SCENE I.—_The Drawing-room at Rochester’s._ DOWAGER, LADY BLANCHE, MARY,
LORD INGRAM, DENT, _discovered_.
_Dow._ Come here, Blanche my love; remember the importance of the crisis
which is evidently approaching; and don’t shake your hair too much out of
curl.
_John._ A note for you, my lady.
[_Exit._
_Dow._ It is from Rochester, and marked private. The long-expected
declaration, no doubt. Blanche, calm your agitation, dear, while we see
what he proposes in the way of dowry.
_Lord Ing._ Something enormous, I trust, to gild the fellow’s atrocious
vulgarity!
_Dow._ (_Reads._) Good Heavens!
_Dent._ No bad news, I hope?
_Lord Ing._ Surely nothing can have occurred to break off the match?
_Blan._ Nothing, oh, nothing!
_Dent._ But death!
_Lord Ing._ Or bankruptcy.
(_Dowager sinks into a chair._)
_Blan._ You seriously alarm me, ma; has any accident occurred?
_Dow._ Accident!—a frightful and unexpected one.
_Lord Ing._ What can it possibly be?
_Dent._ Is he sick?
_Lord Ing._ Hurt?
_Lady Blan._ Dead?
_Dow._ Worse.
_All._ What?—what?
_Dow._ He’s poor!
_Lord Ing._ Inconceivable calamity!
_Dow._ Here, Ingram, read this, and wonder at the fellow’s presumption.
My own one—(_To Blanche_)—I know in this, the most trying scene of your
existence, you will comfort yourself as befits an Ingram—take my flacon,
darling, and be heroic. Go on, Theodore.
_Lord Ing._ (_Reads._) “I am ready to fulfil my contract, but honour,
and a sincere desire for the happiness of her whom I love more than
existence, prompt me to the avowal that the reputation of my wealth
is far, very far, more than its reality; frankly, I am a poor man.”
Disgusting wretch!
_Dent._ Terrible reprobate!
_Dow._ Impudent monster!
_Lady Blan._ Ugly creature!
_Lord Ing._ What’s this?—why, this is simply laughable. (_Reads._)
“However, if love for myself and not for my possessions, animates your
beautiful daughter, I shall await her coming in the Oratory; and my
Chaplain shall join us in the silken fetters of wedlock.” (_All laugh._)
Well, upon my soul! that is about the coollest piece of effrontery ever
attempted within the annals of Jeremy Diddlerism.
_Dow._ Don’t weep for such an impostor, my precious——
_Blan._ It’s not for him, ma; I don’t care a pin for the creature
itself; but this lovely house, those delicious grounds, ma, where I had
absolutely planned all my alterations.
_Lord Ing._ And I had selected my suit of bachelor rooms, and actually
named my favourite hunters; why, the fellow’s a huge swindler!
_Mary._ I’m sorry you’ve lost such a nice fortune, Blanche, dear.
_Dow._ Don’t be envious, child; come, darling, dry your sweet
eyes—control your dear little feelings; your poor heart must suffer from
this dreadful shock, I know, but it might have been worse; suppose this
blow had come after the ceremony. We must leave, of course, as soon as
possible.
_Lord Ing._ I vote we all go in a body to the fellow’s oratory first,
and take an affectionate leave. Now, I insist, mother;—hang it, ain’t I
the head of the house? Come, Dent, take Blanche; now, Dowager, dignity;
prepare to frown the creature into oblivion.
[_Go up, closed in._
SCENE II.—_A Passage or corridor, dark._
_Enter_ JOHN, _frightened_, L. H.
_John._ Oh, Lord! I’ve seen it again; there can’t be no sort of mistake
this time—a wild-looking, ghost-like thing, with heavy hair, rushed by
me at the end of the corridor. Ugh! what’s that?—my heart beats like the
fastest sort of a clock. There’s something mysterious in the house—I
knew there was, in spite of Grace’s denial. Ugh! I can’t look round
often enough to be sure there’s nobody behind me; glaring with glassy
eyes;—there it is again! Oh, Lord! coming right through at me! Mercy!
mercy! your ghostship!
