PR 5232 .R5 A67 Copy 1 ^y>j^?j COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY HAROLD ROORBACH mootfbncl'S full DCSCtttttibc Catalogue of Dramas, Comedies, Comediettas, Farces, Tabi. ux-vivants, Guide-books, Novel Entertainments for Church, School and Parlor Exhibitions, etc., containing complete and explicit information, will be sent to any address on receipt of a stamp for return postage. Address as above. ROORBACH'S AMERICAN EDITION. PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. This series embraces the best of plays, suited to the present time. The reprints have been rigidly compared with the original acting copies, so that absolute purity of text and stage business is warranted. Each play is furnished with an introduction of the greatest value to the stage manager, containing the argument or synopsis of incidents, complete lists of properties and costumes, diagrams of the stage settings and practicable scene-plots, with the fullest stage directions. They are hand- somely printed from new electrotype plates, in readable type, on fine paper. Their complete introductions, textual accuracy, and mechanical jexcellence render these books far superior in every respect to all editions of acting plays hitherto published. i. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD. A comic drama in two acts. Six male, three female characters. Time, two hours. 2. A SCRAP OF PAPER. A comic drama in three acts. Six male, six female characteis. Time, two hours. 3. MY LORD IN LIVERY. A farce in one act. Five male, three female charac- ters. Time, fifty minutes. 4. CABMAN No. 93. A farce in one act. Two male, two female characters. Time, lorty minutes. 5. MILKY WHITE. A domestic drama in two acts. Four male, two female char- acters. Time, one hour and three quarters. 6. PARTNERS FOR LIFE. A comedy in three acts. Seven male, four female characters. Time, two hours. 7. WOODCOCK'S LITTLE GAME. A comedy-farce in two acts. Four male, four female characters. Time, one hour. 8. HOW TO TAME YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW. A farce in one act. Four male, two female characters. Time, thirty-five minutes. 9. LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET. A drama in two acts. Four male, three female characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. 10. NOT SO BAD AFTER ALL. A comedy in three acts. Six male, five female characters. Time, one hour and forty minutes. xi. WHICH IS WHICH ? A comedietta in one act. Three male, three female characters. Time, fifty minutes. 12. ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS. A fare* in one act. Three male, four female characters. Time, forty-five minutes. 13. DAISY FARM. A drama in four acts. Ten male, four female characters. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 14. MARRIED LIFE. A comedy in three acts. Five male, five female characters. Time, two hours. 15. A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. A comedietta in one act. Two male, three female characters. Time, fifty minutes- 16. LEND ME FIVE SHILLINGS. A farce in one act. Five male, two female characters. Time, one hour. 17. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— Original Version. A drama in six acts. Fifteen male, seven female characters. Time, three hours. 18. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— New Version. A drama in five acts. Seven male, five female characters. Time, two hours and a quarter. 19. LONDON ASSURANCE. A comedy in five acts. Ten male, three female characters. Time, two hours and three quarters. 20. ATCHI ! A comedietta in one act. Three male, two female characters. Time, forty minutes. 2I ' yy**0 IS WHO ? A farce in one act. Three male, two female characters. Time, forty minutes. 22. THE WOVEN WEB. A drama in four acts. Seven male, three female char- acters. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. \ny of the above will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt / of the price. HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New Yo-k. HOME A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS BY T. W. ROBERTSON New American Edition, Correctly Reprinted from the Original Authorized Acting Edition, with the Original Casts of the Characters, Argument of the Play, Time of Representation, Description of the Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Dia- gram of the Stage Setting, Sides of Entrance and Exit, Relative Posi- tions of the Performers, Expla- nation of the Stage Direc- tions, etc., and all of the Stage Business. Copyright, 1890, by Harold Roorbach. NEW YORK HAROLD ROORBACH PUBLISHER o \ 9? \ rf HOME. CAST OF CHARACTERS. Alfred Dorrison {pass- ing under the name of " Colonel John White: 1 ) Capt. Mountraffe Mr. Dorrison Bertie Thompson Servants to Dorrison < Mrs. Pinchbeck Lucy Dorrison Dora Thornhaugh Haymarket, London, Wallaces, New York. Jan. 14th, 1869. Dec. 8th, 1873. Mr. Sothern. Mr. Compton. Mr. Chippendale. Mr. R. Astley. ' Messrs. Johnson and James. Miss Ada Cavendish Miss lone Burke. Miss Caroline Hill. Mr. Lester Wallack. Mr. E. Arnott. Mr. J. Gilbert. Mr. W. R. Floyd. Miss Katharine Rodgers. Miss Effie Germon. Miss Kate Bartlett. Time of Performance. — Two Hours. Between Acts I and II occurs a lapse of two months; between Acts II and III a lapse of twelve hours. THE ARGUMENT. Alfred Dorrison having run away from home when a mere lad, returns from America after a lapse of seventeen years to find his baby sister grown up to young womanhood engaged to Bertie Thompson, and his father about to marry Mrs. Pinchbeck, a handsome widow living in the neighborhood. Not knowing how he would be received in his own per- son, Alfred had brought a letter from himself introducing himself to his father as Col. John White. Determined to save his father from the misfortune of an ill assorted second marriage, and fearing to arouse Mrs. Pinchbeck's suspicions if known to be the long lost son, he adopts this alias, presents the letter of introduction to his father and is cordially 4 HOME. welcomed and presented in turn to Mrs. Pinchbeck, whose face is familiar, and to her brother Captain Mountraffe, an unprincipled adventurer. Col. White, on looking up Mrs. Pinchbeck's record, finds his suspi- cions confirmed by the discovery that she is an adventuress pushed on by her scoundrel of a brother. To rescue his father from the fatal fascination of this woman who would be a curse and misery to him, and finding it necessary to fight her with her own weapons, he writes another letter to the elder Dorrison, from himself in Amerca, which tells that " White " is but the assumed name of a rich German count who, for sentimental rea- sons, desires to pass as a poor soldier that he may find a woman who will love him for himself alone. Col. White's design is that Mrs. Pinchbeck shall see the letter and set her cap for himself as a greater catch, thus opening the elder Dorrison's eyes to the folly of his projected marriage. Meanwhile an attachment has sprung up between Alfred and Dora Thornhaugh, an inmate of his father's house. Mrs. Pinchbeck falls into the snare, reads the bogus letter and, alive to the superior advantages of a marriage with the supposed count, is completely deceived by his sham addresses. But the Colonel's fervid declaration is interrupted by the sud- den appearance of the elder Dorrison, Lucy and Dora, who overhear all. Mrs. Pinchbeck repudiates him, Dora is contemptuous, and Dorrison orders the Colonel out of the house for his apparent treachery. Stung with the complete failure of his scheme for opening his father's eyes, Alfred is about to take his departure when Dora returns, having learned the true state of affairs, and is reconciled to him. But she has to fly to a hiding place at the sudden entrance of Mrs. Pinchbeck, dressed for a journey and determined to accompany the Colonel who has unwittingly won the woman's heart in spite of her ambition. The elder Dorrison appears just in time to hear his fiancee declare her love for the Colonel and her intention of going with him ; and infuriated at the outrage he seems to have suffered, Dorrison rushes wildly at the Colonel, which precipitates the disclosure that the latter is his long lost son. Mr. Dorrison's eyes are now fully opened and he gives Alfred carte blanche to adjust matters as he may deem best. The latter easily settles Mountraffe. Mrs. Pinchbeck shows that she is not really a designing woman but, instead, the victim of circumstances and an unprincipled brother; she departs really penitent and followed by the sincere regard of the family she had so nearly wronged. The elder Dorrison is completely cured of his infatuation ; Bertie and Lucy settle their affair happily ; and the Colonel and Dora determine to pass their honeymoon at Home. COSTUMES. "Colonel White" (Alfred Dorrison)— Act I; Black, or dark hair, rather close, light brown moustache and goatee, as worn by military officers during our war. Black frock-coat, light trousers, black high hat, gloves. Act II; The goatee removed, and the moustache trimmed ; hair a little longer. Gray trousers, walking coat of brown velvet, low crown black, hard felt hat. Act III; Black coat, dark trousers. HOME. 5 Captain Mountraffe. — Act I; Close crop, black wig, rather after the pugilist's fashion ; short bristling black moustache. Black riding hat, light riding-trousers, dark velvet riding-coat, fancy waist-coat, figured shirt with colored collar, showy scarf, and pin of a gold fox-hunting whip with enamel lash, or of a similar sporting design. Act II; Smoking-cap, and flowered-pattern dressing-gown. Act III ; The same. Mr. Dorrison. — White wig. Black coat, light vest and trousers, eye- glass hanging by black ribbon. Flower in button hole. Bertie Thompson. — Walking-dress, hat. Servants. — In plain livery. Mrs. Pinchbeck. — All her dresses are in the height of fashion. Act I ; Body and skirt of different colors, train, hair fashionably arranged. Act II; House dress; hair rather plain, dark shoes, corresponding in color with her dress. A black mantel for her last entrance. Act III ; Black velvet dress, trimmed and edged with black silk, and a few jet beads. Brooch and earings, jet and gold. Wedding ring worn all through the piece. Lucy Dorrison, Dora Thornhough. — Fashionable house dresses. Cloaks for them in Act II. PROPERTIES. Act I. — Handbell on table, r. C. Sheets of music on piano and music stand. Letter for Col. White. Tray with luncheon, decanter, glasses, claret jug and silver tankard. Letter for Lucy. Flower and letter for Mr. Dorrison. Gong outside. Cigars in case, and matches for Mountraffe. Act II. — Miniature case with ring, and photograph for Col. White. Music book for Dora. Book for Mrs. Pinchbeck. Gun for Mr. Dor- rison. Lighted candle for Mountraffe. Writing materials on table l. Umbrella for Bertie. Lightning and rain, r. u. e. Explosion, as for gun- discharge, off r. u. E. Act III. — Sunset effect, r. u. e. Jelly in saucer, with spoon. Pistol case and horse whip for Col. White. Cane for Bertie. Blank cheque for Col. White. Locket for Mrs. Pinchbeck. STAGE SETTING AND SCENE PLOT. Garden Backing Mindoir < ; 1 Windoi 6 HOME. Scene. — Drawing-room boxed in 3 g. Garden backing in 4 G. Win- dows to floor, with curtains, R. and L. in flat. Doors L. I E. and L. 3 E. Fire-place and mantel l. 2 e. Large open French window R. 2 e., with curtains drawn aside, leading by two steps to conservatory. Glass wall of conservatory leading oft", r. 3 e. Table and two chairs l. Sofa r. of table. Table and ottoman r. c. Pedestal, with statuette, c., against flat. Piano and music-stand up R. c. Screen up l. c. Chairs R. and c. Three chairs l. Portrait of a lady over fire-place. On mantel, clock, candle-sticks with candles, vases, etc. Carpet down. Rug at fire-place. In Act II, the table R. C. is shifted to R., and the ottoman to R. c, transversely to the audience. STAGE DIRECTIONS. In observing, the player is supposed to face the audience. R., means right; l., left; c, centre; R. C, right of centre; l. c, left of centre; d. f., door in the flat or back scene; r. f., right side of the flat; L. F., left side of the flat; R. D., right door; L. D., left door; C. D., centre door; I E., first entrance; 2 e., second entrance; u. e., upper entrance; I, 2 or 3 G., first, second or third grooves ; up stage, towards the back ; down stage, towards the audience. R. R. C. C. L. C. L. Note. — The text of this play is correctly reprinted from the original authorized acting edition, without change. The introductory matter has been carefully prepared by an expert, and is the only part of this book protected by copyright. HOME. ACT I. Scene. — Drawing-room looking on garden, R. — the roo?n altogether handsomely furnished — Lucy discovered seated on a sofa, L. c. , holding a note. Lucy, {agitated} It's past twelve. What can it mean? (read- ing) " Will come in by the kitchen garden when I have watched your papa out." [looking from window) There he is ! There's my Bertie ! [kissing her hand) He's standing on the gate ! He sees me ! Now he's tumbled down and hurt himself! Poor fellow! I know he's bruised. That nasty gate to go and let him fall ! Why, he's coming in at the window and not at the door! What does this mean ? (enter Bertie from R. window, limping) Bertie ! Ber. Lucy ! [they squeeze hands ; Bertie sits on ottoman, R., and hides his face in his hands) All is over ! Lucy. Have you hurt yourself so much, then? I saw you fall. Ber. It isn't that. Lucy. What then ? Ber. I am forbidden the house. Lucy. What? Ber. Your father has forbidden me the house. Lucy. For what reason ? Ber. Yesterday, when you and Dora were out Lucy. Yes. Ber. Mamma told him her mind. Lucy. About Mrs. Pinchbeck ? Ber. Yes. Lucy, [falling into chair, c. ) Oh, Bertie ! 