Book TK ^ 
 
 GopyrigM )J° 
 
 CDPailGKT DEPOSIT. 
 
i 
 
LIST OF PLAYS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 O. A- ROORBACK, NEW YORK. 
 
 :Prioe5 15 Oents Eaoti. 
 
 Advice Gratis. 
 
 Afloat and Ashore, 
 
 All's Fair in Love and War. 
 
 All In Der Faniily. 
 
 Alladdin and the Wonderful 
 Lamp. 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra Mar- 
 ried and Settled. 
 
 Ask no Questions. 
 
 Aunt Dinah's Pledge. 
 
 Babes in the Wood, The. 
 
 Bachelor's Bed-room, The. 
 
 Bad Temper, A. 
 
 BuilifTs Daughter, The. 
 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 
 Betsy's Profile. 
 
 Big Banann, The. 
 
 Black Crook B-irlesque. 
 
 Blue Beard. 
 
 Boa'ding School, The, 
 
 Bric-a-Brac. 
 
 Broken Promises, 
 
 Broken Seal, The. 
 
 Cabin Boy. The. 
 
 Camilie. 
 
 Carried by Assault. 
 
 Ca*-te. 
 
 Caught in his Own Toils. 
 
 Champagne. 
 
 Changelilngs (The); or. 
 Which is Which T 
 
 Charity. 
 
 Child of Circumstance, The. 
 
 Cinderella. 
 
 Claucarty (Lady). 
 
 Closiiiff of I'he "Eagle," The. 
 
 Comedy of Errors, burlesque. 
 
 Cousin Florence. 
 
 Cousiu to Them All, A. 
 
 Cross Purposes. 
 
 Crumpled Rose Leaf, A. 
 
 Cure for Coquettes, A. 
 
 Da ciug Barber, The 
 
 Dark Deeds. 
 
 Dark Noiglit's Business, A. 
 
 Dawn f.f Love, The. 
 
 Decree of Divorce, The. 
 
 Deed.v of Dreadful Note. 
 
 •' Diplomacy" 
 
 Doo't Marry a Drunkard to 
 Reform Him. 
 
 Dot Mad Tog. 
 
 Dot Madrimonial Adverdise- 
 meiit. 
 
 Dot Quied Lotgrings. 
 
 Drunkard's Home, The. 
 
 Drunkard's Warning, The. 
 
 Dutchman n Ireland. 
 
 Eligible Situation, An. 
 
 Fairy Freaks. 
 
 Family Pictures, 
 
 Family Pride. 
 
 Fast Family, The. 
 
 Feast, The. 
 
 Fenian Spy, The. 
 
 Fifteen Years of a Drunk- 
 ard's Life. 
 
 Fireside Diplomacy. 
 
 Foresight ; or. My Daugh- 
 ter's Dowry . 
 
 Fro^ Prince, The. 
 
 Fruits of the Wine-Cup, 
 
 Furnished Apartments. 
 
 Gabrielle de Belle Isle. 
 
 Game of Billiards, A. 
 
 Gay Old Man Am I, A- 
 
 Getting up in the World. 
 
 Girls of the Period, The. 
 
 Going Through Him. 
 
 Grace Darling. 
 
 Gray Mare, A. 
 
 Great Arrival, The. 
 
 Great Eastern, The. 
 
 Hamlet the Dainty. 
 
 Happy Dispatch, The. 
 
 Harlequin Little Red Riding 
 , Hood. 
 
 Harvest Storm, The. 
 
 Hasty Conclusion, A. 
 
 His First Brief. 
 
 H M.S. Pinafore. 
 
 Hop of Fashion, The. 
 
 How to Settle Accounts With 
 Your Laundress. 
 
 Hurrah for Paris ! 
 
 I'll Tell Your Wife. 
 
 I Love Your Wife. 
 
 Ingomar. 
 
 Inhuman, 
 
 Irish Dragoon. 
 
 Irish Engagement, An. 
 
 Jack, The Giant Killer. 
 
 .Tack's the Lad. 
 
 Juliet's Love Letter. 
 
 Katharine and Petruchio. 
 
 La Cigale. 
 
 Lust Drop, The. 
 
 Last Lily, The. 
 
 Law A I lows it. The. 
 
 Leedle Mistake, A. 
 
 Let Those Laugh Who Win. 
 
 Limerick Boy, The, (Paddy 
 Miles' Boy). 
 
 Little Red Riding Hood. 
 
 Little Silver Hair and the 
 
 Three Bears. 
 Locked Door, The. 
 Lonely PoUywog of the Mill 
 
 Pond, The. 
 Lost Heir, The. 
 Love, burlesque. 
 Love and Money. 
 Love Flower, The. 
 Love Master — Love Man. 
 Loves of Little Bo-Peep, 
 
 The. 
 Love to Music. 
 Lucy's Love Lesson. 
 Lying in Ordinary. 
 Lyrical Lover. 
 Mad Astronomer. A. 
 Male and Female. 
 Married Widows. The 
 Marrv m Haste and Repent 
 
 at Leisure. 
 Masquerading for Two. 
 Matched, but not Mated. 
 Matrimony. 
 Maud's Command. 
 Mazeppa, burlesque. 
 Medical Man, A. 
 Middle Temple, The. 
 Mischievous Bob. 
 Miseries of Human Life. 
 Money Malves the Man. 
 Monsieur Pierre. 
 More Blunders Than One. 
 Mother and Child are Doing 
 
 Well. The. 
 Mothers and Fathers. 
 Mrs. Sairey Gamp's Tea and 
 
 Turn Out. 
 Mulcahy's Cat. 
 Muolo, The Monkey. 
 My Friend in the Straps. 
 My Precious Betsy. 
 Mystic Spell, The. 
 Oh, My Uncle! 
 One Must Marry. 
 Oria:inal. The. 
 Othello, burlesque. 
 Ould Vlan's Coat Tails. 
 Our Mary Anne. 
 Our Professor. 
 Out m the Streets. 
 Out of the Depths. 
 Patches and Powder. 
 Peculiar Position, A. 
 Penelope Anne. 
 Perfect Km; or. The Cork Leg. 
 Persecuted Dutchman, The. 
 
 CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OF COVER. 
 
A PRACTICAL GUIDE 
 
 570 
 
 TO 
 
 Private Theatricals. 
 
 DIRECTIONS FOB AEEANGING, DECOEATING AND LIGHTING THE STAGE, 
 
 PAINTING THE SCENEBY, MA KING-UP, PBEPAETNG THE COSTUMES, Ij 
 
 Ji 
 
 MOUNTING, EEHEABSING AND PEEFOEMING PLATS. V. 
 
 TO WHICH IS ADDED 
 
 A COLLECTION OP CMEADES, PLATS AND TABLEAUX. 
 
 PEIYATE PEEFOEMAITCE 
 
 N E W Y O E K : C 
 O. A. ROORBACH, PUBLrSHER, 
 

 COPTBIGHTBD 1881. 
 
 By O. a. EOOKBAOH. 
 
COIN-TEI^TS 
 
 PEIYATB THEATRICALS. 
 
 Chapter I. — Amateurs and their Work , 5 
 
 Chapter II. — Stage Directions 12 
 
 TABLEAUX YIYAIlTTS. 
 
 The Goddess of Poetry and the Poet 27 
 
 Abotj Ben Adhem akd the Angel 28 
 
 The Fortune Teller 28 
 
 MiGNON ET son PeRE 29 
 
 Belshazzar's Feast 29 
 
 May and December 31 
 
 Statue Scene from the ^^ Marble Heart/^ 31 
 
 i^IOBE 32 
 
 The Duel in the Snow 32 
 
 PLATS. 
 
 Cross Purposes.— A Misunderstanding 35 
 
 Towel. — An Acting Charade 47 
 
 Irresistibly Impudent. — A Dramatic Trifle 53 
 
 Lovely.— An Acting Charade 63 
 
 Picking up the Pieces.— A Comedy 91 
 
 The Artist's Stratagem ; or, "Who Loves Who ? 105 
 
i 
 
PKIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 AMATEURS AND THEIR WORK. 
 
 There is perhaps no form of amTisement more generally popnlar 
 at the present day than that of private theatricals, and although at 
 first sight it may appear strange that people should take great delight 
 in seeing then friends play at acting, Tvhen with less trouble they 
 could see the real thing done by trained actors, it is actually not 
 difficult to find an explanation for the enjoyment which attaches to 
 these performances. To begin with, in the case of juvenile represent- 
 ations, there is the attraction of the animation and bustle which attend 
 the return of the boys from school when they are informed by their 
 sisters that they are going to get up a play, and they find the learning 
 of a part their only pleasant hohday task. 
 
 Their parents join in the pastime, and without them indeed it could 
 hardly go well ; the drilling and arranging are occasionally tnesome, 
 but the weight of it falls on the elders, and then the dressiug and the 
 acting, the being somebody else, and yet enough yourself to know it, 
 is enchanting ; everybody's talents are called into play and everybody 
 is sympathetic ; the preparations for the performance, if they give 
 trouble, afford continual interest, and when the final representation 
 comes the audience is a Mud one and in the case of a few hitches 
 and blunders only makes merry with them and is prepared to wonder 
 that on the whole there is so much success. 
 
 The parents are congratulated, the children are elated and the 
 supper is a feast ; only perhaps a few of the spectators make some 
 severe remarks, such as, ^^ This talent is dangerous.''^ ^^Are you not 
 afi'aid yom* boy will go on the stage?" or, '' Is it not too exciting f 
 or, ^^ Doesn't it make them vain?'' But the more general feeling is one 
 of indulgent satisfaction, and people say, " "WTiat an excellent diver- 
 sion ; how it must improve their memory; and teach them to speak 
 
6 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 Up and help them to have good manners ; and how agreeable all to 
 be united in the same pursuit ! ^' — and so it is ; and this is one of the 
 charms of all amatem* acting, not less among grown-up people than 
 children : it promotes sympathy, it is a pursuit in which you must be 
 mutually interested, for if you do not play into each other's hands the 
 whole affair is inevitably a failure ; and as for the audiences, what 
 funds of forbearance, indulgence, and patience, are drawn upon, in 
 their case, and how generously they are wont to reply to the call ! It 
 is generally understood that they are to be blind and deaf to eiTors, 
 and to have piercing perceptions for every approach to excellence. 
 
 Taken in this way the diversion seems perfect; the dialogue of the 
 play will in most cases be more interesting than ordinary conversa- 
 tion ; it will have more point and more meaning, and if the piece is 
 not too long the spectators will so far be really gainers. They are 
 perhaps almost as much amused to see their friends assuming new 
 characters, as those friends themselves are delighted to get out of 
 their own identity, and cheat themselves into the idea of a fresh 
 existence, if only for an hour or two, an idea which grows out of a 
 change of costume and speeches got by rote in most cases, for it is 
 only a small number of people who have that gift of personation 
 which is an actual casting away of then own thoughts, habits, and 
 characteristics to enter completely into another individuality. This 
 metempsychosis may be called in its lowest phase the mimic art, and 
 in its highest the dramatic inspiration ; or, as the French call it, the 
 feu sacre, an expression which signifies the passionate instinct with- 
 out which poetical acting cannot exist ; a very rare endowment : it is 
 that fine excess of emotional sensibility which is indispensable to a 
 poetical actor, and which, when it is developed in a higher degree, 
 makes the essence of a poet. 
 
 But there is a great deal of agreeable acting which has nothing to 
 do with poets and poetry, and this in all nations is the most abundant. 
 The gifts which excite merriment are far more common than those 
 which draw tears, and those are most numerous which do it in the 
 most obvious way. Farce, which is the commonest form of humor, 
 never fails to find meritorious representatives, but that delicate 
 comedy which deals rather in wit than in absurdity is almost as diffi- 
 cult to play as higli tragedy, and it demands in the actor many if not 
 all of the same endowments. Depending more upon dialogue and 
 character than situation, it exacts careful articulation, studied modu- 
 lation of tones, significance of expression without over marking, and 
 all that scientific training of the voice which makes it pleasant to 
 listen to. It also demands grace of demeanor, vivacity without rest- 
 lessness, and a general knowledge of the habits of good society. 
 These are considerable requirements. 
 
 Take the School for Scandal as one of the best known and most 
 frequently performed English comedies of this class. A well-trained 
 company who have worked and studied long together is required to 
 give even a tolerable representation of such a piece, and it is therefor© 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 7 
 
 distinctly unsiiited to such amateur performances as are got up on the 
 sudden^ hurried through with hardly more than a dozen rehearsals, by 
 ladies and gentlemen who have rarely if ever, worked together, and 
 who have often never worked at all. To many of them it may be. 
 new even to learn words or to stand still, which indeed is no easy art 
 with the consciousness of standing to be looked at. Perhaps too they 
 cannot afford to be long about a play ; their social conditions will 
 not admit of it, as the exigencies of preparation upset every other 
 kind of pursuit while this is going on. On this account it is common 
 to hear drawing-room actors say that rehearsing, working, and study- 
 ing, destroy spontaneity ; it may be very convenient to suppose so, 
 but it is very untrue. The fact is that the effect of spontaneity can" 
 only be given to written dialogue by constant study in concert. The 
 speakers must know not only their own words, but those of their 
 interlocutors, and must be prepared for their every pause, look, ges- 
 tm-e, and movement, otherwise they may cut in too soon or wait too 
 long, or forget the business of the scene in a too natural surprise ; it 
 is really no less necessary for the performers to practice together for 
 the production of a drama, than for the musicians who play concerted 
 music. 
 
 The hurry which is almost a necessary condition of most amateur 
 acting, makes it then desirabla to select short easy-going pieces with 
 situations which are effective, and which deal with that kind of life 
 in which amateur actors are natm*ally at home ; but there are com- 
 paratively few English stage plays of this description, and the amateur 
 company will do well either to provide an amateur author, or have 
 recourse to the more usual expedient of translation from the French. 
 Even this favorite resource is beset with difficulties, for the ordinary 
 theme of the ordinary French dramatist is unfit for drawing-room 
 performance, and an- English lady shrinks from the part of an adven- 
 turess or a frivolous wife. If we look back across the bridge of 
 seventy years we shall find the same perplexities attending r.n amateur 
 company of that period, the family of Bertrams, in Miss Austen's 
 novel of Mansfield Parle— ?i novel not claiming to be historical, but 
 so completely true in its representations of social Hfe and character 
 that in fidelity there is scarcely a history which can compare with it. 
 Here is a description given in its pages of the selection of a play for 
 private performance : — 
 
 JSTo piece could be proposed that did not supply somebody with a 
 difficulty, and on one side or the other it was a continual repetition of, 
 ' Oh, no, that will never do. Let us have no ranting tragedies. Too 
 many characters — not a tolerable woman^s part in the play. Any- 
 thing but THAT, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it up ; 
 one could not expect anybody to take such a part. I shall be happy 
 to be of any use, but I think we could choose nothing worse.' " 
 
 '^ ^This will never do,' said Tom Bertram at last. ^ We are wasting 
 time most abominably. Something must be fixed on. Ko matter 
 what; so that something is chosen. "We must not be so nice ; a few 
 
8 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 characters too many must not frijrhten us ; \re mui^t doithle tlicm.^^^ 
 
 Finally these doubts resolve themselves into the fatal choice of a 
 drama called the Lovers^ Vows, Tvhich only lives now by Miss Aus- 
 ten's record; but which was popular in her time. A description of 
 the confidences made to the prompter during the rehearsals is worth 
 quoting. '^So far from being all satisfied and ail enjoying, she 
 found everybody requiring something they had not, and giving occa- 
 sion of discontent to the others Everybody had a part either too • 
 long or too short; nobody would attend as they ought. Xobody 
 would remember on which side they were to come in. Xobody but 
 the complainer would observe any directions." 
 
 ^ A few characters too much must not frighten us/' says Tom 
 Bertram ; and here Miss Austen bas indicated what she had clearly 
 suffered from in private theatricals, where, indeed, it is an object of 
 great importance not to crowd the scenes : for long and patient prac- 
 tice is required on the stage to avoid husthng, awkward entrances and 
 impossible exits where there are many principal personages present 
 at once. In the management of complicated groups amateur awk- 
 wardness will generally betray itself. It is in drawing-room pieces, 
 where the characters are few, where the dialogue is natural, and 
 where the situations are either very amusing or very interesting, that 
 an amateur company is likely to appear to the best advantage, and 
 under these conditions they may often afford as m^uch entertainment 
 as the general run of professional players ; or, even supposing them 
 to rehearse much and carefully together, and to be well matched as 
 to natural gifts, they may produce a more pleasing effect of hiirmony 
 and grace than are often to be found at our theatres. Add to this the 
 enjoyment of all the performers and the social pieasm'c of frequent 
 meetings ; and we may find a larger amount of satisfaction in the sum 
 total than that produced by ordinary public performances. 
 
 The same jealousies and difficulties attendant on private theatricals 
 which are described by Miss Austen in Mansfield Park have also been 
 dwelt upon by Miss Edgeworth in one of her cleverest novels. 
 Patronage ; and it would seem from what is said by both writers 
 that amateurs of old were more ambitious than they are apt to be 
 now. The play chosen by the Falconers, by whom the private the- 
 atricals in Patronage are got up, is a no less difficult, and it may be 
 added dreary, one than Zara, the translation b}^ Aaron Hill of Yol- 
 taire's Zaire. The young lady who appears as the heroine wears in 
 the first act a ^'delicate, soft, sentimental blue satin, with silver 
 fringe, looped with pearl," and in the last a costume of bridal white 
 and silver. Wlien on the night of performance the audience anive, 
 ^^they ask in whispers, 'Do you know if there is to-be any clapping 
 of bauds ? Can you tell me whether it is allowable to say anything V " 
 
 "It seems," continues Miss Edgeworth, ''that at some private the- 
 atres loud demonstrations of applause were forbidden. It was thought 
 more genteel to a] « prove and admire m silence, thus to draw the Hno 
 between pruiesaioiial actors and actrei^ses, and gentlemeii and lady 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 9 
 
 performers. Upon trials lioTvever^ in some instances, it had been 
 found that the difference was sufficiently obvious without marking it 
 by any invidious distinction. Young and old amateurs have acknowl- 
 edged that the silence, however genteel, was so dreadfully awful 
 that they preferred even the noise of vulgar acclamations." 
 
 Then "^follows some description of the play, the heroine of which, 
 we are told, really played uncommonly well, being but feebly sup- 
 ported by the other i)erfurmers, one of whom, the confidante, was 
 sulky at not having the principal part. '' The faults common to un- 
 practiced actors occurred. One of Osman's arms never moved, and 
 the other sawed the an perpetually, as if in pure despite of Hamlet^s 
 prohibition. Then, m crossing over, Osman was continually entangled 
 in Zara^s robe ; or, when standing still, she was obliged to twitch her 
 train thrice before she could get it from beneath his leaden feet. 
 When confident that he could repeat a speech fluently, he was apt to 
 turn his back upon his mistress, or when he felt himself called upon 
 to listen to his mistress, he would regularly turn his back upon the 
 audience. But ail these are defects permitted by the license of a 
 private theatre, allowable by courtesy to gentlemen actors ; and 
 things went on as well as could be expected. Osman had not his 
 part by heart, but still Zara covered all deficiencies. And Osman 
 did no worse than other Osmans have done before him, till he came to 
 the long speech beginning with, 
 
 *• 'The Sultans, my great ancestors, "bequeath'd 
 
 Their empire to me, but their tastes they gave not.* 
 
 ^' Powerful prompting got him through the first six lines decently 
 enough, till he came to, 
 
 "'Wasting tenderness in wild profusion 
 I might look down to my surrounded feet 
 And their contending beauties.' 
 
 At this he bungled sadly — his hearing suddenly failing as well a,s his 
 memory, there was a dead stop. In vain the prompter, the scene- 
 shifter, the candle-snuffer, as loud as they could, and much louder 
 than they ought, reiterated the nest sentence, 
 
 " • I might speak 
 Serenely slothful.' 
 
 '' It was plain that Osman could not speak, nor was he ' serene. 
 He had begun, as in dangers great he was wont, to kick his left ankle- 
 bone rapidly with his right heel ; and through the pomp of Osman's 
 oriental robes and turban, young Petcalf stood confessed. He threw 
 back an angry look at the'^prompter; Zara, terrified, gave up all for 
 lost; the polite audience struggled not to smile. Zara, recovering 
 her presence of mind, swept across the stage in such a manner as to 
 hide from view her kicking Sultan ; and, as she passed, she whispered 
 the line to him so distinctly that he caught the sound, left off kicking, 
 went on with his speech, and all was well again. Fortunately for 
 Zara and for the audience, in the next scenes the part of Lusignan 
 was performed by a gentleman who had been well used to acting — 
 
10 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 though he was not a man of any extraordinory capacity, yet, from his 
 liahit of the hoards, and his being perfect in his part he now seemed 
 qnite a superior person. It was found unaccountably easier to act 
 with this son of labor than with any other of the gentleman perform ers, 
 though they were all natural geniuses." 
 
 The foregoing extract goes to prove that Miss Edgeworth had, in 
 addition to her oiher accomplishments, a nice faculty of dramatic 
 criticism, and that ordinary amatem^s in her day were not unlike 
 ordinary amateurs now. Extraordinary amateur actors sometimes 
 appear, and of these Charles Dickens was the most remarlvable we 
 have ever seen, and it is hardly too much to say, the most remarkable 
 that has ever existed, not only because he was a great novelist, but 
 because he had a distinct vocation for the stage, and because his 
 immense energy found means in the midst of his complicated arduous 
 professional work so to tutor his dramatic instinct that he was no less 
 an artist than an actor. In pathetic melodrama and broad farce he 
 was equally excellent; there was a twinkle in his eye when he felt 
 the fun of a ludicrous situation which was irresistable, and he had 
 endless varieties of humor, both in countenance and action. His 
 pathos was manly and natural, and his eyes, fiery and piercing, could 
 express unutterable tenderness. The quality of his voice was not 
 habitually sweet, but it had many changes at command, and he could, 
 when necessary, subdue it to gentleness. His articulation was fault- 
 less, and he spoke perfect English, one of the rarest attainments in 
 public performers. 
 
 Of all professional actors the one whom he most resembled was 
 Frederic Lemaitre, and those who have seen that great French player 
 can form some notion of the leading characteristics of oiu* Euglish 
 novelist as a dramatic performer. When he intended to draw tears, 
 they came ; when he meant you to laugh, yoM laughed as much as he 
 chose. His power of organization made him also a first-rate manager. 
 He could direct scene-shifting and picturesque groups ; he could fill 
 in bye-play, and, in short, he was a complete master of stage busi- 
 ness, so that whatever drama he conducted was sure to be produced 
 in the best possible way. Any one who has had the good fortune to 
 witness the performances at Tavistock House can certify that all this 
 is true. Macready, after his own retirement from the stage, was 
 present at the performance of The Frozen Deep, by Dickens and his 
 friends in 1857, and writing his impressions of it said, "It was 
 remarkably, extraordinarily clever, in all respects. The acting un- 
 commonly good ; I mean positively so, and rendered so much more 
 eflective by the general harmony of the party. I do not wonder at 
 your haviug recourse to your cambric. The performance excited me 
 very much." 
 
 It is to be observed that Charles Dickens had not the vice of wish- 
 ing to shine alone, but surrounded himself with men of talent and 
 intellect, who were capable of making a mark for themselves, and 
 who respected each other. From these" conditions resulted a harmony 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 11 
 
 that is too seldom to be met with in English dramatic representa- 
 tions. 
 
 To hear Dickens read was a privilege^ bnt to see him act was a 
 mnch greater one ; for no one who ha:^ the tme geniits of an actor 
 can find its complete development in dramatic reading. Bonnd to a 
 desk the reader wants space ; he cannot give way to his impetus ; he 
 is perpetually hampered. However, it must be said that the readings 
 of Dickens had none of the inherent defect of di-amas declaimed, for 
 he never read anything but narrative, his own stories or novels, to 
 which he could give the traest and best effect, and so it was ia its 
 way first-rate ; but it had not and could not have the power of his 
 acting. 
 
 Dickens was so much a student of acting that he could only be 
 called an amateur because he never appeared upon the stage profes- 
 sionally. It is recorded that he was on one occasion reproached for 
 not doing so by a carpenter at the Haymarket, who, elated by his 
 excellent suggestions as to a piece in progress, and mindful only of 
 the things he knew, paid a doubtful compliment to the great author 
 when he exclaimed, ''Oh, Mr. Dickens^ sir, the world had a great loss 
 when you took to hterature ! ' 
 
 Perhaps many successful amateurs imagine that if the stage were 
 open to them they could do wondrous things, but they only thinli so 
 because they are not aware of the great difficulties of dramatic art. 
 Some have unluckily proved their error, but these failures are forgotten 
 in the very obscmity of the performers, and only a few signal exam- 
 ples of success are recorded and hopefully quoted. Our Garrick, 
 and the French tragedian, Le Kain, are perhaps the most brilliant 
 instances of this kind. 
 
 In our own time, Madame Pasca, distinguished as a tragic actress, 
 performed in amateur theatricals before she went upon the pubhc 
 stage ; and so did the late Charles Mathews ; and there is now at the 
 Prince of Wales's Theatre, London, an actor and artist of mark, in 
 Mr. Arthur Cecil, who wai^well known as an amateur actor before he 
 went on the stage. He, like other fine actors, has learned how to 
 apply the resom'ces of art to a natural inclination. And his success 
 is among the instances of what art and instinct combined can accom- 
 plish. T^ithout the impulse of the strong natural emotion which is 
 called insph'ation, the actors art might seem mechanical, and with- 
 out the art this emotion would be fitful, inharmonious, perhaps clam- 
 orous, and certainly unsatisfactory. 
 
 In all cases where amateurs have become distinguished actors there 
 has been a period of patient study and training before the final transi- 
 tion from the drawing-room to the great stage. It seems necessary 
 to insist upon this, because it is sometimes asserted that acting is 
 nothing but a natural impulse, which you only have to give way to 
 in order to succeed. To say this is to assume that acting is not an 
 art at all, for art means work, and no artistic excellence whatsoever has 
 ever been obtained without labor^ and without some form of assiduous 
 
12 PRIVATE THEATRICALS, 
 
 apprenticeship. It is true, however, that negligent performances of 
 every kind may be admh-ed by an ignorant portion of the public, and 
 it is also true that this may be a large portion, but a reputation easily 
 gained will easily decline, and the uninformed judgment will not 
 confer a lasting fame. 
 
 CKAPTEE II. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 It is often said that private theatricals are, for the most part, far 
 better fun for the actors than for the audience — and so they are likely 
 to be, unless amateurs will content themselves with less ambitious 
 pieces and less elaborate scenery than they are wont to desire. What 
 possible amusement can it be to their friends, to look on at a play, 
 which, however well managed, is only a feeble imitation of what 
 they have seen well put upon the stage ? The interest excited by 
 private theatricals is in great part due to personal feeling, that is, to 
 the recognition of your familiar acquaintances under the assumption 
 of new names, characters, and dresses. TVe have already said how 
 difficult it is to find a play well suited for this purpose— a piece new 
 enough, bright enough, and above all short enough to give complete 
 satisfaction. Farces as a rule should be avoided, because then* fun 
 generally consists in jokes too broad to please a drawing-room audi- 
 ence. It adds much to the effect, and also helps the actors to lose 
 their self-consciousness, if the piece is one of costume ; but costumed 
 plays are apt to be long, and amateurs, if they run into length, run 
 into tedium. A little care and iugenuity may, however, shorten a 
 stage play without spoiling it, and scissors judiciously used may tm-n 
 some tiresome old pieces into lively new ones. 
 
 Having chosen the play, the next thing to do is to choose a stage- 
 manager, another difficulty — for the stage manager must not act 
 himself, l3ut be prepared to direct every one, and to do this he must 
 know a great deal about acting, and have an artist's eye for the pic- 
 turesque in order to arrange the positions of the actors throughout the 
 piece and the tableaux and at the end of each act. He must also 
 have tact and good temper, for amateur actors and actresses have 
 usually their full share of vanity, and are apt to imagine that they 
 know where to stand and how to speak better than auy one else. We 
 once heard a gentleman who was reproved for doing sometliing absurd 
 and out of place in his part say — " Oh yes, that is your idea of it, I 
 prefer mine." Of course we then knew that he was hopeless, and 
 must spoil the piece— and so ho did. 
 
 If amateurs would consent to act before a long looking-glass they 
 would not fail to perceive the frequent awkwardness of their gestures, 
 and would be convinced that a stage-manager, looking on from the 
 fron^, must be the best judge of ther acting. Another reason for hav- 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICBLS. 13 
 
 ing a good, and firm stage-manager is that he may determine the 
 cast of the parts. Each actor naturally aspu'es to the first part, and 
 is distressed if he is kept in the background. Personal appearance 
 must also be consulted, and this is a tender point. If the principal 
 character in the piece is a dashing young man, it is absm*d to give it 
 to a stout, middle-aged man, however well he may act, and all the 
 more absurd because of the difficulty in ^^ making up^^ for a drawing- 
 room play ; then again when the heroine is a young lady whose beauty 
 is much commented on in the play, it is cruel to deliver her into the 
 hands of a woman of fifty. 
 
 It is not uncommon for a person gifted with a comical appearance 
 and voice to insist that his strong point is pathos, and it requires con- 
 siderable skill and even eloquence on the part of the stage-manager 
 to persuade him that he is in error. 
 
 In EeGoUections of Writers, by Mr. and Mrs. Cowden Clarke, there 
 is a very good description of Charles Dickens as stage-manager to his 
 amateur company. ^'Occasionally he would leave his seat at the 
 managerial table, and stand with his back to the foot-lights, in the 
 very center of the front of the stage, and view the whole effect of the 
 rehearsed performance as it proceeded, observing the attitudes and 
 positions of those engaged in the dialogue, their mode of entrance, 
 exit, &c., &G. He never seemed to overlook anything; but to note 
 the very slightest point that conduced to the 'going welP of the 
 whole performance ; with all this supervision it was pleasant to remark 
 the utter absence of dictatorialness or arrogation of superiority that 
 distinguished his mode of ruling his troop. He exerted his authority 
 firmly and perpetually ; but in such a manner as to make it univer- 
 sally felt to be for no purpose of self-assertion or self-importance ; on 
 the contrary, to be for the sole purpose of insuring general success to 
 their united efforts.^^ 
 
 Amateurs cannot rehearse too often ; the oftener they repeat and 
 act their parts, the less nervous they will be at the performance, and 
 the less liable they will be to put each other out ; private theatricals 
 are firequently made intolerable by imperfectly learned words. If a 
 speech, or part of a speech, is forgotten, there is either an awkward 
 pause, or the next speaker will go on with his part regardless of the 
 nonsense it will make ; then having discovered that he has made a 
 mistake, the unlucky actor is confused, and nervous, and makes many 
 more mistakes. The same thing is true as to entrances, exits, and 
 positions on the stage ; unless they have been rehearsed so often that 
 there cannot possibly be an error, disastrous consequences may ensue. 
 If the actor says: '^ Here she comes, ^^ looking at the door where she 
 does not come, the audience will naturally smile, although the author 
 hopes for tears ; and when heated and flurried after a long wait the 
 lady appears at an opposite entrance, the smile grows into a laugh. 
 
 It is impossible to insist upon a special mode of learning words. 
 Every one has a different way of learning by heart, but it is well to 
 make a strict rule to forbid the use of books after the first rehearsal. 
 
14 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 and it is better to trust to the prompter than to hold a book con- 
 stantly in your hand, for the position of the body and the expression 
 of the face are both lost if the book is held. It is also not wise to trust 
 to the excitement on the night of the first performance as; a stimulus 
 to acting, for if it does so affect one performer as to suggest happy 
 thoughts and new attitudes, the other actors vrill be thrown out of 
 gear by these novelties. It is therefore desirable at all rehearsals to 
 act as well as possible, and to make the last two rehearsals run as 
 smoothly as if they were played to an audience. 
 
