^yJh 
 
 §> 
 
 & 
 
PLAYS AND POEMS 
 
 OP 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 i. 
 
THE 
 
 PLAYS AND POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 WITH A FEW MISCELLANIES IN PROSE 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED 
 
 EDITED PREFACED AND ANNOTATED 
 BY 
 
 EICHAED HERNE SHEPHERD 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 W. H. ALLEN & CO. 13 WATERLOO PLACE S.W. 
 
 PUBLISHERS TO THE INDIA OFFICE 
 
 1885 
 (All rights reserved) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introductory Monograph, by the Editor, on 
 
 " Charles Dickens as a Dramatist, Actor and 
 Poet" -------- 7 
 
 PLAYS:— 
 
 1. The Strange Gentleman, 1836 97 
 
 2. The Village Coquettes, 1836 - - - 173 
 
 3. Is She his Wife ? or Something Singular ! 
 
 1837 275 
 
 4. The Lamplighter, a Farce, 1838 - - 321 
 The Lamplighter's Story (from The Pic 
 
 Nic Papers) 379 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Of the five plays now collected in these volumes, 
 the first three were written by Charles Dickens for 
 the St. James's Theatre under Braham's manage- 
 ment and lesseeship. The Strange Gentleman, The 
 Village Coquettes, and Is She his Wife? or Some- 
 thing Singular ! appeared successively at that 
 theatre between Michaelmas of 1836 and Easter of 
 1837, with more or less of applause and success, 
 and were published separately in pamphlet form 
 soon after their performance. 
 
 1. The earliest of these three St. James's pieces 
 was The Strange Gentleman, first performed on 
 Thursday, September 29, 1836, The plot was 
 founded on one of the Sketches by Boz, " The Great 
 The strange Winglebury Duel," and it will not be an 
 Gentleman, uninteresting task to the reader to com- 
 pare the different treatment in the sketch and in 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the play. The plot of the story is farther compli- 
 cated in the drama by the addition of two young 
 ladies and their lovers. Altogether, it contains a 
 greater number of whimsical mistakes and per- 
 plexities than even Goldsmith's She Stoops to 
 Conquer; the second title of which, had it not 
 been appropriated, would have suited The Strange 
 Gentleman exactly. It consists of u the mistakes of 
 a night," at an inn on the North road ; where the 
 various personages, arriving with separate objects, 
 are led into a series of misconceptions as to each 
 other's identity and purposes. The Strange 
 Gentleman himself, whose object is to escape the 
 direful consequences of a challenge from his rival, 
 and who is heard of by the other travellers as they 
 arrive, without being seen by them, is supposed 
 by each to be the person whom each expects to 
 meet. An elderly and wealthy spinster takes him 
 for the lordling on whom she is going to bestow 
 herself and her fortune by a trip to Gretna ; and a 
 runaway damsel imagines he is her lover with 
 whom she is about to take a similar flight. During 
 the imbroglio that ensues, the Strange Gentleman 
 never comes in contact with the persons who by 
 seeing him could discover the mistake ; and the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 denoument is effected by the spinster seeing at last 
 that the Strange Gentleman is not Lord Peter, and 
 by the young lady seeing that he is not her lover. 
 Making allowance for the antecedent improbability 
 (which is quite within the bounds of conventional 
 stage licence) of so many persons casually meeting 
 at an inn under such peculiar circumstances, the 
 incidents which arise out of their rencontre are 
 ingeniously contrived, follow each other very easily, 
 and produce some exceedingly grotesque situations. 
 The dialogue is lively, rapid, and full of smart and 
 pointed allusions. 
 
 Harley, who appeared on this occasion for the 
 first time at the St. James's Theatre, was a capital 
 Strange Gentleman. His suspicions, perplexities, 
 and terrors, kept the audience in a constant roar 
 of laughter. He was well seconded by Gardner, 
 in the one-eyed Boots, — a prominent character in 
 the drama as well as in the original Sketch. Mrs. 
 Penson personated to the life the bustling landlady 
 of the St. James's Arms, displaying nearly all the 
 arch vivacity that made her so delightful a soubrette 
 a quarter of a century before. The two Miss 
 Smiths — nieces of the famous Kitty Stephens, after- 
 wards Countess of Essex — made a most successful 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 debut They spoke elegantly and intelligently, 
 and displayed much merit as singers. Their re- 
 ception was most flattering, and they soon became 
 general favourites. Ma.dame Sala, mother of the 
 since famous journalist, George Augustus Sala, also 
 made a favourable impression ; and Forester played 
 the young lover much better than such parts are 
 generally played. Altogether the piece was entirely 
 successful. It had an immediate run of fifty nights, 
 nor was it even then finally withdrawn, but was 
 reproduced at intervals on several occasions in the 
 course of the following year (1837), when it was 
 published in a pamphlet of forty-six pages by 
 Chapman and Hall, with a frontispiece by Phiz 
 (Hablot Browne),* the illustrator of Pickwick and 
 of Sunday under Three Heads. 
 
 2. On Tuesday, December 6, The Strange 
 Gentleman was replaced by the Comic Opera, in 
 Two. Acts, of The Village Coquettes. The music 
 of the songs was composed by John Hullah, then a 
 
 * An admirably executed facsimile reprint of The Strange 
 Gentleman (minus the frontispiece) has for some time been 
 in private circulation. It is so cleverly reproduced as to be 
 almost indistinguishable from the original edition, and has, 
 we believe, more than once, been fraudulently passed off as 
 such upon unwary collectors. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 young man almost unknown to fame. Harley 
 again played one of the leading parts in a manner 
 which won for him Dickens's grateful and graceful 
 acknowledgments in a Dedication. Whether 
 considered with regard to its dramatic or musical 
 The village qualities, this opera is of a very uncom- 
 Coquettes. mon character, and has no resemblance 
 to the trumpery libretti in vogue at the time. It 
 is a light and elegant comedy, in which a great 
 deal of gaiety and humour are blended with scenes 
 of great interest, and many sweet and natural 
 touches of tenderness and feeling. The music is 
 admirably in accordance with the subject, — simple, 
 unaffected, and full of beautiful expressive, English 
 John melody. While Hullah has given this 
 
 Hullah's J < ° 
 
 music. character to his airs, he has imparted to 
 them much of the grace of the Italian school, — of 
 the great masters of a former age ; and in the 
 richness of his accompaniments and the skill and 
 ingenuity of his concerted movements, he has 
 shown his command over the resources of modern 
 harmony. u Mr. Hullah/ 5 says a newspaper notice 
 of the time, " has received his education in the 
 Royal Academy of Music, and does infinite honour 
 to his Alma Mater. We are sure, however, that 
 
12 [introduction. 
 
 some of the most remarkable features of his musical 
 character must be ascribed to self -tuition ; for his 
 style never could be so deeply imbued with the 
 spirit of Purcell and the great old English masters, 
 had not the bent of his own genius directed him to 
 a course of study very different from the fashionable 
 routine of the day." 
 
 The scene of The Village Coquettes is laid in an 
 piotof2%e English village, and the incidents are 
 
 Village 
 
 Coquettes, supposed to have happened about a 
 century and a half ago. The piece opens with the 
 representation of a farmer's rick-yard, in which a 
 number of work-people are engaged in the conclud- 
 ing labours of the harvest, and welcoming the 
 harvest-home with a gay round and chorus. From 
 a dialogue which ensues between John Maddox, 
 farmer Benson's principal servant, and Martin 
 Stokes, a small farmer, full of self-importance and 
 bustle, with a wondrous skill in discovering when 
 there is u something wrong " in the concerns of 
 his neighbours, it appears that there is something 
 wrong in the attentions paid to farmer Benson's 
 daughter Lucy, and his niece Rose, by Squire 
 Norton, the Lord of the Manor, and his friend, 
 the Honourable Mr. Sparkins Flam. The Squire 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 and his friend enter from shooting. Mr. Norton 
 contrives to have a few moments' conversation with 
 Lucy ; from which it appears that, though her 
 heart remains full of affection for her rustic lover, 
 she is dazzled by the addresses of the Squire. The 
 Squire joins the farmer and his friends in drinking 
 a glass to the harvest-home, and the scene concludes 
 with an animated drinking-song, sung by him, with 
 a chorus. George Edmunds, the lover of Lucy, 
 then appears in the fields, musing on his unhappi- 
 ness. He is lingering in hopes to meet with Lucy, 
 when Rose makes her appearance. This damsel, 
 on her part, is expecting to meet her admirer, Mr. 
 Flam, and is anxious to get Edmunds away. 
 While he is earnestly inquiring about Lucy, 
 Maddox enters, and soon afterwards Flam. There 
 is an admirable scene of coquetry on the part of the 
 little flirt, impertinence on that of the coxcomb, 
 and sturdy spirit on that of the honest peasant. 
 Flam plays the bully, and attempts to strike 
 Maddox with the butt-end of his fowling-piece ; 
 but the blow is parried by Edmunds, who departs 
 with Maddox, after contemptuously upbraiding 
 Flam with his treachery and cowardice. Flam vows 
 revenge ;' and then succeeds in persuading his 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 simple mistress that the affair was all a joke. The 
 scene ends with a lively and clever duet between 
 them. The old farmer, at last, becomes acquainted 
 with the intimacy between the Squire and his 
 daughter, by means of the busy Mr. Stokes, who 
 no less eagerly gives the same information to young 
 Benson, the farmer's son. The Squire arrives at 
 the farm, and is boldly taxed by the young man 
 with his conduct, and threatened with the conse- 
 quences of pursuing it. The Squire, left alone, 
 stifles the compunctious visitings of his conscience, 
 and resolves to persist in his design. He is per- 
 suading Lucy to elope with him, when they are 
 surprised by old Benson, who gives vent to 
 indignant reproaches. The Squire endeavours at 
 first to conciliate him ; but, stung by the bitterness 
 of his language, tells him his lease is expired, and 
 orders him to quit the farm. The farmer's friends 
 and servants crowd upon the stage, and the first 
 act is terminated by a well- wrought and agitated 
 finale. 
 
 In the second act Mr. Flam is lounging over his 
 breakfast on the morning after the above events, 
 when a letter is put into his hands from a London 
 attorney, demanding immediate restitution of a sum 
 
INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 of money which he had unfairly won by cheating at 
 play. Dismayed at this communication, and the 
 threat of exposure by which it is accompanied, he 
 resolves on exerting himself to aid the accomplish- 
 ment of the Squire's designs on Lucy, in order to 
 obtain such a recompense as may relieve him from 
 his dilemma. His meditations are interrupted by 
 the entrance of the Squire in an altered mood, 
 stung with remorse for his conduct towards Lucy, 
 and his cruelty towards her father. While he 
 is expressing these feelings of contrition to 
 the astonished Flam, Lucy and Rose are an- 
 nounced as wishing to speak with him. Flam 
 retires ; and Lucy's eloquent appeal to Mr. Norton's 
 principles and generosity completes his conversion. 
 Flam, ignorant of this change, determines to carry 
 off Lucy during the harvest-home entertainment to 
 be given at the Hall that night ; and sits down to 
 apprise Norton of his design, and to write to his 
 London correspondent promising immediate pay- 
 ment of the money demanded of him. He writes 
 the note to Norton, but is prevented from writing 
 the other, and hastily encloses in an envelope the 
 letter he has received from London instead of that 
 which he' has just written to Norton, putting his 
 
16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 note to Norton in his pocket. Martin Stokes, who 
 has learned that Flam has been inquiring for a 
 trusty person to do a piece of secret service for 
 him, presents himself as that person, and is engaged, 
 by a promise of reward, to have a chaise and four 
 in waiting at ten o'clock. The conversation being 
 carried on in hints and innuendoes, Stokes naturally 
 enough supposes that Rose is to be the victim of 
 this intended abduction, and hastens away to para- 
 lyse her and her lover John Maddox by this 
 tremendous disclosure. After some scenes, in 
 the course of which everything is put to rights 
 between the Squire and the farmer's family, and the 
 lovers are reconciled to their repentant fair ones, 
 all parties are assembled in the ball-room at the 
 Hall, with a large concourse of country people. 
 While a merry country dance is going forward a 
 scream is heard from the garden, and all is con- 
 fusion. In a few moments Edmunds enters from 
 the window, bearing Lucy insensible in his arms ; 
 and Flam, with his clothes torn and his face dis- 
 figured, is led in by Maddox and Stokes. Suspicion 
 immediately falls on the Squire as the prompter of 
 the deed, which he indignantly disclaims. Flam, 
 finding himself given up, asserts that he acted 
 
INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 under the Squire's instructions, and appeals for the 
 truth of his charge to a letter in the Squire's own 
 pocket. Mr. Norton produces the letter of the 
 London attorney, from which he has just learned 
 the base character of his friend ; and Flam retires 
 in confusion and disgrace, leaving the Squire and 
 his guests in harmony and happiness. The festivities 
 are resumed; and the piece is rounded off by a 
 repetition of the jovial chorus with which it opened. 
 The drama is worthy of being judged by stricter 
 rules of criticism than are usually applied to 
 musical pieces. The plot is clear and well con- 
 ducted, and the incidents sufficiently probable, with 
 the exception of Flam's blunder in sending to 
 Norton the letter which leads to his exposure, and 
 the facility with which he is led to entrust his plot 
 to Martin Stokes. The first of these may be 
 excused by the conventional licence of the stage ; 
 but the second betokens a degree of greenness not 
 at all natural to a thorough-paced knave like Flam. 
 The characters are well varied and supported, the 
 dialogue is lively and vigorous, and the musical 
 part of it contains some poetry such as opera- 
 composers seldom meet with. Dickens has treated 
 the character of Lucy with much skill and delicacy, 
 i. 2 
 
 ! I 
 
18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 She is weak enough to be led away by the vanity 
 of an inexperienced country girl ; yet she is so 
 candid and ingenuous, so full of tenderness for the 
 man whom she has wronged, so conscious and heart- 
 stricken in the midst of her folly, that she never 
 ceases to be amiable and interesting. Even when 
 at length she yields to the insidious addresses of 
 the Squire, and accepts what she believes to be an 
 offer of his hand, she is driven to it by hasty 
 resentment and wounded pride on hearing that 
 Edmunds has cast her off as unworthy. Miss 
 Rainforth was an excellent representative of this 
 interesting character. Her appearance was most 
 engaging, her acting full of intelligence and feeling, 
 and her singing graceful, expressive, and beauti- 
 fully chaste. Her fine song, " Love is not a 
 feeling to pass away," was a model of pure and 
 simple singing, without the introduction of a note 
 that did not appear to be the spontanteous effusion 
 of feeling. Her song, in the second act, " How 
 beautiful at eventide," is an impassioned composi- 
 tion, and enabled her to display not only the extent 
 of her vocal attainments, but the strength of her 
 expression. Miss Julia Smith gave full effect to 
 the light-hearted simplicity of Rose, and sang the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 song, " Some folks who have grown old and sour," 
 and the flirting duet with Flam, with a most 
 amusing playfulness, and great beauty of voice and 
 execution. Braham gave the part of the Squire 
 the easy good- humour that belongs to it. He sang 
 as if he had been appearing for the first time in a 
 new piece of his friend of the olden time, Storace ; 
 and felt, doubtless, how much of the spirit of that 
 time was in the music he was singing. His song, 
 or rather soliloquy, " The Child and the Old Man," 
 displayed his matchless power of making music the 
 language of deep and passionate thought ; but even 
 this was hardly so remarkable as the ballad already 
 referred to, and to which he gave a charm which is 
 quite indescribable. Bennett, as Edmunds, acted 
 with great good sense and propriety, and sang 
 beautifully, especially in the ballad of " Autumn 
 Leaves," which speaks the very language of grief. 
 Barnett's Flam was a little too studied and formal, 
 though, on the whole, a clever and effective per- 
 formance. Parry, in the part of young Benson, 
 had not an important share in the business of the 
 drama. He contributed much, however, to the 
 effect of the concerted music, and sang a ballad, 
 " My Fair Home," with much sweetness. The 
 
 2 * 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 finest acting in the piece was that of Strickland 
 in Old Benson. It was a fine and powerful picture 
 of the feelings of a father outraged in the tenderest 
 point. Gardner in John Maddox, gave to the life 
 the blunt plainness of the English peasant ; and 
 though last, not least, Harley, in Martin Stokes, 
 kept the audience in an unceasing roar of laughter. 
 The getting-up of this Opera did the highest honour 
 to Braham's management. It was complete in 
 every part. The scenery and decorations were 
 singularly beautiful and splendid, and the whole 
 of the performers were accurately attired in the 
 costumes of the earlier part of the last century. 
 The orchestra did full justice to the airy and 
 elegant overture, and to the accompaniments 
 throughout, and the choruses and concerted pieces 
 were smoothly and correctly sung. A passage for 
 five voices especially, in the finale, entirely without 
 instruments, in the style of a glee, had so charm- 
 ing an effect that an encore burst at once from 
 every part of the house. On the whole, it is not 
 too much to say that no English musical piece 
 equal to The Village Coquettes had appeared 
 since The Duenna. Its success was assured and 
 triumphant. At its conclusion Mr. Hullah, being 
 
INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 loudly called for, appeared before the curtain 
 amidst thunders of applause, in which Braham, at 
 one of the wings, warmly joined. A cry was then 
 commenced of " Boz," which instantly resounded 
 from every part of the house, and was continued 
 until Charles Dickens also came forward, and was 
 received with equal cordiality. 
 
 The following letters of Dickens to Mr. John 
 Hullah, the composer of the music to The Village 
 Coquettes, appear in the recently-published collec- 
 tion of Dickens's Letters : — 
 
 FurnivaFs Inn, 
 
 Monday afternoon, 7 o'clock, 
 
 1836. 
 My dear Hullah, 
 
 Mr. Hogarth has just been here, with news 
 which I think you will be glad to hear. He was with 
 Braham yesterday, who was/ar more full of the opera than 
 he was; speaking highly of my works and "fame" (!), 
 and expressing an earnest desire to be the first to intro- 
 duce me to the public as a dramatic writer. He said 
 that he intended opening at Michaelmas ; and added 
 (unasked) that it was his intention to produce the opera 
 within one month of his first night. He wants a low-comedy 
 part introduced — without singing — thinking it will take 
 with the audience ; but he is desirous of explaining to me 
 what he means and who he intends to play it. I am to 
 
22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 see him on Sunday morning. Full particulars of the 
 interview shall be duly announced. 
 Perhaps I shall see you meanwhile.* 
 
 Petersham, Monday evening, 
 Dear Hullah, 1836. 
 
 Since I called on you this morning I have not 
 had time to look over the words of " The Child and the 
 Charles Old Man." It occurs to me, as I shall see you 
 to 1 John on Wednesday morning, that the best plan will 
 Huliah. De f or y OU to bring the music (if you possibly 
 can) without the words, and we can put them in then.f Of 
 course this observation applies only to that particular song. 
 Braham having sent to me about the farce, I called 
 on him this morning. Harley wrote, when he had 
 read the whole of the opera, saying : — " It 's a sure 
 card — nothing wrong there. Bet you ten pound it runs 
 fifty nights. Come ; don't be afraid. You '11 be the gainer 
 by it, and you mustn't mind betting; it's a capital 
 custom." X They tell the story with infinite relish. I saw 
 the fair manageress, who is fully of Harley's opinion ; so 
 is Braham. The only difference is, that they are far more 
 enthusiastic than Harley — far more enthusiastic than 
 ourselves even. That is a bold word, isn't it? It is a 
 true one, nevertheless. 
 
 * Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. iii. p. 2. 
 
 f Vide infra, p. 219, note. 
 
 % The phrases italicised are playful adoptions of two 
 favourite expressions of Martin Stokes, the character which 
 Harley played in The Village Coquettes. — Ed. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 " Depend upon it, sir/' said Braham to Hogarth yester- 
 day, when he went there to say I should be in town to-day, 
 u depend upon it, sir, that there has been no such music 
 since the days of Sheil, and no such piece since The 
 Duenna. Everybody is delighted with it," he added, to 
 Charles nae to-day. M I played it to Stansbury, who 
 to 1 John * s k v n0 means an excitable person, and he was 
 Hullah. charmed/' This was said with great emphasis, 
 but I have forgotten the grand point. It was not, " I played 
 it to Stansbury," but " I sang it — all through ! ! ! " 
 
 I begged him, as the choruses are to be put into 
 rehearsal directly the company get together, to let us 
 have, through Mrs. Braham, the necessary passports to 
 the stage, which will be forwarded. He leaves town on 
 the 8^ of September. He will be absent a month, and 
 the first rehearsal will take place immediately on his 
 return ; previous to it (I mean the first rehearsal — not 
 the return) I am to read the piece. His only remaining 
 suggestion is, that Miss Rainforth will want another song 
 when the piece is in rehearsal — " a bravura — something in 
 the ' Soldier Tired ' way." We must have a confab about 
 this on Wednesday morning. 
 
 Harley called in FurnivaPs Inn, to express his high 
 delight and gratification ; but unfortunately we had left 
 town. I shall be at head-quarters by 12, Wednesday 
 (noon) .* 
 
 The following was written on the Sunday 
 following the first performance of the piece : — 
 
 * Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. iii. pp. 3-4. 
 
24 INTKODUOTION. 
 
 FurnivaFs Inn, Sunday Evening, 
 My dear Hullah, [December 11, 1836.] 
 
 Have you seen The Examiner? It is rather 
 depreciatory of the opera ; but, like all inveterate critiques 
 against Braham, so well done that I cannot help laughing 
 Charles at it, for the life and soul of me. I have seen The 
 to Jokm Sunday Times, The Dispatch, and The Satirist, 
 Hullah. a n of which blow their critic trumpets against 
 unhappy me most lustily. Either I must have grievously 
 awakened the ire of all the " adapters " and their friends, 
 or the drama must be decidedly bad. I haven't made up 
 my mind yet which of the two is the fact. 
 
 I have not seen the John Bull or any of the Sunday 
 papers except The Spectator. If you have any of them, 
 bring 'em with you on Tuesday. I am afraid that for 
 " dirty Cummins' " allusion to Hogarth, I shall be reduced 
 to the necessity of being valorous the next time I meet 
 him. * 
 
 The Village Coquettes, although preceded by 
 The Strange Gentleman on the stage, was the first 
 written and the first published. It was written, 
 as we gather from the Preface, in 1835, and 
 published as a pamphlet, with the author's full 
 name on the title-page, by Bentley, a few days 
 
 * Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. iii. pp. 1-2. The reference 
 in the concluding sentence is to a foul-mouthed criticling 
 in the Weekly Dispatch, who had had recourse to "the 
 blackguard's loaded bludgeon of personalities." — Ed. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 before Christmas 1836.* A copy sent to John 
 Forster was the means of first bringing Dickens 
 into personal communication with his future 
 biographer. Seven of the Songs were issued 
 separately with Hullah's music. 
 
 This piece, like its predecessor, had a fairly 
 long run, till it gave way in its turn to a third 
 attempt, a Comic Burletta, in one act, entitled 
 Is She his Wife ? or Something Singular ! the best, 
 perhaps, but hitherto the least known of the 
 three. This little farce was first performed at 
 is she the St. James's Theatre on Monday, 
 his wife? March 6, 1837. There are only six 
 characters — in fact, only five with any real business. 
 The leading character, Felix Tapkins, was again 
 played by Harley, and the other principal parts by 
 Forester and Halford,f Gardner, Miss Allison, and 
 
 * A so-called " facsimile reprint " of The Village Coquettes 
 has been issued by the original publishers, since Dickens's 
 death ; but its value is greatly impaired by gross inattention 
 throughout to textual accuracy. 
 
 f Forester was the original Lovetown, but was replaced 
 by Halford. The minor part of Lovetown' s servant, who 
 has only a few words of announcement to utter, does not 
 appear in the cast, and was probably taken by any super- 
 numerary ready at hand. 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Madame Sala. Harley's benefit took place on the 
 evening of Monday, March 18, when he made 
 his appearance for the seventh time in the little 
 farce, and received a most cordial welcome from the 
 audience. He afterwards appeared in the character 
 Comic Song of Mr. Pickwick, and sang a comic song, 
 
 bv Charles . , , 
 
 Dickens, written for him by Boz, giving an amus- 
 
 written for 
 
 Hariey. ing description of a Blackwall whitebait 
 dinner. He excited roars of laughter by the 
 manner in which he looked the character and gave 
 the humorous points of the song. Of this comic 
 song 1 have been unable to find any trace, nor can 
 I decide with certainty for how many further 
 nights the burletta ran ; but a play-bill now lying 
 before me announces its performance for the 
 nineteenth time, on Tuesday, April 25, 1837. 
 
 The original edition of Is She his Wife? was, 
 like the two former pieces, printed at the time. 
 It is, however, among the rarissima of modern 
 literary curiosities, being in fact what French 
 bibliographers call u introuvable." The only copy 
 I have succeeded in tracing (and that has now 
 perished) was purchased from the collection of 
 the late Mr. Thomas Hailes Lacy, the famous 
 theatrical bookseller. It became the property of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 27 
 
 Mr. James E. Osgood, of the firm of Osgood and 
 a lost Co., of Boston, U.S.A., who fortunately 
 
 literary 
 
 rarity. preserved the text for us by issuing an 
 
 American reprint of it in 1877. But the original 
 copy was destroyed in the fire which burned 
 Messrs. Osgood's business premises in December 
 1879.* Another remarkable circumstance is that 
 this little piece appears to have been unknown to 
 or forgotten by Mr. Forster, who makes no allusion 
 direct or indirect to its existence throughout the 
 whole of his biography of Dickens. Meantime 
 the question of authorship, apart from internal 
 evidence, is otherwise established by the discovery 
 of the contemporary play-bills which describe Is 
 She his Wife? as "an original Comic Burletta, 
 in One Act, written by Boz." 
 
 These are the only three dramatic pieces, acted 
 and published, of which Dickens was the sole author. 
 Some trace remains in his correspondence of 
 negotiations with Braham, or of overtures indirectly 
 conveyed through Harley, for a fourth piece. But 
 for one reason or another the proposal fell through, 
 
 * Readers desirous of fuller particulars on this subject 
 are referred to a paper by the present writer entitled " A 
 Lost Work of Charles Dickens," published in The Pen, 
 October 1880, pp. 311-312. 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and Dickens's connexion with the St. James's 
 Theatre henceforth ceased. A letter of Dickens's 
 to Harley on this subject runs as follows : — 
 
 48, Doughty Street, 
 My dear Sir, Saturday Morning.* 
 
 I have considered the terms on which I could 
 afford just now to sell Mr. Braham the acting copyright 
 Charles m London of an entirely new piece for the St. 
 Dickens James's Theatre : and I could not sit down to 
 
 to J. r. ' 
 
 Harley. write one in a single act of about one hour 
 long, under a hundred pounds. For a new piece in 
 two acts, a hundred and fifty pounds would be the sum 
 I should require. 
 
 I do not know whether, with reference to arrange- 
 ments that were made with any other writers, this may or 
 may not appear a large item. I state it merely with 
 regard to the value of my own time and writings at this 
 moment; and in so doing I assure you I place the 
 remuneration below the mark rather than above it. 
 
 As you begged me to give you my reply upon this 
 
 point, perhaps you will lay it before Mr. Braham. If 
 
 these terms exceed his inclination or the ability of the 
 
 theatre, there is an end of the matter, and no harm 
 
 done. 
 
 Believe me ever faithfully yours, 
 
 Charles Dickens. f 
 
 * This letter is otherwise undated ; but as Charles 
 Dickens did not remove from Furnival's Inn to 48, Doughty 
 Street, until March 1837, it cannot have been written until 
 after the production of Is She his Wife ? 
 
 f Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. i. p. 5. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 Dickens had not yet, however, abandoned all 
 idea of continuing to write for the stage. In the 
 winter of 1838, he was trying his hand at a farce 
 for Macready, to be produced at Drury Lane. It 
 is in the month of November 1838, presumably, 
 that he thus addresses Macready on the subject : — 
 
 Doughty Street, 
 
 My dear Macready, Monday Morning. 
 
 I have not seen you for the past week, 
 because I hoped when we next met to bring The Lamp- 
 lighter in my hand. It would have been finished by 
 
 this time, but I found mvself compelled to 
 Charles . 
 
 Dickens to set to work first at " Nickleby," at which 1 am 
 a 7 ' at present engaged, and which I regret to say 
 — after my close and arduous application last month — 
 I find I cannot write as quickly as usual. I must finish 
 it, at latest, by the 24th, and the instant I have done so, 
 I will apply myself to the farce. I am afraid to name 
 any particular day, but I pledge myself that you shall 
 have it this month, and you may calculate on that pro- 
 mise. I send you with this a copy of a farce I wrote for 
 Harley when he left Drury Lane, and in which he acted 
 for some seventy nights. It is the best thing he does. It 
 is barely possible you might like to try it. Any local or 
 temporary allusions could be easily altered. 
 
 Believe me that I only feel gratified and flattered by 
 your iuquiry after the farce, and that if I had as much 
 time as I have inclination, I would write on and on and 
 
30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 on, farce after farce, and comedy after comedy, until I 
 wrote you something that would run. 
 
 P.S. For Heaven's sake don't fancy that I hold The 
 Strange Gentleman in any estimation, or have a wish 
 upon the subject.* 
 
 The farce of The Lamplighter was, in a few 
 Th l weeks, duly finished, read by the author 
 
 Ughter. ^ ^ e ac j- ors according to custom, and 
 put into rehearsal. The piece, however, does not 
 seem to have found favour with the company, and 
 the following is Dickens's magnanimous reply to 
 Macready's appeal for permission to withdraw it. 
 
 48, Doughty Street, 
 My dear Macready, December 13, 1838. 
 
 I can have but one opinion on the subject — with- 
 draw the farce at once, by all means. 
 
 Charles , ' 
 
 Dickens to I perfectly concur in all you say, and thank 
 acrea y. ^^ most heartily and cordially for your kind 
 and manly conduct, which is only what I should have 
 expected from you; though, under such circumstances, I 
 sincerely believe there are few but you — if any — who 
 would have adopted it. 
 
 Believe me that I have no other feeling of disappoint- 
 ment connected with this matter but that arising from 
 the not having been able to be of some use to you. And 
 trust me that, if the opportunity should ever arrive, my 
 
 * Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. i. p. 16. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 31 
 
 ardour will only be increased — not damped — by the result 
 of this experiment.* 
 
 The unfortunate Lamplighter was accordingly- 
 withdrawn and never acted. The stage copy, how- 
 ever, written in the fair clerkly hand of a copyist, 
 came into possession of the late Mr. John Forster, 
 and forms part of the priceless collection of books 
 and manuscripts bequeathed by him to the nation 
 and deposited in the South Kensington Museum. 
 Rescued from the clutches of faineant librariansf 
 and flunkey officials, it is now presented here in its 
 The Lamp- proper sequence among Dickens's other 
 
 lighter's 
 
 story. dramatic writings, together with the 
 
 story from the Pic Nic Papers into which he turned 
 
 * Letters of Charles Dickens, vol. i. p. 17. 
 
 f The Forster Collection has now been for six years in 
 the possession of the South Kensington authorities ; and no 
 Catalogue adequate or inadequate has appeared up to the 
 present time. The loose list compiled by Mr. Forster' s 
 secretary in his lifetime, and printed for private reference 
 (conveying but a very faint notion of the hidden treasures of 
 the Collection), is the sole catalogue available, and even that 
 can only be consulted on the premises. Of the Dyce Col- 
 lection, an ill-digested, incomplete, and grossly inaccurate 
 Catalogue — full of blunders for which a schoolboy would 
 be whipped — was issued at a prohibitive price, after a delay 
 of years, in two cumbrous volumes. The room provided 
 for the accommodation of readers is capable of seating some 
 six, or at most eight, persons ; in the winter months this 
 room is closed at four o'clock, and in the summer at five ; 
 and the use of ink is forbidden. 
 
32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 it two or three years afterwards, and which has 
 never been included in any Collected Edition of 
 his Works. The reader will find a comparison of 
 the two versions — of the dramatic and the narrative 
 treatment of it — not without interest. 
 
 And here may be said to close the first epoch of 
 Dickens's career as a dramatist. His two remain- 
 ing attempts as a playwright were made at a much 
 later period of his life, and in conjunction with 
 other writers. 
 
 The one-act farce entitled Mr, Nightingale's 
 Mr. Night- Diary was the joint work of Charles 
 
 ingale's 
 
 Diary. Dickens and Mark Lemon, and was 
 
 written for the performances of M The Guild of 
 Literature and Art," and privately printed in the 
 year 1851, — a tiny pamphlet of twenty-six pages, a 
 copy of which is preserved in the Forster Collec- 
 tion at South Kensington.* Dickens himself played 
 the part of Gabblewig, with all the numerous trans- 
 formations and metamorphoses it involved, while 
 Mark Lemon, his coadjutor, took the part of Slap. 
 The piece was first performed at Devonshire House, 
 on Tuesday, May 27, 1851. 
 
 * Forster Catalogue, p. 185. Bound up iu a volume of ten 
 Plays, of which " Not so Bad as we Seem" is the first, and 
 " Mr. Nightingale's Diary " the second. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 33 
 
 ff A stage play, however slight," writes the late Mr. 
 R. H. Home R. H. Home, who was one of the Company 
 Nigltin- of the Guild > " devised and written by the 
 gale's Diary, combined humour and skill of two such ad- 
 mirable amateur actors and popular writers as Charles 
 Dickens and Mark Lemon, could not fail to be pecu- 
 liarly interesting ; how much more so when we know 
 that the characters introduced on the scene were ex- 
 pressly invented and adopted with a view to the special 
 histrionic talents of the two eminent persons who 
 enacted the piece, and when we also know but too sadly 
 that neither of them can ever again be seen in any 
 earthly form. This very amusing production was written 
 for the after-piece to Lord Lytton's comedy of Not so 
 Bad as we Seem, and was acted for the first time at 
 Devonshire House, on the night which inaugurated the 
 series of amateur performances in aid of the fund pro- 
 posed to be raised for the foundation of ' The Guild of 
 Literature and Art/ It was never published, and a few 
 copies only were printed and circulated among the 
 members of the ' Guild.' But, like the possessors, 
 they have all drifted away on the surges of time, and 
 whoever would revert to the piece has very little chance 
 of getting any copy, or fragment of a copy, to assist his 
 memory. 
 
 " The plot was so very slight as scarcely to merit the 
 name, but the principal characters were of a kind never 
 to be forgotten. These were eleven in number, of 
 which Mark Lemon personated three, Dickens five, and 
 Augustus Egg one — and a very remarkable one it was. 
 The remaining characters are of little moment, and, in 
 
 i. a -*- 
 
34 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 truth, we forget who it was that played Mr. Nightin- 
 gale.* The reader will bear in mind that the Queen, the 
 Prince Consort, and most of the Court were present, her 
 Majesty and suite', who had retired for some refreshment 
 after the performance of the comedy, having returned to 
 their places. The Duke of Devonshire was ' all smiles ? 
 at our success thus far. It was quite delightful to see 
 any man so happy. And with regard to the audience, 
 nearly all of whom were members of the highest circles 
 as to rank, and also, perhaps (at any rate in the eyes of 
 Douglas Jerrold, who repeatedly declared it aloud behind 
 the scenes), as to female beauty, most truly might it be 
 said, that they all came pour assister on this our all- 
 important first night, and constituted, therefore, the best 
 possible audience that could be desired. "f 
 
 An anonymous writer in Macmillans Magazine 
 (January 1871) thus describes a later representa- 
 tion of the farce : 
 
 The farce of Mr. Nightingales Diary, the joint pro- 
 duction of Dickens and Mark Lemon, which followed Mr. 
 Ah. Nightingale's Collins's play of The Lighthouse, at Tavi- 
 ■0»«ry- stock House, was well calculated to exhibit 
 
 the versatility of the principal actor. Dickens played 
 one Mr. Gabblewig, in which character he assumed four 
 or five different disguises, changing his dress, voice, and 
 
 * Mr. Dudley Costello.— Ed. 
 
 f Gentleman' s Magazine, May 1871, pp. 660-661. "Bygone 
 Celebrities," by R. H. Home. § Mr, Nightingale's Diary. In 
 his subsequent account of the piece Mr. Home appears to have 
 been betrayed by lapse of memory into many inaccuracies. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 35 
 
 look with a rapidity and completeness which the most 
 practised f • entertainer '' might envy. This whimsical piece 
 of extravagance had been before played by the same actors 
 in the performances for the benefit of the Guild of 
 Literature and Art, but has never been printed, except 
 privately for the use of the original actors. What portions 
 were contributed by the joint authors respectively we can 
 only surmise; but there were certain characters and 
 speeches which bore very clearly stamped upon them the 
 mark of their authorship* 
 
 It was on the eve of his second visit to America 
 that Dickens assisted in dramatising his Christmas 
 story of No Thoroughfare, written conjointly and 
 in nearly equal portions with Mr. Wilkie Collins, 
 to form the Christmas number of All the Year 
 Bound for 1867. It was dramatised by Mr. Collins 
 No Thorough- chiefly. But, in the midst of all the 
 f are ' work of preparation for departure, 
 
 Charles Dickens gave minute attention to as much 
 of the play as could be completed before he left 
 England. It was "the only story," says Mr. 
 Forster, u he ever helped himself to dramatise, "t 
 The incidents are considerably changed in the 
 
 * " Mr. Dickens's Amateur Theatricals : a Eeminiscence.' 
 — Macmillan's Magazine, January 1871, p. 210. 
 f Life of Charles Dickens, vol. i. (1872), p. 119. 
 
 3 * 
 
36 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 drama, notably the scene in the monastery (Act V.),* 
 following Obenreizer's treachery on his fellow- 
 traveller which concludes the Fourth Act ; and 
 the whole episode of Joey Ladle's courtship of 
 Sally Goldstraw, and his admiration of her 
 " beautiful language/' t is absent in the narrative 
 and peculiar to the play, and contains some highly 
 felicitous and characteristic Dickensian touches. 
 The play was produced at the Adelphi Theatre 
 during Dickens's absence in the United States. 
 It was first performed on Boxing-night of 1867, 
 Mr. Fechter taking the part of Obenreizer and 
 Mr. Webster that of Joey Ladle. 
 
 Some allusions to the piece and to its favourable 
 reception, when the news reached its absentee 
 author, are scattered through Dickens's corre- 
 spondence from America in the early part of 1868. 
 
 * "The clock-lock is placed in the monastery of St. Bernard, 
 instead of in the house of a notary, as in the tale. The play 
 in some scenes departs from the story so widely as to be 
 entitled to rank as an entirely original production." — Times, 
 Friday, December 27, 1867.' 
 
 f " Joey's muddled way of moralizing, his intense affec- 
 tion for Sally Goldstraw, his admiration of her * beautiful 
 language,' and his ludicrous attempts to commit her sayings 
 to memory, relieve the somewhat sombre tone of the drama 
 throughout, and make the honest cellarman a personage of 
 much greater importance than he appears in the published 
 story." — Ibid. 
 
1NTE0DUCTI0N. 37 
 
 From New York, early in January, he thus writes 
 to his collaborator, Mr. Wilkie Collins : — 
 
 New York, Sunday, January 12, 1868. 
 First of the play. I am truly delighted to learn that 
 it made so great a success, and I hope I may yet see it on 
 Charles the Adelphi boards. You have had a world 
 
 to wlnrfe of troume and worli witn ti> but * n0 P e wil1 De 
 Collins. repaid in some degree by the pleasure of a 
 
 triumph. Even for the alteration at the end of the fourth 
 
 act I was fully prepared, for I could not see the original 
 
 effect in the reading of the play, and could not make it 
 
 go. I agree with Webster in thinking it best that 
 
 Obenreizer should die on the stage ; but no doubt that 
 
 point is disposed of. In reading the play before the 
 
 representation, I felt that it was too long, and that there 
 
 was a good deal of unnecessary explanation. Those points 
 
 are, no doubt, disposed of too by this time.* 
 
 To his eldest son a few days later he says : — 
 
 New York, January 15, 1868. 
 ... I had previously heard of the play, and had The 
 Times. It was a great relief and delight to me, for I had 
 c D , no confidence in its success ; being reduced to 
 
 c. D. jun. the confines of despair by its length. If I 
 could have rehearsed it, I should have taken the best part 
 of an hour out of it. Fechter must be very fine, and I 
 should greatly like to see him play the part.f 
 
 * Letters of Charles Dickens, ii. 332. 
 f Ibid., ii. 338. 
 
38 INTKODUCTJON. 
 
 To M. Charles Fechter, who played the part of 
 Obenreizer, he writes : — 
 
 Washington, February 24, 1868. 
 
 Wilkie* lias uniformly written of you enthusiasti- 
 cally. In a letter I had from him, dated the 10th of 
 C. D. to Mr. January, he described your conception and 
 Fechter. execution of the part in the most glowing 
 terms. " Here Fechter is magnificent." " Here his 
 superb playing brings the house down." " I should call 
 even his exit in the last act one of the subtlest and finest 
 things he does in the piece." " You can hardly imagine 
 what he gets out of the part, or what he makes of his 
 passionate love for Marguerite." These expressions, and 
 many others like them, crowded his letter. 
 
 I never did so want to see a character played on the 
 stage as I want to see you play Obenreizer. f 
 
 These six pieces comprise all Dickens's extant 
 writings for the stage. That he might have 
 become a successful playwright, had he chosen to 
 devote himself to the drama, seems tolerably certain : 
 as it is, the work he actually accomplished in that 
 kind cannot be estimated otherwise than as highly 
 interesting and valuable, and as throwing new light 
 on the growth and development of his genius. 
 
 * Mr. Wilkie Collins. 
 
 f Letter 8 of Charles Dickens, ii. 362. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 39 
 
 There are several among our foremost prose- 
 writers in the present century who, possessing high 
 imagination, and a considerable power of rhythmical 
 expression, have occasionally produced verse of a 
 high though not of the first order. Lord Macau lay's 
 title to fame will not rest on his Ivry, on his Battle 
 of the Armada, or even on his more ambitious 
 Lays of Ancient Rome ; but one who wrote such 
 eloquent prose could hardly fail to write eloquent 
 verse. Carlyle, in spite of his untiring and ener- 
 getic denunciation of modern poetry as mere 
 dilettantism and trifling, occasionally courted a 
 somewhat coy rnuse ; though were the original 
 verses and translations from the German, scattered 
 through his earlier writings, collected together, 
 they would form a volume of no mean value. 
 They have a wild, rugged melody of their own, 
 and a core of depth and significance, as have also 
 the occasional verses of Emerson, the sad news of 
 whose death just reaches England as these words 
 are committed to press.* The author of Modern 
 Painters might also have gained some reputation 
 as a poet, had he been willing to give a wider 
 
 * End of April 1882. 
 
40 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 circulation to the much-coveted volume of verse 
 in which his scattered contributions to the annuals 
 were collected for private circulation. 
 
 The only attempt at poetry by Charles Dickens 
 much known hitherto to the general public is 
 Charles the favourite song of "The Ivy Green" 
 
 Dickens as 
 
 a poet. in the Pickwick Papers. This exquisite 
 little lyric, with its effective refrain, — so often 
 wedded to music, and so familiar to us all, — would 
 alone suffice to show that in turning aside from 
 prose to verse, his hand did not altogether forget 
 its cunning. In the Comic Opera of The Village 
 Coquettes there are half-a-dozen songs of almost 
 equal tenderness and melody. 
 
 Mr. Ri H. Home pointed out many years ago* 
 that a great portion of the scenes describing the 
 death of Little Nell in M The Old Curiosity Shop," 
 will b$ found to be written — whether by design or 
 harmonious accident, of which the author himself 
 was not even subsequently fully conscious — in 
 blank verse of irregular metre and rhythm, such 
 as Southey, Shelley, and some other poets have 
 occasionally adopted. 
 
 A New Spirit <>J the Aye (Lund., 1844), vol. i., pp. 65-68. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 41 
 
 It was chiefly in the earlier part of his career 
 (though he never entirely abandoned the practice) 
 that Dickens occasionally tried his hand at verse- 
 writing. There are, as we have seen, a number 
 of songs, humorous, satirical, and sentimental, 
 scattered through his earlier dramatic pieces ; 
 and to this class may be added the two songs 
 from Pickwick — the far-famed "Ivy Green" 
 and the less-known "Christmas Carol." The 
 song written for Harley to be sung in the cha- 
 racter of Pickwick, and describing a whitebait 
 dinner at Greenwich, has not, apparently, been 
 preserved. 
 
 The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman, published 
 in 1839, with a set of infinitely humorous illus- 
 trations by George Cruikshank, is an inimitable 
 piece of nonsense, worthy almost to rank with 
 Thackeray's famous improvisation of " The Three 
 Sailors." The mock gravity of the notes adds 
 further zest to the fun. In later editions, when 
 the great artist's old geniality and richness of 
 humour were frozen up by the teetotal craze, he 
 Ballad ' tampered with the text of the verses and 
 
 of Lord L . . 
 
 Bateman. spoilt them, tagging on some rubbish of 
 his own at the end. In the twentieth stanza 
 
42 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Lord Bateman endeavours to assuage his incensed 
 mother-in-law with these assurances : — 
 
 O it 's true I made a bride of your darter, 
 
 But she 's neither the better nor the vorse for me. 
 
 When Cruikshank the artist had degenerated into 
 Gruikshank the propagandist, dreading to offend 
 the more mealy-mouthed votaries of Exeter Hall 
 
 cruikshank's b y such an outrage on the proprie- 
 aiterations. i{ ^ he substituted the inoffensive and 
 
 colourless line — 
 
 But you 'It see what I'll do for you and she ; 
 
 and " took the liberty of adding three verses, 
 to follow No. 20 (No. 21 to be omitted); to be 
 said or sung by those parties who may approve 
 of the alteration and addition." It is hardly 
 necessary to assure the reader that the ballad is 
 here restored to its original text and printed as 
 Charles Dickens wrote it, before it was thus 
 mutilated. 
 
 "In an utilitarian age of all other times," says 
 Dickens himself, writing on this very subject or a 
 kindred one, " it is a matter of grave importance 
 
INTRODUCTION. 43 
 
 that fairy tales should be respected. The theatre 
 c. d. on having done its worst to destroy these 
 Frauds h on ks admirable fictions, it becomes doubly 
 important that the little books themselves, 
 nurseries of fancy as they are, should be preserved. 
 They must be as much preserved in their simplicity, 
 and purity, and innocent extravagance, as if they 
 were actual fact. Whosoever alters them to suit his 
 own opinions, whatever they are, is guilty, to our 
 thinking, of an act of presumption, and appro- 
 priates to himself what does not belong to him. 
 That incomparable artist, Mr. George Cruikshank, 
 is of all men the last who should lay his exquisite 
 hand on fairy text. In his own art he understands 
 it so perfectly, and illustrates it so beautifully, so 
 humorously, so wisely, that he should never lay 
 down his etching-needle to • edit ' the Ogre, to 
 whom with that little instrument he can render 
 such extraordinary justice. But to 4 editing ' Ogres 
 and Hop-o'-my-thumbs, and their families, our 
 dear moralist has in a rash moment taken, as a 
 means of propagating the doctrines of Total Absti- 
 nence, Prohibition of the sale of spirituous liquors, 
 Free Trade, and Popular Education. For the 
 introduction of these topics he has altered the text 
 
44 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of a fairy story ; and against his right to do any 
 such thing we protest with all our might and 
 main.''* 
 
 In his later years, indeed, Cruikshank's austerity 
 contrasted as unpleasantly with the rollicking, free- 
 and-easy 'humour of his best period, as the severity 
 of George Colman the younger, as stage-licenser, 
 contrasted with the looseness and latitude of George 
 Colman as playwright or raconteur. In the last, 
 or almost the last, year of Cruikshank's life, the 
 present writer was preparing a new edition, in 
 which he endeavoured to revive the memory, of a 
 forgotten jeu oVesprit written by a certain James 
 White — Falstaff's Letters — dear to all lovers of 
 Charles Lamb for Lamb's sake as well as for its 
 own. Remembering Cruikshank's delightful illus- 
 trations to Robert Brough's Life of Sir John 
 Falstaff, the thought struck him that Cruikshank 
 might have preserved some scrap or sketch, or 
 might without serious difficulty produce or re- 
 furbish one, that would serve as an attractive 
 frontispiece to White's little book in its new 
 
 * "Frauds on the Fairies." — Household Words, October 1, 
 1853 (vol, viii., p. 97). 
 
INTRODUCTION. 45 
 
 shape. The suggestion was accordingly made to 
 the enterprising and amiable publisher, who was 
 pleased with the idea, and who, having a slight 
 personal acquaintance with Cruikshank, wrote to 
 him, making some overture or proposal in the 
 matter, and sending the original edition for his 
 inspection. In a few days came an answer from 
 Cruikshank the veteran artist, declining to entertain 
 
 and Falstaff's ' ° 
 
 Letters. the proposal on any terms, and strongly 
 urging his correspondent to abandon the projected 
 reprint, as he (Cruikshank) was much shocked, in 
 looking through the little book (herewith returned), 
 •Potatoes, to find that it contained many low, 
 
 prunes, and " 
 
 prism.' vulgar, and improper expressions. Po- 
 
 tatoes, prunes, prism, and propriety!* It might 
 have been possible for the once convivial Cruik- 
 shank, but it could hardly be possible for Sir John 
 Falstaff, swaggering Pistol, Bardolph, and Corporal 
 Xym, to " forswear sack and live cleanly." 
 
 # "Father is rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, 
 besides, gives a pretty form to the lips. Papa, potatoes, 
 poultry, prunes and prism, are all very good words for 
 the lips: especially prunes and prism. You will find it 
 serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you some- 
 times say to yourself in company — on entering a room, for 
 instance — Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism, prunes 
 and prism." — Mrs. General in Little Dorrit (p. 356). 
 
46 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Of Dickens's Examiner squibs his biographer 
 writes as follows : — 
 
 He sent me some rhymed squibs as his anonymous 
 contribution to the fight the Liberals were 
 
 Dickens's . 
 
 Examiner then making against what was believed to be 
 qul intended by the return to office of the Tories. 
 
 I doubt if he ever enjoyed anything more than the power 
 of thus taking part occasionally, unknown to outsiders, 
 in the sharp conflict the press was waging at the time.* 
 
 It seems probable that other political squibs and 
 utterances in verse, prompted by the events of the 
 hour, were written by Dickens, and lie buried, 
 beyond easy reach of discovery, and possibly in 
 journals more obscure and less accessible than the 
 Examiner. 
 
 * Forster's Life of Lichens (ed. 1876), vol. i., pp. 186-187. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 47 
 
 Another class of Dickens's poetical experiments 
 are his Prologues, — doubly interesting to us here 
 Dickens's as a ^ m an ^ allied to his dramatic at- 
 tempts. Of Dickens's Prologues, though 
 probably more were written, only three are known 
 to us ; the first generously volunteered to intro- 
 duce a then new and unknown writer, Mr. Westland 
 Marston, to the public, and spoken by Macready, 
 who in December 1842 produced the young author's 
 maiden play, The Patrician's Daughter, at Dickens's 
 good-natured recommendation. This Prologue 
 contains some vigorous and energetic lines, and 
 really deserves to be remembered and preserved on 
 its own account. The other two extant Prologues 
 of Dickens are of considerably later date, and were 
 written to introduce two successive plays by his 
 friend Mr. Wilkie Collins, — " The Lighthouse," and 
 "The Frozen Deep," — written for the Tavistock 
 House private theatricals. 
 
 A Word in Season and the Hymn of the Wiltshire 
 Labourers are both stirring and manly protests, 
 breathing a true Christian spirit, the one against 
 intolerance and bigotry, the other against oppres- 
 sion, and must have found a loyal response in 
 thousands of honest hearts. Not The Song of the 
 
48 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Shirt, nor The Bridge of Sighs itself, is characterised 
 by more fervour and eloquence, by a higher 
 enthusiasm of humanity, than the Hymn of the 
 Wiltshire Labourers. 
 
