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 ^opy 1 
 
 FRElSrCH'S 
 
 D©^ 
 
 NO. 48 . 
 
 ^o 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 A DRAMA, IN FIVE ACTS., 
 
 ADAPTED FROM BULWER'S NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 iVith Cast of Characters. Stage Business^ Costumes^ Relative 
 
 Positions, etc. etc. 
 
 AS NOW PERFORMED AT THE PRINCIPAL THEATRES 
 IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 "B. 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 121 NASSAU-STREET. 
 
 m CENTS. 
 
 II 
 
 • 
 
^^- 
 
FKENCH'S 
 No, XLVIII. 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING: 
 
 A PLAY, IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 ADAPTED FEOM BULWEr's NOVEL. 
 
 BY JOHN BEOUGHAM. 
 
 n 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT WALLACES THEATRE. 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED, 
 
 A Description of the Costume — Cast of the Characters — ^Entrances and Exits- 
 Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and the whole of the 
 
 Stage Business. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year One Thonsand Kight Hundred and HHfty-Six, by John Brongham 
 in the Clerli's Office of the District court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 121 NASSAU-STREET. 
 
€: s t u m e . — (Night axd Morning.) 
 
 
 PHILIP MORTON. — First Dress : Handsome suit of mourning. 2d. 
 Same, but greatly worn. 3c?. Elegant evening dress. 4th. Frogged 
 military coat, pantaloons, and Hessian boots. 5th. Undress French 
 nniform, cloak, &c. 
 
 GAWTREY. — First Dress : Dark blouse, striped trowsers, disguise 
 red wig, and large beard. 2d. Blue coat and bright buttons, black 
 velvet breeches, black silk stockings. Sd. Black evening dress, 
 white wig. Ath. Same as first. 
 
 ROBERT BEAUFORT.— i^irs^ dress : Morning dress, black. 2c?. Full 
 dress. 
 
 ARTHUR BEAUFORT.— do. do. do. do. 
 
 BLACKWELL.— i^^rs^ dress : Plain black dress. 2d Very elegant 
 
 evening dress. 
 SYDNEY. — First dress: Boy's mourning dress. 2d Velvet tunic, 
 
 white trowsers. 
 LILBURNE. — Elegant evening dress, ribbon across vest. 
 FAVARE. — First dress : Gen d'armes uniform. 2d. Very rough 
 
 workman's dress. 
 
 BROWN.— Dark livery. 
 
 FANNY.— i^irs^ dress: Plain white. 2c?. Gray silk. Sd. Whit^ 
 
 muslin. 
 MRS. MORTON.— White robe de chambre. 
 MRS. ROBERT BEAUFORT.— Very splendid evening dress. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS, 
 
 EXITS AND ENTRANCES. 
 
 L. means First Entrance, Left. R. First Entrance, Right. S. E. L. 
 Second Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Seclmd '.Entrance, Fight. U. E. L. 
 Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upvev ^Entrance, Right. C. Centre. 
 L- 0. Left of Centre. R. C. Ri^ht of Centre. T. E. L.^ Third Entrance, 
 Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R. 
 Door Right. D. L. Door Left, U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R. 
 Upper Door, Right. 
 
 *^* The Reader is supposed to he on the Stage, facing the Audience. 
 
 ^HT-H^ 
 
 ^ 
 
M 
 
 
 Cast of tf)C ©Jatactets, — (IsTight and Morning.) 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT WALLACk's THEATRE, NE"W YORK. 
 
 Gawtrey Mr. Brougliam. 
 
 Philip Beaufort " Lester. 
 
 Sydney Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 Plaskwith '' W. R. Blake. 
 
 Lord Lilhurne Mr. Dyott. 
 
 Robert Beaufort " Bland. 
 
 Arthur Beaufort " Stewart. 
 
 BlacTcwell " Chippendale. 
 
 Favare " Stoddart. 
 
 Andre " Oliver. 
 
 Gaspard. " Peters. 
 
 Brown " Bernard. 
 
 Simpson " Burke. 
 
 Mrs. Morton. Mrs. Cramer. 
 
 Fanny Miss Rosa Bennett. 
 
 Mrs. Beaufort Mrs. Conover. 
 
 Sarah Miss Carman. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene L — Cottage Library — Sporting pictures, rods, fowling pieces, d'c, 
 &c. ; an old-fashioned Bureau conspicuous, remains all the Act. 
 Brown and Mr. Blackwell, with pen and ink-bottle, taking inven- 
 tory, discovered. 
 
 JBroivn. This was my poor master's library, sir, as he called it. 
 
 Blackioell. Ah ! um ! Didn't meddle much with books ? 
 
 Brown. Not unless they was books of flies for trout fishing, sir, or 
 wetinary ones for the sake of the horses — and to think that one of 
 the hungrateful species could kill him at last! My poor missis, and 
 the young gentlemen — what will become of them ? 
 
 Black. Bad thing for them ! No will ! Everything goes to Mr. 
 Robert Beaufort, brother to the deceased gentleman — my most es- 
 teemed and excellent principal. 
 
 Brown. Everything, sir ? Is it possible that there is no provision 
 for the widow and the poor children ? 
 
 Black. No doubt Mr. Beaufort will do something handsome for Mrs, 
 Morton; — that is the name, I believe, the lady went by here ? 
 
 Brown. For family reasons only, sir ; for I never will believe but 
 what my late master was married to her — so lovingly and kindly as 
 they lived together. 
 
 Black., {^searching bureau."] Somewhat unusual confirmation, my 
 friend. You yourself see that we have now searched through every 
 particle of documentai*y evidence, and can find no shadow of proof 
 that any such marriage existed. 
 
 Brown. But doesn't my lady herself tell you that there has, but 
 that the register of the church has been lost or mutilated, the old 
 parson who performed the ceremony dead, and the witnesses not to 
 be fo\ind? 
 
 Black. The law has incredulous ears, my good sir ; besides, it is 
 pretty generally known to have been otherwise, or Mr. Beaufort, 
 who is a most honorable gentleman, would not have taken the course 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 5 
 
 he has. He comes ! Be careful how you speak before him, for he 
 feels his brother's loss keenly, and is very sensitive. 
 
 Brown. Hang me if he won't be well paid for his feelings ! an 
 
 estate worth 
 
 Enter Egbert Beaufort, b. 2 e., followed by a servant with a lighted 
 
 taper. 
 
 Robert [very disconsolate, white wipe, d;c.] Heigho ! Have you nearly 
 completed your melancholy duty, Blackwell ? 
 
 Black. Yes, Mr. Beaufort ; this bureau is the last place where I 
 can find papers. 
 
 Robert. Still no sign of a confirmation of Mrs. 
 
 Black. Of Mrs. Morton's allegation? It is needless to sav none, 
 Mr. Beaufort. ^ 
 
 Robert. Ah ! I thought not. 
 
 Brow7i [aside]. He knows not — t':e hypocritical vampy re ! — for I 
 heard him a-rummaging all night long ! 
 
 Bobert. It only remains then to affix my seal to this. [He seals s. l.] 
 My poor, dear brother!— cut ofi" so suddenly! I feel thirsty. [To 
 servant.] Bring me some wine. [BJxit servant, r. 1 e.] It's a pleasant 
 place, this cottage, Blackwell. 
 
 Brown. I should think it was, after the little house in Harley street! 
 [Aside.] 
 
 ' Robert. My poor, wilful, noble-hearted, but reckless brother— this 
 was his favorite room ! Heigho ! Eveiything puts me in mind of 
 him — its very untidiness and want of order — nothing in its place ! I 
 don't like that fellow's looks, Blackwell. [To Brown.] Have you any- 
 thing to say to me, my fine fellow? 
 
 Brown. Not much, sir ; but the old servants want to know if they 
 are to remain. 
 
 Robert. It would be too much for my sensibility, and that of Mrs. 
 Beaufort. They would be perpetually reminding us of our great 
 loss 1 
 
 Brown. Beg pardon, sir, but I thought how as it would be 'tother 
 way. 
 
 Robert. What do you mean ? 
 
 Brown. Why, sir, that they would be putting you in mind of your 
 great gain. Excuse the remark, sir ; Mr. Philip always liked us to 
 say what we meant. 
 
 i?o6eW. Perfectly right! I'm not angry. Send him away, Black- 
 ^^^' [Aside to him. 
 
 Black. Hem ! You see, my good man, how he's moved. Leave us 
 for awhile. I shall see that your wages are paid to the da}^ 
 
 Broitm. That'll be generous, surely, sir! Oh, I have no doubt but 
 that we'll all get our turn-out in the most genteel way. My poor, 
 dear lady! it isn't much you can hope for from this highly respectable 
 ""^^I'liiint! C^^?7 Brown. 
 
 Robert. This is a most agonizing duty, Blackwell ! Ah I here's the 
 wine. [Enter servant, r., with wine.] Leave it, and be within call, 
 [Exit servant, r.] How uncertain is life! [Takes wine.] Very good 
 
6 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 wine. My poor brother ! — he kept a capital cellar. And thus van- 
 ishes all sublunary happiness! I think I could take a sandwich. 
 [Blackwell goes to door and calls.] I feel greatly for this poor woman, 
 Biackwell, and those young men. They are fine young fellows, es- 
 pecially^ the eldest, though there is a fiery devil in his eye, which 
 prognosticates evil, thrown upon the world as he now must be. 
 
 Black. He's the more likely to get on. As to Mrs. Morton, it cer- 
 tainly would have been a great shock to her had she really been 
 Mr. Beaufort's wife, but I suppose persons of that kind have very lit- 
 tle feeling. [Drinks.] This is famous wine ! 
 
 Robert. A tradesman's daughter, was she not, Blackwell ? 
 
 Bluck. Certainly ; and low, very low, I understand. 
 
 Robert. Well, I must make some provision for her, nevertheless. 
 It's a sacred duty I owe to the memory of my unfortunate brother. 
 \8ervant enters, r., with sandwiches.] Here are the sandwiches. [Ser- 
 vant leaves them, and exits, R.] My poor, poor brother! 
 
 Black. You have the satisfaction of knowing that no man could 
 have had a more elegant funeral. 
 
 Robert. It was, Blackwell, was it not ? Ah! what a strange thing 
 it does seem that the form which we prized so charily, for which we 
 prayed the winds to be gentle, should be suddenly thrust out of 
 sight, an abomination that the earth must not look upon, a despica- 
 ble loathesomeness to be concealed and to be forgotten ! 
 
 Black. Ah, sir, you have a feeling heart! Let me beg of you to 
 take a sandwich. A mysterious thing is death ! ' 
 
 Robert. To think that this same composition of bone and muscle 
 that was but the other day so strong, which men respected, and 
 women loved, and children clung to, should be now so lamentably 
 powerless. Ah ! this person, Blackwell, before I leave ! But I can 
 not. I have, therefore, in this letter acquainted her with the pro- 
 vision which I intend to make for her and her sons. 
 
 Black. It is like you, sir ; all heart, feeling and compassion. "What 
 is to be done with the cottage ? Will you retain it ? It is a lovely 
 spot. 
 
 Robert. It's very loveliness would keep my memory painfully alive 
 to m}^ bereavement. Ko. I have sold it to my brother-in-law. Lord 
 Lilburne. Ring for the footman, Blackwell. [Blackwell rings bell. 
 
 Black. Ah, sir, your nature is too sensitive — much too sensitive! ^ 
 
 Enter Footman, r. 1 e. 
 
 Robert. Is the carriage ready? 
 
 Footman. I believe, yes ; I don't know, sir. 
 
 Black. Blockhead ! send Brown here. \^Exit Footman, r.] These 
 servants must have been most injudiciously handled. 
 
 Robert. More evidences of my poor Philip's carelessness. Did I 
 not order my carriage to be in readiness ? 
 
 Enter Brown, r. 
 
 Broivn. Mr. Philip's horses have been put to Mr. Philip's barouche, 
 
 sir ; but 
 
 Robert. Well, it's all the same now. What do you mean by hut ? 
 
NIGHT AND MOR^^yG. 7 
 
 Broicn. Why, sir, if I must tell you, there ain't a man or boy about 
 the place is a going to drive them for any one else, that's alL 
 
 lExit, K 2 E. 
 
 Robert. TVTiat unparalleled impudence ! Clear the place of them 
 all, Blaekwell, and without a reference as to character. That will 
 insure them a little wholesome starvation. My poor brother. It is 
 sad to think he could have been so thoughtless. Come, Blackwell, 
 let us leave this melancholy scene. I shall drive myself. It may 
 serve to ameliorate the pain of my suffering. Heigho 1 
 
 Black. It may ; let us religiously hope it will It's a long di'ive, 
 and we may as well be provident. 
 
 [Takes all the sandidfh&s, d:c Bus. and they exeunt, l. h. 1 E. 
 
 Enter Catherine Beaufoet and Beown, e. 2 e. 
 
 Cath. Gone, say you, Brown ? My brother-in-law gone, in the 
 very crisis of my agony, without one word of consolation ] 
 
 Brown. Gone, madame. He and t'other knave drove themselves 
 off in my late master's barouche ! 
 
 Cath. In your late master s barouche I What can it mean? Where 
 is my son I 
 
 Enter Philip, l. 2 e. 
 
 Philip. Here, mother, by your side, whei*e I shall ever be, with 
 Heavens help, to cheer, to guard and comfort you through every 
 change. 
 
 Cath. My son! My noble, orphaned son! 
 
 [ Goes up and sits at table, k. h. 
 
 Brown. l^Aside.l Fm afraid they don't know the worst, nor would 
 I be the one to tell them, for all that they are like to lose. God help 
 them both. Exit, e. 1 e. 
 
 Philip. ]SIother, mother! — lookup — Oh, pray look up — ^my heart 
 bleeds to see you! 
 
 Cath. Philip, my darling and my pride, oh ! should I lose your 
 love, your reverence and respect ? 
 
