
 (Cynthia comes down.) 
 
 Cyxthia. Not a bit of use in coming 
 
 back ! I shall be married before you get 
 
 here! Ta! Ta! Goodwood! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {As before.) I'm coming 
 
 back. 
 
 {He goes out quickly. More murmurs 
 of disapprobation from family. 
 Slight pause.) 
 Cynthia. {Beginning to take off her gog- 
 gles, and coming down slowly.) I do 
 awfully apologize for being so late ! 
 Miss Heneage. {Importantly.) Mrs. 
 
 Karslake — 
 SuDLEY. {Importantly.) Ahem! 
 
 (Cynthia lays down her goggles, and 
 
 sees their severity.) 
 
 Cynthia. Dear me! {She surveys the 
 
 flowers, and for a moment pauses.) Oh, 
 
 good heavens! Why, it looks like a 
 
 smart funeral ! 
 
 (Miss Heneage moves; then speaks in 
 a perfectly ordinary natural tone, 
 but her expression is severe. Cyn- 
 thia immediately realizes the state 
 of affairs in its fullness.) 
 Miss Henage, {To Cynthia.) After 
 what has occurred, Mrs. Karslake — 
 
 (Cynthia glances at table.) 
 Cynthia. {Sits at table, composed and 
 good tempered.) I see you got my wire 
 — so you know where I have been. 
 Miss Heneage. To the race-course ! 
 SuDLEY. With a rowdy Englishman. 
 
 (Cynthia glances at Sudley, uncer- 
 tain whether he means to be disagree- 
 able, or whether he is only naturally 
 so.) 
 Miss Heneage. We concluded you desired 
 
 to break the engagement! 
 Cynthia. {Indifferently.) No! No! Oh! 
 
 No! 
 Miss Heneage. Do you intend, despite of 
 
 our opinion of you — 
 Cynthia. The only opinion that would 
 have any weight with me would be Mrs. 
 Phillimore's. 
 
 {Site turns expectantly to Mrs. Phil- 
 
 LIMORE. ) 
 
 Mrs. Phillimore. I am generally asleep 
 at this hour, and accordingly I will not 
 venture to express any — eh — any — actual 
 opinion. 
 
 {She fades away. Cynthia smiles.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. {Coldly.) You smile. 
 We simply inform you that as regards 
 usj the alliance is not grateful. 
 
 Cynthia. {Affecting gaiety and uncon- 
 cern.) And all this because the gasoline 
 gave out. 
 
 Sudley. My patience has given out ! 
 
 Grace. So has mine. I 'm going. 
 
 {Exit Grace.) 
 
 Sudley. {Vexed beyond civility. To 
 Cynthia.) My dear young lady: You 
 come here, to this sacred — eh — eh — spot 
 — altar! — odoriferous of the paddock! — 
 speaking of Spiffles and Buckeye, — hav- 
 ing practically eloped ! — having created 
 a scandal, and disgraced our family! 
 
 Cynthia. {As before.) How does it dis- 
 grace you ? Because I like to see a high- 
 bred, clean, nervy, sweet little four-legged 
 gee play the antelope over a hurdle ! 
 
 Miss Heneage. Sister, it is high time that 
 you — {Turns to Cynthia.) 
 
 Cynthia. {With quiet irony.) Mrs. 
 Phillimore is generally asleep at this 
 hour, and accordingly she will not ven- 
 ture to express — 
 
 Sudley. {Spluttering with irritation.) 
 Enough, madam — I venture to — to — to — 
 to say, you are leading a fast life. 
 
 Cynthia. {With powerful intention.) 
 Not in this house ! For six heavy weeks 
 have I been laid away in the grave, and 
 I Ve found it very slow indeed trying 
 to keep pace with the dead ! 
 
 Sudley. {Despairingly.) This comes of 
 horses ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Indignant.) Of what? 
 
 Sudley. C-c-caring for horses! 
 
 Miss Heneage. {With sublime morality.) 
 What Mrs. Karslake cares for is — men. 
 
 Cynthia. {Angry and gay.) What 
 would you have me care for? The Or- 
 nithorhyncus Paradoxus? or Pithacan- 
 thropus Erectus? Oh, I refuse to take 
 you seriously. 
 
 (Sudley begins to prepare to leave; 
 he buttons himself into respectability 
 and his coat.) 
 
 Sudley. My dear madam, I take myself 
 seriously — and madam, I — I retract what 
 I have brought with me {he feels in his 
 waistcoat pocket) as a graceful gift, — 
 an Egyptian scarab — a — a — sacred bee- 
 tle, which once ornamented the person of 
 a — eh — mummy. 
 
 Cynthia. {Getting even with him.) It 
 should never be absent from your pocket, 
 Mr. Sudley. 
 
 (Sudley walks away in a rage.) 
 
 Miss Heneage. {Rising. To Sudley.) 
 I 've a vast mind to withdraw mj^ — 
 
 (Cynthia moves.) 
 
744 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 Cynthia. {Interrupts; maliciously.) Your 
 wedding present? The little bronze cat! 
 Miss Heneage. {Moves, angrily.) Oh! 
 {Even Mrs. Phillimore comes mo- 
 mentarily to life, and expresses si- 
 lent indignation.) 
 Sudley. {Loftily.) Sarah, I'm going. 
 
 {Enter Philip at hack with Grace. Philip 
 looks dusty and grim. Grace^ as they 
 come in, speaks to him. Thilip shakes 
 his head. They pause up stage.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Emotionally.) I shall go to 
 my room! However, all I ask is that 
 you repeat to Philip — 
 
 {She comes suddenly on Philip^ and 
 
 speaks to him in a low tone.) 
 
 Sudley. {To Miss Heneage, determined 
 
 to win.) As I go out, I shall do myself 
 
 the pleasure of calling a hansom for 
 
 Mrs. Karslake — 
 
 (Philip comes down two or three 
 steps.) 
 Philip. As you go out, Sudley, have a 
 hansom called, and when it comes, get 
 into it. 
 Sudley. {Furious, and speaking to 
 Philip.) Eh, — eh, — my dear sir, I leave 
 you to your fate. 
 
 (Philip angrily points him the door. 
 Sudley goes out.) 
 Miss Hexeage. {With weight.) Philip, 
 
 you 've not heard — 
 Philip. {Interrupts.) Everything — from 
 Grace! (Cynthia goes to the table.) 
 My sister has repeated your words to 
 me — and her own ! I Ve told her what 
 I think of her. 
 
 (Philip looks witheringly at Grace.) 
 Grace. I shan't wait to hear any more. 
 
 {Exit Grace, indignantly.) 
 Philip. Don't make it necessary for me 
 to tell you what I think of you. (Philip 
 gives his arm to his mother. Miss Hen- 
 eage goes towards the door.) Mother, 
 with your permission, I desire to be 
 alone. I expect both you and Grace, 
 Sarah, to be dressed and ready for the 
 ceremony a half hour from now. 
 
 {As Philip and Mrs. Phillimore are 
 about to cross, Miss Hexeage 
 speaks.) 
 Miss Heneage. I shall come or not as I 
 see fit. And let me add, my dear nephew, 
 that a fool at forty is a fool indeed. 
 {Exit Miss Heneage, high and mighty, 
 and much pleased with her quota- 
 tion.) 
 Mrs. Phillimore. {Stupid and weary as 
 
 usual, to Philip, as he leads her to the 
 door.) My dear son — I won't venture 
 to express — 
 
 (Cynthia goes to the table.) 
 
 Philip. {Soothing a silly mother.) No, 
 mother, don't! But I shall expect you, 
 of course, at the ceremony. {Exit Mrs. 
 Phillimore. Philip takes the tone and 
 assumes the attitude of the injured hus- 
 band.) It is proper for me to tell you 
 that I followed you to Belmont. I am 
 aware — I know with whom — in fact, / 
 know all! {Pauses. He indicates the 
 whole censorious universe.) And now 
 let me assure you — I am the last man in 
 the world to be jilted on the very eve of 
 — of — everything with you. I won't be 
 jilted. (Cynthia is silent.) You un- 
 derstand? I propose to marry you. I 
 won't be made ridiculous. 
 
 Cynthia. {Glancing at Philip.) Philip, 
 I did n't mean to make you — 
 
 Philip. Why, then, did you run off to 
 Belmont Park with that fellow? 
 
 Cynthia. Philip, I — eh — 
 
 Philip. {Sitting at the table.) What mo- 
 tive? What reason? On our wedding 
 day? Why did you do it? 
 
 Cynthia. I '11 tell you the truth. I was 
 bored. 
 
 Philip, Bored? In my company? 
 
 (Philip, in a gesture, gives up.) 
 
 Cynthia. I was bored, and then — and be- 
 sides, Sir Wilfrid asked me to go. 
 
 Philip. Exactly, and that was why you 
 went. Cynthia, when you promised to 
 marry me, you told me you had forever 
 done with love. You agreed that mar- 
 riage was the rational coming together 
 of two people. 
 
 Cynthia. I know, I know! 
 
 Philip. Do you believe that now? 
 
 Cynthia. I don't know what I believe. 
 My brain is in a whirl! But, Philip, I 
 am beginning to be — I 'm afraid — yes, I 
 am afraid that one can't just select a 
 great and good man {she indicates him) 
 and say: I will be happy with him. 
 
 Philip. {With dignity.) I don't see why 
 not. You must assuredly do one or the 
 other: You must either let your heart 
 choose or your head select. 
 
 Cynthia. {Gravely.) No, there 's a third 
 scheme; Sir Wilfrid explained the theory 
 to me. A woman should marry whenever 
 she has a whim for the man, and then 
 leave the rest to the man. Do you see? 
 
 Philip. {Furious.) Do I see? Have I 
 ever seen anything else? Marry for 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 745 
 
 whim! That's the New York idea of 
 marriage. 
 
 Cynthia. {Giving a cynical opinion.) 
 New York ought to know. 
 
 Philip. Marry for whim and leave the 
 rest to the divorce court! Marry for 
 whim and leave the rest to the man. 
 That was the former Mrs. Phillimore's 
 idea. Only she spelled "whim" differ- 
 ently; she omitted the "w." {He rises 
 in his anger.) And no^" you — you take 
 up with this preposterous — (Cynthia 
 moves uneasily.) But, nonsense! It's 
 impossible! A woman of your mental 
 calibre — No. Some obscure, primitive, 
 female feeling is at work corrupting 
 your better judgment! What is it you 
 feel? 
 
 Cynthia. Philip, you never felt like a 
 fool, did you? 
 
 Philip. No, never. 
 
 Cynthia. {Politely.) I thought not. 
 
 Philip. No, but whatever your feelings, 
 I conclude you are ready to marry me. 
 
 Cynthia. {Uneasy.) Of course, I came 
 back. I am here, am I not ? 
 
 Philip. You are ready to marry me? 
 
 Cynthia. {Twisting in the coils.) But 
 you have n't had your dinner. 
 
 Philip. Do I understand you refuse? 
 
 Cynthia. Couldn't we defer — ? 
 
 Philip. You refuse? 
 
 Cynthia. {A slight pause; trapped and 
 seeing no way out.) No, I said I'd 
 marry you. I 'm a woman of my word. 
 I will. 
 
 Philip. {Triumphant.) Ah! Very good, 
 then. Run to your room. (Cynthia 
 turns to Philip.) Throw something 
 over you. In a half hour I '11 expect 
 you here! And, Cynthia, my dear, re- 
 member! I cannot cuculate like a wood 
 pigeon, but — I esteem you! 
 
 Cynthia. {Hopelessly.) I think I'll go, 
 Philip. 
 
 Philip. I may not be fitted to play the 
 love-bird, but — 
 
 Cynthia. {As before.) I think I'll go, 
 Philip. 
 
 Philip. I '11 expect you, — in half an hour. 
 
 Cynthia. {With leaden despair.) Yes. 
 
 Philip. And, Cynthia, don't think any 
 more about that fellow, Cates-Darby. 
 
 Cynthia. {Amazed and disgusted hy his 
 misapprehension. ) No. 
 
 {Exit Cynthia.) 
 
 (Thomas enters from the opposite door.) 
 
 Philip. {Not seeing Thomas and clum- 
 
 sily defiant.). And if I had that fellow, 
 
 Cates-Darby, in the dock — ! 
 Thomas. Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby. 
 Philip. Sir what — what — wh-who? 
 
 {Enter Sir Wilfrid, in evening dress. 
 Philip looks Sir Wilfrid in the face and 
 speaks to Thomas.) 
 
 Tell Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby I am not 
 at home to him. 
 
 (Thomas embarrassed.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Undaunted.) My dear 
 Lord Eldon — 
 
 Philip. {Speaks to Thomas, as before.) 
 Show the gentleman the door. 
 
 {Pause. Sir Wilfrid glances at door 
 with a significant gesture.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Goes to the door, examines 
 it and returns to Philip.) Eh, — I ad- 
 mire the door, my boy ! Fine, old carved 
 mahogany panel; but don't ask me to 
 leave by it, for Mrs. Karslake made me 
 promise I 'd come, and that 's why I 'm 
 here. (Thomas exits.) 
 
 Philip. Sir, you are — impudent — ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Interrupting.) Ah, you 
 put it all in a nutshell, don't you? 
 
 Philip. To show your face here, after 
 practically eloping with my wife ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Pretending ignorance.) 
 When were you married? 
 
 Philip. We're as good as married. ■ 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, pooh, pooh ! You can't 
 tell me that grace before soup is as good 
 as a dinner! {He takes cigar-case out.) 
 
 Philip. Sir — I — demand — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Calmly carrying the situa- 
 tion.) Mrs. Karslake is not married. 
 That 's why I 'm here. I am here f oi- the 
 same purpose you are ; to ask Mrs. Kars- 
 lake to be my wife. 
 
 Philip. Are you in your senses? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Touching up his American 
 cousin in his pet vanity.) Come, come. 
 Judge — you Americans have no sense of 
 humor. {He takes a small jewel-case 
 from his pocket.) There's my regards 
 for the lady — and {reasonably) , if I must 
 go, I will. Of course, I would like to 
 see her, but — if it is n't your American 
 custom — 
 
 {Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Thomas. Mr. Karslake. 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, well, I say; if he can 
 come, I can ! 
 
 {Enter John Karslake in evening dress, 
 carrying a large and very smart bride's 
 
746 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 bouquet whicli he hands to Philip. 
 Philip takes it because he is n't up to 
 dropping it, but gets it out of his hands 
 as soon as he can. Philip is transfixed; 
 John comes to the front of the stage. 
 Deep down he is feeling wounded and 
 unhappy. But, as he knows his coming 
 to the ceremony on whatever pretext is a 
 social outrage, he carries it off by assum- 
 ing an air of its being the most natural 
 thing in the world. He controls the ex- 
 pression of his deeper emotion, but the 
 pressure of this keeps his face grave, and 
 he speaks with force.) 
 
 John. My compliments to the bride, 
 Judge. 
 
 Philip. {Angry.) And yon, too, have 
 the effrontery? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. There you are ! 
 
 John. {Pretending ease.) Oh, call it 
 friendship — (Thomas goes out.) 
 
 Philip. {Puts bouquet on table. Ironi- 
 cally.) I suppose Mrs. Karslake — 
 
 John. She wagered me I wouldn't give 
 her away, and of course — 
 
 {Throughout this scene John hides the 
 emotions he will not show behind a 
 daring irony. He has Philip on his 
 left, walking about in a fury; Sir 
 Wilfrid sits on the edge of the table, 
 gay and undisturbed.) 
 
 Philip. {Taking a step toward John.) 
 You will oblige me — both of you — by 
 immediately leaving — 
 
 John. {Smiling and going to Philip.) 
 Oh, come, come, Judge — suppose I am 
 here? Who has a better right to attend 
 his wife's obsequies! Certainly, I come 
 as a mourner — for you! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I say, is it the custom? 
 
 John. No, no — of course it 's not the cus- 
 tom, no. But we '11 make it the custom. 
 After all, — what 's a divorced wife among 
 friends ? 
 
 Philip. Sir, your humor is strained ! 
 
 John. Humor, — Judge ? 
 
 Philip. It is, sir, and I '11 not be bantered ! 
 Your both being here is — it is — gentle- 
 men, there is a decorum which the stars 
 in their courses do not violate. 
 
 John. Now, Judge, never you mind what 
 the stars do in their divorces ! Get down 
 to earth of the present day. Rufus 
 Choate and Daniel Webster are dead. 
 You must be modern. You must let 
 peroration and poetry alone! Come 
 along now. Why should n't I give the 
 lady away? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Hear! Hear! Oh, I beg 
 your pardon ! 
 
 John. And why shouldn't we both be 
 here? American marriage is a new 
 thing. We 've got to strike the pace, and 
 the only trouble is. Judge, that the judi- 
 ciary have so messed the thing up that a 
 man can't be sure he is married until he 's 
 divorced. It 's a sort of marry -go-round, 
 to be sure ! But let it go at that ! Here 
 we all are, and we 're ready to marry my 
 wife to you, and start her on her way to 
 him ! 
 
 Philip. {Brought to a standstill.) Good 
 Lord ! Sir, you cannot trifle with monog- 
 amy! 
 
 John. Now, now, Judge, monogamy is 
 just as extinct as knee-breeches. The 
 new woman has a new idea, and the new 
 idea is — well, it 's just the opposite of 
 the old Mormon one. Their idea is one 
 man, ten wives and a hundred children. 
 Our idea is one woman, a hundred hus- 
 bands and one child. 
 
 Philip. Sir, this is polyandry. 
 
 John. Polyandry? A hundred to one it 's 
 polyandry ; and that 's it. Judge ! Uncle 
 Sam has established consecutive poly- 
 andry, — but there 's got to be an interval 
 between husbands! The fact is, Judge, 
 the modern American marriage is like a 
 wire fence. The woman 's the wire — the 
 posts are the husbands. {He indicates 
 himself, and then Sir Wilfrid and 
 Philip.) One — two — three! And if you 
 cast your eye over the future you can 
 count them, post after post, up hill, down 
 dale, all the way to Dakota! 
 
 Philip. All very amusing, sir, but the fact 
 remains — 
 
 John. {Going to Philip. Philip moves 
 away.) Now, now. Judge, I like you. 
 But you 're asleep ; you 're living in the 
 dark ages. You want to call up Central. 
 "Hello, Central! Give me the present 
 time, 1906, New York!" | 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Of course you do, and — | 
 there you are! 
 
 Philip. {Heavily.) There I am not, sir! 
 And — {To John) as for Mr. Karslake's 
 ill-timed jocosity, — sir, in the future — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, hang the future! 
 
 Philip. I begin to hope, Sir Wilfrid, that 
 in the future I shall have the pleasure of 
 hanging you! {To John.) And as to 
 you, sir, your insensate idea of giving 
 away your own — your former — my — 
 your — oh ! Good Lord ! This is a night- 
 mare! {He turns to go in despair.) 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 747 
 
 {Enter Matthew, who, seeing Philip, 
 speaks as he comes in from door.) 
 
 Matthew {To Philip.) My dear 
 brother, Aunt Sarah Heneage refuses to 
 give Mrs. Karslake away, unless you 
 yourself, — eh — 
 
 Philip. {As he exits.) No more! I'll 
 attend to the matter! 
 
 {Exit. The choir hoys are heard prac- 
 ticing in the next room.) 
 
 Matthew. {Mopping his hrow.) How 
 do you both do? My aunt has made me 
 very warm. {He rings the hell.) You 
 hear our choir practicing — sweet angel 
 boys! Hm! Hm! Some of the family 
 will not be present. I am very fond of 
 you, Mr. Karslake, and I think it ad- 
 mirably Christian of you to have waived 
 your — eh — your — eh — that is, now that I 
 look at it more narrowly, let me say, that 
 in the excitement of pleasurable anticipa- 
 tion, I forgot, Karslake, that your pres- 
 ence might occasion remark — 
 
 {Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Thomas! I left, in the hall, a small 
 handbag or satchel containing my sur- 
 plice. 
 
 Thomas. Yes, sir. Ahem! 
 
 Matthew. You must really find the hand- 
 bag at once. 
 
 (Thomas turns to go, when he stops 
 startled. ) 
 
 Thomas. Yes, sir. {Announcing in con- 
 sternation.) Mrs. Vida Phillimore. 
 
 {Enter Vida Phillimore, in full evening 
 dress. She steps gently to Matthew.) 
 
 Matthew. {Always piously serene.) Ah, 
 my dear child! Now this is just as it 
 should be! That is, eh — {He comes to 
 the front of the stage with her; she point- 
 edly looks away from Sir Wilfrid.) 
 That is, when I come to think of it — 
 your presence might be deemed inauspi- 
 cious. 
 
 Vida. But, my dear Matthew, — I had to 
 come. {Aside to him.) I have a reason 
 for being here. 
 
 (Thomas enters.) 
 
 Matthew. But, my dear child — 
 Thomas. {With sympathetic intention.) 
 Sir, Mr. Phillimore wishes to have your 
 assistance, sir — with Miss Heneage im- 
 mediately! 
 Matthew. Ah! {To Vida.) One mo- 
 
 ment ! I '11 return. ( To Thomas. ) Have 
 you found the bag with my surplice? 
 {He goes out with Thomas, speaking. 
 Sir Wilfrid comes to Vida. John 
 watches the door.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {To Vida.) You're just 
 the person I most want to see ! 
 
 Vida. {With affected iciness.) Oh, no. 
 Sir Wilfrid, Cynthia isn't here yet! 
 {Crossing to table. John comes toward 
 her and she speaks to him, with obvious 
 sweetness.) Jack, dear, I never was so 
 ravished to see any one. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Taken aback.) By Jove! 
 
 Vida. {Very sweet.) I knew I should 
 find you here! 
 
 John. {Annoyed but civil.) Now don't 
 do that! 
 
 Vida. {As before.) Jack! 
 
 {They sit down.) 
 
 John. {Civil but plain spoken.) Don't 
 do it! 
 
 Vida. {In a voice dripping with honey.) 
 Do what. Jack? 
 
 John. Touch me with your voice ! I have 
 troubles enough of my own. 
 
 {He sits not far from her, the table is 
 between them.) 
 
 Vida. And I know who your troubles are ! 
 Cynthia ! 
 
 {From this moment Vida gives up 
 John as an object of the chase and 
 lets him into her other game.) 
 
 John. I hate her. I don't know why I 
 came. 
 
 Vida, You came, dear, because you could 
 n't stay away — you 're in love with her. 
 
 John. All right, Vida, what I feel may 
 be love — but all I can say is, if I could 
 get even with Cynthia Karslake — 
 
 Vida. You can, dear — it 's as easy as pow- 
 dering one's face; all you have to do is 
 to be too nice to me! 
 
 John. {Looks inquiringly at Vida.) Eh! 
 
 Vida. Don't you realize she 's jealous of 
 you? Why did she come to my house 
 this morning? She's jealous — and all 
 you have to do — 
 
 John. If I can make her wince, I '11 make 
 love to you till the Heavenly cows come 
 home! 
 
 Vida. Well, you see, my dear, if you make 
 love to me it will {she delicately indi- 
 cates Sir Wilfrid) cut both ways at 
 once! 
 
 John. Eh,— what! Not Cates-Darby? 
 {Starting.) Is that Cynthia? 
 
 Vida. Now don't get rattled and forget to 
 make love to me. 
 
748 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 John. I've got the jumps. {Trying to 
 accept her instructions.) Vida, I adore 
 you. 
 
 Vida. Oh, you must be more convincing; 
 that won't do at all. 
 
 John. {Listening.) Is that she now? 
 
 {Enter Matthew, wlio goes to the inner 
 room.) 
 
 Vida. It 's Matthew. And, Jack, dear, 
 you 'd best get the hang of it before 
 Cynthia comes. You might tell me all 
 about your divorce. That 's a sympa- 
 thetic subject. Were you able to under- 
 mine it? 
 
 John. No. I 've got a wire from my law- 
 yer this morning. The divorce holds. 
 She 's a free woman. She can marry 
 whom she likes. {The organ is heard, 
 very softly played.) Is that Cynthia? 
 {He rises quickly.) 
 
 Vida. It 's the organ ! 
 
 John. {Overwhelmingly excited.) By 
 George! I should never have come! I 
 think I '11 go. 
 
 {He crosses to go to the door.) 
 
 Vida. {She rises and follows him re- 
 monstratingly.) When I need you? 
 
 John. I can't stand it. 
 
 Vida. Oh, but, Jack — 
 
 John. Good-night ! 
 
 Vida. I feel quite ill. {Seeing that she 
 must play her last card to keep him, pre- 
 tends to faintness; sways and falls into 
 his arms.) Oh! 
 
 John. {In a rage, hut h eaten.) I be- 
 lieve you 're putting up a fake. 
 
 {The organ swells as Cynthia enters 
 sweepingly, dressed in full evening dress 
 for the wedding ceremony. John, not 
 knowing what to do, holds Vida up as a 
 horrid necessity.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Speaking as she comes on, to 
 Matthew.) Here I am. Ridiculous to 
 make it a conventional thing, you know. 
 Come in on the swell of the music, and 
 all that, just as if I 'd never been mar- 
 ried before. Where 's Philip ? 
 
 {She looks for Philip and sees John 
 with Vida in his arms. She stops 
 short.) 
 
 John. {Uneasy and embarrassed.) A 
 glass of water! I beg your pardon, 
 Mrs. Karslake — {The organ plays on.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Ironical and calm.) Vida! 
 
 John. She has fainted. 
 
 Cynthia. {Ashefore.) Fainted? {With- 
 out pause.) Dear, dear, dear, terrible! 
 
 So she has. (Sir Wilfrid takes flowers 
 from a vase and prepares to sprinkle 
 Vida's forehead with the water it con- 
 tains.) No, no, not her forehead. Sir 
 Wilfrid, her frock! Sprinkle her best 
 Paquin ! If it 's a real faint, she will 
 not come to! 
 Vida. {As her Paris importation is about 
 to suffer comes to her senses.) I almost 
 fainted. 
 Cynthia. Almost ! 
 
 Vida. {Using the stock phrase as a mat- 
 ter of course, and reviving rapidly.) 
 Where am I? (John glances at Cyn- 
 thia sharply.) Oh, the bride! I beg 
 every one's pardon. Cynthia, at a crisis 
 like this, I simply couldn't stay away 
 from Philip! 
 Cynthia. Stay away from Philip? 
 
 (John and Cynthia exchange 
 glances.) 
 Vida. Your arm, Jack; and lead me 
 where there is air. 
 
 (John and Vida go into the further 
 room; John stands left of her. The 
 organ stops. Sir Wilfrid comes 
 down. He and Cynthia are prac- 
 tically alone on the stage. John 
 and Vida are barely within sight. 
 You first see him take her fan and 
 give her air; then he picks up a 
 book and reads from it to her.) 
 Sir Wilfrid. I 've come back. 
 Cynthia. {To Sir Wilfrid.) Asks for 
 air and goes to the green-house. (Cyn- 
 thia crosses stage. Sir Wilfrid offers 
 her a seat.) I know why you are here. 
 It 's that intoxicating little whim you 
 suppose me to have for you. My re- 
 grets ! But the whim 's gone flat ! Yes, 
 yes, my gasoline days are over. I 'm g&- 
 ing to be garaged for good. However, 
 I 'm glad you 're here ; you take the edge 
 off— 
 Sir Wilfrid. Mr. Phillimore? 
 Cynthia. {Sharply.) No, Karslake. I'm 
 just waiting to say the words 
 
 {Enter Thomas.) 
 
 "love, honor and obey" to Phillimore — 
 {looks up back) and at Karslake! (Cyn- 
 thia sees Thomas.) What is it? Mr. 
 Phillimore? 
 Thomas. Mr. Phillimore will be down in 
 a few minutes, ma'am. He 's very sorry, 
 ma'am, {lowers his voice and comes 
 nearer Cynthia, mindful of the respecta- 
 bilities) but there 's a button off his waist- 
 coat. 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 749 
 
 Cynthia. {Excited^ with irony. Rising.) 
 Button olf his waistcoat! 
 
 {Exit Thomas.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. (Delightedly.) Ah! So 
 much the better for me. (Cynthia 
 looks up back.) Now, then, never mind 
 those two! (Cynthia moves restlessly.) 
 Sit down. 
 
 Cynthia. I can't. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. You 're as nervous as — 
 
 Cynthia. Nervous ! Of course I 'm "nerv- 
 ous ! So would you be nervous if you 'd 
 had had a runaway and smash up, and 
 you were going to try it again. (Look- 
 ing up hack. Sir Wilfrid is uneasy.) 
 And if some one doesn't do away with 
 those calla lilies — the odor makes me 
 faint! (Sir Wilfrid moves.) No, it's 
 not the lilies ! It 's the orange blossoms ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Orange blossoms. 
 
 Cynthia. The flowers that grow on the 
 tree that hangs over the abyss. (Sir 
 Wilfrid gets the vase of orange blos- 
 soms.) They smell of six o'clock in the 
 evening. When Philip's fallen asleep, 
 and the little boys are crying the winners 
 outside, and I 'm crying inside, and dy- 
 ing inside and outside and everywhere. 
 (Sir Wilfrid comes down.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Sorry to disappoint you. 
 They 're artificial. ( Cynthia shrugs 
 her shoulders. ) That 's it ! They 're 
 emblematic of artificial domesticity! 
 And I 'm here to help you balk it. (He 
 sits; Cynthia half rises and looks to- 
 ward John and Vida.) Keep still now, 
 I 've a lot to say to you. Stop looking — 
 
 Cynthia. Do yon think I can listen to 
 you make love to me when the man who 
 — who — whom I most despise in all the 
 world, is reading poetry to the woman 
 who — who got me into the fix I 'm in ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. (Leaning over the chair in 
 which she sits.) What do you want to 
 look at 'em for? (Cynthia moves.) 
 Let 'em be and listen to me ! Sit down ; 
 for damme, I 'm determined. 
 
 (Cynthia at the table.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Half to herself.) I won't 
 look at them! I won't think of them. 
 Beasts ! 
 
 (Sir Wilfrid interposes between her 
 and her view of John.) 
 
 (Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Now, then — (He sits.) 
 
 Cynthia. Those two here! It's just as 
 
 if Adam and Eve should invite the snake 
 
 to their golden wedding. (She sees 
 
 Thomas.) . What is it, what's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Thomas. Mr. Phillimore's excuses, ma'am. 
 In a very short time — 
 
 (Thomas exits.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I 'm on to you ! You hoped 
 for more buttons! 
 
 Cynthia. I 'm dying of the heat ; fan 
 me. (Sir Wilfrid fans Cynthia.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Heat ! No ! You 're dying 
 because you 're ignorin' nature. Cer- 
 tainly you are ! You 're marryin' Philli- 
 more! (Cynthia appears /awf.) Can't 
 ignore nature, Mrs. Karslake. Yes, you 
 are ; you 're f orcin' your f eelin's. ( Cyn- 
 thia glances at him.) And what you 
 want to do is to let yourself go a bit — up 
 anchor and sit tight ! I 'm no seaman, 
 but that's the idea! (Cynthia moves 
 and shakes her head.) So just throw 
 the reins on nature's neck, jump this fel- 
 low Phillimore and marry me! 
 
 (He leans over to Cynthia.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Naturally, but with irrita- 
 tion.) You propose to me here, at a 
 moment like this? When I'm on the 
 last lap — just in sight of the goal — the 
 gallows — the halter — the altar, I don't 
 know what its name is! No, I won't 
 have you! (Looking toward Karslake 
 and Vida.) And I won't have you stand 
 near me! I won't have you talking to 
 me in a low tone! (As before.) Stand 
 over there — stand where you are. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I say — 
 
 Cynthia. I can hear you — I 'm listening ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Well, don't look so hurried 
 and worried. You've got buttons and 
 buttons of time. And now my offer. 
 You have n't yet said you would — 
 
 Cynthia. Marry you? I don't even 
 know you! / 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. (Feeling sure of being ac- 
 cepted.) Oh, — tell you all about myself. 
 I 'm no duke in a pickle o' debts, d 'ye 
 see? I can marry where I like. Some 
 o' my countrymen are rotters, ye know. 
 They 'd marry a monkey, if poppa-up- 
 the-tree had a corner in cocoanuts ! And 
 they do marry some queer ones, y' know. 
 (Cynthia looks up, exclaims and 
 turns. — Sir Wilfrid turns.) 
 
 Cynthia. Do they? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, rather. That's what's 
 giving your heiresses such a bad name 
 lately. If a fellah 's in debt he can't 
 pick and choose, and then he swears that 
 American gals are awfully fine lookers, 
 but they're no good when it comes to 
 
750 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 continuin' the race! Fair dolls in the 
 drawin'-room, but no good in the nurs- 
 ery. 
 
 Cynthia. {Thinking of John and Vida 
 and nothing else.) I can see Vida in the 
 nursery. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. You understand when you 
 want a brood mare, you don't choose a 
 Kentucky mule. 
 
 Cynthia. I think I see one. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Well, that's what they're 
 saying over there. They say your gals 
 run to talk {He plainly remembers Vida^s 
 volubility.) , and I have seen gals here 
 that would chat life into a wooden In- 
 dian ! That 's what you Americans call 
 being clever. — All brains and no stuffin'! 
 In fact, some of your American gals are 
 the nicest boys I ever met. 
 
 Cynthia. So that's what you think? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Not a bit what / think — 
 what my countrymen think ! 
 
 Cynthia. W^hy are you telling me? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Oh, just explaining my 
 character. I 'm the sort that can pick 
 and choose — and what I want is heart. 
 
 Cynthia. {Always having Vida and 
 John in mind.) No more heart than a 
 dragon-fly ! 
 
 {The organ begins to play softly.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. That 's it, dragon-fly. Cold 
 as stone and never stops buzzing about 
 and showin' off her colors. It 's that 
 American dragon-fly girl that I 'm afraid 
 of, because, d' ye see, I don't know what 
 an American expects when he marries; 
 yes, but you 're not listening ! 
 
 Cynthia. I am listening. I am! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Speaking directly to her.) 
 An Englishman, ye see, when he marries 
 expects three things; love, obedience and 
 five children. 
 
 Cynthia. Three things ! I make it seven ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Yes, my dear, but the point 
 is, will you be mistress of Traynham? 
 
 Cynthia. {Who has only half listened to 
 him.) No, Sir Wilfrid, thank you, I 
 won't. {She turns to see John crossing 
 the drawing-room at back, with Vida, 
 apparently absorbed in what she says.) 
 It 's outrageous ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Eh? Why, you're cryin'l 
 
 Cynthia. {Almost sobbing.) I am not. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. You 're not crying because 
 you 're in love with me ? 
 
 Cynthia. I 'm not crying — or if I am, 
 I 'm crying because I love my country. 
 It 's a disgrace to America — cast-off hus- 
 bands and wives getting together in a 
 
 parlor and playing tag under a palm- 
 tree. 
 
 (John with intention and determined 
 to stab Cynthia, kisses Vida's 
 hand.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Eh! Oh! I'm damned! 
 {To Cynthia.) What do you think that 
 means ? 
 
 Cynthia. I don't doubt it means a wed- 
 ding here, at once — after mine! 
 
 (Vida and John come down.) 
 
 Vida. {Affecting an impossible intimacy 
 to wound Cynthia and tantalize Sir 
 Wilfrid.) Hush, Jack— I 'd much 
 rather no one should know anything 
 about it until it 's all over ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Starts and looks at Sir Wil- 
 frid.) What did I tell you? 
 
 Vida. ( To Cynthia. ) Oh, my dear, he 's 
 asked me to champagne and lobster at 
 your house — his house! Matthew is 
 coming! (Cynthia starts, but controls 
 herself.) And you're to come. Sir Wil- 
 frid. (Vida speaks, intending to convey 
 the idea of a sudden marriage cere- 
 mony.) Of course, my dear, I would 
 like to wait for your wedding, but some- 
 thing rather — rather important to me is 
 to take place, and I know you '11 excuse 
 me. {Organ stops.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Piqued at being forgot- 
 ten.) All very neat, but you haven't 
 given me a chance, even. 
 
 Vida. Chance? You 're not serious ? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I am! 
 
 Vida. {Striking while the iron is hot.) 
 1 '11 give you a minute to offer yourself. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Eh? 
 
 Vida. Sixty seconds from now. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Uncertain.) There 's such 
 a thing as bein' silly. 
 
 Vida. {Calm, and determined.) Fifty 
 seconds left. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. I take you — count fair. 
 {He hands her his watch and goes to 
 where Cynthia stands.) I say, Mrs. 
 Karslake — 
 
 Cynthia. {Overwhelmed with grief and 
 emotion.) They're engaged; they's go- 
 ing to be married to-night, over cham- 
 pagne and lobster at my house ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Will you consider your — 
 
 Cynthia. {Hastily, to get rid of Mm.) 
 No, no, no, no! Thank you. Sir Wil- 
 frid, I will not. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Calm and not to be laid 
 low.) Thanks awfully. {Crosses to 
 Vida. Cynthia walks away.) Mr^. 
 Phillimore— 
 
LANGDON MITCPIELL 
 
 751 
 
 ViDA. {She gives him hack his watch.) 
 Too late! {To Karslake.) Jack, dear, 
 we must be off. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Standing and making a 
 general appeal for information.) I say, 
 is it the custom for American girls — that 
 sixty seconds or too late? Look here! 
 Not a bit too late. I '11 take you around 
 to Jack Karslake's, and I 'm going to ask 
 you the same old question again, you 
 know. {To ViDA.) By Jove, you know 
 in your country it 's the pace that kills. 
 {Exeunt Sir Wilfrid and Vida.) 
 
 John. {Gravely to Cynthia, who comes 
 to the front of the stage.) Good-night, 
 Mrs. Karslake, I 'm going ; I 'm sorry I 
 came. 
 
 Cynthia. Sorry? Why are you sorry? 
 (John looks at her; she ivinces a little.) 
 You've got what you wanted. {Pause.) 
 I would n't mind your marrying Vida — 
 
 John. {Gravely.) Oh, wouldn't you? 
 
 Cynthia. But I don't think you showed 
 good taste in engaging yourselves here. 
 
 John. Of course, I should have preferred 
 a garden of roses and plenty of twilight. 
 
 Cynthia. {Rushing into speech.) I'll 
 tell you what you have done — you 've 
 thrown yourself away! A woman like 
 that! No head, no heart! All languor 
 and loose — loose frocks — she 's the typi- 
 cal, worst thing America can do ! She 's 
 the regular American marriage worm! 
 
 John. I have known others — 
 
 Cynthia. {Quickly.) Not me. I'm not 
 a patch on that woman. Do you know 
 anything about her life? Do you know 
 the things she did to Philip? Kept him 
 up every night of his life — forty days 
 out of every thirty — and then, without 
 his knowing it, put brandy in his coffee 
 to make him lively at breakfast. 
 
 John. {Banteringly.) I begin to think 
 she is just the woman — 
 
 Cynthia. {Unable to quiet her jealousy.) 
 She is no^the woman for you! A man 
 with your bad temper — your airs of au- 
 thority — your assumption of — of — every- 
 thing. What you need is a good, old- 
 fashioned, bread poultice woman! 
 
 (Cynthia comes to a full stop and 
 faces John.) 
 
 John. {Sharply.) Can't say I've had 
 any experience of the good old-fashioned 
 bread poultice. 
 
 Cynthia. I don't care what you say! If 
 you marry Vida Phillimore — you shan't 
 do it. {Tears of rage choking her.) 
 J^o^ I liked your father and for his sake, 
 
 I '11 see that his son does n't make a 
 donkey of himself a second time. 
 
 John. {Too angry to he amused.) Oh, I 
 thought I was divorced. I begin to feel 
 as if I had you on my hands still. 
 
 Cynthia. You have! You shall have! 
 If you attempt to marry her, I '11 follow 
 you— and I '11 find her— I '11 tell Vida— 
 {He turns to her.) 1 will. I '11 tell Vida 
 just what sort of a dance you led me. 
 
 John. {Quickly on her last word hut 
 speaking gravely.) Indeed! Will you? 
 And why do you care what happens to 
 me? 
 
 Cynthia. {Startled hy his tone.) 1 — I — 
 ah — 
 
 John. {Insistently and with a faint 
 hope.) Why do you carel 
 
 Cynthia. I don't. Not in your sense — 
 
 John. How dare you then pretend — 
 
 Cynthia. I don't pretend. 
 
 John. {Interrupting her; proud, serious 
 and strong.) How dare you look me in 
 the face with the eyes that I once kissed, 
 and pretend the least regard for me? 
 (Cynthia recoils and looks away. Her 
 own feelings are revealed to her clearly 
 for the first time.) I begin to under- 
 stand our American women now. Fire- 
 flies — and the fire they gleam with is so 
 cold that a midge couldn't warm his 
 heart at it, let alone a man. You 're not 
 of the same race as a man! You mar- 
 ried me for nothing, divorced me for 
 nothing, because you are nothing ! 
 
 Cynthia. ( Wounded to the heart. ) Jack ! 
 What are you saying? 
 
 John. {With unrestrained emotion.) 
 What, — you feigning an interest in me, 
 feigning a lie — and in five minutes — 
 {Gesture indicating altar.) Oh, you've 
 taught me the trick of your sex — ^you 're 
 the woman who 's not a woman ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Weakly.) You 're saying ter- 
 rible things to me. 
 
 John. {Low and with intensity.) You 
 haven't been divorced from me long 
 enough to forget — what you should be 
 ashamed to remember. 
 
 Cynthia. {Unable to face him and pre- 
 tending not to understand him.) I don't 
 know what you mean. 
 
 John. {More forcibly and with manly 
 emotion.) You're not able to forget 
 me ! You know you 're not able to for- 
 get me; ask yourself if you are able to 
 forget me, and when j'our heart, such as 
 it is, answers "no," then — {The organ is 
 plainly heard.) Well, then, prance 
 
752 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 gaily up to the altar and marry that, if 
 you can ! 
 
 {He exits quickly. Cynthia crosses 
 to arm-chair and sinks into it. She 
 trembles as if she were overdone. 
 Voices are heard ?veaking in the 
 next room. Enter Matthew and 
 Miss Heneage. Enter Philip. 
 Cynthia is so sunk in the chair they 
 do not see her. Miss Heneage goes 
 up to sofa hack and waits. They all 
 are dressed for an evening reception 
 and Philip in the traditional bride- 
 groom's rig.) 
 Matthew. {As he enters.) I am sure 
 you will do your part, Sarah — in a spirit 
 of Christian decorum. {Tc Philip.) 
 It was impossible to find my surplice, 
 Philip, but the more informal the bet- 
 ter. 
 Philip. {With pompous responsibility.) 
 Where's Cynthia? 
 
 (Matthew gives glance around room.) 
 Matthew. Ah, here's the choir! {Re 
 goes to meet it. Choir boys come in 
 very orderly; divide and take their 
 places, an even number on each side of 
 the altar of flowers. Matthew vaguely 
 superintends. Philip gets in the way of 
 the bell. Moves out of the way. Enter 
 Thomas.) Thomas, I directed you — 
 One moment, if you please. 
 
 {He indicates table and chairs. 
 
 Thomas hastens to move the chairs 
 
 and the table against the wall. 
 
 Philip comes down.) 
 
 Philip. {Looking for her.) Where's 
 
 Cynthia? 
 
 (Cynthia rises. Philip sees her when 
 she moves and crosses toward her, 
 but stops. The organ stops.) 
 Cynthia. {Faintly.) Here I am. 
 
 (Matthew comes down. The organ 
 
 plays softly.) 
 
 Matthew. {Coming to Cynthia.) Ah, 
 
 my very dear Cynthia, I knew there was 
 
 something. Let me tell you the words of 
 
 the hymn I have chosen: 
 
 "Enduring love; sweet end of strife! 
 Oh, bless this happy man and wife!" 
 
 I 'm afraid you feel — eh — eh ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Desperately calm.) I feel 
 
 awfully queer — I think I need a scotch. 
 
 {The organ stops. Philip remains 
 
 uneasily at a little distance. Mrs. 
 
 Phillimore and Grace enter back 
 
 slowly, as cheerfully as if they were 
 
 going to hear the funeral service 
 read. They remain near the door- 
 way.) 
 
 Matthew. Really, my dear, in the pomp 
 and vanity — I mean — ceremony of this — 
 this unique occasion, there should be suf- 
 ficient exhilaration. 
 
 Cynthia. {As before.) But there isn't! 
 
 {She sits.) 
 
 Matthew. I don't think my Bishop 
 would approve of — eh — anything before! 
 
 Cynthia. {Too agitated to know how 
 much she is moved.) I feel very queer. 
 
 Matthew, {Piously sure that everything 
 is for the best.) My dear child — 
 
 Cynthia. However, I suppose there 's 
 nothing for it — now — but — to — ^to — 
 
 Matthew. Courage ! 
 
 Cynthia. {Desperate and with sudden 
 explosion.) Oh, don't speak to me. I 
 feel as if I 'd been eating gunpowder, 
 and the very first word of the wedding 
 service would set it off! 
 
 Matthew. My dear, your indisposition is 
 the voice of nature. 
 
 (Cynthia speaks more rapidly and 
 with growing excitement, Matthew 
 going toward the choir boys.) 
 
 Cynthia. Ah, — that 's it — nature! (Mat- 
 thew shakes his head.) I've a great 
 mind to throw the reins on nature's neck. 
 
 Philip. Matthew ! 
 
 {He moves to take his stand for the 
 ceremony.) 
 
 Matthew. {Looking at Philip. To Cyn- 
 thia.) Philip is ready. 
 
 (Philip comes down. The organ 
 plays the wedding march.) 
 
 Cynthia. {To herself, as if at bay.) 
 Ready? Ready? Ready? 
 
 Matthew. Cynthia, you will take Miss^ 
 Heneage's arm. (Miss Heneage comes 
 down near table.) Sarah! (Matthew 
 indicates to Miss Heneage wit ere Cyn- 
 thia is. Miss Heneage advances a step 
 or two. Matthew goes up and speaks 
 in a low voice to choir.) Now please 
 don't forget, my boys. When I raise my 
 hands so, you begin, "Enduring love, 
 sweet end of strife." (Cynthia has 
 risen. On the table is her long lace 
 cloak. She stands by this table. Mat- 
 thew assumes sacerdotal importance and 
 takes his position inside the altar of 
 flowers.) Ahem! Philip! {He indi- 
 cates to Philip that he take his posi- 
 tion.) Sarah! (Cynthia breathes fast, 
 and supports herself on table. Miss 
 Heneage goes toward her and stands for 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 753 
 
 a moment looking at Cynthia.) The 
 ceremony will now begin. 
 
 ( The organ plays Mendelssohn^s wed- 
 ding march. Cynthia turns and 
 faces Miss Heneage. Miss Hene- 
 AGE comes to Cynthia slowly, and 
 extends her hand in her readiness 
 to lead the bride to tJie altar.) 
 Miss Heneage. Mrs. Karslake! 
 Philip. Ahem ! 
 
 (Matthew steps forward two or -three 
 steps. Cynthia stands turned to 
 stone. ) 
 Matthew. My dear Cynthia. I request 
 you — to take your place. (Cynthia 
 moves one or two steps across as if to 
 go up to the altar. She takes Miss 
 Heneage's hand and slowly they walk 
 toward Matthew.) Your husband to 
 be — is ready, the ring is in my pocket. 
 I have only to ask you the — eh — neces- 
 sary questions — and — eh — all will be 
 blissfully over in a moment. 
 
 {The organ is louder.) 
 Cynthia. {At this moment^ just as she 
 reaches Philip, she stops, faces round, 
 looks him, Matthew and the rest in the 
 face and cries out in despair.) Thomas! 
 Call a hansom! (Thomas exits and 
 leaves door open. Miss Heneage 
 crosses the stage. Mrs. Phillimore 
 rises. Cynthia grasps her cloak on ta- 
 ble. Philip turns and Cynthia comes 
 forward and stops.) I can't, Philip — I 
 can't. {Whistle of hansom is heard off; 
 the organ stops.) It is simply a case of 
 throwing the reins on nature's neck — up 
 anchor — and sit tight! (Matthew 
 crosses to Cynthia.) Matthew^, don't 
 come near me ! Yes, yes, I distrust you. 
 It 's your business, and you 'd marry me 
 if you could. 
 Philip. {Watching her in dismay as she 
 throws on her cloak.) Where are you 
 going? 
 Cynthia. I 'm going to Jack. 
 Philip. What for? 
 
 Cynthia. To stop his marrying Vida. 
 I 'm blowing a hurricane inside, a horri- 
 ble, happy hurricane! I know myself — 
 I know what 's the matter with me. If 
 I married you and Miss Heneage — 
 what 's the use of talking about it — he 
 must n't marrv' that woman. He shan't. 
 (Cynthia has now all her wraps on; 
 goes up rapidly. To Philip.) Sorry! 
 So long! Good-night and see you later. 
 (Cynthia goes to door rapidly; Mat- 
 thew, in absolute amazement, 
 
 throws^ up his arms. Philip is 
 rigid. ' Mrs. Phillimore sinks into 
 a chair. Miss Heneage is super- 
 cilious and unmoved. Grace is the 
 same. The choir, at Matthew's 
 gesture, mistakes it for the concerted 
 signal, and bursts lustily into the 
 Epithalamis. 
 
 "Enduring love — SAveet end of strife! 
 Oh, bless this happy man and wife!" 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 The scene is laid in John Karslake's 
 study and smoking-room. There is a 
 bay window on the right. A door on the 
 right leads to stairs, and the front door 
 of house, while a door at the back leads 
 to the dining-room. A fireplace is on the 
 left and a mantel. A bookcase contains 
 law books and sporting books. A full- 
 length portrait of Cynthia is on the 
 wall. Nothing of this portrait is seen by 
 the audience except the gilt frame and a 
 space of canvas. A large table with 
 writing materials is littered over with 
 law books, sporting books, papers, pipes, 
 crops, and a pair of spurs. A wedding 
 ring lies on it. There are three very low 
 easy-chairs. The general appearance of 
 the room is extremely gay and garish in 
 color. It has the easy confusion of a 
 man's room. There is a small table on 
 which is a woman's sewing-basket. The 
 sewing-basket is open. A piece of rich 
 fancy work lies on the table, as if a lady 
 had just risen from sewing. On the cor- 
 ner are a lady's gloves. On a chair-back 
 is a lady's hat. It is a half hour later 
 than the close of Act Third. Curtains 
 are drawn over the window. A lamp on 
 the table is lighted. Electric lights about 
 the room are also lighted. One chair is 
 conspicuously standing on its head. 
 
 {Curtain rises on Nogam, who busies him- 
 self at a table, at the back. The door at 
 the back is half open.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Coming in door.) Eh — 
 what did you say your name was? 
 
 Nogam. Nogam, sir. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Nogam? I've been here 
 thirty minutes. Where are the cigars? 
 (Nogam motions to a small table near 
 the entrance door where the cigars are.) 
 Thank you. Nogam, Mr. Karslake was 
 to have followed us here, immediately. 
 {He lights a cigar.) 
 
r54 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 NOGAM. Mr. Karslake just now 'phoned 
 from his club (Sir Wilfrid comes down 
 the stage.), and he's on his way home, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Nogam, why is that chair 
 upside down? 
 
 Nogam. Our orders, sir. 
 
 ViDA. {Speaking as she comes on.) Oh, 
 Wilfrid! (Sir Wilfrid turns. Vida 
 comes slowly down the stage.) I can't 
 be left longer alone with the lobster! 
 He reminds me too much of Phillimore! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Karslake 's coming; stopped 
 at his club on the w^ay! {To Nogam.) 
 You haven't heard anything of Mrs. 
 Karslake—? 
 
 Nogam. {Surprised.) No, sir! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {In an aside to Vida, as 
 they move to appear to he out of No- 
 GAm's hearing.) Deucedly odd, ye know 
 — for the Reverend Matthew declared she 
 left Phillimore's house before he did, — 
 and she told him she was coming here ! 
 
 (Nogam evidently takes this in.) 
 
 Vida. Oh, she '11 turn up. 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Yes, but I don't see how the 
 Reverend Phillimore had the time to get 
 here and make us man and wife, don't 
 y' know — 
 
 Vida. Oh, Matthew had a fast horse and 
 Cynthia a slow one — or she 's a woman 
 and changed her mind ! Perhaps she 's 
 gone back and married Phillimore. And 
 besides, dear, Matthew was n't in the 
 house four minutes and a half; only just 
 long enough to hoop the hoop. {She 
 twirls her 7iew wedding ring gently about 
 her finger.) Wasn't it lucky he had a 
 ring in his pocket? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Rather. 
 
 Vida. And are you aware, dear, that 
 Pliillimore bought and intended it for 
 Cynthia? Do come {she goes up to the 
 door through which she entered), I'm 
 desperately hungry ! Whenever I 'm 
 married that's the effect it has! 
 
 (Vida goes out. Sir Wilfrid sees her 
 through door, hut stops to speak to 
 Nogam.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. We '11 give Mr. Karslake 
 ten minutes, Nogam. If he does not 
 come then, you might serve supper. 
 
 {He follows Vida.) 
 
 Nogam. {To Sir Wilfrid.) Yes, sir. 
 
 {Door opens.) 
 
 {Enter Fiddler.) 
 
 Fiddler. {Easy and husiness-like.) 
 Hello, Nogam, where 's the guv'nor? 
 
 That mare 's off her oats, and I 've got 
 to see him. 
 Nogam. He '11 soon be here. 
 Fiddler. Who was the parson I met leav- 
 ing the house? 
 Nogam. {Whispering.) Sir W^ilfrid and 
 Mrs. Phillimore have a date with the 
 guv'nor in the dining-room, and the rev- 
 erend gentleman — 
 
 {He makes a gesture as of giving an 
 ecclesiastical hlessing.) 
 Fiddler. {Amazed.) He hasn't spliced 
 them? (Nogam assents.) He has? 
 They're married? Never saw a parson 
 could resist it! 
 Nogam. Yes, but I 've got another piece 
 of news for you. Who do you think the 
 Rev. Philhmore expected to find here? 
 Fiddler. {Proud of having the knowl- 
 edge.) Mrs. Karslake? I saw her 
 headed this way in a hansom with a 
 balky horse only a minute ago. If she 
 hoped to be in at the finish — 
 
 (Fiddler is ahout to set chair on its 
 legs.) 
 Nogam. {Quickly.) Mr. Fiddler, sir, 
 
 please to let it alone. 
 Fiddler. {Putting chair down in sur- 
 prise.) Does it live on its blooming 
 head? 
 Nogam. Don't you remember? She threw 
 it on its head when she left here, and he 
 won't have it up. Ah, that 's it — hat, 
 sewing-basket and all, — the whole rig is 
 to remain as it was when she handed him 
 his knock-out. {A hell rings outside.) 
 Fiddler. There 's the guv'nor — I hear 
 
 him! 
 Nogam. I '11 serve the supper. ( Taking 
 letter from pocket and putting it on 
 mantel.) Mr. Fiddler, would you mind 
 giving this to the guv'nor? It 's from 
 his lawyer — his lawyer could n't find him 
 and left it with me. He said it was very 
 important. {Bell rings again. Speaking 
 off to Sir Wilfrid.) I'm coming, sir! 
 (Nogam goes out, and shuts door. 
 Enter John Karslake. He looks 
 downhearted, his hat is pushed over 
 his eyes. His hands are in his pock- 
 ets. He enters slowly and heavily. 
 He sees Fiddler, wJio salutes, for- 
 getting the letter. John slowly sit?i 
 in armchair at the study tahle.) 
 John. {Speaking as he walks to hit) 
 chair.) Hello, Fiddler! 
 
 {Pause. John throws himself into ^ 
 chair, keeping his hat on. Thrown 
 down his gloves ^ sighing.) 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 Fiddler. Came in to see you, sir, about 
 Cyntliia K. 
 
 John. [Drearily.) Damn Cynthia K! — 
 
 Fiddler. Couldn't have a word with you? 
 
 JoHX. {Grumpy.) Ko! 
 
 Fiddler. Yes, sir. 
 
 John. Fiddler. 
 
 Fiddler. Yes, sir. 
 
 John. Mrs. Karslake — (Fiddler nods.) 
 You used to say she was our mascot? 
 
 Fiddler. Yes, sir. 
 
 John. Well, she 's just married herself to 
 a — a sort of a man ! 
 
 Fiddler. Sorry to hear it, sir. 
 
 John. Well, Fiddler, between you and 
 me, we 're a pair of idiots. 
 
 Fiddler. Yes, sir! 
 
 John. And now it 's too late ! 
 
 Fiddler. Yes, sir — oh, beg your pardon, 
 sir — your lawyer left a letter. 
 
 (John takes the letter; opens it and 
 reads it, indifferently at first.) 
 
 John. {As he opens letter.) What's he 
 got to say, more than what his wire said? 
 — Eh — {as he reads, he is dumbfounded) 
 what? — Will explain. — Error in wording 
 of telegram. — Call me up. — {Turning to 
 telephone quickly.) The man can't 
 mean that she 's still — Hello ! Hello ! 
 (John listens.) 
 
 Fiddler. Would like to have a word with 
 you, sir — 
 
 John. Hello, Central! 
 
 Fiddler. That mare — 
 
 John. {Looks at letter; speaks into 
 'phone.) 33246a 38 ! Did you get it? 
 
 Fiddler. That mare, sir, she 's got a touch 
 of malaria — 
 
 John. {At the 'phone.) Hello, Central — 
 33246a— 381— Clayton Osgood— yes, yes, 
 and say, Central — get a move on 
 you! 
 
 Fiddler. If you think wtII of it, sir, I '11 
 give her a tonic — 
 
 John. {Still at the 'phone.) Hello! Yes 
 — yes — Jack Karslake. Is that you, 
 Clayton ? Yes — yes — well — 
 
 Fiddler. Or if you like, sir, I '11 give 
 her — 
 
 John. {Turning on Fiddler.) Shut up! 
 {To 'phone.) What was that? Not you 
 — not you — a technical error? You 
 mean to say that Mrs. Karslake is still — 
 my — Hold the wire, Central — get off 
 the wire ! Get off the wire ! Is that 
 you, Clayton? Yes, yes — she and I are 
 still — I got it! Good-bye! 
 
 {He hangs up the receiver and falls 
 hack in the chair. For a moment he 
 
 is overcome. He takes up the tele-' 
 phone book.) 
 Fiddler. All very well, Mr. Karslake, but 
 
 I must know if I 'm to give her a — 
 John. {Turning over the leaves of the 
 
 telephone book in hot haste.) What's 
 
 Phillimore's number? 
 Fiddler. If you 've no objections, I think 
 
 I '11 give her a — 
 John. {As before.) L— M— N— 0— P— 
 
 It 's too late ! She 's married by this ! 
 
 Married! — and — my God — I — I am the 
 
 cause. Phillimore — 
 Fiddler. I '11 give her — 
 John. Give her wheatina! — give her 
 
 grape nuts — give her away! (Fiddler 
 
 moves away.) Only be quiet! Philli- 
 more! 
 
 {Enter Sir Wilfrid.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Hello! We'd almost given 
 you up! 
 
 John. {Still in his agitation unable to 
 find Phillimore's number.) Just a mo- 
 ment ! I 'm trying to get Phillimore on 
 tlie 'phone to — to tell Mrs. Karslake — 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. No good, my boy — she 's on 
 her way here! (John drops book and 
 looks up dumbfounded.) The Reverend 
 Matthew was here, y' see — and he said — 
 
 John. {Rising, he turns.) Mrs. Kars- 
 lake is coming here? (Sir Wilfrid 
 nods.) To this house? Here? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. That 's right. 
 
 John. Coming here ? You 're sure ? ( Sir 
 Wilfrid nods assent.) Fiddler, I want 
 you to stay here, and if Mrs. Karslake 
 comes, don't fail to let me know! Now 
 then, for Heaven's sake, what did Mat- 
 thew say to you? 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. Come along in and I '11 tell 
 you. 
 
 John. On your life now. Fiddler, don't 
 fail to let me — 
 
 {Exeunt John and Sir Wilfrid.) 
 
 Vida. {Voice off'.) Ah, here you are! 
 
 Fiddler. Phew ! 
 
 {There is a moment's pause, and Cyn- 
 thia enters. She comes in very 
 quietly, almost shyly, and as if she 
 were uncertain of her welcome.) 
 
 Cynthia. Fiddler! Where is he? Has 
 he come? Is he here? Has he gone? 
 
 Fiddler. {Rattled.) Nobody's gone, 
 ma'am, except the Reverend Matthew 
 Phillimore. 
 
 Cynthia. Matthew? He's been here and 
 gone? (Fiddler nods assent.) You 
 
756 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 don't mean I 'm too late ? He 's married 
 them already"? 
 
 Fiddler. Nogam says he married them ! 
 
 Cynthia. He 's married them ! Man-ied ! 
 Married before I could get here! {Sit- 
 ting in armchair.) Married in less time 
 than it takes to pray for rain! Oh, well, 
 the church — the church is a regular quick 
 marriage counter. {Voices of Vida and 
 John lieard in light-li carted laughter.) 
 Oh! 
 
 Fiddler. I '11 tell Mr. Karslake — 
 
 Cynthia. {Rising and going to the door 
 through which John left the stage; she 
 turns the key in the lock and takes it 
 out.) No — I wouldn't see him for the 
 world! {She comes down with key to 
 the work-table.) If I'm too late, I'm 
 too late! and that 's the end of it! {Site 
 lays key on table and remains standing 
 near it. ) I 've come, and now I '11 go ! 
 {Long pause. Cynthia looks about the 
 room and changes her tone.) Well, Fid- 
 dler, it 's all a good deal as it used to be 
 in my day. 
 
 Fiddler. No, ma'am — everything changed, 
 even the horses. 
 
 Cynthia. {Absent-mindedly.) Horses — 
 how are the horses? 
 
 {Throughout this scene she gives tJie 
 idea that she is saying good-bye to 
 her life with John.) 
 
 Fiddler. Ah, when husband and wife 
 splits, ma'am, it 's the horses that suffer. 
 Oh, yes, ma'am, we 're all changed since 
 you give us the go-by, — even the guv'nor. 
 
 Cynthia. How 's he changed? 
 
 Fiddler. Lost his sharp for horses, and 
 ladies, ma'am — gives 'em both the boiled 
 eye. 
 
 Cynthia. I can't say I see any change; 
 there 's my portrait — I suppose he sits 
 and pulls faces at me. 
 
 Fiddler. Yes, ma'am, I think I 'd better 
 tell him of your bein' here. 
 
 Cynthia. {Gently but decidedly.) No, 
 Fiddler, no! {She again looks about 
 her.) The room's in a terrible state of 
 disorder. However, your new mistress 
 will attend to that. {Pause.) Why, 
 that 's not her hat ! 
 
 Fiddler. Yours, ma'am. 
 
 Cynthia. Mine! {She goes to the table 
 to look at it.) Is that my work-basket? 
 {Pause.) My gloves? (Fiddler as- 
 sents.) And I suppose — {She hurriedly 
 goes to the writing-table.) My — yes, 
 there it is: my wedding ring! — just 
 where I dropped it! Oh, oh, oh, he 
 
 keeps it like this — hat, gloves, basket and 
 ring, everything just as it was that crazy, 
 mad day when I — {Glances at Fiddler 
 and breaks off.) But for Heaven's sake. 
 Fiddler, set that chair on its feet ! 
 
 Fiddler. Against orders, ma'am. 
 
 Cynthia. Against orders? 
 
 Fiddler. You kicked it over, ma'am, the 
 day you left us. 
 
 Cynthia. No wonder he hates me with 
 the chair in that state! He nurses his 
 wrath to keep it warm. So, after all, 
 Fiddler, everything is changed, and that 
 chair is the proof of it. I suppose Cyn- 
 thia K is the only thing in the world that 
 cares a whinney whether I 'm alive or 
 dead. {She breaks down and sobs.) 
 How is she. Fiddler? 
 
 Fiddler. Off her oats, ma'am, this eve- 
 ning. 
 
 Cynthia. Off her oats! Well, she loves 
 me, so I suppose she will die, or change, 
 or — or something. Oh, she '11 die, 
 there 's no doubt about that — she '11 die. 
 (Fiddler, who has been watching his 
 chance, takes the key off the table while 
 she is sobbing, tiptoes up the stage, un- 
 locks the door and goes out. After he 
 has done so, Cynthia rises and dries her 
 eyes.) There — I 'm a fool — I must go — 
 before — before — he — 
 
 {As she speaks her last word John 
 comes on.) 
 
 John. Mrs. Karslake! 
 
 Cynthia. {Confused.) 1 — I — I just heard 
 Cynthia K was ill — (John assents. 
 Cynthia tries to put on a cheerful and 
 indifferent manner.) I — I ran round — 
 I — and — and — {Pausing, she turns and 
 comes down.) Well, I understand it's 
 all over. 
 
 John. {Cheerfully.) Yes, it's all over. 
 
 Cynthia. How is the bride? 
 
 John. Oh, she 's a wonder. 
 
 Cynthia. Indeed! Did she paw the 
 ground like the war horse in the Bible? 
 I 'm sure when Vida sees a wedding ring 
 she smells the battle afar off. As for 
 you, my dear Karslake, I should have 
 thought once bitten, twice shy! But, 
 you know best. 
 
 {Enter Vida.) 
 
 Vida. Oh, Cynthia, I've just been 
 through it again, and I feel as if I were 
 eighteen. There 's no use talking about 
 it, my dear, with a woman it 's never tlie 
 second time! And how nice you were. 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 757 
 
 Jack, — be never even laughed at us! 
 {Enter Sir Wilfrid, with hat and cane. 
 ViDA kisses John.) That's the wages 
 of virtue ! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {In time to see her kiss 
 John.) I say, is it the custom? Every 
 time she does that, my boy, you owe me 
 a thousand pounds. {Seeing Cynthia, 
 who approaches them, he looks at her 
 and John in turn. ) ' Mrs. Karslake. 
 {To John.) And then you say it's- not 
 an extraordinary country ! 
 
 (Cynthia is m.ore and more puzzled.) 
 
 ViDA. {To John.) See you next Derby, 
 Jack. {Crossing to door. To Sir Wil- 
 frid.) Come along, Wilfrid! We really 
 ought to be going. {To Cynthia.) I 
 hope, dear, you have n't married him ! 
 Phillimore 's a tomb ! Good-bye, Cyn- 
 thia — I'm so happy! {As she goes.) 
 Just think of the silly people, dear, that 
 only have this sensation once in a life- 
 time! 
 
 {Exit Vida. John follows Vida off.) 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {To Cynthia.) Good-bye, 
 Mrs. Karslake. And I say, ye know, if 
 you have married that dull old Phillimore 
 fellah, why, when you 've divorced him, 
 come over and stay at Traynham! I 
 mean, of course, ye know, bring your 
 new husband. There '11 be lots of horses 
 to show you, and a whole covey of jolly 
 little Cates-Darbys. Mind you come! 
 {With real delicacy of feeling and for- 
 getting his wife.) Never liked a woman 
 as much in my life as I did you! 
 
 Vida. {Outside; calling him.) Wilfrid, 
 dear! 
 
 Sir Wilfrid. {Loyal to the woman who 
 has caught him.) — except the one 
 that 's calling me ! 
 
 {Reenter John. Sir Wilfrid nods to him 
 and goes off. John shuts the door and 
 crosses the stage. A pause.) 
 
 Cynthia. So you 're not married ? 
 
 John. No. But I know that you imag- 
 ined I was. {Pause.) 
 
 Cynthia. I suppose you think a woman 
 has no right to divorce a man — and still 
 continue to feel a keen interest in his 
 affairs? 
 
 John. Well, I 'm not so sure about that, 
 but I don't quite see how — 
 
 Cynthia. A woman can be divorced — and 
 still — (John assents; she hides her em- 
 barrassment.) Well, my dear Karslake, 
 you 've a long life before you, in which 
 to learn how such a state of mind is pos- 
 
 sible ! So I won't stop to explain. Will 
 you be kind^ enough to get me a cab"? 
 
 {She moves to the door.) 
 
 John. Certainly. I was going to say } 
 am not surprised at your feeling an in-, 
 terest in me. I 'm only astonished that, 
 having actually married Phillimore, you 
 come here — 
 
 Cynthia. {Indignantly.) I'm not mar- 
 ried to him! {A pause.) 
 
 John. I left you on the brink — made me 
 feel a little uncertain. 
 
 Cynthia. {In a matter-of-course tone.) 
 1 changed my mind — that 's all. 
 
 John. {Taking his tone from her.) Of 
 course. {A pause.) Are you going to 
 marry him? 
 
 Cynthia. I don't know. 
 
 John. Does he know you — 
 
 Cynthia. I told him I was coming here. 
 
 John. Oh! He'll turn up here, then — 
 eh? (Cynthia is silent.) And you'll 
 go back with him, I suppose? 
 
 Cynthia. {Talking at random.) Oh — 
 yes — I suppose so. I — I have n't thought 
 much about it. 
 
 John. {Changing his tone.) Well, sit 
 down; do. Till he comes — talk it over. 
 {He places the armchair more comfort- 
 ably for her.) This is a more comfort- 
 able chair! 
 
 Cynthia. {Shamefacedly.) You . never 
 liked me to sit in that one! 
 
 John. Oh, well — it 's different now. 
 (Cynthia crosses and sits down, near 
 the upset chair. There is a long pause. 
 John crosses the stage.) You don't 
 mind if I smoke? 
 
 Cynthia. {Shaking her head.) No. 
 
 John. {He lights his pipe and sits on 
 
 arm of chair.) Of course, if you find 
 
 my presence painful, I '11 — skiddoo. 
 
 {He indicates the door. Cynthia 
 
 shakes her head. John smokes pipe 
 
 and remains seated.) 
 
 Cynthia. {Suddenly and quickly.) It's 
 just simply a fact, Karslake, and that 's 
 all there is to it — if a woman has once 
 been married — that is, the first man she 
 marries — then — she may quarrel, she may 
 hate him — she may despise him — but 
 she '11 always be jealous of him with 
 other women. Always! 
 
 (John takes this as if he were simply 
 glad to have the information.) 
 
 John. Oh — Hm! ah — yes — yes. 
 
 {A pause.) 
 
 Cynthia. You probably felt jealous of 
 Phillimore. 
 
'58 
 
 THE NEW YOKK IDEA 
 
 John. {Ueasonably , sweetly, and in 
 doubt.) N-o! I felt simply: Let him 
 take his medicine. {Apologetically.) 
 
 Cynthia. Oh ! 
 
 John. I beg your pardon — I meant — 
 
 Cynthia. You meant what you said! 
 
 John. {Comes a step to her.) Mrs. Kars- 
 lake-, I apologize — I won't do it again. 
 But it 's too late for you to be out alone 
 — Philip will be here in a moment — and 
 of course, then — 
 
 Cynthia. It is n't what you say — it 's — 
 it 's — it 's everything. It 's the entire 
 situation. Suppose by any chance I 
 don't marry Phillimore ! And suppose I 
 were seen at two or three in the morning 
 leaving my former husband's house! 
 It 's all wrong. I have no business to be 
 here ! I 'm going ! You 're perfectly 
 horrid to me, you know — and — the whole 
 place — it 's so familiar, and so — so as- 
 sociated with — with — 
 
 John. Discord and misery — I know — 
 
 Cynthia. Not at all with discord and 
 misery! With harmony and happiness 
 — with — with first love, and infinite hope 
 — and — and — Jack Karslake, — if you 
 don't set that chair on its legs, I think 
 I '11 explode. 
 
 (John crosses the stage rapidly and 
 sets chair on its legs. His tone 
 changes.) 
 
 John. {While setting chair on its legs.) 
 There! I beg your pardon. 
 
 Cynthia. (Nervously.) 1 believe I hear 
 Philip. (Rises.) 
 
 John. (Going up to the window.) N-o! 
 That 's the policeman trying the front 
 door! And now, see here, Mrs. Kars- 
 lake, — you 're only here for a short min- 
 ute, because you can't help yourself, but 
 I want you to understand that I 'm not 
 trying to be disagreeable — I don't want 
 to revive all the old unhappy — 
 
 Cynthia. Very well, if you don't — give 
 me my hat. (John does so.) And my 
 sewing! And my gloves, please! (She 
 indicates the several articles which lie 
 on the small table.) Thanks! (Cyn- 
 thia throws the lot into the fireplace, 
 and returns to the place she has left near 
 table.) There! I feel better! And 
 now — all I ask is — 
 
 John. (Laughs.) My stars, what a 
 pleasure it is ! 
 
 Cynthia. What is? 
 
 John. Seeing you in a whirlwind! 
 
 Cynthia. (Wounded by his seeming in- 
 di^erence.) Oh! 
 
 John. No, but I mean, a real pleasure! 
 Why not ? Time 's passed since you and 
 I were together — and — eh — 
 
 Cynthia. And you 've forgotten what a 
 vile temper I had! 
 
 John. (Reflectively.) Well, you did kick 
 the stuffing out of the matrimonial 
 buggy— 
 
 Cynthia. (Pointedly but with good tem- 
 per. ) It was n't a buggy ; it was a break 
 cart — (She stands back of the arm- 
 chair.) It's all very well to blame me! 
 But when you married me, I 'd never had 
 a bit in my mouth ! 
 
 John. Well, I guess I had a pretty hard 
 hand. Do you remember the time you 
 threw both your slippers out of the win- 
 dow? 
 
 Cynthia. Yes, and do you remember the 
 time you took my fan from me by force ? 
 
 John. After you slapped my face with 
 it! 
 
 Cynthia. Oh, oh ! I hardly touched your 
 face! And do you remember the day 
 you held my wrists? 
 
 John. You were going to bite me! 
 
 Cynthia. Jack ! I never ! I showed my 
 teeth at you ! And I said I would bite you ! 
 
 John. Cynthia, I never knew you to break 
 your word! (He laughs casually.) 
 And anyhow — they were awfully pretty 
 teeth! (Cynthia^, though bolt upright, 
 has ceased to seem pained.) And I say 
 — do you remember, Cyn — 
 
 (He leans over the armchair to talk to 
 her.) 
 
 Cynthia. (After a pause.) You oughtn't 
 to call me "Cyn" — it 's not nice of you. 
 It 's sort of cruel. I 'm not — Cyn to you 
 now. 
 
 John. Awfully sorry; didn't mean to be" 
 beastly, Cyn. (Cynthia turns quickly. 
 John stamps his foot.) Cynthia! 
 Sorry. I '11 make it a commandment : 
 thou shalt not Cyn ! ! 
 
 (Cynthia laughs and wipes her eyes.) 
 
 Cynthia. How can you, Jack? How can 
 you? 
 
 John. Well, hang it, my dear child, I — 
 I 'm sorry, but you know I always got 
 foolish with you. Your laugh 'd make a 
 horse laugh. W^hy, don't you remember 
 that morning in the park before break- 
 fast — when you laughed so hard your 
 horse ran away with you ! 
 
 Cynthia. Ido, Ido! (Both laugh. The 
 door opens.) 
 
 (NoGAM enters.) 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 759 
 
 But what was it started me laughing? 
 {Laughing, sits down and laughs again,) 
 That morning. Wasn't it somebody we 
 met? (Laughs ) Was n't it a man on a 
 horse? (Laughs.) 
 
 John. (Laughing too.) Of course! You 
 didn't know him in those days! But I 
 did! And he looked a sight in the sad- 
 dle! 
 
 (NoGAM, trying to catch their atten- 
 tion, comes to right of table.) 
 
 Cynthia. Who was it? 
 
 John. Phillimore ! 
 
 Cynthia. He 's no laughing matter now. 
 (/Sees NoGAM.) Jack, he 's here ! 
 
 John. Eh? Oh, Nogam? 
 
 NoGAM. Mr. Phillimore, sir — 
 
 John. In the house? 
 
 Nogam. On the street in a hansom, sir — 
 and he requests Mrs. Karslake — 
 
 John. That '11 do, Nogam. (Exit No- 
 gam. Pause. John from near the win- 
 dow. Cynthia faces audience.) Well, 
 Cynthia? 
 
 (He speaks almost gravely and with 
 finality. ) 
 
 Cynthia. (Trembling.) Well? 
 
 John. It 's the hour of decision ; are you 
 going to marry him? (Pause.) Speak 
 up! 
 
 Cynthia. Jack, — I — I — 
 
 John. There he is — you can join him. 
 
 (He points to the street.) 
 
 Cynthia. Join Phillimore — and go home 
 — with him — to his house, and Miss Hen- 
 eage and — 
 
 John. The door's open. 
 
 (He points to the door.) 
 
 Cynthia. No, no! It's mean of you to 
 suggest it! 
 
 John. You won't marry — 
 
 Cynthia. Phillimore — no; never. (Runs 
 to window.) No; never, never. Jack. 
 
 John. (He calls out of the window, hav- 
 ing opened it.) It's all right, Judge. 
 You needn't wait. 
 
 (Pause. John comes down. John 
 bursts into laughter. Cynthia looks 
 dazed. He closes door.) 
 
 Cynthia. Jack! (John laughs.) Yes, 
 but I 'm here. Jack. 
 
 John. Why not? 
 
 Cynthia. You '11 have to take me round 
 to the Holland House! 
 
 John. Of course, I will! But, I say 
 Cynthia, there 's no hurry. 
 
 Cynthia. Why, I — I — can't stay here. 
 
 John. No, of course you can't stay here. 
 But you can have a bite, though. (Cyn- 
 
 thia shakes her head. John places the 
 small chair which was upset, next to 
 table.) Oh, I insist. Just look at your- 
 self — you 're as pale as a sheet and — 
 here, here. Sit right down. I insist! 
 By George, you must do it ! 
 
 (Cynthia crosses to chair beside table 
 and sits.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Faintly.) I am hungry. 
 
 John. Just wait a moment. 
 
 (Exit John.) 
 
 Cynthia. I don't want more than a nib- 
 ble! {Pause.) I am sorry to give you 
 so much trouble. 
 
 John. No trouble at all. (He can be 
 heard off the stage, busied with glasses 
 and a tray.) A hansom of course, to 
 take you round to your hotel? 
 
 (Speaking as he comes down.) 
 
 Cynthia. (To herself.) I wonder how I 
 ever dreamed I could marry that man. 
 
 John. (By table by this time.) Can't 
 imagine ! There ! 
 
 Cynthia. I am hungry. Don't forget the 
 hansom. 
 
 (She eats; he waits on her, setting this 
 and that before her.) 
 
 John. (Going to door; opens it and 
 speaks off.) Nogam, a hansom at once. 
 
 Nogam. (Off stage.) Yes, sir. 
 
 John. (Back to above table; from here 
 on he shows his feelings for her.) . How 
 does it go? 
 
 Cynthia. (Faintly.) It goes all right. 
 Thanks! (Hardly eating at all.) 
 
 John. You always used to like anchovy. 
 (Cynthia nods and eats.) Claret? 
 (Cynthia shakes her head.) Oh, but 
 you must! 
 
 Cynthia. (Tremulously.) Ever so little. 
 (He fills her glass and then his.) 
 Thanks ! 
 
 John. Here's to old times. 
 
 (Raising glass.) 
 
 Cynthia. (Very tremulous.) Please not! 
 
 John. Well, here 's to your next hus- 
 band. 
 
 Cynthia. (Very tenderly.) Don't! 
 
 John. Oh, well, then, what shall the toast 
 be? 
 
 Cynthia. I'll tell you — (pause) you can 
 drink to the relation I am to you ! 
 
 John. (Laughing.) Well — what relation 
 are you? 
 
 Cynthia. I 'm your first wife once re- 
 moved ! 
 
 John. (Laughing, he drinks.) I say,. 
 you 're feeling better. 
 
 Cynthia. Lots. 
 
760 
 
 THE NEW YORK IDEA 
 
 John. {Reminiscent.) It's a good deal 
 like those mornings after the races — is n't 
 HI 
 
 Cynthia. (Nodding.) Yes. Is that the 
 hansom? (Half rises.) 
 
 John. {Going up to the window.) No. 
 
 Cynthia. {Sitting again.) What is that 
 sound? 
 
 John. Don't you remember? 
 
 Cynthia. No. 
 
 John. That 's the rumbling of the early 
 milk wagons. 
 
 Cynthia. Oh, Jack. 
 
 John. Do you recognize it now? 
 
 Cynthia. Do I ? We used to hear that — 
 just at the hour, didn't we — when we 
 came back from awfully jolly late sup- 
 pers and things! 
 
 John. H'm! 
 
 Cynthia. It must be fearfully late. I 
 must go. 
 
 {She rises, crosses to chair, where she 
 has left her cloak. She sees that 
 John will not help her and puts it 
 on herself.) 
 
 John. Oh, don't go — why go? 
 
 Cynthia. {Embarrassed ayid agitated.) 
 All good things come to an end, you 
 know. 
 
 John. They don't need to. 
 
 Cynthia. Oh, you don't mean that ! And, 
 you know, Jack, if I were caught — seen 
 at this hour, leaving this house, you 
 know — it 's the most scandalous thing 
 any one ever did my being here at all. 
 Good-bye, Jack! {Pause; almost in 
 tears. ) I 'd like to say, I — I — I — well, 
 I shan't be bitter about you hereafter, 
 and — {Pause.) Thank you awfully, 
 old man, for the fodder and all that ! 
 
 {She turns to go out.) 
 
 John. Mrs. Karslake — wait — 
 
 Cynthia. {Stopping to hear.) Well? 
 
 John. {Serious.) I 've rather an ugly bit 
 of news for you. 
 
 Cynthia. Yes? 
 
 John. I don't believe you know that I 
 have been testing the validity of the de- 
 cree of divorce which you procured. 
 
 'Cynthia. Oh, have you? 
 
 .John. Yes; you know I felt pretty 
 warmly about it. 
 
 •Cynthia. Well? 
 
 John. Well, I 've been successful. 
 {Pause.) The decree 's been declared in- 
 valid. Understand ? 
 
 •Cynthia. {Looking at him a moment; 
 then speaking.) Not — precisely. 
 
 John. (Pause.) I'm awfully sorry — 
 
 I 'm awfully sorry, Cynthia, but, you 're 
 
 my wife still. (Pause.) 
 
 Cynthia. ( With rapture. ) Honor bright ? 
 
 (She sinks into the armchair.) 
 
 John. (Nodding, half laughingly.) Crazy 
 
 country, isn't it? 
 Cynthia. {Nodding. Pause.) Well, 
 
 Jack — what 's to be done ? 
 John. (Gently.) Whatever you say. 
 NoGAM. (Quietly enters.) Hansom, sir. 
 (Exits. Cynthia rises.) 
 John. Why don't you finish your supper? 
 (Cynthia hesitates.) 
 Cynthia. The — the — hansom — 
 John. Why go to the Holland? After 
 
 all — you know, Cyn, you 're at home 
 
 here. 
 Cynthia. No, Jack, I 'm not — I 'm not at 
 
 home here — unless — unless — 
 John. Out with it! 
 Cynthia. (Bursting into tears.) Unless 
 
 I — unless I 'm at home in your heart. 
 
 Jack! 
 John. What do you think? 
 Cynthia. I don't believe you want me to 
 
 stay. 
 John. Don't you? 
 Cynthia. No, no, you hate me still. You 
 
 never can forgive me. I know you can't. 
 
 For I can never forgive myself. Never, 
 
 Jack, never, never! 
 
 (She sobs and he takes her in his 
 arms. ) 
 John. (Very tenderly.) Cyn! I love 
 
 you! (Strongly.) And you've got to 
 
 stay! And hereafter you can chuck 
 
 chairs around till all 's blue ! Not a word 
 
 now. (He draws her gently to a chair.) 
 Cynthia. (Wiping her tears.) Oh, Jack! 
 
 Jack! 
 John. I 'm as hungry as a shark. We '11 
 
 nibble together. 
 Cynthia. Well, all I can say is, I feel 
 
 that of all the improprieties I ever com- 
 mitted this — this — 
 John. This takes the claret, eh? Oh, 
 
 Lord, how happy I am! 
 Cynthia. Now don't say that! You'll 
 
 make me cry more. 
 
 (She wipes her eyes. John takes out 
 
 the wedding ring from his pocket; he 
 
 lifts a wine glass, drops the ring 
 
 into it and offers her the glass.) 
 
 John. Cynthia ! 
 
 Cynthia. (Looking at it and wiping her 
 
 eyes.) What is it? 
 John. Benedictine ! 
 Cynthia. Why, you know I never take 
 
 it. 
 
LANGDON MITCHELL 
 
 761 
 
 John. Take this one for my sake. 
 Cynthia. That 's not benedictine. ( With 
 
 gentle curiosity.) What is it? 
 John. (He slides the ring out of the glass 
 
 and puts his arm about Cynthia. He 
 slips the ring on to her finger and, as he 
 kisses her hand, says.) Your wedding 
 ring! 
 
THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 BY 
 
 Augustus Thomas 
 
Copyright, 1916, by Augustus Thomas 
 All Rights Resee\'ed 
 
 Reprinted hy permission of Mr. Augustus Thomas. 
 
THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 The Witching Hour represents the play that reflects a phase of modern in- 
 terest, in this case telepathy. It also represents Mr. Thomas's work in the most 
 significant period, so far, of his career. Augustus Thomas was born in St. Louis, 
 Missouii, January 8, 1859, the son of Dr. Elihu B. Thomas. His father was as- 
 sociated with the theatre, being director for a time of the St. Charles Theatre in 
 New Orleans. Mr. Thomas tells us, in his brief reminiscences, that after his 
 father returned to St. Louis in 1865, Dr. Thomas told him much concerning the 
 actors with whom he had come in contact. Augustus Thomas was taken to the 
 theatre early in his life and has grown up in its atmosphere. He was educated 
 in the public schools of St. Louis, was a page in the Forty-first Congress and up 
 to his twenty-second year was in the service of the freight department of various 
 railroads, where, he tells us, he learned much about human nature. Later on, he 
 became a special writer on newspapers in St. Louis, Kansas City, and New York, 
 and was for a time editor and proprietor of the Kansas City Mirror. 
 
 He began to write plays when he was fourteen years old. By the time he 
 was seventeen he had organized an amateur company which he took on circuit. 
 It was at this time that such early efforts as Alone (1875), or A Big Rise (1875), 
 his earliest plays known by name, were written. In 1882 he dramatized Mrs. 
 Burnett's Editha's Burglar, and organized a professional company which he took 
 around the country playing this and other plays. In 1887 a four-act play by the 
 title of The Burglar became a success in New York and from that time Mr. 
 Thomas has devoted himself to play writing. He is now the Art Director of the 
 Charles Frohman interests. 
 
 Mr. Thomas has written fifty-two plays. He stands in our drama for literary 
 craftsmanship combined with practical knowledge of the stage and for a serious 
 interest in the furtherance of dramatic progress. His work is not the result of 
 accidental inspiration, but he has proceeded on a basis of logical deduction from 
 observed facts to an establishment of fundamental principles in dramatic con- 
 struction. His art is native, too; his first significant play, Alabama, produced 
 April 1, 1891, at the Madison Square Theatre, New York, had as its theme the 
 reunited country. In Mizzoura (1893) pictured in a less significant though 
 amusing manner the customs of that State. Arizona, produced first, June 12, 
 1899, at Hamlin 's Grand Opera House, Chicago, is a better play than any of the 
 ones which preceded it, and Mr. Thomas may be said to have entered into his most 
 significant period with this play. It was laid at the time of the Spanish-Amer- 
 ican War, but the war itself was of little significance. The play portrayed Amer- 
 
 765 
 
7fiG INTRODUCTION 
 
 lean life in its picturesque Western form, not the "bad man" type of life, but 
 the real life of the great ranches, with real characters in them. Arizo7ia had a 
 successful London production in 1902. Mr. Thomas produced next some charm- 
 ing comedies, either, like Oliver Goldsmith (1899), an imaginative treatment of 
 literary history, or like The Earl of Pawtucket (1903), or Mrs. LeffingivelVs 
 Boots (1905), clever treatments of modern life. 
 
 The Witching Hour, produced first in Providence, Rhode Island, November 
 16, 1907, and at the Hackett Theatre, New York City, November 18, 1907, is 
 probably Mr. Thomas 's greatest play. It represents the next phase of his work, 
 the study of modern modes of interest. One would call them ''problems," ex- 
 cept that the word suggests an element that is absent from Mr. Thomas's plays. 
 The central theme of the play, the influence of human minds through the strength 
 of suggestion, had been with Mr. Thomas for many years. Incidents that had 
 proved to him the possibility of such suggestions had occurred in his early days 
 w^hen he was managing companies in the AYest, and he waited till the time was 
 ripe and public interest was ready. In As a Man Thinks, he treated the rela- 
 tions of the modern American husband and wife, and put into dramatic form the 
 real reason for the prevalence of the so-called double standard of morality. It 
 is a sane and wholesome play, for it not only deals with this question without 
 morbidity or suggestiveness, but also shows the futility of race antagonism and 
 calls attention to the permanent force of character, through the masterly por- 
 trait of "Dr. Seelig." 
 
 A list of Mr. Thomas's plays checked as to dates by the playwright for the 
 present editor includes the following, those starred being adaptations of other 
 material: Alo7ie (1875), A Big Rise (1875), Editha's ^Burglar (1883), A New 
 Year's Call (1884), Tl\e Burglar (1887), A Proper Improprietij (1888), A 
 Night's Frolic (1888), The Music Box (1888), A Man of the World (1889), 
 A Woman of the World {1889) , Afterthoughts (1890), The Outside Man (1890), 
 Reckless Temple (1890) , Alabama (1891), Surrender (1892), For Moneij (1892)^ 
 Col. Carter of Cartersville* (1892), In Mizzoura (1893), The Capitol (1894), 
 New Blood (1894), The Man Upstairs (1895), Chimmie Fadden'' (1895), The 
 Jucklins* (1896), The Hoosier Doctor (1898), That Overcoat (1896-1898), The 
 Meddler (1898), Arizoyia (1899), Oliver Goldsmith (1899), Colorado (1901), 
 Soldiers of Fortune'' (1902), On the Quiet (1902), The Other Girl (1902), The 
 Earl of Pawtucket (1903), Tlie Education of Mr. Pipp (1903), Delancey 
 (1904), The Embassy Ball (1905), Mrs. Leffingiveirs Boots (1905), The Ranger 
 (1907), The Witching Hour (1907), The Harvest Moon (1909), The Matinee 
 Idol (1909), The Memler from Ozark (1910), As a Man Thinks (1911), At 
 Bay (1911), with George Scarborough, Mere Man (1912), The Model (1912), 
 Indian Summer (1913), The Battle Cry* (1914), Rio Grande (1915), The 
 Copperhead (1918), Palmy Days (1919), Speak of the Devil (1920). 
 
 Arizona and Alabama have been published by the Dramatic Publishing Com- 
 
INTRODUCTION 767 
 
 pany, As a Man Thinks by Duffield. The Witching Hour appeared in The 
 Greatest Contemporary Dramatists, edited by T. H. Dickinson. Samuel French 
 has published The Witching Hour, Oliver Goldsmith, In Mizzoura, Mrs. Leffing- 
 welVs Boots, The Other Girl, and The Earl of Pawtucket. 
 
 A brief autobiographical sketch appears in The Outlook, Vol. 94, pp. 213-14, 
 January 22, 1910. For a thorough analysis of Mr. Thomas's plays, see William 
 Winter, The Wallet of Time, Vol. 2, pp. 529-557. See also W. P. Eaton, The 
 American Stage of Today (1908), "pp. 27-44, which contains an analysis of The 
 Witching Hour. A sketch of the plot is given in Current Literature, Vol. 46, 
 pp. 544-551, May, 1909 ; and a criticism of the first performance in The Theatre, 
 Vol. 8, p. 2, 1908. 
 
 The present text has been revised especially for this edition by Mr. Thomas, 
 to whom the editor is indebted for permission to reprint it. 
 
THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Hackett Theatre, New York City, November 18, 1907 
 In the order of their first appearance 
 
 Jo, a servant Mr. S. E. Hines 
 
 Jack Brookfield, professional gambler Mr. John j\Iason 
 
 Tom Denning Mr. Freeman Barnes 
 
 Harvey, a servant Mr. Thomas C. Jackson 
 
 Mrs. Alice Campbell, Jack's sister Miss Ethel Winthrop 
 
 Mrs. Helen "Whipple, Clay's mother Mrs. Jeanne Eustace 
 
 Viola Campbell Miss Adelaide Nowak 
 
 Clay Whipple Mr. Morgan Coman 
 
 Frank Hardmuth Mr. George Nash 
 
 Lew Ellinger Mr. William Sampson 
 
 Justice Prentice Mr. Russ Whytal 
 
 Justice Henderson IMr. E. I. Walton 
 
 Colonel Bayley Mr. Harry Hadfield 
 
 Mr. Emmett, a reporter Mr. Fawnesgaines 
 
THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene. The library and card-room at 
 Jack Brookfield's, Louisville: 
 
 There is a large doorway in the center, at 
 the back, which leads into a hallway, in 
 which the banister of a stairway that 
 descends to the street level is seen. A 
 second and smaller doorway is near the 
 front in the wall to the left of the stage. 
 This doorway leads to the dining-room. 
 The second plan of the left wall is occu- 
 pied by a fireplace and mantel, sur- 
 mounted by a marine painting. The 
 fireplace is surrounded by a garde au feu 
 club seat. 
 
 The rest of the left wall, as well as the rear 
 wall on both sides of the center door and 
 all of the right wall, is fitted with book- 
 cases about five feet high, in which are 
 books handsomely bound. 
 
 The walls above these bookcases are hung 
 with heavy brocaded Genoese velvet of a 
 deep maroon in color and loosely draped. 
 The ceiling is of carved wood, gilded. 
 On the wall velvet, at proper intervals, 
 are paintings by celebrated modern art- 
 ists. Some of these paintings are fitted 
 with hooded electric lights. Such a fit- 
 ting is above a noticeable Corot, which 
 hangs to the right of the center door. 
 
 A dark-red rug of luxuriant thickness is on 
 the floor. The furniture is simple, mas- 
 sive, and Colonial in type. It consists 
 of a heavy sofa above the fireplace and 
 running at right angles to the wall. A 
 heavy table fitted with books is in the 
 center; a smaller table for cards is at the 
 stage, right. Chairs are at both tables. 
 
 Above the center door is a marble bust of 
 Minerva, surmounted by a bronze raven, 
 lacquered black, evidently illustrating 
 Poe^s poem. The Antommarchi death- 
 mask of Napoleon in bronze liangs on 
 the dark wood fireplace. A bronze mask 
 of Beethoven is on one of the bookcases 
 and on another is a bust of Dante. A 
 bronze Sphinx is on another bookcase. 
 
 The room is lighted by a standing lamp at 
 the back and by the glow from the fire- 
 
 place. Over the table, center, is sus- 
 pended an electric lamp in a large bronze 
 shade. This lamp, while not lighted, is 
 capable of being turned on by a push 
 button, which depends from it. 
 
 On the table, center, is a large paper-cutter 
 made of an ivory tusk. 
 
 Empty stage. After a pause there is a 
 sound of laughter and dishes, left. 
 
 (Enter Jo, sleek negro of Pullman car va- 
 riety, by stairway and center door. He 
 goes to door, left, and pauses — laughter 
 ceases.) 
 
 Jo. Massar Brookfield. 
 
 Jack. (Outside, left.) Well, Jo? 
 
 Jo. Mr. Denning, sah. 
 
 Jack. Ask Mr. Denning to come up. 
 
 Jo. Yes, sah. 
 
 (Exit center. More talk and laughter, 
 left.) 
 
 (Jack enters left. He walks to center on 
 way toward main door. Pauses. Re- 
 turns, left.) 
 
 Jack. (At door, left.) Lew! I say — 
 Lew — you ladies excuse Mr. Ellinger a 
 moment ? 
 
 Helen, Alice, Viola. (Outside.) Oh — 
 yes. Certainly. 
 
 (Enter Lew Ellinger, from dining-room, 
 left.) 
 
 Lew. See me? 
 
 Jack. Tom Denning 's here — he expects a 
 game. My sister and Mrs. Whipple ob- 
 ject to the pasteboards — so don't men- 
 tion it before them. 
 
 Lew. (Anxiously.) Not a word — but, 
 Tom—? 
 
 Jack. I '11 attend to Tom. 
 
 Lew. Good. 
 
 (Starts back to dining-room.) 
 
 (Enter Tom Denning, right center; he is 
 fat, indolent type.) 
 
 Tom. Hello, Lew. (Lew stops and turns. 
 Jack motions him out and Lew goes,) 
 
 769 
 
770 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 What you got to-night? Young Rocke- 
 feller? 
 
 Jack. Some ladies — 
 
 Tom. {Grinning.) What — 
 
 Jack. (Sternly.) My sister and her 
 daughter — and a lady friend of theirs. 
 
 Tom. {Disappointed.) — No game? 
 
 Jack. Not until they go. 
 
 Tom. {Getting a peek off into dining- 
 room.) Oh — chafing-dish. 
 
 Jack. They Ve been to the opera. — I had 
 Harvey brew them some terrapin. 
 
 Tom. {Complaining.) My luck! 
 
 {His hands hang limp.) 
 
 Jack. No, I think there 's some left. 
 {Pause.) I'm going to take a long 
 chance and introduce you, Tom, only 
 don't say anything about poker before 
 the ladies. 
 
 Tom. Thought you said your sister — 
 
 Jack. I did. 
 
 Tom. Well, she's on, isn't she? 
 
 Jack. But she doesn't like it — and my 
 niece — my niece does n't like it. 
 
 {Enter Harvey, old negro servant, from 
 dining-room, left.) 
 
 Harvey. I 've made some coffee, Mars 
 
 Jack. You have it in the dining-room 
 
 or heah, sah? 
 Jack. {Going.) I'll ask the ladies. 
 Tom. How are you- Harvey? 
 Harvey. {Bowing.) Mars Denning — 
 Jack. {Who has paused at door, left.) 
 
 Got some terrapin for Mr. Denning, 
 
 Harvey? 
 Harvey. Yas, sah. {To Tom.) Yas, 
 
 sah. {Exit Jack, left.) 
 
 Tom. They left some of the rum, too, I 
 
 hope. 
 Harvey. Couldn't empty my ice-box in 
 
 one evening, 'Mars Denning. {Starts 
 
 off. Pause.) De ladies getting up. 
 {Stands up stage in front of fire. 
 Tom goes right. A pause.) 
 
 {Enter Jack.) 
 
 Jack. The ladies will have their coffee in 
 
 here, Harvey. 
 Harvey. Yes, sir. 
 
 {Enter Alice. She is smartly gowned and 
 is energetic.) 
 
 Jack. Alice — tliis is my friend, Mr. Den- 
 ning — my sister — Mrs. Campbell. 
 Alice. Mr. Denning. 
 
 {Enter Helen and Viola. Helen is thor- 
 oughly feminine in type, and is young- 
 
 looking for the mother of a hoy of 
 twenty — Viola is an athletic Kentucky 
 girl.) 
 
 Helen. I never take coffee even after 
 dinner and at this hour — never! 
 
 {Exit Harvey.) 
 
 Jack. Mrs. Whipple, may I present Mr. 
 Denning? 
 
 Helen. {Bowing.) Mr. Denning. 
 
 Tom. Good-evening ! 
 
 Jack. My niece. Miss Viola Campbell. 
 
 Tom. How are you? (Viola bows.) 
 
 Jack. Mr. Denning 's just left the foun- 
 dry and he 's very hungry. 
 
 Tom. And thirsty — 
 
 Jack. {Pushing him toward dining- 
 room.) Yes, and thirsty. Uncle Har- 
 vey 's going to save his life. 
 
 Tom. Ha, ha! Excuse me! {Exit.) 
 
 Alice. The foundry? 
 
 {Sits right of table.) 
 
 Jack. Never did a day's work in his life. 
 That's Tom Denning. {Nods off.) 
 
 Viola. {On sofa at fireplace.) Tom Den- 
 ning 's the name of the big race-horse. 
 
 Jack. Yes — he 's named after the race- 
 horse. 
 
 Helen. {On sofa, beside Viola.) What 
 does he do? 
 
 Jack. His father — father's in the pack- 
 ing business — Kansas City; this fellow 
 has four men shoveling money away 
 from him so he can breathe. 
 
 (Starts toward dining-room.) 
 
 Alice. (In amused protest.) Oh, Jack! 
 
 Jack. Yes — I 'm one of them — you '11 
 find cigarettes in that box. 
 
 Alice. Jack! (Rises.) 
 
 Jack. (Apologizing.) Not you, Alice, 
 but— 
 
 Viola. (Protesting.) Well, certainly not 
 for me, Uncle Jack? 
 
 Jack. Of course, not you . . . 
 
 Helen. Thank you, Mr. Brookfield! 
 
 Alice. (Joining Jack.) My dear brother, 
 you confuse the Kentucky ladies with 
 some of your Eastern friends. 
 
 Jack. Careful, Alice. Helen lived in the 
 East twenty years, remember. 
 
 Helen. But even my husband didn't 
 smoke. 
 
 Jack. No? 
 
 Helen. Never — in his life — 
 
 Jack. In his life? Why make such a 
 pessimistic distinction ? 
 
 (Helen turns away right.) 
 
 Alice. Jack! (After a look to Helen.) 
 How can you say a thing like that? 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 771 
 
 Jack. She's the man's widow — I've got 
 to say it if any one does. 
 
 {Enter Harvey with coffee.) 
 
 Mr. Denning 's got his tortoise, Uncle 
 
 Harvey? 
 Harvey. {Offering tray to Helen.) 
 
 He 's got the same as we all had, Mars 
 
 Jack. Yas, sah. {Laughs.) 
 
 Helen. None, thank you. 
 
 (Harvey moves. on.) 
 Jack. I '11 take it. Uncle Harvey. I 
 
 think three or four of them '11 help this 
 
 head of mine. 
 Alice. {Taking coffee.) Why don't you 
 
 let Viola cure your headache? 
 Viola. {Taking coffee.) Yes, Uncle Jack. 
 Jack. No, the coffee '11 fix it, I 'm sure. 
 
 {Exit Harvey.) 
 Viola. Sit here while you drink it. 
 Jack. No — no, Viola. It isn't enough 
 
 for that. I '11 conserve your mesmeric 
 
 endowment for a real occasion. 
 
 {Swallows coffee in one mouthful.) 
 Viola. Goodness! Just to please me? 
 Jack. {Shaking head.) Don't want to 
 
 spoil your awful stories. 
 
 {Exit to dining-room.) 
 
 Helen. Is Viola a magnetic healer, too? 
 
 {Sits right of table.) 
 
 Viola. {Taking a hook, and returning to 
 
 the sofa, carrying also a large ivory tusk 
 
 paper-cutter.) Oh, no. 
 Alice. {Sitting left of table.) Yes — a re- 
 markable one. 
 Viola. Only headaches, Mrs. Whipple. 
 
 Those I crush out of my victims. 
 Helen. I remember Jack used to have 
 
 a wonderful ability that way as a young 
 
 man. 
 Viola. He says only with the girls. 
 Alice. We know better, don't we? 
 Helen. Yes. 
 Viola. Well, for myself, I 'd rather have 
 
 Uncle Jack sit by me than any regular 
 
 physician I ever saw. 
 Helen. You mean if you were ill? 
 Viola. Of course. 
 Alice. You must be very clear with Mrs. 
 
 Whipple on that point, Viola, because 
 
 she used to prefer your Uncle Jack to 
 
 sit by her, even when she was n't ill. 
 Helen. {To Viola.) But especially 
 
 when ill, my dear. {To Alice.) And 
 has he quit it? 
 Alice. Yes — you know Jack went into 
 
 politics for a while. 
 Helen. Did he? 
 Alice. Local politics — yes — something 
 
 about the police didn't please him and 
 then he quft all of his curative work. 
 
 Helen. Why? 
 
 Alice. Well, in politics, I believe there 's 
 something unpleasant about the word 
 "heeler." 
 
 Helen. Oh ! 
 
 Viola. Entirely different spelling, how- 
 ever. 
 
 Helen. Our English language is so elastic 
 in that way. 
 
 Alice. Yes, the papers joked about his 
 magnetic touch. The word "touch" is 
 used offensively also. So Jack dropped 
 the whole business. 
 
 Helen. And Viola inherits the ability? 
 
 Alice. Well, if one can inherit ability 
 from an uncle. 
 
 Helen. From a family. 
 
 Alice. That's even more generous, but 
 Viola is like Jack in every way in which 
 a girl may resemble a man. Horses and 
 boats and every kind of personal risk — 
 and — 
 
 Viola. {Bises.) I'm proud of it. 
 
 Alice. And Jack spoils her. 
 
 Viola. Am I spoiled? 
 
 {Goes to back of table.) 
 
 Alice. He couldn't love her more if he 
 were her father — 
 
 {Enter Clay, a boy of twenty.) 
 
 Clay. {Pausing at door.) May I come 
 in? 
 
 Viola. Certainly. 
 
 Clay. Isn't this a jolly room, mother? 
 
 Helen. Beautiful. 
 
 Clay. {Waving hand above.) And the 
 sleeping apartments are what I take 
 pride m. Private bath to every bed- 
 room, reading-lamps just ovei* the pil- 
 lows — 
 
 Viola. Haven't you seen the house, Mrs. 
 Whipple? 
 
 Helen. Not above this floor. 
 
 Alice. Would it interest you? 
 
 {Rises and goes left.) 
 
 Helen. Very much. 
 
 Alice. {At door of dining-room.) Jack — 
 
 Jack. {Outside.) Yes — 
 
 Alice. {To Helen.) Will I do as your 
 guide? 
 
 Helen. {Rises.) Oh, yes. 
 
 {Enter Jack.) 
 
 Alice. I want to show Helen over the 
 
 house. 
 Jack. Do. 
 Alice. The rooms are empty? 
 
772 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Jack. Empty, of course. 
 
 Alice. Don't be too indignant, they're 
 not always empty. (To Helen.) In 
 Jack's house one is liable to find a be- 
 lated pilgrim in any room. 
 
 Helen. (Laughing.) And a lady walk- 
 ing in unannounced would be something 
 of a surprise, wouldn't she? 
 
 Jack. Well — two ladies would, certainly. 
 
 Alice. Jack ! 
 
 Jack. My dear sister — they would. Hard 
 lines when the reputation of a man's 
 house is n't respected by his own sister — 
 ha! 
 
 (Exit left, with mock indignation.) 
 
 Helen. [Smiling.) The same Jack. 
 
 Alice. Intensified and confirmed! (Paus- 
 ing at door.) Will you come, too, Vi- 
 ola? 
 
 Viola. No, thank you, mother. 
 
 (Helen looks at Alice. She and 
 Alice go.) 
 
 Clay. What was Frank Hardmuth say- 
 ing to you. 
 
 (He indicates the dining-room.) 
 
 Viola. When? 
 
 Clay. At supper — and in the box at the 
 theater, too? 
 
 Viola. Oh — Frank Hardmuth — nobody 
 pays any attention to him. 
 
 Clay. I thought you paid a great deal of 
 attention to what he was saying. 
 
 Viola. In the same theater party a girl 's 
 got to listen — or leave the box. 
 
 Clay. Some persons listen to the opera. 
 
 Viola. I told him that was what I wanted 
 to do. 
 
 Clay. Was he making love to you, Viola? 
 
 Viola. I shouldn't call it that. 
 
 Clay. Would anybody else have called it 
 that if they 'd overheard it ? 
 
 Viola. I don't think so. 
 
 Clay. Won't you tell me what it was 
 about? 
 
 Viola. I don't see why you ask. 
 
 Clay. I asked because he seemed so much 
 in earnest — and because you seemed so 
 much in earnest. 
 
 Viola. Well? 
 
 Clay. And Frank Hardmuth 's a fellow 
 that'll stand watching. (Looks off left.) 
 
 Viola. (Smiling.) He stood a good deal 
 to-night. 
 
 Clay. I mean that he 's a clever lawyer 
 and would succeed in making a girl com- 
 mit herself in some way to him before 
 she knew it. 
 
 Viola. I think that depends more on th§ 
 way the girl feels. 
 
 Clay. Well — I don't want you to listen 
 to Frank Hardmuth under the idea tiiat 
 he 's the only chance in Kentucky. 
 
 Viola. Why, Clay Whipple— 
 
 Clay. You know very well I 've been 
 courting you myself, Viola, don't you? 
 
 Viola. You have n't. You 've been com- 
 ing round like a big boy. 
 
 Clay. (Follows right.) Have I gone with 
 any other girl — anywhere? 
 
 Viola. I don't know. (Sits right.) 
 
 Clay. And I 've spoken to your Uncle 
 Jack about it. 
 
 Viola. To Uncle Jack? 
 
 Clay. Yes. 
 
 Viola. (Eises.) Nobody told you to 
 speak to Uncle Jack. 
 
 Clay. Mother did. 
 
 Viola. Your mother? 
 
 Clay. Yes. Mother's got regular old- 
 fashioned ideas about boys and young 
 ladies and she said, "if you think Viola 
 likes you, the honorable thing to do is to 
 speak to her guardian first." 
 
 Viola. Oh! — you thought that, did you? 
 
 Clay. I certainly did. 
 
 Viola. I can't imagine why. 
 
 Clay. I thought that because you 're Jack 
 Brookfield's niece, and nobody of his 
 blood would play a game that is n't fair. 
 
 Viola. I wish you would n't always throw 
 that up to me. (Goes to sofa.) 'T is n't 
 our fault if Uncle Jack 's a sporting 
 man. (Sits.) 
 
 Clay. (Following.) Why, Viola, I was 
 praising him. I think your Uncle Jack 
 the gamest man in Kentucky. 
 
 Viola. Nor that either. I don't criticize 
 my Uncle Jack, but he 's a lot better man 
 than just a fighter or a card-player. I 
 love him for his big heart. 
 
 Clay. So do I. If I 'd thought you cared 
 I 'd have said you were too much like 
 him at heart to let a fellow come 
 a-courtin' if you meant to refuse him — 
 and that was all that was in my mind 
 when I asked about Frank Hardmuth — 
 and I don't care what Hardmuth said 
 either, if it was n't personal that way. 
 
 Viola. Frank Hardmuth 's nothing to me. 
 
 Clay. And he won't be? (Pause.) Will 
 he — ? (Pause.) Say that. Because 
 I 'm awfully in love with you. 
 
 Viola. Are you? 
 
 Clay. You bet I am. Just Tom-fool heels 
 over head in love with you. 
 
 Viola. You never said so. 
 
 Clay. Mother said a boy in an arcliitect's 
 office had better wait till he was a part- 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 773 
 
 ner — but I can't wait, Viola, if other 
 fellows are pushing me too hard. 
 
 Viola. (Rises.) Uncle Jack says you are 
 a regular architect if there ever was 
 one. 
 
 Clay. It 's what you think that makes the 
 difference to me. 
 
 Viola. Well, I think — (Pause) — ^Uncle 
 Jack certainly knows. 
 
 Clay. And an architect 's just as good as 
 a law>"er. 
 
 Viola. Every bit. 
 
 Clay. Viola. (Takes her in Ms arms.) 
 
 Viola, Now — I don't mind tellin' you — 
 he was speakin' for himself — Frank 
 Hardmuth. 
 
 Clay. By Jove — on this very night. 
 
 Viola. Yes. 
 
 Clay. Seems like the Hand of Providence 
 that I was here. Let 's sit down. (They 
 sit.) You've got confidence in me, 
 haven't you? 
 
 Viola. Yes — l\e always said to mother 
 — Clay Whipple '11 make his mark some 
 day — I should say I had confidence in 
 you. 
 
 Clay. Huh. (Laughs.) Of course the 
 hig jobs pay. Things like insurance 
 buildings — but my heart 's in domestic 
 architecture — and if you don't laugh at 
 me, I '11 tell you something. 
 
 Viola. Laugh at you — about your work 
 and your ambition! Why, Clay! 
 
 Clay. I do most of the domestic interiors 
 for the firm already — and w^ienever I 
 plan a second floor or a staircase I can 
 see you plain as day walkin' through the 
 rooms — or saying good-night over the 
 banisters. 
 