 Of Charles Dickens as an actor, much were to be 
 said, did space permit. Early in life, while still 
 Charles a newspaper reporter, he sought the 
 
 Dickens . 
 
 as an actor, stage as a profession, and nearly suc- 
 ceeded in securing an engagement ; but before the 
 negotiations came to anything, he had already 
 turned to literature for his livelihood. When 
 " he wrote a farce," says Mr. Forster, " by way 
 of helping the Covent Garden manager, which 
 the actors could not agree about, and which 
 he turned afterwards into a story called The 
 Lamplighter, he read the piece at the theatre 
 
INTRODUCTION. 49 
 
 before the same stage manager to whom he had 
 written to request a very different audience in 
 the same green-room a few years before ; and 
 Dickens could not but fancy that into Mr. Bartley's 
 face, as he listened to the humorous reading, there 
 crept some strange bewildered half- consciousness 
 that in the famous writer he saw again the youthful 
 would-be actor."* 
 
 A tradition exists that on one occasion at least 
 Dickens played a minor part in his own farce of 
 The Strange Gentleman, in the absence of one of 
 the regular actors ; but we are unable to vouch 
 for the authenticity of this rumour, or to refer to 
 any authority for it. 
 
 Of Dickens's performances during his first visit 
 to America in 1842, his biographer has given a full 
 and interesting account. Mr. Home has described 
 the performances of the Guild of Literature and 
 Art, in which Dickens was manager and one of the 
 chief actors, in a graphic paper, from which we 
 are permitted to make copious extracts. 
 
 The once brilliant " Guild of Literature and Art/' 
 which commenced with the highest prospects of success, 
 
 * Life of Charles Dickens, vol. i. p. 120-121. 
 
 i. 4 
 
50 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was founded by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton and Charles 
 Dickens. The former proposed to give land upon one 
 of his estates in a locality suitable for the erection of a 
 college, and to write a comedy, to be acted with a view 
 to raising a preliminary fund in aid of the object in 
 question; and, in the first instances the performers 
 were to be celebrated authors and artists. All this was 
 undertaken by Charles Dickens. 
 
 The artists who were engaged on Sir E. B. Lytton's 
 Comedy of Not so Bad as We Seem, or Many Sides 
 to a Character, were Daniel Maclise, Clarkson Stan- 
 field, John Leech, Augustus Egg, Mr. Topham, Mr. 
 Frank Stone, and Mr. Tenniel. The authors were 
 Charles Dickens, Mark Lemon, Dudley Costello, Robert 
 Bell, Douglas Jerrold, John Forster, Charles Knight, 
 and R. H. Home. Mr. Wilkie Collins and two or three 
 others were engaged in subsequent performances ; but 
 the above list comprises all those who appeared in the 
 first instance, when the play was represented at Devon- 
 shire House. The stage architect and machinist was 
 Sir Joseph Paxton ; and to his name, among the u past 
 and gone/' must be added that of the kind and munificent 
 patron of the Guild, the late Duke of Devonshire. 
 
 The Duke gave the use of his large Picture Gallery, to 
 be fitted up with seats for the audience j and his Library 
 adjoining for the erection of the theatre. 
 
 The latter room being larger than required for the stage 
 and its scenery, the back portion of it was screened off for 
 a "green room." Sir Joseph Paxton was most assiduous 
 and careful in the erection of the theatre and seats. 
 There was a special box for the Queen. None of the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 51 
 
 valuable paintings in the picture gallery (arranged for the 
 auditorium) were removed, but all of them were faced 
 with planks, and covered with crimson velvet draperies. 
 Sir Joseph Paxton arranged the ventilation in the most 
 skilful manner ; and with some assistance from a theatrical 
 machinist, he put up all the scenes, curtains, and flies. 
 Dickens was unanimously dubbed general manager, and 
 Mark Lemon stage manager. We had a professional 
 gentleman for prompter, as none of the amateurs could 
 be entrusted with so technical, tactical, ticklish, and 
 momentous a series of duties. 
 
 Never in the world of theatres was a better manager 
 than Charles Dickens. Without, of course, questioning 
 the superiority of Goethe (in the Weimar theatre) as a 
 manager in all matters of high-class dramatic literature, 
 one cannot think he could have been so excellent in all 
 general requirements, stage effects, and practical details 
 of acting and of theatrical business. Equally assiduous 
 and unwearying as Dickens surely very few men ever 
 were, or could possibly be. He appeared almost 
 ubiquitous and sleepless. We had many (I really think, 
 thirteen) rehearsals, six or seven of them after everybody 
 knew his part, letter perfect. 
 
 Nothing could surpass the princely munificence of the 
 Duke of Devonshire throughout this occasion, unless, 
 indeed, it were his extreme kindness, and delicate con- 
 sideration for the feelings of all the authors and artists 
 engaged in the matter. The gates of Devonshire House 
 were opened to our hackneys and cabriolets with all the 
 ceremony of porters and footmen, precisely as though our 
 vehicles had been the usual classes of courtly equipage. 
 
 4 * 
 
52 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A profuse and elegant cold collation (comprising every 
 delicacy in and out of season, and the choicest wines,) 
 was always served for the " company," behind whose 
 chairs the Duke's own footmen in full livery (" uniform w 
 would seem to be a more literal term, as they all wore 
 double silver-bullion epaulettes) ; and at most of those 
 twelve or thirteen luxurious luncheons, or dejeuners a la 
 fourchette, the Duke sat down, apologizing for the very 
 spare indulgence to which the state of his health limited 
 him. 
 
 The principal scenes were painted by Clarkson Stanfield ; 
 but some of them were the work of Maclise ; indeed, it 
 appeared that Mr. Egg, as well as Topham and Tenniel, 
 gave frequent assistance, as they were all continually on 
 the stage during the touching-up and arrangement of the 
 scenery. 
 
 Mr. Planche was consulted about the costumes ; and it 
 was agreed that the wigs and " make-up " of faces should 
 be as good and characteristic as possible. One military 
 " character/' not considering himself sufficiently tall for 
 the part, had a pair of thigh boots made with cork heels 
 four inches high. 
 
 Several amusing incidents occurred in the course of 
 the rehearsals. The first was during the preparation of 
 the scenic arrangements, some alteration in which was 
 required. Sir Joseph Paxton gave his directions, and 
 went away for a time. The hour for rehearsal had 
 not yet come, and we were conning our parts in the 
 green-room. Meanwhile, a tall, elderly gentleman, very 
 plainly dressed in a suit of what looked like rather 
 rusty black, had got upon the stage, and was lurking 
 
INTRODUCTION. 53 
 
 among the wings, now in one place, now in another, with 
 an amiable smile upon his countenance, denoting the 
 interest he took in the proceedings. The heavy roller 
 of a scene was now being hoisted, and the tall gentle- 
 man in black became confused as to his whereabouts. 
 " Now, sir ! M exclaimed a voice, " do for heaven's sake 
 keep out of the way ! Do you want to get your back 
 broke ? " The elderly gentleman apologised with a depre- 
 cating bow, and immediately retired. " Who was that?" 
 somebody inquired ; but nobody on the stage at that 
 moment knew. It was the Duke ! This direful con- 
 tretemps was speedily put to rights by the ready tact 
 and proper feeling of our manager, and was the source of 
 much amusement to the amiable nobleman, who warmly 
 and humorously expressed his thanks for the timely 
 warning. It was " set about " that the blunder had been 
 committed by one of the stage-carpenters ; but there was 
 good reason to be afraid that it was one of nous autres. 
 
 Another incident, which will be regarded as rather odd 
 and unique, may serve as material for some curious specu- 
 lations as to the force of imagination, and also of the 
 sympathy between our visual and olfactory organs. 
 Colonel Flint, of the Guards, a bully and duellist, 
 described in the dramatis persona as a "fire-eater/' 
 was to stand with his back to the red glowing chimney- 
 piece in " Will's Coffee House." The period is that of 
 George the First, when it was fashionable for great bloods 
 and bucks of the day to smoke long pipes, designated as a 
 ** yard of clay/' With such a pipe Colonel Flint had 
 duly provided himself for rehearsal ; and to make his 
 stage-business more perfect, soft-rolling clouds of smoke 
 
54 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 began to issue from the bowl, and float over the once 
 famous coffee-room. In no time came the Manager, 
 
 speaking quickly, "My clear H on no account 
 
 attempt to smoke ! The Queen detests tobacco, and 
 would leave the box immediately." 
 
 "But there 's no tobacco in the pipe;'' replied the 
 Colonel. 
 
 " Oh — come — nonsense." 
 
 " Look here ! " — and the Colonel took out of his waist- 
 coat pocket a handful of dried herbs. " I got them in 
 Covent Garden market this morning, on the way to 
 rehearsal." 
 
 "Well — we smelt tobacco the moment we came within 
 sight of the stage," said Dickens : " the pipe must be 
 foul." 
 
 " It is quite a new pipe ! " 
 
 Mark Lemon now came up, and protesting that he also 
 had smelt tobacco, and that the pipe must have been an 
 old one re-burnt, to look clean, the offending clay was 
 flung aside. 
 
 Before the next rehearsal, however, another pipe, 
 warranted new and pure, was obtained, independent of 
 which it was placed in the fire, and kept there at white- 
 heat long enough to purify it ten times over, even had 
 it been one of the unclean. Again the cloud began to 
 unfold its volumes over " Will's Coffee-room " ; and this 
 time Sir Joseph Paxton came running from the seats in 
 the front to the stage, declaring that the Queen so 
 detested the smell of tobacco, that smoking must really 
 not be attempted. Once again the Colonel protested the 
 innocence of his pipe, in proof of which he produced a 
 
INTRODUCTION. 55 
 
 handful of dried thyme and rose-leaves from his waistcoat 
 pocket. In vain. Sir Joseph insisted that he had smelt 
 tobacco ! — " They all smelt it ! M So this second yard of 
 clay was sent to shivers. 
 
 But the Colonel had chanced to see a " Model of the 
 Battle of Waterloo w exhibited some years before in 
 Leicester Square, in which the various miniature platoons 
 of infantry, as well as the brigades of artillery, were 
 supposed to be firing volleys, the clouds and wreaths of 
 smoke being fragile fixtures. These capital imitations of 
 clouds and wreaths of smoke were discovered, on very 
 close examination, to be composed of extremely fine and 
 thinly drawn out webs of cotton, supported on rings and 
 long twirls of almost invisible wire, and attached at one 
 end to the mouths and muzzles of the miniature cannon 
 and musketry. This model for a triumph in the art of 
 smoking a pipe in the presence of a Queen who abhorred 
 tobacco, was now adopted by Colonel Flint, but held in 
 reserve for the full-dress rehearsal, when there would 
 be a preliminary audience. 
 
 He ventured to flatter himself that all these delicate 
 considerations and assiduities would be much applauded 
 and complimented, both by the accomplished author and 
 the management. Far from it. No sooner was the cloud 
 of apparent smoke perceived to issue from the pipe, than 
 the Manager, St age -manager, and Sir Joseph Paxton 
 hurried together to the too assiduous Guardsman, begging 
 him on no account to persist in this smoking ! — or this 
 (on examining more nearly) appearance of smoking. 
 It would be most injudicious. The Queen would think 
 she smelt tobacco, and this would be as bad as if her 
 
56 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Majesty really smelt it ; at the same time, they added, 
 collectively, that they themselves had smelt tobacco, no 
 matter from what source, or what cause ! Of course 
 there was an end of the matter, as we were all anxious to 
 be harmonious ; and the discomfited " fire-eater w of the 
 comedy did the best he could to bully the company in 
 " Will's Coffee-room w with his empty-bowled and im- 
 maculate yard of clay. These minute details, however, 
 will serve to show the pains that were taken even with the 
 slightest parts of this performance ; pains that were 
 worthy of the Comedie Franchise. 
 
 At the full-dress rehearsal, the audience was composed 
 exclusively of the relatives, friends, and acquaintance of 
 the Duke of Devonshire, and of the authors and artists 
 engaged in the performance. All went well, and the 
 "first night" was announced. The tickets were five 
 guineas each, and her Majesty sent a hundred guineas for 
 her box. This night — our first — our all-important night 
 — went off most satisfactorily. Only one little accident 
 occurred. Every gentleman of the period, of any rank, 
 wore a sword ; the manager, therefore, intimated that as 
 our stage was small, and would be nearly filled up with 
 side tables and tables in front, in the conspiracy scene in 
 " Will's Coffee House," it would be prudent and important 
 that the swords of the dramatis persona should be most 
 carefully considered in passing down the centre, and round 
 one of the tables in front. At this table sat the Duke 
 of Middlesex (Frank Stone) and the Earl of Loftus (Mr. 
 Dudley Costello), in a private and high-treasonous con- 
 versation. On the table were decanters, glasses, plates 
 of fruit, &c. At the other table, in front, sat Mr. David 
 
INTEODUOTION. 57 
 
 Fallen (Augustus Egg), the half- starved Grub-street 
 author and political pamphleteer, with some bread and 
 cheese, and a little mug of ale. The eventful moment 
 came, when Mr. Shadowly Softhead (Douglas Jerrold), 
 Colonel Flint and others, had to pass down the narrow 
 space in the middle of the stage, to be presented to the 
 Duke of Middlesex, and then, as there was not room 
 enough to enable them to turn about and retire up the 
 stage, each one was to pass round the corner of the table, 
 and make his exit at the left first entrance. This was 
 done by all with safety, and reasonably good grace, except 
 one gentleman, who shall not be named ; for as he rose 
 from his courtly bowing, to advance and pass round, the 
 tip of his jutting-out sword went rigidly across the surface 
 of the table, and swept off the whole of the " properties " 
 and realities ! Decanters, glasses, grapes, a pine-apple, a 
 painted pound cake, and several fine wooden peaches, 
 rolled pell-mell upon the stage, and, as usual, made for 
 the footlights ! A considerable " sensation M passed over 
 the audience ; amidst which the Queen (to judge by the 
 shaking of the handkerchief in front of the royal face) by 
 no means remained unmoved. But Dickens, who, as Lord 
 Wilmot, happened to be close in front, with admirable 
 promptitude and tact, instantly called out with a jaunty air 
 of command, " Here, drawer ! come and clear away this 
 wreck ! " as though the disaster had been a part of the 
 business of the scene, while the others on the stage so well 
 managed their bye-play that many of the audience were in 
 some doubt about the accident. When inquiry was insti- 
 tuted as to the culprit on this occasion, who had failed to 
 carry his sword with due circumspection, as every one of 
 
58 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the " Guild w protested his innocence of the awkward fact 
 in question, it was presently discovered that the guilty 
 individual was a supernumerary lord for that scene, enacted 
 by a gentleman who was one of the Duke's suite. 
 
 Two other amusing incidents occurred. A number of 
 bedrooms had been placed at our disposal for dressing- 
 rooms. A certain gentleman of the " company w (the 
 portly and genial Mark Lemon it was whispered) had 
 been somewhat too long over the buttoning of a long- 
 flapped and stiffly embroidered waistcoat, and the call-boy 
 had been sent up stairs a second time from the prompter 
 below, to inform him that the stage would immediately be 
 " waiting w for him ! Away ran the boy, and vanished 
 round a corner. In his haste, the " character " in 
 question took a wrong turn, and coming upon a steep 
 flight of stairs, down he hurried, and then down another 
 long flight, and presently found that he was close upon 
 the kitchens. Up he rushed again, and scuttled along the 
 gallery, till he turned into a still longer gallery, well 
 lighted, but vacant and hopeless. Once more he made a 
 turn, now wild with the thought of the stage being kept 
 waiting, and seeing a tall, dark figure passing the further 
 end, he rushed towards it — wigged, powdered, buckled, 
 ruffled, perspiring, maddened, and gasping out " Where — 
 where '■ the stage ? M He was barely able to recognise 
 the Duke, who with a most delighted and delightful 
 urbanity, at once put him upon his right course. Another 
 miscalculation of time occurred, in consequence of Sir 
 Joseph Paxton remarking in the green-room, just after 
 the conclusion of the performance, that he had arranged 
 the Queen's chair . in the supper-room, in a peculiar 
 
INTRODUCTION. 59 
 
 maimer, with exotic and other rare flowers, which had 
 arrived that evening fresh from the Duke's gardens at 
 Chatsworth. Colonel Flint hearing this, requested per- 
 mission to see the floral throne, before her Majesty's 
 entrance to the supper-room. 
 
 ff By all means," said Sir Joseph, " but you must be 
 very quick." Away hurried the applicant, and was 
 speedily in the supper-room, and made his way, his stage 
 costume notwithstanding, through a number of gentlemen 
 in waiting, officers attired in a very different sort of 
 uniform, footmen, &c, to their no small surprise and 
 amusement. But the sight well rewarded the effort. 
 
 At the top of the table and furthest from the door, 
 there was a richly-carved and cushioned chair, raised a 
 few inches above the other chairs. It had large padded 
 arms of figured satin and velvet, and a high back that had 
 a carved gothic arch at the top. But very little of the 
 chair could be clearly seen, and its outline was only 
 indicated here and there. The whole of the back was 
 devoted to roses, red and white, mingled with mag- 
 nolias, jasmine, honeysuckle, and tuberoses ; but the 
 high arch and sides of the chair were overhung with 
 festoons and long dripping falls and tangles of the most 
 lovely orchidaceous and other exotic plants, and by fine 
 trickling tendrils and dangling lines, bearing little starry 
 flowers, and very minute and curiously-striped leaves, 
 leaflets, and tiny fairy buds ; and some of the creepers dis- 
 playing little flowers and leaves that resembled a sort of 
 floral jewellery. At the top of the arched chair back, 
 there was a large night-flowering ceres, of most delicious 
 and recondite perfume. (No wonder Sir Joseph was 
 
60 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 alarmed at tobacco !) The predominating colours were 
 snow white and apple green, with a little soft azure, and a 
 few scarlet buds, and here and there a dark Tuscany rose 
 or two for shadows ; the whole having been carefully 
 selected and arranged by Sir Joseph as a suitable back 
 ground for the dress worn by her Majesty on this, we 
 may say unprecedented occasion. An imitation of dew- 
 drops was achieved to a degree of perfect illusion, by 
 means of opals and glass, as it seemed ; a piece of refined 
 ingenuity which was about to undergo a close inspection 
 by Flint, when suddenly it was announced that the 
 Queen was approaching the supper-room ! Instantly the 
 awakened Colonel made a dash for the open door, but it 
 was only to encounter the bowing backs and elegantly 
 embroidered coat-tails of gentlemen and lords in waiting, 
 who were ushering in her Majesty ! There was nothing 
 for it but to spring aside, and range in line with the officers 
 and gentlemen in attendance, and to w stand attention," as 
 if on grand parade. He trusted, in the confusion of the 
 moment, that his guardsman's uniform of the time of 
 George I., notwithstanding the polished thigh boots and 
 towering powdered wig, would not be observed by the 
 Queen, with Prince Albert, the Duke, and suite attending, 
 or following. Vain hope ! The gleaming glances that 
 passed told all ; and with long rapid strides, the instant 
 Her Majesty was seated, the anachronismic uniform made 
 its exit at the rear of the line in which it had so 
 unseasonably appeared en militaire. 
 
 After the performance, and before leaving the box, her 
 Majesty had sent to the manager to express her gratifica- 
 tion, coupled with the remark, " They act very well 
 
INTRODUCTION. 61 
 
 indeed. " This was duly announced to the Company, 
 when assembled for supper, and was received with great 
 satisfaction, modest and otherwise ; but Dickens went on, 
 drily adding — "But the Queen is very kind — and was 
 sure to say that ; " — which very much straightened the 
 complacent faces round the table, till they laughed at 
 each other. Nevertheless, a few more words may be said 
 on the subject. They really did act well; some, very 
 well. When it is remembered the studious sort of men 
 they all were, and the time, together with the great pains 
 bestowed in all respects, — why not ? The principal 
 character, as matter of elocution, was that of Hardman, 
 and the gentleman personating this rising young states- 
 man was unquestionably one of the best private readers 
 of the day. Then, as to acting, most of the company 
 were practised amateurs long before this event, more 
 especially Douglas Jerrold and Mark Lemon, who, in 
 parts that suited them, were first-rate actors, almost 
 equal to Dickens. The two latter were matchless in the 
 after-piece, but the parts they played in the comedy were 
 not in accordance with their peculiar talents. It has 
 been said that Dickens, in private life, had very much 
 the appearance of a seafaring man. This is quite true; 
 and his long daily walks about London and the environs, 
 or at the sea-side, caused him to have a very sun-burnt 
 weather-beaten face. His full-length portrait, if truth- 
 fully painted, might readily be mistaken for the captain 
 of an East Indiaman. But the character and costume of 
 " Lord Wilmot, a young man at the head of the Mode, 
 more than a century ago," did not suit him, and was in fact 
 against the grain of his nature. His bearing on the stage, 
 
62 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and the tone of his voice, were too rigid, hard and quarter- 
 deck-like, for such " rank and fashion," and his make-up, 
 with the three-cornered gold-laced cocked -hat, black curled 
 wig, huge sleeve- cuffs, long flapped waistcoat, knee- 
 breeches and great shoe-buckles, were not carried off with 
 the proper air ; so that he presented a figure that would 
 have made a good portrait of the captain of a Dutch 
 privateer,* after having taken a capital prize. When he 
 shouted in praise of the wine of Burgundy, it far rather 
 suggested fine kegs of Schiedam. It was in Mr. 
 Nightingale's Diary, which followed, that he was inimit- 
 able. Miss Mitford, being present at the performance of 
 this some time afterwards, pronounced certain parts of 
 his acting in this piece as something wonderful. Neither 
 can it be said that Mark Lemon was quite at home in his 
 part in the comedy, viz., that of " Sir Geoffrey Thornside, 
 a gentleman of good family and estate." He looked far 
 more like a burly, wealthy Yorkshire brewer, who had 
 retired upon something handsome. In the after-piece he 
 could hardly have been surpassed. Yet both the last- 
 named parts in the comedy were fairly acted. Jerrold 
 also (a capital actor in certain parts) was hardly in his 
 right element. The head and face of Jerrold were a good 
 illustration of the saying that most people are like one or 
 another of our w dumb fellow-creatures," for he certainly 
 had a remarkable resemblance, in several respects, to a 
 
 * A celebrated painter is said to have made a similar 
 remark. What would he have thought of Dickens in the 
 above costume ? — [Note by B. H. H.] 
 
INTRODUCTION. 63 
 
 lion, chiefly for his very large, clear, round, undaunted, 
 straightforward looking eyes ; the structure of the fore- 
 head ; and his rough, unkempt, uplifted flourish of tawny 
 hair. It was difficult to make such a face look like the 
 foolish, half-scared country gentleman, " Mr. Shadowly 
 Softhead"; but he enacted the part very well, notwith- 
 standing. As a contrast to these, Mr. Frank Stone, the 
 painter, presented a very grave, tall, stately full-length of 
 the proud " Duke of Middlesex," whose dignity was 
 astonished at his wife daring to take u such a liberty " as 
 to give him a kiss ; while the " Earl of Loftus " of Mr. 
 Dudley Costello was far too elegant for a nobleman of 
 the court of George I , and rather resembled a highly- 
 polished French marquis of the age of Louis Quatorze. 
 The make-up of Mr. Egg as " David Fallen," the Grub- 
 street author, was such as only a fine painter could 
 well have effected. Intellectual and refined amidst his 
 seedy clothing; resentful of his hard lot, yet saddened 
 by disappointment and semi-starvation, his thoughts 
 appearing to oscillate between independence of character 
 — his political hiring — and his hungry family in their 
 miserable attic ; such a countenance was presented as the 
 stage has seldom seen, and is very unlikely to see again, 
 except at rare and exceptional intervals. The Irish 
 landlord of Mr. Fallen (Paddy O'Sullivan) was represented 
 to perfection by Mr. Robert Bell, whose gigantic stature, 
 long frieze coat, little bit of a hat, ragged red wig, and 
 highly-painted smiling visage (reminding one of the 
 Sompnour in the " Canterbury Tales "), gave a picture 
 that even surpassed the effect of the rich brogue in 
 which he blurted out the few words allotted to him. The 
 
64 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 minor parts, however, of this play have all been reduced 
 to mere shreds in the acting copies since published. No 
 professional actors would be at all likely to take such 
 pains with them as were exhibited on this occasion.* 
 
 Tn a later paper Mr. Home gives the following 
 account of the farce of Mr. Nightingale's Diary. 
 His recollections of the plot and characters, and 
 his quotations of some of the speeches, written 
 apparently from memory after a lapse of twenty 
 years, differ considerably from the authorized 
 privately-printed text, as reproduced in pur second 
 volume : — 
 
 The piece opened with the entrance of Mark Lemon, 
 dressed as a German student, travelling after the manner 
 of Wilhelm Meister on his "art-apprenticeship." The 
 scene, however, was the private parlour of an English 
 country inn ; and it was at once discovered that the 
 apparent student was a strolling player who had adopted 
 that disguise in order to practise the not very uncommon, 
 yet by no means easy, art of " living by his wits." 
 Mark's portly figure was covered with a nankeen summer 
 blouse, having a broad leather belt round the waist, or 
 the place where a waist should be ; and on his head he 
 wore a German cap with a great peak, which did but 
 
 * The Gentleman's Magazine, February 1871 (quoted by 
 kind permission of Messrs. Chatto and Windus). 
 
INTRODUCTION. 65 
 
 little to shade his large, round, sunbrowned smiling face. 
 On his first entrance he gave the effect of an overgrown 
 schoolboy ; but when he came close down to the lamps it 
 was evident that he was a fully developed rogue. He 
 wore travelling boots; a German quersack, or leather 
 wallet, dangled from his belt, and he carried an unmis- 
 takable English carpet-bag, which he rapidly, and rather 
 furtively, deposited under a table on one side of the 
 room. 
 
 He now made a brief soliloquy, illustrated with a richly 
 humorous expression of countenance, to the following 
 effect : — " He was not at present a member of a company 
 of strolling players, but he kept better company — to wit, 
 his own — and he was now strolling, not to please others by 
 playing for them, but to play upon them to please himself ; 
 and the more they paid the better he was pleased ; them 
 was his sentiments. But, at the present moment, un- 
 fortunately, he was quite out of cash, and, as was sure 
 to happen when he was penniless, he felt more than 
 usually hungry. For this reason he had naturally entered 
 an inn, as the proper place for satisfying hunger ; and 
 when that sacred duty had been performed, he would 
 consider by what means the bill was to be paid. Could 
 any man do more ? " 
 
 So saying, he seated himself at a side-table, and, after 
 running over an imaginary larder, he resolved on order- 
 ing a good dinner, and forthwith rang the bell. As no 
 waiter made an appearance, he rang again vigorously ; 
 and yet a third time he had to ring. The individual who 
 then entered was greeted with a round of smiles, as well 
 as general applause. 
 
 h 5 
 
66 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " This seems rather a humble kind of an inn, my man. 
 Ts there any corn in Egypt ? " 
 
 "Don't know, Sir; but we've got some here; — quite 
 enough for any 'orse you may 'ire for the day." 
 
 " Ahem ! You misunderstand me, young man ; / am 
 the horse inquiring for corn. What's the state of the 
 larder, eh ? " 
 
 " Well, Sir, there 's the not werry shapely remains 
 of a round o' boiled beef, as was 'ot the day afore 
 yesterday ; and there 's the back and drumsticks of 
 a seasonable old goose; and — and — why, Jemmy! — 
 Jemmy Daddleham, is that you? I thought I know'd 
 you ! " 
 
 It turns out that Sam Wellerwas at one time a member 
 of a company of strolling players, and now recognises in 
 the German student Mr. James Daddleham, the leading 
 tragedian of that company. Sam quickly disappears, in 
 order to bring some refreshment for the famishing " star," 
 who falls into a train of sentimental absurdity during his 
 absence. 
 
 Some of the characters in this laughable piece of stage 
 composition had no names given to them, and others had 
 names liable to be changed with every fresh representa- 
 tion ; and as for the dialogue, it was never twice alike, 
 the two principals understanding each other well enough 
 to extemporise whenever they had a fancy to do so. For 
 this reason we have truly designated the piece a stage 
 composition. Consequently, the printed copies (when- 
 ever a straggler may be discovered) will contain very little 
 of what was said by these two celebrated humourists and 
 amateurs. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 67 
 
 Sam Weller speedily returns, bringing with him a tray. 
 He spreads the cloth on the little side-table, and " in no 
 time M it is^ seen covered with beef and bread and bottles 
 and plates and a couple of tankards. This done, Sam 
 seats himself at the table, opposite the eminent tragedian, 
 who falls to with every demonstration of hunger and 
 delight. Eating heartily, and drinking to match, always 
 gives great pleasure to a British audience ; and this most 
 refined of audiences proved no exception. While the 
 " star" was recruiting himself, Sam contented himself by 
 responding to friendly pledges with the tankard, and by 
 various amusing references to their strolling days, and to 
 the characters impersonated by the " world-renowned " 
 Mr. Daddleham, especially some of his tragic parts, con- 
 cerning which Sam alternately flattered him with pre- 
 posterous compliments, and startled him by equivocal 
 commentaries For instance : — 
 
 "O, Sir," said Sam, "what a'Amlet yourn was ! Shall 
 we ever again see sich a 'Amlet ? " 
 
 " You think it was good, do you, Sam ? M 
 
 " Good, Sir ! good 's no word for it." 
 
 " Ah ! n said Mr. Daddleham, with affected modesty, 
 laying down his knife and fork, and looking down 
 sentimentally at his portly corporation ; " yes, Sam ; I 
 think there was something in my Hamlet." 
 
 " Yes, and something of you, too, Sir." 
 
 This ridiculous compliment to his unsuitable figure of 
 course upset the previous eulogy. The conversation then 
 dropped into melodrama, and Sam referred to a certain 
 piece in which they had fought a dreadful combat 
 together in a wood. This enlivening recollection induced 
 
 5 * 
 
68 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a mutual draught from the foaming tankard; and Sam, 
 exclaiming u Ah, those wos the days, Sir — them wos ! n 
 regretted they could not fight that celebrated combat 
 again. Hereupon Mr. Daddleham informed Sam that it 
 could very easily be fought again. 
 
 "When, Sir?" said Sam, eagerly. 
 
 " Now, Sam ! " 
 
 " Where the place, Sir?" 
 
 u Not ' upon the heath/ but on these very boards." 
 
 "These!" 
 
 " Yes, these, Sam. Behold yonder carpet-bag, there ! " 
 
 " Hah ! under the table ! I see it all. That bag 
 contains " 
 
 " It does — it does ! all the theatrical properties now left 
 me by invidious fate." 
 
 The eminent incog, now rushed across to his carpet-bag, 
 and from its well-stuffed paunch hurriedly disengaged 
 and extracted two melodramatic short swords. Sam 
 eagerly seized one of these weapons, and a sanguinary 
 combat of the unique old school of popular melodrama at 
 once commenced, in process of which every outrageous 
 and ridiculous stage business of that class was carried to 
 the utmost perfection. First, they prowled round and 
 round each other — now darting in, very nearly, and as 
 suddenly starting back j next a passing cut is exchanged, 
 then two or three cuts, the swords emitting sparks, and 
 the combatants uttering strange guttural sounds, breath- 
 ing hard, and showing their teeth at each other like hungry 
 wolves. At last they close, and strike and parry to a 
 regular measured time, till gradually you find they are 
 beating a sort of time very like the one known as 
 
"» INTRODUCTION. 69 
 
 Lodoiska in the Lancer Quadrilles. After this they strike 
 at the calves of each other's legs by alternate back stroke 
 and parry, and then Sara springs upon Mr. Daddleham's 
 left hip, and deals a succession of blows downwards at his 
 head, all parried, of course, with ludicrous precision. 
 Finally, the sword of Sam is passed under one of his 
 antagonist's arms, who thereupon exhibits the agonies of 
 being run through the body, but nevertheless comes again 
 and again to receive the same mortal wound ; in fact, he 
 comes, though fainter and fainter each time, till Sam is 
 at length so exhausted with running through such a fat 
 body that he reels backward fainting just as his antagonist 
 falls with a last gasp and a bump upon the stage that 
 convulses the whole audience with laughter. 
 
 After this they return panting to the table, and recruit 
 themselves with another tankard of ale, over which some 
 conversation takes place, introductory of the plot of the 
 piece, such as it is, and the two quondam strollers separate. 
 I have said that several of the characters were not named 
 in the bills, so that we are at liberty to give them any 
 passing name by way of identification. Even the name 
 of Sam Weller was not given, so far as 1 remember; but 
 nobody could doubt who it was from the first moment 
 of his entrance. One of the characters, however, repre- 
 sented by Dickens was named Mr. Gabblewig, a capital 
 name for an over-voluble barrister (the names, in nearly 
 all his works, are invented with singular humour and 
 appropriateness), but certainly of far less mark and 
 importance in the piece than other characters he 
 assumed. 
 
 Another of the characters played by Dickens in 
 
70 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 this piece was a hypochondriac, for whom a certain 
 renowned Doctor (a quack, of course) had prescribed 
 repeated doses, day and night, of mustard and milk. 
 The sick gentleman, seated in a great high-back, padded 
 arm-chair, went through a rambling discourse, continually 
 interrupted by spasmodic contortions, which he accom- 
 panied with declarations such as, u That 's the mustard ! 
 I know, by the hot, biting pang ! Ha ! that 's that the 
 milk ! I 'm sure that must be the milk, by the griping ! 
 The sour curds are now in full — Oh ! — there 's the 
 mustard again ! — come to — come to — come to correct the 
 milk, as the Doctor said it would. M 
 
 At this painful crisis Mark Lemon enters as the great 
 Doctor. His make-up is altogether admirable. Black 
 evening dress ; with knee-smalls, black silk stockings, gilt 
 knee-buckles, and gilt shoe-buckles ; black silk vest, with 
 very large white shirt-frill, and a mock-diamond pin. 
 His fingers display several mourning-rings. A high old- 
 fashioned white neckcloth, without shirt-collar, and his 
 hair powdered, complete his costume. He advances with 
 a slow, soft pace, a gentle, yet somewhat pompous air, 
 and gesticulates with his hands, occasionally patting the 
 patient's shoulder, very much in the style of the Doctor 
 in Punch's show, being full of ridiculous patronage and 
 conceited paternal dogmatism. The discourse he delivers 
 is in the following strain : — 
 
 " Yes, yes — ah, yes, my friend, — calm yourself, my dear 
 sir, — be quite calm. What you are suffering from at this 
 moment is simply the pervestigation of the lacteal 
 mustardine panacea, acting diagonally and hydrodynami- 
 cally upon the vesicular and nervine systems, and thence 
 
1NTB0DUCTI0N. 71 
 
 sympathetically upon the periosteum. But be calm — be 
 quite calm. We shall very soon — yes — let me feel your 
 pulse ! Ah, yes very fair — three, four, five, six — my 
 watch — my — bless my soul ! I 've left it at my nephew's 
 [Aside : My uncle's] ; but we can count as well without it. 
 There — that will do — keep yourself — keep yourself calm, 
 my dear sir ! " (Here the patient exhibited a variety 
 of contortions.) " We shall change the medicine. We 
 shall just order you a mild preparation of the agglomerated 
 balsamic phenomenon, with a few grains of the carthusian 
 pigment, and a table-spoonful every half-hour of the 
 astrobolic decoction of tetramuncus." 
 
 Here the patient starts up in horror at the prospect of 
 these prescriptions, and, forgetting all his ailments, rushes 
 madly about the stage, driving the Doctor and everybody 
 else before him in his exit. 
 
 The character that produced the greatest effect was that 
 of a woman who had no name awarded to her in the 
 piece, but to whom Dickens always alluded as Mrs. Gamp, 
 although to our thinking she was not the real Mrs. Gamp, 
 but only a near relation, Dickens's make-up in this 
 character was not to be surpassed, unless indeed by one 
 other which he personated, and by that of a wretched 
 half-starved charity-boy represented by Mr. Egg. The 
 woman, so far as I can remember, was accusing Mr. 
 Nightingale of paternity in this matter, and she calls the 
 boy to come forward and show himself as the living proof 
 of her declaration. Thus summoned, a pale, miserable 
 face, with hair cropped close, like a convict, and wearing 
 a little round workhouse- cap, peeped forth at one wing. 
 By stealthy degrees t the object advanced in a side-long 
 
72 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 way, half retreating at times, and finally getting behind 
 Mr. Nightingale's chair, and only showing himself now 
 and then, when lugged forth by his mother. Mr. Egg 
 was naturally short and attenuated, but how he contrived 
 to make such a skeleton-like appearance was a marvel to 
 all who looked upon him. Over his own face he had 
 literally painted another face, and one so woeful and 
 squalid was surely never seen before upon the stage of a 
 theatre. The acting was equally perfect, for not only did 
 he enter like "a thing forbid," but all his movements 
 kept up this appearance of abject self-consciousness and 
 furtive evasion of all eyes. He crouched down behind 
 or at the side of Mr. Nightingale's chair, like a starved 
 hound, too terrified and apprehensive even to eat if food 
 were offered him, and finally he skulked and bolted off 
 the stage at long strides, looking back as though he 
 expected to be shot at like some intruding reptile. 
 Altogether the thing was too real ; it was more painful than 
 amusing, or at all events pleasurable, and so far passed 
 the true bounds of Art. But the speech of the woman, 
 as delivered by Dickens, amply made up for the pain 
 caused by her wretched -looking boy. This speech, often 
 repeated afterwards, was never heard to the end, from the 
 incessant laughter it caused, not only among the audience, 
 but among all the '* Guild " behind the scenes. When not 
 in front to hear it, we used to congregate at the wings of 
 the stage. It was uttered with unbroken volubility, very 
 nearly in the following words : — * 
 
 " Don't speak to me, sir ! now, don't go to argify with 
 
 * Compare with the same quotation in Macmillans Maga* 
 zinc, and with the actual printed text (vol. ii., pp. 58-59). 
 
INTEODUOTION. 73 
 
 me ! don't pertend to consolate or reason with a unper- 
 teckted woman, which her naytural feelings is too much 
 for her to support ! Leave your 'ouse ! No, sir, I will 
 not leave the 'ouse without seeiug my child, my boy, 
 righted in all Lis rights ! — that dear boy, sir, as you just 
 saw, which he was his mother's hope and his father's 
 pride, and no one as I knows on's joy. And the name as 
 was guv to this blessedest of infants, and vorked in best 
 Vitechapel mixed, upon a pin-cushion, were Abjalom, 
 after his own parential father, Mr. Nightingale, and like- 
 wise Mr. Skylark who no otherwise than by being guv to 
 drinking, lost an 'ole day's work at the veel-wright 
 business, vich it wos but limited, being veels of donkey- 
 chaises and goats ; and vun on 'em wos even drawn by 
 geese for a wager, and came up the ile of the parish 
 church one Sunday during arternoon sarvice, by reason 
 of the perwersity of the hanimals, as could be testified by 
 Mr. Vix the beadle, afore he died of drawing on new 
 Vellington boots after a 'arty meal of boiled beef and 
 pickle cabbage to which he was not accustomed. Yes, 
 Mr. Robin Redbreast, I means Nightingale, in the marble 
 founting of that werry church wos he baptised Abjalom, 
 vich never can be undone I am proud to declare, not to 
 please nor give offence to no one, nohows and noveres, 
 sir. No sir, no sir, I says, for affliction sore long time 
 Maria Nightingale bore; physicianers was in vain, and 
 one, sir, in partickler vich she tore the 'air by 'andfuls out 
 of his edd by reason of disagreement with his prescrip- 
 tions on the character of her complaint ; and dead she is, 
 and will be, as the 'ostsof the Egyptian fairies, as I shall 
 prove to you all by the hevydence of my brother the 
 
74 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sexton, who I shall here perduce to your confusion in the 
 twinkling of a star or humin hye ! * 
 
 In the foregoing richly ridiculous speech Dickens was 
 scarcely ever heard to its conclusion, the laughter of the 
 audience seldom ceasing after the death of Mr. Vix by 
 reason of his fatal new boots and too hearty meal. This 
 woman, though designated " off the stage " as Mrs. Gamp, 
 was evidently not that person, but another of those 
 laughable eccentricities in which the inventive novelist 
 delighted to indulge. 
 
 But, to conclude our account of this very curious kind 
 of afterpiece, one more impersonation by Dickens remains 
 to be described. It will have been noticed that the woman 
 who discoursed so volubly and confusedly about her boy, 
 making accusations which nobody on or off the stage 
 can understand, announces the coming of her brother, 
 the sexton, who is to prove something, to the confusion 
 of everybody. And now, in a remarkably brief time 
 after his exit as the woman, Dickens again enters as 
 the sexton. He appears to be at least ninety years of 
 age, not merely by the common stage make-up of long 
 white hair, large white eyebrows, blinking pink eyelids, 
 and painted wrinkles and furrows, but by feebleness of 
 limbs, a body pressed down by the weight and workings 
 of time, and suffering from accumulated infirmities. He 
 is supported carefully by one arm, and now and then on 
 each side, as he very slowly comes forward. The old 
 sexton is hopelessly deaf, and his voice has a quailing, 
 garrulous fatuity. He evidently likes to talk when an 
 opportunity occurs, but it is quite obvious that he cannot 
 hear himself speak any better than he can hear those who 
 
INTRODUCTION. 75 
 
 speak to him. When somebody bawls in his ear a certain 
 question about burying, he replies in a soft, mild, 
 quavering voice, " It 's of no use whispering to me, young 
 man." The effect of these few words was very striking, 
 being at once pathetic and ludicrous. Tears struggled, 
 not quite ineffectually, with laughter. This sexton is the 
 character that Miss Mitford pronounced as something 
 wonderful in the truthfulness of its representation. 
 After repeated shoutings of the word " buried," he 
 suddenly fancies he has caught the meaning, and the 
 worn and withered countenance feebly lights up with the 
 exclamation, " Brewed ! oh, yes, Sir, I have brewed many 
 a good gallon of ale in my time. The last batch I brewed, 
 Sir, was finer than all the rest — the best ale ever brewed 
 in the county. It used to be called in our parts here, 
 ' Samson with his hair on V — in allusion — in allusion" — 
 (here his excitement shook the tremulous frame into 
 coughing and wheezing) — " in allusion to its great 
 strength." He looked from face to face to see if his feat 
 was duly appreciated, and his venerable jest understood 
 by those around ; and then, softly repeating, with a 
 glimmering smile, " in allusion to its great strength," he 
 turned slowly about, and made his exit, like one moving 
 towards his own grave while he thinks he is following the 
 funeral of another. 
 
 With this afterpiece closed the first night's performance 
 of the " Guild " at Devonshire House. The Duke was 
 so delighted with our success that he proposed both the 
 comedy and the afterpiece should be repeated. On this 
 second night his Grace gave a magnificent ball and supper 
 to the performers } and the whole audience. It certainly 
 
76 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was a very brilliant scene. Some of the younger ladies 
 amused themselves with identifying the various characters 
 who had appeared on the stage ; and this would not have 
 been thought an easy matter, as the make-up by wigs, 
 paint, and powder, of most of us was, we had flattered 
 ourselves, a complete transformation. 
 
 After these two great inaugural nights, the same 
 performances were given in the provinces, at Edin- 
 burgh, and at the Duke's mansion at Chatsworth, 
 where the extraordinary improvements in the gardens, 
 orchards, conservatories, and shrubberies, by Sir Joseph 
 Paxton, so much enhanced the pleasure of the visiting 
 amateurs. The next performances, however, immediately 
 after those at Devonshire House, were given by the 
 " Guild M at the Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover 
 Square, where they were attended by overflowing audi- 
 ences. We then visited Manchester, Liverpool, Bath, 
 Bristol, &c, meeting with great success everywhere ; 
 so much so, that Dickens announced one night after 
 supper, and before the usual games began, that having 
 already made £3,000, without much trouble, he thought 
 we should continue until £5,000 was realised. With that 
 sum he considered we should be fully justified in laying 
 our prospectus before the public for the establishment 
 of the " Guild of Literature and Art n — saying, " We 
 have done thus much ourselves towards the foundation ; 
 now what will you do to help us ? " 
 
 The same pieces being played at each town, and no 
 rehearsals being required, as we had all been letter- 
 perfect before the first night, there was plenty of 
 leisure for private study and work of another kind, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 77 
 
 besides visiting and amusement. Tt was, however, esta- 
 blished as a rule among us, that no one should accept 
 an invitation to dinner or luncheon on the days when 
 a performance was to be given, but that we should all 
 dine together at two o'clock, and not sit long at table 
 afterwards. When the performance was over we had 
 supper, to which each person invited any particular 
 friend who was resident in that city ; and in most cases 
 the Mayor and other civic magnates were invited. It 
 was generally Dickens's custom, as he always liked to do 
 things on a handsome scale, to single out the principal 
 hotel in the place, and then take the whole hotel — at any 
 rate the two largest rooms, and all the beds — for the 
 worshipful company of the u Guild/' Sometimes it 
 happened that we had no visitors to these supper- parties, 
 and the wind-up was then very apt to merge into a more 
 unreserved hilarity. At certain times it appeared as if 
 everybody was talking or laughing at the same moment ; 
 in fact, it certainly was so. Sitting next to Dickens 
 one night, and beginning to say " As for conversation h — 
 he suddenly exclaimed, " Impossible ! it 's hopeless ! " — 
 and sank back in his chair laughing. I have alluded to 
 some " games " that were occasionally played among 
 ourselves after supper; but the reader who imagines that 
 whist, billiards, cribbage, chess, backgammon, or even a 
 " round game" was played, will by no means have hit upon 
 the fact. And yet, in one sense, it no doubt was a round 
 game, for the favourite game on these particular occasions 
 was leap-frog, which we played all round the supper- table. 
 Very much of the fun of this consisted in special 
 difficulties, with their consequent disasters ; for Dickens 
 
78 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was fond of giving a " high back," which, though prac- 
 ticable enough for the more active, was not easily 
 surmounted by others, especially after a substantial 
 supper; while the immense breadth and bulk of Mark 
 Lemon's back presented a sort of bulwark to the progress 
 of the majority. Now, as everybody was bound to run at 
 the " frog-back w given, and do his best, it often happened 
 that a gentleman landed upon the top of Mark's back, 
 and there remained ; while with regard to the " high 
 back w given by Dickens, it frequently occurred that the 
 leaping frog never attained the centre, but slipped off on 
 one side; and we well remember a certain occasion when 
 a very vigorous run at it failing to carry the individual 
 over, the violent concussion sent the high-arched "frog" 
 flying under the table, followed headlong by the un- 
 successful leaper. Dickens rose with perfect enjoyment 
 at the disaster, admirably imitating the action in panto- 
 mimes under similar circumstances, and exclaiming that 
 it was just what he expected ! But the accidents attending 
 Mark Lemon were far more numerous, for while his 
 breadth and length of back were a most arduous under- 
 taking for any but the very long-legged ones to leap 
 over, his bulk and weight, when it came to his turn to 
 leap, were of a kind to bring down the backs of all but 
 the very strongest frogs. 
 
 The female characters of the comedy were enacted by 
 professional ladies who took private apartments in the 
 vicinity of the concert-room, or hall, engaged for the 
 u Guild," or else came down by express train on the nights 
 of performance. It should be explained that the " Guild " 
 carried their own "theatre" with them, constructed in 
 
INTRODUCTION. 79 
 
 various parts and pieces, and made to be packed up, 
 erected, and taken down again in a few hours — the 
 whole being comprised in a small compass, under the 
 arrangement of Sir Joseph Paxton and a theatrical 
 machinist.* 
 
 In a paper entitled " Mr. Dickens's Amateur 
 Theatricals/ ' published in Macmillari } 8 Magazine in 
 January 1871, the anonymous writer gives an 
 account of — 
 
 Those winter-evening festivities at the house of Charles 
 Dickens which continued annually for several years, ter- 
 minating with the performance of Mr. Wilkie Collinses 
 drama of The Frozen Deep. And when he remembers 
 the number of notable men who either shared in or 
 assisted (in the French sense) at those dramatic revels, 
 and have passed away in the interval, he is filled with 
 a desire to preserve some recollections of evenings so 
 memorable. Private theatricals in one sense they 
 were ; but the size and character of the audiences they 
 brought together placed them in a different category 
 from the entertainments which commonly bear that 
 name ; and to preserve one's recollections of those days 
 is scarcely to intrude upon the domain of private life. 
 The greatest of that band has lately passed away, and 
 before him many others of " these, our actors " ; and 
 though some remain, the events of those years have, even 
 to those who shared in them, passed into the region of 
 history. 
 
 * The Gentleman's Magazine, May, 1871 (by kind per- 
 mission of Messrs. Chatto and Wind us). 
 
80 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " What nights have we seen at the Mermaid ! M 
 What evenings were those at Tavistock House, when 
 the best wit and fancy and culture of the day met within 
 its hospitable walls ! There was Thackeray, towering in 
 bodily form above the crowd, even as he towered in 
 genius above them all, save only one ; Jerrold, with the 
 blue convex eye, which seemed to pierce into the very 
 heart of things and trace their subtle resemblances ; 
 Leech, with his frank and manly beauty, fresh from the 
 portrayal of " Master Jacky," or some other of the many 
 forms of boyhood he knew so well ; Mark Lemon, " the 
 frolic and the gentle M (dear to all us younger ones, irre- 
 spective of blood-relationship, as "Uncle Mark") ; Albert 
 Smith, dropping in late in the evening after a two or 
 three thousandth ascent of Mont Blanc, but never re- 
 fusing at our earnest entreaty to sit down to the piano 
 and sing us My Lord Tomnoddy or his own latest edition 
 of Galignani's Messenger; Augustus Egg, with his dry 
 humour, touching from contrast with the face of suffering 
 that gave sad presage of his early death ; Frank Stone, 
 the kindly neighbour and friend, keen as any of us boys 
 for his part in the after-piece; Stanfield, with the beam- 
 ing face, " a largess universal like the sun/' his practised 
 hand and brush prompt to gladden us with masterpieces 
 of scene-painting for the Lighthouse or the Ice-fields; and 
 last, — but not here to be dismissed with a few lines only, 
 —our bountiful host, like Triplet, u author, manager, and 
 actor too M ; organizer, deviser, and harmoniser of all the 
 incongruous assembled elements; the friend whom we 
 have so lately lost,— the incomparable Dickens The very 
 walls of that home, and the furniture which filled it, were 
 
INTRODUCTION. 81 
 
 rich in interest and eloquent of his fame and the tribute 
 •which it had brought him : the testimonial given him at 
 Birmingham ; the handsome case of cutlery sent him by 
 Mr. Brooks, of Sheffield (reeognizant of the chance men- 
 tion of his name in the pages of Copperfield) ; Grip the 
 raven, in his habit as he lived, under the glass case in 
 the hall ; the Chinese gong, then less common in English 
 houses than now, reminding the reader familiar with his 
 " Dickens,'* of that one at Dr. Blimber's which the weak- 
 eyed young man, to Paul's amazement, suddenly let fly 
 at " as if he had gone mad or wanted vengeance " ; the 
 pictures which looked down upon us from the walls of 
 dining-room and staircase, Sir Charles Coldstream in his 
 ploughboy's disguise, or Bobadil prostrate on the couch ; 
 the lady in the barouche reading the current number of 
 Bleak House, and the curious tiger skimming the con- 
 tents over her shoulder ; Dolly Varden in the wood ; poor 
 Kate Nickleby at work in Madame Mantalini's show- 
 room ; little Nell among the tombs of that old church 
 which in these days of restoration will soon have no 
 existence save on the canvas of Cattermole ; — these, and 
 many more such signs of the atmosphere of art and 
 literature in which we moved, were gathered there — 
 and are now scattered to the four winds. 
 