8 HOME. Ber. And they had a row, an awful row, the sort of row old friends have when they do row, and your pa told me he would not have me here any more, {starting up, kneels at her feet and clasps her hands) Lucy, do you love me ? Lucy. Bertie ! Ber. We shall never be married. Lucy. Oh, Bertie ! Ber. We are doomed to part. Lucy. No, Bertie, we are not. You know, dear, we can always run away. Ber. So we can. [rises) That's some comfort. But how are we to get the money ? Lucy, (rises) The money will come of itself. When two people love each other it always comes right at last. Ber. But I shan't be able to see you. (walks about) Lucy. Yes, you will. Ber. How — when — where? Lucy. Somehow — sometime — somewhere ! Ber. You'll always love me then? Lucy. Always. Ber. Devotedly ? Lucy. Fondly. Enter Servant showing in Colonel White, l. u. e. Ber. Truly ? Col. (l. c.) I beg your pardon ; but the servant showed me in here, — if I'm not intruding ucy. i q^ nQ , ^y e are (they go up) Col. Yes, I saw you were. You're delighted to see me, of course ? Just so. (crosses to R., looking about the roo?n — Lucy watches him) I wish to speak to Mr. Dorrison. Lucy. Papa ! Papa is out ; he'll soon be back. Ber. (aside) Worse luck, (goes up) Col. (regarding Lucy with intense interest) Papa ! Then you are Miss Dorrison ? Lucy. Yes. Ber. For the present, (comes down, l. ) Col. Lucy Dorrison? (faltering) Lucy. Yes ! Col. Ah ! (sighs) Lucy. You seem fatigued. Col. (embarrassed) No, quite fresh — from America. Lucy. That's a long way. Ber. Sit down. Col. (sits, R.) Thank you. And you are Lucy Dorrison — little Lucy — the baby grown so tall. How old are you ? HOME. 9 T ' \ Seventeen. Lucy. j Col. Seventeen ! are you so long — I mean, is it so long? Lucy, [to Bertie) What an odd man ! Who is he ? Ber. {whispers) Perhaps he's the fellow come to take the census. Lucy, [to Colonel) Papa will not be long. Col. Papa won't, won't he? {catches sight of picture l.; he rises; a pause) Isn't that mamma ? Your mamma ? Lucy. Yes, poor mamma ; she's [a pause) Col. Dead? Lucy. Yes, years ago ; when I was quite a child, [turns to look at picture) Col. {after a pause, catching hold of Lucy in his arms and kissing her) Lucy, don't you know me? Lucy, {alarmed) Bertie! Ber. {indignantly) I say Col. Don't be alarmed, darling, [kissing her) I am your brother Alfred. (Lucy sinks into chair, c.) Lucy. Brother Alfred ! Ber. Brother Alfred ! Col. Grown such a fine girl. When I left you were a baby. Lucy. La ! My brother Alfred, whom I never saw before, to my remembrance. Perhaps that's the reason I did not know you. I am so glad to see you, my dear brother. Ber. Very glad, my dear brother, [shaking Colonel's hands, which are round Lucy's waist) Col. Eh ! but you have been born since I was away. You're not a never-known, unexpectedly-turned-up, long-lost brother. Ber. No, but I'm Lucy's sweetheart. It's the same thing. Col. Lucy's sweetheart ! The baby got a sweetheart? Why, I left you asleep in a cradle, and now I am come back Lucy. You find me awake, and engaged, [takes Bertie's arm) Col. Yes, you're awake, but I seem to be dreaming. Sixteen years have passed like a single night. It is to-morrow morning, and I'm still asleep. Have sixteen years passed? (Lucy goes to Colonel) Have I run away ? Have I come back again ? [kissing Lucy) Yes, I have. Here I stood in this very room. The fur- niture the same, everything the same, except that picture ; that was not there. My father had just gone out of that door ; we had had a furious quarrel. I threatened to leave home ; he told me to go. (Lucy takes Colonel's arm) I said I'd enlist as a soldier. He told me I hadn't the courage ; that stung me. I'd a few pounds I went up to London. I did not enlist for a soldier. If my mother had been at home I should not have gone. From London I went to Liverpool ; and half-starved, I worked my way IO HOME. to New York as a common sailor, or rather as an uncommon lands- man. In ten years I made a fortune ; and when the war broke out I went into the army. I always intended to write home ; but as post after post, packet after packet sailed away, I put it off. I return to find the same place but {looking at -picture} not the same people. I am a man ; you are a grown girl ; and this is Home. (crosses, L.) It's like a fairy tale ; and all that's wanted to com- plete it is a magic door to open, (turns) and a beautiful princess to walk in, with whom I fall in love directly, and who falls in love with me, and makes me happy ever after, (during the last few lines Dora enters, d. l. I e. ; pause) Lucy. Here's the beautiful princess, (crosses to Dora) Dora. I beg your pardon, (going) Lucy. Don't go. Let me introduce you to my brother. Miss Dora Thornhaugh. She's staying with us. Col. (aside) Is she ? I wish she'd stay with me. (Colonel struck) Dora. Your brother ? Ber. Yes, our brother. Lucy. Alfred, from America. Dora. Whom you believed to be dead? Col. (flurried) Quite a mistake ! I am not dead, I assure you. Dora. It was only yesterday that your papa, Mr. Dorrison, was speaking of you. Col. (interested) Yesterday ? Lucy. Yes, he said he'd give the world to know if you were alive. Col. Did he? (affected) Did he ? Dora. And to hear from you. Ber. 1 remember his very words. (Colonel crosses to Bertie) To hear of him even through a third person. Col. (repeating mechanically a?id watching Dora) Through a third person ! Dora. Singular, isn't it ? Col. (meclianically) Third person singular it is. Lucy. But, brother Alfred, why did you go away ? (sits, C.) Ber. Yes, and why did you come back? (sits, R. c, on otto- man) Col. (sits, R. C, on ottoman) I went away because I was an idiot, and a bad-hearted, hot-headed, self-willed, ruffianly boy. Dora, (sits on sofa, l.) You were very young then, and perhaps Mr. Dorrison was rather harsh — severe. Col. No, he wasn't, (looks at picture) Lucy. He said he was yesterday. Poor mamma ! (looking at same picture over fireplace) I don't remember her. (Colonel sighs) Pa's going to be married again. HOME. 1 1 Col. What? Lucy. Yes, he's going to take a second wife. It makes us so unhappy. Ber. Me particularly, brother Alfred. Col. {looking at picture) A second wife ? Lucy. Yes. We'll tell you all about it, and perhaps you can advise us. Last autumn he took me to Scarborough, and there we met a Mrs. Pinchbeck. Col. A widow ? Lucy. Yes. Dora. She says she's a widow. Ber. So does her brother. Col. Oh, she's got a brother too, has she ? Pity so many nice girls have brothers. Lucy. Captain Mountrafife. Col. Oh, military ? Lucy. Yes. Ber. He says so. Lucy. Well, papa fell in love. Col. [looking at Dora) How stupid! Ber. Over head and ears. Col. Idiotic ! Ber. Wasn't it? [looking at 'Lucy) Lucy. And he used to walk her about, and in three weeks they were engaged. Ber. How improper ! [looking at Lucy) Col. Horrible! [looking at Dora) Lucy. And papa has let her have the White Cottage to live in. Col. Where the Kennedys used to be twenty years ago? Lucy. And all the ladies in the neighborhood say that there is something about her they don't like. Col. They mean she's handsome. Lucy. No. Col. Women are seldom enthusiastic about each other. What does Miss Thornhaugh think of her ? Dora. I dislike her. Col. For what reason ? Dora. For no reason. From instinct. Col. That's the best reason. Who is she? What was she? Lucy. Nobody knows. Ber. Even I don't; but all sorts of things are whispered. Col. I hate whispers. In cases of this sort people should be out- spoken and loud, [dropping his voice) Should they not, Miss Thornhaugh ? Dora, [lowering her eyes) I think so. Lucy. But what's to be done, brother Alfred ? Col. [rises) Hold hard, let me see how we stand. Mrs. 12 HOME. Ber. Pinchbeck. Col. Pinchbeck is a widow ? Ber. Yes. Col. That's bad. Lucy. Been married twice. Col. That's worse; she's a double-barrelled widow. Cuts with both husbands — I mean with both edges. Ber. Rather fast. Col. Round hat, sea-side ribbons fluttering ? All that, eh ? (Bertie nods and rises — Lucy rises) Um, urn, and you're sure that my father wants to marry her ? Ber. Immediately. Col. I'll try and open his eyes to his danger. Lucy. Will you? You dear brother! [shakes Colonel's left hand) Col. Brother ! Aye, about her brother — the Pinchbeckian brother — what kind of fellow is he ? Ber. A cad. Lucy. Very low. Dora. A most presuming person, (rises and comes down, L.) Col. (jealous) Is he ? Ber. He's always playing bagatelle at the Nag's Head. Col. Where I left my portmanteau. Lucy. And he gets so tipsy. Col. After dinner ? Ber. And before dinner too. Col. Agreeable 'possum. Ber. The worst of it is that my mother told your father what she thought of the match. They had a row, and she — that's my mother — got into a passion. Did you ever see my mother in a passion ? Col. Never had that pleasure. Ber. I have. I am forbidden the house. Col. Why? Ber. Mr. Dorrison said he would have nobody within his doors who dared express a doubt as to the perfect eligibility of Mrs. Pinchbeck ; and ma said he was an old fool, and so Col. That was strong. And so you're courting my sister — my little Lucy ? Ber. Yes. I have loved her ever since the early age of two. You know it was first arranged that I was to marry Dora. Col. Dora? (jealous) I beg pardon, Miss Thornhaugh. Ber. But I never cared for her, did I, Dora ? Dora. Never. Col. (aside) He's an idiot. Ber. And Dora never cared for me. Did you, Dora ? Dora. Never. HOME. 13 Col. (aside) What a charming girl. Care for him ! I should think not. Ber. So we cried off. Col. (aside) The lunatic ! Ber. And Lucy and I cried on. Lucy, (crosses to Bertie) And we are so fond of each other, brother Alfred ! (they go up, and then to window, R. ) Col. (aside) I wonder if anybody could be fond of me. This is the most charming girl. Ber. (at window-curtain, r.) Here's Mr. Dorrison and Mrs. Pinchbeck coming down the garden. Col. (at R. window) And that's my father? He looks older, and he's white about the head where he used to be so black. I wish Mrs. Pinchbeck would show her face. She's plucking a flower. Now she puts it into the governor's coat. Poor old gov' ! It's a case, but I'll save him. (looks at his mother s picture) I'll save him. Lucy. Papa is coming on with his letters. Ber. (crosses to l.) I must go out by the back kitchen. Dora, (goes up, L.) I don't want to meet Mrs. Pinchbeck. Col. Stay! I'm reckoned a smart man in the West. I didn't know how I should be received here, so I brought a letter from myself, (producing letter) introducing Colonel White. Lucy. Colonel White ? Ber. Eh ! Col. If I am known to be the long-lost son, Mrs. Pinchbeck's suspicions will be awakened. Better be Colonel White. Lucy. Oh, yes ; it will be such fun. Ber. Capital. Col. So if Miss Thornhaugh doesn't mind humoring a deception that may tend to good Dora. Your secret is safe with me. Exit, D. L. u. e. Ber. Good-bye, Lucy, (whispering) I shall be in the back kitchen at 8.30, on the left hand side of the mangle. Exit, d. l. 1 e. ; Lucy crosses and looks off, l. i e. Col. Lucy, now for it. I'll tell you what I Enter Mr. Dorrison, r. window — he has a flower in his button- hole, and letters in his hand — Lucy crosses to c. Mr. D. Business, business ! as if I could attend to business. I have something higher, purer, nobler, (seeing Colonel) Eh, I beg your pardon. Lucy. Papa, a gentleman to speak to you. Col. As I am a stranger I must introduce myself. (Lucy going, R.) My name is White — Colonel White, of the Minnesota Rifles. Mr. D. Lucy, my dear. (Lucy is going) 14 HOME. Col. The young lady need not go, for it's a family matter. I have to — I have a letter of introduction, (crosses to Mr. Dorrison) Mr. D. From whom ? Col. From your son. Mr. D. From my son ? From Alfred ? Col. Yes, he's a comrade of mine. Mr. D. In the American army ? Col. Yes. Mr. D. Phew ! My son alive ? Thank Heaven ! Thank Heaven ! (sits down affected, R., on ottoman) Col. (c, aside to Lucy) Poor old gov ! he's my father and he feels it. Mr. D. (r.) Lucy, my love, your brother is alive — Alfred whom I have so often spoken of. Lucy. (l. ) Yes, papa, the gentleman has already told me. (aside) I feel so wicked, but I suppose it is right for people to feel wicked sometimes. Col. How naturally she takes to deception ; like a young duck- ling to the water. I wonder if Dora will do it as well. Mr. D. (reading) "Well, and happy, and prosperous." (shak- ing hands with Colonel) My dear sir, you are most welcome. Of course you have come to stay with us. Where is your luggage? Col. I left it at the station three miles off. Mr. D. Lucy, tell George to drive over and fetch it. Lucy, (aside, and running up stage) Certainly, papa! My brother ! Oh, how will all this end ? Exit, d. l. u. e. Mr. D. I long to hear of his career. And so he is a soldier. (sitting on ottoman, R.) Tell me, my dear Colonel Col. White, (sits L. of ottoman) Mr. D. Colonel White, tell me all about him ; how he is. Do you know your face somewhat reminds me of him ? Col. We