SCENE 1. _Garden in front of CAPULET’S house. Door, C.

Transcriber’s Note: Non-standard contractions such as “have’nt”, “wont”,

“must’nt” are as in the original.

[Illustration: DOWN BY THE SEA.]

[Illustration:

THE

MIMIC STAGE

CAPULETTA

_KILBURN SC_

_BOSTON, LEE & SHEPARD._

]

THE

MIMIC STAGE.

A SERIES OF

DRAMAS, COMEDIES, BURLESQUES,

AND FARCES,

FOR

PUBLIC EXHIBITIONS AND PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

BY

GEORGE M. BAKER,

_Author of “Amateur Dramas,” “An Old Man’s Prayer,” &c._

BOSTON:

LEE AND SHEPARD.

1869.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

GEORGE M. BAKER,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the District of Massachusetts.

GEO. C. RAND & AVERY,

STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS,

3 CORNHILL, BOSTON.

_To_

MATT. A. MATHEW, ESQ.,

PROPRIETOR OF

THE “HANDS” AND “LAUGH”

WHICH HAVE SO OFTEN

_GIVEN ASSURANCE OF SUCCESS_.

PREFACE.

The gratifying success of a previous volume of “AMATEUR DRAMAS,” and

the increasing demand for pieces of a light character suitable for

representation without the usual costly theatrical accessories, has

induced the writer to prepare a second volume for publication. Like

the first, it contains pieces which have been specially prepared for

occasional exhibitions, society benefits, and parlor theatricals, and

which have only been admitted to “the mimic stage” after having stood the

test of public approval. For their production, no scenery is required.

A moderate-sized room, having folding-doors or hanging curtains to

separate the audience from the actors; costumes such as the modern

wardrobe will easily supply, with now and then a foray on some good old

grandmother’s trunks; a wig or two; a few pieces of chalk; red paint; and

India-ink,--is all the “extraordinary preparations” and “great expense”

necessary. For benefits, fairs, and temperance gatherings, many of the

pieces will be found particularly appropriate. To give variety, three

dialogues, originally published in “Oliver Optic’s Magazine,” have, by

the kind permission of its popular editor, been added to the collection.

Amateur theatricals have now become a part of the regular winter-evening

amusements of young and old; and, with proper management, no more

rational, pleasant, and innocent diversion can be devised. Endeavoring

to avoid bluster and rant, relying more on touches of nature, hits at

follies and absurdities, for success, the writer trusts his little book

may contain nothing which can detract from the good name those amusements

now enjoy.

STAGE-DIRECTIONS.

R means Right; L, Left; C, Centre.

The performer is supposed to be upon the stage, facing the audience.

All the pieces in this book have been published separately, and

can be obtained by addressing the publishers.

CONTENTS.

DOWN BY THE SEA 7

A CLOSE SHAVE 62

CAPULETTA 79

THE GREAT ELIXIR 106

THE MAN WITH THE DEMIJOHN 128

AN ORIGINAL IDEA 140

“MY UNCLE THE CAPTAIN” 170

NO CURE, NO PAY 189

HUMORS OF THE STRIKE 209

BREAD ON THE WATERS 221

DOWN BY THE SEA.

A DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

ABNER RAYMOND, (a city merchant.)

CAPT. DANDELION, (a city flower.)

JOHN GALE, (a fisherman.)

SEPTEMBER GALE, } (Protégés of John Gale.)

MARCH GALE, }

JEAN GRAPEAU, (an old French peddler.)

KATE RAYMOND, (a city belle.)

MRS. GALE, (John Gale’s wife.)

KITTY GALE, (John Gale’s daughter.)

ACT 1.

_JOHN GALE’S house down by the sea. Fireplace, R. Doors, R., L.,

and C. Table right of C., at which MRS. GALE is ironing. MARCH

seated on a stool, L., arranging fishing-lines._

_March_, (_sings_.)

“Oh, my name was Captain Kyd

As I sailed, as I sailed.

Oh, my name was Captain Kyd

As I sailed!”

_Mrs. G._ Do, March, stop that confounded racket!

_March._ Racket! well that’s a good one. Mother Gale, you’ve got no ear

for music.

_Mrs. G._ More ear than you have voice. Do you call that singing?

_March._ To be sure I do. (_Sings._)

“Oh, my name was Captain--”

_Mrs. G._ March Gale, if you don’t stop that catawauling, I’ll fling this

flat-iron right straight at your head.

_March._ Now, don’t, Mother Gale. Don’t you do it. The iron would enter

my soul. (_Sings._)

“As I sailed, as I sailed.”

_Mrs. G._ Dear, dear! what does ail that boy? March Gale, you’ll distract

our fine city boarders.

_March._ Not a bit of it. Don’t they come from the great city where

there’s lots of grand uproars, organ-grinders, and fiddlers. I tell

you, Mother Gale, they are pining for the delights of the city; and I’m

a public benefactor, when, by the sound of my musical voice, I wake in

their hearts tender recollections of “Home, sweet Home.” (_Sings._)

“As I sailed, as I sailed.”

_Mrs. G._ I do wish you were sailing. Now, do stop, that’s a good boy.

You make my head ache awfully.

_March._ Do I? why didn’t you say that before: I’m done. But, Mother

Gale, what do you suppose sent these rich people to this desolate spot?

_Mrs. G._ It’s their whims, I s’pose: rich people are terrible whimsical.

Mr. Raymond told your father he wanted a quiet place down by the sea.

_March._ Blest if he hasn’t got it! It’s almost as desolate here as poor

old Robinson Crusoe’s Island.

_Mrs. G._ Well, well! p’raps he had a hankering for this spot, for he

was born down here. Ah, me! how times do change. I remember the time when

Abner Raymond was a poor fisherman’s boy. Law sakes, boy, when I was a

gal, he used to come sparking me; and he and John Gale have had many a

fight, all along of me. Well, he went off to the city, got edicated, and

finally turned out a rich man.

_March._ You don’t say so. Why, Mother Gale, you might have been a rich

lady.

_Mrs. G._ P’raps I might, March; p’raps I might: but I chose John Gale;

and I never regretted it, never.

_March._ Bully for you, Mother Gale, and bully for Daddy Gale, too. He’s

a trump. But I say, Mother Gale, isn’t Miss Kate a beauty? My eyes! Keep

a sharp look-out, Mother Gale, a sharp eye on our Sept.; for, if I’m not

much mistaken, he’s over head and ears in love with her.

_Mrs. G._ Goodness, gracious! what an awful idea!

_March._ Awful! perhaps it is; but she likes it. I’ve seen them on the

rocks as chipper as a pair of blackbirds; her eyes glistening and her

cheeks rosy, while Sept. was pouring all sorts of soft speeches into her

ears.

_Mrs. G._ Heavens and airth! this won’t do! I’ll tell your father of this

the minit he comes home.

_March._ No you won’t, Mother Gale. Hush, here’s the young lady now.

(_Enter KATE, R._)

_Kate._ May I come in?

_Mrs. G._ To be sure you may, and welcome (_places a chair, R., and dusts

it with her apron_). It’s awful dirty here.

_Kate_ (_sits_). Dirt? I have not yet been able to discover a particle in

the house. It’s a miracle of cleanliness. Well, March, what are you doing?

_March._ Oh! fixin’ up the lines a little.

_Kate._ Who was singing? While I was sewing I’m sure I heard a musical

voice.

_March._ No: did you though? Do you hear that, Mother Gale. Miss Kate

heard a musical voice. I am the owner of that voice, and I’m mighty proud

of it; for there’s precious little I do own in this world.

_Kate._ You should cultivate it.

_Mrs. G._ Fiddlesticks! there’s no more music in that boy than there is

in a nor’easter.

_March._ Now, Mother Gale, don’t show your ignorance of music. Yes, Miss

Kate, I should cultivate it; but then, you see. I’m an orphan.

_Kate._ An orphan?

_March._ Yes, an orphan,--a poor, miserable, red-headed orphan. The only

nurse I ever had was the sea, and a precious wet one she was.

_Kate._ Do you mean to say you are not the son of John Gale?

_March._ That’s the melancholy fact: I’m nobody’s son. I was found upon

the sands, after a fearful storm and a shipwreck, very wet and very

hungry, by Daddy Gale. This little occurrence was in the month of March.

Fearing, from my youth and inexperience, I should be likely to forget the

circumstances of my birth, Daddy Gale christened me March, and it’s been

march ever since. You march here, and you march there.

_Kate._ And September?

_March._ Oh! Sept. came in the same way, by water, a little sooner, the

September before. Daddy Gale evidently expected to complete the calendar,

and have a whole almanac of shipwrecked babbies.

_Kate._ He is not Mr. Gale’s son?

_March._ No, he’s a nobody, too: we’re a pair of innocent but unfortunate

babbies.

_Kate._ Strange I have not heard this before. I have been here nearly a

month.

_Mrs. G._ Bless your dear soul, John Gale doesn’t like to talk about it.

He’s precious fond of these boys; and I tell him he’s afeard somebody

will come and claim ’um. But he’s done his duty by them. No matter how

poor the haul, how bad the luck, he always manages to lay by something

for their winter’s schooling; and, if ever anybody should claim them,

they can’t complain that they have’nt had an edication.

_March._ That’s so, Mother Gale, all but my singing; but I have strong

hopes of somebody coming to claim me. I feel I was born to be something

great,--a great singer, or something else.

_Mrs. G._ Something else, most likely.

_March._ Yes. I expect to see my rightful owner appearing in a coach and

four to bear me to his ancestrial castle.

_Mrs. G._ Fiddlesticks!

_March._ Mother Gale, your ejaculations are perfectly distressing. I

don’t open my mouth to indulge in a few fond hopes, but you ram your

everlasting “fiddlesticks” down my throat to choke all my soaring fancies.

_Mrs. G._ Well, I should think your throat _would_ be sore, with all

those big words.

_March._ Yes, Miss Kate: I have strong hopes of being rewarded for my

blighted youth with one or more parents of some standing in the world.

_Kate._ I trust your hopes will be realized. This is a strange story, and

will interest my father, startle him; for years ago he lost a child by

shipwreck.

_March._ A child,--a boy?

_Kate._ Yes, a boy, the child of his first wife, who left France with her

infant in a ship that never reached her port.

_March._ Good gracious! when was this?

_Kate._ Oh! a long, long time ago, before I was born, for I am the

daughter of his second wife: it must have been twenty,--yes, more than

twenty years ago.

_March._ A boy, shipwrecked twenty years ago. Good gracious, it almost

takes away my breath.

_Kitty_ (_outside, C._). Much obliged, I’m sure. You’d better come in.

_March._ Hallo! there’s Kitty. (_Enter KITTY, C._) Hallo, Kitty! who’s

that you are talking to?

_Kitty_ (_tossing her head_). Wouldn’t you like to know, _Mister_ Gale?

_March._ To be sure I should.

_Kitty._ Well, you can’t: a pretty idea, that I can’t have a beau without

being obliged to tell you who it is!

_March._ A beau! It’s that Bige Parker: I know it is.

_Kitty._ Well, suppose it is, Mr. March Gale.

_March._ I’ll just give him the biggest licking ever he had: you see if I

don’t.

_Kitty._ What for, pray?

_March._ What right has he to be tagging after you, I’d like to know?

_Kitty._ Suppose I choose to let him, Mr. Gale; and suppose I like to

have him, Mr. Gale. What do you say to that?

_March._ That I’ll punch him all the harder when I get at him.

_Kitty._ Will you? You’re a pretty brother, ain’t you? Won’t let your

sister have a beau without making a fuss!

_March._ I ain’t your brother: you know I ain’t. I’m a shipwrecked

innocent.

_Kitty_ (_laughing_). Oh, ho, ho! you’re a pretty innocent, you are!

_Mrs. Gale._ Kitty Gale, stop your laughing and behave yourself. Don’t

you see Miss Kate? Where have you been?

_Kitty._ Oh! I’ve been over to Mrs. Parker’s.

_March._ Bige Parker’s. Darn him.

_Kitty._ Mrs. Parker was not at home (_looking slyly at March_): nobody

but Bige.

_March._ I’d like to get hold of him: I’d send him _home_, and keep him

there.

_Kitty._ Oh, dear! I am so hungry!

_March._ I am glad of it.

_Kitty._ Bige Parker wanted to give me a great thick slice of bread and

butter; but I knew there was somebody at home (_looking at March_) who

could spread bread and butter better than he.

_March._ No: did you, Kitty? you just keep still, and I’ll bring you a

slice. (_Exit, L._)

_Kate._ O Kitty, Kitty! I suspect you are a little coquette.

_Kitty._ Me! why I never thought of such a thing.

_Mrs. Gale_ (_going to door, C._). It’s about time for John to be back.

(_Enter MARCH, L., with slice of bread and butter._)

_March._ There, Kitty, there you are!

_Kitty._ Oh! ain’t that nice, now if I only had a seat.

_March._ Here’s one: here’s a high old seat (_attempts to lift her upon

the table, burns his hand with the flat-iron, yells, drops Kitty, and

runs, L._).

_Mrs. Gale._ I told you you’d catch it (_takes iron from table, and

places it in the fireplace_).

_March._ You didn’t tell me any such thing: I found it out myself. Look

at that (_shows his hand_). There’s a blister.

_Kate._ Dear me! I forgot I had a message to deliver. Father would like

to see you in his room a moment.

_Mrs. Gale._ I’ll go right up.

_Kate._ Where’s Sept., March: I haven’t seen him this morning?

_March._ I saw him off the point about an hour ago: it’s about time he

was in.

_Kate._ Come up to my room when you have finished your luncheon. I’ve

something to show you. (_Exit, R._)

_Kitty._ Yes, I’ll come right up.

_Mrs. Gale._ Now, March, be careful of that musical voice of yours while

I’m gone: don’t strain it. (_Exit, R._)

_Kitty._ March Gale! you ain’t a bit perlite: why don’t you give me a

seat?

_March._ Well, I’ll give you a seat, now the flat-iron’s out of the way

(_lifts her to table, where she sits swinging her feet and eating bread

and butter_).

_Kitty._ Isn’t she pretty?

_March._ Mother Gale?

_Kitty._ Mother Gale! No: Miss Kate.

_March._ Yes, indeed.

_Kitty._ And she’s so rich, and dresses so fine. I suppose she lives in

a big house with a buffalo on top, and a pizzaro, and a miranda, and all

that.

_March._ Yes, indeed, she’s very rich; but then you just wait till my

mysterious parent turns up. I know he’s a rich man: you never heard of a

shipwrecked baby but what had a rich father,--never. Sometimes I think

he’s a rich English lord, or a French marquis, or a Turkish bashaw. I do

hope he’s a Turk: I am very fond of Turkey.

_Kitty._ So am I, with cranberry sauce.

_March._ Oh, pshaw! what’s the use poking fun!

_Kitty._ Do you know what I would do if I was rich?

_March._ No: what is it?

_Kitty._ I’d have some molasses on my bread.

_March._ You won’t have to wait for that (_runs off, L._).

_Kitty._ Now, ain’t he obliging. I do like to be waited upon: and there’s

plenty to wait upon me; for, between March and Bige Parker, I’m very

comfortably settled. (_March runs in, L._)

_March._ Here you are Kitty (_pours molasses on her bread_).

_Kitty._ Oh, ain’t that sweet!

_March._ Yes, Kitty, I’ve been thinking that it’s about time I should

make an effort to find my father.

_Kitty._ But what can you do? there is nothing by which you can be

identified.

_March._ No, but instinct will guide me. I know, if I once set eyes on

the man who is truly my father, there will be a come-all-overishness that

will cause me to rush into his arms, crying, “Father, behold your son!”