 In one sense our theatricals began and ended in the 
 school-room. To the last that apartment served us for 
 stage and auditorium and all. But in another sense we 
 got promotion from the children's domain by degrees. 
 Our earliest efforts were confined to the children of the 
 family and their equals in age, though always aided and 
 abetted by the good-natured manager, who improvised 
 I. 6 ■+- 
 
82 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 costumes, painted and corked our innocent cheeks, and 
 suggested all the most effective business of the scene. 
 Our first attempt was the performance of Albert Smith's 
 burletta of Guy Fawkes, which appeared originally in the 
 pages of his monthly periodical, the Man in the Moon ; 
 at another time we played William Tell, from Robert 
 B rough's clever little Cracker Bon-bon for Evening Par- 
 ties. In those days there were still extravaganzas 
 written with real humour and abundant taste and 
 fancy. The Broughs, Gilbert a Beckett, and Planche 
 could write rhymed couplets of great literary excellence, 
 without ever outstepping the bounds of good taste. 
 Extreme purists may regret that the story of the struggle 
 for Swiss independence should ever be presented to chil- 
 dren in association with anything ludicrous ; but, those 
 critics excepted, no other could object to the spirit of 
 u gracious fooling" in which Brough represented William 
 Tell brought up before Gesler for " contempt of hat " ; 
 Albert, his precocious son, resolving that, as to betraying 
 his father, " though torn in half, I '11 not be made to 
 split *' ; and when he comforts his father, about to shoot 
 at the apple, by assuring him that he is " game," the 
 father replying, " Wert thou game, I would preserve, 
 not shoot thee." This is drollery, surely, not unworthy 
 of Sydney Smith or Hood, and in no way to be placed in 
 the same catalogue with the vulgarities and inanities of a 
 later brood. 
 
 Another year found us more ambitious, and with 
 stronger resources, for Dickens himself and Mark Lemon 
 joined our acting staff, though, with kindly consideration 
 for their young brethren, they chose subordinate parts. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 83 
 
 In Mr. Planche's elegant and most witty fairy extrava- 
 ganza of Fortunio and his Seven Gifted Servants, Dickens 
 took the part of the old Baron Dunover, whose daughters 
 so valiantly adopt man's attire and go to the wars • Mark 
 Lemon contenting himself with the rdle of the Dragon, 
 who is overcome by Fortunio's stratagem of adulterating 
 the well, whither he usually resorted to quench his thirst, 
 with a potent admixture of sherry. What fun it was, 
 both on and off the stage ! The gorgeous dresses from 
 the eminent costumier of the Theatre Royal ; our heads 
 bewigged and our cheeks rouged by the hands of Mr. 
 Clarks on himself ; the properties from theAdelphi; the 
 unflagging humour and suggestive resources of our 
 manager, who took upon him the charge of everything, 
 from the writing of the playbills to the composition of 
 the punch, brewed for our refreshment between the acts 
 but " craftily qualified," as Michael Cassio would have 
 said, to suit the capacities of the childish brain, for 
 Dickens never forgot the maxima reverentia due to chil- 
 dren, and some of us were of very tender age : the 
 comedian who played (in a complete jockey's suit and 
 top-boots) Fortunio's servant Light-foot, was — we are 
 afraid to say how young — but it was somewhere between 
 two and three, and he was announced in the bill as 
 having been " kept out of bed at a vast expense." The 
 same veracious document represented the sole lessee 
 and manager of the Theatre Royal, Tavistock House, as 
 Mr. Vincent Crummies, disguising Dickens himself in 
 the list of dramatis persona as the " Modern Roscius," 
 and Mark Lemon as the " Infant Phenomenon," — an 
 exquisitely conceived surprise for the audience, who by 
 
 6 * 
 
84 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tio means expected from the description to recognise 
 in the character the portly form of the editor of Punch. 
 This time, by the way, must have been the winter pre- 
 ceding the commencement of hostilities with Russia, for 
 Dickens took advantage of there being a ferocious despot 
 in the play — the Emperor Matapa — to identify him with 
 the Czar in a capital song, (would we could recall it !) to 
 the tune of The Cork Leg, in which the Emperor de- 
 scribed himself as "the Robinson Crusoe of absolute 
 state," and declared that though he had at his court 
 " many a show-day, and many a high-day," he hadn't in 
 all his dominions " a Friday ! " Mr. Planche had in one 
 portion of the extravaganza put into the mouth of this 
 character for the moment a few lines of burlesque upon 
 Macbeth, and we remember Dickens's unsuccessful at- 
 tempts to teach the performer how to imitate Macready, 
 whom he (the performer) had never seen ! 
 
 Another time we attempted Fielding's Tom Thumb, 
 using O'Hara's altered version, further abridged and 
 added to by the untiring master of our ceremonies. 
 Fielding's admirable piece of mock-heroic had always 
 been a favourite of Charles Dickens. It has often been 
 noticed how rarely he quotes in his books, but the reader 
 of Pickwick will remember how in an early chapter of 
 that immortal work Mr. Alfred Jingle sings the two 
 lines : — 
 
 In hurry, post-haste, for a licence, 
 In hurry, ding-dong, I come back. 
 
 They are from Lord Grizzle's song in Tom Thumb. 
 Mark Lemon played the giantess Glumdalca, in an 
 amazing get-up of a complete suit of armour and a coal- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 85 
 
 scuttle bonnet ; and Dickens the small part of the ghost 
 of Gaffer Thumb, singing his own song, on the occasion, 
 a verse of which may be quoted, if only to illustrate the 
 contrast between the styles of the earlier and later bur- 
 lesque. In O'Hara's version the ghost appears to King- 
 Arthur, singing : — 
 
 Pale death is prowling, 
 Dire omens scowling 
 Doom thee to slaughter, 
 Thee, thy wife and daughter ; 
 , Furies are growling 
 
 With horrid groans. 
 Grizzle's rebellion 
 What need I tell you on ? 
 Or by a red cow 
 Tom Thumb devour'd ? 
 Hark, the cock crowing, [Cock crows. 
 
 1 must be going. 
 I can no more ! [Vanishes. 
 
 Dickens's substituted lines were, as nearly as we can 
 remember, as follows : — 
 
 I 've got up from my churchyard bed, 
 
 And assumed the perpendicular, 
 Having something to say in my head, 
 
 Which isn't so very particular ! 
 I do not appear in sport, 
 
 But in earnest, all danger scorning — 
 I 'm in your service, in short, 
 
 And I hereby give you warning — ■ [Cock crows. 
 
 Who 's dat crowing at the door ? 
 
 Dere 's some one in the house with Dinah ! 
 I 'm call'd (so can't say any more) 
 
 By a voice from Cochin China ! 
 
86 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Nonsense, it may be said, all this ; but the nonsense of 
 a great genius has always something of genius in it. 
 
 The production next year, on the same stage, of the 
 drama of The Lighthouse, marked a great step in the 
 rank of our performances. The play was a touching and 
 tragic story, founded upon a tale by the same author, 
 Mr. Wilkie Collins, which appeared in an early number 
 of Household Words. The principal characters were 
 sustained by Dickens, Mark Lemon, Mr. Wilkie Collins, 
 and the ladies of Dickens's family. The scenery was 
 painted by Clarkson Stanfield, and comprised a drop- 
 scene representing the exterior of Eddystone Lighthouse, 
 and a room in the interior in which the whole action of 
 the drama was carried on. The Lighthouse was per- 
 formed two or three years later at the Olympic, with 
 Robson in the character originally played by Dickens. 
 The little drama was well worthy of publication, though 
 by conception and treatment alike it was fitted rather 
 for amateurs, and a drawing-room, than for the public 
 stage. The main incident of the plot — the confession 
 of a murder by the old sailor, Aaron Gurnock, under 
 pressure of impending death from starvation (no pro- 
 visions being able to reach the lighthouse, owing to a 
 continuance of bad weather), and his subsequent retrac- 
 tation of the confession when supplies unexpectedly 
 arrive, — afforded Dickens scope for a piece of acting of 
 great power.* 
 
 m 
 
 * " Carlyle compared Dickens's wild picturesqueness in 
 the old lighthouse-keeper to the famous figure in Nicholas 
 Poussin's Bacchanalian Dance in the National Gallery." — 
 Forster's Life of Charles Dickens, vol. iii. p. 51. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 87 
 
 Of Dickens's acting in his own farce of Mr. 
 Nightingale's Diary, the writer adds : — 
 
 One of the characters played by Dickens was an old 
 lady, in great trouble and perplexity about a missing 
 child; of which character (nameless in the drama) he 
 always spoke, when he had occasion to refer to her off 
 the stage, as Mrs. Gamp, some of whose speeches were as 
 well worthy of preservation for droll extravagance of in- 
 congruity as the best of her famous prototype in Martin 
 Chuzzlewit. In addition to her perplexity about the 
 missing infant, she is further embarrassed as to the exact 
 surname of Mr. Nightingale, which she remembers to 
 be that of a bird, but cannot always refer to the correct 
 species of that order. A quotation from memory will 
 leave no doubt as to the fertile and singular fancy from 
 whose mint it came* : — 
 
 " No, sir, I will not leave the house ! I will not leave 
 the establishment without my child, my boy. My boy, 
 sir, which he were his mother's hope and his father's 
 pride, and no one as I am aweer on's joy. Vich the 
 name as was giv' to this blessedest of infants and vorked 
 in best Vitechapel mixed upon a pincushin, and ' Save 
 the mother' likewise, were Abjalom, after his own paren- 
 tial father, Mr. Nightingale, who no other ways than by 
 being guv' to liquor, lost a day's vork at the veelwright 
 business, vich it was but limited, Mr. Skylark, being 
 veels of donkey-chaises and goats ; and vun vas even 
 drawn by geese for a wager, and came up the aisle o' the 
 
 * Compare with the same quotation, somewhat differently 
 given by Mr. Home, in the Gentleman's Magazine. 
 
88 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 parish church one Sunday arternoon by reason of the 
 perwerseness of the animals, as could be testified by Mr. 
 Wix the beadle afore he died of drawing on Vellinton 
 boots to which he was not accustomed, after an 'earty 
 meal of roast beef and a pickled walnut to which he were 
 too parjial! Yes, Mr. Robin Redbreast, in the marble 
 fontin of that theer church was he baptized Abjalom, 
 vich never can be unmade or undone, I am proud to say, 
 not to please nor give offence to no one, nohows and 
 noveres, sir. . . . Ah ! c affliction sore long time Maria 
 Nightingale bore ; physicians was in vain ' — not that I 
 am aweer she had anyone in particular, sir, excepting 
 one, vich she tore his hair by handfuls out in consequence 
 of disagreements relative to her complaint ; and dead she 
 is, and will be, as the hosts of the Egyptian fairies ; and 
 this I shall prove, directly minute, on ' the evingdence of 
 my brother the sexton, whom I shall here produce, to 
 your confusion, young person, in the twinkling of a star 
 or humin eye ! n 
 
 Scarcely had the old lady quitted the stage when 
 Dickens reappeared as "my brother the sexton," a very 
 old gentleman indeed, with a quavery voice and self- 
 satisfied smile (pleasantly suggesting how inimitable must 
 have been the same actor's manner as Justice Shallow), 
 and afflicted with a i( hardness of hearing n which almost 
 baffled the efforts of his interrogators to obtain from 
 him the desired information as to the certificate of Mrs. 
 Nightingale's decease. " It 's no use your whispering to 
 me, sir ! " was the gentle remonstrance which the first 
 loud shout in his ear elicited ; and on the question being 
 put whether " he had ever buried M — he at once inter- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 89 
 
 rupted to reply that he had brewed ; and that he and his 
 old woman — "my old woman was a Kentish woman, 
 gentlemen : one year, sir, we brewed some of the 
 strongest ale that ever you drank, sir : they used to call 
 it down in our part of the country (in allusion, you 
 understand, to its great strength, gentlemen), ( Samson 
 with his hair on/ " — at which point the thread of his 
 narrative was cut short by the reiteration, in a louder 
 key still, of the intended question in a complete form. 
 
 A third character in the farce, sustained by Dickens, 
 was that of a malade imaginaire, for the time being under 
 treatment by a new specific, u mustard and milk," the 
 merits of which he could not highly enough extol, but 
 which nevertheless was not so soothing in its effects but 
 that the patient gave every minute a loud shriek — 
 explaining apologetically, u That 's the mustard ! w fol- 
 lowed immediately by a still louder one, " That 's the 
 milk ! " 
 
 We are afraid to say in how many other disguises our 
 manager appeared, but there was certainly one other, a 
 footman or waiter, in which character the actor gave us 
 a most amusing caricature of the manner of one of his 
 own servants; and we remember with what glee, one 
 night at supper after rehearsal, Dickens learned that the 
 man in question had been heard imitating his master in 
 the part for the amusement of his fellow-servants, in 
 utter ignorance that he himself had sat in the first 
 instance for the portrait. 
 
 This very clever farce might well be given to the public 
 now that the chief actor is no more; for though the 
 character is wholly beyond the reach of most amateurs, 
 
90 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 or even most professionals, the piece contains dialogue 
 full of humour peculiarly Dickensian. 
 
 As a comedian, it is perhaps with Charles Mathews 
 alone that we should think of comparing Charles 
 Dickens. In repose, the walk and voice and manner 
 of the two were much alike ; though in power of facial 
 and vocal change Dickens had great advantages ; and 
 he had further an earnestness quite beyond the reach 
 of the other actor, the lack of which kept him from 
 excelling in many characters for which in other respects 
 he would seem to have been peculiarly qualified. 
 
 The same amazing fertility and rapidity of invention, 
 in which Dickens stands without a rival as a humourist, 
 often served him in excellent stead, in the sudden substi- 
 tution of extempore remarks known to the professional 
 actor as " gag." On one occasion, in a farce played after 
 The Frozen Deep, one of the characters having occasion 
 to disguise himself for the moment in the chintz cover 
 of the sofa, Dickens suddenly observed, to the astonish- 
 ment of his fellow- actors, " He has a general appearance 
 of going to have his hair cut ! " a comparison so in- 
 geniously perfect as to convulse everybody on and off 
 the stage with laughter. 
 
 The success of The Lighthouse, performed at Tavistock 
 House in the January of 1856, and subsequently repeated 
 at Campden House, Kensington, for the benefit of the 
 Consumption Hospital at Bournemouth, induced Mr. 
 Wilkie Collins to try his dramatic fortune once more, 
 and the result was the drama of The Frozen Deep, with 
 an excellent part for Dickens, and opportunity for 
 charming scenic effects by Stanfield and Telbin. The 
 
INTRODUCTION. 91 
 
 plot was of the slightest. A young naval officer, Richard 
 Wardour, is in love, and is aware that he has a rival in 
 the lady's affections, though he does not know that rival's 
 name. His ship is ordered to take part in an expedition 
 to the polar regions, and the moody and unhappy young 
 officer, while chopping down for firewood some part of 
 what had composed the sleeping compartment of a wooden 
 hut, discovers from a name carved upon the timbers that 
 his hated rival is with him, taking part in the expedition. 
 His resolve to compass the other's death gradually gives 
 place to a better spirit, and the drama ends with his 
 saving his rival from starvation at the cost of his own 
 life, himself living just long enough to bestow his dying 
 blessing on the lovers; the ladies, whose brothers and 
 lovers were on the expedition, having joined them in 
 Newfoundland. The character of Richard Wardour 
 afforded opportunity for a fine display of mental 
 struggle and a gradual transition from moodiness to 
 vindictiveness, and finally, under the pressure of suf- 
 fering, to penitence and resignation, and was represented 
 by Dickens with consummate skill. The charm of the 
 piece as a whole, however, did not depend so much upon 
 the acting of the principal character, fine as it was, as 
 on the perfect refinement and natural pathos with which 
 the family and domestic interest of the story was sus- 
 tained. The ladies to whose acting so much of this charm 
 was due are happily still living, and must not be men- 
 tioned by name or made the subjects of criticism in this 
 place ; but the circumstance is worth noticing as sug- 
 gesting one reason why such a drama, effective and 
 touching in the drawing-room, would be even unpleasing 
 
92 1NTE0DTJ0TI0N. 
 
 on the stage. Such a drama depends for its success on a 
 refinement of mind and feeling in the performers which 
 in the present state of the theatrical art, must of necessity 
 be rarely possessed, or if possessed must speedily suc- 
 cumb to the unwholesome influences of that class of 
 dramatic literature which is found to please best at the 
 present day. 
 
 The production of The Frozen Deep has a literary 
 interest for the reader of Dickens, as marking the date 
 of a distinct advance in his career as an artist. It was 
 during the performance of this play with his children 
 and friends, he tells us in the preface of his Tale of Two 
 Cities, that the plot of that story took shape in his 
 imagination. He does not confide to us what was the 
 precise connexion between the two events. But the 
 critical reader will have noticed that then, and from that 
 time onwards, the novelist discovered a manifest solici- 
 tude and art in the construction of his plots which he 
 had not evinced up to that time. In his earlier works 
 there is little or no constructive ability. Pickwick was 
 merely a series of scenes from London and country life, 
 more or less loosely strung together. Nicholas Nickleby 
 was in this respect little different. In Copperfield there 
 is more attention to this specially dramatic faculty, but 
 even in that novel the special skill of the constructor is 
 exhibited rather in episodes of the story than in the nar- 
 rative as a whole. But from and after the Tale of Two 
 Cities, Dickens manifests a diligent pursuit of that art of 
 framing and developing a plot which there can be little 
 doubt is traceable to the influence of his intimate and 
 valued friend Mr. Wilkie Collins. In this special art 
 
INTRODUCTION. 93 
 
 Mr. Collins has long held high rank among living 
 novelists. He is indeed, perhaps, open to the charge 
 of sacrificing too much to the composition of riddles, 
 which, like riddles of another kind, lose much of their 
 interest when once they have been solved. And it is 
 interesting to note that while Dickens was aiming at one 
 special excellence of Mr. Collins, the latter was assimi- 
 lating his style, in some other respects, to that of his 
 brother novelist. Each, of late years, seemed to be 
 desirous of the special dramatic faculty which the other 
 possessed. Dickens's plots, Mr. Collinses characters and 
 dialogues, bore more and more clearly marked the traces 
 of the model on which they were respectively based. It 
 is possible, however, that another consideration was in- 
 fluencing the direction of Dickens's genius. He may 
 have half suspected that the peculiar freshness of his 
 earlier style was no longer at his command, and he may 
 have been desirous of breaking new ground and culti- 
 vating a faculty too long neglected. His genius was 
 largely dramatic, and it was the overpowering fertility 
 of his humour as a descriptive writer which led him 
 at the outset of his literary career to prose fiction as 
 the freest outcome of his genius. He loved the drama 
 and things dramatic ; and notwithstanding what might be 
 inferred from the lecture which Nicholas administers to 
 the literary gentleman in Nicholas Nickleby, he evidently 
 was well pleased to see his own stories in a dramatic shape, 
 when the adaptation was made in accordance with the 
 spirit and design of the originator. Most of his earlier 
 works were dramatised, and enjoyed a success attribut- 
 able not less to the admirable acting which they called 
 
94 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 forth than to the fame of the characters in their original 
 setting. His Christmas stories proved most successful in 
 their dramatic shape, and it is difficult to believe that he 
 had not in view those admirable comedians, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Keeley, when he drew the charming characters of 
 Britain and Clemency Newcome. His Tale of Two 
 Cities was arranged under his own supervision for the 
 stage, and he seems to have had a growing pleasure in 
 seeing his works reproduced in this shape, for Little 
 Em'ly, the latest arrangement of David Copperfield, was 
 produced with at least his sanction and approval; and 
 a version of the Old Curiosity Shop, under the title of 
 Nell, was similarly approved by himself shortly before 
 his death. In the present state of the stage we may well 
 be thankful for pieces so wholesome in interest, so pure 
 in moral, so abounding in unforced humour, as his best 
 stories are adapted to provide."* 
 
 To the Plays and Poems, which it was our 
 essential and primary plan to reproduce in these 
 volumes, have been added some Miscellanies in 
 Prose, also now first collected; none of them, we 
 believe, unworthy of their great writer ; and one 
 of them, the earliest in date — a wise, manly and 
 emphatic protest against Sabbatarianism — pub- 
 lished in pamphlet form in 1836, now so rare as 
 to be out of the reach of readers not blessed with 
 
 # Mr. Dickens's Amateur Theatricals, a Reminiscence. — 
 Macmillan's Magazine, January 1871, pp. 206-215. 
 
INTRODUCTION. \)0 
 
 the purse of Fortunatus. Another, the latest in 
 date, and written less than a year before his death, 
 is his last casual piece of writing, and possesses 
 peculiar interest here as an admirable and 
 enthusiastic analysis of the acting of the friend 
 whose performance of the part of Obenreizer, in 
 his own drama of No Thoroughfare, contributed so 
 largely to its success and won from Dickens such 
 warm acknowledgment. 
 
 The Bibliography of Dickens (originally issued 
 in 1880) which is added as an Appendix, has been 
 carefully revised throughout and considerably en- 
 larged, and may claim to be more accurate and 
 exhaustive than it could be on its first appearance. 
 
 It is no part of the present Editor's duty to 
 detain the reader from the rich feast of humour 
 before him with any observations on the genius and 
 career of Dickens. That task has been performed 
 by abler pens. But the fourteen years that 
 have elapsed since his death have in nowise 
 diminished the fascination which surrounds his 
 strong and energetic individuality, or the love and 
 interest with which thousands of readers of all 
 ages regard him. The voice we knew so well is 
 silent for ever ; but his written words, on which 
 
96 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 he might well rest his claim to his countrymen's 
 remembrance, will still charm new readers of a 
 later generation, and readers yet unborn. Standing 
 on the Christmas morning after his death, as I 
 have stood at each successive Christmas since, by 
 his grave in Poet's Corner, beautified by loving 
 and pious hands with flowers and immortelles, in 
 the solemn sanctuary where, in the noontide of his 
 creative genius, I first stood, so long long ago, with 
 the lost and venerated father from whom, almost 
 before the century had yet completed its earlier 
 half, I had already caught some childish sense 
 of the great humourist's treasure of smiles and 
 tears, I seemed not till then fully to realize all 
 that there was in Charles Dickens which the grave 
 is powerless to take away. 
 
 EICHARD HERNE SHEPHEED. 
 
 5, BRAMERTON STREET, 
 
 KINO'S ROAD, CHELSEA: 
 
 Christmas, 1884. 
 
THE 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN 
 
 i. 
 
[The Strange Gentleman; a Comic Burletta. In Two Acts. 
 By " Boz." First performed at the St. James's Theatre, 
 on Thursday, September 29, 1836. Gliapman and Hall, 
 186 Strand.— MDCCGXXXVIL] 
 
CAST OF THE CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mr. Owen Overton (Mayor of a 
 small town on the road to Gretna, 
 and useful at the St. James's 
 Arms) Mr. Hollingsworth. 
 
 John Johnson (detained at the St. 
 
 James's Arms) .... Mr. Sidney. 
 
 The Strange Gentleman (just ar- 
 rived at the St. James's Arms) . Mr. Harley. 
 
 Charles Tomkins (incognito at the 
 
 St. James's Arms) . . . Mr. Forester. 
 
 Tom Sparks (a one-eyed "Boots" 
 
 at the St. James's Arms) . . Mr. Gardner. 
 
 l°™ ) Waiters at the ( ***• Williamson. 
 
 Tom V . T , , < Mr. May. 
 
 C St. James s Arms / _, _ 
 
 Will; ^Mr. Coulson. 
 
 Julia Dobbs (looking for a husband 
 
 at the St. James's Arms) . . Madame Sal a. 
 
 Fanny Wilson (with an appoint- 
 ment at the St. James's Arms) . Miss Smith. 
 
 Mary Wilson (her sister, awkwardly 
 
 situated at the St. James's Arms) Miss Julia Smith. 
 
 Mrs. Noakes (the Landlady at the 
 
 St. James's Arms) . . . Mrs. W. Penson. 
 
 Chambermaid (at the St. James's 
 
 Miss Stuart. 
 
 Miss Smith and Miss Julia Smith will sing the duet of 
 " I know a Bank," in " The Strange Gentleman." 
 
COSTUME. 
 
 Mr. Owen Overton. — Black smalls, and high black boots. A 
 blue body coat, rather long in the waist, with yellow buttons, 
 buttoned close up to the chin. A white stock ; ditto gloves. 
 A broad-brimmed low-crowned white hat. 
 
 Strange Gentleman. — A light blue plaid French-cut trousers 
 and vest. A brown cloth frock coat, with full skirts, 
 scarcely covering the hips. A light blue kerchief, and 
 eccentric low-crowned broad-brimmed white hat. Boots. 
 
 John Johnson. — White fashionable trousers, boots, light vest, 
 frock coat, black hat, gloves, &c. 
 
 Charles Tomkins. — Shepherd's plaid French-cut trousers; 
 boots ; mohair fashionable frock coat, buttoned up; black 
 hat, gloves, &c. 
 
 Tom Sparks. — Leather smalls, striped stockings, and lace-up 
 half boots, red vest, and a Holland stable jacket; coloured 
 kerchief, and red wig. 
 
 The Waiters. — All in black trousers, black stockings and 
 shoes, white vests, striped jackets, and white kerchiefs. 
 
 Mary Wilson. — Fashionable walking dress, white silk stock- 
 ings ; shoes and gloves. 
 
 Fanny Wilson. — Precisely the same as Mary. 
 
 Julia Dobbs. — A handsome white travelling dress, cashmere 
 shaivl, white silk stockings ; shoes and gloves. A bonnet 
 to correspond. 
 
 Mrs. Noakes. — A chintz gown, rather of a dark pattern, 
 French apron, and handsome cap. 
 
 SCENE. A SMALL TOWN, ON THE ROAD TO GRETNA. 
 
 TIME. PART OF A DAY AND NIGHT. 
 
 Time in acting — One hour and twenty minutes. 
 
THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room at the St. James's Arms ; Door 
 in Centre, with a Bolt on it A Table with 
 Cover, and Two Chairs. R. H. 
 
 Enter Mrs Noakes. c. door. 
 MRS. noakes. 
 
 Bless us, what a coachful ! Four inside — twelve 
 out ; and the guard blowing the key-bugle in the 
 fore- boot, for fear the informers should see that 
 they have got one over the number. Post-chaise 
 and a gig besides. — We shall be filled to the very 
 attics. Now, look alive, there — bustle about. 
 
 Enter First Waiter, running, c. door. 
 Now, John. 
 
 first waiter {coming down l. h.) 
 Single lady, inside the stage, wants a private 
 room, ma'am. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. R. H. 
 
 Much luggage? 
 
102 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 FIRST WAITER. 
 
 Four trunks, two bonnet-boxes, six brown-paper 
 parcels, and a basket. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Give her a private room, directly. No. 1, on 
 the first floor. 
 
 FIRST WAITER. 
 
 Yes, ma'am. 
 
 {Exit First Waiter, running, c. door. 
 
 Enter Second Waiter, running, c. door. 
 Now, Tom. 
 
 second waiter (coming down r. h.) 
 
 Two young ladies and one gentleman, in a post- 
 chaise, want a private sitting-room d'rectly, ma'am. 
 
 MRS. noakes. 
 Brother and sisters, Tom ? 
 
 second waiter. 
 Ladies are something alike, ma'am. Gentleman 
 like neither of 'em. 
 
 MRS. noakes. 
 Husband and wife and wife's sister, perhaps. Eh, 
 Tom? 
 
 SECOND WAITER. 
 
 Can't be husband and wife, ma'am, because I saw 
 the gentleman kiss one of the ladies. 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 103 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Kissing one of the ladies ! Put them in the 
 small sitting-room behind the bar, Tom, that I 
 may have an eye on them through the little 
 window, and see that nothing improper goes for- 
 ward. 
 
 SECOND WAITER. 
 
 Yes, ma'am. {Going.) 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 And Tom! [Crossing to l. h.) 
 
 second waiter {coming down r. h.) 
 Yes, ma'am. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Tell Cook to put together all the bones and 
 pieces that were left on the plates at the great 
 dinner yesterday, and make some nice soup to feed 
 the stage-coach passengers with. 
 
 SECOND WAITER. 
 
 Very well, ma'am. 
 
 [Exit Second Waiter, c door. 
 
 Enter Third Waiter, running, c door. 
 Now, Will. 
 
 third waiter {coming down l. h.) 
 A strange gentleman in a gig, ma'am, wants a 
 private sitting-room. 
 
J 04 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Much luggage, Will? 
 
 THIRD WAITER. 
 
 One portmanteau, and a great-coat. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Oh! nonsense! — Tell him to go into the com- 
 mercial room. 
 
 THIRD WAITER. 
 
 I told him so, ma'am, but the Strange Gentleman 
 says he will have a private apartment, and that it 's 
 as much as his life is worth, to sit in a public 
 room. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 As much as his life is worth? 
 
 THIRD WAITER. 
 
 Yes, ma'am. — Gentleman says he doesn't care if 
 it 's a dark closet; but a private room of some kind 
 he must and will have. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Very odd. — Did you ever see him before, Will? 
 
 THIRD WAITER. 
 
 No, ma'am ; he 's quite a stranger here. — He's 
 a wonderful man to talk, ma'am — keeps on like a 
 steam engine. Here he is, ma'am. 
 
 Strange Gentleman {without) . 
 Now don't tell me, because that 's all gammon 
 
SCENE I.] THE STEANGE GENTLEMAN. 105 
 
 and nonsense; and gammoned I never was, and 
 never will be, by any waiter that ever drew the 
 breath of life, or a cork. — And just have the 
 goodness to leave my portmanteau alone, because I 
 can carry it very well myself; and show me a 
 private room without further delay ; for a private 
 room I must and will have. — Damme, do you think 
 I'm going to be murdered! — 
 
 [Enter the three Waiters, c. door — they form 
 do con l. h., the Strange Gentleman follow- 
 ing, carrying his portmanteau and great- 
 coat 
 There — this room will do capitally well, Quite 
 the thing, — just the fit. — How are you, ma'am? I 
 suppose you are the landlady of this place? Just 
 order those very attentive young fellows out, will 
 you, and I '11 order dinner. 
 
 mrs. noakes (to Waiters). 
 You may leave the room. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Hear that? — You may leave the room. Make 
 yourselves scarce. Evaporate — disappear — come. 
 
 [Exeunt Waiters, c. door. 
 
 That's right. And now, madam, while we 're 
 talking over this important matter of dinner, I '11 
 just secure us effectually against further intrusion. 
 (Bolts the door.) 
 
106 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [aOT I. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Lor, sir ! Bolting the door, and rue in the room ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Don 't be afraid — I won't hurt you. I have no 
 designs against you, my dear ma'am : but / must be 
 private. {Sits on the portmanteau, r. h.) 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Well, sir — I have no objection to break through 
 our rules for once ; but it is not our way, when 
 we 're full, to give private rooms to solitary gentle- 
 men, who come in a gig, and bring only one port- 
 manteau. You're quite a stranger here, sir. If 
 I 'm not mistaken, it 's your first appearance in this 
 house. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You 're right, ma'am. It is my first, my very 
 first — but not my last, I can tell you. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 No? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No (looking round him). I like the look of this 
 place. Snug and comfortable — neat and lively. 
 You '11 very often find me at the St. James's Arms, 
 I can tell you, ma'am. 
 
 mrs. noakes (aside). 
 A civil gentleman. Are you a stranger in this 
 town, sir? 
 
SCENE I.J THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 107 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Stranger! Bless you, no. I have been here 
 for many years past, in the season. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Indeed ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Oh, yes. Put up at the Royal Hotel regularly 
 for a long time ; but I was obliged to leave it at 
 last. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 I have heard a good many complaints of it. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ! terrible ! such a noisy house. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Shocking ! Din, din, din — Drum, drum, drum, 
 all night. Nothing but noise, glare, and nonsense. 
 I bore it a long time for old acquaintance sake; 
 but what do you think they did at last, ma'am ? 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 I can't guess. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Turned the fine Old Assembly Room into a 
 stable, and took to keeping horses. I tried that 
 too, but I found I couldn't stand it ; so I came 
 away, ma'am, and — and — here I am (rises). 
 
108 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 And I'll be bound to say, sir, that you will have 
 no cause to complain of the exchange. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I'm sure not, ma'am ; I know it — I feel it, 
 already. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 About dinner, sir; what would you like to take? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Let me see ; will you be good enough to suggest 
 something, ma'am? 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Why, a broiled fowl and mushrooms is a very 
 nice dish. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You are right, ma'am ; a broiled fowl and mush- 
 rooms form a very delightful and harmless amuse- 
 ment, either for one or two persons. Broiled 
 fowl and mushrooms let it be, ma'am. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 In about an hour, I suppose, sir ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 For the second time, ma'am, you have anticipated 
 my feelings. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 You'll want a bed to-night, I suppose, sir; 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 109 
 
 perhaps you'd like to see it ? Step this way, sir, 
 and — {going L. H.) 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No, no, never mind. {Aside.) This is a plot to 
 get me out of the room. She's bribed by some- 
 body who wants to identify me. I must be careful ; 
 I am exposed to nothing but artifice and stratagem. 
 Never mind, ma'am, never mind. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 If you '11 give me your portmanteau, sir, the 
 Boots will carry it into the next room for you. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN {aside). 
 
 Here 's diabolical ingenuity; she thinks it 's got 
 the name upon it. {To her.) I 'm very much 
 obliged to the Boots for his disinterested attention, 
 ma'am, but with your kind permission this port- 
 manteau will remain just exactly where it is ; 
 consequently, ma'am, {with great warmth,) if the 
 aforesaid Boots wishes to succeed in removing: this 
 portmanteau, he must previously remove me, 
 ma'am, me; and it will take a pair of very stout 
 Boots to do that, ma'am, I promise you. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Dear me, sir, you needn't fear for your port- 
 manteau in this house ; I dare say nobody wants it. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I hope not, ma'am, because in that case nobody 
 
110 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 will be disappointed. (Aside.) How she fixes her 
 old eyes on me ! 
 
 mrs. noakes (aside). 
 
 I never saw such an extraordinary person in all 
 my life. What can he be ? (Looks at him very 
 hard.) 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Noakes, c. door. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 She's gone at last ! Now let me commune with 
 my own dreadful thoughts, and reflect on the best 
 means of escaping from my horrible position. 
 (Takes a letter from his pocket.) Here's an illegal 
 death - warrant ; a pressing invitation to be 
 slaughtered ; a polite request just to step out and 
 be killed, thrust into my hand by some disguised 
 assassin in a dirty black calico jacket, the very 
 instant I got out of the gig at the door. I know 
 the hand ; there's a ferocious recklessness in the 
 cross to this " T," and a baleful malignity in the 
 dot of that u I," which warns me that it comes from 
 my desperate rival. (Opens it, and reads.) "Mr. 
 Horatio Tinkles " — that's him — " presents his com- 
 pliments to his enemy " — that 's me — " and requests 
 the pleasure of his company to-morrow morning, 
 under the clump of trees, on Corpse Common," — 
 Corpse Common! — " to which any of the town's 
 people will direct him, and where he hopes to have 
 
SCENE I.] THE STEANGE GENTLEMAN. Ill 
 
 the satisfaction of giving him his gruel." — Giving 
 him his gruel! Ironical cut-throat! — "His 
 punctuality will be esteemed a personal favour, as 
 it will save Mr. Tinkles the trouble and incon- 
 venience of calling with a horsewhip in his pocket. 
 Mr. Tinkles has ordered breakfast at the Royal for 
 one. It is paid for. The individual who returns 
 alive can eat it. Pistols — half-past five — precisely." 
 — Blood-thirsty miscreant ! The individual who 
 returns alive! I have seen him hit the painted 
 man at the shooting-gallery regularly every time in 
 his centre shirt plait, except when he varied the 
 entertainments, by lodging the ball playfully in his 
 left eye. Breakfast ! I shall want nothing beyond 
 the gruel. What 's to be done ? Escape ! I can't 
 escape ; concealment 's of no use, he knows I am 
 here. He has dodged me all the way from London, 
 and will dodge me all the way to the residence of 
 Miss Emily Brown, whom my respected, but 
 swine-headed parents have picked out for my 
 future wife. A pretty figure I should cut before 
 the old people, whom I have never beheld more 
 than once in my life, and Miss Emily Brown, whom 
 I have never seen at all, if I went down there, 
 pursued by this Salamander, who, I suppose, is her 
 accepted lover ! What is to be done ? I can't go 
 back again; father would be furious. What can be 
 done? nothing! (Sinks into a chair.) I must 
 
112 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 undergo this fiery ordeal, and submit to be packed 
 up, and carried back to my weeping parents, like 
 an unfortunate buck, with a flat piece of lead in 
 my head, and a brief epitaph on my breast, 
 " Killed on Wednesday morning. " No, I won't 
 {starting up, and walking about). I won't submit 
 to it ; I '11 accept the challenge, but first I '11 write 
 an anonymous letter to the local authorities, giving 
 them information of this intended duel, and desiring 
 them to place me under immediate restraint. That 's 
 feasible ; on further consideration, it 's capital. My 
 character will be saved — I shall be bound over — 
 he '11 be bound over — I shall resume my journey — 
 reach the house — marry the girl — pocket the for- 
 tune, and laugh at him. No time to be lost; it 
 shall be done forthwith. {Goes to table, and writes}} 
 There ; the challenge accepted, with a bold defiance, 
 that '11 look very brave when it comes to be printed. 
 Now for the other. {Writes.) " To the Mayor — 
 Sir — A strange Gentleman at the St. James's Arms, 
 whose name is unknown to the writer of this com- 
 munication, is bent upon committing a rash and 
 sanguinary act, at an early hour to-morrow morning. 
 As you value human life, secure the amiable youth, 
 without delay. Think, I implore you, sir, think 
 what would be the feelings of those to whom he is 
 nearest and dearest, if any mischance befal the 
 interesting young man. Do not neglect this solemn 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 113 
 
 warning ; the number of his room is seventeen/' 
 There — (folding it up). Now if I can find any one 
 who will deliver it secretly. — 
 
 Tom Sparks, with a pair of boots in his hand, 
 peeps in at the c. d. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Are these here your'n ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Oh ! (going back) . 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Hallo ! stop, are you the Boots ? 
 
 tom (still at the door) . 
 I 'm the head o' that branch o' the establishment. 
 There 's another man under me, as brushes the dirt 
 off, and puts the blacking on. The fancy work 's 
 my department ; I do the polishing, nothing else. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You are the upper Boots, then ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes, I 'm the reg'lar ; t 'other one 's only the 
 deputy ; top boots and half boots, I calls us. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You 're a sharp fellow. 
 
 I. 8 
 
114 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Ah ! I 'd better cut then {going). 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Don't hurry, Boots — don't hurry; I want you. 
 (Rises, and comes forward, R. H.) 
 
 tom (coming forward, l. h.). 
 Well! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Can — can — you be secret, JBoots ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 That depends entirely on accompanying circum- 
 stances; — see the point? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I think I comprehend your meaning, Boots. 
 You insinuate that you could be secret (putting his 
 hand in his pocket) if you had — five shillings for 
 instance — isn 't that it, Boots ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 That 's the line o' argument I should take up ; 
 but that an't exactly my meaning. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 No. A secret 's a thing as is always a rising to 
 one's lips. It requires an astonishing weight to 
 keep one on 'em down. 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 115 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 Ah! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes; I don't think I could keep one snug — 
 reg'lar snug, you know — 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Yes, regularly snug, of course. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 — If it had a less weight a-top on it, than ten 
 shillins. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You don't think three half-crowns would do it ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 It might, I won't say it wouldn't, but I couldn't 
 warrant it. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You could the other ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Then there it is. ( Gives him four half-crowns 
 You see these letters? ~ 
 
 T0M *. w^ 
 
 Yes, I can manage that without my spectacles. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Well; that's to be left at the Royal Hotel. This, 
 
 8 * 
 
110 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [aOT I. 
 
 this, is an anonymous one; and I want it to be 
 delivered at the Mayor's house, without his know- 
 ing from whom it came, or seeing who delivered it. 
 
 tom (taking the letters). 
 
 I say — you 're a rum 'un, you are. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Think so ! Ha, ha ! so are you. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Ay, but you 're a rummer one than me. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No, no, that 's your modesty. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 No it an't. I sa} 7 , how veil you did them last 
 hay-stacks. How do you contrive that ere now, 
 if it 's a fair question. Is it done with a pipe, or do 
 you use them Lucifer boxes ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Pipe — Lucifer boxes — hay-stacks! Why, what 
 do you mean ? 
 
 tom (looking cautiously round). 
 I know your name, old 'un. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You know my name! (Aside.) Now how the 
 devil has he got hold of that, I wonder ! 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 117 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes, I know it. It begins with a " S." 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Begins with an S ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 And ends with a M G " {winking). We We all 
 heard talk of Swing down here. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Heard talk of Swing ! Here 's a situation ! 
 Damme, d 'ye think I 'm a walking carbois of 
 vitriol, and burn everything I touch ? — Will you 
 go upon the errand you 're paid for ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Oh, I 'm going — I 'm going. It 's nothing to me, 
 you know; I don 't care. I '11 only just give these 
 boots to the deputy, to take them to whoever they 
 belong to, and then I'll pitch this here letter in at 
 the Mayor's office- window, in no time. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Will you be off ? 
 
 TOM. 
 Oh, I 'm going, I 'm going. Close, you knows, 
 close ! 
 
 [Exit Tom, c. DOOR. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 In five minutes more the letter will be delivered; 
 
118 TflE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 in another half hour, if the Mayor does his duty, 
 I shall be in custody, and secure from the ven- 
 geance of this infuriated monster. I wonder whether 
 they '11 take me away ? Egad ! 1 may as well be 
 provided with a clean shirt and a night-cap in case. 
 Let 's see, she said the next room was my bed- 
 room, and as I have accepted the challenge, I may 
 venture so far now. {Shouldering the portmanteau.) 
 What a capital notion it is; there'll be all the 
 correspondence in large letters, in the county paper, 
 and my name figuring away in roman capitals, 
 with a long story, how I was such a desperate 
 dragon, and so bent upon fighting, that it took four 
 constables to carry me to the Mayor, and one boy 
 to carry my hat. It 's a capital plan — must be done 
 — the only way I have of escaping unpursued from 
 this place, unless I could put myself in the Gene- 
 ral Post, and direct myself to a friend in town. 
 And then it \s a chance whether they 'd take me in, 
 being so much over weight. 
 
 [Exit Strange Gentleman, with portmanteau, 
 
 l. h. 
 
 • *•-- 
 
 Mrs. Noakes, peeping in c. door, then entering. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 This is the room, ladies, but the gentleman has 
 stepped out somewhere, he won't be long, I dare 
 say. Pray come in, Miss. 
 
SCENE I.j THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 119 
 
 Enter Mary and Fanny Wilson, c. door, 
 mary (c. )• 
 This is the Strange Gentleman's apartment, is 
 it? - 
 
 MRS. NOAKES (r.). 
 
 Yes, Miss; shall I see if I can find him, ladies, 
 and tell him you are here? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 No; we should prefer waiting till he returns, if 
 you please. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Very well, ma'am. He '11 be back directly, 1 
 dare say ; for it 's very near his dinner time. 
 
 {Exit Mrs. Noakes, c. door. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Come, Fanny, dear; don't give way to these 
 feelings of depression. Take pattern by me — I 
 feel the absurdity of our situation acutely; but you 
 see chat I keep up, nevertheless. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 It is easy for you to do so. Your situation is 
 neither so embarrassing, nor so painful a one as 
 mine. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Well, my dear, it may not be, certainly ; but the 
 circumstances which render it less so are, 1 own, 
 
120 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 somewhat incomprehensible to me. My hare- 
 brained, mad-cap swain, John Johnson, implores 
 me to leave my guardian's house, and accompany 
 him on an expedition to Gretna Green. I with 
 immense reluctance, and after considerable press- 
 ing— 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Yield a very willing consent. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Well, we won't quarrel about terms; at all 
 events 1 do consent. He bears me off, and when 
 we get exactly half-way, discovers that his money 
 is all gone, and that we must stop at this Inn, 
 until he can procure a remittance from London, 
 by post. I think, my dear, you '11 own that this is 
 rather an embarrassing position. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Compare it with mine. Taking advantage of 
 your flight, I send express to my admirer, Charles 
 Tomkins, to say that I have accompanied you; 
 first, because I should have been miserable if left 
 behind with a peevish old man alone; secondly, 
 because I thought it proper that your sister should 
 accompany you 
 
 MARY. 
 
 And, thirdly, because you knew that he would 
 immediately comply with this indirect assent to 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 12l 
 
 his entreaties of three months' duration, and follow 
 you without delay, on the same errand. Eh, my 
 dear? 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 It by no means follows that such was my in- 
 tention, or that I knew he would pursue such a 
 course, but supposing- he has done so ; supposing 
 this Strange Gentleman should be himself 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Supposing ! — Why, you know it is. You told 
 him not to disclose his name, on any account ; 
 and the Strange Gentleman is not a very common 
 travelling name, I should imagine ; besides the 
 hasty note, in which he said he should join you 
 here. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Well, granted that it is he. In what a situation 
 am I placed. You tell me, for the first time, 
 that my violent intended must on no account be 
 beheld by you?' violent intended, just now, because 
 of some old quarrel between them, of long stand- 
 ing, which has never been adjusted to this day. 
 What an appearance this will have ! How am I 
 to explain it, or relate your present situation ? I 
 should sink into the earth with shame and con- 
 fusion. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Leave it to ine. It arises from my heedlessness. 
 
122 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT T. 
 
 I will take it all upon myself, and see him alone. 
 But tell me, my dear — as you got up this love 
 affair with so much secrecy and expedition during 
 the four months you spent at Aunt Martha's, I 
 have never yet seen Mr. Tomkins, you know. Is 
 he so very handsome ? 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 See him, and judge for yourself. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Well, 1 will; and you may retire, till I have 
 paved the way for your appearance. But just 
 assist me first, dear, in making a little noise to 
 attract his attention, if he really be in the next 
 room, or I may wait here all day. 
 
 DUET. 
 
 At end of which 
 [Exit Fanny, c. door. Mary retires up B. h. 
 
 Enter Strange Gentleman, l. h. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 There ; now with a clean shirt in one pocket, 
 and a night-cap in the other, I 'm ready to be 
 carried magnanimously to my dungeon in the 
 cause of love. 
 
 mary (aside). 
 
 He says, he 's ready to be carried magnanimously 
 
SCENE 1.] TflE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 123 
 
 to a dungeon in the cause of love. I thought it 
 was Mr. Tomkins ! Hem ! {coming down l. h.) 
 
 strange gentleman {seeing her). 
 Hallo ! Who 's this ! Not a disguised peace 
 officer in petticoats. Beg your pardon, ma'am. 
 {Advancing towards her.) What — did — you — 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh, Sir; I feel the delicacy of my situation. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN {aside). 
 
 Feels the delicacy of her situation ; Lord bless 
 us, what's the matter! Permit me to offer you a 
 seat, ma'am, if you 're in a delicate situation. {He 
 places chairs ; they sit.) 
 
 MARY. 
 
 You are very good, Sir. You are surprised to 
 see me here, Sir? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No, no, at least not very; rather, perhaps — 
 rather. ( Aside) Never was more astonished in 
 all my life ! 
 
 mary {aside). 
 
 His politeness, and the extraordinary tale I have 
 to tell him, overpower me. I must summon up 
 courage. Hem ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Hem! 
 
124 THE ST RAM UK GENTLEMAN. [aOT. J. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Sir! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Ma'am ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 You have arrived at this house in pursuit of a 
 young lady, if I mistake not ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You are quite right, ma'am. (Aside.) Mysterious 
 female ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 If you are the gentleman I 'm in search of, you 
 wrote a hasty note a short time since, stating that 
 you would be found here this afternoon. 
 
 strange gentleman {drawing hade his chair). 
 I — I — wrote a note, ma'am ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 You need keep nothing secret from me, Sir. I 
 know all. 
 
 strange gentleman (aside). 
 
 That villain, Boots, has betrayed me ! Know 
 all, ma'am ? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Every thing. 
 
 strange gentleman (aside). 
 It must be so. She 's a constable's wife. 
 
SCENE 1.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 125 
 
 MARY. 
 
 You are the writer of that letter, Sir ? I think 
 I am not mistaken. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You are not, ma'am ; I confess I did write it. 
 What was I to do, ma'am? Consider the situation 
 in which I was placed. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 In your situation, you had, as it appears to me, 
 only one course to pursue. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You mean the course I adopted ? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Undoubtedly. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I am very happy to hear you say so, though of 
 course I should like it to be kept a secret. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh, of course. 
 
 strange gentleman (drawing his chair close to her, 
 and speaking very softly). 
 
 Will you allow me to ask you, whether the 
 constables are down stairs ? 
 
 mary (surprised). 
 The constables ! 
 
126 THE 8TKANGK GENTLEMAN. L A0T *• 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Because if I am to be apprehended, I should like 
 to have it over. I am quite ready, if it must be 
 done. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 No legal interference has been attempted. There 
 is nothing to prevent your continuing your journey 
 to-night. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 But will not the other party follow ? 
 
 mary {looking down). 
 The other party, I am compelled to inform you, 
 is detained here by — by want of funds. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN {starting lip). 
 
 Detained here by want of funds ! Hurrah ! 
 Hurrah ! 1 have caged him at last. I *m re- 
 venged for all his blustering and bullying. This is 
 a glorious triumph, ha, ha, ha ! I have nailed him 
 — nailed him to the spot ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 {Rising indignantly.) This exulting over a fallen 
 foe, Sir, is mean and pitiful. In my presence, 
 too, it is an additional insult. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Insult! I wouldn't insult you for the world, 
 after the joyful intelligence you have brought me. 
 
SCENE l.J THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 127 
 
 — I could hug you in ray arms! — One kiss, my 
 little constable's deputy. {Seizing her.) 
 
 mary [struggling with him.) 
 Help! help! 
 
 Enter John Johnson, c. door. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 What the devil do I see! {Seizes Strange 
 Gentleman by the collar). 
 
 MARY. L. H. 
 
 John, and Mr. Tomkins, met together ! They '11 
 kill each other. — Here, help! help! 
 
 [Exit Mary, running, c. door. 
 
 john {shaking him). 
 What do you mean by that, scoundrel ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Come, none of your nonsense — there 's no harm 
 done. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 No harm done. — How dare you offer to salute 
 that lady ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 What did you send her here for ? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 / send her here ! 
 
128 THE 8TBANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT 1. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Yes, you; you gave her instructions, I suppose. 
 (Aside.) Her husband, the constable, evidently. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 That lady, Sir, is attached to me. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Well, I know she is; and a very useful little 
 person she must be, to be attached to any body, — 
 it 's a pity she can't be legally sworn in. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Legally sworn in ! Sir, that is an insolent reflec- 
 tion upon the temporary embarrassment which 
 prevents our taking the marriage vows. How dare 
 you to insinuate 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Pooh ! pooh ! — don't talk about daring to 
 insinuate ; it doesn't become a man in your station 
 of life 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 My station of life ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 But as you have managed this matter very 
 quietly, and say you 're in temporary embarrass- 
 ment — here — here 's five shillings for you. (Offers 
 it.) 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Five shillings ! (raises his cane.) 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 129 
 
 strange gentleman {flourishing a chair). 
 Keep off, sir! 
 
 Enter Mary, Tom Sparks, and Two Waiters. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Separate them, or there '11 be murder ! 
 
 Tom clasps Strange Gentleman round the waist — 
 the Waiters seize John Johnson. 
 
 tom. 
 Come, none o' that 'ere, Mr. S. We don't let 
 private rooms for such games as these. — If you 
 want to try it on wery partickler, we don't mind 
 making a ring for you in the yard, but you mustn't 
 do it here. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Let me get at him. Let me go ; waiters — Mary, 
 don't hold me. I insist on your letting me go. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Hold him fast. — Call yourself a peace officer, you 
 prize-fighter ! 
 
 john {struggling). 
 Let me go, I say ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Hold him fast ! Hold him fast ! 
 
