Title Cl««i-4-\-ttL6.i Imprint 1»— 80«»-l r- fRICE: ^5CTS •THE Monograpli CAPT. RACKET A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. BY Charles Townsend. PRICE 25 Cents. This latest play by Mr. Townsend will probably be one of his most popular productions; it certainly is one of his best. It is full of action from start to finish. Comic situations follow one after another, and the act-endings are especially strong and and lively. Every character is good and affords abundant oppor- tunity for effective work. Can be played by four men and three women if desired. The same scene is used for all the acts, and it is an easy interior. A most excellent play for repertoire com- panies. No seeker for a good play can afford to ignore it. CHARACTERS. Capt. Robert Racket, one of the National Guard. A lawyer when he has nothing else to do, and ^liar all the time Comedy Lead. Obadiah Dawson, his uncle, from Japan "where they make tea" Comedy Old Man. Timothy Tolman, his friend, who married for money and is sorry for it Juvenile Man. Mr. DAL,Roy,his father in-law, a jolly old cove Eccentric. HoBSON, a waiter from the *'Cafe Gloriana," who adds to the confusion Utility. Clarice, the Captain's pretty wife, out for a lark, and up to "anything awful" Comedy Lead. Mrs. Tolman, a lady with a temper, who finds her Timothy a vexation of spirit ....Old Woman. Katy, a mischievous maid Soubrette. Tootsy, the "Kid," Tim's olive branch Props. SYNOPSIS. ACT. I. Place: Tim's country home on the Hudson near New York. Time: A breezy morning in {September. The Captain's fancy takes a flight and trouble begins. ACT. II. Place; the same: Time; the next morning. How one yam re- quires another, "The greatest liar unhung," Now the trouble increases and the Captain prepares for war. ACT. III. Place: the same. Time: evening of the same day. More miseij. A general muddle. "Dance or you'll die." Cornered at last. The Captain owns up. All serene. Time of playing: Two hours. Order a sample copy, and see for yourself what a good play it isi THE STREETS OF NEW YORK A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS BY DION BOUCICAULT CHICAGO THE DRAMATIC PUBI.ISHING COMPANY THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Wallack^s Theatre, December, 1857 Captain Fairweather, Mr. Blake. If ^2 Gideon Bloodgood, ... .Mr. Norton. Badger, Mr. Lester. r^u^ Mark Livingstone, Mr. Sothern. "^•^ Paul, Mr. A. H. Davenport (^^^ Puffy, Mr. Sloan. "^^^^^Dan Mr. T. B. Johnson. ^'^-^ Daniels, Mr. Tree. Edwards, Mr. Levere. -'■ Mrs. Fairweather, Mrs. Blake. Mrs. Puffy, Mrs. Cooke. Alida, Mrs. Hoey. Lucy, Mrs. J. H. Allen. Costumes — Mod ern. The first act occurs during the commercial panic of 1837. The re- mainder of the drama takes place during the panic of 1857. STAGE DIRECTIONS. L. means First Entrance, Left. R. First Entrance, Right. S. E. L. Second Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. L. Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance, Right. C. Cejitre. L. C. Le/t Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Enti-ance, Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R. Door Right. D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R. Upper Door, Right. D. F. Door in fiat. *^* The reader is supposed to be on the stage, facing the audience. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. ACT I. The Panic of 1837. Scene. — The private office of a banking house in New York j door at back, leading to the bank ; door L. H., leading to a side street. Gideon Bloodgood seated, c, at desk. [Enter Edwards, l. h. d. f., with a sheet of paper ^ Edw. The stock list, sir ; — second board of brokers. Blood. [Rising eagerly .^ Let me see it. Tell the cashier to close the bank on the stroke of three, and dismiss the clerks. [Reads. Exit Edwards.] So — as I expected, every stock is down further still, and my last effort to retrieve my fortune has plunged me into utter ruin ? [Cries hes up the paper. \ To- morrow, my drafts to the amount of eighty thousand dollars will be protested. To-morrow, yonder street, now so still, will be filled with a howling multitude, for the house of Bloodgood, the banker, will fail, and in its fall will crush hundreds, thousands, who have their fortunes laid up here. [Re-enter Edwards.] Edw. Here are the keys of the safe, sir, and the vault. [Leaves keys on desk and shows a check to Bloodgood.] The building committee of St. Peter's new church have applied for your donation. It is a thousand dollars. Blood. Pay it. [Exit Edwards.] To-morrow, New York will ring from Union Square to the Battery with the news — " Bloodgood has absconded " — but to-morrow 1 shall be safe on board the packet for Liverpool — all is prepared for my Hight with my only care in life, my only hope — my darling child — her fortune secure [Rises?^ The affair will blow over ; 3 4 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Blooclgood's bankruptcy will soon be forgotten in the whirl of New York trade, but Alida, my dear Alida, will be safe from want. \Re-enter Edwards.] Edw. Here, sir, are the drafts on the Bank of England, $70,000. \Hands papers to Bloodgood, who places them in his pocket-book.] Blood. Are the clerks all gone ? Edw. All, sir, except Mr. Badger. Blood. Badger! the most negligent of all ! That is strange. Edw. His entries are behindhand, he says, and he is balancing his books. Blood. Desire him to come to me. [Sits. Exit Edwards.] \Enter Badger, smoking cigar.] Bad. You have asked for me ? Blood, Yes ; you are strangely attentive to business to-day, Mr. Badger. Bad. Everything has a beginning. Blood. Then you will please to begin to-morrow. Bad. To-morrow ! no sir, my business must be done to-day. Carpe diem — niake most of to-day — that's my phil- osophy. Blood. Mr. Badger, philosophy is not a virtue in a banker's clerk. Bad. Think not ? Blood. [Impatiently.] Neither philosophy nor impertinence. You are discharged from my employment. Bad. Pardon me ! I do not catch the precise word. Blood. [Sternly.] Go, sir, go ! I discharge you. Bad. Go ! — discharge me ? I am still more in the dark. I can understand my services not being required in a house that goes on, but where the house is ready to burst up the formality of telling a clerk he is discharged does seem to me an unneces- sary luxury. Blood. [Troubled. \ I do not understand you, sir. Bad. [Seating himself on a desk, deliberately dangling his legs^ No ! well I'll dot my i's and cross my t's, and make myself plain to the meanest capacity. In business there are two ways of getting rich, one hard, slow and troublous : this is called labor Blood. Sir ! Bad. Allow me to finish. The other easy, quick and THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 5 demanding nothing but a pliant conscience and a daring mind — is now pleasantly denominated financiering — but when New York was honest, it was called fraudulent bankruptcy, that was before you and I were born. Blood. What do you mean ? Bad. I mean that for more than two years I have watched your business transactions ; when you thought me idle, my eyes were everywhere : in your books, in your safe, in your vaults ; if you doubt me question me about your operations for the last three months. Blood, This is infamous ! Bad. That is precisely the word I used when I came to the end of your books. Edw. [Oii/sti/e.] This way, sir. [En/er Edwards, Ti'if/i Captain Fairweather.J Blood. [To Badger, ^'n alarm.] Not a word. Bad. AH right. Edw. [Introducing Captain Fairweather.J This is Mr. Bloodgood. Capt. Glad to see you, sir. You will pardon my intruding at an hour when the bank, I am told, is closed. Blood. I am at your service, sir. \He inakcs a sign for Badger to retire, but the latter re7nains.'\ Bad. [7^^ Captain.] You may speak, sir; Mr. Bloodgood has no secrets from me. I am in his confidence. Capt. [Sits.] I am a sea captain, in the India trade. My voyages are of the longest, and thus I am obliged to leave my wife and two children almost at the mercy of circumstances. I was spending a happy month with my darlings at a little cozy place I have at Yonkers while my ship was loading, when this infernal commercial squall set in — all my fortune, $100,000, the fruits of thirty years' hard toil — was invested in the United States Bank — it was the livelihood of my wife — the food of my little children — I hurried to my brokers and sold out. I saved myself just in time. Blood. I admire your promptitude. Capt. To-morrow I sail for China ; for the last three weeks I have worried my brains to think how I should bestow my money — to-day I bethought me of your house — the oldest in New York — your name stands beyond suspicion, and if I leave this money in your hands, I can sleep nightly with the happy assurance that whatever happens to me, my dearest ones are safe. 6 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Bad. You may pull your nightcap over your ears with that established conviction. Capt. Now, I know your bank is closed, but if you will accept this money as a special deposit, I will write to you how 1 desire it to be invested hereafter. Blood. [Pi'Hsrc'e.] You have a family ? Capt, Don't talk of them — tears of joy come into my eyes whenever I think of those children — and my dear wife, the patient, devoted companion of the old sailor, whose loving voice murmurs each evening a prayer for those who are on the sea ; and my children, sir, two little angels ; one a fair little thing —we call her Lucy — she is the youngest — all red and white like a little bundle ot flowers ; and my eldest — my son Paul — we named him after Paul Jones — a sailor's whim ; well, sir, when the ship is creaking and groaning under my feet, when the squall drives the hail and sleet across my face, amidst the thunder, I only hear three voices — through the gloom I can see only three faces, pressed together like three angels waiting for me in heaven, and that heaven is my home. But, how I do talk, sir — forgetting that these things can't interest you. Blood. They do, more than you imagine. I, too, have a child — only one — a motherless child ! Capt. Ain't it good to speak of the little beings ? Don't it fill the heart like a draught of sweet water ? My darling tor- ments, here is their fortune — I have it in my hand — it is here — I have snatched it from the waves ; I have won it across the tempest ; I have labored, wrestled, and suffered for it ; but it seemed nothing, for it was for them. Take it, sir. [Ne /lands a pockei-book.'] In this pocket-book you will find one hundred thousand dollars. May I take your receipt, and at once depart for my vessel ? Bad. [Aside] This is getting positively interesting. Blood. Your confidence flatters me, sir. You desire to place this money with me as a special deposit ? Capt. If you please. Will you see that the amount is correct ? Blood. {Counting.'] Mr. Badger, prepare the receipt. Bad. {W7'itingi\ "New York, 13th of December, 1837, Received, on special deposit, from " [7]? Captain.] Your name, sir ? Capt. Captain Fairweather, of the ship Paul and Lucy, of New York. Bad. {Writing?^ Captain Fairweather, of the ship • Blood. One hundred thousand dollars — quite correct. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 7 Bad. {^Handing receipt to Bloodgood, cind watching him closely as he takes the pen. \ Please sign the receipt. YAside.'\ His hand does not tremble, not a muscle moves. What a magnificent robber ! Blood. [71? Captain.] Here is your receipt. Capt. A thousand thanks. Now I am relieved of all trouble. Bad. {^Aside^ That's true. Capt. I must return in haste to the Astor House, where I dine with my owners at four — I fear I am late. Good-day, Mr. Bloodgood. Blood. Good-day, Captain, and a prosperous voyage to you. \Exit Captain Fairweather. Badger opens ledger.] What are you doing, Mr. Badger. Bad. I am going to enter that special deposit in the ledger. Blood. Mr. Badger ! Bad. Mr. Bloodgood ? Blood. [^Brings him down.] I have been deceived in you. I confess I did not know your value. Bad, [Afodestlf.] Patience and perseverance, sir, tells in the long run. Blood. Here are one thousand dollars — I present them to you for your past services. Bad. [Takes the money, and walks over to the ledger on the desk, which he closes significantly.] And for the present service ? Blood. What do you mean ? Bad. My meaning is as Clear as Croton. I thought you were going to fail — I see I was wrong — you are going to abscond. Blood. Mr. Badger ! this language Bad. This deposit is special ; you dare not use it in your business ; your creditors cannot touch it — ergo, you mean to make a raise and there's but one way — absconsion 1 absquatu- lation. Blood. \SniiHng.\ It is possible that this evening I may take a little walk out of town. Bad, In a steamboat t Blood. Meet me at Peck Slip, at five o'clock, and I will hand you double the sum I gave you. Bad. [Aside.] In all three thousand dollars. [Re-enter Edwards.] Edw. Your daughter, sir ; Miss Alida is in the carriage at the door and is screaming to be admitted. 