In the mean time I must wait.

_Kitty._ While you are waiting, suppose you take me down from this table.

_March._ All right (_lifts her from table_), down you come. I say, Kitty,

what did Bige Parker say to you?

_Kitty._ Oh! lots of sweet things.

_March._ Darn him!

_Kitty._ Let me see,--what did he say? He said that the sand seemed like

shining gold when I walked upon it.

_March._ I’d like to stuff his throat with it: perhaps it would change

the color.

_Kitty._ He said the sky seemed filled with beautiful rainbows.

_March._ I’d like to paint a rainbow round his eyes. He might see stars

too.

_Kitty._ And the water--

_March._ Oh, confound the water! you set me on fire. I’ll punch that Bige

Parker, you see if I don’t.

_Kitty._ Why, March, you’re jealous.

_March._ Jealous! well, perhaps I am. But I won’t have that Bige Parker

sneaking after you: mind that, now. And the next time I see him grinning

at you, he’ll catch it: mind that, too. He’s a confounded sneak, darn

him. (_Exit, C._)

_Kitty._ Well, I declare, March is really jealous. Now, that’s too bad.

(_Enter JOHN GALE, L._)

_John._ What’s too bad, Kitty? Where’s all the folks? where’s your marm?

where’s Sept.? Where’s anybody?

_Kitty._ Where’s anybody? why, don’t you see me?

_John._ Yes, I see you, you chatterbox. Where’s your mother?

_Kitty._ Up-stairs.

_John._ Up-stairs: now, _what_ is she doing up-stairs?

_Kitty._ I’m sure I don’t know.

_John._ Then run and find out.

_Kitty._ Well, I suppose--

_John._ You suppose! Now, _what_ right have you to suppose? Run and find

out, quick!

_Kitty._ Gracious, the fish don’t bite. (_Exit, R._)

_John._ Pretty time of day, this is. Cold, wet, and hungry; and nobody at

home. Wonder where my rich boarder is? Having what he calls a _si_esta, I

s’pose. Well, every one to his taste; but the idea of a live man snoozing

in the house when there’s salt water, a bright sun, and a roaring breeze

outside. Bah! (_Enter MRS. GALE, R._)

_Mrs. Gale._ Well, John, back again?

_John._ Back, of course I’m back. You don’t s’pose I’d stay out after

four hours’ fishing, without a bite, do you? Hey!

_Mrs. Gale._ Well, you needn’t bite me. You’ve had bad luck.

_John._ Now, what’s the use of telling me that? Don’t I know it? I tell

you what, old lady, if we ain’t mighty careful, we shall have nothing to

eat one of these days.

_Mrs. Gale._ When that time comes, we’ll begin to complain. But with two

sich boys as our Sept. and our March--

_John._ Now, what’s the use of talking about them boys? What are they

good for? Where’s Sept.?

_Mrs. Gale._ Off in his boat, I s’pose.

_John._ His boat! a pretty boat he’s got. If he’s not kerful, he’ll see

the bottom afore he knows it.

_Mrs. Gale._ Our Sept.! Why, he’s the best boatman along shore. You

needn’t be scared about him.

_John._ Not when he’s a stout plank under him. But that skiff of his is

as frail as a shingle. Where’s March?

_Mrs. Gale._ I left him here a minnit ago.

_John._ There’s another beauty. I tell you what, Mother Gale, I’m going

to turn over a new leaf with these boys. I won’t have so much of this

shirking work. Sept. shall sell that boat; and March--

_Mrs. Gale._ Why, you ugly old bear! what’s the matter with you? Turn

over a new leaf indeed! Well, that’s a good one. Only this morning you

were blessing your stars you had two such boys,--the best and smartest--

_John._ Humbug! you don’t know what you are talking about. I tell you

they’re a good-for-nothing, lazy pair of--Hallo! here’s Raymond. (_Enter

MR. R., R._)

_Ray._ Halloo, Gale! back already? what luck?

_John._ Hem! luck. Precious poor.

_Raymond._ I’m sorry for that. But, Gale, my daughter has been telling

me a strange story about these boys. They’re not yours.

_John._ Who says they ain’t? I’d like to know who’s a better right to ’em.

_Ray._ Well, well, I’m not going to dispute it. But I _would_ like to

hear the story from your lips.

_John._ It’ll be a precious short one, I can tell you. Well, they _ain’t_

my boys. They were shipwrecked on the coast twenty-three years ago.

_Ray._ Twenty-three years ago?

_John._ Yes, exactly twenty-three years ago, in the month of September,

we were awakened one night by the booming of guns off shore. ’Twas a

black night, I tell you,--a roaring gale, the sea dashed over the rocks

almost to our door, and the rain poured in torrents. We hastened to the

beach. Half a mile off, stuck fast in the sands, was a ship, blue-lights

burning and cannons firing. It was no use: mortal man could not reach her

in such a sea. In the morning, scattered pieces of the wreck, a few dead

bodies, and a live baby, was all there was left of her.

_Ray._ A living child?

_John._ Yes, our Sept. A precious tough time he had of it, I can tell

you: we thought he’d die; but mother’s care and a healthy constitution

brought him through, and there is not a smarter boatmen or a better lad

on all the coast than our Sept., if I do say it.

_Mrs. Gale._ Why, John, you said just now--

_John._ What’s the use of talking about what I said just now? You never

did take kindly to him; but I say he’s the best lad--

_Mrs. Gale._ John Gale, you’re stark, staring mad! Don’t I idolize ’em

both?

_Ray._ But the other, Gale?

_John._ Well, he came in the same way. ’Twas very queer; but the very

next March, in a blinding storm, we were again turned out at night by

the booming of guns. Another ship in the sands; more blue lights; in the

morning, more wreck, more dead bodies, and another live baby.

_Ray._ March? (_Enter, MARCH, C._)

_John._ Yes, March; and he was a roarer, I tell you. We haven’t had a

shipwreck since: the squalls of that brat, night after night, was enough

to scare off all the ships in creation. He weathered it; and though I do

say he’s a smart clever-- (_sees March, L._) You confounded scoundrel!

where have you been?

_March_ (_Aside_). My! touching biography. (_Aloud._) Where have I been?

been looking for you.

_Ray._ But, Gale, was no inquiries ever made for these lads?

_John._ No; and I didn’t take particular care to hunt up their owners. If

they don’t care enough for ’em to hunt ’em up, I’m content. They’ve been

well brought up: they’re a credit to anybody. There’s a good home for

’em here; there’s the broad ocean for their labor; and there are honest

hearts here that love ’em as their own; and, if they’re not content,

’twill not be the fault of John Gale.

_March._ Hurrah for John Gale!

_John._ Now, what do you mean by yelling in that way, you

good-for-nothing--

_Mrs. Gale._ Smart, clever,--Hey, John?

_John._ Now what’s the use of talking--

_Ray._ But these lads, Gale: was nothing found about them by which they

could be identified?

_John._ No; Sept. was well bundled up in nice soft flannels, while March

was tied up in an old pea-jacket: but no name or marks about them.

_Ray._ This is very strange--very strange. (_Enter KITTY, R. hurriedly._)

_Kitty._ Oh, dear!--run, quick!--run, quick!

_March._ Run quick! where, what’s the matter?

_Kitty._ Oh, dear! I’m so frightened!

_John._ What is it?

_All._ Speak, speak!

_Kitty._ Oh! do wait till I get my breath! No, no! run quick!

_Mrs. Gale._ Lord sakes, Kitty! what is the matter?

_Kitty._ I was up in Miss Raymond’s room, looking out of the window--

_All._ Well, well!

_Kitty._ Oh! if you don’t run quick something will happen.

_March._ Well, well, where shall we run?

_Kitty._ I saw Miss Kate walking on the rocks--

_All._ Well, well!

_Kitty._ When suddenly she slipped--

_All._ Well, well--

_Kitty._ And fell into the sea.

_Ray._ My daughter. }

_Mrs. Gale._ Goodness! Gracious! } (_together._)

_John Gale._ Overboard! }

_March._ Man overboard! }

_All rush for door, C. Enter SEPT., C., with KATE in his arms._

_Sept._ Very wet, but safe and sound.

_Mrs. Gale._ Thank Heaven!

_Ray._ My daughter! (_Takes her from SEPT. MRS. GALE places a chair, C.,

in which they seat her._)

_March._ Hurrah for Sept.!

_Mrs. Gale._ Here, Kitty, March, run for my camphire. (_March takes a

flat-iron from the fireplace. Kitty runs off, L., and brings in a bucket

of water. They rush around the stage two or three times. March, finding

the iron hot, plunges it into the bucket of water, L. Have iron hot so

it will sizzle in water._) Land sakes, what are you doing? ye’ll set the

house afire.

_March._ Darn your old irons: there’s another blister.

_Kate._ Don’t be alarmed, there’s nothing the matter. I accidentally

slipped off the rock; but, thanks to dear Sept., I am quite safe.

_Mrs. Gale._ Come right straight up to your room, and change your

clothes. You’ll ketch your death a cold. Come right along. (_Leads KATE

off, R._)

_Ray._ (_seizing SEPT.’S hand_). Sept. Gale, Heaven bless you! you’ve

done a noble deed. (_Exit, R._)

_Sept._ Well, well, here’s a jolly spree about just nothing at all! But,

I say, March, isn’t she splendid? Do you know, when I pulled her from

the water into my little craft--I couldn’t help it--I felt as though she

belonged to me. Yes: rich, young, beautiful as she is, but for the arm

of the rough sailor she would now be sleeping her long sleep beneath the

waves.

_March._ Well, I dunno about her belonging to you. All the fish you pull

out of the water are yours; but a woman isn’t exactly a fish.

_Sept._ No, no, not exactly, March.

_March._ Sept., you’re a lucky dog. That’s just your luck. I might have

been on the water a month without making such a haul as that.

_Sept._ Well, Father Gale, my little spinning Jenny, as you call her, has

done good service to-day. Haven’t you a little better opinion of her?

_John Gale._ Sept., my boy, as March says, you’ve had a streak of luck.

But don’t brag about that boat.

_Sept._ But I will, though. She is the fastest sailer on the coast; the

neatest trimmed, and the cleanest built; and I’m proud of her. Hallo,

Kitty, what’s the matter?

_Kitty._ Oh, dear, this is an awful world! Suppose Miss Kate should have

been drowned,--and she would if it hadn’t been for me,--hurrying down

stairs to tell--

_March._ After she had been saved. You’re a smart one, you are.

_Kitty._ I couldn’t help being late, could I? (_Enter MRS. GALE, R._)

_Sept._ Well, mother, all right, hey?

_Mrs. Gale._ Yes, Sept., all right. Come right here and kiss me. You’re a

dear, good, noble-- (_hugging him_).

_Sept._ Now, don’t, mother. You’ll spoil me. You’ll make me believe I’ve

done something great instead of my duty. (_Enter MR. R., R._)

_Ray._ Kate has quite recovered. Sept. Gale, how can I express my

obligations, how reward--

_Sept._ Now, please, don’t Mr. Raymond. Don’t say any thing about it. If

I have been the humble instrument of Heaven in saving a life precious to

you, believe me the consciousness of duty done is a rich reward, and I

ask no other. Oh! here’s Kate. (_Enter KATE, R._)

_Kate._ Here I am, just as good as new. Where’s my preserver? Now, don’t

raise your hand: I’m not going to say one word in praise of your conduct.

Man was born to wait on woman; and so, sir, you will please follow me to

the rock to find my handkerchief, and see that I don’t take another bath.

Come along. (_Exit, C._)

_Sept._ Ay! Ay! I’ll watch you: never fear. (_Exit, C._)

_John._ Mother Gale, it strikes me forcibly that if we are to have any

dinner to-day--

_Mrs. Gale._ Heavens and airth! I forgot all about it. You, March, run

and split me some wood; and you, Kitty, peel me some pertaters; and you,

John--dear, dear, what a confusion! (_Exit, L._)

_March._ Come along, Kitty.

_Kitty._ Dear me! If there’s any thing I hate, it’s peeling taters.

_March._ Well, you jest wait until I get my wood, and I’ll fix ’em for

you. Come along. (_Exit KITTY and MARCH, L._)

_John._ It strikes me, that March has a mighty fancy for our Kitty. Who

knows but what there’ll be a wedding here some of these days? I say, Mr.

Raymond, you’ll excuse me, but I must look arter my boat. (_Exit, C._)

_Ray._ Oh, never mind me! Twenty-three years ago! What revelation can

fate have in store for me? Twenty-three years ago, I was the possessor

of a young and beautiful wife. Travelling in France, I was hastily

summoned to America, and obliged to leave my wife, with her infant

child, to follow me: she took passage in the ship Diana, in the summer

of ’31: the vessel was never more heard of. Every inquiry was made, but

no intelligence could be obtained. What was also remarkable, the ship

Gladiator, which sailed from Havre on the same day, met a like mysterious

fate. These boys found on the sands,--can they be connected with this

history? Strange, strange, I never heard of this circumstance! But twenty

years ago communication was more difficult than now; and that dreadful

winter the fearful losses by storm were never known. New ties,--another

wife,--she, too, gone,--a daughter loving and beloved,--have stilled the

longings to gain tidings of the fate of the lost one: but this strange

history awakens a desire to learn more. I have watched them attentively,

but can see no resemblance to my lost wife in either of their faces. Yet

something tells me that this strange meeting--this desolate place--the

wrecks--the children--cannot be accidental. I will be calm, and watch and

wait: for I believe that in one of these boys I shall find my lost son.

(_Exit, R._) (_Enter MARCH, C., with an armful of wood, in time to hear

the last words. He drops the wood._)

_March._ It’s coming, it’s coming! Hold me, somebody! Hold me, especially

my head, for I hear strange sounds! I hear the roll of carriage-wheels,

and oh, there’s a piebald horse gave me a thundering kick in the head!

What did he say? “one of these boys must be his lost son.” So, so! he’s

got a lost son; and I’ve got a lost father, somewhere. I shouldn’t wonder

if we found out we were related. I’ve seen quite a resemblance between

Mr. Raymond and myself,--the same aristocratic air. Suppose it should

be--oh! it must be,--I never could have been left out in that cold sand,

hungry and wet, for nothing. Won’t it be gay? I long for the time when he

will disclose himself. I knew he never could have come to this desolate

spot for nothing. And now it’s all out. (_Enter MRS. G., L._)

_Mrs. Gale._ Yes, it is all out, you lazy scamp! Didn’t I tell you to put

the wood on the fire?

_March._ (_Picking up wood he dropped._) Now, don’t scold, Mother Gale.

There’s a fire here (_hand on heart_).

_Mrs. Gale_ (_at fireplace_). I tell you, there’s no fire here. What are

you thinking of?

_March_ (_placing wood on fire_). “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls.”

_Mrs. Gale._ Marble fiddlesticks! O March, March! you’ll never set the

river afire!

_March._ Won’t I, Mother Gale? You may be sure of one thing: I shan’t try

in a hurry. Shall I tell her? no; I will keep silence, least I interfere

with his plans. (_Enter KITTY, L._)

_Kitty._ Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’ve cut my finger with those plaguey taters.

_March._ Dear me, Kitty! you are always in trouble.

_Kitty._ Well, I couldn’t help it. My hands were never made to peel

taters.

_March._ No, indeed, they wa’nt. Here, let me fix it for you (_wraps

cloth round it_). You shan’t do it again. Fortune has at last smiled upon

me: I shall soon be rich, and then--

_Kitty._ How long must we wait?

_Mrs. Gale._ How long must I wait for the pertaters?

_Kitty._ Oh, dear! I wish they were in the sea (_goes to door, C._). O

March, look here, quick! There’s a yacht coming round the point. Isn’t

she a beauty?