have been considered alike. Mr. D. And where is he now ? Does he intend to return to England? My dear boy — my son — my — (Mrs. Pinchbeck out- side ivindow, r. ) Mrs. P. Alfred ! (Colonel rises) Mr. D. (rising and going up) That voice ! Excuse me, but a lady I have kept waiting. We dine at six. We are very quiet people here ; don't take the trouble to dress. After dinner we can talk. I'll send for your luggage. My dear Colonel White, con- sider this house your home while you are in England. We are very quiet people here. Enter Captain. Mountraffe, flushed with drink, d. l. u. e., down l. Mount. They've cleared the lunch away. Col. (aside) I suppose this is brother Pinchbeck. HOME. 1 5 Mr. D. This dreadful man! [rings, aside; aloud) Lunch. Perhaps, Colonel White, you will take some lunch ? A glass of sherry and a biscuit? (Servant enters, d. l. u. e. Mountraffe whispers to him, and Servant exit) It shall be brought to you here. Mrs. P. [outside, in sweet tones) Alfred ! Mr. D. Pamela, one moment, (at window) An arrival. Permit me to introduce you. Colonel White, Captain Mountraffe, the brother of my intended. Captain Mountraffe of the Acapultec Avengers. Mount. Mexican Cavalry. Irregulars. Mrs. P. (without) Alfred ! Mr. D. (on steps) Pray excuse me. (runs off at window, R. dinner gong — Servant enters, d. l. u. e. ; clears table, l. ) Col. (down, r.) Poor old gov! (looking at Mountraffe) This fellow a soldier ! why, he's never been drilled. Mount, (aside) I wonder who this chap is? Is he flat, or is he fly-green or down, righteous or shoful ? Col. Pleasant day ; been riding? (looking at his trousers) Mount. No, I've been playing bagatelle. Col. Bagatelle ! Enter Servant with lunch on tray, d. l. u. e. Mount. They've no billiard-room at the " Nag's." This is a d d hole. No wine, no nothing. Servant puts lunch on table, l. Ser. Claret, sir; or would you take some beer? Mount. No, champagne. Ser. Sir? Mount. Champagne ! don't you hear ? Champagne ! Two bottles, one for me, one for the other gentleman. Col. I don't generally drink a bottle of champagne for lunch. (crosses, l.) Mount. Never mind, I'll drink it for you. I'm thirsty. Open both bottles, and pour them into that large silver tankard. Exit Servant, d. l. u. e. Col. Phew ! Smells of tobacco like yesterday's canteen, (sits, L. of table, l. ) Mount. Don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting you here before, (sitting on sofa , R. o/l.. table) Col. No, 1 have only just arrived. Allow me (helping him) Mount. I'm not hungry. I've had one or two nips of brandy at the " Nag." Col. Nice place, the " Nag." 1 6 HOME. Mount. Slow — skittle alley, but no tables. Do you know Mr. Dorrison ? Col. Slightly. Mount. I know him intimately, (enter Servant with tankard, d. l. u. e.) Oh, here you are. Servant puts down tankard on table, L., goes off, l. d. and returns with claret jug. Col. Have you retired from the army, Captain ? Mourn. Yes. Col. What service were you in ? Mount. Cavalry, Mexican Cavalry. Acapultec Avengers. Your health, (drinks) Old Dorrison's wine's capital. Col. Sharp work in Mexico lately. Mount. Sharp! (getting gradually drunk) I've been in the saddle forty hours together. Col. I've no doubt, (aside) Running away the whole time. Mount. By Jove, sir ! when the trumpet used to sound the charge (drinks) and we used to form (drinks) and we saw the enemy behind us — I mean before us — we used to — (drinks) Oh, beautiful ! Have you seen any service ? Col. A little, (aside) This fellow's a liar. I'll try him. I had a friend in the Mexican Calvary — one Frank Adderly. Mount. Fair man? (looking in tankard) Col. Yes. Mount. Tall? ; Col. Six feet. Mount. Knew him well. Col. (aside) That's a lie for he don't exist. Mount. He was my second in a duel. Col. Were you hit ? Mount. No. I killed my man. (drinks) But I have been hit — (rises) — here, there, everywhere — (sits) — in fact, my body is so scarred I should be ashamed to be seen undressed. Col. You're quite right. Always wear clothes ; the less that's seen of you the better. Mount. Oh ! my old companions, my brave comrades, good hearts and true, excuse a manly tear, (maudlin) Col. By all means ; shed two if you find it agreeable. Mount, (solemnly) Here's to their memory, (drinks) Col. To their memory, (drinks a glass of claret) Mount, (rises, shaking hands) You're a man. Have a cigar? (offers case) Col. We mustn't smoke in the drawing-room. Mount. I may. (lights cigar) I can do as I like here. (Colonel looks at his mother s picture) Dorrison is sweet upon my sister. HOME. 1 7 [laughs) They're going to be spliced, [laughs') Queer old cuss. So it's Liberty Hall for me. (sings) Liberty Hall, Liberty Hall. Col. (aside) I suppose at present it would be premature to kick him. So Mr. Dorrison is sweet on your sister? Mount. Yes, quite right, he should be, for I am sweet upon his daughter. Nice little thing. Have you seen her? Col. Yes. And does she reciprocate ? Mount. She has cast an eye on the young soldier, and his appearance has had its usual effect. If old Dorrison would shell out handsomely — and I think he would to get rid of me — she'd make a nice little wife, (rises) But I've two strings to my bow. There's a Miss Thornhaugh — Dora — staying here, a friend of my Lucy's. Col. A friend of your Lucy's — yes. Mount. She has cast a favorable eye upon yours truly. What's the matter ? (sits) Col. Nothing, a pain — a tingling. Mount. In your head ? Col. In my foot. Mount. Gout ? (gelling more drunk) Col. No, irritability. I can kick it off — I mean I can walk it off. Mount. So whichever has the most cash, I'll make Mrs. Captain Mountraffe. What have we soldiers of fortune but our appearance to live upon? Here's the health of Mrs. Captain Mountraffe, Lucy or Dora, whichever she may be. You must see these two girls and give me your opinion as to my selection. What's your name ? Col. White. Mount. White, my dear boy, (rises) between ourselves there's only one thing disgusts me with women. Col. What's that ? Mount. They are so d — d selfish. Selfishness is a bad thing. [lakes up glass of claret and drinks) Col. In women. Mount. Beastly. Give me your hand, (shakes hands, but Col- onel puts napkin round his hand ) The grasp of friendship knits the (falls on sofa) Black, my boy, vou're drunk. Col. Am I ? Mount. Very drunk. Oh, Black, I'm ashamed of you, and (going to sleep) you're asleep, too. Let's go to sleep together. The grasp of friendship (dinner gong) of friendship — knits the — heart, (sleeps on sofa) Col. What a skunk ! (enter Dorrison and Mrs. Pinchbeck from window, R., come down, c. Lucy and Dora enter, d. l. u. e.) Nothing to be got out of him about his sister. How shall I — Oh, here's the governor, (crosses, R.) Mr. D. Colonel, though you have lunched so recently, will you 1 8 HOME. come down to dinner? {introducing) Mrs. Pinchbeck, Colonel White, my son's friend. Col. (aside) I know that face. (Mrs. Pinchbeck highly fasci- nating) Mr. D. Will you give Mrs. Pinchbeck your arm, Colonel ? Dora, my dear, [taking Dora's) Lucy, Captain MountrafTe will — (sees him asleep) Ah, Lucy, you must follow by yourself. Colonel takes off Mrs. Pinchbeck; Dorrison, Dora, d. l. u. e. — At that moment Bertie enters window, r. and runs to Lucy, kneels at her feet, and is about to kiss her hand — Mountraffe yawns, which frightens Bertie ; he is running off as the drop falls quickly. END OF ACT I. ACT II. A LAPSE OF TWO MONTHS. Scene. — As before, excepting table, R. C, which is shifted to R., and ottoma?i to r. c. — Mountraffe discovered, r. of table l., on edge of sofa — Mrs. Pinchbeck at fireplace, l., with elbows resting on mantelshelf. Mount. Pain, I don't understand your game. Mrs. P. (coming down L. of fireplace) I don't suppose you can; you're generally drunk. Mount. Are you going to marry old Dorrison, or are you not? Mrs. P. Didn't we arrange between us that I was to become Mrs. Dorrison ? (sighing) Mount. Certainly, that was the idea. Mrs. P. Well ? Mount. Well, for the last two months, ever since the arrival of this Colonel White, you've kept putting off and putting off what old Dorrison calls the happy day. (Mrs. Pinchbeck sighs) White only arrived back from London yesterday, and I've watched you, and it seems to me that you're setting your cap at him. Mrs. P. What if I am ? Mount. You're playing a wrong game. Dorrison's rich, a wealthy retired manufacturer, something in iron, coal mines, HOME. 19 sugar-tongs and such like. What's White ? A soger, without means — a colonel, he says, like me. Mrs. P. {rising, crossing to R.) Like you ? Why, he has fought, and is a gentleman. Like you ! a loafing vagabond, fit only to swear in a tap-room or get tipsy in a kitchen, [sits on ottoman, R. ) Mount, [laughs) Are you trying to hurt my feelings, or do you wish to awaken me to a sense of shame? Don't cut up rough, or it will be worse for you. What am I? Ugh ! What are you? Mrs. P. A degraded wretch ! for 1 am your sister. Mount. You're something else besidesthat. Don't do the grand because you think you're going to be independent of me. Think of all I've done for you and be grateful. When our honored papa, who was a corn-cutter by trade, and a swindler by profes- sion, died, leaving us no inheritance but his own bad name and worse character, didn't I get you married ? Mrs. P. To a man old enough to be my father. Mount. What of that ? I thought he had plenty of ready. Mrs. P. He hadn't a penny. Mount. No, the old villain, so I found out when it was too late. However, he died soon ; in a year you were a widow. Then I married you to poor Fritz. Mrs. P. An adventurer. Mount. One of the finest billiard players in Europe, and as for cards, he could make them do as he liked, and he did. Wasn't it my idea, our going to America ? Mrs. P. [rising) Silence, you utter scamp! Remind me no more of what is past, or how you have taken me from the Spa to the sea-side, from table d'hote to table d'hote, that I might catch a flat as you call it, and that you might win money of the poor dupe who thought me a fine woman, and who listened, too, as I displayed the only poor accomplishment I had. Oh, how I hate the piano ! Oh. I hate men ! [crosses to L. ) Mount, [rises] Both good things to play upon. Ha, ha! very good ; full of notes. Ha, ha ! very good again. Mrs. P. Oh, how I pant to rid myself of the past, and of you, you incubus ! To take my place amongst the wealthy, the respect- able, the noble of the world ; to feel no longer an adventuress, the jest of every saucy boy and impertinent old man. To drive round to the tradesfolk and say, " Send it to the Lodge." Oh, I shall accomplish it, I will! I feel that a change is coming over me. [crosses to R.) Mount. If you've done play-acting, and trying to persuade yourself that you're a good and injured creature, and failing to do so, perhaps you will tell me what's your programme. Is it silly old Dorrison, or Yankee White? Mrs. P. [changing her manner) I'll tell you. See if any one's about. 20 HOME. Mountraffe^ws to l. d., then sits, L. of table, l. Mount. Not a peppercorn in the castor. Mrs. P. (r. of table, l.) Before Colonel White went to London I was sitting in the study with Mr. Dorrison, when he was called out to see somebody. I noticed that he appeared very much absorbed in a letter that lay upon the table before him. When he left the room I wanted to see what it was. Mount. Naturally. Mrs. P. I read it. Mount. Of course. Mrs. P. It was from his son in America. Mount. White's friend? Mrs. P. Yes. I learnt it by heart, and remember every word. The letter said : — " Pardon me, my dear father, for having intro- duced a stranger beneath your roof under an assumed name. My friend, the Graf von Eberstein, is a most singular man. Of one of the first families in Germany, enormously rich, the owner of large estates, he chose to come to America to serve as a simple soldier in the National army. It is now his pleasure to visit Eng- land in search of a wife. He is intensely sentimental, and desires to meet a woman who will love him for himself alone. To this end he wished me to introduce him as an American officer, in short as Colonel White — so that divested of the appendages of rank, and wealth, and power, he might win the woman of his heart. I humored his scheme in the hope that my dear sister, Lucy, might love and be beloved by him, for his name, title and distinction are his smallest merits." Mount. A German nobleman ! You take away my breath. Mrs. P. Do I ? What a service I am rendering to society ! Mount. Pam, it's a do. (rises) Mrs. P. Eh ? Mount. A plant. I've suspected that Colonel all along. Mrs. P. But the hand-writing was Alfred Dorrison's. Mount. That might be forged. Mrs. P. But the allusions to his sister ; his wish that he should marry her. Mount. That looks true. Selfishness is always righteous. Mrs. P. To be a lady ! to go to Court ! Mount, (l.) If he's a German swell, he might get me a license for a table. Oh, my little rouge et noir ! Oh, my little pair et impair! Oh, my little passe et manque pr-r-r-r. (imitates roulette') Mrs. P. To lean on his arm, to see him wait with his hat off as I step into the carriage, (aloud) It's a bright dream. Mount, (goes to her) Pammey, wake up. It's delusion, night- mare, moonshine, wind, gas, bosh, (crosses to R.) Stick to old HOME. 2 1 Dorrison, and — (enter Colonel, d. l. u. e.) How are you, Col- onel? Talk of the German