 Philip. What mean you, mother? 
 
 Cath, I have that to say to you, Philip, which will chill the life- 
 blood in your veins, and yet I was not to blame, and to harbor one 
 harsh thought against the treasure we have both lost, were sacrilege ! 
 
 Philip, (c ) Calm yourself, darling mother ! I have strength enough 
 to hear anything, but that which would attaint — 
 
 Cath. Your name, and pure condition ! I knew it ! 
 
 Philip. Mother, mother ! were there doubt of that, I would not 
 ■dare to live ! 
 
 Cath. But if the doubt were calumny, the accusation false, a foul, 
 malignant lie ? 
 
 Philip. Then would you have the greater need of my sustaining 
 love! But, mother, speak to me; fear not to tell me all ! Who 
 doubts ? What accusation do you hint at ? 
 
 Cath. My boy! my poor, unhappy, and unfriended boy! 
 
 Philip. What am I to think ? [Sees lctter.'\ Here's a letter, directed 
 
8 KIGHT AND MORNING. . 
 
 to you, mother ! Shall I read it to you? It may give you better 
 hope. 
 
 Cath. No ! no ! give it to me J 
 
 \^8he motions him off a little and reads. 
 
 Philip. \^Aside.'\ "What can be the meaning of this gi-eat agitation ? 
 Ha ! an icy bolt shoots through my heart f Am I then the child of 
 shame ? Am I — what my soul revolts at and my tongue refuses to 
 name ? There's madness in the thought ! To have the world's ex- 
 tended finger levelled at me ! to meet on every hand a scornful look, 
 and have no right to question, but sneak through life with coward 
 heart, and downward glance, to find the filial love and reverence 
 that fills my soul warped into loathing, or enforced obedience ! Oh, 
 heaven pardon me, and pity her, who is, despite of all, my mother ! 
 
 Cath. \^Mueh excited.] This to 7}ie ! — the insolent \ These words to 
 me — the wife — ^the lawful wife of his brother — the wedded mother 
 of his brother's children ! 
 
 Philip. Ah ! Repeat those words again ? Again, mother ? His 
 wife ? his wedded wife ? 
 
 Cath. I swear it, Philip ! I kept the secret for your father*s sake, 
 now, for your's the truth must be revealed. 
 
 Philip. Heaven be thanked, we have no brand upon our name ! 
 Forgive me, angel mother ! oh, forgive me! May I see this letter? 
 I shall read it calmly — quietly — be sure. 
 
 Cath. Do, then, my hope, my stay and consolation ! Do so, and 
 as heaven has gifted you with the ability, decide for us all. 
 
 Philip. [Reads Letter.] " Dear Madame : — Knowing that you must 
 be naturally anxious as to the future prospects of your children and 
 yourself, I take the earliest opportunity of apprizing you of my in- 
 tentions. I need not say, that, properly speaking, you can have no 
 kind of claim upon the relations of my late brother." The slander- 
 ous viper! " You will probably reside with your own relatives, and 
 that you may not be entirely a burthen to them, I shall allow jou a 
 hundred a year." My poor, dear mother ! . " Your sons, if you wish 
 it, I shall apprentice to such trades as may be suitable to their future 
 station." Patience, heart ! I would he were standing here, mother ! 
 " It will probably be painful to you, to remain at a place so crowded 
 with unpleasant recollections. I beg to enclose you a draft for £100 
 for present expenses, and to request, when you are settled, to know 
 where the first quarter shall be paid." Oh, mother, mother, this is 
 hard to bear ! You must refuse this man's charity, [Tears draft.'} 
 whether we obtain our right or not. I am strong and active ; I will 
 work for you night and day! I have it in me, I feel it, anything 
 rather than eating his bread ! 
 
 Cath. Philip, you are indeed my son, your father's son. And have 
 you no reproach for your mother, who so weakly, so criminal- 
 ly concealed your birthright till, alas ! discovery may be too late ! 
 Oh reproach me, reproach me, it would be kindness ! Do not embrace 
 me ! I cannot bear it ! Boy ! boy ! if, astny heart tells me, we shall fail 
 in proof, do you understand what, in the world's eye, I am, and what 
 you are \ 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 9 
 
 Philip. I do! Whatever others may call you, you are a mother, 
 and I, your son I in the judgment of Heaven you are my father's 
 Wife, and I his heir ! But come, mother, we must bestir, for I see 
 we shall have not only a heartless, but a crafty enemy to contend 
 against. The minister who married you, surely he — 
 
 Cath. Alas 1 he is dead. 
 
 Philip. But there were witnesses, — a Register ? 
 
 Caih. They have equally disappeared ; but this I know, Philip, 
 your poor father kept an attested copy. 
 
 Philip. Huzza 1 then, that will satisfy all. It must be somewhere 
 amongst his papers. 
 
 Cath. My poor boy ! I have vainly looked for that copy, every- 
 where where there was a slightest possibility of its being placed. 
 
 Philip. Not thoroughly ; you may have overlooked it. We will 
 search again, together. 
 
 Cath. We dare not. 
 
 Philip. Dare not, mother ? 
 
 Cath. Do you not see that Mr. Robert Beaufort's seal is upon every 
 desk and drawer in the house ? 
 
 Philip. And what if there be ? Mother, listen to me. In the pur- 
 suit of that which would establish your honor, were there a seal on 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort's heart, and I thought the guilty knowledge 
 there concealed, I'd rend it open, as I do this, 
 
 [ T'ears down leaf of bureau, and searches among papers, &c. 
 
 Cath. You know not what j^ou do. Desist, I pray you, Philip! I 
 tremble at the penalty j^oii may incur. Philip, I hear a footstep. 
 
 Philip. Were it a demon's, I should) defy it ; but it is an angel's — 
 my brother Sydney. 
 
 Enter Sydney, r. 2 e., (a young fair-haired hoy.) 
 
 Sydney. Dear, dear mamma ! I have been looking for you ; I am 
 afraid, when I'm alone. Why do you weep so ? I don't like to see 
 yoii vexed. What is it, dear mamma ? 
 
 Cath. My beautiful one — you are too young to know the heart- 
 wreck that has occurred within these walls ! What — oh ! what Avill 
 become of you, my darling ; so fragile, and so all unfitted to contend 
 against the blows of rude adversity? my rose-bud will wither! 
 
 Philip. \^at deslc.'] I will be at his side, mother ; fear not. 
 
 Syd. They say that I musn't ride my beautiful pony any more, 
 mamma. Why is that? 
 
 Cath. Speak to him, Philip, or my heart will break. 
 
 Byd. Have I made you weep, mamma ? Oh, I love you too much 
 for that. There, let rae kiss you — I won't «ay another word about 
 the pony. [kisses her. 
 
 Philip. Not a vestige of the proof we seek, and my heart, but now 
 so full of hope, is dead within me. [aside. 
 
 Cath. No sign of the copy, Philip ? 
 
 Philip. Not yet, dear mother ; but I don't despair. I shall not 
 leave a nook or cranny in the house un visited ; it must be somewhere 
 here, you know, unless he stole it — aye, stole it. The smooth, dis- 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 10 
 
 sembling knave, who would take advantage of an accident, to despoil 
 you of name and honor, would scarcely hesitate to make his villany 
 sure by a safe and secret theft. Come, mother, have a heart; we will 
 confront our antagonist boldly. To give up all, without a struggle, 
 would be only to acquiesce by silence in the calumny. Have a heart 
 then, dear mother, for the lawful sons of Beaufort were never born 
 to beg their bread. Put jovly trust in Him, who never forsook the 
 widow and the orphan ; and under Him in me — in me. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Elegant drawmg-room in Robert Beaufort's house. — • 
 Robert Beaufort, Arthur, Lord Lilburn, Mrs. Beaufort, and 
 Blackwel, discovered. 
 
 Lord L. [l. of 'r. tahle.^ "What absorbing study occupies my deai' 
 sister's attention ? 
 
 Mrs. B. (r.) Don't disturb me, Lilburn, I'm choosing a bonnet. 
 
 Lord L. A million of pardons ! That is a weighty concern, indeed. 
 What news from Thorndale, Robert ? 
 
 Roht. [^at table, up stage, l.] Capital news, Lilburn. Blackwell in- 
 forms me that the rents will bear raising two per cent. 
 
 Lord L. Excellent news for your tenantry. 
 
 Mrs. B. I don't think it at all becoming, although quite the fashion. 
 
 Lord L. What, to tax the laborer to his uttermost capacity ? Well, 
 I believe it is. 
 
 Mrs. B. What are you talking about? You're a dreadful plague. 
 
 Lord L. By the way, Robert, what became of those people, the 
 Mortons ? Did they not bring some frivolous suit ? 
 
 Robert. A most vexatious and indefensible one, which, thanks to 
 my good friend and counsellor, Blackwell, has been just decided. It 
 is really at an end, is it not? 
 
 Black. For ever, Mr. Beaufort, after two years delay, and of 
 course to the loss of every available thing that the obstinate woman 
 possessed, which made the result comparatively easy, the case is 
 definitively decided, and you will be troubled no more. 
 
 Mrs. B Poor people. I pity them. But what could persons of their 
 caste expect ? 
 
 Arthut. (l. c.) And what are those unfortunates to do, father? 
 
 Robert. It is quite immaterial to me what they do. They Avill 
 accept nothing from me or mine. 
 
 Black. And it wo\;ld be most injudicious to offer any thing. It 
 might only re-open litigation. 
 
 Robert. And what should /have to fear from that? 
 
 Black. Oh, nothing ! But Christian charity should interfere to 
 prevent their throwing away what little means they might procure. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 11 
 
 Mrs. B. What has become of that dark-featxirecl, gipsey-looking 
 young man? I declare, the first time I saw him, his eyes glared 
 •upon me as though they belonged to a snake. 
 
 Black. I believe his proud lieart had to bend to circumstances at 
 last. I saw him a few days back, immediately after the righteous 
 decision which banished every hope from him and his perverse 
 parent, and nobody would have known him for the proud boy he 
 "was two years ago. He looks ten years older, gaunt and care-worn. 
 
 Lord L. What can he do ? Brought up in luxury and criminal 
 idleness, he ought to make awa}^ with himself, in justice to society. 
 
 Black. All things considered, it would be a merc}^ if he did. 
 
 Arthur. And poor Sydne^'^, what has become of him? 
 
 Black. Very well taken care of, I have no doubt. Learning a good 
 substantial trade amongst his mother's relatives, 
 
 Arthur. I pity them from my soul, father. You know how dearly 
 my uncle loved them ; and surely the}-, at least, are guiltless. 
 
 Robert. Arthur, I am ashamed of you. To sympathize with people 
 who for so long a time have harassed me with vexatious and unne- 
 cessary litigation. Besides, sir, did they not insolently spurn my 
 generous offer of assistance? You would not subject me to another 
 such insult ? 
 
 Bord L. It would be perfectly parricidal, Arthur. 
 
 Arthur. But if you knew, father, that this wretched family was 
 in the most perilous extremity of distress, the mother dying in pen- 
 ury, without the poor consolation of her children's presence ? 
 
 Mrs. B. For gracious sake, Arthur, don't agitate my nerves with 
 such a ridiculous picture. Lord L., hand me the vinaigrette. 
 
 Lord L. Exquisite sensibibility. 
 
 Arthur. Father, I appeal to you. 
 
 Robert. I'm busy now, Arthur. I am projecting great improve- 
 ments at Lord L.'s country seat. Come, Blackwell. 
 
 [Exit ivith Blackwell, c. d. 
 
 Arthur [rises]. The very pla,ce where my dead uncle, the founder 
 of your grandeur, father, taught those boj'S to suppose that their 
 lives should be easy, and as careless as his own. 
 
 Lord L. It's no use, Arthur. The wand of JNIidas has touched the 
 heart of the family. 
 
 Arthur. [To Mrs. B., who comes down, r] You will refute this cal- 
 umny. It cannot be that a mother should invoke a mother's aid 
 and sympathy in vain. Place the picture I have drawn before your 
 memory — cold, hunger, wretchedness. 
 
 Mrs. B. Nonsense, child ; I don't believe there's any such thing. 
 People put them in newspapers just as they write them in stage- 
 plaj^s, only to lacerate one's feelings. 
 
 Arthur. What if I were to tell you, mother, that the description 
 comes not within a tithe part of the melancholy reality; that I 
 know it to be so ? [^She weeps ] Those tears do you honor. Let me 
 then go ? 
 
 Mrs. B. [weeps^ What a brute you are, Arthur ; an ungrateful, 
 undutiful, savage creature ! You know how hysterical I am, and 
 
12 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 iffhat an J5^olian tiling my sensibility is — the slightest breath vibrates 
 through my delicate system. What heart-pangs it cost me when 
 poor Fidelle had the dyspepsia ; and what quantities of tears I shed 
 when Minny, m}" favorite cat's progeny was consigned to a watery 
 grave ; and yet you insist upon harrowing me with such goblin 
 stories ! 
 
 Arthur. Mother; let me not believe that every natural impulse is 
 dead within you ; but for a single instant place yourself in this de- 
 serted creature's situation. 
 
 J/rs. £. If I did, Arthur, I should exert myself, and not dawdle 
 about in idleness. Come, help me to the door [Arthur passes behind 
 to R.], and don't chill the atmosphere with your freezing breath. Au 
 revoir. Lord L. I must really do something desperate to recover my 
 spirits. You naughty boy, don't attempt to agitate my sensibilities 
 to such a frightful extent again. [^xit r. 1 e. 
 
 Lord L. Your mother's right, Arthur. "Wealthy philosophy should 
 always exorcise the evil spirits of poverty from their own circle. 
 Besides you shouldn't indulge in such grievous exaggeration. 
 
 Arthur, (r.) But, my dear uncle, this is true. 
 