GRACE _rushes on_ L. H., _and shakes him, she is frightened,
but with a different expression_.
_Grace._ Up, fool!
_John._ Is it you! phew! it’s like a reprieve on the very gallows.
_Grace._ What have you seen?
_John._ A ghost! the ghost!
_Grace._ Nonsense; what way did she, I mean did it go?
_John._ Whatever it was, she or it, flew right up the grand staircase
like a puff of tobacco smoke. Mercy on us, Grace, what can it be?
_Grace._ Away, and be silent.
_John._ Wasn’t it a ghost, then, tell me that.
_Grace._ Yes; and a mischievous one; see, it’s coming back, run!
_John._ Oh, lord!
[_Bolts off._
_Grace._ Mischief! mischief! where will it end!
[_Exit_ R. H.
SCENE III.—_The Oratory. Octagonal recess with large stained windows,
practicable, beyond which a portion of the house may be seen, consisting
of turrets, to show effect of fire at the end of Act; low railing at
opening of recess. Organ music._ ROCHESTER _discovered_.
_Roch._ (_Impatiently._) Why comes she not? my bounding soul would fain
outstrip both time and thought and reach the consummation of my hope,
’ere stern reflection, reason’s officer, should cry, beware! Why will
they have me thus alone with conscience nicely scrupulous.—Away! away!
I will not think; in that direction madness lies; what, ho! (_Noise
without._) Ah, here at last; be calm, my soul. (_Again noise._) ’Tis
Ingram’s voice; yes, as I live, ’tis he and his proud sister. Have I
wrongfully judged her, and my touchstone proven her to be right ringing
metal? if so, I’m trebly cursed. They’re here.
_Enter_ DOWAGER, INGRAM, BLANCHE, DENT, _and_ LADY MARY, R. H.
Suspense were more than agony, I must be resolved at once; how shall I
welcome thee, lady: as my disinterested love, bride of my heart and not
of my wealth? You are silent! be thanked for it, ye immortal powers.
Speak, Blanche!
_Dow._ Hold, sir; ’tis time this insolent mockery should have a
termination; can you smile, deceiver, and behold the victim of your
wicked perfidy!
_Roch._ Perfidy! to whom, then, was your daughter betrothed, to me, or to
my money-chest?
_Dow._ Pshaw; what romantic nonsense is this; speak to him, Ingram, I can
have no patience with the poor impostor.
_Lord Ing._ ’Pon my life it’s a little awkward, lady mother; but as I’m
the head of the house, I suppose I must.
_Roch._ Let me look at you, Blanche. By heaven, her features are as
calm as marble. What are promises and protestations, gentle looks and
whispered sentences—all hollowness, pretence, and lies.
_Lord Ing._ Come, come, Rochester, this is a most unimaginative age;
that sort of talk reads tolerably well in novels, but sounds somewhat
impertinent in real life. Your paper heroes are privileged individuals,
but flesh and blood people don’t feel inclined to listen to such
improbable mouthing.
_Roch._ Miserable idiot!
_Lord Ing._ (_To Dent._) Did you hear that?
_Dent._ Distinctly.
_Lord Ing._ What ought I to do?
_Dent._ Nothing?
_Roch._ I have no time to waste—be explicit. Do you wish this match to be
broken off!
_Lord Ing._ Most undoubtedly. Do you suppose that I would suffer my
sister to be sacrificed to a man——
_Roch._ Whose heart outweighs his wealth. I thought so, and am not
disappointed; still I must have confirmation from the Lady Blanche
herself. Speak, lady; would you have me release you from your promise?
_Blan._ Mr. Rochester, I——
_Dow._ She would——
_Roch._ Hush! let _her_ speak, I’ll hear none other.
_Blan._ I like you very much——
_Dow._ As a friend.
_Roch._ Silence! Proceed, Lady Blanche.
_Blan._ My mother answers for me, sir.
_Dow._ Affectionate creature!