 Viola. Really? (Clay nods.) You mean 
 in your mind? 
 
 Clay. Xo, with my eyes. Domestic ar- 
 chitecture 's the most poetic work a man 
 can get into outside of downright poetry 
 itself. 
 
 Viola. It must be if you can see it all 
 that way. 
 
 Clay. Every room — I can see your short 
 sleeves as you put your hands on the 
 banisters — and sometimes you push up 
 your front hair with the back of your 
 hand that way — (Brushes his forehead.) 
 
 Viola. Oh, this — (Repeats the gesture.) 
 — all girls do that. 
 
 Clay. But not just the same way as you 
 do it. Yes, sir! I can see every little 
 motion you make. 
 
 Viola. Whenever you care to think about 
 
 Clay. Bless -^ you, no — that 's the trouble 
 of it. 
 
 Viola. What trouble? 
 
 Clay. The pictures of you — don't come 
 just when I want them to come — and 
 they don't go when I want them to go — 
 especially in the dark. 
 
 Viola. Why, how funny. 
 
 Clay. Sometimes I 've had to light the gas 
 in order to go to sleep. 
 
 Viola. Why, I never heard of anything 
 like that. 
 
 Clay. Well, it happens with me often. I 
 designed this room for your Uncle Jack 
 — but before I put a brush in my color- 
 box I saw this very Genoese velvet and 
 the picture frames in their places — and 
 that Corot right there — I 've got kind of 
 a superstition about that picture. 
 
 Viola. (Rises.) A superstition! 
 
 (Regards the Corot.) 
 
 Clay. I said to Jack, have anything else 
 you want on the other walls, but right 
 there I want you to put a Corot that 
 I 've seen at a dealer's in New York — 
 and he did it. 
 
 Viola. Uncle Jack generally has his own 
 way about pictures. 
 
 Clay. I only mean that he approved my 
 taste in the matter — but my idea of this 
 house really started with — and grew 
 around that canvas of Corot's. 
 
 Viola. Then it isn't always me that you 
 see? 
 
 Clay. Always you when I think about a 
 real house, you bet — a house for me — 
 and you '11 be there, won't you ? 
 
 (Takes her in his arms.) 
 
 Viola. Will I? 
 
 Clay. Yes— say, "I will." 
 
 Viola. I will. 
 
 (Reenter Alice and Helen.) 
 
 Alice. (Astonished.) Viola i 
 
 (Viola goes left.) 
 Clay. I 've asked her — mother. 
 Alice. Helen, you knew? 
 Helen. Yes. 
 Clay. (To Alice.) And I asked Jack, 
 
 too. 
 Alice. You mean — 
 Clay. We 're engaged — if you say it 's 
 
 all right. 
 Alice. And you — Viola? 
 Viola. (Nodding.) Yes — 
 Alice. (Going to chair left of table.) 
 
 Well, if Jack 's been consulted and you 
 
 all know of it — I should make a very 
 
 hopeless minority. 
 
774 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Clay. Why any minority? 
 
 Alice. Only the necessary considerations. 
 {To Helen.) Clay's prospects — his 
 youth. 
 
 Viola. Why, he designs most of the work 
 for his firm now. 
 
 Clay. That is, dwellings. 
 
 Helen. I should advise waiting — myself 
 — until Clay is in the firm — {To Clay.) 
 And I did advise delay in speaking to 
 Viola herself. 
 
 Clay. I 'd 'a' waited, mother, only Frank 
 Hardmuth proposed to Viola to-night I 
 
 Alice. To-night? 
 
 Viola. At the opera. 
 
 Alice. {To Helen.) One isn't safe any- 
 where. 
 
 Clay. You wouldn't want Mm! So you 
 do consent, don't you? 
 
 Alice. I think your mother and I should 
 talk it over. 
 
 Clay. Well, it's a thing a fellow doesn't 
 usually ask his mother to arrange, but — 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 Viola. You mean privately? 
 
 Alice. Yes. 
 
 Clay. We can go to the billiard room, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Viola. Come on. 
 
 Clay. {At the center door with Viola.) 
 
 You know, mother — how I feel about it. 
 
 {Exit with Viola.) 
 
 Helen. I supposed you had guessed it. 
 
 {Sits right of table.) 
 
 Alice. I had — but when the moment 
 arrives after all, it 's such a surprise that 
 a mother can't act naturally. 
 
 Helen. Clay is really very trustworthy 
 for his years. 
 
 Alice. There 's only one thing to discuss. 
 I have n't mentioned it because — well, be- 
 cause I 've seen so little of you since it 
 began and because the fault is in my own 
 family. 
 
 Helen. Fault? 
 
 Alice. Yes — Jack's fault — {Pause.) Clay 
 is playing. 
 
 Helen. You mean — 
 
 Alice. Here with Jack's friends. 
 
 Helen. Clay gambling! 
 
 Alice. ( Wincing. ) I don't quite get used 
 to the word, though we 've had a life- 
 time of it — {Sits left of table.) gam- 
 bling. 
 
 Helen. I should n't have thought Jack 
 would do that — with my boy. 
 
 Alice. Jack has n't our feminine view- 
 point, Helen — and, besides, Jack is cal- 
 loused to it. 
 
 Helen. You should have talked to Jack 
 yourself. 
 
 Alice. Talked to him? I did much more 
 — that is, as much more as a sister de- 
 pendent on a brother for support could 
 do. You know Jack really built this 
 place for me and Viola. 
 
 Helen. I 'd thought so — yes. 
 
 Alice. Viola is the very core of Jack's 
 heart — well, we both left the house and 
 went into our little apartment and are 
 there now. A woman can't do much 
 more than that and still take her living 
 from a man, can she? 
 
 Helen. No — 
 
 Alice. And it hurt him — ^hurt him past 
 any idea. 
 
 Helen. You did that because my Clay 
 was — was playing here? 
 
 Alice. Not entirely Clay — everybody! 
 {Pause — a distant burst of laughter 
 comes from the men in the dining-room.) 
 There is n't a better-hearted man nor an 
 abler one in the State than Jack Brook- 
 field, but I had my daughter to consider. 
 There were two nights under our last 
 city government when nothing but the 
 influence of Frank Hardmuth kept the 
 police from coming to this house and ar- 
 resting everybody — think of it. 
 
 Helen. Dreadful — 
 
 Alice. Now, that 's something, Helen, that 
 I would n't tell a soul but you. Viola 
 does n't know it — but Jack's card-playing 
 came between you and him years ago and 
 you — may know it. {Rises and looks to- 
 ward dining-room.) You may even have 
 some influence with Jack. 
 
 Helen. I — ah, no. 
 
 Alice. Yes — this supper to-night was 
 Jack's idea for you. The box at the 
 opera for you. 
 
 Helen. Why, Jack didn't even sit with 
 us. 
 
 Alice. Also — for you — Jack Brookfield 
 is a more notable character in Louisville 
 to-day than he was twenty-two years ago. 
 His company would have made you the 
 subject of unpleasant comment. That 's 
 why he left us alone in the box. 
 
 Helen. Is n't it a pity — a terrible pity ! 
 {Laughter off left. Helen rises.) 
 
 {Enter Hardmuth, Jack, Denning, and 
 Lew. Hardmuth is the aggressive 
 prosecutor.) 
 
 Hardmuth. I tell the gentlemen we've 
 left the ladies to themselves long enough, 
 Mrs. Campbell. 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 775 
 
 Alice. Quite long enough, Mr. Hardmutli. 
 
 Denning. Where 's the young lady *? 
 Jack's niece? 
 
 Helen. In the billiard room, I believe. 
 
 Denning. {To Helen, disappointed.) 
 Oh — Jack 's been telling us what a great 
 girl she is. 
 
 Hardmuth. Some of us knew that with- 
 out being told. 
 
 ^Denning. And she 's wonderfully like, you 
 — wonderfully. 
 
 Helen. You compliment me — 
 
 Jack. Are you under the impression 
 you're speaking to Viola's mother? 
 
 Denning. Ain't I? 
 
 Jack. This lady is Mrs. Whipple. 
 
 Denning. Oh, Clay's mother? (Helen 
 bows.) Well, your boy, Mrs. Whipple, 
 plays in the hardest luck of all the people 
 I ever sat next to. 
 
 Helen. You mean — 
 
 Jack. (Interrupting and putting his arm 
 about Denning.) You depreciate your- 
 self, Tom. There 's no hard luck in 
 merely sitting next to you. 
 
 Denning. Ha, ha. 
 
 Helen. (To Alice.) I think Clay and 1 
 should be going. 
 
 Jack. (Consulting his watch.) Oh, no — 
 only a little after twelve and no one ever 
 goes to sleep here before tv/o. (T^ Pen- 
 ning.) I told you to keep still about 
 card games. 
 
 Denning. I meant unlucky at billiards. 
 They're all right, ain't they? 
 
 Jack. Oh — (Walks away impatiently.) 
 
 Denning. Let's go and see the young 
 lady play billiards with Clay. (To 
 Alice.) I can see now your daughter 
 resembles you. 
 
 (Moves up with Alice toward door. 
 Lew follows.) 
 
 Jack. Shall we join them? 
 
 Helen. I 'd like it. 
 
 (Jack and Helen start up.) 
 
 Hardmuth. Jack! Just a minute. 
 
 Jack. (To Helen.) Excuse me — 
 
 Denning. (To Alice as they go.) No, 
 Kansas City 's my home, but I don't live 
 there. (Exit with Alice.) 
 
 Jack. Be right in, Lew. 
 
 (Exit Helen with Lew.) 
 Well, Frank— 
 
 Hardmuth. I took advantage of youi 
 hospitality, old man, to-night. 
 
 Jack. Advantage ? 
 
 Hardmuth. Yes — I 've been talking to 
 your niece. 
 
 Jack. Oh! 
 
 Hardmuth. Proposed to her. 
 Jack. Yes? 
 Hardmuth. Yes, Jack. 
 
 (Enter Jo at back, from, downstairs.) 
 
 Jo. A gentleman called you on the tele- 
 phone, sah. 
 
 Jack. (Regarding watch.) f^ho? 
 
 Jo. Judge Brennus — name sounds like. 
 Holdin' the wire, sah. 
 
 Jack. I don't know any Judge Brennus. 
 
 Jo. Says you don't know him, sah, but 
 he 's got to leave town in the mornin' 
 and he 'd be very much obliged if you 'd 
 see him to-night. 
 
 Jack. Did you tell him we were dark to- 
 night? 
 
 Jo. He did n't want no game. It 's about 
 a picture — a picture you 've got. 
 
 Jack. A picture? 
 
 Jo. He wants to look at it. 
 
 (Jack looks at Hardmuth.) 
 
 Hardmuth. It 's a blind. 
 
 Jack. (Consulting watch.) Well, this is 
 a good night to work a blind on me. 
 (To Jo.) Tell the gentleman I '11 be up 
 for half an hour. 
 
 Jo. Yes, sah. (Exit.) 
 
 Jack. So you proposed to Yiola? 
 
 Hardmuth. Yes. How do you feel about 
 that? 
 
 Jack. You know the story of the bar- 
 keeper asking the owner, ''Is Grad^' good 
 for a drink?"— "Has he had it?"— "He 
 has."— "He is." 
 
 Hardmuth. Just that way, eh? Jack 
 nods. ) Well — she has n't answered me. 
 
 Jack. (Musing.) Ha — 
 
 Hardmuth. And under those conditions, 
 how 's Grady's credit with you ? 
 
 Jack. Well, Frank, on any ordinary prop- 
 osition you 're aces with me. You know 
 that. 
 
 Hardmuth. (Seated right of table.) But 
 for the girl? 
 
 Jack. It 's different. 
 
 Hardmuth. Why ? 
 
 Jack. She 's only nineteen — you know. 
 
 Hardmuth. My sister married at eight- 
 een. 
 
 Jack. I mean you 're thirty-five. 
 
 Hardmuth. That's not an unusual dif- 
 ference. 
 
 Jack. Not an impossible difference, but 
 I think unisual — and rather unadvisable. 
 
 Hardmuth. That 's what you think. 
 
 Jack. That 's what I think. 
 
 Hardmuth. But suppose the lady is will- 
 ing to giv^e that handicap? (Pause — 
 
776 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Jack shrugs his shoulders.) What then? 
 Jack. Let 's cross the bridge when we 
 
 come to it. 
 Hardmuth. You mean you 'd still drag a 
 
 little? 
 Jack. {Pause.) Do you think Viola likes 
 
 you well enough to say yes? 
 Hardmuth. Let's cross that bridge when 
 
 we come to it. 
 Jack. We have come to that one, Frank. 
 
 There 's another man in the running and 
 
 I think she likes him. 
 Hardmuth. You mean young Whipple? 
 
 {Rises, goes to fireplace.) Well, he took 
 
 second money in the box party to-night 
 
 — at the supper table, too. I '11 agree 
 
 to take care of him, if you 're with me. 
 Jack. {At table, center.) I think he's 
 
 your biggest opposition. 
 Hardmuth. But you. Can I count on 
 
 you in the show-down? 
 Jack. {Pause. Sits right of table.) If 
 
 Viola did n't care enough for you, Frank. 
 
 to accept you in spite of everything, I 
 
 shouldn't try to influence her in your 
 
 favor. 
 
 {Enter Lew, center, from left.) 
 
 Lew. I think a bum game of billiards is 
 about as thin an entertainment for the 
 outsiders as "Who 's got the button ?" 
 
 Hardmuth. {Meeting Lew up left cen- 
 ter. ) I 've got a little business, Lew, 
 with Jack for a minute. 
 
 Lew. Well, I can sit in by the bottle, 
 can't I? {Moves towards dining-room.) 
 
 Jack. Help yourself, Lew. 
 
 Lew. Such awful stage waits while they 
 chalk their cues. {Exit left.) 
 
 Hardmuth. But you wouldn't try to in- 
 fluence her against me. 
 
 Jack. {Pause.) She's about the closest 
 thing to me there is — that niece of mine. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Pause.) Well? 
 
 Jack. I 'd protect her happiness to the 
 limit of my ability. 
 
 Hardmuth. If she likes me — or should 
 come to like me — enough — her — happi- 
 ness would be with me, would n't it ? 
 
 {Sits again.) 
 
 Jack. She might think so. 
 
 Hardmuth. Well? 
 
 Jack. But she 'd be mistaken. It would 
 be a mistake, old chap. 
 
 HARDiiUTH. I know twenty men — twelve 
 to fifteen years older than their wives — 
 all happy — wives happy, too. 
 
 Jack. 'T is n't just that. 
 
 Hardmuth. What is it? 
 
 Jack. She 's a fine girl — that niece of 
 mine — not a blemish. 
 
 Hardmuth. Well — 
 
 Jack. I want to see her get the best — • 
 tiie very best — in family — position — 
 character — 
 
 Hardmuth. Anything against the Hard- 
 muths? (Jack shakes head.) I'm as- 
 sistant district attorney — and next trip 
 I '11 be the district attorney. 
 
 Jack. I said character. 
 
 Hardmuth. Character? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Hardmuth. You mean there's anything 
 against my reputation? 
 
 Jack. Xo — I mean character pure and 
 simple — I mean the moral side of you! 
 
 Hardmuth. Well, by God! 
 
 Jack. You see, I 'm keeping the girl in 
 mind all the time. 
 
 Hardmuth. My morals! 
 
 Jack. Let 's say your moral fiber. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Bises.) Well, for richness 
 this beats anything I 've struck. Jack 
 Brookfi.eld talking to me about my moral 
 fiber! {Goes toward fire.) 
 
 Jack. You asked for it. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Returns aggressively.) Yes 
 — I did, and now I 'm going to ask for 
 the show-down. What do you mean by 
 it? 
 
 Jack. {With fateful repression.) I mean 
 — as long as you 've called attention to 
 the "richness" of Jack Brookfield talk- 
 ing to you on the subject — that Jack 
 Brookfield is a professional gambler — 
 people get from Jack Brookfield just 
 what he promises — a square game. Do 
 you admit that? 
 
 Hardmuth. I admit that. Go on. "^ 
 
 Jack. {Rises, front of table.) You're 
 the assistant prosecuting attorney for the 
 city of Louisville; the people don't get 
 from you just what you promised — not 
 by a jugful— 
 
 Hardmuth. I 'm the assistant prosecut- 
 ing attorney, remember — I promised to 
 assist in prosecution, not to institute it. 
 
 Jack. I expect technical defense, old man, 
 but this w^as to be a show-down. 
 
 Hardmuth. Let 's have it — I ask for par- 
 ticulars. 
 
 Jack. Here 's one. You play here in my 
 house and you know it 's against the law 
 that you 've sworn to support. 
 
 Hardmuth. I '11 support the law when- 
 ever it 's invoked. Indict me and I '11 
 plead guilty. 
 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 777 
 
 Jack. This evasion is what I mean by 
 lack of moral fiber. 
 
 Hardmuth. Perhaps we 're a little shy 
 somewhere on mental fiber. 
 
 Jack. You make me say it, do you, 
 Frank? Your duty, at least, is to keep 
 secret the information of your office; 
 contrary to that duty you 've betrayed 
 the secrets of your office to w^arn me and 
 other men of this city when their game 
 was in danger from the police. 
 
 Hardmuth. You throw that up to me? 
 
 Jack. {Sits on left end of table.) Throw 
 nothing — you asked for it. 
 
 Hardmuth. I stand by my friends. 
 
 Jack. Exactly — and you Ve taken an oath 
 to stand by the people. 
 
 Hardmuth. Do you know any sure poli- 
 tician that does n't stand by his friends ? 
 
 Jack. Not one. 
 
 Hardmuth. Well, there! 
 
 Jack. But I don't know any sure politi- 
 cian that I 'd tell my niece to marry. 
 
 Hardmuth. That 's a little too fine-haired 
 for me! {Turns to fire.) 
 
 Jack. I think it is. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Returns.) I '11 bet you a 
 thousand dollars I 'm the next prosecut- 
 ing attorney of this city. 
 
 Jack. I '11 take half of that if you can 
 place it. I '11 bet even money you 're 
 anything in politics that you go after 
 for the next ten years. 
 
 Hardmuth. Then I don't understand your 
 kick. 
 
 Jack. But I '11 give odds that the time '11 
 come when you 're way up there — full 
 of honor and reputation and pride — that 
 somebody '11 drop to you, Frank, and 
 flosh! You for the down and outs. 
 
 Hardmuth. Rot ! 
 
 Jack. It 's the same in every game in 
 the world — the crook either gets too gay 
 or gets too slow, or both, and the "come 
 on" sees him make the pass. I 've been 
 pallbearer for three of the slickest men 
 that ever shuffled a deck in Kentucky — 
 just a little too slick, that 's all — and 
 they 've always got it when it was hard- 
 est for the family. 
 
 Hardmuth. So that '11 be my finish, will 
 itf 
 
 Jack. Sure. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Going hack of table.) You 
 like the moral fiber of this Whipple kid? 
 
 Jack. I don't know. 
 
 {Crosses to fireplace.) 
 
 Hardmuth. Weak as dishwater. 
 
 Jack. I don't think so. 
 
 Hardmuth. *I '11 do him at any game you 
 name. 
 
 Jack. He 's only a boy — you should. 
 
 Hardmuth. I '11 do him at this game. 
 
 Jack. What game? 
 
 Hardmuth. The girl! I thought I could 
 count on you because — well, for the very 
 tips you hold against me ; but you 're 
 only her uncle, old man, after all. 
 
 {Swaggers down right.) 
 
 Jack. That 's all. 
 
 Hardmuth. And if she says "yes" — 
 
 Jack. Frank! {Comes to front of table. 
 Pause. The men confront each other.) 
 Some day the truth '11 come out — as to 
 who murdered the governor-elect of this 
 State. 
 
 Hardmuth. Is there any doubt about 
 that? 
 
 Jack. Isn't there? 
 
 Hardmuth. The man who fired that shot 's 
 in jail. 
 
 Jack. I don't want my niece mixed up in 
 it. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Angrily.) What do you 
 mean by that? 
 
 {Enter Helen, center. An awkward 
 pause.) 
 
 The young people still playing? 
 
 Helen. Yes. 
 
 Hardmuth. I '11 look 'em over. (;Exit. ) 
 
 Helen. Won't you come, too? 
 
 Jack. I 'd rather stay here with you. 
 
 Helen. That gentleman that called after 
 supper — 
 
 Jack. Mr. Denning — 
 
 Helen. Yes. He seems to take pleasure 
 in annoying Clay — 
 
 Jack. {Seriously.) Yes — I know that 
 side of Denning {Goes to door of din- 
 ing-room.) Lew! 
 
 Lew. Yes. 
 
 Jack. I wish you 'd go into the billiard 
 room and look after Tom Denning. 
 
 Lew. {Entering left.) What 's he doing ? 
 (Jack turns to Helen.) 
 
 Helen. ( To Jack. ) Commenting humor- 
 ously — hiding the chalk and so on. 
 
 Lew. {As he goes up.) Lit up a little I 
 suppose. 
 
 Jack. {Nodding.) Just "ride herd" ^ on 
 him. {Exit Lew.) 
 
 Helen. {Going left to sofa.) He does n't 
 seem much of a gentleman, this Mr. Den- 
 ning. 
 
 Jack. He wasn't expected fo-night. 
 
 1 "Take care of," in the sense of a cowboy who 
 rounds up the herd and keeps them, out of mischiei. 
 
778 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Helen. Is lie one of your ''clients"? 
 
 Jack. {Smiling.) One of my '^clients''? 
 
 Helen. Clay meets liim here'/ 
 
 Jack. Yes — has met him here. 
 
 Helen. I did n't think you 'd do that — 
 Jack — with my boy. 
 
 Jack. Do what? 
 
 Helen. Gamble. 
 
 Jack. (Smiling.) It's no gamble with 
 your boy, Helen — sure thing. He has n't 
 won a dollar! 
 
 Helen. I 'm glad you 're able to smile 
 over it. 
 
 Jack. Perhaps it w^ould be more humor- 
 ous to you if he 'd won. 
 
 Helen. If he plays — I 'd rather see him 
 win, of course. 
 
 Jack. (Beside sofa.) That's what puts 
 me in the business — winning. The thing 
 that makes every gambler stick to it is 
 winning occasionally. I 've never let 
 your boy get up from the table a dollar 
 to the good and because he vxxs your 
 boy. 
 
 Helen. Why let him play at all? 
 
 Jack. He '11 play somewhere till he gets 
 sick of it — or marries. 
 
 Helen. Will marriage cure it? 
 
 Jack. It would have cured me — but you 
 didn't see it that w^ay. 
 
 Helen. You made your choice. 
 
 Jack. I asked you to trust me — you 
 wanted some ironclad pledge — well, my 
 dear Helen — that was n't the best way to 
 handle a fellow of spirit. 
 
 (Goes front of table.) 
 
 Helen. So you chose the better way? 
 
 Jack. No choice — I stood pat — that 's all. 
 
 Helen. And wasted your life. 
 
 Jack. (Sitting on edge of table.) That 
 depends on how you look at it. You 
 married a doctor who wore himself out 
 in the Philadelphia hospitals. I 've had 
 three meals a day — and this place — and 
 — a pretty fat farm and a stable with 
 some good blood in it — and — 
 
 Helen. (Coming to him.) And every 
 one of them. Jack, is a monument to the 
 worst side of you. 
 
 Jack. (Stands and takes her hands; he 
 smiles.) Prejudice, my dear Helen. 
 You might say that, if I 'd earned these 
 things in some respectable business com- 
 bination that starved out all its little 
 competitors — but I 've simply furnished 
 a fairly expensive entertainment — to 
 eminent citizens — looking for rest. 
 
 Helen. I know all the arguments of your 
 — profession — Jack, and I don't pretend 
 
 to answer them any more than I answer 
 the arguments of reckless women who 
 claim that they are more commendable 
 than their sisters w4io make loveless mar- 
 riages. 
 
 Jack. (Goes to chair , right.) I'm not 
 flattered by the implied comparison — 
 still— 
 
 Helen. I only feel sure that anything 
 which the majority of good people con- 
 demn is wrong. (Sits left of table.) 
 
 Jack. (Sits right of table.) I 'm sorry — 
 
 Helen. I 'd be glad if you meant that— 
 but you 're not sorry. 
 
 Jack. I am sorry — I 'm sorry not to have 
 pubhc respect — as long as you think it 's 
 valuable. 
 
 Helen. I amuse you — don't I? 
 
 Jack. (Elbows on knees.) Not a little 
 bit — but you make me blue as the devil, 
 if that 's any satisfaction. 
 
 Helen. I 'd be glad to make you blue as 
 the devil. Jack, if it meant discontent 
 with what you 're doing — if it could 
 make you do better. 
 
 Jack. I 'm a pretty old leopard to get 
 nervous about my spots. 
 
 Helen. Why are you blue? 
 
 Jack. You. 
 
 Helen. In what way? 
 
 Jack. I had hoped that twenty years of 
 charitable deeds had made you also chari- 
 table in your judgment. 
 
 Helen. I hope it has. 
 
 Jack. Don't seem to ease up on my 
 specialty. 
 
 Helen. You called your conduct "wild 
 oats" twenty years ago. 
 
 Jack. It was — but I found such an ex- 
 cellent market for my wild oats that I 
 had to stay in that branch of the grain 
 business. Besides, it has been partly 
 your fault, you know. 
 
 CHelen plays with the ivory paper- 
 knife, balancing it on the front edge 
 of table.) 
 
 Helen. Mine? 
 
 Jack. Your throwing me over for my 
 wild oats — put it up to me to prove that 
 they were a better thing than you 
 thought. 
 
 Helen. Well — having demonstrated that — 
 
 Jack. Here we are — 
 
 Helen. Yes — here we are. 
 
 Jack. Back in the old town. Don't you 
 think it would be rather a pretty finish, 
 Helen, if despite all my — my leopard's 
 spots — and despite that — (pause) — that 
 Philadelphia episode of yours — 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 779 
 
 Helen. You call twenty years of mar- 
 riage episodic? 
 
 Jack. I call any departure from the main 
 story episodic. 
 
 Helen. And the main story is — 
 
 Jack. You and I — 
 
 Helen. Oh — 
 
 {Paper-knife falls to floor — Jack rises 
 and picks it up, stands in front of 
 table left hand on Helen's — his 
 right gesticulating with paper- 
 knife.) 
 
 Jack. Wouldn't it be a pretty finish if 
 you took my hand and I could walk right 
 up to the camera and say, "I told you 
 so" — ? You know I always felt that 
 you were coming back. 
 
 Helen. Oh, did you? 
 
 Jack. (Playfully, and going right center.) 
 Had a candle burning in the window 
 every night. 
 
 Helen. You're sure it wasn't a red 
 light? 
 
 Jack. (Remonstrating.) Dear Helen! 
 have some poetry in your composition. 
 Literally "red light" of course — but the 
 real flame was here — (hand on breast) — 
 a flickering hope that somewhere — some- 
 how — somewhen I should be at rest — 
 with the proud Helen that loved and — 
 rode away. 
 
 Helen. (Almost accusingly.) I — believe 
 —you. 
 
 Jack. Of course you believe me. 
 
 Helen. You had a way. Jack — when you 
 were a boy at college, of making me 
 write to you. 
 
 Jack. Had I? (Goes back of table.) 
 
 Helen. You know you had — at nights — 
 about this hour — I 'd find it impossible 
 to sleep until I 'd got up and written to 
 you — and two days later I 'd get from 
 you a letter that had crossed mine on 
 the road. I don't believe the word "tel- 
 epathy" had been coined then — but I 
 guessed something of the force — and all 
 these years, I 've felt it — nagging ! Nag- 
 ging! 
 
 Jack. Nagging ? 
 
 Helen. Yes — I could not keep you out 
 of my waking hours — out of my thought 
 — but when I surrendered myself to sleep 
 the call would come — and I think it was 
 rather cowardly of you, really. 
 
 Jack. (Back of table.) I plead guilty 
 to having thought of you, Helen — lots 
 — and it was generally when I was 
 alone — late — my — clients gone. This 
 room — 
 
 "WhosQ lights are fled, 
 Whose garlands dead, 
 And all but he departed." 
 
 Helen. And as you say — here we are. 
 
 Jack. Well, what of my offer? Shall 
 we say to the world — "We told you so?" 
 What of my picturesque finish? 
 
 Helen. You know my ideas — ^you Ve 
 known them twenty-two years. 
 
 Jack. No modification? 
 
 Helen. None ! 
 
 Jack. I '11 be willing to sell the tables. 
 (Points above to second floor.) And — 
 well — I don't think I could get interested 
 in this bridge game that the real good 
 people play — would you object to a gen- 
 tleman's game of "draw" now and then? 
 
 Helen. You called it a gentleman's game 
 in those days. 
 
 Jack. No leeway at all? 
 
 Helen. No compromise, Jack — no — 
 
 Jack. M — (Pause.) I trust you won't 
 consider my seeming hesitation uncom- 
 plimentary ? 
 
 Helen. Not unprecedented, at least. 
 
 Jack. You see it opens up a new line of 
 thought — and — 
 
 (Passing his hand over forehead.) 
 
 Helen. (Rising in sympathy.) And you 
 have a headache, too — it is n't kind I 'm 
 
 sure. 
 
 (Enter Jo. 
 
 Jack. Oh, nothing — nothing. (To Jo.) 
 
 Well? 
 Jo. That gentleman, sah, about the pic- 
 ture. 
 Jack. I'll see him. (Exit Jo.) 
 
 Helen. A caller? 
 
 Jack. Won't be a minute — don't go away, 
 because I think we can settle this ques- 
 tion to-night, you and I. 
 Helen. Please don't put me in the light 
 
 of waiting for an answer. 
 Jack. Dear Helen— we 're both past that 
 — are n't we ? If I can only be sure that 
 I could be worthy of you. I 'm the one 
 that 's waiting for an answer — from m}'' 
 own weak character and rotten irresolu- 
 tion. 
 
 (Jack goes with Helen to door, cen- 
 ter, kisses her hand. She goes; 
 Jack retains her hand as long as 
 possible and when he lets it go, it 
 falls limply to Helen's side as she 
 disappears. ) 
 They say cards make a fellow supersti- 
 tious. (Pause.) Well — I — guess they 
 do— 
 
7^6 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 {Enter Jo and Justice Prentice. Pren- 
 tice wears overcoat, carries cane and silk 
 hat.) 
 
 Jack. Judge de Brennus? 
 
 Prentice. {After amused look at Jo.) 
 Justice Prentice. {Exit Jo.) 
 
 Jack. Oh, Justice Prentice! Good-even- 
 ing! 
 
 Prentice. You are Mr. Brookfield? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Prentice. I shouldn't have attempted so 
 late a call but that a friend pointed you 
 out to-night at the opera, Mr. Brookfield, 
 and said that your habit was — well — 
 
 Jack. Not to retire immediately? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Jack. Will you be seated? 
 
 Prentice. I 'm only passing through the 
 city. I called to see a Corot that I 
 understand you bought from Knoedler. 
 
 Jack. That 's it. 
 
 Prentice. Oh — thank you. {Starts.) 
 You don't object to my looking at it? 
 
 Jack. Not at all. 
 
 {Touches button, light shows on pic- 
 ture.) 
 
 Prentice. {After regard.) That^s it. 
 {Pause.) I thought at one time that I 
 would buy this picture. 
 
 Jack. You know it, then? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. {Pause.) Are you par- 
 ticularly attached to it, Mr. Brookfield? 
 
 Jack. {Sitting.) I think not irrevocably. 
 {Takes pad of paper and figures me- 
 chanically.) 
 
 Prentice. Oh. {Pause, during which the 
 Justice looks at the picture.) Do I 
 understand that is what you paid for it, 
 or what you intend to ask me for it ? 
 
 (Jack starts.) 
 
 Jack. What? 
 
 Prentice. Sixty-five hundred. 
 
 Jack. {Astonished.) I didn't speak the 
 price, did I? 
 
 Prentice. Didn't you — oh. {Pause.) I 
 could n't pay that amount. 
 
 Jack. {Puzzled.) That 's its price — how- 
 ever. 
 
 Prentice. I regret I did n't buy it from 
 the dealer when I had my chance. 
 {Looks about at other pictures on back 
 wall.) I could n't have given it so beau- 
 tiful a setting, Mr. Brookfield, nor such 
 kindred — but it would not have been 
 friendless — {At fireplace.) That's a 
 handsome marine. 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Prentice. Pretty idea I read recently in 
 
 an essay of Dr. van Dyke's. His pic- 
 tures were for him his windows by which 
 he looked out from his study onto the 
 world. {Pause.) Yes? 
 
 Jack. Quite so. 
 
 Prentice. {Regarding a picture over dinr- 
 ing-room door.) M — Washington! 
 
 Jack. {Again astonished.) What? 
 
 Prentice. My home is Washington — I 
 thought you asked me? 
 
 Jack. No, I didn't. 
 
 Prentice. I beg your pardon — 
 
 Jack. {Front of table; aside.) But I^m 
 damned if I was n't going to ask him. 
 
 Prentice. {Viewing other pictures.) And 
 the phases of your world, Mr. Brook- 
 field, have been very prettily multi- 
 plied. 
 
 Jack. Thank you — may I olfer you a ci- 
 gar? {Opens box on table.) 
 
 Prentice. Thank you, I won't smoke. 
 
 Jack. Or a glass of wine? 
 
 Prentice. Nothing. I '11 return to the 
 hotel — first asking you again to excuse 
 my untimely call. 
 
 Jack. I wish you 'd sit down awhile. 
 
 Prentice. But I didn't know until IM 
 
 missed it from Knoedler's how large a 
 
 part of my world — my dream world — I 
 
 had been looking at through this frame. 
 
 {Regards the Corot again.) 
 
 Jack. Well, if it 's a sentimental matter, 
 Mr. Justice, we might talk it over. 
 
 Prentice. I mustn't submit the senti- 
 mental side of it, Mr. Brookfield, and 
 where I have so — so intruded. 
 
 Jack. That 's the big side of anything for 
 me — the sentimental. 
 
 Prentice. I 'm sure of it — and I must n't 
 take advantage of that knowledge. 
 
 Jack. You're sure of it? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Jack. Is that my reputation? 
 
 Prentice. I don't know your reputation. 
 
 Jack. Then, how are you sure of it? 
 
 Prentice. {Impressively.) Oh — I see 
 you — and — well, we have met. 
 
 Jack. Ah — 
 
 Prentice. Good-night. {Going up.) 
 
 Jack. One moment. {Pause.) You said 
 your address was Washington? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Jack. You thought at the time I was 
 about to ask you that question? 
 
 Prentice. I thought you had asked it. 
 
 Jack. And you tliought a moment before 
 I had said sixty-five hundred for the pic- 
 ture? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 781 
 
 Jack. Do you often — pick answers that 
 way? 
 
 Prentice. Well, I think we all do — at 
 times. 
 
 Jack. We all do? 
 
 Prentice. Yes — but we speak the an- 
 swers only as we get older and less atten- 
 tive and mistake a person's thought for 
 his spoken word. 
 
 Jack. A person's thought? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Jack. Do you mean you know what I 
 think? 
 
 Prentice. {Returning to table.) I hadn't 
 meant to claim any monopoly of that 
 power. It 's my opinion that every one 
 reads the thoughts of others — that is, 
 some of the thoughts. 
 
 Jack. Every one? 
 
 Prentice. Oh, yes. 
 
 Jack. That I do? 
 
 Prentice. (Regarding him.) I should 
 say you more generally than the majority 
 of men. 
 
 Jack. There was a woman said some- 
 thing like that to me not ten minutes 
 ago. 
 
 Prentice. A woman would be apt to be 
 conscious of it. 
 
 Jack. You really believe that — that 
 stuff? {Sits left of table.) 
 
 Prentice. Oh, yes — and I 'm not a pio- 
 neer in the belief. The men who de- 
 clare the stuff most stoutly are scientists 
 who have given it most attention. 
 
 Jack. How do they prove it? 
 
 Prentice. They don't prove it — that is, 
 not universally. Each man must do that 
 for himself, Mr. Brookfield. 
 
 Jack. How — 
 
 Prentice. {Pause. Smiles.) Well, I'll 
 tell you all I know of it. {Becoming 
 serious.) Every thought is active — that 
 is, born of a desire — and travels from 
 us — or it is born of the desire of some 
 one else and comes to us. We send them 
 out — or we take them in — that is all. 
 
 Jack. How do we know which we are do- 
 ing? 
 
 Prentice. If we are idle and empty- 
 headed, our brains are the playrooms for 
 the thought of others — frequently rather 
 bad. If we are active, whether benevo- 
 lently or malevolently, our brains are 
 workshops — power-houses. 1 was pass- 
 ively regarding the pictures; your active 
 idea of the price — registered, that 's all 
 — so did your wish to know where I was 
 from. 
 
 Jack. You say ^'our brains" — do you still 
 include mine? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Jack. You said mine more than the ma- 
 jority of men's. 
 
 Prentice. I think so. 
 
 Jack. Why has n't this whatever it is — 
 effect — happened to me, then? 
 
 Prentice. It has. 
 
 Jack. {Pause.) Why didn't I know it? 
 
 Prentice. Vanity ? Perhaps. 
 
 Jack. Vanity? 
 
 Prentice. Yes — often some — friend has 
 broached some independent subject and 
 you have said, "I was just about to speak 
 of that myself." 
 
 Jack. Very often, but — 
 
 Prentice. Believing the idea was your 
 own — your vanity shut out the probably 
 proper solution — that it was his. 
 
 Jack. Well, how, then, does a man tell 
 which of his thoughts are his own? 
 
 Prentice. It 's difficult. Most of his idle 
 ones are not. When we drift we are 
 with the current. To go against it or to 
 make even an eddy of our own we must 
 swim — Most everything less than that 
 is hopeless. 
 
 Jack. (Smiling.) Well — I haven't been 
 exactly helpless. 
 
 Prentice. No one would call you so, 
 Mr. Brookfield. (Going.) You have a 
 strong psychic — a strong hypnotic abil- 
 ity. 
 
 Jack. (Smiling.) You think so? 
 
 Prentice. I know it. 
 
 Jack. This business? 
 
 (Makes slight pass after manner of 
 the professional hypnotist.) 
 
 Prentice. (Smiling.) That business for 
 the beginner, yes — 
 
 Jack. You mean that I could hypnotize 
 anybody ? 
 
 Prentice. Many persons — yes — but I 
 would n't do it if I were you — 
 
 Jack. Why not? 
 
 Prentice. Grave responsibility. 
 
 Jack. In what way? 
 
 Prentice. (Pause. Smiles.) I'll send 
 you a book about it — if I may. 
 
 Jack. Instructions ? 
 
 Prenitce. And cautions — yes — (Goes 
 up to picture again.) If you tire of 
 your Corot, I 'd be glad to hear from 
 you. 
 
 Jack. Why could n't I save postage by 
 just thinJcing another price? 
 
 Prentice. The laws on contracts haven^t 
 yet recognized that form of tender. 
 
782 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 (Enter Tom, center. He laughs and shows 
 signs of drink.) 
 
 Tom. I say, Jack — here 's the greatest 
 joke you ever saw — (Sees the Justice.) 
 Oh, excuse me. 
 
 (Enter Lew, following.) 
 
 Lew. That won't do, Tom. — (To Jack.) 
 Excuse me. Jack, but I had to get him 
 out of there. 
 
 Jack. I '11 go downstairs with you, Mr. 
 Justice. (Exit with the Justice.) 
 
 Tom. Who's that old bird? 
 
 Lew. You '11 oif end Jack if you 're not 
 careful, Tom. You 've got half a jag 
 now. 
 
 Tom. J' ever see anything 's as funny as 
 that? He don't like my scarf -pm — ha, 
 ha — well I don't like it — but my valet 
 put it on me and what 's difference — 
 
 (Enter Hardmuth.) 
 
 Hardmuth. What was that? 
 
 Tom. My scarf-pin! 
 
 Hardmuth. Scarf-pin ? 
 
 Tom. Yes — he pushed me away from him 
 and I said what 's matter. He said I 
 don't like your scarf-pin — ha, ha — I said 
 don't? I don't Hke your face. 
 
 Lew. Very impolite with the ladies there. 
 
 Hardmuth. WTiy should he criticize 
 Tom's scarf-pin? 
 
 Tom. 'Zactly. I said I can change my 
 scarf-pin — but I don't like your face. 
 
 (Enter Clay from dining-room, excitedly.) 
 
 Clay. Where's Jack? 
 
 Lew. Saying good-night to some old gen- 
 tleman below. 
 
 Tom. (Interposing as Clay starts up left 
 center.) And I don't like your face. 
 
 Clay. That 's all right, Mr. Denning. 
 (Tries to pass.) Excuse me. 
 
 Tom. (With scarf-pin in hand.) Excuse 
 me. What 's the matter with that scarf- 
 pin? 
 
 Clay. It 's a cat's-eye and I don't like 
 them, that 's all — I don't like to look at 
 them. 
 
 Lew. Let him alone, Tom. 
 
 Tom. Damn 'f 'ee ain't scared of it, ha, 
 ha! 
 
 (Pushing pin in front of Clay's face.) 
 
 Clay. (Greatly excited.) Don't do that. 
 
 Hardmuth. (Sneering.) 'T won't bite 
 you, will it? 
 
 Clay. (Averts his face.) Go away, I tell 
 you. 
 
 Tom. (Holds Clay with left hand. Ha? ' 
 
 pin in right.) 'Twill bite him — bow-- 
 
 wow — wow — 
 Clay. Don't, I tell you — don't. 
 Tom. (Still holding him.) Bow — wow — 
 
 wow — 
 Lew. Tom ! 
 
 Hardmuth. (Laughing.) Let them alone. 
 Clay. Go away. 
 Tom. Bow — wow — 
 
 (Enter Jack.) 
 
 Jack. What 's the matter here ? 
 Tom. (Pursuing Clay.) Wow — 
 
 (Clay in frenzy swings the large ivory 
 paper-knife from table, blindly 
 strikes ToM, who falls.) 
 Jack. Clay ! 
 
 Clay. (Horrified.) He pushed that hor- 
 rible eat's-eye right against my face. 
 Jack. What cat's-eye? 
 Hardmuth. (Picks up the pin which 
 Denning has dropped.) Only playing 
 with him — a scarf-pin. 
 Lew. (Kneeling by Denning.) He's 
 out. Jack. 
 
 (Enter Jo.) 
 
 Clay. I did n't mean to hurt him ; really 
 
 I didn't mean that. 
 Hardmuth. (Taking the paper-cutter 
 
 /rom Clay.) The hell you did n't. You 
 
 could kill a bull with that ivory tusk. 
 Jack. Put him on the window seat — give 
 
 him some air. 
 
 (Enter Alice, left center.) 
 Alice. Jack, we 're going now — all of us. 
 
 (Enter Harvey.) 
 Jack. (Turning to Alice.) Wait a min- 
 ute. (To Jo.) Help Mr. Ellinger 
 there. "- 
 
 (Jo, Lew, and Harvey carry off Tom 
 into the dining-room.) 
 Alice. What is it? 
 Jack. An accident — keep Helen and Viola 
 
 out of these rooms. 
 Alice. Hadn't we better go? Clay is 
 
 with us. 
 Clay. I can't go just now, Mrs. Camp- 
 bell — (Looks off.) I hope it isn't seri- 
 ous — I didn't mean to hurt him, really. 
 
 (Exit left.) 
 Alice. A quarrel? 
 
 (Lew enters and waves hand, meaning "All 
 over.") 
 
 Hardmuth. (With paper-knife.) A mur- 
 der! 
 
 (Enter Helen and Viola.) 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 783 
 
 Viola. What's the matter? 
 (Enter Clay.) 
 
 Clay. (In panic and up right center. To 
 Helen.) Oh, mother, I've killed him. 
 
 Helen. [Taking Clay in her arms.) 
 Killed him — whom? 
 
 Hardmuth. Tom Denning. 
 
 Clay. But I never meant it — Jack; I just 
 struck — struck wild. 
 
 Hardmuth. With this. 
 
 Helen. With that! Oh, my boy! 
 
 Jack. That will do! Everybody — Lew, 
 telephone Dr. Monroe it's an emergency 
 case and to come in dressing-gown and 
 slippers. (Exit Lew, right center.) 
 Alice, I know you 're not afraid of a sick 
 man — or — that sort of thing. Help me 
 and Jo. {Leads Alice, left. She braces 
 herself.) Viola, you take Mrs. Whipple 
 upstairs and w^ait there. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Starting up right.) I '11 
 notify the police. 
 
 Helen. Oh ! 
 
 Jack. {Interposing.) Stop! You '11 stay 
 just where you are! 
 
 Hardmuth. You tryin' to hide this thing ? 
 
 Jack. The doctor '11 tell us exactly what 
 this thing is. And then the boy '11 have 
 the credit himself of notifying the police. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene. The library-living room of Jus- 
 tice Prentice, Washington, D. C. 
 
 The walls of this room are bookcases 
 glassed quite to the ceiling, and filled 
 with books mostly in sheepskin binding. 
 This array is broken by a large bay win- 
 dow at the back, center, which is 
 equipped with a window seat, and by 
 two doors near the front of the stage, 
 one on the right and one on the left. 
 
 At the left is also a fireplace with a log 
 fire. In the upper left-hand corner of 
 the room there is a buffet, fitted with 
 glasses and decanters. A dark rug is on 
 the floor. 
 
 The furniture of the room is dark oak in 
 Gothic. It consists of a table and three 
 chairs at the center, sofa and smaller 
 table up right. The smaller table holds 
 a lamp. 
 
 Over the buffet there is a small canvas by 
 Rousseau showing a sunset. 
 
 Justice Prentice and Judge Henderson 
 are playing chess, 
 
 Henderson. * Checkmate in three moves. 
 
 Prentice. I don't see that. 
 
 Henderson. Well, Knight to — 
 
 Prentice. Yes, yes, I see. Checkmate in 
 three moves. That 's one game each. 
 Shall we play another? 
 
 Henderson. Let us look at the enemy. 
 {Draws watch.) By Jove! Quarter of 
 twelve. I guess Mrs. Henderson will be 
 expecting me soon. {Pause.) I'll play 
 a rubber with you, and its result shall 
 decide your position on the Whipple 
 case. 
 
 Prentice. Why, Mr. Justice, I 'm sur- 
 prised at you. A United States Su- 
 preme Court decision — shaped by a 
 game of chess. We '11 be down to the 
 level of the intelligent jurymen soon — 
 flipping pennies for the verdict. 
 
 Henderson. And a very good method in 
 just such cases as this. Well, if you 
 won't play — {rises) — I'll have to go. 
 
 Prentice. {Rises.) Not without another 
 toddy. 
 
 Henderson. Yes. 
 
 Prentice. {At sideboard up left.) Oh, 
 no. Come, now, don't you like this 
 liquor ? 
 
 Henderson. Immensely. Where did you 
 say you got it? 
 
 Prentice. Kentucky. One lump? 
 
 Henderson. Only one! 
 
 Prentice. My old home, sir, — and a bit 
 of lemon? 
 
 Henderson. A piece of the peel — yes. 
 
 Prentice. They make it there. 
 
 Henderson. I '11 pour the water. 
 
 Prentice. There, there, don't drown me. 
 
 Henderson. My folks were Baptists, you 
 see. What do you say it costs you? 
 
 Prentice. Fifty cents a gallon. 
 
 Henderson. What!! I think I'll take 
 water. {Puts down glass.) 
 
 Prentice. That 's w^hat it cost me. Its 
 value I don't know. An old friend sends 
 it to me. Fifty cents for express. 
 
 Henderson. Oh ! 
 
 Prentice. That 's different, is n't it ? 
 
 Henderson. {Recovers glass.) Very! 
 
 Prentice. He makes it down there. 
 Why, it 's in the same county in which 
 this Whipple murder occurred. 
 
 Henderson. How about that point? We 
 might as well admit it and remand the 
 ease. 
 
 Prentice. No. There 's no constitutional 
 point involved. 
 
 Henderson. A man 's entitled to an open 
 trial 
 
784 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Prentice. Well, Whipple had it. 
 
 Henderson. No, he didn't. They 
 would n't admit the public. 
 
 Prentice. Oh, come now; the court-room 
 was crowded and the Judge refused ad- 
 mission to others — only when there was 
 danger of the floor breaking. 
 
 Henderson. But, my dear Mr. Justice, 
 that would have been all right to limit 
 the attendance — 
 
 Prentice. Well,_ that's all he did. 
 
 Henderson. Only the did it by having the 
 sheriff issue tickets of admission. That 
 placed the attendance entirely in the con- 
 trol of the prosecution and the defense 
 is right in asking a rehearing. 
 
 Prentice. Oh, nonsense! Justice is a 
 little too slow in my old State and I 'm 
 impatient with technical delays. It is 
 two years since they openly assassinated 
 the governor-elect and the guilty man is 
 still at large. 
 
 Henderson. Why should the killing of 
 S covin bear on this case ! 
 
 Prentice. It bears on me. I 'm con- 
 cerned for the fair fame of Kentucky. 
 
 Henderson. Well, if you won't, you 
 won't and there 's an end of it. 
 
 (Rings call hell.) 
 
 Prentice. Have another? 
 
 Henderson. Not another drop. 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Get my coat! 
 
 Prentice. A nightcap. 
 
 Servant. I beg pardon, sir. 
 
 Prentice. Speaking to the Justice. 
 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Henderson. No, I must n't. Mrs. Hen- 
 derson filed her protest against my com- 
 ing home loaded and I 've got to be mod- 
 erate. 
 
 Prentice. Well, if you won't, you won't. 
 
 Henderson. (Front of table, picks up 
 book.) Hello! Reading the Scriptures 
 in your old age? 
 
 Prentice. It does look like a Bible, 
 doesn't it? That's a flexible binding I 
 had put on a copy of Bret Harte. I ad- 
 mire him very much. 
 
 Henderson. I like some of his stuff. 
 
 Prentice. When I get home from the 
 Capitol and you prosy lawyers, I 'm too 
 tired to read Browning and those heavy 
 guns, so I take Bret Harte — very clever, 
 I think; I was reading before you came 
 — (takes book) — "A Newport Romance." 
 Do you know it? 
 
 Henderson. I don't think I do. 
 
 Prentice. It 's about an old house at 
 Newport — that 's haunted — a young girl 
 in the colonial days dies of a broken 
 heart in this house, it seems. Her sweet- 
 heart sailed away and left her — and 
 here 's the way Bret Harte tells of her 
 coming back. (Henderson sits.) Oh, 
 I 'm not going to read all of it to you — 
 only one verse. (Looks at book. — 
 Pause.) Oh, I forgot to tell you that 
 when this chap left the girl he gave her 
 a little bouquet — understand? That's a 
 piece of material evidence necessary to 
 this summing up. 
 
 (Henderson nods. Prentice reads.) 
 
 "And ever since then when the clock strikes 
 
 two, 
 She walks unbidden from room to room, 
 And the air is filled, that she passes 
 
 through, 
 With a subtle, sad perfume. 
 
 The delicate odor of mignonette, 
 The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, 
 Is all that tells of her story; yet 
 Could she think of a sweeter way?" 
 
 Is n't that charming, eh ? 
 
 Henderson. A very pretty idea. 
 
 Prentice. Beautiful to have a perfume 
 suggest her. I suppose it appeals to me 
 especially because I used to know a girl 
 who was foolishly fond of mignonette. 
 
 Henderson. Well, you don't believe in 
 that stuff, do you? 
 
 Prentice. What stuff? 
 
 Henderson. That Bret Harte stuff — the 
 dead coming back — ghosts and so forth? 
 
 Prentice. Yes, in one way I do. I find 
 as I get older. Judge, that the things of 
 memory become more real every day-^^ 
 every day. Why, there are companions 
 of my boyhood that I haven't thought 
 of for years — that seem to come about 
 me — more tangibly, or as much so as 
 they were in life. 
 
 Henderson. Well, how do you account 
 for that? Spiritualism? 
 
 Prentice. Oh, no. It 's Time's perspec- 
 tive. 
 
 Henderson. Time's perspective? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. (Pause.) I'll have to 
 illustrate my meaning. (Indicates a 
 painting.) Here's a sunset by Rous- 
 seau. I bouglit it in Paris last summer. 
 Do you see what an immense stretch of 
 land there is in it? 
 
 Henderson. Yes. 
 
 Prentice, A bird's-eye view of that 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 785 
 
 would require a chart reaching to the 
 ceiling. But see Rousseau's perspective. 
 The horizon line is n't two inches from 
 the base. 
 
 Hexderson. Well ? 
 
 Prentice. (Returns to table.) Well, my 
 dear Judge, that is the magic in the per- 
 spective of Time. My boyhood's hori- 
 zon is very near to my old eyes now. 
 The dimmer they grow, the nearer it 
 comes, until I think sometimes that when 
 we are through with it all — we go out 
 almost as we entered — little children. 
 
 Henderson". (Pause.) That's a very 
 beautiful painting. Judge — a Russell, 
 you say? 
 
 Prentice. A Rousseau. 
 
 Henderson. Oh — 
 
 Prentice. Yes — cost me three thousand 
 only, and a funny thing about it: the 
 canvas just fitted into the top of my 
 steamer trunk, and it came through the 
 custom-house without a cent of duty, I 
 completely forgot it. 
 
 Henderson. Your memory is n't so re- 
 tentive, then, as it seems? 
 
 Prentice. Not on those commercial mat- 
 ters. 
 
 (Enter Servant with coat. In crossing 
 front of table to Henderson, the coat 
 knocks a miniature from the table to the 
 floor.) 
 
 Prentice. You dropped your tobacco- 
 box, I guess, Mr. Justice. 
 
 Henderson. (Examines pocket.) No. 
 
 Servant. (Picks up miniature.) It was 
 this picture, sir. 
 
 Prentice. My gracious — my gracious! 
 It might have been broken. 
 
 Servant. Oh, it often falls when I 'm 
 dusting, sir. 
 
 Prentice. Oh, does it? Well, I'll put 
 it away. (Exit Servant.) An ivory 
 miniature by Wimar. I prize it highly 
 — old-fashioned portrait, see! Gold 
 back. 
 
 Henderson. A beautiful face. 
 
 Prentice. (Eagerly.) Isn't it? Isn't 
 it? 
 
 (Looks over Henderson's shoulder.) 
 
 Henderson. Very. What a peculiar way 
 of combing the hair — long, and over the 
 ears. 
 
 Prentice. The only becoming way women 
 ever wore their hair. I think the scram- 
 bly style they have now is disgraceful. 
 
 Henderson. Your mother? 
 
 Prentice. Dear, no, a young girl I used 
 
 to know. .Oh, don't smile, she 's been 
 dead a good thirty years — married and 
 had a large family. 
 
 Henderson. Very sweet — very sweet, in- 
 deed. 
 
 Prentice. Isn't it? 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Well? 
 
 Servant. Card, sir. 
 
 Prentice. Gentleman here? 
 
 (Takes card.) 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. 
 
 Prentice. I'll see him. (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Henderson. Call ? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. The man owns a picture 
 that I 've been trying to buy — a Corot. 
 
 Henderson. Oh — another of these per- 
 spective fellows? 
 
 Prentice. Yes — his call does n't surprise 
 me, for he 's been in my mind all day. 
 
 Henderson. Seems to be in a hurry for 
 the money — coming at midnight. 
 
 Prentice. I set him the example — be- 
 sides, midnight is just the shank of the 
 evening for Mr. Brookfield. He 's sup- 
 posed to be a sporting man — ahem. 
 
 (Enter Servant and Jack. Jack is paler 
 and less physical than in first act.) 
 
 Prentice. Good-evening. 
 
 Jack. You remember me, Mr. Justice? 
 
 Prentice. Perfectly, Mr. Brookfield — ^this 
 is Justice Henderson. 
 
 Henderson. Mr. Brookfield. 
 
 Jack. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Justice. 
 ( To Prentice. ) I hope I 'm not intrud- 
 ing. 
 
 Henderson. I 'm just going, Mr. Brook- 
 field. (To Prentice.) To-morrow? 
 
 Prentice. To-morrow ! 
 
 Henderson. (At door, inquiringly.) No 
 constitutional point about it? Eh? 
 
 Prentice. None. 
 
 Henderson. Good-night. 
 
 Prentice. Good-night. (To Jack.) Have 
 a chair. 
 
 Jack. Thank you. 
 
 (Stands by chair left of table.) 
 
 Prentice. (Toward buffet.) I've some 
 medicine here that comes directly from 
 your city. 
 
 Jack. I don't think I will — if you '11 ex- 
 cuse me. 
 
 Prentice. Ah — (Pause. Smiles.) Well, 
 have you brought the picture? 
 
 Jack. The picture is still in Louisville — 
 I — I 'm in Washington with my niece. 
 
 Prentice. Yes ? 
 
786 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Jack. And — a lady friend of hers. 
 They 're very anxious to meet you, Mr. 
 Justice. 
 
 Prentice. Ali. (Pause.) Well — I go to 
 the Capitol at noon to-morrow and — 
 
 Jack. To-night ! — They 're leaving the 
 city to-morrow — as you were when I had 
 the pleasure of receiving you. 
 
 Prentice. I remember. 
 
 Jack. {With watch.) They were to come 
 after me in five minutes if I did n't re- 
 turn, and those five minutes, Mr. Justice, 
 I hoped you would give to me. 
 
 Prentice. With pleasure. 
 
 {Sits right of table.) 
 
 Jack. {Plunging at once into his sub- 
 ject.) Those two books you sent me — 
 
 Prentice. Yes ? 
 
 Jack. I want to thank you for them again 
 — and to ask you how far you go — with 
 the men that wrote them — especially the 
 second one. Do you believe that book? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Jack. You do? 
 
 Prentice. I do. I know the man who 
 wrote it — and I believe him. 
 
 Jack. Did he ever do any of his stunts 
 for you — that he writes about? 
 
 Prentice. He didn't call them "stunts," 
 but he has given me many demonstra- 
 tions of his ability — and mine. 
 
 Jack. For example? 
 
 Prentice. For example? He asked me 
 to think of him steadily at some unex- 
 pected time and to think of some definite 
 thing. A few days later — this room — 
 two o'clock in the morning — I concen- 
 trated my thoughts — I mentally pictured 
 him going to his telephone and calling 
 me. 
 
 Jack. And did he do it? 
 
 Prentice. No — (pause) — but he came 
 here at my breakfast hour and told me 
 that at two o'clock he had waked and 
 risen from his bed — and walked to his 
 'phone in the hallway with an impulse 
 to call me — and then had stopped — be- 
 cause he had no message to deliver and 
 because he thought his imagination 
 might be tricking him. 
 
 Jack. You had n't given him any tip, 
 such as asking him how he 'd slept ? 
 
 Prentice. None. Five nights after that 
 I repeated the experiment. 
 
 Jack. Well? 
 
 Prentice. That time he called me. 
 
 Jack. What did he say? 
 
 Prentice. He said, "Old man, you ought 
 to be in bed asleep and not disturbing 
 
 honest citizens," which was quite true. 
 
 Jack. By Jove, it's a devilish creepy 
 business, isn't it? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Jack. And if it 's so — 
 
 Prentice. And it is so. 
 
 Jack. Pay a man to be careful what he 
 thinks— eh? 
 
 Prentice. It will very well pay your type 
 of man to do so. 
 
 Jack. I don't want to be possessed by any 
 of these bughouse theories, but I '11 be 
 blamed if a few things have n't happened 
 to me, Mr. Justice, since you started me 
 on this subject. 
 
 Prentice. Along this line? 
 
 Jack. Yes. (Pause.) And I've tried 
 the other side of it, too. 
 
 Prentice. What other side? 
 
 Jack. The mesmeric business. (Pause. 
 Makes passes.) 1 can do it. 
 
 Prentice. Then I should say, Mr. Brook- 
 field, that for you the obligation for 
 clean and unselfish thinking was doubly 
 imperative. 
 
 Jack. Within this last year I 've put peo- 
 ple — well — practically asleep in a chair 
 and I 've made them tell me what a boy 
 was doing — a mile away — in a jail. 
 
 Prentice. I see no reason to call clair- 
 voyance a "bughouse" theory. 
 
 Jack. I only know that I do it. 
 
 Prentice. Yes — you have the youth for 
 it — the glorious strength. Does it make 
 any demand on your vitality? 
 
 Jack. (Passes hand over his eyes.) I've 
 fancied that a headache to which I 'm 
 subject is more frequent — that 's all. 
 
 Prentice. But you find the ability — the 
 power — increases — don't you ? 
 
 Jack. Yes — in the last month I 've put a"^ 
 man into a hypnotic sleep with half a 
 dozen waves of the hand. (Makes pass.) 
 
 Prentice. Why any motion? 
 
 Jack. Fixed his attention, I suppose. 
 
 Prentice. (Shaking head.) Fixes your 
 attention. When in your ow^n mind 
 your belief is sufficiently trained, you 
 won't need this. (Another slight pass.) 
 
 Jack. I won't? 
 
 Prentice. No. 
 
 Jack. What'llldo? 
 
 Prentice. Simply think. (Pause.) You 
 have a headache, for example. 
 
 Jack. I have a headache for a fact. 
 
 (Jack again passes hand over eyes 
 and forehead.) 
 
 Prentice. Well — some persons could eure 
 it by rubbing your forehead. 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 787 
 
 Jack. I know that. 
 
 Prentice. Others could cure it by the 
 passes of the hypnotist. Others by sim- 
 ply willing that it should — {pausp) — be 
 cured. 
 
 Jack. Well, that 's where I can't follow 
 you — and your friend tlie author. 
 
 Prentice. You simply think your head- 
 ache. 
 
 Jack. I know it aches. 
 
 Prentice. I think it does n't. 
 
 Jack. (Astonished.) What? 
 
 Prentice. I — think — it does n't. 
 
 Jack. (Pause.) Well, just this moment, 
 it doesn't, but — (pause) — isn't that — 
 simply mental excitement — won't it come 
 back? 
 
 Prentice. It won^t come back to-day. 
 
 Jack. That 's some comfort. The blamed 
 things have made it busy for me since 
 I 've been studying this business. 
 
 Prentice. It is a two-edged sword — 
 
 Jack. You mean it 's bad for a man who 
 tries it? 
 
 Prentice. I mean that it constantly 
 opens to the investigator new mental 
 heights, higher planes — and every man, 
 Mr. Brookfield, is ill in some manner 
 who lives habitually on a lower level — 
 than the light he sees. 
 
 (Enter Servant.) 
 
 Servant. Two ladies, sir. 
 
 Prentice. Your friends ? 
 
 Jack. I think so. 
 
 (Prentice and Jack look at Serv- 
 ant.) 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. 
 
 Prentice. Ask them up. 
 
 (Exit Servant.) 
 
 Jack. Thank you. 
 
 Prentice. (Rises.) I '11 put away Judge 
 Henderson's glass. 
 
 Jack. They 're Kentucky ladies, Mr. Jus- 
 tice. 
 
 Prentice. (Indicating Jack.) But I 
 don't want any credit for a hospitality 
 I have n't earned. 
 
 Jack. I see. 
 
 (Enter Servant with Helen and Viola.) 
 
 Jack. My niece, Miss Campbell. 
 
 Prentice. Miss Campbell. 
 
 Jack. And — 
 
 Helen. One moment, Jack, I prefer to 
 
 introduce myself. 
 Prentice. Won't you be seated, ladies? 
 (Exit Servant. Helen sits right of 
 
 table.' Viola goes to the window- 
 seat. Jack stands center.) 
 
 Helen. You are not a married man. Jus- 
 tice Prentice? 
 
 Prentice. I am not. 
 
 Helen. But you have the reputation of 
 being a very charitable one. 
 
 Prentice. (Sits left of table.) That's 
 pleasant to hear — what charity do you 
 represent ? 
 
 Helen. None. I hardly know how to tell 
 you my object. 
 
 Prentice. It's a personal matter, is it? 
 
 Jack. (Back of table.) Yes, a very per- 
 sonal matter. 
 
 Prentice. Ah ! 
 
 Helen. I have here an autograph book — 
 
 Prentice. (To Jack.) I usually sign 
 my autograph for those who wish it — at 
 the— 
 
 Helen. I did not come for an autograph. 
 Justice Prentice, I have brought one. 
 
 Prentice. Well, I don't go in for that 
 kind of thing very much. I have no col- 
 lection — my taste runs more toward — 
 
 Helen. The autograph I have brought is 
 one of yours, written many years ago. 
 It is signed to a letter. Will you look 
 at it? 
 
 (Opens autograph book and gives 
 small folded and old lace handker- 
 chief from book to Viola, who- joins 
 her.) 
 
 Prentice. With pleasure. (Takes book.) 
 Is this the letter? Ah— (Reads.) 
 "June 15, 1860." Dear me, that's a 
 long time ago. (Reads.) "My dear 
 Margaret: The matter passed satisfac-- 
 torily — a mere scratch. Boland apolo- 
 gized. — Jim." What is this? 
 
 Helen. A letter from you. 
 
 Prentice. And my dear Margaret — 1860* 
 Why, this letter — was it written to Mar- 
 garet ? 
 
 Helen. To Margaret Price — 
 
 Prentice. Is it possible — well — well. 
 (Pause.) I wonder if what we call co- 
 incidences are ever mere coincidences. 
 Margaret Price. Her name was on my 
 lips a moment ago. 
 
 Jack. Really, Mr. Justice? 
 
 Prentice. (To Jack.) Yes. Did you 
 know Margaret Price? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 (Looks at Helen — Prentice's gaze 
 follows.) 
 
 Helen. She was my mother — 
 
 Prentice. Margaret Price was — 
 
 PIelen. Was my mother. 
 
788 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Prentice. Why, I was just -speaking of 
 her to Justice Henderson whom you saw 
 go out. Her picture dropped from the 
 table here. {Gets it.) This miniature! 
 Margaret Price gave it to me herself. 
 And you are her daughter? 
 
 Helen. Yes, Justice Prentice. 
 
 Prentice. Yes, I can see the likeness. 
 At twenty you must have looked very 
 like this miniature. 
 
 {Passes miniature to Helen.) 
 
 Helen. {As Jack and Viola look at min- 
 iature.) I have photographs of myself 
 that are very like this. {To Prentice.) 
 And you were speaking of her just 
 now? 
 
 Prentice. Not five minutes ago. — But 
 be seated, please. (Viola sits again at 
 windoiv.) I'm very delighted to have 
 you call. 
 
 Helen. Even at such an hour? 
 
 Prentice. At any hour. Margaret Price 
 was a very dear friend of mine; and to 
 think, vou 're her daughter. And this 
 letter 1860— what 's this? 
 
 Helen. Oh, don't touch that. It will 
 break. It's only a dry spray of mignon- 
 ette, pinned to the note when you sent 
 it. 
 
 Prentice. {Musingly.) A spray of 
 mignonette. 
 
 Helen. My mother's favorite flower and 
 perfume. 
 
 Prentice. I remember. Well, well, this 
 is equally astonishing. 
 
 Jack. Do you remember the letter, Mr. 
 Justice ? 
 
 Prentice. Perfectly. 
 
 Jack. And the circumstances it alludes 
 to? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. It was the work of a 
 romantic boy. I — I was very fond of 
 your mother, Mrs. — by the way, you 
 have n't told me your name. 
 
 Helen. Never mind that now. Let me 
 be Margaret Price's daughter for the 
 present. 
 
 Prentice. Very well. Oh, this was a lit- 
 tle scratch .of a duel — they 've gone out 
 of fashion now, I 'm thankful to say. 
 
 Helen. Do you remember the cause of 
 this one? 
 
 Prentice. Yes; Henry Boland had wor- 
 ried Margaret some way. She was 
 friglitened, I think, and fainted. 
 
 Helen. And you struck him? 
 
 Prentice. Yes, and he challenged me. 
 
 Helen. I 've heard mother tell it. Do 
 you remember what frightened her? 
 
 Prentice. I don't believe I do. Does the 
 letter say? 
 
 Helen. No. Try to think. 
 
 Prentice. Was it a snake or a toad? 
 
 Helen. No — a jewel. 
 
 Prentice. A jewel? I remember now — 
 a — a — cat's-eye. A cat's-eye jewel, 
 wasn't it? 
 
 Helen. {With excitement.) Yes, yes, 
 yes. ( Weeping. ) 
 
 Prentice. My dear madam, it seems to 
 be a very emotional subject with you. 
 
 Helen. It is. I 've so hoped you would 
 remember it. On the cars I was praying 
 all the way you would remember it. 
 And you do — you do. 
 
 Prentice. I do. 
 
 Viola. {Comes to Helen.) Compose 
 yourself, dear. Remember what de- 
 pends on it. 
 
 Prentice. It is evidently something in 
 which I can aid you. 
 
 Helen. It is — and you will? 
 
 Prentice. There is nothing I would not 
 do for a daugliter of Margaret Price. 
 You are in mourning, dear lady; is it 
 for your mother? 
 
 Helen. For my son. 
 
 Prentice. (To Jack.) How long has he 
 been dead? 
 
 Helen. He is not dead. Justice Pren- 
 tice, my boy — the grandson of Margaret 
 Price — is under a sentence of death. 
 
 Prentice. Sentence of death? 
 
 Helen. Yes. I am the mother of Clay 
 Whipple. 
 
 Prentice. {Rises.) But, madam — 
 
 Helen. He is to die. I come — 
 
 Prentice. {Retreats toward second door.) 
 Stop ! You forget yourself. The case 
 of Whipple is before the Supreme Court 
 of the United States. I am a member of 
 that body — I cannot listen to you. 
 
 Helen. You must. 
 
 Prentice. You are prejudicing his 
 chances. {To Jack.) You are making 
 it necessary for me to rule against him. 
 {To Helen.) My dear madam, for the 
 sake of your boy, do not do this. It is 
 unlawful — without dignity or precedent. 
 {To Jack.) If the lady were not the 
 mother of the boy I should call your 
 conduct base — 
 
 Viola. But she is his mother. 
 
 Helen. {Following.) And Justice Pren- 
 tice, I am the daughter of the woman 
 you loved. 
 
 Prentice. I beg you to be silent. 
 
 Jack. Won't you hear us a moment? 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 789 
 
 Prentice. I cannot- I dare not — I must 
 leave you. [Going.) 
 
 Viola. Why? 
 
 Prentice. I have explained — the matter 
 is before the court. For me to hear you 
 would be corrupt. 
 
 Helen. I won't talk of the question be- 
 fore your court. That, our attorneys 
 tell us, is a constitutional point. 
 
 Prentice. That is its attitude. 
 
 PIelen. I will not talk of that. I wish to 
 speak of this letter. 
 
 Jack. You can listen to that, can't you, 
 Mr. Justice? 
 
 Prentice. Do you hope for its influence 
 indirectly? 
 
 Helen. No; sit down. Justice Prentice, 
 and compose yourself. I will talk 
 calmly to you. 
 
 Prentice. My dear madam, my heart 
 bleeds for you. ( To Jack. ) Her agony 
 must be past judicial measurement. 
 
 Jack. Only God knows, sir! 
 
 (Helen sits at table; Viola stands by 
 her side; Prentice sits by the fire; 
 Jack remains standing.) 
 
 Helen. (Pause.) Justice Prentice. 
 
 Prentice. Mrs. Whipple. 
 
 Helen. You remember this letter — you 
 have recalled the duel. You remember 
 — thank God — its cause? 
 
 Prentice. I do. 
 
 Helen. You know that my mother's 
 aversion to that jewel amounted almost 
 to an insanity? 
 
 Prentice. I remember that. 
 
 Helen. I inherited that aversion. When 
 a child, the sight of one of them would 
 throw me almost into convulsions. 
 
 Prentice. Is it possible? 
 
 Helen. It is true. The physicians said 
 I would outgrow the susceptibility, and 
 in a measure I did so. But I discovered 
 that Clay had inherited the fatal dislike 
 from me. 
 
 Jack. You can understand that, Mr. 
 Justice? 
 
 Prentice. Medical jurisprudence is full 
 of such cases. Why should we deny 
 them? Is nature faithful only in phys- 
 ical matters? You are like this portrait. 
 Your voice is that of Margaret Price. 
 Nature's behest should have also em- 
 braced some of the less apparent pos- 
 sessions, I think. 
 
 Jack. We urged all that at the trial, but 
 they called it invention. 
 
 Prentice. Nothing seems more probable 
 to me. 
 
 Helen. Clay^ my boy, had that dreadful 
 and unreasonable fear of the jewel. I 
 protected him as far as possible, but one 
 night over a year ago, some men — com- 
 panions — finding that the sight of this 
 stone annoyed him, pressed it upon his 
 attention. He did not know, Justice 
 Prentice, he was not responsible. It was 
 insanity, but he struck his tormentor and 
 the blow resulted in the young man's 
 death. 
 
 Prentice. Terrible — terrible ! 
 
 Helen. My poor boy is crushed with the 
 awful deed. He is not a murderer. He 
 was never that, but they have sentenced 
 him. Justice Prentice — he — is to die. 
 
 {Eises impulsively.) 
 
 Jack. (Catching her.) Now — now — my 
 dear Helen, compose yourself. 
 
 Viola. (Embracing her.) You promised. 
 
 Helen. Yes, yes, I will. 
 
 (Viola leads Helen aside.) 
 
 Prentice. All this was ably presented to 
 the trial court, you say? 
 
 Jack. By the best attorneys. 
 
 Prentice. And the verdict? 
 
 Jack. Still was guilty. But, Mr. Justice, 
 the sentiment of the community has 
 changed very much since then. We feel 
 that a new trial would result differently. 
 
 Helen. When our lawyers decided to go 
 to the Supreme Court, I remembered 
 some letters of yours in this old book. 
 Can you imagine my joy when I found 
 the letter was on the very point of this 
 inherited trait on which we rested our 
 defense ? 
 
 Jack. We have ridden twenty-four hours 
 to reach you. The train came in only at 
 ten o'clock. 
 
 Helen. You — you are not powerless to 
 help me. What is an official duty to a 
 mother's love? To the life of my boy? 
 
 Prentice. My dear, dear madam, that is 
 not necessary — believe me. This letter 
 comes very properly under the head of 
 new evidence. ( To Jack. ) The defend- 
 ant is entitled to a rehearing on that. 
 
 Helen. Justice Prentice! Justice Pren- 
 tice! (Turns again to Viola.) 
 
 Viola. There — there — 
 
 (Vom forts Helen.) 
 
 Prentice. Of course that is n't before us, 
 but when we remand the case on this con- 
 stitutional point — 
 
 Helen. Then you will — you will remand 
 it? 
 
 Prentice. (Prevaricating.) Justice Hen- 
 derson had convinced me on the point as 
 
790 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 you called. So I think there is no doubt 
 of the decision. 
 Helen. You can never know the light 
 you let into my heart. 
 
 (Viola returns the lace handkerchief 
 
 to the hook which Helen opens for 
 
 the purpose, closing it again on the 
 
 handkerchief.) 
 
 Prentice. What is that perfume? Have 
 
 you one about you? 
 Helen. Yes, on this handkerchief. 
 Ph'ENTiCE. What is it? 
 Helen. Mignonette. 
 Prentice. Mignonette. 
 Helen. A favorite perfume of mother's. 
 This handkerchief of hers was in the 
 book with the letter. 
 Prentice. Indeed. 
 Helen. Oh, Justice Prentice, do you think 
 
 I can save my boy? 
 Prentice. (To Jack.) On the rehearing 
 I will take pleasure in testifying as to 
 this hereditary aversion — and what I 
 knew of its existence in Margaret Price. 
 Jack. May I tell the lawyers so? 
 Prentice. No. They will learn it in the 
 court to-morrow. They can stand the 
 suspense. I am speaking comfort to the 
 mother's heart. 
 Helen. Comfort. It is life ! 
 Prentice. {To Jack.) Say nothing of 
 this call, if you please. Nothing to any 
 one. 
 Jack. W^e shall respect your instruc- 
 tions, Mr. Justice. My niece, who has 
 been with Mrs. Whipple during this 
 trouble, is the fiancee of the boy who is 
 in jail. 
 Prentice. You have my sympathy, too, 
 
 my dear. 
 Viola. Thank you. 
 
 {Goes to Prentice and gives him her 
 hand.) 
 Prentice. And now good-night. 
 Viola. Good-night. 
 
 {Goes to door where Jack joins her.) 
 
 Helen. Good-night, Justice Prentice. 
 
 You must know my gratitude — words 
 
 cannot tell it. {Exit Viola.) 
 
 Prentice. W^ould you do me a favor? 
 
 Helen. Can you ask it? 
 
 (Jack waits at the door.) 
 Prentice. If that was the handkerchief 
 of Margaret Price, I 'd like to have it. 
 {With a moment's effort at self-con- 
 trol, Helen gives Prentice the 
 handkerchief. She does not dare to 
 speak, but turns to Jack who leads 
 her out. Prentice goes to the table 
 
 and takes up the miniature. A dis- 
 tant bell tolls two.) 
 Prentice. Margaret Price. People will 
 say that she has been in her grave thirty 
 years, but I '11 swear her spirit was in 
 this room to-night and directed a deci- 
 sion of the Supreme Court of the United 
 States. 
 
 {Noticing the handkerchief which he 
 holds he puts it to his lips.) 
 
 "The delicate odor of mignonette, 
 The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, 
 Is all that tells of her story; yet 
 Could she think of a sweeter way?" 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene — Same as Act First. Jack is sit- 
 ting in the chair with his elbows on his 
 knees, apparently in deep thought. 
 
 {Enter Harvey, left.) 
 
 Harvey. Mars Jack. 
 
 Jack. Well, Uncle Harvey? 
 
 Harvey. 'Scuse me, sah, when you wants 
 to be alone, but I 'se awful anxious my- 
 self. Is dey any word from the court- 
 house ? 
 
 Jack. None, Uncle Harvey. 
 
 Harvey. 'Cause Jo said Missus Camp- 
 bell done come in, an' I thought she 'd 
 been to the trial, you know. 
 
 Jack. She has. You 're not keeping any- 
 thing from me, Uncle Harvey? 
 
 Harvey. 'Deed, no, sah. Ah jes' like to 
 ask you. Mars Jack, if I 'd better have 
 de cook fix sumpun' to eat — maybe de 
 other ladies comin' too? 
 
 Jack. Yes, Uncle Harvey, but whether 
 they '11 want to eat or not '11 depend on 
 what word comes back with the jury. 
 
 Harvey. Yes, sah. {Exit left.) 
 
 {Enter Alice, right center.) 
 
 Alice. {In astonishment and reproach.) 
 Jack — 
 
 Jack. Well — 
 
 Alice. Why are you here? 
 
 Jack. W^ell — I live here. 
 
 Alice. But I thought you 'd gone to Helen 
 and Viola. 
 
 Jack. No. 
 
 Alice. You should do so. Jack. Think 
 of them alone when that jury returns — 
 as it may at any moment — with its ver- 
 dict. 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 (91 
 
 Jack. The lawyers are there and Lew 
 Ellinger is with them. 
 
 Alice. But Helen — Helen needs you. 
 
 Jack. I may be useful here. 
 
 Alice. How f 
 
 Jack. There 's one man on that jury that 
 I think is a friend. 
 
 Alice. One man? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Alice. Out of a jury of twelve. 
 
 Jack. One man can stop the other eleven 
 from bringing in an adverse verdict — 
 and this one is with us. 
 
 Alice. Would your going to Helen and 
 Viola in the court-house stop his being 
 with us? 
 
 Jack. Perhaps not, but it would stop my 
 being with him. 
 
 Alice. What? {Looks about.) I don't 
 understand you. 
 
 Jack. Justice Prentice told me that he 
 could sit alone in his room and make an- 
 other man get up and walk to the tele- 
 phone and call him by simply thinking 
 steadily of that other man. 
 
 Alice. Superstitious people imagine any- 
 thing. 
 
 Jack. Imagine much — yes — but this is n't 
 imagination. 
 
 Alice. It 's worse — Jack. I call it spirit- 
 ualism. 
 
 Jack. Call it anything you like — spirit- 
 ualism — or socialism — or rheumatism — 
 it 's there. I know nothing about it sci- 
 entifically, but I 've tried it on and it 
 works, my dear Alice, it works. 
 
 Alice. You've tried it on? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Alice. With whom? 
 
 Jack. With you. 
 
 Alice. I don't know it if you have. 
 
 Jack. That is one phase of its terrible 
 subtlety. 
 
 Alice. When did you try it on? 
 
 Jack. {Inquiringly.) That night, a 
 month ago, when you rapped at my door 
 at two o'clock in the morning and asked 
 if I was ill in any way? 
 
 Alice. I was simply nervous about you. 
 
 Jack. Call it "nervousness" if you wish 
 to — but that was an experiment of mine 
 — a simple experiment. 
 
 Alice. Oh ! 
 
 Jack. Two Sundays ago you went right 
 up to the church door — hesitated, and 
 turned home again. 
 
 Alice. Lots of people do that. 
 
 Jack. I don't ask you to take stock in it, 
 but that was another experiment of mine. 
 
 The thing appeals to me. I can't help 
 Helen by being at the court-house, but, 
 as I 'm alive and my name 's Jack Brook- 
 field, I do believe that my thought reaches 
 that particular juryman. 
 
 Alice. That 's lunacy. Jack, dear. 
 
 Jack. {Rises and walks.) Well, call it 
 "lunacy." I don't insist on "rheuma- 
 tism." 
 
 Alice. Oh, Jack, the boy's life is in the 
 balance. Bitter vindictive lawyers are 
 prosecuting him; and I don't like my big 
 strong brother, who used; to meet men 
 and all danger face to face, treating the 
 situation with silly mind-cure methods 
 — hidden alone in his rooms. I don't like 
 it. 
 
 Jack. You can't acquit a boy of murder 
 by having a strong brother thrash some- 
 body in the court-rooms. If there was 
 anything under the sun I could do with 
 my physical strength, I 'd do it ; but there 
 isn't. Now, why not try this? Why 
 not, if I Believe I can influence a jury- 
 man by my thought, — why not try? 
 
 (Alice turns away.) 
 
 {Enter Jo, right center.) 
 
 Jack. Well? 
 
 Jo. Mistah Hardmuth. 
 
 Alice. {Astonished.) Frank Hardmuth? 
 
 Jo. Yes. 
 
 Jack. Here 's one of the "bitter vindic- 
 tive" men you want me to meet face to 
 face. You stay here while I go and do 
 it. {Starts up.) 
 
 {Enter Hardmuth.) 
 
 Hardmuth. Excuse me, but I can't wait 
 in an anteroom. 
 
 Jack. That'll do, Jo. {Exit Jo.) 
 
 Hardmuth. I want to see you alone. 
 
 Jack. {To Alice.) Yes — 
 
 Alice. {Going.) What do you think it 
 is? 
 
 Jack. Nothing to worry over. 
 
 {Conducts her to door. Exit Alice.) 
 
 Hardmuth. {Threateningly.) Jack Brook- 
 field. 
 
 Jack. Well? {Confronts Hardmuth.) 
 
 Hardmuth. I 've just seen Harvey Fisher 
 — of the Courier. 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Hardmuth. He says you 've hinted at 
 something associating me with the shoot- 
 ing of Scovill. 
 
 Jack. Right. 
 
 Hardmuth. What do you mean? 
 
 Jack. I mean, Frank Hardmuth, that you 
 
•92 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 shan't bound this boy to the gallows with- 
 out reckoning with me and the things I 
 know of you. 
 
 Hardmuth. I 'm doing my duty as a pros- 
 ecuting attorney. 
 
 Jack. You are, and a great deal more — 
 you 're venting a personal hatred. 
 
 Hardmuth. That hasn't anything to do 
 with this insinuation you 've lianded to a 
 newspaper man, an insinuation ior which 
 anybody ought to kill you. 
 
 Jack. I don't deal in ^'insinuations." It 
 was a charge. 
 
 Hardmuth. A statement? 
 
 Jack. A charge! You understand Eng- 
 lish — a specific and categorical charge. 
 
 Hardmuth. That I knew Seovill was to 
 be shot. 
 
 Jack. That you knew it ? No. That you 
 planned it and arranged and procured his 
 assassination. 
 
 Hardmuth. {In low tone.) If the news- 
 papers print that, I '11 kill you — damn 
 you, I '11 kill you. 
 
 Jack. I don't doubt your w^illingness. 
 And they '11 print it — if they have n't 
 done so already — and if they don't print 
 it, by God, I '11 print it myself and paste 
 it on the fences. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Weakening.) What have I 
 ever done to you, Jack Brookfield, except 
 to be your friend? 
 
 Jack. You 've been much too friendly. 
 With this murder on your conscience, you 
 proposed to take to yourself, as wife, 
 my niece, dear to me as my life. As re- 
 venge for her refusal and mine, you 've 
 persecuted through two trials the boy 
 she loved, and the son of the woman 
 whose thought regulates the pulse of my 
 heart, an innocent, unfortunate boy. In 
 your ambition you 've reached out to be 
 the governor of this State, and an hon- 
 ored political party is seriously consider- 
 ing you for that office to-day. 
 
 Hardmuth. That Seovill story 's a lie — 
 a political lie. I think you mean to be 
 honest. Jack Brookfield, but somebody 's 
 strung you. 
 
 Jack. Wait ! The man that 's now hid- 
 ing in Indiana — a fugitive from your 
 feeble efforts at extradition — sat upstairs 
 drunk and desperate — his last dollar on 
 a ease card. I pitied him. If a priest 
 had been there he could n't have purged 
 his soul cleaner than poor Raynor gave 
 it to me. If he put me on, am I strung? 
 
 Hardmuth. {Frightened.) Yes, you are. 
 I can't tell you why, because this jury is 
 
 out and may come in any moment and 
 I 've got to be there, but I can square it. 
 So help me God, I can square it. 
 Jack. You '11 have to square it. 
 
 {Enter Alice, from the left, followed by 
 Prentice. The Justice carries a folded 
 newspaper.) 
 
 Alice. Jack. {Indicates Prentice.) 
 
 Prentice. Excuse me, I — 
 
 Hardmuth. Oh — Justice Prentice. 
 
 Jack. Mr. Hardmuth— the State's attor- 
 ney. 
 
 Prentice. I recognize Mr. Hardmuth. 
 I did n't salute him because I resent his 
 disrespectful treatment of myself during 
 his cross-examination. 
 
 Hardmuth. Entirely within my rights as 
 a lawyer and — 
 
 Prentice. Entirely — and never within 
 the opportunities of a gentleman. 
 
 Hardmuth. Your side foresaw the power- 
 ful effect on a local jury of any testi- 
 mony by a member of the Supreme 
 Court, and my wish to break that — 
 
 Prentice. Was quite apparent, sir, — 
 quite apparent, — but the testimony of 
 every man is entitled to just such weight 
 and consideration as that man's character 
 commands. But it is not that disrespect 
 which I resent. I am an old man — 
 That I am unmarried — childless — with- 
 out a son to inherit the vigor that time 
 has reclaimed, is due to — a sentiment ' 
 that you endeavored to ridicule, Mr. 
 Hardmuth, a sentiment which would have 
 been sacred in the hands of any true 
 Kentuckian, which I am glad to hear 
 you are not. 
 
 Jack. That's all. 
 
 Hardmuth. Perhaps not. {Exit.) 
 
 Prentice. My dear Mr. Brookfield, that 
 man certainly hasn't seen this news- 
 paper? 
 
 Jack. No — but he knows it 's coming. 
 
 Prentice. When I urged you as a citi- 
 zen to tell anything you knew of the man, 
 I had n't expected a capital charge. 
 
 Alice. What is it. Jack, — what have you 
 said? 
 
 Jack. {To Alice.) All in the head- 
 lines — read it. {Gives Alice the paper. 
 To Prentice.) That enough for your 
 purpose, Justice Prentice? 
 
 Prentice. I never dreamed of an attack 
 of that — that magnitude — Enough ! 
 
 Alice. Why — why did you do this, Jack? 
 
 Jack. Because I 'm your big strong 
 brother — and I had the information. 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 793 
 
 Prentice. It was necessary, Mrs. Camp- 
 bell, — necessary. 
 
 Alice. Why necessary? 
 
 Jack. My poor sister, you don't think. 
 If that jury brings in a verdict of guilty 
 —what then? 
 
 Alice. What then? I don't know. 
 
 Jack. An appeal to the governor — for 
 clemency. 
 
 Alice. Well? 
 
 Jack. Then we delay things lAitil a new 
 governor comes in. But suppose that 
 new governor is Hardmuth himself. 
 
 Alice. How can the new governor be 
 Hardmuth? 
 
 Prentice. Nothing can stop it if he gets 
 the nomination, and the convention is in 
 session at Frankfort to-day with Mr. 
 Hardmuth's name in the lead. 
 
 Jack. {Indicating paper.) I've served 
 that notice on them and they won't dare 
 nominate him. That is, I think they 
 won't. 
 
 Alice. But to charge him with murder? 
 
 Prentice. The only thing to consider 
 there is, — have you your facts? 
 
 Jack. I have. 
 
 Prentice. Then it was a duty and you 
 chose the psychological moment for its 
 performance. "With w^hat measure you 
 mete — it shall be measured to you again." 
 I have pity for the man whom that paper 
 crushes, but I have greater pity for the 
 boy he is trying to have hanged. {Goes 
 to Alice.) You know, Mrs. Campbell, 
 that young Whipple is the grandson of 
 an old friend of mine. 
 
 Alice. Yes, Justice Prentice, I know that. 
 
 {Enter Jo, followed hy Helen and Viola.) 
 
 Jo. Mars Jack! 
 
 Jack. {Turning.) Yes? 
 
 Helen. Oh, Jack! — 
 
 {Comes down to Jack. Viola goes 
 to Alice.) 
 
 Jack. What is it? 
 
 {Catches and supports Helen.) 
 
 Viola. The jury returned and asked for 
 instructions. 
 
 Jack. Well? 
 
 Helen. There's a recess of an hour. 
 
 Viola. The court wishes them locked up 
 for the night, but the foreman said the 
 jurymen were all anxious to get to their 
 homes and he felt an agreement could be 
 reached in an hour. 
 
 Prentice. Did he use exactly those words 
 —"to their homes"? 
 
 Viola, "To their homes" — yes, 
 
 Prentice. {Smiling at Jack.) There 
 vou are. 
 
 Helen. What, Jack? 
 
 Jack. What? 
 
 Prentice. Men with vengeance or sever- 
 ity in their hearts would hardly say 
 they 're "anxious to get to their homes." 
 They say, "the jury is anxious to get 
 away," or "to finish its work." 
 
 Helen. Oh, Justice Prentice, you pin 
 hope upon such slight things. 
 
 Prentice. That is what hope is for, my 
 dear Mrs. Whipple; the frail chances of 
 this life. 
 
 Viola. And now. Uncle Jack, Mrs. Whip- 
 ple ought to have a cup of tea and some- 
 thing to eat. 
 
 Helen. Oh, I could n't — we must go back 
 at once. 
 
 Viola. Well, I could — I — I must. 
 
 Alice. Yes — you must — both of you. 
 
 {Exit to dining-room.) 
 
 Viola. {Returning to Helen.) You 
 don't think it 's heartless, do you ? 
 
 Helen. You dear child. {Kisses her.) 
 
 Viola. You come, too. 
 
 Helen. {Refusing.) Please. 
 
 {Exit Viola. Helen sinks to sofa.) 
 
 Jack. And now, courage, my dear Helen ; 
 it 's almost over. 
 
 Helen. At the other trial the jury de- 
 layed — just this way. 
 
 Prentice. Upon what point did the jury 
 ask instruction? 
 
 Helen. Degree. 
 
 Prentice. And the court? 
 
 Helen. Oh, Jack, the Judge answered — 
 guilty in the first degree, or not guilty. 
 
 Prentice. That all helps us. 
 
 Helen. It does? 
 
 Jack. Who spoke for the jury? 
 
 Helen. The foreman — and one other 
 juryman asked a question. 
 
 Jack. Was it the man in the fourth chair 
 — first row? 
 
 Helen. {Inquiringly.) Yes — ? 
 
 Jack. Ah. 
 
 Helen. Why? 
 
 Jack. I think he 's a friend, that 's all. 
 
 Helen. I should die, Jack, if it wasn't 
 for your courage. You w^on't get tired 
 of it — wall you — and forsake my poor 
 boy — and me? 
 
 Jack. {Encouragingly.) What do you 
 think? 
 
 Helen. All our lawj'ers are kindness it- 
 self, but — but — you — Jack — you some- 
 how — 
 
 (Enter Viola.) 
 
794 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Viola. Oh, Uncle Jack — here 's a note our 
 lawyer asked me to give to you — I for- 
 got it until this minute. 
 
 Jack. Thank you. (Takes note.) 
 
 Viola. Please try a cup of tea. 
 
 Helen. No — no — Viola. {Exit Viola.) 
 What is it, Jack? Are they afraid? 
 
 Jack. It 's not about the trial at all. 
 
 {Hands note to Prentice.) 
 
 Helen. Really? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Helen. But why don't you show it to us, 
 then? 
 
 Jack. (Prentice returns note.) I will — 
 if my keeping it gives you so much 
 alarm as that. {Turns on the large drop 
 light and stands under it.) Colonel 
 Bayley says — "Dear Jack, I 've seen the 
 paper; Hardmuth will shoot on sight." 
 
 Helen. {Quickly to Jack's side.) Oh, 
 Jack, if anything should happen to you — 
 
 Jack. "Anything" is quite as likely to 
 happen to Mr. Hardmuth. 
 
 Helen. But not even that — my boy has 
 killed a man — and — you — Jack — you — 
 well, you just must n't let it happen, 
 that 's all. 
 
 Jack. I mustn't let it happen because — ? 
 
 Helen. Because — I — couldn't bear it. 
 (Jack lifts her hand to his face and 
 kisses it.) 
 
 {Enter Alice.) 
 
 Alice. What was the letter, Jack? 
 
 Jack. {Hands letter to Alice as he 
 passes, leading Helen to door.) And, 
 now I '11 agree to do the best I can for 
 Mr. Hardmuth if you '11 take a cup of 
 tea and a biscuit. 
 
 Helen. There isn't time. 
 
 Jack. There 's plenty of time if the ad- 
 journment was for an hour. 
 
 Alice. {In alarm.) Jack! 
 
 Jack. Eh — {Turns to Alice.) Wait one 
 minute. {Goes on to door with Helen.) 
 Go. {Exit Helen.) 
 
 Alice. {As Jack returns.) He threatens 
 your life. 
 
 Jack. Not exactly. Simply Colonel Bay- 
 ley's opinion that he will shoot on sight. 
 
 Alice. (Impatiently.) Oh — 
 
 Jack. There is a difference, you know. 
 
 (Enter Jo.) 
 
 Jo. Mr. Ellinger, sah. 
 
 (Enter Lew.) 
 
 Lew. (Briskly.) Hello, Jack. 
 
 (Exit Jo.) 
 
 Jack. W^ell, Lew? 
 
 Lew. (With newspaper.) Why, that's 
 the damnedest thing — (To Alice.) I 
 beg your pardon. 
 
 Alice. Don't, please, — some manly em- 
 phasis is a real comfort, Mr. Ellinger. 
 
 Lew. That charge of yours against Hard- 
 muth is raisin' more h-h-high feeling 
 than anything that ever happened. 
 
 Jack. I saw the paper. 
 
 Lew. You did n't see this — it 's an extra. 
 (Reads.) "The charge read to the con- 
 vention in night session at Frankfort — 
 Bill Glover hits Jim Macey on the nose — 
 De Voe of Carter County takes Jhn's 
 gun away from him. The delegation 
 from Butler get down to their stomachs 
 and crawl under the benches — some 
 statesmen go through the windows. Con- 
 vention takes a recess till morning. Lo- 
 cal sheriff swearin' in deputies to keep 
 peace in the barrooms." That 's all 
 you 've done. 
 
 Jack. (To Alice.) Good! (To Pren- 
 tice.) Well, they can't nominate Mr. 
 Hardmuth now. 
 
 Lew. (To Alice.) I been hedgin' — I 
 told the fellows I 'd bet Jack had n't said 
 it. 
 
 Jack. Yes — I did say it. 
 
 Lew. In just those words — ? (Reads.) 
 "The poor fellow that crouched back of 
 a window sill and shot Kentucky's gov- 
 ernor deserves hanging less than the man 
 whom he is shielding — the man who laid 
 the plot of assassination, the present 
 prosecuting attorney by appointment — 
 Frank Allison Hardmuth." Did you say 
 that? 
 
 Jack. Lew, that there might be no mis- 
 take — I wrote it. 
 
 (Lew whistles; Jack takes the paper 
 and scans it.) 
 
 Lew. Is it straight? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 (Pushes hanging button and turns off 
 the large drop-light.) 
 
 Lew. He was in the plot to kill the gov- 
 ernor? 
 
 Jack. He organized it. 
 
 Lew. Well, what do you think of that? 
 And now he 's runnin' for governor him- 
 self — a murderer? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Lew. (To Prentice.) And for six 
 months he 's been houndin' every fellow 
 in Louisville that sat down to a game of 
 cards. (Jack nods.) The damned ras- 
 cal 's nearly put me in the poorhouse. 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 795 
 
 Jack. Poor old Lew! 
 
 Lew. {To Prentice.) Why, before I 
 could get to that court-house to-day I 
 had to take a pair of scissors that I used 
 to cut coupons with and trim the whis- 
 kers off o' my shirt cuffs. {To Jack.) 
 How long have you known this? 
 
 Jack. Ever since the fact. 
 
 Prentice. Mm — 
 
 Lew. Why do you spring it only now? 
 
 Jack. Because until now I lacked the 
 character and the moral courage. I 
 spring it now by the advice of Justice 
 Prentice to reach that convention at 
 Frankfort. 
 
 Lew. Well, you reached them. 
 
 Prentice. The convention was only a 
 secondary consideration with me — my 
 real object was this jury with whom Mr. 
 Hardmuth seemed too powerful. 
 
 Lew. Reach the jury? 
 
 Jack. {Enthusiastically.) The jury? 
 
 Why, of course, — the entire jury, — and 
 I was hoping for one man — 
 
 Lew. Why, they don't see the papers — 
 the jury won't get a line of this. 
 
 Jack. I think they will. 
 
 Lew. You got 'em fixed? 
 
 Jack. {Indignantly.) Fixed? No. 
 
 Lew. Then how will they see it? 
 
 Prentice. {Firmly and slowly to Lew, 
 who is half dazed.) How many people 
 in Louisville have already read that 
 charge as you have read it? 
 
 Lew. Thirty thousand, maybe, but — 
 
 Prentice. And five hundred thousand in 
 the little cities and the towns. Do you 
 think, Mr. Ellinger, that all those minds 
 can be at white heat over that knowl- 
 edge and none of it reach the thought 
 of those twelve men? Ah, no — 
 
 Jack. To half a million good Kentuck- 
 ians to-night Frank Hardmuth is a repul- 
 sive thing — and that jury's faith in him — 
 is dead. 
 
 Lew. {Pause.) Why, Jack, old man, 
 you 're dippy. 
 
 (Alice turns away wearily, agreeing 
 with Lew.) 
 
 Prentice. Then, Mr. ElHnger, I am 
 dippy, too. (Alice turns hack.) 
 
 Lew. You mean you think the jury gets 
 the public opinion — without anybody 
 tellin' them or their reading it. 
 
 I'rentice. Yes. {Pause. Lew looks 
 stunned.) In every widely discussed 
 trial the defendant is tried not alone by 
 his twelve peers, but by the entire com- 
 munity. 
 
 Lew. Why, b|ast it ! The community goes 
 by wliat the newspaper says ! 
 
 Prentice. That is often the regrettable 
 part of it — but the fact remains. 
 
 Jack. And that 's why you asked me to 
 expose Frank Hardmuth? 
 
 Prentice. Yes. 
 
 Lew. Well, the public will think you did 
 it because he closed your game. 
 
 Jack. Hardmuth didn't close my game. 
 
 Lew. Who did? 
 
 Jack. {Pointing to Prentice.) This 
 man. 
 
 Prentice. {To Jack.) Thank you. 
 
 Lew. How the he — er — heaven's name 
 did he close it? 
 
 Jack. He gave my self-respect a slap on 
 the back and I stood up. {Exit.) 
 
 Lew. {Thoroughly confused. Pause.) 
 Stung! {Turns to Prentice.) So you 
 are responsible for these — these new ideas 
 of Jack's? 
 
 Prentice. In a measure. Have the ideas 
 apparently hurt Mr. Brookfield? 
 
 Lew. They 've put him out of business — 
 that 's all. 
 
 Prentice. Which business? 
 
 Lew. Why, this house of his. 
 
 Prentice. I see. But his new ideas? 
 Don't you like them, Mr. Ellinger? 
 
 Lew. I love Jack Brookfield — love him 
 like a brother — but I don't want even a 
 brother askin' me if I 'm sure I 've 
 "thought it over" when I 'm startin' to 
 take the halter off for a pleasant evenin'. 
 Get my idea? 
 
 Prentice. I begin to. 
 
 Lew. In other words — I don't want to 
 take my remorse first. It dampens fun. 
 The other day a lady at the races said, 
 "We 've missed you, Mr. Ellinger." And 
 I said, "Have you?— Well I '11 be up this 
 evening," and I 'm pressing her hand and 
 hanging on to it till I 'm afraid I '11 get 
 the carriage grease on my coat — feelin' 
 only about thirty-two, you know, then I 
 turn round and Jack has those sleepy 
 lamps on me — and "bla" — 
 
 {Turns and sinks on to sofa.) 
 
 Prentice. And you don't go ? 
 
 Lew. {Bracing up.) 1 do go — as a mat- 
 ter of self-respect — but I don't make a. 
 hit. I 'm thinking so much more about 
 those morality ideas of Jack's than I am 
 about the lady that it cramps my style 
 and we never get past the weather, and 
 "when did you last hear from So-and- 
 so?" {Rises.) I want to reform all 
 right. I believe in reform. But first I 
 
796 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 want to have the fun of fallin' and fallin' 
 bard. 
 Jo. {Distant and outside.) 'Fore God, 
 
 Mars Clay! 
 Clay. Jo, is my mother here? 
 Alice. {Entering left.) Why, that's 
 Clay. 
 
 {Voices off continue together and ap- 
 proach.) 
 Lew. {To Prentice.) It's the boy. 
 Alice. His mother! {Starts to call 
 Helen, then falters in indecision.) Oh! 
 {The outside voices grow louder.) 
 Prentice. Acquittal ! 
 
 {Enter Clay, followed by Colonel Bay- 
 ley, his attorney.) 
 
 Alice. Clay, Clay! 
 Clay. Oh, Mrs. Campbell. 
 
 (Alice embraces Mm.) 
 
 {Enter Jack, Helen, and Viola.) 
 
 Jack. {Seeing Clay and speaking back to 
 
 Helen. ) Yes. 
 Helen. {As she enters.) My boy! 
 Clay. Mother ! 
 
 {They embrace. Clay slips to his 
 knee with his face hidden in Helen's 
 lap, repeating her name. Helen 
 standitig sways and is caught by 
 Jack. Clay noting this weakness 
 rises and helps support her.) 
 Jack. {Rousing her.) He's free, Helen, 
 
 he 's free. 
 Clay. Yes, mother, I 'm free. 
 
 (Viola, wlio has crossed back of Clay 
 and Helen, weeps on shoulder of 
 Alice, who comforts her.) 
 Helen. My boy, my boy! 
 
 (Viola looks at them. Helen sees 
 Viola and turns Clay toward her. 
 Clay takes Viola in his arms.) 
 Clay. Viola, my brave sweetheart! 
 Viola. It 's really over? 
 Clay. Yes. 
 
 Jack. It 's a great victory, Colonel. 
 Bayley. Thank you. 
 
 Jack. If ever a lawyer made a good fight 
 
 for a man's life, you did. Helen, Viola, 
 
 you must want to shake this man's hand. 
 
 Viola. I could have thrown my arms 
 
 around you when you made that speech. 
 
 Bayley. {Laughing.) Too many young 
 
 fellows crowding into the profession as 
 
 it is. 
 
 Helen. {Taking his hand.) Life must be 
 
 sweet to a man who can do SO much good 
 
 as you do. 
 
 Bayley. I could n't stand it, you know, 
 if it wasn't that my ability works both 
 ways. 
 
 {Enter Harvey, left.) 
 
 Harvey. Mars Clay. 
 Clay. Harvey! Why, dear old Harvey. 
 {Half embraces Harvey and pats him 
 affectionately.) 
 Harvey. Yes, sah. Could — could you eat 
 
 anything. Mars Clay? 
 Clay. Eat anything ! Why, I 'm starvin', 
 
 Harvey. 
 Harvey. Ha, ha. Yes, sah. 
 
 {Exit quickly.) 
 Clay. But you with me, mother — and 
 
 Viola. 
 Helen. My boy! Colonel! 
 
 {Turns to Bayley. Exeunt Clay, 
 Viola, Helen, Bayley, and Alice 
 to dining-room.) 
 Jack. {Alone with Prentice. Picks up 
 Bayley's letter; takes hold of push but- 
 ton over head.) I shall never doubt you 
 again. 
 Prentice. Mr. Brookfield, never doubt 
 yourself. 
 
 {Enter Hardmuth. He rushes down to- 
 ward toward dining-room and turns back 
 to Jack who is under the lamp with his 
 hand on its button.) 
 
 Hardmuth. You think you '11 send me to 
 the gallows, but, damn you, you go first 
 yourself. 
 
 {Thrusts a derringer against Jack's 
 body.) 
 
 Jack. Stop! {The big light flashes on 
 above Hardmuth's eyes. At Jack's 
 ''Stop/' Prentice inclines forward with 
 eyes on Hardmuth so that there is a 
 double battery of hypnotism on him. A 
 pause.) You can't shoot — that — gun. 
 You can't pull the trigger. {Pause.) 
 You can't even hold the gun. {Pause. 
 The derringer drops from Hardmuth's 
 hand.) Now, Frank, you can go. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Becoiling slowly.) I'd like 
 to know — how in hell you did that — to 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 The scene is the same as in Act Third 
 All the lights are on, including the large 
 electric light. Clay and Viola seated on, 
 sofa near the fire-place. 
 
 I 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 797 
 
 Viola. I must really say good-night and 
 
 let you get some sleep. 
 Clay. Not before Jack gets home. Our 
 
 mothers have considerately left us alone 
 
 together. They '11 just as considerately 
 
 tell us when it 's time to part. 
 Viola. My mother said it was time half 
 
 an hour ago. 
 Clay. Wait till Jack comes in. 
 
 {Enter Jo.) 
 
 Jo. Mars Clay? 
 
 Clay. Well, Jo? 
 
 Jo. Dey's another reporter to see you, 
 sah? 
 
 Viola. Send him away — Mr. Whipple 
 won't see any more reporters. 
 
 Clay. (Rises.) Wait a minute — who is 
 he? (Jo hands card.) I've got to see 
 this one, Viola. 
 
 Viola. (Complaining.) Why "got to"? 
 
 Clay. He 's a friend — I '11 see him, Jo. 
 
 Jo. Yas, sail — (Exit.) 
 
 Viola. (Rises.) You Ve said that all day 
 — they 're all friends. 
 
 Clay. Well, they are — but this boy es- 
 pecially. It was fine to see you and 
 mother and Jack when I was in that jail 
 — great — but you were there daytimes. 
 This boy spent hours on the other side of 
 the bars helping me pass the awful 
 nights. I tell you — death-cells would be 
 pretty nearly hell if it was n't for the 
 police reporters — ministers ain't in it 
 with 'em. 
 
 (Enter Emmett, a reporter.) 
 
 Emmett. Good-evening. 
 
 Clay. How are you, Ned? You know 
 Miss Jampbell? 
 
 Emmett. (Bowing.) Yes. 
 
 Viola. Good-evening. 
 
 Clay. Have a chair. 
 
 Emmett. Thank you. (Defers to Viola 
 who sits first on sofa. Pause.) This is 
 different. 
 
 (Looks around the room.) 
 
 Clay. Some. 
 
 Emmett. Satisfied? The way we han- 
 dled the story? 
 
 Clay. Perfectly. You were just bully, 
 old man. 
 
 Emmett. (To Viola.) That artist of 
 ours is only a kid — and they work him 
 to death on the "Sunday" — so — (Pause. 
 To Clay.) You understand. 
 
 Clay. Oh — I got used to the — ^pictures a 
 year ago. 
 
 Emmett. Certainly. (Pause.) Anything 
 
 you want to 'say ? 
 Viola. For the paper? 
 Emmett. Yes. 
 Clay. I think not. 
 
 (Enter Helen and Alice. Emmett rises.) 
 
 Helen. Clay, dear — (Pause.) Oh — 
 
 Clay. You met my mother? 
 
 Emmett. No — 
 
 Clay. Mother — this is Mr. Emmett of 
 whom I 've told you so often. 
 
 Helen. Oh — the good reporter. 
 
 Emmett. (To Clay.) Gee! That 'd be 
 a wonder if the gang heard it. (Taking 
 Helen's hand as she offers it.) We got 
 pretty well acquainted — yes, 'm. 
 
 Clay. (Introducing Alice.) Mrs. Camp- 
 bell. 
 
 Alice. Won't you sit down, Mr. Em- 
 mett? 
 
 Emmett. Thank you. I guess we 've cov- 
 ered everything, but the chief wanted 
 me to see your son — (turns to Clay) 
 and see if you 'd do the paper a favor? 
 
 Clay. If possible — gladly — 
 
 Emmett. I don't like the assignment be- 
 cause — well for the very reason that it 
 was handed to me — and that is because 
 we 're more or less friendly. 
 
 (Enter Jack in fur coat with cap and gog- 
 gles in hand.) 
 
 Jack. Well, it's a wonderful night out- 
 side. 
 Alice. You 're back early. 
 Jack. Purposely. (To Emmett.) How. 
 
 are you? 
 Emmett. (Rising.) Mr. Brookfield. 
 Jack. I thought you girls might like a 
 
 little run in the moonlight before I put in 
 
 the machine. 
 Helen. Mr. Emmett has some message 
 
 from his editor. 
 Jack. What is it? 
 Emmett. There 's a warrant out for 
 
 Hardmuth — you saw that? 
 Viola. Yes, we saw that. 
 
 (Goes to Jack.) 
 Jack. To-night's paper — 
 Emmett. If they get him and he comes 
 
 to trial and all that, it '11 be the biggest 
 
 trial Kentucky ever saw. 
 Clay. Well? 
 Emmett. Well — the paper wants you to 
 
 agree to report it for them — the trial — 
 
 there'll be other papers after you, of 
 
 course. 
 Viola. Oh, no — 
 
798 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Emmett. Understand, Clay, I 'm not ask- 
 ing it. {To Viola.) I'm here under 
 orders just as I 'd be at a lire or a bread 
 riot. 
 
 Clay. {Demurring.) And — of course — 
 you understand, don't you? 
 
 Emmett. Perfectly — and I told the chief 
 myself you would n't see it. 
 
 Clay. Paper 's been too friendly for me 
 to assume any — any — 
 
 Jack. Unnecessary dignity — 
 
 Clay. Exactly — but — I just could n't, you 
 see — 
 
 Emmett. {Going.) Oh, leave it to me — 
 I '11 let 'em down easy. 
 
 Clay. Thank you. 
 
 Emmett. You expect to be in Europe or — 
 
 Clay. But I don't. 
 
 (Jack removes fur coat, puts it on 
 chair up right center.) 
 
 Viola. We 're going to stay right here in 
 Louisville — 
 
 Clay. And work out my — my own fu- 
 ture among the people who know me. 
 
 Emmett. Of course — Europe 's just to 
 stall off the chief — get him on to some 
 other dope — 
 
 Helen. {Rising.) But — 
 
 Jack. {Interrupting.) It's all right. 
 
 Helen. ( To Jack. ) I hate to begin with 
 a falsehood. 
 
 Emmett. Not your son — me — . Saw 
 some copy on our telegraph desk, Mr. 
 Brookfield, that 'd interest you. 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Emmett. Or maybe you know of it? 
 Frankfort — 
 
 Jack. No. 
 
