Baker, George Melville A little more cider Contents A little more cider Past redemption Sylvia’s soldier Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2019 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/littlemoreciderf00bake_0 NO PLAYS EXCHANGED. Baker’s Edition A Little More Cider Price, 15 Cents Walter iT: baker & cq 25EoS COPYRIGHT. 1«89, BY WALTER H. BAKER & CO, W. pnero’s Paps price, 50 Cent# . TBa&eie & Company No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts »WUHI A LITTLE MORE CIDER. A FARCE. BY THE AUTHOR OF “Better than Gold,” “Our Folks,” “The Flower of the Family,” “En¬ listed for the War,” “My Brother’s Keeper,” “ The Little Brown Jug,” “Above the Clouds,” “One Hundred Years Ago,” “Among the Breakers,” “Bread on the Waters,” “Down by the Sea,” “Once on a Time,” “The Last Loaf,” “ Stand by the Flag,” “The Tempter,” “A Mysterious Dis¬ appearance,” “Paddle Your Own Canoe,” “A Drop too Much,” “A Little More Cider,” “A Thorn Among the Roses,” “Never Say Die,” “Seeing the Elephant,” “The Boston Dip,” “The Duchess of Dublin,” “Thirty Minutes for Refreshments,” “We’re all Teetotalers,” “A Close Shave,” “A Public Benefactor,” “A Sea of Troubles,” “A Tender Attachment,” “Coals of Fire,” “Freedom of the Press,” “Shall Our Mothers Vote?” “Gentleman of the Jury,” “Humors of the Strike,” “My Uncle the Captain,” “New Brooms Sweep Clean,” “The Great Elixir,” “The Hy¬ pochondriac,” “The Man with the Demijohn,” “The Runaways,” “The Thief of Time,” “ Wanted, a Male Cook,” “A Love of a Bonnet,” “A Precious Pickle,” “No Cure No Pay,” “The Champion of Her Sex,” “The Greatest Plague in Life,” “ The Grecian Bend,” “ The Red Chignon,” “Using the Weed,” “Lightheart’s Pilgrimage,” “The Revolt of the Bees,” “The Sculptor’s Triumph,” “The Tournament of Idylcourt,” “The War of the Roses,” “An Original Idea,” “Bonbons,” “Capuletta,” “Santa Claus’Frolics,” “Snow-Bound,” “The Merry Christmas of the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe,” “The Pedler of Very Nice,” “The Seven Ages,” “Too Late for the Train,” “The Visions of Freedom,” “Rebecca’s Triumph,” “Comrades,” “Past Redemption,” “Nevada,** “Messmates,” &c., &c. BOSTON THE SOCIAL STAGE ORIGINAL DRAMAS, COMEDIES, BURLESQUES, AND ENTERTAINMENTS FOR HOME RECREATION, SCHOOLS, AND PUBLIC EXHIBITIONS GEORGE M. BAKER CONTAINING The Last Loaf LighthearPs Pilgrimage A Grecian Bend The War of the Roses Too Late for the Train Thirty Minutes for Refreshments Snow-Bound A Little More Cider Bon-Bons A New Broom Sweeps Clean ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1870, BY GEORGE M. BAKER IN THE CLERK’S OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE DISTRICT OF MASSA¬ CHUSETTS Copyright, 1898, by Emily F. Baker (in renewal) I %\ 2 . 4 LITTLE MORE CIDER.* 1 A FARCE. CHARACTERS. t ■ Eeabtus Applejack, the cider-maknr Zeb Applejack, his son. Deacon Peaceblossom. Isaac Peachblossom, his son. Hans Drinkek. Miss Patience Applejack. Polly Applejack. Hetty Mason. COSTUMES. Eeastus and Zeb, old-fashioned Yankee suits Deacon, dark modern suit. Isaac, genteel modern suit. Hans Drinker, rusty-gray suit. Miss Patience, dark-brov.ru dress, cap, and spectacles. Polly, red dress, short sleeves, low-necked; long calico aproo liair drawn back, and twisted into a pug; long ear-rings. Hetty Mason, calico dress, long apron. Scene. — Boom, in Farmer Applejack’s house. Sofa c., back. Small table l., at which sits Miss Patience, knitting Polly and Zeb seated r., he holding , sh« unndinq , a skein of yarn. 35 26 "A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” Zeb. Gosh all hemlock! Polly, what Air yeon • thinkin’ on ? Thinkin’ ’bout some feller, I bet. Polly . W a’n’t doin’ nothin’ of the sort. I was thinkin’ ’bout my new Sunday bunnet. Zeb. Well, fashion or fellers, they’re all alike. When a gal gits thinkin’ ’bout either on ’em, she ain’t good for nothin’. Polly. Precious little you know ’bout either on ’em. I heerd Sally Higgins say that your go-to-meetin’ coat looked as though it had been made in the Revolution. Zeb. Darn Sally Higgins! What does she know ’bout war, any how? Say, Polly, what was Ike Peach- blossom sayin’ to yeou on the doorsteps last night? Polly. None’er your business, Zeb Applejack. What were you doi_i’ so near Hetty Mason’s cheek, deown by the pump, last night? Zeb. Neow quit, Polly: ’twa’n’t nothin’. Ye see, I was a-goin’ deown tew the barn, and Hetty, she was a- cumin’ up tew the house, and along there by the pump a darned big bumble-bee lit on her, and I was just brushin* it off. That’s ail. Polly. That’s a likely story. Yeou know pa has forbidden yeou to show any attention to Hetty Mason. Zeb. Yes; and he’s forbidden yeou tains’ any fronr Ike Peachblossom. I guess we’re in the same boat. Polly. Well, yeou stand by me, and I’ll stand t yeou. Miss Patience. Massy sakes ! What air yeou young ones quarrelling about? Polly. Law, Aunt Patience, tain’t nothin*. Zeb got stung by a bumble-bee last night, and was J^out it 27 u A. LITTLE MORE CIDER.” Zeb. That’s all, Aunt Patience ; but ’twas a bouncer Polly. And loaded with honey, waVt it, Zeb ? Zeb. Darn it, Polly, don’t aggravate a feller. Miss P. Bumble -bees ! Oh, they’re deceitful, artful creeters! When Deacon Peachblossom came a-cc urtin’ on me, — afore he married Abigail Spooner, — one arter- noon, when we were settin’ on the doorsteps, one oi them critters lit right on to the end of his nose, —jest as he was a sayin’ the sweetest things, tew. Zeb. Of course. That’s what brought him there. Miss P. I never shall forget how that poor feller did holler. He jest gave one jump, and then went tearin’ diro’ the village, a-holdin’ on to his nose like a mad¬ man. It spilt his beauty for a while, I tell yeou ; and spilt a match, tew, for he turned right round and went kitin’ arter Abigail Spooner from that very day. Zeb. He’s a darned humbug, any how. His nose looks as though the bumble-bees had been a-foul of it lately. He drinks. Miss P. Why, Zebulon, how can yeou talk so? Isn’t he one of the pillers of the temperance movement. Zeb. He’s a darned old humbug. He’s talked dad, here, into leavin’ eout cider, when dad went down to Gineral Court to legislate last winter. Miss P. It’s a blessed thing that they succeeded in getting it excepted, for what would we have done for our mince-pies. Polly. I wish cider had never been heard of. Here pa and Isaac Peachblossom must get to quarrelling about it; and the consequence is, that Isaac has been told that kis company was not required. I declare, it’s real mean 1 I hate cider! 28 “A LITTLE MORE CIDER. tf Miss P. Law, Polly, how can yeou talk so? Why* your father, my Brother Erastus, is making lots er money on it. Well, no wonder, for folks do say that Erastus 4pplejack’s cider beats the world. He’s makin’ money. Zeb. Yes ; and gitting stuck up, tew. Look at Hetty Mason. There’s a gal I set my heart on, and it was all right until this darned cider-bill was passed; and then dad, he up and says I can’t marry her, because she’s poor. Miss P. Well, Zebulon, yeou must be patient. Your father knows what’s best for yeou. Zeb. Does he? Well, I know what’s best for me, tew ; and that’s Hetty Mason. And I’m a-goin* to have her, in spite of all the dads in creation. Enter Applejack, l. Applejack. Oh, yeou air! air yeou? Well, I rather think I shell have somethin’ tew say ’bout that. Zeb Applejack, look me in the eye. Ain’t I been a father tew yeou { Zeb. Well, s’posin’ yer hev: ’twa’n’t my fault, was it? Applejack. Haven’t I provided yer a liberal edication? Zeb. Supposin’ yer hev: yer took it eout in boardin’ the schoolmaster. Applejack. And neow yeou want ter go and spile all my projects, by marrying Hetty Mason. Zeb. Well, dad, where’ll yer find a smarter gal. or a prettier gal, than Hetty? Applejack. Waal, Hetty’s all very well in her place, but fence I’ve found eout the way to make the best cidei "A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” 29 in teown, — and cider’s to be the daily and standard drink ov the community, sence the legislatur* has knocked rumselling, — I’ve made up my mind there’s a fortin a- comin’ to E. Applejack, and the aforesaid E. Applejack will probably and eventually be the biggest man in teown; and it’s high time we held up our heads a bit. Hetty’s a poor girl. If yeou must marry, look higher. There’s Lawyer Lawson’s daughters, five likely gals. Why don’t yeou take one of them ? Zeb. I tell yer, dad, it’s no use talkin’. Hetty Mason is the gal of my choice. I don’t care a darn for yeour high notions. I’m goin’ to marry the gal I like, and there she is. Enter Hetty Mason, l. Applejack. Yer ain’t a goin* ter do nothin’ uv ther sort. Hetty Mason, yeou jest pack up yeour band-box, and start eout uv this house at once. Zeb . Do, Hetty ; and I’ll pack up a clean shirt, and go right along with yer. Applejack. Yeou won’t do nothin’ ov the sort. Zeb. Yaas, I will. Yeou turn her eout, and yeou turn me eout. Applejack. Hetty Mason, yeou needn’t pack yer band- box jest yet. Hetty. Well, I declare! I’m getting tired of this. It’s the same thing every day. “ Pack your band-box, and don’t pack your band-box.” If you two, father and son, would come to some conclusion regarding my future welfare, it would spare my wardrobe a great deal of tumbling. Polly. Don’t mind them, Hetty. It will come out All right 30 “A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” Hetty . Well, I hope it will, for I’m getting tired of it Applejack . We’ll talk this over some other time, when you’re cooler. But miud, Zebulon, no sparking round my house. I won’t have it. Enter Hans Drinker, r. Hans . Goot tay, mine Friend Applejack : it is varmer dan never vash, and I ish very try. I vould like some trinks. Applejack. Oh, some of my cider ! Hey, Hans ? Hans. Yaw, dat ish goot cider. I have never trinks such goot cider since ven I cooms from Faderland, and dat vash lager bier. Applejack. Hetty, bring a glass of cider. Hans. In a mug. Do you hear, my chile? I vill have mine glass of cider in a mug. It ish so mooch better, (aside) and so mooch larger. (Exit Hetty, l.) Miss P. Well, Mr. Drinker, what is the news? Hans. Veil, not mooch. Old Johnson fell into the vater last night, ven he be very trunk. They have not find him. But that ish no matter, ’cause he be not ov mooch use now. Miss Murray, she proke her leg the day pefore to-night. Meester Jones, he failed week pefore next. Meester Smith have a new litter of pigs, and Meester Harris have a new papy at his house. But I ton’t think of any news, I pelieve. Enter Hetty, l., with mug of cider . Applejack (takes cider , and passes it to Hans). There, Friend Hans, there is a mug of the best cider ever made. Hans. Dat ish so. (Tastes.) Ah, dat ish goot cidei "A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” 31 ash never vash. Yell, I trinks your good health, Meeste* Applejack. I trinks your goot health, Miss Patience. [ trink your goot health, Miss Polly. Py jinks, 1 /rinks all your goot healths. (Drinks.) Ah, dat ish goot. Meester Applejack, I shall recommend your cider Applejack. Thank yeou, Hans ; and, whenever yeou are ?oing by, don’t fail to drop in and have a mug of it feou are always welcome. Hans. Dat ish goot. I shall rememper and call again, dy dunder, dat is goot cider. ( Exit , r.) Applejack. An honest old fellow, Hans Drinker. Zeb. Honest. P’r’aps he is; but, if he don’t skin yeou out of a barrel of cider afore he gets through, my name’s not Zeb Applejack. Applejack. I’ll risk it. But come, Patience, how’s this? It’s seven o’clock. Deacon Peachblossom speaks on temperance at the vestry at half-past. i*s P. Massy sakes ! So he does ! (Jumps up , rolls up \er knitting.) I declare, I wouldn’t miss hearing the deacon for a good deal. I’ll be ready in a minute. (Exit, v ) ApplejaJi. Come, Polly, you’d better be getting ready. Polly. 1 iUu’t a-going. Applejack. Oh, yes, yeou are ! S’pose yeou want to stay at home in hopes that Isaac Peachblossom will happen about here when I’m away. Come, get ready. Yeou,. tew, Zeb. Zeb. Me 1 I ain’t a-goin’. Applejack. Who’s the head ov this here family, I’d like to know? I tell yeou you’re both a-going. Now let’s have no ifs, ands, or buts about it. 32 “A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” Enter Isaac Peachblossom, r. Isaac. How are you, Mr. Applejack? How are yo« Zeb? Ah, Polly, I kiss my hands to you. Applejack. Well, don’t trouble yerself, Isaac Peach- blossom. When she wants any kissing done, she won’t come to you. Polly. {Aside.) That’s a whopper. Isaac. Well, don’t mind me. I dropped in on a little business. You know the legislature last year passed a bill exempting cider from the prohibition law. Of course you do, for we’ve had many an argument about it, — you contending for cider as a harmless and necessary bev¬ erage, I contending that it was an intoxicating drink. My father took sides with you and you triumphed iD the legislature, punishing me for my opposition by break¬ ing off the contemplated marriage of your daughter and myself. Applejack. Well, what in thunder is all this coming to? Isaac. Listen. In this town, no sooner was it made legal than there appeared to be a determination on the part of everybody to take to drinking cider. Applejack. Of course. A harmless and necessary beverage. Isaac. {Producing letter.) Well, I don’t believe that, you know. But, however, I couldn’t understand it. But the matter’s all out. A friend of mine, residing in Boston, writes me {reads), “ I must put you up to a new dodge of your country prohibitionists. Now cider is exempted, we have an unusually large call for empty Whiskey-barrels. The parties who make cider buy them “A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” 33 to put their cider in, as whiskey gives a particular flavoi to the cider. This is bad enough for those who profess to be so temperate ; but one old fellow, who lives not a great way from your town, buys regularly six barrels a week, with particular directions to have one-third of the whiskey usually contained in the barrel left in. Pretty sharp practice, hey! ” Zeb. I should think so. Why, it’s a downright swindle. Polly . What rascality ! Applejack . That man—that man—that man—ought to be cut off from respectable society. Isaac . Of course he had. And Pm determined to find him out and punish him. Applejack . Well, I hope you will. Where on earth is Patience? We shall be late for lecture. (Goes b., and calls.) Patience, Patience. {Exit r.) Zeb. {Crosses to Hetty, r.) I s’pose I’ve got to go, Hetty ; but Pll be back here in fifteen minutes. Polly. {Crosses to Isaac, l.) I’ve got to go to that plaguy lecture; but, just as soon as I’ve got there, Pm going to sneak out and come right here. Isaac. A word to the wise is sufficient, Polly. Good- day, Zeb. {Exit l.) Zeb. Good-day, Ike. Patience. {Outside.) Erastus, don’t swear so. You’re the awfullest man that ever I did see. I can’t help it, if I do lose my specs. Applejack. Well, come along, and hold yeour tongue. {Enter Applejack and Miss Patience, l., shawled and bonneted.) Now, then, Polly, git yeour things; anasses cider.} [fans. By donder, dere won’t be no cider in de house 1 Deacon. Splendid ! Splendid ! Sp — len — did ! That loosens my tongue. Yes, Miss Patience, deaf Mi ss Patience, — dear Patience, — I do long to clasp to my arras — a little more cider. (She passes cider.) Thank you. Here’s your jolly good health. (Drinks.) Splendid! Splendid! Splendid! That’s the nectar (hie) that Jupiter sips (hie). That’s glor’us stuff. Yes, dear Miss Cider, — I mean, Miss Patience, — I’m a lone¬ some man. I’m a drefful lonesome man. I want some- body at my side (hie) to bathe my throbbing brow (hie), to give me — to give rae — a little more cider. (She gives mug.) Thank you. Here’s your jolly good health. {Drinks.) Splendid! Splendid! Splendid! Pat ience. (Aside.) How strangely he acts! but I believe he is on the brink of a proposal. Deacon. Yes, I want to take somebody to my heart. Yes, Patience, — dear Patience, — dearest Patience! I want to take you to my heart (hie), this bursting heart — come to these longing arms, and give me — a little more cider. Patience. Do you ask me to be your wife, Deacon ? Deacon. Splendid ! Splendid ! Splendid cider ! Of course I do ! Be my cider, — no, my wife ! I love you ! I adore you ! (hie) I worship you! I want you, and — a little more cider. Patience. (Jumping up.) Good gracious ! Deacon ! [Pulls him up.) Listen! There’s a man under the «ofa. My foot touched him. We shall be murdered I What shall I do? 48 “A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” Deacon. Come to these arms (hie). Who cares fbi the man (hie)? let ’em come on (hie) ! these arms shall protect you. This manly bosom shall protect you (hie) ; a little more cider shall protect you (hie). ' Patience. (Screams and throws herself into Deacon s arms.) A man ! A man ! Help ! Help ! Help ! (Polly, Isaac, and Hetty appear at door , r., with light ; Applejack, l.) Applejack. Well, well, what’s the matter here? Good¬ ness gracious ! Sister Patience in a man’s arms, and that man Deacon Peachblossom ! Deacon. Tha’s wha’s the marrer, Flapplejack. She flew to these protecting arms, Flapplejack ; and these protecting arms, Flapplejack, clasped her in a warm em¬ brace, Flapplejack ; and that’s wha’s the marrer. Applejack. Why, Deacon, what brought you to this condition ? Deacon. A little more cider, Flapplejack. Patience. O Brother Erastus! there’s a man under the sofa! Applejack. Man under the sofa? We’ll have him eout, then, quick! (Seizes Hans’s leg , and pulls him out. Hans at the same time seizes Zee’s leg, and they are brought out together. Hans sits on floor , r. Zeb, l.) Applejack (between). Zeb, what on airth are yeou under the sofa for? Zeb. Well, I don’t know ; but I s’pect it's the s«in« reason that set the deacon on it. 44 fi Ji LITTLE MOLE CIDEB.” ‘Applejack. What’s that? Zeb. A little more eider. Applejack. Hans Drinker, what sent you there ? Hans. By donder! Meester Applejack, I never se« such wedder pefore for der next five years! I vas so dry ash never vash all de time, and so I coomed here for vat you axed me. Applejack. What was that? Hans. A leetle more cider. Applejack. Will somebody please to explain this? Deacon. Ov course, Flapplejack. Ps all right. I’m goin’ to make Miss Patience Mrs. Peachblossom (hie), sure’s you live! Applejack. Pm glad of that. Isaac. And Pm going to make your daughter Mrs. Peachblossom, Mr. Applejack. Applejack. No, you’re not. I’ll never give my con¬ sent. Isaac. I think you will, especially as I’ve got the name of the party who buys empty whiskey-barrels, one- third full. Applejack. You have, — well, you’re a pretty good feller. Take her and make her happy. Zeb. I’m going to make Miss Hetty Mason Mrs. Applejack to-morrow. Applejack. No, you’re not. I forbid the banns. Zeb. Too late, dad. Pm posted on all the tricks of the cider-trade; and, if you interfere with my arrange ments, I’ll expose it all. Applejack. Well, well, get married to-night if you choose. I don’t care. I’m tired of you, I want 8 change. 11 A LITTLE MORE CIDER.” 45 Deacon.. Then let’s have some more cider. Isaac . Mr. Applejack, there are two interests veri Jear to my heart: one is the temperance cause, the othe? is your daughter Polly. Duty to the one demands that J should expose the deceit you have practised on our com* munity. Love for the other equally demands that I should conceal it. I can compromise with duty ouly through your instrumentality. Promise me to give up the sale of cider entirely, and I am silent. Refuse, and not even my love for Polly shall prevent my exposing the whole transaction. Applejack. Why, Isaac, there’s money in it. Isaac . Not honest money, Mr. Applejack. You see what a fool one mug of it has made of my father. Applejack. Well, I know; but Patience must have got at the wrong barrel, and given him the full strength of whiskey. Isaac. What do you say ? Is it a bargain ? Applejack. Well, yes : there is no other course ; so I’ll e’en make a merit of necessity. Isaac. You’ll never repent of it. The Devil prowls %round the earth in many disguises. Don’t you help to eover him up, Mr. Applejack. Deacon. Well, say (hie) : a little less talk, and a lit¬ tle more cider, — that’s my idea. Isaac. Not to-night, father. Applejack has shut up ihop for the night. Applejack. Yes, for the night. Call round to-mor* row, friends, and you shall see me dispose of it. Zeb. Well, Hetty, we’re going to get married, afiei &U. 46 “A LITTLE MORE CIDER. tf Hetty. Yes, Zeb ; but I’m not going to have any of (hut cider round my house. Deacon. Patience, when shall the wedding come off f Patience. Law, Deacon, don’t ask me afore all these folks. Isaac. I’ll tell you, father. Thanksgiving Day, when Polly and I are made one. Hey, Polly? Polly. I’m willing, if father is. Applejack. Well, as you seem to have settled i\l among yourselves, I don’t think my consent is needed, Hans. By donder, Meester Applejack! dere’s one ting you forgot. Applejack. No, I haven’t. It’s what you want, but cannot have. No more cider here, Hans. We are going to banish it. I can only hope that our kind friends will go home satisfied that the article least needed was, — what was it, Deacon? Deacon. “ A little more cider.” Hans. Petter ash never vash, py donder! DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS. I, ZEB AND HETTY, POLLY AND ISAAC, ft DRAGON AND PATTRNC8, APPIRJACR, BARS, 9L W. ^tnero's Pays price, 50 Cents? Cacf) THE MAGISTRATE ® ,arce * n Three Acts. Twelve males, four females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, all interior. Plays two hours and a half. THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITF ?. r r a ? n A f s Eig 1 - males,five females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, all interiors PI? ys a lull evening. THE PROFLIGATE Play in Four Acts ^even males, five females. Scenery, three interiors, rather elaborate ; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. THE SCHOOLMISTRESS ^ arce in Three Acts. Nine males, seven females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY Play in Four Acts. Eight ^ males, five females. Cos¬ tumes, modern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. SWEET LAYENDER Comedy in Three Acts. Seven males, four females* Scene, a single interior; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. THE TIMES Comedy in Four Acts. Six males, seven females. Scene, a single interior; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. THE WEAKER SEX Comedy in Three Acts. Eight males, eight females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, two interiors. Plays a full evening. A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE Comedy in Three Acts. Five males, four females. Costumes, modern ; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. Sent prepaid on receipt of price by t Walter iBafeer 8 . Company No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts ' SWwi decent popular iplaps THE AWAKENING THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT AN IDEAL HUSBAND Play in Four Acts. By C. H. Chambers. Four males, six females. Scenery, not diffi¬ cult, chiefly interiors; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. Price, 50 Cents. Comedy in Four Acts. By L. Tolstoi. Twenty- one males, eleven females. Scenery, characteristic interiors ; cos¬ tumes, modern. Plays a full evening, liecomraended for reading clubs. Price, 25 Cents. HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR I males, three females. Costumes, modern; scenery, one interior. Acting rights reserved. Time, a full evening. Price, 50 Cents. Comedy in Four Acts. By Oscar W ilde. Nine males, six females. Costumes, mod¬ ern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. Sold for reading. Price, 50 Cents. THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST fST £ T 0 £t° Wilde. Five males, four females. Costumes, modern ; scenes, two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. Acting rights re¬ served. Price, 50 Cents. LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN