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PLAYS 


ANNA   CORA   MOWATT, 

AUTHOB    OF    "AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    AN    ACTEESS,' 

Sic,    b.G, 


NEW  AND   REVISED   EDITION. 


BOSTON : 
TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LV. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

WILLIAM    FOUSHEE    RITCHIE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


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AJiMAND; 


OR, 


THE  PEER  AND   THE  PEASANT. 


%  IJlaj), 


IN     riVE     ACTS 


"  Ancient  Heaven 
Extends  its  arch  o'er  all,  and  mocks  the  span 
Of  palaces  and  dimgeons  ;  where  the  heart, 
In  its  free  beatings  'ncath  the  coarsest  vest, 
Claims  kindred  mth  diviner  things  than  power 


Of  kings  can  raise  or  stifle." 


Talfourd. 


TO 

MRS.  JOHN  H.  WILKIN8, 

boston,  massachusetts. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Wilkins, 

Allow  me  to  dedicate  "  Armand'^  to  you — 
one  of  the  first  and  dearest  amongst  tliose  absent 
friends,  of  wliose  love  I  have  had  such  abundant 
proofs.  I  would  say  to  you,  as  to  them,  that, 
highly  as  I  prize  the  success  with  which  ''  Ar- 
mand^^  has  been  favored  before  a  British  public 
—that  success  can  never  diminish  the  value  of 
the  enthusiastic  greeting  the  Play  received  in 
my  own  beloved  land.  And  I  beg  my  country- 
men to  believe  that  the  ample  record  of  home- 
kindnesses  dwells  ever  freshly  in  my  memory. 

I  am, 
]My  dear  Madam, 
Respectfully  and  most  afiectionately 

Yours, 
Anna  Cora  Mowatt. 

London,  Feb.  22nd,  1849. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  LONDON  EDITION. 


The  play  of -4nw(7«c?;  or,  the  Peer  and  the  Peasant,  was 
produced  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York,  September  27th, 
1847,  and  subsequently  in  Boston,  Massachusetts.  It 
was  represented  before  a  London  audience,  at  the  Theatre 
Royal,  Marylebone,  January  ISth,  1849,  and  was  acted 
twenty-one  successive  nights. 

In  England,  as  in  America,  the  indulgence  of  the 
audience  towards  the  production  of  a  woman,  and  the  exer- 
tions of  the  actors,  rendered  its  success  unequivocal  and 
even  brilliant. 

Some  slight  liberty  has  been  taken  in  portraying  the 
character  of  Louis  XV.,  who  is  not  rendered  so  totally  and 
revoltingly  destitute  of  virtues  as  he  is  described  by  his- 
torians; but  I  trust  the  license  is  a  pardonable  one. 

That  Richelieu  had  a  daughter,  by  a  secret  marriage, 
who  was  brought  up  in  privacy,  there  is  some  little  autho- 
rity for  believing,  and  the  fact  (if  it  be  one)  has  already 
been  made  the  subject  of  novels,  &c. 

The  character  of  Arm  and  has  been  objected  to,  as  not 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

belonging  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  but  I  think  historical 
records  will  bear  me  out  in  the  conclusion,  that  it  was 
during  his  reign  that  the  seeds  of  the  revolution  were 
sown,  and  already  began  to  shoot  forth  in  the  breasts  of 
the  lower  orders.  Armand's  sentiments  are  but  the  fore- 
shadowing of  that  revolution. 

My  acknowledgments  are  due  and  cheerfully  paid  to 
the  Manager  of  the  Marylebone  Theatre,  for  the  lib- 
erality evinced  in  putting  the  play  upon  the  stage,  and 
in  all  his  other  arrangements — to  Mr.  Davenport,  for 
his  impressive  and  spirited  impersonation  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Armand — to  the  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the 
company,  for  the  heartiness  with  which  they,  one  and  all, 
contributed  their  exertions,  and  to  the  scenic  Artist,  for 
the  admirable  manner  in  which  his  labours  were  executed. 
I  acknowledge  with  pleasure  that  to  the  united  efforts  of 
these  parties  the  play  was  largely  indebted  for  its  success. 

A.  C.  M. 
London,  February  22nd,  1849. 


PERSONS  or  THE  DRAMA. 

Louis  the  Fifteenth,  King  of  France. 

