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 NEW YORK. 
 
 COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ED: G. P. WILKINS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF “MY WIFE’S MIRROR.” 
 
 AT LAURA KEENE’S THEATRE, NEW YORK, .MON- 
 DAY EVENING, NOV. 24, 1858. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Tear One Thousand Eight Hundred and Fifty-Six, by E. Q. F. W.'lblca, 
 In the Cle'i’s Office of the District court of the Oa,t«l States tor the Southern District of New Yerfc. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 122 Nassau Street ; (Up Stairs.) 
 
©ast of tfje Characters. — (Y oung New York.) 
 
 Mr. Ten-per-cent, pater familias, a retired Merchant, addicted to 
 note-shaving, kite-flying, anxious to represent this ungrateful 
 republic in Congress, afflicted with a fast and fashionable 
 
 wife Mr. Burnet 
 
 Mr. Adolphus Washington Ten-per-cent , son of his father, the fore- 
 going, addicted to billiards, brandy and water, and the corps 
 
 de ballet. Mr, George Jordan 
 
 Mr. Airy Froth , A. B., addicted to romancing, vulgarly called 
 blowing ; distinguished for having no affairs of his own, and 
 paying the most profound attention to those of other people ; 
 ex-politician, ex-diplomatist, ex-musical agent, ex-journalist, 
 
 ex-artist Mr. T. B. Johnston 
 
 Mr. Needham Crawl , addicted to Bible Societies, Religious Anni- 
 versaries, Christian Associations, Oxford prayer books and 
 two per cent, per month ; with one eye in Wall street, and 
 
 the other on Grace Church Mr. Stoddart 
 
 Mr. Nutgalls , Editor of the “ Daily Scorcher,” addicted to saying 
 
 unpleasant things in the wrong place Mr. C. Wheatleigh 
 
 Signor Patrici Skibbcrini, a noble Roman, originally from Galway, 
 first Tenor at the Italian Opera ; addicted to $1,500 per 
 
 month Mr. Lingham 
 
 Mrs. Ten-per-cent, addicted to fashionable society, and four parties 
 
 a week Mrs. H. P. Grattan 
 
 Miss Rose Ten-per-cent, daughter of the foregoing, a flower, just 
 cut from the bush, at Springier Institute ; addicted to driving 
 three-minute horses, sherry-cobblers, the German and Skib- 
 
 berini Miss Laura Keene 
 
 Miss Cerulia Sawin, from Boston, Massachusetts, highly intel- 
 lectual ; addicted to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Professor 
 Agassiz, astronomical observations, conic sections and pri- 
 mary formations, Miss Josephine Manners 
 
 Jane, a Domestic, Miss^ 
 
 PROGRAMME OF SCENERY AND INCIDENTS. 
 
 Act I. — The United States Hotel Saratoga Springs. — The fir 
 the Season — “ I’m Dying for a Cobbler:” Exciting Brush or 
 Road ; The German ; A little bit of Lecturing and Love flaking ; Sud- 
 den appearance of Young New York — I’ll Sumnerize yo|u ! Adjourn- 
 ment to the Clifton House. — Tableau ! 
 
 Act II. — Mr. Ten Per Cent's Basement — slightly subterranean, but 
 verv nice; A Grand Family Row ; Remarkable Evidence of Spunk on 
 the part of Young New York ; A Thrilling Scene with a Denouement 
 that any body might have expected. 
 
 Act III., Scene 1 .—Editorial Rooms of the Scorcher, not intended for 
 any New York Papers ; Description of a Great Western Actress. 
 
 Scene 2. — The Tenant House f Young New York under a Cloud, but 
 Gay as a Lark ; A Bran New Novel, copyright secured ; Mr. Ten Per 
 Cent reads the Afternoon Papers. Scene 4. — The G\een Room of the 
 Acculemy of Music ; Debut of the New Singer ; Finale to Cinderella, 
 “ Now with Grief no longer Bending.” — Conclusion. 
 
 Time of Representation Two Hours. 
 
 i 
 
STOP A MOMENT! 
 
 On the first night of this piece, the author had the honor to appear 
 before the curtain, in response to the call of the audience. He also 
 had the pleasure to address the audience, and is sorry to learn from 
 various quarters, that his eloquent remarks were altogether inaudible in 
 the front of the house. It has been further stated, that the speech was 
 a little confidential chat with Mr. Thomas Baker, the conductor of the 
 orchestra. Mr. Baker, however, has assured the author, that he is 
 altogether in the dark as to the remarks made on the interesting 
 
 occasion. ' _ 
 
 Rather than allow so noble a specimen of forensic eloquence to be 
 
 lost to posterity, the author has decided to embody it here. 
 
 The author, then, desires to thank the public, the actors, and the 
 press, for the extreme kindness with which his first efforts at dramatic 
 composition have been patronised, performed and reviewed ; and, using 
 an entirely original expression, to say that his gratitude is altogether 
 too profound to be expressed in words. 
 
 To Miss Laura Keene, the thanks of the author are especially due, 
 
 for. her care and attention displayed in getting up the piece ; and for 
 her delicate deference to the author’s requests, reasonable or unreason- 
 able. Nothing could be finer than the acting of Miss Keene and Mr 
 George Jordan, in the characters which embody the speciality^of tlu 
 comedy, and much of its success is due to their artistic performance 
 To Mr. Charles Wheatleigh, Mr. Thomas B. Johnston, Mr. Bur- 
 nett, Mr. Stoddart, Mr. Lingham, Mrs. Grattan and Miss Josephine 
 Manners the acknowledgments of the author are justly due. 
 
 To the great public, which generously gave its approbation to the 
 young author’s imperfect effort, he returns his thanks, and will endeavor 
 to deserve the favor so lavishly bestowed. It was not expected that 
 this comedy which deals more with facts than fancies would please 
 every body, and that ‘ it has satisfied the majority is sufficient for all 
 practical purposes. Not to be at all impertinent, the minority should 
 remember the remarks of Hamlet — 
 
 “ Let the galled jade wince, 
 
 Our withers are unwrung.” 
 
 And so, sweet friends, farewell, until we meet again. 
 
 The Autho - 
 
A* 
 
 rw 
 
 (Costumes. — (Young New York.) 
 
 MR. TEN-PER-CENT — First Act — Light Summer Dress — Second and 
 Third Acts, Black Suit, rather seedy. 
 
 MR. CRAWL — Black Suit, White Cravat, no beard or moustache. 
 
 MR. FROTH — First Act — Fashionable Summer Promenade — Third 
 Act, Black suit. 
 
 MR. NUTGALLS — Fashionable Promenade. 
 
 MR. WASHINGTON TEN-PER-CENT— First Act— White Panta- 
 loons, light loose Coat, white Waistcoat, very broad Watch Ribbon, 
 low cut patent leather Shoes, no whiskers and a slight moustache. — 
 Second Act — Fashionable Promenade, very long loose Coat, light 
 Trousers, outre hat. Boots. — Third Act — Seedy thin Coat, spotted 
 with ink, no Waistcoat, Slippers, seedy Trousers — Fourth Act — 
 Evening Dress. 
 
 MR. SKIBBERINI — First Act — Full Ball Dress — Second Act — Black 
 suit, white Gloves. 
 
 ROSE TEN-PER-CENT — First Act — Ball Dress — Second Act — 
 Travelling Dress — Third Act — Plain Black Silk Dress — Fourth Act 
 — Evening Dress. • 
 
 CERULIA — First Act — Ball Dress — Second Act — Fashionable Morn- 
 ing Dress, (should wear constantly an eye-glass, black mounted) — 
 Fourth Act — Evening Dress. 
 
 MRS. TEN-PER-CENT — First Act — Ball Dress — Second Act — Pro- 
 menade. 
 
 properties. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene L — Furniture for room seen through the Flat, Cigars in cases 
 md matches for Ten-per-cent and Nutgalls. Arm chairs in front of 
 Ordinary hotel chairs, Ice cream for Rose. Light cane for 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene T. — Lunch Table, l. c , with decanters, Lounge, n., Library 
 Chairs, Bookcases, Mirror, handsome Furniture, Book in Library for 
 Cerulia to find, Newspaper for Cerulia, Letter and Newspaper for Ten- 
 ^ per-cent. (No. 1 2, Act II.) Written Card, (large) for Mrs. Ten-per- 
 
 1 cent, a Tract and a Flacon for Crawl— Door Bell and noise of Trunks, 
 e. e., Blank Note for Jane, (No. 3, Act II.) 
 
 Y act III. 
 
 [ Scene I. — "Writing Desk, with writing materials, paper and manu- 
 L scripts, r„ Two Office Chairs, Basket for waste paper, written paper, 
 f (No. 1, Act III.) Concert Bill on desk, (IB* to be cleared.) 
 
 Scene II. — Fireplace, Furniture of Tenant House, cheap Furniture, 
 Table s. c., and a boquet on it, as well as one of Singer’s Sewing Ma- 
 chines, c., another Table, l., with writing materials, Cooking Utensils 
 at fireplace, a Canary Bird in cage, written paper. (No. 2., Act III.,) 2 
 i sheets newspaper, Herald on table, (No. 3., Act III,) Newspaper, Act 
 I III., for Ten-per-cent, (blank,) Evening Mirror, No. 6, for Jane, (writ- 
 
 r — 
 
 363661 
 
 Q 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Represents the piazza of the United States Hotel, at Saratoga 
 
 Springs. Practical windows open from the ball-room on the piazza. 
 
 The front of the scene represents a park. The footlights should be down. 
 
 A quadrille is danced in the ball-room. Chairs in front. Strong lights 
 
 behind the scene, in f. 
 
 Mr. Ten-per-cent. [ Discovered sitting on the piazza, r. c., smoking.] 
 Three weeks at Saratoga, and except one jolly dinner at the Lake 
 House, with some Wall Street fellows, not one solitary drop of comfort 
 have I had yet. What good is all my money to me, I’d like to know. 
 I’ve got a great house in Madison Avenue ; got the furniture of the 
 parlors out from Paris — cost a cool ten thousand. Might have got it 
 just as good here for five, I’ve no doubt ; but American manufactures 
 are not good enough for fashionable people. Fashionable people — bah ! 
 
 Enter Crawl, l. 3 e. 
 
 Crawl. Ah, my dear sir ! Soliloquizing 1 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Hollo ! Crawl ! is that you, old fellow 1 I’m glad to see 
 you. Yes, I was thinking aloud. 
 
 Crawl. I trust, my dear sir, that no unpleasant thoughts intruded. 
 “ All is vanity,” saith the preacher, but Saratoga is said to be very gay, 
 this year. 
 
 Ten-per-cent, [contemptuously .] Gay ! — humph. What is all their 
 gayety to me 1 
 
 Crawl, [solemnly.] What, indeed, children of sin bom in iniquity 1 
 
 Ten-per-cent. I don’t know that. There’s a good many Southern 
 people here, but most of them look as if they were born in New .York. 
 But what I was saying was, that their gayety is nothing to me. They 
 don’t know me except when they want a subscription to one of their 
 infernal hops ! Then I have to come down — heavy enough it is, too. 
 What with new dresses for the women, three dollar boquets, and all 
 sorts of trash — not that I care about the money— only they- don’t seem 
 to get anything for it. 
 
 Crawl. Mistaken souls that dream of heaven. If they would only 
 spend their money for the spread of religious tracts and pious pocket- 
 handkerchiefs among the Camanches. 
 
6 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Well, I don’t know about that. My wife bought two 
 pocket-handkerchiefs the other day — loves of mo-shors, she called ’em — 
 and gave two hundred and fifty a-piece for ’em. A Camanche Indian 
 might use ’em for rifle wadding, but I’m certain he’d never think of 
 wiping his nose on ’em. [ Taking out cigar.'] Have a weed, Crawl 1 
 
 Crawl. Smoking, sir, is a vanity, and I eschew tobacco, but my phy- 
 sician recommends it to quiet my nervous system. Yes, I’ll take one, 
 thank you. [Lights cigar.] Your lot is a happy one, sir — boundless 
 wealth — a lovely daughter. 
 
 Ten-per-cent, (r.) Humbug ! I am a slave, sir. Can’t enjoy my own 
 property. Got a splendid house — cost (furniture and all) a cool hundred 
 thousand. Parlors are always shut up, unless my wife gives a splurge, 
 and then I can’t get in. I’m kept under ground, in the basement, and, 
 the windows being grated, it looks shockingly like the Tombs. Then I 
 have a closet to sleep in, in the third story. I’m too vulgar to meet my 
 wife’s friends, but they drink my wine, nevertheless. Fashion keeps 
 us out of our comfortable homes three months in the year, and sends us 
 here to Saratoga, where we pay two hundred dollars a-week for a dog- 
 kennel, which they call a parlor, and three dry-goods boxes, impudently 
 termed bed-rooms ; get nothing to eat — drive over dusty roads — and 
 drink water, flavored with old iron, boot-heels and brimstone — bah ! 
 
 Crawl . (l.) Yes, my dear sir, what you say is, indeed, too true ; the 
 frivolity of fashionable life is, indeed, terrible ; Doctor Burn-’em-all 
 preached such a sweet discourse to our association last summer upon 
 that subject. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Yes, he’s a powerful preacher — [Aside.] has a power- 
 ful salary too, and makes a tour to Europe to help his bronchitis — it’s 
 just as bad next summer, and down we come with more money. The 
 Doctor’s Italian campaigns are as expensive as Napoleon’s. By the 
 bye, Crawl, how do you come on with Rose 1 
 
 Crawl. Not well, sir ; she’s a strange girl — no seriousness about her 
 at all ; talks all the time about the opera and horses. Sometimes she 
 astonishes me by asking about La Grange’s shake. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Her what? 
 
 Crawl. Shake 1 don’t know what it is — never heard of it in Wall 
 Street — don’t think it occurs in church music. 
 
 Nutgalls enters c.from door. 
 
 Nut. [Aside.] Max has to pay twenty-eight hundred a month for it, 
 though. 
 
 Crawl. And then she wants me to look at a new horse, and asks ms 
 what is the best trotting time, under the saddle. 
 
 Nut. [Back.] She’ll run you the fastest race you ever heard of, if you 
 get her. 
 
 Crawl. If I attempt to divert her attention from worldly frivolities* 
 she laughs and says that no one in society goes to church, except to 
 hear the singing. 
 
 Nut. The old fogies go to sleep. 
 
 .Ten-per-cent. I really can’t imagine what ails the women. Rose 
 
YOUNG NEW YOUK. 
 
 used to be tho quietest of girls — quite like that queer little cousin of 
 hers from Boston — but stick to Rose, she’s good stock, fully up to par. 
 
 Crawl. I’m afraid that profane singer, from the opera, has a design 
 upon her virgin heart. 
 
 Nut. [Aside.] As you have upon her virgin bank account. 
 
 Tcn-per-ccnt. Confound those fellows ! why can’t they eat their mac- 
 caroni at home 1 Why, my wife patronizes Shibiberninny, or whatever 
 his name is, I can’t see. People ought to stick to their position, I say. 
 
 Nut. [ Advancing .] Some of us would be transferred from the Fifth 
 to the First Avenue, if that rule were carried out. Your servant, gen- 
 tlemen. 
 
 • Ten per-cent. Ah ! Scorcher, how are you? What’s going on inside 
 — got an item for us, or for to-morrow’s paper 1 
 
 Nut. [ Imitating Crawl.] The Scorcher is engaged in the great work 
 of regenerating humanity, settling the affairs of the nation, and regu- 
 lating the destinies of Europe, at two cents per copy, and one shilling a 
 line for advertisements ! And we can't afford space to puff broken down 
 watering places and used up belles. 
 
 Crawl. I never read the secular press. My researches are confined 
 to the publications of the Tract Society. 
 
 Nut. Capital good things they are too. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Yes. to go to sleep over. But how goes the hop ! 
 
 Rose. [ Speaking c. inside .1 Oh! no, thank you ; 1 don't care to dance 
 any more till the German — won’t somebody get me a cobbler ? 
 
 Nut. There comes some one that can tell you better than I. 
 
 [ Ladies laugh within. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Jerusalem ! a whole raft of women. I’ll leave. Crawl, 
 will you moisten ! 
 
 Crawl. I am a tee-totaller in principle, but my physician recommends 
 a small quantity of stimulant for my nervous agitation 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Humph! that means you’ll go, I suppose 1 Nutgalls, 
 will you join us 1 
 
 Nut. My physician is not so kind as Crawl's. In fact he warned me 
 against bad liquor, so I decline. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Come, Crawl, [ Going l.] I want to talk to you about 
 that Galena and Chicago. 
 
 Crawl. Hold on to it. [Exeunt Ten-per-cent and Crawl, l. 3 e. 
 
 Nut. (l. c.) Nice fellow, that Crawl — makes a good thing out of re- 
 ligion and fancy stocks together. 
 
 Enter Rose, c., eating an ice, with Mrs. Ten-per-cent, Miss Cerulia 
 Sawin and Skibberini. 
 
 Rose, (c.) Oh ! Mr. Nutgalls, I’m so glad to see you. You know 
 everything, and can tell me all about the races. Will any ladies go? 
 They say some of the people in society have got a club, and oh my ! — 
 you ought to have seen me out this morning with those new ponies pa 
 gave me — such dears — I had such a brush on the Lake Road. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. (l. c.) My dear, such conversation 
 
 Rose. Stop, ma — don’t break me up. I’m in the best part. 
 
 Nut. (r.) It’s charming — pray go on, 
 
8 
 
 YOIJNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Ross. Well, Rule and I thought we would have a little ride this morn- 
 ing with the ponies — didn’t we, Rule ? 
 
 Cerulia. (l.) You did all the thinking. I had heard there were some 
 curious stratifications near the lake. 
 
 Rose. That’ll do about the strat — whatever you call them. Rule 
 and I thought we’d have a ride, so we took Skib along to drive us, 
 didn’t we, Skib 1 
 
 Skib. Si, signorina ! (Aside) and mighty glad I was to get back wid 
 whole bones in me skin. 
 
 Rose. We had the new light wagon, and were going along at what 
 Wash, calls a Jersey gait, when down comes Bob Fastboy with those 
 splendid blacks of his. My ponies pricked up their ears, and gave a 
 jump that nearly pulled Skib’s arms out, and made Rule drop her Emerson 
 in the mud. You ought to have seen the ponies throw out their dear 
 little feet I felt all the blood .coming up to my head — the ponies went 
 faster and faster, Skib got nervous — 1 was as cool as Rockland Lake at 
 Christmas — I took the reins, oh!* how they pulled, [Imitating driving, ] 
 soon came up to Fastboy. He wanted to pull up — too much of a gen- 
 tleman, you know, to race with a lady — but his horses didn’t share his 
 feelings in that respect, and nearly pulled him over the dasher, instead 
 of he checking them, so he let them go, and away we went, like twin 
 bullets, neck and neck. I kept my arms down, and had the ponies well 
 together, so — everything turned aside for us — we had a clear road for a 
 mile. I couldn’t hear anything but the rattling of the wheels or the tip 
 tips of the ponies’ hoofs — my heart beat like a steam engine, it was clear 
 up in my mouth, and— and — I beat him, I beat him — I led him a hun- 
 dred yards at the Lake House. What do you think of that — eh 1 
 
 Mrs. Ten. I think it's disgusting — what would the Dusenburys say ? 
 
 Nut. I think it’s charming. [ Aside .] She’d have saved the fortunes 
 of the Hippodrome. 
 
 Skib. You drive splendidly. [Aside. ] ’Pon my soul, I expected we’d 
 overturn every minute. 
 
 Cerulia. I think from your exterior stratifications, that there must be 
 a little of the horse-jockey in your primary formations. [ Music within. 
 
 Rose. Dear me, that’s for the .German, come Ma, Rule, Skib, [To 
 Nutgalls.] come Scorpion, won’t you go? 
 
 f Rushes out c., followed by Skib., Cerulia, and Mrs. Ten-per-cent. 
 
 Nutgalls. No, thank you. There’s no comfort in dancing with a lady 
 now a days. The hoops are so extensive that one can’t get within 
 fifteen feet of his partner. I think I shall have to republish No. 167 of 
 the Spectator as a lesson to the perverse females of this generation. 
 They enlarge the rear of freedom with a vengeance. 
 
 Enter Froth [l. 3 e.], runs to Nutgalls and slaps him on the back. 
 
 Froth, (l.) How are you, old fellow? How’s every inch of your 
 crusty old carcase ! Just arrived, railroad accident of course — always 
 is — smashed up a lot of immigrants — being second class passengers, no 
 fuss will be made about them. Detained a lot of fifth Avenue people, 
 though — they’ll make a fuss. What’s the news? What’s up? who's 
 here! How’s my old fogy friend, Ten-per-cent, and that joker Crawl, 
 who does the religious dodge, and make no end of tin by it 1 
 
YOUNG NEW YORE. 
 
 D 
 
 Nutgalls. (r.) Oh, they are spending their time in the usual miser- 
 able manner, affected by our people when they enjoy rural felicity, which 
 means being charged and starved to death. What on earth are you 
 here for. You ought to know better. 
 
 Froth. So I do. I’m here for business. Old Ten per-cent wants to 
 run for Congress, and I’m his agent — don’t you see 1 All these things 
 are done by funds, and I’ve come for a small cheque on the Bank o ( 
 Commerce for incidentals. 
 
 Nut. What are they 1 
 
 Froth . That’s a secret. I can’t put you up to all the dodges. First 
 thing I knew, you’d let ’em all out in the Scorcher , but the legitimate 
 expenses of a Congressional campaign are twenty-five hundred or three 
 thousand dollars, and when we employ strikers, and buy up small 
 newspapers, those are the illegitimate expenses ; it often costs five or six 
 thousand. I’ve rung in some small fry -journals to back up the old joker, 
 but it’s of no use talking to you, I suppose. 
 
 Nut. No, I couldn’t support him at any price. He might do for the 
 Board of Aldermen. They do nothing but sit in a cushioned chair at 
 City Hall, and say, yea or nay, as the party demands, and use up a great 
 deal of stationery ! much t® the distress of the Comptroller, who refuses 
 to pay for a package of envelopes, and winks at a fifty thousand dollar 
 contract. New York has been taxed to death, and nothing but its great 
 wealth, its astonishing prosperity, and the abased generosity of its 
 people, prevents them from taking the law into their own hands, after 
 the fashion of the San Francisco Vigilance Committee. 
 
 Froth. That would be unpleasant. 
 
 Nut. Undoubtedly. But the body politic is like the body human — 
 it needs strong medicines at times. But I believe that recent events 
 show that the people are waking up to a sense of their stupidity, and 
 are preparing to administer the government themselves, instead of 
 placing it in the hands of two or three hundred drunken rowdies, who 
 bully voters at primary elections, and pack nominating conventions. 
 The independent press has led the van in this new movement, and the 
 people are alive to the necessity of putting the right men in the right 
 places. So, decidedly, we cannot support your man for Congress. As 
 a politician he is one of the biggest fools in the district. 
 
 Froth. That’s precisely the reason we are going to elect him. I have 
 got everything set with the nominating convention, and he is bound to 
 go in. Now, if you ’ve got any nice little thing, you’d like to get put 
 through next session, just support him and it’s settled. 
 
 Nut. No, sir. Couldn’t be done. Money’s no object, unless we get 
 it in the^ legitimate way. W'e ’ve got a large number of other, and 
 tetter fishes to fry. Will you smoke 1 [Offering cigar. 
 
 Froth. [ Taking cigar. Nutgalls goes up.} Don’t mind if I do, 
 Calznas? Yes, very nice. I say, Mr. Ten-per-cent, is that you 1 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [Coming forward from l. 3 e. of piazza .] Yes, that’s 
 rite. How’d ye do, Froth 1 What’s the news in the city 1 
 
 [They take chairs — Nutgalls r. 
 
 Froth. Oh, great. Politics running higher than ever. 1 he Buchanan 
 jren confident. The Fillmore party gave a grand splurge and saved the 
 
10 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 country, a night or two ago, and the Fremont fellows are fighting like 
 so many grizzlys for victory. 
 
 Ten-per-cent, (l.) How do things look in my district 1 ? 
 
 Froth. A little queer, but I think I’ve got most of the delegates, so 
 your nomination is pretty near fixed. I have gasconaded a good deal 
 about “ eminent merchant,’' — “credit to his country” — “commercial 
 interest surest of the prosperity of the republic ” — and spent plenty of 
 money for liquor. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. A powerful agent. 
 
 Froth. Yes, it gets at men who are altogether unimpressible by other 
 means ; it’s very expensive though — nothing but shilling drinks in your 
 district. But we must have money. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Money — always money. I’m a perfect watering-cart, 
 saturating everybody with artificial cheques ; I gave you a thousand a 
 week ago. 
 
 Froth. Yes, I banked all that, [ Aside .] chiefly at pharo. We want 
 money for two or three delegates, who can’t see your infinite merit just 
 at present, and there’s a good deal to pay to men to stand round the 
 polls. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. What for 1 Are all those loafers paid 1 
 
 Froth. Paid ! of course they are. What the d — 1 would they do it 
 for unless they were 1 The simplicity of some people passes my com- 
 prehension. They sta«d there to stave off voters for other people, and 
 get votes for their employers. They prevent half the respectable people 
 in New York from voting at all ; and your respectable people have a 
 habit of scratching their tickets and voting for the best man, without 
 regard to his political affinities, which is excessively inconvenient at 
 times. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Well, come along, and I’ll give you a cheque. 
 
 Froth. We must be in a hurry — got two or three complimentary be- 
 nefits to manage, and four or five new singers to trot out. 
 
 {Exit Froth and Ten-per-cent, l. 3 e. — Nutgalls goes l. 
 
 Enter Rose, hurriedly , c. 
 
 Rose, (r.) Dear Mr. Nutgalls, I’m glad I’ve found you alone ; I’ve a 
 question to ask you. 
 
 Nut. I never answer them ; [Rose looking in his face.'] but this is 
 such a little one, you’ll answer it to please me, won’t you ? 
 
 Nut. {Aside.] Now, nothing human could stand that, and I am 
 human, though I do edit a newspaper. What is it — something about 
 hoops or horses ? 
 
 Rose. You misjudge me, like every one else. Nobody knows me, 
 really, except Wash, and — and \fHesitates, 
 
 Nut. Ah, there’s somebody else ! 
 
 Rose. Never mind. I want to ask you what you think of me. 
 
 Nut. I think you are a very nice young woman — a bit spoiled — a 
 little too fast for my taste, and a little too frivolous for the real business 
 of life. 
 
 Rose. Yes, you’re like all the men ; they are continually pitching into 
 us for our extravagance, yet the lady who is the most richly dressed, 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 11 
 
 always has the greatest number of gentlemen in her train : how do you 
 account for that, my Diogenes 1 
 
 Nut. You mistake me. I do not object to dress. A lovely woman 
 is never so handsome as when richly dressed. What. I object to is ex- 
 travagance in attire without taste, and a reckless, vulgar display, which 
 only makes the wearer absurd. That’s what you may see any fine 
 afternoon in Broadway ; and it always makes me think that a woman’s 
 brains are too small, even for the bonnets they wear now-a-days, and 
 that her common sense might easily be wrapped up in the smallest cor- 
 ner of her gaudy shawl. But when I said frivolous, I did not mean 
 dress, particularly, I meant to say that you, like too many fashionable 
 young ladies, paid little attention to matters of real consequence, such 
 as fitting yourself for the responsible duties which you will be one day 
 called upon to perform ; still I think there’s a great deal of good in you. 
 
 Rose. [ Laughing .] Much obliged for the compliment, bear, though I 
 don’t think much of it. Now I am going to be serious — I feel strangely 
 impelled to confide in you. What do you think of Mr. Crawl ? 
 
 Nut. (l.) He’s a good sort of fellow enough in his way, but 
 
 Rose. But you don’t like his way 1 I thought so. He has proposed 
 to me a great many times, and I have refused him, and pa says I must 
 have him ; and I can’t, and I won’t. [ Sobbing .] I’ve talked to W ash . 
 about it, but he and pa are not on the best terms, and ma is in favor of 
 it, and — and — I — I — [&o6s.J I’m the most miserable little woman in the 
 world. 
 
 Nut. [Aside.] Here’s a situation for a cynic, [To Rose.] And you 
 love somebody else, I presume 1 
 
 Rose. [Still sobbing .] Y — y — yes. 
 
 Nut. Well, why don’t the governor have himl What’s the matter 
 with him ? 
 
 Rose. Oh, nothing — that is, ’not much of anything. He hasn’t got 
 any money ! 
 
 Nut. Ahem ! That’s a great deal in New York. One, who has no 
 money here, may as well hang himself, or go to Kansas, which is a 
 cheap and agreeable means of suicide. Through tickets, twenty dollars 
 No charge for a rifle bullet in the head. You’re not fit, Rose, to be a 
 poor man’s wife ; like too many American girls, you have been brought 
 up in utter ignorance of what you should have been taught, and are 
 vastly well informed upon things of no sort of value. 
 
 Rose. [Stoutly.] But one thing I do know, and that is, I will marry 
 the man I choose, whether he’s got sixpence or not, and I will labor 
 to the last of my ability to make him happy. I know enough for that, 
 and the will goes a long way in such matters — don’t it, old bear 1 
 
 Nut. Bravo ! little one. There’s some hope of you, yet. But, don’t 
 do anything rashly. I don’t think Crawl deserves you, and will help to 
 defeat him. But you must remember that if you marry any one who . 
 is not in society — an artist 
 
 Rose. Oh ! 
 
 Nut. Yes, I think I know your secret. If you marry any one of that 
 sort, you’ll suffer a great deal ; you’ll be cut by your old friends, out- 
 lawed from society, and otherwise be made to feel very uncomfortable. 
 
1 1 > 
 1 
 
 YulNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Rose. I don’t care for any of them. They affect to despise people 
 who are superior to them in every respect. 13ut, I must run away ; it’s 
 getting late. Good night. [Offers hand. 
 
 Nut. [Takes hand ] Good night, my little friend, and good luck. 
 
 [ Walks up piazza , l. 3 e. 
 
 [Rose goes to window in c., and meets Skibberini — Skibberini 
 takes her hand , and they come down r. 
 
 Skib. One moment — have you considered my proposition ! Will 
 your father relent 1 
 
 Rose . (l.) No, there’s been a cabinet council, and I don’t see that 
 Iheie’s any hope of mollifying the governor; I think he’s influenced 
 by that Crawl. Stupid wretch ! I hate the sight of him. Oh ! Skib, 
 what’s the use of your being a nobleman, if you haven’t got a cent of 
 money? 
 
 Crawl enters r. slily. 
 
 Crawl. Good heavens ! there he is making love to her before my face. 
 It’s shameful ; I’ll get far enough away so they can’t see me, and listen 
 to their conversation. [Steps back to r. h. e., and as he does so 
 
 Enter R. Washington, a little intoxicated , runs against Craw>. 
 
 Wash. Carom on the white ball. Bad shot of yours, that, sir, never- 
 should hold your cue in that clumsy way. Pretty thing, that Brindisi; 
 ever hear Yestvali sing it 1 [ySiwgs] ’Tis better to love than — 
 
 [Crawl puts his hand on Washington’s mouth. 
 
 Crawl. Be quiet, sir. 
 
 [Rose and Skib. converse in whispers , seated l. c. 
 
 Wash. (r. c.) Splendid woman — never saw anything like her, even 
 in Paris — Paris great place — great boots — ever see La Grange’s boots 
 in the North Star! the only thing in the opera good for anything, I 
 assure you. What’s the row 1 Who’s that young woman ! 
 
 Crawl. Such disgraceful proceedings, sir. 
 
 Wash. That’s jolly good. I like disgraceful things. 
 
 Rose. I say again, if you only had money 
 
 Wash. What’s that about money 1 
 
 Skib. But I have something better, I have my profession ; tenors are 
 valuable in this country. Your people pay us twice as much as we can 
 get in Europe. Why should you care for the governor! Let us run 
 away, and he’s sure to forgive us — I don’t think you love me at all. 
 
 Wash. Hurrah ! Don’t care for his governor, no more do I — that’s 
 the talk ! 
 
 Rose. I do love you, Skib, earnestly, devotedly ; and when we Ame- 
 rican women really are caught, it’s for good and all. 
 
 Crawl. He may have caught her, but keeping her is another affair 
 altogether. 
 
 Wash. That’s so — I wonder what it’s all about? 
 
 Skib. You don’t know how happy you've made the poor artist by this 
 avowal. 1 would not give this moment for all the plaudits of the Aca- 
 demy. 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 13 
 
 Wash . Yes, I know some fellows go there to appl ml — don’t you, 
 Crawl ? 
 
 Crawl. I never frequent profane places of public amusement — but 
 listen. 
 
 Rose. I’m yours, for ever! 
 
 Crawl. Not yet. 
 
 Skib. Oh. ecstasy ! 
 
 Wash. [To Crawl.] I say, old fel — it ain’t gentlemanly for us to be 
 trying to overhear 
 
 Crawl. [ Excitedly .] Stop ! 
 
 Skib. And you’ll run away with me ? 
 
 Rose. Won’t you let me confide in somebody ? 
 
 Wash. I won’t stop. I say, it ain’t the correct thing, if they are 
 going to run away, — let ’em slide, I don’t care. 
 
 Skib. Confide in w'ho ? 
 
 Crawl. Yes, who? — let’s learn. 
 
 Wash. Bran and water, I say. 
 
 Rose. Why, in Wash. 
 
 Skib. What ! in that stupid brother of yours ? 
 
 Crawl. Ah ! 
 
 Wash. Who’s that, that’s stupid? [Crosses to c. 
 
 Crawl. T Coolly.'] Only you. 
 
 Wash. [ Excited , c.] Only me. That’s good. 
 
 Rose. He's my dear brother, and the only one in the family I care 
 
 about, and he’s really sensible enough, if he had 
 
 Skib. Any brains. 
 
 Crawl. [To Wash.] Do you hear that? 
 
 Wash. Dem it, 1 should think so. That’s rather too much, you 
 know. 
 
 [Attempts to go towards Rose and Skibberini, but is restrained by 
 Crawl, and in struggles to get away drops his cane. 
 
 Enter Nutgalls, l. — goes to Rose. 
 
 Nut. [Aside, coming down l.] There’s going to be a row here. Miss 
 Rose, your maternal parent, fatigued by a tremendous piano-forte solo, 
 played by an interesting amateur, with one lung, has sent me to look 
 for you. [ Whispers .] You must go at once. [Offers arm. 
 
 Rose. [Taking his arm, to Skib.] Adieu! 
 
 Skib. [c., walking slowly to l.] Adieu ! Ma toute belle. 
 
 [Rose and Nutgalls exit, c. n. ; Wash, breaks away from Crawl, 
 and comes towards Skib. from right. 
 
 Wash. [To Skib.] I say, old top, look here ! 
 
 Crawl. This will be dangerous, so I’ll cut. [Exit, a. 
 
 Skib. Well, sir ! 
 
 Wash. You called me stupid ! 
 
 Skib. Well! 
 
 Wash. [Threatening with cane.] I’m going tc Sumnerise you! 
 
 Skib. Bless your heart, I’m not a Senator ! 
 
 Wash. Yes, but I don’t discriminate between the man and the act 
 You’re a tenor, and I’m going to smash your ufper register. What do 
 you think of this for a shake ? [Flourishing stick oi cr Skib’s. head 
 
14 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Enter Froth, c. d. — hurriedly rushes down and seizes Wash’s arm. 
 
 Froth. [To Wash.] Excuse me, sir, but I have a pecuniary interest 
 in this piece of property. 
 
 Wash. Go away. Froth. 
 
 Skib. I beg you won’t interfere, sir. 
 
 Froth. Yes, but I will. He is engaged by me to kindly volunteer his 
 services [Aside.] for fifty dollars for the complimentary concert to 
 Madame de Blowhardi. for fifty years prima donna assoluta of the 
 opera, and now incapacitated by an accidental circumstance — [Aside.] 
 old age — from continuing the duties of her profession. 
 
 Wash. Nonsense 1 [Attempts to strike Skib. 
 
 Enter, c. d., Nutgalls — seizes Wash, and draws him away to r., while 
 Froth draws Skib. to l. 
 
 Nut. We’ll settle this at the Clifton House. 
 
 TABLEAU. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Basement of Mr. Ten-per-cent’s house; comfortable room ; 
 
 mirror; book-cases; library chairs ; lunch table, with decanters , c. ; 
 
 doors, r. and l. 
 
 Froth discovered at table, l. 
 
 Froth. Nice business we’ve made of this, all round ! Grand smash- 
 up at Saratoga — bad as an operatic imbroglio. Rose — nice young 
 woman, that — ought to be Mrs. Froth ; but matrimony is such a bore — 
 Rose shut off the duel, and knocked one pin out of Mr. Crawl. Then 
 there was a grand flare-up with the old lady, and then Skibberini dis- 
 appeared, and then old Blowhardi’s benefit went off the hooks, and 
 then I couldn’t find out what all the row was about, and then I took all 
 the money I laid out in blowing for old Blowhardi, and then 
 
 Enter Oerulia, r. f., reading. 
 
 Ah ! there’s that sweet little bit of Bay State granite. I'll soften her 
 with a little suaviter in modo. [Aloud.] Good morning, Miss Sawin — 
 how charming is 
 
 Cerulia. [Reading, r.] A petrified frog discovered on the banks of 
 the Connecticut. 
 
 Froth. I was saying that Broadway 
 
 Cerulia. W T here it had been found in the fourth formation, which 
 shows that it must have been 
 
 Froth. That the ladies on Broadway 
 
 Cerulia. Must have been imbedded since the eighth century. [Looks 
 up, sees Froth ] Ah ! Mr. Froth, is that you "I 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 15 
 
 Froth. It is — at least, I believe so. How splendidly you are look- 
 
 ^Cerulia Yes— I was looking for the transactions of the American 
 Association for the Advancement of Science. Those sweet Professors ! 
 
 [Goes to hook' case. 
 
 Froth. [Aside.] Yes, they are a sweet set. Jupiter! if a joker 
 wanted to make love to her, now, she’d go into a philosophical disquisition 
 on the origin and progress of the divine passion. [Aloud ] I say, Miss 
 Cerulia, is°the lady patroness of the establishment visible . 
 
 Cerulia. No— I entertained her for half-an-hour with such a dear, 
 transcendental essay on the duality of the soul. And what do you 
 
 think she said 1 , , , r a i j 
 
 Froth. Haven’t an idea— [Aside.] That it was a humbug ! [Aloud.] 
 
 Something complimentary, undoubtedly. 
 
 Cerulia. Nothing of the sort. She said it was a horrid bore, and 
 ordered the carriage for the Orphan Asylum. 
 
 Froth. Yes to bore the little dears, and do up some fashionable be- 
 
 nevolence. Where’s Miss Rose 1 
 
 Cerulia. Oh, she went up to Newburgh yesterday, to see one of her 
 old schoolmates. [Crosses to r.] Good morning, Mr. Froth. [Going, 
 a., Reading, walks against wing , i. 1 e., Froth corrects her, and shews 
 her the door. 
 
 Froth. [Opening r. d. f.] Good morning, Miss. * [Exit Cerulia. 
 Ah ! I see a big light. I wouldn’t wonder if there should be a grand 
 row somewhere in this neighborhood. That Rose isn’t the sort of 
 person that goes seventy miles to see some bread and butter school 
 girl. No, indeed ! I wouldn’t wonder if she’d gone and done and run 
 away with Skibberini, just out of unutterable despair at not getting me. 
 [ Looks in mirror , and twirls his moustache.] W hat a wretch I am, to 
 be sure. ' 
 
 Enter Ten-per-cent, in a passion, l. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. D— n it ! I say, confound it ! Who’s that looking in 
 
 my mirror 1 I say, sir 1 said d — n it ! I repeat the remark 
 
 d — n it ! 
 
 Froth. [Turning round.] Certainly ! D — n what 1 Never mind, 
 
 d — n anything you like. An elderly, irrascible gentleman, with half a 
 million, has a perfect right to anathematize anything he sees fit. I am 
 happy to coincide with you d — nit! 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [ Walking up and down.] Oh ! it’s you, is it, Froth l 
 
 Froth. That’s the second time I’ve been questioned, this morning, as 
 to my identity. Yes, it is me. I shall begin to swear presently. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. That infernal rascal ! If I only had him here 
 
 Froth. [Pouring wine , c ] Come, old fellow, you’re excited. Take 
 a drop of sherry. No man ever got into a rage on sherry. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. D — n sherry ! D — n everything ! 
 
 Froth. Precisely! D— n everything! But what’s the difficulty, 
 that everybody has got to be d — d this particular morning, and saved 
 all the rest of the week ] What’s the row l 
 
 Ten-per-cent, [r., Taking letter and newspaper from pocket.] Row 
 
16 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 enough ! Read that. [ Gives them to Froth.] Oh ! the infernal 
 scoundrel ! 
 
 Froth, [l Reading note.'] “Dear Pa! I have to ask your forgive- 
 ness. Skib. and I were married this morning. Wash, said he thought 
 you wouldn’t be able to arrange your business in Wall street, and so he 
 gave me away, and did it splendidly. It was rural, and very nice. "We 
 
 are going to the Falls,” 
 
 Ten-per-cent. I should like to pitch them over the Falls ! 
 
 Froth. No you wouldn’t. [Reads.~\ “ Going to the Falls for our 
 wedding tour, and then return to town, to throw ourselves at your 
 patent leathers. You’ll forgive us, won’t you. Pa 1 Skib. is such a 
 nice fellow. He and Wash, send their respects. Adieu, mon fere. 
 
 “ Your affectionate daughter, Rose. 
 
 “ P. S. I send such a nice article about us, out of the ‘ Spuyten 
 Duyvil Blast of Freedom.' 1 Wash, has been playing billiards all the 
 time, with the Editor, and got him to put it in for a leader. 
 
 “ Spuyten Duyvil, Monday.” 
 
 Ten-per-cent. I should like to punch his head. 
 
 Froth. It’s dangerous, punching editors’ heads, now-a-days. A joker 
 got into the Tombs for indulging in that luxury, the other day. What’s 
 this 1 [ Reads from Newspaper. 
 
 “ Marriage in High Life.— Our little village was thrown into a 
 perfect furor of excitement on Wednesday last, by a wedding in high 
 life. The gallant bridegroom is Count Patrici de Skibberini, who is 
 descended from one of the noblest families in Italy, and who has been 
 favorably known as an artiste of the opera ; and the bride is Miss Rose 
 Ten-per-cent, the daughter of one of New York’s most distinguished 
 merchant princes. The ceremony was performed by the Rev. Mr. 
 Smith, at his residence, and we, with others of the principal men of this 
 town, had the honor of being present. The bride, who was the belle 
 of Saratoga last season, looked bewilderingly beautiful, and every one 
 envied the happy bridegroom. The happy pair, after a brief sojourn at 
 the American Eagle Hotel, which is kept in the best manner, by our 
 old friend, G. Washington Jones, — (see advertisement in another co- 
 lumn,) — departed for Niagara Falls, whence, after tarrying a short time, 
 they will proceed to New York, and thence to Italy, where the Count 
 has a beautiful villa, by the Lake of Como, so eloquently described by 
 Bulwer, in that beautiful piety. ‘ The Lady of Lyons,’ — to be performed 
 this evening, for the first time in this town, by Robinson’s superior 
 travelling company, admission fifteen cents — commencing — ‘ In a deep 
 vale, shut out by Alpine hills,’ &c. The happy pair have our best 
 wishes for their continued prosperity.” 
 
 Ten-per-cent. There. Sir! What do you think of that? 
 
 Froth. I think it’s highly amusing. I’J like to know tnat editor. 
 He ought to be on the ‘ Home Journal .’ 
 
 Ten-per-cent. D — n the editor ! Curse the whole party ! He’s 
 married her for my money — but. not a single red cent of it will he get. 
 And Wash, in it, too. After all I've done for thoge children, [ patheti- 
 cally .] spending all the utnrv f hav - f - ■ heir education, so they’d 
 know how to spend my money in a respectable manner. [ Crosses , r. 
 
YOUNG NSW YORK. 
 
 17 
 
 Froth, [l., Aside.] Something that you don’t know, yet ! 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [ angrily ] To have them fool me in that way ! T’ll fix 
 ’em ! I’ll cut ’em off with a dollar apiece ! [Crouses, l. 
 
 Froth, [r.] And leave your money to some Missionary Society, I 
 suppose ? That’s the way they do it now — it’s taking your funds to 
 begin the next world with. I came to talk with you about politics ; — » 
 things are looking ugly for us 
 
 Ten-per-cent, [enraged.] Stop ! I’ve had trouble enough for one 
 day. 
 
 Froth. Well, I’ll cut then — Better forgive the young ’uns. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. No ! no ! 
 
 Froth. Good bye, governor. — Got a lot of puffs to write for Brown’s 
 double rotary back action steam egg hatcher, and attend three political 
 conventions, [r.] Good bye. [Exit R. h. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [ Sitting at table l., his face concealed in his hands.] 
 Good bye, Froth. If you see any body I know, tell ’em I have gone to 
 bleeding Kansas. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Ten-per-cent, l, in great glee, shewing large card. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. (l.) I’ve got it ! I’ve got it ! It’s the first party of the 
 season, and now every body must ask me. What’s the matter with 
 that man 1 Been drinking, I suspect. Awful beast ! Mr. Ten-per- 
 cent? wake up, sir. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [r. of table, not looking up.] I’m glad you are so happy, 
 madam. [Aside.] I’ll fix her in a minute. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Yes, I am happy. Look at this ! [Flourishes card.] Mrs. 
 Delaney Ten Brceck sends me a card for the first party. I’ve been 
 trying to get into that set for five years. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [Aside.] Yes, and now you’ve got in, only to be kicked 
 out again. [Aloud] Is that the paste board ? It’s big enough ? 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Yes — Mrs. Ten Brceck is an old Knickerbocker, and does 
 every thing in the highest style. I’ll read it to you. [Reads.] 
 
 Mrs. Delancy Ten Brceck solicits the pleasure 
 of Mr. & Mrs. Ten-per-cent's company on Thurs- 
 day evening. 
 
 433 Fifth Avenue. R. S. Y. P. 
 
 There, sir ! I hope you will try to dress yourself like a gentleman, at 
 least. There's a card for Rose, and one for Wash., too. I’ve got such 
 a love of a dress — cost $300, and the lace as much more. [/Sfas l. 
 
 Ten-per-cent, [sarcastically.] No doubt. I think it’s a bad invest- 
 ment. So, there’s a card for Rose, and one for Wash., eh? Pray is 
 there one for Rose’s — Rose’s — madam, for Rose’s husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Ten. [astonished.] Her what ? 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Not her what! her husband — husband, I said, madam, 
 — her husband. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. [aside] He has been drinking. I’ll look out for the keys 
 of the wine closet hereafter. [Aloud ] You’d better take a little opium, 
 my dear, pvt some ice on your head, and go to b"ed. I’m afraid you’re 
 
18 
 
 YOUNG NEW 1 OKK. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. No, madam — it is you who will be ill in a moment.— 
 Where is your daughter? 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Gone to Newburgh, to see Miss Highflyer, her old school- 
 mate. Her father failed, you know, my love, and gave up every thing 
 to his creditors, and they only spend twenty thousand a year, now, 
 and live in rural retirement. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Really ! is that all 1 Madam, Rose has not gone to 
 Newburgh. She has run away with that maccaroni-chewing, cigar- 
 smoking, garlic-devouring, mustache-curling, d d blackguard — 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Oh, dear! 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Of an opera singer, Skibberinini, or what ever his 
 
 d d name is ! That ever I should have a son-in law, with a 
 
 name I couldn’t pronounce. [Crosses l. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. [Hesitating, — going k.] And they are married ? 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Yes. 
 
 Enter Crawl, r. 2. e. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Oh, dear ! I feel very ill — where’s my salts ? [Staggers, r.J 
 Married 1 — every body will think I’m growing old. — Oh ! oh ! 
 
 [Faints in Crawl’s arms, r. 
 
 Crawl. I beg your pardon — really, sir, won’t you be kind enough to 
 relieve me 1 
 
 Ten-per-cent. No ! I’ve found her dead weight enough for years. 
 She’s only got a fashionable faint. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. [Recovering ,] Silence, sir ! where’s my salts ? 
 
 Crawl. Ah°w me. — [Takes paper from pocket.] No, that’s notit — 
 that’s a tract on the Necessity of Politics in the Pulpit. Here it is 
 [Gives her flacon to Ten-per-cent.] Allow me, sir, to direct your atten- 
 tion to this soul stirring publication. 
 
 [Gives tract to Mu. Ten-per-cent, then leads Mrs. Ten. to sofa , r. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. I feel more like a soul stirring whiskey punch. But 
 have you heard the news 1 
 
 Mrs Ten. [Springing up.'] I’ll tell him ! 
 
 Ten-per-cent. No, you won’t ! 
 
 Mrs. Ten. You’re a brute. [Sits. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. This is my basement, madam ; you can rule in the par- 
 lors, but I’m king here. You will oblige me by retiring. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. I shall oblige myself by doing nothing of the kind. 
 
 Crawl. Really, sir — this scene — do you know what St. Paul says ! 
 
 Teh-per-cent. No ! d — n St. Paul ! 
 
 Crawl, (c.) Good gracious ! d — n St. Paul — I never, really, heard of 
 such a thing. But, perhaps, sir, you'll be good enough to tell me the 
 news 1 
 
 Mrs. Ten. You must know that Rose — that is — it’s all his faul 
 [Points to Mr. Ten-per-cent.] — he spoil’d both of them. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. It is falsej madam ! You insisted upon her learning 
 Italian music, and all such nonsense. 
 
 Crawl, [c. Aside.] Something about Rose, I begin to be afraid — 
 [Aloud.] Pray tell me. „ 
 
 Mrs. Ten. [To Crawl.] Excuse me, sir. [ To Mr. T.] 1 have given 
 
1T0UNG NEW YORK. 19 
 
 Rose the education due to her position. It was you that taught her to 
 drive horses, and have terriers, and all sorts of low things. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. She ought to have been taught to make puddings and 
 mend stockings. 
 
 Crawl. She’d never do it, I fear. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Odious ideal Young ladies are not utilitarian articles — 
 they are objects of virtu 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Objects of vice, more likely. I wish you would con- 
 trive to keep your tongue still for half a moment, till I can tell Mr. Crawl 
 about this unfortunate business. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Why, you’ve been talking all the time — I haven’t had an 
 opportunity to say a word. 
 
 Crawl. Ah ! [Aside.] You’ve done pretty well without an oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [To Crawl.] To make it short, you must know that 
 Rose has run away with that infernal opera singer. 
 
 Crawl. [Suppressing emotion .] And are they — married ? 
 
 Ten -per-cent. [Sternly.'] Yes! 
 
 Mrs. Ten. It’s lucky he’s a count — that’s something. 
 
 Crawl. [Bitterly.] Pshaw! you may -buy patents of nobility for twenty 
 shillings ! [Recovers his usual manner.] But, my dear sir, and madam, 
 allow me to condole with you. In a worldly point of view, it is a sad 
 disappointment to me, but — 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Why the devil didn’t you run away with her yourself? 
 
 Crawl. Good Heavens ! me run away with any body ? What would 
 the Grace Church people say ? As I was about to remark, I seek con- 
 solation in a spiritual point of view. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Yes — I’ve heard that the young men, when they art 
 jilted, usually take to brandy cocktails for the first six weeks or so. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Suicide is more dignified. But what have you to advise, 
 Mr. Crawl? 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Yes, Crawl, what shall we do? 
 
 Crawl. Well, these artists are all low fellows, with an ungodly love 
 of Mammon, and — 
 
 [Bell rings without, accompanied by noise and confusion, in the 
 midst of which is heard Rose’s voice. 
 
 Rose. [ Without.] There, that’ll do ; thank you. Put four of those 
 trunks in my dressing-room, and the other ten you may leave here for 
 the present. Where’s ma? 
 
 Mrs. Ten. (r.) That’s Rose ! 
 
 Crawl opens r. d. f. Enter Rose, hastily, Crawl gives her his hand. 
 
 Crawl, (r. c.) Allow me, Miss Rose — I beg pardon — Madame la 
 Comtesse, to tender to you my warmest congratulations, and my sin- 
 cerest wishes for your future welfare. My heart bleeds — 
 
 Rose. (l. c.) Thank you, Mr. Crawl, that’ll do — I don’t care to hear 
 a sermon. If your heart bleeds, Rule will fix it up for you, she’s great 
 on surgery. 
 
 Crawl. [Aside, going , r.) I’ll have you yet. 
 
 [He is about to exit, r., when 
 
20 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Enter Wash., r. He runs against Crawl. 
 
 Wash. Ah ! old fellow! [Exit Crawl, r.] Keep up — beaten at youf 
 own game — better luck next time. They’ve been taking two to one on 
 you, I’m afraid. 
 
 [Rose awe? Wash, at lack of stage, looking intently at Mr. awe? Mrs. 
 T. Rose comes down slowly to where Mrs. T. sits. Wash, goes 
 very slowly to Mr. and then to Mrs. T., they turn their backs. 
 Wash, takes glass of wine, arid sits carelessly on edge of table , 
 L. u. E. 
 
 Rose. My dear mother — 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Don’t talk to me, miss !— such disgraceful proceedings ! 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Awful ! 
 
 Wash. Nothing of the kind, governor. Every thing was done with- 
 out regard to expense. Told ’em to go it strong, and you’d pay all the 
 bills. Had the whole town tight as bricks, before dinner. 
 
 j Rose. Hush, Wash ! [ Goes to Mrs. T. and endeavors to embrace her. 
 Is repulsed. ] I am sensible that we have done wrong in part, but I have 
 come to acknowledge it, and ask pardon. I never would have anybody 
 but Skib, and — and — [ Bursts into tears. 
 
 Wash. Go it, Rose. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [Wiping his eyes.] I can’t stand this. [Going, n.] I 
 say. Rose — 
 
 Mrs. Ten. Silence, sir ! Rose, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
 What will the people in society say ( 
 
 Rose. Why, ma, you shouldn't have asked him here, if I wasn’t to 
 fall in love with him. It’s done now. and [energetically] I am bound to 
 have him, coute que coute. 
 
 Wash. That’s right — go it Rose! Freeze fast to him. 
 
 [Rose, still endeavoring to pacify Mrs. T., converses apart with her. 
 Washington comes down slowly , and goes to his father , l., and 
 offers his hand. 
 
 Wash. I say, governor — [With mock gravity.'] — I forgive you — let’s 
 shake hands and call it square. I’m magnanimous. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [Enraged.] You young rascal ! I’ll break every bone 
 in your skin ! How dare you 1 
 
 Wash. Now, governor, don’t get in a passion. Keep easy. [Seizes 
 Mr. T.’s hand and shakes it heartily.] There — it’s all right. Take a 
 drink. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Clear out, you young blackguard ! Clear out, before I 
 break ycur head. [$ite l. of l. table. 
 
 Wash. Don’t let your angry passions rise. Don’t you remember 
 what you used to tell me? — Your little hands, &c. Come with me, 
 and I’ll tell you all about it. [Takes his arm — they go up l.] Greatest 
 thing you ever heard of, I assure you. 
 
 Mrs. T. and Rose come down, r. 
 
 Rose. (r. c.) [Pathetically.'] My dear mother, I appeal to you for for- 
 giveness. [ Takes her hand ] You have been too kind to me. You have 
 indulged me in my every wish. In this matter, the great business of 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 my life, I was wrong no ; . to consult you, but I was carried away k 
 impulses, and driven to desperation by the odious attentions of’ 
 ugly Crawl. I could not bear the sight of him ! 
 
 Mrs. T. [Sits, and turns from Rose.] Mr. Crawl is a very nice 
 son — rich, and goes into the best society. You should not speai 
 that manner of him. It is highly improper. 
 
 Rose, [earnestly .] Mother, do not speak to me in that way. 
 were young like me, once 
 
 Mrs. r l\ [indignantly.'] Child ! 
 
 Rose, [apologetically.] That is — I mean, you fell in love once. 
 
 Mrs. T. Not that I remember. I was a well-bred woman, and 
 do not fall into anything. I had no money, and I suffered your fat 
 because he had some. 
 
 Rose, [aside, c.] I see that I shall not turn this stony heart by 
 thos. [aloud.] Mother ! listen to what I say. We can and will e; 
 even in the shadow of your displeasure. I am a woman. I am ei 
 
 cipated from the condition of a frivolous coquette, or a fast wate 
 place belle. My position you may take from me — that’s nothing, 
 this country, as I have heard, people do not inherit their positio 
 they make them. I have accomplishments — education — will. I 
 turn them to account, and fight the battle jo f life for myself. 
 
 Wash. (u. e.) Bravo, Rose ! I’m with you ! 
 
 Mrs. T. [sarcastically.] Child! do you know what this battle is 
 you talk so flippantly of! Do you know what poverty is 1 Do 
 know what it is to descend from luxury to comparative want! To 
 daily, the loss of things to which you have always been accusto 
 ponder upon every dollar that you expend — to dress out of the 
 — to be out of the world — to wear one bonnet a whole year 1 
 
 Rose, [aside] That is a terrible hardship. [Aloud.] Yes, I 
 it all. I am prepared for it all. I will suffer it all. 
 
 Mrs. T. [coaxingly, going c.] Come, Rose, this is but a pas 
 fancy — give up this man. 
 
 Rose. Never ! He’s my husband ! Good or bad — sink or swij 
 fair weather or foul — riches or poverty — money or no money — I 
 never desert him ! 
 
 Mrs. T. goes to r. 
 
 Wash. (u. e.) Bravo, Rose! I wonder if there are any more yc 
 women about town, who are open for a small matrimonial gam] 
 pool 1 1 
 
 Mrs. T. Give him up. Your father shall buy him off with sc 
 thing handsome — say a thousand dollars — and we wont say anytll 
 more about Crawl. Do — there’s a good girl. [Kisses ] 
 
 Wash. That’s a compromise — but, like some of the political barge 
 I’m afraid it won’t work very well. 
 
 Rose. Mother ! you’ve had my answ T er. I am his wife — I love 
 Do you understand that 1 I love him — love — love — LOVE him ! 
 
 [Goes 
 
 . Mrs. T. [aside] What spirit she has ! [aloud.] We shall see. 
 
 [To 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 ash. [To Rose.] No result, eh 1 
 j Rose. [&a<%.] Nonel 
 Wash. Well. Keep up, sis — I’ll take a walk down Broadway, and 
 ok at the young women. Great fun. that — they like it. Good bye. 
 
 ernor — no hard feelings, I hope. If you’ve any communications for 
 e, you can address me at the club. And about the cheque — make it 
 yable to bearer. I may Have to turn it into chips. [Crosses slowly tc 
 ] Good bye, mother. Au revoir , Rose — you’re a brick. [Exit r 
 Ten-per-cent. [Getting up to Rose ] Are you prepared to give up this 
 nl 
 
 Rose. Never ! 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Then not a cent of my money shall he have. We’ll see 
 w long it'll be before he’ll shirk a wife who’s of no earthly use ; 
 
 worse than all, hasn’t a second 
 
 t s. T. Sir! 
 
 en-per-cent. Cent in the world. As for Wash., I’ll pack him off on 
 ’anton voyage, before the mast. See how he’ll like that. No chance 
 billiards there. [Chuckles.] And for clubs, he’ll get a rope’s end. 
 Rose. Father, you will pursue your own course — allow me to take 
 ne. [Goes up. 
 
 Enter Jane, l. — gives note to Ten-per-cent, and exits. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [Reading note.'] Ah ! Crawl’s fist ! [To Rose.] Stop a 
 ment. [To Mrs. T.] Come here — it’s all right. Rose, come to your 
 ther’s arms. Oh, be joyful ! — ha! ha! ha! I thought so — just 
 hese foreign vagabonds — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 .rs. T. [Taking letter.] Precisely — yes; but what fools he has 
 le of us. 
 
 ose. [Joyfully.] And do you forgive us 1 
 Ten^-per-cent. ^ yes. [Gaily.] [Rose embraces them both. 
 
 ose. [ With emotion.] This is almost too good news to be true. 
 r sses her mother ] I’ll run and get Skib. I left him in the carriage, 
 how glad he’ll be ! [Exit, running , k. d. f. 
 
 Enter Crawl, r. 
 
 Crawl. Well, are you satisfied 1 . 
 
 frs. T. Oh, how much we are indebted to you ! 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Yes, old fellow— call on me for anything you like. 
 Crawl, [r., mock humility.] My reward is not of the earth, earthy, 
 highest satisfaction was to preserve yonder fair maiden from 
 clutches of the destroyer. 
 
 Enter Rose, l. — she is much agitated. 
 
 ose. [Coming doum, c.] He’s not there. He promised, faithfully, 
 to go until he saw me. There’s something wrong. [ Turns — sees 
 wl.] Ah ! this is your work ! [ Shudders , and is falling — Crawl 
 
 orts her — she waves him back with disgust.] Mother ! tell me what 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 it is. [Looks earnestly in their faces — then at Crawl.' Mother! Mothe 
 save me from that man ! [ Faints in Mas. T.’s arm 
 
 Crawl, (c.) She’s mine ! 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
 • ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Editorial rooms of the Scorcher ; plain room ; maps and 
 of newspapers on flat, r a writing-desk , covered with newspapers 
 
 baskets for waste paper. Oner the desk a sign, inscribed — “ Don’t spe - 
 to the man at the wheel.” — 
 
 Nut. [ Discovered at desk, holding up manuscript .] Then I thi 
 that’ll do. Yes — [Reads.] lovely young lady — accustomed to the be 
 society — circumstances oblige her to make use of talent intended 1 
 drawing-room, for entertainment of public — native talent — had tl 
 pleasure of hearing her in private — splendid organ, goes up to dou 
 X flat, and could go another X if she tried — great shake, trills like 
 running brook — America should be proud of her ; yes, that’s pret 
 strong, but it’s necessary to go it rather powerfully, now-a-days, to a 
 tract any attention. New York is like a stupid child, it takes no noti 
 of anything but sugar plums and bass drums. 
 
 Enter Froth, l. 
 
 Mr. Froth, how are you 1 Where have you been this age 1 
 
 Froth. Don’t you know "I Went out West with the tremen 
 American actress, Miss Pauline De Vernon, pidevant Jenkins. "V 
 to Albany, Chicago, Buffalo, and lots of high old places. De Vern 
 is a great card for circus business — rolls herself up in the Americ 
 flag, and all that sort of thing. I believe she would have stood on h 
 head, if it hadn’t been against the law. When she dies, tumbles 
 over the stage ; sometimes dies five or six times. Immense creatu 
 but she didn’t pay. 
 
 Nut. Why 1 didn’t you do all your infallible dodges ? 
 
 Froth. Yes, everything; had long extracts out of the New Y 
 papers — advertising columns — asked all the country editors to dri 
 and the cleanest of them to dinner ; illuminated the theatre on t 
 benefit night ; set off twenty shillings worth of rockets ; got up a r 
 mantic story about her early history and trials (she ought to be tri 
 for getting people’s money on false pretences) ; had the same set 
 diamonds, (California ones, from the original Jacobs), presented to h 
 in seven cities, by seven different public spirited citizens ; serenaded 
 six amateur brass’ bands ; twelve four shilling boquets every nigh 
 two complimentary benefits, tendered by the Mayor and principal no 
 of each one horse town, every week — but it wasn’t a go. 
 
 Nut. [ Laughing , r.] No 1 why not 1 .If there’s any virtue in hu 
 bug, all that ought to succeed. 
 
 Froth, (l.) There is virtue in humbug, my boy, but you must h 
 something to work on. That French joker, 'who made fifteen diffe 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 inds of soup out of an old boot, had to have the boot to do it with, 
 Ve ‘‘busted,’’ simply because the Vernon, nee Jenkins, though a very 
 neat washerwoman, hadn’t the slightest talent for the stage. I couldn’t 
 ake the soup, because I didn’t have the boot. 
 
 Nut. So, the Napoleon of blowers was beaten, for once ? 
 
 Froth. Yes. Ten years ago I could have succeeded, boot or no 
 oot, but Pauline was too bad for this enlightened age. One night, in a 
 peech I had written for her, which she spoke after being called out by 
 wo stage carpenters, sent into the boxes for that purpose — she said it 
 as the proudest “ ery ” in her life. I tell you what it is, Nutgalls, 
 star business is about played out. People see to much good acting 
 'lew York Stock companies, and they won’t stand it. VVe agents 
 sometimes fool the press — these country editors are so good natured 
 but the vox populi do not rush in large masses, and insist upon 
 hucking their half dollars into the treasurer’s paw. Pve done with it. 
 Nut. Done with it ? Why, I thought it paid splendidly. 
 
 Froth. No, not now. Some of the musical agents make a good bit 
 f money, by swindling people on books of the opera, and games of that 
 ort, but it isn’t.much better than stealing. But you sent forme. 
 
 Nut. Yes. I’ve got a singular proposition to make to you. I want 
 ou to do a good action from disinterested motives. 
 
 Froth. That is rather a pastoral idea. However, out with it. — Drive 
 r cart. 
 
 \t. (r.) Well, it is about our little friend, Rose Ten-per-cent that 
 — Madame la Gomtesse de Skibberini that is. She’d a great deal 
 be a laundress, than a countess, for she has to earn her own 
 ing, and it is not precisely en regie for a countess to do that. 
 
 Froth, (l.) Oh, yes. I remember. Married that tenor who cut out 
 sweet, pious friend, Crawl. 
 
 Nut. The same. And the same sweet Crawl bullied and bought off 
 kibberini ; first by cutting him out of his engagement at the opera — 
 econd, by offering him ten thousand dollars of old Ten-per-cent’s 
 oney to leave the country — third, by persuading him that he was liable 
 criminal prosecution for abducting the girl. They played the old 
 me on him — rung in a broken down policeman to bully the tenor, who 
 mediately left the country. 
 
 Froth. That’s a nice business. — But what did they expect to gain 
 it? 
 
 Nut., They expected that Rose would not find out the trick, and that 
 he would, after a time, consent to a divorce, in some other state — 
 "onnecticut for instance : where a lady. can get rid of her husband by 
 ct of the legislature, for about ten dollars, and for next to no cause at 
 11 — but Wash, run across the policeman in some of his nice haunts, 
 nd found out the whole affair. 
 
 Froth. Then there must have been a nice row. 
 
 Nut. You’d better believe so. It ended by the decamping of Rose 
 om the Chateau de Ten-per-cent, baggage, poodle, bijouterie and all. 
 7 ash stuck to her like a brick, and so did that queer little, geological 
 usin of theirs, from Boston ; they are all living together, across town, 
 d — well — you must see for yourself. It is a great party. 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 25 
 
 Froth. I should think so. But what do you want me to do? 
 
 Nut. Well, you know that Rose has got a splendid voice, and has the 
 far best musical education. I’ve heard her sing quite as well as any of 
 the Italians, and if we must have opera music, which I consider an 
 immense humbug, why shouldn’t we have it, like the pies in the cheap 
 eating houses, home made ? 
 
 Froth. Ah ! I see. You think there’s a splendid chance for Madame 
 la Comtesse to give a concert, and make some loose change. Yes — 
 romance — Fifth Avenue — love match — unfortunate — it wilt do. I’ll go 
 in with all my heart, I won't charge her a cent, and I won’t, steal a 
 penny of the receipts. 
 
 Nut. Bravo ! what splendid magnaminity. 
 
 Froth. You’d think so, if you know as much about musical agents 
 as I do. But let us go and see her. 
 
 Nut. That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll be with you in a moment. [ Speak- 
 ing off e.] Mr. Jones — I am going out and will not be back till this 
 evening. Be good enough to ask Mr. Smith to pitch into the street 
 inspector — Broadway is in an awful condition. Send a reporter up 
 to Dead Eye Creek, to see about that railroad accident — tell him he 
 needn’t spread on it much, as there were only twenty ^emigrants killed, 
 and these things are so frequent as to be common-place — ask Mr. 
 Jenkins to look up the facts about that shooting affray in Cherry street, 
 last night, and tell him to ask, in his article, why it was not on the re- 
 turn of the Captain of Police — and if the scoundrel is to go unpunished, 
 because he is a small potato politician ? — look over those Kansas letters 
 carefully, they are lying awfully on both sides, out there, now — tell 
 Brown not to forget the new play at Laura Keene’s to-night, and not to 
 be any more meat-axy than is actually necessary, the author is one of 
 us, — tell old Beeswax to write up Governor Popkins’ obituary — he’s got 
 paralysis very bad, and may pop off at any moment, and if that woman 
 comes in that wants to advertise her child lost, for nothing, tell her, we 
 don’t indulge in luxuries of that kind ; but give her five dollars, and a 
 notice under the city news head — and if that old snuffy book-puffer, and 
 retailer of other men’s antique jokes, comes in, tell him that if he wiil 
 do me the honor to call on me to-morrow morning, I will do myself the 
 honor of kicking him down stairs — and — and I think that ’ll do. Good 
 morning, Mr. Jones. Now we’ll go forth upon our mission. 
 
 Froth. Allons ! let us on to victory. [Exeunt l. h. 
 
 Change of scene. 
 
 Scene II. — Interior of Apartments in a tenant house. Scene should be 
 closed in with doors in Flat, r., and. l., Practicable fireplace r., neat , 
 but cheap Furniture. Boquet on table where Rose is seated at a sew- 
 ing machine , c., Wash at another table writing, l., Cerulia at fire- 
 place, surrounded by cooking utensils. A Canary Bird in cage, table c., 
 Sewing Machine, r. c. 
 
 Rose. [Gaily, c.] I say, Wash, this isn’t the Fifth Avenue, exactly, 
 but it’s very nice, isn’t it? 
 
 Wash, (l.) Yes, splendid, never enjoyed anything so much in all my 
 life. How are you getting on, Rule? 
 
26 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Cerulia. [Readiny from book .] Split him down the back, broil him 
 over a hot fire, serve with butter. 
 
 Rose. [ Laughing .] Still abstracted, Rule ! 
 
 Cerulia. If I wasn’t abstracted, I think your dinner would be. You 
 used to laugh at me for my devotion to scientific pursuits, but they save 
 us a great deal of money. I didn’t read the Chemistry of Common 
 Life for nothing. 
 
 Wash. That’s so ! Your beefsteaks would do credit to the artist of 
 the Union Club ; and for chicken fixins, Delmonico himself couldn’t 
 beat you. Then your bills are not quite so heavy as Ciro’s. 
 
 Rose. I really don’t know what we should do without you. 
 
 [Crosses and shakes hands with her. 
 
 Cerulia. Nonsense ! [Wipes her eyes with apron. 
 
 Wash. Wouldn’t it be queer if anybody should call on us? What a 
 row my bootmaker and tailor will kick up with the old man. He must 
 pay ’em, though — nice old boy, sorry he wouldn’t listen to reason ; but 
 really, he was so outrageous, that I think seriously of cutting him alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Rose. [ Laughing .] I am afraid you’re a bad boy yet. How does the 
 story come on ? 
 
 Wash. You shall hear. You know, in last week’s Smasher — circu- 
 lation five hundred thousand, and a hundred guns for every extra thou- 
 sand — the heroine, Anastasia Sophronia, had been induced by an ano- 
 nymous letter, to meet her lover, Charles Henry Augustus, under the 
 umbrageous shadow of an ancestral oak, near her father’s castle ; and 
 the story left off when she was putting on her Goodyear’s India Rubber 
 overshoes, (I expect he’ll give me a water-proof overcoat for ringing in 
 his name,) the night being rainy, to go out. She repaired to the fatal 
 spot, her heart beating with joy at the near prospect of meeting Charles 
 Henry Augustus, who, fond youth, was gaily mingling in the dissipa- 
 tions of a fashionable watering place, (pitching pennies at Hoboken.) 
 little thinking of the fair girl who ran the risk of bronchitis, (might have 
 been cured by Dose-’em-all’s Pulmonic Syrup — one dollar a bottle — six 
 bottles for five dollars, sold by all respectable druggists) — get five for 
 that sure, for his sake. As she came to the trysting-place, her eyes 
 fell not upon the graceful form of Charles Henry Augustus, but upon 
 the sombre and forbidding countenance of Count JerkemofF. (that’s 
 the villain, you know,) who, enwrapped in a large black cloak, which 
 entirely hid his face — 
 
 Rose. How could her eyes fall upon his sombre countenance, then • 
 
 Cerulia. Yes, tell us that. 
 
 Wash. Listen — entirely hid his face — save when it was momentarily 
 blown aside by the fierce gusts of wind which swept down the avenue. 
 
 oZlia.\ 0hl 0h! 
 
 Wash. And anon gave glimpses of the harvest moon. He seized her 
 in his arms. She screamed “Augustus !” — Ah! false one, where wast 
 thou thenl Filling the flowing bowl, (drinking a soda cocktail at the 
 Otto Cottage,) and with thy gay companions, (two policemen in plain 
 clothes,) disporting, while thy beloved mistress w'as in peril of her life, 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 27 
 
 health, and lungs! De Jerkemoff, with a fiendish yell, cl'&sped her 
 in his arms, she drew her faithful revolver, (Colt’s improved, particu- 
 larly recommended to members of Congress,) and put four barrels 
 through his head. 
 
 Rose. Four what 1 
 
 Wash. Ah! bullets — yes, put four bullets through his head. He 
 staggered for a moment, and shrunk back — 
 
 Rose. I should think so. 
 
 Cerulia. It is impossible ! There is no case in the books where a 
 vnan was not instantly killed by that number of gunshot wounds. 
 
 Wash. Never mind — I’m not writing a medical work, besides that, 
 revolvers have been introduced since the books were written. He stag- 
 gered for a moment, and shrunk back, but immediately recovered him- 
 self and pursued the maiden. Turning, she fired the other two balls 
 straight through his craven heart ! 
 
 Rose. Good gracious ! 
 
 Wash. Pie still pursued her! She was light and agile. Ah! the 
 old oak. She swung herself quickly into its branches. On came De 
 JerkemofT. 
 
 Rose. What, with all his bullets 1 
 
 Wash. Yes ; she ran rapidly from branch to branch, till she reached 
 the topmost crown of the noble monarch of the forest. Still the villain 
 pursued her. Making use of the highly original 'remark : “ My life you 
 may have, but mine honor never,” she ran to the end of the limb, and 
 seizing it with both hands, swung herself olT — and so remained, sus- 
 pended in illimitable space 
 
 Rose. Well, what then 1 
 
 Wash. To be continued in our next. 
 
 Cerulia. Did the attraction of gravitation overcome the attraction of 
 cohesion, and bring her suddenly and forcibly to the earth, according to 
 the laws of natural philosophy 1 
 
 Wash. Well, the readers of the ‘ Smasher ’ will have to wait till 
 next week to find that out. I havn’t exactly made up my mind what 
 to do with her. As to the laws of natural philosophy, they have 
 nothing to do with cheap novels. They are neither natural nor philo- 
 sophical. \Knock at Door in Flat , r. 
 
 Rose. Come in. 
 
 Enter Froth and Nutgalls, r. h. d. f. 
 
 Nut. [l. c.] Your servant, ladies. [ Shakes hand with them and with 
 Y/ash.] Wash., old boy, how are you ^ 
 
 Wash, [l.] Gay, sir ; gay as a robin, balancing himself on the edge 
 of a tulip. 
 
 Rose. Mr. Nutgalls, I am heartily glad to see you. Mr. Froth, its a 
 long time since I had the pleasure to meet you. 
 
 Froth, [r.] Yes, madam ; but I am the only loser. I have been re- 
 galing myself with a view of one of our Western cities. Great monu- 
 ments of American enterprise and go-ahead-ativeness they are too. 
 Ah ! my scientific friend, \To Cerulia.] as hard a student as ever, I 
 presume. 
 
28 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Cerulia . Yes. By the way, Mr. Froth, did you hear anything of 
 some new geological discoveries, in Indiana ? 
 
 Froth. No. I went after rocks, however, but I didn’t get any. 
 
 Wash. [Aside.] He stole that out of the “ Picayune.” 
 
 Rose. Gentlemen, be good enough to be seated. I believe there are 
 chairs enough. 
 
 [They all return to their avocations, as before , Rose and Nutgalls, c.. 
 Froth flirting aside with Cerulia. and attempting to assist her in 
 her culinary operations ; Wash, writing. 
 
 Rose. Well, Mr. Nutgalls, how do you like our quarters ? 
 
 Nut. They are not at all bad— in fact, they are much more comfort- 
 able than mine, up sixteen flights of stairs in a fashionable hotel, with 
 •no attendance — and four skirmishes per diem to get anything to eat. 
 How did you happen to find them 1 
 
 Rose. Well, we tried everything. First, we had lodgings in an ex- 
 ceedingly select private family, with all the modern improvements. 
 
 Wash. References exchanged, 
 
 Nut. And a pious family 1 
 
 Rose. Oh, yes ; the prayers were much better than the dinners. The 
 table service was great ; the knives and forks were like old soldiers, 
 who had served in several campaigns, under different generals, and had 
 no sympathy with each other. On state occasions, there were stiff 
 table napkins, about big enough for a baby’s pocket handkerchief. As 
 to the modern improvements— --the gas was always cut off at eleven 
 o’clock, about the only time Wash, wanted it, and altogether we had to 
 pay a great deal for being made miserably uncomfortable. Then Wash, 
 tried advertising again, 
 
 Wash. Yes ; did this dodge. [Reads.] “ Wanted.— Board, by a 
 respectable young man, eighteen years of age, in a strictly private 
 family, the female portion of which can inculcate and instil into his 
 mind moral principles and precepts. Such only need address A. E. B. 
 S. X. Y. Z., Herald Office, within three days.” 
 
 Nut. [Laughing.] That certainly ought to have succeeded. 
 
 Rose. The number of communications that we received from strictly 
 private families was enormous, inducing us to believe that the popula- 
 tion of New York was divided into two classes, — people who take 
 boarders and people who board. But we soon found that there was no 
 middle ground for us. We were out of society, — and as society had 
 generally cut us, we resolved to treat society with the most profound 
 contempt. 
 
 Nut. Bravo ! The fashionable world is a queer institution. They 
 have brought style down to the smallest particulars lately. The other 
 day I employed an artist in the dog line, to perform a surgical opera- 
 tion on a terrier, when he gravely informed me that it wasn’t the style 
 to cut off terriers’ tails, now-a-days. So I complied with the dictates 
 of fashion, and Joe’s organ of recognition remains unmutilated. 
 
 Wash. So wags the world. 
 
 Rose. So we concluded to set up an establishment of our own ; and 
 such a time we had in finding a place to lay our heads, you can’t ima- 
 gine. So, after all sorts of adventures, we happened to hit upon this 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 29 
 
 place, which was built by some benevolent individual, who evidently had 
 our case in his eye. 
 
 Nut. More likely he had twelve per cent, per annum in his eye. 
 
 Bose. We have a whole floor — four rooms, with everything conve- 
 nient ; and nothing annoys us. I havn’t the slightest idea who our 
 neighbors are, but I believe that Wash, has struck up a flirtation with a 
 French blanchisseuse, up stairs. 
 
 Wash. Entirely platonic, your honor. The young woman was struck 
 with my magnificent ensemble. 
 
 Rose. Well, we are very comfortable, and each is happy, in the seve- 
 ral departments of labor. We have a sort of “ light of other days” old 
 lady, who does the heavy work, and Rule gets us up the most magnifi- 
 cent dinners from the very smallest materials. 
 
 Nut. [ Pointing to sewing-rnaehine.'] But what do you do with that 1 
 
 Rose. That is a great invention, and the name of Singer, it’s inventor, 
 is a credit to his country — fit to be mentioned with Morse, McCormick, 
 Steers, Hoe, Hobbs, and other Americans, whose victories in the arts 
 of peace are quite as great as the achievements of their revolutionary 
 sires. It is a great invention, and gains us ten dollars a week. Wash, 
 writes for the Sunday papers, and they pay him very well ; and Rule 
 foolishly sticks to us, though she has a nice house in Boston. 
 
 Cerulia. Oh ! there’s no particular merit in that ; I like it. It’s a 
 new development of one of my theories. Rose has been assayed in the 
 retort of adversity, and has come out pure gold. I like her much better 
 than in Madison Avenue. 
 
 Rose. [ Deeply affected .] I believe I am changed for the better. 
 
 Nut. [ Aside with energy .] Now, if I had a daughter like that, I’d for- 
 give her for anything. (To Rose.] Have all your old friends cut you l 
 
 Rose. Oh, no. Not quite. Human nature and fashionable society 
 nre neither quite so bad as some, who don’t know anything about them, 
 try to make them out. No, those I love best still adhere to me, and have 
 offered me assistance. 
 
 Wash. Which we wouldn’t accept — and I must say that the fellows 
 at the club behaved in the handsomest manner to me. 
 
 Nut. That’s pleasant. [7b Rose.] You ought to come out as an au- 
 thoress. 
 
 Rose. No ! I’ve been too much disgusted with the namby-pamby 
 female literature of the day. With an occasional exception, our author- 
 esses either write silly platitudes, abolition harangues, or disgusting 
 personalities. 
 
 Nut. Too true ! They are immense nuisances, and ought to be sup- 
 pressed by act of Congress. But have you thought further on the sub- 
 ject I mentioned the other day 1 
 
 Rose. Oh, yes. I go every day to my old music master, who is very 
 kind ; but I’m almost afraid — I fear a failure. 
 
 Nut. Oh, don’t be alarmed. The public is generous enough — too 
 generous at times. No, you mustn’t be afraid. We must give the con- 
 cert ; appeal directly to the public. Who ever knew our people to re- 
 fuse to support beauty and genius in distress 1 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 30 
 
 Rose. I do not fear the public. But, then, the press — won't they cut 
 me up awfully 1 
 
 Froth. [ Coming down.'] Oh, bless your heart, no. They are the nicest 
 people in the world and the most gallant. 
 
 Nut. [Laughing.] Froth is good authority. He manages the press. 
 
 Froth. Now, old fellow, let me up, please. I tell that to some of 
 these foreigners, sometimes, but every sensible man knows there is no 
 such thing as managing the New York press — that is, the important 
 papers. What they do they do freely ; but as to buying or bullying 
 them, it is out of the question. There are some dirty fellows, who 
 hang about Nassau and Spruce streets, — have no real connection with 
 any paper — but get a job for charity sometimes, as one would throw a 
 bone to a vagabond dog — who bully artists and others out of small 
 sums, and thereby sometimes bring an honorable profession into disre- 
 pute, but your true journalist feels for them only the bitterest con- 
 tempt. 
 
 Nut. Still, we are a tender-hearted race, particularly to petticoats — 
 and I can safely promise you the aid of the press. I have brought Mr. 
 Froth here as your agent. Everybody must have an agent, you know. 
 And I have engaged the Academy for to-morrow night. Through the 
 quarrel between Max and the Directors, I have it for a small price, and 
 [Showing poster ,] here’s the bill. 
 
 ACADEMY OF MUSIC. 
 
 GRAND LYRIC CONCERT. 
 
 MADAME ROSE DE SKIBBERINI, 
 
 ASSISTED BY SEVERAL EMINENT ARTISTS, 
 
 Will have the honor to make her first appearance in a Grand Lyric 
 Concert, at the Academy of Music, 
 
 On Wednesday Evening next. 
 
 Tickets, with reserved seats, one dollar each. To be had at Hall 
 
 & Sons — Breusing’s — and the Academy. No reserved seats sold 
 
 after five o’clock on the evening of the Concert. Particulars in future 
 
 advertisement. 
 
 Rose. Good gracious. Wash ! Rule! come here, and see how my 
 name looks in large letters ; I’m afraid, however, that it will be a 
 failure. 
 
 Nut. Courage, ma petite ! Froth will do everything that is right. 
 
 Froth. Yes, we must have a good lot of bouquets and a house full of 
 people. I’ll send a squad in, the same clique that they have for all the 
 new artists, with stout canes and strong umbrellas. Are you particular 
 about how many times you are called out? 
 
 Rose. Why, it is made a matter of business. I’d rather not have any 
 clique. 
 
 Froth. Oh, you must, they always do it. The fashionable people 
 never applaud, and applause is positively necessary to a singer. 
 
 Rose. [Stoutly.] No ; I won’t have anything of the kind. If the 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 31 
 
 public applaud me, well and good — if not, I’ll come back to my sewing- 
 machine. 
 
 Froth, (r.) Well, just as you please, but I must go now — I’m going 
 to see your papa ; have you any message to the governor \ 
 
 Rose. [ With feeling ] No, thank you, but I often think of all his 
 former kindness, and regret that he was led away by that odious Crawl. 
 
 Froth. There are some queer rumors in the street about him ; how- 
 ever, I’ll tell you more about that, by and bye. 
 
 Wash. [To Froth.] I’ll walk part of the way with you ; I’m going 
 down to the Smasher office, to have my matter measured with a string, 
 and receive my little dimes. 
 
 [ Wash changes his coat, he and Froth come down. 
 
 Rose. Going, Mr. Froth 1 Let me see you again soon. And, Wash, 
 be sure you’re back at five — Rule has got a splendid piece of roast beet 
 for dinner. 
 
 Wash. [Crosses to L.j Don’t be alarmed, I'll be in for that, I have an 
 appetite now-a-days. Froth, labor has its advantages — [Grosses to r.J 
 you ought to try it. 
 
 Froth. Maybe I will, some day, just for a change. Au revoir, ladies. 
 
 [Exit, with Wash, r. h. d. c. 
 
 Rose. [To Nutgalls.] Will you remain and try the beef 1 I have a 
 great many things to say to you ! 
 
 Nut. (l.) And as I don’t drop in upon a thing like this, every day, I 
 accept your invitation with pleasure. 
 
 Rose. Now, Rule, do your best — get up a feast for the gods. 
 
 Scene III. (r. h.) — Room in Ten-per-cent's house. 
 
 Enter Ten-per-cent, hurriedly, reading a newspaper. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Going to have a concert, is she 1 Well, I never will 
 forgive her, now. What an eternal disgrace — my daughter singing 
 * before every low fellow that can raise a dollar. I wonder what Mrs. T. 
 will say to all this! I miss Wash, and Rose very much, and would 
 gladly have forgiven everything, but this is too much. [Savagely.'] 
 They’ll come to me on their knees, one of these days, and ask pardon, 
 and then I’ll turn them out of the house. [Softly.] No, I don’t know 
 that I’d do that, either. What an old fool I am, to be sure. Not a 
 soul to speak to in the house ; dinner all alone. I wish somebody 
 would come in, if it was only Froth. Jane 1 Jane ! 
 
 Enter Servant. — (Jane). 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Jane — have the evening papers come 1 
 
 Jane. Yes, sir ; here’s the Mirror. 
 
 [Giving him a newspaper. — Exit Jane. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. £ ‘ More Schuylerisms ! Wall Street was thrown into 
 a fever of excitement this morning by rumors of heavy frauds in some of 
 the Western railroad stocks. It seems that a financier, named C— , 
 
32 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 distinguished for his piety, has been carrying on, for years, a tremen 
 dous amount of speculating in fancy stocks, and was employed as 
 secretary for the Jacksonville and Dead Eye Creek Railroad, which 
 stock he bulled up to 135. He then issued a large number of fraudu- 
 lent shares.” Good heaven ! that’s where nearly all my whole fortune 
 is invested ; but being bitten in some other speculations, he was not 
 able to meet the second. The stock fell to 40 at the first board, and 
 at the second, was offered at 25, with no takers. Ruined ! ruined ! It 
 is also rumored that this scoundrel has forged notes-of-hand to a very 
 large amount ; and it is stated that he sailed to-day in the Hermann, 
 for Bremen. 
 
 [Stage grows dark — Ten-per-cent sinks upon a chair , covering his 
 face with his hand. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. And this is the end That smooth-faced hypocritical 
 villain has robbed me of the affection of my children, and of the wealth 
 I toiled so long to obtain He will escape, too, through the negligence 
 of our law makers, who imprison a man a year for stealing a loaf of 
 bread, but allows a rascal who defrauds me of half a million of dollars 
 to go unpunished, and live in luxury on the fruits of his crime ! Oh 1 
 if I only had some one to speak to. My wife — she’s a bad consoler, 
 but better than none. [Calls.] Jane ! Jane ! 
 
 Enter Jane. 
 
 Where’s your mistress 1 
 
 Jane. Been out. sir, since morning. [Hands him note and exits. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Of course, she’s out. 
 
 Enter Froth, r. 
 
 Froth. Good morning, sir. I have the official vote for Congress, in 
 your district. Blowhard has beaten you, one hundred votes. Sorry, but 
 couldn’t help it. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. This was only needed to cap the climax of my misfor- 
 tunes. Froth, I am the most miserable of men. [ Goes to Froth, places 
 his hand on his shoulder , and looks in his face.] Where are my children 
 — my wife — Crawl — 
 
 Enter Mrs. Ten-per-cent. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [ Sarcastically ,] Madam, I am glad to see you, and sur- 
 prised too ; you should have gone with your dear friend, my friend Mr. 
 Crawl. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. I have heard something in the street, tell me what is the 
 matter. 
 
 Froth. Simply, that Mr. Crawl has Schuylerized with nearly all of 
 your husband’s means. 
 
 Ten-per-cent.. And has escaped, the villain. 
 
 Mrs. Ten. And is it all sure ? 
 
 Ten-per-cent. I cannot tell. At any rate, it will be a serious inroad 
 upon my fortune, and 
 
 Mrs. Ten. And we must economise till we know the worst, and trim 
 our sails to suit the gale. Count upon my aid, my husband. I am to 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 33 
 
 some extent the cause of your misfortunes, I will do my duties as a true 
 wife to alleviate them. 
 
 Ten-per-cent Thank Heaven ! This is the only really happy moment 
 I’ve had since Rose left us. I have lost my means, but I have gained 
 a wife. [Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Ten-eer-cent. 
 
 Froth. She’s an immense brick, that woman — splendid things these 
 women are when a fellow is in a tight place. They are like ivy, the 
 more you’re ruined, the more they cling to you. Bravo ! Mrs. Ten-per- 
 cent, you’re an ornament to your species! [Looks at watch.] Five 
 o’clock, I’ll go and feed, and thereafter adorn my person, look up my 
 friends with the stout umbrellas, and then, ho ! for the Academy. 
 
 [Exit R. H. 
 
 Scene Last. — Green Room of the Academy of Music — Door , right en- 
 trance to the Stage — Piano covered with Music. 
 
 Rose, Nutgalls, Wash, Froth, and Cerulia discovered. 
 
 Nut. (l. c.) Well, Rose, there’s a splendid house. 
 
 Froth, (r.) Nearly all money, too. 
 
 Wash, (l.) And lots of our old fellows there — it’s very fashionable. 
 
 Cerulia. There seems to be an upper stratum of democracy in the 
 amphitheatre. 
 
 Rose, (c ) I hope they are not Mr. Froth’s friends with the stout 
 umbrellas. Oh, dear ! I feel very much frightened. 
 
 Nut. Keep up your courage, you needn’t be afraid. They are so 
 good natured that they are applauding the baritone, who can’t sing a 
 bit, and has no voice worth mentioning. 
 
 Rose. Oh ! I’m not so much afraid of the people as I am of the critics. 
 
 Froth , Why, my dear, you needn’t be afraid of them. They are the 
 best fellows in the world. 
 
 Nut. Yes, indeed, they’ll treat you handsomely. 
 
 Rose. Yes, but then I’m not a great aTtist, and — and — 
 
 Nut. Oh! that’s nothing, they will be kind. For my part, I would 
 have every critic sworn as they do grand jurors. You shall pitch into 
 no one for malice, hatred or revenge, and leave no one unpitched into 
 for fear, favor, affection, or hope of reward But still they are only 
 men, and men always mollify at the sight of a petticoat in distress. 
 Vide the stage sailors. 
 
 Froth. [To Rose.] Sky-hi-hi has finished the violin solo. I thought 
 he never would get through — any one that plays the Carnival de Yenise 
 ought to have six years in Sing Sing, and — it’s time for you to go on. 
 
 Rose. Well, I’m all ready. Oh, dear ! I feel as if I was in a 
 shower-bath, and going to pull the string. 
 
 Nut. Well, pull the string then — there — run ! [Pushes Rose on 
 Stage. — Great applause is heard ; they all crowd to wing. — Another 
 round of applause. — Music.] There ! do you hear that l 
 
 [More applause. 
 
 Froth. [ Applauding .] Yes' that’s a splendid reception. Bravo! 
 little one 
 
34 
 
 YOUNG NEW YCRK. 
 
 Enter Ten-per-cent, cautiously. 
 
 But. who have we here 1 
 
 Cornelia. [ Looking at Ten-per-cent.] It’s a fossil. Queer place for 
 one, too. 
 