males. _ Costumes, modern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. Price, 50 Cents. Play in Four Acts. By Clyde Fitch. Fifteen males, four females. Costumes of the eighteenth century in America. Scenery, four interiors and two exteriors. Act¬ ing rights reserved. Plays a full evening. Price, 50 Cents. Comedy in Three Acts. By M. B. Horne. Six males, four females. Scenery, two interiors; costumes, modern. Professional stage rights reserved. Plays a full evening. Price, 50 Cents. Comedy in Four Acts. By C. H. Chambers. Four males, thuee fe¬ males. Scenery, an interior and an exterior; costumes, modern. Acting rights reserved. Plays a full evening. Price, 50 Cents. A WOMAti OF NO IMPORTANCE seven females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, three interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. Stage rights reserved. Offered for reading only. ” Price, 50 Cents. NATHAN HALE THE OTHER FELLOW THE TYRANNY OF TEARS Sent prepaid on receipt of price by Walter L^. I3alicr & Company No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts *. J. PARKHILL A CO.. PRINTERS. BOSTON, U.S.A. PAST REDEMPTION Price, 25 Cents Baker's Edition or Plays 1@@©« BY WALT1B H. ©AKISfiS nft <«*•* I k /y /y & /y /*s /is /y /♦s /y /y /y «y /y 4 s /y /is w w T w T y/ yi/ v/ V/ w s*/ # w w yv v A. W. PINERO’S PLAYS. Uniformly Bound in Stiff Paper Covers, Price, 50 cents each. The publication of the plays of this popular author, made feasible by the new Copyright Act, under which his valuable stage rights can be fully protected, enables us to offer to amateur actors a series of modern pieces of the highest class, all of which have met with distinguished success in the leading English and American theatres, and most of which are singularly well adapted for ama¬ teur performance. This publication was originally intended for the benefit of readers only, but the increasing demand for the plays for acting purposes has far outrun their merely literary success. With the idea of placing this excel¬ lent series within the reach of the largest possible number of amateur clubs, we have obtained authority to offer them for acting purposes at an author’s roy¬ alty of Ten Dollars for Each Performance. This rate does not apply to professional performances, for which terms will be made known on application. THE AMAZONS. A Farcical Romance in Three Acts. By Arthur W. Pinero. Seven male and five female char¬ acters. Costumes, modern; scenery, an exterior and an interior, not at all difficult. This admirable farce is too well known through its recent performance by the Lyceum Theatre Company, New York, to need description. It is especially recommended to young ladies’ schools and colleges. (1895.) THE CABINET MINISTER. Costumes, modern society ; scenery genious in construction, and brilliant in dialogue A Farce in Four Acts. By Arthur W. Pinero. Ten malt and nine female characters three interiors. A very amusing piece, in (1892.) DANDY DICK. A Farce in Three Acts. By Arthur W. Pinerc Seven male, four female characters. Costumes, moc ern ; scenery, two interiors. This very amusing piee was another success in the New York and Boston theatres, and has been e: tensively played from manuscript by amateurs, for whom it is in every respet suited. It provides an unusual number of capital character parts, is very funny and an excellent acting piece. Plays two hours and a half. (1893.) THE HOBBY HORSE. A Comedy in Three Acts. By Arthui W. Pinero. Ten male, five female char acters. Scenery, two interiors and an ex terior; costumes, modern. This piece is best known in this Country through th< admirable performance of Mr. John Hare, who produced it in all the principa cities. Its story presents a clever satire of false philanthropy, and is full oi interest and humor. Well adapted for amateurs, by whom it has been success fully acted. Plays two hours and a half. (1892.) LADY ROITMTTFUT I A pla y in Four Acts - B y Arthur w I VJ I > 1 IT j px NEB o. Eight male and seven female char “"—■—-——————————J acters. Costumes, modern ; scenery, fou interiors, not easy. A play of powerful sympathetic interest, a little sombre ir key, but not unrelieved by humorous touches. (1892.) PAST REDEMPTION. A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. BY GEORGE M. BAKER, BOSTON PAST REDEMPTION Copyright, 1875, by George M. Baker. Copyright, 1903, by Emily F. Baker (In Renewal). NOTE. “ In the Sweet By-and-by,” the song called for by the text, has inevi¬ tably become rather stale as a lyric by the lapse of time. Of course, any other song can be easily and advantageously substituted for it. While this piece calls for elaborate scenery, having been intended primarily for professional performance, it can be pro luced in a simpler manner, if desired. The elaborate third act may be worked with a flat having two doors, if preferred. In that case, Harry and Jessie appear at c. door at end of act, instead of in the picture above. CHARACTERS. i | v\ I _fc rO m QC d> i John Maynard, a New-England farmer. Harry Maynard, his son. Robert Thornton, a speculator. Tom Larcom, a farmer. Nat Harlow, a country trader. Hanks, a farmer (can be taken frattt 0rck*sfam% Cart. Nathan Bragg. Stub, a negro, Maynard’s help. Murdoch, a friend of Thornton. Daley, a barkeeper. Huskers, male and female. Four Gentlemen, patrons of the ha?. Mrs. Maynard, John’s wife. Mrs. Charity Goodall, John’s sister. Jessie Maynard, an adopted daughter. Kitty Corum, “The girl with two strings to her bow.® Chorus of Ladies for Act III. plot for bill. Act I. — Husking at the Old Horsc. Act II. — Past Redemption. Act III. — Charity’s Quest. Act IV. — Thanksgiving at the Old Home. “In the Sweet By and By,” incidental music to be arranged from the bj f, P. Webster, published by Oliver Ditson & Co., Boston and New Yo k. There’s a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar, For the Father waits over the way To prepare us a dwelling-place there. Chorus : — In the sweet by and by We shall meet on that beautiful shore. (Repeat) I $ 4 COSTUMES COSTUMES. John Maynard. Act I. Mixed pants and vest, blue striped shirt, collar rolled rver vest, without necktie, straw hat, bald gray wig, heavy gray side-whiskers. Act II. and IV. Add a dark coat. Harry Maynard. Act I. Neat gray suit, with game-bag, felt hat, leggings, Act III. White shirt without collar, rusty black pants, and coat out at elbows, nnshorn face, hollow eyes. Act IV. Light pants, dark vest and coat, with white overcoat, high-colored handkerchief thrown about the neck, felt hat. Robert Thornton. Act I. Light gray suit, leggings, game-bag, felt hat, heavy watch-chain, and full black beard and moustache. Act II. Handsome black suit, black hat, light overcoat on his arm. Act III. Fashionable suit, with a liberal display of jewelry. Act IV. Dirty black pants, torn at the knee, white shirt, soiled and ragged, showing a red shirt beneath; rough grizzled beard and wig; pale and haggard; dark, ragged coat. Tom Larcom. Act I. and II. Rough farmer’s suit. Act III. Flashy mixed suit, false moustache and chin-whiskers. Act IV. Neat suit with overcoat and felt hat. Nat Harlow. Neat mixed business suit; a little dandified. Hanks and Huskers. Farmer’s rough suits. Capt. Bragg. Dark pants, white vest, blue coat with brass buttons, military stock and dickey; tall felt hat; bald gray wig, and military whiskers. Murdoch. Fashionable dress. Daley. Dark pants and vest, white apron, sleeves rolled up, no coat. Stub. Act I. Gray pants, blue striped shirt. Act III. Dark pants, white vest, red necktie, standing collar, black hat, short btack coat. Acts II. and IV. Same as first with the addition of a coat. Mrs. Maynard. Acts I. and II. Cheap calico dress. Act IV. Brown dress, with white apron, collar and cuffs. Gray wig for all. Charity , age about thirty-five. Act II. Pretty muslin dress, with a white apron, tastefully trimmed, lace cap, light wig. Act III. Gray dress handsomely trimmed, gray waterproof cloak. Act III. Dark travelling dress, handsome cloak and hat. Jessie. Act I. Muslin dress, with collar and cuffs. Act II. Something d the same kind. Act III. Handsome dress of light color. Act IV. Gray travel¬ ling dress, with cloak and hat Kitty. Act I. Light muslin dress. Act II. Something of the same kind. Act IV. Red dress, white collar and cuffs, shawl and hat Chorus of Ladies for Act III. Dark and light dresses, with “clouds” of dil terent colors about their heads. PAST REDEMPTION. A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. Act I. — A Husking at the Old Home. Scene. — A barn. In flat, large door to roll back l., closed; above door, hay-mow, practicable staging, loose hay piled upon it; over that, window . through which moonbeams stream, l., stalls with harness suspendedfrom pegs, bench on which are two basins and towels, r., bins, above stalls and bins , r. and l., hay-mow with hay {painted), r. c., which are seated A. two benches Tom Larcom, b. Nat Harlow, and between them four farmers, three girls; another girl standing c. ; beside her on floor, kneeling, a farmer picks up the husks thrown by the buskers, and puts them in a basket. A small pile of corn, d., which the occupants of the benches are at work on, throwing the corn into bins , r. : the husks behind. Just back of b, Hanks seated on a barrel with violm playing, “ In the sweet by and by A Stub leaning against wing, L., I e. listening; stool r., i e. ; red lanterns hung r. and L. , red light from footlights. Hanks plays the air through during the rising of curtain. Stub. Golly! hear dat now,*will you? D-d-dat what I call music in de har, fur it jes make my liar stan’ on end, yes, it does. And I feel— I feel jes as dough I was skew¬ ered onto dat ar fiddle-bow, an’ bein’ drawed frou a sea ob bilin’ merlasses. Golly, so sweet! Nat. There’s a first-class puff for you, Hanks, from the mouth of a critic — with a black border 6 FAST &&DZMFTXON. % Tom. You do beat all nater, Hanks, with the fiddle, your hand is as cute, and your ear as fine, as though the one had never held a plough, or the other listened to the jingling of a cowbell. Talk of your genuses. Give me the chap that’s a Jack at any thing, from digging ninety tater-hills afore breakfast, to sparking a pretty girl at ’leven o’clock on a starlight night. Stub. Wid de ole man cornin’ roun’ de corner ob de house wid a double-barrel rebolver, “You scoot or I shoot.” Don’t forget de embellishments, Tom Larcom. (All Icuigh.) Nat. Ha, ha! had you there, Tom. Tom. What are you laughing at? If old Corum mis¬ took me for a prowler one night, am I to blame ? Stub. Coorse not, coorse not, when you didn’t stop to ’lucidate, but jumped de fence and scooted down de road hollering “ Murder ! ” (Laugh.) Tom (flinging an ear of corn at Stub). A little more ear and less tongue, Stub. Stub (ducking his head). Don’t waste de fodder. Had ear enough dat night. Golly! jes woke de whole neighbor¬ hood. Tom. Ah ! the course of true love never did run smooth, Stub. By golly! you — you found it pretty smoove run- nin’ dat night. Tom (threatening Stub). Will you be quiet ? Stub. Ob coorse. Don’t waste de fodder. . Nat. Ah, Tom, Nature never cut you out for a lover. Tom. P’r’aps not; but I’ve got art enough to cut you out, Nat, if you do make up to my property, Kitty Corum. (Enter Kitty, r., overhearing last words.) Kitty. Indeed! Your property! I like that. And when, pray, did you come into possession? Tom. That’s for you to say, Kitty. I’m an expectant heir as yet. Don’t forget me in your will, Kitty. Nat, Don’t write vour will in his favor. * Kitty. “When a woman wills she wills: depend on’t; And when she won’t she won’t, and there’s the end on’t” Tom (sings). “If I could write my title clear.” Nat. Give me the title, Kitty. Tom. I’d give you a title — Counter-jumper, Yardstick! that’s about your measure. You talk about titles: why, PAST REDEMPTION. 7 all you are good for is to measure tape and ribbons, cut “ nigger-head,” shovel sugar, and peddie herrings for old Gleason. Bah ! I smell soap now. Nat (jumping 7ip). You just step outside, and you shall smell brimstone, and find your measure on the turf, Tom Larcom. Kitty. There, there, stop that! I’ll have no quarrelling Supper’s nearly ready, and the corn not finished. Tom. We’ll be ready for the supper, Kitty. If I could only find a red ear. Kitty. And if you could? Tom. I should make an impression on those red lips of yours that would astonish you. Kitty. Indeed! It would astonish me more if you had the chance. (Laugh.) But where’s Harry Maynard? Tom. Off gunning with Mr. Thornton. He said he’d be back in time for the husking: they must have lost their way. Kitty. His last night at home, too. Stub. Yas, indeed. Off in de mornin’, afore de broke oh day. I’s gwine to drive dem ober to de steam-jine sta¬ tion. Miss Jennie gwine to see him off; ’spect she’ll jes cry her eyes out cornin’ home. Tom. Well, I can’t see the use of Harry Maynard’s trottin’ off to the city with this Mr. Thornton. Let well enough alone, say I. Here’s a good farm, and a smart, pretty girl ready to share life with him; and yet off he goes to take risks in something he knows nothing about. Kitty. Don’t say a word against Mr. Thornton ; he’s just splendid. Chorus of Girls. Oh, elegant! Tom. There it is! Vanity and vexation! here’s a man old enough to be your father. Comes up here in his fine clothes, with a big watch-chain across his chest, and a seal ring on his finger, and you girls are dead in love with him at first sight. Kitty. Tom, you’re jealous. Harry Maynard is not content to settle down here; he wants to see the world, and I like his spunk. If I was a man / would get the polish of city life. Stub. So would I, so would I. Yas, indeed; get de polish down dar. Look at'Joe Trash; he went down dar, lie did. New suit ob store clo’s onto him, and forty dollars in his calf-skin. He come back in free days polished right rut ob his boots. 8 PAST REDEMPTION. Tom. Well, I s’pose it’s out of fashion not to like this Thornton, but there’s something in the twist of his waxed- end mustache, and the roll of his eye, that makes me feel bad for Harry. Kitty. You needn’t fear for Harry. He won’t eat him. Stub. No, sir, he’s not a connubial: he’s a gemblum. Tom. Ah ! here’s the last ear, and, by jingo ! it’s a red one. Chorus. Good for you, Tom ! good for you ! Nat. I’ll give you a dollar for your chance. Tom. No, you don’t, Nat; I’m in luck. — Now, Kitty, I claim the privilege. A kiss for the finder of the red ear. (A ll rise.) Kitty. Not from me, saucebox. Nat. Run, Kitty, run ! (Kitty runs in and out among the huskers, Tom in pursuit.) Tom. It’s no use, Kitty; you can’t escape me. ( She runs dowfi R. cornerj as Tom is about to seize her , she stoops , and runs across stage , catches Stub A ) 7 the arms , and whirls him round. Tom, in pursuit , clasps Stub in his arms.) Stub. “ I’d offer thee dis cheek ob mine.” If you want a smack take it. I won’t struggle. Tom ( strikes his face with hand). How’s that for a smack ? Stub. Dat’s de hand widout de heart: takes all de bloom out ob my complexion. ( Goes across stage holding on to his face , a)id exits R. Kitty runs through crowd again , co?nes R., Tom in pursuit) Tom. It’s no use, Kitty: you must pay tribute. Kitty. Never, never! ( Runs across to L., and then up stage to back. Door opens , and enter Harry Maynard and Thornton, equipped with guns and game-bags j Kitty runs into Harry’s arms.) Harry. Hallo! iust in time. You’ve the red ear, Tom, so, as your friend, I’ll collect the tribute. {Kisses Kitty.) Kitty {screams). How dare you, Harry Maynard ! Tom. Yes, Harry Maynard, how dare you? (Thornton, Harry, Kitty, Tom, and Nat come down; others carry back the benches , and clear the stage; then con¬ verse in groups at back.) Harry. Don’t scold, Tom. It’s the first game that has crossed my path to-day: the first shot I’ve made. So the PAST REDEMPTION. 9 corn is husked, and I not here to share your work. We’ve . had a long tramp, and lost our way ( goes to r. with Thorn¬ ton ; they divest themselves of their bags , and lean thei? guns against bin . 2d entranced) Tom (l. c ). Empty bags ! Well, you are smart gunners • not even a rabbit. Harry (r. c. Thornton sits on stool , r.). No, Tom; the)' were particularly shy to-day, so I had to content myself with a deer, your dear, Tom. ( All laugh ; Nat, l., very loud ’ T om threatening him.) Kitty (c.). His dear, indeed! I’ll have you to under¬ stand I’m not to be made game of. Harry. No, dear, no one shall make game of you; but keep a sharp lookout, for there’s a keen hunter on the track, and when Tom Larcom flings the matrimonial noose — Kitty. He may be as lucky as you have been to-day, and return empty-handed. Tom. Don’t say that, Kitty; haven’t I been your de¬ voted— Kitty. Fiddlesticks ! ( pushes him back , and comes to L. c.) If there is any thing I hate, it’s sparking before com¬ pany. Nat (l.). And there’s where you’re right, Kitty. As much as I love you, I would never dare to be so outspoken before company. Tom. Oh, you’re a smart one, you are ! (Enter Stub, r.) Stub. Supper’s onto de table, and Miss Maynard, she says, says she, you’re to come right into de kitchen, eat all you like, drink all you like, an’ smash all de dishes if you like; an’ dere’s fourteen kinds ob pies, an’ turnobers, an’ turn-unders, an’ cold chicken, an’ — an’ — cheese — Harry. That will do, Stub. My good mother is a boun¬ tiful provider, and needs no herald. So, neighbors, take your partners; Hanks will give you a march, and Mr. Thornton and I will join you as soon as we have removed the marks of the forlorn chase. Stub. Yas, Massa Hanks, strike up a march: some¬ thing lively. Dead march in Saul; dat’s fus rate. Tom (c.). Kitty, shall I have the pleasure? ( Offers his left arm to Kitty.) Nat (l.). Miss Corum, shall I have the honor? ( Offers his right arm to Kitty.) < Kitty ( between them , looks at each one , turns up het IO PAST REDEMPTION. nose at Tom, and takes Nat’s arm). Thank you, Mr. Harlow. I’ll intrust this property to you. Nat. For life, Kitty ? Kitty. On a short lease. {They go up c, face audience ; others pair, and fall in behind them) Tom (c.). Cut, — a decided cut I must lay in wait for Yardstick when this breaks up, and I think he will need about a pound of beefsteak for his eyes in the morning. {Goes l. and leans dejectedly against wing. Music strikes up, the march is made across stage once , and off r., Stub strutting behind.) Harry (crosses l.). Why, Tom, don’t you go in? Tom. Certainly. Come, Hanks, Hanks.) They’ll want your music in there, and I’m just in tune to play second fiddle. ( They exeunt R., arm in arm) Harry (goes to bench l., and washes hands). Now, Mr. Thornton, for a wash, and then we’ll join them. (Thornton keeps his seat in a thoughtful attitude. Harry comes down) Hallo! what’s the matter? Homesick? Thornton (laughs). Not exactly; but there’s some¬ thing in this old barn, these merry huskers, this careless xiappy life you farmers lead, has stirred up old memories, until I* was on the point of breaking out with that melancholy song, “ Oh, would I were a boy again ! ” Harry. Now, don’t be melancholy. That won’t chime with the dear old place; for, though it has not been free from trouble, we drive all care away with willing hands and cheerful hearts. Thornton. It is a cheery old place, and so reminds me of one I knew when I was young; for, like you, I was a farmer’s boy. Harry. Indeed ! you never told me that. Thornton. No : for ’tis no fond recollection to me, and I seldom refer to it. I did not take kindly to it, so early forsook a country life for the stir and bustle of crowded cities. But, when one has reached the age of forty, ’tis time to look back. Harry. Not with regret, I trust: for you tell me you have acquired wealth in mercantile pursuits, and so pictured the busy life of the city, that I am impatient to carve my fortune there. Thornton. ’And you are right. The strong-armed, clear-brained wanderers from the country carry off the grand PAST REDEMPTION. II prizes there. You are ambitious : you shall rise; and, when you are forty, revisit these scenes, a man of wealth and influence. Harry. Ah, Mr. Thornton, when one has a friend like you to lead the way, success is certain. I am proud of your friendship, and thankfully place my future in your keeping. Thornton. That shows keen wit at the outset. Trust me, and you shall win. {Rises.) But I am keeping you frcm your friends, and I know a pair of bright eyes are anxiously looking for you. {Goes to bench , and washes hands) Jessie {outside l., sings ),— “ In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore,” &c. Harry. Ah! my “sweet by and by” is close at hand. {Enter Jessie, r., with pail) Jessie. O you truant! {Runs to him.) Now*don’t flatter yourself that I came in search of you. Do you see this pail ? this is my excuse. Harry. ’Tis an empty one, Jessie. I am very sorry you have been anxious on my account; but I’m all ready, so let’s in to supper. Jessie. Not so fast, sir: the pail must be filled. I’m going for milk. Harry. Then “I’ll go with you, my pretty maid.” — You’ll excuse me a moment, Mr. Thornton. Jessie. Mr. Thornton! — Dear me, I didn’t see you! Good evening. Thornton. Good evening, Miss Jessie. Jessie. Are you very, very hungry? Thornton. Oh, ravenous! Jessie. Then don’t wait, but hurry in, or I won’t be responsible for your supper: buskers are such a hungry set. — Come, Harry. Harry. Don’t wait, Mr. Thornton: it takes a long time to get the milk ; don’t it, Jessie ? Jessie. Not unless you tease me — but you always do. Harry. Of course, I couldn’t help it; and tease and milk go well together. {Exeunt Jessie and Harry, r„ Thornton stands c. looking after them) Thornton. Yes, yes, ’tis a cheery old place. Pity the storm should ever beat upon it; pity that dark clouds should ever obscure its brightness; yet they will come. For the U. OF ILL LIB. 12 PAST REDEMPTION. first time in a life of passion and change, this rural beautj has stirred my heart with a longing it never felt before. I cannot analyze it. The sound of her voice thrills me; the sight of her face fascinates me ; the touch of her hand maddens me ; and, with it all, the shadow of some long-for¬ gotten presence mystifies me. This must be love. For I would dare all, sacrifice all, to make her mine. She is be¬ trothed to him. He must be taken from her side, made un¬ worthy of her, made to forget her. The task is easy to one skilled in the arts of temptation. Once free, her heart may be turned towards me. ’Tis a long chase : no wonder I am melancholy, Harry Maynard; but there’s a keen, patient hunter on the track, who never fails, never. ( Enter John Maynard, r.) John Maynard. Well, well, here’s hospitality: here’s — hospitality with a vengeance. That rascal Harry has de¬ serted you, has he ? — you, our honored guest. It’s too bad, too bad. Thornton. Don’t give yourself any uneasiness about me, old friend. Harry lias left me a moment to escort a young lady. Maynard. Ah, yes, I understand: Jessie, our Jessie, the witch that brings us all under her spells. No wonder the boy forgot his manners ; but to desert you — Thornton. Don’t speak of desertion; you forget I am 'me of the family. Maynard. I wish you were with all my heart. I like you, Mr. Thornton. I flatter myself I know a gentleman, when I meet him. You came up here, looked over my stock, and bought my horses at my own price, no beating down, no haggling; and I said to myself, He’s a gentleman, for gentlemen never haggle. So I say I like you ( gives his hand), and that’s something to remember, for John May¬ nard don’t take kindly to strangers. Thornton. I trust I shall always merit your good opinion. Maynard. Of course you will; you can’t help it. There’s our Harry just raves about you, and you’ve taken a fancy to him. I like you for that too. Then you are going to take him away, and show him the way to fortune by your high pressure, bustle and rush, city ways. Not just the notion 1 wanted to get into his head; but he’s ambitious, and I’ll not stand in his way. He’s