 Mrs. Cowden Clarke says : '^ The rehearsals under Charles Dickens's 
 stage-management were strictly devoted to work — serious earnest 
 work — the consequence was, that, when the evening of the perform- 
 ance came, the pieces went off with a smoothness and polish that 
 belong only to finished stage-business and practiced performers.'' 
 
 If there are many serious rehearsals the confic'ence gained by them 
 is of great service. If the partis perfectly learned, and the position 
 on the stage quite certain, then all the actor has to do is to throw 
 himself into his part and become for the time the character he assumes. 
 He cannot throw himself well into his part if his memory is on the 
 rack. 
 
 Elocution is a thing which most amateurs entirely ignore, and yet 
 the rudiments are easy to learn, so far at least as one may learn to 
 avoid a squeak, a mumble or a roar. JSTervousness often causes ama- 
 teur actors to look down when they are speaking, thus preventing 
 even the front row of the audience from hearing what they say ; that 
 is the first fault to be cured. Another is that of speaking with the 
 back to the audience ; this should be avoided, though it is equally 
 ridiculous to keep the full face continually turned to the spectators 
 and not to the person whom you are adressing on the stage. 
 
 Tou must always speak louder than in ordinary conversation, and 
 yet not loud enough to destroy variety of intonation. It is weU to 
 raise the voice as if speaking to those at the farthest end of the room. 
 The common rule for distinct utterance is never to drop the voice at 
 the end of a sentence, but rather shghtly to raise it. The head also 
 should be thrown a little back, and the articulation should never be 
 hurried or slurred. To take breath at the right moments in speaking 
 is as important as it is in singing ; want of clear articulation is often 
 due to want of breath ; and want of breath induces a drop of the voice 
 at the conclusion of a phrase, and is fatal to elocution. 
 
 A prompter is a necessary addition to the company. The stage- 
 manager sometimes undertakes this office ; but the prompter has 
 enough work if he does nothing else, and his office is the most impor- 
 tant of all for insuring the success of the play. He ought to attend 
 the last two or three rehearsals, to be quite sure of where the actors 
 fail in their parts, and to be prepared to help them at the right 
 moment. It has often b^en observed that the same person will lail 
 over and over again in the same place — ^no matter how well he knows 
 the rest of his part ; and this is especially the case when he is nervous. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 15 
 
 A prompter's part is by no means an easy one, for he has to be dis- 
 tinct to the actors without being heard by the audience. He should 
 never take his eyes off the book, and ought to use ;a great deal of 
 judgment in prompting; some sentences that are left out make no 
 diSerence in the play, and if the other actca' takes up the right cue, 
 •without harking back, the prompter can leave them alone ; but if • 
 something important is forgotten he must prompt loudly to make the 
 actors go back to the right words. If he has attended the rehearsals 
 he will be prepared for all the pauses that occur in the acting. It is 
 awkward in a pause, which is occupied with stage business, to hear a 
 voice prompting loudly. It puts out the actors too — they either hurry 
 over the busine'ss, or get confused and give it up altogether, or spoil 
 the effect of the play by making angry signs at the prompter fi'om the 
 stage. This is not unfrequently done. The prompter ought to mark 
 his book to be quite certain where to prompt, and where to wait, for 
 it is difficult to watch the actors and not to lose the place in the book. 
 ISTo undertaking is more onerous than that of the amatem* prompter, 
 who has much'to do, nothing to gain, and who is the only one of the 
 company that receives no compliments from the audience. Mr. Bur- 
 nand in his very amusing and — if rightly taken — instructive book 
 lately pubhshed under the title oi Personal Reminiscences of tlie A. 
 D. C.*, says some admirable words as to the prompter's office. Hav- 
 ing spoken of one amateur prompter as'* without a rival in this difficult 
 depai'tment of dramatic art,*' he goes on to say, " If anyone tliinks I 
 am wrong in classing it under the head of ^ Art,' let him try it him- 
 self. The prompter, like the stage -manager, should be able^ to enter 
 into the spirit of every individual"part ; should acquire a consummate 
 knowledge of all the words and all the business of the play ; should 
 possess sufficient imitative power to enable him to pitch the word he 
 has to give in the same key as the actor, to whom he has to give it, 
 is speaking ia; and, on occasion, to assume any character ia the 
 piece." 
 
 It is a mistake to attempt much scenery in ordinary private theat- 
 ricals ; screens will generally suffice for the scenery and the entrances. 
 If the scene lies in a drawing-room it is easy to cover the screens with 
 pretty drapery, and to put" a little, but very little, drawing-room 
 furnitoe on the stage. The stage ought not to look bare; iDut for 
 unpracticed actors nothing is so awkward as a great deal of furnitm-e 
 to deal with ; even the shape of the chairs is of consequence. They 
 must be pretty-looking chairs, and at the same time chairs that you 
 can sit in easily, and rise from gracefully ; so that they must not be 
 either high or low ; they ought to take up as httle room as possible; 
 and, unless there is a special object in having one, an arm chair 
 should be avoided. A sofa at the back of the stage in a drawing-room 
 scene is a good property — it looks natural, and" is not in the way. 
 The table, or tables, if more than one is wanted, ought to be small 
 and low. 
 
 i^othing is more suitable for a drawing-room scene than a small 
 
16 PRIVATE THEATRICACS. 
 
 rotmd table, with a pretty table-cloth on it, too small to be obstruc- 
 tive. Books and work on it give an air of occupation, and at the 
 side of the stage it is well to have a little writing-table, furnished 
 with writing materials. The drapery of the scene should never be of 
 a material which absorbs the light. To give a realistic efi'ect to the 
 scene, pictures may be hung on the screen. For a hall or a diniug- 
 room the drapery and furniture must be simpler and heavier — the 
 screens draped with more sombre colors — the furniture more soHd — 
 and the stage need not be much furnished. If two such scenes occur 
 in the same play the floor of the hall may be represented by a drug- 
 get ; and bright colored rugs, or one large square piece of carpet may 
 be introduced in the drawing-room scene. If the scene is in a gar- 
 den, the screen may be covered with a trelhs-work of ivy and green 
 leaves, or with green baize, and branches of ivy trailed about it. 
 Large pots of small shrubs at the back of the stage produce a good 
 efi'ect, as do pots of flowers at the sides, the pots hidden by green 
 baize to represent grass, the floor covered with green baize. A great 
 deal of the amusement in private theatricals consists in plotting and 
 contriving ; how best to ^^ make believe." A clever amateur may be 
 able to paint a large landscape on a piece of linen or canvas, which 
 will serve for most of the scenes without alteration. But scene- 
 painting is an art in itself. 
 
 If a regular stage and scenery are put up, the house becomes unin- 
 habitable for days before tke performance and days afterwards. 
 Carpenters hammer from morning to night ; rehearsals proceed with 
 difficulty, and everything is turned out of its usual place, to say noth- 
 ing of the damage done to the house ; and after aU this agitation the 
 imitation of a real stage may probably be at best but a poor one. 
 The more amateurish the scenery is the less will the audience expect, 
 and the more easily it wiU be satisfied. A cottage scene is easily got 
 Tip — a drugget again over the carpet, a wooden table, two or three 
 kitchen chairs, and a wooden stool ; a hat and coat, or scarlet cloak, 
 hung on one screen, a saucepan or two on another, with a few pots 
 and pans produce a good enough effect. 
 
 The screens should be so placed as to serve for good entrances and 
 exits, without any gap perceptible to the audience, for it considerably 
 mars the effect of an entrance if the actor is seen waiting for his cue 
 behind the scenes. 
 
 To light the stage well is an important point. All the light should 
 be thrown upon the actors from the front of the stage, or at the front 
 sides of the scene, so that there should be no shadows cast on their 
 faces, as would be the case if the light came from behind or above 
 them. Foot-lights are necessary ; small oil-lamps with glass shades 
 over them ansvrer well ; or, failing these, wax candles;, if put close 
 together, will suffice. There miist be a wire put at a little distance 
 from the foot-lights, and interposed between them and the stage, or 
 the chances of the dresses catching fire are great. An actress must 
 not have to think of the risk of fire to her dress every time she moves. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 17 
 
 A table at eacli side of the stage, with a good moderator lamp on 
 it, makes a pleasant light. There ought also to be a bracket or two 
 on each side'^ of the stage, with lamps on them. The more the stage 
 can be lighted from the front the better, so that the different expres- 
 sions of the face may be well seen. The room for the audience ought 
 to b3 darkoiied at the time of the performance, to enhance the effect 
 of light on the stage ; but as it is dismal to come into a dimlv-lighted 
 room, is is well to have the lights so managed as to make it possible 
 to remove some of them when the curtain is drawn up. The cm'tain 
 should draw up, not a-ide. The drawing up of the curtain wants 
 much rehearsing to avoid a hitch. In lighting the stage it is well to 
 avoid gas, for it is a trying light, and a hot one, and the stage ought 
 to be kept as cool as possible. 
 
 There ought not to be much difficulty in ^ ^making up '' for amateur 
 theatricals.^ Yery httle paint is really wanted, unless the actor has 
 to assume age, and paint wrinkles on his face. If much paint is used, 
 the expression of the face will be diminished, and as expression is one 
 of the principal things in acting, it is undesirable to lose any of it. A 
 little rouge daintily put on for ladies, and a little pearl powder is all 
 that is required. "^ To paint the eyes is generally a mistake. It is 
 well to rub some '^blanc de perle^^ on the hands, as they are apt to 
 get red with nervousness, even if they are natm-ally white ; and if 
 nervousness produces an imbecoming redness on the face and neck, 
 it is well to rub a little blanc de perle into the skin; if washed off as 
 soon as the performance is over it does no harm, "^^igs should be 
 avoided if possible, as in a drawing-room, where the audience must 
 necessarily be close to the stage, a wig can seldom be so worn as 
 to look natural. But if the dress is a fancy one, and powdered hair 
 is necessary, wigs are less troublesome than powder on the natm'al 
 lair ; great care is necessary to avoid the ridiculous effect of dark hair 
 visible beneath them. The wig ought to be well powdered wherever 
 it touches the skin, so that the join may not be apparent. For a cos- 
 tume piece ^te gentlemen^s dresses are so difficult to arrange that it 
 is best to hire complete suits from a theatrical cos tinnier. Ladies' 
 dresses are easily managed, especially in these days when rich mate- 
 rials are in vogue. Everything mean and tawdry chould be rejected. 
 What wiU produce a good effect on the stage will look shabby in a 
 drawmg-room. In matters of this kind, however, directions are all 
 but useless. The clever adapter of old garments will often produce, 
 I y putting a little mind to the work, as good an effect as if the actors 
 Lave carte blanche at a costumier's : and much of the amusement of 
 the audience is caused by the ingenious makeshifts of the amatuer 
 dresser. Historical propriety must, in some cases, be studied, and 
 'nnumerable histories of costume have been published of late years 
 lor the guidance of actors. Unless you can command the services of a 
 thoroughly well-informed dresser, however, it is better not to attempt 
 too much in this way, as a single blunder, a single shield in false her- 
 aldry, for example, goes far to^ spoil the most ambitious an'angement* 
 
18 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 TVTien the play has received sufficient attention, the andience mnst 
 be considered. It is better to have two or three representations of 
 the plav than to ask too many people for the room and crowd the 
 spectators inconveniently. Amatenrs must have good-natured audi- 
 enceS; and therefore their comfort must be secured. They must have 
 a chance of seeing- well without straining their necks, and with this 
 in view the chahs in the back rows must be placed on a raised plat- 
 form, and the occupants must be made comfortable. To be punctual 
 to the time appointed in beginning, so as not to keep them A\'aitiug, 
 will help to keep the audience in a lenient humor. The audience also 
 has its duties; ladies should not come in such tight gloves as make ap- 
 plause impossible ; and men should exert all their vigor to give hearty 
 hand clappings ; for a timid amateur is easily discouraged, and under 
 the pain of a frigid reception may forget everything but his private 
 grief and disappointment. 
 
 It has already been said that in our opinion the less scenery is used 
 the better things will go in an ordinary amateur performance, for we 
 are not of course now concerned with those performances which are 
 got up by accomplished amateurs with as much pains and expense as 
 professional representations, and the artistic result of which, in some 
 cases, repays the trouble given to them. 
 
 In the case of many plays suitable for private theatricals, a simple 
 arrangement of screens will, as has been said, be enough to keep up 
 the deshed illusion. But it may be well to give some hints as to 
 what can be done in the way of scenery for a programme which 
 demands either a change of scene or a scene arranged with some elab- 
 oration. Let us suppose in the first instance that two short plays are 
 to be perfoiTQcd, that the scene of both is laid inside a house, but that 
 the fii'st is a ^' costume piece, '^ the action of which passes in an old 
 mansion, and that the second is a modem comedietta or farce, the 
 gcene of which is to be a modem drawing-room or lodging-house. If 
 there is no objection to incm-ring as much trouble and expense as 
 •would be involved in hiriug a portable theatre, and at the same time 
 producing a better effect, this can be done by getting a decorator or 
 a clever carpenter to build up a wooden framework mnning round 
 three sides of the room, and containing the necessaiy openings for 
 such doors and windows as the action of the two pieces requires. 
 
 This framework should be covered with the kind of paper suitable 
 for the scene of the second and modern piece, and this papering should 
 again be hung over with drapery, tapestry if possible, for the scene 
 of the first and ^^ costume" piece. The pictures hmig on the wall, 
 and the ornament and fmiiiture about the stage must of course be 
 varied for tlie two pieces 'We have seen this pUm admirably carried 
 out on an occasion when the scene was yet further varied by having 
 a window at the back of the stage, which in the fir.st piece opened on 
 a blank wall, represented by a slightly tinted tinted canvas--; screen, 
 and in the second on a landscape cleverly painted by an amateur. 
 
 If it is desirable, as iu many cases it will be, to produce a scenic 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 19 
 
 effect for two such pieces as we have indicated, without callicg in 
 the carpenter to build up a more or less solid framework, then large 
 clothes-horses or screens must be disposed around the three sides of 
 the room, and on them, instead of on the fi'ameworh, must be placed 
 the wall paper for the modem piece and the hangmgs for the costume 
 play. In this case doors are easily simulated by leaving gaps between 
 the clothes-horses or screens, and windows of a small size by fjlling 
 in one partition of a clothes-horse with silk gauze to represent glass, 
 and hanging it with window curtains. 
 
 A fireplace, if there is no smaJl movable grate in the in the house, 
 is easily made in wood by any one with a turn for carpentry, and a 
 sheet of red foil well crumpled up and placed inside the bars will give 
 a surprisingly exact representation cf a ccal fire. If the fire has to 
 be lighted, the actor who lights it mu^t either pull a^vay a piece of 
 black paper placed in front ot the foil, or arrange the foil inside the 
 bars while his back is tm-ned to the audience. The same efi'ect can 
 be produced, but in a less safe and satisfactory manner by a candle 
 or lamp placed inside the grate, behmd a sheet cf transparent red 
 paper- For large windows, which have to open and shut and allow 
 actors to pass in and out of them, either professional or amateur carpen- 
 try must be employed. Scenery an-anged in this way is of course much 
 less stable than a. built-up framework, and wiU have to be handled 
 in a somewhat gingerly fashion. If, for instance, a rapid entrance or 
 exit has to be made by a window, the person making it must take 
 care not to upset the whole scene in the eagerness of his movements. 
 It is not only young amatem-s who have to exercise caution in mat- 
 ters of this kind. We remember to have seen a celebrated actor on 
 the London stage, who was representing a scene cf comic terror in a 
 melo-drama, tremble so violently with his back against a tower, that 
 he nearly brought the whole stractm-e about his ears, and that the 
 stage cai-penter, who was supporting it behind was heard distinctly 
 remonstrating with him. 
 
 Let US now suppose that with our screens arranged round the rrcm 
 we have for the scene of our piece to represent a garden. In this 
 case the screens will become the garden walls, and must be hung 
 with some material as near the color of red brick as possible, on 
 which will be arranged flowers, creepers, and fruit, natural or arti- 
 ficial, so disposed as to show as little as may be of the supposed gar- 
 den walls. The floor maybe covered with green baize, and on it 
 may be placed, wherever they will not interfere with the movements 
 of the actors, plants, or better still, shrubs, in pots which can be con- 
 cealed either with green baize or with leaves and branches. If an 
 appearance or disappearance over the garden wall is necessary, there 
 must be steps provided on each side of the screen, those on the audi- 
 ence side being concealed by foliage. A garden bench or garden 
 chairs placed on the stage will add to the effect of the scene, and will 
 enable the actors to avoid the fault, common to young amateurs, of 
 standing up to deliver all their speeches. 
 
20 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 In a street scene, unless there is a competent amatenr scene-painter 
 on the spot, a good deal must be left to the imagination. The screens 
 can be hung either with gray or red to indicate house walls, and if to 
 one of them a signboard, as of an inn, is affixed, the audience will be 
 at no loss to understand what kind of scene they are supposed to be 
 looking at. 
 
 Change of scene in the middle of a piece is of course best avoided, 
 but can be managed by having the sides of the screens away from the 
 audience arranged for the new scene, and by gradually shifting the 
 screens round, taking care to keep the persons who shift them, out of 
 sight. It is simpler still, but more expensive, to have painted and 
 rolled up scenes hired for the occasion, and it is simplest of all, and 
 perhaps best, to recur to the method in vogue on the public stage in 
 Shakespeare's time, and indicate the change of scene by placards hung 
 at the back of the stage. 
 
 It frequently happens in plays of all kinds that the stage is sup- 
 posed to grow darker or lighter, either suddenly or by degrees. Most 
 of our readers have probably observed how, when the stage of a real 
 theatre is dark, the appearance of one small candle creates a sudden 
 blaze of light, which is of course produced by the prompter's turning 
 up of the stage lights when, or, if things are badly managed, before, 
 the candle makes its appearance. If gas footlights are employed in 
 private theatricals, there is of course no difficulty in producmg either 
 a sudden or gradual increase or decrease of light. But if candles or 
 oil lamps are used, it will be well to have some little way — say six in- 
 ches — between them and the actors, a board running the whole length 
 of the footlights and working on a hinge, so that it can either lie flat on 
 the ground, or by an aiTangement of pulleys be moved about by the 
 prompter so as to partially or wholly cover the footlights on the stage 
 side. For moonlight efiects tinted glass in a wooden framework can 
 be substituted for the board. The efiects of strong light, which in the- 
 atres are produced by lime-light or electric light, can in drawing- 
 rooms be simulated, if they are only required for a few moments, by 
 burning magnesiam wii*e. In dark scenes it will of course be neces- 
 sary to avoid making the stage so dark that the audience cannot see 
 what is passing upon it. Special care nuist be taken in the case of 
 scenes where something of importance depends on a light being sud- 
 denly turned up. We remember a misadventure which happened in 
 such a scene where an actress had to disconcert a villain by turning 
 up a lamp, which was burning low, so as to throAv the light full on 
 his face. At the given moment the footlights flared into a blaze of 
 light, but the lamp, which was supposed to cause this blaze, went 
 out. It had been turned the wrong way. All efiects of this kind 
 should be carefully rehearsed and watched from the audieuce part of 
 the room before the performance takes place. 
 
 It may be necessary to indicate thunder, lightning, rain, and 
 wind. Thunder is indicated by shaking a sheet of light iron. This, 
 however, it maybe difficult to procure, and large empty biscuit-boxes 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 21 
 
 or a large tea-tray maj be employed in its place. Lightning can be 
 imitated by blowing or scattering powdered rosin or lycopodium 
 through the flame of a candle or of a sponge soaked in spirits of wine 
 and fixed inside a pepper-caster^ but this is a difficult matter to man- 
 age effectively unless a ^' lightning-box'' is used. Such boxes are, 
 we believe, to be procured, made expressly for private theatricals. 
 Failing them, the sudden lighting and extinguishing of a magnesium 
 wire might be tried. Eain can be imitated by playing a large water- 
 ing-pot into a tin bath, or by emptying a quantity of peas from one 
 tin box into another with ledges arranged inside for the peas to rattle 
 on. The noise of wind, unless a machine for the purpose is procured, 
 or unless some one with a talent for vocal mimicry will undertake it, 
 is best left to the imagination. The tolling of a large bell can be well 
 imitated by striking a gong; the noise of a small one, or of a clock 
 striking the hour, by tapping a tumbler or wine glass with a knife. 
 A perambulator may be impressed to imitate the wheels of an ap- 
 proaching carriage, but this is perhaps best indicated by the cracking 
 of whips and cries of encouragement to imaginary horses. If a gun 
 or pistol has to be fired in the course of ttie piece, and it is supposed 
 that a percussion cap will not make noise enough by itself, the smallest 
 possible quantity of powder should be used, as the smoke is apt to 
 hang about a room. If the appearance of smoke from a pipe is de- 
 sired, a pastille, or a piece of ribbon of Bruges can be lighted in a 
 bowl. 
 
 The question of painting the face and arranging the hair or wig, 
 which is technically called '^making up,'' is one of some importance. 
 ^^ Make-up Boxes,'' containing every conceivable kind of paint and 
 powder that can be wanted, are sold for this purpose by various theat- 
 rical wig-makers, but it is our object to show what can be done or 
 attempted without, rather than with, these. Amateur actors as a 
 rule are apt to overdo the painting of their faces, and it is very diffi- 
 cult for young people playing old parts in a drawing-room to hit the 
 right mean, and to avoid looking, on the one hand. Eke atattoed sav- 
 age, or on the other, like a boy or young man with a dirty face. 
 IsTothiog but actual experiment under the same kiad and amount of 
 light which will be used at the performance will insure accuracy on 
 ' this point, as to which we cannot pretend to give anything beyond 
 the advice that the amount of paint which looks natural under the 
 lights to a person standing in what would be about the middle of the 
 audience, may be taken to be the right amount. "When the audience 
 is quite close to the stage it is very difficult to paint so as to deceive 
 both the front and the back rows. W"e have indeed seen an amateur 
 '^ma.ke up" for an old part so as both to deceive even people standing 
 close to hiim behiad the scenes, and to look Hke an old man from the 
 back of the audience, but this was an exceptional case. The amateur 
 actor was a professional painter, and it had taken him about an hour 
 to produce this effect. 
 
 As to the kind of paint to be used^ good water-colors answer every 
 
22 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 purpose for ordinary theatricals. If an old make up is desired^ the 
 actor should wrinkle up his forehead before a looking-glass^ and 
 fdl in the lines thus made with a mixture of red and Indian ink. The 
 hollow between the eye and nose may be lightly touched with dark 
 blue;and ^ ^crows' feet" painted round the corner of the eye in Indian ink 
 and red; and the lines from the corners of the nose to the mouth filled 
 in with the same colors. These are the simple outlines of an old or 
 elderly ^' make up/^ which can of course be varied^ elaborated^ or 
 added to at the will of the actor, so long as the result is natural ; and 
 the best way of insuring this is to study and copy closely the lines 
 marked either on a living person^s or on a portrait's face. Gray or white 
 hair is of course produced either by powdering the natural hair or by 
 covering it with a wig. False hair, whiskers, eyebrows, beards, and 
 moustaches can be easily obtained made in any shape that is required, 
 and fitted either on wires or on gauze, which is attached to the face with 
 what is called ^ ^spirit-gum, ^^ or with a little common glue. Both of these 
 substances can only be got off with ease by being well saturated with 
 oil or grease while yet on the face, before any hot or cold water is 
 applied ; and all paint comes off much more easily if cold cream or 
 glycerine is rubbed over the face before it is washed. It is not diffi- 
 cult to make false hair in any required shape out of hair pads ; but if 
 this is done the moustache or whisker must be, as it were, built up 
 bit by bit, and not stuck on in one piece, which can be done with a 
 ready-made moustache. 
 
 The duties of the prompter have been commented on above. 
 Besides the troublesome duties there described, either he or the stage- 
 manager will probably have also to undertake that of looking after 
 the ^^ properties;" that is, the various pieces of furniture and so on 
 demanded by the action of the piece. Whoever undertakes this 
 department must see not only that everything wanted on the stage 
 when the curtain goes up is ready in its place, but he must also make 
 a list of the things which have to be brought on the stage during the 
 piece by the actors. The convenience of this method is obvious. 
 
 Suppose, for instance, that something depends on a purse Tvith 
 money in it being produced by one of the characters. If there is no 
 one told off to look after the properties, the actor just as he is going 
 on the stage may find that he has forgotten the purse, and have to 
 delay his entrance till it can bo found ; or he may not miss the purse 
 till the moment for its production on the stage arrives, when his case 
 will be even worse. We remember a case in which a good deal 
 depended upon one of the principal actors in a l\irce coming on the 
 stage bearing in his hand a coat-tail torn from a person with whom 
 he had had a struggle. The coat-tail had been carefully prepared, 
 and put in its proper place, some time before the performance, by 
 the person who was at once stage-manager and prompter, but he had 
 forgotten, and the actor had forgotten, to see that it was ready to the 
 actoi-'s hand just before the curtain went up. About five minutes 
 before the presence of the coat-tail was necessary, the prompter was 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 23 
 
 called away by some one else, who was in difficulties about his ^^pro- 
 perties/' and only returned to his post in time to meet an infuriated 
 young representative of an infuriated old man screaming at the wing 
 for the missing coat-tail. This had disappeared entu'elVj and in the 
 end the prompter hastily took off his own coat and gave it as a sop 
 to the distressed actor, Xow a whole coat is somewhat larger than 
 a coat-tail, and the actor was so painfully conscious of liiis, that in 
 the sentence, ^^this coat-tail did giveway/^ he inserted an adjective 
 w^hich made it more forcible, but which was not set down in his part. 
 The chance of such a misadventui'e as this is prevented by stationing 
 behind the scenes a person with a list of properties in liis hand, who 
 before each character goes on the stage shall see that he or she is 
 provided with everything wanted for the scene. In the same way, 
 of coui'se, all letters'' and parcels which have to be brought on the stage 
 must be ready beforehand in the care of whoever looks after the 
 properties. 
 
 In the case of a letter which has to be read out on the stage it will 
 be convenient to have it actually wiitten out. But the actor who 
 has to read it should also learn the words by heart in c^se of any 
 accident happening to the written copy. There is a story of an actor 
 who omitted to learn by heart the words of a letter brought to him 
 on the stage,, and who thereby very nearly got into a serious scrape. 
 The actcr representing the servant who "^brought on the letter had a 
 grudge against the one who represented his master, and gratified it 
 by changing the written letter for a blank sheet of paper. The 
 master opened the letter and^ unable to remember its supposed con- 
 tents, was aghast at finding no words written on it. The servant, 
 however, gave him a way out of the difficulty by exulting in his 
 triumph and saying, ^* This letter seems to trouble you, su'; may I 
 ask what bad news it contains ? ^' On this the master, handing him 
 the letter and replying, " Eead for yourself," turned the tables on 
 him completely. 
 
 The subject of letters reminds us that such apparently simple 
 actions as opening or writing a letter are by no means easy to perform 
 naturally and gracefully on the stage. Letters frequently have to 
 be written with extraordinary rapidity in a play, and the writer must 
 do his best to prevent this rapidity from seeming too absm'd, and yet 
 to avoid creating tkesome delay by performing the action ioo 
 naturally, that is, too much as he would do it in real life. For it 
 must be remembered that what looks well enough in everyday life, 
 will not look well on the stage. This is partly because the little 
 actions which are not watched in everyday litb are in theatricals sub- 
 jected to the scrutiny of an audience ; "^partly because acthig is an art, 
 and nothing can be done artistically without the trouble of learning. 
 Such things as eating, drinking, taking a chair or rising from one, 
 and so on, fall under the head of trivial actions which in theatricals 
 become important, because if they are carelessly done, they will look 
 awkward and spoil the effect of the scene. 
 
94 privatl: theatricals. 
 
 It is a gi'eat matter for the actors to retain their presence of mind 
 if anything goes wrong in the action of the jjiece, as well as if any 
 one forgets or bungles his words. We have seen what one would 
 naturally think an overwhelming misfortune pass off unperceived 
 merely because the person who occasioned it did not lose his head. 
 He was representing an infirm old man bewailing his misery to his 
 daughter, and at one point he was accustomed to rock himself to and 
 fro in his chair. jS^ow the chair placed on the stao:e at night was not 
 the one that had been used at rehearsal, but was lar less stable, and 
 the result of this was that the actor rocked it and himself with it 
 flat down on the floor. He had the presence of mind to lie still and 
 the lady acting with him had the presence of mind to help him 
 tenderly up, and not only the audience but many of the people 
 behind the scenes thought that the fall was a new ^^efl'ect'^ in ten- - 
 tionally introduced. One of the actors, however, who caught sight 
 of the supposed old man's face as he lay upon the ground, laughed all 
 through the rest of his part. Let it be noted that this accident 
 would have been avoided if there had been a person told ofl' especially 
 to see that the right chairs, etc., were ready before the curtain 
 rose. 
 
 In conclusion, we may observe that it is impossible to give any cut- 
 and-dried directions as to the science of acting. One set of golden 
 rules for general guidance exists in Hamlet's address to the players, 
 the directions in which seem easy enough to follow until one tries. 
 One amusing instance of their practical" difficulty occurred when a 
 personator of Hamlet, delivering the words, ^' do not saw the air too 
 much with your hand, thus,-' excited a spectator in the gallery to 
 cry out, ^' Don't you either, old chap ! " It is perhaps still more diffi- 
 cult to speak a speech '^trippingly on the tongue," and not to 
 ''mouth it, as many of our players do,'' and yet deliver it distinctly 
 and vtdth just emphasis. Harder stiU, perhaps, is it to "suit the 
 action to the word, the word to the action ; with this special observ- 
 ance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature.'^ Amatem'S,- who 
 feel either too confident or too diffident, may do well to remember 
 the saying that no professional actor has ever learned how to play 
 BomcOy untU he was too old for the part. To learn even the rudi- 
 ments of a complex art is a troublesome task, but what is worth 
 doing at all is worth doing well, with the repetition of which excellent 
 rule we may take our leave of our young readers, who may wish to 
 gratify a natural loudness for private theatricals. 
 
TABLEAUX VIVANTS. 
 
 There are few amusements more graceful or interesting^ alike to 
 young and old, than the performance of tableaux vivants or ^^ living 
 pictures/' 
 
 The tableaux that follow are simple in their construction, and 
 may be easily produced in any house by the employment of such 
 materials as . are usually to be found in every household. For the 
 guidance of those who not only undertake these but more elaborate 
 pictures of life, we give instructions as to the management of the 
 stage, groupings, lights and scenes that will enable any party to give 
 delight and entertainment to a numerous assembly of friends. 
 
 One of the prime requisites for success in these representations is 
 sufficient space between the spectators and the stage. ^Tot less than six 
 feet space should be unoccupied between the stage and the audience, 
 but ten or twelve feet would be better. In a dwelling-house the best 
 place will be a room divided by folding doors, taking the smallest 
 apartment for the pictures. 
 
 The stage should be raised three feet, or a little more, from the 
 jioor. A large, strong dining table and two or three kitchen tables 
 make a very good stage ; they should be tied firmly together. Over 
 these a carpet should be placed. The stage should be at least one 
 foot larger, on each side, than the opening or curtain. Between the 
 performers and audience a close black gauze should be tightly 
 stretched and fastened on all sides. This, though not absolutely 
 necessary, will add greatly to the effect. At the back of the stage 
 place a screen, or light frame, over which to hang the background ; 
 this should vary according to the color of the objects in the pictures; 
 for instance, where the figures are clothed in black, a light back- 
 ground is necessary, but for most subjects, particularly those in 
 which brilliant colors predominate, a black back ground is advisable ; 
 at the same time, when performing a series of tableaux, variety and 
 relief is afforded if this be occasionally changed, or neutral-tinted 
 cloth used. 
 
