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The Actor; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A Son of Thespis, 
 
 AN ORIGINAL COMEDY-DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
 BY 
 
 MILTON NOBLES. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Librarian's Office, at Washington, 
 
 D. C. , in the year 1891 , by 
 
 Milton Nobles, 
 
 as author and sole proprietor. All rights reserved. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 LEDGER JOB PRINT. 
 1891 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 An Onginal Comedy- Drama in Four Acts, 
 
 BY 
 
 iMiivTON Nobles. 
 
 ACT I.— New York City, September, 1861. 
 
 ACTS II, III and IV.— New England, 1879. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 WARREN MERRILL, a Banker. 
 
 BERNARD CARROLL, his Partner. 
 
 WILLIAM GOODALL, his Private Secretary, an Actor. 
 PHILIP HAWLEY, his Bookkeeper. 
 , i A Servant to Merrill. 
 
 [ PHILANDER PHIPPS, a Comedian and Stage Manager. 
 
 PHILLIS, the Banker's Daughter, secretly married to Goodall. 
 
 ACTS II, III, IV.— 18 Years Later. 
 
 WILLIAM GOODALL, now known as F. Junius Betterlon, a "palmy day" 
 Tragedian. 
 
 PHILANDER PHIPPS, known as Burton Wallack, a Comedian, companion 
 to Betterton. 
 
 COL. TOM ALCHOSTRA, of Texas. 
 BERNARD CARROLL. 
 
 ARTHUR MARRIGOLD. 
 
 REUBEN HAWKINS, a Country Bumpkin. 
 
 SOPHOCLES SPOTT, of the private detective firm o( Spott & Bleedem, (successors 
 to Ketchum & Workem.) 
 MARSHALL STALK, Servant to Mrs. Marrigold. ,,_^ 
 
 PHILLIS GOODALL. oT^^^^^N^ 
 
 DOROTHY GOODALL, her Daughter, aged 17. JHr''''^.^ 
 
 MRS. MADGE MARRIGOLD, a Widow. qrp" /I ipQ« "^^X 
 
 PHOEBE ADAMS. '^^^ * If 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, Guests at Marrigold Villa. ^X f v ^ I 
 
 ACT I.— Residence of Warren Merrill, New York City, September, 1861. '2'^ 
 
 ACT II- — 18 years later. A New England Summer Resort. 
 
 ACTS III and IV.— Mrs. Marrigold's Villa. 
 

A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 AN ORIGINAL COMEDY-DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 NUlvTON NOBLES. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Library in Warren 3IerrilTs house, Neiv York City. 
 
 \_Enter Servant, preceding Bernard Carroll. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Merrill is at breakfast, gir. Shall I say to 
 him that you are here ? 
 
 Carroll. Yes ; no, on second thought, don't disturb him ; is 
 Miss Merrill with him ? 
 
 Servant. No, sir; she breakfasted early and went for a 
 ride in the park. 
 
 Carroll. Alone? 
 
 Servant. So far as I know ; yes, sir. 
 
 Carroll. Thank you ; I will await Mr. Merrill here. \_Exit 
 Servant c] Riding in the park, eh, and alone ! Possibly. 
 These early morning park rides are of a daily occurrence now ; 
 strange that her father can be so blind or indifferent. 
 
 [Miter Warren Merrill l. i. e., dressing gown, etc. 
 
 Merrill. [Cordially.] Why, Bernard, this is an unexpected 
 pleasure. You haven't favored us often of late. Be seated. 
 
 [They sit. 
 
 Carroll. Thank you. I feel even now that my visit is ill- 
 timed and I scarcely know how to apologize for calling at 
 such an untimely hour. 
 
 (3) 
 
4 A SON OF THteSPIS. 
 
 Merrill. Don't mention it, my dear boy. Both Phillis 
 and myself have frequently regretted that you of late make 
 yourself so much a stranger. 
 
 Carroll. It is better for me that it should be so. 
 
 Merrill. 0, yes, yes ; I understand. But I fancied that in 
 your devotion to business and the Bachelor's Club you had 
 outlived that fleeting fancy. 
 
 Carroll. There you do me a great Avrong. The feeling that 
 I entertain for your daughter is something more than a fleeting 
 fancy, as you are pleased to call it. 
 
 Merrill. Pardon me, my dear boy. Nothing could be farther 
 from my mind than a wish to make light of your disappoint- 
 ment. But you are still young, rich and courted. Your life 
 and its triumphs are all before you. 
 
 Carroll. You are very kind. >I do not complain. If I have 
 a concern it is for those dearer to me than my own life. 
 
 Merrill. Indeed ! 
 
 Carroll. Mr. Merrill, you have treated me with princely 
 generosity. 
 
 Merrill. I have tried to treat you justly. Your father served 
 me long and faithfully, and, dying, requested me to see you 
 safely started in life. I placed you in a responsible position 
 which you filled so entirely to my satisfaction that at the end 
 of four years I made you a member of the firm. This was not 
 generosity, but justice ; you had earned the position, and since 
 assuming it you have by integrity and thoughtfulness relieved 
 me of many cares and responsibilities. 
 
 Carroll. I have tried to prove my appreciation of your con- 
 fidence, and it is a desire to further emphasize that loyalty to 
 your interests which emboldens me to speak upon a subject near 
 to both of us. 
 
 Merrill. And that is ? — 
 
 Carroll. The approaching marriage of your daughter with 
 this unknown actor, Goodall. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 5 
 
 Merrill. Excuse me, Mr. Carroll ; but I do not quite like 
 your tone. So long as I supposed that Phillis was fancy free 
 I did not oppose your suit ; indeed, I rather encouraged it. 
 But when she told me frankly that your attentions were distaste- 
 ful to her, my interest ended. For reasons adequate to me, I 
 have determined that my daughter shall select her own life 
 partner, provided the one selected be a man of character and 
 respectability. 
 
 Carroll. You are frank, sir, which moves me to be equally 
 candid in stating at once the object of my unusual visit, which 
 you have entirely misconstrued, to my discredit. Last night, 
 upon examining the clearing house returns, I discovered that 
 we have during the past three months been the victims of 
 extensive systematic forgeries. 
 
 Merrill. Forgeries ? \_Enter Servant c. 
 
 Servmit. Your daughter is just returning, sir, accompanied 
 by Mr. Goodall. Shall I tell them that you are engaged here ? 
 
 Merrill. No ; say nothing at present. \_Exit Servant c. l. 
 Come to my study, Bernard ; we will continue our consul- 
 tation there. \_Exit Merrill and Carroll, r. i. e. 
 
 \_Enter Phillis and Goodall, l. c, both in riding costumes. 
 
 Phillis. You are quite sure that you are not neglecting 
 business ? 
 
 Goodall. Quite. It's just nine, and I can do nothing at the 
 bank until ten. 
 
 Phillis. Then we have a half hour for a nice visit. 
 
 \_Fife and drum outside. 
 
 Goodall. There they go, drumming up recruits. Two of my 
 oldest companions, both splendid young actors and noble fellows, 
 enlisted as private soldiers yesterday. 
 
 Phillis. Why don't you go to the Avar, too ? 
 
 Goodall. Why ! Because as Venus conquered Thespis, so 
 Hymen has vanquished Mars. 
 
 Phillis. Very pretty and very sweet. It's awfully nice of 
 
6 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 you to take your morning ride in the park just as I happen to 
 be taking mine. 
 
 Croodall. 0, I'm very thoughtful that way. Besides, it isn't 
 every fellow who can enjoy the novelty of clandestine meetings 
 with his own wife. \_Tries to caress her. 
 
 Phillis. Please don't speak so loud, and, above all, use a 
 little judgment as to the time and place for kissing me. I 
 love to hear you call me wife, and I love your tender caresses, 
 yet they make me fear and tremble like a guilty thing. 
 
 Goodall. The fault was mine, not yours, not yours. I was a 
 strong man, you a confiding girl. It was my duty to have 
 waited patiently for the great happiness reserved for me. 
 But 0, the fear of losing you ! And then our pleasant banter 
 about surprising your father with a secret marriage became a 
 temptation to me to make sure of the prize. 
 
 PJnllis. And had I said no it would have ended there, so 
 the fault is more mine than yours. 
 
 Groodall. And when it was done, like two children, who had 
 robbed the pantry of its choicest jar of jam, we lacked the 
 courage to confess. 
 
 Phillis. And now I tremble for what may follow when he 
 learns the truth. 
 
 Groodall. Why need he know ? He promised you to me at 
 the end of a year's probation. We have but three months to 
 wait. Then we can be married all over again. Think of the 
 novelty of being twice married to the man of your choice and 
 enjoying a second honeymoon all in the space of a year. Your 
 father will, of course, feel aggrieved at first ; but in after years 
 we will all regard it as a clever lovers' ruse- 
 
 Phillis. I wish I could feel as cheerful. But each day I 
 feel more guilty for having deceived so indulgent and loving 
 father. \_She dings to him. 
 
 Croodall. Now, sweetheart, don't cry again. You make me 
 feel like a brute. It takes all the heart and courage out of 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 7 
 
 me. This is the third morning on which you have had a crying 
 spell, and I can't stand your tears. 
 
 Phillis. 0, my darling, can you not guess why, for the past 
 few days, I have been at times so apparently unhappy? I 
 I have tried so hard to be cheerful, too. Will, darling, I have 
 shrunk from telling you, but further concealment would be a 
 crime. Our father must know the truth of our marriage at 
 once. \_She speaks this with her head hidden on his shoulder. 
 
 G-oodall. My sweet wife, forgive me for not better under- 
 standing you. I think I now realize my responsibility and see 
 plainly the path of duty. There can be but one result, and 
 that will be happiness for us all. 
 
 Phillis. Do you still feel so confident ? 
 
 Goodall. More so than ever now. Even should he for a time 
 Avithhold his forgiveness, love will find a way to reach his 
 heart. We have committed a great folly, but it was not a 
 crime. But in any event, we cannot suffer, save in the loss of his 
 affection. I shall still have my art, and with it an inspiration 
 that I have never known before. Besides, dear, the savings of 
 my years of prosperity I have invested in your name. I had 
 intended this as a wedding day surprise. 
 
 Phillis. It was like your good, unselfish heart. But you 
 will tell our father all to-day. \_They are moving l. 
 
 Goodall. Yes, sweetheart ; I shall tell him all promptly upon 
 his arrival at the bank this morning. 
 
 \_Exit Phillis and Goodall l. 2. or i. e. 
 
 Servant. [^Outside l. c] Mr. Merrill is engaged, sir, and 
 cannot see you. 
 
 Hawley. \_Outside L.] He will see me ! He must see me ! 
 [Servant enters c. followed by Hawley.] I know it's unu- 
 sual and unceremonious, but it's an urgent case. Mr. Carroll 
 is here ; I saw him enter a half hour ago, and I must see him 
 at once. 
 
8 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Servant. He is engaged at present with Mr. Merrill, in the 
 study. 
 
 Hawley. No matter ; take in this card. [^Giives card to 
 Servant.] It's as important to him as it is to me. Don't wait ! 
 Don't wait ! 
 [Servant exits reluctantly r. i. e.; Haayley droip% into a seat. 
 
 Hatvley. It has come at last ! I might have known it, and 
 I may thank that actor for it all. Curse him ! I wish I had 
 a drop of brandy to steady my nerves. Just as I fancied I had 
 found a little favor in her eyes, he comes to dazzle her 
 with the tinsel and glitter of his theatrical ways. Curse his 
 handsome face ! 0, for a drop of brandy, just one drop ! 
 
 \_Rises, then sinks into a chair as Carroll enters R. 
 
 Carroll. Well, sir, what is the explanation of this ? 
 
 Haioley. Excuse me, sir ; but you are usually so early at 
 the bank — I thought that — that — has anything of great impor- 
 tance happened, sir ? 
 
 Carroll. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Haioley. Because, sir, since daylight there has been a sullen 
 crowd about the bank door, and it is constantly increasing. 
 
 Carroll. [ J.s^'c?e.] My plot is working admirably. [^?owc?.] 
 What do they want ? 
 
 Hawley. I don't know, sir ; but it looks very much like a 
 run on the bank. 
 
 Carroll. You seem strangely excited. 
 
 Hawley. Why not ? As principal bookkeeper, I am natur- 
 ally concerned. I was refused admission to the bank by an 
 officer. 
 
 Carroll. Sit down, young man, and keep quiet. The affairs 
 of this bank are no concern of yours. But I appreciate your 
 anxiety. Let me see ; it is now about six months since I 
 first discovered that you were exercising your skill as a pen- 
 man in raising the checjues of the firm from small to large 
 amounts. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 9 
 
 Hawley. You discovered my first crime. It was a small 
 matter of twenty odd dollars, Avhich I honestly intended to 
 replace from my month's earnings. Why did you not then 
 discharge and punish me ? 
 
 Carroll. Don't speak so loud. I did not expose you for the 
 reason that I appreciated the possible value to me of so expert 
 a penman's services. 
 
 Haivley. In other words, you have for six months held open 
 before me the doors of Sing Sing, while compelling me to rob 
 your own firm of a half million dollars, which you have skil- 
 fully added to your own private fortune. But it shall go no 
 farther. I am not quite dead to the voice of conscience. 
 Mr. Merrill took me, a friendless orphan, from the street, edu- 
 cated me and placed me in a position to win an honorable 
 position in the world, had I possessed the character for which 
 he gave me credit. If this firm is wrecked through your 
 unparalleled and audacious villainy, with my connivance, I'll 
 tell Mr, Merrill the truth, if I end my days in State's prison. 
 
 Carroll. You will do nothing so absurdly foolish. 
 
 Hawley. Yes, I will ; and if you drive me to it, I'll kill you 
 and end it on the gallows. I will ; I swear it ! 
 
 [Jump up, strikes table. 
 
 Carroll. Sit down, and don't swear. There is no reason 
 why you should end your days in prison or on the gallows. 
 True, extensive forgeries have been committed, and they have 
 been so committed that they can be easily traced to you. But 
 there is absolutely nothing to connect me with the forgeries, 
 and the unsupported statements of convicted forgers, fortu- 
 nately, have little weight in courts of law. 
 
 [Hawley groans and buries his face m his hands. 
 
 Hawley. Oh ! [groans.^ 
 
 Carroll. Noav, don't be a baby. For two years you have 
 been insanely in love with Phillis Merrill. [Hawley looks up 
 surprised.^ You see I know your secret thoughts. 
 
10 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Hawley. True ! true ! And that love, which should have 
 been my inspiration, has been my curse. 
 
 Carroll. That's as you choose to make it. You stood as 
 good a chance as any one until the present favorite came upon 
 the scene. With him safely removed, fortune, honors and 
 love may yet be yours. 
 
 Hawley. Removed ! how ? 
 
 Carroll. Disgraced, dishonored and cast adrift. 
 
 Hawley. I am in no state for solving enigmas. 
 
 Carroll The bank of Merrill & Carroll will be wrecked 
 this day, through extensive forgeries that have absorbed its 
 available capital. Mr. Merrill's infatuation for this vagabond 
 actor is so great that four months ago, at my suggestion, he 
 authorized him to sign the firm's name to checques for current 
 expenses. The rest is easily told. The confidential secretary 
 and accepted suitor has robbed his benefactor. 
 
 Hawley. 0, this is a horrible plot ! Goodall is the soul of 
 honor. While I have secretly hated him, he has been like 
 a brother to me, concealing my shortcomings from Mr. Merrill, 
 and trying in every possible way to make me reform my vicious 
 habits. 
 
 Carroll. Yet he has robbed you of a woman's love, and 
 made you the wretch that you fancy yourself to be. 
 
 Hawley. [Jumping up.'\ True — he has ; curse him, he has. 
 
 Carroll. \_Aside.^ I thought so. \_Aloud, looking at watch.'\ 
 It is now 9.30. Go to the bank, and say to any who ask that 
 I will be there at 10 sharp. 
 
 Hawley. You will protect me from arrest ? 
 
 Carroll. Yes, of course ; you serve yourself in serving me. 
 What could I gain by punishing you ? There, go ! go, now, go. 
 [Carroll urges Hawley off c. l.] He was a little more 
 fractious than I expected. Men in our business can't afford to 
 be troubled with a conscience. [G-oing towards door R. i.] 
 Now that I am safely through with him, what can I do with 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 11 
 
 him ? That's something of a problem. A brilliant idea ! He 
 
 would make an excellent soldier, in case I should require a 
 
 substitute. 
 
 [Ex. R. I. E. Enter c. l. Philander Phipps, cautiously, hat 
 
 in handJ\ 
 
 Phipps. It's astonishing how these swells make folks wait. A 
 lacquey with a ramrod down his back let me in a quarter of 
 an hour ago, and then disappeared, leaving me to amuse my- 
 self, counting the tiles. \_Enter Servant, r. i. e. 
 
 Servant. 0, you're here ; are you ? 
 
 Phipps. I am, great duke, in p>ropia persona. 
 
 Servant. In what ? 
 
 Phipps. In a hurry. Did you give my card to Mr. Goodall ? 
 
 Servant. Not yet. Haven't found him. I think he must be 
 in the music room, with Miss Merrill. 
 
 Phipps. Go ! Seek him there ! \_Servant X. L,] Music hath] 
 charms to soothe the savage breast ! 
 
 Servant. Eh ! What's that ? 
 
 Phipps. Stand not upon the order, but go at once. [Servant 
 exits quicMy l. i. e.] I hope this may not prove a fool's 
 errand. I expect its rather bad form, following him up here, 
 but time is precious, and a ten o'clock rehearsal knows no law, 
 excepting for stars and leading ladies ; they are a law unto 
 themselves. 
 
 [^Enter Goodall l. He grasps Phipps' hand cordially. 
 
 Goodall. Why, Phipps, old man, aren't you lost ? 
 
 Phipps. I certainly feel strangely out of place. I went to 
 your hotel. Got there, of course, just after you had left. The 
 clerk, who knew me from former visits, gave me a pointer, with 
 a wink, and, as I had a ten o'clock rehearsal, I made bold. 
 
 Goodall. All right old fellow ; what can I do for you ? 
 
 Phipps. For me, 0, nothing, thank you. I'm all right. But 
 you know the widows and children of those poor firemen who 
 were killed at the big fire night before last, are very destitute. 
 
12 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Croodall. Poor souls ! How many were killed ? 
 
 Phipps. Five. There are four widows, and at least a dozen 
 children. The case demands immediate action. That means, 
 of course, that we must do something for them, while the char- 
 itable societies are trying to find out what church they belong to. 
 
 Groodall. 0, yes ; I see. 
 
 Phipps. Now Fox wants to give them a rouser to-morrow 
 night. Julia Dean, John Owens, Mrs. Farren, Whalley, Mrs. 
 Jordan and a dozen others have volunteered. The notice is 
 short, but Fox says that if he could get a card in the morning 
 papers, announcing that Billy Goodall would re-appear for this 
 occasion only, and play Romeo to Julia Dean's Juliet, he could 
 sell every seat in the house at a premium in two hours. 
 
 Goodall. I fear George's enthusiasm outruns his judgment, 
 so far as I am concerned. However, tell him he can count on 
 me for the benefit of the widows and orphans. 
 
 Phipps. Do you mean it ? 
 
 Groodall. \_Mock heroic.~\ Place me where the foe is most 
 dreaded, where France most needs a life. \_Both laugh heartily. 
 
 Phipps. That sounds like old times, Billy ; I'd give half a 
 week's salary myself to see you play Claude again. 
 
 Goodall. Would you ? Come around to my rooms some 
 Sunday afternoon, and I'll spout for you half an hour, and 
 you can give the salary to the orphans. 
 
 Phipps. I'll do it. Do you know I came with fear and 
 trembling, but noAv I'm glad I've come. 
 
 Goodall. How are all the boys and girls ? 
 
 Phipps. All well. But 0, how we miss you. Why don't 
 you drop into the green room once in a while and give us an 
 imitation of Forrest, just to drive away the blue devils. 
 
 Goodall. I will, some night. 
 
 Phipps. Good. Forrest plays with us next week. Drop 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 13 
 
 in then. No one enjoys the imitation more than the Governor 
 himself. 
 
 Groodall. I know it, bless his big heart. Tell Fox I've not 
 forgotten my promise to do Pythias to Davenport's Damon for 
 the benefit of St. John's Guild. 
 
 PJiipps. 0, we've got you down for that. And then you 
 know you can't refuse to do Tom Tape to Sue Dennin's Sally 
 Scraggs for her benefit next month. 
 
 Groodall. Sure enough. And yesterday Ned Adams wrote 
 me that I must play Yolage for his benefit at the Winter Gar- 
 den in December. 
 
 Phipps. Good ! And, of course, you'll have to do Badger 
 last night of the season for the Newsboys' Home. 
 
 Gfoodall. Great Scott ! I'll be back in harness again if I 
 
 don't draw the line somewhere. Come, I'll see you safely out. 
 
 [GooDALL AND Phipps exit c. L. Phillis enters l. i e. 
 
 Phillis. Will, Will, darling, where are you ! Not here ! He 
 said he would return in a moment, [x and listens at door R.] 
 I wonder if he is with papa. I hope so. 0, I shall be so 
 glad when it is all over and the whole truth known. I can 
 hear voices, and papa speaking loud and angrily. How unlike 
 him. But I can't hear Will's voice. How sick at heart I 
 grow with apprehension and suspense. They are coming. 
 Where can I go ? [^Enter Carroll r.] Too late. 
 
 Carroll. It is a desperate game, but the stake is worth the 
 risk. \_Sees Phillis.^ Miss Merrill ! This is a pleasure I did 
 not anticipate. 
 
 Phillis. I was about going to the music room ; will you 
 excuse me ? 
 
 Carroll. I trust I have not frightened you away ? 
 
 Phillis. Not at all. But as your visit is evidently a business 
 one, it cannot interest or concern me. 
 
 Carroll. Pardon me. That it concerns you, is beyond doubt. 
 That it will interest you, is for yourself to determine. 
 
14 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Phillis. Will you be seated? {^They sit.^ 
 
 Carroll. Miss Merrill, a grave crisis has arisen in your 
 father's affairs. I refer to it at his request. The precise nature 
 of the crisis you will learn from himself My object in men- 
 tioning it to you is a desire to assure you in advance that no 
 change which may occur in your worldly condition will alter 
 the feelings I have so long entertained for you. 
 
 Phillis. l^Mising.^ Pardon me, Mr. Carroll. If the purpose 
 of this interview is to renew a subject long since interdicted, 
 I must ask you to excuse me. 
 
 Carroll. One word more, and I am silent for all time. When 
 the blow falls, as fall it must, remember this : so far as I am 
 concerned, the past will be forgotten. You will still be Phillis 
 Merrill, the daughter of my friend and benefiictor, the one 
 perfect image that has filled and shall continue to occupy my 
 heart, to the exclusion of all others. 
 [Phillis rises indignantly, is about to speak, cheeks herself and 
 
 hows formally^ 
 
 Phillis. Good morning, Mr. Carroll. 
 
 [^Exit Phillis l. i. e. 
 
 Carroll. Heartless and scornful to the last. 
 
 [^Enter Warren Merrill r, i. 
 
 Merrill. You have seen Phillis ? 
 
 Carroll. Yes, for a moment only. 
 
 Merrill. And you prepared her for the blow ? 
 
 Carroll. Yes, but without intimating its exact nature. 
 
 [Merrill drops into a seat. 
 
 Merrill. Phillis, my darling, my only one ; I feel it for her, 
 only for her. 
 