our only boy now. There was PAST REDEMPTION. *3 another; he went down at the call of his country, a brave noble fellow, and fell among the first: and he died bravely: he couldn’t help it, for he was a Maynard. But ’twas a hard blow to us. It made us lonely here; and even now, when . the wind howls round the old house in the cold winter nights, mother and I sit silent in the corner, seeing our boy’s bright face in the fire, till the tears roll down her cheeks, and I — I set my teeth together, and clasp her hands, and whisper, He died bravely, mother, — died for his country like a hero, — like a hero. Thol.nton. Ah ! ’tis consoling to remember that. Maynard. Yes, yes. And now the other, our only boy, goes forth to fight another battle, full of temptation and danger. Heaven grant him a safe return ! Thornton. Amen to that! But fear not for him. 1 have a regard, yes, call it a fatherly regard; and it shall be my duty to guard him among the temptations of the city. Maynard. That’s kind; that’s honest. I knew you were a gentleman, and I trust you freely. Thornton. You shall have a good account of him ; and ’twill not be lonely here, for you have a daughter left to comfort you. Maynard. Our Jessie, bless her! she’s a treasure. Sixteen years ago, on one of the roughest nights, our Harry, then a mere boy, coming up from the village, found a poor woman and her babe on the road lying helpless in the snow. He brought her here: we recognized her as the daughter of one of our neighbors, a girl who had left home, and found work in the city. This was her return. Her unnatural father shut the door in her face, and she wandered about until found by Harry. She lingered through the night, speechless, and died at sunrise. I sought the father, but he had cast her out of his heart and home ; for he be¬ lieved her to be a wanton. Indignant at his cruelty, I struck him down; for I’m mighty quick-tempered, and can’t stand a mean argument. I gave the mother Christian burial, took the child to my heart, and love her as if she was my own. As for him, public opinion drove him from our village ; and her child is loved and honored as he could never hope to be. Thornton. And your son will marry her with this stkln upon her ? Maynard. Stain? what stain? Upon her mother’s finger was a plain gold ring; and, though the poor thing-’s *4 PAST REDEMPTION. lips were silent, her eyes wandered to that ring with a mean* ing none could fail to guess. She was a deserted wife ; and, even had she been all her father thought her, what human being has a right to be relentless, when we should forgive as we all hope to be forgiven ? But come, here I am chattings away like an old maid at a quilting. Come in, and get your supper, for you must be hungry: come in. ( Exeunt R. Enter l., Harry, with his ar?n round Jessie, the pail in his hand) Harry. Yes, Jessie, ’tis hard to leave you behind; but our parting will not be for long. Once fairly embarked in my new life, with a fair chance of success before me, I shall return to seek my ready helper. Jessie. Harry, perhaps you will think me foolish, but 1 tremble at your venture. Why seek new paths to fortune when here is all that could make our lives happy and con¬ tented ? Harry. But it’s so slow, Jessie; and, with the best of luck, I should be but a plodding farmer. To plough and dig, sow and reap, year in and year out, — ’tis a hard life, all bone and muscle : to be sure, rugged health and deep sleep ; Dut there is excitement and bustle, quick success and rousing fortunes. Ah, Jessie, if one half my schemes work well, you shall be a lady. Jessie. To be your own true, loving wife, your ever ready helper, is all I ask. O Harry, if you should forget me in all this bustle ! Harry. Forget you? Never: in all my hopes you are the shining light; in all my air-built castles, which energ)i should make real and substantial ones, you are enthroned my queen. Jessie. Enthrone me in your heart: let me be an influ¬ ence there, to shield you from temptation, and, come fortune or failure, I shall be content. Harry. An influence, Jessie : hear my confession. Un¬ known to you, I stood beneath your window last night, as you sat looking up at the moon, singing the song I love, “ In the sweet by and by.” I thought how soon we must part, and your sweet voice brought tears to my eyes. Jessie, 1 believe, that, were I so weak as to fall beneath temptation, in the darkest hour of misery, the remembrance of that voice would call me back to you and a better life. Jessie. You will not forget me? PAST REDEMPTION. *5 Harry. Oh, we are getting melancholy. (Smiles.) Why should / not fear a rival ? Jessie. Now you are jesting, Harry. Do I not owe my life to you ? Harry. Hush, hush! that is a forbidden subject, and all you owe to me has been paid with interest in the gift of your true, loving heart. (They pass off, R. Enter Capt, Bragg, c.) Capt. Bragg. Well, I never — no, never. If Parsor Broadnose himself, in full black, with all his theological prognostications to back him, had said to me, Capt. Bragg, did you ever ? I should have fixed my penetrating eyes upor him, and answered boldly, No, never. Slighted, absolutely, undeniably, unquestionably slighted ! I, Capt. Nathan Bragg distinguished for my martial deportment, my profound knowledge, my ready wit, yes, every thing that adds a charm to merrymaking; I, ex-commander of that illustrious corps, the Lawless Rangers, that rivals the grandest Euro* pean regiments in drill and parade, — slighted at a mean, contemptible little husking. Fact, by jingo! But I’m not o be slighted : I won’t be slighted. I am here to testify my profound contempt for a slight. If John Maynard has a husking, and forgets to invite the grand central figure on such occasions, it is the duty of the grand central figure to overlook the little breach of etiquette, and appear to con¬ tribute to the happiness of its fellow townsmen. There is an air of gloom about this place, all owing to my absence. They’re in to supper: I’ll join them, to cheer the dull hearts and (going r.)— Hallo! guns, guns. (Takes up one.) There’s a beauty. This reminds me of my warlike days at country muster, and the Lawless Rangers. Ah, those rangers ! every man with a Roman nose, six feet high, and a dead shot: not a man would miss the dead eye at one hundred paces, — if he could help it. Ah ! I can see ’em now as I gave the order : ready — aim —fire (raising gun andfir¬ ing as he speaks .) Murder! the blasted thing was loaded. (Drops it, and staggers across stage to l ., tremblmg. A fowl drops from r., at the shot. Enter r., Mr. Maynard, Stub, Harry, Jessie, Tom, and Mrs. Maynard.) Maynard. Who fired that gun? Ah, Capt. Bragg, what’s the matter ? Stub (taking up fowl). Dat ar poor ole rooster am a gone goose. Dat’s what’s de matter. PAST REDEMPTION. 16 Harry (, taking up gun). Captain, have you been med¬ dling with my gun ? Mrs. Maynard. Of course he has: he’s always med¬ dling. Capt. Mrs. Maynard, that’s an absurd remark. It’s all right: one of my surprises. You must know I wanted a rooster for to-morrow’s dinner. I’m very fond of them: there’s such a warlike taste about them. And we are a little short of roosters; my last orus, being a little belli¬ gerent this morning, walked into Higgins’s yard, and en¬ gaged in deadly combat: so deadly that Higgins’s fowl was stretched a lifeless corse upon the ground: for Bragg’s roosters always lick, always. But in spite of my earnest protest, despite the warlike maxim, Spoils to the victor be¬ long, Higgins shot my rooster and nailed him to his barn door like a crow, and his crow was gone. Fact, by jingo. Maynard. Yes: but what’s that got to do with my rooster ? Capt. Well, I wanted a rooster: so says I to myself, Maynard’s got plenty, he can spare one just as well as not; so I’m come to borrow one. Well, I found you had com¬ pany, and not wishing to disturb you, and seeing a gun handy, I singled out my dinner roosting aloft there, raised the gun, — you know I’m a dead shot, — shut my eyes — Tom. Shut your eyes! Is that one of your dead shot tactics ? Capt. Shut one eye, squinted, of course, that’s what I said, and fired. The result of that shot is before you If you will examine that fowl, you will find that he is shot clean through the neck. Stub. He’s shot all ober; looks jes for all de world 1 ke a huckleberry puddin’. Maynard. Well, captain, I call this rather a cool pro¬ ceeding. Capt. Ah, you flatter me: but coolness is a characteris¬ tic of the Braggs. When I raised that company for the war, the Lawless Rangers, I said to those men, Be cool ; don’t let your ardor carry you too far. Tom. Yours didn’t run you into battle, did it, captain? Capt. I couldn’t run anywhere. Just when the call came for those men, after I had prepared them for battle, and longed to lead them to the field, rheumatism — in the legs too — blasted all my hopes, and left me behind. But PAST REDEMPTION. 17 my soul was with them, and, if they achieved distinction, they owed it all to my early teaching— to the Bragg they left behind. ( Struts up stage.) John Maynard {to Thornton). Ah ! he’s a sly old fox. Thornton {tappbig his head). A little wrong here. Maynard. No, he’s a cool, calculating man, but as vain as a peacock. Capt. ( coming down). Sorry I didn’t know you had com¬ pany. Wouldn’t have intruded for the world. Maynard. Tt’s all right, captain. Join us: we were expecting you. {To Thornton.) I can say that truly, for he’s always popping in where he’s not wanted. Capt. Ah! thank you. A-husking, I see. What’s the yield ? Maynard. Excellent. My five-acre lot has given me two hundred bushels. That’s what I call handsome. Capt. Pooh ! you should see my corn. There’s nothing like Bragg’s corn. My three-acre lot gave me three hundred bushels, and every other ear was a red one. Chorus. Oh! Capt. Fact, by jingo! (Nat and Kitty enter r., fol¬ lowed by buskers.) Maynard. Come, boys, get ready for the dance. — Moth¬ er, you take the captain in to supper. Mrs. Maynard. Come, captain, you must be hungry. Capt. {coming to r.). Thank you, I could feed a bit. But don’t stir: I can find the table; and, when I do find it, I shall do full justice to your fare, or I am no Bragg. {Exit r. Harry rolls back the big door , others put out ' anterns. Moonlight streams upon the floor. Change footlights.) Thornton {to Jessie). Miss Jessie, shall I have he honor of dancing with you ? Jessie. Thank you, Mr. Thornton. {Takes his arm , ana they go up. Nat and Kitty come down c.) Nat. Ah, Kitty, now for the dance. Of course you will •rpen the ball with me. Kitty {hanging on his arm , looks around, and nods til Tom ; he comes down on the other side). Did I promise yov a dance to-night, Mr. Larcom? Tom {sulkily). I believe you did: but I ain’t pa. ncular. Kitty. But I am. Nat. Kitty, dance with me. Kitty. I shall do just as Mr. Larcom says; ii he does not wish me, why — i8 PAST REDEMPTION. Tom. Oh, Kitty, you know I do, you know I do ! (Takes her arm ., and whirls her up stage. N at goes over to L., and leans against wing watching theml) Harry. Now, boys, take your partners for Hull’s Vic¬ tory. — Come, mother, (i Gives Mrs. Maynard his arm , and goes to door, taking the lead. Tom and Kitty, Thornton and Jessie next, others form in front of than. Stub goes to l. Dance, Hull's Victory . When Tom and Kitty come in front , Tom talks with Mr. Maynard, who stands r,, and Kitty ?nakes signs to Nat: he comes over , takes her arm, and they go tip and off, l. u. e., appearing soon after in the loft at back ; they sit on the hay, and watch the dancing. The dance is continued some time , Stub dancing by himself l. When it is Tom’s turn to dance, Stub slips into set, and gives his hand. Tom dances a little while before finding his mistake ; then pushes Stub back, looks round and up, descries Kitty and Nat. Goes off l. u. e. Dance goes on. Enter Capt. Bragg, r., with a chicken-bone in one hand, and a piece of pie in the other ; stands watch¬ ing the dancers. Tom appears in loft, behind Nat. Nat puts his arm round Kitty, and is about to kiss her; Tom pulls him back upon the hay, and pummels him. Nat. Help! Murder! Murder! [Dance stops .) Capt. Hallo ! Thieves ! Burglars ! [Seizes the othet gun, raises it, andfires. Fowl drops fro?n l. Stub picki it up; Mr. Maynard seizes Captain’s arm.) Stub. Dere’s anoder rooster dead shot. Capt. Fact, by jingo ! Tableau. Capt. r. c., with gun raised; Maynard c., with hand on gun; Stub l., holding up fowl; others starting forward watching group. Tom has Nat down in the loft with fist raised above him. Kitty kneels r. of them, with hff apron to her face. CUETAfN. ACT II.— Past Redemption. f rterior of Maynard’s farm-house . House on r. with porch covered with vines j fence running across stage at back , with gateway c., backed by road a?id landscape. L.c., large tree , with bench running round its trunk; trees L. Time , sunset. Enter Tom fro?n l., through gate , a bunch of flowers in his hand. Tom. The same old errand: chasing that will-o’-wisp, Kitty Corum, — she who is known as the girl with two strings to her bow; who has one hand for Tom Larcom and another for Nat Harlow, and no heart for either. I’m the laughing-stock of the whole neighborhood; but misery loves company, and Nat is in the same box. If she would onb say No, and have done with it, I believe I should be happy especially if Nat received the “No.” She won’t let either of us go. But she must. To-night I’ll speak for the last time; I’ll pop. If she takes me, well: if not, I’ll pop off and leave the field to Nat. Luckily I found out she was to help Mrs. Maynard to day. Nat hasn’t heard of it, and no doubt he’s trudging off to old Corum’s. Here she comes. Lay there, you beauties! (Puts flowers on bench.) Kitty will know what that means. (Exit l. Enter Kitty from house.) Kitty. What a nice woman Mrs. Charity Goodall is, to be sure! so graceful and sweet, not a bit like her big rough brother, John Maynard. But then, she’s learned the city ways. A widow, poor thing — and not so poor, either; for her husband, when he died, left her a consolation in the shape of a very handsome fortune. (Sees flowers.) I de¬ clare, somebody’s attentions are really overpowering. No matter where I am, either at home or abroad, when night comes I always find a bunch of flowers placed in my way. Of *9 t © PAST REDEMPTION. course these are for me: no one would think of offering flowers to Jessie. Poor Jessie! ’tis eighteen months since Hairy Maynard left home, and six months since a line has been received from him. Ah, well! this comes of having but one string to your bow. I manage matters differently. (Sits on bench. Enter Nat from l., through gatej steps behind tree.) Now, I really would like to know who is so attentive, so loving, as to send me these pretty flowers. ' Nat (sticks his head round tree , R.). And can’t you guess, Kitty? Kitty (starting). O Nat! Tom (sticks his head out from L. Aside.) O Nat! in¬ deed, you owe Nat nothing for flowers. The mean sneak! (Retires.) Nat {coming forward). Now, this is what I call luck, Kitty. I heard you were here, and I think I’ve taken the wind out of Tom Larcom’s sails to-night. No doubt he’s tramping off to your house to find nobody at home. Ha, ha ! had him there. (Tom creeps out , and gets behind treei) Kitty. And so I am indebted to you for all these pretty flowers. Nat. Oh! never mind the posies, Kitty. I have some¬ thing very serious to say to you to-night. (Sits beside her R.) Kitty. Very, very serious, Nat? Nat. As serious, Kitty, as though I were a prisoner at the bar waiting my sentence. Tom. Ah! in that case, there should be a full bench, Kitty. (Comes round and sits on be?ich , l.) Nat. The deuce! Tom Larcom, what brought you here ? Tom. I came to court; that is, to see justice done you. Nat. You be hanged! Tom. Thank you: let that be your fate; and I’ll be transported. (Puts his arm round Kitty’s neck.) Kitty. How dare you, Tom Larcom? (Pushes off his arm.) Tom. It’s “neck or nothing” with me to-night, Kitty. Nat. Tom, you are taking unfair advantage of me. Tom. Am I? How about Kitty’s posies, Nat, that 1 laid upon the bench ? Kitty. It’s you, then, Tom. — O Nat! how could you? N at. I didn’t: I only asked you a conundrum. All’s fair in love. What’s a few flowers, any way ? Why, Kitty, smile upon me, and you shall have a garden. PAST REDEMPTION. *S Tom. Yes, a kitchen garden, with you as the central figure, — a cabbage-head. Nat. Kitty, you must listen to me. I have a serious question to ask you. Tom. So have I, Kitty. Kitty. You too, Tom? A pair of serious questions? Shall I get out my handkerchief? Nat. Kitty, I have sought you for the last time. Tom. Thank Heaven ! Nat. Perhaps — Tom. O, Kitty, give him your blessing, and let him depart! Nat. I am on the point of leaving — Tom. Good-by, old fellow. You have our fondest wishes where’er you go. “’Tis absence makes the heart grow fonder ” — Nat. — Of leaving my fate in your hands. Tom. Oh, this is touching! Nat. ’Tis now two years since I commenced paying attention to you. Kitty. Stop, Nat. This is a serious business: let us be exact, — one year and ten months. Tom. Correct. I remember it from the circumstance that I had, about a month before, singled you out as the object of my adoration. Nat. “ We met by chance.” Tom. “ The usual way.” Oh come, Nat, do be original • Nat. 1 worshipped the very ground you trod on — T om. And I the shoes you trod in: that’s one step higher. Nat. From that time — Kitty. One year and ten months. Nat. From that time 1 have loved you sincerely, devot¬ edly, and — Tom. Etcettery. Same here, Kitty, with a dictionary thrown in. Nat. You have become very, very dear to me, Kitty. Tom. You are enshrined in this bosom, Kitty 7 . Nat. Without you, my life would be miserable—a desert. Tom. And mine without you, Kitty, a Saharah. Nat. I have waited long to gain your serious attention to ask you to be my wife. Now is the appointed time. 22 PAST REDEMPTION 1 . Tom (takes out watch). Fifteen minutes after seven * the very time I appointed. Nat. Let me hear my sentence. Tom. Put me out of misery. Kitty. This is indeed serious. Am I to understand that you have both reached that point in courtship when a final answer is required ? Nat. That’s exactly the point I have reached. Tom. It’s “going, going, gone ” with me. Kitty. You will both consider my answer final 5 Both. We will. Kitty. No quarrelling, no teasing, no appeal? Nat. None. (Aside.) I’m sure of her. Tom. Never. (Aside.) Nat’s sacked, certain. Kitty. Very well. Your attentions, Mr. Harlow, have been very flattering, — your presents handsome. Nat. Well, I’m not a bad-looking — Kitty. I mean the presents you have bestowed upon me, — calicoes of the latest patterns, sweetmeats in great varieties, which you, as a shopkeeper, have presented me with. Tom (aside). At old Gleason’s expense. Kitty. Of course I value them. But a girl wants the man she loves to be a hero: to plunge into rivers to rescue drowning men, and all that sort of thing. Tom (aside). And Nat can’t swim. That’s hard on him. Kitty. And you, Mr. Larcom, have been equally atten¬ tive. Your gifts — the choicest fruits of your orchard, the beautiful flowers nightly laid within my reach — all have a touching significance. Still, as I said, a girl looks for some¬ thing higher in the man she loves. He must be bold — Nat (aside). Tom’s afraid of his own shadow. He’s mittened. Kitty.. Rush into burning houses, stop runaway horses, rescue distressed females; and I am very much afraid neither of my devoted admirers can claim the title of hero. So, gentlemen, with many thanks for your attentions, I say No. Nat. No! That is for Tom. Tom. No! You mean Nat. Kitty. I mean both. (Nat and Tom look at htr , thin $t each other , then both rise and comi front) Nat. Tom. PAST REDEMPTION. »3 Tom. Nat. N at. You’ve got the sack. Tom. You’ve got the mitten. Nat. She’s a flirt. Tom. A coquette. Nat. I shall never speak to her again. Tom. Henceforth she and I are strangers. ( They shake hands, then turn and go up to her.) Both. Kitty! Kitty. Remember, no appeal. ( They look at her rue¬ fully, then come down .) Nat. Tom, I bear you no ill-will. Are you going my way? Tom. Nat, you are the best fellow in the world. I’m going in to see John Maynard. Nat. We shall be friends. Tom. In despair, yes. ( They shake hands. Nat goes up to gate, Tom goes to door R.) Nat. Good-by, Kitty. I shall never see you again. I’m going across the river. Should any accident happen, look kindly upon my remains. ( Goes off L.) Tom. Good-by, Kitty. I’m going in to borrow one of John Maynard’s razors; they are very sharp. Should I happen to cut any thing, don’t trouble yourself to call the doctor. ( Exit into house.) Kitty. Ha, ha, ha! They’ll never trouble me, never. They’ll be back before I can count ten. One, two, three, four, five— (Nat appears l., comes to gate. Tom. comes from house: they see each other, turn and run back.) I knew it. The silly noodles ! here they are again. ( Enter Jessie, from house.) Didn’t I tell you my answer was final ? and here you are again. Jessie. Why, Kitty, are you dreaming? Kitty {jumping up). Bless me, Jessie, is that you? Jessie. Have you seen Stub? has he returned from the office ? Ah ! here he is. {Enter Stub, l., tnrough gate , de¬ jectedly. Jessie runs up to him.) O Stub, have you brought no letter ? Stub. Jes none at all, Miss Jessie ; dat ar’ post-officer am jes got no heart. I begged an’ begged: no use. Squire Johnson, he got his arms full, an’ Miss Summer’s a dozen. T tried to steal one, but he jes keep his eye onto me all de time. No use, no use. *4 PAST REDEMPTION. Jessie. Oh ! what can have become of him? Stub. Dunno’, Miss Jessie. He was jes de bes’ feller, was Massa Harry; an’ now he’s gone an’ done somfin’, 1 know he has. When de cap’n what picked me up in ole Virginny, in de war,—when he was a-dying in de horse- fiddle, says he to me, says he, Stub, I’m a-gwine ; an’ when I’s gone, you jes get up Norf. You’ll find my brudder Harry up dar, an’ you jes stick as clus to him as you’s stuck to me, an’ you’ll find friends up dar. An’ when it was all ober, here I come. An’, Miss Jessie, I lub Massa Harry almos’ as much as I did de cap’n; an’ I’d do any ting for him an’ you, who he lub so dearly. Jessie. I know you would, Stub. Heaven only knows when he will return to us. If he comes not soon, my heart will break. (IVeeps; goes and sits o?i bench.) Stub. Pore little lamb! She wants a letter: she shall hab one too. Massa Harry won’t write : den, by golly, I’lJ jes make up a special mail-train, an’ go down dere to de city, an’ fotch one. It’s jes easy ’nuff to slip down dere, an’ hunt Massa Harry up, an’ I’ll do it. Say nuffin’ to no¬ body, but slip off to-morrow mornin’ an’ hunt him up. {Exit R., I.E.) Kitty ( comes down from gate). Jessie, here’s a surprise. Mr. Thornton is coming up the road. Jessie {springing up). Mr. Thornton? Heaven be praised! News of Harry at last! ( Runs up to gate, meets Mr. Thornton, takes his hand; they come down.) O Mr. Thornton! Harry, what of Harry? Thornton. Miss Jessie, I am the bearer of bad tidings. Would it were otherwise ! Jessie. Is he dead? Speak: let me know the worst; I can bear it. - Thornton. Be quiet, my child. He is not dead; better if he were, for death covers all the evils of a life, — death wipes out all disgrace. Jessie. Disgrace? Oh, speak, Mr. Thornton! why is he silent? what misfortune has befallen him? Thornton. The worst, Jessie. Perhaps T should hide his wretched story from you; but I’m here to tell it to his friends, and you are the dearest, the one who trusted him as none other can. Jessie, the man you loved has been false to you, to all. He has abused the trust I placed in him. He has become a spendthrift, a libertine, a gambler, and a drunkard. PAST REDEMPTION. 