BOWMAN Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library EMORY UNIVERSITY iley. mas. itto. and mas. as. ntal n. The Coming Race.* Kenelm Chillingly. The Parisians, 2 vols. Falkland and Zicci. Pausanias. By JAMES GRANT. Romance of War. The Aide-de-Camp. Scottish Cavalier. Bothwell. Jane Seton. Philip Rollo. Legends of the Black Watch. Mary of Lorraine. Oliver Ellis. Lucy Arden. Fairer than a Fairy'.51 - The Secret Dispatch. One of the Six Hun¬ dred. Morley Ashton. Did She Love Him ? The Ross-shire Buffs. By G. P. R. JAMES. The Brigand. Morley Ernstein. Darn ley. Richelieu. The Gipsy. Arabella Stuart. The Woodman. Agincourt. v 'sir-w/setft# Waverley. Guy Mannering. Old Mortality. Heart of Midlothian. Rob Roy. Ivanhoe. The Antiquary. Brideof Lammermoor. Black Dwarf and Legend of Montr ose. The Monastery. The Abbot. Kenilworth. The Pirate. Fortunes of Nigel. Peveril of the Peak. Published by George Routledge and Sons. 1 TWO SHILLING BOOKS, continued. Quentin Durward. St. Ronan's Well. Red Gauntlet. Betrothed and High- land Widow. The Talisman and Two Drovers. Woodstock. Fair Maid of Perth. Anne of Geierstein. Count Robert of Paris. Surgeon's Daughter. By Mrs. GORE. The Money Lender. Pin Money. The Dowager. Mothers & Daughters. Cecil. The Debutante. W. H. MAXWELL. Stories of Waterloo. Brian O'Lynn. Captain Blake. The Bivouac. Hector O'Halloran. Captain O'Sullivan. Stories of the Penin¬ sular War. Flood and Field. Sports and Adventures in the Highlands. Wild Sports in the West. THEODORE HOOK Peregrine Bunce. Cousin Geoffry. Gilbert Gurney. Parson's Daughter. ■ All in the Wrong. Widow and Marquess. Gurney Married. Jack Brag. Maxwell. Man of Many Friends. Passion and Principle. Merton. Gervase Skinner. Cousin William. Fathers and Sons. Author of "Guy Livingstone." Guy Livingstone. Barren Honour. Maurice Dering. Brakespeare. Anteros. Breaking a Butterfly. Sans Merci. Sword and Gown. EDMUND YATES. Running the Gauntlet. Kissing the Rod. The Rock Ahead. Black Sheep. A Righted Wrong. The Yellow Flag. Impending Sword. A Waiting Race. Broken to Harness. Two by Tricks. A Silent Witness. H. K1NGSLEY. Stretton. Old Margaret. The Harveys. Hornby Mills. Capt. ARMSTRONG The Two Midshipmen. The Medora. The War Hawk. Young Commander. By Capt. CHAMIER. Life of a Sailor. Ben Brace. Tom Bowling. Jack Adams. HENRY COCKTON. Valentine Vox. Stanley Thorn. By G. R. GLEIG. The Light Dragoon. Chelsea Veterans. The Hussar. By Mrs. CROWE. Night Side of Nature. Susan Hopley. Linny Lockwood. ALEX. DUMAS. The Half Brothers. Marguerite de Valois. The Mohicansof Paris. A. B. EDWARDS. The Ladder of Life. My Brother's Wife. Half a Million of Money. By Miss FERRIER. Marriage. The Inheritance. Destiny. By FIELDING. Tom Jones. Joseph Andrews. Amelia. By GERSTAEKER. A Wife to Order. The Two Convicts. Feathered Arrow. Each for Himself. By LANG. Will He Marry Her? The Ex-Wife. CHAS. LEVER. Arthur O'Leary. Con Cregan. By S. LOVER. Rory O'More. Handy Andy. By MAYNE REID. The Quadroon. The War Trail. By Captain NEALE. The Lost Ship. The Captain's Wife. Pride of the Mess. Will Watch. Cavendish. The Flying Dutchman. Gentleman Jack. The Port Admiral. The Naval Surgeon. ALBERT SMITH. Marchioness of Brin- villiers. Adventures of Mr. Ledbury. Scattergood Family. Christopher Tadpole. The Pottleton Legacy. By SMOLLETT. Roderick Random. Humphrey Clinker. Peregrine Pickle. Mrs. TROLLOPE. Petticoat Government. One Fault. Widow Barnaby. Widow Married. Barnabys in America. The Ward. Love and Jealousy. Published by George Routledge and Sons. TWO SHILLING BOOKS, continued. MissWETHERELL' The Old Helmet. Ellen Montgomery's Bookshelf. Melbourne House. The Two School Girls. Wide, Wide World. Queechy. By the Author of " Whitefriars." Whitefriars. Whitehall. Caesar Borgia. By VARIOUS AUTHORS. Owen Tudor. Maid of Orleans. Westminster Abbey. Madeleine Graham. Gold Worshippers. Armourer's Daughter. Caleb Williams, by Godwin. Scottish Chiefs. Torlogh O'Brien. [Martineau. The Hour and the Man, by Miss The Prairie Bird. The Rifleman, by Captain Rafter. Salathiel, by Dr. Croly. Francesca Carrara, by L. E. L. The Bashful Irishman. Deeds, not Words. Secret of a Life. [Long. Sir Roland Ashton, by Lady C. The Greatest Plague of Life, with Cruikshank's plates. The Attache, by Sam Slick. The Green Hand. Hajji Baba of Ispahan. Whom to Marry, with Cruik¬ shank's plates. Letter Bag of the Great Western. Black and Gold. Vidocq, the French Police Spy. Gilderoy. Singleton Fontenoy. The Lamplighter. Gideon Giles, the Roper. Clives of Burcot. The Wandering Jew. The Mysteries of Paris. Land and Sea Tales. False Colours, by Annie Thomas. Nick of the Woods. Mabel Vaughan. Banim's Peep o' Day. Banim's Smuggler. [Norton. Stuart of Dunleath, by Hon. Mrs. Adventures of a Strolling Player. Solitary Hunter. Kaloolah, by Mayo. Won in a Canter, by Old Calabar. Mornings at Bow Street, with plates by George Cruikshank. Boscobel, by W. H.'Ainsworth. Blount Tempest, by J. C. Bellew. Tom Bulkeley of Lissington. Arctic Regions. P. L. Simmonds. Dower House, by Annie Thomas. Miss Forrester, by the Author of " Archie Lovell." The Pretty Widow, by Chas. Ross. Recommended to Mercy. Adventures of Dr. Brady, by Dr. W. H. Russell. [Places. Love Stories of English Watering A Perfect Treasure, by Author of " Lost Sir Massingberd." Saved by a Woman, by the Author of " No Appeal." At His Gates, by Mrs. Oliphant. Golden Lion of Granpere, by An¬ thony Trollope. Murphy's Master, by the Author of " Lost Sir Massingberd." Manchester Rebels, by Ainsworth. Helen, by Miss Edgeworth. First Lieutenant's Story, by Lady Long. [Charles Dickens. Grimaldi, the Clown, Edited by Rodenhurst; or, The Millionaire and the Hunchback. Clement Lorimer, by A. B. Reach. Tom Cringle's Log, by M. Scott. Private Life of an Eastern King. Adventures of Captain Hatteras, by Verne. Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, by Verne. Five Weeks in a Balloon, and a Journey to Centre of the Earth. Preston Fight, by Ainsworth. My Love she's but a Lassie yet. Cross of Honour, Annie Thomas. The Girl he left Behind him, by J. M. Jephson. [Colomb. Hearths and Watchfires, by Col. City of the Sultan, by Miss Pardoe Jennie of the " Prince's." Through the Mist, Jeanie Hering. Tales of the Coastguard. Leonard Lindsay. Angus B. Reach. Carleton's Traits, ist series. 2nd series. Published by George Routledge and Sons. CHARAD EI [DRAMAS FOR THE DRAWING-ROOM SIXPENCE, MONTHLY. dtterg IJacpftro (NEW SERIES), AN Illustrated Monthly Periodical, CONTAINING CONTRIBUTIONS BY THE MOST POPULAR AUTHORS OF THE DAY. THE GREEN-ROOM. CHARADE DRAMAS FOR THE DRAWING-ROOM By ANNE BOWMAN author or " iiov voyagers," "young exiles," etc. etc. " The best of this kind arc but shadows, and the worst are no worse, if imagination mend them."—Shakspeare. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS LONDON GEORGE ROUT LEDGE AND SONS- THE BROADWAY. LUDGATE NEW YORK: 416 BROOJ.IE STREET LONDON: SAVIM,, EDWARDS AND CO., RK2NTERS, CHANDOS STREET, COVENT GARDEN. SOLUTIONS OF THE CHAEADES. I.—Mend-i-cant. II.—Host-age. III.—Pat-riot. IY.—Mis(s)-chief. Y.—Co-ward. YI.—Rest- oration . Y1I.—Bi.ac k- stone. INTRODUCTION. Among the many pleasant and harmless fire-side recreations of the present day, perhaps the most popular is Charade-acting. Even children have their little performances for Christmas pastime, nor do the grave or the gay of riper years disdain to join the merry actors. These spirited entertainments were originally borrowed from our sprightly neigh¬ bours, the French, who, we must allow, still surpass us in happiness of invention, grace in performance, and finish in execution. In the quieter circles of our English families, it not unfrequently happens that much time is lost in originating the plot, draw¬ ing the several characters distinctly, and preparing the dialogue satisfactorily; and the charade thus hastily arranged, is but a series of isolated scenes, having no connecting link. This, however, is not the original and genuine Charade, of which the ideas or scenes employed to suggest the several syllables and the complete word should naturally arise one vi introduction. out of the other, and thus give harmony and point to the whole. To exemplify the genuine Charade, and partially to obviate the difficulties of unpractised actors, my first plan was to sketch a few skeleton dramas to be filled up by the talent and readiness of the young- performers; but in order to bring out the characters distinctly, I have been tempted to colour my sketches so far as to form complete though slight pieces, the performance of which would be a mere act of memory to the idle; yet leaving scope for the brilliant and ready actor to extend and improve the dramas by adding the finishing touches of the accomplished artist. I need scarcely point out that the solutions of the words are given on a separate page, which may be removed if it be desirable to preserve the secret; nor, that it has not been thought necessary to dictate the costume, or to give stage directions; these arrangements being left to the discretion of the manager and the good taste of the actors. Trusting that the young friends who patronized my graver works may find amusement in these holi¬ day recreations, I commit to their indulgence the first volume of Charade Dramas. A. B. CHARADE DRAMAS. CHAEADE I. Cjmraxta. Snt Edward Seymour. Colonel Seymour. Brown, the Butler. Lady Seymour. Maria, her Maid, Scene 1. Lady Seymour's dressing-room. Flowers and green-hous■* plants ranged alout. Maria seated on a low stool, repairing a torn lace veil. Maria.—Well, people may talk as they will about " Uncle Tom," and the poor slaves in America; but I know no slavery can be worse than that of a finished lady's maid by profession. Slaves indeed! look at me, expected by my unconscionable lady to do every¬ thing for her; and after I have done everything, nothing satisfies my high Madam; who is never pleased with any one thing in the world, and never thinks on any one thing in the world but herself. Did ever any body see such a ragged, jagged, rent B 2 CHARADE DRAMAS. as this ? and she will expect to see the veil look as good as new before she goes ont; and after all I shall be reproached if her things are not laid out, hei lunch brought up, the lap-dog washed, the flowers renewed, and the carriage propeidy heated for her shivering ladyship. Then all day long I have to sit and work in this dreadful hot-house, and dare not open a window; just because my lady never feels warm. How can she feel warm, indeed, with such a cold heart ? A pretty bargain Sir Edward made when he married her for the money she is always telling him about. But he was right served: he is o as bad as she is, with his fine talk, talk, talk—all gammon! And don't I see that while they are both as smooth as oil with their grand, rich, old uncle, they wish, in their hearts, to see him in his coffin. I have half a mind to open his eyes, and show him things as they are; for I'm vexed to see him cheated: he's a real gentleman, and always has a civil word for a respectable upper servant. And here he comes while I'm in the humour. Enter Colonel Seymour. Vol. Seymour.—Where's my niece—my pretty, gentle Emily ? I wished to bid her good morning before I set out on my ride. Maria.—My lady never rises so early as this, sir. Col. S.—Ve ry bad plan: people should always rise with the sun in this fine climate. Might as well be in India if we indulge in bed so long. There— there goes my glove. Sew it up, my good girl. I MEND-I-CANT. CHARADE DRAMAS. 3 would not trouble you, but I am in a hurry to be out. I will sit down and watch your pretty nimble fingers move. But, whew! (whistles) how can you live in this atmosphere? Well seasoned as Iain, I can't stand this heat; I must open the window, my little woman. [Opens a window 7\ Maria.—Oh, sir, how refreshing the air is ! but I fear my lady will be displeased. She insists on the window being at all times shut, that the room may be kept always like a hot-house. Col. S.—Poor thing! poor thing ! quite a mistake ! I must see her doctor; I must have him prescribe to her early rising and fresh air. I must hint to my worthy nephew, without alarming him, that such habits may endanger her precious health. \Maria sighs deeply. Col. S.—Why do you sigh thus, my good creature ? Have you any fears about my dear niece's health ? Maria.—Oh no, sir; my lady is in excellent health. I am sorry I sighed, sir—I was only thinking about myself; and I couldn't have had anything more unhappy to think about. I ask your pardon, sir; you are always considerate to poor servants; I wish there were more like you; and sew your glove I will, that I am determined, though my lady should discharge me on the spot for not having finished her veil, to be ready when she drives out. Col. S.—But surely, Maria, you need have no fear of the reproofs of my gentle niece. Maria.—I know very well what she will say, sir, if she orders a thing to be done, and it isn't done. 4 CHARADE DRAMAS. Col. S.