Duke  de  Richelieu. 

Duke  D'Antin,  an  old  Noble. 

Armand,  an  Ariizan. 

Le  Sage,  Attendant  of  the  DuJce  D'Antin. 

Victor,  the  King's  favorite  Page!^ 


Jacot,       I  peasants. 

!NNE,  \ 


Etie; 

Male  and  Female  Peasants. 


Blanche. 

Dame  Babette. 

Jaciueline,  daughter  of  Dame  Bahette. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

NEW  YORK.  LONDON. 

Park,  1847.  Marylebone,  1849. 

Louis  the  Fifteenth      Mr.  Hield.  Mr.  H.  T.  Craven. 
Duke  de  Richelieu  .     .  —   Barry.  —  James  Johnstone. 

Duke  D'Antin     ...     —   Dougherty.       —   J.  W.  Ray. 

Armand —   Davenport.        —   Davenport. 

Le  Sage,     .     .     .  ^ .     .     —   McDougal.  —   G.  Cooke. 

Victor Miss  Denin.  Miss  S.  Villars. 

Jacot Mr,  Rae.  Mr.  Green. 

Etienne —   Gallot.  —  Bowen. 

Blanche Mrs.  Mowatt.  Mrs.  Mowatt. 

Babette —  Vernon.  —  Johnstone. 

jAauELiNE      ....   Miss  Kate  Horn.  Miss  M.  Oliver. 

NOTE. 
Passages  marked  with  inverted  commas  are  omitted  in  representation. 


EXITS  AND  ENTRANCES. 

R.  means  Right;  L.,  Left ;  R.  I  E„  Right  First  Entrance i  2  E.,  Second 
Entra7ice;  D.  F.,  Door  in  the  Flat. 

RELATIVE  POSITIONS. 

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

•*♦  The  reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage  facing  the  Audience, 


COSTUMES. 

KING  LOUIS. — First  flipRs:  Liuht  bine  velvet  coat,  and  white  satin  long  vest 
riclily  trimmed  with  silver,  lari;e  cnrts,  tiill  shirt  sleeves  atul  frills,  white  satin 
breeclies,  lonij  stockings,  gartered  below  the  knee,  three-cornered  hat,  trim- 
med with  lace  and  white  feathers,  while  neckcloth  and  frills,  crimson  bow 
and  diamond  brooch,  steel-hilted  sword,  broad  white  ribbon,  with  star  over 
right  shoulder,  star  on  left  breast,  cane  with  rich  tassels  and  cord,  black  shoes 
and  buckles,  on  crimson  ribbon,  red  heels,  full  powdered  ringlet  wig. — 
Second  dress:  Rich  disguise,  cloak  and  hat. — Third  dress:  Crimson  velvet 
coat,  trimmed  with  gold,  blue  ribbon  over  right  shoulder,  rest  as  before. 

RICHELIEU. — First  dress:  Dark  blue  velvet  coat  and  silver,  white  breeches 
and  frills,  sleeves,  shoes,  hat,  sword,  wig,  &c.,  all  of  same  style  as  King's: 
white  broad  ribbon  over  right  shoulder,  blue  ribbon  and  diamond  pin. — 
Second  dress:  Darkei»»velvet,  and  gold,  rest  as  before. 

D'ANTIN. — First  dress:  Moroon  velvet  and  silver,  black  satin  breeches,  white 
stockings,  frills,  sleeves,  shoes,  hat  trimmed  wiih  black  feather,  mourning 
sword,  &c.,  all  same  style  as  King's ;  purple  ribbon  over  right  shoulder,  full 
powdered  ringlet  wig,  bald  front,  black  ribbon  and  pin. — Second  dress  :  Black 
and  gold,  same  style,  rest  as  before. 

ARM  AND. — First  dress:  Salmon  and  blue  short  coat  and  full  breeches,  large 
cutfs,  full  shirt  and  sleeves,  collar  turned  over,  black  ribbon,  blue  and  white 
striped  stockings,  black  shoes  and  buckles,  white  hat,  trimmed  with  blue,  and 
pink  wreath,  nosegay,  in  left  button  hole,  ringlet  wig. — Second  dress :  Blue 
military  coat,  trimmed  with  gold,  high  military  boots  and  spurs,  broad  sword, 
shoulder  belt,  sword  to  break,  white  neckcloth  and  frills,  red  bow  and  brooch, 
powdered  wig  and  ribbon. 