25 Jessie. I will not believe it: ’tis false. Harry Maynard is too noble. Mr. Thornton, 3*011 have been misled, or you are not his friend. Thornton. I was his friend till he betrayed and robbed me. I am his friend no longer. Jessie, you must forget him; he will never return to his old home, his first love. He has broken away from my influence: he associates with the vilest of the vile, and glories in his shame. Jessie. Stop, stop! I cannot bear it. Thornton. Jessie, you know not how it pains me to tell you this; but ’tis better you know the worst. I have striven nard to make his path smooth, — to make his wa) r to fortune easy, for your sake, Jessie. For I, — yes, Jessie, even in this dark hour I must say it, — I love you, as he never could love. Jessie. You — love — me? You! Oh! this is blasphe¬ my at such a time. Thornton. I could not help it, Jessie. (Tries to take her hand.) Jessie. Do not touch me. I shall hate you. Leave me. O Harry, Harry! are 3*ou lost to me forever ? (Staggers and sits on bench.) Thornton (aside). I’ve broken the ice there. Rather rough ; but she’ll get over it. Now for old Maynard. I’d sooner face a regiment; but it must be done. (Exit into house.) Kitty (comes down to Jessie). O Jessie, this is terrible! Jessie. Don’t speak to me, Kitty: leave me to myself. 'I know you mean well, but the sound of your voice is terri¬ ble to me. Kitty (comes down). Poor thing! Who would have believed that Harry Ma} T nard could turn out bad? I wish I could do something to help her. I can, and I will too. Oh, here’s Tom! (Enter Tom from house; sees Kitty, ?fofs, then sticks his hat on one side; crosses to L. whistling.) Kitty. Tom! Tom (turns). Eh ! did you speak, Miss Corum? Kitty. Yes, I did. Come here — quick — why don’t 3 r ou pay attention ? Tom. Didn’t you forbid any further attention? Kitty. Pshaw! no more of that! Do you remember what l told you my husband must be ? Tom. Yes: a sort of salamander to rush into burning 1 26 PAST REDEMPTION. houses, an amphibious animal to save people from drown ing. Kitty. Ahem! Tom, to save people: just so. Well, Tom, you can be that hero, if you choose. Tom. Me? How, pray? Kitty. Harry Maynard has got into trouble in the city, he’s a drunkard and a gambler, and every thing that is bad. Tom. You don’t mean it! Kitty. It’s true. Now, he must be saved, brought back here, or Jessie will die. Tom, go and find him, and when you come back, I’ll sacrifice myself. Tom. Sacrifice yourself ? Kitty. Yes, marry you. Tom. You will consider him found. O Kitty, Kitty, —• but hold on a minute. Have you given Nat Harlow a chance to be a hero ? Kitty. No, Tom: I’m serious now. Find Harry May¬ nard, and you shall be my hero. Tom. Hooray, Kitty: tell me all about it. I’ll be off by the next train. Come ( gives her his arm ), I can’t keep still: I must keep moving. ( Exeunt L.) Jessie. Lost! lost to me, and I loving him so dearly! You must forget him! He said forget: it is impossible. He loved me so dearly, too, before he left this house in search of fortune. No, no: I will not give him up; there must be some way to save him. If I only knew how! O Harry, Harry! why do you wander from the hearts that love you? Come back, come back! (Covers her face ana weeps. Enter Charity Goodall from r., through gate.) Charity. Oh, this is delicious! I’ve climbed fences, torn my way through bushes, and had the most delight¬ ful frolic with Farmer Chips’s little Chips on the hay, with nobody to check my fun and remind me of the proprieties of life. Ha, ha, ha! How my rich neighbor, Mrs. Gold¬ finch, would stare to see me enjoying myself in the coun¬ try ! Little I care ! I shall go back with a new lease of life, a harvest of fresh country air, that will last me through the winter. (Sees Jessie.) Hey-day, child, what’s the mat¬ ter ? (Sits beside her.) Jessie (flinging her arms round Charity’s neck). O Aunt Charity! Harry, Harry — Charity. Ah ! the truant’s heard from at last; and not the most delightful tidings, judging by vour tear-stained cheeks. Well, child, tell me all about it PAST REDEMPTION. 2 7 Jessie. He’s lost to us. He has fallen into temptation, he’s — Charity. The old story. “ A certain man went down unto Jericho, and fell among thieves.” Jessie. O Aunt Charity, how can you be so heartless ! Charity. Heartless, Jessie! You must not say that You know not my story. Listen to me. One 1 loved dearer than life was ingulfed in this whirlpool. He was a brave, noble fellow, who took a poor country girl from her home, and made her the mistress of a mansion, rich in comfort and luxury. For years our life was one of happi¬ ness; and then a friend, a false friend, Jessie, led him into temptation, with the base hope of securing his riches by his ruin. The friend failed to acquire the one, but wrought the other. He died ere he had become the wretched sot he hoped to make him; died in my arms, loving and repent¬ ant. I had his fortune, but my life was blighted. I re¬ fused to be comforted until the wretchedness about me brought me to my senses. Then I sought in work, strong, earnest work, consolation for my bereavement. With* his wealth, I sought out the wretched, the outcasts of society; gave my aid to all good work, and so earned the title of a strong-minded woman. ’Tis often spoken with a sneer, that title, Jessie; but they who bear it have the world’s good in their heart, thank Heaven for them all! And so I go about doing all I can to relieve distress, the surest solace for sor¬ row, Jessie; for there’s nothing so cheering, as relieving the wretchedness of others. So don’t call me heartless, Jessie. Jessie. O Aunt Charity, he was so good! he loved me so dearly! Charity. And he has fallen. Who told you this ? Jessie. His friend. Mr. Thornton: he is here now, speak¬ ing with father. O dear aunt! can nothing be done to save him ? Charity. Thornton? What Thornton? Speak, Jessie, who is he ? Jessie. Here comes Mr. Thornton. I will not see him. He has spoken to me of love, — his love for me, almost in the same breath in which he told of Harry’s ruin. Oh, le me go ! I cart not, will not meet him. (Runs off l.) Charity. So,' so : the friend of Harry makes love \x his wife that is to be, and his name is Thornton. I am curious to see this frietid. (Enter Thornton from housed 28 PAST REDEMPTION. Thornton. That job’s over. Now for Miss -Jessie (Charity rises.) Charity Goodall! Charity. Yes, Charity Goodall, widow of Mark Good- all, your friend, Robert Thornton. Thornton (aside). What fiend sent her here to blast my well-laid plans ? (Capt. Bragg appears r., and leans on the fence. He is a little tipsy. No Toodles business). Charity. So, sir, you are the friend of my nephew, Harry Maynard? here on a mission of mercy, to break gently to his sorrowing friends the news of his downfall ? Thornton. ’Tis true. Charity. And to console his affianced wife with the proffer of your affection. Thornton. ’Tis false! Charity. It is the truth. I know you, Robert Thorn¬ ton. Your work made my life a burden. You robbed me of one I loved; and now you have wound your coils about another victim. Thornton. You are mistaken: I sought to keep him from temptation; but he was reckless, and forsook me. Charity. . Where is he now? Thornton. I know not; neither do I care. He robbed me; and, were he found, I should give him up to justice. Charity. Staunch friend indeed! He robbed you? I do not believe it. I have cause to mistrust you. I never dreamed you were the friend of Harry. But now I can see your wicked scheme. You have him in your power, but beware ! My mission is to save. ( Goes up r.) , Thornton ( coming to l.). Too late, too late. I do not fear you. Maynard (outside, r.). Say no more: I wik not seek him. (Enter from house, followed by Mrs. Maynard.) Mrs. Maynard. O John, don’t say that! He is our only boy. Maynard. He has disgraced the name of Maynard. I will not seek, I will never allow him to cross my threshold. He went out a fnan : he shall never return a brute. (Enter Capt. Bragg, r., through gate) Capt. Now, done yer say that, Maynard (hie). It’s dis* grace-ful to drink. I mean to get full. I never got full. J can drink a gallon, an’ walk straight, I can (hie). But I’m a B ra gg- I’m Cap’en Bragg of the Horse Marines; no, the PAST REDEMPTION. *9 ill-ill-lus’rus Lawless Rangers, every man — full — full — six — Now look a’ here, look a’ me, if your son’s gone to the dogs, don’t you give him up. Look a’ me. I’m Bragg. I had a son : you know him : went off twenty years ago. Do I give him up? Not a bit of it (hie). He’ll come back one of these days, rolling in his carriage ; I mean in wealth. But then, he’s a Bragg. We can’t all be Braggs. Come, le’s go down, and hunt him up. I know all the places. Maynard. Not a step will I stir. ( Enter Jessie, l.) He has made his bed: let him sleep in it. He shall not dis¬ grace my house with his presence. Jessie ( runs to him, falls on he?' knees). No, no, father: don’t say that. You will not cast him off. Think what a kind son he was : how he loved us all. You will try to save him. father ! Don’t say you will not; my heart will break. Maynard. Jessie, you know not how low he has fallen. My son of whom I was so proud ! He has disgraced his home. Henceforth he is no longer son of mine. I will not seek him. I have said it, Jessie, and John Maynard never breaks his word. Jessie (crosses to Mr. Thornton). O Mr. Thornton! you will seek him : you will save him for my sake ? Thornton. He is past redemption. ’Twere useless. Jessie. Then I will go in search of him. Maynard. 'You, Jessie? Jessie. Yes, I. He saved me, when a babe, from the pitiless storm; now I will seek him. Thornton. This is folly. He lurks with the vile and worthless, in dens of filth and vice. Who will lead you there ? Charity (comes down c.). I will. Jessie {rises and runs into her arms). O Aunt Charity! Charity. Yes, I. When man shrinks from the work of salvation, let woman take his place. Look up, child’ Foul treachery has insnared him. From the toils of the false friend, from the crafty arts of the boldest of schem¬ ers, we will snatch him : from the depths of despair, we will save him. Past redemption, Robert Thornton? False. While there is life, there is hope ! ''Charity with her arms about Jessie, c. Thornton, l. ; Capt. Bragg, l. c.; Maynard, r. c. ; Mrs. May¬ nard, r. Tom and Kitty come on r., and stand behind fence, looking on, quietly .) ACT III. — Charity’s Quest. f*CENE. — An elegazit dr inking-saloon. In flat, R. and L., arched doorways, with steps leading up and off R. and l. ; between these a mirrored door, closed , opening to L., and showing, when open, leading zip over archway, l. Over arch the flat is painted on gauze for illumina¬ tion. Three steps leading zip to door, c., being a part of the steps that lead off r. and l. ; the whole flat handsomely gilded. Bar running up and down stage, R.; behind bar, a handsome side-board, with decanters, glasses, and the usual paraphernalia of a bar-room. Table, l. c., with two chairsj l. of table a lounge, on which Tom Larcom is stretched, apparently asleep. Thornton r., and Mur¬ dock l. of table, seated ,’ bottle and glasses before them. Daley behind bar, and two gentlemen, well dressed, standing before it, drinking. After Thornton speaks they exit r., up steps. % Murdock. Thornton, you have a princely way of doing things, and the luck of the evil one himself. Thornton. Shrewdness, old fellow. I’m an old hand at this sort of business, and glitter and dash go a long way in sharpening the appetites of one’s customers. Murdock. There’s something more than glitter about this wine. Thornton. The wine is good, and costly too. Of course, I do not set this before everybody, or the profits would hardly come up to my expectation. I never throw pearls before swine. Home-made wares pay the best profit. Murdock. Ah ! you do a little in the way of doctoring ? Thornton. A great deal, Murdock. I have a ver) PAST REDEMPTION. 3 1 good dispensary close at hand, and Maynard has made him- seif decidedly useful in that branch. Murdock. Maynard ? is that miserable sot of any use to you now ? Thornton. Oh, yes ! I alone can control him. Poor 'devil! he’s breaking up fast. It’s a pity such a likely young fellow could not let rum alone ; but he would drink, and will until the end comes. ’Twill not be long. Murdock. Where do you keep him ? I’ve not seen him about to-night. Thornton. Close by, but out of sight. Some of his friends, a few months ago, made a demonstration towards his rescue from the pit into which he had fallen. I believe thev are now searching high and low for him. Murdock. An idle task, while he is in your clutches. Thornton. You’re right, Murdock : he stood between me and the dearest wish of my life. Meddling fools thwarted me in that; and now, from sheer revenge, I’ll hold him from them all. Murdock. I’d rather have you for a friend than an euemy. {Rising.) Good-night. I must look after my own humble quarters. Ah ! if I could only have your dash ! Thornton. There’s money in it, Murdock. (Rises.) Murdock. I believe you : good-night. Thornton. Good-night: drop in again. (Murdock goes up and off R., up steps.) Daley, who’s that on the lounge ? Daley (comes from behind bar). I don’t know him : he dropped in an hour ago, took a drink, and rolled on to the lounge. Thornton. Well, rouse him up, and get him out: that don’t look respectable. (Goes behind bar / and looks about.) Daley (goes to Tom, and shakes him). Come, friend, rouse up. (Another shake.) Do you hear? rouse up I Tom (slowly rises and looks at him). Rouse up ? wha’s that (hie) ? No, le’s fill up ; that’s besser (hie). Daley (shaking him). Well, get up ; you’re in the way. Tom (sitting up, and looking at him). Say, wha’s (hie) yer name ? Daley. My name’s Daley. Tom. Daily (hie) what ? Times? Oh, I know: you’re a (hie) newsboy (hie), you are. Don’t want no papers. ( At¬ tempts to lie down again.) 3* PAST REDEMPTION. Daley. Come / come, this won’t do. Get up, I say! Tom. I always take (hie) my breakfast in bed. Daley. You’ll take yourself out of this ! ( Gets him on to his feet.) Tom. Wh- (hie) what you say, Mister Times ? Say (hie), le’s drink ! Daley. No: it’s time you were home. Tom. Home (hie)? wha’s that? Fools a (hie) to this? {Staggers across, and clutches bar.) I’m goin’ t’stay (hie) here forever and always (hie), forever. Thornton. Oh, get him out, Daley ! Tom. Yes, get me out, Daily, for (hie) exercise. Take the air (hie). Air’s good ; le’s have some sugar (hic)inmine. (Gets down , R. ; aside , sobered .) So he’s here, — May¬ nard is here. I’ve run the fox to earth at last. {As beforei) Fetch on the drinks, D-Daily (hie) and a little oftener. Daley. Here's your bar; come. This way, this way. {Leads him up to steps , r.) Tom {at steps, turns round). Hole on a minute, D-Dai- (hic) ly; give us your hand, D-Daily. I’ll be back soon (hie), an’ we’ll never (hie), never (hie) part any more (hie). Good mornin’, D-D-aily (hie), good morn. {Exit up steps. Thornton comes down to table , l. ; Daley takes bottles and glasses from table and goes behind bar. Two gentlemen enter , R., drink , and go of'.) Thornton {sits at table). The luck of the evil one ! Murdock is but half right. The loss of that girl is a stroke of ill-fortune that imbitters all my prosperity. Get your supper, Daley ; I’ll look after the bar. (Daley exits , R^, up steps.) But for the interference of • Charity Goodall, she would have been mine. They have not found the missing Maynard yet. I have him safe: he cannot escape me. {Soft music. The mirrored door , between entrances in flats, slowly opens, and Harry Maynard, shrinking and trem¬ bling, with feeble steps, comes down, closing the door behind him. He creeps down to Thornton’s chair.) Harry. Thornton, Thornton ! T lornton {turns with a start). You here ? Harry {trembling). Yes, yes ; don’t be fierce, don’t. Il :s so dark and dismal up there ! and the rats — oh, such rats ! —glare at me from their holes. I couldn’t stay. Don’t send me back: I’ll be very quiet. I’m sober too. Not a drop for two days : not a drop. Thornton. What’s the matter with you now ? PAST REDEMPTION. 33 Harry. Oh ! nothing, nothing: only I wanted to be so* liable {tries to smile), — as sociable as you and I were in the old times. Thornton. Sociable ! you and I! Bah ! you’re shaking like an aspen. What friendship can there be between me md a miserable sot like you ? Harry. Yes, I know I’m not the man I used to be: I know it. Oh, the thought of that other life I lived once, tc rtures me almost to madness ! Thornton. Well, why don’t you go back to it ? Harry. Back ? back to that old home among the hills from which I came, full of lusty manhood ? Back to the old man who looked upon me with all a father’s pride ? the dear mother whose darling I was ? the fair, young girl whose heart I broke ? Back there, with tottering steps, a pitiful wreck, to die upon the threshold of the dear old home ? No, no : not that, not that! Thornton. Then be quiet. You have brought ruin upon yourself : you can’t complain of me. Harry. No, I don’t complain. It was a fair picture of fame and fortune you laid before me ; and when I found the honorable mercantile business, in which you had amassed wealth, was work like this, I should have turned back. Thornton. I told you to keep a clear head and a steady hand ; to sell, not poison yourself with my liquid wares. Harry. Yet you placed pleasures before me that turned my head, and — Thornton. They never turned mine. You were a fool, and fell. Harry. Ay, a fool! Yes, your fool, Robert Thornton. I quaffed the ruby wine, I flung myself into every indul¬ gence, because you led me. I must keep a cool head and as steady hand, with fire in my veins ! I feel I am condemned. Of my own free will, I flung away a life. I do not com¬ plain ; but, when we stand before the last tribunal, Heaven be the judge if your hands are unstained with my life-blood, Robert Thornton. Thornton. Enough of this : back to your den. Harry. No, no, Thornton, not there ! I will be quiet, silent; but do not, in mercy, do not drive me back there ! Thornton. Poor devil! Well, stay here: look after the bar until Daley returns. {Aside, going l.) He can’t resist: he’ll make a dive for the brandy, and forget. Two 34 PAST REDEMPTION. days without it: I should not have allowed that. (Exit L., I.E.) Harry. Stay here ! No, no, he has given me a chance for freedom. The doors are open: a dash, and I am free. ' Free for what ? To die in the gutter. I could drag myself no farther; and who would look with compassion on such a ragged, bloated wretch as 1 ? No, no : I have sold myself, body and soul, to this accursed life. ( Staggers to bar.) Let me get at the brandy ; that, at least, will bring freedom, — freedom from this maddening thirst, these horrible fears that drive me mad. ( Staggers behind bar.) Ah, here, here ! {Seizes decanter .) The balm for bitter memories. Stop, stop ! That vision in the night, — Jessie, with her warning finger: and the old melody I loved so well rang in my ears. I vowed I’d drink no more, though I should die of madness. ( Buries his face in his arms upon the bar. Enter R., down steps , Capt. Bragg.) Capt. Found a new place. {Looking about) Superb — gorgeous — dazzling! Here’s juiciness ! Just my idea of a palace. The man who figured this place no doubt believes his plan original. Absurd ! I planned it years ago. Bragg’s plan stolen ! Fact, by jingo ! {Raps on bar) * Come, young man, business, business. (Harry raises his head : Bragg staggers back) Harry Maynard, or I’m no Bragg! {Comes to bar , and offers his hand) Harry, young fellow, how are you ? (Harry falls back , and glares at him) Don’t know me, hey? Why, I’m Bragg, Capt. Bragg, your dis¬ tinguished townsman ; Bragg of the Rangers ; every man a sharpshooter, and their commander — well, modesty for¬ bids my mentioning him in fitting panegyrics. Why, how you stare ! You don’t look well. Harry. I don’t know you. Capt. Won’t do, my boy, won’t do. You may be able to b!afi common folks, but I’m Bragg; Bragg of the judi¬ cial brow, Bragg of the penetrating eye : it’s a keen one, and, when I fixed that detective’s orb upon you, I said, There's my man ! Why, they’ve fitted out an exploring party for the purpose of hunting you up, — Mrs. Charity Goodall, Jessie, Tom Larcom, and that black imp Stub. They’ve scoured the city in vain. They didn’t ask my help, and I am the keen-eyed volunteer that never misses his mark. I have found you. Oh, here’s glory, for Bragg’s outwitted ’em all! I knew I should: Bragg never fails, never; and PAST REDEMPTION. 35 now I’ve got you, you can’t escape me. Come, come, don’t glare like a madman. What will I have ? Brandy, of course ! (Harry sets decanter and glass before him.) They made a mistake : when there’s any detective business to be done, call a Bragg. He can see farther and run faster than the sharpest of ’em. Fact, by jingo. {Pours liquor into glass.) Ah, that’s my style! {Raisesglass.) Here’s to the glorious Rangers, Bragg’s own ! Harry {excitedly). Stop ! don’t drink that. See, there’s a snake twisting and turning about in the glass. Stop, or you are a dead man ! Capt. {sets down glass, and staggers back). Jersey light¬ ning ! Harry {glaring). See, it’s raising its head, — it will strike deep and sure : and there’s another, and another. Look, they are crawling about the decanter: now they drop upon the bar: they are upon you: tear them off, tear them off ! They strike and kill, strike and kill! Capt. He’s raving mad. I wish 1 was well out of this. Harry. Thicker and thicker, faster and faster, they come upon the bar. See them glare at me ! Back, back ! {Dashes his hands upon bar.) Ah, they coil about my arms. Away, away ! {Attempts to tear them off.) They crawl about me : they are at my throat. Help, help* help ! {Runs into c., andfalls upon floor.) Capt. He’s got ’em bad. {Runs to entrance , R.) Fight ’em, young man, fight ’em: it’s your only chance. J guess I won’t drink : can’t stop. {Runs up and off, R.) Harry {raises his head). Gone, gone at last with him. I’ve driven them off again; but they will come again. What’s that ? {Glares into corner, L.) Rats again: fierce and big! how they look at me ! Away ! Gleaming teeth and eyes of fire ! Away, I say ! I cannot drive them back. They swarm about me : they’re at my legs. {Tears them off.) Devils, I’ll fight you all! Closer and closer ! {Gets to his feet) They’re making for my throat: away, I say! {Tears the7n from his breast) I cannot, cannot. Now they’re at my throat! {Hands at his throat) Off, devils ; off, I say ! Help, help ! oh, help ! {Falls quivering upon the stage. Enter Thornton, l.) Thornton. What’s this, Maynard? Maynard, I say! {Drags him to his feet) Harry {clinging to Thornton). Don’t let them get al 3$ PAST REDEMPTION. me: there’s a thousand of them thirsting for my life. Save me from them ! Thornton. Oh, you’ve been dreaming ! you’re all right now. Come, get to bed: you’ll sleep it off. Up above you’re safe enough. ( Drags him up stage.) Harry. Not there, not there, Thornton. Don’t thrust me into that hole to-night. They’re up there, lurking in corners, waiting to eat me. Don’t, Thornton, don’t! Thornton {struggling with him). Fool, do as I bid you ! (.Throws ope7i mirrored door. Stub comes down steps , l., and watches them.) Harry. Not to-night, Thornton, not to-night! (Thorn¬ ton pushes him in, closes door , and locks it. Stub comes down softly , a?id sits l. of table.) Thornton. He’s safe there. I shouldn’t wonder if this night rid me of him. Stub {aside). Shouldn’t wonder a bit. {Rafs on table. ) Here, bar-keeper, innholder, porter, bootblack, somebody or anybody, am a genblem gwine to wait all night ? am he, say, somebody ? T hornton. Hallo ! who are you ? Stub. Hallo, yourself: a genblem .widout extinction ob color. Hop beer and peppermint for one. Be libely, be libely ! Thornton. We don’t serve niggers here. Stub. Wh-wh-what dat? Wha’s yer ignorance? wha’s yer ignorance ? Take keer, take keer : five hundred dollars fine! Cibil rights bill: dat’s me. You can’t fool dis yer citizen widout extinction ob color: no, sir. {Raps on tablet) Ginger ale and sassaparilla for one. Be libely ! Thornton. Take yourself off: you cannot be served here. Stub. Take keer, take keer; don’t debate my choler: don’t rouse de slumbrin’ African lion; ef yer does, down goes de whole hippodrome. Don’t cibil rights bill say, don’t he, ebery citizen, widout extinction ob color, am entitled to all de privileges ob trabel, — de smokeolotive, steamboat, and — and horse cars : an’ to be taken in to all de inns, an’ giben all de freedom, — free lunch, free drinks, an’ five hundred dollars out ob de pocket ob any man dat says, Dry up ? Dat’s de law, mind yer eye. {Raps on tablet) Soda and sassafras. Be libely, be libely! Thornton {takes a revolver from his pocket). Will you have my pocket flask ? PAST REDEMPTION. 