—Why, that is certainly a vexation; but you need not dread her words, child, they are so few— so soft and sweet. Maria.—No doubt, she can be sweet enough when it pleases her; and you, sir, have little chance of seeing her as I see her, as my fellow-servants see her, and as poor folks see her, when they get a chance of it, which isn't often. Lord bless you, sir, certainly servants should see all and say nothing; but she is a hard lady to please. Col. S.—-I am sorry to hear this from you, young woman ; I could not have suspected it; and I would gladly believe you are mistaken. If her words are unkind to those beneath her, what pain it must give to my virtuous and philanthropic nephew to hear the feelings of a fellow-creature wounded in his house; for his every thought, word, and act, are for the good of his fellow-crfeatures. Maria.—To speak the truth, sir, I think Sir Edward is the worst of the two. My lady does not mind for saying out downright that she cares for no¬ body but herself; but Sir Edward talks like an angel about his feelings, and never does one good deed. He feeds and clothes the poor with fine words; and blinds great folks with his preaching. I'm but a poor silly servant girl; but I can see through them both, sir: I can see how they dupe you, and I made up my mind to speak and tell you; for it is a sin to let such a kind-heai'ted gentleman be cheated. There's your glove, sir. Col. S.—You have shocked me. very much, girl; CHARADE DRAMAS. 5 I must think over this ; and I will certainly find out the fact. Thank you for your work and your words; both were meant in kindness. (Gives her money.) Nay, don't refuse. You have done me a favour, and I can afford to do one to you. Now, good morning, and go on with your tiresome work. (Exit.) Maria.—There, now ! I have gone and done it! See if I don't lose my place for my prattling! Not that I should call that any loss, if they '11 only give me a character; and after all I feel as if I'd done right. Now, I must go and see what cook can send up for my fanciful lady's lunch. (Exit,) Scene 2. The same dressing-room. Maria at work. Enter Lady Seymour. Lady S.—How wretched everything seems! No¬ thing is as it ought to be : nothing; as I ordered it. © © © My silk mantle laid out for this chilly day! And Heavens! who has taken the liberty to open my windows ? Maria.—It was I that did it, my lady. I was near fainting with the heat, and I thought Lady S.—I have no wish to hear your thoughts. If you chose to be faint, was that any reason why my windows should be'set open to endanger my life? 6 CHARADE DRAMAS. You know I never suffer the air to be admitted here ; but my delicate constitution is perfectly shattered in this comfortless house. Everybody here is opposed to me—all do their own way: I am nobody—no one cares for me! I am miserable. Who was that making so much noise, and trotting the horses beneath my windows ? Maria.—Colonel Seymour, my lady, setting out for a ride. Lady S.—Colonel Seymour ! I hate to hear his name. How selfish of Sir Edward to bring that old brutal, vulgar, East Indian uncle of his to my house ! He continually offends my eyes, and ears, and taste. The coarse wretch requires cheese to be brought to table! and Sir Edward quietly tolerates it, though he knows well how overwhelming this disgustino; in- O o o troduction must be to my delicate frame! I tremble as the dinner approaches ; and am quite sure my life must be the sacrifice if he does not leave us soon. Hid you inquire, as I ordered you, of Mrs. Morris what soup she intends to send to table to-day ? Maria.—I did, my lady; it is to be mulligatawny. Sir Edward ordered it himself, because, as he told Mrs. Norris, it was the Colonel's favourite soup. Lady S.—And my feelings never consulted ! Sir Edward knows—Mrs. Norris knows—that mulliga¬ tawny is poison to me; but I am never considered. Go down immediately, Maria, and tell Mrs. Norris that I insist on it, that my soup, the white soup, be substituted for the mulligatawny. How can I pos¬ sibly dine without soup ? And, at the same time, teli CHARADE DRAMAS. 1 Brown to give out some of the rich old Madeira, the same as we had yesterday. I choose to have some mulled for my lunch. (Exit Maria, with a curtsy.) The mulled Madeira may perhaps restore the cir¬ culation which has been quite checked by the chill occasioned by that selfish young woman opening the windows. Servants think only of themselves. What wretched creatures we are, to be compelled to de¬ pend, for every comfort, on such heartless beings !— Enter Maria. Have you ordered my soup?—and when am I to have my lunch ? Maria.—Please, my lady, Mrs. 1STorris says she. has no objections to send two soups, as you wish for the white; but Sir Edward was positive in his orders for the mulligatawny. Lady S.—And they will enjoy it, though they see I cannot touch it. Selfish and unfeeling men! But when will my lunch be ready ? Maria.—Please, my lady, about the wine—Mr. Brown Lady S.—What does the girl mean? What has Brown to do with my lunch ? Maria.—Here he comes, my lady. Enter Brown, in a cotton jacket. Lady S.—What is the meaning of this intrusion into my apartments, unsummoned, and in that extra¬ ordinary dress? Am I to be insulted by all my servants ? 8 charade dramas. Brown.—Please, my lady, Miss Maria was soprem- iery, insisting on having the wine directly: and I was quite out of my head, and never thought of my jacket, but came off all in a fluster, please, my lady, to say as how Sir Edward ordered me, strict, my lady, to keep the Madeira number thirty-seven— only one dozen of it left, my lady—to keep it all for the Colonel, who is remarkable fond of that Madeira; as well he may, after the four long voyages it made before it ever came into our cellars. Lady S.—Our cellars, man ! the cellars are mine ; the contents of the cellars are mine; you are my servant; and I order you to keep the wine for me. I shall have some of the wine mulled every day as long as it lasts; because I like the wine, and I choose to be obeyed. Go immediately, and give out the wine. (Exit Brown.) Come and arrange my hair again; it is quite discomposed with the agitation I have undergone this morning, from the presump¬ tion, impertinence, and selfishness of my servants. [Exeunt. Scene 3. The dressing-room. Lady Seymour reclining on a couch. Lady S.—What unheard-of tyranny, with my for¬ tune, not to be allowed to choose my own dinner, or my CHARADE DRAMAS. 9 own lunch! Sir Edward is abominably selfish. I'm glad I insisted on having the Madeira, though I do think it is rather heating and injurious to the complexion (rising and looking at herself in a mirror); but 1 should be crushed to the earth if I did not sometimes make a struggle to obtain a small share of atten¬ tion in a house which it is supposed is mine. What does Sir Edward want? I shall be wearied with long speeches now. Enter Sir Edward Seymour. Sir Edward.—My sweet Emily ! what is this that Brown tells me, that my Emily wishes the bin of Madeira thirty-seven to be reserved for her? My discriminating angel must surely have perceived the pure and holy motive which induced me to set apart this fatal liquor, ever a snare of the evil one, for our worthy and respected uncle. Lady S.—You know perfectly well, Sir Edward, that I have no respect for the vulgar, unfeeling old wretch; and I see no reason why he should have the wine I want for my own use. Sir Edward.—But, my love, you are aware that my good uncle, with his usual wisdom, has announ¬ ced his decided intention of bequeathing his vast wealth to us—in trust, of course—in trust for the unfortunate ! for the poor! the widow and the or¬ phan ! A rich Pool of Bethesda! from which I will lave the precious waters to a needy world. Lady S.—What absurdity, Sir Edward ! you will invest it all in railway shares, I have no doubt; 10 CHARADE DRAMAS. and very probably make more widows and orphans than you will relieve. Sir Edward.—Alas! alas! it is the misfortune of the benevolent never to be comprehended by the children of this world! It is the iC crook in the lot" to which we, whose affections are devoted to our fellow-creatures, are exposed. I bow to my martyr¬ dom. I glory in the contumely of the world. Lady S.—But I have no desire for the glory of martyrdom: I do not wish to deny myself the neces¬ saries of life, and I do not see yet why I should give up any of my few comforts to please this exacting old uncle of yours. Sir Edward.—This trifle might offend him, my love; and I would not willingly cast away the means of benefiting my fellow-creatures. I must have this dangerous j uice of the vine for the old frail man : it is his foible to rejoice in the delusive draught of evil and sorrow. My Emily knows I wish it not for myself. Lady S.—Certainly not; because you always drink port. Sir Edward.—It is indeed my painful duty to do so ; left to myself, the simplest diet—the fruits, the roots that the bounty of nature scatters round, the pure water from the spring—would supply all my wants; but Dr. Wiseman, as you know, my dear, says imperatively, " Do this, or die." He commands me to eat rich food, to drink generous wine, if I de¬ sire to retain that life which is granted to me solely to do good to all that surround me. charade dramas. 11 Lady S.— You may fancy you are swallowing physic when you take your turtle and your port. Sir Edward; but you seem to enjoy it more than any one else at the table. Sir Edward.—I am resigned, my love: I abhor the means, but I sacrifice my inclination to the duty of preserving my life. To the world it seems that I eat and drink and live like a bon vivant, but they know me not; my heart is far from the festive board, in the lowly hut of privation and sorrow. Lady S.—I pray, Sir Edward, cease your eternal preaching. In all your sympathy for the unhappy, I am quite sure I am never considered; and your plausible words will not deceive me now. I know that you did once dupe me ; now you want to dupe your uncle; you fancy you can dupe the whole world; but one thing is sure, you know what you are about—you do not dupe yourself. Now I shall go down to lunch, and you can have bread and water if you desire it. (Exit.) Sir Edward (holding up his hands).—Unfortu¬ nate woman! {Exit.) Scene the Last. The dressing room. Maria arranging the wig of Col. Sey¬ mour, disguised as an old Beggar. Maria.—That will do excellently; now step into 12 CHARADE DRAMAS. this closet till I can introduce you, and you will pro- tbably hear your own character. [Col. Seymour enters the closet; Maria sits down to her worh.~\ Enter Sir Edward and Lady Seymour. Lady S.—How painful to me is this miserable life ! I cannot comprehend, Sir Edward, how you can be so barbarous as to compel me to tolerate the pro¬ voking eccentricities of that ill-bred, unfeeling, 'hideous old man. When will the wretch go away ? Sir Edward.—I venture to hope, my love, that he may never leave us. I have carefully studied his ^constitution; I have remarked in him a fulness of habit, a redness in the face, a short neck—all sad, sad symptoms. In short, my love, I caution you not to be alarmed if he should be suddenly carried off by apoplexy. Lady S.—I should not be the least alarmed or troubled to hear that he was dead, but I cannot allow him to die in my house; it would be a most unpleasant circumstance for me. I never could bear Tto be in the house with death. Sir Edward.—Emily, how can you be blind to the fact that his death while staying with us would be of immense advantage to us ? Good Heavens ! if he were to leave us, he might be induced to alter his will. He has left all to us—a beautiful arrangement of Providence! Already I feel in possession of his ■full coffers, which might then be truly inscribed, " Treasury of the Poor." CHARADE DRAMAS. Lady S. (impatiently).—A treasury never to be opened for the poor, I dare to say. Maria, go and bring me a shawl, to protect me from the draught when I descend that cold staircase. (Maria goes. ) You may as well speak the truth before the servants,. Sir Edward; for they must have long ago discovered that you never give to the poor or the rich. Sir Edward.—Lady Seymour, you are mistaken— you do not comprehend my character; a thick veil conceals my charities from the million, and I am ever studious that my right hand should not know what my left hand does. My tender heart (sharply) What does that ragged old vagabond want here ? Enter Maria, with the shawl, introducing Old Man. Maria (putting on Lady Seymour's shawl).— Please, Sir Edward, Brown begged me to bring up the old man, who had said he must see you immedi¬ ately on a case of life or death. Sir Edward.—What can he want ? Perhaps some accident has happened to the Colonel, my dear. Speak, old man, and at once declare the cause oi this intrusion. Old Man.—Your own words, humane and exalted man. I was waiting in the hall at the meeting of the magistrates yesterday, and shed tears to hear you de¬ clare before that crowded assembly that all your wealth belonged to the poor. I am the poorest of the poor: for I have been rich, and I feel the more keenly the cold and deadly pressure of poverty and famine. 