nobility and Mrs. P. Sorry I'm forced to run away, Colonel, but — {aside to Colonel) I'm waited for. {crosses to L.) I'll be back in an hour. Will you be here ? (Colonel signifies assent) Mount, {aside) She's at it. {crosses to l. — exit Mrs. Pinchbeck, d. l. u. e.; aloud) I'm going to ride that new horse of Mr. Dorri- son' s. Col. Take care you are not thrown. Mount. Why? {at door) Col. You'd hurt yourself. Mount, {aside) I think he means mischief. Adios, as we used to say in Mexico. Lucy enters at window, R. Mountraffe ogles her and goes off, D. l. u. e. Col. Brother Pinchbeck suspects me. How I long to throw off the mask and twist his neck. Lucy, if you show yourself at that balcony, you will produce young Romeo. (Lucy goes to balcony through window, R.) He's hiding among the black-currant bushes, as if he were one of the gang of housebreakers (enter Bertie, limping, window) that everybody about here seems to be afraid of. Ber. Pa out ? Lucy. Yes, Bertie. Ber. {whispering) How is my own ? Lucy. Quite well. How's mine? Ber. Sprained his ankle dropping from a wall. Ah, Alfred, last night there was another house broken into close by. Col. {crosses to C.) Never mind the housebreakers, {puts ring on Lucy' s finger) Lucy. Oh! isn't that pretty, Bertie? Col. Lucy, you don't ask me about my journey to London. Lucy. (l. C.) Oh, tell us ! Col. It turned out exactly as I thought. Mrs. Pinchbeck is the lady. Jack Trandham, who has just arrived from New York, and who was fleeced by them, has confirmed my suspicions. When I was quartered in New Orleans there was a lady who was the talk of the whole city. She was the wife of a Chevalier Kopf, a Ger- man, who was the luckiest man at cards that ever turned up the same ace five times running. Play was deep at the Chevalier's, and this loafer, this brother stood in for his share. As for the Chevalieress, all the young men in the city were mad about her, and they all crowded the Chevalier's rooms. So long as they played and had money, so long, they say, the lady smiled. But, however, you won't understand me if I tell you more. Lucy. But if you never saw her in New Orleans how came you to recognise her when you met her here ? 22 HOME. Col. By her photograph, {shows photograph) I've got one, formerly the property of poor Jack Trandham ; he paid rather dearly for that carte-de-visite. Lucy. But now she is called Mrs. Pinchbeck. Col. Pinchbeck was the name of her first husband. (Bertie takes photograph from Colonel) So when the Chevalier Kopf died, or was hanged, or transported, or whatever was his end, his name had so European as well as Transatlantic an odor that Pamela — my Pamela — ha ! ha ! went back to her first married patronymic. Ber. Your Pamela ? What do you mean by your Pamela ? Col. Don't you know? {to Lucy) Don't he know? There's a good girl to keep a secret. Ber. Oh ! Lucy, a secret from me ! Col. Hold your tongue, spooney. It was my secret. To rescue my father from the fatal fascination of this woman who would be a curse and a misery to him, and bring his silver plate with sor- row to the pawnbroker's, I knew that I must do something strong — fight her with herown weapons, fraud, finesse, artifice, deception, and dissimulation. I must open his eyes as if they were oysters, with a knife ; so I wrote another letter to him from myself. _ er * I From yourself ? Col. Yes, Alfred Dorrison — telling him Colonel White was only an assumed name ; that I was in reality a wealthy German noble- man, who for sentimental reasons tried to pass for a poor soldier, that I might find a woman who would love me for myself alone. The bait took. Mrs. Pinchbeck swallowed it — hook and all — no doubt my father told her. It's funny to see her glancing and ogling me. She thinks she is the woman for my money — for my title. She is to be the future Grafin von Eberstein ; and when the time is ripe, my worthy, though infatuated sire shall see — what he shall see. Ber. Does Miss Thornhaugh know this plan? Col. {changing his manner) Miss Thornhaugh? No. A secret's no secret if you tell it to everybody. Why do you ask? Ber. Because I thought you two were courting. (Lucy laughs) Col. [angrily) What! Ber. So did Lucy. We said you were both sweet. Col. {flushed and annoyed) Oh, you said that, did you? Then you are a couple of fools. Why, Dora — I mean Miss Thornhaugh, would not think of me. She's only eighteen and I'm six-and- thirty. Such a supposition ! How dare you trouble yourself about my affairs ! {goes up) Lucy, {aside to Bertie) Bertie ! (Bertie crosses to l. c.) It's true or he would not be so angry. HOME. 23 Ber. I did not mean to offend you. If you don't think Miss Thornhaugh a nice girl {goes over to R.) Col. This fellow's an awful idiot, {aside) I shan't like him for a brother-in-law. Dora, {outside') Lucy ! Lucy. Here she is. Col. Who ? the Pinchbeck ? Lucy. No, Dora. (Dora enters, D. L. 1 E.; she has a music- book in her hand) Let's leave 'em alone, poor things, (to Bertie) Let's go into the shrubbery, (crosses to R.) Ber. Yes, I've got some sweetmeats in my pocket. Dora. Going ? Lucy. Only for a moment, (aside to Bertie) Alfred looks very sheepish. Ber. Strange, isn't it? Whatever he can see in that girl, I can- not Exeunt Lucy and Bertie, talking, by window, r. Dora puts music on piano — a long pause. Col. I'd always give my eyes to be alone with this girl for five minutes, and whenever I am alone with her I haven't a word to say for myself, (aloud) That music, Miss Thornhaugh? Dora, (at piano) Yes. Col. (aside) As if it could be anything else. How stupid of me. (aloud) New music ? Dora. Yes. Col. New laid — I mean, fresh from the country — fresh from London, or — yes — I — (Dora sits on music stool at piano — this scene is played with great constraint on both sides- — Colonel bends over Dora at piano) Going to play any of it now ? Dora. No. I must practice it first. I can't play at sight. Col. Can't you really ? Don't you believe in — music — at first sight. Dora drops a music book, Colonel picks it up — Dora tries to pick it up — they knock their heads together ; mutual confusion — as they rise each has hold of the book. D ° * j- I beg your pardon, (both trembling) Dora. It's nothing. Col. Nothing, quite so. Dora sits on music stool — as she does so both leave hold of the book and it falls again. Dora. I thought you had the book. Col. (picking it up) And I thought you had it, and it appears 24 HOME. that neither of us had it. Ha ! ha ! {aside) Fool that I am ! (DORA sits thoughtfully, Colonel bending over her at piano; a pause) Won't you play something ? Dora. I don't know how to play. Col. Oh, well, play the other one. [they resume their attitudes ; a pause) The weather has been very warm to-day, has it not? Dora. Very. Col. Looks like thunder to me. Dora. Does it ? Col. Are you fond of thunder — I mean fond of music ? I should say are you fond of lightning ? (Dora touches keys of piano mechanically) Do play something. Dora. No, I— I didn't think of what I was doing. What were you talking about? Col. About ? You — me— no ! About thunder — music— I mean lightning. Dora. I'm afraid of lightning. Col. {interested) Indeed! Dora. Singular, we were talking about lightning to-day. Col. How odd ! ( Dora plays piano) Dora. Mrs. Pinchbeck and myself. She isn't afraid of light- ning. Dora plays piano each time Mrs. Pinchbeck's name is mentioned during this scene. Col. I should think she isn't. Lightning is just the sort of thing she wouldn't be afraid of. Dora. You admire Mrs. Pinchbeck very much, I think ? {drily) Col. No, I don't. Dora. I thought you did. Col. No, it's not Mrs. Pinchbeck whom I admire. Dora. No? Col. No, the lady I admire {his back touches a music stand ; the stand falls) I beg your pardon. Dora. That s a nasty music stand ; it's always in the way. Col. {picking up stand) I don't know what's the matter with me. Dora. Perhaps it's a nervous affection? Col. Yes, it's an affection — {aside) — Dora, at the heart. Dora. I sometimes have it. Col. An affection ? {leaning over, piano) Dora. Yes. Col. In what region ? About the Dora. About Mrs. Pinchbeck. I don't like her. Col. Poor woman ! Dora. I can't bear her. Col. Perhaps you'll say that of me when I'm absent. HOME. 25 Dora. Oh, no. (confused ) Col. What do you think of Captain Mountraffe ? Dora. Oh, horrid ! (she changes tune io the " Power of Love") Col. (whispering) He would not make a nice husband, would he? Dora. Do you think Mrs. Pinchbeck would make a nice wife ? Col. No ! very well as widow, but not so well as wife. If I had a wife — all to myself — I mean Dora. Yes ? Col. I should like a wife — (gasping) if I could have one invented especially for me, about your height, with blue eyes and light hair. (this description io be altered according to the appearance of the lady who plays Dora) And she should wear a white dress, and — and to be afraid of lightning, and — and — her name should be Dora. (seizes her right hand ) Enter Mr. Dorrison, d. l. u. e., down L. Mr. D. Colonel White ? (Dora, who has continued the pathetic strain of music until the entrance of Mr. Dorrison, commences a lively waltz or polka — Colonel assu?nes a convetitional position, a little distance from piano) Dora. Pretty waltz, isn't it ? (trembling) Col. Very. So pleasant and cool. What's it called? Dora. " The Lover's Leap." Oh, Mr. Dorrison! Mr. D. Dora, my dear, (she ceases playing) Would you be kind enough to leave me ? I want to talk to the Colonel. Col. (aside) What's coming now? (Dora rises from piano and is going off , d. l. u. e. ) You've forgotten the new music. Gives her music book — squeezes her hand tinder book — Dora returns the pressure, and gives him an assenting look ; exit Dora, D. l. U. E. Mr. D. (sits L. , of L. table) Colonel, I wish to speak to you ; sit down. (Colonel sits on sofa, r. of table, l.) I'm going to tell you a secret, although I think you are somewhat — what shall I say ? unconfidential with me. Eh, Colonel White ? (with emphasis) Eh, Colonel White ? Col. (aside) I see ; he's alluding to the German Graf. Mr. D. Perhaps I know what I know. And perhaps I know more than you think I know. Col. (aside) I must pretend to be embarrassed, (feigns confu- sion) Oh really, Mr. Dorrison. Mr. D. Of course I don't mean to extort from you anything you wish to keep secret, but I'm so thoroughly English in my notions — English, and not German — not German— (with emphasis) — that 26 HOME. I can't keep a secret — even when it's not my own ! even when it's a secret of sentiment, which above all things is a secret I would respect. Col. {looking down, aside) How one lie does breed another. I lied when I called myself Colonel White, now I've to lie again, and pretend I'm somebody else. When I come to myself it will be a sort of personal, individual resurrection, {aloud) Then — then, Mr. Dorrison, you know who I am ? Mr. D. 1 do. Col. May I ask how ? Mr. D. I will be candid. I have received a letter from my dear boy. Col. From Alfred ? Mr. D. Yes. And now, my dear Count — I should say my dear Colonel Col. Whichever you please. It's quite indifferent to me. Mr. D. Which shall we say then — Count or Colonel? Col. Take your choice, {aside) I feel such a double-distilled, double-breasted, double-barrelled liar, that it doesn't matter who I am. Mr. D. However, though you won't confide in me, I will confide in you. You are a man of high feeling and sentiment, and as such will understand me. You are aware I am about to marry Mrs. Pinchbeck? (Colonel assents) I am sixty-three years of age. Col. Is not that rather young? I mean isn't Mrs. Pinchbeck rather younger? Mr. D. She is about — um — twenty-five. Yes. Perhaps you think me an old fool ? Col. Oh, no. Mr. D. {shaking hands) I was sure you would understand me. Though past sixty, I am as young constitutionally as most men of forty. Col. Your daughter will have a Mr. D. A mother — a mother. I have considered that point, and consulted my daughter's interests in the step I have resolved on. Col. In the stepmother you have resolved on Mr. D. Step, not stepmother. But it was not to speak of my future wife, or my daughter, that I sought this interview with your lordship. Col. {with generous shame) My lordship ? Mr. D. It was not to speak of them. Col. Of whom then ? Mr. D. Of my son. Col. Of your son ? Mr. D. Of Alfred. Before he left his home, though he was HOME. 27 wild, I was harsh. I should have remembered he was but a boy ; but he was a fine fellow — a splendid nature. Throughout all his escapades he never once deceived me ; he was always above deception. He never told me a lie. A noble quality, eh, Count? Col. Very. Mr. D. My second marriage will not injure him. I wish you to tell him so, if you will do me that favor. I do not wish to break the news of my wedding, or to tell him of the disposition of my property. I had, I admit, disinherited him. I was wrong, I was unjust. After the wedding I shall remake my will thus — At my death, one-third of what I have to my daughter, one-third to my wife, the remainder to my son. {affected) My boy shall find that his father has not forgotten him. [apause) Will you let him know this, Count — I should say Colonel ? Col. I will, [both rise) Mr. D. Thanks! Excuse me now, fori am very busy. Indeed, the wedding is to take place this week. Break the mat- ter gently to Alfred ; and your secret, Count von Eberstein, is safe with me. I have not