 Carroll. We must be brave, sir. There will surely be a little 
 saved from the wreck. Besides, being a single man, with 
 few responsibilities, I have been enabled to accumulate a small 
 competence, safe from the reach of the law. I did this when 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 15 
 
 I had hopes of gaining your daughter's hand. This shall he at 
 your disposal, or hers. 
 
 Merrill. How could I have been so deceived ? I would have 
 staked my life on Goodall's honor and integrity. 
 
 Can-oil. The taking of a perfect stranger into your confidence 
 and affections Avas a credit to your heart, if not to your judg- 
 ment. But practical philanthropists like yourself are contin- 
 ually imposed upon. 
 
 Merrill. Poor Phillis ! How can I tell her ? She loves him 
 so absolutely. \_Enter Phillis l. 
 
 Carroll. Your daughter, Mr. Merrill. With your permission, 
 I will write a few lines in your study before going to the bank. 
 
 \_Exit Carroll r. i. e. 
 
 Phillis. [^Kneeling at her father s feet.^ Father, dear, what 
 has happened ! Something terrible, I know ; your hands are like 
 ice, and there are tears in your eyes. Let me kiss them away. 
 
 [/S'Ae kisses and caresses him. 
 
 Merrill. They are not for myself, not for any ill that can 
 befall me, but for you, my pride, my joy. The loved image 
 and sweet reminder of a sainted mother. For you, the pre- 
 cious link that binds the present to the past. 
 
 Phillis. For m6, father dear ? Then do not keep it from me. 
 If it is but business misfortune, do not give it a thought. You 
 are still in life's prime. William and I are young and strong, 
 and safe in each other's love ; we three can laugh away 
 worldly troubles like May day clouds. 
 
 Merrill. My brave girl. If it were only that. But I am 
 glad that you have courage. Y^ou will need it all. Phillis, 
 my child, a terrible truth must be told, though two hearts 
 break in the telling. The man whom you so dearly love and 
 whom I have honored and trusted, has basely betrayed the love 
 and confidence reposed in him. [Phillis rises. 
 
 Phillis. [Aside-I Then he has told all, even sooner than I 
 
i6 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 expected. [^Zow^.] The fault was not his alone, father. Am 
 I not equally guilty ? 
 
 Merrill. Guilty ? You guilty ? What could you have known 
 of these audacious forgeries ? 
 
 Phillis. Forgeries ? 
 
 Merrill. Yes, child, forgeries. A terrible crime at any 
 time, but doubly base when linked with ingratitude. 
 
 Phillis. Forgeries ! Ingratitude ! Father, I fear I do not 
 quite understand you. Have you had an interview with Wil- 
 liam — I mean with Mr. Goodall — since our return from the 
 Park? 
 
 Merrill. No, child ; I have not seen him since yesterday. 
 That trying ordeal I have yet to pass. 
 
 Phillis. \_Aside.~\ Not seen him since yesterday ? Forgery ? 
 Ingratitude ? 0, father, in mercy's name, tell me what is this 
 terrible crime to which you allude ? 
 
 Merrill. Phillis, my child, your affianced husband, my con- 
 fidential secretary, has, by a series of infamous forgeries, wrecked 
 the bank of Merrill & Carroll. 
 
 Phillis. [^Jumping up.~\ T don't believe it ! Though an 
 angel from Heaven should proclaim it, I would still say. No ! 
 No ! No ! 
 
 Meri'ill. Phillis, my child, your love has been as blind as 
 my faith. We are both deceived and outraged. 
 
 Phillis. But the proofs, father ! The charge is a terrible 
 one. What are the proofs ? 
 
 Merrill. They are ample, I grieve to say. Four months 
 ago, at Carroll's suggestion, I foolishly gave him authority to 
 sign the firm's name. While his crime is technically but a 
 breach of trust, it is in his case even more dastardly than 
 downright forgery. 
 
 Phillis. Father, as sure as there is justice in Heaven, you 
 are making a terrible mistake. 
 
 Merrill. Would that I were. But the evidence is too terri- 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 17 
 
 blj clear. Mr. Carroll has even located property that he has 
 been buying with hi.s stolen gains. 
 
 Phillis. \_Aside.~\ Mr. Carroll ! Property that he has been 
 buying ! 
 [GocDALL enters c. L. Phillis tries to run to kiyn, is stopped 
 
 by her father^. 
 
 Phillis. 0, Will, my darling, prove this base — 
 
 Merrill. Not a word. 
 
 Goodall. Good morning, Mr. Merrill, I hope you will not 
 be annoyed with me for stealing an hour's sweet-hearting before 
 going to business. 
 
 Merrill. Phillis, I must ask you to retire. I have important 
 matters to discuss with Mr. Goodall. 
 
 Gfoodall. \_Aside.'\ This is very strange. 
 
 [Merrill leads Phillis to door l. i. 
 
 Phillis. Don't condemn him unheard. Give him a chance 
 to defend himself, and face his accusers. Promise me. 
 
 Merrill. He shall have every chance. If he even denies 
 his guilt, I shall be half inclined to believe him. 
 
 Phillis. God bless you, my noble father. 
 [Merrill kisses her. She exits l. i. e., with a longing look at 
 
 Goodall.] 
 
 Groodall. \_Aside.'\ Now, I understand. Brave-hearted 
 girl ! To spare me the ordeal, she has confessed all herself. 
 Bless her noble heart. 
 
 Merrill. \_Motions Goodall to sit r. lie sits c. himself.^ 
 Mr. Goodall, looking into your frank, open face, I find it diffi- 
 cult to believe that I could have so greatly erred in my judg- 
 ment of men, as I have done in your case. Less than two 
 years ago, my daughter conceived for you what I fancied to be 
 a girlish infatuation for a popular idol. You were the stage 
 hero of the hour, young, gifted and courted. With none of 
 that bigoted prejudice against your art which is affected by 
 shallow minds, I made you a welcome guest at my house, 
 2 
 
18 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 among others, men of taste and cultivation like yourself. 
 I desired my daughter to know the actor in his character of a 
 man and citizen. I frankly confess that this nearer contact 
 soon convinced me the feeling was, on her part, a sincere pas- 
 sion, a sentiment which you assured me was honestly recipro- 
 cated. Did I deny you my daughter's society, or forbid you 
 my house ? No. The lesson of my own life struggles stood 
 before me. It was a story of a poor man's love for a rich man's 
 daughter, of a happy union after many trials and humiliations ; 
 a brief year of wedded bliss, the birth of a daughter in our hum- 
 ble, but happy home, and the tranquil death of the mother. 
 She crossed the silent river with a smile upon her face, saying : 
 " I have loved and have been loved in return. I have brought 
 your reward, I go to seek my own." The memory of that 
 sainted woman's love and her noble death have been the guid- 
 ing stars of my life. The love of the mother reflected in the 
 daughter's face, has been my inspiration and my hope. As she 
 has grown to lovely womanhood, it has been my Avish to see 
 her love and wed an honest man, who should love her in return. 
 I believed that the hour had brought forth the man. In blind 
 faith, I took him into my heart and home. I simply asked in 
 return that for a period of one year he renounce his profession 
 and follow mine. I knew that he loved his art and that such a test, 
 if accepted and faithfully fulfilled, would prove the sincerity of 
 his affection. William Goodall, you are that man. I confided 
 to you my business interests and my daughter's spotless name. 
 You cheerfully accepted the great responsibility. How have 
 you discharged the trust? [Goodall Jiangs his head in 
 sile7ice.'\ Shall I answer for you ? Like a thief you have 
 entered the home of a man who confided in your honor, to rob 
 him of his treasure. Do I wrong you, sir ? 
 
 Goodall. No ! No ! No ! No words of yours can paint my 
 conduct in colors more abhorrent than I now see it myself. 
 But let the blame fall on me alone, for I alone am guilty. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 19 
 
 Merrill. Then you confess all ? 
 
 Goodall. The act has been committed. The time has 
 arrived when the truth must be told, and I had resolved to 
 confess the foolish act to you this very morning. I have been 
 weak, selfish and ungrateful, and ingratitude is the basest of 
 crimes. 
 
 Merrill. Enough ! The same roof can no longer shelter my 
 daughter and yourself. The law will not be invoked against 
 you. 
 
 Goodall. The law ? 
 
 Merrill. I leave your punishment to your God and your 
 conscience. [Carroll enters R. goes down R. slowly. 
 
 Goodall. Then you intend to separate us ! 
 
 Merrill. Audacious criminal ! Dare you dream otherwise ? 
 
 Goodall. And it is her will '( 
 
 Merrill. She has now no will but mine. [Phillis e7itersL. 
 
 Goodall. She is here, let her speak. Phillis — 
 
 Merrill. Do not dare to approach her, sir. Phillis, my 
 daughter, this ingrate has freely confessed his crime. 
 
 [Phillis groans, looks at Goodall. His head falls. 
 
 Phillis. It is true ! It is true ! 0, how I have loved him ! 
 All for this ! 
 
 Merrill. My child, this roof can no longer shelter you both. 
 lie has demanded that you choose between us. 
 
 [Phillis looks wildly from one to the other. 
 
 Goodall. And you can hesitate, notv .^ 
 \J\Iilitary hand in distance playing, " The Girl I Left Behind 
 
 Me." Phillis still struggling, is about to swoon. Carroll 
 
 offers to support her. She repulses him ivith a gesture, and 
 
 falls at her father s feet with a groan.~\ 
 
 Merrill. You see, sir ? You see ? 
 
 Goodall. Had I a hundred eyes, each eye would see that 
 agony. Had I a hundred ears, each ear had heard that groan. 
 Had I a thousand lives, I'd give them all to save that break- 
 
20 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 ing heart one pang. \_Music louder and cheers^ Do you 
 hear those sounds ! They tell of men going forth to battle for 
 a nation's life. Husbands, fathers, brothers and lovers tear 
 themselves from clinging arms to form a mighty host. My 
 place is there. [Phillis recovering and rising, and moves 
 toioa7xi GooBALL. Her Father stands betwee^i.'] No mother 
 bids her son go forth, no lover holds him in a last embrace, 
 no wife with streaming eyes holds up her baby for a farewell 
 kiss, but to the God of battles this day I offer a name dis- 
 honored and a love disowned. \_Uxit Goodall. 
 [Phillis makes one despairing effort to reach him, and swoons 
 in her father s arms.~\ 
 
 Stage and auditorium darkened. Scene at hack is illuminated 
 hy strong lights, showing a series of painted tableaux about 
 12 X llf. feet, as follows : 
 First Picture. — Troops departing for the War. Music, 
 
 " The Girl I Left Behiyid Me.'' 
 Second Picture. — Battle scene. A Federal Victory. Music, 
 
 '■'■ Rally Round the Flag.'' 
 Third Picture. — Battle scene. Confederate victory. In 
 foreground a wounded Federal soldier, dying, a Confed- 
 erate officer bending over hiin tenderly, other Federals, pris- 
 oners to Confederates, etc. In background Federals in 
 retreat. Confederates in pursuit, etc. Music, ^^ Dixie." 
 Fourth Picture. — Desolation of War, night scene, a battle 
 field after a battle. Dead bodies of men and horses, broken 
 cannon, etc. Wolves devouring the bodies. Buzzards hover- 
 ing over the field, others eating at the bodies. Music, " Dead 
 Ma7'ch." 
 Fifth Picture. — Peace. A beautiful pastoral scene. Strong 
 sunlight. Schoolhouse on left, children playing about school- 
 house. Flag flying over school. Picnic party on right in 
 foreground. In background farmer ploughing, others reap- 
 ing, etc., etc. Music, '■'■Star Spangled Banner." 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 21 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Eighteen Years Later. 
 A New JEngland landscape, mountain background. On top of 
 mountain, overlooking valley in foreground, a large modern 
 summer liotel. On R., large set country house, tvith practical 
 veranda. Steps leading to veranda. House extends hack 
 from first groves. On l., running back from first groves, 
 set high iron fence, with high arched gate in C. G-ate to 
 come in 2, entrance on arch over gate in plain letters — 
 " Marrigold Villa.'' Rustic table, bench and chairs R. 
 other garden furniture, floivers, plants, etc., ad. lib. Picket 
 fenceinlf, with gate open in c. At rise enters Rube Hawkins, 
 with rake and pitchfork, a New England bumpkin about 25, 
 yellow hair, florid face, hickory shirt, overalls tucked inside 
 of red-topped boots. 
 
 Rube. Gol darned if I'm going to stay out in that brilin' 
 sun any longer ; jes because old Zeb Sawyer happens to be my 
 father's second cousin, he pretends to take a great interest in 
 me. Gets me over here mornin's and evenin's to do chores, 
 as he calls it, for two dollars a week, and then sends me out to 
 rake and stack a couple tons of hay, jest to kill time, as he 
 says, between meals. Durned ef I know what makes me do it. 
 Guess its a kinder sneakin' likin' for my second cousin, Phoebe. 
 She does nothin' but abuse me, and that seems to make me 
 hanker arter her all the more. Guess I'll jest light my pipe 
 and take a snooze under that old apple tree. 
 \_Exit R. above house. Phcebe enters from house R. She 
 
 goes up c] 
 
 Phoebe. [^Calling.'] Rube! hey Rube! Rube Hawkins! I 
 never did see such a stupid idiot as that man is. Rube ! Rube 
 Hawkins ! I know as well as I know anything that the big 
 
22 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 lunkhead is snoozing somewhere in a shady spot, and heard 
 me as plain as day. Hey, Rube ! 
 
 Ruhe. [OjR.] Hello! 
 
 Phoehe. You're wanted here. 
 
 Ruhe. Well, I'm here. 
 
 Phoehe. I said here ! 
 
 Rube. So did I say here ! 
 
 Phoehe. Well, Avhen I say here I don't mean there. [Rube 
 enters R.] Why didn't you come when I called you ? 
 
 Ruhe. Didn't I come? 
 
 Phoehe. Yes, after I had nearly hollered my lungs out. 
 
 Ruhe. I like to hear you holler, your voice has such a 
 soothing effect on me. \_Smoking his pipe. 
 
 Phoebe. Stop puffing that horrible cabbage leaf in my face. 
 
 Rube. Anything to oblige the fair sex. l^Puts pipe in pocJcet.l^ 
 Phebe, you're a tartar, and you just ride right over me, but 
 somehow I seem to like it. I suppyose that's all the good it'll 
 do me 
 
 Phoehe. You're right for once in your life. Why can't you 
 be around me five minutes without being silly, you big, over- 
 grown gawky ? 
 
 Ruhe. Well, it aint my fault, is it, if you effect me that way ? 
 
 Phoebe. That'll do now. Uncle Sawyer has just got Avord 
 that there will be a lot of city people up on the stage to-day 
 looking for nice country board. Now, you are to hurry out and 
 milk the cows and take all of the milk up to the big hotel on 
 the hill. Then you are to take that jar of cream from the 
 spring house, and all of the young chickens that are fit to kill, 
 over to Mrs. Marrigold's villa there, and collect a dollar apiece 
 for 'em. And then you are to go down to the grocery and get 
 four pounds of oleomargerine, and two cans of condensed milk, 
 five loaves of baker's bread, and ten pounds of pickled pork. 
 
 Rube. Whew ! They must be a regular swell crowd. Is that 
 all? 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 23 
 
 Phoebe. Yes ; hurry. 
 
 Rube. I'm off. \JExit. 
 
 Phoebe. Hey ! Rube ! \^Re-enters.~\ There was a rat drowned 
 in the well last night, and uncle hasn't had time to fish it out 
 yet, so you are to haul up a barrel of fresh water from the frog 
 pond. 
 
 Rube. All right. [^Exit. 
 
 Phoebe. Hey ! Rube ! \^IIe re-enters.^ And buy four pounds 
 of dried apples. 
 
 Rube. Dried apples and frog pond water — great jehosiphat! 
 they will be a stvell crowd. \^JExit Rube r. u. e. 
 
 Phoebe. There's nothing mean about uncle Sawyer when city 
 boarders come. He says nothing's too good for 'em, and if 
 necessary he will sell every speck of butter and cream he can 
 raise to buy canned raspberries and dried codfish for 'em.. 
 That's the kind of country boarding-house keeeper he is. 
 
 Rube. \_Entering R. u. E.] Say, Phoebe, all the passengers 
 but two got out at Deacon McCusics doughnut ranch down at 
 the crossing. 
 
 Phoebe. Just our luck. 
 
 Rube. How about the groceries ? 
 
 Phoebe. Leave out the pork, and bring two salt mackerel. 
 
 Rube. Salt mackerel and dried apples ! That means two 
 barrels of frog pond water. 
 [^Exit Rube r. u. e. Phboebe to house. Enter u. e. as coming 
 
 from stage coach, Bernard Carroll and Sophocles 
 
 Spott. ' They survey the surroundings as they come down.l 
 
 Carroll. This is the retreat, eh ? 
 
 Spott. This is the spot. I have had considerable difficulty 
 in running the game to cover, but the result shows your wis- 
 dom in leaving everything to me. 
 
 Carroll. What particulars have you obtained ? 
 
 Spott. The lady is stopping at the big villa there, overlook- 
 ing the lake, probably as a guest. 
 
24 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Carroll. Whose villa is it ? 
 
 Spott. It is the summer residence of a rich New York 
 widow, Mrs. Marrigold. 
 
 Carroll. Marrigold ? A widow ? Of Seventy-ninth street ? 
 
 Spott. The same. Do you know her ? 
 
 Carroll. 0, very well. I have frequently met her in 
 society. \_Enter Phcebe fro7n house R. 
 
 Phvhe. Good-morning, gentlemen. Were you looking for 
 country hoard ? 
 
 Spott. Yes, my fair Hebe. 
 
 Pluehe. Fair who ? 
 
 Spott. I said Hebe. 
 • Phoebe. What can he be talking about ? My name is Phoebe, 
 sir, not Hebe, sir. Phoebe Adams. My aunt and uncle keep 
 this house, and I come over during the busy season to help 
 them out. 
 
 Spott. Yes. I've heard you make that little speech before. 
 You don't remember me, eh ? 
 
 Phoebe. 0, yes, now I do. You took dinner here three 
 days ago, and asked me so many questions about the family at 
 the villa on the lake. 
 
 Spott. Exactly. I see the villa is still there. 
 
 Phoebe. yes, and full of people. Mrs. Marrigold's son is 
 home from Columbia College. Then there's a beautiful widow, 
 Mrs. Goodall, with such a lovely daughter. They seem to 
 have settled doAvn for the summer, from the quantity of bag- 
 gage. Then there are tourists and coaching parties coming 
 and going every day. 
 
 Carroll. You keep well posted. 
 
 Phoebe. No trouble to do that. They are a jolly lot. Not 
 at all stuck up. They often stroll down here and chat with us. 
 Besides, we sell Mrs. Marrigold all of our butter and cream. 
 
 Carroll and Spott. All of it ? 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 25 
 
 Phoebe. no ! no ! only just some, on days when we don't 
 have any boarders. 
 
 Carroll and Spott. Oh ! [Rube enters hurriedly. 
 
 Ruhe. Say, Phoebe, how many pounds of oleomar — [Phcebe 
 tries to stop him.~\ Well, if they haven't got the mackerel, shall 
 I get the salt pork ? 
 
 [Phcebe pushes him off. Carroll and Spott look at each 
 other. ~\ 
 
 Pha'be. We have two very pleasant front rooms, gentlemen. 
 
 Carroll. I shall want one for a day or two. 
 
 Spott. And I will take the other, 
 
 Phoebe. I'll see about dinner. I think uncle must be out 
 milking the Alderney cows, or killing some spring chickens, or 
 maybe he may have run over to the brook to get a mess of 
 trout. Auntie is just down in the garden picking some straw- 
 berries. \_Exit Phcebe into house. 
 
 Carroll. Strawberries and Alderney cream ! 
 
 Spott. Spring chicken and brook trout ! I wonder what that 
 hayseed meant by dried apples and salt pork ? 
 
 Carroll. We shall probably find out at dinner. 
 
 Spott. Well, I hope not. 
 
 Carroll. Now, Mr. Spott, as I shall not for the present 
 require your services further, will you kindly let me know the 
 amount of my indebtedness to your firm ? 
 
 Spott. The firm of Spott & Bleedem is governed in these 
 matters entirely by results. No results, no dividends, except- 
 ing, of course, the trifling matter of incidental expenses. 
 
 Carroll. I see ! Well sir. Your firm can have no possible 
 interest in my relations, past, present or future, with the lady 
 whose whereabouts I employed you to learn ; therefore, you 
 may make out your bill of incidentals. 
 
 Spott. There you wrong us. The firm of Spott & Bleedem 
 feels an abiding interest in the success or failure of the various 
 enterprises in which it have been engaged. 
 
26 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Carroll. Excuse me, sir, but this is not an enterprise, and 
 we can have nothing in common. 
 
 Spott. There you wrong us again. One week ago to-day, 
 you summoned me to your office to ascertain for you the where- 
 abouts of a lady and daughter, of whom you evidently had lost 
 track. You did not confide to me your reason for wishing to 
 locate the lady, but on your desk was a morning Herald ; on 
 the open page was an advertisement heavily marked with blue 
 pencil lines. I noted the item, and upon reaching the street I 
 procured a copy of the paper, and cut from it the following : 
 \_lieads.^ "Information wanted of the whereabouts of Mrs. 
 Phillis Goodall, nee Merrill, daughter of Warren Merrill, 
 banker, who died in this city in 1863. The lady, her daugh- 
 ter or her husband, if living, will learn something to their 
 advantage by addressing, Texas, box 1844, New York post 
 office." Now, see how one thing leads to another. Goodall was 
 the name of the lady I was to locate ; the mysterious advertise- 
 ment, doubtless, had something to do with you summoning me. 
 Now, the firm of Spott & Bleedem is the legitimate successor 
 of the old and very respectable firm of Ketchem & Workem, 
 who did business in New York from 1852 to 1870. Not a 
 defalcation, forgery, breach of trust, bank robbery, murder, 
 felonious assault (to say nothing of elopements and other 
 social scandals) that occurred during those years, in or about 
 New York, but its entire history, together Avith memoranda 
 and comments upon the merits of the case, are carefully filed 
 in our office. Turning to these files I found that in 1861 the 
 firm of Merrill & Carroll had been wrecked by extensive for- 
 geries, or rather by breach of trust. The culprit was named 
 Goodall, at one time an actor, but later Merrill's secretary, 
 and betrothed to Merrill's daughter. After this memoranda 
 comes the letters H. U. \_IIushed up.~\ Then followed copious 
 memoranda by the firm. Would you like to hear what 
 Ketchem & Workem thought in 1863 ? 
 
A .SON OF THESPIS. 27 
 
 Carroll. As you please. 
 
 Spott. [Reading from 3Iss.] Looks like a conspiracy — W. I. 
 [ Watch ^^.] Goodall entered the army. It transpired that he 
 had been secretly married to Miss Merrill, at Paterson, N. J. 
 three months before. There is an issue to this union, a daugh- 
 ter born April 28, 1862. Warren Merrill died in moderate 
 circumstances, shortly after the birth of his grand-daughter. 
 Two men are to be kept sight of in connection with this case — 
 Philip Hawley, the bookkeeper, now going to the bad, and the 
 junior partner, Bernard Carroll. M. I. I. \_Monei/ in ?'^.] 
 
 Carroll. Quite a romantic incident. 
 
 Sjjott. Isn't it ? I merely refer to it to show how great an 
 interest the firm takes in the affairs of its patrons. 
 