 Nut. Not by any means — the directors are all fossils. [ Going to 
 Ten-per-cent.] Good evening, sir ; I did not really expect to see you 
 here. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [. sadly .] It’s as astonishing to me as to you, — but I 
 have been overtaken by sudden misfortunes and I am not the man you 
 knew yesterday. [ More applause , during which 
 
 Enter Rose, with Bouquets, r. 
 
 Rose. Oh ! such a splendid reception — such nice people — applauded 
 everything 1 did, good and bad. [sees her Father .] My dear father ! 
 [Runs to him, and throws herself in his arms.'] I’ve heard everything. 
 
 Ten-per-cent, [r ] My dear child ! — we are now all alone in the 
 world. 
 
 Rose. Not alone, father. You still have a wife and children, who 
 have always loved you. You were the victim of a bold, bad man, who 
 had no heart. I knew it. Women cannot be deceived in such mat- 
 ters, when their hearts are not involved. But you will come to us, 
 dear father, now — will you now, and live with us always 1 
 
 Ten-per-cent. Can you forgive me 1 
 
 Wash. [Coming down.] Forgive you ! Why, Governor, I told you ■ 
 a month ago, I bare no malice against you. There, [Shakes hands with 
 Ten-per-cent.] that’s what I offered to do long ago, but you wouldn’t. 
 Never mind, old fellow, it’s all right now. [Goes up. 
 
 Rose. It is I that should ask forgiveness for disobeying a parent’s 
 sacred commands — but I was confident that I was in the right ; and 
 now, my dear father, my heart is so full, that I lack words to express 
 myself. [Embracing him. 
 
 Froth. [To Rose] Come, it is almost time for the “ Ah ! don't 
 mingle ,” [To Ten-per-cent.] Excuse me. Sir, the public claims its 
 Prima Donna. 
 
 Rose. [Going out , r.] Good bye, Pa. I’ll return soon. 
 
 [Exit to Stage. — Loud applause. 
 
 Froth. Bravo ! that’s splendid ! Go it, Umbrellas ! 
 
 [All applaud, and all crowd to r. 
 
 Enter Skibberini, r., going l. in great haste. 
 
 Skib. Where is she ? Where’s my wife 1 The victim of a foul con- 
 spiracy, I was sent out of the country, away from all I loved — and I 
 have not since known one happy hour. 
 
 Nut. [Coming down.] Ah, my gentle tenor, — so, you are here, — you 
 received my dispatch 1 
 
 Skib. Yes. The moment I heard of my wife’s misfortunes, I relin- 
 quished all my engagements, — travelled night and day, — and here I 
 am. 
 
 Wash. [Coming down.] But the tin’s all gone, old fellow. 
 
YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 ob 
 
 Skib. Never mind ! I’m glad of it. It gives me an opportunity to 
 prove that I did not marry her for money. 
 
 Ten-per-cent. [To Skibberini.] I have a thousand apologies for you, 
 but don’t know how to make them. [They talk aside. 
 
 Froth. By Jove ! that’s a splendid trill. That will be an encore , no 
 doubt. [Loud applause within. 
 
 Enter Rose, very much exhausted. 
 
 Rose. There, that’s over, and I’m heartily glad of it. I’ve nothing 
 to do now. till the end of the second part. [Goes to piano, and sits. 
 
 Wash. Now, sis, you are all right, you sang like a bird, and every 
 body is in extacies with you. One fellow says your scale is splendid, 
 and I told him you carried extra weight on purpose. 
 
 Rose. Thank you. Your musical criticism is quite as good as any. 
 
 Froth. It’s a splendid success. 
 
 Nut. ‘And I suppose there’s nothing else in the world you want. 
 
 Rose. One ! 
 
 [Nutgalls comes down bringing Skib. Nutgalls takes her hand 
 and puts it into that of Skib, and goes up softly. Rose turns on 
 piano stool and sees Skib. 
 
 Rose. My dear husband. [Attempts to rise , but falls into Skib's arms. 
 
 Skib. Look up, dear Rose. We never will part again. Before I heard 
 the truth in relation to you, I was in the interior of Germany, and 
 under an engagement, but as soon as I could free myself from it, I did 
 so, and have travelled night and day, impatient for this blissful moment. 
 
 Rose. I never doubted your truth. It was my belief in you, that 
 made me risk all, in giving to you my maiden heart ; it was my belief 
 in you which has since supported me under the trials that have fallen 
 to my lot. [They go up Wash, and Cerulia come down. 
 
 Wash. Well, Rule, have you considered my proposition with your 
 usual profundity. 
 
 Cerulia. Yes. I have applied a mental analysis of it, and — 
 
 Wash. Are you in favor of a clinique 1 
 
 Cerulia. Well, you’ve been a pretty good boy. — I think your primary 
 formation is good — your devotion to your sister shows that, and they 
 say a good brother makes a good husband. Still matrimony, viewed 
 logically, is an absurdity, and — 
 
 Wash. [Kissing her .] There, we’ll hear the rest of that some other 
 time. 
 
 [Goes up 'with Cerulia. Skib, Rose, Froth, Nutgalls and Ten- 
 Per-cent come down. 
 
 Skib. To whom do we owe all this happiness 1 
 
 Rose. Chiefly to our good friend Mr. Nutgalls. 
 
 Cerulia. Oh ! Mr. Nutgalls, you’re an angel. 
 
 Nut. Thank you. That’s the first time I was ever called an angel in 
 my life. 
 
 Froth. The simile is really not appropriate. 
 
 Wash. No, he’s not quite the idea for a conventional angel. 
 
 Froth. It’s time for the finale to Cinderella. [/Sswgv. 
 
 “ Now with grief no longer bending.” 
 
36 
 
 YOUNG NEW YORK. 
 
 Hose. [Goes to wing ] All ready. 
 
 Nut. [Goes to wing , and leads her to c.] If they call you out. what 
 will you say ? 
 
 Rose. You shall hear. [Coming down to lights ] Ladies and gentle- 
 men — without the smallest particle of egotism, I ask you if you are sat- 
 isfied with the career of Young New York, as typified by us 1 Do you 
 approve of the step that I have taken, in coifiing before the public, and 
 asking for the support it always generously accords to talent, in every 
 department of art ? Will you sustain me ? Do you consider my debut 
 a success 1 And shall I continue my artistic career 1 Thank you !—- 
 And remember this — that it is only the test of adversity that brings out 
 the latent virtues that are hidden in every heart. That genius is the 
 gift of Heaven, bestowed upon no single class, and that the accomplish- 
 ments and refinements called frivolous by those who envy their pos- 
 sessors, may be turned to the best account in the hour of need. That 
 the rich are not to be censured by the poor for being rich, nor the poor 
 by the rich, for being poor ; but that every man and woman is to be 
 tried by the standard of their acts alone ; and upon them is to stand or 
 fall. How do you like Young New York 1 [All applaud. 
 
 All. Bravo ! 
 
 [Nutgalt.s leads Rose to wing , — Applause — Quick Curtain. — Orches- 
 tra Music, Finale to Cinderella. — End of piece. 
 
 Position of Characters at the fall of the Curtain. 
 
 Froth, Ten-Per-Cent., Skib., R,ose, Wash,, Cerulia, Nutgalls. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 EXITS AND ENTRANCES. 
 
 L. means First Entrance , Left. R. First Entrance , Right. S. E. L. 
 Second Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. L, 
 Upper Entrance , Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance , Right. 0. Centre. 
 L. C. Left of Centre R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance, 
 Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R 
 Door Right. D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R 
 Upper Door . Right. 
 
 *** The Reader is supposed to he on the Stage, facing the Audience 
 
LADIES, 
 
 DO YOU WANT A PURE, BLOOMING COMPLEXION 1 
 
 IF SO, A FEW APPLICATIONS OF 
 
 HAGAN’S BALM 
 
 Will gratify you to your heart’s content. It causes the plainest 
 features to soften into refinement, and glow with loveliness. It 
 makes a lady of fifty appear but twenty. It does away with 
 Redness, Blotches, and Pimples. It overcomes the Flushed Ap- 
 pearance of heat, fatigue, and excitement. By its use the 
 roughest skin is made to rival the Pure Radiant Texture of 
 Youthful Beauty. 
 
 Sold by all Druggists at 75 Cents per Bottle. 
 
 LYON MANUFACTURING CO., 
 
 53 Park Place, New York 
 
 Hagan’s Magnolia Balm is used by hundreds of Actresses. 
 It gives a brilliant, beautiful, and natural complexion, 
 which no other preparation can rival. It is impossible to detect 
 its use when properly applied. 
 
ZLATOUST 7 !3 
 
 For The Hair 
 
 Only 50 Cents Per Bottle. 
 
 It -promotes the growth, preserves the color, and in- 
 creases the vigor and beauty of the Hair. • 
 
 Woman’s Glory is her Hair. A woman’s beauty is at once her weapon and her 
 shield, and forms the silver cord with which she binds in willing captivity the proud 
 and haughty spirit of man. Of all the elements of female loveliness a beautiful 
 Head of Hair is the feature, par excellence, and crowning glory. With it the 
 plainest face becomes attractive ; without it the sweetest features are lost in gloom. 
 
 As a producer and preserver of this important item of womanly attraction, 
 
 is a rare and wonderful preparation, and after thirty years of trial stands to-day 
 without a RIVAL. 
 
 Miss V g, of 32d Street, says Lyon’s Kathairon has proved to be the best 
 
 preparation for the Hair which she has ever used. It keeps the Hair sweet, clean, \ 
 healthful, and abundant. . . j 
 
 Miss R , of Murray Hill, says it is really splendid ; that it beautifies, ! 
 
 strengthens, and cleans out the dandruff at once. 
 
 Mrs. C- , of 5th Avenue, says: I have used the Kathairon upon my own 
 
 and children’s Hair for over four years in preference to any other preparation of the | 
 kind, and never find the least trouble in always keeping the Hair in perfect order ;• at 
 the same time the head is always clean and moist, and Hair glossy. . 
 
 LYON MANUFACTURING CO., 
 
 53 Park Place, New York. 
 
FRENCH’S STANDARD DRAMA. 
 
 No. CLXXXVI. 
 
 VICTIMS: 
 
 AN 
 
 ORIGINAL COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 B Y 
 
 TOM TAYLOR, Esq., 
 
 Author of “Still Waters Run Deep," “ A Blighted Being f “ A Trip to Ki& 
 smgen," “ Diogenes and his Lantern ," “ The Philosopher's Stone," “ The 
 Vicar of Wakefield ," “ To Parents and Guardians ," “ Our Clerks," 
 
 “ Little Red Riding-Hood ," <£c., <fec. Atoc? one of the Authors of 
 “ Masks and Faces," “ Plot and Passion ," “ Slave Life," “ 
 
 Loves and a Life," “ The King's Rival," “ Helping Hands f 
 “ Prince Dorus," Sc., Sc., Sc. 
 
 TO WHICH ABE ADDED, 
 
 A Description of the Costumes — Cast of the Characters — Entrances and Exito— 
 Eelative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and the whole of the 
 Stage Business. 
 
 New York 1 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH 
 
 PUBLISHER 
 
 34 WEST 22D STREET 
 
 London 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 
 
 26 Southampton St. 
 Strand, London, W. C. 
 
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 STAGE DIRECTIONS —Exits and Entrances : R. means Eight ; L. Left ; D. F. Door in Flat ; R. D. Right Door ; 
 L. D. Left Door: S. E Second Hnt™w IT F* Tinner Entrance ; M. D. Middle Door . — Relatite Positions: R. means 
 Right; L. Lejt ; V. Centre; a U fiigru oj Venire; a.. V.JUeftof Centre. 
 
 *»* The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage , facing the Audience. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 =**= 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE. — Morning room at the Acacias , Mr. Merry weather's Villa, in 
 the Regent's Park. An elegantly furnished room , opening into a com 
 servatory. Chairs , lounges , a table , r. c., a couch , r. .4 door , r. c., 
 communicating with Mrs. Merry weather' s boudoir ; a door communi- 
 cating with the hall , 2 e. L. ; a door communicating with Mr. Merry- 
 weather's dressing-room , 2 e. r. Bell. Books, prints, dtc., upon the 
 table — statuettes, dSfC. 
 
 Skimmer discovered arranging the books , dec., on the table, brushing the 
 dust from the statuettes and picture frames , with a feather brush, df-c 
 He pauses from time to time in his work, to open and read in one of 
 the books. 
 
 Skim. Poetry ! I adores poetry ! especially melancholy poetry, like Mr. 
 Fitzherbert’s. Here’s his works. [ Takes up and opens books. ] What 
 cutting titles, “ Withered Leaves ” — and here’s another, “ Solitudes 
 of the Soul” — and his last, which missus has just been a cryin’ into, 
 “ Ruins of the Heart.” It’s a great advantage to know the author of 
 poems like these. He was here last night ; he’s here most nights, with 
 the other liter’y gents as use the house, and don’t they punish the wit- 
 ties neither. I suppose it’s misery gives him such an appetite. [ Opens 
 a volume .] Beautiful ! here’s language ! [Reads. 
 
 “ Around the board, all point at him, 
 
 The lonely, unenjoying man — 
 
 They wonder why his eyes are dim, 
 
 They wonder why his cheek is wan — ” 
 
 Well, now, I thought he looked uncommonly jolly last night over hi. 
 scolloped oysters. [Reads again. 
 
 “ Alas ! the banquet tempts not me, 
 
 I find no pleasure in the bowl,” 
 
 He mopped up his cold without, too, pretty tidy. Suppose I tried a 
 verse myself. [Recites. 
 
 “ Lthink, for all his gloomy language, 
 
 Expressive of sich mental anguish, 
 
 That Mr. F. enjoyed his sandwich ” 
 
 But his rerses is very heart-broken ! 
 
4 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Enter Carfuffle, d. l. 2 e. 
 
 Car. (l.) There you are, James Skimmer, at them hooks as usual, 
 instead of attending to your work. 
 
 Skim, (r.) Servants has minds, Mr. Carfuffle. 
 
 Ctyr Not above their situations, James Skimmer. When I was in 
 livery, I had a mind according. Now I’m out of livery, my mind is 
 rose with my position ; and so may yours, James, when you're out of 
 livery. 
 
 Skim. Ah ! if you knew how I looks forrard to that day, Mr. Car- 
 fuffle. 
 
 Car. It’s natural you should, James — it's an honorable ambition. 
 But you’ll never do it, James, if you keeps idling your time away with 
 books. [ Taking book from him.] I’m afraid, James, your growing 
 liter’y. 
 
 Skim. I’m doing my best, Mr. Carfuffle. 
 
 Car. (Sits, l.) Beware, James Skimmers! I’ve knowed a great 
 deal of liter’y people — I’ve lived in liter’y places myself, when I was in 
 a humble position — and of all the uncomfortable, shabby, out-at-elbows 
 families I’ve ever seen or ’eard tell of, liter’y families is the most so. 
 
 Skim, (r.) But ain’t ours a liter’y family ? 
 
 Car. On the female side, James ; but master’s in the city, and that 
 makes all the difference. It’s like one of thes^ books, James ; missus 
 finds the print, but master the Rooshia binding, and the gilt edges. 
 
 Skim. But the company we keeps is liter’y ; you’ll admit that, Mr. 
 Carfuffle 1 
 
 Car. Yes James ; and it’s the one thing makes me a leetle ashamed 
 of the place. To be sure, liter’y people ain’t all equally contemptible. 
 There’s Mr. Fitzherbert, now, he has something of the gentleman about 
 him — 
 
 Skim. And Mr. Butterby, too, is quite the gentleman ; often gives 
 me half crowns, and sends missus flowers, reg’lar. Here’s his yester- 
 day’s bouquet. [ Bringing down a small flower vase with violets .] Li- 
 ter’y people corresponds by bouquets. Do you know the language of 
 flowers, Mr. Carfuffle 1 
 
 Car. No, James. 
 
 Skim. I’ve read about it. Let’s see— what’s violets 1 
 
 Car. Two pence a bunch, James. 
 
 Skim. Ah ! you’ve no poetry in you, Mr. Carfuffle. 
 
 Car. I ’ope not, James. 
 
 Skim. You’re as bad as master. Don’t you feel for mis? is, Mr. 
 Carfuffle I 
 
 Car. Why, James 1 
 
 Skim. A bein’ of sentiment and poetry, like her, tied to a plain man 
 o’ business like master. 
 
 Car. Well, he is plain, James, but if you must have my opinion, I 
 think master’s the more to be pitied of the two. 
 
 Skim. Lor', Mr. Carfuffle! 
 
 Car. If I ’ad a wife, James, I know I should rather she loved, ho- 
 nored, and obeyed me in the regular way, instead of giving herself airs 
 with a lot of liter’y gents, and painters, and poets, and low people of 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 5 
 
 that kind, who lives by their wits, and looking no more to me, except 
 in regard to money, than if I was nobody in my own ’ouse. 
 
 Merryweatlier. [ Without , r. d.] James! 
 
 Skim. But hush, here’s master. [Exit Skimmer, l. d. 2 h 
 
 Enter Merryweather from his dressing room , r. d. 2 e. 
 
 Mer. Eleven o’clock, and no breakfast — how’s this 1 
 
 Car. Missis particularly ordered the breakfast was not ta> be laid 
 sooner, as the noise disturbed her ; now she sleeps in the blue room. 
 
 Mer. Oh, very well ; then I’ll have breakfast in the study in future. 
 
 Car. Missis particularly ordered it should be laid here, sir, in case 
 she wished to speak to you afore you went to the city. [Exit, l. d. 
 
 Enter Skimmer with breakfast tray , l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Mer. Be careful and make no noise, James. 
 
 Skim. I ’ope, sir, you’ll find me attentive to everythink that can 
 spare missis any annoyance. 
 
 Mer. That’s right, James. 
 
 Enter Satchell, r. d. in f. down r. 
 
 How’s your mistress this morning, Satchell’ 
 
 Sat. [Pertly.] She’s suffering from one of her dreadful headaches, 
 sir. 
 
 Mer. Poor dear ! I suppose I may go in, and say how sorry I am, 
 Satchell 
 
 Sat. Oh 1 dear no, sir, missis can’t abear being disturbed so early. 
 
 Mer. It was very inconsiderate in me not to think of that. 
 
 Sat. Very, sir, when poor missis is such an invalid. 
 
 Mer. Yes [sigAs], she used to enjoy such excellent health before I 
 married her. 
 
 Sat. [Sighs.] Ah! sir, ladies often changes sadly after marriage. 
 
 Mer. So they do, Satchell. [SfyAs.] But pray ask your mistress 
 if there’s anything I can do for her before going to the city. 
 
 Sat. Very well, sir. [Exit, r. d. f. 
 
 Exit Skimmer, l. d. 2 e., after having laid the table. 
 
 Mer. [Sighs.] Ah ! this is not the sort of breakfast I used to pro- 
 mise myself before I married Emily. I’ve made a terrible blunder, I’m 
 afraid, and so has Emily, too. Who would have thought, though, 
 from her letters, that things would have turned out in this way — un- 
 affected, frank, and honest as they were? [Opens his desk, which stands 
 on small writing-table, l. n., and takes out letters.] After all, I suppose 
 mine were just as unlike my real self. I should have done better with 
 Lucy Aiken. [Takes out letters, tied round with lock of hair.] Here’s 
 my proposal to her, with the lock of hair I purchased from her hair- 
 dresser ! I was a poor clerk then, and little dreamt of succeeding to 
 old Merryweather’s name and business. I wonder what has become of 
 Lucy. I don’t think she’d have considered herself a victim if she had 
 married me. [<S%As.] Ah ! well, it can’t be helped now ; I must make 
 the best of it 
 
 [Replaces letters and locks desk, leaving key in leek. A tremendous 
 double knock heard. 
 
6 
 
 Who can that be ? 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Enter Carfuffle, d. l. c. 
 
 Car. Mr. Rowley ! [ Exit Carfuffle, L. 
 
 Enter Rowley, l. 
 
 Rowley. Ahl Merry weather, my boy. [Holding out his hand. 
 
 Mer. [ Shaking hands with him.'] .What, Jack Rowley ! how are you? 
 
 Row. Said I’d drop in on you one of these mornings, and here I am, 
 all the way from Primrose Hill, with a two-mile-of-a-frosty-morning 
 appetite. [ Rubs his hands. 
 
 Mer. Delighted to see you — you’ll stay breakfast 1 
 
 Row. Of course I will — it’s what I’ve come *for. You know how I 
 have set my heart on surprising you in the midst of your matrimonial 
 comforts. Lucky Jog ! [Merryweather sighs.] Not like us poor 
 bachelors, with the teapot for a vis-a-vis, but a pretty morning face in 
 a pretty morning cap to sweeten your tea with her smiles, and butter 
 your muffins with her own white hands. 
 
 Mer. As you say, it’s a great comfort — but pray be a little less 
 boisterous — my wife sleeps in the next room. 
 
 Row. Sleeps ! you don’t mean to say she’s in bed at this time in the 
 morning l 
 
 Mer. Why, the fact is, Emily is rather an invalid, and generally 
 breakfasts in her own room. 
 
 Row. The deuce ! that’s a disappointment. But never mind, we 
 must do as well as we can, so order in the solids — chops, cold meat, 
 eggs ; you used to be famous for your breakfasts, you know, in your 
 days of single blessedness. 
 
 Mer. Ah, yes ! how jolly it was, Rowley ! 
 
 Row. I believe you, old boy ; but pray ring for the eatables, for I’m 
 as hungry as an omnibus driver. 
 
 [Merryweather rings hell on table, r. c. 
 
 Mer. I’m not sure what there is, but of course there’s something. 
 
 Enter Skimmer, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Oh ! James, ask cook to send us up something hot— a grill, or anything 
 in that way. 
 
 Row. And muffins, my boy, muffins, if you value my peace of mind 
 [James is going, l. d.] And I don’t see any cream ! 
 
 Mer. Muffins, James — and cream. [Exit Skimmer, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Row. Well, old fellow — hang it — you don’t look as lively as you used 
 to do. • 
 
 Mer. Lively ! oh ! I’m livelier than ever — much livelier. [Sighs .] 
 But my wife doesn’t relish a riotous display of animal spirits — she’s so 
 intellectual. 
 
 Row. Humph ! 
 
 Re-enter Skimmer, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Skim. If you please, cook says there’s no chops, and the cream was 
 all used for missus’s white soup, and there’s no muffins, ’cause missus 
 can’t abear the boy’s bell in the mornings, and there’s no cold meat, 
 ’cos Mr. Hornblower, and Mr. Fitzherbert, and Mr. Butterby cleared out 
 the larder last night, after the concert. [Rowley whistles. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 t 
 
 7 
 
 Mer. Friends of Emily’s — very superior people. 
 
 Row. And devilish good appetites, apparently. 
 
 Mer. Well, this is unlucky. [ With a forced gayety .] Ha, ha, ha ! 
 odd coincidence, isn’t it ? that you should have dropped in to-day of all 
 days 1 How very good 1 
 
 How. Well, I don’t see the joke. 
 
 Mer. You must put up with rolls, and take your tea without cream 
 It’s capital 1 you get the aroma so much purer. That will do, Jaynes. 
 
 Skim. [Aside.] ’Tother don’t seem to appreciate the ’roma. 
 
 [Exit, l. d. 2 E. 
 
 How. Well, if this is married happiness, it’s as like bachelor misery 
 as anything I ever saw in my life. 
 
 Mer. It’s provoking, I must say — extremely provoking. The fact is, 
 you see, Emily is a creature of too much mind to attend to housekeep 
 ing : but in everything else she's a treasure. 
 
 Row. Humph! 
 
 Mer. So considerate — so afraid of giving trouble. 
 
 Enter Satchell, r. d. f. 
 
 Sat. Please sir, missus says, if you’re going to the city, you’re to 
 mind and not forget the music at Crash’s. 
 
 Mer. No, no ! I’ll remember. 
 
 Sat. And to match these wools at Crochet’s [ Gives wools], and 
 here’s the books for Hookham’s [Gives books], and the bonnet boxes 
 for Madame Clochette’s [Gives them], and missus says you’re to be 
 particular in not sitting on ’em. 
 
 Mer. There — there, that will do, Satchell, I’ll be careful. 
 
 [Exit Satchei.l, l. d. 2 e. 
 She’s so attached to me, you see — can’t bear any other person to 
 attend to her little commissions. 
 
 Row. So I see. Gad ! they paint the Cupid of courtship with a 
 quiver on his back, but the little god of matrimony should be repre- 
 sented with a porter’s knot. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 [Pointing to Merry - ., who is loaded with parcels. 
 
 Mer. Oh ! you may laugh. 
 
 Row. I know I may, I’m not married. 
 
 Mer. Wedded life may have its burthens. 
 
 Row. Pretty heavy ones, evidently. [ Pointing to parcels. 
 
 Mer. But at least they are borne in company. 
 
 Row. Parcels Delivery Company, I should think. 
 
 Mer. And then it’s enjoyments ! 
 
 Row. Tea without cream, and a breakfast table without muffins. 
 No, no, I’m not to be humbugged ! You’ve made a mistake. Come, 
 confess ; it will relieve you. 
 
 Mer. No, no ; I am thankful for the change in my condition [Putt 
 parcels on sofa , r.J, though I will own to you, I do sometimes wish 
 Emily had not such extremely delicate nerves, or that mine were a litt' 
 more delicate, for then we should understand each other better. 
 
 Row. So you don’t quite understand each other 1 
 
 Mer How should we 1 She’s all genius ; I’ve not a spark of it 
 
8 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Row. And most of your friends have just as little. How does sh« 
 get on with them 1 
 
 Mer. Oh ! you don’t suppose she sees any of my friends — common- 
 place men of business ? Oh, no ; her friends are all what’s called 
 “ remarkable people,” poets, metaphysicians, artists ; the house is over- 
 run with men of genius. I do all I can to make her happy ; but some- 
 how, I don’t think I’ve hit the right way, as yet. 
 
 Row. [Taking his hand.] My poor, dear old fellow, I saw you were 
 out of spirits ; but I’d no idea it was as bad as this. 
 
 Mer. You don’t think me an unkind man, Rowley? 
 
 Row. Unkind ! your heart’s the softest place about you, except youi 
 head. 
 
 Mer. I’m not the person to thwart and bully a woman, am 1 1 In 
 short, you wouldn’t call me a brute, would you ? 
 
 Row. You! a brute! 
 
 Mer. Because I sometimes fancy I must be something of the kind. 
 If you saw poor Emily’s low spirits, the way she sighs, and casts her 
 eyes up to the ceiling every now and then, when I’m with her, the style 
 in which her friends speak of me ; in fact, between ourselves, I’m afraid 
 I’m breaking her heart without in the least intending it. 
 
 Row. My poor old boy. I’ve a shrewd suspicion she’s breaking yours 
 with her infernal airs and affectations. 
 
 Mer. She! oh, no! It’s my fault, I tell you. But what would you 
 do in my place ? 
 
 Row. Do ? Why first and foremost, I’d be master in my own house. 
 
 Mer. Oh, that I am, I flatter myself. 
 
 Row. Not a bit of it, or your wife wouldn’t be in bed at this time of 
 day, her d — d superior friends wouldn’t be clearing out yonr larder, you 
 would not be imagining yourself a brute, and your old city chums 
 wouldn’t be received in this style, when they dropped in to breakfast. 
 
 Mer. Oh ! if I only knew the way to her heart, Rowley ! 
 
 Row. What ! she doesn’t love you, then ? 
 
 Mer. She tries, I believe, but I’m not the sort of man to win the 
 affections of a gifted creature like her. Oh ! if I was only an editor 
 like Hornblower, or a poet like that pale, sentimental, black-bearded 
 Fitzherbert. 
 
 Row. Fitzherbert ! what Herbert Fitzherbert , The fellow that 
 writes in ijhe periodicals ? 
 
 Mer. Yes ! Do you know his writing 1 
 
 Row. Sorry to say I do — across a three-and-sixpenny stamp. [ Show - 
 ing two bills.] Here’s a brace of his dishonored bills for eighty-six, 
 six, eight, drawn by Joshua Butterby, and accepted, payable, but not 
 paid by Herbert Fitz ditto. 
 
 Mer. It’s extraordinary how these men of genius are always in 
 difficulties. 
 
 Row. He’ll be in a worse difficulty soon, for I have ordered my 
 solicitor to proceed to extremities. 
 
 Mer. What, arrest him ? No, no, Rowley, you must n’t do that 
 neither. Suppose you endorsed the bills to me ! 
 
 Row. Overdue as they aie, and with notice of dishonor '. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 9 
 
 Mer. I know it’s unbusiness-like, but it’s out of consideration for 
 Emily ; she has such a respect for him, such an admiration of his 
 poetry 
 
 Row. Humph ! you’d better let me shut him up. Song-birds pipe 
 best in cages. 
 
 Mer. No, no ; Emily would break her heart about it, and I cannot 
 bear to give her pain, more than I can help — that is ; so give me the 
 bills. [Rowley gives them.\ We’ll look in at Praed’s on our way t< 
 the city. By-the-way, though, I forgot, you have had no breakfast. 
 
 Row. Nor you either ; suppose you breakfast with me at the Union, 
 tn passant. 
 
 Mer. A capital idea ! In the style of old times, Jack ; how I shall 
 enjoy it ! 
 
 Enter Skimmer, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Row. Of course we can’t do things like you married men, but J 
 promise you a regular sample of bachelor discomfort, with all the 
 luxuries of the season, muffins included! [ They are going, when 
 Rowley, pointing to sofa, <sat/s,] Don’t forget your commissions. 
 
 [Merryweather gets parcels, and they exeunt, l. d. 
 
 Skim. [ Taking away the breakfast things.'] That Rowley’s a coarse 
 man ; the same vulgar stamp as master. Absorbed in what Mr. Fitz- 
 herbert calls the sordid pursuits of gain, both of ’em. If it wasn’t for 
 the liter’y people missus brings about the ’ouse I’d give warning to- 
 morrow. But the conversation in our soirees is really a privilege to a 
 young man that aims at improvin’ his mind as I do. 
 
 [ Exit with tray, l. d. 2 e. 
 Enter Satchell, l. d. 2 e., showing in Mrs. Fitzherbert, who is plainly 
 dressed, with bonnet and vail. 
 
 Sat. You can sit down here, young woman, while I speak to missus 
 about the work. 
 
 Mrs. F. Thank you [ Exit Satchell, d. in f. r. 
 
 Another week’s embroidery, and I shall have made up the two pounds 
 for those bills ; and then I shan’t have to worry dear Herbert for the 
 money I hope I’m not doing wrong in trying to keep out of debt, and 
 procure for him the little comforts he requires so much, though he does 
 know nothing about it. Thanks to my maiden name, which I borrowed 
 for the occasion, there’s no chance of my being found out. I wish, 
 though, those impertinent, ill-bred men wouldn’t follow one so in the 
 street, and stare under one’s bonnet. They see I’m poor, and unpro- 
 tected ; it seems so cowardly. There was one persecuted me all the 
 way to this door — such a fool, too. 
 
 Re-enter Satchell, with a parcel, d. f. r. 
 
 Sat. (r.) Here are half-a-dozen more caps, to be worked in the same 
 pattern as the last, at three- and-sixpence a-piece, you know. 
 
 Mrs. F. (c.) Thank you. 
 
 Sat. Mind, they must be ready against next Wednesday. 
 
 Mrs. F. Next Wednesday 1 I shall have to sit up the greater part of 
 every night to Snish them. 
 
 1 * 
 
10 
 
 VICTIMS, 
 
 Sat. That’s no business of ours. 
 
 Mrs. F. No ; but please the last are not paid for, I think — [Timidly,] 
 and if — if Mrs. Merryweather could — 
 
 Sat. [ Pertly .] Oh ! you want the money — I’ll tell Missus ; of course, 
 it’s always the way when one employs people out of charity. 
 
 [Exit, u. d. p. 
 
 Enter Skimmer, d. t,. 2 e., showing in Butterby, who carries in hi* 
 hand a bouquet wrapped in paper. 
 
 Butter. [Aside.] There she is ! [To Skimmer.] Very well, I’ll 
 wait; he said he’d be here at twelve. [Exit. Skimmer, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 [In a jaunty manner .] Well, my dear, I said we should certainly be 
 better acquainted, and here we are, you see, tete a tete. By Jove, now, 
 don’t “ turn, oh turn, those eyes away” — I’m harmless, perfectly harm- 
 less. I only want another peep into those blue depths — “ Lights that 
 do mislead the morn.” 
 
 Mrs. F. Pray, cease talking such nonsense, sir. 
 
 Butter. It’s not nonsense — it’s poetry — the language of passion ! 
 (Mrs. Fitzherbert lowers her vail^] Ha! now why put down your 
 vail? It’s no use — it only adds the charm of mystery to your other 
 charms. 
 
 Mrs. F. I’ll call the servants, if you go on, sir. 
 
 Butter. Oh ! pooh, stuff, you know you wont do anything of the kind 
 — my importunities are flattering. By Jove, I’m struck with you, I 
 am, by Jove! [Aside.] Not a word. Hang me if I don’t tempt her 
 with Fitz’s bouquet, which I was to leave for Mrs. Merryweather. 
 
 [Takes bouquet from paper. 
 
 Mrs. F. Will that girl never come back ? 
 
 Butter. Look, here are lovely flowers — let me present them to their 
 sister — “ Sweets to the sweet.” 
 
 “ I offer thee a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honoring thee — ’ 
 
 Mrs. F. As insulting me, sir ! 
 
 [ Crosses to l. — she puts away the flowers. 
 
 Butter. No, no, by Jove, don’t be so cruelly cold — so impregnably 
 adamantine. 
 
 Enter Satohell, d. r. f. 
 
 Sat. Flirting with Mr. B. — I thought she was no better than she 
 should be. Here’s the money, young woman, and as we’re not used 
 to being dunned, we will not trouble you with any more work after 
 those caps are finished 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh ! say I’m very sorry, please. I didn’t mean — if not per 
 fectly convenient — 
 
 Sat. Convenient ! — well, to be sure, making a convenience of us ! 
 
 [Exit, with a toss of her head , D. R. F. 
 
 Mrs. F. Ah ! she wouldn't be so cruel ; if she knew how I want the 
 money for dear baby and for Herbert — [Going l. 
 
 Butter. [Detaining he] Now, don’t go. 
 
VICTIMS. 1 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Once for all, sir, I beg you’ll not insult me. I am not un* 
 protected — and if I should be forced to appeal to my husband — 
 
 Butter. Husband ! — pooh, an old dodge. Now, I say — 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh! sir, why do you persecute me in this way? 
 
 [She breaks away and exits, l. D. 2 E. 
 
 Butter. Gone ! — she was a vision of delight ! — I’ll follow her. A 
 ’delicious figure— slight, but undulating — quite Wordsworthian — 
 
 “ A creature not too bright or good 
 For human creatures’ daily food, 
 
 as Fitz would say. Yes, by Jove, a human creature must have his dailj 
 food ; I’m not married yet, and Miss Crane is not here. But I must 
 lewe Fitz’s bouquet — [Rings] — or he’ll never forgive me. 
 
 Enter Skimmer, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Mind Mrs. Merryweather has this bouquet, Skimmer, and not a word 
 who it comes from, you know. 
 
 Skim. Certainly not, sir. [ Puts it in a vase, and exits, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Butter. [. Looking out of the window, c.] There she goes out of the 
 shrubbery. Now, Butterby, be yourself — be irresistible, Butterby, my 
 boy ! [As he is rushing out l. d. 2 e., he suddenly starts back.] Miss 
 Crane, by Jingo ! 
 
 Enter Miss Minerva Crane, shown in by Skimmer, e. d. 2 e. who exits , 
 l. d. 2 c. 
 
 Miss C. Joshua ! 
 
 Butter. Minerva ! 
 
 Miss C. One moment, Joshua, and this feminine weakness will have 
 been surmounted. A chair, Joshua ! 
 
 Butter. Yes, Minerva, [He places one — both sit. 
 
 Miss O. (r. c.) I expected to find my gifted friend Emily, and the 
 sight of you, Joshua, affected me. 
 
 Butter, (l. c.) Exactly the effect which the sudden sight of you, 
 Minerva, had on me. 
 
 Miss C. In the delicate relation in which we are placed — 
 
 Butter. Yes, going to be married next week— 
 
 Miss O. [ Moving her chair away.] You must feel the impropriety of 
 our remaining together, Joshua. 
 
 Butter. Well, now, Minerva, considering we’re to remain together 
 for our natural lives, after next week, I should have thought it the most 
 proper thing in the world. 
 
 Miss C. With ordinary women it might be, Joshua — but, you know, 
 I am not an ordinary woman. 
 
 Butter. That you certainly are not, Minerva 1 Both mentally and 
 physically you are a phenomenon. 
 
 Miss Q. [Waving her hand] I am aware Joshua appreciates his 
 Minerva— that he admires in her, not the external graces, but the 
 mental gifts ; the devotion with which she has embraced her great idea, 
 the spirit in which she has entered on the noble cause of Female 
 Emancipation ! Is it not so, my Joshua 1 
 
12 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Butter. [Aside.] By Jove ! how she talks. [Aloud ] It is exactly 
 bo, my Minerva ! 
 
 Miss C. Then, let us have no unworthy weakness, Joshua. If I 
 marry, do you think it is for that vulgar happiness usually sought in 
 such unions 1 
 
 Butter. Eh ? well, I certainly had that impression. 
 
 Miss C. Dismiss it ! I take the chain of matrimony that I may be 
 more free. 
 
 Butter. [Aside.] A nice look-out for me ! 
 
 Miss C. More untrammelled in my missionary labors. In you I 
 have found a mind that can rise to the height of my idea. Your de- 
 votion to our mutual friend, the gifted Fitzherbert — your sympathy 
 with this suffering angel, Mrs. Merryweaiher — first taught me that, 
 under that exterior — 
 
 Butter. Minerva ! 
 
 Miss C. However, at first sight, unprepossessing and even vulgar — 
 
 Butter. Hang it ! Minerva ! 
 
 Miss C. Was enshrined a great soul — a heroic nature! 
 
 Butter. Yes, certainly, Minerva. Still my appearance — 
 
 Miss C. Might have repelled most of my sex. But, as I said belore, 
 I am not an ordinary woman. 
 
 Butter. No — but, you know, one doesn’t like to be made out such an 
 ordinary man, neither. 
 
 Miss O. [ With a smile of superiority.] I had supposed you above 
 such weaknesses, Joshua. Do not let me have reason to suspect that 
 I have misconstrued you. [d. r. in f. opens — Miss Crane waves her 
 hand with dignity.] But enough — here comes our suffering friend — I 
 would not she found us together. Retire, Joshua, to the garden. 
 
 Butter. [Aside.] Confound it ! Minerva is certainly a wonderful 
 creature ! — wonderful ! — but she might have a little regard for one's 
 feelings ! I wonder how she’d like to be spoken to in this way herself. 
 However, I shall be master next week, and, by Jove ! I’ll let Minerva 
 see what’s what then. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merryweather, r. d. f., leaning on Satchell’s arm— 
 Satchell wheels forward an easy chair. 
 
 Miss G. My dear Emily ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Good morning, dear ! Thank you — that will do, Satchell 
 [SAe sits — Satchell retires , r. d. f., after getting footstool , arrang 
 ing smelling bottle , shawls , cf-c. 
 
 Miss G. And how is my poor sufferer this morning? 
 
 Mrs. M. No worse than usual, dear Miss Crane ; and, alas! no better 
 
 Miss C. You are looking more interesting than ever. What a 
 lovely Cashmere ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, Mr. Merryweather bought it me yesterday. Alas ! 
 
 [Sighs. 
 
 Miss C. Ah ! I understand that sigh. The mention of his name. 
 
 Mrs. M. He means kindly, dear Miss Crane. Do not be hard on 
 him. 
 
 Miss C. Ah ! I know the forgivingness of your angel nature. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 13 
 
 Mrs. M. N? y — suffering is the lot of all our sex. If it com4 to 
 me in the form of union with a being who cannot sympathize with me 
 • — with whom I cannot sympathize — let me endure in silence. It is 
 my duty. 
 
 Miss G. Ah ! in the present unnatural state of society — it may be 
 our duty to bow the km * to stoop the neck, and even to bridle th« 
 tongue — but it shall not oe so always ; when I marry, dear Emily, I 
 will show a different example. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Smiling.'] It is well Mr. Butterby is not withm hearing. 
 
 Miss C. Oh ! Joshua understands me. He feels, as I do, that 
 woman’s mission is anything but submission. I’ve taught him the 
 rudiments of the question, and after we are married, I’ll complete the 
 lesson. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ah ! why have I not your strength of mind arid body, and 
 then I could shatter the chain that now galls me. A pretty bracelet, 
 dear, don’t you think so 1 [Showing bracelet 
 
 Miss G. Yes, sweet, indeed ! Turquoise and silver goes so well with 
 the sweet pallor of your complexion. 
 
 Mrs. M. Flatterer ! 
 
 Miss G. I know whose taste it is — I’m sure I do ! Ah ! don’t blush 
 —own it is the choice of our gifted friend, Fitzherbert. 
 
 Mrs M. No, indeed ! it was Mr. Merryweather presented it to me. 
 
 Mrs. G. Indeed ! I should not have expected anything so pretty 
 from him. 
 
 Mrs. M. I hope you do not think I would receive any present from 
 Mr. Fitzherbert. 
 
 Miss C Oh, we are able to defy the shallow rules of whr.t triflers 
 call society. 
 
 Mrs. M. No, from him I accept only sympathy, and flowers. This 
 bouquet — it comes from him, I feel it does. Sweet floweril The best 
 exponents of feelings like his. 
 
 Miss G. Have you seen him this morning I 
 
 Mrs. M. No ! these flowers came like fairy gifts — without hands. 
 
 Miss G. How interesting he was last night after the concert ; and 
 Hornblower was great — great, indeed. 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, I am happy at least, in my friends. But did you not 
 think Herbert looked wan and unhappy l 
 
 Miss C. My dear, I never stoop to notice faces — I see minds, nothing 
 but minds, and lighted by mind the most ordinary features become 
 beautiful — even Joshua’s 
 
 Mrs. M. I am sure Herbert has a secret sorrow : do you know any- 
 thing of his private history? — where he lives? 
 
 Miss G. Nothing — his life is mystery. 
 
 Mrs. M. What a charm that gives him ; I wish I knew why ne looks 
 so pale, why he sighs so often, why he fixes his eyes so on me, when 
 in spite of myself I reveal the sufie.'iogs unde* whiuh I am sinking, 
 why he never eats anything ! 
 
 Miss G. Eats ! — Genius is like the cam^loon, it fake* and 
 
 lives upon air. As to his history, dear, I’ve not a notion, but I’ll ask 
 
14 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Joshua. You know what friends they arc. That, after all, is one of 
 Joshua’s fine traits — his enthusiastic appreciation of his friends. 
 
 Mrs M. Yes — as Mr. Merry weather coarsely says of him, “ All his 
 geese are swans.” 
 
 Miss C. An elevated nature would have said, “ All his swans are 
 eagles.” Suppose I question him a little about Fitzherbert, he’s in J 
 the garden! [Going, returns . ] By-the- way, though, I had forgotten 
 one thing— here’s the address of that young pianist, which I promised 
 you last night. I understand it is a charity to employ her, and I know 
 your great luxury is doing good. [Gives card. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Reads card.] “Lucy Aiken, 3 Harriet Street, Belgrave 
 Square.” Thank you — meanwhile, I will try and get a little rest — I 
 feel languid. 
 
 Miss C. I’ve brought you my last volume. [Taking book from iag.l 
 “The Wrongs of Woman.” In Chapter III., I treat of ill-assorted 
 marriages. I’ve had your sad case in my eye all through. It will 
 amuse you — it is thought to be harrowing ; I wrote it with a bleeding 
 
 hea “- „ ln [Ex it, a. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ill-assorted marriages ! Yes ! I should have been a poet’s 
 wife — to have shared in his aspirations, partaken his hopes, exulted in 
 his fame ! Oh, Fitzherbert — Fitzherbert, why did we not meet ’ere I 
 had become the wife of one who cannot understand me ? The very 
 name, Merryweather, is redolent of vulgar happiness. How poorly his 
 bracelet shows by the side of Herbert’s flowers ! How can he love 
 me ] He says he does; but there cannot be any real attachment between 
 natures so uncongenial as ours ; besides, if he loved me, would he 
 leave me thus, sad and suffering as I am ! He says it is for business ; 
 how do I know — have I his confidence 1 Does he ever tell ine of his 
 plans — of his friends — of his amusements 1 1 promised to tell Herbert 
 
 how I was to day — I will write to him. [Approaches writing table l.] 
 My husband’s desk — and the key in it! Strange! he generally keeps it 
 so carefully locked. [iSTis takes hold of the key.] Hoyv easily the key 
 turns in the lock ! I declare it has opened. What’s this ! [Examines 
 contents of box.] My letters — the utterance of my foolish, girlish heart, 
 when I thought I loved him. And this ! a lock of hair, and not mine ; 
 and this packet! “My letters to dear Lucy Aiken.” Lucy Aiken ! 
 the name on that card ! No date to the letters. Oh, if he could be 
 deceiving me, then, indeed, my cup of misery would be full to the 
 brim. [ She sinks on the sofa and puts her handkerchief to her eyes ] I 
 knew I didn’t love him, but I thought he loved me. 
 
 Enter Skimmer l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Skim. [Announcing.] Mr. Fitzherbert. 
 
 Enter Fitzheebert, l. d. 2 e., and exit. Skimmer, l. d. 2 e. 
 
 Fitz. [Aside.] So ! my bouquet by her side ! My dear Mrs. Merry- 
 weather, you are ill — I disturb you. 
 
 Mrs. M. (r. c.) No, no — stay, Her — Mr. Fitzherbert — you are always 
 welcome, you know. 
 
 Fitz. Ever kind ! [He sits.] I could not rest until I had assured my- 
 self that you were not worse for the excitement of last night. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 15 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh, no — music never overpowers me. 
 
 Fitz. Ah ! there is some music shakes me to the centre — when jroa 
 were at the piano last night — 
 
 “ My spirit like a charmed bark did float 
 Upon the silver waves of that sweet singing !” 
 
 Mrs. M. You never sing 
 
 Fitz. Never ! Poets are like swans — when we become vocal, ’tis in 
 the hour of their closing agony. 
 
 Mrs. M. But despair must not be kept locked in the heart, or it may 
 shatter it. 
 
 Fitz. What matter when the heart is already in ruins — besides we 
 have our pens. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh ! if you knew the comfort your poems have been to me 
 — their melancholy cadence falls like an echo of my own sighs. Griefs 
 I have never confided to human ears are laid bare in your verses. 
 
 Fitz. How mysterious is the free-masonry of suffering ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Alas ! 
 
 Fitz. What is life without sympathy ! When the solitary heart 
 yearns in vain for a heart to respond to its pulsations — when the lonely 
 soul groups blindly for its kindred soul and finds it not. This agony 
 which I have clothed in words — this agony yon feel — is it not so ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Why should I conceal it from you! But you, too, have 
 felt it 1 
 
 Fitz. — Have I not ! but I am a man, and can bear it. Besides, we 
 may rebel — you can only suffer. 
 
 Mrs. M. It is too — too true. 
 
 Fitz. [ Passionately .] And so, souls that were formed to understand 
 and answer to each other, by the cruel chances of the world, must stand 
 afar off, and measure the happiness that might have been, by the 
 misery that is. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh ! that it were in my power to console you — to probe your 
 griefs with no ungentle hand. 
 
 Fitz. No, I must suffer alone. To reveal the dark chapters of my 
 fate were but to deepen the gloom of yours. But you received my 
 flowers ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh, yes ! 
 
 Fitz. And you are not offended ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Offended ! Oh, Mr. Fitzherbert, what offence can come of 
 sympathy so conveyed ! 
 
 'Fitz. Alas ! 
 
 Mrs. M. You sigh ! 
 
 Fitz. It is so habitual with me, I know not when or why I do it. 
 
 Mrs. M. You have some hidden sorrow; I know you have something 
 that is preying on your heart. 
 
 Fitz. Ah, if I durst — 
 
 Mrs. M. Confide it in me 1 You may — endurance has made me 
 quick to feel, strong to comfort. 
 
 Fitz. No, no ! why harass you with the tale of blighted hope*, 
 
16 
 
 ▼ICTIMS. 
 
 baffled aspiration, misplaced affection — and all these aggravated by the 
 ignoble chafe of pecuniary embarrassment 1 
 
 Mrs. M. That, at least, I can free you from. I am rich — let me have 
 the pride of thinking some of the dross my husband prizes so highly 
 has gone to alleviate a poet’s pang. [ Takes out the note case 
 
 Fitz. No, no, most noble of women, yoj distress me. It is true, 
 that yielding to the urgent demands of a friend, I had accepted bills. 
 
 Mrs. M. There is a hundred pounds here — oh, take it pray — pray 
 take it — as a loan merely — I cannot bear to think of you exposed to 
 the hardship of a prison. 
 
 Fitz. Oh, woman ! woman ! How sublime are thou in thy inspira- 
 tions of pity ! [ Falls on his knees.'] Let me thus, on my knees — 
 
 [ Seizing her hand 
 
 Mrs. M. No, pray — Mr. Fitzherbert — get up, sir — pray. 
 
 Enter Merry weather from the conservatory , c. — he pauses and starts. 
 
 Mrs. M. [ Catching sight of him.] My husband ! 
 
 Fitz. Yes, I think that is the way we had better manage it. [Mer- 
 ryweather comes forward, r.] Ah, Mr. Merryweather, we were re- 
 hearsing for our tableau vivant this evening — Paolo and Francesca, you 
 know. 
 
 Mer. Ah, just at the moment when they are discovered by the hus- 
 band ; your expressions are capital, both of them. But the rehearsal 
 has fatigued you, my love — you are pale. 
 
 Mrs. M. It has overpowered me a little. 
 
 Mer. Mr. Fitzherbert throws so much earnestness into his acting 
 
 Fitz. Yes, I give way to the illusion of the scene too much. 
 
 Mer. A good deal, I think. 
 
 Fitz. I shall never forgive myself if I have tired Mrs. Merryweather 
 —I must repair my indiscretion by adjourning the rehearsal ; good 
 morning. 
 
 Mer. Pray don’t let me interrupt you. I have merely entered for 
 the books I want. 
 
 Fitz. No, no ! [Aside.] He doesn’t suspect anything. [Aloud.] 1 
 really must do penance ; good morning. [Aside.] Just before I had 
 accepted the loan, too. Provoking ! [Aloud ] Good morning. 
 
 [Exit, l. d. 2 E. 
 
 Mer. Can I not help you, Emily 1 
 
 Mrs. M. I will not trouble you. He has tired me sadly. I feel faint. 
 Will you ring for Satchell 1 [Merryweather rings.] I will lie down 
 for a moment is my own room ; a little rest will do me good. 
 
 Enter Satchell, r. d. f. 
 
 [Aside.] Oh, he saw Herbert on his knees — I am sure he did. He 
 does not ;we me or he would be much more agitated. 
 
 [Exit, r. n. f., leaning on Satchell. 
 
 Mer. up and down two or three times.] Can it be truel were 
 
 they really only rehearsing — or are they imposing on my simplicity ! 
 Oh ! Emily — Emily, I knew you did not love me — but to allow anothei 
 •— snd when I weuld give my right hand to spare her a moment's paia 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 17 
 
 No, I deserve such a return so little, that I will not believe it. [Site.] 
 And yet this Fitzherbert is constantly here in my absence. He under- 
 stands her — and then his infernal poetry. [Catches sight of bouquet .] 
 I wonder where those flowers came from! They were not here when 
 I left the house this morning. [Rings.] From him — I’ll be sworn 
 they are. 
 
 Enter Skimmer, l. d. 2 *. 
 
 Who brought these flowers ! 
 
 Skim. The bouquet, sir ? 
 
 Met. Yes, sir, answer me at once. 
 
 Skim. Mr. Butterby, sir. 
 
 Mer. You are sure of it 1 
 
 Skim. Yes, sir — he giv’ them to my own ’ands, sir, and part’c’ly 
 told me I wasn’t to tell anybody who they came from. 
 
 Mer. Oh ! that will do, James — you may go . 
 
 [Exit Skimmer, l. o. 2 e. 
 Butterby ! Ha, ha, ha 1 To think I should have tormented myself 
 about a present of Butterby’s. What an ass I am, to be sure * They 
 were rehearsing — of course they were. 
 
 Enter Miss Crane from garden , c. 
 
 Ah, Miss Crane ! 
 
 Miss C. I expected to find Emily — 
 
 Mer. She has gone to lie down a little ; she is fatigued with hei 
 rehearsal. 
 
 Miss C. Rehearsal ! 
 
 Mer. Yes, one of to-night’s tableaux vivants, with Mr. Fitzherbert ; 
 I found them at it. By-the-way, here’s a bouquet, which I think you 
 have more claim to than Emily. [Presents it. 
 
 Miss C. Sir ! 
 
 Mer. Oh, it’s not from me — it’s from Mr. Butterby. 
 
 Miss C. From Mr. Butterby ! 
 
 Mer. James informs me he left it this morning. It does great credit 
 to his taste. 
 
 Miss C. [Aside.] What can he mean! Joshua send bouquets to 
 Emily. [Takes it— finding note in the middle .] What’s this! Verses ! 
 [Reads.] Oh ! [Screams 
 
 Mer. A note — in the bouquet ! Miss Crane ! 
 
 Enter Butterby from the garden , c. down l. 
 
 But. Minerva’s voice ! what’s the matter ! 
 
 Miss C. Leave me, monster ! 
 
 But. [To Merry weather.] Vou are to leave her ! monster 1 
 Miss C. No, you, sir ! Leave me ! 
 
 But. But, Minerva — 
 
 Miss C. Then, sir, I will leave you ! all is at an end between ua> 
 Make way, sir — you are beneath my resentment. I hate you ! 
 
 [Exit majestically, l. d. 2 E 
 But. Is Minerva mad ! Do you know what has thus shaken her 
 remarkably firm mind, Mr. Merry weather ! 
 
18 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Mer. Your bouquet, yonder — she’s jealous of my wife. Ha, ha, ha! 
 But. Nonsense 1 it’s not my bouquet, it’s Fitz’s — he asked me to 
 eave it — 
 
 Mer. His ! Then that note — 
 
 But. What note ? 
 
 Mer. [ Seizing the note, aside.] In his hand ! Oh, Emily — Emily ! 
 But. [Aghast.] Another case of spontaneous combustion. Oh, for 
 goodness sake, what is the matter 1 [ Sinks into chair, l. of k. table. 
 
 TABLEAU. END OF ACT I. 
 
 ACT II. , 
 
 SCENE. — The Sitting Room in Fitzherbert' s Lodgings. The room is 
 comfortably furnished. Books are strewn about ; a writing-table, with 
 manuscripts, and other indications of literary labor, r. ; a pianoforte, 
 L. ; some prints, in handsome frames, tyc. ; sofa, chairs, round table, 
 and writing table. Window in flat, r. Door in flat, l., communi- 
 cating with bedroom; doors r. 3 e. and l 2 e., one ledding to the stairs, 
 the other to the back stairs. Fireplace, r. 
 
 Mrs. Fitzherbert discovered. 
 
 Mrs. F. Four o’clock ! Herbert will soon be home ; let me see if 
 all is ready for him, He shall find his dressing-gown nice and warm 
 [Hangs it before fire ], and his slippers. [Puts them before fender.] I must 
 embroider a new pair soon — dear fellow — and his chair, with my own 
 work. [ Wheels a worked chair near the fire.] There ! all looks very 
 cozy — and I’ve put fresh ink in the stand, and mended his pens. How 
 proud I am to think that I can mend the pens he writes his beautiful 
 verses with. And now I must get on with these troublesome caps of 
 Mrs. Merry weather’s, while baby’s asleep. [ She sits down to work.] He 
 grows more like dear Herbert every day. [ A knock at the door, k. 3 
 e.] Come in ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sharp, r. d. 3 e. 
 
 Oh l Mrs. Sharp! Good afternoon! 
 
 Mrs. S. (r.) [ Presenting a paper.] If you please, mum, a man hav 
 .eft this bill, and will be obliged if it could be settled at once. 
 
 Mrs. F. (r. c.) A bill ! [Aside.] How provoking! Tell him, if you 
 please, that Mr. Fitzherbert is not at home ; but that he shall have it 
 when he comes in, directly 
 
 Mrs. S. He says he’s been three times already, mum. 
 
 Mrs. F. I’m very sorry. I’m sure. [Looks at bill.] For flowers, one 
 pound twelve shillings. 
 
 Mrs. S. And I’d be much obliged, mum, if you could settle the rent. 
 There’s nearly a month owing, you know, and if I have to wait for my 
 money, other parties has to wait for theirs ; and it was understood the 
 •partments was took by the week. 
 
VICTIMS. _ 10 
 
 Mr*. F. Yes, I’m sure, Mrs. Sharp, if I had the money you should 
 De paid directly, but — 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes, mum, but good will won’t pay butchers and bakers, you 
 t now — and when parties can find money for flowers, and pianos, and 
 pictures, it’s only nat’ral, you see — 
 
 Mrs F. Dear Mrs. Sharp, don’t be angry, I’m so sorry ; but, if you’d 
 only wait a little — such a very little — [coaxingly] you don’t know how 
 rich I shall be soon. Now, do. 
 
 Mrs. S. Ah, well, you’re an angel, that’s what you are ! But as for 
 Mr. Fitz — 
 
 Mrs. F. Now, Mrs. Sharp. [Stops her mouth playfully.] You really 
 sha’n’t say a word against my husband. 
 
 Mrs. S. He ought to be ashamed of himself, lettin’ you toil and moil 
 — and so I’ll tell him. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, now, dear Mrs. Sharp, you promised to keep my secret. 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes, that I did, certainly, and to take in letters and mes- 
 sages for Miss Aiken. 
 
 Mrs. F. It’s my maiden name, Mrs. Sharp ; you see, my husband 
 would be angry if he knew I worked and gave music lessons. He’s of 
 a much higher family than I am, and it is natural he should be proud. 
 
 Mrs. S. It would be better if his pride set him earnin’ money to pay 
 his debts. But I don’t want to hurt you, mem, I’m sure, and I’ll say 
 nothing more about But the rent I must have, and so you may tell 
 Mr. Fitzherbert. ' [Exit, r. n. 3 e. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, if dear Herbert would only be a little more careful. One 
 pound twelve for flowers! and I’m sure we could get on very well with- 
 out a piano — and all those prints, too. [Changing her tone.] What a 
 selfish, thoughtless thing I am! As if I could understand how neces- 
 sary flowers and music and beautiful faces are to a poet like Herbert ! 
 When I think that he stooped to marry me’, I ought to be too glad to 
 aid him out of my little earnings. I hope Miss Crane has persuaded 
 her rich friend to engage me to play at her soiree. That will be ten 
 shillings towards the rent — and then, for my caps, let me see, I shall 
 have — Hark! — dear Herbert’s step ! Bless him! — I must put away 
 my work. He doesn’t like it. 
 
 [She jumps up, and puts away her work-basket in the drawer of the 
 table, but leaves cap on table, and runs to the door, l. 2 e. 
 
 Enter Fitzherbert, l. 2 e. 
 
 [She runs up to him and throws her arms around his neck. 
 
 I’m so glad you’ve come back, dear — I’ve everything ready fcr you. 
 See, here’s your dressing-gown, and your slippers, and your own, own 
 chair. 
 
 [He puts on dressing-gown , and sits in chair, R., without speaking. 
 And if you feel in the humor for writing, I’ve mended plenty of pens— 
 and here’s a new quire of paper — 
 
 Fitz. (r.) [Shaking his head impatiently.] For Heaven’s sake do 
 •Witrive to hold your tongue for an instant, Lucy, you distract me. 
 
 Mrs. F. (r. c.) I beg your pardon, love — I’m very thoughtless. 
 
20 
 
 VICTIM8. 
 
 Fitz. And here you’ve been at your old tricks, deranging all my 
 papers. How often have I told you I would not have my papers dis- 
 turbed? 
 
 Mrs. F. I’m very sorry — I thought — 
 
 Fitz. Oh, no explanations, pray — I hate discussion. You’ve done 
 exactly what you ought not to have done, and there’s an end of it. 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, dear, I’ll be a good girl in future. 
 
 [Her voice falters. 
 
 Fitz. There, now you’re going to cry. What in earth have I said 
 or done that you should whimper at? 
 
 Mrs. F. Nothing, dear, I’m sure — 
 
 Fitz. When I come home, harrassed by all sorts of difficulties and 
 botherations, instead of the comfort of a quiet fire-side, I’m to be treated 
 to a scene ! But you women have no consideration. 
 
 Mrs. F. I beg your pardon, dearest — 
 
 Fitz. There again, Lucy — can’t you let the matter drop? Any 
 letters come since I’ve been out ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Only this, dear. [ Holding bill. 
 
 Fitz. Well, why can’t you give it me ? 
 
 Mrs. F. It’s a bill, dear, from Covent Garden, for flowers. 
 
 Fitz. [Takes it , and crumples it up .] Confound those Jews ! — they’re 
 always in such an infernal hurry for their money. [ Flings bill on one 
 side.] It would serve the old witch right if 1 never bought anothei 
 bouquet at her rascally shop. 
 
 Mrs. F. And Mrs. Sharp has been up again about the rent. 
 
 Fitz. Yes, that’s right, let me hear of every infernal dun who has 
 been clamoring and pressing, do! You’ve chosen your time well, 
 just when judgment has very likely been entered upon those bills of 
 Butterby’s, and I may be arrested at any moment. 
 
 [iftses and crosses to l 
 
 Fitz. Yes — arrested. You don’t suppose, because I’m a man of 
 genius, and a poet — because I’ve hampered myself with a wife and 
 a child — that the law will forego its prey ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, Herbert, dear Herbert! can nothing be done — Mr 
 Butterby ? 
 
 Fitz. He hasn’t a farthing to spare. After his marriage with Mias 
 Crane he may he able to do something. 
 
 Mrs. F. But the publishers — your friend, Mr. Hornblower ? 
 
 Fitz. He ! He’d see me rot in the Bench before he’d advance me a 
 shilling. Besides, I’m twenty pounds in his debt for contributions al- 
 ready. [ Walks about from l. to r. and back.] Good Heaven ! how 
 is a man to whip imagination into a gallop with all this weight of em- 
 barrassment on his back ! A poet ! a being who should be lodged in 
 a palace, lulled by sweet sounds, intoxicated by delicious odors, 
 inspired by beautiful forms, surrounded with all appliances of repose, 
 and luxury — pent up here in a mean lodging — dunned for money — 
 distracted by the cares of a family — how is it possible that I can reveal 
 to the world the powers that lie dormant within me? But I forgot. 
 How should you understand these sufferings ? 
 
 Mrs. F. I understand but little, dear ! I am very simple, but I lov# 
 
VICTIMS. 21 
 
 you very much, and my only prayer is that I may be able to help and 
 comfort rny husband. 
 
 Fitz. Yes, you’re a good girl, Lucy — but it has been your misfortune 
 to marry a man whose mind dwells in a different region from yours, 
 and you must take the consequences. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, I would take them were they twenty times as hard to 
 bear, if I could only comfort you a little. 
 
 Fitz. You do your best — I know you do — I appreciate your good 
 intentions. [Crosses back to chair, r., and sits. 
 
 Mrs. F. Thank you, dear Herbert, I am sure you do. [<SAc sits on a 
 footstool on his l. side, and takes his hand.] Believe me, dear, 1 am 
 sensible of all you have done for me — how you have forgone all that 
 your birth and genius could have commanded, to link yourself to a poor 
 girl with no fortune, no talents — nothing, in short, but her strong love 
 and honest heart to give in exchange for the name of your wife. 
 
 Fitz. I believe it, Lucy — I am sure you feel the sacrifice I have made 
 for you. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh yes ! and now, dear, they say a woman’s tongue is per- 
 suasive, you know ; suppose you were to let me see Mr. Hornblower, 
 and try to induce him to advance you something 1 I’ll tell him you’re 
 going to be so diligent, and so brilliant — but that he knows already. 
 
 Fitz. — No, no — you remember our compact — that, for a time at least, 
 our marriage was to be kept a secret. 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, I submit to that — to anything you like to impose, but I 
 thought that now, perhaps — 
 
 Fitz. No ; we must keep the secret a little longer ; you have no no- 
 tion how the knowledge that I am married would diminish people’s 
 interest in me — the ladies especially — and interest is all .1 have to trust 
 to, as yet. 
 
 Mrs. F. I’m sure if they knew your talents somebody must give you 
 something. 
 
 Fitz. [ifo'ses and crosses to L. shrugging his shoulders.] Yes, a col- 
 lectorship of stamps, like Wordsworth, or a gauger’s place, like Burxs. 
 No, I may sink, but I will never stoop! 
 
 Mrs. F. Anything is better than debt, dear. 
 
 Fitz. Pshaw ! you cannot understand the loathing of a poet’s na- 
 ure for the sordid trafficking of your men of business. But ’tis the 
 ate of genius to be misunderstood, misplaced, misconstrued ! 
 
 Enter Mary Bustle, d. r. 3 e. 
 
 Mary. Mr. Hornblower, sir. 
 
 Fitz. Very well — show him up. \Exit, Mart, d. r. 2 e 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, do try if he won’t advance you a little more. 
 
 Fitz. Well, well, I’ll try. Go into the bedroom — Hornblower only 
 knows me as a bachelor. 
 
 Mi's. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, love 
 
 [ Kisses him, and exits into bed-room, d. l. t 
 
 Fils, (l.) Poor thing ! — can’t understand me in the least — but she 
 flaeans well. Now for Rhadamanthus. 
 
VICTIMS, 
 
 » 
 
 Enter Hornb lower, d. r. 3 E. 
 
 Ah, Hornblower, delighted to see you. 
 
 Horn, (r.) Pens — ink — paper — and your dressing-gown ! That’s as 
 it should be — nothing like a soldier in his uniform, arms in hand. Well, 
 the mtise is propitious, I hope — we are brilliant, eh? What is it— 
 epic or lyric — Pope or Anacreon ? Are we going to convulse the pub 
 lie with our fun, or awe them with our agony, or to mystify them witt 
 our metaphysics ? “ Under which King, Bezonian, speak or die !” 
 
 Fitz. [Crossing to table , r, and producing MS ] I have here a series 
 of sketches from life — mixed humor and pathos, which I was working up 
 
 Horn. The very thing, my boy ! A dash of Tennyson in a bumper 
 of Hood — green tea laced with cognac — couldn’t be better. 
 
 Fitz. Shall I read you a specimen 1 
 
 Horn. No, no ; confound it ! Pm an editor not an auditor. It’s the 
 public’s business to read. 
 
 Fitz. Highly finished — you know. 
 
 Horn. Ah, polish — polish! That’s the thing. Better one pearl 
 
 will set than a ton of pearl oysters. How much 1 
 
 Fitz. They will make about a sheet. 
 
 Horn. Oh, we’d find room for them if they came to twice as much. 
 
 Fitz. I must have twenty guineas for them. 
 
 Horn. [ Taking the MS.] Twenty guineas ! my dear boy — the age 
 ought to be ashamed of itself that measures the value of such things 
 by paltry dross. Oblige me by not mentioning price in connection 
 with productions destined to live for ever. 
 
 Fitz. Meantime, the author must live, too, 
 
 Horn. Live ! of course he must. The days of Grub Street and 
 Garretteers are over. Literature is honored and remunerated as it de- 
 serves. Here you are, for instance, feted, lionized, and paid — splendidly 
 paid ; you can’t imagine the pleasure I feel in paying my contributors. 
 
 Fitz. I know you do — so, as here’s pen and ink, you may as well 
 draw the check at once. 
 
 Horn. The check? You forge*, my dear fellow, we are not square. 
 
 Fitz. Oh ! I’ll work the old debt off next month ; I want to start fair 
 with this article. 
 
 Horn. Suppose we started fair with the next ? This sheet will just 
 balance our account. [Huts MS. in his pocket. 
 
 Fitz. But the fact is, my dear Hornblower, I want the money 
 infernally. 
 
 Horn. Of course you do. But my dear boy, I make it a rule, nevei 
 to trust a poet. Their will to work is excellent, but their inspiration is 
 so uncertain ; the only thing that always sets it agoing is — “ work 
 done, money down.” Good morning? I’ve to see Muddlemist for half 
 a sheet of Metaphysics, and Curdle for a slashing article on Agricul- 
 tural Statistics. [Crosses towards d. r. 
 
 Fitz. But you’ve put my verses in your pocket. 
 
 Horn. As you did my twenty guineas, two months ago. Miserably 
 below the value of your immortal work. I’m quite aware ; but remem- 
 ber, my boy, Paradise Lost” was sold for ten pounds. Be that your 
 consolation [Exit, r. d. 3 e. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 23 
 
 Filz. Confound the old humbug, he’s done me ; I knew he would. 
 But how is the poet to struggle with the sordid capitalist 1 No ; I 
 must look on, and see that fellow building up a fortune out of my 
 brains. It is infamous ! The labor of a month gone, and not a farthing 
 for it. It’s downright robbery 1 But something must be done about 
 these bills. Failing a loan from my sentimental admirer, Mrs. Merry- 
 weather, I must get Butterby to renew. His marriage will set him up. 
 
 Enter Butterby, r. d. 3 e., with a parcel in brown paper under his arm 
 
 Talk of the devil ! 
 
 Butter, (r.) Well, he’s not a pleasant topic; but if you have any- 
 thing to say to him, I’m your man, for I’m going to him rapidly. 
 
 Filz. (l ) What do you mean "? 
 
 Butter. I’m ruined, that's all ; done up, my boy, By Jove ! I’ve lost 
 eight hundred a year. 
 
 Fits. You ! 
 
 Butter. That is, I’ve lost the prospect of it. It comes to the same 
 thing. 
 
 Fitz. What do you mean 1 
 
 Butter. You know I was to marry Miss Crane, a woman with a mas- 
 culine understanding, and twenty-seven thousand in the three per cents, 
 1 had got the license, sir, bought the cake, ordered the breakfast, got 
 home my wedding suit — blue and brass, canary waistcoat, and lavender 
 kerseymeres ; tried ’em on last night ; a beautiful fit, only the trousers 
 wanted taking in. I’ve got 'em in this parcel. 
 
 Fitz. Well ! 
 
 Butter. And now all the fat's in the fire. I suppose I must eat the 
 cake. I’ve countermanded the breakfast, and I’m going to try to per- 
 suade the tailor to take back the lavender kerseymeres at a reduction. 
 Minerva has thrown me over. 
 
 Fitz. The deuce she has ! Why 1 
 
 Butter. It’s all that infernal bouquet of yours. I was fool enough to 
 offer it to a little milliner, and she must have been told of it by some of 
 the servants. 
 
 Fitz. [ Aside .] My note ! [A/owd.] But you gave the bouquet to 
 Mrs. Merry weather ? 
 
 Butter. I left it for her ; but of course I was not going to compromise 
 you, my boy, by saying you sent it. 
 
 Fitz. No, no ; did quite right. But this matter must be arranged 
 
 Butter. Howl If you’d seen the look she gave me, and heard the 
 style she pitched into me ; I trembled, by Jove I did, before that mas- 
 culine mind of hers. She was awful — a fury 1 by Jove, a perfect Lady 
 Macbeth ! Ristori’s nothing to her. 
 
 Fitz. Oh ! all this must be explained. It is absolutely necessary^ 
 for my sake, as well as yours, that this marriage should take place. 
 Those bills I accepted must be renewed. 
 
 Butter. Why, you don’t mean to say you’ve not met them 1 
 
 Fitz. No ; I took care to keep out of their way. 
 
 Butter. Then the indorsee will be down on the drawer, and, by Jove I 
 the drawer’s empty. [ Turns out his trouser's pockets 
 
24 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Fitz. And then they’ll enter up judgment, and I shall be arrested. 
 
 Butter. You arrested 1 Pooh ! by Jove, they’ll never arrest you 
 Fitz ; they’ve too much respect for genius. I’ll tell you what — gel 
 somebody else to draw on you ; I know lots of capitalists— enormous 
 capitalists. They’ll be delighted to discount your paper— delighted. 
 
 [Puts parcel on table , r. c. 
 
 Fitz. That I may find myself three months’ hence more embarrasted 
 than I am now. No ; you must renew, and when you've married Miss 
 Crane you can pay without difficulty. 
 
 Butler. But how am I to make it up with Minerva! 
 
 Fitz. Oh, I’ll father the bouquet, and you shall make her a handsome 
 present — a dress, say, or something of that sort. 
 
 Butter. Soften a superior woman like that with a dress, pooh 1 You 
 don’t know Minerva, my dear Fitz, you don’t, by Jove. 
 
 Fitz. If she were the Goddess of Wisdom in propria persona, she 
 couldn’t resist the allurements of Swan and Edgar’s. I know ’em, 
 Butterby. I tell you I’ll make up this quarrel — the marriage shall come 
 off, and you shall wear your lavendar unmentionables, renew the bills, 
 and be happy ever after, like t\ e prince in the fiiiry tale. 
 
 Butter. By Jove, Fitz, « a wonderful creature. The way you 
 get a fellow into a scrape, aru the way you get him out of one are 
 equally masterly. 
 
 Fitz. Your happiness js a »i lc, rny deer Butterby, and for a 
 friend like you 
 
 Butter. My dear Fitz! [Shaking nis hu‘‘< <£s.j By Jove, you’re the 
 guardian of my happiness, as I am the ‘.lampion of your reputation. 
 Let any man touch that, and he will have to settle with Josh Butterby, 
 by Jove he will ! And so you think I may have the lavenders taken in 1 
 
 Fitz Certainly ; and we’ll choose the dress at once. 
 
 Butter. I’ll leave the continuations at my tailor’s, en passant. 
 
 Fitz. No. no — we should look like a shopman and an errand boy. 
 We’ll send it by the servant. Put a paper in the parcel, describing the 
 alterations you want. 
 
 Butter. Exactly ! [ Crosses to table , r., and writes — reading. ] “ They 
 will fit very well, if taken in half an inch at the waist.” [ Opens parcel 
 and puts in note.] And that will allow a margin for emotion and the 
 wedding breakfast. There ; and now, Fitz, do me one more favor. 
 
 Fitz. What is it 1 
 
 Butter. Just knock us off a sonnet, or an epigram, or an acrostic, or 
 anything, in fact, in verse, to send to Minerva with the dress— some- 
 thing touching and appropriate — a sort of — you know — with allusions 
 —you understand — I have exactly the sort of thing in my head, only, 
 by Jove, I can’t express it. 
 
 Fitz. Oh, yes, we’ll talk it over as we go along. [Butterworth is 
 going , r. d , Fitzherbert stopping him.] Not by the front door — 
 there’s a suspicious customer outside. 
 
 Butter. I see. A Mosaic Arab, hung in chains of his native metal. 
 
 Fitz. This way ! [ Pointing to door , r. 2 s. 
 
 Butter. Back stairs, eh 1 — kitchen door, into the back street ! ] 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 25 
 
 twig ! By Jove, you’re an extraordinary fellow, Fitz — ex-traoni* 
 jnary. [ Exeunt , L. d. 2 e. 
 
 Mrs. Sharp. [Outside, r. d. 3e.] First floor landing, sir ; door facing 
 you. 
 
 Enter Merryweather, r. d. 3 k. 
 
 Merry. Eh ! Nobody here ? She said I should find Fitzherbert. 
 He’s in the next room, perhaps ; I’m not sorry to have a moment to 
 settle my plan. So — here are his bills, and his verses from that d — d 
 bouquet. I wish I could endorse the one with “ No effects,” as safely 
 as I may the other. Here’s incendiary stuff to write to another man’s 
 wife. [Reads. 
 
 “ Dear drooping victim of a joyless fate — ” 
 
 That’s Emily. 
 
 “ The tyrant’s chain thy tender neck may bind — ” 
 
 That’s me 1 Never used any chain worse than a twenty guinet 
 necklace. 
 
 “ But souls in destiny’s despite will mate. 
 
 Mind unenthralled will seek it’s kindred mind. 
 
 As captives that in neighboring dungeons pir.e — M 
 
 The Acacias a dungeon l 
 
 “ With secret tokens cheat their heavy hours, 
 
 So doth my captive spirit leap to thine, 
 
 Breathing its sympathy in these poor flowers.” 
 
 Was ever such rodomontade 1 and yet it’s trash like this that has 
 
 f ersuaded poor Emily she’s a victim, and I’m a brute — they all agreed 
 was one, and I thought I must be one for along time. But I’m not — 
 Rowley says I’m not ! No, I’m d — d if I am ! And this comes from 
 a coxcomb I could clap in the Bench to-morrow — not that I mean to do 
 anything of the kind ! No — I will teach him what “ the tyrant ” is. 
 I’ll burn his bills before his own eyes, return him his ridiculous lines, 
 and beg him to oblige me by not giving me or my wife any more of his 
 company. Luckily Emily has not seen his note — I hope it’s the first — 
 surely she would never forget herself so far — and yet that rehearsal — 
 [ don’t know what to think. That’s the worst of these fine sentiments; 
 they’re like the mirage eastern travellers write about ; seen through 
 their medium, sin looks heroic, and duty despicable. Fitzherbert 
 doesn’t make his appearance, though. Egad 1 I’ll inclose him his bills 
 and note ; I can write what I want to express better than I can 
 say it. 
 
 [ Crosses to table, r.. sits, and writes . with his back to the door, l. v 
 Enter Mrs. Fitzherbert, d. l. e. 
 
 Mrs. F. All gone! [Runs up to Merry weather, r.] Herbert, 
 lear — 
 
 Merry, [r. — turns round ] Eh ? — why — 
 
 Mrs. F. [r. o.J I beg your pardon, I thought it was— 
 
 2 
 
26 
 
 VICTIMS, 
 
 Merry. Lucy Aiken ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Mr. Langford. 
 
 Merry. Good Gracious ! Why, Lucy ! [Takes both her hands and 
 shakes them heartily .] My dear little friend, Lucy — that is — What on 
 earth are you doing here, in Mr. Fitzherbert’s lodgings 1 
 
 Mrs. F. He is my husband, Mr. Langford. 
 
 Merry. Your husband, Lucy 1 Fitzherbert your husband, anu 
 never heard of it ! 
 
 Mrs. F. No ; you see, it’s a secret. You’ll not betray us, I’m sure 
 you won’t, will you 1 
 
 Merry. Betray you ! — a secret, Lucy ? Remember, I was your fath- 
 er’s friend — I knew you a very little girl Lucy — I — You are married, 
 Lucy 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Mr. Langford ! 
 
 Merry. Forgive me — no, I don’t mean that — of course you are. 
 
 Mrs. F. We were married secretly. Herbert’s family are proud, and 
 — But you’ll keep the secret, dear Mr. Langford '!- 
 
 Merry. Yes. But to think of my — Good gracious ! Why, do you 
 know, Lucy, I was looking over my old letters to you this very morning, 
 the letters you sent back, you know. 
 
 Mrs F. Oh, we must forget all that now, Mr. Langford. But you 
 are well — you are happy. 
 
 Merry. Yes, oh, yes — I’m married, too, Lucy. 
 
 Mrs F. Oh, I’m so glad of that, for then I’m sure you must be 
 happy. 
 
 Merry. You think it follows — [With a half sigh. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, yes ; for you would never marry any one you did not 
 love, and she must love you, you’re so good and kind. 
 
 Merry. But you did not love me, Lucy. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, yes, I did, very much indeed — like an elder 
 brother. 
 
 Merry. Ah — exactly. But this — your husband! Remember our 
 
 old friendship, and let me question’you, Lucy. Are you happy 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, yes, very happy. You would not ask that if you knew 
 Herbert. 
 
 Merry. I — good gracious ! — eh ? Oh, I dare say I should’nt. Well, 
 you seem very comfortable here — pictures — a piano — 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, Herbert loves to surround himself with all that is 
 beautiful. 
 
 Merry, [aside.] Without paying for it. 
 
 Mrs. F. But how did you find out I was living here? 
 
 Merry. Why — eh? The fact is, you see — Howl Why don’t 
 you know ? Can’t you guess ? 
 
 Mis. F\ Oh, to be sure; I forgot I had given my maiden name at 
 this address. 
 
 Merry. Of course. [Aside.] Thank goodness, she’s explained it. 
 [Aside] Yes, as you gave your maiden name, how was I to suppose 
 you were married ? 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sharp, r. d. 3 e. 
 
 Mrs. S. A lady, mem, in her carriage. Here’s her card. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 27 
 
 Mrs. F Beg her to walk up stairs. [Exit Mrs. Sharp, r. d. 3 e 
 [Aleads.] “ Mrs. Merry weather.” [To him.] You won’t mind. 
 
 Merry. [Aside.] My wife"! What should she come here for 1 To 
 6ee Fitzherbertl [Aloud.] Lucy, put me somewhere. This lady 
 musn’t see me — I mustn’t see her, that is — 
 
 Mrs F. But — 
 
 Merry. Never mind — I’ll explain all after she’s gone. Do hide me 
 somewhere — anywhere — I insist upon it. 
 
 Mrs. F. In this room, Mr. Langford, but — 
 
 Merry. Not a word, now. [Aside.] If she has come to see Fitzher- 
 bertl I’ll watch. [Exit into bed-room , l. f. 
 
 Mrs. F. What can he mean by this strange confusion 1 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merryweather, r. d. 3 e.— Merryweather peeps from 
 bedroom , r. d. 
 
 Mrs. M. (r.) Miss Lucy Aiken, I believe. [Mrs. F. 6<nes.] My 
 friend, Miss Crane, recommended you to me as a pianist ; as I wanted 
 one for this evening, I have called to ascertain if you are disengaged. 
 
 Mer. I’m relieved ! 
 
 Mrs. F. [Aside.] Herbert will be out. [Aloud.] Yes, ma’am, I 
 have no engagement for this evening. 
 
 Airs. AI. Ah ! that is lucky. Miss Crane is eloquent about your 
 skill and obligingness. 
 
 Mrs. F. Miss Crane is very kind, ma’am — I am always eager to do 
 my best ; I believe that is my chief title to her praise. 
 
 Mrs. M. You are not quite a stranger to me Mr. Merryweather 
 has mentioned your name — I think he is an old acquaintance of yours. 
 
 Mer. [Aside ] How the deuce does she know that 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Mr. Merry weather 1 I think not, ma’am — I have no 
 acquaintance of that name. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Aside.] She is deceiving me. [ Aloud .] Ah ! it is singular 
 — I am almost sure he spoke of you ; you are certain you do not know 
 him 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Quite, ma’am ; my acquaintances are very few — I am not 
 likely to forget any of them. 
 
 Mrs. M. You are very young, Miss Aiken — and excuse me, if I add, 
 very handsome — to be compelled to resort to this mode of supporting 
 yourself. 
 
 Mrs. F. But I am poor — and the poor must face many things that 
 to the rich seem very hard, and very dangerous. 
 
 Mrs. M. But music is not your only resource — you embroider, I see. 
 [Takes up the cap Mrs. Fitzherbert has been working at.] Surely I 
 know this pattern ! 
 
 Mrs. F. O, yes I they are your own caps ; Mrs. Satchell, your maitl 
 has been kind enough to employ me 
 
 Mrs. M. You called at my house, this morning ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. AI. [Aside.] A rendezvous with my husband ! [Aloud.] Did 
 you see Mr. Merryweather ? 
 
 Mrs. F. No, ma’am. 
 
28 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Mrs. M. But music and embroidery are not your only resources. 1 
 see manuscripts here [ Pointing to table, r.] You are literary. 
 
 Mrs F. Oh ! no, no, indeed — I sometimes copy manuscripts. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ah ! I often employ an amanuensis. Let me see your 
 handwriting. [Turns to table, r., and sees note Merryweathek had 
 begun Aside .] My husband’s hand. [Aloud.} Bold, but rather commer- 
 cial than feminine. May I ask if this is your writing 1 
 
 Mer. My note, by Jove ! 
 
 Mrs. F. That, madam 1 Oh no ! I really do not know whose writing 
 that is. 
 
 Mrs. M. It is strange ; the ink is still wet. 
 
 Mrs. F. The ink ! [ Etnbarassed. 
 
 Mis. M. Yes, Miss Aiken, these letters have not been traced two 
 minutes ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Indeed, madam, T — 
 
 Mrs. M. And the hand that traced them is my husband* T 
 
 Mrs. F. Your husband’s ! 
 
 Mrs. M. You see before you, a fond — an injured wife ! 
 
 Mer. Huzza 1 she’s jealous ! 
 
 Mrs. M. The Mr. M-sriy weather, whose very name was strange to 
 you, is my husband. The Mr. Merry weather, who wrote these letters, 
 Miss Aiken — [s/ioijs parcel] whom you receive at your lodgings, and 
 whom you deny to his wife ! sp&ak the truth — he has just left you. 
 
 Mer. [r. — Coming forward.] No, my dear ! he is still here, luckily. 
 
 Mrs. M. (c.) My husband ! Oh, this alone was wanting — 
 
 Mer. To save you from committing an act of very grievous injustice, 
 ?nd to prevent my poor little friend, Lucy, from an unconscious false- 
 hood. 
 
 Mrs. F. [l.] Oh, Mr. Langford, do explain — pray — 
 
 Mrs. M. Langford ! a feigned name, too ! Oh, this is too cruel. 
 
 Mer. Ah — I forgot! you did not know that before marrying you, I 
 was Mr. Langford — that by that name alone, Lucy knew me ; I changed 
 it under my uncle’s will on succeeding to his fortune and his business. 
 
 Mrs. M. But this lock of hairl [Holding it up. 
 
 Mer. Was purchased from Lucy’s hair-dresser, for one shilling and 
 sixpence. 
 
 Mrs. M. But these letters — [Showing a packet. 
 
 Mer Were written four years ago — when I still had a right to cor- 
 respond with an unmarried lady, and no wife to look into-my writing- 
 desk. 
 
 Mrs. M. But your presence here — explain that, sir, if you can ! 
 
 Mer. I came to see this young lady’s husband. 
 
 Mrs. M Her husband ! Then she is married 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, madam! forgive this, the only deception I have prac- 
 ticed — I used my maiden name to obtain work and lessons, that I 
 might spare my husband’s pride, while I did what I could to help him 
 — we are very poor. 
 
 Mer. There, Emily — you see what the girl is whom you have ven- 
 tured to suspect. But I will tell you more on our way home, for it 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 29 
 
 im?'. not be in Lucy’s hearing. Lucy, you will come \ r * us to-night ; 
 there’s a dear girl ! 
 
 Mrs F. Oh, Mr. Langford — ■ 
 
 Mer. Merryweather ! 
 
 Mrs. F. I beg your pardon ! the old name will coni? to my tongue, 
 for it is written deep in my heart. Oh, madam — if yc r knew how kind 
 he was to me ever so long ago, and so refined in his kindness, too 1 
 Mrs. M. Refined ! My husband 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, no woman could have been more confederate. Oh, how 
 happy you must be with such a husband ! 
 
 Mrs. M. [Aside ] Kind! considerate! my husbanl refined! Can I 
 have been mistaken in him ? 
 
 Mer. Never mind that, Lucy — you must come to us to-night. Mrs. 
 Merryweather, you will receive her as one who is my friend — who is 
 well worthy to be yours. 
 
 Mrs. M. I ask your pardon for the suspicion that circumstances but 
 too naturally excited ; here is my hand. 
 
 Mer. Give her your hand, Lucy. [Mrs. Mrrryweather and Mrs 
 Fitzherbert shake hands .] And take mine. [He shakes her hand ] 
 Au revoir, Lucy ! Come, Emily 1 [Gives his arm to his wife. 
 
 Mrs. M. [To Merryweather.] Poor thing ! To think of her slaving 
 in this way. What a selfish wretch the husband must be to suffer it. 
 I hate him ! 
 
 Mer. You can’t think how entirely I agree with you, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. M. What’s his name 1 
 
 Mer. Pardon me— that is Lucy’s secret. But you cannot have an 
 idea how utterly contemptible the man is, till you have heard my story. 
 I’ll tell it you on our way home. And so you really were jealous 1 
 Mrs. M. No! 
 
 Mer. Yes, you were ! 
 
 [Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather, arm in arm , R. d. ? e. 
 Mrs. F. But my secret! they will betray my secret — and then dear 
 Herbert will be angry. My head is all in a whirl — I can’t think. 
 [ Pressing her hand to her brow.] Mr. Langford — no, Merryweather — 
 still the same kind heart as ever — now I am going to cry, like a fool — 
 I won’t cry — yes I will — it will do me good — I will go in and have a 
 good cry, beside dear baby. [Exit to bedroom. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sharp, r. d. 3 e., with a 'parcel in whity -brown paper, of 
 the same size as the one containing the trowsers, which is in brown 
 paper. 
 
 Mrs S. A parcel 1 ? the young man said that there was nothing t« 
 pay. or I’d not have took it in— and here’s another, [Takes up parcel 
 with trousers.] I wonder what’s in ’em — I declare I could almost suspect 
 they’re a makin’ my apartment a receiving house for goods on false 
 pretence— there’s such a many swindlers about. [Feels parcels.] Drapery 
 goods, both on’em. Suppose they is false pretences. And suppose I 
 was wanted to give evidence, and me knowing nothing about ’em. It’* 
 my dooty to examine the contents — they’re only pinned. [Opens parcel 
 No. 2, whity-brown, and takes out satin dress.] Ah ! what a lovely satir 
 
30 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 — ten shillin' a yard, at least. Oh ! it can’t be Kanestly come by — and 
 the other — [ Open * the other packet — a rap is heard , l. d.J Oh, it’s Mr. 
 Fitzherbert. Oh, Lord a' mercy — if he catches me. hastily putt 
 
 up parcels, changing the covers.] I declare my heart was in my mouth. 
 
 Enter Butterby and Fitzherbert, l. d. 
 
 Fitz. Boy left a parcel, Mrs. Sharp] 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes, sir — I was just bringing it up. [Aside.] It are false 
 pretences. [Exit, r. d. 3 e. 
 
 Butter. There it is, by Jove — a stupendous success, my boy — I feel it 
 is stu-pendous — Minerva’s done — clear as a whistle — knocked over, by 
 Jove. 
 
 Fitz. Yes — she’s more than woman if she can resist satin. 
 
 Butter. And my verses — that is — my idea, and your words. Come, 
 let’s finish ’em, at once, while we’re in the vein. 
 
 Fitz. And dispatch parcel and verses together, to the house — I’ve 
 only the last couplet to finish. [/Site at a table , k. 
 
 Butter. Eh I I’ve an idea — by Jove, I’ve such an idea ! We’re all 
 to be at Mrs. Merryweather’s this evening — the whole set ; we’ll send 
 it there, that Minerva may receive it, bang — before everybody. It will 
 be a hit — a tremendous hit — a blaze of triumph, by Jove. 
 
 Fitz. Especially when accompanied by your verses — here they are. 
 
 [Gives them. 
 
 Butter. [Reading to himself] Brilliant, by Jove — capital, by Heav- 
 ens — Lempriere couldn’t beat ’em — only — I say, my boy, you’ve called 
 me Joshua. 
 
 Fitz. Well ; it’s your name, isn’t it I and a highly respectable one — 
 it exhales an odor of Quaker sobriety, perfectly refreshing. 
 
 Butter. Yes — it’s respectable as you say — but drab — decidedly drab- 
 in fact infernally Ebenezerish. Suppose you called me — Chloe — no, 
 that’s a woman’s name. 
 
 Fitz. Damon — ah — eh 1 
 
 Butter. Yes — Damon — and you’ll be Pythias. By Jove, that’s the 
 very name I had on the tip of my tongue. 
 
 Fitz. And now to dispatch our Mercury with Damon’s peace-offering. 
 
 [Rings bell on table. 
 
 Butter. [Reads last.line.] Delicious, by Jove — delicious. 
 
 Enter Mary, r. d. 3 e. 
 
 Fitz. Oh, Mary, carry these parcels directly — 
 
 Butter. The brown paper one to Mr. Lamkins, 1 1 Conduit Street, 
 and the whity-broWn to Mrs. Merryweather’s, The Acacias, Regent’s 
 Park — you understand — stop, I’ll put on the addresses, or she may 
 make a mistake. [ Writes addresses. 
 
 I Exit Mary, with parcels , r. d . 3 & 
 
 Butter. There, my boy, I think I’ve done the trick now. Egad, a fel- 
 low doesn’t know how much poetry there’s in him till he tries. 
 