breathed it to a soul, not even to Pamela ; [shaking hands) if you have anything to suggest [going up) I shall be in my study for the next hour. Exit, Mr. Dorrison, d. l. u. e. Col. [affected) Poor old gov, to think of me when I was so far away under his own roof; to find no one in the world but me, his son, to confide in, when I am stealing away the heart of the woman he adores. Is this manly ? Whom am I fighting? Who is my antagonist? A woman, and a woman who at least pretends to care for me. I have serious misgivings. Then, again, if I retired, if I left the field, and let my father marry her — marry her — she would be Lucy's stepmother. My sister Lucy in her power ; perhaps to be sacrificed to that drunken cad, Mountrafte. For once my father's wife, who can judge the limits of her influence over him ? For she is fascinating ! even I feel that as I make sham love to her [looks at his mother s picture over fireplace) No, she shall never reign queen of this hearth, where you were once the sun and centre. No shrinking. It's my duty. I must do it ! but how I hate fighting in ambuscade. I shall be delighted to get out again into the open — (enter Mrs. Pinchbeck, a book in her hand, at window, r.) What, the enemy — her I love— the adored one — her I am about to take from my father, never to make my own. This scene to be played with intense sentimentality \ Mrs. P. [sighing) Ah! you are here! [advancing to table, r.) I was very wrong to come. Why did you ever enter this house to disturb my peace of mind ? I was happy till I saw you. 28 HOME. Col. Pamela ! Mrs. P. John ! [shuddering) Oh, I am very wrong. Col. Is it wrong to love as we do ? If so, then indeed I am very- guilty. What are you reading? Mrs. P. Tennyson. Col. What poem ? Mrs. P. "The Lord of Burleigh." Col. I don't know it. Mrs. P. No! It's a wonderful story and a true one. A Lord Burleigh passed himself off for a poor landscape painter, and in that guise won the affections of a village maiden. His reason for pretending to be poor was that, disgusted, with the attentions he received from match-making mammas and daughters trying for a coronet, he wished to be loved for himself alone, [watching the effect of her words) Col. [apparently interested) Indeed ! Mrs. P. Noble, was it not ? Col. Y-e-s. Mrs. P. But I cannot believe that any man could be so good. [her eyes raised) Col. [taking her hand) Can you not? Mrs. P. No. [takes book up) 'Tis a creation of the poets. He does not exist. Col. [with a grand air) Right! he does not exist. Mrs. P. No? Col. No. Mrs. P. No. Col. No ! I thought you said the story was true ! Mrs. P. Oh, how I could love such a man ! Col. Could you if he existed? Mrs. P. I could work for him, I could die for him. [looks round for chair, Colonel gets one) Oh! [sighing; both sit) Col. Oh ! [sighing) What does the poem say ? That is, what does the lady say? For every lady is a poem unpublished — I mean unmarried. Mrs. P. " She " — that is the village maiden — replies to Lord Burleigh "Replies in accents fainter — ' There is none I love like thee.' He is but a landscape painter, And a village maiden she." Beautiful, is it not? Col. Delicious! To be a landscape painter, and poor! going on tick for your colors, and all that. Delightful ! Go on. Mrs. P. Do you wish it ? HOME. Col. Yes. Mrs. P. Anything to please you — 2 9 " I can make no marriage present, Little can I give my wife ! Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." Oh ! {sighing) Isn't that charming ? Col. Charming ! Not to be able to make a marriage present is so refreshing. Mrs. P. Then he takes her to the castle, and tells her he is lord of all. " Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he." Col. What does the lady say to that? {reads) " All at once the color flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin, As it were with shame she blushes And her spirit changed within." Mrs. P. Oh! it's too much; the poem agitates me to that degree — — Col. {reads) "Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove, But he clasped {moves his chair close to Mrs. Pinch- beck and clasps her) her like a lover, And he cheered her soul with love." Now you read, Pamela. Mrs. P. "So she strove against her weakness, Though at times her spirit sank. Shaped her heart, with woman's meekness, To all duties of her rank.'' Col. Poor creature ! To be made a lady, and to suffer it with such angelic sweetness ! But I believe there are many women who could do the same. Mrs. P. If they loved. Col. If they loved, of course. Mrs. P. Oh, I understand her feelings. Listen ! " And she murmured, Oh that he Were once more that landscape painter Which did win my heart from me." {weeps) 30 HOME. Col. [aside) What a lovely humbug ! It's worth while crossing the Atlantic to contemplate her. Mrs. P. What is greatness when compared to love ? What is wealth — power ? Col. Nothing. Mrs. P. I should have loved him better as a landscape-painter. Col. [quickly) Pamela, could you love me ? Mrs. P. Oh, John ! [rises and sits on ottoman; he sits beside her holding her hand all the time) Col. I am but a poor soldier, but what of that ? Pamela, love is real wealth. Love is like huge diamonds, too priceless to be bought. What are the smaller cares of this small world so that we are together? What is the cramped, narrowed worldling's creed compared to the passion, the devotion that consumes me? Mrs. P. John, you — alarm — you Col. Let us leave this wretched region of arithmetic, this elysium of intellects that recognize as the only sublime truth the fact that two and two are four, and seek some less commercial sky. Pamela, when I look in your eyes, when I have your hand clasped in mine, when I feel your breath flicker and thicken on my face, you trans- port me from myself. I feel that I could fly with you to some high Alpine eyrie, and there, amid the snow-capped mountains closed in by the clouds, live and die with thee ; that I could quit this common, vulgar earth, and floating upon a tiny boat, out upon an unknown sea, dwell amid the purple waves, uncheered by any sight or sound but thee ; that, locked in your arms, I could plunge from off a rock into the air, and, as we sank to certain death, count only the treasured seconds that your heart echoed its last beats to mine ! Pamela ! Mrs. P. Colonel White, you terrify me. [feigning alarm) Col. I know I do. Enter Mr. Dorrison, d. l. u. e.. and Lucy and Dora, unobserved by Colonel and Mrs. Pinchbeck. Col. Say, is my passion returned ? Mrs. P. [coquetting, her hands over her face) No! no! no! (Mr. Dorrison appears relieved ) Col. Don't say no charming — charming creature. I know you are engaged to Mr. Dorrison. Mrs. P. Yes, remember that. Col. I do remember it. Mr. D. Apparently not, sir. [striking table) Col. [aside) Oh, the governor. Mrs. P. Oh, heavens ! Mr. D. Mrs. Pinchbeck, you have behaved with truth and honor, as I knew you would. You reminded my treacherous guest — my son's friend with a false name — of the bond between us. HOME. 3 1 Mrs. P, (R., aside) What shall I do? Mr. D. (c, aside to her) Bless you, my darling! I have more faith in you than ever, [crosses to Mrs. Pinchbeck, and brings her L. C. — to Colonel) For the Count von Eberstein 1 have no words. He will quit this roof to-morrow, and will carry with him the con- tempt of the man he has endeavored to wrong so greatly, in addi- tion to the sting of failure. Enter Servant who lights gas over fire-place — lights up. Dora, [after a pause) The gallant Count, or Colonel, or courier in his master's clothes, whichever he may be, appears to fail in everything he undertakes. He has endeavored to supplant you, Mr. Dorrison. He has not succeeded. He has endeavored to make you, Mrs. Pinchbeck, forget your plighted faith, and he has not succeeded. He has dared, too, to pay his easily obtained addresses to me, and he has not succeeded, [surprise of Mr. Dor- rison) Mrs. P. What's that? Mr. D. George! [to Servant) take Colonel White's portman- teau to the station in the morning, (exit Servant, d. l. u. e.) I trust that Colonel the Graf von Eberstein White will leave the house with a perfect conviction of the opinions entertained of him. Our sense of self-respect will not suffer us to remain longer in this room. Come, my love, [to Mrs. Pinchbeck, taking her arm — exeunt Mr. Dorrison, Mrs. Pinchbeck, and Dora, Mrs. Pinch- beck undecided in manner, Dora contemptuous, d. l. u. e.) Lucy, [crosses to Colonel) Alfred ! Dora, [after exit, outside) Lucy ! (Lucy runs off, D. L. u. E. ) Col. [after pause) I'll never tell another lie as long as I live. [rain and wind outside) And this is the end of my fine scheme for opening my father's eyes, and for preventing this woman from taking my mother's place on this hearthstone. I am ordered out. My host accuses me of endeavoring to undermine the affections of the woman he is about to make his wife. The woman herself, who encourages my attentions, whose obvious blandishments gave me the idea of making her exhibit herself in her true colors, repu- diates me, and Dora thinks me false. My failure is complete, and it is for this I crossed the Atlantic. This is my welcome home. I am the prodigal son whom they order off the premises, and set the dogs at. [going up) I must leave this, [steel blue lightning ; look- ing at window) Lord, what a night ! What matters a wet jacket? I can walk to the " Nag's head," and sit there till the mail train passes, [pauses) And I must leave her and my sister Lucy to the power of this woman, and to the odious attentions of that rascal brother. It's hard to part from him without one kick. I'll write to Lucy to bid her good-bye, to Dora telling her all, and to my 32 HOME. father telling him, [bitterly, crosses to table) what were my inten- tions towards the lady, [searching) Is there any paper? [light- ning) How the lightning flares ; but it's not so blinding as a woman's eyes, not so destructive as a woman's tongue, [sits to write at table, L.) I can't write — I'll send to them, [rising) What if 1 go to my father's room, and tell him who I am? He would only curse me as his rival. He would believe the woman, and order me from the house again. Again ! Sixteen years ago I stood on this very spot, and took a last look, as I then thought, at home. Home ! [looking at picture over fireplace) This is not my home now. Good-bye, England. I'll put out the gas and then I'll put out myself, [turns out one gas light on mantle shelf ') I won't unlock the doors, it would disturb them. I can climb over the garden wall. Good-bye, [loooking at his mothers picture) this time for ever, [turns out the other gaslight) Rain ceases ; stage dark — as he nears window, R. , a strong flash of blue lightning — Lucy appears at window, R., her dress over her head. Lucy. Alfred ! [in a whisper at window) Col. Yes, dear. Lucy. You haven't gone away then ? I know you've been thinking of it. Col. My darling ! Lucy. Oh, don't kiss me, it's such a waste. I've brought some- body with me. Col. Whom? Lucy. Dora. Col. Dora? Lucy. Yes ; we were talking in our room, and I told her all and why we had kept the secret from her. Col. But why come through the rain, when Lucy. Dora would come to ask you to forgive her, and if we hadn't gone out by the door downstairs we should have had to pass pa's bedroom. Lightning — Dora enters window R., her dress over her head. Col. I see. Dora, [crossing to him) Can you forgive me ? Lucy. Yes, forgive her, and while you are forgiving her, I won't look. I'm not afraid of lightning, [goes to window) Colonel kisses Dora — a vivid flash of lightning. Lucy, [alarmed, runs to Colonel) Alfred! Col. What? HOME. 33 Lucy. A figure at the window, coming in. Perhaps a house- breaker. ( Lucy and Dora get c . ) Col. A housebreaker ? Lucy. I think so. Mrs. P. (at window, L.) John ! Colonel motions the two girls back — they retire at back of piano and crouch down. Col. Mrs. Pinchbeck ! Mrs. Pinchbeck enters window, dressed for a journey. Mrs. P. I have crept through the rain to tell you I am yours and yours only. Just now I was tongue-tied. I could not speak with your eyes upon me, for I felt that I had behaved badly to him. When you leave this house, I am ready to accompany you — to- morrow — to-night — now — this instant — John, my own, first, fondest love, I am by your side! {shot heard without— girls shriek) Col. What's that? Mrs. P. Those girls here ? Bertie dashes on through window, R., an umbrella in his hand, all over mud ; falls on ottoman, R. Ber. Help! Lucy. Bertie ! Col. What's the matter? Ber. I don't know. As I was watching Lucy's window from the garden, somebody fired something ; I fell down and hurt myself, and ran in here, (goes up, R. c.) Enter Mountraffe, d. l. I E., in a gorgeous dressing-gown and cap ; he carries a lighted candle — stage light — Mr. Dorrison enters window R., a double barrelled gun in his hand) Mount, (frightened) Pm afraid the housebreakers have — there's going to be a row ! Exit, D. L. I E. ; leaves candle, L., on table — lights half up. Mr. D. (to Mrs. Pinchbeck) I was watching the lightning from my window when I saw you cross the garden. You came after the man you love. I was about to follow, when another flash showed me the figure of a man upon the wall. I took my gun. loaded it, and went down, for I thought it was a robber. To-night I have thieves within my walls, and not without. I fired in the air to