VICTOR. — First  dress  :  Salmon  and  silver,  vest,  breeches,  stockings,  garters,  hat, 
shoes,  sword,  <Sjc.,&c.,  ail  same  style  as  King's,  powdered  wig. — Second  dress: 
Garnet  velvet  and  gold,  rest  as  before. 

LE  SAGE  — First  dress:  Brown  coat,  plain  breeches,  stockings  over  knee,  shoes 
and  buckles,  long  salmon  vest,  same  style  as  the  rest,  hat  without  trimming, 
powdered  wig  and  bag.— Second  dress:  Black  velvet,  trimmed  with  dark  blue 
ribbon,  rest  as  before.  « 

MALE  PEASANTS.— Various  colors,  same  style  as  Armand. 

OFFICER  AND  GUARDS.— White  military  coats,  three-cornered  hats,  powder, 
while  cravats,  &c. 

PAGES.— Court  dresses,  same  style  as  King's,  powder,  &c. 

BLANCHE.  — First  dress:  White  muslin  cottage  dress,  with  rows  of  white  satin 
ribbon  around  the  skirt,  on  the  head  a  wreath  of  white  may-flowers,  shaped 
like  coronet,  a  garland  of  white  flowers,  hung  from  the  left  shoulder. — Second 
dress:  Plain  white  muslin  slip,  same  wreath.— Third  dress:  A  sober  colored 
merino,  made  in  the  style  of  Louis  XV.,  the  boddice,  trimmed  with  a  ruche 
of  pink  silk  and  pompadour  rosettes  down  the  front,  open  skirt  looped  all 
around  with  same  rosettes,  under  skirt  of  embroidered  muslin,  a  band  of  pearls 
on  the  head. — Fourth  dress:  Silver  brocade,  embroidered  in  blue,  closed  in 
front,  and  looped  all  around  with  bunches  of  blue  and  silver  leaves,  the 
boddice,  trimmed  with  ruches  of  white  tulle  and  blue  ribbon,  under  skirt  of 
salmon  colored  satin,  linings  of  brocade  the  saine,  powdered  hair,  with  a 
small  wreath  of  blue  and  silver  leaves  on  one  side,  diamond  ornaments. 

BABETTE. — First  dress  :  Orange  colored  skirt,  bltie  merino  boddice,  black  velvet 
jacket,  white  apron,  high  peasant  cap,  high-heeled  shoes,  colored  stockings. — 
Second  dress :  Red  petticoat,  black  jacket,  cap,  &c.,  as  before. 

JAQUELINE.— First  dress:  Striped  under  skirt,  over  dress  of  gay  colored  chintz, 
tucked  up,  laced  boddice,  cottage  cap,  small  white  apron,  striped  stockings. 
Second  dress  :  Indian  silk  dress,   made  in  same  style  as  the  first. 

Peasant  dresses,  in  same  style  as  Jaqueline,  but  none  in  white. 


A  R  M  A  N  D. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

A  beautiful  part  of  the  Garden  of  Versailles.  Fountain 
of  Neptune  with  statues.  Le  Sage  walking  about  as 
thovyh  musing. 

Le  Sage.  Solve  me  this  problem,  Le  Sage,  if  thou  canst. 
Why  should  the  Duke  d'Antin  occupy  his  thoughts  with  a 
young  peasant?  Why  so  earnestly  desire  that  his  majesty 
should  behold  her  ?  Unquestionably  there  is  a  mystery  ; 
indubitably  a  mystery  !  But  thou  shalt  solve  it,  Le  Sage ! 
Thou  hast  a  head, — incontestibly  a  head, — unqualifiedly  a 
wise  head, — 

[Enter  Duke  d'Antin,  l.  1  e. 
Undoubtedly  a  head  that  sees — 

D^ Ant.  Better  than  your  eyes,  I  trust,  Le  Sage. 

Le  Sage.  Pardon,  your  Grace.  Indisputably  I  did  not 
observe  you. 

D'Ant.  I  am  all  impatience  to  learn  what  took  place 
last  evening. 