 Carroll. Very thoughtful of you. [J.s^■<:?e.] Miserable 
 blackmailers. [^-I^omc?.] I could have saved you much trouble, 
 and, that you may concern yourself no further, I will add that 
 I have always taken a deep interest in this lady's welfare. 
 I desired to call her attention to the advertisement, and to offer 
 my services for the furtherance of her interests. 
 
 Spott. [Grasping Carroll's hand effusively.~\ Noble soul ! 
 How generous and unselfish ! How much better this miserable 
 world would be if there were more like you. [x. aside.^ I'm 
 something of a liar myself, but this man makes me feel insig- 
 nificant. 
 
 Carroll. And, now, Mr. Spott, as you have had so much 
 trouble for nothing, I shall not complain if your bill for inciden- 
 tals is made out in proportion to your good intentions. We 
 will sample the cream and brook trout, and in an hour you 
 can be rattling merrily back to New York. 
 
 Spott. 0, bless you, I'm in no hurry. It's about time for 
 my vacation. The air here agrees with me, and the incidentals 
 will cover it all. Don't worry. Leave everything to me. 
 Besides, you wouldn't think of allowing me to depart without 
 an introduction to the ladies. 
 
28 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Carroll. Do you imagine that I would introduce you to these 
 ladies ? 
 
 Spott. Why not ? It's not necessary to advertise my name 
 or profession. Simply a club friend whom you ran across here 
 by accident, a guest of the Mountain House. Call me Jones, 
 Walker, anything you like, and leave everything to me. 
 
 Carroll. You are jesting. 
 
 /Spott. I was never more serious in my life. [Groes up c] 
 
 Carroll. The mangy cur ! My first and last experience with 
 private detectives. \_Enter PncEBE/rom house. 
 
 Phoebe. Dinner is ready, gentlemen. 
 
 Carroll. Thank you ; I can relish a dish of strawberries and 
 cream. \_Exit Carroll in house. 
 
 Spott. Dinner ? Did you say dinner ? Visions of spring 
 chicken and brook trout. [JSxit Spott into house r. 
 
 Phxhe. I wish Rube would hurry up with that mackerel ; we 
 have only three slices of pork in the house, and no,t a bit of 
 canned corned beef. [^Exit Phcebe mto house. 
 
 [Enter through gate L. Dorothy followed by Arthur, both 
 
 in tennis dresses. She is running, he chasing her. He 
 jinally captures her and tries to kiss her.'\ 
 
 Dorothy. Stop it ! Don't you dare to kiss me ! If you do, 
 I'll tell your mother. 
 
 Arthur. Tell my mother ! You know you won't do anything 
 of the kind. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, I will. She told me to tell her if you didn't 
 behave properly. 
 
 Arthur. What's the use playing if you don't intend to pay ? 
 Dorothy. What's the use playing if I don't win ? 
 Arthur. You proposed the game. 
 Dorothy. No, I didn't. 
 Arthur. Yes, you did. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 29 
 
 Dorothy. Well you proposed the forfeit, and you had no 
 right to win ; you should always let the lady win ; your mamma 
 says so. 
 
 Arthur. My mamma ! I wish you'd give my mamma a rest. 
 When a fellow gets to be twenty -one, he don't want his mamma 
 thrown at him every five minutes, particularly by young ladies. 
 
 Dorothy. And when a young lady gets to be seventeen, she 
 don't want young men trying to kiss her on the public highway. 
 
 Arthur. I'm not too sure about that. 
 
 Dorothy. You're impertinent ; your mamma said you were, 
 and now I know it. Don't ever speak to me again. From 
 this time forth we are strangers. 
 \_She jiaunts up c. Arthur drops in seat L. Rube Hawkins 
 
 enters C. with two parcels. ~\ 
 
 Ruhe, The only thing they had left in the store was red 
 herrin' and soda crackers. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, Mr. Hawkins, what have you got, Avhat have 
 you got ? 
 
 Rube. Mr. Hawkins ! Geehossiphat ! but that sounds funny. 
 0, I say, just call me Rube, or my clothes wont fit. 
 
 [Phcebe enters from house. 
 
 Phoebe. Will you ever get in here with those things ! What 
 did you get ? 
 
 Rube. Brook trout, smoked. \_Exit Rube into house. 
 
 Phoebe. Good morning. Miss Goodall. 
 
 Dorothy. Good morning, Phoebe. Miss Goodall ! Miss 
 Goodall. Please to remember that in future, Mr. Marrigold. 
 \^She sweeps around with a grand air. 
 
 Arthur. I thought we were strangers. 
 
 Dorothy. So we are. Did you have any new arrivals to-day, 
 Phoebe ? 
 
 Phoebe. Yes, two. 
 
 Dorothy. Is that all ? I haven't seen the tAvo funny gentle- 
 
30 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 men this morning, though I've been down to the gate a dozen 
 times looking out. 
 
 Phoebe. 0, Mr. Betterton, the tragedian, and his secretary, 
 Mr. Wallack, they went down to Baldwinsville last evening to 
 give readings at the Baptist church ; they will be back during 
 the morning. 
 
 Dorothy. I'm so glad they haven't gone away to stay. I 
 just love that dear old gentleman. He is so different from any- 
 one I ever met before, and the slim man is so awfully jolly and 
 funny. Do you know what the tragedian calls me ? 
 
 Phoebe. 0, yes. Sweet Violet. 
 
 Dorothy. What a strange fancy, wasn't it ? And holding his 
 finger up just like that, he said: "Now don't tell me your 
 name, for I want to know you only as my sweet Violet," and 
 his voice was so tender and gentle, and his smile so sweet. 
 
 Phoebe. 0, he's very polite to ladies. Why, he couldn't treat 
 me with more ceremony if I were Mrs. Marrigold herself. 
 
 Dorothy. Do you know, I think I ought not to call him an 
 old gentleman. He isn't old, although he is bald. Why, some- 
 times when he smiles and brightens up, he looks ever so young 
 and handsome. 
 
 Arthur. You seem greatly interested in these entire strangers, 
 Miss Goodall. 
 
 Dorothy. That is my privilege, I believe, Mr. Marrigold. 
 
 Phoebe. There they go ! Quarrelling again. In five minutes 
 they'll be hugging each other. Three's a crowd. 
 
 \_Exit Phcebe m house r. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, Archie, see ! What a beautiful butterfly ! Let's 
 catch it ! 
 [ They chase about tvith their tennis bats, run into each other, 
 
 strike out wildly, laughing and screaming. Finally capture 
 
 it and run down L. They sit on the bench, examining the 
 
 butterjly, their heads very close together.~\ 
 
 Dorothy. Isn't it just lovely ! 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 31 
 
 Arthur. It's perfectly beautiful. 
 \_Enter CoL. Tom Alchostra at hack. A large handsome 
 
 man of fifty. A typical southwesterner, neatly dressed in 
 
 gray. Carries a grip.~\ 
 
 Colonel. [LooJcing at house R.] This looks to be more in 
 my way. Too doggone many frills for me up at that big hotel 
 on the hill. I never fully realized my utter insignificance 
 until to-day. When that big cluster diamond pin, with a small 
 blonde man behind it, sized me up, and passed me the pen, I 
 felt that I were a worm ; and when he called Mr. Front, and 
 told him to show me to 1159, I felt that I were a Chinaman. 
 I collared my grip and struck for low timber. Twenty-four 
 hours in the place, and Texas would have forgotten that I ever 
 existed. [Sees Dorothy and Arthur with their heads very 
 close together L. Speaks very loud.'\ Change cars ! [ They jump 
 up, Dorothy screams. They run to gate l, turn and look 
 again, then rush off through gate L.] I don't like to interfere 
 with people's enjoyment, but I don't see how I could have 
 helped it in this case. The ranch seems very quiet. I shall 
 have to take an inventory. \_Sits L. opens grip, takes out 
 newspaper.'] Ah, here it is ! \_Reads.] " Information is 
 wanted of the whereabouts of Mrs. Phillis Goodall, nee Merrill, 
 daughter of Warren Merrill, banker, who died in this city in 
 1862. The lady, her daughter or her husband, if living, 
 will learn something to their advantage by addressing Texas, 
 box 1844, P. 0. N. Y. City." Now, that looks harmless 
 enough, but lo ! the result. [ Takes out very large bundle of 
 letters.] Over three hundred letters from lawyers, sharpers, 
 beggars, detectives and other dead beats. [Opens one and 
 reads.] " Dear Sir : The firm of Sharp Brothers, attorneys- 
 at-law, make a specialty of tracing heirs, etc., terms contingent." 
 [Reads.] •" Texas, box 1844. Can give you some valuable 
 information, being the successors of the old firm of Ketchem 
 & Workem. Our records of the oldest New York, New Jersey 
 
32 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 and Connecticut families are most complete. You will consult 
 your interests by consulting us. A word to the wise, Spott 
 & Bleedem, private detectives, successors to Ketchem & 
 Workem. \_Reads.~\ "Texas, etc., Honored Sir: "The 
 Society for the Regeneration of the Heathen." — Yes, of course, 
 and three hundred others of the same sort, and every mother's 
 son of em a professional dead beat. But here's one that has 
 the ring of sincerity. \^Reads.^ " Texas, N. Y., P. 0. box 
 1844. Replying to your advertisement, I have to say that the 
 Avriter is Phillis Goodall, daughter of the late Warren Merrill, 
 banker. My husband, William Goodall, entered the Federal 
 army in 1861, since which time I have not seen or heard of 
 him. Our daughter, born after my husband's enlistment, is 
 now with me, aged seventeen. If you have any information 
 of my husband, I shall be glad to call upon you, with ample 
 proofs of identity, or, should you prefer it, the enclosed card will 
 direct you to my present address. On your arrival at Bald- 
 winsville take coach for the Mountain House. There you 
 can learn the location of Mrs. Marrigold's villa, where I am at 
 present a guest. Respectfully etc., Phillis Goodall." Brief, 
 business-like and to the point, and heah I am. 
 [Spott enters from house. Colonel hurriedly replaces letters^ 
 
 letting neivspaper fall on the ground.^ 
 
 Spott. I had to come out and get a mouthful of oxygen to 
 hold that dinner down. Spring chicken and brook trout — ugh 
 [Mug.] 
 
 Colonel. I reckon I will see what the chances are for grub. 
 [Starts R. Meets Spott. Theg eye each othex^ I've seen 
 that befo'. 
 
 Spott. I've seen him somewhere. 
 
 Colonel. Good morning, sah. 
 
 Spott. Same to you, sir. [^4s2(;?e.] That's the Southern 
 jay who was always hanging around the New York postoffice 
 while I was watching box 1844. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 33 
 
 Colonel. l^Aside.'] That's the fellow who was always hang- 
 ing around the postoffice when I went fo' my letters. 
 
 Spott. Fine day, sir. 
 
 Colonel. Beautiful, sah, beautiful. 
 
 Spott. Stranger in these parts ? 
 
 Colonel. To a certain extent, sah, yes, sah. 
 
 Spott. Like myself, sir, just stole aAvay from the cares of 
 business for a breath of fresh air ? 
 
 Colonel. My own case, sah, exactly, sah. 
 
 \_An atvkward pause. 
 
 Spott. Fine day. 
 
 Colonel. Yes, sah, you said that befo', sah. 
 
 Spott. Did I ? I believe I did. [Aside.'] It's the same 
 man, sure. 
 
 Colonel. \_A.nde.] It's the same man, suah. He's a detect- 
 ive or a bunco steerer, much the same. [^Another pause. 
 
 Spott, Beautiful weather we're hav — 
 
 Colonel. That's understood, sah. What's your name, sah ? 
 
 [Spott starts, then recovers. 
 
 Spott. Walker, sir. Major Walker, New York Stock 
 Exchange. [^Offei's hand.] And yours? 
 
 Colonel. Alchostra, sah, Colonel Tom Alchostra, of Texas. 
 
 [^Grives his hand. 
 
 Spott. \_Aside.] Texas ! \_Aloud.] I'm proud to known you, 
 sir. You are from a great State, sir. 
 
 Colonel. Thank you, sah. 
 
 Spott. Cattle King, I suppose ? 
 
 Colonel. Not exactly, sah ; though, like yourself, something 
 of a stock man. 
 
 Spott. [ With an affected laugh.] That's good, stock man, 
 cattle king, stock broker. That's good, very good, ha, ha ! 
 [J.szt?(;.] He's a liar. He's a detective. \_A pause.] It's 
 a fine da — 
 3 
 
34 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Colonel. Don't say that again, sah. [vlsi't^e.] This fellow is a 
 liar or a detective — the same thing. He has been following me. 
 [x to house R.] \_Aloud.~\ Good morning, sah ; I trust we 
 shall become better acquainted, sah. 
 
 \_Exit Colonel Tom into house r. 
 Spott. Same to you, sir. If he is a detective, he's a new one 
 on me. I'll take a little stroll in the garden, and see if I can 
 find that strawberry patch. 
 
 \^Music, '■'■Auld Lang Syne.'' Goodall, known as Better- 
 ton, and Phipps, known as Wallack, enter l. u. e. 
 Phipps carries a champagne basket, with hits of tinselled 
 wardrobe protruding, and sivords and foils tied on top. 
 Goodall is dressed in dark Prince Albert coat, lavender 
 trousers and white gaiters ; Byronic collar and cuffs, hair 
 long and in ringlets, bald on the crotvn ; a handsome, 
 graceful, gentlemanly man, apparently about 50, exquisitely 
 neat, but quaint and old fashioned, a Palmy Pay Tragedian. 
 He wears the Gr. A. R. button. Wallack is an old-time 
 country comedian, solemn and very respectfid. Goodall 
 carries a bunch of ivild flower s.'\ 
 
 Goodall. Thus far into the bowels of the land have we 
 marched on without impediment. 
 
 [Phipps seated r. on basket, wiping away perspiration. 
 Phipps. Without impediment ! What do you call this ? 
 \_Basket.~\ 
 
 Goodall. In the exhilaration of the glorious morning air, 
 fragrant with the tonic perfumes of meadow, orchard and wood- 
 land, I have not felt the burden. * 
 
 Phipps. You haven't felt it ! Probably not. But I have. 
 Goodall. Blessed is he whose back is fitted to his burden. 
 This castle hath a pleasant seat. Here for the nonce we will 
 abide. This merry jaunt through shaded valleys and fragrant 
 fields has inspired me. I shall to-day re-write the sixth act 
 of my drama. [^Se sits and take out Mss.^ 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 35 
 
 Pliipps. There lie goes again. The idea of a great trage- 
 dian descending to write a drama of modern rot, and actually 
 wanting to act in it himself, he, the ideal Hamlet, the best Lear 
 since Forrest, and the only Romeo. 
 
 CroodaU. Last night, after the banquet, tendered us by the 
 Rector, Deacons and the Mayor — 
 
 Phipps. Banquet ! Ham sandwiches in the vestry. 
 
 Goodall. A new situation came to me, and before sleeping, 
 I jotted it down. I will read you the scene. 
 
 Phipps. Some other time. I know you must be tired. 
 [vlsi'c^e.] I am [Goodall looks at him in disgust.^ 
 
 GroodaU. Upon what date did we mail the synopsis and 
 descriptive circular of my new war drama to the New York 
 managers ? 
 
 Phipps. Just two weeks ago. 
 
 Goodall. No answer yet from Palmer ? 
 
 Phipps. Not a line. 
 
 Goodall. And Daly, Frohman, French and Abbey ? 
 
 Phipps. Not a line. Even Miner and Jacobs are silent. 
 
 Goodall. This is the unkindest cut of all. It is the irony 
 of fate. 
 
 Phipps. What chance is there in the profession to-day for 
 real actors ? 
 
 Goodall. Actors ! Actors ! There are no actors now. Count 
 them upon your fingers. Forrest, Eddy Davenport, Adams, 
 Chanfrau, Hamblin, Scott, Jennings, gone ! all gone ! why, 
 there are scarcely a dozen of us left. 
 
 Phipps. And the manager don't seem to know that we are 
 here. 
 
 Goodall. When Roscius was an actor in Rome — 
 
 Phipps. Then came each actor on his ass. 
 
 Goodall. Which reminds me that I have here a letter 
 offering me an engagement to play Uncle Tom, at Rahway, on 
 July the Fourth. Yes, sir, this vulgar ignoramus actually asks 
 
36 A SON OF THESPIS, 
 
 me to play second to a jackass. Here is his programme, with a 
 portrait jpf his star, \_Exhibits a long programme of Uncle 
 Tom^ with large cut of a jackass. '\ And I supported Forrest ! 
 \_Colonel Tom comes from house ivith Phcehe. He has a letter 
 
 in his hand. 
 
 Phoebe. I hope you found the room pleasant, sir. 
 
 Colonel. 0, yes, Miss, quite to my liking. Mrs. Marri- 
 gold's Villa is there, you say ? 
 
 Phoebe. Yes, sir, that is her park, and gatekeeper's lodge. 
 
 Colonel. I should like to send a note to the house. 
 
 Phoebe. Certainly, sir. Here, Rube ! Hey, Rube ! [Rube 
 comes from house.~\ This gentlemen wants you to take a letter 
 to Mrs. Marrigold's. 
 
 Rube. Yes, sir. Any answer, sir ? 
 
 Colotiel. Ask the lady. 
 
 Rube. Yes, sir. 
 \_Takes letter and starts l. reading address aloud, ^^ Mrs. 
 
 Phillis Goodall, care Mrs. Marrigold., Marrigold Villa,'' 
 
 He falls over his feet and stumbles off through the gate L.] 
 
 Phoebe. 0, Mr. Betterton, I didn't know that you had 
 returned ; I expected you up on the stage. 
 
 Cfoodall. All the world's a stage. Why should we be jos- 
 tled over dusty roads in a plebeian spring wagon, when walk- 
 ing is a nobler exercise. 
 
 Phipps. Yes, and much more appetizing. 
 
 Phoebe. Colonel Alchostra, this is Mr. Betterton, the famous 
 tragedian. 
 
 Colonel. \_Offering hand.~\ I admire your noble art, sir, and 
 esteem it an honor to know one of its most gifted exponents. 
 
 Gfoodall, Your praise outruns my poor deserving, sir. Per- 
 mit me to present my secretary and fellow artist. Burton Wal- 
 lack. A man he is of honesty and trust. 
 
 Colonel, [x'ing, takes his hand.^ I esteem this a great 
 privilege, sah. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. ^7 
 
 Phipps. I am your poor servant, ever, sir. 
 
 Colo7ieh \_Aside.'\ A most interesting pair, certainly. 
 
 [Colonel goes up c. and l. looking off gate. 
 
 Phoebe. [To Goodall.] I have saved two nice spring 
 chickens and some strawberries for you, but I had to hide 'em 
 in the wood shed to keep 'em. 
 
 Groodall. Your pains are registered when every day I tur^i 
 the leaf to read. 
 
 Phoebe. How I do love to hear him talk. 
 
 Groodall. How are you progressing with" the part of Willie 
 Hammond ? 
 
 Phoebe. 0, I know all of the speeches now, but the cues ar.e 
 what bother me most. Are you sure that I can do it ? 
 
 Groodall. Positive ; why, you will be an ideal soubrette. 
 
 Phoebe. Rube and I were going over the scenes together 
 last evening in the parlor, when Uncle came in and caught us. 
 the stories we had to tell. I'll tell the cook to prepare your 
 dinner. \Exit Phcebe to house. 
 
 Groodall. Excellent wench. 
 [Phipps l. has picked up paper dropped by Colonel 
 
 Alchostra. He glances at it carefully, sees the marked 
 
 advertisement, looks again, gets his glasses on, and reads 
 
 intently.^ 
 
 Groodall. [To Colonel Alchostra.] You will excuse me, 
 sir ; I see my morning ramble has been fruitful in the accum\i- 
 lation of dust. \_Bows politely and enters house L. 
 
 Colonel. \_Coming down c.~\ I like these gentlemen. They 
 are about the first I have met since I got to New York who do 
 not appear like suspicious characters. 
 
 Phipps. [^Staring at paper. ~\ I wonder what it can mean. 
 \^Reads disjointedly.^ Phillis Goodall, daughter of Merrill, 
 banker — information wanted — and marked in blue pencil, box 
 1844. I can't be dreaming this. [_Takes a pin from his coat, 
 sticks it in his leg, jumped up.~\ No, sir ; I'm wide awake. 
 
38 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Colonel. Ah, Mr. Wallack. I suppose you have sought this 
 quiet retreat for a much-needed rest after a season of contin- 
 uous mental endeavor. 
 
 Phipps. Exactly, sir. Is this your paper, sir ? I found it 
 lying here. 
 
 Colonel. \_Taking and examining it.^ Yes, sah. I must 
 have dropped it. 
 
 Phipps. May I ask, sir, if you marked that advertisement in 
 blue pencil ? 
 
 Colonel. I did, sah. 
 
 Phipps. Of course its none of my business, sir ; but did you 
 mark it for any particular reason ? 
 
 Colonel. \_Aside.~\ These men are old actors. Possibly 
 knew Goodall. [JLZowc?.] I inserted that advertisement. 
 
 Phipps. You did ? 
 
 Colonel. I did, sah. I take it, sah, that you have been many 
 years in your profession, sir. Possibly you were actors befo' 
 the wah. 
 
 Phipps. Yes, sir ; we were. 
 
 Colonel. In the metropolis, sah, or in the provincial cities ? 
 
 Phipps. Right in New York, sir. We've not always been 
 barnstormers, sir. I never amounted to much as an actor 
 myself, sir. I was prompter, stage manager and all-round 
 utility, but my companion was a famous leading man when the 
 war broke out, and New York was at his feet. He was a 
 mere lad of twenty-six, and the present generation of theatre- 
 goers don't know him. But you ask any old time New 
 Yorker if he remembers Billy Goodall. 
 
 Colonel. [Jumping up.~\ Goodall ! 
 
 Phipps. [Jumping up.~\ Eh, who said anything about 
 Goodall ? 
 
 Colonel. You did, sah. 
 
 Phipps. Well, then I didn't mean it. I must have been 
 dreaming. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 39 
 
 Colonel. Sit down, sail. No harm is done ; possibly much 
 good. 
 
 Phipps. [Aside.'l 0, what have I said ? what have I done ? 
 
 Colonel. No harm, sah, no harm at all. If, in an unguarded 
 moment, you have said anything which you regret or wish to 
 recall, on the honah of a Texan and a soldier, I did not 
 heah it, sah. 
 
 PMpps. [Taking his hand.^ I thank you, sir. 
 
 Colonel. Of this rest assured. I am the bearer of joyful 
 tidings to William Goodall, if he's living; to his wife and 
 daughter, if he is dead. 
 
 Phipps. His daughter ? 
 
 Colonel. Yes, sah. His wife or widow, and his daughter. 
 
 Phipps. And you have sought him here ? 
 
 Colonel. No, sah. I have sought the lady and her daugh- 
 ter here. 
 
 Phipps. Here,? here ? 
 
 Colonel. Yes, sah, heah. They are at present guests at 
 yonder villa, sah. 
 
 Phipps. Then your meeting with us is purely accidental ? 
 
 Colonel. Purely, sah, I assure you. 
 [Phipps takes a pin from his coat and jabs it in his leg. Winces. 
 
 Then jabs it in Colonel A's leg. Colo'nel jumps up with 
 
 a cry. Phipps jumps up.^ 
 
 Phipps. Excuse me, sir, but I wanted to make sure that it 
 wasn't a dream. 
 