 FUz. Nor how little. [Exit l. d 
 
 Butter. [Repeating.] “ And when you wear it, think of me.” By 
 love! It’s stunning. [Exit l d 
 
 end OF ACT II. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 31 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I . — Entrance Hall to the Acacias. (1«£ Grooves.) 
 
 Skimmer discovered , l. 1 e., book in hand , receiving and announcing 
 Guests as they enter , l. 1 e., Female Servant at d. in l. f., taking 
 hats , cloaks, <f-c. Carfuffle at r. 1 e., announcing Guests as they 
 exit , r. 1 e. 
 
 Enter elderly Lady and her Daughter, l. 1 e. 
 
 Skim. [ Looking at book.'] Missis and Miss Rigaud. [They cross r. 
 Car. [In a sonorous tone.] Mrs. and Miss Wriggle ! 
 
 Elderly Lady. [ With dignity ] Ri gaud, sir ! 
 
 Car Mm. and Mrs. Wriggle! oh ! [They pass in, r. 1 e. 
 
 Enter Hornblower, l. 1 e., crosses to c. 
 
 Skim. Mr. Hornblower ! eh ! [Looking off.] I beg your pardon, the 
 cabman is waiting, sir! 
 
 Horn. Confound the fellow ! his fare is one and six, and I shall give 
 no more. [Exit Skimmer, l. 1 e. 
 
 Car. Mr. ’Orn — now, James! 
 
 Re-enter Skimmer, l. 1 e. 
 
 Skim. Sir! 
 
 Horn. [ Who has just flung open his coat.] Well! 
 
 Skim. He won’t take it, sir — he says, with his compliments, you 
 ought to be a threepenny buster, ’cos you can’t afford cabs, Mr. Horn- 
 blower ! 
 
 Horn. Confound his impudence! Here’s sixpence [Gives it], and 
 takes his number. [Exit Skimmer l. 1 e.] I’ll have an article on the 
 extortion of these infernal villains in next week’s number. 
 
 [Crosses to r. 
 
 Car. Mr. ’Ornblower ! [He passes in r. 1 e 
 
 Re-enter Skimmer, l. 1 e. 
 
 Enter a Foreigner, l. 1 e. 
 
 Skim Name, sir, please 1 
 
 Foreigner. Der Kaiserlicher Koniglicher ober Kapell meister — und 
 Kammerath — Diidelsackshonhausen ! 
 
 Skim. Goodness gracious ! I beg pardon, sir, I didn’t quite catch it. 
 Foreigner. [ Repeats name. 
 
 Skim. No, I never can ! Mosoo Diddle sacks and Shoosen. 
 
 [Foreigner crosses to c. 
 
 Car. Mosoo little socks and shoes on ! 
 
 Foreigner. Ach Gott6 ! nean — nein — “Der Kaiserlicher — Konig 
 Fcher — ” 
 
 Car. [ Majestically .] Pass on, sir, you are announced! 
 
 [Foreigner passes in r 1 r. 
 Enter another Foreigner, l 1 e. 
 
 Foreigner. Signoi Scappavia di Mongibelli. 
 
32 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Skim. Signor Skipper via de mangy belly. [Foreigner crosses 'o a 
 
 Car. Bother these foreigners ! Signor Chippaway de Stranger Bel 
 lows. [Foreigner passes in r. I k 
 
 Enter Rowley, l. 1 e., he is going in without being announced. 
 
 Skim. Beg pardon, what name, sir? 
 
 Rowley. Rowley — John Rowley — 
 
 Skim. [ Looking at book.] Beg pardon, sir — but you are not on mis- 
 sus’s list. 
 
 Rowley. No, but I’m on master’s. 
 
 Skim. We’re to go by missus’s orders. 
 
 Rowley. You shall go by master’s orders, if you attempt to stop me. 
 
 Car. Now, James, what is it? 
 
 Skim. A gent as arn’t on my list, Mr Carfuffle. 
 
 Rowley. Come, let me pass, will you — you flunkies ? 
 
 Car. Flunkies! 
 
 Enter Merryweather, r. 1 e. 
 
 Merry. What’s the matter? Ah, Rowley my boy ! [Rowley crosses 
 to him.] Delighted you’re arrived at last — come in ! 
 
 Skim. Beg pardon, sir — the gentleman’s name arn’t down in my 
 book. 
 
 Merry. Confound your book, sir ! I’m master here ! came along old 
 fellow ! 
 
 Car. [ With dignity.] I beg your parding, sir — I beg your parding— 
 but this gent have called me a flunkey 1 ! 
 
 Merry. And what the devil are you but a flunkey ? 
 
 Car. [Recoiling paralyzed.] Well! 
 
 Rowley. Ha, ha, ha ! a good beginning, my boy ! Keep it up, and 
 you’ll be a man again, and not a woman’s plaything. 
 
 [ They pass in r. 1 e. 
 
 Skim. (l. c.) Mr. Carfuffle. did you hear that ? 
 
 Car. (r. c.) Yes, James, with amazement ; master’s a getting his 
 head out of the collar — 
 
 Skim. “I’m master here!” Well, if ever I thought to hear master 
 use language like that.- 
 
 Car. Mark my words, James — there’s a conwulsion a-hatching in 
 this family. 
 
 Skim. Well, I did think master held his head up uncommon, as he 
 came in with missus this afternoon. Mr. Carfuffle, p’raps we ’ad 
 better be a little more respectful to master. 
 
 Car. P’raps — Door, James ! [They each retire to their places. 
 
 Enter Butterby and Fitzherbert, l. 1 e., and cross to c. 
 
 Butter. By Jove, Fitz, I’m quite agitated — Miss Crane come, Jamea ? 
 
 Skim. No, sir, not yet. 
 
 Butter. Don’t leave me, Fitz, till I get off my goloshes. 
 
 Fitz. Hang your goloshes ! [Going R 
 
 Skim. [Announcing.] Mr. Fitzherbert ! 
 
 Car. Mr. Fitzherbert ! [He passes in a. 1 I 
 
 Butter. [Struggling with his golosh on one foot.] Confound the 
 things ! 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 $3 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fitzhkrbert in bonnet and shawl , l. I k, 
 
 Skim. Now, young woman, what do you want? 
 
 Mrs. F. Take my card in, please, to Mrs. Merry weather. 
 
 Exit Skimmer, r. 1 e. 
 
 Butter. [At the voice , looks up, aside .] The undulating little milliner, 
 by Jove. Ah, my dear — delighted to see you ! De- lighted. 
 
 Mrs. F. Sir ! [ Aside .] It’s that silly man ! 
 
 Butter. You gave me the slip this morning — but now you must tell 
 mu .3 your romantic name, and your mysterious address — you must, by 
 Jove 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Sir, if you say another word to me, I’ll complain to Mrs. 
 Merry weather ; [Crosses r.] as you are coward enough to insult me, I 
 am sure you will fear to offend her ! 
 
 Enter Skimmer from r. 1 e. 
 
 Skim. That way. miss, please, [Points r. and crosses to l. 1. e. 
 
 [Mrs. Fitzherbkrt passes in r. 1 a. 
 
 Butter. ( l . c.) James, do you know that young person 1 
 
 Skim. No, sir — but here’s the card she giv’ me. 
 
 Butter. And which you’ll instantly give me. [Skimmer does so ] 
 That’s it — here’s a shilling. [Gives him one. 
 
 Skim. Thank you, sir. [Retires to his situation , l. 1 e. 
 
 Butter. [Reads ] “ Mrs Lucy Aiken, 3 Harriet Street, Belgrave 
 Square.” Fitz’s street, by Jove 1 Fitz’s number, too ! What a re- 
 markable coincidence — re-markable ! I must follow this up in the 
 “ veni-vidi-vici” style — by Jove ! 
 
 Enter Curdle with umbrella , l. 1 e 
 
 Skim Mr Curdle ! 
 
 Butter. [ Aside .] The old Multiplication table. [Aloud.] Ah, Curdle, 
 come to enliven us with a few figures, eh 1 
 
 Curdle. [With a Scotch accent] Yes — I’m gay gleg at a quadrille, 
 Mr. Butterby. Here, Jems, , ye’ll gie yon cabman saxpence. [Gives 
 Skimmer money, he exits l. 1 e.] It’s a comfort to hae got rid of the 
 awfu’ imposition o’ yon twopence, Mr Butterby. 
 
 Butter. Hideous, by Jove— hideous ! I always gave them a shilling. 
 
 Re-enter Skimmer l. 1 e. 
 
 Skim. Cabman looked very hard at it sir, but he says he don't know 
 what it is. 
 
 Curdle. The ignorance o’ the lower orders in this country is crass — 
 perfectly crass. Ye’ll tell him it’s twa coins of the realm called three- 
 pennies — first minted under Edward the Secondhand revived under a 
 late enlightened admeenestration. 
 
 » Skim. He says it's over a mile, sir. 
 
 Curdle. Na, na ; it’s a mile and twenty-sax feet to the “ Acacias,” 
 from the third hoose in Langham Place — T’ve measured it wi’ my pedo- 
 meter — ye ken, Mr. Butterby. No — I took him up at the fifth hoose, 
 and the hooses havin’ a frontage of thretty feet — twice thretty’s saxty, 
 and twenty-sax from saxty leaves just thretty-four feet less than the 
 legal distance o’ ane mile, and so ye’ll tell him, Jems 
 
 [Exit Skimmer, l. 1 & 
 
34 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Numerical exactitude's everything in this commercial country, Mn 
 Butterby. 
 
 Butter. My motto is. d n the coppers. 
 
 Curdle. Oh, yon’s misplaced profanity, mon — if ye begin wi’ damn- 
 ing the coppers, ye’ll never ha’ a proper respec’ for coin o’ a higher 
 metallic denomination. But wha’s this 1 [Looking of l. 1 e] Eh 1 
 it’s Miss Crane, and yon puir creature, Muddlemist. 
 
 Re-enter Skimmer, l. 1 e. 
 
 Butter. Minerva, by Jove ! Butterby, my boy — be firm. 
 
 Enter Miss Crank and Muddlemist, l. 1 e. 
 
 Skim. Miss Crane — Mr. Muddlemist 1 
 
 [Butterby meets Miss Crane’s eye — she draws up with a repellent 
 dignity. 
 
 Miss C. Good evening, Mr. Curdle — I am glad we are to have the 
 advantage of your society this evening. 
 
 Butter. The advantage is on our — 
 
 Miss C. [In an icy tone.] Sir ! Your arm, Mr. Muddlemist, to enter 
 the reception room. [Muddlemist gives his arm, and they cross to r 
 
 Car. Miss Crane — Mr. Muddlemist ! 
 
 [Miss Crane turns and gives Butterby a severe look, and passes 
 in, k. 1 e. with Muddlemist. 
 
 Butter. Cut, by Jove — as clean as a turnip. 
 
 Curdle. Odd, mon, yon was an awfu’ look Miss Crane gave ye— I 
 thocht ye were an accepted suitor. 
 
 Butter. I was this morning. 
 
 Curdle. And ye’ve quarrelled ! I’m glad to hear that, for ye’re no’ 
 in a position to add an increment to the population without contraven- 
 ing a’ the doctrines o’ the great Malthus. 
 
 Butter. What the deuce has the great Malthus to do with my in- 
 creasing the population, or you either 1 
 
 Curdle. You see, ye’re just an unproductive laborer, Mr. Butterby, 
 and you’ve no’ that capital — either fixed or floatin' — that justifies you 
 in takin’ a wife, accordin’ to the doctrines o’ James M’Culloch, 
 
 Butter. Hang James M’Culloch! I shall take as many wives as 1 
 please, sir, without asking your leave, sir, or that of any other infernal, 
 calculating, figure-grinding, blue-book-cramming political economist. 
 
 Curdle. Weel, weel, Mr. Butterby, ye see demand produce? 
 supply — 
 
 Butter. Then just wait till I demand advice before you supply it, Mr. 
 Curdle. [Aside.] There, I think I’ve sold him in the cheapest market 
 
 [Going, r. 1 e. 
 
 Car. [Announcing ] Mr Butterby 1 [T utterby passes in, r. 1 e 
 
 Curdle. So. he’s aflf wi’ Miss Crane — I see na’ reason why I should 
 na’ be on wi’ her mysel’ : she’s fond o’ feegures, and mine’s no’ that 
 bad. And I’m fond o’ feegures. too, and she's got a pretty ane in the 
 three-per-cents 1 Sae, puttin’ our twa feegures thegether, it may com# 
 to something. [Going, r. 1 * 
 
 Car. [Announcing.] Mr. Curdle ! [Curdle passes in a. 1 B 
 
 Mean party that, James ! 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 85 
 
 Skim. Scaly ! 
 
 Gar. Veryl [ Exeunt Carfuffle, r. 1 e., Skimmer, t . 1 e. 
 
 Scene II. — Drawing Room at the Acacias , brilliantly lighted ind ele- 
 gantly furnished — Conservatory beyond, with fountain playing in c., 
 
 arched entrances r. and L. 
 
 Company promenading in the background — others grouped about the 
 
 stage. 
 
 Rowley and Merryweather come down c. 
 
 Row. (r ) And these are all remarkable people, ehl 
 
 Mer. (r. c.) Yes, more or less! the rooms are a perfect encyclo- 
 paedia— a British Museum of celebrities. 
 
 Row. A good deal like the one in Great Russell street, with abund- 
 ance of idols, rich stores of learning that nobody wants, a good many 
 lions stuffed at your expense, and venerable remains of antiquity that 
 once were goddesses. 
 
 Mer. You see that pale man with the bumpy forehead* and strawy 
 hair! [ Pointing off , l.] That’s Muddlemist, the great metaphysician. 
 Hornblower declares he’s demolished Kant. 
 
 Row. What the newspapers would call a most determined act of 
 self-destruction. 
 
 Mer. You know Hornblower, of course — the great Hornblower they 
 call him here — I suppose from the wonderful way he blows his own 
 trumpet, and the trumpets of all his clique, in the “ Weekly Torch," to 
 which he supplies the light, and does his best to snuff out every other 
 luminary. [ They appear, I..] He’s coming this way, talking to 
 Muddlemist. [ Gets r 
 
 Enter Hornblower down l , talking to Muddlemist. 
 
 Horn. Don’t tell me, sir ; it’s a settled question. The Hegelian 
 School has smashed the positive philosophy. 
 
 Row. [To Merryweaher] I should think Hornblower had picked 
 up the pieces, and put them together for his own use. 
 
 Mud. That is, taking as our stand-point the subjective “ me,” and 
 confining our survey to the notionol cycle, the field of gnosis as op 
 posed to the objective and phenomenal universe — it may be so ; but 
 you will pardon my remarking this is not a clear view of the subject. 
 
 [Exeunt, l. u. e. 
 
 Curdle and Miss Crane enter conservatory from l. 
 
 Row. Well, I think it is not, exactly. But who are that couple 
 talking so earnestly ! [Pointing c. 
 
 Mer. That’s the great political economist. Curdle, with the strong- 
 minded Miss Crane, whose mission it is to emancipate women at once 
 from their prejudices and their petticoats. 
 
 Row. And invest them, I suppose, with our intellect and inexpres- 
 sibles. And that young fellow wrapped in solitude and self-import- 
 ance on the sofa ? [Pointing l. 
 
 Mer. Confound him — that’s Fitzherbert.. To think he should have 
 had the coolness to accept my wife’s invitation. 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 M 
 
 Koto. Pooh ! he’ll accept anything — bills especially. 
 
 Mer. When he must have known he would have to meet me. 
 
 Row. He knew he’d have to meet his bills, too. 
 
 Mer. However, I’ve prepared a lesson for him. 
 
 Row. I never saw a young gentleman who seemed to want one 
 more. 
 
 Enter Butte rby, l. 3 f 
 
 Bvtter. (l.) How do, Merry weather ? [Gives him two fingers supers 
 ciliously.j Brilliant soiree — shows Mrs. Merry weather’s usual taste. 
 [Aside to him .] I say, you must explain that bouquet business to Miss 
 Crane — my future happiness is at stake. Look at that prig of a Scotch 
 economist whispering to her, clenching what he would call the intimate 
 relation of interest and capital. You really must explain 
 
 Mer. (c ) I will if I can ; but she’s awfully irritated with you. 
 
 Butter. I give you my honor she has no cause. I may be volage, 
 gallant — I may have had my successes with the sex — but on this 
 occasion I ain immaculate. 
 
 Mer. But why not make your own peace with her? 
 
 Butter. By Jove ! there’s a dignity about that woman, sir, that quells 
 my natural audacity. Jos. Butterby feels like a cypher in her presence, 
 he does, by Jove! You’ve not heard of a parcel being left here for 
 her, have you ? 
 
 Mer. No. 
 
 Butter. Well, if one should come, don’t let ’em give it to her till I’m 
 there — promise me ; and, I say, get Mrs. Merry weather to make my 
 peace, will you ? 
 
 Mer. I get my wife to do anything ! Hadn’t you better apply to 
 your friend, Fitzherbert? 
 
 Butter. A good idea ! of course I had. Fitz will manage it at once. 
 Confound that arithmetical Scotchman ! he’s dividing us by two. 
 
 [Exit, l. 3 i. 
 
 Rowley. A vivacious style of man, that ; is he a remarkable person, 
 t®o? 
 
 Merry. Only the appendage of one ; he’s a barnacle that attaches 
 himself to the keel of a reputation, and flatters himself he's part of the 
 ship. He’s Fitzherbert’s toady-royal. [Looking off, r] But here comes 
 ir.y wife. [Gcte to r. corner with Rowley. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merryweather, r.. followed hy the Two Foreigners and 
 
 Two Ladies ; Miss Crane and Curdle come from conservatory, But- 
 terby, Fitzherbert, Hornblower, and Muddlemist, from l., other 
 
 Guests follow, and all surround Mrs. Merryweather. 
 
 Rowley. How they all flock about her! And here are you, the mas- 
 ter of the house, pushed into a corner with no more cerenmny than an 
 old piece of furniture. 
 
 Merry. But like other old pieces of furniture, there may be more in 
 jne than anybody imagines. I shall have my revenge yet. 
 
 [Mrs. Merryweather comes forward with Fitzherbert, apd tht 
 Other Characters, Butterby keens rather hack. 
 
TICTiMS. 87 
 
 Mrs . M. Nay, nay, you really are too flattering ; it is my duty, as it 
 is my pleasure, to do the honors of my house to my friends, so far as 
 my poor strength and spirits will allow me 
 
 [Gentlemen place chairs and they all sit. 
 
 Muddle. What I especially admire in your soirees is the aesthetic 
 element. 
 
 Rowley. [ Going to him.] May I ask what that is, sir? 
 
 [ All look surprised 
 
 Mrs. M. I beg your pardon — Mr. — 1 
 
 Merry. Rowley — a friend of mine, my dear. 
 
 Omnes. Oh ! [ They turn away. 
 
 Muddle. You asked for a definition of the term aesthetic, sir? 
 
 Butter. Confound him ! now were in for a screed of transcendental- 
 ism, as long and as slow as an excursion train. 
 
 Muddle. The word takes its rise in Germany, and has its roots in 
 the Platonic nomenclature — in the objective hypothesis of the subjective 
 “ me.” 
 
 Horn. [ Interrupting .] Now, there you come upon that fatal dualism 
 of Fichte’s, Muddlemist ; why can’t you keep on the plain ground of 
 common sense ? 
 
 Rowley. Just what I was asking myself. 
 
 Horn. [With self-importance .] The thing lies in a nut-shell. JEsthe- 
 tic is that field of the intellectual in which the mind laboring to express 
 the inward by the outward, symbolizes its spiritual conceptions in 
 plastic form. I comprehend much in the term. 
 
 Rowley. Hang me if I comprehend anything. 
 
 Horn. Sir ! 
 
 Miss C. Oh — it’s a friend of Mr. Merry weather’s. 
 
 Fitz. Nay, Hornblower — [Rising. 
 
 Butter. Hush! now Fitz* — [To the Company.] Pray hush. You were 
 remarking, Fitz— 
 
 Fitz. Why vail the glowing glory of the real in the floating cloud 
 drapery of the metaphysical? 
 
 Rowley. I’m sure T don’t know any reason. 
 
 Fitz. Why dim the divine eye of the painter as he fixes the rainbow 
 on his canvas — why cramp the creative hand of the sculptor as it puts 
 breath into the marble, by the fetters of a definition? The soul of the 
 aesthetic is the beautiful — the soul of the beautiful is the true— the soul 
 of the true is the ideal 
 
 Rowley. Egad! they fit into one another like a nest of Chinese 
 boxes. 
 
 Omnes. Beautiful ! 
 
 Butter. Hush— pray — hush — he’s not done yet. 
 
 Fitz. I have done. [Sits again. 
 
 Miss C. Flow imaginatively — how poetically — how lucidly ex 
 plained ! 
 
 Butter. Lucid ! Yes, by Heavens, that’s the precise word. 
 
 Miss G. Sir ! 
 
 [SAc gives him a look — he draws back his chair affrighted 
 
 Curdle. Mr. Fitzherbert, ve’ve a great power o’ exposition, sir ; ye 
 
88 
 
 YICTIMS. 
 
 only need training in the exacter sciences to be ane o’ the lights c' the 
 age. 
 
 Butter. Pooh ! Sir, he is one of the lights of the age. It’s electric 
 light, by Jove. 
 
 Horn. Yes — our friend Fitzherbert has won an immortality at a time 
 of life when most men have barely achieved a competence. 
 
 Merry. Which is not a bad foundation to stand upon, Mr. Horn- 
 bl >wer. 
 
 Horn. I was prepared for the remark from you, sir. 
 
 Muddle. We are aware Mr. Merry weather dwells entirely in the re- 
 gion of the phenomenal — 
 
 Rowley. 1 beg your pardon, sir, he dwells in the Regent’s Park, and 
 this is his house, though the fact seems very generally over- 
 looked. 
 
 Horn. Sir — 
 
 Mrs. M. Pray, Mr. Hornblower — Mr. Rowley is a friend of Mr. Mer- 
 ryweather’s — as such, he is privileged to ridicule my tastes and my 
 friends. 
 
 Merry. [Aside.] Hang it ! Rowley’s going too fast. 
 
 Miss O. It is the fate of our sex. 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes ; men assume airs of superiority to us, and yet what is 
 the courage and power of man to the heroism, the patient endurance, 
 the active, self-denying, unselfish devotion of women 1 
 
 Miss C. What indeed I [Fitzhkrbert rises. 
 
 Butter. Hush ! Fitz is going to say something, [ All look at Fitz- 
 herbert. — a pause — he sits down again.] Oh, I beg your pardon — I 
 thought he was. 
 
 Curdle. It’s a fac’ that comparing the relative number of the 
 sexes — 
 
 Fitz. For mercy’s sake, Curdle, spare us those dreadful figures — 
 Pray continue, Mrs. Merry weather ; you were praising the devotedness 
 of woman. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh ! had you but seen the example of it which I have seen 
 to-day — 
 
 Miss C ■ Pray tell us. 
 
 Mrs. M. Imagine, then, a woman, young, beautiful, accomplished^ 
 married to a man too idle to turn his powers to account — too haughty 
 to allow his wife to put her accomplishments to profit — but not too 
 proud to incur debts which he cannot pay. 
 
 Fitz. Oh, mean and ignoble 1 
 
 Mrs. M. Conceive this young wife toiling in secret to procure for 
 this husband means to indulge his costly tastes, and luxurious appetites 
 —employing her lonely nights — for he is absent at his pleasures — to 
 »arn that paltry pittance with which the selfish rich reward the vigils 
 of the poor — 
 
 Fitz. Oh, humanity — humanity ! 
 
 Rowley. I should say — oh, m-humanity. 
 
 Curdle. But ye see, the cost o’ labor is no’ that arbitary. 
 
 Butter. Silence, Mr. Curdle ! I insist upon it! 
 
 Mrs. M. For such a husband, this angel wife sits at her needle ’till 
 
TICTIM8. 
 
 39 
 
 early morning — braves the inclemency of the weather in carrying home 
 her work — the impertinence of her employer’s menials — the insults of 
 profligate men — men, gentlemen — 
 
 Fitz. Oh. there is no man so brutual. 
 
 Butter. Impossible ! — such ruffians are fabulous 1 
 
 Mrs. M. And through all this, not one murmur, not one regret ; but 
 the tenderness of an angel, the heroism of a martyr, the self-denial of a 
 saint. 
 
 Fitz. Oh! that such a being had fallen to my lot ; but this paragon 
 is a creature of your imagination, so fertile in images of purity and self- 
 devotion. 
 
 Mrs. M. No, I have described — a real woman. 
 
 Miss 0. We are all such women— that is — we should be, under 
 similar circumstances. 
 
 Rowley. [ Aside .] I shouldn’t like to give you the chance. 
 
 Mrs. M. Nay, nay, you shall all see this sweet creature, you shall all 
 know her, in this house, this very night. 
 
 All. [ Rising ] To-night. 
 
 Fitz. We will bow the knee to her — we will place around her brow, 
 pale with watching, the aureole of martrydom. 
 
 [ All but Fitzherbert and Butterby go up c. 
 
 Mrs. M. I will prepare her for the ovation. \Exit R. u. e. 
 
 Enter Skimmer, l. e., approaches Butterby and whispers in his ear — 
 then exits l. u. e. 
 
 Butter. I say. Fitz, the parcel’s come — now for it. And I say, my 
 boy, only think. I’ve seen the little milliner — I’ve got her card. 
 
 Fitz. What the devil’s that to me ! 
 
 Butter. Why there’s a coincidence — she lives in your street — the 
 same number — here’s her card. Oh, we’re hand and glove together — 
 I’ve done the business, my boy ! — by Jove ! I have — floored her like 
 a nine-pin. But here’s the parcel — now for it ! 
 
 [Fitzherbert takes the card carelessly. 
 
 QUESTS. GUESTS. GUESTS. 
 
 Rowley. Merry. Mudd. Curd Miss C. Horn Fitz. Butter. 
 
 r. c. L 
 
 Skimmer comes from l. u. e., with parcel — crosses and gives it to Miss 
 Crane. 
 
 Skim. A parcel, ma’am, for Miss Crane, to be delivered immediately. 
 
 {Exit, l 
 
 Miss C. For me — what can it be I 
 
 Butter. [ Aside to Fitzherbert.] Back me up. my boy ! 1 feel like a 
 stoker going to sit down on a safety valve. Don’t loose the card though. 
 
 [ Goes up towards Miss Crank. 
 
 Fitz. Confound the card — {Looks atit.~\ What’s this 1 “ Lucy Aiken !” 
 — my wife’s maiden name ! Has he dared — [ Stands perplexed. 
 
 Butter. {To Miss Crane, who is coming down , and trying to unfasten 
 the par cel. ] One moment — hear me — before you open that parcel ; Mr. 
 Merry weather has explained to you the error of this morning — can you 
 •Mil bear malice ; 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 :40 
 
 Miss t 7. Suspicion once aroused, sir, is not easy to appease. It is 
 true Mr. Merry weather has convinced me there was a mistake. 
 
 Batter. Oh ! blessed words ! Then the work that his explanation 
 has begun, let this, my peace-offering, firiish — 
 
 Miss C. Your peace-offering 1 
 
 Butter. Yes ; a humble tribute which devoted affection lays at the 
 shrine of loveliness. Listen to my votive song — 
 
 [All gather and listen , and Butterby reads 
 
 GUESTS. GUESTS. TWO LADIES. GUESTS. GUESTS. 
 
 Merry. Rowley. Curdle. Miss C. Butter. Horn. Muddle 
 r . c. l 
 
 “ To Minerva— -with a dress. 
 
 “ In sudden wrath Minerva frowned — ” 
 
 Need I say who is Minerva 1 
 
 “And Damon sank as ’neath a spell ! — ” 
 
 Who Damon is, is obvious. 
 
 “That frown divine on all around 
 Sank, blighting, whereso’er it fell. 
 
 “ His angry goddess to appease, 
 
 Sad Damon sought with hope and fear ; 
 
 Some charms e’en goddesses can please — 
 
 May Damon hope he’s found one here ?” 
 
 That is in this parcel. 
 
 “ Then take, great goddess, where you sit, — ” 
 
 In point of fact, you ain’t sitting, but the posture is figurative — 
 
 “ The gift he proffers on his knee — [Kneels 
 
 To female empire tribute fit, 
 
 And when you wear it, think of me.” 
 
 [He opens the parcel , and takes out pair of trousers, then starts 
 astounded and lets them fall at his feet. 
 
 Miss C. Oh 1 this is too much ! 
 
 [Screams and faints in ladies’ arms — agitation — Rowlkt and 
 Merry weather burst into laughter. 
 
 Butter. Those d — d lavender kerseymeres, by Jingo 1 
 Curdle. She’s off 1 she's fainted 1 she’s a murdered woman ! 
 
 Horn. Carry her into the air ! This a manly revenge, Mr. Butterby t 
 [They all but Fitzherbert and Butterby, retire vjith Miss Crane, 
 through conservatory , o , and off r. 
 
 Butter. But, Minerva ! Hornblower 1 Mr. Merryweather ! Oh ! by 
 Jove ! here’s a victim to appearances! Fitz, you’ll stand by me at thi« 
 fearful crisis 1 
 
 Fitz. I have an account of my own to settle with you, sir. 
 
 Butter. You, Fitz? By Jove! here’s another crisis. 
 
 Fitz. From whom did you get that card 1 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 41 
 
 Butler. From the little milliner, I tell you, who must heneefoAh bo 
 my only consolation. 
 
 Fitz. No fooling, sir ! Do you mean to tell me you obtained this 
 card from the lady whose name it bears 1 
 
 Butter. Certainly. 
 
 Fitz. By force, then 'l 
 
 Butter Force ! pooh 1 nothing of the kind. [Aside.] It was by a 
 smiling. [Aloud.] But I must explain to Minerva. 
 
 Fitz. Stay, sir ! By Heaven ! you shall stay. [Seizes him. 
 
 Butter. Fitz, Fitz 1 [Struggling with him.] My future happiness is 
 
 at stake. That d -d long-headed Scotchman’s having it all his own 
 
 way with Minerva. I must explain, or perish in the attempt ! 
 
 [Breaks from him , and rushes off, r. c. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merryweather, r. u. e. 
 
 Mrs. M. What ! all gone but you I What has happened 1 You 
 seem agitated. 
 
 Fitz. Nothing. Another mistake of that ass, Butterby’s — a sudden 
 illness of Miss Crane — I don’t know. [Aside.] Oh ! he shall answer 
 for this ! 
 
 Mrs. M. And no one here to welcome my paragon of wives. 
 Hornbi.ower, Muddlemist, Merryweather, and Rowley come down. 
 
 Mrs. M (c.) Will nobody tell me what is the matter 1 
 
 Mer. (r. c.) Nothing, my dear — a slight mistake, that’s all. Ha, ha, 
 ha ! [Rowley laughs. 
 
 Mrs M. And what on earth is that ! [Pointing to trousers. 
 
 Row. (r.) A present of Mr. Butterby’s to Miss Crane. 
 
 [Picks up trousers, and puts them on sofa, r. 
 
 Mer. For use after marriage. 
 
 Mrs. M. I will not have my protege’s triumphal entry ruined in this 
 way 
 
 Fitz. (l.) How I long to see her! What is her name 1 
 
 Mrs. M. 1 only know her by her maiden name — her married one is 
 a secret. 
 
 Fitz. A secret ! I love mystery. 
 
 Mrs. M. The husband, it seems, is ashamed of this charming crea- 
 ture, Decause her family is inferior to his own. 
 
 Fitz. [Winces] Indeed! 
 
 Mrs. M. How you, the poet, who feel that true nobility is of the 
 soul, must scorn such weakness. 
 
 Fitz. And yet the world — 
 
 Mrs. M. Has a sad power over natures like this selfish man’s. 
 Luckily, we are above such folly. 
 
 Fitz [Aside.] Much you know about it ! 
 
 Mrs M. But my paragon is waiting. Come, all of you, and above 
 all Mr. Fitzherbert. who so well appreciates the excellences of woman, 
 let me present to you one who concentrates all these excellences in hei 
 iwn sweet person. 
 
42 
 
 VICTIMS. 
 
 Goes to r. v e., and brings on Mrs. Fitzherbert, who enters timidly \ 
 with downcast eyes. 
 
 Mer. Now for my revenge, Rowley ! 
 
 [Fitzherbert has turned up, and got over io r. c 
 
 Fitz. Horn. 
 
 Rowley Merry. Mrs. F. Mrs. M. Muddle, 
 
 r. c. L. 
 
 Mrs. M. Let me introduce to my most valued friends one I am proud 
 
 to add to their number. Mrs. [Aside ] Your married name, dear 1 
 
 You must tell me now, you know. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Aside ] I dare not ! 
 
 Mrs. M [Aside ] You must ! I can’t present you as a “ Miss.” 
 
 Mrs. F. [In a ha if whisper.] Fitzherbert, ma’am. 
 
 Mrs. M [ Surprised .] Mrs. Fitzherbert 1 
 
 Fitz. [ Who has turned at the name down r. of Mrs Fitzherbert.] 
 Lucy ! my wifel 
 
 Mrs. M. His wife ! 
 
 Mer. I’m satisfied ! [Rowley whistles. 
 
 Fitz Am I brought here to be mortified — mystified — made a fool of? 
 
 Mer. [Aside, to him ] No, sir, only to be read a lesson to. 
 
 Mrs. F. Indeed — indeed, dear, I kept our secret; did I not, Mi 
 Merry weather 1 
 
 Mer. You did, Lucy. It was I who surprised it by an accident, Mu 
 Fitzherbert I and my wife called at your lodgings to return some 
 papers which you left here this morning — no doubt by mistake — here 
 they are. [ Gives him papers. 
 
 Fitz. [Aside.] My bills — cancelled ! The verses from the bouquet 1 
 
 Mer. Discovering the treasure this jealous poet kept hid from all of 
 us, we determined, by this little trick, to teach him that a man’s wife 
 is not all his own property, but a blessing that his friends have some 
 claim to share. [Aside to Fitzherbert.] I was not the first, you 
 know, to put the doctrine in practice. 
 
 Mrs. F. Herbert, dearest, you are not angry with your poor Lucy 1 
 
 Fitz. No, Lucy — it is not anger that keeps me silent ; it is s^hame — 
 it is remorse. 
 
 Mer. Remorse ! Pooh ! that’s too strong a term. Of course, gentle- 
 men, you don’t suppose there was any truth in my wife’s picture of the 
 husband. 
 
 Row. No ; that was our fun. 
 
 Tjforn. and | qj^ course — ca pital — ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 [ They go up a little. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Aside] And this is the man for whom I had almost for- 
 gotten the duties of a wife ! George ! [Merryweather goes to her. J 
 I have been weak, wicked, mad. How I have misjudged this yjan 
 how I have misjudged you ! 
 
 Row. But here comes our hero of the unmentionables 1 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 4S 
 
 Re-enter Butterbt with Miss Crane on his arm , r. c., Curdle 
 following discomfited. Guests all follow on. 
 
 Butter Yes, here I am, by Jove ! All is explained. It’s a case of 
 set down one and carry one — eh, Curdle 1 
 Curd. I call it a case of subtraction. 
 
 Mrs M. My dear friends, I congratulate you. But here is a new 
 member of our happy circle — Miss Crane, Mr. Butterby — Mrs. Fitz- 
 herbert. s 
 
 [Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather and Rowley go up a little. 
 Butter. [Aside.] The undulating milliner, by Jove I 
 Mrs. F. [Aside.] The silly man ! 
 
 Miss C. What means this agitation, Joshua ? I thought that now, 
 at least, our horizon was all serene. 
 
 Butter. Nothing ; merely my felicity ! — it’s too colossal to carry 
 steadily — by Jove it is ! [Aside to Mrs. Fitzherbert.] Don’t say 
 anything, for mercy’s sake, till I’m married. [Passes her over to Miss 
 Crane.] Allow me to introduce you to Miss Crane. [Aside to Fitz- 
 herbert.] 1 stole that card ; it was an act of felony of the most 
 despicable description. 
 
 Miss C. Joshua 1 
 Butter. Minerva ! 
 
 [ Crosses to her, and all come to their places as before. 
 Mer. Well. Emily, you are pensive, my love. 
 
 Mrs. M. Now, for the first time, I feel all the suffering my folly and 
 selfishness have caused you 
 
 Mer. He talked so well, Emily, 
 
 Mrs. M. And you knew all — his selfishness, his embarrassments, 
 and never betrayed the one, or took advantage of the other 1 O 
 George, you are good and great, and I — I am unworthy of you 1 
 
 [Hides her tears upon his shoulder. 
 Mer. [Aside to Rowley, looking over his shoulder 1 Look at this, 
 Jack, does this make up for the discomfort of this morning’s break* 
 fast 1 
 
 Row. Egad ! Merryweather, I’ll go and get married immediately. 
 
 Mer. Yes, this might tempt, in marriage bonds to mingle 
 The sternest bachelor who e’er lived single — 
 
 Such women are 1 
 
 Row. Query ! 
 
 Mrs. M Not all, 1 own. 
 
 Butter. Be my Minerva, for example shown, 
 
 Against her sex for strength of mind — 
 
 [Aside.] — and bone I 
 
 * Jtf Of married life, our cases prove this much. 
 
 All are not victims, who behave as such— 
 
VICTIMS. 
 
 'tft 
 
 Mrs. F While many a victim wears the marr.age ctiait. 
 Who never feels — 
 
 Fitz. Or never tells the pain. 
 
 Mrs. M. But let your hands give us assurance certain, 
 
 All this night’s “ Victims” are our side the curlain 
 
 Git bats. 
 
 
 Guests. 
 
 
 
 Guests. 
 
 
 Guests. 
 
 a 
 
 1 1 
 
 p4 
 
 «S 
 
 3 
 
 S' 
 
 1 
 
 s 
 
 1 
 
 * 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
 Butter. 
 
 Miss C. 
 
 1 1 
 
 JR. 
 
 
 
 
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 WS TAW. 
 
 
 
 
 Hobs. 
 
FRENCH’S STANDARD DRAMA. 
 
 ®ije Acting lEMtfon. 
 
 No. CLXXXVII. 
 
 BOMAICE AFTEB MARRIAGE; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE MAIDEN WIFE. 
 
 %, Comtirjr in ibree ^cts. 
 
 BY FRANK B. GOODRICH AND FRANK L. WARDEN, 
 
 Authors of “ Fascination." 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 A Description of the Costume — Cast of the Characters — Entrances and Exits— 
 Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and 
 the whole of the {Stage " 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT WALLACE’S THEATRE, NOVEMBER, 1857. 
 
 1 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 122 Nassau Street, (Up Stairs.) 
 
-s ■ ' .. f 
 
 Cast of ti)e ®.|)avact«rg. — [R oman.ce after Marriage.] 
 
 Wallack's Theatre , November, 1857 . 
 
 Ernest Devkreux, Mr. Lester. 
 
 Victor, (his brother,) Mr.A.H.Davenport, 
 
 Count Cavalcanti, - Mr. Walcot. 
 
 Mud wit, - - » - _ . . - Mr. Blake. .... 
 
 Lafleche, - - - - - Mr. Levere. j y 
 
 Lafontaine, Mr. Russell 
 
 Cook, - Mr. Jeffries. 
 
 Boy, - - j, - - ■> Mr. C.-Parsloe. 
 
 •Louise Devereux, Miss Sara Stevens. 
 
 Griselda, (her- sister,) Mrs. Hoey. 
 
 Marietta, - Miss Mary Gannon. 
 
 Peasants, -c. 
 
 TIME — Present Day. 
 
 Costume . — MODERN. That of Victor, the Uniform of a Lieu- 
 tenant in the French Army. 
 
 13^ This Comedy is a dramatic developement of a situation fur- 
 nished by the epistolary romance of La Clef d' Or. 
 
 ' ^ - •' A 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 L. means First Entrance , Left. R. First Entrance, Right. S. E. I* 
 Second Entrance \ r Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. L. 
 Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. It. Upper Entrance, Eight. C. Centre 
 L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance , 
 Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R. 
 Door Right. D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left U. D. R. 
 Upper Door, Right. 
 
 *** The reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year One Thousand Eight Hundred and Fifty Seven, 
 by Frank B. CojitoRtCH, aihd Frank I.. Warden, in the Clerk’s Office of the District 
 Ouurt of the United-’States^ for the? Southern District of New York . 
 
 . Abr. ;•■ A'.;-..-. ' ' 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE; 
 
 OR, THE MAIDEN WIFE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE. — An illuminated garden , with a chateau in the back- 
 ground. — An arbor 1st. groove. , l. h. — Night. 
 
 Marietta discovered c. Enter Cook from chateau whipping a syl- 
 labub. 
 
 Cook. Are they coming, Marietta I The wedding must be over. 
 
 Marietta. No, not yet. Poor dear Miss Louise, I wonder if she 
 will be happy with her husband. 
 
 Cook. In course she will. Mr. Ernest is a man who has a proper 
 respect for his stomach ; and a man with a good digestion always 
 makes his wife happy. That’s a fundamental culinary principle. 
 
 Mar. Then I’ll take care to get a husband with a good di- 
 gestion. [Music heard without.] There they go, into the house. Run, 
 Robert, they’ll want that syllabub. [Exit Cook hastily into chateau .] 
 I wonder now, how you know a man that has a good digestion ? I 
 wonder what’s a sign of it, if freckles are, for instance. Ah ! here 
 comes the bride’s sister, my mistress. 
 
 Enter GniSELDA/r om chateau. : 
 
 Gris. Oh! dear me! I must have the fresh air. I can’t remain 
 in the house. I believe I should have felt no worse if I had been mar- 
 ried myself. Married myself 1 And yet there is nothing unnatu- 
 natural in that ; am I not the elder sisterl Ah, Victor! [Sighs. h 
 
 Mar. [ Advancing .] Are they married, ma’am 1 
 
 Gris. Yes, child ; she has made herself over, for better or worse, 
 for ever and ever, Amen ! 
 
 Mar. And how did Miss Louise behave during the ceremony, 
 ma’am 1 
 
 Gris. Poor girl ! [ Wipes her eyes.] Poor sister ! Ah ! Marietta, 
 
 marriage is a rascally invjntion ! 
 
 Enter Lafontaine, mysteriously, r. h. 
 
 Lafont. I have the honor of addressing Miss Marietta ? 
 
4 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 \ 
 
 Mar. Mr. Lafontaine, I believe, Mr. Ernest’s gentleman 7 
 
 La f. Yes, Miss. [ Confidentially .] My master directed me to apply to 
 you to learn where I am to put this little package. 
 
 Gris. What little package 7 
 
 Mar. [Aside.] I wonder what’s in it! 
 
 Laf. [2b Griselda.] Why his brushes madame; his shaving ap- 
 paratus ; in short the accessories of his toilet. 
 
 Gris. [Horrified.] Pah ! I declare ! on his wedding day ! 
 
 Mar. What can he want to shave for, to-night 7 
 
 Laf. [c.] You understand, ladies, that it would be annoying for 
 him not to have at hand, to-morrow morning, the conveniences to 
 which he is accustomed. 
 
 Mar. He’s got a good digestion, I vow ! 
 
 Gris. This is disgusting, Lafontaine, and you may stow it where 
 you like — your little package, I would not touch it with the tips of 
 my fingers. 
 
 Laf. May I ask what there is disgusting in a gentleman wishing to 
 shave in the morning 7 
 
 Gris. Perhaps you’ve brought his night-cap, too ! 
 
 [ Goes up, indignantly. 
 
 Mar. Here, give it to me. Shaving-tackle on the night of his wed- 
 ding ! No one but a man, now, would have such an idea as that ! 
 
 [Exit, contemptuously, into chateau. 
 
 Laf. What better can we expect of people educated in the rural 
 districts ! [Exit, loftily, r. h. 
 
 Gris. [Coming down.] Ah, Victor, Victor! Yes; why shouldn’t 
 it be so 7 the elder brother, Ernest, marries the younger sister, Louise ; 
 what would be more natural than for the younger brother, Victor, to mar- 
 ry the elder sister, Griselda 7 We should be a nice family party, and 
 could play whist together without that odious Mudwit. Oh ! here she 
 comes, poor thing. 
 
 Enter Louise, from the chateau. 
 
 Louise. Griselda dear, I want to tell you a secret. 
 
 Gris. Well, love, what secret can you have for me on your wedding 
 night 7 
 
 Louise. I am so happy, Griselda — I am too happy ! 
 
 Gris. Heaven grant that you may continue so, Louise. 
 
 Louise. Oh, my heart would have burst, sister, had I not found 
 some one to tell how happy I am ! Oh, Griselda, after the title of 
 Mother, do you know what is the prettiest title 7 Elder sister. 
 
 Gris. No, Louise, Younger sister is a prettier still. 
 
 Louise Do you remember, a year ago, Griselda, how I told you of 
 my dreams, and the romances of which I was the heroine, and of 
 which I created the hero from my own imagination. And when I told 
 you of the portrait I had drawn, you prayed that heaven would send 
 me the reality equal to my dream. Such as I pictured him, Grisel- 
 da, heaven has sent him. He lives ! He stood by me in the church; 
 he loves me — I am his wife. This is the secret that I had to tell you, 
 Griselda — to you, whom I love more than ever — you who shall be the 
 confidant of that love I dare not yet confide to him. 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 6 
 
 Oris. You cannot love me more than I love you, Louise. But 
 you are lost to me now ; I lose a sister, and gain — a brother-in-law. 
 
 Louise. A brother, Griselda — he shall be your brother. But. I am 
 afraid of one thing : that I am not worthy of him. 
 
 Gris. Nonsense, love; it is quite as likely he is not worthy of you. 
 
 Louise. Why, he is as bold as a lion. I asked about his adventures 
 in Africa, of his brother Victor, whose life he saved in Algeria 
 
 Gris. Why, has Ernest ever been a soldier 1 and did he save Victor’s 
 life 1 How I love him for that ! 
 
 Lcuise. Yes, and among the Arabs, too. And to think, Griselda, 
 that this terrible man sits humbly at my feet, and holds my hand in 
 his ! Oh, I love him ! How I love him ! 
 
 G> is. Love him as much as you like, Louise, but take my advice — 
 I am five years older than you — dont tell him of it — at least, in the 
 way you tell me of it. 
 
 Louise. Why, I should not dare, Griselda; I hardly know him. 
 Still, we are now husband and wife. For myself, I am sure that this 
 charming future, which begins to-night, will teach me nothing of him 
 which I have not already guessed, and which will not justify his tri- 
 umph, and my enslavement. 
 
 Gris. I thought him somewhat cold during the ceremony ; at least, 
 if he had been my husband, I should have thought so. 
 
 Louise. Why, you would not have him shed tears like a woman, 
 would you 1 
 
 Gris. Hark ! 
 
 Louise it is he and M. Victor. 
 
 Gris. They are coming this way ; let us listen. 
 
 Louise. They are talking of me — would it be wrong to listen 7 
 Why, no; is he not my husband'? Here, Griselda, in this bower— - 
 quick — there. [They conceal themselves in bower. 
 
 Enter Victor and Ernest, arm-in-arm , l. 3 e. 
 
 Em. Is it for propriety’s sake, Victor, that you leave us so soon 7 
 
 Vic. No ; for necessity’s sake. My furlough expires to-morrow. 
 
 Em. I am sorry, Victor. Promise, at any rate, to return in a month 
 or so — in time for the shooting season. 
 
 Vic. No, I thank you ; a third party in a honeymoon ! There’s not 
 a situation on earth more trying to all concerned. 
 
 Em. It is quite plain that you are lately from Africa, Victor. Let 
 me tell you that a tete-a-tete of two months is,now-a-days, considered 
 quite sufficient, and that a friend, more especially a brother, does but 
 his duty in coming to interrupt it. 
 
 Vic. By the saints, if I had such a wife, I would shut myself up 
 with her in a tower ! 
 
 Em. And so you like my wife, do you, Victor 7 Why, with your 
 ideas, you ought to get married yourself. 
 
 Gris. [In bower.] Oh ! 
 
 Vic. On the contrary : with my ideas, I ought not to get married 
 unless your wife has a duplicate. 
 
 Gris. [Aside.] Am not I a duplicate 7 f 
 
6 • ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Em. Why, what is there so extraordinary in my wife l She is 
 pretty, of course — but really, enthusiasm is out of place. 
 
 Vic. Come, Ernest, no gasconade with me ; confess that you adore 
 her. 
 
 Em. Victor, have I manifested any symptoms of lunacy since you 
 have been here I 
 
 Vic. You did not marry her without loving her, I suppose 1 
 
 Em. I married her precisely because I was not in love with her ; 
 because I have been in love till I am done with it ; because I have 
 had enough of it ; because I am thirty years old, and an old bachelor 
 is a disagreeable member of society. The estate of Louise, Victor, 
 joined mine, and this propinquity, with the alliance it suggested, was 
 the prologue to the little pastoral drama, of which you have just wit 
 nessed the' finale. 
 
 Vic. You will never persuade me that in marrying Louise, you were 
 moved solely by such a miserable consideration. 
 
 Ern. Not altogether, for I was already contemplating marriage. 
 Had I found Louise deformed, or idiotic, of course I should have 
 abandoned my plan of uniting her estate to mine. So far from that, 
 however, I found her to be a young lady of good position and of de- 
 cent manners, and I felt that I could conceive for her that calm and 
 solid affection that an honest man owes to the mother of his children. 
 
 Vic. No matter; you have deceived her. You are very wrong, 
 Ernest. 
 
 Ern. In wdiat have I deceived her, pray 1 
 
 Vic. Do you suppose that this child, whose portrait you are far 
 from flattering, expects of you nothing but a calm and solid affection? 
 
 Em. What would you have her expect ? I take it that she looks 
 upon marriage as marriage, a cat as a cat, and a husband as a hus- 
 band I 
 
 Vic. But she is not twenty years old ; youth sparkles in her eyes, 
 and blood courses in her veins ! Where is the girl, educated in wealth 
 and refinement, who does not build her nuptial palace in the very 
 bosom of the clouds'? 
 
 Em. Is it my fault if she builds castles in the air, instead of on 
 dry ground I Am I to consume my days in eternal celibacy, because 
 young ladies are romantic and perverse 1 
 
 Vic. Ernest, farewell ! 
 
 Ern . Are you angry, Victor 1 
 
 Vic. No, — but deeply pained. Ernest ! I can no longer hear you 
 treat with this affectation of contempt, the noblest sentiments of the 
 heart ! Farewell ! Hark ! Some one comes this way ! 
 
 Ern. They are looking for me — it is high time ! Two words more — 
 you asked me why I married. It is my supreme effort, Victor, my 
 forlorn hope ! Marriage appeared to me as a last means of regenera- 
 tion. I imagined that a fresh baptism of life and the contact of a young 
 and innocent heart, would rekindle my blood, and renew my soul ! 
 
 Vic. Well ? 
 
 Ern. Well, Louise is a good girl, and is worthy of love — but she 
 has not" the force of character necessary to efface the past, — the 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 7 
 
 past of an idler, a debauchee, and a disbeliever : — so far from it, she 
 revives my most odious souvenirs, — her gestures, her features, her 
 familiar language, remind me of— ah ! I dare not say whom! — In 
 short, to me, she is but the cold copy of a dozen who have gone before 
 her ! — 
 
 . Vic. Say no more ! Adieu ! I hardly know which of you is the 
 most to be pitied ! 
 
 Em. I am, Victor ! These infamies are a closed book to Louise, — 
 and she cannot torment herself with what she knows not of ! 
 
 Vic. Promise to write me the sequel of this — for I love you, not- 
 withstanding ! 
 
 Em. Thank you, Victor'? I will write to you, certainly: but 
 there will be no sequel ! I shall expect you in two months, at the 
 farthest : — good night ! 
 
 Vic . Brother, good night — and farewell! [ They shake hands.. 
 Exit Victor into chateau — Ernest paces up and down — Louise goes 
 up , and comes down , as from the house. 
 
 ■ Louise. Ernest ! •; 
 
 • Em. Louise ! you here ! why how pale you are ! 
 
 Louise. A mere trifle — it will pass off ! 
 
 « Em. You are agitated, Louise ! not afraid, I trust ? why it is I who 
 should be afraid ! your youth and beauty may well disturb— intimidate 
 even ! I shall be jealous of you, child ! 
 
 Louise. Indeed. 
 
 » Em. You are my wife before heaven and earth, Louise ! but in 
 your own heart, am I your husband ? do you love me 1 
 
 Louise. And you, sir ?. do you love me ? 
 
 Em. To assume your chains requires but an instant, whiten t would 
 take a life-time; to break them I 
 
 Louise. You mean by this poetic phrase, that you love-me % ' " 
 
 Em. Singular child? — Yes, I do love you, and more than I had 
 imagined possible ! [Smiles.. 
 
 i Louise. But why that smile 1 Gan you not say so seriously? 
 
 . Em. Seriously and tenderly, most coquettish of wives, I love you! 
 
 Louise. Very good : — You are at least polite, if you are not sincere ! 
 I merely wished to see with what face a man can prevaricate ! Re- 
 lease my hand sir! — Ah, your mask is falling!— I never saw you 
 wear that countenance before ! 
 
 Em. [ Violently .] Are you mad, madame? 
 
 Louise. No, Ernest,— I am perfectly sane, and I hope you will be 
 no less so!— I overheard, by accident, your conversation with your 
 brother. I did not seek, nor desire, believe me. the sad intelligence 
 that your words conveyed ! — But still I cannot refuse to be guided by 
 the light thus unwittingly obtained, and no language can describe 
 the contempt I should feel for myself, if after such a revelation, I 
 still adhered to the vows of submission I made you in my ignorance! 
 
 Em. [After walking agitatedly.] Speak ! — What are your plans ? 
 
 Louise. I have little knowledge of the law, — but would like to 
 know whether, there is not some means of sundering, without 1 dis* 
 honor* ties as slight as ours? 
 
8 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Em. Impossible ! The least step in that direction would occasion 
 irreparable scandal ! 
 
 Louise. And yet this marriage is a mockery. 
 
 Em. Who has filled your head with these ideas 1 — and who has 
 put these unintelligible words upon your lips 1 
 
 Louise. Ernest, you hare not, I think, fully understood my charac- 
 ter, and you place too low an estimate upon my capacity ! Do you 
 suppose that your interview with Victor was beyond the intelligence 
 of a woman of my age? You seem astonished at my language ! — 
 why, what strange opinions you must hold ! Ernest, among all the 
 girls whom you would disdainfully dismiss to their dolls and samp- 
 lars, there is not one, who could not speak to you as I speak, — if she 
 dared, — or could not suffer, as I suffer, — if Heaven so decreed ! 
 
 Em. [ More kindly .] Louise ! listen to reason. You exaggerate, 
 at your age all do. Suppose that in this unlucky conversation, that 
 you have innocently overheard, I myself exaggerated nothing, do yon 
 consider yourself the victim of an exceptional and monstrous mis- 
 fortune 1 If you do, your education has been neglected. In our 
 condition of life, a married couple consists, nine times out of ten, of a 
 girl full of romance and illusion, and of a man who has no romance 
 or illusion left; and this is even considered an advantage, and the 
 experience and maturity of the husband is looked upon as a sort of 
 necessary counterpoise to the dreams and miscalculations of the 
 wife. Society is thus constituted, and you cannot change it. 
 
 Louise . I beg your pardon : as far as I am concerned I will change 
 it ! 
 
 Em. You might be better employed, madame ! — Every young 
 woman has had, like you, her dreams, and the reality, at first, 
 shocks her as it has you, — but she resigns herself, at last, to being an 
 amiable wife and a good mother, and I have yet to learn that she has 
 been accursed or dishonored for it ! . 
 
 Louise. [With concentration .] But do they possess the secret 
 which I possess, — do all overhear what I have overheard ? No ! 
 They are deceived, as I was ! I must believe, since you tell me so, 
 that all husband’s bring their wives this dowry, but their wives do 
 not know it ! and there’s their excuse ! Great Heaven ! What a 
 craven creature would she be, who, knowing as I know, to what 
 decrepitude she has enchained her youth, would accept from this 
 impious union, the sacred title of wife or mother ! 
 
 Em. Louise, Louise, you drive me to despair ! 
 
 Louise. Am I to believe, sir, that we were meant only for sub- 
 alterns, whose instincts, faculties, and passions are to be subject to 
 your despotic caprice ? Has woman a soul ? Am I a human being 1 
 What sir, because it pleased you to cast a favorable eye upon my 
 person, or rather upon my estate, am I suddenly to forget my dear- 
 est hopes, — to command my brain to stop thinking, and my heart to 
 cease beating! You ask me to share your lassitude — I who have 
 never traveled, — and to partake of your death, I who have never 
 lived ! Is it just ? — Is it decent 1 — Is it possible 1 — Come, sir ! — I 
 call upon your honesty for a reply ! 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE* £ 
 
 Em. My honesty ! my honesty, Madame, will make a reply which 
 has become trite by dint of being true ; that life is not a romance ' 
 
 Louise. [Sadly.] And when you were younger, sir, and heard this 
 truism, did you believe it 1 did you take upon trust this heartless 
 maxim 1 oh, no ! you sought for your romance — and you have had it ! 
 It was not a happy one — be it so ! and at present, mine promises as 
 little. But, at any rate, I will never consent to see my romance, a 
 dream though it was, dragged down to the level of your romance, real- 
 ized to satiety as you have admitted it to be. 
 
 Em. Explain yourself, Louise. What is your purpose 1 
 
 Louise. As we cannot separate, then, without incurring scandal and 
 disgrace, let us in the eyes of the world, remain united. But now that 
 you know me better, I hope you will believe me when I say that I 
 shall henceforth be a stranger to you ! I rely upon your honor, as 
 well as upon your pride, to spare me any sign of doubt upon this 
 point ! 
 
 Em. You shall be scrupuously obeyed, Madame. Still, is it nec- 
 essary, for the repose of your conscience, that our two lives be not 
 only distinct, but hostile 1 As we are to be fellow travelers, may we 
 not bestow upon each other those reciprocal attentions, which so 
 enhance the charm of a journey 1 
 
 Louise. Oh, with all my heart 1 
 
 Em. May we not be friends, even 'l good friends 'l you smile ! 
 heaven be praised ! Will you give me your hand in witness of the 
 compact I that’s well ! and if one day your ideas undergo one of those 
 changes of which there are so many instances, — you will find in me, 
 Louise, a man that bears no malice ! 
 
 Louise. We shall see, we shall see. But I must have my romance 
 first. It is getting late, sir, and I am very tired. 
 
 Em. Enough, madame, enough. I am tired too. Henceforth you 
 shall have no cause to complain, either of my temper or my presence. 
 Pleasant dreams to* you, and a conscience void of all reproach. 
 Farewell. [Aside.] Damnation, what a wedding night ! 
 
 [Exit into chateau. 
 
 Enter Griselda — Louise falls upon her neck sobbing. 
 
 Oris. Poor sister ! I said it before, and say it again — marriage is a 
 rascally invention ! 
 
 BND OF FIRST ACT. 
 
10 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 CIjree Units Skater. 
 
 SCENE 1 . — A Landscape — 1 st Groove. 
 
 Enter Cavalcanti, l. h. 
 
 Caval. Bless my soul, we had a narrow escape. Lafleclie! 
 
 Enter Lafleche, l. h. 
 
 Laji. Here I am, sir. Are all my limbs in their places 7 Have 
 I killed anybodj’’, or has anybody killed me 1 
 
 Caval. That’s what it is to have such a romantic nature — I cannot 
 exist without adventure. I am Don Juan, Rochester, and Richelieu 
 combined — three single gentlemen rolled into one. 
 
 Laji. And how was your Excellency surprised 7 
 
 Caval. When the poor girl spoke of marriage, I stood transfixed. 
 She screamed ; the father and brothers entered, with pitchforks and 
 flails. It was then that I jumped out of the window. And where 
 were you all this time 7 
 
 Laji. I was at the feet of the chambermaid, when suddenly I re- 
 ceive a blow behind which wounded my — pride. 
 
 Caval. You are fortunate if it wounded nothing more sensitive. 
 
 Laji. I saw that all was discovered, and again had cause to bless 
 the man who first invented flight. Who have we here 1 
 
 Enter Marietta, l. h. 
 
 Caval. To whom does yonder chateau belong, my dear 7 
 
 Mar. To Madame Devereux, sir, in part. 
 
 Caval. A dowager of seventy, doubtless 1 
 
 Mar. A bride of nineteen, sir — she was married but three weeks 
 ago. 
 
 Caval. I did intend to ask her hospitality till we can obtain fresh 
 horses, but I have an instinctive dread of honeymoons and marriages. 
 
 Mar. You can apply at the other wing of the chateau, inhabited by 
 the elder sister of the bride. 
 
 Caval , Elder sister 7 Very much elder, I suppose ** 
 
 Mar. Five years, sir. 
 
 Caval. Handsome 7 
 
 Mar. Judge, sir. She keeps me for a foil ; I furnish her beauty a 
 contrast. When I am by she is said to be much prettier than when 
 she is alone. 
 
 Lafl. It must be reflection, most amiable foil. 
 
 Caval. The effect of contagion, most appetizing contrast. You are 
 not afraid of contagion 7 [Offers to kiss Tier. 
 
 Mar. Yes, but I am, though. 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 11 
 
 idfl. No, she is not. [Kisses her. 
 
 Caval. Well, dear, go on, and lay our request at your mistress’s 
 feet. 
 
 Mar. I will, sir — but once under our roof, your valet will have to 
 mend his manners. [Exit, r. h. 
 
 Lafl. You seem constantly tormented by a dread of marriage, sir. 
 Caval. Naturally enough. No sooner has a woman got a lover than 
 she is mad to make him her husband. She is like a snuffy botanist, 
 who snips up flowers blooming in the sun, to make dry and withered 
 curiosities of them in a museum. 
 
 Lafl. Honor and virtue compel her to do so. 
 
 Caval. I know it ! and that’s the worst of it. Follow the argument, 
 Lafleche. I adore the sex ; I make a public profession of my adora- 
 tion, and therefore, as I am notoriously a bachelor, women are sure 
 to seize upon that frivolous pretext to convert me into- the snuffy 
 curiosity aforesaid. Do you follow the argument 7 This elder sister 
 now, how old did that girl say she was 7 
 Lafl. Nineteen and five make twenty-four. 
 
 Carnal. Twenty-four ! Sweet age ! * Saccharine moment of life ! 
 Now, were I to squeeze her waist, or merely press her dimpled 
 fingers, she would think I wanted to marry her ! What can Ldo7 
 Lafl. Say you’re already married. ^ 
 
 Caval. No, a married man labors under a whirlwind of disadvan- 
 tages. I have it. I will give myself out as a Knight of Malta, as 
 every body knows that the rules of the order enforce celibacy. A 
 Knight of Malta, — Yes! It will be as if I wore a notice upon my 
 hat, thus : “ No marrying done here !” 
 
 Lafl. I will be a lay brother of the same order ! But our ambas- 
 sadress must have delivered our message, sir. 
 
 Caval. Very well ; follow me, Lafleche. I never was so easy in my 
 conscience before ! what a blessing it is to be a Knight of Malta ! 
 
 [Exit, R. H. 
 
 Lafl. I never had much opinion of conscience, and now I haven’t 
 any ; especially of my master’s ! [Exit, r. u. 
 
 SCENE II. — Ernest’s study. Large glass doors at hack, through 
 which is seen a Parle, and in the distance , a Swiss Lake, and 
 Mont Blanc. 
 
 Enter Louise, cautiously, r. h., followed by Griselda. 
 
 Louise. Come, Griz, there’s no one here ! 
 
 Gris. And suppose there were 7 
 
 Louise. Why, if he were here, it is the last place you w r ould find 
 me ! 
 
 Gris. Three weeks married, and the wife not visited the husband 
 in his den ! 
 
 Louise. Dear me ! how dusty everything is ! Ah ! he needs a 
 woman to look after him ! 
 
 Gris. Come, Louise, we’re alone — let us read the letter. I saw the 
 handwriting — I know it’s from Victor. 
 
12 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Louise. [Talcing a letter from her pocket.] Perhaps it is, though I 
 do not know why he should write to me. Why there’s another letter 
 inside! we’ll read Victor’s first. [Reading.] “ My dear sister-in-law- 
 will you permit me to express thus briefly the regard I feel for your 
 character, and my entire appreciation of the motives which seem to 
 guide you in your actions. As my brother has promised to write me 
 the events which transpire from day to day, I think I may aid you in 
 your schemes, by returning you his letters, which will doubtless let 
 you into the state of his feelings better than your casual intercourse 
 with him could do. I enclose you the first, received to-day. 
 
 “ Yours very truly, Victor Devereux.” 
 
 Gris. Not one word about me ! 
 
 Louise. A letter from Ernest! what can there be in it? [Reads.] 
 “ Wednesday, June 25th.” — That’s ten days after he was married. 
 “ My dear Victor, I am still at the chateau, where, like Jacob in 
 other daj 7 s, I am to tend the herds of Laban for fourteen years, in 
 order to conquer Rachel.” Fourteen years ! what a prospect ! ’ 
 
 Gris. What a biblical style ! 
 
 Louise. Oh, very much so. [Reading.] 11 What has happened since 
 is hardly worth relating. The morning after our wedding, my wife 
 and I met upon the grand staircase. We descended to the parlor, arm- 
 in-arm. Everybody looked mysterious, and our maiden aunt winked. 
 After breakfast we took a ride through the village, during which my 
 wife never made the slightest allusion to the singularity of our posi- 
 tion. She never alludes to it ; nor does her manner intimate that she 
 even remembers it. Then she showed me the chateau and the stables, 
 and presented me to her wonderful saddle-horse Darius. Tell me, if 
 you can, Victor, what species of woman I have taken for my wife.” — 
 Oh ! here’s the conclusion. — “ One thing is certain, she loves me. A 
 hardened miscreant like me is not easily deceived. She loves me, I 
 repeat, but how our adventures are to terminate, I am at a loss to 
 imagine. “ Yours most truly and affectionately, 
 
 Ernest Devereux.” 
 
 [Puts letter in her bosom.] So, there goes letter number one. It may 
 take fourteen years indeed, at that rate ! 
 
 Gris. I have said it before, and I say it again, marriage is a ras- 
 cally invention ! 
 
 Enter Marietta, through door at back. 
 
 Mar. Madame, a gentleman and his servant desire permission to 
 wait in the chateau, till they can procure fresh horses. 
 
 Gris. Is he a young gentlemen, Marietta? 
 
 Mar. Yes, madame ; and so handsome ! and he’s got such an en- 
 gaging valet ! 
 
 Gris. We cannot refuse, Louise, of course ; and as we have no 
 gentleman protector — your husband, my dear, not being of the least 
 assistance — I’ll even send for that stupid old intendant, Mudwit. He’s 
 safe, and eminently respectable. I dare say he’ll have another wig 
 on; that’ll be the third this week. He thinks it improves his beauty. 
 Run and fetch him, Marietta. [Exit Marietta, l. h. 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 13 
 
 Louise. You foolish and absurd child. One would think you were 
 the younger sister, instead of the elder. I shall leave you to your- 
 self. Good bye, you ridiculous Griselda. [Exit Louise, r. h. 
 
 Re-enter Marietta, l. h., with Mud wit, in chestnut wig. 
 
 Gris. I have sent for you, Mr. Mudwit, on particular business. 
 
 Mud. [Aside.] Can she have discovered my secret sentiments 1 
 
 Gris. Why, what colored hair are you wearing to-day 1 
 
 Mud. Chestnut, madame, chestnut. [Aside.] She’s struck 5 I 
 thought this color would do it. 
 
 Gris. Why, the last time I saw you it was jet black. 
 
 Mud. [Aside.] She notices the change. It was only last week that 
 she spoke of the effect of hair upon the human features. If I could 
 but divine her favorite color ! 
 
 Gris. I have sent for you, sir, to inform you that you are to be my 
 husband. 
 
 Mud. Oh, madame ! [Falling at her feet.] For life ! for better or 
 worse ! 
 
 Gris. Better you might be, worse you could not. Marietta, run 
 and bring the gentleman hither. [Exit Marietta, through glass door.] 
 I only mean, sir, while this stranger is in the chateau. 
 
 Mud. [Aside.] Oh, bother ! I hoped — hut I’ll make the most of the 
 place while I’m in. Mrs. Gregory Mudwit, I salute you, ma’am. 
 
 Gris. No trifling, sir. You shall be the General Count Chateaufort, 
 my husband, whom rumor declared was killed in the Crimea, a 
 year ago. Now, as a married woman, I’ve a right to coquet with this 
 young man as much as I please, and he cannot accuse me of the con- 
 sequences. Mr. Mudwit, mind and assent to all I say. 
 
 Mud. Might it not be well for me to bestow upon you certain gen- 
 tle endearments, in his presence, in order to render the deception more 
 complete % 
 
 Gris. No, sir, it would not be well. Put on your gloves, and mind 
 that you play well your part. 
 
 Mud. [Aside.] This must be an ingenious device to show me that 
 she has devined my sentiments. She wants me to play husband with 
 her ! 
 
 Enter Marietta, through glass door , ushering in Cavalcanti. 
 
 Mar. My mistress, sir. [Exit Marietta. 
 
 Caval. [Aside.] Charming, indeed ! Madame, having met with de- 
 lay upon the road, I have taken the liberty 
 
 Gris. You are welcome, sir — make no apologies. [To Mudwit.] 
 Remember, say as I do. 
 
 Caval. Madame, as I have no reason to travel incognito, allow me 
 to present myself : I am Count Cavalcanti, [with emphasis,] Knight 
 of Malta. 
 
 Gris. Permit me to present to you General Count Chateaufort, my 
 hnsband, who is still suffering from his last campaign in the Crimea. 
 
 Mud. The Crimea, 
 
 Caval. [Aside.] Married! Why, then, my order of Malta is uso 
 loss — it is even in the way. Bah ! I dare say she has forgotten it. 
 
14 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Gris. Tell me, Count, of what does your Order of Malta consist 1 
 I confess my ignorance. 
 
 Caval. Oh, it is an Order of Knighthood, like any other, except that 
 it enforces celibacy, and all the bachelor virtues that usually accom- 
 pany that state. 
 
 Gris. I did not know that bachelors had any virtues — a natural 
 reason, perhaps, for their pursuit of virtue in other people. 
 
 Caval. General, you seem dim — are you unwell I 
 
 Gris. Excuse him, sir, pray. The unexampled suffering he under- 
 went in the Crimea has rendered him taciturn. 
 
 Mud. Taciturn. 
 
 Gris. He distinguished himself in a violent skirmish. Hacked to 
 pieces by the enemy, he was discovered at last beneath an artillery 
 cart, whither he had crawled to die. A loaded gun was by his side. 
 He had fought with great ardor, as was proved by the musket, which 
 was found to contain eleven ball cartridges. 
 
 Mud. Cartridges. 
 
 Gris. After a long absence, during which he was reputed dead, 
 Heaven restored him to my arms ! 
 
 Mud. Arms. 
 
 Gris. He returned late one night, in the dress of a Canterbury 
 pilgrim. 
 
 Mud. Pilgrim. 
 
 Caval. [Aside.] Why, it s an echo disguised as a man ! [Aloud.] 
 General, accept my sympathy ! Countess, if you will permit me, I will 
 stroll over your park. It seems to me a very Eden ! 
 
 Gris. Unless I act as your guide, you will lose yourself. So I 
 will go with you. 
 
 Mud. I will accompany you and the Count, dearest, in your ex- 
 cursion. 
 
 Gris. Oh, no ! it is not necessary, husband ! — The Count will ex- 
 cuse you, I am sure ! 
 
 Caval. With ecstacy, general. Don’t mention it I beg. [Aside.] 
 She’s throwing herself into my arms. 
 
 Gris. [Aside.] Another girl, in my situation, would give* this man 
 encouragement. But I repel him. [ Very graciously.] Count, your 
 arm. You need not follow us, husband. Remember ! 
 
 [Exeunt Griselda and Cavalcanti, through doors at back. 
 
 Mud. I am their go-between. I am a supernumerary on a minute 
 salary. This pretentious stranger must have conceived a ridiculous 
 idea of me. But then she has introduced me as her husband, and a 
 husband has privileges which I will abuse. It is hardly professional, 
 but the attenuating circumstances are considerable, not to say more. 
 I’ll sticlc to them like a leech. I’ll haunt her like her shadow. I’ll 
 take advantage of every moment to indulge in uxorious caresses and 
 marital endearments, which of course, she cannot repudiate. It will 
 be shabby, precious shabby, not to say dammed indelicate, but I’ll 
 do it. [Exit through doors at back. 
 
 Enter Ernest, r. el 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 15 
 
 Ern . A joke which lasts three weeks should be a good one, which 
 this is not. What has come, may I ask, of Louise’s magnificent de- 
 monstration the other night — a scene of reproach, tears and defiance — 
 all ending in nothing. My wife is as placid as a saint on a pedestal 
 or a cherub in heaven. She puzzles me beyond conception, and of 
 the two, is by far the most composed. She seems to have found 
 marriage, as she and 1 practise it, the very summit and acme of 
 human felicity. Yesterday, now, she compelled me to listen to a 
 course of farm-yard instruction that lasted the day out. I had to 
 pass in review every beast on the estate ; horned cattle, sheep, pigs, 
 fowls, Durhams, Bantams, half-breeds, hybrids, guinea-pigs, and a 
 whole state fair of them besides. What was the consequence 1 Last 
 night, I dreamed I was Noah’s Ark, receiving into my swollen sides 
 select specimens of all animated nature ! There they came, two by 
 two ! Then came two human specimens, intended to transmit their 
 type to the latest posterity ! I looked at them : — Great Heaven ! 
 I knew them ! — myself and wife ! — J ust then I awoke ! 
 
 Louise . [Putting her head in at door , r. h.] Are you busy h 
 Busy! — No! — Amazed l— Yes ! 
 
 Louise. You don’t seem in a good humor. I’ll call another day. 
 
 Ern. Stay! Come in, madame. 
 
 Louise. Wait a few moments. I’ll be back directly. [Exit. 
 
 Ern. What on earth can she want I This is the first time since 
 our marriage that she has sought me in my room. The incident 
 positively agitates me. After all, if Louise wants a hero for her ro- 
 mance, she can’t do better than to take me, for I am the best dressed 
 man in the country round about. Hist ! here she comes. 
 
 Re-enter Louise, r. h. with large armful of papers and account 
 books — she puts them on the table . 
 
 Louise. Pah! how dirty they are!- 1 should think grandpa had never 
 dusted them once ! 
 
 Ern. And pray what are these musty relics 1 your complete w T orks 
 in the original mauscript I 
 
 Louise. No sir. They are all the papers relating to our estate, 
 and ttie two mills. I wish you would put them a little in order. 
 
 Ern. Excuse me, my dear, but if the tenants pay, and the mills turn, 
 they seem to me in the best possible order. 
 
 Louise. They don’t seem so to me, and as you married me for my 
 fortune, it cannot be unreasonable to ask you to assume the control 
 of it. 
 
 Ern. My dear Louise, I am no more fitted for the task, than is a 
 Christian to preach the Koran. 
 
 Louise. Nor I, my dear Ernest, any more than a Turk to preach 
 the Gospel. But if you prefer to count the linen, I will try to master 
 the accounts. 
 
 Ern. [Rummaging among the books.'] On the whole, I prefer the 
 accounts. Are there any books here selected for a gentleman’s light 
 reading 1 No ; ledgers, journals, vouchers, blotters, and an old 
 almanac, pah ! ..... 
 
16 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Louise. Well, sir, I’ll leave you to your studies, and take a ride on 
 Darius over the farm. 
 
 Em. I’ll go with you. 
 
 Louise. I prefer to go alone. Good morning. [ Aside .] And now 
 my romance is begun ! [Exit r. h. 
 
 Em. What an infernal glance of satisfaction gleamed in her eyes 
 as she left the room ! Well, I suppose I must even buckle to it. 
 Let’s examine the filthy things. What’s this 7 Profit and Loss, all 
 footed up at the bottom. Nothing could be clearer. So much profit, 
 so much loss — balance to creditor, so much. [Throws book aside — - 
 takes another.] Two cubic feet of figures, and a solid yard of multi- 
 plication table ! 9 and 8 are 17, and 9 are 26, and 7 are — Oh ! why 
 don’t they put in some little figures'? — so many big ones all in a lump. 
 Hark ! I thought I heard Louise’s horse. — What’s this red line, start- 
 ing here in the Northeast, and careering in this extraordinary manner 
 to the Southwest 1 Oh ! I’m to be an accountant, am I, and a farmer, 
 and an ornamental gardener, perhaps, and have my name put into the 
 country papers as godfather to a mammoth gooseberry 7 Who knows 
 but that I may be so lucky as to have a three-legged calf 7 Curse 
 the w T hole business, I’ll have nothing to do with it. There goes Dari- 
 us ! I’ll take Cyrus and be after him. Poor Louise, if this is her 
 romance, I wish her joy of it. 
 
 [ Exit , R. H. 
 
 Enter Lafleche through glass door , cautiously , followed by Ma- 
 rietta. 
 
 Lafl. Come in — there’s no one here. 
 
 Mar. You’ll find paper on that table. 
 
 Lafl. It’s so stupid, Marietta, to want it in writing. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! you Knights of Malta can’t be trusted on oath ! 
 
 Lafl. Well, here it is, then. [Writes.] Will that do 7 
 
 Mar. I suppose that will do. Now sign it. 
 
 Lafl. Oh ! isn’t it signed 7 There ! — And now for the seal*! 
 
 Mar. What seal 7 
 
 Lafl. This. [Kissing her.] Gilt-edged paper and red sealing wax ! 
 Run, Marietta ; here comes my master ! [Run off, l. h. 
 
 Enter Griselda and Cavalcanti, through glass door. 
 
 Gris. Now that you have seen the grounds, Count, you can at least 
 say how you liko them. 
 
 Caval. Oh, Madame ! I have hardly looked at the grounds ! I am 
 not a landscape painter, — at least, when miniatures so engaging invite 
 my skill. Your portrait, Countess, would drive any artist to despair ; 
 
 for never was physiognomy so variable, never was expression so 
 
 , and yet so , as yours. Your eyes are black, beyond a 
 
 doubt, and yet they might be hazel, did they not reflect, at moments, 
 the azure of the sky. 
 
 Gris. In fact, then, they are tri-colored. 
 
 Caval. The emblem of conquest. Though I cannot paint your 
 portrait, madame, I will paint you mine. Properly speaking, I have 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 IT 
 
 no face, but only phases, like the moon. During the rainy season, 1 
 could plunge my fatherland into conflagration and civil war, but the 
 blue canopy of the skies attunes my soul to tenderness, and I could 
 open my heart to the five races of men ! 
 
 Mud. [ Without.] Griselda, love ! 
 
 Gris. Mudwit ! the impertinent rogue ! 
 
 Mud. Griselda, my sweet ! 
 
 Caved. Here comes the husband; I must make the most of my 
 time. 
 
 Gris. [Aside.] The wretch did not see us, luckily. Count, tell me 
 a story. 
 
 Caval. Madame, there- was once a knight in love, who sat upon a 
 sofa. 
 
 Gris. Let us hope for his honor’s sake, he was not a Knight of 
 Malta. 
 
 Caval. Ah ! madame, that would not be a story. That would be 
 the truth. 
 
 Gris. And is that the whole of it T 
 
 Caval. Ah! countess, countess — Angel, — no, demon of beauty, 
 why did I ever see you ; I, who, sooner or later, must leave you 1 
 Why am I not a charmed statue spell-bound in your magic garden T 
 Why is not [PaZZs on his knees before her. 
 
 Enter Mudwit, at back. 
 
 Mud. Griselda, dear, Griselda ! 
 
 Caval. Now, the devil take this interruption. 
 
 Gris. Amen ! 
 
 Caval. She says Amen ! 
 
 Gris. You see it is my husband, sir, release my hand. 
 
 Caval. I will. [Passes it under his arm.] Oh ! count, is it you T 
 Excuse me, I thought you were coming the other way. and we were 
 hastening to meet you. 
 
 Mud. Take my arm, Countess! 
 
 Gris. [Obeying and apart.] You are an insolent varlet, Mudwit ! 
 leave this room ! 
 
 Mud. [Aloud.] No, dear angel of my days ! 
 
 Gris. [Aside to Mud.] I’ll have you whipped, if I have to cut down 
 the forest for switches ! 
 
 Mud. No, sweet enchantress of my nights ! 
 
 Gris. Then I’ll confess the truth to the Chevalier, and ask him to 
 drown you in the mill-pond ! 
 
 Mud. I don’t believe it, peerless goddess of this bursting bosom ! 
 
 Gris. My husband is right, Count ; he reminds me that this is the 
 hour when I usually take my siesta. 
 
 Mud. Yes, sir, it is high time that my Countess and I should take 
 our diurnal snooze. 
 
 Gris. Stop a moment, General. You asked me the addres, Count, 
 of the saddler of our village. Let me write it for you. [ Writes. 
 
 Caval. [Aside.] I asked no such thing. What can she mean T 
 
 Gris. Here it is. Farewell, sir, for the present ; we dine at five. 
 
 [Exit R. H. 
 
13 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Caval. [ After glancing at the paper.] Stay, a word with you, Gen- 
 eral. [ Reads , aside] “ I commission you, Count, to pull my husband’s 
 nose. Do it thoroughly.” What an extraordinary idea ! but I must 
 obey ; am I not a knight of Malta, bound by my oath to execute all 
 feminine behests, whatever they may be 1 General — 
 
 Mud. May I beg you to be expeditious, Connt, for I am anxious to 
 rejoin my luscious wife. 
 
 Caval. [Aside.] He wants it done in a hurry. It’s amazingly 
 embararssing, for I haven’t known him over half an hour. [Aloud.] 
 General, excuse me, but I’m a knight of Malta. [Pulls his nose. 
 
 Mud. Don’t ! you hurt ! what do you mean, sir ! my gracious, how 
 it smarts ! 
 
 Caval. She told me to do it thoroughly. General, you will excuse 
 me, I know'. [Pulls his nose again. 
 
 Mud. Stop it ! Do you take my nose for a bell-rope 1 Goodness 
 me, I believe its bleeding ! 
 
 Caval. [AsMe.] He does not seem to perceive that I have insulted 
 him outright. His sufferings before Sebastopol have blunted his 
 perceptions. Such a husband is an accessory rather than an obsta- 
 cle. [Aloud.] Sir, I ask your pardon. I beg to present my excuses to 
 your outraged and inflamed proboscis ! Good morning, General Count 
 Chateaufqrt! [Exit, at back. 
 
 Mud. My chances are certainly looking up ! My lady-love menaces 
 me with a bastinado, and talks of hewing down a forest of rattan f 
 then she threatens me with the vengeance of another, who will drown 
 me in the mill-pond ! and now my rival has actually tw r eaked my 
 nose ! Will not Griselda, in the end, be touched by such indignities 
 suffered in her cause ^ Will not the effulgence of a nose pulled in her 
 behalf, appeal irresistibly to her sympathy ! It will — it must— -it 
 shall ! [Going. ] I will hasten to show it to her, while yet the sunset 
 is upon it. [Exit, s. h» 
 
 BYX> OP ACV n. 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE; 
 
 :s 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 fl jm Wtzktt 
 
 SCENE I. — Library , as before. ‘ 
 
 Enter Griseeda and Marietta, l. h. 
 
 Gris. [Seated on sofa.] Marietta, if Mud wit dares to present him- 
 self before me, let him be killed ! 
 
 Mar. Very well, madame. 
 
 Gris. In the meantime, let his house be set on fire ! Would it be a 
 crime to burn his house down, Marietta % 
 
 Mar. Certainly not, madame. . 
 
 Gris. What have I done to him that he should behave as he does 1 
 He treats me like a servant before this young man, and has done sc 
 for a fortnight. 
 
 Mar. That’s easy enough to explain ; he loves you, madame, and 
 is jealous of Count Cavalcanti. 
 
 Gris. What ! Mudwit 'l Ah, dear me ! one cannot have an inten- 
 dant, it seems, now-a-days. I wonder if there is any truth in this 
 business of the Order of Malta 1 I have never thought to look ; Mar- 
 ietta, give me one of those large red books — the letter M — [ looking ] 
 — M — Mai — Malta — Knight of Malta. [Reading to herself, and then 
 closing book.] Yes — it’s quite serious ; they can’t marry. 
 
 Mar. What ! Oh! [Crying.] Lafleche told me it was only a banter 
 — and I believed him. [Crying vehemently. 
 
 Gris. Well, no matter, my child, there’s no harm done. 
 
 Mar. Yes, but there is, madame ! How lucky I made him sign 
 that paper ! 
 
 Gris. What singular chances there are in this world. Here is this 
 young stranger, bound by perpetual vows, and yet luck will have it 
 that I like him better than any man I ever saw — better than Victor. 
 He loves me, I feel sure. He must not stay — it would be unsafe for 
 us both. I must dismiss him, once and for all. [Nite at desk, and 
 writes.] “ I have deceived you, Chevalier — I have never been married 
 — I am free, but you arer not. Farewell ; I will not see you again un- 
 der any pretext.” Marietta, go find the Count, and give him this 
 note. [Exit Marietta, at back.] Yes ! he loves me ; but why have I 
 listened to him, knowing, as I did, the oath by which he was bound T 
 I have perhaps destroyed my peace of mind forever ! ; ^ 
 
 Re-enter. Marietta. 
 
 Mar. Madame, I met Lafleche, the Count’s servant, who was bring- 
 ing you a note from his master. We exchanged messages — here is 
 his, 
 
 Gris. [Reading.] “ I have deceived you, madame — I am no Knight 
 of Malta — 1 am free, but you are not. Farewell ; I must see you no 
 more.” 
 
20 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Enter Cavalcanti and Lafleche, at baeJc. 
 
 Caved. Oh, Countess, is it possible ? 
 
 Gris. Oh, Count, is it credible? [Exeunt Marietta and Lafleche. 
 
 Caved. Tears in your eyes, Griselda ? Let me forever dry your 
 source of tears. 
 
 Gris. No, let them flow ; they are tears of joy. [Cavalcanti falls 
 at her feet.] No, no, Count; here by my side; your hand in mine, 
 as when that foolish lawyer interrupted us. What color are my eyes 
 to-day ? 
 
 Coeval. Heaven’s own azure, Countess. Ah, Griselda, what a mira- 
 cle hast thou wrought ! For I, subdued and converted as you see 
 me, have been the arrantest reprobate beneath the sun. 
 
 Gris. And I the arrantest flirt. This is a singular age. Is the 
 world coming to an end ? 
 
 Caved. I cannot tell ; but I will keep your hand till it does ! 
 
 Gris. There are certain formalities to be attended to first, sir : 
 You must write to your father, and I must ask the consent of my 
 grandfather. Sit at that table, and write ; I will write here, at Ern- 
 est’s desk. 
 
 Caval. This is a great way from you. 
 
 Gris. Make haste and finish, then ! 
 
 Caval. “ My dear father ” 
 
 Gris. “ My dear grandfather ” 
 
 Caval. [ Reflecting .] Oh, yes ! I love her most certainly, more than 
 probably ! 
 
 Gris. [Reflecting.] We are going to be married ! He was not a 
 Knight of Malta. I have been singularly moved to-day ! 
 
 Caval. She is decidedly handsome ; witty, too, and with a vein of 
 philosophy ! 
 
 Gris. He is attractive in person. A large foot — still he is an at- 
 tractive man. 
 
 Caval. “ My dear father ” She has rather a small chin, like 
 
 a ballet-dancer I once knew ! 
 
 Gris. “ My dear grandfather ” You are not writing, Cheva- 
 
 lier ? 
 
 Coeval. You know that when one wishes to be quick, he is apt to be 
 slow. Oh, I know my own character — I shall hate her chin — my life 
 will be harassed by that chin ! 
 
 Gris. I thought him original — he is merely eccentric. You are 
 not writing, Chevalier? 
 
 Caval. Nor you, either, it appears, madame ; your paper is virgin 
 white ! 
 
 Gris. I might take your hesitation, sir, in bad part. 
 
 Caval. That would be giving me an uncomplimentary explanation 
 of your own, madame. 
 
 Gris. [After a silence.] Your foot is enormous, Chevalier ! 
 
 Caval. That is a reproach, madame, which will never be addressed 
 to your chin ! 
 
 Gris . Your hat, sir, is upon that chair ! 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 21 
 
 Caval. Lafleche! S’death, sir, the horses ! madame, if the dream 
 has been as agreeable to you, as it has been to roe, you will have to 
 exercise your clemency in pardoning me for awaking you from it ! 
 Farewell ! [Exit at back followed by Lafleche and Marietta — the 
 latter brandishing her paper. 
 
 Gris. Well, this is a foolish adventure, happily over ! How could 
 I have been so deceived, for I thought I liked him 'l 
 
 Enter Mud wit, with a gray wig. 
 
 Mud. It was a good thought of mine, to wear a gray wig. Colors 
 have a meaning, if people only understood the language of the prism. 
 What does gray mean 1 It means experience, ripeness, discretion. 
 What does the black hair of Cavalcadando mean 1 It means youth, 
 folly, and inconstancy ; it means that he is a cadet, a minor, a cod- 
 ling ; and besides, he’s a Knight of Malta. Bless me, here she is ! 
 Griselda, dear ! 
 
 Gris. Mr. Mudwit, I have told Count Cavalcanti that you are not 
 my husband. There is no longer any occasion, therefore, for this 
 ridiculous masquerade. 
 
 Mud. [Aside.] She’s sorry it is only a masquerade ! She wishes 
 it were real. [Aloud.] Sweet Griselda! lift your eyes for a moment 
 upon the silvery locks which surmount this ample brow ! 
 
 Gris. Ah! It’s a gray wig, to-day, is it I 
 
 Mud. Gray, madame, is typical of the ravages you have wrought 
 in this brain,— of the havoc you have left in this heart ! Gray is the 
 color of sober middle age : it is a sort of human russet that the skull 
 of man assumes in the autumn of his life ! I am ripe, Griselda ; 
 Cavalcado is but a raw, unseasoned youth ! But though I am ripe, 
 Griselda, do not think me overdone ; I have lost none of the gentle 
 powers which 
 
 Gris. Mr. Mudwit, I have borne with your absurdities long enough ! 
 Now listen : I commissioned one lover to pull your nose — I'll order 
 the next to cut your ears off! [Exit, r. h. 
 
 Mild. One thing is certain, gray isn’t her favorite color ; and there’s 
 only one left that I haven’t tried ! — the color of blaze and conflagra- 
 tion ! I’ll have a red wig ! I’ll wrap my caput in incendiary flames, if 
 I have to be hung for arson ! I’ll be the modern Salamander, and 
 ignite the neighborhood with the fierce radiance of my cranium ! 
 The fountain shall sizzle at my approach, and the cistern emit vapor 
 as I pass! I’ll be red hot and carbonize creation! If Griselda 
 doesn’t melt then, it’s because there’s no melt in her ! [Exit, l. h. 
 
 Enter Ernest, in farmer's costume, with a pitchfork. 
 
 Em. Ah ha ! My hay is in, and my barns are full ! Was their 
 ever such splendid exercise as hay making ! It beats billiards ! 
 There’s your true billiard cue ! [Showing the pitchfork.] Darius 
 now, knows which is my hay, for he’ll touch no other. I wish that 
 late wheat I sowed would come up. It’s been under ground long 
 enough, one would think. I believe wheat won’t come up for a 
 gentleman, and only grows for farmers, However, I’ve got a boy to 
 
22 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 watch, and come and tell me the moment it’s up. Ah ! this is a great 
 life! I work like a Trojan ; I eat like a coal-heaver and I sleep like atop. 
 If I were but reconciled to Louise, I believe I should be the happiest 
 man in the canton ! [Takes a white kid glove from his pocket.] She 
 wore this glove about a week ago, the first time I ever saw her 
 waltz. For a Christian, she is very fond of waltzing. When she stops 
 to take breath, little shudders of impatience run over her shoulders, 
 and make them quiver like watered silk. The man that invented the 
 waltz was not married. I wish Victor would answer the letter in 
 which I told him I wanted to make a frank confession to Louise. 
 I’ll do it, if he but give me encouragement. She’s 19 years old to- 
 day, and I might honestly own up at her rustic ball to-night. Hallo ! 
 here she comes ! and a letter in her hand ! She seems quite tickled 
 with it too. I wonder who it’s from. [ Retiring up. 
 
 Enter Louise, with a letter. 
 
 Louise. [Reading aside.] “ My pride has fled ; heaven has humbled 
 it by giving me a child for a guide. I love her ! I love her !” 
 
 [She presses the letter to her bosom. 
 