 Emmett. Some friend named you in the 
 caucus. 
 
 Jack. What connection? 
 
 Emmett. Governor. 
 
 Viola. {To Emmett.) Uncle Jack? 
 
 Emmett. Yes, 'm — that is, for the nom- 
 ination. 
 
 Jack. It's a joke. 
 
 Emmett. Grows out of these Hardmuth 
 charges, of course. 
 
 Jack. That 's all. 
 
 Emmett. Good-night — {Bows.) Mrs. 
 Whipple — ladies — ( Exit. ) 
 
 Clay. {Going to door with Emmett.) 
 You '11 make that quite clear, won't you? 
 
 Emmett. {Outside.) I'll fix it. 
 
 Clay. {Returning.) If it wasn't for the 
 notoriety of it, I 'd like to do that. 
 
 {Sits right of table.) 
 
 Helen. {Reproachfully.) My son! 
 
 Jack. Why would you like to do it? 
 
 Clay. To get even. I 'd like to see Hard- 
 muth suffer as he made me suffer. I 'd 
 like to watch him suffer and write of it. 
 
 Jack. That 's a bad spirit to face the 
 world with, my boy. 
 
 Clay. I hate him. {Goes to Viola.) 
 
 Jack. Hatred is heavier freight for the 
 shipper than it is for the consignee. 
 
 Clay. I can't help it. 
 
 Jack. Yes, you can help it. Mr. Hard- 
 muth should be of the utmost indifference 
 to you. To hate him is w^eak. 
 
 Viola. Weak? 
 
 Jack. Yes, w^ak-minded. Hardmuth was 
 in love with you at one time — he hated 
 Clay. He said Clay was as weak as 
 dishwater — {to Clay) — and you were at 
 that time. You 've had your lesson — 
 profit by it. Its meaning was self-con- 
 trol. Begin now if you 're going to be 
 the custodian of this girl's happiness. 
 
 Helen. I 'm sure he means to, Jack. 
 
 Jack. You can carry your hatred of 
 Hardmuth and let it embitter your whole 
 life — or you can drop it — so — {Drops a 
 book on table.) The power that any 
 man or anything has to annoy us we 
 give him or it by our interest. Some 
 idiot told your great-grandmother that a 
 jewel with different colored strata in it 
 was "bad luck" — or a "hoodoo" — she be- 
 lieved it, and she nursed her faith that 
 passed the lunacy on to your grand- 
 mother. 
 
 Helen. Jack, don't talk of that, please. 
 
 Jack. I '11 skip one generation — but I 'd 
 like to talk of it. 
 
 Alice. {Rising, comes to Helen.) Why 
 talk of it? 
 
 Jack. It was only a notion, and an effort 
 of will can banish it. 
 
 Clay. It was more than a notion. 
 
 Jack. Tom Denning's scarf-pin which 
 he dropped there {indicates floor) was 
 an exhibit in your trial — Judge Bayley 
 returned it to me to-day. 
 
 {Puts hand in pocket.) 
 
 Viola. I wish you would n't. Uncle Jack. 
 
 {Turns away.) 
 
 Jack. {To Clay.) You don't mind, do 
 you? 
 
 Clay. I 'd rather not look at it — to-night. 
 
 Jack. You need n't look at it. I '11 hold 
 it in my hand and you put your hands 
 over mine. 
 
 Alice. I really don't see the use in this 
 experiment. Jack. 
 
 Jack. {With Clay's hand over his.) 
 That doesn't annoy you, does i^** 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 799 
 
 Clay. I 'm controlling myself, sir — but I 
 feel the influence of the thing all through 
 and through me. 
 
 Helen. Jack ! 
 
 (Viola turns away in protest.) 
 
 Jack. Down your back, is n't it, and in 
 the roots of your hair — tingling — ? 
 
 Clay. Yes. 
 
 Helen. Why torture him? 
 
 Jack. Is it torture? 
 
 Clay. (With brave self-control.) I shall 
 be glad when it 's over. 
 
 Jack. (Severely.) What rot! That's 
 only my night-key — look at it. I have n't 
 the scarf-pin about me. 
 
 Clay. Why make me think it was the 
 scarf-pin ? 
 
 Jack. To prove to you that it 's only 
 thinking — that 's all. Now, be a man — 
 the cat's-eye itself is in that table drawer. 
 Get it and show Viola that you 're not a 
 neuropathic idiot. You 're a child of the 
 everlasting God and nothing on the earth 
 or under it can harm you in the slightest 
 degree. (Clay opens drawer and takes 
 pin.) That's the spirit — look at it — 
 I 've made many a young horse do that to 
 an umbrella. Now, give it to me. (To 
 Viola.) You 're not afraid of it? 
 
 Viola. Why, of course I 'm not. 
 
 Jack, (Putting pin on her breast.) Now, 
 if you want my niece, go up to that hoo- 
 doo like a man. 
 
 (Clay embraces Viola.) 
 
 Helen. Oh, Jack, do you think that will 
 last? 
 
 Jack. Which — indifference to the hoodoo 
 or partiality to my niece? 
 
 Clay. They '11 both last. 
 
 Jack. Now, my boy, drop your hatred of 
 Hardmuth as you drop your fear of the 
 scarf-pin. Don't look back — your life 's 
 ahead of you. Don't mount for the race 
 over-weight. 
 
 (Enter Jo.) 
 
 Jo. Mr. Ellinger. 
 
 (Enter Lew.) 
 
 Lew. I don't intrude, do I? 
 
 Jack. Come in. 
 
 Lew. (To Ladies.) Good-evening, Ah, 
 Clay. (Shakes hands with Clay.) 
 Glad to see you looking so well. Glad 
 to see you in such good company. (To 
 Jack^ briskly.) I've got him. 
 
 Jack. Got whom? 
 
 Lew. Hardmuth. (To Ladies.) Detec- 
 tives been hunting him all day, you know. 
 
 Helen. He 's caught, you say ? 
 
 Lew. No — but" I 've treed him — (to Jack) 
 — and I thought I 'd just have a word 
 with you before passing the tip. (To 
 Ladies. ) He 's nearly put me in the 
 poorhouse with his raids and. closing 
 laws, and I see a chance to get even. 
 
 Jack. In what way? 
 
 Lew. They 've been after him nearly 
 twenty-four hours — morning paper 's go- 
 ing to offer a rew^ard for him, and I 
 understand the State will also. If I had 
 a little help I 'd hide him for a day or 
 two and then surrender him for those 
 rewards. 
 
 Jack. Where is Hardmuth? 
 
 (Sits at table.) 
 
 Lew. Hiding. 
 
 Jack. (Writing a note.) Naturally. 
 
 Lew. You remember Big George? 
 
 Jack. The darkey? 
 
 Lew. Yes — used to be on the door at 
 Phil Kelly's? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Lew. He 's there. In Big George's cot- 
 tage — long story — Big George's wife — 
 that is, she — well, his wife used to be 
 pantry maid for Hardmuth's mother. 
 When they raided Kelly's game. Big 
 George pretended to turn State's evi- 
 dence, but he really hates Hardmutli like 
 a rattler — so it all comes back to. me. 
 You see, if I 'd win a couple of hundred 
 at Kelly's I used to slip George a ten 
 going out. Your luck always stays by 
 you if you divide a little with a nigger 
 or a humpback — and in Louisville it's 
 easier to find a nigger — so — 
 
 Jack. He's there now? 
 
 Lew. Yes. He wants to get away. He 's 
 got two guns and he '11 shoot before he 
 gives up — so I 'd have to con him some 
 way. George's wife is to open the door 
 to Kelly's old signal, you remember — 
 (raps) — one knock, then two, and then 
 one. 
 
 Jack. Where is the cottage? 
 
 Lew. Number 7 Jackson Street — little 
 dooryard — border of arbor-vitse on the 
 path. 
 
 Jack. One knock — then two — and then 
 one — (Rises with note written.) 
 
 Lew. What you gonta do? 
 
 Jack. Send for liim. 
 
 Lew. Who you gonta send? 
 
 Jack. That boy there. 
 
 Clay. Me? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Helen. Oh, no — no. 
 
800 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 Jack. And my niece. 
 
 Viola. What! To arrest a man? 
 
 Jack. {To Clay.) My machine is at the 
 door. Give Hardmuth this note. He '11 
 come with you quietly. Bring him here. 
 We '11 decide what to do with him after 
 that. 
 
 Alice. I can't allow Viola on such an er- 
 rand. 
 
 Jack. When the man she 's promised to 
 marry is going into danger — 
 
 Viola. If Mr. Hardmuth will come for 
 that note — why can't I deliver it? 
 
 Jack. You may — if Clay '11 let you. 
 
 Clay. {Quietly taking note as Jack ojfers 
 it to Viola. ) I '11 hand it to him. 
 
 Jack. I hope so. {Gives goggles and 
 coat.) Take these — remember — one rap, 
 then two, then one. 
 
 Clay. I understand — number seven — ? 
 
 Lew. Jackson Street. 
 
 Alice. I protest. 
 
 Helen. So do I. 
 
 Jack. {To Clay and Viola.) You're 
 both of age. I ask you to do it. If you 
 give Hardmuth the goggles, nobody '11 
 recognize him and with a lady beside him 
 you '11 get him safely here. 
 
 Clay. Come. {Exit with Viola.) 
 
 Lew. {Following to door.) I oughtto be 
 in the party. 
 
 Jack. No — you stay here. 
 
 Alice. That 's scandalous. 
 
 Jack. But none of us will start the scan- 
 dal, will we? 
 
 Helen. Clay knows nothing of that kind 
 of work — a man with two guns — think 
 of it. 
 
 Jack. After he's walked barehanded up 
 to a couple of guns a few times, he '11 
 quit fearing men that are armed only 
 with a scarf-pin. 
 
 Helen. {Hysterically.) It's cruel to 
 keep constantly referring to that — that 
 — mistake of Clay's — I want to forget it. 
 
 Jack. {Going to Helen. Tenderly.) 
 The way to forget it, my dear Helen, is 
 not to guard it as a sensitive spot in your 
 memory, but to grasp it as the wise ones 
 grasp a nettle — crush all its power to 
 harm you in one courageous contact. 
 We think things are calamities and trials 
 and sorrows — only names. They are 
 spiritual gymnastics and have an eternal 
 value when once you front them and 
 make them crouch at your feet. Say 
 once for all to your soul and thereby to 
 the world — "Yes, my boy killed a man — 
 because I 'd brought him up a half -ef- 
 
 feminate, hysterical weakling, but he 's 
 been through the fire and I 've been 
 through the fire, and we 're both the bet- 
 ter for it." 
 
 Helen. I can say that truthfully, but I 
 don't want to make a policeman of him, 
 just the same. {Exit to dining-room.) 
 
 Alice. {Following.) Your treatment 's a 
 little too heroic. Jack. {Exit.) 
 
 Lew. Think they'll fetch him? 
 
 Jack. {Sits left of table.) Yes. 
 
 Lew. He '11 come, of course, if he does, 
 under the idea that you '11 help him when 
 he gets here. 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Lew. Pretty hard double-cross, but he de- 
 serves it. I 've got a note of fifteen thou- 
 sand to meet to-morrow, or, damn it, I 
 don't think I 'd fancy this man-hunting. 
 I put up some Louisville-Nashville bonds 
 for security, and the holder of the note '11 
 be only too anxious to pinch 'em. 
 
 Jack. You can't get your rewards in 
 time for that. 
 
 Lew. I know — and that 's one reason I 
 come to you. Jack. If you see I 'm in a 
 fair way to get a reward — 
 
 Jack. I '11 lend you money, Lew. 
 
 Lew. Thank you. (Jack takes check- 
 book and writes.) I thought you would. 
 If I lose those bonds they '11 have me sell- 
 ing programs for a livin' at a grand- 
 stand. You see, I thought hatin' Hard- 
 muth as you do, and your reputation 
 bein' up through that stuff to the 
 papers — 
 
 Jack. There. {Gives check.) 
 
 Lew. Thank you, old man. I'll hand 
 this back to you in a week. 
 
 Jack. {Rises.) You needn't. 
 
 Lew. What? 
 
 Jack. You needn't hand it back. It's 
 only fifteen thousand and you 've lost a 
 hundred of them at poker in these rooms. 
 
 Lew. Never belly-ached, did I? 
 
 Jack. Never — but you don't owe me that 
 fifteen. 
 
 Lew. Rot ! I 'm no baby — square game, 
 wasn't it? 
 
 Jack. Perfectly. 
 
 Lew. And I '11 sit in a square game any 
 time I get a chance. 
 
 Jack. I know, Lew, all about that. 
 
 Lew. I '11 play you for this fifteen right 
 away. {Displays check.) 
 
 Jack. No. {Walks aside.) 
 
 Lew. Ain't had a game in three weeks. 
 — and, besides, I think my luck 's chang- 
 in'? When Big George told me about 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 801 
 
 Hardmuth I took George's hand before 
 
 I thought what I was doin' — and you 
 
 know what shakin' hands with a nigger 
 
 does just before any play. 
 Jack. {Resisting IjEw'^ plea.) No, thank 
 
 you, Lew. 
 Lew. My money 's good as anybody else's, 
 
 ain't it? 
 Jack. Just as good, but — 
 Lew. It ain't a phoney check, is it? 
 
 {Examines check.) 
 Jack. The check 's all right. 
 Lew. {Taunting.) Losing your nerves? 
 Jack. No {pause) — suppose you shuffle 
 
 those and deal a hand. 
 
 {Indicates small table, right.) 
 Lew. That 's like old times ; what is it 
 
 — stud-horse or draw? {Sits at table.) 
 Jack. {Goes to fireplace.) Draw if you 
 
 say so. 
 Lew. I cut 'em? 
 Jack. You cut them. 
 Lew. {Dealing two poker hands.) Table 
 
 stakes — check goes for a thousand. 
 Jack. That suits me. 
 
 Lew. {Taking his own cards.) Sit down. 
 Jack. {At other side of room looking into 
 
 fire.) I don't need to sit down just yet. 
 Lew. As easy as that, am I? 
 Jack. Lew ! 
 Lew. Yes? 
 Jack. {Pause.) Do you happen to have 
 
 three queens? 
 
 (Lew looks at Jack, then carefully at 
 hack of his own cards, then at the 
 deck.) 
 Lew. Well, I can't see it. 
 Jack. No use looking — they 're not 
 
 marked. 
 Lew. Well, I shuffled 'm all right. 
 Jack. Yes. 
 Lew. And cut 'm? (Jack nods.) 
 
 Couldn't 'a' been a cold deck? 
 Jack. No. 
 Lew. Then, how did you know I had 
 
 three queens? 
 Jack. I didn't know it. I just thought 
 
 you had. 
 Lew. Can you do it again? 
 Jack. I don't know. Draw one card. 
 Lew. {Drawing one card from deck.) 
 
 All right. 
 Jack. {Pause.) Is it the ace of hearts? 
 Lew. It is. 
 Jack. Mm — turns me into a rotter, 
 
 doesn't it? 
 
 {Comes gloomily to the big table.) 
 Lew. Can you do that every time? 
 Jack. I never tried it until to-night — that 
 
 is, consciously. I 've always had luck 
 and I thought it was because I took 
 chances on a game — same as any player 
 — but that don't look like it, does it? 
 
 Lew. Beats me. 
 
 Jack. And what a monster it makes of me 
 — these years I 've been in the business. 
 
 Lew. You say you did n't know it before ? 
 
 Jack. I didn't know it — no — but — some 
 things have happened lately that have 
 made me think it might be so; that jury 
 yesterday — some facts I 've had from 
 Justice Prentice. Telepathy of a very 
 common kind — and I guess it 's used in 
 a good many games, old man, we are n't 
 on to. 
 
 Lew. Well — have you told anybody? 
 
 Jack. No. 
 
 Lew. {Excitedly.) Good! {Bises and 
 comes to Jack.) Now, see here, Jack, if 
 you can do that right along I know a 
 game in Cincinnati where it 'd be like 
 takin' candy from children. 
 
 Jack. Good God ! you 're not suggesting 
 that I keep it up ? 
 
 Lew. Don't over-do it — no — {Pause.) 
 Or you show me the trick and I 'II collect 
 all right. 
 
 Jack. {Slowly.) Lew — {Pause.) Some 
 of the fellows I Ve won from in this 
 house have gone over to the park and 
 blown their heads off. 
 
 Lew. Some of the fellows anybody wins 
 from in any house go somewhere and 
 blow their heads off. 
 
 Jack. True — {Pause.) 
 
 Lew. Three queens — before the draw — 
 well, you could 'a' had me all right — and 
 you won't tell me how you do it? 
 
 Jack. I don't know how I do it; the 
 thought just comes to my mind stronger 
 than any other thought. 
 
 Lew. {Reprovingly.) God A'mighty gives 
 you a mind like that and you won't go 
 with me to Cincinnati. 
 
 {Goes to card table; studies cards.) 
 
 {Enter Jo.) 
 
 Jo. Justice Prentice, sah. 
 
 Jack. Ask him to step up here. 
 
 Jo. Yes, sah, {Exit.) 
 
 Jack. {Goes to door, left.) Alice — Helen 
 
 — Justice Prentice has called ; I 'd like 
 
 you to join us. 
 Lew. Can the old man call a hand like 
 
 that, too? 
 Jack. I 'm sure he could. 
 Lew. And — are there others? 
 Jack. I believe there are a good many 
 
802 
 
 THE WITCHING HOUR 
 
 others who unconsciously have the same 
 ability. 
 Lew. Well, it 's a God's blessin' there 's 
 a sucker born every minute. I 'm a 
 widow and an orphan ^ongside o' that. 
 {Throws cards in disgust onto table.) 
 
 {Enter Alice and Helen.) 
 
 Alice. Been losing, Mr. Ellinger? 
 
 Lew. Losing? I just saved lifteen thou- 
 sand I was gonta throw 'way like sand in 
 a rathole. I 'm a babe eatin' spoon vic- 
 tuals and only gettin' half al that. 
 
 {Enter Prentice.) 
 
 Jack. Good-evening. 
 Prentice. Good-evening. 
 
 {Shakes hands with Alice and 
 Helen.) 
 Jack. I stopped at your hotel, Mr. Jus- 
 tice, but you were out. 
 
 {Enter Viola.) 
 
 Alice. {Anxiously.) Viola. 
 Helen. Where's Clay? 
 Viola. Downstairs. Good-evening. 
 Prentice. Good-evening. 
 Jack. {To others.) Pardon. {To Vi- 
 ola.) Did the — gentleman come with 
 
 you? 
 Viola. Yes. 
 
 (Lew flutters and shows excitement.) 
 Jack. Won't you ask Clay, my dear, to 
 
 take him through the lower hall and into 
 
 the dining-room until I 'm at liberty ? 
 Viola. Certainly. {Exit.) 
 
 Prentice. I am keeping you from other 
 
 appointments? 
 Jack. Nothing that can't wait. 
 Prentice. I am leaving for Washington 
 
 in the morning. 
 Jack. We '11 all be at the train to see you 
 
 off. 
 Prentice. That 's good, because I should 
 
 like to say good-bye to — to the young 
 
 people — I can see them there — I shan't 
 
 see you then, Mr. Ellinger — 
 
 {Goes to Lew, who stands at card 
 table.) 
 Lew. Good-bye, Judge — you — you 've 
 
 given me more of a "turn over" than you 
 
 know. 
 Prentice. Really? 
 Lew. I 'd 'a' saved two hundred thousand 
 
 dollars if I 'd 'a' met you thirty years 
 
 ago. 
 Prentice. Well, that's only about six 
 
 thousand a year, is n't it ? 
 
 Lew. That's so — and, damn it, I have 
 
 lived. 
 
 {Smiles — looks dreamily into the past.) 
 Prentice. Good-night. {Exit Prentice.) 
 Jack. Good-night — good-night. 
 'Avce. Is that Hardmuth in there? 
 '^''' {Points to dining-room.) 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Alice. I don't want to see him. 
 Jack. Very well, dear, I '11 excuse you. 
 Alice. {Going.) Come, Helen. 
 Jack. {At door, left.) Come in. {To 
 
 Helen, who is going with Alice.) 
 
 Helen ! I 'd like you to stay. 
 Helen. Me? 
 Jack. Yes. {Exit Alice.) 
 
 {Enter Clay, Hardmuth, and Viola. 
 Viola lays automobile coat on sofa. 
 Hardmuth bows to Helen. Helen 
 bows.) 
 
 Jack. Your mother has just left us, Vi- 
 ola. You 'd better join her. . 
 
 Viola. Very well. 
 
 Jack. {Taking her hand as she passes 
 him.) And I want you to know — I ap- 
 preciate ver^ much, my dear, your going 
 on this errand for me — you 're the right 
 stuff. {Kisses her. Exit ViOLA. To 
 Hardmuth. ) You 're trying to get 
 away? 
 
 Hardmuth. This your note? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Hardmuth. You say you '11 help me out 
 of the State? 
 
 Jack. I will. 
 
 Hardmuth. When ? 
 
 Jack. Whenever you 're ready. 
 
 Hardmutk. I 'm ready now. 
 
 Jack. Then I '11 help you now. 
 
 Lew. Now ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Helen. Doesn't that render you liable in 
 some way. Jack, to the law? 
 
 Jack. Yes — but I 've been liable to the 
 law in some way for the last twenty 
 years. {To Clay.) You go down and 
 tell the chauffeur to leave the machine 
 and walk home. I 'm going to run it 
 myself and I '11 turn it in. 
 
 Clay. Yes, sir. {Exit.) 
 
 Hardmuth. You 're going to run it your- 
 self? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Hardmuth. Where to? 
 
 Jack. Across the river, if that 's agree- 
 able to you — or any place you name. 
 
 Hardmuth. Is anybody — waiting for you 
 — across the river? 
 
AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 803 
 
 Jack. No. 
 
 Hardmuth. {Again with note.) This is 
 
 all on the level? 
 Jack. Completely. 
 Lew. Why, I think you mean that. 
 Jack. I do. 
 Lew. (Aggressively.) But I've got 
 
 something to say, haven't I? 
 Jack. I hope not. 
 Lew. (Quitting.) If you're in earnest, 
 
 of course. But I don't see your game. 
 Jack. I 'm not fully convinced of Mr. 
 
 Hardmuth's guilt. 
 Lew. Why, he 's running away ? "^ 
 
 (Enter Clay.) 
 
 Hardmuth. I know what a case they 'd 
 make against me, but I'm not guilty in 
 any degree. 
 
 Jack. I want to do this thing for you, 
 Frank — don't make it too difficult by any 
 lying. When I said I wasn't fully con- 
 vinced of your guilt, my reservation was 
 one you wouldn't understand. (To 
 Clay.) He gone? 
 
 Clay. Yes. 
 
 Jack. My coat and goggles? 
 
 Clay. Below in the reception-room. 
 
 Jack. Thank you. I wish now you 'd go 
 to Viola and her mother and keep them 
 wherever they are. 
 
 Clay. All right. (Exit.) 
 
 Jack. (To Hardmuth.) Hungry? 
 
 (Touches push button.) 
 
 Hardmuth. No, tli^nk you. 
 
 Jack. Got money? 
 
 Hardmuth. Yes. 
 
 (Enter Jo.) 
 
 Jack. Jo, take Mr. Hardmuth below and 
 
 lend him one of the fur coats. (To 
 
 Hardmuth.) I'll join you immediately. 
 
 (Exit Hardmuth with Jo.) 
 
 Helen. What does it all mean. Jack? 
 
 Jack. Lew, I called that ace of hearts, 
 didn't I? 
 
 Lew. And the three queens. 
 
 Jack. Because the three queens and the 
 ace were in your mind. 
 
 Lew. I don't see any other explanation. 
 
 Jack. Suppose, instead of the cards 
 there 'd been in your mind a well- 
 developed plan of assassination — the 
 picture of a murder — 
 
 Lew. Did you drop to him that way? 
 
 Jack. No. Raynor told me all I know 
 of Hardmuth — but here 's the very hell 
 of it. Long before Scovill was killed I 
 thought he deserved killing and I 
 thought it could be done just — as — it- 
 was done. 
 
 Helen. Jack ! 
 
 Jack. I never breathed a word of it to a 
 living soul, but Hardmuth planned it 
 exactly as I dreamed it — and by God, a 
 guilty thought is almost as criminal as 
 a guilty deed. I 've always had a con- 
 siderable influence over that poor devil 
 that 's running away to-night, and I 'm 
 not sure that before the Judge of both 
 of us the guilt is n't mostly mine. 
 
 Helen. That 's morbid, Jack, dear, per- 
 fectly morbid. 
 
 Jack. I hope it is — we '11 none of us ever 
 know — in this life — but we can all of 
 us — (Pause.) 
 
 Lew. What? 
 
 Jack. Live as if it were true. (Change 
 of manner to brisk command.) I'm 
 going to help him over the line — the 
 roads are watched, but the poUce won't 
 suspect me and they won't suspect Lew 
 — and all the less if there 's a lady with 
 us — (To Lew.) Will you go? 
 
 Lew. The limit. 
 
 Jack. Get a heavy coat from Jo. 
 
 Lew. Yes. (Exit.) 
 
 Jack. (Alone with Helen.) You know 
 you said I used to be able to make you 
 write to me when I was a boy at college ? 
 
 Helen. Yes. 
 
 Jack. And you were a thousand miles 
 away — while this fellow — Hardmuth — 
 was just at my elbow half the time. 
 
 Helen. It can't help you to brood over it. 
 
 Jack. It can help me to know it, and make 
 what amend I can. Will you go with 
 me while I put this poor devil over the 
 line? 
 
 Helen. (Taking Viola's fur coat.) Yes, 
 I '11 go with you. 
 
 Jack. Helen, you stood by your boy in a 
 fight for his life. 
 
 Helen. Didn't you? 
 
 Jack. Will you stand by me while I make 
 my fight? 
 
 Helen. (Giving her hand.) You've 
 made your fight, Jack, and you 've won. 
 (Jack kisses her hand, which he rev- 
 erently holds in both of his.) 
 
THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 BY 
 
 William Vaughn Moody 
 
 a 
 
Copyright, 1909, 1910, by William Vaughn Moody 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Reprinted by permission of Mrs. Harriet C. Moody and by 
 special arrangement with the Houghton MiflQin Company. 
 
THE FAITH HEALEE 
 
 The Faith Healer represents the drama of revolt, in which the protest of the 
 individual is made against the controlling power of social law and custom. Only 
 as long as the ' ' Faith Healer ' ' has .confidence in himself does his power survive 
 the ever-present disbelief of the world. This drama of revolt found its most 
 powerful expression in the work of a group of dramatists to which Mr. Moody, 
 Mr. George Cabot Lodge, and, to a certain extent, Mr. Percy MacKaye, belonged. 
 
 "William Vaughn Moody was born at Spencer, Indiana, July 8, 1869, the son 
 of Francis Burdette Moody, a steamboat captain, and Henrietta Stoy, to whom 
 he pays such an exquisite tribute in ' ' The Daguerreotype. ' ' He was brought up 
 in the town of New Albany, Indiana, and after teaching in a neighboring school, 
 came east to Riverside Academy, New York, where he also taught while prepar- 
 ing to enter Harvard College, from which he graduated in 1893. Having al- 
 ready completed his work for the bachelor's degree in 1892 he travelled in Europe 
 for a year and then returning to the Graduate School at Harvard University he 
 took his master's degree in 1894. After being a member of the Department of 
 English at Harvard for a year, he became Instructor in English at the Univer- 
 sity of Chicago in 1895 and remained there, as Instructor and Assistant Professor, 
 until 1903. Two European trips occurred during this period and Mr. Moody's 
 poems, especially the lyrics and the verse plays, show the result of the experi- 
 ences encountered in his wanderings. Notwithstanding his success as a teacher 
 and lecturer, he gave up active work at the University of Chicago after 1902, 
 retaining merely a nominal connection with the English department. He felt 
 that his best work was to be done as a poet and to do that work well he must 
 have freedom from academic drudgery. His History of English Literature writ- 
 ten in collaboration with Robert M. Lovett, and the publications of which 
 he was editor, served simply to provide him with the means to devote himself to 
 poetry. Already he had become recognized through his poems on public affairs, 
 such as the "Ode in Time of Hesitation," as one of the foremost of American 
 poets, and though his first volume, published in 1902, contained only a small 
 number of poems, this was due to his capacity for selection rather than to lack 
 of inspiration. 
 
 Mr. Moody 's early death, which occurred at Colorado Springs, October 17, 
 1910, cut short his career just as his work was reaching its best development. 
 His lyrics are exquisite and at times magnificent in their phrasing. In the poems 
 on public affairs he expresses true patriotism and concern for his country's fidel- 
 ity to her ideals. In his love poetry he shows deep insight into the emotional 
 
 807 
 
SOS INTRODUCTION 
 
 pliases of life. Besides the lyrics he had to his credit the verse dramas, and the 
 prose plays with which his widest public notice came. The Fire Bringer, which 
 celebrated the sacrifice of Prometheus in bringing fire to mankind ; The Masque 
 of Judgment, which had for its theme the conquest of all things by the serpent; 
 and the incomplete fragment, The Death of Eve, were to have formed a trilogy 
 in which the relations of God and man were to have been developed dramatically, 
 according to the modern doctrine of revolt. The plays in verse show the influ- 
 ence of the Greek drama, and, as is the case with all Mr. Moody's work, the 
 influence of Puritanism and the reaction against it. The Fire Bringer was 
 written with the idea of actual stage production. 
 
 As early as 1898 Mr. Moody had begun to think of the theme of a faith healer 
 as a fit subject for a play, which at first he planned to write in verse. He put 
 aside this theme for a time, however, to write The Great Divide, which was per- 
 formed first under the title of The Saline ^Yoman by .Miss Margaret Anglin in 
 Chicago, ]\Iarch, 1906. It was afterward played at the Princess Theatre, New 
 York, in October, 1906, by j\Ir. Henry ]\Iiller and Miss Anglin and had a long run 
 there and throughout the United States. In September, 1909, it w^as produced 
 for a short run at the Adelphi Theatre in London. The Great Divide portrayed 
 the conflict of the ideals of Puritanism, with its capacity of self-torture, and the 
 freer conceptions of life prevalent in the West. 
 
 The Faith Healer w^as first played in St. Louis on jMarch 15, 1909. It was 
 put on at the Savoy Theatre, New York, January 19, 1910, and was played at 
 Cambridge, Massachusetts, on January 24, 1910. It was not a popular success 
 but it is a significant play. The situation is dramatic and the handling con- 
 vincing, while the native quality of the play is apparent. The struggle which 
 is the essential part of every drama occurs here between human love and the 
 dedication to a purpose and is only incidentally associated with the religious 
 type. The obvious means of ending the struggle would have been to have "The 
 Healer" either renounce love for his dedicated purpose or renounce the purpose 
 in favor of his love. ]\Ir. JMoody w^ith a finer art shows in the play that love 
 and work are not necessarily irreconcilable interests and that by substituting 
 for the selfishness of a personal claim the more impersonal and unselfish type of 
 love, the hero could make a resolution of his problem which included every as- 
 pect of a man's life. 
 
 The most convenient form in w^hich to read ]\Ir. Moody's work is in the com- 
 plete edition, the Poems and Plays of William Vaughn Moodij, in two volumes, 
 published by the Houghton, IMifflin Company in 1912. This edition contains a 
 study of Mr. Moody's work and a brief biography by Professor John M. ^Manly, 
 to whom the present editor acknowledges his indebtedness. The separate pub- 
 licatioji? of Mr. Moody include The Masque of Judgment (1900), Poems (1902); 
 
INTRODUCTION 800 
 
 The Fire Bringer (1904), The Great Divide (1909)^ and The Faith Healer 
 (1909) and (1910). An interesting volume entitled Some Letters of William 
 Vaughn Moody, edited by Daniel E. Mason, was published in 1913. For gen- 
 eral criticism of Moody's work, see articles by N. 0. Barr, The Lyrist and Lyric 
 Dramatist, and by C. H. Caffin, The Dramatist, in The Drama, No. 2, May, 1911. 
 For criticism of The Faith Healer see The Nation, vol. 88, pp. 175-76, Feb., 
 1909, Hampton's Magazine, Vol. 24, pp. 561-65, April, 1910. Criticism of The 
 Great Divide is found in The Nation, Vol. 89, p. 387, October, 1909, and by B. R. 
 Hertz in The Forum, vol. 43, pp. 90-92, Jan., 1910. 
 
 Mrs. Moody has kindly revised the text of the edition of 1912 for the present 
 editor, who gratefully acknowledges her courtesy in obtaining for him the right 
 to reprint the play and for valuable biographical information. 
 
THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 St. Louis, March 15, 1909 
 
 Ulrich Michaelis Mr. Henry Miller 
 
 Matthew Beeler Mr. William J. Butler 
 
 Mary Beeler, his wife Miss Gertrude Berkeley 
 
 Martha Beeler, his sister Miss Lillian Dix 
 
 Annie Beeler, his daughter Miss Gladys Heulette 
 
 Rhoda Williams, Mrs. Beeler 's niece Miss Thais Lawton 
 
 Dr. George Littlefield Mr. George Saule Spencer 
 
 Rev. John Culpepper Mr. Henry Hanscombe 
 
 Uncle Abe, an old negro Mr. James Kirkwood 
 
 Lazarus, an Indian boy Mr. Henry B. Walthall 
 
 A Young Mother with Her Child Miss Laura Hope Crews 
 
 Various sick people and others attendant upon them. 
 
THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 A large old-fashioned room in Matthew 
 Beeler's farm-house, near a small town 
 in the Middle West. The room is used 
 for dining and for general living pur- 
 poses. It suggests, in architecture and 
 furnishings, a past of considerable pros- 
 perity, which has noiv given place to 
 more humble living. The house is, in 
 fact, the ancestral home of Mr. Beeler's 
 wife, Mary, born Beardsley, a famihj of 
 the local farming aristocracy, now de- 
 cayed. At the rear is a large douhle 
 window, set in a broad alcove. To the 
 right of the window is the entrance door, 
 which opens upon the side yard, showing 
 bushes, trees, and farm buildings. 
 
 In the right wall of the room a door and 
 covered stairway lead to the upper story. 
 Farther forward is a wall cupboard, and 
 a door leading into the kitchen. Oppo- 
 site this cupboard- in the left-hand wall 
 of the room, is a mantel-piece and grate ; 
 farther back a double door, leading to a 
 hall. Off the hall open two bedrooms 
 {not seen), one belonging to ]\Ir. and 
 Mrs. Beeler, the other to Rhoda Wil- 
 liams, a niece of Mrs. Beeler, child of 
 her dead sister. 
 
 The room contains, among other articles of 
 furniture, a dining table {with detach- 
 able leaves to reduce its bulk when not 
 in use for eating purposes) , an invalid's 
 wheel-chair, a low sofa of generous size, 
 and a book-shelf, upon which are ar- 
 ranged the scientific books which Mr. 
 Beeler takes a somewhat untutored but 
 genuine delight in. Tacked upon the 
 wall near by are portraits of scientific 
 men, Darwin and Spencer conspicuous 
 among them, cut from periodicals. 
 Other pictures, including family daguer- 
 reotypes and photographs, are variously 
 distributed about the walls. Over the 
 mantel shelf hangs a large map of the 
 United States and Mexico, faded and 
 fly-specked. 
 
 As the curtain rises, the room is dark, ex- 
 cept for a dull fire in the grate. The 
 tickina of the clock is heard: it strikes 
 
 six. Martha Beeler^ a woman of for- 
 ty-five, enters from the kitchen, carrying 
 a lighted lamp. She wears a shawl over 
 her shoulders, a print dress, and a kitchen 
 apron. She places the lamp on the 
 table, which is set for breakfast, and 
 puts coal on the grate, which soon flames 
 more brightly. 
 Site goes into the hall and is heard knocking 
 and calling. 
 
 Martha. Rhody! Rhody! (IVIatthew 
 Beeler, a man of fifty, enters. He is 
 yiot quite dressed, but finishes as he comes 
 in. Martha follows him.) Where's 
 that niece of yours got to now? 
 
 Beeler. She 's helping Mary dress. 
 
 Martha. What in time 's Mary gettin' np 
 for? She's only in the way till the 
 work 's done. 
 
 Beeler. She's restless. 
 
 Martha. {Significantly.) I shouldn't 
 wonder. {Pause.) I hope you know 
 why Mary did n't sleep. 
 
 Beeler. {Evasively.) She's always been 
 a light sleeper, since she got her stroke. 
 
 Martha. Look here, Mat Beelor! I'm 
 your bom sister. Don't try to fool me! 
 You know why your wife didn't sleep 
 last night. 
 
 Beeler. Maybe I do, Sis. {Points to the 
 ceiling.) Is he up yet? 
 
 IMartha. Up ! I don't believe he 's been 
 abed. {They listen, as to the tread of 
 some one on the fioor above.) Back and 
 forth, like a tiger in a cage! 
 
 Beeler. {Shrugs.) Queer customer. 
 
 Martha. Yes. {Imitates him.) "Queer 
 customer," that 's you. But come to 
 doin' anything about it! 
 
 Beeler. Give me time, Sis, give me time! 
 
 Martha. How much time do you want? 
 He 's been in this house since Wednes- 
 day night, and this is Saturday morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Beeler. Well, he 's payin' his board, ain't 
 he? {At window, rolls up curtain.) 
 Goin' to have just such another day as 
 yesterday. Never seen such a fog. 
 
 Martha. Never seen such a fog, eh? 
 {Comes nearer and speaks mysteriously.) 
 
 ^n 
 
81: 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 Did you happen to notice how long that 
 t'oj»' lias been hangni' over this house"? 
 
 Beeler. How long? Why, since Thurs- 
 day. 
 
 Martha. No, sir, since Wednesday night. 
 
 Beeler. {Looking at her, astonished.) 
 Martha Beeler! You don't mean to say 
 — he brought the fog? {She jounces 
 out icithout answering. He lights lan- 
 tern, with dubious head-shaking, and 
 holds it up before the print portraits.) 
 Mornin', Mr. Darwin. Same to you, Mr. 
 Spencer. Still keepin' thing's straight? 
 {Grunts as he turns down his lantern, 
 which is smoking.) I guess not very. 
 
 {The hall door again opens, and Rhoda 
 Williams, a girl of twenty, enters, with 
 Annie Beeler, a child of ten. Rhoda 
 is running, with Annie in laughing pur- 
 suit. ) 
 
 Rhoda. {Taking refuge behind the table.) 
 King's X! 
 
 Annie. {Catching her.) You did n't have 
 your fingers crossed. 
 
 Rhoda. {Turning Annie about, and be- 
 ginning to button the child's long slip.) 
 And you didn't have your dress but- 
 toned. 
 
 Anxie. That does n't count. 
 
 Rhoda. Yes, it does, before breakfast! 
 
 Beeler. {At the outer door.) How does 
 your aunt strike you this morning? 
 
 Rhoda. {Sobered.) She seems wonder- 
 fully better. 
 
 Beeler. Better! 
 
 Rhoda. I don't mean her poor body. 
 She 's got past caring for that. 
 
 Beeler. {With sarcasm.) You mean in 
 her mind, eh? 
 
 Rhoda. Yes, I mean better in her mind. 
 
 Beeler. Because of what this fellow has 
 been sayin' to her, I suppose. 
 
 Rhoda. Yes, because of that. 
 
 Beeler. {As he puts on an old fur cap.) 
 An out-and-out fakir! 
 
 Rhoda. You don't know him. 
 
 Beeler. I suppose you do, after forty- 
 eight hours. What in the name of non- 
 sense is he, anyway? And this deaf and 
 dumb Indian boy he drags around with 
 him. What's his part in the show? 
 
 Rhoda. I know very little about either of 
 them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is not 
 — what you say. 
 
 Beeler. Well, he 's a crank at the best of 
 it. He 's worked your aunt up now so 's 
 she can't sleep. You brought him here, 
 and you 've got to get rid of him. {Exit 
 
 by outer door, with inarticulate grum- 
 blings, among which can be distin- 
 guished.) Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! 
 There 's a name for you. 
 Annie. What's a fakir? (Rhoda does 
 not answer.) Cousin Rho, what's a 
 fakir? 
 Rhoda. {Humoring her.) A man, way 
 off on the other side of the world, in 
 India, who does strange things. 
 Annie. What kind of things? 
 Rhoda. Well, for instance, he throws a 
 rope up in the air, right up in the empty 
 air, with nothing for it to catch on, and 
 then — he — climbs — up — the — rope ! 
 Annie. Don't he fall? 
 
 (Rhoda shakes her head in portentous 
 negation. Steps are heard descend- 
 ing the stairs. The child fidgets 
 nervously.) 
 Annie. Listen! He 's coming down ! 
 Rhoda. Yes, he 's coming down, right out 
 
 of the blue sky. 
 Annie. {In a panic.) Let me go. 
 
 {She breaks away and retreats to the 
 hall door, watching the stair door 
 open, and Ulrich Michaelis ew- 
 ter. Thereupon, with a glance of 
 frightened curiosity, she flees. Mi- 
 chaelis is a man of twenty-eight or 
 thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, 
 wrinkled by sun and wind, looks 
 older. His abundant hair is worn 
 longer than common. His frame, 
 though slight, is powerful, and his 
 way of handling himself has the 
 freedom and largeness which come 
 from much open-air life. There is 
 nevertheless something nervous and 
 restless in his movements. He has 
 a trick of handling thiyigs, putting 
 them down only to take them up 
 again immediately, before renounc- 
 ing them for good. His face shows 
 the effect of sleeplessness, and his 
 gray flannel shirt and dark, coarse 
 clothing are rumpled and neglected.) 
 Rhoda. {As he enters.) Good morning. 
 Michaelis: ( Watching Annie's retreat.) 
 
 Is — is that child afraid of me? 
 Rhoda. {As she adds the finishing touches 
 to the breakfast table.) Oh, Annie's a 
 queer little body. She has her mother's 
 nerves. And then she sees no one, living 
 here on the back road. If this dreadful 
 fog ever lifts, you '11 see that, though 
 we 're quite near town, it 's almost as if 
 we were in the wilderness. {The stair 
 door opens, and an Indian boy, about 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 813 
 
 sixteen years old, enters. He is dressed 
 in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, long- 
 ish hair, and the noiseless tread of his 
 moccasined feet, are the only suggestions 
 of his race. He hows to Rhoda, who re- 
 turns his salutation ; then, with a glance 
 at MiCHAELis, he goes out doors. Rhoda 
 nods toward the closing door.) It 's 
 really him Annie 's afraid of. He ^s like 
 a creature from another world, to 
 her. 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Looks at her in an odd, star- 
 tled way.) Another world? 
 
 Rhoda. Oh, you 're used to his people. 
 Your father was a missionary to the In- 
 dians, you told me. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Yes. 
 
 Rhoda. Where"? 
 
 MiCHAELis. At Acoma. 
 
 Rhoda. Where is that? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Standing near the wall map, 
 touches- It.) In New Mexico, by the 
 map. 
 
 Rhoda. {Comes nearer.) What is it like ? 
 
 MiCHAELis. It's — as you say — another 
 world. 
 
 Rhoda. Describe it to me. 
 
 MiCHAELis. I couldn't make you see it. 
 It's — centuries and centuries from our 
 time. — And since I came here, since I en- 
 tered this house, it has seemed centuries 
 away from my own life. 
 
 Rhoda. My life has seemed far off, too — 
 my old life — 
 
 MiCHAELis. What do you mean by your 
 old life? 
 
 Rhoda. {She breaks out impulsively.) I 
 mean — I mean — . Three days ago I was 
 like one dead ! I walked and ate and did 
 my daily tasks, but — I wondered some- 
 times why people didn't see that I was 
 dead, and scream at me. 
 
 MiCHAELis. It was three days ago that I 
 first saw you. 
 
 Rhoda. Yes. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Three nights ago, out there in 
 the moonlit country. 
 
 Rhoda. Yes. 
 
 MiCHAELis. You were unhappy, then? 
 
 Rhoda. The dead are not unhappy, and I 
 was as one dead. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Why was that? 
 
 Rhoda. I think we die more than once 
 when things are too hard and too bitter. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Have things here been hard 
 and bitter? 
 
 Rhoda. No. All that was before I came 
 here! But it had left me feeling — . 
 The other uight, as I walked through the 
 
 streets of the town, the people seemed 
 like ghosts 'to me, and I myself like a 
 ghost. 
 MiCHAELis. I cannot think of you as any- 
 thing but glad and free. 
 Rhoda. When you met me on the road, 
 and walked home with me, and said those 
 few words, it was as if, all of a sudden, 
 the dead dream was shattered, and I be- 
 gan once more to live. {Bell rings.) 
 That is Aunt Mary's bell 
 
 (Rhoda goes out hy the hall door, 
 wheeling the invalid chair. Martha 
 enters from the kitchen, carrying a 
 steaming coffee-pot and a platter of 
 smoking meat, which she places on 
 the table. Michaelis bows to her.) 
 Martha. {Snappishly.) Hope you slept 
 well ! 
 
 {She goes to the outer door, rings the 
 breakfast bell loudly, and exit to 
 kitchen. Rhoda enters, wheeling 
 Mrs. Beeler in an invalid chair. 
 Mrs. Beeler is a woman of forty, 
 slight of body, with hair just be- 
 ginning to silver. Her face has the 
 curious refinement which physical 
 suffering sometimes brings. Annie 
 lingers at the door, looking timidly 
 at Michaelis, as he approaches Mrs. 
 Beeler and takes her hand from the 
 arm of the chair.) 
 Michaelis. You are better? 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Speaks with loiu intensity.) 
 Much, much better. 
 
 {He puts her hand gently back on the 
 chair arm. Martha enters with 
 other dishes. She pours out coffee, 
 putting a cup at each plate. Mr. 
 Beeler has entered from the kitchen, 
 and the boy from outside. Beeler, 
 with a glance of annoyance at his 
 wife and Michaelis, sits down at 
 the head of the table. Rhoda 
 pushes Mrs. Beeler's chair to the 
 foot of the table and stands feeding 
 her, eating her own breakfast mean^ 
 while. 
 (Michaelis sits at Mrs. Beeler's 
 right, Martha opposite. At Mr. 
 Beeler's right is the Indian boy, at 
 his left Annie's vacant chair, 
 Martha beckons to Annie to come 
 to the table, but the child, eyeing 
 the strangers, refuses, taking a chair 
 behind her mother by the mantel- 
 piece. Mrs. Beeler speaks after 
 the meal has progressed for some 
 time in silence.) 
 
814 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Mat, you have n't said good 
 
 morning to our g-uest. 
 Beeler. {Gruffly.) How are you*? 
 
 {He helps himself to meat and passes 
 it to the others; the plate goes round 
 the table. There is a constrained si- 
 lence. Annie tugs at Rhoda's skirt, 
 and asks in dumb show to have her 
 breakfast given her. Rhoda fills the 
 child's plate, with which she retreats 
 to her place by the mantel.) 
 Mrs. Beeler. Why does n't Annie come to 
 the table*? {She tries to look around. 
 Rhoda whispers to Mrs. Beeler, ivho 
 looks at her, puzzled.) Why doesn't 
 Annie come? 
 Rhoda. She's afraid. 
 Mrs. Beeler. Afraid! What is she 
 
 afraid of? 
 Rhoda. You know how shy she is, before 
 
 strangers. 
 Mrs. Beeler. Annie, please come here! 
 Annie ! 
 
 {The child refuses, pouting, and gazing 
 at Michaelis.) 
 Rhoda. I would n't urge her. She 
 
 does n't want to come. 
 Martha. {Trenchantly.) Don't blame 
 
 her! 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Gently reproving.) Mar- 
 tha! 
 Michaelis. {Holding out his hand to 
 Annie.) Won't you come here, my 
 child? (Annie approaches sloivly, as if 
 hypnotized.) You're not afraid of me, 
 are you? 
 Annie. {Shyly.) Not if you won't climb 
 
 up the rope. 
 Michaelis. {Puzzled.) Climb up what 
 
 rope? 
 Rhoda. It 's a story I was foolish enough 
 to tell her. — Do eat something, Auntie. 
 Mrs Beeler. I '11 drink a little more 
 tea. 
 
 (Rhoda raises the cup to Mrs. Bee- 
 ler's lips.) 
 Beeler. You can't live on tea, Mary. 
 Martha. I guess she can live on tea bet- 
 ter than on some things! {With a re- 
 sentful glance at Michaelis.) Some 
 things that some folks seem to live on, 
 and expect other folks to live on. 
 
 (Michaelis looks up from Annie, 
 who has been whispering in his ear. 
 Beeler nods at Martha in covert 
 approval, as she takes up dishes and 
 goes into the kitchen.) 
 Mrs. Beeler. (Leans forward across the 
 table to Michaelis.) Don't mind my 
 
 sister-in-law, Mr. Michaelis. It's her 
 way. She means nothing by it 
 Beeler. {Between gulps of coffee, as he 
 finishes his meal.) Don't know as you 've 
 got any call to speak for Martha. She 
 generally means what she says, and I 
 guess she means it now. And what's 
 more, I guess I do, too! 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Beseechingly.) Mat! 
 Beeler. {Throws down his napkin and 
 rises.) Very well. It's none of my 
 business, I reckon, as long as it keeps 
 within reason. 
 
 {He puts on his cap and goes out 
 through the kitchen.) 
 Annie. {To Michaelis, oontinuing the 
 whispered conversation.) And if you do 
 climb up the rope, do you promise to 
 come down? 
 Michaelis. Yes, I promise to come down. 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Leans over her plate. 
 The others bow their heads.) Bless this 
 food to our use, and this day to our 
 strength and our salvation. 
 Rhoda. {As they lift their heads.) Per- 
 haps it will be light enough now without 
 the lamp. 
 
 (Michaelis, holding Annie's hand, 
 rises, goes to the window, and rolls 
 up the shades, while Rhoda extin- 
 guishes the lamp. The fog is still 
 thick, and the light which enters is 
 dull. Rhoda unpins the napkin 
 from her aunt's breast, and wheels 
 her back from the table. The boy 
 crouches down by the grate, Indian 
 fashion. Annie looks at him with 
 shy, half-frightened interest.) 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Gazing out, from where 
 she sits reclining. ) The blessed sun ! I 
 never thought to see it rise again so beau- 
 tiful. 
 Rhoda. {Looks at her aunt, puzzled and 
 alarmed.) But, Auntie, there isn't any 
 sun ! It 's — 
 
 {She breaks of, seeing Michaelis 
 place his fingers on his lips as a sig- 
 nal for her to be silent. Mrs. 
 Beeler turns to Rhoda, puzzled.) 
 Mrs. Beeler. There isn't any sun? 
 Why — (Rhoda pretends not to hear. 
 Mrs. Beeler turns to Michaelis.) 
 What does she mean by saying there is 
 no sun? 
 Michaelis. She means she doesn't see it. 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Still puzzled.) But — you 
 
 see it, don't you? 
 Michaelis. I see the same sun that you 
 see, 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 815 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Looks again at Rhoda, 
 then dismisses her wonderment, and looks 
 out at the window dreamily.) Another 
 day — and to-morrow the best of all the 
 days of the year. 
 
 AxxiE. What day is to-morrow? {She 
 leaves Michaelis and comes to her 
 mother's side.) What day is to-morrow? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {With exultation in her 
 voice.) My child, to-morrow is the -most 
 wonderful and the most beautiful day of 
 all the year. The day when — all over 
 the whole world — there is singing in the 
 air, and everything rises into new life 
 and happmess. 
 
 AxxiE. {Fretfully.) Mamma, I don't 
 understand! What day is to-morrow? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. To-morrow is Easter. 
 
 AxxiE. {With sudden interest.) Easter! 
 Can I have some eggs to color? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Ask Aunt Martha. 
 
 AxxiE. {Singsong^ as she skips out.) 
 Eggs to color! Eggs to color! 
 
 (Rhoda has meanwhile fetched a large 
 tray from the cupboard 'and has 
 been piling the dishes noiselessly 
 upon it.) 
 
 Rhoda. Shall I wheel you in, Aunt Mary? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Yes, please. (Rhoda 
 wheels the chair toward the hall door, 
 which Michaelis opens. Mrs. Beeler 
 ga^es at him as she passes.) Will you 
 come in soon, and sit with me? There 
 is so much that I want to hear. 
 
 Michaelis. Whenever you are ready. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. I will ring my bell. 
 
 {As they go out, Martha hustles in, 
 gathers up the dish tray and is about 
 to depart, ivith a vindictive look. 
 At the door she turns, and jerks her 
 head toward the boy.) 
 
 Martha. Is it against the law to work 
 where he comes from? 
 
 Michaelis. {Abstractedly.) What? — 
 No. 
 
 Martha. Then he might as well do me 
 some chores. Not but right, payin' only 
 half board. 
 
 Michaelis. {To the boy.) Do whatever 
 she tells you. {The boy follows Martha 
 out. Michaelis stands by the window 
 in thought. As Rhoda reenters, he looks 
 up. He speaks significantly, with sup- 
 pressed excitement.) She saw the sun! 
 
 Rhoda. Poor dear Auntie! 
 
 Michaelis. You pity her? 
 
 Rhoda. {After an instant's silence, dur- 
 ing which she ponders her reply.) I 
 think I envy her. 
 
 {She removes the cloth from the table, 
 and begins deftly to put the room in 
 order. Michaelis watches her with 
 a kind of vague intentness.) 
 
 Michaelis. How long did you say she 
 had been sick? 
 
 Rhoda. More than four years — nearly 
 five. 
 
 Michaelis. She has never walked in that 
 time? 
 
 Rhoda. {Shakes her head.) Nor used her 
 right hand, either. 
 
 Michaelis. {With intensity.) Are you 
 certain? 
 
 Rhoda. {Surprised at his tone.) Yes — 
 I haven't lived here long, but I am 
 certain. 
 
 Michaelis. She has tried medicine, doc- 
 tors? 
 
 Rhoda. Uncle has spent everything he 
 could earn on them. She has been three 
 times to the mmeral baths, once as far as 
 Virginia. 
 
 Michaelis. But never as far as Bethesda ? 
 
 Rhoda. Bethesda? Where is that? 
 
 Michaelis. The pool, which is called 
 Bethesda, having five porches. 
 
 Rhoda. Oh, yes. The pool in the Bible, 
 where once a year an angel troubled the 
 waters, and the sick and the lame and 
 the blind gathered, hoping to be healed. 
 
 Michaelis. And whoever first, after the 
 troubling of the waters, stepped in, he 
 was made whole of whatsoever disease he 
 had. 
 
 Rhoda. If anybody could find the way 
 there again, it would be Aunt Mary. 
 {Pause.) And if anybody could show 
 her the way it would be — you. {She 
 goes on in a different tone, as if to es- 
 cape from the embarrassment of her last 
 speech.) Her saying just now she saw 
 the sun. She often says things like that. 
 Have you noticed? 
 
 Michaelis. Yes. 
 
 Rhoda. {With hesitation.) Her brother 
 Seth — the one w-ho died — has she told you 
 about him? 
 
 Michaelis. Yes. 
 
 Rhoda. What she thinks happens — since 
 — he died? (Michaelis nods assent.) 
 And yet in most other ways her mind is 
 perfectly clear. 
 
 Michaelis. Perhaps in this way it is 
 clearer still. 
 
 Rhoda. {Startled.) You mean — that 
 maybe she really does — see her brother? 
 
 LIiCHAELis. It may be. 
 
 Rhoda, It would make the world a very 
 
816 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 different — a very strange place, if that 
 were true. 
 
 MiCHAELis. The world is a very strange 
 place. {Pause.) 
 
 Rhoda. Tell me a little about your life. 
 That seems to have been very strange. 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Vaguely, as he seats him- 
 self by the table.) I don't know. I can 
 hardly remember what my life was. 
 
 Rhoda. Why is that? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Gazing at her.) Because, 
 since I came into this house, I have seen 
 the vision of another life. 
 
 Rhoda. {With hesitation.) What — other 
 life? 
 
 MiCHAELis. Since my boyhood I have 
 been — {He hesitates.) I have been a 
 wanderer, almost a fugitive — . And I 
 never knew it, till now — I never knew it 
 till — I looked into your face! 
 
 Rhoda. {Avoiding his gaze.) How 
 should that make you know? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Leans nearer.) All my life 
 long I have walked in the light of some- 
 thing to come, some labor, some mission, 
 I have scarcely known what — but I have 
 risen with it and lain down with it, and 
 nothing else has existed for me. — Noth- 
 ing, until — I lifted my eyes and you 
 stood there. The stars looked down from 
 their places, the earth wheeled on among 
 the stars. Everything was as it had 
 been, and nothing was as it had been; 
 nor ever, ever can it be the same again. 
 
 Rhoda. {In a low and agitated voice.) 
 You must not say these things to me. 
 You are — I am not — . You must not 
 think of me so. 
 
 ^IiCHAELis. I must think of you as I must. 
 {Pause. Rhoda speaks in a lighter 
 tone, as if to relieve the tension of 
 their last words.) 
 
 Rhoda. Tell me a little of your boyhood. — 
 What was it like — that place where you 
 lived? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Becomes absorbed in his own 
 mental pictures as he speaks.) A great 
 table of stone, rising live hundred feet 
 out of the endless waste of sand. A lit- 
 tle adobe house, halfway up the mesa, 
 with the desert far below and the Indian 
 village far above. A few peach trees, 
 and a spring — a sacred spring, which the 
 Indians worshipped in secret. A little 
 chapel, which my father had built with 
 his own hands. lie often spent the night 
 there, praying. And there, one night, he 
 died. I found him in the morning, lying 
 as if in quiet prayer before the altar, 
 
 you 
 
 Rhoda. {After a momenfs hush.) What 
 did you do after your father died? 
 
 MiCHAELis. I went away south, into the 
 mountains, and got work on a sheep 
 range. I was a shepherd for five years. 
 
 Rhoda. And since then? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Hesitates.) Since then I 
 have — wandered about, working here and 
 there to earn enough to live on. 
 
 Rhoda. I understand well why men take 
 up that life. I should love it myself. 
 
 MiCHAELis. I did n't do it because I loved 
 it. 
 
 Rhoda. Why, then? 
 
 MiCHAELis. I was waiting my time. 
 
 Rhoda. {In a low tone.) Your time — for 
 what ? 
 
 MiCHAELis, To fulfil my life — my real 
 life. 
 
 Rhoda. Your — real life? {He sits ab- 
 sorbed in thought without answering. 
 Rhoda continues, after a long pause.) 
 There in the mountains, when you were 
 a shepherd — that was not your real 
 life? 
 
 MiCHAELis. It was the beginning of it. 
 
 Rhoda. {With hesitation.) Won't 
 tell me a little about that time? 
 
 MiCHAELis. In the fall I would drive the 
 sheep south, through the great basin 
 which sloped down into Mexico, and in 
 the spring back again to the mountains. 
 
 Rhoda. Were you all alone ? 
 
 MiCHAELis. There were a few men on the 
 ranges, but they were no more to me than 
 the sheep — not so much. 
 
 Rhoda. Weren't you dreadfully lonely? 
 
 MiCHAELis. No. 
 
 Rhoda. You had n't even any books to 
 read? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Takes a book from his coat 
 pocket.) I had this pocket Bible, that 
 had been my father's, I read that some- 
 times. But always in a dream, without 
 understanding, without remembering. 
 {His excitement increases.) Yet there 
 came a time when whole chapters started 
 up in my mind, as plain as if the printed 
 page were before me, and I understood 
 it all, both the outer meaning and the 
 inner. 
 
 Rhoda. And you did n't know what madfc 
 the difference? 
 
 MiCHAELis. Yes. 
 
 Rhoda. What was it? 
 
 ]\IiciiAELis. I can't tell you that. 
 
 Rhoda. Oh, yes I 
 
 MiCHAELis. There are no words to tell 
 of it 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 817 
 
 Rhoda. Yet tell me. I need to know. 
 Believe me, I need to know ! 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Slowly, groping for his 
 words.) It was one morning in the 
 fourth spring. We were back in the 
 mountains again. It was lambing time, 
 and I had been up all night. Just be- 
 fore sunrise, I sat down on a rock to 
 rest. Then — it came. 
 
 Rhoda. What came*? {He does not an- 
 swer.) You saw something? {He 'nods 
 for yes.) What was if? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Rises, lifting his arms, a 
 prey to uncontrollahle excitement.) The 
 living Christ! — Standing before me on 
 the mountain, amid the grazing sheep. — 
 With these eyes and in this flesh, I saw 
 Him. {Long pause.) 
 
 Rhoda. {In a low tone.) You had fallen 
 asleep. It was a dream. 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Shakes his head in nega- 
 tion.) That wasn't all. 
 
 {He turns away. She follows him, and 
 speaks after a silence.) 
 
 Rhoda. Tell me the rest. What hap- 
 pened to you, after — after what you saw 
 — that morning in the mountains'? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Begins to talk slowly and re- 
 luctantly.) I lived straight ahead, with 
 the sheep for two years. 
 
 Rhoda. {Hesitating.) Did you ever see 
 anything again '? 
 
 MiCHAELis. No. — But twice — I heard a 
 voice. 
 
 Rhoda. What kind of a voice? 
 
 MiCHAELis. The first time it came at night. 
 I was walking on the top of the moun- 
 tain, in a stony place. It — it was like 
 a wind among the stones. 
 
 Rhoda. What did it say? 
 
 MiCHAELis. It said, "Prepare! Pre- 
 
 pare 
 
 I" 
 
 Rhoda. And the second time? 
 
 MiCHAELis. In the same place, at dawn. 
 The voice said, "Go forth, it is finished !" 
 I looked round me and saw nothing. 
 Then it came again, like a wind among 
 the stones, "Go forth, it is begun !" 
 
 Rhoda. And you obeyed? 
 
 MiCHAELis. I found a man to take my 
 place, and started north. Three days 
 after, I climbed the mesa toward my old 
 home. Above, in the pueblo, I heard the 
 sound of tom-toms and wailing squaws. 
 They told me that the young son of the 
 chief lay dead in my father's chapel. I 
 sat beside him all day and all night. 
 Just before daylight — 
 
 {He breaks off abruptly.) 
 
 Rhoda. Go pn! 
 
 MiCHAELis. Just before daylight, when 
 the other watchers were asleep, the power 
 of the spirit came strong upon me, I 
 bowed myself upon the boy's body, and 
 prayed. My heart burned within me, 
 for I felt his heart begin to beat! His 
 eyes opened. I told him to arise, and he 
 arose. He that was dead arose and was 
 alive again! 
 
 {Pause. Mrs. Beeler's bell rings. 
 MiCHAELis starts, looks about him 
 as if awakened from a dream, then 
 slowly goes toward the hall door. 
 Rhoda follows and detains him.) 
 Rhoda. {In a low tone.) How long had 
 
 he lain — for dead? 
 MiCHAELis. Three days. 
 Rhoda. {With hesitation.) I have heard 
 that people have lain as long as that in 
 a trance, breathing so lightly that it 
 could not be told, except by holding a 
 glass before the face. 
 MiCHAELis. {Startled.) Is that true? 
 Rhoda. I have read so. 
 MiCHAELis. I wonder — I wonder. {He 
 stands in deep thought.) But I have 
 had other signs. 
 Rpioda. What other signs? 
 MiCHAELis. Many, many. Up and down 
 the land! {Pause.) I wonder. — I — I 
 almost wish it were so ! 
 
 {With bent head he goes out. Rhoda 
 
 stands looking after him until the 
 
 inner door closes, then sits before 
 
 the fire in revery. Beeler comes in 
 
 from the barn. He wears his old 
 
 fur cap, and holds in one hand a 
 
 bulky Sunday newspaper, in the 
 
 other some battered harness, an awl, 
 
 twine, and wax, which he deposits on 
 
 the window seat. He lays the paper 
 
 on the table, and unfolds from it a 
 
 large colored print, which he holds 
 
 up and looks at with relish.) 
 
 Beeler. These Sunday papers do get up 
 
 fine supplements. I wouldn't take 
 
 money for that picture. 
 
 Rhoda. {Looks at it absently.) What 
 
 does it mean? 
 Beeler. {Beads.) "Pan and the Pil- 
 grim." Guess you never heard of Pan, 
 did you? 
 Rhoda. Yes. One of the old heathen 
 
 gods. 
 Beeler. Call him heathen if you like! 
 The folks that worshipped him thought 
 he was orthodox, I guess. 
 
 {He pins up the print, which repre- 
 
818 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 sents a palmer of crusading times 
 surprised in the midst of a forest by 
 the god Pan.) 
 
 Rhoda. What does the picture mean? 
 
 Beeler. Well, Pan there, he was a kind of 
 a nature god. The old Romans thought 
 him out, to stand for a lot of things. 
 
 Rhoda. What kind of things'? 
 
 Beeler. Natural things, with plenty of 
 sap and mischief in 'em. Growin' plants, 
 and frisky animals, and young folks in 
 love. {He points to the figure of Pan, 
 then to the Pilgrim, as he talks.) There 
 he sits playin' Jeniiy-come-kiss-me on 
 his dod-gasted mouth-organ, when along 
 comes one of them fellows out of a 
 
 - monastery, with religion on the brain. 
 Pikin' for Jerusalem, to get a saint's toe- 
 nail and a splinter of the true cross. 
 (Martha enters from the kitchen and 
 potters about the room ^'redding up.") 
 Look at him! Do you think he'll ever 
 get to Jerusalem"? Not this trip! He 
 hears the pipes o' Pan. He hears women 
 eallin' and fiddles squeakin' love-tunes in 
 the woods. It '11 take more than a 
 monk's robe on his back and a shaved head 
 on his shoulders to keep him straight, 
 I reckon. He '11 call to mind that 
 young fellows had blood in their veins 
 when Adam was a farmer, and whoop-la ! 
 he '11 be oft' to the county fair, to dance 
 ring-around-a-rosy w^ith Matildy Jane! 
 {Pause, as he takes of his cap and lights 
 his pipe.) Like to see our friend Mi- 
 chaelis meet up with Mr. Pan. Don't 
 believe Michaelis ever looked cross-eyed 
 at a girl. {He examines Rhoda quiz- 
 zicallij.) You wouldn't make up bad as 
 Matildy Jane yourself, Rho, but sufferin' 
 Job, he can't tell the difference between 
 crow's feet and dimples! 
 
 Martha. Don't you be so sure! 
 
 Beeler. Hello! Dan'el come to judg- 
 ment! Never seen an old maid yet that 
 could n't squeeze a love story out of a 
 flaf-iron. 
 
 Martha. I may be an old maid, and you 
 
 may be an old wind-bag, but I 've got 
 
 eyes in my head. {To Rhoda.) Where 
 
 did you meet up with him, anyway? 
 
 (Rhoda, plunged in thought, does not 
 
 answer.) 
 
 Beeler. Wake up, Rhody ! Marthy asked 
 you where you met up with our new 
 boarder, 
 
 Rhoda. On the road, coming home from 
 the village. 
 
 Beelee_ What made you bring him here? 
 
 Rhoda, He wanted a quiet place to stay, 
 and this was the best I knew. 
 
 Martha. Guess it was ! — A snap for him. 
 
 {She goes out by the hall door.) 
 
 (Rhoda rises, takes the lamp off the 
 
 mantel, and during the following 
 
 cleans and refills it.) 
 
 Beeler. {xis he takes off his coat, and 
 hangs it up.) Rhody, ain't this religious 
 business rather a new thing with you? 
 Up there in St. Louis, did n't go in for it 
 much up there, did you? 
 
 Rhoda. {Looks at him quickly.) Why do 
 you ask that? 
 
 Beeler. Oh, I gathered, from things I 
 heard, that you eared more about dancin' 
 than about prayin', up there. {She turns 
 away.) That yomig fellow that was so 
 sweet on you in St, Louis year before 
 last, he wa' n't much in the psalm-singin' 
 line, was he? 
 
 Rhoda. {Startled and pale.) Who told 
 you about him? 
 
 Beeler. Oh, Mary's friends, the Hig- 
 ginses, used to write us about your af- 
 fairs. We thought it would be a 
 hitch-up, sure as shootin'. Studyin' to 
 be a doctor, wasn't he? 
 
 Rhoda. L^ncle, please never speak to me 
 about him again! 
 
 Beeler. All right, all right, my girl. 
 I 've been young myself, and I know 
 youth is touchy as a gum-boil when it 
 comes to love affairs. So it's all off, 
 is it? 
 
 Rhoda. Yes. 
 
 Beeler. {Sits down to mend the harness.) 
 If you 're partial to the pill trade, we 've 
 got a brand new doctor in town now. 
 Took old Doctor Martin's place. He'll 
 be up here to see Mary in a day or two^ 
 and you can look him over. 
 
 Rhoda, What is his name? 
 
 Beeler. {Tries in vain to recall it.) 
 Blamed if I can remember. Only seen 
 him once. But I tell you, he 's smart as 
 tacks. Chuck full of Jamaica ginger. 
 The very kind I 'd have swore you 'd 
 take to, a while back, before you lost 
 your fun and your spirit. When I first 
 saw you on your father's farm out in 
 Kansas, you was as wild a little gypsy 
 as I ever set eyes on, I said then to your 
 dad, "There 's a filly that '11 need a good 
 breakin'," I never thought I 'd see you 
 takin' up with these Gospel pedlers, 
 
 (Martha comes in from the hall and fusses 
 about, dusting, etc. She points in the di- 
 rection of Mrs. Beeler's mom.) 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 819 
 
 Martha. They 're prayer-meetin' it again. 
 And Mary lyin' there as if she 
 saw the pearly gates openin' before 
 her eyes. 
 
 Beeler. {Half to Jiimself as he works.) 
 Poor Mary ! — Mary 's a strange woman. 
 
 Martha. (To Rhoda.) Your mother was 
 the same way, Rhody. The whole 
 Beardsley tribe for that matter. But 
 Mary was the worst. It begun with 
 Mary as soon as her brother Seth . got 
 drowned. 
 
 Beeler. {Looks up, angry.) None of 
 that, Sis ! 
 
 Martha. I guess my tongue 's my own. 
 
 Beeler. No, it ain't. I won't have any 
 more of that talk around me, do you 
 hear f I put my foot down a year ago. 
 
 Martha. {Points to Ms foot derisively.) 
 It 's big enough and ugly enough, Heaven 
 knows, but you can put it down as hard 
 as you like, it won't keep a man's sperrit 
 in his grave — not when he 's a mind to 
 come out! 
 
 Beeler. {Astonished.) Martha Beeler! 
 
 Martha. That's my name. 
 
 {She flounces out into the kitchen, cov- 
 ering her retreat with her last 
 speech.) 
 
 Beeler. {Looking after her.) My king- 
 dom ! Martha ! I thought she had some 
 horse sense left. 
 
 Rhoda. {Slowly, as she finishes with the 
 lamp.) Uncle, it's hard to live side by 
 side with Aunt Mary and not — 
 
 Beeler. {In angry challenge.) And not 
 what? 
 
 Rhoda. And not believe there 's something 
 more in these matters than "horse sense" 
 will account for. 
 
 Beeler. {Hotly, as if a sore point has 
 been touched upon.) There's nothing 
 more than science will account for. {He 
 points to a shelf of hooks.) You can 
 read it up any day you like. Read that 
 book yonder, chapter called Hallucina- 
 tions. Pathological, that 's what it is, 
 pathological. 
 
 Rhoda. What does that mean? (Beeler 
 taps his forehead significantly.) Uncle, 
 you know that 's not true ! 
 
 Beeler. {Growls to himself.) Patholog- 
 ical, up and down. 
 
 (Rhoda replaces the lamp on the man- 
 tel. Martha opens the kitchen door 
 and calls in.) 
 
 Maptha. Here 's Uncle Abe ! 
 
 Beeler. Uncle Abe? Thought he was a 
 goner. 
 
 (Uncle Abe enters. He is an old negro, 
 with gray hair and thin, gray heard. He 
 is somewhat bowed, and carries a stick, 
 but he is not decrepit. His clothes are 
 spattered with mud. Martha enters 
 with him; she is stirring something in a 
 bowl, and during the following continues 
 to do so, though more and more inter- 
 ruptedly and absent-mindedly.) 
 
 Beeler. Hello, Uncle Abe. 
 
 Uncle Abe. Good-mawnin', Mista. Beeler. 
 
 Beeler. Where 've you been all winter ? 
 Thought you 'd gone up Salt River. 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Shakes his head reassur- 
 ingly.) Ain' nevah goin' up no Salt 
 River, yo' Uncle Abe ain't. 
 
 Beeler. {Indicating Rhoda.) Make you 
 acquainted with my wife's niece. Miss 
 Williams. 
 
 (Uncle Abe hows.) 
 
 Rhoda. {Pushing forward a chair.) Sit 
 down. Uncle. I don't see how you found 
 your way in this dreadful fog. 
 
 Uncle Abe. Fawg don' matta' nothin' to 
 me, honey. Don' mean nothin' 'tall. 
 {He speaks with exaltation and re- 
 strained excitement.) Yo' ol' Uncle 
 keeps on tellin' 'em, dis hyah fawg an' 
 darkness don' mean nothin' 'tall! 
 
 (Rhoda and Martha look at him puz- 
 zled. Beeler, busy over his har- 
 ness, has not been struck by the old 
 negro's words.) 
 
 Beeler. How 's the ginseng crop this 
 year? 
 
 Uncle Abe. They ain' no mo' gimsing! 
 
 Beeler. No more ginseng? What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Uncle Abe. De good Lawd, he ain' goin' 
 fool roun' no mo' wif no gimsing! 
 
 Beeler. {Amused.) Why, I thought 
 your ginseng bitters was His main holt. 
 
 Uncle Abe. {With a touch of regret.) 
 Use to be, Mars' Beeler. It shore use to 
 be. — Yes, sah. Bless de Lawd! {Shakes 
 his head in reminiscence.) He sartinly 
 did set sto' by them thah bitters. 
 
 Beeler. {With lazy amusement.) So the 
 Lord 's gone back on ginseng now, has 
 He? 
 
 Uncle Abe. Yes, sah. 
 
 Beeler. What makes you think so? 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Solemnly.) Roots all kill 
 by de fros'! {His manner grows more 
 and more mysterious; he half closes his 
 eyes, as he goes on in a strange, mounting 
 singsong.) Knowed it more'n a monf 
 ago, fo' dis hyah blin' worl' lef de 
 
820 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 plough in de ploughshare an' de ungroun' 
 wheat betwixen de millstones, and went 
 a-follerin' aftah dis hyah new star outen 
 de Eas', like a bride follerin' aftah de 
 bridegToom ! 
 
 (Martha taps her forehead signifi- 
 cantly, and goes hack to her hatter.) 
 
 Beeler. New star, Uncle"? Tell us about 
 it. Sounds interesting. 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Stares at each of them in 
 turn.) Ain' you-all heerd"? 
 
 Beeler. You've got the advantage of 
 us. 
 
 Uncle Abe. Ain' you-all heerd 'bout de 
 Healer? 
 
 Beeler. Healer'? What kind of a healer "? 
 
 Uncle Abe. {With mounting indignation 
 at Beeler's tone.) De Bible kin', dat 's 
 what kin' ! De kin' what makes de lame 
 fer to walk, and de blin' f er to see, an' de 
 daid fer to riz up outen their daid col' 
 graves. That 's what kin' ! Mean to say 
 you-all ain' heerd nothin' 'bout him, you 
 po' chillun o' dawkness? 
 
 (Martha and Beeler look at each 
 other in amazement. Rhoda sits 
 looking at the old negro, white and 
 tense with excitement.) 
 
 Beeler. Nope. {Recollecting.) Hold 
 on! 
 
 Martha. {To Beeler.) Don't you re- 
 member, in the papers, two or three 
 weeks ago*? Where was if? Some- 
 wheres out West. 
 
 Beeler. Believe I did read some such 
 goin's-on. Don't pay much attention to 
 such nonsense. 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Solemn and threatening.) 
 Tek keer, Mistah Beeler ! Tek keer what 
 you say 'fore dese here cloudy witnesses. 
 Don' you go cuttin' yo'self off from de 
 Kingdom. Nor you, Mis' Martha, nor 
 you, honey. Don' ye do it ! It 's 
 a-comin'. Yo' ol' Uncle Abe he 's seen 
 and heerd. 
 
 Rhoda. Tell us quickly what you mean ! 
 
 Uncle Abe. Mean jes' what I says, honey. 
 Night fo' last, de Healer, he come, like's 
 if he jes' plum' drop from de sky. {More 
 m.ysteriously.) An' whar 's he gone to? 
 You listen to yo' ol' Uncle Abe a-tellin' 
 you. He ain' gone nowhars! He's jes' 
 meechin' roun' in de fawg, a-waitin' fer 
 de Lawd to call folks. En He 's a-callin' 
 'em! He's a-callin' 'em by tens an' by 
 hundreds. Town 's full a'ready, honey. 
 Main Street look jes' lak a fiel' hospital, 
 down Souf durin' de wah ! 
 
 Martha. {Meeting Beeler's astonished 
 
 look.) What did I tell you? Maybe 
 you '11 listen to me next time. 
 
 Rhoda. {To Uncle Abe, in a low, agi- 
 tated voice.) This man you call the 
 Healer — is he alone? 
 
 Uncle Abe. No, honey ; folks says he don' 
 nevah go nowheres by hisse'f. Always 
 got that thah young man wif 'im what 
 he raise from de daid. 
 
 Beeler. {Rises, with a shrug.) Good 
 evening! {He crosses to the portraits of 
 Darwin and Spencer.) You made quite 
 a stir in your time, didn't you? Well,. 
 it 's all up with you ! 
 
 Martha. {In a voice strident with nerv- 
 ousness.) Raised from the dead? 
 
 Uncle Abe. That 's what they says, Mis^ 
 Martha. Folks calls 'im Laz'rus in ref- 
 ence to de Bible ehil' what riz up jes' 
 same way lak', outen de daid col' tomb. 
 
 {The Indian hoy enters from the kitchen, 
 his shoes and trousers spattered with 
 mud. Uncle Abe looks at him, then at 
 the others, and whispers to Rhoda. 
 Martha hustles forward, hiding her agi- 
 tation in scolding sj 
 
 Martha. Well, did you get my coffee and 
 my sal-soda? 
 
 (Lazarus points, without speaking, to 
 the kitchen.) 
 Beeler. {To Martha.) Did you send 
 
 him to the store? 
 Martha. Yes, I did send him to the store. 
 If I had my way, I 'd send him — further. 
 {The hoy hesitates, then goes stolidly 
 out hy the stair door. Uncle Abe 
 lifts his arm ecstatically.) 
 Uncle Abe. That 's him ! I tell ye that 's 
 the chil' what 's said "Howdy" to the daid 
 folks down yonder. I 'se seen 'im in my 
 dreams, an' now I 'se seen 'im wif dese 
 hyah two eyes. — Lawd, bless dis hyah 
 house o' grace! 
 Beeler. I guess it 's about time that fel- 
 low come out and exploded some of this 
 tomfoolery. 
 
 {U^e starts towards his wife^s room.) 
 Rhoda. {Stopping him.) Please don't. 
 Beeler. {Peevishly.) There's got to be- 
 an end to this hoodoo business in my 
 house. 
 
 (Annie enters from the kitchen, dahhled 
 with dye. She holds two colored eggs in 
 her hands.) 
 
 Annie. Look ! 1 've colored two. 
 Martha. Good gracious, child. What a 
 mess! 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 821 
 
 Annie. Pa! Play crack with me! Just 
 
 once, to see how it goes. 
 Beeler. Go in and ask your mother if 
 she '11 let you. 
 
 (Annie, her eggs in her apron, opens 
 the hall door. About to pass out, 
 she stops, drops the eggs with a 
 scream, and runs hack, gazing to- 
 wards the hall as she takes refuge he- 
 hind Rhoda's skirts.) 
 Annie. Pa ! Auntie ! Ma 's walking ! 
 
 (Mrs. Beeler enters, walking uncertainly, 
 her face full of intense exaltation. 
 MiCHAELis comes just hehind her, trans- 
 figured hy spiritual excitement.) 
 
 Beeler and Martha. {Starting forward.) 
 
 Mary ! 
 Ehoda. Aunt Mary! 
 
 (Mrs. Beeler advances into the room, 
 
 reaching out her hand to Annie, who 
 
 takes it in speechless fright. She 
 
 bends over and kisses the child's 
 
 head, then stretches out her other 
 
 hand to her husband.) 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Mat, I 'm cured ! The Lord 
 
 has heard our prayers, for His saint's 
 
 sake. 
 
 Beeler. Why, Mary, I can't believe this — 
 
 it 's too — it 's not possible ! 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Looking at Michaelis.) 
 It is written that he who has faith, even 
 as a grain of mustard seed — . I have 
 had faith. 
 Martha. Law, you 've had faith enough 
 any time these live years, Mary. There 
 was something else wanting, 'pears to me. 
 Mrs. Beeler. There was wanting the word 
 of true belief, saying, "Suffer no more! 
 Stoop and drink of the waters of mercy 
 and healing." 
 
 {Outside, the shrill soprano of a woman 
 is heard, taking up a hymn. At the 
 sound Michaelis goes to the win- 
 dow. He stands rigid, listening to 
 the hymn to the end of the verse, 
 when other voices join in the chorus. 
 The fog has partially cleared. 
 Michaelis. {Turning slowly to Rhoda.) 
 
 Who are they*? 
 Rhoda. Sick people. 
 Michaelis. How did they find out I was 
 
 here? 
 Rhoda. It was known you were some- 
 where near. — They have been gathering 
 for days. — They saw the boy, just now, 
 in the village. 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Comes a step or two nearer 
 
 Michaelis.) Your great hour is at 
 hand ! 
 
 {He looks distractedly about. The 
 light has faded from his face, giving 
 place to strong nervous agitation, re- 
 sembling fear. He speaks as if to 
 himself.) 
 Michaelis. My hour ! — My hour !— And I 
 —and I—! 
 
 {He puts his hand over his eyes, as if 
 to shut out some vision of dread.) 
 Mrs. Beeler. You will not fail them? 
 You cannot fail them now. 
 
 (Michaelis looks at Mrs. Beeler, 
 
 then for a long time at Rhoda. He 
 
 gathers himself together, and gazes 
 
 steadfastly before him, as at some 
 
 unseen presence.) 
 
 Michaelis. No. — I have waited so long. 
 
 I have had such deep assurances. — I must 
 
 not fail. I must not fail. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 It is late afternoon of the same day. Mrs. 
 Beeler sits in a low chair near the win- 
 dow. She has ceased reading the Testa- 
 ment, ivhich lies open in her lap. Uncle 
 Abe. sits on the floor ivith Annie. They 
 are playing with building blocks, piling 
 up and tearing down various ambitious 
 structures. 
 
 (Rhoda enters from outside, with hat and 
 cloak, carrying a large bunch of Easter 
 lilies.) 
 
 Rhoda. {Kissing her aunt.) Still sitting 
 up ! You 're not strong enough yet to 
 do this. See, I 've brought you some 
 Easter lilies. {She hands one to Mrs. 
 Beeler. As she takes off her things, she 
 sees the old negro gazing at her.) Well, 
 Uncle Abe? 
 
 Uncle Abe. I 's awake an' a-watchin', 
 honey ! 
 
 {He turns again to the child, shaking 
 his head as at some unspoken 
 thought, while Rhoda arranges the 
 flowers in a vase.) 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Rhoda! 
 
 Rhoda. Yes, Aunt Mary? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Come here. (Rhoda ap- 
 proaches. Mrs. Beeler speaks low, with 
 suppressed excitement.) What is the 
 news, outside? 
 
 Rhoda. You must n't excite yourself. 
 You must keep your strength. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. I shall be stpong enough. — 
 
822 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 Are the people still gathering from the 
 
 town f 
 Rhoda. Yes, and they keep coming in 
 
 from other places. 
 Mrs. Beeler. Are there many of them^ 
 Rhoda. Many ! Many ! It 's as if the 
 
 whole world knew. 
 Mrs. Beeler. The more there are, the 
 
 greater will be the witness. — {Pause.) 
 
 When do you think he will go out to 
 
 them? 
 Rhoda. They believe he is waiting for 
 
 Easter morning. 
 
 (Martha enters from kitchen, with bonnet 
 and sliaicl on, and a large basket in her 
 hand.) 
 
 Martha. Mary, you 'd ought to be abed. 
 You 're tempting Providence. {She 
 takes off her bonnet and shawl, and de- 
 posits the basket.) I saw your doctor 
 dow^n in the village, and he allowed he 'd 
 come up to see you this afternoon. He 
 was all on end about your bein' able to 
 walk. 
 Rhoda. I did n't know till to-day you had 
 
 a doctor. 
 Mrs. Beeler. Yes. He 's a young man 
 who 's just come here to build up a prac- 
 tice. 
 Martha. {To Rhoda.) You better finish 
 packin' the basket. There 's a lot o' hun- 
 gry mouths to feed out yonder. 
 
 {Exit by hall door. Rhoda continues 
 the preparation of the basket, taking 
 articles from the cupboard and pack- 
 ing them. AxNiE has climbed on a 
 chair by the picture of Pan and the 
 Pilgrim. She points at the figure of 
 Pan.) 
 Annie. Uncle Abe, tell me who that is. 
 Uncle Abe. {Glancing at Mrs. Beeler 
 
 ant/ Rhoda.) H'sh! 
 Annie. What 's he doing up there in the 
 
 bushes, blowing on that funny whistle? 
 Uncle Abe. Look hyah, chil', you jus' 
 wastin' my time. I got frough wif dis 
 hyah fool pictuh long 'go ! 
 
 {He tries to draw her away; she re- 
 
 Annie. {Petulantly.) Uncle Abe! Who 
 
 is it? 
 Uncle Abe. {Whispers, makes big eyes.) 
 That thah's Ole Nick, that's who that 
 thah is ! That thah 's de Black Man ! 
 (Annie, terror-stricken, jumps down 
 and retreats to her mother's chair. 
 Mrs. Beeler rouses from her r every 
 and strokes her child's head.) 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Oh, my child, how happy 
 you are to see this while you are so 
 young! You will never forget, will you, 
 dear? 
 
 Annie. {Fidgeting.) Forget what? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Tell me that whatever hap- 
 pens to you in the world, you w^on't for- 
 get that once, w^hen you were a little 
 girl, you saw the heavens standing open, 
 and felt that God was very near, and full 
 of pity for His children. 
 
 Annie. I don't know w^hat you 're talking 
 about! I can't hardly breathe the way 
 people are in this house. 
 
 Mrs Beeler. You will understand, some 
 day, what wonderful things your childish 
 eyes looked on. 
 
 (Annie retreats to Uncle Abe, who 
 bends over the child and whispers in 
 her ear. She grows amused, and be- 
 gins to sway as to a tune, then chants. 
 
 Annie. 
 
 "]\rary an' a' INIartha 's jus' gone along, 
 ^lary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along, 
 j\Iary an' a' ]Martlia 's jus' gone along, 
 Ring dem charmin' bells." 
 
 {As she finishes the rhyme she runs out 
 into the hall. Mrs. Beeler begins 
 again to read her Testament. The 
 old negro approaches Mrs. Beeler 
 and Rhoda, and speaks mysteri- 
 ously.) 
 
 Uncle Abe. That thah chil' she 's talkin' 
 sense. They's sumpin' ain't right about 
 dis hyah house. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Not right? What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Shakes his head dubiously.) 
 Dunno, Mis' Beeler. I 's jes' a ole fool 
 colored pusson, been waitin' fer de great 
 day what de 'Postle done promise. En 
 hyah 's de great day 'bout to dawn, an' de 
 Lawd's Chosen 'bout to show Hisse'f in 
 clouds o' gloiy 'fore de worF, an' lo 'n' 
 behol' — {He leans closer and whispers.) 
 de Lawd's Chosen One, he 's done got a 
 spell on 'im! 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Shocked and startled.) 
 Uncle Abe! 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Pointing at the Pan and the 
 Pilgrim.) Why do you keep that thah 
 pictuh nail up thah fur? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. ]\Iy husband likes it. 
 
 Uncle Abe. Mighty funny kin' o' man, 
 like to hev de Black Man lookin' pop-eyed 
 at folks all day an' all night, puttin' de 
 spell on folks! 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 823 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. That 's not the Black Man. 
 
 Uncle Abe. That 's him, shore 's yo' born ! 
 Jes' what he looks like. I seen 'im, 
 more'n once. 
 
 Rhoda. Seen the Black Man, Uncle ? 
 
 Uncle Abe. Yais, ma'am. I 's spied 'im, 
 sittin' in de paw-paw bushes in de spring- 
 time, when de snakes a-rmmin', an' de 
 jays a-hollerhi', an de crick a-talkin' sassy 
 to hisse'f. {He leans nearer ^ more mys- 
 teriously.) En what you s'pose I heerd 
 him whis'lin', for all de worl' lak dem 
 scan'lous blue jays'? {Chants in a high, 
 trilling voice.) "Chillun, chillun, they 
 ain' no Gawd, they ain' no sin nor no 
 jedgment, they 's jes' springtime an' 
 happy days, and folks carryin' on. 
 Whar's yo' lil gal, Abe Johnson*? 
 Whar 's yo' lil sweet-heart gal f An' me 
 on'y got religion wintah befo', peekin' 
 roun' pie-eyed, skeered good. En fo' 
 you could say "De Lawd 's my Shepherd," 
 kerchunk goes de Black Man in de mud- 
 puddle, change' into a big green bull- 
 frog ! 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. You just imagined all that. 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Indignant.) Jes' 'magine! 
 Don' I know de Devil when I sees him, 
 near 'nough to say "Howdy"? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. There is n't any Devil. 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Astounded.) Ain't no 
 Devil 'f 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. No. 
 
 (Uncle Abe goes, with puzzled head- 
 shakings, towards the kitchen door. 
 He stops to smell the Easter lilies, 
 then raises his head and looks at her 
 again, with puzzled scrutiny.) 
 
 Uncle Abe. Mis' Beelah, did I understan' 
 you to say — they ain' — no Devil? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Touching her breast.) Only 
 here. Uncle Abe. {The old negro stares 
 at her and Rhoda, and goes into the 
 kitchen, feeling his own breast and shak- 
 ing his head dubiously. Mrs. Beeler 
 looks at the picture.) Do you think your 
 Uncle Mat would mind if we took that 
 picture down? (Rhoda unpins the pic- 
 ture from the wall, rolls it up, and lays 
 it on the bookshelf. Her aunt goes on, 
 hesitatingly.) Do you know, Rhoda, I 
 have sometimes thought — You won't be 
 hurt? 
 
 Rhoda. No. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. I — I know what that old 
 negro says is all foolishness, but — there 
 is something the matter wdth Mr. Mi- 
 chaelis. Have you noticed? 
 
 Rhoda. {Avoiding her aunt's gaze.) Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Just when his great work is 
 about to begin! — What do you think it 
 can be? 
 
 Rhoda. How should I know, Aunt Mary? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. I thought maybe — Rhoda, I 
 have seen him look at you so strangely ! 
 Like — like the Pilgrim in the picture, 
 when he hears that heathen creature play- 
 ing on the pipe. — You are such a wild 
 creature, or you used to be. 
 
 (Rhoda comes to her aunt and stands 
 a moment in silence.) 
 
 Rhoda. Auntie. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Yes? 
 
 Rhoda. I think I ought to go away. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Astonished.) Go away? 
 Why? 
 
 Rhoda. So as not to — ^hinder him. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Caressing her.) There, 
 you have taken what I said too seriously. 
 It was only a sick woman's imagination. 
 
 Rhoda. No, it was the truth. You see it, 
 though you try not to. Even Uncle Abe 
 sees it. Just when Mr. Michaelis most 
 needs his strength, weakness has come 
 upon him. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. You mean — ? {She hesi- 
 tates.) You mean — because of you? — 
 Rhoda, look at me. (Rhoda avoids her 
 aunt's gaze; Mrs. Beeler draws down 
 the girVs face and gazes at it.) Is there 
 anything — that I don't know — ^between 
 you and him? 
 
 Rhoda. I— I must go away. — I ought to 
 have gone before. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. My child, this — this troubles 
 me very much. He is different from 
 other men, and you — and you — 
 
 Rhoda. {WitJi passion.) Say it, say it! 
 Wliat am I? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Don't be hurt, Rhoda, but — 
 you have a wild nature. You are like 
 your father. I remember when he used 
 to drive over to see sister Jane, with his 
 keen face and eagle eyes, behind his span 
 of wild colts, I used to tremble for my 
 gentle sister. You are just like him, or 
 you used to be. (Rhoda breaks away 
 from her aunt, and takes her hat and 
 cloak. Mrs. Beeler rises with perturba- 
 tion, and crosses to detain her.) What 
 are you going to do? 
 
 Rhoda. I am going away — I must go 
 away. 
 
 (Martha enters from the hall.) 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Speaks lower.) Promise 
 
 me you won't ! Promise me ! 
 Martha. To look at that, now! Seein' 
 
824 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 you on your feet, Mary, gives me a new 
 start every time. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {To Rhoda.) You prom- 
 ise? 
 
 (Rhoda bows her head as in assent.) 
 
 Martha. Doctor 's in the parlor. Shall I 
 bring him in here? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. No. I thmk I will rest 
 awhile. He can come to my room. {She 
 walks unsteadily. The others try to help 
 her, hut she motions them hack.) No. 
 It 's so good to feel that I can walk 
 alone ! 
 
 Martha. It does beat all ! 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. I '11 just lie down on the 
 couch. I want to go out, before dark, 
 and speak to the people. 
 
 (Mr. Beeler enters from the kitchen and 
 crosses to help his wife. The others give 
 place to him.) 
 
 Oh, Mat, our good days are coming back ! 
 I shall be strong and well for you again. 
 
 Beeler. Yes, Mary. There will be noth- 
 ing to separate us any more. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Points at his hooks.) Not 
 even — them? {He goes to the alcove, 
 takes the hooks from the shelf, raises the 
 lid of the window-seat, and throws them 
 in. Mrs. Beeler points to the pictures 
 of Darwin and Spencer.) Nor them? 
 {He unpins the pictures, lays them upon 
 the heap of hooks, and returns to her.) 
 You don't know how happy that makes 
 me! 
 
 {They go out hy the hall door. 
 Martha, as she lowers the lid of the 
 window-seat, points derisively at the 
 
 Martha. That's a good riddance of bad 
 rubbish! {She comes to the table and 
 continues packing the hasket.) Y^ou 'd 
 better help me with this basket. Them 
 folks will starve to death, if the neigh- 
 borhood round don't give 'em a bite to 
 eat. (Rhoda fetches other articles from 
 the cupboard.) I'd like to know what 
 they think we are made of, with butter 
 at twenty-five cents a pound and flour 
 worth its weight in diamonds ! 
 
 Rhoda. All the neighbors are helping, and 
 none of them with our cause for thank- 
 fulness. 
 
 Martha. That 's no sign you should go 
 
 plasterin' on that butter like you was a 
 
 bricklayer tryin' to bust the contractor! 
 
 {She takes the bread from Rhoda and 
 
 scrapes the butter thin.) 
 
 Rhoda. {As the clock strikes five.) It's 
 
 time for Aunt Mary to have her tea. 
 Shall I make it? 
 Martha. You make it! Not unless you 
 want to lay her flat on her back again ! 
 
 {As she flounces out, Annie enters from 
 the hall. She points with one hand at 
 the retreating Martha, with the other to- 
 ward her mother's room.) 
 
 Annie. {Sings with sly emphasis.) 
 
 "ISIary an' a' Martha 's jus' gone along, 
 Mary an' a' Martha 's jus' gone along, 
 Mary an' a' Martha 's jus' gone along. 
 Ring dem charmin' bells." 
 
 {She climbs upon a chair by the table, 
 and fingers the contents of basket as 
 she sings.) 
 
 Rhoda. What 's got into you, little imp ? 
 
 Annie. {Brazenly.) I've laeen peeping 
 through mamma's keyhole. 
 
 Rhoda. That 's not nice. 
 
 Annie. I know it, but the minister's in 
 there and Dr. Littlefield. 
 
 Rhoda. {Startled.) Who? 
 
 Annie. You know, mamma's doctor. — • 
 Oh, he's never come since you've been 
 here. 
 
 Rhoda. {In a changed voice, as she takes 
 the child by the shoulders.) What does 
 he look like ? 
 
 Annie. Don't, you 're hurting me ! — He 's 
 too red in the face, and looks kind of — 
 insulting — and he wears the most beau- 
 tiful neckties, and — {Exhausted hy her 
 efforts at description.) Oh, I don't 
 know! {She sings as she climbs down, 
 and goes out hy the kitchen door.) 
 
 "Free grace, undyin' love, -^ 
 
 Free grace, undyin' love, 
 Free grace, undyin' love, 
 Ring dem lovely bells." 
 
 (Dr. Littlefield enters from Mrs. Bee- 
 ler's room. He speaks back to Beeler 
 on the threshold.) 
 
 Littlefield. Don't bother ! I '11 find it. 
 {Looking for something, he approaches 
 Rhoda, who has her back turned.) Beg 
 pardon. Have you seen a pocket ther- 
 mometer I left here? {She faces him. 
 He starts back in surprise.) Bless my 
 soul and body! Rhoda Williams! {He 
 closes the hall door, returns to her, and 
 stands somewhat disconcerted.) Here of 
 all places! 
 
 Rhoda. Mrs. Beeler is my aunt. 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 825 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Well, Well! The world is 
 small. — Been here long'? 
 
 Rhoda. Only a month. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. And before that"? 
 
 Rhoda. It's a long story. Besides, you 
 would n't understand. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. You might let me try. 
 What in the world have you been doing 
 all this time? 
 
 Rhoda. I have been searching for some- 
 thing. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. What was if? 
 
 Rhoda. My own lost self. My own — lost 
 soul. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. {Amused at her solemnity.) 
 You 're a queer bundle of goods. Al- 
 ways were. Head full of solemn notions 
 about life, and at the same time, when 
 it came to a lark, — Oh, I 'm no grand- 
 mother, but when you got on your high 
 horse — well ! 
 
 {He leaves his hands expressively.) 
 
 Rhoda. {Bursts out.) The great town, 
 the people, the noise, and the lights — 
 after seventeen years of life on a dead 
 prairie, where I 'd hardly heard a laugh 
 or seen a happy face ! — All the same, the 
 prairie had me still. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. You dou't mean you went 
 back to the farm'? 
 
 Rhoda. I mean that the years I 'd spent 
 out there in that endless stretch of earth 
 and sky — . {She breaks off, with a 
 weary gesture.) There's no use going 
 into that. You would n't understand. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. No, I Walk on simple shoe 
 leather and eat mere victuals. — Just the 
 same, it wasn't square of you to clear 
 out that way — vanish into air without a 
 word or a sign. 
 
 Rhoda. {Looking at him steadily.) You 
 know very well why I went. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. {Betuming her gaze, un- 
 abashed, chants with meaning and relish.) 
 
 "Hey diddle, diddle, 
 The cat and the fiddle. 
 The cow jumped over the moon." 
 
 (Rhoda takes up the basket and goes 
 toward the outer door. He inter- 
 cepts her.) 
 Rhoda. Let me pass. 
 LiTTLEFiELD. You 're not taking part in 
 
 this camp-meeting enthusiasm, are you'? 
 Rhoda. Yes. 
 
 {As he stares at her, his astonishment 
 changes to amusement ; he chuckles 
 to himself, then bursts out laughing, 
 as in humorous reminiscence.) 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Bless my soul! And to 
 think that only a couple of little years 
 ago — Oh, bless my soul! 
 
 {The stair door opens. Michaelis 
 appears. His face is flushed, his 
 hair disordered, and his whole per- 
 son expresses a feverish and pre- 
 carious exaltation.) 
 Micpiaelis. {Looks at Littlefield icitli 
 vague query, then at Rhoda.) Excuse 
 me, I am very thirsty. I came down for 
 a glass of water. 
 
 (Rhoda goes to the kitchen door, 
 where she turns. The doctor puts 
 on a pair of nose-glasses and scans 
 Michaelis u-ith interest. He holds 
 out his hand, which Michaelis 
 takes.) 
 Littlefield. We ought to know each 
 
 other. We 're colleagues, in a way. 
 Michaelis. Colleagues "? 
 Littlefield. In a way, yes. I 'm a prac- 
 tising physician. {Exit Rhoda.) You 
 seem to have the call on us professionals, 
 to judge by the number of your clients 
 out yonder. {He points out of the win- 
 dow.) To say nothing of Exhibit One! 
 {He points to the hall door.) 
 Michaelis. {Vaguely.) I — I don't know 
 that I — (Rhoda enters from the 
 kitchen, with water, which he takes.) 
 Thank you. 
 
 {He drinks thirstily. Mr. Beeler ap- 
 pears in the hall door; he looks at 
 the group, taken aback.) 
 Beeler. Oh — ! 
 
 Littlefield. I stopped to chat with your 
 niece. She and I happen to be old ac- 
 quaintances. 
 Beeler. You don't say"? — Would you 
 
 mind coming in here for a minute'? 
 Littlefield. {Following him out.) 
 
 What's up? 
 Beeler. My wife 's got it in her head that 
 she 's called upon to — 
 
 {Door closes. Michaelis, who has 
 followed Littlefield with his eyes, 
 sets down the glass, and turns slowly 
 to Rhoda.) 
 Michaelis. Who is that? 
 Rhoda. My aunt's doctor. 
 Michaelis. You know him well? 
 Rhoda. Yes. — No. 
 Michaelis. What does that mean? 
 Rhoda. I haven't seen him for nearly 
 two years. — I can't remember much about 
 tlie })erson I was, two years ago. 
 Michaelis. Yes! Yes! I understand. 
 {He turns away, lifting his hands, speak- 
 
826 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 itig half to himself.) That these lives of 
 ours should be poured like a jelly, from 
 one mould into another, until God Him- 
 self cannot remember what they were 
 two years ago, or two hours ago ! 
 
 Rhoda. Why do you say that? {He does 
 not answer, hut walks nervously about. 
 Rhoda, watching him, speaks, after a 
 silence.) Last month — out West — were 
 there many people there f 
 
 MiCHAELis. No. — Two or three. 
 
 Rhoda. The papers said — 
 
 MiCHAELis. When the crowd began to 
 gather, I — went away. 
 
 Rhoda. Why? 
 
 MiCHAELis. My time had not come. 
 
 {He has stopped before the map and 
 stands gazing at it.) 
 
 Rhoda. Has it come now? {She comes 
 closer.) — Has your time come now? 
 
 MiCHAELis. Yes. 
 
 Rhoda. How do you know? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Points at the map.) It is 
 written there ! 
 
 Rhoda. How do you mean, w^ritten there? 
 
 MiCHAELis. Can't you see it? 
 
 Rhoda. I see the map, nothing more. 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Points again, gazing fixedly.) 
 It seems to me to be written in fire. 
 
 Rhoda. What seems written? 
 
 MiCHAELis. What I have been doing, all 
 these five years. 
 
 Rhoda. Since your work began? 
 
 MiCHAELis. It has never begun. Many 
 times I have thought, "Now," and some 
 man or woman has risen up healed, and 
 looked at me with eyes of prophecy. 
 But a Voice would cry, "On, on !" and I 
 would go forward, driven by a force and 
 a will not my own. — I did n't know what 
 it all meant, but I know now. {He 
 points at the map, his manner trans- 
 formed with excitement and exaltation.) 
 It is written there. It is w^ritten in let- 
 ters of fire. My eyes are opened, and I 
 see! 
 
 Rhoda. {Following his gaze, then looking 
 at him again, awed and bewildered.) 
 What is it that you see? 
 
 MiCHAELis. The cross! 
 
 Rhoda. I — T don't understand. 
 
 MiCHAELis. All those places w^iere the 
 hand was lifted for a moment, and the 
 power flowed into me — {He places his 
 finger at various points on the map; 
 these points lie in two transverse lines, 
 between the Mississippi and the Pacific; 
 one line runs roughli/ north and south, 
 the other east and west.) Look! There 
 
 was such a place, and there another, and 
 there, and there. And there was one, 
 and there, and there. — Do you see? 
 
 Rhoda. I see. — It makes a kind of cross. 
 
 MiCHAELis. You see it, too ! And do you 
 see what it means — this sign that my i'eet 
 have marked across the length and 
 breadth of a continent? {He begins 
 again to pace the room.) — And that 
 crowd of stricken souls out yonder, raised 
 up as by miracle, their broken bodies 
 crying to be healed, — do you see what 
 they mean? 
 
 Rhoda. {In a steady voice.) They mean 
 what my aunt said this morning. They 
 mean that your great hour has come. 
 
 MiCHAELis. My hour! my hour! {He 
 comes nearer, and speaks in a quieter 
 tone.) I knew a young Indian once, a 
 Hopi boy, who made songs and sang 
 them to his people. One evening we sat 
 on the roof of the chief's house and asked 
 him to sing. He shook his head, and 
 went away in the starlight. The next 
 morning, I found him among the rocks 
 under the mesa, with an empty bottle by 
 his side. — He never sang again ! Drunk- 
 enness had taken him. He never sang 
 again, or made another verse. 
 
 Rhoda. What has that to do with you? 
 It 's not — ? You don't mean that you — ? 
 
 MiCHAELis. No. There is a stronger 
 drink for such as I am! 
 
 Rhoda. [Forcing herself to go on.) 
 What — "stronger drink" ? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Wildly.) The wine of this 
 world ! The wdne-bowl that crowns the 
 feasting table of the children of this 
 world. 
 
 Rhoda. What do you mean by — the wine 
 of this world? "^ 
 
 MiCHAELis. You know that! Every 
 woman knows. {He points out of the 
 window, at the sky flushed with sunset 
 color.) Out there, at this moment, in 
 city and country, souls, thousands upon 
 thousands of souls, are dashing in pieces 
 the cup that holds the wine of heaven, 
 the wine of God's shed blood, and lifting 
 the cups of passion and of love, that 
 crown the feasting table of the children 
 of this earth ! Look ! The very sky is 
 blood-red with the lifted cups. And we 
 two are in the midst of them. Listen 
 what I sing there, on the hills of light in 
 the sunset: "Oh, how beautiful upon 
 the mountains are the feet of my be- 
 loved!" {A song rises outside, loud and 
 near at hand — Michaelis listens, his ex^ 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 827 
 
 pression gradually changing from pas- 
 sionate excitement to brooding distress. 
 Vaguely, as the music grows fainter and 
 dies away.) I — we were saying — . {He 
 grasps her arm in nervous apprehen- 
 sion.) For God's sake, tell me. — Are 
 there many people — waiting — out tliere? 
 Rhoda. Hundreds, if not thousands. 
 MiCHAELis. {Walks about.) Thousands. 
 — Thousands of thousands ! — {He stops 
 beside her.) You w^on't leave me alone ^ 
 Rhoda. {Hesitates, then speaks with de- 
 cision. ) No. 
 MiCHAELis. {Continuing his walk.) 
 Thousands of thousands! 
 
 {The hall doo^r opens. Dr. Littlefield 
 and a Clergyman, the Rev. John 
 Culpepper, enter. The latter stares 
 inquiringly from Michaelis to the 
 DOCTOR;, who nods affirmatively, and 
 adjusts his glasses.) 
 Culpepper. {Mutters to Littlefield.) 
 
 Nonsense ! Sacrilegious nonsense ! 
 Littlefield. {Same tone.) I 've done my 
 best. 
 
 {Behind them comes Mrs. Beeler, sup- 
 ported by her Husband. At the 
 same moment Martha enters from 
 the kitchen, with tea; Uncle Abe 
 and Annie follow.) 
 Beeler. {On the threshold.) Mary, take 
 another minute to consider. 
 
 (Mrs. Beeler, as if without hearing 
 this protest, gazes at Michaelis, and 
 advances into the room with a ges- 
 ture of the arms which causes her 
 supporter to loosen his hold, though 
 he follows slightly bejiind, to render 
 aid if necessary.) 
 Mrs. Beeler. {To Michaelis.) Tell me 
 that I may go out, and stand before them 
 for a testimony ! 
 Littlefield. As a physician, I must for- 
 mally protest. 
 Culpepper. And I as a minister of the 
 
 Gospel. 
 Mrs. Beeler. {To Michaelis, with a 
 nervous, despairing gesture.) Speak to 
 them! Explain to them! I am too 
 weak. 
 
 {There is a sound of excited voices out- 
 side, near at hand, then a sudden 
 trample of footsteps at the entrance 
 door. As Beeler goes hurriedly to 
 the door it bursts open and a young 
 woman with a baby in her arms 
 crowds past him, and stands looking 
 wildly about the room.) 
 Beelee. {As he forces the others back.) 
 
 You can't come in here, my friends! 
 Stand back! 
 
 {The 'woman gazes from one to another 
 
 of the men. The old nc^ro points 
 
 at Michaelis. She advances to him, 
 
 holding out the child.) 
 
 Mother. Don't let my baby die! For 
 
 Christ's sake, don't let him die ! 
 
 {He examines the child's face, touches 
 
 the mother's head tenderly, and signs 
 
 to Rhoda to take them into the inner 
 
 room.) 
 
 Michaelis. Take her with you, I will 
 
 come. 
 Rhoda. {With gentle urgency, to the 
 woman.) Come with me. 
 
 {She leads the woman out through the 
 hall door.) 
 Michaelis. {To Mrs. Beeler, as he 
 points outside.) Tell them to wait until 
 to-morrow at sunrise. (Mr. and Mrs. 
 Beeler move toward the entrance door ; 
 some of the others start after, some lin- 
 ger, curious to know what will happen 
 to the child. Michaelis turns upon them 
 with a commanding gesture.) Go, all of 
 you! 
 
 {The room is cleared except for Lit- 
 tlefield, who goes last, stops in the 
 doorway, closes the door, and ap- 
 proaches Michaelis. He speaks in 
 a friendly and reasonable tone.) 
 Littlefield. You 're on the wrong track, 
 
 my friend. 
 Michaelis. I asked you to go. 
 Littlefield. I heard you. I want to say 
 a word or two first. For your own sake 
 and for that woman's sake, you 'd bet- 
 ter listen. You can't do anything for 
 her baby. 
 Michaelis. Is that for you to say 1 
 Littlefield. Yes, sir! It is most decid- 
 edly for me to say. 
 Michaelis. By what authority? 
 Littlefield. By the authority of medical 
 knowledge. — You are a very remarkable 
 man, with a very remarkable gift. In 
 your own field, I take off my hat to you. 
 If you knew yourself as science knows 
 you, you might make the greatest doctor 
 living. Your handling of Mrs. Beel- 
 er's case was masterly. But — come 
 right down to it — you didn't work the 
 cure. 
 Michaelis. I know that. 
 Littlefield. Who do you think did? 
 Michaelis. {Raising his hands.) He 
 whom I serve, and whom you blaspheme ! 
 Littlefield. No, sir! He whoni I serve, 
 
828 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 and whom you blaspheme — Nature. Or 
 rather, Mrs. Beeler did it herself. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Herself "? 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. You gavG her a jog, so to 
 speak, here, or here, {Touches his brain 
 cfnd heart.) and she did the rest. But you 
 can't do the same to everybody. Above 
 all, you can't do it to a baby in arms. 
 There 's nothing either here or here, 
 {Touches brain and heart.) to get hold 
 of. I 'm a modest man, and as I say, in 
 your own field you 're a wonder. But in 
 a case like this one — {He points to the 
 hall door.) I 'm worth a million of you. 
 
 MiCPiAELis. (Mores as if to give place to 
 him, with a challenging gesture toward 
 the door.) Tiy! 
 