 The arrangement of the lights depends much on the pictm-e, but 
 there are two or three established rules. Foot-lights are to be par- 
 ticularly avoided, as they throw unbecoming shadows on the face 
 and generally destroy the picturesque appearance of the scene. "With 
 some exceptions, where a cross light is essential, it is best that the 
 lights should all be placed on one side of the stage, the most of them 
 
26 TABLEAUX VIVANTS. 
 
 high. The best and strongest white light is the Y -nesiiini Tableaux 
 Light; when a calcium light cannot be obta od. For colored 
 lights red and green are the best, besides bein: :he safo^t, a 3 these 
 two solors are now made so that they are pe 3ctly harmless; all 
 the other colored fires are more or less dangerous, besides 
 giving off poisonous gases. It must bo rioted that in a large 
 tableaux, comprising manj figures, as much light as possible is 
 requh'ed ; in moonlight scenes very little light, while in medium pic- 
 tures shade should be thrown on various parts, so as to bring the 
 principal figure into a strong light. For scenes where a spiritual 
 effect 'is deshed mis some common salt with alcohol in an iron 
 vessel and igjifce it ; all other lights should be extinguished. There 
 should be some person among the audience, to turn down the lights 
 here as the curtain is drawn uj). 
 
 The curtain should be made of stout, dark calico, thick and close 
 made, so as not to allow the light and figures to be seen through it. 
 A strip of wood, about two inches square, should be fastened t^o the 
 top and bottom of this curtain, and at about one foot apart on these 
 strips large strong brass rings must be fixed. Then, in lines down 
 the curtain, on the back, commencing at the large ring at the top 
 and fijiishing at the large ring at the bottom, sew smaller brass rings 
 at about intervals of two feet. Then fasten the top strip of wood to 
 the ceihng, or as far up as it is desirable to have the curtain, and 
 tying strong cords to the large rings at the bottom, pass them through 
 the smaU rings on the curtain to the large rings on the top ; then 
 divide these cords into two equal portions and draw one portion to 
 each side of the stage, tie the ends of each portion in one large knot 
 and fasten them to a hook by the sides of the curtain, on the stage. 
 "WTien the curtain is to be drawn up a person on each side of it should 
 officiate, commencing their work together when a bell is rung as a 
 signal. They should never leave their posts, as it is seldom that 
 those taking parts in tableaux can remain still longer than two or 
 three minutes. It is better to draw up the curtain and aUow it to 
 fall two or three times than run the risk of destroying the illusion 
 by the moving of any of the actors. 
 
 "^ There are a few rules in grouping which should never, with rare 
 exceptions, be departed from. In a picture the main secret of suc- 
 cess is the manner in which light and shade fall upon the difiln-cnt 
 parts of it. The most frequent error of the inexperienced in arrang- ' 
 ing tableaux is the introduction of too great a variety of light colors. 
 Showy costumes should be intermingled with those of a more 
 sombre hue. In general, the lightest and palest tinted dresses should 
 be in the background to relieve the darl^er ones. If the interest of 
 the picture fall "on one principal figure, that figure, if a woman, 
 should be clothed in white, or, if a'man, in a simple dark dress, in 
 one tint throughout. As the sight of the tableaux is so transitory, 
 these strong contrasts are needed to teU the story quickly to the 
 imagination. The tallest figures should be in the background, so 
 
TABLEAUX VIVANTS. 27 
 
 that all may hi Sen : but this rule must be reversed when there is 
 room enough on he stage to attempt anything like perspective or 
 distance. To eiie i this the figures should become gradually shorter 
 and smaller^ and t % tints of the dresses paler and less vivid. 
 
 Some one person F"'"'^uld be chosen as a manager, in order to have 
 an exhibition of this kind carried through systematically. To him 
 the care of every detail connected with the stage, the curtains and 
 the providing of the lights should be entrusted. It is he who should ring 
 a small bell as a signal for assembling of the characters or the raising 
 or lowering of the curtains. He should write out two or more pro- 
 grammes of the tableaux, in the order in which they are to be 
 presented, one for his own usC; the other should be accessible to the 
 actors. He should also give the signal for lowering the lights among 
 the audience, and have general supervision of the entire exhibition. 
 If any difference of opinion arise among the actors, an appeal should 
 be made to him, and his decision should be accepted as final and 
 strictly complied with. 
 
 Appropriate music should accompany all tableaux, where it can 
 possibly be had. It adds much to the interest of the scene and is a 
 great support to the actors, who, though not exactly ^^ stage 
 struck," cannot fail to be sensible of the" fact that the eyes and 
 thoughts of the spectators are firmly fixed upon them. 
 
 The suggestions we have here given are the result of considerable 
 personal experience, and those of our readers who study and follow 
 these out will certainly give pleasure and reap applause by any represen- 
 tation they may give of Tableaux Tivants. 
 
 THE GODDESS OF POETRY A'NB THE POET. 
 Characters and Costume. 
 The Goddess of Poetry. Flowing white dress, cut loiv in the 
 necJ:, short sleeves trimmed with white satin rihbon; a white 
 muslin across the shoulders ; a loreath of myrtle on her head. 
 The Poet, a loose NacJc coat, darJc hnee breeches, light vest, white 
 hose, hnee and shoe hucTdes, loio shoes. 
 
 The scene represents a dark and gloomy attic. 
 
 An old table stands in the middle of the room; on it are a few 
 books and manuscripts, an inkstand, a candlestick, with a partly 
 burned candle in it, a mug of water and a roll of bread. The poet is 
 seated in an old fashioned chair by the table ; he is leaning his head 
 on one hand with his elbow on the table, lamenting over his poverty 
 and misfortune. The Goddess is standing beside him, with her left 
 hand upon his shoulder ; in her right hand she holds a golden harp, 
 and is encouraging him to renewed efforts. She should stand slightly 
 behind him. 
 
 Whitish blue light from the side the Goddess is on. Music soft and 
 plaintive. 
 
'^ TABLEAUX VIVANTS 
 
 ABOTJ BEN^ ADHEM AND THE AXGEL. 
 
 Characters and Costume. 
 
 Abou Ben Adeem. White pantaloons and sliirf, icliite lace collar 
 and icristhands and a velvet cloaJc over the right shoulder. 
 
 The Angel, a white dress, over which is tcorn a loose white tarleton 
 robe, with large flowing sleeves ; this must de cut quite low at the 
 top, a7id trail 071 the floor ; the hair done up snugly, and encircled 
 with a hand of silver one quarter of an inch wide ; large icings, 
 made of ivire, covered ivitJi gauze and ornamented with silver 
 spangles fasteiied to the hacJc of the ivaist. Ihe face and other 
 exposed parts of the person shoidd he whitened with flesh powder. 
 
 This tableau is in two scenes. A couch is near the front of the 
 stage on the right hand, near the head of the couch is a pedestal on 
 which is a lighted lamp, at the back a crimson curtain drawn apart 
 towards each side of the stage, and beneath it a pedestal with a piece of 
 statuary on it. 
 
 In the first scene Ben Adhem is resting on the couch with the quilt 
 thrown over the lower portion of his body ; his left hand resting on the 
 couch, from which he has partly risen, the right hand raised in front 
 of his chest, the fingers spread out ; his face turned towards the angel, 
 expressing wonder and surprise. The Angel is standing in the centre 
 of the stage, facing the audience. She is engaged writing in the book 
 of gold ; it rests on the left arm and is held at the top by the left 
 hand ; the right hand holds a long quill pen, the point of which 
 rests on the pages of the book. The body and head should incline 
 forward slightly, with the eyes on the book ; expression of the face 
 tranquil ; light quite dim and from the side opposite Ben Adhem. 
 
 In the second scene the Angel stands at the foot of the couch 
 holding the book in her left hand and pointing to its pages with her 
 right hand ; her eyes are fixed on Ben Adhem's face and her coun- 
 tenance is lighted up with smiles. Ben Adeem leans forward, rest- 
 ing his arm on a cushion by his side, and looks with pleasure on the 
 pages of the book. Ked fire, so as to throw a strong light on the 
 Angel. 
 
 Music in first scene soft; increasing in power in the second scene. 
 
 THE FOETUXE TELLER. 
 characters and costume. 
 
 Fortune Teller, bright crimson dress, velvet waist, laced across 
 the front withjnnlc ribbon, showing a white robe beneath : rows of 
 gilt buttons on each side of opening and the bottom of the sleeves. 
 Long black hair hanging carelessly over the shoulders. The face 
 and other exposed parts of the x^crson stained a light brown. 
 
TABLEAUX YIYANTS. 29 
 
 A Young Lady, icliite dress, loiv neclc and sJiort sleeves, red sasli 
 around the luaist, small straw hat placed jauntily on one side of the 
 head. 
 
 The scene represents a rude tent, in front of which bums a small 
 fire. The fortune teller is seated on the ground with a pack of cards 
 in her left hand, her right hand is pointing upwards ; she is looking 
 towards the young lady, who is stooping at her side gazing with 
 earnestness at the cards. The fire, which should he put in a small 
 iron pot, must be lighted just before the curtain rises. 
 
 Eed fire, soft music. 
 
 mig:n'Oi^ et soistpeee. 
 
 CHARACTERS AND COSTUME. 
 
 The Grandfather, a rtion'Ws loose rode tvith the hood throicn 'back 
 over his shoulders. A full pointed white heard and moustache, 
 wig to match, ivith bald front. 
 
 MiGNON, plain white cotton waist, voith loiu neck and drapery sleeves, 
 showing her arms hare to the elbows ; skirt of plain gray serge, and 
 reaching a trifle below the knees, showing he?' feet, tvhich are tvith- 
 out shoes ; small scarf for a girdle ; hair combed plainly back from 
 face and hanging down on her shoulders. 
 
 This tableau represents an old bard and his grandchild. 
 
 The old man is on the left of the stage near the front. He kneels 
 upon his right knee, his right arm is carried across his body and rests 
 upon his left knee, which is raised a little fi'om the floor. His left 
 hand rests upon an old fashioned harp beside him. He gazes forward 
 with a fixed melancholy air. 
 
 Mignon stands to the right of the old man, looking wistfully at 
 him, with her chin supported upon her left hand, the elbow of which 
 rests upon the back of her right hand, as it lies upon her hip. 
 
 A bright white light should be thrown upon Mignon, leaving the 
 old man entirely in the shade. 
 
 Music very slow and soft. 
 
 BELSHAZZAE'S FEAST. 
 
 characters and costume. 
 
 Belshazzar, purple velvet coat tri^nmed with gold, large cloak 
 trimmed with ermine, velvet breeches, white hose crossed with red 
 tape, sandals, and a velvet and gold croxvn. 
 
30 TABLEAUX VIVANTS. 
 
 The Queen, slioicy hrocade cut loxo in the neck, short sleeves, a hand 
 of hlacJc velvet ornamented loith gold on the head, and a narrow 
 mantle over the shoidder. The dress must he ornamented iciih 
 rich jewelry, a ivide helt of red velvet, ornameyited with jewelry, 
 around the ivaist. 
 
 Three Soothsayers, long loose coats, reaching six inches helnv the 
 knees, and gathered in at the waist icith a wide helt. Each coat 
 shoidd vary in color, red, purple and hlue, with the edges trimmed 
 with cloth of some other color. Black hose crossed with red, reach to 
 the knees, low shoes covered with red Turkey cloth, turhan of hright 
 colors, and long white heard. 
 
 Six Ladies, silk and satin dresses trimmed with spangles and any 
 kind of jewelry that icill look showy, hair decorated with heads, 
 pins and plumes. 
 
 Pour Gentlemen, long flowing rohes, of various colors, richly 
 trimmed and light turhans, long heards. 
 
 In this tableau the stage should be set with a long table at the 
 back, and running from left to right; on it is a crimson cloth, with 
 plates, a silver tea set, candle sticks, fruit, flowers, etc. At the 
 right comer of the stage is a throne shaped chair, with a footstool 
 covered with a crimson cloth. Belshazzar is seated on the throne, 
 with his face turned upwards, towards the left, looking with a fixed 
 expression at the place to which the soothsayer is pointing. His 
 right hand rests upon the right arm of the chair ; his left lies upon 
 his left knee, which is extended, and his body is iuclined forward. 
 The soothsayer stands in the centre of the stage near the front; his 
 left hand is raised and extended towards the left, pointing upwards at 
 a point halfway between the stage and the top of the cm'taiu, his 
 right is inclined at his side ; he stands erect, looking towards the 
 right at the king, with a stern expression upon his face. The Queen 
 stands beside the throne at the left of the king ; her face is turned 
 towards the left, looking upwards at the writing with an amazed 
 expression ; her right hand is raised to her bosom, her left is at her 
 side. The other soothsayers stand on the left of the stage, with their 
 ' faces towards the right, looking upon the other soothsayer with a 
 startled expression. At the left of the centre of the stage two ladies 
 kneel, their faces toward the soothsayer, heads inclined forward and 
 hands clasped, as they look towards him with an expresssion of 
 entreaty. The rest of the characters are at the table, on the side 
 farthest from the audience, some looking forward, with an earnest 
 expression, at the soothsa3^er, others gazing at the writing, with a 
 terrified expression. The back of the stage should be lighted with a 
 strong white light, and a bright red light at the place where the 
 writing is supposed to be^ and on the figures in the front. Music 
 stormy, 
 
TABLEAUX YIYANTS. 31 
 
 MAT AXD DECEMBER. 
 
 CHAEACTEES A^D C0STU2IE. 
 
 Old IslAN, olue coat with dr ass tidtons, luff vest and pantaloons , 
 ruffled sliirt bosom, luliite icig with bald front. 
 
 Young Giel, handsome sillc evening dress or icliite muslin dress 
 with olue sash, hair tastily dressed. 
 
 The scene represents a drawing room. A sofa in center of stage, 
 table on the left and arm chair on the right, pictures, etc. The old 
 man is seated beside the gui npon the sofa, holding her left hand to 
 his lips, while he bends forward and looks np to her face with a 
 complacent expression ; she holds the forefinger of her right hand to 
 her lips and looks towards the audience with an amused expres- 
 sion. Bright light and lively music. 
 
 STATUE SCEi^E FEOM THE ^^ MARBLE HEART.^' 
 
 CHARACTERS AND COSTUME. 
 
 Phidias, slate colored tunic icith ivhite Grecian border, stocMngs 
 and sandals, 
 
 GoRGiAS, crimson tunic, white toga profusely ornamented with gold, 
 flesh colored stockings, crimson bushins, golden circlet and tchite 
 ribbon on his head. 
 
 ASPASIA, plain robe of white, covered, with the exception of a S7nall 
 pjortion, by heavy folds of ivhite drapery hanging from her 
 shoidders, and covering her arms to the elbow; a crown of white 
 paper to represent marble; her hair is heavily powdered to repre- 
 sent the same substance. 
 
 Lais, plain robe of white, wiiJi low necTcand short sleeves, and ivhite 
 drapery, leaving the arms and neck exposed; on her head a 
 ivreath of ivhite paper leaves, in imitation of a laurel wreath in 
 marble; hair heavily powdered. 
 
 Phrtxe, the same as Lais witli the exception of the laurel wreath. 
 
 The scene represents the studio of Phidias. At the back of the 
 stage is a long narrow platform, about three feet high, covered with 
 black or dark green material ] behind the platform should be a dark 
 curtain, to set off the statuary. 
 
 At^ the right center of the stage, about one third from the front, 
 Phidias is kneeling upon his left knee ; his face is turned from the 
 audience and covered by his hands, as his head is bowed in grief. 
 At the left center of the stage, about the same distance from the 
 
32 TABLEAUX VIVANTS. 
 
 front, stands Grorgias. He is looking at Phidias with a triumphant 
 expression ; the left side of his face is turned towards the audience, 
 and his right hand extended, pointing towards the statues. Aspasia, 
 who should be the tallest of the three, stands in the center of the 
 platform, her left hand hung at her side, holding a scroll of paper ; 
 her right hand is raised to her bosom. She must stand very erect, 
 with about two-thirds of her face to the audience, and looking 
 towards the left, at Gorgias, with a smile. Lais stands on the right 
 with her left hand upon Aspasia's right shoulder ; in her right hRud 
 she holds a goblet, painted white, in imitation of marble, before 
 Aspasia. She should stand so that about half of her face is turned 
 towards the audience ; and looking towards the left, also smiles upon 
 Gorgias. Phryne stands at the left, her right hand upon the left 
 shoulder of Aspasia, holding a wreath of white paper leaves towards 
 her with her left hand. She stands close to Aspasia, looking with a 
 smiling expression upon Gorgias. 
 
 A very powerful white light should be thrown upon the statues, 
 from the right. Music very soft and low. 
 
 NIOBE. 
 
 CHARACTERS AND COSTUME. 
 
 !N'iOBE, robe of white drapery, low neclc and sJiort sleeves, heltcd at 
 the waist, a mantle of ivhite drapery over her left arm and shoul- 
 der ; hair dressed in the Grecian style, icith ivhite bands on the 
 front aiid powdered white. 
 
 The Girl, plain white robe belted at the waist, low necJc and short 
 sleeves, hair in Grecian style, heavily powdered. 
 
 The scene represents Mobe in the act of pleading for her daughter. 
 Niobe stands in the center of the stage, her face turned towards the 
 right with an expression of anguish and supplication ; her left arm is 
 exteuded as if shielding her child ; her right l3^ing upon her daughter's 
 shoulder, drawing her close to herself. The child kneels close to her 
 mother, whose lower limbs shield her body ; her arms raised, grasp- 
 ing her mother's waist as if in terror, and her face turned upward 
 towards the right, with an expression of fear and entreaty. A white 
 light from the right. Music, imitating a storm. ■* 
 
 THE DUEL IK THE S:N'0W. 
 
 CHARACTERS AND COSTUME. 
 
 Baron De Lambech. Mephistophcles' dress — red shirt and 
 trunJcs, slashed with black, blade cape fastened to shoidders, red 
 stockings, black shoes, long black wig, black moustache and 
 imperial, with eyebrows to match, 
 
TABLEAUX VIYAKTS. 33 
 
 Karl De Stromberg, Hack velvet cutaway coat, with jet huttonsy 
 vest of the same, velvet Icnee breeches, black silk stockings and 
 buckle shoes. 
 
 Two Seconds, evening dress of black cloth, modern tall silk hats. 
 
 The Angel of Midnight, loose slate colored dress, with drapery 
 sleeves, and a hood of the same thrown back upon her shoulders. 
 
 The scene represents a forest — day-break— leafless trees, bushes, 
 etc., the whole scene covered with snow. 
 
 The angel stands at the back of the stage and in the center ; she 
 has a staff in her left hand held close to her body ; her right hand is 
 raised above her head, pointing upwards ; her face is turned upwards 
 with an earnest expression. The Baron stands at the right of the 
 stage near the front ; his right hand, holding his sword, is lowered to 
 the _ hip, and his left hand is placed on his breast ; his head is 
 inclined backwards and rests upon the shoulder of one of the seconds, 
 who supports him ; his face wears an expression ofmahce and disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 His Second stands directly behind him, his right arm under the 
 Baron's right, his left supporting the Baron's left arm. He looks 
 down upon the Baron with an expression of alarm upon his face. 
 
 Karl stands at the left of the stage, near the front ; his hand is 
 extended behind him, in the position of ^^ guard f his right hand is 
 extended, holding his sword, a little lowered from the level of the 
 Baron's breast ; his face wears a determined expression as he looks 
 towards his opponent. 
 
 The other Second is on the left, some little distance behind Karl, 
 and nearer the back of the stage ; his left foot is placed about two 
 feet in front of the right, as if advancing, his head stretched forward, 
 as he looks at the duellist with an expression of anxiety. 
 
 A blight white light. Music, ^^ Prayer from Moses in Egj^t.'' 
 
CKOSS PTJEPOSES. 
 
 A MISTJli^DEESTANDIl^ra 
 
 |tt @tt« Jijcjetie. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. B. FAENIE. 
 
CEOSS PUEPOSES 
 
 DRAMATIS PEESON^. 
 
 CYBIL HABGRAVE, 
 JACK FREKE, 
 PHILUS DAINTREE, 
 JENNY FREKE, 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 27i 
 
 CROSS PUEPOSES. 
 
 Scene. — A Kentisli Lane in Summer, B., a rustic seat L,, a stile. 
 Jack discovered at seat, slcetching. 
 
 Jack. There ! I thinly I've caught the spirit of the French School. 
 Just a little touch more of positive black. 
 
 Enter Jenny, l., with rustic basket. She listens. 
 
 Jack. After all, they're right. Mature isn't, as a rule, rosy- 
 colored, any more than life is. 
 
 Jenny. Upon my word, sir, a pretty speech for a honeymoon. 
 
 Jack. I had forgotten the honeymoon. Besides, you ought 
 to be gathering wild strawberries. 
 
 Jenny. There aren't any strawberries in the wood (slily), any 
 more than there are in one's life. 
 - Jack. Then you are coming around to my ideas. 
 
 Jenny. Tou mean French coloring? 
 
 Jack. Exactly. What do you think of my sketch ? 
 
 Jenny. It's very green 
 
 Jack. Wliat is foliage— what is grass ? 
 
 Jenny. And very black. 
 
 Jack. What are deep shadows ? 
 
 Jenny. And very ugly. 
 
 Jack (enthusiastically). That's nature I 
 
 Jenny. Is it ? 
 
 Jack. Yes — as we ought to see her. Look around yon. "VThere 
 it isn't green — ^it's black — and the positives are united with low greys. 
 Such is nature— such is life. Sunsets and rainbows are excep- 
 tional. 
 
 Jenny. Ah ! you didn't think so a year ago. Don't you recollect. 
 Jack, our party to this very spot ? 
 
 Jack. I should think so : with Cyril Hargrave and the little 
 Daintree. Mce girl, the little Daintree. 
 
 Jenny. Poor PMllis ! 
 
 Jack . "WTiat a grand aU-round quarrel we finished up with ! Don't 
 you remember? I went botanizing with Miss Daintree, you with 
 Cyril. 
 
38 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 Jenny. Yes : and when vre returaed we were just in time to wit- 
 ness the pleasing spectacle of Phillis falling into your arms 
 
 Jack. Please to add— from a treacherous bank that gave way 
 tinder her Louis Quinze heels. 
 
 Jenny. So you said. 
 
 Jack. And so it was. 
 
 Jenny. Cyril never quite believed it. 
 
 Jack. For Cyril, read Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. Perhaps. (Pouts.) 
 
 Jack. Ah! (Fainting.) I think Til put you into the sketch. 
 Tour expression is sufficiently black to harmonize nicely with the 
 general tone. 
 
 Jenny. Forgive me, Jack. (Kisses Mm.) After all, we were sen- 
 sible enough to make it up — 
 
 Jack (caressing her hand). And many. Yes ; which was more 
 than Cyril and Phillis did. They wouldn't compromise — I mean 
 marry — and so parted. 
 
 Jenny. She wintered in Dresden, I believe — 
 
 Jack. And he in Jersey. So they tell me. Match broken off- 
 general unhappiness— and all in consequence of a pair of high-heeled 
 boots. 
 
 Jenny. They didn't get cards of our marriage? 
 
 Jack. No ; didn't know where to send them. 
 
 Jenny. Well, Jack, I'll have one more chase after wild berries 
 {going), but I shan't get one, I know. 
 
 Jack. Then it will be wild goose. I wish you would perch your- 
 self upon that stile and let me put you into the landscape. 
 
 Jenny. What ! When all you have on your palette is green, and 
 black, and ugliness? ISTo, sir; not in our honeymoon, at all events. 
 
 (Exit, L. 
 
 Jack. I don't know that she isn't right. A little speck of bright- 
 ness just in there (pointing) would light it up wonderfully ; and — 
 hullo ! What a good little wife it is — she's actually gone and grouped 
 herself under a tree for me. (Rises.) But, no, it isn't Jenny; that's 
 not her hat, nor her colors — why it's — no, that can't be — yes, I do 
 believe it iSj Phillis Daintree herself. I wonder if it be ^'eally she ; 
 and what she's doing down here. Let me first be certain of the lady. 
 Pretty little dear ; I'll stalk her. 
 
 (Exit, R. 
 Enter Cyril, l. 
 
 Cyril. Somebody says that great criminals are always irresist- 
 ibly attracted to the place of their crime. I suppose it was a crime 
 for me to suspect Phillis, and so I come back to the spot where, a 
 year ago, we gave each other up. (Sits and lights cigarette). I 
 wonder what's become of her ? A bright girl like that wouldn't have 
 to wait long for a new lover. Why should she ? After all, Freke 
 was more iS^ely to suit her than I. He's clever— I'm not ; he caa 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 39 
 
 talk high art — I don't ; he can sing and play the piano vilely —I can't. 
 "Well, if she's gone in for Jack, all right— she's a right to please her- 
 self. Only I'm sorry for that poor little Jenny he once pretended to 
 be fond of. Il^ice little woman, Jenny (rises). JSTow for a lounge np 
 the lane, then back to town (going). Ha ! a brace of lovers. Poor 
 things! They'll probably have a row before the day's out. The 
 gentleman lifts his hat— he's leaving her— by Jove, they're having 
 one now. IN'o- she smiles — extraordinary— ah ! I recognize her 
 
 now — Phillis, by all that's wonderful ! And the lover of com'se 
 
 I might have known io — is Jack Freke. 
 
 (Goes up stage. 
 
 Enter Jack, r. 
 
 Jack (aside). Yes — ^it was Phillis— proud and sensitive as ever. 
 "Wouldn't speak of Cyril ; and wouldn't give me a chance to tell her 
 of my marriage. 
 
 (Takes sketch up. 
 
 Cyril (coming down). "Well, Jack. 
 
 Jack. Cyril Hargrave ! (TJiey shake hands.) 
 
 Cyril. Yes. Odd, isn't it? About the last place, one would 
 think, for me to spend a happy day in. 
 
 Jack (aside). Speaks exactly like her. (Aloud.) I hope, old 
 fellow, you don't bear me any ill-will for that unlucky affair — I'm 
 sure you won't, when I tell you that rivalry between us is now 
 impossible. I am married. 
 
 Cyril. Married ! 
 
 Jack. Yes, to the best little woman in the world. You ought to 
 think so too, for you knew her well. She's over there in the 
 wood. 
 
 Cyril (aside). In the wood ! Then it was no brace of lovers I 
 saw, but man and wife — and the wife Phillis ! 
 
 Jack (aside). "What the deuce does he look so black for ? 
 
 Cyril (with an effort). Jack, I congratulate you. I hope you 
 may be happy. I can't look deliriously cheerful, for, truth must out, 
 I loved your wife with all my soul. 
 
 Jack. The devil you did ! 
 
 Cyril. "Why shoidd I disguise it now? These mutual confidences 
 are good. 
 
 Jack. Perhaps they are. (Aside. ) It's sometimes good to have 
 a leg cut off. 
 
 Cyril. And if there was ever truth in woman, your wife loved 
 me! 
 
 Jack. What! 
 
 Cyril. These revelations make me feel better. 
 
 Jack. I'm glad to hear they do somebody good. 
 
 Cyril. Yes, it is a melancholy but pleasing memory — she loved 
 me. 
 
40 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 Jack. Why, she has over and over again told me she couldn^t 
 bear yon. 
 
 Cyril. Indeed ! 
 
 Jack. Yes. (aside) Mntnal confidences are 'good ; {aloud) she 
 conldn't bear you and she adored me. 
 
 Cyril {shaking Ms head). My poor friend, as yon said before, 
 there can be no rivalry between ns. Yon have carried off the prize. 
 Be happy in its possession. Bnt — no illusions, Jack. As a man of 
 the world speaking to another, I repeat, no illusions. Your wife^s 
 first love was mine. 
 
 Jack. Kever. 
 
 Cyril. Ask her for the locket she still has with my photograph — 
 also my letters. She shouldn't keep them, you know. 
 
 Jack. Photograph — ^letters ! 
 
 Cyril. You see, I have no secrets from you. You can return 
 them to me— a step she has apparently not had the strength to take. 
 
 Jack. Thank you, old fellow, thank you {feverishly shalcing his 
 hand). You are a true friend. Ill see her at once. (Aside — going.) 
 The French school is right. Black's everywhere. \_Exit r. 
 
 Cyril. I wish PhUlis had chosen some other spot for her honey- 
 moon. (Sitting and looMng at a sTcetch.) Jack's painting* don't im- 
 prove. Yery grimmy production. Ah 1 he ought to have married 
 that nice girl — Jenny what's her name. Kow thafs a girl incapable 
 of falsehood. 
 
 Enter Jenny, l., with lerries. 
 
 Jenny. Ko strawberries ; but some lovely red things that taste 
 awful. (Sees Cyril.) Ah! Mr. Hargrave. 
 
 Cyril (rising). This is quite a surprise (shaTdng hands), although 
 old friends are cropping up like mushrooms. I've just seen Jack 
 Freke. 
 
 Jenny. Oh ! then you know 
 
 Cyril. Of his marriage ? Yes. (Laughing sardonically). I've 
 just been wishing him happiness. Ridiculous ! 
 
 Jenny. Sir ! 
 
 Cyril. But if that's a marriage that don't make him more gnm 
 than his paintings, I'm no prophet. 
 
 Jenny. You forget, Mr. Hargrave that you insult by your re- 
 marks the lady he has — rightly or wrongly — chosen. 
 
 Cyril. Oh! not at all. It's not her fault, poor weak thmg, so 
 much as his. 
 
 Jenny (aside). Poor weak thing indeed! (Aloud.) How, sir? 
 
 Cyril. Need I tell you ? 
 
 Jenny. Yes ; me, above all others. (Aside. ) I should think so. 
 
 Cyril. Whj, you, above all others, knew he had bestowed his 
 heart elsewhere. 
 
 Jenny. Elsewhere ? (Aside.) Then it was true— that scene with 
 PhiUis— oh; my doubts vrere too -well founded. (Aloud,) Whatever 
 
CEOSS PURPOSES. 41 
 
 may, or may not, have been, at least his marriage should prevent 
 your saying such things to me, 
 
 Cyril. Why not? (Aside.) jSTow here is a true, noble girl. 
 (Aloud.) i^ay, Jenny 
 
 Jenxy. Sir ! Call me Jenny ! 
 
 Cyril. I will. Jenny, Jack's marriage prompts me to say to you 
 what before I could not. 
 
 Jenny. And that is ? 
 
 Cyril. That I love you. (Takes her hand — she speechless with 
 surprise). 
 
 Enter Phillis, r., rapidly, unperceived, 
 
 V^iL. (aside). Cyril here! ICrosses and exit L., quickly. 
 
 Cyril. You do not speak. Sweet Jenny ! 
 
 Jenny. You have no right, sir, to address me thus. 
 
 Cyril (surprised). Only the right, certainly, conferred by an 
 honest love. 
 
 Jenny. Honest love ! After I have plighted my vows to another ! 
 
 Cyril. Exactly. For that other has irrevocably plighted his 
 vows elsewhere. 
 
 Jenny. Oh ! I'll not believe it. 
 
 Cyril. I^ot believe it ! Why, he told me so himself. 
 
 Jenny. He did ! 
 
 Cyril, i^ot ten minutes ago. 
 
 Jenny. Beware, sir ; you know not what you say. Besides he 
 may return at any moment. 
 
 Cyril. iSTever mind (lighting cigarette again). Let him return. 
 
 Jenny. Are you mad ? 
 