_March._ My eyes! look at her! A gentleman’s yacht, and headed this way.

_Mrs. Gale._ Mercy sakes! More visitors. Who can it be? (_All exit, C.

Enter RAYMOND, R._)

_Ray._ Confusion! That confounded Capt Dandelion, to escape whom I fled

to this out-of-the-way place, is almost at the door in his yacht. His

pursuit of Kate is persistent; and, but that I knew the utter selfishness

of the man, I could honor him for the apparently unwearied patience with

which he follows her. (_Enter KATE and SEPT., C._) Well, child, you have

heard of the new arrival?

_Kate._ A new arrival? No: who is it?

_Ray._ Your persevering gallant, Capt. Dandelion, is after you. That is

his yacht just dropping anchor.

_Kate._ Now, what could have sent him here?

_Ray._ You don’t seem pleased. Perhaps I may have been unkind in thought;

but, remembering your partiality for him in the city, I feared you might

have clandestinely invited him here.

_Kate._ Why, Father! can you think so meanly of me? Capt. Dandelion is

very pleasant society in the city; but here I can do without him. Oh! I

forgot: Sept. wants to speak to you.

_Sept._ Me? No I don’t.

_Kate._ Why, Sept.! what did you tell me when we were walking by the

shore?

_Sept._ What did I tell you? why--that--I--what did I tell you?

_Kate._ Come, come, sir.

_Sept._ Well, then, I said you were very beautiful.

_Kate._ Oh, pshaw! not that.

_Sept._ Yes, I did; and I meant it; that you were rich, admired and

courted; that your presence here had been like the coming of a new star

in a dark night, to light the path of us hardy fisherman; that--that--

_Kate._ O father! speak to him.

_Ray._ Well, Sept., I’m willing to obey; but what shall I say?--that I

fear the presence of my daughter has made a young man forget his lowly

station?

_Sept._ Yes, you may say that: it has. It has made him forget that he is

poor, rough, and untutored,--that there are social bonds which hold the

rich within their circles, where the poor may not enter. He has forgot

all, all this. For the manhood within him--the love of the beautiful

implanted in his breast--has burst all slavish bonds, and his heart has

forced from his lips the words, ‘I love you!’

_Ray._ And you have said this to my daughter?

_Sept._ I have: I could not help it.

_Ray._ Base,--base,--base! you have taken advantage of having saved my

daughter’s life--

_Kate._ Hold, father! you are mistaken. He has taken no advantage: I do

not believe he ever thought of it. It was I who remembered that when I

said, ‘Sept., I am glad to hear this; for I dearly, truly love you.’

_Ray._ Confound it, girl! what have you done?

_Kate._ Obeyed the instincts of a true woman, who, when she gains the

heart of a man noble and good, accepts it fully and freely, caring not

for wealth or station.

_Ray._ You’re a pair of romantic fools. I tell you, girl, you know not

what you have done. This must not, cannot be.

_Kate._ Oh! but it is; you are too late: the mischief is done. So,

father, give your consent and make us happy. (_Enter KITTY, C._)

_Kitty._ O Miss Kate! here’s somebody to see you,--a real gentleman,

with rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, I should say, a great

mustache under his nose, and half a pair of specs in one eye; and he says

“he’s deused wearwy, ah!” (_imitating._)

_Kate._ That’s Capt. Dandelion, sure. (_Enter MARCH, C., with Captain._)

_Capt._ Wall, now, wearly, what a surpwise! You don’t know, my dear

fwiends, what a search I’ve had for you; you don’t wearly!

_Ray._ Well, Captain, you have found us out. I suppose it would not be

polite for me to say we came here on purpose to get rid of you?

_Capt._ Say it, my dear fellah, say it: it’s just like you; it is,

wearly; you’re always joking. But, you know, you can’t affwont me, ’pon

my word.

_Ray._ (_Aside._) No: I wish I could.

_Capt._ And how is the beautiful, bewitching, adowable Miss Kate?

_Kate._ Quite well, thank you, Captain. How are all our friends in the

city?

_Capt._ Miserwable, perfectly miserwable: the sun don’t shine in the city

when you are not there; it don’t, wearly. I couldn’t live there, and so I

took my wacht and sailed after you.

_Kitty._ (_L. to MARCH, L._) Took his what?

_Kate._ Excuse me, Captain: let me present my friends. This is Mr. March

Gale.

_Capt._ No, wearly? What a queer name! queer fish, too, ’pon honor.

_March._ The Captain and I have met before. He’s a little near-sighted,

and tumbled head over heels over a rock; but I picked him up.

_Kate._ And this is Mr. Sept. Gale.

_Capt._ Oh! wearly, a fisherman.

_Sept._ (_Takes Captain’s hand, and gives it a rough shaking._) Glad

to see you, Captain, glad to see you: we’ll make you comfortable here;

plenty of fish.

_Capt._ (_Grinning, and shaking his head._) Fish! Yes, and lobsters, too:

I’ve felt their claws.

_Kate._ And this is Miss Kitty Gale.

_Capt._ Ah, wearly! (_Bows, puts his eye-glass to his eyes._) Positively

bewitching! wuwal simplicity! Wenus in a clamshell! (_To Kate._) But all

fisherman.

_Kate._ Yes, all fisherman; and you’ll find me handy with the line, too,

thanks to Sept.’s teaching.

_Capt._ Glad to hear it; quite a womantic place this; so pwimitive,

though it does smell hawibly of fish.

_March._ Yes, Captain, she’s a capital fisherman. (_Aside._) I do wish

they would clear out, and give me a chance for a word with Mr. Raymond.

There’s something in my bosom tells me--

_Mrs. Gale_ (_Outside, L._). March, March!

_March._ Yes: there’s always something telling me that. It’s nothing but

March. (_Exit, L._)

_Capt._ By the by, Miss Kate, I have a message from a friend in the city,

Blanche Allen.

_Kate._ Dear Blanche! give it me quick.

_Capt._ I declare I’ve left it in my wacht.

_Kate._ Oh! do run and get it quick. Come, I’ll go with you.

_Capt._ Will you? that’s deused kind of you,--it is wearly.

_Kate._ Come, come! I’m impatient to hear from dear Blanche. (_Takes

Captain’s arm, and exit, C._)

_Sept._ She seems mightily pleased with her city friend. Well, he’s an

elegant gentleman, while I’m but a rough fisherman. Can I ever hope to

win her! And yet she told me, but a little while ago, she loved me.

(_About to exit, C._)

_Ray._ (_R._) Sept., a word with you.

_Sept._ Ay, ay, sir. (_Comes down, L._)

_Ray._ John Gale has been telling me a strange story about you. You are

not his son.

_Sept._ Ah, the story of the shipwreck. No, sir: I am not his son by

birth; but he has been a true father to me, and I love him as though he

were my own.

_Ray._ Have you no recollection of a mother?

_Sept._ None: I was an infant when found upon the shore.

_Ray._ This rough fishing life,--do you like it?

_Sept._ Like it! to be sure I do; for I have known no other. I was

lulled to sleep in infancy by the dash of the waves upon the rocks,

the whistling of the breeze among the shingles of the old house; and,

winter and summer, I have been rocked upon the bosom of the only mother I

know,--the ocean.

_Ray._ Oh! but there’s danger in it.

_Sept._ Yes, there is danger; but who, with a true heart and a stout arm,

cares for danger! Ah, that’s the sport of it! To be upon the sea when the

winds are roaring, and the waves are seething in anger; to hear along

shore the dash of the sea upon the rocks, and to know you have a stout

plank beneath you and a light bark obedient to your command, braving the

fury of the tempest,--ah, that’s glorious!

_Ray._ But it is mere drudgery. You have read some, I know. Have you

never longed for other scenes,--other occupations?

_Sept._ To be sure I have. As I have read of great generals and their

campaigns, of merchant princes,--their thrift and industry,--I have

longed to be among them, to bear a hand in the battle, to test my brain,

or strain my sinews with the best.

_Ray._ Well, why have you never tried? The city is open to all who

possess industry and talent.

_Sept._ Ay, ay, sir. But here’s father and mother Gale; age is creeping

upon them: who is to take care of them? No, no! let the dream pass. They

might have left me to die upon the sands: but they took me to their

hearts; and, with Heaven’s help, I’ll be a true son to them in their old

age. (_Enter MARCH, L._)

_March._ (_Aside._) Halloo! what’s going on here! Something about me.

_Ray._ March,--is he contented here?

_March._ (_Aside._) Not by a long chalk.

_Sept._ March? Oh! he’s a queer fish; his head is filled with whimsical

notions regarding his parentage.

_Ray._ Has he any clue to his parents?

_Sept._ No more than I have.

_March._ (_Aside._) Don’t be too sure of that.

_Ray._ Has he any recollection of a mother?

_March._ (_Breaking in._) Most certainly he has.

_Ray._ How?

_March._ That is, I think I must have had one; and my father,--I know

where he is, and just what he looks like.

_Ray._ You do!

_March._ Yes: he’s rather tall, gray hair, dresses well, and looks like

me.

_Ray._ (_Laughing._) A very accurate description.

_March._ You know him, then?

_Ray._ Me! how should I?

_March._ He’s rich too.

_Ray._ Ah! that’s good.

_March._ Yes; and he’s got his eye on me. He’s looking after me. He’s

only waiting to see how I take it. He fears it will overcome me: but when

he finds I am instinctively drawn towards him; when he finds I only wait

to hear a voice say-- (_Enter KITTY, L._)

_Kitty._ March, I’ve peeled the taters.

_March._ Confound your taters!

_Ray._ Well, well, March, remember the old adage, “Patient waiting, no

loss.” Come, Sept., let’s go down and look at the captain’s boat. (_Exit

with SEPT., C._)

_March._ Kitty Gale, you’re enough to try the patience of Job: just when

I was on the brink of a discovery, you must pop in, and spoil every thing.

_Kitty._ How could I help it? I did’nt know you was on the brink of any

thing.

_March._ In another moment, I should have found my father.

_Kitty._ Oh, pshaw! you’re always finding a father. I don’t believe you

ever had one.

_March._ You don’t, hey? I have got one, and he’s rich too; got a fine

horse--

_Kitty._ Then why don’t you find him? Bige Parker don’t have to hunt for

his father!

_March._ Bige Parker! Do you dare to speak his name to me?

_Kitty._ To be sure I do. I’m going to walk with him to-night: perhaps

he’ll see more beautiful rainbows.

_March._ We’ll see about that. I’ll just go and hunt him up, and he’ll

ketch the darndest licking ever he got: you see if he don’t. (_Dashes

out, C._)

_Kitty._ Now he’s gone off mad. Well, I don’t care. (_Enter MRS. GALE,

L._)

_Mrs. Gale._ Come, Kitty, hurry and set the table (_pulls table out, C.,

spreads it; she and KITTY get cloth and dishes, and lay the table, during

the scene_).

_Kitty._ Lord! here comes the captain back again. (_Enter CAPT. and KATE,

C._)

_Kate._ It’s no use, Captain; my answer is still the same: I can never

marry you.

_Capt._ Now, that’s deused unpleasant, after a fellah has come down here

in his _wacht_.

_Mrs. Gale_ (_to Kitty_). What’s he say? he’s got warts! I’ll cure ’em

for him.

_Kitty._ Hush, mother! he’s making love to Miss Kate.

_Mrs. Gale._ Land sakes! he don’t look strong enough to make love to a

skeeter.

_Capt._ Do let me entreat you to reverse your decision.

_Kate._ Not another word, Captain. (_Enter JOHN GALE, L._) Ah! here’s Mr.

Gale. Mr. Gale, let me make you acquainted with a friend of mine, Capt.

Dandelion.

_Mr. Gale_ (_seizing Captain by hand, giving him a rough shake_). Glad to

see you, Captain. I’ve been admiring your yacht. She’s a beauty.

_Capt._ (_shaking his own hand_). Another fisherman. More lobsters’

claws. (_Enter RAYMOND, R._)

_Ray._ John Gale, I forgot one question about the wrecks. Did you find no

name about them?

_John Gale._ Name? yes. We found the name of one on pieces of the wreck.

’Twas the Gladiator. The name of the other, on a bucket,--this one

(_takes up bucket, L., turns it round, showing the name Diana nearly

effaced_), the Diana.

_Ray._ The Diana? Merciful Heaven! which one was this?

_John Gale._ The first. The one which gave us our Sept.

_Ray._ Sept.?

_John Gale._ You seem mighty interested in these wrecks.

_Ray._ I am, I am, John Gale. My wife and her infant son sailed from

Havre in that same Diana, twenty-three years ago. She was the only

passenger with a child: of that I have had abundant proof. This wreck,

this name (_Enter SEPT., C._), the story of the wreck, are convincing

proofs of the presence of my lost child beneath your roof. He can be no

other than September Gale.

_Sept._ Me? I your son?

_Ray._ Yes, my boy: you are indeed my son. You see now, Kate, why your

marriage with him was impossible. He is your brother.

_Kate._ My brother? oh, misery!

_Sept._ Her brother? thus ends my dream of happiness.

_Capt._ Her brother? ’Pon honor, my chance is wealy better.

_John Gale._ Well, this does beat all natur.

_Mrs. Gale._ Sept.! Sept.! My dear boy, I can’t lose you.

_March._ (_outside, C._). Darn you, Bige Parker! You just come out here

in this public highway. (_Enter C., with a black eye and nose bloody._)

_Kitty._ Why, March Gale! what have you been doing? Fighting Bige Parker?

_March._ Yes, rather.

_Kitty._ Did you thrash him?

_March._ Does this look like it? (_Points to eye._)

_Kitty._ O March! there’s been such a time here! Mr. Raymond lost a son

twenty-three years ago.

_March._ Yes.

_Kitty._ And what do you think?--he’s just discovered him.

_March._ I told you so,--I told you so! It’s coming.

_Kitty._ He’s discovered him here.

_March._ Yes, yes.

_Kitty._ And who do you suppose it is?

_March._ Suppose? I know, Kitty. Can I smother the paternal instinct in

my bosom? It is--it is--

_Kitty._ Our Sept.

_March._ O Lord! there’s another black eye for me. (_Tumbles against

table, knocking it over._)

_Mrs. Gale._ Heavens and airth! All my best chiny! (_Grand crash of

crockery and quick curtain._)

DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS AT END OF ACT:

R. CAPT., KATE, MR. RAYMOND, MARCH (on floor), KITTY, SEPT., MRS. GALE,

JOHN GALE. L.

ACT SECOND.

SCENE. _Same as Act 1. (JOHN GALE, seated at fireplace. R.,

smoking; MRS. GALE sitting, L., knitting. MARCH on stool, C._)

_March._ Now, isn’t this a nice little family party? Since Sept. found

his father, the house has been about as lively as a funeral. Daddy Gale

is as cross as Julius Cæsar, and Mother Gale as dumb as an oyster. Sept.

doesn’t seem to take kindly to his new position; and Miss Kate acts as

though she had lost a mother, instead of finding a brother. Nobody seems

to have any life, except Kitty; and she’s busy flirting with that Capt.

Dandelion--confound him. I say, Mother Gale?

_Mrs. Gale._ Well?

_March._ Where’s Sept.?

_Mrs. Gale._ Don’no, and don’t care.

_March._ Daddy Gale?

_John._ Well?

_March._ Where’s Sept.?

_John._ Don’no, and don’t care?

_March._ Dry weather, ain’t it?

_John_ (_fiercely_). Now, what’s the use of talking about the weather?

_March._ So I say: what’s the use of talking at all? I like singing

better (_sings_),--

“Oh, my name was Capt. Kyd.”

_John Gale_ } (_together_). Stop that confounded squalling!