14 CHARADE DRAMAS. Sir Edward.—Do you belong to our parish ? I know nothing of you. Old Man.—I am a stranger. When sudden and total ruin fell upon me, I set out, accompanied by an aged wife and a sick and helpless daughter, with the hope of reaching the home of my early days, where some might still be living who would remember and befriend me. When we arrived at your village, our strength and our scanty means were alike exhausted. We took shelter in the humblest hut we could find, hoping to be able to earn by our labour, the small pittance necessary to support life. Sir Edward.—It is very negligent of the parish officers to allow such old people to settle in the vil¬ lage. Well, old man, I suppose somebody would give you work. Old Man.—Alas, sir, my wife and child are pros¬ trated by an attack of fever. I cannot even pay for a shelter for their dying bed. Encouraged by your noble sentiments, I come to ask of you, from your abundance, the single piece of gold that may save the lives of those dear to me, or at all events ren¬ der their death-bed less miserable. Lady S.—Send him away, Sir Edward: he may have brought infection ! Good God! I may take this fever. I shall faint if he remains in my dressing- room. Sir Edward.—Go away, good man ; I am myself very, very poor; the demands of charity have com¬ pletely drained my purse. My ardent desire to bless the needy with a share of my humble means, must CHARADE DRAMAS. 15 be reined now by prudence. 1 subscribe largely to all benevolent societies, those blessed fountains for the support of the respectable poor; what more can charity require from me ? Depart in peace; the union-house is already crowded: leave this poor and heavily rated parish. Proceed forward to the town of Westland, where there are many men of larger means, though perhaps with less feeling hearts than I possess. There, old man, you will be received into a spacious and commodious union-house; go, without delay. Lady S.—Why do you waste your words on such a wretch ? Send him to prison, if he will not leave the village. Old Man.—My wife and child cannot travel; I will not be separated from them. Give me but a trifle : they surely ought not to perish for want while any of their fellow-creatures are revelling in luxury. Sir Edward.—Strict principle forbids me to bestow money on unknown beggars. I give you my prayers. Go. Maria.—Please, Sir Edward, I think the Colonel is riding up the avenue; he is very rich, and perhaps he may be able to do something for the poor man. Sir Edward.—However rich he may be, he gives nothing, and has a great aversion to beggars. Go im¬ mediately, man; for if Colonel Seymour enters, I shall be reluctantly compelled to commit you as a vagrant. 1 must fulfil the duties of a magistrate of the land, one appointed by God to be a judge over the people. This agonizing duty to the tender heart, I now 16 CHARADE DRAMAS. perform, when I command you to leave this house and parish with all speed. Old Man.—Will you not bestow a shilling on me? Lady S.—Carry him off, girl, before the Colonel comes up. I would not have such a miserable object seen in my apartment. Sir Edward.—Be careful to take him out through the back yard: not a moment longer, stubborn and importunate offender; be grateful for my leniency, and go quickly, for my dogs are fierce, and my grooms are less gentle than their master. Old Man.—That can scarcely be possible. Fare¬ well, admirably-mated pair ! And in taking the liberty of removing my night-cap in your ladyship's luxurious abode (throwing off his disguise) I will drop into it the P. P. C. card of Colonel Seymour. You may well be amazed; for much as I abhor deception, I have stooped to practise it, in order to discover the truth. I have other nephews and nieces, whom I shall now seek, and after rewarding this honest girl, I shall take leave of this house for ever; hoping to be more suc¬ cessful in my next experiment. I will search over half the world for a worthy object rather than bestow my wealth on selfishness and falsehood. '.Chi Scene clones. CHARADE DRAMAS. 17 CHARADE IL Characters. Colonel Clayton. Humphrey Allright. Nehemiah Greatman. Seth Greatman. Cicely Allrighi. Hannah Allrigh7 Soldiers. Scene 1. The Bar in the Fox and Goose Hostel. Humphrey, Nehemiah, and Setii seated. Cicely moiling about occupied with some labour. Enter Clayton without a hat, his clothes torn. Clayton.—Good man of the house, by the love thou bearest to thy country and thy kind, bestow from your ample comforts a cup and a cake on an unlucky wight, down in the world, and deucedly hungry. By the bright eyes of my fair lady, I have tasted no food since I eat my breakfast from a noble haunch the morning of yesterday. Humphrey.—The fate of these disastrous times, friend! I, that once enjoyed moderately the comforts of life, am now myself very-sorely pressed down. c 18 CHARADE DRAMAS. My flesh is falling away, my spirits are dull, my tongue is fettered, and my strong ale is becoming sour, since* men took to angry words and bloody fights, instead of good-fellowship and sober enjoy¬ ment over the ale cup. Clayton.—But if a man draw his sword in the right cause, friend; if he Humphrey. — Don't talk to Humphrey Allright about the right cause or the wrong cause. I make it a point of conscience never to inquire on which side my customers choose to fight. I shut my eyes and my ears, and no man living can say that Hum¬ phrey Allright ever turns his back on a customer, or knows whether he be Cavalier or Roundhead, as it is the fashion to call good Englishmen. All men are welcome to the Fox and Goose—that pay. And if it falls out, as God knows it oft happens, that they cannot pay, we have still a cup for the poor traveller, and no questions asked. Cicely, I charge thee to give to this poor man a cup of thin ale and a crust of last week's bread. Clayton.—And add a slice of beef, my sweet Cicely, for charity, and by all thy hopes of seeing Roger back from the wars Cicely.—Roger, forsooth ! Take thy beef and bread, but talk not to me of men at the wars. I look for something better than a lame soldier. Seih.—Ay, fair Mistress Cicely, I should be sorely grieved to see thee hold out thy hand to a profane ruffler like this needy vagabond. Thou art too comely a maiden to be cast away among the ungodly. HOST-AGE. CIIAEADE DRAMAS. 29 Cicely.—Nobody asked thy opinion, Seth Great- man ; and I warn thee no fair maiden will hold out her hand to thee, till thou lettest thy hair grow de¬ cently over thine ears, and trimmest thy beard more jauntily. > ? Clayton.—Dost thou hear that, Master Seth ? The> fair Cicely is a damsel of good taste, and would rather be a Cavalier's lady and dance to the music of the merry viol, than the domestic drudge of a psalm- singing Roundhead, who would frown at her rosy smiles, and denounce damnation against a love-ditty. Let me place this gay knot of ribbons in thy smooth locks, pretty one—it is all I have to bestow on thee for tliy beef and ale; but the times may change, and I will not forget thee, sweet damsel. Nehemiah.—Neighbour Humphrey, dost thou har¬ bour and encourage traitors and vagabonds? Be¬ ware, lest our pious magistrate should suspend thy license. Seest thou not, friend Humphrey, that thy light and worldly-minded daughter, disregarding the sober addresses of Seth Greatman, my sin-hating son, listens eagerly to the false and flattering words of this curled and perfumed traitor to his country and his faith. Clayton.—Why, thou canting varlet, was it not for thy years, I would cudgel thee, and pull the ears that stand out so temptingly uncovered at the sides of thy empty head. But if thou keepest not thy in¬ solent tongue in better subjection, I will challenge thy son Seth to a bout of wrestling, and we will see which is the better man 20 CHARADE DRAMAS. Nehemiah.—Hearest thou this man of evil word^ friend Humphrey ? Humphrey.—I hear nothing, Nehemiah Greatman it is not for me to hear or to see. Let every tub stand on its own bottom. I defy man lining to say that Humphrey Allright was ever convicted of taking a part in any dispute, argument, quarrel, or fight. I am a man of no opinions, friend Nehemiah. Nehemiah.—Nevertheless, this man of blood has opinions, and such opinions that it is expedient that lie should be stopped, and if need be, let him be offered up a sacrifice. Seth, my son, follow me to the camp, that the chosen instrument, the godly any ? I like none of yonder scowl- CHARADE DRAMAS. 9? ing vagabond. Give him a crust, and bid him begone, Cicely. Cicely.—He's a stranger in need, grandmother. Hannah.—What! the bold-faced rascal that stole thy eggs at Easter. He '11 cut thy father's throat, girl, or perchance make off with my big china punch¬ bowl. Cicely.—Come along, grandmother. {Draws her away with great difficulty. Exeunt Cicely and Hahnah.] Humphrey.—Thou hast heard what Cicely All- right has said to thee, soldier. I like not the business; and verily I will know nothing of it. There lies the chamber she named to thee. Clayton (aside). An infernal, old, selfish knave 1 (Exit.) Humphrey.—Verily, I am disturbed in mind; that heedless damsel might entangle me in the snares of o & danger, but for my fair reputation. Woman, woman! young or old, all alike! vain, empty- headed, prone to evil, and looking not at the future. Yet Cicely is my child, a good child, though some¬ what wasteful of the cakes and ale. Moreover, she helpeth me greatly with her ready hands now, and will tend me carefully when I am aged. I will not chide her for this deed; and verily I incline to do an act of charity, unknown to the world, to these roystering Cavaliers. The times are strange, and none can say what card may turn up trumps. But the card must be turned, and then, whatever suit 24 CHARADE DRAMAS. that card may be of, that is Humphrey Allright's suit. Truly, this man deceives me; this is my mother, I affirm. Enter Clapton, disguised, with a short stick. Clayton.—Now, magnanimous Master Humphrey, shall I pass muster. I have ever been reckoned no mean masquerader. Humphrey.—I should truly judge as much, young braggart. It seemeth to me that masquerading is thy proper calling. But I warn thee, there is yet danger. Clayton.—Why, surely, old fellow, thou doth not mean to denounce me ? Humphrey.—Denounce thee? How should I? I know only that the stranger departed; and that my mother sitteth as usual by the fire. Enter Cicely. She dances laughing round the chair. Cicely.—Now, granny, remember thou art very deaf, and very cross in speech; but speak little, and let me pull thy hood over thy scented love-locks. Clayton (in a tremulous voice).—My dutiful child, let me embrace thee. [Cicely boxes his ears. A loud knocking. Humphrey trem¬ bles and runs about; then lights his pipe and sits dou-n by the fire.'] Clayton.—And I have left my garments scattered about the robing chamber! Cicely.—Wiser heads than thine have been at work. I have hidden thy trappings under my best hood and cardinal; and Seth himself, with all his CHARADE DRAMAS. #6 suspicions, will not think to search for thee in a hand* box. Enter Xeuemiaii, Setii, Sergeant, mid two Soldiers. Nehemiah.—Friend Humphrey, behold these godly soldiers, who come to remove from thy well-ordered hostel the malapert coxcomb and spy who hath in¬ truded on thee; but I fear me he hath eluded justice. Humphrey.—Verily, Nehemiah, I discharged him from my premises with powerful words, and found him no longer here when I returned from an errand to my cellar. Doubtless he absconded in fear of these valiant men. Nehemiah {to the soldiers).—Depart speedily, in- various directions, good men. Surely the malignant may yet be delivered into the hands of the righteous. Sergeant.—My orders are written, Master Nehe¬ miah : our first command is to search the house ; and verily we will search it. Peradventure this comely damsel could aid us with some evidence against the Moabite. Cicely.—Not I. The man came to eat and drink, and then ran away. I saw no harm in him, save that he was ugly, and poor, and hungry. Let wise Master Seth tell what raised his choler against a vagrant without a penny in his pouch; ye spend your time idly, soldiers, to search after such scare¬ crows. Sergeant.—Nevertheless our orders are to search,, and our duty is obedience. Old woman, didst thou mark whither this malignant wended ? 26 CHARADE DRAMAS. Clayton.—A bad rheumatiz ; God help me! Seth.—Waste not thy words, sergeant, in dis¬ coursing with Granny Allright. She is an awful woman, stone deaf; and useth betimes sinful words. Nehemiah—Seth and I will conduct thy followers through the chambers of the hostel, while thou restest here, sergeant. Depend on our zeal. Sergeant.—I am not unwilling to rest. Follow the zealous Nehemiah, soldiers. Exit Nehemiah, Seth, and Soldiers. Clayton.—Cicely, my child, give the worthy cap¬ tain a seat; also a cup of strong ale. I love the red¬ coats ; good fellows all. How fares the king ? God bless him, and scatter the Roundhead rogues ; drink that, jolly boy! and spare not the ale, 'tis good and wholesome. Humphrey.