 Cyril. Only, perhaps, in loving you. Let me 
 
 Jenny. Oh, sir ! this is too much. Leave me ; if you are a gen- 
 tleman, leave me ! 
 
 Cyril (surprised). Have I offended you, then ? 
 
 Jenny (indignantly). You ask me that ? 
 
 Cyril. Most certainly I do. It may be another phase of lunacy, 
 but I do. 
 
 Jenny. Oh, sir, this is cruel. Leave me. (Sods.) 
 
 Cyril. Good heavens ! What have I done ? 
 
 Jenny. Go. 
 
 Cyril. Yery well. (Going). I am sorry if (Sods from 
 
 Jenny). Here endeth the second, and last, lesson. 
 
 lExit, R. 
 • Jenny (choking). To think that any one should dare to speak to 
 
 me so ! And malign poor dear Jack too and I wicked enough 
 
 to listen to him ! Oh ! 
 
 Enter Phillis, l. 
 
 Phillis (aside). Jenny ! As I thought. And in trouble. What 
 could she expect from such a lover? (Comes down.) WTiat is the 
 matter, dear? 
 
455 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 Jekny (rising). Phillis Daintree ! (Embracing her.) 
 
 Phillis. Tour old friend. Yes. Back from one year's impris- 
 onment; without hard labor, at Dresden, {ihrows shawl on seat.) 
 
 Jenny. I am so glad to see you. If I had only known your ad- 
 dress, I would have sent you some (choking) wedding cake. 
 
 Phillis. You married ! 
 
 Jenny. Yes. My husband is here with me. He's somewhere in 
 the wood. 
 
 Phillis (aside — rigid). Married, and to Cyril ! 
 
 Jenny. Of com*se, you expected it ? 
 
 Phillis. To tell the truth, dear Jenny, scarcely. 
 
 Jenny. How, Phillis? (They sit) 
 
 Phillis. How ? Because hui it seems a treason to you, 
 
 Jenny, to talk over what is done — and past — and buried. 
 
 Jenny. But if it is old friendships, dear, pleasant memories ? 
 
 Phillis. Pleasant memories, yes — (forgetting) — for if ever man 
 loved woman, your husband loved me ! 
 
 Jenny. Oh ! impossible 
 
 Phillis. Impossible? (QuicMy.) Yes — yes — you are right— and 
 I was only dreaming. It was impossible. Impossible that with an 
 equal affection he could love two girls at once. 
 
 Jenny (disquieted). ]N"o — could he ? 
 
 Phillis. That he did not, your marriage shows. Be happy, dear. 
 (Rising.) I'm living a mile off, with some friends, and must get 
 back — so — good-bye. (Embracing her. ) 
 
 Jenny. Grood-bye, dear PhilHs. (Gasping.) You have made me 
 very, very happy ! 
 
 Phillis (turning bade). By-the-bye, Jenny, get my letters back 
 from your husband, and a tress of my hair he used to wear. He for- 
 gets he has no longer any right to them. Good-bye, dear ! 
 
 lExit, R. 
 
 Jenny (sinMng on seat). Tress of hair ! Letters — and he never 
 told me. Then Cyril Hargrave's warning was but too true. (Indig- 
 nantly.) Traitor! But forewarned is forearmed. And here he 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Jack, l. 
 
 Jack. I've been looking all over for you. 
 
 Jenny. For me ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Jenny. Oh! 
 
 Jack. I wish to speak to you. 
 
 Jenny. And I may have something to say to you. 
 
 Jack. What I have to communicate is very serious. 
 
 Jenny. A low gray, so to speak. 
 
 Jack. This is no time for frivolity. 
 
 Jenny. Nor for insinuation. 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 43 
 
 Jack. Ton are right. I come anned with facts. 
 
 Jenny. I am glad of that. 
 
 Jack. Are you ? We shall see. It is Utopian, madam, in this 
 rapid age for a man to hope that his wife brings him a first love. 
 
 Jenny. Or for a woman to expect that her husband dowers her 
 with even a second-hand one. 
 
 Jack {unheeding her). ISTo man of the world expects it — and, as 
 a matter of fact, he doesn't get it. But what he does expect is, that 
 if his bride has had any prior attachment, she will at least make a 
 clean breast of it — give up letters, photographs, and all the rest of her 
 sentimental stock-in-trade, and enter into matrimony unfettered by 
 any obligation except towards her husband. 
 
 Jenny {applauding). Bravo ! bravo ! 
 
 Jack. You may smile, madam, but such are my views. 
 
 Jenny. I applaud because I approve. Your sentiments are my 
 own exactly. 
 
 Jack. I am glad of it. 
 
 Jenny. Axe you? "We shall see; for you are just, are you not? 
 
 Jack. As the Hanging Committee of the Royal Academy. 
 
 Jenny. Then the same rules of conduct you apply to me, you will 
 admit in your own case. 
 
 Jack. Oh ! certainly. 
 
 Jenny. Then, sir, why do you keep a tress of Phillis Daintree^s 
 hair? 
 
 Jack. I '/ 
 
 Jenny. And why don't you send back her letters ? 
 
 Jack. Letters ! — hair ! Preposterous ! I never had a note from 
 her in my hfe ; and as for her hair, I couldn't tell you the color to 
 save my life. 
 
 Je^ny (angrily). Tery well acted, sir. Innocence itself could not 
 be more natural ; but when I tell you my information comes from the 
 lady herself 
 
 Jack. From Miss Daintree ? 
 
 Jenny. I saw her not ten minutes since. 
 
 Jack. And she said that. 
 
 Jenny. Oh, yes ! and much more — that you loved her passion- 
 ately ! 
 
 Jack. Is this a dream ? 
 
 Jenny. No, it's a fact. 
 
 Jack. I see how it is, Mrs. Freke. In vulgar phrase, you have 
 taken the bull by the horns. You suspected I was about to bring a 
 similar charge against yourself, and, woman-like, you spring a coun- 
 ter-mine. 
 
 Jenny. Bring a similar charge against me ! What do you mean, 
 sk? 
 
 Jack. If you did love Cyril Hargrave, why treasure up his cor- 
 respondence after marriage ? 
 
 Jenny, Cyril Hargrave ? 
 
44 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 Jack. I never thought of asking to look at that locket you wear 
 round your neck. It contains a photograph, does it not? 
 
 Jenny. It does. 
 
 Jack. A man's ? 
 
 Jenny. Yes. 
 
 Jack. Let me see it at once, madam. 
 
 Jenny. Wh}^ not ? {Hands it to him). 
 
 Jack. Tou admit it, then — ^you calmly and deliberately admit 
 that you carry about with you the portrait of— (opening it) — 
 
 Jenny. My grandfather. Yes. At the age of 73. A very fine 
 old gentleman. 
 
 J ACK (handing locket hach). Of course. It was foolish to imag- 
 ine you would carry about his likeness. 
 
 Jenny. Then why did you imagine it? 
 
 Jack. Enough, madam, even your subtlety cannot answer the 
 overwhelming proof I have received. 
 
 Jenny. From whom, pray ? 
 
 Jack. From Cyril Hargrave, himself. 
 
 Jenny. From him ! 
 
 Jack. Ah ! you are confused. 
 
 Jenny. Oh ! impossible. He would never be so base — so unut- 
 terably mean. 
 
 Jack. Couldn^ he ? 
 
 JEnter Cyril, r. 
 
 Jack. There he is. Ask him yourself. 
 
 Jenny. Oh, sir, you come at an opportune moment. 
 
 Cyril. This is more than you said to me ten minutes ago. 
 
 Jack. What ! you met ten minutes ago ? 
 
 Cyril. Yes — and she repulsed my advances. 
 
 Jack. Foi^r advances ! (Threatens him.) I shall know what — 
 
 Jenny. Stay — one moment — until I ask Cyril Har^ave one ques- 
 tion. (To Cyril.) As a man of honor, answer me — it you value my 
 peace of mind. Did I ever receive letters of yours — or did I ever 
 wear your Likeness in a locket? 
 
 Cyril. Il^ever ! 
 
 Jack, i^ever! Then why the devil did you teU me she did? 
 
 Enter Phillis, l., for her shawl. She listens unperceived, 
 
 Cyril. She ? I never said so. 
 
 Jack. Yes, you did say so. 
 
 Cyril. But I assure you, my dear Jack, I didn^t. I referred to 
 your wife ! 
 
 Jack. Exactly so. She is my wife ! 
 
 Phillis (aside). His wife! 
 
 Cyril (astonished.) Your wife ! But I thought you had married 
 Phillis Daintree. 
 
 Phillis (coming down), I forbid these bans t 
 
CROSS PURPOSES. 45 
 
 Cyril* PMllis ! 
 
 Phillis {givmg lier hand). Yes. 
 
 Cyril. Can you forgive me my foolish mistake ? 
 
 Phillis. All the more easily that I made a similar one myself. 
 I thought you married to my dear Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. I see it all ! Then your old lover, dear, wasn^t my Jack ? 
 
 Phillis. Certainly not! 
 
 Cyril. Then who — may I ask ? 
 
 Phillis. Youmay ask, but don^t expect an answer. 
 
 Jack. I don^t know. There^s a friend of mine who I believe has 
 letters of a certain lady hoarded up— 
 
 Cyril. Stop— old fellow 
 
 Jenny. And there's a lady friend of mine who I believe has a cer- 
 tain gentleman's likeness in a locket 
 
 Phillis. Little gossip ! 
 
 Jack {seated at jncture). Almost sunset, and my picture not 
 finished. Here you people— just group yourselves. (They do so.) 
 ^S'ature, you see—nature 
 
 Jenny. Isn't all low greys. 
 
 Cyril. And life has sunshine occasionally 
 
 Phillis. Even in England. 
 
 Disjposition of Characters, 
 
 B. G. £. 
 
 CtJETAIN. 
 
VOWEL. 
 
 AN ACTING CHAEADE, 
 
YOWEL 
 
 DEAMATIS PEESON^. 
 
 SuzETTE, a young girl, 
 Stephen Lout, lover to Suzette. 
 Grandmother to Suzette. 
 
VOWEL 49. 
 
 VOWEL. 
 
 AN ACTING CHARADE. 
 
 Scene. — A room in a cottage ; door and window at the bach In 
 the centre of the floor a table, on icMch are a pan of apples, a 
 knife, and plate. Suzette in holiday dress looking from the win- 
 doiv. GrRANDMOTHER witJi a hrooM in her hand regarding her 
 with anger. 
 
 Grandmother. Come here, yon jade ! what are you doing there, 
 "When all this pan of apples is to pare, 
 With sights and heaps of other work to do. 
 That, mercy knows, I never shall get thi'ongh ? 
 Is that the way you mean to spend your days, 
 Getting such saucy, idle, lazy ways ? 
 Has that girl got an ear upon her head ? 
 Tm sure she hasn't heard a word I've said. 
 
 (Suzette turns around and makes up a face.) 
 
 She^s looking for that silly-pated fool 
 
 That comes home with her from the singing 
 
 school. 
 He'd better not come here again to-night, 
 For if I happen just to get a sight 
 Of his round head inside this cottage door, 
 There's a new song Til teach him how to roar. 
 Suzette, I say ! Pray, how long shall I speak ? 
 
 Sfzette. Fm sure I don't care if you talk a week. 
 
 Grandmother. You don't go out of doors for that to-night. 
 
 Suzette (in great alarm). Why, grandma, do you think that 
 would be right ? 
 
 Grandmother. Faugh ! that palaver now I understand ; 
 
 Just draw a chair up that side of the stand, 
 And pare away as quick as you can wink. 
 
 Suzette. I've done enough for one day, I should think ; 
 
 You knew that I expected to go out, 
 And now to go and get that work about. 
 
50 YOTTEL. 
 
 Just at the tiniG when I expect to rest, 
 When I have put on all my Sunday's best, 
 I think it's just as mean as it can be ; 
 And if you think to get that out of me 
 You're much mistaken, for I tell you now, 
 I won't touch one of them, and that I vow. 
 Grandmother. Such impudence I never heard till now, 
 {She holds lip her hands in horror.) 
 
 But since you're in humor, Miss, to vow, 
 
 You'll make one that perhaps will spoil your 
 sleep, 
 
 But one that I intend that you shall keep. 
 
 Promise you vrill turn off that Stephen Lout ; 
 
 There, don t turn that way and begin to pout. 
 
 You've got to vow you'll give him up. 
 SuzETTE. I can't. 
 
 Grandmother. I tell you now you must. 
 Stjzette. I say I sha'n't. 
 
 Grandmother. We'll see whether you'll come to terms or not. 
 
 I vow you sha'n't stir one step from this spot ; 
 
 You needn't toss your head and laugh and sneer ; 
 
 You think perhaps your Stephen will come here. 
 
 I'll lock the door and take away the key, 
 
 The window is too small for such as he. 
 
 (She goes out and locks the door after her.) 
 
 Stjzette. You cross old bear ! I think you'll get your pay, 
 
 We'll have a pleasant reckoning some day. 
 If you could only see what I can show, 
 I guess you wouldn't be so fast to go. 
 
 (TaTces a Jcey from her poclcet and holds it up ; goes to door, un- 
 locJcs and partly opens it, then sits disconsolately by the stand.) 
 
 Stjzette. How can I pass the time away, I wonder. 
 
 Till Stephen comes ? I think I've made a blunder 
 
 In vowing not to work, for, to my sorrow, 
 
 I know I'll have it all to do to-morrow. {Takes 
 
 up the Tcnife.) 
 Fll do it any way, Til pare and core. 
 But then she'll think 'j;was 'cause she locked the 
 
 door;^ 
 I won't, I vow. {Sits a moment thinking, and 
 
 then claps her hands.) 
 
 0, I know what I'll see ! 
 It's who my future husband is to be, 
 "For some one told me just the other day, 
 That if rd pare an apple smooth— this way, 
 
VOWEL 51 
 
 {Taking up an apple and heginning to peel,) 
 
 And have the skin qnite whole withont a break, 
 Then twist it round my head three times, 
 
 't would make, 
 When I should drop it, the initial letter 
 Of one who loves me, though Tm sure no better 
 Than I love him, that is, if it should tell 
 The truth by making it the letter L. 
 
 {She takes the peel, and swinging it round her head three times lets 
 it fall, then gets down on her knee to examine it.) 
 
 Enter Stephei^ ; door at hack ; looks over her shoulder before she 
 
 sees him, 
 
 SuzETTE {starting up). 0, how yon frightened me, yon came so 
 
 sly! 
 I was so tired waiting, I — ^that is — I — 
 Stephen. You thought you^d look into faturity. 
 
 And find out who your husband was* to be ; 
 But if you ask me I can tell you best, 
 !N^ot only the first letter,but the rest 
 About his name, and that his heart is true, 
 And filled brimful of honest love for you. 
 
 {He puts his arm around her waist. She turns aside and plays with 
 her apron. ) 
 
 He^s here beside you now ; what do you say, 
 Will you consent to marry him some day ? 
 
 (SuzETTE hesitates, and then turns around and is just about being 
 kissed, when she perceives her Grandmother in the door. She 
 starts, and makes a little motion to Stephen to stop,) 
 Stephen {not understanding). A ? 
 
 (Stjzette again makes a motion for him to look behind him.) 
 Stephen. Eh ? 
 
 Suzette {turning round boldly). I — 
 Grandmother {trembling with rage). yon! 
 
 {Tableau in present position. 
 
 Note. — The door and window of the cottage should be at the back in full view of 
 the audience. The exclamation at the last should have the full vowel sounds. 
 
lERESISTIBLT IMPUDENT. 
 
 A DEAMATIC TEIFLE. 
 
 |tx ®ns^ ^ct 
 
IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT, 
 
 DEAMATIS PEESON^. 
 
 Dick Carter. 
 Mr. "VTigley. 
 Charles, Wigley's Son, 
 Jennie Hayne, Wigletfs Ward, 
 
 Costumes— Modern. 
 
IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT. 55 
 
 lEEESISTBLY IMPUDENT. 
 
 Scene. — A Drawing Boom. 
 Enter Dick and Jennie, r. . 
 
 Dick. If s no use telling me, there must be something the matter 
 with you, — what is it? 
 
 Jennie. ReaUy, Mr. Carter, you take a great interest in my af- 
 fairs. 
 
 Dick. Of course I do ; I like you. 
 
 Jennie. Sir ? 
 
 Dick. I mean, like you as though you were my daughter, but I 
 am hardly old enough to be your father, am I ? 
 
 Jennie. Do not be ridiculous. 
 
 Dick. Of course I won^t, . but I know there's something on your 
 mind, so confide in me like a father. 
 
 Jennie. I think it very impolite of you to worry me in this way. 
 
 Dick. I like that. Worry you ? why I want to help you bear 
 your sorrow. You^re in love, that's what it is. 
 
 Jennie. Have you discovered it, then ? 
 
 Dick. Certainly I have, and so is Charles ; do you think I haven't 
 eyes ? Ah, I'm a sharp fellow, I teU you. 
 
 Jennie. Has Charles told you? 
 
 Dick. Oh, no, he hasn't told me anything, but I've noticed it for 
 some time ; he's desperately in love with Miss Finniken. "Who are 
 you in love with, I — (Jennie gives a scream; and faints. Dick 
 catches her in his arms y places her in a chair and heats the palms of 
 her hands. What extraordinary creatures these women are ! What 
 in the name of fortune could make her go ofi" in this way ? (Jennie 
 slightly recovers. ) That's right ! do you feel better now ? 
 
 Jennie (/am%). Where am I? Frank— Frank — 
 
 Dick (aside). Hullo ! she's in love with a Frank ! 
 
 Jennie (rising from chair). I feel better now, thank you; I'll go 
 to my own room. 
 
 Dick. Can I assist you ? 
 
 Jennie. Thank you, no. 
 
 (Dick leads Jennie to door, who exits, l. , 
 
56 IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT. 
 
 Dick. A decided case of love in its most malignant form ; symp- 
 toms aggravated. 
 
 Enter Charles, r. He does not perceive Dick. 
 
 Charles {agitated). I don't care. I never will. I love — 
 
 Dick. Love ! You're in for it, too, are you? 
 
 Charles. Tou here ! I do not understand you. 
 
 Dick. Of course you don't.. You're in love, old fellow. Can I 
 help you? Make a confidant of me. 
 
 Charles. I do not know why you should thrust yourself into my 
 affairs. 
 
 Dick. Bless you, I don't want to know anything about your af- 
 fau's. You're in love ; love always wants a confidant ; make one of 
 me. Here I am ; so pour your giiefs into my ear. 
 
 Charles. "Will you oblige me by minding your own business ? 
 
 Dick. That is my business. I want to alleviate the suffeiings of 
 my fellow-creatures as much as I can ; so tell me all about it ; you'll 
 feel better for it afterwards. 
 
 Charles (asic^e). Bother this fellow ! {Aloud.) "Will you leave 
 oflf troubling me ? 
 
 Dick. I never heard such a fellow ! Only fancy ! tells me Tm 
 troubling him ! You're as bad as Miss Hayne, for she, poor girl, is 
 desperately in love. 
 
 Charles. Did she tell you so ? 
 
 Dick, j^o, not exactly. I say, do you know anybody by the name 
 of Frank ? 
 
 Charles. Yes, I know Franlc Coleman. 
 
 Dick. "Well, she's in love with him. 
 
 Charles. What ! 
 
 Dick. Oh, yes ; she fainted just now ; and as she was coming to, 
 she called upon Frank. 
 
 Charles. Ah ! this perfidy, this perfidy. 
 
 (Wall's up and down rapidly.) 
 
 Dick. I say, old fellow, have some regard for the carpet. 
 
 Charles (stopping suddenly hefore Dick). ISTow, answer me. 
 
 Dick. Certainly, Fll answer you; only keep cool. 
 
 Charles, You say she called upon Frank ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, she called upon Frank, but he didn't come. 
 
 Charles. That is sufficient, sir. Oh, Jennie, Jennie ! I didn't 
 think you capable of this. (Exit hurriedly, R. 
 
 Dick. What extraordinary people they are in this house ! I've 
 only been here two days, yet everything seems topsy-turvy. I won- 
 der what my uncle could have been thinking of when he gave me 
 that letter of introduction to old Wigley. I feel that it must be near 
 lunch time, so I'll go and see. {Exit Dick, r. 
 
 Enter Jennie, l. 
 
 Jennie. I won't stay here any longer. 1^11 pack up my things 
 
IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT. 57 
 
 and run away ; then, nnder an assumed name, and with spectacles, 
 rU seek a situation as governess. This is a cruel, heartless world, 
 and Charley is false to me. (Cries. 
 
 Enter Charles, r. 
 
 Charles. Oh ! you are there, are you ? 
 
 Jenih'ie (drying her eyes). Yes, sir, I am here ; and how dare you 
 speak to me ? 
 
 Charles. I suppose you want to blind my eyes by being indig- 
 nant ; but it won^t do, niiss. 
 
 Jennie. What do you mean, sir? You had better go and marry 
 Miss Finniken ? 
 
 Charles. I marry Miss Finniken ! ISo, indeed. You had better 
 go and marry Frank. 
 
 Jennie. What do you mean by requesting me to marry Frank ? 
 
 Charles. What do you mean by requesting me to marry Miss 
 Finniken ? 
 
 Jennie. What I say. I suppose you don^t mean to deny that you 
 intend marrying Miss Finniken ? 
 
 Charles. Yes, I do. Who told you I was ? 
 
 Jennie. Mr. Carter. 
 
 Charles. Bother Mr. Carter ! he had no right to say any such 
 thing. 
 
 Jennie. And you are not going to marry Miss Finniken ? 
 
 Charles. Xo, certainly not. 
 
 Jennie. Oh, Fm so glad. (Attempts to take Ms hand. 
 
 Charles. Stay ! who is this Frank that you called upon when 
 you fainted ? 
 
 Jennie {laughing). Ha ! ha ! ha ! and is that what made you 
 jealous ? 
 
 Charles. " Eeally, Miss Hayne, I see nothing to laugh at. 
 
 Jennie. Don't you know who Frank is ? Why, Frances, my maid, 
 to be sure. 
 
 Charles. Is that so? Oh! forgive me, Jennie. (He takes hoth 
 her hands in his and shakes them joyously. 
 
 Enter Dick, r. 
 
 Dick. That's right — that's as it should be. Whaf s the use of be- 
 ing dull ? 
 
 Charles. I have a word to say to you, Mr. Carter. 
 
 Dick. Don't be particular, you can say half-a-dozen, if you like. 
 
 Charles. What did you mean, sir, by telling me that Miss Hayne 
 was in love with Frank Coleman ? 
 
 Jennie. And what did you mean, sir, by telling me that Charles 
 was engaged to be married to Miss Finniken? 
 
 Dick. One at a time, if you please. It is impossible to answer 
 two different questions at once. 
 
 Charles, Well, sir, answer me. 
 
58 IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT. 
 
 Dick. Don^t get excited. Look at me, I'm not excited. I merely 
 told Miss Hayne what your father told me. He said you were 
 
 Charles. Yes, yes; you needn't go any further, I understand it 
 now. 
 
 Jennie. How understand it, Charles ? 
 
 Charles. My father wishes me to marry Miss Finniken, and 
 threatens to disinherit me, if I do not. 
 
 Jennie. And are you going to, Charles ? 
 
 Charles. Never, dearest ! rather would I perish. ( Takes her 
 hands again and gazes upon her fondly, 
 
 Dick. "WTiat an interesting picture ! 
 
 Charles. Mr. Carter, I have to apologize for getting angry with 
 you. I sec it is not yom- fault. 
 
 Dick. Don't mention it, I beg; I lil^e people to get angry with 
 me, it amuses me. But you two you understand me. 
 
 Charles. No, I do not understand. 
 
 Dick. What charming innocence ! You two want to be made 
 one. 
 
 Charles. I do not allow comparative strangers to pry into my 
 affairs. 
 
 Dick. That's singular; upon my word you're a most extraordi- 
 nary young man. 
 
 Charles. Upon my word, you're a most impudent young man. 
 
 Dick {laughing). That's good; now that's exceedingly funny — 
 why I'm known as a most bashful young man. 
 
 Jennie {aside to Charles). He must have altered wonderfully 
 during the last two days. 
 
 Charles. There is no getting angry with you — ^we will let you 
 into our secret ; Jennie and I love each other passionately. 
 
 Dick. I thought so. But that will never do — oh ! it will never 
 do. 
 
 Jennie. Oh, Mr. Carter, why not ? 
 
 Dick. Old Wigley — I beg your pardon — your guardian wiU never 
 consent. Ho has made up his mind that Charley is to marry Miss 
 Finniken. 
 
 Charles. Cannot you help us to get his consent ? 
 
 Dick. Now that's delicious. 
 
 Jennie. Now do help us, Mr. Carter. 
 
 Dick. You know you don't allow strangers to pry into your af- 
 fairs. 
 
 Charles and Jennie {one on each side o/Dick, they each take an 
 arm, and look into his face coaxingly). We didn't mean it. Won't 
 you help us? 
 
 Dick {looking at Charles). I don't think I can. 
 
 Jennie {squeezing his arm). Yes, you will. 
 
 Dick {looking at Jennie) . Lovely woman has gained the day. 
 I'll tr}^ it. {Putting himself into an attitude of defiance. Old Wig- 
 ley, come on ; I'm ready for you. 
 
IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT. 69 
 
 Jennie and Charles. How can we thank you f 
 
 Dick. Look here — ^you'd better see the old boj, and tell him that 
 you must marry Jennie ; and if he won t let you^ why 
 
 Charles. What ? 
 
 Dick. No, that won't do ; you can^t beat your own father ; and 
 
 don't be angry with me — I can^t do it, because I'm his guest, you 
 
 see. 
 
 Charles. I'U go to my father, and tell him you wish to see him 
 here. 
 
 Dick. Tery well. 
 
 Charles. Come, Jennie, let us go, 
 
 (Going. 
 
 Dick. I say, old fellow, seeing that it's for you, I don^t mind 
 giving him a whopping for your sake. 
 
 Charles. ISTot for the world. 
 
 Dick. Well, as you like, 
 
 Jennie. Pray, Mr. Carter, do not get excited. 
 
 Dick, i^o, I won't, I'U keep as cool as a refi-igerator. Go along, 
 and send the governor here. 
 
 Charles. Do your best for us. Come, Jennie. 
 
 (As they are going out, Jennie returns, 
 shakes hands ivith Dick, and exit. L. 
 
 Dick. There, go along with you. " This is splendid. Something 
 I never expected. Got to have an interview with an obdurate father 
 on behalf of injured innocence in distress. If the worst comes to the 
 worst, shall I drop him out of the window ? That will be no good — 
 this confounded room is on the ground floor — pity it is not on the 
 fourth story. Just my luck I So matter ; stony-hearted parent, 
 come on. (Fights desperately ivith an iinagvnary being. 
 
 Enter Mr. "Wigley. l. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. Why, what's — what's the matter? 
 
 Dick. Nothing, nothing. I was merely punching a cruel and 
 tyrannical fathers head. (Wigley looks round room. ) An imagi- 
 nary father. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. Oh ! You wish to see me, Mr. Carter, I believe ? 
 
 Dick. You are right. That's a nice shirt. Where do you buy 
 your shirts ? 
 
 Mr. Wigley (asicZe). Confounded impudence ! (Aloud,) Is that 
 all you wished to see me about. 
 
 Dick. Dear me, no. Let us sit down. (They get chairs, "bring 
 them to center of stage, and sit down.) You have a son. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. Eeally 
 
 « Dick. Ii^ow, don't deny it. You know you have a son. 
 
 M.R. WiGhwz(^tesUly). Ofcourseldo. 
 
 Dick. A son who is good, wise, witty, amiable, clever, and — 
 and — and so forth. (Aside. ) I think that's a pretty good character 
 for a son.. 
 
60 IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT. 
 
 Mr. "WiGLET. I am happy to find you have such a good opinion of 
 my son. 
 
 Dick. Tour son is in love. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. Don't know that ? Of course he is in love with 
 Miss Finniken. 
 
 Dick. Yes, but he wants to marry some one else. 
 
 Mr. Wigley {starting up). What? 
 
 Dick. ISTow don^t get excited. "What an excitable family yours is ! 
 
 {Rises from chair. 
 
 Mr. WiGLEY. If my son marries anybody else but Miss Finniken 
 I'll disinherit him. Vhy, she has twenty thousand in her own 
 right ! 
 
 Dick. But your son don^t love her. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. He must, he shall love her. "WTiom does he want 
 to marry instead ? 
 
 Dick. That fascinating and charming young lady, Miss Hayne. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. My ward ! Why she has only ten thousand ; a mere 
 trifle. 
 
 Dick. You are a peculiarly funny old boy, to call ten thousand a 
 trifle. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. ISo matter, sir. Why do fathers have sons? I 
 wish there were no such things as sons. They're enough to drive one 
 mad. ( Walks up and down in a xmssion. 
 
 Dick. That^s capital, capital. {Sits astride of a chair, rests his 
 arms upon the hacJc of it, and contemplates Mr. Wigley.) If you 
 were to go into training, you'd make a first-rate pedestrian. How's 
 your wind ? 
 
 Mr. Wigley. Pshaw ! You're every bit as bad as my son. 
 
 Dick. Don't say that, don't say that, you hurt my feelings. 
 {Bises from chair.) For I'm sure I'd marry Miss Finniken and her 
 twenty thousand, if you'd only say the word. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. I suppose you are commisioned by my son, to teU 
 me of his wish to marry Miss Hayne. 
 
 Dick. You hit the nail on the head that time. 
 
 ]^Jr. Wigley. Then tell him, if he does not do as I wish, I never 
 want to see him again. 
 
 Dick. Yery well. Who's your tailor ? 
 
 Mr. Wigley. What has that to do with you, sir ? 
 
 Dick. Oh, nothing, only you'd better order a suit of mourning. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. What for, sir ? 
 
 Dick. Simply that you won't see your son any more. He told me 
 with tears in his eyes, that if he couldn't get your consent he'd kill 
 himself 
 
 Mr. Wigley {eagerly). Did he say so? 
 
 Dick. You haven't been in his room lately. Bless you, he has 
 there poisons of every kind, from the slow brandy to the sudden 
 strychnine. 
 
 Mr. Wigley. Do you really think he will poison himself? 
 
IRRESISTIBLY IMPUDENT, 61 
 
 Dick. Haven't the slightest doubt of it. Shall I ring the bell for 
 twelve men^ and a coroner, or does that flinty heart of yours soften ? 
 
 Mr. Wigley {affected). My poor boy ! 
 
 Dick. A propitious moment ! The stern parent relents, so call in 
 the children to be forgiven. {Goes to tJie door, l., and calls off.) 
 Charles, Miss Hayne, come here — receive your father's blessing, and 
 be happy. 
 
 U7iter Charles and Jennie, l., who Tcneel at Wigley^s feet, 
 
 Charles. "Will you consent? 
 
 WiGLEY {turning away from them). I cannot. I won't, 
 
 Dick {running to door and calling off). Here, Mary, John — 
 somebody — bring some strychnine for Mr. Charles. 
 
 (Charles and Jennie rise. 
 
 Jennie. Pray, pray, forgive us ? 
 
 "WiGLEY {goes to chair, and sits doivn). 
 
 Dick. Oh ! but you must ; we want to finish the play, and it will 
 never do to end it without the parent's blessing. 
 
 "WiGLEY. I don't care. I won't do it. 
 
 Dick. You must. You know it is usual in such cases. 
 
 WiGLEY. Oh! if it is usual — children, come here! {Se joins 
 Charles awf? Jennie's hands together, they Jcneel down, and he 
 blesses them in a melo-dramatic manner. ) There, will that do ? 
 
 ^ (Charles and Jennie rise. 
 