8 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Blood. Tell the nurse to pacify her for a few moments. Edw. She dare not, sir ; Miss Alida has torn nurse's face in a fearful manner already. [E.ri/.] Bad. Dear, high-spirited child ! If she is so gentle now, what will she be when she is twenty, and her nails are fully developed ! Blood, \Ta/:es /laf.] I will return immediately. [Exif.] Bad. {Following Bloodgood ivith his eyes?[ Oh, nature, wonderful mistress ! Keep close to your daughter, Bloodgood, for she is your master ! Ruin, pillage, rob fifty families to make her rich with their misery, happy in their tears. I watched him as he received the fortune of that noble old sailor — not a blink — his heart of iron never quailed ; but in this heart of iron there is a straw, a weakness by which it may be cracked, and that weakness is his own child — children ! They are the devil in disguise. I have not got any except my passions, my vices — a large family of spoilt and ungrateful little devils, who threaten their loving father with a prison. Edw. [ Outside?^ I tell you, sir, he is not in. Capt. \Oiitside?\^ Let me pass, I say. {He enters very much agitated.] Where is he ? Where is he ? Bad. \Surprised.'\ What is the matter, sir ? Capt. Mr. Bloodgood — I must see him— speak to him this instant, do you not hear me ? Bad. But Capt. He has not gone. Bad. Sir Capt. Ah, he is here ! [Re-enter Bloodgood.] Blood. What is the meaning of this .? Capt. Ah ! you — it is you — [Trying to restrain his cmotioji.^ Sir, I have changed my mind ; here is your receipt ; have the goodness to return me the deposit I — I — left with you. Blood. Sir ! Capt. I have another investment for this sum, and I — beg you to restore it to me. Blood. Restore it ! you have a very strange way, sir, of demanding what is due to you. Capt. It is true ; pardon me, but I have told you it is all! possess. It is the fortune of my wife, of my children, of my brave Paul, and my dear little Lucy. It is their future happiness, their life ! Listen, sir ; I will be frank with you. Just now, on returning to my hotel, I found the owners of my ship waiting THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 9 dinner for me, well, they were speaking as merchants will speak of each other — your name was mentioned — I listened — and they said — it makes me tremble even now— they said there were rumors abroad to-day that your house was in peril. Blood. I attach no importance, sir, to idle talk. Capt. But I attach importance to it, sir. How can I leave the city with this suspicion on my mind that perhaps I have compromised the future of my family. Blood. Sir ! Capt. Take back your receipt, and return me my money. Blood. You know, sir, that it is after banking hours. Return to-morrow. Capt. No. You received my deposit after banking hours. Blood. I am not a paying teller, to count out money. Capt. You did not say so when you counted it in. [Enter Edwards.] Edw. The driver says you will be late for the— Blood. [Trying to stop hini.\ That will do. [Exit Ed- wards. ] Capt. What did he say ? [Runs to the window.] A carriage at the door Bad. [Aside.'] Things are getting complicated here. Capt. Yes — I see it all. He is going to fly with the fortunes and savings of his dupes ! [Tearing his cravat .^^ Ah ! I shall choke ! [Eiirioiisly to Bloodgood.] But I am here, villain, I am here in time ! Blood. Sir ! Capt. To-morrow, you said — return to-morrow — but to- morrow you will be gone. [Precipitates himself on BloodgOOd.J My money, my money ! I will have it this instant ! Do not speak a word, it is useless, I will not listen to you. My money, or I will kill you as a coward should be killed. Robber ! Thief! Bad. [Aside.] Hi ! hi ! This is worth fifty cents — reserved seats extra. Blood. [Disengaging hinise//.] Enough of this scandal. You shall have your money back again. Capt. Give it me — ah ! — [hi pain.] My head ! [7b Bloodgood.] Be quick, give it to me, and let me go. [Staggeritig and put- ting his hands to his face.] My God ! what is this strange feeling which overcomes me. Bad. He is falling, what's the matter of him ? [Captain F. fa/ is in chair, c] lO THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Blood. His face is purple. [^Takts pocket-book and coM' moiccs to count out money. Soft niusic to end of act.'] Capt. I Tixw suffocating; some air. I cannot see; every- thing is black before my eyes. Am I dying .'' Oh, no, no ! it cannot be, I will not die. I must see them again. Some water — quick ! Come to me — my wife — my children ! Where are they that I cannot fold them in my arms ! \He looks strangely^ a7id fearfully into the face ^ Bloodgood /(^r an instant^ a?:d then breaks into a loud sob.^ Oh, my children — my poor, poor, little children ! \After some convulsive efforts to speak his eyes become fixed.\ Blood. \Distracted?^ Some one run for help. Badger, a doctor, quick. Bad. \Standing ^7/^;- Captain.] All right, sir, I have studied medicine — that is how I learned most of my loose habits. {^Ex- amines the Captain's /?//jt' and eyes ?\^ It is useless, sir. He is dead. Blood. \Horrified.\ Dead! ]^^qq^^(sqQ^% attitude is one of extreme horror. This position gradually relaxes as he begins to see the advantages that will result from the Captain's death.] Can it be possible ? Bad. {Tearing open the Captain's vest. The receipt falls on the ground.] His heart has ceased to beat — congestion in all its diagnostics. Blood. Dead ! Bad. Apoplexy — the symptoms well developed — the causes natural, over-excitement and sudden emotion. Blood. \Relaxi71g into an attitude of ciuming.] Dead ! Bad. You are spared the agony of counting out his money. Blood. Dead ! Bad. {Sees receipt on ground.] Ha ! here is the receipt ! Signed by Bloodgood. As a general rule never destroy a re- ceipt — there is no knowing when it may yet prove useful. {Picks it up, and puts it in his pocket.] {Tableau.] END OF ACT I. THE STREETS OF NEW VORK. II (A lapse of tweiitj' years is supposed to intervene between the first and second acts.) ACT II. The Panic of 1857. Scene I. — The Pa7-k, near Tammany Hall. [Enter Livingstone.] Liv. Eight o'clock in the morning. For the last hour I have been hovering round Chatham Street — I wanted to sell my over- coat to some enterprising Israelite, but I could not muster the courage to enter one of those dens. Can I realize the fact ? Three months ago, I stood there, the fashionable Mark Living- stone, owner of the Waterwitch yacht, one of the original stock- holders in the Academy of Music, and now, burst up, sold out, and reduced to breakfast off this coat. \Feels in the pocket.'] What do I feel ? a gold dollar — undiscovered in the Raglan of other days! [^Withdratus his hand.] No ; 'tis a five-cent piece ! \Enter Puffy with a hot-potato arrangement.] Puffy. Past eight o'clock ! I am late this morning. Liv. I wonder what that fellow has in his tin volcano — it smells well. Ha ! what are those funny things ? Ah ! Puflfy. Sweet potatoes, sir. Liv. Indeed. [Aside.] If the Union Club saw me — [Looks round.] No : 1 am incog — hunger cries aloud. Here goes. Puffy. Why, bless me, if it ain't Mr. Livingstone ! Liv. The devil ! He knows me — I dare not eat a morsel. Puffy. I'm Puffy, sir ; the baker that was — in Broadway — served you, sir, and your good father afore you. Liv. Oh, Puffy — ah, true. [Aside.] I wonder if I owe him anything. Puffy. Down in the world now, sir — over-speculated like the rest on 'em. I expanded on a new-fangled oven, that was to bake enough bread in six hours to supply the whole United States — got done brown in it myself — subsided into Bowery — expanded again on waffles, caught, a second time — obliged to contract into a twelve-foot front on Division Street. Airs. P. tends the indoor trade — I do a locom.otive business in potatoes, and we let our second floor. My son Dan sleeps with George Washington No. 4, w^hile Mrs. P. and I make out under the counter ; Mrs. P., bein' wide, objects some, but I says — says I 12 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. " My clear, everybody must contract themselves in these here hard times." Liv. So you are poor now, are you ? [Takes a potato, piayfully.\ Puffy. Yes, sir ; I ain't ashamed to own it — for I hurt no- body but myself. Take a little salt, sir. But, Lord bless you, sir, poverty don't come amiss to me — I've got no pride to sup- port. Now. there's my lodgers Liv. Ah, your second floor. Puffy. A widow lady and her two grown children — poor as mine, but proud, sir — they was grand folks once ; you can see that by the way they try to hide it. Mrs. Fairweather is a ■ Liv. Fairweather — the widow of a sea captain, who died here in New York, twenty years ago ? itfjlk Puffy. Do you know my lodgers ? \:^^ Liv. Three months ago they lived in Brooklyn — Paul had^. clerkship in the Navy Yard. Puffy. But when the panic set in, the United States govern- ment contracted — it paid off a number of employees, and Mr. Paul was discharged. Liv. They are reduced to poverty and I did not know it. No, how could I. [Aside.] Since my ruin I have avoided them. [A/oud.] And Lucy — I mean Miss Fairweather ? Puffy. She works at a milliner's in Broadway — bless her sweet face and kind smile— me and my wife, we could bake our- selves into bread afore she and they should come to want ; and as for my boy Dan — talk of going through tire and water for her — he does that every night for nothing. Why, sir, you can't say " Lucy," but a big tear will come up in his eye as big as a cartwheel, and then he'll let out an almighty cuss, that sounds like a thousand o' brick. [E7itcr Paul and'^x^. Fairweather, dressed in black.] Liv. Oh ! [In confusion hides the potato in his pocket, and hums an air as he walks away. Aside.] I wonder if they know me. Mrs. F. Ah, Mr. Puffy. Puffy. What, my second floor ! Mrs. Fairweather — good- morning, Mr. Paul ; I hope no misfortune has happened — you are dressed in mourning. Mrs. F. This is the anniversary of my poor husband's death ; this day, twenty years ago, he was taken away from us — we keep it sacred to his memory. PauL It was a fatal day for us. When my father left home THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 1 3 he had $100,000 on his person — when he was found lying dead on the sidewalk of Liberty Street, he was robbed of all. Mrs. F. From that hour misfortune has tracked us — we have lost our friends. Puffy. Friends — that reminds me — why, where is Mr. Living- stone — there's his coat Paul. Livingstone ! Puffy. We were talking of you, when you came up. He slipped away, \Re-enter Livingstone.] Liv. I think I dropped my coat. [Recognizing them ?^ Paul — am I mistaken ? Mrs. F. No, Mr. Livingstone. PauL Good-morning, sir. Liv. Sir ! — Mr. Livingstone ! — have I offended you ? PauL We could not expect you to descend to visit us in our poor lodging. Mrs. F. We cannot afford the pleasure of your society. Liv. Let me assure you that I was ignorant of your misfor- tunes — and if I have not called — it was because — a — because — \Aside^ What shall I say, \Aloud.\ I have been absent from the city ; — may I ask how is your sister? Paul. My sister Lucy is now employed in a millinery store in Broadway — she sees you pass the door every day. Liv. [Aside.^ The devil — I must confess my ruin, or appear a contemptible scoundrel. Paul. Livingstone — I cannot conceal my feelings, we were schoolmates together — and I must speak out Liv. \Aside.\ I know what is coming. Paul. I'm a blunt New York boy, and have something of the old bluff sailor's blood in my veins — so pardon me if I tell you that you have behaved badly to my sister Lucy. Liv. For many months I was a daily visitor at your house — I loved your sister. Paul. You asked me for Lucy's hand — I gave it, because I loved you as a brother — not because you were rich. Liv. [Aside] To retrieve my fortunes so that I might marry — 1 speculated in stocks and lost all I possessed. To en- rich Lucy and her family I involved myself in utter ruin. Paul. The next day I lost my clerkship — we were reduced to poverty, and you disappeared. Liv. I can't stand it — I will confess all — let me sacrifice every feeling but Lucy's love and your esteem 14 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Mrs. F. Beware, Mr. Livingstone, how you seek to renew our acquaintance : recollect my daughter earns a pittance behind a counter — I take in work, and Paul now seeks for the poorest means of earning an honest crust of bread. Liv. And what would you say if I were no better off than yourselves — if I too were poor — if I Puffy. You, poor, you who own a square mile of New York ? [Enter Bloodgood.J Liv. Mr. Bloodgood ! Blood. Ah, Livingstone — why do you not call to see us ? You know our address — Madison Square — my daughter Alida will be delighted. — By the way — I have some paper of yours at the bank, it comes due to-day — ten thousand dollars, I think — you bank at the Chemical ? Liv. Yes, I do — that is did, — bank there. Slood. Why don't you bank with me, a rich and careless fellow like you— with a large account. Liv. Yes — I — [Asidc.]