 [Tom takes Strange Gentleman off r. h. 
 Waiters take John off l. h., Mary following. 
 
 i. 
 
130 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 Scene II. — Another Room in the Inn. 
 Enter Julia Dobbs and Overton, l. h. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 You seem surprised, Overton. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Surprised, Miss Dobbs ! Well I may be, when, 
 after seeing nothing of you fpr three years and 
 more, you come down here without any previous 
 notice, for the express purpose of running away — 
 positively running away, with a young man. I am 
 astonished, Miss Dobbs! 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 You would have had better reason to be 
 astonished if I had come down here with any 
 notion of positively running away with an old one, 
 Overton. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Old or young, it would matter little to me, if 
 you had not conceived the preposterous idea of 
 entangling me — me, an attorney, and mayor of the 
 town, in so ridiculous a scheme. — Miss Dobbs, I 
 can't do it. — I really cannot consent to mix myself 
 up with such an affair. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Very well, Overton, very well. You recollect 
 
SCENE II.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 131 
 
 that in the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr. 
 Woolley, who 
 
 OVERTON, 
 
 Who would have married you, if he hadn't 
 
 died ; and who, as it was, left you his property, free 
 from all incumbrances, the incumbrance of himself, 
 as a husband, not being among the least. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Well, you may recollect, that in the poor old dear's 
 life- time, sundry advances of money were made to 
 you, at my persuasion, which still remain unpaid. 
 Oblige me by forwarding them to my agent in the 
 course of the week, and I free you from any inter- 
 ference in this little matter. (Crosses to l. h. and 
 is going.) 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Stay, Miss Dobbs, stay. As you say, we are old 
 acquaintances, and there certainly were some small 
 sums of money, whicli — which 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Which certainly are still outstanding. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Just so, just so ; and which, perhaps, you would 
 be likely to forget, if you had a husband — eh, 
 Miss Dobbs, eh? 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 1 have little doubt that I should. If I gained 
 
 9 * 
 
132 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 one through your assistance, indeed — I can safely 
 say I should forget all about them. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 My dear Miss Dobbs, we perfectly understand 
 each other. — Pray proceed. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Well — dear Lord Peter 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 That 's the young man you Ye going to run away 
 with, I presume ? 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 That 's the young nobleman who's going to run 
 away with me, Mr. Overton. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Yes, just so. — I beg your pardon — pray go on. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Dear Lord Peter is young and wild, and the 
 fact is, his friends do not consider him very 
 sagacious or strong-minded. To prevent their 
 interference, our marriage is to be a secret one. 
 In fact, he is stopping now at a friend's hunting 
 seat in the neighbourhood ; he is to join me here ; 
 and we are to be married at Gretna. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Just so. — A matter, as it seems to me, which 
 you can conclude without my interference. 
 
SCENE II.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 133 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Wait an instant. To avoid suspicion, and pre- 
 vent our being recognised and followed, I settled 
 with him that you should give out in this house 
 that he was a lunatic, and that I — his aunt — was 
 going to convey him in a chaise, to-night, to a 
 private asylum at Berwick. I have ordered the 
 chaise at half-past one in the morning. You can 
 see him, and make our final arrangements. It will 
 avert all suspicion, if I have no communication 
 with him, till we start. You can say to the 
 people of the house that the sight of me makes 
 him furious. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Where shall I find him ? — Is he here ? 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 You know best. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 I! 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 I desired him, immediately on his arrival, to 
 write you some mysterious nonsense, acquainting 
 you with the number of his room. 
 
 overton {producing a letter). 
 Dear me ! he has arrived, Miss Dobbs. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 No! 
 
134 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Yes — see here — a most mysterious and extra- 
 ordinary composition, which was thrown in at my 
 office window this morning, and which 1 could make 
 neither head nor tail of. Is that his handwriting ? 
 {giving her the letter. ) 
 
 julia {taking letter). 
 
 I never saw it more than once, but I know he 
 writes very large and straggling. — {Looks at letter.) 
 Ha, ha, ha ! This is capital, isn't it ? 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Excellent! — Ha, ha, ha! — So mysterious! 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha! — So very good. — " Rash act." 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Yes. Ha, ha! 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 II Interesting young man," 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Yes. — Very good. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 " Amiable youth ! " 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Capital ! 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 u Solemn warning ! " 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Yes. — That 's best of all. {They both laugh.) 
 
SCENE III.j THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 135 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Number seventeen, he says. See him at once, 
 that 's a good creature. {Returning the letter.) 
 
 overton {taking letter). 
 I will. {He crosses to l. h. and rings a bell.) 
 
 Enter Waiter, l. h. 
 Who is there in number seventeen, waiter ? 
 
 WAITER. 
 
 Number seventeen, sir ? — Oh ! — the strange 
 gentleman, sir. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Show me the room. 
 
 [Exit Waiter, l. h. 
 {Looking at Julia, and pointing to the letter.) "The 
 Strange Gentleman." — Ha, ha, ha! Very good — 
 very good indeed. — Excellent notion ! {They both 
 laugh.) 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene III. — Same as the first. — A small table, 
 with wine, dessert, and lights on it, R. H. of c. 
 door ; two chairs. 
 
 Strange Gentleman discovered seated at table. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " The other party is detained here, by want of 
 
136 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 funds." Ha, ha, ha ! I can finish my wine at my 
 leisure, order my gig when I please, and drive on 
 to Brown's in perfect security. I '11 drink the 
 other party's good health, and long may he be 
 detained here. {Fills a glass.) Ha, ha, ha! The 
 other party ; and long may he — {A knock at c. 
 door.) Hallo! I hope this isn't the other party. 
 Talk of the — (A knock at c. door.) Well — 
 {setting down his glass) — this is the most extra- 
 ordinary private room that was ever invented. 
 I am continually disturbed by unaccountable 
 knockings. (A gentle tap at c. door.) There's 
 another; that was a gentle rap — a persuasive tap — 
 like a friend's fore-finger on one's coat-sleeve. It 
 can't be Tinkles with the gruel. — Come in. 
 
 Overton peeping in at c. door. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Are you alone, my Lord ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN {amazed). 
 
 Eh! 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Are you alone, my Lord ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 My Lord ! 
 
SCENE 111.] THE 6TRANGE GENTLEMAN. 137 
 
 overton {stepping in, and closing the door). 
 You are right, sir, we cannot be too cautious, 
 for we do not know who may be within hearing. 
 You are very right, sir. 
 
 strange gentleman (rising from table, and coming 
 forward R. H.). 
 It strikes me, sir, that you are very wrong. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Very good, very good; I like this caution; it 
 shows me you are wide awake. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Wide awake! — damme, I begin to think I am 
 fast asleep, and have been for the last two hours. 
 
 overton ( whispering) . 
 I — am — the mayor. 
 
 strange gentleman (in the same tone). 
 Oh! 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 This is your letter ? (Shows it ; Strange 
 Gentleman nods assent solemnly.) It will be 
 necessary for you to leave here to-night, at half- 
 past one o'clock, in a postchaise and four ; and the 
 higher you bribe the postboys to drive at their 
 utmost speed, the better. 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 You don't say so ? 
 
138 THE STttANGE GENTLEMAN. [aOT. i. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 I do indeed. You are not safe from pursuit 
 here. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Bless my soul, can such dreadful things happen 
 in a civilized community, Mr. Mayor? 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 It certainly does at first sight appear rather a 
 hard case that people cannot marry whom they 
 please, without being hunted down in this waj . 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 To be sure. To be hunted down, and killed as 
 if one was game, you know. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Certainly ; and you arit game, you know. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Of course not. But can't you prevent it ? can't 
 you save me by the interposition of your power ? 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 My power can do nothing in such a case. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Can't it though ? 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Nothing whatever. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I never heard of such dreadful revenge, never! 
 
SCENE 111. J THE STliANGE GENTLEMAN. 139 
 
 Mr. Mayor, I am a victim, I am the unhappy 
 victim of parental obstinacy. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Oh, no ; don't say that. You may escape yet. 
 
 strange gentleman {grasping his hand). 
 Do you think I may? Do you think I may, 
 Mr. Mayor? 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Certainly ! certainly ! I have little doubt of it, 
 if you manage properly. 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 I thought I was managing properly. I under- 
 stood the other party was detained here, by want 
 of funds. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Want of funds ! — There 's no want of funds in 
 that quarter, I can tell you. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 An't there, though ? 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Bless you, no. Three thousand a year! — But 
 who told you there was a want of funds ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Why, she did. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 She! you have seen her then ? She told me 
 you had not. 
 
140 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Nonsense ; don't believe her. She was in this 
 very room half an hour ago. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Then I must have misunderstood her, and you 
 must have misunderstood her too. — But to return 
 to business. Don't you think it would keep up 
 appearances if I had you put under some restraint ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I think it would. I am very much obliged to 
 you. (Aside.) This regard for my character in 
 an utter stranger, and in a Mayor too, is quite 
 affecting. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 I '11 send somebody up, to mount guard over 
 you. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Thank'ee, my dear friend, thank' ee. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 And if you make a little resistance, when we 
 take you up- stairs to your bed-room, or away in 
 the chaise, it will be keeping up the character, you 
 know. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 To be sure.— So it will.— I '11 do it. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Very well, then. I shall see your Lordship 
 
SCENE 111. J THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 141 
 
 again by and bye. — For the present, my Lord, good 
 evening. {Going.) 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Lord ! — Lordship ! — Mr. Mayor ! 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Eh? — Oh! — I see. {Comes forward.) Prac- 
 tising the lunatic, my Lord. Ah, very good — 
 very vacant look indeed. — Admirable, my Lord, 
 admirable! — I say, .my Lord — {pointing to letter — 
 " Amiable youth ! " — " Interesting young man." — 
 " Strange Gentleman." — Eh? Ha, ha, ha! Know- 
 ing trick indeed, my Lord, very ! 
 
 [Exit Overton, c. d. 
 
 p 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 That mayor is either in the very last stage of 
 mystified intoxication, or in the most hopeless state 
 of incurable insanity. — I have no doubt of it. A 
 little touched here {tapping his forehead). Never 
 mind, he is sufficiently sane to understand my 
 business at all events. (Goes to table and takes a 
 glass.) Poor fellow !— I '11 drink his health, and 
 speedy recovery. (A knock at c. door.) It is a 
 most extraordinary thing, now, that every time I 
 propose a toast to myself, some confounded fellow 
 raps at that door, as if he were receiving it with 
 the utmost enthusiasm. Private room! — I might 
 as well be sitting behind the little shutter of a 
 
142 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT T. 
 
 Two-penny Post Office, where all the letters put in 
 were to be post-paid. (A knock at c. door.) 
 Perhaps it 's the guard ! I shall feel a great deal 
 safer if it is. Come in. 
 (He has brought a chair forward, and sits l. h.) 
 
 Enter Tom Sparks, c. door, very slowly, with 
 an enormous stick. He closes the door, and, 
 after looking at the Strange Gentleman 
 very steadily, brings a chair down L. H., and 
 sits opposite him. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Are you sent by the mayor of this place, to 
 mount guard over me ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes, yes. — It 's all right. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. (Aside.) 
 
 It's all right — I 'm safe. (To Tom, with affected 
 indignation.) Now mind, I have been insulted by 
 receiving this challenge, and I want to fight the 
 man who gave it me. I protest against being kept 
 here. I denounce this treatment as an outrage. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Ay, ay. Any thing you please — poor creature ; 
 don't put yourself in a passion. It '11 only make 
 you worse. (Whistles.) 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 This is most extraordinary behaviour. — I don't 
 
SCENE III.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 143 
 
 understand it. — What d'ye mean by behaving in 
 this manner ? {Rising.) 
 
 tom. {Aside. ) 
 He 's a getting wiolent. I must frighten him with 
 a steady look. — I say, young fellow, do you see 
 this here eye ? {Staring at him, and pointing at his 
 own eye.) 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. {Aside.) 
 
 Do I see his eye ! — What can he mean by glaring 
 upon me, with that large round optic! — Ha! a 
 terrible light flashes upon me. — He thought I was 
 " Swing " this morning. It was an insane delusion. 
 — That eye is an insane eye. — He's a madman! 
 
 TOM- 
 
 Madman ! Damme, I think he is a madman with 
 a wengeance. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He acknowledges it. He is sensible of his mis- 
 fortune ! — Go away — leave the room instantly, and 
 tell them to send somebody else. — Go away ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Oh, you unhappy lunatic I 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 What a dreadful situation ! — I shall be attacked, 
 strangled, smothered, and mangled, by a madman ! 
 Where's the bell? 
 
144 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT I. 
 
 TOM {advancing and brandishing his stick). 
 Leave that 'ere bell alone — leave that 'ere bell 
 alone — and come here ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Certainly, Mr. Boots, certainly. — He 's going to 
 strangle me. (Going towards table.) Let me pour 
 you out a glass of wine, Mr. Boots — pray do! 
 (Aside.) If he said "Yes," I'd throw the 
 decanter at his temple. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 None o' your nonsense. — Sit down there. (Forces 
 him into a chair, l. h.) I'll sit here. (Opposite 
 him. r. H.) Look me full in the face, and I won't 
 hurt you. Move hand, foot, or eye, and you '11 
 never want to move either of 'em again. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I 'm paralysed with terror. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Ha! (raising his stick in a threatening attitude.) 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I 'm dumb, Mr. Boots — dumb, sir. 
 
 [They sit gazing intently on each other; Tom 
 with the stick raised, as the Act Drop slowly 
 descends. 
 
 END OF ACT FIRST. 
 
 FIRST ACT FIPTT MINUTES. 
 
ACT II. SCI.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 145 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — The same as Scene III., Act I. 
 
 Tom Sparks discovered in the same attitude 
 watching the Strange Gentleman, who has 
 fallen asleep with his head over the back of 
 his Chair, 
 
 TOM. 
 
 He 's asleep ; poor unhappy wretch ! How very 
 mad he looks with his mouth wide open and his 
 eyes shut! (Strange Gentleman snores.) Ah! 
 there 's a wacant snore ; no meaning in it at all. I 
 cou'd ha' told he was out of his senses from the 
 very tone of it. (He snores again.) That's a 
 wery insane snore. I should say he was melan- 
 cholly mad from the sound of it. 
 
 Enter, through c. door, Overton, Mrs. Noakes, 
 a Chamber-maid, and Two Waiters ; Mrs. 
 Noakes with a warming-pan, the Maid with 
 a light. Strange Gentleman starts up, 
 greatly exhausted. 
 I. 10 
 
146 THK STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 TOM {starting up in a). 
 Hallo ! — Hallo ! keep quiet, young fellow. Keep 
 quiet ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. L. H. 
 
 Out of the way, you savage maniac. Mr. Mayor 
 {crossing to him, R. H.), the person you sent to keep 
 guard over me is a madman, sir. What do you 
 mean by shutting me up with a madman ? — what 
 do you mean, sir, I ask ? 
 
 overton. r. ii. c. {Aside to Strange Gentleman.) 
 Bravo ! bravo ! very good indeed — excellent ! 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 Excellent, sir ! — It 's horrible ! — The bare recol- 
 lection of what I have endured, makes me shudder, 
 down to my very toe-nails. 
 
 MRS. noakes. r. h. 
 Poor dear ! — Mad people always think other 
 people mad. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Poor dear ! Ma'am! What the devil do you 
 mean by u Poor dear ? " How dare you have a 
 madman here, ma'am, to assault and terrify the 
 visitors to your establishment? 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Ah ! terrify indeed ! I '11 never have another, to 
 please anybody, you may depend upon that, Mr. 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 147 
 
 Overton. (To Strange Gentleman.) There, 
 there. — Don't exert yourself, there 's a dear. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. C. 
 
 Exert myself! — Damme! it's a mercy I have 
 any life left to exert myself with. It 's a special 
 miracle, ma'am, that my existence has not long ago 
 fallen a sacrifice to that sanguinary monster in the 
 leather smalls. 
 
 overton. r. c. (Aside to Strange Gentleman.) 
 I never saw any passion more real in my life. 
 Keep it up, it 's an admirable joke. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Joke ! — joke ! — Peril a precious life, and call it a 
 joke, — you, a man with a sleek head and a broad- 
 brimmed hat, who ought to know better, calling it 
 a joke. — Are you mad too, sir, — are you mad? 
 (Confronting Overton.) 
 
 tom. L. H. (Very loud.) 
 Keep your hands off. Would you murder the 
 wery mayor, himself, you mis-rable being ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Mr. Mayor, I call upon you to issue your warrant 
 for the instant confinement of that one-eyed Orson 
 in some place of security. 
 
 overton (aside, advancing a little). 
 He reminds me that he had better be removed 
 to his bed-room. He is right. — Waiters, carry the 
 
 10 * 
 
148 THK STRANGE GKNTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 gentleman up-stairs.— Boots, you will continue to 
 watch him in his bed-room. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He continue ! — What, am I to be boxed up again 
 with this infuriated animal, and killed off, when he 
 has done playing with me? — I won't go — I won't 
 go — help there, help ! 
 
 ( The Waiters cross from R. h. to behind him.) 
 
 {Enter John Johnson hastily, c. door.) 
 
 john {coming forward l. h.). 
 What on earth is the meaning of this dreadful 
 outcry, which disturbs the whole house ? 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Don't be alarmed, sir, I beg. — They 're only 
 going to carry an unfortunate gentleman, as is out 
 of his senses, to his bed- room. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. C. {To JOHN.) 
 
 Constable — constable — do your duty — appre- 
 hend these persons — every one of them. Do you 
 hear, officer, do you hear ? — ( The Waiters seize 
 him by the arms.) — Here — here — you see this. 
 You 've seen the assault committed. Take them 
 into custody — off with them. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Poor creature ! — Me thinks you are a constable, 
 sir. 
 
SCENE T.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 149 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Unfortunate man! It is the second time to-day 
 that he has been the victim of this strange 
 delusion. 
 
 strange gentleman {breaking from Waiters and 
 going to John), l. h. 
 Unfortunate man! — What, do you think I am 
 mad? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Poor fellow ! His hopeless condition is pitiable 
 indeed. (Goes up.) 
 
 strange gentleman [returning to a). 
 The j 're all mad ! — Every one of 'em ! 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Come now, come to bed — there 's a dear young 
 man, do. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Who are you, you shameless old ghost, standing 
 there before company, with a large warming-pan, 
 and asking me to come to bed ? — Are you mad ? 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Oh ! he 's getting shocking now. Take him 
 away. — Take him away. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Ah, you had better remove him to his bed-room 
 at once. 
 
 ( The Waiters take him up by the feet and shoulders.) 
 
150 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Mind, if I survive this, I '11 bring an action of 
 false imprisonment against every one of you. Mark 
 my words — especially against that villanous old 
 mayor. — Mind, I '11 do it ! 
 
 ( They bear him off, struggling and talking — the others 
 crowding round, and assisting.) 
 
 overton (following). 
 How well he does it ! [Exeunt l. h. 1st e. 
 
 Enter a Waiter, showing in Charles Tomkins in a 
 travelling coat. c. door. 
 
 waiter, l. h. 
 This room is disengaged now, sir. There was 
 a gentleman in it, but he has just left it. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Very well, this will do. I may want a bed here 
 to-night, perhaps, waiter. 
 
 waiter. 
 Yes, sir. — Shall I take your card to the bar, sir ? 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 My card ! — No, never mind. 
 
 WAITER. 
 
 No name, sir ? 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 No — it doesn't matter. 
 
SCENE I.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 151 
 
 waiter (aside, as going out). 
 Another Strange Gentleman! 
 
 [Exit Waiter, c. door. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Ah ! — (Takes off coat.) — The sun and dust on 
 this long ride have been almost suffocating. I 
 wonder whether Fanny has arrived ? If she has 
 — the sooner we start forward on our journey 
 further North the better. Let me see ; she would 
 be accompanied by her sister, she said in her note 
 — and they would both be on the look- out for me. 
 Then the best thing I can do is to ask no questions, 
 for the present at all events, and to be on the look- 
 out for them. (Looking towards c. door.) Why 
 here she comes, walking slowly down the long 
 passage, straight towards this room — she can't 
 have seen me yet. — Poor girl, how melancholy she 
 looks ! I '11 keep in the back ground for an instant, 
 and give her a joyful surprise. (He goes up r. h.) 
 
 Enter Fanny, c. door. 
 
 FANNY. L. H. 
 
 Was ever unhappy girl placed in so dreadful a 
 situation! — Friendless, and almost alone, in a 
 strange place — my dear, dear Charles a victim to 
 an attack of mental derangement, and I unable to 
 avow my interest in him, or express my anxious 
 sympathy and solicitude for his sufferings ! I 
 
152 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 cannot bear this dreadful torture of agonising 
 suspense. I must and will see him, let the cost be 
 what it may. (She is going l. h.) 
 
 Charles (coming forward r. h.). 
 Hist ! Fanny ! 
 
 fanny (starting, and repressing a scream). 
 Ch — Charles — here in this room ! 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Bodily present, my dear, in this very room. My 
 darling Fanny, let me strain you to my bosom. 
 (Advancing.) 
 
 fanny (shrinking back). 
 N — n — no, dearest Charles, no, not now. — 
 (Aside.) — How flushed he is! 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 No ! — Fanny, this cold reception is a very 
 different one to what I looked forward to meeting 
 with, from you. 
 
 fanny (advancing, and offering the tip of her 
 finger). 
 N — n — no— not cold, Charles ; not cold. I do 
 not mean it to be so, indeed. — How is your head, 
 now, dear ? 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 How is my head! After days and weeks of 
 suspense and anxiety, when half our dangerous 
 journey is gained, and 1 meet you here, to bear 
 
SCENE 1.] THE STBANGE GENTLEMAN. 153 
 
 you whither you can be made mine for life, you 
 greet me with the tip of your longest finger, and 
 inquire after my head. — Fanny, what can you 
 mean? 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 You — you have startled me rather, Charles. — I 
 thought you had gone to bed. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Gone to bed! — Why 1 have but this moment 
 arrived. 
 
 fanny {aside). 
 Poor, poor Charles ! 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Miss Wilson, what am I to — 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 No, no ; pray, pray, do not suffer yourself to be 
 excited — 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Suffer myself to be excited ! — Can I possibly 
 avoid it ? can I do aught but wonder at this extra- 
 ordinary and sudden change in your whole 
 demeanour? — Excited! But five minutes since, I 
 arrived here, brimful of the hope and expectation 
 which had buoyed up my spirits during my long 
 journey. 1 find you cold, reserved, and embarrassed 
 — everything but what 1 expected to find you — 
 and then you tell me not to be excited. 
 
154 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 fanny {aside). 
 He is wandering again. The fever is evidently 
 upon him. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 This altered manner and ill-disguised confusion 
 all convince me of what you would fain conceal. 
 Miss Wilson, you repent of your former determina- 
 tion, and love another ! 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Poor fellow ! 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Poor fellow ! — What, am I pitied ? 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Oh, Charles, do not give way to this. Consider 
 how much depends upon your being composed. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 I see how much depends upon my being com- 
 posed, ma'am — weli, very well. — A husband 
 depends upon it, ma'am. Your new lover is in 
 this house, and if he overhears my reproaches he 
 will become suspicious of the woman who has jilted 
 another, and may jilt him. That 's it, madam — a 
 great deal depends, as you say, upon my being 
 composed. — A great deal, ma'am. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Alas ! these are indeed the ravings of frenzy ! 
 
SCENE I.J THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 155 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Upon my word, ma'am, you must form a very 
 modest estimate of your own power, if you imagine 
 that disappointment has impaired my senses. Ha, 
 ha, ha! — I am delighted. I am delighted to have 
 escaped you, ma'am. I am glad, ma'am — damn'd 
 glad ! {Kicks a chair over.) 
 
 fanny {aside). 
 
 I must call for assistance. He grows more 
 incoherent and furious every instant. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 I leave you, ma'am. — I am unwilling to interrupt 
 the tender tete-a-tete with the other gentleman, to 
 which you are, no doubt, anxiously looking forward. 
 — To you T have no more to say. To him I must 
 beg to offer a few rather unexpected congratula- 
 tions on his approaching marriage. 
 
 [Exit Charles hastily, c. door. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Alas ! it is but too true. His senses have 
 entirely left him. 
 
 [Exit L. H. 
 
156 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 Scene Second and Last. —A Gallery in the Inn, 
 leading to the Bed-rooms. Four Doors in 
 the Flat, and one at each of the upper 
 Entrances, numbered from 20 to 25, beginning 
 at the R. H. A pair of boots at the door 
 0/23. 
 
 Enter Chamber-maid with two lights ; and Charles 
 
 TOMKINS. R. H. 1st E. 
 MAID. 
 
 This is your room, sir, No. 21. (Opening the 
 door.) 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 Very well. Call me at seven in the morning. 
 
 MAID. 
 
 Yes, sir. ( Gives him a light, and 
 
 [Exit Chamber-maid. r. h. 1st e. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 And at nine, ii I can previously obtain a few 
 words of explanation with this unknown rival, I 
 will just return to the place from whence I came, 
 in the same coach that brought me down here. I 
 wonder who he is and where he sleeps. (Looking 
 round.) 1 have a lurking suspicion of those boots 
 (pointing to No. 23). They are an ill-looking, 
 underhanded sort of pair, and an undefinable instinct 
 tells me that they have clothed the feet of the 
 
80ENE 11. J THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 157 
 
 rascal I am in search of. Besides myself, the 
 owner of those ugly articles is the only person who 
 has yet come up to bed. I will keep my eyes open 
 for half an hour or so ; and my ears to. 
 
 [Exit Charles into No. 21. 
 
 Enter r. h. 1st e. Mrs. Noakes with two lights, 
 followed by Mary and Fanny. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Take care of the last step, ladies. This way, 
 ma'am, if you please. No. 20 is your room, 
 ladies : nice large double-bedded room, with coals 
 and a rushlight. 
 
 fanny, r. h. (Aside to Mary.) 
 I must ask which is his room. I cannot rest 
 unless I know he has at length sunk into the slumber 
 he so much needs. (Crosses to Mrs. Noakes, 
 who is l. H.) Which is the room in which the 
 Strange Gentleman sleeps ? 
 
 MRS. noakes. 
 No. 23, ma'am. There's his boots outside the 
 door. Don't be frightened of him, ladies. He 's 
 very quiet now, and our Boots is a watching him. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Oh, no — we are not afraid of him. (Aside.) 
 Poor Charles! 
 
158 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT. II. 
 
 mrs. noakes {going to door No. 20, which is 
 3rd e. r. h.). 
 This way, if you please ; you '11 find every thing 
 very comfortable, and there's a bell-rope at the 
 head of the bed, if you want anything in the 
 morning. Good night, ladies. 
 
 As Mart and Fanny pass Mrs. Noakes, Fanny 
 takes a light 
 
 [Exeunt Fanny and Mary into No. 20. 
 
 mrs. noakes {tapping at No. 23). 
 Tom — Tom — 
 
 Enter Tom from No. 23. 
 
 tom {coming fon card, l. H.). 
 Is that you, missis? 
 
 MRS. noakes. r. h. 
 Yes. — How's the Strange Gentleman, Tom? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 He vas wery boisterous half an hour ago, but I 
 punched his head a little, and now he 's uncommon 
 comfortable. He 's fallen asleep, but his snores is 
 still wery incoherent. 
 
 MRS. noakes. 
 Mind you take care of him, Tom. They '11 take 
 him away in half an hour's time. It 's very nearly 
 one o'clock now. 
 
SCENE II.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 59 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I '11 pay ev'ry possible attention to him. If he 
 offers to call out, I shall whop him again. 
 
 [Exit Tom into No. 23. 
 
 mrs. noakes (looking off*. H.). 
 This way, ma'am, if you please. Up these 
 stairs. 
 
 Enter Julia Dobbs with a light r. h. 1st e. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Which did you say was the room in which I 
 could arrange my dress for travelling? 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 No. 22, ma'am ; the next room to your 
 nephew's. Poor dear — he 's fallen asleep, ma'am, 
 and I dare say you '11 be able to take him away very 
 quietly by and bye. 
 
 julia (aside). 
 Not so quietly as you imagine, if he plays his 
 part half as well as Overton reports he does. (To 
 Mrs. Noakes.} Thank you. — For the present, 
 good night. 
 
 [Exit Julia into No. 22. 
 
 MRS. noakes. 
 Wish you good night, ma'am. There. — Now I 
 think I may go down-stairs again, and see if Mr. 
 Overton wants any more negus. Why who 's this? 
 
160 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 {Looking off R. H.) Oh, I forgot — No. 24 an't 
 a-bed yet. — It's him. 
 
 {Enter John Johnson with a light, r. h. 1st e.) 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 No. 24, sir, if you please. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Yes, yes, I know. The same room I slept in 
 last night. {Crossing L. H.) 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Yes, sir. — Wish you good night, sir. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Noakes. r. ii 1st e. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Good night, ma'am. The same room I slept in 
 last night, indeed, and the same room I may sleep 
 in to-morrow night, and the next night, and the 
 night after that, and just as many more nights as I 
 can get credit here, unless this remittance arrives. 
 I could raise the money to prosecute my journey 
 without difficulty were I on the spot; but my con- 
 founded thoughtless liberality to the post-boys has 
 left me absolutely penniless. Well, we shall see 
 what to-morrow brings forth. {He goes into No. 
 24, but immediately returns and places his boots 
 outside his room door, leaving it ajar.) 
 
 [Exit John into No. 24. 
 
NE II.J THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 161 
 
 Charles peeping from, No. 21, and putting out his 
 
 boots. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 There 's another pair of boots. Now I wonder 
 which of these two fellows is the man. I can't 
 help thinking it 's No. 23. — Hallo ! {He goes in 
 and closes his door.) 
 
 The door of No. 20 opens ; Fanny comes out with a 
 light in a night shade. No. 23 opens. She 
 retires into No. 20. 
 
 Enter Tom Sparks, with a stable lantern from No. 23. 
 
 tom {closing the door gently). 
 Fast asleep still. I may as veil go my rounds, 
 and glean for the deputy. {Pulls out a piece of 
 chalk from his pocket, and takes up boots from 
 No. 23.) Twenty-three. It's difficult to tell 
 what a fellow is ven he han't got his senses, but I 
 think this here twenty -three 's a timorious faint- 
 hearted genus. {Examines the boots.) You want 
 new soleing, No. 23. {Goes to No. 24, takes up 
 boots and looks at them.) Hallo ! here's a bust: 
 and there 's been a piece put on in the corner. — I 
 must let my missis know. The bill 's always 
 doubtful ven there's any mending. {Goes to 
 No. 21, takes up boots.) French calf Vellingtons. 
 — All 's right here. These here French calves 
 always comes it strong — light vines, and all that 
 I, 11 
 
162 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT IT. 
 
 'ere. {Looking round.) Werry happy to see there 
 an't no high-lows — they never drinks nothing but 
 gin and vater. Them and the cloth boots is the 
 vurst customers an inn has. — The cloth boots is 
 always obstemious, only drinks sherry vine and 
 vater, and never eats no suppers. {He chalks the 
 No. of the room on each pair of boots as he takes 
 them up.) Lucky for you, my French calves, that 
 you an't done with the patent polish, or you 'd ha' 
 been witrioled in no time. I don't like to put oil 
 o' witriol on a well-made pair of boots ; but ven 
 they 're rubbed vith that 'ere polish, it must be 
 done, or the profession 's ruined. 
 
 [Exit Tom with boots, r. h. 1st e. 
 
 Enter Fanny from iVo.20, with light as before. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 I tremble at the idea of going into his room, but 
 surely at a moment like this, when he is left to be 
 attended by rude and uninterested strangers, the 
 strict rules of propriety which regulate our ordinary 
 proceedings may be dispensed with. I will but 
 satisfy myself that he sleeps, and has those comforts 
 which his melancholy situation demands, and 
 return immediately. {Goes to No. 23, and knocks.) 
 
 Charles Tomkins peeping from No 21. 
 
 CHARLES. 
 
 I '11 swear I heard a knock. — A woman ! Fanny 
 
SCENE II. J THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 163 
 
 Wilson — and at that door at this hour of the 
 night ! 
 
 (Fanny comes forward,) 
 
 Why what an ass I must have been ever to have 
 
 loved that girl.— It is No. 23, though. — I '11 throttle 
 
 him presently. The next room-door open — I '11 
 
 watch there. (He crosses to No. 24, and goes in.) 
 
 Fanny returns to No. 23, and knocks — the door 
 opens and the Strange Gentleman appears, 
 night-cap on his head and a light in his hand. 
 — Fanny screams and runs back into No. 20. 
 
 strange gentleman (coming forward. ) 
 Well, of all the wonderful and extraordinary 
 houses that ever did exist, this particular tenement 
 is the most extraordinary. I Ve got rid of the 
 madman at last — and it 's almost time for that vile 
 old mayor to remove me. But where ? — I 'm lost, 
 bewildered, confused, and actually begin to think I 
 am mad. Half these things I Ve seen to-day must 
 be visions of fancy — they never could have really 
 happened. No, no, I y m clearly mad !— I 've not 
 the least doubt of it now. I Ve caught it from 
 that horrid Boots. He has inoculated the whole 
 establishment. We 're all mad together. — (Looking 
 off r. h.) Lights coming up stairs! — Some more 
 lunatics. 
 
 [Exit Strange Gentleman in No. 23. 
 
 11 * 
 
164 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [aOT II. 
 
 Enter r. h. 1st e. Overton with a cloak, Mrs. 
 Noakes, Tom Sparks with lantern, and 
 Three Waiters with lights. The Waiters 
 range upu. h. side. Tom is in r. h. corner 
 and Mrs. Noakes next to him. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Remain there till I call for your assistance 
 (Goes up to No. 23 and knocks.) 
 
 Enter Strange Gentleman from No. 23. 
 Now, the chaise is ready. — Muffle yourself up in 
 this cloak. (Puts it on the Strange Gentleman. 
 — They come forward.) 
 
 strange gentleman, l. h. 
 Yes. 
 
 OVERTON. C. 
 
 Make a little noise when we take you away, you 
 
 know. 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 
 Yes — yes. — I say, what a queer room this is of 
 mine. Somebody has been tapping at the wall for 
 the last half hour, like a whole forest of wood- 
 peckers. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Don't you know who that was ? 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 No. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 The other party. 
 
SCENE II. j THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 165 
 
 strange gentleman (alarmed). 
 The other party ! 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 To be sure. — The other party is going with you. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Going with me ! — In the same chaise ! 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Of course. — Hush! (Goes to No. 22. Knocks.) 
 
 Enter Julia Dobbs from No. 22, wrapped up in a 
 large cloak. 
 
 Look here! {Bringing her forward. Julia is 
 next to Mrs. Noakes.) 
 
 strange gentleman (starting into L. H. corner). 
 I won't go — I won't go. This is a plot — a 
 conspiracy. I won't go, I tell you. I shall be 
 assassinated. — I shall be murdered ! 
 
 Fanny and Mary appear at No. 20, Johnson and 
 Tomkins at 24. 
 
 john (at the door). 
 I told you he was mad. 
 
 Charles (at the door). 
 I see — I see — poor fellow ! 
 
 julia (crossing to Strange Gentleman and 
 taking his arm). 
 Come, dear, come. 
 
166 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT II. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 Yes, do go, there 's a good soul. Go with your 
 affectionate aunt. 
 
 strange gentleman {breaking from her). 
 My affectionate aunt ! 
 
 Julia returns to her former position. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 He don't deserve no affection. I niver see such 
 an un-fectionate fellow to his relations. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. L. H. 
 
 Take that wretch away, and smother him 
 between two feather beds. Take him away, and 
 make a sandwich of him directly. 
 
 julia (to Overton, who is in a). 
 What voice was that ? — It was not Lord Peter's. 
 (Throwing off her cloak.) 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 Nonsense — nonsense. — Look at him. (Pulls 
 cloak off Strange Gentleman.) 
 
 strange gentleman (turning round). 
 A woman ! 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 A stranger! 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 A stranger ! What, an't he your husband that 
 is to — your mad nephew, I mean ? 
 
SCENE II.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 16? 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 No! 
 
 ALL. 
 
 No! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 No ! — no, I '11 be damned if I am. I an't any- 
 body's nephew. — My aunt 's dead, and I never had 
 an uncle. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 And an't he mad, ma'am ? 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 No. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Oh, I 'm not mad. — I was mistaken just now. 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 And isn't he going away with you ? 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 No. 
 
 mary {coming forward r. h., next to Mrs. 
 
 Noakes). 
 And isn't his name Tomkins ? 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN (very hud). 
 
 No! 
 
 (All these questions and answers should be very rapid. 
 Johnson and Tomkins advance to the ladies, 
 and they all retire up.) 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. 
 
 What is his name? (Producing a letter.) It 
 
168 THE STliANGK GENTLEMAN. [aOT II. 
 
 an't Mr. Walker Trott, is it? (She advances a 
 little towards him.) 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Something so remarkably like it, ma'am, that, 
 with your permission, I '11 open that epistle. 
 (Taking letter.) 
 
 All go up, but Julia and Strange Gentleman. 
 
 (Opening letter.) Tinkle's hand. (Reads.) "The 
 challenge was a ruse. By this time I shall have been 
 united at Gretna Green to the charming Emily 
 Brown." — Then, through a horror of duels, I have 
 lost a wife ! 
 
 julia (r. h. with her handkerchief to her eyes). 
 And through Lord Peter's negligence, I have 
 lost a husband ! 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Eh! (Regards her a moment, then beckons 
 Overton, who comes forward, l. h.) I say, didn't 
 you say something about three thousand a year 
 this morning ? 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 I did. 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You alluded to that party ? (Nodding towards 
 Julia.) 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 I did. 
 
SCENE II.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 169 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Hem ! (Puts Overton back.) Permit me, ma'am 
 (going to her), to sympathize most respectfully with 
 your deep distress. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Oh, sir! your kindness penetrates to my very 
 heart. 
 
 strange gentleman (aside). 
 
 Penetrates to her heart! — It's taking the right 
 direction. — If I understand your sorrowing murmur, 
 ma'am, you contemplated taking a destined 
 husband away with you, in the chaise at the door ? 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Oh! sir, — spare my feelings — 1 did. — The horses 
 were ordered and paid for ; and everything was 
 ready. (Weeps.) 
 
 strange gentleman (aside). 
 She weeps. Expensive thing, posting, ma'am. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Very, sir. 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 Eighteen-pence a mile, ma'am, not including 
 the boys. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 Yes, sir. 
 
 8TRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 You 've lost a husband, ma'am — / have lost a 
 wile. — Marriages are made above — I 'm quite 
 
170 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. [ACT IT. 
 
 certain ours is booked. — Pity to have all this 
 expense for nothing — let 's go together. 
 
 julia {drying her eyes). 
 The suddenness of this proposal, sir — 
 
 STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Requires a sudden answer, ma'am. — You don't 
 say no — you mean yes. Permit me to — (kisses 
 her). — All right! Old one, (to Overton, who 
 comes down l. h.) I've done it. — Mrs. JS T oakes, 
 (she comes down r. h.) don't countermand the 
 chaise. — We 're off directly. 
 
 Charles (who with Fanny comes down l. h. a). 
 So are we. 
 
 john (who with Mary comes down r. h. a). 
 So are we, thanks to a negotiated loan, and an 
 explanation as hasty as the quarrel that gave rise 
 to it. 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 Three post-chaises and four, on to Gretna, 
 directly. 
 
 [Exeunt Waiters, r. h. 1st e. 
 
 I say — we '11 stop here as we come back ? 
 
 john and CHARLES. 
 Certainly. 
 
 strange gentleman. 
 But before I go, as I fear I have given a great 
 deal of trouble here to-night — permit me to inquire 
 
8CENE II.] THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 171 
 
 whether you will view my mistakes and perils with 
 an indulgent eye, and consent to receive " The 
 Strange Gentleman " again to-morrow. 
 
 JOHN. JULIA. STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 MART. FANNY. 
 
 MRS. NOAKES. CHARLES. 
 
 TOM. OVERTON. 
 
 R. H. L. H. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 SECOND ACT, THIRTY MINUTES. 
 
THE 
 
 VILLAGE COQUETTES 
 
[The Village Coquettes: A Comic Opera. In Two Acts. By 
 Charles Dickens. The Music by John Hullah. London : 
 Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street, 1836.] 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To J. P. HARLEY, ESQ. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 My dramatic bantlings are no sooner born, 
 than you father them. You have made my 
 " Strange Gentleman " exclusively your own; you 
 have adopted Martin Stokes with equal readiness; 
 and you still profess your willingness to do the 
 same kiud office for all future scions of the same 
 stock. 
 
 I dedicate to you the first play I ever published ; 
 and you made for me the first play I ever pro- 
 duced: — the balance is in your favour, and I am 
 afraid it will remain so. 
 
 That you may long contribute to the amusement 
 of the public, and long be spared to shed a lustre, 
 by the honour and integrity of your private life, on 
 the profession which for many years you have done 
 so much to uphold, is the sincere and earnest wish 
 of, my dear Sir, 
 
 Yours most faithfully, 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 December 15th, 1836. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 " Either the Honourable Gentleman is in the 
 right, or he is not," is a phrase in very common 
 use within the walls of Parliament. This drama 
 may have a plot, or it may not ; and the songs may 
 be poetry, or they may not; and the whole affair, 
 from beginning to end, may be great nonsense, or 
 it may not, just as the honourable gentleman or lady 
 who reads it may happen to think. So, retaining 
 his own private and particular opinion upon the 
 subject, (an opinion which he formed upwards of a 
 year ago, when he wrote the piece,) the Author 
 leaves every such gentleman or lady, to form his or 
 hers, as he or she may think proper, without saying 
 one word to influence or conciliate them. - 
 
 All he wishes to say is this ; — that he hopes 
 
 Mr. Braham, and all the performers who assisted 
 
 in the representation of this opera, will accept his 
 
 warmest thanks for the interest they evinced in it, 
 
 i. 12 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 from its very first rehearsal, and for their zealous 
 efforts in his behalf— -efforts which have crowned it 
 with a degree of success far exceeding his most 
 sanguine anticipations; and of which no form of 
 words could speak his acknowledgment. 
 
 It is needless to add that the libretto of an 
 opera must be, to a certain extent, a mere vehicle 
 for the music ; and that it is scarcely fair or reason- 
 able to judge it by those strict rules of criticism 
 which would be justly applicable to a five-act 
 tragedy, or a finished comedy. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Squire Norton, 
 
 The Hon. Sparkins Flam (his friend), 
 Old Benson (a small farmer), 
 Mr. Martin Stokes (a very small 
 farmer with a very large circle of 
 particular friends) .... 
 George Edmunds (betrothed to Lucy), 
 
 Young Benson, 
 
 John Maddox (attached to Rose), 
 
 Lucy Benson, 
 
 Rose (her cousin), .... 
 
 Mr. Braham. 
 Mr. Forester. 
 Mr. Strickland. 
 
 Mr. Harley. 
 Mr. Bennett. 
 Mr. J. Parry. 
 Mr. Gardner. 
 Miss Eainforth. 
 Miss J. Smith. 
 
 Time occupied in Representation — Two hours and a half. 
 
 Period— The Autumn of 1729. 
 
 Scene — An English Village. 
 
 The Passages marked with inverted commas were omitted in 
 the representation. 
 
 12 * 
 
THE VILLAGE COQUETTES, 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene I. — A Rick-yard, with a cart laden with corn- 
 sheaves. John Maddox, and labourers, un- 
 loading it. Implements of husbandry, tyc. lie 
 scattered about. A gate on one side. John 
 Maddox is in the cart 9 and dismounts at the 
 conclusion of the Chorus. 
 
 round. 
 
 Hail to the merry Autumn days, when yellow corn- 
 fields shine, 
 
 Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the 
 monarch's wine ! 
 
 Hail to the merry harvest time, the gayest of the 
 year, 
 
 The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, 
 and good cheer ! 
 
 'Tis pleasant on a fine Spring morn to see the 
 buds expand, 
 
 'Tis pleasant in the Summer time to view the 
 teeming land ; 
 
182 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 'Tis pleasant on a Winter's night to crouch 
 
 around the blaze, — 
 But what are joys like these, my boys, to Autumn's 
 
 merry days ! 
 Then hail to merry Autumn days, when yellow 
 
 corn-fields shine, 
 Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the 
 
 monarch's wine ! 
 And hail to merry harvest time, the gayest of the 
 
 year, 
 The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, 
 
 and good cheer ! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Well done, my lads ; a good day's work, and a 
 warm one. Here, Tom, (to Villager,) run into 
 the house, and ask Miss Rose to send out some beer 
 for the men, and a jug for Master Maddox ; and 
 d'ye hear, Tom, tell Miss Rose it 's a fine evening, 
 and that if she '11 step out herself, it '11 do her good, 
 and do me good into the bargain. {Exit Villager.) 
 That's right, my lads, stow these sheaves away, 
 before the sun goes down. Let 's begin fresh in 
 the morning, without any leavings of to-day. By 
 this time to-morrow the last load will have been 
 carried, and then for our Harvest-Home ! 
 
 villagers. 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
 
 {First four lines of Bound repeated.) 
 
Scene i.] the village coquettes. 183 
 
 Enter Martin Stokes, 
 martin. 
 Very good ! very good, indeed ! — always sing 
 while you work — capital custom ! I always do 
 when I work, and I never work at all when I can 
 help it ; — another capital custom. John, old fellow, 
 how are you r — give us your hand, — hearty 
 squeeze, — good shake, — capital custom number 
 three. Fine dry weather for the harvest, John. 
 Talking of that, I 'm dry too : you always give 
 away plenty of beer, here ; — capital custom 
 number four. Trouble you for the loan of that 
 can, John. 
 
 john {talcing it from the cart). 
 Here 's the can, but as to there being anything 
 good in it it 's as dry as the weather, and as empty 
 as you. Hoo ! hoo ! {laughing boisterously, is 
 suddenly checked by a look from Martin). 
 
 martin. 
 Hallo, John, hallo ! I have often told you before, 
 Mr. Maddox, that 1 don 't consider you in a situa- 
 tion of life which entitles you to make jokes, far 
 less to laugh at 'em. If you must make a joke, do 
 it solemnly, and respectfully. If / laugh, that's 
 quite enough, and it must be far more gratifying to 
 your feelings than any contortions of that enormous 
 mouth of yours. 
 
184 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [aCT I. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Well, perhaps, as you say, I oughtn't to make 
 jokes till I arrive, like you, at the dignity of a small 
 piece of ground and a cottage ; but I must laugh at 
 a joke, sometimes. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Must, must you ! — Rather presuming fellow, this 
 Maddox. (Aside.) 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Why, when you make one of them rum jokes of 
 yours, — 'cod, I must laugh then! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Oh ! ah ! you may laugh then, John ; always 
 laugh at my jokes, — capital custom number five ; 
 no harm in that, because you can't help it, you 
 know. — Knowing fellow, though. (Aside.) 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Remember that joke about the old cow, as you 
 made five years ago? — 'cod, that was a joke ! Hoo ! 
 hoo ! hoo! — I never shall forget that joke. I 
 never see a cow, to this day, without laughing. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! very good, very good ! — Devilish 
 clever fellow this ! ( Aside.) Well, Jack, you 
 behave yourself well, all the evening, and perhaps 
 I may make that joke again before the day 's out. 
 
SCENE I.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 185 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Thank 'ee, that 's very kind. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Don't mention it, don't mention it ; but I say, 
 John, 1 called to speak to you about more important 
 matters. — Something wrong here, an't there? 
 
 {Mysteriously.) 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Wrong! you're always fancying something 
 wrong. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Fancying, — come, I like that. I say, why don't 
 you keep your harvest-home at home, to-morrow 
 night ? Why are we all to go up to the Squire's, 
 as if we couldn't be merry in Benson's barn. And 
 why is the Squire always coming down here, look- 
 ing after some people, and cutting out other 
 people? — an't that wrong ? Where 's George 
 Edmunds — old Benson 's so fond of, and that Lucy 
 was fond of too, once upon a time, — eh? An't 
 that wrong? Where's your sweetheart, Rose ? — 
 An't her walkings, and gigglings, and whisperings, 
 and simperings, with the Squire's friend, Mr. 
 Sparkins Flam, the talk of the whole place ? 
 Nothing wrong there, — eh? (Maddox goes up.) 
 Had him there ; I knew there was something 
 wrong. I '11 keep a sharp eye upon these doings, 
 for I don't like these new-fangled customs. It was 
 
186 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 all very well in the old time, to see the Squire's 
 father come riding among the people on his bay 
 cob, nodding to the common folks, shaking hands 
 with me, and all that sort of thing ; but when you 
 change the old country-gentleman into a dashing 
 fop from London, and the steady old steward into 
 Mr. Sparkins Flam, the case is very different. We 
 shall see, — but if I might tell Miss Lucy Benson a 
 bit of my mind, I should say, " Stick to an inde- 
 pendent young fellow, like George Edmunds, and 
 depend upon it you will be happier than you would 
 with all the show and glitter of a squire's lady." 
 And I should say to Rose, very solemn, 
 " Rose— " 
 
 {Rose enters unperceived, with, beer.) 
 
 "Rose— V 
 
 rose {starting). 
 
 Lord bless us! — What a hollow voice! — Why, 
 it 's Mr. Stokes ! — What on earth is the matter 
 with him ? 
 
 martin {not seeing her). 
 Rose, — if you would be happy and contented, if 
 you would escape destruction, shield yourself from 
 dangerous peril, and save yourself from horrid 
 ruin ! — 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 What dreadful words ! — 
 
SCENE I.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 18? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 You will at once, and without delay, bestow 
 your hand on John Maddox; or if you would 
 aspire to a higher rank in life, and a loftier station 
 in society, you will cultivate the affections of Mr. 
 Stokes, — Mr. Martin Stokes, — a young gentleman 
 of great mental attractions, and very considerable 
 personal charms; — leaving the false and fatal Flam 
 to the ignominious fate which 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Why, Mr. Stokes.— 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Ignominious fate which 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Dear, he must be in a fit ! Mr. Stokes ! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Eh?— Ah! Miss Rose,— It's you, is it? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Me ! Yes, and here have I been waiting all this 
 time, while you were talking nonsense to yourself. 
 Here, I have brought you some beer. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Oh ! Miss Rose, if you go on in this way, you '11 
 bring us to our bier, instead of bringing our beer 
 to us. {Looking round.) You may laugh, if you 
 want to, very much, John. 
 
188 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT L 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Hoo ! hoo ! hoo ! 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Be quiet, oaf! And pray, sir, (to Martin) to 
 what may your most humorous observation refer? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Why, my dear Miss Rose, you know my way, — 
 always friendly, — always thinking of the welfare of 
 those I like best, and very seldom receiving any 
 gratitude in return. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 I know you very seldom deserve any. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Ah ! that 's exactly my meaning ; that 's the way, 
 you see. The moment I begin to throw out a hint 
 to one of my dear friends, out comes some unkind 
 and rude remark. But I bear it all for their sakes. 
 I won't allow you to raise my ill nature, — you 
 shan't stop me. I was going to say, — don't you 
 think — now don't you think — that you — don't be 
 angry — make rather — don't colour up, — rather too 
 free with Mr. Sparkins Flam? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 I make free with Mr. Sparkins Flam ! Why you 
 odious, insolent creature ! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Ah, of course — always the way — I told you so — 
 I knew you 'd say that. 
 
SCENE I.J THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 189 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 And you, John, you mean-spirited scarecrow; 
 will you stand there, and see me insulted by an 
 officious, impertinent — 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Go on, go on ! (A gun fired.) Hallo ! (Looking 
 off.) Here they are, the Squire and Mr. Sparkins 
 Flam. 
 
 rose (hastily adjusting her dress). 
 
 My goodness ! Mr. Spar run, John, run, 
 
 there 's a dear ! 
 
 john (not moving). 
 Very dear, I dare say. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Run, and tell my uncle and Lucy, that Mr. 
 Spar I mean that the Squire *s coming. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I wouldn't ha' gone any how ; but nobody need 
 go now, for here they are. Now, I 'm extinguished 
 for the rest of the day. 
 