 Dick. INTow everything is finished as it should be. {To audience.) 
 You knew it would end that way— didn't you ? A farce always does. 
 The parent relents— the lovers are made happy— and, as a matter of 
 course, down comes the curtain. 
 
 Charles {to Dick). Before the curtain falls let us thank you 
 
 Jennie. For you are 
 
 Dick. So 'arresistibly Impudent/' 
 
 ^^c^^'^'^• ^ "^^^^x, 
 
 '^. 
 
 curtain. 
 
LOTELT. 
 
 AK" AOTIE"G CHARADE. 
 
 BY H. P. GRATTAN. 
 
LOVELY. 
 
 AN ACTING CHARADE. 
 
 CHARACTEES. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I Aunt Matchem. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. | Ellen Smiley. 
 
 Clarence ]S"ugent, Page. Herbert Neville. Lucy Is'ugent. 
 
 K. B. — Tlie characters in the first part of the Charade are sup- 
 posed to be about to rehearse the tragedy of " Borneo and Juliet/' 
 and are dressed as under — 
 
 Mr. Smiley as Capulet. I Mrs. Smiley as Lady Capidet, 
 
 Herbert I^eville as Borneo. \ Aunt Matchem as the Nurse, 
 Ellen Smiley as Juliet. 
 
 I 
 
LOVELY. .65 
 
 LOVELY. 
 
 ACT I. LOYE. 
 
 Scene is supposed a chamber in Capulefs house, Mr. Smiley, a 
 jolly, kind-hearted, elderly gentleman, is 'discovered standing he- 
 fore a pier-glass, arranging his ruff, Mrs. Smiley, a handsome 
 matron, is seated at a table, evidently admiring Mr. Smiley in 
 his rich Venetian costume. 
 Mr. Smiley. By Jove ! my dear, I dont wonder that your old 
 masters, Messrs. Titian, Yandyk, Enbens, and Company, contrived 
 to make their portraits so amazingly effective. I begia to think the 
 dress was three-fomths of the battle ! Let any of their celebrities 
 exchange his plumed, jewelled, and sable-fiirred cap for a dollar billy- 
 cock ; his elaborately- worked lace collar and cuffs for a set of paper 
 impositions — at fity cents per dozen (box included); his slashed vel- 
 vet doublet, embroidered cloak and trunks, for a tourist's tweed turn- 
 out — at ten doUars, — and I am inclined to think — whether King or 
 Kaiser, Grandee, J^oble, or Rabbi — he would cut but a very ordinary 
 John Brown — or ditto Smith — appearance. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. I quite agree with you, Algernon. TVnen I see 
 how you set off that picturesque attke, I deeply regret the bad taste 
 of the costumers of these degenerate times. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I join in your regrets, Mrs. Smiley— not on my own 
 account, but solely on yours. Angelina Augusta Matilda Maria, you 
 look superb ! 
 
 (Mr. Smiley rises and courtesys. Mr. Smiley puts 
 on his spectacles and walks admiringly round her, 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. I can return the compliment ! 
 
 Mr. Smiley. {Seating himself beside Mrs. Smiley, who resumes 
 her chair. ) Many thanks. But who the deuce am I ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. {Astonished.) Have you forgotten! For good- 
 ness sake, look at your part ! 
 
 (Mr. Smiley takes written theatrical part from breast 
 of vest and reads. 
 Mr. Smiley. Oh, ah! I see. Capulet ! Let me spell it. and I 
 shall be more likely to remember it ! {Spells.) C-A-F-U-L-E-T— 
 Capulet! 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. That's right ; pray don't forget it again. I hope 
 you will be perfect, ■ 
 
66 LOVELY. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Well, yes ; I think I shall. I have been hammer-* 
 ing away at old Capulet for the last six weeks, harder than I ever did 
 at vulgar fractions, and think IWe got most, il not all, of him into my 
 head. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. That's right ! Only speak the words, and your suc- 
 cess will be certain. Ton look the part to the life. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I am glad to hear it; but, between you and me, I 
 don't think I shall make much of him. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Why not ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Because, my dear, he is quite out of my line. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. How so? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I flatter myself I am what may be called a rather 
 more than average good-natured man ; a man who can endure annoy- 
 ances and unpleasantries — ^not to say impositions and extortions — 
 with philosophy and praiseworthy patience. Do I ever anathematise 
 the tax collectors— within their hearing? I pause for a reply; and 
 as Echo may be otherwise engaged, I will not call upon her, but fur- 
 nish that reply myself— and boldly answer, "Never!'' 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. You are quite right. But did Capulet ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. *^ The divine William'' — as Aunt Matchem will in- 
 sist upon calling the late W. S. — gives no positive particulars of Cap- 
 nlefs conduct on the trying occasions of those legal vampires' visita- 
 tions; but from the very overbearing, boisterous, and, I must say, — 
 although his representative, — inexorable manner in which he behaved 
 to his only daughter, I am inclined to think he was anything but an - 
 enviably amiable party to his dependents or poor relati(ms, and a pos- 
 itive Ursa Major to his duns ! But, Angelina, my love, I think you 
 wiU do me the justice to admit I have as little of the feminine failing 
 — ^whieh has rendered Mrs. Bluebeard an object of interest— I mean 
 curiosity— as most middle-aged gentlemen ; but, I confess, I should 
 like to know why — ^in the language of the divine William — I am now 
 called upon to look ^' on this picture — (surveys himself in pier-glass, 
 then turns to Mrs. Smiley)—'^ and on this" {pointing ^o Mrs. 
 Smiley) ; or, in other and plainer terms, why we are to have a full- 
 dress rehearsal of the Balcony Scene — ^if not several more — ^this eve- 
 ning? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. It is Aunt Matohem's wish. 
 ! Mr. Smiley. That I already know. What I want to be enlight- 
 ened upon is, why is it Aunt Matchem's wish ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. You are aware it has long been the dearest wish of 
 my aunt's heart to see our EUen married to her nephew and protege, 
 Herbert ISTeviUe. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I am aware of that fact, and, unlike old Capulet, I 
 have no wish to interfere with her kind intentions — that is, on two 
 conditions. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. What are they? 
 s Mr. Smiley. The first, that Ellen loves him. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley, You will take my word for that 
 
LOYELY. 67 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Decidedly. Women generally understand each other 
 on that subject. The other is that Herbert is^eville loves Ellen. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. That is equally certain. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Oh, indeed, has he proposed ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Xo, he has not. 
 
 Mr. Smiley, '^^hy don't he ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Because he is so unaccountably shy. Though he 
 must have seen firom my daughter's, and even my manner, that he 
 need have no fear of a refusal, he has never been able to summon up 
 sufficient courage to make a formal declaration. 
 
 Mr. Smlley. That vras just my case. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley {astonished). Your case, Mr. Smiley. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Tes, my dear. When I look back 1 am astonished, 
 not to say disgusted, with myself for the stupid maimer in which I 
 overlooked your kind advances. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. My advances, Mr. Smiley ! Why, it was twelve 
 months before I suffered you even to squeeze my hand. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Tes, lout that I was, because it was twelve months 
 before I ventured to try it on, and I should not have done so even then, 
 but for your crying out, ^^ Don't squeeze so hard/*' when I hadn't the 
 remotest thought of taking such a hberty. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley (laughing good-naiuredhj). What an atrocious 
 libel ! Who sent the first valentine ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I did. I think I see it now. A heart transfixed 
 with a couple of wickedly-barbed arrows— arrows that would have 
 let dayhght through the toughest hide that ever protected a buffalo 
 buU. I see the young person who had discharged them in an airy 
 attire, chiefly composed of a pair of butterfly's "^ings, shaking his 
 bow defiantly at another party, who appeared to be about to indulge 
 in some culinary operation connected with the bleeding heart, pre- 
 paratory to which he was about to apply a blazing torch to what I 
 at first imagined was an economical Kumford stove; but which the 
 young lady who supplied me with the art treasure, informed me 
 ^^was the Altar of Hymen, from which the flame of connubial love 
 would blaze through life, pure, spotless, and xmsullied !'' 
 
 Mrs. Smiley {laughing). Well, come, that is a rather more lover- 
 like and poetical version of Saint Yalentine's allegory. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I quit« agree with you. I also vividly remember a 
 fault you found with the church, consisting of a porch and spire, and 
 nothing else in the way of architectural development. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. What fault did I find ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Why, my dear, yon said it was too much in perspec- 
 tive, and added, for your own part, you would very much prefer it in 
 the foreground. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Did I say that ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I am delighted to be enabled to assert you did, as, in 
 accordance with what I took to be a delicate hint, I proposed six 
 months sooner than I lukcL intended; and in consequenc G 
 
68 LOVELY. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. What, in consequence ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I have enjoyed six months^ more happiness with the 
 best of wives and women than I otherwise should have done. {Takes 
 Mrs. Smilei/s hand and kisses it with an air of true gallantry and 
 devotion.) 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Ton were always a dear, good fellow, and, if pos- 
 sible, time has improved you. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Seeing that he would have as vainly tried to paint 
 the lily, or add another perfume to the rose, as improve you, he has 
 passed you over altogether. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. I declare you should have been Komeo. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. And you Juliet. But didn't Aunt Matchem once 
 propose another suitor for Ellen? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. She certainly did. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. And if I remember rightly, he, too, like Herbert 
 iN'eville, was a painter. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. He was. The objects of Aunt Matchem's idolatry 
 are artists and the legitimate drama — the divine William's mighty 
 masterpieces, and the chef d'ceuvres of our modern painters. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Conditionally on our daughter's marrying a suitor of 
 Aunt Matchem's selection, the old lady is to make her sole heiress to 
 her very handsome fortune ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Tou are quite right. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. And you have consented to that arrangement? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. I have, in your name as well as my own. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Tou have my entire approval. What was Aunt 
 Matchem's plan of operations ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. She had two proteges, both giving equal promise 
 of future excellence, and both well educated and connected. Both 
 were engaged by her to paint Ellen's portrait, with a perfect under- 
 standing if a mutual attachment sprang up between them, the one 
 Ellen preferred should be her husband ; but an implied wish that the 
 one who painted the best picture (for which, whether successful as a 
 suitor or not, he was to receive the handsome sum of five thousand 
 pounds) should prove the happy man. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. What has been the result ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. As far as Herbert Neville goes, all we could de- 
 sire. He evidently loves Ellen, and is beloved of her, and his por- 
 trait of her is said to be perfection. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. And the other gentleman ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Clarence ]S"ugent. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Oh ! that is his name, is it ? Well, how does he get 
 on with Ellen ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Not at all. The contrast between the young men 
 is marvellous. While Ellen was sitting to Herbert, we were struck 
 by his earnest but respectful admiration, and his evident wish to do 
 justice to her portrait ; when with Mr. Nugent we could not help 
 noticing his slight regard for his painting, and his self-possessed con- 
 
LOVELY. 69 
 
 fidence in his powers of pleasing. One was evidently working to 
 gain the hand of a girl he sincerely loved ; the other appeared to im- 
 agine he conld secure the love of any woman, without taking any 
 special pains in the matter. It was quite evident, although they had 
 been firm friends from boyhood., he deemed his modest and assiduous 
 young rivars chances, as a suitor or an artist, worthless as compared 
 to his own. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. A regular type of the " Yenij, Yidi, Yici^' fast young 
 men of the modern school. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. I fear so. 
 
 Mr. Smiley, ^as it not stipulated, should Ellen prove indifferent 
 to both young men, the portraits were, nevertheless, to be com- 
 pared, and the award of the five thousand made to the painter of the 
 best? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. It was. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. When is the decision to be come to ? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. If possible, to-night. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Is Mr. Clarence ISiugent's portrait finished? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. I cannot answer that question. "We have none of 
 ns heard of him for the last six months. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I have. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. What? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. [N^othing to his advantage ; in shorty I very much 
 fear he is going to the bad ; that he is more frequently seen in a 
 stable than in a studio ; that his studies of the human figure are con- 
 fined to the worst description — legs, I mean blacMegs ;— that, as far 
 as landscapes are concerned, he takes a deeper interest in the turf 
 than the trees ; that instead of becoming a prudent book-keeper, he 
 has become a reckless book-maker, and that the next plunge he takes 
 will be from the racecourse to ruin. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. What a blessing it is our daughter was not dazzled 
 by his superficial attractions, but has given her heart to his worthy 
 and unassuming rival. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. A blessing, indeed ; that is, if he will only screw 
 Ms courage to the sticking-potnt, and propose. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Oh, never fear ; leave that to 
 
 AiJNT Matchem {speaks loithout). What, Juliet ! ladybird. 
 
 Mes. Smiley. Aunt Matchem— and here she comes. 
 
 Enter Aunt Matchem, r., dressed as tlie Nurse in '^ Borneo and 
 
 Juliet/^ carrying a fan and large reticule, and the tisual 
 
 ivary-Jieaded crutcli-sticJc, 
 
 ATTST MaTCEEM. lv"ell, my dear friends, here I am. Come, I 
 hope to see the fictitious loves of Eomeo and Juliet culminate in the 
 proposal and acceptance of Herbert i^Teville and Ellen Smiley ; if so, 
 aU my cares in this world will be over. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Tou forget; another important affair remains to 
 be settled. 
 
70 LOVELY. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. TVTiat is that? 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. You have to determine which of the artists is to 
 receive the splendid reward you have offered for the best portrait. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. That's true ; and, though I should be pleased 
 to find the successful suitor is the best painter, that is but a second- 
 ary consideration. But see, here come the young people, looking 
 the fac similes of the divine William's hero and heroine. 
 
 Enter Herbert Neville, r., as Borneo , and Ellen Smiley as 
 
 Juliet 
 
 Aunt Matchem {to Ellen). My love, you look charmingly. Mr. 
 Seville, are you quite perfect ? 
 
 Neville. I can scarcely say that ; \mi—{loolcing at Ellen)— but 
 I think I am as near perfection as a man can possibly be. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Bravo ! Well said ; you improve wonderfally. 
 The study of the divine William has given you confidence ; and in 
 this world, confidence is the best ally to secure success. How do 
 you feel, Ellen ? 
 
 Ellen. A little nervous, dear Aunt ; but Mr. Neville is so kmd, 
 I think I shall be able to sustain my character. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Capital ! Come, as the divine William says 
 (though I am only here as the Niirse, I am up m " Hamlet "), ^* Give 
 us a touch of your quahty f '^ 
 
 Neville. Before we begin, I have a favor to ask. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. What is it ? 
 
 Neville. When you, dear madam, ofi'ered the very handsome 
 amount of five thousand pounds for the best portrait of Miss Smiley, 
 Clarence Nugent and myself made up our minds not to accept it, 
 unless you would permit us to present you with another picture — our 
 joint production. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley {uneasily). Are you still a Mend of that person! 
 
 Neville. I am. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Do you visit him ? 
 
 Neville. I do not. 
 
 Aunt Matcmem. Why not ? 
 
 Neville. Because I dislike some of the set I should meet with 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Then you have no quarrel with him. 
 
 Neville. Certainly not. I believe he has acted foolishly ; but 1 
 still admire his talent, and have every confidence in the goodness of 
 his heart. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Will he compete for the prize ? . . 
 
 Aunt Matchem. And join you in the other painting, win or 
 lose? 
 
 Neville. Most assuredly. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. What is to be the subject of your proposed pic- 
 ture? 
 
LOVELY, 71 
 
 Seville. A family of you all as yon are in yonr present cos- 
 tumes, for wMch purpose I wish Clarence ^N'ugent to see you in them 
 to-night. 
 
 Aunt Matchem, I am content 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. And L 
 
 Mr. Smiley. And L 
 
 Ellen. And I. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Carried nem con. !N'ow to rehearse the Balcony 
 Scene. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Won't that be rather difficult ? 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Hqw difficult ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. Simply because we have no balcony. 
 
 Aunt Matchem, They had none in the divine William's time, 
 and they got on famously without. We have the same means at our 
 disposal that the great actors of those days had, and I have come 
 provided with them. Herbert, bring that arm-chair forward, (Xe- 
 ville brings down arni-cliair and places it, l.) j^ow put this pla- 
 card upon it. {Takes large card out of her reticule with the icords 
 '^This is a Balcony " printed on it, ^ Neville hangs it on the chair,) 
 'Sow, Juliet, my love, seat yourself in that balcony, and let your arm 
 hang gracefully over that balustrade. (Ellen po5e5 herself as de- 
 sired.) Admirable! i^othing could be more natural. 'SoWj Master 
 Momeo, I want you to throw some heart and feeling into your per- 
 formance. To make love — as the young men of my day did, both on 
 and off the stage —as if they meant it. I am no admirer of the pres- 
 ent soulless school of pensive preaching, sour looks, sallow faces, 
 turned-down collars, and moustaches, and general air of lifeless las- 
 situde and dreamy despondency, that passes muster for great acting 
 among the professors of the-not-how-to-do-it-for-fear-of-being-too- 
 stagay—jeune premiers of the modern lavishly-upholstered pill -boxes. 
 J:v"o ! let me have some of the power and passion which, in the days 
 of Kemble, Cook, and Kean, filled old I)rury from floor to ceiling, 
 and rendered those great masters of the mighty art the idols of our 
 ancestors and the observed of all observers. 
 
 I^eville. I will do my best, madame. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Lady Capulet, you are not on in this scene. 
 You can go to the drawing-room, if you like. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. Thanks. I really do want to see about the supper ; 
 
 so I will avail myself of your permission. {Exit L. Mr. Smiley is 
 
 following her, ichen Aunt Matchem stops him. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. "Where are you going ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. With Lady Capulet. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. You had better remain. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. What for? 
 
 Aunt Matchem. You will soon see. Stand there ! {Places 
 Smiley r. h. Then takes card out of hag, on which is printed ''The 
 Orchard Wall.'') You are the orchard wall, that Borneo will have to 
 come from behind, {Hangs placard round Smiley's neck.) 
 
72 LOVELY. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. All right. l\"ow^ BomcOy go off, come on, begin at 
 once, for I am dying for a glass of sherry and a sandwich. 
 
 (Herbert goes behind Smiley, and makes his entrance 
 a la *^ Borneo." Aunt Matchem stands L. H., 
 opposite Smiley, ivatching and directing the jyer- 
 formancc. 
 Keville. '^ He jests at scars that never felt a wonnd ; 
 
 But soft '' 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Oh, that will never do. Suit the action to the 
 word, and put your hand to your head when you come to '^soft;" 
 and then pause for a moment, and gaze intently, on Juliet. 
 
 (^N^eville does as directed. 
 2^eville. '^ But soft.'' 
 
 Aunt Matchem. I^othing could be more appropriate. 
 !N"eville. *' But soft ! What light through yonder window breaks ? 
 It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! 
 Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
 Who is already sick, and pale with grief 
 That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she." 
 Aunt Matchem. isTot so bad, but a leetle too heavy. You must 
 endeavor to lighten up your ^' east,'' and give more warmth to your 
 '^sun.'^ 
 IvTeville. ^' See how she leans her cheek upon her hand." 
 Aunt Matchem. Dwell upon her ^' cheek." 
 i^EViLLE. '^ Oh that I were a glove upon that hand, 
 
 That I might touch that cheek." 
 Aunt Matchem. Too tame altogether ; if you speak in that way, 
 the audience will think, instead of wishing to be a glove — which wo 
 all know cannot cling too tightly to a lady's hand — you simply aspire 
 to be a muff', which never squeezes it at all. ]^ow, ^Juliet, 
 Ellen. That's not my cue. I have nothing to say. 
 Keville. ^^She speaks, yet she says nothing." 
 Aunt Matchem. Perfectly parliamentary. • 
 IsTeville. " AVhat of that ? 
 
 Her eye discourses — I will answer it." 
 Aunt Matchem. liemember there is a vast difference between 
 her optic nerve and your personal pronoun. Be sure you make tho 
 distinction, and be specially careful to mind your I. 
 
 iSTEViLLE. ^' I am too bold ! Oh, were those eyes in heaven ! " 
 Aunt Matchem. Where many a man wishes his wife to be. 
 o^EViLLE. " They would through the airy region stream so bright, 
 
 . That birds would sing, and think it vras not night." 
 Aunt Matchem. You don't niake enough of yom* '^bu'ds." 
 Make a good niDuthftil of your ^^ birds." 
 JuiiET. ^-Ahmc!" 
 I^EVILLE. ^' She speaks ! 
 
 0, speak again, bright angel! f:r thou art 
 As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, 
 
LOVELY. 73 
 
 As is a ^raiged messenger of heaven 
 Unto the Tvhite-npturned woncVring eyes 
 Of mortals^ when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the au\'' 
 Amrr Matchem. Jlather too slow. Hurry up your '^mes- 
 senger.'^ 
 Ellen. '^ 0, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo ? 
 Deny thy fatlier and refuse thy name : 
 Or, if thou wiit not, be but sworn my love, 
 And I'll no longer be a Capulet." 
 Seville. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? '* 
 Ellen. '^ That which we call a rose 
 
 By any other name would smell as sweet; 
 So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, 
 Retain that dear perfection which he owns 
 Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name ; 
 And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
 Take all myself." 
 Aunt Matchem. Charming ! How much better women make 
 love than men. 
 Is eville. " I take thee at thy word." 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Oh, nonsense ; you don^t half take her. Put 
 more passion, soul, and fire into yom- '^ take.'^ 
 
 Seville. My dear Mrs. Matchem, you make me so awfally 
 nervous. I really think, as this is our first rehearsal, if you would 
 kindly leave us to ouiv^elves, we should get on much better. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Oh, with all my heart! Perhaps the other 
 party is in the way ? 
 Keville. What party? 
 Aunt Matchem. The party wall, of course. 
 Mr. Smilet. I really hope I am, for I am dying for a sandwich 
 and a glass of sherry. 
 Mrs. Matchem. Are you? Come along then. 
 
 {Exit Mr. Smiley and Aunt Matchem, l. 
 Ellen. Oh, I am so tired of sitting here. Can't we rehearse as 
 well if I come to you ? 
 
 2>rEViLLE. Much better ! I have always thought Romeo was a 
 mufi* for not climbing into the balcony. 
 
 (Ellen goes to Herbert. 
 Ellen. iSTeed we go through the whole scene ? 
 Keville. Iso, I think not. 
 Ellen. Then let us begin here — 
 
 '^ By whose direction found^st thou out this place ?'' 
 Neville. '^ By Love's, who first did prompt me to inquire; 
 He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 
 I am no pilot ; yet wert thou as far 
 As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, 
 I would adventure for such merchandise." 
 
74 LOVELY. 
 
 Ellen. "Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay. 
 And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swearest, 
 Thou mayst prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, 
 They say, Jove laughs.'^ 
 Take that for your cue. 
 Seville. " Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear/' 
 Ellen. '^ 0, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, 
 That monthly changes in her circled orb. 
 Lest th§t thy love prove likewise variable." 
 Keville. *^ "WTiat shall I swear by ? '^ 
 Ellen. ^* Do not swear at all; 
 
 Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
 Which is the god of my idolatry, 
 
 And 111 believe thee." {She involuntarily places 
 
 her hand in ^sTeville's, and looks lovingly in his face.) 
 
 Keville. EUen, I can endure this suspense no longer. I love 
 
 you with all the truth and fervor of an honest heart ; have done so 
 
 for months, though, till this moment, I have never had the courage 
 
 to tell you so. May I keep this hand ? 
 
 Ellen {laying her head upon ]!^eville's shoulder). You may! 
 {At this moment y enter Mr. and Mrs. Smiley and 
 Aunt Matchem, l., unseen by IsTeville and Ellen, 
 and range tliemselves at bach.) 
 Neville. For life ? 
 Ellen. Yes, for life. 
 
 (]!irEviLLE kneels and kisses Ellen's hand rapturously 
 Keville. ^^ Oh blessed oight ! I am afeared, 
 
 Being in night, all this is but a dream, 
 
 Too flattering-sweet to be substantial." 
 
 Mr. Smiley {to Aunt Matchem). Do you call that rehearsing? 
 
 Aunt Matchem. i^o, I don't. I call that 
 
 Mr. Smiley. What ? 
 Aunt Matchem. " Love ! " 
 
 End oji' Act I. 
 
 ACT IL— " LY." 
 
 Scene. — A room in Clarence Kugent's chambers. Clarence 
 Nugent discovered seated at a table, on ichich a quantity of enve- 
 lopes and open letters are scattered. Re appears pale an d dejected ; 
 butf throughout the scene, assumes a tone and 7nanncr of forced 
 gaiety. Lucy Nugent is seated by his side looking anriously in 
 his face. 
 
 Lucy. Are you ill, Clarence ? 
 
 Clarence. No, dear. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Lucy. You look so pale and sad, and so unlike yourself. 
 
LOVLET. 75 
 
 Clarekce. Do I ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes^ indeed, you do. 
 
 Clarence. Your fancy, my kind little sister. 
 
 Lfcy. Am I a welcome visitor, Clarence ? 
 
 Clarence. Welcome, dear one ! How can you ask such a ques- 
 tion? 
 
 Lucy. Because, when I came in, you seemed more surprised than 
 pleased. 
 
 Clarence. Surely there is nothing very strange in that. It is 
 natural I should show some suprise at the sudden appearance of a 
 young lady I thought was a hundred miles off. 
 
 Lucy. Perhaps so for the first few minutes ; but for the last half- 
 hour your manner has been so cold and constrained, and you look so 
 unlike yourself; I am sure you must be suffering from some severe 
 illness or sudden misfortune. 
 
 Clarence. Indeed, you are wrong, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. I am not. Look in my face. Clarence, you are deceiving 
 me ! — deceiving the sister who would fireely lay down her life to pre- 
 serve yonr honor, or ensure your happiness. 
 
 Clarence. What strange fancy have you in that pretty little 
 head of yours ? ^^ Preserve my honor ! " ^' Secure my happiness I " 
 Do you imagine either are in jeopardy. 
 
 Lucy. I do. 
 
 Clarence. You are my only sister ; have ever proved yourself 
 a loving, gentle, and true one; but these suspicions 
 
 Lucy. Are, I fear, too well founded. 
 
 Clarence {With affected gaiety). Why, my dear, you are 
 becoming more and more oracular and mysterious. What possible 
 ground can you have for such sombre fancies ? 
 
 Lucy. Stronger ones than you at present imagine. 
 
 Clarence. May I be made acquainted with them? 
 
 Lucy. Certainly. It will be painful to reveal them; but it is a 
 duty I owe to you and to myself. 
 
 Clarence. *^A duty to yourself? 
 
 Lucy. No stain can faU on your good name that will not sully 
 mine. 
 
 Clarence. Lucy, you are torturing me ! If you love me, speak 
 out at once, and speak plainly. What do you mean ? 
 
 Lucy. This is not a voluntary visit. 
 
 Clarence. iiTot voluntary ? 
 
 Lucy. I^o. I felt compelled to come. 
 
 Clarence. Compelled ! By whom ? 
 
 Lucy. Of that jiresently. May I, presuming on a sister's love, 
 ask you a few questions ? 
 
 Clarence (aside, uneasily). Can she suspect? (To Lucy, with 
 affected gaiety) Certainly. From your manner, I fancy they are of 
 the most momentous importance, and I promise, even should they re- 
 late to the all-engrossing topics of the morals of the last lady's novel, 
 
73 LOVELY. 
 
 the mnsic of the last new opera, or the fashion of the last new bonnet, 
 I will enlighten you to the best of my limited abilities ; or, like a 
 melo-dramatic rasher to the rescue of any other distressed damsel — 
 ''perish in the attempt." 
 
 Lucy. Have you seen Mr. Herbert I^eville lately ? 
 
 Clarence. Not very. 
 
 Lucy. How long since ? 
 
 Clarence. Six or seven months. 
 
 Lucy. Have you quarrelled with him ? 
 
 Clarence. Certamly not. 
 
 Lucy. Were you not rivals for the same lady^s hand 1 
 
 Clarence. Partially so. It was a romantic affair got up by a 
 very rich and eccentric old maid — a liberal patroness of both of us. 
 We were engaged by her, each to paint a portrait of her reputed heir- 
 ess, a very charming girl, and it was tacitly understood if Miss Smiley 
 thought proper to fall over head and ears in love with either of us, 
 and the passion proved reciprocal, there would be no obstacle thrown 
 in the way of the happy man's proposal being accepted. 
 
 Lucy. Have you hnished your portrait ? 
 
 Clarence. I am ashamed to say, not quite. 
 
 Lucy. How has that happened '/ 
 
 Clarence. Business, or pleasure, called me from London on one 
 or two occasions, when I forgot appvautments bad been made for sit- 
 tings ; and, I presume, the lady, in consequence 4!f my apparent 
 neglect, took mma slight offence, as she ceased to call at my studio. 
 
 Lucy. How long has she discontinued her visits ? 
 
 Clarence. Some months. 
 
 Lucy. Did Mr. iS eville cease to call at the same time ? 
 
 Clarence. Oh, dear, no ! He was with me daily, as usual, for some 
 weeks after Miss Smiley discontinued her sittings. 
 
 Lucy. Why did your intimacy with Mr. jS'eville cease ? 
 
 Clarence. He is a strange fellow in some things, and though 
 good as gold at heart, has some peculiarly stiff-necked notions. I had 
 made the acquaintance of some fashionable men ; they were what he 
 called too fast for him, and he was too slow for them. He evidently 
 saw they considered him a bore, and so 
 
 Lucy. He gave up your acquaintance rather than continue theirs? 
 
 Clarence. Yes— that is, I suppose so. 
 
 Lucy. I honor him for it. 
 
 Clarence. Honor him, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. Tes, honor him ! Was there one Captain Gaston Leech 
 among them ? 
 
 Clarence (surprised). There was. 
 
 Lucy. Would you know his handwriting? 
 
 Clarence. As well as my own. 
 
 Lucy {producing letter and showing it to Clarence). Is that it? 
 
 Clarence (looks at letter, appears astounded). It is. 
 
 Lucy. Shall I read it to you ? 
 
LOVELY. 77 
 
 Clarence (with an effort). If yon please. 
 
 (Lucy opens letter and reads, 
 
 '' Madam, — 
 '^ I trust yoTi will excuse the liberty I, a perfect stranger, take in 
 addressing you ; but the interest I feel in your misguided brother's 
 afiairs compels me to do so. That rash young man, contrary to my 
 advice— indeed, I may say entreaties — has given way to his mad in- 
 fatuation for the worst and most seductive species of gambling — 
 betting on the turf, till he is on the verge of utter ruin ; imless some 
 means are supplied him to meet his heavy losses before the next 
 settling day, he will become an outcast from the society of all hon- 
 ourable men, and be classed with the miserably disgraced vagabonds 
 known as defaulters, welshers, and swindlers. 
 
 Signed, '^ Gaston Leech." 
 
 Clarence {overcome hj surprise and indignation). Lost — lost 
 Ruined, betrayed, and abandoned by the heartless scoundrel who has 
 lured me on to destruction! But stay, I may be deceived? He 
 promised to bet a thousand for me at such odds on the certain winner 
 of to-day's race, as will recoup all my losses ; the issue will be known 
 shortly, and till then I will not despair. 
 
 Lucy. Do not buoy yourself up with false hopes ; their failure will 
 make your disappointment the keener. Little as I know of the 
 world, I feel confident you are the dupe of a consummate scoundrel ! 
 That letter carries conviction on its face. Make up your mind for 
 the worst, and meet it like a man. What will it be ? 
 
 Clarence. Ruin — irretrievable ruin ! and, what is worse, dis- 
 honour and disgrace ! 
 
 Lucy. My darling brother, what you call ruin is but a name, if 
 you mean by that the loss of your and my own moderate fortune. 
 "With youth, health, strength, and honest resolution, there is no pecu- 
 niary loss that may not be made np by persevering and cheerful 
 industry. I have come here not to add to your sufferings, but to 
 share them —not to blame you for your misfortune, but to place my 
 fortune at your disposal. It will relieve you from your present em- 
 barrassments, and leave us both free to work together, with heaven's 
 assistance, for our future subsistence. 
 