—Heed her not, good man: her years are many, and she knows not the wrords she utters. Drink freely, and tell us what news from the great army. Sergeant.—The army is far from us now, friend Humphrey, and verily our small party is in jeopardy, surrounded by the idolatrous sons of Moab and Ammon. It behoveth us keenly to search for the spies of the foe, lest we be scattered by the craft of the scorners. Clayton.—Lord send it! Humphrey, my son, I charge thee to pray that this may fall true. My dads love not the sword and the spear. Humphrey.—She talks wilder than ever. Cicely, charade dramas. 27 give thy granny a cup of ale, and sign to her to hold her tongue, when we are engaged in entertaining noble soldiers. (Cicely gives Clayton the ale.) Clayton.—Here's thy health, roving Jack. Thy grandsire was like thee a wild rogue, and courted and cast away scores of merry damsels. God rest his soul! he sung a good song. Thou singest, too, Humphrey my son: give us a jolly stave; the strong ale cheereth me, and verily I will sing likewise (sings in a tremulous voice), c{ And we '11 keep the Round¬ heads down, down, down! " (she snores.) Sergeant.—What an awful old woman! what a heavy burthen for you, worthy Humphrey. Woman! forbear, at thy years, to sing the songs of the pro¬ fane, and speak the words of the scorner. Clayton.—Doth he ask me to dance with him, Cicely? Nay, nay, my dancing days are past. Seth Avanted me to dance, too. Still, I'm very fresh yet (sleeps). Humphrey.—Thou hast filled her Avith the strong ale, girl, and her Aveak head cannot stand its potency. It is Avell she sleepeth; for these quiet Avails are un¬ acquainted Avith such light words. Enter Nehemiah, Seth, and Soldiers. Nehemiah.—Friend Humphrey, thy Avords Avere veracious. The Philistine hath surely escaped our hands. Sergeant (reading his orders).—I am next com¬ manded to search diligently the out-houses. charade dramas. A'ehemiah.—Such proceeding will, I predict, be unfruitful; nevertheless, we will accompany thee. Humphrey.—And even I, albeit my limbs are frail, will lead the search from granary to cellar. Cicely, put thy silly old granny to bed, and mind the bar. [Exeunt all but Clayton and Cicely. Cicely.—Now, granny, to thy chamber; doff this borrowed garb, and array thyself speedily in thy tattered finery. Then will I conduct thee through the plantation behind the house, while the soldiers search the offices in front. There thou wilt find my roan pony ready saddled; mount him and flee to the west, if thou wouldst avoid these disloyal knaves, and God be with thee. The pony is mine own, and I bestow it on thee ; away! Clayton.—Wilt thou not kiss thy poor old grand¬ mother, Cicely ? Cicely.—Begone, Sir Cavalier. Thou art a bold coxcomb ; and withal, an indifferent old woman. [Exeunt. Scene the Last. Cicely seated at work. An impatient, impudent fellow! how he has rent it! Grandmother's best gown, too! Seth would have donned the gown, and doffed it again as carefully CHARADE DRAMAS. as if he had been arrayed in petticoats every day of his life. Seth is a discreet youth: hut he did not well to bring down the soldiers on the gay and hand¬ some Cavalier. I should have served him right to have accepted the glittering ring pressed on me by the grateful soldier; but father would have died out¬ right to see the bauble. Well, by this time he is beyond pursuit, and Seth's jealous plots are scattered, and he has had his night's toil for nothing. Here o o they all come weary from their search through the village, and here comes father from his bed, now that all is safe. Enter Humphrey, NeheImiah, Seth, and Sergeant. Humphrey.—Is not then the knave taken, worthy and pains-taking Christians ? Sergeant.—Truly our search hath been vain, though conducted with method and keenness. Humphrey.—Be seated,friends, and Cicely will place before ye a breakfast of beef and good ale, that you may be rested ere you depart with your ill-tidings. Sergeant.—We have not yet fulfilled our duties, friend Humphrey: my instructions declare that I return not empty handed. The evil-minded stranger is suspected to be an important officer in the service of the man Charles Stuart; and should we fail to secure him, I am ordered to convey to the camp thy daughter, Cicely Allright, there to be detained in pledge, until we hear something of the fugitive. Humphrey.—Cicely, my (laughter! nay, worthy sergeant, I cannot want her services; moreover, we 30 CHARADE DRAMAS. know nothing of the flight, nothing of the retreat of the dangerous delinquent. It cannot be necessary that my daughter should be carried off. Sergeant.—Nevertheless, such are my orders, and they must needs be obeyed. Humphrey.—My health and my business require the aid of my daughter. The damsel is well skilled in household matters. It is she that draweth the ale, serveth it out, discourseth with the guests, and marketh the score. Moreover, she prepareth for me the warm messes my failing health demandeth, and conducteth me in safety to my chamber, when, night after night, I am affected with dizziness of the head. I am unable to spare my daughter, good sergeant; and peradventure, my worthy friend, Nehemiah Greatman, will send his son Seth in place of the damsel. Seth is a stalwart youth, and will prove more useful in the camp than my daughter. Sergeant.—We must obey our orders, which set forth that thy daughter must accompany us; there¬ fore hasten, damsel, to make thy preparations. Cicely.—I like not thy proceedings, soldier. What if I say I will not go with thee ? Sergeant.—Then, damsel, we must needs use force, and carry thee captive to our tents. Humphrey.—Nay, Cicely, resist not the law. The good man but fulfilleth his duty. Should contention arise, it might fall heavily on me—yield thee, child: this is a house of peace; go with the faithful soldier, and plead my cause before the saintly Captain Cant- well, that he may restore thee to thy helpless father. CHARADE DRAMAS. 31 Seth.—And verily I will also go. This mischief is of my making; but, damsel, I was wroth to hear thy light jests with that scented popinjay. My heart is sore and heavy to behold thee in captivity. Say thou wilt pardon me, Cicely. Cicely.^—Thou wert ever a simpleton, Seth ; but thou hast a, kind heart, and peradventure I may amend thy manners in good time. We will discourse the matter over as we follow unwillingly these Humphrey.—Good men, Cicely—good men, thou wouldst say. Cicely.—Nay, father, these were not the words I was about to speak; but have it thine own way. I am ready, soldier, yet I warn thee to consider;—but who cometh now ? Enter Clayton in uniform, with Soldiers. Clayton.—Ah, friend sergeant, thou hast failed to bring down thy bird; and lo, now, thy myrmidons without are my prisoners: therefore, friend, it will be well for thee to deliver up thy sword and join them. Thy sanctimonious captain and his cropped-eared crew are also on the road to the army as our prisoners;' and this pretty damsel, whom the pious Captain Cant- well intended to make a prize of, is free. Hearest thou this, sergeant ? Sergeant. — Verily, I do hear, and submit, for such is the chance of war. But though we be delivered up into the hands of the Philistines, yet will we not despair. CHAKADE DEAMAS. Clayton.—By no means, worthy sergeant, for thou wilt discover that thou mightest have done worse. The Philistines keep a good table, and are a jolly set ■of fellows: they will soon set thy face into a broader form. Begone. Exit Sergeant. And now, my pretty deliverer, how shall I thank thee for all thy kindness, in saving my life at the risk of thine own liberty ? Above all, how canst thou par¬ don my falsehood when I confess to thee that I belong to another, and that all my pretty protestations to thee must be forgotten. Cicely—Didst thou really think, noble cavalier, that I heeded thy fine speeches, or admired thy love- lokcs ? Didst thou not see that Seth and I were true and betrothed lovers; and Seth is greatly more suited to my taste than thou art. And now, that thou hast safely and honestly brought back my roan, and se¬ cured thy prisoners, if thou desirest to please me, depart speedily ; for though I heed not thy speeches, Seth does, poor simpleton. Clayton.—It is well: I will pay thy father amply for his beef and ale; but I will leave it to my fair lady to requite my pretty Cicely, by the offer of a wedding gift to her who chose rather to be a captive than to betray a brother in misfortune. Farewell, ( acely. Humphrey.— And. please, most noble Cavalier, if thou shouldst have to run away again in these parts, there is Peter Sourby^s hostel lying about half a CHARADE DRAMAS. 35 mile south, very commodious, where thou couldst have better attendance than In this poor place. I pray thee, sir, make Peter's thy place of refuge. I am fond of peace; and if I had no longer my daughter to offer up, I myself, Humphrey Allright, a man of no opinions, might perhaps be borne away as a pledge! Only think of that! I The scene closet. 34 CHARADE DRAMAS. CHARADE 171. Cbaradcrs. Sir Jamf.s Arundel. I Lady Arundel. Captain O'Brien. I Geraldine. Patrick O'Brallagan. Mary. Lucas. Cook. PCENE 1. A drawing-room. Sir James, Lady Arundel, Geraldine. Lady Arundel.—And now, my dear Geraldine, that ypu are restored to me, I hope you will. forget speedily your Irish manners and customs. Geraldine.— Nevei, mamma ; remember, that the seventeen years of my life have been passed almost entirely in dear Ireland. Sir James.—And remember too, my lady, the drop of pure Milesian blood that runs in Geraldine's veins. My mother is proud of her country, and we can scarcely expect her adopted child should have dis¬ similar feelings. Lady A'undel.—But I would not have the world PAT-RIOT. CHARADE DRAMAS. 35 believe she cherishes such feelings; Lord Dellington, whose attentions to her last night were gratifying, has I know a peculiar antipathy to Ireland. Enter Lucas. Lucas.—A man, Sir James, about the footman's place; but I am afraid he is Irish. Geraldine.—Do let him come up, papa. Sir James.—Well, we are really in immediate need of a servant; we will see him, at all events. Show him up, Lucas. Lucas ushers in O'Brallagan, and retires. 0'Brallagan.—God save yer honours, and it's a beautiful parlour that ye 're havin' to yer selves. I'm the boy, sure, that's come to take the place, for want of a betther; and by the same token, it's a capital servant your honours will get, musha! Sir James.—You are premature, my friend. O'Brallagan.—Will it be well-looking yer honour is maning ? arrah ! and that's thruly what all the girls are saying. Sir James.—I mean, young man, that I must hear something more of you, before I engage you. 0'Brallagan. — No offence in the world, yer honour, and if agraable to their honourable ladyships, I '11 tell the histliory of all the root and stock of the O'Brallagans. Lady Arundel.—No, no, it is quite unnecessary, O'Brallagan, if that is your name. 0'Brallagan.—Is it the name that's on me, yer 36 CHAKADJG miAMAS. ladyship? sure its Paitrick O'Brallagan; Terence he's the boy that comes next to me—and then there's Norah, our sisther, a sweet purty girl, she that died i' the famine faver. Then Sir James.—You must not talk so much, O'Bral¬ lagan, before the ladies. Be content to answer my questions. Where did you last live ? O'Brallagan.— It would be in the steerage, yer honour, aboard of the stamer; and a very dacent place it was to lie down in, saving yer ladyship's presence. Sir James.—You misunderstand me : I wish to know in whose service you have lived ? O'Brallagan.—Och! sure wasn't I at any gintle- man's service that wanted a nate job done. Sir James.—I am perfectly puzzled; I believe, Geraldine, I shall need your services to question the witness. Geraldine (laughing).—Tell me, O'Brallagan, what can you do ? 0'Brallagan.—And is it yer honourable ladyship asks me that with yer own beautiful mouth? Sure, ye might ask the thing that Patrick O'Brallagan is short of knowing ; and if I don't answer yer honour, I have never seen the boy that will do that thing at all, at all. Lady Arundel.—1 do hope, Sir James, you will not think of engaging this ignorant Irishman. I am positively alarmed, he appears so eccentric. O'Brallagan.'—Not a bit of that same, yer honour. It's the quietest boy of the world .ye'll find me, and CHARADE DRAMAS. 37 that's the thruth; barring any spalpeen blackens me counthry, and thin me blood is riz, and no help for that, at all, at all. Geraldine. — Oblige me, dear papa, by hiring O'Brallagan. He looks honest; Mary, who is a half- bred Irish girl, will teach him his duty; and in truth, papa, my heart warms to the brogue—it is home language to me. Lady Arundel.—Geraldine, I quite shudder at your inelegant vehemence. I must entreat you to control this Irish impetuosity before the refined Lord Dellington. Geraldine.—Oh, mamma! I hate to hear of Lord Dellington. Sir James.