 (Enter through the gate Squire Norton and Mr. 
 Sparkins Flam, dressed for sporting, with 
 guns, fyc. and two gamekeepers. On the other 
 side, old Benson and Lucy. Martin, during 
 the whole scene, thrusts himself in the Squire's 
 way, to be taken notice of.) 
 
190 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT 1. 
 
 squire (to gamekeeper, and putting down his gun). 
 
 Take the birds into the house. Benson, we have 
 had a good day's sport, but a tiring one ; and as 
 the load is heavy for my fellows, you '11 let our 
 game remain where it is. I could not offer it to a 
 better friend. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Your honour *s very good, but — 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Nay, you make a merit of receiving the smallest 
 favour. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Not a merit of receiving, nor a boast of refusing 
 it ; but a man in humble station should be cautious 
 how he receives favours from those above him, 
 which he never asks, and can never return. I have 
 had too many such favours forced upon me by your 
 honour, lately, and would rather not increase the 
 number. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 But such a trifle — 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 A trifle from an equal, but a condescension from 
 a superior. Let your men carry your birds up to 
 the Hall, sir, or, if they are tired, mine shall do it 
 for them, and welcome. (Retires up.) 
 
SCENE I.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 191 
 
 flam {aside). 
 Swine and independence ! Leather breeches and 
 liberty ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 At least I may be permitted to leave a few brace, 
 as a present to the ladies. Lucy, I hope, will not 
 object. (Crosses to her.) 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 I feel much flattered by your honour's politeness 
 — and — and — and — 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 My cousin means to say, sir, that we 're very 
 much obliged to your honour and Mr. Flam for 
 your politeness, and that we are very willing to 
 accept of anything, your honour. 
 
 flam (aside). 
 Condescending little savage ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 You have spoken well, both for yourself and 
 your cousin. Flam, this is Rose — the pretty little 
 
 Rose, you know. 
 
 flam. 
 
 Know ! can I ever forget the charming Rose 
 — the beautiful — the — the — (aside) the Cabbage 
 Rose! 
 
 squire (aside). 
 
 Keep that girl engaged, while I talk to the other 
 one, 
 
192 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Flam ! 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Oh, Miss Rose! (He salutes her.) 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Your honour will not object to taste our ale, after 
 your day's sport. The afternoon is fresh and cool, 
 and 'twill be pleasant here in the air. Here, Ben, 
 Thomas, bring mugs here — quick — quick — and a 
 seat for his honour. 
 
 (Exeunt Benson, Maddox, fyc.) 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 It will be delightful— won't it, Flam? 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Inexpressibly charming ! (Aside.) An amateur 
 tea-garden. (He retires a little up with Rose — she 
 coquetting.) 
 
 squire (to Lucy). 
 
 AikI in such society, how much the pleasure will 
 be enhanced ! 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Your honour knows I ought not to listen to you 
 — George Edmunds would — 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Edmunds ! a rustic ! — you cannot love that 
 Edmunds, Lucy. Forget him — remember your 
 own worth. 
 
SCENE l.J THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 193 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 I wish I could, sir. My heart will tell me 
 though, weak and silly as I am, that I cannot better 
 show the consciousness of my own worth, than by 
 remaining true to my first and early love. Your 
 Honour rouses my foolish pride ; but real true love 
 is not to be forgotten easily. 
 
 Song. — lucy. 
 Love is not a feeling to pass away, 
 Like the balmy breath of a summer day ; 
 It is not — it cannot be — laid aside ; 
 It is not a thing to forget or hide. 
 It clings to the heart, ah, woe is me ! 
 As the ivy clings to the old oak tree. 
 
 Love is not a passion of earthly mould, 
 As a thirst for honour, or fame, or gold : 
 For when all these wishes have died away, 
 The deep strong love of a brighter day, 
 Though nourish' d in secret, consumes the more, 
 As the slow rust eats to the iron's core. 
 
 Re-enter Old Benson, John Maddox, and 
 Villagers, with jugs, seats, fyc. ; Squire 
 Norton seats himself next Lucy, and Rose 
 contrives to sit next Mr. Sparkins Flam, which 
 Martin and Maddox in vain endeavour to 
 prevent. 
 I. . 13 
 
J 94 THM VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Flam, you know these honest people? all tenants 
 of my own. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Oh, yes, I know 'em — pleasant fellows ! This — 
 this is — what 's his name ? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Martin, sir, — Martin Stokes. 
 
 martin (startirig forward) . 
 
 A — a — Mr. Stokes, at your service, sir, — how do 
 you do, sir? (shaking Flam by the hand, while 
 speaking). I hope you are quite well, sir; I am 
 delighted to see you looking so well, sir. I hope 
 your majestic father, and your fashionable mother, 
 are in the enjoyment of good health, sir. I should 
 have spoken to you before, sir, only you have been 
 so very much engaged, that I couldn't succeed in 
 catching your honourable eye ; — very happy to see 
 you, sir. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Ah. Pleasant fellow, this Martin ! — agreeable 
 manners, — no reserve about him. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Sir, you do me a great deal of honour. Mr. 
 Norton, sir, I have the honour of drinking your 
 remarkably good health, — I admire you, sir. 
 
SCENE I.] THE VILLAGE C0QUETTE8. 195 
 
 squire (laughing). 
 Sir, I feel highly gratified, I 'm sure. 
 
 martin {aside). 
 
 He 's gratified ! — I flatter myself I have pro- 
 duced a slight impression here. {Drinks.) 
 
 flam {turns round, sees Maddox). 
 Ah, Ox! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Ox ! Who do you call Ox ? Maddox is my 
 name. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Oh, mad Ox! true; I forgot the lunacy: — your 
 health, mad Ox. 
 
 squire {rising, and coming forward). 
 
 Come, Flam, another glass. Here, friends, is 
 success to our Harvest Home ! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Hear, hear ! a most appropriate toast, most elo- 
 quently given, — a charming sentiment, delightfully 
 expressed. Gentlemen (to Villagers), allow me 
 to have the pleasure of proposing Mr. Norton, if 
 you please. Take your time from me. (He gives 
 the time, and they all cheer. ) Mr. Norton, sir, I beg 
 to call upon you for a song. 
 
 13 * 
 
196 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 Song. — squire Norton. 
 That very wise head, old ^Esop, said, 
 
 The bow should be sometimes loose ; 
 Keep it tight for ever, the string you sever : — 
 
 Let 's turn his old moral to use. 
 The world forget, and let us yet, 
 
 The glass our spirits buoying, 
 Eevel to-night in those moments bright 
 
 Which make life worth enjoying. 
 The cares of the day, old moralists say, 
 
 Are quite enough to perplex one; 
 Then drive to-day's sorrow away till tomorrow, 
 
 And then put it off till the next one. 
 
 Chorus. — The cares of the day, &c. 
 
 Some plodding old crones, the heartless drones ! 
 
 Appeal to my cool reflection, 
 And ask me whether such nights can ever 
 
 Charm sober recollection. 
 Yes, yes ! I cry, I '11 grieve and die, 
 
 When those I love forsake me ; 
 But while friends so dear surround me here, 
 
 Let Care, if he can, o'ertake me. 
 
 Chorus. — The cares of the day, &c. 
 
 During the Chorus, Squire Norton and Flam 
 resume their guns, and go up the stage, followed 
 by the various characters. The Chorus con- 
 cludes as the Scene closes. 
 
SCENE II.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 197 
 
 Scene II. — An open spot near the village, with stile 
 and pathway leading to the church, which is 
 seen in the distance. George Edmunds enters, 
 with a stick in his hand. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 How thickly the fallen leaves lie scattered at the 
 feet of that old row of elm-trees ! When I first met 
 Lucy on this spot, it was a fine spring day, and 
 those same leaves were trembling in the sunshine, 
 as green and bright as if their beauty would last 
 for ever. What a contrast they present now, and 
 how true an emblem of my own lost happiness ! 
 
 Song. — George Edmunds. 
 
 Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around 
 
 me here; 
 Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, 
 how drear ! 
 
 How like the hopes of childhood's day, 
 
 Thick clustering on the bough ! 
 How like those hopes is their decay, — 
 How faded are they now ! 
 Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around 
 
 me here ; 
 Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, 
 how drear! 
 
198 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [AOT I. 
 
 Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, that fly before 
 
 the gale; 
 Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, ye tell a mournful 
 tale, 
 
 Of love once true, and friends once kind, 
 
 And happy moments fled : 
 Dispersed by every breath of wind, 
 Forgotten, changed, or dead ! 
 Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around 
 
 me here; 
 Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, 
 how drear ! 
 
 An hour past the old time, and still no Lucy ! 
 "lis useless lingering here : I '11 wait no longer. A 
 female crossing the meadow ! — 'Tis Eose, the bearer 
 of a letter or a message perhaps. 
 
 Enter Eose. (She avoids him.) 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 No ! Then I will see Lucy at once, without a 
 moment's delay. (Going.) 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 No, no, you can't. (Aside.) There '11 certainly 
 be bloodshed ! I am quite certain Mr. Flam will 
 kill him. He offered me, with the most insinuating 
 speeches, to cut John's throat at a moment's notice : 
 and when the Squire complimented him on being a 
 
SCENE II.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 199 
 
 good shot, he said he should like to " bag M the 
 whole male population of the village. ( To him.) 
 You can't see her. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Not see her, and she at home! Were you 
 instructed to say this, Rose ? 
 
 KOSE. 
 
 I say it, because I know you can't see her. She 
 is not well ; and — and 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 And Mr. Norton is there, you would say. 
 
 EOSE. 
 
 Mr. Norton! 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Norton. Was he not there last even- 
 ing? Was he not there the evening before? Is 
 he not there at this moment? 
 
 Enter John Maddox. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 There at this moment ? — of course he is. 
 
 rose {aside). 
 John here ! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Of course he is ; of course he was there last night ; 
 and of course he was there the evening before. 
 He 's always there, and so is his bosom friend and 
 
200 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 confidential demon, Mr. Sparkins Flam. Oh ! 
 George, we 're injured men, both of us. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Heartless girl ! {Retires up.) 
 
 john (to Rose). 
 Faithless person ! 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Don't call me a person. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 You are a person, perjured, treacherous, and 
 deceiving ! Oh ! George, if you had seen what I 
 have seen to-day. Soft whisperings and loving 
 smiles, gentle looks and encouraging sighs, — such 
 looks and sighs as used once upon a time to be 
 bestowed on us, George! If you had seen the 
 Squire making up to Lucy, and Rose making up 
 to Flam : — but I am very glad you did not see it, 
 George, very. It would have broken your heart, 
 as it has broken mine ! Oh, Rose ! could you 
 break my heart ? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 I could break your head with the greatest 
 pleasure, you mischief-making booby ; and if you 
 don't make haste to wherever you 're going, 
 somebody that I know of will certainly do so, very 
 quickly. 
 
SCENE II.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 201 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Will he, will he ? — your friend, Mr. Flam, I 
 suppose ! Let him — that 's all : let him ! {Retires 
 up.) 
 
 EOSE. 
 
 Oh ! I '11 let him ; you needn't be afraid of my 
 interfering. Dear, dear, I wish Mr. Flam would 
 come, for I will own, notwithstanding what graver 
 people may say, that I enjoy a little flirtation as 
 much as any one. 
 
 Song. — rose. 
 Some folks who have grown old and sour, 
 Say love does nothing but annoy. 
 The fact is, they have had their hour, 
 So envy what they can't enjoy. 
 I like the glance — I like the sigh — 
 That does of ardent passion tell ! 
 If some folks were as young as I, 
 I 'm sure they 'd like it quite as well. 
 
 Old maiden aunts so hate the men, 
 So well know how wives are harried, 
 It makes them sad — not jealous — when 
 They see their poor dear nieces married. 
 All men are fair and false, they know, 
 And with deep sighs they assail 'em, 
 It 's so long since they tried men, though, 
 I rather think their memories fail 'em. 
 
202 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 — Here comes Mr. Flam. You'd better go, 
 John. I know you '11 be murdered. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Here I shall stop; let him touch me, and he 
 shall feel the weight of my indignation. 
 
 Enter Flam. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Ah, my charmer ! Punctual to my time, you see, 
 my sweet little Damask Rose ! 
 
 john {coming down). 
 A great deal more like a monthly one, — constantly 
 changing, and gone the moment you wear it. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Impertinent creature ! 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Who is this poetical cauliflower ? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Don't pretend not to know me. You know who 
 I am, well enough. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 As I live, it's the Ox! — retire, Ox, to your pas- 
 ture, and don't rudely disturb the cooing of the 
 doves. Go and graze, Ox ! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Suppose I choose to remain here, what then ? 
 
SCENE II. j THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 203 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Why then you must be driven off, mad Ox. 
 (To Rose.) Who is that other grasshopper ? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Hush, hush ! for Heaven's sake don't let him 
 hear you! It 's young Edmunds. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Young Edmunds ? And who the devil is young 
 Edmunds ? For beyond the natural inference that 
 young Edmunds is the son of old Edmunds, curse 
 me if the fame of young Edmunds has ever 
 reached my ears. 
 
 rose (in a low tone). 
 It 's Lucy's former lover, whom she has given 
 up for the Squire. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 The rejected cultivator ? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 The same. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Ah ! I guessed as much from his earthy appear- 
 ance. But, my darling Rose, I must speak with 
 you, — 1 must — (putting his arm round her waist, 
 sees John.) Good-bye, Ox! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Good-bye ! 
 
204 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Pleasant walk to you, Ox ! 
 
 john (not moving). 
 Thankee ; — same to you ! 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 That other clodpole must not stay here either. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Yes, yes ! he neither sees nor hears us. Pray 
 let him remain. 
 
 flam (to John). 
 
 You understand, Ox, that it is my wish that you 
 forthwith retire and graze, — or in other words, that 
 you at once, and without delay, betake yourself to 
 the farm, or the devil, or any other place where 
 you are in your element, and won't be in the way. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Oh yes, I understand that. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Very well ; then the sooner you create a scarcity 
 of such animals in this market, the better. Now, 
 my dear Rose (puts his arm round her waist 
 again). Are you gone, Ox ? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 No. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Are you going ? 
 
SCENE II.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 205 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 By no means. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 This insolence is not to be borne. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh, pray don't hurt him, — pray don't. Go away, 
 you stupid creature, if you don't want to be 
 ruined. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 That 's just the very advice I would give you, 
 Rose; do you go away, if you don't want to be 
 ruined. As for me, this is a public place, and here 
 I '11 remain just as long as I think proper. 
 
 flam {quitting Rose, and advancing towards him). 
 You will ? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I will. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh, dear, dear! I knew he'd be murdered all 
 along. I was quite certain of it. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Don't frown and scowl at me, — it won't do, — it 
 only makes me smile ; and when you talk of inso- 
 lence and put my blood up, I tell you at once, that 
 I am not to be bullied. ■ 
 
 flam. 
 
 Bullied ? 
 
206 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT. I. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Ay, bullied was the word, — bullied by a coward, 
 if you like that better. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Coward ! (seizes his gun by the barrel, and aims 
 a blow at him, with the butt- end ; Edmunds rushes 
 forward, and strikes it up with his stick.) 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Hold your hand, sir, — hold your hand, or I'll 
 fell you to the ground. Maddox, leave this place 
 directly : take the opposite path, and I '11 follow 
 you. (Exit Maddox.) As for you, sir, who by 
 the way of vindicating yourself from the charge of 
 cowardice, raise your gun against an unarmed man, 
 tell your protector, the Squire, from me, that he 
 and his companions might content themselves with 
 turning the heads of our farmers' daughters, and 
 endeavouring to corrupt their hearts, without 
 wantonly insulting the men they have most injured. 
 Let this be a lesson to you, sir, — although you were 
 armed, you would have had the worst of a scuffle, 
 and you may not have the benefit of a third 
 person's interference at so critical a moment, 
 another time; — remember this warning, sir, and 
 benefit by it. (Exit.) 
 
 flam (aside). 
 If Norton does not take a dear revenge for this 
 
SCENE II.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 207 
 
 insult, I have lost my influence with him. Bully ! 
 coward ! They shall rue it. 
 
 rose (with her apron to her eyes). 
 Oh, Mr. Flam ! I can't bear to think that you 
 should have suffered all this, on my account. 
 
 flam (aside). 
 On her account ! — a little vanity ! (To her.) 
 Suffered ! Why, my dear, it was the drollest and 
 most humorous affair that ever happened. Here 
 stand I, — the Honourable Sparkins Flam, — on this 
 second day of September, one thousand seven 
 hundred and twenty-nine ; and positively and 
 solemnly declare that all the coffee-houses, play- 
 houses, faro- tables, brag- tables, assemblies, drums 
 and routs of a whole season put together, could not 
 furnish such a splendid piece of exquisite drollery. 
 The idea is admirable. My affecting to quarrel 
 with a ploughman, and submitting to be lectured 
 by another caterpillar, whom 1 suffer to burst into 
 a butterfly importance ! 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Then you were not really quarrelling ? 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Bless you, no ! I was only acting. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Lor* ! how well you do act, to be sure. 
 
208 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Come, let us retire into the house, or after this 
 joke we shall be the gaze of all the animated 
 potatoes that are planted in this hole of a village. 
 Why do you hesitate, Damask ? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Why, I have just been thinking that if you go to 
 all these coffee-houses, and play-houses, and fairs, 
 and brags, and keep playing drums, and routing 
 people about, you '11 forget me, when you go back 
 to London. 
 
 flam [aside). 
 
 More than probable. {To her.) Never fear; you 
 will be generally known as Rose the lovely, and I 
 shall be universally denominated Flam the constant. 
 
 Duet. — Rose and Sparkins Flam, 
 Flam. 
 "lis true I 'm caress' d by the witty, 
 
 The envy of all the fine beaux, 
 The pet of the court and the city, 
 
 But still I 'm the lover of Rose. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Country sweethearts, oh, how I despise ! 
 
 And oh ! how delighted I am 
 To think that I shine in the eyes 
 
 Of the elegant — sweet — Mr. Flam. 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 209 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Allow me {offers to kiss her). 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Pray don't be so bold, sir. {Kisses her.) 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 What sweets on that honey'd lip hang ! 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Your presumption, I know, I should scold, sir, 
 But I really can't scold Mr. Flam. 
 
 Both. 
 Then let us be happy together, 
 
 Content with the world as it goes, 
 An unchangeable couple for ever, 
 Mr. Flam and his beautiful Rose. 
 
 ^Exeunt.) 
 
 Scene III. — The Farmer's Kitchen. A table and 
 
 chairs. 
 
 Enter Old Benson and Martin. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Well, Stokes. Now you have the opportunity 
 you have desired, and we are alone, I am ready to 
 listen to the information which you wished to 
 communicate to my private ear. 
 
 I. 14 
 
210 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Exactly ; — you said information, I think ? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 You said information, or I have forgotten. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Just so, exactly ; I said information. I did say 
 information, why should I deny it ? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 I see no necessity for your doing so, certainly. 
 Pray go on. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Why, you see, my dear Mr. Benson, the fact is 
 — won't you be seated ? Pray sit down (brings 
 forward two chairs ; — they sit). There, now, — let 
 me see, — where was I ? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 You were going to begin, I think. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Oh, — ah ! — so 1 was ; — I hadn't begun, had I? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 No, no! Pray begin again, if you had. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Well, then, what 1 have got to say is not so 
 much information, as a kind of advice, or sugges- 
 tion, or hint, or something of that kind; and it 
 relates to — eh ? — (looking very mysterious). 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 211 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 What? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Yes {nodding). Don't you think there 's some- 
 thing wrong there? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Where ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 In that quarter. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 In what quarter ? Speak more plainly, sir. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 You know what a friendly feeling I entertain to 
 your family. You know what a very particular 
 friend of mine you are. You know how anxious I 
 always am to prevent anything going wrong. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Well ! [abruptly). 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Yes, I see you 're very sensible of it, but I '11 
 take it for granted: you needn't bounce and fizz 
 about, in that way, because it makes one nervous. 
 Don't you think, now, don't you think, that ill- 
 natured people may say ; — don't be angry, you 
 know, because if I wasn't a very particular friend 
 of the family, I wouldn't mention the subject on 
 any account ; — don't you think that ill-natured 
 
 14 * , , 
 
212 TFIK VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 people may say there 's something wrong in the 
 frequency of the Squire's visits here ? 
 
 benson (starting up furiously) . 
 What! 
 
 martin (aside). 
 Here he goes again ! 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Who dares suspect my child ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Ah, to be sure, that 's exactly what I say. Who 
 dares ? Damme, I should like to see 'em ! 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Is it you ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 I ! Bless you, no, not for the world ! I ! — Come, 
 that 's a good one. I only say what other people 
 say, you know ; that 's all. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 And what are these tales, that idle busy fools 
 prate of with delight, among themselves, caring 
 not whose ears they reach, so long as they are kept 
 from the old man, whose blindness — the blindness 
 of a fond and doting father — is subject for their 
 rude and brutal jeering. What are they ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Dear me, Mr. Benson, you keep me in a state of 
 perpetual excitement. 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 213 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Tell me, without equivocation, what do they 
 
 say? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Why, they say they think it — not exactly wrong, 
 perhaps; don't fly out, now — but among those 
 remarkable coincidences which do occur sometimes, 
 that whenever you go out of your house, the 
 Squire and his friend should come into it ; that 
 Miss Lucy and Miss Rose, in the long walks they 
 take every day, should be met and walked home 
 with by the same gentlemen ; that long after you 
 have gone to bed at night, the Squire and Mr. 
 Spar kins Flam should still be seen hovering about 
 the lane and meadow ; and that one of the lattice 
 windows should be always open, at that hour. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 This is all ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Ye — yes, — yes, that 's all. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Nothing beside ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Eh? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Nothing beside ? 
 
214 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT 1. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Why, there is something else, but I know you '11 
 begin to bounce about again, if I tell it you. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 No, no ! let me hear it all. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Why, then, they do say that the Squire has 
 been heard to boast that he had practised on 
 Lucy's mind — that when he bid her, she would 
 leave her father and her home, and follow him over 
 the world. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 They lie ! Her breast is pure and innocent ! 
 Her soul is free from guilt ; her mind from blemish. 
 They lie ! I '11 not believe it. Are they mad ? Do 
 they think that I stand tamely by, and look upon 
 my child's disgrace ? Heaven ! do they know of 
 what a father's heart is made ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 My dear Mr. Benson, if you 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 This coarse and brutal boast shall be disowned. 
 (Going ; Martin stops him.) 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 My dear Mr. Benson, you know it may not have 
 been made after all, — my dear sir, 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 215 
 
 BENSON {struggling). 
 Unhand me, Martin ! Made or not made, it has 
 gone abroad, fixing an infamous notoriety on me 
 and mine. I '11 hear its truth or falsehood from 
 himself. {Breaks from him and exit.) 
 
 MARTIN, Solus. 
 
 There'll be something decidedly wrong here 
 presently. Hallo ! here 's another very particular 
 friend in a fume. 
 
 Enter Yocjng Benson hastily. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Ah ! my dear fellow, how 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 Where is Lucy? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 I don't know, unless she has walked out with the 
 Squire. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 The Squire! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 To be sure ; she very often walks out with the 
 Squire. Very pleasant recreation walking out with 
 the Squire ; — capital custom, an't it ? 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 Where 's my father ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Why, upon my word, I am unable to satisfy your 
 
216 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 curiosity in that particular either. All I know of 
 him is that he whisked out of this room in a 
 rather boisterous and turbulent manner for an 
 individual at his time of life, some few seconds 
 before you whisked in. But what 's the matter ? — 
 you seem excited. Nothing wrong, is there ? 
 young benson (aside). 
 This treatment of Edmunds, and Lucy's altered 
 behaviour to him, confirm my worst fears. Where 
 is Mr. Norton? 
 
 martin {calling off). 
 Ah ! to be sure, — where is Mr. Norton ? 
 
 Enter Squire. 
 
 squire. 
 Mr. Norton is here. Who wishes to see him ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 To be sure, sir. Mr. Norton is here : who 
 wishes to see him ? 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 I do. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 I don't. Old fellow, good-bye ! Mr. Norton, 
 good evening ! (Aside.) There '11 be something 
 wrong here, in a minute. (Exit.) 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Well, young man ? 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 217 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 If you contemplate treachery here, Mr. Norton, 
 look to yourself. My father is an old man ; the 
 chief prop of his declining years is his child, — my 
 sister. For your actions here, sir, you shall render 
 a dear account to me. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 To you, peasant ! 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 To me, sir. One other scene like that enacted 
 by your creature, at your command, to-night, may 
 terminate more seriously to him. For your 
 behaviour here you are responsible to me. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Indeed ! Anything more, sir ? 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 Simply this : — after injuring the old man beyond 
 
 reparation, and embittering the last moments of his 
 
 life, you may possibly attempt to shield yourself 
 
 under the paltry excuse, that, as a gentleman, you 
 
 cannot descend to take the consequences from my 
 
 hand. You shall take them from me, sir, if I 
 
 strike you to the earth first. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Fiery and valorous, indeed ! As the suspicions 
 
218 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 of the family are aroused, no time is to be lost : 
 the girl must be carried off to-night, if possible. 
 With Flam's assistance and management, she may 
 be speedily removed from within the reach of these 
 rustic sparks. In my cooler moments, the reflec- 
 tion of the misery I may inflict upon the old man 
 makes my conduct appear base and dishonourable, 
 even to myself. Pshaw ! hundreds have done the 
 same thing before me, who have been lauded and 
 blazoned forth as men of honour. Honour in such 
 cases, — an idle tale ! — a by-word ! Honour ! There 
 is much to be gleaned from old tales ; and the 
 legend of the child and the old man speaks but too 
 truly. 
 
 Song. — squire Norton. 
 
 The child and the old man sat alone 
 
 In the quiet peaceful shade 
 Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown 
 
 In the deep thick forest glade. 
 It was a soft and pleasant sound, 
 
 That rustling of the oak ; 
 And the gentle breeze play'd lightly round, 
 
 As thus the fair boy spoke : — 
 
 u Dear father, what can honour be, 
 
 Of which I hear men rave ? 
 Field, cell and cloister, land and sea, 
 
 The tempest and the grave : — 
 
SCENE ITT.] THE TILLAGE COQUETTES. 219 
 
 It lives in all, 'tis sought in each, 
 
 'Tis never heard or seen: 
 Now tell me, father, I beseech, 
 
 What can this honour mean ? " 
 
 " It is a name, — a name, my child, — 
 
 It lived in other days, 
 When men were rude, their passions wild, 
 
 Their sport, thick battle-frays. 
 When in armour bright, the warrior bold, 
 
 Knelt to his lady's eyes : 
 Beneath the abbey-pavement old 
 
 That warrior's dust now lies. 
 
 M The iron hearts of that old day 
 
 Have moulder'd in the grave ; 
 And chivalry has pass'd away, 
 
 With knights so true and brave, 
 The honour, which to them was life, 
 
 Throbs in no bosom now ; 
 It only gilds the gambler's strife, 
 
 Or decks the worthless vow." * 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 squire. 
 
 Lucy, dear Lucy. 
 
 * In John Hullah's music to this song, the last two lines 
 are printed as follows : 
 
 " The name adorns the gambler's strife, 
 Or gilds the worthless vow." — Ed. 
 
220 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Let me entreat you not to stay here, sir ! you 
 will be exposed to nothing but insult and attack. 
 Edmunds and my brother have both returned, 
 irritated at something that has passed with my 
 cousin Rose: — for my sake, — for my sake, Mr. 
 Norton, spare me the pain of witnessing what will 
 ensue, if they find you here. You little know what 
 I have borne already. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 For your sake, Lucy, I would do much ; but 
 why should I leave you to encounter the passion 
 and ill-will, from which you would have me fly ? 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Oh, I can bear it, sir; I deserve it but too well. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Deserve it ! — you do yourself an injustice, 
 Lucy. No ; rather let me remove you from a 
 house where you will suffer nothing but persecu- 
 tion, and confer upon you a title which the 
 proudest lady in the land might wear. Here — 
 here, on my knees (he bends on his knee, and seizes 
 her hand). 
 
 Enter Flam. 
 
 " squire (rising). 
 " Flam here ! 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 221 
 
 "flam {aside). 
 " Upon my word ! — I thought we had been 
 " getting on pretty well in the open air, but 
 " they 're beating us hollow here, under cover. 
 
 11 SQUIRE. 
 
 " Lucy, but one word, and I understand your 
 " decision. 
 
 " LUCY. 
 " I — I cannot subdue the feelings of uneasiness 
 " and distrust which the great difference between 
 " your Honour's rank and mine awakens in my 
 " mind. 
 
 " SQUIRE. 
 
 " Difference ! Hundreds of such cases happen 
 " every day. 
 
 u LUCY. 
 
 "Indeed! 
 
 " SQUIRE. 
 
 " Oh, 'tis a matter of general notoriety, — isn't 
 " it, Flam ? 
 
 " FLAM. 
 
 " No doubt of it. {Aside.) Don't exactly know 
 u yet what they are talking about, though. 
 
 " SQUIRE. 
 
 " A relation of my own, a man of exalted rank, 
 " courted a girl far his inferior in station, but only 
 "beneath him in that respect. In all others she 
 
222 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [aOT I. 
 
 " was on a footing of equality with himself, if not 
 u far above him. 
 
 " LUCY. 
 
 " And were they married ? 
 
 "flam (aside). 
 
 " Rather an important circumstance in the case. 
 "I do remember that. 
 
 " SQUIRE. 
 
 " They were, — after a time, when the resentment 
 u of his friends, occasioned by his forming such an 
 u attachment, had subsided, and he was able to 
 " acknowledge her, without involving the ruin of 
 " both. 
 
 " LUCY. 
 
 " They were married privately at first, then ? 
 " flam (aside). 
 
 " I must put in a word here. Oh, yes, it was 
 u all comfortably arranged to everybody's satisfac- 
 " tion, — wasn't it, Norton ? 
 
 " SQUIRE. 
 
 " Certainly. And a happy couple they were, 
 " weren't they, Flam ? 
 
 " FLAM. 
 
 " Happiest of the happy. As happy as (aside) — 
 " a separation could make them. 
 
 " SQUIRE. 
 
 " Hundreds of great people have formed similar 
 " attachments, — haven't they, Flam ? 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 223 
 
 " FLAM. 
 
 " Undoubtedly. There was the Right Honourable 
 " Augustus Frederick Charles Thomson Catnharado, 
 " and the German Baron Hyfenstyfenlooberhausen, 
 u and they were both married — {aside) to somebody 
 u else, first. Not to mention Damask and I, who 
 " are models of constancy. By-the-by, I have lost 
 " sight of her, and I am interrupting you. {Aside 
 " to Squire, as he goes out.) I came to tell you that 
 " she is ripe for an elopement, if you urge her 
 " strongly. Edmunds has been reproaching her to 
 " my knowledge. She '11 consent while her passion 
 "lasts. (Exit.)" 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Lucy, I wait your answer. One word from you, 
 and a few hours will place you far beyond the reach 
 of those who would fetter your choice and control 
 your inclinations. You hesitate. Come, decide. 
 The Squire's lady, or the wife of Edmunds! 
 
 Duet. — Lucy and Squire Norton. 
 
 squire. 
 
 In rich and lofty station shine, 
 
 Before his jealous eyes : 
 In golden splendour, lady mine, 
 
 This peasant youth despise. 
 
224 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 lucy {apart-, the Squire regarding her attentively). 
 
 Oh ! It would be revenge indeed 
 With scorn his glance to meet. 
 
 I, I, his humble pleading heed ! 
 I 'd spurn him from my feet. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 With love and rage her bosom *s torn, 
 And rash the choice will be ; 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 With love and rage my bosom's torn, 
 And rash the choice will be. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 From hence she quickly must be borne, 
 Her home, her home, she '11 flee. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Oh ! long shall I have cause to mourn 
 My home, my home, for thee ! 
 
 Enter Old Benson. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 What do I see ! The Squire and Lucy. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Listen. A chaise and four fleet horses, under 
 the direction of a trusty friend of mine, will be in 
 waiting on the high road, at the corner of the Elm- 
 Tree avenue, to-night, at ten o'clock. They shall 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 225 
 
 bear you whither we can be safe, and in secret, by 
 the first light of morning. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 His crnel harshness ; — it would be revenge, 
 indeed. But my father — my poor old father ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Your father is prejudiced in Edmunds' favour; 
 'and so long as he thinks there is any chance of 
 your being his, he will oppose your holding commu- 
 nication with me. Situated as you are now, you 
 only stand in the way of his wealth and advance- 
 ment. Once fly with me, and in four and twenty 
 hours you will be his pride, his boast, his support. 
 Old Benson coming forward. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 It is a lie, a base lie! — (Lucy shrieks and throws 
 herself at his feet). My pride! my boast! She 
 would be my disgrace, my shame : an outcast from 
 her father's roof, and from the world. Support ! — 
 support me with the gold coined in her infamy and 
 guilt ! Heaven help me ! Have I cherished her 
 for this ! 
 
 lucy {clinging to him). 
 
 Father ! — dear, dear father ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Hear me speak, Benson. Be calm, 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Calm ! — Do you know that from infancy I hav« 
 I. . 15 
 
226 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 almost worshipped her, fancying that I saw in her 
 young mind the virtues of a mother, to whom the 
 anguish of this one hour would have been worse 
 than death ! Calm ! — Do you know that I have a 
 heart and soul within me ; or do you believe that 
 because I am of lower station, I am a being of a 
 different order from yourself, and that Nature has 
 denied me thought and feeling ! Calm ! Man, do 
 you know that I am this girl's father ? 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Benson, if you will not hear me, at least do not, 
 by hastily exposing this matter, deprive me of the 
 inclination of making you some reparation. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Reparation ! You need be thankful, sir, for the 
 grasp she has upon my arm. Money! If she 
 were dying for want, and the smallest coin from 
 you could restore her to life and health, sooner 
 than she should take it from your hand, I would 
 cast her from a sick bed to perish on the road-side. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Benson, a word. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Do not, I caution you ; do not talk to me, sir. 1 
 am an old man, but I do not know what passion 
 may make me do. 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 227 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 These are high words, Benson. A farmer ! 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Yes, sir ; a farmer, — one of the men on whom 
 you, and such as you, depend for the money they 
 squander in profligacy and idleness. A farmer, 
 sir ! I care not for your long pedigree of ancestors, 
 — my forefathers made them all. Here, neighbours, 
 friends ! (Rose, Maddox, Stokes, Villagers, 
 c^c, crowd on the stage.) Hear this, hear this ! 
 your landlord, a high-born gentleman, entering the 
 houses of your humble farmers, and tempting their 
 daughters to destruction ! 
 Enter Young Benson and George Edmunds. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 What 's that I hear ? {rushing towards the Squire, 
 Stokes interposes). 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Hallo, hallo ! Take hold of the other one, John. 
 (Maddox and he remove them to opposite sides of 
 the stage.) Hold him tight, John, hold him tight. 
 Stand still, there 's a good fellow. Keep back, 
 Squire. Knew there 'd be something wrong, — 
 ready to come in at the nick of time, — capital 
 custom. 
 
 Flam enters and stands next the Squire, 
 squire. 
 Exposed, baited ! Benson, are you mad ? 
 
 15 * 
 
228 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. 
 
 Within the last few hours my friend here has been 
 attacked and insulted on the very land you hold, 
 by a person in your employ and young Edmunds 
 there. I, too, have been threatened and insulted 
 in the presence of my tenantry and workmen. 
 Take care you do not drive me to extremities. 
 Remember — the lease of this farm for seventy 
 years, which your father took of mine, expires to- 
 morrow ; and that I have the power to refuse its 
 renewal. Again I ask you, are you mad ? 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Quit my house, villain ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Villain! quit my house, then. This farm is 
 mine : and you and yours shall depart from under 
 its roof, before the sun has set tomorrow. (Benson 
 sinks into a chair in centre, and covers his face with 
 his hands.) 
 
 Sestette and Chorus. 
 
 Lucy — Rose — Edmunds — Squire Norton — Flam 
 — Young Benson — and Chorus. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 Turn him from the farm ! From his home will you 
 cast 
 
 The old man who has till'd it for years ? 
 Every tree, every flower, is link'd with the past, 
 
 And a friend of his childhood appears, 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 229 
 
 Turn him from the farm ! O'er its grassy hill-side, 
 
 A gay boy he once loved to range ; 
 His boyhood has fled, and its dear friends are dead, 
 
 But these meadows have never known change. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Oppressor, hear me. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 On my knees I implore. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 I command it, and you will obey. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Rise, dear Lucy, rise ; you shall not kneel before 
 The tyrant who drives us away. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Your sorrows are useless, your prayers are in vain ; 
 
 I command it, and you will begone. 
 I '11 hear no more. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 No, they shall not beg again, 
 Of a man whom I view with deep scorn. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Do not yield. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON — SQUIRE — LUCY ROSE. 
 
 Leave the farm ! 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Your power I despise. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 And your threats, boy, I disregard, too. 
 
230 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT I. SC. III. ' 
 
 . FLAM. 
 
 Do not yield. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON — SQUIRE — LUCY — ROSE. 
 
 Leave the farm ! 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 If he leaves it, he dies. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 This base act, proud man, you shall rue. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 Turn him from the farm ! From his home will you 
 cast 
 
 The old man who has till'd it for years? 
 Every tree, every flower, is link'd with the past, 
 
 And a friend of his childhood appears ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Yes, yes, leave the farm ! From his home I will 
 cast 
 
 The old man who has till'd it for years ; 
 Though each tree and flower is link'd with the past, 
 
 And a friend of his childhood appears. 
 
 Chorus. 
 He has turn'd from his farm, from his home he 
 has cast 
 The old man who has till'd it for years ; 
 Though each tree and flower is link'd with the past, 
 And a friend of his childhood appears. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
ACT II. SO. I.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 231 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — An Apartment in the Hall. A breakfast- 
 table, with urn and tea - service. A Livery 
 Servant arranging it. Flam, in a morning gown 
 and slippers, reclining on the sofa. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Is the Squire out of bed yet ? 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 Yes, sir, he will be down directly. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Any letters from London ? 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 One for your honour, that the man brought over 
 from the market-town, this morning. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Give it me, blockhead ! {Servant gives it, and exit) 
 Never like the look of a great official-folded letter, 
 with a large seal, "it's always an unpleasant one. 
 " Talk of discovering a man's character from his 
 
232 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 M handwriting ! — I '11 back myself against any odds 
 " to form a very close guess at .the contents of a 
 " letter from the form into which it is folded. This, 
 u now, I should say, is a decidedly hostile fold." 
 Let us see — ' King's Bench Walk — September 1st, 
 1729. Sir, I am instructed by my client, Mr. 
 Edward Montague, to apply to you — (the old story 
 — for the immediate payment, I suppose— what 's 
 this?) — to apply to you for the instant restitu- 
 tion of the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds, 
 his son lost to you at play ; and to acquaint you, 
 that unless it is immediately forwarded to my 
 office, as above, the circumstances of the transac- 
 tion will be made known; and the unfair and 
 fraudulent means by which you deprived the young 
 man of his money, publicly advertised. — I am, Sir, 
 your obedient Servant, John Ellis.' The devil! 
 " who would believe now, that such a trifling cir- 
 " cumstance as the mere insinuation of a small 
 " piece of gold into the corner of two dice would 
 " influence a man's destiny ! " What 's to be done? 
 If, by some dextrous stroke, I could manage to curry 
 favour with Norton, and procure some handsome 
 present in return for services rendered, — for, 'work 
 and labour done and performed,' as my obedient 
 servant, John Ellis, would say, I might keep my 
 head above water yet. 1 have it ! He shall have 
 a joyful surprise. 1 '11 carry this girl off for hirn, 
 
SCENE I. J THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 233 
 
 and he shall know nothing of the enterprise until 
 it is completed, or at least till she is fairly off. I 
 have been well rewarded for similar services before, 
 and may securely calculate on his gratitude in the 
 present instance. He is here. (Puts up the 
 letter.) 
 
 Enter Squire Norton. 
 
 squire {seating himself at table). 
 Has any application for permission to remain on 
 the farm been made from Benson, this morning, 
 Flam? 
 
 FLAM* 
 
 None. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 I am very sorry for it, although I admire the old 
 man's independent spirit. I am very sorry for it. 
 Wrong as I know I have been, I would rather that 
 the first concession came from him. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Concession ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 The more I reflect upon the occurrences of 
 yesterday, Flam, the more 1 regret that, under the 
 influence of momentary passion and excitement, I 
 should have used so uncalled-for a threat against 
 my father's oldest tenant. It is an act of baseness 
 to which I look back with abhorrence. 
 
234 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 flam (aside). 
 What weathercock morality is this ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 It was unnecessary violence. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Unnecessary ! Oh, certainly ; no doubt you 
 could have attained your object without it, and can 
 still. There is no occasion to punish the old man. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Nor will I. He shall not leave the farm, if I 
 myself implore, and beg him to remain. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 servant. 
 Two young women to speak with your honour. 
 
 Enter Lucy and Eose. 
 
 squire. 
 Lucy ! 
 
 flam (aside). 
 She must be carried off to-night, or she certainly 
 will save me the trouble, and I shall lose the 
 money. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Your honour may be well surprised to see me 
 here, after the events of yesterday. It has cost me 
 no trifling struggle to take this step, but I hope my 
 better feelings have at length prevailed, and con- 
 
SOENE I.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 235 
 
 quered my pride and weakness. I wish to speak 
 to your honour, with nobody by. 
 
 flam {aside). 
 Nobody by ! I rather suspect I 'm not particu- 
 larly wanted here. (To them.) Pray allow us to 
 retire for a few moments. Rose, my dear. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Well! 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Come along. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Rose will remain here. I brought her for that 
 purpose. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Bless me ! that 's very odd. As you please, of 
 course, but I really think you '11 find her very 
 much in the way. (Aside.) Acting propriety ! So 
 much the better for my purpose ; a little coyness 
 will enhance the value of the prize. (Exit Flam.) 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Mr. Norton, I come here to throw myself upon 
 your honourable feelings, as a man and as a gentle- 
 man. Oh, sir ! now that my eyes are opened to 
 the misery into which I have plunged myself, by 
 my own ingratitude and treachery, do not — do not 
 add to it the reflection that I have driven my father 
 in his old age from the house where he was born, 
 and in which he hoped to have died. 
 
236 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Be calm, Lucy; your father shall continue to 
 hold the farm ; the lease shall be renewed. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 I have more to say to your Honour still, and 
 what I have to add may even induce your Honour 
 to retract the promise you have just now made me. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Lucy ! what can you mean ? 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Oh, sir! call me coquette, faithless, treacherous, 
 deceitful, what you will ; I deserve it all ; — but 
 believe me, I speak the truth when I make the 
 humiliating avowal. A weak, despicable vanity 
 induced me to listen with a ready ear to your 
 Honour's addresses, and to cast away the best and 
 noblest heart that ever woman won. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Lucy, 'twas but last night you told me that your 
 love for Edmunds had vanished into air ; that you 
 hated and despised him. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 I know it, sir, too well. He laid bare my own 
 guilt, and showed me the ruin which impended 
 over me. He spoke the truth. Your Honour 
 more than confirmed him. 
 
SCENE 1.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 237 
 
 squire {after a pause). 
 Even the avowal you have just made, unexpected 
 as it is, shall not disturb my resolution. Your 
 father shall not leave the farm. 
 
 Quartett— Lucy — Rose— Squire Norton, and 
 afterwards Young Benson. 
 
 squire. 
 Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own 
 
 Through all changes Fortune may make ; 
 The base charge of falsehood I never have known; 
 
 This promise I never will break. 
 
 rose and lucy. 
 Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own 
 
 Through all changes Fortune may make ; 
 The base charge of falsehood he never has known; 
 
 This promise he never will break. 
 
 Enter Young Benson. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 My sister here ! Lucy ! begone, I command. 
 
 squire. 
 To your home I restore you again. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 No boon I '11 accept from that treacherous hand 
 As the price of my sister's fair fame. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 To your home ! 
 
238 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [AOT II, 
 
 YOUNG BENSON (to LUCY). 
 
 Hence away! 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Brother dear, I obey. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 I restore. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 Hence away ! 
 
 YOUNG BENSON, ROSE, and LUCY. 
 
 Let us leave. 
 
 LOCY. 
 
 He swears it, dear brother. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 I swear it. 
 
 I swear it. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 You swear to deceive. 
 
 Away ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own 
 Through all changes Fortune may make. 
 
 lucy and rose. 
 Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own 
 Through all changes Fortune may make. 
 
SCENE I.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 239 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 Hear him swear, hear him swear, that the farm is 
 our own 
 Through all changes Fortune may make. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 The base charge of falsehood I never have known, 
 This promise I never will break. 
 
 lucy and rose. 
 The base charge of falsehood he never has known, 
 This promise he never will break. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 The base charge of falsehood he often has known, 
 This promise he surely will break. 
 
 {Exeunt omnes.) 
 
 Re-enter Flam, in a walking-dress. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 The coast is clear at last. What on earth the 
 conversation can have been, at which Kose was 
 wanted, and I was not, I confess my inability to 
 comprehend; but away with speculation, and now 
 to business. — 
 
 {Rings. 
 Enter Servant. 
 Pen and ink. 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 Yes, sir. {Exit Servant.) 
 
240 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 Flam {solus). 
 Nearly all the tenantry will be assembled here at 
 the ball to-night; and if the father of this rustic 
 dulcinea is reinstated in his farm, he and his people 
 will no doubt be among the number. It will be 
 easy enough to entice the girl into the garden, 
 through the window opening on the lawn ; a chaise 
 can be waiting in the quiet lane at the side, and 
 some trusty fellow can slip a hasty note into 
 Norton's hands informing him of the flight, and 
 naming the place at which he can join us. (Re-enter 
 Servant with pen, ink, taper, and two sheets of note- 
 paper ; he places them on the table and exit.) I may 
 as well reply to my friend Mr. John Ellis's obliging 
 favour now, too, by promising that the money 
 shall be forwarded in the course of three days' 
 post. { Takes the letter from his pocket, and lays it 
 on the table.) Lie you there. First, for Norton's 
 note.— " Dear Norton, — Knowing your wishes — 
 seized the girl — no blame attach to you. Join us 
 as soon as people have dispersed in search of her 
 in all directions but the right one, — fifteen miles 
 off." (Folds it ready for an envelope and lays it by 
 the side of the other letter. ) Now for John Ellis. 
 Why, what does the rascal mean by bringing but 
 two sheets of paper ? No matter : that affair will 
 keep cool till to-morrow, when I have less business 
 on my hands, and more money in my pockets, I 
 
SCENE I.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 241 
 
 hope. {Crumples the letter he has just written, 
 hastily up, thrusts it into his pocket, and folds the 
 wrong one in the envelope. As he is sealing it 
 
 Enter Martin, very cautiously.) 
 
 martin {peeping). 
 There he is, hatching some mysterious and 
 diabolical plot. If I can only get to the bottom of 
 these dreadful designs, I shall immortalise myself. 
 What a lucky dog I am, to be such a successful 
 gleaner of news, and such a confidential person into 
 the bargain, as to be the first to hear that he wanted 
 some trustworthy person. All comes of talking to 
 everybody I meet, and drawing out everything 
 they hear. Capital custom ! He don't see me. 
 Hem ! ( Coughs very loud, and when Flam looks 
 round, nods familiarly. ) How are you again ? 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 How am I again ! Who the devil are you ? — 
 and what do you want here ? 
 
 Hush! 
 
 
 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Eh? 
 
 
 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Hush! 
 
 I 
 
 'm 
 
 the 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 man. 
 
 The man 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 I. 
 
 
 
 
 
 16 
 
242 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Yes, the man that you asked the ostler at the 
 George to recommend you ; the trustworthy man 
 that knows all the by-roads well, and can keep a 
 secret ; the man that you wanted to lend you a 
 hand in a job. that 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Hush, hush! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Oh ! you 're beginning to hush now, are you ? 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Haven't I seen. your face before? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 To be sure you have. You recollect admiring 
 my manners at Benson's yesterday. You must 
 remember Mr. Martin Stokes. You can't have 
 forgotten him — not possible ! 
 
 flam (aside). 
 A friend of Benson ! — a dangerous rencontre. 
 Another moment, and our conversation might have 
 taken an awkward turn. (To him.) So you are 
 Stokes, eh? Benson's iriend Stokes? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 To be sure. Ha, ha ! I knew you couldn't have 
 forgotten me. Pleasant Stokes they call me, 
 clever Stokes sometimes; — but that's flattery. 
 
SCENE I.J THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 243 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 No, surely. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Yes, 'pon my life ! it is. Can't bear flattery, — 
 don't like it at all. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Well, Mr. Stokes 
 
 martin {aside). 
 Now for the secret. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 I am very sorry you have had the trouble of 
 coming up here, Mr. Stokes, because I have 
 changed my plan, and shall not require your 
 valuable services. [Goes up to the table.) 
 
 martin {aside). 
 Something wrong here : try him again. You 're 
 sure you don't want me ? 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Quite. 
 
 martin. 
 That 's unlucky, because, as I have quarrelled 
 with Benson 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Quarrelled with Benson ! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 What ! didn't you know that ? 
 
 16 
 
244 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Never heard of it. Now I think of it, Mr. 
 Stokes, I shall want your assistance. Pray, sit 
 down, Mr. Stokes. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 With pleasure. {They sit.) I say, I thought you 
 wanted me. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Ah ! you 're a sharp fellow. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 You don't mean that ? 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 I do, indeed. 
 
 martin {aside). 
 You would, if you knew all. 
 
 flam {aside). 
 Conceited hound ! 
 
 martin {aside). 
 Poor devil ! 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Mr. Stokes, I needn't impress upon a gentleman 
 of your intelligence, the necessity of secrecy in 
 this matter. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Of course not: see all — say nothing. Capital 
 custom: — {aside) not mine though. Go on. 
 
SCENE I.j THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 245 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 You wouldn't mind playing Benson a trick, — 
 just a harmless trick. 
 
 " MARTIN. 
 
 u Certainly not. Go on. 
 
 " FLAM. 
 
 u I '11 trust you. 
 
 " MARTIN. 
 
 " So you may. Go on." 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 A chaise and four will be waiting to-night, at ten 
 o'clock precisely, at the little gate that opens from 
 the garden into the lane. 
 
 " MARTIN. 
 
 " No : will it though? Go on." 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 " Don't interrupt me, Stokes." Into that chaise 
 you must assist me in forcing as quickly as possible 
 and without noise 
 
 " Yes. Go on. 
 
 " Whom do you think ? 
 
 " MARTIl 
 
 " Don't know." 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Can't you guess whom ? 
 
246 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT TT, 
 
 No 
 
 MART1N. 
 
 Ai \j» 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Try. 
 
 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Eh! what!- 
 
 —Miss 
 
 . FLAM. 
 
 Hush, hush ! You understand me, 1 see. Not 
 another word ; not another syllable. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 But do you really mean to run away with 
 
 flam (stopping his mouth). 
 You understand me ; — that 's quite sufficient. 
 
 martin (aside). 
 He 's going to run away with Rose. Why, if I 
 hadn't found this out, John Maddox, — one of my 
 most particular friends, — would have gone stark, 
 staring, raving mad with grief. (To him.) But what 
 will become of Miss Lucy, when she has lost Rose? 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 No matter. We cannot take them both, without 
 the certainty of an immediate discovery. " Meet 
 "me at the corner of the avenue, before the ball 
 " commences, and I will communicate any further 
 " instructions I may have to give you. Meanwhile " 
 take this (gives him money) as an earnest of what 
 
SCENE II.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 247 
 
 you shall receive when the girl is secured. Re- 
 member, silence and secrecy. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Silence and secrecy, {Exit Flam) — confidence and 
 two guineas. I am perfectly bewildered with this 
 tremendous secret. What shall I do? Wheie 
 shall I go? — To my particular friend, old Benson, 
 or young Benson, or George Edmunds ? or — no ; 
 I '11 go and paralyse my particular friend, John 
 Maddox. Not a moment is to be lost. I am. all 
 in a flutter. Run away with Rose ! I suppose 
 he'll run away with Lucy next. / shouldn't 
 wonder. Run away with Rose! I never did — 
 {Exit hastily). 
 