 Colonel. Yes, sah, of course, sah, quite right, sah. [^Rubs 
 his leg ] 
 
 Phipps. And after all these years I have betrayed my 
 friend and benefactor. 
 
 Colonel. Betrayed ! Say rather rescued, sah, saved. 
 
 Phipps. You don't know the man, sir. He entered the 
 army under a cloud, using a fictitious name. His young wife, 
 whom he worshipped, forsook him for her father at a terrible 
 
40 A SON or THESPIS. 
 
 moment. Why, if he dreamed that she was near him at this 
 moment he would strike out for Jackass Gulch or the Red 
 Dog Canon within an hour. 
 
 Colonel. Then he must not know it, and they must be 
 brought together by strategy. 
 
 Phipps. Do you think it can be done ? 
 
 Colonel. Your friend is dear to you ? 
 
 Phipps. Dearer than my own life, sir. He took me, a friend- 
 less, hungry gamin, from the slums of the old Bowery, and made 
 a man of me. I was his dresser, then call boy, prompter, stage 
 manager, and when he entered the army I followed him. I 
 saw him rise from a private soldier to a full colonel of cavalry ; 
 and when the end came, the actor, who by his genius had 
 swayed the hearts of thousands, and the dashing soldier, who, 
 upon twenty fields had sought death, only to gain promotion, 
 both passed from the public eye, both were lost in Betterton, 
 the wandering son of Thespis. Do you wondpr, sir, that I am 
 attached to him ? 
 
 Colonel. No, sah. The sentiment does credit to your head 
 and heart. 
 
 Phipps. I don't know why I have spoken so freely to you, 
 sir. I seem to have been impelled by a power beyond my 
 control. 
 
 Colo7iel. It was instinct, sah — the great voice of nature, that, 
 pleading in our hearts, guides us aright, when reason is at fault. 
 
 Phipps. I know you won't abuse my confidence. 
 
 Colonel. \_Gfnmig his hand.'\ Mr. Betterton shall never 
 know from me that you have revealed his story. I shall win 
 his confidence. 
 
 Phipps. I hope you may, sir. He is very approachable. He 
 loves to talk of his art with educated men, and of his army 
 life. But if you go back of '61, he will draw himself into his 
 shell, and pull the shell in after him. \_They move R.] 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 41 
 
 Colonel. 1 will find a way to draw him out again, sah. 
 [Colonel and Phipps enter house r. Enter through gate l. 
 Mrs. Marrigold, Phillis, Dorothy, Arthur and Rube.] 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Did you say the gentleman was stopping 
 here ? 
 
 Rube. Yes'm, just arrived. Won't you come in ? 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. No, thank you, the gentleman is likely at 
 dinner. We will stroll down to the post-ofiice, and stop on our 
 return. 
 
 Ruhe. Yes'm. I'll tell him so. 
 
 [Rube enters house n., falling over his feet. 
 
 Dorothy. I wonder if Mr. Betterton has got back ? 
 
 Arthur. Yes. Rube told me he had just arrived. 
 
 Dorothy. I wish he would come out so mamma could see him 
 just for a minute. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Why, Phillis dear, you're as pale as a 
 ghost. 
 
 Phillis. Am I, dear ? After all, it's not strange when you 
 consider the mysterious character of this advertisement, coming 
 after so many years. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. It is strange, dear. But it can't be any- 
 thing very tragic. Probably the lawyers have discovered some 
 means by which they hope to get a good fee out of you. 
 
 Phillis. I hope it's nothing more serious. But I somehow 
 fancy that it is some part of a scheme of Bernard Carroll's. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I don't see what more he could hope to gain. 
 
 Phillis. He has continuously annoyed me with his attentions. 
 About two years ago I escaped them by renting my city house 
 and taking quiet lodgings near Dorothy's school. 
 
 Mrs, Marrigold. Well, you're safe for this summer, 
 for I propose to keep you here until October at least. We 
 really haven't had a good long visit since Ave left school, and 
 here we are widows, with a great big boy and girl, old enough, 
 and just foolish enough to fall in love. 
 
42 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Phillis. You will find me a willing captive, Madge, dear. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. But I "won't have any long faces about 
 me Life is too short. You've got to romp and laugh and 
 sing and brace up and be a girl again. 
 
 Phillis. One can't well help being cheerful about you. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Cheerful ! that's not enough. You must 
 be jolly. Why, at school you were the incarnation of fun and 
 mischief, just like that vixen, Dorothy, is now. 
 
 Phillis. But, Madge, dear, we are no longer girls. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. We are just what we make ourselves. You 
 want a new romance. Why you're only thirty-six. Don't 
 chill every man who looks at you tenderly. Women were 
 created to love and to be loved, and the heart that loves never 
 grows old. 
 
 Phillis. Then mine shall be ever youthful and ever green. 
 [Putting her arms about Mrs. Marrigold.] For I love you. 
 I love my sweet, mischievous daughter, and I love the memory 
 of William Goodall. 
 \_They go up c. Dorothy and Arthur are seated on steps of 
 
 house R.] 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. [Turning at hack.'\ Come along, children. 
 [Exit Phillis and Mrs. Marrigold. 
 
 Dorothy and Arthur. Children ! [x l. 
 
 [Jump up, both look disgusted. Betterton appears on 
 
 veranda of house just at Phillis's exit. Arthur and 
 
 Dorothy go out l. Betterton has a bunch of tvild 
 flowers. Dorothy and Arthur run to greet him, and then 
 
 advance C on each side of him, taking his hands.~\ 
 
 Dorothy. 0, Mr. Betterton ! we are so glad you have 
 returned. Yesterday seemed so long and lonesome after you 
 left. 
 
 Goodall. My sweet violet; you would not flatter a poor 
 citizen ? 
 
 Dorothy. 0, no, indeed. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 43 
 
 [GoODALL Sits L, the youug people on the ground at his feet. 
 
 Dorothy. I wish you had come just a moment sooner. Mrs. 
 Marrigold and my mamma were here. 
 
 Gfoodall. Indeed ? 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, they have just walked down to the post-office. 
 
 Arthur. But they will be back in a few minutes. 
 
 GroodaU. As I wandered through the meadows this morning, 
 I plucked these wild flowers. 
 
 Dorothy. For me ? 0, how sweet and beautiful ! 
 
 Goodall. Can you read their language ? 
 
 Dorothy. 0, yes, sir. 
 
 Goodall. There is a violet. The symbol of sweetness, purity 
 and modesty ; may it always become you as now. \^He 
 puts violets in her hair.'\ Here's a sprig of rosemary. 
 
 Dorothy. That's for remembrance. 
 
 Goodall. And here a pansy. 
 
 Dorothy. A pansy ! That's for thought. Thought and 
 remembrance fitted. 
 
 Goodall. Ah ! I see you read Shakespeare, too. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, yes, sir. Mamma read all of the plays of 
 Shakespeare to me, as soon as I was old enough to understand 
 them. 
 
 Goodall. A wise and thoughtful mother. And you attend 
 the theatre ? 
 
 Dorothy. 0, yes, very often, with my teachers and school 
 mates. But mamma never goes. I don't know why. Yet, 
 once she told me that my papa had been a famous actor when 
 a very young man before their marriage. Then he became a 
 soldier and was killed. 
 
 Goodall. Poor child. 
 
 Dorothy. I presume that's why mamma never goes. 
 
 Arthur. Not a bit like my mother. She takes in anything, 
 and so do I. And we know lots of mighty nice people in the 
 profession, and mother often has em up to the house to dinner. 
 
44 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Dorothy. Isn't it strange that neither of us has seen Mr. 
 Better ton on the stage ? How I should love to see you play 
 Hamlet. Do you think you will play it in New York soon ? 
 
 Groodall. \_After a pause.^ Possibly. 
 
 [^He hangs his head thoughtfully. 
 
 Arthur. Now is a good time ; ask him now. 
 
 Dorothy. I don't like to. 
 
 Arthur. Go on ! He won't be annoyed by anything you 
 say. 
 
 Dorothy. Mr. Betterton do you ever give — that is — I mean 
 do you some times take part in private theatricals ? 
 
 Arthur. No, she means do you ever give entertainments at 
 private residences ? 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, that's it. 
 
 Groodall. Frequently. The art of entertaining, or endeavor- 
 ing to do so, is my profession, and I have pursued it in the 
 noblest temples of Thespis, in the candle lit barns of the 
 western hamlet, in the humble dining-room of the mining camp 
 hotel, and in the elegant drawing-rooms of the rich devotees of 
 fashion. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, I'm so glad. To-morrow will be Arthur's — I 
 mean Mr. Marrigold's — twenty-first birthday, and his mamma is 
 going to give him a party. 
 
 Arthur. Mamma! A party! 0, come off ! Don't make 
 me a kid when I'm old enough to vote. I'm going to have a 
 big blow-out. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, there's an orchestra to come up from Nashua, 
 so that we can dance in the evening. 
 
 Arthur. And a swell dinner, with everybody in full dress 
 togs. Lots of my Columbia chums are coming up. 
 
 Dorothy. And if we could just have a nice little play to 
 wind up with. 
 
 Goodall. Nothing easier. I had arranged to play to-mor- 
 row night at Baldwinsville, for the benefit of the Reformed 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 45 
 
 Drunkards' Association, a drama called " Ten Nights in a Bar- 
 room," assisted by local talent. But, unfortunately, the lady 
 Avho was to play little Mary Morgan, the drunkard's darling 
 child, was called to Bangor to attend the wedding of her 
 granddaughter. So I am at liberty for the occasion. 
 
 Arthur. Well, we don't want any temperance drama to- 
 morrow night. 
 
 Dorothy. No, indeed, some of the guests might think we 
 were getting personal. 
 
 Groodall. An inspiration ! I will enact a scene from my own 
 new drama. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, have you written a real play, all of your own, 
 just like Shakespeare ? 
 
 Goodall. [After a pause.'\ A real play of my own, yes ; but 
 not exactly like Shakespeare, perhaps. 
 
 Arthur. That will be jolly. Where was it first produced ? 
 
 Groodall. The rivalry among New York managers for its 
 premier is now at its height. I shall bide my time. Mean- 
 time your guests will enjoy the honor of witnessing the first 
 representation of any of its scenes. 
 
 Dorotiiy. Isn't that nice? 
 
 Groodall. But one obstacle presents itself. 
 
 Dorothy. An obstacle ! 0, dear ! What is it ? 
 
 Goodall. The cast. The scene will require two ladies and 
 three gentlemen. The gentlemen are provided for, my come- 
 dians, Mr Wallack, Mr. Hawkins aad myself. 
 
 Dorothy. Mr. Hawkins ? 
 
 Arthur. What, Rube ? [ They both laugh heartily. 
 
 Goodall. Talent is frequently found in unexpected places. 
 Genius is no respector of pedigrees. I have had them in 
 rehearsal for some time. But we sadly need an ingenue. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, how I wish I could do it ! I often played in 
 the charades at school. 
 
 Goodall. That wish was an inspiration. Will you do it ? 
 
46 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Dorothy. Do you think I could ? 
 
 Croodall. Think it ? I know it. You would be an ideal ingenue. 
 
 Arthur. Does this one have a granddaughter ? 
 
 Dorothy. Of course not ; what nonsense ! 
 
 Croodall. But first you must secure your mother's consent. 
 
 Dorothy. That will be easily done. Mamma never denies 
 me anything. 
 
 Goodall. I wull send you the part this afternoon, and we will 
 rehearse to-morrow at ten sharp, in the hotel parlor. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, dear ! I wonder if I shall get nervous. 
 
 Croodall. \_After a pause.'\ The matter of compensation. 
 [Goodall looks into space. Arthur and Dorothy look at 
 
 each other. ^ 
 
 Arthur. Yes, of course — the compensation. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, of course. 
 
 Goodall. However, 'tis but a trifling detail, which you can 
 arrange with my manager. 
 
 Arthur and Dorothy. Your manager ! 
 
 Dorothy. Oh, do you have a manager ? 
 
 Goodall. Assuredly. Mr. Wallack. 
 
 Dorothy. I thought he was your comedian ? 
 
 Arthur. I understood that he was your valet or secretary ? 
 
 Goodall. The exigencies of our art frequently call for the 
 exercise of varied functions. Mr. Wallack's protean talents 
 are equalled only by his manly beauty. 
 
 Dorothy. Then it's all settled ? 
 
 Goodall. When you have secured your mother's consent, 
 yes. [Colonel Tom and Phipps come from house.] For 
 your benefit, I will read you the scene which we are to play. 
 
 [iZe gets out his Mss. formally. 
 
 Phipps. He has a victim at last. 
 [Goodall ai'ranges his eyeglasses, assumes an attitude, raises 
 
 his arm, clears his throat, etc., when Phipps coming forward 
 
 R. coughs ; Goodall greatly annoyed?^ 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 47 
 
 Dorothy. Now, that's what I call a shame. To be interrupted 
 at such a time. [Dorothy and Arthur rise and go up c. 
 
 JDorotliy. You see Mr. Wallack about the little details, and 
 I'll run down and tell your mamma. 
 
 Arthur. Don't say mamma. 
 
 Dorothy. She is your mamma, aint she V 
 
 Arthur. It's not necessary for you to remind me of it every 
 ten minutes. 
 
 Dorothy. And it's not necessary for you to snap me up as 
 though I were a child. 
 
 Arthur. You are a child, ain't you ? 
 
 Dorothy. No, I'm not. 
 
 Arthur. What are you, then ? 
 
 Dorothy. I'm a girl. 
 
 Arthur. What's the difference ? 
 
 Dorothy. A great deal of difference. 
 
 Arthur. What is the difference ? 
 
 Dorothy. None of your business. Don't you dare to ever 
 speak to me again. From this time forth we are strangers. 
 \_She slaps her hat on savagely.^ Is my hat on straight ? 
 
 Arthur. [Savagely.^ No ! 
 
 Dorothy. 'Tis, too ! 
 \_Uxit Dora indignantly c. l. Goodall is seated l. reading 
 
 Mss. and using peyicil on it. He is very thoughtful. Arthur 
 
 sits on steps of house. ^ 
 
 Phipps. Now is your time, sir. But don't let him try to 
 read his play to you. It's astonishing, but all great men have 
 these amiable weaknesses. Richelieu thought that he had 
 written a great play. The critics said it was rot. He chopped 
 off several of their heads, but he never forgave them. 
 
 Arthur. 0, Mr. Wallack, can I speak to you on a little mat- 
 ter of business ? 
 
 Phipps. Certainly. 
 
48 ' A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 [Phipps goes wp^ joins Arthur ; they go into house, convers- 
 ing in dumb show.~\ 
 
 Colonel. Mr. Betterton, I salute you, sah. Do I intrude 
 upon your meditation ? 
 
 Goodall. On the contrary. If you have a half hour's leisure, 
 I shall take pleasure in reading to you a scene from my new 
 drama, a poor thing, sir, but my own. 
 
 Colonel. I could not think of so far taxing you. 
 
 Goodall. Believe me, sir, it will aiford me pleasure. 
 
 Colonel. Some other time, in the solitude of your chamber, 
 with nothing to distract us. [Goodall /oZc^s wj9 Mm.'\ I fancy, 
 Mr. Betterton, that in these rural scenes you find a calm rest 
 and recreation ? 
 
 Groodall. Yes, sir. Nature is the great fountain from which 
 we draw inspiration. The common mother, whose nurture 
 warms the heart and invigorates the brain. 
 
 Cokmel. Do you frequently visit the Metropolis, sah ? 
 
 Goodall. Not professionally. I find, sir, that Shakespeare 
 is appreciated in his simplicity only in the provincial cities. In 
 the great centres of population the demand is for vulgar horse 
 play. I touch upon that subject in my new drama. I will read 
 you the scene. [^e reaches for his Mss. 
 
 Colonel. Some other time, Mr. Betterton ; I prefer to hear 
 you speak of your own experiences. 
 
 Goodall. Alas, the memories, come like shadows, so depart. 
 I am an unwilling captive here. I love the great West, the hos- 
 pitable South. But I have been a victim to that vaulting ambition 
 that o'er-leaps itself and falls on 'tother side. Last winter, as 
 the star of the Crummel's Tragic Ago-reo-ation, I enacted Lear 
 and Virginus at Bilgeville, Iowa. In the audience was an 
 elderly commercial gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion, hail- 
 ing from the Metropolis. He was kind enough to compliment me 
 highly upon my individual eiForts. He was so good as to say that 
 much of my work had reminded him of the great master, 
 
A SON OF TIIESPIS. 49 
 
 Forrest, whom he had known and admired. He assured me 
 that at the present time there was in the Metropolis an 
 absolute dearth of legitimate talent ; that rot ran riot at 
 the play house ; that the stages of fashionable theatres were 
 over-run with variety acts that had grown stale in Bowery beer 
 gardens ; that dwarfs and pigmies were masquerading in the 
 mantle of the colossal Forrest ; that the devotees of Melpomene 
 and Thalia had been driven from their temples by the adven- 
 turess and the scarlet woman. In short, said my friend, New 
 York is hungry for a good actor ; and so I came, and I have 
 learned that New York's theatrical appetite does not crave 
 Roman Fathers, avenging Moors or melancholy Danes. 
 
 Colonel. Yet, sah, at an earlier period in your career, possi- 
 bly befo' the war, you were not unknown in the Metropolis ? 
 
 Goodall. My professional career, sir, is a post-bellum one. 
 Speaking of the war, the leading character in my new drama 
 is a soldier. The scene is laid in New Y'ork. Time, 1861. 
 I will read you. [ Turns leaves of Mss. 
 
 Colonel. Now, he's off again. I will ixj the other way. Mr. 
 Betterton, I see that you wear the button of the Grand Army 
 of the Republic. \_He botvs.'\ I am a veteran, too, sir ; but 
 I fought on the other side. 
 [Betterton gives him his hand and draws him down to a seat 
 
 beside himself.^ 
 
 Goodall. You were born and educated South ? 
 
 Colonel. Yes, sah. And my fathers befo' me, sah. 
 
 Goodall. Y"ou offered your life to a cause which you believed 
 to be just. A good citizen could do no less, the bravest soldier 
 could do no more. After war's fitful fever 'tis sweet for 
 brethren to dwell together in unity and comradeship. 
 
 Colonel. You are right, sah ; and once having appealed to 
 the arbitrament of the sword, a true soldier will abide the 
 decree of battle. 
 4 
 
50 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Goodall. Had we, in 1865, hung, banished or relegated to 
 obscurity a few politicians and demagogues on both sides, leav- 
 ing the healing of the wounds to the men who made them, the 
 bitterness and rancor of succeeding years would have been 
 unknown. 
 [Phipps ayid Arthur enter from house. Dorothy enters 
 
 L. u. E.] 
 
 Dorothy. \^To Artliur.^ Mamma consents! Mamma con- 
 sents. 0, Mr. Betterton, mamma is (|uite willing for me to 
 play the part. [Colonel <md Goodall rise. 
 
 Groodall. Colonel Alchostra, I present my sweet A^iolet. A 
 name bestowed by myself. 
 
 Dorothy. \_Takwg Colonel's hand.~\ Yes, sir, and he won't 
 hear my real name for fear it might dispel a pleasant illusion, 
 
 Colonel. Indeed, I cannot blame him 
 
 Dorothy. \_Aside.~\ You are the gentleman who has a mes- 
 sage for my mamma. She is coming now, with Mrs. Marri- 
 gold. [Goodall x. r.] Mr. Betterton won't you wait just a 
 moment and meet my mamma. I have told her so much 
 about you she will be as charmed to know you as I have been, 
 I'm sure. 
 
 Goodall. Even the violet can flatter, without a blush. To- 
 morrow I shall have that honor. I'm not i' the vein to-day. 
 [Goodall goes up and joins Phipps and Arthur in conver- 
 sation. Colonel T. in c. Mrs. Marrigold fl!n(7PniLLis 
 
 enter L. u. E., and come doivn R. of c] 
 
 Dorothy. Colonel Alchostra, this is Mrs. Marrigold, and this 
 is my mamma. \_Ketires up. 
 
 Colonel. Ladies, your servant. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. If you are the bearer of good news to my 
 dear friend, you will find a heart-felt welcome at Marrigold 
 Villa. \_Gives hand. 
 
 Colonel. \_Taldng her hand.'\^ My deah Mrs. Marrigold, 
 you do me too much honah ; you do, indeed. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS, 51 
 
 3Irs. MarrigoJd. \^Aside.^ A Southerner? And I do so 
 like Southerners, [x. to Phillis,] Invite him to dinner 
 to-morrow. [^By-play between Mrs. MARRKiOLD and Piiillis. 
 
 Dorothy. [To Colonel.] Isn't she nice ? 
 
 Colonel. You have expressed my views exactly. 
 [Dorothy joins Goodall a??c? Arthur, up. Colonel Tom x. 
 
 L. to Philll'^. Mrs. Marrkjold x. r.] 
 
 Colonel. Be assured, Mrs. Goodall, that I bear only good 
 tidings to you and those dear to you. 
 
 Phillis. I shall await ^our pleasure, thankfully. Mrs. Mar- 
 rigold hopes that you will join us at dinner to-morrow. 
 
 Colonel. I shall do myself that great honah. 
 
 Dorotliy. [^Pulling Goodall forivard c] Please do, just 
 for sweet Violet's sake. [Goodall smiles and comes reluc- 
 tantly forward c, his hack toward Phillis and Colonel.] 
 Auntie Marrigold, this is Mr. Betterton, and he seems to be a 
 regular woman hater. 
 
 Goodall. \_jSmili7i<j pleasantly. '\ A woman hater? Far from 
 it ! Who could look into your face and be a woman hater ? 
 Besides there are no women haters, though many aftect it. 
 [He x's. to Mrs. Marrigold. Phillis, hearing the voice., 
 
 partly rises, Colonel stands so as to hide Goodall.] These 
 
 whims and fancies come and go, but love goes on forever. 
 [He t'ikes Mrs. Marrigold's hand, boiving low and very 
 politely. '\ 
 
 Phillis. [Aside.'\ Who spoke? Was it a voice from the 
 gi'ave ? 
 [Goodall turns up c, puts his left arm over the shoulder of 
 
 Phipps a la Hamlet and Horatio, gives his R. hand to Doro- 
 thy, ivho goes up c. and joins Arthur c. at back, as 
 
 Goodall and Phipps reach the steps. 
 
 R. RING. L. 
 
 Goodall, Phipps, Dorothy, Arthur, Colonel, 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Phillis. 
 
52 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Di-aiving rooms of Mrs, Marrigold's Villa, clec/antli/ fur- 
 nished^ light summer style ; 3 arches, large c, smaller R. 
 and I/, in fats (or drop) opening on veranda, overlooking 
 landscape used in Act II. Scene boxed. Practical doors 
 R. and L. 3 E., R. and R. and L. 1 E. 3Iasic — waltz, 
 distant L. 
 