 LiTTLEj^iELD. {Shrugs.) Not much! The 
 woman wouldn't listen to me. And if 
 she did, and I failed — oh, I 'm no mira- 
 cle worker ! — they 'd make short work 
 of me, out there. {He points out and 
 adds significantly.) They're in no mood 
 for failures, out there. (Michaelis's 
 gaze, as if in spite of himself, goes to the 
 window. He rests his hand on the table, 
 to stop its trembling. Littlefield goes 
 on, watching him with interest.) Nerv- 
 ously speaking, you are a high power 
 machine. The dynamo that runs you is 
 Avhat is called "faith," "religious inspira- 
 tion," or what-not. It 's a dynamo 
 which nowadays easily gets out of order. 
 Well, my friend, as a doctor, I warn you 
 that your little dynamo is out of order. — 
 In other words, yo-u 've lost your grip. 
 You 're in a funk. 
 
 (Rhoda opens the hall door and looks 
 anxiously '^t 4he tuM), Michaelis 
 approaches her with averted eyes. 
 As he is about to pass out, she speaks 
 timidly.) 
 
 Rhoda. Do you want mef 
 
 Michaelis. {In a toneless voice.) No. 
 {She watches him until the inner door 
 shuts. She and Littlefield con- 
 front each other in- silence for a mo- 
 ment across the width of the room.) 
 
 Rhoda. {Forcing herself to speak calmly.) 
 Please go. 
 
 Littlefield. {Drops his professional tone 
 for one of cynical badinage.) You 
 make up well as one of the Wise Vir- 
 gins, w^hose lamps are trimmed and burn- 
 ing for tlie bridegroom to pass by. I 
 hope that personage won't disappoint 
 you, nor the several hundred others, out 
 yonder, whose lamps are trimmed and 
 burning. 
 
 {The outer door opens. Mrs. Beeler 
 enters, supported by her husband, 
 and accompanied by Martha and 
 the Rev. Culpepper, with Uncle 
 Abe following in the rear. Rhoda 
 hastens to her aunt's side.) 
 Mrs. Beeler. Ah, Rhoda, I wish you had 
 been out there with me. Such beautiful 
 human faces! Such poor, suffering, be- 
 lieving human faces, lit up by such a 
 w^onderful new hope! {She turns to the 
 minister.) Wasn't it a wonderful thing 
 to see? 
 Culpepper. It is wonderful to see human 
 nature so credulous. And to me, very 
 painful. 
 Mrs. Beeler. To-morrow you will see how 
 right these poor souls are to lift their 
 trust so high. — {To Rhoda.) Where 
 is he now*? (Rhoda points in the direc- 
 tion of her own room.) How happy 
 that young mother's heart will be to- 
 night ! 
 Uxcle Abe. {Solemnly.) Amen! 
 Culpepper. {In a dry tone.) We will 
 hope so. 
 
 {They move to the hall door, where 
 Beeler resigns his wife to Rhoda. 
 The two pass out. 
 (Culpepper, Littlefield, and Beeler 
 remain. During the- following con- 
 versation, Martha lights the lamp, 
 after directing UisrcffjE Abe, by a ges- 
 ture, to take the provision basket 
 into the kitchen. He does so.) 
 Littlefield. {Pointing through the win- 
 dow.) They're just laying siege to you, 
 ain't they? I guess they won't let your 
 man give them the slip, this time — even 
 though you do let him run loose. 
 Beeler. {With severity.) You have seen 
 my wife walk alone to-day, the first time 
 in five years. 
 Littlefield. I beg your pardon. I un- 
 derstand how you feel about it. (Mar- 
 tha goes out into the kitchen.) And 
 even if it proves to be only tempo- 
 rary — 
 Beeler. Temporary ! 
 
 Littlefield. Permanent, let us hope. 
 Anyway, it 's a very remarkable case. 
 Astonishing. I 've only known one just 
 like it — personally, I mean. 
 Beeler. {xistounded.) Just like it? 
 Littlefield. Well, pretty much. Hap- 
 pened in Chicago when I w^as an interne 
 at St. Luke's. 
 Beeler. Then it 's not — there 's nothing — • 
 peculiar about it? 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 829 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Yes, sir-ree ! Mighty pecul- 
 iar! 
 
 Beeler. 1 mean nothing, as you might 
 say, outside nature? 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. 0, bless you, you can't get 
 outside nature nowadays! {Moves his 
 hands in a wide circle.) Tight as a 
 drum, no air-holes. — Devilish queer, 
 though — pardon me, Mr. Culpepper — 
 really amazing, the power of the mind 
 over the body. 
 
 Culpepper. Would you be good enough to 
 let us hear some of your professional ex- 
 periences •? 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. {Lights a cigarette, as he 
 leans on the edge of the table.) Don't 
 have to go to professional medicine for 
 cases. They 're lying around loose. 
 Why, when I was at Ann Arbor — in a 
 fraternity initiation — we bared a chap's 
 shoulders, showed him a white-hot poker, 
 blindfolded him, told him to stand steady, 
 and — touched him with a piece of ice. A 
 piece of ice, I tell you ! What happened ? 
 Damned if it — pardon me, Mr. Culpep- 
 per — blessed if it did n't burn him — car- 
 ries the scars to this day. Then there 
 was that case in Denver. Ever hear 
 about thaf? A young girl, nervous pa- 
 tient. Nails driven through the palms 
 of her hands, — tenpenny nails, — under 
 the hypnotic suggestion that she was n't 
 being hurt. Didn't leave a cicatrice as 
 big as a bee sting ! Fact ! 
 
 Beeler. You think my wife's ease is like 
 these f 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Precisely; with religious ex- 
 citement to help out. {He points out- 
 side.) They're getting ready for King- 
 dom-come over it, out yonder, dear Dr. 
 Culpepper. 
 
 Beeler. They're worked up enough, if 
 that 's all that 's needed. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Worked up! Elijah in a 
 chariot of fire, distributing cure-alls as 
 he mounts to glory. They 've got their 
 ascension robes on, especially the niggers. 
 
 Culpepper. {With severity.) I take it 
 you are the late Dr. Martin's successor. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. I have the honor. 
 
 Culpepper. Old Dr. Martin would never 
 have taken a flippant tone in such a 
 crisis. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Flippant *? By no means! 
 A little light-headed. My profession is 
 attacked. At its very roots, sir. — 
 {With relish.) As far as that goes, I 'm 
 afraid yours is, too. 
 
 Culpepper. {To Beeler, ignoring the 
 
 gibe.) Am "I to understand that you 
 countenance these proceedings'? 
 
 Beeler. {Pointing to the invalid chair.) 
 If your wife had spent five years help- 
 less in that chair, I guess you 'd counte- 
 nance any proceedings that set her on her 
 feet. 
 
 Culpepper. {Towers threateningly.) If 
 your wife is the woman she was, she 
 would rather sit helpless forever beside 
 the Rock of Ages, than dance and flaunt 
 herself in the house of idols ! 
 
 Beeler. {With depreciating humor.) 0, 
 I guess she ain't doin' much flauntin' of 
 herself in any house of idols. — You 've 
 heard Doctor here say it 's all natural 
 enough. Maybe this kind of cure is the 
 coming thing. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. The Brother would drive us 
 doctors into the poorhouse, if he could 
 keep up the pace. And you preachers, 
 too, as far as that goes. If he could 
 keep up the pace! Well — {Sucks at his 
 cigarette deliberately.) lucky for us, he 
 can^t keep it up. 
 
 Beeler. Why can't he keep it up? 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Can't stand the strain. — 
 Oh, I have n't seen him operate, but I 'm 
 willing to bet his miracles take it out of 
 him! 
 
 Culpepper. {Takes his hat and goes to- 
 luard the outer door.) Miracles, indeed! 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. {Following.) Oh, wait for 
 me. Doctor ; we 're both in the same boat ! 
 
 Beeler. Hope you gentlemen will come 
 back again to-night, and soon, too. 
 Don't know what '11 happen if thmgs go 
 wrong in there. 
 
 {Points towards the hall.) 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. All right — ^you can count on 
 me — 
 
 Beeler. {To Culpepper.) And you? 
 
 Culpepper. I seldom shirk my duty. 
 
 (Beeler closes the door after them.) 
 
 (Martha enters from the kitchen, with a 
 
 pan of dough, which she sets before the 
 
 fire to raise.) 
 Beeler. You keepin' an eye out, Marthy? 
 Martha. Guess your bam 'd 'a' been afire, 
 
 if I had n't been keepin' an eye out. 
 Beeler. I warned 'em about fire! 
 Martha. Haymow ketched. If I hadn't 
 
 been there to put it out, we'd 'a' been 
 
 without a roof by now. 
 Beeler. Guess I better go keep an eye 
 
 out myself. 
 Martha. Guess you had ! 
 
 (Beeler goes out by the kitchen. 
 
830 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 Martha takes up mechanically her 
 eternal task of setting things to 
 rights — gathering up Annie's toys 
 and arranging the furniture in more 
 precise order. Meanwhile, Rhoda 
 enters from the hall with the mother 
 of the sick child, a frail young 
 woman of nervous type. She clings 
 to Rhoda feverishly.) 
 Mother. Don't leave me! 
 Rhoda. You must n't worry. Your baby 
 will get well. (Rhoda sinks in a low 
 easy chair before the fire, and the woman 
 kneels beside her, her face hidden on the 
 chair arm.) You must keep up your 
 courage and your trust. That will help 
 more than anything. 
 Mother. I 'm afraid ! 
 Rhoda. Think of those others out there, 
 who are waiting too, without the glimpse 
 of comfort you 've had. 
 Mother. {Bursts out.) I ain't had no 
 comfort ! When I heard him pray for 
 miy child, I — I don't know — I kept sayin' 
 to myself — '^0 God, it 's me that 's 
 stretchin' out my hands to you, not him. 
 Don't punish me for his cold words !" 
 (Martha, who has been listening, 
 shakes her head significantly.) 
 Rhoda. Cold words ! 
 
 Mother. Yes, I know it's wrong. I'll 
 try to feel different. It 's because I ain't 
 had nothin' to do with religion for so 
 long. — If my baby gets well, I '11 make 
 up for it. I '11 make up for everything. 
 (The woman rises. Rhoda kisses her.) 
 Rhoda. I shall be here if you want me. 
 And I shall — pray for you. 
 
 {The mother goes out. Distant sing- 
 ing is heard. Martha comes to the 
 mantelpiece with matches, which she 
 arranges in the match tray. She 
 looks at Rhoda, who sits with closed 
 eyes.) 
 Martha. Guess you're about dead beat. 
 Rhoda. I think I never was so tired in my 
 
 life. 
 Martha. Worry does it, more'n work. 
 Better try and doze off, Rhody. 
 
 {The hall door opens, and Annie en- 
 ters. She comes to Martha, and 
 clings nervously to her skirts.) 
 Annie. Aunt Martha ! I want to stay 
 with you. You 're the only person in this 
 house that ain't different. What 's the 
 matter with Mamma f 
 Martha. She 's cured, I reckon. 
 Annie. How did she get cured? 
 Martha. You can search me! 
 
 Annie. Did that man cure her? 
 Martha. That's what she says, and I 
 
 don't hear him denyin' it. 
 Annie. {Whining.) I don't want her to 
 
 be cured! 
 Martha. Annie Beeler! Don't want your 
 
 mother to be cured? 
 Annie. No, I don't. I want her to be 
 like she always has been. She don't 
 seem like my Mamma at all this way. 
 What 's the matter with all those people 
 out there? Why don't we have any sup- 
 per? {She bursts out crying and clings 
 feverishly to Martha.) Oh, what's go- 
 ing to happen to us? 
 Martha. There, Annie, don't cry. {She 
 looks at Rhoda, throws a cover over her 
 knees, and draws Annie away, speaking 
 low.) Come out in the kitchen, and I'll 
 give you your supper. 
 
 {Exeunt. The singing grows louder 
 
 and nearer. Michaelis enters from 
 
 the hall. His hair is dishevelled, his 
 
 collar open, his manner feverish and 
 
 distraught. He looks closely at 
 
 Rhoda, sees she is sleeping, then 
 
 paces the floor nervously, gazing out 
 
 of the window in the direction of the 
 
 singing. At length he comes to 
 
 Rhoda again, and bends over her, 
 
 studying her face. She starts up, 
 
 confused and terror-stricken, from 
 
 her doze.) 
 
 Rhoda. What — what is the matter? Oh, 
 
 you frightened me so! (Michaelis 
 
 turns away without answering.) What 
 
 has happened? Why are you here? 
 
 Michaelis. You had dropped asleep. 
 
 You are weary. 
 Rhoda. {Collecting her thoughts with dif- 
 ficulty.) I was dreaming — such a strange 
 dream. 
 Michaelis. What did you dream? 
 Rhoda. I thought it was morning ; the sun 
 had risen, and — and you were out there, 
 in the midst of the crowd. 
 Michaelis. {Excitedly.) Go on ! What 
 
 happened ? 
 Rhoda. I — I can't remember the rest. 
 Michaelis. {Grasps her arm, speaks 
 low.) You must remember! Did I — 
 succeed? 
 Rhoda. {Helplessly.) I — it's all a blur 
 
 in my mind. 
 Michaelis. {Darkly.) You don't want 
 me to know that, in your dream, I 
 failed. 
 Rhoda. No, no. That is not so. {Pause. 
 She speaks with hesitation.) Perhaps 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 831 
 
 this is not the time. Perhaps you are not 
 ready. 
 
 MiCHAELis. What does that matter? He 
 is ready. 
 
 {He points at the map.) 
 
 Rhoda. {Gazing at the map, with mystic 
 conviction.) You will succeed! You 
 must succeed! {He paces the room. 
 She stops him, pointing toward the hall 
 door.) How is the child'? {He hesi- 
 tates. She repeats the ivords anxiouslij.) 
 How is the child'? {He shakes his head 
 gloomily for answer.) It will get well, 
 I am sure. 
 
 IVIiCHAELis. If it does not, I am judged. 
 
 Rhoda. Oh, don't say that or think it ! 
 
 MiCHAELis. I am weighed in the balance 
 and found wanting ! 
 
 Rhoda. You cannot hang the whole issue 
 and meaning of your life upon so slight 
 a thread. 
 
 MiCHAELis. The whole issue and meaning 
 of the world hang on threads as slight. 
 If this one is slight. To the mother it 
 is not slight, nor to the God who put into 
 her eyes, as she looked at me, all the 
 doubt and question of the suffering earth. 
 
 Rhoda. You must remember that it is only 
 a little child. Its mind is not open. 
 You cannot influence it — can you'? 
 
 MiCHAELis. Once that little life in my 
 hand would have been as clay in the 
 hands of the potter. If I cannot help 
 now, it is because my ministry has been 
 taken from me and given to another, who 
 will be strong where I am weak, and 
 faithful where I am unfaithful. 
 
 {Another song rises outside, distant.) 
 
 Rhoda. {Comes closer to him.) Tell me 
 this. Speak plainly to me. Is it be- 
 cause of me that your weakness and un- 
 f aith have come upon you '? Is it because 
 of me? 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Looking at her steadily.) 
 Yes. — {He comes nearer.) Before cre- 
 ation, beyond time, God not yet risen 
 from His sleep, you stand and call to me, 
 and I listen in a dream that I dreamed 
 before Eden. 
 
 Rhoda. {Shrinking from him.) You 
 must not say such things to me. — You 
 must not think of me so. — You must not ! 
 {He follows her, his passion mount- 
 ing.) 
 
 MiCHAELis. All my life long I have 
 known you, and fled from you. I have 
 heard you singing on the hills of sleep 
 and have fled from you into the waking 
 day. I have seen you in the spring for- 
 
 est, dancing .^and throwing your webs of 
 sunlight to snare me; on moonlit moun- 
 tains, laughing and calling; in the streets 
 of crowded cities, beckoning and disap- 
 pearing in the crowd — and everywhere I 
 have fled from you, holding above my 
 head the sign of God's power in me, my 
 gift and my mission. — What use? What 
 use? It has crumbled, and I do not 
 care! 
 Rhoda. Oh, don't speak such words, I be- 
 seech you. Let me go. This must not, 
 shall not be! 
 
 {She makes another attempt to escape. 
 He presses upon her until she stands 
 at hay.) 
 MiCHAELis. You are all that I have feared 
 and shunned and missed on earth, and 
 now I have you, the rest is as nothing. 
 {He takes her, feebly resisting, into his 
 arms.) 1 know a place out there, high 
 in the great mountains. Heaven-pierc- 
 ing walls of stone, a valley of trees and 
 sweet water in the midst — grass and flow- 
 ers, such flowers as you have never 
 dreamed could grow. — There we will take 
 our happiness. A year — a month — a day 
 — what matter? We will make a life- 
 time of each hour! 
 Rhoda. {Yielding to Jiis embrace, whis- 
 pers.) Don't talk. Don't think. Only 
 — love me. A little while. A • little 
 while. 
 
 {The deep hush of their embrace is 
 broken by a cry from within. The 
 young mother opens the hall door in 
 a distraction of terror and grief.) 
 Mother. Come here! Come quick! 
 (MiCHAELis and Rhoda draw apart. He 
 stares at the woman, as if not remember- 
 ing icho she is.) I can't rouse him ! My 
 baby 's gone. Oh, my God, he 's dead ! 
 {She disappears. Rhoda follows, 
 drawing Michaelis^ dazed and half 
 resisting, with her. The room re- 
 mains vacant for a short time, the 
 stage held by distant singing. 
 Beeler enters from the kitchen. 
 There is a knock at the outer door, 
 which he opens. Littlefield, Cul- 
 pepper, and Uncle Abe enter.) 
 Littlefield. Your man hasn't va- 
 moosed, has he? LTncle Abe here says he 
 saw the Indian boy slipping by in the 
 fog. 
 Beeler. {Turns to the negro inquiringly.) 
 
 Alone? 
 Uncle Abe. {Mumbles half to himself.) 
 'Lone. 'Spec' he was alone. Did n't 
 
832 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 even have bis own flesh and bones wif 
 'im! 
 
 Beeler. What's that? 
 
 Uncle Abe. {Holds up his right hand, 
 which he eyes with superstitious inter- 
 est.) Put dis hyar han' right frough 
 him ! — Shore 's you 're bo'n. Right plum' 
 frough 'im whar he lives. 
 
 Culpepper. Mediaeval! Absolutely medi- 
 a3val ! 
 
 Littlefield. Not a bit of it. It 's up to 
 date, and a little more, too. 
 
 Culpepper. I 'm astonished that you take 
 this situation flippantly. 
 
 Littlefield. Not for a minute. My 
 bread and butter are at stake. {Wick- 
 edly.) Yours too, you know. 
 
 (Mrs. Beeler enters, alone, from the hall. 
 She is in a state of vague alarm. Her 
 husband hastens to help her.) 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. What is it? What is the 
 matter? I thought I heard — 
 
 {She breaks off, as a murmur of voices 
 rises outside. There is a sound of 
 stumbling and crowding on the outer 
 steps, and violent knocking. The 
 outer door is forced open, and a 
 crowd of excited people is about to 
 pour into the room. Beeler, the 
 Doctor, and the Preacher are able 
 to force the crowd back only after 
 several have made an entrance.) 
 Beeler. Keep back! You can't come in 
 here. 
 
 {As he pushes them roughly back, ex- 
 cited voices speak together.) 
 Voices in the Crowd. Where is he? — 
 They say he 's gone away. We seen his 
 boy makin' for the woods. — Oh, it 's not 
 true! Make him come out. 
 Beeler. Curse you, keep back, I say! 
 
 (Rhoda has entered from the hall, and 
 Martha from the kitchen. The two 
 women support Mrs. Beeler, who 
 remains standing, the fear deepen- 
 ing in her face.) 
 A Voice. {On the outskirts of the crowd.) 
 
 Where's he gone to? 
 Beeler. He's here. In the next room. 
 Keep back ! Here he comes now. 
 
 (MiCHAELis appears in the hall door. 
 There is a low murmur of excitement, 
 expectation, and awe among the peo- 
 ple crowded in the entrance. Bee- 
 ler crosses to help his wife, and the 
 other men step to one side, leaving 
 MiciiAELis to confront the crowd 
 
 alone. Confused, half-whispered 
 exclamations :) 
 
 Voices in the Crowd. Hallelujah! Em- 
 manuel ! 
 
 A Negro. Praise de Lamb. 
 
 A Woman. {Above the murmuring 
 voices.) ''He hath risen, and His ene- 
 mies are scattered." 
 
 Michaelis. Who said that? 
 
 {A woman, obscurely seen in the crowd, 
 lifts her hands and cries again, this 
 time in a voice ecstatic and pierc- 
 ing. ) 
 
 A Woman. "The Lord hath risen, and His 
 enemies are scattered!" 
 
 Michaelis. His enemies are scattered! 
 
 ' Year after year I have heard His voice 
 calling me — and year after year I have 
 said, "Show me the w^ay." And He 
 showed me the way. He brought me to 
 this house, and He raised up the believ- 
 ing multitude around me. But in that 
 hour I failed Him, I failed Him. He 
 has smitten me, as His enemies are smit- 
 ten. — As a whirlwind He has scattered 
 me and taken my strength from me for- 
 ever. {He advances into the room, with 
 a gesture backward through the open 
 door.) In yonder room a child lies dead 
 on its mother's knees, and the mother's 
 eyes follow me wath curses. {At the 
 news of the child's death, Mrs. Beeler 
 has sunk with a low moan into a chair, 
 where she lies white and motionless. 
 Michaelis turns to her.) And here lies 
 one who rose at my call, and was as one 
 risen; but now — {He breaks off, raises 
 his hand to her, and speaks in a voice of 
 pleading.) Arise, my sister! {She 
 makes a feeble gesture of the left hand.^ 
 Rise up once more, I beseech you ! 
 
 {She attempts to rise, but falls back 
 helpless.) 
 
 Beeler. {Bending over her.) Can't you 
 get up. Mother? 
 
 {She shakes her head.) 
 
 Michaelis. {Turning to the people.) 
 Despair not, for another will come, and 
 another and yet another, to show you the 
 way. But as for me — {He sinks down 
 by the table, and gazes before him, mut- 
 tering in a tragic whisper.) Broken! 
 Broken ! Broken ! 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 The next morning, just before sunrise. 
 Both door and windows are open, and a 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 833 
 
 light breeze sways the curtains. Out- 
 side is a tree-shaded and vine-clad porch, 
 with balustrade^ beyond ivhich is a tan- 
 gle of flowering bushes and fruit trees in 
 bloom. The effect is of a rich warm 
 dawn — a sudden onset of summer weather 
 after a bleak spring. 
 Beeler, with Uncle Abe looking on, is 
 busy putting up the pictures which he 
 has taken down in the preceding act. 
 Martha enters from the hall. 
 
 Beeler. {To Martha.) Is Mary up? 
 
 Martha. Yes. Wants to go out on the 
 porch and watch the sun rise, same as 
 she 's done every Easter morning since 
 Seth died. 
 
 Beeler. Won't hurt her, I reckon, bad off 
 as she is. — A reg'lar old-fashioned, sun- 
 shiny, blossomy spring mornin' — summer 
 here with a jump and fine growin' 
 weather. {Pause.) All the same, sun 
 might as well stay in China this Easter! 
 
 Martha. Is that why you 're tackin' up 
 them fool pictures again'? 
 
 Beeler. Yes, ma'am. That 's just why. 
 Religion ! 
 
 Martha. You wa' n't so sure yesterday, 
 when you saw your wife stand up on her 
 two dead feet and walk. 
 
 Beeler. Well, she ain't walkin' now. 
 
 Martha. No, she ain't, poor thing. 
 
 Beeler. Natural cure, natural relapse. 
 Doctor says the new medical books ex- 
 plain it. 
 
 Martha. Give it a name, maybe ! 
 
 Beeler. {Bursts out petulantly.) You 
 women don't want things explained, any 
 more'n Abe here! You prefer hocus- 
 pocus. And nothin' will teach you. 
 Take Rhody! Sees Michaelis flunk his 
 job miserable. Sees Mary go down like 
 a woman shot, hands and legs paralyzed 
 again, — Doctor says, for good, this time. 
 And what does the girl do about if? 
 Spends the night out yonder laborin' 
 with them benighted sick folks, tellin' 
 'em the healer will make good. Lots of 
 makin' good he '11 do ! {He points at 
 the ceiling.) A fine picture of a healer 
 he makes, 
 
 Martha. {Looking up.) Still as a stone! 
 I 'd rather have him ragin' round same as 
 yesterday, like a lion with the epizootic. 
 
 Beeler. He's a dead one. Rhody might 
 as well give up tryin' to make folks think 
 different. 
 
 Martha. Maybe Rhody holds she's to 
 blame. 
 
 Beeler. To blame? To blame for what? 
 
 Martha. For him a-peterin' out. 
 
 Beeler. What 's she got to do with it ? 
 
 Martha. Maybe she ain't got nothin' to 
 do with it, and maybe she 's got a whole 
 lot. 
 
 Beeler. Marthy, I don't want it to get 
 out, but you 're a plum' luny sentimental 
 old maid fool! 
 
 (Uncle Abe has been hovering, with 
 superstitious interest, near the pic- 
 ture of Pan and the Pilgrim. With 
 side glances at it, he speaks, taking 
 advantage of the lull in conversation 
 which follows Beeler's outburst.) 
 
 Uncle Abe. Mistah Beelah, 'scuse me 
 troublin' you, but — 'scuse me troublin' 
 you. 
 
 Beeler. What is it, Abe? 
 
 Uncle Abe. It 's purty brash o' me to be 
 askin', but — Mista Beelah, fur de Lawd's 
 sake give me that thar devil — pictuh! 
 
 Beeler. What do you want with it? 
 
 Uncle Abe. Want to hang it up in my ole 
 cabin. {His tone rises to one of eager 
 pleading.) Mars Beelah, you give it to 
 me! For Gawd's sake, say Ole Uncle 
 Abe kin have it, to hang up in his ole 
 cabin. 
 
 Beeler. Well, if you feel as strong as 
 that about it, Abe, take it along. 
 
 Uncle Abe. {As he unpins it with fever- 
 ish eagerness.) Thank ye, Mistah Bee- 
 lah, thank ye. I '11 wo'k fur ye and I '11 
 slave fur ye, long as the worl' stan's. 
 Maybe it ain't goin' to stan' much longer 
 af tah all. Maybe de chariot s comin' 
 down in de fiery clouds 'fo' great while. 
 An' what '11 yo' ole Uncle Abe be doin' ? 
 He '11 be on his knees 'fo' a big roarin' 
 fire, singing hallelujah, an' a-jammin' 
 red-hot needles right plum' f rough dis 
 lieah black devil's breas' bone ! I 'se got 
 him now! I'll fix'm. {Shakes his fist 
 at the print, as he goes toward the 
 kitchen.) Put yo' black spell on the 
 Lawd's chosen, would ye ? I 'se got ye. 
 I'll make ye sing, "Jesus, my ransom," 
 right out 'n yo' ugly black mouf ! 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Beeler. There ^s a pnrty exhibition for 
 this present year o' grace! Thinks our 
 friend Pan there has bewitched the 
 healer. 
 
 Martha. Maybe he has! 
 
 Beeler. Thought you said Rhody done it. 
 
 Martha. Same thing, I reckon, by all that 
 you tell about that Pan;jandruni and liis 
 goin's on! 
 
834 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 Beeler. Nonsense ! 
 
 Martha. If you 're so wise, why do you 
 
 think Michaelis petered out? 
 Beeler; Could n't stand the strain. Bit 
 off more 'n he could chaw, in the healin' 
 line. — Never looked at Rhody. 
 Martha. Looked at her till he couldn't 
 see nothin' else, in heaven or earth or the 
 other place. 
 Beeler. You 're dead wrong. I tell you 
 he never looked cross-eyed at Rhody, nor 
 Rhody at him. Doctor's more in her 
 line. — By the way, did you give the Doc- 
 tor a snack to stay his stomach ? 
 Martha. Done nothin' but feed him all 
 night long. Seems to be mighty ex- 
 haustin' work to tend a sick baby. 
 Beeler. Does he think it'll live? 
 Martha. Not likely. But he thinks he 
 will, if fed reg-'lar. — What do you call 
 that trance the baby 's in f 
 Beeler. Doctor calls it comy. Spelled it 
 out for me: c-o-m-a, comy. 
 
 (Beeler goes out on the porch and 
 disappears. Martha continues her 
 task of tidying up the room. Mi- 
 chaelis enters from the stair, carry- 
 ing his hat and a foot-travellefs 
 knapsack. Martha regards him 
 with curiosity, tempered now hy 
 feminine sympathy with the de- 
 feated.) 
 Martha. Good morning, sir. 
 Michaelis. (Tonelessly.) Good morning. 
 Martha. (Pointing at his hat and knap- 
 sack.) Hope you ain't off. Don't mind 
 sayin' the way you acted w^as human de- 
 cent, sendin' for Doctor when you found 
 the baby wa' n't dead, an' you wa' n't no 
 healer any more. 
 Michaelis. Is it any better? 
 
 (Martha makes a disconsolate gesture, 
 implying that there is little or no 
 hope. Michaelis turns away with 
 . bent head. Anxie enters from the 
 kitchen. Michaelis holds out his 
 hand to her, and she takes it with 
 shy hesitation.) 
 Martha. Guess you 'd like to know where 
 Rhody is, wouldn't you? She's where 
 she 's been all night, — out yonder with 
 the sick folks. 
 Michaelis. What is she doing there? 
 Martha. Feedin' 'em, first off, an' then 
 heart'nin' of 'em up. That's a purly 
 hard job, I reckon ; but it 's the way o' 
 women when they feel like she does. 
 (Michaelis sinks in a chair, drawing 
 Annie to him. Mrs. Beeler's hell 
 
 rings; Martha goes out hy the hall 
 door. Annie watches his hent head 
 in silence for a moment.) 
 Annie. Are you ever going up again, on 
 
 the rope? 
 Michaelis. {Not remembering.) On the 
 
 rope? 
 Annie. You know . . . the magic rope, — 
 
 Ain't you ever going to climb up in the 
 
 sky again? 
 Michaelis. (Recollecting.) Never again, 
 
 Annie. Never again. 
 Annie. Have you got the rope still? 
 Michaelis. No, I have lost it. 
 Annie. Won't you ever find it? 
 Michaelis. It can only be found by some 
 
 one who will know how to use it better 
 
 than I did. 
 Annie. How better? 
 Michaelis. By some one who can climb 
 
 up, toward the sun and the stars, and yet 
 
 never leave the earth, the cities, and the 
 
 people. 
 Annie. Then he'll have to take them up 
 
 with him. (Michaelis nods for yes.) 
 
 Gracious! (She runs to the porch door 
 
 to meet Rhoda, wlio appears outside.) 
 
 Cousin Rhoda! What do you think he 
 
 says about the magic rope? 
 Rhoda. What, Annie? 
 Annie. He says that first thing you know, 
 
 everything will be going up in the air, 
 
 towns and people and everything. 
 Rhoda. Does he? 
 Annie. (Runs out into the hall, balancing 
 
 her arms above her head and gazing up 
 
 laughingly.) Dear me! That will be 
 
 veiy tippy! 
 
 (Rhoda enters.) 
 
 Michaelis. You are here! The fear 
 came over me, just now — 
 
 Rhoda. I could not go until I had told 
 you the truth — about myself — about us. 
 
 Michaelis. You will tell me the whole 
 truth, and I will tell you the same. But 
 that will be for later. Come! Come 
 away with me, into the new life. 
 
 Rhoda. A life rooted in the failure of all 
 that life has meant to you from the be- 
 ginning ! 
 
 Michaelis. Until yesterday I did not 
 know what my life was. 
 
 Rhoda. You do not know that, even yet. 
 You know it now less than ever — what 
 your life is, what it means to you, w^hat 
 it means to the world. 
 
 Michaelis. To ihe world it can mean 
 nothing. That is ended. But to us it 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 835 
 
 can mean happiness. Let us make haste 
 to gather it. Come! 
 
 Rhoda. Where do you want me to gof 
 
 MiCHAELis. Anywhere — to that place I 
 told you of — high in the great mountains. 
 
 Rhoda. I was there last night. 
 
 MiCHAELis. In your thoughts'? 
 
 Rhoda. I was there, and saw all the beauty 
 of it, all the peace. But one thing was 
 not there, and for lack of it, in a little 
 while the beauty faded and the peace 
 was gone. 
 
 MiCHAELis. What was not there? 
 
 Rhoda. The work you have to do. 
 
 MiCHAELis. That was a dream I could not 
 realize. I have striven, and I have 
 failed. 
 
 Rhoda. Do you know why you have 
 failed'? 
 
 MiCHAELis. Yes. 
 
 Rhoda. Tell me why, 
 
 MiCHAELis. Because I have loved you 
 more than the visions that came to me in 
 desert places, more than the powers that 
 fell upon me at the bedside of the sick, 
 more than the spirit hands and spirit 
 voices that have guided me on my way. 
 
 Rhoda. What of the sick and suffering 
 out yonder, who are waiting and hoping 
 against hope? What of them? 
 
 MiCHAELis. I cannot help them. 
 
 Rhoda. Once you dreamed you could. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Yes. But that is over. 
 
 Rhoda. And who is to blame that that 
 great dream is over? 
 
 MiCHAELis. No one is to blame. It has 
 happened so. 
 
 Rhoda. Doesn't it seem strange that the 
 love of a woman entering into your heart 
 should take away such a dream as that? 
 
 MiCHAELis. I do not question. It is so. 
 
 Rhoda. But if your love had fallen, by 
 some sad chance, upon a woman who was 
 not worthy of love ? 
 
 MiCHAELis. What are you saying? 
 
 Rhoda. You know less than nothmg of 
 me. You have not asked me a single 
 question about my life. 
 
 MiCHAELis. There was no need. 
 
 Rhoda. There was need! There was 
 need! 
 
 MiCHAELis. Be careful what you say. Go 
 on! 
 
 Rhoda. In the first hour of our meeting, 
 and all the hours of the next day, you 
 swept me along and lifted me above my- 
 self, like a strong wind. I did n't know 
 what you were. I did n't know why I 
 was happy and exalted. It was so long 
 
 smce I had been happy, and I had never 
 been as happy as that, or anything like 
 it. Then, yesterday morning, came the 
 revelation of what you were, like a blind- 
 ing light out of the sky! And while I 
 stood dazed, trembling, I saw something 
 descend upon you like a shadow. You 
 loved me, and that love was dreadful to 
 you. You thought it was so because I 
 w^as a woman and stole your spirit's 
 strength away. But it was not that. It 
 was because I was a wicked woman. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Why do you call yourself a 
 wicked woman? 
 
 Rhoda. Because I am so. 
 
 MiCHAELis. I cannot believe it. 
 
 Rhoda. It is true. 
 
 MiCHAELis. Is that why you wanted to go 
 away ? 
 
 Rhoda. Yes, I tried to go away. You 
 would n't let me go. Then I tried to tell 
 you the truth. I knew why I took your 
 strength away, and I had nerved myself 
 to tell you why. But you began to 
 speak — those wild words. I could not re- 
 sist you. You took me in your arms ; and 
 all the power of your soul went from 
 you, and your life went crashing down 
 in darkness. {Long pause.) 
 
 MiCHAELis. Wicked? A wicked woman? 
 
 Rhoda. I was young then, wild-hearted, 
 pitifully ignorant. I thought that love 
 had come to me. Girls are so eager for 
 love. They snatch at the shadow of it. — 
 That is what I did. — I am not tiding to 
 plead for myself. — Some things are not 
 to be forgiven. — Somewhere in my na- 
 ture there was a taint — a plague-spot. — 
 If life is given me, I shall find it and 
 root it out. I only ask for time to do 
 that. But meanwhile I have done what 
 I could. I have told you the truth. I 
 have set you free. I have given you 
 back your mission. 
 
 (Dr. Littlefield enters, carrying his hat 
 and medicine case. He looks sharply at 
 Rhoda, then turns to Michaelis. His 
 m.anner towards him is politely con- 
 temptuous, toward Rhoda it is full of 
 covert passion, modified hy his habitual 
 cynicism and satire.) 
 
 Littlefield. {To Rhoda.) Good morn- 
 ing. {To Michaelis.) Good morning, 
 my friend. I understood that you sent 
 for me, last night. 
 
 Michaelis. I did. 
 
 Littlefield. Glad to accommodate a fel- 
 low practitioner, even if he is in a side 
 
836 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 line. Some folks think your way of busi- 
 ness is a little shady, but Lord, if they 
 knew the secrets of owr charnel-house! 
 
 MiCHAELis. How did you leave the child *? 
 
 LiTTLKPiELD. Doue for. I said I was 
 worth a million of you in a case like this, 
 but I didn't realize how far things had 
 gone. The next time, call me in a little 
 sooner. {He writes on his note pad, 
 tears out a leaf, and lays it on the table.) 
 Mrs. Beeler will continue the old pre- 
 scription, alternating with this. {He 
 puts the note pad in his pocket, and turns 
 to Rhoda. He speaks in a tone which 
 implies command, under the veil of re- 
 quest.) Will you walk a ways with me, 
 Miss Williams? 
 
 Rhoda. {Pale and trembling.) No. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. Pardon ! I must have a 
 short talk. It is important. 
 
 Rhoda. I cannot go with you. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. I think you had better re- 
 consider. 
 
 MiCHAELis. {Astonished at his tone.) 
 You have heard that she does not wish 
 to go. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. {Ignoring Michaelis.) I 
 have no time to waste, and I shall not 
 stop to mince my words. You are com- 
 ing with me, and you are coming now. 
 
 Michaelis. {To Rhoda.) Who is this 
 man? 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. {Wheeling upon him an- 
 grily.) Ton my honor! "Who is this 
 manf "Remove the worm!" Decidedly 
 tart, from a miracle-monger in a state 
 of bankruptcy. 
 
 Michaelis. (To Rhoda.) Is this the man 
 you told me of? 
 
 Rhoda. {Steadily.) Yes. 
 
 LiTTLEFiELD. {To Rhoda, as he eyes Mi- 
 chaelis with dislike.) So you have 
 called in a father confessor, eh? {To 
 Michaelis.) Well, since the lady can't 
 keep her secrets to herself, this is the 
 man. Very painful, no doubt, but these 
 little things will happen. {To Rhoda.) 
 I should have chosen a more secluded 
 nook to say this in, but you 're skittish, 
 as I have learned to my cost, and likely 
 to bolt. What I want to say is, don't 
 bolt. It won't do you any good. — I 've 
 found you once, and I '11 find you again, 
 no matter what rabbit's hole you dodge 
 into. {To Michaelis.) This ain't 
 George Littlefield, M.D., talking now. 
 It 's the caveman of Borneo. He 's got 
 arms as long as rakes, and teeth that are 
 a caution. — Look out for him ! 
 
 Michaelis. {Holding himself in stern re- 
 straint.) Your arms and teeth are long 
 enough, and eager enough to do damage, 
 but they will not avail you here. This 
 girl is in other keeping, and I dare to 
 say, better. 
 
 Littlefield. In other keeping, eh? 
 Yours, I suppose. 
 
 Michaelis. Yes, mine. 
 
 Littlefield. Bless my soul! {He turns 
 to Rhoda, pointedly ignoring Mi- 
 chaelis.) Look here, Rho, be sensible. 
 I 'm tired of this hole of a town already. 
 We'll go west and renew our youth. 
 Country 's big, and nobody to meddle. 
 You '11 flourish like a green bay tree. 
 (Rhoda turns distractedly, as to escape; 
 he intercepts her.) Confound it, if 
 you 're set on it, I '11 marry you ! Say 
 yes, and let John the Baptist here give us 
 his blessing. Speak up. Is it a go? — 
 Till death us do part. 
 
 Michaelis. Death has already parted yon 
 and her. 
 
 Littlefield. So? I feel like a reason- 
 ably healthy corpse. 
 
 Michaelis. There is . no health in you. 
 Every word you speak gives off corrup- 
 tion. 
 
 Littlefield. Indeed! My advice to you 
 is, make tracks for your starvation desert. 
 A parcel of locoed Indians are about 
 right for a busted prophet. 
 
 Michaelis. What I am is no matter. 
 What this girl is, though you lived a 
 thousand years, you would never have the 
 grace to imagine. She gave you her 
 young love, in childish blindness, not 
 knowing what she did, and you killed it 
 idly, wantonly, as a beast tortures its 
 frail victim, for sport. You find her 
 again, still weak and bleeding from her 
 wounds, and you fling her marriage, in 
 words whose every syllable is an insult. 
 Marriage! When every fibre of her na- 
 ture must cry out against you, if she is 
 w^oman. Take your words and your looks 
 from her, and that instantly, or you will 
 curse the day you ever brought your evil 
 presence into her life. {He advances 
 upon him threateningly.) Instantly, I 
 say, or by the wrath of God your 
 wretched soul, if you have one, shall go 
 this hour to its account ! 
 
 Littlefield. {Backing toward the door, 
 scared, but keeping his brazen tone.) 
 All right. — I 'm off. — Caveman for cave- 
 man, you 've got the reach ! ( To Rhoda. ) 
 But remember, my lady, we 're not quits 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 837 
 
 by a jug-full. You '11 hear from me yet. 
 MiCHAELis. She shall never hear from 
 
 you, nor of you. 
 LiTTLEriELD. {In the door.) Last call, 
 
 old girl! — Women! 
 
 {He goes out, slamming the door be- 
 hind him. Long pause.) 
 MiCHAELis. Poor child ! Poor child ! 
 Rhoda. I am sorry that you have had to 
 
 suffer this. 
 MiCHAELis. It is you who have suffered. 
 
 (Martha enters from the hall, wheeling 
 Mrs. Beeler in the invalid chair. She 
 lies lower than in the first act, her man- 
 ner is weaker and more dejected. Rhoda, 
 whose hack is turned, goes on as the two 
 women enter.) 
 
 Rhoda. I deserve to suffer, but it will al- 
 ways be sweet to me that in my need you 
 defended me, and gave me back my cour- 
 age. 
 
 (MiCHAELis goes to Mrs. Beeler; she 
 gives him her left hand as at first.) 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. My poor friend! (Mar- 
 tha, resigning the chair to Rhoda, goes 
 out. Mrs. Beeler looks up at Rhoda 
 anxiously.) What were you saying when 
 I came in *? {As Rhoda does not answer, 
 she turns to Michaelis.) Something 
 about your defending her. — ^Against 
 what? 
 
 Michaelis. Nothing. Her nature is its 
 own defence. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Caressing her.) Ah, no! 
 She needs help. She cannot bear it that 
 this disaster has come, through her. It 
 has made her morbid. She says things 
 about herself, that make me tremble. 
 Has she spoken to you — about herself? 
 
 Michaelis. She has laid her heart bare to 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. That is good. Young peo- 
 ple, when they are generous, always lay 
 disaster at their own door. {She kisses 
 Rhoda. The girl goes into the porch, 
 where she lingers a moment, then disap- 
 pears. Mrs. Beeler sinks hack in her 
 chair again, overtaken hy despondency.) 
 Is n't it strange that I should be lying 
 here again, and all those poor people 
 waking up into a new day that is no new 
 day at all, but the old weary day they 
 have known so long"? Isn't it strange, 
 and sad'? 
 
 Michaelis. I ask you not to lose hope. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Bousing from her dejec- 
 tion into vague excitement.) You ask 
 me that? — Is there — any hope? Oh, 
 
 don't deceive. me — now! I couldn't bear 
 it now! — Is there any hope? 
 
 Michaelis. A half-hour ago I thought 
 mere was none. But now I say, have 
 hope. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. {Eagerly.) Do you? Do 
 you? Oh, I wonder — I wonder if that 
 could be the meaning — ? 
 
 Michaelis. The meaning — ? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Of something I felt, just 
 now, as I sat there in my room by the 
 open window. 
 
 Michaelis. What was it? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. I — I don't know how to de- 
 scribe it. — It was like a new sweetness in 
 the air. 
 
 {She looks out at the open tvindow', 
 where the spring hreeze lightly 
 wafts the curtains.) 
 
 Michaelis. The lilacs have operi.ed dur- 
 ing the night. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. It was not the lilacs. — I 
 get it now again, in this room. {She 
 looks toward the lilies and shakes her 
 head. ) No, it is not the lilies either. If 
 it w^ere anyone else, I should be ashamed 
 to say what I think. {She draws him 
 down and speaks mysteriously.) It is 
 not real flowers at all! 
 {Song rises outside — faint and distant.) 
 
 Michaelis. What is it to you? 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. It is like — it is like some 
 kindness in the air, some new-born hap- 
 piness — or a new hope rising. Now you 
 will think I am — not quite right in my 
 mind, as Mat does, and Martha ! 
 
 Michaelis. Mrs. Beeler, there is such a 
 perfume about us this beautiful Easter 
 morning. You perceive it, with senses 
 which suffering and a pure soul have 
 made fine beyond the measure of woman. 
 There is a kindness in the air, new-born 
 happiness, and new-risen hope. 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. From whose heart does it 
 rise? 
 
 Michaelis. From mine, from Rhoda's 
 heart, though she knows it not, from 
 yours, and soon, by God's mercy, from 
 the heart of this waiting multitude. 
 
 {The song, though still distant, grows 
 louder. Mrs. Beeler turns to Mi- 
 chaelis and gazes intently into his 
 face. ) 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. The light has come into 
 your face again! You are — you are — 
 Oh, my brother, what has come to you? 
 
 Michaelis. I have shaken off my burden. 
 Do you shake off yours. What is pain 
 but a kind of selfishness? What is dis- 
 
838 
 
 THE FAITH HEALER 
 
 ease but a kind of sin 1 Lay your suffer- 
 ing and your sickness from you as an 
 out-worn garment. Rise up ! It is Eas- 
 ter morning. One comes, needing you. 
 Rise up and welcome her! 
 
 (Mrs. Beeler rises and goes to meet 
 Rhoda, entering from the porch.) 
 
 Rhoda. Aunt Mary! You are walking 
 again ! 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. He told me to arise, and 
 once more my dead limbs heard. 
 
 Rhoda. God in His mercy be thanked ! 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. I rose without knowing 
 what I did. It was as if a wind lifted 
 me. 
 
 Rhoda. Yes, yes. For good, this time! 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. So different from yester- 
 day. I was still weak then, and my 
 limbs were heavy. Now I feel as if 
 wings were on my shoulders. {She 
 looks toward the outer door, and listens 
 to the singing, now risen to a more joy- 
 ful strain.) 1 must go out to them. 
 (She turns to Michaelis.) Say that I 
 may go out, and give them the good tid- 
 ings of great joy. 
 
 Michaelis. May the Lord be with you as 
 you go! {To Rhoda, who starts to help 
 her aunt.) Alone! 
 
 Mrs. Beeler. Yes, alone. I want to go 
 alone. {She takes a lily from the vase, 
 and lifting it above her head, goes out 
 through the porch, which is now flooded 
 with sunshine. As she goes out she 
 says:) The Easter sun has risen, with 
 healing in its wings! 
 {She crosses the porch and disappears.) 
 
 Rhoda. I felt something dragging me 
 back. It was Aunt Mary's spirit. 
 
 Michaelis. No, it was mine. 
 
 Rhoda. Yours •? 
 
 Michaelis. My spirit, crying to you that 
 I was delivered. 
 
 Rhoda. I delivered you. That is enough 
 happiness for one life. 
 
 Michaelis. You delivered me, yes. But 
 not as you dream. Yesterday when the 
 multitude began to gather, the thing I 
 had been waiting for all my life was 
 there, and I — because of you — I was not 
 ready. In that blind hour my life sank 
 in ruin. — I had thought love denied to 
 such as had my work to do, and in the 
 darkness of that thought disaster over- 
 whelmed me. — I have come to know that 
 God does not deny love to any of his 
 children, but gives it as a beautiful and 
 
 simple gift to them all. — Upon each 
 head be the use that is made of it! 
 
 Rhoda. It is not I — who — harm you? 
 
 Michaelis. It is you who bless me, and 
 give me back the strength that I had lost. 
 
 Rhoda. I"? 
 
 Michaelis. A little while ago you told me 
 your life's bitter story. I tasted your 
 struggle, went down with you into the 
 depths of your anguish, and in those 
 depths, — the miracle ! Behold, once more 
 the stars looked down upon me from 
 their places, and I stood wondering as a 
 child wonders. Out of those depths 
 arose new-born happiness and new-risen 
 hope. For in those star-lit depths of 
 pain and grief, I had found at last true 
 love. You needed me. You needed all 
 the powers I had thrown away for your 
 sake. You needed what the whole world 
 needs — healing, healing, and as I rose to 
 meet that need, the power that I had lost 
 poured back into my soul. 
 
 Rhoda. Oh, if I thought that could be ! 
 
 Michaelis. By the mystery that is man, 
 and the mercy that is God, I say it is so. — 
 {Puts his hand on her head, and gazes 
 into her face.) I looked into your eyes 
 once, and they were terrible as an army 
 with banners. I look again now, and 1 
 see they are only a girl's eyes, very weak, 
 very pitiful. I told you of a place, high 
 in the great mountains. I tell you now 
 of another place higher yet, in more mys- 
 terious mountains. Let us go there to- 
 gether, step by step, from faith to faith, 
 and from strength to strength, for I see 
 depths of life open and heights of love 
 come out, which I never dreamed of till 
 now! 
 
 {A song rises outside, nearer and 
 louder than before.) 
 
 Rhoda. Against your • own words they 
 trust you still. 
 
 Michaelis. It was you who held them to 
 their trust ! 
 
 Rhoda. You will go out to them now. 
 
 Michaelis. {As he kisses her.) Until the 
 victory ! 
 
 {The song rises to a great hymn, of 
 martial and joyous rhythm. They 
 go together to the threshold. They 
 look at each other in silence. Rhoda 
 speaks, with suppressed meaning.) 
 
 Rhoda. Shall it be — on earth? 
 
 Michaelis. On the good human earth, 
 which I never possessed till now ! 
 
 Rhoda. But now — these waiting souls, 
 prisoned in their pain — 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
 
 839 
 
 MiCHAELis. By faith all prisoned souls 
 
 shall be delivered. 
 Rhoda. By faith. 
 MiCHAELis. By faith which makes all 
 
 things possible, which brings all things 
 
 to pass. 
 
 {He disappears. Rhoda stands look- 
 
 ing after him. The young mother 
 hurries in.) 
 The Young Mother. {Ecstatic, breath- 
 less.) Come here — My baby! I believe 
 — I do believe — {She disappears.) 
 
 Rhoda. {'Following her.) I believe. I 
 do believe! 
 
 {The music rises into a vast chorus of 
 many mingled strains.) 
 
THE SCARECROW 
 
 A TRAGEDY OF THE LUDICROUS 
 BY 
 
 Percy MacKaye 
 
Copyright, 1908, by The Macmillan Company 
 
 Copyright, 1914, by Percy MacKaye 
 
 Copyright, 1916, by Percy MacKaye 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Including stage and platform rights and the right of trans- 
 lation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. 
 
 This play ''The Scarecrow" ho^ been duly copyrighted in the 
 United States of America, The Dominion of Canada, and in 
 all countries of the copyright union. 
 
 No performance, amateur or professional, can legally he 
 given without permission first obtained from the author and 
 payment of royalty. Infringement of copyright involves lia- 
 bility to prosecution by law. 
 
 No public reading of this play for money can legally be 
 given without permission first obtained from the author. 
 
 To obtain such permission communication should be made 
 with the author direct, in care of the publishers. 
 
 Reprinted by permission of Mr. Percy MacKaye and by 
 special arrangement with the Macmillan Company. 
 
THE SCARECROW 
 
 The Scarecrow represents the romance of the fantastic, with its basis in 
 American history. It was suggested by Hawthorne's story of ' ' Feathertop, " 
 published originally in 1852 and afterwards included in the Mosses from an Old 
 Manse. Mr. MacKaye has modified the nature of the characters decidedly, has 
 added characters, and, as he says in the preface to the published play, has sub- 
 stituted the element of human sympathy for that of irony. 
 
 Percy MacKaye was born in New York City, March 16, 1875, the son 
 of Steele MacKaye and Mary Medbery, who herself dramatized Fride and 
 Prejudice. He grew up in the atmosphere of the theatre and before enter- 
 ing Harvard College in 1893 he had written a series of choral songs for his 
 father's projected ''Spectatorio" at the World's Fair in 1893. He graduated 
 from Harvard College in 1897. During his junior year, he wrote a poetical play 
 Sappho, which was acted by Harvard and Wellesley students. After two years 
 of European travel and study he returned to New York and taught in a private 
 school, continuing to write plays. The turning point in his career came when 
 his Canterbury Pilgrims was accepted by E. H. Sothern in 1903. Since 1904 he 
 has devoted himself entirely to dramatic work, living at Cornish, New Hampshire. 
 Mr. MacKaye stands in our drama for high standards of dramatic writing. 
 He represents the movement for a civic and national theatre, untrammelled by 
 commercial considerations, and he has brought into recent prominence the idea 
 of the community masque or pageant, in itself one of the most significant 
 dramatic movements of the time. At the same time he is not simply a theorist, 
 but has proved his ability to write plays that succeed upon the stage. 
 
 He has written sixteen plays, ten masques or pageants, and four operas. 
 His plays have been performed except the first, A Garland to Sylvia, and Fenris 
 the Wolf, a masterly study of the mutual effects of purity and passion, laid in a 
 setting of Northern mythology. The acted plays, arranged in the order of their 
 composition and with their dates of publication indicated in parentheses, are: 
 The Canterbury Pilgrims (1903), a dramatization of the relations between Chaii- 
 cer and his characters, first performed at the Park Extension Theatre, Savannah, 
 Georgia, April 30, 1909; The Scarecrow (1908); Jeamie d'Arc, an historical 
 play (1906), first produced at the Lyric Theatre, Philadelphia, October 15, 1906; 
 Sappho and Phaon (1907), a Greek play with the theme of the contrasted influ- 
 ence of family ties and sexual love, first performed at the Opera House, Provi- 
 dence, Rhode Island, October 14, 1907; Mater (1908), a comedy based on Amer- 
 ican politics, first performed at the Van Ness Theatre, San Francisco, California, 
 August 3, 1908; Anti-Matrimony (1910), a clever satire upon the influence of 
 
 843 
 
844 INTRODUCTION 
 
 modern continental playwrights upon the ideas of marriage held by two young 
 Americans, first performed in the Theatre at Ann Arbor, Michigan, March 10, 
 1910; Tomorrow (1912), a play dealing seriously with the problem of selec- 
 tion in the matter of marriage, first performed at the Little Theatre, Philadel- 
 phia, October 31, 1913; A Thousand Years Ago (1914), an Oriental romance, 
 first performed at the Shubert Theatre, New York, December 1, 1913, and 
 Yankee Fantasies (1912), five one-act plays, four of which have been performed, 
 and two of which, Getty shurg and Sam Average, are upon national themes. 
 
 The group of Masques and Pageants include the Saint Gaudens Masque- 
 Prologue (1909), first produced June 20, 1905, by the Cornish Colony in honor 
 of Augustus St. Gaudens; the Gloucester Pageant (1903), produced under the 
 auspices of the city of Gloucester in honor of President Taft, August 3, 1909; 
 A Masque of Lahor (1912), projected but not yet performed; Sanctuary, a Bird 
 Masque (1914), given first, September 12, 1913, in honor of President and Mrs. 
 Wilson, at Meriden, New Hampshire, and repeated many times, 120 perform- 
 ances being given in the Southern and Western States before over 200,000 spec- 
 tators by the Redpath Chautauqua players ;>S^ai«^ Louis: A Civic Masque (1914), 
 given in St. Louis to celebrate the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the 
 founding of the city, from May 28 to June 1, 1914; The New Citizenship, a 
 Civic Ritual (1915), given February 14, 1916, in New York City, on Lincoln's 
 Birthday and, most significant, Caliban, A Community Masque (1916), produced 
 May 25 to June 2, 1916, in New York City as a part of the Shakespeare Tercen- 
 tenary Celebration. This masque, founded on The Tempest, and having as its 
 main theme the regeneration of Caliban through his love for Miranda, was mag- 
 nificently produced at the Stadium of the College of the City of New York and 
 marks a new epoch in the community drama. Of the operas, Sinhad the Sailor 
 (1917) and The Immigrants (1915), with music by Mr. F. S. Converse, have not 
 as yet been produced. The Canterhury Pilgrims (1916), with music by Mr. 
 Reginald de Koven, was first produced at the Metropolitan Opera House m 
 New York, March 8, 1917. 
 
 The Scarecrow was first performed by the Harvard Dramatic Club, on De- 
 cember 7, 1909. Its first professional performance was given at the Middlesex 
 Theatre, Middletown, Connecticut, December 30, 1910. The cast as given re- 
 mained the same at its first New York performance, at the Garrick Theatre, 
 January 17, 1911, except that the part of ''Rachel" was taken by Miss Fola La 
 Follette. The play is dedicated by the author to his mother, for the reason (as 
 he has told the editor) that, but for her sympathetic interest and assistance, it 
 would probably not have been written. The version here printed has been 
 revised by Mr. MacKaye and represents the acting version used by Mr. Frank 
 Reicher during two seasons in the United States, and by Miss Muriel Pratt at 
 the Theatre Royal, Bristol, England. It is also the version translated into 
 
INTRODUCTION 845 
 
 German by Dr. Walther Fischer, of the University of Pennsylvania, for the 
 professional use of Herr Rudolf Schildkraut in Germany, at the "Deutsches 
 Theater," Berlin, under the direction of Professor Max Reinhardt. It has also 
 been translated into French by Professor M. Garnier, of the Sorbonne, Paris. 
 
 The individual plays may be found in printed form, as indicated above. 
 Mr. MacKaye's poems, which have appeared in several editions, may be had 
 most conveniently in the complete edition of his Poems and Plays, in two vol- 
 umes, issued by Macmillan Company in 1916. In this edition. The Canterbury 
 Pilgrims, Jeanne d'Arc, Sappho and Phaon, The Scarecrow, and Mater have 
 been reprinted. His essays on dramatic subjects may be found in The Playhouse 
 and the Play (1909), and The Civic Theatre (1912). He has also in press: 
 Steele MacKaye, A Memoir and Two Plays. For an interesting foreign criti- 
 cism of his work, especially of The Scarecrow, see M. Garnier, M. Percy Mac- 
 Kaye, in La Revue du Mois, April 10, 1909. 
 
 The editor is indebted to the courtesy of Mr. MacKaye for permission to 
 reprint the play and for the biographical details and the information concern- 
 ing the plays upon which this introduction is based. 
 
 Note to Revised Edition 
 
 Since the publication of the First Edition, Mr. Mackaye has produced the 
 following dramatic works: 
 
 Plays — Washington, the Man Who Made Us (1919), a Ballad Play, was first 
 produced in its entirety (under the title ''George Washington") at the 
 Belasco Theatre, Washington, D. C., February 23, 1920, one portion of it (the 
 Valley Forge Action) having been previously produced in French — translated 
 by Pierre de Lanux — at Copeau's Theatre du Vieux Colombier, New York, 
 Feb. 17, 1919. This Action and other Actions of the play have also been trans- 
 lated into, fourteen different languages by the Foreign Language Information 
 Service Bureau of the Red Cross for publication and production in foreign 
 language theatres in America. 
 
 Masques — Caliban was also presented on a still more splendid scale, by 
 co-operation of nineteen districts of Greater Boston, at the Harvard Stadium, 
 Cambridge, June 28 to July 21 (inclusive), 1917. 
 
 The Evergreen Tree (1917), a Christmas Masque, was first produced by 
 North Dakota Agricultural College, at Fargo, N. D., Dec. 15, 1917. 
 
 The Roll Call (1918), a Masque of the Red Cross, was first produced dur- 
 ing Roll Call Week. December 16-23, 1918, simultaneously in different states 
 throughout America. The Will of Song (with Harry Barnhart, 1919), a 
 Dramatic Service of Community Singing, was first produced at Orange, N. J., 
 May 2 and 3, 1919. 
 
 Operas — Rip Van Winkle, a Folk Opera (1919), with music by Reginald 
 p Koven, was first produced by the Chicago Opera Association at the Audi- 
 rium Theatre, Chicago, Jan. 2. 1920, 
 
TO 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 In Memory of Auspicious 
 
 "Counting of the Crows" 
 
 By Old New England Cornfields 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 At the First Professional Performance 
 Middlesex Theatre, Middletown, Connecticut, December 30, 1910 
 
 Justice Gilead Merton Mr. Brigham Royce 
 
 Goody Rickey ("Blacksmith Bess") Miss Alice Fischer 
 
 Lord Ravensbane (''Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Wittenberg, 
 Elector of Worms, and Count of Cordova"), their hypothetical 
 
 son Mr. Frank Reicher 
 
 Dickon, a Yankee improvisation of the Prince of Darkness. .Mr. Edmund Breese 
 
 Rachel Merton, niece of the Justice Miss Beatrice Irwin 
 
 Mistress Cynthia Merton, sister of the Justice Mrs. Felix Morris 
 
 Richard Talbot, Esquire, betrothed to Rachel Mr. Earle Browne 
 
 Sir Charles Reddington, Lieutenant-Governor Mr. H. J. Carvill 
 
 Mistress Reddington 1,. , , f Miss Zenaidee Williams 
 
 Amelia Reddington j ' j^ Miss Georgia Dvorak 
 
 Captain Bugby, the Governor's Secretary Mr. Regan Hughston 
 
 Minister Dodge Mr. Clifford Leigh 
 
 Mistress Dodge, his wife Miss Eleanor Sheldon 
 
 Rev. ]\Iaster Rand, of Harvard College Mr. William Lewis 
 
 Rev. Master Todd, of Harvard College Mr. Harry Lillf ord 
 
 MiCAH, a servant of the Justice Mr. Harold N. Cheshir 
 
 Time — Late seventeenth century. 
 Place — A town in Massachusetts. 
 
THE SCARECROW 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 The interior of a blacksmith shop. On the 
 right of the stage toward the center 
 there is a forge. On the left stands a 
 loft, from which are hanging dried corn- 
 stalks, hay, and the yellow ears of cattle- 
 corn. Toward the rear is a wide double 
 door, closed when the curtain rises. 
 Through this door — when later it is 
 opened — is visible a New England land- 
 scape in the late springtime : a distant 
 wood; stone walls, high elms, a well- 
 sweep; and, in the near foreground, a 
 ploughed field, from which the green 
 shoots of early corn are just appearing. 
 The blackened walls of the shop are cov- 
 ered with a miscellaneous collection of 
 old iron, horseshoes, and cart-wheels, the 
 usual appurtenances of a smithy. In 
 the right-hand corner, however, is an 
 array of things quite out of keeping with 
 the shop proper: musical instruments, 
 puppets, tall clocks, and fantastical junk. 
 Conspicuous amongst these articles is a 
 large standing mirror, framed gro- 
 tesquely in old gold and curtained by a 
 dull stuff, embroidered with peaked caps 
 and crescent moons. 
 
 Just before the scene opens, a hammer is 
 heard ringing briskly upon steel. As 
 the curtain rises there is discovered, 
 standing at the anvil in the flickering 
 light of a bright flame from the forge, a 
 woman — powerful, ruddy, proud with a 
 certain masterful beauty, white-haired 
 (as though prematurely), bare-armed to 
 the elbows, clad in a dark skirt (above 
 her ankles), a loose blouse, open at the 
 throat; a leathern apron and a work- 
 man's cap. The woman is Goody Rick- 
 by. On the anvil she is shaping a piece 
 of iron. Beside her stands a framework 
 of iron formed like the ribs and back- 
 bone of a man. For a few moments she 
 continues to ply her hammer, amid a 
 shower of sparks, till suddenly the flame 
 on the forge dies down. 
 
 Goody Rickby. Dickon! More flame. 
 A Voice. {Above her.) Yea, Goody. 
 
 {The flame in the forge spurts up high 
 and suddenly.) 
 
 Goody Rickby. Nay, not so fierce. 
 
 The Voice. {At her side.) Voire par- 
 don, madame. {The flame subsides.) Is 
 that better? 
 
 Goody Rickby. That will do. {With her 
 tongs, she thrusts the iron into the flame; 
 it turns white-hot.) Quick work; noth- 
 ing like brimstone for the smithy trade. 
 {At the anvil, she begins to weld the iron 
 rib onto the framework.) There, my 
 beauty ! We '11 make a stout set of ribs 
 for you. I '11 see to it this year that I 
 have a scarecrow can outstand all the 
 nor'easters that blow. I 've no notion to 
 lose my corn-crop this summer. {Out- 
 side, the faint cawings of crows are 
 heard. Putting down her tongs and 
 hammer, Goody Rickby strides to the 
 double door, and flinging it wide open, 
 lets in the gray light of dawn. She 
 looks out over the fields and shakes her 
 fist. ) So ye 're up before me and the 
 sun, are ye? {Squinting against the 
 light. ) There 's one ! Nay, two. Aha ! 
 
 One for sorrow. 
 Two for mirth — 
 
 Good! This time we'll have the laugh 
 on our side. {She returns to the forge, 
 where again the fire has died out.) 
 Dickon! Fire! Come, come, where be 
 thy wits? 
 
 The Voice. {Sleepily from the forge.) 
 'T is early, dame. 
 
 Goody Rickby. The more need — 
 
 {Takes up her tongs.) 
 
 The Voice. {Screams.) Ow! 
 
 Goody Rickby. Ha! Have I got thee? 
 {From the blackness of the forge she 
 pulls out with her tongs, by the right 
 ear, the figure of a devil, horned and 
 tailed. In general aspect, though he re- 
 sembles a mediceval familiar demon, yet 
 the suggestions of a goatish beard, a 
 shrewdly humorous smile, and (when he 
 speaks) the slightest of nasal drawls, re- 
 motely simulate a species of Yankee rus- 
 tic. Goody Rickby substitutes her fin- 
 
 849 
 
 gers for the tongs.) Now, Dickon! 
 
850 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 Dickon. Deus! I haven't been nabbed 
 like that since St. Dunstan tweaked my 
 nose. Well, sweet Goody? 
 
 Goody Rickby. The bellows! 
 
 Dickon. {Going slowly to the forge.) 
 Why, 'tis hardly dawn yet. Honest 
 folks are still abed. It makes a long 
 day. 
 
 Goody Rickby. {Working while Dickon 
 plies the bellows.) Aye, for your black 
 pets, the crows, to work in. That 's why 
 we must be at it early. You heard 'em. 
 We must have this scarecrow of ours out 
 in the field at his post before sunrise. 
 Here, I 've made the frame strong, so as 
 to stand the weather; you must make the 
 body lifelike so as to fool the crows. 
 This year, we must make 'em think it's 
 a real human crittur. 
 
 Dickon. To fool the philosophers is my 
 specialty, but the crows — hm! 
 
 Goody Rickby. Pooh! That staggers 
 thee! 
 
 Dickon. Madame Rickby, prod not the 
 quick of my genius. I am Phidias, I am 
 Raphael, I am the Lord God ! — You shall 
 see — {Demands with a gesture.) Yonder 
 broom-stick. 
 
 Goody Rickby. {Fetching him a broom 
 from the corner.) Good boy! 
 
 Dickon. {Straddling the handle.) Ha, 
 ha! gee up! my Salem mare. {Then, 
 pseudo-philosophically. ) A broomstick 
 — that's for imagination! {He begins 
 to construct the scarecrow, while Goody 
 Rickby, assisting, brings the construc- 
 tive parts from various nooks and cor- 
 ners.) We are all pretty artists, to be 
 sure, Bessie. Phidias, he sculptures the 
 gods; Raphael, he paints the angels; the 
 Lord God, he creates Adam ; and Dickon 
 — fetch me the poker — aha! Dickon! 
 What doth Dickon? He nullifies 'em 
 all ; he endows the Scarecrow ! A poker : 
 here 's his conscience. There 's two fine 
 legs to walk on, — imagination and con- 
 science. Yonder flails now! The ideal 
 — the beau ideal, dame — that 's what we 
 artists seek. The apotheosis of scare- 
 crows ! And pray, what 's a scarecrow ? 
 Why, the antithesis of Adam. — "Let 
 there be candles!" quoth the Lord God, 
 sitting in the dark. "Let there be can- 
 dle-extinguishers," saith Dickon. "I am 
 made in the image of my maker," quoth 
 Adam. "Look at yourself in the glass," 
 saith Goodman Scarecrow. {Taking two 
 implements from Goody Rickby.) Fine! 
 fine ! here are flails — one for wit, t' other 
 
 for satire. Sapristi! with two such 
 arms, my lad, how thou wilt work thy 
 way in the world! 
 
 Goody Rickby. You talk as if you were 
 making a real mortal, Dickon. 
 
 Dickon. To fool a crow. Goody, I must 
 fashion a crittur that will first deceive a 
 man. 
 
 Goody Rickby. He '11 scarce do that with- 
 out a head. {Pointing to the loft.) 
 What think ye of yonder Jack-o'-lan- 
 tern ? 'T was made last Hallowe'en. 
 
 Dickon. Rare, my Psyche! We shall 
 collaborate. Here! {Running up the 
 ladder, he tosses down a yellow hollowed 
 pumpkin to Goody Rickby, who catches 
 it. Then rummaging forth an armful of 
 cornstalks, ears, tassels, dried squashes, 
 gourds, beets, etc., he descends and 
 throws them in a heap on the floor.) 
 Whist! {As he drops them.) Gourd, 
 carrot, turnip, beet: — the anatomy. 
 
 Goody Rickby. {Placing the pumpkin on 
 the shoulders.) Look! 
 
 Dickon. Johannes Baptista! What 
 wouldst thou have given for such a head ! 
 I helped Salome to cut his off, dame, and 
 it looked not half so appetizing on her 
 charger. Tut! Copernicus wore once 
 such a pumpkin, but it is rotten. Look 
 at his golden smile! Hail, Phoebus 
 Apollo ! 
 
 Goody Rickby. 'Tis the finest scarecrow 
 in town. 
 
 Dickon. Nay, poor soul, 'tis but a skel- 
 eton yet. He must have a man's heart 
 in him. {Picking a big red beet from 
 among the cornstalks, he places it under 
 the left side of the rihs.) Hush! Dost 
 thou hear it beat? 
 
 Goody Rickby. Thou merry rogue ! ^ 
 
 Dickon. Now for the lungs of him. 
 {Snatching a small pair of bellows from 
 a peg on the wall. ) That 's for elo- 
 quence ! He '11 preach the black knaves 
 a sermon on theft. And now — {Here, 
 with Goody Rickby's help, he stuffs the 
 framework with the gourds, corn, etc., 
 from the loft, weaving the husks about 
 the legs and arms.) Here goes for di- 
 gestion and inherited instincts! More 
 com. Goody. Now he'll fight for his 
 own flesh and blood! 
 
 Goody Rickby. {Laughing.) Dickon, I 
 am proud of thee. 
 
 Dickon. Wait till you see his peruke. 
 {Seizing a feather duster made of crow's 
 feathers.) Void! Scalps of the en- 
 emy! {Pulling them apart, he arranges 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 851 
 
 the feathers on the pumpkin, like a gen- 
 tleman's wig.) A rare conqueror! 
 
 GaoDY RiCKBY. Oh, you beauty! 
 
 Dickon. And now a bit of comfort for 
 dark days and stormy nights. {Taking 
 a piece of corn-cob with the kernels on 
 it, Dickon makes a pipe, which he puts 
 into the scarecrow's moutJi.) So! 
 There, Goody! I tell thee, with yonder 
 brand-new coat and breeches of mine — 
 those there in my cupboard ! — we -11 
 make him a lad to be proud of. {Tak- 
 ing the clothes, which Goody Rickey 
 brings — a pair of fine scarlet breeches 
 and a gold-embroidered coat with ruffles 
 of lace — he puts them upon the scare- 
 crow. Then, eying it like a connoisseur, 
 makes a few finishing touches.) Why, 
 dame, he '11 be a son to thee. 
 
 Goody Rickey. A son? Aye, if I had 
 but a son ! 
 
 Dickon. Why, here you have him. {To 
 the scarecrow.) Thou wilt scare the 
 crows off thy mother's cornfield — won't 
 my pretty? And send 'em all over 
 t' other side the wall to her dear neigh- 
 bor's, the Justice Gilead Merton's. 
 
 Goody Rickey. Justice Merton! Nay, if 
 they 'd only peck his eyes out, instead of 
 his com. 
 
 Dickon. {Grinning.) Yet the Justice 
 was a dear friend of "Blacksmith 
 Bess." 
 
 Goody Rickey. Aye, "Blacksmith Bess"! 
 If I hadn't had a good stout arm when 
 he cast me off with the babe, I might 
 have starved for all his worship cared. 
 
 Dickon. True, Bessie ; 't was a scurvy 
 trick he played on thee — and on me, that 
 took such pains to bring you together — 
 to steal a young maid's heart — 
 
 Goody Rickey. And then toss it away 
 like a bad penny to the gutter! And 
 the child — to die! {Lifting her hammer 
 in rage.) Ha! If I could get the wor- 
 shipful Justice Gilead into my power 
 again — {She drops the hammer sullenly 
 on the anvil.) But no! I shall beat my 
 life away on this anvil, whilst my justice 
 clinks his gold, and drinks his port to 
 a fat old age. Justice! Ha — justice of 
 God! 
 
 Dickon. Whist, dame! Talk of angels 
 and hear the rustle of their relatives. 
 
 Goody Rickey. {Turning, watches out- 
 side a girl's figure approaching.) His 
 niece — Rachel Merton! What can she 
 want so early? Nay, I mmd me; 'tis 
 the mirror. She 's a maid after our own 
 
 hearts, boy, — no Sabbath-go-to-meeting 
 airs about herl She hath read the bool^ 
 of the magi from cover to cover, and 
 paid me good guineas for 'em, though 
 her uncle knows naught on 't. Besides, 
 she 's in love, Dickon. 
 
 Dickon. {Indicating the scarecrow.) Ah? 
 With himf Is it a rendezvous? 
 
 Goody Rickey. {With a laugh.) Pff! 
 Begone ! 
 
 Dickon. {Shakes his finger at the scare- 
 crow. ) Thou naughty rogue ! 
 
 {Then, still smiling slyly, with his 
 head placed confidentially next to 
 the scarecrow's ear, as if whisper- 
 ing, and with his hand pointing to 
 the maiden outside, Dickon fades 
 away into air. Rachel enters, nerv- 
 ous and hesitant. Goody Rickey 
 makes her a curtsy, which she ac- 
 knowledges by a nod, half absent- 
 minded. ) 
 
 Goody Rickey. Mistress Rachel Merton — 
 so early! I hope your uncle, our wor- 
 shipful Justice, is not ill? 
 
 Rachel. No, my uncle is quite well. The 
 early morning suits me best for a walk. 
 You are — quite alone? 
 
 Goody Rickey. Quite alone, mistress. 
 {Bitterly.) Oh, folks don't call on 
 Goody Rickby — except on business. 
 
 Rachel. {Absently, looking round in, the 
 dim shop.) Yes — you must be busy. Is 
 it — is it here? 
 
 Goody Rickey. You mean the — 
 
 Rachel. {Starting back, with a cry.) 
 Ah! who's that? 
 
 Goody Rickey. {Chuckling.) Fear not, 
 mistress ; 't is nothing but a scarecrow. 
 I 'm going to put him in my cornfield 
 yonder. The crows are so pesky this 
 year. 
 
 Rachel. {Draws her skirts away with a 
 shiver.) How loathsome! 
 
 Goody Rickey. {Vastly pleased.) He'll 
 do. 
 
 Rachel. Ah, here! — This is the mirror? 
 
 Goody Rickey. Yea, mistress, and a won- 
 derful glass it is, as I told you. I 
 would n't sell it to most comers, but see- 
 ing how you and Master Talbot — 
 
 Rachel. Yes; that will do. 
 
 Goody Rickey. You see, if the town folks 
 guessed what it was, well — You 've 
 heard tell of the gibbets on Salem Hill? 
 There 's not many in New England like 
 you, Mistress Rachel. You know enough 
 to approve some miracles — outside the 
 Scriptures. 
 
852 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 Rachel. You are quite sure the glass will 
 do all you say? It — never fails? 
 
 GooDBY RiCKBY. Ah, now, mistress, how 
 could it? 'T is the glass of truth — (in- 
 sinuatingly) — the glass of true lovers. 
 It shows folks just as they are; no 
 shams, no varnish. If a wolf should 
 dress himself in a white sheep's wool, 
 this glass would reflect the black beast 
 inside it. 
 
 Rachel. (With awe.) The black beast! 
 But what of the sins of the soul, Goody? 
 Vanity, hypocrisy, and — and in- 
 constancy? Will it surely reveal 
 them? 
 
 Goody Rickby. I have told you, my 
 young lady. If it doth not as I say, 
 bring it back and get your money again. 
 Oh, trust me, sweeting, an old dame hath 
 eyes in her heart yet. If your lover be 
 false, this glass shall pluck his fine 
 feathers ! 
 
 Rachel. (With aloofness.) 'T is no 
 question of that. I wish the glass to — to 
 amuse me. 
 
 Goody Rickby. (Laughing.) Why, then, 
 try it on some of your neighbors. 
 
 Rachel. You ask a large price for it. 
 
 Goody Rickby. (Shrugs.) I run risks. 
 Besides, where will you get another? 
 
 Rachel. That is true. Here, I will buy 
 it. That is the sum you mentioned, I 
 believe ? 
 
 (She hands a purse to Goody Rickby, 
 who opens it and counts over some 
 coin.) 
 
 Goody Rickby. Let see; let see. 
 
 Rachel. Well? 
 
 Goody Rickby. Good: 'tis good. Folks 
 call me a witch, mistress. Well — harkee 
 — a witch's word is as good as a justice's 
 gold. The glass is yours — with my bless- 
 ing. 
 
 Rachel Spare yourself that, dame. But 
 the glass: how am I to get it? How will 
 you send it to me — quietly? 
 
 Goody Rickby. Trust me for that. I 've 
 a willing lad tliat helps me with such er- 
 rands; a neighbor o' mine. (Calls.) 
 Ebenezer ! 
 
 Rachel. (Startled.) What! is he here? 
 
 Goody Rickby. In the hayloft. The 
 boy 's an orphan ; he sleeps there o' 
 times. Ebenezer! 
 
 (A raw, disheveled country hoy ap- 
 pears in the loft, slides down the 
 ladder, and shuffles up sleepily.) 
 
 The Boy. Evenin'. 
 
 Rachel. (Drawing Goody Rickby aside.) 
 
 You understand; I desire no comment 
 about this purchase. 
 Goody Rickby. Nor I, mistress, be 
 sure. 
 
 Rachel. Is he — ? 
 
 Goody Rickby. (Tapping her forehead 
 
 significantly.) Trust his wits who hath 
 
 no wit ; he 's mum. 
 Rachel. Oh ! 
 
 The Boy. (Gaping.) Job? 
 Goody Rickby. Yea, rumple-head! His 
 
 job this morning is to bear yonder glass 
 
 to the house of Justice Merton — the big 
 
 one on the hill ; to the side door. Mind, 
 
 no gabbing. Doth he catch? 
 The Boy. (Nodding and grinning.) 'E 
 
 swallows. 
 Rachel. But is the boy strong enough? 
 Goody Rickby. Him? (Pointing to the 
 
 anvil.) Ebenezer! 
 
 (The boy spits on his palms, takes 
 hold of the anvil, lifts it, drops it 
 again, sits on it, and grins at the 
 door, just as Richard Talbot ap- 
 pears there, from outside.) 
 R achel. Gra cious ! 
 Goody Rickby. Trust him. He'll carry 
 
 the glass for you. 
 Rachel. I will return home at once, then. 
 
 Let him go quietly to the side door, and 
 
 wait for me. Good-morning. 
 
 (Turning, she confronts Richard.) 
 Richard. Good-morning. 
 Rachel. Ricliard! — Squire Talbot, you — 
 
 you are abroad early. 
 Richard. As early as Mistress Rachel. 
 
 Is it pardonable? I caught sight of you 
 
 walking in this direction, so I thought it 
 
 wise to follow, lest — 
 
 (Looks hard at Goody Rickby.) 
 Rachel. Very kind. Thanks. We can 
 
 return together. (To Goody Rickby.) 
 
 You will make sure that I receive the — 
 
 the article. 
 Goody Rickby. Trust me, mistress. 
 
 (She curtsies to Richard.) 
 Richard. (Bluntly, looking from one to 
 
 the other.) What article? 
 
 (Rachel ignores the question and 
 
 starts to pass out. Richard frowns 
 
 at Goody Rickby, who stammers.) 
 
 Goody Rickby. Begging your pardon, 
 
 sir? 
 Richard. What article? I said. (After 
 
 a short, embarrassed pause, more 
 
 sternly.) Well? 
 Goody Rickby. Oh, the article! Yonder 
 
 old glass, to be sure, sir. A quaint 
 
 piece, your honor. 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 853 
 
 Richard. Rachel, you have n't come l.ere 
 at sunrise to buy — that thing? 
 
 Rachel Verily, ^'that thing," and at sun- 
 rise. A pretty time for a pretty pur- 
 chase. Are you coming? 
 
 Richard. {In a low tone.) More witch- 
 craft nonsense? Do you realize this is 
 serious ? 
 
 Rachel. Oh, of course. You know I am 
 desperately mystical, so pray let us not 
 discuss it. Good-bye. 
 
 Richard. Rachel, just a moment. If you 
 want a mirror, you shall have the pretti- 
 est one in New England. Or I will im- 
 port you one from London. Only — I 
 beg of you — don't buy stolen goods. 
 
 Goody Rickey. Stolen goods? 
 
 Rachel. {Aside to Richard.) Don't! 
 don't! 
 
 Richard. {To Goody Rickey.) Can you 
 account for this mirror — how you came 
 by it? 
 
 Goody Rickey. I '11 show ye ! I '11 show 
 ye ! Stolen — ha ! 
 
 Richard. Come, old swindler, keep your 
 mirror, and give this lady back her 
 money. 
 
 Goody Rickey. I '11 damn ye both, I 
 will !— Stolen ! 
 
 Rachel. {Imploringly.) Will you come? 
 
 Richard. Look you, old Rickby; this is 
 not the first time. Charm all the broom- 
 sticks in town^ if you like; bewitch all 
 the tables and saucepans and mirrors you 
 please; but gull no more money out of 
 young girls. Mind you ! We 're not so 
 enterprising in this town as at Salem; 
 but — it may come to it! So look sharp! 
 I 'm not blind to what 's going on here. 
 
 Goody Rickey. Not blind, Master Puri- 
 tan? Oho! You can see through all 
 my counterfeits, can ye ? So ! you would 
 scrape all the wonder out'n the world, as 
 I 've scraped all the meat out'n my 
 punkin-head yonder! Aha! wait and 
 see ! Afore sundown, I '11 send ye a nut 
 to crack, shall make your orthodox jaws 
 ache. Your servant, Master Deuteron- 
 omy! 
 
 Richard. {To Rachel, who has seized his 
 arm.) We '11 go. 
 
 {Exeunt Richard and Rachel.) 
 
 Goody Rickey. {Calls shrilly after them.) 
 Trot away, pretty team; toss your heads. 
 I '11 unhitch ye and take off your blind- 
 ers. 
 
 The Slouching Boy. {Capering and 
 yrimacing in front of the mirror, shrieks 
 •with laughter.) Ohoho! 
 
 Goody Rickey. {Eeturning, she mutters 
 savagely.) -"Stolen goods!" {Screams.) 
 Dickon! Stop laughing. 
 
 The Boy. Lord! Lord! 
 
 Goody Rickey. What tickles thy mirth 
 now? 
 
 The Boy. For to think that the soul of 
 an orphan innocent, what lives in a hay- 
 loft, should wear horns. 
 
 {On looking into the mirror, the spec- 
 tator perceives therein that the re- 
 flection of the slouching hoy is the 
 horned demon figure of Dickon, 
 who performs the same antics in 
 pantomime within the glass as the 
 boy does without.) 
 
 Goody Rickey. Yea; 'tis a wise devil 
 that knows his own face in the glass. 
 But hark now! thou must find me k 
 rival for this cock-squire, — dost hear? 
 A rival, that shall steal away the heart 
 of his Mistress Rachel. 
 
 Dickon. And take her to church? 
 
 Goody Rickey. To church or to hell. 
 All 's one. 
 
 Dickon. A rival! {Pointing at the 
 glass.) How would he serve — in there? 
 Dear Ebenezer! Fancy the deacons in 
 the vestry, Goody, and her uncle, the 
 Justice, when they saw him escorting 
 the bride to the altar, with his tail round 
 her waist ! 
 
 Goody Rickey. Tut, tut! Think it over 
 in earnest, and meantime take her the 
 glass. Wait, we 'd best fold it up small, 
 so as not to attract notice on the road. 
 (Dickon, who has already drawn the 
 curtains over the glass, grasps one side 
 of the large frame, Goody Rickey the 
 other.) Now! '{Pushing %heir shoul- 
 ders against the two sides, the frame dis- 
 appears and Dickon holds in his hand 
 a mirror about a foot square, of the same 
 design.) So! Be off! And mind, a 
 rival for Richard ! 
 
 Dickon. 
 
 For Richard a rival, 
 Dear Goody Eickby 
 Wants Dickon's connival: 
 Lord! What can the trick be? 
 
 {To the scarecrow.) By-by, Sonny; 
 take care of thy mother. 
 
 (Dickon slouches out with the glass, 
 
 whistling.) 
 
 Goody Rickey. Mother! Yea, if only I 
 
 had a son — the Justice Merton's and 
 
 mine ! If the brat had but lived now to 
 
 remind him of those merry days, which 
 
854 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 he lias forgotten. Zooks, would n't I put 
 a spoke in his wheel! But no such luck 
 for me! No such luck! 
 
 {As she goes to the forge, the stout 
 figure of a man appears in the door- 
 way behind her. Under one arm he 
 carries a large hook, in the other 
 hand a gold-headed cane. He hesi- 
 tates, embarrassed.) 
 The Man. Permit me, madam. 
 Goody Rickby. {Turning.) Ah, him — 
 
 Justice Merton! 
 Justice Merton. {Removing his hat, 
 steps over the sill, and lays his great 
 book on the table; then with a super- 
 cilious look, he puts his hat firmly on 
 again.) Permit me, dame. 
 Goody Rickby. You! 
 
 {With confused, affected hauteur, the 
 Justice shifts from foot to foot, 
 flourishing his cane. As he speaks, 
 Goody Rickby, with a shrewd, pain- 
 ful expression, draws slowly back- 
 ward toward the door, left, which 
 opens into an inner room. Reach- 
 ing it, she opens it part way, stands 
 facing him, and listens.) 
 Justice Merton. I have had the honor — 
 permit me — to entertain suspicions; to 
 rise early, to follow my niece, to meet 
 just now Squire Talbot; to hear his re- 
 marks concerning — hem! — you, dame! to 
 call here — permit me — to express myself 
 and inquire — 
 Goody Rickby. Concerning your waist- 
 coat? 
 
 {Turning quickly, she snatches an 
 
 article of apparel which hangs on 
 
 the inner side of the door, and holds 
 
 it up.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {Starting, crimson.) 
 
 Woman ! 
 Goody Rickby. You left it behind — the 
 
 last time. 
 Justice Merton. I have not the honor to 
 
 remember — 
 Goody Rickby. The one I embroidered? 
 Justice Merton. 'T is a matter of — 
 Goody Rickby. Of some two-and-twenty 
 years. {Stretching out the narrow width 
 of the waistcoat.) Will you try it on 
 now, dearie? 
 Justice Merton. Unconscionable! Un- 
 
 un-unconseionable witch ! 
 Goody Rickby. Witchling — thou used to 
 
 say. 
 Justice Merton. Pah! pah! I forget 
 myself. Pride, permit me, goeth before 
 a fall. As a magistrate, Rickby, I have 
 
 already borne with you long! The last 
 straw, however, breaks the camel's back. 
 
 Goody Rickby. Poor camel! 
 
 Justice Merton. You have soiled, you 
 have smirched, the virgin reputation of 
 my niece. You have inveigled her into 
 notions of witchcraft; already the neigh- 
 bors are beginning to talk. 'T is a long 
 lane which hath no turning, saith the 
 Lord. Permit me — as a witch, thou art 
 judged. Thou shalt hang. 
 
 A Voice. {Behind him.) And me, too? 
 
 Justice Merton. {Turns about and 
 stares.) I beg pardon. 
 
 The Voice. {In front of him.) Not at 
 all. 
 
 Justice Merton. Did — did somebody 
 speak ? 
 
 The Voice. Don't you recognize my 
 voice? Still and small, you know. If 
 you will kindly let me out, we can chat. 
 
 Justice Merton. {Turning fiercely on 
 Goody Rickby.) These are thy sorcer- 
 ies. But I fear them not. The right- 
 eous man walketh with God. {Going to 
 the book which lies on the table.) 
 Satan, I ban thee ! I will read from the 
 Holy Scriptures! 
 
 {Unclasping the Bible, he flings open 
 the ponderous covers. — Dickon 
 steps forth in smoke.) 
 
 Dickon. Thanks; it was stuffy in there. 
 
 Justice Merton. {Clasping his hands.) 
 Dickon ! 
 
 Dickon. {Moving a step nearer on the ta- 
 ble. ) Hullo, Gilly ! Hullo, Bess ! 
 
 Justice Merton. Dickon! No! No! 
 
 Dickon. Do ye mind Auld Lang Syne— 
 the chorus that night, Gilly? {Sings.) 
 
 Gil-ead, Gil-ead, Gil-ead Merton, ^ 
 
 He was a silly head, silly head, Certain, 
 When he forgot to steal a bed-Curtain. 
 
 Encore, now! 
 
 Justice Merton. No, no, be merciful! I 
 will not harm her; she shall not hang; 
 I swear it, I swear it! (Dickon disap- 
 pears.) I swear — ah! Is he gone? 
 Witchcraft! Witchcraft! I have wit- 
 nesed it. 'T is proved on thee, slut. I 
 swear it: thou shalt hang. 
 
 {Exit wildly.) 
 
 Goody Rickby. Ay, Gilead! I shall hang 
 on! Ahalia! Dickon, thou angel! Ah, 
 Satan! Satan! For a son now! 
 
 Dickon. {Reappearing.) Videlicet, in 
 law — a bastard. N' est ce pas f 
 
 Goody Rickby. Yea, in law and in jus- 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 855 
 
 tice, I should ^a' had one now. Worse 
 luck that he died. 
 
 Dickon. One-and-twenty years ago? 
 (Goody Rickey nods.) Good; he should 
 be of age now. One-and-twenty — a 
 pretty age, too, for a rival. Haha! — 
 For arrival? — Marry, he shall arrive, 
 then; arrive and marry and inherit his 
 patrimony — all on his birthday! Come, 
 to work! 
 
 Goody Rickey. What rant is this? 
 
 Dickon. Yet, Dickon, it pains me to per- 
 form such an anachronism. All this 
 medisevalism in Massachusetts ! — These 
 old-fashioned flames and alchemic ac- 
 companiments, when I Ve tried so hard 
 to be a native American product; it jars. 
 But che vuole! I'm naturally middle- 
 aged. I have n't been really myself, let 
 me think, — since 1492! 
 
 Goody Rickey. What art thou mooning 
 about? 
 
 Dickon. (Still impenetrable.) There was 
 my old friend in Germany, Dr. Johann 
 Faustus; he was nigh such a bag of old 
 rubbish when I made him over. Ain't it 
 trite! No, you can't teach an old dog 
 like me new tricks. Still, a scarecrow! 
 that 's decidedly local color. Come, then ; 
 a Yankee masterpiece! (Seizing Goody 
 Rickey hy the arm, and placing her be- 
 fore the scarecrow, he makes a bow and 
 wave of introduction.) Behold, madam, 
 your son — illegitimate; the future affi- 
 anced of Mistress Rachel Merton, the 
 heir-elect, through matrimony, of Merton 
 House, — Gilead Merton second: Lord 
 Ravensbane ! Your lordship — your 
 mother. 
 
 Goody Rickey. Dickon! Can you do it? 
 
 Dickon. I can — try. 
 
 Goody Rickey. You will create him for 
 me? — (wickedly) — and for Gilead! 
 
 Dickon. I will — for a kiss. 
 
 Goody Rickey. (About to embrace him.) 
 Dickon ! 
 
 Dickon. (Dodging her.) Later. Now, 
 the waistcoat. 
 
 Goody Rickey. (Handing it.) Rare! 
 Rare ! He shall go wooing in 't — like his 
 father. 
 
 Dickon. (Shifting the scarecrow's gold- 
 trimmed coat, slips on the embroidered 
 waistcoat and replaces the coat.) Stand 
 still. Jack! So, my macaroni. Per- 
 fecto! Stay — a walking-stick! 
 
 Goody Rickey. (Wrenching a spoke out 
 of an old rickety wheel.) Here: the 
 spoke for Gilead. He used to take me 
 
 to drive in the chaise it came out of. 
 Dickon. (Plating the spoke as a cane, in 
 the scarecrow's sleeve, views him with 
 satisfaction.) Sic! There, Jacky! Filius 
 fit non nascitur. — Sam Hill! My Latin 
 is stale. "In the beginning, was the — 
 gourd!" Of these thy modest ingredi- 
 ents may thy spirit smack! 
 
 (Making various mystic passes with his 
 hands, Dickon intones, now deep 
 and solemn, now with fanciful shrill 
 rapidity, this incantation.) 
 
 Flail, flip; 
 Broom, sweep; 
 
 Sic itur! 
 Cornstalk 
 And turnif), talk! 
 
 Turn crittur! 
 
 Pulse, beet; 
 Gourd, eat; 
 
 Ave Hellas! 
 Poker and punkin, 
 Stir the old junk in; 
 
 Breathe, bellows! 
 
 Corn-cob, 
 
 And crow's feather, 
 End the job; 
 Jumble the rest o' the rubbish together; 
 Dovetail and tune 'em, 
 E pluribus unum! 
 
 (The scarecrow remains stock still.) 
 The devil! Have I lost the hang of it? 
 Ah ! Hullo ! He 's dropped his pipe. 
 What's a dandy without his 'baccy! 
 (Picking up the pipe, he shows it to 
 Goody Rickey, pointing into the pipe- 
 bowl.) 'T is my own brand. Goody: 
 brimstone. Without it he'd be naught 
 but a scarecrow. (Restoring the corn- 
 cob pipe to the scarecrow's mouth.) 
 'Tis the life and breath of him. So; 
 hand me yon hazel switch, Goody. 
 (Waving it.) Presto! 
 
 Brighten, coal, 
 P the dusk between us! 
 Whiten, soul! 
 Propinquat Venus! 
 
 (A whiff of smoke puffs from the 
 scarecrow's pipe.) 
 Sic! Sic! Jacobus! (Another whiff.) 
 Bravo ! 
 
 (The whiffs grow more rapid and the 
 thing trembles.) 
 Goody Rickey. Puff! puff, manny, for 
 
 thy life! 
 Dickon. Fiat, foetus ! — Huzza ! Noch ein- 
 mal! Go it! 
 
856 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 {Clouds of smoke issue from the pipe, 
 half fill the shop, and envelop the 
 creature, who staggers.^) 
 Goody Rickby. See! See his eyes! 
 Dickon. {Beckoning with one finger.) 
 Veni fili! Veni! Take 'ee first step, 
 bambino! — Toddle ! 
 
 {The Scarecrow makes a stiff lurch 
 forward and falls sidewise against 
 the anvil, propped half -reclining 
 against which he leans rigid, emit- 
 ting fainter puffs of smoke in 
 gasps.) 
 Goody Rickby. {Screams.) Have a care! 
 
 He 's fallen. 
 Dickon. Well done, Punkin Jack! Thou 
 shalt be knighted for that! {Striking 
 him on the shoulder with the hazel rod.) 
 Rise, Lord Ravensbane ! 
 
 {The Scarecrow totters to his feet, 
 and makes a forlorn rectilinear 
 salutation.) 
 Goody Rickby. Look! He bows. — He 
 flaps his flails at thee. He smiles like a 
 tik-doo-loo-roo ! 
 Dickon. {With a profound reverence, 
 backing away.) Will his lordship deign 
 to follow his tutor? 
 
 {With hitches and jerks, the Scare- 
 crow follows Dickon.) 
 Goody Rickby. Lord! Lord! the style 
 
 o' the broomstick! 
 Dickon. {Holding ready a high-backed 
 chair.) Will his lordship be seated and 
 rest himself? {Awkwardly the Scare- 
 crow half falls into the chair; his head 
 sinks sideways, and his pipe falls out. 
 Dickon snatches it up instantly and re- 
 stores it to his mouth.) Puff! Puff, 
 puer; 'tis thy life. {The Scarecrow 
 puffs again.) Is his lordship's tobacco 
 refreshing ? 
 Goody Rickby. Look now ! The red color 
 in his cheeks. The beet-juice is pump- 
 ing, oho! 
 Dickon. {Offering his arm.) Your lord- 
 ship will deign to receive an audience? 
 {The Scarecrow takes his arm and 
 rises.) The Marchioness of Rickby, 
 your lady mother, entreats leave to pre- 
 sent herself. 
 Goody Rickby. {Curtsying low.) My 
 
 son 
 
 1 At Dickon's words, "Come to work!" on p. 855 
 the living actor, concealed by the smoke, and dis- 
 guised, has substituted himself for the elegantly 
 clad effigy. His make-up, of course, approximates 
 to the latter, but the grotesque contours of his ex 
 piession gradually, throughout the remainder of 
 the act. become refined and sublimated till, at the 
 finale, they are of a lordly and distinguished caste. 
 
 Dickon. {Holding the pipe, and waving 
 the hazel rod.) Dicite! Speak! {The 
 Scarecrow, blowing out his last mouth- 
 ful of smoke, opens his mouth, gasps, 
 gurgles, and is silent.) In principio erat 
 verbum! Accost thy mother! 
 
 {The Scarecrow, clutching at his side 
 in a struggle for coherence, fixes a 
 pathetic look of pain on Goody 
 Rickby.) 
 
 The Scarecrow. Mother! 
 
 Goody Rickby. {With a scream of hys- 
 terical laughter, seizes both Dickon's 
 hands and dances him about the forge.) 
 0, Beelzebub! I shall die! 
 
 Dickon. Thou hast thy son. 
 
 (Dickon whispers iyi the Scarecrow's 
 ear, shakes his finger, and exit.) 
 
 Goody Rickby. He called me "mother." 
 Again, boy, again. 
 
 The Scarecrow. From the bottom of my 
 heart — mother. 
 
 Goody Rickby. "The bottom of his heart" ! 
 — Nay, thou killest me. 
 
 The Scarecrow. Permit me, madam! 
 
 Goody Rickby. Gilead! Gilead himself! 
 Waistcoat, "permit me," and all ;_ thy 
 father over again, I tell thee. 
 
 The Scarecrow. {With a slight stam- 
 mer.) It gives me — I assure you — lady 
 — the deepest happiness. 
 
 Goody Rickby. Just so the old hypocrite 
 spoke when I said I 'd have him. But 
 thou hast a sweeter deference, my son. 
 
 {Reenter Dickon; he is dressed all in black, 
 save for a ichite stock — a suit of plain 
 elegance.) 
 
 Dickon. Now, my lord, your tutor is 
 ready. 
 
 The Scarecrow. {To Goody Rickby.) 
 I have the honor — permit me — to wish 
 you — good-morning. 
 
 {Bows and takes a step after Dickon, 
 who, taking a three-cornered cocked 
 hat from a peg, goes toward the 
 door.) 
 
 Goody Rickby. Whoa! Whoa, Jack! 
 Whither away? 
 
 Dickon. {Presenting the hat.) Deign to 
 reply, sir. 
 
 The Scarecrow. I go — with my tutor — 
 Master Dickonson — to pay my respects — 
 to his worship — the Justice — Merton — 
 to solicit — the hand — of his daughter — 
 the fair Mistress — Rachel. {With an- 
 other bow.) Permit me. 
 
 Goody Rickby. Permit ye? God speed 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 857 
 
 ye! Thou must teach him his tricks, 
 Dickon. 
 Dickon. Trust me, Goody. Between here 
 and Justice Merton's, I will play the 
 mother-hen, and I promise thee, our bant- 
 ling shall be as stuffed with compliments 
 as a callow chick with caterpillars. {As 
 he throws open the hig doors, the caiv- 
 ing of crows is heard again.) Hark! 
 your lordship's retainers acclaim you on 
 your birthday. They bid you welcome 
 to your majority. Listen! "Long live 
 Lord Ravensbane! Caw!" 
 Goody Rickby. Look! Count 'em, 
 Dickon. 
 
 One for sorrow, 
 
 Two for mirth, 
 
 Three for a wedding. 
 
 Four for a birth — 
 
 Four on 'em! So! Good luck on thy 
 birthday ! And see ! There 's three on 
 'em flying into the Justice's field. 
 
 — Flight o' the crows 
 
 Tells how the wind blows! — 
 
 A wedding! Get thee gone. Wed the 
 girl, and sting the Justice. Bless ye, 
 
 my son 
 
 The Scarecrow. {With a profound rev- 
 erence.) Mother — believe me — to be — 
 your ladyship's — most devoted — and obe- 
 dient — son. 
 Dickon. {Prompting him aloud.) Ra- 
 vensbane. 
 ^ HE ScARECROv^. {Donning his hat, lifts 
 his head in hauteur, shakes his lace ruf- 
 fle over his hand, turns his shoulder, nods 
 slightly, and speaks for the first time 
 with complete mastery of his voice.) 
 Hm ! Ravensbane ! 
 
 {With one hand in the arm of Dickon, 
 the other twirling his cane {the con- 
 verted chaise-spoke), wreathed in 
 halos of smoke from his pipe, the 
 fantastical figure hitches elegantly 
 forth into the daylight, amid louder 
 acclamations of the crows.) 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 The same morning. Justice Merton's 
 parlor, furnished and designed in the 
 style of the early colonial period. On 
 the right wall hangs a portrait of the 
 Justice as a young man; on the left wall, 
 an old-fashioned looking-glass. At the 
 right of the room stands the Glass of 
 Truth ^ draped — as in the blacksmith shop 
 
 — with the strange, embroidered curtain. 
 In front of it are discovered Rachel and 
 Richard; Rachel is about to draw the 
 curtain. 
 
 Rachel. Now! Are you willing? 
 
 Richard. So you suspect me of dark, vil- 
 lainous practices? 
 
 Rachel. No, no, foolish Dick. 
 
 Richard. Still, I am to be tested; is that 
 it? 
 
 Rachel. That's it. 
 
 Richard. As your true lover. 
 
 Rachel. Well, yes. 
 
 Richard. Why, of course, then, I con- 
 sent. A true lover always consents to 
 the follies of his lady-love. 
 
 Rachel. Thank you, Dick; I trust the 
 glass will sustain your character. Now; 
 when I draw the curtain — 
 
 Richard. {Staying her hand.) What if 
 I be -false? 
 
 Rachel. Then, sir, the glass will reflect 
 you as the subtle fox that you are. 
 
 Richard. And you — as the goose? 
 
 Rachel. Very Hkely. Ah! but, Richard, 
 dear, we mustn't laugh. It may prove 
 very serious. You do not guess — you do 
 not dream all the mysteries — 
 
 Richard. {Shaking his head, with a grave 
 smile.) You pluck at too many mys- 
 teries. Remember our first mother Eve! 
 
 Rachel. But this is the glass of truth; 
 and Goody Rickby told me — 
 
 Richard. Rickby, forsooth! 
 
 Rachel. Nay, come ; let 's have it over. 
 {She draws the curtain, covers her eyes, 
 steps back by Richard's side, looks at the 
 glass, and gives a joyous cry.) Ah! 
 there you are, dear! There we are, both 
 of us — just as we have always seemed to 
 each other, true. 'T is proved. Is n't it 
 wonderful ? 
 
 Richard. Miraculous! That a mirror 
 bought in a blacksmith shop, before sun- 
 rise, for twenty pounds, should prove to 
 be actually — a mirror! 
 
 Rachel. Richard, I 'm so happy. 
 
 {Enter Justice Merton and Mistress 
 Merton. ) 
 
 Richard. {Embracing her.) Happy, art 
 thou, sweet goose ? Why, then, God bless 
 Goody Rickby. 
 Justice Merton. Strange words from 
 you, Squire Talbot. 
 
 (Rachel and Richard part quickly; 
 Rachel draws the curtain over the 
 mirror; Richard stands stiffly.) 
 
858 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 Richard. Justice Merton! Why, sir, the 
 old witch is more innocent, perhaps, than 
 I represented her. 
 
 Justice Merton. A witch, believe me, is 
 never innocent. {Taking their hands, he 
 brings them together and kisses Rachel 
 on the forehead.) Permit me, young 
 lovers. I was once young myself, young 
 and amorous. 
 
 Mistress Merton. {In a low voice.) 
 Verily ! 
 
 Justice Merton. My fair niece, my 
 worthy young man, beware of witch- 
 craft. 
 
 Mistress Merton. And Goody Rickby, 
 too, brother? 
 
 Justice Merton. That woman shall an- 
 swer for her deeds. She is proscribed. 
 
 Rachel. Proscribed? What is that? 
 
 Mistress Merton. {Examining the mir- 
 ror.) What is this? 
 
 Justice Merton. She shall hang. 
 
 Rachel. Uncle, no! Not merely because 
 of my purchase this morning? 
 
 Justice Merton. Your purchase? 
 
 Mistress Merton. {Pointing to the mir- 
 ror.) That, I suppose. 
 
 Justice Merton. What! you purchased 
 that mirror of her? You brought it 
 here? 
 
 Rachel. No, the boy brought it; I found 
 it here when I returned. 
 
 Justice Merton. What! From her 
 shop? From her infamous den, into my 
 parlor! {To Mistress Merton.) Call 
 the servant. {Himself calling.) Micah! 
 Away with it! Micah! 
 
 Rachel. Uncle Gilead, I bought — 
 
 Justice Merton. Micah, I say! Where 
 is the man? 
 
 Rachel. Listen, uncle. I bought it with 
 my own money. 
 
 Justice Merton. Thine own money! 
 Wilt have the neighbors gossip? Wilt 
 have me, thyself, my house, suspected of 
 complicity with witches? 
 
 {Enter Micah.) 
 
 Micah, take this away. 
 Micah. Yes, sir; but, sir — 
 Justice Merton. Out of my house! 
 Micah. There be visitors. 
 Justice Merton. Away with — 
 Mistress Merton. {Touching his arm.) 
 
 Gilead! 
 Micah. Visitors, sir; gentry. 
 Justice Merton. Ah! 
 Micah. Shall I show them in, sir? 
 
 Justice Merton. Visitors ! In the morn- 
 ing? Who are they? 
 
 Micah. Strangers, sir. I should judge 
 they be very high gentry; lords, sir. 
 
 All. Lords ! 
 
 Micah. At least, one on 'em, sir. The 
 other — the dark gentleman — told me they 
 left their horses at the inn, sir. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Hark! {The faces of 
 all wear suddenly a startled expression.) 
 Where is that unearthly sound? 
 
 Justice Merton. {Listening.) Is it in 
 the cellar? 
 
 Micah. 'T is just the dog howling, ma- 
 dam. When he spied the gentry he 
 turned tail and run below. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Oh, the dog! 
 
 Justice Merton. Show the gentlemen 
 here, Micah. Don't keep them waiting. 
 A lord! {To Rachel.) We shall talk 
 of this matter later. — A lord ! 
 
 {Turning to the small glass on the 
 wall, he arranges his peruke and at- 
 tire. ) 
 
 Rachel. {To Richard.) What a fortu- 
 nate interruption! But, dear Dick! I 
 wish we needn't meet these strangers 
 now. 
 
 Richard. Would you really rather we 
 were alone together? 
 
 {They chat aside, absorbed in each 
 other.) 
 
 Justice Merton. Think of it, Cynthia, a 
 lord! 
 
 Mistress Merton. {Dusting the furniture 
 hastily with her handkerchief.) And 
 such dust! 
 
 Rachel. {To Richard.) You know, 
 dear, we need only be introduced, and 
 then we can steal away together. 
 
 {Reenter Micah.) 
 
 Micah. {Announcing.) Lord Ravens- 
 bane : Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Wit- 
 tenberg, Elector of Worms, and Count of 
 Cordova; Master Dickonson. 
 
 {Enter Ravensbane and Dickon.) 
 
 Justice Merton. Gentlemen, permit me, 
 you are excessively welcome. I am 
 deeply gratified to meet — 
 
 Dickon. Lord Ravensbane, of the Rook- 
 eries, Somersetshire. 
 
 Justice Merton. Lord Ravensbane — his 
 lordship's most truly honored. 
 
 Ravensbane. Truly honored. 
 
 Justice Merton. {Turning to Dickon.) 
 His lordship's — ? 
 
 Dickon. Tutor, 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 859 
 
 Justice Merton. {Checking his effusive- 
 ness.) Ah, so! 
 
 Dickon. Justice Merton, I believe. 
 
 Justice Merton. Of Merton House. — 
 May I present — permit me, your lord- 
 ship — my sister, Mistress Merton. 
 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Merton. 
 
 Justice Merton. And my — and my — 
 {under his breath) — Rachel! (Rachel 
 remains with a hored expression behind 
 Richard.) — My young neighbor, Squire 
 Talbot, Squire Richard Talbot of — 
 of— 
 
 Richard. Of nowhere, sir. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Nods.) Nowhere. 
 
 Justice Merton. And permit me. Lord 
 Ravensbane, my niece — Mistress Rachel 
 Merton. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Bows low.) Mistress Ra- 
 chel Merton. 
 
 Rachel. ( Curtsies. ) Lord Ravensbane. 
 {As they raise their heads, their eyes 
 meet and are fascinated. Dickon 
 just then takes Ravensbane's pipe 
 and fills it.) 
 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel! 
 
 Rachel. Your lordship! 
 
 (Dickon returns the pipe.) 
 
 Mistress Merton. A pipe! Gilead! — in 
 the parlor! 
 
 (Justice Merton frowns silence.) 
 
 Justice Merton. Your lordship — ahem! 
 — has just arrived in town? 
 
 Dickon. From London, via New Am- 
 sterdam. 
 
 Richard. {Aside.) Is he staring at you? 
 Are you ill, Rachel? 
 
 Rachel. {Indifferently.) What? 
 
 Justice Merton. Lord Ravensbane hon- 
 ors my humble roof. 
 
 Dickon. {Touches Ravensbane's arm.) 
 Your lordship — "roof." 
 
 Ravensbane. {Starting, turns to Mer- 
 ton.) Nay, sir, the roof of my father's 
 oldest friend bestows generous hospi- 
 tality upon his only son. 
 
 Justice Merton. Only son — ah, yes! 
 Your father — 
 
 Ravensbane. My father, I trust, sir, has 
 never forgotten the intimate companion- 
 ship, the touching devotion, the unceas- 
 ing solicitude for his happiness which 
 you, sir, manifested to him in the days 
 of his youth. 
 
 Justice Merton. Really, your lordship, 
 the — the slight favors which — hem! some 
 years ago, I was privileged to show your 
 illustrious father — 
 
 Ravensbane. Permit me! — Because, how- 
 
 ever, of his present infirmities — for I re- 
 gret to say 'that my father is suffering a 
 temporary aberration of mind — 
 Justice Merton. You distress me! 
 Ravensbane. My lady mother has 
 charged me with a double mission here in 
 New England. On my quitting my 
 home, sir, to explore the wideness and the 
 mystery of this world, my mother bade 
 me be sure to call upon his worship, the 
 Justice Merton; and deliver to him, first, 
 my father's remembrances; and secondly, 
 my mother's epistle. 
 Dickon. {Handing to Justice Merton a 
 sealed document.) Her ladyship's letter, 
 sir. 
 Justice Merton. {Examining the seal 
 with awe, speaks aside to Mistress Mer- 
 ton.) Cynthia! — a crested seal! 
 Dickon. His lordship's crest, sir: rooks 
 
 rampant. 
 Justice Merton. {Embarrassed, breaks 
 
 the seal.) Permit me. 
 Rachel. {Looking at Ravensbane.) 
 Have you noticed his bearing, Richard: 
 what personal distinction! what inbred 
 nobility! Every inch a true lord! 
 Richard. He may be a lord, my dear, but 
 
 he walks like a broomstick. 
 Rachel. How dare you! 
 