frighten the thief, and followed him in here, where it seems I am de trop. 34 HOME. Lucy, [in tears, up stage, R.) You've nearly killed poor Bertie. Mr. D. Bertie ! Was it he? He's more frightened than hurt. Ber. I don't know whether I'm hurt or not. Mr. D. [to Mrs. Pinchbeck) You, madam, will find a carriage ready to convey you to the station early in the morning. Mrs. P. [coolly, seated on otlo?nan, R. ) I am glad of it. My heart has spoken, and declared Colonel White to be its lord and master. Seek some woman of your own age. Mr. D. [to Colonel) For you who introduced yourself by a lie — for I believe your letters from my son to be but forgeries — are you to leave this house unpunished and unscathed ? Viper! I am an old man [putting down gun) but I have strength to resent the outrage, [rushing at Colonel ; he is restrained by Lucy) Out of my house, you dog ! Lucy. Father! Col. For Heaven's sake ! I am Alfred your son ! Mrs. Pinchbeck rises thunderstruck. Picture. END OF ACT II. ACT III. A LAPSE OF TWELVE HOURS. Scene. — As before — Bertie discovered lying on sofa — Lucy feeding him with jelly. Lucy. Feel better, Bertie ? Ber. Yes, dear. Lucy. It's very nice being ill in the house, and having me to wait on you, isn't it? Ber. [eating jelly) Delicious ! Lucy. I do quite enjoy your illness. Ber. So do I. [eating more jelly) Lucy. It's so pleasant to wait on you. Ber. Is it really ? Lucy. The sun is out and so is the jelly, and it is quite dry on the gravel. Do you think you could get up and sit in the garden? [rises and puts chair tinder piano) Ber. I think I could, if you would let me lean on you. Colonel enters, d. l. u. e., with pistol case and horsewhip. Col. [down L.) Well, Bertie, how goes it ? HOME. 35 Lucy. Oh, better, he hasn't hurt himself this half-hour. Ber. No, every inch of me is bruises, but there are no bones broken. Col. You are a dreadful fellow to tumble down, (crosses, R.) and hurt yourself. You must marry him at once, Lucy, or there'll be none of him left, (puts pistol case on table, R.) Lucy. I assure you I don't like his getting chipped in this way. Col. You must turn the side that's broken to the wall. Lucy. Oh, Alfred ! (seeing the pistol case) Is that another present for me ? Col. (opens case) No, it's something to frighten brother Pinch- beck. Take him away. For I expect his sister here directly. Lucy. Is she going to leave at once ? Col. I don't know. Ber. (getting up with difficulty, very lame, leaning on stick) I should like to kick Captain Mountraffe before he goes. Col. That is a pleasure I propose myself. Lucy. But what's going to be done, Alfred? Col. I don't know, we shall see. I have a carte blanche from the governor to do as I think best. Lucy. Is papa quite cured ? Col. He will be after amputation. Here comes the limb I'm to lop off ; so go. (they look off, l. ) Lucy. Can you walk, my Bertie ? Ber. (with stick, leaning on Lucy) Give me your arm, your waist, and your shoulders, and I think I can. Col. He knows all about it. Run away. Exeunt Bertie and Lucy, window R. , into garden — at the same time enter Mrs. Pinchbeck, d. l. i e.; she closes door ; a pause. Col. Well, Mrs. Pinchbeck, are your boxes packed ? Mrs. P. No. Are yours? Col. What do you mean ? Mrs. P. That I do not see why I should quit this roof because your father's son introduced himself beneath it under a false name. Col. But you accepted my father's addresses and then Mrs. P. Accepted yours. True ; I did. I thought you were a man of rank and fortune. I was mistaken. You were an impostor, a nobody. I was dazzled by the prospect of a coronet. I am not an angel, (sits L. of table, L. ) Col. I agree with you. You're not. Mrs. P. And I fell into the snare. It's not the first time that man has lied and a woman has believed him. Col. Nor the first time a woman has baited the trap, and a man has fallen into it. Mrs. P. Men are so readv to fall. 36 HOME. Col. You're thinking of Eve who tempted Adam. Mrs. P. No. I'm thinking of the serpent who tempted Eve. Col. But the serpent was the devil. Mrs. P. And the devil is the abstract resemblance of man. What chance had Eve against serpent, devil, and man combined ? Col. [aside] She's clever. Mrs. P. Let me congratulate you on your victory over an old man, your father, and the woman you professed to love. Treachery and deceit are the arms that men use. Col. My duel was with you, and I fought you with the weapons you were best skilled in. Mrs. P. Your victory proves you an accomplished professor. Col. I have saved my father. Mrs. P. Saved him? From what? [rises) From the happiness he promised himself for the remainder of his days ? [advancing to Colonel) I should have made him a good wife ; for I am weary of running about the world, and I should have been grateful to the hand that succored me. If I should not have been happy, I should have been at least contented, and I could have smoothed my aged husband's path through life, as only a clever woman can. Col. You are fortunate in possessing so admirable an opinion of yourself. I am sorry for your loss, for the house is pleasant, and my father is rich. Mrs. P. Which accounts for his prodigal son's return. You came back to save your inheritance ? Col. And to save my father giving me a step-mother I had heard so much of in America. Mrs. P. Do you wish to insult me ? Col. No! only to induce you to pack up. Mrs. P. Can't I insult you ? Col. No. Mrs. P. Why not ? Col. Because you're a woman, and I acknowledge the superi- ority of your sex over yourself. Enter MOUNTRAFFE, D. L. U. E. Mount. Pamela! [down C.) Col. [seeing him, aside) Ah, this is a very different affair. I needn't keep my temper now. [after a pause) I won't. Mount, [crosses to Colonel) I've been looking for you. Col. I'm at your service, Captain. You've been in the army. Pistols — swords — at your pleasure, [goes to R. of table, R.) Mount. I am not blood-thirsty. Col. I am. [showing pistols in case on table, r. ) So if you Mount, [aside) Cold-blooded ruffian ! Col. I'll fight you with pleasure. I'd as lief shoot a blackguard as a gentleman. Will you ? [takes up pistol-case, then going off, R.) HOME. 37 Mount. No. Col. Then apologize. Mount. I don't mind admitting I'm wrong ; but no gentleman ever apologizes. Col. Ah, I see you want damages. Mount. Just so. Mrs. P. [aside to Mountraffe) No ! I won't accept a farthing. Mount. I will, [crosses to Mrs. Pinchbeck) Don't be a fool, [to Colonel) To come to business. You don't wish my sister to marry your father ? Col. I don't. Mount. And you don't wish to marry her yourself? Col. Still less. Mrs. P. How he despises me ! Mount. How much will you give us to go ? Col. I see ; your sister requires a dowry ? Mrs. P. No ! [rising) Mount, [aside to Mrs. Pinchbeck) Shut up ! Col. Name you terms. Mrs. P. Such humiliation ! [sits) Col. Anticipating your decision I have brought with me a blank check, [producing it, and sitting at table, l.) Mount, [sitting down opposite to Colonel) Ah ! this is busi- ness. Col. Don't sit down in my presence. (Mountraffe rises') What shall we say for blighted hopes, broken hearts, damaged prospects, &c, &c, &c? How much? Mount. Um ! The match was a good one, and you're anxious to get rid of us. Say £500. Col. [nodding assent) Five Mount, [aside) I wonder if he would have given more, [aloud) I mean £500 for damages. Then there's my sister's trousseau. She would have had a trousseau, you know, [goes to Mrs. Pinch- beck) Mrs. P. (r. , aside) Oh, the meanness! [to Mountaffe) Spare me ! Mount. Not a pair of gloves, [crosses back to Colonel) For the trousseau, say £200. Col. Two. [to Mrs. Pinchbeck) Will £200 be sufficient, madam ? Mrs. P. [aside) The torture ! Col. Five and two, seven. Is there anything else? Mount. Well, if you like to stand a suit of wedding clothes for me. Col. How much ? Mount. Say a twenty-pun note. Col. £720. [writes check and is about to cross it) 38 HOME. Mount. Don't cross it, it will be no use to me if you do. Col. There is the check, you must give me a receipt, [rises, lays check on table) I've brought a stamp so that my father may know that this affair is settled, and that you are paid. Mount, [sitting down after looking at Colonel for perm iss ion to do so) With pleasure. Col. Pardon me ; the lady is of age, and she is supposed to be the injured party. 1 shall require her signature. Mount, [writes) Pleasure. Received £720 — no £700, the £20 is for me — £700 in consideration of which I, Pamela Pinchbeck, hereby give up all claims to the damages arising from an action for breach of promise of marriage already commenced by me — we'd better put it that way — against Mr. Alfred Dorrison, sen., and hereby engage not to bring the aforesaid action. To-day, the — um. (rises) Now, Pamela, sign that, cross the stamp there. (crosses to l. ) Mrs. P. (crossing to table r.) Where's the check? (Colonel gives it her) Col. What a nature ! . Mrs. P. And the receipt ? Col. Here, (bending over table) if you will kindly (Mrs. Pinchbeck tears up receipt and check. Enter Mr. Dorrison and Dora, d. l. u. e. ; Lucy enters window, R., and sits on ottoman, R. Mount. What are you about ? Mrs. P. To buy back my self-respect, and to get rid of you. Col. (aside) What a woman ! Mount. Make out another check, Colonel ; it's a mere freak of temper. The fact is she's fallen in love with you — really — no swindle — on the square, (sits on sofa) Mrs. P. Well, I avow it. I do love you, as much as I despise him. I avow it, because I am about to leave you now for ever. At first I believed myself to be attached to you by the prospect of your wealth and greatness ; but I was the dupe of my own world- liness, and I loved you for yourself alone. (Lucy and Dora exchange looks) This confession is my punishment. I am not all to blame. I never knew a mother's love or guidance. From child- hood I have had to look to him (signifying Mountraffk) for protec- tion and counsel. He married me when I was quite a child to an old man, bad as himself ; and when he died, to an adventurer, who broke my heart at the same time that he excited my vanity. Since the death of my second husband, he has taught me that my duty in life was to find a third, a wealthy victim. I am but a woman, and I have been schooled into the belief that all the world was bad. This home, your father's kindness, your sister's gentle- HOME. 39 ness, and this young lady's goodness, have taught me better. I have one talent, music ; and that will enable me to live away from this bad silly man, whom I now renounce .for ever. Forgive me for the evil I might have worked you. If ever you should hear of me, you will know that my repentance is sincere. Farewell. [going up) Col. Madam, your words have penetrated me deeply, me and mine, [pointing to Dorrison, &*c.) Pardon the intemperance of my language. I did not then know you. I recognize in you not only a good woman, but a noble heart. Lucy, my love, give your hand to this lady, [she does so) whose surroundings through life have not been able to stamp out her native nobility of character. [with deep respect Dora crosses to Mrs. Pinchbeck, shakes hands with her, then goes back to l. ; Mrs. Pinchbeck very much affected ) I trust that you will permit my sister and me to accompany you in the carriage. In leaving us you leave all friends, who can never cease to regard you, and all that concerns you, with the deepest interest. Mr. D. Give me your hand at parting, [shakes hands with Mrs. Pinchbeck) If I have anything to forgive, it is forgiven freely. Good-bye, and Heaven bless you. Mrs. Pinchbeck, deeply affected, takes off locket fro7n her neck, and puts it on piano, then goes off, D. L. u. e. Mount, [rising and going up) That's a woman! After all that I have done for her. By He is going to pick up locket — Colonel coughs and taps pistol-case as Mountraffe exits, d. l. u. E — Bertie enters window, R. Col. Yes, a real woman, who can't help being right-minded even when she's wrong. (Bertie comes down, R.) Mr. D. I'm glad they're gone. Forgive me, my dear boy and girl, I feel heartily ashamed of myself. Alfred, how can I return the service you have rendered me ? Col. Very easily, father. By speaking favorably of me to this young lady's parents. Mr. D. What, Dora ! Lucy has told me all about it. Col. Has she? Then how can I return the service she rendered me ? Lucy. By speaking favorably of me to this young lady's parent. [points to herself) Mr. D. Oh, about Bertie ? Col. Yes, of course. You see Lucy has seen him, and he has seen Lucy ; to be sure, they have neither seen anybody else, and that may account for it. Mr. D. We'll see about it some years hence. 