 Scene II. — An open spot in the Village. 
 
 Enter Squire Norton, 
 squire. 
 My mind is made up. This girl has opened her 
 whole heart to me ; and it would be worse than 
 villainy to pursue her farther. I will seek out 
 Benson and Edmunds, and endeavour to repair the 
 mischief my folly has occasioned. I have sought 
 happiness in the dissipation of crowded cities, in 
 vain. A country life offers health and cheerful- 
 ness; and a country life shall henceforth be mine, 
 in all seasons. 
 
248 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 Song. — SQUIRE NORTON. 
 
 There 's a charm in Spring, when every thing 
 
 Is bursting from the ground ; 
 When pleasant showers bring forth the flowers. 
 
 And all is life around. 
 
 In summer day, the fragrant hay 
 Most sweetly scents the breeze; 
 
 And all is still, save murmuring rill, 
 Or sound of humming bees. 
 
 Old Autumn come, with trusty gun 
 
 In quest of birds we roam : 
 Unerring aim, we mark the game, 
 
 And proudly bear it home. 
 
 A winter's night has its delight, 
 
 Well warm'd to bed we go; 
 A winter's day, we 're blithe and gay, 
 
 Snipe-shooting in the snow. 
 
 A country life without the strife 
 
 And noisy din of town, 
 Is all I need, I take no heed 
 
 Of splendour or renown. 
 
 And when I die, oh, let me lie 
 
 Where trees above me wave ; 
 Let wild plants bloom, around my tomb, 
 
 My quiet country grave ! {Exit.) 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 249 
 
 Scene III. — The Rick-yard. Same as Act /., 
 Scene I. 
 
 Edmunds and Maddox meeting. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Ah, George ! Why this is kind to come down 
 to the old farm to-day, and take one peep at us, 
 before we leave it for ever. I suppose it 's fancy, 
 now, George, but to my thinking I never saw the 
 hedges look so fresh, the fields so rich, or the old 
 house so pretty and comfortable, as they do this 
 morning. It 's fancy that, George, — an't it? 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 It's a place you may well be fond of, and 
 attached to, for it 's the prettiest spot in all the 
 country round. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Ah ! you always enter into my feelings ; and 
 speaking of that, I want to ask your advice about 
 Rose. I meant to come up to you to-day, on 
 purpose. Do you think she is fond of me, George? 
 
 edmunds (smiling). 
 What do you think ? She has not shown any 
 desperate warmth of affection, of late, has she? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 No — no, she certainly has not, but she used to 
 once, and the girl has got a good heart after all; 
 
250 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT IT. 
 
 and she came crying to me, this morning, in the 
 little paddock, and somehow or other, my heart 
 melted towards her; and — and — there 's something 
 very pleasant about her manner, — isn't there, 
 George ? 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 No doubt of it, as other people besides ourselves 
 would appear to think. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 You mean Mr. Flam ? {Edmunds nods assent.) 
 Ah ! it 's a bad business, altogether ; but still there 
 are some excuses to be made for a young country 
 girl, who has never seen a town gentleman before, 
 and can't be expected to know as well as you and 
 I, George, what the real worth of one is. However 
 that may be, Rose came into the little paddock this 
 morning, as I was standing there, looking at the 
 young colts, and thinking of all our misfortunes; 
 and first of all she walked by me, and then she 
 stopped at a little distance, and then she walked 
 back, and stopped again ; and I heard her sobbing 
 as if her heart would burst : and then she came a 
 little nearer, and at last she laid her hand upon my 
 arm, and looked up in my face: and the tears 
 started into my eyes, George, and I couldn't bear 
 it any longer, for I thought of the many pleasant 
 days we had been happy together, and it hurt me to 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 251 
 
 think that she should ever have done anything to 
 make her afraid of me, or me unkind to her. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 You 're a good fellow, John, an excellent fellow. 
 Take her ; I believe her to have an excellent disposi- 
 tion, though it is a little disguised by girlish levity 
 sometimes; — you may safely take her, — if she had 
 far less good feeling than she actually possesses, 
 she could never abuse your kind and affectionate 
 nature. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Is that your advice ? Give me your hand, George 
 {they shake hands), I will take her. You shall 
 dance at our wedding, and I don't quite despair yet 
 of dancing at yours, at the same time. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 At mine ! Where is the old man ? I came here 
 to offer him the little cottage in the village, which 
 belongs to me. There is no tenant in it now : it 
 has a pretty garden, of which I know he is fond, 
 and it may serve his turn till he has had time to 
 look about him. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 He is somewhere about the farm ; walk with me 
 across the yard, and perhaps we may meet him — 
 this way. [Exeunt. 
 
252 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 Enter Young Benson. 
 
 YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 The worst portion of the poor old man's hard 
 trial is past. I have lingered with him in every 
 field on the land, and wandered through every room 
 in the old house. I can neither blame his grief, 
 nor console him in his affliction, for the farm has 
 been the happy scene of my birth and boyhood ; 
 and I feel, in looking on it, for the last time, as if I 
 were leaving the dearest friends of my youth, for 
 ever. 
 
 Song. — YOUNG BENSON. 
 
 My fair home is no longer mine ; 
 
 From its roof-tree I 'm driven away, 
 Alas ! who will tend the old vine, 
 
 Which I planted in infancy's day ! 
 The garden, the beautiful flowers, 
 
 The oak with its branches on high, 
 Dear friends of my happiest hours, 
 
 Among ye, I long hoped to die. 
 The briar, the moss, and the bramble, 
 
 Along the green paths will run wild : 
 The paths where I once used to ramble, 
 
 An innocent, light-hearted child. 
 
 At the conclusion of the song enter to the symphony 
 Old Benson, with Lucr and Rose. 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 253 
 
 young benson (advancing to meet him). 
 Come, father, come ! 
 
 OLD BENSON. 
 
 I am ready, boy. We have but to walk a few 
 steps, and the pang of leaving is over. Come, 
 Rose, bring on that unhappy girl ; come ! 
 
 As they are going, enter the Squire, who meets them. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 I am in time. 
 
 benson (to Young Benson, who is advancing). 
 
 Harry, stand back. Mr. Norton, if by this visit 
 you intend to mock the misery you have inflicted 
 here, it is a heartless insult that might have been 
 spared. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 You do me an injustice, Benson. I come here, 
 — not to insult your grief, but to entreat, implore 
 you, to remain. The lease of this farm shall be 
 renewed ; — I beseech you to remain here. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 It is not the quitting even the home of my 
 infancy, which most men love, that bows rny spirit 
 down to-day. Here, in this old house, for near two 
 hundred years, my ancestors have lived and died, 
 and left their names behind them free from spot or 
 blemish. I am the first to cross its threshold with 
 
254 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 the brand of infamy upon me. Would to God I 
 had been borne from its porch a senseless corpse 
 many weary years ago, so that I had been spared this 
 hard calamity ! You have moved an old man's 
 weakness, but not with your revenge, sir. You 
 implore me to remain here. I spurn your offer. 
 Here ! A father yielding to the destroyer of his 
 child's good name and honour ! Say no more, sir. 
 Let me pass. 
 
 Enter, behind, Stokes and Edmunds, 
 squire. 
 Benson, you are guilty of the foulest injustice, 
 not to me, but to your daughter. After her fear- 
 less confession to me this morning of her love for 
 Edmunds, and her abhorrence of my professions, I 
 honour her too much to injure her or you. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Dear father, it is true indeed. The noble 
 behaviour of his Honour to me, this morning, I can 
 never forget, or be too grateful for. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Thank God ! thank God ! I can look upon her 
 once again. My child ! my own child ! {He embraces 
 her with great emotion.) I have done your Honour 
 wrong, and I hope you '11 forgive me. {They shake 
 hands.) 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 255 
 
 martin {running forward). 
 So have I ! so have I ! I have done his Honour 
 wrong, and I hope he '11 forgive me too. You 
 don't leave the farm, then ? Hurrah ! (A man 
 carrying a pail, some harness, <f*c, crosses the stage.) 
 Hallo, young fellow ! go back, go back ! don't take 
 another thing away, and bring back all you have 
 carried off; they are going to stop in the farm. 
 Hallo ! you fellows ! (Calling off.) Leave the barn 
 aione, and put everything in its place. They are 
 going to stop in the farm. (Exit bawling.) 
 
 benson (seeing edmunds). 
 What ! George here, and turning away from his 
 old friend, too, without a look of congratulation or 
 a shake of the hand, just at the time, when of all 
 others, he had the best right to expect it ! For 
 shame, George, for shame ! 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 My errand here is rendered useless. By acci- 
 dent, and not intentionally, I partly overheard just 
 now the nature of the avowal made by your 
 daughter to Mr. Norton this morning. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 You believe it, George. You cannot doubt its 
 truth. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 I do believe it. But I have been hurt, slighted, 
 
256 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 set aside for another. My honest love has been 
 despised ; my affection has been remembered, only 
 to be tried almost beyond endurance. Lucy, all 
 this from you I freely forgive. Be what you have 
 been once, and what you may so well become again. 
 Be the high-souled woman ; not the light and 
 thoughtless trifler that disgraces the name. Let 
 me see you this, and you are mine again. Let me 
 see you what you have been of late, and I never 
 can be yours ! 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Lead her in, Rose. Come, dear, come! {The 
 Bensons and Rose lead her slowly away.) 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Mr. Norton, if this altered conduct be sincere, it 
 deserves a much better return than my poor thanks 
 can ever be to you. If it be feigned, to save some 
 purposes of your own, the consequences will be 
 upon your head. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 And I shall be prepared to meet them. 
 
 Duet. — Squire Norton and Edmunds. 
 
 squire. 
 Listen, though I do not fear you, 
 Listen to me, ere we part. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 List to you I Yes, I will hear you. 
 
SCENE III.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 257 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Yours alone is Lucy's heart, 
 
 I swear it, by that Heaven above me. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 What ! can I believe my ears ! 
 Could I hope that she still loves me ! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Banish all these doubts and fears, 
 If a love were e'er worth gaining, 
 If love were ever fond and true, 
 No disguise or passion feigning, 
 Such is her young love for you. 
 
 Listen, though I do not fear you, 
 Listen to me ere we part. 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 List to you ! yes, I will hear you, 
 Mine alone is her young heart. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene IV. — The avenue leading to the Hall, 
 by moonlight. The house in the distance, 
 gaily illuminated. 
 
 Enter Flam and Martin. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 You have got the letter I gave you for the 
 Squire ? 
 
 L 17 
 
258 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 All right. Here it is. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 The moment you see me leave the room, slip it 
 into the Squire's hand; you can easily do so, with- 
 out being recognised, in the confusion of the dance, 
 and then follow me. You perfectly understand 
 your instructions ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Oh, yes, — I understand them well enough. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 There's nothing more, then, that you want to 
 know? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 No, nothing, — oh, yes there is. I want to know 
 whether — whether 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Well, go on. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Whether you could conveniently manage to let 
 me have another couple of guineas, before you go 
 away in the chaise. Payment beforehand, — capital 
 custom. And if you don't, perhaps I may not 
 get them at all, you know : {aside) seeing that I 
 don't intend to go at all, I think it 's very likely. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 You 're a remarkably pleasant fellow, Stokes, 
 
SCENE IV.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 259 
 
 in general conversation, — very, — but when you 
 descend into particularities, you become excessively 
 prosy. On some points, — money-matters for in- 
 stance, — you have a very grasping imagination, 
 and seem disposed to dilate upon them at too 
 great a length. You must cure yourself of this 
 habit, — you must indeed. Good-bye, Stokes ; you 
 shall have the two guineas doubled when the 
 journey is completed. Remember, — ten o'clock. 
 
 [Exit Flam. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 I shan't forget ten o'clock, depend upon it. 
 Now to burst upon my particular friend, Mr. John 
 Maddox, with the awful disclosure. He must pass 
 this way on his road to the Hall. Here they come, 
 — don't see him though. {Groups of male and 
 female villagers in cloaks, 8fC. cross the stage on their 
 way to the Hall.) 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 How are you, Tom? How do, Will? 
 
 VILLAGERS. 
 
 How do, Mas'r Stokes? 
 
 martin (shaking hands with them). 
 How do, Susan? Mind, Cary, you 're my first 
 partner. Always kiss your first partner, — capital 
 custom. (Kisses her.) Good-bye! See you up 
 at the Hall. 
 
 17 * 
 
260 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT 11. 
 
 VILLAGERS. 
 
 Ay, ay, Mas'r Stokes. [Exeunt Villagers. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Not among them. (More villagers cross.) Nor 
 them. Here he comes : — Rose with him too, — in- 
 nocent little victim, little thinking of the atrocious 
 designs that are going on against her ! 
 
 Enter Maddox and Rose, arm-in-arm. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! that was a good 'un, — wasn't it ? 
 Ah! Martin, I wish I 'd seen you a minute ago. I 
 made such a joke ! How you would ha' laughed ! 
 
 martin (mysteriously beckoning Maddox away 
 
 from Rose, and whispering). 
 I want to speak to you. 
 
 john {whispering). 
 What about ? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Lor! don't stand whispering there, John. If 
 you have anything to say, Mr. Stokes, say it before 
 me. 
 
 john {taking her arm). 
 
 Ah ! say it before her ! Don't mind her, Martin ; 
 she's to be my wife, you know, and we 're to 
 be on the mutual-confidence principle ; a' n't we, — 
 Rose? 
 
SCENE IV.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 261 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 To be sure. Why don't you speak, Mr. Stokes? 
 I suppose it 's the old story, — something wrong. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Something wrong ! I rather think there is ; and 
 you little know what it is, or you wouldn't look 
 so merry. What I have got to say — don't be 
 frightened, Miss Rose, — relates to — don't alarm 
 yourself, Master Maddox. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I a'n't alarming myself; you're alarming me. 
 Go on! 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Go on ! — can't you ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Relates to Mr. Flam. 
 
 john {dropping Rose's arm). 
 Mr. Flam ! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Hush ! — and Miss Rose. 
 
 rose. 
 Me ! Me and Mr. Flam ! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Mr. Flam intends at ten o'clock, this very night, 
 — don't be frightened, Miss, — by force, in secret, 
 and in a chaise and four, too, — to carry off, against 
 her will, and elope with, Miss Rose. 
 
262 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Me ! Oh ! (Screams, and falls into the arms of 
 Maddox) 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Rub her hands, Martin, she 's going off in 
 a fit. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Never mind ; she 'd better go off in a fit than 
 a chaise. 
 
 rose (recovering). 
 Oh, John ! don't let me go. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Let you go! — not if I set the whole Hall on 
 fire. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Hold me fast, John. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I '11 hold you fast enough, depend upon it. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Come on the other side of me, Mr. Stokes : take 
 my arm ; hold me tight, Mr. Stokes. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Don't be frightened, I '11 take care of you. 
 (Takes her arm.) 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh! Mr. Stokes. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 263 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Oh, indeed ! Nothing wrong, — eh ? 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Stokes, — pray forgive my having 
 
 doubted that there was Oh! what a dreadful 
 
 thing ! What is to be done with me ? 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Upon my word, I don't know. I think we had 
 better shut her up in some place under ground, — 
 hadn't we, John ? — or, stay, — suppose we borrow 
 the keys of the family vault, and lock her up 
 there, for an hour or two. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Capital ! 
 
 ROSE, 
 
 Lor! surely you may find out some more 
 agreeable place than that, John. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 I have it. — I 'm to carry her off. 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 You! 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Me, — don't be afraid of me: — all my manage- 
 ment. You dance with her all the evening, and 
 I '11 keep close to you. If anybody tries to get 
 her away, you knock him down, — and I'll help 
 you. 
 
264 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 That 's the plan ; — come along. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh, I am so frightened! Hold me fast, Mr. 
 
 Stokes, — Don't let me go, John ! 
 
 [Exeunt, talking. 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Light-hearted revellers! how I envy them! 
 How painful is my situation, — obliged with a sad 
 heart to attend a festivity, from which the only 
 person 1 would care to meet will, I know, be 
 absent. " But I will not complain. He shall see 
 " that I can become worthy of him, once again. I 
 " have lingered here so long, watching the soft 
 " shades of evening as they closed around me, that 
 " I cannot bear the thought of exchanging this 
 u beautiful scene for the noise and glare of a 
 " crowded room." 
 
 Song. — Lucy. 
 
 How beautiful at even-tide 
 To see the twilight shadows pale, 
 
 Steal o'er the landscape, far and wide, 
 O'er stream and meadow, mound and dale. 
 
 How soft is Nature's calm repose 
 When evening skies their cool dews weep : 
 
 The gentlest wind more gently blows, 
 As if to soothe her in her sleep ! 
 
SCENE IV.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 265 
 
 The gay morn breaks, 
 
 Mists roll away, 
 All Nature awakes 
 
 To glorious day. 
 In my breast alone 
 
 Dark shadows remain ; 
 The peace it has known 
 
 It can never regain. 
 
 Scene the Last. — A spacious ball-room, brilliantly 
 illuminated. A window at the end 1 through 
 which is seen a moonlit landscape. A large 
 concourse of country people, discovered. — The 
 Squire, — Flam, — the Bensons, — Lucy, — 
 Rose, — Martin, and Maddox. 
 
 squire. 
 Welcome, friends, welcome all! Come, choose 
 your partners, and begin the dance. 
 
 flam (to Lucy). 
 Your hand, for the dance? 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Pray excuse me, sir; I am not well. My head 
 is oppressed and giddy. I would rather sit by 
 the window which looks into the garden, and feel 
 the cool evening air. (She goes up. He follows 
 her.) 
 
266 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 JOHN (aside). 
 Stand by me, Martin. He 's gone to order the 
 chaise, perhaps. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh! pray don't let me be taken away, Mr. 
 Stokes. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Don't be frightened, — don't be frightened. Mr. 
 Flam is gone. I '11 give the Squire the note in 
 a minute. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Now, — begin the dance. 
 
 A Country Dance. 
 
 (Martin and Maddox, in their endeavours to 
 keep close to Eose, occasion great confusion. As the 
 Squire is looking at some particular couple in the 
 dance, Martin steals behind him, thrusts the letter in 
 his hands, and resumes his place. The Squire looks 
 round as if to discover the person who has delivered 
 it; but being unsuccessful, puts it up, and retires 
 among the crowd of dancers. Suddenly a violent 
 scream is heard, and the dance abruptly ceases. 
 Great confusion. Martin and Maddox hold Rose 
 firmly.) 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 What has happened? Whence did that scream 
 proceed ? 
 
SCENE V.] TEE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 267 
 
 SEVERAL VOICES. 
 
 From the garden ! — from the garden ! 
 
 EDMUNDS (without). 
 
 Raise him, and bring him here. Lucy, — dear 
 Lucy! 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Lucy ! My child ! (Runs up the stage, and 
 exit into garden.) 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 His child! Damme! they can't get this one, 
 so they're going to run away with the other. 
 Here's some mistake here. Let me go, Rose. 
 Come along, John. Make way there, — make way ! 
 
 (As they run towards the window, Edmunds ap- 
 pears at it, without a hat, and his dress disordered, 
 with Lucy in his arms. He delivers her to her 
 father and Rose.) 
 
 rose. 
 Lucy, — dear Lucy, — look up ! 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Is she hurt, George ? — is the poor child injured ? 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 No, it is nothing but terror ; she will be better 
 instantly. See! she is recovering now. (Lucy 
 gradually recovers, as Flam, his clothes torn, and 
 face disfigured, is led in by Maddox and Martin.) 
 
268 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 BENSON. 
 
 Mr. Norton, this is an act of perjury and base- 
 ness, of which another instant would have witnessed 
 the completion. 
 
 squire (to Flam). 
 
 Rascal ! this is your deed. 
 
 flam (aside to Norton). 
 That 's right, Norton, keep it up. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Do not address me with your odious familiarity, 
 scoundrel ! 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 You don't really mean to give me up ? 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 I renounce you from this instant. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 You do? — then take the consequences. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Benson, — Edmunds, — friends, — I declare to you 
 most solemnly that I had neither hand nor part in 
 this disgraceful outrage. It has been perpetrated 
 without my knowledge, wholly by that scoundrel. 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 'Tis false ; it was done with his consent. 
 He has in his pocket, at this moment, a letter from 
 me, acquainting him with my intention. 
 
SCENE V.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 269 
 
 ALL. 
 
 A letter! 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 A letter was put into my hands five minutes 
 since; but it acquainted me, not with this fellow's 
 intention, but with his real dishonourable and dis- 
 graceful character, to which I had hitherto been 
 a stranger. {To Flam.) Do you know that hand- 
 writing, sir? {showing him the letter). 
 
 FLAM. 
 
 Ellis's letter ! {searching his pockets, and producing 
 the other). I must, — ass that I was! — I did — 
 enclose the wrong one. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 You will quit my house this instant ; its roof 
 shall not shelter you another night. Take that 
 with you, sir, and begone. {Throws him a purse.) 
 
 flam {talcing it up). 
 Ah ! I suppose you think this munificent, now 
 — eh ? I could have made twice as much of you 
 in London, Norton, I could indeed, to say nothing 
 of my exhibiting myself for a whole week to these 
 clods of earth, which would have been cheap, 
 dirt-cheap, at double the money. Bye-bye, Norton ! 
 Farewell, grubs ! [Exit 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Edmunds, you have rescued your future wife 
 
270 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [aOT II. 
 
 from brutal violence ; you will not leave her 
 exposed to similar attempts in future ? 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 Even if I would, I feel, now that I have pre- 
 served her, that I could not. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Then take her, and with her the old farm, which 
 from henceforth is your own. You will not turn 
 the old man out, I suppose ? 
 
 edmunds (shaking Benson by the hand). 
 I don't think we are very likely to quarrel on 
 that score ; and most gratefully do we acknow- 
 ledge your Honour's kindness. Maddox ! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Hallo! 
 
 EDMUNDS. 
 
 I shall not want that cottage and garden we were 
 speaking of, this morning, now. Let me imitate 
 a good example, and bestow it on your wife, as 
 her marriage portion. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Oh, delightful ! Say certainly, John, — can't 
 ycu? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Thank'ee, George, thank'ee ! I say, Martin, I 
 have arrived at the dignity of a cottage and a 
 piece of ground, at last. 
 
SCENE V.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 271 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 Yes, you may henceforth consider yourself on 
 a level with me. 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Resume the dance. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 I beg your pardon. One word. (Whispers the 
 Squire.) 
 
 squire. 
 
 I hope not. Recollect, you have been mistaken 
 before, to-day. You had better inquire. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 I will. (To the audience.) My very particular 
 friend, if he will allow me to call him so, 
 
 SQUIRE. 
 
 Oh, certainly. 
 
 MARTIN. 
 
 My very particular friend, Mr. Norton, wishes me 
 to ask my other particular friends here, whether 
 there 's — anything wrong ? We are delighted 
 to hear your approving opinion in the old way. 
 You carit do better. It 's a capital custom. 
 
 Dance and Finale. — Chorus. 
 
 Join the dance, with step as light 
 As every heart should be to-night ; 
 Music, shake the lofty dome, 
 In honour of our Harvest Home, 
 
272 THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. [ACT II. 
 
 Join the dance, and banish care, 
 All are young, and gay, and fair; 
 Even age has youthful grown, 
 In honour of our Harvest Home. 
 
 Join the dance, bright faces beam, 
 Sweet lips smile, and dark eyes gleam ; 
 All these charms have hither come, 
 In honour of our Harvest Home. 
 
 Join the dance, with step as light, 
 As every heart should be to-night ; 
 Music, shake the lofty dome, 
 In honour of our Harvest Home. 
 
 Quintet. 
 
 Lucy — Rose — Edmonds— The Squire — Young 
 Benson. 
 
 No light bound 
 Of stag or timid hare, 
 
 O'er the ground 
 Where startled herds repair, 
 
 Do we prize 
 So high, or hold so dear, 
 
 As the eyes 
 That light our pleasures here. 
 
SCENE V.] THE VILLAGE COQUETTES. 273 
 
 No cool breeze 
 That gently plays by night, 
 
 O'er calm seas, 
 Whose waters glisten bright; 
 
 No soft moan 
 That sighs across the lea, 
 
 Harvest Home, 
 Is half so sweet as thee ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Hail to the merry autumn days, when yellow corn- 
 fields shine, 
 
 Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the 
 monarch's wine! 
 
 Hail to the merry harvest time, the gayest of the 
 year, 
 
 The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, 
 and good cheer. 
 
 Hail! Hail! Hail! 
 
 18 
 
IS SHE HIS WIFE? 
 
 OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 
 
 18 * 
 
[Is She His Wife? or, Something Singular! A Comic Bur- 
 letta. In One Act. By " Boz." First performed at the 
 St. James's Theatre, Monday, March 6, 1837.] 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Alfred Lovetown, Esq. . . . Mr. Forester. 
 Mr. Peter Limbury .... Mr. Gardner. 
 Felix Tapkins, Esq. {formerly of the 
 
 India House, Leadenhall Street, and 
 
 Prospect Place, Poplar; but now of 
 
 the Rustic Lodge, near Reading) . . Mr. Harley. 
 John {servant to Lovetown). 
 
 Mrs. Lovetown Miss Allison. 
 
 Mrs. Peter Limbury .... Madame Sala. 
 
IS SHE HIS WIFE? 
 
 OK, SOMETHING SINGULAR! 
 
 Scene I. — A Room opening into a Garden. A 
 • Table laid for Breakfast; Chairs, etc. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Lovetown, c, discovered at Break- 
 fast, r. h. The former in a dressing-gown 
 and slippers, reading a newspaper. A Screen 
 on one side. 
 
 lovetown (L. H. of table, yawning). 
 Another cup of tea, my dear, — Lord ! 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN (r. H. of table). 
 
 I wish, Alfred, you would endeavour to assume 
 a more cheerful appearance in your wife's society. 
 If you are perpetually yawning and complaining of 
 ennui a few months after marriage, what am I to 
 suppose you '11 become in a few years ? It really 
 is very odd of you. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Not at all odd, my dear, not the least in the 
 world ; it would be a great deal more odd if I 
 
280 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 were not. The fact is, my love, I 'm tired of the 
 country ; green fields, and blooming hedges, and 
 feathered songsters, are fine things to talk about 
 and read about and write about ; but I candidly 
 confess that I prefer paved streets, area railings 
 and dustman's bells, after all. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 How often have you told me that, blessed with 
 my love, you could live contented and happy in a 
 desert. 
 
 lovetown {reading). 
 
 " Artful impostor ! " 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Have you not over and over again said that 
 fortune and personal attractions were secondary 
 considerations with you ? That you loved me for 
 those virtues which, while they gave additional 
 lustre to public life, would adorn and sweeten 
 retirement ? 
 
 lovetown (reading), 
 
 " Soothing syrup! " 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 You complain of the tedious sameness of a 
 country life. Was it not you yourself who first 
 proposed our residing permanently in the country? 
 Did you not say that 1 should then have an ample 
 
SCENE I.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 281 
 
 sphere in which to exercise those charitable feel- 
 ings which I have so often evinced, by selling at 
 those benevolent fancy fairs ? 
 
 lovetown {reading). 
 u Humane man-traps! " 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 He pays no attention to me, — Alfred dear, 
 
 lovetown {stamping his foot). 
 Yes, my life. 
 
 MRS. lovetown. 
 Have you heard what I have just been saying, 
 dear ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Yes, love. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 And what can you say in reply ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Why, really, my dear, you 've said it so often 
 before in the course of the last six weeks, that I 
 think it quite unnecessary to say anything more 
 about it. {Reads.) " The learned judge de- 
 livered a brief but impressive summary of the 
 unhappy man's trial." 
 
 MRS. lovetown {aside). 
 I could bear anything but this neglect. He 
 evidently does not care for me. 
 
282 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 lovetown {aside). 
 I could put up with anything rather than these 
 constant altercations and little petty quarrels. I 
 repeat, my dear, that I am very dull in this out-of- 
 the-way villa, — confoundedly dull, — horridly dull. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 And / repeat that if you took any pleasure in 
 your wife's society, or felt for her as you once pro- 
 fessed to feel, you would have no cause to make 
 such a complaint. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 If I did not know you to be one of the sweetest 
 creatures in existence, my dear, I should be 
 strongly disposed to say that you were a very 
 close imitation of an aggravating female. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 That 's very curious, my dear, for I declare that, 
 if I hadn't known you to be such an exquisite, 
 good-tempered, attentive husband, I should have 
 mistaken you for a very great brute. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 My dear, you 're offensive. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 My love, you 're intolerable. {They turn their 
 chairs back to back.) 
 
SCENE I.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR! 283 
 
 Mr. Felix Tapkins sings without. 
 
 " The wife around her husband throws 
 
 Her arms to make him stay ; 
 1 My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows, 
 And you cannot hunt to-day.' 
 But a hunting we will go, 
 And a hunting we will go, — wo — wo — wb ! 
 And a hunting we will go." 
 
 MRS. L0VET0WN. 
 
 There 's that dear, good-natured creature, Mr. 
 Tapkins, — do you ever hear him complain of the 
 tediousness of a country life? Light-hearted crea- 
 ture, — his lively disposition and rich flow of spirits 
 are wonderful, even to me. (Rising.) 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 They need not be a matter of astonishment to 
 anybody, my dear, — he 's a bachelor. 
 
 Mr. Felix Tapkins appears at window, l. h. 
 
 tapkins. 
 Ha, ha! How are you both? — Here's a morn- 
 ing ! Bless my heart alive, what a morning ! I Ve 
 been gardening ever since five o'clock, and the 
 flowers have been actually growing before my very 
 eyes. The London Pride is sweeping everything 
 before it, and the stalks are half as high again as 
 they w r ere yesterday. They 're all run up like so 
 
284 IS SHE HIS WIFE P [SCENE I. 
 
 many tailors' bills, after that heavy dew of last 
 night broke down half my rosebuds with the 
 weight of its own moisture, — something like a 
 dew that ! — reg'lar doo, eh ? — come, that 's not so 
 bad for a before-dinner one. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Ah, you happy dog, Felix ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Happy ! of course I am, — Felix by name, Felix 
 by nature, — what the deuce should I be unhappy 
 for, or anybody be unhappy for ? What 's the use 
 of it, that 's the point. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Have you finished your improvements yet, Mr. 
 Tapkins ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 At Rustic Lodge? (She nods assent.) Bless 
 your heart and soul ! you never saw such a place, 
 — cardboard chimneys, Grecian balconies, — Gothic 
 parapets, thatched roof. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Indeed ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Lord bless you, yes, — green verandah, with ivy 
 twining round the pillars. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 How very rural ! 
 
SCENE I.] OR, SOMETHING- SINGULAR! 285 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Rural, my dear Mrs. Lovetown! delightful! 
 The French windows, too ! Such an improvement ! 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 I should think thev were ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Yes, / should think they were. Why, on a fine 
 summer's evening the frogs hop off the grass-plot 
 into the very sitting-room. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Dear me ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Bless you, yes ! Something like the country,— - 
 quite a little Eden. Why, when I 'm smoking 
 under the verandah, after a shower of rain, the 
 black beetles fall into my brandy and water. 
 
 mr. and MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 No! Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Yes. And . I take 'em out again with the tea- 
 spoon, and lay bets with myself which of them will 
 run away the quickest. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ( They all 
 laugh.) Then the stable, too. Why, in Rustic 
 Lodge the stables are close to the dining-room 
 window. 
 
286 IS SHE HIS will ? [scene I- 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 No! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Yes. The horse can't cough but I hear him. 
 There's compactness. Nothing like the cottage 
 style of architecture for comfort, my boy. By the 
 by, I have left the new horse at your garden-gate 
 this moment. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 The new horse ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 The new horse ! Splendid fellow, — such action ! 
 Puts out its feet like a rocking-horse, and carries 
 its tail like a hat-peg. Come and see him. 
 
 lovetown {laughing) 
 I can't deny you anything. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 No, that 's what they all say, especially the — eh? 
 {Nodding and winking.) 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'm afraid you 5 re a very bad 
 man, Mr. Tapkins ; I 'm afraid you 're a shocking 
 man, Mr. Tapkins. 
 
SCENE I.J OR, SOMETHING SJNGULAR ! 287 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Think so? No, I don't know, — not worse than 
 other people similarly situated. Bachelors, my 
 dear Mrs. Lovetown, bachelors — eh! old fellow? 
 ( Winking to Lovetown.) 
 
 lovetown. 
 Certainly, certainly. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 We know — eh? (They all laugh.) By the by, 
 talking of bachelors puts me in mind of Rustic 
 Lodge, and talking of Rustic Lodge puts me in 
 mind of what I came here for. You must come 
 and see me this afternoon. Little Peter Limbury 
 and his wife are coming. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 I detest that man. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 The wife is supportable, my dear. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 To be sure, so she is. You '11 come, and that *s 
 enough. Now come and see the horse. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Give me three minutes to put on my coat and 
 boots, and I '11 join you. I won't be three minutes. 
 
 [Exit Lovetown, r. h. 
 
288 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SHENE I. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Look sharp, look sharp! — Mrs. Lovetown, will 
 you excuse me one moment? (Crosses to l. ; call- 
 ing off.) Jim, — these fellows never know how to 
 manage horses, — walk him gently up and down, — 
 throw the stirrups over the saddle to show the 
 people that his master *s coming, and if anybody 
 asks what that fine animal's pedigree is, and who 
 he belongs to, say he 's the property of Mr. Felix 
 Tapkins of Rustic Lodge, near Reading, and that 
 he 's the celebrated horse who ought to have won 
 the Newmarket Cup last year, only he didn't. 
 
 [Exit Tapkins. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 My mind is made up, — I can bear Alfred's cold- 
 ness and insensibility no longer, and come what 
 may I will endeavour to remove it. From the 
 knowledge I have of his disposition I am convinced 
 that the only mode of doing so will be by rousing 
 his jealousy and wounding his vanity. This 
 thoughtless creature will be a very good in- 
 strument for my scheme. He plumes himself 
 on his gallantry, has no very small share of 
 vanity, and is easily led. I see him crossing the 
 garden. (She brings a chair hastily forward and 
 sits R. H.) 
 
SCENE I.] OB, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 289 
 
 Enter Felix Tapkins, l. h. window. 
 
 tapkins {singing). 
 " My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows, " 
 
 mrs. lovetown {tragically). 
 Would that I had never beheld him ! 
 
 tapkins {aside). 
 Hallo ! She 's talking about her husband. I 
 knew by their manner there had been a quarrel, 
 when I came in this morning. 
 
 MRS. lovetown. 
 So fascinating, and yet so insensible to the ten- 
 derest of passions as not to see how devotedly I 
 love him. 
 
 tapkins {aside). 
 I thought so. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 That he should still remain unmarried is to me 
 extraordinary. 
 
 tapkins. 
 Urn! 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 He ought to have married long since. 
 
 tapkins {aside). 
 Eh ! Why, they aren't married ! — " ought to 
 have married long since.' ' — I rather think he 
 ought. 
 
 I. 19 
 
290 IS SHE HIS WIFE? [SCENE I. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 And, though I am the wife of another,- 
 
 tapkins (aside). 
 Wife of another ! 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Still, I grieve to say that I cannot be blind to 
 his extraordinary merits. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Why, he 's run away with somebody else's wife ! 
 The villain ! — I must let her know I 'm in the 
 room, or there 's no telling what I may hear next. 
 (Coughs.) 
 
 mrs. lovetown (starting up in affected confusion). 
 
 Mr. Tapkins! (They sit.) Bring your chair 
 nearer. I fear, Mr. Tapkins, that I have been 
 unconsciously giving utterance to what was pass- 
 ing in my mind. I trust you have not overheard 
 my confession of the weakness of my heart. 
 
 tapkins. 
 No — no — not more than a word or two. 
 
 MRS. lovetown. 
 That agitated manner convinces me that you 
 have heard more than you are willing to confess. 
 Then why — why should I seek to conceal from you 
 — that though I esteem my husband, I — I — love 
 — another ? 
 
SCEXE I.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 291 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 I heard you mention that little circumstance. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Oh! (Sighs.) 
 
 tapkins (aside). 
 What the deuce is she Oh-ing at ? She looks at 
 me as if I were Lovetown himself. 
 
 mrs. lovetown (putting her hand on his shoulder 
 with a languishing air). 
 Does my selection meet with your approbation ? 
 
 tapkins (slowly). 
 It doesn't. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 No! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Decidedly not. (Aside.) I'll cut that Love- 
 town out, and offer myself. Hem! Mrs. Lovetown. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Tapkins. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 I know an individual 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Ah ! an individual ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 An individual, — I may, perhaps, venture to say 
 
 19 * 
 
292 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 an estimable individual, — who for the last three 
 months has been constantly in your society, who 
 never yet had courage to disclose his passion, but 
 who burns to throw himself at your feet. Oh ! 
 (Aside.) I '11 try an Oh or two now, — Oh ! (Sighs.) 
 That *s a capital Oh ! 
 
 mrs. lovetown (aside). 
 He must have misunderstood me before, for he 
 is evidently speaking of himself. Is the gentleman 
 you speak of handsome, Mr. Tapkins ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 He is generally considered remarkably so. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Is he tall? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 About the height of the Apollo Belvidere. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Is he stout ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Of nearly the same dimensions as the gentleman 
 I have just named. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 His figure is 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Quite a model. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 And he is 
 
SCENE I.] OB, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 293 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Myself. ( Throws himself on his knees and seizes 
 her hand.) 
 
 Enter Lovetown, r. h. 
 
 Tapkins immediately pretends to be diligently looking 
 for something on the floor. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Pray don't trouble yourself. I '11 find it. Dear 
 me ! how could I lose it ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 What have you lost, love ? I should almost 
 imagine that you had lost yourself, and that our 
 friend Mr. Tapkins here had just found you. 
 
 tapkins (aside). 
 Ah ! you always will have your joke, — funny 
 dog ! funny dog ! Bless my heart and soul, there 's 
 that immortal horse standing outside all this time ! 
 He '11 catch his death of cold ! Come and see him 
 at once, — come — come. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 No. I can't see him to-day. I had forgotten. 
 I Ve letters to write, — business to transact, — I 'm 
 engaged. 
 
 tapkins (to Mrs. Lovetown). 
 
 Oh ! if he 's engaged, you know, we *d better 
 not interrupt him. 
 
294 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Oh ! certainly ! Not by any means, 
 
 tapkins {taking her arm). 
 Good-bye, old fellow. 
 
 lovetown {seating himself at table). 
 
 Oh ! — good-bye. 
 
 tapkins {going). 
 
 Take care of yourself. I '11 take care of 
 
 Mrs. L. 
 
 [Exeunt Tapkins and Mrs. Lovetown, c. 
 
 lovetown. 
 What the deuce does that fellow mean by laying 
 such emphasis on Mrs. L. ? What 's my wife to 
 him, or he to my wife ? Very extraordinary ! I 
 can hardly believe that even if he had the treachery 
 to make any advances, she would encourage such 
 a preposterous intrigue. {Walks to and fro.) She 
 spoke in his praise at breakfast-time, though, — 
 and they have gone away together to see that 
 confounded horse. But stop, I must keep a sharp 
 eye upon them this afternoon, without appearing 
 to do so. I would not appear unnecessarily 
 suspicious for the world. Dissembling in such a 
 case, though, is difficult — very difficult. 
 
 Enter a Servant, l. h. 
 servant. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Peter Limbury. 
 
SCENE I.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 295 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Desire them to walk in. 
 
 [Exit Servant, l. h. 
 
 A lucky visit ! it furnishes me with a hint. 
 This Mrs. Limbury is a vain, conceited woman, 
 ready to receive the attentions of anybody who 
 feigns admiration for her, partly to gratify herself, 
 and partly to annoy the jealous little husband 
 whom she keeps under such strict control. If 
 I pay particular attention to her, I shall lull my 
 wife and that scoundrel Tapkins into a false se- 
 curity, and have better opportunities of observa- 
 tion. They are here. 
 
 Enter Mr. and Mrs. Limbury, l. h. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Limbury. (Crosses to c.) 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Eh? 
 
 lovetown (not regarding him). 
 How charming — how delightful — how divine you 
 look to-day. 
 
 limbury (aside). 
 Dear Mrs. Limbury, — charming, — divine and 
 beautiful look to-day ! They are smiling at each 
 other, — he squeezes her hand. I see how it is. I 
 always thought he paid her too much attention. 
 
296 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Sit down, — sit down. 
 
 Lovetown places the chairs so as to sit between 
 them, which Limbury in vain endeavours to 
 prevent. 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Peter and I called as we passed in our little 
 pony-chaise, to inquire whether we should have the 
 pleasure of seeing you at Tapkins's this afternoon. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Is it possible you can ask such a question ? Do 
 you think I could stay away ? 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Dear Mr. Lovetown! (Aside.) How polite, — 
 he *s quite struck with me. 
 
 limbury (aside). 
 Wretched miscreant ! a regular assignation before 
 my very face. 
 
 lovetown (to Mrs. Limbury). 
 Do you know I entertained some apprehensions 
 — some dreadful fears — that you might not be 
 there. 
 
 limbury. 
 Fears that we mightn't be there ? Of course 
 we shall be there. 
 
SCENE I.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 297 
 
 MBS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Now don't talk, Peter. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 I thought it just possible, you know, that you 
 might not be agreeable 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 O, Peter is always agreeable to anything that is 
 agreeable to me. Aren't you, Peter ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Yes, dearest. (Aside,) Agreeable to anything 
 that 's agreeable to her ! Lor' ! 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 By the by, Mr. Lovetown, how do you like this 
 bonnet ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 0, beautiful ! 
 
 limbury (aside). 
 
 I must change the subject. Do you know, Mr. 
 Lovetown, I have often thought, and it has 
 frequently occurred to me — when 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Now don't talk, Peter. (To Lovetown.) The 
 colour is so bright, is it not ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 It might appear so elsewhere, but the brightness 
 of those eyes casts it quite into shade. 
 
298 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 I know you are a connoisseur in ladies' dresses ; 
 how do you like those shoes ? 
 
 limbury {aside). 
 Her shoes ! What will she ask his opinion of 
 next? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 0, like the bonnet, you deprive them of their 
 fair chance of admiration. That small and elegant 
 foot engrosses all the attention which the shoes 
 might otherwise attract. That taper ankle, too — 
 
 limbury {aside). 
 Her taper ankle ! My bosom swells with the 
 rage of an ogre. Mr. Lovetown,— I 
 
 MRS. limbury. 
 Now, pray do not talk so, Limbury. You *ve 
 put Mr. Lovetown out as it is. 
 
 limbury {aside). 
 Put him out ! I wish I could put him out, 
 Mrs. Limbury. I must. 
 
 Enter Servant, hastily. 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 I beg your pardon, sir, but the bay pony has got 
 his hind leg over the traces, and he *s kicking the 
 chaise to pieces ! 
 
SCENE I.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 299 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Kicking the new chaise to pieces ! 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Kicking the new chaise to pieces ! The bay 
 pony ! Limbury, my dear fellow, fly to the spot ! 
 {Pushing him out.) 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 But, Mr. Lovetown, I 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Oh ! he '11 kick somebody's brains out, if Peter 
 don't go to him. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 But perhaps he '11 kick my brains out if I do go 
 to him. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Never mind, don't lose an instant, — not a moment. 
 (Pushes him out, both talking together.) 
 
 [Exit Limbury. 
 (Aside.) Now for it, — here's my wife. Dearest 
 Mrs. Limbury — (Kneels by her chair, and seizes her 
 hand.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Lovetown, c. 
 
 mrs. lovetown (aside). 
 Can I believe my eyes ? (Retires behind the 
 screen.) 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Mr. Lovetown I 
 
300 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Nay. Allow me in one hurried interview, which 
 I have sought for in vain for weeks, — for months, — 
 to say how devotedly, how ardently I love you. 
 Suffer me to retain this hand in mine. Give me 
 one ray of hope. 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Rise, I entreat you, — we shall be discovered. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Nay, I will not rise till you promise me that you 
 will take an opportunity of detaching yourself from 
 the rest of the company and meeting me alone in 
 Tapkins's grounds this evening. I shall have no 
 eyes, no ears for anyone but yourself. 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Well,— well,— I will— I do 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Then I am blest indeed ! 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 I am so agitated. If Peter or Mrs. Lovetown — 
 were to find me thus — I should betray all. I '11 
 teach my husband to be jealous ! ( Crosses to l. h.) 
 Let us walk round the garden. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 With pleasure, — take my arm. Divine creature ! 
 
SCENE I.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 301 
 
 (Aside.) I 'm sure she is behind the screen. I saw 
 her peeping. Come. 
 
 [Exit Lovetown and Mrs. Limbury, l. h. 
 
 mrs. lovetown (coming forward). 
 
 Faithless man! His coldness and neglect are 
 now too well explained. Alfred ! Alfred ! how 
 little did I think when I married you, six short 
 months since, that I should be exposed to so much 
 wretchedness ! I begin to tremble at my own 
 imprudence, and the situation in which it may place 
 me ; but it is now too late to recede. I must be 
 firm. This day will either bring my project to the 
 explanation I so much desire, or convince me of 
 what I too much fear, — my husband's aversion. 
 Can this woman's husband suspect their intimacy ? 
 If so, he may be able to prevent this assignation 
 taking place. I will seek him instantly. If I can 
 but meet him at once, he may prevent her going 
 at all. [Exit Mrs. Lovetown, r. h. 
 
 Enter Tapkins, l. h. window. 
 tapkins. 
 
 This, certainly, is a most extraordinary affair. 
 Not her partiality for me, — that 's natural enough, 
 — but the confession I overheard about her marriage 
 to another. I have been thinking that, after such 
 a discovery, it would be highly improper to allow 
 Limbury and his wife to meet her without warning 
 
302 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 him of the fact. The best way will be to make him 
 acquainted with the real state of the case. Then 
 he must see the propriety of not bringing his wife 
 to my house to-night. Ah ! here he is. I '11 make 
 the awful disclosure at once, and petrify him. 
 
 Enter Limbury, l. h. window, 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 That damned little bay pony is as bad as my 
 ■wife. There's no curbing either of them ; and 
 as soon as I have got the traces of the one all 
 right, I lose all traces of the other. 
 
 tapkins, R. 
 Peter ! 
 
 LIMBURY, l. 
 
 Ah! Tapkins! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Hush! Hush! {Looking cautiously round.) If 
 you have a moment to spare, I 've got something 
 of great importance to communicate. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Something of great importance, Mr. Tapkins! 
 {Aside.) What can he mean ? Can it relate to 
 Mrs. Limbury? The thought is dreadful. You 
 horrify me ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 You '11 be more horrified presently. What I am 
 about to tell you concerns yourself and your honour 
 
SCENE I.] OB, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 303 
 
 very materially ; and I beg you to understand that 
 I communicate it — in the strictest confidence. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Myself and my honour! 1 shall dissolve into 
 nothing with horrible anticipations ! 
 
 tapkins (in a low tone). 
 Have you ever observed anything remarkable 
 about Lovetown's manner ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Anything remarkable ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Ay, — anything very odd, and rather unpleasant ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Decidedly ! No longer than half an hour ago, 
 — in this very room, I observed something in 
 his manner particularly odd and exceedingly 
 unpleasant. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 To your feelings as a husband ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Yes, my friend, yes, yes ; — you know it all, I 
 see! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 What ! Do you know it ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 I 'm afraid I do ; but go on — go on. 
 
304 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 tapkins {aside). 
 How the deuce can he know anything about it ? 
 Well, this oddness arises from the peculiar nature 
 of his connexion with You look very pale. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 No, no, — go on, — " connexion with — " 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 A certain lady, — you know whom I mean. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 I do, I do! (Aside). Disgrace and confusion ! 
 I '11 kill her with a look ! I '11 wither her with 
 scornful indignation ! Mrs. Limbury ! — viper ! 
 
 tapkins (whispering with caution). 
 They — aren't — married. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 They aren't married ! Who aren't ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Those two, to be sure ! 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Those two ! What two ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Why, them. And the worst of it is she 's — 
 she 's married to somebody else. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Well, of course I know that. 
 
SCENE I.] OB, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 305 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 You know it ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Of course I do. Why, how you talk ! Isn't she 
 my wife ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Your wife ! Wretched bigamist ! Mrs. Lovetown 
 your wife ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Mrs. Lovetown I What ! Have you been talk- 
 ing of Mrs. Lovetown all this time? My dear 
 friend ! {Embraces him.) The revulsion of feeling 
 is almost insupportable. I thought you were 
 talking about Mrs. Limbury. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 No! 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Yes. Ha ! ha ! But I say, what a dreadful 
 fellow this is — another man's wife ! Gad, I think 
 he wants to run away with every man's wife he 
 sees. And Mrs. Lovetown, too — horrid ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Shocking ! 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 I say, I oughtn't to allow Mrs. Limbury to 
 associate with her, ought I ? 
 
 I. 20 
 
306 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SCENE I. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Precisely my idea. You had better induce 
 your wife to stay away from my house to-night. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 I 'rn afraid I can't do that. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 What, has she any particular objection to staying 
 away ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 She has a very strange inclination to go, and 
 ? tis much the same ; however, I '11 make the best 
 arrangement T can ! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Well, so be it. Of course I shall see you? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Of course. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Mind the secret, — close — close — you know, as a 
 Cabinet minister answering a question. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 You may rely upon me. 
 
 [Exit LlMBURY, L. II., Tapkins, R. II. 
 
SCENE II.] OE, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 307 
 
 Scene II. — A Conservatory on one side. A Summer- 
 house on the other. 
 
 Enter Lovetown at l. h. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 So far so good. My wife has not dropped the 
 slightest hint of having overheard the conversation 
 between me and Mrs. Limbury ; but she cannot 
 conceal the impression it has made upon her mind, 
 or the jealousy it has evidently excited in her 
 breast. This is just as I wished. I made 
 Mr. Peter Limbury' s amiable helpmate promise to 
 meet me here. I know that refuge for destitute 
 reptiles (pointing to summer-house) is Tapkins's 
 favourite haunt, and if he has any assignation with 
 my wife, I have no doubt he will lead her to 
 this place. A woman's coming down the walk. 
 Mrs. Limbury, I suppose, — no, my wife, by all 
 that's actionable. I must conceal myself here, 
 even at the risk of a shower of black beetles, or a 
 marching regiment of frogs. (Goes into conserva- 
 tory, l. H.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Lovetown from top, l. h. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 I cannot have been mistaken. I am certain I 
 saw Alfred here ; he must have secreted himself 
 
 20 * 
 
308 IS SHE HIS WIFE? [SCENE II. 
 
 somewhere to avoid me. Can his assignation 
 with Mrs. Limbury have been discovered ? Mr. 
 Limbury's behaviour to me just now was strange 
 in the extreme ; and after a variety of incoherent 
 expressions he begged me to meet him here, on a 
 subject, as he said, of great delicacy and importance 
 to myself. Alas ! I fear that my husband's 
 neglect and unkindness are but too well known. 
 The injured little man approaches. I summon all 
 my fortitude to bear the disclosure. 
 
 Enter Mr. Limbury at top, l. h. 
 
 limbury {aside). 
 
 Now as I could not prevail on Mrs. Limbury to 
 stay away, the only distressing alternative I have 
 is to inform Mrs. Lovetown that I know her 
 history, and to put it to her good feeling whether 
 she hadn't better go. 
 
 lovetown {peeping), 
 
 Limbury ! what the deuce can that little wretch 
 want here ? 
 
 limbury. 
 
 I took the liberty, Mrs. Lovetown, of begging 
 you to meet me in this retired spot, because the 
 esteem I still entertain for you, and my regard for 
 your feelings, induce me to prefer a private to a 
 public disclosure. 
 