_Roch._ Am _I_ released?
(_Motions Dowager to silence—a pause—he watches Blanche, as she
quietly exclaims._)
_Blan._ Yes!
(_Rochester walks about quietly triumphant._)
_Dow._ Unconditionally; but we shall always be most happy to receive
your visits in a friendly way, Mr. Rochester. Shall we not, Ingram?
_Lord Ing._ To be sure, and I shall visit him in the shooting season.
(_Aside._) Don’t be disconsolate, there’s a good fellow, we’re all
devilish sorry, you know. Keep up your spirits.
_Roch._ I mean to do so. My kind considerate friends, now listen to me
all of ye. Had there been one touch of heart—one spark of noble feeling
in that woman’s nature—I should deeply regret the _stratagem_ which I
have used. (_All start._)
_Lord Ing._ _Stratagem!_ I’m afraid we’re sold!
_Roch._ But as it is, her unworthiness has, like a dull foil, made
lighter still the starlike radiance of her for whose beloved sake, I
fling aside the gauds of title and of name. Come forth, sole mistress of
this heart and home.
(_Leads forward_ JANE EYRE—_all start_.)
_Dow._ }
_Blan._} The governess!
_Lord Ing._ Lady mother, you are checkmated.
(_All the servants cluster round—the chaplain enters the
enclosure._)
_Dow._ Marry the governess! revolting!
_Roch._ Yes, _the governess_! one pure instant of whose companionship
were worth a whole eternity with such as ye. Come, be witnesses of the
fulfilment of my soul’s uttermost desire. Look up, sweet love—look up—a
few moments nerve. (_Leads her towards enclosure—large bell, hastily
rung—noise without._) What interruption’s this?
_Grace._ (_Heard outside._) “She has escaped!”
_Roch._ Horror! what do I hear; must my cup of joy be dashed from me,
even in the moment of my greatest bliss? never. Proceed with the ceremony.
(_Noise increases—bell louder._)
_Enter_ JOHN.
_John._ “The house is in flames.”
(_Confusion—the oratory window is thrust open with terrible
crash, and the maniac wife appears in the opening, a torch in
her hand._)
_Roch._ My wife!
_Jane._ His wife!
(_Faints—portion of the house beyond seen in flames._)
END OF ACT IV.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—_Plain chamber_—JANE _discovered_.
_Jane._ Twelve months have passed since that fearful day. Oh, too
faithful memory, why didst thou call up the loathsome picture in its
terrible reality. I see it now before my eyes, as vividly as when
stricken by the bolt of destiny, even at the very threshold of my joy:
now almost a bride, and in an instant alone—alone; the Christmas frost
had come at midsummer, and the smiling way of life that seemed to blush
so full of flowers, became in a moment pathless with untrodden snow; and
yet it was not for myself this bitterness of anguish—it was for him—that
I dare not deem him worthy; that the pure and bright ideal that I had
thought was found in him, should be so blurred and blackened. I have
worshipped a false image, and I must tear it from the altar I myself have
raised. Alas! alas! ’tis not a vapour sunshine can disperse—’tis not a
sand traced effigy storms can wash away; it is a name engraved upon a
tablet, which must last as long as the marble upon which it is inscribed.
Oh! for some friendly hand to point my proper road. I fear myself there
is a sweet, strange, dreamy spell pervades this solemn eventime my
failing sense cannot resist. I’m powerless beneath its influence. Oh, if
in dreams, good angels e’er suggest the better course, may such welcome
visitors be mine.
(_Sleeps—Music. The scene becomes luminous, and Rochester is
seen stretching his hand towards her—he exclaims_—“Jane! Jane!
where art thou?”—_vision vanishes—Jane starts up_.)
I am here, Rochester, my still beloved: this is no deception of the
mind—no witchcraft: I heard him distinctly—the music of his words yet
rings in my ears. Again he speaks—he calls me, in tones of suffering.
He may be dying, and I am not near to look at my last of love and life.
Rochester, wait for me—I come, I come!