—That is an improper expression, my child. Lord Dellington is a good man in the world, a man of high rank, of large estates, and above all, he admires my little wild Irish girl. Geraldine.—But he is nearly as old as you are, papa; and I should really like to choose a husband myself. Lady Arundel.— Sir James, I am in despair ; this is indeed terrible. Sir James.—We will discuss the matter afterwards; in the mean time, we must endeavour to extract some information of Patrick's abilities. Can you perform the duties of a house servant ? O'Brallagan.—Musha! is it the work? sure I'll do all the work of the house, beautiful! Will yer ladyship be kaping pigs, and won't I engage to make them so fat they'll bate the parson's? 38 CHARADE DRAMAS. Geraldine.—But we don't keep pigs, Patrick; we want a footman. Cf Brallagan.—And that's mighty lucky, my lady. Where will yer two beautiful eyes see a nater foot¬ man, if I was having but the fine coat ? Would yer honour be agraable to me havin' a green coat, in re¬ gard of ould Ireland; may the sun never set on her ! But, maybe yer honour would be wantin' it choice about the coat; and faith ! I'm asy about the colour; barring it wouldn't be orange, bad luck to it! And now, long life to yer ladyship, will I go down to yer illegant kitchen and set to work ? Sir James.—However unpromising our first ac¬ quaintance is, I think I must oblige you, Geraldine, by giving this man a trial, as we really need a town servant. You may stay, O'Brallagan: Lucas and the maids will teach you your duty. 0'Brallagan.—Sure and they will! and my blessin' on yer honours, and the beautiful young cratur you own, and she that will be having the handsomest husband in Ireland, and free of his money, long life to him, and not anhonesther boy nor Patrick O'Bral¬ lagan ever darkened yer door, and quiet, barring the sup of whiskey, when the heart's heavy. And a good day this has turned up for us all, by the powers! {Exit.) Lady Arundel.—I am by no means satisfied with your decision, Sir James. In this confined town- house, where we cannot have an establishment, we might surely have engaged a more respectable ser¬ vant than this extraordinary savage. charade dramas. 39 Geraldine.—Do not think so harshly of him, mamma—you are not accustomed to the Irish; but believe me, they are true and faithful. (Aside, with a sigh.) Dear, dear O'Brien ! Sir James.—He is certainly a wild Irishman; but, with a little training, we may make a good servant of Patrick O'Brallagan. \_Exeunt. Scene 2. A Kitchen. O'Brallagan, Mary, O'Brallagan.—Faith and troth, it's an illegant place, and plenty to ate, and your purty face to com¬ fort me, and long may it last. And didn't I tell you before, och! mavourneen, it would do yer bright eyes good to look on the fine grand captain, the thruest of lovers — when would an Irishman not be thrue ?—one of the ould race, a raal O'Brien; the blood runs right down from the ould ancient kings, thrue for him ! Isn't it all to see on paper and made out in Latin, as ould Corny 0']N~eil can show, musha! musha! So, darling of me heart, the cap¬ tain comes to me and says, —Paitrick O'Brallagan, you'll be the bachelor of purty Mary. Mary.—What assurance indeed!—and what did you say to that, Mr. O'Brallagan ? O'Brallagan.—Wouldn't I tell the captain the 40 CHARADE DRAMAS. thruth? how Ave came togither, and how I Avas proud to git a sight of yer face; and by the same token, it Avasn't your fault, that ye Avere not knowen inc, in regard that we had niver met sin Ave Avere born, at all, at alL Then says the captain, Avouldn't your purty Mary be the girl to put the bit of paper to Miss Geraldine, and the mother that owned her niver be the wiser. And didn't I spake for you, mavourneen, and give yer consint, and take the captin's illegant letther and the croAvn-piece, for you entirely. Fetv it is of them same crown-pieces iver rests Avith the O'Briens, in regard of their being re¬ markable free in parting Avid them, blessins on them for iver and iver, it is them that are the raal thrue race. May the Heavens shower gold upon their heads ! Mary.—And must I give Miss Geraldine the lettei', Patrick? O'Brallagan.— In coorse ye Avill, my darlin; and Avhen they are married, you are my choice to be Mrs. Patrick O'Brallagan, and then we Avill apply for the place of lady's maid to the captain and his bride, seeing that same Avould shute us entirely. Mary.—Well, Patrick, I will do it, if you say it is right; but I feel rather shy about it, for Mr. Lucas has been Avatching us all along from his pantry Avin- dow; and Patrick, you know he is jealous about you. Then Cook, she is jealous of him, and treats me like a slave, and I cannot help being better looking than she is. O'Brallagan.— Hot a bit of it, you beauty o' the CHARADE DRAMAS. 41 world, and if ye wer' wishin' the fairies to make ye ill-lookin', they couldn't find in their hearts to do it. Here comes Mrs. Cook, so lave me to discoorse her nately, and go in it with the letther, ye good cratur. \Exit Mary. Enter Cook, ivith a plucked fowl. O'Brallagan.—Sure, I knowed that would be your purty foot makin' the music on the flore. Och, by the powers, it is a wonderful woman ye are, Mis- thress Cook. I'm thinking, ye jewel, ye would asily make a roasted goose out of a prater, musha. A raal clever cratur ye are wi' the pans and grid¬ irons. Cook.—You says so, Mr. O'Brallagan, and you is haltogether a gentleman, but there's hothers that hought to be the first to speak them words that old their tongues, and runs hafter other girls as hought to be hashamed o' theirselves to be hinveggling hother people's sweetarts, and a making their hinnyhenders hagen them as is their betters. O'Brallagan.—And, sure, it wouldn't be purtv Mary ye would mane, Misthress Cook. Bad luck to him that would make her out to be a rogue, and me here to let that word be said, and Mary my own counthrywoman, and that's the thruth intirely. Cook.—There hagen, Mr. O'Brallagan, you're a standin' up for her, and the girl's hinsensed you as she's a Hirisher. No such a thing! My lady never ires no Hirishers, and she ave a sittyfittykit as ow as Mary wer' born bin Hessex. 42 CHARADE DRAMAS. O'Brallagan.— Och! only to see that same ! Bui objection to become one of the firm. Howard.—We will consider that as settled; and now, Gardener, for your decision? Gardener.—In this instance I shall say, as on all former consultations, Gardener submits to Howard. Howard.—And you, Charles ? Charles.—Following the advice and example of my father, I can only say Gardener junior submits to Gardener senior. Howard.—Then, my worthy old friend, we agree that as our junior partner was willing to risk his life to save the heads of the firm, we will reward his Avorth and valour by giving up to him our valuable charge. We consign this trust to you, Mr. Charles Gardener, trusting that Ave shall secure your profit, and satisfy our own scruples. We are glad to have disposed of our trust to an honest and brave mer¬ chant, and to have escaped the danger of allying her 78 CHARADE DRAMAS. with the degenerate descendant of the valiant .Nevilles of the battle of Hastings. Fcmnij.—And, I think, Mrs. Lockwood, y ou have reason to be proud of your sagacious pupil. I do not think many people will find out what, under the guise of valour, is the true distinction of Sir Walter Neville. The scene closes. CHARADE DRAMAS.. 70 CHARADE YI. Mtjhkogh O'Brien. Mr. Lascelles. Me. Parker. The Mayor of Fairmount. Characters. Mr, Alderman Sowerbt. Emily O'Brien. Railway Porter. Town Sergeants. Scene 1. The platform, of a railway station. Enter O'Brien and Emily in travelling dress. O'Brien {looking round).—And a very charming spot, it is for the terminus of a long journey. Tired, my Emily ? Well! let us sit down at this pleasant, cool, bay-window, and quietly consider our past, pre¬ sent, and future. A very charming prospect indeed. Now let us be comfortable; it is long since I felt my cares and troubles reduced to such a small com pass. 80 CHAKajjju DRAMAS. Emily.—Oli, Murrogh ! my dear Murrogh ! how can you speak so coolly of our distressing situation ? O'Brien.—Why should you expect me, of all the people in the world, to look melancholy ? Why, my dear girl, I couldn't do it, if I tried. See what a charming retreat we have; and no charge for occu¬ pation. Then our financial account is easily balanced, for our last sixpence is gone; and as for our worldly possessions, the whole wardrobe of Mr. and Mrs. Murrogh O'Brien, including the elegant trousseau of the fair bride, is contained in this simple carpet-bag. And not a bad bag either, now that I look at it. Cheer up, Emily, the carpet-bag will bring half a sovereign ; decidedly, my love, the carpet-bag must o;o next. Then we can enclose our cares in a silk pocket-handkerchief, which I shall carry suspended to my walking-stick, over my shoulder. Emily.—But, my dear Murrogh, I really do wish you to be serious for a moment, and answer me. What is to become of us now that we are absolutely penniless ? Do you think we coulc], in any way, work and earn money to support us ? for I fear papa will never forgive my elopement. How many letters have we written ? and not one has been noticed. Alas! alas! I have no mother or sister to intercede for me; and though kind-hearted and generous, papa ever regarded disobedience as a crime. Then, Murrogh, 1 was his only child; and I abandoned him. O'Brien.—Why, my pretty darling, what in the world could you do, doting on me as you did, when your father, one of the wealthiest bankers of Lom- CIIAliAlTK DEAMAS. 81 bard-street, announced his decided objection to bestow the hand of his fair daughter on a penniless attorney's clerk ? Certainly, that same presuming clerk had the blood of kings in his veins; though the family estates, like the princes of Arran, from whom they were derived, are no more. Emily.—It was very provoking for my father ! ho wished me so much to marry Sir Alfred Broadhurst, who is certainly handsome and learned, but too grave for my taste ; yet I really cannot tell, Murrogh, how I happened to fall in love with you ; or how we became acquainted indeed, for I remember no regular intro¬ duction. You called with some bundles of papers for papa, were shown into the breakfast-room: then papa was called away, and you were requested to wait his return. To escape your large impertinent eyes, I fled to my piano-forte: you followed, and took up a second to my song, as if Ave had known each other for years. I felt very much provoked and offended at first; but you looked so comically uncon¬ cerned about my anger, that I could not forbear laughing ; and, after that laugh, Murrogh O'Brien.—After that laugh, Emily, there Avas no retreat for you. I had frequently to come Avith papers; and, like a blundering Irish felloAv, I ahvays happened to come Avhen Mr. Lascelles Avas out, and had, of course, to wait his return. Not to be idle, Ave practised duets till Ave Avere hoarse ; then Ave sat down and told our respective histories. Mine was short. I told you that my dear thoughtless father had died penniless, but happy in the belief that his rich G 82 CHARADE DRAMAS. brother, Counsellor O'Brien, would provide for his sons. The excellent and prudent Counsellor, not much gratified with the charge of three rough, wild Irish youths, procured commissions for my two younger brothers, and sent them to die in India. I was his godson, his namesake, and the heir to the family honours of the O'Briens; therefore, he hand¬ somely articled me to his friend Parker, a London attorney, allowing me fifty pounds per annum till I had completed my clerkship, when he withdrew the noble allowance. Old Parker then elevated me to the second desk in his office, which exalted situation, with all its profits, I forfeited, when I persuaded you, my dear girl, to run off with one of the here¬ ditary princes of Arran. Emily.—I never would have consented to quit my father, Murrogh, if you had not so rashly asked him to accept you for his son-in-law, roused his wrath, and effectually put an end to our pleasant musical meet¬ ings. I cannot conceive how you could be so bold as to propose for me. O'Brien.—Why, my love, boldness, honesty, and a tolerable gift of speech, are my capital. On these possessions, my hopes of future wealth are grounded. Emily.—But, in the mean time, Murrogh, we must look to the present. In a month we have emptied our purses; sold everything that would raise money ■ and now—poor, weary, and homeless—convinced that my father is inexorable—we are glad to repose our tired limbs at a railway-station in a strange town. CHARADE DRAMAS. 83. And here we must remain, Murrogh; for we have no longer the means to proceed. 0'B> 'ien.—Well, my dear, never despair. Our situation has its advantages. We are out of debt, and perfectly independent. This is a pleasant spot; the benches are very commodious; we will re¬ main here a little longer, and something may turn up. Emily.—But we ought to exert ourselves. By- the-bye, Murrogh, could we not teach music ? O'Brien.