 Lord L. The greater reason for you to forget it. Interfering be- 
 tween people and their destinies, is like coming between man 
 and wife, you are sure of something unpleasant for your pains, 
 
 Arthur. [Crosses to l.] Ah I there's my horse. I must go, uncle, at 
 once. 
 
 Lord L. Where % 
 
 Arthur. To visit Mrs. Morton. It is not an hour since I first dis- 
 covered her destitute condition. Oh ! would that I had known it be- 
 fore. Honor, duty, common humanity, demand it. \Exit l. 
 
 Lord L. Ah ! my young friend, a few years' experience, and a few 
 twinges of gout will soon check such headlong benevolence ! 
 
 \Exit L., limiting. He has been ivounded in a duel. 
 
 Scene II. — Interior of Plaskwith's house. Busts and pictures of Napo- 
 leon all about. c. d. backed ivith part of bookseller's shop. Very 
 small loay of business. 
 
 Enter Plaskwitii, c.,froin shop. He has a Napoleonic head. 
 
 Flask. Pooh ! Napoleon himself, my illustrious and never-to-be- 
 forgotten prototype, never encountered more fatigue than I encoun- 
 ter at my own counter! Ha! that's not bad — do for the club to- 
 night — ptit that down. This young chap, Morton, is no use what- 
 ever. He'll never be able to imderstand the intricacies of book-sell- 
 ing ; in fact, his mind runs after too many things ever to become sta- 
 tionary. Ha! pretty good, that! I wisli somebody heard it — put 
 that down. Poor Morton ! I can't turn him away, either, from very 
 pity! He gets nothing, and don't eat much, therefore he's not very 
 expensive — but no soul for trade. Never be worth his salt as a sell- 
 er! Another good one! Ten o'clock! Moi-ton, shut up, you can do 
 </*.a^ without a blunder ; and bring me the till! Ha! ha! The mis- 
 takes the fellow makes are laughable : an elderly lady asked the 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 13 
 
 other day, for tlie Rev. Ebenozer Brimstone's " Evangelical Discov- 
 eries," he hands her a bundle of lucifer matches ! lost her custom of 
 course ! ah ! here he comes ! 
 
 Enter Philip, very poor in appearance. Plaskwith tahes till and counts 
 
 money. 
 
 Plash Pretty good days' work. I'll count it by and bye. If any- 
 body calls, Pm going to dress for the club. {Going, c. 
 
 Philip. One moment, sir, if you please. I want to ask you a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 PlasJc. What is it ? . . t. ^ 
 
 Philip. How long am I to remain with you, sir, without a— a— 
 
 salary? ., i i j 
 
 Plask. Salary ! Wages, you mean ? Why, until you have learned 
 something of your trade. Haven't you every comfort, your board 
 and your bed ? What can you want with money ? 
 
 Philip. Give me less comfort, sir, that I may be enabled to give 
 my mother more. It is not for myself I beg, but for her ! Give me a 
 little money, sir, ever so little, and take it out of my board. I can 
 do with one meal a day. 
 
 Plask. Can you ? Ecod ! you'll never fill out upon that, and your 
 bones seem to be pretty bare now. Come, I'll tell you what I'll do ; 
 apply yourself diligently to business, and after a few weeks I'll allow 
 you five shillings a week, and I shan't curtail your allowance either. 
 
 Philip. Oh ! sir, I thank you ! I thank you from the bottom of my 
 
 Plask. Tlien that's settled, although you couldn't at first see the 
 resemblance, you can now though, can't you ? 
 
 Philip. Resemblance? which, sir? where? 
 
 Plask. Which, sir, where? look around you, now look at this! 
 
 [Takes smoff d la Napoleon, and crosses to r. 
 
 Philip. Sir, I never saw the emperor. 
 
 Plash. Never mind, sir, you see him now. Not only a physical, 
 but a moral similitude, sir. Straightforward, short, to the point, de- 
 termined. . [Crosses u 
 
 Philip. Very likely, sir. _ , ^ ^r in 
 
 PZasA;. Certainly. Knew you'd acknowledge it at last. You shall 
 be my Murat — very like him, especially about the hair. Put my 
 wife's furred pelisse on your shoulders, and her muff on your head 
 you'd be complete. Sort of a young growing Hercules m fancy 
 costume. Talking of Hercules, mustn't forget the Club ! not bad, 
 that eh ? ha ! ha ! another ! I shall be brilliant to-night. [Exit l. 
 
 Philip. A little longer, yet a little longer, heart ! Mother, dear 
 mother, it is for your sake I swallow down the loathing that rises to 
 my throat, and tame my fiercer ambition to this soul-slavery 1 
 All ! little did I think, when, in boyhood I felt the first delight of 
 freedoiu and adventure, when rejoicing in the wild but manly lux- 
 ury of independence, I felt a very Crusoe, fancying a Friday ^ every 
 footprint, an island of my own in every field, that I so soon m life 
 jihould be thus dungeoned ! 
 
 { 
 
14 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 [J. knock at centre door ; Philip opens it. Enter Gawtrey. They 
 advance. 
 
 GaiL\ \_smoklng]. Mr. Plaskwith visible ? Xo ; never mind, I'll wait 
 Warm evening ! 
 
 Philip. Very ! Be so good as to smoke in the other direction. 
 
 Gaw. Ho, ho ! you don't take to the pipe yet, eh ! You will, by 
 and by, when you've known the cares and anxieties that I have gone 
 through. Great soother, sir! pleasant comforter! Blue devils fly 
 before its honest breatli ; it ripens the brain, it opens the heart! Sir, 
 the man who smokes thinks like a sage, and acts like a Samaritan ! 
 Why do you look so solemnly at me? Not introduced, eh? Cere- 
 monious — ha! ha! Or do I puzzle you, as I have done many? I'll 
 venture a wager that you can't read me as easily as I can read you. 
 Shall I guess at your character and circumstances? I don't mean it 
 impertinently, upon my soi5l I don't! I'm not a bad ftllow to those 
 I take a liking to. But now to my guess. You're a gentleman, that 
 I can tell by your voice; and poor, devilish poor — that the hole in 
 your coat informs me. You are proud, fiery, discontented, and un- 
 happy — all that I see in your face. It is because I see those signs 
 that I speak to you. I volunteer no acquaintance with the happy ! 
 
 Philip. I dare say not, sir; for if you know all the unhajjpy, you 
 must have a sufficiently^ laige acquaintance. 
 
 Gaiv. Witty, b}^ the Lord ! Pray, what is your calling, if the ques- 
 tion don't offend you? 
 
 Philip. Nothing. 
 
 Gau). More's tlie pity ! I thought, at the first glance, that yon 
 were a raw recruit in the camp of the enemy. 
 
 Philip. Enem}^ ! I don't understand you. 
 
 Gaio. In other words, a plant growing out of a lawyer's desk. I 
 will explain. There is one class of spiders, industrious, hard-working 
 octopedes, who, out of the sweat of their brain, make their own webs 
 and catch their own flies ; there's another class who have no stuff in 
 them wherewith to make webs, and therefore wander about looking 
 out for food provided hj the toil of their neighbors, eating up their 
 weaker brethren, and then quietly possessing themselves of all the 
 legs and wings thej^ find dangling about. These spiders /call ene- 
 mies — the world calls them lawyers ! 
 
 Philip [abstractedly]. Yes, sir — T — pardon me, I was thinking. 
 
 Gaw. [aside]. The poor fellow docs look pale ; perhaps the smoke 
 was too much for him. [Empties pipe.] His cheek is hollow — how 
 do I know but it may be with fasting? Thinking! Ah ! perhaps of 
 home, and the butterflies he ran after when he was an urchin ! They 
 irever come back, those daj's — never, never! [Aloud.] Are you ill, 
 my lad? 
 
 Philip. No, no ; but I thank you for your kindness in asking me. 
 
 Gaiv. You have had but little kindness shovrn to you, my poor fel- 
 low, if you think so much of this! You are ill — j'ou must take care 
 of yourself. Here, here's a sovereign for you. 
 
 Philip. I don't want money — nay, that's false — I do, but dare not 
 
KIGHT AKD MORNING. 15 
 
 accept it as a cliarity, I cannot, will not beg ! Could I obtain some 
 more congenial emplojTnent 
 
 Gaw. Employment? Why, I coiald — no, not from me. Be ad- 
 vised, take the employment offered yon, no matter how trifling the 
 wages. Keep out of hal-m's way. Is this Mr. Flaskwith? 
 
 Fkilip. Yes. 
 
 Enter Plaskwith, l. h. 
 
 Gaw. \to Plashi My business with you, sir, is brief. Happening 
 to be in a house where a poor, dying woman wished a letter to be 
 conveyed to you, I volunteered. There's the letter, and my mission 
 is at an end. Farewell, my lad, and better fortune to you ! \^Exit o. 
 
 Flask. 'Tis directed to me, but the inclosure is to you, Morton. 
 
 Philip. Ha! my mother! — for me ! My eyes are dizzy — I can't see 
 the letter! [^Reads rapidly.'] My mother dying! Great Heavens, 
 support me ! Perhaps without the necessaries of life I Sir, sir, did 
 you not hear me? — my mother! She is poor — starving, perhaps! 
 Money — money ! Lend me — give me — I must have money ! I will 
 work for you all my life for nothing, but let me take something to 
 her ! 
 
 Plask. It will be " Your money or your life," next, I suppose, you 
 young highwayman ! 
 
 Philip. Are you human ? Shall I go empty-handed ? I tell you 
 my mother is dying! Give me money ! 
 
 Plask. That is not the way to speak to me, sir! You forget your- 
 self ! 
 
 Philip. Oh, heaven ! at such a moment, heartless. Forgive me. 
 Oh ! let me implore you — beg — anything. I will grovel at your feet 
 — become your menial — servant — slave ; only advance me a small 
 sum. 
 
 Plask. Not a shilling, sir — not a penny. Talk to me in such a 
 style — to me ! You can go and see yoiir mother, if you like. How 
 do I know but that it's all a sham ? Come — don't look as if your eyes 
 were daggers, or I'll scream for help. Go away ; don't come near 
 me, you savage-looking reprobate ! ^Runs out. 
 
 Philip. You, who demand my bones and blood, my body and soul 
 — a slave to your vile trade. Do you deny me bread for a mother's 
 lips? Ha! ysecs the box of silver.~\ Here's money ! heaps of money ! 
 Ha, ha, ha! [^grasps a handful of silver. '\ What is that? a sound, as 
 though the arch fiend had uttered a yell of joy over a fallen soul ! 
 No, no, no ! Mother, not even for 3'ou. 
 
 \_DaslLes money on ground, and rushes out. 
 
 Scene III. — a very poor bed-chamber — Catherine in chair, very weak — 
 Arthur on his knees beside her — stage dark 
 
 Arthur. No consciousness yet? Too late — too late. Ah! she turns 
 her dim eyes upon me, but knows me not. Will my father never 
 come ? Heaven grant she may forgive him, and all, for this most ter- 
 rible neglect ! She looks again ! You do not remember me ; I am 
 Arthur — Arthur Beaufort. [She starts, looks, and falls back.'] Good 
 
16 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Heavens ! wliy do I see you here ? I believed you with your friends 
 — your children provided for as it became my father to do. 
 
 Cath. Your father — your father was unlike my beloved Philip, but 
 I see things differently now. For me, all bounty is too late — but my 
 children — to-morrow they will have no mother. The law is with 
 you, but not justice ; you will be rich and powerful. Will you protect 
 my children ? 
 
 Arthur. Throngh. life, so help me, Heaven ! {^Kneeling by chair. '\ Ah! 
 a happy smile is playing on her lips — it rests there. Oh, terrible, 
 most terrible. She is dead ! ! 
 
 Robert. [ Without. ] Arthur, are you here ? 
 
 [ARTirua ^0^5 to door, f, l. 
 
 Enter Robert. 
 
 Robert. My son ! how you alarmed me. Why have you sent for 
 me ? What place is this ? Where are we ? 
 
 Arthur. [^Pointing to Catherine.] In the presence of death ! in the 
 presence of her, whom your brother so loved, and who died but now 
 in this squalid room — died of a bi'oken heart, unsolaced even by the 
 presence of her children. Was that well, father? Have you in this 
 nothing to repent ? 
 
 Robert. [Face in his hands, and moved.^ I did not know — I — 
 
 Arthur. But we should have known. Weep, father ; and while 
 you weep, think of reparation. My task is done — I leave you alone 
 with the dead! \^Exit, l. d. f. 
 
 Robert. No, no, Arthur; I cannot endure it. Don't leave me, Ar- 
 thm\ He does not hear me. Oh ! this is fearful ! 
 
 \ Buries face in his hands. 
 
 Enter Philip, l. d. f,, wild and haggard. 
 
 Philip. Ha ! too late, too late ! [Robert looks up, Philip confronts 
 and glares at him.~\ She is dead! dead! — and in your presence. 
 Dead with grief — perhaps with famine ; and you have come to look 
 upon your work. 
 
 Robert. No, no, I have but just arrived — I came in search of ano- 
 ther. 
 
 Philip. You did not then come to relieve her? You had not 
 learned her suffering and distress, and flown hither in the hope that 
 tliere was yet time to save her. You did not do this ? Ha, ha! why 
 did I think it? Mother, mother! do not leave me — wake, and smile 
 once more upon your s'on. I would have brought you money, but I 
 could not have asked you for your blessing then. Mother, I ask it 
 now. \_Kneeling. 
 
 Robert. If I had but known — if you had but written — but my offers 
 have been refused. 
 