[_Exit._
SCENE II.—_Interior of a Cottage._
_Enter_ JOHN, R. H.
_John._ Well, I never did see any one take on for any body in such an
outrageous way as my poor master does for that there governess. One
would naturally suppose that the whole race of soft sexes was abolished
from the face of the inhabitable globe, which everybody knows, and we in
perticular, they are not.
_Enter_ MRS. JOHN, _late Grace_, L. H.
_Mrs. D._ Now, turnip skull, what are you wasting your time there for?
_John._ None of your vegetable allusions if you please, or else I might
insinuate something respecting _carrots_, Mrs. Downey.
_Mrs. D._ Alluding to my hair, I presume, Mr. D.
_John._ Precisely, Mrs. D.
_Mrs. D._ Before we were married you used to call it auburn.
_John._ That’s the poetical for red, you know; only an allowable
ante-nuptial fiction, as my old master, the lawyers, used to say.
_Mrs. D._ I’ll fiction your thick head with the broom-handle if you don’t
mind.
_John._ Ah, you let the devil’s hoof peep out now. I suppose we’ll have
the horns soon. You were a different sort of an individual when you went
sneaking about Thornfield with your bit of bread and cheese, awaiting on
that she-devil as was shut up there; you couldn’t say boo to a goose then.
_Mrs. D._ I’ve often had a chance since.
_John._ Mrs. D., respect the head of your family.
_Mrs. D._ There’s nothing in it.
_John._ Honour the provider of your wittles. Oh, why did I ever marry?
_Mrs. D._ That’s a question that always comes too late; and moreover is
never asked except by a good-for-nothing husband; see, who is that lady
beckoning to you. Stupid, go and see what she wants—while I get master’s
dinner on the do.
[_Exit into house._
_Enter_ JANE, _slightly concealing her face_, L. H.
_Jane._ Is this Ferndean Farm?
_John._ It is, marm.
_Jane._ Your name is John Downey.
_John._ I never had no other as I knows on, marm. (_Aside._) Exceptin’
now and then, turnip skull and such like.
_Jane._ They told me at the inn that you could give me the information
that I require. You know Thornfield Hall?
_John._ Yes, marm; I lived there once; I was the late Mr. Rochester’s own
man.
_Jane._ The late—I——
_John._ Dear me, marm, anything the matter?
_Jane._ A spasm—’twill soon be over. Have I then lived and hoped for
this? With one simple word to be for ever crushed, destroyed.
_Jane._ When did Mr. Rochester die?
_John._ I don’t mean the present gentleman.
_Jane._ Present? _he_ is alive then.
_John._ Oh, yes, marm, he’s _alive_!
_Jane._ Thank Heaven! I can bear anything now! the light of hope and joy
rekindled! Does he live at Thornfield Hall now?
_John._ No marm; no one is living there. You must be a stranger here or
you would have known that the Hall was burnt down last harvest time.
_Jane._ Burnt? the hall?
_John._ Yes, marm. The fire broke out at dead of night. It was a terrible
sight. It nearly caught fire once before, at a strange time—there was a
wedding about to take place.
_Jane._ But the last fire; how did it originate?
_John._ The same way. A raving lunatic, that tuned out to be Mr.
Rochester’s wife, after having made several attempts, succeeded at last.
_Jane._ And was _he_! was Mr. Rochester in the house?
_John._ Oh, yes, marm, and never left it until everybody else was safe.
Then he tried to get his mad wife out of the place, but she fled to the
roof, where she yelled and gave a spring and in the next moment she lay
upon the pavement.
_Jane._ Great Heaven! Dead?
_John._ Yes, marm, as dead as the very stones she lay on.
_Jane._ One question more. My labouring heart throbs painfully at each
pulsation. I scarcely dare to ask him from fear. While there’s delay
there still is hope, and yet, suspense is anguish. What of the master of
the Hall—is he in the country?
_John._ Yes, marm. He can’t get out of it well, now. He’s a fixture.
_Jane._ There is an awful meaning in your words.
_John._ He’s blind, marm, stone blind.