—Music—hem ! My ear is fine, and Neddy Geoghan taught me to handle a fiddlestick: but I do not pretend to be a Paganini. You play and sing charmingly, love: but never yet did the wife of an O'Brien condescend to earn a farthino- - c? ' and I should expect the ghosts of my royal ancestors to rise from the grave, if I permitted you to sully the unstained name. No, Emily, music is not the thing. I suppose I must try something. I must find out what the natives do in this quiet place. Here, my good fellow (to a porter), what is there going on in this famous town of yours ? Porter.—There'll be grand doings t' next week, sir. We're boun' to have t' election; and there's to be a throng town to-night. Mr. Mayor has a meeting o't' electors, that they may pick out a reet sort o' man, to send up to Parliament. O'Brien.—And what sort of man is "the right sort" to please your electors ? Porter.—Wyah, they want to finn'd a man that 1| •stand up for poor folks; and argue to get 'em cheap 84 charade dramas. bread and such like.. A chap all for free trade, and laming folks to be scholars. O'Brien.—Ho, ho ! then your electors would like a little opposition, I see. Emily, my love, I must go to this meeting; I have a plan in my head. Emily.—I cannot conceive what your plan can be; but I am very weary, and will remain in any quiet spot till you return to me. O'Brien.—I am determined to try my luck with $he electors; so come along, and I will get you a room at the hotel, on the strength of the carpet-bag. It is very lank ; could we not fill it up a little better as we go along ? There seems plenty of grass grow¬ ing in the streets. Emily.—That would be knavery, Murrogh. O'Brien.—You are right, my love. An Irishman is allowed a certain latitude of tongue; but he is a rogue if he does not keep his hands honest. [Exeunt. Scene 2. 7"ftc Town Hall. A long table. Gentlemen seated round. Ser¬ geants in attendance in cloaks, carrying the maces. The Mayor in the chair. The Mayor.—Gentlemen, it appears we are unani¬ mous in our dissatisfaction with this proud scion oi CHARADE DRAMAS. 85 nobility, who offers to represent our ancient borough, but disdains to show himself to his constituents, or to declare his opinions. I have received a card from a gentleman, who requests to be heard at our meet¬ ing. I think that in our present position it would be prudent to allow him, at any rate, to declare his sentiments. Is this proposition agreeable to the meeting? Mr. Alderman Sowerby, may I request you to speak ? Alderman Sowerby {after a little consultation with the rest).—I think I may venture to say for my friends and brother councillors, that in this matter we leave ourselves entirely in the hands of Mr. Mayor. The Mayor.—I thank you, my good friends, for your confidence in me, which shall never be abused. Sergeants, show in Mr. O'Brien. Exit Sergeants, who return immediately, ushering in O'Briev, who shakes hands with the Mayor. The Mayor.—Gentlemen, I have the honour of presenting to you Mr. O'Brien. O'Brien.—I trust, gentlemen, that the exigency« of the occasion will excuse my appearing before this respectable meeting in my travelling dress. The truth is, that no sooner did I hear the important announcement of this proposed consultation—a con¬ sultation in which the public honour and the public prosperity were so deeply concerned—than, hastily CHARADE DRAMAS. abandoning all other affairs, I sought a spot so .suited for the field of my labours. Enter Sergeant, giving cards to the Mayor. Sergeant.—Two gentlemen send in their cards, your worship, and request permission to hear the speeches. The Mayor.—Show them into the gallery. I will sec them after the meeting. (To Alderman Soiverby) Spies, probably, from our late representative. O'Brien.—May I be permitted, worthy ruler of this ancient and celebrated borough, to address this honourable assembly. The Mayor.—We have long been represented by a gentleman who is personally a stranger to us, and from whom our neglected borough has not derived the slightest benefit. We are indignant, and tired of our slavery; we desire to throw off the yoke; Ave are an independent people, and we wish to choose an in¬ dependent representative (applause). Be pleased to address the meeting, Mr. O'Brien. O'Brien (using much action).—Gentlemen, I come among you a stranger, a Avanderer from the sister isle—Avith no qualifications save purity of motive, .liberality of opinion, integrity of purpose, shreAvd- ness of judgment, and truth of speech. To these advantages I may add the more doubtful claims of good birth, finished education, and a scanty purse. My principles and my means equally revolt at bribery end corruption, and I cast the frail bark of my hopes en the pm'e waters of patriotic freedom (applause.) CHARADE DRAMAS. 87 Yes, gentlemen, it is not hidden from me that this staunch and independent little borough may proudly boast of aiding to break down the barriers which arrested the progress of the stream of knowledge and light, and diffusing it over a wide area of barren ignorance. When banished from the fair though ^ c5 desolate halls of my fathers, by oppression, calamity, and poverty, I left the land of my birth; I passed through the proud cities and the wealthy towns of this land of labour and luxury; but never till this moment, have I found rest for the sole of my foot. I disdained to represent the city or the shire where the aristocracy crushed the will of the free-born peasant. I turned away dissatisfied from the crowded towns, where the merchant princes erect golden idols, and fall down to worship them, while misery and crime surround them, unnoticed and unmitigated. I came to this favoured spot, where the bounties of nature and the noble relics of past art are widely scattered and fully appreciated {applause). I find here the kind heart, the open hand, that characterize the free, the noble, the generous sons of merry En¬ gland. Here alone I recognize the unvitiated Englishman. Here I would set up the tabernacle of my home. True and honourable gentlemen, I desire to represent you ; I desire still more to call you friends. Grant me the honour of becoming your representative; admit me to your domestic hearths {great applause). I read in your counte¬ nances, my friends, that we have sympathy of opinion, unity of purpose; I can, therefore* freely promise to 88 CHARADE DRAMAS. become your faithful servant. The energy of my mind, the deliberation of my understanding, the fer¬ vour of my eloquence, and the labours of my pen, shall be wholly and solely devoted to the interests of my constituents—the prosperity of this unequalled town. And I ask boldly, but respectfully, that some one of you, my dear friends, will hold out his hand to present me to the electors as a fit person to represent the time-honoured borough of Fairmount. Very great applause, and much shaking of hands. Mr. Mayor.—In the name of all assembled here, I congratulate you, Mr. O'Brien, on your admirable expression of sentiments which are so honourable to you. It is unnecessary to command a show of hands, for the meeting unanimously accept your proposal. It will be necessary to arrange the form of proceed¬ ing, and for this purpose, if you will do me the honour of breakfasting with me to-morrow morning, I will invite and introduce you to the most influential of the electors. O'Brien.—A most agreeable invitation, Mr. Mayor; nor can I hesitate a moment in accepting it, though I shall thus leave Mrs. O'Brien alone at the hotel. The Mayor.—Mrs. Mayoress is unfortunately an invalid, and unable to call on Mrs. O'Brien; but if the lady will kindly waive all ceremony, and accom¬ pany you, Mrs. Mayoress will be proud to welcome her. O'Brien.—Mrs. O'Brien is the least ceremonious person in the world; she set out, at a moment's call, to accompany me on my electioneering adventure charade dramas. 89' and she will not hesitate even to walk to the Man¬ sion House ; as Ave are Avithout a carriage here. The Mayor.—My carriage shall be at the hotel at nine to bring you. O'Brien.—I accept your friendly and convenient offer; and take leave of you all, gentlemen, Avith thanks for your indulgence, and in the sanguine hope that our neAV friendship may be long and prosperous. They shake hands. [Exit O'Brien The Mayor.—A most promising candidate, gentle¬ men: we must endeavour, by every means, to secure- him. [Exeunt.. Scene the Last. A room in the hotel. O'Brien and Emily seated on a sofa. O'Brien (rising and ivalking about).—A complete* victory ! worthy of my noble ancestors. Success has- croAvned my daring enterprise (sitting down). Emily, my love, we must sup on a biscuit. To-morroAv morning we shall ha\re a capital civic breakfast., Avhich Ave must do justice to; for, afterwards, Ave ha\e only the carpet-bag to live on. 90 CHARADE DRAMAS. Emily.—But I have had some tea, Murrogh : I am miserable to be in debt. Could we not contrive to sell the bag to-night, and pay the good people what we owe them ? O'Brien.—What an unhappy suggestion! Con¬ ceive, my love, the awkwardness of my going out to sell my carpet-bag to one of my electors. A pretty figure I should cut on the hustings after such an ex¬ ploit. No, my dear, the tide is turning: we must struggle a day or two longer. Depend on it, our star is in the ascendant, and my next application to papa will be signed Murrogh O'Brien, M.P. Surely that will make him relent. Enter Mr. Parker. Mr. Parker.—Mr. O'Brien, your servant,—Mrs. O'Brien, my good wishes to you. I regret, sir, that necessity compels me to allude to the circumstances under which you entered into an alliance with the lady present. I speak of your having unadvisedly and illegally absented yourself from duties you had engaged to perform for me. From the extraordinary nature of the case, I judged it necessary to report the whole transaction circumstantially to the worthy Counsellor O'Brien, by whom you were committed to my care. OB, 'ien.—You did exactly what I expected from you, Mr. Parker; and you would doubtless astonish the old gentleman no little. Mr. Parker.—The Counsellor, Mr. O'Brien, con¬ descended to reply to my communication with his CHARADE DRAMAS. 91 usual urbanity. To my surprise, bis epistle set forth his desire that I should seek you out, charging the expenses of my journey to his account, and offer to restore to you that seat in my office which by your misconduct you had forfeited. Furthermore, he declareth, he purposes to restore to you with aug¬ mentation the stipend formerly bestowed ou you; making the sum one hundred pounds per annum. O'Brien.—What munificence ! Mr. Parker.—This is not all, Mr. O'Brien, The Counsellor points out to me the necessity of advanc- ing your salary to one hundred pounds per annum (sighs), with which recommendation I am bound to comply, the said Counsellor, though hard in making bargains, being liberal in recommending clients to mc. I therefore give you notice, Mr. O'Brien, that you are from this day restored to the stool and desk, number two, in the front office, which you vacated on the occasion of your marriage. O'Brien.—The desk, or nothing, I suppose ? Mr. Parker.—On the contrary; the honourable Counsellor further adds, that if your inclination should prompt you to read for the bar, he will still allow you the before-mentioned one hundred per annum ; but, in such case, the stipend from me must be re¬ duced to a sum proportione.l to the hours of your service. O'Brien.—After all, the Counsellor is an O'Brien at heart, Emily. What do you say to this noble provision for an embryo Chancellor? 92 CHARADE DRAMAS. Emily.—It Avill certainly be preferable to our pre¬ sent destitution, Murrogli? O'Brien.—Decidedly, my love, but then — my election ? Emily.—Oh, Murrogh ! your election could not be accomplished without dishonesty. Decide at once, if you love me, on the desk or the bar. O'Brien.—" My poverty but not my will con¬ sents." Alas ! alas ! all my glorious hopes scattered I Never again may I have the opportunity of display¬ ing the eloquence of the O'Briens before the as¬ sembled senate. And I suppose Ave cannot go to breakfast with the Mayor Enter Mk. Lascelx.es. Emily rushes forward; Mk. Lascelles takes her hand, then turning to O'Brien speaks. So, young man, after absconding from your mas¬ ter's service and robbing me of my daughter, you have this evening had the audacity to offer yourself as a worthy representative of the good moral people of the borough of Fairmount. O'Brien.—Too true, sir, but you hold in your hand my fair excuse. And I am proud to inform you that all is happily arranged for the future. I resign the honour intended to be forced on me by these Avorthy burgesses; and am restored to the dig¬ nity of the number two stool and desk in Mr. Par¬ ker's office. Mr. Lascelles.—My unfortunate child's husband to be an attorney's clerk ! CHARADE DRAMAS. 93 O'Brien.—I have an alternative. One hundred a year, and permission to study for the bar. And for your sake, my Emily, I must try it, I believe. You ean live or starve on the hundred pounds, and I, if all else fail, shall not he the first of the O'Briens who has cleaned shoes, or begged in the streets. Mr. Lascelles.