 Em. Hey day ! what’s this 1 
 
 Louise. [Reading.] “The truth must out! I collect relics and 
 souvenirs ! I live upon flowers that she has touched and upon gloves 
 that she drops. Oh, I am her secret and fervent disciple, and when 
 my lips aspire to what her hand has pressed, I almost feel that I am 
 outraging with sacrilegious thought, the hallowed purity of my vestal 
 wife!” [Kisses the letter. 
 
 Em. Can I believe my eyes 1 
 
 Louise. [Reading.] “I shall execute my design, on receiving an 
 encouraging reply from you, for I wish to make a full and frank con- 
 fession to Louise. I swear to you that my life hangs upon her reply. 
 Farewell.” Dear, dear Ernest! [Pwtfs the letter in her bosom. 
 
 Em. Damnation ! [Coming forward. 
 
 Louise. [Aside.] Ernest here ! Perhaps he received the encourage- 
 ment he wanted by the same mail. [Aloud.] Good afternoon, Ernest ! 
 
 Em. [Aside.] Tears in her eyes, emotion in her voice, and the 
 letter in her bosom ! A malediction on the hand that wrote it ! 
 
 Louise. [Aside.] He seems afraid to begin. 
 
 Em. [Aside.] But let me exhaust every possible supposition, be- 
 fore proceeding to extremities ! I wanted to ask you, Louise, if you 
 have heard from your grandfather, lately 1 
 
 Louise. Yes, I heard from him to-day. 
 
 Em. [Much relieved.] Ah ! You had a letter from him just now ! 
 
 Louise. No, but I met Mr. Bernard at the village, this morning, 
 
 , and he told me that he had seen grandpa last week, and that he looked 
 younger than ever. [Aside.] Why does he talk about grandpa, I 
 wonder ! 
 
 Em. [Aside.] Rot grandpa ! [Aloud.] I have sometimes thought, 
 Louise, that you must miss the young friends that you knew before 
 our marriage. Don’t you think you’d better renew intercourse with 
 them by correspondence'! How pleasant it would be to receive 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE, 23 
 
 letter from a schoolmate ! — Perhaps you have already done so I 
 
 Louise. No, I have no acquaintances but those of the village, and 
 the environs, and I have received no letter. 
 
 Ern. [Aside.] A lie, now, to complete the infamy ! 
 
 Enter Marietta, hastily. 
 
 Mar. He’s come, madame. 
 
 Louise. Hush! [They whisper.] Why, then, I must interrupt Ern- 
 est’s full and frank confession before he has even begun it. Good 
 bye, Ernest ; there will be company to dinner. 
 
 [Exeunt Louise and Marietta. 
 
 Em. Company to dinner ! as if I cared for company or dinner 
 either. My wife has a lover, that’s clear. Whoever he is, he is ab- 
 sent, as is evident from the letters he writes. That accounts for her 
 contentment and placidity — she was enjoying the zest of a forbid- 
 bidden intrigue. I would as soon allow my wife a passion as an idyl ; 
 a fancy as a paramour — the treachery is the same. [Mud wit crosses 
 the stage without. ] Mr. Mud wit, come here. 
 
 Enter Mudwit. 
 
 Can you tell me', sir, whether Madame Devereux had any gentlemen 
 correspondents before, or at the time of, her marriage with me 1 
 
 Mud. She used to have dealings, by letter, with the butcher, the 
 miller, and the agent of the Liquid Manure Company. 
 
 Em. Tush, sir; that’s not what I ask— I wish to know if, among 
 her acquaintances, as a girl, there were any who would be likely to 
 continue their intimacy with her :as a wife I 
 
 Mud: I know of none — except, perhaps, her 'grandfather. 
 
 Em. Mr. Mudwit, my wife receives letters, which I have reason to 
 think are such that she cannot show them to her husband. Have you 
 any idea-- who they can be from 'l 
 
 Mud. [Reflects.] Perhaps from Count Cavalcanti — he is absent at.in- 
 tervals. [Aside.] Perhaps he’ll get his nose pulled now. 
 
 Ern. Pshaw ! sir. He is in love with my sister-in-law ; I thought 
 you knew that. 
 
 Mud. Know it'l l should think I .did. But then the Count has 
 been a great traveler, sir. He has visited Constantinople, where they 
 have a plurality of wives, and has been among the Mormons at Salt 
 River, where one man thinks himself equal to half-a-dozen women, at 
 least ! He was intimately acquainted with Brigham Young. Who 
 knows what polygamian notions he may not have brought back 1 
 [Aside. J I hope it is Louise, and not Griselda, he’s in love with. 
 
 Ern. I might have known I should be no wiser for consulting this 
 addle-pate. 
 
 Mud. [Ijoohing off.] Sir ! sir ! look here ! 
 
 Ern. .A m,an cloaked to the eyes, and entering by Louise’s private 
 door ! And tinder the guidance of Marietta ! And it was Marietta that 
 came to summon her under my very nose. Well, I’m glad of it. 
 Weak and vacillating as I have been in presence of doubt and uncer- 
 . tainty, I hope the fact and the evidence will find me resolute and 
 unflinching. Ah, madame, that was going a step too far ! Conscience 
 
24 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 and generosity are dead within me, and we must meet — husband, 
 wife, and lover — face to face ! [Exit, at back. 
 
 Mud. [Calling after him.] It’s Count Cavalcanti, sir. He’s gummy 
 in thfe knees, and I know his walk. He’ll get something else pulled 
 besides his nose, I’ll be sworn ! J’H go and tell Griselda the news. 
 But stay ! [ Taking off his gray wig.] This thing was an unmitigated 
 flam ; I’ll try my last. [Draws a tremendous red wig from his pocket, 
 puts it on, and rubsh is hands through it.] Ah, ha ! I rather think 
 that this will do. Would that it were but dyed in Cavalcanti’s blood ! 
 And now to melt Griselda. I am the torrid zone ; Griselda must 
 simmer now, not to say swelter. [Exit, at back. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Shady Lane — Evening. 
 
 Enter Louise and Victor — the latter cloaked — l. h. 
 
 Vic. So you see, my dear sister — I won’t call you sister-in-law — as 
 I saw from my brother’s last letter, that the finale of your little drama 
 was approaching, I thought I would come and help you through with 
 it. 
 
 Louise. I’m glad you’ve come ; poor Ernest is in a terrible state ; 
 he’s jealous at last ; and I don’t think he would be jealous of me, un- 
 less he loved me, do you 1 
 
 Vic. No; unless, instead of the lover’s agonizing fears, his jealousy 
 were merely the husband’s offended pride. But I don’t think that’s 
 likely. 
 
 Louise. It’s well it is so ; for it is not easy to play a part for six 
 long weeks, and live on in a false position from month to month. I’m 
 nineteen years old to-day, Victor; try and reconcile us to-night, 
 won’t you ? 
 
 Vic. Ah ! then it’s your birth-day, is it 1 That accounts for the 
 stir I noticed in the village — the peasants in their holiday costumes, 
 a sort of May-pole on the green, and a general festive aspect all 
 around. I saw, too, a blind fiddler coming towards the chateau. 
 
 Louise. Yes, we’re to have a ball in our big barn ; I am going there 
 now, to see that all is ready. You shall hide in the hay and 
 watch the finale of my little drama, as you call it. I’ve come pre- 
 pared ; you’ll not have long to wait. Come ! 
 
 Vic. Let us hope for the best. Good luck attend you. 
 
 [Exeunt, r. h. 
 
 Enter Ernest, l. h. 
 
 Em. She had fled before I reached the chamber; but I have 
 tracked them thus far, and they must be near by. Oh ! that Louise, 
 whom I took to be so modestly chaste, should be so precociously cor- 
 rupt ! Ah ! Louise ! Like the wounded Gladiator, I must try, at 
 least, to fall with dignity ! [Exit, R. h. 
 
 Enter Marietta, l. h., carrying flowers and wreaths, and Cook 
 with hamper of bottles. 
 
 Cook. Stay a moment, Marietta ; bear in mind that these bottles 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 25 
 
 are full, and put a stopper upon rapid locomotion. When I asked 
 Madame Devereux what I should give the villagers for supper, she 
 said in her sweet voice : “ Give them the best you have, Robert, and 
 plenty of it.” When I asked Mr. Ernest the same question, he said, 
 with a scowl: “ A barrel of sour wine, and be damned to you.” 
 
 Mar. That’s the difference between master and missis. I don’t 
 think much of your fundamental culinary principle — a good di- 
 gestion. Come, you must be rested, now, and madame went an hour 
 ago. [CooK^nc&s up his basket.] But what’s the use of a good diges- 
 tion, if you’ve got a bad heart 'l Oh ! that deceitful Lafleche ! 
 
 Cook. Never mind, Marietta ; let this atone. [Kisses her. 
 
 Mar. [Slapping his face.] Aha ! just you try that again, that’s all ! 
 
 [ Exeunt , r. ii. 
 
 SCENE III. — A barn, decorated and illuminated i cleared for a 
 
 dance ; folding doors at back , closed ; heap of straw in one corner; 
 
 sacks of corn at back. 
 
 Enter Louise and Victor. 
 
 Louise. Here we are, and everything seems in order. Mind, Victor, 
 you are not to be discovered here; you must hide if you hear any- 
 body coming. Hark ! [They listen.] I hear footsteps ! It may be he. 
 Hide; quick ! [Victor conceals himself behind the sacks of corn. 
 
 Enter Ernest, suddenly. 
 
 Ern. [Aside.] Alone! [To Louise.] You did not expect me, 
 madame. 
 
 Louise. I did not ; but what means this sudden intrusion I It is 
 not your way to be discourteous to a woman ! 
 
 Ern. Have no fears for yourself. 
 
 I/ouise. I have nothing to fear. 
 
 Ern. Are you sure of that 1 
 
 Ijouise. You say so, yourself; besides, I have your solemn promise. 
 
 Ern. But have you not forgotten the conditions of that promise 1 
 
 Louise. I do not think I have. 
 
 Ern. Listen, madame. I promised you your liberty and my own 
 indifference ; but you already bore my name — a name, madame, 
 which no woman ever yet disgraced with impunity. Suppose I were 
 to exact an account of your guardianship of my honor, would you 
 dare reply I 
 
 Ijouise. Yes, Ernest. 
 
 Ern. Well, then, speak. The dreams that you reproached me fof 
 not encouraging, you have dreamed them with another. You have 
 experienced the emotions of a romantic love, and you have dwelt at 
 last in a castle in the clouds. 
 
 Louise. Oh, yes! Listen, Ernest; I will confess all. Step by step 
 I have followed the path in which you refused to be my guide ; there 
 I have found, and accompanied on their way, the sweet realities 
 which you declared to be but phantoms ! Oh ! I have known what 
 intoxication there is in tears, — what mortal anguish may exist in a 
 
26 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 word, — what infinite hope may be kindled by a glance ! I have known 
 the luxury of love, — for I have loved and been beloved ! 
 
 Em. I listen, madame ; and you will do justice to my forbearance, 
 I trust ! Your excuse is in the aberration of your mind, and the vio- 
 lence of your language. You have found the romance you sought. 
 Very well. Madame, you have received letters unknown to me, — 
 love letters ! I have seen you kiss them, and press them to your bo- 
 som. Give me those letters ! 
 
 Louise. But consider, Ernest, what my married life has been 
 
 Em. Give me those letters ! 
 
 Louise. I confess it. I have received letters ; twenty of them, at 
 least. 
 
 Em. Confess, madame, that he who wrote them was a heartless, 
 designing villain ! 
 
 Louise. Oh ! I’ll confess that ! 
 
 Em. Some rascal, doubtless, who has a wife of his own ! 
 
 Louise. He has. But, Ernest, spare him ; my life is bound up in 
 his. I love him tenderly, devotedly, eternally ! 
 
 Em. Enough of this ! I am beside myself ! Give me the letters ! 
 
 Ijouise. [Drawing from her pocket a number of letters, stitched to- 
 gether in book form. ] Here they are, Ernest ; kill me now, if you can ! 
 
 [Falls upon her knees. 
 
 Em. [Reading from the cover of the letters .] “Romance after 
 Marriage ; or, The Maiden Wife. A Novel, in Twenty Chapters By 
 Ernest Devereux.” 
 
 Louise. [ Interrupting .] No, here’s the twentieth ! 
 
 [Drawing letter from her bosom. 
 
 Em. My letters to Victor ! My confession ! Oh ! the idiot that I 
 have been ! [Drops upon his knees.] Louise, can you, can you forgive 
 me 1 [ They embrace. 
 
 Vic. [Rising behind the sacks of wheat, and extending his arms in 
 benediction.] Bless you, my children ! 
 
 Em. [Rising.] Ah f Victor ! [Falls upon his neck. 
 
 Vic. I sent your letters back, Ernest. Do you forgive me my ap- 
 parent treachery 1 
 
 Em. Ah ! Victor, you and Louise are of the saints of earth. 
 
 Enter Griselda, hastily. 
 
 Gris. Bless me ! So it’s settled at last 'l 
 
 Louise. Come in this corner, Ernest, where Griselda cannot hear. 
 
 Gris. You here, Victor ! But I have no time to talk to you now; 
 That horrid Knight of Malta, whom I dismissed to-day, has just come 
 back, and I ran here for refuge. I don’t want to see him. 
 
 Enter Marietta. 
 
 Mar. Madame, Count Cavalcanti and his servant have returned and 
 I have brought them here. 
 
 Enter Cavalcanti and Lafleche. 
 
 Caval. [To Griselda.] Madame, deign to listen to the abject re- 
 fraction of a repentant and contrite sinner. 
 
ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE. 27 
 
 Gris. I won’t listen to you, sir ! [Aside.] After all there is nothing 
 very extravagant in his foot. 
 
 Caval. [Aside.] On second thoughts, I see nothing objectionable in 
 her chin. 
 
 Gris. Are you in earnest, Count I 
 
 Caval. Oh ! put me to the test ! 
 
 Gris. [Looking at his boots.] You wear sixes and a half, I believe ? 
 
 Caval. Fives and a quarter, madame. 
 
 Gris. Well, then, I consent. Here is my hand. 
 
 Caval. [ With rapture.] Countess, do you know what, at this mo- 
 ment, is your most beautiful featured 
 
 Gris. My eyes. You’ve told me so often ! 
 
 Caval. No, Countess, your chin ! [Retire up. 
 
 Enter Mudwit. 
 
 Mad. Vesuvius never was more ready for an eruption than I am ! 
 I feel as if I could boil over, and spout lava for a century ! If Ned, 
 the bull, were to see my hair, he’d go stark mad, as he did the day 
 *he dairy maid wore a red flannel-petticoat ! But will not Griselda, 
 now that she is relieved of that tedious Cavalcadido, listen with in- 
 terest to my inflammable tale, and look with favor upon my rubicund 
 head 1 To doubt it would be to wrong her ! I’ll speak to her at 
 once! [Turns and meets Griselda and Cavalcanti. 
 
 Gris. I once presented Count Cavalcanti to you, Mr. Mudwit, 
 asserting that you were my husband ; that time it was false ! I now 
 present you to him, asserting that he is my husband ; this time it is 
 true ! 
 
 Mud. Oh! Griselda! Oh, Count ! Don’t marry her ! I’ve known 
 her longer than you ! I love her more than whole squads of you ever 
 '•'"aid ! It’s bursting out all over me ; it’s turned my hair to fire, and 
 my brain to ashes ! Oh ! what shall I do ! I shall go as crazy 
 Bedlam ! I can’t survive it ! I’d commit self-destruction if I only 
 knew of some easy means of death ! 
 
 Shout within. Hurrah for Madame Devereux ! 
 
 Louise. [Coming down with Ernest.] Well, as it is all happily 
 settled, Ernest, let us invite our good people yonder to share our 
 
 . joy. 
 
 Em. Oh yes; let’s have them in, by all means. [Opens folding 
 doors , displaying tables bountifully set , and surrounded by peasants, 
 who come forward. 
 
 Enter Bov, with lantern , excitedly. 
 
 Boy. Oh, sir, it’s up ! 
 
 Em. What’s up ? 
 
 Boy. The vheat ; I see’d two green slivers of it a-sticking up out 
 of the ground, so high. [Marks half an inch on his finger. 
 
 Em. Hurrah, boys, my wheat’s up! [They shout. To Louise.] 
 We’ll have dumplings from that wheat next Christmas. 
 
 Mar. [To Griselda.] Madame, wouldn’t you be good enough to 
 make Mr. Lafleche keep his promises 1 He isn’t behaving at all 
 
28 
 
 ROMANCE AFTER MARRIAGE, 
 
 right, madame, and if you would just tell him, madame, that though 
 people can break promises when they only speak them, they can’t get 
 off so easily when they put them down on paper. 
 
 Gris. Why, has he made you a promise on paper, child % 
 
 Mar. Yes, madame, here it is — in his own handwriting. 
 
 Gris. Here, Mr. Mudwit, you are the legal gentleman of the party, 
 road this formidable document. 
 
 Mud. [Reads.] “ On demand, I promise to marry Marietta Blangy. 
 Value received.” Marry her, then, you rascal. Who on earth ever 
 should marry, if not those who know the value of a wife 1 
 Em. Come, a dance! 
 
 Louise. Stay a moment, Ernest. Griselda, come here. [To the 
 
 public.] Romance Before Marrriage 
 
 Gris. As in my case 
 
 Louise. Or, Romance After Marriage, as in mine, which is the best 
 to have T Most ladies, I am told — the very reverse of me — get an 
 abundance of the former, and very little of the latter. From what I 
 gather from them of the charms of Romance before Marriage, and 
 from what I know of the quiet ecstacy of that Romance which may 
 sometimes follow and survive it, I feel that in taking my leave, I am 
 uttering a beneficent wish, when invoking for all the women that 
 
 hear me — whether maids or wives 
 
 Gris. Romance Before 
 
 Louise. And Romance After Marriage 
 
 0 aval, and Em. Both ! 
 
 Disposition of the Characters : 
 
 Twit, Caval. Griselra. Ernest. Louise. Victor. Mar. Lafi.. 
 Mere a Rustic Dance may be introduced. 
 
 THE BMP. 
 
The Bbigajtd. 
 
 Massaroni. Back, all of you, I say ! Are ye mad, 
 that ye would make me bid you twice 1 
 Act I. Scene 2 
 
FRENCH’S STANDARD DRAMA 
 
 THE ACTING EDlTIO®. 
 
 No. CLXXXVIII. 
 
 THE 
 
 BRIGAND, 
 
 21 Eomantti JDrama,- 
 
 IN TWO ACTS. 
 
 BY J. R. PLANCHiJ, 
 
 AtTTHOR OF CHARLES XII, MASON OF BUDA, dzC. AC. AC. 
 
 In this edition of Acting Plays will he found the most complete Stags 
 Directions, Editorial Notes, Scene and Property Plots, Diagrams 
 qf Sets, Time of Representation, Costume, Situations, fyc. d^c.; 
 being the first Dramatic work ever issued in England 
 or America, with such complete Directions for 
 Stage Managers, Prompters, fyc. 
 
 New Y oh It i 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH & SON, 
 
 publishers, 
 
 *38 EAST Hth STREET. 
 
 Lon oo^ : 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH,, 
 
 publisher, 
 
 89, STRAND 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 
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 Time— 1 1). 40 m. 
 
 The Music ofthis Drama, composed by Mr. Thomas Cooke, of Drury Lane, ma behad of Mr T G^odwis, Music' Compos® 
 Publisher and Dealer* No. 7 Yarn lam street* N- Y. 
 
oi r) e Briganb. — Costume. 
 
 PRINCE BIANCHI.— Austrian governor’s full dress suit, white, turned up with 
 red and gold; white waistcoat ; while kerseymere breeches ; white silk stockings, 
 shoes and buckles; lace ruffles; white neckcloth ; crimson sash; order. 
 
 ALBERT. — First dress: Gray surtout, with black braiding; foraging cap of the 
 Bame ; light pantaloons of same ; Hessian boots. Second dress : Brown dress coat ; 
 white waistcoat ; black breeches and stockings ; dress shoes; opera hat. 
 
 THEODORE — First di-ess : Light orange surtout ; cap ; pantaloons ; Hessian 
 boots. Second dress : Blue dress coat; white waistcoat; white breeches and 
 stockings ; dress shoes ; opera hat. 
 
 NICOLO. — First dress : Canvass shirt, with left arm bare ; a brown jacket 
 thrown over the left shoulder; ragged drab patched waistcoat; red breeches, 
 patched and torn ; blue stockings ; old shoes ; slouch hat ; a very large staff. Se- 
 cond dress : Oldman’s chocolate suit ; blue striped stockings; gray wig; shoes 
 and buckles. 
 
 EABIO. — Old fashioned blue suit, with brass buttons; white stockings; shoes 
 and buckles ; gray wig. 
 
 ALLESSANDRO MASSARONI.— Green velvet jacket and breeches ; red striped 
 waistcoat; large red sash round the waist; canvass stockings ; sandals; high Span- 
 ish hat, with feathers and ribbons ; a cross suspended by a chain ; several orders ; 
 watches ; loose handkerchief hanging round his neck ; pistols ; stillettos, &c. 
 
 RUB ALDO, SPOLETTO, and CARLOTTI — Chocolate jacket; red waistcoat 
 and breeches; sandals; orders, &c. ; similar to Massaroni, but inferior. 
 
 BRIGANDS.— Ibid , with different colored breeches. 
 
 CARDINAL SECRETARY.— Clerical black suit, with velvet cloak attached to 
 the back ; red silk stockings ; order of the cross, with blue ribbon ; band ; ruffles ; 
 ehoesand buckles; cardinal’s hat ; cane; wig. 
 
 COUNT CARRAFA. — Full dress court suit ; bag, sword, &c. 
 
 OFFICER OF IBIRL— Austrian officer’s uniform. 
 
 SERVANTS TO THE PRINCE.— Green yager’s dresses. 
 
 SERVANTS TO DITTO.— Splendid white liveries; waistcoat; black velvet 
 smallclothes ; white silk stockings, &c. 
 
 GUESTS.— Full dress ball suits. 
 
 OTTAVIA.— White satin full dress, with pink and silver trimming of flowers 
 round the skirt. 
 
 MARIA GRAZIE.— White muslin body ; red petticoat, trimmed with black vel- 
 vet ; white apron, with gold binding and fringe ; red silk stockings ; Neapolitan cap. 
 
 PEASANTS. — White bodies; colored petticoats; white aprons; colored stock- 
 ings ; Neapolitan caps. 
 
 GUESTS — Full ball dresses of white, &c. 
 
 Properties. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ■Carbine, pistols, stilletto, dice and dice-box, purse and whistle 
 for Massaroni ; carbines and pistols for Brigands ; flask with 
 wine, and horn at rock, l., for Maria ; practicable long staff, 
 with gold pieces in it, for Nicoli. 
 
 Portfolios for Theodore and Albert ; stilletto for Maria. 
 
 Whips to crack, u. e. r. ; baskets of provisiensfor female peas- 
 antry ; money and trinkets for Brigands. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene 1. — Large easy chair on c. ; morocco case, with brilliants, toe 
 Prince B. 
 
 Scene 1. — 
 
 Scene 2. — 
 Scene 3. — 
 
iv 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 Wings. 
 
 Wood. 
 
 Wood. 
 
 Garden. 
 
 Hall. 
 
 Fancy. 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 . — Portrait of female, concealed "by red curtain, hanging over 
 sliding panel, l. ; card table, l.. morocco case, with pair of 
 rich bracelets, cards, candelabra with lighted candles, and a 
 guitar on — four chairs around table; on r. a table — cards, 
 candelabra with lighted candles on — chairs ; paintings hung 
 around chamber; three letters for Massaroni ; refreshments — • 
 wine, &c ■ — for servants to offer guests ; rouleaus of money on 
 tables ; jewelled snuff-box for Count Carrafa ; Theodore’s 
 sketch-book, with crayon sketch of Massaroni for Ottavia ; 
 miniature case for Massaroni; eight guns for soldiers, four sure 
 fire ; blood ready at 1 e. l. for Massaroni ; crucifix for Maria. 
 
 Seen e |3 lot 
 
 Scenes. 
 
 1 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Sea, (mist, which clears away after first 
 chorus,) in 
 
 Rocks, setR. and l., intermingled with trees 
 and shrubs, in 3d and 4th entrances. 
 Large oak tree on brink of precipice, set 
 c. ; branches of tree stretching over an 
 abyss, r. ; fragments of rock under tree, 
 c. ; piece of slate sunk in bank, c. 
 
 [Note. — This scene should be a very ef- 
 fective one , if properly set , and is entire- 
 ly dependent for its effect upon the taste 
 of the Stage Manager and his assistants, 
 combined with the size of the stage and 
 the resources of the theatre as regards 
 scenery , fyc., <Spc., fyc. Managers are 
 referred to No. 1 of Bastlake’s series 
 of pictures, viz., “ The Italian Brigand 
 Chief Reposing fyc . , for the situations 
 of the characters at rising of curtain, 
 and to No. 2 of the same series, “ The 
 Wife of a Brigand Chief watching the 
 result of a Battle fyc.,for the close of 
 scene . — Ed] 
 
 Ruins of a Roman Temple and distant coun- 
 try in 
 
 Same as scene first in 
 
 Groove. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Terrace in 
 
 Corridor in 
 
 Handsome apartment ; folding doors c f\ ; 
 windows down to floor each side of folding 
 doors ; sliding panel, l ; farther up l. a 
 window a few feet from the ground with 
 heavy bars ; two doors r. ; all the doors 
 and windows to fasten in 
 
 Backed by garden in 
 
THE BBIGAND 
 
 Overture to “ Fra JDiavolo ,” played seven minutes. 
 
 Lights half down ; raised very gradually. Curtain rises 
 slowly, after eight bars. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Summit of the Mountain of Guadagnola — the Mediter- 
 ranean seen through a mist in the distance — large masses of 
 rocks, intermingled, with trees, shrubs, and underwood , l. u. 
 e. — a large oak-tree on the brink of a precipice, c., its 
 branches stretching over the abyss , towards r. — -fragments of 
 rock under the tree, c. 
 
 Alessandro Massaroni discovered sleeping on the rock un- 
 der the tree, c. — Maria Grazie, his wife, seated by his 
 side, l., watching him, and a Brigand on guard, by his 
 side, r. — Forming the first picture from Eastlake's Series , 
 u An Italian Brigand Chief reposing fyc. 
 
 Round — Enter Brigands, r. and l., one by one, as required 
 by the music. 
 
 Lo ! morn is breaking! 
 
 Slowly awaking, 
 
 Night’s veil dividing, 
 
 O’er ocean gliding, 
 
 Steals the first lia'ht of the new-coming day. 
 
 [The mist in the distance clears away 
 
 Enter Rubaldo, r. 
 
 Rub. Comrades ! comrades ! up and away ! 
 
 [Massaroni starts up and snatches his hat and carbine , and 
 advances , c . — Maria advances l. c. 
 
 tinier other Brigands, r. and l. — Massaroni mixes with 
 them , and shakes hands. 
 
6 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 [act 
 
 Brigands, {shout) Evviva Massaroni ! 
 
 CHORUS OF BRIGANDS 
 This our maxim, wise and bold 
 Naught for naught, and all for gold ; 
 
 Banish every weaker feeling, 
 
 Let the bigot prate of crime, — 
 
 Time from all is daily stealing; 
 
 We but do as teaches time. 
 
 [A jovial half -turn up the stage . 
 
 Mas. (c.) Comrades, {all quickly advance,) ye are anxi- 
 ous, no doubt, to know why we have made this night-march 
 from Velletri. Listen : The Neapolitan Ambassador leaves 
 Rome this morning on a private visit to the Villa Comma, 
 where a celebrated cantatrice is suffering from the effects of 
 a severe cold, caught while attending the rehearsal of a new 
 opera. {Laugh by Brigands.) His excellency, who shares in 
 the natural and general despair of Rome upon this occasion, 
 carries with him a large quantity of that golden balsam which 
 has ever been found an infallible remedy for the hoarseness of 
 a Prima Donna, {another laugh,) and travels alone in his 
 cabriolet upon this important diplomatic mission. Rubaldo, 
 you will receive his excellency at the foot of the mountain 
 with a guard of honor ; accost him with the respect due to 
 his exalted rank and inviolable character ; suggest to him 
 that the signora is rich enough already, and that we wish to 
 become so. His lordship has too much good sense not to 
 perceive immediately the justice of your observation. 
 
 Rub. (r. c.) Ay, ay, I warrant we will convince him. 
 
 Mas. {crossing to l.) A singular piece of information has 
 also reached me respecting the steward of the 'College of St. 
 Arnulph : he is accustomed to traverse this mountain on his 
 road to collect the rents of the College, in the disguise of a 
 beggar, and, for better security on his return with the money, 
 he goes nearly two leagues about by a more frequented route, 
 {crossing to c.) carrying generally from nine to ten thousand 
 ducats ingeniously concealed in {all lean anxiously forward ) — 
 but it matters not, I have his secret — he will pass anon, and I 
 have formed a mad scheme, which I doubt not will lure the 
 old fox this way home again. Away, Rubaldo, to meet the 
 ambassador, (Rub., Spo., and Car., go up c. and off r. u. e.) 
 — leave me to take care of the worthy steward — the rest — {all 
 lean forward awaiting the order) vanish! {all dart off 1, 2, 
 and 3 e., r. and l. Mas. goes up and puts carbine and hat 
 on bank) 
 
ec. I.] THE BRIGAND. 7 
 
 Maria, (l. after a pause) You have other reasons for leav- 
 ing Velletri. 
 
 Mas. (c./ Are not those I have given sufficient ? 
 
 Maria. For the band, perchance ; not for Maria Grazie ! 
 The Prince Bianchi, your inveterate enemy, is at Villa Rosa — • 
 a descent upon the Palazza, perchance. 
 
 Mas. What, risk the safety of the whole band for a few 
 pictures? for, rich and ostentatious as the old voluptuary may 
 be, he is too wise to keep his treasure without the walls of 
 Rome. 
 
 Maria. But, to seize his person, and carry him off to the 
 mountains. 
 
 Mas. ( laughing ) Ha ! ha ! it would be a rare trick, and 
 might win us a heavy ransom ; but that is not my motive for 
 approaching so near the city: list ye, girl, — what think you 
 of laying hands upon a cardinal, a prince of the church ! and 
 demanding, in lieu of ransom, an unconditional pardon and 
 absolution from the Pope ? 
 
 Maria ( sneeringly .) What, to wipe out old sins, and 
 commence a new score upon a clear conscience ? 
 
 Mas. Not so ; no, I am weary of this watch-dog life. 
 Another stroke of good fortune, and my booty will amount to 
 a sufficient sum to enable me to quit the mountains, purchase 
 a title and a villa, and pass the rest of my days in Tuscany 
 or Savoy, rich, noble, and as honest, perchance, as the prince 
 who plunders his own subjects, or the marquis who draws his 
 income from a faro-table ! If my deeds have been lawless, let 
 the punishment fall upon his head who abandoned me, the 
 victim of his lust, and her innocent offspring, to the scorn of 
 the world and the temptations of despair. — He ! he ! they . 
 told me he was called noble. ( Drawing a miniature from his 
 breast) My mother! my poor injured mother!- why did thy 
 dying lips conceal the villain’s name ? I would have carried 
 thy corse into the banquet hall and placed it at the festive 
 board beside him ! ay, made his shuddering guests do honor 
 to the lady of the mansion, fairer in her grave clothes than 
 her seducer in his perfumed embroidery. [ Crosses to l. 
 
 Maria. Alessandro ! 
 
 Mas. Ay ! ay ! ’tis past ! Some wine, Maria ! my countess 
 that shall be. [Crosses to r. 
 
 Maria, (c.) I will be none ! I am a brigand’s daughter, I 
 will die a brigand’s wife. 
 
 Mas. A brigand’s wife! a brigand’s widow rather, au 
 
8 THE BRIGAND, [acti. 
 
 Prince Bianchi’s pleasure be consulted — the wine, I say. (Ma- 
 ria goes to the rock , l., brings a flask and horn , pours out 
 wine , and gives it to him ) To the health of his highness ; his 
 anxiety for my safe keeping demands my gratitude. 
 
 [ Takes off his hat and drinks. 
 
 Maria ( looking off \ r.) Hush ! — a footstep 
 
 Mas. ( looking off, \ r.) The steward of St. Arnulph’s I — > 
 quick, my peasant’s hat and coat. (Maria fetches them from 
 2 e. l., and assists him on with them.) So, away, and watch 
 the issue of Rubaldo’s expedition. ( Exit u. e. r. Maria, down 
 the mountain ; Massaroni conceals his brigand hat and car- 
 bine under the shrubs , l. u. e.) The dress, the staff- 
 yes, all agree with the description I Now to tickle this holy 
 trout. 
 
 [£Ws himself at the rock under the oak tree , c., draws a dice- 
 box from his pocket, and begins playing upon a piece of 
 slate sunk into bank] 
 
 Enter Nicolo, r., with a long staff, and disguised as a beggar . 
 
 Nic. So ! having gained the mountain top, I’ll pause and 
 breathe awhile. 
 
 Mas. [throwing) Six for thee, holy St. Eustace. 
 
 Nic. [starting and looking round) Eh ! what’s that ? 
 
 Mas. [throwing again) And four for me ! my old luck 
 haunts me still. 
 
 Nic. Why, what’s that fellow about yonder ? playing at 
 dice by himself. 
 
 Mas. Five for thee, and three for me ! Capsetto ! were it 
 not I played with a saint, I would swear the devil were in the 
 dice ! 
 
 Nic. [advancing up towards Massaroni) What ails thee, 
 son ? 
 
 Mas. Silence, man, don’t speak to me just as I am throw- 
 ing; ten for St. Eustace. [Throwing again) For me — nine! 
 [Jumping up and advancing to the front, c.) Maladizione ! 
 Maladizione! Maladizione! [Advances, L.) 
 
 Nic. Swear not, my son ; what hath befallen thee ? 
 
 Mas. Befallen me ! why, Corpo di Bacco ! here hath St. 
 Eustace won a matter of two hundred ducats from me since 
 sunrise. 
 
 Nic. [surprised) St. Eustace win of thee? 
 
 Mas. Ay ! I play with him four or five times a day upon 
 this stone, and out of three thousand ducats my father left me, 
 
sc. ir| 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 9 
 
 two months ago, I have already lost more than half : never ! 
 never ! by any accident, do I rise a winner! 
 
 Nic. (aside.) The fellow’s mad ! Some broken gambler, 
 whose wits have turned with a run of bad luck, and still raves 
 of dice and ducats. 
 
 Mas. I’ll have one chance more for my money : double or 
 quits — come, friend, see fair play. 
 
 Nic. (aside.) I must not provoke him. (Aloud) Well, I 
 wish you good fortune, friend. 
 
 Mas. (sitting at the rock , and taking the dice-box.) I’ll throw 
 first, this time — seven — come, viva Maria ! I have a chance for 
 it, now. 
 
 Nic. (aside.) Poor wretch ! how earnestly he plays. 
 
 Mas. (throwing.) Nine ! look you there, now ! It’s of no 
 use. (Rising and advancing to front, c.) Pour hundred ducats 
 gone in a morning. 
 
 Nic. (r. c.) Well, well, never mind ; St. Eustace will not 
 press for payment, I’ll answer for him. 
 
 Mas. Not press for payment ! what mean you by that ? 
 I’m punctual in my payments. 
 
 Nic. And to whom do you pay it, signor ? to the hermits 
 of Monterella, near his chapel ? 
 
 Mas. No, I do not! he sends me his receiver. 
 
 Nic. (aside.) His receiver — stark mad ! but very harmless, 
 seemingly. (Aloud) And who may that be, signor ? 
 
 Mas. Some poor soul, to whom the money is an object. 
 Thyself, for instance ; for, now I look at thee, thou seem’st 
 poor enough. I warrant me, he hath sent thee for his 
 winnings. 
 
 [Prompter ready to Ring Trap , b. 
 
 Nic. ( aside .) Mass ! if I thought he had the money to pay, 
 I would not be long answering the question. 
 
 Mas. Here, my friend, here are two hundred ducats ; all I 
 have about me at present. ( Giving him a purse.) I must be thy 
 debtor till sundown for the other half. 
 
 Nic. How? (examining the purse.) 
 
 Mas. Oh ! you need not trouble yourself to count it — the 
 sum is there ; and the rest shall be on this stone before sun- 
 set. I’ll pay honestly and promptly, while my money lasts ; 
 when T am broken, there’s an end on’t. 
 
 Nic. (aside.) It is gold — real, glittering ducats ! if I dared 
 keep them— 
 
 Mas. Well, why do you hold them as if they would bite 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 13 
 
 ACT I 
 
 you ? They are yours, I tell you ; I have lost them and paid 
 them ; and you shall find the other two hundred ducats here 
 by sundown. 
 
 Nic. (aside.) Nay, then, ’tis no business of mine. Two 
 hundred ducats is a rare windfall ! (Aloud — crossing to l.) 
 Many thanks to you, noble signor, and send you better fortune 
 another time. 
 
 Mas. (r.) Enough, enough ! begone ! 
 
 Nic. (aside, laughing .) He seems vexed at losing, though. 
 — I’ll bestir me, lest he should repent having paid. 
 
 [Exit, hastily, l. 
 
 Mas. Soh ! soh ! the old shark bites — the hook is in his 
 gills; and, if I land him not, I will turn Jesuit myself, and 
 sell my carbine for a rosary. 
 
 [ Flings off his peasant' s dress. 
 
 Enter Maria, hastily, up the mountain, y. e. r. 
 
 Maria. To arms! to arms! Rubaldo is in danger— -the 
 story of the ambassador was but a snare — the soldiers are 
 upon us — two of our men have fallen — the rest are hotly pur- 
 sued. [Mass aron i whistles. 
 
 Enter the Brigands from r. and l. 
 
 Mas. My carbine ! follow. 
 
 [Seizes his carbine and hat, and rushes down the mounta n. 
 followed by the whole of the Brigands — Maria springs up<m 
 a jutting rock, under the oak tree, c., grasping with her l ft 
 hand a branch that overhangs a pi'£cipice, and looking anx- 
 iously down the mountain — Forming the second picture from 
 Eastlakds Series, “ The Wife of a Brigand Chief watching 
 the result of a Battle ,” dec. 
 
 Maria, (shouting.) To the right ! to the right ! through the 
 thicket — now they see them — San Antonio! (JD> urns heat and 
 shots fire without, at the foot of the mountain.) Bravely shot, 
 Alessandro! down with them, Rubaldo! Ah! — they waver 
 — they turn — they fly ! (waves her handkerchief triumphantly) 
 Viva Massaroni ! 
 
 [Brums, guns , and shouts witho 
 
 as the si ere closes 
 
SC. II-1 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 U 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Ruins of a Roman Temple, and distant Country. 
 
 Enter Theodore and Albert, r., each with a portfolio. 
 
 The. (c.) How beautifully the light falls upon that ruin I 
 Stay, stay, Albert : I must positively make another sketch. 
 
 Alb. Be quick, then. We shall scarcely reach the Villa 
 Rosa by dinner-time ; and you know the prince receives com- 
 pany this evening. 
 
 The. (stooping down on one knee, and sketching in his port- 
 folio.) We have made a long round this day, -certainly ; but 
 what glorious scenery have we gazed on ! Vanity apart, I 
 really believe I want but a glimpse of that same ban- 
 ditti yonr fair Ottavia talks so much about, to make me a 
 second Salvator. 
 
 Alb. The anxiety that Ottavia will labor under if we are 
 beyond our time, is an additional reason for my requesting 
 dispatch. Though we are in no danger here : Massaroni has 
 never yet thought proper to push his advanced posts so near 
 to Rome. 
 
 The. I should like to see that fellow amazingly — he does 
 things with a high hand, by all accounts ; and his language 
 and manners, they tell me, are far superior to those of his 
 companions. 
 
 Alb. He is the Robin Hood of Italy ; taking from the rich 
 to give to the poor — generous, daring, and fond of frolic — he 
 has never been known to shed blood, but in his own defence ; 
 and, in addition to the usual anomalies which compose the 
 character of an Italian brigand, he is renowned for a sense of 
 justice, which makes him the umpire upon all occasions of 
 dispute amongst the peasantry, who seek him for counsel, as- 
 sistance, and revenge. 
 
 The. You have caught the enthusiasm of Ottavia respect- 
 ing him. Egad ! Albert, you are a lucky dog, to have inspir- 
 ed the niece of Prince Bianchi with a tender passion. You, a 
 poor devil of a painter, with nothing but your twelve hundred 
 francs’ pension to depend on. 
 
 Enter Maria Grazie, r. s. e. ( Seeing them , she starts , stops , 
 and listens.) 
 
 Alb. I shall bo fortunate, indeed, should Prince Bianc-hi 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 12 
 
 [act I. 
 
 give his consent to our union ; but that I hardly dare calcu- 
 late upon. 
 
 The. (still sketching .) Oh, he will not refuse anything* to 
 Ottavia : and you are so great a favorite with him since you 
 restored the picture of the lady he keeps curtained up in the 
 sala. But there — (rising ) — I have finished my sketch, and 
 filled my book, (Maria retires ,) all but one leaf, for a group 
 of brigands, which it seems 1 must paint from description. 
 Now onward, as fast as you please. \Going, l. 
 
 Re-enter Maria, with Rubaldo, and three Brigands , l. s. e. 
 
 Rub. (l.) Stand! 
 
 The. (aside, r.) Robbers ! I have my wish, at any rate. 
 (Crosses to r.) 
 
 Alb. What would you ? 
 
 Rub. Can’t you guess ? Money! aye, and plenty of it. 
 
 The. (aside to Albert.) They are but three to two — the wo- 
 man counts for nothing ; knock down that fellow. 
 
 [Albert makes a, dash at the nearest Brigand — Theodore 
 
 seizes the carbine of Rubaldo — the third Brigand and Ma- 
 ria draw stilettos , and rush upon them.] 
 
 Enter Massaroni and three other Brigands , l. s. e. 
 
 Mas. (c.) Hold! (A pause,) Recover! (Brigands look sulk- 
 ily at Mas.) Recover ! Maria ! Release him ! Rubaldo ! back ! 
 back, sir, I say ! (All retire a little , sulkily.) Maria, Rubaldo ! 
 two unarmed travellers ! why, the skirmish with the Prince’? 
 troops has put your blood up with a vengeance. (Turning to 
 The. and Alb.) Pardon, young gentlemen, the hasty temper 
 of my friends here ; some of them have been roughly handled 
 in a little ambuscade, this morning, and it has disturbed the 
 natural serenity of their dispositions. 
 
 [Mar. gets down l. of Mas. 
 
 The. Why, here is a thief of quality, now — a gentlemanly 
 highwayman, who will hear reason, I warrant; your name, 
 signor, is (crossing to Mas.) 
 
 Mas. Massaroni ! (Throws his cloak to Maria , who catches it 
 across her arm.) 
 
 The. As I suspected! there’s ahead for a saidy ! (Crossing 
 r. to his portfolio.) 
 
 Alb. (r. c.) Your custom, I believe, is to make prisoners 
 and demand ransoms; what sum do you fix upon, for ours* 
 
 Mas. (o.) You are artists, apparently. 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 §c* n.*| 
 
 IS 
 
 The. Students of the French Academy; poor as Job. 
 
 Mas. But you have friends, I dare say, who will not be- 
 grudge two thousand scudi for you. (Maria retires up.) In 
 the meantime I must request your company to my retreat in 
 the mountains — an excellent situation, and a salubrious air ; 
 we will find a peasant to carry your letter by and by. 
 
 Maria, (l. c., angrily .) They are friends of Prince Bianchi 
 -“two thousand scudi are insufficient. 
 
 Mas. Friends of the Prince! Nay, then, gentlemen, I 
 must treble the sum, at least. I could not so offend his high- 
 ness as to take a common ransom for any one he honors with 
 his friendship. You will desire the Prince Bianchi to send me 
 immediately six thousand scudi. 
 
 Rub. (l. who has been consulting with the band.) No, no 
 ransom ! 
 
 Omnes. No ! no ransom ! 
 
 Rub. The friends of the prince are our deadliest foes ! They 
 shall not live ! 
 
 [Rubaldo presents his carbine at Theodore — Maria, with a 
 
 drawn dagger , near him , and three Brigands , show symp - 
 
 toms of revolt.] 
 
 
 • Brigands. 
 
 Albert. Massaroni. 
 
 Theodore. 
 
 K. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 Rubaldo. 
 
 I 
 
 Mas. (< authoritatively .) Who says they shall not live ? They 
 shall not live, who dare dispute the will of Massaroni ? Ma- 
 ria, I say ! Rubaldo, I saved you this morning from a short 
 shrift and a sharp axe in the Piazza del Popolo.* ( Seizes his 
 cafbine in a threatening attitude.) Back ! or I’ll balance ac- 
 counts by putting a brace of bullets through that ox-head of 
 thine ! Back, all of you, I say ! Are ye mad, that ye would 
 make me bid ye twice ! Back, sir ! Back, I say ! 
 
 [Rubaldo, <&c., retire up sulkily to 2 e. l. 
 
 The. ( recovering , and opening his sketch-book.) There’s a 
 position ! If he would but keep so for five minutes ! 
 
 [, Sketching rapidly. 
 
 Alb. (r. c.) Massaroni, hear me : you have saved our lives, 
 and we will be frank with you ; the Prince Bianchi esteems 
 me, and would not, under other circumstances, begrudge 
 the sum you demand for my liberty and that of my friend — • 
 
 * The place of execution for criminals in Rome. 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 14 
 
 [act l 
 
 but I know him well : on the receipt of ray letter, instead o f 
 money, he would send soldiers. 
 
 Mas. ( scornfully .) Indeed ! the soldiers of Rome . —he sent 
 some this morning : they have galloped back to the Eternal 
 City faster and fewer than they left it . ( Laugh by Brigands .) 
 {Sternly.) Say you this to intimidate Massaroni ? 
 
 Alb. No ; for I know him brave, as I am told he is gener- 
 ous. You fix our ransom at six thousand scudi ; let me go 
 seek them. 
 
 Mas. Your companion, then, will remain our hostage ? 
 
 Alb. No ; his absence would awake the suspicion of 
 the prince. Money, I repeat, you would receive none ; 
 and surely the murder of that youth would be a poor 
 recompense for the loss of his ransom. Give us our liberty, 
 and, by that holy sign upon your breast, I swear to send a 
 faithful servant with the money to any spot you may appoint, 
 before midnight. [ Kneels . 
 
 Mas. And what security have I that you will keep faith 
 with a Brigand ? 
 
 Alb. Let the belief in your generosity which has inspired 
 so novel a proposition, be the pledge of the sincerity with which 
 it is made. That, and his oath, are all a poor foundling has 
 to offer. (Massaroni, affected, drops gun. Brigands advance 
 a little , listening.) 
 
 Mas. {starting.) A foundling ? abandoned by your parents ; 
 {A pause.) Enough, I will trust you — {crosses to l., Maria 
 picks up gun) — but mind, no messenger, no confidant ; before 
 midnight, I will send those to Villa Rosa who shall receive 
 the ransom or bring you back again. 
 
 Alb. {rising.) I consent. 
 
 Mas. You are answerable for your friend ? 
 
 Alb. With my life. 
 
 Mas. Your name ? 
 
 Alb. Albert Deschamps. 
 
 Mas. You may depart. 
 
 (Albert and Theodore cross to l., the Brigands cross to r.) 
 
 Omnes. Depart ! 
 
 Mas. (foRuBALDo.) Silence ! {To Albert.) I rely on your 
 promise. 
 
 The. {closing his book.) Free ! you don’t say so ? 
 
 {Brigands all action, as if to attack Theodore and Albert.) 
 
 ‘ Mas. (r. waving off the Brigands.) To the mountains 1 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 15 
 
 sc. II.] 
 
 Back, Rubaldo ! Maria, I say ! Come, come, good lads, to the 
 mountains — to the mountains — good lads. (Maria and Bri- 
 gands move off , sulkily , 1 Sr 2 e. r. and l .) (To Albert.) Re- 
 member, the vengeance of Massaroni is sweeping as it is sure. 
 Adio. (Mas. assumes a suavity of manner , which they join in, 
 in the “ Adio” Mas. exits r. h.) 
 
 The. Evviva, Massaroni ! What have you promised ? 
 
 Alb. To pay six thousand scudi to his messenger befoie 
 midnight, or return his captive. 
 
 The. Oh, the devil ! I thought he had let us off scot free ; 
 but, no matter, we’ll raise the sum, I’ll be bound ; and here’s 
 a portrait from the life, my boy, that, when transferred to 
 canvass, will sell for half the money. ( shows the sketch of Mas- 
 mroni.) 
 
 Alb. You must to Rome instantly, Theodore — w 7 e will find 
 a horse at the next village. _ Go to our patrons — to the Aca- 
 demy ; I will account for your absence at the Villa ; I have 
 fifteen hundred scudi there — the rest must be raised at any 
 sacrifice. — Speed ! speed ! speed I [. Exeunt l. 
 
 [ Give Massaroni a moment's time before change .] 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The same as the first. 
 
 Massaroni discovered in his Peasant' s disguise — Advances l., 
 pauses — looks around. 
 
 Mas. Yes, as I calculated, the old steward returns for his 
 other two hundred ducati. Quick, to my game ! I would 
 wager, now, the luck is on my side. ( Sits at the rock , under 
 the oak , and plays as before) 
 
 Enter Nicolo, l. 
 
 Nic. (aside.) There he is, sure enough, and at play still. 
 Oh, if the saint hath made good use of his time! (Crosses to 
 r.) I almost feared to return this way, for ’tis rumored in the 
 towns that the banditti have been seen in this neigh borhood, 
 — not that my appearance is promising enough to provoke 
 
 their attack, but, should they have heard of my errand 
 
 Mas. Viva Maria ! that was a noble cast ! double or quits -3 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 16 
 
 [act 1 
 
 May, now the tide is turning; I’ll throw it all. Double of 
 nuits be it ! 
 
 Nio. ( aside , r.) What’s that he says? 
 
 [Ring Music Bell. 
 
 To Massaroni) Signor Gamester, I am here according to — 
 
 Mas. Silence, silence, man ! I have a heavy stake upon the 
 sast. Six for St. Eustace ! now, now for it — twelve, Evviva ! 
 t have won ! I have won ! ( Jumps up delighted , and ad- 
 vances to c.) 
 
 Nic. Won ? 
 
 Mas. Ay : ten thousand ducati ! 
 
 Nic. {aside.) Poor fool ! and he flatters himself. — {Aloud) 
 I give you joy, signor ; you give St. Eustace long credit, of 
 course. 
 
 Mas. Long credit! not an hour ; he is as punctual in his 
 payments as I am in mine. 
 
 Nic. And in what coin, pray ? 
 
 Mas. The coin of the realm, to be sure, honest gold and 
 silver. Oh, ’tis all arranged : when I lose, he sends his re- 
 ceiver, some poor devil who is glad of the money ; when I 
 win, he sends his paymaster, some rich old hunks or another, 
 whose gold, hardly wrung from the needy, is weighing his 
 soul down to perdition. (Nic. getting alarmed .) 
 
 Nic. He’s very mad, indeed ! I don’t like his looks. 
 
 Mas. For instance, now, this morning, when I lost, he 
 threw in my way a beggarly-looking personage, who, I be- 
 lieve, had not a scudi about him ; but this afternoon, like an 
 honest saint as he is, he sends me the grasping steward of St. 
 Arnulph’s, with upwards of nine thousand ducati to pay my 
 fair winnings. 
 
 Nic. {aside.) Diavolo! {Aloud) I don’t understand — I give 
 you good-day — I [Going, r. 
 
 Mas. {taking hold of his jacket drags him by it to centre.) 
 Nay, nay, master Steward, I speak plainly enough, methinks. 
 Come, fulfil the intentions of the most holy and honorable St. 
 Eustace. Nine thousand eight hundred ducati is my due; let 
 us see how nearly you can make up the sum ; I will not hag- 
 gle with you for a few scudi. 
 
 Nic. Most worthy signor, I call St. Eustace himself to 
 witness you are mistaken ; I have not a paul upon my per- 
 son. Search me, noble signor, and satisfy yourself. 
 
 Mas. Not upon your person, I grant you. ( Crossing to him i 
 and snatching his staff.) But this staff 
 
sc. niA THE BRIGAND. H 
 
 Nic. (l.) Murder! thieves! I am ruined! undone! oh, 
 had I but arms 
 
 Mas. (c.) Arms ! nay, perchance I can furnish you with 
 some. [ Whistles. 
 
 Enter the Banditti r. and l. ( They level.) 
 
 Mas. Recover ! ( They recover.) 
 
 
 Brigands. 
 
 
 Brigands. 
 
 Brigands. Massaroni. 
 
 Nicolo. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 
 
 Rubaldo. 
 
 R. 
 
 
 L. 
 
 Mas. Comrades, give thanks to the worthy steward of St. 
 Arnulph’s, who presents, in the name of his College, ten thou- 
 sand ducati to the troop of Alessandro Massaroni. 
 
 [ Breaks the staff across his knees , and discovers it to be filled 
 with gold pieces , some of which roll about the stage , and 
 are scrambled for by the Brigands. Nicolo at the same 
 time echoes the name of Massaroni, and falls on his knees , 
 l. corner .] 
 
 CHORUS OF THE BRIGANDS. 
 
 Viva ! viva ! viva ! 
 Mas. Scramble, boys! 
 
 po.use . 
 
 CHORUS, CONTINUED. 
 
 Monsignore L’Economo. 
 
 Molto obligato, 
 
 All illustre major domo ! 
 
 Your kindness to acknowledge, 
 
 We are bound in verita : 
 
 Make our duty to the College, 
 
 Servitor ! ha. ha, ha ! 
 
 (All the Brigands crowd round and banter Nicolo, a/nd bow 
 him off r.) 
 
 Rub. (r.) Now, while downward wheels the sun, 
 
 Let (he flask and song go round ; 
 
 Sport we till the day be done, — 
 
 Forward, then, on duty bound. 
 
 Spo. (Up l.) And see where, up the air-hung rock, 
 
 The friendly peasants toil lo join 
 Our jovial band, and swell our stock 
 Of fair Genzano’s racy wine! 
 
 [Ready whips to crack, h. is. a, 
 
IS 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 {"act 1. 
 
 [Female Peasants ascend the mountain with bash at of pro- 
 visions — they come down r. and l., distribute them 
 amongst the Brigands , and receive in lieu money or 
 trinkets .) 
 
 Cho. Dance, drink, and sing, play at dice, play at mora,* 
 Laugh at the laws from our eyry secure ; 
 
 Round with the bottle, ancora ! ancora ! 
 
 Wine is of all worldly evils a cure. 
 
 (At quick part Large Bell three times.) 
 
 [Some of the Brigands dance with the Peasants ; in the midst 
 of their jollity the bell of a distant convent rings the An- 
 gelos. — All pause .) 
 
 Cho. Hark! from the distant convent tower, 
 
 The bell rings out the holy hour ! 
 
 Ave ! ave ! Santa e bella 
 Nostra Dama della Monterella ! 
 
 [The crack of a postillion's whip is heard. Momentary 
 Pause. Whip cracks three times , w. e. r. Ready again.) 
 
 Carlotti. [Jumping upon the rock under the oak-tree .) A 
 carriage winds round the mountain road. 
 
 (Massaroni runs up, r. c., and looks down the mountain .) 
 Rubaldo. (r., while loading his carbine and pistols ) — 
 AIR. 
 
 There is gold in that sound ; 
 
 [This line repeated, then whip cracks four times. No more.) 
 Load, comrades, load. 
 
 [The Brigands all load their carbines and pistols — Massa- 
 roni returns to the front, c., and loads his carbine, ivhile 
 Maria, on one k< ee, l. c., loads his pistols and places them 
 in his belt .) 
 
 Cho. Silence! silence! they come, they come 
 Down to the earth — be dumb, be dumb ! 
 
 yrbe Peasantry steal off, r. and l. — The Brigands crouch 
 behind the rocks and shrubs in every direction, with theii 
 carbines levelled, with Massaroni and Maria up e., form « 
 ing a picture , as the 
 
 Act Drop slowly falls. 
 
 * Mora is a game common among the Roman peasantry, and sim- 
 ilar to our, 11 Buck, buck ! how many horns do I hold upT 
 
f <3. I. | 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 IS 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 
 View from the Terrace of Villa Rosa. Large easy chair on c. 
 
 Enter Prince Bianchi and Nioolo, l. c. 
 
 Prince B. (c. laughing ) Ha ! ha ! ho ! ho ! of all the 
 tricks I ever heard, this is the most amusing. 
 
 Nic. (l. gravely) Your highness will pardon me, I am un- 
 able to see the joke. 
 
 Prince B. See the joke ! you never could see a joke in 
 your life, master Nicolo — all my best things are thrown away 
 upon you. 1 tell you it’s capital! give you two hundred 
 ducats at daybreak, to receive ten thousand by noon ! by the 
 dome of St. Peter’s, but all the Jews in Rome ought to wor- 
 ship him for raising the rate of usance ; and a sly old fox 
 like you to be so trapped. 
 
 Nic. But, mon signore, this is no answer to my complaint; 
 will you see justice done to the college, or not ? 
 
 Prince B. Cospetto ! master steward, what would you 
 have me do ? I can’t hang the fellow till I catch him. I’m 
 sure I take trouble enough about it : I threw out a bait for 
 him this morning, but he was too much bent upon a game at 
 dice with St. Eustace, to bite at it ; but we peppered a few of 
 his people though. 
 
 Nic. But, excellenza ! 
 
 Prince B. But, master steward! as you have the honor of a 
 personal acquaintance with this facetious gentleman, you will 
 do me the favor to return this evening after dusk, and con- 
 duct a strong detachment of soldiers to the spot of your en- 
 counter. I will lose no time in striving to take the rascal 
 living. I am sorry to disappoint the good people of Rome 
 of the spectacle of his execution ; but, if my soldiery can get 
 within gun-shot, they shall cut the matter as short as possible. 
 Fabio! 
 
 (Fabio enters r.) 
 
 Fab. (r.) Excellenza ! 
 
 Prince B. A glass of tokay, for master steward. 
 
 Fab. Of — of — tokay, excellenza ? 
 
 Prince B. Of tokay, ay — of the pannier that came froni 
 Rome this morning, that you brought yourself, or have my 
 orders been neglected. 
 
so 
 
 THE BRIGAND, 
 
 [act II. 
 
 Fab. No, excellenza. 
 
 Prince B. Then, why stand you there ? Bring me the 
 pannier here immediately ; let me see if— — 
 
 Fab. Pardon, excellenza ! I can bring you the pannier, 
 certainly, if you please, but as for the wine 
 
 Prince B. The wine — what of the wine, villain ? ' 
 
 Fab. It’s all drunk, your highness. 
 
 Prince B. Drunk ! who should dare to drink my choice 
 tokay ? 
 
 Fab. Those who dare do anything, excellenza. 
 
 Prince B. Explain, scoundrel ! 
 
 Fab. I — I — put the wine up myself, as your highness de- 
 sired, and had gotten half way to the villa, when, the day 
 being hot, I sat down under a tree by the road-side to rest a 
 minute, and somehow I fell asleep, and 
 
 Prince B. Go on, sirrah. 
 
 Fab. And, when I awoke, I saw twelve brigands armed to 
 the teeth, each with a bottle of your highness’s tokay, which 
 they drained to the health of your highness, and bade me' 
 carry the empty pannier back, with Massaroni’s duty to your 
 highness. 
 
 Prince B. Malpesta ! Maladizione ! drink my tokay ! 
 
 Nic. ( laughing ) Ha ! ha ! I crave pardon, excellenza, but 
 that is a capital joke — I do see that ! 
 
 Prince B. Oh, you do see that ? a pannier of the first 
 tokay in the world ! the present of his highness ! you call that 
 a joke, eh ? (To Fabio,) Get out of my sight, scoundrel 1 
 { Exit Fabio, r.) I’ll send a messenger to Rome instantly to 
 double the number of troops — to surround Guadagnola- — to — • 
 to — don’t stand grinning there, you old pottering numbskull l 
 get to your College, sir, and ask leave to return this evening, 
 and guide the soldiers to the haunt of this audacious ruffian, 
 who robs both church and state, laughs at the laws of the 
 holy city, and 
 
 Nic. And drinks its governor’s tokay ! ha! I’m gone, ex- 
 cellenza. [Exit, l, 
 
 Prince B. Drink my tokay ! By the body of Bacchusl * 
 
 Enter Ottavia, r. 
 
 Ott. (r. c.) My dear uncle ! you seem ruffled ? 
 
 Prince B. Ruffled ! I’m ruffled, robbed, plundered, and 
 insulted ! but that vidain Massaroni shall suffer for it 
 
 Ott. Massaroni! 
 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 21 
 
 sc. i.] 
 
 Prince B. Yes, your heroical robber ! The polite assassin, 
 you and your lady friends are so enchanted with ; who takes 
 your snuff-box with the same air he would beg a pinch from 
 it ; pockets your watch with as many excuses as if he only 
 stopped you to ask what o’clock it was; and cuts a Miroat in 
 so gentlemanly a manner, that the most fastidious traveller 
 was never heard to complain of it afterwards. 
 
 Ott. Nay, uncle; I am sure I never defended his lawless 
 acts, or denied the necessity of repressing them, but I have 
 more than once had occasion to admire his generosity, his un- 
 equalled contempt of danger, and the flashes of honorable and 
 high feeling, which gleam at intervals through the cloud of 
 crime around him. — Now, my dear uncle, remember his be- 
 haviour to the poor girl of Fondi ! Did he not Seize the 
 lordly seducer, Count D’Amalfi, carry him up into the moun- 
 tains, compel him to marry her, and settle the heavy ransom 
 demanded upon the mother and child he would have so bar- 
 barously abandoned ? And then did he not — [the Prince 
 greatly agitated ,) — what is the matter, sir ? you seem in pain ? 
 
 Prince B. ( Turning away, and crowing to r.) Nothing, 
 nothing ; this cursed gout — an ugly twinge. 
 
 Ott. Surely you, sir, whose kind and noble spirit must rise 
 indignantly against the wanton libertine and the heartless 
 
 seducer, whose cheek I have seen grow pale when dear 
 
 uncle, you are in pain, in much pain ? 
 
 Prince B. [endeavoring to conceal his emotion) In tortures! 
 don’t talk to me ! I can’t bear it ! you know I can’t, and yet, 
 there you stand, chatter, chatter, while you see me writhing 
 under this infernal malady. ( Wildly ) Why do you look at me 
 as if you doubted my words ? The pain is here, in my hand, 
 I tell you! It’s true, it goes to my heart, like a knife ! But 
 you care not — you see me suffer, and add to my pangs by 
 ‘aunts and sarcasms ? 
 
 Ott. I — I taunt you. sir ? 
 
 Prince B. Ha ! ha ! threaten him, compel him to marry 
 her at the dagger’s point ! What, could the stiletto of an 
 assassin strike terror into the heart of one who had seen un- 
 moved the victim of his treachery grovelling at his feet, with 
 clasped hands and streaming eyes, imploring death, in lieu of 
 desertion ? Was the pointed knife sharper than her last cry, 
 when he broke from her grasp, and saw the long dark hair ho 
 had doated on scattered by handsful to the winds of heaven, 
 that howled after him in scorn. If he could bear that 
 
22 
 
 THE BRIGAND 
 
 [act ii 
 
 Ott. Dear sir, be calm. [She pulls the chair forward 
 
 Prince B. Thirty years — thirty years ! and the sting is as 
 keen as ever ! Must I go down to the grave with the barb in 
 my heart ! Penance can’t pluck it out, nor purchased pardon 
 deaden the throe. [ Sinks into the chair. 
 
 Ott. ( kneeling affectionately hy his side) What words 
 are these ? — uncle, dear uncle ! 
 
 Prince B. Ottavia, good girl ! I — pshaw ! I grow old and 
 feeble, I cannot bear pain ; don’t mind my pettish words — dry 
 your eyes, silly girl ; when this tyrant gout afflicts me, I do 
 say harsh things, but I don’t mean them, child ; — I have a 
 birthday present for you. (. Rising and drawing a morocco case 
 from his pocket) Baubles, mere baubles; but girls are pleased 
 with them ; egad ! and I think they’d hit the taste of yout 
 friend Massaroni, if he could get a peep at them : but I have 
 some bracelets of another description ready for him ; ha ! ha ! 
 (Laughing faintly) I’m easy now, and can laugh again ; but 
 it is plaguey sharp while it lasts, wench, I promise you — ha ! 
 ha ! ha U [Exit r., forcing a laugh . 
 
 Ott. (c.) My poor uncle ! I never saw him so moved be- 
 fore ; but what is this he has given me? bracelets did he say 2 
 ( Opens the casket) What superb brilliants ! Dear, kind old 
 man ! he lavishes a fortune on me ! What a pity so good, 
 so generous a creature should ever know a moment’s pain, 
 I’m sure he cannot deserve to suffer — I must run after him, 
 and give him a hundred kisses for his splendid present. 
 
 Enter Albert, l. 
 
 Alb. A hundred kisses, Ottavia, the present must be splen- 
 did, indeed, that deserves so rich an acknowledgment. 
 
 Ott. Albert, I began to think you had forgotten it was my 
 birth-day. 
 
 Alb. Theodore would make so many sketches ; I threaten- 
 ed at last to leave him on the road. 
 
 Ott. And have you done so, as he is not with you ? 
 
 Alb. No ; he has ridden to Rome on some business : he 
 will return shortly. 
 
 Ott. (Showing the jewels) See, this is the present I spoke 
 of. 
 
 Alb. Magnificent, indeed ! 
 
 Ott. With this and the necklace my mother gave me, I 
 shall look as fine as the lady in the picture that Theodore 
 calls the Queen of Diamonds ; by-the-bye, Albert, you pro- 
 
sc. i."| THE BRIGAND. 23 
 
 mised to tell me why there is always a curtain drawn before 
 that portrait. 
 
 Alb. Oh, ’tis a common custom so to preserve choice paint- 
 ings : there is a Guido, you know, in the Farnese Palace, 
 that 
 
 [See Music ready, l. 
 
 Ott. Nay, nay; you said there was a story about it, and 1 
 remember once I found my uncle looking at it ; and when he 
 saw me, he dragged back the curtain, and was so agitated, so 
 furious. 
 
 Alb. Why, then, I have heard, but I know not how truly, 
 that it is the portrait of a young Florentine peasant, to whom 
 the Prince was much attached : some circumstances prevented 
 their union, and she died, I believe — but the rumor is so vague : 
 however, he certainly was fond of her, for, when I restored the 
 parts which the damp had injured, he desired I would alter 
 the dress from the simple costume of Florence to the richest 
 robes and ornaments a princess could wear — u Such,” he add- 
 ed, with a deep groan, “ should have been her rank, and as 
 such shall she even now be painted !” 
 
 Ott. Poor uncle ! it is no doubt her loss which p ey- so 
 heavily at times upon his spirits. But I must go and thank 
 him for this new proof of his kindness : will you come with 
 me, Albert? 
 
 Alb. I’ll follow you upon the instant. ( Exit Ott avia, r.) 1 
 am all anxiety for the return of Theodore ; should he not be 
 able to raise the sum, what resource ? The governor — 1 dare 
 not trust him — he would laugh my scruples to scorn, and the 
 forfeit of my word might bring destruction on his head and 
 my beloved Ottavia’s. “ The vengeance of Massaroni is sweep- 
 ing as it is sure,” those were his parting words. ( Wind instru- 
 ments play , p.p., without, 3 e. l., and Alb. speaks through it. 
 Forte as Mas. enters .) Hark ! a carriage ! the guests are al- 
 ready arriving : if, amongst them, I could find a friend 
 
 {Goes up r.) 
 
 Enter Massaroni in full dress , decorated with several orders . 
 preceded, by Yager and two Servants , 2 e. l. 
 
 Yag. Whom shall I have the honor to announce, signor? 
 
 Mas. ( With an assumed air.) The Count di Strozzi. 
 
 Yag. The Count di Strozzi ! 
 
 Mas. The Count di Strozzi ! Strozzi ! Strozzi ! (2 actions of 
 
24 THE BRIGAND. [act it. 
 
 dismissal with the hand. Yager exit, l e. r. Servants take 
 chair off, \ 2 e. l.) 
 
 Alb. (advancing, l. c.) The Count di Strozzi ! (starting.) 
 Heavens ! can I believe my sight ? 
 
 Mas. (crossing to c.) And why not, my young Raphael ? 
 1 said I would send those, ere midnight, who should receive 
 your ransom, or take you back again ? I knew not any of 
 my troop so fit to be trusted as myself. 
 
 Alb. But do you know before whose gate you stand ? 
 
 Mas. Cospetto ! to be sure I do ; the Prince Bianchi’s, the 
 governor of Rome, a gay, noble-hearted old gentleman, whom 
 I respect sincerely, notwithstanding his vigorous measures 
 against me — he would hang me if he could catch me- — ’tis his 
 duty to do so-"— I don’t quarrel with him for that — -but I do 
 not chose to be hanged if I can help it, and that vexes him, 
 and makes him sometimes, I am told, say harsh things of me ; 
 but that’s no reason why I should not pay him a visit of ce- 
 remony. 
 
 Alb. I cannot conquer my astonishment ! 
 
 Mas. (looking about him.) Corpi di me ! (crossing to l., 
 Albert crosses behind Massaroni, to r. h.) But he’s well 
 lodged here. The governor ! I have never before examined 
 his villa so closely. 
 
 Alb. (r.) Fly, wretched man ! I owe you life, and cannot 
 see you thus madly walk into the very mouth of destruction. 
 Should the governor recognize you — — 
 
 Mas. He ! fear nothing : we have never yet met. 
 
 Alb. But he receives friends to-night; and, amongst 
 them 
 
 Mas. Ah ! you do me the honor to suppose I now and 
 then see good company. I will risk the meeting of a few old 
 acquaintances — they’ll not dream of seeing me here, and you 
 and your friend, I know, will not betray me. 
 
 Alb. Massaroni, mean you wrong or violence to the Prince 
 or his niece Qttavia ? If so, not e’en my oath 
 
 Mas. Be satisfied: unless you fail in your promise, I am 
 here only as the Count di Strozzi ? colonel in the Austrian ser- 
 vice, and 'his day arrived at Ronie from Naples, on my way 
 back to Milan. The count is expected 
 • Alb. Sir ! 
 
 Mas. Oh, ye? — he’s expected — ex-pected— but— he cannot 
 come himself. 
 
 Alb. You have made him prisoner ? 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 25 
 
 SC. I.] 
 
 Mas. Humph ! we have changed places and clothes for an 
 hour or so. ( Laughing .) 1 thought it a good opportunity to 
 come for the ransom and pay my respects to the governor, so 
 1 stepp’d into the count’s carriage, and with two of my band 
 for postillion and valet, drove boldly up to the Villa Rosa. 
 ( Laughing ) Ha ! ha ! ha ! ’tis some time since I assisted 
 at a conversazione ; ( crossing to r., affectedly ,) but I trust I have 
 not forgotten the usages of so-ci-e-ty. 
 
 Alb. And you will really have the audacity to encounter 
 and converse with the Prince ? 
 
 Mas. Certainly : I have letters for him from Naples. I 
 promised the Count di Strozzi they should be faithfully deli- 
 vered, and I never was known 
 
 Re-enter Yager, r. 
 
 Yag. {to Massaroni.) If your lordship will enter the sala, 
 his highness will join you immediately. 
 
 Mas. {haughtily.) I follow you. ( Two motions of hand — 
 Ya. exit r., re-enter bowing , to Albert) A rivederci. signor — 
 delighted to make the honor of your acquaintance — we will, talk 
 further on that subject : my carriage is not ordered till — mid- 
 night. {Half turns his head — sees Yager, observing .) Mid* 
 night. A rivederci, signor ! a rivederci ! 
 
 [. Exeunt Massaroni and Yager, r., Albert, l. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Corridor in the Villa. 
 
 Enter Theodore, r. 
 
 The. Here I am, at last, shaken to death, galloping over that 
 infernal Appian Way, and all to little purpose. The hearts I 
 had to move were as stony as the road that led to them. 
 
 Enter Albert, l. 
 
 Alb. (l. c.) Theodore, what success ? 
 
 The. (c.) Oh, my dear fellow ! it’s all over with us ; the 
 6um is not to be raised ; the counts and cardinals you referred 
 me to were profuse in their expressions of sorrow, but kept the 
 necks of their purses screwed round as tightly as our necks 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 26 
 
 [act II. 
 
 had like to have been this morning. I could only squeeze a 
 thousand scudi out of twenty of them. 
 
 [Ring Music Bell. 
 
 Alb. Only a thousand ! but our comrades, the students of 
 the French Academy 
 
 The. Ah ! they, if you please, opened their purses on the 
 instant, like noble fellows ; but, then, unfortunately there was 
 nothing in them, or you might have had every sou they pos- 
 sessed in the world. 
 
 Alb. Distraction ! only a thousand scudi ! I have but fif- 
 teen hundred. 
 
 The. And I have but five hundred : we want half the sum 
 still. 
 
 [See stage set behind, before whistle. 
 
 Alb. And he is here to receive it. 
 
 The. He here ! who ? 
 
 Alb. ( whispering .) Massaroni. 
 
 The. Mass 
 
 Alb. ( interrupting him.) Hush! 
 
 The. In the villa ? 
 
 Alb. By this time, in conversation with the Prince himself, 
 as Count di Strozzi, an Italian nobleman in the Austrian ser- 
 vice. 
 
 The. The devil lie is ! Well, of all the audacious tricks 
 
 Alb. Are you mad, Theodore ? Is this a theme for laugh- 
 ter ? My oath and honor are engaged ; and, were I mean 
 enough to violate them, the carbines of his band are even now 
 loaded for the destruction of all most dear to me. The die is 
 cast : I must return, his prisoner. 
 
 The. Indeed you shall do no such thing. It can make no 
 difference to him, provided he has a hostage ; and, therefore, 
 if either of us return, it shall be me : you have a tie to bind 
 you to this spot, in the person of your pretty Ottavia — there 
 will be no heart broken by my absence; and you’ll be able to 
 make up the money, no doubt, before the brigands lose their 
 patience. I shall go and tell him so, and so there’s an end of 
 the business. * [ Going l. 
 
 Alb. ( stopping him.) You shall not, Theodore — I insist — 
 l implore you ; there is yet a hope — amongst the guests I may 
 find a friend ; or I will make some pretence for borrowing of 
 the governor. 
 
 The. Well and good. I have no particular wish to sleep 
 
sc. n.j THE BRIGAND. 27 
 
 on the top of Guadagnola to-night, if the money can be raised 
 — but if not, either you go not at all, or you go in my com- 
 pany. [Exeunt l. 
 
 SCENE III. • 
 
 A rich Apartment in the Villa. — Large folding doors , c. f., 
 with windows on each side down to the ground — all open y 
 to show the Gardens of the Villa and distant Country , by 
 Moonlight — a sliding panne! , l., with the portrait of a 
 lady hanging above it , concealed by a red curtain — fur- 
 ther up, l., a window a few feet from the ground, strongly 
 barred — two doors, r. — a card-table, l., with cards, cande- 
 labra, a guitar , and morocco case, with a pair of rich 
 bracelets — four chairs round the table — a table , with cards , 
 candelabra , and chairs, r. — choice Paintings hung round 
 the room. 
 
 Massaroni discovered. 
 
 Mas. His highness takes his time. Had I sent my real 
 name, he would not have kept me so long waiting. What a 
 splendid Parmegiano he has there ! [Looking at it through 
 his glass.) Indeed, all his pictures seem excellent. What’s 
 this ? ( Taking up the case, and opening it.) Diamond bracelets ! 
 brilliants of the very first water ! ( Advancing to the front, c.) 
 Why, they are . worth a little fortune. How careless, to leave 
 such jewels about a room open to any one, ( looking about , as 
 if half inclined to pocket them.) Some thieving, prowling va- 
 gabond or another would think no more of putting them into 
 his pocket — ( pausing for a moment.) No, no, Massaroni! 
 [Lays them on the table , and takes up the guitar .) A pretty 
 instrument, that. [Running his fingers over the strings.) I 
 envy a good musician : I scarcely know one note from another 
 myself. [Humming and singing .) La, la, tra, la, la ! Will this 
 man never come ? [Draws a chair and begins to play. 
 
 SONG. — Massaroni. 
 
 “ Gentle zitella, 
 
 Whither away? 
 
 Love’s ritornella, 
 
 List while I play. 
 
28 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 [act il 
 
 “ No — I have linger’d 
 Too long on the road, 
 
 Night is advancing — 
 
 The brigand abroad. 
 
 Lonely zitella 
 
 Hath too much to fear, 
 
 Love’s ritornella 
 She may not hear.” 
 
 Ottavia ehiers, c . f. r. h., and gradually advances r . — she 
 stops and listens. Massaroni rises and advances to the 
 front . 
 
 “ Charming zitella, 
 
 Why shouldst thou care 1 
 Night is not darker 
 Than thy raven hair. 
 
 And those bright eyes, 
 
 If the brigand should see, 
 
 Thou art the robber — 
 
 The captive is he. 
 
 Gentle zitella, 
 
 * Banish thy fear, 
 
 Love’s ritornella 
 Tarry and hear.” 
 
 [Ottavia advances , r. c. 
 
 Mas. ( turning , sees Ottavia.) Your pardon, signora. 
 (Bows gracefully, and lays down the guitar on the table, l.) 
 
 Ott. ( returning his salute .) My uncle has sent me to apol- 
 ogize to the Count di Strozzi for his delay : but the Cardinal 
 Secretary has just arrived at the villa, and he was called to 
 receive him. 
 
 Mas. Signora, I request— (Ottavia goes to the table , l.)— 
 (aside) The Cardinal Secretary — I shall have the honor of 
 meeting his eminence, also ! What an opportunity for the 
 execution of my project! Rubaldo is within hearing; a whis- 
 tle from that terrace But no ! I have promised the 
 
 Frenchman ; and, if he keeps faith with me, no violence shall 
 occur. (Ottavia advances from the table with the case — 
 opens it , and puts on one bracelet — the other drops — Massa- 
 roni picks it up.) Signora, permit me — (putting it on her 
 arm.) A jewel of price, lady — worthy the arm that wears it. 
 Ott. They are the birthday gift of my uncle, colonel. 
 
 Mas. Ah ! this is your birthday ! I am proud of arriving in 
 time to assist at such a festival. 
 
 Or r. May T ask, colonel, what was the romance you were 
 fcing'ug when I entered ? 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 29 
 
 ■c. III.] 
 
 Mas. Oh ! a simple ballad — a ritornella popular amongst 
 the peasantry. I learned it on the road. 
 
 Ott. I am sure I have heard it before. But there should 
 be another verse, methinks. 
 
 Mas. ( hesitating .) Yes, I believe there is another. 
 
 Ott. (r. c.) Ay ; the termination of the story. — Oblige me 
 with it. 
 
 Mas. {aside) Humph ! It’s more than I bargained for ; 
 but no matter — {aloud) Since you desire it, Signora — {aside) 
 That verse speaks of myself, and might betray me— {goes for 
 the guitar) — the situation is singular. 
 
 SONG — Massaroni {continued, c.) 
 
 “ Simple zitella, 
 
 Beware ! ah, beware ! 
 
 List ye no ditty, 
 
 Grant ye no prayer ; 
 
 To your light footsteps 
 Let terror add wings, 
 
 ’Tis Massaroni 
 
 Himself, who now sings.” [Ottavia starts. 
 {Forte note in orchestra and drums. Massaroni stands over her in atti- 
 tude— at length , dispelling her fears by fishing up her arm within his, 
 and resuming the bland and piano manner ,) 
 
 “ Gentle zitella, 
 
 Banish thy fear, 
 
 Love’s ritornella 
 Tarry and hear.” 
 
 Ott. (r. c.) I remember it now perfectly ; ’tis one of the 
 many ballads for which the deeds of that extraordinary bri- 
 gand has furnished themes. I have serious battles, you must 
 know, with my uncle about him, and in truth I am almost 
 ashamed to show so much interest for a notorious robber — but 
 girls are silly romantic creatures, and valor and generosity are 
 qualities that draw largely upon their admiration. 
 
 Mas. And you are charitable enough to give him credit for 
 their possession ? 
 
 Ott. Nay, they have been too often manifested to admit of 
 dispute, even by his bitterest enemies. {Music without in or- 
 chestra.) But here comes my uncle and his Eminence. 
 
 Enter four Servants from the Garden, and range on r. and 
 l. — the Prince's Chasseur preceding the Prince Bianchi, 
 the Cardinal, Count Carrafa, and the Banker , followed 
 by Ladies and Gentlemen. Serv. put l. table and cards and 
 throe chairs forward to 1 e. l. h. 
 
SO THE BRIGAND. [act ii. 
 
 Prince B. Count di Strozzi, a thousand excuses — my 
 
 niece, 1 trust, has explained 
 
 Mas. (l.) Most satisfactorily, excellenza ! I have the honor 
 to present your highness with these letters from Naples. 
 
 [ Gives three letters , 
 
 Prince B. Delighted to make acquaintance with the Count 
 di Strozzi. 
 
 (Prince introduces Count C. and Cardinal to Mas. — Cardi- 
 nal bestows benediction on Mas., who receives it on his knee 
 and laughs apart . Prince sits r. of table l., and plays 
 with Count C. at tcarte — Mas. looks on at game.) 
 
 Enter Theodore and Albert, from the garden — Theodore 
 crosses to r. corner. 
 
 The. There he stands, sure enough— with what surprising 
 coolness. I wish 1 had my sketch-book. [Music Piano — 
 a quadrille is performed in the garden by the guests.) 
 
 Alb. (c. to Theodore) Joy, joy! There is a wealthy bank 
 er here, he’s now talking to the Cardinal — I have some inter- 
 est with him, and have little doubt but I can obtain a loap 
 upon my own bill. I will watch the moment he leaves his em- 
 inence, under pretence of a loss at the card-table. 
 
 The. Good! good! (The Cardinal bows to the Banker, 
 who retires to the garden .) He leaves him now. (Albert fol 
 lows the Banker — Ottavia advances to r. of Theodore.) 
 
 Ott. Where is your sketch-book, Theodore ? I want to 
 see what views you have taken to-day. 
 
 The. They are not worth looking at in their rough state 
 — stay till I have made drawings of them ; they are mere 
 memoranda. 
 
 Ott. I should like to see them so, and I insist on your pro- 
 ducing them — I want to show them to my friends. 
 
 The. No, no ! I have my reasons ! 
 
 Ott. Don’t tell me of I'ea^ons, sir, I shall go fetch the book 
 — I know where it is. \_Runs out r. d. 
 
 The. You do not indeed ! — harkye, Ottavia! Ottavia ! 
 
 [ Runs after her , r. d. — Quadrille and music cease — Count 
 
 [Special Note. — From the end of Prince B.’s last speech, “De- 
 lighted to make acquaintance with the Count di Strozzi V* Music, 
 p. p. in orchestra , which continues during dialogue , until conclusion of 
 Theodore’s speech of— “ You do not indeed I harkye, Ottavia! Ofr 
 h via !” ) 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 31 
 
 sc. III.*] 
 
 Carrafa rises from the card-table , l., and joins the Cardi- 
 nal, l. u. e. — Servants hand refreshments. 
 
 Count B. (to Massaroni.) Will you play? 
 
 [ Pointing to the chair that Carrafa has just left. 
 Mas. With pleasure. (Takes his seat, l . — they play. A 
 waltz is danced here.) 
 
 Prince B. Your residence is at Milan, my lord ? 
 
 Mas. I have no fixed residence, your highness ; I love 
 change and 
 
 Prince B. Ay, you travel a great deal ? 
 
 Mas. Why, yes — 1 may almost say I live on the highway. 
 ( They play — Prince loses) 
 
 Count C. (near the Governor) You are a native of Italy, 
 I believe ? 
 
 Mas. Of Florence. 
 
 Prince B. (agitated) Of Florence ? (Mas. has placed 
 cards for Prince to cut , who suddenly drops them) 
 
 Mas. Is your highness unwell ? 
 
 Prince B. (concealing his emotion) Nothing — a slight pain 
 — ’tis gone (plays) What cards you hold ! the game is 
 your’s, count. 
 
 Mas. (pointedly) This is positively robbing you ! (takes 
 a rouleau, and puts it in his pocket) Massaroni could scarce- 
 ly use you worse, (looking Prince full in face) 
 
 Prince B. What, you’ve heard of that rascal’s proceedings, 
 
 have you ? I shall stop him shortly, though — I intend 
 
 Mas. Indeed ! (Aside) This may be worth hearing. (Aloud) 
 You intend, then 
 
 Prince B. Oh, I intend — a word in your ear, for the ras- 
 cal has spies everywhere* (Speaking confidentially to him,) 
 It’s ten to one but I take him this very night. 
 
 Mas. No! 
 
 Prince B. Yes ! Between you and me, I know where to 
 lay hands upon him at this moment. 
 
 Mas. No ? 
 
 Prince. Yes ! [. Placing his hand on Massaroni’s arm. 
 
 Mas. He may escape you yet, your highness. 
 
 Prince B. But I have information 
 
 Mas. Oh ! if you have information 
 
 Prince B. Ha! ha! ha! (laughing) He played an old 
 fellow, the steward of St. Arnulph’s, such a trick this morn- 
 ing — ho ! ho ! I must tell you about that presently. He’s an 
 impudent scoundrel. 
 
32 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 [act II. 
 
 Mas. Oh! he’s an infernal rascal! 
 
 Prince B. Would you believe it, he drank my health iu 
 some of my own wine that he stopped on the road. 
 
 Mas. ( who has just taken a glass of wine from a ser- 
 vant , l.) Admirable! — My lord — I have the honor 
 
 [Drinks, and bows to the Prince, 
 
 Prince B. Thank you, thank you — it’s your play. 
 
 Enter an Officer, from the garden , r. c. f. down c. 
 
 Off. ( advancing to Prince Bianchi.) The detachment 
 your highness sent for is arrived. 
 
 Prince B. Let it halt for a few minutes ; I will give some 
 further orders and a guide. [Exit Officer , r. c. f. 
 
 Mas. [aside) Humph! A detachment, said he ? [Aloud) 
 An expedition — so late ? 
 
 Prince B. Oh, I am determined to come to close quarters 
 with the scoundrel ; strike a bold blow at once, and- — con- 
 found the cards — you have emptied my pockets, Count. 
 
 Mas. [laughing.) Ha ! ha ! I’ve a knack that way. 
 
 Prince B. [rising) [As Prince B. rises , servants clear 
 table and chairs back.) I must leave you a moment to des- 
 patch these troops, [to Massaroni.) Should I let this fellow 
 slip 
 
 Mas. O pray do not consider me. [Aside) ’Tis near the 
 time. 
 
 Prince B. [to the Cardinal, r.) A word with your emi- 
 nence. [Exeunt Governor and Cardinal, through , c. 
 
 Mas. [aside, and looking round him) I see him not ! Is 
 this ransom forthcoming. [To Count Carrafa, who is 
 taking snuff, \ r.) That is a handsome box, signor. 
 
 Count C. It was given me by the king of Naples — do you 
 take any thing in this way ? [ Offering the box . 
 
 Mas. [Examining the box , and taking a pinch from it) 
 Sometimes. 
 
 Enter Ottavia, with Theodore’s sketch-book , 1 e. r. 
 
 Ott. [laughingly to the Ladies , who crowd round her) 
 Here, here ! I’ve snatched it from him, he follows me — don’t 
 let him have it. See, are they not pretty ! There’s Tivoli, 
 and there’s Genzano — and mercy on us, Massaroni ! 
 
 Mas. (l. c. starting) Massaroni! 
 
 Ott. ’Tis so written under. What a spirited sketch ! But 
 where could he see him ? and — well — ( looking first at drauh 
 
 2 
 
bc. in/] THE BRIGAND. 33 
 
 ing , and then at Massaroni,) how very singular! would not 
 any one, now 
 
 [Prompter ready at drum and to close, c. d, 
 
 Mas. {aside.) Confidence must carry it. {Aloud) Permit 
 
 me, signora- {taking the drawing from her t and crossing 
 
 to c. Ladies retire a little.) 
 
 Enter Theodore, hastily , r. 
 
 The. My book, Ottavia, I entreat 
 
 Mas. Your pardon, a moment. {Laughing) Ha, ha ! did 
 you make this drawing, signor ? 
 
 The. {confused.) I — I — from fancy, merely. 
 
 Mas. So I should presume ; for, though a masterly sketch; 
 it bears no resemblance to the personage whose name is writ- 
 ten beneath it. I was once face to face with him, and there- 
 fore can speak positively. {Laughing,) Ha, ha! ( Holding up 
 the drawing.) Gad ! now I look at it, it’s more like me than 
 Massaroni. [ Gives drawing to Theodore, who goes up with 
 Ladies. 
 
 Enter Nicolo, c., from the garden. 
 
 Ladies. 
 
 Ott. Nic. Mass. 
 
 R. L. 
 
 Nic. (To Ottavia.) Your pardon, signora, but his high- 
 ness desired me (sees Massaroni.) Ah ! ah! 
 
 Mas. (Aside) The steward of St. Arnulph ! 
 
 Nic. (Screaming out.) Massaroni! murder! murder! 
 Omnes. Massaroni ! 
 
 [All hurry out , c. d. f. — Prompter closes c. d. p. after they 
 are out. Drum beats to arms. Distant ready again. Mas- 
 saroni is left in the apartment , thunderstruck with the sud- 
 denness of his capture. 
 
 Mas. Discovered! Curses! No escape ! {Tries the doors.) 
 All fast ! this window — ( tries window l.) barred, past hope ! 
 
 Fool ! fool ! for a mad frolic, thus -but I am not yet taken. 
 
 (Taking a brace of pistols from his pocket, and a stiletto from 
 his bosom — one of the former he places on the table.) I will 
 sell my life dearly, and the sound of fire-arms will reach the 
 ears of Rubaldo ! My death shall at least be revenged ! Ah, 
 
 that curtain ! Should there be a window there (Draws 
 
 the curtain , l., and discovers the portrait.) Merciful powers ! 
 
 [Ring Music Bell. 
 
34 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 [act KE. 
 
 what do I see? that face — that well known face ! ( Snatches 
 the miniature from his bosom , and com/pares it with the por- 
 trait,) It is, it is my mother. [Falls on his knees, c. 
 
 Enter Theodore, hastily , l., as the pannel beneath the 
 picture slides back. 
 
 The. Massaroni, you saved our lives — we will save yours 
 — follow me — Albert waits for you at the end of the corridor 
 with the ransom : fly while there is yet time. 
 
 Mas. Tell me, tell me, for the love of mercy, whose portrait 
 is that ? 
 
 The. I know not ; a young Florentine’s. Is this a moment 
 — ( Distant drums beat to arms — o. d. ready.) Hark ! they 
 come. 
 
 Mas. I care not — speak ! if you have a heart, say — tell me 
 whose portrait is that ? 
 
 The. Albert can tell you more — this way, he waits for you. 
 
 Mas. Where? where? (Bushing through the opening in the 
 pannel, followed by Theodore, 1 e. l.) 
 
 Enter Officers and Soldiers, followed by Nicolo, Prince Bian- 
 chi, Ottavia, and Guests , c. d. f. [Drum, rolls loudly till 
 all are on. Soldiers, headed by Officer , advance , double 
 file, down c., the r. h. line of men only having loaded mus- 
 kets.] 
 
 o o o o o 
 O I 5 Soldiers. 
 
 CD 
 
 r* o o o o 
 
 Prince B. (c.) Escaped ! 
 
 Nic. (l.) By this window. 
 
 Prince B. "impossible J Ah ! the sliding pannel ! but we 
 have him yet ; some of you that way. (l. h. file of soldiers 
 go off with Officer, pannel l. 1 e.) The rest to the window ! 
 (r. h. file of soldiers left face and present guns through bars 
 of window, 2 e. l. advancing two paces in line.) The is- 
 sue from that gallery is by yonder door ; be ready, and the 
 moment it opens — — 
 
 Ott. Uncle, uncle, slay him not — have mercy 1 
 Prince B. What, on a robber ! an assassin ! justice must 
 takes its course. 
 
 Nic. ( Mounting a chair, and overlooking the Soldiery.) He 
 is there ! 
 
 Prince B. Fire ! 
 
 [The Soldiers fire out of the window, n. fc e. 
 
THE BRIGAND. 
 
 35 
 
 •c. HI.] 
 
 Ott. All ! ( Shrieks , and hides her face in her hands.) 
 