Le  Sage.  Your  Grace  shall  hear.  Preparatively  I  need 
not  inform  your  Grace  that,  obeying  your  orders,  I  made  my- 
self acquainted  with  Dame  Babette,  down  at  the  village, 
St.  Denis,  yonder.  Instantaneously  I  discovered  that  your 
Grace  had  been  rightly  informed,  and  that  the  Duke  de 
Richelieu  frequently  visits  the  dame's  cottage  in  the  garb 
of  a  citizen.  Unsuspiciously  the  dame  calls  him  Monsieur 
Antoine. 

D'Ant.  All  this  I  know  ;  proceed. 

Le  Sage.   Volimfa?'ily  ! 

ly Ant.  You  talked  to  the  dame  and  her  young  charge 
of  these  charming  gardens,  as  1  ordered  1 


10  ARM  AND  ;    OR,  [ACT.  I. 

Le  Sage.  I  painted  the  beauties  of  Versailles  with  the 
hand  of  an  artist  and  the  tongue  of  a  poet !  Mam'selle 
Blanche  was  enchanted.  Courteously  I  promised  to  obtain 
her  and  the  dame  an  admission  ;  accordingly,  yesterday 
evening  at  dusk,  when  the  garden  was  wholly  deserted,  I 
conducted  them  to  this  very  spot.  Secretly  I  then  dis- 
patched Victor  to  the  King.  Insinuatingly  he  suggested 
to  his  Majesty,  that  a  miraculously  lovely  young  peasant 
girl  had,  with  a  very  talkative  old  woman,  inexplicably  ob- 
tained admission  to  his  private  gardens,  and  was  wandering 
about  in  ecstatically  rustic  delight. 

B'Ant,  Go  on,  go  on. 

Le  Sage.  Immediately  ! 

D'Ant.  Did  he  come  1     Did  he  see  her  1 

Le  Sage.  Certainly.  His  Majesty  was  unsusi)ectedly 
dying  of  ennui.  Involuntarily  he  revived  at  the  thonglit 
of  an  adventure,  prudentially  wrapped  himself  in  a  cloak, 
and  unrejlectingly  hastened  to  the  garden. 

D' Ant.  And  then, — then  he  joined  the  peasants  X 

Le  Sage.  Indubitably. 

ly Ant.  They  did  not  suspect  that  he  was  the  king  ? 

Le  Sage.  Incontestibly  not. 

D'Ant.  He  was  fascinated  with  Blanche  ? 

Le  Sage.  Indescribably  / 

D'Ant.  He  became  joyous — elated — txcited  ? 

Le  Sage.  Extraordinarily  ! 

D'Ant.  Blanche  was  gay — artless — piquante  ? 

Le  Sage.  Superlatively  ! 

D'Ant.  Hush  !  Victor  comes  this  way.  (crossing  r.) 
Question  him  closely.  This  evening  you  shall  have  farther 
directions.     Be  cautious.  [Exit  r.  1  e. 

Le  Sage.  Invariably  I 

Enter  Victor,  l.  1  e. 

Victor.  Ah  !  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  we  are  charmed  to  en- 
counter you. 

Le  Sage.  Delightedly  I  salute  his  Majesty  in  miniature. 

Victor.  If  you  reflect  on  our  size,  Monsieur  Le  Sage, 
we  would  inform  you — ■ 

Le  Sage.  That  it  is  immeasurably  beneath  my  notice. 
— A  particularly  correct  and  pungently  philosophical  con- 
clusion. But,  Monsieur  Victor,  a  word  concerning  the 
young  peasant,  who  yesterevening, — 


ScEN'K  I.]  THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  1  1 

Victor.  All !  you  touch  iis  nearly  wlien  you  talk  of  her! 
Our  love  for  the  *'  illusive  sex" — for  such  we  deem  them — 
is  our  Achilles'  heel — our  vulnerable  point  !  His  Majesty, 
Y\\.Q,ourseIf,  has  been  cold  for  a  season  ;  but  once  more  the 
intoxicating  effect  of  the  tender  passion  has  overpowered  us. 

Enter  King  and  Richelieu,  l.  3  e. 
In  a  word,  his  Majesty  is  pleased  with  this  young  piece  of 
incarnate  loveliness, — we  may  say  charmed. 

King.  Boy,  thou  art  overbold  to  speak  of  this 
To  other  than  ourselves.     Away,  and  be 
The  answer  to  our  wish  when  next  you  seek 
Our  presence.     Go!     You  comprehend  us,  sir ? 