_Jane._ Thank heaven! I had feared a worse calamity; the loss of
reason—but where? do you know where he now is?
_John._ He ain’t far off, marm; he’s in the garden yonder.
_Jane._ So near. I was not prepared for this, John. Do you not know me?
_John._ Dear heart—why it’s the governess. Oh, but this will be a happy
meeting for us all.
_Jane._ Let us retire from observation.
_John._ You forget, miss, he can’t see a mite.
_Jane._ Oh, terrible affliction—and I to be so long estranged from him,
when words of solace were so needed. My very soul yearns to bring him
comfort; it is not now a crime—it is a duty.
_John._ You’ll see him, miss, won’t you?
_Jane._ See him, John! his very shadow in the sun shall not be nearer or
more constant than I, while life remains.
_John._ This is indeed a joyful return. I shouldn’t wonder but it will
even smooth Mrs. D’s wrinkles. I’m married, miss; don’t you recollect
Grace Pool, she’s what folks call a good woman in the _main_; I wish she
_was_ in it, just to try the experiment.
_Jane._ Quick! let me see her; I must consult with her the means of
introducing myself to Rochester. [_Exit John._] Be firm, be firm, my
heart—no shrinking now; this is thy duty; perform it well; even though
neglect and coldness be the recompense.
_Re-enter_ JOHN, _with water_.
_John._ He has just called for a glass of water.
_Jane._ His kind fate points out a means for me to see him without danger
of too sudden a recognition. Give me the water, John; I’ll take it to
him. Now, courage, courage.
[_Exit_, R. H.
SCENE III.—_Exterior of Farm House_—ROCHESTER _discovered—his arms
stretched out—he is blind—his hair streaming in the breeze.—The picture
as before in the vision._
_Roch._ Jane! Jane! ah, if you but knew that sky and mountain, field and
flower, are shut out from me for ever, you would not desert the proud,
strong man in the day of his affliction. In the wickedness of my heart I
spurned all control, and would have done thee wrong, angel of brightness
and purity; but I am punished, sorely punished. In vain for me the day
dawns and breaks, the sun rises and the seasons change. All is to me a
blank; my existence shrouded in unending night. Twelve months—twelve
long, leaden, fearful months have passed since that bright earthly vision
fled from me—even as the pure and good will ever flee from the assassin
of the soul; yet how often has the cruel delusion seized me that she was
in my very presence, though unseen; just as I feel this fire’s genial
glow, but cannot see the flames which causes it.
_Enter_ JANE, L. H., _with tray, tumbler of water on it_.
Even now my mocking sense would almost persuade me that I heard her
breathe; out upon this heart-consuming deception—it almost drives me to
despair. (_Sits._)
_Jane._ Ah, what a sight—what a sight! (_Very quietly._)
_Roch._ There is some one near me. Grace, have you brought the water.
(_Jane hands it to him—he drinks._) Thanks. No news, I suppose;
silent—ah, I knew it! I knew it. Thus for ever must I stretch the chord
of expectation and of life until they snap together. Hush! did you not
hear something—a small quiet murmuring sound like hers, so like Jane’s. I
heard it but a short time since; it said, “_Rochester, I come! I come!_”
as distinctly as ever sound reached my ear. Ah! malicious spirits that
sport with human hearts, this is the cruelest pastime. I hear nothing.
Oh! for one week’s eyesight. I would find her or a grave. (_Jane sighs._)
Who is that? that wasn’t you, Grace? Is there anyone with you? answer me.
Is that you, Grace?
_Jane._ Grace is in the kitchen, sir.
_Roch._ (_Starts up in violent agitation._) I know that voice, if the
cheating demon is not practising on my sense once more. Who is this? What
is it? Speak again, whoever you are.
_Jane._ Will you have a little more water, sir?
_Roch._ Again—great Heaven! this is distraction. Why don’t you tell me
whether you are a living thing or another of those tantalizing fiends
that worry me to the verge of madness? Who or what are you?
_Jane._ I come to wait on you.