—That I doubt not: but my daugh¬ ter's husband must not be a shoe-black. Parker and I heard you speak to-night, young man ; if I could rely on your sincerity and steadiness, I do not see why you should not read for the bar, and my daugh¬ ter return to her natural home. O'Brien.—I really cannot bring forward an ob¬ jection to such a convenient arrangement; and my dear Emily being restored to the comforts I deprived her of, I shall be happy to resign my wooden throne in Mr. Parker's office to be filled by a more worthy occupant. Mr. Parker.—In truth that may easily be, Mr. O'Brien; for though, in compliance with the request of the honourable Counsellor, your uncle, I retained you in my service, I ever protested against your objectionable custom of making speeches in the office; whereby you engaged the attention of the junior clerks, and were not only idle yourself, but the cause of idleness in others. O'Brien.—I own the fact. I was then practising the powers that nature had bestowed on me, in the hopes of one day displaying them before the noblest senate in the world. Alas ! the opportunity is gone, 94 CHARAD1S OKAMAS. and I never, never shall be called into that grand arena. Mr. Lascelles.—Do not despair: wait till you are called to the bar; and then, I have no doubt you will have leisure enough to offer your services to the worthy burgesses of this independent borough. The scene cbaes. CHARADE DRAMAS. 9* CHARADE YIL Characters. Frederick Percival. Frank Seymour. Farmer Gregory. Caroline Percival. Mary, her Maid. Chloe, a black servant. Mrs. Muggins. Miss Finikin Scene 1. A pretty cottage parlour: flowers in the window, pianoforte- hooks. Frederick and Caroline seated. Caroline.—Oh, Fred., I do feel so very happy! This is home ! the home I so often sighed for when my uncle was cross; where I could invite dear mamma, and make her happy. But don't look grave, Fred.; I don't mean to ask her till I am per- CHARADE DRAMAS. feet in domestic management. 1 know she will be delighted with the charming cottage and our rural O o <_* felicity. Frederick (laughing).—The cottage is as charm¬ ingly rural as a cottage can be in the secluded shades of Kensington; and it is very dear to me, my sweet Carry, since it contains one who was content to abandon the grandeur of her proud uncle's mansion to share the fortunes of a briefless barrister, with the slender income of two hundred a year. Caroline.—But you are happy in this little cot too; are you not, Fred. ? Frederick.—Truly so, my love, if I could but see you comfortably established. Have you yet, from your numerous applicants, succeeded in engaging that necessary evil, a maid of all work ? Your faith¬ ful Mary, who has followed you in your adversity, cannot possibly fulfil all the duties of cook, house¬ maid, butler, and lady's maid—active and willing as she is. Caroline.—You cannot form the least idea, Fred., of the great difficulty there is in making such an important choice. Frederick.—You speedily swept away all the diffi¬ culties in your path, my Carry, when you had to make another important choice. Caroline.—And displayed as much judgment in my decision as I intend to do now. The truth is, Fred., that dear mamma's last injunction to me was a caution about servants; and amongst all the applicants, I have not yet seen my beau ideal of a charade dramas. 97 good servant—one who reaches my standard of per¬ fection. Frederick.—Then, by all means, lower your stand¬ ard, Carry; for I particularly wish you to engage a servant to-day. I expect my old friend Frank Sey¬ mour to drop in this evening. You know how liberally he has supplied us with game, and I wish you to give him a grouse-pie for supper—a dish he is particularly fond of; therefore, my dear little wife, let us have a cook this very morning. Enter Mary. Mary.—Mrs. Muggins, madam, comes to answer your advertisement. Shows in Mrs. Muggins, with a large reticule basket, a bundle tied in a silk handkerchief, and an old umbrella, all which she places on the carpet, men brings herself a chair. Mrs. Muggins.—How er' ye? I mun jist sit me down, for I'se worn to t' stump. I've tramped ivery fut of t' way fra King's Cross, where I cam' by train this morning, after I heerd tell of this place. (She looks round herf) It's a canny bit parlour, and I can't say but I likes t' lukes on ye. Caroline.—Pray, Mrs. Muggins, what are your qualifications? In the first place, are you a good cook ? Mrs. Muggins.—Cook ! I'se not turn my back on ony lass living for cooking. Haven't I lived these fower years wi' Mr. Allport, at Besford, and wher. master was t' Mayor, didn't I cook, with my own h 98 CHARADE DRAMAS. hand, t' grandest dinner they'd ivir seen i'Besford? Lord help you! (looking round compassionately.') There wad be a hundred sat down to that dinner if there were one; and I had just two bits of lasses to help, and a char to wash up. What did t; master say t' next day? "Nanny," says he (he all'ays call't me Nanny),—" Nanny," says he, "ivery alder< man that sat down said, he'd niver made a better dinner in his life." Caroline.—We don't require Mayors' feasts, my good woman; we want plain joints well cooked, good pastry, and steady habits. I presume Mr. Allport will give you a character; what wages do you de¬ mand ? Mrs. Muggins.—I'll tell ye plainly what I mun have. Sixteen pounds; my tea and sugar; my beer, t' best stout, three times a day—there's not a cook born can come nigh a fire under that-, then my kitchen fat Caroline.—Oh, no. There you must stop; I pro¬ test against that. Mamma particularly insisted on my not allowing the kitchen fat to be sold. I can¬ not grant the fat. Mrs. Muggins (in great wrath, rising and collecting her property).—I'se hardly stand that, after living wi't' Mayor of Besford. I niver yet did take up wi' mean folks, and niver will. Like to like! ye mun seek up some poor body like yoursels. Keep your fat, and much good may't do ye. (Exit.) A silent pause, then Frederick bursts into laughter. CHARADE DRAMAS. 99 Caroline.—You ought not to laugh at me, Fred, for I am quite sure I was right in principle. If I had yielded to the woman's proposals, some evil would certainly have fallen upon us. Frederick.—Then tell me, my dear, prudent little wife, how do you purpose to employ that mysterious delicacy which you place so much value on. Caroline.—I confess that I do not quite understand its use, though certainly it must be valuable. I for¬ got to ask mamma why it should be preserved; still* I think I could not be wrong; but Enter Mary and Miss Finikin. Mary.—Miss Finikin, madam, another appli¬ cant. Miss Finikin. — Madam, I has the honour of hansering to your hadver^cement. I thinks the hapartments is convenient, and will shute me, and I ham quite hackwessent to form a part of your hes- tablishment if we can hagree. Frederick (leads Caroline aside.)—She seems a nice, pretty, neat looking girl, Carry. Caroline (quickly.)—No such thing. She is too much dressed ; and, I should say, knows nothing. Frederick.—She does not look as if she would con¬ tend for her kitchen stuffy at any rate. Caroline.—You are no judge, Fred. Pretty, indeed! (to Miss Finikin.') Well, young woman, what can you do?—and what are your terms? Miss Finikin.—I can do hany thing in reason, madam, as is required in similiar hestablishments: 100 CHARADE DRAMAS. and has two good charrac&ters as is given by two most respectablest ladies, where I have resided, and is willing to take your wages, madam, but hexpecks my little privileges. Caroline.—Your privileges? Pray what is it you require ? Miss Finikin.—Honly, madam, two hours on Mon¬ days and Fridays, to hattend at the dancing haca- demy—I could not relinkish that: and an hour hevery. day, madam, in horder to foller up my hother studies. Caroline.—I think this quite unnecessary. Frederick.—It is not worth a dispute, my dear: let the girl follow her fancies. Caroline. — I certainly cannot approve but have you anything further to say, young woman ? Miss Finikin.—Yes, madam, there is one thing as I must mention, which is my cousin as is D 721, hand I hexpecks, madam, as how as he may come to see me when as how he is hoff dooty. Caroline. — Certainly not. I never allow any man to come after my servants. Frederick.—Nay, my dear, that would be cruel. Let the pretty lass see her sweetheart sometimes. Caroline (with dignity.)—You may retire, young woman; you do not suit me. \Exit Miss Finikin. Frederick. — Now really, my dear Carry, you make me feel very uncomfortable. I see you cannot easily submit to the petty annoyances inseparable from our humble circumstances, and I sigh to think M} PLACK-STONE, CHARADE DRAMAS. 103 that I have tempted you to leave a more luxurious home. Promise me, my beloved, to endure, for my sake; promise me, if you love me, to accept the next applicant (the seventeenth, Carry). Take her on trial with all her faults. Caroline.—I wished to do right, my dear Fred : but I begin to think I may have been a little mistaken. I am very ignorant, and have been perhaps somewhat obstinate; but I solemnly promise you to engage the next applicant, if she will be content without kitchen stuff, or police lover. Will that satisfy you? Enter Mart, smiling. Mary.—I have to announce a very strange appli¬ cant, now, madam. (Shows in Chloe very gaudily dressed in the fashion of twelve years past. Chloe curtsies rapidly several times.) Chloe.—Please, Missy, please takey Miss Chloe for help. Me can do every ting in de world: berry nice serbant, Missy. Caroline {agitated and hesitating.)—I would rather not. I fear you cannot do all the duties I should require from you. Chloe.—Me do berry mush dooty, Missy. Me brus' all de room (acts as she speaks) —me stir up him fire—me make him bed--me rubby, rubby depan all shiny—me was' him clo' berry clean—me bake de griddle cake—me roas' de lilly piggy all nice brown —me nurse de pickaninny, rocky de cradle, me sing (sings and dances) Ho! ho! de boatman row, Floatin' down de ribber on de Ohio. 102 CriAHADE DRAMA?, Caroline.—What a strange creature ! Frederick {to Chloe.)—Can you make a pie, Chloe? Chloe.—Oh, de pie ! de berry best of pie, Massa ; de peach, de plum, de lilly chick, put em all in dis', makey nice light paste, bake him brown, berry brown. Frederick.—Not too brown, Chloe. Will you con¬ sent to try this girl, Carry: she gives herself an ex¬ cellent character. Caroline.—You know, Fred., I have promised, and if you are content, I must keep my word ; but I feel quite alarmed. I almost regret that I did not engage the Mayor's cook, with all her exactions. Mary.—If you will allow me to take Chloe to the kitchen, madam, and put her into the way, I have no doubt I shall be able make something of her. Caroline.—Take her away, by all means, my good Mary. [Exeunt,. Scene 2. A dining-room. Mary directing Chloe to lay the cloth Chloe.—Dar' now, see! go along, Missy Mary! didn't me lay de clot' beautiful? Nobody nebber did lay de clot' more beautifuller, no how. Tchu! tchu ! (polishes the knives on the soles of her shoes.) Me CHARADE DRAMAS. 103 berry mush 'speck Missy say, Chloe unkimmon good serbant! Chloe berry clean, nice crittur! Mary.—Do not chatter so much, Chloe, and be more attentive. Lay the knives and forks perfectly straight. Chloe.—Oh ! dem lay berry well, berry handy. Is it de knife on dis side, or de fork. Oh yes, me 'member now: de knife for Missy dis side; de knife for Massa dat side ; berry odd ting dat, Missy Mary. Mary.—She actually doesn't know her right hand from her left. I have my work before me! Chloe.—Now de lilly cup wid de salt. Bah! him tummel down! (Overturns the salt-cellar, runs to the fire and brings the shovel to take the salt off the table-cloth.) Mary (taking the shovel from her).—I do wish, Chloe, you would be more orderly and thoughtful. You act so hastily that you can do nothing well. Chloe.—Ah, Missy Mary berry clebber gal: worky! worky! worky ! and nebber speak no word. Me nigger gal, must go ahead; me mush talky, mush worky. Chloe berry fast critter ! Mary.—I would rather you were slow and care¬ ful. Go now and bring the bottle which I brought up from the cellar, and I beg you will not throw it down. \Exit Chloe. Mart continues to arrange the table. A crash heard in the passage.] Mary.—Oh dear ! oh dear! She will never do. She is all hands, and no head. 104 CHARADE DRAMAS. Enter Chloe, holding the neck of a bottle in one hand, and the coal-pan in the other. Chloe.—O Missy Mary! berry bad! berry bad! 'twas all de coal pan ! Me say, good ting to take dc coal pan ; me snash him up, and him push him dirty mous agin de bottle, and den, down he tummel, and lebe only him neck in my han'. Berry bad ting! berry bad ! and all de beer run away in de nice clean white passage. Mary.—Where Mr. Seymour, with Master and Mistress, will see it all. Wash it up directly, and scour it over, you hare-brained girl. \_Exit Chloe, shaking her head. Mary.