 Philip. [/Starts up.] Offers of a hireling's pittance to her, for whom 
 my father would have coined his heart's blood into gold. My father's 
 wife! His wife! [Folds his arms and regards Robert fercelg.] Mark 
 me ! you hold the wealth that I was trained from the cradle, to con- 
 sider my heritage. I have worked with these hands for bread, and 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 17 
 
 never complained, except to my own heart and soul. I never hated, 
 and never cursed you, robber, as you were. Aye, robber! despoiler 
 of the orphan, and derider of human love. You are not less a rob- 
 ber, though the law fences you round, and men call you honest. Now, 
 in the presence of my dead mother — now, I abhor and curse you — 
 doubly, trebly curse you ! The curse of the widow and the orphan 
 shall cling to you, and yours. It shall gnaw your heart in the midst 
 of splendor — it shall cleave to the heritage of your son — there shall 
 be a death-bed yet, beside which you shall see the spectre of her, 
 now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave ! And now, 
 begone, my father's brother ! Begone to your luxurious home — 
 usurp not the sacred privilege which I alone possess. Beave me, 
 leave me, I say 1 \^Exit Robkrt, d. f. l.] My mother! my mother! 
 
 [Flings himself on his knees, 
 
 SLOW MUSIC AS CURTAIN DESCENDS. 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Church-yard scene — Moonlight — Philip discovered standing 
 near mound — Sydney {in cloak) with him. 
 
 Philip [placing Sydney on stone]. Sit there, Sydney, for a mo- 
 ment. [Goes back to his mother's grave.] Mother, mother, I have 
 come to repeat my oath that I will be faithful to the charge you 
 have entrusted to your wretched son ! I will be to your beloved 
 Sydney a father, as well as a brother ! I will put my stout heart 
 against the world, to screen him from its malice ! Oh, may thy 
 spirit of love and forethought, and vigilance, enter into me, and lit 
 me for the task ! 
 
 Syd. It's cold here, dear Philip. Won't you take me home to 
 mamma ? 
 
 Philip. Listen to me, Sydney. We cannot go back to our dear 
 mother ; I will tell you why, later. We are alone in the world — we 
 two : if you will come with me. Heaven help you, for you will have 
 many hardships ; we shall have to work and drudge, and you may 
 be cold and hungry, and tired very often, Sydney. Hush, there's a 
 footstep ! 
 
 Enter Black well and Akthur, u. e. l. 
 
 Black [aside']. There he is. How well I understand human nature. 
 I knew I should find him here. 
 
 Arthur. Speak to him. Tell him how anxious we are to assist. 
 
 Black. Hold, Mr. Morton, one moment. 
 
 Philip. Well, sir, what seek you of me ? 
 
 Black. Mr. Beaufort is desirous of offering you 
 
 Philip. Silence, sir. Go back and tell your employer to remember 
 our last interview. 
 
18 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Arthur. Philip, turn and listen to me. If you knew how anxiously 
 I have sought you 
 
 Philip. And why have you dared to hunt me out? Why must 
 this insolent tyranny betray and expose me and my wretchedness 
 wherever I turn ? 
 
 Arthur. Your poor mother 
 
 Philip. Kame her not. With the dead clay beneath your very 
 feet — talk not of the mercy a Beaufort could show to her and to 
 her offspring. I believe it not. You follow me because your vain, 
 hollow, heartless father fears me — aj^e, fears me. My last words 
 ring in his ears. Arthur Beaufort, I will receive nothing from j^ou 
 or yours. Were yon tree the gibbet, and to touch your hand could 
 alone save me from it, I would scorn your aid ; and the very thought 
 fires my blood. Will a Beaufort give me back my birthright, restore 
 my dead mother's fair name ? Sleek, dainty, luxurious minion, out 
 of my path ! You have my fortune, my station, and my rights — I 
 have but povert}^ hatred and disdain. 
 
 \Going. The officer rises and goes off l. after Philip. 
 
 Arthur. Philip, hear me ! Who stood by you when ? 
 
 Enter Plimmins and Officers, u. e. l, 
 
 Plim. There he is. There's the man that robbed old Plaskwith's 
 till. [Plimmins attempts to take Philip. Philip knocks him, down. 
 
 Philip. Brother, follow me. 
 
 [Exit L. 1 E., followed hy Plimmins. Sydney is about to follow, 
 
 when Black WELL .^tops him. 
 
 Black. A moment; young gentleman — you are too young to reflect 
 
 on the consequences of this moment. With him, penury, crime and 
 
 wretchedness will be your portion — with us, affluence, content and 
 
 joy- 
 
 Syd. I don't know what you mean — I must go with my brother. 
 
 Arthur. Be advised, dear Sydney — you shall be loved and pet- 
 ted — not a wish ungratified — you shall ride in a carriage, and have 
 your pony. 
 
 Syd. Oh ! shall I ? How good you are. But can't Philip come 
 with me ? 
 
 Black. Yes, yes, promise him anything, so that we remove him 
 from such terrible companionship. \.Th^y l^ad him off, r. h. 
 
 Re-enter Philip, u. e. l. 
 
 Philip. Sydney, Sydney, why didn't you follow me ? Ah ! my 
 
 brother, where is he ? Arthur Beaufort here — I see it all — they 
 
 have taken him from me, but I will follow him to the world's end. 
 
 l^Exit R. 1 E. The Officers enter l., and run across and exit R., in 
 
 pursuit.^ 
 
 Enter Gawtrey, r. 
 
 Gaw. Aye ! aye ! aye ! there's the brutal world at its favorite pas- 
 time, hunting unfriended misfortune, until exhausted with the piti- 
 less chase, it sinks too often at the door of the jail, or the foot of the 
 gallows. {^Voices l. il, Follow! follow! Cries louder.'] They come 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 19 
 
 this way. Surely I know that face and form, 'Tis the young fellow 
 whose savage grandeur so impressed me at that foolish bookseller's. 
 I must try and save him — that brow of his is not the page of crime. 
 
 [Philip runs on : Gawtrey inf,ercepts him. 
 Philip. What are you — a spy ? 
 Gaw Pshaw 1 no. 
 
 Philip. Save me. You remember me ? 
 Gaw. I do. Follow me — quick — this way. 
 
 [7%6'y ejiter house. Cries of "Follow," (&c., kept up until scene has 
 changed, and then noise of footsteps heard passing behind F., in 
 pursuit, and cries continued, gradually dying away in the distance. 
 
 Scene III. — Interior of Gawtrey's house — Very poor — Gawtrey and 
 
 Philip discovered. 
 
 Gaw [listens}. They have passed by, and you are safe. Now, sit 
 down — eat something — you look — I mean, you must be hungry. 
 Here's the remains of our little supper — not much, to be sure, but 
 add a hearty welcome to it, and it may make a sufficient meal. 
 
 Philip. I thank you, but I cannot eat. 
 
 Gaw. What's your name ? Have you done anything that old Dame 
 Justice may not squint at ? I knew you hadn't; I said so. No matter 
 if you had. Can 1 help you in any way ? You know me, don't you ? 
 
 Philip, (r.) Yes, but these disguises. 
 
 Gaw. (l ) Pm somewhat changed in appearance? Hush! don't 
 speak loudly about that; my darling Fanny, a daughter, sleeps, but 
 she might wake ; and for the wealth of worlds, I would not that 
 
 she ; but never mind. Are you afraid to trust me? What are 
 
 you thinking about ? 
 
 Philip. I am thinking how strange it is that you, so poor yourself, 
 should be so kind to me in my distress. 
 
 Gaw. Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom he gets the most 
 pence from, the fine lady in the cari'iage, or the ragged pedestrian, 
 who gazes on it with envy. Pish ! the people nearest to beggars 
 themselves, keep the beggars alive. Come, be frank with me, as I 
 am with you. I know what's passing in your mind. You are tremb- 
 ling at the power over your future life and actions, which may be 
 swayed by one whom you might regard as a benefactor, yet distrust 
 as a guide. 
 
 Philip. Gawtrey, I know nothing yet of the world, except its dark 
 side ; but as you alone have been kind to me, it is to your kindness, 
 like a first affection, that I cling, and yet 
 
 Gaw. You would rather know more of me before you give me your 
 whole confidence. Then, to speak fairly, I don't live exactly within 
 the pale of the law, but I am not a villain. I never plundered my 
 friend, and called it play. I never murdered my friend, and called 
 it honor. I struggle with fortune voila tout, as I told you before. I 
 am a Charlatan — so is every man who strives to be richer or greater 
 than he is. My bread and cup are at your service. I will try and 
 keep you unsullied, as I do one other, even by the clean dirt that 
 now and then sticks to me. It is no reason that you should be a sin- 
 
20 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 ner, because I am not a saint In fine, my life is that of a great 
 schoolboy, getting into scrapes for the fun of it, and fighting my way 
 out as best as I can ! Will you see how you like it ? 
 
 Philip. Your hand, Gawtrey ! There's a wild promise of adven- 
 ture in your companionship that charms me ! 
 
 Gaw. l^Aside."] Philip, there's a chain of sympathy between us, 
 which, as yet, you're not aware of. Oh ! these Beauforts ! I have a 
 long account to settle with them ! 
 
 Philip. How have they injured you ? 
 
 Oaw, Injured me !— ^I'll tell you. One of them has stood between 
 my soul and Heaven's gate ! Lilburne, you know him ? I must be 
 brief, for I dare not dwell upon the hideous subject! He and I were 
 youths together : I loved, Philip — the girl was beautiful ; I thought 
 she loved me — perhaps she did ! I was fool enough to speak to him 
 of her, — of Mary ! — it ended in her seduction ! I discovered the 
 treachery, and called out the seducer. He sneered, and refused to 
 fight the low-born adventurer ! I struck him to the earth, and then 
 we fought. I was satisfied by a ball through my side ; but he — ^he 
 was a cripple for life. When I recovered, I found that my foe had 
 taken advantage of my illness to ruin my reputation, — society cast 
 me off when I was innocent ! Ha ! ha ! I've had my revenge on so- 
 ciety since ! 
 
 Philip. But the poor girl? 
 
 Gaw. Ha ! ha ! yes, you shall hear about the poor girl. We are 
 told of victims of seduction dying in a workhoiise, penitent, broken- 
 hearted, and extremely sentimental ; it may be a frequent case, but 
 it is not the worst. It is worse when the dupe becomes in her turn 
 the deceiver. Mary became this — her lover polluted her soul, as 
 well as her beauty. She had a daughter, whom — horror on horrors — 
 she would have trained to follow in her own career of infamy. I 
 found her out, and saved her. The girl is here, and you shall see her. 
 Poor Fanny ! if ever the devil will let me reform, it will be for her 
 sake. I must get grist for the mill. Hark ! she's stirring. Philip, 
 there is something I fear — it gives me great uneasiness — and that is, 
 that she is somewhat deficient here. [^Touches his forehead.^ Watch 
 her closely, and tell me if you think so. 
 
 Enter Fanny, b. 2 e. 
 
 Fanny. Dear, dear father ! You here ? Is it night or day ? I'm 
 not certain. 
 
 Gaw. It is day to my heart always, when you are near me, my 
 darling ; but here is a friend of mine, Fanny ; I want you to like 
 him. 
 
 Fanny. Oh yes, with all my heart and soul, if he is your friend ! 
 Fanny will love you, if he wishes it. But tell me, is it night yet ? 
 It's very long, this night — I don't like it. 
 
 Gaw. It is night, darling, don't you see the moon ? 
 
 [^Running over to R. corner. 
 
 Fanny. No, no, I don't like to look at the moon ; it gives me a 
 pain here. \^Presses her forehead. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 21 
 
 Gaw. \_AbiSa to Philip.] You hear that, Morton ? 
 
 Fanny. {^Crosses c. Suddenly to Philip.] Did you come from the 
 moon ? I don't like you, if you did. 
 
 Philip. No, poor orphan ; I am a brother in sorrow. 
 
 Fanny. Oh, I am glad of that, I did so want a brother ! Are you 
 my brother ? Then poor Fanny will love you for ever and ever. 
 But will you sing to me, and make my heart happy, as my sister does ? 
 
 Philip. Your sister ! Have you ? 
 
 Fanny. There she is ; [points to cage ;] but she's jealous now. I'll 
 tell you something, but I don't want her to hear it. That great, ugly, 
 cross moon, frightens her, just as it does me, and my little sister 
 won't sing when it's looking at her. 
 
 Gaw. Why do you call the bird your sister ? 
 
 Fanny. I don't know. Isn't she ? Don't you love the bird ? Don't 
 you love poor Fanny ? 
 
 Gaw. Ah ! you know I do ! 
 
 Fanny. You'll have no other — nothing else to love ? 
 
 Gaw.^ No other, Fanny ; no, nothing under heaven, and, perhaps, 
 above it. 
 
 Fanny. That's a dear, good father. Now, I know it's night, for 
 Fanny is getting sleepy again. I would like to stay with you and 
 my sister — no, I mean the bird and my brother, but the cruel moon 
 closes Fanny's eyes. Good night, dear father. Good night, brother. 
 
 Gaw. Good night, darling. [She sings couplet, and exits.'] What say 
 you, Morton ? Do you think she is, really ? No, no, she will out- 
 grow it ; I know she will. You think so, don't you ? 
 
 Philip. I hope so. She is a most interesting girl. 
 
 Gaw. Is she not a darling? Something whispers to me that you 
 will have the power to befriend her when I am off life's roll. Will 
 you promise me that, even should I leave her penniless? 
 
 Philip. Gawtrey, I will. 
 
 Gaw. You will? Huzza ! Then Fate, I defy you! God bless you, 
 Morton, and whatever may happen to me, I will strive and keep 
 you harmless, and what's more, untainted by the wild companion- 
 ship you may encounter. But now, to speak of your own prospects. 
 What say you to going with me to Paris ? Fanny and I leave to- 
 morrow. There's a glorious ferment in society there — something ad- 
 vantageous must boil up to the surface. 
 
 Philip. If my brother Sydney would accompany me, I should not 
 hesitate an instant. Ah I if I knew where to seek for him ! 
 