 Nic. He is hit ! {A pause.) He staggers ! (A pause ; Sol 
 diers recover arms , right-face , march down and range l. 
 side.) He falls ! {Jumps from chair.) 
 
 Enter Albert and Theodore, hastily , from the pannel. 
 
 Alb. (l. c., to Prince Bianchi.) What have you done ? 
 
 Prince B. My duty ! society is avenged. 
 
 Alb. {Pointing to the picture.) So is Olympia ! 
 
 Prince B. Olympia ! 
 
 Alb. She was his mother. 
 
 Prince B. {with a cry of horror.) My son ! my son ! 
 {Falls into the arms of his servants , r. c. Massaroni re- 
 enters l. of c. d. f., one arm out of his jacket , with drawn 
 stilletto — face bloody , fyc. He makes for the Prince to stab 
 him. Albert interposes. Mas. drops stilletto.) 
 
 Mas. The Prince Bianchi is my father — that, that was my 
 mother ! {Falls centre. Maria screams without , and rushes in 
 L. c. flat ; goes to Mas., kneels by him , c., holding crucifix 
 for him to kiss. The Officer and Soldiers drive Brigands in 
 c.from l . — they kneel on r., Soldiers l. and c., level at them, 
 forming the last picture from East lake's Series, “ The Dying 
 Brigand.”) 
 
 CURTAIN SLOW TO MUSIC. 
 
 THE END 
 
<i ■ 
 
FRENCH’S STANDARD DRAM A. 
 
 STbe Sic tins 25 toft foil. 
 No. CLXXXIX. 
 
 T HE 
 
 I’OOR OP NEW YORK. 
 
 % grama in Jfihr %tiz. 
 
 BY THE * * * * CLUB. 
 
 TO WHICH ARK ADDEP 
 
 t *e»cription of the Costume — Cast of the Characters — Entrances and ExlU»- 
 Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and the whole of thf 
 Stage Business 
 
 ^crformeb st $Ua( laths ®ljtatre, December, 1SSI. 
 
 -7 
 
 New York # 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH 
 
 PUBLISHER 
 
 28-30 WEST 38th STREET 
 
 London 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 
 26 Southampton Street, 
 STRAND 
 
Cast of the Characters. — [The Poor ok New York.J 
 
 Captain Fairweather, 
 
 WaJlack's Theatre, December , 1861 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Gideon Bloodgood, 
 
 - Mr. Norton. 
 
 Badger, - 
 
 - - Mr. Lester. 
 
 Mark Livingston*, 
 
 - Mr. Sothern. 
 
 Paul, - 
 
 - Mr. A. H. Davenport 
 
 Pf.'FFY, - 
 
 - Mr. Sloan. 
 
 Dak, 
 
 
 Daniels, .... 
 
 - - Mr. Tree. 
 
 Edwards, - 
 
 Mr. Levere. 
 
 Mrs Fairweather, 
 
 - Mrs. Blake. 
 
 Mrs. Puffy, - 
 
 . • - Mrs. Cooke 
 
 A LIT) A, 
 
 - Mrs. Hoey. 
 
 Lucy, ----- 
 
 Mrs. J. H. Allen. 
 
 Costume —MODERN. 
 
 The First Act occurs duiing the Commercial Panic of 1837 Th« 
 remainder of the Drama takes place during the Panic of 1867. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 L. means First Entrance, Left. R. First Entrance, Right. S E. L 
 Second Entrance , Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. I. 
 Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance, Right. C. Centra 
 L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance , 
 heft. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R. 
 Looh Right. D. L. Door Lett. U. D. L. Upper Door , Left. U. D. R, 
 Upper Door , Right. 
 
 *** The reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the y ear One Tnoueand Eight Hundrei and Fifty Serna, 
 hv Dion BOT 70 icaui»t, In the Cleric’s pflipe oj the Distrip Cpqrt of the United 
 iff the S«M|thgri) PJats-'ot of New Yorlu 
 
THE POOR OF NEW YORK. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 |) attic of 1S3Z. 
 
 SCENE. — The private office of a, banking house in New York; doot 
 
 ai back , leading to the Bank ; Door l. h., leading to a side street, 
 
 GcdeoR Bloodgood seated, c., at desk. 
 
 Enter Edwards, l. h. d. f., with a sheet of paper. 
 
 Edw. The stock list, sir ; — second board of brokers. 
 
 Blood. [Rising eagerly .] Let me see it. Tell the cashier to close 
 the Bank on the stroke of three, and dismiss the clerks. [Reads. 
 
 [ ExifEtH WARDS. 
 
 So — as I expected, every stock is down further still, and my last effort 
 to retrieve my fortune has plunged me into utter ruin 'l [Crushes up 
 the paper.] To-morrow, my drafts to the amount of eighty thousand 
 dollars will be protested. To-morrow, yonder street, now so still, will 
 be filled with a howling multitude, for the house of Bloodgood; the 
 Banker, will fail, and in its fall will crush hundreds, thousands, who 
 have their fortunes laid up here. 
 
 Re-enter Edwards. 
 
 Edw. Here are the keys of the safe sir, and the vault. [Leaves 
 keys on desk and shews a check to Bloodgood. ) The building com- 
 mittee of St. Peter’s new church have applied for your donation. It 
 is a thousand dollars. 
 
 Blood. Pay it. [Exit Edwards.) To-morrow, New York will ring 
 from Union Square to the Battery with the news — “ Bloodgood hai* 
 absconded”— but to-morrow 1 shall be safe on board the packet for 
 Liverpool — all is prepared for my flight with my only care in life, 
 my only hope — my darling child — her fortune is secure — [rise.*.) The 
 affair will blow over ; Bloodgood’s bankruptcy will soon be forgot- 
 ten in the whirl of New York trade, but Alida, my dear Alida will b« 
 safe from want. 
 
* THE POOR Or NEW YORK. 
 
 Re-enter Edwards. 
 
 Edw. Here, .sir, are tlie dralts on the Bank of England, 70,000 
 dollars. \ Hands papers to Bloodgood, who 'places them in his 
 poeki-book. 
 
 Bio d Are the clerks all gone ? 
 
 Edw. All, sir, except Mr. Badger. 
 
 Blood. Badger ! the most negligent of all ! That is strange. 
 
 Edw. His entries are behindhand, he says, and he is balancing 
 his books. 
 
 Blood . Desire him to come to me. [Kits. Exit Edwards. 
 
 Enter Badger, smoking cigar. 
 
 Bad. You have asked for me. 
 
 Blood. Yes ; you are strangely attentive to business to-day, Mr 
 Badger. 
 
 Bad. Everything has a beginning. 
 
 Blood. Then you will please to begin to-morrow. 
 
 Bad. To-morrow ! no sir, my business must be done to-day. 
 Carpe diem — make most of to-day — that’s my philosophy. 
 
 Blood. Mr. Badger, Philosophy is not a virtue in a banker’s clerk. 
 
 Bad. Think not 1 
 
 Blood. [Impatiently.] Neither philosophy nor impertinence. You 
 are discharged from my employment. 
 
 Bad. Pardon me ! I do not catch the precise word. 
 
 Blood. [Sternly.] Go, sir, go ! I discharge you. 
 
 Bad. Go ! — discharge me 1 I am still more in the dark, I can 
 understand my services not being required in a house that goes on, 
 but where the house is ready to burst up the formality of telling a 
 clerk he is discharged, dk^s seem to me an unnecessary luxury. 
 
 Blood. [Troubled. J T do not understand you, sir. 
 
 Bad. [Seating himself on a desk , deliberately dangling his legs . J 
 No.! well I’ll dot my i’s and cross my t’s, and make myself plain to 
 the meanest capacity. In business there are two ways of getting 
 rich, one hard, slow and troublous: this is called la]?or ; — 
 
 Blood. Sir ! 
 
 Bad. Allow me to finish. The other easy, quick and demanding 
 nothing but a pliant conscience and a da - ing mind — is now pleasantly 
 denominated financiering — hut when New York was honest, it was 
 ('idled fraudulent bankruptcy, that was before you and T were born. 
 
 Blood. What do yon mean? , 
 
 Bad. i mean that for more than two years 1 have watched yout 
 business transactions; when you thought me idle, my eyes were every- 
 where : in your books, in your safe, in your vaults ; if you doubt m# 
 question me about your operations for the last three months. 
 
 Blood. This is infamous ! 
 
 Bad. That is precisely the word I used when I came bo the end of 
 your hooks. 
 
 BAw [ Outside .J This way, sit. 
 
THE POOR OP NEW TORE. 
 
 S 
 
 Writer Edwards, with Faptatn Fair-weather 
 
 Wood. [ To Badger, in alarm.] Not a word. 
 
 Bad. A "M 'right. 
 
 Kdw. [Introducing Captain F.J This* is Mr. Blood good 
 
 Capt. Glad to see you, sir. You wilJ pardon my intruding st 
 an hour when the bank, I am told, is closed. 
 
 Blood. I am at your service, sir. 
 
 [He make* a sig ■> for Ba dg eh to retire , but the latter revia n 
 
 Bad. [To Captain.] You may sneak, sir ; Mr. Bloodgood has n 
 secrets from me. 1 fm in his confidence. 
 
 Capt. [<Si7,a.] 1 am a sea-captain, in the India Trade. My voy- 
 ages are of the longest, and thus 1 am obliged to leave my woe and 
 i wo children alim si at the mercy of circumstances. 1 was speimmg 
 a happy month with my darlings at a little cosy place I have at 
 Yonkers while my ship was, loading, when this internal commercial 
 squall set in — alt my fortune, 100,000 dollars, the fruits of thirty 
 years’ hard toil — was invested in the United States Bank — it was 
 the livelihood of my wife — the food of my little children— I hur- 
 tled to my brokers and sold out. I saved myself just in time. 
 
 Blood. 1 admire your promptitude. 
 
 Capt. To-morrow I sail for China ; for the laet three weeks I ha ve 
 worried my brains to think how I should bestow my money— to-day 
 I bethought me of your house — the oldest in New York — your name 
 stands beyond suspicion, and if I leave this money in your hands, I 
 can sleep nightly with the happy assurance that whatever happens to 
 me, my dearest ones are safe. 
 
 Bad. You may pull your nightcap over your ears with that estab- 
 lished conviction. 
 
 Capt. Now, T know your hank is closed, but if you will accept this 
 money a special deposit, T will write to you how I desire it to be 
 invested hereafter. 
 
 Blood. [Pensive.] You have a family 1 
 
 Capt. Don’t talk of them — tears of joy come into my eyes whenever 
 I think of those children — and my dear wife, the patient, devoted 
 companion of the old sailor, whose loving voice murmurs each evening 
 a prayer for those who are on the sea; and my children, sir, two 
 lil tie angels; one a fair little thing — we call her Lucy — she is tna 
 youngest; — all red and white like a little bundle of nowers; and my 
 eldest — my son Paul — we named him after Paul Jones — a sailor’* 
 whim; well, sir. when the ship is creaking and groaning under 
 feet, when the squall drives the hail and sleet across my face, anrrts 
 the thunder, 1 only hear three voices — through the gloom 1 can so» 
 only three faces, pressed together like three angels waiting for me i? 
 heaven, and that heaven is my home. But, how I do talk, sn — foi 
 getting that these things can’t interest yau. 
 
 Blood. They do, more than you imagine. I, too, have a child- 
 only . e — a motherless child ! 
 
 Capt. Aint it good to speak of the little beings 1 Don’t it fill the 
 heart like a draught of sweet water ( My darling torment* here la 
 
6 
 
 THE POOR OF NEW "V ORTC 
 
 Lheir fortune — T have it in ray hand — it is here — I have snatch* l h 
 from the waves ; 1 have won it, across the tempest; I have labored, 
 wrestled, and s uiiered for it ; but it seemed nothing, for it was fox 
 them. Take it, sir. \TJe hands a pocket-book.] Tn this' pocket-book 
 you will find one hundred thousand dollars. May I take your receipt, 
 and at once depart for mv vessel 1 
 
 Bad. [Aside.] This is getting positively interesting. 
 
 Blood. Your confidence flatters me, sir. You desire to place thia 
 money with me as a special deposit] 
 
 Capt. If you please. Will you see that the amount is correct] 
 Blood. [Counting.] Mr, Badger, prepare the Receipt. 
 
 Bad. i Writing.] “ New York, 13th of December, 1837. Received, 
 
 on spedal deposit, from ” [To Captain.] Your name, sir] 
 
 Capt. Captain Fairweather, of the ship Paul and Lucy, of New 
 York. 
 
 Bad. [ Writing.] Captain Fairweather, of the ship 
 
 ( Blood. One hundred thousand dollars — quite correct. 
 
 / Bad. [ Handing receipt to Bloodgood, and watching him closely at 
 he taker the pen.] Please sign the receipt., [Aside.] His hand doei 
 not tremble , not a muscle moves. What a magnificent robber ! 
 
 Blood. | To O AP;FTrN“J'~Hei'e is your receipt 
 
 Capt. A thousand thanks. Now I am relieved of all trouble. 
 
 Bad. [Aside ] That’s true. 
 
 Capt. I must return in haste to the Astor House, where I dine with 
 my owners at four — I fear I am late. Good-day, Mr. Bloodgood. 
 
 Blood. Good-day, Captain, and a prosperous voyage to you. [Exit 
 Captain Fairweather. Bad,ger opens ledger.] What are you do- 
 ing, Mr. Badger] 
 
 Bad,. 1 am going to enter that special deposit in the ledger. 
 
 Blood. Mr. Badger 1 
 Bad Mr. Bloodgood 1 
 
 Blood. [ Brings him down. | I have been deceived in you. I confess 
 I did riot know vour value. 
 
 Bad. [ Modestly, j Patience and perseverance, sir, tells in the long 
 run. 
 
 Blood. Here are one thousand dollars — I present them to you for 
 your past services. 
 
 had. [Takes the money , and walks over to the ledger on the desk, 
 which he closes significantly.] And for the present service ] 
 
 Blood. What do you mean ] 
 
 Bad. My meaning is as dear as Croton. I thought you were going 
 fail — T see 1 was wrong — you are going to abscond. 
 
 Blood. Mr. Badger! tills language 
 
 Bad. This deposit is special ; yon dare not use it in your business ; 
 your creditor’s cannot touch it — ergo, you mean to make a raise and 
 there's but one way — ahsconsion! absquatulation. 
 
 Blood. [Sm'ling.] It is possible that this evening I may taVe a 
 little walk out of town. 
 
 Bad. In a steamboat ] 
 
 Blood. Meet mo at Peck Slip, at five o'clock, and I will hand y 1 
 ftcu^e tho sum I gave you. 
 
TOE POOR op JRW VORK. 
 
 7 
 
 Bad [A tide,] In all three thousand dollars. 
 
 Re-enter Edwards. 
 
 Edw. Your daughter, sir ; Miss Alida is in the carriage at the door 
 v d is r.r reaming to be admitted. 
 
 Blood. Tell the nurse to pacify her for a few moments. 
 
 Edw. She dare no u , sir ; Miss Alida has torn nurse’s face in a fear- 
 ful maimer already. [Exit. 
 
 Bad. Dear, high-spirited child ! If she is so gentle now, what will 
 •Li be when she is twenty, and her nails are fully developed 'l 
 
 Blood. [Takes hat. J l will return immediately. [Exit. 
 
 Bad. I Following Bloodgood with his eyes.] Oh, nature, wonderful 
 mistress! Keep close to your daughter, Bloodjiood, for she is your 
 master ! Huih, pillage, roK fifty families To in abe her rich with their 
 misery, .Lappv in their tears. I watched him as he received the for- 
 tune of ' hat noble old sailor— not a blink— his heart of iron never 
 quailed, but in this heart of iron there is a straw, a weakness,, by 
 which it may be cracked, and that weakness is his own child — chil- 
 dren ! They are the devil in disguise. I have not got any except 
 my passions, my vices — a large' family of spoilt and ungrateful little 
 devils, who threaten their loving father with a prison. 
 
 Edw. [Outside.] I tell you, sir, he is not in. 
 
 Capt. [ Outside.] Let me pass I say. [He enter sh'ery much agitated.] 
 Where is he l Where is he 'l 
 
 Bad. [Surprised.] What is the matter, sir 1 
 
 Capt . Mr. Bloodgood — I must see him — speak to him this instant. 
 I j you not hear me*? 
 
 * Bad. But 
 
 Capt. He has not gone. 
 
 Bad. Sir 
 
 Capt. Ah ! he is here ! 
 
 Re-enter Bloodgood. 
 
 Blood, What is the meaning of this. 
 
 Capt, Ah! you — it is you — [Trying to restrain his emotion.] Sir, 
 have changed my mind; here is your receipt ; have the goodness to 
 *uirn me the deposit I — I — left with you. 
 
 Blood. Sir ! 
 
 Capt. I have another investment for this um, and I — beg you to r»- 
 
 tore it to me. 
 
 [Mood. Restore it ! you have a very strange way, sir, of demanding 
 what is due to you. 
 
 Capt. It is true ; pardon me but I have told you it is all T possess 
 D is the fortune of my wife, of my children, of my brave Paul, and 
 my dear little Lucy, ft is their future happiness, their life ! Listen, 
 sir; I will he frank with you. Just now, on returning to my hotel, 
 I found the owners of my ship waiting dinner for me. well, they were 
 speaking as merchants will speak of each other — your name was 
 weetwned-~I listened-— a«d they skid— it wakes we tremble even 
 
I 
 
 THE POOR OF VEW YORK. 
 
 row— they said there were rumours abroad to day that your hcaoi 
 was in peril. 
 
 Blood. I attack no importance, sir, to idle talk. 
 
 Capi. But T attach importance to it, sir. How can I leave tne city, 
 with this suspicion on my mind that perhaps I have compromised th« 
 future of my family. 
 
 blood. Sir i 
 
 Copt. Take back your receipt, and return me my money. 
 
 Blood. You know sir, that it is after banking hours. Return 
 to morrow. 
 
 Capt.. No. You received my deposit after banking hours. 
 
 Biood I am not a paying teller, to count out money. 
 
 Capt. You did not say so, when you counted it in. 
 
 Enter Edwards. 
 
 Edw. The driver says you will be late for the 
 
 Blood. [ Trying to stop him.] That will do. [ Exit Edwards. 
 
 Capt. What did he say 1 [ Runs to the window.] A carriage a< 
 the door — 
 
 Bad. [Aside.] Things are getting complicated here. 
 
 Capt , Yes — I see it all. He is going to fly with the fortunes and 
 savings of his dupes ! [Tearing his cravat.] Ah ! I shall choke ! [ Fu- 
 riously to Bloodgood.] But I am here, villian, I am here in time. 
 
 Blood. Sir. 
 
 Capt. To-morrow, you said — return to-morrow — but to-morrow you 
 will be gone. [ Precipitates himself on Bloodgood.] My money, my 
 money. I will have it this instant! Do not speak a word, it is useless, 
 I will not listen to you. My money, or I will kill you as a coward 
 should be killed, Robber! Thief! 
 
 Bad. [Aside.] Hi ! hi ! This is Worth fifty cents — reserved seats 
 extra. 
 
 Blood. [Disengaging himself .] Enough of this scandal. You shall 
 have your money back again. 
 
 Capt. Give it me — ah ! — [In pain.] My head! [To Bloodgood.] 
 Be quick, give it to me, and let me go. [Staggering and putting his 
 hands to face.] My God ! what is this strange feeling which over- 
 comes me. 
 
 Bad. He is falling, what’s the matter of him 1 
 
 [Captain F. falls in chair c. 
 
 Blcod. His face is purple [Takes pocket-book and commences U> 
 count out money. 
 
 [Soft music to end of act. 
 
 Crvpi. T am suffocating; some air^ I cannot see: everythin? to 
 black before my eyes. Am I dying 1 0, no, no! it cannot be, 1 v. ill 
 
 not die. I must see them again. Some water — quick! Come to me— 
 my wife — my children ! Where are they that I cannot fold them in my 
 arms ! [lie looks strangely and fearfully into the face of Bloodoood 
 for an instant , and then breaks into a loud sob ] Oh, rny children— 
 mv poor, poor, litt le children ! \ After some convulsive efforts to speak 
 kit eyes become fixed. 
 
THE l»OOn or NEW VOHK. 
 
 * 
 
 Flopd. [ Distrarted.] Someone rnn tor help. Badger, a docioi 
 ni.ck 
 
 Bad. [Standing over Captain.] AU right, sir, I have siudied 
 medicine— that is how T 1 a rued most of my loose habits. [Examine s 
 the Captain’s pulse and eyes.] It is useless, sir. He is dead. 
 
 Blood. [H rrified.] Dead ! [Bloodgood’s attitude is out of extreme 
 horror. Tins po.uUon ar<id>mllv i cui zes as ho beaut xjo seethe a drug. m 
 tapes that will result fr om, th e Cai I Can it ^possible e ! 
 
 — Btrd~T\ I earirig~opn> the Captain’s vest,. The receipt falls on Vu 
 ground.] His heart has ceased to beat — congestion i n a ll its diag 
 nos tics. • 
 
 Blood. Dead ! 
 
 Bad. Apophxy — the symptoms well developed — the causes 
 naiural, over excitement and sudden emotion. 
 
 Blood. [Relaxing into an attitude of cunning.] Dead ! 
 
 Bad. You are spared the agony, of counting out his money. 
 
 Blood. Dead ! » 
 
 Bad. [Sees receipt on ground.] Hal here is the leceipt ! Signal 
 by Bloodgood. As a general rule never destroy a receipt — there 
 is no knowing when it may yet prove useful [Picks it up, an d 
 puts it in his pocket. 
 
 Tableau . 
 
 *ND OF ACT %. 
 
10 
 
 THE FOOK OP NEW YORK. 
 
 LA fe&oM of twenty jeer* tH aupuosed to Intervene between the First wad Second Acte 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 f jj* jjmiit of 1857 . 
 
 SCENE I. — The Park , near Tammany Hail 
 Enter Livingstone. 
 
 Lw. Eight o’ cloc*. in the morning ! For tb« last hour " have hc«i 
 hovering round Chatham street — I wanted to sell my overcoat to some 
 enterprising Israelite, hut I could not master the courage to enter one 
 Of those dens. Can I realize the tact l Three months ago, 1 stood 
 there the fashionable Mark Livingstone, owner of the Water witch 
 jpcht, one of the original stock-holders in the Academy of Music, and 
 now, burst up, sold out, and reduced to breakfast off this coat [Peek 
 *n the pocket.] What do I feel 1 a gold dollar — undiscovered in the 
 Baglau of other days! [Withdraws his hand.] No; tis a ffve-ceuw 
 piece ! 
 
 Enter Puffy, with a hot-potato arrangement. 
 
 Puffy. Past eight o’clock ! I am late this morning. 
 
 Iav. 1 wonder what that fellow has in his ' tin volcano — it smelk 
 Well. Ha! what are those funny things '1 Ah! 
 
 Puffy. Sweet potatoes, sir. 
 
 Iriv. Indeed! [Aside.] If the Union Club saw me— [Looks round.] 
 No ; I am incog — hunger cries aloud. Here goes. 
 
 Puffy. Why, bless me, if it ain’t Mr. Livingstone! 
 
 Lire. The devil ! He knows me — I dare not eat a morsel. 
 
 Puffy. I’m Puffy, sir; the baker that was — ir Broadwa r — served 
 you, sir, and your good father afore you. 
 
 Lire. Oh, Puffy — ah, true. [Aside. ] 1 wonder if 1 owe him anything 
 
 Puffy. l)o wn in the world now, sir — over-speculated nke the rest 
 on ’em. I elpanded on a new-fangled oven, that was to bake enough 
 bread in six hours to supply the whole United Stats*— got done brown 
 in it myself — subsided into Bowery — expanded again on woffles, 
 caught a second time — obliged to contract into a twelve foot front on 
 Division street. Mrs. P. tends the iDdoor trade — 1 do a locomotive 
 business in potatoes, and we let oui' second floor. • My sun Dan sleeps 
 with George Washington No. 4, while Mrs. P. and I make out under 
 the counter ; Mrs. 1\, bein’ wide, objects some, but I says — says I, 
 “ My dear, everybody must contract themselves in these here hard 
 times.” * 
 
 Lvu. So you are poor now, are you 1 [Takes a potato, playfully. 
 
 Puffy Yes, sir; I ain’t ashamed to own it — for I hurt nobody 
 but myself. Take a little salt, sir. But, Lord bless you, sir, poverty 
 don't come amiss to me — I’ve got no pride to support. Now, tiers’ 
 ajy lodgers — — 
 
THE POOH OP NEW YORK. 
 
 11 
 
 Lw. Ah, your second floor. 
 
 Puffy. A widow lady and her two grown children — poor au mi 
 but proud, si; — they was grand folks once ; you can see that by tbt 
 way they try to hide it. Mrs. Fairweatber is a 
 
 Liv. Fair weather — the widow of a sea captain, who died here La 
 New York, twenty years ago t 
 
 Puffy. Do you know my lodgers 1 
 
 1 Liv. Three months ago, they lived in Brooklyn — Paul had a clerk* 
 ihip in the Navy Yard. 
 
 Puffy. But when the panic set in, the United States government 
 Sontracted — it paid off a number of employees, and Mr. Paul was 
 discharged. 
 
 Liv. They are reduced to poverty and I did not know it. — No, how 
 could I. [Aside.\ Since my ruin I have avoided them. [Aloud. J 
 And Lucy — 1 mean Miss Fainveather 1 
 
 Puffy. She works at a milliner’s, in Broadway — bless her sweet 
 face and kind smile — me and my wife, we could bake ourselves intc 
 bread afore she and they should come to want ; and as for my boy 
 Dan — talk of going through fire and water for her — he does that every 
 night for nothing. Why, sir, you can’t say “ Lucy,” but a big tear 
 will come up in his eye as big as a cartwheel, and then he’ll let out 
 ■n almighty cuss, that sounds like a thousand o’ brick. 
 
 Enter Paul and Mrs. Fairweather, dressed in black. 
 
 Liv. Oh ! [In confusion , hides the potato in his pocket , and hums 
 an air as he walks away. Aside .J I wonder if they know me. 
 
 Mrs. F. Ah, Mr. Pufiy. 
 
 Puffy. What, my second floor. Mrs. Fairweather — good morning, 
 M r. Paul ; I hope no misfortune has happened — you are dressed in 
 mourning. 
 
 Mrs. F. This is the anniversary of my poor husband’s death ; this 
 day, twenty years ago, he was taken away from us — we keep it 
 sacred to his memory. 
 
 Paul. It was a fatal day for us. When my father left home he had 
 100,000 dollars on his person — when he was found lying dead on the 
 sidewalk of Liberty street, he was robbed of all. 
 
 Mrs. F. From that hour misfortune has tracked us — we have lost 
 our friends. 
 
 Puffy. Friends — that reminds me — why where is Mr. Living- 
 * »tone — there’s his coat — 
 
 Paul. Livingstone! 
 
 Puffy. We were talking of you, when you came lip. He slipped 
 sway. 
 
 Re-enter Livingstone. 
 
 Liv. I think 1 dropped my coat. [Recognizing *hem. ] Pao- —am 1 
 mistake n 1 
 
 Mrs. F. No, Mr. Livingstone. 
 
 Paul. Good morning, sir. 
 
 Liv. Sir! — Mr. Livingstone! — have T offended vou ? 
 
n 
 
 THE POOU op fthW YOkE. 
 
 Paul. "We could not expect you to descend to 7isit us in our poo* 
 lodging. 
 
 Mrs F. We cannot afford the pleasure of your society. 
 
 Liv. Let me assure you that I was ignorant of your misfortunes-^ 
 And if 1 have not called — it was because — a — because — [Aside.i 
 
 What shall I say. [Aloud J — I have been absent from the city ; — 
 may I ask how is your sister 
 
 Paul. My sister Lucy is now employed in a millinery store in 
 Broadway — she sees you pass the door every day. 
 
 Liv. [Aside.] The devil — I must confess my ruin, or appear a con- 
 temptible scoundrel. 
 
 Paul. Livingstone — I cannot conceal my feelings, we were school- 
 mates together — and I must speak out — 
 
 Liv. [Aside.] I know what’s corning. 
 
 Paul. I’m a blunt New York boy, and have something of the old 
 bluff sailor’s blood in my veins — so pardon me if I .tell you that you 
 have behaved badly to my sister Lucy. 
 
 Liv. For many months I was a daily visitor at your house — I loved 
 your sister. 
 
 Paul. You asked me for Lucy’s hand — I gave it, because I loved 
 you as a brother — not because you were rich. 
 
 Liv. [Aside.] To retrieve my fortunes so that I might marry — I 
 speculated in stocks £nd lost all I possessed. To enrich Lucy and her 
 family, I involved myself in utter ruin. 
 
 Paul. The next day I lost my clerkship — we were reduced to 
 poverty, and you disappeared. 
 
 Liv. I can’t stand it — I will confess all — let me sacrifice every 
 feeling but Lucy’s love and your esteem — 
 
 Mrs. F. Beware, Mr. Livingstone, how you seek to renew our 
 acquaintance ; recollect my daughter earns a pittance behind a coun- 
 ter-— -I take in work, and l’aul now seeks for the poorest means of earn- 
 ing an honest crust of bread. 
 
 Liv. And what would you say if I were no better off than y< ur- 
 selves — if I too were poor — if I — 
 
 Pujfy. You, poor, you who own a square mile of New York? 
 
 Enter Bloodgocd. 
 
 Liv. Mr. Bloodgood ! 
 
 Blood. Ah, Livingstone— why do you not call to see us ? You know 
 our address — Madison square — my daughter Alida will be delighted. — 
 By the way — I have some paper of yours at the bank, it comes due 
 to-day — ten thousand dollars, I think — you bank at the Chemical ? 
 
 Liv. Yes, I do — that is did, — bank there. 
 
 Blood. Why don’t you bank with me, a rich and careless fellow like 
 you — with a large account 
 
 Liv. Yes — I — [Aside.] He is cutting the ground from under my 
 feet. 
 
 Paid. Mr. Bloodgood — pardon me, sir, but I was about to call on 
 you to-day to solicit employment. 
 
 Blood. I’m full, sir, — indeed I think of reducing salaries, everybody 
 is doing so. 
 
THE POOR <>F NEW YOKE. 
 
 II 
 
 7av. But you are making thousands a week 1 
 
 Blood That is no reason that I should not take ad- intage of dim 
 times — [Recognizing Puffy.] Ah, Mr. Puffy, that note of yours. 
 
 • Puffy. Oh, Lord ! [Aside. ] It is the note Mrs. Fairwe-ither gave m« 
 for her rent. 
 
 Blood. My patience is worn out. 
 
 Puffy. It’s all right sir. 
 
 Blood. Take care it is. [ Exit. 
 
 Puffy. Jhere goes the hardest cuss that ever went to law. 
 
 Liv. Paul— my dear friend — will you believe me — my feelings ar« 
 me same towards you — nay more tender, more sincere than ever — but 
 there are circumstan ■ s I cannot explain. 
 
 Mrs. F. Mr. Livingstone, say no more — we ask no explanation. 
 
 Liv. But I ask something — let me visit you — let me return to the 
 place that I once held in your hearts. 
 
 Puffy. 219 Division street — Puffy, Baker. Dinner at half past one 
 — come to day, sir — do, sir. 
 
 Paul. We cannot refuse you. 
 
 Mrs. F. I will go to Lucy’s store and let her know. Ah ! Mr. 
 Livingstone — she has never confessed that she loved you — but you 
 will find her cheek paler than it used to be. [Exit. 
 
 Paul. And now to hunt for work — to go from office to office plead- 
 ing for employment — to be met always with the same answer — “ we 
 are full” — or “ we are discharging hands” — Livingstone, I begin to 
 envy the common laborer who has no fears, no care, beyond his food 
 and shelter — I am beginning to lose my pity for the poor. 
 
 Liv. The poor ! — whom do you call the poor 1 Do you know them ? 
 
 &ou£ pu see them 1 theaz _ are _ more freemen tly. found under, a black 
 
 coat than under a red shirt. The poor man is the clerk with a family, 
 forced to maintain a decent suit of clothes, paid for out of the hunger 
 of his children. The poor man is the artist who is obliged to pledge 
 the tools of his trade to buy medicines for his sick wife. The lawyer 
 who, craving for employment, buttons up his thin paletot to hide 
 hib shirtless breast. X&ese needy wretches are poorer th an tlie poor, 
 forjjhey are obliged to conceal their poverty with the false mask of 
 con tenths niokihg"'“a cigar to d'fsguTse their hunger — they drag from 
 their pockets their last quarter, to cast it with studied carelessness, to 
 the begger, whose mattress at home is lined with gold. These are 
 th© most miserable of the Poor of New York. 
 
 M small crowd has assemPlFrauMcflPi v in g sto ne during this speech ; 
 
 they take him for an orator ; one of them takes down what he says ox 
 
 tablets. 
 
 Enter Policeman. 
 
 Puffy and crowd. Bravo — Bravo — Hurrah — get eu the bench? 
 Police. Come — I say — this won’t do. 
 
 Liv. What have I done. 
 
 Police. No stumping to the population allowed in the Park. 
 
 In v. Stumping ! ! 
 
 Ueporter. Oblige me with your name, sir, for the Herald. 
 irk) Oh ! [ Rushes off , followed by Paul 
 
14 TIIE POOR OP XE\\ YORK* 
 
 8CENE IT — Exterior of Bloougoop’s Bank, Nassau Strut 
 Enter Bloodgood. 
 
 Blood. [Looking at papers.] Four per cent, a month — ha! if thft 
 panic do but last, I shall double my fortune ! Twenty years ago thi* 
 very month — ay, this very day — I stood in yonder bank, a ruined 
 man. Shall I never forget that night — when I and my accomplice 
 tarried out the body of the old sailor and laid it there. [Points l.} 
 I never pass the spot without a shudder. But his money — that 
 founded my new fortune. 
 
 Enter Alida. 
 
 Alida, my dear child, what brings you to this part of the city I 
 
 Alida. I want two thousand dollars. 
 
 Blood. My dearest child, I gave you five hundred last week. 
 
 Alida. Pooh! what’s five hundred! You made ten thousand in 
 Michigan Southern last week — I heard you tell Mr. Jacob Little so. 
 
 Blood. But — 
 
 Alida. Come, don’t stand fooling about it ; go in and get the 
 money — I must have it. 
 
 Blood. AVell, my darling, if you must. Will you step in ! 
 
 Alida. Not I. I’m not going into your dirty bank. I’ve seen all 
 your clerks — they’re not worth looking at. 
 
 Blood. I’ll go and fetch it. [Exit. 
 
 Alida. This is positively the last time I will submit to this extor- 
 tion. [ Opens a letter and reads.] “My adored Alida — 1 fly to your 
 exquisite feet ; I am the most wretched of men. Last night, at Hall’s, 
 I lost two thousand dollars — it must be paid before twelve o’clock. 
 Oh, my queen ! my angek! invent some excuse to get this money from 
 your father, and meet me at Maillard’s at half-past eleven. When 
 shall we meet again alone, in that box at the opera, where I can press 
 my lips to your superb eyes, and twine my hands in your magnificent 
 hair t Addio carissima! The Duke of Calcavella.” I wonder 
 if he showed that to any «>f his friends before he sent it! 
 
 Re-enter Bloudgood, folio wed by Puffy. 
 
 Blood. I tell you, sir, it must be paid. I have given you pleD*y ot 
 time. 
 
 Puffy. You gave me the time necessary for you to obtain execution 
 In the Marine Court. . 
 
 Blood. Alida. my love, there is a draft for the money. [Owes her 
 notes. Sfie takes them.] And now, will you do me a favor! Do not 
 be seen about so much, in public, with that foreign Duke. 
 
 Alida. I never ask you for a draft but you always give me a pill to 
 take with it. 
 
 Blood. I don’t like him. 
 
 Alida. Ido — bye-bye. [Exit. 
 
 Blood. How grand she looks ! That girl possesses my whole heart* 
 
 Puffy. Reserve a little for me, sir. This here note, it was give L« 
 me by my 2d floor in payment of rent. It’s as good as gold, sir— 
 when they are able/to pay it. I’d sooner have it — - 
 
THE POOR (F -YEW YORK. 
 
 16 
 
 Wood. Mi Puffy, you are the worst kind of mar you are a weak, 
 h test fool . you are always failing — always the dupe of some new 
 
 bv ndler 
 
 *uffy. Lc :d love you, sir ! if you was to see the folks you call 
 §w. adlers — the kindest, purest 2d floor as 8ver drew God’s breath.. 
 I b Id them that this note was all right — for if thcv know’d I was put 
 ab< it, along of it, I believe they’d sell the clothes off their backs to 
 paj it. 
 
 PI ood [Aside.) This fellow is a fool. But I see, if I levy execu- 
 tion the note will be paid. [Aloud.) Very good, Mr. Puffy, i will see 
 abo t it. 
 
 P iffy. You will ! I knew it — there — when folks says you're a hard 
 man -I says — no — no more’n a rich man’s got to be. 
 
 B> <od. Very good. [Aside.) I’ll put an execution on 1 is house at 
 once [Aloud.) Good morning, Mr. Puffy. [Exit. 
 
 ' P ^T^fobT liorTn n g , sff\ TSoT'Trir -floated off that mud bank. 
 Lord 1 if he had seized my goods and closed me up — I’d never a 
 dare< to look Mrs. Fairweather in the face agin. [Exit. 
 
 SCE.’ E III. — The interior of Puffy’s house. A poor but neat 
 
 roi n — window at back. Mrs. Fairweather is arranging 
 
 dis ner. 
 
 Enter Lucy, with a box. 
 
 Lb a). My dear mother. * 
 
 J/i .. F. My darling Lucy. Ah, your eye is bright again. The 
 thou; ht of seeing Mark Livingstone has revived your smile. 
 
 Lvuy. V have seen him. He and Paul called at Madame Victorine's* 
 
 Mts. F. Is your work over, Lucy, already! 
 
 Lu-ry. What we expected has arrived, mother. This dress is the 
 last 1 shall receive from Madame Victorina — she is discharging her 
 handG. 
 
 Mrs. F. More misfortunes — and Paul has not been able to obtain 
 employment. [A knock. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Puffy. 
 
 Mrs P May I come in ! it’s only Mrs. Puffy. I’ve been over the 
 oven for two hours! Knowing you had company — I’ve got a pigeon 
 pie — such a pie ! — um — oo — mutton kidneys in it — and hard biled 
 eggs — love ye ! — then I’ve got a chicken, done up a way of my own 1 
 I’ll gel on a clean gown and serve it up myself. 
 
 Mis. F. But my dear Mrs. Puffy — really we did not meat) to incui 
 any expense 
 
 Mrs. P. Expense ! why, wasn’t them pigeons goin’ to waste— 
 they was shot by Dan — and we can’t abide pigeons, neither Puffy nor 
 l. Then the rooster was running round — alwavs tuisin’ hereafter 
 early in the mornin’ — a noosance, it was 
 
 Enter Dax. 
 
 Van Beg pardon ladies — I just stepped in- 
 
THE POOR OK NEW YORL. 
 
 1*5 
 
 T/ucy. Go««d cfriy, Dan. 
 
 Dun. Day, miss! — [Aside to Mrs. Puffy. ] Oli 5 mother, ain’t sfc* 
 pootty this mornin’. 
 
 Mrs. P. [Smoothing her hair.] What have you got there, Dan’ell 
 
 Pan. When 1 was paying the man for them birds — [Mrs. P. kick i 
 him] — Creation ! mother — you’re like the stocks — you can t move 
 a’thout crushin somebody — well, he'd got this here pair o : bootl 
 o aider his arm — why. ses I, if ever der was a foot created small 
 enough to go into them, thar, it is Miss Lucy’s — so 1 brought them fo“ 
 fou to look at. 
 
 TAicy. They are too dear for me, Dan, pray give them back. 
 
 Pan. Well, ye see — the man 1ms kinier gone, Miss — lie said he’d 
 call again — some time next fall — 
 
 Mrs. F. Dan — Mrs. Puffy — you are good, kind, dear souls— when 
 the friends of our better days have deserted us — when the rich will' 
 scarcely deign to remember us — you, without any design, but with the 
 goodness of Cod in your hearts — without any hope but that of hiding 
 your kindness, you help me. Give me your hands — 1 owe you too 
 much already — but you must bestow on us no more out of your 
 poverty. 
 
 Mrs. P. Lord, Mrs i just as if me and Puffy could bestow any- 
 thing — ynd what’s Dan fit for I 
 
 Pan. Fes — what’s I’m fit fori 
 
 Mrs. F. Well, I will accept your dinner to-day on one condition— 
 that you will all dine with us. 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh — my ! Dine with up-town folks ! 
 
 Lucy. Y rs indeed, Dan, you must. 
 
 Pan. Loid, miss! I aint no account at dinin’ with folks — T take 
 my food on the fust pile of bricks, anyhow. 
 
 Mrs. P. I’m accustomed to mine standin’, behind the counter. 
 
 Pan. We never set down to it, square out — except on Sundays. 
 
 Mrs. P. Then it don’t seem natural — we never eat, each of us it 
 employed a helping of the other. 
 
 Dan. I’ll fix it! father, and mother, and I, will all wait on you. 
 
 Lucy. [Laughing.] That’s one way of dining together, certainly. 
 
 Enter Paul and Livingstone. 
 
 A iv. Here we are Why, what a comfortable little cage this is ! 
 
 Dan . Let me take your coat and hat, sir. 
 
 Liv. Thank you. ^ Exit Dan and Mrs. Puffy.] How like the old 
 times, eh, Lucy I [Site by her. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Aside to Pail.] Well, Paul, have you obtained employ- 
 ment! 
 
 Paid. No, mother; but Livingstone is rich — he must have influence, 
 & ml he will assist me. 
 
 Mrs. F. Heaven help usl I fear that the worst is not come. 
 
 Paul Nonsense, mother- cheer up ! Is there anything you hav« 
 r.cncealed from me I 
 
 Mrs. F. No — nothing you need know. , A^rdr.] J f b > knew that fo? 
 flo-e weeks we have been subM^vuc, the charity oi tb«sc poof 
 Veople 1 
 
THE POOR OF EFW YORK. 
 
 r 
 
 Mrs. Puffy with a pie, followed by Dan with a roast chicken 
 and Puffy, loaded with vlates and various articles of dinn&t 
 service. 
 
 Mrs. P. Here it is. 
 
 Lucy. Stay — we must lay more covers ; help me, Paul. 
 
 I av. Let me assist you. [They join another table to the fret. 
 Mrs. F. Mr. and Mrs. Puffy and Dari dine with us. 
 
 Paul. Bravo ! 
 
 Liv. Hail Columbia ! [Dan begins dancing about. 
 
 Lucy Why, Dan — what’s the matter 1 
 Ban. On, nothing, miss. 
 
 Lucy. How red your face is ! 
 
 Dan. Don’t mind. miss. 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh Lord ! I forgot that dish; it has been in the oven f<A 
 an hour. 
 
 Ban. It aint at all hot. [Paul touches it and 'jumps away.] It’ 
 got to burn into the bone afore George Washington No. 4 gives in. 
 
 [Lays down the plate — they all sit. 
 Puffy. Now, this is agreeable — I have not felt so happy since 1 
 •tarted my forty horse power oven. 
 
 Liv. This pie is magnificent. [Mrs. Puffy rises. 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, sir, you make me feel good. 
 
 Dan [Holding the table.] Mother can’t express her feelings with 
 out upsetting the table. 
 
 Enter two Sheriff’s Officers. 
 
 e sud 
 
 Paul. What persons are these 1 
 
 Puffy. What do you want I 
 
 First Sheriff's Officer. I am the Deputy Sheriff — I come at the 
 of Gideon Bloodgood, against Susan Fainveather and Jonas Puffy — 
 amount of debt and costs, one hundred and fifty dollars. 
 
 Paul. My mother ! 
 
 Puffy, lie said he would see about it — Oh, Mrs. Fairweathei 
 hope you will forgive me — I could’nt help it. 
 
 Deputy Sheriff. I do not want to distress you; Mr. Livingustonc 
 will perhaps pay the debt — or give me his check. 
 
 Paul Livingstone ! 
 
 Liv. [After a pause.] I cannot help you. Yes, I will rather a ppea? 
 what I am, a ruined man, than seem a contemptible one- -I am pair 
 niiess, broken — f ir weeks 1 have been so — but I nevei fell my fov«r!$ 
 till now. 
 
 Tableau. 
 
 R*D OF ACT H 
 
 < 
 
THl? POOR OF NKW YORK. 
 
 act III. 
 
 KCENE . — A Hoorn iv, the house of Gidkoy Bloodgood, the furniturn 
 and ornaments are in a style of exaggerated richness white satin 
 and gold. Bloodgood is discovered writing at a table on one side 
 Aiii l> a seated reading a newspaper on the other. 
 
 Blood. What are you reading 1 
 Alida. The New York Herald. 
 
 Blood. You seem interested in itl 
 Alida. Very. Shall I read aloud 1 
 
 Blood. Do, [Goes on writing. 
 
 Alida. [Reads A “ Wall street is a p erch, on which a row of human 
 vultures sit, whetting tneir beaks, ready to fight over the carcass of a 
 dying enterprise, ^nongst these birds of prey, the most vulturous is 
 perhaps Gid Bloodgobd. This popular financier made his fortune in 
 The lottery business. He then dabbled a little in the slave trade, as 
 the Paraquita case proved, — last week by a speculation in flour lie 
 made fifty thousand dollars, this operation raised the price of bread 
 lour cents a loaf, and now there are a thousand people starving in the 
 hovels of New York — we nominate Gid for Congress, expenses to be 
 paid by the admiring crowd — send round the hat.” Father ! [Ah'ses.] 
 Are you not rich 1 
 
 Blood. Why do you ask 1 
 
 Alida. Because people say that riches are worshipped in New York, 
 that wealth alone graduates society. This is false, for I am young, 
 handsome and your heiress — -yet I am refused admission into the best 
 families here whose intimacy I have sought. 
 
 ' Wood . Refused admission ! Is not Fifth Avenue open to you 1 
 Alida. Fifth Avenue ! that jest is stale. Fifth Avenue is a shop 
 where the richest fortunes are displayed like the dry goods in Stew- 
 art’s windows, and like them, too, are changed daily. But why do we 
 not visit those families at whose names all men and all journals bow 
 with respect, the Livingstones, the Astors, Van Renssalaers. Father, 
 these families receive men less rich than you — and honor many girls 
 »vho don’t dress as well as I do, nor keep a carriage. 
 
 Blood. Is not the Duke of Calcavella at my feet 1 
 Alida. The Duke de Calcavella is an adventurer to whom you lend 
 Honey, who escorts me to my box at the opera that he may get in 
 free. 
 
 Blood,. You minx, you know you love him. 
 
 Alida. I am not speaking of love — but of marriage. 
 
 Blood. Marriage ! 
 
 Alida. Yes, marriage ! This society in New York which has shut 
 Ms -doors against me, it is from amongst these families that I have 
 .■isolved to choose a husband. 
 
 Blood. [Rising . j Alida, do you already yearn to leave me 1 For 
 you alone I have hoarde d my \yealth— men have thought me miserly, 
 when Tlraye ftad bqt one treasure in tjip wo'-hl and that vyps yew, my 
 
THE POOR OP NEW YORE. 
 
 *nly child. To the rest of my fellow creatures I have “beett cold arrt 
 caiculaULig, becameiju’you alone was buried all the love my heart 
 Cv.uki feel— my fortune, take it. gratify your caprices— take it all, but 
 leave me vour affection . 
 
 3775«rYoir talk a s If l were still a child. 
 
 Blood. L would to God you were ! Oh, Alida, if you knew, ho* 
 fearful a thing it is for a man like me to lose the only thing in 
 world that ties him to it ! 
 
 Alida. Do you wish me to marry the Duke de Calcavella 1 
 
 Blood. A roue , a gambler ! Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Alida. Besides, they say he has a wife in Italy. 
 
 Blood. I shall forbid him the house. 
 
 Alida. No, you won’t. 
 
 Blood. His reputation will compromise yours. 
 
 Alida. Judge mv nature by yo ur own — I may blush from anger- - 
 a ever from shap ie. 
 
 Enter Edwards 
 
 Edw. Mr. Mark Livingstone. 
 
 A.n*a. Livingstone ! this is the first time that name has ever been ' 
 innoanced in this house. 
 
 Blood. He comes on business. Tell Mr. Livingstone I cannot see 
 nim. Beg him to call at my office to-morrow. 
 
 Alida. Show him up. 
 
 Blood. Alida ! 
 
 Alida. [ Sharply to Edwards.] Do you hear me 'l 
 
 Blood. This is tyranny — I — I — [In a rage to Edwards.] Well, 
 blockhead, why do you stand staring there 1 Don’t you hear the 
 order ! Show him up. [Exit Edwards. 
 
 Alida. Livingstone ! 
 
 Enter Mark Livingstone. 
 
 Mark. Mr. Bloodgood — Miss Bloodgood — [Bows.] I am most for- 
 tunate to find you at home. 
 
 Alida. 1 trust that Mrs. Livingstone your mother, and MissLiving- 
 ituie your sister, are well ! 
 
 Mark. [Coldly.] f thank you. [ Gaily.] Allow me to assure you 
 that you were the belle of the opera last night. 
 
 Alida. Yet you did not flatter me with your presence in our box. 
 
 Mark. You noticed my absence ! you render me the happiest and 
 pr nudes. 1 member of my club. 
 
 Alida. By the way, papa, I thought you were g oing to be a mom 
 oer of the tinmn. 
 
 Mark. Ahem ! t jin awkward silence.] He was black-balled last 
 week. « 
 
 Blood. I think, Mr. Livingstone you have some business with me. 
 
 Alida. Am I in the way 1 
 
 Mark. Not at all — the fact is, Miss Bloodgood — my business car 
 be explained in three words 
 
 Blood Indeed 1 
 
THE POOR OF NEW TORE 
 
 n 
 
 Monk. I am rained. 
 
 Alula. Ruined ! 
 
 Mark. Mv father lived in those days when fancy stocks were tuv 
 known, and consequently was in a position to leave me a handsounj 
 fortune. I spent it — extravagantly — foolishly. My mother, who loves 
 me “ not wisely but too well,” heard that my name was pledged f if 
 a large amount, — Mr. Bloodgood held m y paper— she sold out all c v 
 fortune without my knowledge, and rescued my credit from dishonor 
 
 Blood. Allow me to observe, T think she acted honorably, but fool 
 Mdy. X — 1— — * — — r ~'~ 
 
 Mark. [Bows to Bloodgood.] She shared my lather’s ideas on thes« 
 Scatters ; well, [ turns to Alida,] finding I was such good pay, yom 
 father lent me a further sum of money, with which I speculated in 
 stocks toj gcover mv another’s loss — I bulled the market — lost — bor- 
 rowed more — the crisis came — I lost again — until 1 found mysell 
 ruined. 
 
 Blood. [Rising. ] Mr. Livingstone, I anticipate the object of your 
 present visit — you desire some accommodation — I regret that it is out 
 of my power to accord it. If you had applied to me a few days earlier 
 I might have been able to — but — a — at the present moment it is quite 
 impossible. 
 
 Mark. [Aside] Impossible— the u.^ial expression — 1 am familiar 
 with it. [Rising — dloucTJ I regret exceedingly that T TttdT not fall 
 on that more fortunate moment to which you allude — a thousand 
 pardons for my untimely demand 
 
 Blood. I hope you believe that l am sincere when I say 
 
 Mark. Ob ! 1 am sure of it. Accept my thanks — good morning, 
 Miss Bloodgood. 
 
 Blood. [Ringing the bell.] I trust you will not be put to serious 
 inconvenience. 
 
 Mark. Oh, no. [Aside.] A revolver will relieve me of every diffi- 
 culty. [Aloud.] Good day, Mr. Bloodgood. [Exit. 
 
 Blood. 1 like his impudence ! To come to me for assistance ! Lei 
 him seek it of his aristocratic friends — his club associates who black- 
 balled me last week. 
 
 Alida. [ Who has been seated writing at table.] Father, come her*. 
 
 Blood. What is it ? 
 
 Alida. I am writing a letter which I wish you to sign. 
 
 Blood. To whom'? 
 
 AliqLa. To Mr. Livingstone. 
 
 Blood. To Livingstone ! 
 
 Alida. Read it. 
 
 Blood. [Reads. ] “ My dear sir, give yourself no further anxiety 
 shout your debt to me ; I will see that your notes are paid — and if th« 
 :an often thousand dollars will serve you, I beg to hold that amounl 
 at your service, to be repaid at your convenience. Yours truly/ 
 
 [ Throwing down letter.] I will write nothing of the kind 
 
 Alida. You are mistaken — you will write nrtb’ng else. 
 
 Blood With what object! 
 
 Anda. I want to make a purchase- 
 
 Blooa < d what 1 
 
."HE FOOR OF XMV YORR. 
 
 Alia* Of a husband — a husband who is a gentleman— and through 
 «Fhom 1 can gam that, position you cannot with all your wealth 
 »liain — you joc — the tiling is cheap — there’s the pen. 
 
 [aS'Ac rings a bell. 
 
 Blood. Is jour mind so se t on this ambition 1 
 
 Alida. If it cost half your fortune. [Bloodgqol signs. 
 
 Enter Edwards. 
 
 \ To servant. \ Deliver this letter immediately. 
 
 Edw. [Takes the letter and is going out , when he runs against 
 Badger, ivho is coolly entering .] I have told you already that my 
 jjaster is not to be seen. 
 
 Bad. So you did — but you see how mistaken you were. There lit 
 is — I can see him distinctly. 
 
 Blood. Badger! [To Edwards.] You may go, Edwards. 
 
 Bad. [To Edwards.] James — get out. 
 
 Blood. What can he want here I 
 
 Bad. Respected Gideon, excuse my not calling more promptly, but 
 BUice my return from California, tins is my first appearance in fashion 
 able society. 
 
 Alida. [Proudly.] Who is this fellow 7 
 
 Bad. Ah, Alida, how is the little tootles 7 You forget me. 
 
 Alida. How can I recollect every. begging imposter who importunes 
 *ay father. 
 
 Bad. Charming ! The same as ever — changed in form — but the 
 heart, my dear Gideon, the same ever, is haj^l..and_dry as a biscuit. 
 
 Alida. Father, give this wretch a dollar and let him go. " 
 
 Bad. Hullo! Miss Bloodgood, when I hand round the hat it is time 
 enough to put something in it. Gideon, ring and send that girl of 
 yours to her nurse. 
 
 Alida. Is this fellow mad 7 
 
 Blood. Hush ! my dear ! 
 
 Alida. Speak out your business — I am familiar with all my fath- 
 »r’s affairs. 
 
 Bad. All 1 I doubt it. 
 
 Enter Edwards, followed by Lucy. 
 
 Edw. This way, Miss. [To Alida.] Here is your dress naker. 
 
 Alida. [Eyeing Lucy.] Ha! you are the young person I met tlii* 
 •oruing walking with Mr. Livingstone ? 
 
 T.ucy. Yes, madam. 
 
 Alida. Hum ! follow me, and let me see if you can attend on ladW 
 
 diligently as you dp on gentlemen. [Exeunt Alida and Lucy. 
 
 Blood. [Looking inquiringly at Badger ] So you are here again. 
 1 thought you were dead. 
 
 Bad. No ; here I am— like a bad shilling, come back again. I’v« 
 been all over the world since we parted twenty years ago. Your 3,000 
 dollars lasted me for some months in California. Believe me, had I 
 know^i that, instead of absconding, you remained in New York] I 
 woulo‘ Iw'- > lastenecT back again ten years ago, to share your revived 
 fortune 
 
22 
 
 THB POOR OF X EW fORK. 
 
 Blood. I am at a loss to understand your allusions, sir, — nordt) 
 Know t iie object ol' your return to this city. We have plenty of such 
 persons as you in New York. 
 
 Bad. The merchants* of San Francisco did not think so, fo* they 
 subscri bed to send me home. 
 
 Blood. What do'you mean 1 
 
 Bad. I mean the Vigilance Committee. 
 
 Blood. And what do you intend to do here'? 
 
 Bad. Reduced in circumstances and without character, the onl^ 
 resource left to me is to start a bank. 
 
 Blood. Well, Mr Badger ; I cannot see in what way these thing* 
 can affect me ! 
 
 Bad. Can’t you 'l Ahem ! Do you ever read the Sunday 
 
 papers 1 
 
 Blood. Never. 
 
 Bad. I’ve got a romance ready for one of them — allow me to give 
 you a sketch of it. 
 
 Blood. Sir — 
 
 Bad. The scene opens in a bank in Nassau street. Twenty years ago 
 a very respectable old sea captain, one winter’s night, makes a special 
 deposit of one hundred thousand dollars — nobody present but the 
 banker and one clerk. Th« old captain takes a receipt and goes on 
 his way rejoicing — but, lo ! and behold you ! — in half an hour he re- 
 turns — having ascertained a fact or two, he demands his money back, 
 but while receiving it he is seized by a fit of apoplexy, and he died 
 on the spot. End of Chapter One. 
 
 Blood. Indeed, Mr. Badger, your romance is quite original. 
 
 Bad. Ain’t it! never heard it before, did you? — no! Good! 
 Chapter Two. f Pointedly .] The banker and his clerk carried the body 
 out on the sidewalk, where it w r as discovered, and the next day the 
 Coroner’s Jury returned a verdict accordingly. The clerk receiv- 
 ing 3,000 dollars hush money left for parts unknown The ban- 
 ker remained in N ew Yor k, and on the profits of this plunder es- 
 tablished a colossal fortune. End of Part No. 1 — to be continued in 
 our next. 
 
 Blood. And what do you suppose such a romance will be worth 1 
 
 Bad. I’ve come to you to know. 
 
 Blood. 1 am no judge of that. 
 
 Bad. Ain’t you ? — well — in Part No. 2,1 propose to relate that this 
 history is true in every particular, and 1 shall advertise for the heiil 
 »«f the dead man. 
 
 Blood. Ha ! you know his name then 1, 
 
 Bad. Yes, but l see you don’t. I wrote the acknowledgment whick 
 you signed — you had not even the curiosity then to read the name of 
 ycur victim. 
 
 Blood. Really, Mr. Badger, I am at a loss to understand you. Do 
 you mean to insinuate that this romance applies in any way to me ? 
 
 Bad. It has a distant reference. 
 
 Blood. Youi memory is luxurious — perhaps it can furnish some 
 Better evidence of this wonderful story than the word of a convict, 
 ejected from California as a precaution of public safety. 
 
THE POOR OP NKW TOLK 
 
 18 
 
 Bad. Fou ara right — my word is not worth much. 
 
 Blood. I fear not. 
 
 Bad. But the receipt, signed by you, is wortli a good deal 
 Bleed. [Starting.] Ha! you lie! 
 
 Bad. Let us proceed with my romance. When. the banker and his 
 elerk searched for the receipt, they could not find it- -a circumstacos 
 which only astonished one of the villains — because the clerk ha#' 
 
 R 'cked up the document and secured it in his pocket. I don’t mean U. 
 sinuate that this applies in any way to you. 
 
 Blood. Villain! 
 
 Bad. Moral: As a general rule, never destroy receipts— it is no 
 knowing when they may not prove useful. 
 
 Blood. Were it so, this receipt is of no value in your hands — iho 
 heirs of the dead man can alone establish a claim. 
 
 Bad. [Rising.] That’s the point — calculate the change of my find 
 tog them, and let me know what it is worth. 
 
 Blood. What do you demand 1 
 Bad. Five thousand dollars. 
 
 Blood. Five thousand devils ! 
 
 Bad. You refuse 1 
 
 Blood. I defy you — find the heir if you can. 
 
 Enter Paul. Badger starts , then falls laughing in a chaxr. 
 
 Blood. Your business, sir, with me. 
 
 Paul. Oh, pardon me, Mr. Bloodgood — but the officers have seized 
 the furniture of our landlord — of your tenant — for a debt owed by my 
 mother. I come to ask your mercy — utter ruin awaits two poor fam- 
 ilies. 
 
 Bad. Oh, Supreme } ustice ! there is the creditor, and there is the 
 iabtor. ^ — "*"*■ 
 
 Paul. My mother — my sister — I plead for them, not for myself 
 
 Blood. I have waited long enough. 
 
 Bad. [Rising.] So have I. [To Paul.] Have you no friends or 
 latiors to help you 1 
 
 Paul. None, sir: my father is dead. 
 
 Bad.. Not quite ; I feel interested in this yenng gentleman — doi 
 you 1 
 
 Blood. Not at all ; therefore my servant will show you both out- 
 lie you may talk this matter over elsewhere. 
 
 Bad [To Paul.) Your name is familiar to me — was your father ii 
 
 vrade 1 
 
 Paid. He was a sea captain. 
 
 Bad. Ah ! he died nobly in sotpo 4<>nn, l suppose— -the last to i*av« 
 
 bis ship l 
 
 ) 
 
 Enter Edwards. 
 
 Edw. Mr. Paul Fairweather 
 
 Blood. Enough of this. 
 
 [Bloodgood returns to his table 
 ' Rings the bell. 
 
m 
 
 TIIE POOH OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Paid. N sir, he died miserably ! ten years ago, his body mu 
 found on the sidewalk in Liberty street, where he fell dead by apo 
 plexy. 
 
 Blond;. [Rising.] Ah! 
 
 Ente ~ Edwards. 
 
 Sad James, show us out — we’ll talk over this matter elsewhere. 
 
 Blood. No — you — you can remaia Leave us, Edwards. 
 
 Bad. Ah, I told you that the young man was quite interesting, 
 •Alphonse, get out. [Exit Edwards. 
 
 Blood. IVIydear Mr. Badger, I think we have a little business Ui 
 settle together! 
 
 Bad. Yes, my dear Gideon. [Aside to him.] Stocks have gone up - 
 1 want fifty thousand dollars for that receipt. 
 
 Blood. Fifty thousand ! 
 
 Bad. [Aside. ] You see the effect of good news on the market--' 
 quite astounding ; ain’t it 1 
 
 Blood If you will step down to the dining-room, you will find lunch 
 prepared — refresh yourself, while I see what can be done for thin 
 young man. 
 
 Bad. [Aside.] What are you up tol You want to fix him — 
 to try some game to euchre me. Go it ! I’ve got the receipt ; you’re 
 on the hook — take out all the line you want, f Calls. J Ho ! without 
 there ! 
 
 Enter Edwards. 
 
 Maximilian, vamos ! Show me to the banquetting-hall. 
 
 [Exit, with Edwards. 
 
 Blood. Your situation interests me ; but surely, at your age — yot 
 can find employment. j 
 
 Paul. Alas, sir, in these times, it is impossible. I would work 
 yes, at ar.y kind of labor — submit to anything, if I could save mj 
 mother and my sister from want. 
 
 Blood. Control your feelings : perhaps I can aid you. 
 
 Paul. Oh, sir, I little expected to find in you a benefactor. 
 
 Blood. My Correspondents at Rio Janeiro require a book-keeper- 
 are you prepared to accept this situation'? but there is a condition 
 attache d to this employment that may not suit you— you must stai 
 by the vessel which sails to-morrow. 
 
 Paul. To-morrow ! 
 
 Blood. I will hand you a thousand dollars in advance of salary. to 
 provide for your mother and sister; they had better leave this citj 
 intilfhey can follow you. You hesitate. 
 
 Paul. Oh, sir~ ’tis my gratitude that renders me silent. 
 
 Blood You accept 1 the terms are two thousand dollars a year. 
 
 Paul. [Seizing his hand.] Mr. Bloodgood, the prayers of a famif 
 srhom you have made happy, will prosper your life. God bless you 
 sir ! I speak not for myself, but for those still more dear to me. 
 
 Blood. Call again in an hour, when your papers of introduction and 
 the money shall be ready. 
 
 Pond. Farewell, sir. I cap scarcely believe my guod fortune [Exii 
 
THE FOOR OF NEW YORK. 
 
 
 Blood. Sc, now to secure Badger. [Sitting down and writing .] He 
 must, at any risk, be prevented from communicating with the mother 
 and da ugTiteTlilitil TEe v”can be sent into some obscure retreat. I 
 doubt "that he is in possession of this receipt, [ r ings a bell, J but I 
 will take an assurance about that. [Rings. 
 
 Enter Edwards. 
 
 Ta ke this letter instantly to the office of the Superintendent of Polio* 
 {Exit Edwards.] Ha ! Badger, when you find the heirs of the 
 estate- gone, jou will perhap s come down in your terms. You 
 did not remain long enough in California to measure wits with Gideon 
 Bloodgo od. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Luct. 
 
 I/ucy. I will do my best, miss, to please you. On, et me hasten 
 from this house ! 
 
 Enter Mark Livingstone. 
 
 Mark. Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy. Mark ! 
 
 Mark. What brings you here 1 ^ 
 
 Lucy. What brings the poor into the saloons cf the rich? 
 
 Enter Alida, unseen by the others. 
 
 Alid,a. [Aside.] Mr. Livingstone here, and with this girl! 
 
 Mark. My dear Lucy 1 have news, bright news, that will light up 
 a smile in your eyes — I am once more rich. But before I relate my 
 good fortune, let me hear from you the consent to share it. 
 
 Lucy. What do you mean 1 
 
 Mark. I mean, deaiest one, that I love you — 1 love you with all my 
 reckless, foolish, worthless heart. 
 
 Alida. [Advancing.] Mr. Livingstone, my father is waiting for you 
 in his study. 
 
 Mark. A thousand pardons, Miss Bloodgood ; I was not aware — 
 excuse me. [Aside.] I wonder if she overheard me. [To Lucy.] I will 
 see you again this evening. [ Exit. 
 
 Alida. [To Lucy, who is going.] Stay; one word with you. Mr. 
 Livmgtone loves youl do not deny it, I have overheard you. 
 
 Lucy. Well, Miss Bloodgood, I have no account to render you ii; 
 tl is matter. 
 
 -Ahda. I beg your pardon— he is to be my husband. 
 
 Lucy. Your husband 1 
 
 Ahda. Be quiet and listen. Mr. Livingstone is ruined — my father 
 „as come to his aid ; but one word from me, and the hand, extended 
 to save him from destruction, will be withdrawn. 
 
 Lucy. But you will not speak that word 1 
 
 Alida. That depends 
 
 Lucy. On what 1 his acceptance of your hand 1 ho does not love 
 you. 
 
 Alida That i& not the question. 
 
 Lucy. You Lave overheard that he loves me 
 
 Alida. That is no concern of mine. 
 
THE POOR OP NEW YORK. 
 
 M 
 
 Luey. And you will coldly buy this man lor a husband, knowing 
 that you condemn him to eternal misery ! 
 
 Alicia. Ton are caifdid, but not complimentary. Let us hope that 
 m time he will f orget you, and learn to endure me. 
 
 Lucy. (Jh, you'dO'not love him. I see, it is his name you require 
 to cover the shame which stains your father’s, and which all his w-odib 
 cannot conceal. Thank Heaven ! his love for mo a ill preserve him 
 llmm such a cowardly scheme. 
 
 Alida. I will make him rich. What would vo« wj*ike him! 
 
 l/ucy . I would make him happy. 
 
 Alida. Will you give him up ! 
 
 Lucy. Never ! 
 
 Alida. Be it so. 
 
 Re-enter Marr. 
 
 Mark. Lucy, dear Lucy, do you see that lad: -she is my 
 
 guardian angel. To her I owe my good fortune — Mr. B\ 'cclgood has 
 told me all, and see, this letter is in her own handwriting- now, let 
 me confess, Miss Bloodgood, that had I not been thus rese-*ed from 
 ruin,*! had no other resource but a Colt’s revolver. 
 
 Lucy. Mark ! 
 
 Mark. Yes, Lucy — I had resolved I could not endure th 
 and despair which beset me on all sides. But let us not talk r-v mob 
 madness — let us only remember that I owe her my life. 
 
 Alida. [Aside. J And I intend to claim the debt. 
 
 Mark. More than my life — I owe to her all that happiness * > v 
 ypu will bestow upon me. 
 
 Lucy. Me ! me ! — Mark ! — No, it is impossible. 
 
 Mark. Impossible ! 
 
 Lucy. I cannot be your wife. 
 
 Mark. WTTaifmean you’TTucyl 
 
 Lucy. [ With a supreme effort.] I — I do not love you. 
 
 Mark. You jest, Lucy — yet, no — there are tears in your eyes. 
 
 Lucy. [Looking away.] Did I ever tell you that I loved you! 
 
 Mark. No, it is true — but your manner, your looks, I thought — *- 
 
 Lucy. You are not angry with me, are you! 
 
 Mark. I love you too sincerely for that, and believe me I will nevei 
 intrude again on your family, where my presence now can only pro- 
 duce pain and restraint : may I hope, however, that you will retain 
 enough kindness towards me, as to persuade your mother to accept 
 my friendship 1 It will soothe the anguish you have innocently in- 
 flicted, if your family will permit me to assist them. Have you th« 
 generosity to make this atonement! I know it will pain you all— 
 but vou owe it to me. [Lucy falls, weeping, in a chanr ] Pardon me, 
 Miss Bloodgood. Farewell, Lucy. [To Alida.] I take my leave. 
 
 [ Exit. 
 
 Alida. He has gone — you may dry your eyes. 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! 1 know 7 what starvation is — I have met want face to 
 face, and 1 have saved him from that terrible extremity. 
 
 AH4a. Iff offered you rqoqey; I slnqld pefer that my husband 
 
THE POOR OP NEW YORK. 
 
 27 
 
 ■hould not have pecuniary relations with yon — at least, not at pre* 
 •nt — so, aS you arc in want — here is some assistance. 
 
 [Offers her purse to Lucy. 
 Lucy [Rising.] You insult me, Miss Bloodgood. 
 
 Alida . How can an offer of money insult anybody? 
 
 Lucy. You^hougTTTT soTd" my heart — no— I gave it. Keep your 
 gold, it would soil my poverty ; you have made two fellow-being* 
 unhappy for life — God forgive you ! [Exit 
 
 Re-enter Bloodgood. 
 
 Blood. What is the matter, Alida ? 
 
 Re-enter Badger. 
 
 Bad. Four cook is perfect, your wine choice. [He pockets the nap* 
 kin.] Well, now suppose we do a little business. 
 
 Blood. [Rings bell.] It is time we began to understand each 
 Dther. 
 
 Enter Edwards. 
 
 Has that letter been delivered ? 
 
 [Edwards bows, and at a sign from Bloodgood, exit. 
 Bad. Do you wish to enter into particulars in the presence of this 
 charming creature ? 
 
 Blood. Her presence will not affect our business. 
 
 Re-enter Edwards, and two Police Officers. 
 
 Bad. Just as you please. What proposition have you to make ? 
 Blood. I propose to give you into custody for an attempt to extort 
 money by threats and intimidation. , 
 
 1 st. Pol. You are our prisoner. 
 
 Bad. Arrested ! 
 
 Blood. Let him be searched ; on his person will be found a receipt 
 signed by me, which he purloined from my desk yonder. 
 
 Bad. Well played, my dear Gideon, but, knowing the character of 
 the society into which I was venturing, I left the dear document safe 
 at home. Good morning, Gid— Miss Bloodgood, yov»rs. General— 
 Colonel—' take care of me. [£oes up Voucbmbu 
 
 WB op *24. 
 
THE fOOR OF KEW Yi. RK. 
 
 m 
 
 ACT TV. 
 
 SCENF I. — Union Square — Night. The snow falls. 
 
 *a pft discovered, r. a., with a pan of roasting chestnuts. PikBli 
 crouches in a corner of the street. 
 
 Puffy: Lord ! how cold it is. I can’t sell my chestnuts. I thought 
 9 I posted myself just here, so as to catch the? grand folks as they gc 
 & the opera, they might fancy to take in a pocket-full, to eat during 
 Bde performance. 
 
 tornterD a.r , with two trunks on his shoulders, followed by a Gentleman. 
 
 Dan. There is the hotel. I’ll wait here while you see if you can 
 get a room [Exit Gentleman, into hotel. 
 
 Puffy. Dan, my boy, what cheer 7 
 
 Dan. This is the fust job I’ve had to-day. 
 
 Puffy. I’ve not taken a cent. 
 
 Dan. Have you been home to dinner 1 
 
 Puffy. No ; I took a chestnut. There wasn’t more than enough 
 for the old woman and you, so I dined out. 
 
 Dan. I wasn’t hungry much, so I boried a bit o’ ’bacca. 
 
 Puffy. Then the old woman had all the dinner, that’s some comfort — 
 one of us had a good meal to-day. 
 
 Dan. I don’t know, father — she’s ji^st ugly enough to go and put 
 it by for our supper. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Puffy, with a tin can. 
 
 Puffy. Her* she is. • 
 
 Mrs. P. Ain’t you a nice pair I For five mortal hours I’ve been 
 carry in’ this dinner up and down Broadway. 
 
 Dan. I told you so. 
 
 Mrs. P. You thought to give old mother the slip, you undootiful 
 villi n — but I’ve found ye both. Come, here’s your suppers — I’ve 
 kept it warm under my cloak. 
 
 Puffy. Lay the table on the gentleman’s trunk. 
 
 Dan. [Looking into the tin can.] A splendid lump of bread, and a 
 &hunkofbeef! 
 
 Puffy Small feed for three human beings. 
 
 Dan. Here goes. 
 
 Puffy. Stay, Dan. [Placing his hands over the bread.] God blest 
 as, and pity the Poor of New York. Now, I’ll share the food in three. 
 
 Dan {Pointing to Paul.] Father, that cuss in the corner there 
 looks kinder bad — suppose you have the food in four. 
 
 Mrs. P. I don’t want none. Give him mine — I ain’t at all cold. 
 
 Dan. Mother, there’s a tear on the end of your nose — let me break 
 it off'. 
 
 Mrs. P. Get out. 
 
 Dan. [Takes a piece of bread, and goes to Paui.J Hello, stranger J 
 He’s asleep. 
 
THE PO<>T? of X: :w TORE, 
 
 4 
 
 Mrs P. Then don’t, wake him. Leave the bread in his [Da* 
 plan. j the bread , softly , beside Paul, and rejoins the party — they cat 
 
 Enter a Gentleman, followed by Badger. 
 
 Bad. [ Very ragged , with some opera books m one hand , at d boxet 
 cf matches in the other.) Book of the opera, sir 1 ? take a book, sir — 
 they will charge you double inside. Well, buy a box of lucifers — * 
 hundred for three cents. [ Dodging m front of him , to prevent hi» 
 passing. j Genuine Poliak’s — try one. [ Exit Gentleman — Badgei 
 changes his tone, and calls after him. J If you' re short of cash, T’l 
 lend you a shilling. He wants all he has got to pay his omnibus 
 Jerusha 1 ain’t it cold! Tum-iddy-tuni-iddy-tuni. [Performs a shot 
 dance , while he hums a banjo melody.) I could play the banjo on 1115 
 stomach, while all 1113' shiveriug anatomy would supply the bones. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fair weather. 
 
 Mrs. F. I cannot return to our miserable home without food for my 
 children. Each morning, we separate in search of work, in search oi 
 food, only to meet again at night — their poor faces thin with hunger. 
 [She clasps her hands m anguish .] Ah ! what’s here 1 yes, this re- 
 mains — it is gold! 
 
 Bad. [Overhearing her last word.) Gold! Book of the opera, 
 ma’am 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Tell me, friend, where can I buy a loaf of bread at this 
 hour 1 
 
 Bad. There’s a saloon open in the 4 th avenue. [Aside.) Gold — she 
 said golct 
 
 Mrs. F. Will they accept this pledge for some food 1 
 
 [Shows a ring to Badger. 
 
 Bad. [Eagerly.) Let me see it. [Looks round. 
 
 Mrs. F. It is my wedding ring. 
 
 [Badger examines it by the light of the Druggist's window 
 
 Bad. [Aside. J I can easily make off with it. 
 
 [Hubs his hose with the ring while he considers 
 
 Mrs. F. My children are starving — I must part with it to buy them 
 bre ad. 
 
 Bad. [Whistles — hesitates — and returns the ring.) Go* along, go, 
 bjuy your children food, sta rt, and don’t show that ring to anybody 
 else. You deserve to lose it for showing it to such a blackguard as 1 
 am. ® [Exit Mrs. Fatrweathkr. 
 
 Enter Blood good. 
 
 Biooct,. What’s the time. The opera must be nearly over 
 
 [Look's at his watch by the light of the Druggists window. 
 
 Bad. Book of the opera, sir — only authorized edition. [Recogniz- 
 ing him.) Bloodgood ! 
 
 Blood. Badger ! 
 
 [ They advance. Bloodgood puts his hand into the breast of his coat. 
 
 Bad. Ah, my deal Gideon — [Suddenly.) Take your hand out oi 
 your breast — come! nore of that — I’ve a knife up my sleeve thal 
 

 THE POC R OF NEW YORK 
 
 urould Tip too up like a dried codfish before you *nmd cock tl»*S 
 revolver y >u have there so handy. 
 
 Blood. ' Withdrawing his hand. \ You are mistaken. 
 
 Bad Oh, no! I am not. I have not been ten years in California 
 for nothing — you were just thinking that you could blow out my 
 brains, and swear that I was trying to garrote you. 
 
 Blood. What do you want 1 
 
 Bad. 1 want your life — but legally. A week ago, I came out of 
 prison — you had removed the Fairweather family — I could not find a • 
 trace of them but l found the receipt where I had concealed it. To- •]. 
 morn w L shall place it in thb hands of the district Attorney with my 
 confession of our murder of the Sea Captain. 
 
 Blood. Murder — 
 
 Bad Only think what a fine wood cut for the Police Gazette wa 
 sbsll make, carrying out the dead body between us. 
 
 Blood. Demon ! 
 
 Bad. There will be a correct plan of your back office in the Herald— 
 headed — the Bloodgood Tragedy. j 
 
 Blood. Come to my house to-morrow, and bring that document with 
 you. 
 
 Bad. No, sir — ee ! once caught twice shy. You owe me a call. ; 
 Come to my house, to-night — and alone. 
 
 Blood. Where do you live 1 
 
 Bad. Nineteen and a half Cross street, Five Points— fifth flom 
 Pack — my name is on the door in chalk. 
 
 Blood. In an hour I will be there. 
 
 Bad. Ln an hour. Don’t forget to present my compliments to vour 
 charming daughter — sweet creature! the image of her father — how 1 
 should like to write something in her album. • [ Exit JBLOonuoor. . 
 
 Enter two Gentlemen from Hotel — they talk 
 
 I Cries.] Here’s lucifers — three cents a hundred. 
 
 [Gentlemen shake hands and separate. 
 [Following one off J Here’s this miscellaneous stock of lumber, just \ 
 imported from Germany, to be sold out— an alarming sacrifice, in con- 
 sequence of the present state of the money market. 
 
 [ Eatf importuning the gentleman , who tries to escape. 
 Puffy. Come, mother, we must get home — 
 
 Mrs. P. Dan., nave you seen nothing of poor Mrs Fairweather and 
 ber children ! 
 
 Dan. No, mother — 1 can’t find out where they have gone -0--1 
 ^uess they've quit New York. 
 
 Mrs. P. God help them — wherever they are ! 
 
 Puffy. Come mother. 
 
 [Music — Puffy and Mrs. P. go out — Dan goes up and speaks with 
 gentleman. 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. This is the place. The sisters of charily in Houston etreef 
 told me that I might find work at this address. [ Reads 
 street. Oh, Heaven ! be merciful to me, this is iu.y last hope. {Exit 
 
THE POOR OF NEW YORK. 
 
 £1 
 
 Paul rises and comes forward. 
 
 F *ui, Aly limbs are powerless. How long have I slept there ?-— * 
 another long day has passed— I have crept round the hotels — the 
 wharves— I have begged for work — but they laughed at my poor thin 
 rorm— the remnant of better days hung in tatters about me — and I 
 was thrust from the door, by stronger wretches than L To day I 
 applied to get employment as a waiter in a hotel — but no. I looked toe 
 miserable. Oh, my mother ! my poor mother! my dear sister ! wei» 
 it not for you, I would lie down here and die where I was born, in the 
 streets of New York. 
 
 Dan. All right, sir — to the Brevoort House. Here, you lazy cuss, 
 shoulder this trunk, and earn a quarter — 
 
 Enter a Porter. 
 
 Paul. Yes — oh, gladly ! — 
 
 Porter. It’s myself will do that same. [Paul and the Porter seize 
 the trunk.] Lave yer hoult— you dandy chap wid the black coat. 
 
 Paul. He called to me. 
 
 Porter. Is it the likes of you— that ud be takin’ the bread out of 
 the mouths of honest folks. 
 
 Paul. God help me ! I have not tasted bread for two days, 
 
 Porter. The Lord save us ! why did Tit' ye say so 1— take the trunk 
 and welkipi. [Paul trying to lift it.] [Exit Dan. 
 
 Gent Come along, quick ! [Exit Gentleman. 
 
 Paul. [Unable to lift it, staggers hack.] I — I — can’t — I am too weak 
 from hunger. 
 
 Porter. Look at this, my jewel. [Tossing the trunk on his shoul- 
 der.] That’s the way of id— all right, yer honor ! [Exit Porter. 
 
 Paul. [Falling against the lamp-post in despair , on his knees.] 
 Oh, God ! -you who have refused to me the force to earn my bread 
 give me the resignation to bear your will. 
 
 Re-enter Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. The lady was from home— they told me to call next week— 
 fclms° Uld 1 SGe S ° me kiudly face— 1 would be g> yes— I would ask 
 
 Enter a Gentleman. 
 
 Bir — pardon me — would you 
 
 Gent. Eh 1 
 
 Lucy. [Stammering.] I — I — I 
 
 Gent. What do you want 1 
 
 Lucy. [Faintly.] The— the— Bowery— if— if— you please— 
 
 Gent. Just turn to the right, and keep strait on. [ 
 
 Ivey. Oh coward ! coward ! — I have not the courage to beg. 
 
 Enter Mrs Fairweather. 
 
 r . Mrs \ F ' The ? refused to take my ring— they said l had stolen it— 
 
 f hey drove me from the house. To what have i con e ! to bee is 
 
 -yes, for tjieip. for my cjij]clren ! ^ 
 
THE J*OOL OP NEW TORK 
 
 m. 
 
 Paul [fiistnj.] Let me return to our home — perhaps meU« v 
 Lucy may have found work. 
 
 Mrs. F. Sir! sir! — In the name of your mother — help my pool 
 children. 
 
 Lucy. [ Covering her face with one hand , and holding out the othm .] 
 For pity’s sake — give me the price of 
 
 Paul. Mother ! ! i 
 
 Lucy. My Brother ! > Together 
 
 Mrs. F. My Son ! ) 
 
 Paul. Oh, mother! my own Lucy! my heart is broken! [They 
 embrace .] Have you concealed from me the extent of your misery J 
 
 Mrs. F, My son ! my poor children ! I cannot see you die of hm> 
 ger and cold 1 
 
 Paul. Take Lucy home, mother — and I will bring you food. 
 
 Mrs. F. Paul, promise me that nothing will tempt you to a dishon- 
 orable act. 
 
 Paul. Do not fear, mother ; the wretched have always one resource 
 ■—they can die ! Do not weep, Lucy — in an hour I will be with you. 
 
 [Exeunt Lucy and Mrs. F. 
 
 I will go and await the crowd as they leave the Academy of Music— 
 amongst them Heaven will inspire some Christian heart to aid me. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — The vestibule of the Academy of Music. 
 
 Enter Alida and Livingstone. Music within. 
 
 AUda. How strange that my father has not returned. 
 
 Mark. Allow me to look for the carriage. 
 
 Alida. I will remain here. Exit Livingstone. 
 
 At last I have won the husband I desire. He is entangled in my fa- 
 ther’s debt : in one month hence I shall be Livingstone's wife. Our box 
 is now crowded with the first people in New York. — The dear Duke 
 \ still makes love to me— to which Livingstone appears indifferent — so 
 much the better — once Mrs. Livingstone he may do as he likes and so 
 will I. 
 
 Enter Paul. 
 
 Paul. Ah ! ’tis she — Alida Bloodgood. 
 
 AUda. I wonder they permit such vagabonds to hang about the 
 opera. 
 
 Re-enter Livingstone, 
 
 Mark. The carriage is ready — [Recognizing Paul] Paul 
 
 Paul. Livingstone ! 
 
 Mark. Great heaven ! In what a condition do I find you. 
 
 Paul. We are pool — we are starving. 
 
 Alida Give the fellow a dollar, and send him away. 
 
 Mark. My dear Alida, you do not know — this is a school fellcw-* 
 •n old friend — 
 
 Alida I know that you are keeping me in the cold — ah ! I se* the 
 
THE POOH OP SEW VORK 
 
 
 Duke of Calcavella od tlio steps yonder, smoking; a clear fie wili 
 see me home, don't let me take you from your old friend. 
 
 [ Exit. 
 
 Mark. [Aside . J Cold — heartless girl! [Aloud.] Come, Paul, com# 
 quickly, bring me to where 1 shall find your mother — your sister — 
 Btay, let me first go home, and get money, I will meet you at your 
 lodgings-— where do you live 1 
 
 Paul. Number nineteen and a half Cross street — Five Pc tints — 1 
 frill wait for you at the door. 
 
 Mark. In less than an hour I shall be there. [Exeunt. 
 
 /SCENE. — No. 19}4 Cross street — Five Points. Two adjoining attu 
 
 rooms. That of Badger, l. h. That of the Fairweather family 
 
 r. h. Music. Lucy is seated c. and Mrs. Fairweather kneels it. 
 
 Lucy. Sure’y an hour has passed and Paul has not returned. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, merciful father! protect my poor children. 
 
 Enter Badger in his attic r. h. with his box of matches. He scrapes 
 several which do not light. Mrs. F. rises and goes to window. 
 
 Bad. One hundred matches like that for one cent. [Lighting one.] 
 Oh, lucky chance ! Here’s one that condescends. 
 
 [Lights a, candle in a bottle. 
 
 Mrs. F. Day after day goes by— no hope — the future worse than 
 the present — dark — dark. Oh ! this load of wretchedness is too 
 
 much to bear. 
 
 Lucy. The candle is going. out. 
 
 Mrs. F. So much the better, I shall not be able to see your tears. 
 
 [Lucy rests her face on her hands. 
 
 Bad. [Taking a bottle frc*K his pocket.] There’s the concentrated 
 essence of comfort — the poor man’s plaster for the. inside. 
 
 Lucy. [Aside.] Is there no way to end this misery I None but 
 death ! 
 
 Bad [Taking from pocket a slice of bread and meat wrapped in a 
 bit of newspaper.] Here’s my supper. [Addressing an imaginary 
 servant.] James, lay the table — spread the table cloth. — “ Yes sa” — 
 [ Places the newspaper over the table.] It’s* cold here, there’s a draught 
 in this room, somewhere. — James, champagne. Thank you, James. 
 
 [Drinks and eats. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Aside, coming down r.J If Paul had only Lucy to sup- 
 port, they might live — why should I prolong my life only to hasten 
 theirs. 
 
 Bad. The draught comes from — [examining the wall] — yes ther# 
 are great chinks in the wall — I must see my landlord and solicit 
 repairs. A new family moved into the next room, yesterday ; I won- 
 der who they are I 
 
 Lucy. The wretched always have one resource — they can die ! 
 
 Bad. [At his table eating — he has taken the blanket from hit bed 
 and wrapped it about his shoulders.] Now let us do a little business. 
 James turn up the gas. Yes sa ! — [He snuffs the candle with ku 
 
SI 
 
 THE POOR OP NEW TORE. 
 
 finger & J Thank you. Ahem ! James, Bloodgood js comma; for the 
 receipt bequeathed to me by the old sailor. What price shall we set 
 Upon it, James ? 
 
 Lucy. [Aside.] When I am gone, there will be one mouth less to 
 feed — Paul will have but one care to provide for. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Aside ] In this room, we had some charcoal — there ia 
 enough left to bestow on me an easy death. 
 
 [Mrs. Fairweather exits by door b. h. 
 
 Bad. I think $50,000 would be the figure— Oh, what a prospeci 
 opens before me— 50,000 dollars — I should resume specie payments. 
 
 Lucy . [Looks into r. h. room.] What is mother doing? ah, she is 
 lighting the pan of charcoal on which we prepare our food — ah !— 
 the thought !— could I induce her to leave me alone. Hem. — The 
 deadly fumes of that fuel will bestow on me an easy death. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Re-enters. J It is there — now, now, while I have the cour- 
 age of despair. 
 
 Bad. 50,000 dollars ! I’ll have a pair of fast trotters, and dine a* 
 Delmonico’s. James, more champagne. [Takes a drink from bottle.] 
 Thank you— 
 
 Lucy and Mrs F. [Together.] Mother — Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. Dear mother — I have just thought of a friend — a — a — fellow 
 work girl, from whom I may get assistance — 
 
 Mrs. F. Go, then, my child — yes — go at once. 
 
 Lmcy. I fear to go alone. Come with me, you can wait at the corner 
 of the street until I come out. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Putting on her bonnet. Aside.] When she is out of 
 sight, I can return and accomplish my purpose. 
 
 Lucy. [Casting a cloak over her head. Aside.] I will come back 
 by another way. 
 
 Mrs. F. Come, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. I am I’eady, mother. [Aside.] She does not think that w« 
 are about to part forever. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Aside . j My poor child ! 
 
 Lucy. Kiss me — mother, for my heart is cold. [They embrace. 
 
 Bad. [Cogitating.] 50,000 dollars ! I’ll have a box at Grace church 
 and a pew at the opera. 
 
 Lucy. Mother, I am ready, [ Fluent. 
 
 Bad. [Finding his bottle empty.] What’s the news 1 Let us con- 
 sult my table cloth. What journal have we here. [Reads.] “ Cheva- 
 lier Greely has got a new hat.” — It’s the Herald — What’s here 
 [Reads.] “ You lie — villainy — you lie, and you know it.” No', it’l 
 the Tiibune. 
 
 EiAer Bloodgood. 
 
 Blooa Ah, Mr. Badger. 
 
 Bad. Please to wipe your I set, before you come in — my carpet il 
 new. I am glad to see you. Take a seat upm* the sofa. 
 
 [Pointing to bed. 
 
 Blood. Come, sir; to business You have thr receipt with you. 1 
 suppose 1 
 
THfi POOH 0* *i£\\ YORK. 
 
 81 
 
 Bad. You know I’ve got it, or you would not have come. 
 
 Blood. How much do you want for it I 
 
 Bad. Stay a moment. Let us see. You have had for twenty yeu* 
 lr. your possession, the sum of $100,000, the profits of one robbery- 
 well, at eight per cent, this sum would now be doubled 
 
 Blood. Let me see the document, and then we can estimate its value 
 
 Bad [Drawing receipt from pocket.] Here it is. 
 
 blood. [ Springing towards him.] Let me have it. 
 
 I Bad. Hands off! 
 
 I Blood. [ Drawing pistol.] That paper, give it me, or I’ll blow your 
 i/ains out ! 
 
 Bad. [Edging slowly towards the led.] Ah! that’s your calculation. 
 
 Blood l. Now you are in my power. 
 
 Bad. It’s an old dodge, but ineffective. Come, no violence — I’ll give 
 you the paper. 
 
 Blood. A bullet is good argument. 
 
 Bad. [Drawing from beneath his pillow , two enormous pistols.] A 
 brace of bullets are better still ! 
 
 Blood. Damnation ! 
 
 Bad, Derringer’s self-cocking. Drop your hand, or I’ll blow you 
 into pi. — So, you took me for a fool : — that’s where you made a mis- 
 take. I took you for a thorough rascal, that’s where I did not make 
 e mistake. Now, to business. 
 
 Blood. [Surlily.] How much do you want I 
 
 Bad. Fifty thousand dollars ! 
 
 Blood. Be it so. 
 
 Bad. In gold, or Chemicals. 
 
 Blood. Very well. To-morrow — 
 
 Bad. No — to-night. ' 
 
 Blood. To-night ! 
 
 Bad,. Yes ; I wish to purchase a brown stone house on the avenue, 
 early in the morning. 
 
 Blood. Come with me to my house in Madison square. 
 
 Bad. No, thank you. I’ll expect you here in an hour with the 
 money. 
 
 Blood. [Aside.] He has me in his power — I must yield. [Aloud.] 
 
 [ will return, then, in an hour. 
 
 Bad. Let me light you out. Mind the bannister — don’t break you: 
 precious neck, at least, not to-night. No, go in front, will you'? 1 
 {refer it. 
 
 Blood. What for ? 
 