37 Stub. O Lor ! ( Slides under table) Dat ain’t de kind : put ’im up, put ’im up ! Ain’t dry : guess I won’t drink. Thornton. Out of this, or you’ll get a taste of civil rights that will teach you better manners. Stub. I’s gwine : don’t want no manners. {Creeps out, and goes up stage. Enter Charity Good all, r., down steps, enveloped in a waterproof cloak : she comes down c.) Thornton. What want you here ? Who are you? Charity {extending her hand). Charity. Thornton {turning to table, and laying down pistol ). Away : you’ll get nothing here ! Charity {throws off cloak). Don’t be too sure of that, Robert Thornton. Thornton {turns quickly). Charity Goodall! (Stub comes down softly, takes pistol, goes up, crosses stage, and hides behind bar) I beg your pardon, Mrs. Goodall. This is indeed a surprise ! Charity. And yet you have been expecting me ; dread¬ ing the hour when you and I should meet face to face. Thornton. This is hardly the place for a woman who would guard her good name from scandal. Charity. You forget I am a woman above suspicion: that I have won a good name, by daring to enter such dens as yours, on errands of mercy. Thornton. Ah ! indeed ! what errand of mercy brings the saintly Charity Goodall into my humble saloon ? Charity. Ah, you confess ownership ! The spider of the gilded web ! You, who, under the guise of 'a gentle¬ man, lured my husband from an honorable life: you, who, with flattering promises of honorable wealth, tricked a brave lad to his ruin. Your humble saloon ! You sneer, and yet you tremble. Confess all: confess you are a villain and a cheat! Thornton. I will not listen to you. Be warned in time: at any moment, a rude throng may burst upon you. You are liable to insult from which I could not protect you. Charity. Fear not for me : my mission is my protec¬ tion. Alone, I have walked into the worst dens, without fear, without insult. With the most abandoned, no hand is raised against one who comes to rescue and deliver. Rob¬ ert Thornton, listen to me: day and night I have sought, with ready helpers, Harry Maynard. To-night I have tracked him here. 3» PAST REDEMPTION. Thornton. Here ? Charity. Ay, here! You threw me from the scent with your story of his utter degradation. I never dreamed the silly fly was ensnared in the gilded web. Give him back to the friends who mourn for him, and, spite my wrongs, all shall be forgotten. Thornton. You ask too much : you see he is not here. You have been misinformed: for once the shrewd angel of mercy has been deceived. Charity. Indeed ! Perhaps another may be more suc¬ cessful— Jessie ! ( Enter from r., hurriedly , Jessie.) Jessie. Have you found him ? Speak ! in mercy, speak ! Charity ( j putting her arm about Jessie). Be calm, my child: there is the man who holds him in his power, — Robert Thornton. Jessie. Mr. Thornton? No, no, it cannot be ! ( Falls on her knees to him.) If you know where he is, if you can give'him back to his father, to me, I will bless you. Thornton. You are mistaken, Jessie ; I cannot give him back. You know how much I loved him. Think you, if it were in my power, I would refuse the request of the only woman I truly loved ? Jessie. Oh, this is mockery ! (Rises, and goes to Char¬ ity, who folds her in her arms.) Charity. Poor child, your prayers are vain : that man is pitiless ! Thornton. I told you you had been deceived. Was 1 not right? You tracked him here, and yet you cannot find him. See how your well-laid plan has failed ! Charity. No; for I have one resource left, one taught me by the noble women of the West. You fear for my good name : do you fear for those who come to my aid with the song he loved ? Pray heaven it reach the prisoner’s ear! (Raises her hand. Chorus outside: — “In the sweet by and by, We will meet on that beautiful shore,” &c. E?iter, singing, from R. and L. down steps, filling the steps , a chorus of women, well dressed, in light costumes j they stop upon the steps) Harry (above when the song ceases.) Help, help ! save, oh, save me! PAST REDEMPTION. 39 Jessie. His voice, Harry’s voice ! ( Kneels to Thorn¬ ton.) Man, now, if you have a spark of pity, lead me to him ! Charity. Robert Thornton, be merciful ! Thornton. You plead in vain: he is beyond your reach. Stub ( rising, behind bar). Dat’s a lie, dat’s a lie ! (Runs uf to door, c., and throws it open) Quick, Miss Jessie : he’s up dar. Go fur him, go fur him ! (Steps L.) Jessie. O Harry, Harry ! (Rims up steps , and exits through door.) Thornton. Curse that fool : you must not enter there ! (Goes towards door. Charity runs up, closes door, and stands with back to it) Charity. Back ! you shall not enter here. Thornton. Woman, stand back : who shall prevent me? (Stub steps before Charity, and presents pistol to Thorn¬ ton.) Stub. Cibil rights bill : dat’s me. (Tom runs in from r. steps, and seizes Thornton’s arms, binding them back) Tom. % Ha, ha ! shrewdness, old fellow ! (Lime light thrown on from L., above archway, showing Maynard extended on a low couch, resting on his right arm: dark pants, white shirt. Jessie has her arm about him, supporting him). Jessie. Harry, my own Harry, found at last ! Harry. Jessie, Jessie, thank Heaven for this ! (Chcrm: “ In the sweet by and by,” &c. Repeated. Slaw curtain.) ACT IV. — Thanksgiving at the Old Home. Scene.— Interior of John Maynard’s house. In fiat, R. c., bow-window , backed by road and trees , white with snow; snow falling; door l. Open fire-place , r., with bright fire; beside it, a high-backed seat for two; bureau between door and window , in fiat. Mantle over the fire¬ place , with dried grasses in vases , clock , and other orna¬ ments. Ar?n-chair l. ; chair back of that. Door R. U. E.; door l., 2 d entrance. Mrs. Maynard discovered at win¬ dow, looking out . Mrs. Maynard. The snow comes faster and faster. It’s time Stub was back from the depot with Charity. Ah, ’twill be a dull Thanksgiving for us this year: not like the old times when we had Charley, Harry, and Jessie, to make us all merry. Dear me ! time does break up households. {Enter John from door'Ll) John. I’ve put him on Harry’s bed, mother. I expect you’ll scold when you see your white counterpane muddied by his boots, for I couldn’t get him beneath it. Poor devil! I fear ’twill be his deathbed. I’d about made up my mind that I’d never give another tramp shelter; but he looked so bad, I hadn’t the heart to turn him away (sits on bench) when I thought, mother, that our poor boy might have come in the same way. Mrs. Maynard (comes down). That’s so like you, John ! I s he very bad ? John. Yes: broken down with hunger and drink. He begged hard for a little brandy. It was well I had none, ioi ’twould have been cruel to refuse him, and I would die ere I touched the curse, the cause of so much misery to us. PAST REDEMPTION. 41 Mrs. Maynard. Ah, John, all that’s over. John. Yes, mother, we must hope for the best. He was saved, thanks to Charity : but still I fear for him. ’Twill be a day to remember, when we have him back. Mrs. Maynard. A long, long year since Charity found him, and no word or sign from our loved one. John. Ah, mother, I like that: I was uncharitable, — I, who have been so bitter against others who turned their faces from the fallen. But I’m proud of him. “Tell father,” he said to Charity, “ tell him I will never cross his threshold till I can return as I went, — a man.” That’s so like a Maynard ! that’s the true grit: I like that. Mrs. Maynard. And Charity will give us no news of him. John. No: she shakes her head. “Give him time, give him time : ” but she smiles when she says it; and, when Charity smiles, you can depend upon it all’s going well. We must trust her, mother. So we have two more faces in the fire, Harry’s and Jessie’s. (. Sleigh-bells heard without.) Ah ! there she is, there she is ! ( Goes to window .) No, it’s Tom and Kitty with the baby. Why, mother, they’ve brought the baby : here’s a surprise for you. Tom {outside). Whoa, I tell you ! Give me the baby, Kitty: that’s all right. Now come along, come along. {Enters door in flat, with a baby well bundled in his arms.) John. Tom, glad to see you : this is hearty. Come to the fire ; and, Kitty, give us a smack. {Kisses Kitty.) Tom. Hallo ! easy there ; but I suppose it’s all right. John. Right? of course ’tis. Now give me the baby. Tom. To serve in the same style? No, I thank you; it’s a tenderer bit than Kitty. Kitty. Tom, don’t be silly ! Mrs. Maynard. I’ll take him, Tom, the little darling {Takes baby.) Tom {reluctantly giving it tip). Certainly, only handle him gently : I’m terribly anxious. Mrs. Maynard {sits on settle. John helps Kitty off with her things). Oh, you little beauty! Tom {leans on mantle , back , a?id watches her). The pic¬ ture of his daddy : that’s what they all say. Is his nose all right ? Ain’t much of it, but, if the frost got at it, good-by nose. Take care ! Oh, Lord, I thought you had dropped 4 * PAST REDEMPTION. him. Hey, Johnny, look up : he’s a smart one for a three* months’ older. Hadn’t I better take him ? Kitty. Tom, do you suppose Mrs. Maynard don’t know how to handle a baby ? Tom. Well, I don’t know, Kitty; they break awful easy. You just keep your eye on him until I put up the horse. {Going; returns .) Does he look all right, Mrs. Maynard ? Mrs. Maynard. Right! don’t you see he’s wide awake ? Tom. Yes : but hadn’t he ought to be asleep ? Kitty. Tom, do go and put up your horse. I never saw such a goose ; when he’s awake, you think he should be asleep, and when he’s asleep you want to wake him. Tom. Parental anxiety. You see, Mrs. Maynard, this is something new to me. Kitty. Well, isn’t it new to all of us ? Do go along ! Tom. I’m off. {Exit door in Jlat.) Kitty. Such a plague ! John. Ah, Kitty, not satisfied! You regret not having taken the other, Nat Harlow. Kitty. No, indeed. Tom’s the best husband in the world. I’ve not heard a cross word from him the whole year since we’ve been married; but he does make such a fuss about baby ! Sha’n’t I take him, Mrs. Maynard ? John. Oh, ho ! somebody else makes a fuss too. {Sleigh- bells heard.) Ah, here’s Charity at last. Charity {outside). Drive to the barn, Stub; I’ll jump out. {Enters door in Jlat.) Here I am, you dear old John. {Shakes hands , and kisses John.) John. Welcome, Charity ; a thousand times welcome ! Charity. I knew you’d be glad to see me. {Runs to Mrs. Maynard, and kisses herl) You dear, dear old Hannah ! Mrs. Maynard. Ah, Charity, you always bring sun¬ light with you. Charity. A baby ! bless me ! Oh ! it’s yours, Kitty. That for you {kisses her), and this for the baby. {Kisses baby) Kitty. Young as ever, Mrs. Goodall. Come, Mrs. May¬ nard, let me carry the baby off to bed. Don’t move: I know the way. {Takes baby , and exits R. u. E.) John. Now, Charity, our boy — Mrs. Maynard. Yes, Harry ! What news ? Charity. Dear me ! do let me get my things off. ( Re < PAST REDEMPTION. 43 moves cloak and hat. Mrs. Maynard takes them, and car • ties them off r. u. e. Charity sits, and looks into fire .) What a glorious blaze ! (John leans o?i back of bench) Ah, John, I’ve often envied you your quiet evenings here, with this for company; often seen you and Hannah sitting here together, taking so much comfort. {Enter Mrs. Maynard, r. u. e., and leans on bench, between Charity and the fire.) Mrs. Maynard. O Charity ! tell us of our boy. John. Yes, yes, Charity, be merciful : what of him ? Charity {rises and comes l.). Oh, do be patient! I’ve a strange fancy to see how you look there in the old seat. Come, take your places, and tell me what you see there. (John sits with Mrs. Maynard on bench, she next thefirej he takes her hand) That’s nice. {Goes to back of bench) Now, tell me, what see you there ? {Enter Stub, door in flat, excitedly) Stub. I’ve put ’em up, Miss Charity, an’ —an’ — Charity. Silence, Stub ! {He comes down i,) Stub {aside). Dat’s de quarest woman eber I see : ben in de house five minutes, an’ not tole de news. Charity. Well, John, I’m waiting. John. There, Charity, is my picture-gallery of old mem¬ ories, that both sadden and cheer waiting and aching hearts. * What do I see ? {Looking into fire) The face of my brave soldier boy: the face that has glowed upon us in its noble manhood for many, many years. Charity. The face of a hero, John : there are no bitter memories there. He died bravely : passed into the better life with the grand army of martyrs, crowned with glory. Stub. Yas indeed, dead an’ gone, Massa Cap’n: God bless him ! Miss Charity, am you gwine to tell — Charity. Be silent! (Stub goes l., shaking his head) Stub. I shall bust it out: I can’t help it. Charity. Well, brother John. John. Another, a younger face. Now I see it with the glow of health upon the cheeks, the eye bright and laugh¬ ing-, as I have seen it come and go before me in the old days. And now—’tis pale and haggard: the eyes are bloodshot. O Charity, the face that has haunted my sleep ! I have tried to snui it out; but it comes before me with a look full of reproach. Oh had I but been merciful, all this might nof have been ! Charity. And yet that, too, is the face of a hero. Stub. Oh 1 why don’t she tell ’em ? 44 PAST REDEMPTION. Charity. Go on, John : look once more. John- Once more: the face of a fair, bright girl, who won her way to my heart. I never knew how much I loved, until I lost her. She left me, nobly left me : I had no right to stay her. Will she come back, Charity ? will she ? Stub. Why, don’t you know — Charity. Silence, Stub ! Now, brother John, let me tell you what I see there. I see the face of that same brave, true girl, in all its beauty: the girl who forsook home and friends, with the brave wish in her heart to save her lover from destruction. I see her gladly embracing a life of hard) grinding poverty, cheering the fainting spirit of a broken man, guarding and guiding him through the dark valley of remorse, until he stands alone, strong, resolute, determined. John. Jessie, our Jessie : well, well, go on. Charity. I see her with the rich glow of health again mantling her cheeks : I hear the ringing laugh of the happy girl again : I see her returning to her father’s house (enter Jessie, door in flat ), a proud, true, happy wife ! Jessie (running down to John). Here, here again : dear, dear father! John (rising., and taking her in his arms). Jessie, my darling, a thousand and a thousand times welcome ! Jessie. Dear, dear mother, your child has returned to you. Mrs. Maynard (takes her in her arms). O Jessie, Jessie, welcome ! do you come alone ? Charity. Be patient! sit you down and listen. (They sit again , Jessie kneeling between Mrs. Maynard and the fire.) Stub. Wh-wh-what all dis mean ? Ain’t you gwine — Charity. Silence, Stub ! I see another face, — the face of the young man who went forth to fight the battle of temptation. I see him struggling: I see friends around him : I see one with a true, loving heart, clinging to him through good and evil report: see him fighting valiantly in the clistant West: see the freshness of renewed life in his ruddy cheek, until, his foe beneath his feet, he comes back to his old home. (Enter Harry, door in fiat.) John (rushing down r.). I see it all, Charity: my boy has come home. Where, oh, where is he ? Harry. Here, father, here. John (turns). O Harry, Harry! my dear, dear boy {Rushing into his arms.) PAST REDEMPTION. 45 Stub. Hi, golly! dat’s de ticket, dat’s de ticket: Harry. Mother, have you no word for the truant ? Mrs. Maynard (etnbracing him). My heart is too full, Harry! (Harry, c.; Mrs. Maynard, r. c.; Jessie, r. ; Mr. Maynard, l. c. ; Charity, l. ; Stub, extreme l.) Harry. Mother, father, of the bitter past — John. We’ll not hear a word, Harry. We have you safe again: let the sorrows of the past be forgotten in the joy of the present. Mother, look at him ! what a frame, what a face ! Hang me, if I don’t believe all this has been a joke! Harry. Nay, father, in remembering the trials we have passed, we gain new hope for the future. I am a free man, with a. home of my own ; rich Western lands own me as master; but I owe all to the dear girl who loved me, — the brave, noble woman who befriended me. Come here, little wife : let my parents see that the child they adopted is now theirs by right. (Jessie goes to him.) Jessie. Yes, father, we ran away and were married : will you forgive us ? John. Forgive you, puss? it was Harry’s salvation! {Enter Tom, door hi fiat.) Tom. There, the horse is all right: now for the baby. Bless my soul, where’s the baby ? {Enter Kitty, r. u. e.) Kitty. Asleep, Tom ; don’t make such a noise ! Tom. Asleep! he’ll die of starvation. Here! {Takes nursing-bottle from his pocket.) I forgot to leave his lun¬ cheon. Kitty {snatching bottle). Tom, I’m ashamed of you, before all these folks ! {They go up. Enter Capt. Bragg, door in flat.) Capt. Ah, Maynard, how are you ? I just dropped in as I was going by. Why, bless my soul! Harry Maynard, as fresh as a buttercup ! Why, how are you ? and Jessie too! Well, this is glorious! {Shakes hands.) John, old friend, you’re a lucky dog! I thought the boy was about gone, the last time I saw him ; but he’s come round all right. Ah ! I always told you to keep up a stout heart! Look at me . I’m nearly seventy : my boy has been gone twenty years ; but I know he’ll come back, — come back a hero, or a millionnaire : he couldn’t help it-! he’s a Bragg. He’ll come back! Thornton ( outside, l.). Away ! away, you cannot reach +6 PAST REDEMPTION. me : I defy you, I defy you ! ( Rushes in l., and falls pris- irate at Bragg’s feet.) Capt. (shrinking back). Hallo, what’s this ? Harry {runs to Thornton, and raises his head). Mer¬ ciful Heavens, ’tis Thornton ! All. Thornton! Thornton {feebly'). Who said Thornton ? What, May nard ! Maynard, you here ? Harry. O Thornton ! has it come to this ? Thornton. Yes, Maynard, I’m down: down deeper than I had you. There’s no hope ! Only a year, only a year ! I was cheated. I, who thought myself so shrewd and keen, in one night lost all, and took to drink. Oh, it’s glorious to drown all trouble in the flowing bowl! Ha, ha! but it gets you at last: it has me. I have begged, cheated, stolen, for a single draught. Give me a drink: a drop of brandy, only a drop to cool my burning throat ! Harry. You ask this of me, whom you so bitterly wronged ? Thornton. Yes, I did wrong you; but I loved that girl as I loved but one other ! Maynard, Maynard, hear me ! this one woman I wronged : she haunts me : she was my wife. I forsook her, cast her off. She came from your native town. Her name — her name was — Alice Clarke. John. Alice Clarke — Jessie’s mother! Thornton. Jessie’s mother! No, no; don’t tell me that: don’t make me a greater villain than I know myself to be. John. She died beneath my roof, giving her child to my keeping. Jessie. He is my father: stand back! Harry, my place is here ! {Kneels, and supports him.) Thornton {looks in her face). And I pursued you with a sinful love : brought him down to the very gates of death. Jessie. All is forgotten, all forgiven, father. Thornton. Take her away, take her away : I can t bear her touch! {Crawls down stage.) Her eyes glare at me ! There’s the look of her dead mother in them. Oh, spare me, spare me ! Harry. O Thornton, Thornton, this is terrible! Thornton. Thornton ! you’re wrong. Call me by my rightful name : you must have heard it, — William Bragg John. William Bragg ? PAST REDEMPTION. 47 Capt. No, no ; it cannot be ! You, you my Bill ? Curse /ou : you stole that name ! That was my boy’s, — a hand¬ some, noble fellow ! Thornton. I am your son ! Capt. It’s a lie : you’re a miserable wretch ! Think you a Bragg would come home in such a plight? I’ll not believe it. (Looks at him, then sinks on his knees, covers his face. ) It’s false ! I can not, will not believe it. Thornton. You must, you do, old man. You might have made me a better man ; but you nursed my vanity, and — well, well, it’s all over now. I’ve dug my grave: let me rest in peace. Capt. (rising to his feet). No, no peace for you : you have disgraced my name. Die, die like a dog! Why did* you come back here to ruin me, to drag me down from my position, to make me a by-word and a scorn among my neighbors? Why didn’t you die in the gutte:s of your in¬ famous city ? But here, here ! Die, but take my — Charity (puts her hand on his shoulder). Pause ere you speak. He is dying; he has sinned : leave his punishment to a higher Power. Here, where our hearts are warm with gratitude for a blessed deliverance, curse not, but forgive as we all hope to be forgiven ! Tableau. — With her left hand on his shoulder, Bragg slowly sinks to his knees; her other hand is pointed up. Thornton feebly raises his head, and follows her hand. Harry sits in chair , l., with his arm about Jessie, who kneels at his side, looking at Thornton ; Stub extreme l. John Maynard with his wife stand r., 2 d entrance; ICitty o?i bench; Tom leaning on back of bench, looking ai Thornton. Slow curtain; music: — “ In the sweet by and by,” &c. THE MAGISTRATE. A Farce in Three Act*. By Arthur W. Pinero. Twelve male, four female char- _ acters. Costumes, modern; scenery, all interior. The merits of this excellent and amusing piece, one of the most popu¬ lar of its author’s plays, are well attested by long and repeated runs in the principal American theatres. It is of the highest class of dramatic writing, and is uproariously funny, and at the same time unexceptionable in tone. Its entire suitability for amateur performance has been shown by hundreds of such pro¬ ductions from manuscript during the past three years. Plays two hours and a half. (1892.) THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH. A Drama in Four Acts. By Arthur W. Pinero. Eight male and five female charac¬ ters ; scenery, all interiors. This is a 44 prob¬ lem ” play continuing the series to which “ The Profligate ” and “The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" id intensely interesting is not suited ra belong, and while strongly dramatic, an amateur performance. It is recommended for Heading Clubs. (1895.) dr THE PROFLIGATE. | A Play in Four Acts. By Arthur W. Pine- ro. Seven male and five female characters. Scenery, three interiors, rather elaborate; costumes, modern. This is a piece of serious interest, powerfully dramatic in movement, and tragic in its event. An admirable play, hut not suited for ama¬ teur performance. (1892.) THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. | A Farce in Three Acts. By Arthub W. Pinero. Nine male, seven fe¬ male characters. Costumes, mod¬ ern ; scenery, three interiors, easily arranged. This ingenious and laughable farce was played by Miss Rosina Yokes during her last season in America with great success. Its plot is amusing, its action rapid and full of incident, itu dia¬ logue brilliant, and its scheme of character especially rich in quaint and humor¬ ous types. The Hon. Vere Queckett and Peggy are especially strong. The piece is in all respects suitable for amateurs. (1894.) THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY. A Play in Four Acts. By Arthur W. Pinero. Eight male and five female char¬ acters. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. This well-known and powerful play is not well suited for amateur per¬ formance. It is offered to Mr. Pinero’s admirers among the reading public in answer to the demand which its wide discussion as an acted play has created. (1894.) Also in Cloth, $1.00. SWEET LAVENDER. | A Comedy in Three Acts. Bv Arthub W. Pinero. Seven male and four female characters. Scene, a single interior, the same for all three acts ; costumes, modern and fashionable. This well knowii and popular piece is admirably suited to amateur players, by whom it has been often given during the last few years. Its story is strongly sympathetic, and its comedy interest abundant and strong. (1893.) THE TIMES. | A Comedy in Four Acts. By Arthur W. Pinero. S!r male and seven female characters. Scene, a single ele¬ gant interior; costumes, modern and fashionable. An entertaining piece, of strong dramatic interest and admirable satirical humor. (1892.) THE WEAKER SEX. A Comedy in Three Acts. By Arthur W. Pinero. Eight male and eight female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, two interiors, not difficult. This very amusing comedy was a popular feature or the repertoire of M.. and Mrs. Kenaal in this country. It presents a plot of strong dramatic interest, and its incidental satire of “Woman's Rights" em- J lovs some admirably humorous characters, and inspires many very clever lines. ts leading characters are unusually even in strength and prominence, which makes it a very satisfactory piece for amateurs. (1894.) W JO®. w m W. iDtncro’s latest $rice, 50 Cents? Cacf) IRIS Drama in Five Acts C^Seven males, seven females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. * LETTY Drama in Four Acts and an Epilogue CTen males, five females. Costumes, mod¬ ern; scenery complicated.Plays a full evening. THE GAY LORD QUEX Comedy in Four Acts C^Four males, ten females. Costumes, mod¬ ern ; scenery, two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. HIS HOUSE IN ORDER Comedy in Four Acts C,Nine males, four females. Costumes, mod¬ ern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full even¬ ing. A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE Comedy in Three Acts C,Fivemales,fourfemales.Costumes modern; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. Sent prepaid on receipt of price by Walter l^. 'Baftcr & Company No.5 Hamilton Place-Boston-Massachusetts 8. J, PA.RIU4ILL * CO., PRINTERS. POSTON. U.S.A. NO PLAYS EXCHANGED. Copyright, 1893, by Emily F. Baker (in renewal). A NEW ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE Of the plays of Geo. M. Baker sent free on application. THESE PLAYS ARE ALWAYS IN PRINT. BAKER’S DARKEY PLAY Edited and arranged for publication from the well-known repertoire of “ SCHOOLCRAFT AND COES ” with all their original “gags’/ and “ stage business.” BY GEO. H. COES. Price.15 cents each. “Luke Schoolcraft” and “George Coes” are too well known to admirers o Negro Minstrelsy to require comment, and the following selections from thei admirable repertory of pieces have no need of other recommendation. No on< who has seen these artists in any of the following list of sketches needs assur dnce of their humor and good acting quality. Twelve are now ready, and others will follow as the demand arises. Mrs. Didymus’ Party. In One Scene. Two male characters. Scene, a plain room. An immensely humorous trifle. Plays twenty minutes. Music VS. Elocution. In One Scene. Two male characters. Scene, a plain room. Always very popular. Plays fifteen minutes. Mistaken Identity. In One Scene. Eight male and one female characters. Can be played in “white face” if desired. Plays fifteen minutes. Oh, Well, It’s No Use. In One Scene. Three male characters. A very funny sketch, full of genuine darkey humor. Plays twenty minutes. Here She Goes, and There She Goes. In One Act. Eight male and one female characters. An uproariously funny piece of great popularity. Plays twenty-five minutes. Finished Education. A P'inale for the “Eirst Part” of a Minstrel Entertainment. Three speaking characters. No change of scene Black Blunders. In Two Scenes.* Nine males and three females. . Scenery simple; costumes eccentric. Very lively and amusing. Plays twenty-five minutes. *H0 Old Parson. A “First Part Finish” for a Minstrel Enter¬ tainment. Six speaking characters. No change of scene. Sublime and Ridiculous. In One Scene. Three male characters. Scenery and costumes very simple. A sure hit for a good burlesque comedian. Plays twenty minutes. diveryday Occurrences. A “First Part Finish” for a Minstrel Entertainment. Three speaking characters. No change of scene. *adly Sold. In Two Scenes. Four male characters and supers. A very funny piece. Can be played “ white face ” with equally good effect. Plays twenty minutes. Dur Colored Conductors. In Two Scenes. Three male char¬ acters and ten supers. This is an uproariously funny “ skit ” and a sure hit. Plays twenty minutes. Catalogues describing the above and other popular entertainments sent free on application to WALTER H. BAKER & CO., THEATRICAL PUBLISHERS, Mo. 23 Winter Street - BOSTON, MASS. SYLVIA’S SOLDIER. A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS. / BY THE AUTHOR OP '“Better than Gold,” “Our Folks,” “ The Flower of the Family,” “ En¬ listed for the War,” “ My Brother’s Keeper,” “The Little Brown Jug,” “ Above the Clouds,” “ One Hundred Years Ago,” “Among the Breakers,” “ Bread on the Waters,” “ Down by the Sea,” “ Once on a Time,” “ The Last Loaf,” “ Stand by the Flag,” “The Tempter,” “A Mysterious Dis¬ appearance,” “ Paddle Your Own Canoe,” “A Drop too Much,” “A Little More Cider,” “A Thorn Among the Iioses,” “Never Say Die,” “Seeing the Elephant,” “The Boston Dip,” “The Duchess of Dublin,” “Thirty Minutes for Refreshments,” “ We’re all Teetotalers,” “A Close Shave,” “A Public Benefactor,” “ A Sea of Troubles,” “ A Tender Attachment,” “Coals of Fire,” “Freedom of the Press,” “Shall Our Mothers Vote?” “Gentleman of the Jury,” “Humors of the Strike,” “My Uncle the Captain,” “New Brooms Sweep Clean,” “ The Great Elixir,” “The Hy¬ pochondriac,” “The Man with the Demijohn,” “The Runaways,” “The Thief of Time,” “ Wanted, A Male Cook,” “A Love of a Bonnet,” “A Precious Pickle,” “No Cure No Pay,” “The Champion of Her Sex,” “The Greatest Plague in Life,” “The Grecian Bend,” “The Red Chignon,” “Using the Weed,” “Lightheart’s Pilgrimage,” “The Revolt of the Bees,” “The Sculptor’s Triumph,” “The Tournament of Idylcourt,” “The War of the Roses,” “An Original Idea,” “ Bonbons,” “ Capuletta,” “Santa Claus’Frolics,” “ Snow-Bound,” “The Merry Christmas of the Old Woman who lived in a Shoe,” “The Pedler of Very Nice,” “The Seven Ages,” “Too Late for the Train,” “The Visions of Freedom,” “Rebecca’s Triumph,” “Comrades,” “Past Redemption,” “Nevada,” “ Messmates,” &c., &c. BOSTON amateur dramas FOR PARLOR THEATRICALS, EVENING EN¬ TERTAINMENTS AND SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS. GEORGE M. BAKER. CONTAINING Sylvia’8 Soldier. Wanted, a Male Cook. A Sea of Troubles. We’re all Tetotalleys. Freedom of the Press. The Rival Poets. The Pedler Stand by the Flag. The Tempter. The Greatest Plague in Life. A Drop too Much. The Sculptor’s Triumph. Once on a Time. Very-Nice. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by GEO. M. BAKER, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY Emily F. Baker (in renewal). SYLVIA’S SOLDIER A Comedy in Two Acts • _ . o CHARACTERS. Mb. Horton. i Horace Lyford. 1 Arthur Horton. | Sylvia Horton. Bessie Bray. X £ COSTUMES. Modern and Appropriate. ACT I. Apartment in Mr. Horton’s House. Tables , R. and l. Lounge , Easy-chairs , Vases and Flowers , all arranged with taste. Entro ic (s r. and l« (Enter Mr. Horton, l., with his watch in his hand.) Mr. Horton. Nearly ten o’clock, and Sylvia still away. What can keep her all this while ? It’s not more than ten minutes’ walk to the post-office, and she has been gone nearly two hours. The house seems deserted : I’ve wandered from cellar to attic, and not a soul can I find A regular stampede (looking off r.). Ah ! there’s 7 Scene. o' £ 8 sylvia’s soldier* some one at last. Here, Bessie, Bessie ! ( Enter Bessie, r.) Where the dickens is everybody? Bessie. I’m sure I don’t know, sir : it’s as much as 1 can do to look after my own little body, without troubling myself about everybody. Mr. H. Where’s Sylvia? Bessie. Gone for your paper. Mr. H. Where’s Arthur? Bessie. Gone fishing, the booby! Mr. H. Booby! Why, bless my soul! you and he have not been quarrelling, I hope. I thought you were the best of friends. Bessie. Oh, yes, indeed, the best of friends ! I’d like to box his ears. Mr. H. Box his ears ! Why, Bessie ! What foi ? Bessie. The great silly goose ! ne must go and fall in iove. Mr. H. In love ! Our Arthur in love ! Ha, ha, ha 1 That’s too good! Bessie. But I say it’s too bad. Mr. H. But who is he in love with? Bessie. With me. Mr. H. W ith you ? And you want to box his ears for that ? Bessie. To be sure I do. What business has he tc fall in love with me? Just as we had begun to have such sport at croquet and boating, he must needs transform himself into a lover. Lover, indeed ! I don’t want him Bighing and groaning about me: it spoils all the fun. Mr. H You don’t like him, then? Bessie. Yes, I do, and that’s why I complain : I want •tlvia’s soldier. 9 a playmate, and not a lover. What’s the use of trying to play croquet with a man who’s afraid of beating you at the game, who stops every three minutes to heave a sigh, and who rolls his eyes as though he were going into a fit? If ever I hear Arthur sigh again, I’ll box his ears; you see if I don’t. Mr. H. Where is he now? Bessie . Gone off fishing. Ha ! ha ! ha! if the fish get sight of his dismal face, good-by to his luck. Oh, I do hope he’ll tumble into the water! Mr. H. Why, Bessie! Bessie! don’t talk so. Do you know, Bessie, that this is what I most desire ? When your poor mother, dying, bequeathed me her daughter, I confess I was not much pleased with the legacy ; but as the years have rolled away, and I have seen you growing up by the side of my own dear girl, bright, happy, and affectionate, my old heart has warmed to you, and it would be the dearest wish of my life to call you daughter. Bessie. Well, but I am your daughter, your adopted daughter ? Mr. H. Oh, yes ! but I join with my son in wishing to make you really one of the family. Bessie. Oh, dear me ! here’s another wants to get me married. I’m sure I don’t know what I have done to make you so anxious to get rid of me. Mr. H. Why, bless me! Bessie, you’ll be nearer than ever, you’ll — Bessie (interrupting). Oh ! here comes Sylvia. Please don’t say any thing more. Sylvia (without, r.). Not a step, sir: I will not 10 btlvia’s soldier. allow it. (Enter , r.) Here, father, he:«e’s your paper. Mr. H. Why, Sylvia! who is that you are driving away? Sylvia. Only Mr. Lyford. Mr. H. Only Mr. Lyford ! Why, dear me, child, you mustn’t do that. ( Starts for door , r., calling') Lyford! Here, Lyford ! (Sylvia runs after him , and brings him down , c.) Sylvia. Now, stop, father, if you please. Mr. Ly¬ ford is my property ; and as I don’t choose to have him come in at present, you will oblige me by not interfering. Mr. H. Why, I should think he was your slave. Sylvia. Well, he is. Mr. H. What ? Sylvia. I take his word for it; he’s told me so fifty times. Bessie (aside). He’s another booby. Mr. H. Well, but, girl, what has kept you so long? Sylvia. Oh, father ! there’s such dreadful news : our troops have met with a terrible disaster and have been driven back to the Capital in disorder. The whole country is in an uproar ; new troops are called for ; and, oh, dear ! I wish I was a man ! Mr. H. Bless my soul ! ( Seats himself at table , r., with ’paver). The cowards! Sylvia. Cowards ! No, indeed, father, it is not cow¬ ardice ; bad management has caused this disaster. The brave men who could so readily spring to arms at their country’s call cannot be cowards. Oh, I wish I was a man 1 sylyia’s soldier. 1 Bessie . You silly thing! what’s the use of wish ing that? Catch me in any such scrape if I was a man. Sylvia. Why, Bessie, have you no patriotism? Bessie. Yes, indeed ; but I do hate cannon-balls and bayonets. Mr. H. ( who has been reading paper , starts up ). Bless me ! this is terrible news. I must go to the village : 1 may be of some assistance. Sylvia. Oh, do, father, urge the men to go ! You know how to talk to them. Bessie and I will do all we can* for their comfort. Mr. H. Yes, yes ; hunt up all the blankets, socks, and flannels about the house : I will soon return. (Exit, r.) Bessie. Oh, dear ! here’s an end to all our fun. Sylvia. Fun! why, Bessie, how can you talk so? Where’s Arthur? ( Enter Arthur, l. ; he has a basket in one hand , a fishing-pole over his shoulder , and clothes and face are liberally sprinkled with mud.) Bessie. I’m sure I don’t know where he is : the last I saw of him he was up to ears in love. Arthur ( coming down , c.). And the last I saw of him, he was over ears in mud. Bessie. Good gracious ! what’s the matter? Sylvia. Why, Arthur ! where have you been ? Arthur. At the bottom of the stream, making geo¬ logical surveys in the mud. The soil was rather soft; so I didn’t stop long. Sylvia. How did it happen? Arthur. It’s all along of that girl (with a sigh). 0 Bessie Bray! y. OF ELL LIES. 12 Sylvia’s soldieb. Bessis. Me ! Why you haven’t been committing sub cide ? Arthur Well, not exactly, as “ I still live.” Sylvia . At the bottom of the stream ! I don’t under¬ stand. Arthur. Neither did I till I got there. It’s all very well u going down to the sea in ships ; ” but going under, in a muddy stream, is not just the sport I like. Bessie. Didn’t I tell you not to go fishing? Arthur. Oh, yes! you’re always telling me what I don’t want you to ( with a sigh). O Bessie Bray! How could you say — Bessie. You’re a goose ! Arthur. Call me a duck; ’twill be nearer the truth. This all comes of your hard-heartedness. I’ve ruined my clothes, and caught the influenza ; and it’s all for love of you. O Bessie Bray! How could you say — Sylvia. Arthur, you must go and change your clothes directly. Arthur. So I will: it will give me a better appear¬ ance, and no doubt be more comfortable. O Bessie Bray ! may you never suffer the torments which agitated my frame as I sat upon that high rock by the side of the stream ! Musing upon your obdurate heart, I was com¬ posing a few lines to express my heartsick feelings. I had arranged but two, — O Bessie Bray! How could you say,— SYLVIA’S SOLDIER. 13 when a gigantic eel (wasn’t he a whopper!) fastened himself upon my hook, and drew me from my lofty perch and lofty thought. I lost it. Bessie. What! the eel? Arthur. The eel! no, the lofty thought. Bessie. The lofty seat too. Ha, ha, ha! Arthur ( crosses , r.). Oh, mockery! That laugh is torment to my lacerated soul. Farewell! I leave yoi forever. ( Exit , r.) Bessie. Ha, ha, ha ! Poor fellow ! Sylvia. Poor fellow! what is the meaning of this, Bessie ? Bessie. It means that silly goose has fallen in love with me. Sylvia. Indeed! I am glad of that, Bessie; and I hope, dear Bessie, you will favor his suit. Bessie. Now, this is too bad: you want to get rid of me. Sylvia. Get rid of you! Oh, no ! I love you too well not to feel happy at the prospect of having you for a sister. Bessie. But I don’t want to favor anybody’s suit. Why couldn’t he fall in love with somebody else? Sylvia. Would that have pleased you, Bessie? Bessie. Why, yes — no : oh, dear me ! I do wish folks would let me alone (crosses, r.). Why, I declare ! there is Mr. Lyford on the piazza, looking as melancholy as an owl. Do let me send him in? Sylvia. Well, he may come in. ( Exit Bessie, r.) (Sylvia seats herself at table , r. ; takes up paper.) Those dreadful lines stare me in the face agaii : “ Terrible dis- 14 SYLVIA'S SOLDIER. aster to the Federal troops.” What a fearful blow to the hopeful hearts who saw, in the brave uprising of the North, the speedy overturn of this wicked Rebellion! Oh that I could find some way to show my sympathy its this dark hour ! (Enter Lyford, r.) Lyford (l.). Dear Sylvia ! at last you have relented, and once more made me happy. Sylvia. Indeed ! I had quite forgotten you. Lyford. Nay, do not say so! you must have been thinking of me, or I should not have been sent for. Syl via. You must thank Bessie for that. If she had not spoken of you, I should have forgotten there was such a man in the world. Lyford. Indeed ! where were your thoughts, then ? Sylvia (rises). Where those of every patriotic man and woman should be in this fearful hour. O Horace Lyford ! can you be thus unmoved when disaster has overtaken the loyal army? Can you loiter here when your country calls for defenders? Lyford. No, Sylvia, I am not unmoved. My heart throbs in sympathy with our brave boys, overtaken with disaster; my blood boils with indignation at the base¬ ness of the traitorous foe; and I long to join the noble army of freemen. Sylvia. Then why are you here? Ijyford. You ask me why? You, who first taught me to see in woman’s eyes the beacon-light to happiness. You, whose steps I have followed with pleasure never known before ; whose smile has been an inspiration to wake within my soul all high and noble feelings, anu •ylvia’s soldier. 15 whom I love with a devotion never dreamed of. You ask me why? Sylvia. Surely the present is no time to waste in dalliance for a woman’s favor. Lyford. You say true, Sylvia. It is not. But I have thought that a man going forth to fight the battles of his country, brave though he be, is braver, and serves his country better, when he knows he carries with him a woman’s love. To gain that incentive, I have waited. Sylvia. And that gained ? Lyford. I am in the field, ready to dare all, to die, if need be, to show myself worthy of that love. Speak, Sylvia ! have I waited in vain ? Sylvia. O Horace ! this is noble ; this is just. Lyford. Speak, Sylvia ! I must have your answer. Even now a commission awaits me at the Governor’s. Sylvia. A commission? Lyford. Yes: a commission as lieutenant. Come, dear Sylvia, your answer? Sylvia. You shall have it. I will never wed one, who, when his country is calling for men , — men to bear the musket, to toil, to fight, — can basely stoop to accept a commission. Lyford. Why, Sylvia! commissioned officers must fight as well as enlisted men. There must be some to command. Shoulder-straps are not to be despised. Sylvia. When they are earned, not bought. I can honor these emblems of command when they are worn a brave man, who on many a bloody field has won the right to wear them. The sickening accounts of :6 sylyia’s soldier. loitering officers at Washington have cured i.ie ef any love I might have felt for shoulder-straps. Lyford. As you please. I am then rejected? Sylvia. Yes. Lyford. Were I to enlist in the ranks? Sylvia. Will you? Lyford. Sylvia, you are doing this to try my love, You could not wish to have me disgrace myself. Think of my condition and prospects : my father would never consent to have me in the ranks, when money can place me in a higher position. Sylvia. Disgrace ! the meanest peasant, who, in a foreign land, bowed beneath the oppressor’s power, is ennobled when he bears a musket in the cause of lib¬ erty. Lyford. I see the course you w T ould have me adopt. I cannot consent to it. Sylvia. Then ’tis best we part. Lyford. And will this parting cause you no pain? Sylvia (after a struggle). No. Lyford. I have been mistaken, then. Farewell! Sylvia, I go to serve my country. Should I fall, my last thought will be of you ; my last prayer, for your happiness. Farewell! ( Exit , r.) Sylvia (at tableau.). Gone! and this man says he loves me, has sat at my feet, and begged of me to show him some way by which he might prove his devotion; and my first request is unfulfilled : he leaves me, no doubt, thinking it a foolish girl’s whim. He serve his country with his whole heart! He little thinks what a power the name of Horace Lyford would have been on •ylvia’s soldier. 17 the enlistment-rolls. The whole village wculd have followed the example he set. Well, I’ll think of him no more. He has earned no right to know how much I love him. ( Enter Mr. Horton, r.) Mr. H. (l.). Bless my soul! Only think of it! Sylvia (r.). What’s the matter, father? Mr. H. Matter, child ! Disgrace, infamy ! To think that the village, bearing so warlike a title as Warwick, is unable to raise a single man to respond to the call of the country ! North, east, west, and south, the whole country is rising, and we cannot send one man. Yes, we will! I’ll go myself. Sylvia. How ! no one willing to volunteer ? Mr. H. Not one : that’s the trouble. If we can only find the first one, the rest will follow: but they loiter about, casting wistful glances at the flag, and more wist¬ ful glances into each other’s faces ; for ail the world like a flock of sheep waiting for some old wether to lead the way. • Sylvia. Oh that I were a man ! Mr. H. I wish to Heaven you were ! Sylvia. Where’s Arthur? He will lead, I know. Mr. H. Not a bit of it! He might lead in a country dance, but not in a fight. I wouldn’t trust him in the village for the world; he’d scare away all who are dis¬ posed to go. Sylvia. Will not money tempt them? Mr. II. No : I have tried that. Sylvia. Then let me make an effort. You have been very indulgent to me, father. Mr. H. Have I? well, you have deserved it. 2 18 stlvia’s soldier. Sylvia. Be still more indulgent, and let me have mj way now. Mr. H. Why, what would you do? Sylvia. That’s a secret. You will let me do as I please ? Mr. H. Yes ; for I know what you do will be right. Sylvia. Thank you ! Who is the recruiting-officer? Mr. H. Archy Blake. Sylvia. My old friend Archy! Oh, then I shall have no difficulty. Good-by, father! I must send a uote to Archy Blake. [Exit, l.) Mr. H. Now, what scheme can that girl have in her head? No matter ; she can’t go wrong ; I will trust her. {Enter Arthur, r. ; his muddy appearance has dis¬ appeared.) Why, Arthur, where have you been all the morning ? Arthur. Studying, sir ; studying ; deep in the mysteries of geology. Deep in Hitchcock’s and Hugh Miller’s iheories. Mr. H. Well, sir, do they make it clear? Arthur. Oh, yes! wonderfully clear {aside), clear as mud. But where's Bessie? Mr. H. Hark you, sir! Do you know the whole country is in an uproar? Arthur. About Bessie ? Mr. H. About Bessie? No, sir: there has been a terrible disaster to the Federal troops. Arthur. So I have heard. Don’t see how those chaps can go to that blasted country: I’m glad I’m not a soldier. Mr. H. Glad, sir ! Why, sir, were I of your age, I Sylvia’s soldieb. IS should be proud to shoulder a musket in defence of liberty. Arthur. Oh, yes ! It’s all very well for those who like it; but, for my part, I don’t fancy marching forty miles before breakfast, with the chances of having for my next meal a fifty-pound shot deposited in my bread¬ basket, without the usual method of mastication. Mr. H. Oh, pshaw ! All men must meet Death. Arthur. Yes: I suppose so ; but I’m not going to meet him half-way. Mr. H. My son, I’m afraid you’re a coward. Arthur. Are you? Well, I’m not afraid of it; I rather like it; it saves a great deal of trouble. Being a coward, you’re not expected to stop runaway horses, climb shaky ladders to rescue shrieking females and babies, plunge into chilly water to relieve unfortunate individuals sinking for the last time. To be sure, you don’t get the glory of being puffed by the newspapers: but, then, you can take your comfort; and, to my mind, that is to be preferred. Mr. H. Then you won’t be a soldier? Arthur. Yes, I will: make me a major-general or a quartermaster, I don’t care which, and I’ll be a sol¬ dier ! Mr. H. Why are you thus particular? Arthur. Because you seldom hear of such soldiers being shot, which proves their duties keep them out of danger. Mr. H. Pshaw, pshaw, boy ! this is nonsense. (Erir ter Bessie, l.) Bessie. O Arthur! I’m so glad I have found you! Here, hold this yarn for me, that’s a good fellow: I’m 20 SYLVIA’S SOLDIER. going to knit a pair of socks for the soldiers ( seats her self in chair , centre of stage). Why ! don’t you hear? Arthur. Oh, yes ! I hear you (sighs) ; I always lieai you [sighs). If I hadn’t listened to your beguiling voice, I should be a happier man. Bessie. Why, you great goose! haven’t you done that yet? Now, look here, Arthur Horton : you just sit down, and hold this yarn ; and, if I hear one of those melancholy sounds coming out of your mouth, I’ll box your ears. Come, quick! (Arthur seats himself oppo¬ site Bessie very quietly , and takes the skein upon his hands. Bessie winds the yarn during the dialogue.) Mr. H. Why, Bessie! you are becoming a perfect vixen. (Exit, r.) Arthur. There, Bessie : you hear what father says. Bessie. What’s that to you? Do as I tell you. Arthur. Yes, you’d like to wind me round your lingers, wouldn’t you? Bessie. Nothing of the kind: I want to wind this yarn. Only think, Arthur ! this must be made into socks for some poor fellow who may be left dead on the battle¬ field. Isn’t it sad? Arthur . Yes : it’s a very melancholy yarn. Bessie. Hold up your hands; you are losing th« skein. Arthur. I’m more afraid of losing you. Why, Bes* sie, how blue your eyes are ! Bessie. Oh, pshaw ! it’s the reflection of the yarn. Arthur. Why, good gracious, Bessie ! now they look green. Basie, That’s the reflection of your face, you goose 1 •ylvia’s soldier. 