 Gaw. I'll tell you — at Mr. Robert Beaufort's splendid drawing- 
 room. He gives a grand fete this evening, and your fortunate bro- 
 ther, depend upon it, is the newest pet of that no-hearted crew, to 
 be crammed and caressed, until, in turn, deposed by some poodle 
 dog or parrot. 
 
 Philip. Could I but see him — were it only for a moment. 
 
 Gaw. Then why don't you ? 
 
 Philip. What a foolish question. Why? because my uncle's pamp- 
 ered lacqueys would drive me from the door. 
 
 Gaw. In your present garb, most likely ; but you forget that I 
 
22 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 have a -wardrobe of the greatest variety. Egad! I am in a humor 
 to seek amusement. I'll go with you, 
 
 Philip. I will see him, whatever be the result. 
 
 Gaw. We shall see. Allons. [Exeunt, d. f. 
 
 Scene IV. — Drawing-room at Beaufort's — Ante-room, brilliantly light- 
 ed — Mrs. Beaufort discovered arranging Sydney's hair, d'c. — Ar- 
 thur and Camilla also discovered — A waltz. 
 
 Mrs. B. There, now, does he not look enchanting ? Oh, my dear 
 Arthur, I'm so much obliged to you for bringing me this beautiful 
 boy ! Since the lamentable death of my sweet Fidelle, I have not 
 seen anything that has pleased me so much. What did you say your 
 name was? 
 
 Syd. Sydney, ma'am ; my brother's name is Philip. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes. I know, but we don't want to hear any thing about 
 him. He's a very bad young man, not at all fit society for you, my 
 darling cupidon ! He associates with wretched people, and is alto- 
 gether an exceedingly unpleasant person to anyone of delicate nerves. 
 There, now, go and join the company. I think I can bear the 
 fatigue of going once through the rooms before I retire. 
 
 Enter Lilburne and Robert Beaufort, c. 
 
 Robert. Ah, Lilburne, you look animated ! what has happened ? 
 
 Lord L. Haven't you heard ? why that young scoundrel, Morton, 
 has justified all our prognostics. The fellow will be transported, if 
 not hanged ! 
 
 3Irs. B. Bless me ! how agitated I am! Has he killed any one? 
 Is he a pirate ? He looks the very image of a buccaneer ! 
 
 Robt. (c. ) He has robbed his emploj^er of an immense amount, I 
 understand. 
 
 Lord L. After having severely wounded the unfortunate man, and 
 set fire to his house I 
 
 Mrs. B. I'm sure it will make him a much more extraordinary 
 person. One or two more such exploits and he'll be quite a lion. 
 
 Robert. He is now a caged whelp, at all events, and one fruitful 
 source of apprehension is destroyed. We shall never be annoyed by 
 him again! 
 
 Servant, [announces.'] Don Alfonso de Castro! 
 
 Enter Gawtrey and Philip in elegant evening dress, L. 1 e. 
 
 Gaw. Of the Spanish Legation — My coadjutor, the Senor Medina. 
 
 [Presenting Philip, 
 
 Mrs. B. What an elegant looking young man ! What's the matter ? 
 
 [To Lilburne. 
 
 Lord L. Nothing ; an accidental resemblance. 
 
 Robert. Gentlemen, pray use no ceremony. The hospitalities of 
 my humble house are at your service. 
 
 Gaw. Your excellency, we are oblige. [6om)S.] I speake not a moche 
 of the English ; my friend, not at all, but we tought it to be our du- 
 ty to make a — our respect. [bows. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 23 
 
 Rohert. You do me much honor, sir. Pray make yourselves at 
 home. {.TI*^y saunter through antechamber. 
 
 Lord L. Did you ever see those men before ? 
 Rohert. Nevei*. Why do you ask? 
 LordL. Are they accredited? 
 Robert. I can tell you in an instant. \calh.'\ Simpson? 
 
 Enter Simpson, l. 
 
 "What cards did those gentlemen present ? 
 
 Simpson. Here they are, sir. [Giving cards. 
 
 Robert. Countersigned by the Spanish ambassador. I know his 
 signature. It is all correct. 
 
 Zord L. Then I breathe freer ! Come, let us join the guests. 
 
 [They exeunt, c. 
 Enter Gawtrey and Philip, c. 
 
 Gaw. Ha ! ha ! haven't I tricked them famously ? I saw that villain 
 Lilburne's white heart leap into his face ! He thought he recognized 
 me, but the cards have assured him. I watched the scrutiny, pen- 
 manship is a wonderful accomplishment. 
 
 Philip. I am beneath his roof, with a curse against its possessors 
 registered in my heart, and yet, if they restore me my brother, it 
 will half obliterate the record. 
 
 Gaw. And, luckily, there he is, Philip. The toy begins to weary 
 already. He is sauntering by himself, looking with Avonder upon 
 this unaccustomed grandeur. 
 
 Philip, [goes to door.l Sydney! my brother! 
 
 [Sydney rushes into Philip's arms. 
 
 Syd Oh I my dear, dear, Philip ! I'm so glad you're here. Now 
 we'll all "He so happy. But they tell me that you are very, very 
 wicked, and that I mustn't love you any more. 
 
 Philip. Do you hear, Gawtrey ? Oh ! is not that the work of 
 devils, to poison his young heart against one, of whose very life he 
 is the better part ? You don't believe them, Sydney? 
 
 Syd No. That I never will! 
 
 Philip. Bless you! bless you! my brother! 
 
 Enter Lilburne, a 
 
 Lord L. (r.) I thought as much ! Mr. Philip Morton, 
 Gaw. [Crosses r. c] Raise your voice above a whisper, and the 
 Devil whom you have served for your whole, miserable life, will be 
 your next host ! I swear it, by the soul of her you turned from angel 
 into fiend! 
 
 Enter Robert, c. 
 
 Rohert. What confusion is this ! Simpson, close the doors ! I'm 
 not desirous of a scene. \_To Philip.] Insolent reprobate ! How dare 
 you presume to smuggle yourself into my house ? 
 
 Philip. Robert Beaufort ! you see one before you, to whom woe 
 and wrong have given a prophetic power to guide the eye of unfor- 
 getful fate to the roof of the oppressor. [Lilburne is sneaking off. 
 
24 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Gaw. Stir another footstep, and your grave is dug ! You know me 1 
 
 Philip. My brother ! Give me but my brother, and you will never 
 see or hear of me again. 
 
 Robert. No ! Take away that boy. \^Servant advances to Sydney, 
 Philip checks him and passes Sydney round to L.] Begone, sir, before 
 I send you back to the jail from whence you have escaped! 
 
 Philip. Jail ! Escaped ! "What infamous coinage is this ? 
 
 Robert. You cannot deceive me, sir, we know all, and it is only 
 out of consideration for the honor of my outraged family, that I re- 
 frain from sending for the officers of justice 1 
 
 Philip. Oh ! world ! world ! When the cry is raised, what matter 
 whether the hunted outcast is innocent or guilty I Fate and the fu- 
 ture will yet answer this indignity, this lie, which even you do not 
 believe 1 One word, and I am gone ! Sydney, do you remain here 
 of your own free will ? 
 
 Robert. Absurd ! why, certainly he does ! 
 
 Philip. Silence, sir ! I will have the answer from his own lips ! 
 Sydney ! my brother ! 
 
 Syd. I do, Philip. I am very happy here. 
 
 Philip. Enough! Fm satisfied! [Robert ?ea(?s Sydney o^,R.] This, 
 then, is the crowning reward of all my sufferings, and all my love ! 
 The serpent's tooth has pierced my heart and left there all its venom. 
 
 Gaw. Come, you are young, have a great stake in life to play for, 
 enter on the game with courage and determination. 
 
 Philip. Well, well, be it so, and I — I will never care for a human 
 being again ! Come, Gawtrey ! France, India, the Antipodes, the 
 further off the better. I am fit for anything that's desperate and 
 hopeless. Conscience has fled from my soul on the wings of depart- 
 ed love ! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
 ACT lY. 
 
 Scene I. — Elegant Apartment in " The Temple of Ifymen" — A large 
 party assembled — Gawtrey as Maitre de Ceremonies, placing couples, 
 <kc., and when they retire — Blackwell disguised as English milord. 
 
 Black, (r.) Ah 1 Sir, what tact, what delicacy. It is not without 
 reason that you have acquired the title of Emperor of Marriage 
 Makers, 
 
 Gaw. (l.) Monsieur is pleased to flatter. Yes ; somehow my mar- 
 riages turn out somewhat luckier than those brought about in the 
 regular family way. I have a splendid array of names and fortunes 
 on my list now. Wliat did I understand Monsieur's specialite was 
 with regard to personal charms ? 
 
 Black. To speak the truth, Mr. Love, the only personal charms I 
 covet, are personal property. The more the lady is endowed there- 
 with, the more lovely will she appear in my eyes. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 25 
 
 Gaw. And what may Monsieur's limit be with regard to age ? 
 
 Black. Anywhere under a hundred. 
 
 Gaw. I think I can suit Monsieur Birney, — that is your name, I be- 
 lieve, sir, — to a charm. Mademoiselle de Courval, ancient and aristo- 
 cratic, with a rent-roll of millions. She dates from the Carlovingians. 
 I will present her to you, \_Aside.'\ A sort of boiled sole on my 
 hands for some time, but this money-hunter has a vigorous appetite. 
 
 [^Retires to group at back. 
 
 Bloich. 'Tis he ; I have found him at last. I knew him mstantly, 
 in spite of that benevolent head, fabricated for his present role. This 
 will be news for my lord. 
 
 Gaib, {^Bringing forxoard a bedizened old Dowager.'] I have the 
 honor to introduce, my Lord Birney — the Mademoiselle de Courval. 
 A splendid chance, Madame. 
 
 Black. Enchanted; may I have the pleasure to engage your hand 
 for the next dance ? {They go up. 
 
 Gaw. But where does Philip stay? He little knows, poor fellow, 
 what use I make of him in my Hymenial Temple. He's my decoy — 
 my stock in trade. I have promised him, and his grand estates, to 
 some half-dozen of my most importunate clients. Ah ! here he comes. 
 
 Enter Philip (c.) elegantly dressed. 
 
 Ah ! my lord. "Welcome. 
 
 Fhilip. Why do you salute me thus, Gaw 
 
 Gaio. Hush ; discretion. 
 
 Philip. I do not like it — it savors of deceit. 
 
 Gaw. Pshaw \ Isn't every Englishman a milord here ? It's a mat- 
 ter of course. 
 
 Philip. I have endured this life of inaction, and of almost shame, 
 long enough. You have, hitherto, evaded my questions, as to how 
 this retinue is kept up, but I have come here to-night to say, that if 
 I do not have a satisfactory answer, we must part 
 
 Gaw. Is it not enough that you live like a gentleman, and whatso- 
 ever of pitch may stick to those who enable you to do so, your hands 
 are unsullied. What does it signify if you are not compromised ; 
 what need you care. [Blackwell appears behind. 
 
 Philip. Gawtrey, I will, I must be convinced. It is criminal to 
 walk thus in wilful blindness. You are deceiving me. What is your 
 employment — for you have other besides this ? Since your return 
 to Paris, you are absent whole nights, at times. It makes me almost 
 mad to look back — and yet, you do not trust me. Gawtrey, I am 
 not too proud for charity, but for 
 
 Gato. Crime — you were about to say — go on — don't mince your 
 words with me, 
 
 Philip. Will you then trust me ? You are engaged in a horrible 
 traffic, of which this is a mere blind. I will not be silently entrapped 
 to perdition. If I march thither, it shall be with my own consent. 
 Trust me, at once, or we part to-morrow. 
 
 Gaw. Philip, be ruled. There are some secrets it is better not to 
 know. 
 
 2 
 
26 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Philip. It matters not. I have come to my decision — Task yours ? 
 
 Oaw. "Well, then, if it must be so — [Blackwell gets behind curtain, 
 near] — sooner or later it must have been, and I want a confidante. 
 You are bold and will not shrink. You desire to know my occupa- 
 tion — will you witness it to night ? 
 
 Philip. I am prepared — to-night. 
 
 Gaiv. You will have to take an oath, and I must be responsible 
 with my life for your honesty. 
 
 Philip. And can you not ? 
 
 Gaw. Without a scruple. Well — retire early; and at midnight 
 meet me at IS^o. 25, Passage de Fleur Rue, and you will know all. 
 Meantime, be joyous, and let the hours fly in merriment. Above 
 all things, be a little more attentive to the female visitors, they 
 complain sadly of your coldness. [Ladies looking at Philip. 
 
 Philip. Pshaw 1 Their rude glances annoy me. 
 
 Gaw. You'll see an old friend of yours to-night. Plaskwith, the 
 bookseller— more convinced than ever of his Napoleonic identity, 
 which I have contrived a plan to encourage. [Philip retires — Several 
 ladies rush forimrd towards Gawtrey.] One at a time, my b-eautiful 
 rose-buds. Well, Ma'mselle, what is it ? 
 
 Lady. The dear young lord — you remember? 
 
 Gaw. Has been sounding your praises in my ears. You will tri- 
 umph, {To another.'] It's nearlj' settled — a slight question of pin- 
 money only — congratulate yourself, you are the chosen o-ne — they 
 must all wear the willow except 3'ou. A carriage — It is his Majesty, 
 [All Advance^ You remember what I told you ? We shall have a 
 fine diversion. 
 
 Enter Plaskwith, (c.) in a Napoleon uniform — All the people retire de- 
 ferentially. 
 
 Plask. Well, Mr. Love, my High Priest of Hymen, here I am, you 
 see, in full fig — a jolly widower, you know — plenty of money, all I 
 want is a sweet little darling to help me make it fly happily ; I've 
 adopted your hint, you see — makes the resemblance perfect. Don't 
 you think so ? 
 