 Bad. [ With pistol and candle.] A fancy of mine — a want of confl 
 deuce. A want of confidence, in fact, pervades the community. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 Re-enter Lucy. 
 
 J/ucy. I took a cross street, and ran rapidly home. Now I am 
 alone ; the fumes of the charcoal will soon fill this small room. They 
 •jay it is an easy death — but let me not hesitate — let me sleep the 
 ng sleep wJu*i e there are no more tears, no more suffering. 
 
 ' Exxi into closet t a. a. 
 
THE POOR OR NTtW YORK. 
 
 *6 
 
 Re-enter Badoer. 
 
 Bad. So ! that is settled. I hope lie will be cautious and escape 
 the gai roters. James, my chibouque. | Takes his pipe . 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Fairweather, r. h. 
 
 Mrs. F. Poor Lucy! I dared not look back upon her, as we parted 
 forever. Despai: hastened my steps. My poor children! I nave give.* 
 you all I had, anu now I hope my wretched life will serve you in y 'ur 
 terribl? need. Come, courage ; let me prevent the fresh air from en- 
 tering. 
 
 [ Takes bits of linen and stops window and door. 
 
 Bad. [Snuffing.} I smell charcoal — burning charcoal — where car 
 it come from 1 
 
 Mrs. F. Now let me stop the door. 
 
 Bad. [Smoking.] It’s very odd ; I’ve a queer feeling in my head ; 
 let me lie down awhile. [Lies on his bed. 
 
 Enter Lucy, with a brazier of charcoal, alight. 
 
 Mrs. F. That’s done. [Going towards closet , and meeting Lucy.] 
 Now the hour has come. 
 
 Lucy. The moment has arrived. [Sets down the brazier. 
 
 Mrs. F. Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy. Mother ! 
 
 Mrs. F. My child, what is this I For what purpose are you here 1 
 
 Iyucy. And you, mother, why have you fastened those apertures so 
 closely I Like m«, you wished to die 1 
 
 Mrs. F. No, no, you shall not die ! my darling child — you arc 
 young — life is before you — hope— happiness. 
 
 Lucy. The future ! what is it 1 The man I love will soon wed ano» 
 tiler. I have no future, and the present is a torture. 
 
 Mrs. F. Hush, my child, hush ! 
 
 Juicy. Is it not better to die thus, than by either grief or hunger t 
 
 Mrs 1 . F. [Falling in a chair.] Already my senses tail me. Lucy 
 my child, live, live ! 
 
 Lucy. [Falls at her feet.] No; let us die together — thus, mother— 
 as often I knelt to you as a child, let me pray tor those we love. 
 
 Mrs. F. Oh, merciful Judge in heaven, forgive us— forgive my 
 chdd — and let — your anger fall — on me — alone 
 
 Lucy. God bless my dear brother — and you my dear Mark, may — 
 vou be — hap — [Murmers the rest of the prayer. 
 
 Bad. It’s very cold ! I feel quite sleepy. I must not go to sleep* 
 {Sings in a low voice.] “ Oh, down in ole Virginny.” 
 
 Paul. [ Without , knocking .] Mother, open the door, why is the 
 door locked 1 Mother, mother ! Open, mother, open ! [Knocks 
 violently. Mrs. F ,. arising, tries to reach the door , but cannot , and 
 N falls. Paul bursts open the door and enters with Livingstone ; they 
 start back — Livingstone breaks the window , and Paul runs to his 
 mother.] Too late! too late ! They have committed suicide ! 
 
 Mark. They live still. Quick, bear them outside into the air. 
 
¥Hfc POOR Op NEW 10RK. 
 
 81 
 
 rrtes Lucy, out while Paul assists his mother into the next room 
 
 Bad. [Starting up . J How hot it is here — 1 cannot breathe. Hav* 
 | dr ink too much ? Nonsense ! 1 could drink a dozen such booties. 
 Let me try my legs a bit — where’s the door ? T can’t see it- -my head 
 npins round — come, Badger, no nonsense now. God ! I’m suffocating ! 
 Am l going to die, to die! like that oJd sea captain I t " Tears off hit 
 cravat.. ] Justice of Heaven ! I am strangling. Help ! help ! Bloodgood 
 will return and find me helpless, then he wi’l rob me of the receipt, as 
 I robbed the old sailor — I know him of old — he is capable of it, bu< 
 he shall not have it ! There, in its nook, if I have strength to reach it— 
 it is safe — safe. [ Drags himself along the foot lifts up a loose board 
 puts the receipt beneath it and falls exhausted ] There I 
 
 Paul. [ Entering r. h room. 1 I heard smothered cnes for help- - 
 they came from this floor. r Exit. 
 
 Enter Bloodgood, l. h. room,. 
 
 Blood. Here I am, Badger. [ Starts back, suffocated .J What a suf- 
 focating atmosphere ! where is he? ha ! is he intoxicated? 
 
 Paid. [ Entering l. h. room.] Perhaps the cry came from here 
 dead ? 
 
 Blood. Paul Pairweatlier ! 
 
 Paul. Gideon Bloodgood ! 
 
 Bad. \ Raising his head.] What names were those % Both of them' 
 Together, here! [To Paul.] Listen — while I yet have breath 
 speak — nsten ! Twenty years ago, that man robbed your father ol 
 $ 100 , 000 ! 
 
 Paul. Robbed! 
 
 Blood. Scoundrel ! 
 
 Bad. I’ve got the proofs. 
 
 Paul. The proofs ? 
 
 Bad. I have ’em safe — you’ll find ’em — th — ah! [Falls backward* 
 m zms & d * ; Paul and Bloodgoid stand aghast . 
 
 $£» w am ** 
 
 / 
 
 « 
 
THE P Oi . A v. K SP.W YOkR. 
 
 ts 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ttOENE I. — Brooklyn Heights , overlooking the city of New York 
 and its harbors. The stage is occupied by a neut gdrden, on a natu- 
 ral terrace of the heights — on the l. h., a frame cottage, prettily 
 built — a table, with breakfast laid, l. h., at which Mrs. Fairwea. 
 ther and Paul are seated. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Puffy, from the cottage , with a teapot. 
 
 Mrs. P. There’s the tea. Bless me, how hot it is to-day ! whe 
 would think that we were in the month of February ! [Sits. 
 
 Mrs. F. Your husband is late to breakfast. 
 
 Paul. Here he comes. 
 
 Enter Puffy, gaily. 
 
 Puffy. How is everybody 1 and above everybody, how is Miss Lucy 
 tfiis morning 'l [Sits at table. 
 
 Mrs. F. Poor child ! her recovery is slow — the fever has abated, 
 but she is still very weak. 
 
 Paul. Her life is saved — for a whole month she hovered over the 
 grave. 
 
 Puffy. But how is it we never see Mr. Livingstone 'l our benefactor 
 Is like Santa Claus — he showers benefits and blessings on us all, 
 yet never shows us his face. 
 
 Mrs. F. He brought us back to this, our old home — he obtained 
 employment for Paul in the Navy Yard. 
 
 • Puffy. He set me up again in my patent oven, and got me a gov- 
 ernment contract for Navy biscuit. 
 
 Mrs. P. He is made of the finest flour that heaven ever put inta 
 human baking; he’ll die of over-bigness of the heart. 
 
 Mrs. F. That’s a disease hereditary in your family. 
 
 Paul. [Rising.] I will tell you why Livingstone avoids our grati- 
 tude. Because my sister Lucy refused his love — because he has sold 
 his hand to Alida Bloodgood — and he has given us the purchase mo- 
 ney. 
 
 Puffy. And amcngst those who have, served u». don’t let us forget 
 poor Badger. 
 
 Enter Badger, behind. 
 
 Bad. They are talking of me. 
 
 Mrs. F. [Rising.] Forget him ! forget the man who watched Luiy 
 during her illness, with more than the tenderness of a brother! A 
 woman ne ver can forget any one who has been kind tc her children. 
 Mrs. P Them’s my sentiments to a hair. 
 
 Bad. You shan’t have cause to change them. 
 
 Paul Badger ! 
 
 Bad. Cong ratulate me. I have been appointed to the police. The 
 comraissioners^waTited a special service to lay on to Wall street. 
 
THE i»00li uE NEn Y iKK 
 
 89 
 
 it seems has concentrated there, and we want to ca^h a 
 v&fr otwiider. 
 
 Mrs. P. They all go to Europe. 
 
 Puffy. That accounts for the drain of specie. 
 
 [Mr. and Mrs. P. take off the breakfast tab^e. 
 
 Mrs. F. I will tell Lucy that her nurse has come. 
 
 [Exit into cottage. 
 
 Paul Now, Badger, the news. 
 
 Bad. Bad, sir. To-night Mr. Livingstone is to be married to Alid* 
 l iloodgood. 
 
 Paul. What shall I dol I dare not accuse Bloodgood of this rob- 
 lery, unless you can produce the proofs — and perhaps the wretch ha* 
 liscovered and destroyed them. 1 
 
 Bad. I think not. When I recovered from the effects of the char- 
 coal. the day after my suffocation, I started for my lodging — i found 
 die house shut up, guarded by a servant of Bloodgood’s — the banker 
 had bought the place. But I had concealed the document too cun- 
 aiugly ; he has not found it. 
 
 Paul. But knowing this man to be a felon, whom we may be able 
 it j.ny hour to unmask, can we allow Livingstone to marry his daugh- 
 ter r 
 
 Enter Livingstone. 
 
 Lit Paul, I have come to bid you farewell, and to see Lucy fo. 
 .he last time — 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. For the last time, why so — 
 
 [Paul and Badger run to assist her forward. 
 
 Liv. Lucy, dear Lucy. 
 
 Bad. Now take care — sit down — 
 
 Lucy. Ah, my good kind nurse. [She site.] You are always by my 
 Ide. 
 
 Bad. Always ready with a dose of nasty medicine, ain’t I — well 
 •ow I’ve got another dose ready — do you see this noble kind heart, 
 Lucy, it looks through two honest blue eyes into your face — well 
 tell me what you see there — 
 
 Lucy. Why do you ask me I [Troubled 
 
 Bad. Don’t turn your eyes away — the time nas come when decep 
 tion is a crime. Lucy — look in his face, and confess the infernal 
 scheme by which Alida Bloodgood compelled you to renounce your 
 love. 
 
 Liv. Alida ! 
 
 Lucy. Has she betrayed me — 
 
 Bad. No ! you betrayed yourself — one night in the ravings of yout 
 fever, when I held your hands in the paroxyism of your frenzy, I 
 heard the cries that came from your poor wounded heart ; shall 3 
 repeat the scene. 
 
 Lucy. [Hiding her face in her hands.] No, no. 
 
 Lit Paul, is this true ? have I been deceived] 
 
THE P< 
 
 <;F NEW YORK 
 
 no 
 
 Paul. Von have— Lucy confessed to me this infamrns bargain, 
 extorted from her by Alidu 'Bloodgood , and to save you from ruin she 
 sacrificed her love — 
 
 Liv. Lucy ! dear Lucy, look up. It was for your sake alone that 
 I accepted this hated union — to save you and yours from poverty — 
 but whisper one word, tell me that ruin of fortune is better than ruin 
 Df the heart. [Lucy falls upon his neck. 
 
 Bad. Hail Columbia ! I know a grand party at Madison Square that 
 will cave in to night — hi ! — I shall be there to congratulate that sweet 
 girl. 
 
 Enter Dan. 
 
 Dan. Mother ! mother ! where’s my hat, quick, there’s a tire in 
 New York. [He runs into the house and re-enters with a telescope ; 
 looks off towards the city. 
 
 Bad. Yes, and there is a fire here too, but one we don’t want put 
 out — 
 
 Paul. Now Mark, I can confess to you that documents exist — proofs 
 of felony against Bloodgood, which may at any moment consign him 
 to the State Prison and transfer to our family his illgotten wealth 
 
 Liv . Proofs of felony 'l 
 
 Dan. The fire is in Chatham street. 
 
 Paul. Twenty years ago he robbed my father of 100,000 dollars. 
 
 Bad. And I was his accomplice in the act; we shared the plunder 
 between us — 
 
 Dan. No it isn’t in Chatham street — I see it plainly — it is in Cross 
 street, Five Points. 
 
 Bad. [Starting . J Cross street — where, where — [Runs up. 
 
 Liv. But if these proofs — these documents exist, where are they 1 
 
 Dan. It is the tenement house two doors from the corner. 
 
 Bad. Damnation ! it is our old lodging ! you ask where are these 
 proofs, these documents 1 they are yonder, in that burning house — 
 fired by Bloodgood to destroy the papers he could not find — curses 
 on him ' 
 
 Enter Mrs. Puffy, with Dan’s hat 
 
 Mrs. P. Here’s your hat, Dan. 
 
 Bod. Quick ! Dan, my son — for our lives ! Dan ! the fortunes of 
 Lucy and Paul and the old woman are all in that burning house, 
 [Dan begins to thrust his trousers into his boots 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fairweather and Puffy. 
 
 I mean to save it or perish in the flames. 
 
 Count me in 
 
 Tableau. 
 
 {They run out 
 
THE POOH < ? NEW TORE. 
 
 4 
 
 JyJNE II - Stage dark. The exterior of the tenement house, No. 
 19)s, Cross street , Five Points — the shutters of all the windows are 
 dosed. A light is seen through the round holes in the shutters of the 
 upper windows — presently a fame rises — it is extinguished — then 
 revives. The light seen to descend as the hearer of it passes down 
 the staircase , the door opens cautiously — Bloodgood, disguised , ap- 
 pears — he looks round — closes the door again — locks it. 
 
 Blood. In a tew hoairSj this accursed house will be in ruins. The 
 eceipt iK'CTjrrcealed there — and it will be consumed in the flame 8 
 
 [The house is gradually enveloped in fire , a cry outside is heard 
 ‘ Fi-er /” “ Fi-er T' it is taken up by other voices more distant 
 The tocsin sounds— other churches take up the alarm — hells of 
 Engines are heard l; Enter a crowd of persons. Enter Badger, with 
 out ooat or hat — he tries the door— finds it fast ; seizes a bar of iron 
 and dashes in the ground floor window, the interior is seen, in 
 flames. Enter Ban. 
 
 Dan. [Seeing Badger climbing into the window.'] Stop! stop! 
 
 [Badger leaps in and disappears. Shouts from the mob; Dan leaps 
 in — another shout. Dan leaps out again black andburned, staggers 
 forward and seems overcome by the heat and smoke. The shutters 
 of the garret fall and discover Badger in the upper floor. Another 
 cry from the crowd , a loud crash is heard , Badger disappears as 
 if falling with the inside of the building. The shutters of the win- 
 dows fall away, and the inside of the house is seen , gutted by the 
 fire; a cry of horror is uttered by the mob. Badger drags himself 
 from the ruins, and falh across the sill of the lower window. Dan 
 and, two of the mob run to help him forward but recoil before the 
 heat ; at length they succeed in rescuing his body — which lies c. 
 Livingstone, Paul, and Puffy, rush on. Dan kneels over Bad- 
 ger and extinguishes the fire which clings to parts of his clothes. 
 
 SCENE III. — The Drawing-Room in Bloodgood' s Ma ision, mMaSk 
 ison Square — illuminated. Music within 
 
 Enter Bloodgood. 
 
 Blood. The evidence of my crime is destroyed — no power on earth 
 reveal the past. 
 
 Enter Alida, dressed as a bride. 
 
 Ily dearest child, to-night you will leave this roof; but from thiahomi 
 In your father’s heart, none can displace you. 
 
 Alida. Oh, dear papa, do take care of my flounces — you men pan 
 one about as if a dress was put on only to be rumpled. 
 
 Blood. The rooms below are full of company. Has Livingston, 
 arrived '< 
 
.TIE POOR OP SRW YORK. 
 
 n 
 
 Alida, I did not inquire. The duke is there, lookltg the i/fctur 
 
 misery, while all my female friends prefend to congra.ulate rue— 
 but I know they are dying with envy and spite. 
 
 Blood. And do these feelings constitute the happiest day of yoas 
 life ? Alida, have you no heart 7 
 
 Alida. Yes, father ^ I have a heart — but it is. like - yours. It i« 1 
 f.Pon safe in wliich are kept the secrets of the past. 
 
 Enter Edwards. 
 
 Edw. The clergyman is robed, sir, and ready to perform the cer* 
 ®ouy. 
 
 BIooj. Let the bridesmaids attend Miss Bloodgood. 
 
 The curtains are raised, and the Bridesmaids enter. Bloodgood 
 
 goes up and ojf, and immediately returns with the bridal party. 
 
 Welcome, my kind friends. [Alida speaks aside with the duke.] Your 
 oresence fills me with pride and joy — but where is the bridegroom 1 
 nas no one seen my son-in-law 7 
 
 Edw. [Announcing.] Mr. Mark Livingstone. 
 
 Enter Livingstone. 
 
 Blood. Ah ! at last. What a strange costume for a bridegroom . 
 
 Alida. [Turns, and views Livingstone.] Had I not good reasons 
 »o be assured of your sincerity, Mr. Livingstone, your appearance 
 would lead me to believe that you looked upon this marriage as a jest, 
 jr a masquerade. 
 
 Liv. As you say, Miss Bloodgood, it is a masquerade — but it is on® 
 where more than one mask must fall. 
 
 Blood. [Aside.] What does he mean 7 
 
 Alida. You speak in a tone of menace. May 
 
 Blood. Perhaps I had better see Mr. Livingstone alone — he may be 
 under some misapprehension. 
 
 Liv. I am under none, sir — although I believe you may be ; and 
 what I have to say and do, demands no concealment. I come here to 
 decline the hand of your daughter. [Movement amongst the crowd. 
 
 Blood. You must explain this public insult. 
 
 Liv. I am here to do so, but 1 do not owe this explanation to you ; 
 i owe it to myself, and those friends I see here, whose presence under 
 your roof is a tribute to the name I bear. My friends, I found myself 
 in this man’s debt; he held in pledge all I possessed — all but my 
 name; that name he wanted to shelter the infamy in which his own 
 covered ; 1 was vile enough to sell it. 
 
 Blood. Go on, sir ; go on. 
 
 Lit With your leave, I will. 
 
 Alida. These matters you were fully acquainted with, I presume, 
 w hen you sought my hand. 
 
 Liv. But I was not acquainted with the conterts of these letters — 
 written by you, to the Duke of Calcavella. 
 
 Blood. Dare you insinuate that they contain evidence derogatory W 
 the lmiiqi 9f lay child 7 
 
THE POOR OF > T EW YORK. 
 
 4? 
 
 Lim No, sir ; but I think Miss Bloodgood will agree with me, that 
 the sentiments expressed in these letters entitle her to the hand of the 
 duke rather than to mine. [He hands the letters to Alida. 
 
 Alida. Let him go, father. 
 
 Liv. Not yet. You forget that my friends here are assembled to 
 witness a marriage, and all we require is a bride. 
 
 Blood. Yes ; a bride who can pay your debts. 
 
 Enter Paul, Lucy, and Mrs. Fairweathkr, 
 
 Paul. No, sir ; a bride who can place the hand of a pure and .oy 
 fog maiden in that of a good and honest man. 
 
 'Blood. How dare you intrude in this house 1 
 
 Paul. Because it is mine; because your whole fortune will scarcely 
 lerve to pay the debt you owe the widow and the children of Adam 
 
 Pair weather ! , 
 
 Blood. Is my house to be invaded by beggars like these ! Jidwards, 
 Bend for the police. Is there no law in New York for ruffians 1 
 
 Enter Badger, in the uniform of an officer of volice. 
 
 Bad. Yes, plenty— and here’s the police. 
 
 Blood. Badger! 
 
 Bad. What’s left of him. 
 
 Blood. [ Wildly.] Is this a conspiracy to ruin me 1 
 
 Bad. That’s it. We began it twenty years ago ; we’ve been hatch- 
 ing it ever since ; we let you build up a fortune ; we tempted you to 
 become an incendiary ; we led you on from misdemeanor to felony— 
 and that’s what I want you for. 
 
 Blood. What do you mean l 
 
 Bad. My meaning is set forth very clearly in an affidavit, on which 
 the Recorder, at this very late hour for business, issued this warrant 
 for your arrest. 
 
 Enter two Policemen. Alida falls in a chair. 
 
 Blood. Incendiary ! Dare you charge a man of my standing in this 
 litv, with such a crime, without any cause ! 
 
 Bad. Cause ! you wanted to burn up this receipt, which I was just 
 In time to rescue from the -flames ! 
 
 Blood. [Drawing a knife ] Fiend ! you escaped the flames here— 
 aow go to those hereafter* 
 
 Bad Hollo ! [Disarms Bloodgood, and slips a pair of handcuffs 
 
 him. j Gideon — my dear Gideon — don’t luse your temper. 
 
 [Throws him back , manacled , on the tofts. 
 
 Paid. Miss Bloodgood, let me lead you from this room. 
 
 Alida. [Rises, and crosses to her father .] Father . 
 
 Blood. Alida, my child. 
 
 Alida. Is this true 1 [A pause.] It is— I read it in your quailing 
 
 *y e on your paling lips. And it was for this that you raised me U 
 
 the envied position of the rich man’s heiress — for this you roused mj 
 pride — for this you decked me in jewels — to be the felon’s daughter 
 Farewell. 
 
44 
 
 THE POOR OP PE TV YORK 
 
 Blood. Alicia -my child — my child — it was for you alone I sinned 
 - do not leavtrT mr: — — — — ^ — — 
 
 A !i da. What should I do in this city? can I earn my bread ? what 
 am I tit for— with your tainted name and my own sad heart? [Throm 
 down her bride's coronet.'] I am tit for the same fate as yours — infamy. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ba,», Duke, you had better see that lady out. [Exit Duke Qidecn, 
 cay dear, allow me to introduce you to two friends of mine, who are 
 anxious to make your acquaintance. 
 
 Blood. Take me away ; I have lost my child — my Alida ; take me 
 L way ; hide me from all the world. 
 
 Paul. Stay ! Mr. Bloodgood, in the midst of your crime th^re was 
 one virtue : you loved your child ; even now your heart deplores her 
 ruin — not your own. Badger, give me that receipt. \ Takes t/le re- 
 ceipt from Badger.] Do you acknowledge this paper to be genuine 1 
 
 Blood. 1 do. 
 
 Paul. [Tears it.] I have no charge against you. Let him be re- 
 leased. Restore to me my fortune, and take the rest; go, follow ' 
 your child ; save her from ruin, and live a better life. 
 
 Blood. I cannot answer you as » wouid. [ Turns aside in tears, 
 and goes out with Policemen and Badger, who releases Blood good. 
 
 Liv. That was nobly done, Paul. Now, my friends, since all it 
 prepared for my marriage let the ceremony proceed. 
 
 Mrs F B”t where is Mrs. Puffy. 
 
 Bad. Here they are, outside, but they won’t come *n. 
 
 Pam. Why not 1 
 
 Bad. They are afraid of walking on the carpets. 
 
 Liv. Bring them in. 
 
 Bad. That’s soon done. 
 
 Mrs. F. Poor, good, kind people — the first to share our sorrow, the 
 last to claim a part in our joy. 
 
 Enter Badger and Dan — Puffy and one Policeman— Mrs. Puffy 
 and the other Policeman. 
 
 Bad. They wouldn’t come — I was obliged to take ’em in custody. 
 
 Dan. Ob ! mother, where’s tbisl 
 
 Mrs. P. I’m walkin’ on a feather bed. 
 
 Puffy. He wouldn’t let me wipe my shoes. 
 
 Liv. Come in — these carpets have n^ver been trodden by more 
 honest feet, these mirrors have never reflected kinder faces — come 
 la — breathe the air here — you will purify it. 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, Dan, what grand folks-— ain’t they 1 
 
 Dan. Canvass backs every one on ’em. 
 
 Liv. And now, Lucy, I claim your hand. [ Music inside .] All u 
 eady for the c^emony. 
 
 Bad. Ton have seen the dark side of life — you can appreciate you? 
 fortune, fpr you have learned the value of wealth. 
 
 Mrs. F. No, we have learned the value of poverty [Owes hand 
 bo Puffy.] |t opens the heart. 
 
-*»'* wor of wrrtr yohx 
 
 m 
 
 P&kI. { Vn the public.) Is this true? Have the sufferings w* hn™ 
 l^pietod in this mimic scene, touched your hearts, arid cauwed « 
 tear of sympathy to fill your eyes 1 [f so, extend to us your hand? 
 
 Mr F. No, not to us — but when you leave this place, as you r® 
 turn to your homes, should you see some poor creatures, extend yo¥# 
 bands to them, and the blessings that will follow vou on v«"* way wr 
 he (be B»ost crateful tribute you can pay to the 
 
 POOR OF NSW VGRK 
 
JUST PUBLISHED 
 
 What Happened to Jones 
 
 An Original Farce in Three Acts 
 By GEORGE H. BROADHURST 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 JON ES, who travels for a hymn-book house 
 EBENEZER GOODLY, a professor of anatomy 
 ANTONY GOODLY, D.D., Bishop of Ballarat 
 RICHARD HEATHERLY, engaged to Marjorie 
 THOMAS HOLDER, a policeman 
 WILLIAM BIGBEE, an inmate of the Sanitarium 
 HENRY FULLER, superintendent of the Sanitarium 
 MRS. GOODLY, Ebenezer’’ s wife 
 CISSY, Ebenezer' s ward 
 MARJORIE, ) 
 
 MINERVA ) ^ enezer ' >8 daughters 
 ALVINA STARLIGHT, Mr. Goodly's sister 
 HELMA, a servant 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF SCENES 
 
 ACT 1. — Handsomely furnished room in home of 
 Ebenezer Goodly. 
 
 ACT 2.— The same. 
 
 ACT 3. —The same. 
 
 % 
 
 This is the j oiliest sort of a farce, clean and sparkling all the way 
 lb rough. A professor of anatomy is lured to a prize tight and the 
 police make a raid on the “miil.” The professor escapes to his 
 home, followed by Jones, a traveling salesman, who sells hymn 
 books when he can and playing cards when he cannot. The police 
 are on the trail, so Jones disguises himself by putting on a Bishop’s 
 garb, and a lot of funny complications ensue. The other funmakers 
 are aided not a little by an escaped lunatic. This celebrated farce 
 has been a tremendous success for years on the professional stage and 
 is now published for the first time. 
 
 PRICE, 50 CENTS 
 
JUST PUBLISHED 
 
 AT YALE 
 
 A Comedy Drama of College Life in Three AcV 
 
 By OWEN DAVIS 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Dick Sheeley. Yale '05. 
 
 Mr. Clayton Randal Of New York. 
 
 Jack Randal His son, Yale ’05. 
 
 Dave Burly. . Substitute on Yale Crew. 
 
 Jim Tucker Captain of Yale Crew. 
 
 Jimsey A Telegraph Messenger Boy, 
 
 Clancy A Prize-fighter. 
 
 John Kennedy Coach Yale Crew. 
 
 Frank Young Member of Yale Crew. 
 
 Ed. Scott Friend of Dick and Member of 
 
 Crew. 
 
 Tom Haynes Member of Yale Crew* 
 
 Robert Crosby Member of Yale Crew. 
 
 Jepson Boatman. 
 
 Pol 
 
 Harry Wilson 
 
 Will Taylor 
 
 Mrs. Randal Jack’s Mother. 
 
 Dorothy Randal Her daughter. 
 
 Polly Burk A friend of Dorothy. 
 
 Mame Brady A poor girl. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OF SCENES 
 ACT I. — Vanderbilt Hall, New Haven. 
 
 (ACT II. — Scene 1. — A Boat House, Gales Ferry. 
 
 Scene 2. — The Start. Gales Ferry Quarters. 
 
 Scene 3. — The Race. Thames River. 
 
 ACT III. — Exterior of Griswold Hotel, Eastern Point. New Lon- 
 don. The night of the race. 
 
 A Comedy Drama of American College Life in Three Acts, by Owen Davis, 
 feis piece was played with tremendous success all over the United States by 
 Paul Gilmore. Sixteen males, four females, four of the men being' unimportant. 
 This is a play with a distinct college setting, in which athletics are prominent; 
 j ist the kind of play that is wanted by nearly every high school and college con- 
 templating putting on a play as part of their commencement exercises. There 
 are pretty coliege girls, fre-hmen. a telegranh messenger boy. coaches, typical 
 college boys, members of the crew, substitutes, etc. Any number pf male? an<3 
 females be used In the ensembles. Plays a full evening., 
 
JUST PUBLISHED 
 
 The Great Successful College Play Entitled 
 
 CUPID AT VASSAR 
 
 A COMEDY DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 By OWEN DAVIS 
 
 AUTHOR OF “AT YALE” 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Tohit Willett. . 
 
 Amos North 
 
 Shiny 
 
 Hank Gubbin.. 
 Mrs. Newton. . 
 
 Kate 
 
 Wanda 
 
 Miss Page 
 
 Sally Webb. . „ 
 Matty Hart. . . 
 Alice Worth.. 
 Patty Snow. . . 
 Helen Conway 
 
 ,A Young Architect. 
 
 Of North & Son, Bankers. 
 ,A Lazy Darkey. 
 
 The Hired Man. 
 
 Of Great Falls, Vermont* 
 Her Daughter. 
 
 Kate’s Half-sister. 
 
 As many more jollege girls as are desired. 
 
 SYNOPSIS 
 
 Act I 
 
 Scene, sitting-room of Kate’s home in Vermont. (At the Old 
 Home.) 
 
 Act II 
 
 Scene, Kate's room, in a senior double. (At Vassar.) 
 
 Act III 
 
 Scene, same set as Act I. with snow and winter backing and 
 Christmas tree, etc. (Vacation Time.) 
 
 Act IV 
 
 Scene, college campus at Vassar. (Graduation Day. The Daisy 
 Chain.) 
 
 This comedy is eminently suited to girls’ schools and colleges, as it 
 can be played by all females. There are only four male char- 
 acters, two of which are eccentric parts, and all the male parts can 
 be easily dressed by girls. The play has all college surroundings, 
 and the last act contains the f amous daisy chain which is so popular 
 at girls colleges. 
 
 PRICE, 25 CENTS 
 
FRENCH’S STANDARD DRAMA. 
 
 E\)t Acting IBMtfon. 
 
 No. CXC. 
 
 AMBROSE GWINETT 
 
 OR, 
 
 A SEA-SIDE STOR Y. 
 
 % pelo- grama, in u g^cfs. 
 
 BY DOUGLAS JF-BROLD, 
 
 Author of The Mutiny at the Nore , Devil's Ducat, B; ; de of Ludgate t 
 Thomas a Becket, The Golden Calf \ Sally in our Sec, 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 4 Description of the Costume — Cast of the Characters — Entrances and Exits— 
 Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and 
 the whole of the Stage Business. 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT THE 
 
 PRINCIPAL ENGLISH AND AMERICAN THEATRES. 
 
 New York: London : 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH & SON, SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 PUBLISHERS, PUBLISHER, 
 
 28 WEST 23d STREET, 89, STRAND. 
 
 
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® o % t u m e . — [ Ambrose Gwinett J 
 
 AMBROSE GWINETT. — First dress : Short browi mnic and vest 
 with full trunks — hose and half boots. Second dress : Tunic anc} 
 long cloak — hat and feathers. 4 
 
 NED GRAYLING. — First dress: That of a blacksmith. Second - 
 dress: A short plain tunic — full trunks — hose, and a small round 
 hat. Third dress : That of a mere mendicant. 
 
 GILBERT. — First dress: A short close tunic — shoes and stockings. 
 Second dress : Suitable to the advanced age of the wearer. 
 
 COLLINS. — First dress: Short tunic. Seeond dress: Morning gown 
 
 LABEL. — Barber’s dress — three-cornered hat and cane. 
 
 WILL ASH and BLACKTHORNE.— Short tunics, &c. 
 
 GEORGE. — Sailor’s dress. 
 
 BOLT. — Dark tunic, &c. 
 
 OFFICER.— -The usual costume. 
 
 REEF. — Blue jacket — white trowsers — straw hat. 
 
 LUCY FAIRLOVE. — First dress: Plain bodied gown — straw hat 
 Second dress : A black open gown with train. 
 
 JENNY. — First dress: That of a peasant girl. Second dress: Gown, 
 cap and apron. 
 
 MARY. — Peasant’s dress. 
 
 Villagers, Peasants, &c., in the usual costume. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 L. means First Entrance, Left. R. First Entrance, Right. S. E. L. 
 fecond Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. L. 
 Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance, Right. C. Centre. 
 L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance , 
 Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R 
 Door Right. D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R. 
 Upper Door, Right. 
 
 *** The reader is supposed to 1 e on the Stage, facing the Audience. 
 
AMBROSE GM INETT, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — View of the Country . 
 
 Enter Grayling and Collins, r. 
 
 Gray. Softly, master Collins, softly, — come, there is life in you yet, 
 man. 
 
 Col. To be thrown from a horse after my experience 
 
 Gray. Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the best horse throw 
 too ; but come, you have no bones broken. Had any man but myself, 
 Ned Grayling, shoed your horse, I should have said something had 
 been amiss with his irons — but that couldn’t be. 
 
 Col. No matter, I can now make my way homeward : but. hark’ye, 
 not a word about this accident, not a syllable, or I shall never be 
 able to sit in a saddle again, without first hearing a lecture from my 
 wife and Lucy. 
 
 Gray. Lucy — aye, master Collins, she has a tender heart I warrant 
 — I could work at my forge all day in the hottest June, so that Lucy 
 would but smile, when 
 
 Col. There must be no more of this. You know I have told you 
 more than a hundred times that Lucy cannot love you. 
 
 Gray . How do you know that 1 
 
 Col. She has said so, and do you suppose she would speak any 
 thing but truth 1 
 
 Gray. Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn’t 1 tell 
 you, master Collins, my heart’s set upon the girl — if she refuse me — 
 why I know the end on’t. Ned Grayling, once the sober and indus- 
 trious smith, will become an outcast and a vagabond. 
 
 Col. This is all folly — a stout able fellow turning whimperer. 
 
 Gray. Stout, able, — yes, I was, and might be so again ; but thoughts 
 
 will sometimes come across me, and I feel I tell you once more. 
 
 master Collin? my heart is set upon the girl. 
 
AMBROSE OWINETT. 6 
 
 Col. You’ll get the better of this, think no more of her : nothing so 
 easy. 
 
 Gray. There are some matters very, very easy. It is easy for you, 
 a man well in trade, with children flourishing about you, and all the 
 world looking with a sunny face upon you — it is easy for you to say 
 to a man like me, “You are poor and friendless — you have placed 
 your affections on a being to sweeten the bitterness of your lot, to 
 cheer and bless you on the road of life, yet she can never be yours — 
 think no more of her,” this is easy — “ nothing so easy.” 
 
 Col. Farewell, good fellow. I meant not to insult or offend you. 
 If you can obtain my niece’s consent, why, to prove that I love 
 honesty, for its own sake, I’ll give you whatever help my means afford. 
 If, however, the girl refuses, strive to forget her. Believe me, there 
 is scarcely a more pitiable object than a man following with spaniel- 
 like humility, the woman who despises him. [Exit, l. 
 
 Gray. Despises ! — did she ever say, —no ! no ! she couldn’t, yet 
 when I met her last, though she uttered not a sound, her eyes looked 
 hate — as they flashed upon me, I felt humbled — a wretch ! a very 
 worm. 
 
 Enter Gilbert, r., singing, “ A merry little plough boy.” 
 
 Gil. Well, now master’s gone out, I think I have little time to see 
 my Jenny — master and mistress have no compassion for us lovers — 
 always work, work; they think once a week is quite enough for 
 lovers to see one another, and unfortunately my fellow servant is in 
 love as well as I am ; and being obliged to keep house, I could only 
 get out once a fortnight, if it wasn’t for Lucy. 
 
 Gray. [Starting.] Lucy ! who said any thing about Lucy 1 
 
 Gil. I did ! It’s a good Christian name, isn’t it 1 and no treason in 
 it. 
 
 Gray. No, no, but you startled me. 
 
 Gil. I should like to know what right a man has to be startled 
 when I say Lucy — why one would ihink you were married, and it 
 was the name of your wife. 
 
 Gray. Lucy my wife, no, no. 
 
 Gil. No, I should think not indeed. 
 
 Gray. And why should you think 1 but I’m wrong to be so pas- 
 sionate — think no more of it, good Gilbert. 
 
 Gil. A cool way of settling matters ; you first fly at a man like a 
 dragon — make his heart jump like a tennis ball — and then say, think 
 nothing of it, good Gilbert. 
 
 Gray. I confess I am very foolish. 
 
 Gil. Oh, spare your confession: people will judge for themselves. 
 
 Gray. [Aside.] 1 am almost ashamed to do it, yet I will. 
 
 Gil. Why, what’s the matter 1 you are looking at me as if, like a 
 highwayman, you were considering which pocket I carried my money 
 
 in. 
 
 Gray. Pray, good Gilbert, tell me, do you know whether Miss 
 Lucy has any admirers 1 
 
 Gil. Admirers ! to be sure she has. 
 
AMBROSE UWTNETT. 
 
 Gray. She "has ! 
 
 Gil. Hundreds— don’t the whole town admire her'? don’t all our 
 customers say pretty things to her*? don’t I admire her 1 and hav’n’ 
 
 I seen you looking at her 1 
 
 Gray. Looking at her ! — how 1 
 
 Gil. How, why like a dog that had once-been well kicked, and was 
 afraid of being known a second time. 
 
 Gray. Villain ! do you make mirth of my sufferings ? am I sport 
 for fools 1 answer my question, or I’ll shake your soul out on the 
 wind — tell me — 
 
 Gil. If the fox had never ventured where he had no business, he'd 
 have kept his tail. 
 
 Gray. What mean you h 
 
 Gil. If you had minded your own affairs, you’d not have lost your 
 temper. 
 
 Gray. Answer 
 
 Gil. Not a word ; if you are inclined to as’k questions, a little far- 
 ther on there’s a finger post — when you have read one side, you know 
 you can walk round to the other. 
 
 Gray. I shall but make my agitation the more apparent. Never 
 till this moment did I feel the fulness of my passion. Come, rouse 
 man, stand no longer like a coward, eyeing the game, but take the 
 dice, and at one bold throw, decide your fate. [Exit, l. 
 
 Gil. Aye, its all no use, master Gray ; Lucy Fairlove is no match 
 for you. No, no, if I mistake not there’s another, smoother faced 
 young man has been asking if anybody’s at home at the heart of 
 Lucy — but mum — I’m sworn to secrecy, — and now for Jenny ! dear 
 me, I’ve been loitering so long, and have so much to say to her — then 
 I’ve so much to do — for the Judges are coming down to-morrow to 
 make a clear place of the prison — and then there’s — but stop, whilst 
 I am running to Jenny, I can think of these matters by the way. 
 
 [Exit, l. 
 
 SCENE II .— Wood. 
 
 Enter Ambrose Gwinett, running, l. 
 
 Gwm. I’ve distanced them — but i’faith I’ve had to run for it.— No, 
 no, fair gentlemen, I hope yet to have many a blithe day ashore — 
 high winds, roaring seas, and the middle-watch have no relish for 
 Gwinett — make a sailor of me, what, and leave Lucy Fairlove ?— I’ve 
 hurt my wrist in the struggle with one of the gang — [takes his hand- 
 kerchief, which is stained with blood, from around his arm J It is 
 but a scratch — if I bind it up again it may excite the alarm of Lucy 
 — no, Time is the best surgeon, and to him I trust it. [Pwtfs the hand- 
 kerchief in his pocket.] Eh ! who have we here 1 by all my hopes, 
 rucy herself. 
 
 Enter Lucy Fairlove, r. 
 
 Lucy. Ambrose. 
 
 Gwin Come, this is kind of you — nay, it is more than I deserve. 
 
 Lucy. What is kind or more than you deserve 1 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 7 
 
 Gwin. Why coming to meet me through this lone road 1 * 
 
 Lucy. Meet you — what vanity — not I indeed, I was merely taking 
 my morning’s walk, thinking of — of — 
 
 Gwin. Come, come, confess it. 
 
 Lucy. Well then, I do confess, I wished to meet you, to tell you 
 that 
 
 Gwin. You have spoken to your uncle 1 
 
 Lucy. On the contrary — to desire you to defer 
 
 Gwin. Why, do you fear a refusal 1 Why should he refuse — have 
 
 I not every prospect— will not my character 
 
 Lucy. Yes, more than satisfy him, but = 
 
 Gwin. Or perhaps Lucy, there is another whom you would prefer 
 to make this proposal. 
 
 Lucy. This is unkind — you do not believe so. 
 
 Gwin. Well, be it as you will ; I believe nought but truth, but in- 
 locence in Lucy Fairlove, and by this kiss — 
 
 Grayling looking from wing , r. 
 
 Gray. Hem ! holloa ! there. 
 
 Gwin. How now — what want you 'l 
 
 Gray. Want! [Aside ] Oh! Lucy, Lucy ! nothing. 
 
 Gwin. Then wherefore did you call 1 
 
 Gray. Because it pleased me; a man may use his own lungs I 
 trow. 
 
 Lucy. [Aside.] Alas ! I fear some violence. 
 
 Gwin. Aye and his own legs ; they cannot do him better service 
 than by removing him from where he is not wanted. 
 
 Gray. [Coming between them, folding his arms and looking doq- 
 qedly at Gwinett.] Now I sha’n’t go. 
 
 Gwin. Would you quarrel, fellow 1 
 
 Gray. Aye— yes— come, will you fight with me. 
 
 Lucy. [Interposing.] For heaven’s sake subdue this rashness — 
 Gwinett — Grayling — good, kind Master Grayling — 
 
 Gray. Good kind Master Grayling — you speak falsely, Lucy Fair- 
 love — 
 
 Gwin. Falsely 1 
 
 Gray. Aye, Falsely ! she thinks me neither good nor kind — but I 
 see how it is — I have thought so a long time. [After eyeing Gwinett 
 and Lucy with extreme malice.] I see how it is — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Laughing sarcastically. 
 
 Gwin. Fellow, look not with such devilish malice but give your 
 venom utterance. 
 
 Gray. Venom — aye — the right word, venom, and yet who’d have 
 bought we should have found it where all looked so purely. 
 
 Gwin. Wretch! would you say — 
 
 Gray. Nothing — nothing — where we have facts what need of words 1 
 the artless, timid Lucy, she who moves about the town with closed 
 lips and downcast eyes — who flutters and blushes at a stranger’s 
 look — can steal into a wood— oh ! shame — shame. 
 
 Gwin. Shame ! villain ! but no, to infamy so black as this, the 
 be it return is the silent loathing of contempt. 
 
8 
 
 AMRROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Gray. What ! would you go with him, Lucy 1 
 
 Jfiicy. Grayling, never again, in town or field, under my uncle’s 
 roof, or beneath the open sky, that you have so lately made a witness 
 to your infamy, dare to pronounce my name ; there is a poison fester- 
 ing in your lips, and all that passes through is tainting — your words 
 fall like a blight upon the best and purest — to be named by you, is to 
 be scandalized — once whilst I turned from, I pitied you — you are now 
 become the lowest, the most abject of created things — the libeller, the 
 hateful, heartless libeller of an innocent woman. Farewell, if you can 
 never more be happy, at least strive to be good .[Exit with Gwinett, l. 
 
 Gray. Lucy, Lucy, upon my knees — I meant not what I said — • 
 ’twas passion — madness — eh, what — now she takes him by the arm — 
 they’re gone — I feel as I had drank a draught of poison — never sound 
 her name again 1 yes, and I deserve it — I am a wretch 1 — a ruffian, — 
 to breathe a blight over so fair a flower. I feel as if all the world, — 
 the sky, the fields, the bright sun were passing from me, and I stood 
 fettered in a dark and loathsome den — my heart is numbed, and my 
 brain palsied. 
 
 Enter Reef and Sailors, r. 
 
 Reef. A plague take these woods, I see no good in ’em — there’s no 
 looking out a head the length of a bowsprit ; I know he run down 
 here. 
 
 lstf Sailor. That’s what I said at first, and if you had taken my ad- 
 vice we should have come here without staying beating about the 
 bushes like a parcel of harriers. 
 
 Reef. He was a smart, clean fellow, and would have done credit to 
 the captain’s gig. — Eh ! who have we here ? — come, one man is as 
 good as another, and this fellow seems a strong one. 
 
 Gray. How now ! — what would you 1 
 
 Reef. What would we 1 — why, what do you think of topping your 
 boom — pulling your halyards taut, and turning sailor 1 
 
 Gray. Sailor ! 
 
 Reef. Aye — why you look as surprised as if we wanted to make 
 j T ou port admiral at once. 
 
 Gray. Turn sailor 1 
 
 Reef. Sailor — what’s the use of turning the word over so with your 
 tongue — I said sailor — it’s a useless gentility with us to ask you — ■ 
 because if you don’t like us, I can tell you we have taken a very great 
 liking to you. 
 
 Gray. With all my heart — Lucy is gone for ever — this place is 
 hateful to me — amid the perils of the ocean, I may find my best re- 
 lief — come. 
 
 Reef. That’s right my hearty — come, scud away — eh, what have 
 you brought yourself up with a round turn for 1 
 
 Gray. Then I leave my rival to the undisturbed possession of 
 
 oh, the thought is withering — no, no, I cannot. 
 
 Reef Cannot! we’re not to be put off, and by a landsman — so come, 
 there’s one fellow already has outsailed us, piloting among these 
 breakers, — one fellow this morning — 
 
AMBROSE GWIHETT. 
 
 9 
 
 Gray. This morning — what kind of man 1 
 
 Reef. Why, to say the truth, messmate, he was a trim, taut-rigged 
 craft, and a devilish deal better looking than you are. 
 
 Gray. And he escaped from you 1 
 
 Reef. Yes, but that’s more than we intend let you do, so come. 
 
 Gray. Oh, it will be a sweet revenge — one moment — how stands 
 your pocket 1 
 
 Reef. Why not a shot in the locker. 
 
 Gray. Here. [Takes out a purse. 
 
 Reef. Eh ! how did you come by all that 1 you hav’n’t run a pistol 
 against a traveler’s head, eh 1 
 
 Gray. These are the savings of a life of toil — I had hoarded them 
 up for a far different purpose — but so that they buy me revenge — 
 
 Reef. Aye, that’s a bad commodity ; for when people are inclined 
 to purchase, they’ll do it at any rate ; but I say, no foul tricks you 
 know. 
 
 Gray. You say one man escaped you this morning, now I’ll lead 
 you to him : moreover, if you secure him, this purse shall be your 
 reward. 
 
 Reef. Shall it ! we are the boys ; and what’s more, we don’t mind 
 giving you your discharge into the bargain. 
 
 Gray. Come on then ; follow me into the town, and when the night 
 comes on, I’ll find means to throw your victim into your hands ; bear 
 him away with as little noise as possible. 
 
 Reef. Oh, never fear — if he attempts to hallo, we’ll put a stopper 
 in his mouth to spoil his music. 
 
 Gray ’Tis well — thus I shall be revenged — Lucy, if you are re- 
 solved to hate, at least you shall have ample reason for it. 
 
 [Exit with sailors, h, 
 
 SCENE III. — A Room in the Blake's Head. 
 
 Enter Label, l. 
 
 Label. Well, now let me see, where’s my next point of destination? 
 ah, Dover. Thus I go through the country, and by both my trades 
 of barber and doctor, contrive to look at the bright side of life, and 
 lay by a little for the snows of old age. Had bad business here at 
 Deal : all the people so plaguily healthy — not a tooth to be drawn — 
 not a vein to be opened ; the landlord here, master Collins, has been 
 my only customer — the only man for whom I have had occasion to 
 draw lancet. Now its very odd why he should be so secret about it 
 — all to prevent alarming his wife he says, — good tender man. 
 
 Enter Gilbert, r. 
 
 Gil. What, master Label, ah ! bad work for you — all hearty as 
 oaks — not a pulse to be felt in all Deal. 
 
 Label. Ah, I can’t think how that is. 
 
 Gil. Can’t you ? I’ll tell you — we’ve no doctors with us ; nobody 
 but you, and you’ll never do any harm, because 
 
 Label. Because- -because what ? 
 
JO 
 
 AMUIlOi'-K C WuN KTT. 
 
 Gil. Why we all know you, and there’s few will give you the chance , 
 who do you think would employ a doctor who goes about calling at 
 peoples’ houses to mend their constitutions, as tinkers call for old 
 
 kettles. 
 
 Label. Ah, that’s it, humble merit may trudge its shoes off, and 
 never finger a fee, whilst swaggering impudence bounces out of a 
 carriage, and all he touches turns to gold. Farewell, good Gilbert, 
 farewell — I’m off for Dover. 
 
 Gil. What! to-night] 
 
 Label. Yes, directly. 
 
 Gil. Why you must pass through the church-yard. 
 
 Label. What of that] 
 
 Gil. Nothing, ‘ nly if you ever had any patients, I thought you 
 might have felt some qualms in taking that road. 
 
 Label. Ever had any patients, I’ll whisper a secret in your ear ; I’ve 
 had one in this house! Now what do you think of that! What fol- 
 lows now 7 
 
 Gil. What follows now ? why the grave-digger, I’m afraid ; I say 
 I wonder you didn’t add the trade of undertaker to that of doetor. 
 
 Label. Why 7 
 
 Gil. Why ! how nicely you could make one business play into the 
 other: when called in to a patient, as soon as you had prescribed for 
 him, you know, you might have begun to measure him for his coffin. 
 
 Label. Ah, you’re a droll fellow, but we won’t quarrel ; I dare say 
 you think me very dull now, but bless you I’m not, when I’m roused 
 1 can be devilish droll — very witty indeed. 
 
 Gil. Aye, your wit is, I suppose, like your medicine — it must be 
 well shaken before its fit to be administered; now how many of your 
 jokes generally go to a dose] 
 
 Label. No, no, it won’t do, I’m not to be drawn out now — I’ve no 
 time to be comical, I must away for Dover this instant. 
 
 Gil. A word with you, the sharks are out tooight. 
 
 Label. The sharks'? 
 
 Gil. Aye, the blue-jackets, the press-gang — now you’d be invaluable 
 to them; take my word, if they see you, you are a lost man. 
 
 Label. Never fear me, the blue-jackets, bless you, if they were to 
 catch hold of me, I should run off and leave a can of flip in their 
 hands; now what do you think of that 7 
 
 Gil. Why I think of the two, the flip would be far the most desir- 
 able ; but if you will go, why, a good night to you, and a happy 
 escape. 
 
 Label. All the same thanks to you for your intelligence ; press mo, 
 bless you they’d sooner take my physic than me: no, no, I’m a privi- 
 leged man — good-night, good-night. [Exit, r. 
 
 Gil. That fellow has killed more people than ever I saw ; how he 
 looks his trade ; whenever I behold him, he appears to me like a 
 long-necked pint bottle of rhubarb, to be taken at three draughts ; 
 but I must put all things to rights — here’s my master and Miss Lucy 
 will be here in a minute ; the house is full of customers, and it 
 threatens to be a boisterous night. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 11 
 
 Enter Reef, disguised in a large great coat, l. 
 
 Reef. I say young man, [Gilbert starts ,] why what are you start- 
 ing at ] 
 
 Gil. Nothing — only at first I didn’t know whether it was a man or 
 a bear. 
 
 Reef. Indeed — and which do you think it is now 'l 
 
 Gil. Why, upon my word, its a very nice distinction ; I can’t judge 
 Very well, so I’ll take you at your own word. 
 
 Reef. I’ve a little business here with a gentleman ; do you know 
 one Mr. Gwinett 1 
 
 Gil. Gwinett ! what, Ambrose Gwinett 1 
 
 Reef. The same. 
 
 Gil. Know him ! — I believe I do — a very fine, noble spirited, 
 
 Reef. Aye, that’s enough ; I want to see him — he's in the house. 
 
 Gil. No, indeed. 
 
 Reef. Would you tell me a lie now 1 
 
 Gil. Yes I would, if I thought it would answer any right purpose 
 I tell you he’s not in the house — and pray who are you 1 
 
 Reef. Who am 1 1 why — I’m — I’m — an honest man. 
 
 Gil. Aye, that’s so general a character ; couldn’t you descend a 
 little to particulars 1 
 
 Reef. I’ve a letter to Mr. Gwinett — its of great consequence. 
 
 Gil. Who does it come from 1 
 
 Reef. The writer. 
 
 Gil. Now it strikes me that this letter contains some mischief. 
 
 Reef. Why 1 
 
 Gil. Because its brought by so black looking a postman. 
 
 Reef. Will you deliver itl if, as you say, he’s not here, when he 
 comes 1 
 
 Gil. Deliver it 1 why I don’t mind, but if you’ve any tricks you 
 know. 
 
 Reef. Tricks, you lubber, give him the letter, and no more palaver. 
 
 [ Going. 
 
 Gil. Here. [Reef returns .] No — no matter — I thought you had 
 left your civility behind you. 
 
 Reef Umph ! [Exit, r. 
 
 Gil. I warrant me, that’s a fellow that never passes a rope maker’s 
 shop without feeling a crick in the neck. 
 
 Enter Lucy, l. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, Gilbert! 
 
 Gil. How now, Miss Lucy, you seem a little frightened or so 1 
 
 Lucy. Oh, no — not frightened, only hurried a little — is my uncle in 
 the house 1 
 
 Gil. Oh, yes — and has been asking for you these dozen times, — 
 here, by-the-by, is a letter for — but mum — here comes master. 
 
 Enter Mr. Collins, l. 
 
 Col. Well, Lucy child, where hast been all day, I havn’t caught s 
 dance of you since last night — what have you got there, Gilbert 1 
 
12 
 
 AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Gil. Where, sirl 
 
 Col. Why, there in your hand — that letter. 
 
 Gil. Oh — aye — it is a letter. 
 
 Col. For me 1 
 
 Gil. No, sir — it’s for master Ambrose Gwinett. 
 
 Col. Give it to me — I expect him here to-night. 
 
 Lucy. Expect master Ambrose here to-night, uncle 1 
 
 Col. Aye, standing at the door just now, his uncle told me that he 
 expected him at Deal to-day, but being compelled to be from home 
 until to-morrow, he had left word that master Ambrose should put 
 up here, and asked me to make room for him. 
 
 Gil. What here, master 1 why there’s not a corner — not a single 
 corner to receive the visit of a cat — the house is full to the very 
 chimney pots. 
 
 Col. Aye, as it is but for once, we must contrive — let me see — as 
 we have no other room, master Ambrose can take part of mine — so 
 bustle Gilbert, bustle, and see to it. 
 
 Gil. Yes, sir, yes. [Aside.] I’m sorry master’s got that letter 
 though ; it was an ugly postman that brought it, and it can’t be good. 
 
 [ Exit , l. 
 
 Col. Now, Lucy, that we are together. I would wish tc have some* 
 talk with you. You know, girl, I love you, as though you were my 
 own, and were sorrow or mischance to light upon you, I think ’twould 
 go nigh to break my heart. Now answer me with candor — you know 
 Grayling — honest Ned Grayling 1 why, what do you turn so pale at 1 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! uncle, I beseech you, name him not. 
 
 Col. Tut — tut — this is all idle and girlish — the man loves you, 
 Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. Loves me ! 
 
 Col. Aye ; Ned is not so sprightly and trim a lad as many, but he 
 hath that which makes all in a husband, girl — he has a sound heart 
 and a noble spirit. 
 
 Lucy. Possibly, I do not know. 
 
 Col. But you do know, and so does all the town know ; come, be 
 just to him if you cannot love him ; but for my part, I see not what 
 should prevent you becoming his wife. 
 
 Lucy. His wifel oh, uncle, if you have the least love— the least 
 regard for me, speak no more upon this theme — at least for the 
 present. I will explain all to morrow, will prove to you that my 
 aversion is not the result of idle caprice, but of feelings which you 
 yourself must sanction. In the mean while be assured I would rather 
 go down into my grave, than wed with such a man as Grayling. 
 
 Col. Eh ! why — what’s all this 1 Grayling has not — if he has — 
 
 Lucy. No, no, it is I who am to blame, for speaking thus strongly 
 —wait, dearest uncle — wait till to-morrow. 
 
 Col. Well, as it is not long, and the time will be slept out, 1 will, — ■ 
 but take heed, Lucy, and let not a foolish distaste prejudice you 
 against a worthy and honorable man. 
 
 Enter Amrose Gwinett and Gilbert, l. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 13 
 
 Gwin. Your servant, master Collins — I must, I find, be your tenant 
 for the night. 
 
 Col. And shall be welcome, sir ; come, Lucy, Gilbert, stir, and pre- 
 pare supper; there’s a rough night coming on I fear, and you might 
 fare worse, master Ambrose, than as guest at the Blake’s Head — 
 here, by the way is a letter for you. 
 
 [ Whilst Gwinett is reading the letter , the supper table is arranged , 
 and Collins sits down and begins counting some money. 
 
 Gwin. This is a most mysterious assignation. [Reads.] 14 If you 
 are a man, you will not fail to give me a meeting at twelve outside 
 the house, I have to unfold a plot to you which concerns not you 
 alone. — Yours, a friend.” [Whilst Gilbert and Lucy are off for 
 provisions. ] Master Collins, I may rise to-morrow morning ere any 
 of your good people are stirring, you will therefore not be surprised 
 to find me gone. 
 
 Col. But why so early 1 
 
 Gwin. A little appointment — I shall return to breakfast. 
 
 Col. Then go out by the back gate , but stop, as the latch is broken 
 in the inside, you had better take this knife [giving Gwinett a clasp 
 knife,] to lift it ; we shall wait breakfast until your return. 
 
 [Collins, Gwinett, and Lucy, seat themselves at table. Grayling 
 enters, takes a chair , and placing it between Lucy and Gwinett, 
 sits down. 
 
 Col. How now, master Grayling, you have mistaken the room. 
 Gray. Mistaken — how so 1 isn’t this the Blake’s Head 'l 
 Col. That may be ; but this is my private apartment. 
 
 Gray. Private ! then what does he here — Gilbert, some ale. 
 
 Gwin. [Aside.] The very ruffian I encountered in the wood. 
 
 Gray. [To Gwinett.] What are you'looking at man! I shall pay 
 my score — aye, every farthing o’t, though I may not dress as trimly 
 as some folks. 
 
 Col. Grayling, will you quit the room'* 
 
 Gray. No ! 
 
 Col. Then expect to lose 
 
 Gray. Lose ! and what can I lose 1 hasn’t he all that I could lose? 
 
 Col. What do you mean 1 
 
 Gray. Ask Lucy — the wood, Lucy, the wood. 
 
 Gwin. Wretch ! dare you beneath her uncle’s roof — 
 
 Gray. Dare 1 1 you have among you awakened the wolf within 
 my heart, and beware how it snaps. 
 
 Col. This is needless ; good Grayling leave us. 
 
 Gray. Good , and you think I am to be hushed with fair words like 
 a child, whilst he, that thief, for he has stolen from me all that made 
 life happy, whilst he bears away Lucy and leaves me mad and broken 
 nearted. 
 
 Col. He bear away Lucy — you are deceived. 
 
 Gray. No, you are deceived, old man — you are deceived ; but let 
 to-morrow show, I’ll not ’cumber your room, master Collins \ I leave 
 
14 
 
 AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 It to more gay visitors than Ned Grayling ; I leave it till lo-morrow — 
 good-night — good-night, gay master Gwinett, a pleasant night’s rest 
 — ha ! ha ! ha ! [Exit, l. 
 
 Lucy. Dear uncle, is not this sufficient excuse for my aversion. 
 
 Col. No matter, we’ll talk more of this to-morrow. Go to your 
 chamber, girl. [Music. — Lucy goes off , r.] And now, sir, we will tc 
 ours. [Music. — Exeunt, r. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Another Room in the Blake's Head. 
 
 Enter Gilbert, with lamp, r. 
 
 Gil. Well, I’ve looked all through the house, fastened the doors, 
 hung up the keys, and now have nothing to do but to go and sleep 
 until called up by the cock. Well I never saw love make so much 
 alteration in any poor mortal as in master Grayling — he used to be a 
 quiet, plain spoken civil fellow — but now he comes into a house like 
 a hurricane. I wonder what that letter was about. It bothers me 
 strangely — well, no matter — I’ll now go to bed — I’ll go across the 
 stable yard to my loft, and sleep so fast that I’ll get ten hours into 
 
 six. [Exit, l. 
 
 Enter Collins from c. d. in flat. 
 
 Col. A plague take that doctor, he has bound my arm up rarely — 
 scarcely had I got into bed, than the bandage falling off, the blood 
 gushed freshly from the wound ; if I can reach Gilbert, he will assist 
 me to stop it — or stay, had I not better return to master Gwinett, 
 who as yet knows nothing of the matter 'l no, I’ll even make my way 
 to Gilbert, and then to bed again. [Exit, l. 
 
 Enter Gwinett, from door in flat. 
 
 Gwin. I have armed myself — and am determined to meet the ap- 
 pointment ; if there be any foul play intended, they will find me pre- 
 pared, if not, the precaution is still a reasonable one — the latch is 
 broken, said the landlord, the knife however will stead me. [Exit, r. 
 
 [Collins cries without, “ Murder ! murder l within — Lucy! Gilbert! 
 
 murder! murder!" — Lucy screams without, and rushes through 
 
 door in flat, then runs on exclaiming — 
 
 Lucy. Oh, heaven ! my uncle’s murdered ! 
 
 Servants and, others run on, R. 
 
 Omnes. What say you, murdered ! where 1 — how 1 
 
 Lucy. I know not — hearing his cries, I rushed into his room — he 
 was not there, but his bed was steeped in blood. 
 
 Enter Grayling and Gilbert, l. 
 
 Gray. What cries are these 1 master Collins murdered ! where is 
 Gwinett 1 
 
 Lucy. Alas ! oh, heaven — he is — 
 
 Gray. Ah 1 let search be made. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 16 
 
 Enter Gwinett, r. 
 
 Gray. He is the assassin. 
 
 Gwin. Villain! [Rushes at Grayling — they struggle ; Grayling 
 wrenches a knife from Gwinett’s grasp ; his coat flies open, and the 
 handkerchief stained^ with blood, falls Out. 
 
 Gray. Ah ! this knife- 
 
 Lucy. It is my uncle’s 
 
 Gray. Your uncle’s — behold the murderer ! 
 
 Gwirett stands petrified with horror , Lucy shrieks and turns away 
 from him; Gilbert picks up the handkerchief stained with blood, 
 and holds it at one side of Gwinett, whilst Grayling on the other, 
 points to the knife with looks of mingled detestation and revenge. 
 — Characters form themselves at back, $c. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 AC T II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Outside view of the Sessions' House. 
 
 Enter Gilbert and Jenny, l. 
 
 Gil. Come along, Jenny, come along ; it will be all over in a few 
 minutes. 
 
 Jenny. Oh what a shocking thing ! Master Gwinett tried for mur- 
 der — I’d lay my life he’s innocent. 
 
 Gil. Why I don’t know what to think ; matters stand very strong 
 against him — but then he looks as freshly, and speaks as calmly — no, 
 he can’t be guilty — and yet the knife, and my master’s bed filled with 
 blood — and then, where is my. poor master 1 every search has been 
 made for the body, and all in vain. If Gwinett be guilty 
 
 Enter Grayling fro r m Sessions' House, l. 
 
 Gray. If he be guilty — who can doubt his guilt 1 
 
 Gil. Those, master Grayling, who do not let their hate stand in the 
 light of their clear judgment. This is, I warrant me, a rare day of 
 triumph for you. 
 
 Gray. Aye, and ought to be to every honest man; ’tis for rogues 
 to be sad when rogues are caught. 
 
 Gil I dare say now you think this will serve your turn with Miss 
 Lucy. 
 
 Gray. Perhaps I do, and what then! 
 
 Gil. What then ! why, then, you overcount your profits. Take my 
 simple word for it, she hates you ! hates you as much as she loves 
 
16 
 
 AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Gray. Her uncle’s murderer, e!i 1 are not those the words 1 With 
 all my heart, I would rather have the deadly hate of Lucy Fairlove, 
 than the softest pity of Lucy Gwinett. Oh ! I thought there was a 
 world of mischief under the smooth face of the assassin ; had lie 
 struck for a deep revenge I could have pardoned him, for it might 
 have been my own fate — but to murder a man for gold ! for a few 
 pieces of shining dross — ’tis a crime to feel one touch of pity for so 
 base a miscreant. 
 
 Gil. Bless me ! ’tis all like a dream ; ’twas but yesterday, and we 
 were all as happy as the best. 
 
 Gray. Aye, it was but yesterday when the gay trim master Ambrose 
 scorned and contemned me ! but yesterday, and Lucy hung upon his 
 arm ! and to-day — ha! ha! ha! — I stood against him at the fatal har- 
 as I passed, his brow blackened and his lips worked — his eyes shot 
 the lightninga of hate upon me — at that moment my heart beat with 
 a wild delight, and I smiled to see how the criminal shrunk as I told 
 the tale that damned him — to see him recoil as though every word I 
 uttered fell like a withering fire upon his guilty heart. [A scream is 
 heard from Ihe Sessions’ House.] Ah ! the trial is ended. 
 
 A Neighbor comes from the Sessions’ House — Grayling runs to him. 
 Say — the prisoner 
 
 Neigh. Guilty. 
 
 Gray. And no hopes of mercy 1 
 
 Neigh. None. 
 
 Gray. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Music. — Enter Neighbors from the Court with Officers guarding 
 Gwinett, l. 
 
 Gwin. Good people there are I see many among you whose tears 
 bespeak that you think me guiltless — may my soul never reach yon 
 happy sphere, if by the remotest thought it ever yearned for blood : 
 — circumstances — damning circumstances have betrayed me : I con- 
 demn not my judges — farewell, for the few hours I dwell among me t, 
 let me have your prayers; and when no more, let me, I pray, live in 
 your charitable thoughts. When time (for I feel it one day will) shall 
 reveal my innocence — should ought remain of this poor frame, let it 
 I beseech you, lie next my mother’s grave, and in my epitaph cleanse 
 my memory from the festering stain of blood — farewell, — Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy. [Rushing on and falling into his arms.] Ambrose — 
 
 Offi. [Aside to Grayltng.J Grayling, you, as smith for the prison, 
 must measure the culprit for bis fetters. 
 
 Gray. Measure”? 
 
 Offi. Aye ! it is the sentence of the court that the prisoner be hung 
 in chains. 
 
 Gray. Indeed ! 
 
 Offi. The office is doubtless an ungrateful one ; being a fellow 
 townsman you needs must feel for him. 
 
 Gray. No — no — yes — yes — but duty you know, sir, [seeing Lucy 
 still in Gwinett’s arms.] but if they stand leave-taking all day, I 
 shall have no time to finish the work. [Officer motions Gwinett. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 17 
 
 Gwin. I attend you, sir, farewell Lucy — heaven bless and protect 
 you. [Rushes off followed by Officers , $c., p. s. 
 
 Lucy. Gone, to prison — death — no they cannot, dare not fulfil the 
 dreadful sentence — he is innocent! innocent as the speechless babe — 
 the whole town believes him guiltless — they will petition for him, and 
 if there be mercy upon earth he must yet be saved — [seeing Gray- 
 ling] — G rayling! oh Grayling — your evidence has betrayed him — but 
 for you he had escaped — whilst you spoke — whilst at every word you 
 nttered my blood ran cold as ice, I prayed (heaven pardon me) prayed 
 that you might be stricken dum ; but he, even he who stood pale and 
 withered at the bar must have fell, far above you as man above a 
 worm. 
 
 Gray. I spoke the truth, the truth of facts. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, but urged with malice, wholly devilish — but oh Gray- 
 ling — all shall be forgiven — all forgotten — strive but with me to 
 awaken mercy in the hearts of his judges — strive but — ah no — I 
 see in that stone-like eye and sullen lip, that the corse of Ambrose 
 (his corse ! my heart will burst) that to you his death knell would be 
 music, for then you would no longer fear his marriage chimes. 
 
 Gray. I meddle not with the course of law, Lucy Fairlove. 
 
 Lucy. Hard-hearted man — but you carry with you your own tor- 
 ment, a blighted conscience — alas, why do I stand raving to this 
 heartless being — the time wears on — to-morrow — oh ! what a world 
 of agony is in that word, let me still pronounce it, that I may cease- 
 lessly labor in the cause of misery — but if relentless law demands its 
 victim, the grave! the grave ! be then my place of rest. [ Exit , r. 
 
 Gray. Oh Lucy ! — what a wretch am I, to stand like a heartless 
 monster unmoved by every touch of pity — it was not once so — once — 
 but my nature’s changed, all feelings, save one, are withered ; love 
 has turned to hate, a deep and settled hate, I feel it craving for its 
 prey ! now to let it feed and triumph on my rival’s pains ! [Exit, r. 
 
 SCENE II. — A view of the country. 
 
 Enter Label, l. 
 
 Label. So far safe ; egad Gilbert’s advice was not altogether un- 
 necessary, for I’ve had to keep up a running account for these five 
 miles — eh — what a crowd of people are coming here. 
 
 Enter 1st Villager, r. 
 
 Why, my friend, you seem in haste. 
 
 lstf Vil. Haste ! yes, I wouldn’t lose the sight for the world. 
 
 Label. Sight ! what sight 7 
 
 l*i Vil. What, don’t you know? [Looks at him contemptuously.] 
 Then my service to yon. [Exit, l. 
 
 Label. This is highway politeness, and to a man of my profession — 
 eh ! — thank heaven here comes one of the other sex — its hard if I 
 don’t get an answer now. 
 
 Enter Mary Rosely, r. 
 
 Well my pretty maid, are you going to see the sight 1 
 
i8 
 
 AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Mary. The sight ! oh, bless you, sir, — no, not for the world. 
 
 Label. What, then you have no curiosity. 
 
 Mary. Curiosity, sir, — do you know what sight it is 
 
 Label. No, will you tell me 7 
 
 Mary. Why, sir; it’s— it’s — it’s [sobbing,] oh, such a good young 
 man. 
 
 Ijabel A good young man, is that such a sight among you 1 
 
 Mary. Oh, no sir — not that — and yet there was nobody but loved 
 him. 
 
 Label. Nobody but loved him — i’faitli if they’ve all such pretty 
 faces as you, he must have had a fine time of it — but what’s the 
 matter with him — is he going to be married — is he dying — or dead 'l 
 
 Mary. No, sir. not yet. 
 
 Label. Well, then, never take on so — he’ll get over it. 
 
 Mary. Oh no, sir, he’s sure to die — the judges have said so. 
 
 Label. The judges — what, the doctors ! ah, my dear, I know, by 
 myself, that the doctors are frequently no great judges — what’s his 
 complaint 1 
 
 Mary. Complaint, sir, why they say he’s murdered a man. 
 
 Label. Murdered a man! that’s a fatal disease with a vengeance. 
 
 Mary. But it’s false, sir, a wicked falsehood — he murder — why, sir, 
 he was the best, the kindest young man in all these parts — there was 
 nobody but loved poor Ambrose 
 
 Label. Ambrose ! why you don’t mean Ambrose Gwinett ! 
 
 Mary. Oh yes, sir, that’s his name. 
 
 Label. And who do they say he’s murdered 1 
 
 Mary. Master Collins. 
 
 Label. Collins! [aside,] the devil; there may be some of my marks 
 found upon him — and — and what have they done with the body 1 
 
 Mary. That can’t be found any where ! it’s supposed that Ambrose 
 
 no, no, not Ambrose, but the villains that did the horrid act, 
 
 threw the body into the sea. 
 
 Label. Ah ! very likely — I begin to feel very uncomfortable — well, 
 go home, my good girl, go home. 
 
 Mary. Home ! no that I won’t ; I’ll go and see if I can’t comfort 
 poor Miss Lucy. [Exit, l. 
 
 Label. I’m puzzled, the body not to be found ; if I go and tell all 
 that I know — inform the judges that I bled master Collins, perhaps 
 they may secure me, and by some little trick of the law, make me 
 accompany master Gwinett — again, allowing I should get clear off, 
 the tale might occasion some doubt of my skill, and so my trade 
 would be cut up that way — no, no, better as it is, let the guilty suffer, 
 and no more said about it — it will all blow over in a week or two. 
 That same Gwinett, for all he used to laugh and joke so gaily, had I 
 now begin to remember a kind of hanging look — he had a strange, 
 suspicious — but bless me when a man falls into trouble, how, soon we 
 begin to iecollect all his bad qualities. I declare the whole country 
 seems in a. bustle — in the confusion I may get off without notice — ’tis 
 the vvisest course and when wisdom comes hand-in-hand with profit, 
 he’s a fool indeed that turns his back upon her. [Exit. r. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 10 
 
 Enter Blackthorn and Will Ash. 
 
 Black. Tut, tut — all trifling I tell you — all the fears ol a foolish 
 girl — come, come, Will Ash, be a man. 
 
 Ash. That’s what I would be, master Blackthorn, but yc a will not 
 iet me — I would be a man, and return this same bag of money. 
 
 Black. And get a prison for your pains. 
 
 Ash. But the truth — 
 
 Black. The truth ! it is too dangerous a commodity for us to deal 
 in at present — we know we picked it up a few paces from the Blakes’ 
 Head, doubtless dropped from Collins in his struggle with the mur- 
 derers — but how are we to make that appear— our characters, Will 
 Ash, are not altogether as clear as yonder white cloud, they are 
 blackened a little ever since that affair with the Revenue Officers — 
 you know we are marked men. 
 
 Ash. Yes, but unjustly so ; lam conscious of my innocence. 
 
 Black. Yes, and a man may be hanged in that consciousness — be 
 hanged as I say, and leave the consciousness of his innocene, as food 
 and raiment for his helpless family. 
 
 Ash. Oh ! 
 
 Black. You are in no situation, Will Ash, to study niceties — when 
 your children shriek “ Bread ” within your ears, is it a time for a 
 man to be splitting hairs, and weighing grains of sand ? 
 
 Ash. Do not, Blackthorn, do not speak thus ; for in such a case it 
 is not reason, but madness that decides. 
 
 Black. Even as you will, I speak for your own good. 
 
 Ash. I am assured of it, and could I satisfy myself 
 
 Black. Satisfy ! why you may be satisfied — the men who killed 
 Collins, doubtless did it for his gold — they were disappointed, and 
 instead of the money going to villains and blood-shedders, it has 
 fallen into the htands of honest men. 
 
 Ash. Honest— aye, if we return it. 
 
 Black. No, then it would be fools, upon whom fortune had thrown 
 away her favors — Collins is dead ! mountains of gold could not put 
 life — no, not even into his little finger — what good then can come of 
 returning the bag, and what harm to the dead or to the world, by our 
 keeping it ? 
 
 Ash. You speak rightly, a little reasoning 
 
 Black. Aye, a little reasoning as you say, does much in such mat- 
 ters. 
 
 Ash. And yet the greatest rogues may commit crimes with as fair 
 a show ot necessity — ’tis not Blackthorn — -’tis not in the nature of 
 guilt to want an excuse. 
 
 Black. Away with all this— will you be a man ? 
 
 Ash. [After a moment's struggle.] I will — come Avliat will, I’ll 
 return the gold — farewell. [is going off when child runs in , r. 
 
 Child. Oh father ! father, all is lost. 
 
 Ash. Lost? 
 
 Child. Yes, our cruel landlord has seized on every thing, mother 
 and my little sisters, Jane and Ann, all driven out, must have slept in 
 lie fields, if farmer 
 
20 
 
 AMBROSE G WIN EXT. 
 
 Ash. Oh, heavens . my wife and children homeless, starving out- 
 casts — and I no help 
 
 Black. No help! yes the bag — the gold! 
 
 Ash. Ah ! — yes ! — it must, it shall be done ! the husband and the 
 parent’s tugging at my heart — oh ! be witness heaven ! and pardon, 
 pardon the frailties of the man in the agony of the father — come, 
 child, your mother and your sisters, though the trial be a hard one, 
 yet shall smile upon the oppressor. [Exeunt, r. 
 
 SCENE III. — Inside of Prison. 
 
 Enter Grayling ; he has with him an iron rod. 
 
 Gray. So now for my task ; this is a day of triumph for me ; I 
 could have dressed myself as for a holiday ; this Gvvinett once dead 
 who knows how time may work upon Lucy ; perhaps I had rather 
 the gang had seized and torn the lad away — but they deceived me — 
 they took my money for the service, and have never since shewn 
 themselves ; after all it may be better as it is — Gwinett might have 
 regained his liberty — have returned — there’s no marrying with the 
 dead — no, ’tis best — much the best. 
 
 Enter Bolt, the Gaoler , l. 
 
 A good-day to you, master Bolt. 
 
 Bolt. A good-day. You are late, master Grayling — you will have 
 scarcely sufficient time to perform your task. 
 
 Gray. Oh, plenty — 1 have an old set of chains in hand ; an hour’s 
 work will make them fit for any body — so let me at once measure the 
 prisoner. 
 
 Bolt. The prisoner ! do you not know that there are two to suffer 1 
 
 Gray. Two ! 
 
 Bolt. Aye ; we have to day received an order that “ Mad George," 
 as he is called, who was last Sessions convicted for shooting an 
 Exciseman, is to suffer with poor Ambrose Gwinett. 
 
 Gray. Poor Ambrose Gwinett — you are mightily compassionate, 
 master Bolt. 
 
 Bolt. Why, for the matter of that, if a man’s a gaoler, I see no 
 reason why his heart should be of a piece with the prison wall. 
 
 Gray. But is he not an assassin ? — a midnight murderer'? 
 
 Bolt. True; and yet I cannot but doubt — I do not think a man with 
 blood upon his head, could sleep so soundly and smile so in his 
 slumbers, as does master Gwinett ; the whole country feels for him. 
 
 Gray. Aye, it is the fashion now-a-days — let a knave only rob an 
 orchard, and he’s whipped and cried at for a villain — let him spill 
 blood, and its marvellous the compassion that awaits him. 
 
 Bolt. Why, how now, master Grayling 1 once you would not have 
 talked in this manner — you had one time a heart as tender as a girl’s 
 — I have seen you drop a tear upon the hand of a prisoner, as you 
 have fitted the iron upon it. Methinks you are strangely changed of 
 late. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 21 
 
 Gray. I am — no matter for that — let me to my work, for time 
 speeds in. 
 
 Boli. Well, you can first begin with mad George. 
 
 Gray. And why not with Gwinett 1 — with Gwinett, I say, the mur- 
 derer 1 
 
 Bolt He’s engaged, at present, taking leave of poor Lucy Fairlove; 
 eh ! why what’s the matter with you 1 Why you start and shake as 
 though it was you that was going to suffer. 
 
 Gray. Well, well, delay no longer. 
 
 Bolt. [Calls without. J Holloa! Tom, bring poor George hither. 
 Poor fellow, he had begun to hope for pardon just as the warrant 
 came down. 
 
 Enter George and Turnkey, r. 
 
 Geo. Now, what further, good master Bolt 1 
 
 Bolt. Why, there is another little ceremony — you know the sentence 
 is 
 
 Geo. Aye, I remember, to be placed as a scarecrow to my brother 
 smugglers, — well, no matter, they’ll let me, I hope, hang over the 
 beach with the salt spray sometimes dashing upon me. and the sea- 
 gull screaming around. 
 
 Gray. Give me your hand, friend ; so, [shakes hands,] this is an 
 ugly task of mine, but you bear no malice 1 
 
 Geo. I never knew it when I was a free and happy man, and should 
 never feel it in my dying hour — and to prove to you that the fear of 
 death has not wasted my powers, — there, bend that arm before you 
 measure it — stronger men than you, I take it, have tried in vain. 
 [Grayling takes hold of George’s arm, and with a slight effort, bends 
 it.] Ah! there was but one man -who could do this — he who did it 
 when a boy — surely you are not — yes, it is — Grayling ! 
 
 Gray. Eli! George — George Wildrove — my earliest, my best of 
 friends. [They embrace.] Oh! and to meet you now, and in such a 
 
 place — and 1 — the wretch employed to 
 
 Geo. Nay, Grayling, this is weak — your task is not a free one, ’tis, 
 I know, imposed upon you — to the work, and whilst you measure the 
 limbs of mad George, the felon, think not, for I would not think of 
 him — think not of George Wildrove, the school-boy. 
 
 [Mustc. — Grayling, after a struggle, advances to George — he turns 
 up one of his sleeves, and is about to measure the arm, when his 
 eye falls upon George’s wrist. 
 
 Gray. [Starting back with horror.] No, no, not if these prison 
 walls were turned to gold, and I by fulfilling this hateful task, might 
 become the whole possessor, I would not do it — as I have a soul, I 
 would not. 
 
 Geo. What new alarm 7 What holds you 1 
 Gray. Your wrist, George. 
 
 Geo. Well 1 
 
 Gray. Do you not see 'l 
 Geo. What 1 
 
22 
 
 AMBROSE G WIN EXT. 
 
 Gray. That scar — .n that scar I read the preservation of my life- 
 alas ! now worthless — can I forget that the knife aimed at my heart 
 struck thsre — there — - 
 
 Geo. Oh, a schoolboy frolic, go on, good Ned. 
 
 Gray. Never ! Oh, George, I am a wretch, a poor forlorn discarded 
 wretch — the earth has lost its sweetnesss to me — I am hopeless, aim- 
 less — I had thought my heart was wholly changed to stone — I find 
 there is one — one pulse left, that beats with gratitude, with more than 
 early friendship. 
 
 Bolt. Come, master Grayling, you know there is another prisoner. 
 
 Gray. Ah !, I had forgotten — gaoler, chains for this man, to be made 
 an Emperor, I could not forge — if you will, say so to the governor ; 
 for the other prisoner, I’ll work — oh. how I’ll toil — but come a moment, 
 George — let my heart give a short time to friendship, ere again ’tis 
 vielded up to hate. [Exeunt Grayling and George, l. 
 
 Enter Ambrose Gwinett, r. 
 
 Gwin. I feel as if within these two days, infirm old age had crept 
 upon me — my blood is chilled, and courses through fny veins with 
 lazy coldness — my brain is stunned — my eyes discern not clearly — my 
 very hair feels grey and blasted ; alas ! ’tis no wonder, I have within 
 these few hours been hurled from a throne of earthly happiness — 
 snatched from the regions of ideal bliss — and cast, bound and fettered 
 within a prison’s walls — and my name — my innocent name, stamped 
 in the book of infamy — oh ! was man to contemplate at one view the 
 evil he’s to suffer, madness would seize on half his kind — but misery, 
 day by day works on, laying at intervals such weights upon us, which, 
 if placed at once would crush us out of life. — Ah ! the gaoler ! 
 
 Bolt. A good day to you. master. Ambrose. 
 
 Gwin. “Good-day” friend! let good days pass between those 
 happy men who freely may exchange them beneath the eye of heaven 
 “ Good-day” to a wretch like me ! it has a sound of mockery. 
 
 Bolt. And yet believe me, sir, I meant not so. 
 
 Gwin. I am sure you did not. It was my own waywardness tha; 
 misconstrued you — I am sorry— pardon me, good man — and if you 
 would yield a favor to a hapless creature, now standing on the brink 
 of the grave, leave me — I fain would strive to look with calmness into 
 that wormy bed wherein I soon must lie. 
 
 Bolt. Poor fellow, he forgets — but good master Gwinett — 
 
 Gwin. Well — be quick — for my minutes are counted — I must play 
 the miser with them. 
 
 Bolt. Do you not remember the sentence ? 
 
 Gwin. Remember! 
 
 Bolt. But the whole of it? 
 
 Gwin. The oh, heavens, the thoughts like fire flash into my 
 
 brain. I had forgotten — there is no — no grave for me. 
 
 j Halt Poor fellow, I could almost cry to look at him. 
 
 Gwin. Well, what does it matter; it is but in imagination — nothing 
 more. 
 
 Bolt. That’s right — come, look boldly on it. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 2a 
 
 Gwin. Where is the place, that — my heart swells as it would burst 
 its prison — the — you understand. 
 
 Bolt. Why, at the corner of the meadow, just by One-Tree Farm. 
 
 Gwin. [ With great passion .] What ! — at — oh ! — if there be one 
 touch of mercy in my judges’ hearts, I beseech, [throws himself at 
 Bolt' s feet,] I implore you — any other spot but there — there — 
 
 Bolt. And why not there, master Ambrose 1 
 
 Gwin. Why not! — the cottage wherein I was born Loksout on the 
 place — many a summer’s day, when a child, a little happy child, 
 close by my mother’s side, my hand in her’s, I have wandered there 
 picking the wild flowers springing up around us — oh! what a multi- 
 tude of recollections crowd upon me — that meadow — many a summer’s 
 night have I with my little sisters, sat waiting my father’s coming — 
 and when he turned that hedge, to see his eyes, how they kindled up, 
 when the happy shout burst from his children’s lips — ah ! his eyes 
 are now fixed closely on me — and that shout is ringing in my ears ! 
 
 Bolt. Come, come, be more composed. 
 
 Gwin. Ther^I cannot die in peace ; in one brief minute I should 
 see all the actions of my infant life, as in a glass — there, there, I can- 
 not die — is there no help 1 
 
 Bolt. I’m afraid, sir, none: the judges have quitted the town but 
 banish these thoughts from your mind — here comes one that needs 
 support even whilst she strives to comfort others. 
 
 Enter Lucy, r. 
 
 Lucy. Oh! dearest Ambrose — is there no hopel 
 
 Gwin. Hope, Lucy, none — my hour is at hand, and the once happy 
 and respected Gwinett, will ’ere sunset die the death of a felon ! a 
 murderer! a murderer! — Oh, heavens! to be pointed, gazed at 
 executed as the inhuman, heartless assassin — the midnight blood- 
 shedder ! 
 
 Lucy. Bloodshedder ! oh, Gwinett. 
 
 Gwin. But tell me, dearest Lucy, what say my fellow townsmen of 
 the hapless Ambrose ; do they all, all believe me guilty I 
 
 Lucy. Oh, no — some there are who, when your name is mentioned, 
 sigh and breathe a prayer for your deliverance, — and some 
 
 Gwin. Aye, there it is, they class me with those desperate wretches, 
 who — oh, would the hour were come — I shall go mad — become a 
 raving maniac : what a life had my imagination pictured ! blessed 
 with thee Lucy. I had hoped to travel onward, halting at the grave, 
 an old grey headed happy man, and now, the scaffold — the execu- 
 tioner — can I think upon them, and not feel my heart grow palsied, 
 my sinews fall away, and my life’s breath ebb — but no, I think, and 
 still I live to suffer. 
 
 Lucy. There yet remains a hope — your judges are petitioned, they 
 may relent — then years of happiness may yet be ours. 
 
 Gwin. Happiness — alas, no; my very dreams are but a counter- 
 part of my waking horrors. Last night, harrassed, I threw me down 
 to rest — a leaden slumber fell upon me, and then I dreamt, Lucy, that 
 thou and I had at the altar sworn a lasting faith. 
 
24 
 
 AMR ROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Lucy. Did you so? Ambrose did you so? — Oil! ’tis a happy 
 presage ; the dream was sent from heaven to hid you not despair. 
 
 Gwin. It was, indeed, a warning dream; hear the end. We were 
 at the altar’s foot, girt round by happy friends, and thou smilest — oh. 
 my heart heat quickly with transporting joy, as with one hand clasp- 
 ing thine, I strove to place the ring upon thy finger — it fell — and 
 ringing on the holy floor, shivered like glass into a thousand atoms — 
 astonished, I gazed a moment on the glittering fragments, — but when 
 1 raised my head, thou wert not to he found — the place had changed 
 — the bridal train had vanished, and in its stead, I saw surrounding 
 thousands, who, with upturned eyes, gazed like spectres on me — I 
 looked for the priest, and in his place stood glaring at me with savage 
 joy, the executioner — I strove to burst away — my arms were bound — 
 I cast my eyes imploringly to heaven — and there above me was the 
 beam — the fatal beam — I felt my spirit strangling in my throat, ’twas 
 but a moment — all was dark. 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! heavens. 
 
 Gwin. Such was the forerunner of the coming horror — so will ten 
 thousand glut their eyes upon my misery — and then tie hangman — 
 
 [Lucy, who during the former and present speech of Gwinett. has 
 been growing gradually insensible; here shrieks out, and rushes 
 to him. 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! speak it not — think it not — my heart is broken. [Falls 
 into his arms. 
 
 Gwin. Wretch! fool that I am, thus forgetful in my miseries tc 
 torture this sweet sufferer. 
 
 Lucy. [ Recovering .] There is then no hope — no, think not to deceive 
 me, the terrible certainty frowns upon me, and every earthly joy fades 
 beneath the gloom ! I shall not long survive you — a short time to 
 waste myself in tears upon your grave. 
 
 Gwin. [Aside.] My grave! — oh madness! even this last solace is 
 deprived me — she’ll never weep o’er me — uever pluck the weeds 
 from off my tomb — but if she’d seek the corse of Gwinett — there ! 
 hung round with rattling chains, and shaking in the wind, a loath- 
 some spectacle to all men — there she must, shuddering, say her fitful 
 prayer. Oh ! I’m prenzied, mad, — Lucy thus distracted locked in 
 each other’s arms, we’ll seek for death. [ They embrace. 
 
 Music. — Enter Bolt and Grayling, r.; Grayling on seeing Gwinett 
 and Lucy, is about to rush down upon them , when he is held back 
 by Bolt : he at length approaches Gwinett, who, on beholding him , 
 staggers back with horror — Grayling folds his arms and looks at 
 Gwinett with an eye of malice. 
 
 Gwin. Wretch! monster! what do you here? come you to glut 
 your vengeance on my dying pangs ? 
 
 Gray. Were there no wretches — no monsters — no bloodsuckers, 
 look you, there need no prison smiths ; chains and fetters are not made 
 for honest men. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 25 
 
 Lucy. Grayling, if e’er you felt one touch of pity, in mercy leave 
 us, cheat me not of one moment, with — 
 
 [Lucy lifts her hands imploringly to Grayling — his eye rests upon 
 the ring on her finger . ] 
 
 Gray. [ Passionately .] Thy husband 1 
 
 Lucy. Aye, my husband, I swore to be his and none but his — my 
 oath was taken when the world looked brightly on us both — the world 
 changed, but my oath remained ; and here, but an hour since, within 
 a prison’s walls, with none but bard-faced pittiless gaolers to behold 
 our wretched nuptials ; here I kept my vow — here I gave my hand to 
 the chained, the despised, the dying Gwinett ; and whilst I gave it, 
 whilst I swore to love and honor the outcast wretched felon, I felt a 
 stronger pride than if I’d wedded with an ermined king. [ Embracing 
 Gwinett ; Grayling, who , during this speech, is become quite over- 
 powered — by an effort rouses himself , exclaiming wildly — 
 
 Gray. Tear them apart, gaoler, tear them apart, I say. 
 
 Bolt. For shame ! for shame, master Grayling, have you no pity 'l 
 Gray. [Incoherently.] Pity — havn’t I to do my work — havn’t I to 
 
 measure the, culprit — havn’t I to 
 
 Gwin. Hold ! hold ! she knows not — spare her. 
 
 Gray. Spare ! and why should I spare 1 Hasn’t she wirled, des- 
 pised me 1 isn’t she Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, the wife of the murderer, 
 Gwinett 'l hasn’t she spoken words that pierced me through and 
 through 'l and why should I spare 1 — Felon, you know your sentence ; 
 
 come, let me measure you for the irons, that 
 
 Gwin. Wretch ! heartless ruffian ! 
 
 [As Grayling approaches Gwinett, he seizes the rod of iron held by 
 Grayling, and they struggle — Gwinett throws Grayling down , 
 and is about to strike him with the iron , when the prison bell tolls , 
 Gwinett’s arm falls paralyzed ; Grayling looks at him with mali- 
 cious joy ; Lucy sinks on her knees, raising her hands to heaven. 
 At this moment, a cry is set up without, “ a reprieve ! a reprieve P* 
 Officer , and neighbors enter l. Grayling springing on his feet, tears 
 the paper from the Officer's hand , Lucy at the same time exclaims , 
 
 “ A reprieve ! say— for Ambrose l ” 
 
 Offr. No ; for mad George ! 
 
 Gray. [Eagerly.] The murderer’s fate is— 
 
 Offr. Death! 
 
 [The prison bell again tolls, Lucy falls to the earth, Gwinett sinks 
 into a state of stupification, Grayling looks at him with an air of - 
 triumph! characters at the back lift iheir hands imploringly to 
 hearten and the scene doses.— 
 
 SND 07 ACT XL 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I .—The Blake's Head. 
 
 Enter Gilbert and Jenny, as landlord and landlady, l 
 
 Gil. I tell thee, Jenny, I can’t help it; ever as this day comes 
 round, I’m melancholy, spite of reasoning. 
 