_Roch._ Delusion, nothing but delusion! What sweet madness has seised me?
_Jane._ No delusion, sir, no madness; your mind is too strong for
delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.
_Roch._ And where is this speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see,
but I must touch you, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. (_Jane
approaches him—He takes her hand._) Her very fingers—her small slight
fingers; if so, there must be more. (_Touches, and finally clasps her in
his arms._) Is it Jane? What is it? it has her shape and feature.
_Jane._ Yes, Rochester, and her voice and heart. Jane is here—here with
you.
_Roch._ In truth and in flesh! my living Jane!
_Jane._ You hold me in your arms. I am not vacant like the air.
_Roch._ But if I let you go, will you not fade away, vanish as all the
rest have done?
_Jame._ Never! never! from this day.
_Roch._ Never, says the vision; but don’t you know, unearthly thing, that
bright as are these delicious moments, they must have an end. I know that
in a moment this hand, which I foolishly deem real, will elude my grasp,
and that voice which sounded to my enraptured sense like heavenly music,
will die away upon the echoes and be heard no more. Gentle, soft dream,
you will fly me like those who came before, many, oh, many a time.
_Jane._ Is it a dream to grasp your kind hand with the warm truthfulness
of love; to tell you that I am here—I, Jane, your own Jane; to avow
that love and glory in that avowal; to say that my life, hitherto dark
and hopeless, is once more bathed in the brilliancy of an enduring joy;
that my heart, which famished for your presence, is sated from the very
fulness of its banquet?
_Roch._ It _is_ you, Jane—my living, breathing, loving, constant. Jane.
Come near me, and let me fancy that I see you with these rayless orbs. I
cannot! I cannot! but I feel your presence like a shower of sunlight on
my heart; and you’ve come back to me again, and will you stay with me?
_Jane._ Unless you object! I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your
housekeeper, your companion; to read to you, to walk with you, to sit
with you, to be eyes and hands to you—that is, if you wish it, not
otherwise. (_Disengaging herself a little._)
_Roch._ No, no, Jane. You must not go. I have touched you, heard you,
felt the comfort of your presence, the sweetness of your consolation, and
I cannot give up those joys; my very soul demands you, Jane. There are
other thoughts within my brain which I dare not utter. What right has
such a ruin as I to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?
_Jane._ You are not a ruin, sir. Friends, troops of friends will cluster
around you.
_Roch._ Friend! I want a nearer tie, Jane, my Jane; do you not comprehend
me? You do, and I may speak the wish of my soul. Jane, will you be my
wife?
_Jane._ I will.
_Roch._ What! wife to the poor blind man, whom you will have to lead by
the hand?
_Jane._ Yes!
_Roch._ Truly, Jane?
_Jane._ Most truly, sir!
_Roch._ Oh, my darling! Heaven will bless and reward you for the
sacrifice.
_Jane._ Sacrifice? If ever I did a good deed in my life, if ever I
thought a good thought, if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer,
if ever I wished a sacred wish, I am rewarded now. To be your wife is to
be as happy as I can be on earth.
(_Shout outside._)
_Roch._ What is that? John?
_Enter_ JOHN.
_Roch._ What means that shout?
_John._ Have you forgotten, sir, that this is your birthday?
_Roch._ Truly, I had, John. But now I accept the omen as a good one, for
my life is again renewed through the heaven-gift of thy pure and true
love, my earth-angel.
_John._ Your tenants, who love and respect you, sir, have brought their
poor but honest gifts; it would make them and all of us so happy, sir, if
you would accept them.
_Roch._ Let them approach. My wife, John, that is to be shortly, will
accept them for me.
_John._ Hurrah! there will be another shout for that. Come, friends!
_Roch._ I cannot see their merriment, my love; but what will the sum of
all their joy be, compared with mine?
_Enter_ PEASANTS.—_Jane and Rochester advance._
_John._ Don’t spare your lungs. A cheer for our kind master and his
intended bride.
(_Hurrah all. Present bouquets to Jane._)
_Roch._ My good fellows—I—speak to them for me, Jane, the fulness of my
joy chokes my very utterance.