 Gaw. It is absolute identity ! Did it never occur to you that some 
 inconvenience, if not danger, might occur from this extraordinary 
 likeness ? 
 
 Plask. Danger ! Good gracious. No — it never entered my head. 
 
 Gaw. The Emperor is at St. Helena, to be sure,, but rumors of his 
 escape from thence are rife. Now, should any zealous Bourbonite 
 encounter you. 
 
 Plask. You're right, my friend — it might be serious. What's the 
 matter wath all the people ? 
 
 Gau\ I shouldn't be surprised if they took you to be the Emperor 
 in reality. Humor the joke — it can't do you any harm here. 
 
 Plask. They do look upon me with great respect. Upon my life, 
 the sensation is quite intoxicating ! 
 
 [ Walks about — qreat respect shown by the crowd — exclamations of — 
 " It is he !" " I'm sure of it," <fec. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 27 
 
 An Officer, (down r,) [^Aside to Plask.] "Where, sire — "where is the 
 Sun of Austerlitz ? 
 
 Plask. (c.) How the devil do /know? Gone home to his mother, 
 I suppose. 
 
 \st Guest, {down L.) How heroic, yet how imprudent this exposure. 
 
 Plask. Do you think so ? 
 
 Guest. Yes ! there are Bourbons in the room. 
 
 Plask. Have we a Bourbon amongst us ? 
 
 2d Guest, {down, K.) Traitor and usurper! — tremble! 
 
 Plask. Don't be a fool ! What for ? 
 
 1st Guest. You have rushed into the lion's jaws. 
 
 Plask. Then I sincerely hope the beast won't wag his tail. 
 
 Gaw. Now, Messieurs et Mesdames, 'tis time to have a good game. 
 "What say you to Colin Maillard — what you English call Blind Man's 
 Buff. [All cri/ "Bravo! yes!" Ladies clap their Iiands, dec.'] Who'll 
 blind ? [All — " I ! I ! "J No, no ; the choice must go regularly. 
 [i^MS.] The choice has fallen upon his ma — I mean this gentleman. 
 
 Voices. Will he condescend ? 
 
 Plask. If I must, I must, I suppose ; but woe betide the damsel I 
 catch ! I'll take my revenge from her lips, I'll warrant me. [Bus. 
 Minded.] Are you ready ? 
 
 Six horses in the stable — 
 Three white and three grey; 
 Turn about as fast as you're able, 
 And now, catch who may. 
 [After a short go at blind mans buff, the gents all go off, l. 1 k. — 
 women scream — "The soldiers! The soldiers!" 
 
 Gaw. [To Plask.] Keep your face concealed, or you are lost. This 
 cloak will cover you. [2'hen, in altered voice, as Guests march across 
 with measured step.] Halt! front! let none stir on their peril. Ground 
 arms! 
 
 [They let fall brooms, shovels, d'c. — Plaskwith is seized at back, 
 and cloak taken off. 
 
 Gaw. Audacious tyrant ! 
 
 Plask. It's a mistake, upon my life and soul. 
 
 Gaw. Tie the bandage firmer on his eyes, it will save time. Remain 
 there, shoot him, if he dares to stir. What is the opinion of Monsieur 
 Le General? [They consult together — "No! no!"] I tell j-ou, yes! 
 Would )-ou not rid the world of a wolf? Death, at once, I say ! 
 
 Plask. What's that? Oh, this is frightful ! I have my passport in 
 my pocket. I protest against this. My name is Plaskwith ! [Kneels. 
 
 Gaw. Silence ! Get up. 
 
 Plask. Oh, my gracious ! Tliis is awfui ! What are you going to 
 do to me? 
 
 Gaw. Remember the fate of D'Enghein ? 
 
 Plask. What the devil had I to do with it ? I'm an Englishman, 
 and a stationer. Great Britain always protects her stationers. 
 There'll be a bloody war on my account, mark my words. 
 
 Gaw. Silence ! 
 
 Plask. I shan't ! I'll be hanged if I do i 
 
 Gaw. No — you'll be shot ! 
 
28 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Plash. Stop a bit. Is there no getting out of this ? 
 
 Gaw. No ! 
 
 Flask. It's a settled thing that I must be shot ? 
 
 Gaw. Yes ! 
 
 Flask. Then, damme, if I don't die game ! Come on, 
 
 l^He pugilises, u?itil two confine his wrists 
 
 Gaw. March ! 
 
 Flask. I shan't stir a peg. 
 
 Gaw. Advance bayonets. 
 
 Flask. Be quiet ; I'll march. Ah, this is a pretty end to all my 
 second-hand greatness ! 
 
 Gaw. Don't talk. [Plaskwith is placed in situatio7i,] Kneel down. 
 
 Flask. I shan't-! 
 
 Gaw. You must ! [.They force him on knees. 
 
 Flask. You'll smart for this, you murderous scoundrels, that's a 
 comfort. Why don't you fire, you bloodthirsty rufiians ? 
 
 Gaw. Make ready ! 
 
 Flask. Stop a bit ; I'm not in a hurry. 
 
 Gaw. Present! Fire! 
 
 \^An explosion of laughter — the bandage snatched off — Plaskwith 
 looking arou7id bewildered, shakes his fist at them, and runs off stage, 
 
 Gaw. Ha! ha! a little instalment of your old debt, Philip. 
 
 [^All laugh. Closed in. 
 
 Scene II — Frivate office of Folice. 
 
 Enter Favare, Blackwell and Lord Lilburxe, r. h. 
 
 Favare. (Andre enters, l. 2 e., and arranges seats, d:c.) We are now 
 alone, my loi*d, and can converse freely. Have you tracked your 
 fugitive ? 
 
 Lord L. Thanks to my indefatigable friend, I have, at last. 
 
 Favare. Let's hear all about it. 
 
 Black. Do you happen to know a certain Mr. Love, a marriage 
 merchant ? 
 
 Favare. Ha 1 ha ! Is he your man ? He has been among the sus- 
 picious for some time. What accusation have you against him ? 
 
 Lord L. Nothing, actually, of myself; but he has so deeply injured 
 one of my relatives, that if any law can reach him, I will pay libe- 
 rally for its most rigid construction. That he has oifended, there can 
 not be a doubt, for I know him to be capable of any atrocity ! 
 
 Favare. Humph! It's somewhat dangerous without criminality. 
 Have you watched him thorougldy ? 
 
 Black. Night and day ; but he is as keen sighted as a fox. To- 
 night, I know, he has made an appointment to be at No. 25 Passage 
 de Fleur Rue, at midnight. 
 
 Favare. What say you ? At No. 25 Passage de Fleur Rue ! One 
 moment. \^Rcfers to tablets.'] Hurrah! We have him! Fool that 1 
 was, not to know. I am to be there to-night. 
 
 Lord L. He has committed crime, then ? The worst, I hope ? 
 
 Fo/vare. The most unpardonable, commercially. He is no other 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING, 29 
 
 than one who lias eluded tlie vigilance of all our experts, the cele- 
 brated Gii'ameau, the most skilful and audacious coiner in the world. 
 
 Lord L. Whose punishment is death ! 
 
 Favare. Or worse — life at the galleys. 
 
 Lord L. He'd get away. No, no, he must die ! 
 
 Black. But I have another surprise for you. Who, think you, is 
 his accomplice ? Why, that same Philip Morton who gave Mr. Beau- 
 fort so much uneasiness. 
 
 Lord L. Fortune be thanked — then we crush both our enemies at 
 once. Have you taken your measures securely ? 
 
 Favare. You don't know me, my lord, or you wouldn't ask. I'll 
 convince you, however. Just step into this closet for a few moments. 
 Ho ! Andre ! 
 
 Andre enters, 2 e. l. 
 
 Send that unknown to me who waits in my office. You can overhear 
 our conversation, and judge for yourself. 
 
 Enter Gaspard, 
 
 ISTow, my friend, you understand the terms of our compact ? 
 
 Gasp. Twenty thousand francs, and a free pardon. 
 
 Favare. Nothing more reasonable. Still, my friend, I should like 
 to have my men close at hand. This will be a dangerous experiment. 
 
 Gasp. You knew the danger beforehand. You must enter alone 
 with me, or not at all. The men are sworn to murder him who be- 
 trays them, and not for twenty times twenty thousand francs would 
 I have them know me as the informer. 
 
 Favare. Now for our design, I disguise myself as a workman, and 
 you are to introduce me as a skilful operator. That's it, isn't it? 
 
 Gasp. Yes ; if you feel sure of your disguise, all is safe. 
 
 Favare. Don't fear me ; I'm used to it, and although this fellow 
 has seen me often, I defy him to detect me when I change my out- 
 ward appearance. 
 
 Gasp. I had better join the gang — further delay would be suspi- 
 cious. You kno-w the door — when I whistle, knock three times. 
 You'll have to take a terrible oath, but I suppose you don't mind that? 
 
 Favare. No more than you do, my honest friend. Enough. I'll 
 meet you. Au revoir ! \^He opens door, Gaspard exits r. 
 
 Enter Lord Lilburne and Blackwell. 
 
 You see, my lord, the trap is cunningly set ; and yet these old rats 
 are hard to cheat. 
 
 Lord L. Remember, Monsieur Favare, five hundred pounds are 
 yours if he is taken alive — dotihle, if he should by any accident be 
 killed in the endeavor. You must be paid for your risk. 
 
 Favare. My lord takes a business-like view of the matter. 
 
 [Exeunt, L. H. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Coiner's vaxdt — Men seen in various occupations — A 
 Table across Stage, on which are pistols, knives, &c. — A hook of ac- 
 counts and drinking materials — A Forge in blast, lighted with torches 
 — Philip blindfolded and Gawtrey descend steps — Gawtrey removes 
 bandage — Philip stands appalled. 
 
80 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Coiners. Who is this new comer? Has he taken the oath ? 
 
 Gaw. [down e. c] No. [They rush towards them.'] But I am answer- 
 able for him with my life. [Coiners retire. 
 
 Philip, (r.) Gawtrey. 
 
 Gaw. Hush ! I bade jon not to call me by that name. 
 
 Philip. It is the least guilty one by which I have known you. It 
 is the last time I shall call you by it or any other. I demanded to 
 see by what means, one, to whom I had entrusted my fate, supported 
 himself I see it now, and the tie between us is rent for ever. 
 [Gawtkey about to .<ipeak.'] Interrupt me not. It is not for me to 
 blame you, for I have eaten of your bread and drank of your cup, 
 confiding in you too blindly — my conscience seared by distress, my 
 very soul made dormant by despair, I now awake at the very brink 
 of the abyss — my mother's hand beckons to me from the grave. Let 
 me return — we part now and forever. 
 
 Gaw. Part — That I may let loose upon the world another traitor. 
 Part — Never, Philip Morton, at least, alive. 
 
 Philip. I have said it. Frown not on me, man of guilt, I am as 
 fearless as yourself 
 
 Gaw. Ha ! Is it so ? Slave and fool, once here, j^ou're mine, body 
 and soul, forever. 
 
 Philip. Tempter and fiend, I defy you. Stand back. 
 
 Gaw. Boy — do not rouse the devil within me. 
 
 Philip. You dare not harm me, for you gave me shelter and 
 bread ; but I implore you to abandon this horrible career into which 
 you have been decoyed, — for her sake, for Fanny's sake. Pause, like 
 me, before the gulf swallows lis ; let us fly together. Men, desperate 
 as we are, have yet risen by honest means — the honorable career of 
 arms is open to us. You are moved — I see you are. It is not my 
 voice that speaks — it is that of your good angel. 
 
 Gaw. Morton, you can go — leave me to my fate. I could repent, 
 I could begin life over again — after this night perhaps, I may ; but 
 yet, to look back, to remember, to be haunted day and night with 
 deeds that shall meet me bodily, and face to face at the last day. 
 
 Philip. Add not to the spectres. Come with me now — remember 
 your orphan charge. 
 
 Gaw. Morton, you have touched a chord within my soul that I 
 thought was long since shattered. I will go with you, after this 
 night. There's my hand upon it. 
 
 Philip. Then I'll remain with yo\i until you quit this accursed 
 place for ever. [Three loud Tcnocks, tipper n. f. l. 
 
 Gaw. Hush ! [To a Coiner.] Who is that ? Is any one out? 
 
 Coiner. Yes — Gaspard. Did he not tell you ? He has found out 
 the cleverest hand in France — he has promised to bring him here to- 
 night. 
 
 Gaw. Yes, I remember. Gaspard is a famous decoy. It was he 
 that persuaded me into this damnable traffic ■ let him in. [Coiyier 
 lets down bar and opens door.] Come, let us leave off work, and wel- 
 come our new brother. 
 
 All. Hurrah. 
 
 [All collect at Table — Gawtrey at ^eat?— Gaspard comes down steps. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 31 
 
 Oaw. "Where's your booty, mon brave "? We only coin money, 
 you coin men, — ^stamp with your own seal, and send them current to 
 the devil. [vl Laugh. 
 
 Gaspard. If you mean the celebrated coiner, Jacques Girammaud, 
 he waits without. He knows the oaths, and will bear the penalty. 
 
 Gaio. Admit him. 
 \_Bus. Gaspard opens door and secretes the bar — Favare in me- 
 chanic's dress, enters — A patch on Fav are's eye. 
 
 Diable, Monsieur Girammaud; but you look more like Vulcan than 
 Adonis. 
 
 Favare. I don't know anything about Vulcan, but I know how to 
 make five franc pieces. 
 
 ■Gaw. Ai-e you poor? 
 
 Favare. As a church mouse. 
 
 Gaw. Ah ! that's the only thing belonging to a church, that ^spoor. 
 But who responds with his life for your fidelity ? 
 
 Gaspard. I do. 
 