^ He is cutting the ground from under my feet. PauL Mr. Bloodgood — pardon me, sir, but I was about to call on you to-day to solicit employment. Blood. I'm full, sir, — indeed I think of reducing salaries, everybody is doing so. Liv. But you are making thousands a week ! Blood. That is no reason that I should not take advantage of the times — [Recogfiizing Puf^J Ah, Mr. Puffy, that note of yours. Puffy. Oh, Lord ! [Aside.] It is the note Mrs. Fairweather gave me for her rent. Blood. My patience is worn out. Puffy. It's all right, sir. Blood. Take care it is. [Exit.'] Puffy. There goes the hardest cuss that ever went to law. Liv. Paul — my dear friend — will you believe me — my feel- ings are the same toward you — nay more tender, more sincere than ever — but there are circumstances I cannot explain. Mrs. F. Mr. Livingstone, say no more — we ask no explana- tion. Liv. But I ask something — let me visit you — let me return to the place that I once held in your hearts. Puffy. 219 Division Street — Puffy, baker. Dinner at half- past one — come to-day, sir — do, sir, Paul. We cannot refuse you. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 1 5 Mrs. F. I will go to Lucy's store and let her know. Ah ! Mr, Livingstone — she has never confessed that she loved you — but you will find her cheek paler than it used to be. \^Exii.] Paul. And now to hunt for work — to go from office to office pleading for employment — to be met always with the same an- swer — "we are full "—or " we are discharging hands" — Liv- ingstone, I begin to envy the common laborer who has no fears, no care, beyond his food and shelter — I am beginning to lose my pity for the poor. Liv. The poor ! — whom do you call the poor ? Do you know them } do you see them ? they are more frequently found under a black coat than under a red shirt. The poor man is the clerk with a family, forced to maintain a decent suit of clothes, paid for out of the hunger of his children. The poor man is the artist who is obliged to pledge the tools of his trade to buy medicine for his sick wife. The lawyer who, craving for em- ployment, buttons up his thin paletot to hide his shirtless breast. These needy wretches are poorer than the poor, for they are obliged to conceal their poverty with the false mask of content — smoking a cigar to disguise their hunger — they drag from their pockets their last quarter, to cast it with studied carelessness to the beggar, whose mattress at home is lined with gold. These are the most miserable of the Poor of New York. \A small crowd has assembled round Livingstone during this speech ; they take him for an orator j one of them takes down what he says on tablets.l^ [Enter Policeman.] Puffy and crowd. Bravo — Bravo — Hurrah — get on the bench ! Police. Come — I say — this won't do. Liv. What have I done? Police. No stumping to the population allowed m the Park. Liv. Stumping ! Reporter. Oblige me with your name, sir, for the Herald .-* Liv. Oh ! [Rjishes off, followed by Paul.] Scene IL — Exterior of Bloodgood's Ba?ik, N'assau Street. [Enter Bloodgood.] Blood. [Looking at papers.'] Four per cent, a month — ha ! if this panic do but last, I shall double my fortune ! Twenty years ago this very month — ay, this very day — I stood in yonder l6 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. bank a ruined man. Shall I never forget that night — when I and my accomplice carried out the body of the old sailor and laid it there ! [Points L.] I never pass this spot without a shudder. But his money — that founded my new fortune. [Enter Alida.] Alida, my dear child what brings you to this part ot the city ? Alida. I want two thousand dollars. Blood. My dearest child, I gave you five hundred last week. Alida. Pooh ! what's five hundred ? You made ten thou- sand in Michigan Southern last week — I heard you tell Mr. Jacob Little so. Blood. But Alida. Come, don't stand fooling about it ; go in and get the money — I must have it. Blood. Well, my darling, if you must. Will you step in ? Alida. Not I. I'm not going into your dirty bank. I've seen all your clerks — they're not worth looking at. Blood. I'll go and fetch it. [Exit.'] Alida. This is positively the last time I will subinit to this extortion. [Opens a letter ajid reads ?\^ " My adored Alida — I fly to your exquisite feet ; I am the most wretched of men. Last night, at Hall's, I lost two thousand dollars — it must be paid before twelve o'clock. Oh, my queen ! my angel ! invent some excuse to get this money from your father, and meet me at Maillard's at half-past eleven. When shall we meet again alone, in that box at the opera, where I can press my lips to your superb eyes, and twine my hands in your magnificent hair ? Addio carissinia ! The Duke of Calcavella." I wonder if he showed that to any of his friends before he sent it? [Re-enter Bloodgood, /(^/^'rct'^/ by Puffy.] Blood. I tell you, sir, it must be paid. I have given you plenty of time. Puffy. You gave me the time necessary for you to obtain execution in the Marine Court. Blood. Alida, my love, there is a drait tor the money. [Gives her notes. She takes thein.^ And now you will do me a favor? Do not be seen a])out so much, in public, with that foreign duke. Alida. 1 never ask you for a draft ])ut you always give me a pill to take with it. Blood. I don't like him. Alida. I do— bye-bye. [Exit.] THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 1 7 Blood, How grand she looks ! Thai girl possesses my whole heart. Puffy. Reserve a little for me, sir. This here note, it was give to me by my second floor in payment of rent. It's as good as gold, sir — when they are able to pay it. I'd sooner have it Blood. Mr. Puffy, you are the worst kind of man ; you are a weak, honest fool, you are always failing — always the dupe of some new swmdier. Puffy. Lord love you, sir ! if you was to see the folks you call swindlers — the kindest, purest second floor as ever drew God's breath. I told them that this note was all right— for if they know'd I was put about along of it, I believe they'd sell the clothes off" their backs to pay it. Blood. [Aside.] This fellow is a fool. But I see, if I levy execution the note will be paid, [A/otid.] Very good, Mr. Puffy. I will see about it. Puffy. You will ! I knew it — there — when folks says you're a hard man — I says — no — no more'n a rich man's got to be. Blood. Very good. [Aside.] I'll put an execution on his house at once. [A/oud.] Good-morning, Mr. Puffy. [Exif.] Puflfy. Good-morning, sir. So, I'm floated off that mud bank. Lord ! if he had seized my goods and closed me up — I'd never a dared to look Mrs. Fairweather in the face agin. [£xit.] Scene III. — T/ie interior ^/Puffy's house. A poor but neat room — window at back. Mrs. Fairweather is arranging dinfter. [Enter Lucy, wit/i a box.] Lucy. My dear mother. Mrs. F. My darling Lucy. Ah, your eye is bright again. The thought of seeing Mark Livingstone has revived your smile. Lucy. I have seen him. He and Paul called at Madame Victorine's. Mrs. F. Is your work over, Lucy, already ? Lucy. What we expected has arrived, mother. This dress is the last I shall receive from Madame Victorine — she is dis- charging her hands. Mrs. F. More misfortunes — and Paul has not been able to obtain employment. 2 1 8 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. {Enter Mrs. Puffy.] Mrs. P. ^I'^iy I come in ? It's only Mrs. Puffy. I've been over the oven for two hours ! Knowing you had company — I've got a pigeon pie — such a pie ! — um — oo — mutton kidneys in it — and hard biled eggs — love ye ! — then I've got a chicken, done up a w^ay of my own ! I'll get on a clean gown and serve it up myself. Mrs. F. But, my dear Mrs. Puffy — really we did not mean to incur any expense Mrs, P. Expense ! why, wasn't them pigeons goin' to waste — they was shot by Dan — and we can't abide pigeons, neither Puffy nor I. Then the rooster was running round — always raisin' hereafter early in the mornm' — a noosance, it was S^Entcr Dan.] Dan. Beg pardon ladies — I just stepped in Lucy. Good-day, Dan. Dan. Day, miss! {Aside to Mrs. Pufty.] Oh! mother, ain't she pootty this mornin' ? Mrs. P. [Smoothing her hair.'] What have you got there, Dan'el ? Dan. When I was paying the man for them birds [Mrs. P. kicks him.] Creation ! mother — you're like the stocks — you can't move a'thout crushin' somebody — well, he'd got this here pair o' boots ornder his arm — why, ses I, if ever dere was a foot created small enough to go into them, thar, it is Miss Lucy's — so I brought them for you to look at. Lucy. They are too dear for me, Dan, pray give them back. Dan. Well, ye see — the man has kinder gone, miss — he said he'd call again — some time next fall ■ Mrs. F. Dan — Mrs. Puffy — you are good, kind, dear souls — when the friends of our better days have deserted us — when the rich will scarcely deign to remember us — you, without any design, but with the goodness of God in your hearts — without any hope but that of hiding your kindness, you help me. Give me your hands —I owe you too much already — but you must bestow on us no more out of your poverty. Mrs. P. Lord, Mrs. ! just as if me and Puffy could bestow anything — and what's Dan tit for ? Dan. Yes — what's I'm fit for ? Mrs. F. Well, I will accept your dinner to-day on one con- dition—that you will all dine with us. Mrs. P. Oh — my ! Dine with up-town folks ! THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. I9 Lucy. Ves indeed, Dan, you must. Dan. Lord, miss ! I ain't no account at dinin' with folks — I take my food on the fust pile of bricks, anyhow. Mrs. P. I'm accustomed to mine standin', behind the counter. Dan. We never set down to it, square out — except on Sundays. Mrs. P. Then it don't seem natural — we never eat, each of us is employed a helping of the other. Dan. I'll hx it ! Father, and mother, and I, will all wait on you. Lucy. [Laughing.] That's one way of dining together, certainly. [Enfer Paul and Livingstone.] Liv. Here we are. Why, what a comfortable little cage this is 1 Dan. Let me take your coat and hat, sir. Liv. Thank you. [Exit Dan and Mrs. Puffy.] How like the old times, eh, Lucy ? [Sits by her.] Mrs. F. [Aside to PauL] Well, Paul, have you obtained employment ? PauL No, mother ; but Livingstone is rich — he must have influence, and he will assist me. Mrs. F. Heaven help us I I fear that the worst has not come. Paul. Nonsense, mother — cheer up ! Is there anything you have concealed from me ? Mrs. F. No — nothing you need know. [Aside.] If he knew that for five weeks we have been subsisting on the charity ot these poor people ! [^«/^r Mrs. Pufiy luith a pie, followed by 1^2^10. il> i f h a roast chicken, and Puffy, loaded with plates and various articles of dinner service.] Mrs. P. Here it is. Lucy. Stay — we must lay more covers ; help me, Paul. Liv. Let me assist you. [They join another table to the first.] Mrs. F. Ml', and Mrs. Puffy and Dan, dine with us. Paul. Bravo ! Liv. Hail Columbia I [Dan begins dancing about.] Lucy. Why, Dan — what's the matter ? 20 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Dan. Oh, nothing, miss. Lucy. How red your face is ! Dan. Don't mind, miss. Mrs. P. Oh, Lord ! I forgot that dish ; it has been in the oven for an hour. Dan. It ain't at all hot. ]^2i.vXioiiches it and jumps away .\ It's got to burn into the bone afore George Washington No. 4 gives in. S^Lays down the plate — they all sit.\ Puffy. Now, this is agreeable — I have not felt so happy since I started my forty horse-power oven. Liv. This pie is magnificent. [Mrs. Puffy rises?\^ Mrs. P. Oh, sir, you make me feel good. Dan. [Holdifig the table.'] Mother can't express her feelings without upsetting the table. YEiiter two Sheriff's Officers.] Paul. What persons are these ? Puffy. What do you want ? First Sheriff's Officer. 1 am the Deputy Sheriff— I come at the suit of Gideon Bloodgood, against Susan Fairweather and Jonas Puffy — amount of debt and costs, one hundred and fifty dollars. Paul. My mother ! Puffy. He said he would see about it — Oh, Mrs. Fairweather — I hope you will forgive me — I couldn't help it. Deputy Sheriff. I do not want to distress you ; Mr. Living- stone will perhaps pay the debt — or give me his check. Paul. Livingstone ! Liv. \After a paiisc.\ I cannot help you. Yes, I will rather appear what I am, a ruined man, than seem a contemp- tible one — I am penniless, broken — for weeks I have been so — but I never felt my poverty till now. \Tableaii.\ END OF ACT II. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 21 ACT III. Scene. — A room in the house of Gideon Bloodgood ; the furniture a7id ornaments are in a style of exaggerated richness — white satin and gold. Bloodgood is discovered writing at a table on one side j Alida seated, reading a newspaper, on the other. A^ Blood. What are you reading ? Alida. The New York Herald. Blood. You seem interested in it ? Alida. Very. Shall I read aloud ? Blood. Do. \^Goes on writing?^ Alida. \Reads.'\ "Wall street is a perch, on which a row of human vultures sit, whetting their beaks, ready to tight over the carcass of a dying enterprise. Amongst these birds of prey, the most vulturous is perhaps Gid. Bloodgood. This popular financier made his fortune out of the lottery business. He then dabbled a little in the slave trade, as the Paraquita case proved, — last week, by a speculation in flour, he made fifty thousand dollars ; this operation raised the price of bread four cents a loaf, and now there are a thousand people starving in the hovels ot New York— we nominate Gid. for Congress, expenses to be paid by the admiring crowd — send round the hat." Father ! \Riscs?