40- HOME. Col. Yes, some years hence ; eighteen or twenty. Ber. Eighteen or twenty ! Don't keep us so long, Mr. Dorrison, for I know nothing will cure me of the habit of hurting myself except getting married. Col. He considers marriage a cure for sprains. Mr. D. But at your age ! Do you think you are in earnest ? Col. Oh, very much in earnest. He is just the age to be in earnest — for a short time. Ber. I love Lucy till I'm black and blue. Col. Lucy, you will marry a small walking rainbow. Mr. D. (to Colonel) And you're sure you won't regret Mrs. Pinchbeck? ( Bertie goes up with Lucy, who sits at piano) Col. No, only her misfortunes. Mr. D. Nor her brother? (smiling) Col. That's her greatest misfortune ; but happiness does not consist in brothers. Mr. D. In what then ? Col. In sisters, wives, and mothers, but not in step-mothers. Mr. D. But, Alfred, I thought you considered marriage such a foolish thing. Col. Very foolish for fathers, but an excellent thing for sons. Mr. D. There seems to be a deal of love about us. (sits, R. c.) Col. Yes, we're an affectionate family, (all sit except Bertie) Mr. D. And if all goes well when do you expect to marry ? Col. When? Immediately, (to Dora) With your kind permis- sion. Mr. D. And where do you intend to pass your honeymoon ? Dora. On the Atlantic ? Col. No. Dora. In what place, then? Col. In what place? (Lucy begins to play " Home t Sweet Home") Home! (looking at picture, then at Dora) PICTURE. CURTAIN. NEW PLAYS. PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. MURDER WILL OUT. A farce in one act, for six female characters, by L. M. Elwyn. Time of playing, 30 minutes. A breezy and < ffective farce, in which half a dozen bright girls can delight an audience with half an hour of innocent fun. Grandmother Stiles, and her demure but frolicsome grand-daughter, are excellent characters ; Dinah, the colored cook, is amusing, and Bridget W Flaherty is a funny Irish girl — her quarrels with Dinah being exceedingly laughable. The attempts of Lena and her merry friends, May and Minnie, to hoodwink the old lady, and their final exposure, will keep the audience in a roar of laughter. OLD CRONIES. A comedietta in one act, for two male characters, by S. Theyri Smith. Time of playing, 30 minutes. This is an unusually bright and clever little play, in which a couple of comedians can furnish a half-hour of pure, unrestricted fun. Dr. Jacks, tie mild-mannered old gentleman, is in happy contrast with Capt. Pigeon, a bluff, gruff and noisy old sea officer. Both are excruciatingly funny, and their sorrowful attempt to write a joint-stock love letter is one of the richest bits of humor ever presented. Old Cronies will prove a most acceptable afterpiece, and, if at all well done, can not fail to send the audience home in good humor. APRIL FOOLS. A farce in one act, for three male characters, by W. F. Chap- man. Time of playing, 30 minutes. For a half-hour of roaring fun this farce has few equals. It is brisk, bright, and full of highly humorous situations. The characters are exceedingly well drawn — the nervous Mr. Dunnbroiune forming a marked contrast to the loud James Smith, and both differing widely from the sad and sorrowful Joseph Smith. Each imagines that the others are foolish, crazy or drunk. There are laughable blunders and side-splitting complications. Misunderstandings follow one another in rapid succession, and the mystery grows deeper and still deeper. Finally, when everybody gets into a hopeless tangle, it is discovered that ail three are victims of a practical joker, who has made them "April Fools." MISS MADCAP. A comedietta in one act, by Charles Townse.nd, for two male and one female characters. Time of playing, 20 minutes. This bright and breezy little play sparkles like champagne, and is just the thing for a curtain- raiser or an afterpiece. The story is well told, and the characters are well drawn. The youth who pretends to be a " tough," the young man who pretends to be a "dude," and the young lady who pretends to be a " tomboy," all give scope for excellent acting. The piece has been played with pronounced success under the author's management. THE DARKEY WOOD DEALER. A farce in one act, by Charles Townsend, for two male and one female characters. Time of playing, 20 minutes. A ro 'ring farce in this author's happiest vein, totally unlike the ordinary "Ethi- opian" plays. Each character is first-class. The "wood-dealer," beyond doubt, is one of the best negro parts on the stage. The Deacon is a highly-amusing old man, and Mrs. Deacon (this part may be played by a young man), a tremen- dous hit as a "strong-minded" female. This farce is certain to keep an audience in a ro3r, and has proved a sure hit as played under the author's management. AN OLD PLANTATION NIGHT. PRICE, 25 CENTS. A musical and dramatic entertainment for four male and lour female characters, forming a double quartet. This is not a negro minstrel show, contains no boisterous jokes nor conundrums, and is without a vestige of "Tambo" or " Bones," or the conventional stage darkey. It is a simple but vivid representation of life u in de quarters," embellished with song and story illustrating some of the quaint super- stitions and frolicsome merry-makings of the mellow-voiced race. Thoroughly bright throughout, the text is uncommonly well written, and the succession of inci- dents skilfully contrived, while its transitions from grave to gay can be made wonder- fully effective by intelligent actors. The scene, a simple interior, can be arranged on any platform without set scenery; some old garments and a little discarded finery will suffice for the costumes ; the " properties " are few and simple, and the music is within the capacity of fairly good voices, such as any ordinary church choir contains. Wholly novel in conception, and singularly clever in :>rrangement, An Old Planta- tion Night will prove highly acceptable to audiences of all kinds in church, school, lyceum, or parlor. Synopsis: Uncle 'Rastus and Thomas Jefferson. — " Befo 1 de Wah." — "Swing Low. Sweet Chariot." — An influx of visitors. — Aunt Marthy's Story of the little possum. — The rabbit cross. — Limber Jim. — The Sunflower Song. — The stylishness of some folks.— The little white g~at on the mountain — "The Gospel Train." — Polly and the screech-owl. — A husking bee. — The Corn Song. — Little Aaron's battlements. — Old Da n Tucker. JEST" Copies of the above will be mailed, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of the specified prices. ^Jgrft HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN (NEW VERSION.) A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS, BY CIIAS. TOWN SEND. PRICE, 15 CENTS. Seven male, five female characters (some of the characters play two parts). Time of playing, 2% hours. This is a new acting edition of a prime old favorite, so ,-implified in the stage-setting as to be easily represented by dramatic clubs and travelling companies with limited scenery. Uncle Tom's Cabin is a play that never grows old ; being pure and faultless, it commands the praise of the pulpit and sup- port of the press, while it enlists the favor of all Christians and heads of families. It will draw hundreds where other plays draw dozens, and therefore is sure to fill any hal . Synopsis of Incidents : Act I. — Scene I. —The Shelby plantation in Kentucky. — George and Eliza. — The curse of Slavery. — The resolve. — Off for Canada. — "I won't be taken — I'll die first." — Shelby snd Haley. — Uncle Tom and Harry must be sold. — The poor mother. — "Sell my boy!" — The faithful slave. Scene II. — Gumption Cute. — " By Gum !" — Marks, the lawyer. — A mad Yankee. — George in disguise. — A friend in need. — The human bloodhounds. — The escape. — " Hooray fer old Var- mount ! " Act II. — St. Clare's elegant home. — The fretful wife. — The arrival. — Little Eva.— Aunt Ophelia and Topsy — " O, Gollj' ! I'se so wicked | " — St. Clare's opinion. — " Benighted innocence." — The stolen gloves. — Topsy in her glory. Act III. — The angel child. — Tom and St. Clare. — Topsy's mischief. — Eva's re- quest. — The promise. — pathetic scene. — Death of Eva. — St. Clare's grief. — " For thou art gone forever." Act IV. — The lonely house. — Tom and St. Clare. — Topsy's keepsake. — Deacon Perry and Aunt Ophelia. — Cute on deck. — A distant relative. — The hungry visitor. — Chuck full of emptine.-s." — Cute and the Deac< n. — A row. — A fight. — Topsy to the rescue. — St. Clare woundtd. — Death of St. Clare. — " Eva— Eva — I am coming " Act V. — Leeree's plantation on the Red River. — Home again. — Uncle Tom's noble heart. — "My soul ain't yours, Mas'r." — Legree's cruel work. — Legree and Cassy. — The whiteslave. — A frightened brute. — Legree's fear. — A life of sin. — Marks and Cute. — Anew scheme. — The dreadful whipping of Uncle Tom. — Legree punished at last. — Death of Uncle Tom. — Eva in Heaven. THE WOVEN WEB. A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, BY CIIAS. TOWNSEND. PRICE, 15 CENTS. Seven male, three female characters, viz. : leading and second juvenile men, so- ciety villain, walking gentleman, eccentric comedian, old man, low comedian, leading juvenile lady, soubrette and old woman. Time of playing, aT hours. 'I i Woven Wso is a flawless drama, pure in thought and action, with excellent characiers, and pre- senting no difficulties in costumes or scenery. The story is captivating, with a plot of the most intense and unflagging interest, rising to a natural climax of wonderful power. The wit is bright and sparkling, the action terse, sharp and rapid. In touch- ing the great chord of human sympathy, the author has expended that rare skill which has given life to every great play known to the stage. This play has been produced under the author's management with marked success, and will prove an unquestionable attraction wherever presented. Synopsis of Incidents: Act I. — Parkhurst & Manning's law office, New York. — Tim's opinion. — The young lawyer. — " Majah Billy Toby, sah ! " — Love and law. —Bright prospects. — Bertha's misfortune. — A false friend. — The will destroyed. — A cunning plot. — Weaving the web. — The unseen witness. — The letter. — Accused. — Dishonored. Act II.— Winter quarters.— Colonel Hastings and Sergeant Tim.— Moses.— A message. — Tim on his dignity. — The arrival. — Playing soldier. — The secret. — The promise.— Harry in danger.— Love and duty.— The promise kept. — " Saved, at the loss of my own honor ! " Act III. —Drawing-room at Falconer's.— Reading the news.— "Apply to Judy ! " — Louise's romance. — Important news. — Bertha's fears. — Leamington's arrival. — Drawing the web.— Threatened.— Plotting.— Harry and Bertha.— A fiendish lie.— Face to face.—" Do you know him ? " — Denounced. — " Your life shall be the penalty ! "— Startling tableau. Act IV. — At Uncle Toby's. — A wonderful climate. — An impudent rascal. — A bit of history.— Woman's wit. — Toby Indignant. — A quarrel. — Uncle Toby's evidence. — Leamington's last trump. — Good news.— Checkmated.— The telegram. — Breaking the web. — Sunshine at last. Copies mailed, postpaid, to any address, on receipt *f the annexed prices. SAVED FROM THE WRECK. A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, BY THOMAS A". SERRANO. PRICE, 15 CENTS. Eight male, three female characters : Leading corned}', juvenile man, genteel villain, rough villain, light comedy, escaped convict, detective, utility, juvenile lady, leading comedy lady :md old woman. Two interior and one landscape scenes. Modern costumes. Time of playing, two hours and a half. The scene of the action is laid on the New Jersey coast. The plot is of absorbing interest, the "business 1 ' effective, and the ingenious contrasts of comic and serious situations present a con. tinuous series of surprises for the spectators, whose interest is increasingly maintained up to the final tableau. SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. Act I. The Home of the Light-house Keeper. — An autumn afternoon. — The insult. — True to herself. — A fearless he -irt. —The unwelcome guest. — Only a foundling. — An abuse of confidence. — The new partner. — '1 he compact. — The dead brought to life. — Saved from the wreck. — Legal advice. — Married for money.— A g< 'den chance. — The intercepited letter. — A vision of wealth. — The forgery. — Within an inch of his life.— The rescue. — Tableau. Act II. Scene as befokk; time, night. — D..rk clouds gathering.— Changing the jackets. — Father and son. — On duty. — A struggle for fortune. — Loved for himself. ■ — The divided greenbacks. — The agreement. — An unhappy life. — The detective's mis- take. — Arrested. — Mistaken iden'ity. — '1 he likeness again. — On the right track — The accident. — " Will she be saved ? " — Latour's bravery. — A noble sacrifice. — The secret meeting. — Another case of mistaken identity. — The murder. — " Who did it?" — The torn cuff. — "There stands the murderer!" — " 'Tis false!" — The wrong man mur- dered. — Who was the victim ? — Tableau. Act III. Two Days Later. — Plot and counterplot. — Gentleman and convict. — The price of her life. — Some new documents. — The divided banknotes. — Sunshine through the clouds. — Prepared for a watery grave — Deadly peril. — Father and daugh- ter. — The rising tide. — A life for a signature. — True unto death. — Saved. — The mys- tery solved. — Denouement. —Tableau. BETWEEN TWO FIRES. A COMEDY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, BY THOMAS K. SERRANO. PRICE, 15 CENTS. Eight male, three female, and utility characters : Leading juvenile man, first and second walking gentleman, two light com< dians (lawyer and foreign adventurer), Dutch and Irish character comedians, villain, soldiers ; leading juvenile lady, walk- ing lady and comedienne. Three interior scenes ; modern and military costumes. Time of playing, two hours and a half. Apart from unusual interest of plot and skill of construction, the play affords an opportunity of representing the progress of a real battle in the distance (though this is not necessary to the action). The comedy business is delicious, if well worked up, and a startling phase of the slavery question is sprung upon the audience in the last act. SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. Act I. At Fort Lee, on the Hudson. — News from the war. — The meeting. — The colonel's strange romance. — Departing for the war. — The intrusted packet. — An honest man. — A last request. — Bitter hatred. — The dawn of love. — A northerner's sympathy for the South. — Is he a traitor ?