 Gaw. Enough. Administer the oath. \^Coiners seize him and make 
 him kneel.'] Come, Gaspard, it is for you to inform your friend of 
 the penalty. 
 
 Gasp. For me \ Oh, yes — to be sure ! Death to your wife, your 
 son and grandson, if you betray us 1 
 
 Favare. I have neither son, nor grandson, and as to my wife, par- 
 bleu! 'tis more of a bribe than a threat! 
 
 Gaw. You are the man for us. Drink to our new comrade, lads I 
 
 [They all go up to table, l. k. 
 
 Omnes. Hurrah I 
 
 Gaw. Now, let us test your skill, Mons. Girammaud. 
 
 Favare. Show me your coinage, first. [One brought.] This piece is 
 not bad — struck fi'om an iron die, but you take the poorest, and most 
 dangerous part of the trade — the home market. I can put you in a 
 way to make ten times as much, and with safety. Here's a Spanish 
 dollar. You can pass thousands of these all over Europe. 
 
 [Flings it on table. 
 
 Gaw. It rings well! [All examine it] "Bravo! Good!" You are 
 indeed an acquisition, and deserve the post of honor. Come to my 
 right hand, mon ami A half holiday for your welcome ! Clear away 
 these infernal instruments, and more wine ! A full glass, friends, 
 to our dear Gaspard, who has brought us this clever associate ! It is 
 somewhat strange, howevez-, that so dexterous a coiner should be 
 known to none of us but the fortunate Gaspard. 
 
 Favare. Not at all. I worked only for Beauchan, and he trusted 
 but one or two. 
 
 Gaw. C'est just, bouvez done cher ami! you had a bad accident, 
 Mons. Girammaud. How did you lose your eye ? 
 
 Favare. In a scufi^e with the cursed gens d'armes I Such accidents 
 are on the cards, you know. 
 
 Gaw. C'est juste, bouvez done, Mons. Girammaud ! You wear a 
 wig; I think. Monsieur, to judge by your eye-lashes, your own hair 
 .has been a handsomer color ? 
 
32 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Favare. We seek disguise, not beauty, my host. 
 Gaw. C'est juste, bouvez done, vieux Eenard. When did we two 
 meet last ? 
 
 Favare. Never;- that I know of. 
 
 Ga%o. C'est n'est pas vrai, bouvez done. Monsieur Favare ! Ho I 
 there ! Treason ! 
 
 [Confusion. Desperate struggle. Favare whistles. He is stricken 
 down by coiners. 
 Gaw. Quick ! the bar ! give it to me ! Morton, be firm and quiet, 
 you have nought to fear! \^Places bar against entrance.'\ The rest 
 escape by the secret passage ! 
 
 Philip. Let me assist you, Gawtrey ! I am strong ! 
 Gaw. Back, Philip ! I command you ! I can hold this against them 
 for an hour. \^A shot. Gawtrey is wounded through door. 
 
 Philip. Heavens I You are wounded ! 
 
 Gaw. Through this traitrous door ; but it's nothing! Hurrah! my 
 men, be quick ! 
 
 l^Just as the last coiner escapes through opening in wall, a discharge 
 of fire-arms. Gawtrey falh down stairway. Gens darmes rush in. 
 Gaw. Ha! ha! ha! Tricked! foiled! They've all escaped but one, 
 and he will soon be out of your reach ! His innocence can be estab- 
 lished, without the word of a dying felon ! Philip, forgive me! Fan- 
 ny — will you protect her ? 
 "^ Philip. With my life, Gawtrey ! 
 Gaw. Hurrah ! Then death is triumph ! Philip — take her portrait 
 from my breast — hold it where I can look my last — so — 
 
 [Kisses portrait and dies, 
 
 tableau, slow music. 
 
 end of act iv. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 (ten tears later.) 
 The Cottage at Ferndale — handso^ne Apartment. 
 Enter Lord Lilburn^ and Blackwell, l. h. 
 
 Lord L. These Beauforts weary me, Blackwell. I wish to heaven 
 they would bring their visit to a termination. This girl who inter- 
 ests me so much, have you seen her, Blackwell ? 
 
 Black. Yes, my lord ; but they tell me she is quite an idiot. 
 
 Lord L. Pshaw ! They are idiots who tell you so. 
 
 Black. Scarcely worthy of your notice — a poor — = — 
 
 Lord L. Yes, I know she's poor, and for that reason the affair can 
 be easily managed. You remember the saying of Philip, King of 
 Macedon, if not. Til bring it to your mind. Lead an ass, with a pan- 
 nier of gold through the gates of a cit}-, and all the sentinels will run 
 away. 
 
 Black. My lord, you flatter me by the inference. 
 
 Lord L. Yes, perhaps I should have added, let the conductor be 
 a thorough-paced and conscienceless knave. 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 33 
 
 BlacTc. Your lordship pays a compliment to my profession. 
 
 Lord L. Enough, sir, I know you ! This limb pains me still, and 
 I was scarce twenty-one when 1 became a cripple for life ; but he 
 died, shot as a man would shoot a rat ; he died ten years ago this 
 very day, an outcast, a felon, a murderer ! I blasted his name, de- 
 stroyed his mistress — and what am I ? 
 
 Black. John Lord Lilbiirne. 
 
 Lord L. Blackwell, when I take a thing into my head, you know 
 I'm not to be thwarted. You know, also, that I do not pay like a 
 niggard for services rendered. This girl must be mine ! It is not 
 passion that I feel towards her — pshaw ! I am too old for that — but 
 a feeling nearer to affection that has ever entered here I Blackwell, 
 I want something to love me. 
 
 Black. But, my lord, the girl is well known in the place — she will 
 be missed, and if any violence is done, the law 
 
 Lord L. The law ! And have you the laugliable audacity to speak 
 to me about that gossamer web — you, whose whole life has been a 
 practical test of its flimsiness. Hark ye, Blackwell, I have spent my 
 existence — as thousands have — in doing just what I please, without 
 ever putting myself within the power of the law. The difference be- 
 tween vice and crime is tliis : vice is what parsons write hurtless 
 discourses against — crime is what we make laws against. Now, I 
 have exhausted the catalogue of the former without ever infringing 
 the latter. 
 
 Black. Your lordship has been skilful. 
 
 Lord L. Vices are safe things, you know, but crimes are illegal, 
 therefore dangerous ; so have done with your scruples : besides, I 
 am meditating a longer and more serious attachment than usual. I 
 want a friend — a companion. 
 
 Black. A companion, my lord, in this poor creature, so ignorant^ 
 so uneducated. 
 
 Lord L. So much the better ; I am heart-sick of those petty piteous 
 conceits, that men, women, and children, call knowledge. I would 
 fain catch a glimpse of nature before I die ! But here come my 
 pests. Be discreet, and above all, be victorious. I won't be balked. 
 
 [^Exit, R. 
 
 Black. He has me in his power, and I dare not refuse. Ah ! what 
 would I not give to cancel this soul-purchase ? \_Exit, l. 
 
 Scene II. — Cottage Interior. 
 
 Enter Fanny, r., with basket of Flowers. 
 
 Fanny. Nearly a day has passed, and I have brought no new 
 flowers to deck yonder tomb. My brother — my dear brother will chide 
 me. [ Going towards d. f. ; is intercepted by Blackwell, who enters. 
 
 Enter Blackwell. 
 
 Black. Good day. Miss Fanny; where are you going with these 
 pretty flowers ? 
 
 Fanny. To place them on the tomb in yonder churchyard. 
 
34 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 JBlach Oh, it is you, then, who take so much pains with Mrs. Mor- 
 ton's resting-place. 
 
 Fanny. My dear brother told me to do so, long ago, and I have 
 not forgotten it. 
 
 Black. You're a very nice good little girl, Fanny. This is a new 
 business for me and I scarcely know how to set about it. "Wouldn't 
 you like to live in a finer house than this, Fanny? 
 
 Fanny. Oh, no ; it is the one he gave me to live in with my grand- 
 father, when n\y poor father died abroad. I wouldn't change it for 
 a palace ; but who are you I Go from me, sir, I don't know you ! 
 
 Black. But I have been sent to speak to you, by one who does know 
 you. He has sent his carriage for you — 'tis close at hand. 
 
 Fanny. I don't want a carriage. Don't hinder me ; I must place 
 these flowers there, or my brother will be angiy. How dare you 
 touch me ! 
 
 Black. See ! look at all this money ; it, and ten times as much, 
 shall be yours ! 
 
 Fanny. I don't know what you mean, but you won't be mde to 
 me ? No one is rude to me ! 
 
 Black. No one will be rude to you ! If you knew how much he, 
 who sent me, loves you. 
 
 Fanny. I'm glad of that, for if he does, he will let me place these 
 flowers. 
 
 Black. You don't know what you refuse. Come. 
 
 Fanny. No, no, no ! 
 
 Enter Philip. 
 
 Philip. Blackwell, here ; to what circumstance, or what knavish 
 end, does this j'oung lady owe the honor of a visit from you, sir ? 
 
 Black. Just passing bye, Mr. Morton, that's all. Christian sympa- 
 thy, etcetera, nothing more, upon my professional veracity : sorry 
 for all your troubles, sir. 
 
 Philip. Pah! [G^oe* ^o Fanny. 
 
 Black. This is somewhat malapropos, but I know how to lure him 
 out ; my assistants are at hand — good dependable knaves. Sir, be 
 assured that I sincerely commiserate with your unhappy fortune. 
 
 Philip, (d.) Away, hound ! and keep out of my path. I know you. 
 
 Black. Beware ! the hound may bite. [Fxit 
 
 Fanny. Dear Philip, grandpapa is asleep, and dear old Sarah 
 watches by his bedside. Are you in pain, brother ? 
 
 Philip. No, Fanny, no ; 'tis but the shadow of my evil destiny 
 which meets me whenever I near the threshold of my lost home. 
 [Chimes, R. h. Joy Belh.'] Ah! those bells! T hail them as a happy 
 omen. Who can say that hope lies dead within him, while a just 
 Heaven exists ? 
 
 Fanny. See, brother, I have learnt all those songs you left with 
 me. I like them, brother, for they say what my heart thinks. 
 There's life and joy even in this silent paper. 
 
 Philip. Ah ! Fanny, do you know that upon a mere scrap of paper, 
 if I could find it, depends my happiness and my mother's honor ? 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 35 
 
 Fanny. I would bless Heaven all my days, could I but give it to 
 you, Philip. Why do those bells ring so merrily? 
 
 Philip. It is for a wedding, Fanny. 
 
 Fonny. Are all happy who wed, brother ? 
 
 Pldlip. If they love, and their love continue. Conceive the hap- 
 piness, Fanny, to know some one person dearer than your own self — 
 one person, who, if all the rest of the world calumniate or forsake 
 you, would only cling to you the closer, in sickness, in poverty, and 
 in care, from whom, except by death, night or day you may never 
 be divided — who has no tears while you are happy. Fannj', such is 
 marriage, if they who marry have hearts and souls to feel, that there 
 is no bond on earth so tender, and so sublime. [Noise of saiffling 
 outside — "Murder! Help! help!" Philip ^roes to window.'] One man 
 set upon by so many ! Remain here a few moments, Fanny — I will 
 Boon return. [Exit, d. f. 
 
 Fanny. Ah! they run from him, and he pursues them! Noble, 
 good brother, my praj-ers will keep you from harm. Sarah, I want 
 to speak to you. 
 
 Enter Sarah, 1 e. r. 
 
 Sarah, do you know what those bells are ringing for ? 
 
 Sarah. Dear heart alive, yes. It is for young Waldron's wedding. 
 They have been a long time sweethearting. 
 
 Fanny. Were you ever married, Sarah ? 
 
 Sarah. Lor bless you, yes, and a very good husband I had, poor 
 man ; but he's dead these many years, and if you hadn't taken me, I 
 mnst have gone to the workus, 
 
 Fanny. He is dead — and wasn't it very hard to live after that, 
 Sarah ? 
 
 Sarah. The Lord strengthens the hearts of widders, Miss Fanny. 
 Natur's very mj^sterious, and it's wonderful what we can go through 
 with when we're obligated so to do. 
 
 Fanny. Did you marry your brother, Sarah ? 
 
 Sarah. Mercy on us ! you musn't talk in that way — it's quite 
 heathenish. 
 
 Fanny. Ha! then it is wrong — I was afraid of it. Are you sure 
 it's wrong, Sarah? 
 
 Sarah. 'Ord a mercy, Miss, why, you're like a baby unborn, 
 
 Fanny. But he is not my brother, after all. 
 
 Sarah. Ah, fie, Miss ! you're letting your pretty head run upon 
 that fine handsome gentleman who was here just noAV. Oh, Miss 
 Fanny, you'll break your heart if you goes for to fancy any such thing ! 
 
 Fanny. Any what ? 
 
 Sarah. Why, for to go for to think that gentleman will marry you. 
 He must be a very wicked man. I see, now, why he comes here; 
 but I'll speak to him, that I will — I'll tell him a bit of my mind. 
 
 Fanny. Sarah, I hate you, if of him you speak — my brother — no, 
 not my brother. You have made me very miserable, and I won't 
 speak to you again — that I won't. [Crosses, r.] Oh, forgive me, 
 Barah — kiss me— there — I don't know what I'm saying 1 I'm fool- 
 
36 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 isli — very foolish — but why can't he marry me ? There — don't an- 
 swer me — it's all past — past for ever. [ Weeps, and exits into room, r. 
 Sarah. My poor, dear, innocent lamb, Heaven watch over and pro- 
 tect you from all the snares of this wicked world. 
 
 l^Sxit into opposite room. 
 
 Men cautiously enter with Blackwell. 
 
 Black. Ha, ha, my ruse succeeded — the fellows have led him a 
 precious dance. There's the room — ^be expeditious, 
 
 [Men and Blackwell exit into room. Fanny screams — Noise, r. h. 
 