[Victor  and  Le  Sage  make  a  low  oheisance. 
[Exeunt  Victor  and  Le  Sage,  l.  u.  e. 
Here,  Richelieu,  is  the  consecrated  spot 
Where  I  beheld  her  first.     Here  would  I  raise 
An  altar,  sacred, — not  to  love,  (no  rood 
Within  our  kingdom  but  were  meet  for  that.) 
Be  this  to  first  impressions  dedicated ! 

Rich.  My  liege  !   I'm  all  impatience  to  behold 
The  wondrous  beauty — 

King.  The  wondrous  beauty — nay  1 

I  said  not  beauty — it  was  not  what  men 
Call  beauty,  that  has  thus  enthralled  my  soul; 
It  was  the  spirit's  loftier  loveliness. 
Unseen, — ethereal,  and  ineffable! 
Which  breathed  from  her  pure  lips — gave  to  her  step 
Its  springing  bound — her  every  movement  lent 
Its  airy  grace — pervaded  her  whole  being — 
Impregnated  the  air  that  kissed  her  robe. 
And  with  an  atmosphere  of  purity 
Encircled  her ! 

It  was  her  voice  whose  music 
No  sorrow  yet  had  touched — her  childlike  prattle. 
By  very  artlessness  made  arch — ^her  form, 
Untortured  to  its  light  fragility 
By  court  accessories  of  beauty's  toilet — 
Her  affluent  tresses,  flowing  unprofaned 
By  touch  of  mocking  powder,  which  had  lain 
Upon  their  golden  light,  like  fleecy  clouds 
Upon  the  sun ! 

Rich.  Now,  heaven  be  thanked,  my  liege ! 

b2 


12  armand;  or,  [^ct.  I 

No  rhapsody  so  warm  hath  passed  your  hps 

A  twelvemonth !      Duhiess  ends  her  weary  reign. 

'Tis  plain  this  young  enchantress  will  dethrone  her. 

King.  In  sooth,  she  shall !      Richelieu,  my  friend,  be 
prompt ! 
With  speed  let  this  new  constellation  shine 
Upon  our  court. — Some  noble  dame  select, 
Beneath  her  high  protection  place  this  maid. 
Nor  rank,  nor  title  shall  she  lack,  to  gild 
Her  lowly  origin — 

Enter  Victor,  l.  tj.  e. 
and  for  the  rest — 
Vic.  Your  pardon,  sire ;   the  old  woman — 
King.  What  1  is  she  come  1     Conduct  her  hither. 

[Exit  Victor,  l.  u.  e. 
Now,  Richelieu,  use  but  your  wonted  skill,  and  we  are 
once  more  your  debtor. 

Rich.  Sire,    you   have   but   to   speak — to   wish,    and 
though  she  were  some  chaste  inhabitant  of  the  moon. 
Enter  Victor,  ushering  Dame  Babette,  l.  u.  e. 

[Exit  Victor,  l.  u.  e. 
the  vestal  dweller  of  some  star,  she  should  exchange  its 
light  for —  (Sees  the  Dame  and  starts  back  greatly  moved.) 
Heavens !     Babette ! 

King.  Why  do  you  stare  so?  You  don't  mistake  this 
curious  relic  of  antiquity  for  the  fair  one  who  holds  me  in 
thraldom  ? 

Rich.  Not  exactly — that  is,  precisely — I  thought  so! 
— that  is,  I  never  thought  so.  If  it  were  but  my  own 
fancy  that  had  conjured  up  this  spectre  !  [half  aside. 

King.  Spectre  1  You  are  dreaming.  The  old  lady  ap- 
pears to  us  in  a  remarkably  substantial  condition. 