—Whatever I shall make of this flighty nigger, I can't tell; and company coming too! Not but what the girl could do well enough if she would only be quiet and composed. However, I '11 do my best: I '11 put up with a good deal for my dear Miss Caroline's sake, God bless her! Certainly Mr. Per- cival is a handsome young fellow ; but I do wish my darling had thought twice before she left her uncle's grand house for love in a cottage. (Looking into the passage.) Whatever are you dabbing there, making the mischief worse ; bring the sand, and scour it over. Chloe.—You see, Missy Mary, him sandy just lost. Mary.—Lost! you provoking girl, you had it to-day to scour the kitchen hearth. Where did you put it ? CHARADE DRAMAS. 105 Chloe.—Me put him on de table, and him gone. Mary.—On the table! was that a fit place ? Why did you put the sand on the table ? Chloe.—Me come den help Missy Mary cook, mo put him down aside me, and he go. Mary.—It is really useless to talk to you. Shall I never be able to teach you to put every thing in its proper place, and every thing to its proper use? Chloe.—You see, me do all right berry soon, Missy Mary. (Takes the coals oat of the pan with her hands, and puts them on the fire; then wipes her fingers on her petticoats.) Mary.—There, again! What are the tongs for, but to take up coals? and your petticoat was never meant for a towel. Chloe.—It so mush trubbel to open de great ton'; berry easy to put on de black coal wid de black han'. Mary.—Here come the company; now be very attentive : do not speak, but do as I bid you. Come, to bring in supper. [Exeunt_ Enter Frederick, Caroline, and Frank Seymour. Frank S.—Truly, this looks promising, Mrs. Per- cival. Here are no symptoms of the poverty, mis¬ management, and discomfort, that you prepared me¬ ter. I fancy Fred can put up with such desolation as this; and for you, my dear Madam, I know that Avhen your generous sex make up their minds tc sacrifice all for love, they are the most patient, en¬ during, and gloriously happy creatures in the world- It would be an insult to compassionate your situation. 106 CHARADE DRAMAS. Let us look it in the face. Let us sum up the case. You havey our two servants of divers colours, your cottage of gentility, and two hundred a year; with a great amount of love, and a great scarcity of briefs. Frederick.—Voila tout! Frank S.—And by no means an undesirable posi¬ tion. Let us take another case : here am I, making a capital thing, say a thousand a year ; all right when in court, for there Frank Seymour is somebody ; out of court, no home, no wife, no sister, no one to care for my success. I dine at my club elegantly and luxuriously, with small relish for the good things set before me ; and I might be taken home on a shutter without it creating a greater sensation in my esta¬ blishment than my clerk and servant being compelled to seek new masters, and my landlady to put her lodging card in the window. This is my case, my lord. Frederick.—Ah, Frank ! I decide in my own favour, I am truly very happy, though unpardon- ably idle ; my sole anxiety is for dear Carry, who is overwhelmed with cares, privations, and domestic troubles. Frank S.—Bless you, Fred ! Mrs. Percival enjoys the thing. I see it in her eyes. Off to your books to-morrow morning, idler ! read, read, and leave this fair, sweet, happy victim to work her way to tranquillity amid the troubled billows of household management. No more at present, for here comes supper. CIIARADE DRAMAS. 107 ."Enter Mary and Ciiloe, bringing in supper. Frank S. (to Chloe). — Fairest goddess of the culinary regions, didst thou make this comely pie ? Chloe (looking ivildly at Mary).—Berry nice pie, massa; me help Missy Mary make him; me put 'cm in, berry nice. Frank S.—Then will we feast ourselves on this happy production of the allied powers. They seat themselves, Frederick cuts the pie, and lakes out yellow sand-stone. Chloe (dancing round, seizes the sand). — Oh ! him here, Missy Mary; him no lost. Me glad my sandy here; me put him i' de dis', Missy Mary ; tink him lilly birdie, den me canna' fin' him; berry glad him here ; berry glad ! Frederick.—That's more than we are, Chloe ; you have spoiled our banquet. Take away the sanded pie, and remember, girl, in future to.put every thing in its proper place. Mary.—That is the lesson I give her hourly, sir : I hope this may be a warning to her. Shall I bring in the cold fowl and tongue ? Frank S.—By all means, good Mrs. Mary. You are a woman of sound judgment. We can make a good supper on fowl and tongue; and to-morrow I will send some more birds, that I may try your cookery; but watch the attendant nymph closely, Mary, or we may have the blacking brush next time. \Exit Servants removing the pie. 108 CHARADE DRAMAS. Caroline.—1 am grieved and ashamed, Mr. Per- cival. I fear Fred already regrets his easy bachelor life, when, heedless of the nnperceived trials of do¬ mestic management, he beheld dinners and suppers spread on his board, as if by magic. I do believe I must be a great dunce, for would you believe it, I read a chapter of Mrs. Rundell every day for a month, before I took on me the duties of married life. Frank S.—Pleasant and profitable study! How you must have enjoyed the Barmecide feasts daily spread before you! and what bright visions you must have had, of serving up, before Fred the fortunate, uni¬ maginable luxuries! Pursue the good path, dear lady: read diligently, and release Fred from your side to plunge into heavier studies amid the calf- skinned battalions in his legal library. So shall you both profit, and rich briefs and good dinners be the pleasant result. But here comes an eatable supper ' let us make merry ; and pleasant shall be the me¬ mory of the grouse pie, and its extraordinary contents. They sit down. The scene closes. CHARADE DRAMAS. 109 Scene the Last. A study, with book-shelves. A table covered with papers, magazines, and books in law binding. Frederick in an easy chair, Caroline working on an opposite side. Caroline.—Well, Fred, I think we may venture to ask Frank Seymour to dine now, in the improved state of things. Frederick.—My dear girl, you and Mary are two good fairies; you have positively transformed that wild daughter of darkness into a civilized servant, and introduced peace and order into our sweet home. Caroline.—And now that my household cares for the day are over, you will not object to let me work here while you are reading. I promise not to in¬ terrupt you, unless anything very important should occur to me. Frederick.—Of course not, my dear: such import¬ ant matters as the Opera announcements, or Punch's last and best, must be discussed. Oh, Carry dear J I fear this reading would not satisfy our friend Sey¬ mour. You by my side in the morning, and the Opera in the evening: the practising duets, the pleasant dallying with the Shakspeare of the past, and the Tennyson of the future, have lulled me into such a lethargy of luxurious ease, that I shrink from opening one of these precious volumes ; I shrink from the sober communion with this good friend {taking up a volume), the father of English Law. 110 CHARADE DRAMAS. Caroline {sighing).—Then I must go, Fred, for I see my presence prevents you plunging boldly into the studies so absolutely necessary for your profes¬ sional success. Enter Mary introduciny Farmer Gregory. Frederick.—Ah! my dear old friend, I am truly olad to welcome you under my roof. But what in the world brings you to this great city, that you hold in such disdain? Farmer G.—I'secomea' purpose to see ye, Master Frederick. Frederick.—And to see my wife, too, Gregory— one of the best of the sort. Caroline.—I have often heard Fred speak of the pleasant visits he has made to your farm; and now you must stay here, and be our guest. Farmer G.—Thank ye, kindly, madam; but I'se not be lang away fra' hame. Ye see, Master Fred¬ erick, I'se i' need of a bit of law, and says I to missus, (e Master Frederick's my man; he's honest to t' back bone, like all his fore-elders." And missus says, says she, " If ye will hae law, Willie, gang tull him at ance, and ye can take up a cheese and a turkey for t'young mistress." Sae off I set, for I've been badly used, Master Frederick, and I will hae my reets. Frederick.— As every Englishman can have, Gre¬ gory, thanks to this glorious book {striking the vo¬ lume). Now let us hear your case. Farmer G.—Ye see, Master Frederick, this is it; CHARADE D It A MAS. Ill and if ye dunnot say I'se wranged, I'se think nought of yer big buke. Is I to sit down quietly, and let a fellow come and fell a tree atop o' my land ? Frederick (to Caroline).—Now for my grave law face. That would be a case of trespass, Gregory, of malicious injury, or of larceny, if the tree was carried away. Who is the offender? Farmer G.—John J ones—him as owns t' next land; a meddling chap, that winnot let quiet folks be. Frederick.—And where did the tree stand? Farmer G.—It stood i't' hedge atween his land and mine. But what o' that? T' hedge's my hedge,, and t' lands my land, and t'tree was my tree; and not a man iv' England sail cut down a tree of mine but I '11 hae f law of him. Frederick.—Law you shall have, Gregory, when we get our case clear. How can you prove the hedge to be your hedge ? Who keeps it in repair ? Farmer G. — Bepair ! God help ye, it never needs nane. It's a big, thick, auld fence 'at's lasted mebbey this hundred year; and nought wad sarve him, wi! his new-fangled fancies, but he mun clip and trim t' auld hedge ov his side; and then what does he say but t' auld tree was a plague tuf' him, and dreeped atop of his pease and 'tatoes. I telled him then, it was at his peril he melled on it; and he niver says another word; but o' Monday, whiles I was off at market, he fells it. Frederick.—In truth it is a serious matter, Gregory. How much is the tree worth ? Farmer G.—What has that to do wi' 't ? What 112 CHARADE DRAMAS. cave 1 for t' worth o't' tree ? It's mebbey worth fifty shilling, but it isn't t' money I want fra' him; 1 want my reets. T' tv;e was mine, and my fathers' afore me, as far back as ony man living can tell, and I'll spend all t' land itseP in law, but I'll make John J ones smart for felling on't. 1 rederick. looks into several large volumes with great gravity. Caroline.—Then, Farmer Gregory, allow me to say that I think you are governed by a very evil spirit. The tree has fallen, and cannot be replaced ; it was a hasty, and probably an angry act to cut it down : your neighbour is doubtless wrong, but he is your neighbour, Farmer Gregory ; you have vowed to love your neighbour, and you are bound to forgive as you hope to be forgiven. Farmer G.—That's all reet enough; but I said I Avad hae law, and law I will hae. Caroline.—The best laAv is the law of love; it makes up all altercations, heals all offences; it is God's law, my good friend, and a blessing to man. Farmer G.—Ye've a canny quiet Avay of talking, Mistress, and ye 're nut far wrang; but ye see I've brought fifty pound i' my purse, and sworn I'd «pend it to reet mysel'. Caroline.—Then do spend it; spend it in the right Avay—in cheering the sad hearts of the desti¬ tute Avidows and orphans of the brave men Avho have fallen to save their fellcw-creatures on the bloody plains of the Crimea. My husband has told CHAUADK DRAMAS. 113 me you are a kind and a benevolent man; you believe yourself to be a good Christian. Then must you not nourish anger and revenge for the loss of a paltry tree. Think of the thousands who are mourning, the tens of thousands who are suffering and dying, to protect their weak and helpless fellow- creatures. ITow little your quarrel would seem to their eyes ; and it is little, and unworthy of you, my good friend. Seek out the bereaved and the sorrowful in your neighbourhood, give them such aid as your kind heart will prompt you to give. Then go and shake hands with John Jones, and forget his small offence. Farmer G.—Why there's some sense i' what ye say, Missus. God helo 'em all, say I. And now I think on't, there's two poor oodies of our parish 'at has sons off there i' that bloody Grimmer; they're sadly downed, and but ill off. What if I put two shilling a week a piece on 'em; it's but reet efter all, for we hae plenty, God be thanked for't. I 'se thinking, Master Frederick, about John Jones; ye see he's nut a bad chap when he 's out on his tantrums; we 'se mebbey mak' it up, efter a bit. Frederick.—All right, Gregory ; now Fm thinking what a pleasant clerk my wife is, to sit at the side of a briefless barrister, and propound the law without fee. Carry has won her first cause, but I shall turn her out at the next consultation ; and trust, with the aid of this staunch friend (holding up the 114 CHARADE DRAMAS. volume), whicli must fill the place of the fair lady, I shall then be enabled to obtain from the case a brief and a fee. Curtain falls. THE JUVENILE BOOKS. ROUTLEDCE'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS. 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