^ Are you not rich ? Blood. Why do you ask ? Alida. Because people say that riches are worshipped in New York, that w^ealth alone graduates society. This is false, for I am young, handsome and your heiress — yet I am refused admission into the best families here whose intimacy I have sought. Blood. Refused admission ! Is not Fifth Avenue open to vou 1 Alida. Fifth Avenue ! that jest is stale. Fifth Avenue is a shop where the richest fortunes are displayed like the dry goods in Stewart's windows, and like them, too, are changed daily. But why do we not visit those families at whose names all men and all journals bow with respect, the Livingstones, the Astors, the Van Renssalaers. Father, these families receive men less rich than you — and honor many girls who don't dress as well as I do, nor keep a carriage. '■y 22 . THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Blood. Is not the Duke de Calcavella at your feet ? Alida. The Duke de Calcavella is an adventurer to whom you lend money, who escorts me to my box at the opera that he may get in free. Bl03d. You minx, you know you love him. Alida. I am not speaking of love — but of marriage. Blood. Marriage ! Alida. Yes, marriage ! This society in New York which has shut its doors against me, it is from amongst these families that I have resolved to choose a husband. Blood, [J^ising.] Alida, do you already yearn to leave me ? For you alone I have hoarded my wealth — men have thought me miserly, when I have had but one treasure in the world, and that was you, my only child. To the rest ot my fellow creatures I have been cold and calculating, because m you alone was buried all the love my heart could feel — my fortune, take it, gratify your caprices — take it all, but leave me your affection. Alida. You talk as if 1 were still a child. Blood. I would to God you were ! Oh, Alida, if you knew how fearful a thing it is for a man like me to lose the only thing in the world that ties him to it ! Alida. Do you wish me to marry the Duke de Calcavella ? Blood. A roue, a gambler ! Heaven forbid ! Alida. Besides, they say he has a wnfe in Italy. Blood. I shall forbid him the house. Alida. No, you won't. Blood. His reputation will compromise yours. Alida. Judge my nature by your own — I may blush from anger — never from shame. [EnUr Edwards.] Edw. Mr. Mark Livingstone. Alida. Livingstone ! this is the first time that name has ever been announced in this house. Blood. He comes on business. Tell Mr. Livingstone I can- not see him. Beg him to call at my office to-morrow. Alida. Show him up. Blood. Alida ! Alida. [Sharply to Edwards.] Do you hear me ? Blood. This is tyranny — I — I — [In a rage to Edwards.] Well, blockhead, why do you stand staring there ? Don't you hear the order ? Show him up. [Exit Edwards.] Alida. Livingstone ! THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 23 s^Enfcr Mark Livingstone.] Mark. Mr. Bloodgood — Miss Bloodgood — YBoivs.\ I am most fortunate to find you at home. Alida. I trust that Mrs. Livingstone your mother, and Miss Livingstone your sister, are well ? Mark. \Coldly?^ I thank you. YGaily.^ Allow me to assure you that you were the belle of the opera last night. Alida. Yet you did not tiatter me with your presence in our box. Mark. You noticed my absence ! you render me the happiest and proudest member of my club. Alida. By the way, papa, I thought you were going to be a member of the Union. Mark. Ahem ! \^An awkward silencd.'] He was black- balled last week. Blood. I think, Mr. Livingstone, you have some business with me. Alida. Am I in the way ? Mark. Not at all — the fact is, Miss Bloodgood — my business can be explained in three words. Blood, indeed ! Mark. I am ruined. Alida. Ruined ! Mark. My father lived in those days when fancy stocks were unknown, and consequently w^as in a position to leave me a handsome fortune. I spent it— extravagantly — foolishly. My mother, who loves me "not w'isely but too well," heard that my name was pledged for a large amount, — Mr. Bloodgood held my paper — she sold out all her fortune without my knowledge, and rescued my credit from dishonor. Blood. Allow me to observe, I think she acted honorably, but foolishly. Mark. [^Bows to Bloodgood.] She shared my father's ideas on these matters ; well S^titrns to Alida,] finding I was such good pay, your father lent me a further sum of money, with which I speculated in stocks to recover my mother's loss — I bulled the market— lost — borrowed more — the crisis came — I lost again — until I found myself ruined. Blood. {^Risiiig?^ Mr. Livingstone, I anticipate the object of your present visit — you desire some accommodation — I regret that it is out of my power to accord it. If you had applied to me a few days earlier I might have been able to but — a — • at the present moment it is quite impossible. 24 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Mark. [Aside.] Impossible — the usual expression — I am familiar with it. [Rising — aloud.] I regret exceedingly that I did not fall on that more fortunate moment to which you allude — a thousand pardons for my untimely demand- Blood. I hope you believe that I am sincere when I say Mark. Oh! I am sure of it. Accept my thanks — good-morn- ing, Miss Bloodgood. Blood. [Ringi)ig the bell.] I trust you will not be put to serious inconvenience. Mark. Oh, no. [Aside.] A revolver will relieve me of every difficulty. [Aloud.] Good-day, Mr. Bloodgood. [Exit.] Blood. I like his impudence ! To come to me for assistance ! Let him seek it of his aristocratic friends — his club associates who black-balled me last week. Alida. [ IVho has been seated writing at table.] Father, come here. Blood, What is it ? Alida. I am writing a letter which I wish you to sign. Blood. To whom ? Alida. To Mr. Livingstone. Blood. To Livingstone ! Alida. Read it. Blood. [Reads.] " My dear sir, give yourself no further anxiety about your debt to me ; I will see that your notes are paid — and if the loan of ten thousand dollars will serve you, I beg to hold that amount at your service, to be repaid at your convenience. Yours, truly." [TJirotving dowti letter.] I wall write nothing of the kind. Alida. You are mistaken — you will write nothing else. Blood. With what object ? Alida. I want to make a purchase. Blood. Of what ? Alida. Of a husband — a husband who is a gentleman — and through whom I can gain that position you cannot with all your wealth obtain — you see — the thing is cheap — there's the pen. [She rings a bell.] Blood. Is your mind so set on this ambition ? Alida. If it cost half your fortune. [Bloodgocd signs. Enter Edwards. To servant.] Deliver this letter immediately. Edw. [Takes the letter and is going out, when he runs against Badger, who is coolly entering.] I have told you already that my master is not to be seen. Bad. So you did — but you see how mistaken you were. ' There he is — I can see him distinctly. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 2$ Blood. Badger ! [To Edwards.] You may go, Edwards. Bad. [To Edwards.] James— get out. Blood. What can he want here ? Bad. Respected Gideon, excuse my not calhng more promptly, but since my return from California, this is my first appearance in fashionable society. Alida. [Proudly :\ Who is this fellow ? Bad. Ah, Alida, how is the little tootles .? You forget me. Alida. How can I recollect every begging imposter who importunes my father. Bad. Charming ! The same as ever — changed in form — but the heart, my dear Gideon, the same as ever, is hard and dry as a biscuit. Alida. Father, give this wretch a dollar and let him go. Bad. Hullo ! Miss Bloodgood, when I hand round the hat it is time enough to put something in it. Gideon, ring and send that girl of yours to her nurse. Alida. Is this fellow mad .? Blood. Hush ! my dear ! Alida. Speak out your business — I am familiar with all my father's affairs. Bad. All ? I doubt it. [Enter Yt'^2iX^^^ followed by Lucy.] Edw. This way. Miss. [To Alida.] Here is your dress- maker. Alida. [Eyeing Lucy.] Ha ! you are the young person I met this morning walking with Mr. Livingstone ? Lucy. Yes, madam. Alida. Hum ! follow me, and let me see if you can attend on ladies as diligently as you do on gentlemen. [Exeunt Pi\idi2i and Lucy.] Blood. [Looking inquiringly at Badger.] So you are here again. I thought you were dead. Bad. No ; here I am — like a bad shilling, come back again. Fve been all over the world since we parted twenty years ago. Your $3,000 lasted me for some months in California. Believe me, had I known that, instead of absconding, you remained in New York, I w^ould have hastened back again ten years ago, to share your revived fortunes. Blood. I am at a loss to understand your allusions, sir, — nor do I know the object of your return to this city. We have plenty of such persons as you in New York. y 26 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Bad. The merchants of San Francisco did not think so, for they subscribed to send me home. Blooi. What do you mean ? Bad. I mean the Vigilance Committee. Blood. And what do you intend to do here ? Bad. Reduced in circumstances and without character, the only resource left to me is to start a bank. Blood. Well, Mr. Badger ; I cannot see in what way these things can affect me ! Bad. Can't you ? Ahem ! Do you ever read the Sunday papers ? Blood. Never. Bad. I've got a romance ready for one of them — allow me to give you a sketch of it. Blood. Sir Bad. The scene opens in a bank in Nassau Street. Twenty years ago a very respectable old sea captain, one winter's night, makes a special deposit of one hundred thousand dollars — no- body present but the banker and one clerk. The old captain takes a receipt and goes on his way rejoicing — but, lo ! and be- hold you ! — in half an hour he returns — having ascertained a fact or two, he demands his money back, but while receiving it he is seized by a fit of apoplexy, and he dies on the spot. End of Chapter One. Blood. Indeed, Mr. Badger, your romance is quite original. Bad. Ain't it ! never heard it before, did you ? — no ! Good ! Chapter Two. [Foinfedly.] The banker and his clerk carried the body out on the sidewalk, where it was discovered, and the next day the Coroner's Jury returned a verdict accordingly. The clerk receiving $3,000 hush money left for parts unknown. The banker remained in New York, and on the profits of this plunder established a colossal fortune. End of Part No. i — to be continued in our next. Blood. And what do you suppose such a romance will be worth ? Bad. I've come to you to know. Blood. I am no judge of that. Bad. Ain't you ? — well — in Part No. 2, I propose to relate that this history is true in every particular, and I shall advertise for the heirs of the dead man. Blood. Ha ! you know his name, then ? Bad. Yes, but I see you don't. I wrote the acknowledg- ment which you signed — you had not even the curiosity then to read the name of your victim. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 2/ Blood. Realiy, Mr. Badger, I am at a loss to understand you. Do you mean to insinuate that this romance applies in any way to me ? Bad. It has a distant reference. Blood. Your memory is luxurious — perhaps it can furnish some better evidence of this wonderful story than the word of a convict ejected from California as a precaution of public safety. Bad. You are right — my word is not worth much. Blood. I fear not. Bad. But the receipt, signed by you, is worth a good deal. Blood. [StarH7tg:] Ha ! you lie ! Bad. Let us proceed with my romance. When the banker and his clerk searched for the receipt, they could not find it — a circumstance which only astonished one of the villains — because the clerk had picked up the document and secured it in his pocket. I don't mean to insinuate that this applies in any way to you. Blood. Villain ! Bad. Moral : As a general rule, never destroy receipts — it is no knowing when they may not prove useful. Blood. Were it so, this receipt is of no value in your hands — the heirs of the dead man can alone establish a claim. Bad. [Rising.'] That's the point — calculate the chance of my finding them, and let me know what it is worth. Blood. What do you demand ? Bad. Five thousand dollars. Blood. Five thousand devils ! Bad. You refuse ? Blood. I defy you — find the heir if you can. [E7iter Edwards.] Edw. Mr. Paul Fairweather ! [Enter Paul. Badger starts, then falls laughing in a chair.] Blood. Your business, sir, with me. Paul. Oh, pardon me, Mr. Bloodgood — but the officers have seized the furniture of our landlord — of your tenant — for a debt owed by my mother. I come to ask your mercy — utter ruin awaits two poor families. Bad. Oh, Supreme Justice ! there is the creditor, and there is the debtor. Paul. My mother — my sister — I plead for them, not for myself. 