 \^Enter at rise, Bernard Carroll in full evening dress, 
 
 L. 3 E.] 
 
 Can-oil. Mrs. Man-igold has certainly done the handsome 
 thing by the youngster. I have tried in vain to interest her in 
 my suit with Phillis. Polite in all things else, the moment I 
 touch upon that she freezes. Can it be possible that there's 
 an understanding between them ? Of this I am sure, in some 
 shape there is danger in the air. That advertisement has 
 haunted me from the moment my eye fell upon it. For fifteen 
 years the face of Philip Ilawley has been my night-mare, and I 
 feel that he is in some way connected with that advertisement. 
 A marriage with the daughter of Warren Merrill oft'ers me a 
 haven of rest, or at least a vantage ground of defence should 
 trouble come. 
 
 l^Hnfer Spott l. 3 e., drunk. His dress suit much too large, 
 
 trousers hide his feet, sleeves hide his hands, coat and vest 
 
 very large and haggy. Carroll looks at him with disgust.^ 
 
 Spott. S'raagnificent blow-out, couldn't have been better if 
 
 they'd left everything to me. The only thing's not a success is 
 
 my dress suit ; it seems to get in my way. Possibly it's because 
 
 I'm not accustomed to dress suits as a steady diet. \_Sees 
 
 Carroll.] Hello ! Carroll, old man, it's a howlin' success I 
 
 Carroll. See, here, Spott 
 
A SON OP THEPPIR. 53 
 
 Spott. 'Sense me, 3Ir. Carroll, Walker, Sir Major Walker, 
 Stock Exchange.' 
 
 Carroll. I'm astonished that a man Avhose profession requires 
 coolness, caution and silence, should upon such small provoca- 
 tion make such a consummate ass of himself 
 
 Spott. Personal deportments 'smerely matter of 'pinion. 
 Don't you worry, your case is safe; leave everything to me. 
 
 Carroll. Where in heaven's name did you get that dress suit ? 
 
 Spott. 'Slucky catch, wasn't it? Rube Hawkins got for me 
 from gentleman guest at the Mountain House. I didn't pro- 
 pose to discredit your introduction into swell society by appear- 
 ing in anything but the regulation uniform. How d's strike 
 you '( 
 
 Carroll. It don't appear to strike you at all, excepting at 
 the feet. 
 
 Spott. I flatter myself that clothes do not always make the 
 man. It's not the custom in best circles to comment on gentle- 
 men's personal appearance, but when you want to land on top, 
 with both feet on terra cotta, leave everything to me. 
 
 Carroll. Have you been able to pump this Colonel Alchostra, 
 or find out who he is ? 
 
 Spott. Leave everything to me Got him down fine. He's 
 a chump. He's no Texas Colonel. He's a snide detective from 
 Philadelphia. He's a lookin' for Charley Ross yet. No fear 
 of his getting onto the racket we're working. Leave every- 
 thing to me. 
 
 Carroll. I have repeatedly told you that there is no racket, 
 and I am not working anything or anybody. Now, if you 
 again refer to my visit here among my old and intimate friends 
 in this vulgar manner, I shall see that Mrs. Marrigold's ser- 
 vants throw you out. 
 
 Spott. You wouldn't do anything so rash. 
 
 Carroll. Wouldn't I ? You just provoke me a little further 
 and see. You don't know me, sir ! \_Uxit Carroll l. 3 e. 
 
54 A 80N OF THESPIS. 
 
 Spott. Don't I ? Don't ? I know you better than your own 
 shadow knows you. Throw me out, eh ! throw me out ! That's 
 a joke. And me with the records of Ketchem & Work em at 
 my fingers' ends Let me see whether I knoAV you or not ? 
 [^Takes out memorandum book, reads brokenly: "Merrill- 
 Carroll, bankers; Goodall, Secretary. — Breach of trust. 
 
 — Bank lorecked. — Goodall entered army '61. — H. U. 
 
 Hushed up. — Keep an eye on Philip Hawley, bookkeeper, 
 
 noiv going to the bad. — Also ju7iior partner, Carroll. — 
 
 31. I. I. Money in it. — Addenda : Further developments 
 
 in this case will be found in series for 1863, Vol. XIII, 
 
 pages 35 to 55. B. M. Big money. ^ 
 
 Don't know you, eh ! My partner, Workem, was over 
 in Paterson yesterday, making evidence for a sensational 
 divorce case, and had the key of the safe deposit, so I couldn't 
 get hold of that back number, but I'll have it down fine inside 
 of thirty-six hours. 
 
 \_.Enter c. Pikebe and Rube, each with a large bundle. 
 
 Rube. Are you sure we was to come in this way ? 
 
 Phoebe. Of course I am ; Miss Dorothy said she would be on 
 the lookout for us. \They see Spott, both drop bundles and 
 laugh. 
 
 Spott. You seem greatly amused. 'Tis funny, ain't it ? 
 [He laughs affectedly, stops suddeiily.l^ Wonder what the 
 devil they see to laugh at ? \^Music.^ Ah, there goes another 
 waltz, and the bewitching Widow Marrigold is sighing for my 
 return. [Spott ivaltzes off l, stumbles and exits. 
 
 Rube. By geehossiphat ! 
 
 Phoebe. What's the matter ? 
 
 Rube. I hired two suits of the college boy waiters at Moun- 
 tain House, one for the little broker and the other for the big 
 Texas Colonel. I must have got the rooms mixed. 
 
 Phoebe. It looks as though you got the clothes mixed. 
 
 [Enter Dorothy l. 3 e. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 55 
 
 Dorothy. I saw you coining up the walk. Is that your 
 wardrobe ':* 
 
 Phoebe. Yes, I suppose so. Mr. Wallack calls 'em togs. 
 
 Dorothy. You're to go in the reception room there, [r. U. e.] 
 The library is adjoining. The gentlemen will dress there. 
 Both rooms open on the veranda, so we can go out and come 
 iu there. You know Mr. Wallack said particularly that Mr. 
 Betterton's entrance would be killed dead if he couldn't come 
 in through a centre door. 
 
 \_Enter l. u. e. Arthur, evening dress. 
 
 Arthur. Hello ! Have the actors arrived ? 
 
 Phoebe. Part of us. 
 
 Rube. Well, I'm all here myself. 
 
 PJuebe. And we wish you many happy returns of your 
 twenty-first birthday. 
 
 Arthur. Same to you, thank you. 
 
 Rube. Yes, and Uncle Adams wanted me to kinder remind 
 you that every young man should be careful how he casts his 
 first vote. He is running for Road Commissioner, but of 
 course he didn't mention it on that account, but simply on 
 general principle like. 
 
 Arthur. Yes, of course, I understand. 
 
 Phoebe. There is nothing mean about Uncle Adams when 
 it comes to o-ivino; advice. 
 
 Dorothy. Where is Mr. Wallack ? 
 
 Rube. We left him packing Mr. Betterton's costume. 
 
 Dorothy. In the old champagne-basket? 
 
 Rube and PJioebe. Yes. 
 
 Dorothy. •' The badge of all our tribe," as he calls it. Run 
 into the library and leave your bundles. 
 
 Pha'be. All right. \_Exit Ph(i:be with bundles, R. 3 E. 
 
 Rube. \_Pieking up bundle.'] I tell you when I get into 
 these swell togs, as Mr. Wallack calls em, I'll just bring down 
 the house. 
 
56 A SON OP THESPIS. 
 
 [Rube stumbles and falls over bundle and through door R. 3 e. 
 
 Dorothy. He's trying to bring down the house before the 
 play begins. 
 
 Artliur. Well, if the people don't all fall oif their seats 
 when that big hayseed shows up I shall be astonished. 
 
 Dorothy. Don't you worry about him. Last night he was 
 trying to back' out of it, and I heard Mr. Wallack tell hiia 
 that next to Mr. Betterton he would make the biggest sensa- 
 tion of any one. 
 
 Arthur. Well, I guess he will. 
 
 Dorothy. Dear me ! I'm so nervous and anxious. Why 
 couldn't we have the play first and let them drink their wine 
 and play chess afterwards ? 
 
 Arthur. 0, that wouldn't do. We want to wind up with 
 the farce. 
 
 Dorothy. This is not to be a farce, sir. 
 
 Arthur. We can tell better when we have seen it. 
 
 Dorothy. dear ! I suppose you think you must become 
 blase and cynical now that you are twenty-one. I hate people 
 who know everything. 
 
 Arthur. 0, come now, mother made me promise to begin 
 my majority by being jolly and good-natured all day. So 
 you can't draw me into a quarrel. 
 
 [Unter Mrs. Marriqold l. u. e ,full evening toilet. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Are you children quarrelling again? 
 
 Dorothy. It wasn't me. 
 
 Arthur. Children ! I suppose I shall never make anyone 
 understand that I am not a child until I do something desperate. 
 Get married, or let my hair grow, or elope with a married 
 woman, or kill somebody. 
 
 Dorothy. Or stop smoking cigarettes. 
 [Arthur and Dorothy quarrel in dumb shotv, and exit to 
 
 veranda c. Writer Phillis l. u. e., evening toilet.^ 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 57 
 
 Phillis. Why, how mysteriously j^ou vanished, dear ! Col- 
 onel Alchostra is disconsolate 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. That disgusting Major Walker became so 
 
 offensively attentive, that I withdrew to get a breath of air. 
 
 Where could Mr. Carroll have found that creature? 
 
 Phillis. I willgive you my opinion on that subject to-morrow. 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Mr. Carroll has not annoyed you ? 
 Phillis. Not as yet. 
 Mrs. Marrigold.^ Should he do so, I want you to let me 
 
 know, and I shall take pleasure in giving himself and his tipsy 
 
 fritnd their hats. 
 
 Phillis. I shall avoid doirg or saying anything to mar the 
 
 evening's pleasure. But really you must return or Colonel 
 
 Alchostra will do something desperate. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. What nonsense you do talk. Has the 
 
 Colonel yet referred to the nature of his mission ? 
 
 Phillis. No, dear, he has evidently became so deeply inter- 
 ested in another direction as to h;»ve quite forgotten it. 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Why how you do run on, Phillis. 
 Phillis. I confess to a liking for the handsome Texan. 
 
 He combines the manly courteousness of a soldier with the 
 
 ingenuousness of a boy. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Well. I declare. The icicle melts ! I 
 
 shall have to warn the Colonel of his danger. 
 
 Phillis. His danger lies in quite another direction, and you 
 
 will be the last to warn him. 
 
 [Colonel Tom Alchostra enters l. 3 e. He has on a dress 
 suit much to small for him. Trousers very tight and short, 
 coat very tight, sleeves too short, cuffs come below the coat' 
 sleeve and bother him continually, an occasional slight show- 
 ing of his white shirt betiveen his vest and waistband of 
 trousers. Great care will be necessary in this make-up to 
 be humorous without being grotesque or unduly extravagant. 
 Colonel Alchostka is a gentleman.^ 
 
58 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Colonel. Ladies, youah most obedient. Do I interrupt a 
 private conference? 
 
 Both. 0, no, no. Colonel. 
 
 Colonel. A moment since I fancied that the lights were 
 burning low. The beautiful rooms seemed suddenly wrapped 
 in darkness, for two of the most brilliant meteors had vanished. 
 
 Mr8. Marrigold. \_To Phillis.] Now, wasn't that pretty. 
 
 Phillis. You are very complimentary, Colonel. But I am 
 sure you will now be able to see quite distinctly with one of 
 the bright lights ; so, if you will excuse me, I will see what 
 mischief my little girl is up to. \^^xit Phillis c, l. 
 
 Colonel l^Solus.^ A most lovely character, truly. What 
 a wife and daughter for a fellow to find after eighteen years of 
 solitude. How will it end? We shall soon know. But the 
 widow must be taken into our confidence at once. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. \_Solus^ That's a most extraordinary 
 suit of clothes the Colonel wears. It's only his good looks and 
 innate dignity that prevent his appearing ridiculous. I sup- 
 pose that's a style peculiar to Texas. 
 
 Colonel. \_Coming forward^ My dear Mrs. Marrigold, I 
 have sought this opportunity to speak to you upon a subject 
 in which I am suah you will be as deeply interested as myself. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. \_Aside.~\ Good gracious ! I hope he's not 
 going to get serious so soon. I've scarcely enjoyed a tete-a-tete 
 yet, to say nothing of a flirtation. [^?omc?.] My dear Colonel, 
 I must of necessity feel an interest in all that concerns a guest 
 in whose brief acquaintance I have found so much enjoyment. 
 
 Colonel. You do me too much honah, ma'am ; you do, indeed. 
 
 [Mrs. Marrigold sits l. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Won't you be seated, Colonel ? 
 [/S'Ae motions him to a seat near her. He moves quickly to 
 
 take it., hut his tight clothes embarrass him.'\ 
 
 Colonel. Thank you, I have been seated for an hour, and I 
 find it a positive relief to stand for a change. Ah, my deah 
 
A SON OP THESPIS. 59 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold, what a eharmed existence you lead surrounded 
 by all that wealth and perfect taste can supply, with troops of 
 friends vieing with each other to make youah hours pass 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I have, indeed, everything to be grateful 
 for, yet I find my greatest happiness in witnessing the enjoy- 
 ment of those about. 
 
 Colonel. I can see it, ma'am, in your every act. \^Tries to 
 sit, BUS. as before. Poses against hack of chair.'] And, after 
 all, it is more blessed to give than to have it taken unbeknownst, 
 or words to that effect. 
 
 Mrs Marrigold. And you never married, Colonel ? 
 
 Colonel. No, ma'am, so far I have escaped ; so far that great 
 happiness has been denied me. My life has been without a 
 romance, and, excepting one little incident, without a great 
 sorrow. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Might I ask the nature of the exception. 
 Colonel ? 
 
 Colonel. Certainly. About foah yeah ago I was entertain- 
 ing some gentlemen from the North on my ranch near Corsi- 
 cana. One day we were hunting jack rabbits when a blamed 
 Yankee drummer shot Brown Jessie. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. Great heaven ! shot her ! shot Brown 
 Jessie! Was she your betrothed, Colonel? 
 
 Colo7iel. 0, no, she was my favorite Gordon setter. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. 0, dear ! A Gordon setter ! What a shame. 
 
 Colonel. Oh ! You are fond of dogs. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Yes, indeed ! The big noble ones, setters, 
 pointers, shepherds, St. Bernards, Newfoundlands. They 
 are all affectionate, and their devotion is beautiful, because so 
 unselfish. 
 
 Colonel. \_Aside.~\ This lady is simply bewitching ! 
 [ Very enthusiastically . Tries to sit beside her, bus. as before, 
 
 assumes another pose against the chair.] 
 
60 A SON OF THESPTS. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. I think the love of domestic animals a 
 virtue all should cultivate. 
 
 Colonel. My views exactly. Speaking of animals, I trust 
 you were not seriously annoyed by the attentions of Majah 
 Walker. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Somewhat. It was most thoughtful of you 
 to come to my rescue. Colonel. 
 
 Colonel. Believe me, my dear Mrs. Marrigold, the gratifi- 
 cation is all my own. 
 [Colonel makes another effort to sit. Finally sits 07i the arm 
 
 of the chair, which hi'ings them much closer. Their heads 
 
 are very near each other. Dorothy enters c, sees them 
 
 and pantomimes Arthur, who enters C. He remains at 
 
 back observing.~\ 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I fear, Colonel, you find our little gather- 
 ings dull and uninteresting. 
 
 Colonel. On the contrary, my deah Mrs. Marrigold, the 
 hours, too brief, passed in your lovely home and in your 
 enchanting presence must ever remain an oasis in the Sahara 
 of my life. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. You are given to flattery. Colonel. 
 
 Colonel. No ! No ! On my honah. \^Bends forward and 
 recovers quickly.^ I could not stoop to flattery. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. And you are quite sure that you mean all 
 that you say ? 
 
 Colonel. Every word, and moah, much moah ; the tail goes 
 with the hide. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. \^Aside.^ Good gracious ! What odd say- 
 ings those 'iexans have. 
 
 Colonel. \_Bending forivard.^ Oh, my deah Mrs. Marrigold. 
 If I dared to indulge the hope that I might some day 
 
 Dorothy and Arthur. Change kears ! 
 [Dorothy and Arthur run off quickly. Mrs. Marrigold 
 
 and Colonel jump up.^ 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 61 
 
 Afrs. 3Iarrigold. What was that ? 
 
 Colonel. I distinctly heard some one say, change kears ! 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. And that reminds me, Colonel, that you 
 had something important to speak of. 
 
 Colonel. Much. Pray, Tse seated. The delight of finding 
 myself alone with you made me foah a time forget why I sought 
 you. It is in relation to this actor, Mr. Betterton, who is to 
 honah us this evening. Had I known of your design I should 
 have urged you not to have brought him heah just at this time ; 
 but since it is now to late to retreat, it becomes necessary to 
 let you into a secret. 
 
 MvH. Marrigold. A secret ! I just love secrets ! 
 
 Colonel. \^Aside.~\ Why was I not born a secret ! 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Eh ? 
 
 Colonel. Then, my dear Mrs. Marrigold, you must know 
 that Mr. Betterton — [Wallace enters c. carrying chavipagne- 
 hasket. Sivords on top., cf-c. He advances R.] Avho is to 
 appear befoah us this evening is none other than 
 
 Wallack. \_C'jughs.~\ Excuse me, but I was not sure 
 whetiter I had made a mistake. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. 0, no, Mr. Wallack ; you are quite right. 
 The library and reception rooms \^points R.] will be used as 
 dressing rooms. Make yourself entirely at home. 
 
 Wallack. Thank you, ma'am. If not presuming, I should 
 like a moment's conversation with Colonel Alchostra. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Most certainly. 
 
 Colonel. Allow me to conduct you to the doah. \_She takes 
 his arm.] Allow me to tote youah fan. \_He escorts her cere- 
 moniously to door L. I. E., hows very low, hands her fan, and, 
 as she takes if, ki.9.ses her hand gallantly. E.rit Mrs. Mar- 
 rigold, L. I. e] 
 
 Colonel. Now, Mr. Wallack. 
 
 Wallack. Colonel, I'm getting terribly nervous, as the time 
 approaches. Mr. Betterton has been morose and gloomy all 
 
62 A 80N OF TIIESPIS. 
 
 day. An unusual thing. He is very pale and has eaten 
 nothing. He is not well, and I fear the terrible shock of this 
 meeting will be too much for him. 
 
 Colonel. Nonsense, my deah fellow ; men do not die from 
 excess of joy. 
 
 Wallack. I know him better than you do, sir. He is ner- 
 vous and sensitive. He carries two Confederate bullets in his 
 shoulder and thigh, and an ugly sabre cut in the left side. He 
 has had to give up playing Richard and Macbeth, on account 
 of the excitement of the combats. Last winter he was playing 
 The Strange)', one night in Rogersville, Iowa. The story is 
 simihir to his own iiistory. He was completely absorbed in 
 the character, and when he was introduced to Mrs. Haller and 
 recognized his own wife, instead of making an exit L. I. E., he 
 stiffened up, turned ghastly Avhite and fell to the floor in a 
 heap. Tiie old sabre cut broke open, he had a raging fever 
 for three weeks, and was as crazy as a loon. It was a close 
 call. He hasn't the least fear of death, but lives in mortal 
 terror of again losing his mind. 
 
 Colonel. Your concern does credit to your head and heart, 
 Mr. Wallack, but I feel confident that the denouement will be 
 a bright and not a tragic one. 
 
 Wallack. I hope so, sir. But this absurd play that he has 
 written is in some respects a reflex of incidents of his own life 
 touched up with flights of imagination. That's what makes 
 me fear a sudden meeting. Have you yet arranged how they 
 are to meet ? 
 
 Colonel. No. I shall explain all to Mrs. Marrigold and 
 trust her woman's wit. Excuse me, Mr. Wallack, and I will 
 attend to it at once. [^UxU Colonel Alchostra l. 3 e. 
 
 Wallack. [Seated at basket.^ Well, if this comedy don't 
 end in a tragedy I shall be thankful. 
 
A RON OF THESPIS. 63 
 
 [Dorothy, PHffinE, Rube and Arthur all enter from points 
 
 of last exit, and gather about Wallack, all talking at once.~\ 
 
 All. 0, Mr. Wallack, we've been waiting for you. 
 
 Phxhe. If I'm to play the mother of a young lady, I ought 
 to have white hair. 
 
 Wallack. Nonsense ! Stage mothers never grow old. You 
 just study the art of making yourself look young, if you want 
 to act. Nature will attend to the wrinkles and white hairs 
 sooner than you'll like. 
 
 Rube. I know doggone well I can't get my legs into them 
 gol-darned yellow plush breeches. 
 
 Wallack. I know better. I've worn 'm a hundred times. 
 
 Rube. You've worn 'em ? Weil, that's different. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, Mr. Wallack, I've got such a lovely dress, one 
 of my commencement dresses. Mamma and Mrs. Marrigold 
 sat up nearly all night fixing it over for me. Do you think 
 I'll remember what I have to sav ? 
 
 Phrebe. Are you sure 1 won't forget my verses? 
 
 Rube. Well, you just tell me when it's time for me to come 
 out, and I'll be all right — if I don't forget the things I have 
 to say. 
 
 Arthur. I'd like to be the manager of that company. 
 Haven't you got a part for me? 
 
 Wallack. Yes, you might set the stage. 
 
 ■All. Set the stage ? 
 
 Wallack. Yes, arrange the furniture and carry off the dead. 
 
 All. 0, yes, of course. 
 
 Dorothy. That'll just suit him. \_All laugh at Arthur. 
 
 DorotJiy. Now, what do we want first ? 
 
 Wallack. Chairs. 
 
 All. Chairs ! \^All rush off, each at dfferent entrance. 
 
 Wallack. Well, there was an exit for a farce comedy. 
 
 \_All re-enter., each with a chair. 
 
 All. Chairs! 
 
64 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 {^They hmig the chairs doivn, hitting Rube's feet. 
 
 Rube. Geehosiphat ! Do you suppose the whole audience 
 want to sit on my feet '( 
 
 Dorothy. Well, they must sit somewhere, musn't they ? 
 
 [^All laugh at Rube. 
 
 Wallack. Now then arrange them in that end of the room. 
 
 \_Tltey arrange chairs R. and L. well down to curtain line, 
 
 leaving C. open.~\ 
 
 Wallack. Now wait till I get the flag. 
 
 All. The flag ! 
 
 Wallack. Certainly. This is a military drama, and we 
 want banners, guns, swords, and all the gorgeous panoply of 
 war. 
 [i/ie takes fl'igs from basket and drapes them over chairs R. 
 
 and L.] 
 
 Dorothy. 0, dear ! 
 
 All. What is it ? 
 
 Dorothy. We ought to have a cannon. 
 
 All. A cannon ! 
 
 Arthur. Sure enough. Who's got a cannon ? 
 
 Dorothy. I know ! I know where there's one. 
 
 All Where? 
 
 Dorothy. Don't you remember the great big brass cannon 
 sticking in the ground by the soldiers' monument, down in the 
 cemetery ? Rube, you run down and get it. 
 
 [All look at Rube. 
 
 Rube. Say, this thing's gone far enough. I'm engaged to 
 act out an old family servant on the stage, and not to rob 
 cemeteries. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, you're too particular, ain't he Mr. Wallack ? 
 Wallack. Altogether, there's nothing unreasonable about 
 it, the woods are full of graveyard comedians. 
 
 Arthur. That's so. They have a couple of 'em in all of 
 the comic operas. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 65 
 
 Wallaclc. Here are the music cues. 
 
 [Producer roll of paper. 
 All. Music cues ! 
 
 Dorothi/. Do we have music in the play ? 
 Wallack. Do we ? Do you suppose Mr. Betterton could 
 make an entrance without music? There is an orchestra, of 
 course. 
 
 Dorothy. yes, they are playing for the dancers now. 
 Arthur. I'll take them in and explain to them. 
 [Arthur exits i.. 3 e. taking paper from Wallack. Enter 
 L. I. E. Mrs. Marrigold.] 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. Come now, scamper and get ready fol" 
 your play. There's a gentleman coming who must not see you 
 here. 
 