_Mrs. Gale_ } Heavens and airth, yelling again!

_March._ (_Aside._) I thought that would fetch them.

_Mrs. Gale._ If John Gale was any kind of a man, he’d soon put an end to

sich nonsense.

_John._ Now, what’s the use of telling about John Gale? You spilt the

boys! you know you did.

_Mrs. Gale._ Gracious goodness! the man is crazy: I spiled ’em?

_John._ Yes, you.

_Mrs. Gale._ John Gale, you’re a brute.

_John._ You’re another.

_March._ (_Aside._) Hallo! it’s getting squally here.

_John._ Here I find these ’ere lads left to die on the shore: and, in the

goodness of my heart, I brings ’em home, and tries to make good, honest

men on ’em; but what have you done? You’ve made one a fine gentleman,

that don’t know us; and the other a sassy chap, that’s eternally

squalling when we want peace and quiet.

_Mrs. Gale._ Well, I never, John Gale! if I had a skillet, I’d comb your

hair for you, you brute. (_Enter SEPT., C._)

_Sept._ Hallo! hallo! what’s the matter now? Silent! no word of welcome

for me! Well, well, what’s gone wrong, father? what’s gone wrong?

_John Gale._ Now, what’s the use of calling me _father_? I ain’t yer

father. You’ve got a rich father, rolling in riches; and you’re a great

man now. Of course you look down on us poor fishing-folks: it’s what we

expected.

_Sept._ Indeed!

_Mrs. Gale._ Yes: poor folks must remember their station now.

_Sept._ Ay, mother, that they must. If they are honest and true, loving

God and their fellow-men, their station is the proudest and the noblest

among mankind: for the hands they raise to heaven bear the proof-marks of

their kinship to Nature’s first nobleman, Father Adam; and their hearts

are rolls of honor, ever brightened by inscriptions of good works and

noble heroism.

_Mrs. Gale._ Heavens and airth! do hear that boy talk!

_Sept._ Pray heaven, I may never forget mine,--never forget the kind

benefactors who in my helplessness rescued me from the fury of the storm,

who took me to their hearts, watched over me in sickness, guided my feet

in the path of duty, and made a man of me. It may be as you say,--that I

have found a father, one who claims me by right of birth; but my heart

beats with no such feeling of love, of reverence, and of duty, towards

him, as it does for the honest, true-hearted old fisherman, John Gale

(_takes JOHN GALE’S hand_).

_John._ God bless you, Sept.! God bless you, boy! I knew you were true as

steel; but the old lady--

_Mrs. Gale._ Now, stop, John Gale! don’t you go to slandering.

_Sept._ And a mother! where shall I find her? They tell me, that, long

ago, she found a grave beneath the wave; but my heart tells me she is

here,--here, where my childhood was passed; here among the rocks and

sands, where the wild winds roar their loudest and the dark waves beat

their fiercest. At the feet of her who first taught me the name of

mother, I lay a son’s love and duty, which she, and she alone, has right

to claim (_kneels at MRS. GALE’S feet_).

_Mrs. Gale._ O Sept., Sept.! my dear, dear, boy: we thought we were going

to lose you now you are rich and high in the world.

_Sept._ Never fear, mother, never fear. Come what will, this is my home.

We have weathered it together when the clouds of adversity gathered thick

about, and we’ll share together the sunshine of prosperity which now

breaks upon us.

_Mrs. Gale._ Dear me, dear me! what does ail my glasses? I can’t see.

There, I’ve dropped another stitch; and good gracious! where’s my

handkercher? I declare, I’ve dropped it somewhere--I never did see such

careless-- (_Exit, L._)

_John Gale._ Hang me if I don’t believe something, run into my pipe, and

put it out. Well, Sept., here’s my hand: you’re an honor to us, and all

you’ve got is rightly yours; you deserve it. Come, March, let’s go down

and look arter the boats. (_Exit, C. MARCH has been sitting staring at

SEPT. with mouth open._)

_Sept._ Hallo, March, who are you staring at?

_March._ At a chap that’s got a father. It’s a wonderful curiosity to me.

I say, Sept., how does it feel?

_Sept._ Well, March, thus far I can’t say I like it.

_March._ Don’t like it? what a queer chap you are! I wish I was in your

shoes.

_Sept._ I wish with all my heart you were.

_March._ A rich father and a beautiful sister!

_Sept._ Sister! Ah, there’s the sting!

_March._ Why, you don’t mean to say--oh? good gracious! why, you were

dead in love with her--you can’t marry her now, you know.

_Sept._ No: all my fond dreams of happiness are dispelled by this

unfortunate affair.

_March._ Unfortunate! well, you are a queer one. Don’t I wish it was me?

wouldn’t I make the money fly?

_John Gale_ (_outside, C._). March, March, must I wait all day for you,

hay?

_March._ Hallo! I forgot I had a job on hand. Good-by Sept.,--poor

unfortunate son of a millionnaire. (_Exit, C._)

_Sept._ Sister! can I ever call her by that name; must I forever

relinquish the hope of claiming her by a dearer title. No, no: I bear

to her something warmer than a brother’s love. This cannot be: this man

Raymond treated with scorn my overtures for the hand of his daughter.

He can have no proof that I am his son,--nothing but the fact that his

infant child was a passenger in the vessel that left me on the sands. He

cannot claim me upon such a mere thread as this. Perhaps it is a plot to

keep me quiet until his daughter is married to some wealthy suitor; and

then how easy to discover his mistake, and cast me adrift in the world.

Ah! here is Kate. (_KATE, R._) Good-morning, sister.

_Kate._ Sister?

_Sept._ It sounds strange from my lips, does it not?

_Kate._ Indeed, it does, Sept.: you know I have never been called so

before; and--and--

_Sept._ You expected once that I should use a dearer title.

_Kate._ Once--O Sept., Sept.! this is so strange. We were so happy

yesterday, it seems like awakening from a glorious dream. That you should

be fated to call me by the name of sister--it is cruel. I awoke last

night, and saw the moonbeams stream in at my window. I arose, and looked

out upon the night! the waters were calm and peaceful; the moon glistened

upon the rocks, lighting the very spot where you and I sat last night,

telling our future hopes. I know it was wicked; but I was so wretched, so

miserable, I wished I was sleeping calm and still beneath the waves from

which you rescued me, ere I had awakened to such misery as this.

_Sept._ Be calm, dear Kate: all will yet be well; I am not your brother.

_Kate._ Not my brother! you jest now. My father has claimed you.

_Sept._ But there is something here that revolts at the kinship. Why

should he claim me as his son? There are no proofs, no likeness to him,

or her he calls my mother. Nothing but the mere fact that I was found

after the wreck of the vessel in which his wife sailed.

_Kate._ No, no! Sept., he must be right. He does see a resemblance to his

lost wife in your face. No, no! it must be true.

_Sept._ I will not believe it without further proof. I do not feel

towards him as I know I should were he my father; and as for a brother’s

love, the love within my heart for you is of a higher and a holier nature

than even that of brother. Kate, you told me last night that you loved

me, that you would one day be my wife: will you still keep your promise?

_Kate._ O Sept.! it is impossible!

_Sept._ If this should be a trick,--a trick to rob me of you,--this claim

put forward to keep me from your path until you had wed a richer suitor--

_Kate._ Why, Sept., you cannot believe my father so base as that: you are

mad?

_Sept._ Yes, Kate! I am mad,--madly in love with you. Believe me, I am

not your brother. This is, at the best, a mere suspicion.

_Kate._ Suspicion! yes: it is a suspicion, but one that must forever

separate us. It may be you are right, and something at my heart tells me

you are; but this suspicion will forever darken my life. No, Sept.; much

as I love you, it were better we should forever dismiss the hope. For,

whether further proof should be found or not, every hope of happiness

would be blasted by the fear--the dread--that you might be my brother.

Sept., you shall always find in me a sister, a loving sister; ever

watchful for your comfort, ever praying for your happiness; but, for

Heaven’s sake, no more of a warmer tie. (_Exit, R._)

_Sept._ Have I lost her? What can I do? where turn to escape from this

bewildering maze? Upon this I am determined: I will not accept this man’s

bounty, or acknowledge his claim. (_Enter RAYMOND, C._)

_Mr. R._ My dear boy, I’ve just despatched a messenger to town with the

glad tidings; and to-morrow we’ll leave this barren spot, and hie to the

gay scenes of city-life. Gad! boy, we’ll make a gentleman of you. You

must drop that outlandish name of September: you shall be Alden Raymond,

jr.

_Sept._ You go to town?

_Ray._ Yes, to-morrow: I’m impatient to show my city friends the fine lad

I found down by the sea.

_Sept._ I cannot share your gratification, sir, for I shall remain here.

_Ray._ Remain here! what for?

_Sept._ Because I belong here. Mr. Raymond, I am extremely obliged to you

for the kind interest you have manifested in me; but I cannot accept your

claim. I do not believe I am your son.

_Ray._ Not my son! why, boy, you are crazy. There cannot be the least

doubt of it: you came in the vessel with my wife; there was no other

infant on board.

_Sept._ That you are not certain of.

_Ray._ Certain! of course I am. I tell you, boy, there can be no mistake.

_Sept._ There may be; there must be. I do not feel towards you the love

of a son for his father; and, until some other proof is found, I shall

remain here, and bear the only name to which I feel I have a right,--that

of September Gale. (_Exit, L._)

_Ray._ But, boy--Sept., come here. Confound him! Here’s a pretty

predicament. Here’s an ungrateful scamp who refuses to acknowledge his

father. I’ll disinherit him--oh, pshaw! what does he care for that? He’s

a noble fellow, and he must be my son. (_Exit, R. Enter CAPTAIN, C., with

KITTY on his arm._)

_Kitty._ Well, I declare, Captain, you are the most delightfulest beau

that ever I saw.

_Capt._ No, wealy: ’pon honor, you overwhelm me; you do, wealy, you dear,

delightful little nymph of the sea.

_Kitty._ You’re the sweetest man: your conversation is so sugary.

_Capt._ Yes, jest so: ’pon my honor, I don’t know the weason, but the

ladies in the city are very fond of me. I am quite a flower in the city.

_Kitty._ (_Aside._) A sunflower! Oh, I do wish that March could see us!

_Capt._ Yaas, you should go to the city; such a beautiful cweature is

wasting her sweetness on the desert air in this howid place, that smells

so of fish.

_Kitty._ Now, do you think so, Captain? Well, I’ve always thought I was

born for a higher sphere.

_Capt._ You were, weally. Your beauty would be the admiration of the

whole city: it would, weally.

_Kitty._ O Captain! you flatter now.

_Capt._ Flatter? ’pon honor, no. Do let me take you to the city in my

_wacht_: the trip would be delightful.

_Kitty._ What! (_Aside._) I do believe the man wants me to run away with

him. (_Enter March, C._)

_Capt._ Yaas, we could slip away from here, go to the city, see all the

sights, and return, without any of these people being the wiser.

_March._ (_Aside._) Confound his picture! he’s trying to run off with

Kitty.

_Kitty._ Why, what an idea! I run off with a man!--

_Capt._ Who loves you to distraction; he does, weally.

_Kitty._ What would Miss Kate say?

_Capt._ Who cares what she says? ’Tis you I love, you whom I adore.

_Kitty._ Why, what would March say?

_March._ (_Coming between them._) He’ll be cursed if you do any thing of

the kind.

_Kitty._ March! you here?

_Capt._ That howid fisherman!

_March._ Yes, that howid fisherman, you confounded old goggle-eyed

sculpin! And as for you, Kitty Sands, I’m ashamed of you. A pretty pair

you are! Want to run off, do you?

_Capt._ Come, come, sir! you’re impertinent.

_March._ Oh! I’m impertinent, am I? Wall, I ain’t near-sighted, and I

don’t wear eye-glasses, and I can see your nose plainly. (_Takes off his

coat, and rolls up his sleeves._)

_Kitty._ Why, March! what are you doing?

_March._ I’m just going to open your nose in the most approved style of

the manly art! (_Squares off._)

_Capt._ Lord, gwacious! I believe the fellah’s going to fight!

_Kitty._ March, if you touch him, I’ll call father just as loud as ever I

can.

_March._ Well, you call: you’ll get a pretty talking to, I tell you.

(_Advances to Capt._)

_Capt._ Here, you stop, you fellah! Stop, I say! (_Retreating towards

door, C._)

_March._ I’ll teach you to skulk round here with your airs! (_Advances._)

_Kitty._ Father, father! quick, quick!

_Capt._ That’s right: call your father, or I’m a dead man! (_Enter, C.,

Jean Grapeau with a large bundle._)

_Grap._ Ha! ze top of ze morning, gentlefolks! How you vas? how you vas?

_Kitty._ A peddler.

_March._ Hallo, Frenchy! where did you drop from?

_Capt._ (_Aside._) They seem to be busy: I’ll just step out. (_Exit, L._)

_Grap._ Ah, sacre! I am ver mouch fatigue, ver mouch all ovar. I have

travel all ze day wiz my pack, and not sell ze fust thing; and I see your

door open, and I slip in to show you my goods. You pardon me ver mouch.

_March._ Well, old chap, sit down. I’ve got a little job here. Why, the

Captain’s gone!

_Kitty._ Yes, he has gone. You’re a pretty fellow, you are!--scared him

about to death.

_March._ I’ll scare him if I catch him!

_Kitty._ No, you won’t!

_March._ Yes, I will! Making love to you, darn him!

_Kitty._ Pooh! I don’t care for him. I’m only amusing myself while Bige

Parker’s away.

_March._ Bige Parker? Confound him! I’ll lick him, too!

_Kitty._ Oh! will you? You tried that once before, you know.

_Grap._ Sacre! what for you scold, hey? You ver mouch angry, ver mouch.

Now, you jest keep yourself quiet, and I sal show you what I has in my

pack. Silks for ze leetle girl and shawls for ze leetle girl, brazelets

for ze leetle girl.

_Kitty._ Oh, do let me see them!

_March._ See! Why, you’ve got no money to buy.

_Grap._ Nevar mind, nevar mind. I will show zem all ze same for ze

plesure I have to please ze leetle girl. Ha, sacre! I be ver mouch

fatigue. My old legs, zay have what you call ze shakes. Parbleu! I

remember ze time when I vas ver spry,--ver active,--ver robust. In mine

own France, ven I vas young, I vas ze great acrobat. I dance on ze cord

elastique, zis way,--you see,--zis way! (_Imitating._) Oh, sacre! it is

what you call no go, ver mouch. My legs be very old.

_March._ How long you been here?

_Grap._ I have ben in zis country, let me see, ten--twenty--more years

ago. I have leave my own home wiz ze grand acrobatic trope zat nevar

reach ze land,--nevar.

_March._ Acrobats! why, them’s circus chaps!

_Grap._ Circus chaps! vat you call circus chaps, hey? I no comprend

circus chaps.

_March._ Why, the fellers that turn flip-flaps in the tan.

_Grap._ Flip-flaps in ze tan? what for, hey?

_March._ Oh! no matter: let’s see your goods.

_Grap._ (_Attempts to untie bundle._) Sacre! my pack has ze ver hard

knot. I must take off my coat! (_Takes off coat_). Parbleu! I am grow old

ver fast ver much.

_Mrs. Gale_ (_outside, L._). Kitty! Kitty!

_Kitty._ Oh, gracious! there’s mother. What shall we do? She can’t abide

peddlers.

_March._ That she can’t. Old gent, you’ll have to tramp.

_Grap._ Tramp! what for I tramp?

_March._ You’ll get broomed out if you don’t. Here’s a pretty kettle of

fish!