28 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Blood. I have waited long enough. Bad. [Rising.'] So have I. [^To Paul.] Have you no friends or relations to help you ? Paul. None, sir ; my father is dead. [Bloodgood returns to /lis fable.] Blood. Enough of this. [Rings the bcIL] Bad. Not quite ; I feel interested in this young gentleman — don't you ? Blood. Not at all ; therefore my servant will show you both out — so you may talk this matter over elsewhere. Bad. \To Paul.] Your name is familiar to me — was your father in trade ? Paul, He was a sea captain. Bad. Ah ! he died nobly in some storm, I suppose — the last to leave his ship ? Paul. No, sir, he died miserably ! ten years ago, his body was found on the sidewalk in Liberty Street, where he fell dead by apoplexy. Blood. [Rising.] Ah ! [Enter Edwards.] Bad. James, show us out — we'll talk over this matter else- where. Blood. No — you — you can remain. Leave us, Edwards. Bad. Ah, I told you that the young man was quite interest- ing, Alphonse, get out. [Exit Edwards.] Blood. My dear Mr. Badger, I think we have a little busi- ness to settle together ? Bad. Yes, my dear Gideon. [Aside to Mm.] Stocks have gone up — I want fifty thousand dollars for that receipt. Blood. ■ Fifty thousand ! Bad. [Aside.] You see the effect of good news on the market — quite astounding ; ain't it ? Blood. If you will step down to the dining-room, you will find lunch prepared — refresh yourself, while I see what can be done for this young man. Bad. [Aside.] What are you up to ? You want to fix him — to try some game to euchre me. Go it ! I've got the receipt ; you're on the hook — take out all the line you want. [Oi//s.] Ho ! without there ! [Enter Edwards. J Maximilian, vamos ! Show me to the banquetting-hall. [Exit, with Edwards.] Blood. Your situation interests me ; but surely, at your age — you can find employment. Paul, Alas, sir, in these times, it is impossible. I would THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 29 work, yes, at any kind of labor — submit to anything, if I could save my mother and my sister from want. Blood. Control your feeUngs : perhaps I can aid you. Paul. Oh, sir, I little expected to find in you a bene- factor. Blood. My correspondents at Rio Janeiro require a book- keeper — are you prepared to accept this situation ? but there is a condition attached to this employment that may not suit you — you must start by the vessel which sails to-morrow. Paul, To-morrow ! Blood. I will hand you a thousand dollars in advance of salary, to provide for your mother and sister ; they had better leave the city until they can follow you. You hesitate ! Paul. Oh, sir, 'tis my gratitude that renders me silent. Blood. You accept ? the terms are two thousand dollars a year. Paul. [Seizing his ha)id.'\ Mr. Bloodgood, the prayers of a family, whom you have made happy, will prosper your life. God bless you, sir ! I speak not for myself, but those still more dear to me. Blood. Call again in an hour, when your papers of intro- duction and the money shall be ready. Paul. Farewell, sir. I can scarcely believe my good fortune. [Exit.] Blood. So, now to secure Badger. [Sitting doivn and writ- ing.'] He must, at any risk, be prevented from communicating with the mother and daughter until they can be sent into some obscure retreat. I doubt that he is in possession of this receipt, ri?igs a bell] but I will take an assurance about that. [Rings.] Enter Edwards.] Take this letter instantly to the office of the Superintendent of Police. [Exit Edwards.] Ha ! Badger, when you find the heirs of the estate gone, you will perhaps come down in your terms. You did not remain long enough in California to measure wits with Gideon Bloodgood. [Exit.] [Enter Lucy.] best, miss, to [Enter Mark Livingstone. Lucy. I ^vill do my best, miss, to please you. Oh, let me hasten from this house ! Mark. Lucy ! Lucy. Mark !• Mark. What brings you here ? Lucy. \Vhat brings the poor into the saloons of the rich ? 30 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. \E71ter Alida, unseen by the others.^ Alida. [Aside.] Mr. Livingstone here, and witli this girl ! Mark. My dear Lucy, I have news, bright news, that will light up a smile in your eyes — I am once more rich. But before I relate my good fortune, let me hear from you the consent to share it. Lucy. What do you mean ? Mark. I mean, dearest one, that I love you — I love you with all my reckless, foolish, worthless heart. Alida. [Advancing.] Mr. Livingstone, my father is waiting for you in his study. Mark. A thousand pardons, Miss Bloodgood ; I was not aware — excuse me. [Aside.] I wonder if she overheard me. [To Lucy.] I will see you again this evening. [Exii.] Alida. [To Lucy, "w/io is goiftg.] Stay ; one word with you. Mr. Livingstone loves you ! do not deny it, I have overheard you. Lucy, Well, Miss Bloodgood, I have no account to render you in this matter. Alida. I beg your pardon — he is to be my husband. Lucy. Your husband ? Alida. Be quiet and listen. Mr. Livingstone is ruined — my father has come to his aid ; but one word from me, and the hand, extended to save him from destruction, will be with- drawn. Lucy. But you will not speak that w^ord ? Alida. That depends Lucy. On what, his acceptance of your hand ? He does not love you. Alida. That is not the question. Lucy. You have overheard that he loves ?ne. Alida. That is no concern of mine. Lucy. And you will coldly buy this man for a husband, knowing that you condemn him to eternal misery ! Alida. You are candid, but not complimentary. Let us hope that in time he will forget you, and learn to endure me. Lucy. Oh, you do not love him. I see, it is his name you require to cover the shame which stains your father's, and which all his wealth cannot conceal. Thank Heaven ! his love for me will preserve him from such a cowardly scheme. Alida. I will make him rich. What would you make him .? Lucy. I would make him happy. Alida. Will you give him up 1 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 3 1 Lucy. Never ! Alida. Be it so. [Re-e titer Mark,] Mark. Lucy, dear Lucy, do you see that lady ? — she is my guardian angel. To her I owe my good fortune — Mr. Blood- good has told me all, and see, this letter is in her own hand- writmg ; now, let me confess. Miss Bloodgdod, that had I not been thus rescued from ruin, I had no other resource but a Colt's revolver. Lucy. Mark ! Mark. Yes, Lucy — I had resolved I could not endure the shame and despair which beset me on all sides. But let us not talk of such madness — let us only remember that I owe her my life. Alida. [Aside.'] And I intend to claim the debt. Mark. More than my lite — I owe to her all that happiness which you will bestow upon me. Lucy. Me ! me ! — Mark ! — No, it is impossible. Mark. Impossible ! Lucy. I cannot be your wife. Mark. What mean you, Lucy ? Lucy. [JVit/i a supreme effort.] I — I do not love you. Mark. You jest, Lucy — yet, no — there are tears in your eyes. Lucy. [Looking away.] Did I ever tell you that I loved you .^ Mark. No, it is true— but your manner, your looks, I thought Lucy. You are not angry with me, are you ? Mark. I love you too sincerely for that, and believe me I will never intrude again on your family, where my presence now can only produce pain and restraint ; may I hope, how- ever, that you will retain enough kindness towards me as to persuade your mother to accept my friendship ? It will soothe the anguish you have innocently inflicted, if your family will permit me to assist them. Have you the generosity to make this atonement ? I know it will pam you all — but you owe it to me. [Lucy/rt/Zi", weeping, iii a ehair.] Pardon me. Miss Bloodgood. Farewell, Lucy. \To Alida.] I take my leave. \Exit.] Alida. He has gone — you may dry your eyes. Lucy. Oh ! I know what starvation is — I have met want face to face, and I have saved hini from that terrible extremity. 52 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Alida. He offered you money ; I' should prefer that my hus- band should not have pecuniary relations with you — at least, not at present — so, as you are in want — here is some assistance. [Off'ers her purse to Lucy.] Lucy. \^Rising.\ You insult me, Miss Bloodgood. Alida. How can an offer of money insult anyloody ? Lucy. You thought I sold my heart — no — I gave it. Keep your gold, it would soil my poverty ; you have made two fellow- beings unhappy for life — God forgive you ! [Exit.] \Re-enter Bloodgood.j Blood. What is the matter, Alida ? \Re-entcr Badger.] Bad. Ycvur cook is perfect, your wine choice. {He pockets the 7tapki?i.] Well, now suppose we do a little business. Blood. [Rings belt.] It is time we began to understand each other. [Enter Edwards.] Has that letter been delivered ? [Edwards bows, and at a sign from Bloodgcod, exit?^ Bad. Do you wish to enter into particulars in the presence of this charming creature ? Blood. Her presence will not affect our business. [Re-enter Edwards, and two Police Officers.] Bad. Just as you please. What proposition have you to make ? Blood. I propose to give you into custody for an attempt to extort money by threats and intimidation. First Pol. You are our prisoner. Bad. Arrested ! Blood. Let him be searched ; on his person will be found a receipt signed by me, which he purloined from my desk yonder. Bad. Well played, my dear Gideon, but, knowing the character of the society into which I was venturing, I lett the dear document safe at home. Good-morning, Gid — Miss Bloodgood, yours. General — Colonel — take care ot me. [Goes up with Policemen.] END OF ACT HI. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 33 ACT IV. Scene I. — Union Square — Night. The snow falls. [Puffy discovered, R. H. with a pan of roasting cJiestnuts. Paul crouches in a corner of the street.] Puffy. Lord ! how cold it is. I can't sell my chestnuts. I thought if I posted myself just here, so as to catch the grand folks as they go to the opera, they might fancy to take in a pocketful, to eat during the performance. [Enter Dan, luith two trunks on his shoulders, followed by a Gentleman.] Dan. There is the hotel. I'll wait here while you see if you can get a room. \^Exit Gentleman, into hotel.] Puffy. Dan, my boy, what cheer } Dan. Tins is the fust job I've had to-day. Puffy. I've not taken a cent. Dan. Have you been home to dinner ? Puflfy. No ; I took a chestnut. There wasn't more than enough for the old woman and you, so I dmed out. Dan. I wasn't hungry much, so I borried a bit o' 'bacca. Puffy. Then the old woman had all the dinner, that's some comfort — one of us had a good meal to-day. Dan. I don't know, father — she's just ugly enough to go and put it by for our supper. [Enter Mrs, Puffy, with a tin can.] Puffy. Here she is. Mrs. P. Ain't you a nice pair? For five mortal hours I've been carryin' this dinner up and down Broadway. Dan. I told you so. Mrs. P. You thought to give old mother the slip, you un- dootiful villin — but I've found ye both. Come, liere's your suppers — I've kept it warm under my cloak. Puffy, Lay the table on the gentleman's trunk. Dan. [Looking into the tin can.] A splendid lump of bread, and a chunk of beef ! Puffy. Small feed for three human beings. Dan. Here goes. Puffy. Stay, Dan. [Placing his hands o^wr the bread.] God bless us, and pity the Poor of New York. Now, I'll share the food in three. 3 34 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Dan. ^Pointing to Paul.] Father, that cuss in the corner there looks kinder bad — suppose you have the food in four. Mrs. P, I don't want none. Give him mine — I ain't at all cold. Dan. Mother, there's a tear on the end of your nose — let me break it off. - Mrs, P. Get out. Dan. [Takes a piece of bread, aiid goes to Paul.] Hello, stranger ! He's asleep. Mrs. P. Then don't wake him. Leave the bread in his lap. \lidiXi places the bread, softly, beside Paul, and rejoins the party — they eat.] [Enter a Gentleman, /xl\ runs to his mother.] Too late ! too late ! They have committed suicide ! Mark. They live still. Quick, bear them outside into the air. [Carries Lucy out, while Paul assists his mother into the next room.] Bad. [Starting up ?^ How hot it is here — I cannot breathe. Have I drank too much ? Nonsense ! I could drink a dozen such bottles. Let rne try my legs a bit— where's the door ? I can't see it — my head spins round— come, Badger, no nonsense now. God ! I'm suffocating 1 Am I going to die, to die ! like 44 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. that old sea captain ? [Tears off his cravat.'] Justice of Heaven ! I am strangling. Help ! help ! Bloodgood will return and find me helpless, then he will rob me of the receipt, as I robbed the old sailor — I know him of old — he is capable of it, but he shall not have it ! There, in its nook, if I have strength to reach it — it is safe — safe. [Drags himself along the floor, lifts up a loose board, puts the receipt beneath it and falls exhausted.] There ! Paul. [Entering R. H. room.\ I heard smothered cries for help — they came from this floor. [Exit.