 {Turns abruptly away; as she does so, 
 a fold of her gown catches in a 
 chair.) 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel — permit me. 
 {Stooping, he extricates the fold of 
 her gown.) 
 Rachel. Oh, thank you. 
 
 {They go aside together.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {To Dickon, glancing 
 
 up from the letter.) I am astonished — 
 
 overpowered ! 
 
 Richard. {To Mistress Merton.) So 
 
 Lord Ravensbane and his family are old 
 
 friends of yours? 
 
 Mistress Merton. {Monosyllabically.) I 
 
 never heard the name before, Richard. 
 Ravensbane. {To Rachel, taking her 
 hand after a whisper from Dickon.) 
 Believe me, sweet lady, it will give me the 
 deepest pleasure. 
 Rachel. Can you really tell fortunes? 
 Ravensbane. More than that; I can be- 
 stow them. 
 
 (Ravensbane leads Rachel off, left, 
 into an adjoining room, the door of 
 which remains open. Richard fol- 
 lows them. Mistress Merton fol- 
 lows him, murmuring, "BichardF^ 
 Dickon stands where he can watch 
 
860 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 them in the room off scene, while he 
 speaks to the Justice.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {To Dickon, glancing 
 up from the letter.) I am astonished — 
 overpowered ! But is her ladyship really 
 serious? An offer of marriage! 
 
 Dickon. Pray read it again, sir. 
 
 Justice Merton. (Beads.) "To the 
 Worshipful, the Justice Gilead Merton, 
 Merton House. 
 "My Honorable Friend and Benefactor : 
 
 "With these brief lines I commend to 
 you our son" — our son ! 
 
 Dickon. She speaks likewise for his 
 young lordship's father, sir. 
 
 J.USTICE Merton. Ah! of course. (Reads.) 
 "In a strange land, I entrust him to you 
 as to a father." Honored, believe me! 
 "I have only to add my earnest hope 
 that the natural gifts, graces, and in- 
 herited fortune" — ah — ! 
 
 Dickon. Twenty thousand pounds — on 
 his father's demise. 
 
 Justice Merton. Ah! — "fortune of this 
 young scion of nobility will so propitiate 
 the heart of your niece, Mistress Rachel 
 Merton, as to cause her to accept his 
 proffered hand in matrimony"; — but — 
 but — but Squire Talbot is betrothed to 
 — well, well, we shall see; — "in matri- 
 mony, and thus cement the early bonds 
 of interest and affection between your 
 honored self and his lordship's father; 
 not to mention, dear sir, your worship's 
 ever grateful and obedient admirer, 
 "Elizabeth, 
 "Marchioness of R." 
 Of R.! of R.! Will you beheve me, my 
 dear sir, so long is it since my travels in 
 England — I visited at so many — hem! 
 noble estates — permit me, it is so awk- 
 ward, but — 
 
 Dickon. (With his peculiar intonation of 
 Act First.) Not at all. 
 
 Ravensbane. (Calls from the adjoining 
 room.) Dickon, my pipe! 
 
 (Dickon glides away.) 
 
 Justice Merton. (Starting in perturba- 
 tion. To Dickon.) Permit me, one. mo- 
 ment; I did not catch your name. 
 
 Dickon. My name? Dickonson. 
 
 Justice Merton. (With a gasp of relief.) 
 Ah, Dickonson! Thank you, I mistook 
 the word. 
 
 Dickon. A compound, your worship. 
 (With a malignant smile.) Dickon- 
 (then, jerking his thumb toward the next 
 room) son! (Bowing.) Both at your 
 service. 
 
 Justice Merton. Is he — he there? 
 
 Dickon. Bessie's brat ; yes ; it did n't die, 
 after all, poor suckling! Dickon weaned 
 it. Saved it for balm of Gilead. Raised 
 it for joyful home-coming. Prodigal's 
 return! Twenty-first birthday! Happy 
 son ! Happy father ! 
 
 Justice Merton. My — son! 
 
 Dickon. Felicitations ! 
 
 Justice Merton. (Faintly.) What — 
 what do you want? 
 
 Dickon. Only the happiness of your dear 
 ones — the union of these young hearts 
 and hands. 
 
 Justice Merton. What! he will dare — 
 an illegitimate — 
 
 Dickon. Fie, fie, Gilly! Why, the brat 
 is a lord now. 
 
 Justice Merton. Oh, the disgrace! 
 Spare me that, Dickon. And she is in- 
 nocent; she is already betrothed. 
 
 Dickon. Twiddle-twaddle ! 'T is a bril- 
 liant match ; besides, her ladyship's heart 
 is set upon it. 
 
 Justice Merton. Her ladyship — ? 
 
 Dickon. The Marchioness of Rickby. 
 
 Justice Merton. (Glowering.) Rickby! 
 — I had forgotten. 
 
 Dickon. Her ladyship has never forgot- 
 ten. So, you see, your worship's alterna- 
 tives are most simple. Alternative one: 
 advance his lordship's suit with your 
 niece as speedily as possible, and save all 
 scandal. Alternative two: impede his 
 lordship's suit, and — 
 
 Justice Merton. Don't, Dickon ! don't re- 
 veal the truth ; not disgrace now ! 
 
 Dickon. Good; we are agreed, then? 
 
 Justice Merton. I have no choice. 
 
 Dickon. (Cheerfully.) Why, true; we 
 ignored that, didn't we? "^ 
 
 Mistress Merton. (Reentering.) This 
 young lord — Why, Gilead, are you ill? 
 
 Justice Merton. (With a great effort,, 
 commands himself.) Not in the least. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Rachel's deportment, 
 my dear brother — I tell you, they are for- 
 tune-telling ! 
 
 Justice Merton. Tush! Tush! 
 
 Mistress Merton. Tush? "Tush" to 
 me? Tush! (She goes out right.) 
 
 (Ravensbane and Rachel reenter from 
 the adjoining room-, followed shortly by 
 Richard.) 
 
 Rachel. I am really at a loss. Your lord- 
 ship's hand is so very peculiar. 
 Ravensbane. Ah! Peculiar. 
 Rachel, This, now, is the line of life. 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 861 
 
 Ravensbane. Of life, yes? 
 
 Rachel. But it begins so abruptly, and 
 see! it breaks off and ends nowhere. 
 And just so here with this line — the line 
 of — of love. 
 
 Ravensbane. Of love. So; it breaks? 
 
 Rachel. Yes. 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah, then, that must be the 
 heart line. 
 
 Rachel. Why, Lord Ravensbane, your 
 pulse. Really, if I am cruel, you -are 
 quite heartless. I declare I can't feel 
 your heart beat at all. 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah, mistress, that is be- 
 cause I have just lost it. 
 
 Rachel. {Archly.) Where? 
 
 Ravensbane. {Faintly.) Dickon, my 
 pipe! 
 
 Rachel. Alas ! my lord, are you ill ? 
 
 Dickon. {Restoring the lighted pipe to 
 Ravensbane, speaks aside.) Pardon 
 me, sweet young lady, I must confide to 
 you that his lordship's heart is peculiarly 
 responsive to his emotions. When he 
 feels very ardently, it quite stops. 
 Hence the use of his pipe. 
 
 Rachel. Oh! Is smoking, then, neces- 
 sary for his heart? 
 
 Dickon. Absolutely — to equilibrate the 
 valvular palpitations. Without his pipe 
 — should his lordship experience, for in- 
 stance, the emotion of love — he might 
 die. 
 
 Rachel. You alarm me ! 
 
 Dickon. But this is for you only, 
 Mistress Rachel. We may confide in 
 you? 
 
 Rachel. Oh, utterly, sir. 
 
 Dickon. His lordship, you know, is so 
 sensitive. 
 
 Ravensbane. {To Rachel.) You have 
 given it back to me. Why did not you 
 keep it? 
 
 Rachel. What, my lord? 
 
 Ravensbane. My heart. 
 
 Richard. Intolerable! Do you approve 
 of this, sir? Are Lord Ravensbane's 
 credentials satisfactory ? 
 
 Justice Merton. Eminently, eminently. 
 
 Richard. Ah! So her ladyship's letter 
 is — 
 
 Justice Merton. Charming; charming. 
 {To Ravensbane.) Your lordship will, 
 I trust, make my house your home. 
 
 Ravensbane. My home, sir. 
 
 Rachel. {To Dickon, who has spoken to 
 her.) Really? {To Justice Merton:) 
 Why, uncle, what is this Master Dickon- 
 son tells us? 
 
 Justice Merton. What! What! he has 
 revealed — 
 
 Rachel. Yes, indeed. 
 
 Justice Merton. Rachel! Rachel! 
 
 Rachel. -Laughingly to Ravensbane.) 
 My uncle is doubtless astonished to find 
 you so grown. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Laughingly to Justice 
 Merton.) I am doubtless astonished, 
 sir, to be so grown. 
 
 Justice Merton. {To Dickon.) You 
 have — 
 
 Dickon. Merely remarked, sir, that your 
 w^orship had often dandled his lordship — 
 as an infant. 
 
 Justice Merton. {Smiling lugubriously.) 
 Quite so — as an infant merely. 
 
 Rachel. How interesting! Then you 
 must have seen his lordship's home in 
 England. 
 
 Justice Merton. As you say. 
 
 Rachel. {To Ravensbane.) Do describe 
 it to us. We are so isolated here from 
 the grand world. Do you know, I al- 
 ways imagine England to be an en- 
 chanted isle, like one of the old Hes- 
 perides, teeming with fruits of solid 
 gold. 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah, yes! my mother raises 
 them. 
 
 Rachel. Fruits of gold? 
 
 Ravensbane. Round like the rising sun. 
 She calls them — ah! punkins. 
 
 Mistress Merton. "Punkins"! 
 
 Justice Merton. {Aside, grinding his 
 teeth.) Scoundrel! Scoundrel! 
 
 Rachel. {Laughing.) Your lordship 
 pokes fun at us. 
 
 Dickon. His lordship is an artist in 
 words, mistress. I have noticed that in 
 whatever country he is traveling, he 
 tinges his vocabulary with the local idiom. 
 His lordship means, of course, not pump- 
 kins, but pomegranates. 
 
 Rachel. We forgive him. But, your 
 lordship, please be serious and describe 
 to us your hall. 
 
 Ravensbane. Quite serious: the hall. 
 Yes, yes; in the middle burns a great 
 fire — on a black — ah! black altar. 
 
 Dickon. A Druidical heirloom. His lord- 
 ship's mother collects antiques. 
 
 Rachel. How fascinating! 
 
 Ravensbane. Fascinating! On the walls 
 hang pieces of iron. 
 
 Dickon. Trophies of Saxon warfare. 
 
 Ravensbane. And rusty horseshoes. 
 
 General Murmurs. Horseshoes! 
 
 Dickon. Presents from the German Em- 
 
862 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 peror. They were worn by the steeds of 
 Charlemagne. 
 
 Ravensbane. Quite so; and broken cart- 
 wheels. 
 
 Dickon. Relics of British chariots. 
 
 Rachel. How mediaeval it . must be! 
 {To Justice Merton.) And to think 
 you never described it to us! 
 
 Mistress Merton. True, brother; you 
 have been singularly reticent. 
 
 Justice Merton. Permit me; it is im- 
 possible to report all one sees on one's 
 travels. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Evidently. 
 
 Rachel. But surely your lordship's 
 mother has other diversions besides col- 
 lecting antiques. I have heard that in 
 England ladies followed the hounds; and 
 sometimes — {looking at her aunt and 
 lowering her voice) — they even dance. 
 
 Ravensbane. Dance — ah, yes; my lady 
 mother dances about the — the altar; she 
 swings high a hammer. 
 
 Dickon. Your lordship, your lordship ! 
 Pray, sir, check this vein of poetry. 
 Lord Ravensbane symbolizes as a ham- 
 mer and altar a golf-stick and tee — a 
 Scottish game, which her ladyship plays 
 on her Highland estates. 
 
 Richard. {To Mistress Merton.) What 
 do you think of this? 
 
 Mistress Merton. {With a scandalized 
 look toward her brother.) He said to 
 me "tush." 
 
 Richard. {To Justice Merton, indicat- 
 ing Dickon.) Who is this magpie? 
 
 Justice Merton. {Hisses in fury.) Sa- 
 tan! 
 
 Richard. I beg pardon! 
 
 Justice Merton. Satan, sir, — makes you 
 jealous. 
 
 Richard. {Bows stiffly.) Good-morning. 
 {Walking up to Ravensbane.) Lord 
 Ravensbane, I have a rustic colonial ques- 
 tion to ask. Is it the latest fashion to 
 smoke incessantly in ladies' parlors, or is 
 it — mediaeval ? 
 
 Dickon. His lordship's health, sir, neces- 
 sitates — 
 
 Richard. I addressed his lordship. 
 
 Ravensbane. In the matter of fashions, 
 sir — {Hands his pipe to he refilled.) 
 My pipe, Dickon! 
 
 {While Dickon holds his pipe — some- 
 what longer than usual — Ravens- 
 bane^ with his mouth open as if 
 about to speak, relapses into a va- 
 cant stare.) 
 
 Richard. Well? 
 
 Dickon. {As he lights the pipe for Ra- 
 vensbane, speaks suavely and low as if 
 not to be overheard by him.) Pardon 
 me. The fact is, my young pupil is 
 sensitive; the wound from his latest duel 
 is not quite healed; you observe a slight 
 lameness, an occasional — absence of 
 mind. 
 
 Rachel. A wound — in a real duel? 
 
 Dickon. {Aside.) You, mistress, know 
 the true reason — his lordship's heart. 
 
 Richard. {To Ravensbane, who is still 
 staring vacantly into space.) Well, well, 
 your lordship. (Ravensbane pays no 
 attention.) You were saying — ? (Dic- 
 kon returns the pipe) — in the matter of 
 fashions, sir — ? 
 
 Ravensbane. {Regaining slowly a look of 
 intelligence, draws himself up with af- 
 fronted hauteur.) Permit me! {Puffs 
 several wreaths of smoke into the air.) 
 I am the fashions. 
 
 Richard. {Going.) Insufferable! 
 
 {He pauses at the door.) 
 
 Mistress Merton. {To Justice Mer- 
 ton.) Well— what do you think of 
 that? 
 
 Justice Merton. Spoken like . King 
 Charles himself. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Brother! brother! is 
 there nothing wrong here? 
 
 {Going out, she passes Dickon, starts 
 at a look which he gives her, and 
 goes out, right, flustered. Follow- 
 ing her, Justice Merton is stopped 
 by Dickon, and led off left by him.) 
 
 Rachel. {To Ravensbane.) I — object to 
 the smoke? Why, I think it is charm- 
 ing. 
 
 Richard. {Who has returned from the 
 door, speaks in a low, constrained voices) 
 Rachel ! 
 
 Rachel. Oh ! — you ? 
 
 Richard. You take quickly to European 
 fashions. 
 
 Rachel. Yes? To what one in partic- 
 ular? 
 
 Richard. Two; smoking and flirtation. 
 
 Rachel. Jealous? 
 
 Richard. Of an idiot? I hope not. 
 Manners differ, however. Your confi- 
 dences to his lordship have evidently not 
 included — your relation to me. 
 
 Rachel. Oh, our relations! 
 
 Richard. Of course, since you wish him 
 to continue in ignorance — 
 
 Rachel. Not at all. He shall know at 
 once. Lord Ravensbane! 
 
 Ravensbane. Fair mistress! 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 863 
 
 Richard. Rachel, stop! I did not mean — 
 
 Rachel. {To Ravensbane.) My uncle 
 did not introduce to you with sufficient 
 elaboration this gentleman. Will you al- 
 low me to do so now? 
 
 Ravensbane. I adore Mistress Rachel's 
 elaborations. 
 
 Rachel. Lord Ravensbane, I beg to pre- 
 sent Squire Talbot, my betrothed. 
 
 Ravensbane. Betrothed! Is it — {notic- 
 ing Richard's frown) — is it pleasant-? 
 
 Rachel. {To Richard.) Are you satis- 
 fied? 
 
 Richard. {Trembling with feeling.) 
 More than satisfied. {Exit.) 
 
 Ravensbane. {Looking after him.) Ah! 
 Betrothed is not pleasant. 
 
 Rachel. Not always. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Anxiously.) Mistress Ra- 
 chel is not pleased? 
 
 Rachel. {Biting her lip, looks after 
 Richard.) With him. 
 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel will smile 
 again ? 
 
 Rachel. Soon. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Ardent.) Ah! What can 
 Lord Ravensbane do to make her smile? 
 See! will you puff my pipe? It is very 
 pleasant. {Offering the pipe.) 
 
 Rachel. {Smiling.) Shall I try? 
 
 {Takes hold of it mischievously.) 
 
 {Enter Justice Merton and Dickon^ left.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {In a great voice.) Ra- 
 chel! 
 
 Rachel. Why, uncle! 
 
 Justice Merton. {Speaks suavely to Ra- 
 vensbane.) Permit me, your lordship — 
 Rachel, you will kindly withdraw for a 
 few moments; I desire to confer with 
 Lord Ravensbane concerning his mother's 
 — her ladyship's letter — {obsequiously to 
 Dickon) — that is, if you think, sir, that 
 your noble pupil is not too fatigued. 
 
 Dickon. Not at all; I think his lordship 
 will listen to you with much pleasure. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Bowing to Justice Mer- 
 ton, but looking at Rachel.) With 
 much pleasure. 
 
 Dickon. And in the mean time, if Mis- 
 tress Rachel will allow me, I will assist 
 her in writing those invitations which 
 your worship desires to send in her 
 name. 
 
 Justice Merton. Invitations — from my 
 niece ? 
 
 Dickon. To his Excellency, the Lieu- 
 tenant-Governor; to your friends, the 
 Reverend Masters at Harvard College, 
 
 etc., etc.; in brief, to all your worship's 
 select social acquaintance in the vicinity 
 — to meet his lordship. It was so 
 thoughtful in you to suggest it, sir, and 
 believe me, his lordship appreciates your 
 courtesy in arranging the reception in 
 his honor for this afternoon. 
 
 Rachel. {To Justice Merton.) This 
 afternoon! Are we really to give his 
 lordship a reception? And will it be 
 here, uncle? 
 
 Dickon. {Looking at him narrowly.) 
 Your worship said here, I believe? 
 
 Justice Merton. Quite so, sir; quite so, 
 quite so. 
 
 Dickon. Permit me to act as your scribe, 
 Mistress Rachel. 
 
 Rachel. With pleasure. {With a curtsy 
 to Ravensbane.) Till we meet again! 
 
 (Exit, right.) 
 
 Dickon. {Aside to Justice Merton.) I 
 advise nothing rash, Gilly; the brat has 
 a weak heart. {Aside, as he passes Ra- 
 vensbane.) Remember, Jack! Puff! 
 Puff! 
 
 Ravensbane. {Staring at the door.) She 
 is gone. 
 
 Justice Merton. Impostor! You, at 
 least, shall not play the lord and master 
 to my face. 
 
 Ravensbane. Quite — gone ! 
 
 Justice Merton. I know with whom I 
 have to deal. If I be any judge of my 
 own flesh and blood — permit me — you 
 shall quail before me. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Dejectedly.) She did not 
 smile — {Joyously.) She smiled! 
 
 Justice Merton. Affected rogue! I 
 know thee. I know thy feigned pauses, 
 thy assumed vagaries. Speak; how 
 much do you want? 
 
 Ravensbane. {Ecstatically.) Ah! Mis- 
 tress Rachel! 
 
 Justice Merton. Her! Scoundrel, if 
 thou dost name her again, my innocent — 
 my sweet maid! If thou dost — thou 
 godless spawn of temptation — ^mark you, 
 I will put an end — 
 
 {Reaching for a pistol that rests in a 
 rack on the wall, — the intervening 
 form of Dickon suddenly appears, 
 pockets the pistol, and exit.) 
 
 Dickon. I beg pardon; I forgot some- 
 thing. 
 
 Justice Merton. {Sinking into a chair.) 
 God, Thou art just! 
 
 {He holds his head in his hands and 
 weeps.) 
 
 Ravensbane. {For the first time, since 
 
864 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 Rachel's departure, observing Merton.) 
 Permit me, sir, are you ill? 
 
 Justice Merton. (Recoiling.) What art 
 thou ! 
 
 Ravensbane. (Monotonously.) I am 
 
 Lord Ravensbane: Marquis of Oxford, 
 Baron of Wittenberg, Elector of Worms, 
 and — (As Justice Merton covers his 
 face again.) Shall I call Dickon? 
 (Walking quickly toward the door, 
 calls. ) Dickon ! 
 
 Justice Merton (Starting up.) No, do 
 not call him. Tell me: I hate thee not; 
 thou wast innocent. Tell me ! — I thought 
 thou hadst died as a babe. — Where has 
 Dickon, our tyrant, kept thee these 
 twenty years? 
 
 Ravensbane. (With gentle courtesy.) 
 Master Dickonson is my tutor. 
 
 Justice Merton. And why has thy 
 mother — Ah, I know well; I deserve all. 
 But yet, it must not be published now! 
 I am a justice now, an honored citizen — 
 and my young niece — Thy mother will 
 not demand so much. 
 
 Ravensbane. My mother is the Mar- 
 chioness of Rickby. 
 
 Justice Merton. Yes, yes; 'twas well 
 planned, a clever trick. 'T was skillful 
 of her. But surely thy mother gave thee 
 commands to — 
 
 Ravensbane. My mother gave me her 
 blessing. 
 
 Justice Merton. Ah, 'tis well, then. 
 Young man, my son, I too will give thee 
 my blessing, if thou wilt but go — go 
 instantly — go with half my fortune — 
 but leave me my honor — and my 
 Rachel? 
 
 Ravensbane. Rachel? Rachel is yours? 
 No, no. Mistress Rachel is mine. We are 
 ours. 
 
 Justice Merton. (Pleadingly.) Consider 
 the disgrace — you, an illegitimate — and 
 she — oh, think what thou art ! 
 
 Ravensbane. (Monotonously, puffing smoke 
 at the end.) I am Lord Ravensbane: 
 Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Witten- 
 berg, Elector of Worms, and Count — 
 
 Justice Merton. (Wrenching the pipe 
 from Ravensbane's hand and lips.) 
 Devil's child! Boor! Buffoon! (Fling- 
 ing the pipe away.) I will stand thy 
 insults no longer. If thou hast no 
 heart — 
 
 Ravensbane. (Putting his hand to his 
 side, staggers.) Ah! my heart! 
 
 Justice Merton. Hypocrite! Thou canst 
 not fvjol me. I am thv father. 
 
 Ravensbane. (Faintly, stretches out hi;' 
 hand to him for support.) Father! 
 
 Justice Merton. Stand away. Thou 
 mayst break thy heart and mine and 
 the devil's, but thou shalt not break 
 Rachel's. 
 
 Ravensbane. (Faintly.) Mistress Rachel 
 is mine — (He staggers again, and 
 falls, half reclining, upon a chair. More 
 faintly he speaks, beginning to change 
 expression.) Her eyes are mine; her 
 smiles are mine. 
 
 (His eyes close.) 
 
 Justice Merton. Good God! Can it be 
 — his heart? (With agitated swiftness, 
 he feels and listens at Ravensbane's 
 side.) Not a motion; not a sound! 
 Yea, God, Thou art good! 'T is his 
 heart. He is — ah! he is my son. Judge 
 Almighty, if he should die now; may 
 I not be still a moment more and make 
 sure ? No, no, my son — he is changing. 
 (Calls.) Help! Help! Rachel! Master 
 Dickonson! Help! Richard! Cynthia! 
 Come hither! 
 
 (Enter Dickon and Rachel.) 
 
 Rachel. Uncle ! 
 
 Justice Merton. Bring wine. Lord 
 
 Ravensbane has fainted. 
 Rachel. Oh! (Turning swiftly to go.) 
 
 Micah, wine. 
 Dickon. (Detaining her.) Stay! His 
 
 pipe! Where is his lordship's pipe? 
 Rachel. Oh, terrible! 
 
 (Enter, at different doors, Mistress Mer- 
 ton and Richard.) 
 
 Mistress Merton. What's the matter?- 
 
 Justice Merton. (To Rachel.) He 
 threw it away. He is worse. Bring the 
 wine. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Look! How strange 
 he appears! 
 
 Rachel. (Searching distractedly.) The 
 pipe! His lordship's pipe! It is lost, 
 Master Dickonson. 
 
 Dickon. (Stooping, as if searching, with 
 his back turned, having picked up the 
 pipe, is filling and lighting it.) It must 
 be found. This is a heart attack, my 
 friends; his lordship's life depends on 
 the nicotine. 
 
 (Deftly he places the pipe in Rachel's 
 way.) 
 
 Rachel. Thank God! Here it is. (Car- 
 rying it to the prostrate form of Ravens- 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 865 
 
 BANE, she lifts his head and is about to 
 put the pipe in his mouth.) Shall I — 
 shall I put it in? 
 
 RiCHAED. No! not you. 
 
 Rachel. Sir! 
 
 Richard. Let his tutor perform that of- 
 fice. 
 
 Rachel. (Lifting Lord Ravensbane's 
 head again.) My lord! 
 
 Richard and Justice Merton. {To- 
 gether. ) Rachel ! 
 
 Dickon. Pardon me, Mistress Rachel; 
 give the pipe at once. Only a token of 
 true affection can revive his lordship 
 now. 
 
 Richard. [As Rachel puts the pipe to 
 Ravensbane's lips.) I forbid it, Ra- 
 chel. 
 
 Rachel. (Watching only Ravensbane.) 
 My lord — my lord! 
 
 Mistress Merton. Give him air; unbut- 
 ton his coat. (Rachel unbuttons Ra- 
 vensbane's coat^ revealing the embroid- 
 ered waistcoat.) Ah, Heavens! What 
 do I see? 
 
 Justice Merton. (Looks, blanches, and 
 signs silence to Mistress Merton.) 
 Cynthia ! 
 
 Mistress Merton. (Aside to Justice 
 Merton", with deep tensity.) That waist- 
 coat ! that waistcoat ! Brother, hast thou 
 never seen it before? 
 
 Justice Merton. Never, my sister. 
 
 Dickon. See! He puffs — he revives. He 
 is coming to himself. 
 
 Rachel. (As Ravensbane rises to his 
 feet.) At last! 
 
 Dickon. Look! he is restored. 
 
 Rachel. God be thanked! 
 
 Dickon. My lord, Mistress Rachel has 
 saved your life. 
 
 Ravensbane. (Taking Rachel's hand.) 
 Mistress Rachel is mine; we are ours. 
 
 Richard. Dare to repeat that. 
 
 Ravensbane. (Looking at Rachel.) Her 
 eyes are mine. 
 
 Richard. (Flinging Ms glove in his face.) 
 And that, sir, is yours. 
 
 Rachel. Richard ! 
 
 Richard. I believe such is the proper 
 fashion in England. If your lordship's 
 last dueling wound is sufficiently healed, 
 perhaps you will deign a reply. 
 
 Rachel. Richard! Your lordship! 
 
 Ravensbane. (Stoops, picks up the glove, 
 pockets it, bows to Rachel, and steps 
 close to Richard.) Permit me! 
 
 (He blows a puff of smoke full in 
 Richard's face.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 The same day. Late afternoon. The same 
 scene as in Act Second. 
 
 Ravensbane and Dickon are seated at the 
 table, on which are lying two flails. 
 Ravensbane is dressed in a costume 
 which, composed of silk and jewels, 
 subtly approximates in design to that of 
 his original grosser composition. So art- 
 fully, however, is this contrived that, to 
 one ignorant of his origin, his dress 
 would appear to be merely an odd per- 
 sonal whimsy ; whereas, to one initiated, 
 it would stamp him grotesquely as the 
 apotheosis of scarecrows. 
 
 Dickon is sitting in a pedagogical atti- 
 tude; Ravensbane stands near him, 
 making a profound bow in the opposite 
 direction. 
 
 Ravensbane. Believe me, ladies, with the 
 true sincerity of the heart. 
 
 Dickon. Inflection a little more lachry- 
 mose, please : "The true sincerity of the 
 heart." 
 
 Ravensbane. Believe me, ladies, with the 
 true sincerity of the heart. 
 
 Dickon. Prettily, prettily! Next! 
 
 Ravensbane. (Changing his mien, as if 
 addressing another person.) Verily, sir, 
 as that prince of poets, the immortal 
 Virgil, has remarked: — 
 
 "Adeo in teneris consuescere multum est." 
 
 Dickon. Basta! The next. 
 
 Ravensbane. (With another change to 
 courtly manner.) Trust me, your Ex- 
 cellency, I will inform his Majesty of 
 your courtesy. 
 
 Dickon. "His Majesty" more emphatic. 
 Remember! You must impress all of 
 the guests this afternoon. But continue, 
 Cobby, dear; the retort now to the chal- 
 lenge ! 
 
 Ravensbane. (With a superb air.) The 
 second, I believe. 
 
 Dickon. Quite so, my lord. 
 
 Ravensbane. Sir! the local person whom 
 you represent has done himself the honor 
 of submitting to me a challenge to mortal 
 combat. Sir! Since the remotest times 
 of my feudal ancestors, in such affairs 
 of honor, choice of weapons has ever 
 been the — 
 
 Dickon. Prerogative ! 
 
 Ravensbane. Prerogative of the chal- 
 lenged. Sir! This right of etiquette 
 
866 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 must be observed. Nevertheless, believe 
 me, I have no selfish desire that my su- 
 perior — 
 
 Dickon. Attainments ! 
 
 Ravensbane. Attainments in this art 
 should assume advantage over my chal- 
 lenger's ignorance. I have, therefore, 
 chosen those combative utensils most ap- 
 propriate both to his own humble origin 
 and to local tradition. Permit me, sir, 
 to reveal my choice. {Pointing grandly 
 to the table.) Therje are my weapons! 
 
 Dickon. Delicious! thou exquisite 
 flower of love! How thy natal compo- 
 sites have burst in bloom! — The pump- 
 kin in thee to a golden collarette; thy 
 mop of crow's wings to these raven 
 locks; thy broomstick to a lordly limp; 
 thy corn-silk to these pale-tinted tassels. 
 Verily in the gallery of scarecrows, thou 
 art the Apollo Belvedere ! 
 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel — I may see 
 her now? 
 
 Dickon. Romeo ! Romeo ! Was ever such 
 an amorous puppet show! 
 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel! 
 
 Dickon. Wait; let me think! Thou art 
 wound up now, my pretty apparatus, for 
 at least six-and-thirty hours. The 
 wooden angel Gabriel that trumpets the 
 hours on the big clock in Venice is not 
 a more punctual manikin than thou with 
 my speeches. Thou shouldst run, there- 
 fore, — 
 
 Ravensbane. {Frowning darMy at Dic- 
 kon.) Stop talking; permit me! A 
 tutor should know his place. 
 
 Dickon. {Buhbing his hands.) Nay, 
 your lordship is beyond comparison. 
 
 Ravensbane. {In a terrible voice.) She 
 will come? I shall see her? 
 
 {Enter Micah.) 
 
 MiCAH. Pardon, my lord. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Turning joyfully to Mi- 
 cah.) Is it she? 
 
 Micah. Captain Bugby, my lord, the 
 Governor's secretary. 
 
 Dickon. Good. Squire Talbot's second. 
 Show him in. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Flinging despairingly into 
 a chair.) Ah! ah! 
 
 Micah. {Lifting the flails from the ta- 
 ble.) Beg pardon, sir; shall I remove — 
 
 Dickon. Drop them; go. 
 
 Micah. But, sir — 
 
 Dickon. Go, thou slave! {Exit Micah. 
 (Dickon hands Ravensbane a book.) 
 
 Here, my lord; read. You must be 
 
 found reading. 
 Ravensbane. {In childlike despair.) She 
 
 will not come! I shall not see her! 
 
 {Throwing the book into the fireplace.) 
 
 She does not come! 
 Dickon. Fie, fie, Jack; thou must not be 
 
 breaking thy Dickon's apron-strings with 
 
 a will of thine own. Come! 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel — 
 Dickon. Be good, boy, and thou shalt see 
 
 her soon. 
 
 {Enter Captain Bugby.) 
 
 Your lordship was saying — Oh! Captain 
 Bugby? 
 
 Captain Bugby. {Nervous and awed.) 
 Captain Bugby, sir, ah! at Lord Ravens- 
 bane's service — ah! 
 
 Dickon. I am Master Dickonson, his lord- 
 ship's tutor. 
 
 Captain Bugby. Happy, sir. 
 
 Dickon. {To Ravensbane.) My lord, 
 this gentleman waits upon you from 
 Squire Talbot. {To Captain Bugby.) 
 In regard to the challenge this morning, 
 I presume? 
 
 Captain Bugby. The affair, ah! the affair 
 of this morning, sir. 
 
 Ravensbane. {With his former superb 
 air — to Captain Bugby.) The second, I 
 believe ? 
 
 Captain Bugby. Quite so, my lord. 
 
 Ravensbane. Sir! the local person whom 
 you represent has done himself the honor 
 of submitting to me a challenge to mortal 
 combat. Sir! Since the remotest times 
 of my feudal ancestors, in such affairs 
 of honor, choice of weapons has ever 
 been the pre-pre- (Dickon looks at him 
 intensely.) prerogative of the challenged. 
 Sir! this right of etiquette must be ob- 
 served. 
 
 Captain Bugby. Indeed, yes, my lord. 
 
 Dickon. Pray do not interrupt. ( To Ra- 
 vensbane.) Your lordship: "observed.'^ 
 
 Ravensbane. — observed. Nevertheless, 
 believe me, I have no selfish desire that 
 my superior a-a-at-attainments in this 
 art should assume advantage over my 
 challenger's ignorance. I have, there- 
 fore, chosen those combative utensils 
 most appropriate both to his own humble 
 origin and to local tradition. Permit 
 me, sir, to reveal my choice. {Pointing 
 to the table.) There are my weapons! 
 
 Captain Bugby. {Looking bewildered.) 
 These, my lord ? 
 
 Ravensbane. Those. 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 867 
 
 Captain Bugby. But these are — are flails. 
 
 Ravensbane. Flails. 
 
 Captain Bugby. Flails, my lord? — Do I 
 understand that your lordship and 
 Squire Talbot— 
 
 Ravensbane. Exactly. 
 
 Captain Bugby. But your lordship — 
 flails! 
 
 (Dickon's intense glance focusses on 
 Ravensbane's face with the faintest 
 of smiles.) 
 
 Ravensbane. My adversary should be 
 deft in their use. He has doubtless 
 wielded them frequently on his barn 
 floor. 
 
 Captain Bugby. Ahaha! I understand 
 now. Your lordship — ah! is a wit. 
 Haha! Flails! 
 
 Dickon. His lordship's satire is poign- 
 ant. 
 
 Captain Bugby. Indeed, sir, so keen that 
 I must apologize for laughing at my 
 principal's expense. But — {soberly to 
 Ra\tensbane) — my lord, if you will 
 deign to speak one moment seriously — 
 
 Ravensbane. Seriously? 
 
 Captain Bugby. I will take pleasure in 
 informing Squire Talbot — ah ! as to your 
 real preference for — 
 
 Ravensbane. For flails, sir. I have, per- 
 mit me, nothing further to say. Flails 
 are final. {Turns away haughtily.) 
 
 Captain Bugby. Eh! What! Must I 
 really report — ? 
 
 Dickon. Lord Ravensbane's will is in- 
 flexible. 
 
 Captain Bugby. And his wit, sir, incom- 
 parable. I am sorry for the Squire, but 
 't will be the greatest joke in years. Ah ! 
 will you tell me — is it — {indicating Ra- 
 vensbane's smoking) — is it the latest 
 fashion ? 
 
 Dickon. Lord Ravensbane is always the 
 latest. 
 
 Captain Bugby. Obliged servant, sir. 
 Aha ! Such a joke as — Lord ! flails. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Dickon. {Gayly to Ravensbane.) Bravo, 
 my pumpky dear! That squelches the 
 jealous betrothed. Now nothing remains 
 but for you to continue to dazzle the 
 enamored Rachel, and so present your- 
 self to the Justice as a pseudo-son- 
 nephew-in-law. 
 
 Ravensbane. I may go to Mistress 
 Rachel? 
 
 Dickon. She will come to you. She is 
 reading now a poem from you, which I 
 left on her dressing-table. 
 
 Ravensbane. She is reading a poem from 
 me? 
 
 Dickon. With your pardon, my lord, I 
 penned it for you. I am something of a 
 poetaster. Indeed, I flatter myself that 
 I have dictated some of the finest lines in 
 literature. 
 
 Ravensbane. Dickon! She will come? 
 
 Dickon. She comes! 
 
 {Enter Rachel, reading from a piece of 
 paper.) 
 
 (Dickon draws Ravensbane back.) 
 
 Rachel. {Reads.) "To Mistress R , 
 
 enchantress : — 
 
 ""If faith in witchcraft be a sin, 
 Alas ! what peril he is in 
 Who plights his faith and love in thee. 
 Sweetest maid of sorcery. 
 
 "If witchcraft be a whirling brain, 
 A roving eye, a heart of pain, 
 Whose wound no thread of fate can stitch, 
 How hast thou conjured, cruel witch,— 
 
 With the brain, eye, heart, and total 
 mortal residue of thine enamored. 
 "Jack Lanthorxe, 
 
 "[Lord R .]" 
 
 (Dickon goes out.) 
 
 Rachel. "To Mistress R , enchant- 
 ress:" R! It must be. R .must 
 
 mean — 
 
 Ravensbane. {With passionate defer- 
 ence.) Rachel! 
 
 Rachel. Ah! How you surprised me, 
 my lord ! 
 
 Ravensbane. You are come again; you 
 are come again. 
 
 Rachel. Has anything happened? Oh, 
 my lord, I have been in such terror. 
 Promise me that there shall be — no — 
 duel! 
 
 Ravensbane. No duel. 
 
 Rachel. Oh, I am so gratefully happy! 
 
 Ravensbane. I know I am only a thing 
 to make Mistress Rachel hajjpy. Ah! 
 look at me once more. When you look 
 at me, I live. 
 
 Rachel. It is strange, i-ideed, my lord, 
 how the famihar world, the daylight, the 
 heavens themselves have changed since 
 your arrival. 
 
 Ravensbane. This is the world; this is 
 the light; this is the heavens themselves. 
 Mistress Rachel is looking at me. 
 
 Rachel. For me, it is less strange, per- 
 haps. I never saw a real lord before. 
 But you, my lord, must have seen so 
 
868 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 many, many girls in the great world. 
 Ravensbane. No, no; never. 
 Rachel. No other girls before to-day, my 
 
 lord! 
 Ravensbane. Before to-day? I do not 
 
 know; I do not care. I was not — here. 
 
 To-day I was born — in your eyes. Ah! 
 
 my brain whirls ! 
 Rachel. (Smiling.) 
 
 'If witchcraft be a whirling brain, 
 A roving ej^e, a heart of pain, — " 
 
 (In a whisper.) My lord, do you really 
 believe in witchcraft? 
 
 Ravensbane. With all my heart. 
 
 Rachel. And approve of it? 
 
 Ravensbane. With all my soul. 
 
 Rachel. So do I — that is, innocent witch- 
 craft; not to harm anybody, you know, 
 but just to feel all the dark mystery and 
 the trembling excitement — the way you 
 feel when you blow out your candle all 
 alone in your bedroom and watch the 
 little smoke fade away in the moonshine. 
 
 Ravensbane. Fade away in the moon- 
 shine ! 
 
 Rachel. Oh, but we must n't speak of it. 
 In a town like this, all such mysticism is 
 considered damnable. But your lord- 
 ship understands and approves? I am 
 so glad! Have you read the Philosophi- 
 cal Considerations of Glanville, the Sa- 
 ducismus Triumphatus, and the Presig- 
 nifications of Dreams? What kind of 
 witchcraft, my lord, do you believe in? 
 
 Ravensbane. In all yours. 
 
 Rachel. Nay, your lordship must not 
 take me for a real witch. I can only tell 
 fortunes, you know — like this morning. 
 
 Ravensbane. I know; you told how my 
 heart would break. 
 
 Rachel. Oh, that 's palmistry, and that 
 is n't always certain. But the surest 
 w^ay to prophesy — do you know what it 
 is? 
 
 Ravensbane. Tell me. 
 
 Rachel. To count the crows. Do you 
 know how? 
 
 One for sorrow — 
 
 Ravensbane. Ha, yes! — 
 
 Two for mirth! 
 Rachel. 
 
 Three for a wedding — 
 
 Ravensbane. 
 
 Four for a birth — ■ 
 
 Rachel. 
 
 And five for the happiest thing on earth! 
 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel, come ! Let 
 us go and count five crows. 
 
 Rachel. (Delightedly.) Why, my lord, 
 how did you ever learn it ? I got it from 
 an old goody here in town — a real witch- 
 wife. If you will promise not to tell a 
 secret, I will show you — But you must 
 promise ! 
 
 Ravensbane. I promise. 
 
 Rachel. Come, then. I will show you a 
 real piece of witchcraft that I bought 
 from her this morning — the glass of 
 truth. There ! Behind that curtain. If 
 you look in, you will see — But come; 
 I will show you. (They put their hands 
 on the cords of the curtain.) Just pull 
 that string, and — ah! 
 
 Dickon. (Stepping out through the cur- 
 tain.) My lord, your pipe. 
 
 Rachel. Master Dickonson, how you 
 frightened me! 
 
 Dickon. So excessively sorry! 
 
 Rachel. But how did you—? 
 
 Dickon. I believe you were showing his 
 lordship — 
 
 Rachel. (Turning hurriedly away.) Oh, 
 nothing; nothing at all. 
 
 Ravensbane. (Sternly to Dickon.) Why 
 do you come? 
 
 Dickon. (Handing back Ravensbane's 
 pipe, filled.) Allow me. (Aside.) 'T is 
 high time you came to the point, Jack; 
 't is near your lordship's reception. 
 Woo and win, boy; woo and win. 
 
 Ravensbane. (Haughtily.) Leave me. 
 
 Dickon. Your lordship 's humble, very 
 humble. (Exit.) 
 
 Rachel. (Shivering.) My dear lord, why 
 do you keep this man? 
 
 Ravensbane. I — keep this man? 
 
 Rachel. Pardon my rudeness — I cannot 
 endure him. 
 
 Ravensbane. You do not like him? Ah, 
 then, I do not like him also. We will 
 send him away — you and I. 
 
 Rachel. You, my lord, of course; but 
 I— 
 
 Ravensbane. You will be Dickon! You 
 Avill be with me always and light my 
 pipe. And I will live for you, and fight 
 for you, and kill your betrothed! 
 
 Rachel. (Drawing away.) No, no! 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah! but your eyes say 
 "yes." Mistress Rachel leaves me; but 
 Rachel in her eyes remains. Is it not so?, 
 
 Rachel. What can I say, my lord! I 
 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 869 
 
 is true that since my eyes met yours, a 
 new passion lias entered into my soul. 
 I have felt — but 't is so impertinent, my 
 lord, so absurd in me, a mere girl, and 
 you a nobleman of power — yet I have 
 felt it irresistibly, my dear lord, — a long- 
 ing to help you. I am so sorry for you 
 — so sorry for you! I pity you deeply. 
 — Forgive me; forgive me, my lord! 
 
 Ravensbane. It is enough. 
 
 Rachel. Indeed, indeed, 'tis so rude of 
 me, — 'tis so unreasonable. 
 
 Ravensbane. It is enough. I grow — I 
 grow — I grow! I am a plant; you give 
 it rain and sun. I am a flower; you 
 give it light and dew. I am a soul, you 
 give it love and speech. I grow. To- 
 ward you — toward you I grow! 
 
 Rachel. My lord, I do not understand it, 
 how so poor and mere a girl as I can 
 have helped you. Yet I do believe it is 
 so ; for I feel it so. What can I do for 
 you? 
 
 Ravensbane. Be mine. Let me be yours. 
 
 Rachel. But, my lord — do I love you? 
 
 Ravensbane. What is "I love you"? Is 
 it a kiss, a sigh, an embrace ? Ah ! then, 
 you do not love me. — "I love you": is it 
 to nourish, to nestle, to lift up, to smile 
 upon, to make greater — a worm? Ah! 
 then, you love me. 
 
 {Enter Richard at left hack, wiohserved.) 
 
 Rachel. Do not speak so of yourself, my 
 lord; nor exalt me so falsely. 
 
 Ravensbane. Be mine. 
 
 Rachel. A great glory has descended 
 upon this day. 
 
 Ravensbane. Be mine. 
 
 Rachel. Could I but be sure that this 
 glory is love — Oh, then! 
 
 {Turns toward Ravensbane.) 
 
 RiCHABD. {Stepping between them.) It 
 is not love; it is witchcraft. 
 
 Rachel. Who are you? — Richard? 
 
 RiCHAED. You have, indeed, forgotten 
 me? Would to God, Rachel, I could 
 forget you. 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah, permit me, sir — 
 
 Richard. Silence ! ( To Rachel. ) Against 
 my will, I am a convert to your own 
 mysticism; for nothing less than damna- 
 ble illusion could so instantly wean your 
 heart from me to — this. I do not pre- 
 tend to understand it; but that it is 
 witchcraft I am convinced; and I will 
 save you from it. 
 
 Rachel. Go; please go. 
 
 Ravensbaxe. Permit me, sir; you have 
 not replied y^et to flails! 
 
 Richard. Permit me, sir. {Taking some- 
 thing from his coat.) My answer is — 
 bare cob! {Holding out a shelled corn- 
 cob.) Thresh this, sir, for your antago- 
 nist. 'T is the only one worthy your 
 lordship. 
 
 {Tosses it contemptuously toward 
 him.) 
 
 Ravensbane. Upon my honor, as a man — 
 
 Richard. As a man, forsooth! Were 
 you, indeed, a man, Lord Ravensbane, I 
 would have accepted your weapons, and 
 flailed you out of New England. But it 
 is not my custom, to chastise runagates 
 from asylums, or to banter further words 
 with a natural and a ninny. 
 
 Rachel. Squire Talbot! Will you leave 
 my uncle's house? 
 
 Ravensbane. One moment, mistress: — I 
 did not wholly catch the import of this 
 gentleman's speech, but I fancy I have 
 insulted him by my reply to his chal- 
 lenge. One insult may perhaps be reme- 
 died by another. Sir, permit me to call 
 you a ninny, and to offer you — {draw- 
 ing his sword and offering it) — swords. 
 
 Richard. Thanks; I reject the offer. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Turning away despond- 
 ently.) He rejects it. Well! 
 
 Rachel. {To Richard.) And now will 
 you leave? 
 
 Richard. At once. But one word more. 
 Rachel — Rachel, have you forgotten this 
 morning and the Glass of Truth? 
 
 Rachel. {Coldly.) No. 
 
 Richard. Call it a fancy now if you will. 
 I scoffed at it; yes. Yet you believed it. 
 I loved you truly, you said. Well, have 
 I changed? 
 
 Rachel. Yes. 
 
 Richard. Will you test me again — in the 
 glass ? 
 
 Rachel. No. Go; leave us. 
 
 Richard. I will go. I have still a word 
 with your aunt. 
 
 Ravensbane. {To Richard.) I beg 
 your pardon, sir. You said just now 
 that had I been a man — 
 
 Richard. I say, Lord Ravensbane, that 
 the straight fiber of a true man never 
 warps the love of a woman. As for 
 yourself, you have my contempt and pity. 
 Pray to God, sir, pray to God to make 
 you a man. {Exit.) 
 
 Rachel. Oh! it is intolerable! {To Ra- 
 vensbane.) My dear lord, I do believe 
 in my heart that I love you, and if so, I 
 
870 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 will with gratitude be your wife. But, 
 my lord, strange glamors, strange dark- 
 nesses reel, and bewilder my mind. I 
 must be alone; I must think and decide. 
 Will you give me this tassel? 
 
 Ravensbane. {Unfastening a silk tassel 
 from his coat and giving it to her.) Oh, 
 take it. 
 
 Rachel. If I decide that I love you, that 
 I will be your wife — I will wear it this 
 afternoon at the reception. Good-bye. 
 
 (Exit, right.) 
 
 Ravensbane. Mistress Rachel! — {He is 
 left alone. As he looks about gropingly, 
 and raises Ms arms in vague prayer, 
 Dickon appears from the right and 
 watches him, with a smile.) God, are 
 you here? Dear God, I pray to you — 
 make me to be a man! {Exit, left.) 
 
 Dickon. Poor Jacky! Thou shouldst 'a' 
 prayed to t' other one. 
 
 {Enter, right, Justice Merton.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {To Dickon.) Will 
 you not listen? Will you not listen! 
 
 Dickon. Such a delightful room! 
 
 Justice Merton. Are you merciless? 
 
 Dickon. And such a living portrait of 
 your worship ! The waistcoat is so beau- 
 tifully executed. 
 
 Justice Merton. If I pay him ten thou- 
 sand pounds — 
 
 {Enter, right. Mistress Merton, who goes 
 toward the table. Enter, left, Micah.) 
 
 Mistress Merton. Flails! Flails in the 
 parlor ! 
 
 Micah. The minister and his wife have 
 turned into the gate, madam. 
 
 Mistress Merton. The guests! Is it so 
 late? 
 
 Micah. Four o'clock, madam. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Remove these things 
 at once. 
 
 Micah. Yes, madam. {He lifts them, and 
 starts for the door where he pauses to 
 look back and speak.) Madam, in all 
 my past years of service at Merton 
 House, I never waited upon a lord till 
 to-day. Madam, in all my future years 
 of service at Merton House, I trust I 
 may never wait upon a lord again. 
 
 Mistress Merton. Micah, mind the 
 knocker. 
 
 Micah. Yes, madam. 
 
 {Exit at left back. Sounds of a brass 
 knocker outside.) 
 
 Mistress Merton. Rachel! Rachel! 
 
 {Exit, left.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {To Dickon.) So you 
 are contented with nothing less than the 
 sacrifice of my niece ! 
 
 {Enter Micah.) 
 
 Micah. Minister Dodge, your Worship; 
 and Mistress Dodge. {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter the Minister and his Wife.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {Stepping forward to 
 receive them.) Believe me, this is a 
 great privilege. — Madam! {Bowing.) 
 
 Minister Dodge. {Taking his hand.) 
 The privilege is ours. Justice; to enter a 
 righteous man's house is to stand, as it 
 were, on God's threshold. 
 
 Justice Merton. {Nervously.) Amen, 
 amen. Permit me — ah! Lord Ravens- 
 bane, my young guest of honor, will be 
 here directly — permit me to present his 
 lordship's tutor, Master Dickonson; the 
 Reverend Master Dodge, Mistress Dodge. 
 
 Minister Dodge. {Offering his hand.) 
 Master Dickonson, sir — 
 
 Dickon. {Barely touching the minister's 
 fingers, bows charmingly to his wife.) 
 Madam, of all professions in the world, 
 your husband's most allures me. 
 
 Mistress Dodge. 'T is a worthy one, sir. 
 
 Dickon. Ah! Mistress Dodge, and so 
 
 arduous — especially for a minister's wife. 
 
 {He leads her to a chair.) 
 
 Mistress Dodge. {Accepting the chair.) 
 Thank you. 
 
 Minister Dodge. Lord Ravensbane comes 
 from abroad? 
 
 Justice Merton. From London. 
 
 Minister Dodge. An old friend of yours, 
 I understand. 
 
 Justice Merton. From London, yes. 
 Did I say from London ? Quite so ; from 
 London. 
 
 {Enter Micah.) 
 
 Micah. Captain Bugby, the Governor's 
 secretary. {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter Captain Bugby. He walks ivith a 
 slight lameness, and holds daintily in his 
 hand a pipe, from which he puffs wit, 
 dandy deliberation.) 
 
 Captain Bugby. Justice Merton, yo 
 very humble servant. 
 
 Justice Merton. Believe me. Captain 
 Bugby. 
 
 Captain Bugby. {Profusely.) Ah, Mas-. 
 ter Dickonson! my dear friend Master 
 Dickonson — this is, indeed — ah ! How 
 is his lordship since — aha! but discre- 
 
 ns I 
 
 I 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 871 
 
 tion! Mistress Dodge — her servant! 
 Ah! yes — {indicating his pipe with a 
 smile of satisfaction) — the latest, I as- 
 sure you; the very latest from London. 
 Ask Master Diekonson. 
 
 Minister Dodge. {Looking at Captain 
 BuGBY.) These will hatch out in the 
 springtime. 
 
 Captain Bugby. {Confidentially to 
 Dickon.) But really, my good friend, 
 may not I venture to inquire how his 
 lordship — ah! has been in health since 
 the — ah! since — 
 
 Dickon. {Impressively.) Oh ! quite, quite ! 
 
 {Enter Mistress Merton; she joins Jus- 
 tice Merton and Minister Dodge.^ 
 
 Captain Bugby. You know, I informed 
 Squire Talbot of his lordship's epigram- 
 matic retort — his retort of — shh! ha 
 haha! Oh, that reply was a stiletto; 
 't was sharper than a sword-thrust, I as- 
 sure you. To have conceived it — 't was 
 inspiration; but to have expressed it — 
 oh ! 't was genius. Hush ! "Flails" ! 
 Oh! It sticks me now in the ribs. I 
 shall die with concealing it. 
 
 Minister Dodge. {To Mistress Mer- 
 ton.) 'T is true, mistress; but if there 
 were more like your brother in the par- 
 ish, the conscience of the community 
 would be clearer. 
 
 {Enter Micah.) 
 
 MiCAH. The Reverend Master Rand of 
 Harvard College; the Reverend Master 
 Todd of Harvard College. {Exit.) 
 
 {Enter two elderly, straight-hacked di- 
 vines.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {Greeting them.) Per- 
 mit me, gentlemen; this is fortunate — 
 before your return to Cambridge. 
 
 {He conducts them to Mistress Mer- 
 ton and Minister Dodge. Dickon 
 is ingratiating himself with Mis- 
 tress Dodge; Captain Bugby, 
 laughed at hy both parties, is re- 
 ceived hy neither.) 
 Captain Bugby. {Puffing smoke toward 
 the ceiling.) Really, I cannot under- 
 stand what keeps his Excellency, the 
 Lieutenant-Governor, so long. He has 
 two such charming daughters, Master 
 Diekonson — 
 Dickon. {To Mistress Dodge.) Yes, 
 yes; such suspicious women with their 
 I chains are an insult to the virtuous 
 I ladies of the parish. 
 
 Captain BuGBy. How, sir! 
 
 Mistress Dodge. And to think that she 
 
 should actually shoe horses herself! 
 Captain Bugby. {Piqued, walks another 
 
 way.) Well! 
 Rev. Master Rand. {To Justice Mer- 
 ton.) It would not be countenanced in 
 
 the college yard, sir. 
 Rev. Master Todd. A pipe! Nay, mores 
 
 inhihitce! 
 Justice Merton. 'T is most unfortunate, 
 
 gentlemen ; but I understand 't is the new 
 
 vogue in London. 
 
 {Enter Micah.) 
 
 Micah. His Excellency, Sir Charles Red- 
 dington, Lieutenant-Governor; the Mis- 
 tress Reddingtons. 
 
 Captain Bugby. At last ! 
 
 Mistress Merton. {Aside.) Micah. 
 
 (Micah goes to her.) 
 
 {Enter Sir Charles, Mistress Redding- 
 TON, and Amelia Reddington.) 
 
 Justice Merton. Your Excellency, this is, 
 indeed, a distinguished honor. 
 
 Sir Charles. {Shaking hands.) Fine 
 weather, Merton. Where 's your young 
 lord? 
 
 The Two Girls. {Curtsying.) Justice 
 Merton, Mistress Merton. 
 
 (Micah goes out.) 
 
 Captain Bugby. Oh, my dear Mistress 
 Reddington ! Charming Mistress Amelia ! 
 You are so very late, but you shall hear 
 — hush ! 
 
 Mistress Reddington. {Noticing his 
 pipe.) Why, what is this. Captain? 
 
 Captain Bugby. Oh, the latest, I assure 
 you, the very latest. Wait till you see 
 his lordship. 
 
 Amelia. What! isn't he here? {Laugh- 
 ing.) La, Captain! Do look at the 
 man ! 
 
 Captain Bugby. Oh, he 's coming directly. 
 Quite the mode — what? 
 
 {He talks to them aside, where they 
 titter. ) 
 
 Sir Charles. {To Dickon.) What say? 
 Traveling for his health? 
 
 Dickon. Partially, your Excellency; but 
 my young pupil and master is a singu- 
 larly affectionate nature. 
 
 The Two Girls. {To Captain Bugby.) 
 What ! flails — really ! 
 
 {They hurst into laughter among them- 
 selves.) 
 
 Dickon. He has journeyed here to Mas- 
 sachusetts peculiarly to pay this visit to 
 
872 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 Justice Merton — his father's dearest 
 
 friend. 
 Sir Charles. Ah! knew him abroad, eh? 
 Dickon. In Rome, your Excellency. 
 Mistress Dodge. {To Justice Merton.) 
 
 Why, I thought it was in London. 
 Justice Merton. London, true, quite so; 
 
 we made a trip together to Lisbon — ah ! 
 
 Rome. 
 Dickon. Paris, was it not, sir? 
 Justice Merton. {In great distress.) 
 
 Paris, Paris, very true; I am — I am — 
 
 sometimes I am — 
 
 {Enter Micah, right.) 
 
 MiCAH. {Announces.) Lord Ravensbane. 
 
 {Enter right, Ravensbane with Rachel.) 
 
 Justice Merton. {With a gasp of relief.) 
 Ah! his lordship is arrived. 
 
 {Murmurs of "his lordship'' and a 
 flutter among the girls and Captain 
 
 BUGBY.) 
 
 Captain Bugby. Look! — Now! 
 
 Justice Merton. Welcome, my lord! 
 
 {To Sir Charles.) Your Excellency, 
 
 let me introduce — permit me — 
 Ravensbane. Permit me; {addressing 
 
 her) Mistress Rachel! — Mistress Rachel 
 
 will introduce — 
 Rachel. {Curtsying.) Sir Charles, allow 
 
 me to present my friend. Lord Ravens- 
 bane. 
 Mistress Reddington. {Aside to Amelia. ) 
 
 Her friend — did you hear? 
 Sir Charles. Mistress Rachel, I see you 
 
 are as pretty as ever. Lord Ravensbane, 
 
 your hand, sir. 
 Ravensbane. Trust me, your Excellency, 
 
 I will inform his Majesty of your 
 
 courtesy. 
 Captain Bugby. {Watching Ravensbane 
 
 with chagrin. ) On my life ! he 's lost his 
 
 limp. 
 Ravensbane. {Apart to Rachel.) You 
 
 said: "A great glory has descended upon 
 
 this day." 
 Rachel. {Shyly.) My lord! 
 Ravensbane. Be sure — mistress, be 
 
 sure — that this glory is love. 
 Sir Charles. My daughters, Fanny and 
 
 Amelia — Lord Ravensbane. 
 Thk Two Girls. {Curtsying.) Your 
 
 lordship ! 
 Sir Charles. Good girls, but silly. 
 The Two Girls. Papa ! 
 Ravensbane. Believe me, ladies, with the 
 
 true sincerity of the heart. 
 
 Mistress Reddington. Isn't he perfec- 
 tion! 
 
 Captain Bugby. What said I? 
 
 Amelia. {Giggling.) 1 can't help think- 
 ing of flails. 
 
 Sir Charles. {In a loud whisper aside to 
 Justice Merton.) Is it congratulations 
 for your niece? 
 
 Justice Merton. Not — not precisely. 
 
 Dickon. {To Justice Merton.) Youi 
 worship — a word. {Leads him aside.) 
 
 Ravensbane. {Whom Rachel continues 
 to introduce to the guests, speaks to Mas- 
 ter Rand.) Verily, sir, as that prince 
 of poets, the immortal Virgil, has re- 
 marked : 
 
 "Adeo in teneris consuescere multum est." 
 
 Rev. Master Todd. His lordship is evi- 
 dently a university man. 
 
 Rev. Master Rand. Evidently most ac- 
 complished. 
 
 Justice Merton. {Aside to Dickon.) A 
 song! Why, it is beyond all bounds of 
 custom and decorum. 
 
 Dickon. Believe me, there is no such flat- 
 terer to win the maiden heart as music. 
 
 Justice Merton. And here; in this pres- 
 ence ! Never ! 
 
 Dickon. Nevertheless, it will amuse me 
 vastly, and you will announce it. 
 
 Justice Merton. {With hesitant embar- 
 rassment, which he seeks to conceal.) 
 Your Excellency and friends, I have 
 great pleasure in announcing his lord- 
 ship's condescension in consenting to re- 
 gale our present company — with a song. 
 
 Several Voices. {In various degrees of 
 amazement and curiosity.) A song! 
 
 Mistress Merton. Gilead ! What is this ? 
 
 Justice Merton. The selection is a Ger- 
 man ballad — a particular favorite at the 
 court of Prussia, where his lordship last 
 rendered it. His tutor has made a trans- 
 lation which is entitled — 
 
 Dickon. "The Prognostication of the 
 Crows." 
 
 All. Crows ! 
 
 Justice Merton. And I am requested to 
 remind you that in the ancient heathen 
 mythology of Germany, the crow or 
 raven was the fateful bird of the god 
 Woden. 
 
 Captain Bugby, How prodigiously novel! 
 
 Minister Dodge. {Frowning.) Unparal- 
 leled! 
 
 Sir Charles. A ballad ! Come now, that 
 sounds like old England again. Let's 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 873 
 
 have it. Will his lordship sing without 
 music ? 
 Justice Merton. Master Diekonson, hem ! 
 has been — persuaded — to accompany his 
 lordship on the spinet. 
 Amelia. How delightful! 
 Rev. Master Rand. {Aside to Todd.) 
 
 Shall we remain? 
 Rev. Master Todd. We must. 
 Ravensbane. {To Rachel.) My tassel, 
 
 dear mistress; you do not wear it? . 
 Rachel. My heart still wavers, my lord. 
 
 But whilst you sing, I will decide. 
 Ravensbane. Whilst I sing? My fate, 
 
 then, is waiting at the end of a song? 
 Rachel. At the end of a song. 
 Dickon. {Calling to Ravensbane. ) Your 
 
 lordship ! 
 Ravensbane. {Starting, turns to the com- 
 pany.) Permit me. 
 
 (Dickon sits at the spinet. At first, 
 his fingers in playing give sound 
 only to the soft tinkling notes of 
 thaJt ancient instrument; but gradu- 
 ally, strange notes and harmonies of 
 an aerial orchestra mingle with, and 
 at length drown, the' spinet. The 
 final chorus is produced solely hy 
 fantastic symphonic cawings, as of 
 countless croics, in harsh hut musical 
 accord. During the song Richard 
 enters. Dickon's music, however, 
 does not cease hut fills the intervals 
 between the verses. To his accom- 
 paniment, amid the whispered and 
 gradually increasing wonder, resent- 
 ment, and dismay of the assembled 
 guests, Ravensbane, with his eyes 
 fixed upon Rachel, sings.) 
 
 "Baron von Rabentod arose; 
 (The golden sun was rising) 
 Before him flew a flock of crows: 
 
 Sing heigh! Sing heigh! Sing heigh! 
 Sing— 
 
 "111 speed, ill speed thee, baron-wight; 
 111 speed thy palfrey pawing! 
 Blithe is the morn but black the night 
 That hears a raven's cawing." 
 {Chorus.) 
 Caw! Caw! Caw! 
 
 Mistress Dodge. {Whispers to her hus- 
 band.) Did you hear them? 
 
 Minister Dodge. Hush ! 
 
 Amelia. {Sotto voce.) What can it be? 
 
 Captain Bugby. Oh, the latest, be sure. 
 
 Dickon. You note, my friends, the accom- 
 panying harmonics; they are an intrinsic 
 
 part of the ballad, and may not be 
 omitted. 
 Ravensbane. {Sings.) 
 
 "The baron recked not a pin; 
 
 (For the golden sun was rising) 
 He rode to woo, he rode to win; 
 
 Sing heigh! Sing heigh! Sing heigh! 
 Sing— 
 
 "He rode into his prince's hall 
 
 Through knights and damsels flow'ry: 
 'Thy daughter, prince, I bid thee call; 
 I claim her hand and dowry.' " 
 
 {Enter Richard. Mistress Merton seizes 
 his arm nervously) 
 
 Sir Charles. {To Captain Bugby.) 
 This gentleman's playing is rather ven- 
 triloquistical. 
 
 Captain Bugby. Quite, as it were. 
 
 Rev. Master Todd. This smells unholy. 
 
 Rev. Master Rand. {To Todd.) Shall 
 we leave? 
 
 Ravensbane. {Sings.) 
 
 "What cock is this, with crest so high, 
 That crows with such a pother?" 
 
 "Baron von Rabentod am I; 
 Methinks we know each other." 
 
 "Now welcome, welcome, dear guest of mine. 
 So long why didst thou tarry? 
 Now, for the sake of auld lang syne. 
 My daughter thou shalt marry." 
 
 Amelia. {To Bugby.) And he kept right 
 
 on smoking ! 
 Minister Dodge. {Who, with Rand and 
 
 Todd, has risen uneasily.) This smacks 
 
 of witchcraft. 
 Ravensbane. {Sitigs.) 
 
 The bride is brought, the priest as well; 
 
 (The golden sun Avas passing) 
 They stood beside the altar rail; 
 
 Sing ah! Sing ah! Sing ah! Sing — 
 "Woman, with this ring I thee wed." 
 
 What makes his voice so awing? 
 The baron by the bride is dead: 
 
 Outside the crows were cawing. 
 
 {Chorus, which grows tumultuous, 
 seeming to fill the room with the in- 
 visible birds.) 
 
 Caw! Caw! Caw! 
 
 {The guests rise in confusion. Dickon 
 still plays delightedly, and the 
 strange music continues.) 
 
874 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 Minister Dodge. This is no longer godly. 
 
 — Justice Merton ! Justice Merton, sir ! — 
 
 Ravensbane. {To Rachel, who holds his 
 
 tassel in her hand.) Ah! and you have 
 
 my tassel ! 
 
 Rachel. See! I will wear it now. You 
 
 yourself shall fasten it. 
 Ravensbane. Rachel ! Mistress ! 
 Rachel. My dear lord ! 
 
 {As Ravensbane is placing the silken 
 tassel on Rachel's breast to fasten 
 it there, Richard, hy the mirror, 
 takes hold of the curtain strings.) 
 Richard. I told you — witchcraft, like 
 murder will out ! Lovers ! Behold your- 
 selves! {He pulls the curtain hack.) 
 Rachel. {Looking into the glass, screams 
 and turns her gaze fearfully upon Ra- 
 vensbane.) Ah! Do not look! 
 Dickon. {Who, having turned round from 
 the spinet, has leaped forward, now turns 
 back again, biting his finger.) Too late! 
 {In the glass are reflected the figures 
 of Rachel and Ravensbane — 
 Rachel just as she herself appears, 
 but Ravensbane in his essential 
 form of a scarecrow, in every move- 
 ment reflecting Ravensbane's mo- 
 tions. The thing in the glass is 
 about to pin a wisp of corn-silk on 
 the mirrored breast of the maiden.) 
 Ravensbane. What is there? 
 Rachel. {Looking again, starts away 
 from Ravensbane.) Leave me! Leave 
 me ! — Richard ! 
 
 {She faints in Richard's arms.) 
 Ravensbane. Fear not, mistress, I will 
 kill the thing. {Drawing his sword, he 
 rushes at the glass. Within, the scare- 
 crow, with a drawn wheel-spoke, ap- 
 proaches him at equal speed. They 
 come face to face and recoil.) Ah! ah! 
 Fear'st thou me? What art thou? 
 Why, 'tis a glass. Thou mockest me? 
 Look, look, mistress, it mocks me! 
 God, no ! no ! Take it away. Dear God, 
 do not look ! — It is I ! 
 All. {Rushing to the doors.) Witch- 
 craft ! Witchcraft ! 
 
 {As Ravensbane stands frantically 
 confronting his abject reflection, 
 struck in a like posture of despair, 
 the curtain falls.) 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 The scene is the same, hut it is night. The 
 moonj shining in broadly at the window, 
 
 discovers Ravensbane alone, prostrate 
 before the mirror. Raised on one arm to 
 a half-sitting posture, he gazes fixedly at 
 the vaguely seen image of the scarecrow 
 prostrate in the glass. 
 
 Ravensbane. All have left me — but not 
 thou. Rachel has left me; her eyes have 
 turned away from me; she is gone. All 
 that I loved, all that loved me, have left 
 me. A thousand ages — a thousand ages 
 ago, they went away; and thou and I 
 have gazed upon each other's deserted- 
 ness. Speak! and be pitiful! If thou 
 art I, inscrutable image, if thou dost feel 
 these pangs thine own, show then self- 
 mercy; speak! What art thou? What 
 am I? Why are we here? How comes 
 it that we feel and guess and suffer? 
 Nay, though thou answer not these 
 doubts, yet mock them, mock them aloud, 
 even as there, monstrous, thou counter- 
 feitest mine actions. Speak, abject 
 enigma! — Speak, poor shadow, thou — 
 {Recoiling wildly.) Stand back, inan- 
 ity! Thrust not thy mawkish face in 
 pity toward me. Ape and idiot ! Scare- 
 crow! — to console me! Haha! — A flail 
 and broomstick! a cob, a gourd and 
 pumpkin, to fuse and sublimate them- 
 selves into a mage-philosopher, who dis- 
 courseth metaphysics to itself — itself, 
 God! Dost Thou hear? Itself! For 
 even such am I — I whom Thou madest 
 to love Rachel. Why, God — haha! dost 
 Thou dwell in this thing? Is it Thou 
 that peerest forth at me — from me? 
 Why, hark then; Thou shalt listen, and 
 answer — if Thou canst. Between the 
 rise and setting of a sun, I have walked 
 in this world of Thine. I have beeli 
 thrilled with wonder; I have been calmed 
 with knowledge; I have trembled with 
 joy and passion. Power, beauty, love 
 have ravished me. Infinity itself, like a 
 dream, has blazed before me with the 
 certitude of prophecy; and I have cried, 
 "This world, the heavens, time itself, are 
 mine to conquer," and I have thrust 
 forth mine arm to wear Thy shield for- 
 ever — and lo! for my shield Thou reach- 
 est me — a mirror, and whisperest: 
 "Know thyself ! Thou art — a scare- 
 crow: a tinkling clod, a rigmarole of 
 dust, a lump of ordure, contemptible, su- 
 perfluous, inane !" Haha ! Hahaha ! And 
 with such scarecrows Thou dost people 
 a planet! ludicrous! Monstrous! 
 Ludicrous! At least, I thank Thee, 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 875 
 
 God! at least this breathing bathos can 
 laugh at itself. Thou hast vouchsafed 
 to me, Spirit, — hahaha! — to know my- 
 self. Mine, mine is the consummation 
 of man — even self-contempt! (Point- 
 ing in the glass with an agony of deri- 
 sion.) Scarecrow! Scarcrow! Scare- 
 crow! 
 
 The Image in the Glass. (More and 
 more faintly.) Scarecrow! Scarecrow! 
 Scarecrow ! 
 
 (Ravensbane throws himself prone 
 upon the floor, beneath the window, 
 sobbing. There is a pause of si- 
 lence, and the moon shines brighter. 
 — Slowly then Ravensbane, getting 
 to his knees, looks out into the 
 night. ) 
 
 Ravensbane. What face are you, high up 
 through the twinkling leaves? Do you 
 not, like all the rest, turn, aghast, your 
 eyes away from me — me, abject enor- 
 mity, groveling at your feet? Gracious 
 being, do you not fear — despise me? 
 white peace of the world, beneath your 
 gaze the clouds glow silver, and the 
 herded cattle, slumbering far afield, 
 crouch — beautiful. The slough shines 
 lustrous as a bridal veil. Beautiful 
 face, you are Rachel's, and you have 
 changed the world. Nothing is mean, 
 but you have made it miraculous; noth- 
 ing is loathsome, nothing ludicrous, but 
 you have converted it to loveliness, that 
 even this shadow of a mockery myself, 
 cast by your light, gives me the dear 
 assurance I am a man. Rachel, mis- 
 tress, mother, out of my suffering you 
 have brought forth my soul. I am 
 saved ! 
 
 The Image in the Glass. A very pretty 
 sophistry. 
 
 (The moonlight grows dimmer, as at 
 the passing of a cloud.) 
 
 Ravensbaxe. Ah ! what voice has snatched 
 you from me? 
 
 The Image. A most poetified pumpkin! 
 
 Ravensbane. Thing! dost thou speak at 
 last? My soul abhors thee. 
 
 The Image. I am thy soul. 
 
 Ravensbane. Thou liest. 
 
 The Image. Our daddy Dickon and our 
 mother Rickby begot and conceived us at 
 sunrise, in a Jack-o'-lantern. 
 
 Ravensbane. Thou liest, torturing illu- 
 sion. Thou art but a phantom in a glass. 
 
 The Image. Why, very true. So art 
 thou. We are a pretty phantom in a 
 glass. • 
 
 Ravensbane. It is a lie. I am no longer 
 
 thou. I feel it; I am a man. 
 The Image. 
 
 And prithee, what 's a man ? Man 's but 
 
 a mirror, 
 Wherein the imps and angels play charades, 
 Make faces, mope, and pull each other's 
 
 hair — 
 Till crack ! the sly urchin Death shivers the 
 
 glass, 
 And the bare coffin boards show underneath. 
 
 Ravensbane. Yea! if it be so, thou cog- 
 gery! if both of us be indeed but illu- 
 sions, why, now let us end together. 
 But if it be not so, then let me for ever- 
 more be free of thee. Now is the test — 
 the glass! (Springing to the fireplace, 
 he seizes an iron crosspiece from the 
 andirons.) I'll play your urchin Death 
 and shatter it. Let see what shall sur- 
 vive! 
 
 (He rushes to strike the glass with the 
 iron. Dickon steps out of the mir- 
 ror, closing the curtain.) 
 
 Dickon. I would n't, really ! 
 
 Ravensbane. Dickon! dear Dickon! is it 
 you? 
 
 Dickon. Yes, Jacky ! it 's dear Dickon, 
 and I really would n't. 
 
 Ravensbane. Wouldn't what, Dickon? 
 
 Dickon. Sweep the cobwebs off tlie sky 
 with thine aspiring broomstick. When 
 a man questions fate, 't is bad digestion. 
 When a scarecrow does it, 't is bad taste. 
 
 Ravensbane. At last, you will tell me the 
 truth, Dickon! Am I, then — that thing? 
 
 Dickon. You must n't be so skeptical. 
 Of course you 're that thing. 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah me despicable! Rachel, 
 why didst thou ever look upon me? 
 
 Dickon. I fear, cobby, thou hast never 
 studied woman's heart and 'hero-worship. 
 Take thyself now. I remarked to Goody 
 Bess, thy mother, this morning, as I was 
 chucking her thy pate from the hayloft, 
 that thou wouldst make a Mark Antony 
 or an Alexander before night. 
 
 Ravensbane. Cease! cease! in pity^s 
 name. You do not know the agony of 
 being ridiculous. 
 
 Dickon. Nay, Jacky, all mortals are 
 ridiculous. Like you, they were rum- 
 maged out of the muck; and like you, 
 they shall return to the dunghill. I ad- 
 vise 'em, like you, to enjoy the interim, 
 and smoke. 
 
 Ravensbane. This pipe, this ludicrous 
 pipe that I forever set to my lips and 
 puff! Why must I, Dickon? Why? 
 
876 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 Dickon. To avoid extinction — merely. 
 You see, 't is just as your fellow in there 
 {pointing to the glass) explained. You 
 yourself are the subtlest of mirrors, pol- 
 ished out of pumpkin and pipe-smoke. 
 Into this mirror the fair Mistress Rachel 
 has projected her lovely image, and thus 
 provided you with what men call a soul. 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah! then, I have a soul — 
 the truth of me? Mistress Rachel has 
 indeed made me a man? 
 
 Dickon. Don't flatter thyself, cobby. 
 Break thy pipe, and whiff — soul, Mis- 
 tress Rachel, man, truth, and this pretty 
 world itself, go up in the last smoke. 
 
 Ravensbane. No, no ! not Mistress Rachel. 
 
 Dickon. Mistress Rachel exists for your 
 lordship merely in your lordship's pipe- 
 bowl. 
 
 Ravensbane. Wretched, niggling carica- 
 ture that I am! All is lost to me — 
 lost! 
 
 Dickon. "Paradise Lost" again! Always 
 blaming it on me. There's that gaunt 
 fellow in England has lately wrote a 
 parody on me when I was in the apple 
 business. 
 
 Ravensbane. {Falling on his Jcnees and 
 bowing his head.) God! I am so con- 
 temptible ! 
 
 {Enter, at door hack, Goody Rickey; her 
 blacksmith garh is hidden under a dingy 
 black mantle with a peaked hood.) 
 
 Dickon. Good verse, too, for a parody! 
 {Ruminating, raises one arm rhetori- 
 cally above Ravensbane.) 
 
 — "Farewell, happy fields 
 Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors; 
 
 hail, 
 Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest hell, 
 Receive thy new possessor." 
 
 Goody Rickby. {Seizing his arm.) Dickon ! 
 
 Dickon. Hullo! You, Bess! 
 
 Goody Rickby. There 's not a minute to 
 lose. Justice Merton and the neighbors 
 have ended their conference at Minister 
 Dodge's, and are returning here. 
 
 Dickon. Well, let 'em come. We're 
 ready. 
 
 Goody Rickby. But thou toldst me they 
 had discovered — 
 
 Dickon. A scarecrow in a mirror. Well ? 
 The glass is bewitched; that's all. 
 
 Goody Rickby. All? Witchcraft is hang- 
 ing — that 's all ! And the mirror was 
 
 bought of me — of me, the witch. Wilt 
 thou be my hangman, Dickon? 
 
 Dickon. Wilt thou give me a kiss, 
 Goody? When did ever thy Dickon de- 
 sert thee? 
 
 Goody Rickby. But how, boy, wilt thou — 
 
 Dickon. Trust me, and thy son. When 
 the Justice's niece is thy daughter-in-law, 
 all will be safe. For the Justice will 
 cherish his niece's family. 
 
 Goody Rickby. But when he knows — 
 
 Dickon. But he shall not know. How 
 can he? When the glass is denounced 
 as a fraud, how will he, or any person, 
 ever know that we made this fellow out 
 of rubbish? Who, forsooth, but a poet 
 — or a devil — would believe it? You 
 mustn't credit men with our imagina- 
 tions, my dear. 
 
 Goody Rickby. Then thou wilt pull me 
 through this safe? 
 
 Dickon. As I adore thee — and my own 
 reputation. 
 
 Goody Rickby. {At the window.) I see 
 their lanterns down the road. 
 
 Dickon. Stay, marchioness — his lordship! 
 My lord — your lady mother. 
 
 Goody Rickby. ( Curtsying, laughs shrilly. ) 
 Your servant — my son ! 
 
 {About to depart.) 
 
 Ravensbane. Ye lie ! both of you ! — I was 
 bom of Rachel. 
 
 Dickon. Tut, tut, Jacky ; you must n't 
 mix up mothers and prospective wives at 
 your age. It 's fatal. 
 
 Goody Rickby. {Excitedly.) They're 
 coming! {Exit.) 
 
 Dickon. {Calling after her.) Fear not; 
 I '11 overtake thee. 
 
 Ravensbane. She is coming; Rachel is 
 coming, and I may not look upon her!" 
 
 Dickon. Eh? Why not? 
 
 Ravensbane. I am a monster. 
 
 Dickon. Fie! fie! Thou shalt have her. 
 
 Ravensbane. Have her, Dickon? 
 
 Dickon. For lover and wife. 
 
 Ravensbane. For wife? 
 
 Dickon. For wife and all. Thou hast 
 but to obey. 
 
 Ravensbane. Ah! who will do this for 
 me? 
 
 Dickon. I ! 
 
 Ravensbane. Dickon! Wilt make me a 
 man — a man and worthy of her? 
 
 Dickon. Fiddlededee! I make over no 
 masterpieces. Thy mistress shall be 
 Cinderella, and drive to her palace with 
 her gilded pumpkin. 
 
 Ravensbane. It is the end. 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 877 
 
 Dickon. What! You'll not? 
 
 Ravensbane. Never. 
 
 Dickon. Harkee, manikin. Hast thou 
 
 learned to suffer? 
 Ravensbane. {Wringing his hands.) 
 
 God! 
 Dickon. I taught thee. Shall I teach 
 
 thee further? 
 Ravensbane. Thou canst not. 
 Dickon. Cannot— ha! What if I should 
 
 teach Rachel, too? 
 Ravensbane. Rachel! — Ah! now I know 
 
 thee. 
 Dickon. (Bowing.) Flattered. 
 Ravensbane. Devil! Thou wouldst not 
 
 torment Rachel? 
 Dickon. Not if my lord — 
 Ravensbane. Speak! What must I do? 
 Dickon. Not speak. Be silent, my lord, 
 
 and acquiesce in all I say. 
 Ravensbane. I will be silent, 
 Dickon. And acquiesce? 
 Ravensbane. I will be silent. , 
 
 (Enter Minister Dodge, accompanied hy 
 Sir Charles Reddington, Captain 
 BuGBY, the Reverend Masters Rand 
 and Todd, and followed hy Justice Mer- 
 TON, Richard, Mistress Merton, and 
 Rachel. Richard and Rachel stand 
 somewhat apart, Rachel drawing close 
 to Richard and hiding her face. All 
 wear their outer wraps, and two or three 
 hold lanterns, which, save the moon, 
 throw the only light upon the scene. All 
 enter solemn and silent.) 
 
 Minister Dodge. Lord, be Thou present 
 with us, in this unholy spot! 
 
 Several Men's Voices. Amen. 
 
 Dickon. Friends! Have you seized her? 
 
 Minister Dodge. Stand from us. 
 
 Dickon. Sir, the witch! Surely you did 
 not let her escape? 
 
 All. The witch? 
 
 Dickon. A dame in a peaked hood. She 
 has but now fled the house. She called 
 herself — Goody Rickby. 
 
 All. Goody Rickby! 
 
 Mistress Merton. She here! 
 
 Dickon. Yea, mistress, and hath con- 
 fessed all the damnable art, by which all 
 of us have lately been so terrorized. 
 
 Justice Merton. What confessed she? 
 
 Minister Dodge. What said she? 
 
 Dickon. This: It appeareth that, for 
 some time past, she hath cherished re- 
 vengeful thoughts against our honored 
 host, Justice Merton. 
 
 Minister Dodge. Yea, he hath often 
 
 righteously condemned her! 
 Dickon. Precisely! So, in revenge, she 
 bewitched yonder mirror, and this very 
 morning unlawfully inveigled this sweet 
 young lady into purchasing it. 
 Sir Charles. Mistress Rachel! 
 Minister Dodge. (To Rachel.) Didst 
 
 thou purchase that glass? 
 Rachel. (In a low voice.) Yes. 
 Minister Dodge. From Goody Rickby? 
 Rachel. Yes. (Clinging to Richard.) 
 
 0, Richard ! 
 Minister Dodge. But the image; what 
 
 was the damnable image in the glass? 
 Dickon. A familiar devil of hers — a sly 
 imp, who wears to mortal eyes the shape 
 of a scarecrow. It seems she commanded 
 this devil to reveal himself in the glass 
 as my lord's own image, that thus she 
 might wreck Justice Merton's family fe- 
 licity. 
 Minister Dodge. Infamous! 
 Dickon. Indeed, sir, it was this very devil 
 whom but now she stole here to consult 
 withal, when she encountered me, at- 
 tendant here upon my poor prostrate 
 lord, and — held by the wrath in my eye 
 — confessed it all. 
 Sir Charles. Thunder and brimstone! 
 
 Where is this accursed hag? 
 Dickon. Alas — gone, gone! If you had 
 
 but stopped her. 
 Minister Dodge. I know her den — the 
 blacksmith shop. Let us seize her there ! 
 Sir Charles. (Starting.) Which way? 
 Minister Dodge. To the left. 
 Sir Charles. Go on, there. 
 Minister Dodge. My honored friends, 
 come with us. Heaven shield, with her 
 guilt, the innocent! 
 
 (Exeunt all hut Richard, Rachel, 
 Dickon, and Ravensbane.) 
 Dickon. So, then, dear friends, this 
 strange incident is happily elucidated. 
 Bygones, therefore, be bygones. The 
 future brightens — with orange-blossoms. 
 Hymen and Felicity stand with us here 
 ready to unite two amorous and bashful 
 lovers. His lordship is reticent; yet to 
 you alone, of all beautiful ladies. Mistress 
 Rachel — 
 Ravensbane. (In a mighty voice.) Si- 
 lence ! 
 Dickon. My lord would — 
 Ravensbane. Silence ! Dare not to speak 
 
 to her! 
 Dickon. (Biting his lip.) My babe is 
 weaned. 
 
878 
 
 THE SCARECROW 
 
 {He steps hack, and disappears, left, 
 in the dimness.) 
 
 Rachel. {Still at Richard's side.) Oh, 
 my lord, if I have made you suffer — 
 
 Richard. {Appealingly.) Rachel! 
 
 Ravensbane. {Approaching her, raises 
 one arm to screen his face.) Gracious 
 lady! let fall your eyes; look not upon 
 me. If I dare now speak once more to 
 you, 't is because I would have you know 
 — Oh, forgive me! — that I love you. 
 
 Richard. Sir! This lady has renewed 
 her promise to be my wife. 
 
 Ravensbane. Your wife, or not, I love 
 her. 
 
 Richard. Zounds ! 
 
 Ravensbane. Forbear, and hear me! 
 For one wonderful day I have gazed 
 upon this, your world. A million forms 
 — of trees, of stones, of stars, of men, 
 of common things — have swum like motes 
 before my eyes ; but one alone was wholly 
 beautiful. That form was Rachel: to 
 her alone I was not ludicrous; to her I 
 also was beautiful. Therefore, I love 
 her. 
 
 Richard. Sir ! 
 
 Ravensbane. You talk to me of moth- 
 ers, mistresses, lovers, and wives and sis- 
 ters, and you say men love these. What 
 is love? The night and day of the 
 world — the all of life, the all which must 
 include both you and me and God, of 
 whom you dream. Well, then, I love 
 you, Rachel. What shall prevent me? 
 Mistress, mother, wife — thou art all to 
 me! 
 
 Richard. My lord, I can only reply for 
 Mistress Rachel, that you speak like one 
 who does not understand this world. 
 
 Ravensbane. 0, God! sir, and do you? 
 If so, tell me — tell me before it be too 
 late — why, in this world, such a thing as 
 I can love and talk of love. Why, in 
 this world, a true man and woman, like 
 you and your betrothed, can look upon 
 this counterfeit and be deceived. 
 
 Rachel and Richard. Counterfeit? 
 
 Ravensbane. Me — on me — the ignominy 
 
 of the earth, the laughing-stock of the 
 angels ! 
 
 Rachel. Are you not Lord Ravensbane? 
 
 Ravensbane. No, I am not Lord Ravens- 
 bane. I am a nobleman of husks, be- 
 witched from a pumpkin. I am Lord 
 Scarecrow ! 
 
 Rachel. Ah me, the image in the glass 
 was true? 
 
 Ravensbane. Yes, true. It is the glass 
 of truth — Thank God for you, dear. 
 
 Dickon. {His face only reappearing in 
 the mirror, speaks low.) Remember! if 
 you dare — Rachel shall suffer for it. 
 
 Ravensbane. You lie. She is above your 
 power. 
 
 Dickon. Still, thou darest not — 
 
 Ravensbane. Fool, I dare. (Ravens- 
 bane turns to Rachel. While he speaks, 
 Dickon's face slowly fades and disap- 
 pears.) Mistress, this pipe is I. This 
 intermittent smoke holds, in its nebula, 
 Venus, Mars, the world. If I should 
 break it — chaos and the dark ! And this 
 of me that now stands up will sink jum- 
 bled upon the floor — a scarecrow. See! 
 I break it. {He breaks the pipe in his 
 hands, and flings the pieces to the 
 ground; then turns, agonized, to 
 Rachel.) Oh, Rachel, could I have 
 been a man — ! 
 
 {He sways, staggering.) 
 
 Rachel. Richard ! Richard ! support him. 
 {She draws the curtain of the mirror, 
 just opposite which Ravensbane has 
 sunk upon the floor. At her cry, he 
 starts up faintly and gazes at his reflec- 
 tion, which is seen to he a normal image 
 of himself.) Look, look: the glass! 
 
 Ravensbane. Who is it? 
 
 Rachel. Yourself, my lord — 't is the glass 
 of truth. 
 
 Ravensbane. {His face lighting with an 
 exalted joy, starts to his feet, erect, he- 
 fore the glass.) A man! {He falls 
 back into the arms of the two lovers.) 
 Rachel ! 
 
 Richard. {Bending over him.) Dead! 
 
 Rachel. {With an exalted look.) But a 
 man! 
 
THE BOSS 
 
 BY 
 
 Edward Sheldon 
 
Copyright 1911, 1916, by Edward Brewster Sheldon 
 
 All Eights Reserved 
 Printed, for the first time, by permission of the author. 
 
THE BOSS 
 
 The Boss represents the play dealing with political and business interests. 
 Its author, Edward Brewster Sheldon, was born in Chicago, February 4, 1886, 
 the son of Theodore and Mary Strong Sheldon. He graduated from Harvard 
 College in 1907, and took the degree of A.M. from Harvard University in 1908. 
 He had been interested in the writing of plays while an undergraduate, and had 
 his first professional success in little more than a year after graduation. 
 
 On November 12, 1908, at the Opera House, Providence, Rhode Island, Mrs. 
 Fiske produced his play, Salvation Nell, which was a stage success. A com- 
 plete list of his plays since then includes The Nigger, produced first at the 
 New Theatre, New York City, December 4, 1909; The Boss (1911); Princess 
 Zim-Zim, played first at the Harmanus Bleecker Hall, Albany, New York, 
 December 4, 1911; Egypt, first played at The Playhouse, Hudson, New York, 
 September 18, 1912; The High Road, produced first at His Majesty's Theatre, 
 Montreal, Canada, October 14, 1912; Romance, played first at Harmanus 
 Bleecker Hall, Albany, February 6, 1913, and The Garden of Paradise, first 
 produced at the Park Theatre, November 28, 1914. ]\Ir. Sheldon also dramatized 
 Das Hohe Lied of Hermann Sudermann in 1914, under the title of The Song of 
 Songs, adapting the original to American conditions.. It was, however, not a 
 success from a dramatic standpoint. 
 
 The most important plays of Mr. Sheldon are Salvation Nell, The Nigger, 
 The Boss, Romance, and The Garden of Paradise. In these plays he has 
 treated five quite different themes, and shown a dramatic craftmanship, at times, 
 of a high order. Salvation Nell reproduced with fidelity scenes in the street 
 life of New York City, and placed against a background of drunkenness and 
 vice, the work of the Salvation Army. The Nigger showed real power in treat- 
 ing the theme of a young Southerner with political ambitions and great family 
 pride who finds that he is of mixed blood. The ending is somewhat inconclusive, 
 but there are portions of the play, such as the letter of the quadroon to her 
 master, which are remarkable pieces of writing. 
 
 The Boss was the third of these realistic studies of American life. Business 
 and politics form the background, but the attention of the audience is centred 
 upon the relations of ''Regan" and his wife. They are strongly contrasted types 
 and at first glance their union seems impossible. Yet Mr. Sheldon has indi- 
 cated unobtrusively enough but surely with sufficient definiteness, the inherent 
 attraction which the strength of ' ' Regan ' ' had for ' ' Emily Griswold ' ' and the way 
 
 881 
 
882 INTRODUCTION 
 
 in which her pity and sympathy finally turned to something deeper. The play- 
 wright has avoided the temptation to make ''The Boss" a hero; he is a very 
 human person, and the acting of Mr. Holbrook Blinn in the part was masterly. 
 For these reasons the play was selected to represent Mr. Sheldon's work, since 
 Salvation Nell was hardly available as a play for reading and study, and copy- 
 right considerations prevented the inclusion of Romance. Romance is so far 
 his greatest play, and the remarkable acting of Miss Doris Keane as Madame 
 Cavallini, the Italian opera singer whose love story is the theme of the drama, 
 illustrated again the great strength of Mr. Sheldon, his ability as a practical 
 playwright. Romance was produced at the Lyric Theatre, London, on Septem- 
 ber 30, 1915. Miss Keane gave 1128 performances of Romance in London and 
 it has been played in Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, British India, 
 Egypt, Christiana, Stockholm, and the Swedish Provinces. 
 
 The Garden of Paradise is a dramatization of the story of The Little Mer- 
 maid, by Hans Andersen, with the love note dominant. While this is pure 
 romance, it is, of all Mr. Sheldon's work, most distinctly a piece of literature, 
 and he has shown his versatility in turning from the realistic study to the poetic 
 interpretation of fairy life. 
 
 The Boss was first produced at the Garrick Theatre, Detroit, Michigan, 
 January 9, 1911. It was played first in New York City at the Astor Theatre, 
 January 30, 1911. 
 
 The Nigger (1910), Romance (1914), and The Garden of Paradise (1915) 
 have been published by the Macmillan Company. The Boss is now printed for 
 the first time from the manuscript especially prepared by Mr. Sheldon for this 
 collection. The editor is indebted to the courtesy of the author for permission 
 to print the play. For details concerning the play he has to thank Mr. Sheldon 
 and his agent. Miss Alice Kauser. 
 
 For criticism of The Boss, see J. E. Metcalfe, in Life, Vol. 57, pp. 308-9,. 
 February 9, 1911, and The Theatre, Vol. 13, pp. vi-viii, March, 1911. 
 
THE ORIGINAL CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 In the order of their first appearance 
 
 GARRICK THEATRE, DETROIT, MICHIGAN, JANUARY 9, 1911 
 
 James D, Griswold, of Griswold and Company, Contractors, Mr. Henry "Weaver 
 
 Donald Griswold, his son Mr. Howard Estabrook 
 
 Emily Griswold, his daughter Miss Emily Stevens 
 
 Mitchell, Mr. Griswold 's butler Mr. Henry Sargent 
 
 Lawrence Duncan Mr. Kenneth Hill 
 
 Michael R. Regan, of Regan and Company, Contractors . . .Mr. Holbrook Blinn 
 
 Davis, his private secretary •. Mr. J. Hammond Dailey 
 
 Mrs. Cutler Miss Ruth Benson 
 
 Gates, Mrs. Regan's butler Mr. John M. Troughton 
 
 ''Porky" McCoy, Regan's representative in the Fourth Ward 
 
 Mr. H. A. LaMotte 
 
 ScANLAN Mr. Wilmer Dame 
 
 Archbishop Sullivan Mr. Frank Sheridan 
 
 A Cook Miss Bella Paul 
 
 A French Maid Miss Rose Wincott 
 
 Lieutenant of Police Mr. Frank Julian 
 
 A Police Officer Mr. James MacDonald 
 
 Another Police Officer Mr. H. G. Weir 
 
ACT I 
 *Mr. Griswold's drawing-room, the afternoon of Oct. 28th. 
 
 ACT II 
 Mr. Regan's library. The evening of April 29th. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 The same. The following morning. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Inspector's room at the Police Station, three days later. 
 
 Place — One of the Eastern lake-ports. 
 Time — Now. 
 
THE BOSS 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Griswold's drawing room, the afternoon of 
 Oct. 28th. At the hack, double 'doors 
 leading into the hall, which can he seen 
 when the doors are opened. A newel 
 post and halustrade leading upstairs are 
 also seen in the hall. At right two large 
 windows looking upon the lawn and 
 street beyond. To right — front, near the 
 windows, is a low tea table, at present 
 occupied by cigarette box, ash tray, and 
 flowers. To the right at hack is a baby 
 grand piano, facing the windows. Near 
 this is a big grandfather chair. Other 
 chairs, smaller table. In several large 
 vases on tables, piano, and the mantel- 
 piece, are quantities of superb American 
 Beauty roses. They strike the eye at 
 once. At left the fireplace. 
 
 As the curtain rises, Griswold is seen walk- 
 ing nervously to and fro. He is a well- 
 bred man of fifty or so, carefully and 
 soberly dressed. He looks very worried, 
 and keeps glancing at his watch. He 
 stops to throw the stump of his cigar 
 into the grate, then lights another and 
 recommences his restless walk. Sud- 
 denly he stops at the ivindow, glances 
 out, then goes quickly to the door at back, 
 opens it and listens. The closing of the 
 front door is heard. 
 
 Griswold. {Calling.) That you, Don- 
 ald? 
 Donald. {Outside.) Yes. 
 Griswold. Come in here. 
 
 (Donald appears still in his overcoat and 
 gloves, a newspaper under his arm. He 
 is a distinguished-looking, brilliant, eager 
 young man of about thirty. The fol- 
 lowing scene is to be played at high ten- 
 sion by both men, — sharply, quickly, 
 nervously.) 
 
 Now what did he say? 
 Donald. Wait till I shut the door. 
 
 {He does so.) 
 Griswold. Well? 
 Donald. ( Turning. ) It 's all right — he 
 
 says he '11 come here at five and talk it 
 
 over. {Flits hat and paper on piano.) 
 
 Griswold. {Infinitely relieved.) Thank 
 God ! You 've been just an hour and 
 five minutes. I didn't know what to 
 think! 
 
 Donald. {Taking off his gloves at piano.) 
 He kept me waiting. His office is jam 
 full. 
 
 Griswold. {Quickly.) D 'you think the 
 people know, then? 
 
 Donald. Know what? 
 
 Griswold. That he's pushed us out of 
 business. 
 
 Donald. {Takes off his coat, puts it on 
 the piano.) Not yet. Remember — the 
 Western Amalgamated only went over 
 to him to-day. When did they wire us? 
 About two o'clock? 
 
 Griswold. {Turning away.) All the 
 rest '11 follow suit within a month ! 
 
 Donald. {Takes up newspaper.) Steady, 
 father ! 
 
 Griswold. Did you have any chance to 
 talk to him? 
 
 Donald. Not much. He chewed a big 
 cigar and put his feet on the desk, and 
 told me he 'd had his eyes on our grain- 
 contracts ever since he began handling 
 freight in '92. 
 
 Griswold. Of course he wanted them — 
 why, they 're the big reason this city has 
 for existing! Half the wheat that goes 
 into the world gets there through this 
 port! 
 
 Donald. {Half to himself.) I wish I'd 
 smashed him in the face — right before 
 his stenographers! 
 
 Griswold. {Walking up and down.) 
 I 've run the business as well as I could. 
 I felt a public responsibility — you know 
 that! 
 
 Donald. And now this Irish tough of an 
 ex-barkeep has come along and swindled 
 and blackjacked and knifed his way up 
 to the place you 've — 
 
 Griswold. {Stopping him.) Don't, my 
 boy, don't! He'll be here in half an 
 hour. We 've got to keep cool and think ! 
 
 Donald. {Continuing his own line of 
 thought.) Why, we could have managed 
 him if we 'd been willing to stoop a bit 
 and dabble in his own dirt! 
 
 885 
 
886 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Griswold. {Desperately.) We must 
 think— that 's it !— think ! 
 
 Donald. {Satirically.) You could have 
 put him up at the clubs, introduced him 
 to Emily, had him here to the house — 
 I could have clapped him on the back, 
 called him by the first name — {Angrily.) 
 That 's what he wanted ! He 'd have 
 paid for that! 
 
 Griswold. Donald ! Drop it ! We 've got 
 just an hour to get up something before 
 he comes! 
 
 Donald. But he's a disgrace to the city! 
 He knows it, and he knows we know it, 
 and that 's why he hates us so ! 
 {Sharply.) Father, let me ring him up 
 and tell him we 've changed our minds — 
 we '11 get on without any arbitrating ! 
 
 Griswold. Not let him come? 
 
 Donald. Yes. What's the use? He's 
 just doing it to gloat over us. He hopes 
 we 're going to crawl and whine ! He 'd 
 enjoy that! 
 
 Griswold. I don't care. I 've got to see 
 him and find out if there is n't some way 
 out. 
 
 Donald. There is n't. 
 
 Griswold. There must be! My boy, 
 d 'you realize what we 're in for f 
 
 Donald. Do I? 
 
 Griswold. It is n't as if the monej^ were 
 the only thing! 
 
 Donald. {Soothingly.) I know that. 
 
 Griswold. It 's the integrity of the firm 
 — it 's my own good name — 
 
 Donald. Please, father! 
 
 Griswold. Those notes — those savings- 
 bank notes — what about them ? They 're 
 due on December 1st. If we fail I can't 
 meet them — those banks '11 go under like 
 that — {Snaps fingers.) 
 
 Donald. Stop, father, don't! 
 
 Griswold. And, Donald, d 'you know 
 what those stockholders are going to say ? 
 They 're going to say, "He was a director 
 — Griswold was a director, and — " 
 
 {Door closes off stage.) 
 
 Donald. {Interrupting.) That sounds 
 like the front door. 
 
 Griswold. AYhat — ? 
 
 Donald. {Goes to the door, opens it, 
 listens. Then, reassuringly.) It's all 
 right! Just Emily. 
 
 (Emily Griswold appears. She is a bril- 
 liant, beautiful, assured young woman of 
 about 28, dressed very simply for the 
 street, wearing furs.) 
 
 Emily. {Stopping on seeing them.) 
 
 Hello! Whatever made you two come 
 home so early — {Suddenly.) Dad, 
 you 're ill ! You 're white as a sheet ! 
 Don — {Frightened.) Why, what's the 
 matter? What 's happened? 
 
 Donald. Nothing. Nothing at all. 
 
 Emily. Yes, there is. Oh, tell me, please, 
 quick ! 
 
 Griswold. It 's all right, dear, Donald 
 and I have to talk business with a man 
 we could n't very well ask to the office, 
 so I suggested his coming here. You 
 aren't expecting anyone to tea, are you? 
 
 Emily. Just Laurie Duncan — he does n't 
 count. {Still anxiously.) Oh, dad, you 
 do look dreadfully! 
 
 Griswold. Then we can use this room — 
 yes, that would be better than taking him 
 upstairs. 
 
 Emily. Him? 
 
 Griswold. You see, it 's "Shindy Mike." 
 
 E:mily. {Surprised.) You don't mean 
 Regan. {Slight pause. She looks at 
 Donald^ then back to Griswold.) 
 What have you two got to see Regan 
 about? 
 
 Donald. Oh, a lot of things a woman 
 would n't understand. 
 
 {Buries himself in a newspaper.) 
 
 Emily. Don't be so snappy, Don! 
 
 Donald. {Over paper.) You may be all 
 right down in the slums but you 're no 
 good when it comes to business. D 'you 
 hear? No earthly good! 
 
 Emily. You 're evidently in one of your 
 fox-terrier moods to-day. 
 
 Donald. Well, is she, father? 
 
 Griswold. {Nervously,) Stop squab- 
 bhng, please. 
 
 Emily. {Protesting.) But, dad, I — 
 
 Griswold. {Interrupting.) How's my" 
 young scientific philanthropist? You've 
 spent the whole afternoon in your be- 
 loved slums, haven't you? Well, where 
 did you go? 
 
 Emily. {Taking off her furs.) Oh, down 
 in the Fourth Ward, around the docks. 
 
 Griswold. Regan's district. 
 
 {He becomes lost in his own thoughts.) 
 
 Emily. Yes. Oh, it 's too sorrowful ! 
 The men spend all their wages on drink, 
 so of course the women can't feed the 
 children and they have n't any shoes or 
 coal — think of it! — with the winter com- 
 ing on! And the w^orst of it is they 
 don't really care. They just seem tired 
 and listless and they say they can't help 
 it and that I don't understand. Well, 
 perhaps I don't, but every time I see 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 887 
 
 their faces I feel all of a sudden how 
 much the world is can-ying on its back, 
 and it makes me want to cry, because 
 there's so little, so awfully little that 
 I can do to help. 
 
 Donald. That 's perfectly true, so why 
 don't you drop it, Emily, and act like 
 other girls ? Those people can get on 
 without you. You're not so important 
 as all that. 
 
 Emily. (Smiling.) As a matter of "fact, 
 I 'm awfully important. 
 
 Donald. What? 
 
 Emily. You ought to hear what Mrs. 
 Moriarity said to Mrs. Scanlan about 
 me! 
 
 Donald. Oh ! 
 
 Emily. She said if the angels weren't 
 built on my style, not even God could 
 make her go to Heaven ! 
 
 Donald. (Grinning.) Mrs. Moriarity 
 must be somewhat of a humorist. 
 
 Emily. So don't ask me to stop working 
 — I won't! Not until I have a big club 
 house for the men, and a cooking school 
 for the women — 
 
 Donald. (Interrupting.) And an incu- 
 bator for the children. That it? 
 
 Emily. (Smiling.) Yes, that's it. 
 
 Griswold. (To Donald.) Are you sure 
 he said five o'clock? 
 
 Donald. Yes, why? It's only twenty- 
 five minutes now. 
 
 (Glances at watch and clock and looks 
 out of window.) 
 
 Emily. (Annoyed.) Dad, you haven't 
 listened to one word I 've been saying. 
 
 Griswold. (Rousing himself.) Haven't 
 I, dear ? I 'm awfully sorry, but I 've 
 got so much on my mind. 
 
 Emily. ' I know it ! Something is the mat- 
 ter ! Dad, I feel so guilty. I 've spent 
 the whole day down in the ward and 
 you 've been in trouble and I have n't 
 been here to help you. I don't think 
 your Emily 's much good after all. But 
 please forgive her, dear, for my sake, 
 and tell me all about it. 
 
 Donald. (Wamingly.) Now, father! 
 
 Griswold. Nothing, dear. I said so once. 
 
 Emily. Wait a moment — (Looking up 
 and speaking positively.) It's Regan. 
 
 Donald. Now, Emily, we have to talk 
 business, and there is n't much time, 
 so run along, dear, please ! D 'you 
 mind? 
 
 (He takes her by her arms and pushes 
 her toward the door.) 
 
 Emily. (Shaking him off.) Yes, of 
 
 course I mind. I 'm going to stay and 
 
 hear what you have to say. 
 Donald. No, you're not! 
 
 (Goes to table.) 
 Emily. Don, stop contradicting me! 
 
 Even though I am a girl, I 'm one of the 
 
 family and I intend to be consulted 
 
 whenever anything important is going 
 
 on! 
 Donald. This is private, though. D 'you 
 
 hear? Private! 
 Emily. (Obstinately.) I don't care if it 
 
 is or not. 
 Donald. (Fuming.) Father, make her 
 
 go away! 
 Griswold. (Soothingly.) Now, dear, 
 
 please — 
 Emily. (Interrupting suddenly.) I know 
 
 what it is ! Will you tell me if I 'm 
 
 right? 
 Donald. You don't know anything about 
 
 it. 
 Emily. Don't I, though? Regan's try- 
 ing to steal dad's contracts with the 
 
 grain companies! 
 Donald. Emily, you make me tired! 
 Emily. (Turning to Griswold.) Isn't 
 
 that right, dear? 
 Griswold. No. 
 Donald. (To Emily, approvingly.) 
 
 There! What did I tell you! 
 Griswold. (In dry emotion.) He has 
 
 stolen them. He 's done us, Emily. 
 Emily. (Gasping.) What? 
 Donald. (Sharply.) Father, d 'you think 
 
 this is wise? 
 Griswold. She 's got to hear it sooner or 
 
 later ! 
 Emily. (With parted lips.) You don't 
 
 mean — ^the Western — 
 Griswold. Yes, the Western went over to 
 
 him to-day. 
 Emily. But the others? 
 Griswold. They'll follow like sheep. 
 
 No, we 're finished this time — finished ! 
 
 (He turns away quickly.) 
 Emily. (Rushing to him.) But, Dad, 
 
 you must n't give up ! You must ar- 
 range it with him — discuss it, come to an 
 
 understanding. 
 Griswold. That 's why we 've asked him 
 
 here this afternoon, but — 
 
 (He makes a despairing gesture.) 
 Emily. (Imploringly.) Don, can't you 
 
 manage it somehow? 
 Donald. I '11 do my best. ( With a 
 
 smothered exclamation.) If we could 
 
 get him to keep those thieving hands off 
 
 the Western for one month — only one 
 
888 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 month! — couldn't I make him lie down 
 and take the count! 
 
 Emily. {Eagerly.) How? 
 
 Donald. The easiest thing in the world. 
 
 Emily. Well, tell us. 
 
 Griswold. Go on, -my boy. 
 
 DoxALD. I 'd get his men to strike. 
 
 Emily. Get his men to strike? Could 
 you do it? 
 
 Donald. Could I? Good Lord! Why, 
 they 're just like a powder magazine 
 waiting for the match ! All they need is 
 a leader who 's studied law and has a 
 little nerv^e. 
 
 Griswold. How many of them are there? 
 
 Donald. Over eight thousand. And sick 
 to death of being rounded up like Texas 
 steers with a gang of toughs for cow- 
 boys! I could get after his liquor sys- 
 tem, too — the public now doesn't even 
 realize he has one! 
 
 Emily. His liquor system? 
 
 Griswold. {Pointing to Emily.) There 
 — you see! 
 
 Emily. What is his liquor system, Don? 
 
 Donald. {Rather impatiently.) Why, it 's 
 his money that is back of every saloon in 
 the Fourth Ward and each employee who 
 won't leave half his wages on a Regan 
 bar before he goes home Saturday night 
 gets his quit notice when the whistle 
 blows on Monday morning. 
 
 Emily. {Shocked.) Is that true? 
 
 Donald. True? Of course it's true! 
 And that 's just one of the little tricks 
 that have made him what he is to-day! 
 
 Emily. Then that 's why the men come 
 home drunk, and the children have no 
 food, and the women say I don't under- 
 stand. 
 
 Donald. People say that Shindy's out 
 for the dollar ! It 's a lie — he 's out for 
 the dime. And you can take it from me 
 that every penny he owns he 's ripped 
 out of a human heart ! 
 
 Emily. Don ! Why did n't you tell me 
 this before? 
 
 Donald. What's the matter? 
 
 Emily. I 've met him! 
 
 Griswold. Regan? 
 
 Donald. Where ? 
 
 Emily. At a dinner the Streeters gave. 
 He rides in the park. Why, we cantered 
 around the bridle-path twice only this 
 morning ! 
 
 Donald. {In strong reproof.) Emily! 
 
 Griswold. My child! 
 
 Emily. {Apologetic.) He — he wasn't at 
 all what I 'd expected. Of course he was 
 
 tough. But there was something — nice 
 about him. {A movement from Donald 
 and Griswold.) Really there was — 
 something — oh, I don't know, dad, but — 
 why, he was just like a little boy! 
 
 Donald. {Bitterly.) "Little boy"! Rot! 
 You're a nice sort of a girl, you are — 
 playing around with the crook who 's 
 stolen your father's business. 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting resentfully.) Well, 
 I didn't know it, did I? You and dad 
 never open your mouths to me and then 
 when anything happens it 's all my fault ! 
 I suppose I — 
 
 (Mitchell enters.) 
 
 What do you want, Mitchell? 
 Mitchell. {Announcing.) Mr. Duncan. 
 
 {He holds open the door and Lawrence 
 Duncan comes in. He is a lazy, at- 
 tractive young man of about twenty-six.) 
 
 Duncan. {Gaily.) Well, Emily! I'm 
 glad you don't spend all your time in the 
 Fourth Ward. How-d' you-do, sir? 
 Hello, Don. 
 
 Donald. {Constrainedly.) Hello. 
 
 Duncan. {Suspiciously.) Mr. Griswold, 
 have these two been scrapping again? 
 {To Emily.) What's the matter? 
 
 Emily. You talk as if this were a Peace 
 Conference. {Looking at Donald.) 
 But it is n't ! 
 
 {She sits dozen at the piano.) 
 
 Donald. {Returning the look.) Not by a 
 long shot! 
 