Bab.  (glancing  nervously  at  the  King  and  away  again 
while  she  talks)  I'm  all  over  in  a  flutter.  I  suppose  its 
my  place  to  speak  first,  though  I  never  talk.  I  see  they 
feel  just  as  frightened  as  I  do.  Dear  me  !  how  they  stare, 
to  be  sure.  If  Blanche  was  only  here,  she'd  wonder  at  the 
observation  that  some  people  sometimes  attract.  (After  an 
effort)^  Gentlemen,  I  hope  I  do  not  confuse  you.  I'm 
really  quite  alarmed  myself,  before  such  well-dressed  cava- 
liers. I  was  sent  for  here,  but  I  say  nothing,  I  never 
talk,  as  everybody  knows.     I  was  sent  for,  that's  all — I 


Scene  I.]        the  pker  and  the  peasant.  13 

do'nt  know  why,  so  shall  not  say.     (Khig  retires  up,  shs 
crosses  to  Richelieu.)  If  you  could  inform  me.  Sir,  for  I'm 
but  a  poor  woman — I  live  down  at  the  vil--lage  yon--der — • 
[as  she  is  speaking  the  last  words  she  looks  very 
intently  at  Richelieu  and  gradually  re- 
cognizes him. 
Blessed  Mother!  it  is  Monsieur  Antovne ! 

Rich,  (aside  to  her)  Silence,  fool ! 

Bab.  Silence,  forsooth !  as  if  I  ever  talk !  Ah,  Monsieur 
Antoiue,  to  think  of  finding  you  here  and  dressed  so  grand. 

Rich.  Hush! 

King,  (ivho  has  come  forward  attracted  hy  Rahettes 
exclamation)  Why,  Richelieu,  the  old  dragon  seems  to 
have  recognized  a  friend  ! 

Bah.  Richelieu?  Hey,  what?  Richelieu!  (Richelieu 
silences  her  by  an  action.)     Oh!   I  say  nothing  ! 

Rich,  (crosses  c.)  Quite  a  ridiculous  affair — ha,  ha  ! 
(trying  to  laugh.)  The  old  gentlewoman — ha,  ha! — she 
actually  fancies  she  has  traced  a  likeness  between  me,  and 
some  relation  who  died  in  the  last  century,  sire  ! 

Bab.  Sire!  sire?  His  Majesty?  Oh  blessed  Mary? 
Holy  St.  Dennis  !  And  last  night  I  talked  in  such  a  way — 
that  is,  I  said  nothing — I  never  talk — what  will  become  of 
me?  (falling  on  her  knees.)  Pardon — your  Majesty — 
pardon !  I  did  not  know  you — I  never  suspected  you ! 
And  was  it  you  last  evening  that — Oh,  pardon !  pardon ! 

King.  Nonsense,  my  good  woman;  your  breach  of 
decorum  will  not  put  your  head  in  jeopardy. 

Bab.  Oh!  I  hope  not,  your  Majesty,  (rising).  Holy 
St.  Anthony!  My  neck  has  grown  quite  stiff  at  the 
thought ! 

King.  We  leave  you  with  the  duke  who  will  communi- 
cate our  commands.  [Exit,  r.  2  e. 

Bah.  Duke?  Oh!  Monsieur  Antoine,  are  you  a  duke! 
and  such  a  familiar  way  as  I've  treated  you  this  many  a 
year.  If  you  will  only  condescend  to  pardon  me !  (falling 
upon  her  knees  again.) 

Rich.  A  truce  to  this  folly.  Rise  and  listen  to  me, 
Dame,  for  on  your  implicit  obedience  hangs  your  future 
welfare — perhaps  your  life. 

Bab.  Life !  life !  Oh  !  Surely  you  won't  kill  me  ? 
Monsieur  Antoine — I  mean  your  Grace,  consider  my  years 


14  ARMAND;    OR,  [Act  I, 

— Mercy !  mercy !     Oh !  my  poor  neck  will  be  stiff  for  a 
year. 

Rich.  Be  silent,  and  listen.  You  were  walking  last 
evening  in  these  gardens  with  Blanche, — by  what  nnlucky 
chance  you  came  here — by  what  strange  means  obtained 
admission,  I  have  not  time  to  learn.  The  King  saw 
Blanche — is  enamoured  of  her — desires  that  she  shall  be 
presented  at  court. 

Bab.  Blessed  Mary !  what  an  honor !  and  I — his  Ma- 
jesty saw  me  too — of  course  his  most  gracious  Majesty 
expects  me  to  be  presented  also?  Oh  !  I'm  in  such  a 
flutter — how  shall  I  live  through  it? 

Rich.  Are  you  determined  to  distract  me  ?     Blanche — 

Bab.  I  understand — I  understand — she  is  to  be  pre- 
sented at  court. 

Rich.  She  shall  die  first? 