_Grap._ Keetle of fish? I see no keetle of fish. (_Enter MRS. GALE, L._)

_Mrs. Gale._ What! a peddler in my house! Get out of this, quick! Out of

this, I say!

_Kitty._ It’s only a poor old Frenchman.

_Mrs. Gale._ But he’s a peddler; and I won’t have a peddler in my house.

Start! Where’s my broom? (_Exit, L._)

_Grap._ What for she get her broom, hey?

_March._ You’ll find out: quick, run for it!

_Grap._ What for I run for it? Oh, sacre! I see ze old woman wiz ze

broom, and I comprend, I comprend! (_Darts out door, C. Enter MRS. GALE,

with broom, L._)

_Mrs. Gale._ Where is he? where is he? (_Darts out door, C._)

_Kitty._ Hide the old gentleman’s pack, March, quick! Mother will pitch

it into the water. (_March carries it off, L., as MRS. GALE enters._)

_Mrs. Gale._ The idea of a peddler! I’ve had enough on ’em; but they

won’t cheat me again in a hurry, I can tell ’em. (_Exit, L._)

_Kitty._ What a blind, silly goose March Gale is!--fighting Bige Parker,

and going to fight the Captain, because I encourage their attentions, and

can’t see that it’s all to make him speak. So jealous of everybody! If he

loves me, why don’t he tell me so? (_Enter Capt., C._)

_Capt._ Ah, ha, my little beauty! you see I have returned.

_Kitty._ Like a dear, charming Captain, as you are.

_Capt._ Where’s that howid fisherman?

_Kitty._ Oh! you needn’t be afraid of him: he’s gone.

_Capt._ Gone, has he? and left the coast clear? What a chawming

opportunity!

_Kitty._ Charming opportunity for what?

_Capt._ To tell you, divine cweecher, how I love you.

_Kitty._ You’ve told me that a hundred times.

_Capt._ Let me tell you a hundred times more. (_Sees Grapeau’s coat._)

Hold! what’s that?

_Kitty._ Why, your coat,--isn’t it?

_Capt._ Mine? what an howid idea! The idea of my wearing such a coat as

that! (_Slips it on._) And such a hat! good gracious! (_Puts on hat._)

Don’t I look queer!

_Kitty._ Oh, my! what a queer-looking chap you are! You wouldn’t feel

much like making love in that suit,--would you, Captain?

_Capt._ Make love to you, my chawmer! Yes, in any dress.

_Kitty._ Oh, capital! It would be so jolly to have a lover on his knees

at my feet, dressed as you are!

_Capt._ On my knees!

_Kitty._ Yes, on your knees. (_Aside._) Don’t I wish March could catch

him there! Down on your knees! Quick, or I’ll run off!

_Capt._ (_L._) Well, then, here I am. (_Kneels._) What a howid idea!

(_Enter Mrs. Gale, with broom._)

_Mrs. Gale._ That horrid old peddler here again?

_Capt._ Beautiful nymph of the sparkling sea!

_Mrs. Gale._ I declare, he’s sparking our Kitty!

_Capt._ Captivating cweecher! I do love you,--’pon my honor, I do! Your

beauty charms me! your bewitching manner stwikes--stwikes--stwikes--st--

_Mrs. Gale._ (_Rushes at him, knocks his hat over his eyes with broom._)

I’ll strike you, you tarnal varmint! Get out of my house I say!

_Capt._ (_Gets on his feet, tries to get hat off._) Murder! murder!

_Mrs. Gale._ (_Strikes his hat down again._) Out of my house! You

scamp, you villain, you cheat! (_Beats him off, R., the Captain yelling

“Murder!”_)

_Kitty._ (_Sinking into chair._) Ha, ha, ha! what a comical figure the

Captain does cut! He won’t make love to me again in a hurry. (_Enter

Grapeau, C._)

_Grap._ Whist, leetle girl! I have come back for my pack and mine hat

and mine coat. Sacre! I have run ver much from ze old lady wiz ze broom.

Where she be, hey?

_Kitty._ (_Aside._) Oh, dear! what shall I say?--the Captain’s run off

with them. (_Aloud._) My brother has put them away somewhere: you must

wait till he returns.

_Grap._ Sacre! I sal get me head break ver much, if I stay here.

_Kitty._ No, mother has just gone out.

_Grap._ Oh! the old lady have gone out? Parbleu! I feel all ze better,

ver much; I feel quite ze comfortable. Ha, you be ver pretty girl!

_Kitty._ Oh, pshaw!

_Grap._ What for you say ‘pshaw’? You know I speaks ze truth all ze time!

You break ze young men’s hearts all to pieces ver much.

_Kitty._ No, I don’t, Mr. Frenchman.

_Grap._ Ah, ma chere, but you do, you leetle rogue! Did I not see ze

young man viz ze red hair? He be ver much in love all over.

_Kitty._ He,--March--in love with me! You are quite mistaken.

_Grap._ Ah, but he be ver much. I see it in his eyes. (_Enter MARCH, C._)

_Kitty._ March love me? No, sir! He’s a selfish--

_Grap._ Take care, ma chere,--take care! You leetle rogue, you love

him,--you know you do!

_Kitty._ I don’t, one bit.

_Grap._ Ha, you do! Vat for you plague him so if you no love him? Ha!

your eyes,--zay tell ze tale.

_Kitty._ I don’t care if I do: he’s a booby! He don’t love me.

_March._ (_Aside._) Don’t I, though!

_Grap._ Vat for you say that, hey?

_Kitty._ Because he never told me.

_March._ (_Rushing down C._) Then, by jingo! he tells you so now. Kitty

Sands, you’re the idol of my heart. There’s a devouring passion in my

bosom that gnaws--Oh, pshaw! I can’t imitate the Captain. But, Kitty

Gale, I do truly and sincerely love you.

_Kitty._ Why, March Gale! you’ve been listening.

_March._ A little bit, Kitty,--just enough to find out what a fool I’ve

been: but it’s all right now. And you’ll marry me one of these days.

_Kitty._ One of these days? When?

_March._ Well, when I find my father.

_Kitty._ Oh, yes, I’ll marry you then, never fear.

_Grap._ Ha! zat is good,--zat is very much better.

_Kitty._ Oh, dear, March! here’s mother coming again.

_Grap._ Ze old lady wiz ze broom? Sacre! I sall get my head broke ver

much!

_March._ Old gentleman, you’ll have to make a run of it.

_Grap._ But I have not ze coat nor ze hat. I will catch ze death of cold

in mine head! (_Sneezes._) Sacre! I have him now! (_Sneezes._)

_March._ Where is his hat and coat, Kitty?

_Kitty._ I don’t know, but I suspect mother has them now.

_Grap._ Ze old lady wiz my coat? Sacre! zat is ver much too bad,--ver

much too bad!

_March._ Run and hide him somewhere,--in the wash-room,--anywhere; for

here comes Mother Gale.

_Kitty._ Come, old gentleman! I’ll hide you. (_Exit, with JEAN, L._)

_March._ What a confounded ninny I have been! If I had known this before,

I might have saved Bige Parker the trouble of giving me the thrashing I

intended for him. But ain’t it jolly! I’m so happy I could sing for joy!

(_Sings._)

“Oh, my name was Captain Kyd.”

(_Enter MRS. GALE, R., with broom, which she claps upon MARCH’S head._)

_Mrs. Gale._ I’ll Kyd you!

_March._ Mother Gale, what are you about?

_Mrs. Gale._ About mad. Where’s Kitty? Such a caper! Oh dear, oh dear!

I’ve been and chased and chased that confounded peddler way down to the

water; and when he gets there, he strips off his coat and hat, and--would

you believe it?--it was the Captain!

_March._ Why, Mother Gale! what have you done? what will he say?

_Mrs. Gale._ He didn’t stop to say any thing: he jest gave one leap into

the water, and swam for his yacht!

_March._ This is bad. What will Daddy Gale say?

_John Gale._ (_Outside, C._) Now, what’s the use of talking about Sept.?

_Mr. Raymond._ (_Outside._) But I tell you I will be obeyed! (_Both

enter, C._)

_March._ Hallo! here’s a breeze.

_Ray._ It’s all your doing, you rusty old sea-horse! You’ve made the boy

disobey his father.

_John Gale._ I tell you, Sept. is his own master; and, if he doesn’t

choose to go, why here he stays.

_Ray._ It’s a conspiracy to defraud me of my son, and I won’t stand it!

_Mrs. Gale._ What’s the matter?

_John Gale._ Matter? Matter enough! Sept. won’t own his father: that’s

what’s the matter!

_Ray._ By your advice! Now, don’t tell me! I know it’s your doing. You

envy me the possession of such a son, and you try all you can to keep him

here. (_Enter SEPT., C._)

_John Gale._ Do I? Well, here’s the boy now to speak for himself. Look

here, Sept. Gale, you’re an ungrateful young scamp! Here’s a father

boiling over with love, and rich as an alderman, waiting to take you to

his arms. _He_ says I’m trying to keep you here.

_Sept._ Mr. Raymond knows well you have nothing to do with it. I do not

acknowledge his claim, because I see no proof. (_Enter KATE, C._)

_Kate._ What’s the matter, father?

_Ray._ Matter? Your brother refuses to acknowledge me as his father, or

you as his sister.

_Kate._ Indeed!

_Ray._ Yes, indeed! But I’ll find a way to make him. Hark you, Kate!

Capt. Dandelion has again proposed for your hand, to _me_ this time, and

I have accepted him: so you can look upon him as your future husband.

_Kate._ Capt. Dandelion!--my husband?

_Sept._ Her husband! I thought it would come to that.

_Ray._ Yes, your husband! You cannot object to the match: he is rich and

highly accomplished.

_Kate._ But I do object. He is rich; but, when I marry, it shall be a

man, and not a money-bag.

_Ray._ You refuse to obey me?

_Kate._ In this, yes. You have ever found me an obedient child, ready

and eager to obey you: but this is a matter in which the heart commands;

and mine bids me obey a higher law, which not even a father has power to

set aside.

_Ray._ Well, here’s another! The son refuses to acknowledge his father,

the daughter her husband! I tell you, girl, you shall marry this man!

_Kate._ I will not! I love another.

_Ray._ And that other?--

_Kate._ September Gale.

_Sept._ True, true as steel.

SITUATION.

(_KATE, R. RAYMOND, R. C. SEPT., C. JOHN GALE, L. C. MARCH, L.

C. MRS. GALE, L. Enter KITTY and GRAPEAU, L., KITTY trying to

screen him as they creep toward door, C. MARCH attracts MRS.

G.’S attention, who seems inclined to turn around._)

_Ray._ Your brother. Confound it, you’re all crazy! Do you want to drive

me mad?

_Kate._ He is not my brother.

_Ray._ But I say he is: every circumstance goes to prove it,--“The

Diana,” the wreck, the child found upon the sands. I tell you he must be

my son.

_John Gale._ Now, what’s the use of talking about the wreck? Wa’n’t there

two on ’em? Couldn’t there have been a baby born on board? Couldn’t your

wife have made a mistake in the vessel? I don’t see your proof. She might

have sailed in “The Gladiator.” (_GRAP. rushes down, C._)

_Grap._ “Ze Gladiator?” What for you say “Ze Gladiator”?

_John Gale._ Hallo! who’s this?

_March._ The old Frenchman’s caught.

_Mrs. Gale._ That plaguy peddler here! Where’s my broom?

_March._ Hold on, Mother Gale! The old gentleman has done me a service,

and I’ll stand by him.

_Ray._ What does he know of “The Gladiator”?

_Grap._ “Ze Gladiator”? Sacre! I have know “Ze Gladiator” too much,--ver

too much. I have sailed from my own France ever so long ago in ze ship

call “Ze Gladiator.”

_John Gale._ When was that?

_Grap._ Oh, sacre! ten, twenty-one, two, three years ago.

_Ray._ Twenty-three years ago?

_Grap._ Oui, oui! But, sacre? she was vat you call wreck; she all go to

ze pieces on ze sands, and I have to make ze passage on ze leetle frail

hen-coop.

_March._ Oh, it’s coming,--it’s coming! Say, old man,--Frenchy,--look

here! where was this?

_Grap._ Parbleu! I do not know ze place. I have sail on ze hen-coop far,

far away from ze wreck before I picks myself up.

_March._ But--O Lord! somebody hold me!--the passengers?--any babies

aboard?

_Grap._ Babies? passengers? Oui, oui! zere vas ze passengers,--ze lady

and ze little baby; but ze poor lady die before ze ship all go to ze

pieces.

_Ray._ Died! This lady,--do you know her name?

_Grap._ Oh, sacre, no! ze membrance fail me ver much. Ze beautiful

lady,--she was so pale and so young, mine heart feel ver much for her.

Her name--sacre!--oh, it have gone from me. She was ze kind lady, for I

vas ver sick. Her name--She was ze light--ze light--Oh, sacre! I have ze

name. What ze sun do when he shine,--when he shine? He shoot--he shoot

de--de--oh, sacre! my poor old head!--He shoots de--

_Kitty._ Rays?

_Grap._ Ha, ze little rogue,--ze pooty leetle girl! Zat vas her

name,--Ray--Ray--Ray--

_Ray._ Heavens, man, speak! Was it Raymond?

_Grap._ Oui, _oui_! Ze Raymond,--ze beautiful Madam Raymond!

_Ray._ Gracious heavens! My wife! But the child, old man?--the child?

_Grap._ Ze child? ah, ze poor lady,--she have made ze grand mistake:

she have engage a passage in ze oder ship vich sail ze same day; but

ze stupid driver take her to ze wrong ship, too late for her too make

ze change. Ze fatal mistake; for ze unlucky ship met wiz disaster upon

disaster,--ze very long passage, and ze wreck at last.

_John Gale._ Long passage! I should think so; six months behind time!

_Ray._ But the child?

_Grap._ Oui, ze child! Ven ze poor lady die, ze capitan, he take ze

leetle boy, and he say, “I do not know zis child or his mozar, but ze

child sall be remembered.” So, wiz ze needle and ze ink, he prick upon ze

leetle arm of ze leetle boy ze leetle red anchor.

_Ray._ Sept. Gale, speak the truth! Have you such a mark upon your arm?

_Sept._ No, no,--thank Heaven, no!

_March._ (_Rushing to C._) One minute! Just somebody watch me, for I know

it’s coming! (_Throws off his coat and rolls up his sleeves._) It’s no

use trying to deceive me any longer! I am the child! See the little red

anchor!

_All._ The anchor!

_Ray._ My boy, my boy!

_John Gale._ } Our March!

_Mrs. Gale._ }

_Sept._ Heaven be praised!

_Kate._ My dear, dear brother!

_Grap._ (_Patting March on the back._) Ha! ze leetle baby have grown ver

much,--ver much. Zis is vat you call jolly.

_March._ Jolly, old Frenchy? That’s so, and I owe it all to you. But

where’s Kitty?

_Kitty._ (_Up stage, C._) Here, March.

_March._ What are you skulking back there for? You know what you told me

to-day.

_Kitty._ But I didn’t think you’d ever find your father; and now you’re

rich, and I’m only a poor girl.

_March._ Father, you’ve found a son to-day, and that son has found a

wife. You must take both, or neither: which shall it be?

_Mrs. Gale._ What! our Kitty!

_John Gale._ Yes, our Kitty.

_Ray._ Well, I don’t know. I must have time to consider.

_March._ No, you mustn’t. Speak quick, or you lose us. I wanted a father

bad enough; but thus far I have done without one, and I rather think--

_Ray._ Now, stop! don’t _you_ disobey me. I’ll take you both.

_Kate._ That’s a dear father! I know I shall love Kitty dearly; and March

and I have been like brother and sister,--haven’t we, March?