21 Arthur . Now, don’t be cruel, Bessie : suppose I wap the poor fellow who was to wear these socks. Bessie. O Arthur ! don’t talk so ! I would not have you go to the war for the world. I should die ; I know I should. Arthur (dropping the yarn). Then you love me, Bessie ? Bessie. Well, if ever I saw such a ninny! See how you’ve tangled the skein! Arthur ( coming forward). An idea, by Jove ! an idea ! I believe she loves me. I’ll try her. She would die if I went to the war. I’ll try her. She won’t let me go ; so I can afford to be valiant. Bessie. Arthur, do come here and finish the yarn! Arthur. Never ! I’ll work no more ! I feel my soul firing with patriotism. I feel that I must rush to the field of battle ; that I must strike a blow for liberty. Ensanguined fields float before my eyes; bristling can¬ non beckon me to glory ; flashing bayonets gleam before me. “ Is this a rammer which I see before me, the handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee.” Bessie. O Arthur ! you are not going to war ? Arthur. I must; I can’t help myself: “ my soul’s in arms, and eager for the fray.” Farewell, gentle maid! “I go where glory waits me.” ( Crosses to door , r.) Bessie (running after him , and seizing his coat). O Arthur ! think of your friends ! you must not go. Arthur. Friends! I have no friends. “ No one to Love ; ” not even a puppy dog. I’m a sad, disappointed man: let me lay my bones beneath the clover and th# » idelion greens of the sunny South. •ylvia’s soldier. 22 Bessie. No, no, Arthur! I am your friend; I love you. Arthur. Ah, indeed! you love me! you will be my wife? Bessie. No, not that! I — I — Arthur. No more : release my coat. “ Glory waits me on the tented field.” Bessie. No, no, Arthur! I do love you: I will be your wife. Arthur. You will? Bessie. Yes, yes. Please, don’t go to war. Arthur. Pause, patriotic soul, and reflect: glory wait* you there ; love holds you here. Glory is unpleasantly suggestive of damp grounds, bullets, sabre-cuts, and mosquitoes; love, of delightful walks, et caetera. I think I won’t go, Bessie ; not to-day. Bessie. Oh, you mustn’t go at all! Arthur. Well, then, I won’t. ( Enter Sylvia, ft.) Sylvia. Arthur, I have been looking for you. Pleas* take this note to Archy Blake for me, will you? Arthur. To be sure I will, Syl. What is it for? Silvia. You mustn’t ask questions. Arthur. Oh, no, I never do ! Do I, Bessie? Bessie . One moment, Arthur, before you go. (Ab ihur and Bessie retire up .) Sylvia (l.). I tremble for the success of my scheme but I am sure I am not doing wrong. Men must not Jaj the only ones to sacrifice now. This must succeed. Well, Arthur? Arthur. I am ready ( takes note). To Archy Blake, you say? I •tlvia’s soldier. 23 Sylvia. Deliver it into his own hands, and bring me the answer. Arthur. 1 will. Good-by, Bessie ! Bessie. Remember, Arthur : don’t you go. Arthur. I will endeavor to curb my impatient soul. I’ll not go, (aside) not if I know myself. (Exit ) r.) Sylvia. Go where, Bessie? Where is Arthur going? Bessie. He wants to go to war. Sylvia. To war ! I am glad of that. Had I known it sooner, it might have been better. Bessie. Yes ; but he is not going. Sylvia. Why not? Bessie. Because I won’t let him. Sylvia. Would yon stay him when our great danger is calling for men ? I blush for you, Bessie: can you make no sacrifice? Bessie. To be sure I can ! I told him I would be his wife if he wouldn’t go : I call that a sacrifice. Sylvia. Sacrifice, indeed ! Listen, Bessie : you love my brother, and yet can keep him by your side when every man is needed to repel the invaders of our sacred rights ; it may be, the despoilers of our homes. Hear my sacrifice. (Enter Mr. H., r.) Arthur bears a note to Archv Blake, in which I give him power to offer my hand to the first man who will volunteer: he must be honest; further, I do not care who he may be. If he but prove himself brave, I will marry him on his return; ay, and love him, too, with my whole heart! Mr. H. (coming forward). Sylvia, you have done this? Sylvia. I have. 24 SYLVIA’S SOLDIER. / Mr. H. It must not be : I’ll stop Arthur ! Sylvia. Remember your promise, father. I had you? permission to do as I pleased. Mr. H. But not this : it is sacrilege* Sylvia. No : it is duty ! I will give my life for my country : I will give my heart and hand to the man who will defend her. {Enter Lyford, r.) Lyford. That man is here. Sylvia. Horace Lyford returned? Lyford. Yes, Sylvia, here, to confess my error, to throw myself at your feet, to do your bidding, to be your faithful soldier. Sylvia. The sacrifice is tardy. Lyford. No, Sylvia : it is no sacrifice. I know, that, in the ranks, I can serve my country with honor, and, blessed with your love, can, in the ranks, win a right to promotion. Sylvia {aside). Oh! if this had only come sooner. it may not yet be too late. Father, run after Arthur, and tell him to return. Mr. H. Arthur is here. {Enter Arthur, r.) Sylvia. Well, Arthur? Arthur. Here’s your answer, Syl. It’s a short walk, and I was in luck ; caught Archy just entering his home ; got his answer, and returned in just five minutes {to Bessie) : for, you know, “ somebody’s waiting for some¬ body.” Sylvia (r.) {opens note , and reads). u Thanks for the heroic spirit which prompted your note. Your offer was taken at once by one Allen Sandford, an honest fellow, who eagerly signed the papers. His example has done Sylvia’s soldier. 25 wonders; men are flocking to the flag; your country will bless you for the sacrifice.” Too late, too late! Lyford. Well, Sylvia? Sylvia. Too late, too late ! I am the affianced bride of Allen Sandford ( sinks into chair at table , r.). Lyford (l.). Merciful heavens ! Mr. H. (l.). Bless my soul! ( 'turns to Lyford , and takes his hand.) Bessie (r. c.). Sylvia! Your sacrifice has taught me my duty, Arthur. Arthur. Well, Bessie? Bessie. A short time since, you expressed a desire to join the army. Arthur. Well ? Bessie. I induced you to stay at home. Arthur. Well ? Bessie. I. checked your enthusiasm. Arthur. Well ? Bessie. I now say, go serve your country, and my blessing go with you ( sinks at Sylvia’s feet , and buries her face in her lap). Arthur. O Lord ! I’m a goner ( sinks into chair , c.). R. Sylvia, Bessie. c. l. Arthur. Mr. H. and Lyford* Quick Curtain • END OF ACT I* 26 gYLYIA’S SOLDIER. act n. Scene same as in Act I. Sylvia discovered at table , sewing. Bessie in easy-chair, l., reading. Bessie (suddenly throwing the booh upon the floor ). Plague take the book ! I wish I had never seen it! Sylvia. Why, Bessie ! what’s the matter ? Bessie. Just what I expected. I can never take up a book but there’s some fascinating hero in it, so devoted to somebody ; always rescuing some interesting young woman on the brink of a frightful precipice. Oh, dear ! it’s so provoking ! Sylvia. You should not waste time upon such sense¬ less stories. Bessie. Senseless ! why, I declare they are beautiful. The provoking part of them is, that I can never hope to have such a hero ; and I do want one so much. I wish I was as industrious as you are, Sylvia! You are always doing something for the comfort of the soldiers: you are a perfect saint! Sylvia. Oh, no, Bessie ! far from a saint. To be sure, I have accomplished a little towards the comfort of our brave soldiers : but how little it seems compared to the great work they are engaged in ! The women of America should be proud of the opportunity to contribute to the comfort of such heroes. Bessie. To be sure they should; especially if, like you, they all had a particular hero to comfort. Sylvia. Particular hero! who mean you ? I am proud to say there is no distinction : 1 love them all, the dear soldiers, as though they were my brothers. sylyia’s soldier. 21 Bessie. Ah! but there is one who claims a nearer iitle than that of a brother. Sylvia. I do not understand. Bessie. Your knight of two years ago ! Allen Sand- ford — have you forgotten him ? Sylvia. No, Bessie ! I have not forgotten him : ’tis he who has forgotten me. I have never heard from him ; and, if he is living, no doubt he has found among the maidens of the South some one to draw his admiration. Bessie. I hope he will never show himself here ! No one knows who he is, or where he belongs : he is as mys¬ terious as one of the knights of the olden time. I would not wonder a bit, if, some dark night, he should appear like Alonzo the Brave, and carry you “ down among the dead men.” Sylvia. No fear of that, Bessie ! but should he come, or should he never return, I can never forget his noble devotion. Bessie. Noble fiddlesticks ! but for his meddling, we should never have lost Horace Lyford. O Sylvia ! that was a foolish act. Sylvia. No : I am convinced I did right; and, should the same necessity require it, I should do the same again. Bessie. Poor Horace Lyford ! he has disappeared too ; not a word heard from him since he left us two years ago. Sylvia. No: even his father does not know of his whereabouts. The commission prepared for him was never taken, and he has disappeared in the most myste* nous manner. 28 bylvia’s soldier. Bessie. You have not forgotten him, Sylvia? Sylvia. It would be useless to deny that I often think of him. He would have gained honors had he but taken arms in defence of liberty ; for he had all the ele¬ ments to make a hero: but he can never be any thing to me ; we are parted as surely as though the eternal river flowed between us. Bessie. Oh, dear! what a hobble we are in, to be sure ! There’s my devoted admirer, your brother Arthur, who, for two long years, has moped around the house, an invalid. Sylvia. Don’t talk so, Bessie! Sickness cannot always be avoided. Bessie. But it might be in his case. He’s no more sick than 1 am: he never.thought of being ill until 3 wanted him to join the army. If I but mention a walk, he is as lively as a cricket, ready to climb hills and jump fences ; but let me say any thing about a march or a battle, and lie’s as full of aches as an old man of sixty. But I’ll never marry him until he has been in battle ; you see if I do ! I’d sooner marry your soldier, Allen Sand- ford, whom nobody knows. The great booby ! I’ll go this minute, and plague him ; see if I don’t! (Exit, l.) Sylvia. My soldier, Allen Sandford ! How lightly the name trips from her lips ! how heavily it falls upon my heart! Forget him? He is ever in my thoughts : every fresh return of our soldiers from the scene of battle fills me with alarm. Every knock of the postman startles me with fears that he brings a missive from him. Fear ! why should I fear ? Was not the act, by which I affianced myself to a stranger, of my own free will? I have Sylvia’s soldier. 29 endeavored to think only of him; to look upon him as the one who, in the future, must hold in his keeping my heart. My heart! I little thought then it was not mine to give. O Horace Lyford ! why does your image so constantly pursue me ? why thoughts of you obscure the wild efforts to love another? No : resolve as I will, he is ever with me ; and I would give the world to catch one glimpse of his dear face, to hear once more the sound of his dear voice. O Bessie ! you say true: it was a foolish act. I should have given my life for my country, but not my hand: it were useless without the heart, and that was not mine to give ( covers her face with her hands). Arthur (without , l.). Oh, pooh, pooh! you little torment! Bessie ( without , l.). Ha, ha, ha! (sings,) “If I had a beau for a soldier would go ! ” Ha, ha, ha ! Arthur (enters, l., in his dressing-gown; has his face made up pale and haggard). I’m done with you for¬ ever : you have no heart, no affection. You’re a little will-o’the-wisp. Bessie (c.). You’ll never be called a wMl-o’the-wifip; for that leads people into danger, and you’d never do that. Arthur. Now, Bessie, be reasonable. I’m sick, and should not be tormented. Just see how pale and thin I’m growing ! Look at this haggard face — Bessie. Poor little fellow ! sick two years, and nobody knows what ails him. Ha, ha, ha ! Arthur. Now laugh ! This is horrible ! Just as if ] could help it. The doctors call it a curious case. Bessie. Oh, yes, very curious 1 No, it isn’t; I’ve heard of Jots just like it. 30 Sylvia’s soldier. Arthur. Where ? Bessie. In the army ! Ha, ha, ha! Arthur. Oh, confound the army! I wish yofl wer® there, with all my heart. Bessie . And I wish you were there : but it’s useless; it would never do for your complaint. Arthur. Why not ? Bessie. Because it would be sure to break out just before a battle; and then you’d have to go to the rear. Arthur. Do you mean to insinuate it is cowardice? Bessie. I don’t insinuate, I assert you are a great coward, Arthur Horton ; but, before I marry you, you shall see a battle, or I’ll join the army myself, to show at least that there is a little fighting-stock in the family! (Exit, r.) Arthur. What a bloodthirsty little vixen! She’s as full of fight as a hedgehog ! What does she know about war? I declare, Syl., she torments me shamefully ; wants me to go to war, — a man of my consumptive habits ! Sylvia (rising). And I entirely agree with her, Arthur. I blush to think my brother is found wanting when true men are needed in the army. You are making yourself the laughing-stock of the whole neighborhood. I advise you to once more be a man, and seriously think of the army. (Exit, r.) Arthur. There’s another fire-eater! What in the world ails all the women? Think of the army? I have thought of it: I’ve thought of nothing else for the last two years. The first thoughts of it made me sick, and with every succeeding thought I’ve been getting no better •tlyia’s soldier. 31 very fast. Oh! if thinking would do the business, I should indeed be in the army. I’ve thought of climbing battlements, and I’ve also thought of the muddy ditches to wade through, and the peppering to take after you get there ; I’ve thought of glorious gains by feats of arms, and the inglorious loss of arms and feet: one quite balances the other. I dare say Bessie’s right. I ought to be in the army. Everybody recommends the army ; but it’s not the medicine I like. The doctor feels my pulse, looks at my tongue, gives a grin, and recommends the army. Confound the army ! I wish this confounded war was over; for I’m heartily sick of being sick to keep out of it. ( Enter Bessie, r.) Bessie. O Arthur, Arthur ! such glorious news 1 Arthur. Glorious news ! what is it? Bessie. Something you’ll like. Arthur. What is it, you chatterbox? Bessie. ’Twill meet your case exactly: you’ll get well now. Arthur. What! peace ? Bessie. Peace ? no: there’ll be no peace until yon go to war. Arthur. Well, what is it? Bessie. We’re going to have a draft. Arthur. A draft? Bessie. Yes ; and they do say it will take every other man : ain’t you glad? Arthur. O Lord ! ( Enter Mr. Horton, r.) Bessie. O Mr. Horton ! I’ve told Arthur about the draft, and he is delighted. It’s just what he waited for Hopes he’ll be the first man drawn. 32 •ylvia’b soldier. Arthur. What a whopper ! I said no such thing. Mr. H. Yes : we’re to have a draft; fifty able-bodied men to be drawn. Arthur. Able-bodied ! There, Bessie ! I can’t go ; I’m sick: you know the doctors say so. Bessie . Oh, nonsense! You may deceive country doctors; but you’ll find Uncle Sam’s physicians can’t be humbugged. (Arthur and Bessie retire up l., and quarrel during the next dialogue .) Mr. H. (r.). Where’s Sylvia? ( Enter Sylvia, l.) Sylvia. Here, father! Mr. H. Sylvia, I have news for you at last! Your soldier has returned. Syl via. Indeed! Mr. H. Yes: the sergeant detailed to superintend the drafting is none other than your soldier, Allen Sandford. Sylvia. O heavens ! — the Wow has come at last 1 (sinks into chair , r.) Mr. H. Sylvia, you do not appear overjoyed? Sylvia (recovering herself ). Yes, yes! I am glad he has returned. Have you seen him? was you pleased with him? Mr. H. Whether I am pleased or not makes very little difference. He made himself known to me by pre¬ senting your note offering him your hand, and informed me he should shortly come to claim his bride. Sylvia. His bride? Mr. H. Have you forgotten your foolish bargain? Sylvia. Well, well 1 We’ll say no more about that, father 1 Sylvia’s soldier. 33 Mr. H. Listen, Sylvia: I do not like this business. You do not love this man : he can have no legal claim upon you. Let me compromise with him : a handsome sum for the release of your hand. Sylvia . This man, Allen Sandford, what do ^diey say of him ? Has he been true ? Mr. H. Yes: his record is spotless ; he has been in many battles, and borne himself bravely. Sylvia. Then so will I. It was a fair and honest bargain. He has risked his life for my sake ; his part of the contract has been well kept: I will keep mine ; I will marry him ( crosses , l.). Mr. H. The hand without the heart, — this is sacri¬ lege, not sacrifice ; the breaking of a contract with a higher power than man. Sylvia. Then I must learn to love him ! ( Exit , l.) Mr. H. Here’s pluck ! That girl should have been a major-general. ( Exit , r.) Arthur. Here’s a pretty kettle of fish ! It seems we’re to have a fighting man in the family. Bessie. No thanks to you ! ( going , r.) No matter ; you’ll have to go now. Oh, I’m so glad ! Arthur. You, you baggage! I believe you’d be de¬ lighted to see me stretched on a shutter, with half a dozen bullets in my body. Bessie. Indeed I would, if only for the pleasure of nursing you. Good-by! Arthur. Why, where are you going? Bessie. Going to practise a new song for your special benefit. Arthur . What is it? 3 34 Sylvia’s soldier. Bessie (sings). “For they’ve drafted him into the army.” Goodness! who’s this? — a soldier, as I live! (Enter Lyford, r., disguised as u Allen Sandford .” He wears a rusty blue overcoat , heavy red beard covering his face , rough red wig , cavalry sword hanging at his side, very rough and coarse in his manners.) Bessie (saluting). Halt! Who goes there? Lyford (saluting). Sergeant Sandford, on spec^ service. Bessie. Advance, and give the countersign ! Lyford. Of course ! ( Steps up and puts his arm around Bessie , and kisses her.) Bessie (with a scream). Oh, dear ! keep away ! Arthur (starting forward very much excited). How dare you take such liberties ? Blood and thunder ! Sir, do you know where you are ? Confound it, I’ll pitch you into the garden ! Lyford. Hallo, hallo ! my gallant shanghai, you crow loud! Bessie (coming between them). Please, sir, don’t touch him ; he’s sick ! Arthur. The devil! I forgot myself. Lyford. Oh! sick, is he? looks so: send him to the army ; that’ll cure him. Arthur. Oh, yes ! the army again ! Bessie. Please, sir, he wants to go. Arthur (aside, pulling Bessie*s dress). Shut up, you chatterbox! Bessie. But, for family reasons, he is kept at home. Now, as you are the sergeant who has charge of the drafting, if you could contrive to get him drafted — ®YLVIA T S soldleb. 86 Arthur (aside). You little devil — Bessie. You would please him, and oblige us alls wouldn’t he, Arthur? Arthur. I’ll be the death of somebody! Bessie. Yes: he’ll be the death of somebody if he once gets among the rebels. He’s brave, but a little modest. Arthur. I wish you were ! Lyford. Wants to go into the army, does he? Well, well, we’ll put him there, never fear !- Bessie. Qh, thank you ! Lyford. He shall be placed where the bullets fly thickest. Bessie. Oh, thank you ! Lyford. Now to business. Where's Miss Horton? Bessie. Gracious ! I forgot: you’re her soldier? Lyford. Yes : I’m her soldier by purchase. Bessie (aside). Oh, deal*! I shouldn’t like such a soldier ! — such a mop of hair ! and those awful-looking bristles ! Lyford (-fiercely). Come, come! why don’t you answer ? Bessie. What a commanding air ! I’ll call her : you talk to Arthur ; he’s her brother. I know he’s dying to hear of great battles. (Exit, l.) Lyford. So you’re her brother, are you? Well, you don’t look over and above bright. Hope she’s a dif« ferent article. Arthur. Sir ! — article ? Lyford. Oh, bother ! what ails you now ? Arthur. Hang it, sir, my sister is not an article! 86 sylvia’s soldier. Lyford. Oh, I beg your pardon ! you’re a little touchy, ain’t you? What’s the nature of your complaint? Arthur. A complication of disorders. Lyford. Yes : love and fear. Ha, ha, ha ! Arthur. -Sir, who in thunder are you? Lyford (very mysteriously). That’s a secret; but I don’t mind telling you, as we’re so nearly related. Don’t mind my smoking, do you? ( Takes a chair , c.; pulls out pipe ; fills and smokes during the following dialogue.) Arthur (aside ). This chap is refreshingly cool. ( Takes seat , l.) Lyford. Yes, sir: it’s a secret. I dropped into these parts from the air ! Arthur. The air! That’s gas. Lyford. Come, come, I’m a soldier, and my word is not to be doubted. I was found in an adjoining field, a helpless infant, just after a huge balloon had passed over. Arthur. What a whopper ! Lyford (fiercely). Sir! Arthur. I was referring to the size of the balloon: of course, if it carried you, it must have been a whopper! Lyford. This was my first appearance upon this ter¬ restrial globe. Romantic, wasn’t it? Arthur. Oh, very ! I’ve heard of the child of the sea, the child of the arena, and various other children: you must be the child of the balloon! Lyford. Yes : I was dropped from a balloon — Arthur. Excuse me one moment: at what height was this balloon supposed to be when you dropped from it? Lyford. Well, say twelve hundred feet, for a rough guess. Sylvia’s sollier. 37 Arthur. Were you alive when you arrived upon this terrestrial globe, as you call it? Oh, pshaw! If you dropped from that height, let’s drop the subject. Lyford. But you wish to know who I am? Arthur. No matter: if your birth is as high as you mention, that’s quite enough. Lyford. I’ve found this account of my birth generally answers impertinent questions! Arthur (rising). Here’s my sister. ( Enter Sylvia, l.) Sylvia. Mr. Allen Sandford, I believe? Lyford (keeps his seat , c., in a lounging attitude , with his pipe in his mouth). Exactly ! you’ve hit it, my pretty sharpshooter ; and you are my lady. Well, I’m deused glad to see you ! You see I’m at home here already. Sylvia (aside). What rudeness ! Can this ill-man¬ nered fellow be 4 the brave soldier my fancy pictured? (aloud,) You are very welcome ! Lyford. Yes, I thought you’d be glad to see me. You should be too ; for I’ve been through a deal of hard work for your sake. Sylvia. I can appreciate the sacrifice you made for my sake : you have my warmest gratitude ; and, what is better, the consciousness in your own heart that you have served your country. Lyford (laughing loudly). Ha, ha, ha ! you are quite a patriot. Bother country! Do you suppose I went into this war for the sake of country? Not a bit of it! I saw in your proposal a chance for a fortune. I knew this place well; I knew your father’s wealth ; and I saw in your offer a grand opportunity to make a strike: sc don’t say any thing about country. 