 [Phoebe, Rube and Wallock exit r. 3. e. Wallack taking 
 basket. 
 
 Dorothy. Who is coming, Auntie ? 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Mr. Betterton. I made him promise to 
 come in time for a little visit before the play. I was inter- 
 ested in him. 
 
 Dorothy. Of course you were. You couldn't help being. 
 No more could I. I just love to be near him. He is so 
 gentle and sweet, and so polished and talks so beautifully I 
 could sit at his feet for hours and listen. 
 Music — Auld Lang Syne. Enter c. l. Mr. Goodall, in 
 full evening toilet. Neat and fashionable, but eccentric, 
 Byronic collar, cuffs rolled back ov^r coat sleeves. He 
 passes his hat aiid coat to Servant ivho follows him. Ser- 
 vant exits R. 3 E. Dorothy runs to meet him. He advances, 
 holding her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. You are most kind to favor us, Mr. Bet- 
 terton, though we had hoped for your pleasure at dinner. 
 5 
 
66 A PON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Goodall. Most gracious of you. But I seldom dine preced- 
 ing ray professional labors. My sweet Violet ! The sight of 
 that bright face should inspire us all. 
 
 Dorothy. I shall be happy if I don't spoil your scene. 
 
 Gfoodall. I do not fear it. I observed you closely at 
 rehearsal to-day. You have sincerity and enthusiasm added 
 to the dramatic instinct. These qualities combined constitute 
 that mysterious entity sometimes called genius. Only this, 
 don't act. Be yourself, your sweet, ingenuous self. 
 
 Dorothy. I'll try, sir. 
 
 CroodaU. No, don't try. You will not act the scene, you 
 will live it. [Dorothy runs off r. 3 e. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Won't you be seated, Mr. Betterton ? 
 
 Goodall. Thank you. [^Sits R. c. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. I fear you will regret that our young folks 
 found out your quiet retreat. 
 
 Croodall. On the contrary, I love young people, and these 
 have been most delightful chums. Your son is a noble fellow, 
 who will, I trust, bring honor to your name, and his sweet 
 companion has shone in upon my quiet life like a ray of blessed 
 sun-light. She is srd generis. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. She is, indeed, a most lovable child. Her 
 father, who was killed during the rebellion, had been at one 
 time a member of your profession. 
 
 Goodall. So I learned from her yesterday. It makes her 
 doubly interesting to me, for I have been a son of Mars, as well 
 as Thespis, in my time. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. X^ue ! You had the courage to become a 
 soldier, and yet you remained a bachelor. How unkind to 
 our sex. 
 
 Goodall. The meanest coward must die. It is the inevitable. 
 But knowingly to march to the altar requires the courage of a 
 lion. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 67 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. Now you are quoting, and not responsible 
 for the sentiment. I have observed, Mr. Betterton, that the 
 greatest triumphs of the greatest artists have been achieved 
 after love came to inspire them. 
 
 Groodall. In more serious vein, I frankly agree with you, 
 that mysterious power can raise us to the clouds or crush us to 
 the earth. It inspires us to our noblest eiforts, or tempts us 
 to dishonor and disgrace, according to the strength or weak- 
 ness of our character. True love is at once the foundation 
 and the coping stone of every perfect life. 
 
 3Irs. 3IarrigoId. Now the man speaks, not the actor. 
 
 Groodall. True. I seldom speak of myself; the subject, at 
 best, is uninteresting. But it is the breathing time of day 
 with me, and something in your gracious manner invites me. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I beg that for the time you will forget the 
 professional character of your visit, Mr. Betterton, and remem- 
 ber only that you are my guest, my honored guest. 
 \_'She offers her hand, wldch GooDALL takes with great polite- 
 ness. '\ 
 
 Goodall. I thank you. {A pause.) What poor weak crea- 
 tures we strong men are. In our egotism, miscalled pride, we 
 gird ourselves about with an impenetrable armor of secrecy. 
 For years we stride the earth nursing our real or fancied 
 griefs or wrongs. The past a grave of buried hopes, the pres- 
 ent a fight with our better natures, the future an unmarked 
 grave. And in our selfish solitude we cry, youth is a hope, 
 manhood a a struggle, age a regret. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. But some day the awakening comes ! 
 
 Goodall. Yes ; some day a gentle hand touches our panoply 
 of steel, and lo ! it crumbles at our feet, and we stand 
 revealed in all our poverty of pride. And then the voice of 
 nature cries aloud within us, Give me to drink ! Give me to 
 drink from the fountain of human sympathy, ere I sink 
 unknown by the way side. 
 
68 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Mrs 3Iarrigold. This strange man has a history. 
 
 Goodall. It is not so many years, for I am but forty-five, 
 since I was a so-called popular idol. Men of note 
 delighted to honor me, fair women courted me and blushing 
 maidens haunted me with their autograph albums. Then the 
 cry of war went abroad through the land I saw friends and 
 associates rushing to arms. The cry of Mars drowned the 
 pleading voice of Tliespis. And then a greater power than 
 either came to shape my destiny. That subtle spell that 
 makes kings of serfs and serfs of kings had fallen upon me. I 
 felt the hallowed joy that comes with a chaste woman's love. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. And once more history repeated itself, and 
 Venus conquered Mars. You won her ? 
 
 Gioodall. Yes, I won her, and in a few brief months I lost 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. So soon ! A few months ! [ J-s/tZe] IIow 
 much his story resembles that of dear Phillis. \_Aloud.~\ How 
 you must have suffered. 
 
 Goodall. Suffered ! I did. I sought oblivion upon the 
 battle-field. Death became desired as Daphne by the eager 
 Day God. Like him I chased the nymph to grasp the laurel. 
 I could not even die. And when the fratricidal struggle 
 ended, Thespis wooed me back again. Possibly had I returned 
 with Fox to the old Bowery, I might have kept more nearly 
 abreast the times. But I had mingled Avith the rough-handed, 
 warm-hearted men of the West and South. I had fought them 
 on many fields and slept beside them at many camp-fires, and 
 so I linked my fate with theirs. I became, in short, what the 
 more favored members of our guild are pleased to call a barn- 
 stormer. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. But you occasionally visit the Metropolis ? 
 
 Gioodall. Seldom — professionally. Acting in the Metropo- 
 lis is one of the lu.Kuries, to be indulged in only by the rich, 
 the speculative or the lucky. Being none of these, I am content 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 69 
 
 to strut my brief hour where my poor efforts still touch a respon- 
 sive chord. They cannot always welcome me in gilded temples, 
 but from the rough benches their big human hearts go out to 
 the Master's noble thoughts, and so for a time linger with the 
 poor player, striving in his weak way to give them form and 
 pressure, I do not miss the glaring lights or gilded domes, 
 for in those brief hours the dusky Moor lives again in Venice 
 and Cyprus. And in Hamlet's inky cloak I feel again the 
 nipping and eager air upon the platform where Bernardo 
 watched, or wander in feigned madness through the stately 
 halls of Elsinore. 
 
 3Irs. 3Iarrigold. And so you are content with your lot ? 
 
 Goodall. Perfectly. Community of thought is superior to 
 geographical lines. The hours in which I live with Shake- 
 speare are not passed in Oshkosh or Grass Valley. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I must thank you for a most delightful 
 half hour. It is so natural for those who have not achieved 
 distinction to rail at the world, and regard themselves as 
 neglected geniuses. 
 
 Goodall. We all receive what it is good for us to have, either 
 in reward or chastisement. There is a special Providence in 
 the fall of a sparrow, and, in erring reasons spite, this truth 
 is manifest, whatever is — is right. 
 
 \_Enter Colonel Alchostra, l. 3 e. 
 
 Colonel. With my usual stupidity or ill-luck, I have inter- 
 rupted a tete-a-tete. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. 0, no. Colonel. [Goodall hows and 
 saunters about, looking up pictures, etc.'\ Mr. Betterton has 
 been entertaining me most delightfully. 
 
 Colonel. Then you like my quaint friend ? 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. He is a most interesting character. Frankly, 
 Colonel, I expected to be amused by an actor's eccentricities. I 
 have been entertained by a gentleman's conversation. 
 
70 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Colonel. In fact, you came to scoif, and you remained to 
 apologize for barking up the wrong tree, or words to that effect. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Precisely. 
 
 Colonel. Which brings me to the subject for which I have 
 been seeking you. As I said before, it is a secret. 
 [GoODALL sits in background and takes out and reads his 
 
 3Iss.] 
 
 The peculiar combination of circumstances which have 
 resulted in bringing this gentleman under your roof at this 
 critical moment render it necessary for me to confide to you 
 a secret which I had hoped to reveal at a time and place of 
 my own selection, and under circumstances which I might 
 deem for the best interests of all concerned. 
 
 3Irs. 3Iarrigold. Good gracious, Colonel ! How long you 
 are coming to the secret. What is that about procrastination 
 being the thief of time ? 
 
 Colonel. Quite right, my dear Mrs. Marrigold. Procrasti- 
 nation is the root of all evil, or words to that effect. I remem- 
 ber some years ago I had a very deah friend, Majah Bragg, of 
 San Antonio. The Majah was a victim of the terrible habit of 
 procrastination. He was engaged to a most charming young 
 lady. Miss— Miss — 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. 0, never mind the name. Colonel. 
 
 Colonel. I don't seem to mind it just now. However, the 
 Majah couldn't seem to find time to marry the young lady, 
 and one beautiful morning while the Majah was trying to 
 make up his mind, the young lady married one of the Majah's 
 particular friends. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Of course, the Major shot the man ? 
 
 Colonel. Well, not exactly; he said it was his intention to 
 do so, but he somehow never got around to it ; force of habit 
 you see, force of habit. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Will he ever come to that secret ? 
 
A SON OP THESPIS. 71 
 
 Colonel. I said to him one day, Majah says I, some day the 
 angel Gabriel will toot his horn for you, and you won't be 
 ready, and sho enough he did. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Did what ? 
 
 Colonel. Blow his trumpet. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Who, the Major ? 
 
 Colonel. No, ma'am, the angel Gabriel. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. 0, then the Major is dead ! 
 
 Colonel. 0, no. He wasn't ready. He's living down thar 
 in San Antonio yet, I reckon. 
 
 [GooDALL comes forward with Mss. 
 
 Goodall. I thought it possible you might be interested in a 
 trifle I have here. 
 
 3Ir8. 3Iar7'igold. We cannot fail to be interested, Mr. Bet- 
 terton. \_Aside.~\ I woiider if I shall ever learn that secret. 
 
 Goodall. It is an act from my last drama. A poor thing, 
 sir, but my own. But I shall bore you. 
 
 Both. 0, no ! no ! 
 
 Goodall. \_Ceremoniously .'] This might be called a military 
 drama, the incident being connected with our great inter- 
 necine struggle. I will read the scene which I propose to pre- 
 sent for your approval this evening. I will premise with a 
 brief outline of the plot. Through some cause, a young hus- 
 band and wife have quarreled during their honeymoon. The 
 Avife is proud and silent, the husband sullen and unrelenting, 
 and so they part. The great world swallows him. The young 
 wife bears her absent husband a lovely daughter. Ten years 
 have passed, when for the first time she hears of the absent one. 
 A terrible war is raging throughout the land. The papers 
 contain accounts of the achievements of a daring soldier from the 
 far West. His portrait is in every windoAV. It is the long- 
 silent husband and father. She follows his brilliant career 
 through five weary years of war. The end has come, peace 
 has been proclaimed. The conquering army returns to greet 
 
72 A SON OF THESPIS, 
 
 the loved ones at home. Through the densely crowded streets, 
 spanned with triumphal arches, he rides proudly at the head 
 of his regiment of cavalry. [Wallack enters R. 3 E, Comes 
 doivn sloioly.~\ His daughter, now a lovely girl of fifteen, 
 recognizes her father by portraits she has seen. The wife is 
 weeping in the solitude of her chamber. Then comes the 
 scene which I will now read to you. 
 
 [ZTe spreads his Mss. ceremoniously, clears his throat, raises 
 
 his arm for an impressive gesture — tvhen Wallace 
 
 coughs. ~\ 
 
 Wallack. \_Ooughing.'] [Good Ai.1, greatly disgusted,Goi.ON'EL 
 and Mrs. Marrigold aimoyed.^ Pardon me. Colonel Bet- 
 terton, but it lacks only fifteen minutes of curtain time. 
 
 Goodall. [Rising.^ True. I must beg you to excuse me, 
 Mrs. Marrigold. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I am sorry to have missed your reading of 
 the scene, but a story so full of human interest and so graphi- 
 cally told, cannot fail of success. 
 
 Goodall. The lot of the poor dramatist were, indeed, a happy 
 one had all his critics natures as sympathetic and responsive 
 as your own. 
 \_He presses her hand politely. Bows to Colonel K, goes up 
 
 to door R. followed by Wallack. Exit R. 3 e. Goodall 
 
 and Wallack.] 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Now, then, I shall learn the secret. Now, 
 Colonel, since we are alone again, haven't you forgotten some- 
 thing ? 
 
 Colonel. Possibly; who could blame me, if, in this blissful 
 atmosphere, I forgot everything but your presence. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. [Aside.'] Now that was really pretty ; 
 indeed, it would have been beautiful if his clothes only fitted 
 him a little better. [Aloud.] But, Colonel, can it be possible 
 that you have forgotten the secret ? 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 73 
 
 Colonel. Oh ! The secret ! \^He starts suddenly, tries to sit 
 hut stops, and bends fortvard, liolding on hack of her chair.~\ 
 Pray, pardon my stupidity, Mrs. Marrigold, the secret is this : 
 \^He looks cautiously about room and then whispers in her ear, 
 
 gesticulating to indicate Goodall. Her face expresses 
 
 great astonishment.^ 
 
 3frs. Marrigold. You can't mean it ! Mr. Betterton the 
 husband of 
 
 Colonel. 'Sh ! even the walls must not hear it. 
 \_He ivhispers her again. They continue a pantomimic conver- 
 sation. Spott enters, still tipsy.'] 
 
 Spott. 'Smagnificent blow-out. Wish some one would have 
 a birthday every day, and leave everything to me. I think 
 I've made an impression on the lovely widow. Wonder where 
 she is ; 'stonishin' what became of her. Guesss he's gone into 
 the garden where she could have more room to think of me 
 [AS'ft's Colonel.] What's that? Why, it's Texas. Wonder'fe' 
 knows what a reediculous figure he's making of himself. I hate 
 a man who don't know how to wear a dress suit. \_Sees Mrs. 
 Marrigold.] Hello! There's the lovely widow, come here 
 to meet me, and being talked to death by a man whose clothes 
 don't fit'im. I'll stop it. Break away ! [Colonel and Mrs. 
 Marrigold start.~\ 'Scuse me, just a pleasant little way we 
 brokers have. Mrs. Marrigold, we have missed you ; I have 
 missed you. I have sought this oper — this oper — this comic 
 opera tune-ity. \_Crosses and forces himself offensively close 
 to Mrs. Marrigold.] — to express my appreciation of your 
 magnificent hos — hospi — hospital. 
 
 Colonel. \_Orossing L. and taking Mrs. M's. hand.] Allow 
 me, Mrs. Marrigold, to escote you to a moah congenial and 
 less aromatic atmosphere. 
 \^She rises and drops her handkerchief. Colonel picks it up 
 
 with difficulty. She offers to take it.] 
 
 Colonel. Allow me to tote it. 
 
74 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 [^Colonel escorts her cerevioniously to door L. i. E. He Jdsses 
 
 her handkerchief and passes it to her. jShe kisses it and 
 
 runs off L. I. E. Colonel swells up with satisfaction, turns 
 
 and sees Spott glaring at him.~\ 
 
 Spott. \^Aside'] I think he's a big bluff. I'll call him. 
 [^?o?^cZ.] Do you know, sir, that your manner's most 
 offensive. 
 
 Colonel. \_Turning quickly. ~\ Look heah, sah! — [f^vOTT jumps 
 behind his chair R.] \^Aside.^ I must not quarrel with this 
 vulgar loafer in this lady's house. 
 
 Spott. \_Aside.'] I knew it! He 's a chump! \_Comes 
 from behind his chair.'] Yes, sir, I repeat it, sir ; 's most 
 'fensive. 
 
 Colonel. \^Turning quickly.] Do you know, sah — \_Spott 
 gets R as before.] I 've a great mind, sir — Look heah, 
 Mr— Mr.— 
 
 Spott. Walker, sir ; Major Walker, Stock Exchange ; 
 and I'm a gentleman, sir. 
 
 Colonel. I am very glad, sah, that you mentioned it. When a 
 gentleman assures me that he 's a gentlemen, then I know it; 
 otherwise I might make a mistake. 
 
 Spott. \_Aside.] I thought I 'd settle him. [Aloud.] Yes, 
 sir; 's always best to have these things understood. 'S why 
 I mentioned it. 
 
 Colonel. Quite right, sah. I am pleased to learn that the 
 gentlemen of the Stock Exchange drink their champagne from 
 celery glasses, also that they soak their crackers in the finger 
 bowl and use the table cloth fo' a napkin. Lik'ise, that they 
 use their napkin fo' a pocket handkerchief, and knock the 
 crumbs out of their whiskers with a foak, yes sah, with a foak. 
 
 Spott. [Sivelling up.] This is pussonal. 'Scuse me, sir; 
 did you intend that to be pussonal ? 
 [Gomes forward. Colonel turns quickly, Spott retreats 
 
 behind chair.] 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. *75 
 
 Colonel. [^Aside.^ What nonsense ! He's not worth being 
 angry with. 
 
 Spott. \_Aside.~\ Now I know he's a chump. \_Comes for- 
 ivard.^ Allow me to observe, sir, that your oflFensive atten- 
 tions to my dear Mrs. Marrigold 
 
 Colonel. Look heah, sah \_Turns. SvoTi retreats behind 
 
 chair,'] if you again soil that lady's name with youah drunken 
 breath, I shall assume the responsibility of getting a pitchfoak, 
 sah, and toting you out to the stable, and dumping you where 
 you belong, sah. 
 
 Spott. 'S'gettin' desperate. I've got to make a big bluff or 
 he'll do it. \_Comes fortvard.] 'Scuse me, sir, you've made 
 a mistake, sir. 'S'mi card, sir; 's'mi card. 
 \_Fumbles about for card, which he shoves under Colonel's 
 
 nose, and assumes an attitude of drunken dignity against 
 
 chair.] 
 
 Colonel. \_Suddenli/.'] Youah card, sah ! [Spott jumps 
 as before. Colonel reads card.] What's this : " Spott and 
 Bleedem, private detectives, (successors to Ketchem and 
 Work em)." [Aside.] So! A private detective. I was right 
 at first sight. I must not quarrel with this fellow. He may 
 be made useful to me. 
 
 jSpott. [Aside.] I thought the card would settle him. He's 
 a big Texas bluff. [Comes forward cautiously/] [Aloud.] Well, 
 sir ; well, sir. 
 
 Colonel. Really, Majah Walker, I have no desire to be 
 offensive, I assure you, and if 
 
 Spott. Say no more, sir. [Spott rushes and grasps Col- 
 onel's hands effusively.] Say no more. I accept your 
 apology. There's nothing mean about me when it comes to 
 accepting anything. 
 
 Colonel. I know it, sah. Anyone could see it sah. 
 
 Spott. Certainly ; one gentleman can always tell another 
 gentleman by the way his clothes fit. 
 
76 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Colofiel. Of course, sail. The tailor makes the gentleman 
 every time, sah. 
 
 Spott. Dead sure. \_Tliey move L.] If you ever want a 
 friend, say nothing, but leave everything to me. 
 
 Colonel. I will, sah, of course. 
 {^They exit arm in arm L i. e. Enter l. 3 e. Phillis, /o^- 
 
 lotved hy Bernard Carroll.] 
 
 PliilUs. I am at a loss, Mr. Carroll, to understand why I 
 should be again annoyed with your attentions. 
 
 Carroll. Surely, a respectful admiration that has survived 
 two decades of years is worthy being considered something 
 more than an annoyance. 
 
 PJdllis. Persecution would, perhaps, be a better term. 
 
 Carroll. Now, you are angry. But it is encouraging to 
 feel that I have at least overcome your indifference. 
 
 Phillis. You gravely err in supposing that I have ever lost 
 faith in my husband's entire innocence, or abandoned the hope 
 that that innocence Avill, even yet, be fully established and the 
 guilty one, whoever he may be, exposed and brought to justice. 
 
 Carroll. None would rejoice more sincerely than myself to 
 see your faith justified. 
 
 Phillis. Possibly. Investigators of crime look first for a 
 motive. William Goodall had no possible motive for such 
 baseness. His one error, which was more mine than his, was 
 our secret marriage. This error he frankly confessed, and 
 that confession, so fatally misconstrued by my poor father, 
 drove him forth under a terrible misapprehension. My father 
 was financially wrecked and hurried to his grave, but the 
 junior partner, the creature of his bounty, grew rich and 
 opulent. 
 
 Carroll. True. But did I not promptly offer to share that 
 wealth with you if you would avail yourself of your rights, 
 and secure a separation from the criminal ? 
 
A PON OF TIIEi^PIS. 77 
 
 Phillis. You (lid. An insult which I scorned then as I 
 scorn it now. Thanks to that criminal's thoughtfulness, that 
 home which he left to his wife and unborn child soon became 
 a mo<lest fortune, which has kept them above worldly needs. 
 This was not the act of a thief and forger. It stands in 
 glowing contrast to the conduct of a man who so poorly judges a 
 woman's heart, that, with the instincts of a huckster, he would 
 bargain for a something whiph he has not the manhood to 
 appreciate nor the soul to understand. \^Exit Phillis l. 3 e. 
 Carroll. Years have not changed her heart, nor time 
 softened her resentment. Yet those years have steadily 
 increased my apprehensions. The one thing that could allay 
 them is a marriage with Warren Merrill's daughter, and that 
 seems now more impossible than ever. Night after night sleep 
 is denied me. Each new face and every strange voice startles 
 me. A sudden ring at the bell seems to stop the blood in my 
 veins. Last night, in my restless dreams, I stood again on 
 the old abandoned pier, with the storm raging about me. I 
 went through the terrible struggle, and as all grew still I could 
 see the ghostly face, half under water, floating outward with 
 the tide. The fixed, staring eyes looked wildly into mine. 
 I turned to escape the glassy glare, and woke. W* ke to enter 
 upon another day of terror and suspense. 
 [/7« drops into a chair. Small liand-bell rings R. 3 v.. for the 
 play. Colonel Alchostra escorts Mrs. Marrkjold to 
 seats R. COR. Arthur escorts Phillis to seats r. Ladies 
 a7id gentlemen take seats l. and R., te7i to twenty, accord- 
 ing to capacity of the stage. Carroll takes seat in l. cor. 
 Spott comes last with no lady and sits L. in disgust, glaring 
 at Colonel Alchostra and Mrs. Marrigold. Music 
 stops when all are seated. Wallack, dressed as an old 
 man, enters R. 3 E. and arranges the furniture for the scene. 
 He hangs a small flag on picture L., and puts flowers on 
 table l. as he starts to exit R. 3 E.] 
 
78 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Spott. [^Applauding.'] Supe ! Supe ! 
 Qarroll. \_To Spott.] Don't be an ass. 
 Spott. I will. Don't be impertinent. I am familiar with 
 the customs and traditions of all well regulated theatres. 
 