 Clarence. My dear, dear sister, I have no words to speak my 
 thanks, my love, my gratitude. But do not suppose I am so utterly 
 degraded and lost to every manly feeling as to touch one penny of 
 your money, or that you shall ever be disgraced by the presence of a 
 pauper brother. I can realize enough by the sale of all I possess to 
 pay these harpies ; that done, even if I have to work my passage, I 
 will make my way to Australia, where I will endeavor to redeem my 
 losses ; or, should I fail in that, die, if unknown and unwept, neither 
 dishonored nor despised. 
 
 Lucy. Brother, where you go, I go. Whatever your fate^ I share 
 it with you. (Emb7xC6S Claresg^.) 
 
78 LOVELY. 
 
 Clarence. My oTm dear, dear sister. (Embrace.) 
 
 (Knock. Enter Page, l., tvith telegram, which he 
 hands to Clarence. 
 
 Page. Telegram for you, sir. (Clarence takes it.) (Exit Page, l. 
 (Clarence holds telegram in his hand, as if dreading to 
 open it. Lucy takes it gently from him, 
 , LtrCY. Let me read it, Clarence. 
 
 Clarence. Yes, Lucy, ruin will come less harshly from your kind 
 voice. 
 
 Lucy (opens telegram, and icith an effort restrains her feelingSy 
 and reads in a composed voice) :— ^^ Xewmarket, Monday, 3 o'clock, 
 ^. m. Leech to IsTugent. All up ; Thunderbolt scratched ; get ready 
 for settling. I am a heavy loser, and must be paid." {JSands tele- 
 gram to Clarence ; he takes it mechanically, places it on the table 
 before him, and gazes vacantly at it, as he sinks into his chair. Lucy 
 places her hand kindly on his shoulder. 
 
 (Double knock at door, l. Enter Page, l., with card 
 on salver. Offers card to Clarence. 
 
 Page. Gentleman wishes particularly to see you, sir. (Clarence 
 pays no attention, but still keeps his eyes fixed on the telegram.) 
 
 Lucy. Cive me the card. (Page hands card to Lucy, who reads it. ) 
 '^ Mr. Herbert Neville." This is fortunate. (To Clarence.) Tour 
 friend Mr. Herbert I^eville wishes to see you. (2o Page.) Show 
 the gentleman up. (Exit Page, l. 
 
 Clarence (suddenly starting up). N^o — no — say I am engaged ; I 
 will see no one. 
 
 Lucy. You are wrong, dear Clarence ; Mr. Herbert ]S"eville has 
 always been your attached friend. He is a man in whom you can 
 confide, and if any one ever wanted the advice of such man, you do 
 now. 
 
 Clarence (bitterly). You are right ; the sooner my humiliation 
 begins, the better. 
 
 Enter Herbert Neville, l. He shakes Clarence's hand warm- 
 ly; thejiy seeing Lucy, hows respectfully toiler. 
 
 Herbert. How are you, old fellow. I am delighted to see you. 
 I beg your pardon, I did not perceive there was a stranger here. 
 
 Clarence. No stranger ; my only sister, Mr. Neville — Miss Nu- 
 gent. (Neville and Miss Nugent acknowledge the introduction). 
 
 Neville. Delighted to have the honor of making Miss Nugent's 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Lucy. Not more than I am, to meet so true a friend of my bro- 
 ther's. 
 
 Neville. Yes, Miss Nugent, Clarence and I have known each 
 other from boyhood, and, I am happy to say, up to the present time, 
 we have never exchanged an angry word. But, I say Clarence, what 
 the deuce is the matter with you? You look about as cheerful as if 
 you had won a Chancery suit; and made the pleasaut discovery tbe 
 
LOVELY. 79 
 
 estates were swallowed up in payment of costs. Bo get out of the 
 dismals ; I want you to be especially jolly to-day, for I have come to 
 ask your congratulations, and, as Aunt Matchem would say, in the 
 language of the divine William, tell you I am the jason, I have won 
 the fleece ; and am about to become a Benedict. Miss Smiley has 
 consented to become Mrs. XevUle. 
 Clarence. I sincerely congratulate you. (Shakes hands with 
 
 ISEYILLE.) 
 
 Lucy. And so do I, Mr. ^N'eville. 
 
 iS'EViLLE. Thank you both, very much. I assure you, I shall be 
 most happy to return the compliment, though I hope in a more cheer- 
 ful manner than my Mend Clarence. Is^'ow I look at you again, you 
 are pale and agitated, my dear old fellow. You know me well enough 
 to be aware I do not ask out of mere idle curiosity — let me entreat you 
 to tell me what is the matter ? 
 
 Clarence. One word will do that. 
 
 II^EViLLE. One word? 
 
 Clarence. Yes, one short word ! Kuin ! 
 
 Seville (shocked a7id surprised). Ruin? 
 
 Clarence. Yes, complete, overwhelming ruin. 
 
 i^EviLLE. I am so surprised, grieved, I scarcely know what to say. 
 Hay I ask the cause ? 
 
 Clarence. My own mad folly, bad counsel, and the Turf. 
 
 Seville. The Turf! I feared this ! Have I not warned you 
 against this infatuation ? 
 
 Clarence. You have ; but is this a time for a friend to add to my 
 misery, by pointing out that I might, had I listened to him, have 
 avoided my past folly — my present degradation ? 
 
 Neville. No, Clarence, it is not ; and I hope I am the last man 
 in the world to cover the shaft of malice with the flimsy disguise of 
 affected sympathy. When I said I had warned you, I did not mean 
 against yourself, but against a man I had every reason to believe was 
 a most consummate swindler and heartless scoundrel. I mean Cap- 
 tain Gaston Leech. Am I right when I suppose he is at the bottom 
 of your present difficulties ? 
 
 Clarence You are perfectly right. 
 
 Neville. Hurrah ! I am glad to hear it. 
 
 Clarence. Glad ! 
 
 Neville. Yes, absolutely delighted. 
 
 Lucy. Delighted, and why? 
 
 Neville. Because I can be of essential service to your brother, 
 and place that scoundrel before the world in his proper colors. 
 
 Clarence (eagerly). How so ? 
 
 Neville. I know the rascal's entire history. I have made it my 
 business for the last eight months to trace out his career, with the 
 sole view of opening your eyes to the character of a swindler you 
 looked upon as a gentleman, and treated as a friend. 
 
 Clarence. May I know the result of your inquiries ? 
 
80 LOVELY. 
 
 IS'EVILLE. Certainly. At school he was a bully and a braggart ; 
 at college an idleton and lounger ; he left, after being rusticated, and 
 never returned. Through some parliamentary interest, he obtained 
 a commission in the army. He was, you know, a dashing-looking 
 fellow, and, for a time, gave fair promise of becoming a good officer; 
 but the cloven foot was soon shown. It was observed that his chief 
 associates were the youngest men in the regiment, and that he was 
 very assiduous in cultivating the acquaintance of all new-comers, 
 who were always warmly welcomed, and handsomely entertained at 
 his quarters, feumors of high play got wind. Leech obtained his 
 captaincy by purchase, and lived in a style far beyond what his pay 
 and very moderate allowance would have justified. Men of much 
 larger means who associated with him, became inevitably involved 
 with money-lenders, and that peculiar class of harpies who are ever 
 ready to pander to the extravagances, follies, and views of the young 
 and inexperienced ; as their purses became empty Leech's appeared to 
 become lull. His success at all games of cards became a proverb ; 
 but he went too far at last. Some very questionable transaction 
 which took place in the captain's quarters, by which he was said to 
 be great gainer, came to the ears of the commanding officer, and 
 Leech, instead of being cashiered, as he richly deserved, was advised 
 to sell out, which he did without loss of time, and soon after became 
 ostensibly what he had long been covertly — a reckless, desperate, and 
 unprincipled blackleg and gambler. As before, his selected victims 
 are invariably young men of means, whom he dazzles by his military 
 bearing, and attracts by his air of kindly and condescending patron- 
 age, as, excuse me for saying so, I believe he did you. 
 
 Clarence. I confess it. 
 
 Neville. Having secured the confidence of his dupes, his general 
 mode of operation was, under a sacred promise of inviolable secrecy, 
 to let them into some awfully good thing on the next race, offer to 
 invest their money at tremendous odds, put the amounts entrusted to 
 him in his pocket, and when the race was over give them the name 
 of the second or third horse as the good thing he had backed, and rail 
 at the accident by which he was beaten by a short head, a neck, or a 
 length, as the case might be. Am I right ? 
 
 Clarence. That was the precise plan he pursued with me. 
 
 Neville. "V\^hat was the last ^' moral "he urged you to invest 
 upon? 
 
 Clarence. Thunderbolt. 
 
 Neville. How much? 
 
 Clarence. A thousand. 
 
 Neville. And the odds ? 
 
 Clarence. Five to one, and he said he would make the bet for 
 me. 
 
 Neville. Did he do so? 
 
 Clarence. Yes. 
 
 Neville, The Bcoundrel ! When ? 
 
LOVELY. 81 
 
 Clarence. Here is the telegram— yesterday, at three o'clock. 
 
 jS"eville. Let me see it. 
 
 (Clarence hands Ii^eville telegram. He looks at it 
 eagerly, 
 
 i^ETiLLE. That is superb !— beautiful !— magnificent ! This is all 
 I wanted, to prove the thorough rascality of this bare-faced and 
 heartless scoundrel, Clarence, you need not pay this bet, at any 
 rate. 
 
 Clarence. Why not ? - 
 
 Seville, Thunderbolt was scratched at six o'clock the evening 
 before the day on which he telegraphs to you he has made the bet on 
 your account. 
 
 Clarence. Are you certain? 
 
 Seville. Quite. I have a document in my pocket which will 
 prove the truth of my assertion, 
 
 Clarence, Who from ? 
 
 Kbville, a Mend of mine on the turf. 
 
 Clarence. Are you, then, a betting man? 
 
 Seville. Decidedly not. I despise the name and the avoca- 
 tion. Pardon me, Clarence ; I don't mean to reflect on you ; indeed, 
 it has been for your sake I have kept up a correspondence in which I 
 should otherwise have felt repugnance, rather than taken interest. 
 
 Ltjct. Pray sir, explain yourself. 
 
 IsTeville. Willingly, my dear Miss I^ugent. You must know, 
 some years ago, a little fellow, who used to groom my pony when I 
 was a boy, left my father's service to go into a racing stable. He 
 was a shrewd urchin enough — what, in slang parlance, is called a 
 '^ remarkably wide-awake fittle paxty." He got on pretty well ; but 
 his mother, a poor widow, who used to support herself by doing odd 
 jobs for families in the village, met with an accident which disabled 
 her for a long time. I heard, by chance, a distress warrant had been 
 put Into the poor soul's house. It was but for a trifle ; so, out of re- 
 gard for Master Tim, I paid it out. It seems this service done his 
 mother made a deep impression on the boy's mind. I met him accident- 
 ally, the first time you visited Epsom, in company with Captain 
 Leech. He recognised me at once, and having seen me in conversa- 
 tion with you, concluded you were a friend of mine. While you were 
 engaged with Leech, he called me on one side, and told me, in con- 
 fidence, to keep an eye on that gentleman, as, in his somewhat turfy 
 phraseology, ^^ he was nothing more nor less Hhan a gilt-headed 
 mace."^ From that time I kept a constant watch on Leech, and a 
 constant correspondence with Tim, from whom I heard of the Cap- 
 tain's operations on Thunderbolt, who was never intended by Ms 
 party to win. Here is Tim's epistle. The matter must excuse the 
 manner. (TaJces dirty letter from pocket, and reads,) 
 
 '^ Honr'd SUR, — 
 ^' The game's hup— the horse is gcrat. The Captaiu is 'eavy bon 
 
83 LOVELY. 
 
 'im. Walker ! and Kumpany ! — and means to make a pot, an' put 
 his frens in the 'ole. Time, 6 o'clock, Tuesday hevening, p. m. 
 
 " The Fly on the Wall." 
 
 Lucy. This is, indeed, glorious neT7s. 
 
 Clarence. My preserver, how can I prove my gratitude ? 
 
 Neville. By promising to do all I ask for the next three days, at 
 least. 
 
 Clarence. "With all my heart. 
 
 Neville. Then take up your pen, and write to Captain Leech as 
 I dictate. ^Clarence prepares to write.) 
 
 '^SiR— 
 . *' Your letter to my sister was premature. It was sent as much 
 too soon, as I am happy — from the enclosed communication — to find, 
 your intention of backing Thunderbolt on my account was too late. 
 ^^ I wish you to understand very distinctly, our intercourse and 
 acquaintance must cease. It rests with yourself as to whether my 
 reason for coming to this determination is to be made public. 
 
 '' Clarence Nugent. 
 '' To Captain Gaston Leech.'' 
 
 (Clarence liancls letter to Neville, wJio reads it, and 
 
 then encloses Tim's letter in it.) 
 
 Neville. Now put that in an envelope, dh'ect and post it as soon 
 
 as possible. (Sits dmvn and writes, encloses note in envelope, and 
 
 addresses it, Clarence directs his letter to Leech ; then touches 
 
 the hell.) 
 
 Enter Page, l. 
 
 Clarence. Post this at once. • 
 
 Page. Yes, sir. 
 
 Neville. Will you allow the boy to deliver this as directed ? 
 
 Clarence. Certainly. (Neville gives Page letter he has been 
 writing.) Make haste, my man ; the letter is important, and time is 
 a great object. 
 
 Page. PU run aU the way, sir. (Exit Page, l. 
 
 Neville. Now, once more, and I hope for the last time, to our 
 unpleasant business ; are your other debts of honor heavy ? 
 
 Clarence. They are. 
 
 Neville. Can you meet them ? 
 
 Clarence. Yes. 
 
 Neville. Without inconvenience ? 
 
 Clarence. No; they will make a poor man of me for many a 
 day. 
 
 Neville. Do they amount to hundreds or thousands? 
 
 Clarence. Only hundreds. 
 
 Lucy. Thank heaven, I can pay them! 
 
 Neville. No necessity. Your brother can do that without the 
 slightest assistance. 
 
LOVELY. 83 
 
 Clarence. How? 
 
 IN'eville. You shall know all in good time. You have obeyed 
 my first command by writing to the Captain: my second is that you 
 present yourself at the Smileys in hall" an hour, to compete for the 
 prize. 
 
 Clarence. It Tvould be useless ; my portrait won't be there. 
 
 I^Teville. You are wrong, I have just sent an order by your 
 page to the man at your studio^ to pack it carefully and send it in- 
 stantly. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, Mr. XevillC; how truly generous, thoughtful, and con- 
 siderate you are ! 
 
 ]N"eville. Pray, don't Miss Xugent. I am a modest young man, 
 and you make me blush. 
 
 Clarence. Even if it is there, I should have no 
 
 Keville. That is not the subject under discussion. T7iU you 
 keep your word to me ? 
 
 Clarence. With the certauity of defeat, and at any sacrifice of 
 self-love — yes ! 
 
 i^EViLLE. That's a good fellow ! — I must go from command to 
 entreaty. Will you, as the very greatest favor you can confer upon 
 me, bring Miss iS'ugent with you, and allow me to have tiie pleasure 
 of introducing her to my iutended wife ? 
 
 Clarence. Lucy, give your own answer. 
 
 Lucy. I wiU come, with the most sincere pleasure. 
 ^ i^EviLLE. A thousand thanks ! Clarence, take care of this pre- 
 cious document — {holding out telegram) — your friend, the Captain, 
 has made a singular verbal error. {Eeadmg telegram.) 
 
 Clarence. What is it ? 
 
 Keville. He says he will lay the odds. He ought to have used 
 another word of nearly the same meaning. 
 
 Clarence. What word? 
 
 l^EviLLE. Lie ! 
 
 Clarence. Lie ! 
 
 Lucy. Lie ! 
 
 iN'EviLLE {tupping telegram.) Yes, Miss !N"xigent, ^^ Lie ! '' 
 
 Clarence. Lucy. Keyille. 
 
 End of Act IL 
 
 ACT III.— ^^LOYELY." 
 
 Scene same as scene 1st — Ellen Smiley discovered, still in her 
 
 Juliets costume. She is reading a note, 
 
 Ellen. This appears to me a most extraordinary request on the 
 
 part of Herbert. {Beads, 
 
 "My own Love, — 
 
 '^ You will confer a great favor on me, and be the means of secur- 
 
84 LOVELi:. 
 
 ing the peace of mind and happiness of a really good fellow, and a 
 most amiable young lady— his only sister — by placing these envelopes 
 on the two pictures that are to be decided on this evening. I also 
 specially request you, when the decision is given, to open the enve- 
 lope on the selected portrait, and make known the name of the fortu- 
 nate competitor. 
 
 '^ I trust the iiat will have gone forth before the advent of Clar- 
 ence Nugent and his sister, whom I have invited to be introduced 
 to you, in the sincere hope she may become one of your bridesmaids 
 and future friends. 
 
 '^ Yours ever, devotedly, 
 
 ^^ Herbert J^eville/' 
 
 I have done as Herbert wished. I could not resist the temptation 
 of just taking one peep under the covering ! I wonder which Herbert 
 painted — they are both so much alike, I could not decide. "Which- 
 ever is his I am sure to think the best, whatever papa, mamma and 
 Aunt Matchem may determine. I am delighted to hear Mr. I^ugent 
 is really a very good fellow, and not, as papa thought, gone to the 
 bad ; and it will give me great pleasure to be introduced to the sister 
 of any friends of Herbert's. 
 
 (Enter Mr. Smiley, Mrs. Smiley, and Aunt Matchem, r.) 
 Mr. Smiley. They are admirable ! 
 Mrs. Smiley. They are, indeed ! 
 
 Aunt Matchem. They do infinite credit to both my proteges ! 
 {To EUen.) Go and look at them, my dear, and let us have your 
 candid opinion. 
 Ellen. Certainly, aunt. 
 
 {Exit Ellen, r. 
 Mrs. Smiley {to Aunt Matchem.) Which do you prefer? 
 Aunt Matchem. It is really difficult to say, but I have a choice. 
 Mr. Smiley. And so have I. 
 Mrs. Smiley. And I! 
 
 Aunt Matchem. As the expression of an opinion by either of us 
 might possibly influence the judgment of the rest, I propose we write 
 down our respective selections, unknown to each other, and let the 
 majority decide the question. 
 Mr. Smiley. Agreed! 
 Mrs. Smiley. Admirable ! 
 
 (Mr. Smiley, Mrs. Smiley, and Aunt Matchem go to 
 
 table, and write a line on a sheet of note pa^er, which 
 
 they fold up.) 
 
 Aunt Matchem {Coming forward). Now let Ellen read the 
 
 votes, '' big with the fate of Cato and of Rome. {Calls off Ellen. 
 
 Ellen. Here I am, aunt. 
 
 (j&M#er Ellen, R.) 
 Aunt Matchem. "Write down on a slip of paper the description of 
 the portrait you prefer. 
 
LOVELY. 85 
 
 Ellen. The description^ aunt ? 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Yes, a line will do — simply, the Blnsh Rose, or 
 the Orange Blossom. 
 
 (Ellen goes to table and writes. 
 Comes doicn and gives lier paper to Aunt Matchem ; 
 Mr. Smiley and Mrs. Smiley do the same. Aunt 
 Matchem J92(t5 up double eyeglass, unfolds, and reads 
 them,) 
 Aunt Matchem. ^o. 1. Blnsh rose. {Hands paper to Ellen.) 
 Ko. 2. Blnsh rose. {Hands paper to Ellen.) i^To. 3. Blnsh rose. 
 {Hands paper #o Ellen.) iso. 4. Blnsh rose. {Hands paper to 
 Ellen.) I declare, for once, the art critics are nnanimons ! After 
 that, we may well say wonders will never cease ! All we want to 
 know now is the name of the snccessfnl candidate. Ellen, bring 
 the sealed envelope from the portrait. 
 Ellen. Yes, annt. (jE'o^i^ Ellen, li. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I am not a sporting man, and rarely het, but Til 
 lay the odds in gloves — two dozen to one, with both you ladies, it is 
 Herbert aS'eville's portrait. 
 Mrs. Smiley. That is the bet I should like to make. 
 Aunt Matchem. And I, 
 
 (Z?i^er Ellen, r.) 
 
 Ellen. And I — here is the envelope. 
 
 {Gives Envelope to Aunt Matchem, who hrealcs tlis 
 seal and reads the name, ) 
 Aunt Matchem. And you would have all— — 
 Mr. Smiley. Won? 
 Mr. Smiley. Won? 
 Ellen. Won? 
 Aunt Matchem. Iis'o— lost ! The name is Clarence ivngent ! 
 
 (^w^r Herbert Xeyille, Clarence ^STugent a/idJ Lucy Xugent.) 
 
 Herbert. Hurrah ! Capital— excellent ! We have arrived just 
 in the nick of time to hear the glorious news! Clarence, my defff 
 old Mend, from the very bottom of my heart I congratulate you ! 
 
 Aunt Matchem. And so do I ! 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. And I ! 
 
 Ellen. And I! 
 
 Mr. Smiley {slmMng hands warmly with Clarence, who 
 appears overcome %cith surprise). And I ! 
 
 Lucy. And oh ! my dear, dear brother, so do I. 
 
 Ellen. This is the young lady you wrote to me about ? 
 
 Herbert. It is. 
 
 Ellen. Papa, mamma, and dear Aunt Matchem, Mr, Clarence 
 !N"ugent's only sister, and, with your permission, my bridesmaid and 
 future friend. {All welcome Lucy.) 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Fll answer for all-^elight«d to make Mks Ku- 
 
86 LOVELY. 
 
 gent's acquaintance. (To Clarence.) You von the prize nobly, sir; 
 but I cannot help saying, with the divine William — 
 
 ^'Oh; day and night, but this is wond'rous strange.^' 
 Herbert. Let me avail myself of the divine William's words, 
 and continue — 
 
 ^' And therefore, as a stranger, give it welcome. 
 • There are more things in heaven and earth. 
 Aunt Matchem (that is, Horatio), than are 
 Dreamed of in your philoso])hy ! " 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Yery good, indeed! if you had given a little 
 more warmth to your ^'welcome/' and a little more tone to your 
 '' philosophy,'' that quotation would have been very faii'ly rendered. 
 But how is this, Mr. Is^ugent ? You have reversed the old fable of 
 the hare and the tortoise. While we thought you were amusing your- 
 self anywhere but in your studio, you have outpaced our steady 
 friend, and won the prize. 
 
 Herbert. Simply poetical justice, dear Mrs, Matchem. If fate 
 destined me to be the fortunate possessor of the beautiful original, 
 Clarence well deserves the prize for his splendid copy. 
 
 Mrs. Smiley. You are right, Mr. [Nugent; I have to ask your 
 pardon. 
 
 Clarence. What for ? 
 
 Mr. Smiley. I have done you an unintentional wrong. I listened 
 to some iU-natured aspersions on your character, and aUowed them 
 to prejudice my mind against you. Will you forgive me ? 
 
 Clarence. I have nothing to forgive any one here for. I am sur- 
 rounded by the best friends that ever came to win a man from dis- 
 grace and misery. I should little deserve your friendship, did I suffer 
 a feeling of false shame, or false pride, to induce me to present my- 
 self to you as a worthless hypocrite. The reports you heard were 
 substantially correct. I, who up to the present time had been a dupe, 
 might, by the force of circumstances, but for the kindly advice of my 
 friend Seville, have degenerated into a swindler. His counsel, and 
 a sister's love, have opened my eyes to my past folly and madness, 
 and I trust the lesson I have learnt is one that wHl stand me in good 
 stead for the rest of my life. Having made my candid confession, 
 may I still consider you as friends ? 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Ill be spokesman — that is spokeswoman — and 
 answer for the party ; and my answer is this : your manly admission 
 of your youthful follies or — well, I won't mince the matter— faults, 
 has convinced us of the sincerity of your regret for the past, the hon- 
 esty of your resolution to reform in the future. 
 
 Clarence. A thousand thanks ! i^ow, may I ask confession for 
 confession ? 
 
 Aunt Matchem. What on earth do you mean ? 
 
 Clarence. I have been awarded the prize. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Ton have, 
 
LOVELY. i» 
 
 Clarence. Fairly? „ , ^^r. . 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Fairly ! yes, fairly. Wnat can you mean by 
 such a question? Fairly and unanimously ! 
 Clarence. Was Herbert Neville present ? ^ 
 Aunt Matchem. As far as we know, not within ten miles of the 
 
 place. , . /, 
 
 Clarence, Then he used no kind but undue mfluence m my 
 favor! , * ._ 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Certainly not We did not know until our 
 minds were made up which of you had painted the successful por- 
 trait; then, and not till then, we opened the sealed envelope fixed to 
 the frame, and found your pictm'e was the one we all preferred. And, 
 do you know — though I own I must confess I was a little disap- 
 pointed at first— I am now very glad you were the successful party, 
 as it will give you time to commence the family group of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Smiley, EUen, and your humble servant, while the bride and 
 bridegroom are absent for their honeymoon trip. 
 
 Mr. Smiley. A capital idea. I am getting quite used to this sort 
 of costume, and I shall be delighted to be handed down to posterity 
 as a '^ Yenetian noblema.n^ and family. You can make me as much 
 like a Doge, and as little like that old pump, Don Capulet, as you 
 think proper. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. IlTothing of the sort, Mr. Nugent. As the divine 
 Wniiam says, '' Hold the mirror up to nature," and when it comes to 
 my turn as the Nurse, make me as much like the old representatives 
 of the character, and as little like the modern ones, as you possibly 
 can ; and in return, as, when I have lost Ellen, I shall be left entirely 
 alone and unprotected, I will beg the favor of your charming little 
 sister, who appears to be new to London, paying me a visit, taking 
 me round to see the sights, and chaperoning me to the opera. What 
 do you say, fair lady ? 
 
 Lucy. I shall be happy to accept your kind and generous invita- 
 tion. 
 
 Mrs. Matchem. That's right, I don't think there is any fear of 
 backsliding on the part of your talented brother; but I am quite cer^ 
 taiu the sight of your sweet face in his studio occasionally will render 
 it more pleasant than anything else in the world, Now, as it is 
 probable you young gentlemen have something to say to each other, 
 and as your sister has not seen your splendid portrait, we will ad- 
 journ to look at it again ; and, as the divine William says, will once 
 more ^' Our judgment join in censure of its seeming." Come, good 
 people! {Takes Lucy^s hand and exeunt with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Smiley and J]llen, r.) 
 
 Clarence. What a dear, considerate old soul Aunt Matchem is ; 
 I never gave her credit for having half so much feeling. I shall lit- 
 erally love her for ever for giving me this opportunity of relieving my 
 
^ LOAELY. 
 
 heart of some of its weight of obligation, and telling you, dear old 
 fellow, how deeply, gratefully, and sincerely I thank you. 
 
 (Shakes hands with Herbert.) 
 Herbert. For what ? A few words of honest advice, which would 
 have had no possible result but for the good sense that prompted you 
 to listen to them ! I see very little to be gi-ateful for in that. 
 
 Clarence. I do ! But I do not allude to that now— although 
 but lor your good advice, I should neither have sent my portrait nor 
 presented myself Herbert, I feel satisfied I owe my imerpeeted 
 good fortune to you, and not to my own merits ! 
 Herbert. ^Nonsense — nonsense I 
 
 Clarence. Your portrait has all the charm of an elaborately- 
 finished work; mine is, at best, but a hastily executed— though, per- 
 haps, life-like and spirited — sketch. 
 Herbert. You overrate me, and do yourself an injustice. 
 Clarence, Neither the one nor the other ! 
 
 Herbert, Well, my dear fellow, you are in a glorious minority; 
 all the family, including Aunt Matchem, decide differently. 
 
 Clarence. I can't make it but ! I scarcely believe it is possible 
 or real ! 
 
 {Enter Ellen with letter, tchich she gives to ClaIjen'CE.) 
 Ellen. From Aunt Matchem, Mr. Nugent. 
 Clarence (taking letter). Will you pardon me ? 
 Ellen. Certainly ; 
 
 (Clarence goes np to tahle, sits down, and opens and 
 reads letter. ) 
 And here is a queer-looking epistle for you, Herbert 
 
 (Gives him dirty note. 
 Herbert. Where did this come from ? 
 
 Ellen. The servant says a shabby-looking little fellow left it at 
 the door, and hurried away as fast as his legs would carry him. You 
 can read it presently. I have something particular to say to you. 
 Herbert. Indeed! 
 
 (They come down from Clarei^ce, w7to is reading his 
 letter/ and speak so as not to he overheard hy Clab- 
 ENCE. ) 
 
 Ellen, Yes : there must be some mistake about the portraits I 
 
 Herbert. Mistake ! Speak low, and explain yourseU*. 
 
 Ellen, You know there was an envelope on each of them sup- 
 posed to contain, the one your name, the other Mr. Clarence Nu- 
 gent's ? 
 
 Herbert. Certainly. 
 
 Ellen. Well, thinking I should like to have your autograph, I 
 took the envelope from the portrait, and found, instead of yours, Mr. 
 Clarence Nugent's name written on that as well as Vie other. 
 
 Herbert (anxiously). You have not mentioned this to any one. 
 
 Ellen. Not a soul. 
 
 HEEJ3ERT, Promise me you won't. 
 
LOVELY. W 
 
 Ellen. Why not ? There is some deception. 
 
 Herbert. There is, and / am its author. 
 
 Ellej^ (astonished.) You! Mr. Seville. 
 
 Herbert. Yes ; listen to me, before you condemn me. The sum 
 offered by your Aunt for the best portrait will save Clarence Nugent 
 and his orphan sister from absolute ruin, brought on him by a set of 
 unprincipled sharpers, in whose honor and good faith he foolishly 
 confided. To secure him that sum, I myself placed his name on both 
 the pictnres, meaning to remove that on the rejected portrait and 
 substitute my own, as I am perfectly satisfied he is far too proud and 
 sensitive to accept money, however great his necessity, he had not 
 earned, and had no chance of repaying. Do you blame me ? 
 
 Ellen. No, I do not ; you are a dear, good fellow ; and the noble- 
 ness and generosity of the motive more than atones for the trifling 
 duplicity. 
 
 Herbert. Thank you, pet ! "WTiat have you done with the card ? 
 
 Ellen (producing envelope with card similar to the one opened ly 
 Aunt Matchem). It is here ! 
 
 Herbert. Give it to me, and I will destroy it. (Takes envelope 
 from Ellen). And now, remember, this, our first, and, I hope, last 
 secret, must be sacredly kept. 
 
 Ellen. It shall never pass my lips. 
 
 (Aunt Matchem calls without , r. 
 
 Ellen. Coming, aunt. 
 
 Herbert. Eemember \ 
 
 Ellen. Rely upon me. (Exit Ellen, r. 
 
 ^'ERBmLT (opens note and reads it). This concerns jSTugent ! (To 
 Clarence, who has been deeply engrossed reading the letter he re- 
 ceived from Ellen, and looking at a small account book.) Has Aunt 
 Matchem written you a sermon, Clarence ? 
 
 Clarence. The best I ever read— containing the kindest and 
 most womanly — not to say absolutely motherly, advice— a clear head 
 and feeling heart ever prompted, and a generous hand ever penned. 
 Herbert, look here (holds up cheque). What fabled good fairy ever 
 sent a distressed mortal so precious a gift as this ? This talisman 
 caUs me from despair to hope— from dishonor to honor — from poverty 
 to independence ! I can pay every shilling I owe in the world ! 
 
 Herbert. I congratulate you and your creditors. 
 