— Held in trust. — La Creole mine for sale. — Financial agents. — A brother's wrong. — An order to cross the enemy's lines. — For- tune's fool. — Love's penalty. — Man's independence. — Strange disclosures. — A sha- dowed life. — Beggared in pocket, and bankrupt in love. — His last chance. — The re- fusal. — Turned from home. — Alone, without a name — Off to the war. — Tableau. Act II. On the Battlefield. — An Irishman's philosophy. — Unconscious of danger. — Spies in the camp. — The insult. — Risen from the ranks. — The colonel's prej- udice. — Letters from home. — The plot to ruin. — A token of love. — True to him. — The plotters at work. — Breaking the seals. — The meeting of husband and wife. — A forlorn hope. — Doomed as a spy. — A struggle for lost honor. — A soldier's death.— Tableau. Act III. Before Richmond. — The home of Mrs. De Mori. — The two docu- ments. — A little misunderstanding. — A deserted wife. — The truth revealed. — Brought to light. — Mother and child. — Rowena's sacrifice. — The American Eagle spreads his wings. — The spider's web. — True to himself. — The reconciliation. — A long divided home reunited. — The close of the war. — Tableau. 58F~ Co/>iet mailed, postpaid ' , to any address, on r&c-e-ipt of the annexed prices. H. THEYRE SMITH'S PLAYS. Price, 1 5 Cents Each. A CASE FOR EVICTION. One male and two female characters— light corned an, lady comedian and servant. Interior scene ; modern costumes ; time of playing, thirty minutes. This breezy little play is so true to life that everybody enjoj s it and, as a matter of course, it is always highly successful. A young husband and wife have a visitor who makes them twice glad — g]ad when he conies and doubly glad when he goes. The difficulties that the young couple experience in getting rid of their guest, without hurting his feelings, are laughable in the extreme. The guest, by the way, is heard but not seen — which fact gives rise to much comic <\ business. No scenery whatever is required; and, as every-day costumes are worn, the piece can be produced successfully withourMie slightest trouble. CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. Two male and one female characters- juvenile man, old man and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; modern cos- tumes; time of playing, forty-five minutes. An exceedingly popular play, offering unusual opportunities tor good acting. A young man who has married without his uncle's consent is cut off with a shilling. Hut the uncle meets his nephew's wife — not knowing who she is — and is so captivated bv her wit, grace and beauty that, on learning who she is, he changes his mind, reinstates his nephew and allows the latter to return the shilling. The dialogue is witty, the action rapid, and the situations effective. A HAPPY PAIR. One male, one female character — both light comedy. Scene, a nicely furnished room ; modern costumes ; time of playing, forty-five minutes. A brisk little play, full of action and giving numerous opportunities for clever work. While entirely free from all "low-comedy" business, it contains enough humor to be highly diverting. The quarrels of the " happy pair," and their final recon- ciliation can not fail to pler.se, and the play is sure to give entire satisfaction either in the parlor or as a " curtain raiser" or afterpiece. MY LORD IN LIVERY. Four male and three female characters — light comedian, low comedian, old man, utility, lady comedian and two walking ladies. Parlor scene ; modern costumes ; time of playing, fifty minutes. An unusually bright piece brimming over with wit and humor. The three young Indies who permit a comic servant to meet them on terms of equality under the belief that he is a nobleman masquerading like themselves — the happy-go-lucky young nobleman who is mistaken fcr a burglar — the comical old butler — all have a vast deal of laughable by-play and business. This play whs a pronounced success in New York, and has been presented to crowded houses in all the principal cities of this country. The ease with whi:h it may be staged, and the invariable success which attends it, make My Lord in Livery peculiarly adapted to the use of amateurs. UNCLE'S WILL. Two male and one female characters — juvenile lead, rid man and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; costumes, modern ; time of playing, thirty minutes. This brilliant little play is a prime favorite in both Europe and America, and is admirably adapted to the use of amateurs. The wit flashes like a diamond, and the dainty bits of humor scattered here and there keep up a constant ripple of pleased excitement. Each character is a star part. The dash- ing young naval t fficer, the comical old man — in which Mr. Davidge made a pronounced hit at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York— and the bright and spirited young lady, all are first class and worthy of the best talent in any dramatic club. WHICH IS WHICH. Three male, three female characters — juvenile man, old man, utility, two juvenile ladies and old woman. Scene, a studio ; costumes, modern; time of pla\ ing, fifty minutes. Excellent and much patronized by amateurs. The amusing perplexities of the poor artist, who can not tell which of his visitors is the heiress and which h^r penniless friend — who mistakes one for the other — who makes love to the rich girl, supposing that she is poor, and deter- mines to marry her in spite of her supposed poverty — and who finally discovers that he has proposed to the heire s after all — combine to make this a delightful play. ' Any of the above will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt of the annexed prices. As there are several editions of these plays offered for sale, good, bad and indifferent, purchasers will consult their own interests, when order- ing, by specifying Roorbach's edition. HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. NEW ENTERTAINMENTS. THE JAPANESE WEDDING. & costume pantomime representation of the Wedding Ceremony in Japanese high life. The company consists of the bride and groom, their parents, six bridesmaids, and the officiating personage appropriately called the " Go-between." There are various formalities, including salaams, tea-drinking, eating rice-cakes, and giving presents. No words are .spoken. The ceremony (which occupies about 50 minutes), with the "tea-room," fills out an evening well, though music and other attractions may be added. Can be represented by young ladies alone, if preferred. Price, 25 Cents. AN EVENING WITH PICKWICK. A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces the Pickwick Club, the Wardles of Dingley Dell, the Fat Boy, Alfred Jingle, Mrs. Leo Hunter, Lord Mutanhed and Count Smorltork, Arabella Allen and Bob Allen, Bob Sawyer, Mrs. and Master Bardell, Mrs. Cluppins, Mrs. VVeller, Stiggins, Tony Weller, Sam Weller, and the Lady Traveller. Price, 25 cents. AN EVENING WITH COPPERFIELD. A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces Mrs. Copperfield, Davie, the Peggotys, the Murdstones, Mrs. Gummidge, Little Em'ly, Barkis, Betsey Trotwood, Mr. Dick and his kite, Steerforth, the Creakles, Traddles, Rosa Dartle, Miss Mowcher, Uriah Heep and his Mother, the Micawbers, Dora and Gyp, and the wooden-legged Gatekeeper. Price, 25 cents. These " Evenings with Dickens " can be represented in whole or in part, require but little memorizing, do not demand experienced actors, are not troublesome to pre- pare, and are suitable for performance either on the platform or in the drawing room. THE GYPSIES' FESTIVAL. A Musical Entertainment for Young People. Introduces the Gypsy Queen, Fortune Teller, Yankee Peddler, and a Chorus of Gypsies, of any desired number. The scene is supposed to be a Gypsy Camp. The costumes are very pretty, but simple ; the dialogue bright ; the music easy and tuneful ; and the drill movements and calisthenics are graceful. Few properties and no set scenery required, so that the entertainment can be represented on any platform. Price, 25 cents. THE COURT OF KING CHRISTMAS. A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT. The action takes place in Santa Claus land on Christmas eve, and represents the bustling preparations of St. Nick and his attendant worthies for the gratification of all children the next day. The cast may include as many as 36 characters, though fewer will answer, and the enter- tainment represented on a platform, without troublesome properties. The cos- tumes are simple, the incidental music and drill movements graceful and easily managed, the dialogue uncommonly good, and the whole thing quite above the average. A representation of this entertainment will cause the young folks, from six to sixty, fairly to turn themselves inside out with delight, and, at the same time, enforce the important moral of Peace and Good Will. Price, 25 cents. RECENTLY PUBLISHED. ILLUSTRATED TABLEAUX FOR AMATEURS. A new series of Tableaux Viz/ants, by Martha C. Weld. In this series each description is accompanied with a full-page illustration of the scene to be represented. PART I.— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Contains General Introduction, 12 Tableaux and 14 Illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. PART II.— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Contains Introduction, 12 Ta- bleaux and 12 illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. SAVED FROM THE WRECK. A drama in three acts. Eight male, three female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. BETWEEN TWO FIRES. A comedy-drama in three acts. Eight male, three f<-male characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. BY FORCE OF IMPULSE. A drama in five acts. Nine male, three female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. A LESSON IN ELEGANCE. A comedy in one act. Four female characters. Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. WANTED, A CONFIDENTIAL CLERK. A farce in one act. Six male characters. Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. SECOND SIGHT. A farcical comedy in one act. Four male, one female charac- ter. Time, one hour. Price, 15 Cents. THE TRIPLE WEDDING. A drama in three acts. Four male, four female characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. Price, 15 cents. TSMT'Any 0/ the above will be sent by wall, postpaid, to any address, on receipt vf the an nexed p r ices. „J|£l HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HELMER'S 014 529 017 P I ACTOR'S MAKE-UP BOOK. g| ^ Practical and Systematic Guide to the Art of Making vj> fjr the Stage. PRICE, 25 CENTS. With exhaustive treatment on the Use of Theatrical Wigs and Beards, The Make-up and its requisite materials,, the different features and their management, typical character Masks, etc. With Special Hints to Ladies. Designed for the use of Actors and Amateurs, and for both Ladies and Gentle- men. Copiously Illustrated. CONTENTS. I. Theatrical Wigs. — The Style and Form of Theatrical Wigs and Beards. The Color and Shading of Theatrical Wigs and Beards. Directions for Measuring the Head. To put on a Wig properly. II. Theatrical Beards. — How to fashion a Beard out of crepe tiair. How to make Beards of Wool. The growth of Beard simu- lated. III. The Make-up — A successful Character Mask, and how to make it. Perspiration during performance, how removed. IV. The Make-up Box. — Grease Paints. Grease paintL in sticks; Flesh Cream ; Face Powder; How to use face powder as a liquid cream ; The various shades of face powder. Water Cos- roetrque. Nose Putty. Court Plaster. Cocoa Butter. Cr£pe Hair and Prepared Wool. Grenadine. Dorin's Rouge. " Old Man's" Rouge. "Juvenile" Rouge. Spirit Gum. Email Noir. Bear's Grease. Eyebrow Pencils. Artist's Stomps. Powder Puffs. Hares* Feet. Camels'-hair Brushes. V. The Features and their Treatment. — The Eyes : blind- ness. The Eyelids. The Eyebrows : How to paint out an eyebrow or moustache ; How to paste on eyebrows ; How to regulate bushy eye- brows. The Eyelashes : To alter the appearance of the eyes. The Ears. The Nose : A Roman nose ; How to use the nose putty ; A pug nose ; An African nose ; a large nose apparently reduced in size. The Mouih and Lips : a juvenile mouth ; an old mouth ; a sensuous mouth ; a satirical mouth ; a one-sided mouth ; a merry mouth ; A sullen mouth. The Teeth. The Neck, Arms, Hands and Finger- nails : Fingernails lengthened. Wrinkles: Friendliness and Sullen- ness indicated by wrinkles. Shading. A Starving character. A Cut in the Face. A Thin Face Made Fleshy. VI. Typical Character Masks. — The Make-up for Youth : Dimpled cheeks. Manhood. Middle Age. Making up as a Drunk- ard : One method ; another method. Old Age. Negroes. Moors. Chinese. King Lear. Shylock. Macbeth. Richelieu. Statuary. Clowns. VII. Special Hints to Ladies. — The Make-up. Theatrical Wigs and Hair Goods. Sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on reeer/H f the prh e. HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray Street, New York.