 A PLAY WITHIN A PLAY. 
 
 SCENES FROM THE FOURTH ACT OF A MILITARY DRAMA CALLED 
 
 LOVE AND FAME; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A SOIvDIKR'S WIKK. 
 
 BY THE EMI>fENT TRAGEDIAN, 
 F. Junius Betterton. 
 
 Characters Kepresented : 
 
 COL. EEGINALD WOODLEIGH, . . . F. Junius Betterton. 
 
 AMELIA, His Wife, Miss Phcebe Adams. 
 
 ALICE, His Daughter, aged 15, . . Miss Dorothy Goodall. 
 JONATHAN BARRON, Mrs. Woodleigh's Father, Burton Wallack. 
 WM. BULL, Servant to Mrs. VVoodleigh, . . Reuben Hawkins. 
 
 Time, 1865. Scene, the drawing room of Mrs. Woodleigh's residence, 
 New York City. 
 
 \_Enter Amelia "VVoodleigh, r. 3 e. She is dressed ricldy 
 but quietly. She x's. L. and looks at picture on easel sadly.] 
 
 Amelia. My noble husband! So dearly loved, so thought- 
 lessly lost, so bitterly mourned. This day he returns in 
 triumph from the w^ar. Will he seek his wife and child, or is 
 his heart indeed, dead alike to affection and memory ? 
 
 [Unter r. 3 e. Jonathan Barron. 
 
A PON OF THESPIS. 79 
 
 Barron. Come, come, me clieild, do not stand forever 
 weeping by bis portrait. 
 
 Amelia. Can you blame me, father ? Do you know what day 
 this is? It is the sixteenth anniversary of our marriage. 
 Alice is fifteen to-day. \^3Iusic outside.'] Do you hear that 
 music? A victorious army returns, crowned with triumphant 
 wreathes. The surviving heroes of many battles will be 
 clasped in the loving arms of wives, mothers, sweethearts, 
 lovers and daughters, while here in solitude I wait for one word 
 from him whom 1 so dearly loved, so foolishly wronged by a 
 cruel doubt. He will pass yonder under my very windows, 
 the windows in which we have passed so many loving hours. 
 The famed soldier whom a nation honors will ride proudly by, 
 casting no glace at his once happy home, giving no sign to 
 his despairing wife or the beautiful daughter whom he has 
 never seen. [^She sits c. iveeping. 
 
 Barron. Poor child ! Poor child ! Heaven knows that I 
 have tried to do me duty by her. For years I vainly sought 
 him, to bring two loving hearts together. But the earth 
 seemed to have swallowed him. Year after year, through 
 weary days and tedious nights I continued the sleepless shirt 
 — shirtless sleep — sleepless search. 1 knew I'd go upon that 
 line. The idea of a man writing such infernal language, 
 anyway. 
 
 [Alice enters from balcony r, e. Music. 
 
 Alice. mamma, grandpa, quick, quick, come and see how 
 brave and handsome they look I See the beautiful children 
 throwing flowers under the horses' feet. 0, dear ! why didn't 
 I have some flowers ? \_Slie runs and yets flowers from table 
 L, and throws them doivn outside ; takes bouquet from her 
 bosom and throios it; then gets flag from picture l. and 
 waves it.] Take these, and these ! I am a soldier's daughter. 
 \^A great cheer outside and music forte. Alice waving flag 
 
 and throwing kisses.] 
 
80 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Alice. \_Gfoing to Amelia.] 0, my sweet mamma. You 
 are crying, and I so gay and thoughtless. Forgive me, 
 mamma, forgive me. 
 
 Amelia. There is nothing to forgive, my darling. I Avant 
 always to see you thus, happy and light-hearted. Do not let 
 my idle tears cause you one serious thought. 
 [Mr. Bull rushes in ii. c. He has on livery coat., large tvhite 
 
 choker, well around wider Ms ear, trousers in his boot-legs, 
 
 a wild scraggy-looking red wig. He falls over a chair. 
 
 Mises, gasps ivildly, ivith his arm in the air. Cant 
 
 speak.'] 
 
 Bull. I knew doggone well I'd forget that stuff. 
 
 [ Voice outside L. prompting. 
 
 Voice. The fifth regiment of cavalry. 
 
 Bull. The fifth regiment of calvary. 
 
 Voice. Cavalry, you fool. 
 
 Bull. Cavalry, you fool. , 
 
 Voice. Is just entering the avenue. 
 
 Bull. Is just entering the avenue. 
 
 Voice. With Colonel Woodleigh on a snow white steed. 
 
 Bull. With Colonel Woodleigh on a snow white sheet. 
 
 Voice. Steed. 
 
 Bull. Steed. 
 
 Voice. Proudly marching at its head. 
 
 Bull. Proudly marching on his head. 
 
 Voice. Come off", you infernal idiot. 
 
 Bull. Come off", you infernal idiot. 
 
 Barron. \_To Bull.] Quick, hurry to the street, attract 
 Colonel Woodleigh's attention, tell him to hasten here, that 
 it is a matter of life and death. Quick ! Away ! 
 
 Bull. I fly. 
 \^He falls over a piece of furniture and rushes off extrava- 
 gantly R. u. E.] 
 
 Amelia. 0, father! what have you done? 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 81 
 
 Barron. My duty to both my children. 
 
 Amelia. He will not come. 
 
 Barron. Then he will be unworthy of your love. 
 
 Alice. He will come, my heart tells me so, and I shall 
 see my brave, handsome Either at last. \_Music as before. 
 Alice riDis out on veranda c waving h'indkerchief.'\ Yes, 
 mamma, it is he, it is my father; I know him by his portrait 
 there, and now Mr. Bull has caught his eye; he runs along 
 beside the horse. And now the handsome soldier lifts his hat. 
 See, mamma, see, my papa lifts his helmet and waves his 
 plumes at me ; and now — 
 
 Colonel Woodleigh. [o^ L. U. e.] Battalion halt! [Bugles 
 sound the " halt.''^ 
 
 Colonel Woodleigh. [off L. u. E.] In place rest. 
 [Bugles sound '•'■rest'' followed by the sound of changing 
 
 sabers, et.c.~\ 
 
 Amelia. 0, my poor heart ! how will it end ? 
 
 Barron. Courage, me child. Let conscious innocence sustain 
 you. 
 [Music forte. Alice has re-entered the room, standing R. c. 
 
 back. Enter L. u. E. Colonel Woodleigh, full uniform 
 
 of Colonel of United States cavalry in 1865. He wears 
 
 wig worn in first Act, face young, reproducing the Goodall 
 
 of Act 1. He stops c. Music stops. At sight of him 
 
 Phillis and Carroll both jump to their feet. ~\ 
 
 Phillis. My God ! [Sinks back in chair. 
 
 Carroll. Goodall ! alive ! 
 
 Colonel Alchostra. [Aside to Mrs. Marrigold.] What 
 shall we do ? 
 
 3Irs. 3farrigoM. [Aside.^ Wait! Wait! Providence will 
 guide us. 
 
 Colonel Woodleigh. [At back ] Why am I summoneil here ? 
 
 Alice. [At back-l You do not know me sir, but I am your 
 daughter. 
 6 
 
82 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Colonel Woodleigh. \_Tahing her in his arms.^ My child, 
 me cheild ! [^Takes her face in his hands.^ Oh yes, I see it 
 now. How like ! How like. 
 
 Alice. I can see kindness and nobility in your face. The 
 bravest, they say, are always the tenderest. Yonder is a heart 
 that through years of silent anguish has beat for you alone. 
 Have you no word for her ? 
 
 [/S'/ie leads him forward L. c. He assumes a slightly theatri- 
 cal attitude, mildly reminiscent of the old school. Folds 
 his arms and contracts his brows. ^ 
 
 Amelia. Reginakl, my husband, you see me at your feet, 
 humbled and abashed. My love has not grown cold in all 
 these anxious years. If all love for me is dead, then for the 
 sake of our darling child, your child, can you not let the dead 
 past bury its dead ? 
 
 Colonel Woodleigh. Aye,and reap the Dead Sea's fruit,ashes, 
 ashes, ashes. You did not bid me stay, while yet your voice 
 had power upon me. But now, when glory and ambition 
 have filled the heart where love once reigned supreme, you 
 seek to win me from my new mistress. Fame ; is it not so ? 
 
 Amelia. Cruel, cruel to the last. 
 [_She sinks down humiliated. Colonel Woodleigh stands 
 stiffly, not having looked at her. Alice comes bettveen 
 them. She pulls his arms gently apart, taking his right 
 hand in her left. Phillis and Carroll watch the 
 scene with breathless interest. Colonel Alciiostra and 
 Mrs. Marrigold closely observing Phillis and Goodall. 
 As Alice tak'^s Colonel Woodleigh's hand, Mrs. Mar- 
 REGOLD half leads, half forces Phillis up R. Alice, with- 
 out turning, extends her right hand to take the hand of 
 Amelia. Mrs. Marigold deftly places the hand of 
 Phillis in that of Alice, gently urging Amelia aside. 
 Action not seen by Alice or Colonel Woodleigh. 
 
A SON OF THESPLS. 83 
 
 Amelia expresses surprise, bat retires quickly up R. All 
 watch the scene ivith great interest. Spott is as/(?e/>.] 
 Alice. Father, my father, this is the first time I have been 
 permitted to see your face, to hear your voice,or touch your hand. 
 But since my infant lips couhl frame a word, father has been 
 first in my morning and evening prayers, pleading with the 
 great Parent of all to spare your life, and restore you to those 
 who loved you and waited your coming. Need I say who 
 taught my childish lips those prayers ? And now that suffer- 
 ing wife is kneeling at your feet. You are a brave soldier, 
 the world has read of your heroic deeds, and history will 
 blazon your name to posterity. But your noblest victory is 
 yet to be achieved, for he who conquereth himself is far 
 greater than he who taketh a city. 
 
 Colonel Woodleigh. \^Aside.^ Had angels voices they would 
 plead like this. 
 
 [Alice places the hand of Phillis in that of Colonel Wood- 
 leigh and retires up L. c] 
 
 Phillis. William, ray darling, let me see your face. 
 \_At sound of her voice Colonel Woodleigh starts. Alice, 
 seeing Phillis, express great surprise, then watches both 
 intently. ColoNel Woodleigh quickly recovers his the- 
 atrical mann<ir.~\ 
 (jolonel Woodleigh. Speak the text, don't interpolate. 
 
 \_Prowpts her.~\ Reginald, dear Reginald 
 
 Phillis. I do not ask forgiveness for a crime, for none has 
 been committed. \_Asshe continues speaking. Colonel WooD- 
 lkigh's face conveys his conflicting emotions.~\ We were both 
 the victims of a terrible misapprehension. My poor father 
 quickly learned it, and died praying for your forgiveness. 
 And noAv you have come to justify a faith that has never 
 wavered, to claim a love that has ripened with my sorrow and 
 strengthened with the years. Will you not look into my face, 
 
84 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 and take me in your arms? See our innocent daughter, who 
 
 unconsciously placed my hand in yours, is pleading for a 
 
 father's kiss. 
 
 [Alice moves doivii on Colonel Woodleiuh's l. He looks 
 at her half vacmifly, then ivith an effort faces Phillis. An 
 exclamation^ half shriek, half groan, escapes him. He shud- 
 ders, passes his liands across his eyes, looks again hitently 
 at both, gasps, passes his hand to his left side with an 
 expression of physical pain.^ 
 Wallack. \ln a suppressed voic{\^ The old wound again. 
 
 I feared it. 
 
 [Colonel Woodleigh smiles vacantly, looks into thiir faces 
 again and shakes his head.'\ 
 Colonel W. [/n. delirium.^ Why will they torture me so 
 
 cruelly ? For a moment the gates of Paradise stood ajar, and 
 
 I saw — I saw — 
 
 l^He ivceps. Music P. P., ^^Auld Lang Syne.'' 
 Wallack. His mind is gone again. 
 
 \^A shudder and half-suppressed " 0, no, no," by the entire 
 group of characters. '\ 
 Colonel Woodleigh. [ With an agonized expression.'\ Chaos 
 
 is come again ! 
 
 \^ffe sinks to the floor, supported by his wife and daughter. 
 Characters all bend forward anxiously. ~\ 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 85 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene — Same as Act III. Mrs. Marrigold seated at woi-k 
 
 basket L. Arthur at back on veranda, sketching. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. What are you doing there, my son ? 
 
 Arthur. I am sketching the prettiest picture I ever beheld. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. Indeed ! What is it ? 
 
 Arthur. I shall finish it shortly, and see whether you rec- 
 ognize it. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. \A8ide^ Little doubt of that ! Poor 
 boy ! he can sketch but one face. 
 
 Arthur. \_Coming forward.^ Here you are, mother. You 
 are an art critic. What do you see there ? 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. [Taking sketch.^ I see a man seated upon a 
 rustic bench beneath a spreading elm. At his feet two female 
 figures, one on either side, both looking up into his face. They 
 seem a happy group. One might be his wife, the other his 
 daughter. Yes, I think I recognize the group. You have 
 happily caught the face and figure of the daughter. 
 
 Arthur. l^An'xiouslg.l Do you think so ? 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Do I think so ? Why, I declare, the boy 
 is blushing ! 
 
 Arthur. Well, I'm not ashamed of it. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Quite right, my son ; never be ashamed 
 of an honest affection. Dorothy is a girl worth waiting for. 
 
 Arthur. Worth waiting for. Well I should say she is. 
 But I don't want to wait for her. Any fellow could do that. 
 I want to get her without waiting. 
 
 3Irs. 3farrigold. Dear me ! What a violent first attack ! 
 W^hy you are mere children yet? Dorothy is only seventeen. 
 
 Arthur. And how old were you when you ran away from 
 school and married pop ? 
 
86 A SON OF THESPTS. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. How old was I ? why — how old — good 
 gracious ! What a question ! Why, I was nearly eighteen. 
 
 Arthur. Yes, and pop was nearly twenty-two ; you're a nice 
 one to talk about waiting, you are. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Well, I declare ! I shall have to send 
 you back to school again. 
 
 Arthur. No, thank you. No more school for me. 
 
 3frs. Marrigold. I intend to send you back to Columbia 
 and make a lawyer of you. 
 
 Arthur. Do you ! Well before I'm a lawyer you'll be a 
 grandmother ! 
 
 \_Arthur runs off C. laughing. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Great Heavens ! What is he talking 
 about ! A grandmother, indeed ! Since that boy became a 
 voter he seems to have grown a foot. Grandma, indeed ; 
 Grandma ! Grandma ! After all, there's something sweet 
 and musical in the name ! The happiest hours of my life were 
 passed in teaching that boy's baby lips to say " mamma," and 
 I shall live those hours all over again in teaching his baby's 
 lips to say " Grandma." 
 \_Enter Rube Hawkins c. witlt his '■''Sunday clothes'' on, 
 
 '■^ biled shirt," etc. A modern Neiv England hay- seed. ^ 
 
 Riibe. Good mornin'. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. [^Rising.^ 0, good morning, Mr. Hawkins. 
 
 Rube. Mr. Hawkins ! Pretty soon some one will get the 
 esquire onto that, and then my head'll fill two townships. 
 
 Mi's. Marrigold. Won't you be seated ? 
 
 Rube. No, thank'ee, haven't time. I've brought a kind o' 
 verbal message from the Texas Colonel. After he called here 
 yesterday mornin' and found his friend, the actor chap, so 
 well and strong, he came back to the house in high spirits. 
 There he found a letter from New York, and the minute he 
 read it, he looked at his watch, and saw that he had just time 
 to make the 10.20 train. He told me to come up this mornin' 
 
A SON OP THESPLS. 87 
 
 and say to you that if that Mr. Carroll should corae here any- 
 time to-day, you should be sure to keep him here until he gits 
 back to-day. 
 
 Mrs. Mm-rigold. I understand, perfectly. The Colonel 
 and yourself seem to have become fast friends. 
 
 Rube. Yes. After I acted out that night he took a great 
 shine to me. And when we all got back hum that night, and 
 every one was a laughin' at me, he jest takes me by the hand 
 and says, says he, never mind, Mr. Hawkins, says he, I've 
 seen wuss actors than you in Texas, not many, but some. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. No doubt he was right. 
 
 Rube. And just as soon as Mr. Betterton was up and about, 
 Mr. Wallack hired me and Phoebe, both, for regular sure- 
 enough actors. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Is it possible ? 
 
 Rube. Yes'm, and next week we're going to play Uncle 
 Tom's Cabin in the schoolhouse at Baldwinsville. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Well, I declare ! 
 
 Rube. Yes'm, and we've been working two days now on 
 make-up and togs, a=! Mr. Wallack call 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I have no doubt but we shall soon hear of 
 you as a star, Mr. Hawkins. 
 
 Rube. There she goes again, Mr. Hawkins. \_He slaps 
 himself and starts suddenly.~\ \^Aside.'\ There goes one of 
 my galluses. I knew something 'd bust if this thing didn't 
 stop. Jest excuse me fer a minute, Mrs, Marrigold, I jest 
 want to step outside and see if it looks like rain, 
 \_Working up c, holdi^ig his trousers. Falls over apiece of 
 
 furniture, and as he reaches veranda runs into Bernard 
 
 Carroll, who enters l. c. Rube gives a significant gesture 
 
 to Mrs. Marrigold and exits l. c] 
 
 Carroll. Good morning, Mrs. Marrigold. I trust you will 
 pardon my coming unannounced. 
 
<5» A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Don't mention it, Mr. Carroll ; this is 
 Democracy Hall, you know. Be seated. 
 
 Carroll. [^Sitting R.] Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Are you just up from New York. 
 
 Carroll. This moment. And I grieve to say the bearer of 
 ill news. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Ill news ! For me ? 
 
 Carroll. No ; for your guests, Mr. and Mrs. Goodall. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Is it possible ? They must be spared for 
 a time, at least. Only a week ago to-day this poor man 
 returned to consciousness, and yesterday for the first time he 
 ventured out of doors. 
 
 Carroll. I am aware of that. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Indeed ? 
 
 Carroll. That is to say, I knew, of course, that he had been 
 quite unwell, following the unexpected meeting with his wife 
 and daughter. 
 
 Dorothy. \_Outside L. c] 0, papa, come and see this beau- 
 tiful bed of pansies and forget-me-nots. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. \_Rising, aside.^ '^'hey are coming. Mr. 
 Carroll, may I ask you to step into the library for a time ? I 
 have not the heart at present to see one shadow cross these 
 happy faces. 
 \_Music, '•'■Auld Lang Syne.'' Mrs. Marrigold and Carroll 
 
 exit R. I. E. Enter from veranda Goodall, Phillis ayid 
 
 Dorothy. He lias an arm about each. His costume similar 
 
 to Act //.] 
 
 Phillis. Now, you must sit down, Will, dear. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, you must. 
 
 Goodall. Why will you foolish children try to make an inva- 
 lid of me ? \^He sits.^] Oh, well, I am love's captive, and 
 must e'ea bear with meekness her golden fetters. 
 
 \_They are seated at his feet. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 89 
 
 Dorothy. And I have a papa, a real papa, all my own. I 
 often wondered why it was that I so loved to be near you, to 
 look into your face and hear you call me your sweet Violet. 
 
 Goodall. And now we know. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, now we know. 
 
 Goodall. And now I know why each day I grew more anx- 
 ious for your coming, and why the sky seemed brighter when 
 you came. 
 
 JPhillis. And for nearly a month we were within sound of 
 each other's voices. 
 
 Goodall. How long have I been ill ? 
 
 JPhillis. Four weeks in all. 
 
 Dorothy. For two weeks you were in a raging fever, and 
 thought that you were in the spirit-world vainly seeking us. 
 The fever all came from the old wound in your side, but the 
 big bullet came away, and the doctor says the wound will never 
 trouble you again. 
 
 Dhillis. After two weeks you grew calmer, through exhaus- 
 tion and showed symptoms of returning reason. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, and then they hurried mamma and I away 
 from you. The doctor said that you must not see our faces at 
 first, as it might undo all his Avork. 
 
 Phillis. For a week your mind hovered on the verge of 
 reason. 
 
 ' Dorothy. Yes, and still they wouldn't let us see you. But 
 just a week ago to-day, after the doctor had gone, and there 
 was no one in the room but that dear faithful Mr. Wallack, 
 mamma and I opened the door gently. Your face was towards 
 us, your eyes open. For a moment you stared at us, and 
 then we were both frightened, but the next moment you 
 smiled, and your eyes said " come to me." We knelt at your 
 bed side, and kissed you, then you kissed mamma's hand and 
 whispered "Phillis," then you kissed mine and said, " My sweet 
 Violet." 
 
90 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Pliillis. And then we knew that God had given you back to us. 
 
 CroodaU. When all else had failed, love came. 
 
 Phillis. And then your strength returned as if by magic. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, and your appetite, too. And that doctor 
 wanted to starve you on gruel. But each day, as soon as he 
 was out of the room Mrs. Marrigold would broil a big porter- 
 house steak, and then we'd all sit around the bed and watch 
 you eat it. And in the evening the doctor would come in, 
 feel your pulse, and look wise, and say we might put a few 
 drops of beef extract in your gruel, and we all nearly choking 
 trying to keep from laughing. 
 
 GoodaU. Now, don't abuse the doctors. If they cannot 
 always perform miracles, they can at least entertain us, while 
 nature is fighting the enemy. 
 
 \_Enter Mrs. Marrigold r. i. e. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. \^Aside.'\ I don't wonder the picture 
 inspired Arthur. 
 
 Croodall. [/2m/?^.] Our hostess. 
 
 Mrs. Mari'igold. Still sweet-hearting ! Why, look at the 
 color in his face. 
 
 Dorothy. I was just telling mamma that he looks almost as 
 young and handsome as he did in the play, with his wig and 
 uniform on. 
 
 G-oodall. Throw physic to the dogs. I am more favored 
 than the Thane of Cawdor, for I have found the antidote for a 
 mind diseased. 
 [ The lights behind the arches darken, and a distant peal of 
 
 thunder is heard. 1^ 
 
 Dorothy. [^Running up c] 0, dear I there's a storm coming 
 up. See how dark it's getting, and this evening we were to 
 have our dinner on the lawn. 
 
 3Irs. 3Iarrigold. The clouds are gathering, but let us hope 
 that they will pass us, for this day at least. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 91 
 
 Goodall. Life is to-day so full of sunlight that we can laugh 
 away a few passing clouds. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I want you good people to amuse your- 
 selves for a time in the music room. 
 
 Dorothy. All right ! Come, papa, and I'll sing to you about 
 the girl you left behind you. 
 
 FJullis. But he found her waiting when he returned. 
 
 Croodall. I found two of them. 
 
 Dorothy. [^Throwing her arms about his neck and kissing 
 ]iim.~\ Then I'll sing it twice. 
 
 [Dorothy and Goodall exiti.. i. e. 
 
 Phillis. Madge, dear, something has happened ; I saw it 
 in your face the moment you came in. Have you had bad 
 news 't 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Nothing of importance, dear. Tell me, 
 has Colonel Alchostra not yet told you the character of the 
 important information he has to impart? 
 
 Phillis. No. He expected to have told me on the evening 
 of the play, but the unexpected ending of the scene and poor 
 Will's terrible illness prevented. Since then he has assured 
 me that as soon as Will was on his feet again he would give 
 us a pleasant surprise. He is engaged in some kind of an 
 investigation, and is not yet quite ready to "show his hand," 
 as he expresses it. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Then we may rest easy that when Colonel 
 Tom does show his hand, it will contain both bowers and the 
 ace. 
 