SCBKK II.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR! 309 
 
 lovetown {peeping). 
 i '" Public disclosure ! " what on earth is he talking 
 about ? I wish he 'd speak a little louder. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 I am sensible of your kindness, Mr. Limbury, 
 and believe me most grateful for it. I am fully 
 prepared to hear what you have to say. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 It is hardly necessary for me, I presume, to say. 
 Mrs. Lovetown, that I have accidentally discovered 
 the whole secret. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 The whole secret, sir ? 
 
 lovetown (peeping ). 
 Whole secret ! What secret ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 The whole secret, ma'am, of this disgraceful — I 
 must call it disgraceful — and most abominable 
 intrigue. 
 
 mrs. lovetown (aside). 
 My worst fears are realized, — my husband's 
 neglect is occasioned by his love for another. 
 
 lovetown (peeping). 
 Abominable intrigue ! My first suspicions are 
 too well founded. He reproaches my wife with 
 
310 IS SHE HIS WIFE? [ SCENE II. 
 
 her infidelity, and she cannot deny it, — that villain 
 Tapkins ! 
 
 mrs. lovetown {weeping). 
 Cruel — cruel — Alfred ! 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 You may well call him cruel, unfortunate 
 woman. His usage of you is indefensible, unmanly, 
 scandalous. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 It is. It is, indeed. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 It 's very painful for me to express myself in 
 such plain terms, Mrs. Lovetown ; but allow me 
 to say, as delicately as possible, that you should 
 not endeavour to appear in society under such 
 unusual and distressing circumstances. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Not appear in society ! Why should I quit it ? 
 
 lovetown (peeping). 
 Shameful woman ! 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Is it possible you can ask such a question ? 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 What should I do? Where can I 0*0 ? 
 
SCENE 11.] OB, SOMETHING SIKGBLAIt 1 311 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Gain permission to return once again to your 
 husband's roof. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 My husband's roof? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Yes, the roof of your husband, your wretched, 
 unfortunate husband ! 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Never ! 
 
 limbury (aside). 
 
 She 's thoroughly hardened, steeped in vice 
 beyond redemption. Mrs. Lovetown, as you reject 
 my well-intentioned advice in this extraordinary 
 manner, 1 am reduced to the painful necessity of 
 expressing my hope that you will, — now pray don't 
 think me unkind, — that you will never attempt to 
 meet Mrs. Limbury more. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 What ! Can you suppose I am so utterly dead 
 to every sense of feeling and propriety as to meet 
 that person, — the destroyer of my peace and happi- 
 ness, — the wretch who has ruined my hopes and 
 blighted my prospects for ever ? Ask your own 
 heart, sir, — appeal to your own feelings. You are 
 naturally indignant at her conduct. You would 
 hold no further communication with her. Can 
 
312 IS SHE HIS WIFE? [ SCENE II. 
 
 you suppose, then, / would deign to do so ? The 
 mere supposition is an insult ! 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Lovetown hastily at top, l. h. 
 
 .LIMBURY. 
 
 What can all this mean ? I am lost in a maze 
 of astonishment, petrified at the boldness with 
 which she braves it out. Eh ! it 's breaking upon 
 me by degrees. I see it. What did she say ? 
 " Destroyer of peace and happiness, — person — 
 ruined hopes and blighted prospects — her." I see 
 it all. That atrocious Lovetown, that Don Juan 
 multiplied by twenty, that unprecedented libertine, 
 has seduced Mrs. Limbury from her allegiance to 
 her lawful lord and master. He first of all runs 
 away with the wife of another man, and he is no 
 sooner tired of her, than he runs away with another 
 wife of another man. I thirst for his destruc- 
 tion. I — (Lovetown rushes from, the conservatory 
 and embraces Limbury, who disengages himself.) 
 Murderer of domestic happiness ! behold your 
 victim ! 
 
 LOVETOWN, 
 
 Alas ! you speak but too truly. {Covering his 
 face with his hands.) I am the victim. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 1 speak but too truly! — He avows his own 
 criminality. I shall throttle him. I know I shall. 
 I feel it. 
 
SCENE II.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 313 
 
 Enter Mrs. Limbury at bach, l. h. 
 mrs. limbury {aside). 
 My husband here ! {Goes into conservatory.) 
 
 Enter Tapkins at back, l. h. 
 tapkins {aside). 
 Not here, and her husband with Limbury. I '11 
 reconnoitre. {Goes into summer-house, R. H.) 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Lovetown, have you the boldness to look an 
 honest man in the face ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 0, spare me ! I feel the situation in which I 
 am placed acutely, deeply. Feel for me when I 
 say that from that conservatory I overheard the 
 greater part of what passed between you and 
 Mrs. Lovetown. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 You did ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Need I say how highly I approve both of the 
 language you used, and the advice you gave her ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 What ! you want to get rid of her, do you ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Can you doubt it ? 
 
 tapkins {peeping). 
 Hallo ! he wants to get rid of her. Queer ! 
 
314 IS SHE HIS WIFE? [SCENE II. 
 
 L0VET0WN. 
 
 Situated as I am, you know, I have no other 
 resource, after what has passed. I must part from 
 her. 
 
 MRS. limbury {peeping). 
 
 What can he mean ? 
 
 limbury (aside). 
 I should certainly throttle him, were it not that 
 the coolness with which he refers to the dreadful 
 event paralyzes me. Mr. Lovetown, look at me ! 
 Sir, consider the feelings of an indignant husband, 
 sir ! 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 0, I thank you for those words. Those strong 
 expressions prove the unaffected interest you take 
 in the matter. 
 
 limbury. 
 
 Unaffected interest ! I shall go raving mad 
 with passion and fury ! Villain ! Monster ! To 
 embrace the opportunity afforded him of being on 
 a footing of friendship. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 To take a mean advantage of his being a single 
 man. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 To tamper with the sacred engagements of a 
 married woman. 
 
SCENE II.] OB, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 315 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 To place a married man in a disgraceful and 
 humiliating situation. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Scoundrel ! Do you mock me to my face ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Mock you ! What d' ye mean ? Who the devil 
 are you talking about ? 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Talking about — you I -^** 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Me! 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Designing miscreant ! Of whom do you speak ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Of whom should I speak but that scoundrel 
 Tapkins ? 
 
 tapkins {coming forward, R.). 
 Me ! What the devil do you mean by that ? 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Ha! (Rushing at him, is held back by Limbury.) 
 
 limbury (to Tapkins). 
 Avoid him. Get out of his sight. He 's raving 
 mad with conscious villainy. 
 tapkins. 
 What are you all playing at I spy I over my two 
 acres of infant hay for ? 
 
31G IS SHE HIS WIFE? [SCENE 11. 
 
 LOVETOWN (to TAPKINS). 
 
 How dare you tamper with the affections of 
 Mrs. Lovetown? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 0, is that all ? Ha ! ha ! (Crosses to a). 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 All! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Come, come, none of your nonsense. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Nonsense ! Designate the best feelings of our 
 nature nonsense! 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Pooh ! pooh ! Here, I know all about it. 
 
 lovetown (angrily). 
 And so do I, sir ! And so do I. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Of course you do. And you 've managed very 
 well to keep it quiet so long. But you 're a deep 
 fellow, by Jove ! you 're a deep fellow ! 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Now, mind ! I restrain myself sufficiently to 
 ask you once again before I knock you down, by 
 what right dare you tamper with the affections of 
 Mrs. Lovetown ? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Right ! 0, if you come to strict right, you 
 know, nobody has a right but her husband. 
 
SCENE II.] OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR ! 317 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 And who is her husband ? Who is her husband? 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Ah ! to be sure, that 's the question. Nobody 
 that I know. I hope — poor fellow 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 I '11 bear these insults no longer ! {Rushes 
 towards Tapkins. Limbury interposes. Love- 
 town crosses to R. H. A scream is heard from the 
 conservatory — a pause.) 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Something singular among the plants ! (He 
 goes into the conservatory and returns with Mrs. 
 Limbury.) A flower that wouldn't come out of its 
 own accord. \ was obliged to force it. Tolerably 
 full blown now, at all events. 
 
 limbury. 
 My wife ! Traitoress ! (Crosses to l. h.) Fly 
 from my presence ! Quit my sight ! Return to 
 the conservatory with that demon in a frock-coat ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Lovetown at top, l. h. and comes 
 down c. 
 
 tapkins. 
 Hallo! Somebody else! 
 
 lovetown (aside). 
 My wife here ! 
 
318 IS SHE HIS WIPE ? [SHEXE IT. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN (to LlMBURY). 
 
 I owe you some return for the commiseration 
 you expressed just now for my wretched situation. 
 The best, the only one I can make you is, to entreat 
 you to refrain from committing any rash act, how- 
 ever excited you may be, and to control the feelings 
 of an injured husband. 
 
 TAFKINS. 
 
 Injured husband! Decidedly singular ! 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 The allusion of that lady I confess my utter 
 inability to understand. Mr. Limbury, to you an 
 explanation is due, and I make it more cheerfully, 
 as my abstaining from doing so might involve the 
 character of your wife Stung by the attentions 
 which I found Mrs. Lovetown had received from a 
 scoundrel present, 
 
 tapkins (aside). 
 That 's me. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 I — partly to obtain opportunities of watching 
 her closely, under an assumed mask of levity and 
 carelessness, and partly in the hope of awaking 
 once again any dormant feelings of affection that 
 might still slumber in her breast, affected a passion 
 for your wife which I never felt, and to which she 
 never really responded. The second part of my 
 
SCENE IT. J OR, SOMETHING SINGULAR! 319 
 
 project, I regret to say, has failed. The first has 
 succeeded but too well. 
 
 LIMBURY. 
 
 Can I believe ray ears ? But how came Mrs. 
 Peter Limbury to receive those attentions? 
 
 MRS. LIMBURY. 
 
 Why, not because I liked them, of course, but to 
 assist Mr. Lovetown in his project, and to teach 
 you the misery of those jealous fears. Come here, 
 you stupid little jealous, insinuating darling. 
 
 [They retire up l. h., she coaxing him. 
 
 tapkins (aside). 
 It strikes me very forcibly that I have made a 
 slight mistake here, which is something particularly 
 singular. [Turns up r. h. 
 
 MRS. LOVETOWN. 
 
 Alfred, hear me ! 1 am as innocent as yourself. 
 Your fancied neglect and coldness hurt my weak 
 vanity, and roused some foolish feelings of angry 
 pride. In a moment of irritation I resorted to some 
 such retaliation as you have yourself described. 
 That I did so from motives as guiltless as your 
 own I call Heaven to witness. That I repent my 
 fault I solemnly assure you. 
 
 LOVETOWN. 
 
 Is this possible ? 
 
320 IS SHE HIS WIFE ? [SOBNB II. 
 
 TAPKINS. 
 
 Very possible indeed ! Believe your wife's 
 assurance and my corroboration. Here, give and 
 take is all fair, you know. Give me your hand and 
 take your wife's. Here, Mr. and Mrs. L. {to 
 Limbury.) Double L, — I call them. {To Love- 
 town.) Small italic and Roman capital. {To Mr. 
 and Mrs. Limbury, who come forward.) Here, 
 it 's all arranged. The key to the whole matter is, 
 that I 've been mistaken, which is something 
 singular. If I have made another mistake in* 
 calculating on your kind and lenient reception of 
 our last half-hour's misunderstanding {to the 
 audience) , I shall have done something more 
 singular still. Do you forbid me committing any 
 more mistakes, or may I announce my intention of 
 doing something singular again ? 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER: 
 
 A FAROE. 
 
 i 
 
 1838. 
 
 i. 21 
 
[Printed from the Manuscript Copy in the Forster Collection 
 at the South Kensington Museum.] 
 
DRAMA.TIS PERSONS. 
 
 Mr. Stargazes. 
 
 Master Galileo Isaac Newton Flamstead Staroazer 
 
 {his son). 
 Tom Grig {the Lamplighter). 
 Mr. Mooney {an Astrologer). 
 Servant. 
 Betsy Martin. 
 Emma Stargazer. 
 Fanny Brown. 
 
 21 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER 
 
 Scene I. — The Street, outside of Mr. Stargazer's 
 house. Two street Lamp-posts in front. 
 
 tom grig (with ladder and lantern, singing as he 
 enters). 
 
 Day has gone down o'er the Baltic's proud bil-ler; 
 Evening has sigh'd, alas ! to the lone wil-ler ; 
 Night hurries on, night hurries on, earth and ocean 
 
 to kiv-ver ; 
 Rise, gentle moon, rise, gentle moon, and guide me 
 
 to my 
 
 That ain't a rhyme, that ain't — kiv-ver and lover ! 
 I ain't much of a poet; but if I couldn't make 
 better verse than that, I 'd undertake to be set fire 
 to, and put up, instead of the lamp, before Alder- 
 man Waithman's obstacle in Fleet-street. Bil-ler, 
 wil-ler, kiv-ver — shiver, obviously. That 's what 
 I call poetry. (Sings.) 
 
326 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE I. 
 
 Day has gone down o'er the Baltic's proud bil-ler — 
 
 [During the previous speech he has been occupied 
 in lighting one of the lamps. As he is about to 
 light the other, Mr. Stargazer appears at 
 window, with a telescope. 
 
 MR. stargazer (after spying most intently at the 
 
 clouds). 
 Holloa! 
 
 TOM (on ladder). 
 Sir, to you ! And holloa again, if you come to 
 that. 
 
 MR. stargazer. 
 Have you seen the comet ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 What Comet — the Exeter Comet ? 
 
 MR. stargazer. 
 What comet ? The comet — Halley's comet ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Nelson's, you mean. I saw it coming out of the 
 yard, not five minutes ago. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Could you distinguish anything of a tail ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Distinguish a tail ? I believe you — four tails ! 
 
SCENE I.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 327 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 A comet with four tails ; and all visible to the 
 naked eye ! Nonsense ! it couldn't be. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 You wouldn't say that again if you was down 
 here, old Bantam. {Clock strikes five.) You '11 
 tell me next, I suppose, that that isn't five o'clock 
 striking, eh ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Five o'clock — five o'clock ! Five o'clock p.m. 
 on the thirtieth day of November, one thousand 
 eight hundred and thirty-eight ! Stop till I come 
 down — stop ! Don't go away on any account — not 
 a foot, not a step. [Closes window. 
 
 tom {descending, and shouldering his ladder). 
 
 Stop ! stop, to a lamplighter, with three hundred 
 and seventy shops and a hundred and twenty 
 private houses waiting to be set a light to ! Stop, 
 to a lamplighter ! 
 
 As he is running off, enter Mr. Stargazer from his 
 house, hastily. 
 
 mr. stargazer (detaining him). 
 Not for your life ! — not for your life ! The 
 thirtieth day of November, one thousand eight 
 hundred and thirty-eight ! Miraculous circum- 
 
328 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE I. 
 
 stance ! extraordinary fulfilment of a prediction of 
 the planets ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 What are you talking about ? 
 
 MR. stargazer (looking about). 
 
 Is there nobody else in sight, up the street or 
 down ? No, not a soul ! This, then, is the man 
 whose coming was revealed to me by the stars, six 
 months ago ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Young man, that I have consulted the Book of 
 Fate with rare and wonderful success, — that coming 
 events have cast their shadows before. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Don't talk nonsense to me, — I ain't an event ; 
 I'ma lamplighter ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER (aside). 
 
 True ! — Strange destiny that one, announced by 
 the planets as of noble birth, should be devoted to 
 so humble an occupation. (Aloud.) But you were 
 not always a lamplighter ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Why, no. I wasn't born with a ladder on my 
 left shoulder, and a light in my other hand. But I 
 
SCENE I.J THE LAMPLIGHTER. 329 
 
 took to it very early, though, — I had it from my 
 uncle. 
 
 mb. stargazer (aside). 
 He had it from his uncle ! How plain, and yet 
 how forcible, is his language ! He speaks of lamp- 
 lighting, as though it were the whooping-cough or 
 measles ! (To him.) Ay ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes, he was the original. You should have 
 known him ! — 'cod ! he was a genius, if ever there 
 was one. Gas was the death of him ! When gas 
 lamps was first talked of, my uncle draws himself 
 up, and says, " I '11 not believe it, there 's no sich 
 a thing," he says. " You might as well talk of 
 laying on an everlasting succession of glow-worms ! n 
 But when they made the experiment of lighting a 
 piece of Pall Mall 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 That was when it first came up ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 No, no, that was when it was first laid down. 
 Don't mind me ; I can't help a joke, now and then. 
 My uncle was sometimes took that way. When 
 the experiment was made of lighting a piece of 
 Pall Mall, and he had actually witnessed it, with 
 his own eyes, you should have seen my uncle then ! 
 
330 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE 1. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 So much overcome ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Overcome, sir ! He fell off his ladder, from 
 weakness, fourteen times that very night ; and his 
 last fall was into a wheelbarrow that was going his 
 way, and humanely took him home. u I foresee in 
 this/' he says, "the breaking up of our profession; 
 no more polishing of the tin reflectors," he says; 
 " no more fancy-work, in the way of clipping the 
 cottons at two o'clock in the morning ; no more 
 going the rounds to trim by daylight, and dribbling 
 down of the He on the hats and bonnets of the 
 ladies and gentlemen, when one feels in good spirits. 
 Any low fellow can light a gas-lamp, and it 's all 
 up ! " So he petitioned the Government for — what 
 do you call that that they give to people when it 's 
 found out that they 've never been of any use, and 
 have been paid too much for doing nothing ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Compensation ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes, that's the thing, — compensation. They 
 didn't give him any, though ! And then he got 
 very fond of his country all at once, and went 
 about, saying how that the bringing in of gas was 
 a death-blow to his native land, and how that its He 
 
SCENE I.] THE LAMPLIGHTEE. 331 
 
 and cotton trade was gone for ever, and the whales 
 would go and kill themselves, privately, in spite 
 and vexation at not being caught ! After this, he 
 was right-down cracked, and called his 'bacco pipe 
 a gas pipe, and thought hi© tears was lamp He, and 
 all manner of nonsense. At last, he went and 
 hung himself on a lamp iron, in St. Martin's Lane, 
 that he 'd always been very fond of ; and as he was 
 a remarkably good husband, and had never had any 
 secrets from his wife, he put a note in the twopenny 
 post, as he went along, to tell the widder where the 
 body was. 
 
 mr. stargazer {laying his hand upon his arm, and 
 speaking mysteriously). 
 Do you remember your parents ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 My mother I do, very well ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Was she of noble birth ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Pretty well. She was in the mangling line. 
 Her mother came of a highly respectable family, 
 — such a business, in the sweetstuff and hardbake 
 way! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Perhaps your father was 
 
332 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE I. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Why, I hardly know about him. The fact is, 
 there was some little doubt, at the time, who was 
 my father. Two or three young gentlemen were 
 paid the pleasing compliment ; but their incomes 
 being limited, they were compelled delicately to 
 decline it. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Then the prediction is not fulfilled merely in 
 part, but entirely and completely. Listen, young 
 man, — I am acquainted with all the celestial 
 bodies 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Are you, though ? — I hope they are quite well, — 
 every body. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Don't interrupt me. I am versed in the great 
 sciences of astronomy and astrology ; in my house 
 there I have every description of apparatus for 
 observing the course and motion of the planets. 
 I 'm writing a work about them, which will consist 
 of eighty-four volumes, imperial quarto ; and an 
 appendix, nearly twice as long. I read what 's 
 going to happen in the stars. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Read what 's going to happen in the stars ! 
 Will any thing particular happen in the stars in the 
 course of next week, now ? 
 
SCENE 1.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 333 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 You don't understand me. I read in the stars 
 what 's going to happen here. Six months ago I 
 derived from this source the knowledge that, pre- 
 cisely as the clock struck five, on the afternoon of 
 this very day, a stranger would present himself 
 before my enraptured sight, — that stranger would 
 be a man of illustrious and high descent, — that 
 stranger would be the destined husband of my 
 young and lovely niece, who is now beneath that 
 roof (points to his house) ; — that stranger is yourself: 
 I receive you with open arms ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Me ! I, the man of illustrious and high — I, the 
 husband of a young and lovely — Oh ! it can't be, 
 you know ! the stars have made a mistake — the 
 comet has put 'em out ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Impossible ! The characters were as plain as 
 pike-staves. The clock struck five ; you were 
 here; there was not a soul in sight ; a mystery 
 envelopes your birth ; you are a man of noble 
 aspect. Does not everything combine to prove the 
 accuracy of my observations ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Upon my word, it looks like it ! And now I 
 come to think of it, I have very often felt as if I 
 
334 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE I. 
 
 wasn't the small beer I was taken for. And yet I 
 don't know, — you're quite sure about the noble 
 aspect ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Positively certain. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Give me your hand. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 And my heart, too! [They shake hands heartily . 
 
 TOM. 
 
 The young lady is tolerably good-looking, is she ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Beautiful ! A graceful carriage, an exquisite 
 shape, a sweet voice ; a countenance beaming with 
 animation and expression ; the eye of a startled 
 fawn. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I see ; a sort of game eye. Does she happen to 
 have any of the — this is quite between you and me, 
 you know, — and I only ask from curiosity, — not 
 because I care about it, — any of the ready ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Five thousand pounds ! But what of that ? what 
 of that ? A word in your ear. I 'm in search of 
 the philosopher's stone ! I have very nearly found 
 it — not quite. It turns everything to gold ; that 's 
 its property. 
 
SCENE 1.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 335 
 
 TOM. 
 
 What a lot of property it must have ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 When I get it, we '11 keep it in the family. Not 
 a word to any one ! What will money be to us ? 
 We shall never be able to spend it fast enough. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Well, you know, we can but try, — I '11 do my 
 best endeavours. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Thank you, — thank you ! But I '11 introduce 
 you to your future bride at once : — this way, this 
 way ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 What, without going my rounds first ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Certainly. A man in whom the planets take 
 especial interest, and who is about to have a share 
 in the philosopher's stone, descend to lamp, 
 lighting ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Perish the base idea ! not by no means ! I *11 
 take in my tools though, to prevent any kind 
 inquiries after me, at your door. (As he shoulders 
 the ladder the sound of violent rain is heard). 
 Holloa! 
 
336 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE I. 
 
 MR. stargazek {putting his hand on his head, in 
 amazement). 
 What 's that ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 It \s coming down, rather. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Rain ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Ah ! and a soaker, too ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 It can't be ! — it 's impossible ! — ( Taking a book 
 from his pocket, and turning over the pages hurriedly.) 
 Look here, — here it is, — here 's the weather alma- 
 nack, — " Set fair," — I knew it couldn't be ! (with 
 great triumph.) 
 
 tom (turning up his collar as the rain increases). 
 Don't you think there's a dampness in the 
 atmosphere ? 
 
 mr. stargazer (looking up). 
 It 's singular, — it 's like rain ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Uncommonly like. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 It 's a mistake in the elements, somehow. Here 
 it is, " set fair," — and set fair it ought to be. 
 
SCENE ll] the lamplighter. 337 
 
 w Light clouds floating about." Ah ! you see, there 
 are no light clouds ; — the weather 's all wrong. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Don't you think we had better get under cover ? 
 
 mr. stargazes (slowly retreating towards the house). 
 I don't acknowledge that it has any right to rain, 
 mind ! I protest against this. If Nature goes on 
 in this way, I shall lose all respect for her, — it won't 
 do, you know ; it ought to have been two degrees 
 colder, yesterday ; and instead of that, it was 
 warmer. This is not the way to treat scientific 
 men. I protest against it ! 
 
 [Exeunt into house, both talking, Tom pushing 
 Stargazer on, and the latter continually 
 turning back, to declaim against the weather. 
 
 Scene II. — A Room in Stargazer's house. Betsy 
 Martin, Emma Stargazer, Fanny Brown, 
 and Galileo, all murmuring together as they 
 enter. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 I say again, young ladies, that it 's shameful ! 
 unbearable ! 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Oh ! shameful ! shameful I 
 I, 22 
 
338 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Marry Miss Emma to a great, old, ugly, doting, 
 dreaming As-tron-o- Magician, like Mr. Mooney, 
 who 's always winking and blinking through tele- 
 scopes and that, and can't see a pretty face when 
 it 's under his very nose ! 
 
 galileo {with a melancholy air). 
 There never was a pretty face under his nose, 
 Betsy, leastways, since I 've known him. He 's 
 very plain. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Ah ! there 's poor young master, too ; he hasn't 
 even spirits enough left to laugh at his own jokes. 
 I 'm sure I pity him, from the very bottom of my 
 heart. 
 
 FANNY and EMMA. 
 
 Poor fellow ! 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Ain't I a legitimate subject for pity ? Ain't it a 
 dreadful thing that I, that am twenty-one come 
 next Lady- day, should be treated like a little boy ? 
 — and all because my father is so busy with the 
 moon's age that he don't care about mine ; and so 
 much occupied in making observations on the sun 
 round which the earth revolves, that he takes no 
 notice of the son that revolves round him ! I 
 wasn't taken out of nankeen frocks and trousers 
 till 1 became quite unpleasant in 'em. 
 
SCENE IT.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 339 
 
 ALL. 
 
 What a shame ! 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 I wasn't, indeed. And look at me now ! Here 's 
 a state of things. Is this a suit of clothes for a 
 major, — at least, for a gentleman who is a minor 
 now, but will be a major on the very next Lady- 
 day that comes ? Is this a fit 
 
 all {interrupting him). 
 Certainly not ! 
 
 Galileo {vehemently). 
 I won't stand it — I won't submit to it any 
 longer. I will be married. 
 
 all. 
 No, no, no ! don't be rash. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 I will, I tell you. I '11 marry my cousin Fanny. 
 Give me a kiss, Fanny ; and Emma and Betsy 
 will look the other way the while. {Kisses her.) 
 There ! 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Sir — sir ! here 's your father coming ! 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Well, then, I '11 have another, as an antidote to 
 my father. One more, Fanny. [Kisses her. 
 
 22 * 
 
340 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER (without) . 
 
 This way — this way! You shall behold her 
 immediately. 
 
 Enter Mr. Stargazer, Tom following bashfully, 
 
 MR. stargazer. 
 
 Where is my ? Oh, here she is ! Fanny, 
 
 my dear, come here. Do you see that gentleman ? 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 What gentleman, uncle ? Do you mean that 
 elastic person yonder who is bowing with so much 
 perseverance ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Hush ! yes ; that 's the interesting stranger. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Why, he is kissing his hand, uncle. What does 
 the creature mean ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Ah, the rogue ! Just like me, before I married 
 your poor aunt, — all fire and impatience. He 
 means love, my darling, love. I 've such a 
 delightful surprise for you. I didn't tell you 
 before, for fear there should be any mistake ; but 
 it 's all right, it 's all right. The stars have settled 
 it all among 'em. He 's to be your husband ! 
 
SCENE II.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 341 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 My husband, uncle ? Goodness gracious, Emma ! 
 
 [Converses apart with her. 
 
 mr. stargazer {aside). 
 He has made a sensation already. His noble 
 aspect and distinguished air have produced an 
 instantaneous impression. Mr. Grig, will you 
 permit me ? (Tom advances awkwardly.) — This 
 is my niece, Mr. Grig, — my niece, Miss Fanny 
 Brown; my daughter, Emma, — Mr. Thomas Grig, 
 the favourite of the planets. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I hope I see Miss Hemmer in a conwivial state ? 
 (Aside to Mr. Stargazer.) I say, I don't know 
 which is which. 
 
 mr. stargazer (aside). 
 The young lady nearest here is your affianced 
 bride. Say something appropriate. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Certainly; yes, of course. Let me see. Miss 
 (crosses to her) — I — thank' ee ! 
 
 [Kisses her, behind his hat. She screams. 
 
 galileo (bursting from Betsy, who has been 
 restraining him). 
 
 Outrageous insolence ! 
 
 [Betsy runs off. 
 
342 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 MR. STARGAZES. 
 
 Halloa, sir, halloa ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Who is this juvenile salamander, sir ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 My little boy, — only my little boy ; don't mind 
 him. Shake hands with the gentleman, sir, instantly 
 (to Galileo). 
 
 TOM. 
 
 A very fine boy, indeed ! and he does you great 
 credit, sir. How d'ye do, my little man? (They 
 shake hands, Galileo looking very wrathful, as Tom 
 pats him on the head.) There, that 's very right 
 and proper. " 'Tis dogs delight to bark and bite " ; 
 not young gentlemen, you know. There, there ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Now let me introduce you to that sanctum 
 sanctorum, — that hallowed ground, — that philo- 
 sophical retreat — where I, the genius loci, 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Eh? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 The genius loci 
 
 tom (aside). 
 Something to drink, perhaps. Oh, ah ! yes, yes ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Have made all my greatest and most profound 
 
SOENE II.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 348 
 
 discoveries ! where the telescope has almost grown 
 to my eye with constant application; and the glass 
 retort has been shivered to pieces from the ardour 
 with which my experiments have been pursued. 
 There the illustrious Mooney is, even now, pursu- 
 ing those researches which will enrich us with 
 precious metal, and make us masters of the world. 
 Come, Mr. Grig. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 By all means, sir ; and luck to the illustrious 
 Mooney, say I, — not so much on Mooney's account 
 as for our noble selves. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Emma ! 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Yes, papa. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 The same day that makes your cousin Mrs. Grig, 
 will make you and that immortal man, of whom 
 we have just now spoken, one. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Oh ! consider, dear papa, 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 You are unworthy of him, I know; but he, — 
 kind, generous creature,— consents to overlook your 
 defects, and to take you, for my sake, — devoted 
 
344 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 man! — Come, Mr. Grig! — Galileo Isaac Newton 
 Flamstead ! 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Well ? [Advancing sulkily. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 In name, alas ! but not in nature ; knowing, even 
 by sight, no other planets than the sun and moon, — 
 here is your weekly pocket-money, — sixpence ! 
 Take it all ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 And don't spend it all at once, my man ! Now, 
 sir! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Now, Mr. Grig, — go first, sir, I beg ! 
 
 [Exeunt Tom and Mr. Stargazer. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 81 Come, Mr. Grig ! " — " Go first, Mr. Grig ! "— 
 " Day that makes your cousin Mrs. Grig ! " — I '11 
 secretly stick a penknife into Mr. Grig, if I live 
 to be three hours older ! 
 
 fanny (on one side of him)* 
 Oh ! don't talk in that desperate way, — there 's a 
 dear, dear creature ! 
 
 emma (on the other side). 
 No ! pray do not ; — it makes my blood run cold 
 to hear you. 
 
SCENE 11.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 345 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Oh ! if I was of age ! — if I was only of age ! — 
 or we could go to Gretna Green, at threepence a 
 head, including refreshments and all incidental 
 expenses. But that could never be ! Oh ! if 1 
 was only of age ! 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 But what if you were ? What could you do, 
 then ? 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Marry you, cousin Fanny; I could marry you 
 then lawfully, and without anybody's consent. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 You forget that, situated as we are, we could 
 not be married, even if you were one-and-twenty ; — 
 we have no money ! 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Not even enough for the fees ! 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Oh ! I am sure every Christian clergyman, 
 under such afflicting circumstances, would marry 
 us on credit. The wedding-fees might stand over 
 till the first christening, and then we could settle 
 the little bill altogether. Oh ! why ain't I of age ! 
 — why ain't I of age ? 
 
846 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Betsy, in haste. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Well ! I never could have believed it ! There, 
 Miss ! I wouldn't have believed it, if I had dreamt 
 it, even with a bit of bride-cake under my pillow ! 
 To dare to go and think of marrying a young 
 lady, with five thousand pounds, to a common 
 lamplighter ! 
 
 ALL. 
 
 A lamplighter ? 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Yes, he's Tom Grig the lamplighter, and 
 nothing more nor less, and old Mr. Stargazer goes 
 and picks him out of the open street, and brings 
 him in for Miss Fanny's husband, because he pre- 
 tends to have read something about it in the stars. 
 Stuff and nonsense ! I don't believe he knows his 
 letters in the stars, and that 's the truth ; or if he 's 
 got as far as words in one syllable, it 's quite as 
 much as he has. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Was such an atrocity ever heard of? I, left 
 with no power to marry without his consent, and 
 he almost possessing the power to force my 
 inclinations. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 It 's actually worse than my being sacrificed to 
 that odious and detestable Mr. Mooney. 
 
SCENE II.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 347 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Come, Miss, it 's not quite so bad as that neither; 
 for Thomas Grig is a young man, and a proper 
 young man enough too, but as to Mr. Mooney, — 
 oh, dear ! no husband is bad enough in my opinion, 
 Miss ; but he is worse than nothing, — a great deal 
 worse. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 You seem to speak feelingly about this same 
 Mr. Grig. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Oh, dear no, Miss, not I. I don't mean to say 
 but what Mr. Grig may be very well in his way, 
 Miss ; but Mr. Grig and I have never held any 
 communication together, not even so much as how- 
 dy' e-do. Oh, no indeed, I have been very careful, 
 Miss, as I always am with strangers. I was 
 acquainted with the last lamplighter, Miss, but 
 he 's going to be married, and has given up the 
 calling, for the young woman's parents being very 
 respectable, wished her to marry a literary man, 
 and so he has set up as a bill-sticker. Mr. Grig 
 only came upon this beat at five to-night, Miss. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Which is a very sufficient reason why you don't 
 know more of him. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Well, Miss, perhaps it is ; and I hope there 's no 
 
3^8 THE LAMPLIGHIEJi. [ SCENE II. 
 
 crime in making friends in this world, if we can, 
 
 Miss. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Certainly not. So far from it, that I most 
 heartily wish you could make something more than 
 a friend of this Mr. Grig, and so lead him to falsify 
 this prediction. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Oh ! don't you think you could, Betsy ? 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 You could not manage at the same time to get 
 any young friend of yours to make something 
 more than a friend of Mr. Mooney, could you, 
 Betsy ? 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 But, seriously, don't you think you could 
 manage to give us all a helping hand together, in 
 some way, eh, Betsy ? 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Yes, yes, that would be so delightful. I should 
 be grateful to her for ever. Shouldn't you ? 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Oh, to the very end of my life ! 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 And so should I, you know, and lor' ! we should 
 make her so rich, when — when we got rich ourselves, 
 — shouldn't we ? 
 
SOENB II.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 349 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 Oh, that we should, of course. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Let me see. I don't wish to have Mr. Grig to 
 myself, you know. I don't want to be married. 
 
 ALL. 
 
 No ! no ! no ! Of course she don't. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 I haven't the least idea to put Mr. Grig off this 
 match, you know, for anybody's sake, but you 
 young people's. I am going quite contrairy to 
 my own feelings, you know. 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Oh, yes, yes ! How kind she is ! 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Well, I'll go over the matter with the young 
 ladies in Miss Emma's room, and if we can think 
 of anything that seems likely to help us, so much 
 the better ; and if we can't, we 're none the worst. 
 But Master Galileo musn't come, for he is so horrid 
 jealous of Miss Fanny that I dursn't hardly say 
 anything before him. Why, I declare (looking off), 
 there is my gentleman looking about him as if he 
 had lost Mr. Stargazer, and now he turns this way. 
 There — get out of sight. Make haste ! 
 
350 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 I may see 'em as far as the bottom stair, mayn't 
 I, Betsy ? 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Yes, but not a step farther on any consideration. 
 There, get away softly, so that if he passes here, 
 he may find me alone. 
 
 [They creep gently out, — Galileo returns and 
 peeps in. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 Hist, Betsy! 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Go away, sir. What have you come back for ? 
 
 galileo (holding out a large pin). 
 I wish you'd take an opportunity of sticking 
 this a little way into him for patting me on the 
 head just now. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Nonsense, you can't afford to indulge in such 
 expensive amusements as retaliation yet awhile. 
 You must wait till you come into your property, 
 sir. There. — Get you gone! [Exit Galileo. 
 
 Enter Tom Grig. 
 
 tom (aside). 
 
 I never saw such a scientific file in my days. 
 
 The enterprising gentleman that drowned himself 
 
 to see how it felt, is nothing to him. There he is, 
 
SCENE II.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 351 
 
 just gone down to the bottom of a dry well in an 
 uncommonly small bucket, to take an extra squint 
 at the stars, they being seen best, I suppose, 
 through the medium of a cold in the head. Halloa ! 
 Here is a young female of attractive proportions. 
 I wonder now whether a man of noble aspect would 
 be justified in tickling her. 
 
 [He advances stealthily and tickles her under 
 the arm. 
 
 betsy {starting). 
 Eh ! what ! Lor', sir ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Don't be alarmed. My intentions are strictly 
 honourable. In other words, I have no intentions 
 whatever. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Then you ought to be more careful, Mr. Grig. 
 That was a liberty, sir. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I know it was. The cause of liberty, all over the 
 world, — that 7 s my sentiment ! What is your name? 
 
 betsy {curtseying). 
 Betsy Martin, sir. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 A name famous both in song and story. Would 
 you have the goodness, Miss Martin, to direct me 
 
352 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 to that particular apartment wherein the illustrious 
 Mooney is now pursuing his researches ? 
 
 betsy (aside). 
 A little wholesome fear may not be amiss. (To 
 him, in assumed agitation.) You are not going into 
 that room, Mr. Grig? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Indeed, I am, and I ought to be there now, 
 having promised to join that light of science, your 
 master (a short six, by-the-bye!), outside the door. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 That dreadful and mysterious chamber ! Another 
 victim ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Victim, Miss Martin ! 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Oh ! the awful oath of secrecy which binds me 
 not to disclose the perils of that gloomy, hideous 
 room. 
 
 tom (astonished). 
 
 Miss Martin ! 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Such a fine young man, — so rosy and fresh- 
 coloured, that he should fall into the clutches of 
 that cruel and insatiable monster ! I cannot con- 
 tinue to witness such frightful scenes ; I must give 
 warning. 
 
SCENE II.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 353 
 
 TOM. 
 
 If you have anything to unfold, young woman, 
 have the goodness to give me warning at once. 
 betsy (affecting to recover herself). 
 
 No, no, Mr. Grig, it 's nothing, — it 's ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! — don't mind me, don't mind me, but it certainly 
 is very shocking ; — no, — no, — I don't mean that. 
 I mean funny, — yes. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 tom (aside, regarding her attentively). 
 I suspect a trick here, — some other lover in the 
 case who wants to come over the stars; — but it 
 won't do. I '11 tell you what, young woman (to 
 her), if this is a cloak, you had better try it on 
 elsewhere ; — in plain English, if you have any object 
 to gain and think to gain it by frightening me, it 's 
 all my eye and, and — yourself, Miss Martin. 
 
 JBETSY. 
 
 Well, then, if you will rush upon your fate, — 
 there (pointing off) — that 's the door at the end of 
 that long passage and across the gravelled yard. 
 The room is built away from the house on purpose. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I '11 make for it at once, and the first object I 
 inspect through that same telescope, which now 
 and then grows to your master's eye, shall be the 
 moon — the moon, which is the emblem of your 
 inconstant and deceitful sex, Miss Martin. 
 i, 23 
 
354 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE II. 
 
 Duet 
 Air — '* The Young May -moon." 
 
 TOM. 
 
 There comes a new moon twelve times a year. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 And when there is none, all is dark and drear. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 In which I espy — 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 And so, too, do I — 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 A resemblance to womankind very clear. 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 There comes a new moon twelve times in a year ; 
 And when there is none, all is dark and drear. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 In which I espy — 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 And so do I — 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 A resemblance to womankind very clear. 
 Second Verse. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 She changes, she 's fickle, she drives men mad. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 She comes to bring light, and leaves them sad. 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 355 
 
 TOM. 
 
 So restless wild — 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 But so sweetly wild — 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 That no better companion could be had. 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 There comes a new moon twelve times a year ; 
 And when there is none, all is dark and drear. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 In which I espy — 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 And so do I — 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 A resemblance to womankind very clear. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — A large gloomy room ; a window with 
 a telescope directed towards the sky without, a 
 table covered with books, instruments and 
 apparatus, which are also scattered about in 
 other parts of the chamber, a dim lamp, a pair 
 of globes, fyc, a skeleton in a case, and various 
 uncouth objects displayed against the walls. 
 Two doors in flat. Mr. Mooney discovered, 
 with a very dirty face, busily engaged in blowing 
 a fire, upon which is a crucible. 
 
 23 * 
 
356 THE LAMPLTGHTER. [SCENE III. 
 
 Enter Mr. Stargazer, with a lamp, beckoning to 
 Tom Grig, who enters with some unwillingness. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 This, Mr. Grig, is the sanctum sanctorum of 
 which I have already spoken ; this is at once the 
 laboratory and observatory. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 It 's not an over-lively place, is it ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 It has an air of solemnity which well accords 
 with the great and mysterious pursuits that are 
 here in constant prosecution, Mr. Grig. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Ah ! I should think it would suit an undertaker 
 to the life; or perhaps I should rather say to the. 
 death. What may that cheerful object be now? 
 
 [Pointing to a large phial. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 That contains a male infant with three heads, — 
 we use it in astrology; — it is supposed to be a 
 charm. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I shouldn't have supposed it myself, from his 
 appearance. The young gentleman isn't alive, 
 is he? 
 
SOENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 357 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 No, he is preserved in spirits. 
 
 [Mr. Mooney sneezes, 
 
 tom {retreating into a corner). 
 
 Halloa! What the (Mr. Mooney looks 
 
 vacantly round.) That gentleman, I suppose, is 
 out of spirits ? 
 
 mr. stargazer (laying his hand upon Tom's arm 
 and looking toward the philosopher). 
 
 Hush ! that is the gifted Mooney. Mark well 
 his noble countenance, — intense thought beams 
 from every lineament. That is the great astrologer. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 He looks as if he had been having a touch at the 
 black art. I say, why don't he say something ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 He is in a state of abstraction ; see he directs 
 his bellows this way, and blows upon the empty air. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Perhaps he sees a strange spark in this direction 
 and wonders how he came here. I wish he 'd 
 blow me out. {Aside. ) I don't half like this. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 You shall see me rouse him. 
 
358 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE 111. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Don't put yourself out of the way on iny account ; 
 I can make his acquaintance at any other time. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 No time like the time present. Nothing 
 awakens him from these fits of meditation but an 
 electric shock. We always have a strongly 
 charged battery on purpose. I '11 give him a 
 shock directly. 
 
 [Mr. Stargazer goes up and cautiously places 
 the end of a wire in Mr. Mooney' s hand. 
 He then stoops down beside the table as though 
 bringing it in contact with the battery. Mr. 
 Mooney immediately jumps up with a loud 
 cry and throws away the bellows. 
 
 tom {squaring at the philosopher). 
 It wasn't me, you know, — none of your nonsense. 
 
 mr. stargazer (comes hastily forward). 
 Mr. Grig, — Mr. Grig, — not that disrespectful 
 attitude to one of the greatest men that ever lived. 
 This, my dear friend (to Mooney), — is the noble 
 stranger. 
 
 MR. mooney. 
 Aha! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Who arrived, punctual to his time, this afternoon. 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 359 
 
 MR. MOONEY. 
 
 Oho! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Welcome him, my friend, — give him your hand. 
 (Mr. Mooney appears confused and raises his leg.) 
 No — no, that 's your foot. So absent, Mr. Grig, in 
 his gigantic meditations that very often he doesn't 
 know one from the other. Yes, that 's your hand, 
 very good, my dear friend, very good (pats Mooney 
 on the back, as he and Tom shake hands, the latter 
 at arm's length) . 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Have you made any more discoveries during my 
 absence ? 
 
 MR. MOONEY. 
 
 Nothing particular. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Do you think — do you think, my dear friend, 
 that we shall arrive at any great stage in our 
 labours, anything at all approaching to their final 
 consummation in the course of the night ? 
 
 MR. MOONEY. 
 
 I cannot take upon myself to say. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 What are your opinions upon the subject ? 
 
 MR. MOONEY. 
 
 I haven't any opinions upon any subject what- 
 soever. 
 
360 THE LAMPLIGHTS. [iSCENE 111. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Wonderful man ! Here 's a mind, Mr. Grig. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes, his conversation 's very improving indeed. 
 But what 's he staring so hard at me for ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Something occurs to him. Don't speak, — don't 
 disturb the current of his reflections upon any 
 account. 
 
 [Mr. Mooney walks solemnly up to Tom, who 
 retreats before him ; taking off his hat turns 
 it over and over with a thoughtful countenance, 
 and finally puts it upon his own head. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Eccentric man ! 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I say, I hope he don't mean to keep that, because 
 if he does, his eccentricity is unpleasant. Give him 
 another shock and knock it off, will you ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Hush ! hush ! not a word. 
 
 [Mr. Mooney, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom, 
 slowly returns to Mr. Stargazer and 
 vMspers in his ear. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Surely: by all means. I took the date of his 
 birth, and all other information necessary for the 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 361 
 
 purpose just now. {To Tom.) Mr. Mooney suggests 
 that we should cast your nativity without delay, in 
 order that we may communicate to you your future 
 destiny. 
 
 MR. MOONEY. 
 
 Let us retire for that purpose. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Certainly, wait here for a few moments, Mr. 
 Grig : we are only going into the little laboratory 
 and will return immediately. Now, my illustrious 
 friend. 
 
 [He takes up a lamp and leads the way to one 
 of the doors. As Mr. Mooney follows, Tom 
 steals behind him and regains his hat. Mr. 
 Mooney turns round, stares 9 and exit through 
 door. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Well, that's the queerest genius I ever came 
 across, — rather a singular person for a little smoking 
 party. {Looks into the crucible.) This is the 
 saucepan, I suppose, where they 're boiling the 
 philosopher's stone down to the proper consistency. 
 I hope it 's nearly done ; when it 's quite ready, 
 I '11 send out for sixpenn'orth of sprats, and turn 
 'em into gold fish for a first experiment. 'Cod ! 
 it'll be a comfortable thing though to have no 
 end to one's riches. I '11 have a country house 
 and a park, and 1 '11 plant a bit of it with a double 
 
362 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE III. 
 
 row of gas-lamps a mile long, and go out with a 
 French polished mahogany ladder, and two servants 
 in livery behind me, to light 'em with my own 
 hands every night. What's to be_ seen here? 
 (Looks through telescope.) Nothing particular, the 
 stopper being on at the other end. The little boy 
 with three heads (looking towards the case). What 
 a comfort he must have been to his parents! — 
 Halloa! (taking up a large knife) this is a dis- 
 agreeable-looking instrument, — something too large 
 for bread and cheese, or oysters, and not of a bad 
 shape for sticking live persons in the ribs. A very 
 dismal place this, — I wish they 'd come back. Ah ! 
 — (coming upon the skeleton) here 's a ghastly 
 object, — what does the writing say ? — (reads a label 
 upon the case) M Skeleton of a gentleman prepared 
 by Mr. Mooney." I hope Mr. Mooney may not 
 be in the habit of inviting gentlemen here, and 
 making 'em into such preparations without their 
 own consent. Here 's a book, now. What 's all 
 this about, I wonder? The letters look as if a 
 steam-engine had printed 'em by accident. 
 
 [Turns over the leaves, spelling to himself. 
 
 Galileo enters softly, unseen by Tom, who has his 
 back towards him. 
 
 galileo (aside). 
 Oh, you 're there, are you ? If I could but 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 363 
 
 suffocate him, not for life, but only till I am one- 
 and -twenty, and then revive him, what a comfort 
 and convenience it would be ! I overheard my 
 cousin Fanny talking to Betsy about coming here. 
 What can she want here? If she can be false, — 
 false to me ; — it seems impossible, but if she is ? — 
 well, well, we shall see. If I can reach that lumber- 
 room unseen, Fanny Brown, — beware. 
 
 [He steals toward the door on the l. — opens 
 it, and exit cautiously into the room. As 
 he does so, Tom turns the other way. 
 
 tom (closing the book). 
 It 's very pretty Greek, I think. What a time 
 they are ! 
 
 Mr. Stargazer and Mooney enter from room. 
 
 M00NEY. 
 
 Tell the noble gentleman of his irrevocable 
 destiny. 
 
 mr. stargazer (with emotion). 
 No, — no, prepare him first. 
 
 tom (aside). 
 Prepare him ! " prepared by Mr. Mooney."— 
 This is a case of kidnapping and slaughter. (To 
 them.) Let him attempt to prepare me at his peril ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Mr. Grig, why this demonstration ? 
 
364 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE III. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Oh, don't talk to me of demonstrations ; — you 
 ain't going to demonstrate me, and so I tell you. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Alas! (Crossing to him.) The truth we have 
 to communicate requires but little demonstration 
 from our feeble lips. We have calculated upon 
 your nativity. 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 Yes, we have, we have. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Tender-hearted man! (Mooney weeps.) See 
 there, Mr. Grig, isn't that affecting? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 What is he piping his boiled gooseberry eye for, 
 sir ? How should I know whether it 's affecting or 
 not ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 For you, for you. We find that you will expire 
 tomorrow two months, at thirty minutes — wasn't 
 it thirty minutes, my friend ? 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 Thirty-five minutes, twenty-seven seconds and 
 five-sixths of a second. Oh! (Groans.) 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Thirty-five minutes, twenty- seven seconds, and 
 five-sixths of a second past nine o'clock. 
 
SOKtfl III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 365 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 a.m. [They both wipe their eyes. 
 
 tom (alarmed). 
 
 Don't tell me, you 've made a mistake somewhere ; 
 — I won't believe it. 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 No, it is all correct, we worked it all in the most 
 satisfactory manner. — Oh ! (Groans again.) 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Satisfactory, sir ! Your notions of the satisfactory 
 are of an extraordinary nature. 
 
 mr. stargazer (producing a pamphlet). 
 
 It is confirmed by the prophetic almanack. Here 
 is the prediction for tomorrow two months, — " The 
 decease of a great person may be looked for about 
 this time." 
 
 tom (dropping into his chair). 
 
 That 's me ! It 's all up ! inter me decently, my 
 friends. 
 
 mr. stargazer (shaking his hand). 
 
 Your wishes shall be attended to. We must 
 have the marriage with my niece at once, in order 
 that your distinguished race may be transmitted to 
 posterity. Condole with him, my Mooney, while 
 
366 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE III. 
 
 I compose my feelings, and settle the preliminaries 
 of the marriage in solitude. 
 
 [Takes up lamp and exit into room r. Mooney 
 draws up a chair in a line with Tom, a 
 long way off. They both sigh heavily. 
 Galileo opens the lumber-room door. As 
 he does so the room door opens and Betsy 
 steals softly in, beckoning to Emma and 
 Fanny who follow. He retires again 
 abruptly. 
 
 betsy {aside). 
 Now, young ladies, if you take heart only for 
 one minute, you may frighten Mr. Mooney out of 
 being married at once. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 But if he has serious thoughts? 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Nonsense, miss, he hasn't any thoughts. Your 
 papa says to him, " Will you marry my daughter ? " 
 and he says, " Yes, I will " ; and he would and will 
 if you ain't bold, but bless you, he never turned it 
 over in his mind for a minute. If you, Miss (to 
 Emma), pretend to hate him and love a rival, and 
 you, Miss (to Fanny), to love him to distraction, 
 you '11 frighten him so betwixt you that he '11 
 declare off directly, I warrant. The love will 
 frighten him quite as much as the hate. He never 
 saw a woman in a passion, and as to one in love, I 
 
SCENE Til.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 367 
 
 don't believe that anybody but his mother ever 
 
 kissed that grumpy old face of his in all his born 
 
 days. Now, do try him, ladies. Come, we 're 
 
 losing time. 
 