 Duncan. {Gaily.) I believe you! (Em- 
 ily plays piano. Duncan goes towards 
 her, leaning over piano.) Please let's 
 have tea. I 'm awfully hungry. 
 
 (Donald looks at watch uneasily.) 
 
 Emily. Tea? 
 
 Duncan. Yes, you know you promised. 
 {Suddenly.) Oh, if you've forgotten, 
 don't bother. I '11 come another time. 
 {He turns to the door.) 
 
 Emily. {Smiling.) Of course! I re- 
 member now! (Donald signals across 
 to his father that they leave the room. 
 Emily stops playing.) Sit down, Lau- 
 rie, and don't be a goose! {To Gris- 
 wold. ) When that man appears, I '11 
 tell Mitchell to send him up to the li- 
 brary. 
 
 Griswold. Very well, dear. 
 
 Emily. {Stopping him.) Daddy, listen! 
 {Wistfully.) So long as you and Don 
 and I are well and have each other, I 
 don't think we ought to worry much, 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 889 
 
 no matter how badly business goes. Do 
 you? 
 
 Griswold. {Coldly.) My dear, I'm 
 afraid you don't understand these things. 
 {To Duncan.) Good-bye, my boy. 
 Remember me to your mother. 
 
 Duncan. Thanks, Mr. Griswold. Good 
 night. (Griswold goes out.) 
 
 Emily. Don, will you forgive me? 
 
 Donald. {Trying to he stern.) You 
 don't deserve it. 
 
 Emily. {Coaxingly.) Not if I promise 
 never, never, never to do it again? 
 
 Donald. {Relaxing into a smile.) Don't 
 bother! I'll take care of that! Oh, 
 Laurie, shall we have some squash Sat- 
 urday ? 
 
 Duncan. All right. Bye-bye, old man! 
 (Donald goes out, closing the door.) 
 
 Emily. {Pressing a hell.) Oh, dear! I 
 do have such trouble keeping my men- 
 folks in order! (Duncan laughs.) 
 Don't laugh, Laurie. I 'm depressed to- 
 day. 
 
 Duncan. {Sympathetically.) What's 
 the matter? 
 
 Emily. {Her voice tremhling.) Life. 
 That 's all. Just life. 
 
 (Mitchell comes in with tea tray.) 
 
 (Emily goes to tea table.) Here comes 
 your precious tea! Never say again I 
 don't keep my word! {To Mitchell.) 
 Have you put on some of those little 
 biscuits Mr. Duncan 's so fond of ? Oh 
 yes, I see. Thank you. 
 
 (Mitchell has taken the flowers from 
 the tahle and put them on the piano , 
 replacing them with the tea tray. 
 Then he goes out quietly.) 
 
 Emily. {Filling the tea pot.) Now pull 
 up the big chair, and we '11 have a nice 
 comfy time ! You 'd better begin by 
 'fessing up, don't you think? 
 
 Duncan. {Oheying her.) What about? 
 
 Emily. {Seated, nodding.) Those roses. 
 
 Duncan. {Promptly.) Not guilty! 
 
 Emily. Don't be absurd! They came 
 just as usual — four huge boxes of them. 
 You might admit it, Laurie, when you 
 see me wearing one. 
 
 Duncan. I may be a liar, but I have odd 
 moments of telling the truth — honestly I 
 have ! And I feel one coming on now. 
 
 Emily. Well, let it come. 
 
 Duncan. I 'm far too hard up to send 
 you American Beauties — at twenty-five 
 a dozen — oh, yes, I 've priced them, all 
 right! {His tone deepening.) Al- 
 
 though you know, Emily, if I could, I 'd 
 have you tvalk on rose leaves for the 
 rest of your life. 
 
 Emily. {Quickly.) Rose leaves! Oh, 
 people irritate me so when they talk like 
 that ! If you 'd seen what I have this 
 afternoon, you 'd — ( Checking herself. ) 
 How do you like your tea? Five lumps 
 and cream? 
 
 {He stops, looking at her curiously.) 
 
 Duncan. Oh, I don't want any tea, Em- 
 ily. 
 
 Emily. No tea? Then what did you 
 come for? You said — 
 
 Duncan. {Very nervously and ohviously 
 bracing himself.) I came because I 
 wanted to ask you something. I 've been 
 trying to get up courage for weeks, but 
 — but — why, there 's something about you 
 that frightens me — it always has! For 
 heaven's sake, stop thinking a moment, 
 can't you? Emily, don't look at me like 
 that — it's horrible! {In an outhurst.) 
 Emily, will you marry me ? Yes, that 's 
 it — I want you to marry me ! Now I 've 
 done it! {He wipes his forehead.) 
 
 Emily. {In mild reproof.) Oh, my dear 
 boy! 
 
 Duncan. Well? What about it? 
 
 Emily. I 'm afraid you must n't talk to 
 me that way any more. 
 
 Duncan. Mustn't talk to you that way? 
 Why not? 
 
 Emily. I could n't, that 's all. Now let 's 
 talk about something else. 
 
 Duncan. No, we won't — not till we 've 
 finished this ! I think I 've known you 
 long enough, Emily, to say a few things 
 you ought to hear, so I 'm going to light 
 right in. You haven't treated me 
 squarely. 
 
 Emily. Why not? 
 
 Duncan. Just because you 're clever and 
 beautiful and know five times as much 
 as most men that 's iio reason for leading 
 them on. 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting indignantly.) I 
 don't lead them on! 
 
 Duncan. {Positively.) Yes, you do! 
 You do lead them on! And then when 
 you 've got them all tangled up, poor 
 devils, you take delight in turning them 
 down! 
 
 Emily. Oh, that 's not fair! 
 
 Duncan. What if they weren't up on 
 philanthropy, economics, civic responsi- 
 biUty and all that sort of thing? They 
 were mighty fine fellows, some of them! 
 And that counts a whole lot. No, Emily^ 
 
890 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 I 'in afraid now I believe what I used to 
 think I never could — that you have n't 
 any heart, after all! 
 
 Emily. {Impatiently holding out plate.) 
 Oh, take a biscuit and stop being 
 silly. 
 
 Duncan. {Be fusing the plate.) No, 
 thanks. No biscuit. Everybody said 
 5^ou had n't, but I 've been fool enough 
 to think I knew better. Well, I don't — 
 any more! So good-bye. 
 
 {He rises and goes towards door.) 
 
 Emily. {Simply and seriously.) No, 
 wait. Laurie, you mustn't go like that. 
 You may be right about me — I don't 
 know. I feel that way myself lots of 
 times ! And yet I do believe — way down 
 — deep down — I believe there is a man 
 waiting for me somewhere, and that I '11 
 know him when he comes along! 
 
 Duncan. {Wistfully.) Don't I look the 
 least bit like him ? Could n't you man- 
 age to mistake us in the dark? 
 
 Emily. {Smiling.) I'm afraid not, Lau- 
 rie. {He turns silently away.) Oh, 
 please don't be hurt ! You 've been my 
 best friend for so long I — I don't think 
 I could get on without you now. 
 
 Duncan. Emily ! 
 
 Emily. You know the way I mean. But 
 I wish — d' you mind if I say it ? It 's 
 only because I 'm so fond of j^ou ! 
 
 Duncan. {Grimly.) No, go ahead. I 
 can stand anything now. 
 
 Emily. {Wistfully.) I wish you 'd wake 
 up, Laurie ! You 've been asleep all your 
 life. Oh, I know you 've had a good 
 time, and I like good times so much my- 
 self that I feel I ought n't to say a word. 
 But — but there is something more. I 
 wish when you walk down the street, 
 everj'body would turn and say: "There 
 goes Lawrence Duncan. He 's done a lot 
 to help this city. He 's a fine man and 
 I'm proud of him!" {Breaking off.) I 
 suppose I 'm talking nonsense, Laurie, 
 but you know what I mean. 
 
 Duncan. Yes, of course, I do. You 
 mean why don't I go down there and start 
 basket-ball teams and boxing classes for 
 those kids in the Fourth Ward. Well, I 
 don't know how. 
 
 Emily. {Wistfully.) But you could 
 learn. 
 
 Duncan. I tell you, Emily, it 's not in my 
 line. 
 
 Emily. People said that to me, but I went 
 right ahead. 
 
 PyNCAN. But I 'd just make a fool of my- 
 
 self^everybody I know would be laugh- 
 ing at me. 
 
 Emily. They used to laugh at me — per- 
 haps they still do. The only difference 
 is, I never hear them any more. They 
 seem so far away. 
 
 {She is lost in a sort of dreamy en- 
 thusiasm.) 
 
 Duncan. {Uncomfortably.) Emily, 
 
 you 've been working too hard down 
 there. You 're a little bit cracked on 
 that subject — you 're morbid, really you 
 are ! Now listen, dear. Leave all those 
 dirty people for a little while and come 
 up here where you belong. 
 
 Emily. Do you mean that? 
 
 Duncan. Of course I mean it. 
 
 Emily. {After a slight pause.) Then 
 there's no use talking any more. 
 
 {Enter Mitchell.) 
 
 Mitchell. Mr. Regan, madam. He says 
 
 Mr. Griswold is expecting him. 
 Emily. Mr. Regan? Oh, yes. Put him 
 in the reception-room, Mitchell, until I 
 go upstairs. Then bring him in here. 
 I '11 tell Mr. Griswold. (Mitchell 
 bows.) And Mr. Duncan is going. 
 (Mitchell holds open the door, hesi- 
 tates. Then, seeing that Duncan is 
 not going, he disappears.) 
 Duncan. "Shindy Mike"? 
 Emily. {Nodding.) Yes, it's business. 
 
 That 's why I 'm so worried. 
 Duncan. {Smiling.) When he walks 
 down the street every^body turns and 
 looks at him — 
 Emily. {Interrupting and smiling.) 
 Ssh ! Be quiet ! He 's out there in the 
 hall! Good-bye. Come to dinner 
 Thursday. Will you? 
 Duncan. If you want me? 
 Emily. I do! 
 
 Duncan. Then of course I shall. {He 
 
 kisses her hands lightly before she can 
 
 take them away.) God bless you, dear! 
 
 {He goes out. Emily, with a sigh, 
 
 goes to the piano, takes up her furs 
 
 and gloves, and turns to the door. 
 
 Just as she reaches it there is the 
 
 sound of voices outside in the hall.) 
 
 Regan's voice. {Outside.) That's 0. K.! 
 
 Here 's a dollar fer ye — g'wan and take 
 
 it ! Ye won't ? All right, I 'm goin' in 
 
 anyway. 
 
 (Regan walks in, putting a bill back in his 
 pocket. On seeing Emily he stops in 
 sudden embarrassment, and smiles.) 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 891 
 
 Regan. Pardon me, Miss Griswold. I 
 thought I 'd just step in an' ask ye how 
 ye was feelin' after yer ride. 
 Emily. I believe my father's expecting 
 you, Mr. Regan. If you '11 wait I '11 send 
 him down. 
 Regan. {Shyly stopping her.) Say, Miss 
 Griswold, would you mind sittin' here 
 while I talk to ye f er a minute ? I won't 
 keep ye long. 
 Emily. I 'm afraid I can't, Mr. R-egan. 
 
 Good afternoon. 
 Regan. Good afternoon, Miss. 
 
 {She goes out at the hack of the stage 
 without looking at Mm or smiling. 
 Regan is left to himself. He is a 
 man of about 38, the Irish-American 
 hull-dog type, talks and looks like the 
 tough who has risen to a great posi- 
 tion and is not yet at home in it. 
 He is apt to he too polite and cere- 
 monious, hut when he is moved or 
 excited this drops easily away. He 
 is elaborately dressed in a morning 
 coat, with a gardenia in his button- 
 hole. He wears a diamond scarf pin, 
 and is very conscious of his clothes. 
 After Emily goes he begins looking 
 about the room, notices the flowers 
 with a good deal of satisfaction. He 
 looks at himself in the mirror, 
 straightens his tie, and then glances 
 suddenly at the door to see if he has 
 been detected. He consults his 
 watch, just as the door opens and 
 Griswold and Donald come in.) 
 Griswold. Mr. Regan. 
 Regan. {Shaking hands effusively.) 
 Glad t' see ye, sir. An' the young man, 
 too — {shakes hands with Donald) glad 
 t' see ye! 
 Griswold. {Coldly.) Sit down, Mr. Re- 
 gan. I don't want to take too much of 
 your valuable time. 
 Regan. {Genially.) Aw, there 's no rush ! 
 I got all day! {There is a silence, Gris- 
 wold and Donald exchange glances. 
 Regan realizes that he is being criticized. 
 He turns ugly in a moment.) Well, if 
 you two gents is so strong for business, 
 let 's get at it. Ye asked me t' come. 
 Here I am. What d' ye want •? 
 Griswold. All right, Mr. Regan, I '11 go 
 straight to the point. I 've been handling 
 all the grain that 's landed in this city 
 for nearly twenty-five years. Since '95 
 you 've managed to get hold of the freight 
 contracts. You were on the inside of 
 (iock-life. You knew how to manage 
 
 those men. You could make them work 
 for an im|)ossible wage. Well, you 've 
 succeeded and now you naturally want 
 the grain contracts, too. I 've done my 
 best, but I 'm afraid I 've been too con- 
 servative to fight the conditions you've 
 created. 
 
 {During this speech Regan 7ms lighted 
 a huge cigar, which he puffs arro- 
 gantly.) 
 
 Regan. You mean I 'm a grafter an' a 
 thief, but ye '11 be damned if yer one, too. 
 That it? 
 
 Griswold. {Smiling.) You have a clear 
 way of putting things, Mr. Regan. 
 Well, I heard to-day from the Western 
 Amalgamated that you've offered them 
 terms I can't possibly meet. All the 
 smaller companies will follow the West- 
 ern, of course. Mr. Regan, you 've 
 beaten me. You control the grain-hand- 
 ling business of this country. 
 
 Regan. {Leaning back.) Well, what are 
 ye goin' t' do about it? 
 
 Griswold. Wait just a moment! I want 
 to make the situation perfectly clear. 
 For a good many years I 've been rather 
 prominent in the direction of three very 
 important savings-banks — 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) The People's 
 Trust, the Union Deposit, and the Farm- 
 ers' Loan. An' they put up the money 
 you 've been fightin' me with. Ye got 
 in securities that won't be worth the 
 paper they're wrote on — (Griswold and 
 Donald exchange a quick look) if ye 
 lose that fight. An' ye have lost it, 
 Griswold ! I 've smashed ye an' ye know 
 it ! Ye '11 file yer petition within a week 
 — they '11 be a run on those banks an' 
 they '11 go t' hell so quick they '11 never 
 know what 's struck 'em. That it ? 
 
 Griswold. {Inarticulately.) That's it. 
 How did you find out? 
 
 Regan. How do I find out anythin'? I 
 pound an' pay until they cough it up — 
 see? 
 
 Griswold. If you take over my credit 
 now you '11 shake the credit of the whole 
 state. 
 
 Regan, I don't give a Bronx cocktail fer 
 the credit o' the state. The wheat 's got 
 t' be handled an' s' long 's I got that I 
 can hang on through any run that ever 
 happened. An' what 's more, I '11 make 
 good money doin' it! 
 
 Griswold. Mr. Regan — 
 
 Regan. {Leaning forward.) But you 
 can't. Say, d' ye know where a run 
 
892 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 would land youf In state's prison, with 
 a steady job as laundry-man a-washin' 
 underwear. 
 
 Griswold. But my securities — 
 
 Regax. Aw hell ! D' ye think a jury o' 
 reformed porch climbers is goin' t' be- 
 lieve them securities was any better when 
 ye gave 'em than they are now? Hear 
 me laugh ! Ha ! Ha ! No, ye was a di- 
 rector an' ye used the bank's funds to 
 float yer own business an' ye got left. 
 That 's how it '11 look on the front page 
 o' the one-cent daily! Remember that 
 Omaha man — what was his name? 
 Kimball— Kendall ? He got twenty fer 
 a deal enough like yours t' be its long- 
 lost brother! An' that was before the 
 days o' Collier's Weekly, too — Gawd 
 bless its little soul! 
 
 Griswold. {Sternly.) I was inside the 
 law. If anything happens it was only a 
 set of circumstances — why, I 'd have cut 
 off my hand before I — 
 
 Donald. {Warningly.) Father! 
 
 (Griswold subsides.) 
 
 Regan. (Contemptuously.) Aw, go tell 
 that t' the birdies in the park ! 'T ain't 
 what ye do that counts in this world. 
 It 's what folks think ye done ! 
 
 Griswold. Look here, Regan, give me six 
 months before taking over the Western. 
 I have some loans coming in. I can stick 
 it through by then. Six months! 
 
 Regan. Nixy — too long. 
 
 Griswold. (Quickly.) Four! 
 
 Regan. (Briskly.) Not on yer gay 
 young life! 
 
 Griswold. One — only one! It can't hurt 
 you ! At the end you '11 get the business 
 just the same! 
 
 Regan. (Enjoying himself.) Yeah, but 
 I think I ought t' be makin' a moral ex- 
 ample of ye. Guy with swell position, 
 bom with a silk hat, looks down on Irish 
 up-starts, turns the whole block into an 
 ice house when he meets 'em on the 
 street — 
 
 Griswold. (Protesting.) Mr. Regan — 
 
 Donald. Let him go on, father. 
 
 Regan. What d' ye think the depositors 
 in them banks are going t' think about 
 yer principles when they find that all 
 their savin's have gone bla-a-h? Why, 
 th' Fourth Ward alone 's got over two 
 thousand accounts in the People's Trust! 
 Sure, they 're only Irish hooligans that 
 would n't know a cream-de-menth from a 
 grand piano, but what are ye goin' t' 
 tell 'em, Mr. Griswold, when they up and 
 
 smash yer beak off on yer way to jaiH 
 
 Griswold. That '11 do ! 
 
 Donald. (To Regan.) Yes, Regan, I 
 guess we 've had enough. 
 
 Regan. Aw gee, the trouble vdth you pat- 
 ent-leather slobs is ye can't tell a joke 
 when ye get it in th' eye ! Now I 'm not 
 tryin' t' do ye — I 'm not, s' 'elp me Gawd ! 
 Wot d' ye say to a — a compromise ? 
 
 Griswold. (Eagerly.) Compromise? 
 
 Regan. Wot d' ye say t' a bunch-up o' the 
 two firms! 
 
 Griswold. Bunch-up ? 
 
 Regan. Sure! Take hold good an' hard, 
 spit on 'em, squeeze 'em t'gether, an' out 
 she comes — "Regan, Griswold & Co."! 
 Naw, damn it, yer gettin' t' be an old man 
 an' the drinks is on me. "Griswold, Re- 
 gan & Co. Contractors"! (Donald and 
 Griswold exchange glances of amaze- 
 ment.) There! How does that sound? 
 
 Griswold. Amalgamation ? 
 
 Regan That 's it, but my mouth 's too full 
 o' teeth t' say it. Gee, could n't we give 
 this town a hunch, you an' me? I won- 
 der! You'd supply the polish an' the 
 style, talk it up big with the church mem- 
 bers an' first families, an' meanwhile I 'd 
 be round in the back yard with my coat 
 off, a-doin' the work! 
 
 Griswold. You mean the new firm would 
 be run by you according to your present 
 successful standards, while I 'd be in 
 front to keep the people from examining 
 too closely into what we were doing? 
 That it? 
 
 Regan. Straight in the bull's eye. Well? 
 
 Donald. You can't do it, father! 
 
 Griswold. I know all about that, but 
 I must think of those small deposit- 
 ors. 
 
 Donald. That's beyond us, father. We 
 can't help them. But here 's a man ask- 
 ing you to come down from the prin- 
 ciples on which you based your life and 
 brought us up — to come down to his own 
 dirty tricks. There 's only one answer 
 to a man like that, father, and that 's 
 the door! 
 
 Regan. (Angrily.) Oh, that's yer line 
 o' talk, is it? (Controls himself with 
 difficulty.) No, I won't let ye get a rise 
 out o' me — we got too much t' settle. 
 Griswold, if ye come in with me on this 
 I '11 let ye manage the business any way 
 ye like — I don't care liow honest ye make 
 it ! Oh, we '11 lose money, o' course, but 
 Gawd above us ! Money ain't everythin'. 
 'Specially when ye got a nice bunch o' 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 893 
 
 real estate up-town, a-ripenin' away like 
 bananas in a dago's bed. 
 
 Griswold. (Suspiciously.) D' you mean 
 you '11 be willing to take the lead from 
 me? 
 
 Regan. Sure! I'll jump in an' give mo- 
 rality a good fair show. After all, times 
 is changin', an' it may pay now better 'n 
 it Tised to ! 
 
 Griswold. In that case, I 'm inclined to 
 say I — 
 
 Regan. (Quickly.) Ye '11 take me up? 
 Good! Shake on it! (Enthusiastically 
 seizing his hand.) This is a great day 
 for Mike Regan all right, all right ! 
 
 Donald. Wait a second, father. What 's 
 he letting us down so easy for? (Look- 
 ing at Regan.) Why, he 's got us nailed 
 and he knows it ! 
 
 Griswold. Donald, I don't think you quite 
 appreciate all Mr. Regan is offering — 
 
 Donald. (Interrupting.) Yes, I do, and 
 I don't like it — not one little bit ! ( Turn- 
 ing to Regan.) There 's something else. 
 Why don't you lay it on the table and 
 be done with it? (A pause.) 
 
 Regan. (Ill at ease, throwing away his 
 cigar.) Yer a smart kid, ain't ye? 
 Wish I had a couple like ye in the of- 
 fice. Well, ye 've called my bluff an' I 
 don't mind showin' my hand. 
 
 (He hesitates.) 
 
 Griswold. Go on. 
 
 Donald. The whole thing — mind! 
 
 (Pause.) 
 
 Regan. (Struggling in his emharrass- 
 ment.) It's hard to say somehow — I 
 dunno why it should be. Ye see, Mr. 
 Griswold, I didn't care nothin' about 
 squarin' things this way when I started 
 in t' grab yer business. 
 
 Donald. I believe you. Go on. 
 
 Regan. But I 've been thinkin' now I 'd 
 like t' make up good an' close t' ye, 
 'cause — (He stops.) 
 
 Donald. (Sharply.) Well? Because 
 what? 
 
 Regan. 'Cause I want t' ask yer daughter 
 if by any chance she 'd mind bein' — Mrs. 
 R. 
 
 Griswold. What ? 
 
 Regan. Marry me — that 's wot ! 
 
 (There is a moment of stupefaction.) 
 
 Donald. (Enraged.) Well, this is the 
 finishing touch! 
 
 Regan. (Ugly.) 1 tell ye it's yer only 
 chanst. 
 
 Griswold. (Controlling himself.) That's 
 all, Mr. Regan. Don't let us keep you. 
 
 Regan. (Iii all the glory of his tough- 
 ness.) Aw, ye t'ink youse hell, don't ye? 
 
 Donald. Get out that door! 
 
 Regan. I '11 learn ye, ye bunch o' stuck-up 
 high-brows ! I '11 learn ye that I 'm it 
 an' yer nit! 
 
 Donald. Oh, we all know what you can 
 do and we don't care, but if you 're not 
 gone in one minute I '11 call the butler 
 and have him kick you down the front 
 steps ! 
 
 Regan. (Doggedly.) 1 came here with a 
 proposition, an' two hundred bloody but- 
 lers couldn't bounce me before I get an 
 answer. 
 
 Griswold. You've got it, Mr. Regan. 
 
 Regan. Not from her. 
 
 Donald. Don't you dare say her name ! 
 
 Regan. (Whining indignantly.) Why 
 not ? Damn it, ain't I askin' her t' marry 
 me? 
 
 Donald. (About to attack him.) You — 
 
 (Enter Emily.) 
 
 Emily. Dad, has — (She stops on seeing 
 Regan.) Oh, I beg your pardon. I 
 thought you and Don were alone. 
 
 Griswold. (Trying to he polite.) Mr. 
 Regan is leaving, dear. In just a few 
 moments ! 
 
 Donald. Go away, Emily. Please! 
 
 (Emily starts to obey and is .arrested 
 hy Regan's voice.) 
 
 Regan. Pardon me. Miss Griswold, do ye 
 mind comin' in fer a minute an' shuttin' 
 the door. 
 
 Griswold. That'll do, dear, we'll excuse 
 you. 
 
 Donald. (Irritated.) Go away, Emily! 
 
 Regan. (Gently.) Will you come in an' 
 sit down? (She looks at him, pauses, 
 hesitates. ) 1 'm askin' ye t' sit down. 
 (She hesitates again, then still looking 
 at him, obeys.) 
 
 Donald. Well, of all the— Emily, dad and 
 I won't want you here ! We 've said so 
 twice and — 
 
 Regan. (Breaking in.) 1 guess I'm the 
 one t' do the talkin'. Listen to me. Miss 
 Griswold. 
 
 Emily. (Raising her eyebrows.) I'm lis- 
 tening, Mr. Regan. 
 
 (Pause. Donald and Griswold are 
 amazed. ) 
 
 Regan. (Hesitatingly.) I ain't seen ye 
 more 'n four times, but I 'm no horse-car 
 when it comes t' makin' up my mind. 
 I 'm thirty-eight years old, an' never had 
 a sick day in my life, 'cept when some 
 
804 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 guy laid me out scrappin' an' mostly I 
 can say it 's been the other way round. 
 I drink now an' then, but liavin' been a 
 bar-keep when young, I know t' a linger 
 how much I can carry, so I never throw 
 in no more. I never gamble nor play 
 the races, fer the simple reason they 
 seem kind o' slow 'long side o' my busi- 
 ness. An' I never got mixed up with 
 women o' any size or color 'cause I been 
 on the jump, I s'pose, an' they tell me 
 women takes a lot o' time. But now I 'm 
 gettin' along, an' I 've made my pile, an' 
 I feel like settlin' down an' havin' some- 
 one pour my coffee in the morning an' 
 put my slippers on the steam-heater at 
 night. 
 Emily. {Leaning forward.) You mean — 
 Regan. I guess yer wise, I want t' marry 
 
 Donald. To get a social position for his 
 dirty politics! 
 
 Regan. {Sternly.) Young feller, I can 
 put this through without no buttin' in — 
 understan'? {To Emily.) Ye could 
 help me. Miss Griswold, an' I ain't 
 ashamed t' say it. But that ain't the 
 reason why I want ye. 
 
 Emily. {Calmly.) Isn't it, Mr. Regan? 
 Suppose you tell me, then, what is? 
 
 Regan. I love ye — {Controlling himself.) 
 Well, that 's why. 
 
 {She shrinks a little and looks at him 
 fixedly until Donald speaks.) 
 
 Donald. Yes, and he 's offered to buy you. 
 He 's got us right against the wall and 
 he says he '11 let us off. He 's offered 
 father a partnership, promised to back 
 him up in everything. 
 
 Emily. What? 
 
 Donald. And it 's all on the condition 
 that we pass you over like a Van Dyck 
 portrait, for that man to hang in his 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Emily. {With a little smile.) Dear old 
 dad ! Don ! If we 're going to the poor- 
 house, then at least we '11 make it a fam- 
 ily party! 
 
 Donald. {Triumphantly.) Ah, I knew 
 you 'd say that ! We can't help a smash- 
 up ! It 's not our fault if the banks go 
 under ! 
 
 Emily. Banks go under? 
 
 Donald. And anyway, Regan, there 's no 
 use your staying here now, so move along 
 there and be quick about it. 
 
 Emily. Banks go under? {To Donald.) 
 What do you mean? 
 
 T^Onald. Oh, for heaven's sake, don't 
 
 bother, dear ! It 's all right — I mean, 
 you can't do anything! 
 
 Emily. But I don't understand. And I 
 want to, Don. I intend to. 
 
 Donald. Drop it, dear — please. 
 
 Emily. Dad—? 
 
 Donald. {Warningly.) Now, father! 
 
 Griswold. Wait until later, Emily. 
 
 Emily. Mr. Regan, do you know any- 
 thing about this? 
 
 Regan. {Briefly.) I know the whole 
 blamed thing. 
 
 Emily. Then tell me, please. 
 
 Donald. Don't listen to him, dear ! He 's 
 got it all vtTong, and — 
 
 Regan. {Grimly.) Oh, have I? I don't 
 know 'bout that! {To Emily.) Your 
 father's borrowed money from three big 
 savin's-banks. He just happens V be a 
 d'rector in 'em all ! When he goes bank- 
 rupt, that '11 start a run. They '11 stop 
 payment — 
 
 Emily. Stop pajTnent? 
 
 Regan. Yeah, an' all them scoopers o' 
 mine that yer so stuck on — they '11 lose 
 ev'ry bit o' dough they 've managed t' 
 scrape t'gether. 
 
 Emily. You don't mean — 
 
 Regan. Sure. They got their cash in the 
 People's Trust — the steady ones, I mean. 
 It 's the only savin's bank the Fourth 
 Ward patronizes. Well, it 's just that 
 very cash yer pa here borrowed, an' if 
 he can't pay it back — why, they get left. 
 See? {Pause.) 
 
 Emily. {Turning to Griswold.) Dad, is 
 this true? 
 
 Griswold. In a measure, yes. 
 
 Emily. And all those men down there are 
 going to lose their money? 
 
 Griswold. {Hesitating.) There may be 
 — some difficulty. I don't deny that, 
 but— 
 
 Emily. {Gently interrupting.) But, 
 daddy, dear, they have so little. It 
 means everything to them. And we — 
 why, we 're responsible, don't you see ? 
 
 Griswold. {Defending himself.) It's a 
 tremendous misfortune as far as they go, 
 but I acted with the strictest honesty and 
 I don't see — 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting him and turning to 
 Regan.) Isn't there an j- thing else 
 you '11 take ? Won't you offer that part- 
 nership on any other basis? 
 
 Regan. I guess not. What would I be 
 gettin'? 
 
 Donald. Partnership ? D' you think fa- 
 ther would consider for a minute any — 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 895 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting, speaking to Re- 
 gan.) He's right. Father won't do it 
 now. But would you be satisfied with 
 half the grain companies, putting the 
 other half entirely in his hands ? Would 
 you promise to go ahead under that ar- 
 rangement and leave him absolutely 
 alone? 
 
 Regan. Yeah, but what about me? Will 
 him and that young feller promise t' 
 leave me alone? 
 
 Emily. {Haughtily.) Mr. Regan, I think 
 you can rely on my family's doing the 
 honest thing. 
 
 Regan. {After a moment of hesitation.) 
 All right. I '11 give 'em half, that 's 
 square. Is it a deal now ? Take me up ? 
 
 Emily. {A little wildly.) I've got to! 
 There 's nothing else for me to do ! 
 
 Donald. {Appalled.) Emily, don't be a 
 fool! 
 
 Griswold. D' you know what you 're say- 
 ing, my child? 
 
 Regan. {Deeply moved, holding out his 
 hand.) Put it there. Miss! Put it 
 there, an' shake! 
 
 Griswold. {Strongly.) My dear! 
 
 Donald. For heaven's sake, Emily, think 
 who you are! 
 
 Emily. I can't! All I can think of are 
 the men who have their hard earned 
 little accounts in those banks! You 
 have n't seen their wives and children. 
 You don't know the misery they 're 
 struggling under. But I 've seen it. I 
 know! And anything I can do to keep 
 _ those pitiful little families from giving 
 up and going all to pieces, why I intend 
 to do it! And nothing that you or fa- 
 ther or anybody else can say is going to 
 stop me! 
 
 Donald. {To Regan.) You hear that? 
 Tell her you don't want her! Tell her 
 you won't take her! You tell her or 
 I '11— 
 
 Regan. Aw, g' wan ! You smoke too 
 many cigarettes! 
 
 Donald. {Beside himself.) You — 
 
 Griswold. Donald! Keep quiet! The 
 servants ! 
 
 Donald. {Lowering his voice.) I can see 
 no"^ ! You 've cooked this whole thing 
 up ! You 've been meeting on the sly, 
 trying to carry on an affair! You know 
 we 'd never let you marry him, so you 
 make him get a strangle-hold on father's 
 business and then you think you've got 
 us gagged and bound ! 
 
 Regan. {Flaming.) You cut that now! 
 
 Donald. You think I 'm afraid of you, 
 Regan, but I 'm not. And I tell you 
 now, right between the eyes, if you go 
 on with this dirty scheme to get hold of 
 my sister, I '11 — 
 
 Regan. {As he pauses.) Well, wot '11 ye 
 do? 
 
 Donald. {Ominously.) Wait and see. 
 
 Emily. {Warningly.) Remember, Don. 
 If Mr. Regan does n't interfere with you, 
 you have no right to interfere with him. 
 That 's settled. 
 
 Donald. {Desperately.) You're crazy! 
 Give it up ! Emily ! Darling ! 
 
 Emily. I can't. 
 
 Donald. D' you realize what you 're do- 
 ing ? You 're choosing between us, — yes, 
 you are! It's dad and I against this 
 man ! 
 
 Emily. {Passionately.) I'm not choos- 
 ing! Oh, Don, dear, can't you see? 
 
 Donald. I can see you 're a base, disloyal, 
 Httle— 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) Quit pickin' on 
 her now ! I 've stood here long enough 
 a-listehin' t' yer gab, and if that 's the 
 line o' talk ye hand out at home, I don't- 
 blame her fer wantin' t' beat it! Gee, 
 the only thing that jolts me is she ain't 
 skipped before ! 
 
 Donald. {Turning to Griswold.) Come 
 along, father. I 've had enough of this. 
 
 Regan. {Facetiously.) Don't let me keep 
 ye! 
 
 Donald. {To Emily.) As for you — 
 {Checking himself.) We'll talk about 
 it later. 
 
 {He goes out with a final look at 
 Regan. ) 
 
 Griswold. {To Emily.) Coming, dear? 
 
 Emily. No, I have several things to talk 
 over with Mr. Regan. 
 
 Griswold. {Quietly.) Then I '11 stay. 
 
 Emily. {With difficulty.) Please don't. 
 
 Griswold. You mean — {Looking at Re- 
 gan. ) I 'd be in the way ? 
 
 Emily. {Barely able to control herself.) 
 Yes. {Pause.) 
 
 Griswold. {Inarticulately.) I'm sorry — 
 I 'm — 
 
 {He waits a moment, straightens him- 
 self, and goes without looking 
 hack.) 
 
 Emily. {As soon as the door shuts, with 
 a despairing sob.) Daddy! Daddy! 
 
 Regan. ( With rough tenderness. ) I 'm 
 awful sorry fer ye. Miss, but they '11 
 come round all right, if ye just sit tight. 
 They always do, an' — 
 
896 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting him.) Before we 
 go further I must make you understand 
 one thing. I don't care for you. I feel 
 quite sure I never can. We 've got to 
 face that fact together, you and I. 
 
 Regan. Well? 
 
 Emily. {Bravely.) I'll keep my word. 
 I '11— I '11 marry you. But if I do, it 's 
 with the understanding that everything 
 stops at the church door. I won't really 
 be your wife. I can't. That 's all there 
 is to it, I — I can't — {He comes towards 
 her.) No, wait till I've finished. You 
 were perfectly right when you called it a 
 deal. I '11 help you with my position. 
 I '11 do the best I can for you that way — 
 
 Regan. {Pained.) Aw quit it! 
 
 Emily. {Closing her eyes and going on.) 
 And in return you '11 let go my father. 
 I 'm perfectly above-board, perfectly 
 clear. Just an every day bargain. If 
 you want me — on that basis, remember! 
 — you can have me. {Looking at him.) 
 Well? 
 
 Regan. {After a pause.) That's a 
 pretty sharp offer yer makin' me, but — 
 I don't care, I '11 close with it now ! 
 
 Emily. You don't mean — ^you '11 take 
 those terms? 
 
 Regan. I take what I can get — see? And 
 then I get a little more. 
 
 Emily. You won't this time — 
 
 Regan. {Lightly.) I'll run the chanst! 
 
 Emily. {Controlling herself.) Very well, 
 then, there 's nothing more to be said. 
 My family are going to make trouble, so 
 I think we 'd better finish it up as soon 
 as we conveniently can. 
 
 Regan. I'll get the license, tonight. 
 We '11 be married the first thing in the 
 momin'. That suit ye? 
 
 Emily. Could you make it in the after- 
 noon, about three? I have a luncheon 
 
 engagement. 
 Regan. Sure. 
 
 I '11 have everythin' ready 
 
 an' 0. K. an' meet ye on the steps o' 
 
 St. Patrick's at five minutes to. 
 Emily. {Suddenly.) Mr. Regan, change 
 
 your mind! Don't do it! Let me off! 
 
 Please! Oh, please! 
 Regan. {Passionately.) I won't! {In an 
 
 outburst.) I won't let ye off! I won't! 
 
 {He tries to take her in his arms.) 
 
 Emily. {Shuddering and turning away.) 
 
 Remember — 
 Regan. {Controlling himself with a 
 
 mighty effort. ) All right. It 's three 
 
 sharp, then. {He goes to door.) 
 
 Emily. Three sharp. 
 
 Regan. {His hand on the knob.) Don't 
 keep me waitin'. 
 
 Emily. I 'm always prompt. 
 
 Regan. {With an irrepressible smile.) 
 Oh, before I go, there 's one thing I want 
 t' thank ye fer. {Shyly.) That rose o' 
 mine yer wearin' — t' was lookin' at that 
 kept my nerve up all the time! 
 
 Emily. So it 's been you — ! 
 
 Regan. Sure. I thought you 'd caught 
 on long ago. 
 
 Emily. {Bitterly, as she unpins the rose.) 
 No. I had n't "caught on" ! 
 
 {As she speaks he goes out, softly 
 closing the door behind him. She 
 throws the rose on tea table.) 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Regan's library, the evening of April 29th. 
 It is a new, elaborate, and obviously ex- 
 pensive room, controlled, however, by 
 good taste. On right three long win- 
 dows with heavy brocaded curtains. At 
 right, above the windows and facing 
 down-stage, a door leading to Regan's 
 office. At back a recessed fireplace and 
 seats on both sides of it. At left, a 
 dor leading to the hall and the rest of 
 the house reached by a step and landing. 
 The wall space above and below this 
 door is occupied by bookcases, filled by 
 expensive bindings. At right-centre, 
 half facing the audience, a long library 
 table, with lamps, papers, and writing 
 materials, also a desk telephone and a 
 tray containing whiskey glasses and a 
 syphon. Behind it stands a large chair 
 and in front of it a wide comfortable 
 couch. Near the windows is another 
 smaller table with a lamp. The lighting 
 is soft and restful. 
 
 As the curtain rises, Davis, Regan's sec- 
 retary, — a small, worn,, little man, — is 
 discovered hunting about among the 
 papers on the desk. — From the left 
 comes the sound of people laughing and 
 talking. Then the door opens, showing 
 brilliant lights and increased noise of 
 talk and laughter, and Regan enter^ fur- 
 tively, closing the door behind him. He 
 is in evening dress. 
 
 Regan. Say! That guy ain't come in 
 
 with the ultimatum? 
 
 Davis. No, sir, not yet. I — I 'm afraid 
 
 I 'm in the way here. 
 
 Regan. Aw, that's 0. K. I got through 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 897 
 
 another dinner, Davis. I 'm gettin' bet- 
 ter every day. They '11 have me smokin' 
 cigarettes first thing I know. Say, we 
 got a swell bunch there t'night. Gee, it 
 makes me sweat t' talk t' 'em, though! 
 I just sneaked in here a minute t' cool 
 down. Well, I suppose I might as well 
 be gettin' back on me book job. 
 
 Davis. Book job? 
 
 Regax. Yeah, I 'm gettin' lit'rary, Davis. 
 {Looking at hook shelves.) I've" read 
 from there to there. Wot are ye after? 
 
 Davis. I 'm hunting for that interview 
 with 3^oung Griswold in the Record- 
 Times. 
 
 Regan. The one tellin' how he organized 
 his Labor Union an' got our men t' 
 strike ? 
 
 Davis. Yes, sir. 
 
 Regan. G'wan! I used that t' light a 
 cigar. 
 
 Davis. All right, sir. Then I 've finished 
 for to-night? 
 
 Regan. Go home and get some sleep. Ye 
 need sleep when we got a big scrap on 
 like this. 
 
 Davis. That 's what my wife says, too. 
 
 Regan. Say, how are the kids? 
 
 Davis. Fine, sir. The new school 's ex- 
 actly what they needed. {Nervously.) 
 We — we never can thank you as you 
 ought to be thanked for — 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) Aw, rats! Now 
 don't begin on that again. I didn't do 
 notliin' but write a check, an' — 
 
 {The door opens and Mrs. Cuyler comes 
 in quickly. She is a fashionable young 
 woman — outspoken, though kindly. She 
 is in evening dress.) 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. I saw you escape, Mr. Re- 
 gan, and I just made up my mind I 
 would n't let you ! 
 
 Regan. Well, ye see, Mrs. Cuyler, I 'm 
 expectin' a visit from one o' them 
 strikers. They 're sendin' me wot they 
 call their Union Ultimatum! {To 
 Davis.) Good-night, son. 
 
 Davis. {Going out.) Good-night, sir. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. The strike? Oh, how ex- 
 citing ! I 'm just back from Europe, but 
 I hear it 's been the talk of the town for 
 two months! 
 
 Regan. {Proudly.) Yeah. We've kept 
 things going at quite a clip. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. Tell me — how 's it all going 
 to end? Will you up and crush your 
 brother-in-law or will your brother-in- 
 
 law up and crush you? Oh, I do hope 
 somebody % crushed ! 
 
 Regan. {Opening humidor.) Then ye 'd 
 better get out yer handkerchief fer him! 
 They didn't call me "Shindy Mike" lor 
 nothin'. I never got licked by a bunch 
 o' scoopers before an' I guess I 'm too 
 old to begin. 
 
 {He takes out a long black cigar and 
 sticks it in his mouth.) 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. {Clapping her hands im- 
 pulsively.) That's splendid! Keep it 
 up! {She comes to the sofa.) 
 
 Regan. Aw, g'wan! Yer kiddin' me! 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. No, I 'm not. I don't 
 think I dare. I 've always been so 
 afraid of you, Mr. Regan. I believe 
 you were the original Bogey that my 
 nurse used to frighten me with when I 
 would n't go to sleep — long ago ! But 
 now I 've seen you I 'm disappointed, 
 because you 're not a Bogey at all. 
 You're just a — a — 
 
 Regan. Well, cut it loose! 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. A man! A rather bad 
 man, I suppose, but oh dear! that only 
 makes me envy Emily the more! 
 
 Regan. Envy her? 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. There 's so much she can 
 do to help you, Mr. Regan. And the 
 men we help the most are the men we 
 love the best, after all ! 
 
 Regan. Help me? I wish she would! I 
 want t' be helped — an' I wouldn't mind 
 a little lovin', too. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. {Cheerfully.) Give her 
 time, Mr. Regan. Emily's a wonderful 
 girl, even if she is a snob. 
 
 Regan. A snob? 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. Yes. Morally, I mean. 
 And on the whole you 're such a shady 
 character, I don't blame the poor dear 
 if she 's mixed up at the start. 
 
 Regan. No, I don't blame her neither — 
 when I stop t' think. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. {Reflectively.) It is rather 
 hard on her, you know, having you swear 
 at that wretched butler before all her 
 guests. 
 
 Regan. {Proudly.) Why, I only did it 
 twice ! 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. Twice! 
 
 Regan. Well, I guess that 's somethin' ! 
 I used t' cuss him every time he passed 
 me the pertaters! 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. Oh, dear! {She laughs, 
 then more seriously.) Mr. Regan, will 
 you do something for me? 
 
 Regan. {Suspiciously.) Wot d'ye want? 
 
898 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. Be humane! Light that 
 cigar and kill it quickly! Don't torture 
 it any more! 
 
 Regan. {Laughing.) Guess ye think I 
 can't even be decent to a piece o' to- 
 bacco ! 
 
 {He throws his cigar in the grate.) 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. {Comfortably.) Well, 
 Mr. Regan, you really are a very black 
 sheep! Do you know I could hardly 
 make my husband come to dine with 
 you to-night? He said he wanted to go 
 to that big mass-meeting. It 's quite 
 true! I had to be unusually firm with 
 him! 
 
 Regan. {Grimly.) Poor feller! Tell 
 him he can go t' the meetin' later on 
 and yell "T' hell with Regan!" all the 
 louder fer havin' lapped up my cham- 
 pagne. {At sofa.) 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. And your old friend, the 
 Archbishop. Emily said he was taken 
 ill at the last moment, so he couldn't 
 come. But I don't believe it, Mr. Re- 
 gan, do you? I think he was annoyed 
 because your men broke into that Union 
 saloon this afternoon and sort of acci- 
 dentally killed the proprietor. 
 
 Regan. Well, it don't seem to bother you 
 much. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. Oh, nothing ever bothers 
 me. You see, I 'm just a fan. I never 
 get right down and play. But from tiie 
 grandstand I see most of the fine points 
 of the game. And that 's why, Mr. Re- 
 gan, you and Emily are very near my 
 heart this evening. 
 
 {Enter Gates.) 
 
 Gates. Beg pardon, madam, but Mr. Cuy- 
 ler is leaving. Mrs. Regan asked me to 
 tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. What nonsense ! Why, it 's 
 barely nine ! Very well, I '11 be there di- 
 rectly. {Piano is heard in the next 
 ^room.) Aren't husbands bores? 
 
 Regan. I s'pose — I s'pose we are. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. No, not you ! You 're lots 
 of things, but — I think there 's no danger 
 of your boring any one ! You know, Mr. 
 Regan, I must be fearfully immoral! I 
 enjoy so much what I entirely disap- 
 prove of. You, for instance. {He 
 looks at her.) Now, Emily can't do that 
 — never could! It seems too bad, and 
 yet — and yet I somehow think it 's go- 
 ing to be the making of you both ! 
 
 Regan. Mrs. Cuyler, would you mind 
 helpin' me do somethin'? 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. What is it? 
 
 Regan. {Taking two jewelers' boxes from 
 his pocket.) Tell me which one of these 
 she 'd like the best. 
 
 {He gives the larger one to her.) 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. {Opening the box.) 
 What 's this ? A frog — a diamond frog, 
 with ruby eyesj 
 
 Regan. {Proudly.) I picked out that! 
 Sort o' cute, ain't he? Kind o' natural! 
 Pipe his leg there! 0' course live frogs 
 are green with spots all over 'em but 
 that don't make no diff'rence when it 
 comes t' joolry, does it? 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. {Trying not to laugh.) 
 Not a bit. I think he's sweet, Mr. Re- 
 gan. What's the other? 
 
 Regan. {Contemptuously.) Aw — just a 
 pearl ring. {Showing box to her.) The 
 guy at the store was nutty over it, but 
 gee ! It seems kind o' cheap t' me, 'long- 
 side the other! 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. It 's beautiful. 
 
 Regan. That so? Well, I'm strong fer 
 diamonds, speakin' fer myself. They 
 give the wealthy look, an' ain't that wot 
 everybody's after? 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. Mr. Regan. 
 
 Regan. Yeah? 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. I 'd give her the one you 
 
 chose yourself. I 'd give her the frog. 
 
 {Hands back boxes.) 
 
 Regan. {Pleased.) All right. I will. 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. What is it? Her birth- 
 day? 
 
 Regan. Naw. We was married six 
 months ago t'day. I just want her t' 
 know that I remembered, that 's all. 
 Listen ! D' you hear her playin' in 
 there? It makes me kind o' — kind o' 
 homesick fer some place I 've never seen> 
 
 {A pause.) 
 
 Mrs. Cuyler. You Avill, Mr. Regan, be- 
 fore so very long. Good-bye, God bless 
 you, "Shindy Mike"! 
 
 {She smiles at him swiftly, waves her 
 hand and goes out. He stands for 
 a moment looking after her.) 
 
 (Gates enters by the other door.) 
 
 Gates. I beg pardon, sir. 
 
 Regan. That striker shown up yet? 
 
 Gates. No, sir, it 's Mr. McCoy. 
 
 Regan. McCoy? Where? 
 
 Gates. There in the office, sir. He rang 
 
 the side bell, and I thought as you — 
 Regan. What right have you got t' think? 
 
 I '11 do all the thinkin' that goes on in 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 899 
 
 this house! {Turning to door.) Come 
 in here, Porky ! 
 
 (Gates has held the door open for McCoy, 
 — a good-looking, reckless young tough, 
 carrying a soft hat in his hand.) 
 
 Gates. {Timidly.) May I ask, sir, if — 
 Regan. {Interrupting impatiently.) Aw, 
 
 go t' hell! 
 Gates. Very good, sir. {He goes out.) 
 McCoy. {Eagerly.) Say, Mike— . 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) Wait a second! 
 
 What about Hurley's bar? Did ye 
 
 smash it good? 
 McCoy. {Impatiently.) Yeah, we put it 
 
 on the blink. But/ Mike — 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) An' Hurley? 
 
 Wot about him? 
 McCoy. {Again impatiently.) It's all 
 
 right. We laid him out just like ye 
 
 wanted. 
 Regan. {Relieved.) So that's 0. K. 
 
 Now tell me why yer not at St. Mary's 
 
 Hall this minute, a-listenin' t' them guys 
 
 like I told ye to? 
 McCoy. {Embarrassed.) Say, Mike, some- 
 thin' 's doin'. 
 Regan. {Sternly.) Well? 
 McCoy. An' I just thought I 'd drop in 
 
 an' tell ye 'bout it on my way to the 
 
 meetin'. 
 Regan. G'wan! Spit it out! 
 McCoy. My missus — 
 Regan. Wot? 
 McCoy. {With a sudden grin.) It's a 
 
 boy! 
 Regan. {Joyfully.) Naw! 
 McCoy. {Delighted.) Sure! He weighs 
 
 nine pounds! The cutest little duck ye 
 
 ever seen in all yer life ! 
 Regan. An' yer good woman? 
 McCoy. Doin' fine. Everythin' goin on 
 
 slick ! 
 Regan. Say, when did it — ? 
 McCoy. 'Bout five o'clock, when I w^-s 
 
 out a-smashin' Hurley's bar — you know. 
 Regan. Porky, shake! {They do so vio- 
 lently and solemnly.) We'll have a 
 
 drop o' this t' celebrate. 
 
 {Turns to the table and pours out some 
 whiskey.) 
 McCoy. The christenin* ^s on Sunday 
 
 week, an' she said I was t' tell ye ye 'd 
 
 got t' stand up with the kid an' leave us 
 
 name him Michael R. 
 Regan I '11 be a proud man that day, 
 
 Porky. {Giving him a glass.) Now let 
 
 her go t' Michael Regan McCoy! 
 McCoy. Michael Regan Ignatius McCoy. 
 
 Regan. Gawd help him, may he grow up 
 
 to be as swell a scrapper an' as fine a 
 
 friend as his old man was before him! 
 {They both drink their liquor at a 
 gulp.) 
 McCoy. I thank ye kindly, Mike! 
 
 {Pause. They both look at each 
 other.) 
 Regan. Say, Porky, is it true what they 
 
 say? 
 McCoy. What? 
 Regan. {With solemn curiosity.) That 
 
 kids ain't got no hair on 'em when 
 
 thej' 're born ? 
 McCoy. {In some heat.) Whoever says 
 
 that 's a liar, an' I '11 bust him in the 
 
 mug ! Mine 's got a bunch o' hair ! An' 
 
 what 's more — it curls ! 
 Regan. An' their ej^es, now. Ain't they 
 
 closed like kittens fer a week or two? 
 McCoy. A week or two nothin'! Why, 
 
 he lay there a-blinkin' an' a-winkin' at 
 
 me like we 'd known each other all our 
 
 lives ! 
 Regan. Ain't it queer now — ain't it queer 
 
 how people come into the world! 
 McCoy. That 's right. 
 Regan. {Wistfully.) I don't s'pose — a 
 
 man really knows wot life means 'nless 
 
 he 's got a kid. 
 
 {The music in the next room stops.) 
 McCoy. Sure thing. {Enthusiastically.) 
 
 Say, Mike, we 're just a-waitin' fer yer 
 
 first one t' come t' make a bonfire of the 
 
 whole blame Ward ! We '11 — 
 Regan. {Quickly.) Quit it! 
 
 {He rises.) 
 McCoy. Wot 's bitin' ye? 
 Regan. {Looking around towards door.) 
 
 Can't ye see? Me wife! 
 
 {They rise, as the door opens and Emily 
 comes in, humming the air she has just 
 been playing. She sees the two men and 
 stops short. Then, with distant care- 
 
 Emily. Oh, I beg your pardon. I 
 thought you were in your office. Is that 
 you, Mr. McCoy? How d' you do? 
 
 McCoy. {Bowing nervously.) Fine, 
 ma'am, I thank ye! The same t' you, 
 ma'am. It 's — it 's getting cold this 
 evenin', ain't it? 
 
 Emily. Is it? Well, I won't disturb 
 you. {She turns to the door.) 
 
 Regan. {Eagerly.) No, don't go. I got 
 somethin' I want t' give ye. {Speaking 
 aside out of the corner of his mouth.) 
 Beat it, Porky! 
 
900 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 McCoy. Wot 's bitin' you ? 
 
 Regan. Fade away! Ain't ye got the 
 manners to see when ye ain't wanted? 
 
 McCoy. {Suddenly.) Pardon me. Good 
 evenin', ma'am. I hope ye sleep well, 
 ma'am. See ye later, Mike. 
 
 {Goes out very embarrassed.) 
 
 Emily. {As the door closes.) Good 
 night, Mr. McCoy. 
 
 Regan. {Confidentially.) He means well. 
 Porky does. But ye see the poor feller 
 ain't had no social advantages. But 
 ye 'd like Porky if ye kind o' got ac- 
 quainted with him. Aw, I know he 's a 
 mut in a parlor but gee ! he 's an ace in a 
 bar! {Slight pause.) Say, yer lookin' 
 swell t'night ! I kept pipin' ye at dinner 
 an' sayin' t' myself, "Gee!" says I, 
 "She 's got all them other dames lashed 
 t' the mast!" 
 
 Emily. I think I '11 go upstairs, Michael. 
 I 'm feeling rather tired. 
 
 Regan. No, wait. D' j-ou know what day 
 this is? 
 
 Emily. Day? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. It 's April 29th. 
 
 Emily. Well? 
 
 Regan. Well, think back six months. 
 
 Emily. {Suddenly.) I'd forgotten! 
 
 Regan. I hadn't. So I took the liberty 
 o'— 
 
 {He takes the jeweler's box from his 
 pocket.) 
 
 Emily. {Under her breath.) Six months! 
 Why, it seems six years! 
 
 Regan. It don't t' me. {Timidly.) Say, 
 Emily ! 
 
 Emily. {Turning to him.) What? 
 {Seeing the box.) Oh, no — 
 
 Regan. Aw, g'wan ! Take it ! It 's just 
 a little keep-sake. {He presses it into 
 her hand.) Just somethin' t' show I'm 
 still on me job — "strivin' t' please" — 
 like they say in the ads. 
 
 Emily. {Trying to give it back to him.) 
 Take it back, Michael. 
 
 Regan. Wot? 
 
 Emily. Credit it wherever you got it and 
 send the money to Father Kelly for his 
 strikers' Home Fund. 
 
 Regan. Strikers ? 
 
 Emily. The women and children — you 
 understand — 
 
 Began. {Eagerly.) But ye ain't even 
 looked at it — say, it 's a di'mond frog 
 with — 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting.) Oh, take it! 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. ( Taking it. ) I 'm sorry, I did 
 
 n't know ye minded when I gave ye 
 things. Gee, if I 'd only known I 'd — 
 {He stops short with an effort, turning 
 towards the door.) 
 
 Emily. That's all right. Good night. 
 
 Regan. Good night. I won't bother ye 
 no more. 
 
 {He slowly goes out. Emily stands 
 for a moment, then turns quickly to 
 other door just as it opens and 
 Gates appears.) 
 
 Gates. Madam. 
 
 Emily. Well, Gates? 
 
 Gates. There 's a gentleman to see you. 
 
 Emily. Now? I'm not at home. 
 
 Gates. It 's Mr. Griswold, madam. 
 
 Emily. Who? 
 
 Gates. Mr. Donald Griswold. 
 
 Emily. {Faintly.) Why — why — 
 
 Gates. And he said I was to tell you it 's 
 most important. 
 
 Emily. Then I think you 'd better show 
 him in. 
 
 Gates. Very good, madam. 
 
 {He goes out. She crosses to the other 
 door, opens it, listens. Then, satis- 
 fied, closes it and returns to the mid- 
 dle of the room as Gates shows in 
 Donald. ) 
 
 Donald. {Constrained.) Hello, Emily. 
 
 Emily. {To Gates.) That'll do. Gates. 
 Will you shut the door? (Gates bows 
 and does so. When they are alone Em- 
 ily throws her arms about Donald's 
 heck with a smothered cry.) Don, my 
 dear ! Oh ! Oh ! I 'm so glad you 've 
 come ! 
 
 Donald. {Rather stiffly.) Are you? I 
 thought — it might be the other way 
 round, after all that 's happened. 
 
 Emily. Don't be foolish, dear! I haven't 
 seen you for so long ! It 's five months 
 now ! Oh, Don ! Come along — sit down 
 here and tell me about everything! 
 How's dad? 
 
 Donald. Very well. His rheumatism 
 came back in January, but nothing seri- 
 ous. 
 
 Emily. Did he have old Cortlandt? 
 
 Donald. Yes. 
 
 Emily. I wish he 'd change. They say 
 this new man, Winters, is awfully 
 good. 
 
 Donald. Imagine father changing doctors 
 after all these years ! 
 
 Emily. Don ! 
 
 Donald. Yes ? 
 
 Emily. How's the business? 
 
 DOXALD. All right. Though don't you 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 901 
 
 think it 's rather rough on dad and me 
 to ask? 
 
 Emily. Don, why would n't either of you 
 answer my letters? 
 
 Donald. {Gravely.) We both took your 
 marriage pretty hard, you know. 
 
 Emily. And I Ve been so proud ! I 
 would n't give in and try to make up — 
 even though I wanted to so often! But 
 now — my dear, I never realized before 
 how much I love you! 
 
 Donald. (Uncomfortably.) I'm chair- 
 man of that big strikers' mass-meeting 
 to-night, and I 've got to be at St. 
 Mary's Hall by nine-thirty, so you see I 
 have n't got much time. I — Emily, 
 where 's Regan ? 
 
 Emily. Oh, I don't know. In there, I 
 think. Don, you 're looking thin, and 
 awfully tired! Can't you get oft for a 
 week and — 
 
 Donald. {Interrupting her.) Excuse 
 me, but I 'm in an awful rush, and what 
 I want to know is — 
 
 Emily. {Fiddling with his tie.) Why, 
 that 's the veiry last tie I knitted for you ! 
 How well it 's worn ! 
 
 Donald. {Impatiently pulling away from 
 her.) Do listen, Emily! I want to 
 know what side you take in this anti- 
 Regan movement. 
 
 Emily. What side? 
 
 Donald. Yes. How do you feel about 
 the strike, for instance? 
 
 Emily. (Vaguely.) Strike? 
 
 Donald. Yes, strike. The Union strike 
 we 're running against him. Where do 
 you stand? 
 
 Emily. I don't know. 
 
 Donald. You don't know? 
 
 Emily. I 've never meddled in his busi- 
 ness. I 've just done all I could to help 
 the wives and children of the men he 
 employs and let it go at that. I 've been 
 cowardly about facing things, I know. 
 But to-night — the Archibshop wrote me 
 a note. He would n't dine here. He 
 told me such dreadful things. They 
 killed a saloon-keeper this afternoon. 
 
 Donald. I know — Dave Hurley. 
 
 Emily. (Breaking down.) Oh, Don, I've 
 been having a terrible time! It just 
 seems sometimes as if I couldn't keep it 
 up a minute longer! Be good to me, 
 dear — please — I need it — I need some one 
 to be good to me! 
 
 (She turns to him, sobbing like a 
 child.) 
 
 Donald. (Melting for the first time and 
 
 petting her Jenderly.) Poor little girl! 
 There now — don't cry ! I 'm right here ! 
 Your big brother 's right here and he '11 
 take care of you exactly the way he used 
 to! 
 
 Emily. (Trying to control herself.) I — ■ 
 I can't help it ! It 's just too — splendid 
 to have you back — again — 
 
 Donald. Is it? Then you'll try to help 
 me, won't you? 
 
 Emily. (Drying her eyes.) Help you? 
 
 Donald. Yes. It 's like this. We — 
 
 Emily. (Interrupting.) Don, give me 
 your hand. 
 
 Donald. (Doing so.) They're getting 
 Regan's men to strike and join the Un- 
 ion at the rate of a hundred a day. Un- 
 less something happens we '11 make him 
 shut down business by Monday at the 
 latest. Why, even now the Western 
 companies are getting scared — 
 
 Emily. (Interrupting.) Does he know 
 that? 
 
 Donald. No, but he will. They say he 
 can't stand up much longer and he 
 won't ! He can't ! No matter how many 
 dirty tricks he 's carrying up his sleeve ! 
 
 Emily. Dirty tricks? {Looking at him 
 intently. ) What d' you mean ? 
 
 Donald. (Confidentially.) Why, Glea- 
 son — he 's our attorney — Gleason thinks 
 that Regar 's just lying low until he can 
 get a coup] i of thousand niggers up from 
 Georgia or Alabama, and start 'em work- 
 ing at the docks at a quarter a white 
 man's wage. He could do it, too. 
 Damn him, he 's the only man I know 
 who could! 
 
 Emily. Ssh! Don! Be careful! He'll 
 hear you! 
 
 Donald. (Lowering his voice.) But be- 
 fore I get after the railroads and head 
 him off, I 've got to be dead sure of the 
 whole proposition, and that 's why I 've 
 come to you. 
 
 Emily. To me? 
 
 Donald. (Eagerly.) Yes. What about 
 it? Is that his little game? 
 
 Emily. (After a slight pause, withdraw- 
 ing her hand. ) I don't know. I 've told 
 you I never interfere in his business. 
 
 Donald. Well, I want you to do a little 
 interfering now — for me. I want you to 
 find out whether this is true, and I want 
 you to find out what road he 's going to 
 bring 'em over. Then we '11 wait and 
 nab him in the act. I 'm glad he 's in. 
 You can get it out of him to-night. 
 
 Emily. Don, dear, it — 
 
902 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Donald. (Interrupting.) I'll ring you 
 up to-morrow about eleven and — 
 
 Emily. (Interrupting.) Doi, I couldn't 
 do that. 
 
 Donald. (Impatiently.) Why, of course 
 you could. Just tell him you 're inter- 
 ested! Get him talking, you know how 
 — he '11 take care of the rest. 
 
 Emily. I mean — I wouldn't do it. 
 
 Donald. What? 
 
 Emily. (Uncomfortably.) After all, he 's 
 my husband. 
 
 Donald. But you 're on our side ! You 're 
 one of us ! I 'm your brother, when it 
 comes to that. 
 
 Emily. I — I couldn't, dear. That's all. 
 
 Donald. You must ! It 's your only 
 chance to show dad and me you 're sorry 
 for what you did — that you 're fond of 
 us still! 
 
 Emily. (Rising.) I won't, I tell you! I 
 can't! 
 
 Donald. (Rising.) You'd better look 
 out, Emily, or you '11 make me think you 
 approve of everything that man is doing 
 — killing saloon-keepers and all the rest ! 
 
 Emily. (Indignantly turns on Mm.) I 
 don't approve of it ! You know I don't ! 
 You know I hate it from the bottom of 
 my soul! 
 
 Donald. (Instantly.) Then why don't 
 you help us stop it? You can. You 
 hold the chance right there in your two 
 hands! Good Lord, don't you realize 
 the importance? 
 
 Emily. Yes, of course I realize — but I 
 just know it 's impossible. 
 
 Donald. It isn't! 
 
 Emily. (Her temper rising.) It is! 
 And what 's more you have no right to 
 come and ask me! 
 
 Donald. (Angrily.) Oh, very well, then. 
 One thing 's sure — I '11 never come again. 
 
 Emily. If that 's the only sort of reason 
 that brings you, I hope you never do! 
 
 Donald. Emily ! 
 
 Emily. What do you mean by stirring up 
 all this trouble anyway ? Did n't my 
 husband help you just about as gener- 
 ously as any man could? Didn't he 
 pull you up and get you on your feet 
 and giv9 you half his business exactly 
 as he said he would ? He 's kept his 
 word, Michael has. He promised he 'd 
 leave you alone and he^s done it, too! 
 And that, I believe, is more than you can 
 say! 
 
 Donaj d. (Turning angrily.) I never 
 gave my word! 
 
 Emily. You 're my brother, so I did n'i 
 see the need of asking for it. But now 
 — oh, Don, you 've made me feel ashamed 
 of you ! I 'm ashamed of my family for 
 the very first time! 
 
 Donald. (Amazed.) Do you mean that? 
 
 Emily. Yes, I do. 
 
 Donald. You're sure? 
 
 Emily. Quite sure. 
 
 Donald. (Between his teeth.) Good 
 night, then. 
 
 Emily. Good — 
 
 (She stops short as the door opens ana 
 Regan appears. A pause.) 
 
 Regan. (To Donald.) Get out o' my 
 house, ye dam', sneakin' little son-of-a- 
 gun, before I — 
 
 Emily. (Flaming.) Stop that! 
 
 Regan. (Turning to her.) Wot? 
 
 Emily. He 's my brother, and he can 
 come when he pleases and go when he 
 pleases, so long as I choose to let him. 
 
 Regan. (Sternly.) See here, Emily, 
 I 've never got my back up before 
 t' night, but now you 're gettin' just a 
 little bit too gay ! D 'ye know wot ye 
 are before yer anyone else — I don't care 
 if it 's sister or daughter or life-long 
 friend? Yer Mrs. Regan — got it? Mrs. 
 R. ! An' if ye think yer goin' t' sit on 
 my parlor sofa, in the middle o' my 
 house, an' tell the guy I 'm scrappin' to 
 a finish how t' land me on the jaw — 
 
 Emily. (Interrupting.) I didn't say a 
 word ! You can ask him if I did! (Ap- 
 pealing to her brother.) Don! 
 
 Regan. Then I did ring the bell! That 
 was the reason why ye come in here 
 t'night! Gee, fer a good boy, yer get- 
 ting on great — you are! First ye let 
 me help ye when yer down and out. 
 Then, by way o' thankin' me, ye sneak 
 around an' get me men t' strike. An' 
 now I find ye tryin' t' make me own wife 
 welch on me ! This may be honest, Gris- 
 wold, but if it is — give me the other 
 thing ! 
 
 Donald. Don't worry, you 've got that 
 already. 
 
 Regan. Now beat it, ye rubber-soled 
 porch-climber ye! Beat it, an' if I ever 
 catch ye in my house again, ye won't get 
 out alive! 
 
 Donald. (Coolly.) All right. Keep an 
 eye on St. Mary's Hall to-night, Regan, 
 if you want to know how things are go- 
 ing. There '11 be a few live wires you 
 don't expect. (Telephone rings.) 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 903 
 
 Emily. (Impulsively.) Don! 
 Donald. No, I 'm through with you. 
 
 (He goes out. Emily stands by door 
 
 with head bowed. Regan has gone 
 
 to answer telephone, leaning over 
 
 desk with one knee on sofa. ) 
 
 Regan. (At the telephone.) Hello. That 
 
 you, Porky? Yeah. Yer at the Hall? 
 
 Well? Have they got a full house? 
 
 Speak up, there 's such a damn lot o' 
 
 noise! What about the street outside? 
 
 Jammed for blocks? Men, women, an' — 
 
 (He smothers a furious exclamation.) 
 
 Naw, go on. I did n't say nothin'. Has 
 
 the Mayor come? I can't hear, they got 
 
 a band playin', ain't they? Waitin' fer 
 
 young Griswold ? Yeah. He 's comin' 
 
 in his auto. I wish 'twas in his hearse. 
 
 Wot? 
 
 (Gates enters.) 
 
 Gates. Is Mr. Regan there? 
 
 Emily. He 's telephoning, Gates. 
 
 Regan. (Hanging up receiver and turn- 
 ing about angrily.) Well, wot d'ye 
 want? (Irritably.) Come on! I won't 
 have no foolin' t'night! 
 
 Gates. A man from the Labor Union. 
 He said you — 
 
 Regan. (Interrupting.) Bring him in. 
 (Gates turns to go. Regan suddenly 
 roars.) Say, get a move on there, ye 
 knock-kneed Britisher, or I'll take the 
 crease out the back o' yer neck with the 
 toe o' my boot! 
 
 Gates. (Outraged.) Sir — I — 
 
 Regan. Ye fat-headed second-girl! Beat 
 it now an' bring him in! 
 
 (Gates goes out quickly.) 
 
 Emily. (Trembling.) You must not talk 
 to the servants that way while I 'm in the 
 room! I can't stand it! I just can't! 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Regan. (Shamefacedly at last.) Aw, 
 say, I did n't mean all that. I 'm sorry. 
 
 (Gates opens the door ,and shows in the 
 Union delegate, a rather poorly-dressed, 
 defiant-looking, slouchy laborer, wearing 
 his Sunday clothes.) 
 
 You from the Union? 
 ScANLAN. Yeah. 
 Regan. Wot's yer name? 
 ScANLAN. Scanlan. 
 Regan. Sixth Division? 
 Scanlan. Yeah. 
 Regan. I 'm on. I fired ye one day when 
 
 ye got too flip. Remember that? 
 Emily. How d'you do, Mr. Scanlan? 
 
 Scanlan. (Startled.) Why, ma'am, I — 
 (He pauses, embarrassed.) 
 
 Emily. I hope that Mrs. Scanlan is feel- 
 ing better than when I saw her yester- 
 day? 
 
 Scanlan. Thanks, ma'am. The doc, he 
 saj's she 's just about the same. 
 
 Emily. (Brightly.) Well, we ought to 
 be thankful she 's no worse ! ( To Re- 
 gan.) Excuse us, Michael, Mrs. Scan- 
 lan 's an old friend of mine, and she has 
 bronchitis. 
 
 Regan. Oh, is that so? (To Scanlan, 
 uncomfortably.) Well, come on! Wot 
 d' ye w-ant ? Choke it up ! I ain't got 
 much time! 
 
 Scanlan. (Begiyming his speech.) At 
 the meetin' o' the board last night we 
 passed a resolution — 
 
 Regan. (Impatiently.) Aw, damn yer 
 resolution ! Wot 's the least ye '11 take ? 
 
 Scanlan. (Briefly.) Ten hour day, two 
 shifts, an' a general superintendent 
 elected by the Union. 
 
 Regan. (Grimly.) Any thin' more? 
 
 Scanlan. Yeah. Our own saloon an' no 
 one fired fer usin' 'em 'stead of yours. 
 
 Regan. (Between his teeth.) Go on! 
 
 Scanlan. Twenty-five per cent raise on 
 wages, an' I guess that 's all. 
 
 Regan. All? Say, don't ye want me 
 watch an' chain? 
 
 Scanlan. (Doggedly.) We don't want 
 nothin', Mr. Regan, that ain't ours by 
 rights. 
 
 Regan. (With sudden and ominous calm.) 
 Who framed up that resolution? 
 
 Scanlan. Wot 's the diff, s' long as it was 
 carried ? 
 
 Regan. Was it Griswold? 
 
 Scanlan. (Defiantly.) I ain't a-sayin'. 
 
 Regan. (Softly.) Griswold! I thought 
 so! 
 
 Scanlan. (More defiantly.) Well, wot's 
 the answer? 
 
 Regan. Oh! Ye want me answer, do ye? 
 
 Scanlan. (Insolently.) Yeah. An' if 
 it ain't the kind we like, we '11 soak ye 
 all the harder later on. 
 
 Regan. (Ominously still.) Oh, ye '11 
 soak me all the harder later on ! 
 
 Scanlan. (Openly bullying.) Aw, gee! 
 Ye make me sick! Come off that bum 
 perch, Regan! We done ye, and ye 
 know we done ye, an' there ain't a word 
 more to be said! 
 
 Regan. (Suddenly springing on him like 
 a icild animal.) Ain't there? 
 
 (He strikes the man with tremendous 
 
904 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 force, Emily shrieks, the man falls 
 and lies quivering on the floor. Re- 
 gan draws back to kick him in the 
 side. ) 
 
 Emily. {Coming between them, pale and 
 very firm.) Michael! 
 
 Regan. (Thickly.) Wot's that—? 
 
 Emily. {Looking at him firmly.) Mich- 
 ael, it 's I. {He looks at her as if seeing 
 her for the first time. There is a pause. 
 Her gaze subdues him. At last she 
 speaks quietly.) Get some whiskey. 
 {Site turns and kneels by the wounded 
 man, examining him.) 
 
 Regan. {Returning with the glass.) Is 
 he out? 
 
 Emily. {Pouring whiskey between his 
 lips.) He's stunned, that's all. 
 {Looking up a-t Regan.) It's a fine 
 thing to send a man back this way to his 
 dj'ing wife. 
 
 Regan. Dyin'! But I thought ye said — 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting.) It isn't bron- 
 chitis. It 's pneumonia, and it was 
 brought on from cold and hunger. The 
 doctor says she won't last out the week. 
 She made him promise not to tell her 
 husband until the end. 
 
 Regan. Why? 
 
 Emily. Because she didn't wish to stand 
 between him and his striker's work. 
 (Regan gives a muttered exclamation 
 and sits on couch, his face in hands.) 
 That 's what you 're fighting, Michael, 
 and you '11 never beat that spirit in a 
 thousand years. 
 
 Regan. Has she — got any kids? 
 
 Emily. Four. The youngest boy was 
 born last summer. (Regan has taken a 
 roll of bills from his pocket hastily. He 
 comes to where Scanlan lies.) What 
 are you doing now? 
 
 Regan. {Bending over and slipping the 
 money in Scanlan's pocket.) Just a 
 couple o' bills, that 's all. He '11 find 'em 
 in the momin'. 
 
 Emily. {Bitterly.) You nearly kill him, 
 and when he 's lying here, stunned and 
 helpless, you think you can make up by 
 putting money in his pocket! Oh, 
 what 's the use? 
 
 Regan. {Instantly.) Use? Why, ain't 
 ye got no feelin's? Don't ye realize this 
 man 's got a sick wife an' four kids — 
 one of 'em a baby born last summer? 
 Don't ye know he ain't had no wages 
 since this strike was on ? His wife needs 
 medicine t' pull her through an' them 
 growin' kids ought t' stoke up three times 
 
 a day on meat an' pertaters? {Door 
 bell is heard.) Say, wot's the matter 
 with ye anyway? Why — {He interrupts 
 himself suddenly and turns to listen. 
 A pause. He goes over to the window 
 and looks out. Scanlan moves and 
 groans aloud. Regan turns quickly 
 back.) It's His Grace! 
 
 Emily. The Archbishop? 
 
 Regan. Yeah ! He 's comin' here to see 
 me. We got t' get this guy out o' the 
 way. 
 
 Emily. {Busy with Scanlan.) Wait! 
 I think he 's coming to. {To Scanlan.) 
 Mr. Scanlan — (Scanlan makes another 
 movement and tries to sit up. She helps 
 him.) There! You're feeling better, 
 aren't you? (Scanlan sees Regan and 
 guards himself.) It's all right — all 
 right ! Nobody 's going to hurt you, Mr, 
 Scanlan! {To Regan, quickly.) Help 
 him up, Michael. 
 
 Regan. {Doing so.) Where '11 I stick 
 him? 
 
 Emily. I don't know. In your office, I 
 suppose. (Regan half drags, half car- 
 ries him towards door.) I hear Gates. 
 Can you manage him alone? 
 
 Regan. Sure. 
 
 Emily. {Whispering.) Put him in the 
 big chair, 
 
 Regan. {As he is dragging Scanlan 
 through the door.) An' the Bish? 
 
 Emily. I '11 talk to him. 
 
 (Ragan and Scanlan disappear. 
 She closes the door after them and 
 turns just as the other door opens 
 mid Gates appears.) 
 
 Gates. {Announcing.) His Grace, the 
 Archbishop. 
 
 {There is an instant's pause, then the Arch- 
 bishop enters. He is a big-jowled Irish- 
 man, of much the same physical type as 
 Regan. He is dressed in clerical frock 
 coat.) 
 
 Emily. {Coming forward cordially, her 
 hand outstretched.) Your Grace! 
 
 Archbishop. {In his deep, rich voice, to 
 which the traces of a former accent still 
 cling.) Mrs. Regan, this is indeed a 
 great pleasure. 
 
 EiiiLY. Michael will be here directly. 
 Won't you sit down? He's just attend- 
 ing to a little business for a — a friend. 
 
 Archbishop. I hope ye did n't take of- 
 fense at my refusin' t' come t' yer party 
 t'night, but after what I 'd heard — 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 905 
 
 Emily. I understand. Ob, I understand 
 perfectly. "" 
 
 Archbishop. {Very winningly.) Mrs. 
 Regan, can't ye do somethin' t' stop him? 
 
 Emily. Please, your Grace — 
 
 Archbishop. He '11 listen t' a good 
 woman. I remember once bis old 
 mother tellin' me how she kept him off 
 the streets for a week just by askin' him 
 t' help her with the dishes after supper. 
 An' he did it! 
 
 Emily. {Bitterly.) For a week. 
 
 Archbishop. {Smiling wisely.) Well, 
 she was only his mother. 
 
 Emily. I 'm only his wife. 
 
 Archbishop. I know. An' I thought 
 when he came t' me that day an' said, 
 "Father," says he, "I 'm goin' t' get mar- 
 ried !" — I thought our Lady from Heaven 
 had dropped a smile right down into bis 
 heart. But now — 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting.) Please! Please, 
 not any more! {Trying to control her 
 voice.) You don't know — 
 
 Archbishop. I know there 's mighty lit- 
 tle any man can do if bis good woman 's 
 made up her mind the other way round. 
 Ah, try it just once, me daughter, an' 
 remember yer two souls will stand 
 t' getber on the Judgment Day ! 
 
 Emily. {Coldly.) I feel that I have no 
 right to interfere. 
 
 {The door opens, and Regan appears, a 
 hook in Ms hand.) 
 
 Regan. {Pretending not to see the Arch- 
 bishop.) I've just been readin' the 
 most interestin' book, me dear — {Start- 
 ing.) Well, if there ain't his Grace! 
 Gawd save yer Rev'rence, I didn't see 
 ye at all ! 
 
 {He kisses the Archbishop's ring de- 
 voutly.) 
 
 Emily. Good night, your Grace. 
 
 Archbishop. Oh, don't go, Mrs. Regan, 
 there 's nothing we have to say that you 
 shouldn't bear. 
 
 Emily. Very well. I '11 be back directly. 
 {She goes into next room.) 
 
 Archbishop. {Gravely.) I'm on my 
 way t' the meetin' at St. Mary's Hall. 
 
 Regan. {Interrupt i^ig quickly.) Ye ain't 
 a-goin' t' speak against me, Father? 
 
 Archbishop. That 's just what I 've got 
 t' do. 
 
 Regan. But why? 
 
 Archbishop. Young Griswold was talkin' 
 V me three hours this afternoon an' I 
 
 find I 've 'kept my mouth shut long 
 enough. 
 
 Regan. Well, if ye open up now, I see 
 my finish. 
 
 Archbishop. {Earnestly.) My son, I 
 hope t' God ye do! 
 
 Regan. Aw, Father! 
 
 Archbishop. So I just stopped in on me 
 way down — just for the sake o' old times, 
 Mickey — to ask if ye won't give in before 
 it 's all too late. 
 
 Regan. {Between his teeth.) Give in an' 
 take a lickin' ! 
 
 Archbishop. {With a troubled smile.) 
 A lickin' ! Ah, it 's true you never were 
 much good at that from the day yer fam- 
 ily moved into Dugan's bar an' my old 
 father — God rest his soul! — came over 
 from the old country to run my uncle's 
 grocery down the block ! D' you remem- 
 ber? 
 
 Regan. {Laughing.) Say, we used t' guy 
 the life out o' ye back there. When ye 
 first came over, every time ye opened 
 that mouth o' yers, ye 'd let out a be- 
 gorra green enough to turn the Fourth 
 of July into St. Patrick's day! 
 
 Archbishop. {Amused.) Sure, Mickey, 
 an' it 's true ye never would let me be ! 
 Only yesterday I was thinkin' o' the 
 time ye got a comer in dead cats an' sold 
 'em for a dime apiece — a nickel the kit- 
 ten — t' tie on the end o' strings an' slam 
 us decent boys with when we came out 
 from our Sunday school ! 
 
 Regan. Sure, I remember! Gee, I had a 
 swell time that day, an' I made a dollar 
 an' twenty cents, too! 
 
 Archbishop. Yes, ye always were the J. 
 P. Morgan o' the whole Fourth Ward! 
 But remember when ye 'd go too far, I 'd 
 rise up in the name of righteousness an' 
 beat the pants clean off yer legs ! 
 
 Regan. Well, ye was older 'n me an' a 
 blame sight bigger, too ! 
 
 Archbishop. An' then ye 'd lay fer me in 
 Clancy's alley, with a brick in one hand 
 an' a piece o' lead-pipe in the other — 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) Waitin' fer hours 
 at a stretch t' put ye t' sleep, like the 
 good kind friend I was ! 
 
 (Archbishop looks at him, somewhat 
 taken aback.) 
 
 Archbishop {Reflecting.) Well, thank 
 God fer one thing, Mickey. Ye never 
 could aim straight when it came t' the 
 plumbin' ! 
 
 Regan. 'Member our last scrap behind 
 them paekin' boxes on the night before 
 
906 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 ye sailed away t' Rome? Gee, I can feel 
 that knock-out ye gave me after twenty- 
 five years! 
 
 Archbishop. {Smiling.) An' mighty lit- 
 tle good it's done ye, I'm tliinkin'! Ye 
 know, Mickey, ye have n't changed much 
 since those days. 
 
 Regan. Nor you neither, Terry — {Sud- 
 denly embarrassed.) Savin' yer Rever- 
 ence's pardon. 
 
 Archbishop. {Laughing.) Ah, Mickey, 
 what a priest you 'd have made ! 
 
 Regan. An' you, yer Grace, — gee, what a 
 politician ! 
 
 Archbishop. {Affectionately.) Mickey! 
 
 Regan. Yes, Father? 
 
 Archbishop. Give it up, my son! Get 
 away from Clancy's alley! 
 
 (Emily enters.) 
 
 Why, ye 've been livin' here all yer life 
 an' ye need a change, so why don't you 
 start in t'night an' square yerself with 
 the whole town by handin' these men over 
 what they want? {Slight pause. Then 
 putting his hand on Regan's arm.) It 's 
 f er you I 'm askin' it, Mickey. Just f er 
 you. 
 
 Regan. Well, an' if I don't? 
 
 Archbishop. Then I '11 go to this meetin' 
 t'night an' tell these men that the Church 
 o' God is right behind 'em, an' I '11 never 
 let up till I 've struck ye t' the ground, 
 my son, an' I can do it! Ye know I 
 can! {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. All right. Ye 've got me. I give 
 in. 
 
 Archbishop. D 'ye mean it ? 
 
 Regan. Sure. There 's nothin' else t' do. 
 
 Archbishop. My son, I — 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) If ye go straight 
 home from here without sliowin' your- 
 self or speakin' at the meetin', I '11 send 
 'em word t'morrer mornin' that I 'm 
 down an' by Sunday we '11 have settled 
 on the terms. 
 
 Archbishop. D'you promise? 
 
 Regan. {Brazenly.) Sure I promise. 
 
 Archbishop. {Doubtfully.) Are ye sin- 
 cere? Can I trust ye to play me square? 
 
 Regan. Ye can trust me like ye 'd trust 
 yerself. In fact, I 've sort o' grown t' 
 feel that the Union 's right an' I 'm all 
 wrong. An' feelin' that way I 'd like t' 
 make up fer wot I done t' them poor fel- 
 lows in the past. 
 
 Archbishop. {Still doubtfully.) How 
 long have ye been feelin' this way, 
 Mickey ? 
 
 Aw, I 
 
 dunno. Two weeks — off 
 
 Regan. 
 an' on. 
 
 Archbishop. How about this afternoon? 
 
 Regan. {Innocently.) This afternoon? 
 
 Archbishop.. Yes. 
 
 Regan. I dunno nothin' about this after- 
 noon. 
 
 Archbishop. Ye mean ye haven't heard? 
 
 Regan. I swear I ain't heard nothin'! 
 G'wan, wot is it? 
 
 Archbishop. {Incredulous.) About yer 
 own gang, McCoy and all the rest 
 a-breakin' into Hurley's saloon an' club- 
 bin' the poor man until — 
 
 Regan. {Virtuously.) Now ain't that 
 just too bad! I told the boys again an' 
 again they 'd better look out fer their 
 foolin' or it would get 'em into trou- 
 ble! 
 
 Archbishop. Foolin' ! 
 
 Regan. They 're young, ye know, an' they 
 got t' w^ork hard fer a livin'. So I never 
 feel like blamin' 'em too much when they 
 try t' get a little enjoyment out o' life. 
 
 Archbishop. Enjoyment ! 
 
 Regan. {Shaking his head.) But ev'ry 
 now an' then they go too far. I 've no- 
 ticed that. They sometimes go too far! 
 Say, Father, they ain't killed Hurley, 
 have they? 
 
 Archbishop. We don't know yet. But, 
 Mickey — {He hesitates.) 
 
 Regan. Yeah, Father? 
 
 Archbishop. {Significantly.) Yer quite 
 sure no orders came from you this after- 
 noon t' do this thing? 
 
 Regan. I swear t' Gawd I never heard a 
 word about it up t' now! (Pause. The 
 telephone on desk rings.) That's Mc- 
 Coy now. He 's at the meetin', tellin m,e 
 how it's goin'. {Answering the call.) 
 Hello, Porky. Yeah. {Very severely.) 
 Say, wot d' ye mean by never tellin' me 
 'bout this Hurley business? Ye ain't 
 had time? Well, you come up here after 
 the meetin' and I '11 have somethin' t' 
 say t' ye — understand? The idea o' such 
 goin's on ! Why, folks '11 think I put 
 ye up to it meself ! Yeah! Don't apol- 
 ogiee now! It don't do no good, an' it 
 makes me all the sorer ! Now wlio 's 
 been speakin' down there? Young Gris- 
 wold? How's she goin'? Enthusiasm 
 risin'? {With a savage laugh.) Is that 
 so? Well, ain't that nice? Rumor o' 
 what? The last speaker t' be the Arch- 
 bishop? G'wan, His Grace is standin' 
 right beside me now an' he says he ain't 
 goin' near the hall t'night! 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 907 
 
 {He turns and looks up appealingly 
 at the Archbishop.) 
 
 Archbishop. God help me, I believe ye, 
 Mickey, an' I '11 give ye this one last 
 chance. 
 
 Regan. [Turning triumphantly to the 
 telephone.) Yeah, ye can bet on it! 
 It 's 0. K. Just take my word. So give 
 'em all my love. Porky, an' tell 'em I 
 don't care what the hell they say! 
 
 {He rings off with a grin.) 
 
 Archbishop. In a week, then, everythin' 
 will be settled f er good ? 
 
 Regan. {His eyes gleaming.) Just one 
 week, an' I '11 have settled 'em f er good 
 an' all! 
 
 Emily. {Suddenly.) D'you hear that? 
 
 Archbishop. Mrs. Regan! I — 
 
 Emily. D'you know what he means'? 
 
 Regan. Stop that! 
 
 Emily. {Facing him.) I won't! I won't 
 stop until I 've told His Grace that not 
 one single word you 've said is true ! 
 
 Archbishop. What — ? 
 
 Regan. Say, yer crazy! Gee, my wife's 
 gone off her nut! 
 
 Emily. {To the Archbishop.) He's lied 
 to you. He 's taken you in from the 
 very beginning. Why, he has n't the 
 least intention of giving up one inch to 
 those strikers! 
 
 Regan. Don't listen to her, Father! 
 
 Emily. He 's just fighting for time. 
 Time! That's all he wants! A week? 
 Why, in a week he 's going to have two 
 thousand negroes sent up from Alabama 
 to take the place of Union men! 
 
 Regan. {Forgetting himself.) Who told 
 ye that! 
 
 Emily. Look at him ! He has the truth 
 written all over his face! 
 
 Regan. {Turning away with clenched 
 hands.) Gawd — 
 
 Archbishop. {Sternly.) Well? What 
 have ye got t' say? 
 
 Regan. {Pulling himself together.) My 
 wife 's — all off. She don't know me, 
 that 's all. I say I 've had a change o' 
 heart! I swear I feel as if every 
 one o' them blame strikers was me 
 brother ! 
 
 Emily. How dare you say that? Open 
 that door, your Grace, and look into the 
 next room. The man you '11 see there 
 brought the Union Ultimatum to this 
 house to-night. He '11 show you how my 
 husband treats hie brothers! 
 
 Regan. Father! Just a second! Now 
 listen to me please — 
 
 Archbishop. {Pushing Regan out of the 
 way. ) Get out o' me way ! 
 
 {He goes across the room, opens the 
 door, and disappears into Regan's 
 office. Regan drops his mask for a 
 moment and has an animal spasm of 
 rage, keeping perfectly silent the 
 while. Emily stands with her 
 breast heaving. After a moment 
 their looks meet. A pause. Then 
 the Archbishop reappears, a stern, 
 commanding figure.) 
 
 Regan. {Attempting to detain him.) 
 Say, it was an accident! He fell down 
 by himself ! I never meant to hurt him ! 
 Why, he 's one o' me very best friends ! 
 I would n't a-had this happen fer — aw, 
 Father, wait now! Say, where are ye 
 goin? 
 
 Archbishop. {In righteous heat.) To 
 St. Mary's Hall, t' talk to the citizens o' 
 this town as a priest has never talked 
 to 'em before ! And when I 'm through, 
 Michael Regan, you '11 stand naked an' 
 tremblin' before the whole world, an' not 
 one man will let ye touch his garment as 
 he passes by! 
 
 Regan. {Seizing his arm and whining.) 
 Aw, wot 's yer rush ? I did n't mean t' 
 get ye sore! Honest t' Gawd, I didn't! 
 Aw, come, Father, yer not a-goin t' leave 
 me this way! That ain't no way t' treat 
 an old friend! Say, Father, I — 
 
 Archbishop. {Interrupting.) Let me by! 
 
 Regan. {Not budging.) Sure I will, only 
 I just want t' make ye understand how I 
 feel about yer goin' down there an' — 
 
 Archbishop. Let me by, Michael Regan! 
 
 Regan. {Throwing aside his conciliatory 
 manner.) All right! When that meet- 
 in 's finished, an' not one second before ! 
 
 Emily. Michael ! 
 
 Archbishop. Do you think you can hold 
 me here against my will? 
 
 Regan. {Recklessly.) 1 don't think. 
 I 'm sure ! An' if ye don't believe it, 
 why off with yer coat, Terry Sullivan, 
 and we '11 see if all the Saints can save 
 ye from a lickin'! 
 
 Archbishop. Down on your knees, Mich- 
 ael Regan! Fall down on yer knees an' 
 pray fergiveness fer those blasphemies! 
 Rebellious child, have ye forgotten that 
 the armies of the Lord protect His serv- 
 ants? Have ye forgotten the great 
 Church standin' like a mighty rock 
 against the waves o' sin? D'ye think a 
 wretched straw like you can break its 
 power or change its end from what was 
 
908 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 written in the Angel's Book, a million 
 years agof 
 
 Regan. {Muttering.) Aw g'wan — I did 
 n't mean notliin' — 
 
 Archbishop. D' you think a fool can 
 stand alone and shake the deep founda- 
 tions o' the world? Out o' my way, 
 presumptuous man! 
 
 (Regan, cowed, steps hack, and the 
 Archbishop sweeps past him with 
 real majesty and strength. As soon 
 as the door shuts on him, Regan 
 turns fiercely and bitterly to Em- 
 ily.) 
 
 Regan. {In an outburst.) That 's a swell 
 turn ye just done me, ain't it? Goin' 
 back on yer husband, trjdn' t' soak him 
 ev'ry way ye could ! 
 
 Emily. Please, Michael — 
 
 Regan. Say, ain't I treated ye well? 
 Ain't I done ev'rythin' I thought ye 
 wanted? Ain't I given up half me busi- 
 ness t' yer old man? Ain't I put ye in 
 a swell house an' deposited a cool million 
 to yer credit in the First National? 
 
 Emily. Don't, Michael! 
 
 Regan. Ain't I kept out o' yer way as 
 much as I could — a-sneakin' in the back 
 door, beatin' it to my room whenever I 
 heard ye comin'? 
 
 Emily. Michael — 
 
 Regan. I 've tried t' make livin' here easy 
 fer ye, and wot do I get in return? Ye 
 wait till I 'm scrappin' with both hands 
 an' breathin' hard, an' then ye up and 
 stick a knife in me back, ye — 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting wildly.) I didn't! 
 
 Regan. Wot 's that? 
 
 Emily. I just spoke out because I 
 could n't help it ! I could n't see you do 
 a thing like that ! 
 
 Regan. Aw, it 's too bad about you ! 
 
 Emily. But now's your chance to make 
 it up ! Michael, listen ! It 's your 
 chance! 
 
 Regan. Chance! With him on his way 
 down there t' talk against me? I ain't 
 got no chance ! All I got is a finish ! 
 
 Emily. Don't let him do it for you! 
 Give in of your own accord, before any- 
 one can make you! 
 
 Regan. Give in? 
 
 Emily. Yes, call up the mass meeting! 
 Tell them you 've heard their ultimatum ! 
 Tell tliem you accept it ! Then when the 
 Arclibishop comes, he '11 find out what 
 you 've done, and oh ! he '11 be so glad ! 
 
 Regan. I won't quit while I got the hfe 
 still in me 1 
 
 Emily. You must! Oh, Michael, I don't 
 want you to do this just to help those 
 men or to please the Archbishop or to 
 make me happy! I want you to do it 
 for yourself! 
 
 Regan. Naw! 
 
 Emily. Don't you see what it means? 
 Don't you understand ? You 're the only 
 one I 'm thinking of ! It 's all for you ! 
 Everything 's for you ! 
 
 Regan. Naw! 
 
 Emily. Michael! You must! 
 
 Regan. I said I won't! 
 
 Emily. {Desperately.) Please! 
 
 {She puts her hand on his arm.) 
 
 Regan. {Throwing her off.) Give in? 
 Accept their ultimatum? Let them 
 scoopers know they got me licked? 
 Say, wot d' ye think I am ? 
 
 {Telephone rings.) 
 
 Emily. {Hopelessly.) Oh! I don't know! 
 I don't know! 
 
 Regan. {At telephone.) Hello? Who is 
 it? Porky? Wot? He 's speakin' ? In 
 the name o' the Holy Catholic Church? 
 Wot? Never t' work fer me again? 
 Wot 's all that noise? Cheerin'? {Sud- 
 denly he dashes the instrument to the 
 desk without ringing off and glares at 
 Emily.) Well, ye 've done the trick, 
 d' ye hear? Ye done the trick! Now go 
 on! Tell me yer glad! Spit it out! 
 Get it off your chest, an' laugh! Say, 
 why don't ye laugh ? I 'm just waitin' 
 fer that laugh ! Ye think I 'm smashed ! 
 Ye think I 'm finished ! Ye think I 'm 
 knocked f hell! Well, I ain't! D'ye 
 hear? I ain't! I'll beat 'em yet! By 
 Gawd, I'll beat 'em yet! 
 
 {His fist crashes on the desk as the 
 curtain falls.) 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene. The scene is the same as in Act 
 Second, the next morning about nine 
 o'clock. The room is in slight disorder, 
 the desk is covered with newspapers, 
 memoranda, and clippings. Newspapers 
 with glaring headlines are tumbled all 
 about the floor. Chairs have been moved 
 from their regidar positions. Regan is 
 sitting behind the desk, thus half facing 
 the audience. He still wears his dress 
 trousers, silk socks and pumps, with a 
 jersey. He is chewing the end of an 
 unlighted cigar — a pile of ashes and 
 butts lies near the whiskey tray, near at 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 909 
 
 hand. He is pale and unshaven. As 
 the curtain rises he is running through 
 the morning papers, one after the other. 
 Davis, his secretary, .is seated at the 
 other end of the table, his stenographic 
 books before him, awaiting Regan's next 
 orders. 
 
 Regan. (Muttering as he glances at the 
 headlines.) "Boss Regan falls at last — 
 Repudiated by grain companies — Long 
 fight ends in complete defeat — " 
 (Throws it aside.) Gimme the Tribune. 
 
 Davis. Here it is, sir. 
 
 Regan. (Reading.) "Mass-meeting at St. 
 Mary's — Interference o' Archbishop — " 
 (Looking up.) Gee, they got me in the 
 oven, too! How's the Courier? 
 
 Davis. Antagonistic, I 'm afraid. 
 
 Regan. G' wan, let's have it! (Read- 
 ing. ) "Regan's finish — City 's free at 
 last — " (Gates enters, carrying a 
 breakfast iray with coffee and toast. 
 Regan shakes his head at him in dis- 
 gusted disapproval.) Say, you get out 
 o' here! I won't have no dumb-waiter 
 in here this mornin'. 
 
 Gates. Mrs. Regan told me to bring you 
 some coffee, sir. She heard you 'd been 
 down-town all night and had no break- 
 fast when you came in. 
 
 Regan. (Almost to himself.) Well, wot 
 d'you think o' that? 
 
 Gates. (Doubtfully.) I beg pardon, sir, 
 I— 
 
 Regan. (Irritably.) Say, wot 's bitin' 
 ye? Can't ye stick it down? Yeah — 
 here on the table ! D' ye think I 'm 
 goin' t' feed standin' up — like a mule? 
 (Gates comes around to the desk beside 
 Regan and puts down the tray.) Got 
 any eggs? 
 
 Gates. No, sir, I — (Starting to go.) 
 
 Regan. Well, move along and lay a cou- 
 ple — quick! (Gates looks bewildered.) 
 Two fried eggs! Grasp it? 
 
 Gates. Very well, sir. (He goes out.) 
 
 Regan. Read the Leader editorial. 
 
 Davis. Yes, sir. 
 
 Regan. There it is. 
 
 (He kicks it toward Davis, then half 
 sits down on end of desk.) 
 
 Davis. (Picking it up and reading it rap- 
 idly.) "We take off our hats to the men 
 who have raised the present issue against 
 Mr. Regan's methods." (He hesitates.) 
 
 Regan. Well? Got a cramp? 
 
 Davis. (Resuming hastily.) "We con- 
 gratulate our citizens upon their enthu- 
 
 siastic support of the strike which has 
 just ended. Thanks to Mr. Donald Gris- 
 wold and his union, 'Shindy Mike' no 
 longer holds this city in his grip. The 
 merciless crook who" — er — is there any 
 use going on, Mr. Regan? 
 Regan. (Calmly.) Say, that 's libel, ain't 
 it? I'll sue Waterman for fifty thou- 
 sand. File it. The little ink-slingin' 
 mice — I'll show 'em! (The butler en- 
 ters.) Say, can't I sit here two minutes 
 without yer makin' me a present o' your 
 
 mug 
 
 Gates. More wires, sir, sent up from the 
 office by special messenger. 
 
 Regan. (Sitting down.) Read 'em, 
 Davis, quick! 
 
 Davis. (Reading them.) United Trans- 
 port — Chicago Freight — Erie Naviga- 
 tion — 
 
 Regan. That all? 
 
 Davis. Yes, sir. 
 
 Regan. (Sinking back disappointed.) 
 Well, wot have they got to say? All 
 gone back on me? That it? Speak up, 
 can't ye? 
 
 Davis. (Reading the telegrams.) Yes, 
 they 've all cancelled their contracts. 
 They 're all negotiating a return to Gris- 
 wold. 
 
 Regan. I knew they would ! Take a wire. 
 
 Davis. (Sitting at the end of the table 
 and taking up his stenographic note- 
 book.) Yes, sir? 
 
 Regan. (Walking up and down.) Freight 
 — Navigation — Transport — all the same 
 messages — (Dictating.) Fail t' under- 
 stand yer attitude. My position in this 
 town never better. Will have situation 
 controlled within a week. Urge no ac- 
 tion until you see my representa- 
 tive — 
 
 Davis. (Timidly.) But, Mr. Regan—? 
 
 Regan. Well, choke it up ! 
 
 Davis. (Desperately.) They can read in 
 any paper in the country that the 
 strike 's broken — that we 're beaten — 
 
 Regan. (Interrupting savagely.) Aw, 
 dry up ! (Noticing the butler, who has 
 all the time been standing at the door.) 
 Say, come out that trance an' tell us 
 wot yer waitin' fer? 
 
 Gates. I beg pardon, sir, there 're nine 
 more gentlemen from the papers waiting 
 to see you and — 
 
 Regan. (Interrupting.) Tell 'em t' go t' 
 hell ! 
 
 Gates. (With dignity.) I have, sir, sev- 
 eral times. 
 
910 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Regan. (Amused.) Well, see they get 
 there, understand? 
 
 Gates. Yes, sir, but — 
 
 Regan. {Suddenly.) Now you get a 
 move on before I catch ye on the nut 
 with — {He seizes the whiskey bottle 
 with a threatening gesture, half real, 
 half mocking. Gates goes out quickly. 
 The telephone rings on the desk. Regan 
 answers it.) Hello? Porky? Where 
 are ye? Down in the Ward? Yeah. 
 G'wan— who? Young Griswold ? Wot 's 
 he doin' down there? Speakin' t' my 
 own men? Tryin' t' make 'em join the 
 Union? I— wot 's that? {Exploding.) 
 Yeah, choke him off, sure, stop him! 
 But say, Porky, none o' that Hurley 
 business now! No, take care o' him. 
 Don't hurt him, just hustle him out 
 quick, see? {He rings off and turns to 
 Davis.) Griswold down on Lake Street, 
 right in the middle o' the Ward, trjdn' 
 t' show my own gang how to bust me! 
 The damn fool, he don't know wot he 's 
 doin'. As sure as me name 's Regan, 
 that guy don't know wot he 's doin' ! 
 
 {He rises furiously.) 
 
 Davis. {Alarmed.) Mr. Regan, don't go 
 on so. Remember, you 've been up all 
 night ! 
 
 Regan. {Controlling himself with an ef- 
 fort.) An' I got a long, hard day ahead. 
 Yer right, me son. Now sit down an' 
 we '11 get t' work. I '11 tell ye wot I 'm 
 goin' to' do. I 'm — 
 
 {The door opens, and Emily appears, 
 very fresh and charming, carrying a 
 covered plate.) 
 
 EiiiLY. {Brightly.) Good morning. 
 
 Davis and Regax. Good morning. 
 
 (Davis goes out.) 
 
 Emily. I^m sorry I didn't think of the 
 eggs, Michael. Here they are. 
 
 Regan. {Who has taken off his hat on 
 seeing her.) Thank ye kindly. {Gulp- 
 ing. ) I always think it 's a good idea 
 t' begin the day with a couple o' fried 
 eggs! 
 
 Emily. Are they all right? 
 
 Regan. {Looking at them.) Yeah, they 
 look slick — {Glancing shyly at her.) I 
 mean — I mean they look real nice! 
 
 Emily. I 'm glad. 
 
 Regan. (Still sliy.) Say, Em'Iy — 
 
 Emily. Yes? 
 
 Regan. (Looking away.) Thank ye for 
 rememberin' all this. It was just wot I 
 needed. An' — an' ye was awful kind t' 
 think o' me. 
 
 Emily. (Embarrased.) Why, that's all 
 right, Michael. (Assuming authority.) 
 Go on ! Sit down now ! Everything '11 
 get cold if you wait! 
 
 Regan. (Timidly.) Ye don't feel like a 
 fried egg yerself, do ye? 
 
 Emily. (Smiling.) Thank you, I had 
 breakfast upstairs. But I '11 pour your 
 coffee, if you like. 
 
 Regan. (Eagerly.) I wish ye would. 
 
 Emily. (Sitting at the desk.) How many 
 lumps do you take? 
 
 Regan. Four. (Emily laughs.) I like 
 things awful sweet. 
 
 Emily. (Smiling.) That's not very 
 grown-up, is it? 
 
 Regan. (Looking at her.) Perhaps I'm 
 not as grown-up as ye think. (Slight 
 pause.) Gee, but this seems natural! 
 
 Emily. (Busy.) What seems natural? 
 
 Regan. (Slowly.) Aw, I dunno. Just 
 t' have you sittin' in the sunshine, pour- 
 in' out me coffee. That 's 'all. 
 
 Emily. (Looking up innocently.) Why, 
 I never did it before to-day. 
 
 Regan. I know, but it seems natural all 
 the same. 
 
 (Their eyes meet. There is a pause.) 
 
 Emily. (Bising in an embarrassed way.) 
 Well, there you are ! Now drink it right 
 away while it 's hot. 
 
 Regan. (Coming around below desk and 
 sitting down.) Say, it smells fine! 
 (He eats and drinks. She watches 
 him anxiously.) 
 
 Emily. (At last.) Gates said you were 
 down at your office all night. Couldn't 
 you manage to take a nap? 
 
 Regan. Naw. I 'm afraid I ain't got no 
 time fer sleepin'. 
 
 Emily. That 's too bad. 
 
 Regan. Is it? Well, I guess there's 
 nothin' t' do about it. (He drinks.) 
 
 Emily. (Suddenly.) Oh, before I forget 
 it! Everybody who accepted for dinner 
 to-morrow night has sent in a — a more 
 or less polite lie. They won't come, 
 Michael. 
 
 Regan. (Eating his eggs.) Well, I guess 
 I can stand that. Gee, I 'd rather beat 
 up three heavyweights any day than talk 
 polite t' one o' yer lady friends! 
 
 Emily. (Almost to herself.) Even Lucy 
 Darrow and the Gilmores ! I did n't 
 think it of them somehow. (Bemember- 
 ing where she is.) So if you want to, 
 you can make another engagement. 
 That 's all. I just tliought I 'd tell you. 
 (She goes to door.) 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 911 
 
 Regan. {With a short savage laugh.) 
 Another engagement? You talk like I 
 was an English dook at Newport! 
 Why, do you know there ain't ten people 
 in this town 'd let me eat out their ash- 
 cans — free o' charge? 
 
 Emily. {With a sudden impulse of pity.) 
 Michael, I want to — 
 
 Regan. Well? 
 
 Emily. I want you to know I'm sorry. 
 That 's all. 
 
 Regan. {With amused cunning.) Sorry 
 fer wot? Me? Well, don't you lose no 
 sleep about it! Just lie back an' watch 
 me — see ? 
 
 Emily. Watch you? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. It's goin' t' be a slick 
 show! 
 
 Emily. What do you mean? 
 
 Regan. D' ye think them slobs have got 
 me down? Ha! I'm just puttin' up a 
 little con game now, but the minute they 
 let go me arms and say, "This trip he 's 
 done fer !" why, then 's the time I '11 up 
 and nail 'em t' the wall ! 
 
 Emily. I don't understand! 
 
 Regan. {Mysteriously.) Well, sit tight 
 and ye will. {Drinks coffee.) 
 
 Emily. {Faltering.) Isn't it all over? 
 Are n't you — beaten ? 
 
 Regan. {Amused.) Beat? Me? Say, 
 d 'you know what I 'm going t' do ? 
 
 Emily. No. 
 
 Regan. Then I don't mind tellin' ye. 
 Ever been to Montreal? 
 
 Emily. No. 
 
 Regan. Well, I have. It's a slick place 
 — Montreal. Good climate, theatres, 
 swell people, an' all that. How'd ye 
 like t' live there, Em'ly? 
 
 Emily. {Startled.) Live there? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. 'Cause yer goin' to, young 
 woman. If ye hang on t' me, that 's 
 where yer headed fer! 
 
 Emily. {Staring at him.) What d' you 
 mean, Michael? 
 
 Regan. {Emphatically.) I'm goin' t' 
 turn the ocean grain traffic from this 
 town t' Montreal. 
 
 Emily. What? 
 
 Regan. {Quickly.) I said I'd get back 
 at 'em good an' hard, and that 's how 
 I 'm goin' t' do it. 
 
 Emily. {Stammering.) But— but, Mi- 
 chael — 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) I sent the West- 
 ern a wire last night, offerin' 'em half 
 rates if they 'd unload at Montreal. As 
 soon as I got time t' build me own ele- 
 
 vators, that is. An' here's their an- 
 swer — {Picking it from the desk.) 
 Come in half an hour ago. 
 
 {Tosses it to Emily.) 
 
 Emily. {Sitting on couch, reading.) 
 "Accept offer. Have notified our East- 
 ern agents. Please expect shipments at 
 Montreal by 15th." 
 
 Regan. {In triumph.) I got 'em goin', 
 Em'ly, I got 'em goin' ! I knew they 'd 
 take me up when they heard the rates 
 I 'm offerin' ! There was n't nothin' else 
 to do. An' I made them Montreal con- 
 tractors a proposition they don't dare to 
 throw down ! I 'm waitin' for their an- 
 swer now. {Looking at clock on desk.) 
 
 Emily. Those Canadian officials are aw- 
 fully down on American business. I re- 
 member once when Dad tried to start a 
 branch at — 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) Aw, they got 
 their price! Damn 'em, ye can bet on 
 that! An' I guess I'm big enough to 
 stand it, too ! 
 
 Emily. You mean? 
 
 Regan. {Brazenly.) Sure. I'd tip 'em 
 like I would a bunch o' bell-hops! 
 
 Emily. I see. But isn't that — risky? 
 
 Regan. {Carelessly.) Naw. If they get 
 found out, they 're done. If I get found 
 out, I done right — see? 
 
 Emily. And you think it will pay? 
 
 Regan. {Exploding.) Pay? Who wants 
 to make it pay? I don't! All I want 
 is to get back at this towTi an' that 's wot 
 I 'm goin' t' do ! 
 
 {The door left opens and Gates ap- 
 pears.) 
 
 Gates. Another telegram, sir. 
 
 Regan. {Eagerly.) Give it here! {He 
 seizes and opens and reads it. Then, 
 with an outburst of triumph.) It's 
 0. K.! D'ye hear? They take me up! 
 The job 's done ! The whole job 's done ! 
 
 Emily. Is it from Montreal? 
 
 Regan. {Handing it to her.) Yeah. 
 Oh, gee, but this is swell! 
 
 Gates. Any answer, sir? I told the boy 
 to wait. 
 
 Regan. Naw. Yeah, give him this! 
 {Tossing Gates a silver dollar. Gates 
 stumbles and drops the coin.) Aw, go 
 back t' cricket! Go back t' cricket! 
 Tell him to keep the change. He 's 
 brought me the best news I ever had! 
 (Gates has picked up coin and goes 
 out.) 
 
 Emily. {Crumpling up telegram.) Now, 
 Michael, listen! 
 
912 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Regan. Yeah? 
 
 Emily. There 's one thing I want to make 
 
 perfectly clear. 
 Regan. {Lighting a cigar.) Wot 's that? 
 Emily. If you go to Montreal, you go 
 
 alone. 
 Regan. 
 Emily. 
 
 but here. 
 Regan. Ye '11 
 
 Oh, I do, do I? 
 
 Yes, I won't live anywhere else 
 
 find it sort o' lonesome 
 
 work, I guess. 
 
 Emily. Lonesome? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. When I quit, d'ye know 
 wot this town '11 be ? 
 
 Emily. What? 
 
 Regan. A line o' shanties, two saloons, 
 an' a dead dawg in the middle of the 
 street. 
 
 Emily. You 're very foolish, Michael. 
 
 Regan. All right, you wait an' see. I 
 tell you I 'm goin' to strip this place till 
 it '11 have to crawl into a barrel ! I 
 won't leave it so much as a toothbrush 
 and a pair o' shoestrings to its name! 
 
 Emily. I don't believe it. 
 
 Regan. All right. But just the same, 
 ye 'd better stick it on my tombstone. 
 One o' them big marble crosses with a 
 couple o' first class angels at the bottom, 
 an' underneath — all in them fancy let- 
 ters — "Gawd help Mike Regan. He 
 turned the wheat t' Montreal." 
 