_Jane._ I am myself too happy for many words. My friends, he whose
ambition is to be the kind landlord, and the good adviser, cannot, alas!
behold your kindly glances, but he thanks you for your generous sympathy,
as I do from my heart.
(_Jane leads Rochester to seat, a device is fixed by the
Peasants, having printed thereon in flowers, “The Farmer’s
Friend.” Garlands depend from the centre, which are held up by
Peasants, forming a canopy for Jane and Rochester—Music._)
_Curtain._
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There be none of Beauty’s Daughters. Mendelssohn.—Hark, hark, the
Lark. Schubert.—Home, Sweet Home. Bishop.—The Last Rose of Summer. T.
Moore.—Where the Bee Sucks. Dr. Arne.—Tell me, my Heart. Bishop.
CHARLES SANTLEY’S SIX POPULAR BARITONE SONGS. Music and Words. Price One
Shilling. The Lads of the Village. Dibdin.—The Wanderer. Schubert,—In
Childhood My Toys. Lortzing.—Tom Bowling. Dibdin.—Rock’d in the Cradle of
the Deep. Knight.—Mad Tom. Purcell.
⁂ Any of the above Songs can also be had separately, price Threepence
each.
MUSICAL TREASURES.—Full Music size, price Fourpence. Now Publishing
Weekly. A Complete Repertory of the best English and Foreign Music,
ancient and modern, vocal and instrumental, solo and concerted, with
critical and biographical annotations, for the pianoforte.
1 My Normandy (Ballad)
2 Auld Robin Gray (Scotch Ballad)
3 La Sympathie Valse
4 The Pilgrim of Love (Romance)
5 Di Pescatore (Song)
6 To Far-off Mountain (Duet)
7 The Anchor’s Weigh’d (Ballad)
8 A Woman’s Heart (Ballad)
9 Oh, Mountain Home! (Duet)
10 Above, how Brightly Beams the Morning
11 The Marriage of the Roses (Valse)
12 Norma (Duet)
13 Lo! Heavenly Beauty (Cavatina)
14 In Childhood my Toys (Song)
15 While Beauty Clothes the Fertile Vale
16 The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls
17 The Manly Heart (Duet)
18 Beethoven’s “Andante and Variations”
19 In that Long-lost Home we Love (Song)
20 Where the Bee sucks (Song)
21 Ah, Fair Dream (“Marta”)
22 La Petit Fleur
23 Angels ever Bright and Fair
24 Naught e’er should Sever (Duet)
25 ’Tis but a little Faded Flow’r (Ballad)
26 My Mother bids me Bind my Hair (Canzonet)
27 Coming thro’ the Rye (Songs)
28 Beautiful Isle of the Sea (Ballad)
29 Tell me, my Heart (Song)
30 I know a Bank (Duet)
31 The Minstrel Boy (Irish Melody)
32 Hommage au Gente
33 See what Pretty Brooms I’ve Bought
34 Tom Bowling (Song)
35 Tell me, Mary, how to Woo Thee (Ballad)
36 When the Swallows Homeward Fly (Song)
37 Rock’d in the Cradle of the Deep (Song)
38 Beethoven’s Waltzes First Series
39 As it Fell upon a Day (Duet)
40 A Life on the Ocean Wave (Song)
41 Why are you Wandering here I pray? (Ballad)
42 A Maiden’s Prayer
43 Valse Brillante
44 Home, Sweet Home! (Song)
45 Oft in the Stilly Night (Song)
48 All’s Well (Duet)
47 The “Crown Diamonds” Fantasia
48 Hear me, dear One (Serenade)
49 Youth and Love at the Helm (Barcarolle)
50 Adelaide Beethoven (Song)
51 The Death of Nelson (Song)
52 Hark, hark, the Lark
53 The Last Rose of Summer (Irish Melody)
54 The Thorn (Song)
55 The Lads of the Village (Song)
56 There be none of Beauty’s Daughter (Song)
57 The Wanderer (Song)
58 I have Plucked the Fairest Flower
59 Bid Me Discourse (Song)
60 Fisher Maiden (Song)
61 Fair Agnes (Barcarolle)
62 How Calm and Bright (Song)
63 Woman’s Inconstancy (Song)
64 Echo Duet
65 The Meeting of the Waters (Irish melody)
66 Lo, Here the Gentle Lark
67 Beethoven’s Waltzes (Second Series)
68 Child of Earth with the Golden Hair (Song)
69 Should he Upbraid (Song)
London: JOHN DICKS, 313, Strand: and all Booksellers.