Bab.  Hey  ?  what  ?  die  ! 

Rich.  Yes,  die  ! 

Bab.  Well,  your  Highness,  I  say  nothing. — But  little 
Blanche  !  To  see  her  in  her  grave  !  And  after  all  the 
fine  learning  you  have  given  her  !  And  to  have  her  miss 
being  presented  at  court  too ! — Why  she  always  walked  and 
talked — yes,  when  she  was  but  two  years  old  she  walked 
like  a  queen — and  since  the  King,  his  gracious  Majesty, 
has  so  graciously  looked  upon  her- — 

Rich.  Ay! — he  has  looked  on  her!  And  that  one 
look  has  like  a  flash  of  scathing  lightning  blasted  her  whole 
existence  !    (crosses  to  r.  h.J 

Bab.  Well  now  I  can't  understand  where's  the  harm. 

Rich.  Listen,  Babette.  The  King  has  commissioned 
me  to  conduct  Blanche  to  the  palace — to-morrow  evening  is 
the  latest  moment  to  which  I  can  postpone  his  orders — 
she  must  be  saved  from  the  profanation  even  of  his  suit, 
and  the  energy  of  my  will  alone  can  savB  her.  You,  and 
you  only,  can  aid  me — you  must,  you  shall  aid  me  !  To- 
morrow morning  at  your  cottage  I  will  communicate  my 
project,  and  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  exact  the  most  implicit 
obedience. 

Bab.  And  Blanche  won't  be  presented  at  court  ?     Nor 
I  neither  ?     My  lord   Duke,  I  to  refuse  such  an  honor! 
Au  honor  that  would  make  half  the  village  die,  with  envy  ! 
Enter  r.  2  e.  King  and  Duke  d'Antin. 


Scene  I.]        the  peer  and  the  peasant.  15 

Rich,  (seizing  her  hy  the  arm)  Fool ! 
I  tell  you  that  Blanche  never — never — (sees  the  King— 
suddenly  releases  Bubette^  and  changes  his  tone  and  manner) 
never  should  refuse  such  a — such  a  distinguishing  mark  of 
his  Majesty's  favor. 

Bab.  There  now,  that's  just  what  I  said,  your  highness, 
and  you  would  not  listen  to  me.  Just  what  I  was  telling 
him,  your  Majesty !  Such  an  honor  for  us  both. — I  am 
ready  to  expire  at  the  very  thought !  When  Dame  Barbara 
knows  it — but  I  say  nothing — nobody  shall  hear  it  from  me. 

King.  Why,  Duke,  this  is  a  novel  mode  of  proceeding. 
It  seems  you  were  executing  our  orders  hy  force  of  arms! 

Rich.  Your  Majesty  is  facetious.  This  droll  old  woman 
• — ha,  ha,  ha!  I  can't  help  laughing  at  her  tenacity- 
having  conscientious  scruples,   she  refused — 

Bab.  I?  I  refused  ?  Refuse  such  an  honor?  Oh! 
your  jMajesty — 

Rich,  (aside  to  her)  Another  word  and  it  shall  cost 
you  dear ! 

Bab.  Oh!  dear!  how  fierce  Monsieur  Antoine  has  grown 
since  he  became  a  Duke  ! 

King.  There  is  some  enigma  here  ! 

lyAntin.  Which  your  Majesty  may  find  diversion  in 
solving,     (aside  to  him.) 

Rich.  Dame  Babette,  you  will  remember  the  directions 
you  have  received,  and  to-morrow — 

Bab.  Then  your  mind  is  changed? — you  consent?  — 
and  to-morrow  we  shall  have  the  honor — such  an  honor — • 
Oh  !  your  Grace,  when  you  forbade  me  just  now,  I  felt — 

King.  Forbade  you  ?  Why,  Richelieu,  is  the  old  wo- 
man mad  ? 

Rich.  I  believe  so,   sire. — I  really  believe  so! — There, 
you  are  at  liberty  to  go.     That  way — that  way.     [trying  to 
lead  her  towards  the  entrance,  she  takes  a  step 
or  two  and  jpersists  in  turning  back. 

Bab.  Oh!   I  have  not  saluted  his  gracious  Majesty! 