 Emily. I don't believe a word you 're say- 
 ing. 
 
 Regan. (Looking up a number in the 
 telephone hook. ) All right, tlien. Don't ! 
 
 Emily. Michael. 
 
 Regan. Wot? (Running his finger down 
 the page.) People's Gas — Home — Insti- 
 tute — Line — Magazine — Market — 
 
 Emily. Michael, have you absolutely 
 made up your mind about this? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. (Beading.) Printing — 
 Theatre— Trust— (Stopping.) 2800 
 Main. 
 
 (He takes up telephone receiver) 
 
 Emily. Then I suppose you '11 be going 
 up to Montreal immediately. 
 
 Regan. (To operator.) 2800 Main. (To 
 her.) As soon as I 've cleaned up things 
 down here. (To the operator.) 2800 
 Main. 2800 I said. 
 
 Emily. Cleaned up things? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. Got hold me cash. 
 
 EiMiLf. What do you mean? 
 
 Regan. Why, ye don't think I '11 go off 
 an' leave any loose change fioatin' round, 
 do ye? 
 
 Emily. I don't understand, 
 
 Regan. (To operator, suddenly.) Fer 
 Gawd's sake, get a move on! 2800 
 Main! (To Emily.) Why, I got over 
 ten millions invested in this place. 
 Nearly eleven, when ye come down to it. 
 An' when I skip, me dough skips with 
 me^see ? 
 
 Emily. No, I don't see. I don't see at 
 all! 
 
 Regan. (At telephone.) Hello! People's 
 Trust? Yeah. Connect me with Mr. 
 Fairbanks. Well, I know he's the 
 president, that 's why I want to talk 
 to him. My name's Regan. Yeah, 
 Michael R. Got it? (Pause. He puffs 
 at his cigar. Emily ivatches him.) 
 Hello, that you, Fairbanks ? Oh, I 'm 
 feelin' fine! Them strikers? Well, I 
 ain't finished with 'em yet, an' that 's 
 why I called ye up. Yeah, that 's wot 
 I mean. I want ye t' call in all the 
 mortgages. Sure ! Foreclosure. I don't 
 care where they are! Them guys ain't 
 paid no interest on 'em fer the last — 
 well, I didn't start the strike, did I? 
 'T was n't my fault! (Angrily.) I 
 don't give a damn wot happens to 'em! 
 They ain't paid me my interest an' I just 
 foreclose — see ? Yeah, I 'm callin' in all 
 my loans. Sure! Every securit}^ I got 
 —all over the town! Wot? Oh, I just 
 feel like it, that 's all. Say, you go 
 ahead an' do just like I say! Huh? 
 Naw, cut that. I — say, Fairbanks, 
 that'll do for you, understand? 
 
 (He rings off suddeyily, then turns to 
 find EiEiLY close beside him.) 
 
 Emily. Michael ! 
 
 Regan. Gee, I thought ye 'd gone ! 
 
 Emily. Michael, I want to know what 
 mortgages those are. 
 
 Regan. Aw, just little ones, down round 
 Lake Street. 
 
 Emily. Lake Street! 
 
 Regan. Yeah. That end o' town. 
 
 Emily. Lake Street! Why, that's the 
 Fourth Ward! 
 
 Regan. (Carelessly.) Sure. 0' course. 
 So it is ! 
 
 Emily. You 've bought up mortgages in 
 the Fourth Ward? 
 
 Regan. Looks that way. 
 
 Emily. And now you 're going to fore- 
 close? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. Why not? 
 
 Emily. What 's going to happen to those 
 men? 
 
 Regan. Wot men? 
 
 Emily, The men who live down there. 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 918 
 
 The men you 've employed for years. 
 
 Regaj^. Ye mean the men that raised this 
 strike an' beat me"? They're goin' t' 
 lose their happy homes. That 's wot 's 
 goin' happen to them! Ye go down 
 there next week an' ye '11 find every side- 
 walk in the Ward piled up with bed- 
 quilts an' bureaus an' rockin' chairs an' 
 gas stoves. 
 
 Emily. {Involuntarily.) Oh, no! 
 
 Regan. {Continuing.) Yeah, an' ye '11 
 run across yer friend Mrs. Moriarity, 
 sittin' on the corner o' Lake an' River 
 sellin' matches in the rain. An' Scan- 
 Ian, ye remember Scanlan? Well, he'll 
 be sweepin' streets. If he 's lucky, that 
 is — 
 
 Emily. {Interrupting.) No! 
 
 Regan. An' the only grub the Baxter 
 kids '11 get will be them little minnies ye 
 fish fer off the docks, an' old lady 
 Hogan '11 have t' climb out o' bed an' 
 sling a sack over her shoulder an' start in 
 alley-lickin' ! 
 
 Emily. {Slirilly.) Stop it! Michael! 
 
 Regan. {Triumphantly.) An' all the 
 time I'll be leanin' back up there in 
 Montreal, smokin' me cigar an' takin' it 
 all in! 
 
 {He tilts hack chair, stretches, and 
 puts his feet on desk.) 
 
 Emily. But, Michael, those families have 
 suffered enough already. The strike 
 nearly finished them! They have noth- 
 ing left! 
 
 Regan. Ah, I thought I 'd wake ye up. 
 {Intensely.) Well, it serves 'em right! 
 
 Emily. And they 're the very people that 
 made you ! They 've given you everv'- 
 thing you have — every tiny little thing! 
 
 Regan. Wot of it? 
 
 Emily. Don't you see? You can't turn 
 on them this way. 
 
 Regan. Can't I? Say, watch me! 
 
 Emily. Jump on them from behind like 
 some wild animal they've had to pun- 
 ish — 
 
 Regan. Aw, dry up on that! 
 
 Emily. Get even, get back at them, just 
 to satisfy your own miserable little idea 
 of revenge! 
 
 Regan. {Bursting out.) Revenge! That's 
 it! I got 'em all like that! {Holding 
 out one hand with slowly closing fin- 
 gers.) I'm goin' t' squeeze 'em till I 
 hear their bones a-crackin' ! 
 
 Emily. No, you can't! It's too cruel! 
 Too hideously cruel ! 
 
 Regan. Aw, forget it! 
 
 Emily. I married you to keep these peo- 
 ple from being ruined. I gave up a 
 great deal when I did that, Michael, and 
 now I 'm not going to see my sacrifice — 
 (Regan turns quickly) that's what it 
 was! — I won't see my sacrifice turned 
 into an absolutely useless thing. 
 
 Regan. Well, how are ye goin' to help 
 it? 
 
 Emily. {Hysterically.) I don't know. I 
 don't know anything except that I 'm 
 your wife. And so you can't do tliis. 
 I 'm your wife — do you understand ? — 
 your wife — 
 
 Regan. {Turns in an outburst.) You lie! 
 Yer not my wife an' ye know it! My 
 wife ! ( He laughs. ) That 's a good one, 
 that is! I guess if ye was my wife I 
 might be feelin' different. I guess I 'd 
 have no right t' start a big thing that 
 me missus was so strong against. But 
 you ! Ye 've built a wall round yerself 
 t' keep me out, an' gee ! it done the job ! 
 Why, I seen ye crack a smile at the but- 
 ler there an' talk t' him almost like he 
 was human! But me! Say, have ye 
 ever done any more than that t' me? 
 No, by Gawd, ye let me live here in the 
 same house with ye day after day, ye let 
 me lie alone there in my bed night after 
 night, thinkin' o' the locked door between 
 us an' sufferin' through the black hours 
 like I didn't know a man could suffer, 
 wisliin' the day would break an' find me 
 dead — 
 
 Emily. {Trembling.) Michael! 
 
 Regan. {Close to her.) Ye say ye feel 
 sorry fer them strikers. Well, lemme 
 tell ye right here, there 's not one of 'em 
 that ain't got more 'n me ! I don't care 
 if he 's cold an' his stummick 's empty 
 an' the window 's busted an' the roof 's 
 leakin'! He's got someone f love him, 
 so I guess he '11 see it through ! But 
 me — ! Why, ye kept it all back from 
 me, all wot I want most in the world, 
 me feelin's, me rights — why, the best 
 things Gawd ever gave us men! Wot 
 have ye done with 'em, woman? An' 
 say now, where do ye get the nerve to 
 call yerself my wife? 
 
 Emily. Michael, you have no right to talk 
 to me like this. You may have forgotten 
 the agreement we made before I mar- 
 ried you, but I have n't. I 've lived up 
 to every word of it. I 've done every 
 single thing I said I would. {He starts 
 to speak.) No, wait! There's some- 
 thing else. I 've been perfectly right. 
 
914 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 but I — I did n't realize you felt like this. 
 
 I (lid n't dream you — but, Michael, so 
 
 long as you do, I 'm willing now to go on. 
 
 I 'm willing to go ahead. I 'm w^illing to 
 
 make another bargain. 
 Regan. {Quickly.) Wot 's that? 
 Emily. {With difficulty.) I'll change. 
 
 I '11 be different. 
 Regan. Be different — ? {Suddenly and 
 
 fiercely.) Say, quit that or some day 
 
 I'll— 
 Emily. {Interrupting.) Why — don't you 
 
 want me to be different? 
 Regan. {Looking at her with almost a 
 
 sob.) You know — oh gee, you know! 
 E:mily. All right, then. I will — 
 R EGAX. ( Interrupting. ) Huh ? 
 Emily. {Finishing quickly.) If you give 
 
 up this dreadful idea of yours! If you 
 
 stay here and take your beating like a 
 
 man! 
 Regan. {Panting.) D'ye mean — say, ye 
 
 don't mean if — 
 Emily. Yes, I do. 
 Regan. Naw! Ye can't. {Gulping.) 
 
 Beat it now ! I give ye warnin' ! Beat 
 
 it while ye got the chanst! 
 
 {He covers his face with his hands.) 
 Emily. {Proudly.) I won't. 
 Regan. Don't — 
 Emily. Well? 
 
 Regan. {Agonized.) Oh, my Gawd! 
 Emily. {With her last vestige of 
 
 strength.) Tell me — 
 Regan, {hushing at her with a cry.) 
 
 Em'ly! {Gathering her to him.) I'd 
 
 go t' hell fer this an' lay there, Em'ly, 
 
 an' lay a-smilin' there forever an' for- 
 ever ! Stop shakin' ! Hold yer head up, 
 
 sweetie! {Loudly and triumphantly.) 
 
 I love ye! I love ye! 
 
 {For the first time he kisses her.) 
 Emily. {Trying to tear herself away.) 
 
 Stop it! Keep away! 
 Regan. {Triumphantly.) Ye love me! 
 
 Gee, ye love me an' I never knew! 
 Emily. I don't! I hate you! 
 Regan. {Intoxicated.) Yer givin' in 
 
 'cause ye want to — 
 Emily. {With a cry of horror.) Stop it! 
 
 Stop it, I tell you! 
 Regan. {Through his teeth.) Yer doin' 
 
 it of yer own free will ! 
 Emily. {Furiously breaking away.) How 
 
 dare you say that! 
 Regan. Well, ain't it true? 
 Emily. {Violently.) No! No! I tell 
 
 you I 'm selling myself for a price ! A 
 
 price! 
 
 Regan. Em'ly ! 
 
 Emily. I 'm paying you just as if it were 
 money ! I 'm paying you cash down — 
 because it 's the only thing you '11 take ! 
 
 Regan. Em'ly, fer the love o' Gawd! 
 
 Emily. {Beside herself.) I want you to 
 know — I 've got to make you understand ! 
 It 's just another bargain ! You 're get- 
 ting me cheap — d' you hear that? — 
 cheap ! I 'm going dirt cheap — 
 
 Regan. {Strongly.) Stop it! {He cov- 
 ers her mouth with his hand.) I done 
 some rotten things in me time, an' I 
 guess ye know it, too, but gee ! I never 
 done nothin' half so rotten as wot yer 
 doin' now! 
 
 Emily. {Hysterically.) Oh—! Oh—! 
 
 Regan. {Scornfully.) Sellin' yourself! 
 Payin' me cash down! Goin' cheap! 
 {In a sort of rage.) Gawd, d'ye think 
 I w^ant ye, if that 's how ye come ? D' ye 
 think I '11 take my wife that way ? I 
 guess ye don't know much about real 
 men ! If ye did, ye 'd never try t' pull 
 off such a deal. Ye 'd never a' made me 
 feel ashamed o' ye — yeah, ashamed! — 
 like I 'm f eelin' now — 
 
 Emily. {Laughing and crying.) 
 
 Ashamed—? You—? 
 
 Regan. {Fiercely.) I tell ye my kids are 
 goin' t' be born 'cause I loved their 
 mother with all me body an' mind an' 
 soul, an' 'cause she loved me back with 
 all o' hers! An' if such things as that 
 can't be, why then, so help me Gawd, I '11 
 have no kids at all! 
 
 McCoy. {Bursting in from right.) Mike! 
 {He stands leaning against the wall.) 
 'Sense me — (Regan releases Emily, who 
 goes out the other door quickly.) Say, 
 Mike! 
 
 Regan. {Turning.) Gee, Porky, ye look 
 all in! Wot 's the game? 
 
 McCoy. {Panting.) It's — young Gris- 
 wold! 
 
 Regan. Who? Come over here an' tell 
 me. 
 
 McCoy. {Half falling on the sofa.) 
 Gimme a drink — I run — all the way from 
 — Lake Street — 
 
 Regan. Sit down. {At the desk, pouring 
 whiskey.) Well — g' wan. 
 
 McCoy. He came down t' the ward t' 
 spiel — you know. He got up on a bar- 
 rel a-wearin' one o' them nobby little 
 dips, an' he just sailed into ye, Mike, 
 savin' how he got ye licked, callin' ye 
 all the dirty names he could think of. 
 An' I sorter went off me nut an' seein' 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 915 
 
 as I happened to have a brick in me 
 hand, I guess I just heaved it — an' it 
 caught him in the head — an' — an' he went 
 down. 
 
 Regan. (Glancing round.) You — {He 
 goes to the door hy which Emily left and 
 closes it. Then, in a low voice, turning 
 round.) Is he dead? {Pause.) Is he 
 dead? {Taking McCoy hy lapels of 
 coat and pulling him around fiercely.) 
 G' wan an' tell me ! Tell me ! Ye -got to 
 tell me! 
 
 McCoy. {Not looking at him.) I dunno. 
 They took him into Dugan's cafe an' then 
 the ambulance came and got him. 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 Regan". {In an outburst, throwing McCoy 
 against the hack of sofa.) Damn ye, 
 Porky! Damn ye — damn ye — 
 
 McCoy. {Terrified.) Say, Mike, I didn't 
 mean to do it — honest t' God, I didn't! 
 All I wanted was t' knock his lid off! 
 Aw, wot did he come down fer anyways? 
 He might a-knowed he 'd get soaked in 
 yer own ward — 
 
 Regan. An' I 'd a-given me right arm t' 
 have kept him safe! 
 
 McCoy. I know ye would. But there's 
 no use talkin' now — {Clinging to him.) 
 Wot '11 I do? Mike, I got a sick wife 
 an' a new kid ! Tell me wot '11 I do? 
 
 Regan. Shut up. Porky, or the whole 
 house '11 hear ye ! Now listen ! Did any 
 one see ye fire that brick? 
 
 Porky. Naw. They was all lookin' at 
 him. I was on the outside. 
 
 Regan. Yer sure nobody piped ye? 
 
 Porky. Sure. Why, I 'm one o' the guys 
 that carried him into the cafe! 
 
 Regan. Then it 's all right. Go home t' 
 the wife and kid, an' keep yer mouth 
 shut, understand? 
 
 McCoy. Not do nothin'? 
 
 Regan. Not a damn thing. An' if there 's 
 any trouble, I '11 look after ye. 
 
 McCoy. Aw, thank ye, Mike — {Grasps 
 Regan's hand.) I knew ye 'd fix it up 
 fer me ! 
 
 Regan. G'wan now! Beat it! Remem- 
 ber me t' the missus. An' how 's the 
 kid t'day? 
 
 McCoy. {Eagerly.) Gettin' bigger. An' 
 gee! his wrinkles is all comin' off! 
 
 {Enter Davis.) 
 
 Davis. Mr. Regan. 
 Regan. {To Davis.) Wait a second. 
 McCoy. You 're sure that 's all 0. K.? 
 Regan. I said so once. 
 
 McCoy. Thank ye, Mike. S' long. 
 
 {He goes out.) 
 Regan. {To Davis, who is at window.) 
 
 Well, wot d' you want ? 
 
 {The low murmur of an approaching 
 crowd is heard in the distance.) 
 Davis. {Turning.) Mr. Regan, d' you 
 
 hear anything? 
 Regan. {After listening a moment.) 
 
 Yeah. Wot is it? 
 Davis. Sounds like a crowd. I think 
 
 they're coming up Concord Avenue. 
 Regan. {Looking out window.) The hell 
 
 they are! 
 Davis. And there 's a gentleman says he 
 
 must see you. 
 Regan. I won't see no one. 
 Davis. Here he is. 
 
 {Enter Duncan, full of excitement.) 
 
 Duncan. Regan ! 
 
 Regan. {Over his shoulder.) Well, what 
 d' you want ? 
 
 Duncan. Donald Griswold went down to 
 speak in the Fourth Ward and was set 
 on by some of your toughs. He 's hurt 
 — nobody knows how badly. He may be 
 dead. {The sound outside increases.) 
 
 Regan. An' that out there? 
 
 Duncan. The whole town 's up in arms. 
 They're sure you did it. 
 
 Regan. {Turns sharply.) Me? 
 
 Duncan. Or had it done. They're sure 
 you gave the orders. 
 
 Regan. 0' course they are. 
 
 Duncan. Regan, I came to tell you the 
 police are on their way. Mr. Griswold 's 
 had a warrant sworn out. You're go- 
 ing to be arrested. 
 
 Regan. Damnation ! 
 
 Duncan. Come on, the alley's clear, but 
 it won't be in five minutes. I have 
 a motor waiting on the corner of Mc- 
 Donald Street. We '11 have you ten 
 miles away by the time that patrol gets 
 here. 
 
 Regan. Say, who are you anyway? 
 
 Duncan. My name 's Duncan. 
 
 Regan. Yer one o' his friends, then? 
 
 Duncan. Whose? 
 
 Regan. Griswold's. 
 
 Duncan. What of it ? I 'm here to help 
 you now. Don't you believe it? 
 
 Regan. Aw, wot yer givin' me? 
 
 Duncan. It's true! 
 
 Regan. Help Began? 
 
 Duncan. No, damn you, not Regan! 
 Emily Griswold's husband ! 
 
 Regan. {Quickly.) Cut it now! 
 
916 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Duncan. She 's your wife, Regan ! 
 You Ve got to think about her ! 
 
 Regan. That's ail riglit! I can manage 
 my wife without no buttin' in from any- 
 body — understand ? 
 
 Duncan. You can't ! That mob '11 be 
 here in a minute and this house won't be 
 safe. I 'm going to bring my motor to 
 the side door. Tell her to come down 
 this minute. I 'm going to take her 
 home. 
 
 {He goes out quickly. The sound out- 
 side has become an angry roar. It 
 is getting nearer.) 
 
 Davis. {At window.) Why, they don't 
 look like strikers! 
 
 Regan. {Looking out window.) Strikers'? 
 Ye blame fool, it 's the town ! 
 
 Davis. The town? 
 
 Regan. The whole damn town! {Half to 
 himself.) Gee, here's where we're up 
 against it! 
 
 Davis. {More and more excited.) Why! 
 They're a lot of well dressed men! 
 They haven't any hats! They look — 
 why, they must be drunk! 
 
 Regan. Aw, g' wan ! They 're about as 
 drunk as a bunch o' tigers! {The roar 
 increases. ) Hear that ? They 're mad 
 — mad clean through ! 
 
 Dajis. Look at them ! The street 's full ! 
 Why, there must be hundreds! 
 
 Regan. Thousands is more like it. 
 
 Davis. But — but what are they doing up 
 here? Mr. Regan, what are they after? 
 
 Regan. {Grimly.) Can't ye see? Why, 
 they come t' make a little friendly call 
 on me, that 's all. 
 
 Davis. {Frightened.) Oh, no, sir, not 
 that ! It — it must be a fire ! 
 
 Regan. Fire be damned! If ye ever 
 
 heard a mob a-coughin' that way before, 
 
 ye 'd never ask again wot it means ! 
 
 {The roar becomes louder, coyifused 
 
 and angry, as the mob is supposed 
 
 to climb the fence and trample up 
 
 the lawn.) 
 
 Davis. You don't—? 
 
 Regan. Sure I do. Why, every man- 
 jack down there 's out fer blood! Some- 
 thin' happened in the ward, an' they 're 
 comin' straight fer me. 
 
 Davis. {Looking out again.) Mr. Re- 
 gan ! Look ! That 's Scanlan on the 
 sidewalk — the man with the brown coat! 
 I 'd know him anywhere ! And there — 
 d' you see? right beside him? — why, it's 
 old Archibald Houghton, tlie vice-presi- 
 dent of the First National — 
 
 Regan. Houghton! (Laughing.) Hat 
 Ha! 
 
 Davis. And the fellow climbing the fence 
 — isn't that Grayson? The senior mem- 
 ber of Grayson, Grayson and Company? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. An' that feller behind 
 him, that 's young Harry Huntington ! 
 See? The guy with the cigarette. 
 
 Davis. {Looking in a new direction.) 
 They 're a lot of strikers, too ! And look 
 there! See those Italians by the gate? 
 Why, they 're all mixed up ! gentlemen 
 and toughs, scoopers and big business 
 men! 
 
 {There is a great outburst under the 
 very windows.) 
 
 Regan. {Jovially.) But they all take 
 hold of hands when it comes t' hatin' me ! 
 
 Davis. {Drawing back.) Look out, sir,, 
 they 're right below there ! They '11 see 
 you — {Crash of glass.) Good Lord! 
 
 Regan. Go upstairs an' tell me wife to 
 come down. Mr. Duncan 's here to get 
 her. 
 
 Davis. Yes, sir. 
 
 {He goes out. Outside the door are 
 heard the servants in terrified con- 
 fusion.) 
 
 Gates. {Running in.) Mr. Regan! Mr. 
 Regan! There's a crowd of very dan- 
 gerous-looking fellows outside! 
 
 {He is followed by two terrified 
 Maids. They all stand huddled 
 near the door, very much frightened. 
 Another crash from outside.) 
 
 The Crowd. {Individual voices.) That's 
 right! Fire another! Gimme that 
 brick! Come out o' there! He don't 
 dare! The damn coward! Smash his 
 Avinders ! 
 
 Regan. {At telephone.) Choke it off ! I 
 can't hear! 
 
 The Maids. Mr. Regan! Mr. Regan! 
 
 Regan. Choke it off! {Telephofiing.) 
 Hello. Gimme P'lice Headquarters. 
 Yeah. {Pause, during which another 
 storm of yells and calls is heard outside.) 
 This headquarters ? I 'm Regan. Yeah, 
 Michael R. Say, I got a mob outside 
 here a-smashin' me winders. Can ye 
 hear 'em? Naw? {He holds the trans- 
 mitter toward the window. Another 
 crash of glass outside and yell.) Not 
 now? Well, take me word fer it an' 
 send up Kelly with the reserves! send 
 up all ye got — see? I'll need 'em, 
 every one! S' long! 
 
 The Crowd. Break into the side! Keep 
 it up ! Pull the house down ! Aim 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 917 
 
 higher — ye missed it that trip! There! 
 I got her! 
 
 {Another crash folloived by a general 
 
 yell) 
 The French Maid. J'ai peur! J'ai ter- 
 riblement pour! C'est des assassins — 
 oui, des assassins! 
 
 {A brick crashes through one of the 
 
 windows, falling to the floor amid 
 
 a shower of broken glass. There is 
 
 a general commotion. Regan goes 
 
 to the window.) 
 
 The Crowd. (Outside.) He's in there! 
 
 Try the next one ! Soak him ! That 's 
 
 right! Let her go! 
 
 {Another brick crashes in. Regan 
 runs to the desk and opens one of 
 the drawers.) 
 French Maids. Oh, Mon Dieu! C'est 
 
 des apaches! Quelle horreur! 
 The Other Maid. Mr. Gates! Oh, sir! 
 
 What '11 we do? 
 Gates. Be calm, young women, be calm! 
 {He gathers them together and pushes 
 them towards the door.) 
 The Crowd. Regan! Where is he? We 
 want Regan! Regan! {Another stone 
 crashes in. A table is overturned and 
 lamp broken. All the servants shriek 
 and rush out.) The sneak! The cow- 
 ard! Come out where we can see you! 
 Regan! Regan! We want Regan! 
 Regan. {Taking his automatic revolver 
 from desk-drawer.) Ye would, would 
 ye? Ye dirty dawgs, a-tryin' t' frighten 
 the women ! Ye wait there ! I 'II show 
 ye! {He runs to the window, opens it, 
 and stands there. At his appearance a 
 chorus of yells goes up and more mis- 
 siles are hurled.) Well, here I am! I 'm 
 the man ye want ! Take a good look at 
 me ! I 'm right here an' I ain't goin' t' 
 move ! 
 The Crowd. {Howling.) We '11 show ye ! 
 We got ye! Look at him! Kill him! 
 Kill him ! 
 Regan. That's right! Yell away! Yel- 
 lin' don't hurt nobody, so keep it up ! 
 G' wan ! I like t' hear ye ! But if ye 
 bust so much as one more pane o' glass, 
 by Gawd, I '11 empty this repeater with- 
 out stoppin' once to winkl 
 
 {He covers them with his weapon. 
 
 There is a dead pause, then a chorus 
 
 of angry moans and jeers.) 
 
 The Crowd. Ah! 'T ain't loaded! He 
 
 don't dare ! It 's one o' his tricks ! I 'II 
 
 show him ! Where 's that brick ! 
 
 Regan. Say there, ye big slob with the 
 
 red bandan^ — yes, you ! Drop that brick 
 or ye — wot? All right, I — {He lifts his 
 pistol and aims quickly. Then, laugh- 
 ing triumphantly.) Aw, I knew I 'd get 
 ye! What's the answer? Yer scared! 
 The whole damn crowd o' ye are scared! 
 Ye know I 'm here with nothin' but me 
 wife an' a bunch o' second-girls, but 
 I 've got ye goin', yer hangin' over the 
 ropes — 
 
 {The roar of the enraged crowd surges 
 up again.) 
 
 The Crowd. {Enraged.) We are, hey? 
 We '11 show ye ! Stop his gaff ! Bust in 
 the door! We ain't scared! He can't 
 kid us ! G' wan, that 's right ! Don't 
 quit! 
 
 Regan. {Raising his pistol.) Say, stop 
 right there — d'ye hear? The first guy 
 that puts his mat on them steps '11 get 
 a bullet through his nut — understand? 
 Now come on! Say, why don't ye come 
 on an' get me ? I 'm right here, all 
 ready, just a-waitin' fer ye ! 
 
 One Voice. {Then all.) Lynch him! 
 Get a rope, boys, an' Ij^nch him! Lynch 
 him. 
 
 {The gong and hoofs of a police patrol 
 are heard in the distance, gradually 
 growing nearer.) 
 
 Regan. What's that? I didn't catch on 
 t' — oh, all right! Fine an' dandy! If 
 ye want t' lynch me, mister, come right 
 up an' start in ! That 's it ! Aw, don't 
 be bashful! Come along! 
 
 {During the end of this speech the mob 
 raises a sullen roar.) 
 
 The Crowd. Don't let him kid us! 
 Get in the bunch! We'll stop his 
 drip! He can't do nothin'! {The pa- 
 trol is now close by.) Cheese it! The 
 cops! 
 
 {The door behind Regan opens and Emily 
 appears. She stands calmly at the top 
 of the stairs, putting on her gloves. She 
 is dressed for the street.) 
 
 Police Voices. Whoa! Whoa! {Clang- 
 ing of gong and hoofs very loud, then 
 cease.) Stand back there ! Stand back! 
 Move on ! Get out o' here ! Get off that 
 fence! Go on home now! Shove 'em 
 back ! Kelly ! Move on or I '11 cave 
 your head in! No back talk. Move on 
 an' keep movin'. Yes, you! Move on! 
 Move on! 
 
 The Crowd. All right! All right! 
 Wot 's yer hurry ! Say, wait a minute ! 
 
.018 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 Let go me arm ! All right, I 'm goin', 
 ain't I? 
 
 liEGAN. {Howling derisively, laughing, 
 taunting, as police shove back the mob.) 
 That's it! Give it to 'em, boys! Beat 
 'em up, Kelley! Club their nuts olf! 
 Soak 'em! Kill 'em! {Bursting into a 
 roar of triumphant laughter, he closes 
 the window and draws the portieres to- 
 gether, turns, and for the first time sees 
 his wife.) Oh, that's you! 
 
 Emily. {Calmly.) Where's Mr. Dun- 
 can? Mr. Davis said he was here. 
 
 Regan. Is that all Davis told ye? 
 
 Emily. Yes. 
 
 Regax. {To himself.) Oh, my Gawd! 
 
 Emily. Is Mr. Duncan downstairs? Mr. 
 Davis said the librarv'. 
 
 Regax. He 's out gettin' the auto through 
 the crowd. He 's come t' take ye home. 
 
 Emily. {Joyfully.) Home? Is Don 
 here, too? I mean — my brother? 
 
 Regan. Naw, I 'm afraid — I 'm afraid he 
 ain't here. 
 
 Emily. Well, I '11 go downstairs and wait. 
 {She starts to go.) 
 
 Regan. No, stay here. {She stops.) 
 There 's somethin' I got t' tell ye. 
 
 Emily. What is it? Well, why don't you 
 tell me? {Pause.) Michael, d' you 
 know you 're making me — rather nerv- 
 ous? 
 
 Regan. Sit down. 
 
 Emily. {Obeying.) Go on. {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. {Beginning in a business-like 
 way.) Yer brother — 
 
 Emily. {Quickly.) Well? 
 
 Regan. {Continuing.) Well, he went 
 down t' the Fourth Ward about ten 
 o'clock this momin' t' talk t' all the men 
 who 'd stuck by me an' had n't joined 
 the Union. 
 
 Emily. Yes. Go on. 
 
 Regan. Porky McCoy 'phoned me he was 
 doin' it an' I got mad an' said t' head 
 him off. Then you came in and we got t' 
 talkin' an' I fergot all about him. An' 
 you ducked out an' the mob collected 
 down there an' I felt sure somethin' had 
 gone wrong — 
 
 Emily. {Suspecting.) Michael! 
 
 Regan. But I did n't know a thing — s' elp 
 me Gawd if I did! — until Porky came 
 an' told me all about it. 
 
 Emily. ( Breathing heavily. ) About what ? 
 
 Regan. Yer brother. {Pause.) 
 
 Emily. {Finally.) Tell me — tell me 
 quick! What 's happened to him? 
 
 Regan. Well, he was sayin' some rotten 
 
 stuff about me an' that made the fellers 
 sore an' they began firin' things. Porky 
 says it was a brick that caught him on 
 the head. They got him t' the hospital 
 as quick as they could — 
 
 Emily. {Screaming.) Oh — ! 
 
 Regan. {Breaking out and rushing to 
 her.) Em'ly, ye don't believe I done it? 
 Ye don't believe I done a thing like that? 
 No, ye don't, ye can't — 
 
 Emily. {Covering her face with her 
 hands.) Don! 
 
 Regan. I never knew a thing about it till 
 Porky told me ! Ye know that, don't ye, 
 Emily? Ye know I wouldn't a-had 
 it happen fer anythin' in the world! 
 
 Emily. {Mocking to and fro.) Don! 
 Don! 
 
 Regan. {Breaking down.) Em'ly ye got- 
 ter believe me ! I 'm on the level this 
 trip ! I am ! I swear t' Gawd I am ! 
 
 Emily. {Not seeing him.) Oh, Don! 
 
 Regan. I got the whole town lined up 
 against me. I 'm all alone, but if ye be- 
 lieve me, Em'ly, I don't care ! An' I '11 
 be good from now on. I '11 be as good as 
 I know how. I '11 throw up Montreal. 
 I won't foreclose no mortgages. I '11 do 
 anythin' ye want if ye only believe me 
 now! Oh, yer goin' to! Ye do! I 
 knew ye would! I knew! 
 
 {He throws himself on his knees be- 
 fore her and bursts into tears, his 
 face buried in her lap, like a little 
 boy.) 
 
 Emily. {For the first time realizing his 
 presence.) Don't touch me. 
 
 {She pushes him away with a gesture 
 of horror and rises.) 
 
 Regan. Em'ly ! ^ 
 
 Emily. Don't come near me! 
 
 Regan. {Seizing her hand.) Wot d'ye 
 mean? 
 
 Emily. Stop it! Keep away! 
 
 Regan. {Fiercely.) So you think I done 
 it, too ? Tell me ! G' wan ! I say ye 
 gotter tell me! 
 
 Emily. I don't think! I know! 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. {With a wild Irish yell.) A-aali! 
 {Throwing her hand away.) If you be- 
 lieve I done a thing like that, all right ! 
 We'll call it off! Go ahead! Wot are 
 ye waitin' fer? Clear out o' my house! 
 Beat it! Move along! {She rushes 
 out.) Em'ly! Em'ly! I didn't mean 
 that ! I swear t' Gawd I did n't know 
 nothin' about it! Don't go! Don't 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 919 
 
 leave me, Em'ly! I ain't got no one 
 else ! I 'm all alone — 
 
 {Enter three plainclothes police officers by 
 the other door. They are followed by 
 two in uniform.) 
 
 Inspector. I 'm sorry, sir, but you 've got 
 t' come along with us. There 's a cab 
 waitin' an' — 
 
 (Regan turns, looks at the officers a 
 moment, then slowly puts on his 
 overcoat and hat, pours and drinks 
 a glass of whiskey, lights a cigar, 
 takes a handful from the humidor, 
 puts them in his pocket, picks up a 
 newspaper, puts it under his arm, 
 and goes nonchalantly towards the 
 door.) 
 Regan. (Casually.) Come on, boys. 
 
 {He goes up the steps and out, fol- 
 lowed by the officers, as the curtain 
 falls.) 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Regan's rooms in the Police Station, three 
 days later. It is a plain room, with a 
 bed, a bureau at right. At back a large 
 barred window through which the city 
 can be seen. Near window, a big deal 
 table covered with papers, an electric 
 lamp, a big box of cigars, a whiskey 
 bottle and glasses. Near the door is a 
 waiter's stand, holding a tray covered 
 with napkin. 
 
 Regan is sitting on the window ledge, 
 smoking, and dictating to Davis. He 
 wears a sack-suit and looks very tired. 
 He is evidently keeping up with diffi- 
 culty. His fighting spirit is broken. 
 
 Regan. {Dictating.) "I hope my change 
 o' plans will not put you or your officers 
 t' any inconvenience." Got that? 
 
 Davis. "Any inconvenience." Yes, sir. 
 
 Regan. {Continuing.) "Shiftin' the grain 
 traffic from this town t' Montreal would 
 have been just the sort of a job I most 
 enjoy puttin' through, an' I intended t' 
 go into it fer all I was worth. But cir- 
 cumstances over which I have no control 
 make it impossible fer me t' do so. 
 Wishin' yer business all success an' so 
 forth" — just finish her up, Davis. You 
 know how. 
 
 Davis. {Writing.) So that's the end of 
 Montreal. {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. Davis. 
 
 Davis. {Finishing and looking up.) Yes, 
 sir? 
 
 Regan. There 's somethin' I want t' talk 
 t' ye about. I won't be needin' a secre- 
 tary much longer. 
 
 Davis. Please, sir ! Don't let 's go into 
 that now. 
 
 Regan. Why not? We got to, sooner or 
 later. I was sort o' goin' t' suggest that 
 you take an int'rest in the business. 
 
 Davis. The business? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. My business. You 've been 
 with me eight years an' ye know it back- 
 wards an' I could hand it right over t' 
 ye t'morrer. P'raps you could run it 
 better 'n I did — I dunno. But, gee! I 
 bet no one on God's green earth could 
 make it pay so well! 
 
 Davis. Mr. JRegan. 
 
 Regan. Yeah? 
 
 Davis. Don't feel so discouraged. It^s 
 going to be all right. You're going to 
 get out of here within a week and — 
 
 Regan. A week? {He laughs.) I won- 
 der! 
 
 Davis. Mr. Regan, you mustn't give up 
 like this. It 's not like you, sir, if you 
 don't mind my saying so. 
 
 Regan. That 's right. I dunno myself 
 these days! 
 
 Davis. Brace up, sir! Pull yourself to- 
 gether ! Look on the bright side of it ! 
 
 Regan. Aw, wot 's the good? {Sitting 
 on bed.) Hodges was here this momin'. 
 
 Davis. {Eagerly.) Hodges? What did 
 he say? 
 
 Regan. He says if Griswold dies, I '11 be 
 indicted for murder in the first degree. 
 
 Davis. Mr. Hodges missed his job. Law- 
 yer — ? He ought to have been a wet 
 nurse ! Why, Mr. Regan, there 's more 
 nerve in one of your back teeth than in 
 two hundred Hodges ! 
 
 Regan. He says the District Attorney 's 
 working night an' day fer a conviction. 
 They 're goin' over me record with a fine 
 tooth comb. They're gettin' evidence 
 from everywhere. 
 
 Davis. Evidence? Let 'em get it! They 
 can't prove you slung that brick and they 
 can't prove you had it slung. 
 
 Regan. He says there's only one way t' 
 clear meself . We got t' find the guy who 
 done it an' make him swear he wasn't 
 carryin' out my orders. 
 
 Davis. You never gave any orders ! 
 
 Regan. I know. But I got t' prove I 
 didn't. 
 
 Davis. Well, does Hodges think that man 
 
920 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 is going to walk in here and say, "Please, 
 
 mister, I slung that brick and now, if it 
 
 is n't too much trouble, won't you kindly 
 
 electrocute me f Is that what he 's 
 
 waiting for? 
 Regan. Aw, gee, I don't know wot t' do! 
 Davis. Whoever he is, I bet by now he 's 
 
 half way to Nevada. No, Mr. Regan, if 
 
 you get out of here, it '11 be witliout his 
 
 help — 
 Regan. If I get out ! 
 Davis. And you 're going to ! D' you 
 
 liear that, Mr. Regan, you 're going to ! 
 Regan. All right, me son, all right. 
 
 {Looking at watch.) Half past four. 
 
 Wot time are ye goin' t' call fer Mrs. 
 
 Regan t' bring her down? 
 Davis. Quarter to five, sir. 
 Regax. Ye 'd better be hustlin', then. 
 Davis. {Getting overcoat.) Don't worry, 
 
 sir. I'll be there. {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. Say, Davis. 
 Davis. Yes, sir? 
 
 Regan. {Not looking at him.) D' ye hap- 
 pen to remember wot she said last night 
 
 w^lien ye gave her me message? 
 Davis. W^hy, she — seemed surprised. 
 Regan. {Eagerly.) Yeah? And then? 
 Davis. She asked why you had to see her. 
 
 I said just what you told me to say, that 
 
 it was important business connected 
 
 with the Fourth Ward mortgages. She 
 
 seemed doubtful for a moment and then 
 
 said she 'd come. That 's all. 
 Regan. An' ye asked after her brother? 
 
 Ye didn't ferget that? 
 Davis. Nq. She said his condition had n't 
 
 changed — that it wouldn't till after the 
 
 operation. 
 Regan. An' Jameson was goin' t' operate 
 
 t'morrer. {A knock at door.) Come in. 
 
 {The door opens and an officer enters.) 
 
 Well? 
 Officer, Porky McCoy 's downstairs. He 
 
 wants to see you. 
 Regan. {Eagerly.) McCoy? Send him 
 
 along. 
 Officer. All right, sir. {He goes out.) 
 Regan. {Turning joyfully to Davis.) 
 
 It's Porky, d'ye hear? He's stuck by 
 
 me! I knew he wouldn't welch like all 
 
 the rest ! 
 DxWis. I '11 start along, then. {Looking 
 
 at a package of papers.) Oh, Mr. 
 
 Regan, what d' you want done with 
 
 these? 
 Regan. Wot are they? 
 Davis. All the Montreal contracts and 
 
 estimates. 
 
 Regan. Just leave 'em on the table. I 'L 
 look after 'em. 
 
 Davis. Very well, sir. I — 
 
 {There is a knock at the door.) 
 
 Regan. {Opening it.) Come on in. 
 Porky! {As he enters, Regan pulls him 
 in by the hand.) Gee, man, but I'm 
 glad t' see ye! 
 
 McCoy. Hello, Mike. 
 
 Regan. How's the wife an' — {Looking at 
 him.) Say, wot 's the matter? 
 
 McCoy. Nothin'. 
 
 {They stare at one another.) 
 
 Davis. {At the door.) Good-night, sir. 
 {He waits a momeyit for Regan to 
 answer, then goes out quietly.) 
 
 Regan. Have a cigar? 
 
 McCoy. Naw. 
 
 Regan. A drink? 
 
 McCoy. Naw, thanks. 
 
 Regan. Say, Porky. Ye ain't sore at me, 
 are ye? 
 
 McCoy. Sore at you? Oh, Mike— 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. {Standing looking at him.) 
 Porky, ye got somethin' on yer mind. 
 Now go ahead an' lay it out to me, son. 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 McCoy. {Blurting it out.) Mike, I never 
 knew they 'd think ye did fer Griswold ! 
 Gee, ye could a-knocked me over with a 
 feather when I heard they 'd pulled ye 
 in! 
 
 Regan. I know that, me son, I know that. 
 
 McCoy. I did n't mean t' play ye dirty, 
 Mike — honest, I did n't ! I did n't mean 
 t' go back on ye! I wouldn't do that 
 fer anythin' in the world! 
 
 Regan. 0' course ye wouldn't. Porky! 
 
 McCoy. But I been readin' the papers^ 
 an' hearin' folks talk, an' seein' wot a 
 good case they 've made out against ye, 
 Mike, an' when Larry Dugan come in an' 
 showed me wot tliat damn District At- 
 torney had in this evenin's Post, I — I 
 went into the kitchen where my wife was 
 nursin' the kid, an' I begun bawlin' — an', 
 gee, in about three minutes I 'd told her 
 the whole thing! 
 
 Regan. Ye told her? 
 
 McCoy. Yeah, an' when I 'd finished, she 
 said ye 'd been a good friend to me, 
 Mike, an' it was up t' me. An' — an' she 
 brought mj^ overcoat — an' here I am, 
 Mike, an' I guess that 's all. 
 
 Regan. {Tenderly patting him on shoul- 
 der.) Ye poor feller. 
 
 McCoy. {In agony.) Aw, don't! Smash 
 me! Kick me! Beat me t' pieces! I 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 921 
 
 won't say nothin'. But don't be good t' 
 me, Mike! I can't stand it — I can't — I 
 can't — 
 
 {He breaks down and cries, his head 
 on the table.) 
 
 Regan. {Putting his hand on his shoul- 
 der.) Say, Porky! {Standing over 
 him.) D'ye remember one night in my 
 old bar on Lake Street ? Gee, it 's fif- 
 teen years ago now! An' ye took my 
 side when Kelley's gang came in t' mur- 
 der me fer holdin' back his nomination? 
 All the rest had gone back on me, it was 
 us two against eight. But we got behind 
 the bar, an' ye grabbed the bung-starter, 
 an' I broke four bottles o' Canadian rye 
 over Kelley's head before I laid him out. 
 Gee, that was a swell scrap ! An' then, 
 when it was all over, ye remember my 
 comin' up t' ye where ye was leanin' over 
 the big round table and a-wipin' the 
 blood off yer chin, an' sajin', "McCoy," 
 I says — fer I didn't know ye as well 
 then, Porky, as I do now — "McCoy," 
 says I, "ye 've done me a good turn 
 t'night, an' p'raps sometime I '11 have a 
 chance t' pay ye back. But anyway," I 
 says, "from this time on, so help me 
 Gawd, there won't nothin' come between 
 us two. They don't make nothin' thin 
 enough fer that !" 
 
 McCoy. {Looking up.) Mike! 
 
 Regan. {Very tenderly.) Well, that 
 chance I talked about — it 's been fifteen 
 years a-comin'. Porky, but I got it now. 
 An' I guess I '11 hang right on. 
 
 McCoy. Wot d' ye mean ? 
 
 Regan. {Clapping his shoulders.) Go 
 home an' tell the missus an' the kid it 's 
 all right ! Mike Regan says it 's all 
 right ! 
 
 McCoy. But, Mike, I done it ! 
 
 Regan. Ye did not. Porky. The man 
 that done it skipped an' we can't find 
 him — see *? 
 
 McCoy. {Not understanding.) Mike, I 
 ain't skipped ! I 'm right here ! I 'm 
 willin' t' pay up ! 
 
 Regan. {Smiling.) Aw, come off! Ye 
 don't know nothin' about it! Nothin' — 
 nothin' at all! 
 
 McCoy. Mike! I'm on! Yer tryin' t' 
 let me off! 
 
 Regan. Gee, Porky, but yer wise t'day. 
 
 McCoy. But say, d' ye know wot '11 hap- 
 pen t' youf 
 
 Regan. Now don't ye bother yer nut 
 about me. I '11 get out o' here. 
 
 McCoy. Ye won't! If Griswold croaks, 
 
 this town '11 finish ye fer good, under- 
 stand ? It won't lie back until it 's 
 buried ye in quick-lime — 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) Gee, perhaps ye 
 think I care! P'raps ye think I got a 
 lot t' live fer! Well, if ye do, yer off! 
 Way off! Miles off! 
 
 McCoy. But yer wife — 
 
 Regan. {Turning away abruptly.) Me 
 wife? I ain't got one. 
 
 McCoy. But yer kids? The family that 's 
 comin' t' ye — 
 
 Regan. Fam'ly? {He laughs aloud.) 
 
 McCoy. But yer business? That's therel 
 Ye got that all right ! 
 
 Regan. {Bursting out.) Quit it! I'm 
 sick o' the business! I hate it! I wish 
 t' Gawd I 'd never seen it ! Damn the 
 business, that 's wot I say ! Damn it I 
 Damn it! 
 
 McCoy. {Frightened.) 1 didn't mean 
 nothin'. 
 
 Regan. {Controlling himself.) That 's all 
 right. Porky. I 'm sort o' done up t'day. 
 But now ye see how I ain't got nothin' 
 to live fer. An' remember, you got 
 everythin' — everythin' a man can have! 
 So go home now an' tell the wife. She '11 
 be a-waitin' an' a-worryin' an' ye ought 
 t' let her know. 
 
 McCoy. But, Mike, I— 
 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) Woteverye did. 
 Porky, ye did it as my man. Ye did it 
 fer me, understand! An' as head o' the 
 firm, I guess I stand responsible fer me 
 employee! {With a change of manner, 
 taking out his pocket-book.) Say, 
 Porky, wot day did you say the chris- 
 tenin' was? 
 
 McCoy. Christenin'? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. {Smiling.) Michael Re- 
 gan Ignatius McCoy. 
 
 McCoy. It 's Sunday week, but— 
 
 Regan. {Taking out a bill and putting it 
 in McCoy's hand.) Well, you take this 
 an' get the boy a present. One o' them 
 silver mugs is the reg'lar thing. An' if 
 there 's anythin' left over, just set up 
 drinks fer the crowd, will ye? 
 
 McCoy. No, Mike, I— 
 
 Regan. {Pressing the bill into his hand.) 
 Aw, rats ! G' wan an' take it ! An' tell 
 the good woman I 'm — I 'm awful sorry 
 I can't be at the church meself that day 
 to hold the kid. Ye know I was — kind 
 o' lookin' forward t' that somehow, but — 
 {He hesitates, embarrassed.) 
 
 McCoy. {Bursting out.) Mike, I won't 
 let ye do this I I did fer Griswold! It 
 
922 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 was my fault an' now it 's up t' me t' — 
 
 Regax. Aw, slmt yer face ! 
 
 McCoy. I won't ! I 'm goin' straight 
 
 downstairs an' tell 'em how it happened — 
 
 Regan. {Roaring.) You dry up or I'll 
 
 bust yer jaw! {Slight pause.) Ye '11 
 
 tell 'em downstairs ? Ye '11 tell 'em 
 
 nothin' ! D' ye hear? Ye '11 walk out of 
 
 this place without openin' yer mug wide 
 
 enough t' spit, an' ye '11 do it 'cause I tell 
 
 ye to, by Gawd! there ain't no bigger 
 
 reason! {Knock at door.) Come in. 
 
 {The door opens and the officer appears.) 
 
 Wot d' ye want 1 
 
 The Officer. There's a lady to see you, 
 
 sir. {There is a slight pause.) 
 
 Regan. {Suspiciously.) 'T ain't another 
 
 one o' them female reporters? 
 The Officer. No, sir, it 's yer wife. 
 
 She 's down in the Inspector's office. 
 Regan. All right. I 'm ready. Ask her 
 
 to come up. 
 Officer. All right, sir. 
 
 {The officer goes out.) 
 McCoy. S' long. 
 Regan. S' long, Porky. 
 McCoy. Would ye mind — shakin' hands? 
 Regan. Why should I mind, me son? 
 
 {He does so.) 
 McCoy. Gee, yer the best I — I ever met! 
 Regan. Aw g' wan ! 
 
 (Porky goes out quickly. Regan, 
 left alone, looks about, then quickly 
 and awkwardly begins tidying up 
 the room, -fixing the napkin to cover 
 the tray. He makes the desk a lit- 
 tle more orderly, throwing cigar ends 
 and ashes in waste basket. He picks 
 up the cuspidor and drops it behind 
 the washstand. He pours water in 
 the' basin, washes his hands, wipes 
 them on the towel, throws the towel 
 behind the washstand, sets the 
 pitcher back in the bowl in the 
 water. While brushing his coat, he 
 sees his pajamas and throws them 
 under the pillow, thumps the pillow, 
 and is covering the red blanket with 
 the counterpane when Emily softly 
 opens the door and pauses, watching 
 him. He does not see her.) 
 Emily. {At last.) Michael. 
 Regan. {Starting suddenly and turning.) 
 
 Is that you? I didn't hear ye. 
 Emily. {Entering.) They said to go 
 
 right in. 
 Regan. {Very embarrassed.) Sure. 0' 
 course. {Pause.) Won't ye — sit down? 
 {He offers her a chair.) 
 
 Emily. Thank you. 
 
 {She sits. There is another awkward 
 pause.) 
 
 Regan. I — hope yer feelin' well? 
 
 Emily. Oh, I 'm well enough — but — rather 
 tired, that 's all. 
 
 Regan. {Sympathetically.) 1 know. 
 
 {Pause.) 
 
 Regan and Emily. {Simultaneously.) 
 Yer lookin' — You look — 
 
 {They both stop.) 
 
 Regan. {Politely.) I beg yer pardon. 
 After you! 
 
 Emily. {Glancing about uneasily.) You 
 look — fairly comfortable here. Some- 
 how I didn't expect to find things as — 
 as comfortable. 
 
 Regan. {Embarrassed, looking about too.) 
 Yeah, they been real good t' me — the 
 boys have. Davis comes here ev'ry day, 
 an' I got a telephone in the hall, an' they 
 send in me grub from that hotel across 
 the street. No, it ain't so bad — when — 
 when ye get used to it. {Pause.) 
 
 Emily. {Nervously.) Mr. Davis said j^ou 
 wanted to see me about those Fourth 
 Ward mortgages. 
 
 Regan. Yeah. I want to make an assign- 
 ment. I want to deed 'em over t' you, 
 if ye don't mind. 
 
 Emily. Deed them over to me? How do 
 you mean? 
 
 Regan. Put ^em in yer nam«. Let ye 
 work 'em the way you want, give 'em t' 
 ye — understand? 
 
 Emily. But — I thought you were going 
 to foreclose? 
 
 Regan. I changed me mind. 
 
 Emily. Why? 
 
 Regan. {Not looking at her, speaking 
 with difficulty.) I dunno. {At win- 
 dow.) When yer up against it — the 
 way I am now — ye sort o' feel like 
 squarin' ev'rythin' up. An' I thought, 
 seein' ye was so int'rested in them folks 
 down there, ye 'd like t' have an eye on 
 'em yerself an' keep 'em out o' trouble. 
 They're just like kids, ye know. They 
 need lookin' after. {A pause.) 
 
 Emily. {Softly.) Oh, Michael! 
 
 Regan. {Glancing up at her.) Will ye 
 do it, then? 
 
 Emily. Yes, I'll do it — if you want me 
 to. 
 
 Regan. {Very business-like.) All right. 
 I had Hodges frame up an acceptance of 
 xhe assignment. {Taking it from enve- 
 lope.) Will ye look at it? It's very 
 short, ye see, but it cove?;s the ground. 
 
EDWARD SHELDON 
 
 923 
 
 {She looks at him, hut when he holds 
 
 out the paper she takes it and hends her 
 
 head.) Is there anytliin' ye don't un- 
 derstand? I know them legal words is 
 
 apt t' mix a lady up. 
 Emily. (Turning away to wipe her eyes 
 
 without letting him see her.) No, it's 
 
 quite clear — quite — 
 Regax. Then would ye mind signin' it 
 
 now? An' I'll give it to Hodges in. the 
 
 mornin'. 
 Emily. Where do I sign? 
 Regan. There under my name — {Gives 
 
 her a pen.) Look out, it's sort of inky. 
 Emily. It 's all right. 
 
 {She takes the pen and signs the 
 paper.) 
 Regan. There! You're the boss now. 
 
 You 're the boss o' the Fourth Ward ! 
 
 P'raps ye '11 be a better one than me ! 
 Emily. {Simply.) Thank you, Michael. 
 
 {A pause. He waves the paper to dry 
 
 it, ) I — I suppose you '11 be going to 
 
 Montreal very soon? 
 Regan. Naw. 
 Emily. Why not? 
 Regan. {Thumb towards window.) Look 
 
 at them bars. Ain't they a good reason? 
 Emily. But, Michael — 
 Regan. {Interrupting.) I might as well 
 
 tell ye right now. I don't stand much 
 
 show o' gettin' out o' here. 
 Emily. You mean — on account of Don? 
 
 {Slight pause.) 
 Regan. {Looking away.) Yeah. 
 
 {Another pause.) 
 Emily. Then you don't know? 
 Regan. Know what? 
 Emily. That it's all right? That he's 
 
 going to get well? 
 Regan. {Joyfully.) Naw! 
 Emily. That 's what Dr. Jameson says. 
 
 He operated at two o'clock. 
 Regax. To-day ! 
 Emily. And Don knew me before I left 
 
 the hospital. 
 Regan. {Spontaneously.) Aw gee, I'm 
 
 glad ! I 'm awful glad ! 
 Emily. {Looking away.) Yes, it means 
 
 a lot to you, too, does n't it ? 
 Regan. {Suddenly shy.) Well, I — I 
 
 was n't thinkin' of meself just then. 
 Emily. {Still looking away.) So you 
 
 can probably go North, after all. 
 Regan. Yeah. I s'pose I can. {He has 
 
 the package of papers Davis left.) 1 
 
 s'pose I can. But — somehow I guess I 
 
 won't. 
 
 {He tears up the papers, carefully , 
 
 methodically, and drops them in the 
 basket.) 
 
 Emily. Michael, what — what are those 
 papers? 
 
 Regan. {Looking at the pieces.) My con- 
 tracts with Montreal. Or wot 's left of 
 'em. 
 
 Emily. You're giving that up, too? 
 
 Regan. It looks that way. 
 
 Emily. But why? You don't have to. 
 
 Regan. {Bitterly.) Can't I do a decent 
 thing sometimes just fer the fun of 
 it? 
 
 Emily. You don't mean — you 're doing it 
 for yourself? 
 
 Regan. {Sourly.) Well, I ain't doin' it 
 fer anyone else, am I? {A pause.) 
 
 Emily. {With growing emotion.) Mich- 
 ael, I sided against you yesterday. 
 
 Regan. {Under his breath.) I know that. 
 
 Emily. Well, you 'd done so many dread- 
 ful things, and I knew how you felt about 
 Don. When you told me, it all seemed 
 to go together. I — I couldn't think — 
 
 Regan. Don't begin on that again! 
 Please ! 
 
 Emily. But now — Michael, look at me ! 
 {He does so. A pause.) 
 
 Emily. {Putting her hands on his shoul- 
 ders. ) It 's all right. I 'm sure now. 
 I know you did n't do it. 
 
 Regan. {Imploring.) Ye don't mean ye 
 believe me? 
 
 Emily. Yes, and oh, Michael! You've 
 got to forgive me for uot believing you 
 before! {She takes his hand.) 
 
 Regan. {Roughly.) Quit it! Don't! 
 
 Emily. {Taking both hands.) But I'll 
 make up for it — you see! And now 
 we 're going to turn our backs on every-^ 
 thing that 's happened. We 're going to 
 look up ! We 're going to look ahead ! 
 We 're going to start all over, you and 
 I, together! 
 
 Regan. Aw quit it, don't talk that way! 
 Go home ! Go way, d' ye hear ? Leave 
 me be, I tell ye ! Leave me be ! 
 
 Emily. I won't! I can't! I married 
 you, Michael, and when a woman marries 
 a man I believe she promises all sorts of 
 things I 've never lived up to. But now 
 you need me and i.can help you — why, I 
 think it 's a good mne to begin ! 
 
 Regan. Ye don't mean yer willing t' do 
 all that— fer me? 
 
 Emily. Willing? Why, I want to. 
 Don't you see? I want to! {Pause.) 
 
 Regan. {Collecting himself.) Thank ye. 
 Thank ye kindly. I know yer just say- 
 
924 
 
 THE BOSS 
 
 ing that t' make things easy fer me, but 
 I 'm — I 'm awful obliged to ye. 
 
 Emily. I 'm not, Michael ! You don't 
 understand, you — 
 
 Regan. (Interrupting.) Gee, I've been 
 sort o' feelin' our finish comin' on fer 
 the last six months, an' now — all of a 
 sudden — it 's right here. An' somehow 
 I can look it in the face an' keep on 
 smilin' just the same. 
 
 Emily. What do you mean? 
 
 Regan. You was right when you said that 
 you an' me have got t' start all over 
 again. Only this time we got t' start 
 alone. 
 
 Emily. But, Michael — 
 
 Regan. Now, wait a second, Em'ly. I 
 guess we need n't bother much, now 
 we 're at the end. If anyone could 
 a-pulled this off, why, we 'd a-been the 
 ones. But we did n't have no show. 
 We was in all wrong, dead wrong, from 
 the very beginnin'. 
 
 Emily. Was it — so wrong? 
 
 Regan. Yeah. I was wrong in thinkin' I 
 could ever make ye happy an' you was 
 wrong — well, in thinkin' ye could ever 
 let me try. I guess 'twas my fault, 
 mostly. You was doin' it fer a bunch o' 
 scoopers, an' I was just out fer meself — 
 like I always been. I might a-known 
 there could n't be nothin' between us two 
 — a guy born in a back room over a bar 
 an' a lady like yerself — 
 
 Emily. Don't ! Please don't ! 
 
 Regan. D' ve know one thing I learned 
 from bein' with ye this way? An' gee! 
 I don't see just wot good it's ever goin' 
 t' do me! {Slowly and with difficulty.) 
 Folks have t' love each other awful hard 
 
 * before they can get married. If you 
 an' me had done that — why, we could 
 a-stood up an' looked the world in the 
 eye an' told it t' go t' hell! But as it 
 is — 
 
 (His voice breaks.) 
 
 Emily. Michael ! 
 
 Regan. It 's all right, the bill 's paid, the 
 account 's closed. An' if there 's any f er- 
 givin' t' be done, I '11 do my share. I 
 hope Gawd gives ye everythin' ye never 
 could get from me — an' that ye live 
 happy — an' grow old slow — an' good 
 luck t' ye now, me darlin'! Good luck 
 t' ye an' good-bye! 
 
 {He turns away.) 
 
 {The door opens and the Inspector comes 
 in.) 
 
 The Inspector. Mr. Regan? 
 
 Regan. Well? 
 
 The Inspector. That man, McCoy — 
 
 Regan. {Sharply.) Huh? 
 
 Tpie Inspector. It's all right, sir. He 
 let out the whole thing. (Regan 
 smothers an exclamation.) He went 
 downstairs to Judge Swain and made an 
 affidavit. The Judge has ordered your 
 release and you can leave us, Mr. Regan, 
 any time you like. 
 
 Regan. Porky — ! 
 
 Emily. {In a low voice, to the In- 
 spector. ) He did it, then ? 
 
 The Inspector. That 's what he 's sworn 
 to, ma'am. {A pause.) 
 
 Emily. Would you call my chauffeur? 
 I 'm — I 'm going to take my husband 
 home. 
 
 The Inspector. {Softly.) Sure, ma'am 
 — sure. {He goes out.) 
 
 Emily. {Turning to Regan.) Michael, 
 there 's something I 've never told you. 
 
 Regan. {Dully.) Is there? 
 
 Emily. I 've never told you, because I 
 never knew it until now. 
 
 Regan. Didn't ye? 
 
 Emily. Can't you guess what it is? 
 
 Regan. I 'm no good at guessin' when it 
 comes t' you. 
 
 Emily. All right, then, I'll tell you. I 
 think — I think — I think it 's going to be 
 all right. 
 
 Regan. Wot 's goin' to be all right ? 
 
 {She runs over to the clothes rack.) 
 
 Emily. Is this your overcoat? — {Taking 
 it from the rack.) Here now — put it on! 
 {She holds it for him.) And your hat— 
 {He starts to take it.) Wait! I'll 
 show you how you '11 have to wear it now\ 
 {She puts it on his head. He pushes it 
 on one side.) No — straight! {She 
 straightens it.) Quite straight! It's 
 always bothered me before. 
 
 Regan. {Feeling it gingerly.) Like that? 
 
 Emily. Like that. Now take it off ! 
 
 Regan. Why? 
 
 Emily. {Half -laughing , half -crying.) 
 D' you think I 'm going to let you kiss 
 me with it on? 
 
 {He throws his hat across the room 
 and catches her in his arms as the 
 curtain falls.) 
 
HE AND SHE 
 
 BY 
 
 Rachel Crothers 
 
Copyright, 1911, by Eachel Crothers 
 All Dramatic Rights Reserved by the Author 
 
 Printed for the first time by permission of the author, Miss 
 Rachel Crothers. 
 
HE AND SHE 
 
 He and She represents the drama of married life in which the relations of 
 husband and wife are modified by the rival claims of professional jealousy. It 
 is one of the most striking of the plays which deal with the general question of 
 woman's rights and responsibilities, of which its author has stood for some time 
 as a representative in drama. 
 
 Rachel Crothers was born in Bloomington, Illinois, and graduated from 
 the State Normal School. Her father. Dr. Eli Kirk Crothers, was a friend and 
 contemporary of Lincoln, while her mother studied medicine after she was forty 
 years of age, and became the first woman physician in that part of Illinois. In a 
 letter to the editor written in response to his request for biographical details. Miss 
 Crothers says: 
 
 ''My interest in the stage was entirely foreign to the deeply religious con- 
 servative traditions of my family but began when I was very small, asserting it- 
 self through the writing of plays — the first one to be produced being Every Cloud 
 Has a Silver Lining, or the Ruined Merchant, all five of the characters played by 
 myself and a friend at the age of twelve — to an invited audience of amazed and 
 admiring friends. ' ' 
 
 After her graduation from school. Miss Crothers studied dramatic art in 
 Boston and New York and was for three seasons on the stage. She then began 
 seriously writing plays. Her first play to be professionally produced was a 
 clever one-act sketch, The Rector, played at the Madison Square Theatre, New 
 York, April 3, 1902, dealing with the choice of a wife by a young clergyman. 
 Then followed The Three of Us, performed at the Madison Square Theatre, Octo- 
 ber, 1906 ; The Coming of Mrs. Patrick, at the same theatre, October, 1907 ; Myself 
 Bettina, first played by Maxine Elliott at Powers Theatre, Chicago, January, 
 1908; A Man's World, played by Mary Mannering at the Comedy Theatre, New 
 York, Feb. 8, 1910; The Herfords {He and She) (1912) ; Young Wisdom, played 
 by Mabel and Edith Talliaferro at the Criterion Theatre, New York, January, 
 1914; Ourselves, played by Grace Elliston at the Lyric Theatre, New York, 
 November, 1913; The Heart of Paddy Whack, played by Chauncey Olcott at 
 the Grand Opera House, New York, November, 1914. Old Lady 31, after a 
 try out on the road, opened at the Thirty -ninth Street Theatre, New York City, 
 on October 30, 1916, and had a successful run. Her most recent plays were A 
 Little Journey, which was first played at the Little Theatre, New York, Decem- 
 ber 26, 1918, and 39 East, which opened at the Broadhurst Theatre, May 
 12, 1919. 
 
 927 
 
928 INTEODUCTION 
 
 He and She was first tried out on the road during the fall of 1911. It was 
 then renamed The Herfords and was first played by the cast as here given at 
 the Plymouth Theatre in Boston, February 5, 1912. 
 
 After extensive revision, the play was revived and produced at the Little 
 Theatre, New York, February 12, 1920, under the title He and She. At this 
 revival Miss Crothers herself played the part of ''Ann Herford," Mr. Cyril 
 Keightley that of ''Tom Herford" and Miss Faire Binney that of "Millicent." 
 
 The most significant of Miss Crothers' plays are those in which she deals 
 with a problem created by some demand of woman's nature. In The Three 
 of Us she shows the strong sisterly affection of a woman for her younger 
 brother who is hardly worthy of it but who is saved by the power of her love. 
 In A Man's World she attacks the basis of social and moral law which treats 
 the woman unfairly. In Ourselves she shows the responsibility of good women 
 for the so-called double standard of morality. In He and She she draws in a 
 masterly way the effect which the rivalry of a wife in an artistic profession has 
 upon the relations of her husband and herself and also upon her treatment of 
 her daughter. 
 
 A Man's World has been published by Richard Badger; The Rector, Young 
 Wisdom and The Three of Us by Samuel French. He and She is now 
 printed for the first time through the courtesy of the author, from a manu- 
 script prepared especially by her for this collection. In order to reflect the 
 changes made in the revival of 1920, in the Revised Edition, the entire play has 
 been reprinted from a revised manuscript furnished by Miss Crothers, 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Plymouth Theatre, Boston, February 5, 1912 
 
 Tom Herford, a sculptor Mr. Charles Waldron 
 
 Ann Herford, his wife Miss Viola Allen 
 
 Daisy Herford, his sister Miss Grace EUiston 
 
 MiLLiCENT, his daughter Miss Beatrice Prentice 
 
 Dr. Remington, his father-in-law Mr. George Fawcett 
 
 Keith McKenzie, his assistant Mr. John Westley 
 
 Ruth Creel, his wife 's friend ]\Iiss Jessie Izette 
 
 Ellen, a maid , j\Iiss Emily Varian 
 
HE AND SHE 
 
 ACT FIEST 
 
 Scene : The Herford Studio. 
 
 The room is in the hasement floor of a 
 large old fashioned house in lower New 
 York — and shows that it has been made 
 over and adapted to the needs of a 
 sculptor. 
 
 'At right center hach are double doors 
 opening into the workroom. At right of 
 these doors is a recess showing it has 
 been cut in. The ceiling of the half of 
 the room which is towards the audience 
 is much higher than the other part — 
 showing that the room which is on the 
 floor above has been used to give height 
 to this part of the studio. 
 
 The break made in the ceiling is sup- 
 ported by an interesting old carved 
 column — very evidently brought from 
 Italy — and in the overhanging part of 
 the wall is set a very beautiful old Ital- 
 ian frieze in bas relief — a few faded 
 colors showing. 
 
 At lower left is a large studio window. 
 
 At lower right side a single door leading 
 into hall. At upper left corner, a cup- 
 board is built in, in harmony with the 
 construction of the room, and showing, 
 when opened, drawers and compart- 
 ments for holding sculptors' tools, etc. 
 
 Before the window, at right center, is a 
 scaffold built to hold a section of a 
 frieze. At its base is a revolving table, 
 holding modeling clay, tools, etc. In 
 front of the scaffold is a short pair of 
 steps. At centre, is a long table holding 
 rolls of sketches, a desk set — a book or 
 two, pencils, compasses, several pieces of 
 modeling. 
 
 There are a number of chairs about and 
 a piece of rich brocade in vivid coloring 
 thrown over the back of one. 
 
 The room is simple, dignified, beautiful, 
 full of taste and strength. Soft after- 
 noon sunshine streams in from the wide 
 window. Keith MaoKenzie and Tom 
 Herford are lifting one section of a 
 bas relief frieze about 3 by 5 — and plac- 
 ing it on the scaffolding . 
 
 McKenzie is about 35, tall, good-looking, 
 in a pleasing, common-place way; also 
 wearing a sculptor s working clothes — 
 hut of a practical and not artistic sort. 
 
 Tom Hereford is 40, a fine specimen of 
 the vigorous American-artist type. 
 Virile, fresh, alive and generous in na- 
 ture and viewpoint. He wears the 
 stamp of confidence and success. 
 
 Tom. {As they lift the frieze.) Come 
 on I There she is! Put her over — no, 
 this way, about half a foot. That's right. 
 There! Let's have a look. (Tom goes 
 down to hanging switch and turns on 
 the light. As he does so, he says:) 
 Wait! (The lights are turned up.) 
 (Turning to Keith.) What do you 
 think. 
 
 Keith. It's a great thing. Governor! 
 Going to be a walk-away for you. You'll 
 win it as sure as guns. I know it. I 
 bet you land the $100,000.00 as sure as 
 you're standing there, governor. 
 
 Tom. Oh, I don't know. The biggest 
 fellows in the country are going in for 
 this competition. 
 
 Keith. Well — you're one of the biggest. 
 I think you're the biggest — and you've 
 turned out the best thing you've ever 
 done in your life. (Going to stand 
 above table.) 
 
 Tom. That's damned nice of you, Mc- 
 Kenzie. It does look pretty good out 
 here. Doesn't it? (He goes up on the 
 steps — to touch the frieze.) 
 
 Keith. (After a pause.) Governor. 
 
 Tom. (Working at his frieze.) Um? 
 
 Keith. I want to ask you something. 
 'Not from curiosity — but because — I'd 
 like to know for my own sake. You 
 needn't answer of course — if you don't 
 want to. 
 
 Tom. Go on. Fire away. 
 
 Keith. Have you ever been sorry that 
 Mrs. Herford is a sculptor — instead of 
 just your wife? 
 
 Tom. Not for a minute. 
 
 Keith. I've been thinking a lot about it 
 all lately. 
 
 Tom. About you and Ruth, you mean? 
 
 Keith. Yes. She'll marry me in the fall 
 if I let her keep on working. 
 
 931 
 
932 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Tom. And? 
 
 Keith. Well— I— Hang it all! I don't 
 want her to. I can take care of her now. 
 At first it was different — when I was 
 grubbing along — but since I've been 
 with you, you've put me on my feet. 
 I'll never be gr^eat — I know that all 
 right — but I can take care of her. 
 
 Tom. (WorJi'ing at frieze.) But she 
 wants to keep on, doesn't she? 
 
 Keith. Yes, but — 
 
 Tom. Good Heavens, boy — you're not 
 bitten with that bug I hope. "I want 
 my girl by my own fireside to live for 
 me alone." 
 
 Keith. Oh — 
 
 Tom. Why Ruth Creel's a howling suc- 
 cess — the way she's climbed up in that 
 magazine — why in the name of Christo- 
 pher, do you want her to stop? 
 
 Keith. (At right end of tahle, figuring 
 mechanically on some papers on table.) 
 How can she keep on at that and keep 
 house too? 
 
 Tom. Well they do, you know — somehow. 
 
 Keith. Oh, Mrs. Herford's different. 
 She's working right here with you — and 
 her time is her own. But Ruth's tied 
 down to office hours and it's slavery — 
 that's what it is. 
 
 Tom. She doesn't think so. Does she? 
 
 Keith. I want a home. I want children. 
 
 Tom. Of course. But that doesn't mean 
 she'll have to give up her profession 
 forever. 
 
 Keath. Oh, I'm strong for women doing 
 anything they want to do — in general — 
 But when it's the girl you love and want 
 to marry, it's different. 
 
 Tom. It ought not to be. 
 
 Keith. When you come down to brass 
 tacks — 
 
 Ann. (Coming quichly in from the work- 
 room, and stopping as she sees the 
 frieze.) Oh Tom! 
 
 (Ann Herford is 38. Intensely femi- 
 nine and a strong vibrating person- 
 ality which radiates warmth and 
 vitality. She wears a long linen 
 working smock — a soft rich red in 
 color. Her sleeves are rolled up 
 and her general appearance shows 
 that she is at work and has stopped 
 only to look at Tom's frieze.) 
 
 Keith. Looks great out here — doesn't it, 
 Mrs. Herford? 
 
 Ann. Um. 
 
 Keith. Aren't you — more sure now than 
 ever it will win? 
 
 Ann. IJm. — (Starting to speak and 
 
 checking herself.) 
 
 Tom. What? 
 
 Ann. Nothing Your horses are marvel- 
 ous, Tom. I wish we could see it all 
 together — now. Don't you? The rest 
 of the twenty sections — so we could see 
 how much we — ^how much we — feel the 
 running. 
 
 Tom. Don't you feel it in this piece? 
 
 Ann. Of course. 
 
 Keith. I do — tremendously. I think it's 
 wonderful. (He goes into workroom.) 
 
 Tom. Ann — what were you going to say 
 a minute ago about the frieze? 
 
 Ann. a — I don't know. 
 
 Tom. Don't hedge. Several times lately 
 you've started to say something and 
 haven't got it out. What is it? Any 
 suggestions ? 
 
 Ann. How do you feel about it yourself, 
 boy? Are you satisfied? 
 
 Tom. Does that mean you aren't? 
 
 Ann. I asked you. 
 
 Tom. Well — it's the best that's in me. 
 Why? What's the matter? You don't 
 like it after all. 
 
 Ann. Like it? It's a strong — noble — 
 beautiful thing. 
 
 Tom. But— 
 
 Ann. Dearest — is it — just exactly what 
 your first conception of it was? Has it 
 turned out just as you first felt it? 
 
 Tom. Why yes — not absolutely in detail 
 of course. It's improved a lot I think — 
 in the working — but in the main, yes — 
 it's just the same. Why do you say that ? 
 
 Ann. You know of course, but — 
 
 Tom. Say it — Say it. What have you 
 got in your mind? 
 
 Ann. I don't know that I can — but in 
 the beginning it had a feeling of swift- 
 ness, of rushing — swirling — as if your 
 soul were let loose in it, Tom — too big, 
 too free to be held in and confined. 
 But, somehow, now that it's finished — 
 
 Tom. Go on. 
 
 Ann. That wild thing has gone out of it. 
 It's crystalized into something magnifi- 
 cent but a little conventional. 
 
 Tom. Good heavens, Ann, you can't call 
 that conventional? 
 
 Ann. Well — orthodox then. It's noble of 
 course — but that inexplainable thing 
 which made it great — is gone — for me. 
 Perhaps it's just me — my imagination — 
 because I care so much. 
 
 Tom. It is imagination. It's much 
 stronger than when I began. 
 
RACHEL CEOTHERS 
 
 933 
 
 Ann. Is it? 
 
 Tom. Of course. You're trying to put 
 something fantastic into it which never 
 was there at all. That's not me. What 
 I've done I've got through a certain 
 strong solid boldness. That's why I 
 think this stands a good chance. It's 
 the very best thing I've ever done, Ann, 
 by all— 
 
 KiETH. {Opening the workroom door.) 
 Governor — will you show Guido and me 
 about something please — Just a minute ? 
 {There is a slight pause.) {Tom looks 
 at the frieze.) 
 
 Tom. I don't see what you mean at all, 
 dear girl. Thanks a lot — but I think 
 you're wrong this time. {He goes into 
 workroom. Ann looks again at the 
 frieze as Ruth Creel comes in from 
 hall.) 
 
 Ann. {Going quickly to Ruth.) Oh, 
 
 you 
 
 ! {She kisses her 
 
 Ruth — bless 
 warmly.) 
 
 Ruth. I came straight from the oj^ce 
 and I'm dirty as a pig. (Ann points to 
 ToM^s frieze.) Is that it? (Ann no (is.) 
 Well? 
 
 Ann. Oh, Ruth — I'm sick in the bottom 
 of my soul. I hope — I hope — I'm wrong. 
 I must be wrong. Tom knows better 
 than I do; but — I can't help it. I tell 
 myself I'm a fool — and the more I try 
 to persuade myself the more it comes 
 back. Ruth, it isn't the same. It isn't. 
 What ever it was that lifted it above 
 good work and made it a thing of in- 
 spiration — is gone. It's gone — gone. 
 
 Ruth. Have you — told Tom how you 
 feel? 
 
 Ann. Just this minute. He says I'm 
 wrong absolutely — that it's the best 
 thing he's ever done. 
 
 Ruth. I hope to God you are wrong — 
 but I bet you're not. You know. Did 
 you — have you told him the other 
 thing ? 
 
 Ann. Not yet. But I've finished it. 
 
 Ruth. Absolutely ? 
 
 Ann. I worked down here last night till 
 three o'clock this morning. 
 
 Ruth. Well — how is it? 
 
 Ann. Oh, I don't dare think. It can't 
 be as good as it seems to me. 
 
 Ruth. Of course it can. Why shouldn't 
 it be? Aren't you going to offer it to 
 him right away — before it's too late? 
 
 Ann. How can I? It frightens me to 
 pieces to even think of it — but, oh, — 
 my dear, my dear — it's alive and fresh 
 
 and new. It is. It is. If he only would 
 take it — my idea — and put his wonder- 
 ful work — his wonderful execution into 
 it. 
 
 Ruth. Perhaps he'll be fired with it — 
 jump at it. 
 
 Ann. I'm afraid, he won't — and I'm 
 afraid of tJiis for him. It would nearly 
 kill him to lose. He's counting on win- 
 ning. Keith and everybody are so dead 
 sure of him. 
 
 Ruth. Show him yours for goodness — 
 
 Ann. Be careful. He'll be back in a 
 minute. 
 
 Ruth. I'll skip upstairs and make myself 
 presentable. 
 
 Ann. Go in my room, dear. (Ruth goes 
 out through hall. Tom and Keith come 
 hack from workroom. Ann goes to Tom 
 — they stand a moment — looking at the 
 frieze. Ann slaps Tom on the hack, 
 without speaking, and goes on into 
 workroom.) 
 
 Keith. {After a pause.) I agree with 
 you in general, governor. But when it 
 comes down to the girl you love and 
 want to marry, it's different. 
 
 Tom. Why is it? 
 
 Keith. The world has got to have homes 
 to live in and who's going to make 'em 
 if the women don't do it? 
 
 Tom. {Smiling at Keith tolerantly.) 
 Oh, come — come. 
 
 Keith. Do you mean to say you wouldn't 
 rather your sister Daisy was married 
 and keeping her own house instead of 
 working here as your secretary? 
 
 Tom. But she isn't married — and she 
 won't live with Ann and me unless it's 
 a business proposition. I respect her 
 tremendously for it — tremendously. 
 
 Keith. Well, Daisy's a big, plucky, in- 
 dependent thing anyway — but Ruth's a 
 little delicate fragile — 
 
 Tom. With a mind bigger than most of 
 the men you know. 
 
 Keith. Oh, mind be damned. I want a 
 wife. 
 
 Daisy. {Coming in from the hall.) Oh 
 — Tom — it's out here. How corking! 
 (Daisy Herford is twenty-eight — 
 strong, wholesome, handsome, with 
 the charm of health and freshness. 
 She wears a severe serge gown and 
 carries a pencil and stenographer s 
 pad.) 
 
 Tom. Well — sis, how do you like it? 
 
 Daisy. I adore it. I hope you haven't 
 any doubts now about winning. 
 
934 
 
 HE a:n'd she 
 
 Tom. IVe plenty of 'em — but somehow 
 today it looks as if it stood a pretty 
 good chance. 
 
 Daisy. Chance! I never was so sure of 
 anything in my life. 
 
 Keith. Daisy — maybe you know just 
 what ought to be where with this stujf. 
 
 Daisy. I've been itching to get at it. 
 Let's put all the tools on that side. 
 
 Keith. I have started. 
 
 Daisy. And throw the trash in here. 
 (Pushing the box with her foot.) 
 
 Keith. Can you help me now? 
 
 Daisy. Yes. Tom, do you want me to 
 write to the Ward people about that 
 marble again? 
 
 Tom. Yes I do. Shake them up. Tell 
 'em if it isn't here by the first of the 
 month I won't take it. 
 
 Daisy. (Making a note in her note-hooh.) 
 Um — um. 
 
 Millicent Herford rushes in from hall 
 at left. Millicent is 16 — pretty — eager 
 — full of vitality and will — half child, 
 half woman. She is charmingly dressed 
 in an afternoon frock and picture hat 
 and is at the moment happy and ex- 
 hilarated.) 
 
 Millicent. Father, where's mother? 
 
 Tom. In the work-room. But you can't 
 go in. (As Millicent starts to work- 
 room.) 
 
 Millicent. Why not? 
 
 Tom. She's finishing something and said 
 not to let any one stop her. 
 
 Millicent. Oh dear! I think I might. 
 It's awfully important. Couldn't I just 
 poke my head in the door a minute? 
 
 Tom. Not for a second. 
 
 Millicent. Sakes, I wish Mother wouldn't 
 work in my Christmas vacation. It's 
 an awful bore. Don't you think she 
 might stop the little while I'm at home. 
 Aunt Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. None of my business. Don't ask 
 me. 
 
 Keith. If you ask me — yes I think she 
 might. 
 
 Tom. That's nonsense. Your mother's 
 doing about everything that can be done 
 to make your vacation a success, isn't 
 she? 
 
 Millicent. Yes, of course. 
 
 Tom. Then I don't see that there's any 
 reason why she shouldn't be allowed a 
 little time for herself. 
 
 Millicent. But I want her now. Aren't 
 my new pumps stemmy, Aunt Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. Aren't they what? 
 
 Millicent. Stemmy. Wake up. Aunt 
 Daisy. Oh, the luncheon was gorgeous. 
 All the girls were there and the matinee 
 was heavenly. 
 
 Keith. What play? 
 
 Millicent. "The Flame of Love." You 
 needn't laugh, father. It's the best play 
 in town. The leading man is a peach. 
 Honestly, he's the best looking thing I 
 ever saw in my life. We were all crazy 
 about him. Belle Stevens took off her 
 violets and threw them right at him. 
 She makes me tired, though. I don't 
 think seventeen is so terribly much older 
 than sixteen, do you, Aunt Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. (Still at the cupboard.) It de- 
 pends on whether you're sixteen or sev- 
 enteen — how much older it is. 
 
 Millicent. I don't care — I wouldn't 
 wear a ring as big as hers if I had one. 
 Oh, Aunt Daisy, may I borrow your 
 earrings? (Going to Daisy.) 
 
 Daisy. Help yourself. 
 
 Millicent. Thanks, you're a duck. I 
 could combostulate you for that. How 
 much longer do you think mother will 
 be, daddie? 
 
 Tom. Couldn't say. 
 
 Millicent. Well, tell her I have to see 
 her the minute she comes out. Don't 
 forget. (She hurries off through hall.) 
 
 Tom. She's grown up over night some- 
 how. I can't get used to it. 
 
 Keith. And she went away to school a 
 few months ago just a girl. Amazing, 
 isn't it? 
 
 Daisy. Not a bit. What do you expect? 
 She's free now — cut loose. Boarding 
 school does that pretty quickly. 
 
 Tom. I suppose so — and I suppose it'^ 
 good for hei. (Looking at the frieze 
 he goes into the work-room.) 
 
 Keith. The Governor's darned cheerful 
 about the frieze to-day. 
 
 Daisy. I should think he would be. It's 
 great. (Keith and Daisy go on clearing 
 out cupboard.) 
 
 Keith. I'd give a good deal to know 
 what Mrs. Herford actually thinks of it. 
 
 Daisy. Why she loves it. 
 
 Keith. She looks at it with such a sort of 
 a — I don't know. I can't help wondering 
 if she is so dead certain of it as the 
 rest of us are. 
 
 Daisy. I hope she doesn't discourage 
 Tom. After all he likes it and he knows 
 more about it than anybody else. 
 Ann's criticism is wonderful, of course, 
 but Still Tom is the artist. 
 
EACHEL CROTHEES 
 
 935 
 
 IvEiTH. You're just as jealous for your 
 brother as you can be, aren't you, 
 Daisy? All right for the missus to be 
 clever, but you want Tom to be su- 
 preme in everything, don't you? 
 
 Daisy. He is. (Leaning over the box.) 
 
 Keith. You're a brick. Daisy, have you 
 ever been in love in your life? 
 
 Daisy. What do you mean ? ( Lifting 
 her head — startled and embarrassed.) 
 
 Keith. I've been thinking an awful lot 
 lately about this business of married 
 women working. What do you think 
 of it — now honestly? 
 
 Daisy. What difference does it make — 
 what I think? 
 
 Keith. Of course, there's no reason on 
 earth why you shouldn't be in it. You 
 don't care a hang for men — and — 
 
 Daisy. You mean men don't care a hang 
 for me. 
 
 Keith I^o I don't. I don't mean that 
 at all. But you're so independent men 
 are sort of afraid of you. 
 
 Daisy. Oh, don't apologize. You mean 
 I'm a plain, practical girl meant to take 
 care of myself. 
 
 Keith. Well — that's what you want to 
 be, isn't it? 
 
 Daisy. Never mind about me. Let's 
 change the subject. 
 
 Keith. You needn't be so touchy. I 
 talk awfully frankly about my affairs 
 and you never say a word about your- 
 self. 
 
 Daisy. Why should I? I'm not interest- 
 ing and you're not interested. 
 
 Keith. I am too. You're the best pal a 
 fellow ever had. I don't know any other 
 girl I could have worked with all his 
 time — day in and day out and not either 
 been dead sick of or sort of — you know 
 sweet on, in a way. 
 
 Daisy. You needn't rub it in. 
 
 Keith. Why, Daisy, old girl, what is the 
 matter? What in the dickers are you 
 so huffy about? 
 
 Daisy. Just let me and my idiosyncra- 
 sies alone, please. 
 
 Keith. Heavens! Can't I say what I 
 think? 
 
 Daisy. 'No, you can't. I don't want to 
 hear it. I know just what I seem like 
 to other people — so there's no use ex- 
 plaining me to myself. 
 
 Keith. Ml 1 meant was if you were in 
 love would you give up your job and — 
 
 Daisy. But I'm not in love, so stop think- 
 ing about it. 
 
 Keith. Gosli! I thought you had com- 
 mon sense, but you're just as queer as 
 the rest of them. What I want to know 
 is — if a girl loves a man well enough 
 to marry him why in hell she can't stay 
 at home and — 
 
 Daisy. What's the matter? (As Keith 
 cuts his finger on the tool he is hold- 
 ing.) Did you cut your finger? 
 
 Keith. Not much. 
 
 Daisy. (With a sudden tenderness.) Let 
 me see. 
 
 Keith. It's nothing. 
 
 Daisy. It is too. Hold still. I'll tie it 
 up for you. (She ties his finger with 
 her own handkerchief.) Anything the 
 — hold still. Anything the matter with 
 one of your fingers would put you out 
 of commission. 
 
 Keith. Might be a good idea. I don't 
 think Euth believes in me much. 
 Doesn't think I'll get much farther. 
 
 Daisy. (Warmly.) I don't know why. I 
 think you've got plenty for her to be- 
 lieve in. Well — speaking of angels. 
 How are you, Euth? (As Euth comes 
 in from the hall.) 
 
 Keith. Oh — hello, dear. 
 
 Euth. Hello. What's the matter? 
 
 Keith. Nothing. 
 
 Daisy. Keith was waxing emphatic about 
 you and over emphasized a finger. 
 (She turns back to cupboard.) 
 
 Euth. I'm sorry. (Touching Keith's 
 hand as he comes down to her.) 
 
 Keith. How are you? 
 
 Euth. Dead. This day's been twenty- 
 four hours long. (Sitting at left end 
 of table.) 
 
 Keith. (Coming down to Euth.) Has 
 anything gone wrong? 
 
 Euth. No — but a young author from the 
 eloquent West has been fighting me 
 since nine o'clock this morning. 
 
 Keith. What about? 
 
 Euth. He's got a perfectly magnificent 
 story — or idea for one, rather — but it's 
 so crudely written that it's impossible 
 to publish it. 
 
 Daisy. I suppose you can re-write it for 
 him. 
 
 Euth. No, he won't let me. Wants to 
 do it all himself. Oh, he's so stubborn 
 and so funny and so splendid. So out- 
 landishly conceited and so adorably boy- 
 ish I wanted to slap him one minute 
 and kiss him the next. 
 
 Keith. Why didn't you do both and 
 you'd have got what you wanted. 
 
93G 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Ruth. I was afraid to risk it, 
 
 Keith. (Nodding towards Tom's frieze.) 
 
 Doesn't that hit you in the eye? 
 Ruth. Awfully like Tom, isn't it? 
 
 Strong and splendid. 
 Keith. What are you thinking — 
 Ruth. Oh, nothing — only I wish Ann 
 
 had — I wish Ann had gone in for this 
 
 competition too. 
 Keith. What? 
 
 Daisy. Why on earth should she? 
 Ruth. Why shouldn't she? 
 Daisy. Ruth, you're daffy about Ann. 
 
 Always have been. 
 Keith. She does beautiful work for a 
 
 woman — but ye gods — she's not in this 
 
 class. 
 Ruth. And she never will be if she's 
 
 held back and told she's limited. I think 
 
 she has genius and the sooner she makes 
 
 a bold dash and tries for something big 
 
 the better. 
 Daisy. Nonsense ! Tom's pushed her and 
 
 believed in her always. You can't say 
 
 he's held her back. 
 Ruth. (To Keith.) I've heard you say 
 
 she has genius — lots of times. 
 Keith. So she has — in a way. She has 
 
 more imagination than the governor, 
 
 but, great Peter, when it comes to exe- 
 cution and the real thing she isn't in 
 
 it with him. How could she be ? She's 
 
 a woman. 
 Ruth. Don't be any more anti-deluvian 
 
 or prehistoric than you can help, Keith. 
 
 Don't you think Ann's more original 
 
 and really innately gifted than Tom is, 
 
 Daisy? 
 Daisy. I do not. She's terribly good. Of 
 
 course — no doubt about that — but good 
 
 Lord, Tom's great — a really great artist. 
 
 (Daisy starts to hall door.) 
 Ruth. Why do you go, Daisy? 
 Daisy. Must. I have bushels of letters to 
 
 get off. 
 Ruti:. You look as fresh and rosy as if 
 
 you were just beginning the day. How 
 
 do you do it? 
 Daisy. Oh, I'm not expressing my soul in 
 
 my job— merely earning by bread and 
 
 butter. I suppose that's why I look so 
 
 husky at twilight. (Daisy goes out 
 
 througa hall.) 
 RuTii. (Lool-ing after Daisy.) Do you 
 
 know — I don't believe Daisy likes me 
 
 any more. 
 Keith. (Sitting on left end of table near 
 
 Ruth.) Kiss me. (Ruth leans her head 
 towards Keith. He kisses her cheek.) 
 
 Ruth. She's so marvelously good-na- 
 tured — queer she's getting snappy at me 
 lately. 
 
 Keith. I'm awfully glad you came. 
 
 Ruth. Does it hurt? (Touching his 
 finger.) 
 
 Keitpi. ISTot much. 
 
 Ruth. I wonder why she doesn't like me? 
 
 Keith. What are you talking about ? I'm 
 asked to stay to dinner, too. 
 
 Ruth. That's nice. 
 
 Keith. I can't bear to see you so tired, 
 dear. 
 
 Ruth. I'll be all right when I have some 
 tea. 
 
 Keith. This time next year you could 
 be in your own home — away from those 
 damnable office hours and the drudgery 
 — if you only would. If you only 
 would. 
 
 Ruth. It never seems to occur to you 
 that I might be a little less tired but 
 bored to death without my job. 
 
 Keith. If you really cared for me the 
 way you used to — you wouldn't be bored. 
 
 Ruth. Oh let's not begin that. 
 
 Keith. But do you love me, dear. Do 
 you? 
 
 Ruth. I've been telling you so for a 
 pretty long time, haven't I. 
 
 Keith. Are you tired of it? 
 
 Ruth. There isn't any reason on earth 
 why you should thinh I am. 
 
 Keith. Well, I do think it. I worry 
 about it all the time. I know you're 
 brilliant and successful — but you — after 
 all you say you love me — and I don't 
 see — (He stops with a sigh.) You're 
 awful pretty today. Your face is like 
 a flower. "" 
 
 Ruth. Oh — 
 
 Keith. Yes, it is. I love you so. 
 
 Ruth. Dear old boy! I love you. 
 
 Keith. Do you, Ruth? Do you? 
 
 Ruth. I've never ioved anyone else. 
 You've filled all that side of my life and 
 you've made it beautiful. We must 
 hang together dear — (Putting both 
 her hands over one of his.) And under- 
 stand and give things up for each other. 
 But it must be fifty-fifty, dearest. I 
 can make you happy, Keith — Oh I can. 
 And I'll be so happy and contented with 
 you if you'll only — (Keith turns 
 away impatiently.) I've never had a 
 i home for a minute — in my whole life — 
 I nor a relative since I was three — of any 
 I sort or description — not a soul who be- 
 I longed to me but you. 
 
RACHEL CEOTHERS 
 
 937 
 
 Keith. I want you to have the sweetest 
 little home in the world. 
 
 Ruth. Think of having our own little 
 dinners and all the nice people we know 
 at our table — ours. 
 
 Keith. Yes — but — how can you do it if 
 yoa're away all day? 
 
 Ruth. Oh Keith, dear boy, you — the 
 whole trouble is you think housekeeping 
 is making a home — and the two things 
 aren't the same at all — at all, at all. 
 
 Keith. Well, they can't be separated. 
 
 Ruth. Oh, yes, they can. Love — love 
 makes a home — not tables and chairs. 
 We can afford more if I work, too. We 
 can pay some one to do the stuff you 
 think I ought to do. And you'll go on 
 climbing up in your work and I'll go 
 on in mine and we'll both grow to some- 
 thing and he somebody and have some- 
 thing to give each other. It will be 
 fair — we'll be pulling together — pals and 
 lovers like Tom and Aim. That's why 
 they're so ideally happy. 
 
 Keith. Yes, but we're different. We 
 couldn't — 
 
 Ruth. You're not fair, Keith. 
 
 Keith. Great guns, Ruth — neither are 
 you. 
 
 Ruth. I am. I am perfectly. (Their 
 voices rise together.) 
 
 Tom. (Coming hack from the workroom.) 
 What's the row? Hello, Ruthie Creel. 
 
 Ruth. (Giving her hand to Tom.) Hello, 
 you nice Tommie Herford. I always 
 lose my heart to you in your working 
 clothes. 
 
 Tom. You have my heart in any kind 
 of clothes. 
 
 Ruth. Keith's cross with me, Tom. 
 You're much nicer to me than he is. 
 
 Keith. You never spring any of your 
 revolutionary speeches on Herford. 
 You save all your really soothing re- 
 marks for me. 
 
 Ruth. Tom, am I revolutionary ? Aren't 
 I just a little cooing dove? 
 
 Tom. Absolutely. 
 
 Daisy. (Coming in from hall.) Dr. Rem- 
 ington's here. Millicent's bringing him 
 down. But he says he wants to sit up- 
 stairs on the parlor sofa, not down in 
 the cellar. Tom, will you sign these 
 letters now? (Daisy puts the letters on 
 the tahle — Tom goes towards the tahle 
 as MiLLiCENT comes in from the hall 
 hringing Dr. Remington hy the hand.) 
 (Dr. Remington is 65. He is inclined 
 to portliness and his keen humor and 
 
 kindliness are comhined with an un- 
 derstanding and wisdom which make 
 him a very strong and a very lovahle 
 man. His manner and speech are a 
 little deliherate. He has a twinkling 
 readiness to tease hut the weight and 
 dignity of a successful and important 
 physician.) 
 
 Tom. Hello— hello— hello. 
 
 Remington. How are you? 
 
 Keith. (Taking Remington's overcoat.) 
 How are you. Dr. Remington? (Ruth 
 comes to the doctor to take his hat and 
 stick.) 
 
 Remington. Hello, McKenzie. And here's 
 that pretty little Ruth thing — knowing 
 so much it makes my head ache. 
 
 Ruth. So long as it's your head and not 
 mine I don't mind. 
 
 MiLLiCENT. Oh, thank you for the choco- 
 lates, grandfather. They're just the kind 
 I adore. I could absolutely combostu- 
 late you — (Giving him a violent hug.) 
 Five pounds, daddie. 
 
 Tom. You're a fine doctor! 
 
 Remington. Chocolate's about the best 
 medicine I know of if you want a girl 
 to love you. Where's your mother? 
 
 MiLLiCENT. In the cave. (Pointing to 
 workroom.) 
 
 Remington. Can't she be excavated? Go 
 and dig her out. 
 
 MiLLiCENT. They won't let me. You do it. 
 
 Remington. Hasn't anybody got the cour- 
 age to do it? (Keith starts towards 
 the door with hox.) 
 
 Daisy. Not me. 
 
 Remington. Well, McKenzie, go and tell 
 her to let the work go to thunder and 
 come and see her dad. (Keith goes 
 into workroom.) Is that the thing that's 
 going to get the hundred thousand for 
 you? 
 
 Tom. If — yes. 
 
 Remington. Well, go to it — ^boy. I hope 
 you hit it. (Sitting in the large chair 
 at left.) 
 
 Tom. Thanks. I'm doing my durndest. 
 Daisy, you've got some of these dimen- 
 sions wrong. Keith will have to give 
 them to you again. 
 
 Daisy. Oh, I'm sorry. 
 
 Remington. It's a good thing you're 
 working for your own brother, Daisy — 
 nobody else would have you. 
 
 Daisy. You're the only person in the 
 whole world who isn't impressed with 
 my business ability. 
 
938 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Remington. Stuff! I wager yon say in 
 your prayers every night — Oh, Lord, de- 
 liver me from this job and get me a 
 good husband. 
 
 Daisy. {Laughing with the others and 
 going to Remington.) That's a very 
 stemmy tie you're wearing. Do you 
 get me? 
 
 Remington. Not exactly. All I know is 
 I'd rather be stemmy than seedy. 
 
 Keith. {Opening the workroom door.) 
 Don't, you want me to carry that in for 
 you, Mrs. Herford? 
 
 Ann. {From within.) No, no — I'd rather 
 do it myself. 
 
 Keith. It's too heavy for you. 
 
 Ann. No it isn't. (Ann comes in carry- 
 ing the figure of a woman in the nude 
 — about a foot high. The figure is in 
 wet clay and stands on a modeling 
 hoard.) 
 
 Tom. Steady there! Steady! Let me 
 take it. 
 
 Ann. Don't touch it! 
 
 Remington. Hello there! 
 
 Ann. Hello, daddy ! I couldn't come out 
 until I finished my lady. Isn't she nice ? 
 She's ready to be cast now. Come and 
 look at her, Tom. She isn't so bad? 
 
 Tom. She looks pretty good to me. 
 
 Remington. She looks a little chilly to 
 me. Why don't you put a full suit of 
 clothes on one of 'em — just for a 
 change, Ann? 
 
 Ann. You nice, horrid, sweet, adorable, 
 cross old thing! Why didn't you come 
 yesterday. I don't see why I love you 
 so when you never do anything I want 
 you to. 
 
 Remington. If I did I wouldn't be half 
 as irresistible. Aren't you going to stop 
 for the day now and pay a little atten- 
 tion to me? 
 
 Ann. I am. 
 
 Millicent. Mother, when can I see you? 
 Alone I mean. 
 
 Ann. After awhile. Have you had a 
 nice day, dear? 
 
 Millicent. Gorgeous! But I have to 
 see you about something. 
 
 Ann. You do? {Holding Millicent.) 
 Look at her — dad. Hasn't she grown? 
 
 Millicent. Mother, may I stay home 
 from school one more day? 
 
 Ann. Gracious! Is that what you want 
 to see me about? 
 
 Millicent. That's just one thing. Can't 
 I, mother? All the girls are staying 
 over. Mayn't I? Please — ^please. 
 
 Ann. I have to think a little. Lef s wait 
 and talk it over, Daisy, aren't we 
 going to have some tea? 
 
 Daisy. It will be ready in a minute. 
 
 Remington. Thank God! Then we'll go 
 upstairs. 
 
 Ann. No, down here — it's much nicer. 
 You'll have to get used to it, dad. 
 
 Millicent. Well — you be thinking — but 
 you be thinking — yes — for I've just got 
 to stay over. I've just got to. It would 
 be perfectly ridiculous if I didn't. {She 
 goes out through hall.) 
 
 Re^niington. {Nodding after Millicent.) 
 Getting more like you every day, Ann. 
 
 Ann. She's your grandchild, you know. 
 
 Remington. I like 'em that way. I'd 
 rather she was stubborn as a mule than 
 have a wabbly spine. 
 
 Ann. {Talcing off her smock.) But a 
 little wabbling once in a while is rather 
 a pleasant thing to live with. For in- 
 stance, it would make me very happy 
 indeed if you wabbled enough to admit 
 that this is a beautiful studio and that 
 having it in the house where we live is 
 the most sensible thing in the world. 
 
 Remington. It would be all right if you'd 
 stay upstairs and mind your own busi- 
 ness. Tom, if you don't look out you'll 
 be so mixed up you'll be upstairs keep- 
 ing house and Ann will be downstairs 
 keeping shop. 
 
 Tom. I don't know how I'd keep house — 
 but Ann could keep shop all right. 
 
 Remington. Is that the way you feel 
 about it, McKenzie ? When you're mar- 
 ried are you going to stay at home and 
 polish up while Ruth goes on running 
 the magazine? 
 
 Keith. It looks as if that's about the 
 way it'll have to be. 
 
 Ruth. {Bringing the cake down to table.) 
 That's a splendid suggestion. Dr. Rem- 
 ington. Keith thinks somebody's got 
 to do it for a successful marriage — and I 
 won't — so why not you, dear? {Point- 
 ing at Keith.) (Keith looks at Ruth 
 and turns away in hopeless disgust.) 
 
 Remington. {Winking at Ruth and low- 
 ering his voice to her.) Keep at it. He'll 
 come to it. (Ann laughs as she cuts 
 the cake.) 
 
 Keith. I don't see that it's so funny. 
 
 Remington. {Going to table to get a 
 piece of cake.) You bet it's not funny. 
 Daisy, would you like your husband to 
 wash the dishes if you happened to be 
 too much occupied to do it yourself? 
 
RACHEL CROTHERS 
 
 939 
 
 Daisy. I'd kill him if he did. {Bringing 
 the cream and sugar to large table.) 
 
 Remington. Oh — well — ^with one perfect- 
 ly normal woman in the room I'm much 
 more comfortable. (He settles himself 
 elaborately in his chair at left.) 
 
 Keith. I'm serious. I'd like to know if 
 there's anything queer or preposterous 
 in a fellow wanting a girl to give up 
 hard, slavish work and let him take care 
 of her when she marries him. 
 
 Ruth. When she wants to do the work. 
 Don't leave that out. 
 
 Tom. I don't see that you, Keith, or any 
 other fellow has got any kick coming 
 so long as the girl makes you happy. 
 
 Keith. I'd like to hear your angle on it 
 if you don't mind, doctor. 
 
 Ruth. Yes. Keith loves to hear his mid- 
 Yictorian ideas well supported. 
 
 Remington. Oh, I'm not so moth-eaten 
 as I may look. In fact, I'm a damned 
 sight more advanced than you women 
 are. You're still yelling about your 
 right to do anything on land or sea 
 you want to do. We gave you that long 
 ago. 
 
 Ann. So nice of you! 
 
 Ruth. (Sitting below the table at right.) 
 Why talk about it all then? What else 
 is there to it? 
 
 Remington. Put this in your pipe. The 
 more women make good — the more they 
 come into the vital machinery of run- 
 ning the world, the more they compli- 
 cate their own lives and the more trage- 
 dies they lay up for themselves. 
 
 Ruth. The more they escape — ^you mean. 
 
 Ann. (As she pours the tea.) There 
 isn't a sigle hard thing that can happen 
 to a woman that isn't made easier by 
 being able to make her own living. And 
 you know it. 
 
 Remingon. Oh. It's a hopeless subject 
 for conversation. What everybody says 
 is true. There's the rub. 
 
 Daisy. Two? 
 
 Re]\iington. Three. (Keith gives a cup 
 of tea to Remington.) 
 
 Tom. Go on. What were you going to 
 say? 
 
 Ann. Yes, go on, dad. 
 
 Remington. (To Ann.) You hang on to 
 yourself then till I get through. The 
 development of women hasn't changed 
 the laws of creation. 
 
 Ann. Oh yes it has. (Remington looks 
 at her.) Sorry. Go on. 
 
 Remington. - Sex is still the strongest 
 force in the world. (He looks at Ann 
 again.) 
 
 Ann. (Smiling.) Go on. 
 
 Remington. And no matter how far she 
 goes she doesn't change the fundamental 
 laws of her own — 
 
 Tom. Individuality ? 
 
 Ruth. Type? 
 
 Daisy. Character ? 
 
 Keith. Ego. 
 
 Ruth. Psychology. 
 
 Ann. Species. 
 
 Tom. Breed. 
 
 Daisy. Spots. 
 
 Re]\iington. No ! — Mechanism — mechan- 
 ism. And when the sensitive — involved 
 — complex elements of a woman's na- 
 ture become entangled in the responsi- 
 bilitiy of a man's work — and the two 
 things fight for first place in her — she's 
 got a hell of a mess on hand. 
 
 Ann. But her psychological mechanism 
 has changed. 
 
 Remington. No. 
 
 Ann. Yes. 
 
 Tom. Yes, I think it has. 
 
 Keith. It couldn't. 
 
 Ruth. But it has. Women who are 
 really doing things nowadays are an 
 absolutely different breed from the one- 
 sided domestic animals they used to be. 
 
 Ann. But men don't realize how deeply 
 and fiercely creative women love their 
 work. 
 
 Remington. That's just it — Just what 
 I'm getting at. A woman of genius 
 puts in her work the same fierce love 
 she puts into her child or her man. 
 That's where her fight is' — for one or 
 the other of 'em has got to be the 
 stronger in her. It isn't a question of 
 her right to do things — nor her ability 
 — God knows — plenty of 'em are beating 
 men at their own jobs now. Why, I 
 sometimes think she'll go so far that 
 the great battle of the future will be 
 between the sexes for supremacy. But 
 I tell you — she has tragedies ahead of 
 her — the tragedy of choice between the 
 two sides of her own nature. 
 
 Ruth. Well, thank you — I'll take any 
 and all of the hard things that go with 
 my job — but none of the ones that come 
 from being a dub and giving it up. 
 
 Remington. How about you, Daisy? 
 Could any man on earth make you stop 
 typewriting and live for him alone? 
 
940 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Daisy. Oh, I'm not in this class. Ann 
 and Euth both have men to depend on 
 if they Vv^ant them. I'm taking care of 
 myself because I've got to — and I must 
 say this soul tragedy of choice stuff 
 makes me a little tired. (She starts 
 toward hall.) 
 
 Kemington. (Stopping Daisy hy talcing 
 her hand.) If I were twenty or thirty 
 years younger, I'd go in for you strong. 
 
 Daisy. Yes, I know — I'm just the kind 
 that older men appreciate very deeply. 
 (She goes out.) 
 
 Remington. Poor Daisy. 
 
 Ann. Poor Daisy. She's the happiest, 
 most independent thing in the world. 
 (Straightening the things on the table 
 — Keith having taken the tea tray 
 away.) 
 
 Ruth. Much to be envied. No strings 
 to her independence. 
 
 Keith. And so cocky and spunky — no- 
 body can even ask her if she's ever been 
 in love. 
 
 Remington. Sure sign she has been 
 then. 
 
 Tom. But she never has. 
 
 Remington. How do you know? 
 
 Tom. Pve been pretty close to her all my 
 life. No blighted bud about Daisy. 
 
 Remington. She's putting up a darned 
 good bluff, I must say. 
 
 Ruth. Bluff? What do you mean? 
 
 Ann. Father thinks there isn't a girl 
 alive who wouldn't rather have a beau 
 than a job. 
 
 Remington. I do. And Daisy looks so 
 self-reliant she has to be cocky to keep 
 up appearances. Under her skin, she's 
 not half the man that little lady-like 
 looking thing Ruth is. 
 
 Ruth. Now, Dr. Remington, you may go 
 upstairs. 
 
 Remington. I haven't time now. Pve 
 wasted it all down here. 
 
 Ruth. Oh, come and look at the living 
 room just a minute. It's too beautiful. 
 
 Remington. Has it got a carpet on it 
 yet? 
 
 Ann. Yes, absolutely finished. 
 
 Remington. Because I don't mind saying 
 my feet are like ice from this con- 
 founded brick floor. 
 
 Ruth. Oh, the beautiful tiles! 
 
 Remington. I'll take a little less Italian 
 beauty and a little more American com- 
 fort in mine. (Ruth, Remington and 
 Keith go out through hall.) 
 
 Tom. (Stopping Ann as she starts with 
 the others.) Ann — about this thing. 
 Why in the name of heaven didn't you 
 say you were disappointed in it long 
 ago? 
 
 Ann. I kept hoping each day I was mis- 
 taken; that what I missed would come 
 back. But when I saw it out here — I'm 
 afraid of it, Tom. 
 
 Tom. Afraid of what? That I'll fail? 
 Lose it? (Ann nods.) Nonsense! 
 You're tired of it. There can't be such 
 a change in it as all that. The idea's 
 absolutely the same and I've worked as 
 I never — 
 
 Ann. I know. I know! And oh, the 
 beauty — the beauty of the work ! That's 
 the pity. 
 
 Tom. Pity? 
 
 Ann. I mean somebody without half your 
 skill as an artist may have an idea — an 
 idea that's new. 
 
 Tom. Oh bosh! Nothing can be done, 
 anyhow. It's too late. Besides, I don't 
 agree with you. I honestly do not, Ann. 
 I know you're saying this because 
 you're trying to boost me and get the 
 best out of me; but the thing's done, 
 you know. Don't confuse me. I must 
 go on now. What's the use of talking 
 about it? It's too late. 
 
 Ann. No, it isn't. 
 
 Tom. It is. Of course it is. You can't 
 expect me to begin all over again and 
 put into it a subtle intangible some- 
 thing I don't even feel. Damn it? It 
 will have to fail then. 
 
 Ann. (Taking hold of Tom quickly.) It 
 can't. You've got to win, Tom. You've 
 got to. It's the most important thing^ 
 you've ever done. Think of where it 
 will put you. Think of the money. 
 
 Tom. I have thought. Pve done the best 
 that's in me, I tell you. It is the best, 
 the very best I've ever — 
 
 Ann. But it isn't. It isn't. It isn't as 
 great as your last two things — 
 
 Tom. Oh— 
 
 Ann. Tom — listen — you don't know how 
 hard it is to say it. I'd rather you won 
 this than anything that could possibly 
 happen. You know that. Don't you? 
 
 Tom. Of course. But this isn't getting 
 anywhere. It will have to go in as it 
 stands. 
 
 Ann. Wait — I — I've wanted to talk to 
 you about something for a long time — 
 but I wasn't sure — and now I am. 
 
 Tom. Well— 
 
RACHEL CROTHERS 
 
 941 
 
 MiLLlOENT. {Coming back through hall.) 
 Thank goodness, mother. I can't wait 
 any longer. 
 
 Ann. (To Millicent.) Oh, just a min- 
 ute, dear. 
 
 Tom. :N'o, that's all right. There's noth- 
 ing more to be said. 
 