_March._ Ay, that we have,--you and I and Sept. By the by, what’s to

become of Sept.? Where’s _his_ father?

_Sept._ Don’t trouble yourself about me. I’ve got a father here in John

Gale.

_Ray._ And here’s another, if you’ll own him. Sept., here’s my daughter,

who refused to obey me. I’d give her to you, only, as she has refused to

obey me, and--

_Kate._ Dear father, I wouldn’t refuse again for the world.

_Ray._ Then take her, Sept. You deserve her. Well, John Gale, what have

you got to say to this?

_John Gale._ Now, what’s the use talking about what I’ve got to say? What

will the Captain have to say? (_Enter Capt., C._)

_Capt._ Quite a family party, I declare!

_Ray._ Why, Captain! where have you been?

_Capt._ I’ve just been aboard my wacht, to change my clothing; that’s

all. ’Twas a little chilly.

_Mrs. Gale._ Why, Captain! you looked warm enough when I saw you last.

_Capt._ That howid old woman!--she’s poking fun at me: I know she is.

_Ray._ Well, Captain, I mentioned your proposal to my daughter; but she

positively refuses to marry you.

_Capt._ I’m doosed glad of it; for I’ve found a beautiful cweecher, who

suits me better.

_Ray._ Who is that, pray?

_Capt._ Miss Kitty Gale.

_March._ You’re too late, Captain: she’s engaged to me.

_Capt._ You?--a howid fisherman!

_Ray._ You are mistaken. This young man is my son. It’s all out at last.

_Capt._ Well, it’s doosed plain that I’m out too: so I’ll get up anchor,

and off for the city again in my wacht.

_Grap._ Ze Capitan seems what zay call ver much over ze come.

_John Gale._ Old lady, it strikes me, if we are to have any dinner

to-day--

_Mrs. Gale._ Land sakes! I forgot all about it. You, March, run--Oh,

dear! what shall I do without March?

_John Gale._ Never mind March: we’ve got Sept. left.

_Kate._ But suppose I take him away?

_John Gale._ O Lord! what shall we do without Sept.?

_Sept._ You shan’t do without him. We began life here in the old shanty;

and, whatever fortune may have in store for him, this is his home.

_Ray._ I begin to like this place. We’ll set the men at work, and put up

a house on the bluffs, large and roomy.

_John Gale._ That’s right; for this union of the Gales will be likely to

end in a squall.

_Ray._ It shall be a family house, with room enough for Sept. and his

wife, March and his wife, John Gale and his wife, I and the Captain; and,

once a year at least, we’ll all meet there, to talk over old times, and

return thanksgiving for the treasures found down by the sea.

DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS:

R. KATE, SEPT., CAPT., RAY., JOHN GALE, MRS. GALE, MARCH, KITTY, L.

A CLOSE SHAVE.

A FARCE.

CHARACTERS.

CRUSTY (a man of means, generally considered a mean man).

TONSOR (a barber).

MCGINNIS (his assistant).

ZEB (a colored apprentice).

HEAVYFACE (a hypochondriac).

SIMPER (an exquisite).

SCENE.--_Tonsor’s barbershop. Two barber’s chairs, C., facing

audience. Table, L., with two hand-mirrors upon it. Table,

R., with razors, strop, shaving-cups, towels, &c. MCGINNIS

discovered dusting._

_McGinnis._ Now, isn’t this illigant! It’s a moighty foine lift I

have in the worrld, onyhow. Mike McGinnis, who’s curried the horse

and fed the pig, toted the hod and tinded the cows, promoted to the

illigant position of a man-shaver! Oh! be jabbers, it’s moighty foine

intirely,--what much I know ov it, and that’s moighty little. Faith, when

Mr. Tonsor’s assistant was took wid the faver, it was at his wit’s ends

he was intirely. Sez he to me, sez he,--for it’s always moighty fond he

was of me whin I lived wid his father,--“Mike,” sez he, “did iver yer

shave?”--“Is it meself?” says I: “faith, yes,--wid a pair of scissors.”

“No, no!” sez he: “did ever yer shave anybody?” “Faith, yes,” sez

I--“the pig.”--“Oh, murther!” says he: “I mane a man.”--“Niver a wun,”

sez I; “but I could soon learn.” And so he took me in here to learn the

business; but it’s precious little I’m learning, for the mashter does all

the shaving: but the time must come, and then look out for yoursilf, Mike

McGinnis. (_Enter Tonsor, R._)

_Ton._ Ah, Mike! Brushing up? That’s good. I do like to see a busy man.

Where’s Zeb?

_Mike._ Faith, I don’t know. It’s moighty little he’s shown of his face

at all, at all.

_Ton._ The lazy scamp! that’s just like him. No doubt he’s down at the

Corners dancing jigs, or turning flip-flaps for coppers.

_Mike._ Faix, that’s what yer might call turning an honest penny!

_Ton._ Any customers this morning, Mike?

_Mike._ Sorra a wun.

_Ton._ It’s a little early. They’ll soon be dropping in. Heigho, Mike!

was you ever in love?

_Mike._ Ah! away wid yer, now! Ask an Irishman such a silly question as

that! Musha, it’s nearly kilt I am wid the love of Nora Honey. Ah! but

the ould man’s got rich _peddling panuts_.

_Ton._ A rich father, who does not encourage your attentions!

_Mike._ Sorra a bit. “Mike,” sez he,--and it’s moighty winning he

is in his way,--“the front uv my door is illigantly painted on the

outside,--much finer than the inside; and you’d do well to examine it

whin you’re passing by,--whin you’re passing by, mind.”

_Ton._ Meaning, “I won’t turn you out, but you can’t stay here.”

_Mike._ That’s jest what he meant. Faith, it’s well posted yez are in the

trials and tribulations uv the tinder passion.

_Ton._ Yes, Mike; I can sympathize with you. I’m desperately in love

myself.

_Mike._ You?

_Ton._ Yes, and with the daughter of a rich man, and my love is returned.

Ah, Mike! she is the paragon of loveliness!--the otto of roses!--the pink

of purity.

_Mike._ The shaving-cream uv perfiction, and the hair-oil uv illigance!

Oh, murther! they’re all alike till they find you’ve no money.

_Ton._ Ah! but she’s entirely different, Mike. She is willing--nay,

anxious--to share my humble fortunes. ’Tis I who dread to take her from

all the rich comforts she has enjoyed, and ask her to share--

_Mike._ Love in a cottage, wid bacon and greens! Faith, you’re right:

it’s a mighty foine picter, but hard of digestion. What says the ould

gintleman?

_Ton._ He knows nothing about it.

_Mike._ And yer haven’t asked his consint?

_Ton._ No: it would be useless. He has declared his daughter shall marry

only a rich man; that he will not let her walk, ride, or receive the

visits of any young man; that he will cut her off with a shilling should

she marry _without his consent_.

_Mike._ The taring ould heathin!

_Ton._ He is encouraging the attentions of young Simper, whom the young

lady detests, and whom he only tolerates because he has a rich father.

_Mike._ The miserable ould varmint! But who is he?

_Ton._ One of my customers,--old Jotham Crusty.

_Mike._ What! that ould skinflint? His consint? It’s precious little he’d

give onyhow.

_Zeb._ (_Outside, R._) Ain’t yer ’shamed yerself, yer great, overgrown?

Fie!--for shame! Yer ought to be redicleish!

_Ton._ Hallo! here’s Zeb. What’s the matter now? (_Enter ZEB, R., shaking

his head and fighting imaginary foes outside._) Where have you been? and

what is the matter?

_Zeb._ Yes, well, I guess--Who-o-o-’s a nigger? Who--who’s a nigger? Dar

ain’t no niggers now: didn’t de prancepation krocklemation make ’em white

folks, hey?

_Ton._ Here, what’s the matter?

_Zeb._ Yes, well, I guess--a parcel of ignumramuses a-yellin’ and

a-shoutin’ as ef dey nebber seed a tanned man afore. What does de

Declamation of Indempendence say,--hey?

_Ton._ No matter what it says. You just take off your jacket and go

to work, or you’ll find out what a tanned man is. (_ZEB takes off his

jacket, R._)

_Mike._ Faith, Zeb, it’s plaguing uv yez the b’ys have been.

_Zeb._ Yes, well I guess--Who’s a nigger? what does the Constitution

say,--hey?

_Ton._ Look here, Zeb! if you open your mouth again, it won’t be healthy

for your constitution.

_Zeb._ Yes, well, I guess!--

_Ton._ Shut up quick, and hone those razors! (_ZEB goes to table, R._)

We’ve had just enough of your talk. (_Enter CRUSTY, R._)

_Crusty._ Oh! you’re here, are you? Pretty time this is to get your place

open,--ain’t it? You forget it’s the early bird that catches the worm.

_Zeb._ Worms? worms? Going a-fishing, Massa Crusty.

_Ton._ You Zeb!--

_Zeb._ By golly, I know where ’em are!--flounders as big as a slab; and

eels, golly,--what whoppers!

_Ton._ Shut up, and mind your business! Yes, Mr. Crusty; first chance for

you this morning.

_Crusty._ Yes, I should think so! I tell you what, Tonsor, you don’t go

to work right to make a fortune. Do as I did,--early to bed, and early up

in the morning. You live too fast: you should sober down. Why don’t you

get married?

_Ton._ Ah, Mr. Crusty, that’s the very thing I would like to do. A nice

little wife, a nice home, every thing comfortable,--ah, sir! a man must

be happy.

_Crusty._ Of course he must, and make money too. Why don’t you try it?

There’s plenty of girls about here anxious to get a husband.

_Ton._ I know that, sir; but I’ve already made my choice.

_Crusty._ Oh! you have? Then why don’t you get married, have a little

comfort, and not poke along in this way, with no company but a

thick-headed Irishman and a ball of blacking?

_Mike._ Faith, it’s mighty complimentary is the ould gint, onyhow.

_Zeb._ Yes, well I guess! Ball of blacking,--blacking! What does the

Declamation--

_Ton._ Shut up, Zeb!

_Crusty._ Say, Tonsor, why don’t you get married?

_Ton._ Well, sir, you see, sir--

_Crusty._ Oh, bother! why don’t you speak out?

_Mike._ Faith, Mr. Crusty, I’ll be afther telling uv yez: it’s mighty

bashful is the masther. Ye say, sir, it’s all along uv the young lady’s

father.

_Crusty._ Well, what of him?

_Mike._ Ye say, sir, he’s wealthy and concaited, and manes the daughter

shall niver marry anybody but a rich man.

_Crusty._ Not when such a likely young man as Tonsor offers? The mean old

scamp!

_Mike._ That’s thrue for yez, sir. He won’t let her go wid a young man,

or have a young man come uv courtin’ her.

_Crusty._ The miserable old scoundrel!

_Mike._ And swears by all that’s blue that he’ll cut her off widout a

shilling if she marries widout his consent.

_Crusty._ The miserly old vagabond! Look here, Tonsor, you must marry

this girl directly.

_Ton._ Marry her!

_Crusty._ Marry her?--yes! Confound you! don’t you want to?

_Ton._ But her father--

_Crusty._ Who cares for him? The mean old scamp! I’d like to play him

a trick, and I will too. Here, you just take my chaise,--it’s at the

door,--get the young lady, go down to Hobson, get a license, and then be

off to Parson Sanborn, and get married at once.

_Ton._ But, Mr. Crusty, her father will not consent to this.

_Crusty._ Confound her father! Who cares for him or his consent? I

give mine, and that is enough. I’m the richest man in the place; and,

if anybody complains, let ’em sue me for damages. I won’t have such a

confounded mean old cuss--

_Ton._ Take care, Mr. Crusty!

_Crusty._ --tomer in town!

_Ton._ You will back me in this?

_Crusty._ Back you?--of course I will! Do you suppose I’ll stand by and

see youth and honesty and worth given the go-by, by an old, mean--

_Ton._ Don’t, Mr. Crusty,--don’t call him names.

_Crusty._ Here, I’ll give you a note to Parson Sanborn, and another for

old Hobson. They’ll help you along. I’ll tell the parson to tie the knot

strong. (_Goes to table, R._) A mean, contemptible scamp!

_Zeb._ By golly, the old man’s crazy sure for sartain! See him eyes roll!

_Ton._ Mike, I’ve a great mind to take the old man at his word.

_Mike._ If yer don’t, yer a goose. He gives his consent, and ye’ll have

it in writin’, too. Go it, honey!

_Crusty._ There you are: there’s a note for the parson, and another for

old Hobson. Give my regards to the lady, and tell her she’s a goose if

she misses such a chance of getting a husband.

_Ton._ Thank you, Mr. Crusty. I’ll be off at once. Mike, you look after

the shop. Don’t let old Crusty out of here for half an hour, mind.

_Crusty._ Come, come! I want that horse and chaise in half an hour.

_Ton._ All right, sir. I’ll be back before then. Mike, give the old

gentleman a shave. Good-by! I’m off. (_Exit, R._)

_Mike._ Good luck to yez! Here’s an old shoe for luck. (_Throws a shoe

off, R., which hits ZEB in head._)

_Zeb._ Stop, yer fool--will yer? By golly, you almos’ broke my jaw!

_Mike._ Faith, if I had, ’twould been a savin’ for the shop.

_Crusty._ The young man’s off. Good joke on the girl’s father! Well, it

won’t cost me any thing; so I can afford to give my consent. (_Takes off

handkerchief and dicky._) Now, my man, I’ll trouble you for a shave.

_Mike._ A shave! (_Aside._) Oh, murther! how could I go to work to shave

this ould rhinoceros?

_Crusty._ Come, be lively! I want to get out of this at once. I’m wanted

at the house.

_Mike._ Oh, murther and Irish! at the house is it? (_Aside._) Faith,

that’ll niver do. (_Aloud._) Here, sit down here, sir.

_Crusty._ (_Sits in chair, R. C._) A close shave, mind!

_Mike._ A close shave is it? (_Aside._) By the blissed St. Patrick,

what’s that? (_Enter SIMPER, R._)

_Simper._ Now, weally, ’tis disgustingly vulgaw,--it is weally,--the

ideah of a wefined gentleman being compelled to entaw such a howid place,

to have his chin shaved, and his whiskaws twimmed: it is weally!

_Mike._ Your turn next, sir: take a seat.

_Simper._ My turn next? Do you weally mean to say that I must wait? Aw!

_Mike._ Faith, honey, you must: there’s niver a wun to shave you at all,

at all!

_Simper._ But I can’t wait,--I can’t weally. I have a pwessing

engagement. A dear, delightful cweecher is fondly waiting my coming,--she

is weally.

_Crusty._ (_Aside._) Then all I’ve got to say, she’s got a job. Here, you

slow coach! am I never to have a shave?

_Mike._ In a minit, sir: the wather’s could. (_Puts wrappers, towel, &c.,

round him._)

_Simper._ Yes, weally, you must attend to me. The dear cweecher will die:

I know she will.

_Crusty._ Then let her die, or shave yourself!

_Mike._ Faith, sir, I can’t help it. Oh, murther! that’s Zeb. It’s high

time he had his hand in. Here, Zeb! shave that gintleman.

_Zeb._ What dat you say, hey?

_Mike._ Oh, bother! Shave that gintleman.

_Zeb._ Shabe him,--shabe him? me shabe him? By golly! in coose,--in

coose! (_To SIMPER._) Dar’s de cheer. Hist yerself,--hist yerself!

_Simper._ Do what?

_Zeb._ Hist yerself, honey! Discompose yerself in dat are cheer.

_Simper._ Now, weally, the ideah of placing myself in the hands of such

a howible cweecher! It’s too bad,--it is weally. (_Sits in chair, &c. ZEB

puts wrapper and towel about him._)

_Simper._ Now, Mr. Bawbaw.