\ [Enter Bloodgood, L. H. room.] Blood. Here I am. Badger. [Starts back, suffocated.] What a suffocating atmosphere ! where is he ? ha ! is he intoxicated ? Paul. [Efttering L. H. room.] Perhaps the cry came from here — dead ? Blood. Paul Fair weather ! Paul. Gideon Bloodgood ! Bad. [Eaising his head.] What names were those ? Both of them ! Together, here ! [To Paul.] Listen — while I yet have breath to speak — listen ! Twenty years ago, that man robbed your father of $100,000 ! Paul. Robbed ! Blood. Scoundrel ! Bad. I've got the proofs. Paul. The proofs ? Bad. I have "em sate — you'll find 'em — th — ah ! [Falls backwards insensible ; Paul and Bloodgood stand aghast.] END OF ACT IV. ACT V. Scene I. — Brooklyn Heights, overlooking the city of New York a?id its harbors. The stage is occupied by a neat garden, on a tiatural terrace of the heights — on the L. H., a frame cott-age, prettily built-^a table, with breakfast laid, L. H., at which Mrs. Fairweather and Paul are seated. [Enter Mrs. Puffy, /r^w the cottage, with a teapot.] Mrs. P. There's the tea. Bless me, how hot it is to-day .' who would think that we were in the month of February ? [Sits.] THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 45 Mrs. F. Your husband is late to breakfast. Paul. Here he comes. [Enter Puffy, gui^y.] Puffy. How is everybody ? and above everybody, how is Miss Lucy this morning ? [Sits at table.'] Mrs. F. Poor child ! her recovery is slow — the fever has abated; but she is still very weak. Paul. Her life is saved — for a whole month she hovered over the grave. Puffy. But how is it we never see Mr. Livingstone ? Our benefactor is like Santa Claus — he showers benefits and blessings on us all, yet never shows us his face. Mrs. F. He* brought us back to this, our old home — he obtained employment for Paul in the Navy Yard. Puffy. He set me up again in my patent oven, and got me a Government contract for Navy biscuit. Mrs. P. He is made of the finest flour that Heaven ever put into human baking ; he'll die of over-bigness of the heart. Mrs. F. That's a disease hereditary in your family. Paul. [Risi?ig.] I will tell you why Livingstone avoids our gratitude. Because my sister Lucy refused his love — because he has sold his hand to AHda Bloodgood — and he has given us the purchase money. PuffjT. And amongst those who have served us, don't let us forget poor Badger. [Enter Badger, behind^ Bad. They are talking of me. Mrs. F. [Risi7ig?[ Forget him ! forget the man who watched Lucy during her illness, with more than the tenderness of a brother ! A woman never can forget any one who has been kind to her children. Mrs. P. Them's my sentiments to a hair. Bad. You shan't have cause to change them. Paul. Badger ! Bad. Congratulate me. I have been appointed to the police. The commissioners wanted a special service to lay on to Wall Street. Roguery, it seems, has concentrated there, and we want to catch a big offender. Mrs. P. They all go to Europe, Puffy. That actouyts for the drain of specie. [Mr. and Mrs. Puffy take off the breakfast table.] Mrs. F. I will tell Lucy that her nurse has come. [Exit into cottage?^ 46 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Paul. Now, Badger, the news. Bad. Bad, sir. To-night Mr. Livingstone is to be married to Alida Bloodgo'od. Paul. What shall I do ? I dare not accuse Bloodgood of this robbery, unless you can produce the proofs — and perhaps the wretch has discovered and destroyed them. Bad. I think not. When I recovered from the effects of the charcoal, the day after my suffocation, I started for my lodging — I lound the house shut up, guarded by a servant of Bloodgood's — the banker had bought the place. But I had concealed the document too cunningly ; he has not found it. Paul. But knowing this man to be a felon, whom- we may be able at any hour to unmask, can wx allow Livingstone to marry his daughter ? [Enter Livingstone.] Liv. Paul, I have come to bid you farewell, and to see Lucy for the last time. [Enter Lucy.] Lucy. For the last time, why so ■ [Paul and Badger run to assist her forward. ^ Liv. Lucy, dear Lucy ! Bad. Now take care — sit down. Lucy. Ah, my good, kind nurse. [She sits.'] You are always by my side. Bad. Always ready with a dose of nasty medicine, ain't I — well now I've got another dose ready — do you see this noble kind heart, Lucy ; it looks through two honest blue eyes, into your face — well, tell me what you see there. Lucy. Why do you ask me ? [Troubled.] Bad. Don't turn your eyes away — the time has come when deception is a crime, Lucy — look in his face, and confess the infernal scheme by which Alida Bloodgood compelled you to renounce your love. Liv. Alida ! Lucy. Has she betrayed me ? Bad. No ! you betrayed yourself — one night in the ravings of your fever, when I held your hands in the paroxysm of your frenzy, I heard the cries that came from your poor wounded heart ; shall I repeat the scene ? Lucy, [Hiding her face in her hands.] No, no ! Liv. Paul, is this true ? Have I been deceived ? Paul. You have — Lucy confessed to me this infamous bar- THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 47 gain, extorted from her by Alicia Bloodgood, and to save you from ruin she sacrificed her love. Liv. Lucy ! dear Lucy, look up. It was for your sake alone that 1 accepted this hated union — to save you and yours from poverty — but whisper one word, tell me that ruin of fortune is better than ruin ot the heart. [Lucy/^?//^ tipon his neck.'] Bad. Hail Columbia ! I know a grand party at Madison Square that will cave in to-night — hi ! — I shall be there to con- gratulate that sweet girl. [E?tter Dan.] Dan. Mother ! mother ! where's my hat, quick, there's a fire in New York. [^He runs ifito the house and re-enters with a telescope ; looks off towards the city.] Bad. Yes, and there is a fire here too, but one we don't want put out. PauL Now, Mark, I can confess to you that documents exist — proofs of felony against Bloodgood, which may at any moment consign him to the State prison, and transfer to our family his ill-gotten wealth. Liv. Proofs of felony ? Dan. The fire is in Chatham Street. PauL Twenty years ago he robbed my father of $100,000. Bad. And I was his accomplice in the act ; we shared the plunder between us. Dan. No, it isn't in Chatham Street — I see it plainly — it is in Cross Street, Five Points. Bad. [Starting-.] Cross Street — where, where ? [I^nns np.] Liv. But if these proofs — these documents exist, where are they? Dan. It is the tenement house two doors from the corner. Bad. Damnation ! it is our old lodgmg ! you ask where are these proofs, these documents ? they are yonder, in that burning house — fired by Bloodgood to destroy the papers he could not find — curses on him ! [Enter Mrs, Pufiy, with Dan's hat.] Mrs. P, Here's your hat, Dan. Bad. Quick ! Dan, my son — for our lives ! Dan ! the for- tunes of Lucy, and Paul, and the old woman, are all in that bu^rning house. [Dan begins to thrust his trousers into his boots. Enter Mrs. Faifweather and Puffy.] I mean to save it or perish in the flames. Dan. Count me in. [They run out.] [Tableau.'^ 48 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Scene II. — Stage dark. The exterior of the teiie7}ient house. No. ig)4 Cross Street, Five Points — the shutters of all the windows are closed. A light is seen through the round holes tji the shutters of the upper windows — presently a fla?ne rises — // is extinguished — theti revives. The light seen to descend as the bearer of it passes down the staircase, the door opens cautiously — Bloodgood, disguised, appears— he looks round — closes the door again — locks it. Blood. In a few hours, this accursed house will be in ruins. The receipt is concealed there — and it will be consumed in the flames. \The glow of fire is seeii to spread from room to room.] Now, Badger — do your worst — I am safe ! [Exit.] [The house is gradually enveloped in fire, a cry outside is heard, '"Fi-er!" "Fi-erf" It is taken up by other voices more distant. The tocc-in souftds — other churches take up the alarm — bells of engines are heard. Enter a crowd of persons. Enter Badger, without coat or hat — he tries the door — finds it fast j seizes a bar of iron and dashes in the ground fioor window, the interior is seen in fiames. Enter Dan. Dan. [Seei?ig'Q2i^^QX cli)nbing into the wifidow.] Stop! stop! [Badger leaps in and disappears. Shouts from the mob; Dan leaps ifi — another shout, Dan leaps out again black and burned, staggers forward and seems overcome by the heat attd smoke. The shutters of the garret fall and discover Badger in the upper fioor. Another cry from the crowd, a loud crash is heard, Badger disappears as if falling with the inside of the building. The shutters of the windows fall away, and the inside of the house is seen, gutted by the fire ; a cry of horror is uttered by the mob. Badger drags him- self from the ruins, and falls across the sill of the lower window. Dan and t%vo of the mob run to help him forward but recoil before the heat; at length they succeed in rescuing his body, which lies c. Livingstone, Paul, and Puffy, rush on. Dan kneels over Badger and extinguishes the fire which clings to parts of his clothes. \ Scene III. — The drawing-room in Bloodgood's marision, in Madison Square — illuminated. Mtisic within. [Enter BloodgOOd.J Blood. The evidence of my crime is destroyed no power — on earth can feveal the past. [Enter Alida, dressed as a THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 49 bride.'] My dearest child, to-night you will leave this roof; but from this home in your father's heart none can displace you. Alida. Oh, dear papa, do take care of my flounces — you men paw one about as if a dress was put on only to be rumpled. Blood. The rooms below are full of company. Has Living- stone arrived .? Alida. I did not inquire. The Duke is there, looking the picture of misery, while all my female friends pretend to con- gratulate me — but I know they are dying with envy and spite. Blood. And do these feelings constitute the happiest day of your life ? Alida, have you no heart ? Alida. Yes, father, I have a heart — but it is like yours. It is an iron safe in which are kept the secrets of the past. [Enter Edwards,] Edw. The clergyman is robed, sir, and ready to perform the ceremony. Blood. Let the bridesmaids attend Miss Bloodgood. [The curtaiits are raised, and the Bridesmaids enter. Bloodgood goes up and off, and iuunediately returns with the bridal party. ~\ Welcome, my kind friends. \Ji\i^2^ speaks aside with the Duke. J Your presence fills me with pride and joy — but where is the bridegroom ? has no one seen my son-in-law .'* Edw. \Announci7ig.^^ Mr. Mark Livingstone. \Enter Livingstone.] Blood. Ah ! at last. What a strange costume for a bride- groom. Alida. \Turns, and views Livingstone.] Had I not good reasons to be assured of your sincerity, Mr. Livingstone, your appearance would lead me to believe that you look upon this marriage as a jest, or a masquerade. Liv. As you say, Miss Bloodgood, it is a masquerade — but it is one where more than one mask must fall. Blood. [Aside.] What does he mean ? ^ Alida. You speak in a tone of menace. May Blood. Perhaps I had better see Mr. Livingstone alone — he may be under some misapprehension. Liv. I am under none, sir^although you may be ; and what I have to say and do, demands no concealment. I come here to decline the hand of your daughter. [Movement aniofigst the crowd.] Blood. You must explain this public insult. 4 50 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. Liv. I am here to do so, but I do not. owe this explanation to you ; I owe it to myself, and those friends I see here, whose presence under your roof is a tribute to the name I bear.- My friends, I found myself in this man's debt ; he held in pledge all I possessed — all but my name ; that name he wanted to shelter the infamy in which his own was covered ; I was vile enough to sell it. Blood. Go on, sir ; go on. Liv. With your leave, I will. Alida. These matters you were fully acquainted with, I pre- sume, when you sought my hand. Liv. But 1 was not acquainted with the contents of these letters — written by you, to the Duke of Calcavella. Blood. Dare you insinuate that they contain evidence derogatory to the honor of my child ? Liv. No, sir ; but I think Miss Bloodgood will agree with me, that the sentiments expressed in these letters entitle her to the hand of the Duke, rather than to mine. \He hands the letters to Alida. ] Alida. Let him go, father. Liv. Not yet. You forget that my friends here are as- sembled to witness a marriage, and all we require is a bride. Blood. Yes ; a bride who can pay your debts. [Enter Paul, Lucy, and Mrs, Fairweather. ] Paul. No, sir ; a bride who can place the hand of a pure and loving maiden in that of a good and honest man. Blood. How dare you intrude in this house "? Paul. Because it is mine ; because your whole fortune will scarcely serve to pay the debt you owe the widow and the children of Adam Fairweather. Blood. Is my house to be invaded by beggars like these ! Edwards, send for the police. Is there no law in New York ior ruffians ? \Entcr Badger, in the uniform of an officer of police.'] Bad. Yes, plenty — and here's the police. Blood. Badger ! Bad. What's left of him. Blood. [ li'ildly.] Is this a conspiracy to ruin me ? Bad. That's it. We began it twenty years ago ; we've been hatching it ever since ; we let you build up a fortune ; we tempted you to become an incendiary ; w^p led you on from misdemeanor to felony — and that's what I want you for. THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. 