38 sylyia’s soldier. Sylvia {aside). The mercenary wretch ! {Alond with an effort,) But, sir, you must have borne your country some love, or you would never have risked your life so nobly as you have done. Lyford. Ha, ha ! that’s good ! I risked my life when I couldn’t help it; but I kept a pretty good lookout for the pickings, as many a reb’s pockets can testify. No more about war: I’m sick of it. It strikes me you are not very hospitable here to a fellow who has luxuriated on hard-tack for two years. Sylvia. I beg your pardon. You will find all you need in the next room. Arthur, will you wait upon Mr. Sandford ? Arthur. Certainly ! This way, sergeant: you see my sister is a little flurried, owing to the agreeable surprise . Come, you shall not live upon air here, my child of the balloon. {Exit, l.) Lyford. Ha, ha, ha ! That brother of yours, Sylvia, is a gay boy: we must have him in the army {approaches Sylvia, who shrinks from him). Isn’t it queer, though, you and I, who never saw each other before, are to hitch for life? Won’t the boys’ eyes sticks out when they find what a prize the sergeant has taken? I suppose I should, under the circumstances, venture a little courting; but, as I’m deused hungry, you’ll excuse me if I pitch into the good things at once. Good-by! {Exit, l.) Sylvia. Can it be possible that I have fallen into thft clutches of such a wretch as that? ( Grosses, r., and sits at table.) Is this the noble act of duty I was so proud of? Would that this hand had withered before it penned that note ! Have all my dreams of hero-worship come to 39 SYLVIA S SOLDIER. this ? Marry him ! — I cannot, will not! Every law ii the land shall be tried but I will find some way to elude him. O Horace Lyford! you might have saved me from this. No : I will not blame him ; it was my own silly, foolish, wicked act, and I alone must suffer. ( Enter Bessie, r.) O Bessie ! have you seen that man? Bessie. What man? Your lover? Sylvia. Lover! He is unworthy the name. The wretch confessed to me the act by which he bound me was with no heroic spirit: it was but to gain my hand and fortune. Bessie. I declare ! and you thought he had made such a noble sacrifice! Well, it’s just like men: you can’t trust one of them. Sylvia. Where is my father? I must see him di¬ rectly. Bessie. He is out. Sylvia. Where’s Arthur? Bessie. With your lov — with Sergeant Sandford. Sylvia. I know not which way to turn (starts). What’s that? Bessie. Why, how nervous you are ! it’s your soldier returning. ( Lyford laughs outside , l.) Sylvia. The sound of his voice makes me shudder. Lyford (without, l.). That’s capital! Come along; let’s find the ladies. (Enter Lyford, followed by Ar¬ thur, l.) (To Bessie.) Ha, my pretty sentinel! will you have another countersign? (approaching her.) Arthur. Hands off, sergeant! this is my property ! Lyford. Ho, ho! say you so? Well, this is mine. (Crosses to Sylvia , and throws himself on the floor at hei 40 SYLVIA S SOLDIER. feet.) Well, my dear, what have you to say to me? Fve been away a long time, and a few sweet words from a pair of beautiful lips would not be unwelcome. Sylvia (shuddering ). I can only repeat, we are all glad to see you. Arthur ( aside to Bessie). There’s a patriot for you! a full-length portrait, and a regular carpet knight! Lyford. Yes : Fve been a long time away. Arthur {aside). We could have spared you a little longer. Lyford. And I have encountered my share of danger. Many’s the time I have marched up to the very mouths of the enemy’s artillery ; many a time met the rebs single- handed : always escaped unhurt, save once, when I came very near being cut off from my sphere of usefulness. Arthur {aside). What a pity ! Lyford. It was on one of those terrible Wilderness days: the rebs had thrown up breastworks, and stoutly contested our march ; but we drove them at last. Three times our regiment went at them, and at the third cleared the breastworks, and drove them. Arthur. What! the breastworks ? Lyford. Ha, ha, ha! You must be initiated ( jump¬ ing up). I’ll just show you bow it was ( places table in front of door , l., with a chair in front of it). There, there’s your breastworks : you shall be “ Johnny Reb.” Arthur. Johnny who? Lyford. The enemy, to be sure! Come, mount the breastworks! Arthur. Oh, very well! only I’ve no weapon. Lyford (drawing sword). Here, take thisl SYLVIA’S SOLDIER. 41 Arthur . All right! here goes ( takes sword f and mounts table). Lyford. I’m the enemy. Arthur. Are you, though? Then who am I? Lyford. Now look sharp ! the regiment is preparing for a charge! Arthur. The deuse it is ! I don’t see it. Lyford. Zounds ! I am the regiment. Now, ready ! Is that the way you repel a charge ? Be lively, flourish your sword, and make a show of fight if there is none in you! Arthur (aside). I can do that: here’s a chance to show Bessie my fighting qualities ( flourishes his sword). Ah, villains ! would you destroy our homes ! Come on ! this aged arm will hurl you to perdition ! Come on, come on, come on ! Lyford. Good, keep it up ! The regiment comes up double-quick. Muskets at charge, bayonets ! I haven’t a musket; but this will do ( pulls out pistol , and cocks it). Keep it up ! Arthur (frightened at the sight of pistol, makes a feeble effort to appear brave). Come on ! keep it up ! Come on ! He’s got a pistol! Come on — Lyford. Now, boys, upon them ! Hurrah ! On, on, I say ! ( points pistol at Arthur.) Arthur. Put up that pistol, I say! Put up that pistol! (dodging.) Lyford. Keep it up, I say ! Arthur. I won’t do it! Put up that pistol 1 Bessie (running up to Lyford). Oh, don’t, don’t! jr du’ 11 scare him to death I 42 stlvia’s soldier. Lyford (throwing Bessie one side). Now, Johnny, 1 have you ! Die ! ( Fires pistol. Arthur , who has been dodging about on the table , drops behind it. Lyford rushes upon table and out of door , l.) Arthur (after a pause , pops his head from under the table). I say, Bessie, who won this fight? Bessie. I’m sure you didn’t. ( Sylvia , at the firing of the pistol , has dropped her head upon the table.) Oh, dear! what ails Sylvia? ( going to her.) Sylvia ( raises her head). Nothing. Bessie: has that man gone? Arthur. Gone ? I hope so ; and so am I while he is here. ( Exit , r.) ( Enter Mr. H., l.) Mr. H. Why, girls ! what’s the matter? What is the cause of all this hubbub? I certainly heard fighting going on. Bessie. It was only Sylvia’s soldier courting a bit. (Exit, r.) Mr. H. Courting! Well, Sylvia, how do you like him? Sylvia ( rising ). O father ! save me from this man: let every means be tried to break this contract; for I can never marry him. Mr. H. It would be in vain for me to attempt to in¬ duce him to forego his claim to your hand. He rests that claim upon your written consent. I would willingly assist you, my daughter ; but I have already offered him a large sum, which he has refused. Sylvia. I cannot marry him ; his rudeness frightens me : his bearing is more that of a bravo than of a lover , his speech more like a ruffian than a patriot. Oh ! I am 43 SYLVIA S SOLDIER. fearfully punished for my wilfulness. It was a terrible mistake. Mr. H. It was indeed ! Sylvia. Surely there must be some speck of honor in this man ! He will never force a union with one who can never love him. I will see him, disclose my feel¬ ings, and — Mr. H. And if that fail? Remember, Sylvia, you have given your word. Sylvia. Fear not, father. I will not break it but with his consent. If I fail to move him — Mr. H. If you fail? Sylvia. I will marry him ( sinks into chair , r.). Mr. H. Success attend your efforts! He comes this way. ( Exit , Mr. H., r.) Sylvia. Can this be reality? It seems to me as though I must wake from a hideous dream to find all this vanished, and faithful Horace Lyford once more by my side. ( Enter Lyford, l., and approaches her.) Lyford. Alone at last! This is fortunate. I began to think I was never to get a moment’s conversation with you. But tell me, now you have seen me, what do you think of me? Am I the fancy picture of 5 lover you hoped to look upon ? Sylvia. Indeed, sir, I — Lyford. Oh, I understand! You expected to see a young dandified stripling, ready with his silvery voice to tickle the ears of silly and romantic girls. No, no! Allen Sandford is made of better stuff; a strong arm that can protect you ; a stout heart, that, if you manage rightly, can be made to love you ; and, what’s better, a cool head to take care of your possessions. Ha, ha, ha I 44 sylyia’s soldier. Sylvia {indignantly). Mr. Sandford, you have once before alluded to my fortune ! Pray, is that all you can see in me to admire? Lyford. Well, I don’t know! I did not expect to find a very sensible young woman waitipg for my hand; for, between you and me, the girl who is so anxious to marry, that she puts up her hand as a prize for the first that offers, cannot be very strong in the upper story. Sylvia. Heavens! have my motives been so mis- jud ged? You forget the reason for that offer. You for¬ get that even you, who boast yourself so brave, would not risk your life in your country’s service until it was bought. Lyford. That’s very true ; but the prize was worth the risk! Let’s have no more of this. When will you marry me? Sylvia. Sir, this is speedy wooing. Lyford. A soldier’s time is not his own. I must leave this place in a week: before that time, I shall expect the fulfilment of the pledge. Sylvia {rising). Mr. Sandford, listen to me. Two years ago I was a wild, wilful girl, with no mother to counsel me, and spoiled by a father too kind to check my wild enthusiasm. I warmly espoused the cause of liberty and justice. In the terrible convulsion caused by the outbreak of the Rebellion, I felt all a girl’s enthusiasm for the cause, and longed in some way to show my sym¬ pathy in the hour of trial. I rashly gave the pledge you hold, — oh! how rashly, I now feel; for, even in tho sacred cause of freedom, hearts should not be trifled with SYLVIA’S SOLDIER. 45 Lyford. Hearts ! pooh ! Hearts are not trumps here 1 Hands, not hearts! Sylvia. One moment! Two years ago, my hand was sought by one who brought with him every inducement to attract a woman’s love, — a handsome person, winning manners, an accomplished mind. He loved me devotedly; but I, with a girl’s wilfulness, turned him away because of an unfulfilled request. Since that time, I have never seen or heard of him. But I know he gained my love, and that now he is avenged for all my scorn of him. I now love him with my whole heart, and shall love him alone while life shall last. Lyford. What’s all this to me ? Sylvia. If I read you aright, nothing; but I was determined you should know that I can never love you. There is a contract between us, — my hand for your service: you have kept your part; I am ready to keep mine. If you can take it knowing what you do, there’s my hand ( extends her hand , and turns her face away). Lyford (throws off his disguise , and appears in the full uniform of a captain). Yes, Sylvia, I will take it, but not without the heart; for I know that is mine already (takes her hand , and kneels at her feet). Sylvia ( turning suddenly). That voice! Horace Lyford returned? You here again? What does this mean? Lyford. The old story, Sylvia, — love in masquerade. Sylvia. No, no! this is not possible. Where is Allen Sandford? Lyford. There is all that remains of him ( pointing to disguise). Pardon me, Sylvia: there has been ma» 46 Sylvia’s soldier. qucrading here; but, believe me, I am none other, and Sylvia’s soldier. Archy Blake and I are old friends, On receipt of your note, he determined to do me a favor. You can understand the rest, when I tell you that my name was already on the enlistment-rolls. The first too: so you see I am entitled to the prize. Dear Sylvia! shall I have it? Sylvia {running into his arms). Oh, this is too much ! I do not deserve this happiness. {Enter Mr. II., r.) Mr. E Well, my gallant masquerader, how goes che battle? Sylvia. Why, father ! did you know of this ? Mr. H. Yes : I’ve been secretary of war in this cam¬ paign. You’ve always had your own way; but for once I’ve punished your wilfulness. Sylvia {to Lyford ). But why take the name of another ? Lyford. Perhaps it was a foolish pride ; but I de¬ termined you should never hear of me but as a leader in the army. Knowing your fondness for a private soldier, I have returned in the disguise of a specimen, which I am proud, as an American soldier, to say, is not com¬ mon in the army. I have won my promotion, and have a right, even in your eyes, to wear the shoulder-straps. Bessie {outsider's,.). Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! {Enter, crying.) Sylvia. Why ! what’s the matter now, Bessie? Bessie. My Arthur’s gon-gon-ne and joined the army Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Sylvia. What a queer girl I That is just what you wanted. bylvia’s soldier. 47 Bessie . That’s when he didn’t want to (sees Lyford). Good heavens ! where did you come from ? (shakes hand* with him.) Sylvia. That’s my soldier ! Bessie. Your soldier? Why, I thought — Lyford ( aloud , saluting). Advance, and give the coun¬ tersign ! Bessie. Why, so it is (runs up and kisses him). Arthur (suddenly appears at door , r.). Come, I say, none of that before company. Bessie. Why, here’s Arthur ! I thought you’d joined the army. Arthur. So did I. Good gracious ! where did you drop from? (to Lyford , shaking hands with him.) Lyford. Twelve hundred feet from a balloon. Arthur. Ho, ho! that’s the figure, is it? So we’ve been bamboozled here. Well, captain, sergeant, that little scrape you had with me roused the sleeping lion, and I went and volunteered. Bessie. O Arthur ! you didn’t? Arthur. Yes, I did. But they would’t have me : something’s the matter with my great toe. Bessie. Wouldn’t have you? Then I will! Arthur. What! will you, though ? Bessie. Yes, you shall be my soldier ! Mr. H. Ah ! that’s good; but, Sylvia, why are yen silent ? Lyford. She is thinking how she can reward hei soldier. Sylvia. No, I am not: I was thinking how to punish him. He has dared to read a woman a lesson. 48 SYLVIA’S SOLDIER. Lyford. What lesson, dear Sylvia ? Sylvia. That she should never bestow her hand with her eyes shut. Lyford. Not even in the cause of liberty? Sylvia. No: for, by your masquerade, you have proved that even liberty’s heroes are not always as do serving of a woman’s love as Sylvia’s soldier. SITUATIONS AT END. Sylvia, Lyford. Mr. H. Arthur, Bessie A NEW DRAMA A PENNSYLVANIA KID; OR, A SOLDIER’S SWEETHEART. A. COMEDY DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. By FREDERIC W. TAYLOR. Eight male and four female characters. Costumes, modern and military; scenery easy exteriors and plain rooms. This is an excellent piece for a bright soubrette, full ol opportunities both for dramatic action and for specialties. The heroic element is very strong, and its story, turning upon a striking deed of self-sacrifice, very sympathetic. The comedy element is good and strong, the parts of Judge Sloyer, Joe Botts, Jason Olds, and Duffy Whitecar, as well as Ray, the heroine, giving good humorous oppor¬ tunity. This piece is easily put on, and acts briskly and well. It has enough relation to the war to be available for patriotic purposes, but it does not smell of powder. Price .15 Cents. SYNOPSIS. Act I.—The White Horse Inn. Love and patriotism. Sanders and the Judge. A dark scheme. A bright “ Ray.” “ I never see you, Sanders, but I think of hogs.” Th« Judge in a liquor case. Ray and Jack. A winner and a wooer. “Unless you hide in the grave, you shall one day be my wife.” Duffy and the gun. Defiance. Act II. — The tavern again. An unwilling patriot. Making a cat’s-paw. Ray and the Quaker. The mermaid. Sanders loss. “ If you cannot return my money give me its equivalent.” The hog-dealer’s proposal. Ray’s answer. A startling sequel. At Bay. Act III. — Jack’s dilemma. “My country needs me and I must go.” Judge Sloyer’s substitute. A dead man by proxy. Marching orders. Ray’s squad at drill. Farewells. The accusation. Duffy a thief. Ray to the rescue. “ He didn’t take the money—’twas I!” Wedding ring or prison fetters. Jack’s avowal and its conse¬ quences. The arrest. The web broken. “ Come, Jack, fall in.” Rescued. Tableau. — The field of Gettysburg after the battle. Joe’s death and Jack’s vin¬ dication. A Free Man. Act IV.—Ray’s marriage. A good cry. “ I do not love the man I have married, and all his gold cannot buy me happiness.” The Judge’s private signal. A coward by vicar. Sanders’s other wife. “ Have you risen from the dead in California to raise the devil in Pennsylvania?” Another plot. Polly’s hand in it. Duffy’s long pants. Jacks* return. Light on many dark subjects. The marriage certificate. Free! Sail' ders’s arrest. “The War is Ended.” FACINQ THE MUSIC. A C O Ml 33 U) I E T T A. I IN' ONE -ACT By HENRY OLDHAM HANLON. Three male and one female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, an easy in¬ terior. This is a clever little play, sprightly in action, humorous in treatment, an 1 original in idea. The Bohemian housekeeping of Tom Akenside and Walter Harding form an amusing background for a very ingenious series of complications. Price .15 Cents. THREE NEW COMEDIES MR. BOB. A Comedy in Two Acts. By RACHEL E. BAKER. Author of "The Chaperon,” "A King’s Daughter,” etc. Three male and four female characters. Costumes, modern ; scenery, one interior, :’ie same for both acts. This is a very bright and lively little piece, ingeniously con¬ tracted and full of comical situations. Mr. Brown is a capital comedy character, and the ladies’ parts are particularly strong. Written for the Proscenium Club of Roxbury, by whom it was first produced. Price, .... 15 cents. HER PICTURE. A Comedy in One Act. By RACHEL E. BAKER. Two male and two female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, an artist’e studio, easily arranged. A very clever and dramatic little play of serious interest, well adapted for parlor performance. Sympathetic in idea, and picturesque in treatment. All the parts good. Written for the Proscenium Club and first produced by them. Price, .... 15 cents. MARIE’S SECRET. A Comedy in One Scene. By BELLE HARSHALL LOCKE. For two female characters. Costumes, an evening gown and servant’s dress; scenery unimportant. This is a capital little exhibition piece for an elocutionary teacher und a pupil, affording plenty of emotional opportunity. Interesting and easily gotten 15 cents. A. W. PINERO’S LATEST PLAYS. The Amazons. A. Farcical Romance in Three Acts. Seven male and five female characters. Costumes, modern ; scenery, an exterior and an interior, not at all difficult. This admirable farce is too weM u:.o\vn through its recent performance by the Lyceum Theatre Co., New York, o need description. It is especially recommended to young ladies’ schools .aid co’leges. Note. — This play is sold for reading only. The acting right is reserved , and can he obtained only upon payment of an author's royalty of $20 for each performance. Price, paper, ... 50 cents. Sweet Lavender. A Comedy in Three Acts. Seven male and four female characters. Scene, a single interior, the same for all three acts ; costumes, modern and fashionable. This well-known and popular piece is admirably suited to amateur players, by whom it has been often given during the last few years. Its story is strongly sympathetic and its comedy interest abundant and strong. 'Note. — This play is sold for reading only. The acting right is reserved, and can only he obtained upon payment of an author's royalty of $20 for each performance. Price, paper, ... 50 cents. The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith. A Drama in Four Acts. Eight male and five female characters ; scenery, all interiors. This is a •'‘problem” play continuing the series to which “The Profligate ” and “ The Second Mrs. Tanqueray ” belong, and while strongly dramatic and intensely hiteresting, is not suited for amateur performance. It is recommended for Reading Clubs. Note. - This play is sold for reading only. The acting right is reserved, and can only he obtained upon payment of an author's royalty of $20 for each performance. Price, paper, ... 50 cents. i PRESS OF S. J. PARKHILL & Co. 218-226 FRANKLIN STREET BOSTON, U.S.A. HEADQUARTERS For all kinds of Printing for Amateur Theatricals BOOKS PLAYS PROGRAMS CIRCULARS TICKETS / C EVERYTHING that czh %‘printed ~-v • 3 With FACILITIES UNSURPASSED, we solicit your patronage Call and see us or write us concerning your printing We print all the W. H. BAKER & Co. PLAYS, etc. B AKER’S SELECTED LIST OF JUVENILE OPERETTAS Designed especially for Church, School, and other Amateur Organ¬ izations. Complete, with all the music and full directions for performance. Grandpa’s Birthday. In One Act. Words by Dexter Smith; music by C. A. White. For one adult (male or female) and three children; chorus, if desired. Price, 25 Cents. Jimmy, The Newsboy. In One Act. Written and composed by W. C. Parker. For one adult (male), and one boy. No chorus. Very easy and tuneful. Price, 25 Cents. The Four-leafed Clover. In Three Acts. By Mary B. Horne. For children of from six to fifteen years. Seven boys, seven girls, and chorus. Very picturesque. Price, 50 Cents. Beans and Buttons. In One Act. Words by Wm, H. Lepere; music by Alfred G. Robyn. Two male and two female characters; no chorus. Yery comical and easy. Price, 50 Cents. Hunt the Thimble. In One Act. Words by A. G. Lewis; music by Leo II. Lewis. Two male, two female characters and small chorus. Simple and pretty. Price, 50 Cents. Red Riding Hood’s Rescue. In Four Scenes. Words by J. E. Estabrook; music by J. Astor Broad. Three male, four female characters and chorus. Price, 50 Cents. Golden Hair and the Three Bears. In Five Scenes. By J. Astor Broad. Three adults (2 m., 1 f.), eight children and chorus. Music is easy, graceful, and pleasing. Price, 75 Cents. R. E. Porter; or, The Interviewer and the Fairies. In Three Acts. Words by A. G. Lewis; music by Leo R. Lewis. Six male, six female characters, and chorus. Yery picturesque and pretty. Price, 75 Cents. Gyr, Junior. In Two Acts. Words by Earl Marble; music by Lb F. Hodges. Two males, one female (adult), three children and ch< ns. Yery successful and easily produced. Price, 75 Cents. Alv’ "Lay; oi, The Sailor’s Return. In Three Acts. Written composed by C. A. White. Ten characters, including chorus; x be made more effective by employing a larger number. Price, 75 Cents. Catalop les describing the above and other popular entertain ments sent free on application to WALTER H. BAKER & CO., THEATRICAL PUBLISHERS, No. 23 Winter Street, Boston, Mass. NEW OPERETTAS FOR CHILDREN Odd Operas for Eventide. A Collection of Short and Simple Musical Entertainments for Children. By Mrs. C. N. BORDMAN, Author of “The Kingdom of Mother Goose,” “Motion Songs for the School¬ room,” “ The Temperance Clarion,” etc. Complete with all the music and full instructions for performance. This collection i& strongly recommended for its simplicity, originality of idea, tunefulness and perfect prac- j ticability. Price . • . • 50 cents. COUTEl^TS. A GLIMPSE OF THE BROWNIES. A Musical Sketch for Chil dren. For any number of boys. • JIMMY CROW. A Recitation for a Little Girl. MARKET DAY. An Operetta for Young People. Seven speaking parts and chorus. QUEEN FLORA’S DAY DREAM. An Operetta for Children. Six speaking parts and chorus. THE BOATING PARTY. A Musical Sketch for Little Children. Thirty boys and girls. SIX LITTLE GRANDMAS. A Musical Pantomime for very Little Children. Six very little girls. A HOUSE IN THE MOON. A Recitation for a Little Girl. - ; f 5 ! ROBIN’S SPECIFIC; ' OR, THE CHANGES OF A NIGHT. A. Christmas Operetta in One Act. Words by AMELIA SANFORD. Music by ADAM CIEBEL. For one adult and nine children from eight to sixteen years old, with eight very little boy* and twelve little girls for Chorus. Three changes of scene, very easily arranged, eostumef; varied hut simple and readily procured. Very effective and easily gotten up. Price £5 cents. Catalogues describing the above and other popular entertainments sent free on application 6 WALTER H. BAKER & CO., THEATRICAL PUBLISHERS, No. 23 Winter Street, - * BOSTON, MAS^. / 6* J<* PARKHILL A. CO., PRINTERS. 222 FRANKLIN t *‘ r wo 4 * • f »<*