_Zeb._ Mr. Which?

_Simper._ Use despatch.

_Zeb._ Yes, well, I guess not; we use razors hea, we do.

_Crusty._ Come, come, hurry up.

_Mike._ Yes, sir, intirely, sir. (_Lathers him. ZEB lathers SIMPER,

putting it plentifully in his mouth._)

_Simper._ Ph--ph--ph--! deuse take you; do you want to choke me with your

nasty soap?

_Zeb._ Yes, well, I guess not. It’s jest as wholesome as flap-jacks and

sirup. (_To MIKE._) I’ve got him lathered: what will I do with him now?

_Mike._ Do, you spalpeen?--do wid him as I do wid de _other_ chap.

(_Takes the razor._) Now for my first attimpt at shaving. Blessed St.

Patrick, befrind me, or I be afthir cuttin’ his wizen.

_Zeb._ (_Goes to table, taking razor._) I’m to do as Mike does: golly,

I kin do dat jist. (_During the next speeches he runs between the two

chairs, watching MIKE, and shaving SIMPER._)

_Simper._ Now, bawbaw, do your neatest; for, in a few minutes, I shall be

at the feet of a divine cweecher.

_Zeb._ Screecher! does she play on de banjo too.

_Simper._ Be careful now, don’t destwoy the symmetwy of my whiskaws.

_Zeb._ (_aside_). Sim--sim--sim--what am dat? By golly, Mike’s taking de

whiskers off dat chap of his’en.

_Simper._ I say, bawbaw: in a few minutes I shall thwow myself at the

feet of this divine cweecher; and I shall say--

_Crusty._ Confound you, stupid, you’ve cut me--

_Mike._ Oh, murder! it was the razor. Bedad, I wish I was well out of

this.

_Simper._ Oh!--murder!--murder! you’ve cut me hawwibly!

_Zeb._ By golly, so I has. (_Aside._) Must do jes as Mike does.

_Simper._ Be careful, bawbaw: don’t spoil my complexion; for it would be

hawwible to meet my chawmew, the divine Kate Cwusty, with a howwid cut.

_Crusty._ Kate! this must be Simper. (_CRUSTY and SIMPER having their

heads back in the chairs are supposed not to see each other._)

_Simper._ Yes, bawbaw, the rich Miss Kate Cwusty. Her fathaw’s immensely

wich,--a gay old boy, who likes to save his money; but we’ll teach him

better when we are mawwied.

_Crusty._ (_Aside._) Will you? confound you! we’ll see about that.

_Simper._ Bawbaw, be a little more gentle, if you please; handle my

ambwosials very carefully.

_Zeb._ Ambrose who? Ambrose! by golly, I used to know an Ambrose down

Souf,--a molasses-darkey, about your complex--

_Simper._ Why, you, bawbaw, do you mean to compare me to a negwo?

_Zeb._ Molasses-color, molasses-color! dat’s all.

_Simper._ Why, you infuwnal nigg--

_Zeb._ Hey! what’s dat you call? Hey! what’s dat, what den’s the

Constitution say. Hey! (_flourishing razor._)

_Simper._ Good gwacious! put down that wazor!

_Zeb._ What did the ’mancipation krocklamation do, hey? (_Flourishing

razor._)

_Simper._ Dear me! will you put down that wazor?

_Zeb._ Nigah! by golly, if you ain’t dark complexed yourself I’d--I’d--

_Simper._ Help! murdew! put down that wazor!

_Mike._ Faith, Zeb, if yer not quiet, out yer go.

_Zeb._ Ob course, ob course! what’s the dec--

_Mike._ Oh! whist wid yer blarney, and shave the man.

_Crusty._ Come, come, hurry up: will you never get through?

_Mike._ In a minute: aisy, aisy, sir! (_Enter HEAVYFACE._)

_Heavy._ Oh, yes! of course: all full, just as I expected! That’s the

way the world over: there’s nothing but disappointment; every thing goes

against me.

_Mike._ Your turn next, sir.

_Heavy._ Now, I suppose you call that consolation. I tell you the world

is all going wrong; there’s nothing but misery and deceit in it. (_Takes

a chair, and seats himself between the two barber’s chairs._) A man’s got

no real friends in this world: your riches are deceitful, your dearest

friend may be your foe. Now, I suppose you two chaps feel perfectly

comfortable in those chairs, with a pair of grinning fiends standing over

you with razors, ready at the slightest provocation to plunge them in

your throats.

_Simper._ Oh, hawaws! } _Together rising up._

_Crusty._ What do you mean? }

_Mike._ (_Pushing back CRUSTY._) Aisy, now, honey: it’s all right; don’t

be timorous.

_Zeb._ (_Pushing back SIMPER._) It’s all right, all right! don’ be

timbertoed.

_Heavy._ Oh, yes! of course they say it’s all right, and you believe

them; but I tell you it’s all wrong: wickedness and deceit are hid

beneath the most smiling faces. I’ve heard horrible stories of barbers:

they have been known to murder their customers in their chairs.

_Crusty._ } _Starting up._ { Goodness, gracious!

_Simper._ } { Oh, hawwible!

_Mike._ Now, do be aisy: I’ll finish you directly.

_Crusty._ No, you won’t! I object to being finished by you. Put down

that razor: I’ve had quite enough. You’ve been long enough on my face to

plough an acre of land.

_Mike._ (_Aside._) Faith! it’s about as tough a job,--but I haven’t

finished.

_Crusty._ Well, then, you shan’t; wipe my face! quick! quick, do you

hear? (_MIKE wipes face._)

_Simper._ Bawbaw, I’ve had quite enough: wipe my face, and give me a

mirraw. (_ZEB wipes face._)

_Zeb._ All right, massa! all right!

_Heavy._ Quite enough! I should think you had! Men generally do get

enough in this world of misery! nothing but misery! We’re all going

to the bad. There’s that barber, Tonsor, instead of attending to his

customers, he is off on a spree. I met him with a young woman, and I’ll

bet he’s off to get married. He’s bound for perdition.

_Crusty._ Good, good, good!

_Heavy._ Good! suppose he’s run off with somebody’s daughter!

_Crusty._ I know he has!

_Heavy._ You know he has? You are a pretty man,--you are! perhaps you

aided and abetted him. How should you like it if it was your daughter,

instead of old Crusty’s?

_Crusty._ (_Starting up._) My daughter?

_Simper._ Old Cwusty’s daughtaw?

(_They both start up, and speak together. CRUSTY has one side of face

shaved clean of whiskers, the other untouched. SIMPER has one of his

whiskers and half of his mustache gone; they sit, and look at each other.

HEAVYFACE between, ZEB, L., and MIKE, R._)

_Heavy._ Well, you’re a pair of beauties,--you are!

_Simper._ Old Cwusty here--as I’m alive! it’s all up with me. (_ZEB hands

him mirror._)

_Crusty._ My daughter! I see it all! What a confounded fool I’ve been!

gone and helped that Tonsor to run off with my daughter. It’s horrible! I

shall be the laughing-stock of the whole village!

_Simper._ (_Looking in mirror._) Good gwacious! horwible! what do I see!

my whiskaws and my beautiful mustache totally wuined! totally wuined!

_Crusty._ After all the money I have spent for her education!

_Simper._ Good gwacious! after all the hair-oil I’ve poured ovaw them!

_Crusty._ The masters I’ve given her!

_Simper._ The care I’ve bestowed upon them!

_Crusty._ Every accomplishment has been given her!

_Simper._ They’ve been twimmed and curled day aftew day!

_Crusty._ And to lose her thus! It’s too bad!

_Simper._ And to be shorn and mangled thus! It’s hawwible!

_Crusty._ (_Sees his face in the glass._) What’s this? my whiskers gone!

O you idiot! you infernal scoundrel, what have you done?

_Mike._ Faith, it’s the bist I could do: it’s mighty little I’m

acquainted round here.

_Crusty._ I’ll teach you to mangle me in that way, you scoundrel! (_Runs

after MIKE, who gets under table, L._)

_Mike._ Aisy, Mr. Crusty: yer wanted a close shave; and, ’pon my word,

I’d a ’gin it to yer if you’d waited!

_Zeb._ By golly! Mike’s under de table. Well, I guess I better look out

for squalls. (_Gets under table, R._)

_Simper._ Where’s that horrid bawbaw? (_Sees ZEB under table, R._) The

scoundwel! you black imp!--

_Zeb._ Hold yer hush! hold you hush! what dous the Declamation--

_Crusty._ Come out of that, or I break the table about your head.

_Mike._ If you plaze, Mr. Crusty, I’d rather stop here. (_Enter TONSOR,

L._)

_Crusty._ Oh! you’re back,--are you? Now, you villain, what do you mean

by running off with my daughter?

_Ton._ I beg your pardon, sir; but I couldn’t help it: I was tempted.

_Crusty._ Tempted by who?

_Ton._ The writer of this note (_reads_). “Dear Parson, Marry this couple

quickly, and marry them strong. The young man is worthy of any young lady

in the place. The father of the lady, an ugly old scamp, objects; but

I’ll give my consent and will pay all damages. Yours, Jotham Crusty.”

These were my instructions, which I have carefully obeyed. I’ve brought

back your chaise; and you’ll find my wife in it ready to thank her dear

father for his thoughtful attention in giving her the husband of her

choice.

_Heavy._ (_Who has taken barber’s chair vacated by CRUSTY._) Crusty, you

are slightly done.

_Crusty._ Oh, yes! this is nuts for you, you sour old hypochondriac.

You think you are going to crow over me; but you shan’t. I’ve lost a

daughter, but I’ve found a son. Here, Tonsor, here’s my hand: the old

man’s sold, and must own up. Sell out this business, shut up shop, and

come home.

_Ton._ Thank you! I’ll sell at once. Here’s Mike: he shall have it.

_Crusty._ He! why, look at my face!

_Ton._ We’ll set him up in business with Zeb.

_Simper._ That horrid bawbaw! look at my ambwosials.

_Mike._ Faix! I go into business wid dat black son of Africa?

_Zeb._ Hold yer hush! hold yer hush! dare’s no brack, now. What doz the

Declamation of Indecempendence say?

_Ton._ No matter what it says: you shall have the business. So, after

thanking all here for their kind attention to my business while away, I

will retire, as there is only one thing I require,--their kind plaudits.

_Crusty._ Hold on, Tonsor: there’s something else. Here’s Simper: he’s

lost a wife and half his whiskers; I’ve lost a daughter and half mine; so

I’ll take the chair.

_Heavy._ Hold on! hold on! it’s my turn next!

_Crusty._ Why, you’ve just been railing at barbers and razors and the

wickedness of the world: will you put yourself in their hands?

_Heavy._ To be sure I will. We’re all going to the bad. I’m reconciled,

and they can’t hurt me.

_Crusty._ Well, have your turn; and, after you get through, I’ll see if I

can’t have what I came here for.

_Ton._ What was that, father-in-law?

_Crusty._ A clean shave.

DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS.

R., ZEB, SIMPER, CRUSTY, TONSOR, HEAVY, MIKE, L.

CAPULETTA; OR, ROMEO AND JULIET RESTORED.

AN OPERATIC BURLESQUE.

CHARACTERS.

CAPULET, a Gentleman of Verona.

ROMEO, } Gay Lords of Verona.

MERCUTIO, }

JULIET, Capulet’s Fair Daughter.

_Costumes to suit the taste of the performers._

SCENE 1. _Garden in front of CAPULET’S house. Door, C.

Balcony (the balcony is a shed with poles and lines filled

with clothes drying), R. C. Set bushes or trees, L. C. Enter

CAPULET, C., in dressing-gown, carrying a lantern._

_Cap._ Now is the winter of my discontent

Made glorious summer by this dark night sent,

And all the troubles gathering o’er my house

In inky darkness I may bid _varmouse_.

Now on my brows my night-cap sets at ease;

My bruised arms no more my _fire_-arms seize;

No stern alarms to wake me from a nap,

To spring wild rattles, and revolvers snap;

Stern visaged war--Why, what am I about?

I did not come out, Richard III. to spout.

I am the father of a daughter dear,--

Dear! yes, she costs a thousand pounds a year.

They call her fair, they praise her auburn tresses,

And go in raptures o’er her handsome dresses.

Her hats outdo Verona’s richest lasses--

So small they can’t be seen without opera glasses.

She sports in silks and satins of the best

That can be made by Madam Demor_est_.

Verona’s gallants seek to flirt and flout

With this dear _gal_, when’er her _aunt_ is out.

They’d like to catch her with a wedding-ring;

And so they come at night to spout and sing.

But I won’t have it: under lock and key,

This floating _belle_ shall _ring_ for none but me.

I am her father; and my lawyer knows,

Paying for her dresses, I can keep her _close_.

All’s safe to-night, and so I’ll tramp to bed--

(_Moon rises._)[1]

What’s that? the moon is rising overhead,

And coming up in such a smashing way,

It rivals the Museum’s famous Peep o’ Day.

So I’ll to bed, and should marauders roam,

Let them beware; for Capulet’s at home.

(_Exit, C._)

_JULIET appears on balcony with a jar of pickled limes._

_Song, “Juliet.” Air, “No one to Love.”_

No one to woo, none to address

A tender young maid in the greatest distress.

Hard is my lot; beaux I have none;

On this piazza I’m sitting alone.

No gentle man, no tender lad,

Comes here to woo: ’tis really too bad.

No one to woo, none to address

A tender young maid in the greatest distress.

Hard is my lot, beaux I have none;

On this piazza I’m sitting alone.

_Jul._ Ah, me! Ah, me! Ah, me! Oh, my!

I cannot sleep, nor tell the reason why.

’Tis now the very _witching_ hour of night,

_Which_ is to say, it would be if ’twas light.

Why, there’s the moon, quite dear to me, I’m sure:

I never felt she was so _near_ before.

O beauteous queen! descend from thy high sphere,

And taste a pickled lime with me, my dear.

I’ll tell thee lots of scandal and of fashion,

And whisper in thine ear my tale of passion;

For I’m in love; in love with a dear feller

I met one night while seeing Cinderella.

Oh, such a dear! dear me, I’m in a flutter.

He’s young and rich, and sweet as fresh June butter:

His name is Romeo; he’s the idol of the town;

I’ll sing his praise. Prythee, dear, come down.

_ROMEO (outside), L. sings._

We won’t go home till morning,

We won’t go home till morning,

We won’t go home till morning,

Till Juliet doth appear.

_Enter ROMEO and MERCUTIO, L._

_Mer._ Shut up, old chap, this strain will never do:

’Twill get us both locked up in Station Two.

_Rom._ Mercut_h_, old chap, I’ll own I’m rather airy,

And feel as limber as a Black-Crook fairy.

’S all right, old fel’, I’m deuced glad you’re here:

Fact is, I hardly know which way to steer.

_Mer._ Oh, ho! I see King Lager’s been with you,

And on his beer you’re settled fast and true.

He is the Dutchman’s idol, and he puffs

In shape as monstrous as Jack Falstaff’s stuffs.

His throne’s a monstrous cask of his own brew,

With courtiers drawing him by two and two.

His crown Dutch cheese, his sceptre’s a Bologna.

His subjects--well, they’re _mustered_ in Verona.

His drink is Bock, his food is sour krout,

Pretzels his lunch, his night-cap, gin, without.

And in this guise he keeps a jolly pace,

Shaking his sides, a grin upon his face.

Great in our land as is our famous eagle,

He sings in opera, and he fights mit Sigel.

_Rom._ Steady, my boy, you’re really getting dry.

My stars! old fellow, what’s that in the sky?

_Mer._ The moon, of course--

_Rom._ But I see two, I’ll swear.