5 1 Blood. What do you mean ? Bad. My meaning is set forth very clearly in an affidavit, on which the Recorder, at this very late hour for business, issued this warrant for your arrest. [Enter Two Policemen. Alida/<^//j in a chair.'] Blood. Incendiary ! Dare you charge a man of my standing in this city, with such a crime, without any cause ? Bad. Cause ! you wanted to burn up this receipt, which I was just in time to rescue from the flames ! Blood. [Drawing a knife.] Fiend ! you escaped the flames here — now go to those hereafter ! Bad. Hollo ! [Disarms Bloodgcod, and slips a pair oj handcuffs on him\ Gideon — my dear Gideon — don't lose your temper. [Throivs him back, 7nanacled, on the sofa.] Paul. Miss Bloodgood, let, me lead you from this room. Alida. [Rises, and crosses to her father.] Father ! Blood. Alida, my child. Alida. Is this true ? [A pause.] It is — I read it in your quailing eye — on your paling lips. And it was for this that you raised me to the envied position of a rich man's heiress — for this you roused my pride —for this you decked me in jewels — to be the felon's daughter. Farewell. Blood. Alida — my child — my child — it was for you alone I sinned— do not leave me. Alida. What should I do in this city ? can I earn my bread ? what am I fit for — with your tainted name and my own sad heart ? [Throws down her bride s coronet.] I am fit for the same fate as yours — infamy. [Exit.] Bad. Duke, you had better see that lady out. [^-I'/Z Duke, j Gideon, my dear, allow nie to introduce you to two friends of mine, who are anxious to make your acquaintance. Blood. Take me away ; I have lost my child — my Alida ; take me away ; hide me from all the world. Paul. Stay ! Mr. Bloodgood, in the midst of your crime there was one virtue : you loved your child » even now your heart deplores her ruin — not your own. Badger, give me that receipt. [Takes the receipt from Badger.] Do you acknowl- edge this paper to be genuine ? Blood. I do. Paul. [Tears it.] I have no charge against you. Let him be released. Restore to me my fortune, and take the rest ; go, follow your child ; save her from ruin, and live a better life. Blood. I cannot answer you as I would. [Turns aside in 52 THE STREETS OF NEW YORK. tears, and goes out with Policemen and Badger, IV ho releases Bloodgood. ] Liv. That was nobly done, Paul. Now, my friends, since all is prepared for my marriage let the ceremony proceed. Mrs. F. But where is Mrs. Puffy. Bad. Here they are, outside, but they won't come in, Paul. Why not ? Bad. They are afraid of walking on the carpets. Liv. Bring them in. Bad. That's soon done. \^Exit.'\ Mrs. F. Poor, good, kind people — the first to share our sorrow, the last to claim a part in our joy. \E?iter Badger and Dan— Puffy and one Policeman— Mrs. Puffy and the other Policeman.] Bad. They wouldn't come — I was obliged to take 'em in custody. Dan. Oh ! mother, where's this ? Mrs, P. I'm walkin' on a feather bed. Puffy. He wouldn't let me wipe my shoes. Liv. Come in — these carpets have never been trodden by more honest feet, these mirrors have never reflected kinder faces — come in — breathe the air here — you will purify it. Mrs. P. Oh, Dan, what grand folks — ain't they ? Dan. Canvas backs every one on 'em. Liv. And now, Lucy, I claim your hand. [Miisie inside.'] All is ready for the ceremony. Bad. You have seen the dark side of life — you can appreciate your fortune, for you haye learned the value of wealth. Mrs. F. No, we have learned the value of poverty. [Gives her hand to Puffy.] It opens the heart. Paul. \To the public] Is this true? Have the sufferings we have depicted in this mimic scene, touched your hearts, and caused a tear of sympathy to fill your eyes ? If so, extend to us your hands. Mrs. F. No, not to us — but when you leave this place, as you return to your homes, should you see some poor creatures, extend your hands to them, and the blessings that will follow you on your way will be the most grateful tribute you can pay to the poor of the STREETS OF NEW YORK. TjJI QSAMATie PBBIISHING GOMPANY'S CATALOGUE The American Amateur Drama. A collection of uew copyrighted plays, suitable'for amateur and professional perfonnances. The acting is not especially difficult, and the scenery can be easily managed. While full of action, these plays are not boisterous, but are refined and elevated in tone. They are bright, interesting and contain not a duh line. Before deciding on a drama for amateur performance, read these plays. Aroused at Last. Comedy in one act, by Mary Kyle Dallas. Four male, four female characters. Plays about forty minutes. One interior parlor scene. Costumes of to-day; scene, New York City. A play full of brisk but refined action, lively dialogue, and the comedy possibilities are unlimited. Mr. and Mrs. Pondicherry are a successful business man and his fond wife. Mr. and Mrs. Vandernoodle, a young" old Knicker- bocker and his bride. Miss and Mr. Wig-gins, a spinster from Toadfish Point and her brother. Celeste, a breezy French maid and a young man waiter complete a fine cast of characters. Price, 15 cents. Bloomer Girls, or, Courtship in tine Twentietii Century. Satiricalcomedyinoneact,by John A. Fraser, Jr., author "Noble Outcast," "Modern Ananias," "A Cheerful Iviar," etc. One male, three female characters. One garden scene, which may be changed to an interior if desired. Plays two hours. Two young women in handsome bloomer costumes, one elderly lady in dark dress and a very efiiminately attired young man compose the cast of characters. The dialogue is written in Mr. Fraser's best stj^le — bright and refined, while at the same time it hits the fad hard. Price, 15 cents. Bold Stratagem. Comedy in three acts, by Marsden Brown. Four male, three female characters; costumes mod- ern; one exterior, two interior scenes. Plays forty-five min- utes. This sparkling comedy is bright and witty, yet pure in tone, having no elaborate costumes or difficult scenery. Ama- teurs will find it just what they want. Every character good. Uvery situation telling. Price, 15 cents. Burglars. Comedy in one act, by Robert Julian, author of "Will You Marry Me?" Two male, two female characters. A parlor scene. Plays fifteen minutes. Costumes are suitable for one lady and one gentleman in the fashion of to-day, for 3. housemaid's pretty dress and a young dandy darkey. The cast includes Mrs. Greene, afraid of burglars; her husband, brave when there is no danger; Kitty, afraid of no one, and Toby, a darkey, who is hired to catch burglars. The situations axe new, and will keep the audience roaring from the entrance of Toby to the end. Price, 15 cents. THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE Cheerful Liar. Farcical comedy in three acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., author of "Modern Ananias," *'Noble Outcast,^' "Merry Cobbler," etc. Five male, three female characters. Plays three hours. Three interior scenes, all easily arranged. Costumes of the day. A shrieking farcical comedy, full of "go" and new ^jituations. Unlike most light pieces, this one has a most capital plot, full of entanglements. It is a comedy in which any number of specialties may be introduced, although it was played on the professional stage a long season without any. Flora, Randolph, Guy, Hussel and Mrs. Sweetlove may all sing and dance with advantage. Judge Hussel is a great character part. The audacity as well as cheerfulness with which he prevaricates invariably "brings down the house." In the last act where Flora dons a boy's costume and the Judge is dressed to captivate, the stage presents one of the strongest comedy scenes that has ever been suggested. The book of the play gives the very full stage directions for crosses, en- trances, exits, etc., for which Mr. Fraser's plays are noted. While prepared for amateurs in details, professional com- panies find this play a good one for the box office as well as an artistic favorite. Price, 25 cents. Delicate Question. Comedy drama in four acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., author of "Modern Ananias," "Noble Otytcast," etc. Nine male, three female characters. One exte- rior, two interior scenes. Modern costumes. Plays two hours. If a play presenting an accurate picture of life in the rura. districts is required, in which every character has been faith- fully studied from life, nothing better for the use of amateurs than "A Delicate Question" can be recommended. The story is utterly unlike that of any other play, and deals with the saloon, which it handles without gloves and at the same time without a single line of sermonizing. What "Ten Nights in a Barroom" was to the public of a past generation, "A Delicate Question" is destined to be to the present, although it is far from being exactly what is known as a "temperance play." The plot is intensely interesting, the pathetic scenes full of beauty, because they are mental photographs from nature, and the comedy is simply uproariously funny. The parts, very equally balanced. The scenic effects are quite simple, and by a little ingenuity the entire piece may be played in a kitchen scene. The climaxes are all as novel as they are effective and the dialogue is as natural as if the characters were all real people. Price, 25 cents. Food for Powder. Vaudeville in two acts, by R. Andre, author of "A Handsome Cap," "Minette's Birthday," etc. Three male, two female characters. One interior scene. Plays forty minutes. Costumes, French, of the time of Napoleon I. This dainty and refined play is full of pretty songs set to famil- iar airs, and specialty dances may be introduced. For profes- sional or amateur vaudeville evenings, this will be found just txitsr tni^g Ikr the short drama which should always form on9 #f the features. Price, 15 cents. 4 THE ORAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE Handsome Cap. Comic operetta in one act, by R. An- dre, author of "Food for Powder," "Minette's Birthday," etc. Three male, two female characters. One cottage interior scene. Costumes, of time of George II.. Plays forty minutes. The songs are all written to be sung to popular and well-known airs; dances may be introduced without limit, although there is a real plot and story carried to a happy termination. Like, other plays by this writer, "A Handsome Cap" is peculiarly suited to amateur and professional vaudeville evenings. Price, 15 cents. Maud Muller. Operetta in three acts, by Effle W. Merri- man, author ^'Socials," "Pair of Artists," etc. Three male, two female characters. Ivudicrous costumes and some proper- ty effects which may be easily arranged but are very amus- ing. One interior, one exterior scene. Plays two hours. The piece is arranged for a chorus to do a good deal of work, but a distinct reader will be found effective. The book of the play gives the most minute directions for its production as to action and properties. The horse upon which the judge rides in the hay -field scene is represented by two men covered by a fur robe. The antics of this horse may be made as funny as the imagination of the director may suggest. The judge should be a spare man made up to look pompous. Church so- cieties, as well as amateur clubs, will find this a money-mak- ing entertainment. Price, 25 cents. * Merry Cobbler, Comedy drama in four acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., author "Bloomer Girls," "Showman's Ward." "Modern Ananias," etc. Six male, five female characters. Two interior, two exterior scenes. Modern costumes. Plays two hours. This romantic story of a German emigrant boy who falls in love with, and finally marries, a dashing Southern belle, is one of the cleanest and daintiest in the whole reper- toire of the minor stage. The Merry Cobbler is one of the type the late J. K Emmet so loved to portray. Had the piece been originally written for the use of amateurs it could not have been happier in its results, its natural and mirth-provok- ing comedy combined wiih a strong undercurrent of heart in- terest, rendering it a vehicle with which even inexperienced actors are sure to be seen at their best. The scenic effects are of the simplest description and the climaxes, while possessing the requisite amount of "thrill" are very easy to handle. The author has prepared elaborate instructions for its produc- tion by amateur players. Price, 25 cents. Minette's Birthday. Vaudeville in one act, by R.An- dre, author of "A Handsome Cap," "Food for Powder," etc. Two male, three female characters. Plays forty-five minutes. One interior cottage scene. Costumes, in fancy French peasant fashion. This is another one of this author's plays arranged for the popular amateur and professional vaudeville evenings. It i. full of merry songs and dances, refined, spirited and very amusing: always. Price, 15 cents. THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE. Modern Ananias. Comedy in three acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., author " Noble Outcast," " Showman's Ward," etc. Four male, four female characters. Two interior, one exterior scenes. Modern society costumes. Plays three hours. This is a screaming farcical comedy, which depends