 Jenny. Well, well; but it’s so long ago. 
 
 Gil. But not the less to be remembered — it is now eighteen years 
 this very day, since poor Ambrose Gwinett died the death of a mur- 
 derer ! — I’m sure he was innocent — I’d lay my life on it. 
 
 Jenny. But there’s no occasion to be so violent. 
 
 Gil. I tell you I can’t think with calmness and speak on it. A fine 
 open hearted youth, and see the end of it. Not one of his accusors 
 but is come to shame. Look at Grayling — Ned Grayling the smith — 
 don’t good folks shake the head, and the little children point at him 
 as he goes by — and then those two churls who scoffed at him, as he 
 was on the road to death — has either of them had a good crop since 7 
 havn’t their cattle died 7 — their hay-stacks took fire — with all kinds 
 of mischief falling on them 7 
 
 Jenny. Yes, and poor Lucy. 
 
 Gil. And there again ; Lucy, Gwinett’s widow, though almost bro- 
 ken hearted — doesn’t she keep a cheerful face, and looking smilingly, 
 whilst her husband’s accusors are ashamed to show their heads — I say 
 again, I know he was innocent. I know the true murderers will some 
 day be brought to light. 
 
 Jenny. I’m sure I hope they will; but in the mean time, we 
 musn’t stand talking about it, or no one will come to the Blake’s 
 Head. 
 
 Gil. Well, well ; I leave it all to you to day, Jenny I’m not fit to 
 attend to the customers. Ah ! good fortune has been showered upon 
 us — little did we think of seeing ourselves owners of this house ; but 
 I’m sure I’d walk out of it with a light heart, if it’s old owner, poor 
 Robert Collins, could but come back to take possession of it— but 
 that’s impossible, so we’ll talk no more of it. 
 
 Jenny. Well, I declare, this is all waste of time — we’ve the house 
 full of customers, and here we’re standing talking as — 
 
 Gil. You know we used to do Jenny, some eighteen years ago ; then 
 I was waiter and ostler here, and you were dairy maid at squire— 
 
 Jenny. Well, that’s all past, where is the use of looking back. 
 
 Gil. A great deal : when a man gets to the top of the hill by honest 
 industry, I say he deserves to be taken by the neck and hurled down 
 again, if he’s ashamed to turn about and look at the lowly road aloig 
 which he once travelled. 
 
 Jenny. Well, I did’t mean that. 
 
 Gil. No no, I know you meant no harm, Jenny — but you will talk— 
 Well I shall gb and take a rctand. 
 
AMBROSE GWrKETT. 27 
 
 Jenny. You’re going to the meadow, at One-Tree-Fram to mope 
 yourself to death. 
 
 Gil. Why perhaps I may take a turn that way — but I shall be back 
 soon — eh ! who’s this 'l 
 
 Jenny. Why it’s the servant of the rich old gentleman, from the In- 
 dies. 
 
 Gil. Oh ! — what, he in the Dolphin 7 
 Enter Label, dressed as a servant l. Jenny curtseys and exit, l. 
 
 Lable. Servant, sir, — you are the landlord. 
 
 Gil. Yes — hope your master slept well — I wasn’t at home last night 
 when you put up, or I should have paid my respects : — he’s from In- 
 dia I hear. 
 
 Lable. From India ! — and as rich, and as liberal as an emperor. 
 
 Gil. You’ve been some time in his service, I suppose 1 
 
 Lable. Some twelve years. 
 
 Gil. Has he any friends in these parts 1 
 
 Lable. He had when be left, or rather when he was dragged from 
 this country, some eighteen years ago. 
 
 Gil. Dragged from the country ! 
 
 Label. Yes pressed — he was taken on board ship at dead of night; 
 the vessel weighed anchor at day break — started for India — and there 
 my master, what with one and another piece of luck, got his discharge : 
 but I believe he wishes to see you. 
 
 Gil. I’ll attend him directly — and then I’ll go and take my melan- 
 choly round. [Exit. r. 
 
 Lable. Nobody knows me — no one sees the valet in the steward, the 
 late Lable, barber and doctor — and only think that I should meet with 
 Master Collins — a man who was thought murdered — alive and flourish- 
 ing in India — poor Gwinett — poor Ambrose — I have never had the 
 courage to tell my master that sad story — he little thinks that an in- 
 nocent man has been hanged on his account — somehow I wish I had 
 told him — and yet what would have been the use ; he couldn’t have 
 brought the dead man alive again, and it would only have made him 
 miserable. But now he can’t long escape hearing the whole tale, and 
 then, what will become of me — no matter ; I must put a bright face 
 upon the business, and trust to chances. [Exit, r. 
 
 SCENE II. — View of Deal — the Sea. 
 
 Enter Gwinett, l. — Graylin a following, carrying a portmanteau. 
 
 Gwin. Unless my memory deceives me, yonder must be our path. 
 
 Gray. That would have been the road once — but ’tis many years 
 since that was blocked up. 
 
 Gwin. I thought I could not be deceived. 
 
 Gray. Y ou are no stranger then to the town 7 
 
 Gwin. No; it is my native place — that is, I lived in it some years 
 ago. — Have you been long here 7 
 
 Gray. Ever since I was born. 
 
28 
 
 AMTKIOSF. GWINETT. 
 
 Gwin. And are doubtless well acquainted with the history of most 
 of its inhabitants. 
 
 Gray. Aye, history, yes, I have seen proud knaves grovelling in the 
 (lust, and poor industry raised to wealth. 
 
 Gwin. You, my friend, do not seem to have belonged to the fortu- 
 nate class. 
 
 Gray. No matter for that ; but, sir, take my word, you had bettor 
 not put up at the Blake’s Head. 
 
 Gwin. And why not 7 
 
 Gray. ’Tis full of company. The judges are now in the town to try 
 the prisoners. 
 
 Gwin. Prisoners ! you have, I trust, but few convictions — at least, 
 for very great offences — for murder now, or 
 
 Gray. Murder ! — no — ’tis eighteen years — eighteen years this very 
 day since 
 
 Gwin. [Abstractedly.] Eighteen years — it is — it is the day. 
 
 Gray. Oh, you remember it then. 
 
 Gwin. No, no ; to your story. 
 
 Gray. I was about to say it was eighteen years since the last exe- 
 cution for murder happened in these parts. 
 
 Gwin. And the culprit’s name was 
 
 Gray. [Fiercely.] Gwinett — Ambrose Gwinett — ha ! ha ! 
 
 Gwin. Were there not, if I remember rightly, some doubts of 
 Gwinett’s guilt 7 
 
 Gray. Doubts ! — there might have been among those who are 
 touched with a demure look; but no, he was guilty — guilty of the 
 murder — and I saw him die the death of an assassin. 
 
 Gwin. Pray was not part of his sentence by some means evaded 7 
 
 Gray. It was. 
 
 Gwin. I have heard but a confused account of the transaction. 
 
 Gray. [Eagerly.] I can tell you the whole — every word of it. He 
 was sentenced to be hung in chains — another that was to suffer with 
 him was pardoned ; so the murderer died alone. Never shall I forget 
 the morning. — Though eighteen years ago, it is now as fresh in my 
 memory as though it was the work of yesterday : I saw the last con- 
 vulsive struggle of the murderer — nay, I assisted in rivetting the iron- 
 on the corse — ’twas hung at the destined spot ; but, when morning 
 came, the body was not there. 
 
 Gwin. Was no inquiry instituted 7 
 
 Gray. Yes ; it was supposed the relations of the murderer had sto- 
 len the body to give it burial : the murderer’s uncle, and wife were 
 examined — but after a time, no further stir was made. — Curse upon 
 the trick, it cost me my bread. 
 
 Gwin. How so 7 
 
 Gray. Why I was the prison-smith — had the irons fitted the corso, 
 it must have been cut to pieces, ere it could have been removed. 
 
 Gwin. Gracious heavens ! your name is 
 
 Gray. Grayling — Ned Grayling — once a sound hearted happy man, 
 but now — come, sir, all the inns will be full. 
 
 Gwin. [Snatching the portmanteau from him.] Wretch! begone— 
 you serve me not. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 29 
 
 Gray . Wretch ! well, granted — it is true : I am a homeless, penny- 
 less, broken-hearted wretch! I have seen every earthly happinoss 
 snatched from me — I have sunk little by little, from an honest indus- 
 trious man, to the poor crawling, famishing, drunkard — I am become 
 hateful to the world — loathsome even to myself. You will not then 
 6ufi‘er me to be your porter l 
 
 Gwin. No ! begone. 
 
 Gray. Well, ’tis all one ; yet you might, I think, let a starving fel- 
 low creature earn a trifle. 
 
 Gwin. Starving l 
 
 Gray. I have scarcely broken bread these two days 
 
 Gwin. Unhappy creature — here — [ gives money — Grayling offers 
 to take portmanteau] — no, I will not trouble you. Go, get food, and 
 reform your way of life. [Exit, l. 
 
 Gray. Reform ! too late — too late. Had I the will, time would not 
 let me; a few months — nay, weeks, days — and the passenger may 
 pause at the lifeless corse of Grayling stretched in the highway. 
 Every eye looks scorn upon me — every hand shrinks at my touch — 
 every head’s averted from me, as though a pestilence were in my 
 glance. — Intemperance and fierce passion have brought upon me pre- 
 mature old age — my limbs are palsied, and my eyesight fails. — 
 What’s this, alms — alms — won by wretched supplication ! well, ’twill 
 buy me a short forgetfulness — oblivion is now my only happiness. 
 
 Black. You were wrong to let him pass you : had you but watched 
 my motions, he could not have escaped. 
 
 Ash. But in the day time 1 
 
 Black. Day time ! day is night if no one sees. He’s goue to the 
 Blake’s Head. 
 
 Ash. Aye, I never pass the door, but my heart beats and my knees 
 tremble. 
 
 Black. What ! hav’n’t eighteen years cured you of that trick 1 
 
 Ash. Cured me — that bag of money — that bag — ’twas the first thing 
 that turned me from the paths of honesty and grievously have I wan- 
 dered since. 
 
 Black. Still whining, still complaining, what good could the money 
 do to the dead 'l 
 
 Ash. And what good has it done us 1 but let’s not talk about it. 
 
 Black. That’s right, and now listen to me. We must have a peep 
 into that pormanteau. 
 
 Ash. Impossible ! 
 
 Black. Not so, we’ll to the Inn : whore can Grayling be 1 
 
 Ash. Not far off I warrant. 
 
 Black. Well, no matter, we can even do this job without him ; bul 
 one lucky hit and we are made men. 
 
 Ash. Aye, this has been your cry year after year — luck ! I think 1 
 see our luck in every tree, and in every rope. 
 
 [Exit, l. 
 
 Enter Blackthorn and Will Ash, r. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Black. Well, farewell, for the present, but meet me round the lane 
 leading to the back part of the house. 
 
 Ash. Round by the lane — no, that I can’t do : I must pass my wife 
 and children’s graves — I have not dared to look upon them this many 
 a day. 
 
 Black. You refuse then 1 
 
 Ash. No ; I’ll meet you, but for the path, that I’ll choose myself. 
 
 [ Exeunt , r. 
 
 SCENE III. — Interior of the Blake's Head. 
 
 Enter Lucy and Gilbert, l. 
 
 GH. Nay, but you must see him ; I promised you should. 
 
 Lucy. You were wrong, good Gilbert, I cannot see him. 
 
 Gil. No, ’tis you are wroug, Mrs. Lucy Gwinett, how do you know 
 but he may bring you good news 7 
 
 Lucy. Can he make the dead live again 1 Good news ! 
 
 Gil. Well, now for ray sake, see the gentleman. 
 
 Lucy. I cannot refuse you. Heaven knows what would have been 
 my fate, had I not found a friend — a protector in you. 
 
 Gil. You’ll see him then'? Ah, I knew you’d think better of it. 
 He’s a very pleasant kind of gentleman ; and asked after you so earn- 
 estly, that I am sure he cannot mean but kind. 
 
 Enter Grayling, abruptly, l. 
 
 Well, and what do you want 1 
 
 Gray. Aye, it’s ever thus. — Do you think I bring the plague into 
 your house, that you look so fiercely at me 7 
 
 Gil. I don’t know, but you do ! — Is there nobody here that you are 
 ashamed to gaze upon 'l 
 
 Gray. No ; I see nobody but you and Mrs. Lucy — I beg her pardon, 
 Mrs. Lucy Gwinett. 
 
 Gil. Villain! 
 
 Gray. Thou liest — stop — there was a time, when, at such a word, 
 I’d seen thee sprawling at my feet ; but now, I can’t tell how it is — I 
 cannot strike thee. 
 
 Gil. But I’ll tell you how it is — the title’s a just one — you feel it 
 sink into your heart — and your arm is palsied ; once more, leave my 
 house. 
 
 Gray. And why is my money not as good as a finer customer’s 1 
 why can’t you take my money 'l 
 
 [ During this scene , Blackthorn and Ash enter behind p. s. and ex- 
 eunt through door in flat, r. 
 
 Gil. Why, in truth, Grayling, I’m afraid ’tis gained by too foul a 
 business. 
 
 Gray. Ha ! ha ! the conscience of an innkeeper. 
 
 Gil. Grayling, leave the house; at any time I’d sooier look upon a 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 8] 
 
 field of blighted corn, than see you cross my threshold ; but on thii 
 day, beyond all 
 
 Gray. This day. — and why? [ Sarcastically , and looking at Luc*.] 
 oh, I had forgotten ; yes, it is the very day— 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! good Gilbert. 
 
 Gil. Stay but one moment longer, and as I am a man, I’ll send thee 
 headforemost into the street. 
 
 Gray. Fine words ! 
 
 Gil. We’ll try them. 
 
 [Gilbert is rushing at Grayling, when Lucy comes between them, 
 
 Gwinett enters hastily at this moment , and starts on beholding 
 
 Lucy ; Grayling sees Gwinett, exchanges a look af defiance with 
 
 Gilbert and Lucy, and goes sullenly off. p. s. 
 
 Gwin. [Aside.] ’Tis she ! oh, heavens ! all my dangers are repaid. 
 
 Gil. An unruly customer, sir, that’s all — I’ll take care he does not 
 disturb you. [To Lucy.] This is the gentleman who would speak to 
 you. 
 
 Lucy. Do not leave me. 
 
 Gil Nay, he has something he says to tell thee privately — I’ll be 
 within call. [Exit, s. 
 
 Gwin. [Aside.] Let me be calm, lest too suddenly the secret burst 
 upon her — she knows me not — time and peril have wrought this 
 change. 
 
 Lucy. You would speak to me, Sir? 
 
 Gwin. I would, Madam ; is there no one within hearing ? 
 
 Lucy. No one — but why such caution ? 
 
 Gwin. ’Tis necessary for the memory of one you once loved. 
 
 Lucy. Whom mean you ? 
 
 Gwin. Ambrose ! 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! in mercy speak not that name — I dare not breath it to 
 myself ; once loved — oh ! this agony — you probe into a breaking heart. 
 
 Gwin. But not recklessly, believe me. 
 
 Lucy. Alas, what avails this now — let the dead rest unspoken of— 
 break not the silence of my Gwinett’s grave. 
 
 Gwin. His grave ! 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! you wake a thousand horrors in my soul ; he has no 
 grave ; they stole him from me — they robbed the widow of her last 
 bitter consolation. 
 
 Gwin. Perhaps it was the deed of friends. 
 
 Lucy. Friends! — But to your errand, Sir, what would you say? 
 speak it quickly, lest my reason desert me, and you talk to mad- 
 ness : — I was told you brought me comfort, I smiled at the word ; if 
 seems my unbelief was right. 
 
 Gwin. 1 do bring you comfort — News of your husband. 
 
 Lucy. Ah ! perhaps, yes, I see it — you can tell me where they laid 
 his cold remains — can lead me to his grave, where I may find a re- 
 fuge too. — You weep, nay then I know your mission is one of kind- 
 ness — of charity to the widow of that unhappy guiltless soul, who died 
 a felon’s death on yonder hill. 
 
J 2 
 
 AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Gwin. I would speak of Ambrose— but, start not —he died not at 
 the hour men think. 
 
 Lucy. Died not 1 
 
 Gwin. As you loved your husband living, and weep him dead, I 
 charge you conjure up all the firmness springing from woman’s love, 
 nor let one sound or breath escape you to publish the sad history I’m 
 about to tell. 
 
 Lucy. I’m fixed as stone — should my husband rise before me, my 
 heart might burst, but not a cry should escape me. 
 
 Gwin. Many years after, the whole world believed him dead — your 
 husband lived. [ Lucy by a violent effort maintains her silence. ] You 
 know ’twas thought the body had been stolen for interment. — Listen, 
 I knew your husband — met him abroad : to me, he confided the secret, 
 of his escape ; to me, he described the frightful scene — the thronging 
 multitude— the agonies of death ! The dreadful ordeal past, the min- 
 isters of justice executed the remaining part of the sentence — tho 
 body was suspended in chains. Whether it was from the inexperi- 
 ence of the executioner, or the hurried manner in which the sad tra- 
 gedy was performed, I know not, — but your husband still lived — the 
 fresh airs of night blew upon him, and he revived — revived and found 
 himself hanging. — Oh ! my blood thickens as I think upon the torture 
 that was his — fortunately, the irons that supported him, hung loosely 
 about him ; by a slight effort he freed his limbs, and dropping to the 
 earth, hastened with all speed, to another part of the coast, took ship 
 and quitted England. 
 
 Lucy. [ Incoherently .] And I ! — I not to know of this — unkind. 
 
 Gwin. Often he strove to inform you — often wrote, but ne’er re- 
 ceived an answer, — twelve years ago he set out, resolved to dare all 
 hazards and seek you, when he was taken by the Moors and sold for 
 a slave — I knew him whilst a captive. 
 
 Lucy. And did he die in slavery — oh, your looks declare it — un- 
 happy wretched Gwinett, — but no, happy, thrice happy, he died not 
 on a scaffold. Did he hope you would ever see his miserable widow I 
 
 Gwin. He did, and gave me this locket — it contains your hair. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, give it me — oh, well do I remember when I saw it last, 
 Gwinett was gazing at it with tearful eyes, when the prison bell — oh, 
 that sound ! ’tis here still — I’m sick at heart. 
 
 \ Falls on Gwinett' s shoulder. 
 
 Gwin. Still she knows me not — how to discover myself ! — oh Lucy, 
 what a ruin has sorrow made of thee. 
 
 Lucy. [Reviving.] Ah ! — what was that 1 — no no, I wander — yes, it 
 is — [ recognizing him.] oh heavens, it is my husband ! 
 
 [Falls into his arms. 
 
 Gwin. Within there — 
 
 Enter Jenny, r. 
 
 Assist me to remove her — she will recover shortly— come, madam. 
 
 [Exeunt, r. 
 
 Enter Grayling cautiously, r. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 83 
 
 Gray. So ! no one here — I can see nothing of Blackthorn or IVill Ash, 
 well, all the better, I may be spared some mischief — and then how to 
 live I — live, can I call this life — a dreadful respite from day to day — 
 hunger and disgrace dogging my steps — what do I here 1 — there is a 
 charm that holds me to this spot, and spite of the taunts, the rebukes 
 that’s showered upon me I cannot quit it, nor ever whilst Lucy is — eh ! 
 who have we here ? 
 
 Enter Blackthorn and Will Ash cautiously from door in flat with 
 G winett ’ s portmanteau 
 
 Blackthorn ! — Ash ! 
 
 Black. [ Whispering.] Hush — not a word. 
 
 Gray. What have you there 'l 
 
 Black. Plunder, and good booty too I take it. 
 
 Gray. And what would you do with it % 
 
 Black. What ! — that question from Grayling ? — come let’s away. 
 Ash. We cannot — the portmanteau will be missed, and we instantly 
 pursued. 
 
 Black. Stay — is there no surer way — I have it — we’ll even shake its 
 contents a bit, and leave the trunk here — what say you, Grayling 'l 
 Gray. As you will — I’m fit for any work. 
 
 Black. Come then, and assist — [ Puts portmanteau on table ana open 
 it.] eh — he’s well provided — [Takes out a pair of pistols and puts 
 them on table.] Ah !— here’s gold — [Takes out purse. J Dos’t hear it 
 chink I — Grayling, come and assist, man. 
 
 Gray. [Approaching the table, and, recognizing portmanteau.] Hold 
 for your lives — you must not, shall not, touch this. 
 
 Black. Eh ! — how does the wind blow now 'l — and why not I pray 1 
 Gray. Anything but this — the owner this morning relieved my nec- 
 essities — hundreds passed and heeded not the outcast, famishing, Gray- 
 ling — he who claims this, gave me alms, and bade me repent — I am 
 a wretch, a poor houseless, despised wretch — yet villain as I am, there 
 is some touch of feeling left — my hand would fall withered did I at- 
 tempt to touch it. 
 
 Black Ah, this may be all very well. 
 
 Gray. Blackthorn — Ash — dare but to lay a robber’s hand on a sin- 
 gle doit, and I’ll alarm the house. 
 
 Black. Tush. 
 
 Gray To the trial then. 
 
 Grayling advances to table and seizes hold of part of the contents of 
 the portmanteau from the hand of Blackthorn — they struggle — 
 Blackthorn regains the purse and Grayling is about to pursue 
 him , when his eye falls upon a packet of letters that still remains 
 in his hand — he stands petrified — Blackthorn and. Ash are about 
 to go off at the opposite wings when Label and Gilbert come in from 
 behind, and each taking a pistol from, table, comedown and prevent 
 the escape of the robbers — Grayling in a state of agitation un- 
 mindful of every thing but the papers , which he hastily looks over. 
 Gil. So my brave fellows, here you are — three knaves between a 
 parenthesis of bullets. 
 
54 
 
 .AMBKUSK avv I. NETT. 
 
 Black. Why, what’s the matter'? it’s all a mistake. 
 
 Gil A mistake — yes, I suppose you intended to be a very honest 
 fellow, but by accident are become a convicted scoundrel. 
 
 Black. Well, — there’s the money — now we’re clear. 
 
 Gil. Clear ! — and you, Grayling, are you not ashamed l — do you 
 not fear the gallows l 
 
 Gray. [Madly.] Gallows ! — no, all was lost — good name — hopes — 
 happiness — but yet I had revenge — I hugged it to my heart — ’ids gone, 
 and Grayling has nought to live for. 
 
 Gil. Give me those papers. 
 
 Gray. Did I say revenge was gone ? — no, it rages again with re- 
 doubled fury — he shall not foil me — this time his death is sure. 
 
 Gil. Unhappy wretch — give me those papers. 
 
 Gray. Millions should not buy them, till they had served my pur- 
 pose — oh, it all bursts on my maddened brain — relieved — pitied by 
 him ! — 
 
 Gil. Grayling — yield ere your fate is certain. 
 
 Gray. Never ! 
 
 Gil. Call in assistance. [Label goes up stage and beckons on neigh- 
 bors, §c. Gwinett and Lucy come on. l.J There, secure the prisoner. 
 Gray. Aye — secure the prisoner. 
 
 Off. Which is he 1 
 
 Gil. There — Grayling the robber. 
 
 Gray. No— not Grayling the robber — but, there, Gwinett the con- 
 victed murderer. 
 
 Omnes. Gwinett 1 
 
 Gil. Gwinett ! — Ambrose Gwinett ! — it can’t be. 
 
 Gwin. It is even so, good Gilbert — though wonderful ’tis true. 
 
 Gil. He’s innocent — I knew he was innocent — good friends — kind 
 neighbors — let not this be spoken of — heaven has by a miracle pre- 
 served a guiltless man — you will all be secret — no one here will tell 
 the tale. 
 
 Gray. Yes — here, is one 
 
 Gil. You will not be that wretch. 
 
 Lucy. [Falling at Grayling’s/^.] Mercy! mercy! 
 
 Gray. Are you there, Lucy Gwinett — think of my agonies — my 
 hopes all blighted — my affections spurned — think of my sufferings for 
 eighteen years — look at me — can you kneel before the ruin which 
 your scorn has made — but now, now I triumph — seize upon the mur- 
 derer. [All indicate unwillingness .] Nay then, I will proclaim the tale 
 throughout the town. 
 
 [is rushing up stage , when Gilbert seizes him by the throat. 
 Gil. You stir not a foot — if a murderer must be hanged, it shall be 
 for strangling such a serpent. 
 
 Grayling and Gilbert struggle — Grayling throws Gilbert from 
 him , and with the rest of the characters following, rushes up the 
 stage. — As he is about to exit at back , the folding doors fly open , 
 and Collins, an old grey-headed man, presents himself at the en- 
 trance ; a general exclamation of “ Collins ” from all the charac- 
 ters who recoil in amazement. 
 
AMBROSE GWINETT. 
 
 Gray. See — his ghost, the ghost of the victim rises from the grave 
 to claim the murderer — I am revenged — I triumph — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Falls exhausted 
 
 Col. My friends — Lucy 
 Lucy. My uncle ! 
 
 Gwin. He lives ! he lives ! the world believes me innocent ! beholds 
 me free from the stain of blood ! 
 
 Gil. Master — oh ! day of wonders ! — the dead come back. 
 
 Col. Wonders, indeed ! Gwinett, ’tis but within this past half hour, 
 I have heard the story of your sufferings. 
 
 Gil. But tell me, master, how is this 'l dead ! and not dead, and — 
 Col Another time ; it is a tedious story, the night you thought me 
 killed, I had left my chamber to procure assistance to staunch a 
 wound — scarcely had I crossed the threshold, than I was seized by a 
 press-gang, and hurried but see to yon unhappy man. 
 
 They raise Grayling, who is dying ; his face is pale , his eyes set , 
 and his lips and hands stained as though he had burst a bloods 
 vessel. 
 
 Gray. [Seeing Collins.] There still — not gone yet 1 
 Col. How fares it now, Grayling 1 
 
 Gray. And speaks — lives — then Gwinett, Gwinett the husband of 
 Lucy — my Lucy, for I loved her first — is no murderer. 
 
 Lucy. Grayling. 
 
 Gray. Oh ! Lucy, that voice, my heart leaps to it — leaps to it as it 
 did — but all’s past ; Lucy, you will not curse me when I’m dead — 
 there are those who will — but let them — you will not r the earth is 
 sliding from beneath my feet — my eyes are dark — what are these 1 — 
 tears— Lucy’s tears ! — I am happy. [Sinks backward . 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Disposition of the characters at the fall of the curtain : 
 Neighbors. Collins. Label. 
 
 Blackthorn. Lucy. Grayling. Gilbert. Gwinett. Abb, 
 

 \ . 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
FRENCH'S STANDARD DRAMA 
 
 ST&e Acting ISUftfon. 
 
 No. CXCI. 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES 
 
 THE TRAVELERS BENIGHTED; 
 
 OR, THE BLEEDING NUN OF LINDENBERG. 
 
 §i,n Interesting Iprama, in ®frro ^tts. 
 
 BY MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. 
 
 Author of “ 7Vte Castle Spectre,'" “ Venoni “One O'Clock," “Ilugantino," fyc. 
 
 ro WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 A Description of the Costume — Cast of the Characters — Entrances and Exits— 
 Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and 
 the whole of the Stage Business. 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT THE 
 
 PRINCIPAL ENGLISH AND AMERICAN THEATRES. 
 
 New York : 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH & SON, 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 
 28 WEST 23d STREET. 
 
 London: 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 PUBLISHER, 
 
 89, STRAND 
 
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Costume . — [Raymond and Agnes.] 
 
 DON FELIX. — Brown Spanish doublet and breeches — rich spangled 
 cloak — russet shoes, with rosettes. 
 
 DON RAYMOND. — Light blue velvet and silver tunic — white vest 
 and tights — russet boots — ruff — sword — black velvet hat, with white 
 o&trich feathers. 
 
 THEODORE. — White kerseymere doublet, vest and pantaloons, trim- 
 med with blue satin and black velvet binding — sword — russet boots 
 — black hat and feathers. 
 
 CONRAD. — Yellow doublet, trunks and vest, trimmed with blue and 
 red binding — blue hose — russet boots — collar and hat to match. 
 
 BAPTIST A. — Brown tunic, vest and trunks — red hose — russet shoes 
 — gray wig — black hat and feathers — dagger, &c. 
 
 ROBERT. — Plum-colored ditto. 
 
 JAQUES. — Iron-gray ditto. 
 
 CLAUDE. — Bluejacket — yellow vest — leather breeches — large French 
 boots — glazed hat — hand whip. 
 
 MARCO. — Salmon-colored doublet, vest and trunks, trimmed with 
 blue and black binding, and bell buttons — blue hose — russet shoes 
 — collar — hat and feathers to match. 
 
 AGNES. — First dress: White satin slip, over a white leno dress — 
 white hat and and feathers — white satin shoes. Seeond dress: Same 
 as the Bleeding Nun. 
 
 CUNEGONDE. — Old-fashioned bottle-green dress, with point-lace 
 trimming — kerchief and apron — witches’-cut hat — high-heeled 
 shoes. 
 
 URSULA. — Monastic black dress, with a large white covering or cap 
 for the head. 
 
 MARGUERETTE. — Dark blue stuff body, petticoat, &c., trimmed 
 with red binding — dark shoes — a blue ribbon run through the hair. 
 
 THE BLEEDING NUN. — White muslin — beads, cross and dagger. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 L. means First Entrance , Left. R. First Entrance , Right. S. E. L. 
 Second Entrance , Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance , Right. U. E. L. 
 Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance , Right. C. Centre. 
 L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance , 
 1 .eft. T. E. R. Third Entrance , Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R 
 Door Right. D. L. Door Ijeft. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R 
 Upper Door , Right. 
 
 *** The reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 S^ENE I. — A Gothic Library. A table, with pens, ink, Sfc., c. 
 
 Music. — Don Raymond discovered, seated, c., reading — Theodore 
 attending , l. 
 
 Ray. Books — sweet companions of 'my retirement, equally my de- 
 light and solace — farewell ! the commands of a much-honored parent 
 tears me from you now. Ah ! shall I meet in that gay world com- 
 panions at once so innocent and so instructive 1 
 
 The. Oh, yes, sir; if you like, you may meet with whole folios of 
 them, perhaps to the full as innocent, and certainly much more enter- 
 taining. 
 
 Ray. What, than books, sirrah 'l 
 
 The. Yes, signor, living books; for instance, woman — -*that lovely 
 index, in which, though the student may sometimes discover a few 
 errata, yet he is always sure to find those beauties which compose that 
 sublime and wondrous work called nature. 
 
 Ray. Well said, Theodore; you improve, man. 
 
 The. Why, yes, signor ; converse with the ladies does improve a 
 man. 0’ my conscience, they can instruct better than your Homers, 
 Yirgils, Alexanders the Great, or any other of your heathen Greek 
 poets. 
 
 Ray. [Rising.] Hush ! here comes my father. 
 
 Music . — Enter Don Felix, r. 
 
 Eel. Raymond, my son, all is now in readiness for your departure; 
 the hour has arrived when, for the first time, you quit your paternal 
 roof without a guide, witho it a protector. 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 5 
 
 The. Then I am not to accompany my dear young signor I 
 
 Fel. Why, how now — what ails thee, knave I 
 
 The. Nothing, my lord; only I had a kind of moisture in my eyes, 
 and a strange sort of choking in my throat, that’s all. 
 
 Fel. Psha! Most certainly, Theodore, thou shalt accompany my 
 son. 
 
 The. Then, pray, signor, do not say Don Raymond will be without 
 a protector. I’m not sufficiently acquainted with the road we are go- 
 ing to he his guide, certainly ; but should he stand in need of protec- 
 tion, depend upon it, signor, I will give it him. 
 
 Fel. I thank thy honest zeal, Theodore; it shall not he forgotten. 
 [Giving Raymond a purse.] My son, here are two thousand pistolea 
 - — they will amply supply your wants for some months ; when they 
 are on the decline, fear not to draw upon me for /lore. 
 
 The. If he should, signor, I’ll put him in remembrance of it. 
 
 Fel. But I have one request to make, Raymond ; ’tis that you con- 
 ceal your name and diguity. As Raymond, Count de la Cisternas, 
 you would everywhere be received with respect and adulation; but 
 that attention would be paid to your rank, not to your worth. Now ; 
 as Alpnonso D’Alvarada — the name I mean you to assume — you must 
 rely upon your own merits for a favorable reception from the world. 
 
 Ray. I hope sir, I shall deserve your good opinion. Your com- 
 mands shall be religiously obeyed. 
 
 Fel. You alone, Theodore, shall accompany my son ; I can depend 
 upon your attachment and fidelity. 
 
 The. I have served him from my cradle, signor, and never yet failed 
 in my duty; and if you find me changed on our return, I will give 
 you leave to hang me up in a cage at the chateau, and show me as a 
 traveled monster. 
 
 Fel. No more professions; we waste time. The carriage waits 
 which is to bear you hence. Come, my son, you must away. 
 
 [Music. — Exeunt , r. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Street in Madrid. Large gates , leading to a convent , 
 l. 3 e. — a large hotel , with a balcony window over the door, r. s. e. 
 
 Enter Cunegonde and Conrad, r. 
 
 Cun. [c.] Holy St. Hilda! what a distressing journey have we had ! 
 I declare, the Baron and Baroness Lindenberg have no more respect 
 for the feelings of their friends than if they imagined they T were made 
 of rock marble ; while, heaven knows, I have not one grain of ada- 
 mant in my composition. [ Striking Conrad with her cane.] Why, 
 how you stand, lout ! Am I, after my r fatigue, to expire in the street 
 for want of refreshment I Why do you not knock at the door I 
 [Conrad goes towards the hotel, r.] Why, what are you about, sirrah I 
 Why do you not do as I order you 1 
 
 Con. [r.] I’m going, madam, if you’ll only give me time. 
 
 Cun. Holy St. Bridget ! did I bid you go to the hotel, sirrah 1 
 
 Con. You said you wanted refreshment. 
 
 Cun. Grant me patience ! and you thought I should go to a tavern 
 
G 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 for it 1 Do you imagine snch a place fit for the immaculate Cune- 
 gonde, principal domestic to the Baron and Baroness Lindenberg, and 
 governante to their niece, the young and beautiful Agnes 1 
 
 Con. I’m sure I do not know, madam. 
 
 Cun. Do not know ! Dolt ! knock at the gates of the convent. 
 
 Con. Yes, madam. [ Crosses , and knocks at the convent gates. 
 
 Enter Ursula, the Porteress , from the gates , l. .3 e. Cunegonde 
 and Ursula salute each other ceremoniously . 
 
 Cun. Holy sister, I wish to speak with the pious matron of St. Clare ; 
 deliver this letter to her, and inform her that I am deputed by the 
 Baron and Baroness Lindenberg to take home tlieir niece, the boarder 
 Agnes. • 
 
 Urs. The inhabitants of the convent are at present occupied in 
 some religious duties in honor of our patroness, the holy St. Clare. 
 If you will enter my apartment, as soon as they are finished you 
 shall be introduced to our pious mother. 
 
 Cun. Willingly, good sister. Follow us, Conrad. 
 
 Urs. Your pardon — the servant must not enter. I am shocked at 
 the idea of a man’s profaning, by his presence, our holy walls. 
 
 Cun. Holy sister, pardon my inexperience. I respect the purity of 
 your sentiments — ah ! how much they accord with my own ! [Conrad 
 being close at her elbow , r., she pushes him away.] Conrad, stand fur- 
 ther off, lest we should be contaminated by your touch ! Wait for 
 me iu the street. [ Exeunt Ursula and Cunegonde through the con- 
 vent gates — Conrad retires up, r. 
 
 Enter Don Raymond, r., followed by Theodore, carryinq a port- 
 manteau. 
 
 Ray. [l. c.J At length we are arrived in Madrid. Knock at the 
 door of that hotel — I wish for a little refreshment. 
 
 The. [Going to the hotel, r. s. e., and knocking at the door.] And 
 a large quantity would not be amiss for your faithful servant, Theo- 
 dore. They say sorrow is dry — mine has made me hungry, too. 
 
 Ray. And, pray, what grief weighs so heavy upon your spirits 1 
 
 The. Love, signor — love for my little black-eyed Annette. Ah ! 
 the very last time I met her, in the long cypress walk, by moonlight, 
 at the back of the chateau, she smiled, and said to me 
 
 Enter Marco from the hotel , r. s. e. 
 
 Mar. [r. c.] Who the devil was it that knocked at my door 1 
 
 The. [c.] Oh no, that was not what she said. 
 
 Ray. [l. c.J Landlord, I require some refreshment; and can you 
 obtain for me a guide to conduct us through the forest to the next 
 post I 
 
 Mar. Certainly I can, signor. If you will only give yourself the 
 trouble to walk into my house, I will place before you wine fit for an 
 emperor, and bring you the king of honest fellows for a guide. 
 
 Ray. Lead the way, then. [Music.- — Exeunt into the hotel, r. s. e. 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 Enter Cunegonde, Agnes, and Ursula, through the convent gates. 
 l. 3 e. — Conrad remains , r. u. e. 
 
 Cun. [r. c.] Nay, nay, young lady, cheer up ! do not let your spirits 
 be so depressed at parting with your holy mother ; — recollect the 
 kindness of your aunt and uncle, the Baroness and Baron of Linden- 
 berg, and the pleasures that await you in their magnificent castle. 
 
 [Raymond appears in the balcony of the hotel. 
 
 Agnes, [c.] True, good Cunegonde ; but to the dear abbess of St. 
 Clare I owe the affection of a daughter : she has to me supplied the 
 place of that mother whom I lost in infancy. Can I then, part with her, 
 perhaps for ever, without regret? And you, good mother Ursula, 
 never will your poor Agnes forget your kindness. Farewell ! 
 
 Urs. Farewell, my child, and may the Holy Virgin, in her own 
 good time, wean you from the sinful delights of this world, and return 
 you forever to the peaceful solitude of St. Clare ! Farewell ! 
 
 [Raymond disappears from the balcony. 
 
 Cun. Adieu, dear mother ! and when a few more years are passed 
 over my head, I, too, may leave the temptations of mankind, and take 
 the vows of eternal virginity within the walls of St. Clare.' [Music. — 
 Agnes and Cunegonde take an affectionate leave of Ursula, who 
 exits through the convent gates , closing them after her.] Conrad, fol- 
 low us, but keep at a respectful distance. 
 
 [Exeunt with Agnes, r., followed by Conrvd. 
 
 Re-enter Raymond from the hotel. 
 
 Ray. [Looking after Agnes.] What a divinity ! what a shape! how 
 sweet the expression of her full dark eyes ! — Lovety Agnes ! never 
 shall I forget this interesting moment. I have heard my father men- 
 tion the Baron Lindenberg as an acquaintance of his youthful days. 
 [Calling.] What, ho ! landlord! 
 
 Re-enter Marco from tne hotel, r. s. e. 
 
 Pray, landlord, where is situated the chateau of the Baron de Linden- 
 berg 1 
 
 Mar. A few leagues hence, signor ; on the borders of the forest 
 which you are going to cross. 
 
 Ray How fortunute ! Is the guide ready 1 
 
 Mar. He is waiting your honor’s commands. 
 
 Ray. Send him to me with my servant, 1 must instantly depart. 
 
 Mar. [Calling off.] Hollo ! Claude ! Claude ! 
 
 Enter Claude from, the hotel , habited as a postilion, with a large sti- 
 letto in his girdle, followed by Theodore. 
 
 Here is the gentleman who requires your services. 
 
 [Marco eyes Raymond with marked suspicion. 
 
 Ray. [To Claude.] I wish you to guide us through the neighboring 
 forest ; the road, I am told, is both intricate and dangerous : do you 
 know it sufficiently to conduct us safely ? 
 
 Claude, [r. c.] Aye, noble signor; I have travelled every part of 
 
8 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 the forest at all hours for these last thirty years ; and were it so dark 
 that you could not see your hand before you, I would engage not to 
 take you an inch out of the way. 
 
 Ray. ’Tis well. [Going up to Theodore, c.] We will depart this 
 instant. 
 
 Claude. [ Apart to Marco.] These are a couple of gudgeons, whom it 
 will not take much trouble to delude. — By their appearance, they seem 
 to have more money than brains. [To Raymond.] This way, if you 
 please ; the chaise is quite ready, my lord. 
 
 [Music. — Exeunt Claude, Raymond, and Theodore, r. — Marco into 
 the hotel, r. s. e. 
 
 SCENE III. — A thick forest. — Night. 
 
 Enter Baptist a, listening for travellers, r. 
 
 Bap. Not the least sound strikes my ear ; — where can my comrads 
 loiter 1 It is now night, and since the day has closed, not one of my 
 band has met my sight. I am left, like the wolf, to prowl alone and 
 seek my prey; like him, I am driven from mankind, and, like him, 
 make reprisals upon those whose ill fortune throws them in my power. 
 [A whistle is heard without , l. — he answers it .] Hark ! 
 
 [Music. — A smack of a whip, and a crash of a chaise breaking down, 
 
 heard without, l. — Exit Baptista, rejoicing, r. 
 
 Enter Claude, Raymond and Theodore, l. 
 
 The. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! — Well, of all the unlucky accidents which 
 could befall us, sure this is the most unfortunate ! Our chaise to 
 break down with us in the middle of a thick forest at midnight ! Had 
 I been the guide myself, I could not have done a more foolish thing. 
 
 Claude. It was no fault of mine ; I have not brought you out of the 
 road ; and if the axle-tree of the chaise thinks proper to give way 
 am I to blame for that 1 
 
 Ray. A truce with altercation ; — since the accident has happened, 
 think how we best may remedy it. Is there any village near the spot 
 where we may hope to get the carriage repaired I 
 
 Claude. No, Signor; the nearest place is that we have just left; 
 and it is impossible to drag the broken vehicle so far in the dark. 
 
 The. What can be done 1 Ob, I have it! If your honour wih let 
 him mount one of the mules, he may endeavour to find his way back 
 to Madrid, and return with assistance. 
 
 Claude. I should, perhaps, lose myself in the intricacies of the for- 
 est ; and your master, waiting here for me, be compelled to pass the 
 night in the open air. 
 
 The. That he mtist do, I fear, at all events ; and my proposal is the 
 only chance we have of escape. 
 
 Claude. No, no ; not so bad off as that, neither. A few paces hence 
 there is a wood-cutter’s cottage ; — the wood-cutter is a friendly, hon- 
 est fellow, and I dare say he will willingly give us a night’s lodging. 
 
 The. What a stupid fellow you must be to puzzle us so, then ! 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 [) 
 
 Really, my good friend, your skull is of a very comfortable thickness. 
 Why didn't you think of this before 1 
 
 Clo.ude. So 1 did ! but as my friend is poor, and his accommoda- 
 tions not what the signor has been used to, I thought he would not 
 accept, ihe offer. 
 
 Ray. . f your friend will afford us shelter till the morning, however 
 humblt, it may be, 1 shall both thank and reward him for it. 
 
 Claude. He will look for no reward, signor : he is a well-meaning 
 fellow ; and whatever it is in his power to give, you will be heartily 
 welcome to. 
 
 The. St. Antony be praised ! Then we have escaped an adventure 
 for this night, however. 
 
 Claude. [Aside.] Perhaps you have met with one you little expec- 
 ted. [To Raymond.] Follow me, signor. [ Exeunt , r. 
 
 SCENE IY. — AWood — a Cottage , l. c. f. — a candle seen burning in 
 the chamber window. 
 
 Music. — Enter Baptista, r., but seeing the travellers advancing, he 
 hurries into the cottage , and closes the door after him. 
 
 Enter Claude, Raymond, and Theodore, r. 
 
 Claude. Here, signor, is the house I spoke of ; and, see, my honest- 
 friend has not yet retired to rest, for the candle is still burning in his 
 cottage. 
 
 Ray. Knock, Theodore ; the wind blows sharp and cold 
 
 [Theodore crosses at the back, and knocks at the cottage door. 
 
 Claude, [r.] Ay, ay, signor, I warrant honest Baptista has a blaz- 
 ing fire, which will soon warm your benumbed joints. There is no 
 scarcity of wood in this part of the world. 
 
 The. [l.] You may say that with justice: we are now lost in one, 
 through choosing a guide, whose head, I suspect, is made of the same 
 materials. 
 
 Ray. [c.] Peace, Theodore, and knock again. 
 
 The. I will try again ; but I believe the people are all dead, or fast 
 asleep. [Knocking.] Hollo! within there ! 
 
 Bap. [Putting his head out of the window.] — Hollo! without 
 there ! — Who knocks so loud at this late hour'? 
 
 Claude, [c.] It is I, friend Baptista. A gentleman, whose carriage 
 has broken down in the forest, wishes for a night’s lodging : can you 
 accommodate him and his servant 1 
 
 Bap. Ah, is it you, honest Claude 1 Wait a moment, and I’ll be 
 with you. [Retires from the window 
 
 Claude. I told you, signor, we should find a hearty welcome. 
 
 Re-enter Baptista from the cottage , l. c. f. 
 
 Bap. [To Claude.] Ah, my old friend ! I’m glad to see you. [To 
 Raymond, with affected cordiality.] Walk in, signor; you are wel- 
 come to what refreshment my poor hovel can afford. I hope you will 
 excuse my not opening the door before ; but this forest is infested 
 
10 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 with a desperate gang of banditti, and I was fearful it might be som« 
 of them, who had perceived a light through my cottage window. 
 Truly, signor, you were fortunate in having my friend Claude with 
 you, or you would have run some risk of falling into their clutches 
 But come, enter, signors; believe me, you are heartily welcome. 
 
 [Exeunt into the cottage. 
 
 SCENE V . — Inside of a mean Cottage — stairs , r. 3 d e. — a fire-place , 
 
 l. s. e. — a door , r. f. — a cupboard , l. c. f. — a couch, with an in- 
 fant asleep, r. s. e. — a table, l. c. — chairs and stools. 
 
 Marguerette discovered watching the child, r. 
 
 Mar. Sweet babe ! thou sleep’st unconscious of the pangs which 
 read thy mother’s heart. Alas ! that I should be driven to curse the 
 f itlier of my child — a fiend unworthy of the name of man ! By bru- 
 tal force he made me his; by force detains me here, to witness deeds 
 of horror, that harrow up my soul ! [Kneeling, j All gracious Heaven, 
 hear my prayer! For three long years have I groaned beneath a 
 weight of guilt: Oh ! release me from it, and solemnly do I promise 
 to dedicate this infant to thy service ! Oh ! may the piety of his fu- 
 ture life wash away the infamy of his birth ! 
 
 f Music. — She kisses the infant , and slowly ascends the stairs, r. 3 d e. 
 
 Enter Baptista, Raymond, and Theodore, carrying a portman- 
 teau, R. D. F. 
 
 Bap. You see, signor, my hovel, as I told you, is poor, but comfor- 
 table ; and such as it is, you are welcome. — Pray be seated, and my 
 wife shall bring you some refreshment. [Calling.] Marguerette! Mar- 
 guerette, 1 say ! 
 
 Re-enter Marguerette, r. 
 
 Mar. [Aside.} Ha! another victim ! 
 
 Bap. Why, what are you about, wife 1 Don’t you see that we have 
 strangers 1 Come, stir about, and get something ready for supper ; 
 the gentleman is half famished ; and if my old friend Claude had not 
 brought him here, he must have passed the night in the forest. 
 
 Mar. [Sorrowfully.] Would to heaven that he had passed it any- 
 where but beneath this roof ! 
 
 Bap. [Angrily.] How! 
 
 Ray. Your pardon ; let not my presence create dispute. If our 
 company, my good friend, be displeasing to your wife, we will in- 
 stantly quit your hospitable roof. 
 
 Bap. No. no, si°no\ heed her not; she is crabbed and hasty, but 
 she will make you we 1 come notwithstanding — will you not, my old 
 lass'? [Ap'xrt to her. J Another word, and [Showing a dagger.] I will 
 use effectual means to silence you ! 
 
 Mar. [Aside.] What shall I do ? My soul sickens with horror at 
 the frequent scenes of blood which stain this guilty spot ! 
 
 Bap. Where can Robert and Jaques loiter ? The night is dark, 
 and I am apprehensive that they may meet with evil-disposed people 
 ui the forest. 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 11 
 
 Mar. Oil, fear not: they cannot meet with any worse disposed than 
 the u selves. 
 
 Bap. [Apart to her, fiercely.] Marguerette! [To Raymond.] They 
 are my sons, signor, by a former marriage; therefore my wife esteems 
 them not, though they are two as fine young men as any this day in 
 Spain; — rather rough and unpolished, to be sure, but honest. 
 
 The. [Gaping. ] Yah! yah! 
 
 Bap. You seem sleepy, signor. You can lie down on the bed while 
 my wife prepares supper, if you choose it. 
 
 The. With all my heart. 
 
 Bap. Wife, show the young man to his chamber — the small one: 
 [Significantly.] you understand me 1 
 Mar. I am busy. 
 
 Bap. Well, if you are, you still have time enough to do as I order 
 you. Come ! 
 
 Music — He gives Marguerette a lamp, and she ascends the stairs 
 sullenly , followed by Theodore. 
 
 Enter Robert and .Jaques, r. d. f. — they start on seeing Raymond, 
 and place their hands on their daggers — Baptista throws himself 
 between them , to prevent Raymond’s observing them. — Re-enter 
 Marguerette down the stairs. 
 
 Bap. [c.] My sons, signor; they were somewhat surprised at see- 
 ing a stranger, but the)’’ will be proud to pay their respects to you. 
 
 Ray. [Coming forward, and sitting l.J I am glad they have ar- 
 rived in safety ; though I perceive they travel well armed. 
 
 Rob. [r. c.] Why, yes, signor; it is a precaution we are used to, 
 though I believe needless ; for I never yet was molested. 
 
 Jaques. [r. corner.] May be so ; but no person can tell what may 
 befall him, even when he thinks himself most secure. 
 
 Music. — Raymond dozes — Robert goes cautiously behind , and at- 
 tempts to stab him — Marguerette advances quickly, and prevents 
 him. 
 
 Mar. [Shaking Raymond on the shoulder.] Signor, you are fa- 
 tigued : come, I will conduct you to your chamber. 
 
 Ray. I thank you ; — an hour’s rest will refresh me. 
 
 Mar. And in that time your supper will be ready for you. Come, 
 siguor. 
 
 Music. — She takes the candle , and prepares to show him the way, 
 when Robert who has observed her with suspicion, snatches the can- 
 dle from her. 
 
 Rob. Mother. I will show the gentleman to his room ; do you remain 
 below. [To Raymond.] Come, signor; lie down and refresh yourself, 
 and before your supper is ready, my life on’t you’ll be quite another 
 man. 
 
 Music. — Marguerette slips up the stairs unperceived — Raymond 
 ascends, lighted by Robert. — Exeunt Baptista and Jacques, r. d. f. 
 
12 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 SCENE VI. — A Wood and outside of Baptista’s Cottage , as before. 
 
 Enter Baptista and Jacques from the cottage , l. c. f. 
 
 Jaq. I am doubtful of Marguerette, father ; methinks she seems but 
 little disposed to aid our intentions. 
 
 j Bap. True ; but she dare not counteract them ; for she knows her 
 own life would be the forfeit. You say there are two thousand pis- 
 toles in the portmanteau 1 
 
 Jaq. So the servant boasted at the inn. 
 
 Bap. Well, then, success to the division of the booty ! 
 
 Jaq. Division ! Why, is the landlord to have any share of itl 
 
 Bap. To be sure he is; his assistance is necessary to 
 
 Jaq. Why, I rather think it too bad that we are to have all the trou- 
 ble and risk, and he all the comfort and profit. 
 
 Bap. For shame, son ! how can you be so selfish ! We have bound 
 ourselves by oath, and we have never been mean enough to violate it. 
 Consider our honor ; — let us always act with justice and humanity. 
 By the bye, while Robert is dispatching the master, I think you had 
 better go and rob the servant ; it will be pastime till supper is ready. 
 
 Jaq. But about this division — I can’t see 
 
 Bap. Silence, boy ! — Would you bring disgrace upon our family 1 
 Go, and do as I order you. [ Exeunt into the cottage. 
 
 SCENE VII. — A miserable Chamber in the Cottage — a door, r. f. — • 
 a window with iron bars, c. f. — a bed, l. 3 d e., with a chair and 
 table close to it. 
 
 Marguerette discovered looking in at the door. 
 
 Mar. What can I do 1 how can I preserve him 1 They are ascend- 
 ind the stairs : I must be quick. I dare not show myself. Ha ! the 
 pillow ! [ She draws off the case, and the pillow appears bloody. ] 
 
 Should he perceive it, stained as it is with the blood of numerous vic- 
 tims, who have fallen by Robert’s murderous hands, it will at least 
 put him on his guard. 
 
 Robert. [ Without, r. u. e. ] This way, signor. 
 
 [Marguerette conceals herself behind the bed curtains. 
 
 Enter Robert and Raymond, d. f. 
 
 Rob. [Placing the light on the table.] Here is your bed signor; you 
 will not be the first stranger that has slept in it — aye, and soundly, too. 
 
 Ray. I do not doubt it. If you will retire, I will endeavor to get a 
 little repose. 
 
 Rob. Aye, aye, I will leave you ; and if you please to give me your 
 sword, I will take care of it for you. 
 
 Ray. My sword ! 
 
 Rob. Aye, your sword : you can have no use for it while you sleep 
 Ray. [ Pointedly .] True ; and, while I sleep, what use can you have 
 for it 1 
 
 Rob. [Aside.] Confusion ! [Hesitating.] Me ! — Oh, ah ! — me ! Cer 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 18 
 
 lainly, none. I offered out of civility to take care of it for you : if 
 you do not choose to part with it, that’s another thing. 
 
 Ray. I certainly shall not part with it. 
 
 Rob. [Crossing to r ] Oh, very well ; as you please ; we are in no 
 want ot arms, though 1 think your refusal has an odd appearance ; — 
 but do as you like. [Exit, d. f. 
 
 Ray. I like not the youth who has just now left me ; his ferocious 
 glance chills my blood. The remembrance, too, of the lovely Agnes 
 employs my busy fancy. [Lying on the bed. J I will endeavor, by a 
 short repose, to chase away my gloomy apprehensions. 
 
 Music. — Re-enter Robert, d. f. — he advances cautiously towards the 
 bed with a drawn dagger — Marguerette from behind the cur- 
 tains, shakes Raymond, who starts up. 
 
 Ray. [Leaping forward, and seizing Robert by the collar.] How 
 is this 1 — What has brought you here! 
 
 Rob. [Panic struck, and hesitating.] I — I — I came to fetch — the 
 lamp. 
 
 * Ray. [Firmly.] Let it remain. 
 
 Rob. Cannot you sleep in the dark 1 
 
 Ray. I do not choose to be left without a light. 
 
 Rob. It’s wanted below. 
 
 Ray. Then I will go down too. 
 
 Rob. No, no, stay where you are ; my mother is busy, and don’t 
 want to be troubled with you. She sent me for the lamp but she must 
 do without it. [Aside, going.] Curses light on him ! [Exit, d. f. 
 
 [Raymond follows Robert to the door. 
 Mar. [Coming forward, c.J The blood thirsty villain ! 
 
 Ray. [Starting.] Ha! how did you enter ! 
 
 Mar. Hush ! one word and you are lost for ever ! I wish to save 
 you. Examine the pillow of your bed. [Going towards the door.] 
 The wretch who has just left you 
 
 Re-enter Robert, d. f., meeting her — they are mutually struck with 
 surprise. 
 
 Rob. What brought you here 1 
 
 Mar. ^Faltering.] I — I came — to — to 
 
 Rob. To do what 1 — Why do you hesitate ! [ With savage impa- 
 
 tience.] What was your errand here ! 
 
 Mar. Why do you ask 1 [A pause — then recollecting herself, and 
 drawing a cap from her bosom.] See you not this cap ! I brought it 
 for the stranger. 
 
 Rob. [Snatching it from her.] It may be so. You are wanted be- 
 low. [Throwing it to Raymond.] There’s the cap. [To Margue- 
 rette.] Now, come with me; I know not any business which you 
 can have with the stranger. — Come, I say ! [Exit, forcing her out, d. f. 
 
 Music. — Raymond hurries to the bed, seizes the pillow, and seems 
 horror- stricken . 
 
 Ray. [^.tawing his sword, and rushing to the window, o. f.] Ha * 
 
14 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 the window secured ! Then am I in a den of robbers ! but my good 
 sword is still left for my protection, and I will not part with life un- 
 less it be dearly purchased. Footsteps again ! I will feign to sleep, 
 yet keep good guard against the assassin’s steel ! 
 
 Music. — He goes softly to the door and listens — then retires to the bed 
 and lays down upon his sword. 
 
 Re-enter Robert, d. f. followed by Marguerette, watching him — 
 
 he advances to the bed , and is about to stab Raymond, when Mar- 
 guerette overturns the table , and retreats hastily behind the door. 
 
 Ray. [ Starting up , and holding his sword tfo Robert’s breast, j Why 
 am I thus continually disturbed l — What can be the reason of this 
 second intrusion 1 
 
 Rob. [Surlily.] Supper is on the table: if you wish for any, come 
 down ; if you don’t, stay here and sleep. 
 
 Ray. That I find to be impossible : you will not leave me a moment 
 to myself. 
 
 Rob. I come not without a cause. I will carry the lamp and your 
 sword for you. 
 
 Ray. I have already told you I do not choose to part with it. 
 
 Rob. You are strangely suspicious, methinks. If you will carry one, 
 then you may carry both. I shall not wait here for you till the sup- 
 per is cold. [Exit. d. f. 
 
 Ray. How horrible is my situation ! Their intent is clear — they aim 
 at my life ! How shall I act I 
 
 Mar. [Coming forward, r ] Signor, your life is for the present pre- 
 served : betray not the least suspicion, or you will instantly be sacri- 
 ficed ! 
 
 Ray. My generous preserver ! how is it I meet you an associate 
 with such monsters 1 
 
 Mar. There is no time for explanation : necessity, not choice, has 
 made me what 1 am. Yet will I save your life, or perish with you. 
 f Taking up the lamp.] Follow me ! 
 
 [Exeunt d. f., Marguerette encouraging Raymond to follow her. 
 
 SCENE VIII. — A thick Wood. ^-Moonlight. 
 
 Enter Cunegonde and Agnes, l., followed by Conrad and Marco. 
 
 Cun. Holy St. Bridget defend me ! Sure our troubles are never to 
 have an end ! Who could have suspected such a misfortune 1 Why, 
 the road from the convent of St. Clair to the castle of Lindenburg is 
 as plain as the nose on one’s face ; and yet, this stupid, deaf fool of a 
 guide contrived to lose it ! 
 
 Agnes. Patience, dear Cunegonde! — By your loud complaints, you 
 only aggravate the danger of our situation. — Should the forest, as we 
 are informed, be the haunt of banditti 
 
 Cun. Banditti! [Crying.] Oh, dear! oh, dear! — 0 that I had dedi- 
 cated myself to a life of perpetual virginity in the holy convent of St. 
 Clair ! — Then should I have escaped the dangers with which my inno- 
 cence is surrounded ! [To Marco. J And you, sirrah, what can you say 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 15 
 
 for yourself 1 — How can we get out of the dilemma you have brought 
 us into 1 
 
 Mar. [To Conrad, affectin.q deafness.] Eh 1 what 1 — Did her lady- 
 ship address herself to me 1 
 
 Cun. Certainly her ladyship did. Was ever poor governante so 
 plagued with idiots and knaves as myself 1 — And you, Conrad, why 
 you’re stupid — absolutely petrified. What is to be done 1 what course 
 are we next to take 1 
 
 Con. Really, madam, I cannot tell. 
 
 Mar [Aside.] What can have become of the band 1 
 
 Agnes. [ Looking off, r.J Be of good heart, madam. I surely es- 
 pied the form of a man passing down the close walk to the right. 
 
 Cun. [ Screaming .] Ha! a man.! a robber! Oh, holy St. Clare, 
 protect me ! — me, one of the most virtuous of thy votaries ! — Oh, save 
 me from his unhallowed touch ! [ Clings around the neck of Conrad 
 
 Enter Claude, with a dark lantern, r. 
 
 Claude. [Aside] Methought I heard female voices. — Ha! Marco 
 here! Then I know my cue. [Advancing. J Who goes there 1 Ah, 
 ladies ! I entreat your pardon ; but hearing voices, l feared it might 
 be some, whose evil designs caused them to wander in the forest. 
 
 Cun. [Trembling behind Conrad.] Ob ! oh ! oh ! 
 
 Agnes. We are wanderers through misfortune, not intention. Cross- 
 ing the forest from Madrid to the castle of Lindenberg, our servant 
 and guide have deviated form the path. If you can assist us in re- 
 gaining the road, you shall be amply rewarded for your service. 
 
 Claude. That, lady, is not in my power ; I am ignorant of the road 
 you mention ; — but there is an honest peasant, whose cottage stands 
 but a few paces hence, who will not only give you shelter till the 
 morning, but, for a trifling recompense, lead you beyond the intricacies 
 of the forest. 
 
 Cun. [Crossing to Claude.] Oh ! take us thither instantly, young 
 man. You are the guardian angel sent to preserve my life ! 
 
 Claude. Bless you, madam, I’m no angel! — I’m only a poor devil, 
 who earns a livelihood by felling timber in the forest ; — but I will 
 conduct the young lady, if you have no objection. I suppose, madam, 
 you are her mother. 
 
 Cun. What 1 mother! Pray, sir, look in my face, and tell me if 
 there are any lines in it which indicate my being the mother of a girl 
 like that 1 
 
 Claude. I ask your pardon for the mistake, madam : I now perceive 
 you are her grandmother. 
 
 Cun. Pooh ! grandmother, indeed ! at my time of life — in the bloa- 
 sorn of my days ! I am her governante, it is true, though there is very 
 little difference in our ages. — But which path must we pursue to the 
 cottage you mention 1 
 
 Claude. That by which I came hither. If you please, I will return 
 with you, and show you the spot. 
 
 Cun. With all my heart. Come, Lady Agnes. Mother, forsooth ! 
 We are in a hopeful situation, truly, with one guide as deaf as a post 
 and t’other as blind as a bat ! 
 
16 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 Claude. [To Conrad.] Come, comrade; bear the light, and on be- 
 fore us. 
 
 [Exeunt, r., Conrad taking the lantern , and lighting Agnes and 
 Cunegonde, who are followed by Claude and Marco, making sig 
 nificant signs to each other. 
 
 SCENE IX. — The Lower Room in Baptista’s cottage , as before. 
 
 Music. — Baptista and Jaques discovered. 
 
 Enter Robert down the stairs , r. 3 d e. 
 
 Bap. [To Robert.] What success, my lad 1 
 Jag. Is he dispatched 1 
 
 Rob. No. I believe all the fiends of hell are in league against c 
 Curses on the officious Marguerette ! She has more than once ^ 
 vented me. Why did you not detain her below 1 
 
 Bap. No matter. You will mar all by your impetuosity: slo.v t -d 
 sure is my maxim. When he sleeps, it may be done without diffRul y. 
 Jag. Hush ! they come. 
 
 Music. — Enter Raymond down the stairs, followed by Marguerette, 
 carrying a lamp, which she places on a shelf. — -A knocking heard 
 at the door, r. f.-“ Baptista opens it. 
 
 Enter Claude, conducting in Agnes and. Cunegonde. 
 
 Bap. How now 1 
 
 Ray. [Aside.] By all that’s lovely ! ’tis the very angel that 1 beheld 
 from the hotel quitting the convent at Madrid ! 
 
 Claude. Don’t be alarmed, friend Baptista. This lady and her at- 
 tendants have lost their road in the forest ; — I fortunately chanced to 
 meet with them, and assured them of finding a welcome at your cottage. 
 
 Bap. [Hesitating.] Why, yes; but you know we have already this 
 gentleman and his servant; our beds are full. 
 
 Agnes. How unfortunate ! 
 
 Ray. Nay, gentle lady, let not that distress you : such acc mimoda- 
 tions as were meant for me, are at your service, if you will deign to 
 accept them. 
 
 Agnes. Signor, I thank your courtesy. 
 
 Ray. Fair lady, I deserve no thanks. [Leading her to the fire-place, 
 l.] It is the duty of man to forego his own comforts, to shield from 
 distress a lovely woman. 
 
 Cun. Oh. holy St. Bridget! what a pain was there! — Oh, my poor 
 head ! — I have caught my death in this precious forest. [Eyeing the 
 table.] and I dare say there is not a drop of cordial to be had for love 
 or money. 
 
 Bap. I have a small bottle of fine cherry brandy, signora ; perhaps 
 a drop of that might relieve you. 
 
 Cun. Mercy ! — Is there anything in my appearance to indicate that 
 I would swallow such unholy liquor 1 
 
 Bap. Unholy ! — I wish every hole in my skin was full of it, for I 
 always find it the best medicine ; and there’s nothing else to be got. 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 17 
 
 Cun. Well, the urgency of the case must plead my excuse ; so you 
 may just fill me a thimble full, and I will try to get it down. 
 
 Bap. [Filling the glass, and handing it to her. J That’s right, sig- 
 nora ; grapple with the spirit, and you will be sure to conquer it ! 
 
 Cun. [Drinking.] Really, it is not so bad as I expected. 
 
 Bap. You had better have t’other glass. [Handing it to her.] Come, 
 come, signora, drink ! — The psalm says, ’tis 
 
 “ A balm for cv’ry wound, — 
 
 A cordial for our fears.” 
 
 Cun. Well, if you think so — [Drinking. J Oh, dear! my poor head 
 is shattered into a thousand pieces ! 
 
 Bap. A little rest will restore you ; there is a bed ready 
 
 Cun. The Virgin be praised ! 
 
 Bap. Wife, light this lady to her chamber. [ To Cunegonde.] Would 
 you like to take another glass, madam 'l 
 
 Cun. [Going.] St. Bridget forbid! [Returning.] Yet in case I 
 should be taken ill in the night, you may as well give me the bottle, 
 to place by my bedside. The saints preserve you all, and give you a 
 good night’s rest ! 
 
 [Music. — Exeunt Marguerette and Cunegonde up the stairs — th( 
 
 others all sit to supper at the table, l., and Marguerette returns. 
 
 Bap. Wife, bring me the bottle which is sealed with yellow wax' 
 
 Mur. [Hesitating .] With yellow 1 
 
 Bap. Yes; you understand me ? — Bring it, and instantly ! 
 
 [She reluctantly gives it to him. 
 
 Mar. [Apart to Raymond, passing him , l.] Do not drink ! 
 
 Bap. [To Raymond.] Come, signor, here is some champagne whic'k 
 I have had by me many years ; I never bring it out but upon oxtrs > 
 ordinary occasions ; and as your supper is coarse, this may ) elp to 
 give it a relish. [Music. — He pours out wine — Agnes drinl s, but 
 Raymond, unseen, throws his upon the ground.] Is it not most excel- 
 lent, signor'?. 
 
 Rag. It is, indeed. Champagne is a wine to which I am extremely 
 partial. 
 
 Bap. And I assure you. this has some very extraordinary virtues. 
 [To Agnes.] I hope, madam, that you approve of it. 
 
 Agnes. [Drowsily.] It is excellent, yet rather powerful. 
 
 [She falls asleep. 
 
 Bap. I think it the better for that, madam. [To Raymond.] Have 
 you traveled far, signor I 
 
 Ray. From a league on the other side Madrid. 
 
 [Marguerette, unperceived by the banditi, motions Raymond to af- 
 fect to sleep, which he does. 
 
 Bap. ’Tis well : the wine has taken effect. 
 
 Rob. [Rising.] I will dispatch him, then. 
 
 Bap. No ; leave me to deal with the sleepers ; they are sure work, 
 and unable to make resistance. You, with Jaques and CU «Me, hasten 
 
18 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 into the forest, and endeavor to overpower the servants of the lady, 
 who are with the carriage ; lest they should come in the morning, 
 and ask questions we should not like to answer. 
 
 Rob , Be it so. Come. lads. 
 
 [Music. — Exeunt Robert, Jaques, and Claude, r. d. r. 
 
 Mar. [ Shaking Raymond, l.] Now ! 
 
 [Baptista draws his dagger , and crosses quickly to Agnes, and as he 
 is about to strike, Raymond starts up, and arrests his arm — they 
 struggle — the dagger drops — Marguerette hastily snatches it up, 
 stabs Baptista, and he falls. 
 
 Mar. [ Dropping on her knees.] All gracious Powers ! pronour.ee 
 my pardon! — The villain sleeps in death! — Would he had fallen by 
 any other hand ! [To Raymond, rising.] Let us instantly away ! flight 
 alone can save us. 
 
 Ray. But should we meet the other villains in the forest 
 
 Mar. Here, under the stairs, is a private way, which leads to a 
 road quite contrary to the one the robbers have taken. 
 
 Music. — Marguerette ascends the stairs, and returns with her in- 
 fant, Theodore, and Cunegonde — she points out to Theodore the 
 private passage under the stairs, who exits, followed by the others , 
 Raymond carrying Agnes in his arms. 
 
 Re-enter Robert, Jaques, and Claude, r. d, f. 
 
 Rob. Confusion ! — Everything conspires to cross us : the servants 
 doubtless suspected us, or they would not have fled. I hope, at least, 
 my father has made sure work with those he had in his power. 
 
 Jaq. [Seeing the body of Baptista.] ’Sdeath ! what have we here 1 
 My father murdered ! 
 
 Rob. Ha ! where is the stranger 1 Marguerette shall dearly pay 
 for this ! 
 
 [Music. — He rushes up the stairs — Jaques and Claude kneel by the 
 body of Baptista. 
 
 Rob. [Descending the stairs.] They have all escaped ! let us in- 
 stantly pursue them ; they cannot be far from hence. I swear to fol- 
 low them to the end of the world, and revenge the death of my father! 
 Jaq. We all swear to revenge his death, or fall In the attempt 1 
 
 [Music. — They kneel, and cross their daggers over the body. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 19 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Outside of the gates of Lindenberg Castle — a window in 
 the wall , l. u. e. 
 
 M-jsic. — Enter Raymond, Theodore, and Marguerette, through the 
 gates , which are opened and closed by a servant. 
 
 The. Well, I declare, I never was more civilly turned out of doors 
 i t all my life ! We are like to make a hopeful journey of it. The 
 first place we stop at, we are near having our throats cut ; and at the 
 second, ere we have well refreshed ourselves, we are turned out, and 
 the gates barred against us, as if they thought we were going to cut 
 theirs ! 
 
 Ray. Agnes — dear Agnes ! farewell ! Come, Marguerette, you shall 
 accompany me to my father’s ; he will take a pleasure in repaying 
 the kindness you have shown his son. Trust me, you will not expe- 
 rience such ingratitude as we have received from yonder lord. 
 
 Mar. Don Alphonso, I only wish a safe conveyance to Strasbourg, 
 where I have relations ; I would not willingly give you further trouble. 
 
 Ray. That must not be. Allow me to show my gratitude, and, in 
 some measure, make recompense to you for the injustice of others. 
 [..4 guitar is heard within the castle.] Hark ! [A paper is lowered 
 from the window , l. u. e.J Ha ! that is the window of Agnes’ apart- 
 ment ! [ Taking up the paper and reading.] “ Don Alphonso , — To- 
 morrow lam to be immured for life within the walls of a convent. 
 My heart revolts at the idea of taking the veil ; and / have no other 
 alternative but to confide in your honor. At one o'clock at midnight I 
 will leave my chamber, disguised as the Bleeding Nun ; which will 
 ensure the certainty of my escape. If you are sincere , meet me with- 
 out the castle gates ; if not, leave me to my fate. — Agnes.” Excel- 
 lent device ! — Fear not, sweet Agnes ! I will be punctual ; and should 
 our project be successful 
 
 The. Oh, dear ! oh, dear !— Why, surely, sir, the Lady Agnes is not 
 going to have the temerity to personate the ghost'? Holy St. Francis! 
 even in the short space of time they suffered us to remain at the cas- 
 tle, I heard enongh concerning her to make me keep at a respectful 
 distance. 
 
 Ray. Take courage, Theodore ! — My lovely spirit has nothing ter- 
 rific about her ; — and if borrowing the ghost’s robes will answer the 
 purpose of uniting two hearts who sincerely love each other, I shall 
 for ever bless the Bleeding Nun of Lindenberg ! [Exeunt, r. s. e. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Wood — Night — Whistling heard without. 
 
 Enter Robert, l. and Jaques and Claude, r. 
 
 Rob. Who goes there I 
 
 Tag. Robert I 
 
 lob. The same. Where is Claude I 
 
 r aq. He is here. 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES.’ 
 
 behests. But I could not bear to hear you doubt my master’s honor ; 
 and I knew when you heard the name of Raymond, all your doubts 
 must cease. Dishonor was never yet coupled with that name. 
 
 Agnes' Most true ; yet still his continued absence fills my mind 
 with serious alarm. [The Robbers cautiously descend from the trees. 
 
 Rob. [Apart to Jaques and Claude.] Steady, boys ! steady ! 
 Here are a couple of our runaways ; they shall not now escape us. 
 
 The. Come, madam ; — when we have passed yonder thicket, we shall 
 see before us the spires of Madrid. 
 
 Rob. [Crossing to them..] Stand! 
 
 Agnes. [Starting.] Ha ! robbers ! Alas ! for what am I reserved. 
 
 Rob. Lady, you may haply recollect us : we know our obligations 
 to you, and doubt not but we will repay them. 
 
 The. We know likewise your kind intentions towards us ; and there- 
 fore do n >t suppose you the least in our debt. 
 
 Rob. Silence, fool ! — You are now within our power : if you again 
 escape, it shall be our own fault. [To Jaques and Claude.] Drag 
 them to the cave ! 
 
 The. [Drawing his sword.] The first that approaches this lady shall 
 make his way through my body ! So if ye are cowards enough to as- 
 sail one man, come on, all of ye at once ! 
 
 Rob. No. I alone will oppose you. Perhaps ’twas your hand that 
 plunged the dagger into the heart of my father. Revenge will nerve 
 mine in return ! 
 
 The. Have at you then! — Robber or devil, you shall find that The- 
 odore is not easily to be conquered. 
 
 [Music. — They encounter — Jaques and Claude, drag Agnes into the 
 cavern , r. u. e. — Theodore and Robert exeunt, fighting . r. 
 
 Enter Raymond and Marguerette, l. 
 
 Ray. It is in vain — nowheie can I behold her! — Agnes! dearest 
 Agnes ! what can be your fate I 
 
 Mar. Calm yourself, signor : the absence of your servant proves 
 that he is with her, and fear not but Theodore will protect her. 
 
 Ray. Alas ! may she not want other protection 'l Her delicate frame 
 will sink beneath the fatigue of wandering through the forest. Per- 
 haps she may 
 
 Mar. Hark ! I hear footsteps ! Should it be our enemies — Let us 
 instantly conceal ourselves ! [They retire up, l. 
 
 Re-enter Theodore, r. 
 
 The. I am quite spent and faint. I could soon have mastered one ; 
 bm when they all set upon me, I was fain to take to my heels, and no 
 di i p ace either : no man is obliged to fight against odds. 
 
 Rxy. [Coming forward.] Can it be I Theodore, have you not seen 
 the Lady Agnes 1 
 
 The. What, my master! St. Dennis be praised ! Now I fear them 
 not, if there are fifty of them. Follow me instantly, signor : the three 
 villains whom we met at the cottage in the forest have just forced the 
 Lady Agnes from me, and confined her in a cave not far distant. 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 21 
 
 b, 'j! ed ; but surely lie waited not so Ions', as to be out of patience . 
 The. My life upon it, madam he is close at hand. 
 
 Agnes. This tardiness, at a moment when he knew my liberty was 
 at stake, betrays an indifference to my fate that I expected not. 
 
 The I will lead yoivto him instantly ; — you may trust yourself with 
 me without fear, my lady. 
 
 Agues. I have no other resource. [Aside, going.} Alas! how has 
 my imprudence involved me ! [Exeunt, r. 
 
 SCENE IX.— A front Wood. 
 
 Music . — ‘Enter the Bleeding Nun, l,, Raymond still following, and, 
 endeavoring to approach her — at each advance the Nun presents 
 a dagger to him — they' finally cross and exeunt r. 
 
 SCENE V. — A Cut and Back Wood — a mound, e. 
 
 Enter the Bleeding Nun and Raymond through, the wood, r. u. e.— 
 Raymond, still supposing her to he Agnes, follows her till she gets 
 on the mound, c. — as he approaches to embrace her, she vanishes, 
 and a transparency rises on the mound with the following inscrip- 
 tion : — 
 
 “Protect the Child of the Murdered Agnes !” 
 
 Ray. Ye powers of mercy ! — Yes, I swear to obey the injunction ! 
 My Agnes, then, is the hapless orphan ! — Alas ! to what distress may 
 not my absence at this moment expose her 1 Beatified spirit ! hear 
 me renew the solemn vow to protect thy lovely child — the injured Ag- 
 nes ; and may I be happy or wretched as I keep my oath ! 
 
 [Music. — Exit, l. 
 
 SCENE VI. — A Mountain Pass — a Cavern, r. u. e. 
 
 Jaques and Claude discovered watching. 
 
 Enter Rorert, l. u. e. 
 
 Rob. [Looking off, l.] Hasten and conceal yourselves. Yonder are 
 two passengers descending into the vale ; — climb the trees, and when 
 they are within reach, drop and secure them. . Quick ! quick 1 
 
 [They ascend the trees, r. and l. u. e. 
 
 Enter Theodore, l., leading Agnes. 
 
 The. Nay, madam, cheer up ; why so dejected 1 We shall soon 
 reach the castle of Don Felix, my master’s father. Then do not, lady, 
 thus despair. 
 
 . Agnes. Oh ! I am sick at heart ! The absence of Don Raymond 
 fills -my mind with a thousand doubts, and apprehensions. Alas ! why 
 did he conceal his name and rank 1 Had he avovred them to my un- 
 cle. I need not noiv have been a wanderer. 
 
 The. Tt Avas by the command of his father, lady, that he concealed 
 it : and I shall incur his displeasure for breaking through his strict 
 
20 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 Rob. Have you been successful ? 
 
 Jaq. 1 have not discovered the least trace of them. 
 
 Claude. Nor 1 ; — they are doubtless arrived ere now at the castle 
 of Lindenberg. ’Tis my advice that we instantly proceed thither, ai d 
 endeavor to way-lay the cavalier who has played us this scurvy trick. 
 
 Rob. It shall be so. We will each of us take a different road to the 
 cavern ; there will we repose for the night, and in the morning early 
 hasten to the castle, where we will watch for the murderer of my father. 
 
 Jaq. We have sworn his destruction ; nor shall Marguerette, or her 
 child, escape our vengeance. 
 
 Rob. Hence, then ; here we separate. To the cavern ! This night 
 our revenge shall sleep. [Exeunt r. and l. 
 
 SCENE III. — Outside of the gates of Lindenberg Castle, as before — 
 Midnight. 
 
 Enter Raymond and Theodore, r. 
 
 Ray. Come, Theodore, let us have no cowardly fears now - r — wait 
 at a little distance, and when Agnes comes forth, we will join you. 
 Away ! remain alone, and be silent. 
 
 The. I must perforce ; yet I would give one of my eyes for a com- 
 panion to speak to, if it were only old Cunegonde, who I dare say, is 
 fast asleep in her warm, comfortable bed, and not even dreaming how 
 we are employed. [Exit, l. — The castle bell strikes one. 
 
 Ray. Hark ! 
 
 Enter the Bleeding Nun, through the gates — she crosses and exits, 
 r. — Raymond follows her in ecstacy. 
 
 Re-enter Theodore, l. 
 
 The. I cannot abide to be alone in the dark at this time of night ; 
 my apprehensions are worse than reality. — Oh, dear! where can my 
 master and the Lady Agnes be 1 Which way can they have gone I 
 How did I miss them 1 [Going, r. 
 
 Enter Agnes, from the castle , dressed as the Bleeding Nun. 
 
 The. [Falling on his knees, c.] Holy St. Michael, preserve me! — 
 Yonder comes the real ghost — Oh ! what would I give to be safe at 
 home, and in a whole skin! 
 
 Agnes. [Crossing to l.] Ha! a man! — It is Alphonso’s servant. 
 Speak, Theodore ; where is your master ? 
 
 The. [Groaning.] Oh ! oh! — From goblins and spectres, holy Vir- 
 gin preserve me ! 
 
 Agnes. [Approaching him. J Theodore, look up : it is me — Agnes. 
 Whe.e is your master 7 
 
 The. [Rising.] Agnes ! — Thanks be praised ! It is the Lady Agnes, 
 sure enough, and pure flesh and blood, instead of a withered skeleton ! 
 
 Agnes. Where is Don Alphonse? 
 
 The. Why, has not your ladyship seen him 1 — I left him but a few 
 minutes, since waiting for you. 
 
 Agnes. Accident prevented me leaving my chamber so soon as I in- 
 
RAYMOND AND AGNES. 
 
 23 
 
 Ray. Ha ! — Wait you here, Marguerette ; we will hasten and effect 
 her rescue, or perish in the attempt. 
 
 Mar. No, signor; I will accompany you. I know every nook and 
 turn in the cave, and may, perhaps, render you some service. 
 
 The. This way, then — follow me ! [ Exeunt , r. u. e. 
 
 SCENE VII. — The interior of the Robber's Cave. 
 
 Agnes discovered chained to a rock , r. — Robert, Jaques, and 
 Claude, seated at a table , c. 
 
 Claude. Nay, you need not blame me ; it was no fault of mine. 
 
 Jaq. Of what consequence is the fellow’s escape 1 
 
 Rob. The utmost. My revenge is never to be gratified. He fought 
 like a devil ! Had I been no more fatigued than you were, I would 
 have followed him to the verge of the forest, ere he should have es- 
 caped me. 
 
 Jaq. Come, a truce with reproaches. Here’s one cup to our better 
 success in future ! 
 
 Claude. With all my heart;. arid, for the present, let us lay by our 
 arms. [They rise, place their pistols on the table, and come forward. 
 
 Jaq. How shall we dispose of the prize we have already secured 1 
 
 Rob. I have thought of that. We want a housekeeper to supply the 
 place of Marguerette : she shall be the wife of one of us — let her take 
 her choice ; and, if it is not her own fault, she may be as happy as an 
 empress. 
 
 Claude. Excellent! You hear, lady, what we have determined: 
 which of us do you choose to have for a husband I 
 
 Jaq. Look at us : we are three stout, well-made fellows ; — you 
 might make a worse choice, my dear, even if you had a hundred to 
 pick from. 
 
 Rob. You see we use no compulsion. Take your choice. Speak: 
 for which of us do you decide 1 
 
 Agnes. For neither ! — Heath would be more welcome ! 
 
 Rob. This scorn, lady, will be of no avail. Recollect that you are 
 entirely in our power: if you refuse our love, you may perhaps feel 
 our vengeance. 
 
 Agnes. Be it so! — I would welcome the blow which freed me from 
 your importunities. 
 
 Jaq. Entreat her no more ; she is in our power, and must yield. 
 Here are dice: we will throw and see who is to have her: and let the 
 others quietly resign her to the winner. 
 
 Rob. It shall be so. Now fortune favor the brave ! — [ They throw 
 the dice.} The chance is mine; [ Unfastening Agnes’ chain.] and 
 thus I take possession of my bride ! 
 
 Agnes. If you possess one spark of humanity, I implore you to re- 
 store me to my friends; — believe me, you will be rewarded even be- 
 yond y.our wishes ; and 1 will pledge my word that no measures shall 
 be taken to deprive you of liberty. 
 
 Rob. Rely upon it, that unless you can a second time elude our 
 vigilance, you will never again behold other friends than those who 
 
24 
 
 RAYMOND AND AGNKS. 
 
 now stand before you. Recollect, you are destined t/ oe my wife. 
 Aynes. Thy wife ! — T will perish first ! 
 
 Bob. I may find a way to lower your tone, my h a ghty lady, I am 
 absolute here; therefore, dread to disobey me. 
 
 Agnes. Monster! I neither fear thy power nor * iy threats ! Think’st 
 thou that Agnes will ever join herself with a vil’ fin and a murderer — 
 a wretch, whose hands are dyed with the bb d of innocents 1 No ! 
 rather than consent, let me be the next victi of your cruelty ! 
 
 Bob. Be’t so ! [ Aiming a dagger at he' Take, then, the reward 
 of thy insolence ! 
 
 Agnes. [ Screaming .] Oh ! [<S7ie f aids the blow , and kneels. 
 
 Music. — Enter Raymond, Theodore, id Marguerette, rushing in 
 hastily , l.— Raymond attacks Rop at, v’ho falls wounded ; and as 
 he rises, and aims a blow at R.' ^mond, Marguerette snatches a 
 pistol from his belt, and shoots 1 <m — Agnes rises — Theodore darts 
 furiously on Claude, and aoc *omes him — Jaques is shot by Agnes 
 with a pistol dropped Si/Cla’jDE. — Raymond and Agnes meet — they 
 embrace, and kneel, c. — a loud crash is heard — the back of the cav- 
 ern falls to pieces, and discovers the Bleeding Nun, in a blue ethe- 
 real flam,e , invoking a blessing on them \ — she slowly ascends , stiTi 
 blessing them — they form a tableau, and the curtain descends. 
 
 THE END. 
 
FRENCH’S STANDARD 
 
 Site 3 etuis KMtton. 
 
 DRAMA 
 
 No. CXCIL 
 
 THE 
 
 GAMBLER’S FATE 
 
 OR, 
 
 THIRTY YEARS OF A GAMESTER’S LIFE. 
 
 %, grama, iit Sfoo gtis. 
 
 BY H. M. MILNER, ESQ., 
 
 Author of Mazeppa, Massanieilo, $c. 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 A Description of the Costume — Cast of the Characters — Entrances and Exits— 
 Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and 
 the whole of the Stage Business. 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT THE 
 
 PRINCIPAL ENGLISH AND AMERICAN THEATRES, 
 
 Lofdon : 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 Publisher, 
 
 89, STRAND. 
 
 New York : 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH & SON, 
 
 Publishers, 
 
 28, WEST 23rd STREET. 
 
 
1 CAST OF THE CHARACTERS.— [The Gambler’s Fate.] 
 
 Park , 1828. Bowery , 1851. London. 
 
 Mr. Germaine, - - - - - - - Mr. Chapman. Mr. Moore. Mr. Huntley. 
 
 
COSTUME.— [The Gambler’s Fate.] 
 
 MR GERMAINE. — Morning gown and slippers — white cravat. 
 
 ALBERT. — First dress: Light single-breasted coat, silver frogs — short 
 happed embroidered waistcoat — white breeches — lace ruffles — pow- 
 der and bag — latchets, &c. Second dress: Brown body coat, steel 
 buttons — black breeches — white waistcoat — hair dressed plain. 
 Third dress: Very ragged dark great coat and pantaloons — old 
 shoes — slouch hat — gray hair, &c, 
 
 MALCOUR. — First dress: Brown single-breasted coat, with frogs — 
 white breeches — embroidered waistcoat — powder and bag — ruffles — 
 latchets, &c. Second dress : Blue braided frock — tights — Hessian 
 boots — round hat Third dress : Very ragged drab great coat- 
 old boots — hat— gray hair. 
 
 DUMONT. — First dress: Plain sage-colored suit — white stockings — 
 ruffles. Second dress : Plain dark brown suit. Third dress : Q reat 
 coat and top boots. 
 
 BERTRAND. — First dress: Green single-breasted coat, steel buttons 
 black y reeches — embroidered waistcoat — bag wig — powder and 
 ruffles. Second dress: Blue surtout and white trowsers. 
 
 MARTIN. — First dress: Plain suit of livery — white stockings — pow- 
 der, &c. Second dress : Plain drab or gray suit— hair dressed plain, 
 
 HENRY. — Green uniform, white facings — silver epaulets — gray trow 
 sers, &c. 
 
 EVERARD. — Plain suit of black — powdered bag wig — ruffles, &c. 
 
 CAPT. D’ESTERRE and SOLDIERS.— Blue uniforms, red facings— 
 long white gaiters — cocked hats. 
 
 BAALAMB. — Gray coat — red waistcoat — buff breeches, and boots. 
 
 CARL. — Red jacket — drab breeches — white apron, and clogs. 
 
 GENTLEMEN, GAMBLERS, &c.— As Albert, 
 
 PEASANTS.— Countrymen’s jackets — smock frocks, &c., &c. 
 
 JULIA. — First dress: White satin slip and stomacher, trimmed with 
 white guaze, and pearl beads. Second dress: Blue slip, with white 
 open robe— net quilling, &c. Third dress: Slate-colored dress, 
 very mean and shabby. 
 
 MAD. BELCOUR. — Plain brown stuff — white apron — handkerchief, 
 and cap. 
 
 MRS. BAALAMB. — Red bodice — blue petticoat — apron with pockets. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 L. means First Entrance , Left. R. First Entrance , Right. S. E. L. 
 Second, Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. L. 
 Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance, Right. C. Centre. 
 L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance , 
 Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D R. 
 Door Right D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door , Left. U. D. R 
 Upper Door, Right. 
 
 *** The reader is supposed to be on the Stage facing the Audience 
 
THE GAMBLE ITS FATE 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I — Musto. —A Gaming House on the Boulevards, Paris. 
 
 Banker. [Beh'.'J, l Make your game, gentlemen, make your garao, 
 dealing,} um- ,-ura- -29 — Rouge. 
 
 Mai/ jour advances, counting notes, Sfc. 
 
 Male. Urn- 1200 winner — good — I hadn’t £5 three hours ago — 
 bless the blind old lady, say I — ha — ha ! ha! What excitement in the 
 game to a n rvice. I have retired soon — I’m cool. 
 
 [tS'i’&s l. h. Dice heard in the room r. h. 
 
 Banker. Make your game gentlemen — um — uni Noir. 
 
 Enter Rodolphe BERTRAND/Vom Hazard Room, c. 
 
 Bert. Pool! fool that I was not to quit when I was so considerable 
 a winner — now 1 am without a shilling — cruel — cruel fortune ! 
 
 Male, [l.] Ha! ha! ha! poor devil — he has lost — why how now Ber- 
 trand- -complaining of dame fortune ! 
 
 Beet. Complaining — aye — the old blind beldame has settled me 
 for ever — lost in three weeks £4000 all that a kind father had' saved 
 during a long life of honor in his country’s service — but if ever 
 again — [ Throws himself in chair, r. h. 
 
 Male. Ha! ha! ha! Always the cry of your loving gamester — but 
 let the luck tuin and then — ha! ha! ha! — Where's your Philosophy 
 mv dear fellow — -you should study the chances — play on calculation. 
 [Counting his notes.] Ah! here comes young Albert Germaine the 
 boldest and most desperate dog. 
 
 Enter Germatne, c. 
 
 Albert, [l.] Ah, Malcour, my boy, how goes the enemy i 
 
 Male. Midnight. 
 
THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 a 
 
 Albert. I’m late — my honored papa , detain’d me — obliged to do 
 an hour’s “ filial piety” and a littl a domestic comfort the night before 
 my marriage. Ha! ha! ha! I’m a precious hypocrite. [Sighs. 
 
 Male. The run has been against you lately — you’re out ? 
 
 Albert. Aye confoundedly out — but to-night — I depend on fortune’s 
 smile to compensate for all her frowns — I’m out the 1200 my father 
 entrusted to me to buy those diamonds he is to give my intended 
 wife on our wedding day — 
 
 Male. That’s awkward — 
 
 Albert. Its ruin — money I must have — I have been running after 
 our old friend Alvare the usurer. He’s in the country. 
 
 Male. That’s unlucky — the old Jew has often been a friend in need. 
 
 Albert. I was so short of cash, that I have metamorphos’d some 
 trink s into, “ rosy gold.” 
 
 Ma'c. Right my boy, attack fortune, like a lad of courage— force 
 her to be kind — [A lbert counting his cash.] Who knows but thosa 
 goldfinches ma\ 7 sing a pretty tune before sunrise. 
 
 Albert. Fortune — dear, but fickle goddess — befriend me but one 
 hour — but one little hour — and I shall be the happiest of men, of lovers 
 and of husbands. [Exit to the table c., off r. 
 
 Bert. JSo, another victim — 
 
 [r. h. corner — observes Albert at the table. 
 
 Male. [<SzVsl. h. writing during speech .] Those jewels must be had 
 for Albert — or the old gentleman’s suspicions would prevent the mar- 
 riage — that must not be — no he must marry — marriage ha! ha? 1 
 too love this Julia — but marriage ha! ha! ;\.s a mistress I should 
 adore her — but as a wife psha — there’s such an inconvenient inter- 
 ruption about a wife — but when Albert’s ruined (as soon he must be 
 here) I’ll make the haughty fair one mine, on my own terms — I’ve 
 written to a female friend — [Seals and directs it . J Waiter! [ Ente r 
 Waiter, r. 1. e.J see this delivered — ’tis for Madame Sivrac, your 
 neighbor. 
 