 Sarah Miter ing. 
 
 What do I see — my dear young lady carried off? They place her in 
 a carriage ! Who could have done this terrible wickedness ? 
 
 Enter Philip, d. l. 
 
 Philip. What's the matter ? What has happened. Speak. 
 
 Sarah. Oh, Mr. Philip. They have taken her away. 
 
 Philip. Who — who ? You torture me. 
 
 Sarah. I don't know — the carriage has just driven off. 
 
 Philip. In which direction? 
 
 Sarah. There — to the right. 
 
 Philip. Go and calm the old man's fears. She shall be rescued. 
 Oh, Lilburne, if, as my heart presages, this outrage is your work, 
 look well about you, for I am on your track. \^Ezit, k. 
 
 Scene III. — The Library at Ferndale — Lilburne and Blackwell dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Lilburne. There — ^let that steep j^our wakeful conscience in Lethe. 
 \^Gives money.'] Have you sent Harriet up to the girl and secured the 
 doors ? That's right — I'll see her by-and-b}^ What's this you tell 
 me about young Morton being her lover. 
 
 Black. I can scarcely doubt it, in which case, it would be prudent 
 to be on your guard ; he is a desperate character. 
 
 Lilburne. How long has he been in the neighborhood ? 
 
 Black. For some time, I believe. He certainly makes frequent 
 visits to old Gawtrey's cottage. 
 
 Enter Robert Beaufort, r. 
 
 Robert. Lilburne — Morton has arrived. 
 
 Lil. Morton — Beaufort, you mean ? 
 
 Robert. Don't torture me. 
 
 LAI. How are his circumstances ? Have you found out anything 
 about him ? 
 
 Black. All I could learn was, that he is in some way connected 
 with the suite of the celebrated Colonel De Vaudemont, whose fa- 
 mous deeds in the late war have made him the lion of the day, 
 
 Lil. Ha! that's fortunate, for I expect the Colonel here with some 
 of my city friends this evening. This Morton is probably a servant 
 or hanger-on ; we can soon manage to have him sent adrift. By the 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. S7 
 
 "Way, Blackwell, just see if that bookseller, Plaskwith, the man he 
 robbed, is come. I sent for him ; if so, tell him to come here. [^Exit 
 Black.] His testimony, with that of Blackwell and myself, will 
 suffice, if not to hang the dog, to send him back to a French prison. 
 I have reasons to fear, and hate the scoundrel, he has secrets of mine 
 that make him dangerous — as for you, you must compass heaven and 
 earth to convict him, for you know he is the rightful owner of the 
 property you hold, and if by any chance the fellow could find a 
 friend who thoroughly understands the matter, the arrears of his 
 rent which you have enjoyed, will send you to jail for your life. 
 Ah ! here is our excellent friend, Mr. Plaskwith. 
 
 Enter Plaskwith, l. 
 
 Robert. Pray be seated, my dear sir. 
 
 Plask. You sent for me on a matter of importance, Mr. Beaufort. 
 
 Robert. Yes, Mr. Plaskwith, you, I believe, entertain friendly feel- 
 ings towards myself and my family ? 
 
 Rlask. Verily, I now entertain such feelings for the universe. It 
 is ten years since my belligerent qualities suddenly evaporated, and 
 were succeeded by the lamb-like et ceteras which now animate this 
 tender heart. 
 
 Lil. You remember one Morton, who did you a serious injury 
 about that time ? 
 
 PlasTc. The lad Morton ? I do remember a bright 
 
 Lil. A reckless scapegrace, who plundered you and then ran off. 
 
 jPlask. It is not for me to contradict your lordship. 
 
 Robert. This fellow has returned, and he who would convict him, 
 as you can, would merit my eternal gratitude, and much more than 
 I dare mention. 
 
 Lil. Pshaw ! There's nothing like being above board. Plaskwith, 
 this man must be disgraced. Wouldn't £500 be liberal payment for 
 so domg? 
 
 Flask. Most liberal, my lord, I should say. 
 
 Robert. You understand us then? 
 
 JPlask. I think I do, sir. 
 
 Lil. And will you undertake it ? 
 
 Plask. I will. [Robert .shakes his hand warmly — A noise withoiif. 
 
 Enter Bkown, r. 
 
 Robert. What's the matter. Brown ? ^ 
 
 jBrowru The heaviest misfortune, sir, that ever fell upon this house, 
 except one, and this is so like it. Oh ! prepare — prepare yourself, 
 sir, for a terrible blow. 
 
 Lil. Go on, fool. 
 
 Lrown. Young Mr. Arthur, sir. 
 
 Robert. My son ! Oh, Heaven ! What fearful accident ! Dead ! 
 
 Brown. Iso, sir, — but, I fear very near it. He was thrown from, 
 his horse, and has just been carried to his room. 
 
 Robert. Oh, ambition! oh, contrivance, schemes, perfidy and crime, 
 this is the reward you've brought me in the end ! He, for whom I 
 
S8 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 bartered ray soul's happiness, snatched from me ! Oh ! my son ! my 
 eon ! ^Exeunt Robert, Lilburne, and Brown. 
 
 Plask. This looks like retribution. \^A hiock. 
 
 Fanny. \^Within.'] I shall die ! I shall die! Oh! take me home to 
 my poor room — away from this ! 
 
 Plask. Hallo ! I've done with adventures, to be sure, but never 
 be it said, (fee., <fec., female in distress. "Who are you? what brings 
 you here ? 
 
 Fanny. They have brought me here against my will ! 
 
 Plask. Have they? " The man that shrinks, (fee., (fee." Where are 
 the ruffians? let them come on! Come out, injured innocence! 
 
 Faiiny. I can't, the door is locked. 
 
 Plask. Pooh! to the daring and adventurous, what are locks, bolts, 
 and bars ? Tliey fly asunder ! {Kicks door open.'] Why, is it you, my 
 poor, innocent wanderer ? There's something wrong in earnest ! 
 Have you been brought here against your will ? 
 
 Fanny. Oh, yes, yes, take me away 1 
 
 Plask. Wait a moment, the majesty of the law must be regarded. 
 Wait here while I go and arm myself with a magistrate's warrant, 
 and then we'll see whether this dear land of freedom will allow such 
 liberties to be taken. 
 
 Fanny. Oh ! my brother ! if he were here ! My poor, blind grand- 
 father, what must he think ? 
 
 Plask. Dispatch a missive — write a line, just to say you're safe ! 
 I'll take it. 
 
 Fanny. Oh ! thanks, thanks ! there's no paper ! ha ! what's this ? 
 
 [^Touches spring. 
 
 Plask. Wliat is it? A secret drawer ! Only one bit of paper in it, 
 just enough. There, write on that. \^Fanny writing. 
 
 Fanny. My brother ! were you but here. 
 
 Plask. Who is your brother ? 
 
 Fanny. Ko, not my brother, but Philip. 
 
 Plask. He, whom men call Philip Morton ? I'll find him for thee. 
 I owe him much reparation for a wrong done long since. Cheer thee, 
 my imprisoned one, thou shalt be delivered, I swear ; I mean, I 
 affirm it. Free thee I shall, or perish in the attempt ! {Exit d. u. e. r. 
 
 Fanny. Voices ! Some one approaches ! Where shall I conceal my- 
 self? {Gets behind large chair. 
 
 Enter Lilburne and Robert, r. 1 e. 
 
 Lord L. Pshaw! I tell you there is every hope of Arthiir's recov- 
 ery ; but who will reanimate your dead honor if you do not man- 
 fully meet the crisis which is likely to ensue. 
 
 Robert. Philip ! alas ! he might have all could he bring life to my son. 
 
 Lord L. You're a weak hearted fool. You must defy him! you 
 have possession, power, wealth upon your side. [Fanny tries to gain 
 c^or w/«cA Lilburne had opened.] Ha! my pretty runaway ; no, no, 
 you've cost me too much to let you escape so easily. 
 
 Robert. For shame, Lilburne, is this a time or i:)lace ? 
 
 Lord L. Well, I would rather not have had a witness ; but there's 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. 89 
 
 sufficient glass in your liouse to keep you from throwing stones at 
 mine. 
 
 Fanny. If you are a man, if you fear heaven, let me go back, you 
 must. 
 
 Lord L. Oh dear no ; I wouldn't think of such a thing. 
 
 Fanny. Oh ! Philip ! Philip ! where are you ? 
 
 Lord L. Philip ! Is it for the sake of such a miserable outcast that 
 you spurn me and my protection ? So much the better, as it only 
 adds more strength to my determination. You would know where 
 he is? learn it from me : he is in the hands of that justice which he 
 has outraged — a condemned and utterly degraded criminal ! 
 
 Servant, [announces, u. e. l.] Colonel Count de Vaudemont. 
 
 Enter Philip. 
 
 Philip. Fanny. 
 
 Fanny. Philip, [They embrace. 
 
 Robert. Morton! 
 
 Philip. Ko, not exactly Morton, but the Count Philip de Vaude- 
 mont, Colonel in the French army ; or if you like it better, Philip 
 Beaufort I 
 
 Robert. Arthur dying, Philip returned ; this is indeed a terrible 
 retribution. 
 
 Lord L. [To Robert.] Are you mad ? This maudlin folly will ruin 
 you and all. Still irresolute — then I must act for you. Ho there I 
 Seize that escaped felon and accomplice of murderers ! Where are 
 the officers I sent for '\ 
 
 Plash. Here they are, my lord, just in the nick of time. 
 
 Enter Officers. 
 
 Being a man of peace, I have surrounded myself with legal authori- 
 ties, even as the timid hedgehog is fenced about with bristles. 
 
 Lord L. Away with him out of our sight. [They offer to .seize Philip. 
 
 Plash. Oh no ! Bless me, that's quite a mistake. There are the 
 folks you are to seize. [Pointing to Lilburne. 
 
 Lord L. Fool ! what means this ? 
 
 Plash. Don't lose your temper ; you'll have need of it all presently. 
 I accuse John Lord Lilburne and his delectable brothei'-in-law, Mr. 
 Robert Beaufort, of feloniously conspiring to defraud this young gen- 
 tleman out of his lawful property ; and furthermore, of unsuccess- 
 fully endeavoring to make me as bad as themselves. 
 
 Lord L. This is mere childish folly. What proof? 
 
 Plash. 'Tis here. To calm her grandfather's fears, this dear girl 
 wrote him a few lines on a scrap of paper. 
 
 Philip. Ha ! Go on ! 
 
 Plash. Found in a secret drawer of that bureau. Here it is. 
 
 Fanny. Found by me — by me, Philip. 
 
 Plash. What do you suppose it was, and is, Mr. Robert Beaufort? 
 Look at it. An examined certificate of the marriage of Philip Beau- 
 fort and Catherine his wife. 
 
 Philip. [Kneels before picture of his mother, which is conspicuous.'] 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 40 NIGHT AND M' |||||||||||||||||||||||||i|||| ||||||||||||||| Illlillll^S^ 
 
 015 971 109 2 W 
 
 Look yonder, Robert Beaufort. Her iitiuie is spuness. i stana again 
 beneath a roof tliat was my father's — the heir of Beaufort ! Now tell 
 me. Fanny, has that dog ? 
 
 Fanny. No harm has come to me, dear Philip. 
 
 Philip. Those words have saved his miserable life. Had wrong 
 chanced to you, I would have rent him where he stands, limb from 
 limb. [Lord Lilburne mo<io«s hijn to go out and fight^ Oh, sii', there 
 are no duels for me but with men of honor. 
 
 Lord L. Pin him down to his generosity — it's your only choice. 
 As for me, I am beyond either his clemency or revenge, and can 
 afford to look upon and despise the successful vagabond whose ante- 
 cedents will give him so enviable a position in society, and so fare- 
 well. Count Coiner ! 
 
 Plask. Stop a bit. During my recent peaceful avocations, since I 
 have laid down the sword and taken up the pen, I have had leisure 
 to dip a little into law, and it strikes me that the endeavor to bribe 
 an honest man into the commission of a felonious act is little less 
 than felony itself — Officer, attend to his lordship. 
 
 Lord L. You shall pay dearly for this. 
 
 Pla.^k. I think not — but if you don't take precious good care, 
 you'll be — [Makes signs of hanging, etc. 
 
 Lord L. Pshaw ! \^Exit Lord 'L., followed by officer. 
 
 Philip. Yimny, dear Fanny, it was through your hands that 
 Heaven sent me this gi*eat mercy, and hei*e, before her image, whose 
 honor you have saved, I woo you for my wife — mine, not for a sea- 
 son, but for ever — even when the graves are opened and the earth 
 shrivels like a scroll. [^Shouts outside — -joy hells ring. 
 
 Enter Brown and several farmers, d'c. 
 
 Brown. I did it. Master Philip ; I told old sexton to ring out. — ^A 
 cheer, friends, to welcome back Mr. Philip Beaufort to his own home. 
 
 [Shouts. 
 
 Plask. [To Beaufort.] Do you hear that ? They ain't much over- 
 come at losing you. 
 
 Philip. And now, Fanny my wife, chastened by much suffering, 
 subdued by great adversity, life has but one thought for me, and 
 that is to watch thy onward path and smooth it to your footsteps. 
 My mother's pure and guileless name cleared of the foul taint, my 
 cup of happiness is filled to overflowing : my brother blessed, too, 
 in his abundant love restored to me. — Let not the patient heart de- 
 spair for that the wrong be still unrighted. Hope on — strive ever. 
 Time, Faith, Energy to guide, restrain and instigate, you may safely 
 trust to the great balance whose index swings in heaven, the slow 
 moving wheel of destiny will revolve at last, and the long dreadful 
 Night change into a bright and glorious Morning. 
 
 [Joy bells — Shouts — A)id music in orchestra as curtain falls. 
 
 THE END. 
 
\ 
 
Hollinger Corp. 
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