 [She conceals herself behind the skeleton case, 
 
 Emma rushes up to Tom Grig and embraces 
 
 him, while Fanny clasps Mooney round the 
 
 neck. Galileo appears at his door in an 
 
 attitude of amazement, and Mr. Stargazer 
 
 at his, after running in again with the 
 
 lamp, which before he sees what is going 
 
 forward he had in his hand. Tom and 
 
 Mooney in great astonishment. 
 
 fanny (to Mooney). 1 TT , , . . , 
 , ~ N ^Hush ! hush! 
 
 emma {to Grig). ) 
 
 [Tom Grig and Mooney get their heads 
 sufficiently out of the embrace to exchange a 
 look of wonder. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Dear Mr. Grig, I know you must consider this 
 strange, extraordinary, unaccountable conduct. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Why, ma'am, without explanation, it does appear 
 singular. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Yes, yes, I know it does, I know it will, but the 
 urgency of the case must plead my excuse. Too 
 fascinating Mr. Grig, I have seen you once and 
 
368 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE TIT. 
 
 only once, but the impression of that maddening 
 interview can never be effaced. I love you to 
 distraction. {Falls upon his shoulder.) 
 
 TOM. 
 
 You 're extremely obliging, ma'am, it 's a 
 flattering sort of thing, — or it would be {aside) if 
 I was going to live a little longer, — but you 're not 
 the one, ma'am; — it 's the other lady that the stars 
 have 
 
 FANNY {to MOONEY). 
 
 Nay, wonderful being, hear me — this is not a 
 time for false conventional delicacy. Wrapt in 
 your sublime visions, you have not [perceived]* the 
 silent tokens of a woman's first and all-absorbing 
 attachment, which have been, I fear, but too per- 
 ceptible in the eyes of others ; but now I must 
 speak out. I hate this odious man. You are my 
 first and only love. Oh ! speak to me. 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 I haven't anything appropriate to say, young 
 woman. I think I had better go. (Attempting to 
 get away. ) 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Oh! no, no, no {detaining him). Give me some 
 encouragement. Not one kind word ? not one look 
 of love ? 
 
 * The word in brackets is wanting in the manuscript, and 
 is here supplied conjecturally to complete the sense. See, 
 however, The Lamplighter's Story (infra, p. 399, line 1). — Ed. 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 369 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 I don't know how to look a look of love. — I 'm, 
 I 'm frightened. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 So am I ! I don't understand this. I tell you, 
 Miss, that the other lady is my destined wife. 
 Upon my word you mustn't hug me, you '11 make 
 her jealous. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Jealous! of you! Hear me (to Mooney). I 
 renounce all claim or- title to the hand of that or 
 any other man and vow to be eternally and wholly 
 yours. 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 No, don't, you can't be mine, — nobody can be 
 mine. — I don't want anybody — I — I 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 If you will not hear her — hear me, detested 
 monster. — Hear me declare that sooner than be 
 your bride, with this deep passion for another 
 rooted in my heart, — I 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 You need not make any declaration on the 
 subject, young woman. 
 
 mr. stargazer (coming forward). 
 She sha'n't, — she sha'n't. That 's right, don't 
 hear her. She shall marry you whether she likes it 
 or not,— she shall marry you to-morrow morning, — - 
 I. 24 
 
370 THE LAMPL1GHTEB. [SCENE III. 
 
 and you, Miss (to Fanny), shall marry Mr. Grig 
 if I trundle you to church in a wheelbarrow. 
 
 Galileo (coming forward) . 
 So she shall ! so she may ! Let her ! let her ! 
 I give her leave. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 You give her leave, you young dog ! Who the 
 devil cares whether you give her leave or not ? and 
 what are you spinning about in that way for ? 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 I 'm fierce, I *m furious, — don't talk to me, — I 
 shall do somebody a mischief; — I '11 never marry 
 anybody after this, never, never, it isn't safe. I '11 
 live and die a bachelor ! — there — a bachelor ! a 
 bachelor ! 
 
 [He goes up and encounters Betsy. She talks 
 to him, apart, and his wrath seems gradually 
 to subside. 
 
 mooney. 
 The little boy, albeit of tender years, has spoken 
 wisdom. I have been led to the contemplation of 
 womankind. I find their love is too violent for 
 my staid habits. I would rather not venture upon 
 the troubled waters of matrimony. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 You don't mean to marry my daughter ? Not 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 371 
 
 if I say she shall have you ? (Mooney shakes his 
 head solemnly .) Mr. Grig, you have not changed 
 your mind because of a little girlish folly ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 To-morrow two months! I may as well get 
 through as much gold as I can in the meantime. 
 Why, sir, if the pot nearly boils (pointing to the 
 crucible), — if you 're pretty near the philosopher's 
 stone, 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Pretty near ! We 're sure of it — certain ; it 's 
 as good as money in the Bank. 
 
 [Galileo and Betsy, who have been listening 
 attentively, bustle about, fanning the fire, 
 and throwing in sundry powders from the 
 bottles on the table, then cautiously retire 
 to a distance. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 If that 's the case, sir, I am ready to keep faith 
 with the planets. I '11 take her, sir. I '11 take 
 her. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Then here 's her hand, Mr. Grig, — no resistance, 
 Miss (drawing Fanny forward). It's of no use, 
 so you may as well do it with a good grace. Take 
 her hand, Mr. Grig. 
 
 [The crucible blows up with a loud crash; 
 they all start. 
 
 24 * 
 
372 THE LAMJPL1GHTER. [sUENE II 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 What ! — the labour of fifteen years destroyed in 
 an instant ! 
 
 mooney {stooping over the fragments). 
 That 's the only disappointment I have experi- 
 enced in this process since I was first engaged in it 
 when I was a boy. It always blows up when it 's 
 on the point of succeeding. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Is the philosopher's stone gone ? 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 No. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Not gone, sir ? 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 No — it never came ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 But we '11 get it, Mr. Grig. Don't be cast down, 
 we shall discover it in less than fifteen years this 
 time, I dare say. 
 
 tom {relinquishing Fanny's hand). 
 Ah ! Were the stars very positive about this 
 union ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 They had not a doubt about it. They said it 
 was to be, and it must be. They were peremptory. 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 373 
 
 TOM. 
 
 I am sorry for that, because they have been very 
 civil to me in the way of showing a light now and 
 then, and I really regret disappointing 'em. But 
 under the peculiar circumstances of the case, it 
 can't be. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Can't be, Mr. Grig ! What can't be ? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 The marriage, sir. I forbid the banns. {Retires 
 and sits down.) 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Impossible ! such a prediction unfulfilled ! Why, 
 the consequences would be as fatal as those of a 
 concussion between the comet and this globe. 
 Can't be ! it must be, shall be. 
 
 betsy {coming forward, followed by Galileo). 
 If you please, sir, may I say a word ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 What have you got to say ? — speak, woman ! 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Why, sir, I don't think Mr. Grig is the right 
 man. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 What ! 
 
874 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENB TIT. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Don't you recollect, sir, that just as the house- 
 clock struck the first stroke of five, you gave 
 Mr. Galileo a thump on the head with the butt end 
 of your telescope, and told him to get out of the 
 way. 
 
 MR. STARGAZES. 
 
 Well, if I did, what of that ? 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Why, then, sir, I say, and I would say it if I 
 was to be killed for it, that he 's the young gentle- 
 man that ought to marry Miss Fanny, and that the 
 stars never meant anything else. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 He ! Why, he 's a little boy. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 I ain't. I 'm one-and-twenty next Lady-day. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Eh! Eighteen hundred and — why, so he is, I 
 declare. He 's quite a stranger to me, certainly. 
 I never thought about his age since he was four- 
 teen, and I remember that birthday, because he 'd a 
 new suit of clothes then. But the noble family 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Lor, sir ! ain't it being of a noble family to be 
 the son of such a clever man as you ? 
 
SOBNE III.] THE LAMPLIGffTER. 375 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 That's true. And my mother's father would 
 have been Lord Mayor, only he died of turtle the 
 year before. 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Oh, it 's quite clear. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 The only question is about the time, because the 
 church struck afterwards. But I should think 
 the stars, taking so much interest in my house, 
 would most likely go by the house-clock, — eh! 
 Mooney ? 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 Decidedly, — yes. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Then you may have her, my son. Her father 
 was a great astronomer ; so I hope that, though 
 you are a blockhead, your children may be scientific. 
 There ! {Joins their hands.) 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Am I free to marry who I like, papa ? 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Won't you, Mooney ? Won't you ? 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 If anybody asks me to again I '11 run away, and 
 never come back any more. 
 
376 TUE LAMPLIGHTER. [ SCENE III. 
 
 MR. STARGAZEB. 
 
 Then we must drop the subject. Yes, your 
 choice is now unfettered. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Thank you, dear papa. Then I '11 look about for 
 somebody who will suit me without the delay of an 
 instant longer than is absolutely necessary. 
 
 MR. STARGAZEB. 
 
 How very dutiful ! 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 And, as my being here just now with Emma 
 was a little trick of Betsy's, I hope you '11 forgive 
 her, uncle. 
 
 [ Oh, ves, do. 
 
 EMMA. 
 GALILEO. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 And even reward her, uncle, for being instru- 
 mental in fulfilling the prediction. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 GALILEO. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Perhaps you could find a husband for her, uncle, 
 you know. Don't you understand ? 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Pray don't mention it, Miss. I told you at first, 
 Miss, that I had not the least wish or inclination to 
 
 [ Oh, yes ; do reward her — do. 
 
SCENE III.] THE LAMPLIGHTER. 377 
 
 have Mr. Grig to myself. I couldn't abear that 
 Mr. Grig should think I wanted him to marry me ; 
 oh no, Miss, not on any account. 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 Oh, that's pretty intelligible. Here, Mr. Grig. 
 {They fall back from his chair.) Have you any 
 objection to take this young woman for better, for 
 worse ? 
 
 BETSY. 
 
 Lor, sir ! how on delicate ! 
 
 MR. STARGAZER. 
 
 I '11 add a portion of ten pounds for your loss of 
 time here to-night. What do you say, Mr. Grig? 
 
 TOM. 
 
 It don't much matter. I ain't long for this 
 world. Eight weeks of marriage might reconcile 
 me to my fate. I should go off, I think, more 
 resigned and peaceful. Yes, I '11 take her, as a 
 reparation. Come to my arms! {He embraces her 
 ivith a dismal face.) 
 
 mr. stargazer {taking a paper from his pocket). 
 Egad ! that reminds me of what I came back to 
 say, which all this bustle drove out of my head. 
 There 's a figure wrong in the nativity {handing the 
 paper to Mooney). He '11 live to a green old age. 
 
 tom {looking up). 
 Eh! What? 
 
378 THE LAMPLIGHTER. [SCENE III. 
 
 MOONEY. 
 
 So he will. Eighty-two years and twelve days 
 will be the lowest. 
 
 tom {disengaging himself). 
 Eh! here! {calling off.) Hallo, you, sir! bring 
 in that ladder and lantern. 
 
 A Servant enters in great haste, and hands 
 
 them to Tom. 
 
 servant. 
 
 There 's such a row in the street, — none of the 
 
 gas-lamps lit, and all the people calling for the 
 
 lamplighter. Such a row ! {Rubbing his hands 
 
 with great glee.) 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Is there, my fine fellow? Then I'll go and 
 light 'em. And as, under existing circumstances, 
 and with the prospect of a green old age before me, 
 I 'd rather not be married, Miss Martin, I beg to 
 assure the ratepayers present that in future I shall 
 pay the strictest attention to my professional duties, 
 and do my best for the contractor ; and that I shall 
 be found upon my beat as long as they condescend 
 to patronize the Lamplighter. 
 
 [Buns off. Miss Martin faints in the arms 
 of Mooney. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
381 
 
 THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY.* 
 
 " If you talk of Murphy aud Francis Moore, gentlemen/' 
 said the lamplighter who was in the chair, "I mean to 
 say that neither of 'em ever had any more to do with 
 the stars than Tom Grig had." 
 
 u And what had he to do with 'em? M asked the lamp- 
 lighter who officiated as vice. 
 
 "Nothing at all," replied the other; "just exactly 
 nothing at all." 
 
 u Do you mean to say you don't believe in Murphy, 
 then ? " demanded the lamplighter who had opened the 
 discussion. 
 
 " I mean to say that I believe in Tom Grig," replied 
 the chairman. " Whether I believe in Murphy, or not, 
 is a matter between me and my conscience; and whether 
 Murphy believes in himself, or not, is a matter between 
 him and his conscience. Gentlemen, I drink your healths." 
 
 The lamplighter who did the company this honour, was 
 seated iu the chimney corner of a certain tavern, which 
 has been, time out of mind, the lamplighters' house of 
 call. He sat in the midst of a circle of lamplighters, 
 and was the cacique, or chief of the tribe. 
 
 * From The Picnic Papers, by various hands, edited by Charles Dickens, 
 Esq. London : Henry Colburn, 1841, vol. i. pp. 1-32. 
 
382 the lamplighter's story. 
 
 If any of our readers have had the good fortune to 
 behold a lamplighter's funeral, they will not be surprised 
 to learn that lamplighters are a strange and primitive 
 people ; that they rigidly adhere to old ceremonies and 
 customs which have been handed down among them from 
 father to son since the first public lamp was lighted out 
 of doors ; that they intermarry, and betroth their children 
 in infancy ; that they enter into no plots or conspiracies 
 (for who ever heard of a traitorous lamplighter ?) ; that 
 they commit no crimes against the laws of their country 
 (there being no instance of a murderous or burglarious 
 lamplighter) ; that they are, in short, notwithstanding 
 their apparently volatile and restless character, a highly 
 moral and reflective people : having among themselves as 
 many traditional observances as the Jews, and being, as a 
 body, if not as old as the hills, at least as old as the streets. 
 It is an article of their creed that the first faint glim- 
 mering of true civilization shone in the first street light 
 maintained at the public expense. They trace their exist- 
 ence and high position in the public esteem in a direct 
 line to the heathen mythology, and hold that the history 
 of Prometheus himself is but a pleasant fable, whereof 
 the true hero is a lamplighter. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the lamplighter in the chair, * I 
 drink your healths." 
 
 " And perhaps, sir," said the vice, holding up his glass, 
 and rising a little way off his seat and sitting down again, 
 in token that he recognised and returned the compliment, 
 " perhaps you will add to that condescension by telling 
 us who Tom Grig was, and how he came to be connected 
 in your mind with Francis Moore, physician." 
 
the lamplighter's stoey. 383 
 
 " Hear, hear, hear ! ,J cried the lamplighters generally. 
 
 " Tom Grig, gentlemen/' said the chairman, u was one 
 of us ; and it happened to him as it don't often happen 
 to a public character in our line, that he had his what- 
 you-may-call-it cast/' 
 
 " His head ? " said the vice. 
 
 " No/' replied the chairman, " not his head." 
 
 " His face, perhaps ? " said the vice. 
 
 " No, not his face." 
 
 "His legs?" 
 
 " No, not his legs." 
 
 Nor yet his arms, nor his hands, nor his feet, nor his 
 chest, all of which were severally suggested. 
 
 " His nativity, perhaps ? " 
 
 " That 's it," said the chairman, awakening from his 
 thoughtful attitude at the suggestion. " His nativity. 
 That 's what Tom had cast, gentlemen." 
 
 " In plaster ? " asked the vice. 
 
 " I don't rightly know how it 's done," returned the 
 chairman, " but I suppose it was." 
 
 And there he stopped as if that were all he had to say ; 
 whereupon there arose a murmur among the company, 
 which at length resolved itself into a request, conveyed 
 through the vice, that he would go on. This being 
 exactly what the chairman wanted, he mused for a 
 little time, performed that agreeable ceremony which is 
 popularly termed wetting one's whistle, and went on 
 thus : — 
 
 " Tom Grig, gentlemen, was, as I have said, one of us; 
 and I may go further, and say he was an ornament to us, 
 and such a one as only the good old times of oil and 
 
384 the lamplighter's stoby. 
 
 cotton could have produced. Tom's family, gentlemen, 
 were all lamplighters. " 
 
 " Not the ladies, I hope ? n asked the vice. 
 
 "They had talent enough for it, sir," rejoined the 
 chairman, " and would have been, but for the prejudices 
 of society. Let women have their rights, sir, and the 
 females of Tom's family would have been every one of 
 'em in office. But that emancipation hasn't come yet, 
 and hadn't then, and consequently they confined them- 
 selves to the bosoms of their families, cooked the dinners, 
 mended the clothes, minded the children, comforted their 
 husbands, and attended to the housekeeping generally. 
 It 's a hard thing upon the women, gentlemen, that they 
 are limited to such a sphere of action as this ; very hard. 
 
 " I happen to know all about Tom, gentlemen, from the 
 circumstance of his uncle by the mother's side having 
 been my particular friend. His (that 's Tom's uncle's) 
 fate was a melancholy one. Gas was the death of him. 
 When it was first talked of, he laughed. He wasn't 
 angry ; he laughed at the credulity of human nature. 
 ' They might as well talk,' he says, * of laying on an ever- 
 lasting succession of glow-worms ' ; and then he laughed 
 again, partly at his joke, and partly at poor humanity. 
 
 "In course of time, however, the thing got ground, 
 the experiment was made, and they lighted up Pall Mall. 
 Tom's uncle went to see it. I 've heard that he fell off 
 his ladder fourteen times that night from weakness, and 
 that he would certainly have gone on falling till he killed 
 himself, if his last tumble hadn't been into a wheelbarrow 
 which was going his way, and humanely took him home. 
 1 1 foresee in this/ says Tom's uncle faintly, and taking 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 385 
 
 to his bed as he spoke — c I foresee in this/ he says, ' the 
 breaking up of our profession. There 's no more going 
 the rounds to trim by daylight, no more dribbling down 
 of the oil on the hats and bonnets of ladies and gentlemen 
 when one feels in spirits. Any low fellow can light a 
 gas-lamp. Aud it 's all up/ In this state of mind he 
 petitioned the government for — I want a word again, 
 gentlemen, — what do you call that which they give to 
 people when it 's found out, at last, that they 've never 
 been of any use, and have been paid too much for doing 
 nothing ? " 
 
 " Compensation ? n suggested the vice. 
 
 "That's it," said the chairman. "Compensation. They 
 didn't give it him though, and then he got very fond of 
 his country all at once, and went about saying that gas 
 was a death-blow to his native land, and that it was a 
 plot of the Radicals to ruin the country and destroy the 
 oil and cotton trade for ever, and that the whales would 
 go and kill themselves privately, out of sheer spite and 
 vexation at not being caught. At last he got right-down 
 cracked ; called his tobacco-pipe a gas-pipe ; thought his 
 tears were lamp-oil ; and went on with all manner of 
 nonsense of that sort, till one night he hung himself on a 
 lamp-iron in Saint Martin's Lane, and there was an end 
 of him. 
 
 " Tom loved him, gentlemen, but he survived it. He 
 shed a tear over his grave, got very drunk, spoke a funeral 
 oration that night in the watch-house, and was fined five 
 shillings for it in the morning. Some men are none 
 the worse for this sort of thing. Tom was one of 'em. 
 He went that very afternoon on a new beat, as clear in 
 i. 25 
 
386 THE 
 
 his head, and as free from fever, as Father Mathew him- 
 self. 
 
 u Tom's new beat, gentlemen, was — I can't exactly say 
 where, for that he 'd never tell ; but I know it was in 
 a quiet part of town, where there were some queer old 
 houses. I have always had it in my head that it must 
 have been somewhere near Canonbury Tower in Islington, 
 but that's a matter of opinion. Wherever it was, he 
 went upon it, with a brand-new ladder, a white hat, a 
 brown holland jacket and trowsers, a blue neck-kerchief, 
 and a sprig of full-blown double wall-flower in his button- 
 hole. Tom was always genteel in his appearance, and I 
 have heard from the best judges, that if he had left his 
 ladder at home that afternoon, you might have took him 
 for a lord. 
 
 " He was always merry, was Tom, and such a singer, 
 that if there was any encouragement for native talent, 
 he 'd have been at the opera. He was on his ladder, 
 lighting his first lamp, and singing to himself in a 
 manner more easily to be conceived than described, when 
 he hears the clock strike five, and suddenly sees an old 
 gentleman, with a telescope in his hand, throw up a win- 
 dow and look at him very hard. 
 
 " Tom didn't know what could be passing in this old 
 gentleman's mind. He thought it likely enough that he 
 might be saying within himself, ' Here 's a new lamp- 
 lighter, — a good-looking young fellow, — shall I stand 
 something to drink ? ' Thinking this possible, he keeps 
 quite still, pretending to be very particular about the 
 wick, and looks at the old gentleman sideways, seeming 
 to take no notice of him. 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 387 
 
 " Gentlemen, he was one of the strangest and most 
 mysterious-looking files that ever Tom clapped his eyes 
 on. He was dressed all slovenly and untidy, in a great 
 gown of a kind of bed-furniture pattern, with a cap of the 
 same on his head ; and a long old flapped waistcoat ; with 
 no braces, no strings, very few buttons ; — in short, with 
 hardly any of those artificial contrivances that hold society 
 together. Tom knew by these signs, and by his not 
 being shaved, and by his not being over-clean, and by a 
 sort of wisdom not quite awake, in his face, that he was 
 a scientific old gentleman. He often told me that if he 
 could have conceived the possibility of the whole Royal 
 Society being boiled down into one man, he should have 
 said the old gentleman's body was that Body. 
 
 " The old gentleman claps the telescope to his eye, 
 looks all round, sees nobody else in sight, stares at Tom 
 again, and cries out very loud : 
 
 " < Hol-loa ! > 
 
 " ' Holloa, sir/ says Tom from the ladder; ' and holloa 
 again, if you come to that/ 
 
 * ' Here 's an extraordinary fulfilment/ says the old 
 gentleman, f of a prediction of the planets.' 
 
 " ' Is there ? ' says Tom, ' I 'm very glad to hear it/ 
 
 " { Young man/ says the old gentleman, ' you don't 
 know me/ 
 
 " c Sir/ says Tom, ' I have not that honour ; but I 
 shall be happy to drink your health, notwithstanding/ 
 
 " ' I read/ cries the old gentleman, without taking any 
 notice of this politeness on Tom's part,- — ' I read what 's 
 going to happen in the stars/ 
 
 " Tom thanked him for the information, and begged 
 
 25 * 
 
388 the lamplighter's story. 
 
 to know if anything particular was going to happen in 
 the stars, in the course of a week or so ; but the old 
 gentleman, correcting him, explained that he read in the 
 stars what was going to happen on dry land, and that he 
 was acquainted with all the celestial bodies. 
 
 " ' I hope they 're all well, sir/ says Tom, - ' every body/ 
 
 • ' Hush ! ' cries the old gentleman. ( I have consulted 
 the book of Fate with rare and wonderful success. I am 
 versed in the great sciences of astrology and astronomy. 
 In my house here I have every description of apparatus 
 for observing the course and motion of the planets. Six 
 months ago I derived from this source the knowledge 
 that precisely as the clock struck five this afternoon, a 
 stranger would present himself, — the destined husband of 
 my young and lovely niece, — in reality of illustrious and 
 high descent, but whose birth would be enveloped in 
 uncertainty and mystery. Don't tell me yours isn't/ 
 says the old gentleman, who was in such a hurry to speak 
 that he couldn't get the words out fast enough, ' for I 
 know better.' 
 
 " Gentlemen, Tom was so astonished when he heard 
 him say this, that he could hardly keep his footing on the 
 ladder, and found it necessary to hold on by the lamp- 
 post. There was a mystery about his birth. His mother 
 had always admitted it. Tom had never known who was 
 his father, and some people had gone so far as to say that 
 even she was in doubt. 
 
 " While he was in this state of amazement, the old 
 gentleman leaves the window, bursts out of the house- 
 door, shakes the ladder, and Tom, like a ripe pumpkin, 
 comes sliding down into his arms. 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 389 
 
 a ( 
 
 Let me embrace you/ he says, folding his arms 
 about him, and nearly lighting up his old bed-furniture 
 gown at Tom's link. ' You 're a man of noble aspect. 
 Everything eombines to prove the accuracy of my obser- 
 vations. You have had mysterious promptings within 
 you/ he says; 'I know you have had whisperings of 
 greatness, eh ? ' he says. 
 
 " ' I think I have/ says Tom, — Tom was one of those who 
 can persuade themselves to anything they like, — ' I have 
 often thought T wasn't the small beer I was taken for.' 
 
 " ' You were right/ cries the old gentleman, hugging 
 him again. { Come in. My niece awaits us.' 
 
 " ' Is the young lady tolerable good-looking, sir ? ' says 
 Tom, hanging fire rather, as he thought of her playing 
 the piano, and knowing French, and being up to all 
 manner of accomplishments. 
 
 " f She 's beautiful ! ' cries the old gentleman, who was 
 in such a terrible bustle that he was all in a perspiration. 
 1 She has a graceful carriage, an exquisite, shape, a sweet 
 voice, a countenance beaming with animation and expres- 
 sion, and the eye/ he says, rubbing his hands, 'of a 
 startled fawn.' 
 
 " Tom supposed this might mean, what was called 
 among his circle of acquaintance, ' a game eye ' ; and, with 
 a view to this defect, inquired whether the young lady 
 had any cash. 
 
 " ' She has five thousand pounds/ cries the old gentle- 
 man. 'But what of that? what of that? A word in 
 your ear. I'm in search of the philosopher's stone. I 
 have very nearly found it,— not quite. It turns everything 
 to gold ; that 's its property/ 
 
390 the lamplighter's STORY. 
 
 " Tom naturally thought it must have a deal of pro- 
 perty, and said that when the old gentleman did get it, 
 he hoped he 'd be careful to keep it in the family. 
 
 " ' Certainly/ he says, ' of course. Five thousand 
 pounds ! What 's five thousand pounds to us ? What 's 
 five million ? ' he says. ' What 's five thousand million ? 
 Money will be nothing to us. We shall never be able to 
 spend it fast enough/ 
 
 h c We'll try what we can do, sir/ says Tom. 
 
 " ' We will/ says the old gentleman. f Your name? ' 
 
 " ' Grig/ says Tom. 
 
 "The old gentleman embraced him again, very tight; 
 and without speaking another word, dragged him into the 
 house in such an excited manner, that it was as much as 
 Tom could do to take his link and ladder with him, and 
 put them down in the passage. 
 
 "Gentlemen, if Tom hadn't been always remarkable 
 for his love of truth, I think you would still have believed 
 him when he said that all this was like a dream. There 
 is no better way for a man to find out whether he really 
 is asleep or awake, than calling for something to eat. If 
 he 's in a dream, gentlemen, he '11 find something wanting 
 in the flavour, depend upon it. 
 
 u Tom explained his doubts to the old gentleman, and 
 said that if there was any cold meat in the house, it 
 would ease his mind very much to test himself at once. 
 The old gentleman ordered up a venison pie, a small ham, 
 and a bottle of very old Madeira. At the first mouthful 
 of pie, and the first glass of wine, Tom smacks his lips 
 and cries out, ■ I 'm awake, — wide awake ' ; and to prove 
 that he was so, gentlemen, he made an end of 'em both. 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTERS STORY. 391 
 
 "When Tom had finished his meal (which he never 
 spoke of afterwards without tears in his eyes), the old 
 gentleman hugs him again, and says, ( Noble stranger ! 
 let us visit my young and lovely niece/ Tom, who was a 
 little elevated with the wine, replies, ( The noble stranger is 
 agreeable/ At which words the old gentleman took him by 
 the hand, and led him to the parlour ; crying as he opened 
 the door, c Here is Mr. Grig, the favourite of the planets ! * 
 
 " I will not attempt a description of female beauty, 
 gentlemen, for every one of us has a model of his own 
 that suits his own taste best. In this parlour that I 'm 
 speaking of, there were two young ladies ; and if every 
 gentleman present will imagine two models of his own in 
 their places, and will be kind enough to polish 'em up to 
 the very highest pitch of perfection, he will then have a 
 faint conception of their uncommon radiance. 
 
 "Besides these two young ladies there was their 
 waiting- woman, that under any other circumstances Tom 
 would have looked upon as a Venus ; and besides her 
 there was a tall, thin, dismal- faced young gentleman, half 
 man and half boy, dressed in a childish suit of clothes 
 very much too short in the legs and arms, and looking, 
 according to Tom's comparison, like one of the wax 
 juveniles from a tailor's door, grown up and run to seed. 
 Now, this youngster stamped his foot upon the ground 
 and looked very fierce at Tom, and Tom looked fierce at 
 him ; — for, to tell the truth, gentlemen, Tom more than 
 half suspected that when they entered the room he was 
 kissing one of the young ladies ; and for anything Tom 
 knew, you observe, it might be his young lady, — which 
 was not pleasant. 
 
392 the lamplighter's story. 
 
 u ' Sir/ says Tom, ' before we proceed any further, 
 will you have the kindness to inform me who this young 
 Salamander ' — Tom called him that for aggravation, you 
 perceive, gentlemen, — 'who this young Salamander may 
 be?' 
 
 "'That, Mr. Grig,' says the old gentleman, Ms my 
 little boy. He was christened Galileo Isaac Newton 
 Flamstead. Don't mind him. He 's a mere child/ 
 
 ■' ' A very fine child, too/ says Tom — still aggravating, 
 you '11 observe, — * of his age, and as good as fine, I have 
 no doubt. How do you do, my man ? ' — with which kind 
 and patronising expressions, Tom reached up to pat him 
 on the head, and quoted two lines about little boys, from 
 Doctor Watts's hymns, which he had learnt at a Sunday 
 school. 
 
 " It was very easy to see, gentlemen, by this youngster's 
 frowning, and by the waiting-maid's tossing her head and 
 turning up her nose, and by the young ladies turning 
 their backs and talking together at the other end of the 
 room, that nobody but the old gentleman took very kindly 
 to the noble stranger. Indeed, Tom plainly heard the 
 waiting- woman say of her master, that so far from being 
 able to read the stars as he pretended, she didn't believe 
 he knew his letters in 'em, or at best that he had got no 
 further than words in one syllable; but Tom, not mind- 
 ing this (for he was in spirits after the Madeira), looks 
 with an agreeable air towards the young ladies, and, 
 kissing his hand to both, says to the old gentleman, 
 1 Which is which ? ' 
 
 " ' This/ says the old gentleman, leading out the hand- 
 somest, if one of 'em could possibly be said to be 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 393 
 
 handsomer than the other — ' this is my niece, Miss Fanny 
 Barker/ 
 
 " ' If you '11 permit me, miss/ says Tom, ' being a noble 
 stranger and a favourite of the planets, I will conduct 
 myself as such/ With these words, he kisses the young 
 lady in a very affable way, turns to the old gentleman, 
 slaps him on the back, and says, ' When 's it to come off, 
 my buck ? ' 
 
 "The young lady coloured so deep, and her lip 
 trembled so much, gentlemen, that Tom really thought 
 she was going to cry. But she kept her feelings down, 
 and turning to the old gentlemen, says, ' Dear uncle, 
 though you have the absolute disposal of my hand and 
 fortune, and though you mean well in disposing of 'em 
 thus, I ask you whether you don't think this is a mis- 
 take? Don't you think, dear uncle/ she says, 'that the 
 stars must be in error ? Is it not possible that the comet 
 may have put 'em out ? ' 
 
 " ' The stars/ says the old gentleman, f couldn't make 
 a mistake if they tried. Emma/ he says to the other 
 young lady. 
 
 M ' Yes, papa/ says she. 
 
 " ( The same day that makes your cousin Mrs. Grig, 
 will unite you to the gifted Mooney. No remonstrance 
 — no tears. Now Mr. Grig, let me conduct you to that 
 hallowed ground, that philosophical retreat, where my 
 friend and partner, the gifted Mooney of whom I have 
 just now spoken, is even now pursuing those discoveries 
 which shall enrich us with the precious metal, and make 
 us masters of the world. Come, Mr. Grig/ he says. 
 
 " f With all my heart, sir/ replies Tom ; f and luck to 
 
394 the lamplighter's story. 
 
 the gifted Mooney, say I, — not so much on his account as 
 for our worthy selves ! ' With this sentiment, Tom kissed 
 his hand to the ladies again, and followed him out; 
 having the gratification to perceive, as he looked back, 
 that they were all hanging on by the arms and legs of 
 Galileo Isaac Newton Flamstead, to prevent him from 
 following the noble stranger and tearing him to pieces. 
 
 " Gentlemen, Tom's father-in-law that was to be, took 
 him by the hand, and having lighted a little lamp, led 
 him across a paved courtyard at the back of the house, 
 into a very large, dark, gloomy room : filled with all 
 manner of bottles, globes, books, telescopes, crocodiles, 
 alligators, and other scientific instruments of every kind. 
 In the centre of this room was a stove or furnace, with 
 what Tom called a pot, but which in my opinion was a 
 crucible, in full boil. In one corner was a sort of ladder 
 leading through the roof; and up this ladder the old 
 gentleman pointed, as he said in a whisper : 
 
 " ' The observatory. Mr. Mooney is even now watching 
 for the precise time at which we are to come into all 
 the riches of the earth. It will be necessary for he 
 and I, alone in that silent place, to cast your nativity 
 before the hour arrives. Put the day and minute of your 
 birth on this piece of paper, and leave the rest to me/ 
 
 ' ' ' You don't mean to say/ says Tom, doing as he was 
 told and giving him back the paper, * that I 'm to wait 
 here long, do you ? It 's a precious dismal place/ 
 
 u ( Hush ! ' says the old gentleman, ' it *s hallowed 
 ground. Farewell ! ' 
 
 " * Stop a minute/ says Tom, ' what a hurry you 're in. 
 What 's in that large bottle yonder ? ' 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 395 
 
 " f It *8 a child with three heads/ says the old gentle- 
 man ; ' and everything else in proportion/ 
 
 " ( Why don't you throw him away ? ' says Tom. What 
 do you keep such unpleasant things here for ? ' 
 
 "'Throw him away \' cries the old gentleman. f We 
 use him constantly in astrology. He 's a charm/ 
 
 ' ' ( I shouldn't have thought it/ says Tom, l from his 
 appearance. Must you go, I say ? ' 
 
 " The old gentleman makes him no answer, but climbs 
 up the ladder in a greater bustle than ever. Tom looked 
 after his legs till there was nothing of him left, and then 
 sat down to wait ; feeling (so he used to say) as comfort- 
 able as if he was going to be made a freemason, and they 
 were heating the pokers. 
 
 "Tom waited so long, gentlemen, that he began to 
 think it must be getting on for midnight at least, and 
 felt more dismal and lonely than ever he had done in all 
 his life. He tried every means of wiling away the time, 
 but it never had seemed to move so slow. First, he took 
 a nearer view of the child with three heads, and thought 
 what a comfort he must have been to his parents. Then 
 he looked up a long telescope which was pointed out of 
 the window, but saw nothing particular, in consequence of 
 the stopper being on at the other end. Then he came to 
 a skeleton in a glass case, labelled ' Skeleton of a Gentle- 
 man — prepared by Mr. Mooney/ — which made him hope 
 that Mr. Mooney might not be in the habit of preparing 
 gentlemen that way without their own consent. A hun- 
 dred times, at least, he looked into the pot where they 
 were boiling the philosopher's stone down to the proper 
 consistency, and wondered whether it was nearly done. 
 
396 TFiK LAMPLIGHTERS STORY. 
 
 ' When it is,' thinks Tom, ' I '11 send out for sixpenn'orth 
 of sprats and turn 'em into gold-fish for a first experi- 
 ment/ Besides which, he made up his mind, gentlemen, 
 to have a country-house and a park, and to plant a bit of 
 it with a double row of gas-lamps a mile long, and go out 
 every night with a French-polished mahogany ladder, and 
 two servants in livery behind him, to light 'em for his own 
 pleasure. 
 
 "At length and at last the old gentleman's legs 
 appeared upon the steps leading through the roof, and he 
 came slowly down, bringing along with him the gifted 
 Mooney. This Mooney, gentlemen, was even more scien- 
 tific in appearance than his friend ; and had, as Tom 
 often declared upon his word and honour, the dirtiest 
 face we can possibly know of, in this imperfect state of 
 existence. 
 
 " Gentlemen, you are all aware that if a scientific man 
 isn't absent in his mind, he's of no good at all. Mr. 
 Mooney was so absent, that when the old gentleman 
 said to him, ' Shake hands with Mr. Grig,' he put out 
 his leg. ' Here 's a mind, Mr. Grig ! ' cries the old 
 gentleman in a rapture. ( Here's philosophy! Here's 
 rumination ! Don't disturb him,' he says, ( for this is 
 amazing ! ' 
 
 "Tom had no wish to disturb him, having nothing 
 particular to say ; but he was so uncommonly amazing, 
 that the old gentleman got impatient, and determined to 
 give him an electric shock to bring him to ; — f for you 
 must know, Mr. Grig,' he says, 'that we always keep a 
 strongly-charged battery, ready for that purpose.' These 
 means being resorted to, gentlemen, the gifted Mooney 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 397 
 
 revived with a loud roar, and he no sooner came to 
 himself, than both he and the old gentleman looked at 
 Tom with compassion, and shed tears abundantly. 
 
 " ( My dear friend/ says the old gentleman to the 
 Gifted, ( prepare him.' 
 
 " ' I say/ cries Tom, falling back, ' none of that, you 
 know. No preparing by Mr. Mooney, if you please/ 
 
 " ' Alas ! ' replies the old gentleman, ' you don't under- 
 stand us. My friend, inform him of his fate, — I can't/ 
 
 " The Gifted mustered up his voice, after many efforts, 
 and informed Tom that his nativity had been carefully 
 cast, and he would expire at exactly thirty-five minutes, 
 twenty-seven seconds, and five-sixths of a second past 
 nine o'clock a.m., on that day two months. 
 
 "Gentlemen, I leave you to judge what were Tom's 
 feelings at this announcement, on the eve of matrimony 
 and endless riches. ' I think/ he says in a trembling 
 way, ' there must be a mistake in the working of that 
 sum. Will you do me the favour to cast it up again?' — 
 ' There is no mistake/ replies the old gentleman, ' it is 
 confirmed by Francis Moore, physician. Here is the pre- 
 diction for to-morrow two months/ And he showed him 
 the page, where sure enough were these words — 'The 
 decease of a great person may be looked for, about this 
 time.' 
 
 " ' Which/ says the old gentleman, ' is clearly you, Mr. 
 Grig.' 
 
 u ' Too clearly/ cries Tom, sinking into a chair, and 
 giving one hand to the old gentleman and one to the 
 Gifted. 'The orb of day has set on Thomas Grig for 
 ever ! ' 
 
398 the lamplighter's story. 
 
 " At this affecting remark the Gifted shed tears again, 
 and the other two mingled their tenrs with his, in a kind 
 —if I may use the expression — of Mooney and Co.'s 
 entire. But the old gentleman, recovering first, ohserved 
 that this was only a reason for hastening the marriage, 
 in order that Tom's distinguished race might be trans- 
 mitted to posterity ; and requesting the Gifted to console 
 Mr. Grig during his temporary absence, he withdrew to 
 settle the preliminaries with his niece immediately. 
 
 " And now, gentlemen, a very extraordinary and 
 remarkable occurrence took place; for as Tom sat in 
 a melancholy way in one chair, and the Gifted sat in a 
 melancholy way in another, a couple of doors were thrown 
 violently open, the two young ladies rushed in, and one 
 knelt down in a loving attitude at Tom's feet and the 
 other at the Gifted's. So far, perhaps, as Tom was con- 
 cerned, — as he used to say, — you will say there was 
 nothing strange in this ; but you will be of a different 
 opinion when you understand that Tom's young lady was 
 kneeling to the Gifted, and the Gifted's young lady 
 was kneeling to Tom. 
 
 u ' Holloa ! stop a minute,' cries Tom j ' here 's a mis- 
 take. I need condoling with by sympathising woman 
 under my afflicting circumstances ; but we 're out in the 
 figure. Change partners, Mooney.' 
 
 " ' Monster ! ' cries Tom's young lady, clinging to the 
 Gifted. 
 
 " ' Miss ! ' says Tom. ' Is that your manners ? ' 
 
 " ' I abjure thee ! ' cries Tom's young lady. ' I 
 renounce thee. I never will be thine. Thou,' she says to 
 the Gifted, ' art the object of my first and all-engrossing 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 399 
 
 passion. Wrapt in thy sublime visions, thou hast not 
 perceived my love ; but, driven to despair, I now shake 
 off the woman and avow it. Oh, cruel, cruel man! ; 
 With which reproach she laid her head upon the Gifted's 
 breast, and put her arras about him in the tenderest 
 manner possible, gentlemen. 
 
 " c And If says the other young lady, in a sort of 
 ecstasy, that made Tom start, — * I hereby abjure my 
 chosen husband too. Hear me, Goblin ! ' — this was to 
 the Gifted, — ' Hear me ! I hold thee in the deepest 
 detestation. The maddening interview of this one night 
 has filled my soul with love — but not for thee. It is for 
 thee, for thee, young man/ she cries to Tom. ( As Monk 
 Lewis finely observes, Thomas, Thomas, I am thine, 
 Thomas, Thomas, thou art mine : Thine for ever, mine 
 for ever ! ' With which words, she became very tender 
 likewise. 
 
 " Tom and the Gifted, gentlemen, as you may believe, 
 looked at each other in a very awkward manner, and with 
 thoughts not at all complimentary to the two young 
 ladies. As to the Gifted, I have heard Tom say, 
 often, that he was certain he was in a fit, and had it 
 inwardly. 
 
 " ' Speak to me ! oh, speak to me ! ' cries Tom's young 
 lady to the Gifted. 
 
 " ' I don't want to speak to anybody/ he says, finding 
 his voice at last, and trying to push her away. ' I think 
 I had better go. I 'm — I 'm frightened/ he says, looking 
 about as if he had lost something. 
 
 " ' Not one look of love ! ' she cries. ' Hear me, while 
 I declare ' 
 
400 the lamplighter's story. 
 
 " * I don't know how to look a look of love,' he says, 
 all in a maze. ( Don't declare anything. I don't want to 
 hear anybody.' 
 
 " f That's right!' cries the old gentleman (who it seems 
 had been listening). 'That's right! Don't hear her. 
 Emma shall marry you to-morrow, my friend, whether 
 she likes it or not, and she shall marry Mr. Grig.' 
 
 " Gentlemen, these words were no sooner out of his 
 mouth than Galileo Isaac Newton Flamstead (who it 
 seems had been listening too) darts in, and spinning 
 round and round, like a young giant's top, cries, ' Let 
 her. Let her. I 'm fierce ; I 'm furious. I give her 
 leave. I '11 never marry anybody after this — never. It 
 isn't safe. She is the falsest of the false,' he cries, tear- 
 ing his hair and gnashing his teeth ; ' and I '11 live and 
 die a bachelor ! ' 
 
 " ' The little boy,' observed the Gifted gravely, ' albeit 
 of tender years, has spoken wisdom. I have been led to 
 the contemplation of womankind, and will not adventure 
 on the troubled waters of matrimony.' 
 
 t€ ' What ! ' says the old gentleman, ' not marry my 
 daughter ! Won't you, Mooney? Not if I make her? 
 Won't you ? Won't you ? ' 
 
 " ' No,' says Mooney, ' I won't. And if anybody asks 
 me any more, I '11 run away, and never come back 
 again.' 
 
 " ' Mr. Grig,' says the old gentleman, ' the stars must 
 be obeyed. You have not changed your mind because of 
 a little girlish folly, — eh, Mr. Grig ? ' 
 
 " Tom, gentlemen, had had his eyes about him, and 
 was pretty sure that all this was a device and trick of the 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 401 
 
 waiting-maid, to put him off his inclination. He had 
 seen her hiding and skipping about the two doors, and 
 had observed that a very little whispering from her paci- 
 fied the Salamander directly. ' So/ thinks Tom, ' this is 
 a plot, — but it won't fit.' 
 
 " ' Eh, Mr. Grig ? ' says the old gentleman. 
 
 u ' Why, sir/ says Tom, pointing to the crucible, f if the 
 soup 's nearly ready ' 
 
 " ' Another hour beholds the consummation of our 
 labours/ returned the old gentleman. 
 
 « < Very good/ says Tom, with a mournful air. ' It 's 
 only for two months, but I may as well be the richest 
 man in the world even for that time. I 'm not particular. 
 I '11 take her, sir. I '11 take her/ 
 
 " The old gentleman was in a rapture to find Tom still 
 in the same mind, and drawing the young lady towards 
 him by little and little, was joining their hands by main 
 force, when all of a sudden, gentlemen, the crucible blows 
 up with a great crash ; everybody screams ; the room is 
 filled with smoke ; and Tom, not knowing what may 
 happen next, throws himself into a fancy attitude, and 
 says, f Come on, if you 're a man ! ' without addressing 
 himself to anybody in particular. 
 
 " ' The labours of fifteen years ! ' says the old gentle- 
 man, clasping his hands and looking down upon the Gifted, 
 who was saving the pieces, f are destroyed in an instant ! ' 
 — And I am told, gentlemen, by-the-bye, that this same 
 philosopher's stone would have been discovered a hundred 
 times at least, to speak within bounds, if it wasn't for the 
 one unfortunate circumstance that the apparatus always 
 blows up, when it 's on the very point of succeeding. 
 
 I. 26 
 
402 the lamplighter's story. 
 
 "Tom turns pale when he hears the old gentleman 
 expressing himself to this unpleasant effect, and stammers 
 out that if it 's quite agreeable to all parties, he would 
 like to know exactly what has happened, and what 
 change has really taken place in the prospects of that 
 company. 
 
 " ' We have failed for the present, Mr. Grig/ says the 
 old gentleman, wiping his forehead, ' and I regiet it the 
 more, because I have in fact invested my niece's five 
 thousand pounds in this glorious speculation. But don't 
 be cast down/ he says, anxiously, — ' in another fifteen 
 years, Mr. Grig, ' 
 
 " ' Oh ! ' cries Tom, letting the young lady's hand fall. 
 ' Were the stars very positive about this union, sir ? ' 
 
 u * They were/ says the old gentleman. 
 
 " ' I 'm sorry to hear it/ Tom makes answer, ' for it 's 
 no go, sir.' 
 
 " * No what ? * cries the old gentleman. 
 
 " ( Go, sir/ says Tom, fiercely ; ' I forbid the banns/ 
 And with these words — which are the very words he used 
 — he sat himself down in a chair, and, laying his head 
 upon the table, thought with a secret grief of what was 
 to come to pass on that day two months. 
 
 " Tom always said, gentlemen, that that waiting-maid 
 was the artfullest minx he had ever seen ; and he left it 
 in writing in this country when he went to colonize 
 abroad, that he was certain in his own mind she and the 
 Salamander had blown up the philosopher's stone on pur- 
 pose, and to cut him out of his property. I believe Tom 
 was in the right, gentlemen : but whether or no, she 
 comes forward at this point, and says, f May I speak, 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 403 
 
 sir ? ' and the old gentleman answering, ' Yes, you may/ 
 she goes on to say that 'the stars are no doubt quite 
 right in every respect, but Tom is not the man.' And 
 she says, ' Don't you remember, sir, that when the clock 
 struck five this afternoon, yon gave Master Galileo a rap 
 on the head with your telescope, and told him to get out 
 of the way ? ' ( Yes, I do/ says the old gentleman. 
 ' Then/ says the waiting-maid, c I say he 's the man, and 
 the prophecy is fulfilled.' The old gentleman staggers at 
 this, as if somebody had hit him a blow on the chest, and 
 cries, ' He ! why, he 's a boy ! ' Upon that, gentlemen, 
 the Salamander cries out that he '11 be twenty-one next 
 Lady-day ; and complains that his father has always been 
 so busy with the sun round which the earth revolves, that 
 he has never taken any notice of the son that revolves 
 round him; and that he hasn't had a new suit of 
 clothes since he was fourteen ; and that he wasn't even 
 taken out of nankeen frocks and trowsers till he was 
 quite unpleasant in 'em; and touches on a good many 
 more family matters to the same purpose. To make 
 short of a long story, gentlemen, they all talk together, 
 and cry together, and remind the old gentleman that as 
 to the noble family, his own grandfather would have 
 been lord mayor if he hadn't died at a dinner the year 
 before ; and they show him by all kinds of arguments 
 that if the cousins are married the prediction comes 
 true every way. At last, the old gentleman, being quite 
 convinced, gives in ; and joins their hands ; and leaves 
 his daughter to marry anybody she likes; and they are 
 all well pleased \ and the Gifted as well as any of them. 
 " In the middle of this little family party, gentlemen, 
 
404 THE LAMPLIG PITER* S STORY. 
 
 sits Tom all the while, as miserable as you like. But, 
 when everything else is arranged, the old gentleman's 
 daughter says that their strange conduct was a little 
 device of the waiting-maid's to disgust the lovers he had 
 chosen for 'em, and will he forgive her? and if he will, 
 perhaps he might even find her a husband, — and when 
 she says that, she looks uncommon hard at Tom. Then 
 the waiting-maid says that, oh dear ! she couldn't abear 
 Mr. Grig should think she wanted him to marry her; 
 and that she had even gone so far as to refuse the last 
 lamplighter, who was now a literary character (having 
 set up as a bill-sticker) ; and that she hoped Mr. Grig 
 would not suppose she was on her last legs by any 
 means, for the baker was very strong in his attentions 
 at that moment, and as to the butcher, he was frantic. 
 And I don't know how much more she might have said, 
 gentlemen (for, as you know, this kind of young women 
 are rare ones to talk), if the old gentleman hadn't cut 
 in suddenly, and asked Tom if he'd have her, with ten 
 pounds to recompense him for his loss of time and dis- 
 appointment, and as a kind of bribe to keep the story 
 secret. 
 
 " ' It don't much matter, sir,' says Tom, ' I ain't long 
 for this world. Eight weeks of marriage, especially with 
 this young woman, might reconcile me to my fate. I 
 think,' he says, ' I could go off easy, after that.' With 
 which he embraces her with a very dismal face, and 
 groans in a very dismal way that might move a heart of 
 stone, — even of philosopher's stone. 
 
 " f Egad,' says the old gentleman, ' that reminds me, 
 — this bustle put it out of my head, — there was a figure 
 
THE LAMPLIGHTER'S STORY. 405 
 
 wroug. He '11 live to a green old age, — eighty-seven at 
 least ! ' 
 
 "'How much, sir?' cries Tom. 
 
 "' Eighty-seven ! ' says the old gentleman. 
 
 " Without another word, Tom flings himself on the 
 old gentleman's neck ; throws up his hat ; cuts a caper; 
 defies the waiting-maid ; and refers her to the butcher. 
 
 " ' You won't marry her ! ' says the old gentleman, 
 angrily. 
 
 " ' And live after it ! ' says Tom. ' I 'd sooner marry 
 a mermaid, with a small-tooth comb and looking-glass.' 
 
 " ' Then take the consequences,' says the other. 
 
 "With those words — I beg your kind attention here, 
 gentlemen, for it 's worth your notice, — the old gentle- 
 man wetted the forefinger of his right hand in some of 
 the liquor from the crucible that was spilt on the floor, 
 and drew a small triangle on Tom's forehead. The room 
 swam before his eyes, and he found himself in the watch- 
 house." 
 
 " Found himself where ? " cried the vice, on behalf of 
 the company generally. 
 
 "In the watch-house," said the chairman. "It was 
 late at night, and he found himself in the very watch- 
 house from which he had been let out that morning." 
 
 " Did he go home ? " asked the vice. 
 
 " The watch-house people rather objected to that," said 
 the chairman ; " so he stopped there that night, and went 
 before the magistrate in the morning. ' Why, you 're 
 here again, are you ? ' says the magistrate, adding insult 
 to injury ; ' we '11 trouble you for five shillings more, if 
 you can conveniently spare the money.' Tom told him 
 
406 THE lamplighter's stort. 
 
 he had been enchanted, but it was no use. He told the 
 contractors the same, but they wouldn't believe him. 
 It was very hard upon him, gentlemen, as he often said, 
 for was it likely he'd go and invent such a tale? They 
 shook their heads and told him he'd say anything but 
 his prayers, — as indeed he would ; there 's no doubt about 
 that. It was the only imputation on his moral character 
 that ever / heard of." 
 
 END OF VOL. 1. 
 
LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY W. H. ALLEN AND CO., 13 WATERLOO PLACE.