 Waiter. I know her sir — [Bows and exit l. h. d. 
 
 Bert. Maicour — if you had any friendship for young Germaine — 
 
 Male. Friendship, in a place like this? — ha! ha — poh ! he’s “a 
 dashing fellow" he’ll soon be rich enough. 
 
 Bert. How ? 
 
 Male. By marriage [rises and comes forward l . c.] with a charm- 
 ing girl — happy dog — 
 
 Bert. Are you not a friend of the family ? 
 
 Male. Yes — I’m the friend — t’was I that brought out this young 
 man — 1 have launch’d him into the world — ha ! ha ! [Pointing. 
 
 Bert. Strange — for they say that his father is a very severe man — 
 with manners most primitive and rigid. 
 
 Male. Why, yes — lie’s a-a grumbling old gentleman and very rich — 
 but thanks to my address, the good man , already full of infirmity, 
 believes us— ha ! ha! — a couple of saints, and as Albert expects a 
 splendid fortune at the old man’s death, he borrows a little before 
 hand, ha ! ha !— he has already disposed of the cash he is to receive 
 with his bride to-morrow. 
 
6 
 
 THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 Bert Poor girl — Mas she not an orphan at the early age of ten ? 
 
 Mala Yes — sl.e was brought up under the eye of "Mr. Germaine 
 she has an uncle lately returned from India, from whom she expects 
 no trifle — he consents to the marriage, and is hourly expected [noise 
 of playing , c.J but aliens, the game seems all alive — come — oh ! I 
 forgot, you are, hg ! ha ! ha! cleaned out. 
 
 [Exit through to table, c. and off, r. 
 
 Bert. Cold hearted wretch ! poor young Germaine with such a tutor, 
 lstf Waiter enters, l. h., bows on Dumont l. 1. e — and exit, r. 
 
 Enter Dumont l. h. d., hat in hand. 
 
 A stranger ! how shame dye’s my cheek at the sight of every new face 
 in a plate like this — Ah ! by heav’n I know him — a rich merchant at 
 
 Marse,Vlles — I met him at my uncles there what brings him to this 
 
 scenfc of vice and ruin. I’ll avoid him and observe Germaine — for the 
 poor devoted Julia’s sake. % [Exit up c. 
 
 'During the above soliloquy two Watters enter n. h. — observe Dumont 
 — one goes off to Malcour. the other smirks up to Dumont. 
 
 Dumont. So — this then is the den of thieves, called a gaming- 
 house — 1 am a bold man to enter ’tis the first time in my life — 1 hope 
 the last — 
 
 lstf Waiter. Your hat, and stick, sir! 
 
 Dumont. Thank you friend — I can take care of them myself. 
 
 ls£ Waiter. It is’nt the custom of the house sir — 
 
 Dumont. Aye, you’ve many custom’s here, I sliant subscribe to — ■ 
 [Row at the table, c. — exit Waiter, c. 
 
 Banker. Come — come, make your game gentlemen. 
 
 Dumont. What a horrid scene — ’tis a libel to call them men — they 
 are fiends in human form — and are these bis companions 1 can it be 
 that Albert Germaine — the son of my best friend — the intended hus- 
 band of my neice — comes here each night, to destroy his health, his 
 fortune amfsiiDy a name illustrious in the proud annals of his coun- 
 try — I must be certain — I have chosen the best means — ’tis ten years 
 since I saw this young man — how shall 1 know him amongst this foul 
 herd of gamblers. [&7s, r. h. 
 
 [Waiter brings on Malcour, c. and points to Dumont 
 
 2nd Waiter. That’s a strange face sir — 
 
 Male. A pigeon, perhaps, you think. 
 
 2nd Waiter. [Smirking.] I hope he’ll prove worth the plucking sir. 
 
 [Malcour gives him money — motions him to bring refreshments. 
 
 Male, I’ll try the old boy— 
 
 Dumont. I must conquer my feelings and speak to some one. 
 
 [Malcour bows — smirks, l. c. 
 
 Male. Your servant, sir! 
 
 Dumont. Sir, yours ! 
 
 Male. Very warm here, no . air — but above in the hazard room 
 you’ll find— [l. down, c. 
 
 Enter 2nd Waiter with refreshments, r. h. 
 
 Will you lemonade. [Drinks and offers Dumont* 
 
THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 7 
 
 Dumont, [r.] You are very good — none. 
 
 Malcr. [l ] A glass of wine 1 
 
 Dumont. Nothing, sir. {Aside.] This man is veiv polite. 
 
 Malcr. You — you seem a stranger, sir. [Offers snuff 
 
 Dumont. I am so, sir. 
 
 Malcr. Alt ! I see ; you-— you don’t know any of the frequenters 1 
 
 Dumont. No — not just at present. 
 
 Malcr. You — you want to “ woo the fickle goddess” — wish to try 
 your fortune — eh 1 
 
 Dumont. Not exactly. 
 
 Malcr. [Aside.] The devil you don’t. Ah! I see — I see; you’re 
 right — prudence, my dear sir — prudence is — is — [aside] — damme if I 
 don’t forget what it is. The game is tempting, sir — yes — when one sees 
 the piles of gold — here — there — one can’t help longing and risking — 
 but be cautious, sir, and it my services or advice 
 
 Dumont. [Dryly] Indeed, sir! 
 
 Main. Upon my honor, you’ve inspired me with a sort of interest. 
 What’s your game I Roulette — rouge — et noir — hazard — ecarte 1 my 
 dear sir, you may command me. 
 
 Dumont. Sir, I have no wish to become a pupil in infamy and 
 vice — and I hold you and your services in equal contempt and de- 
 testation — 
 
 Malcr. This is a pretty return for an act of voluntay friendship. 
 
 Dumont. Friendship, sir ! don’t degrade that hallowed name. 
 
 [Noise, c. r. 
 
 Enter Albert, half mad , with cards in his hand. 
 
 Albert. Fiend’s seize all ! Thus I destroy these execrable instru- 
 ments of fortune — thus ! [Tears the cards. 
 
 Malcr. [l.J Why! how now, Germaine 1 [Holding him. 
 
 Dumont. Germaine ! just heaven — it is — I recollect his features 
 now. [Goes up , r., observing him. 
 
 Malcr. What has happened 1 [They come forward. 
 
 Albert. I have lost all— my brain is turning. 
 
 Malcr. Lose your money, but not your reason. 
 
 Albert.' I’ve lost all, I tell you. The money I had with me — the 
 400 you procured for me — and 500 for which my word is pledged. 
 Oh that the cards — the fiend-like instruments — had been in the abyss 
 of hell! miserable, miserable Albert! [Throws himself in chair, l. h. 
 
 Dumont. Horrible madness ! that a young man with competence — • 
 all the elegant enjoyments of home, friends, relations — the heart-thril- 
 ling smiles of an affianced bride— should leave those joys for a scene 
 like this ! 
 
 Enter Bertraxb, c. 
 
 Bert. [e. Aside.] Still here. [Looking at Dumoxt. 
 
 Dumont. [Aside, r. c.] I should know that young man’s face. 
 
 Malcr. [l. c.J Come, come — I thought you a man — a mar that 
 wouldn’t run mad at the loss of a few hundreds. 
 
 Bert. Germaine, I am a fellow sufferer — this terrible lesson is a 
 
8 
 
 THE GA.VDLER’s FATE. 
 
 warning from heaven — believe it so, and, like me, swear to renounce 
 forever. 
 
 Albert. [Rises, takes c.] Renounce! Renounce! what, not try to 
 redeem my loss 1 no, no; 1 still must worship fortune. I'll not desert 
 her though she has deserted me. Alter all her frowns, perhaps she 
 means to smile. I — I’ll watch her — follow her; she — she yet may 
 save me. Yes, yes, in one hour — aye, in one little hour, she might 
 redeem all — all. [Nervous and anxious anticipation — to and fro. 
 
 Mater. True, true — but you must play more cooly — cooly, my 
 friend. You are always obstinate in pursuing bad luck; when she 
 runs against you, cut — always cut. Have you lost all the money I 
 lent you I [Significantly. 
 
 Albert. [Petulent.] Yes, yes, all. [ Writes , l. h. table.} There’s my — 
 
 Malcr. [Putting in his pocket-book.] Cheer up; I am still your 
 friend. To-night, why, the run’s against you on [showing notes, then 
 putting them up again.] To-morrow you’ll be in cash, and perhaps in 
 luck again. 
 
 Dumont. To-morrow ! 
 
 Albert. Ay, to-morrow my marriage with Julia will — but those 
 bridal jewels. Malcour, longer to deceive my father is impossible. 
 
 Malcr. I am still your friend, Albert. [Presses his hand.] I shall 
 be able to procure them at last — borrow them for a time — you 
 understand 1 
 
 Albert. When 1 [ Anxiously. 
 
 Malcr. This night. 
 
 Albert. W here 1 
 
 Malcr. Here. 
 
 Albert This — this indeed is friendship; my dear Malcour, you are 
 my better angel. 
 
 Malcr. An accommodating lady, who has certain traffic with her 
 sex, (she is very useful to our female gamblers, from the proud duchess 
 to the dashing spouse of the briefless barrister,) and she’s not particu- 
 lar as to the vender’s right of property — her commercial motto’s “ No 
 questions asked here ;” she showed me this afternoon a set of splendid 
 diamonds. I’ve credit with her, which credit shall be yours. 
 
 Albert. Ten thousand thanks. Not a moment must be lost, Mal- 
 cour. [Presses his hand.] Oh, what is life without a friend 1 
 
 [Exit, l. n. 
 
 Dumont. Can I believe my senses — is this the youth on whom & 
 fond lather rests his every hope of happiness 1 To-morrow, or rather 
 to-day, [looks at his watch,] he was to have married my niece — I have 
 arrived in time to prevent that dreadful misfortune, however. 
 
 [Going, sees Rodolph, who advances slowly. 
 
 Bert. You recognize me, sir, and yet you doubt — you think if im- 
 possible .that the son of an honorable man like Mr. Bertrand should 
 be found in a place like this. 
 
 Dumont. Rodolph Bertrand, is it not 1 
 
 Bert. 1 would have avoided you, but some words escaped you du- 
 ring the odious scene we witnessed — and above all, your embarrass- 
 ment tells me that you are here for the first time. 
 
THE GiMBLFR’S FATE. 
 
 
 Dumunt. I am, and the last , I trust. 
 
 Bert. Would it were my first visit! [si'^/is] but alas! I have lost 
 all my little fortune in this scene of vice. I was leaving it forever, 
 when 1 overheard a scheme laid to entrap you, if you are not a prac- 
 tised gamester. Fly this place. 
 
 Dumont. I a practised gamester! oh, young man, I am in no dan- 
 ger ; but your good intentions have won my esteem — and if your 
 penitence is sincere, I may befriend you for your father’s sake. 1 am 
 no gambler, but my presence here may perhaps preserve the happi- 
 ness of a lovely girl. But come, let us leave this den of infamy. 
 
 [About to go , are met by Gens d'armes, l. h. — the two officers and six 
 men. Nos. 1 and 2 advance , charge bayonet, stop Dumont and 
 Bertrand — Nos. 8 and 4 go into back room , and close doors — Nos. 
 5 and 6 sent to hazard room , r. h. d., by Captain D’Esterre, who 
 places No. 1 sentinel at door of back room , and No. 2 at entrance , 
 
 L. H. 
 
 Capt. [l. c.] Let no one pass unless known and proved. 
 
 Dumont, [c.] How’s this l you will not dare to detain me, sir. 
 Capt. I dare execute my orders, sir. Your papers — if correct you 
 may depart. 
 
 Dumont. What, in a place like this — must I dishonor myself by de- 
 claring my name — my residence'? 
 
 Capt. Dispatch, sir — your papers < 
 
 Dumont. Why this severity'? 
 
 Capt. ’Tis for the public good — jewels of great value have been 
 stolen from a neighboring house — we suspect that they have been 
 brought here. 
 
 Dumont. Can you suppose that I 
 
 Bert. [c.J Stop ! this gentleman is ashamed to have it publicly 
 known that he was in a place like this — unfortunately, I regard it not. 
 [ Hands his passport .] 1 am known to you, Captain D’Esterre, and 
 will be answerable for him. 
 
 Dumont, [r.] You, young man ! well, well, you may do it without 
 fear. 
 
 Capt. [c.J You must speak for yourself, sir. Your name. 
 
 Dumont. I 
 
 Bert. 1 am answerable, I tell you, Captain. 
 
 Capt. Mr. Bertrand, I am on duty, sir. [To Dumont.] Your name 
 Dumont. Dumont — a man of independent property, well known at 
 Marseilles. I arrived at Paris this evening — my papers are at my ho- 
 tel. Is that sufficient 1 
 
 Capt. Yes, when proved. I must conduct you to the prefecture. 
 
 Dumont. The prefecture ! Sir, my character is 
 
 Capt Good, perhaps — but your company. [ Points . 
 
 Dumont. True, true. 
 
 [2 d Officer and four Gens d'armes bring out gamblers in files fi rm 
 lack room — one Gen d'arme and four from the hazard room . ft. a 
 
10 
 
 THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 Capt. My orders are peremptory — you must follow. 
 
 [ Goes up, examines papers, and sends them off. 
 Dumont Must ! poor Julia Dumont — who shall watch thy fate the 
 while 1 
 
 Bert. Julia Dumont! did I hear right 1 then you are 
 
 Dumont Her nearest friend — her more than parent ; 1 come to save 
 her. 
 
 Bert. From a ruined gamester's arms. I see it all — confide to me 
 your wishes ; write your orders — I’ll fiy to execute them. Here, here. 
 
 [Dumont sits at l. h. table and v'rites. 
 Dumont. There, generous young man, [giving Bertrand letter ,] 
 delay not a moment; the happiness of a virtuous and lovely girl de- 
 pends upon your speed. 
 
 [Music. — Military arrange, march off, l. h. d. Servants clear the 
 front of stage, shut folding doors, and close the windows during 
 dialogue. 
 
 SCENE IT. — A Summer Saloon, open to the garden at the back. An 
 arm chair near l. h., put on by servant. Madame Belcour dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Mad. B. Not quite seven and all arranged ; there, there. 
 
 Enter Martin, l. h. — moves chair down. 
 
 Well, Martin, how is Mr. Germaine, poor old gentleman 1 
 
 Martin. The medicine has made him worse, I think ; he wants to 
 speak to his son — 'tis the third time I’ve been to seek him. My mas- 
 ter’s very impatient. 
 
 Mad. B. Not without reason, Martin; he’s not the only person that 
 Albert’s conduct has given offense to. Poor Miss Julia Dumont, my 
 dear pupil — in a few hours they are to be married. 
 
 Martin. Ah, Madame Belcour, have you discovered I 
 Mad. B. Yes — that your young master has been 11 out all night." 
 Martin. Mercy on us! the night before his wedding — how odd. If 
 master knew it! if Miss Julia knew it! the night before his wedding 
 — what would she think ? 
 
 Mad. B. She has a little of my suspicion ; she dislikes that Mr. 
 Malcour — so do I, too ; he seems to have bewitched Mr. Albert. Now 
 I make bold to pronounce him a determined and reckless gambler. 
 
 Martin. Don't! hush! if master knew it it would be the death of 
 him. 
 
 Mad. B. On that account I’m silent. Peace! here comes Julia 
 say nothing — go where Mr. Germaine sent you. 
 
 [Exit Martin, u. e. r. h. 
 
 Enter Julia, r. h., dressed for wedding. 
 
 Julia. Ah, my dear Madame Belcour ! 
 
 Mad. B. Julia, my dear girl, this is your wedding day — if there’s a 
 heart in the world that prays for your happiness it is mine. 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 11 
 
 Julia. I know you love me ; I — I have no secrets from you. 
 
 [ Weep — embrace. 
 
 Mad. B. Julia, my beloved child, I feel your warm tears. 
 
 Julia. You — you weep yourself. 
 
 Mad. B. Me — I [Trying to conceal it. 
 
 Julia. Dearest friend of my infancy, hitherto my instructress and 
 my guide — I feel as though a cloud obscured the joy that should at- 
 tend the nuptial hour — as if fate ordained that misery would follow 
 the sacred vow I am about to make. Mr. Dumont — my only relative 
 — he — he comes not — he abandons me ; and my good old guardian 
 Mr. Germaine, I fear his days are numbered. Sad moment for a fete 
 — and for the principal witness to the solemn act we are to have Mr. 
 Malcour; I know not how to express the fear with which that man 
 inspires me — his libertine and audacious looks disgust me. 
 
 Mad. B. You will be surrounded by your friends. 
 
 Julia. Albert, too, seems strangely altered — have you not remarked 
 his air — all inquietude and agitation 1 
 
 Mad. B. Hark ! Ah ! I believe the bridesmaids come to fetch you. 
 
 Julia. Already ! no, no — ’tis my dear afflicted guardian. 
 
 Music. — Enter old Mr. Germaine, u. e. l. h. d., leaning on two ser- 
 vants in splendid liveries — they place him in a great arm chair, l. c. 
 
 Julia. [Has helped him and knelt.] My more than father — friend 
 of my orphaned infancy. 
 
 Old Ger. [Raises her — kisses forehead.] Where is my son? I have 
 asked for him several times this morning — not here yet ! [Vexed. 
 
 Julia. I will seek him, sir. Ah, see ! he comes. Albert, quick, 
 quick ! [Runs up and beckons him. 
 
 Enter Albert, u. e. r. h. 
 
 ATbei~t. Malcour not yet arrived ! should he not obtain those cursed 
 jewels. [Aside ] Sir, I attend your orders. Julia, the bridesmaids 
 wail your presence in the great saloon. 
 
 Old Ger. Let me enjoy a moment longer the sight of my daughter. 
 It is the regret of my heart that I am not able to conduct you to the 
 altar — but how is this, Julia 1 your bridal ornaments are not complete. 
 My son, have you forgotten ? 
 
 Albert. No — sir — but in the hurry — Ihe bustle If Malcour 
 
 comes not I am lost. [Aside. ] Some things are not quite arranged. 
 [Looking anxioasly to top. ] Ah ! he’s here, and I am safe. 
 
 Enter Malcour, r. h. u. e. 
 
 The diamonds 
 
 Mai Are here. Charming Julia, and you, sir, excuse my delay — I 
 had promised my friend to bring these objects of his impatience. 
 
 [Gives casket to Albert. 
 
 Albert Thanks, thanks. Malcour — my better angel still. [Aside. 
 Presents them, with an air of triumph.] My dearest Julia will add 
 lustre to the. e glittering baubles. 
 
 Julia. A most brilliant set — behold, sir! 
 
 [Showing them to Old Germain* 
 
12 
 
 THE GAMBLER’S RATE. 
 
 Albert. Only a trifling proof of my ardent love. 
 
 Mai. [Aside.] Trifling ! true, they didn’t cost you much. 
 
 Old Ger. My fears were unjust. [Returns casket.] Albert has fully 
 accomplished my wishes. 
 
 Mai. Has he — ha ! ha ! wise old man. [Aside.] I have promised 
 this evening to deposit 500 on account of the diamonds. Aside to 
 Albert. 
 
 Albert, [r.] The money shall be ready. 
 
 [Takes Julia’s hand to lead her off r. 
 
 Old Ger. Albert, a word alone before you go. 
 
 Music. — Enter Bridesmaids, l. h. u. e., business , shows diamonds , 
 
 l. c. and c., Malcour offers his hand, she rejects it — all off but 
 
 Albert, and Old Germaine. Julia, and females, r. h. d. Mal- 
 cour and Servants at the top, l. h> u. e. 
 
 Albert. [Aside. ] ’Tis the last lecture, I must submit, to-morrow I 
 am free, now I must be filial. 
 
 Old Ger. Albert, you are now about to quit the paternal authority, 
 never forget, my son, that I commit to your care^i name bright and 
 unsullied — pure as the snow that glitters on the summit of Mont 
 Blanc. You will possess an independent Tortune — use it my son — use 
 it, but never abuse it. 
 
 Albert. Sir, the example of my father. 
 
 Old Ger . Words, boy, mere words. Wealth, my son, wealth too 
 often leads to peril — it furnishes the means to gratify the vilest pas- 
 sions of our nature — and even in your boyhood, Albert, remember 
 one vice, a love of gaming— twas the source of all your little trou- 
 bles — ’twas a vice that 
 
 Albert. A father’s eye observed and crushed the monster in its 
 birth. 
 
 Old Ger. [Firmly scrutinizing .] I did my duty, sir, since — ha^e 
 you done yours 1 
 
 Albert. Can you doubt me, sir 1 have I not sworn that this odious 
 passion was forever driven from my thoughts. 
 
 Old Ger. You — you — have sworn my son— and I should be satisfied 
 — and yet if you have deceived me. [Still doubting. 
 
 Albert. Still these doubts — Oh, my dearest father, do I deserve 
 suspicion 1 
 
 Old Ger. My son, heaven alone sees into the hearts of men and it 
 is to heaven you must account for the happiness or misery of Julia 
 Dumont, if you have abused my Confidence— if forgetful of your oaths, 
 you still cherish that detested passion, and glory in the gambler’s 
 vice, heaven pardon me for having linked poor Julia’s destiny with 
 thine — for then your fate is certain — but, my son, I shall not live to 
 see the dishonor of my name. No, I shall not witness your misery or 
 your crime. The tomb — the tomb will hide me from the sad disgrace. 
 
 [Music 
 
 Albert. They come ! thank heaven for this relief. [Aside. 
 
 Old Ger. Albert, I have spoken — embrace your friend— youi 
 father. 
 
THE GAMELEr’Z FATE. 
 
 13 
 
 Music. — Malcour and visitors enter from, garden. Madam Bel. 
 cour, Julia and Bridesmaids from r. h. chamber. Julia has the 
 diamonds on. 
 
 Enter Martin, r. u. e. 
 
 Mai. Come, Albert, come — all is in readiness — the carriages wait. 
 Old Ger. Go then, my children — my heart and voice will follow. 
 
 Music. — Julta kneels to Old Germaine, who blesses, raises , kisses 
 her forehead. Madam Belcour and Bridesmaids take her hand, 
 all follow, r. h. u. e. through c. 
 
 Old Ger. My heart is troubled — my eyes fill with tears, my fore- 
 bodings must be false — he does not game, he has sworn it. Malcour, 
 his bosom friend, he has sworn the same. Hark ! they are gone — 
 gone to pronounce the irrevocable vow. Martin 1 
 
 Martin. Sir 1 [Down R. 
 
 Old Ger. Go see the ceremony commenced, and then run back that 
 I may join my benedictions with the last prayer of the minister. 
 
 Martin. I undrt’stand sir, here goes, I love to see people married— 
 they look so silly till it’s all over. [Runs off r. h. u. e. 
 
 Music. — Enter Bertrand, from garden, l. h. u. e. 
 
 Old Ger. What stranger is this 1 
 
 Bert, [l.] I believe I address Mr. Germaine. 
 
 Old Ger. I am Mr. Germaine. 
 
 Bert. 1 come from Mr. Dumont, your friend. 
 
 Old Ger. Dumont ! is he arrived. Why is he not here 1 
 Bert. This letter will explain. 
 
 Old Ger. What, mysterious. [Reads.] “My Friend arrived last 
 night — discovered an alarming secret.” What does he mean ? “ All 
 must be changed respecting my nieces marriage. I write in haste, 
 yours, Dumont.” Great heaven, do you know his motive, sir 'l I 
 dread to ask you. Already my son is at the altar — by this time the 
 marriage is indissoluble. 
 
 Re-enter Martin, white favors, l. c. r. h. u. e. 
 
 Martin, [r.] It’s done — it’s done — they are married, their jobs 
 done. Ah, sir, if you had but seen it, such a touching ceremony. 
 
 [Exit, r. u. e. 
 
 Enter Dumont, l. h. u. e., down l. c. 
 
 Bert. Mr. Dumont, it is too late, the vow is taken, they are mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Dumont, [l. c.] Alas! my poor Julia. 
 
 Old Ger. My friend ! Dumont ! this letter. 
 
 Dumont. Forget it, I conjure you. 
 
 Old Ger. Never, it must be explained immediately. 
 
 Dumont. Since you insist, know then, that last night in an infam- 
 ous gaming house, I saw 
 
 Music a.t distance. 
 
14 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 Bert. They are returned, spare the innocent Julia, and guard the 
 honor of your son by eternal secrecy. 
 
 Old Ger. Never — I will pierce this mystery. 
 
 Music. — Enter all. 
 
 Julia. My uncle! friend! father! [Embrace. \ Now indeed I’m 
 happy. 
 
 Albert. What do I see 1 
 
 Mai. The stranger that last night 
 
 Albert. And Bertrand — we — we — are betrayed. 
 
 Julia. [ Looking at Albert and then at Dumont.] What means 
 this — you don’t speak — Albert, my uncle stands before you. 
 
 Albert. Your uncle! I declare I had lost all recollection of Mr. 
 Dumont. I regret that you arrived too late for the ceremony. 
 
 Old Ger. [Aloud.] Perhaps you ought to thank heaven. 
 
 Mai. Do you mark your father. 
 
 Old Ger. Retire a moment my daughter. 
 
 Dumont. What would you do 'l 
 
 Old Ger. I would speak with my son. [ Commanding .] Julia, retire. 
 
 Albert. Stay. I forbid your going, you have no master now but me. 
 Its useless to surround yourselves with mystery. I know the outrage 
 you’ve prepared, I know from whence it comes, the author is before 
 me and shall answer for this infamous treason [threatening Bertrand] 
 with his life. 
 
 Bert. Me 1 
 
 Old Ger. Rash and unguarded youth. 
 
 Dumont. Insult no one here. I am the only person. 
 
 Albert. You! you will not dare — remember we met last night — 
 where [ significantly ] you had better conceal. 
 
 Enter Martin, alarmed , r. h. u. e. 
 
 Martin. Oh, sir, there’s a magistrate with a party of the police, he 
 says he must speak with you immediately. 
 
 Old Ger. To speak with me — shew him in. 
 
 Albert. A magistrate. 
 
 Mai. Should it be the diamonds, my mind misgives me. 
 
 Dumont. My friend, preserve the honor of your house, let all 
 strangers retire. 
 
 Music. — Visitors exit, l. h. u. e., and enter D’Esterre, and Gens 
 d'armes, r. h. u. e., and goes down , l. c. 
 
 Esterre. [l.] It is with regret that I disturb this nuptial celebration, 
 tut my duty demands it. Are you not Mr. Albert Germaine 1 
 
 Old Ger. My — my son, sir ! . 
 
 Esterre. A robbery has been committed near a certain notorious 
 gaming house, long under surveillance, you, Mr. Albert Germaine, are 
 one of the frequenters of that house. 
 
 Old Ger. How, can it be? Albert! 
 
 Esterre. Last night a casket of jewels was conveyed to that house 
 
TUB G-AMB ER’s FATE. 15 
 
 by a suspected female, those jewels were for you and are sworn to be 
 in your possession. 
 
 Julia. Albert!! [ Comes forward. 
 
 Albert. Silence ! 
 
 Old Ger. Can it be! Albert! behold the gamblers exploits! Be- 
 hold my name disgraced — a name — a name no man ever lived that 
 dared sully the brightness of that name — remove the degraded — the 
 perjured wretch, whom I renounce for ever. 
 
 Esterre. You deny it not. 
 
 Albert. Why should I deny it 1 Am I not the free master of my 
 actions 1 May I not buy baubles to please my fancy 1 If those bau- 
 bles come from an impure source, am I obliged to know it I 
 
 Mai. [r.J Good! Well argued. 
 
 Albert. Ha ! ha ! well sir, what more have you to urge. 
 
 Esterre. Your appearance before the bench now sitting. I come to 
 bring you there. 
 
 Albert. Me ! 
 
 Esterre. Why this alarm — none but the guilty need fear our laws. 
 
 Old Ger. What ! a son of mine a suspected criminal at the bar of 
 justice ! Break, heart, break, break. Tomb, tomb, hide these grey 
 hairs — hide a dishonored parent’s head. [ Faints in chair. 
 
 Julia. In the name of heaven, for mercy, spare my husband — be- 
 hold his father’s anguish. Already we tremble for the old man’s life. 
 Do not — do not by this one blow send him to his grave. 
 
 [Falls on her knees. 
 
 Esterre. [Raises her.] Madam, the prayers of beauty in distress, 
 an aged father’s tears, the sanctity of the nuptial hour, all would 
 
 move me had not duty [Sees her diamonds .] Ah ! what do I see 
 
 • — can it be, [looks at paper,] the very diamonds which 
 
 Julia. Horror ! Oh, no, no, no, he — he could not be so base ! 
 
 Albert. Julia ! [Tries to make her go. 
 
 Esterre. Hold, sir ! Madam, I suspect the diamonds on your person 
 are those that have been stolen ! 
 
 Julia. Ah! [Screams.] Off — off — infamy — no more defile me. 
 
 [ Unclasps them. 
 
 Mai. [Seizing Albert’s hand.] Don’t name me. 
 
 Julia. There, sir, there ! [wildly,] surrounded by horrors, where, 
 oh where shall T look for succour I 
 
 Dumont. Here, my child, in the arms of your truest friend. 
 
 Old Ger. Execrable act ! day of malediction ! Oh, I feel — I feel — 
 death’s hand is on me. 
 
 Julia. [Kneeling to Old Germaine.] Pardon. 
 
 Old Ger. No ! the lag f accents of a dying man speak the voice of 
 heaven. Hear them. The destiny of the gamester is inscribed on 
 the gates of bell. Ungrateful son! remorseless parricide! you will 
 be a brutal husband and an unnatural father. Play will open to you 
 the abyss of guilt, into which you will madly plunge. Your days 
 will be recorded but by your crimes: and your life will end in poverty 
 and despair. 
 
 Albert. Father ! 
 
16 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 Old Ger. Ungrateful viper ! alien from my affection ! degenerate 
 reprobate ! you have dishonored my name — you have degraded my 
 family- — you have belied every principle of your education — you have 
 turned from the path of fame and glory to the career of crime and 
 baseness — you have ruined yourself — you have broken your father’s 
 heart — you have thrust him shamefully into the grave, on the verge 
 of which he was hovering. Shame, grief, despair, contend within my 
 bosom ; they rend my heart, and make its last pulsation throb with 
 anguish; they choke my utterance; and the last throb of nature 
 vents itself in imprecations. Dissolute, unfeeling monster ! take thy 
 father’s dying curse ! curse! curse! 
 
 [He falls dead, c. All gather around and Julia with a shriek falls 
 upon the body. Scene closes. 
 
 SCENE III. — Another room in Old Germaine’s. 
 
 Enter Madame Belcour, r. h. 
 
 Mad.B. Poor Julia! I have removed her from the death-bed scene, 
 to her own chamber. Alas ! I fear the worst — a letter to the dying 
 father, received a few short minutes past proclaims this reckless son 
 guilty of further crime — I dread to think on’t — but to the former 
 charge is added forgery ! Hark! those groans! 
 
 Enter Dumont, in great agitation, r. h. 
 
 Mad. B. Now, sir — the cause — does our good venerable friend sur- 
 vive. 
 
 Dumont. He is no more! the threatening letter, and the proof of 
 the forged note struck him so deeply to the heart, that he but lived to 
 utter— Hush! breath it not to Julia. 
 
 Mad B. I guess he died in anger with his son. 
 
 Dumont. Died cursing him \ proclaimed him parricide ! Nay 
 more, these were his words “ Albert Germaine, thou art a son, already 
 parricide, thou wilt be a brutal husband, and a most unnatural 
 father! Gaming will open the abyss of misery and thy life will end 
 in torment, horror and despair!” 
 
 Mad. B. [ Weeping.] Oh Julia! should this awful curse be known, 
 thou never would survive it. 
 
 Dumont. Speak, inform me where is my poor devoted niece I 
 Mad B. She expects my coming in her ante-chamber. 
 
 Dumont , l. Lose not a moment, meantime, as Albert’s ignominious 
 death will but increase her sufferings, say for her sake I’ll struggle to 
 preserve him — time presses — if saved he may repent. 
 
 Mad. B. Never, the gambler’s destiny is fixed, and by his crimes, 
 his days are numbered, but Julia shall have hope, farewell. 
 
 [Exit Dumont, l. h., Mad. Belcour, r. h. 
 SCENE IV. — Julia’s ante chamber. Practicable window. Two por- 
 traits of the Germaine family on each side windciv. 
 
 Music. — The little jockey Richard, opens the harp case and comes out 
 — observes room and listens — he hears noise, runs and shuts him- 
 self in the case. Madame Belcour enters and lights two candle* 
 on the toilette table. She c.mes from bed-ehamber, R. H. 
 
IS 
 
 Til 3*: G A MS LEGS F ATE. 
 
 Mad. B. [ Speaking as she enters .] Fear not, my Julia, I’ll mind 
 that all is sale e’er long, I will return, and as I trust, with welcome 
 tidings. [Julia is seen at the door thanking her , r. h. 1 e. 
 
 Julia. Oh, may Dumont preserve him ! he is my husband still ! 
 good night — say — take the key of the private stair case, should my 
 uncle or Bertrand come. I have it not — ’tis in my chamber, return 
 and we will find dispatch. Oh, fate ! fate ! when will these tort&ires 
 nd. [Exit into bedchamber , r. h. 
 
 Music. — Madame Belcour with Julia goes into dressing room first 
 door, r. h., when off the harp case opens softly, and the little jockey 
 comes out with caution, looks about attentively , listens at the doors, 
 opens the window softly — waves a white handkerchief which ap- 
 pears to be answered — goes to the harp case, ta,kes out a ladder of 
 ropes [si'Z/cJ after tying the end to the windows, throws it out. 
 Malcour comes up it, sword in hand, pistol in pocket. Little 
 Jockey, in action, requires silence — shows where Julia is — then 
 runs to the table, takes up bell, nods to Malcour and pulls out the 
 clapper. Smiling archly Malcour commands him, gives him 
 money, §c. Exit down ladder which Malcour pulls up and re- 
 mains alone. 
 
 Mai. At length the game is in my hand — Albert cannot return — he 
 is safe in prison, and the hand of Justice, perhaps. Courage Malcour, 
 courage. [Listens. J Haughty fair one, you shall not long defy my love. 
 Ah ! her attendant is about to leave her, good ! good ! 
 
 [Retreats to case. 
 
 Re-enter Julia and Madame Belcour, r. h. 
 
 Julia, [r.] There is the key of the private stair case, receive ray 
 uncle, Bertrand there. If my husband returns, I’ll open this door, 
 Mad. B. [l.J Fear not, I’ll see all’s safe, heaven bless you. 
 
 [Julia retires, r. h. 1 e., Madame Belcour locks r. h. second door — 
 leaves the key in, then crosses to private door, l. h. 1 e., opens it. 
 puts key outside, sees that all is safe , takes one candle, goes ofi 
 sighing, locks door after her. 
 
 Music changes. — Malcour comes out with caution, glides by the wall, 
 puts his sword on a chair, goes to r. h. d. 2 e., takes out the key, 
 puts it in his pocket. The noise alarms Julia, he retreats a little. 
 Julia. [Coming forward.] What noise was that, surely some one — 
 who — who’s there 1 [Pause. J They reply not — who’s there's 
 Mai. [l.J Malcour. 
 
 Julia. Malcour! 
 
 Mai. Silence — no alarm, Julia, but hear me I 
 
 Julia. Leave me. I command you, or — [Runs to bell.] Ah! [lie 
 smiles , she runs to the door, r. 2 e., finds the key gone. 
 
 Mai. You see I have prevented [Shows the key. 
 
 Julia. Am I then lost l 
 
 Mai. No, I come to save you. Spite of your cruelty I’ll guard you 
 in your hour of peril, we are alone — undisturbed. 
 
18 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 Julia. Horror! alone at midnight! and with this fiend, — 
 
 villian, all beneath this roof know the hatred which I bear you. 1 
 have only to summon them to my aid, and they drive you hence, like 
 the midnight ruffian that you are. Wretch ! instantly open that door 
 and fly ! 
 
 Mai. Never ! fly ! what, after all the trouble and the danger that 
 I’ve ran to see you thus alone and in my power 1 
 Julia. Heavens have you no fear that 
 
 Mai. None ! your husband can never enter here again — your ser- 
 vants are soundly locked in sleep, or if any dare to approach, be- 
 hold ! [Shows pistol, Julia starts.] Nay, Julia, do not tremble, should 
 love give cause for fear 1 Come, spite of yoiir disdain. I’ll snatch 
 you from the misery that now surrounds you — your husband is con- 
 victed, lost, dishonored, then break the chain that binds you to his 
 
 fate — and find in me a faithful friend — a fond protector- 
 
 [A knock at jk. h. d., 2 e. 
 
 What’s that T [Ngarfc up. 
 
 Albert. [Behind.] Open, Julia, open. 
 
 Mai. Confusion ! ’tis Albert ! ’tis Germaine ! 
 
 Julia. My husband ! Ah 1 should he see this fiend 
 
 Albert. Open, quick, I say ! [Impatient. 
 
 Julia. Fly, villian, fly ! and save thy wretched life. 
 
 Mai. Remember — dare to say ’tis me — I’ll first destroy your fame 
 and then your life. [Puts out light. 
 
 Albert. Open this istant or I’ll force the door. 
 
 Julia. Oh ! my spirits fail me ! I’m weak, very weak. 
 
 [Staggers towards door , falls senseless. Germaine forces the dooi , 
 enters, gropes across , throws off his cloak. 
 
 Albert. No one here! all’s silent! haply Julia sleeps and knows 
 not I’ve escaped by generous Dumont’s aid, he has preserved me ! 
 ha! heard I not voices 1 No, flight, instant flight alone can save me. 
 Julia shall accompany me; she must be my consolation. I am 
 certain that she loves — fondly loves me. 
 
 [Going round strikes the sword which is hanging over a chair which 
 he has found and placed his cloak on, it falls. 
 
 A sword! how’s this! whence came it's [Feels the hilt.] It is not 
 mine. Ah ! this door was fastened on the inside. Those voices when 
 1 knocked. Gracious heaven, am I betrayed, betrayed by her, the 
 traitress. Now by the fury which animates my soul, their blood — 
 
 their blood shall [Stumbles against Julia, raises her.] What’s 
 
 this ! Julia! senseless, dying, what can have happened I Julia — my 
 beloved Julia. [With affection. 
 
 lie raises her she slowly recovers, stares wildly round till her eye 
 meets his. 
 
 Julia. Ah ! iry husband ! mercy, mercy! [Clasps his knee. 
 Albert. Mercy, saidst thou, that word condemns her. Thou art 
 guillv. 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 lfc 
 
 Julia. No, no, but I tremble, fly, [Albert looks round anxiously J 
 seek him not — he — he is no longer here. 
 
 Albert. No longer here! wretch, speak, where is your lover f 
 Julia. I have no lover. 
 
 Albert. False one, accursed, behold ! [The sword. J I’ve found, who 
 — who was here ! 
 
 Julia. I dare not tell, you would shed his blood. 
 
 Albert. Right, I would, oh, shame! to profit by my troubles to 
 consummate thy most disgusting treason. Now by an injured hus- 
 band’s soul, 1 swear he dies before your eyes, speak, where is he 
 secreted 1 
 
 Julia. I know not. 
 
 Albert. He is here and parts not hence with life. Villian come 
 fin th ! 
 
 Music. — Examines chamber , behind harp case, and goes to door, l. h. 
 finds it locked. 
 
 Albert. The key 1 
 Julia. I have it not. 
 
 Albert. The key 1 [Furious . J The key 1 
 
 Forces door and exit, l. h. Music . — Malcour comes out of the case, 
 cocks his pistol. After a pause, enter Madame Belcour, with a 
 light, r. h. 2 e. 
 
 Mad. B. Oh, ma’am, Mr. Bertrand is come, he must see your hus- 
 band. 
 
 Julia. Bertrand, then heaven is just, my uncle sends me succour. 
 Enter Bertrand, r. h. 2 e. — Exit Malcour, l. h. 
 
 Bert. Where’s your husband— he has been traced, the soldiers ap 
 proach the house. 
 
 Julia. Quit me not. Oh, a dreadful error drives my husband mad, 
 he seeks for blood. 
 
 Re-enter Malcour and Albert from chamber, l. h. Malcour points 
 with his pistol to Bertrand. Albert snatches pistol. 
 
 Mai. There stands the seducer of your wife. 
 
 Julia. Ah ! [Screams. 
 
 Albert. Villain, an injured husband’s hand. 
 
 Julia. Hold, hold, there is the guilty wretch. [Pointing to Mal- 
 cour.] Aye, on my soul ! and for the proof, e’er Bertrand entered, 
 found you not this sword 1 
 
 Enter Dumont, r. h. 2 e. 
 
 Dumont. Fly, wretched Albert, a carriage with the swiftest horses, 
 all — all are ready, lose not a moment — fly — fly. 
 
 Albert. Yes, I must cling to life, but Malcour, 1 11 be revenged — 
 and Julia — no — no. I’ll not believe thee false, come, partner of my 
 flight, I’ll die but 1 11 protect thee — share my late. 
 
20 
 
 THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 Mus.c. - -He seizes the senseless Julia, throws her across his shoulder 
 rushes off , l. h. d., which Martin tries to fasten, as Madamf. Bel- 
 cour does r. h. d. Soldiers force r. h. d., and run to l. h. d., 
 which Martin and Madame Belcour throw themselves before 
 Soldiers seize them and throw them to the r. h., Madame Belcour 
 runs, looks out of r. h., window with Martin, both bawl above tut 
 music. 
 
 Mad. B. Safe ! Safe ! 
 
 Martin. I see them a gallopping ! I see them a gallopping. 
 
 [ Quick Drop. 
 
 END OP ACT 1 . 
 
 A lapse of fifteen years Is supposed to have taken place between the First and Second Acts 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Outside of a German Inn on the Munich Road. — Sign 
 Golden Lion. 
 
 Two Travelers discovered sitting at a table — one smoking and drink- 
 ing, the other reading a newspaper. Enter Mrs. Baalamb, with 
 
 Carl and Babet, r. h. 2 e. 
 
 Mrs. B. Come, quick, Babet ; stir your stumps, girl — lay the tables 
 in proper order ; and Carl, run to the cellar — fill the cans with the 
 best tap — the farthest barrel — not the one we use for vinegar — we’ll 
 give that a holiday to-day. Babet, the grilled fowl for the traveler in 
 No. 4. [Goes in. Baalamb cracks his whip behind, l. ii. 
 
 Baal. [Without.] There, put Grizzle in the stable. 
 
 Mrs. B. There, there’s my little husband — I must go give him wel- 
 come, meantime, bustle, Babet, bustle. [Exit, l. h. 
 
 1s2 Trav. Well, what news, brother traveler 1 
 
 2d Trav. Why, not much — only “ On Friday last, an alarming tire 
 broke out in the scene-room of the Theatre Frangaise, which with 
 g'eat difficulty, was got under, but not until two lives were lost, and 
 much valuable scenery destroyed.” 
 
 Istf Trav. Why, zounds! that fire happened fifteen years ago. 
 
 2d Trav. Fifteen years ago! [Turns to the date.] So it did — the 
 paper’s fifteen years old ! Well, that’s droll — but ’twas the only one I 
 could find in this out-of-the-way inn ; and as I always forget what 1 
 read, any news is new to me. Shall I go on 1 [ 1 st Traveler assents. J 
 “ Escape from prison ! — Albert Germaine, convicted of felony arid for- 
 gery, and who escaped by aid of a confederate, some time ago, lias 
 not yet been heard of.” 
 
 1 st Trav. That’s not true — I heard of him at Spa, where, in addi- 
 tion to the loss of his own property, he contrived to lose every shilling 
 
THE GAMBLER S FATE. 
 
 21 
 
 of his wife’s. Poor woman ! she had then two children — the oldest 
 must he now in his fifteenth year, and like his patents, penniless, un- 
 less he made money at sea, where lie was sent at seven jeavs old — 
 further I know not ; no, not even if this ruined gambler live ! 
 
 Enter Baalamb and Mbs. Baalamb, l. h. 
 
 Mrs D. Welcome again, my little Baalamb. [Baalamb takes papers 
 from his pocket.] Eh ! what are those papers'? 
 
 Baal. [l.J 1 met the Weisback postman on the road. Here are 
 two letters — there. [ Gives one. 
 
 Mrs. B. For me? why, I declare ! it’s from my cousin Windy, the 
 bellows-maker to his majesty — I love to correspond with people con- 
 nected with the court. 
 
 Baal. The other is for one I don’t know — a French captain, travel- 
 ing, who intends to stop at the “ Golden Lion.” 
 
 Mrs. B. Let’s see. 
 
 Baal. Curiosity, Mrs. B. 
 
 Mrs. B. Um— um — at Mr. Baalamb’s — that’s you. 
 
 Baal Yes, I’m the only Baalamb about these parts. 
 
 Mis. B. “ To be left at the ‘ Golden Lion,’ on the Munich Road.” 
 
 Baal. Many customers in my absence ? 
 
 Mrs. B. One — a traveler, who goes this morning. 
 
 Baal. I’ve news for your curiosty, wife. You know that ill-looking 
 fellow who arrived here one fine morning abuut two years ago — he 
 said he came from all manner of places — he’d a wife and a little girl, 
 and looked so plaguey poor. 
 
 Mrs. B. What, the strangei of the Red Mountain — Albert, as they 
 call him 1 
 
 Baal. Well, lie’s to be driven out of the hundred. 
 
 Mrs. B. What for? 
 
 Baal. What for! why, because he’s poor — he has never paid any 
 rent at all, and here’s a whole year’s tax due. He’s to be drummed 
 out to-morrow, as a stranger and a swindling vagabond. 
 
 Mrs. B. Without a home ! what’s to become of his poor wife and 
 little girl ? 
 
 Baal. What do I care ? away with them all— it will be a good thing 
 for the “Golden Lion” that was — for since this vagabond lias lived in 
 the mountain, people are afraid to pass that way — and after sunset, 
 instead of staying here and getting drunk, as honest Germans ought, 
 they get home as fast as they can. When he comes here sometimes 
 — to take his half-pint of small beer, perhaps — all the customers take 
 hold of their jugs, and sneak away from the table where he sits. He’s 
 a horrid-looking fellow — seems like a man accursed, or that some 
 malediction was over him. 
 
 Mrs B. That traveler found last month at the foot of the precipice 
 — isn’t this Albert rather suspected ? 
 
 Baal. Why, I must confess, Mrs. B., that — I give a shrewd guess — 
 Wmph ! — that he wasn’t far off when that man was murdered ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Mercy on us ! and 1 was last week at his cottage. 
 
 Haul. What, vou ’ you couldn’t be so fool-hardy. 
 
THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 Mrs. B. The man wasn’t there — 1 saw his wife and her little gi$ 
 Oh mercy, what misery ! it touched my heart, and I gave— I couldn’t 
 help it — I gave them — — 
 iio,od. Gave ! what pray ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Twopence. 
 
 Baal. Two pence! Oh, Mrs. B., Mrs. B. ! you must he mad to bo 
 going about making ducks and drakes of a man’s property ! 
 
 Mrs. B, They were without bread. 
 
 Enter party of six peasant laborers, l. h. 2 e . — they sit most on the 
 r. h . — two at 1 . h. table. 
 
 1st Peas. Some wine here, Baalamb — some drink. 
 
 Mrs. B. Coming. Carl ! Babet ! 
 
 Baal. Here, they’re all come from church — and so thirsty, poot 
 souls ! Ah ! that Parson Alljaw is our real friend — always preaches 
 his congregation dry. Go, Mrs. B., look to the kitchen. 
 
 1st Peas. Will you bring us some drink 1 
 
 Baal. Drink ! you shall swim in it. [Exit into house. 
 
 Some smoke — some play cards. Music. — Enter Albert — ( alteration 
 of fifteen years — a wandering outcast and a murderer) — advances, 
 place vacant at l. h. table, where two peasants are conversing —they 
 stare at him, express uneasiness, take mmg and glass, and siin/c 
 away to r. h. table, which is very forward. Albert absorbed in 
 thought. 
 
 Albert. What is memory 1 a blessing or a bane? What tells it 1 
 [Shudders ] Oh, ma belle France ! land of my birth — my beloved 
 country ! fifteen years a wretched outcast and an exile from thee ! 
 
 Paris! scene of my former Memory, avaunt ! to some a blessing 
 
 — but to me — a curse ! in agony on the table. 
 
 Re-enter Baalamb, r. h. 2 e. 
 
 Baal. What, Snooks! have you changed your place? [They point.] 
 Eh, oh ! I see how it is — that tierce-looking devil of the mountain. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Baalamb, r. ii. 2 e. 
 
 Wife, there, [points,] just as I told you, that’s the chap to clear a 
 table. 
 
 Mrs. B. Mercy on us ! how miserably lean and pale he looks ! 
 
 Baal. Aye, he looks half-starved. 
 
 Mrs. B. Half! I wonder which half of him is full. Come, my good 
 little Baalamb, give him some help. 
 
 Baal. Help ! perhaps he’ll take a fancy to help himself — so I’ll be- 
 gin by telling him 11 His carriage stops the wayP I’ll just civilly beg 
 him to put the ten-toed machine in motion. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, well, you needn’t be too hard with the poor devil. 
 Baal. Leave that to me. [Strutting to him.] Hollo, there! vou — • 
 you Mr. What’s-your-name, from the lied Mountain! [Knocks his 
 knuckles on table — rouses Albert, fixes a look — Baalamb retreats . 
 —hows. ' 
 
THE GAMBLER’^ FATE. 
 
 23 
 
 Albert, [l. of table.] What’s your will 1 
 
 Baal. Eh ! why, that is — ray will is — that is, I wish, as near as 
 possible, to obtain ' he knowledge of what the devil you want here. 
 
 Albert. Nothing but to rest my weary limbs upon this bench. 
 
 [Sighs. 
 
 Baal. Why, as to the bench , as a man , I don’t refuse the bench, but 
 as a publican, l must say that the table was occupied. 
 
 Albert. I disturbed no one — I took a vacant place — I had a right tf 
 take it. 
 
 Baal. A right! come, I like that — a right ! [Mrs. B. pulls his coat.] 
 Let me alone, wife — I’ll prove myself a man of courage — do you think 
 I’m afraid now we are tentoonef no, no — I’ll speak to him if he were 
 twelve feet high, instead of six. Poll ! poll ! wife — a cock-sparrow 
 will speak to a goose when his interest is concerned. Right, indeed ! 
 What right have you, who call for nothing to drink, to displace honest 
 men who drink like the devil — eh 1 hum ! 
 
 Albert. [Rises, looks at him, and walks aside.] Oh Albert ! is this 
 the scene thy boyish fancy painted — is this the scene thy early man- 
 hood promised 1 
 
 Baal. [ Following consequentially.] Oh, oh ! I see you take a hint 
 if you take nothing else. 
 
 Albert. You — you hav’nt much feeling. 
 
 Baal. Feeling ! poll ! can’t pay rent and taxes with it. 
 
 Albert. True — I’ve walked far and have no money — if you’ll give 
 me a glass of water I shall be able to continue my journey. [ Sits. 
 
 Baalam and ( rje look at each other 
 
 Mrs. B. Husband ! 
 
 Baal. Well, water’s cheap. I havn’t th' '/mart to refuse him — a 
 man must be charitable sometimes. 
 
 Mrs. B. Water ! poh ! give him a little L jr 
 
 Baal. What l 
 
 Mrs. B. Small beer and a cut of bread. 
 
 Baal. Would you ruin your husband 1 
 
 Mrs. B. Consider he’s a man. 
 
 Baal. Yes, and a strapper, well there’s some stale bread and the 
 fellow has a good set of grinders. 
 
 Mrs. B. Put a bit of something on the bread, by way of relish — 
 there, so. 
 
 Baal . [As Albert is going.] Hollo, you sir. [Albert turns 
 fiercely.] Don’t make a row. I’m going to give you something to eat, 
 wait a moment. 
 
 [Baalam goes into house, r. h. 2 e. Wife attends guests. 
 
 Albert. I cannot return to my miserable hovel without bread for 
 my wife and child. I cannot see them pine for food. [Wipes his 
 eyes.] To-morrow we shall be driven from our wretched home. [Cast 3 
 his eye round. J If I could meet some one alone, this arm — I have no 
 other chance — we —we cannot starve. 
 
 lie-enter Baalam, r. h. 2 e. Mrs. B. takes refreshments from hi-w 
 
 Mrs. B. There — there’s a mug of beer. 
 
24 
 
 THE GAMBLER L FATE. 
 
 Baal. Small ! 
 
 Mrs. B. And a bit of bacon to relish the bread. 
 
 Baal. I took the bacon out of the mouse trap. 
 
 Mrs. B. There eat and drink. Providence will always protect you, 
 if your conduct merits it. 
 
 At the word “ Providence” Albert, about to drink with avidity, 
 
 stops. 
 
 Albeit. Providence! [Sighs deeply, at last drinks, about to cai 
 voraciously , stops suddenly, breaks off a small piece for himself— 
 puts the remainder in his pocket .] Por my wife and child. [ With 
 much f eeling . 
 
 [Eats with eagerness as Lindorf, the traveler, enters from the house , 
 r. h. 2 e. He comes near him and regards him with compassion. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ah, there’s the traveler about to depart for Munich. Ser- 
 vant sir, hope you slept well, sir 1 
 
 Lindorf. Perfectly, my good dame— tell me who is that poor crea- 
 ture 1 
 
 Baal. What, that man there 'l Oh, he's a stranger that lives in the 
 lied Mountain, they say he comes from France. 
 
 Lindorf. Misery seems written on his visage — spare diet that. I 
 am an odd fellow, landlord, before I commence a journey, I always 
 find out some real object of charity. I am silly enough to think that 
 it insures happiness for the day, put a bottle of wine on yonder table 
 and 1 dare say that the poor fellow won’t think it a great trouble to 
 share it with me. 
 
 Baal. Mercy on us, sir, would you drink with that poor devil ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Be quiet you fool, what is it to you who he drinks with, so 
 that you sell your wine. Carl a bottle of the best wine, with the 
 green seal mind, quick ! 
 
 Lindorf. I must be at Munich early — let me have your bill. 
 
 [ Cross c. 
 
 Mrs. B. In a minute — I’ve only this bottle to add. 
 
 Goes to house , brings slate and pencil, sits u. e. r. h. bench. Carl 
 brings wine to Lindorf, who points to Albert’s table. He puts it 
 there with glasses, as Albert is about to drink his small beer, 
 Lindorf takes it from him and throws it away, and pours out 
 wine. 
 
 Lindorf. Taste that wine , my fine fellow, you’ll find it agree with 
 your stomach better than small beer. 
 
 [Lindorf takes the glass to drink. Albert does the same. Peasants 
 express surprise. 
 
 Idndorf. May heaven assist those who deserve its bounty. [Albert 
 with glass at his lips, conscience stricken sinks his glass. J Come 
 drink, my fi;iend, drink. 
 
 Albert. [Recovering drinks .] Ah! this wine has reanima^* 3 
 
 ■ ) 
 
THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 25 
 
 Lindorf. Well, my poor friend, I am glad it has done you good. 
 Come [fills again, \ here’s better fortune to you. 
 
 Albert. Better fortune. [Drinks.] To-morrow I am houseless, the 
 forest or the cold rock, the pillow for my wife and child. [Aside. 
 
 Baal. Wife, hark ye, I’m afraid of that fellow, if he should harm 
 the good natured stranger. 
 
 Mrs. B. 6 and 5 are 13. You put me out you fool, 9, 11^, carry 
 o ie. [Reckoning. 
 
 Lindorf. Tell me, my friend, do you know this country well 1 
 
 Albert. Every foot. 
 
 Lindorf. They tell me there is a short cut to Munich much nearer, 
 than the high road. 
 
 Albert. By the red mountain, ’tis nearer by a third. 
 
 Lindorf. The deuce ! that’s a great deal— can I go on horseback I 
 
 Albert. Easily, with a guide who knew the road. [A sudden thought 
 strikes him.] You are not of this country I 
 
 Lindorf. From Switzerland, traveling to the North. 
 
 [Albert ruminates aside. 
 
 Mrs. B. There’s your account sir, supper, bed, breakfast for your 
 horse and yourself, and this bottle. 
 
 Lindorf. Very moderate. 
 
 [ Takes out a large purse of gold— throws out some on the table. Al- 
 bert looks at the gold, then at Lindorf. 
 
 Albert. Gold ! my almost forgotten friend. Ah ! with that sum — 
 
 Lindorf. Tell them to saddle my horse and strap on my portmanteau. 
 
 Mrs. B. All’s ready, sir.” 
 
 Albert. What road will he take? I’ll be with him. Yes, with that 
 
 gold once more I might [Joyful anticipation.] Yes, he comes to 
 
 free me from these loathsome rags — yes [Sudden horror.] No, 
 
 no, no — I —I thirsted, and he gave me of his cup , no — no — never- 
 let me fly him. [ Going. 
 
 Lindorf. Stop, my friend, a word. [Albert stops.] As this is a 
 holiday I may find it difficult to procure a guide, humph ! this poor 
 
 devil might earn a few [Goes to Albert.] I wish to arrive eariy 
 
 at Munich. I think of taking the shortest road, will you be my guide 1 
 
 Albert. I! 
 
 Lindorf. Ay, you. I’ll reward you for your trouble. 
 
 Albert. Why — why am I tempted 1 down fiend — down. [Struggle 
 aside.] No, no. 
 
 Lindorf. No ! Why no.,? You know the road. I shall be generous 
 and you look as if you needed. 
 
 Albert. I do, indeed— well, I attend you. 
 
 Lindorf. That’s right. Come, finish the bottle. 
 
 Albert. What means 1 it is impossible. I, I cannot resist my fate. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Baal. I tell you I will speak, (if I could get any thing by holding 
 my tongue indeed !) but wife, I won’t have such a thing on my con 
 science, consider I’ve a publican's conscience. Beg pardon, sir, but— 
 
 Mrs. B. Be quiet, Baalamb. You are fool — would you prevent, the 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 26 
 
 poor man’s earning an honest penny 7 — what is there to fear in tie 
 middle of the day 7 Consider to-morrow, himself, his starving wife, 
 and his poor little girl are to be driven from their home ; come, come, 
 he’s a husband and a father — the little money he’ll get, will help him 
 to leave the country, and we shall get rid of them all. 
 
 Baal. Eh ! ah ! yes, some reason about that. 
 
 [During the above Lindorf has put on his cloak, and is ready to go . 
 Enter Babet, l. h. 1 e. 
 
 Carl. The horse is at the gate, sir. 
 
 Lhndorf. Farewell, landlord, good-bye hostess, let’s be off. Come 
 my good fellow, let’s be off. 
 
 Albert lost in thought, Lindorf, slaps him on the shoulder, l. h 
 u. e. Music. 
 
 Baal. Come, wife, bustle, bustle, don’t forget to score double, as it 
 is a holiday. Quick, Carl, Babet get the bows and arrows for my 
 dear friends to shoot for the prize. [Distribute bows and arrows .] 
 Bring down your bird at the first shot, then return and drink and 
 dance till midnight. 
 
 Music. — Exit Villagers, male and female, l. h. 2. e. Mrs. Baalamb 
 into the house. Baalamb and Carl into cellar, r. h. 2 e. 
 
 SCENE II. — An Apartment in Baalamb's House. 
 
 Enter Henry Germaine, r. h. ( Undressed uniform.) 
 
 Henry. “ The Golden Lion,” correct according to my arrangement. 
 I am here to receive a letter with information on which my future 
 happiness depends. Within there. 
 
 Re-enter Carl from cellar, r. h. 2 e. 
 
 Carl. Your pleasure, sir 7 
 Henry. The master of the house. 
 
 Carl. I’ll send him, sir. [Exit, r. h. 2. e. 
 
 Henry. I am now near my journey’s end, and my long lost parents 
 will be found. My poor mother, so kind, so good, and my father. 
 Alas ! he has been guilty, but he has expiated his crime by 15 years 
 of exile from his native land — 15 years of keenest suffering — of 
 misery and want. I should have flown sooner to their help, but my 
 uncle’s death alone revealed the secret of their existence; I have 
 traced them here and will not rest till I have once more restored them 
 to every joy and comfort wealth can purchase. 
 
 Re-enter Baalamb, bowing, from cellar r. h. 2 e. 
 
 You are the master of this inn. 
 
 Baal. Yes, sir, and if I am not deceived you [takes out letter ] are a 
 stranger and a military man, humph 7 
 Henry. I am from France. 
 
 Baal. From Fr ince ! there, how odd! I saw it in a moment. I >u 
 —you expect something at the Golden Lion — humph 7 
 Henry. A letter, which I now request of you. 
 
THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 27 
 
 Baal. How odd ! I knew it — saw it in his face — l-e-t-t-e-r. \Henry 
 impatient ] One moment, letters are letters , especially when they are 
 not post paid. I am particular — your name 7 
 
 Henry. Henry Germaine. 
 
 Baal. Bless me how odd — so it is. [Reads.] “ Captain Henry Ger- 
 maine.” Captain receive. 
 
 Henry. Quick, sir, quick ! [ Tears it open and reads. 
 
 Baal. A captain ! a young one, he must have had some money to 
 push him on — he’s pleased, some love afiair perhaps. 
 
 Henry. Are they so near ! my parents, my dearest mother ! My 
 friend, assist me with some information, and I’ll reward you hand- 
 somely. 
 
 Baal. Speak sir, speak, dont’t talk of reward. I’m not mercenary. 
 [Aside.] That’s a lie, but he’ll soon find it out. 
 
 Henry. You know all the inhabitants of this neighborhood 'l 
 
 Baal. Every soul — charming neighbors — not one of them but has 
 been blind drunk at the Golden Lion. 
 
 Henry. Have you noticed a foreigner, a man between 40 and 50, 
 poor and seeking obscurity 'l 
 
 Baal. No, no neighbor of mine, poor and, I wouldn’t own him. 
 
 Henry. They write that he has been living here these two years. 
 
 Baal. Two years ! 
 
 Henry. And exercises the calling of a wood-cutter. 
 
 Baal. Eh ! oh no, it can’t be him — that’s not possible ! his name 
 if you please 1 
 
 Henry. He passes by the name of Albert. 
 
 Baal. Albert ! Oh yes, certainly, a strong, robust fellow — a — a — 
 not at all like one of us. Oh, yes, I know the fellow, but who the 
 devil could suppose a blackguard like that, a friend of yours. 
 
 Henry. Say nothing offensive of him, sirrah! [ Checks him, he 
 bows.] He was married, do you know his wife 1 
 
 Baal. His wife ! Oh, quite a different sort of creature, a good 
 creature, but almost starving — in want of 
 
 Henry. My poor mother! you shall want no more. [Aside, and 
 wiping his eyes.] Where do they live 1 
 
 Baal. A league from the village, on the Red Mountain, in a miser- 
 able tumble-down cottage just by the great precipice. 
 
 * Henry. What! is their state so wretched 'l 
 
 Baal. Misery itself. If y< iu had come five minutes sooner, you’d 
 have seen him, for he was here. 
 
 Henry. Here ! 
 
 Baal. Sitting just there. Out of charity, I gave him a slice of 
 bread, just to keep the life in him. He’s gone as guide to a stranger 
 across the mountain — and though he’s your friend, I wish he may get 
 safe out of his company, [aside,] that’s all. 
 
 Hem y. [Sinks in a chair.] My father ! with all his faults, he is my 
 father ! 
 
 Baal. Eh ! oh ! eh ! what’s the matter ? you — you want something. 
 
 Henry. Yes — yes, that’s it, I’ve walked a long time in the air. 
 
 Baal. Why, Mrs. Baalamb, where the devil are you, my angel I 
 Babet I 
 
28 
 
 THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Baalamb and Babet, r. h. 2 e. 
 
 Quick ! some wine there — some of the best — something to eat, this 
 instant, for the young officer. [Exit Babet, r. h. 
 
 Henry. [Starts up.] My friend, I must begone this instant. My 
 luggage will arrive this evening from Weisback ; prepare your best 
 apartment for my family — [thunder heard at a distance] — that for 
 your trouble. [Gives money.] Now point out the road to my — to Al- 
 bert’s cottage. 
 
 Mrs. B. Albert’s cottage ! for heaven’s sake, what would you do 
 there, sir 1 
 
 Henry. Quick, my friend ! each moment is torture to my soul. 
 Baal. Will you go without your wine I 
 
 Mrs. B. See how the lightning flashes — there’s a dreadful storm 
 brewing. 
 
 Henry. I heed it not ; I am no holiday or silken fool, to shrink be- 
 fore the mountain blast — therefore, point out the road. 
 
 Baal. See how all the holiday folks are running for shelter. [Thun- 
 der.] Hark to the thunder ! ugh ! see how it rains. By the honor of 
 a publican, this will be a soaker. 
 
 Henry. No more delay, sir, but point out the road to Albert’s 
 cottage. 
 
 Baal. Well, if you will, why you must. Go through the village, 
 leave the wood to the right, then to the left. [ad lib. 
 
 Music. — Henry returns, puts on his cloak, which he had thrown on 
 his seat, and runs off — others go into the house. Storm increases. 
 
 SCENE LAST. — Albert's miserable cottage. Two windows , without 
 sashes, through which are seen sterile mountains — a disjointed 
 door , l. f., on one broken hinge, flapping in the wind — a table , 
 made out of a bit of board, on which are a large and small lace 
 cushion— four broken chairs. All bespeaks misery and extreme 
 poverty. Wind whistling loud — lightning, 3fc. 
 
 Julia discovered, ( fifteen years older, dressed miserably, fyc.,') she 
 j places the table and works, and speaks between the thunder-claps. 
 
 Julia. How the wind sweeps through this miserable hovel. Albert 
 not returned ! should he not obtain employment, should he come back 
 without bread for my child. [Goes to the door where the child is.] She 
 sleeps, poor child! heaven prolong thy slumbers, and spare me the 
 grief of hearing those dreadful sounds, “ Mother, some food or I must 
 perish.” [She weeps — storm increases — she speaks in the intervals.] 
 But tears — tears will not preserve my famishing child ; no, no, I must 
 be quiet, and finish this lace— it must fetch something, if but half a 
 loaf of bread. [Works. Thunder.] If heaven ordained that my life 
 was to pass in misery such as this, oh, why was I twice a mother i 
 [Thunder or wind.] My Henry — my son — he — he perhaps is happy; 
 eight years are past since he was sent to sea— I shouldn’t know him 
 now- [ Wipes her eyes. 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 29 
 
 [Storm increases — she shivers in the blast — the old door is blown down 
 
 — Julia starts up — Rose (a child, 8 or 9) screams , and runs from 
 
 the door, l. h. 2 e., into the arms of her mother. 
 
 Rose. Mother ! 
 
 Julia. My child ! Nay, calmly, calmly, my love — there’s nothing 
 to fear — the wind has blown the old door down, that’s all. [ Thunder . 
 
 Rose. Ah ! but I’m so frightened. [Hides her head in Julia’s dress 
 shaking with cold and fear. She is miserably and thinly clad. 
 
 Julia. Alas ! if the storm continues, and this frail tenement 
 
 [Looks round alarmed. 
 
 Rose. Where’s my father 1 
 
 Julia. Not yet returned, my love. 
 
 Rose. Don’t cry, mamma, don’t cry — I’m not so much afraid now; 
 I’ll help you to work ; [faintly,] I’m not very hungry yet, mamma. 
 
 Julia. My poor child ! worthy a better fate. [Kisses her. 
 
 Rose. We must work — mus’n’t we work every day now I 
 
 Julia. We must indeed. [Rose sits on a stool, working , r. h of 
 Julia ] That’s my brave girl ; courage, courage. 
 
 Rose. Yes, mamma, courage — but I can’t work now 
 
 [Shivering and languid 
 
 Julia. Why, my dear l 
 
 Rose. I’m so cold. [Shivering. 
 
 Julia. Misery, misery ! [Quits work, and snatches up Rose.] Hero, 
 my child ; I’ll warm you in my bosom ; there — there — Rose— Rose. 
 [Alternately pressing and kissing her. A noise heard. ] Hark ! some 
 ons comes — then help is near — we — we shall not perish. 
 
 [Puts her down — she runs to back. 
 
 Rose. It’s my father. 
 
 Enter Albert, d. f., quick and agitated — a basket and napkin over it. 
 
 Julia. Albert ! thank heaven you are returned. 
 
 Rose. Oh, father ! we have been so afraid. 
 
 Albert. Afraid ! [starts] afraid of what l 
 
 Julia. The storm ; but you have met no accident ? 
 
 Albert. Hey ! what say you l [ wandering ] oh no, no accident — no 
 
 — acci [ Gives hat and stick to Rose, who puts them in corner.] 
 
 See you not ? behold ! ha ! ha ! ha ! [ Uncovers basket, whuJk she takes 
 — he throws himself in chair, l. h. 
 
 Julia. Ah ! good heavens ! who has thus kindly succored our dis- 
 tress? was it from labor? [shakes his head] thy prayers, perhaps? 
 [He looks wildly.] Come, Rose ; come quick— go embrace your father. 
 
 [Rose runs to him — he starts, and morosely puts her away. 
 
 Albert. Thank no one. [Julia has laid napkin, and Rose and her- 
 self sit to eat.] Come, quick, I’m fatigned — a thirst devours me— 
 my blood boils in my veins — haste ! haste ! [Goes to table — sits. 
 
 Julia. All’s ready. Oh, Albert, how pale and changed — you must 
 have suffered. 
 
 Albert. Suffered! it matters not; come, want nothing to-day — let 
 us be happy. Some wine. Jutia, some wine. [She gives il Tie has 
 
so 
 
 THE GAMBLER’S RATE. 
 
 put the glass to htd lips , then suddenly drops it , and starts awuy from 
 the table to l. h.] When I was almost perishing, he profered kindness, 
 and I drank of his cup , and yet I horrible! [/S'ttt&s in chair , r,. h. 
 
 Julia. [Alarmed, rises and goes to him. J Albert ! 
 
 Albert There — there — eat — I — I want nothing. [She returns. 
 
 Rose. It’s very good indeed, papa. [Pause. ] Isn’t it, mamma'? and 
 I am so hungry. [Eats with avidity. 
 
 Albert. Eat, Rose, eat; [hiding his tears J eat, girl, eat. 
 
 Rose. So I will, papa, as fast as I can. [Pause. 
 
 Albert. I’m thirsty- — choking — Rose, some water, girl, water. [Rose 
 rubs the glasses, pours out water from pitcher , takes the cup to Albert 
 — he looks at her — kisses her ] I couldn’t see her starve. 
 
 [Drinks and returns the cup. 
 
 Rose. [Screams.] Look, look ! papa is hurt — there’s blood upon his 
 hand. 
 
 Albert. Blood! [Conceals it. 
 
 Julia. Albert, you are wounded. 
 
 Albert. Poh, nothing ! ascending the rock, I struck a corner — it’s 
 nothing. I’m cold — make a fire. 
 
 Julia. A fire ! with what 1 
 
 Albert. True, true, we have no wood! [Forced smile.] Well, we 
 should rejoice; our fortunes are changed — we quit this miserable 
 cabin. 
 
 Julia. What say you 1 
 
 Albert. We go hence at daybreak. See — the bailiffs command. 
 
 [Shows paper. 
 
 Julia. Good heaven ! driven hence ! then have we no asylum. 
 
 [ Weeps. 
 
 Albert. No more tears, my Julia, have I not said our fortunes ’ 
 changed, to-morrow we depart for Vienna, Hamburg, or Berlin. 
 
 Julia. Farther still from France, farther from my son. 
 
 Albert. Psha ! he knows us not, your uncle doubtless taught your 
 son to despise, nay curse his father. 
 
 Julia. Miserable wretches that we are. Oh where are the means to 
 travel I 
 
 Albert. [Shews her a purse.] Behold! 
 
 Julia. Gold ! gold ! Albert, how did you obtain it 7 
 
 She fixes her eye. Guilty he sinks beneath her gaze. 
 
 Albert. I — I — found it. 
 
 Julia. Found, found it ! [ Sceptical. 
 
 Albert. Half this sum will take us to an opulent town, and with 
 
 the other half [Joyous anticipation.] Fortune cannot always be 
 
 against me. I’ll try her once again, and if she’ll smile on me, I’ll for- 
 give her all her former frowns. When again in opulence 
 
 Julia. Albert, miserable man — a gambler still ! 
 
 Albert. [Alarmed.] Peace, some one approaches, cover the food 
 and remember, speak not of my gold. 
 
 Julia covers food with napkin, a poor miserable wretch, covered with 
 
 rags, with staff and wallet , enters d. f. the door. ’ Tis Malcoub. 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 31 
 
 Mai . My good sir, my good dame, have pity on a poor miserable 
 creature, for the love of heaven, your charity. 
 
 [Holds out his hand and advances slowly to the cabin. 
 
 Julia. An unfortunate! 
 
 Rose. Ah, father, he is so very poor. 
 
 Albert. [Petulant. J Let no one enter. 
 
 Julia. Remember we have just escaped the horrors of starvation. 
 
 Rose. Yes, I was very hungry just now, papa. 
 
 Albert. Drive him hence. 
 
 Julia. Speak not so harshly, Albert, his misery, perhaps, has been 
 less merited than thine. 
 
 Rose. Let me give him some food, I know it’s very hard to be 
 hungry 
 
 Albert. I forbid it. 
 
 Mai. You are very hard, this good dame is more compassionate 
 
 than you, and heaven will reward [Advances to the center.] 
 
 What do I see 1 can it be, Germaine! 
 
 Albert and Julia. Malcour ! 
 
 Albert. [Seizes the axe , l. h. 2 e.] After 15 years of torture has 
 hell sent me my revenge ! [Music — chord. 
 
 Albert about to split Malcour’ s head , he holds up his staff to guard. 
 
 Julia runs between. 
 
 Julia. Hold ! [Loud then drops her voice.] No more blood — no 
 more blood — behold this, miserable wretch 1 Behold the fruits of 
 murder / 
 
 Albert. Murder ! [Drops the axe — Rose picks it up and hides it. 
 
 Mai. [Pause.] What would you have gained by my death 1 [Pause.] 
 Albert I have injured you, but behold my care worn — my attenuated 
 form — this miserable garb, say, are you not revenged 1 [Pause — 
 advances a step.] Germaine ! I offer you the hand of an old, repentant 
 friend, forget the past, and together let us strive to find a way to cast 
 these rags and force fortune to be kind. 
 
 During the above speech Albert sits distant , l. h., gloomy — his wife 
 
 near him, anxious to prevent a reconcilation — he takes the child on 
 
 his knee, plays with her curls to avoid the speech of Malcour. 
 
 Albert. [Starts up.] Never! never! No more of Malcour’s friend- 
 ihip. ’Twas you that plunged me into this abyss of misery. 
 
 Mai. True, an innocent victim to your jealous fury, [sighs,] but 1 
 have shared your punishment, accused like you, condemned like you 
 — like you l fled. Fifteen years I’ve pined in want and misery, curs- 
 ing the world, and crawling in despair, a wandering beggar on my 
 way to Munich, the storm fatigue, hunger and the approach of night, 
 made me enter here. Alas ! I had long wished to meet an old 
 acquaintance — if you will — an old friend. 
 
 [Graduallyjidvancing , holding out his hand. 
 
 Julia. [Clinging to Albert.] Friend! no, no, fly, miserable man. 
 fly, hence — far from my husband — far, far as the poles asunder. 
 
 Mai. Julia, heap not reproaches on ray poor houseless head. 
 
32 
 
 THE GAMBLER^ FATE. 
 
 [Wind heard.] Cold and famine pinch my shattered frame. [Storm.] 
 All I ask is hospitality for the night , and, if you command it, at day- 
 break I’ll take my wallet and my staff, and never, never see you 
 more. 
 
 Julia. Albert ! 
 
 Albert. Julia, let your own heart decide. 
 
 M tremendous hurricane at this moment. Julia and Malcour 
 
 shiver — the child clings to the father for warmth, who presses her 
 
 to his side. 
 
 Julia. [Pause — look out at the storm , then at him.] Rest, rest, it 
 never shall be said that I exposed to the pelting of the pityless storm, 
 the wretch that asked the shelter of my humble roof. 
 
 [Takes the girl and exit, l. h. 2 e. 
 
 [Albert sits sullen — Malcour advances to the table, takes off his 
 wallet and puts down his staff. 
 
 Mai. You grant me shelter and I thank you— you won’t refuse me 
 the scraps, the remnant of your meal I 
 
 Albert. [Sullenly.] Eat — eat. 
 
 Mai. [Takes off napkin.] This doesn’t denote the poverty with 
 which he seems surrounded — humph ! [Drinks.] The wine is good — 
 [a 2 eZ,] ’tis excellent ! [3 d glass — aside,] very excellent i’ faith. [Eats 
 — pause.] Germaine, why do you sit there 7 Come, let us drink a 
 cup to the bright— the glorious days of our youth. 
 
 [Albert starts up wildly. Malcour alarmed quickly grasps his 
 
 staff. 
 
 Mai. How now, still revenge 'l [Prepared for defence. 
 
 Albert. No — no — no more blood. [Checks himself . 
 
 Mai. [Pause — puts down staff and eats and drinks.] He must have 
 resources, and strange ones 1 suspect. [Aside — pause. J Ah, Germaine, 
 if — if that day would arrive, when I could once more try my luck at 
 the old game. One opportunity and my fortune’s made. 
 
 Albert. How I [Roused.] How make your fortune. [Anxious. 
 
 Mai. I’ve touched the chord that vibrates sweetest pleasure to his 
 ear. [Aside.] I have found the secret. 
 
 Albert. The secret, how r , what secret. [Impatient. 
 
 Mai. I was long thinking of you before I entered Germany, our old 
 friendship — our boyish sports — the regret of having aided your ruin, 
 all prompted me to share my secret with you and endeavor to repair 
 tho injury I had done you. 
 
 Albert. What say you 1 how could you— so miserable. 
 
 Mai. My rags belie my words, true. I knew you’d doubt it, well 
 [sighs] some day you shall have proof. 
 
 Albert. [Impatiently.] Proof! of what 'l 
 
 [Each advancing by degrees. 
 
 Mai. It’s no illusion, by decided calculation, -I’ve found the secret 
 by which I could break every gaming bank in Italy. [Pause.] Poor 
 as you see me, I’m already on my road to Piedmont. 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 33 
 
 Albert. But what of this! (Quite anxious. 
 
 Mai. I would not yield my secret for a million, as yet ’tis here. 
 [Pointing to his head. Aside.] How eagerly the gudgeon nibbles at 
 the bait. 
 
 Albert walks about in wild anticipation — looks at Malcour — then 
 goes to him and offers snuff from an old tin-box. Malcour laps 
 the box to obtain the small quantity in the corner. 
 
 Albert. Yet — you — you intended to share it with me ? 
 
 Mai. Ah, but money is necessary to begin our plan — and to meet 
 you thus in abject poverty. [Sighs. 
 
 Albert. Perhaps. 
 
 Mai. Ah, money, money ! [Sighs. 
 
 Albert. Behold ! [Shows his purse. 
 
 Mai. Gold ! [Pause. J Albert, friend of my youth, companion of 
 many a gay and happy hour, what say you, shall we combine our 
 fortunes — employ, I, my secret , you your gold' 1 . [Aside. ] Has he 
 more 1 Is that all you possess 1 
 Albert. Yes, is it not enough I 
 
 Mai. [Feeling the purse , shakes his head.] Humph ! I doubt it 
 
 much. Ah ! if we were able How did you get that purse 1 
 
 [Significantly. 
 
 Albert. How ! [Starts with horror.] I — I must not say. [Puts up 
 the gold , walks away.] 
 
 Alai. [Aside.] Humph! ’tis as I suspected. 
 
 Albert. [After a pause.] Malcour, remain with me, and perhaps — 
 Mai. Not here. I am a stranger, without passport, a common vag- 
 rant. I have been alarmed too, [in his ear,] just now, when I had 
 quitted the main road for a nearer cut, there behind the great rock, 
 [Albert starts,] I passed a sort of mound, it seemed of new raised 
 earth, loosely covered with straggling stones, collected on the moun- 
 tain side, curious, with my staff, I displaced the stones, and there 
 discovered 
 
 Albert. [During this speech increased agitation.] Silence! [Seizing 
 his arm. 
 
 Mai. You know then I 
 
 Albert. Yes — yes — come, [with terror ,] come, ’tis night — the sky 
 
 is dark- — come help me to securely cover 
 
 Mai. [Holding back in fear.] ’Twas you then that- 
 
 Albert. No, no, my wife, my child, ’twas famine and despair that 
 forced me — come, it must be concealed — come, come. 
 
 Re-enter Rose, with a lamp, l. h. 2 e. 
 
 ’Tis not wanted here, we are about to walk, should your mother ask, 
 tell her we are gone to the hermitage. 
 
 Music. — Exit Albert and Malcour, l. d. f. Rose near the door 
 expresses her fear. Henry is seen through the window, r. f. 
 
 Enter Henry Germaine, d. f. l. 
 
 Rose. Ah ! a stranger ! 
 
34 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S FATE. 
 
 Henry. Don’t be alarmed my pretty little friend. [At the door , r. h. 
 2 e.J Permit me to enter and enquire where I am. 
 
 Rose. Oh, yes, come in out of the wet, if you please, fir. 
 
 Henry. Tell me, my little dear, is this the abode of one Albert 1 
 
 Rose. Yes, if you please, sir. [Henry throws off his cloak. 
 
 Henry. This then is the wretched abode of one who might have 
 
 lived in splendor, had not a fatal vice Well— well— he is my 
 
 father. [ Wipes his eyes.] Pray, where is the master of this house 1 
 
 Rose. He is just gone out, if you please, sir. 
 
 Henry. And my m and his wife 'l 
 
 Rose. Oh, my mother 1 she is there. [Pointing to l. h. d. 
 
 Henry. Your mother ! are you her daughter 1 
 
 Rose. Yes, if you please, sir. I’m little Rose, and I’m my father's 
 daughter too, sir. 
 
 Henry. My poor girl. [Takes her on his knee and kisses her . 
 
 Julia. [From within.] Come, Rose, come. 
 
 Rose. [Springs from him.] Mamma calls, and I always run directly 
 she calls. [Exit, l. h. d. 
 
 Henry. ’Twas my mother’s voice then. [About to follow.] No — no 
 I must not discover myself yet, she has suffered enough and I must 
 prepare her gently for the happiness I bring her. Ah ! she comes. 
 
 [Re-enter Rose leading Julia l. h. 
 
 Julia. A stranger ! where is your father 1 
 
 Rose. Gone to the hermitage with that poor hungry beggar man. 
 
 Julia. With Malcour ! 
 
 [Rose takes her work and exit busily, l. h. 
 
 Henry. We are alone, alas, I have not strength. 
 
 Julia. Sir, that a stranger of your appearance should stop at this 
 wretched habitation 
 
 Henry. Madam, have you lost all recollection of my features'? 
 
 Julia. Sir ! really ! — where did I 
 
 Henry. Where ! far, far away, at a time when you were happy. 
 
 Julia. Happy ! that I have never been. 
 
 Henry. Never'? [He is about to take her hand, she retreats fear- 
 ful.] It was in France. 
 
 Julia. In France, yes, there, I once was happy. I had then my 
 son, my dear, my darling boy. Ah ! the days are past, years, years 
 have fled since then. Oh my heart, the mother — the mother — rises 
 here — you are mov’d sir — you — you are from France 1 
 
 Henry. I am, [wiping tears, J I bring you news of 
 
 Julia. Of my son ! Ah ! does he live ? is he well 1 have you seen 
 him 1 [seizes him.] pardon an anxious mother’s feelings. [Stares in 
 his face. Sudden thought.] Great God ! your age — your tears ! 
 
 Henry. M — m — mother ! 
 
 Julia. Ah ! it is my son ! [Embrace. J I’m weak — I’m weak. OK 
 have I so long suffered misery with courage to die>with transport now 
 
 [Embrace. 
 
 Henry. I come to end all troubles ; I bring fortune — happiness. 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 35 
 
 Julia. I want no wealth ; I am rich — rich in a beloved son. Hen- 
 ry, we — we never part. [ Clasping him, 
 
 Henry. Never. 
 
 Julia. Say — how did you discover this miserable abode 'l 
 Henry. Let this suffice : You left me, an infant, to your uncle’s 
 care; he obtained a princely fortune, and dying, I became its sole 
 possessor, and now ’tis yours, yours, my dearest mother. 
 
 Julia. Dead ! my kind uncle dead ! 
 
 Henry. His papers gave an uncertain clue to your retreat ; I swore 
 *o find you if the globe contained you ; the guardian angel who 
 watches over filial piety was my guide ; my sister first received, and 
 now I am in my long lost mother’s arms. 
 
 Julia. [ Calls ] Rose ! Poor Rose ; you’ll love your sister, Henry 1 
 
 Enter Rose, with a cushion, which she puts down — Julia places her 
 on Henry’s knee, l. h. 
 
 Now indeed I’m happy. 
 
 Henry. All shall be happy — rich / behold ! here I’ve notes for 
 £5000. [ Pulling from side a larqe flat pocket-book. 
 
 Julia. £5000 ! 
 
 Henry. But here I’ve a boon more precious still — my father’s par- 
 don. [ Showing paper. 
 
 Julia. His pardon! Oh, heavens, it is ! 
 
 Henry. Where is he 'l 
 Julia. I fly to seek him. 
 
 [Henry gives Rose a purse of gold, which she throws on the table for 
 her mother. 
 
 Julia. Should MalcOur hear of Henry’s wealth, he’ll follow in my 
 husband’s steps, and all is lost again. No, he shall never know my 
 Bon ! I must see Albert and apprise him ; but the night, the storm — 
 no matter, nothing shall prevent me. [Aside.] Rest, my son, rest, and 
 in a few moments a long lost father’s arms shall clasp thee. 
 
 [Exit, wrapping her garment round her, l. d. f. 
 Henry. In your mother’s absence, can you lend me pen and ink 1 
 [Takes sheet of paper from pocket-book. 
 Rose. Yes, and a light too, for it is dark. [Runs out, l. h. d. 
 Henry. One line to mine host of the Golden Lion to send a carriage 
 — I’ll bribe the first passer-by to take it. 
 
 Re-enter Rose, with a lamp. 
 
 Rise. There, sir, there’s tbe light, and I’ve put the pen and ink in 
 my little room — it isn’t so cold there, and you won’t see the lightning. 
 Henry. And you 7 
 
 Rose. Oh, I 11 carry in my cushion and work by your side. 
 
 Henry. Ah \ you shall always be my dear little companion ; come. 
 
 [Takes the lamp and exit, l. h. d. Lightning. 
 Rose. There's a flash ! [Loud thunder .] now it thunders, and how 
 black it is ! how afraid I should be if I was all alone by myself. 
 
86 THE gambler’s fate. 
 
 Music. — Gmng, when a grand coup de tonnere — she screams , antk 
 hides her face with cushion. Enter Malcour and Albert, quick- 
 ly , l. i>. f. Rose runs to her father, putting her work on chair, r.h. 
 — tries to lead him to Henry. Malcour puts down wallet and 
 staff— sees Henry's cloak and hat and purse. 
 
 Mai . What’s this 1 gold ! 
 
 Bose. [To Albert.] Don’t make a noise, or you’ll disturb the tra- 
 veler. 
 
 Albei t. A traveler ! 
 
 Rose. He’s there, writing ; do you see him 7 such a nice man. 
 Albert. A soldier ! [Alarmed. 
 
 Mai. Hush ! behold ! this gold — is it yours or his 7 
 Bose. No, no, it’s mine — [ consequentially ] — the stranger gave it ma 
 Albert. What ! all 7 He’s very rich, then 'l 
 
 Bose. Very ; he has £5000 in his pocket-book — he showed it mam- 
 ma, and I saw it too — bits of thin paper — he called it £5000. It’s in 
 that book on the table there. I Pointing, l. 2 e. 
 
 Mai. £5000 in that book ! [Aside to Albert. Then to Rose.] And 
 where did this rich gentleman come from 7 
 Bose. I don’t know. 
 
 Albert. Who asked him to stop] 
 
 Rose. Mamma. 
 
 Albert. Where is she 1 
 
 Rose. Gone to the hermitage to seek for you. 
 
 [Takes the cushion, is going to Henry — Malcour stops her. 
 Mai. There, leave your work ; go to the side of the road, near the 
 great rock — your mother will soon return ; run back and tell us the 
 instant you see her coming. [Coaxing her.] That’s my good girl. 
 
 Bose. I’m sure you ought to fetch my mamma yourselves, and not 
 send a poor little girl like me. [Pouting. 
 
 Mai. 'Tis your father’s will. 
 
 Rose. Oh, if it’s my father’s will 
 
 Mai. He orders you not to come back till your mother is in view. 
 
 [Malcour takes her to the door, l. f., and points off — he comes back 
 and closes l. h. d. Albert sits abstrasted. 
 
 Mai. [l.] Albert ! ’tis settled then — when we can raise gold enough 
 to cast our rags and visit Italy, we’ll execute our plan, and soon possess 
 riches kings might envy. The chance has come — this instant must 
 decide. 
 
 Albert. How — how 7 
 
 Mai. [Pointing.] There are £5000 ready for our hands — ’tis but a 
 blow. 
 
 Albert. More blood ! thou art the spirit of the first-born Cain, walk- 
 ing the earth to tempt despair and misery to deeds of horror ; already 
 at the sound of thy voice my heart beats high ; aiTeady with thy 
 words the fires of hell penetrate my breast ! go, go, go ! 
 
 Mai. Albert, psha ! be calm, and hear me. 
 
 Albert. Thou art my genius of destruction ! Am I not again a trar- 
 
THE GAMBLER’S FATE. 
 
 37 
 
 derer 1 saw you not the livid corpse we have just secreted ? heard yot 
 not the last groan of my heart-broken father — heart-broken by my 
 falsehood ? have I not filled the measure of my guilt? must it yet 
 o'erfiow with blood — blood — still blood ? [Falls in his chair. 
 
 Mai. Psha! rouse from this delirium — a moment may be fatal; 
 Germaine, arouse. [Shaking his shoulder. 
 
 Albert. Ah ! where’s my wife ? 
 
 Mai. Safe out of sight. 
 
 Albert. My daughter ? 
 
 Mai. With her mother. Now you are yourself again, the point is — 
 Albert. That we assassinate this stranger youth. 
 
 [Rising with a terrible air. 
 
 Mai. With £5000, what — what may we not achieve ? ’Tis night — 
 he is alone — no one knows that he was here. 
 
 Albert. Julia saw him. 
 
 Mai. Tell her that he's gone. [Storm.] The storm increases— it 
 lightning or a thunderbolt should consume your cottage, why, we are 
 not to blame. [Smiles significantly. 
 
 Albert. Ah ! what mean you 1 
 
 [As Malcour goes into Henry's chamber , lightning , rain and wind 
 are redoubled. Rose runs in to her father. 
 
 Rose. Oh, father, father, the thunder! 
 
 [Albert presses Rose m his arms. 
 
 Albert. Stop, Malcour, stop. 
 
 Julia runs on in the greatest disorder , l. d. f. 
 
 Julia. Albert ! Albert ! a murder — an assassination has been com- 
 mitted near here — they have found a dead body — the soldiers are 
 eoming to arrest you. Call your son. 
 
 Albert. My son! 
 
 Julia. Yes, on Henry — he is there. [Pointing. 
 
 Albert. My son !! [Albert runs into the room , and returns with 
 Henry in his arms— who is wounded — and carries him to Julia.] 
 
 There, I give you your son, but my fate is marked. I am 
 
 Henry. I shall live to bless you both- 1 — the villain’s foilect. 
 
 Re-enter Malcour from the room , l., with the pocket-book — Albert 
 springs upon him. 
 
 Albert. Accursed demon ! hell’s primest agent — die ! 
 
 [Stabs Malcour, who falls dead, r. h. A thunderbolt strikes the 
 building and prostrates Albert — the hut falls in ruins and the 
 fames rise. The soldiers and peasants appear behind, and drag 
 Julia and Henry back. 
 
 Albert Behold ! the gamester’s destiny is written on the gates oi 
 h«U! [Falls dead — Tableau. 
 
 THE END. 
 
rf *1 ( 
 
 7 0 
 
 K c ' 
 
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*