upon the wit and humor of its jines no less than upon the drollery and absurdity of its situations for the shrieks of laughter it invariably provokes. Unlike most farcical comedies. " A Modern Ananias" has an ingeniously com- plicated plot, which maintains a keen dramatic interest until the fall of the last curtain. The scenery, if necessary, may be reduced to a garden scene and an interior. The climaxes are all hilariously funny, and each of the three acts is punctured with laughs from beginning to end. Amateurs wall find nothing more satisfactory in the whole range of the comic drama than this up-to-date comedy-farce. The fullest stage directions accompany the book, including all the "crosses" and positions, pictures, etc. Price, 25 cents. Noble Outcast. Drama in four acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., author " Modern Ananias,"" Merry Cobbler,"" Cheerful Liar, "etc. Four male, three female characters. Plays three hours. Costumes, modern, except Jerry's, when he appears as a tramp and again as an exaggerated "swell," This play has proven one of the most popular ever produced on the professional stage, but the author for the first time now allows it to be printed from the original manuscript. All the entrances, exits and positions will be found in the book of the play. It is safe to say that in the whole range of the drama there is no character to be found with such power to compel alternate laughter and tears as is shown by "Jerry, the tramp." The dramatic interest is always intense. Price, 25 cents. Pair Of Artists. Comedy in three acts, by Bffie W. Merriman, author of * ' Maud Muller, " " Socials, ' 'etc. P'our male, three female characters. Plays one and three-quarters hours. Three interior scenes, all easily arranged. Mrs. Scott wears bloomers and a man's hat; Mr.Scott, blue overalls and a checked gingham apron; Gertie, a long-sleeved apron and hair braided dov/n her back; the others, conventional dress of to-day. Each character has a promi- nent part. There is no villain or heavy people; all goes with a vim, and has been presented to the most critical audiences with entire success. Price, 15 cents. Purse, The. Comedy in two acts; dramatized by Theodore Harris, from Balzac's " La Bourse." Seven male, two female char- acters. Plays one hour and fifty minutes. Interior scenes, costumes of the time of Napoleon I. The exquisite language and sentiment of this noted French writer has been admirably trans- lated by Mr, Harris. For a student of dramatic literature, this part is recommended. The dialogue is as dainty and charming as a piece of French porcelain. Price, 15 cents. 6 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE Showman's Ward. Comedy in three acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., author of "Noble Outcast," "Delicate Question," "Merry Cobbler," etc. ^Bight male, five female characters. Three doubles may be made. Costumes of to-day. Plays two and one-half hours, This comedy has been very successfully performed under another title on the professional stage. It is, however, well adapted for the use of amateurs on account of the absence of scenic effects, the play being capable of per- formance in a parlor with different furniture for each act. The more singing and dancing introduced, the better for the performance. There is a dress rehearsal scene and a girls* school scene, which are always uproariously funny. The number of girls taking part in the school scene may be unlim- ited, thus making the play an admirable one for a club or society. The role of the showman's ward is a soubrette one, and it can easily be made a star part by a clever young wo- man if this is desired. Still, all the characters are so distinct- ly drawn that each is important and leading. Mr. Fraser has, as usual, given full directions for the stage production of this comedy in the book of the play. Price, 25 cents. Twixt Love and Money. Comedy drama in four acts, by John A. Fraser, Jr., author "Modern Ananias," "Merry Cobbler," "Noble Outcast," etc. Eight male, three female characters. Plays two and one-half hours. Three interior scenes. Costumes of the day. This charming domestic com- edy drama of the present day bids fair to rival, both with pro- fessionals and amateurs, the success of "Hazel Kirke." The scene is laid in a little village on the coast of Maine, and the action is replete with dramatic situations which "play them- selves." The story is intensely interesting and, in these days of Frenchy adaptations and "problem" plays, delightfully pure; while the moral — that love brings more happiness than does money — is plainly pointed without a single line of preach- ing. No such romantic interest has been built up around a simple, country heroine since the production of "Hazel Kirke" and "May Blossom" years ago. The play is in four acts, and as the scenery is easy to manage it is particularly well adapted for the use of amateurs. This play was originally written for professionals, but has been carefully revised for amateurs by Mr. Fraser, and the book contains full directions for all stage business. The dramatic interest is intense, each act being given a strong climax in situation and dialogue. Price, 25 cents. Will You Marry Me? Farce in one act, by Robert Julian, author of "Burglars." Two male, two female charac- ters. Plays twenty minutes. Costumes of to-day for eccen- tric old gentleman, one maiden elderly lady, one young man and one young woman. One interior parlor scene. The plot is full of intensely amusing matrimonial complications, with a happy ending. The fun is about evenly divided among the four strong parts. Some clever acting is desired where the dialogue is repeated under contrasting circumstances, by dif- ferent persons. Price, 15. cents. THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE The World Acting Drama. Price, 15 Cents. This collection of plays contains only such as are world-wide in popularity. Some are suitable for the amateur stage, some for the professional stage, some for both. The farces are sparkling, the comedies witty, the dramas and trage«- dies thrilling, but nothing dull, impure or suggestive is admitted. The plays are printed from large clear type, on good paper, and are undoubtedly supe- rior to all other editions in the market. Betsy Baker. Farce in one act, by J. Madison Morton, author of "Box and Cox," "Slasher and Crasher," etc. Two male, two female characters. Parlor scene. Plays forty-five minutes. Costumes, simple ones of to-day. "V^herever this farce is presented it is received with the g-reatest enthusiasm They are all star parts. Box and Cox. Romance in real life, in one act, by J. Madison Morton, author of "Poor Pillicoddy," "Betsy Baker," etc. Two male, one female characters. Plays thirty-five minutes. Plain every-day costumes. One plainly furnished room. There is no other farce that has been given as often and as successfully as "Box and Cox." It always keeps an audience in a continual roar of laughter. By Special Desire. Drawing-room monologue for a lady in one interior scene. Usually plays fifteen minutes. The usual evening or afternoon dress can be worn. This is best g-iven by one possessing a simple unaffected style. Cool as a Cucumber. Farce in one act, by W. Blanch- ard Jerrold. Three male, two female characters. Plays fifty minutes. Parlor scene. Costumes of to-day. Star part for a dashing young- comedian, with other characters well-drawn. The play is rich in opportunities and dramatic situations. Cricket on the Hearth, or, A Fairy Tale of Home. Drama in three acts, dramatized by Albert Smith from Charles Dickens' story of the same name. Seven male, eight female characters, besides fairies and neighbors. Two interior scenes. Costumes of fifty years ago. Plays two hours. Invariably witnessed with enthusiasm. Daughter-in-Law. Comedietta in one act, by Mary Seymour. Four female characters. Plays thirty minutes. Interior scene. Modern costumes. This is a first-class play for a curtain-raiser or to give in connection with a broader farcical comedy. It is very refined, but spirited. Fast Friends, Comedietta in one act, by R. Henry, author of "A Narrow :escape,' etc. Two female characters. Modern costumes. Plays twenty minutes. Interior scene. A very amusing little play, which is always well received, where- ever given. Full of action and bright dialogue. 8 THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOBtit Gringoire, Pathetic play in one act, translated from the French of De Banville by Arthur Shirley. Four male, two female characters.. Interior scene. Louis XI. costumes. Plays forty minutes. Nat. Goodwin has made this a most successful play in his repertoire, but it is also easily given by amateurs. Hamlet. Trag-edy, by William Shakespeare, arranged va five acts by Mr. Wilson Barrett. Nineteen male, three female characters'. Plays two hours. The action of this edition is carefully indicated, and the large clear type makes it a special- ly good one for students and public readers. Hidden Hand. Drama in five acts, by Robert Jones, ar- ranged from Mrs. E.- D. E. N. Southworth's celebrated novel. Fifteen male, seven female characters. Costumes modern. Plays two and one half hours. Four interior, two exterior scenes. A thrilling drama, with strong comedy scenes as well. One excellent negro part. Ici on Parle FrancaiS. f'arce in one act, by Thomas J.Williams, author of "Larkin's Ivove L^etters," etc. Three niale, four female characters. One interior scene. One military and costumes of to-day. Plays forty minutes. This is ©ne of the Dest of farces. Kvery character is good and all goes with a rush. Kathleen Mavourneen, or St. Patrick's Eve. Do- mestic Irish drama in four acts. Twelve male, four female characters. Three interior, two exterior scenes. Irish cos- tumes. Plays two and one-quarter hours. The most popular Irish play ever written. Contains an unusual variety of char- acters and incidents, and it always takes well with audiences. Lend Me Five Shillings. Farce in one act, by J, Mad- ison Morton, author of "Betsy Baker," etc. Five male, two female characters. Interior scene. Evening costumes. Plays forty minutes. Joseph Jefferson and Nat. Goodwin consider Mr. Golightly one of their best parts. The play is uproarious- ly funny. Loan of a Lover. Vaudeville in one act, by J. R. Planche. Four male, two female characters. One military costume for gentleman, one outdoor dress for a lady, and the others wear picturesque peasants' dress. Garden scene. Plays fifty min- utes. This play affords fine opportunities to introduce songs and dances. Mistletoe Bough. Pantomime entertainment in five scenes, arranged from the well-known ballad by Henry R. Bishop. Two male, four female characters. Fifty ladies and gentlemen and as many children often take part, although a less number present it excellently. Plays two hours. Play gives full directions for production and costumes, Mrs. Willis' Will. Comedy drama in one act, adapted from the French of Emile Souvestre. Five female characters. Interior scene. Modern costumes. Plays forty minutes. A country jig danced under protest by two of the ladies creates much fun. All the characters, as well as the moral, are ^rood. THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 9 Obstinate Family. Farce iu one act, arrang-ed from the German. Three male, three female characters. Interior scene. Costumes of to-day. Plays forty minutes. Augustin Daly's company presented this play as "A Woman's Won't." It is also called "Thank Goodness, the Table is Spread." The play is delightfully entertaing and always successful. Our Boys. Comedy in three acts, by Henry J. Byron. Six male, four female characters. Modern costumes. Three interior scenes. Plays two hour^. By many, this is considered the most successful play ever written. Fine for professionals, but also easily produced by amateurs, as scenery is easily ar- ranged. Petticoat Perfidy. Comedietta in one act, by Sir Charles Iv. Young, author of "Jim the Penman," "Drifted Apart," etc. Threefe male characters. An interior scene. Modern cos- tumes. Plays forty minutes. Bright little society comedy, full of wit and very amusing' situations. Pygmalion and Galatea. Mythological comedy in three acts, by W. S. Gilbert, author of all the librettos of Gilbert and Sullivan's operas. Five male, four female characters. Grecian costumes. Studio scene. Plays one hour and three- quarters. Acknowledged one of the most charming comedies. Sunset. Comedy in one act, by Jerome K. Jerome. Three male, three female characters. Drawing-room scene. Mod- ern costumes. Plays fifty minutes. This play has been suc- cessful on both the English and American stage. It is suit- able also for amateurs. Requires some acting with reserve force in both comedy and pathos. Sweethearts. Comedy in two acts, by W. S. Gilbert, author of "Pygmalion and Galatea," etc. Two male, two fe- male characters. One garden scene. Modern costumes. Plays one hour. A delightful modern comedy, which ends happily after some misunderstandings. It is written in Gilbert's best ' style, which is always bright. Ten Years Hence. Comedy in two acts, by Mary Sey- mour, author of "A Daughter-in-L