 Ann. I appreciate what you mean — yes 
 I do. But it doesn't get me. And all I 
 can do is to go after it as I see it. (B'e 
 goes into workroom. Ann stands look- 
 ing at the frieze.) 
 
 Millicent. (Pulling Ann toward tahle.) 
 Mother — come here. Mother, please. 
 Why — what I wanted to — sit down. 
 (Putting Ann into a chair above the 
 long tahle.) Every one of the girls are 
 staying over tomorrow. It looks as if 
 you were having such a slow time that 
 you didn't have anything to do but go 
 back to school if you don't stay. And 
 I want — Why Fanny's going to have a 
 party tomorrow night — just a little one, 
 and I want to have eight of them to 
 dinner first. (Sitting at right end of 
 table.) 
 
 Ann. Oh — 
 
 Millicent. Only eight. You see, Fan- 
 ny's brother's home, too, and — ^you see 
 it's — Everybody has dinners and things 
 you know before they go to the dance, 
 you know, and — will you, Mother? 
 Can't I? 
 
 Ann. But dearest you've done so much 
 since you've been home. You can't get 
 back to school too soon. 'New York is 
 dreadful. It really is! The sensible 
 mothers can't compete with the idiotic 
 ones who let girls do all these silly 
 things. 
 
 Millicent. Don't be foolish, Mother. 
 
 Ann. And school does begin tomorrow. 
 And they expect — 
 
 Millicent. They don't expect us to be 
 back. All the really smart girls stay 
 over. It's only the deadly slow ones who 
 are there on time. Please, mother — 
 please. There'll only be eight of us; 
 and Fanny's done so much for me I 
 think it's as little as I could do to have 
 her brother to dinner. Don't you? 
 
 Ann. Is he nice? 
 
 Millicent. Yes he is. He's older, you 
 know and more fun. He got full dress 
 clothes this Christmas — long tails, you 
 know, and he looks perfectly — Mother, 
 you're not listening, (^nn's eyes have 
 gone back to the frieze again.) 
 
 Ann. Yes, T am dear — Yes I am. Full 
 dress clothes. 
 
 Millicent. Well — May I ? 
 
 Ann. Dearest — I may be frightfully busy 
 tomorrow. I may have to do the most 
 important thing I've ever done in my 
 life and if I do it would be awfully hard 
 to have — 
 
 Millicent. Oh, now mother! Fanny's 
 mother's had a party or something for 
 her every single night. She took her 
 to the Plaza to dance after the matinee 
 today and I've never been to a hotel or 
 any exciting place in my life. You try 
 to keep me so young mother and, jiminy 
 cricket, I'm sixteen. 
 
 Ann. Positively ancient. 
 
 Millicent. Well — sixteen's old enough 
 for any thing. Will you mother — please 
 — please. (Kissing her mother s throat.) 
 
 Ann. But what would I do if I had to 
 do this other thing? 
 
 Millicent. What other thing? Can't it 
 wait? 
 
 Ann. No it can't. That's just it. Your 
 father may — I may be working with him 
 all day tomorrow. 
 
 Millicent. You needn't have such a ter- 
 ribly elaborate dinner, — you know, but 
 I'm crazy to do it. In fact I just have 
 to. I've already asked most of them and 
 they're dying to come. 
 
 Ann. You didn't. Kitten — how could 
 you? 
 
 Millicent. But Mother, it's so important 
 — and I don't see how I can get out of 
 it now. You wouldn't want me to be 
 compromised or anything, would you ? 
 
 Ann. (Laughing and kissing Millicent.) 
 You blessed baby — you ought to be 
 spanked. 
 
 Millicent. You're an angel, mummie. 
 You will — won't you? (Putting her 
 cheek against Ann's.) 
 
 Ann. What have you got in your ears? 
 
 Millicent. Earrings of course. 
 
 Ann. Heavens ! Take them off. 
 
 Millicent. Oh, mother! All the girls 
 wear them. 
 
 Ann. Take them off! 
 
 Millicent. But they have so much style. 
 
 Ann. Style your granny ! Take them off 
 or I'll bite 'em off. (Millicent squirms 
 and giggles as Ann bites her ears.) 
 
 Millicent. Wait — wait. I will. I think 
 you're mean to make me. You have 
 such terribly strict ideas. 
 
 Ann. Your ears are much prettier than 
 those things. Can't you understand 
 
942 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 that nothing is so attractive as just be- 
 ing natural? Why cover up with stuff 
 like that? 
 
 MiLLiCENT. You are funny! You'll stay 
 at home and meet everybody tomorrow 
 night, won't you? I want them to see 
 you. You are sweet, mummy. 
 
 Ann. Do you love me a lot? 
 
 MiLLiCENT. Of course. (Kissing Ann.) 
 
 Ann. (Rising suddenly and going to look 
 at the frieze.) Oh, I'm so unhappy. 
 
 MiLLiCENT. Why? What's the matter? 
 I should think you'd be tickled to death 
 if father's going to get all that money. 
 
 Tom. (Coming in from the workroom 
 quickly.) You say — (He stops seeing 
 
 MiLLiCENT.) 
 
 MiLLiCENT. Aren't you coming up, now 
 to plan it all? 
 
 Ann. In a few — 
 
 Tom. Go on Millicent. (Millicent skips 
 out.) Why didn't you speak the min- 
 ute you saw it go wrong — or thought 
 you did? 
 
 Ann. I was never sure, until today, dear. 
 
 Tom. I don't agree with you at all but 
 still it isn't exactly inspiring — ^knowing 
 you think I'm going to fail. 
 
 Ann. Tom — I'm sorry. 
 
 Tom. It's all right — but you know I care 
 more what you think than anybody in 
 the world and — I — it's sort of a knock- 
 out. 
 
 Ann. I had to tell you the truth — when 
 I was sure. I had to. Tom — listen — 
 since you've been working at this an 
 idea has come to me. At first I thought 
 the idea was too big for me — that I 
 never could carry it out — and then I 
 said I won't let myself be afraid — and 
 it's grown and grown night and day. 
 Last night I finished it — down here — 
 
 Tom. The— 
 
 Ann. The drawings — I want you to look 
 at them — and if — if you like it — if you 
 think the idea is better than yours I 
 want you to take it — use it, instead of 
 yours. 
 
 Tom. Why Ann, you're not serious. (She 
 nods.) Good heavens, child, you know 
 — you know how tremendous this thing 
 is as well as I do. 
 
 Ann. Yes T do! But I tell you my idea 
 is big. Oh, I knew you'd look like that 
 when I told you. You can't believe it 
 of course — but Tom — . It's there — 
 something vital and alive — with a 
 strange charm in it. And I offer it to 
 you dear — if you want it. 
 
 Tom. (Taking her in his arms strongly 
 and kissing her passionately.) You 
 generous darling! It's like you to do 
 this. You dear — I love you for it. 
 
 Ann. (Responding warmly to his love.) 
 I want you to have it. It's more than I 
 ever dared dream I could do. 
 
 Tom. But darling — you couldn't possibly 
 do anything for a scheme as big as this. 
 
 Ann. Why do you take that for granted? 
 Why do you say that — before you've 
 even seen my sketches? 
 
 Tom. (After a pause.) Well — where are 
 they? 
 
 Ann. (Taking a key out of her pocket.) 
 In the lower drawer in my cupboard. 
 
 Tom. (Taking the key.) No, don't come 
 with me. 
 
 Ann. But I — 
 
 Tom. I don't want you to explain any- 
 thing. I want it to strike me fresh. 
 But I'm going to hit hard — right from 
 the shoulder. If it's good — all right. 
 If it's bad — all right. And I expect you 
 to take it like a man. (Ann nods. Tom 
 hurries into workroom as Ruth comes 
 in from hall.) 
 
 Ruth. Have you told him? 
 
 Ann. Yes — he's gone to look at my 
 sketches now. 
 
 Ruth. Ann — I've been thinking. You're 
 a fool to give away your ideas. Make 
 your models and send them in yourself. 
 
 Ann. What ? 
 
 Ruth. Certainly. Why not ? 
 
 Ann. Oh, Ruth — I couldn't. Some day 
 I will. Someday. - 
 
 Ruth. Some day! You've got the big- 
 gest idea you've ever had. Do it — send 
 it in — yourself — on your own feet. 
 
 Ann. Tom would think I was out of 
 my — 
 
 Ruth. You know it's good — don't you? 
 
 Ann. Yes, I do. 
 
 Ruth. It belongs to you — and if you 
 don't take care of it and give it its 
 chance, you kill something which is 
 more important than you are. Don't 
 forget that. You're not just the talented 
 woman, you've got downright genius, 
 and you ought to make everything give 
 way to that. Everything. If you don't, 
 you're weak. 
 
 Ann. Wait and see what Tom says. He'll 
 know. He's so dead right about my 
 stuff — always. 
 
 Ruth. Oh, you lucky people! Pulling 
 together. If Keith only had a little of 
 it towards me. Ann, what shall I do ? 
 
RACHEL CROTHEES 
 
 943 
 
 Ann. (With quick sympathy.) What, 
 dear? 
 
 Ruth. He's never, never, never going to 
 know what a sacrifice it will be for me 
 to stop just as I'm getting, what I've 
 slaved and struggled for all these years. 
 And I can't bear to hurt him. 
 
 Ann. Dear old Keith. He just cant see. 
 And he loves you so. 
 
 IvEiTH. (Coming in from hall.) ■ Wliy 
 did you come back down here ? 
 
 Ruth. Just to run away from — you. ISTo, 
 I didn't. (Going to him sweetly.) You 
 know I didn't. 
 
 Ann. (As Daisy comes in from hall.) 
 Daisy, tell me the minute Tom comes 
 out. 
 
 Keith. (To Ruth.) I'll be up in a min- 
 ute. I've got to cover some stuff in 
 there. (Exit Ann and Ruth.) 
 
 Keith. You're a wonder, Daisy. You 
 don't mind sitting up late to get your 
 letters off, do you? 
 
 Daisy. Oh, no — I'm healthy. 
 
 Keath. You're a peach. I'm sorry I 
 made you huffy. All I meant was that 
 no man would ever think he could ask 
 you to marry him unless he had an aw- 
 fully big bank-roll to offer. 
 
 (Remington comes in from hall to get 
 his hat and stick — just in time to 
 hear Keith's last remark. Daisy 
 rises — consciously. Keith goes into 
 iDorkroom. Remington goes to end 
 of table.) 
 
 Daisy. I suppose that speech sounded 
 
 rather queer. He was talking about 
 
 Ruth, of course. 
 Remington. Don't apologize or you'll 
 
 make me suspicious. 
 Daisy. Now — 
 Remington. It sounded very much as if 
 
 he were making love to you. 
 Daisy. Oh— 
 Remington. I wish to God he would. 
 
 You'd — be a much better wife for him 
 
 than the other one. 
 Daisy. You — 
 Remington. You know you would. Why 
 
 don't you go in and get him? Cut the 
 
 other one out. 
 Daisy. How dare you say such a thing 
 
 to me? 
 Remington. Why shouldn't I say it? 
 Daisy. Because you have no right to. I 
 
 haven't the slightest interest in Keith 
 
 McKenzie — not the slightest, 
 
 Remington. * No. I can see that. 
 
 Daisy. What do you mean? 
 
 Reimington. (Suddenly understanding.) 
 Why my dear girl, I didn't mean any- 
 thing. I'm sorry. 
 
 Daisy. I don't know why in the world 
 you said such a thing to me. 
 
 Remington. Well — well — forget it. 
 
 Daisy. You don't think from anything 
 I've ever done or said — 
 
 Remington. I don't think anything — :I 
 don't know anything. . . 
 
 Daisy. I don't see why you said it. 
 
 Ann. (Coming from hall.) What's the 
 matter ? 
 
 (As Daisy breaks away from Remington 
 who is holding her by the wrists.) 
 
 Daisy. Let me go, please. I'm in a 
 hurry. (Daisy rushes out through hall.) 
 
 Ann. What on earth are you doing to 
 Daisy? 
 
 Remington. She's doing things to me. 
 
 Ann. What ? 
 
 Remington. Convincing me of some of 
 my old-fashioned ideas. (Tom rushes in 
 from the workroom with a large roll of 
 drawings.) 
 
 Tom. Ann — they're wonderful. 
 
 Ann. Oh— Tom! 
 
 Tom. (Spreading the roll of sketches on 
 the table — Ann helping him.) Beauti- 
 ful! Astoundingly beautiful! Well as 
 I know you, I didn't think you had it in 
 you. 
 
 Ann. I can't believe it. Are you going 
 to use it. 
 
 Tom. Oh, my dear girl. That's different. 
 Now don't be hurt. Why Ann — it isn't 
 possible. You — you're mistaken — way 
 off. I don't know what's got into you. 
 This is imaginative and charming and 
 graceful — full of abandon and fantasy 
 and even vitality — but ye gods, child, it 
 isn't in this class. 
 
 Ann. But you could strengthen it. It 
 will grow. You'll see more in it. 
 Really you will. Don't make up your 
 mind yet. 
 
 Remington. What are you talking about? 
 What has she done? 
 
 Tom. Drawings for a frieze — like this. 
 And they're amazing, doctor. Positively 
 amazing. 
 
 Remington. You don't say. 
 
 Tom. Wait — let's see what McKenzie 
 says. McKenzie — 
 
 Ann. (Pounding on the workroom door.) 
 Keith — Keith — come here — quickly. 
 
944 
 
 HE AOT) SHE 
 
 Eemington. Looks beautiful to me, 
 daughter. When did you do all this? 
 Do you mean to say you didn't know 
 anything about it, Tom? 
 
 Tom. Not a thing. She's been — (Keith 
 comes in.) . Here McKenzie. Look at 
 this. Here's a scheme Mrs. Herford's 
 worked out. Begins here — See — see? 
 Get it ? What do you think ? 
 
 Keith. Mrs. Herford? 
 
 Tom. Yes. Do you get it? 
 
 McKENzie. Of course. 
 
 Tom. Well? What do you say? 
 
 Keith. I say it's as beautiful as anything 
 I ever saw. 
 
 Tom. Great ! And what do you think of 
 it for a big place like mine? 
 
 Keith. For thatf 
 
 Tom. Yes. 
 
 Keith. Oh — I — too fanciful, isn't it? 
 Would the crowd understand it ? Needs 
 a big clear striking thing like that. 
 Don't you think? 
 
 Tom. Then you don't think it's as good 
 as mine for this competition. 
 
 Keith. As yours? Heavens no! 
 
 Ann. {Standing at right — facing the 
 three men.) Then do you know what 
 I'm going to do? 
 
 Keith and Tom. ^^^at? 
 
 Ann. Make my models and send them in 
 myself. 
 
 Tom, Keith and Remington. What? 
 
 Ann. Why not? 
 
 Remington. . You don't mean it, daughter. 
 
 Ann. I do. I mean it with my whole 
 soul. 
 
 Remington. Why do you want to do any- 
 thing so foolish? 
 
 Ann. Because I made it. Because it's 
 my work. You all say it's good. Why 
 shouldn't I send it? I don't mind fail- 
 ure. I only want it to stand its little 
 chance with the rest. I love it. It 
 means more to me than I can possibly 
 — why shouldn't I? I want to. 
 
 Tom. Then do it. Why not? It's your 
 own affair. Go ahead. {Putting out 
 the hand of a good pal-ship to her.) 
 
 Ann. Oh, Tom — thank you. You're 
 splendid. 
 
 {The curtain falls.) 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Time : Four months later — ahout nine in 
 the evening. The living room in the 
 Herford house. 
 
 The room is long and wide, dignified and 
 restful in proportions. At center back 
 a large fireplace with a severe mantel 
 in cream marble. A wide window covers 
 the entire left wall, and wide doors at 
 right lead into the library. A single 
 door at bach, left of fireplace, leads into 
 hall. The walls are hung in a soft dull 
 silk which throws out the strong simple 
 lines of the woodwork. A bright wood 
 fire is burning and soft lights throw a 
 warm glow over the gray carpet and the 
 furniture which is distinguished and 
 artistic but distinctly comfortable, giv- 
 ing the room the air of being much 
 lived in and used. 
 
 At Curtain: The room is empty a mom- 
 ent. Daisy is singing in the library at 
 right. Ellen, a maid, middle-aged and 
 kindly,' comes from hall carrying a sil- 
 ver coffee service. 
 
 Daisy. {As she comes in from library.) 
 Here's your coffee, girls. Come in here. 
 Put the flowers over there, Ellen. 
 
 (Ellen moves the vase of flowers and 
 makes room for the coffee service 
 on table right center. Ruth comes 
 in from the library with a book. 
 Ellen goes to fire and pokes it, 
 then straightens the writing things 
 on the desk.) 
 Daisy. Ann, here's your coffee. 
 Ann. {Calling from library.) I don't 
 want any, thank you. What time is it, 
 Daisy? 
 Daisy. About nine. Why? 
 Ann. Oh, the postman. I'm waiting for 
 
 the last mail. 
 Daisy. Well, don't. A watched pot you 
 know. {To Ruth.) She's watched 
 every mail for a week. I almost think 
 Ann will be more disappointed than 
 Tom himself if he doesn't get the com- 
 mission. {They take their coffee to the 
 fire.) 
 Ruth. I hope to goodness he does. Every 
 
 body's so dead sure of him. 
 Daisy. Almost too sure. I'm beginning 
 to be frightened myself. The time's 
 about up. 
 Ann. {Hurrying in from the library.) 
 That's the postman — isn't it? 
 
EACHEL CROTHERS 
 
 945 
 
 Ellen. No ma'am. Beggin' your pardon. 
 It ain't — I'm listenin' too. 
 
 Ann. Are you, Ellen? Keep on and 
 bring it up the minute it comes. 
 
 Ellen. Faith I will. I've got the habit 
 meself lately of watchin' for the mail . 
 
 Ann. Have you? 
 
 Ellen. Every time I hear the whistle I 
 drop whatever I'm doin' like it was hot 
 — and run. 
 
 Ann. Do you? 
 
 Ellen. And just before I open the door 
 I say — The Holy Saints be praised, I 
 hope it's come this time — whatever it is 
 they're lookin' fer. {She goes out 
 through the hall.) 
 
 Ann. Oh, dear! It gets worse as the 
 time grows shorter. 
 
 Daisy. Ann, working yourself up like 
 this won't make Tom get the commis- 
 sion. Stop thinking about it. 
 
 Ann. But I can't, Daisy Dimple. He 
 ought to hear tonight if he's ever going 
 to. 
 
 Daisy. Well, I'll be glad when it's all 
 over and we know one way or the other 
 — and can settle down to ordinary life 
 again. It's almost given me nervous 
 indigestion. 
 
 Ann. Listen! There's the postman. 
 
 Ruth. {Jumping so that her cup and 
 saucer almost fall.) Oh, Ann, you're 
 getting me so excited, I'll listen for the 
 postman all the rest of my life. 
 
 Ann. I know I shall. Oh, Tom must get 
 it. He must. If he does, I'll wire Milli- 
 cent. (Taking up a picture of Millicent 
 which stands in a frame on the table.) 
 I think I'll run up to school Sunday 
 just to give her a good hug. I get so 
 hungry for her! 
 
 Ruth. Isn't it splendid the school is so 
 really what it ought to be? 
 
 Ann. Yes. So much that's sweet and 
 right that one can't get in New York 
 for a girl. 
 
 Daisy. (Sewing on a froch which is 
 nearly finished.) She seems pretty keen 
 about it herself. 
 
 Ann. Tes — rather. Easter vacation when 
 I was working day and night to get my 
 models off, she was perfectly contented 
 to stay at school. 
 
 Ruth. She's an adorable kiddie but I 
 don't envy you your job. 
 
 Ann. Why ? 
 
 Ruth. I think being a mother is the most 
 gigantic, difficult, important and thank- 
 less thing in the world. 
 
 Daisy. That's the most sensible remark 
 I ever heard you give vent to, Ruth. 
 
 Ann. There's something much more glor- 
 ious in it than being thanked. You'll 
 miss the most wonderful thing in the 
 world, Ruth, if you don't have children. 
 
 Ruth. I know. I know. But work has 
 taken that all out of me. It does, you 
 know. It would bore me stiff to take 
 care of a baby. 
 
 Daisy. That's a pleasant prospect for 
 Keith. Do you expect him to do it? 
 
 Ruth. (Making herself comfortable on 
 the couch.) I'm not going to have chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Ann. (Going to sit at the fire.) That's 
 perfectly fair if he knows it. No reason 
 why you should if you don't want 'em. 
 
 Daisy. Well, I think it's a rotten way to 
 live. 
 
 Ruth. Wait till you decide to marry 
 somebody yourself, young lady, and see 
 how you like giving up everything that 
 interests you most. 
 
 Daisy. Well, by Jove, if I ever do marry, 
 I'll marry and do all the things that 
 belong to my side of the game. No 
 halfway business for me. You might as 
 well be a man's mistress and be done 
 with it. 
 
 Ruth. (Half serious — half joining.) 
 That's the ideal relationship for a man 
 and woman. Each to keep his inde- 
 pendence in absolutely every way — and 
 live together merely because they charm 
 each other. But somehow we don't seem 
 to be able to make it respectable. 
 
 Daisy. I suppose that's very clever and 
 modern. 
 
 Ruth. Oh, no — it's as old as the ever- 
 lasting hills. The trouble is children 
 are apt to set in and mess things up. 
 It's hard on them. 
 
 Daisy. So far as I can see most every- 
 thing that's modern is hard on children. 
 
 Ann. (Laughing .) How's the gown get- 
 ting on, Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. Most finished. 
 
 Ruth. That's awfully pretty. 
 
 Ann. Slip it on so we can see. 
 
 Daisy. Oh, I can't. 
 
 Ann. (Rising and walking to Daisy.) 
 Yes, you can — over that one — just to 
 give us an idea. 
 
 Daisy. I'll look a tub and it really makes 
 me quite respectably straight up and 
 down. 
 
 Ann. You're a perfectly scrumptious size 
 and shape. Isn't she, Ruth? 
 
946 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Ruth. Magnificent ! 
 
 Daisy. Yes, Ruth, skinny women always 
 enthuse over their fat friends. 
 
 Ruth. (Rising and goes to Daisy.) Oh, 
 you aren't fat, Daisy. That is, not too 
 fat. How does this go. It's terribly 
 complicated, isn't it? 
 
 Daisy. No — perfectly simple. Wait — 
 this goes over here. 
 
 Ann. No, it doesn't, does it? 
 
 Daisy. Yes, it does. Right there. Don't 
 you see? The style of the whole gown 
 depends on that. 
 
 Ruth. You must have it on wrong side 
 before. 
 
 Daisy. Nonsense! Can't you see, Ann? 
 It's as simple as can be. 
 
 Ann. Yes, I know dear — but does this 
 go on the shoulder — or down on your 
 hip? (They all talk at once for a mo- 
 ment on the subject of where the end 
 of the girdle fastens.) Oh, here! I see, 
 of course! There! 
 
 Daisy. Now, does it make me look big? 
 
 Ruth. You want to look big, don't you? 
 
 Daisy. Well, I want to look life size. 
 Don't you see how much better I am 
 through here than I was last year, Ann ? 
 {Touching her hip.) 
 
 Ann. Much. The female form divine is 
 improving all the time anyway — grad- 
 ually getting back to what it was in the 
 beginning. 
 
 Daisy. I don't expect to look like you in 
 it, Ruth. 
 
 Ruth. Oh, don't you, dear? Then why 
 don't you have it stick out this way as 
 much as possible so everybody will know 
 you mean to look broad ? There's every- 
 thing in that, you know. 
 
 Daisy. I think it would be awfully good 
 on you — to fill out what you haven't got. 
 Then everybody would know you didn't 
 mean to look so narrow — even if you 
 are. 
 
 Ann. You're both delightful. Perfect 
 specimens of your types. When I look 
 at Ruth I think the most alluring charm 
 a woman can have is beautiful bones 
 without a superfluous ounce of flesh on 
 them. And when I look at you, Daisy, 
 I think after all, there's nothing so 
 stunning as a big strong girl with per- 
 fectly natural lines — so natural that we 
 know she'd be even better looking with 
 no clothes on at all. 
 
 Daisy. Heavens, Ann! Your sculptor's 
 eye is a little embarrassing. 
 
 Ruth. Evidently you think my clothes 
 help me out a good deal. But at least 
 I'm free and comfortable, too. Can you 
 touch the floor, Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. Of course. {The two women bend 
 — touching the floor with the tips of 
 their fingers.) 
 
 (Tom, Remington and Keith come in 
 from the hall.) 
 
 Tom. What's going on? 
 
 Remington. What are you trying to do, 
 Ruth — swim or fly? 
 
 Ann. We're just saying that the waist 
 measure expands as we broaden in our 
 ideas. 
 
 Keith. Is that the fashion now? 
 
 Ruth. Yes — broad and free. 
 
 Remington. That's one thing you women 
 have to acknowledge men* have more 
 sense about than you have. 
 
 Ann, Ruth, Daisy. What? 
 
 Remington. Our figures. We've had the 
 same shape since the Garden of Eden 
 and you've had hundreds of absolutely 
 different kinds. 
 
 Ann. Turn around, Daisy, I want to try 
 something. (She accidentally sticks a 
 pin into Daisy^s shoulder.) 
 
 Daisy. Ouch ! 
 
 Ann. Oh, I'm sorry! You seem to be 
 so close to your clothes. 
 
 Remington. What are you doing to her? 
 
 Daisy. She's sticking pins into me. 
 
 Ann. For her own good. Isn't that 
 pretty ? 
 
 Tom. What? 
 
 Ann. The frock. 
 
 Tom. Is that new? 
 
 Keith. Which? 
 
 Daisy. Do you mean to say you don't 
 realize I have on something different 
 from what I wore at dinner? 
 
 Ruth. No use dressing for Keith. He 
 never sees anything. 
 
 Daisy. I'm going to undress now. Per- 
 haps that will interest you more. (Ann 
 begins to unfasten the gown.) 
 
 Remington. Much more. 
 
 Ann. Was that the postman? 
 
 Daisy. No, it was not. 
 
 Remington. The postman habit is getting 
 on my nerves. You're all jumping and 
 listening till you'll have St. Vitus dance 
 if you don't stop. 
 
 Ann. How can we help it? 
 
 RE:\riNGT0N. After all, a few other com- 
 petitions have been lost and won — and 
 people have lived through it. It^s not 
 the only thing in life. 
 
RACHEL CROTHERS 
 
 947 
 
 Tom. You'd think it was if you had 
 $100,000 at stake. (Ellen comes in from 
 hall. and takes out the coffee tray.) 
 
 Ann. Aren't we going to have some 
 bridge? Who wants to play? I know 
 you do, daddy. 
 
 Remington. I have to get even with you 
 for that last rubber, Tom. 
 
 Tom. You can't do it. 
 
 Daisy. I want to play, with you, doctor. 
 
 Remington. Come on. 
 
 Ruth. I'm afraid to play against you. 
 
 Remington. {Turning at the library 
 door.) What's that? 
 
 Others. What ? 
 
 Remington. The postman! 
 
 Others. Oh! Ruth and Daisy go into 
 lihrary R. with Remington.) 
 
 Ann. {To Tom and Keith.) Coming? 
 
 To^i. You go, Keith. I want to look at 
 the paper a minute. 
 
 Keith. Oh, my game's no good. You go. 
 
 Ann. Now don't stay out here and listen 
 and wait. If there is any mail Ellen 
 will bring it straight up. 
 
 Tom. I won't. I'll be with you — in two 
 minutes. 
 
 Ann. Anyway — tonight doesn't necessar- 
 ily decide it. There may be still two 
 or three more days. Isn't that so, 
 Keith? 
 
 Keith. Yes, I think so. 
 
 Remington, Ruth, Daisy. {Calling from 
 the lihrary.) Come on. Come on. 
 
 Ann. Coming. {She goes in.) 
 
 Keith. That's straight. I do think so — 
 {A pause. Tom reads.) Don't you? 
 
 Tom. I'm trying to — but these last few 
 days of waiting have been — 
 
 Keith. Don't lose your nerve, Herford. 
 I'm just as sure as I was the first day. 
 If by any wild chance you don't get it — 
 it will be a fluke. 
 
 Tom. Oh, no. Oh, no, not by any means. 
 The men judging this Jcnow. I'd trust 
 them with anything. The fellows who 
 lose will have no kick coming on that 
 score. 
 
 Keith. Well — I don't see how you can 
 lose. 
 
 Tom. a man's a fool to let himself count 
 on an uncertainty. I don't mean that 
 I've lost sight of the fact that I might 
 lose — not for a second — but I confess — 
 as the time has grown shorter I've real- 
 ized I want it even more than I thought 
 I did. 
 
 Keith. Of course you want it. Aside 
 from the glory — it's an awful lot of 
 
 money — goyernor, an awful lot of 
 money. 
 
 Tom. It is. It would put us straight — 
 clear up the house entirely and make it 
 possible to do only the things a fellow 
 wants to do. That's what I'm after. 
 Then — No more competitions for me, 
 thank you. Is that the 'phone? I'm as 
 bad as Ann — jumping and listening. 
 Damn it ! I want to know — one way or 
 the other. 
 
 Keith. Of course you do. The cursed 
 waiting is enough to make you cut your 
 throat. 
 
 Ellen. {Opening the hall door.) The 
 telephone for Mr. Herford. 
 
 Tom. Who is it? 
 
 Ellen. I couldn't just get the name, sir. 
 
 Keith. Want me to go? 
 
 Tom. If you don't mind, old man. (Ellen 
 goes out.) 
 
 Keith. {Starting to the door and turn- 
 ing.) It couldn't be — ^you wouldn't get 
 word that way — would you? 
 
 Tom. Uh ? — Oh — nonsense ! No — no — 
 nonsense! I'll go — No, I — you go — old 
 man. That's not it — of course. (Tom 
 listens a moment — showing a tense anx- 
 iety.) 
 
 Ruth. {Coming in from the lihrary.) 
 They're waiting for you, Tom. The 
 cards are dealt. Where's Keith? 
 
 Tom. He'll be b^ck in a minute. 
 
 Ruth. Aren't you going in? 
 
 Tom. Why don't you take my place? I 
 don't feel a bit — 
 
 Ruth. I did offer to but Dr. Remington 
 said he would like to play bridge this 
 evening, not teach it. Wouldn't it be 
 seventh heaven to speak the truth on all 
 occasions as unconcernedly as Dr. Rem- 
 ington does? Imagine the sheer bliss 
 of letting go and spitting it all out. 
 Have you ever counted the lies you told 
 in just one day, Tom? 
 
 Tom. No — I've never had time. (Tom 
 starts to go into the lihrary and turns 
 to see if Ruth is coming.) 
 
 Ruth. No — I'm going to wait for 
 Keith. Tom goes in — Ruth reads for 
 a moment.) 
 
 Keith. {Coming hack from the hall.) 
 That was — 
 
 Ruth. What? 
 
 Keith. Millicent or her school or some- 
 thing. Such a bad connection; they're 
 going to call again in a few minutes. 
 Is that dress new, dear? 
 
 Ruth. I've had it three years. 
 
948 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Keith. It's awfully pretty. I wish you'd 
 
 wear it all the time. 
 Ruth. I do. 
 
 Keith. Aren't we going in to play? 
 Ruth. No, I don't feel like it. Come 
 
 and sit down, dear. Oh, are you going 
 
 to sit way over there? 
 Keith. Not 'specially. (Drawing chair 
 
 near the couch — Keith sits facing 
 
 Ruth.) 
 Ruth. Comfortable ? 
 Keith. Not very. 
 Ruth. Have you read this? 
 Keith. No. Any good. 
 Ruth. Yes — Good enough. (She rises, 
 
 going to the fireplace.) 
 Keith. What's the matter? I thought 
 
 you wanted to talk. Where are you 
 
 going ? 
 Ruth. No place. 
 Keith. You got the fidgets too? 
 Ruth. Sort of. 
 Keith. Well, stop it. Herford's going 
 
 to be all right. There'll be news in a 
 
 day or so now. 
 Ruth. I wasn't thinking of that. I have 
 
 something to tell you. 
 Keith. Then why don't vou come and 
 
 tell it? 
 Ruth. And if you aren't fine about it-^ 
 
 it will be the greatest disappointment 
 
 in my whole life. 
 
 (Going to Keith and putting a hand 
 on his shoulder.) ' 
 Keith. You mean if I don't think just 
 
 what you want me to about it. Go on. 
 
 I s^pose I know, anyway. 
 Ruth. Then if you do — but you don't. 
 
 It's so wonderful you couldn't guess. 
 
 And you'll just have to see it the right 
 
 way, because if you don't it would mean 
 
 you're what I know you're not. Down 
 
 in your real soul, Keith, you're gener- 
 
 our and fair and right. 
 Keith. Suppose you communicate it to 
 
 me first and discuss my soul after- 
 wards. 
 Ruth. (Sitting on couch facing Keith.) 
 
 Well — Oh you will be sweet won't you, 
 
 Keithie ? 
 Keith. I can see it's going to be some- 
 thing very pleasant for me. 
 Ruth. It is if you . . . 
 Keith. It's wonderful if I'm not a fool 
 
 and a pig. Yes, I know. Go on. Go 
 
 on. 
 Ruth. Now don't begin that way — 
 
 please dear. Don't shut up your mind 
 
 before I even tell you. 
 
 Keith. Suppose you do tell me. 
 
 Ruth. Well — last week there was a row 
 in the office over a matter concerning 
 the policy of the magazine and I dif- 
 fered with all the men in my depart- 
 ment. At last I was sent for by the 
 Editor in Chief. He was terribly se- 
 vere at first, and I was frightened to 
 pieces — but I stuck to my guns — and 
 bless your soul he sent for me again 
 today and said they had had a meeting 
 of the directors and that they decided — 
 oh, it's too — 
 
 Keith. What? What? 
 
 Ruth. They had decided to make me 
 Editor of the Woman's Magazine. 
 (Fighting hack her tears.) Isn't it 
 funny ? 
 
 Keith. And I suppose all this introduc- 
 tion means you accepted — without even 
 asking me? 
 
 Ruth. Why, of course. Oh, Keith, 
 don't you understand what this means 
 to me? 
 
 Keith. I understand that unless it 
 means more to you than I do — ^you 
 wouldn't hesitate a minute to chuck it. 
 
 Ruth. It's hopeless — we'll never — never 
 see it the same way. 
 
 Keith. You've never made the slightest 
 effort to see it my way. 
 
 Ruth. What you ask of me is to cut 
 off one half of my life and throw it 
 away. What I ask of you is only an 
 experiment — to let me try and see if I 
 can't make things comfortable and 
 smooth and happy for us — and still 
 take this big thing that has come as a 
 result of all my years of hard work 
 and fighting for it. 
 
 Keith. You'll never stop if you don't 
 now. Once you get deeper in it you'll 
 be swamped — eaten up by it. 
 
 Ruth. Don't, Keith. I can't bear it. 
 It's too unutterably selfish. 
 
 Keith. (Rising and pushing his chair 
 away.) All right — I'm selfish — but I'm 
 human — and I'll bet my hat I'm just 
 like every nine men out of ten. What 
 in the name of heaven does loving a 
 girl amount to if you don't want to take 
 care of her from start to finish? A 
 man's no good if he doesn't feel that 
 way, I tell you. He's a pup — and ought 
 to be shot. 
 
 Ruth. (Rising.) But what about me — 
 and what I want and have to have — 
 in order to be happy? 
 
EACHEL CROTHERS 
 
 949 
 
 Keith. That's it. That is the point. 
 
 You won't be happy without it. You 
 
 want the excitement of it — that hustle 
 
 and bustle outside. 
 Ruth. I want it just as you want your 
 
 work — and you haven't any more right 
 
 to ask me to give up mine than I have 
 
 to ask you to stop yours. 
 Keith. You simply don't love me. 
 Ruth. What rot! What nonsense! 
 Keith. You don't love me. 
 Ruth. It's hopeless. You've decided 
 
 then. You won't compromise — so we'll 
 
 end it. 
 Keith What do you mean? 
 Ruth. {Going to the hall door.) You've 
 
 made your own choice. We'll end it 
 
 now. 
 Keith. {Following her.) No — Ruth — I 
 
 won't give you up. 
 Ruth. You have. You have given me up. 
 Keith. Ruth — wait. 
 Ruth. It's best, Keith. Don't hate me. 
 
 You'll see it's best in a little while. 
 
 We'll learn to be friends. I want you 
 
 to be happy, dear boy — I do. And I 
 
 couldn't make you so. We'll end it 
 
 now. It's the best for us both. 
 Keith. Ruth — 
 
 {She goes out quicMy, closing the 
 door. Keith turns to the fire.) 
 
 Daisy. {Knocking and opening the li- 
 brary door.) Excuse me. May I come 
 in to get my sewing? Where's Ruth? 
 
 Keith. {With his back to Daisy.) Don't 
 know. 
 
 Daisy. Well, don't bite my head off. I 
 can always tell when you and Ruth 
 have been discussing the emancipation 
 of women. 
 
 {Sitting below table and taking her 
 dress to sew.) 
 
 Keith. You all think you're superior 
 beings. 
 
 Daisy. Of course. 
 
 Keith. {Beginning to walk about.) Yes, 
 you do. You're just as bad as the rest 
 of them — worse. The minute a woman 
 makes enough to buy the clothes on 
 her back, she thinks she and God Al- 
 mighty are running the earth and men 
 are just little insects crawling around. 
 (Daisy laughs.) Oh, you can laugh. 
 It's so — and you know it. Every one 
 of you that have got the bee in your 
 bonnet of doing something — doing 
 something, are through with the men. 
 
 Look at ^ou. You've cut men out 
 entirely and you think you're too smart 
 to marry one. Now, don't you? Isn't 
 that the reason? 
 
 Daisy. {Threading her needle.) Don't 
 bully-rag me. Say it all to Ruth. 
 
 Keith. I tell you it's all rot — business 
 for women. It spoils every one of you. 
 Why aren't you in a home of your own 
 instead of hustling for your bread and 
 butter? It's because you're too damned 
 conceited. You think you know more 
 than any man you ever saw and you 
 think you don't need one. You wait — 
 You'll see — some day. 
 
 {Going back to the fire.) 
 
 Daisy. You amuse me. 
 
 Keith. There you are — that's about what 
 
 I'm for. 
 Daisy. There's a button off your coat. 
 
 Looks horrid. 
 Keith. I know. I've got it. 
 
 {Putting his finger in waistcoat 
 pocket.) 
 
 Daisy. Have you got it there? (Keith 
 shows her the button.) Come here, 
 I'll do it. 
 
 Keith. Never mind. I'll nail it on. 
 
 Daisy. Come here. (Keith goes slowly 
 to her.) You'll have to take your coat 
 off. It's bad luck to sew anything on 
 you. 
 
 Keith. Oh — 
 
 Daisy. Go on — take it off. (Keith takes 
 off his coat reluctantly and watches 
 Daisy as she examines the coat.) Good 
 Gracious, the lining's ripped, too. 
 
 Keith. Yes. 
 
 Daisy. Poor old fellow! Are these some 
 of your stitches? 
 
 Keith. {Drawing the chair from C. and 
 sitting L. before Daisy.) What's the 
 matter with 'em? 
 
 Daisy. Looks like carpet thread. {Snip- 
 ping some threads.) See, I'll just 
 draw this together and that'll be all 
 right. 
 
 {She begins to sing an old ditty — 
 Keith gradually hums with her, 
 keeping time with his hands and 
 feet and relaxing into a good 
 humor.) 
 
 Keith. {Soothed for a moment.) How 
 does it happen you're so handy with a 
 needle? I thought you were all for 
 business. 
 
950 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Daisy. Well, I can sew a button on if 
 you can. 
 
 Keith. I tell you it changes all women 
 — business. They make a little money 
 themselves and want luxury and won't 
 live without it. 
 
 Daisy. Sometimes — yes. But there are 
 lots and lots and lots of women taking 
 care of themselves — putting up the 
 bluff of being independent and happy 
 who would be so glad to live in a little 
 flat and do their own work — just to be 
 the nicest thing in the world to some 
 man. 
 
 Keith. Wouldn't you think that Euth 
 would like that better than the office? 
 
 Daisy. No — not the lamp light and the 
 needle for Euth. Keith, don't ask her 
 to give up her work — don't you see, 
 she's more clever, in her way than you 
 are in yours. She'll go further, and if 
 you make her stop, she'll hate you some 
 day because she'll think you've kept 
 her back. That's a hard thing to say — 
 but it's the truth. 
 
 Keith. You mean I'm a failure. 
 
 Daisy. {Genuinely.) No — no — I don't 
 mean that, Keith. 
 
 Keith. I work — Gosh, how I work, but 
 I'll never do anything. Why haven't I 
 got what Mrs. Herf ord's got ? She sent 
 models off for this frieze that any 
 man would be proud to send. Why 
 couldn't I? 
 
 Daisy. Seems kind of mixed up and un- 
 fair — doesn't it? 
 
 Keith. You bet it's unfair. I work like 
 a dog and never get anywhere. If Euth 
 throws me over, I'll never have the home 
 I'm working for. That's what I want 
 — a home. I'll never have it now. 
 
 Daisy. Oh, yes you will. 
 
 Keith. I'm done for. 
 
 Daisy. No, you're not. There are too 
 many women in the world — who — could 
 — love you. 
 
 Keith. I'm no good. 
 
 Daisy. Some woman might think that 
 you — your — the way you work — and 
 your honesty and loyalty are the great- 
 est things a man can have. 
 
 Keith. Um ! 
 
 Daisy. Some woman might use all her 
 cleverness and ingenuity to make the 
 little flat beautiful — to show you what 
 your own home — could be — to give you 
 a better dinner than you thought you 
 could afford. 
 
 Keith. {Sitting with his head in his 
 hands.) That kind of a woman is a 
 thing of the past. 
 
 Daisy. Oh no, they're not. They're ly- 
 ing around thick. The trouble is — a 
 woman can't ask. Even if a man is — 
 just at her hand — and she knows she 
 could make him happy — she can't tell 
 him — she can't open his eyes — she has 
 to hide what might make things right 
 for both of them. Because she's a 
 woman. 
 
 Keith. Oh — love doesn't cut much ice 
 with a woman. Women are all train 
 nowadays. 
 
 Daisy. {With sudden warmth.) That's 
 enough to use all the brains a woman^s 
 got — to make a home — to bring up chil- 
 dren — and to keep a man's love. 
 
 Keith. {Raising his head slowly and 
 looking at Daisy.) I never expected 
 to hear you say a thing like that. 
 There's some excuse for you being in 
 business. 
 
 Daisy. Yes, of course. {Rising and 
 holding the coat.) I'm not the mar- 
 rying kind. 
 
 Keith. {Getting into the coat.) Much 
 obliged. Would you be willing to give 
 up work and marry a man on a small 
 salary — if you loved him? 
 
 Daisy. You make me laugh. 
 
 Keith. What's the matter, Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. Nothing. 
 
 Keith. I never saw tears in your eyes 
 before. Women are funny things. 
 
 Daisy. Yes, we're funny. There's only 
 one thing on earth funnier. 
 
 Keith. What ? 
 
 Daisy. Men. 
 
 Eemington. {Coming in from the li- 
 brary.) Did I leave my other glasses 
 in here? 
 
 Daisy. {Beginning to look for them.) 
 I haven't seen them. 
 
 Eemington. I've lost one game because 
 I didn't have 'em and I don't propose 
 to give 'em another. 
 
 Daisy. What a shame! Help look for 
 them, Keith. 
 
 Ee:mington. I'm pretty blind — but thank 
 God not quite as bad as you, Keith. 
 
 Keith. What? There's nothing the 
 matter with my eyes. 
 
 Eemington. {Looking insinuatingly at 
 Daisy.) Don't you think there is, 
 Daisy? 
 
EACHEL CEOTHERS 
 
 951 
 
 Daisy. {Trying to looh unconscious.) 
 Are you sure you left those glasses in 
 here? 
 
 Eemington. It's as bad a case of short 
 sightedness as I ever saw. 
 
 Daisy. Oh— 
 
 {The doctor holds her and turns her, 
 pushing her toward Keith.) 
 
 Eemington. Daisy, don't you see that 
 queer blind look in his eyes? 
 
 Daisy. No — I don't. 
 
 Keith. What do you mean? (Eeming- 
 ton laughs.) Do you see the joke, 
 Daisy? 
 
 Eemington. It's no joke — is it Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. I don't know what on earth you're 
 talking about. I'm going to get those 
 glasses. {Going to hall door.) You 
 probably left them in your hoat in the 
 call. I mean in your hall in the coat 
 — I mean — 
 
 Eemington. That's all right, Daisy — ^we 
 know what you mean. At least I do. 
 
 Daisy. Oh you — (Ellen comes in 
 from hall.) What is it, Ellen? 
 
 Ellen. The telephone, Miss Herford. 
 
 Daisy. Eor me? 
 
 Ellen. They said any one of the family. 
 
 Daisy. I'll go. 
 
 {She goes out followed hy Ellen.) 
 
 Eemington. There's a woman who knows 
 how to take care of a man. 
 
 Keith. I'm afraid that's not her object 
 in life. They all have something else 
 to do. 
 
 Eemington. What's the matter with you? 
 
 Keith. I'm done for. 
 
 Eemington. Euth, you mean? 
 
 Keith. She won't marry me unless she 
 goes on working. 
 
 Eemington. She's right, too. 
 
 Keith. What? 
 
 Eemington. Of course. You haven't any 
 more right to ask that clever little 
 woman to throw away half her life 
 and to be the tail to your kite than you 
 have to ask her to cut her throat. Open 
 your eyes and look around. There are 
 always other women. 
 
 Keith. Never. Never in the world for 
 me. 
 
 Eemington. I give you about three 
 months. 
 
 Keith. Do you think I could ever — 
 
 Eemington. Certainly I do. Look at 
 Daisy , for instance. A fine, sweet 
 wholesome girl with no kinks and no 
 abnormal ambitions. 
 
 Keith. Daisy ^ 
 
 Eemington. Don't blow your brains out 
 
 for a couple of days. Talk it over with 
 
 her. She thinks you're about the finest 
 
 thing going. 
 Keith. What? 
 Eemington. Fact! Don't try to hold on 
 
 to the woman who's getting away from 
 
 you, but take the one who is coming 
 
 your way. 
 Keith. You're crazy. Mad as a hatter. 
 
 What are you giving me? 
 Eemington. Just a little professional 
 
 advice — free. She's head over heels in 
 
 love with you, I tell you. 
 Daisy. {Coming in from hall in great 
 
 excitement. She has a case for glasses 
 
 in her hand.) Dr. Eemington, that 
 
 was long distance. They telephoned 
 
 from school that Millicent has gone. 
 Keith. Gone ? 
 Eemington. Gone where? 
 Daisy. Left school suddenly tonight 
 
 without saying a word to anyone. 
 Eemington and Keith. What? 
 Daisy. As soon as they knew — they 
 
 'phoned the station, and found she had 
 
 taken the train for New York. 
 Eemington. What train? 
 Daisy. The one that gets here at nine 
 
 o'clock. 
 Keith. {Looking at his watch.) ' It's 
 
 9 :15 now. 
 Daisy. Shall I tell Ann? 
 Eemington. No — no — wait. We'll give 
 
 her fifteen minutes more to get to the 
 
 house. No use frightening Ann. 
 Keith. Do you think she is coming 
 
 home ? 
 Daisy. Why do you say that, Keith? 
 
 What put such an idea into your head? 
 Keith. Why wouldn't she say so — wire 
 
 or write or something? 
 Daisy. Oh, it's too horrible. Doctor, 
 
 oughtn't we to tell them now? 
 Eemington. No — no — 
 Daisy. But we're wasting time. What if 
 
 she shouldn't come? 
 Keith. I think I'll dash down to the 
 
 station anyway. The train might be 
 
 late. 
 Eemington. No — no. They'd ask where 
 
 you'd gone. Wait fifteen minutes — I 
 
 think she'll be here. I don't want to 
 
 frighten — 
 
 (Anne comes in from the library.) 
 Anne. Well, I never saw people so wild- 
 ly keen about playing as you are. 
 
 What's the matter with you? 
 
952 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Remington. I've been waiting all this 
 time — for my glasses. Come on Daisy. 
 
 {Taking the glasses from Daisy^ he 
 goes into library.) 
 
 Ann. You look worried, Daisy. 
 
 Daisy. No — I'm only — 
 
 Ellen. (Coming in from hall with eight 
 
 letters on a small tray.) The mail, 
 
 Mrs. Herford. 
 Ann. Oh! (She snatches the letters, 
 
 taking off the three top ones.) . It's 
 
 come! Tom's letter. 
 Keith and Daisy. What? 
 
 (Ellen goes out through hall L. 0.) 
 Ann. It is! It is — as true as I live. 
 Keith. Great Scott! 
 Daisy. Then he's got it. He's got it. 
 Ann. Sh! Ask him to come here. 
 Daisy. It's too good to be true. It's too 
 
 good! 
 
 (Daisy goes into the library.) 
 
 Keith. I can't tell you how glad I am, 
 Mrs. Herford. I can't tell you. 
 
 Ann. (Scarcely able to speak.) Ask him 
 to come here. 
 
 Keith. (Going into library.) Mrs. Her- 
 ford wants you, Governor. 
 
 Tom. (Within.) Come and play, Ann. 
 
 Ann. (Throwing the other letters on the 
 table.) Come here just a minute, Tom, 
 please. 
 
 Tom. (Coming to door.) What is it? 
 
 Ann. Shut the door. It's come. (Show- 
 ing the letter. Tom opens and reads 
 it. A look of sickening disappointment 
 comes into his face.) No? Oh, Tom! 
 
 Tom. I was their second choice! 
 
 Ann. Oh, Tom, don't take it like that. 
 What difference does it make after all? 
 You know you did a big thing. It's 
 all luck — anyway. 
 
 Tom. I'll pull up in a minute. Well, it 
 means taking hold of something else 
 pretty quick. Going at it again. 
 
 Ann. Yes, keeping at it — that's it. What 
 a TERRIBLE lot chance has to do 
 with it. 
 
 Tom. Oh no, that isn't it. 
 
 Ann. Yes, it is, too. 
 
 Tom. No— I failed. I didn't get it, 
 that's all. 
 
 Ann. You'll do something greater — next 
 time — ^because of this. 
 
 Tom. (Taking her hand.) You're a 
 brick! Now, see here, don't you be cut 
 up about this. It's not the end of every- 
 thing, you know. Stop that! You're 
 not crying, I hope? 
 
 Ann. No, I'm not. Of course, I'm not! 
 (With passionate tenderness.) Oh, my 
 boy. I never loved you so much — 
 never believed in you as I do now. 
 This is only a little hard place that 
 will make you all the stronger. 
 
 Tom. Dear old girl! What would I do 
 without you? I'll tell the others and 
 get it over. (Rising, he stops, staring 
 at one of the letters on the table.) 
 Ann! 
 
 Ann. Um ? 
 
 Tom. (Taking up a letter.) Ann — here's 
 one for you, too. 
 
 Ann. What? (She tears open the let- 
 ter.) Tom! They've given the com- 
 mission to me! Look! Read it! Is 
 that what it says? Is it? Now aren't 
 you glad you let me do it ? You haven't 
 lost! We've got it. Say you're glad. 
 Say you're proud of me, dear. That's 
 the best part of it all. 
 
 Tom. Of course, I am, dear, of course I 
 am. 
 
 Ann. Oh, Tom, I wanted you to get it 
 more than I ever wanted anything in 
 my life, but this is SOMETHING to 
 be thankful for. Doesn't this almost 
 make it right? 
 
 Tom. Yes, dear, yes. Don't think of me. 
 That's over — ^that part of it. Tell the 
 others now. 
 
 Ann. Wait ! 
 
 Tom. Aren't you going to? 
 
 Ann. I only want to be sure that you're 
 just as happy that I won, as I would 
 have been if YOU had. 
 
 Tom. Of course, I am. You know that. 
 
 (Kissing her.) 
 
 Ann. Tell the others, then, Tom— J 
 can't. 
 
 Tom. (Opening the library doors.) What 
 do you think has happened? 
 
 Daisy. (Rushing in.) Tom got it. Didn't 
 you, Tom? You did. You did! Oh, 
 I'm so glad. (She kisses him.) 
 
 Keith. (Following Daisy in.) Well — 
 governor — what did I tell you? 
 
 Remington. (In doorway.) Pretty fine 
 —isn't it? 
 
 Ann. You tell them, Tom. 
 
 Tom. Ann got it! 
 
 Daisy. What? 
 
 Tom. Isn't it great? 
 
 Ann. You won't believe it. But you 
 can see the letter. Now, father, don't 
 you think getting that is better than 
 being nursemaid and housekeeper? 
 Now, don't you, honestly? 
 
RACHEL CROTHERS 
 
 953 
 
 Remington. I do not. 
 
 Ann. What ? 
 
 Remington. I do not. 
 
 Ann. Oh, I can laugh at your theories 
 now. You haven't a leg to stand on. 
 Has he, Tom? Be a dear father and 
 say you're glad. 
 
 Remington. I'm not. I'd rather you'd 
 failed a thousand times over — for your 
 own good. What are you going to do 
 with Millicent while you're making this 
 thing ? 
 
 Ann. How can you be so hard and nar- 
 row, Father? 
 
 Remington. What if you did win ? You've 
 got something far greater than making 
 statues to do. 
 
 Tom. Doctor, you're excited. 
 
 Remington. Not a bit. I'm only telling 
 the truth. This is your business you 
 know — and it would have been far bet- 
 ter for both of you if youd won the 
 thing. 
 
 ToM. I don't see the argument. Ann 
 got it because she sent in a better 
 model than I did. I don't see that 
 anything else has anything to do with 
 the case. 
 
 (Tom goes out through hall.) 
 
 Ann. (Turning to sit on the couch.) 
 At least Tom's glad I got it. 
 Remington. He's stung to the quick. 
 
 You've humiliated him in his own 
 
 eyes (He goes to the fireplace.) 
 
 Ann. I cant understand why you feel 
 
 this way about it, father. 
 Daisy. Oh, its natural enough. 
 Ann. (Turning to Daisy in amazement.) 
 
 Aren't you glad for me — Daisy? 
 Daisy. Yes, but — I — I'm awfully sorry 
 
 for Tom. 
 
 (She goes out through hall.) 
 
 Ann. What's the matter with them all, 
 
 Keith? 
 Keith. Oh — as Daisy says — it's natural, 
 
 Mrs. Herford. 
 
 (He goes out after Daisy.) 
 
 Remington. (Coming down to Ann.) 
 Daughter, I'm afraid I was a little too 
 stiff just now. I didn't mean to be 
 unkind. 
 
 Ann. (Rising and starting to hall door.) 
 Oh, it doesn't matter. 
 
 Remington. (Stopping her.) Yes, it 
 does matter. I wouldn't hurt you for 
 the world. 
 
 Ann. But you've always fought me, 
 Father. You've never thought I had 
 any right to work — never believed in 
 my ability, now that I've proved I have 
 some — Why can't you acknowledge it? 
 
 Remington. Ann, this is a dangerous 
 moment in your life. Tom's beaten — 
 humiliated — knocked out. You did it 
 — he can't stand it. 
 
 Ann. What have I done? Tom has a 
 big nature. He's not little and petty 
 enough to be hurt because I won. 
 
 Remington. You're blind. He's had a 
 blow tonight that no man on earth 
 could stand. 
 
 Ann. ISTot Tom. I won't believe it. 
 
 Remington. Yes, I say. I know what 
 I'm talking about. Ann, be careful 
 how you move now. Use your woman's 
 tact, your love. Make Tom know that 
 he is the greatest thing in the world 
 to you — that you'd even give up all 
 this work idea — if — ^he wanted — you to. 
 
 Ann. What? Tom wouldn't let me. 
 
 Remington. Ask him. Ask him. See 
 what he'd say. 
 
 Ann. Why, I wouldn't insult him. He'd 
 think I thought he was — 
 
 (Tom comes in from the hall — Ann 
 checks herself and turns away 
 quickly to fire.) 
 
 Tom. (After a pause.) What's the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Remington. Nothing — nothing. Ann 
 and I were just having a little argu- 
 ment as usual. I'll be back in a few 
 minutes. 
 
 (Looking at his watch he goes into 
 hall.) 
 
 Tom. (Going slowly to Ann.) I hope 
 you're not still fighting about the — 
 your frieze? 
 
 Ann. They're all so funny, Tom — the 
 way they act about it. It hurts. But 
 so long as you're glad, it doesn't matter 
 what anyone else thinks. Say you're 
 glad, dear. I want you to be as happy 
 as I would be if you had won. 
 
 Tom. You know I am, dear. You know 
 that. 
 
 Ann. (With a sigh of relief Ann sits. at 
 left of fire.) Think how I'll have to 
 work. I can't even go to the country 
 in the summer. 
 
 Tom. (Sitting opposite Ann at the fire.) 
 And what will you do with Millicent 
 this summer? 
 
954 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Ann. Oh, there are lots of nice things 
 for her to do. The money! Think 
 what it will mean to you! 
 
 Tom. Let me tell you one thing, Ann, 
 in the beginning. I'll never touch a 
 penny of the money. 
 
 Ann. What? 
 
 Tom. Not a cent of it. 
 
 Ann. What are you talking about? 
 
 Tom. That's your money. Put it away 
 for yourself. 
 
 Ann. I never heard you say anything so 
 absolutely unreasonable before in my 
 life. 
 
 Tom. If you think I'm unreasonable, all 
 right. But that's understood about the 
 money. We won't discuss it. 
 
 Ann. Well, we will discuss it. Why 
 shouldn't you use my money as well 
 as I yours? 
 
 Tom. That's about as different as day 
 and night. 
 
 Ann. Why is it ? 
 
 Tom. Because I'm taking care of you. 
 It's all right if you never do another 
 day's work in your life. You're doing 
 it because you want to, I'm doing it 
 because I've got to. If you were alone 
 it would be a different thing. But I'm 
 here, and so long as I am I'll make 
 what keeps us going. 
 
 Ann. But I'll help you. 
 
 Tom. No, you won't. 
 
 Ann. I will. I'm going on just as far 
 as I have ability to go, and if you re- 
 fuse to take any money I may make — 
 if you refuse to use it for our mutual 
 good, you're unjust and taking an un- 
 fair advan Oh, Tom! what are we 
 
 saying? We're out of our senses — 
 both of us. You didn't mean what 
 
 you said. Did you? It would I 
 
 simply couldn't bear it if you did. You 
 didn't — did you? 
 
 Tom. I did — of course. 
 
 Ann. Tom — after all these years of pull- 
 ing together, now that I've done some- 
 thing, why do you suddenly balk? 
 
 Tom. (Rising.) Good Heavens! Do you 
 think I'm going to use your money? 
 Don't try to run my end of it. It's 
 the same old story — when you come 
 down to it, a woman can't mix up in a 
 man's business. (He moves away.) 
 
 Ann. Mix up in it ? Isn't it a good thing 
 for you that I got this commission? 
 
 Tom. No. I don't know that it's a good 
 thing from any standpoint to have it 
 
 known that I failed, but my wife suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 Ann. I thought you said you were glad 
 — proud of me. 
 
 Tom. It's too — distracting — too — takes 
 you away from more important things. 
 
 Ann. What things? 
 
 Tom. Millicent and me. 
 
 Ann. Oh, Tom don't. You know 
 
 that you and Millicent come before 
 everything on earth to me. 
 
 Tom. No. 
 
 Ann. You do. 
 
 Tom. We don't — now. Your ambition 
 comes first. 
 
 Ann. (She rises, going to him.) Tom, I 
 worship you. You know that, don't 
 you? 
 
 Toisr. I'm beginning to hate this work 
 and everything in connection with it. 
 
 Ann. But you taught me — helped me — 
 pushed me on. What's changed you? 
 
 Tom. I let you do it in the first place 
 because I thought it was right. I 
 wanted you to do the thing you wanted 
 to do. 
 
 Ann. Well? 
 
 Tom. I was a fool. I didn't see what it 
 would lead to. It's taking you away 
 from everything else — and there'll be 
 no end to it. Your ambition will carry 
 you away till the home and Millicent 
 and I are nothing to you! 
 
 Ann. Tom — look at me. Be honest. 
 Are you sorry sorry I got this com- 
 mission ? 
 
 Tom. I'm sorry it's the most important 
 thing in the world to you. 
 
 Ann. Oh! Why do you say that to me? 
 How can you? ^ 
 
 Tom. Haven't I just seen it? You're 
 getting rid of Millicent now because 
 you don't want her to interfere with 
 your work. 
 
 Ann. No ! 
 
 Tom. You're pushing her out of your 
 life. 
 
 Ann. No ! 
 
 Tom. You said just now you were going 
 to send her away alone in the summer. 
 I don't like that. She's got to be with 
 you — I want you to keep her with you. 
 
 Ann. But that's impossible. You know 
 that. If I stop work now I might as 
 well give up the frieze entirely. 
 
 Tom. Then give it up. 
 
 Ann. What? 
 
 Tom. Give up the whole thing — forever. 
 Why shouldn't you? 
 
EACHEL CEOTHEES 
 
 955 
 
 Ann. Do you mean that? 
 
 Tom. Yes. 
 
 Ann. Tom — I love you. Don't ask this 
 sacrifice of me to prove my love. 
 
 Tom. Could you make it? Could you? 
 
 Ann. Don't ask it! Don't ask if for 
 your own sake. I want to keep on lov- 
 ing you. I want to believe you're what 
 I thought you were. Don't make me 
 think you're just like every other man. 
 
 Tom. I am a man — and you're my wife 
 and Millicent's our daughter. Unless 
 you come back to the things a woman's 
 always had to do — and always will — 
 we can't go on. We can't go on. 
 
 Ann. {Following him around the table.) 
 Tom — if you're just a little hurt— just 
 a little jealous because I won 
 
 Tom. Oh 
 
 Ann. That's natural — ^I can understand 
 that. 
 
 Tom. Oh— don't 
 
 Ann. But, oh, Tom, the other to ask 
 
 me to give it all up. I could never for- 
 give that. Take it back, Tom — take it 
 back. 
 
 Tom. Good God, Ann, can't you see? 
 You're a woman and I'm a man. You're 
 not free in the same way. If you won't 
 stop because I ask it — I say you must. 
 
 Ann. You can't say that to me. You 
 can't. 
 
 Tom. I do say it. 
 
 Ann. No ! 
 
 Tom. I say it because I know it's right. 
 
 Ann. It isn't. 
 
 Tom. I can't make you see it. 
 
 Ann. It isn't. 
 
 Tom. I don't know how — but everything 
 in me tells me it's right. 
 
 Ann. Tom— listen to me. 
 
 Tom. If you won't do it because I ask 
 you — I demand it. I say you've got to. 
 
 Ann. Tom — you can kill our love by just 
 what you do now. 
 
 To:m. Then this work is the biggest 
 thing in the world to you? 
 
 Ann. What is more important to us both 
 — to our happiness than just that? 
 
 Millicent. {Calling outside door L. C.) 
 Mother! {A startled pause as Ann and 
 Tom turn towards hall door.) Mother! 
 I'm home, where are you? 
 
 (Millicent opens the hall door and 
 rushes into the room.) 
 
 Ann. Millicent! What are you doing 
 
 here? 
 Millicent. I came home, mother. 
 
 Ann. Why ? ^ 
 
 Millicent. Because I had to. 
 
 Ann. Are you ill, dear? 
 
 Millicent. No. No. 
 
 Tom. Is anything wrong at school? 
 
 Millicent. No, but I won't go back. 
 
 Tom. But why won't you? What's the 
 trouble ? 
 
 Millicent. I won't go back. 
 
 Tom. But you can't do a thing like 
 this. I won't allow it. 
 
 Millicent. You wouldn't let me come 
 home when I wanted to and now I can't 
 go back. I won't everything's dif- 
 ferent now. I won't go back and you 
 can't make me. 
 
 {She turns and rushes out of the 
 room and Tom and Ann stare at 
 each other as the curtain falls. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Time: Half an hour later. 
 
 Scene : Same as Act II. Ruth is writing 
 at the desk. Daisy opens the hall door 
 and stops, listening hack into the hall. 
 
 EuTH. {Quickly.) What's the matter? 
 Daisy. Nothing. I was looking to see 
 
 who went up the stairs. It's Dr. Eem- 
 
 ington. 
 EuTH. How's Millicent now? 
 Daisy. Ann's with her — ^getting her to 
 
 bed. 
 EuTH. Do you know yet why she came 
 
 home? 
 DiASY. I don't know whether Ann's got it 
 
 out of her yet or not. 
 EuTH. What do you think? Why on 
 
 earth didn't she tell them at school? 
 Daisy. I haven't the dimmest — but she 
 
 didn't do it without some good reason. 
 
 I'll bet anything on that. Millicent's a 
 
 pretty level-headed youngster. 
 EuTH. She's a pretty self-willed one. 
 
 Ann will send her right back of course. 
 Daisy. I don't know whether she will or 
 
 not. Millicent's got some rather de- 
 cided ideas of her own on that. 
 EuTH. But she'll have to go. Why 
 
 shouldn't she? Ann will make her. 
 Daisy. Tom will have something to say 
 
 about it. 
 EuTH. It's for Ann to decide surely. 
 Daisy. Not at all. I don't see why. She 
 
 is Tom's child, too, you know, and this 
 
 is his house and he pays the bills at 
 
956 
 
 HE AKD SHE 
 
 school and if he doesn't want her to go 
 back you can bet she jolly well won't go. 
 I only hope Millicent tells the whole 
 business whatever it is. Ann is so ex- 
 cited over the frieze I don't know 
 whether she'll lave the patience to han- 
 dle Millicent right or not. She's not 
 easy. 
 
 Ruth. It's awful for Ann to be upset 
 now — of all times — when she has to 
 begin this gigantic work. 
 
 Daisy. Oh — I wish the damned frieze 
 were in Guinea and that Ann had noth- 
 ing to do but take care of Tom and 
 Millicent — like any other woman. I'd 
 give anything if she hadn't won the 
 competition. 
 
 Ruth. Daisy! 
 
 Daisy. Oh, I would. I have a ghastly 
 feeling that something horrible is going 
 to come of it — if it hasn't already come. 
 
 Ruth. What do you mean? 
 
 Daisy. I tell you it is not possible for a 
 man and woman to love each other and 
 live together and be happy — unless the 
 man is — it. 
 
 Ruth. Speaking of the dark ages! You 
 ought to live in a harem. How any girl 
 who makes her own bread and butter 
 can be so old fashioned as you are — I 
 can't see. 
 
 Daisy. You've got so used to your own 
 ideas your forget that I am the average 
 normal woman the world is full of. 
 
 Ruth. Nonsense! You're almost extinct. 
 I'm the average normal woman the 
 world is full of — and it's going to be 
 fuller and fuller. 
 
 Daisy. I'll bet on plenty of us — left — 
 (Indicating herself) on Judgment day. 
 
 Ruth. I want to laugh when I think how 
 mistaken we've been calling you a bach- 
 elor girl. Why you'd make the best wife 
 of anybody I know. 
 
 Daisy. I s'pose you mean that as an in- 
 sult. 
 
 Ruth. But you seem so self reliant men 
 are sort of afraid of you — 
 
 Remington. (Coming in from hall and 
 feeling a certain restraint in the two 
 girls.) Am I in the wrong camp. 
 
 Ruth and Daisy. No, no. Come in. 
 
 Remington. I have to stay some place. 
 I'm going to hang around till Millicent 
 quiets down — and then I'll clear out. 
 
 Daisy. Is she ill? 
 
 Remington. Oh, no. Just a little worked 
 up and excited. 
 
 Ruth. Why do you think she came home. 
 Dr. Remington? 
 
 Remington. I don't know what to think 
 — unless she has "hoy" in the head. 
 
 Daisy. Goodness no! Not yet! 
 
 Remington. She's sixteen. You can't 
 choke it off to save your life. 
 
 Ruth. Oh, she's a baby! 
 
 Remington. Don't fool yourself. She 
 won't wait as long as you two have to 
 sit by her own fireside with children on 
 her knee. 
 
 Ruth. Oh — 
 
 Remington. That's the only thing in the 
 game that's worth a cent — anyway. (As 
 Keith comes in from the hall.) Isn't 
 that so, Keith? 
 
 Keith. What's that? 
 
 Remington. I've just been telling these 
 two that love and children are the great- 
 est things on earth. Ruth doesn't agree 
 with me — but Daisy — 
 
 Ruth. I must go. 
 
 Daisy. I must go up to Ann. (Ruth goes 
 out.) 
 
 Remington. Let me go. They both seem 
 terribly anxious to get out when you 
 come in, Keith. Or maybe I'm in the 
 way. I'll go. 
 
 Daisy. Don't be silly. I really must see 
 if I can do anything for Ann. 
 
 Remington. No, you mustn't. She's 
 waiting for me to see Millicent. By the 
 way, Keith — tomorrow's Sunday. I al- 
 ways take a run into the country in the 
 motor on Sunday. Come along and 
 bring either Ruth or Daisy. Take your 
 choice. I know which one I'd take. 
 (He goes into the hall.) 
 
 Daisy. Isn't he a goose. 
 
 Keith. Would it bore you to go, Daisy? 
 
 Daisy. Nonsense! Ruth will. 
 
 Keith. It would be awfully good of you. 
 Tomorrow's going to be a hard day for 
 me to get through. Ruth told me to- 
 night that she — I'm afraid it's all over. 
 
 Daisy. Why don't you compromise? 
 
 Keith. There's nothing to compromise 
 about. She's all wrong. Don't you 
 think so? 
 
 Daisy. Oh, don't ask me. I don't know 
 anything about it. 
 
 Keith. Wait a minute. I — won't you go 
 tomorrow, Daisy. 
 
 Daisy. Ask Ruth. It will be a good 
 chance to make up. 
 
 Keith. You're so practical and like such 
 different things — maybe you'd think 
 flying along through the country and 
 
EACHEL CROTHEES 
 
 957 
 
 lunching at some nice little out-of-the- 
 way place was too frivolous — 
 
 Daisy. Oh yes, I don't like anything but 
 being shut up in the house all day, 
 pounding at my typewriter and splitting 
 my head to get the bills straight. To 
 actually go off with a man — for a whole 
 day — and have a little fun — like any 
 other woman — would be too unheard of. 
 Of course, I couldn't do anything as 
 silly as that. 
 
 Keith. Oh — 
 
 Daisy. I wouldn't be amusing anyway. 
 Dr. Eemington — well, he's sixty, and 
 you'd be thinking of Euth and I'd sit 
 there like a stick — the sensible, prac- 
 tical woman who couldn't possibly be 
 interesting and fascinating because no 
 man would take the trouble to find out 
 how devilish and alluring and altogether 
 exciting I could be if I had the chance. 
 {She throws open the door and goes out. 
 Keith stares after her.) 
 
 Tom. {Coming in from library after a 
 moment.) I though you'd gone, Mc- 
 Kenzie. 
 
 Keith. ISTo, but I'm going. 
 
 Eemington. {Coming hack from hall.) 
 Good night, McKenzie. I'll dig you up 
 in the morning, ten o'clock. Sharp, 
 mind. And I'll call for Daisy first. 
 
 Keith. {At hall door.) All right. Much 
 obliged. Doctor. {Turning hack.) 
 How'd you know it was Daisy? 
 
 Eemington. I didn't — ^but I do now. 
 
 Keith. Good night. {He goes out.) 
 
 Tom. Well — how is she? How is Milli- 
 cent? 
 
 Eemington. Oh, she's not ill — but the 
 child's nervous as a witch — all strung 
 up. She's worried about something — 
 got something on her mind and nat- 
 urally her head aches and she has a 
 little fever — but that won't hurt her. 
 
 Tom. Got something on her mind? What? 
 
 Eemington. She didn't confide in me. 
 
 Tom. What could she have on her mind? 
 
 Eemington. I don't think she's commit- 
 ted murder — but she's got 2i mind, you 
 know — There's no reason why she 
 shouldn't have something on it. 
 
 Tom. Well, I don't know what to do with 
 her. 
 
 Eemington. If you think she ought not 
 to go back to school, say so. Tell Ann 
 those are your orders. 
 
 Tom. I don't give orders to Ann. 
 
 Eemington. The devil you don't. She'd 
 like it. A woman — a dog and a walnut 
 
 tree — the more you beat 'em, the better 
 they be. 
 
 Tom. The walnut tree business doesn't 
 work with Ann. I made a food of my- 
 self tonight by telling her I wouldn't 
 touch the money she gets out of this 
 thing. She doesn't understand. I've 
 made her think I'm jealous because she 
 won. 
 
 Eemington. Well, aren't you? 
 
 Tom. No! I tell you it's something else. 
 Something sort of gave way under my 
 feet when I opened her letter. 
 
 Eemington. I know. I know. 
 
 Tom. Doctor, for the Lord's sake, don't 
 think I'm mean. I don't want to drag 
 her back — but she seems gone somehow 
 — she doesn't need me any more. That's 
 what hurts. 
 
 Eemington. Of course, it hurts. 
 
 Tom. Much as I've loved to have her with 
 me — working away at my elbow — won- 
 derful as it all was — sometimes I've 
 wished I hadn't seen her all day — that 
 I had her to go home to — fresh and 
 rested — waiting for me and that I was 
 running the machine alone for her. 
 She'll never understand. I've acted like 
 a skunk. 
 
 Eemington. Y-e-s — I guess you have — so 
 have I — unjust — pig-headed. No more 
 right to say the things I've said' to her 
 than I have to spank her — except that 
 she's — the most precious thing in the 
 world to me — and I'd rather see her 
 happy — as a woman — than the greatest 
 artist in the world. 
 
 Tom. That's it. I want her here — mine. 
 But I s'pose that's rotten and wrong. 
 
 Eemington. Yes — I s'pose it is. But 
 you're despising yourself for something 
 that's been in your bones — boy — since 
 the beginning of time. Men and women 
 will go through hell over this before it 
 shakes down into shape. You're right 
 and she's right and you're tearing each 
 other like mad dogs over it because you 
 love each other. 
 
 ToM. That's it. If another man had got 
 it I'd take my licking without whining. 
 What's the matter with me ? Why can't 
 I be that way to herf 
 
 Eemington. {Shaking his head with a 
 wistful smile.) Male and female creat- 
 ed He them. I don't take back any of 
 the stuff' I said to her before she went 
 into this. She's fighting you now for 
 her rights — but she laid her genius at 
 your feet once and she'd do it again if — 
 
958 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 Ann. {Coming in from the hall and 
 speaking after a pause.) Well, father — 
 what do you say about Millicent? 
 
 Kemington. My advice is that you let 
 her stay at home for a while. 
 
 Ann. This is only a caprice — and it 
 would be the worst thing in the world 
 to give in to her. Unless you say as a 
 physician — that she's too ill to — 
 
 Ee:\iington. I don't say she's too ill — 
 physically. You must decide for your- 
 self. I'll go up and see her again and 
 if she isn't asleep then I'll give her a 
 mild sleeping powder. Ann, I put her 
 in your arms first — and the look that 
 came into your eyes then was as near 
 divinity as we ever get. Oh, my daugh- 
 ter — don't let the new restlessness and 
 strife of the world about you blind you 
 to the old things — the real things. (He 
 goes out.) 
 
 Ann. (After a pause.) You agree with 
 me, don't you, that it's better for her to 
 go back. 
 
 To:\r. Do whatever you think best. 
 
 Ann. But what do you think? 
 
 Tom. It doesn't matter what I think, 
 does it? 
 
 Millicent. (Opening the door.) Mother, 
 aren't you coming back? (Millicent 
 wears a soft rohe over her night gown. 
 Her hair is down her hack.) 
 
 Ann. Millicent — why did you get out of 
 bed? 
 
 Millicent. I couldn't sleep. (Running 
 and jumping into the middle of the 
 couch.) 
 
 Ann. Run back — quickly. 
 
 Millicent. In a minute. It's so quiet 
 upstairs I couldn't sleep. I'm used to 
 the girls. 
 Ann. You'll catch cold. 
 
 Millicent. Goodness, mother, I'm roast- 
 ing. 
 
 Ann. Millicent — what shall I do with 
 you. 
 
 Millicent. Is that what you and dad 
 were talking about? What did Grand- 
 father say? I don't care what he says. 
 I'm not going back to school. You're 
 on my side — aren't you. Dad? 
 
 Tom. Whatever your mother thinks is 
 right, of course. 
 
 Millicent. Is it true — what Daisy told 
 me — that you got the contract for a big 
 frieze and not father? Is it? Is it, 
 father? (Looking from one to the 
 other.) 
 
 Tom. Yes. It's quite true. 
 
 Ann. Millicent, go to bed. 
 
 Millicent. I think that's perfectly hor- 
 rid, mother. Why should they give it to 
 you? I think father ought to have it — 
 he's the man. Don't you think people 
 will think it's funny that you didn't get 
 it? I should think it would make them 
 lose confidence in you. (A pause. Tom 
 stalks out — closing the door.) Is father 
 hurt because you got it ? I should think 
 he would be. 
 
 Ann. Millicent, I've had quite enough of 
 this. Go up to bed at once. 
 
 Millicent. Will you come up and sleep 
 with me ? 
 
 Ann. Of course not. ( Walking about rest- 
 lessly.) 
 
 Millicent. Why not? 
 
 Ann. Neither one of us would sleep a 
 wink. 
 
 Millicent. That wouldn't matter. I 
 don't want to be alone. 
 
 Ann. Come now — I won't speak to you 
 again. 
 
 Millicent. What have you decided about 
 school ? 
 
 Ann. I'll tell you in the morning. 
 
 Millicent. I won't go up till you tell me. 
 
 Ann. Millicent — ^you will go at once, I 
 say. 
 
 Millicent. Oh, Mother, don't be cross. 
 Sit down and talk a minute. 
 
 Ann. It's late, dear. You must — 
 
 Millicent. That's nothing. We girls 
 often talk till twelve. 
 
 Ann. Till twelve? Do the teachers 
 know it. 
 
 Millicent. Oh, mother, you're lovely! 
 Don't you suppose they know that they 
 don't know everything that's going on?^ 
 Come and sit down, Mummie. 
 
 Ann. No! You must go to bed. 
 
 Millicent. But I won't go back to school. 
 
 Ann. (Going to Millicent, who is still 
 on the couch.) You make it terribly 
 hard for me, Millicent. You don't 
 know what's good for you, of course. 
 I don't expect you to — but I do expect 
 you to be obedient. 
 
 Millicent. But, Mother, I tell you I — 
 
 Ann. Don't be so rebellious. Now come 
 upstairs, please dear, and — 
 
 Millicent. But I won't go back to school, 
 mother, dear. I won't. 
 
 Ann. You say I treat you like a child. 
 You force me to. If you don't want me 
 to punish you — go upstairs at once and 
 don't say another word. 
 
 Millicent. I won't go back. 
 
RACHEL CROTHERS 
 
 Ann. Stop, I say! 
 
 MiLLiCENT. I know what I want to do. 
 
 I'm sixteen. 
 Ann. (Their voices rising together.) 
 
 You're my child. You will obey me. 
 MiLLiCENT. But I won't. You don't un- 
 derstand. I can't mother, I can^t — I 
 
 can't. 
 Ann. Why? Why can't you? 
 MiLLiCENT. Because I — I'm going to be 
 
 married. 
 Ann. You silly child! 
 MiLLiCENT. It's the truth, Mother. I am. 
 Ann. Don't say a thing like that, even 
 
 in fun. 
 MiLLiCENT. It's the truth, I tell you. Vm. 
 
 going to be married. 
 Ann. Some time you are, of course — you 
 
 mean. 
 MiLLiCENT. No — now — soon. That's why 
 
 I left. That's why I'm not going back. 
 Ann. (After drawing a chair to the 
 
 couch and sitting before Millicent.) 
 
 What do you mean? 
 Millicent. I — he — we — we're engaged. 
 Ann. He — who ? 
 
 Millicent. You — You don't know him. 
 Ann. Who? 
 
 Millicent. He's — ^he's perfectly wonder- 
 ful. 
 Ann. Who is he? 
 Millicent. Now, Mother, wait. He — he 
 
 isn't rich — 
 Ann. Well— 
 Millicent. He's poor — ^but he's perfectly 
 
 wonderful — ^he works and he's so noble 
 
 about it. 
 Ann. What does he do? 
 Millicent. He — ^he — Oh, mother, it's 
 
 hard to explain, because he's so different. 
 Ann. What does he dof 
 Millicent. Well — just now he — he drives 
 
 the motor at school — because you see 
 
 he's so proud he — 
 Ann. Drives the motor — a chauffeur, you 
 
 mean ? 
 Millicent. People call him that, of 
 
 course — ^but he isn't — (Ann rises.) 
 
 Mother — (Ann goes to the door and 
 
 locJcs it — going bach to Millicent, who 
 
 had risen.) Now, Mother, don't look 
 
 like that. 
 Ann. Sit down. 
 Millicent. Dont look like that. Let me- 
 
 tell you about it. 
 Ann. (Sitting again.) Yes, tell me 
 
 about it. 
 Millicent. Oh, I — hardly know how to 
 
 begin. 
 
 Ann. He drives the motor — the school 
 motor, you say? 
 
 Millicent. Yes — to the trains, you 
 know — and into town and to church. 
 
 Ann. Who is his father? 
 
 Millicent. Why — I — I don't know who 
 he is. I've never met his father. 
 
 Ann. What is his name? 
 
 Millicent. His father's name? I don't 
 know. 
 
 Ann. The boy's name. 
 
 Millicent. Willie Kern. 
 
 Ann. How does he happen to drive a 
 motor ? 
 
 Millicent. Well, I don't know just how 
 it happened — he's so clever you know, 
 and of course he isn't really a chauffeur 
 at all. 
 
 Ann. What is he then? 
 
 Millicent. Oh, Mother! He just hap- 
 pens to run the school motor. 
 
 Ann. And what did he do before that? 
 
 Millicent. Why he — he ran another mo- 
 tor. Oh, now, Mother, you don't under- 
 stand at all. (She breaks into sobs and 
 throws herself full length on the couch. 
 Ann sits rigidly.) Just because he's 
 poor and clever and drives a motor is 
 no reason why you should act this way. 
 (Sitting up.) He's going to do some- 
 thing else. He's going to come to 
 New York to get a different position. 
 And we'll be married as soon as he gets 
 it, and that's why I came home — to tell 
 you. So there — you see I can't go back 
 to school. (She rises and starts to the 
 door.) 
 
 Ann. Millicent ! Come here. 
 
 Millicent. That's all there is to tell. 
 I'm going to bed now. 
 
 Ann. (Rising.) You know this is the 
 most wild and impossible thing in the 
 world. 
 
 Millicent. I don't. It isnt impossible. 
 I'm going to marry him. I love him 
 better than you or father or anybody in 
 the world and I'm going to marry him. 
 
 Ann. Stop ! Do you want to disgrace us ? 
 How any child of mine could speak — 
 even speak to such a — Oh, the disap- 
 pointment! Where's your pride? How 
 could you? How could you? Millicent, 
 if you'll promise me to give this up I 
 won't say a word to your father. 
 
 Millicent. No — no — I'm going. 
 
 Ann. Don't unlock that door. 
 
 Millicent. I want to go now. 
 
 Ann. You'll never see this boy again. 
 Never speak to him — never write to 
 
DGO 
 
 HE AND SHE 
 
 him — never hear of him. I shall send 
 you away where he'll never know — 
 
 MiLLiCENT. (Coming hack to couch.) You 
 won't ! He loves me and I love him. He 
 understands me. All that vacation when 
 you wouldn't let me come home and all 
 the other girls had gone he was just as 
 good to me as he could be. He knew 
 how lonely I was and he — we got en- 
 gaged that vacation. You wouldn't let 
 me come home. 
 
 Ann. Millicent — you don't know what 
 you're saying. You don't know what 
 you're doing. 
 
 Millicent. Oh, yes, I do. Mother. It's 
 you that don't know. You don't under- 
 stand. 
 
 Ann. (Kneeling before Millicent.) My 
 darling — why — didn't you tell me this 
 when you said you wanted to come 
 home? Why didn't you tell me then? 
 (Sobbing, Ann buries her face in Milli- 
 cent's lap.) 
 
 Millicent. I would have told you — if 
 you'd let me come home — but you 
 wouldn't — and I was so lonely there 
 without the girls and — we — we got en- 
 gaged. You don't understand, Mother. 
 
 Ann. (Lifting her face to Millicent.) 
 Oh, yes, I do, dear. Yes, I do. Tell me 
 — all about it. When did you first 
 know him? How did you — happen to 
 speak to him — I mean to — to love him. 
 
 Millicent. Oh, Mother, why I — he — I 
 just did — he's so handsome and so nice. 
 You haven't any idea how nice he is. 
 Mother. 
 
 Ann. Haven't I, dear? What is he like? 
 Tell me everything — how did it begin? 
 
 Millicent. He — the first time I really 
 knew he was so different you know — 
 
 Ann. Yes, dear. 
 
 Millicent. Was one Sunday morning I 
 was ready for church before anybody 
 else and I went out to get in the motor 
 and ran down the steps and fell, and he 
 jumped out and picked me up and put 
 me in the motor, and of course I 
 thanked him and we had to wait quite 
 a while for the others, and I found out 
 how different and really wonderful he 
 was. All the girls were crazy about him. 
 Here's his picture. (Drawing out a 
 locket which is on a chain around her 
 neck.) It's just a little snapshot which 
 I took myself one morning — and you 
 can't really tell from this how awfully 
 good looking he is. (Ann seizes the 
 locket and looks closely at the picture.) 
 
 His eyes are the most wonderful — and 
 his lashes are the longest I ever saw. 
 You can't see his teeth and they are — 
 well, you'd just love hia teeth. Mother. 
 
 Ann. Would I, dear? Have you seen 
 very much of him ? Hawe you seen him 
 any place besides in the motor, I mean? 
 (Millicent hesitates.) Tell me, dear — 
 everything. I shall understand. 
 
 Millicent. Well, of course, Mother — I 
 had to see him some place else after 
 school began again and the girls were 
 all back and I wasn't going for the mail 
 any more. 
 
 Ann. Of course; and where did you see 
 him? 
 
 Millicent. Why, you see,, it — it was 
 awfully hard, Mummie, because I 
 couldn't tell anybody. Nobody would 
 have understood — except Fanny. She's 
 such a dear. She's been so sympathetic 
 through the whole thing, and she has 
 helped me a lot. There is a fire escape out 
 of our room and Mondays and Thurs- 
 days at nine o'clock at night — 
 
 Ann. Oh — 
 
 Millicent. What, Mother? 
 
 Ann. Nothing — go on, dear. 
 
 Millicent. At exactly nine I'd put on 
 Fanny's long black coat and go down, 
 and he was always there and we always 
 went down in the arbor just a little 
 while. 
 
 Ann. The arbor? Where was the arbor? 
 
 Millicent. Down the path of the other 
 side of the drive — not far from the 
 house; but of course nobody went near 
 it at that time of night — in cold weather 
 and — and w^e'd talk a while and then I'd 
 run back. You don't mind, do you. 
 Mother. What else could I do? 
 
 Ann. And — he's kissed you — of course? 
 
 Millicent. Of course. 
 
 Ann. And you've kissed him? 
 
 Millicent. (Lowering her eyes.) Why 
 yes — Mother — we're engaged. 
 
 Ann. And what did he say to you there 
 in the arbor? 
 
 Millicent. I can't tell you everything he 
 said, Mother. 
 
 Ann. Why not, Millicent? I'm your 
 mother. No one on earth is so close to 
 you — or loves you so much — or cares so 
 much for your happiness — and under- 
 stands so well. I remember when I was 
 engaged to your father — I wasn't much 
 older than you — I know, dear. Tell me 
 what he said. 
 
 Millicent. He thinks Tm pretty. Mother. 
 
KACHEL CROTHEES 
 
 961 
 
 Ann. Yes, dear. 
 
 MiLLiCENT. And he thinks I'm wonderful 
 to understand him and to know what he 
 really is in spite of what he happens to 
 be doing. 
 
 Ann. Yes — and how long did you usually 
 stay there in the arbor? 
 
 MiLLiCENT. Oh, not very long, only last 
 time it was longer. He teased so and 
 I couldn't help it. He — ^he — I — 
 
 Ann. How long was it that time? 
 
 MiLLiCENT. Oh — it— rit was almost two 
 hours last time. 
 
 Ann. And what did you do all that time ? 
 Wasn't it cold? 
 
 MiLLiCENT. He made me put on his over- 
 coat — He just made me. 
 
 Ann. (Holding Millicent close in her 
 arms.) And he held you close — and 
 kissed you — and told you how much he 
 loved you? 
 
 Millicent. Yes, I love him so — Mother — 
 but — I — tonight, was the last night to 
 go again — but I — 
 
 Ann. (Holding Millicent off as she 
 searches her face.) Yes, dear? 
 
 Millicent. I — I was — afraid to go. 
 
 Ann. (Shrieking.) Why? 
 
 Millicent. Oh, Mother — ^Was it wicked 
 to be afraid? I ran away — I wanted to 
 be with you. (Ann snatches Millicent 
 in her arms. Her head falls against 
 Millicent and Millicent's arms hold 
 her close as she sobs. Someone tries the 
 door and knocks.) 
 
 Tom. (In the hall.) Ann! — Ann I 
 
 Ann. Yes ? 
 
 Tom. Why is the door locked? 
 
 Ann. Millicent and I are talking. Wait 
 just a few minutes. And Tom — tell her 
 grandfather not to wait to see Millicent 
 again tonight. She's all right. 
 
 Tom. Sure? 
 
 Ann. I'm sure. 
 
 Millicent. (In a whisper — after listen- 
 ing a moment.) What are you going to 
 tell father? 
 
 Ann. (Sitting on the floor.) Well — you 
 see, dear — you're too young to be mar- 
 ried now — much too young — and — 
 
 Millicent. Oh, now, Mother, if you're 
 going to talk that way. Wait till you 
 see him. 
 
 Ann. That's just what I want to do. I've 
 got such a lovely plan for us — for the 
 summer. 
 
 Millicent. But I want to be married as 
 soon as he gets his — 
 
 Ann. I know, his position — and while 
 he's looking and getting settled you and 
 I will go abroad. 
 
 Millicent. You're awfully good. Mother, 
 but if you really want to do something 
 for me — I'd rather you'd give me that 
 money to be married. 
 
 Ann. But Millicent, my dear child — I 
 have to go. I'm so tired. I've been 
 working awfully hard this winter. 
 You're the only one in the world who 
 could really be with me and take care 
 of me. I need you. 
 
 Millicent. Poor Mother! I don't want 
 to be selfish and if you need me — I'll go. 
 
 Ann. (Catching Millicent in her arms.) 
 Thank you, dear. 
 
 Millicent. If you'll promise me that I 
 can be married when I get back. 
 
 Ann. (Getting to her feet.) If — you — 
 still — want to — marry him when you 
 come — back with me — ^you may. I 
 promise. 
 
 Millicent. Mother! I didn't know you 
 loved me so much. 
 
 Ann. Didn't you, dear? ITow go to bed. 
 (They start to the door together. Ann 
 catches Millicent again, kissing her 
 tenderly as though she were something 
 new and precious.) 
 
 Millicent. What's the matter. Mother? 
 
 Ann. ISTothing, dear — Good night. 
 
 Millicent. Good night. 
 
 Tom. (Coming into doorway as Milli- 
 cent unlocks and opens the door.) Not 
 in bed yet? 
 
 Millicent. (Throwing her arms ahout 
 her father s neck.) Oh, dad. I'm so 
 happy. (She goes out.) 
 
 Ann. (Sitting at the fire.) Come, in, 
 Tom. I want to talk to you about 
 Millicent. 
 
 Tom. (Closing the door and going to 
 Ann.) What's the matter? 
 
 Ann. She thinks she's in love. 
 
 Tom. What? 
 
 Ann. Our baby. She wants to be mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Tom. What do you mean? 
 
 Ann. That's why she came home. 
 
 Tom. Good Heavens, Ann! Married? 
 What has she got mixed up in? How 
 did such a thing happen? How could 
 it? 
 
 Ann. Because I didn't let her come home 
 when she wanted to. Don^t say any- 
 thing, Tom. I can't bear it now. 
 
962 
 
 HE AKD SHE 
 
 Tom. (Putting a hand on her head ten- 
 derly.) Don't dear! Don't! It — might 
 have — happened — anyway. 
 
 Ann. Oh, the things that can happen I 
 
 Tom. Has she told you everything? 
 
 Ann. Everything. 
 
 Tom. What have you said to her? What 
 are you going to do? 
 
 Ann. I'm going to take her away — and 
 win her — till she gives up of her own 
 free will — I shall have to have the wis- 
 dom of all the ages. I shall have to be 
 more fascinating than the boy. That's 
 a pretty big undertaking, Tom. I won- 
 der if I'll be equal to it. 
 
 Tom. You mean you're going to give up 
 your frieze and go away with her? 
 (Ann nods her head.) You can't do it, 
 Ann. 
 
 Ann. (Rising and moving away.) Oh, 
 yes, I can. 
 
 Tom. You cannot. Don't lose your head. 
 You're pledged to finish it and deliver 
 it at a certain time. You can't play 
 fast and lose with a big piece of work 
 like that. 
 
 Ann. Youll have to make my frieze, 
 Tom. 
 
 Tom. I will not ! I utterly and absolutely 
 refuse to. You make Millicent behave 
 and break this thing up and you go on 
 with your — 
 
 Ann. I can't. I can't. She's been in 
 danger — absolute danger. 
 
 Tom. How? 
 
 Ann. Oh, I'll tell you. I'll tell you. She 
 ran away to me — to me — and I was 
 pushing her off. My little girl! She's 
 got to be held tight in my arms and 
 carried through. 
 
 Tom. Ann, I'm not going to allow this to 
 wipe out what you've done. I'll settle 
 her — 
 
 Ann. Tom, you can't speak of it to her — 
 not breathe it — 
 
 Tom. Of course I will. 
 
 Ann. No you won't . If we cross her 
 she'll get at him some way — somehow. 
 
 Tom. I'm not going to let you sacrifice 
 yourself for a wayward — 
 
 Ann. It's my job. She is what I've given 
 to life. If I fail her now — my whole 
 life's a failure. Will you make my 
 frieze, dear, will you? 
 
 Tom. No. It's yours. You've got to 
 have the glory of it. Ann, I haven^t 
 been fair — but you're going to have 
 this and all that's coming to you. I'm 
 not going to let anything take it away 
 from you. It's too important. My God, 
 you've not only beaten me — you've won 
 over the biggest men in the field — with 
 your own brain and your ov/n hands — 
 in a fair, fine, hard fight. You're cut 
 up now — but if you should give this 
 thing up — there'll be times when you'd 
 eat your heart out to be at work on it — 
 when the artist in you will yell to be 
 let out. 
 
 Ann. I know. I know. And I'll hate 
 you because you're doing it — and I'll 
 hate myself because I gave it up — and 
 I'll almost — hate — her. I know. I 
 know. You needn't tell me. W^hy I've 
 seen my men and women up there — 
 their strong limbs stretclied — their hair 
 blown back. I've seen the crowd look- 
 ing up — I've heard people say— "A 
 woman did that" and my heart has al- 
 most burst with pride — not so much 
 that I had done it — but for all women. 
 And then the door opened — and Milli- 
 cent came in. There isn't any choice, 
 Tom — she's part of my body — part of 
 my soul. Will you make my friezw, 
 dear, will you? (Falling against him.) 
 
 Tom. (Taking her in his arms.) My 
 darling! I'll do whatever makes 14; 
 easiest for you. Don't think I don*t 
 know all — all — it means to you. My 
 God, it's hard. 
 
 Ann. (Releasing herself and going to the 
 hall door.) Put out the light. I hope 
 she's asleep. (They go out into the 
 lighted hall. After a moment 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS.) 
 
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE AMERICAN 
 
 DRAMA 
 
 Bibliographies concerning the individual playwrights are given in the introductions, 
 and except in cases of books of a general nature, the items are not repeated here. 
 
 HISTORY AND CRITICISM OF THE DRAMA AND STAGE 
 
 Andrews, Charlton, The Drama To-day. Philadelphia, 1913. 
 
 Blake, Charles, An Historical Account of the Providence Stage; heing a paper 
 read before the Rhode Island Historical Society, October 25th, 1860. (With 
 Additions.) Providence, 1868. 
 
 Broadbent, R. J., A History of Pantomime. London, 1901. ''Pantomime in 
 America," pp. 214-216. 
 
 Brown, T. A., A History of the New York Stage. From the First Performance 
 in 1732 to 1901. 3 Vols. New York, 1903. 
 
 Burton, Richard, The New American Drama. New York, 1913. 
 
 Cheney, Sheldon, The New Movement in the Theatre. New York, 1914. 
 
 Clapp, W. "W., A Record of the Boston Stage. Boston and Cambridge, 1853. 
 
 Clark, Barrett H., The British and American Drama of To-day. New. York, 
 1915. 
 
 Cooke, John Esten, The Virginia Comedians or Old Days in the Old Dominion, 
 New York, 1854. [A novel, in which an interesting description of Hallam's 
 Company is given.] 
 
 Crawford, M. C, The Romance of the American Theatre. Boston, 1913. 
 
 Daly, C. v., First Theater in America. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 2, 
 Vol. 1. New York, 1896. 
 
 Dickinson, Thomas H., The Case of American Drama. Boston, 1915. 
 
 Dunlap, William, History of the American Theatre. New York, 1832. 2 Vols. 
 London, 1833. 
 
 Durang, Charles, The Philadelphia Stage. From the year 1749 to the year 
 1855. Partly compiled from the papers of his father, the late John Durang; 
 with notes by the editors [of the Philadelphia Sunday Dispatch.]. Pub- 
 lished serially in the Philadelphia Dispatch as follows : First series, 1749- 
 1821, beginning in the issue of May 7, 1854; Second series, 1822-1830, 
 beginning June 29, 1856; Third series, 1830-1 — 1855, beginning July 8, 
 1860. 
 
 Eaton, W. P., The American Stage of To-day. Boston, 1908. 
 
 963 
 
964 GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Eaton, W. P., At the New Theatre and Others. Boston, 1910. 
 
 Ford, P. L., Washington and the Theater. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 2, 
 
 Vol. 8. New York, 1899. 
 Ford, P. L., Some Notes towards an Essay on The Beginnings of American 
 
 Dram,atic Literature, 1606-1789. Privately printed. Brookl:^Ti, 1893. 
 
 Also New England Mag., New Series Vol. IX, February, 1894, pp. 673-87, 
 
 "The Beginnings of American Dramatic Literature." 
 Greenwood, Isaac J., The Circus, Its Origin and Growth Prior to 1835. Dunlap 
 
 Society Publications, Ser. 2, Vol. 5. New York, 1898. 
 Hamilton, Clayton, Studies in Stagecraft. New York, 1914. 
 Hamilton, Clayton, The Theory of the Theatre. New York, 1910. 
 Hapgood, Norman, The Stage in America, 1897-1900. New York, 1901. 
 Henderson, Archibald, The Changing Drama. New York, 1914. 
 Hutton, Laurence, Curiosities of the American Stage. New York, 1891. 
 Ireland, J. N., Records of the New York Stage, from 1750 to 1860. 2 Vols. 
 
 New York, 1866-67. 
 ]\IacKaye, Percy, The Playhouse and the Play. New York, 1909. 
 MacKaye, Percy, The Civic Theatre. New York, 1912. 
 Matthews, Brander, Inquiries and Opinions. New York, 1907. 
 Matthews, Brander, The Historical Novel and Other Essays. New York, 1901. 
 Moderwell, Hiram K., The Theatre of To-day. New York and London, 1914. 
 Moses, M. J., The American Dramatist. Boston, 1911. 
 
 Phelps, H. P., Players of a Century. A Record of the Albany Stage. Includ- 
 ing Notices of Prominent Actors who have appeared in America. Albany, 
 
 1880. 
 Rees, James, The Dramatic Authors of America. Philadelphia, 1845. 
 Ruhl, Arthur, Second Nights. New York, 1914. 
 Seilhamer, G. 0., History of the American Theatre. 3 Vols. Philadelphia, 
 
 1888-91. 
 Sonneck, 0. G., Early Opera in America. New York, London and Boston, 
 
 1915. 
 Strang, L. C, Players and Plays of the Last Quarter Century. 2 Vols. Boston, 
 
 1902. 
 Tompkins, E., and Kilby, Q., The History of the Boston Theatre, 1854-1901. 
 
 Boston and New York, 1908. 
 Wemyss, F. C, Chronology of the American Stage from 1752 to 1852. New 
 
 York, n.d. [1852]. 
 Willard, G. 0., History of the Providence Stage. Providence, 1891. 
 
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 965 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND LISTS OF PLAYS 
 
 Adams, W. Davenport, A Dictionary of the Drama. Philadelphia, 1904. 
 
 Bibliography of Dramatic Literature. Prepared by the World Drama Prompt- 
 ers. LaJolla, Cal., 1915. 
 
 Catalogue of the Library of George Brimley. Part 4, pp. 123-127. Hartford, 
 1886. 
 
 A Catalogue of a Collection of American Plays, 1756-1885. Dodd and Living- 
 ston. New York, n.d. 
 
 Catalogue of the Dramas and Dramatic Poems contained in the Public Library 
 of Cincinnati. Cincinnati, 1879. 
 
 Clapp, J. B. and Edgett, E. F., Plays of the Present. Dunlap Society Publica- 
 tions, Ser. 2, extra vol. New York, 1902. 
 
 Clarence, Reginald, The Stage Cyclopedia. London, 1909. [English Perform- 
 ances of American Plays.] 
 
 Dramatic Compositions Copyrighted in the United States. 1870-1915. [Issued 
 by the Copyright Office, Library of Congress, Washington, D. C. This is 
 most helpful and will be continued.] 
 
 Faxson, Frederick W., Editor, The Bulletin of Bibliography and Dramatic 
 Index. Published quarterly. Boston. 
 
 Faxson, Frederick W., Editor, The Dramatic Index. Annually since 1909. 
 [Invaluable.] 
 
 Haskell, Daniel C, A List of American Dramas in the New York Public 
 Library. [Revised January, 1916, from Bulletin of October, 1915.] 
 
 Roden, R. F., Later American Plays, 1831-1900. Dunlap Society Publications, 
 Ser. 2, Vol. 12. New York, 1900. 
 
 Stockbridge, J. C, A Catalogue of the Harris Collection of American Poetry. 
 Providence, 1886. 
 
 Wegelin, Oscar, Early American Plays, 1714-1830. Dunlap Society Publica- 
 tions, Ser. 2, Vol. 10. New York, 1900, Revised ed. 1905. 
 
 ORIGINAL SOURCES 
 
 Dunlap 's Diary, Manuscript Memoirs of Wm. Dunlap or Daily Occurrences. 
 Vol. 14, from July 27, 1797, to Dec. 13, 1797; Vol. 15, from Dec. 14, 1797, 
 to June 1, 1798; Vol. 24, from Oct. 15, 1819, to April 27, 1820; Vol. 30, 
 from June 26, 1833, to Dec. 31, 1834. [In the Library of the New York 
 Historical Society.] 
 
 Wood's Diary, A Manuscript Diary or Daily Account Book of W. B. Wood, in 
 9 volumes extending from 1810 to 1835. [In the Library of the University 
 of Pennsylvania.] 
 
966 GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 COLLECTIONS 
 
 Dickinson, Thomas H., Chief Contemporary Dramatists. Boston, 1915. [Con- 
 tains four American plays.] 
 
 Pierce, John Alexander, The Masterpieces of Modern Drama. Abridged in 
 Narrative with Dialogue of the Great Scenes. Prefaced with a critical 
 essay by Brander Matthews. [Vol. 2 contains selections from twelve Ameri- 
 can plays.] New York, 1915. 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF ACTORS AND MANAGERS, AND SIMILAR WORKS 
 
 GIVING INFORMATION CONCERNING 
 
 THE DRAMA 
 
 Alger, William R., Life of Edwin Forrest. 2 Vols. Philadelphia, 1877. 
 
 Barrett, Lawrence, Charlotte Cushman, a Lecture. Dunlap Society Publica- 
 tions, Ser. 1, Vol. 9. New York, 1889. 
 
 Barrett, Lawrence, Edwin Forrest. Boston, 1882. 
 
 Bernard, John, Retrospections of the Stage. 2 Vols. London, 1830. Re- 
 printed with additions as Retrospections of America, 1797-1811. Ed. by 
 Mrs. W. B. Bernard, with introduction by Laurence Hutton and Brander 
 Matthews. New York, 1887. 
 
 Butler, Frances Anne Kemble, Records of a Girlhood. New York, 1879. 
 
 Clarke, Asia Booth, The Elder and the Younger Booth. Boston, 1882. 
 
 Clement, Mrs. Clara Erskine, Charlotte Cushman. Boston, 1882. 
 
 Creahan, John, Life of Laura Keene. Philadelphia, 1897. 
 
 Clapp, J. B. and E. F. Edgett, Players of the Present. Dunlap Society Publi- 
 cations, Ser. 2, Vols. 9, 11, 13. New York, 1899-1901. 
 
 Drew, Mrs. John, Autobiographical Sketch of. New York, 1899. 
 
 Edgett, E. F. Edward Loomis Davenport. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 
 2, Vol. 14. New York, 1901. 
 
 Eytinge, Rose, The Memories of. New York, 1905. 
 
 Field, Kate, Charles Albert Fechter. Boston, 1882. 
 
 Frohman, Daniel, and Marcosson, Isaac F., Charles Frohman. New York, 1916. 
 
 Frohman, Daniel, Memories of a Maimger. New York, 1911. 
 
 Gilbert, Mrs. Anne H., Stage Reminiscences. Edited by C. M. Martin. New 
 York, 1901. 
 
 Ireland, Joseph N., Mrs. Duff. Boston, 1882. 
 
 The Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson. New York, 1890. 
 
 Keese, William L., William E. Burton. Dunlap Society Publications, Ser. 1, 
 Vol. 14. New York, 1891. 
 
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 967 
 
 Leavitt, M. B., Fifty Years of Theatrical Management. New York, 1912. 
 
 Leman, Walter M., Memories of an Old Actor. San Francisco, 1886. 
 
 Ludlow, Noah M., Dramatic Life as I Found It. St. Louis, 1880. 
 
 Maeder, Clara Fisher, Autobiography. Ed. by Douglas Taylor. Dunlap Soci- 
 ety Publications, Ser. 2, Vol. 3. New York, 1897. 
 
 Matthews, Brander, and Hutton, Laurence, Actors and Actresses of Great Brit- 
 ain and the United States from the Days of David Garrick to the Present 
 Time. New York, 1886. 
 
 Modjeska, Helena, Memories and Impressions. New York, 1910. 
 
 Moses, M. J., Famous Actor-Families in America. New York, 1906. 
 
 Morris, Clara, Life on the Stage. My Personal Experiences and Recollections. 
 New York, 1902. 
 
 Mowatt, Anna Cora (Mrs. Ritchie), The Autobiography of an Actress or 
 Eight Years on the Stage. Boston, 1854. 
 
 Murdoch, James E., The Stage, or Recollections of Actors and Acting from an 
 Experience of Fifty Years. Philadelphia, 1880. 
 
 Northall, William K., Life and Recollections of Yankee Hill. New York, 1850. 
 
 P^irce, James Harry, The Magazine and the Drama. Dunlap Society Publica- 
 tions, Series 2, Vol. 2. New York, 1896. 
 
 Rees, James, The Life of Edwin Forrest. Philadelphia, n.d. [1874]. 
 
 Smith, Sol, Theatrical Management in the West and South for Thirty Years. 
 New York, 1868. 
 
 Sothem, Edward H., The Melancholy Tale of Me. My Remembrances. New 
 York, 1916. 
 
 Stoddart, J. H., Recollections of a Player. New York, 1902. 
 
 Strang, Lewis C, Famous Actors of To-day in America. Boston, 1900. 
 
 Wallack, Lester, Memories of Fifty Years. New York, 1889. 
 
 Walsh, Townsend, The Career of Dion Boucicault. Dunlap Society Publica- 
 tions, Ser. 3, Vol. 1. New York, 1915. 
 
 Wemyss, F. C, Theatrical Biography of Eminent Actors and Authors. New 
 York, [185-]. 
 
 Wemyss, Francis C, Twenty-six Years of the Life of an Actor Manager. 2 Vols. 
 New York, 1847. 
 
 Wilstach, Paul, Richard Mansfield, the Man and the Actor. New York, 1909. 
 
 Winter, William, A Sketch of the Life of John Gilbert. Dunlap Society Pub- 
 lications, Series 1, Vol. 11. New York, 1890. 
 
 Winter, William, The Jeffersons. Boston, 1881. 
 
 Winter, William, Other Days; Being Chronicles and Memories of the Stage. 
 New York, 1908. 
 
 Winter, William, The Wallet of Time, Containing Personal, Biographical, and 
 
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Critical Reminiscence of the American Theatre, 2 Vols. New York, 1913. 
 Winter William, Brief Chronicles. Parts 1, 2, 3. Dunlap Society Publications, 
 
 Series 1, Vols. 7, 8, 10. New York, 1889. 
 Wood, W. B., Personal Recollections of the Stage. . . . During a Period of 
 
 Forty Years, Philadelphia, 1855. 
 
 Note to Revised Edition. ^ 
 
 Since the publication of the first edition, the most important works treating 
 the American Drama and Stage have been as follows : 
 Baker, Louis C., The German Drama in English on the New York Stage to 1830, 
 
 Philadelphia, 1917. (University of Pennsylvania Thesis.) 
 Belasco, David, The Theatre Through Its Stage Door, edited by L. V. Defoe, 
 
 New York, 1919. 
 Brede, Charles F., The German Drama in English on the Philadelphia Stage 
 
 From 1794 to 1830. 1918. (University of Pennsylvania Thesis.) 
 Coad, Oral S., William Dunlap, a Study of His Life and Works and of His 
 
 Place in Contemporary Culture, Publications of the Dunlap Society, New 
 
 York, 1917. (Columbia University Thesis.) 
 Daly, Joseph Francis, The Life of Augustin Daly, New York, 1917. 
 Hornblow, Arthur, History of the Theatre in America From Its Beginnings to 
 
 the Present Time, 2 v. Philadelphia, 1919. 
 McCullough, Bruce W., The Life and Writings of Richard Penn Smith, With 
 
 a Reprint of His Play, ''The Deformed,'' 1830. Menasha, Wisconsin, 1917. 
 
 (University of Pennsylvania Thesis.) 
 Reed, Perley I., The Realistic Presentation of American Characters in Native 
 
 American Plays Prior to Eighteen Seventy. Columbus, Ohio, 1918. (Ohio 
 
 State University Thesis.) 
 Towse, John R., Sixty Years of the Theater. New York, 1916. 
 Winter, William, The Life of David Belasco, 2 v. New York, 1918. 
 
 Among the Most Significant Articles Are: 
 
 Coad, Oral S., ^'The First American Play," Nation, VoL 107, No. 2772,; 
 
 August 17, 1918. 
 Coad, Oral S., ''The American Theatre in the Eighteenth Century," South 
 
 Atlantic Quarterly, Vol. XVII, No. 3, pp. 190-7. July, 1918. 
 Henderson, Archibald, ''The American Drama, A Survey," Sewanee Revieuj, 
 
 Vol. 26, pp. 228-40, April, 1918 
 Quinn, Arthur Hobson, "The Early Drama, 1756-1860," in the Cambridge 
 
 History of American Literature^ Vol, I, pp. 215-232, N. Y., 1917. 
 
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 969 
 
 Two Collections Have Been Published: 
 
 Mayorga, Margaret Gardner, Representative One-Act Plays By American 
 
 Authors, Boston, 1919. 
 Moses, Montrose J., Representative Plays By American Dramatists, VoL I, 
 
 New York, 1918. (Ten plays.) 
 


 
 
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