 Clarence (laughing). Thank you for both ; and what is better 
 still, set that scoundrel, Gaston Leech, at defiance, should he attempt 
 to annoy me. 
 
 Herbert. A consummation most devoutly to be wished ; but you 
 could have done that without the assistance of that magic piece of 
 paper. 
 
 Clarence. How so ? 
 
 Herbert. There is a good fairy in buckskins watching over you, 
 as well as one in brocade, Listen. {Beads letter. 
 
90 LOVELY. 
 
 ''Honored Stjr,— 
 
 " Which that swell welcher, Capting Leech, has been blowed, and 
 bolted, whereby all bets are off as well as him. 
 
 '' Tim." 
 "WTiat do you think of '^ the fly on the wall " now ? 
 
 Clarence. That he is a regular little trump. What can I do for 
 him? 
 
 Herbert. Paint his portrait. 
 
 Clarence. I will, the first winning mount he has, and put fifty 
 pounds into the savings bank in his name. 
 
 Herbert. All right. Hush ! Here are our fiiends. 
 
 (Enter Atjnt Matchem, Mr. Smiley, Mrs. Smiley, and Lucy "NtJ' 
 
 GENT, R. Clarence goes up to Aunt Matchem, takes 
 
 her hand affectionately and respectfully.) 
 
 Clarence. My dear madam, allow me to say 
 
 Aunt Matchem. Not a word ! Supper is ready, and the sooner 
 we sit down to it the better. Before we go we have one thing to do. 
 
 Herbert. What is that, my dear Aunt>--ft)r such you soon will be ? 
 
 Aunt Matchem. The sooner the better. Now, are you all pre- 
 pared to express your honest opinions as to the fair bride^s portrait ? 
 
 Omnes. We are ! That it is 
 
 (After a slight pause. 
 
 Aunt Matchem. What ? 
 
 Omnes. Lovely ! 
 
 Aunt Matchem. 
 Mrs. Smiley, Me. Smiley. 
 
 Herbert. Clarence. 
 
 Ellen. Lucy. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
PICEMG UP THE FECES. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 IN OKE SCENE. 
 
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 DKAMATIS PEKSON^. 
 
 Lord Dawlish, who has forgotten his youth. 
 Mrs. Melton, a widow, no longer young, 
 
 COSTUMES— MODE RiT. 
 Tim b— M o r n i n g . 
 
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 93 
 
 PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 Scene. — Mrs. Melton^s apartment in Florence. Doors R. and L. 
 Window in flat. All the furniture is gathered into the middle of 
 the room J and covered with a sheet. 
 
 {Enter Lord Dawlish, r., as the curtain rises.) 
 
 Dawlish. Good morning, Mrs. Melton, I hope — Holloa! There 
 is nobody here. What is all this about ? 
 
 {After some consideration he proceeds to investigate the 
 extraordinary erection with the point of his stick. Af- 
 ter convincing himself of its nature he lifts a side of 
 the sheet J pulls out an easy chair , inspects it, and 
 finally sits on it. 
 She is an extraordinary woman. I don't know why I like her. I 
 don't know why she likes me. I suppose that she does like me. If 
 not, what a bore I must be ! I come here every day — and stay. I 
 suspect that I am an awful fellow to stay. I suppose I ought to go 
 now. This furniture trophy don't look like being at home to callers. 
 But perhaps she is out ; and then I can go on sitting here. I must 
 sit somewhere. May I smoke? I dare say; thank ye, I will. {Lights 
 a cigarette and smokes. ) Smoke ? Smoke ? There is a proverb about 
 smoke. I wonder how I came to know so many proverbs. I don't 
 know much. ^^ There is no smoke without fire." Yes, that's it. 
 There is uncommon little fire in a cigarette. Little fire and much 
 smoke. Yes, that's like this— I mean—. Let me— what d'ye call it? 
 —review my position. Here I sit. Here I sit every day. That is 
 smoke, I suppose— plenty of smoke. Is there any fire? That is the 
 question. I wish people would mind their own business. It is 
 trouble enough to mind one's own business, I should think. But yet 
 
 there are people— there's that Flitterly, for instance little snob. 
 
 Flitterly makes it the business of his life to go about saying that I am 
 going to be married ; and aU because here is a woman who is not such 
 an intolerable bore as— as other people. Flitterly is the sort of man 
 who says that there is no smoke without fire. What is this ? That 
 is what I want to know. Is this business of mine all smoke, all 
 cigarette and soda, or— confound Flitterly ! I wonder if I ought to 
 pull his nose. I am afraid that that sort of thing is out of date. I 
 
94 PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 don't think I conld pnll a nose, unless somebody showed me how. 
 Perhaps if somebody held him steady, I might. I don't think I could 
 do it. He has got such a ridiculous little nose. I wonder if I ought 
 to give up coming here. I don't know where I should go to. I won- 
 der if I am bound in honor, and all that. Perhaps that is out of date 
 too. I sometimes think that I am out of date myself. (After this 
 he fishes under the sheet ivith his stick, and brings to light a photo- 
 graph-book, which he studies as he cmitinues to meditate.) I won- 
 der if she would take me if I asked her. I don't believe she 
 would ; she is a most extraordinary woman. "VTho is this, I wonder? 
 I never saw this book before. I suppose that this is the sort of man 
 women admire. He would know how to pull a nose. I dare say he 
 has pulled lots of noses in his day. Does it for exercise. Suburban 
 cad. A kind of little tooting lady-killer. I wonder she puts such a 
 fellow in her book. Why, here he is again, twice as big and fiercer. 
 Here is another — and another. Hang him, he is all over the book. 
 {He pitches the book under the sheet.) 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Melton, r., wearing a long apron, and armed with 
 duster and feather-brush.) 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Lord Dawlish ! What are you doing here f 
 
 Dawlish. ]!^othing. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. How well you do it ! 
 
 Dawlish. Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. But you are doing something ; you are smoking. 
 
 Dawlish. Am I ? I beg your pardon. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. And you shall do more ; y^u shall help me. I 
 have been up to my eyes in work since seven o clock. 
 
 Dawlish. Seven ! Why don't you make somebody else do itf 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Because I do it so well. I have a genius for dust- 
 ing, and Italian servants have not. In this old city they have an 
 unfeigned respect for the dust of ages. 
 
 Dawlish. Have they ? How funny ! But they might help you, 
 I should think. Where are they ? There was nobody to let me in. 
 Where are your servants ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Gone. 
 
 Dawlish. Gone ! 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Gone and left me free. I packed them all oi5 — 
 man and maid, bag and baggage. 
 
 Dawlish. But who will look after you ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I. I am fully equal to the task. But come, be 
 useful. You shall help me to rearrange the furniture. 
 
 Dawlish. Help ! I ! 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Tes, help ! You ! I am not quite sure that yon 
 can't. 
 
 {As he proceeds to brush the back of a chair with a 
 feather brush, it occurs to him to apologia for his 
 iritrusion, ) 
 
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 95 
 
 Dawlish. I suppose I onght to apologize for coming so early. 
 Somehow, I found myself in the palazzo — and the door of your apart- 
 ments was open, and so I came in. I took the liberty of au old 
 firiend. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I believe we have been acquainted for at least a 
 
 Dawlish. Only a month ! It is not possible. It must be more 
 
 than a month. . ^ . , ,. , ^ . 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Apparently our precious mendsnip has not made 
 the time pass quickly. 
 Dawlish. ^o. I mean that it never does pass qmckly. 
 Mrs. Melton. Work, work, work! It^s work that makes the 
 day go' quick. ^ I am busy from morning till night, and time flies 
 with me. 
 Dawlish. Then you shorten your lite. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. And keep it bright. Better one hour of life than 
 a century of existence ! Dear, dear I how did my best photograph- 
 book get knocked down here. 
 
 Dawlish. I am afraid that that was my awkwardness. I was 
 looking at it, and it — ^it went down there. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Don't let it break from you again. Here, take it, 
 and sit down and be good. Tou have no genius for dusting. 
 
 Dawlish. i^obody ever called me a genius. I have been called 
 all sorts of names ; but nobody ever went so far as to call me a 
 genius. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. And yet you ain't stupid. I always maintain that 
 you are not really stupid. 
 
 Dawlish. A'n't I ? Thank you. "WTio is this man — ^this fine- 
 looMng man with the frown and whiskers ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. He is handsome, isn't he ? 
 
 Dawlish. I don't know ? I am not a judge of male beauty. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Men never admire each other. They are too 
 envious and too vatQ. 
 
 Dawlish. Are they ? And women V What are women ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. TThat are women ? What are they not ? Oh for 
 one word to comprehend the sex! "Women are — yes, women are 
 womanly. 
 
 Dawlish. That sounds true. And women are effeminate. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Only females are effeminate. 
 
 Dawlish. Oh ! I wonder what that means ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. But John is handsome. Ask any woman. 
 
 Dawlish. John ! 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Yes, that's John — my cousin. 
 
 Dawlish. I hate cousins. They are so familiar and so personal. 
 
 Mrs Melton. I hke them. They are so — so — 
 
 Dawlish. Cousinly. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Precisely. 
 
 Dawlish. Cousins aa:e cousinly, Does lie dye his whiskers f 
 
96 PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Dye ! Never. He has too much to do. John is 
 a great man — a man of will, a man of forcC; a man of iron. That's 
 what I call a man. 
 
 Dawlish. Do you? I don't call an iron man a man. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. He is the hrst of American engineers. 
 
 Dawlish. a Yankee stoker. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Dear John ! He is a good fellow. He gave me 
 that little jar by your hand. 
 
 Dawlish. Dear John is not a judge of china. I always hated 
 that little jar. I shall break it some day. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. If you do, Til never speak to you again. 
 
 Dawlish. Please do tell me some more about John. Has not 
 he got a fault, not even a little one V 
 
 Mrs. Melton. He has the fault of all men— vanity. He knows 
 that he is handsome. 
 
 Dawlish. I thought he dyed his whiskers. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. He does not dye his whiskers. 
 
 Dawlish. You seem very keen about the whiskers. Here they 
 are in all sizes, and from all over the world — carte de visite whiskers, 
 cabinet whiskers. Rembrandt-effect whiskers, whiskers from Xaples, 
 from New York, from Baker-street. You must like them very 
 much. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I like the man. I like self-respect, bravery, and 
 perse verence. I like honest work. Oh, Lord Dawlish, what a shame 
 it is that you don't do something ! 
 
 Dawlish. Do something ? I ? I do something. I — well, I 
 go about. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Oh ! You go about. 
 
 Dawlish. Yes — with a dog in England ; without a dog abroad. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Oh ! abroad without a dog. I regret that I shall 
 never have the pleasure of receiving the cur. 
 
 Dawlish. The cur's a collie. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. And so you think that man fulfills his destiny by 
 going about. 
 
 Dawlish. Somebody must go about, you know. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Yes, a squirrel in a cage. What you want is 
 work. You ought to take a line. 
 
 Dawlish. Go fishing. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Be serious, and listen to me. Here you are 
 in Florence. 
 
 Dawlish. I believe I am. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. You are in the midst of priceless treasures. The 
 finest works of art are all around you. 
 
 Dawlish. I believe they are. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Take a line; take up something ; for instance, the 
 Greek statues. 
 
 Dawlish.. A'n't I rather old to play with marbles T 
 
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 97 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Kot a bit. JSTobody is old who isn't old on pur- 
 pose. Compare, classifj, and make a book, or even a pamphlet. 
 
 Dawlish. I hate pamphlets. They are always coming by the 
 post. 
 
 Mrs, Melton. I suppose it's not the thing for a man in your posi- 
 tion to turn author. 
 
 Dawlish, I don't think I ever did hear of one of our lot writing 
 books. But that don't much matter. I should like to take a line, 
 or a course, or a — I took a course of waters once at Hamburg, or 
 Kissengen, or somewhere, but they came to an end, like other 
 things. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Lord Dawlish, are you joking? 
 
 Dawlish. i^o. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Then be serious— take up a subject, set to work, 
 produce your pamphlet — at least a pamphlet. It might grow into 
 a book. 
 
 Dawlish, Heaven forbid — ^I could not do it. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Why not ? 
 
 Dawlish. Writing a book is so infernally public. I should be 
 talked about. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. How dreadful ! The owl, who is modest withal, 
 and shrinks jQrom notoriety, remains at home until sunset. 
 
 Dawlish. You called me a squirrel before. Are you going 
 through all the zoological what-d'e-call-em ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Perhaps even I shall be talked about before long. 
 
 Dawlish. I should not wonder if you were. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Yes, even I, humble individual as I am, may per- 
 haps be talked about when I set up my studio, 
 
 Dawlish. Your what ? 
 
 Mrs, Melton. My studio ! Yes, I've quite made up my mind. 
 There are many worse painters in Florence than myself. I mean to 
 be a real painter, and no longer play with color. 
 
 Dawlish. And sell your pictures ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. For the largest possible prices. 
 
 Dawlish. Is not that an odd sort of thing for a lady ? 
 
 Mrs, Melton. Ko, We have changed all that. Many women 
 paint nowadays, 
 
 Dawlish. I have heard so, 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I believe that you are making jokes this morning. 
 
 Dawlish. I don't think so. I don't like jokes ; they are very 
 fatiguing. It's John's fault ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. What's John's fault? 
 
 Dawlish. l^o man likes to have another crammed down his 
 throat — unless he is a confounded cannibal, 
 
 Mrs. Melton, Yery well. I will refrain from cramming anybody 
 down your throat. But I won't let you off. I feel that I have a 
 mission. 
 
 Dawlish, Grood heaven! 
 
98 PICKIKG UP THE PIECES. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I hare a mission to reform yon. 
 
 Dawlish. Please don't do it. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I must. Why don't yon do yonr proper work f 
 "Why not go back to England and take care of your property ? 
 
 Dawlish. Because my agent takes care of it so much better than 
 I could. I inherited my place, and I can't get rid of it. But^ luckily^ 
 land can't follow me about. That is why I come abroad. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Without the dog. 
 
 Dawlish. He stays with the land. He likes it. He hates travel- 
 ing. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. So would you if yon traveled in a dog-box. 
 
 Dawlish. I wish yon would not talk about me. I am so tired of 
 myself 
 
 Mrs. Melton. But you interest me. 
 
 Dawlish. Thank you. That is gratifying. Don't let us pursue 
 the subject further. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I must. It's my mission. I picture the pleasures 
 of an English country life. You build cottages; you drain fields; 
 you carry flannel to the old women. 
 
 Dawlish. No ; I could not do it. I don't think I could carry 
 flannel to u-n old woman. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. So much for duties. Then for amusements. Are 
 you fond of shooting ? 
 
 Dawlish. Pheasants are all so much alike. I gave up shooting 
 when my sister took to it. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Tour sister ! 
 
 Dawlish. She is a keen sportsman— awfully keen. I went out 
 with her once. I feel them still sometimes in my back when it's cold 
 weather. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. You like hunting better f In this country they 
 shoot the fox. 
 
 Dawlish. Do they? That must be curious. I wonder if I could 
 bring myself to try that. I almost think that— 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Go home and hunt. 
 
 Dawlish. I have given up hunting. Kather rough on Teddie, 
 don't you think ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Who's Teddie ? 
 
 Dawlish. Don't you know Teddie I 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Is he the dog? 
 
 Dawlish. IS'o ; he is my brother. I thought that everybody 
 knew Teddie. Teddie knows everybody. Teddie likes me to *^ hunt. 
 He is always bothering me to buy horses— with tricks. Or to go by 
 excursion trains. Or to shoot lions in Abyssinia. He is an awfully 
 ambitious fellow, Teddie. Don't you think we might change the 
 subject ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. IN'ot yet. I have not done my duty yet. Politics ! 
 Oh for political influence ! Oh for power ! Why, you must be— of 
 course you axe — a thingummy what's-his-name. 
 
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 99 
 
 Dawlish. Yery likely, if you say so. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. An hereditary legislator. Think of that. Think 
 of your influence in the country ; ol the power you might wield. Go 
 in for politics. 
 
 Dawlish. Well, you know I — I inherited my politics with my 
 place, and I can^t get rid of them. But Teddie does them for me. 
 He was always rather a muff, Teddie was ; and so they put him inco 
 politics. 
 
 Mrs. Meltox. Are there muffs in your family ? But don^t inter- 
 rupt me. I must have the last word. Anything else 1 will give up ; 
 but the last word — never. In your position you must sway some- 
 thing. If you won^t sway the country, sway the county ; if you won't 
 sway the county, sway a vestry, a work-house, a something, or any- 
 thing. Only do something. Tou would be a great deal happier, and 
 — I don't know why I should be afraid to say — a great deal better, if 
 you would only do something. 
 
 Dawlish. Tou forget that I am delicate. The doctors say I am 
 delicate, and that is why I come abroad. I do wish you would 
 change the subject. It is a delicate subject, you know. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Again ! You have only one malady — ^idleness. 
 
 Dawlish. i^o, no, no ! All the doctors — 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Quacks ! 
 
 Dawlish. As you please. But I have not the rude health of 
 some strong-minded women. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. !N'or I the rude manners of some weak-minded 
 men. But I beg your pardon ; I won't be rude. 
 
 Dawlish. Was I rude ? I am awfully sorry. I beg your pardon. 
 But I am so tired of myself. 
 
 Mrs Melton. Then work — work and be cured. Do sometidng^- 
 any thing. A stitch in time saves nine. 
 
 Dawlish. Oh, if you come to proverbs— Look before you leap. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Procrastination is the thief of time. 
 
 Dawlish. More haste less speed. If one does nothing, at least 
 one does no harm. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Kor does a stuffed poodle. 
 
 Dawlish. Another beast ! I have been a squirrel and an owl. 
 And after all, I did not come here to talk about myself, nor poodles, 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Did you come to speak of the weather ? 
 
 Dawlish. I wanted to speak about you. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. About me ! Here's a turning of ijke tables. 
 
 Dawlish. May I ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. If you have energy for so lively a topic. 
 
 Dawlish. May I speak plainly, as an old friend ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. As a month-old friend. Speak plainly by all 
 means. I've a passion for plain speaking. 
 
 Dawlish. It is an uncommonly disagreeable subject. 
 
 Mrs. Melton, Thank you. You were going to tali about me. 
 
100 PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 Dawlish. I don't mean that ; of course not It does not matter 
 whether I talk about you or not. But there are other people hare 
 who talk about you. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Talk about me ? "What do they say ? 
 
 Dawlish. They say things I don't like ; so I thought that I— 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Thank you^ Lord Dawlish ; but I can take very 
 good care of myself. 
 
 Dawlish. Yery well. 
 
 Mrs, Melton. Why should I care what this Anglo^Florentine 
 society say of me ? It doesn't hurt me ; I don't care what they say 
 of me; I am entirely indifferent; I am— Oh, do not stand there 
 like a stick, but tell me what these people say about me. 
 
 Dawlish. I — I — It is so awkward for me to tell you. You 
 know Flitterly ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Flitterly ! A sparrow ! 
 
 Dawlish. Oh, he is a sparrow ! What is to be done to the sparrow t 
 
 Mrs. Melton. ]^othing. He is beneath punishment—beneath 
 contempt. A little chattering, intrusive, cruel — I suppose it would 
 not do for me to horsewhip Flitterly ? 
 
 Dawlish. It would be better for me to do that. I thought of 
 pulling his nose ; it is a little one ; but I might do it with time. I 
 think I should enjoy it. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. It's too bad ! It's too bad that a woman of my 
 age should not be safe from these wretches— from the tongues of 
 these malicious chatterers. The cowards, to attack a woman ! 
 
 Dawlish. I was afraid that you would feel it. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I don't feel it. Why should I ? Why should I 
 feel it ? But, good gracious ! Is the man going to stand there all 
 day and never teU me what this— what that— that — ^pha ! what he 
 says of me ? 
 
 Dawlish. I don't like to tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Do you take me for a fool, Lord Dawlish f 
 
 Dawlish. No ; for a woman. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. What does he say ? 
 
 Dawlish. If you will know, you must. He says— he says that 
 you and I are going to be married. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Married ! You and I ! Well, at 'least he might 
 have invented something less preposterous. 
 
 Dawlish. Preposterous ! 
 
 Mrs. Melton. You and I ! 
 
 Dawlish. I don't see anything preposterous in it. Why should 
 not you and I be married ? By George, I have made an offer ! 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Are you mad ? You say— 
 
 Dawlish. Oh, I don't want to hurry you. Don't speak in a 
 hurry. Think it over ; think it over. Take time. 
 
 Mrs. Melton But do you mean — 
 
 Dawlish. Oh, please don't hurry. Think it over. Any time 
 will do. 
 
PICKING TJP THE PIECES 101 
 
 Mrs. Melton. TV^ill it ? 
 
 Dawlish. I am not clever; nor interesting ; but if yon don't mind 
 me, I will do anything I can. Yon shall always have any sort of so- 
 ciety yon like— fast or slow; literary or swell, or anything. Of, 
 course there would be plenty of money, and jewels, and cooks, and all 
 that. You can have gowns, and check-books, and pin-money, and — 
 
 Mrs. Melton. And find my own washing and beer. Lord Daw- 
 lish, are you offering me a situation ? 
 
 Dawlish. Yes — no — I mean that I — 
 
 Mrs. Melton. A thousand thanlvs. The wages are most tempt- 
 ing ; but I have no thought of leaving my present place. 
 
 Dawlish. I fear that I have been offensive. I beg your pardon. 
 I had better go. Grood morning, Mrs. Melton. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Good-by, Lady Dawlish. 
 
 (Exit Lord Dawlish, r. 
 
 Mrs. Melton (sola.; her mood changes ^ and she wishes him hack 
 again). He will never come back. I can't let him go forever. I 
 can't afford to lose a friend who makes me laugh so much. Flitterly 
 may say what he likes — a goose ! a sparrow ! a grasshopper ! I shall 
 call him back. 
 
 She calls to him from door, r.; then from the windoio ; 
 and as she calls froyn the window, he comes in at the 
 door, watches her awhile, then speaks, 
 
 Dawlish. Did you call me, Mrs. Melton ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Is the man deaf? I have been screaming Kke a 
 peacock ; and all for your sake — all because I didn't want you to go 
 away angry. 
 
 Dawlish. I thought it was you who were angry. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. !N"o, it was you. 
 
 Dawlish. Yery well. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. You must drop the preposterous subject forever ; 
 and we will be good Mends, as we were before. Sit down and be 
 friendly. 
 
 Dawlish. Thank you. That is capital. "We will be as we were 
 before — as we were before. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. You are sure you can bear the disappointment ? 
 i Dawlish. Oh, yes. "We will be friends, as we were. That is 
 I much better. 
 I Mrs. Melton. Lord Dawlish, you are simply delicious. 
 
 Dawlish. Am I ? Thank you. And I may come and sit here 
 sometimes ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. In spite of Flitterly. 
 
 Dawlish. Flitterly, be 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Yes, by aU means. 
 
 Dawlish {meditates and after due deliheratiori speaks). I 
 should like to ask you something, Mrs. Melton — something personal. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Ask what you Hke, and I wall answer if I choose. 
 
 Dawlish, May I ask, as a friend— only as a friend, you knowr-if . 
 
102 PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 you are quite determined uever to marry again ? I know that it is 
 no business of mine ; but I can't help being curious about you. I 
 don't think I am curious about anything else. But you are such an 
 extraordinary Tronian. 
 
 Mrs. Heltox. Extraordinary because I have refused to be Lady 
 DawUsh. It is strange, very. 0, don't be alarmed ; I have refused. 
 But it is strange. 1 am a woman, and I refused rank and wealth. 
 "Wealth means gowns and cooks from Paris, a brougham and a 
 victoria, a stepper, a tiger, and a pug; rank means walking out 
 before other women, and the envy of all my sex. I am a woman, 
 and I refuse these luxuries. You were mad when you offered 
 them. 
 
 Dawlish. I don't think that I could be mad. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Not another word upon the subject, 
 
 Bawlish. But won't you satisfy my curiosity f 
 
 Mrs. Melton. I never knew you so persistent. 
 
 Bawlish. I never was before. 
 
 Mrs. Meltok. Such ardent curiosity, such desperate persever- 
 ance, deserve to be rewarded. I have nothing to do for the moment, 
 and there is one luxury which no woman can forego — the luxury of 
 talking about herself. You needn^t listen if the effort is too great ; I 
 address the chair, or the universe. You will hardly believe it of me ; 
 but I cherish a sentiment. There ! Years and years ago — how 
 many, I am woman enough not to specify — I lived with an aunt 
 in Paris. You hate cousins ; I am not in love with aunts. However, 
 she was my only relation ; there was no choice, and there I lived 
 with her in Paris, and was finished ; there was nothing to finish, for 
 I knew nothing. Well, it was there, in Paris— I was quite a child — 
 it was there that I one day met a boy scarcely older than myself. I 
 am in love with him still. Quite idyUic, isn't it ? 
 
 Bawlish. Yery likely. In Paris ? Paris ? 
 
 Mrs, Melton. There never was any one in the world like him — 
 so brave, so good, so boyish ; he rejoiced in. life, certain of pleasure 
 and purposing noble work. 
 
 Bawlish (aside). Cousin John ! Cousin John, of course. Con- 
 found Cousin John ! 
 
 Mrs Melton. He fell in love with me at once, almost before I 
 had fallen in love with him. "We were both so absurdly shy, so 
 silly, and so young. I can see him blush now, and I could 
 blush then. But I shall be sentimental in a minute : this is egre- 
 gious folly ; of course it is follj^, and it was folly ; of 
 course it was merely childish fancy, boy-and-girl sentiment, 
 calf-love ; of course a week's absence would put an end to it ; 
 and of course I k)ve him still. But forgive me, Lord Bawlish. Why 
 jshould I bother you with this worn-out commonplace romance? 
 
 Bawlish. I like it. It interests me. Go on, if it does not bore 
 you. It remiads me of something— of something which I had better 
 &rget. 
 
VICKISQ UP THE PIECES. 103 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Ton shall hear the rest : there isn't mnch. He 
 was taken away, and— I suppose— forgot me. I came out in Paris, 
 went everywhere, was vastly gay, and terribly unhappy. My aunt 
 was youngish, and good-looking — ^in a way ; she was dying to be rid 
 of me, and I knew it ; and so things were very uncomlbrtable at 
 home, until — until I married. Oh, I told him the truth, the whole 
 truth; I told him that the love of my life had gone by. I am glad I 
 told him the truth. 
 
 Dawlish. An American, was he not ? 
 
 Mes. Melton. Yes. I was grateM to him and proud of him. 
 He was so good and true. But he made light of my stoiy. He 
 thought, like the rest, that it was a mere girliSi fancy; that I should 
 soon foi^t; ths^— There, you have my story I Touching, isn't it? 
 
 Bawlish, It is most extraordinary. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Wliat is most extraordinary I 
 
 Dawlish, Your story is like my story. 
 
 Mrs, Melton. It's everybody's story. It's common as the 
 whooping-cough, and dull as the mumps. But, come, give me the 
 details of your case. 
 
 Dawlish, The details ! If I can remember them. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. If you can remember ! Who would be a man f 
 
 Dawlish, It was in ]^ais— 
 
 Mrs, Melton, In Pans? 
 
 Dawlish, It is just Hke your story. Suppose that we take it as 
 told. 
 
 Mrs, Melton, Go on. I must hear it. 
 
 Dawlish, I was sent to Paris when I was a boy, with a bear- 
 leader. There I saw a girl — a little bread-and-butter miss— and— 
 and I got fond of her — awfully fond of her. She was the dearest lit- 
 tie girl— the best little thing. She was like— like- 
 Mas, Melton. Go on. What happened ? 
 
 Dawlish. i^othing. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. IN'othing ! Konsense I Something always hap- 
 pens. 
 
 Dawlish. JSTothing came of it. They said, boy and girl, and calf- 
 love, and aU that, like the people in your story ; and they packed me 
 off to England 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Why did you go ? 
 
 Dawlish. I always was a fool. They said that it would try the 
 strength of her feelings ; that, if we were both of the same mind when 
 I had got my degree, the thing should be. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. And you never wrote ? 
 
 Dawlish. 'Ro. 
 
 Mrs Melton. Kor did he— never one line. 
 
 Dawlish. They said she wished me not to write. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. How likely ! These men, these men ! They ngyer 
 know what letters are to women. What was the end ? 
 
104 PICKING UP THE PIECES. 
 
 Dawlish. The nsual thing. As soon as my degree was all right 
 I made for Paris. She was gone. 
 M Rs. Melton. My poor Iriend ! She was dead. 
 Dawlish. Married. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Married ! How could she be so— 
 Dawlish. It is very like your story, ain^t it ? Only in my story 
 the parties were not American. 
 
 Mrs. Melton. American ! THiat do you mean. I wasn't an 
 American till I married one, and Tom— 
 Dawlish. Then it wasn't Cousin John ? 
 
 Mrs. Melton. John! JSTo, no, no! Lord Dawlish ! Lord Daw- 
 lish ! what is your family name ? 
 
 Dawlish. My family name? "What on earth, my dear Mrs. 
 Melton— 
 Mrs. Melton. Quick, quick ? 'WTiat is it? 
 Dawlish. Why— er — why — Dashleigh, of course. 
 Mrs. Melton. And are you Tom Dashleigh ? 
 
 (As she looks at him, the truth dawns on him.) 
 Dawlish. And you are little Kitty Gray ? 
 Mrs. Melton. Oh, my bright boy-lover, you are lost now indeed. 
 Dawlish. I think I have got a chill. 
 
 {After they have sat a little while in silence, she jumps 
 top.) 
 Mrs. Melton, ^o more sentiment, no more folly ! Away with 
 sentiment for ever! The boy and girl lovers are dead long ago ; and 
 we old folk who know the world may strew flowers on their grave 
 and be gone. Look up, old friend, look up. 
 Dawlish. Yet you are you, and I — I suppose that I am I. 
 Mrs. Melton. Young fools ! young fools ! why should we pity 
 them, we wise old folk who know the world ? Love is but — is but — 
 (And she dashes into music at the piano : soon Iter 
 hands begin to fail, and she stoops over tliem to hide 
 her eyes ; then she jumps up in tears, and maving 
 knocks over the little jar which was Cousin John's 
 gift. Lord Dawlish would pick it up, lut sJie stops 
 him. ) 
 Mrs. Melton, l^o, no ; let it lie there. 
 Dawlish. Shan't I pick up the pieces f 
 
 Mrs. Melton. Let them lie there. One can never pick up the 
 pieces. 
 
 Dawlish. Why not ? I don't think I understand. But I can't 
 bear to see you cry. I thought that you could not cry ; that you 
 were too clever and strong minded to cry. Look here ! You might 
 have made something of me once. Is it too late, Mrs. Melton? 
 Mrs. Melton. The jar is broken. 
 Dawlish. Is it too late, Kitty ? 
 Mrs. Melton. Let us pick up the pieces together. 
 (As they both stoop to pick up the pieces,) 
 Quick Curtain. 
 
THE ARTIST'S STRATAGEM; 
 
 OR, 
 
 WHO LOTES WHO ? 
 
 A DEAWING EOOM OPEKETTA. 
 
 %n ©tie |k.ct 
 
 BY 
 
 J. TOM BURGESS. 
 
 THE MUSIC BY 
 EOSARIO ASPA, 
 
THE AETIST^S STEATAGEM, 
 
 OR. 
 
 WHO LOYESWHO? 
 
 DEAMATIS PEESON^. 
 
 Monsieur Felix (a French Drawing-Master). 
 