_Mer._ Then you see double.

_Rom._ There’s the other there (_points to Juliet_).

_Mer._ Another? Bless me! ’tis too brilliant far.

Call that a moon? It is a glorious star.

_Rom._ Call that a star? by what arrangement, pray?

_Mer._ Why, don’t you know? The star of our new play.

_Rom._ You speak in _meteor_-phor, now pray have done.

What is’t o’clock?

_Mer._ Four-quarters after one.

_Song, “Juliet.” Air, “Five o’clock in the Morning.”_

My father is snugly in his bed,

Taking his morning nap;

My aunt has stuffed her waterfall

Under her snow-white cap;

The crickets are singing merrily;

While I, all danger scorning,

Sit quietly eating pickled limes,

At two o’clock in the morning.

Then what care I for costly gems,

Or silks and satins fine?

I know full well when daylight comes

That those will all be mine.

Alone on my father’s balcony,

Far, far, from fashion’s warning,

I’m happier far with my pickled limes,

At two o’clock in the morning.

_Rom._ Mercutio, it’s really getting late:

You know that your mamma for you will wait;

You’d better go.

_Mer._ Oh, no! I thank you, chum!

My ma will look for me when I’m to _hum_.

I’ll stay a while.

_Rom._ Mercutio, listen now,

’Tis not the time of night to pick a row.

There’s an old proverb, really ’tis well done,

That two is company, and three is none.

Now, pray consider--

_Mer._ You are right, ’tis so:

As two is company, you’d better go.

_Rom._ Oh, pshaw! Mercutio have no more such fun.

_Mer._ He’s scared at jests who never made a pun.

_Rom._ But, soft! what light in yonder window lies?

It is the (_y_)east.

_Mer._ There’s something on the rise.

_Rom._ It is the east, and Juliet is the sun--

Arise! fair sun.

_Mer._ Oh, murder! do have done;

Of grammar you are making fearful slaughter.

What gender makes a son of Capulet’s daughter?

_Rom._ Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon--

_Mer._ You are getting to the killing part too soon.

_Rom._ Who is already sick and pale with grief--

_Mer._ Then give it a dose of Radway’s Ready Relief.

_Rom._ She speaks, yet she says nothing--

_Mer._ Nary word;

Upon my life, such silence ne’er was heard.

_Rom._ See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

_Mer._ Because she’s tired: can’t you understand?

_Rom._ Oh! would I were some gloves upon thy--

_Mer._ _Pause!_

Or else old Capulet’ll have us in his claws.

_Rom._ That I might print a kiss upon that cheek!

_Mer._ Hold on a moment ere you further speak:

You’re getting cheeky with your warm address.

If you must print, go try the printing-press.

_Jul._ Ah, me! ah, me! ah, me! oh, my!

_Rom._ She speaks.

_Mer._ She’s got a meteor in her eye.

_Rom._ Oh, speak again, bright angel!

_Mer._ So I will:

You’ll catch the rheumatism by standing still.

_Rom._ Shut up; she speaks.

_Jul._ O Romeo! Romeo, say

Wherefore, oh, wherefore art thou Romeo, pray?

_Rom._ Well, really, madam, that’s a poser, rather:

I really think you’d better ask my father.

_Song, “Romeo.” Air, “Pat Molloy.”_

At fourteen years of age I was a tall and strapping lad:

My father had the oil-fever, and had it awful bad.

“I’m hard up, Romeo,” says he, “and cannot raise the tin:

My copper stocks are getting low; I really must give in.”

He put my best clothes in a bag, and put it on my back,

And, with his knotty walking-stick, gave me a parting whack.

“Get out of this, my boy,” says he, “and remember, as you go,

Old Montague’s your daddy, and your name is Romeo.”

_Jul._ Deny thy father, and refuse thy name,

Call thyself Smith or Jones, ’tis all the same;

Or, if thou art inclined to give it me,

I’ll pack my trunk and go along with thee.

_Rom._ Shall I hear more, or had I better--

_Mer._ Wait,

Give her a chance, she’ll pop the question straight.

_Jul._ What’s in a name?

_Mer._ Why, often there’s a letter.

_Jul._ Pickles by any other name taste all the better,

And so would Romeo--

_Mer._ Oh, dear! here’s a row:

She’s got you in a precious pickle now.

_Jul._ Romeo, doff thy name now, that’s a dear;

For Mrs. Montague would sound so queer:

I do not like it; for thy name mine take;

A better bargain you did never make.

_Rom._ I’ll take thee at thy word: I’ll change my nature,

And get my name changed by the legislature.

_Mer._ Not in _our_ General Court can you, I’ll swear:

They change not names, but only color, there.

_Jul._ What lads art thou beneath my window met?

_Mer._ Lads! With a ladder we’d be nearer yet.

_Rom._ I know not how, dear saint, to tell you that,

Because my name is written in my hat,

And you don’t like it. I would rub it out,

If there was any rubber here about.

_Jul._ Whist! how came you here, and why?

My father’s fence is very sharp and high,

And should he find you here--

_Mer._ The ugly cuss

Would straight salute us with a blunderbuss.

_Rom._ With love’s light wings did I the fence o’erleap

On sounding pinions--

_Mer._ Ain’t you getting steep?

_Jul._ I cannot hear you; pray come nearer, love.

_Rom._ Oh! that I had wings to mount above.

_Mer._ Wings? Pshaw! a stouter platform you will need

If that fond purpose in your eye I read.

(_Rolls in barrel of flour from L.; places it beneath balcony, and

assists ROMEO to mount it._)

Here is the article, and just the size,

Placed in your east, ’twill help you to _arise_.

Now mount, my hero, spread your softest talk,

And, while you’re busy, I’ll go take a walk.

Be careful of your feet, or, by the powers,

Our next tableau’ll be “love among the _flours_.” _Exit, L._

_Jul._ By whose direction found you out this spot?

_Rom._ ’Tis put down in the Directory, is it not?

_Jul._ If you are found here, you’ll be murdered straight,

So pray begone--

_Rom._ I think I’d rather wait.

Fear not for me my jewel, on my word,

Your eyes cut deeper than the sharpest sword.

Oh! beauteous Juliet, fairest of the fair,

Within my heart a roaring flame I bear.

I’m over ears in love within this hour. (_Stumbles on barrel._)

_Jul._ Be careful, you’ll be over ears in flour.

_Rom._ If thou wouldst have me paint the home

To which I’d bear thee when our nuptials come,

Listen. In a deep vale where huckleberries grow,

And modest sun-flowers blossom in a row,

Where blooming cabbage rears its lofty head,

And fragrant onion spreads its lowly bed,

A yellow cottage, with a chimney tall,

Lifts to eternal summer its shingled wall.

From out a bower made musical with frogs,

Who chant their wild lays in the neighboring bogs,

At noon we’d sit beneath the arching vine,

And gather grapes to make our winter wine;

And when night came we’d guess what star

Should next attract us to the op--era;

And then--

_Jul._ Oh, pshaw! give o’er,

Your yellow-covered cottage is a bore;

For cabbages and onions find new names:

I mean to have rooms at the new St. James.

And if you love me it is surely fair--

_Rom._ Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear--

_Jul._ Oh! swear not by the moon.

_Rom._ Well, then, I won’t.

What shall I swear by?

_Jul._ Swear not at all, my dear.

_Rom._ What! not a swear? Oh, this ain’t love, ’tis clear!

_Cap._ (_outside_). Ho, Juliet! Juliet, are you there?

I cannot find my night-cap anywhere.

_Rom._ Who’s that?

_Jul._ My father. Oh, the deuse’s to pay!

_Rom._ I wish the old man was _farther_ any way.

_Cap._ (_outside_). Juliet!

_Jul._ Coming, coming soon.

_Rom._ I wish old Capulet was the man in the moon.

_Jul._ Good night, dear Romy; tie your ears up tight.

_Rom._ And wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? ’taint right.

_Jul._ What satisfaction canst thou have, my blade?

_Rom._ Why, that of giving you a serenade.

(_“Mocking Bird,” Whistling serenade, by ROMEO._)

_Song, “Juliet.” Air, “Listen to the Mocking Bird.”_

My father now has spoken, has spoken, has spoken,

My father now has spoken,

And the whistling lad is ringing in my ear.

I feel like one heart-broken, heart-broken, heart-broken,

I feel like one heart-broken,

For my Romey can no longer linger here.

Listen to the whistling lad,

Listen to the whistling lad,

The whistling lad who pipes his merry lay.

Listen to the whistling lad,

Listen to the whistling lad,

Who whistles where the yellow moonbeams play.

I’m dreaming now of Romey, of Romey, of Romey,

I’m dreaming now of Romey,

And the tender, tender words he spake to me.

To the opera he shall beau me, shall beau me, shall beau me,

To the opera he shall beau me,

And I the happiest maid in town will be.

Listen to the whistling lad, &c.

_Cap._ (_without_). Juliet, I say, ho! Juliet, do you hear?

_Jul._ Coming, papa; and now good-night, my dear.

_Exit._

_Rom._ Good-night, good-night; parting were such sweet sorrow,

I’ll come again and try it on to-morrow.

_Exit, L._

_Enter MERCUTIO, L._

_Mer._ Is this a bottle which I see before me?

The nozzle towards my mouth. Come, let me pour thee.

I have thee not; and yet I’ll swear I saw

Thee just as plain as this which now I draw.

(_Draws bottle from his pocket._)

_Song, “Mercutio.” Air, “Rootle tum, tootle tum ta.”_

Mercutio, you have been told,

Was a gay boy of old:

One Shakspeare his story has told

In a humorous sort of a way.

He was fond of a nice little game,--

Any game you can name,

Would see you, and go it again.

Rootle tum, tootle tum tay.

For frolic or fighting quite ready,

You could hardly, I think, call him steady.

Rootle tum, tootle tum, tootle tum, tootle tum,

Tootle tum, tootle tum tay.

Of his virtues we oft have been told

By this wise bard of old;

But his vices he didn’t unfold,

But just kept them out of the way.

A patron he of the race-horse,

And the turf,--what is worse,

Was given to betting, of course.

Rootle tum, tootle tum tay;

So a moral to put if you’re willin,

I’ll make him a sort of a villain.

Rootle tum, tootle tum, &c.

Ha! ha! ha! this Romeo, silly looney,

Has, on old Capulet’s daughter, got quite spooney;

And now to wed her he is nothing loth.

Ha! ha! he’ll find my fingers in the broth.

He’s ordered cards for Wednesday--Park-st. Church:

Mayhap his bride will leave him in the lurch;

I’ll marry her myself, or rot in prison.

Why should’nt she be mine as well as his’n?

I do remember an apothecary, or rather orter,

Who, somewhere hereabouts, sells soda-water.

I’ll hie to him, and high this bottle fill,

With laughing gas. Ha! ha! my heart be still.

We’ll block this little game, that’s very plain;

Conscience, avaunt! Mercut_h_’s himself again.

_Turns and meets CAPULET, who has entered from door, C., with revolver._

_Cap._ So, so, my early bird you’ve caught a worm;

Keep still, you stupid, don’t begin to squirm;

Explain this early visit if you can.

_Mer._ “Pity the sorrows of a poor old man.”

_Cap._ Oh! that won’t do, shut up, you silly elf:

I do the old man’s business here myself.

Your business here? My name is Cap--

_Mer._ --You let

Me off, and I won’t come again, you bet.

I came to look at yon revolving moon.

_Cap._ You’ll get a taste of my revolver soon.

_Mer._ You have a daughter--

_Cap._ What is that to you?

_Mer._ Nothing, but she is very fair to view:

Her name is Juliet--

_Cap._ I knew that before.

_Mer._ You did? Well, you’re a smart old man, I’m sure.

A pretty name; what is her dowry, pray?

_Cap._ A hundred thousand on her wedding-day.

_Mer._ The noble Plaster Paris seeks her hand?

_Cap._ Yes, and to marry him is my command.

_Mer._ O wild old man! I came to ope your eyes,

To save you from a fearful sacrifice.

_Cap._ How, now? speak out! you rouse my wildest fears!

_Mer._ Hush, hush, old man! they say the walls have ears.

To save you fifty thousand dollars, I agree,

If for one moment you will list to me.

Paris to take her gets a hundred thousand plum:

I’ll marry her for just one-half the sum. _Exit, L._

_Cap._ Get out, you scamp! I am completely sold:

I’ll back to bed, for it is bitter cold,

And I’ve been bit already; but to-morrow

I’ll give that girl a taste of early sorrow;

Pack up her crinoline, and off she’ll go

To Di----o Lewis, or Professor Blot.

_Exit, R._

_Enter JULIET from house._

_Jul._ O Romeo, Romeo! I forgot to say--

Why, he is gone--oh! for the trumpet’s bray,

The watchman’s rattle, or the fire-alarm,

To lure him back--

_Enter MERCUTIO, L. (wrapped in a domino), eating a

sandwich._

_Mer._ It’s really getting warm.

How tender sweet taste sandwiched tongues by night

To hungry stomachs!--now I feel all right.

_Jul._ Romeo--

_Mer._ My sweet.

_Jul._ When shall we wedded be?

_Mer._ What’s that? when wedded? Dear me, let me see.

Hush! love, a fearful tale I have to tell,

That but a moment since on me befell.

Your father swore point blank that you should marry

Only that spooney, the young Plaster Paris.

_Jul._ Never! I’ll be an old maid first.

_Mer._ Now, don’t you fret:

I’ll fix his flint; we may be happy yet.

Just take this bottle, wrap your shawl around,

And hie you off to Capulet’s burying-ground.

_Jul._ What is it, ketchup or Peruvian dye?

_Mer._ No matter, dear: just ketch it up and fly.

When you get there, imbibe a goodly dose,

Then near the tomb of Capulet hide you close.

Just read the label, sweet, before ’tis taken:

My precious jewel, it must be well shaken.

Hush! I hear a voice, a footstep too, beware!

Remember, burying-ground and gas, you’ll find me there.

_Duet, “Mercutio and Juliet.” Air, “We Merry-hearted Marched Away.”_

(_Grand Duchess._)

_Jul._ Well, well, my love, I’ll start away,

Your strange request to quick obey;

Equip myself in hat and shawl,

And meet you ’neath the church-yard wall.

_Mer._ She don’t suspect--it is all right;

I’ll be a happy dog to-night;

Rob Romeo of his darling spouse,

And ’neath the church-yard wall carouse.

“_I Love the Military._”

_Both._ Oh, I’ll } run for my } millinery,

you’ll } your }

Run for my } millinery, run for my } millinery;

your } your }

Oh yes, I’ll } quickly run and get my } shawl.

you’ll } your }

(_Repeat, and Dance off, R._)

_Enter ROMEO, L._

_Rom._ My sweet, my dove.

_Enter JULIET, R._

_Jul._ What, back again so soon?

Why, you’re as wayward as the silver moon.

_Rom._ My dear, I came to fix our wedding-day.

_CAPULET appears at door, C., with pitch-fork._

_Cap._ I’ll fix you!

_Rom._ Murder!

_Jul._ Don’t, father, pray.

_Rom._ Oh, dear!

_Jul._ Oh, my!

_Cap._ Well, sirrah, how is that?

_Rom._ Help, help, Mercutio!

_Cap._ You are cutting fat.

_Enter MERCUTIO, L._

_Mer._ Holloa, old man! ’tis time you were in bed:

Just let me fix your night-cap on your head.

_Pulls his night-cap over his eyes._

_Chorus. Air, “Sabre du mon pére.”_

Pull on your night-cap, your night-cap, your night-cap!

Pull on your night-cap, and take yourself to bed.

(_Repeat._)

(_Quick change._)