Now Publishing, Price One Penny, Weekly,
DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS,
AND
FREE ACTING DRAMA.
☞ FOR THE REPRESENTATION OF WHICH THERE IS NO LEGAL CHARGE
The following are now Ready:
187. The Turnpike Gate
188. The Lady of Lyons
293. Oliver Twist
302. Woman’s Wit
306. Wild Oats
307. Rookwood
308. The Gambler’s Fate
309. Herne the Hunter
310. “Yes” and “No”
311. The Sea-Captain
312. Eugene Aram
313. The Wrecker’s Daughter
314. Alfred the Great
315. The Wandering Minstrel and Intrigue
316. My Neighbour’s Wife and The Married Bachelor
317. Richelieu
318. Money
319. Ion
320. The Bridal
321. Paul Pry
322. The Love Chase
323. Glencoe
324. The Spitalsfields Weaver and Stage Struck
325. Robert Macaire
326. The Country Squire
327. The Athenian Captive
328. Barney the Baron and the Happy Man
329. Der Frieschutz
330. Hush Money
331. East Lynne
332. The Robbers
333. The Bottle
334. Kenilworth
335. The Mountaineers
336. Simpson and Co.
337. A Roland for an Oliver
338. The Turned Head and The Siamese Twins
339. The Maid of Croissey
340. Rip Van Winkle
341. The Court Fool
342. Uncle Tom’s Cabin
343. Deaf as a Post and A Soldier’s Courtship
344. The Bride of Lammermoor
345. Gwynneth Vaughan
346. Esmeralda
347. Joan of Arc
348. Town and Country
349. The Middy Ashore and Matteo Falcone
350. Duchess of Malfi
351. Naval Engagements
352. Victorine, the Maid of Paris
353. The Spectre Bridegroom
354. Alice Grey
355. Fish Out of Water and Family Jars
356. Rory O’More
357. Zarah
358. Love in Humble Life and Fifteen Years of Labour Lost
359. A Dream of the Future
360. Mrs. White and Cherry Bounce
361. The Elder Brother
362. The Robber’s Wife
363. The Sleeping Draught and The Smoked Miser
364. Love
365. The Fatal Dowry
366. The Bengal Tiger and Kill or Cure
367. Paul Clifford
368. The Dumb Man of Manchester
369. The Sergeant’s Wife
370. Jonathan Bradford
371. Gilderoy
372. Diamond cut Diamond and Philippe
373. A Legend of Florence
374. David Copperfield
375. Dombey and Son
376. Wardock Kennilson
377. Night and Morning
378. Lucretia Borgia
379. Ernest Maltravera
380. The Dancing Barber and Turning the Tables
381. The Poor of New York
382. St. Mary’s Eve
383. Secrets worth Knowing
384. The Carpenter of Rouen
385. Ivanhoe
386. The Ladies’ Club
387. Hercules, King of Clubs, and Bears not Beasts
388. Bleak House; or, “Poor Jo”
389. The Colleen Bawn
390. The Shaughraun
391. The Octoroon
392. Sixteen String Jack
393. Barnaby Rudge
Each Play will be printed from the Original Work of the Author, without
Abridgment.
To the Theatrical Profession, Amateurs, and others, this edition will
prove invaluable, as full stage directions, costumes, &c., are given.
Remit penny stamp, and receive a list of upwards of three hundred plays
already published.
London: JOHN DICKS, 313, Strand. All Booksellers.