 Frank Rattling, R. IS", (a Lieutenant in the Naryy, very mv/ih at Sea), 
 Ernest Hope, R. A. (of the Artillery). 
 Fraulein Spoyhall (a German Governess). 
 Violet Sweetlove (with a secret penchant for the Army). 
 Lily Sweetlove (who, in the recesses of her heart, thinks it a noble 
 thing to be connected with the Sea), 
 
 Scene— ^ Painter^ s Studio, Period — Tlie Present Time, 
 
 (The design of this little musical sketch is to furnish an Operetta suitable for 
 a drawing room, in which, with perfect propriety, every character may be as- 
 sumed by ladies. It requires no elaborate preparation. A pair of curtains to 
 draw across the room ; a second piece of drapery, to cover the picture frames ; 
 an artist's easel and palette; a few pictures in and out o9 frames, with two 
 large sized picture frames (kit-cat will answer the purpose), are the only prox>- 
 erties required. The wardrobe is equally simple. A gentleman's dressing 
 gown and smoking cap, an undress jacket and cap of the royal navy, and the 
 same belonging to the artillery, complete the list. These, willing hands and 
 nimble fingers will soon supply. 
 
 The arrangement of the scene may be varied according to circumstances and 
 the materials at command. For instance, if a second complement of curtains 
 are available to form the back of the scene, the picture frames can be so hung 
 as not to incommode the actresses in the least, by obliging them to remain be- 
 hind during the progress of the act. Where this cannot be done, the young 
 ladies must pnt up with this temporary inconvenience, and remain concealed 
 behind the table and drapery until the portraits are exhibited. 
 
 The musical arrangements have been modified, to suit the limited numbers 
 of those engaged; thus, if there is a brilliant player on the pianoforte outside 
 the corps dramatique, she may play the overture and accompany the songs and 
 concerted pieces. Otherwise, the overture, which may be selected at will from 
 the repertoire of the performer, must be played, ere the curtains are drawn, by 
 one of the performers ; and, during the piece, thev can accompany each other. 
 The incidental songs of the piece are not absolutely necessary, as other songs 
 may be substituted, of a similar tone and tendency. A waiting-maid or page 
 may bring in the wine and refreshments, to oblige an anxious pupil of the dra- 
 matic art.) 
 
THE artist's stratagem. 107 
 
 THE ARTIST'S STRATAGEM; 
 
 OR, 
 
 WHO LOYES WHO? 
 
 Oyeutxjre.— Selected, 
 
 SCENE. — The Painter's Studio. — An easel with unfinished picture, 
 R. H. FianOj L. h. Large table at c, with drapery touching 
 the ground. On the table two large picture-frames, so arranged 
 as to show a half-sized figure. A piece of dark cloth must he ar- 
 ranged at the hack of the frame to form a background to the fig- 
 ure. If the frames can he arranged on the wall with drapery on 
 either side, the tahle must then stand c. immediately heneath 
 them. During the earlier portion of the Act the frames and fig- 
 ures are shrouded hy drapery. Chairs and unfinished pictures 
 are scattered about the room. 
 
 MONS. Felix {discovered at the easel, attired in a long dressing 
 gown, and Turkish cap with tassel). Cest charmant. It is deKght- 
 ful ; the very thought cheers my heart. Ah ! a leetle more white 
 there (painting). What brilliancy — what life—a slight touch gives 
 to the expression ! One touch more and I shall attain perfection. 
 There ! What visions of beauty glow from the canvas ! What 
 beams of celestial light are there fixed by the rainbow tints to glorify 
 man, and raise him from the level of the beasts who have no eye for 
 beauty ! Think of the praise and the reward ! Ah ! sometimes the 
 praise is gilded with refined gold— by the purest of appreciative taste. 
 At others, it is mere lead. Dull, material, heavy criticism is easy. 
 Art is difficult, and then life is so short. I am desole at the very 
 thought of it. Yet what do I want more ? Fame ?— that is empty. 
 Gold? — I have sufficient for my needs. Love? — I have my art, 
 which I love with all my soul. I have also my dearest Lily and 
 Tiolet, who love the old artist for days and happy hours gone by ! — 
 for the insight into the beautiful of Art! They remind me of 
 home. Home !— the only want I feel. Home !— the loved home of 
 my youth— who can forget it ? May my heart forget itself if it ever 
 forgets La BeUe France, where the very air dances for gladness and 
 the light heart is full of la gaiete. The chansons of the land I love 
 are dearer than fame or money, or even art itself. I cannot forget 
 it, for— 
 
 Song—*^ The land that I love." (Felix. ) 
 The land that I love is dearer to me 
 Than the sparkling gems from over the sea • 
 J^o joy sc sweet as a breath of its air. 
 
108 THE artist's stratagem. 
 
 i^'o valleys more green, no flowers more fair, 
 Than grow in the land that is dear to me, 
 Where the maidens smile and the men are free. 
 
 For the land that I love is snnny and bright, 
 
 Its memory serves as a ray of light, 
 
 My heart to gladden, wherever I roam, 
 
 With thoughts of the peace -of the joys of home — 
 Far off in the land that is dear to me, 
 Where my heart, my soul, for ever would be. 
 
 Regret does not become a brave man, who has fought the battle of 
 life. (A double knocJc.) 
 
 Fraulein Spoylhall (outside, r. h. — with a strong German ac- 
 cent). Monsieur Felix ! 
 
 Felix {opens door, r. h.). Pardon, Ma'mselle. 
 
 Fraulein {entering and lookiyig round). Alone, Herr Felix? 
 Yat ! a great painter open his own door, and live alone ? That is not 
 luck, Herr Felix. Solitude is very injm*ious. 
 
 Felix. C est possible ! I cheer myself with my art, Ma^mselle — 
 with my chanson, my music. 
 
 Fraulein. Ah ! the heart makes itself /ro7t iind heiter with mu- 
 sic — cheerful and glad. You sing-song beautifully of de faderland. 
 
 Felix. I am flattered, Ma^mselle. 
 
 Fraijlein. I vas delighted. It made me forget and lose remem- 
 brance of den brief— the letter which I was to give you from Herr 
 Sweetlove. It is here. {Gives note.) 
 
 Felix. A thousand thanks, Ma'mselle. 
 
 Fraulein {eyeing letter). Have you not heard. Monsieur Felix, 
 that Frank and Ernest are going, gone forever ? 
 
 Felix, I have heard. I have had the honor of a sitting from 
 them. 
 
 Fraulein. I was not aware. De frauleins did not inform me of 
 the circumstance. 
 
 Felix. Oh, it was a great secret ! The sweet fleur-de-lis, la bell 
 Yiolet, is to be kept in ignorance. You must not reveal the secret, 
 Ma'mselle. Pray do not tell the demoiselles. 
 
 Fraulein. Oh ! do not fear for me. Monsieur. If you now will 
 excuse me, I will say farewell, and leave you to your charming soli- 
 tude. Exit, R. H.) 
 
 Felix. Why, even Paradise would be unbearable with such an 
 Eve, and without her solitude is indeed charming. She is like one 
 of my friend Pompon's bad salades; there is too much of the vinegar 
 and too little of Vhuile. Bah ! Ma'mseUe, you did not bite, you did 
 eat all the apple in your Eden, and the tartness and the acidity con- 
 quer all and everything! She sets my very teeth on edge, and 
 makes me forget the very welcome letter of my dear friend. ( Takes 
 letter, and reads.) '^MoN cher Felix,— I am enraptured with 
 your little plot. Both Frank and Ernest will obey your commands 
 
THE ARTISTES STRATAGEM. 10^ 
 
 in everything/^ Oh ! that is admirable ! Brave fellows ! '' They 
 will leave England in a few days, so there is but little time to carry 
 out your stratagem. Thanks to Frauiein, your old pupils persist in 
 affirming that the absence of their cousins is a matter of indifierence 
 to them. They care not for their departm*e, and, I confess, they have 
 somewhat imposed on me, notwithstanding the marked predilection 
 and affection at one time existing between Frank and Lily, Ernest 
 and Yiolet. They seem now to be playing either at cross purposes, 
 or then- mmds have been poisoned by evil counsels." Oul! that wo- 
 man is the serpent as well as the Eve. ^' Without your kind assist- 
 ance, I believe the hapi^iness of their lives would be marred, and 
 then' affections soured forever.'^ Allons! that woman is the hete noire 
 of their hearts. ^' I have sent this note by Fraulein, at your request, 
 but I am afraid you will not succeed in making her a willing party 
 to your stratagem. Accept, mon clier Felix, the assurance of my 
 continued consideration, and beheve me your ever faithful, Robert 
 SwEETLOVE." That is good ; that is very good. De Fraulein is a 
 willing party to my one^leetle stratagem, yet she does not know it. 
 By this time she has told both the demoiselles of the secret, and then 
 I can trust to the ma^etism of the heart to bring them here. (Ernest 
 heard humming an operatic air.) There is the champion of the Ar- 
 tillery. I must not permit him to appear, for he might fire a coun- 
 termine in my plot (goes to door, L. h.) Monsieur Ernest, you really 
 must keep the silence profound, or you will be worse than the Frau- 
 lein. (Frank coughs on r. h. side.) TV^hat is that? I am afraid 
 these young gentlemen will he harder to manage than Mdle. Spoyl- 
 hall herself (goes to r. h. door). 
 
 Ernest. My dear Felix 
 
 Felix (rushes to the door). Silence ! 
 
 Frank. Do not keep us long, old fellow. 
 
 (Here a good deal of business may he made by Mons. Felix running 
 from one door to the other, to silence the hidden speakers.) 
 
 Felix. Oh ! I shall despair if this continues. Adieu, while I ar- 
 range my little plot. (Exit R. H. ) 
 (A feio bars of operatic music may be here introduced. Knoching 
 outside.) 
 
 ToiCES. Monsieur Felix ! Monsieur Felix ! 
 
 Enter Yiolet and Lily, r. h., looTcing around. 
 
 Yiolet. Surely Monsieur Felix is at home. The Fraulein as- 
 sured us that he was here. 
 
 Lily. Did you not hear a noise as we came up stairs ? 
 
 Yiolet. Candidly, I did not, for I was thinking of those who 
 have left us, perhaps forever, Lily. . 
 
 Lily. I dare not think of it— notwithstanding all that Fraulein 
 has told us of their coldness and aversion. 
 
 Yiolet (looking at the draped picture). Hush! 
 
 Lily (goes to easel and examines pictures). Where are they? 
 
 Yiolet. (pointing). There! 
 
110 
 
 THE ARTIST'S STRATAGEM. 
 
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tHiJ ARTIST'S STRATAGEM. 
 
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 THE ARTIST'S STRATAGEM. 
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THE artist's stratagem. 
 
 113 
 
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 THE ARTIST'S STRATAGEM. 
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THE artist's stratagem. 
 
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116 THE artist's stratagem. 
 
 Enter Felix, r. h., advancing, 
 
 Felix. My dear Ma'mselleS; what an unlooked-for pleasure is this I 
 Tiolet and lily. My dear M. Felix ! ( They exchange greetings, 
 Felix. To what am I indebted for this unlooked-for pleasure T 
 
 Have you met with some art difficulties, or have you brought me 
 
 your sketches to examine ? 
 
 YiOLET. Oh, no ! we 
 
 Lily. Oh, no ! we only- 
 
 YiOLET. Tes, that is it, M. Felix. "We only came to call on yon, 
 to inspect your recent pictures. 
 
 Lily. Wliat a charming, delightful sketch on the easel ! 
 
 YiOLET. Tes. M. Felix, I envy you your power to fix beauty 
 and incident— and make them indeed beautiful forever ! 
 
 Felix. When shall I exercise my art on la belle Yiolet — on my 
 charming fleur-de-lis ? 
 
 Lily. It is not that, M. Felix. But do you paint portraits now ? 
 I mean (looking round) have you painted any lately ? 
 
 Feli:s. (aside). Mademoiselle Spoylhall did her mission weU. 
 (Aloud) Yery lately. This instant. 
 
 Yiolet. Where ? 
 
 Felix. On my heart; for I have renewed the remembrance of 
 your fresh faces. 
 
 Yiolet. I^o flattery, M. Felix. Remember we are your pupils ; 
 and no good master flatters his pupils. 
 
 Felix. Pardonnez moi, Mademoiselle, I spoke but truth. I have 
 just finished— nay, this instant — portraits of M. Ernest Hope 
 
 Yiolet (eagerly). Our cousin, Ernest Hope? 
 
 Felix. And M. Rattling, a dashing young seaman. 
 
 Lily. Our cousin Frank ? 
 
 Felix. Oui, Mademoiselles. I have finished, but just now, life- 
 sized portraits of your cousins. Would you like to see them ? 
 
 Both. No! Yes! where are they f 
 
 Felix (pointing to frames): They are there. 
 
 Yiolet (advances and then stops). But they are nothing to us. 
 
 Lily (sighing). Nothing whatever. 
 
 Felix. Nothing ! Why, but now you evinced an interest. Is my 
 memory defective ? At (me time I thought 
 
 Yiolet. Never mind what you thought, M. Felix. Mr. Hope is 
 nothing to me. 
 
 Felix. My memory does not deceive me. There was a little 
 affaire de cceur, was there not ? 
 
 Song — " Fm notinlove.'^ (Yiolet.) 
 
 Sir, look at me I What is't you see? 
 
 Do I look very sly, 
 While, gay at heart, I bear a part? 
 
 I'm not in love, not 1 1 
 
THE artist's stratagem. 117 
 
 My eye is bright, I sleep at night, 
 
 Ko one has heard me sigh ! 
 ^hate'er I seem, I do not dream — 
 
 I'm not in loye^ not I ! 
 
 I langh and chat 'bout this and that, 
 
 When even he is nigh. 
 I can conceal whatever I feel — 
 
 I'm not in love, not I ! 
 
 Oh, sir, you're rude ! Do not intrude 
 
 On me, pray — do not spy ! 
 My fancy's free from rivahy — 
 
 I'm not in love, not I ! 
 
 Felix. The reasons are worthy of Kichelieu, and the arguments 
 deserve to be recorded in the last edition of Cupid's Bouquet for 
 Disconsolate Lovers. They are not, however, immortelles, and will 
 soon fade. 
 
 Lily. You are merry. Monsieur Felix. Perhaps you think that 
 this affection of yours is catching. 
 
 Felix. I should indeed be sad and desolate, if I thought love 
 was for ever banished from your heart, or that my own — old as it is — 
 had lost even the least echo of its healing and soothing power. 
 
 Lily. We must wait all for Love's advent — patiently or otherwise. 
 
 YiOLET. And when he does come, he quickly departs before the 
 chillmg winds of neglect and indifference! 
 
 Felix. My dear young ladies, daughters of the dearest friend of 
 my exile, you are entertaining the most revolutionary opinions on a 
 very momentous question. As I gaze into your very charming 
 eyes, I feel indeed — pardon me, if I say they are lit with the truest 
 Bunshine of the soul. 
 
 Song—" Tlie Sunshine of the SouV (Felix.) 
 Those eyes which beam and brightly gleam. 
 
 Are lit with ray divine ; 
 Like stars at night, they sparkle bright. 
 
 As they gaze into mine. 
 They have begun to feel that sun, 
 
 Which melts each icy pole ; 
 It must be so ! Love is, we know. 
 
 The Sunshine of the Soul ! 
 
 With Love at home, oh ! who need roam 
 
 In search of jewels rare ? 
 A kingly crown of rich renown 
 
 Cannot with it compare. 
 It conquers aU, in cot and hall ! 
 
 It is life's truest goal — 
 The richest wreath God did bequeath,-— 
 
 The Sunshine of the Soul ! 
 
118 THE artist's stratagem. 
 
 Oh ! do not hide, whatever betide, 
 
 Love^s ever Trelcome ray ! 
 It changes night to brighest light, 
 
 It gladdens every day. 
 It ever speaks of ecstasy, 
 
 Of joy beyond control. 
 And does reveal, in woe and weal. 
 
 The Sunshine of the Soul ! 
 
 Lily. Most poetic sentiments, and very vrell expressed, M. Felix. 
 I congratulate you. 
 
 Felix. Let me rather congratulate you on being in Love s fet- 
 ters, even though you may strive to hide them. 
 
 Violet. Fie ! 
 
 Felix. But it is the truth, and truth, like Love, should not be hidden. 
 
 Lily. When I am conscious of the fetters, I, at all events, will 
 not conceal them. At present, I am free. 
 
 Song — " My heart is free.'' (Lily. ) 
 
 My heart is as free as a mountain rill, 
 
 That runs on a rocky bed ; 
 As cold as the snow on the mighty hill 
 
 Where winter hides its head ; 
 
 It courses along o'er heather and brake. 
 
 Towards the fathomless sea, 
 Where it gives up all for the loved one^s sake — 
 
 That may he the way with me ! 
 
 But let us cease this parleying, and permit us to see your most re- 
 cent pictures— these veritable and life-like portraits. 
 
 Felix. They are hardly finished to my satisfaction. Besides, 
 they are nothing— a mere bagatelle, at the utmost, to you. 
 
 Yiolet. You should have mercy. 
 
 Felix. I have mercy — mine is a mission of mercy, for it is mer- 
 ciful to preserve a loved one's image when far away — in battle may 
 be— or where the howhng winds roar and the heavily laden ship is in 
 danger. 
 
 Both. Oh ! spare us, Monsieur Felix ! it is dreadful. 
 
 Felix. But your cousins have gone forth to meet both, mademoi- 
 selles. They loved you, and you cruelly 
 
 Yiolet. 'it is not so. 
 
 Lily. They scorned 
 
 Felix. I must say fie, now, mademoiselle, for both the young 
 gentlemen assured me that such was the case. 
 
 Lily. The Fraulein assured us, and gave us proof. 
 
 Felix. I knew that vinaigrette had interfered ! 
 
 Yiolet. They left without even saying good-bye 
 
 Felix. Because Mademoiselle Spoylhall had assured both of 
 them that you were not disposed to see them. 
 
THE artist's stratagem. 119 
 
 Ltlt. Can it be ? The Fraiilein has then deceived us 2 
 
 YiOLET. It is now too late to undeceive them. 
 
 Lily. We cannot do it. That hateM Fraulein! What did thej 
 say, Monsieur Felix — Ernest, Frank, I mean ? 
 
 Felix. Perhai^s I had bett-er observe a discreet silence. Thej are 
 absent now, and may find consolation elsewhere. 
 
 EoTH. Say not so I 
 
 Felix (to Lily). But why not ? You are indUSerent, cold. (To 
 Yiolet) IsTot in love — it cannot make any difference to you whether 
 they are absent, in danger, or here. 
 
 Lily. You are unmercifuL 
 
 TiOLET. We thought better of you— thought yon were our fiiend 
 —our father's friend — and you treat us thus ! 
 
 Felix. Is it so ? I will ask no more. 
 
 Trio (unaccompanied) — ^^ When Faie^ alas ! has parted.^ 
 
 Felix, Yioxet, and Lily. 
 
 When Fate, alas ! has parted 
 The lovers, broken-hearted. 
 
 Where will they get relief? 
 Though love their hearts is crowning^ 
 The world is on them frowning : 
 
 What will allay their grief f 
 
 Why, when kind fortune, smiling, 
 Ko longer love beguiling. 
 
 Again they bHssM meetl 
 When ieart to heart is clinging. 
 And smiling lips are bringing. 
 
 Their fervent vows repeat, 
 
 TioiiET. That day, alas ! has gone. 
 
 Felix. '^ Where there is life,'' so says the ancient proverb, 
 ^^Hope is not dead." Permit me to offer some refreshments (rings 
 tell). I must not forget the rites of hospitality. 
 
 Lily. Pray, do not trouble on our account. 
 
 Felix. The duties of hospitality should never be considered as a 
 trouble;, Mademoiselle Lily. The courtesies of life are its graces, not 
 its misery. 
 
 Yiolet. But the portraits, M. Felix. 
 
 Felix, Undoubtedly. Indifference and coldness appear allied to 
 anxiety. 
 
 Lily. The Fraulein told us 
 
 Felix. Bid she? Well! 
 
 Lily. That the portraits were here. 
 
 Felix. That was a secret. 
 
 Lily. Why a secret? 
 
120 
 
 THE ARTISTS STRATAGEM. 
 
 Felix. The portraits were painted at the desire of those who 
 loved the sitters, and they wished that the secret should be kept. 
 
 YlOLET. "W^ho ? 
 
 Felix. That is part of the secret. I did not inform the Fraulein 
 of that. Here are the pictures ! 
 
 (Ernest and Felix are arranged in the frames so that tlieT/ appear 
 portraits— Yrask, r., and Ernest, l. When the curtain is 
 u'ithdraivn, their eyes are looking in front. The bodies bcloio 
 the icaist are hidden by the drapery or by the table-cover. Tio- 
 let and Lily tUter an exclamation of surprise.) 
 
 YiOLET. They are masterpieces, M. Felix. 
 Felix. The subjects, or the painting f 
 
 Lily. I could almost fancy they breathed. What a glorious gift 
 is Art! 
 Felix. How much more glorious is Life and Love ! 
 
 Enter Attendant, l. n., who places two decanters, glasses, andcaJce 
 on the table beneath the pictures. — {If there is no attendant, a 
 knock is given, and M. Felix takes the tray atL. h. entrance — 
 ^' Permit me " — pours out wine and hands it round with cake.) 
 TJiey examine the pictures at various angles and distances, dur- 
 ing which the conversation is kept up. 
 
 Yiolet. Tou have not flattered Ernest, M. Felix. 
 
 Lily. I^or Frank either. 
 
 Felix. Art should not flatter; it should strive to elevate, not to 
 debase ; to display the soul, not the material beauty. {A knock; 
 goes to door, l. h.) Pardon, Mademoiselle, a few moments. Pray 
 excuse my absence. {Exit L. h.) 
 
 DUET.— '^ SEE, OH yOW CyARMING!" 
 Violet and Lily. 
 
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THE AKTIST'S STRATAGEM. 
 
 125 
 
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 THE ABTIST'S stratagem. 
 
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 {As the music finishes, Fraflein Spoylhall editors r. n. ^., glances 
 contemptuously at the portraits, and looks ivitli amazement at 
 the singers. ) 
 
 Fratjlein. It is von astonishment. I am blind with surprise. 
 {Crosses to L. c.) Mein character is disgraced, and your fader 
 shamed. Such language, such expressions from my charges— mein 
 kinder— and before two pictures —bad daubs {crosses to r. c. and 
 points to the portraits) which would disgrace a bier-shop. They 
 
 scorned you, spurned you, and now (Lilt and Yiolet sweep out 
 
 of the room, R. ii. ) Mein heart ! they are gone. They will see their 
 fader, and my scheme will be lost— everything exposed! I shall 
 lose my charge, and Herr Sweetlove will lose his confidence. {Pre- 
 pares to go, hut sees the refreshments. As she advances to the table 
 to help herself, the figures in the frames lift their right hands and 
 point toward her, moving their arms and eyes, as she crosses to L. c.) 
 Kiemandr ist hier, {She seizes the decanter j and then raises her 
 
THE artist's STRATAGEII. 127 
 
 eyes to the portraits, drops the decanter on the tabic, screams, and 
 rushes out L. c, exclaiming) Dee hand of Heaven is on me ! Mercy ! 
 Mercy ! 
 
 (Afeio bars of a slow march, during ichich Ernest and Frank 
 help themselves to wine and. cake, imitating the slow movements 
 of wax-worlc figures. Just as they have got a glass ofivine to their 
 lips, enter Lily and Yiolet^ and they remain holding a glass of 
 wine.) 
 
 Tiolet. You Imow the old Germari proverb that the beautiful is 
 lovely; but only the good is worthy of^respect. 
 
 Lily. I do not think I shall ever trust in -woman again. Only to 
 think of the Fraulein being so deceitful ! 
 
 Yiolet. I am preplexed as to her motive. You know that Ern- 
 est was always a favorite of mine. 
 
 Lily. I may as well unbossom myself, and express my wonder 
 that I ever listened to one word against poor Frank. {Turning to 
 the picture.) I wish I had seen him ere he left. 
 
 Yiolet. Poor Ernest ! If he should get killed ! 
 
 Lily. Or shipwrecked ! It would kill me. (Advancing to the 
 picture.) I did not observe that M. Felix had painted a glass in his 
 hand. 
 
 Yiolet. JSTor did I. Poor Ernest ! 
 
 Lily. Poor Frank ! How like it is ! (Yiolet whispers to Lily.) 
 
 Lily. Why not ? there's no one here. 
 {They go to the pictures smiling , as if to salute them. As they are 
 about to kiss, Frank and Ernest seize them round the waist. 
 TJiey scream. Felix enters R. h., Fraulein l. h._, ^cho, seeing 
 the figures clasped, faints.) 
 
 Yiolet. What fresh trick is this ? 
 
 Felix. Pardonnez moi. I am to blame, and blessed 
 
 Quintette — " Each fair Maiden J^ 
 
 Felix. Each fair maiden, 
 
 With love laden, 
 You see has found her nest. 
 Frank and Ernest Her love betray'd— 
 With me has stayed 
 Her home is on this breast. 
 Yiolet and Lily. But who's to blame 
 For this deep shame, 
 This blot (m a maiden's pride ? 
 Felix. The rogue will speak 
 
 On this day week, 
 Frank and Ernest, When each will be a bride. 
 
128 
 
 THE ARTIST'S STRATAGEM. 
 
 FINALE.— ^' YOU SEE SUCCESS IJAS CROWNED l^Y PLOTJ' 
 
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130 
 
 THE artist's stratagem. 
 
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THE artist's STBATAGEM. 
 
 131 
 
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 CURTAIN. 
 
LBJa'22 
 
Pet Lamb, The. 
 
 Pint of Ale, A- 
 
 Poisoned Darkies, The. 
 
 Portrait Painter, The. 
 
 Presented at Court. 
 
 Princess, The. 
 
 Prison and Palace, 
 
 Private Inquiry, A. 
 
 Punch andJudy. 
 
 Purty Shure Cure, A. 
 
 Queen Mary. 
 
 Quite at Home, 
 
 Kdce Ball, The. 
 
 Ralph Coleman's Reforma- 
 tion. 
 
 Refinement, 
 
 Result of a Nap, The. 
 
 Rmsdoves, The. 
 
 Robin Hood. 
 
 Rob, The Hermit, 
 
 Rosebud ; or, The Sleeping 
 Beauty. 
 
 Rumplestiltskin. 
 
 Sayings and Doings. 
 
 School for Scheming. 
 
 School for Tigers, 
 
 Sentinel, The. 
 
 Shamrock. 
 
 ghylock, l:urlesque. 
 
 _!ign of Affection, A. 
 
 Sm^le Life. 
 
 Sir Dagobert and the Dragon. 
 
 Skinflint. 
 
 Slight Mistake, A. 
 
 Slighted Treasures, 
 
 Spelling Match, The. 
 
 Spitfire, The. 
 
 Stage-Struck Yankee. 
 
 Ten Nights in a Bar-Room. 
 
 There's Millions in it. 
 
 Those " (Jussed " Waves. 
 
 Thoughts Before Marriage. 
 
 Three Grocers, The. 
 
 Three Tern ptations . 
 
 Tiger at Large, The. 
 
 Tipperary Legacy, Tho. 
 
 Tittlebat a Father. 
 
 To Let, Furnished. 
 
 Tootle, Tootle, Too. 
 
 Too Windy for an Umbrella. 
 
 Tragedy Transmogrified. 
 
 Trip to Cambridge, A 
 
 Twenty and Forty. 
 
 Twin Brothers, The. 
 
 Two Gentlemen at Mivart's. 
 
 Uncle Jack. 
 United States MaiL 
 Vermont Wool-Dealer. 
 Village Belle, The. 
 Village Doctor, The. 
 Villikens and Dinah. 
 Virginia Mummy, The. 
 Virtue Victorious. 
 Wanderer's Return, The, 
 Wardrobe. 
 Weak Points. 
 
 Wearing of the Green, The. 
 Whisky Fiend, The. 
 Who Got The Pig? 
 Who Stole the Spoons ? 
 Who's Your Friend? 
 Whv Did You Die? 
 TVick^^d World, The. 
 Wild Flowers. 
 Wine Cup, The. 
 Woman of the World, The. 
 Woman will be a Woman A, 
 Women's Club, The. 
 Women's Rights. 
 Wreck, The. 
 Wrong Bottle. The. 
 Yankee Peddler, The, 
 
 THE ETHIOPIAN DRAMA. 
 
 Actor and Singer. 
 
 Aunty Chloe. 
 
 Black Mail. 
 
 Black Shoemaker. 
 
 Black Statue, _ 
 
 Bones at a Raflae. 
 
 Bone Squash. 
 
 Box and Cox. 
 
 Camille, burlesque, - 
 
 Challenge Dance. 
 
 Chris .Johnson. 
 
 Coon Hunt, De, 
 
 Cooney in de Hollow, 
 
 Coopers. The. 
 
 Corsican Twins. 
 
 Cream ob Tenors, De, 
 
 Creole Ball, The. 
 
 Dancing Mad. 
 
 Darky's Dream, De. 
 
 Dark/ Tragedian, De. 
 
 Dat Same Old Coon. 
 
 Deaf — In a Horn. 
 
 Debbil and Dr. Faustum, 
 
 De. 
 Debbil and de Maiden, De. 
 Desdr.anonum. 
 
 Dixie, our Cutler'd Brudder. 
 Don Cato and de Big Bassoon, 
 Elephant on Ice, An 
 Fightins for the Union. 
 GalLus Jake. 
 
 Ghost of Bone Squash, The. 
 Haunted House, The. 
 
 PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH, 
 
 Highest Price Paid for Old 
 
 Clothes. 
 Howls from the Owl Train. 
 Hunk's Wedding Day. 
 Hypochondriac, The. 
 Jolly Millers. 
 Juba. 
 
 Jube Hawkins. 
 .Tulianna Johnson. 
 King CuflFee. 
 Les Miserables. 
 Lucinda's Wedding. 
 Magic Penny, The. 
 Maid of de Hunkpuncas, De 
 Manager in a Fix, A. 
 MischPviou.« Nigger. 
 Mishaps of Caesar Crura. 
 Mumbo Jum. 
 Mysterious Stranger. 
 New Year's Calls. 
 Night Wid Brudder Jones, A. 
 Nobody's Son. 
 No Cure, No Pay, 
 Octoroon, De. 
 Oh, Hush ! 
 Old Dad's Cabin. 
 OldG*m<iame,De. 
 Old Hunks. 
 
 Old Kentucky Home, De. 
 Old Uncle Billy. 
 Old Zip Coon. 
 Pete and Ephraim, 
 
 Pete's Luck. 
 
 Popsy Deam 
 
 Porgy Joe. 
 
 Possum Fat. 
 
 Quack Doctor. The. 
 
 Quarrelsome Servants 
 
 Rival Lovers. 
 
 Rival Mokes. 
 
 Robert Make-Airs. 
 
 Rooms To Let, Without 
 
 Board. 
 " Rose Dale." 
 Sambo's Return. 
 Scenes at Gurneys. 
 Scipio Africanus. 
 Sham Doctor. The. 
 Sixteen Thousand Years 
 
 Ago. 
 Sports on a Lark. 
 Stage-Struck Darky, The. 
 Thieves at the Mill. 
 Three Black -Smiths, The. 
 Ticket-Taker. The. 
 Trail ob Blood, De. 
 Trouble Begins at Nine, De. 
 Troublesome Servant. 
 Turkeys in Season. 
 Uncle'jefi. 
 Uncle Tom 
 Under de Kerosene. 
 Up Head. 
 William Tell. 
 
 Or, the Art of ''Making Up." 
 
 Being a Practiacl Guide to beginners in the difficult art of '"Making Up" and 
 " Wigging" the human face and head correctly, embracing all the phases of life and, 
 character, from the Ambitious Youth to Decrepid Old Age. 
 
 WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS. PRICE, 25 CENTS. 
 
 *:«.* Any of the above will be sent by mail on receipt of the price.