 Phillis. I fear, Madge, dear, that partiality biases you just 
 a little in the direction of the handsome Texan. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. What nonsense you do talk. 
 
 Phillis. Do, I ? Do you know, dear, that in our own happi- 
 ness we are liable to forget that our youngsters are no longer 
 children ? 
 
92 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Yes, I've been reminded of it quite 
 recently. 
 
 Phillis. Poor Arthur is in the garden, a picture of dejec- 
 tion, and Dora actually sighed as we passed him. I'm going 
 to send her out to cheer him up a bit. \_Exit Phillis r. i. e. 
 Colonel Alchostra enters Ij. c. hurriedy]. 
 
 Colonel Alchostra. Good morning, my dear Mrs. Marri- 
 gold; you will pardon me for running in like a wild animal, 
 but I wah a little anxious. Mr. Carroll has been here ? 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. He is there. 
 
 Colonel Alchostra. Good ; I came on the same train, but 
 had some papers to get befo' coming up. Goodall still grows 
 stronger ? 
 
 Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Yes, indeed ; he's like his old self to-day. 
 
 Colonel. How could it be otherwise ? With such nursing, I 
 fancy I should want to be an invalid indefinitely. 
 
 Mrs. 3Iar7'igold. How can we manage to get you on the 
 sick list. Colonel ? 
 
 Colonel. I hardly know, I am so beastly well. There is a 
 way, however. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Indeed ? 
 
 Colonel. Yes, ma'm. It is what lawyers would call a pre- 
 misable case. Now, premising that I should summon the 
 courage to ask you to grant me a great boon and you should 
 decline — then I should decline from that moment. 
 
 Mrs. Mari'igold. Dear me ! Then I must avoid the respon- 
 sibility of driving you into a decline. 
 
 Colonel. Say no moah, my dear Mrs. Marrigold, say no moah ! 
 At the proper time I shall confess judgment and throw 
 myself on the mercy of the coat. But now we must think of 
 others. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. True, our dear friends there. 
 
A SON OF THESPI8. 93 
 
 Colonel. In these beautiful rooms, one month ago, we wit- 
 nessed the second act of a domestic drama. To-day I hope 
 to present tlie " last scene of all that ends this strange event- 
 ful history," as Mr. Shakespeare puts it. 
 
 3lrs. Marrigold. If the end brings happiness to our friends 
 I shall owe you a debt of gratitude. 
 
 Colonel. And I shall expect payment on demand. 
 
 [Dorothy and Arthur appear c. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. I shall always honor my note of hand. 
 
 \_She gives him her hand. He kisses it. 
 
 Colonel. 0, my deah Mrs. — 
 
 [fle is about to take her in his arms. 
 
 Dorothy and Arthur. Change for Texas ! 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold What was that ? 
 
 Colonel. I distinctly heard some one say, Change for Texas. 
 [Mrs. Marrigold goes up r. protesting with Arthur in 
 
 dumb show. Arthur laughing at her. Dorothy comes 
 
 down c. to Colonel.] 
 
 Dorothy. Do you remember the time you told us to " change 
 kears ? " We are even with you now. 
 
 Colonel. Even ! I think we owe you one. 
 
 Dorothy You're a very lucky man to Avin such a prize. 
 Auntie Marrigold might take her choice from among the best 
 in the land. 
 
 Colonel. \_Sivelling with satisfaction.'] Of course ! Of course! 
 She has, no doubt, many admirers. 
 
 Dorothy. Admirers ! Well, I should say so. Twice as many 
 as any of the young girls, and she does enjoy teasing them. 
 But the funniest affair of all was last summer. Arthur brought 
 one of his college chums up here, and he fell desperately in 
 love with auntie. She laughed at him at first, but it was a 
 real'serious case. Then she tried to reason with him. The 
 idea of trying to reason with a man who is in love ! Then he 
 wrote poetry about her. Then he said that he would commit 
 
94 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 suicide. Finally he actually urged her to elope with him. 
 Then auntie took him into the library and gave him a good 
 scolding, but that only made him worse. Finally she said to 
 him: "Why, Willie, I'm old ei)Ough to be your mother. I 
 can't marry you, but if you insist upon becoming a member of 
 the family, why I'll adopt you." \^They both laugh heai'tlly.'] 
 Arthur and I were both behind a screen listening, and when 
 she said that we just pushed the screen over and roared. 
 \^They laugh heartily. ~\ 
 
 [Mrs. Marrigold and Arthur advance l. 
 
 3Irs. Marrigold. Young lady, are you telling tales out of 
 school ? 
 
 Dorothy. 0, no, Auntie. 
 
 Colonel. ^[Imitating Dorothy's tone.'] 0, no, Aun — No ! 
 No! No! 
 
 Dorothy. No, indeed. I was just telling the Colonel how 
 glad I am that he is to be one of the family — I mean — I mean 
 — you know what I mean. 
 
 Colonel. Certainly, of course. 
 
 Dorothy. I mean that, next to my mamma, I have loved my 
 Auntie Marrigold, better than anyone in the world. \_She 
 kisses Mrs. Marrigold.] And I love you, sir, because you 
 have been the means of bringing a great joy into our home 
 and our hearts. 
 
 Colonel. No, child, no. We have all been humble instru- 
 ments in the hands of Providence. But our mission is still 
 unfulfilled, [x. l.] With your permission, Mrs. Marrigold, 
 I will prepare Mr. and Mrs. Goodall for the new trial which 
 is before them. [Uxit Colonel Alchostra l. i. e. 
 
 Dorothy. You are not angry with me, auntie ? 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Angry ! Could I be angry with a sun- 
 beam ? 
 [She kisses Dorothy, and Arthur and Dorothy run out c. 
 
 Bernard Carroll enters R. i. e.] 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 95 
 
 Carroll. My time is limited, Mrs. Marrigold, and, unpleas- 
 ant as my mission is, I think it best that I should see the 
 unfortunate man at once. 
 
 3Irs. 3Iarrigolld. If you will excuse me I will advise them 
 of your presence. \_Exit Mrs. Marrigold, l. i. e. 
 
 Carroll. It is a bold game, but, in its success lies my only 
 security. I am confident that (loodall's appearance here was 
 purely accidental ; yet, some secret eye is prying into the 
 past. Strange that nothing further has ever been heard of 
 that mysterious advertiser in the Herald. \_He sits L. Spott 
 enters c, very extravagant suit^ tight-fitting trick coat to split 
 up hack. 
 
 Spott. Ah ! here we are again, as they say at the circus. 
 I had orders to keep out of sight until wanted, but I couldn't 
 resist the desire to get a peep at the charming widow. \_Sees 
 Carroll.] Great Scott ! 
 
 Carroll. [^iSurprised.^ What has brought you here, sir? 
 
 Spott. A powerful motive, sir. 
 
 Carroll. Motive? What motive? 
 
 Spott. With apologies to the chestnut man, it was a loco- 
 motive? 
 
 Carroll. You're an ass. 
 
 Spott. Am I? Thank you. You've said that once or 
 twice before. However, the ass is a patient animal. Were 
 you ever kicked by an ass? 
 
 Carroll. No, but I have been barked at by a jackal. [^Going 
 up c] What brings that fellow here ? 
 
 Spott. Funny fellow, that. It is astonishing how short- 
 sighted some of these smart alecks are. 
 [Spott retires up G.and quietly exits c. Enter l. i. e.,Goodall, 
 
 PiiiLLrs,MRS. Marruiold, Colonel Alchostra. Goodall 
 
 carries a large 3fss. which he is reading. Carroll advances ; 
 
 all bow.~\ 
 
96 A SON OF THE8PIS. 
 
 Croodall. You have a communication of some character for 
 me, sir ? 
 
 Carroll. Had we not better confer alone ? 
 
 Goodall. You can have notliing to say to me, sir, that I 
 should be unwilling for these dear friends to hear. 
 
 Carroll. As you will, sir. My task is a most unpleasant 
 one, but none the less a duty to you and to* myself. Notwith- 
 standing your crime, wiiich wrecked the firm of Merrill &. 
 Carroll, my personal feelings toward you and yours have been 
 of the kindest. In that spirit I now hasten to warn you of a 
 threatening danger, and to suggest a means of avoiding it. 
 
 Goodall. Had I a thousand ears I'd hear thee. 
 
 Carroll. By some unfortunate means, your identity, so long 
 successfully concealed, has become known in New York, as 
 well as your presence here. 
 
 Goodall. We are aware of that fact. Also, that for a month 
 a detective has been watching this place. [Carroll starts.'] 
 Placed here, no doubt, by some kind, thoughtful friend like 
 yourself. So far you have told us nothing new. 
 
 Carroll. The heirs and survivors of some of the families 
 wrecked by your crimes have determined to secure your arrest 
 and prosecution. I am here to urge upon you the wisdom of 
 avoiding this arrest and exposure, which must bring disgrace 
 and humiliation to those dear to you. 
 
 Goodall. And what do you advise ? 
 
 Carroll. There is but one course — flight and residence abroad. 
 
 Goodall. Flight ! From what ? From whom ? 
 
 Carroll. From the vengeance of those who have determined 
 upon your prosecution. Your arrest will certainly follow 
 within the next twelve hours. Under a foreign government 
 you can live in securety. If I may do so without offending, I 
 will willingly place means at your disposal, to be repaid at your 
 convenience. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. ~ 97 
 
 Goodall. Is there on record a court decision pronouncing 
 me a criminal ? 
 
 Carroll. Not exactly. But the overwhelming evidence, 
 added to your own confession, flight and subsequent career 
 under an assumed name, would seem to constitute a prima 
 facie case. 
 
 Goodall. 0, learned judge ! A Daniel come to judgment! 
 And may I now ask what motive has moved you to this gener- 
 ous action ? 
 
 Carroll. Sympathy for an erring man, and profound respect 
 for the lady who bears his name. 
 
 Goodall. Have you done ? 
 
 Carroll. I think I have said enough. 
 
 Goodall. So say we all. Now to answer in extenso. I shall 
 not go into exile at present. I am, first of all things, sir, an 
 American, native and to the manner born, and this country is 
 quite good enough for me. 
 
 Carroll. Then I must apologize for trying to be your friend. 
 I wish you all good day. 
 [ffe st'irts up, Dorothy and Arthur enter c. and advance l. 
 
 Goodall. A word before you go. \_Ile motions Carroll to a 
 seat. He 8its.~\ Let us nothing extenuate or set down aught 
 in malice. I have done the State some service, and they know 
 it. Your anxiety lest I should have to do the State more 
 service of an involuntary character places me under an obliga- 
 tion, and, beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks. Yet I 
 am not ungrateful. To prove it, I will read you a scene from 
 my new drama. The play will be called, After Many Years. 
 
 It tells the story of a Federal soldier, who was wounded in 
 battle ; a Confederate officer carried him tenderly to the 
 hospital. At the end of the war, the Federal and Confederate 
 soldiers became fast friends, and for many years were in 
 business together in Texas. One day the Northerner was 
 stricken with a fever. He felt it to be fatal. He summoned 
 7 
 
98 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 friends who were near and said : " I am called for the last 
 muster. The name by which you have known me is not my 
 own. Take down my dying confession and have it witnessed 
 that I may swear to it while my mind is clear. In New York 
 City, in 1861, I was book-keeper for a banking firm. I 
 committed forgery for a small amount. The junior partner 
 discovered my crime, but, instead of exposing me, he held it 
 over my head, compelling me to sign innumerable documents. 
 By these forgeries the bank was wrecked, but all available 
 funds had been transferred to the private fortune of the junior 
 partner. Those forgeries were charged to an innocent man, who, 
 indignant and humiliated, entered the army, leaving a bride 
 and her unborn child. For two years I suifered the torments 
 of the damned. Then I wrote the man who had ruined me 
 that I had resolved to tell the truth and take my punishment, 
 which he must share. He wrote me to meet him that night, 
 which 1 did. For an hour we walked through dark, silent 
 streets. At midnio-ht we were seated on an old East River 
 pier. He offered bribes, which I refused. Suddenly I felt a 
 sharp, stinging pain in my left side, under the shoulder blade, 
 The next thing that I remembered was lying on a rude bench, 
 surrounded by strange men. I had been picked up by a 
 boat's crew. I was then on board a coasting schooner bound 
 for the Chesapeake. Believing that I was about to die, I 
 called for pen and paper, and told this story exactly as related 
 here; I signed it, and the captain and crew witnessed it. But 
 I was not then to die. On my recovery, knowing the folly of 
 a man who is poor and friendless contending with one who 
 was rich and powerful, I entered the Federal army under an 
 assumed name. The rest you know. 
 
 [Carroll lias been listening with breatJdess interest. 
 
 Carroll. [^Half suppressed.'] My God ! 
 
 \_All look at Carroll. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS. 9.9 
 
 Goodall. Mr. Carroll is not well. Does the plot of the 
 drama weary you ? 
 
 Carroll. \^Calmly.~\ 0, not at all ; I'm quite interested. 
 
 Qolonel Alchostra. We thought you would like it. 
 
 Carroll. But, really, as it is nearly train time, I fear I must 
 tear myself away. 
 
 Gfoodall. The climax is yet to come. The dying man's 
 confession concludes as follows : " The banking firm was 
 that of Merrill k Carroll. The name of the falsely accused 
 man was William Goodall; the name of the junior partner and 
 my would-be assassin was Bernard Carroll. 
 
 " Signed : Philip Hawley. 
 
 " Witnesses : 
 
 " Thomas Alchostra, 
 
 " Moses J. Mason, 
 
 "John Soto. 
 ^^ Alchostra Ranch, near Austin, May 4^th, 1879.'' 
 
 Carroll. Really, Mr. Goodall, your cleverness in conceiving 
 thrilling climaxes is equalled only by your skill in reciting 
 them. 
 
 Goodall. Praise from Sir Hubert is praise, indeed. 
 
 Carroll. But, seriously, the plot of your drama is absurdly 
 weak, in presuming that a dead man's confession, unsupported 
 by corroborative evidence, would give your hero any standing 
 in a court of law. 
 
 Goodall. Aye, there's the rub. You are a close observer 
 and an intelligent critic. The one thing to corroborate the 
 dying man's confession would be the confession made in 1863 
 on board the schooner, or the evidence of some person there 
 present. [Spott e^iter l. c. 
 
 Colonel Alchostra. Possibly our detective friend can supply 
 a link that will strengthen the plot. 
 
 Spott. \_Coming fortoard R.] Leave everything to me. 
 [Spott reads from memo.~\ Captain Sturgis, of schooner 
 
100 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Martha Hale, and James Dean, second officer, both now living 
 at Bangor, Maine. Both remember the incident perfectly, 
 and will testify at any time. But have no knowledge of the 
 written confession, as they did not see it after witnessing it. 
 
 Carroll. I fear, Mr. Goodall, you will have to invent a new 
 plot for your drama. This one is theatrical, but not novel, and 
 you fail to preserve the unities. But really you must excuse 
 me. \_He starts up c. 
 
 Goodall. One moment ; we are coming to the unities. 
 
 Spott. Leave everything to me. [Spott reads.'] Memo- 
 randa : From records of Ketchem & Workem ; file, 13, 1863. 
 The confession herewith attached was bought from a sailor ; 
 no name given ; written on bill of lading of schooner Martha 
 Hale ; price paid, $50 ; N. Q.: no questions ; K. D.: keep dark, 
 B. M. L. 0. : big money later on. \_Speaks.] The firm of 
 Spott & Bleedem succeeded to the business and records of 
 Ketchem & Workem in 1872. The late Workem was my hon- 
 ored father-in-law. Excuse this tear. A satisfactory consid- 
 eration having been paid, Colonel Thomas Alchostra is now in 
 absolute possession of the confession referred to ; also the letter 
 written by Bernard Carroll on April 30, 1863, to Philip 
 Hawley, requesting the interview. 
 
 Carroll. [To Spott.] You miserable cur ! 
 
 Spott. Don't call names. We are both in it for what there 
 is in it, only you got more than I did. 
 
 Carroll. Have I not rewarded your miserable services with 
 princely generosity? 
 
 Spott. You have. I may say that you ante'd blindly, but 
 the Texas Colonel straddled the blind, and raised the ante. 
 [Carroll sinks into a seat. Spott goes up c, and quietly 
 
 sits at table on which is decanter a7id glasses. During rest 
 
 of scene he filh up and goes to sleep.] 
 
 Goodall. [x'ingto Carroll.] You see, we have not forgotten 
 the unities. Mr. Carroll, the great joy that to-day fills this 
 
A SON OP THESPIS. 101 
 
 househould leaves in our hearts no room for anger, resentment 
 or revenge. You will be allowed one week in which to make 
 restitution to the daughter of Warren Merrill. You best 
 know the amount of which you robbed her father. Restore it 
 and go your way in peace. These documents will secure your 
 good conduct in the future. 
 
 CaiToll. By this act, you leave me without a weapon of 
 aggression or defense. Within forty-eight hours the restitu- 
 tion shall be complete. I beg that you will allow me to with- 
 draw. 
 \_G-oodall steps aside and motions Carroll to depart. All 
 
 rise and incline their heads, as he makes his exit R. I. E. 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. That was nobly done, Mr. Goodall. 
 
 Dorothy. I hope he will appreciate it. 
 
 Phillis. He will. It is never too late to mend. 
 
 Colonel Alchostra. And while the lamp holds out to burn 
 the vilest sinner will continue business at the old stand, or 
 words to that effect. 
 [Unter L. c. Phcebe, Rube and Wallace. Ph(Ebe is 
 
 extravagantly/ made up for Aunt Ophelia, Wallace for 
 
 Marks, and Rube, ludicrously, for Lagree. They drop doivn 
 
 into K. COR. Wallace carries his champagne basket on 
 
 which he sits. Other characters are all L. 
 
 Wallack. Me lord, the players have come. 
 
 Groodall. Ah ! the tragedians of the city. How chances it 
 they travel ? 
 
 Wallack. This is a little summer snap. Colonel, we are 
 here to offer our congratulations upon your recovery, and to 
 say au revoir before starting en tour. 
 
 Goodall. En tourl 
 
 Wallack. Yes, Colonel. In these happily changed condi- 
 tions, you will not require the services of a manager, agent, 
 valet, stage director, property man, and factotum in ordinary, 
 
102 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 hence I resign those numerous functions. To-morrow, at 
 Baldwinsville, we begin rehearsals of Uncle Tom's Cabin. 
 
 Phoehe. Yes, I'm to play five characters, including Little 
 Eva and Aunt Ophelia. 
 
 Wallaek. I shall assume my great role of Marks the Law- 
 yer, doubling Gumption Cute and Fletcher incidentally. 
 
 Rube. Yes, sir, and I'm to play — what do I play ? 
 
 Wallaek. You play the donkey and Lagree, sir. 
 
 Rube. Yes, I play the donkey and the greaser. 
 
 Wallaek. Who said greaser ? 
 
 Rube. You did. 
 
 Wallaek. I said Lagree, sir. 
 
 Rube. That's what I said, the greaser. 
 
 Phoebe. Yes, and we just came up to let you see our new 
 costumes. 
 
 Goodall. You are welcome, masters, welcome all. [ To Rube, 
 who wears a long chin whisker.^ Thy face is valanced since I 
 saw thee last. Comest thou to beard us in Denmark ? 
 
 Rube. \^To Wallace.] What do I say now ? 
 
 Wallaek. Say nothing. The donkey don't talk. 
 
 Rube. Oh ! 
 
 Gfoodall. [To Phcebe.] Your ladyship is nearer heaven 
 than when I saw thee last, by the altitude of a chopin. 
 \^Ref erring to her high poke bonnet.~\ You are welcome to 
 Elsinore. \_Taking Wallace's hand.~\ You have been as 
 one in suifering all that suffers nothing. A man whom for- 
 tune's buffets and rewards has taken with equal thanks. You 
 shall star, but not in Uncle Tom. Perish the thought. I will 
 present you with the manuscript of my new war drama. 
 
 Wallaek. Very kind of you Colonel, but there seems to be 
 a glut of war plays, and, as walking is bad, we'll stick to the 
 old chestnut. 
 
 Phillis. Will, dear, you are likely to lose your daughter 
 almost as soon as found. 
 
A SON OF THESPIS 103 
 
 Groodtxll. I guessed it. To lovej to marrv and to be given 
 in marriage is the divine law ; so be it. In your young loves, 
 my own lost youth breathes musical. 
 
 Wallack. \^Half aside.~\ The only Richelieu. 
 
 Ruhe. \^To Ph(EBE.] Who was Richelieu? 
 
 Plioehe. He wrote Uncle Tom. 
 
 Rube. 0. \^?(iTT rises and looks about ; he s half drunk. 
 
 Spott. This happy family have lost sight of their benefactor. 
 \_Oomes fonvard R. c. effusively.^ Ah, ladies ! Permit me to 
 congratulate this happy family. 
 
 Wallack. He has escaped from the happy family. 
 
 Phoebe. He looks it. 
 
 Spott. 'S'appy family upon this ausp — auspi — hospital occa- 
 sion. Don't thank me, I simply did my duty. I have cast 
 my bread upon the waters — upon the waters — waters. 
 
 Colonel. Cast your bread upon the waters, and after many 
 days the sharks will get it, or words to that effect. 
 
 Spott. 'Zactly ! I knew it, but I forgot it. Mrs. Marrigold, 
 I am proud to grasp you by the hand. [Spott crosses l., tries 
 to take Mrs. M's. hand. She turns jrom him.^ Your hand, 
 under these 'sappy circu — cir — circuses. Should you at any 
 future time require the services of a man of observation, 
 sobriety and discretion, leave everything to me. 
 [ZTe has been fumbling for a card, which he shoves in her face. 
 
 Colonel. [^Coming behind Sfot:t.~\ Excuse me, ladies ; this 
 annoys you. I will remove it. 
 [Colonel takes Spott by coat collar and throws him around 
 
 C. Trick coat opens up back. Collar and cravat fly off. 
 
 Colonel drags Idm up c. and tJirows him bodily over the 
 
 veranda and quietly returns. ~\ 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Why, Colonel, do you not fear this fellow's 
 resentment ? 
 
104 A SON OF THESPIS. 
 
 Colonel Alchostra. 0, no, ma'am ; he belongs to that class 
 which we throw out when we are done using them. He's used 
 to it, ma'am. 
 
 Dorothy. [^Running up C, then returning.^ Mamma! papa! 
 See ! all of the clouds have passed away, and there wasn't a 
 drop of rain after all the thunder. 
 
 Colonel. The thunder was a big bluff, and it didn't go. 
 
 Dorothy. The sun is shining brightly ; the birds are sing- 
 ing beautifully ; we can have our dinner under the trees after 
 all, can't we. Auntie ? 
 
 Mrs. Marrigold. Yes, dear. 
 
 Dorothy. 0, won't it be jolly ! There's not a cloud left in 
 the sky. 
 
 Groodall. And so the shadow passes from our lives. Let us 
 throw wide each window of our hearts, that love's sunlight 
 may enter in, \_Music p. p. ^^Auld Lang Syne.'' 
 
 Groodall. [^Suddenly .~\ Yet stay ! An inspiration ! That 
 nothing may be wanting that could add to the general joy of 
 the whole company, I will read to you my new drama. 
 \_IIe reaches for Mss. Wallack groans. Music swells forte. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 

 
 
 
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