[breaks  away  from  Richelieu^  and  curtsies 
low  to  the  King. 
I  wouldn't  have  your  Majesty  think  me  wanting  in  manners 
— when  I  am  to  be  presented  at  court  too.  Such  an  honor! 
You  see.  Monsieur  Antoine — that  is,  his  highness — I  can't 
help  calling  him  Monsieur  Antoine,  on  account — 


16  armand;    or,  [Act  I. 

Rich.  On  account  of  the  likeness.     His  Majesty  knows 
— you  tire  his  Majesty.   Go  !  go  !  [trying  to  force  he)'  away. 

Bab.  The  Ukeness  ?     What  hkeness?     I  beg  pardon 
for  fatiguing  your  Majesty.     I  was  only  going  to  say— 

Rich,  (still  forcing  her)    His  Majesty  dcfes  not  desire 
to  hear.     Go,  go. 

Bab,  I  am  gone,  soon  as  I  have  made  my  salute. 

[breaking  from  him,  she  curtsies  again  to 
the  King,  crosses,  and  goir^g,  returns. 
The  other  grand-looking  old  gentleman — I  have  not  made 
my  reverence  to  him  yet.     Oh  !   I'll  shew  them   breeding, 
now  that  I  am  to  be  presented  at  court !     [approaches  Diik 

(TAntin  and  curtsies  low. 

Rich.  Dame — 

Ki7ig.  Nay,  Richelieu,  we  are  amused  at  her  vagaries. 

Rich.  Oh,  Sire !     I  see  you  are  much  annoyed. 
Are  you  coming  ?  [to  Uabette. 

Bab.  But  his  Majesty  says  he  is  amused,  and — 

Rich.  Come,  come  I  say  !  [Forcing  her. 

^^''^'  \  But  Richelieu— 
King.     ) 

Bab.  His  Majesty  says  he  is  amused ! 

Rich.  Come !  come  ! 

[King  and  d'Antin,  r.  Richelieu /omw^  out 

Babette,  l.  who  endeavours  to  return. 


a, 


END    OF   ACT   I. 


Scene  I.]  the    PEER   AND    THE    PE^ASANT.  17 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

Rooyn  in  the  Cottage  q/*DAME  Babette,  r.  h.  f.  open  door, 
L.  H.  F.  large  open  window^  shewing  a  country  scene. 
Chamber  door  right  and  left.  Dame  Babette  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand.  Jaqueline,  seated  on  a  low  stool 
at  window,  making  garlands  of  small  green  branches. 
Chair  and  table,  jug  and  tin  cup  on  table. 

Bab.  "Well,  well,  the  Duke  must  be  obeyed — and  I 
must  say  nothing  of  his  being  a  Duke; — but  no  fear  of 
that — I  never  talk.  He  will  be  here  presently,  and  I  must 
send  for  Blanche.  Poor  little  Blanche,  she  will  lose  her 
May-day  sport;  but  then  the  honor  of  receiving  a  Duke! 
Here,  Jaqueline,  child,  throw  down  those  garlands,  run  to 
the  green,  and  tell  Blanche  she  must  hasten  home  directly. 

Jaq.  Not  I,  indeed,  mother!  Bid  Blanche  hasten 
home  on  May-day?  I  shan't  think  of  such  a  thing.  Be- 
sides, Blanche  begged  me  to  weave  more  garlands  for  the 
may-pole. 

Bab.  Never  mind  the  garlands,  chatterbox ;  go  and  tell 
Blanche  she  cannot  dance  upon  the  green  to-day.  I  need 
her  home. 

Jaq.  (still  working  at  the  garland)  Just  as  if  the  villagers 
would  let  her  go,  mother !  They  can  do  nothing  without 
Blanche !     They  would  come  and  carry  her  away  by  force. 

Bab.  Stop  talking,  nimble-tongue!  "What  a  fondness 
these  young  ones  have  for  chattering.  Ah!  they'll  be  as 
silent  as  I  am  w^hen  they  grow  old !  There !  (snatching 
away  the ^^irland,)  leave  the  green  things  and  go! 

Jaq.  Blanche  won't  come — I  would'nt  if  I  were  she.  Oh! 
I'll  go;  but  Blanche  shall  have  her  garlands,  if  I  make  them 
on  the  road,  (gathers  up  the  garlands.)  "V\'ho  do  you  sup- 
pose would  disappoint  our  Blanche?     [runs  out  door ^  off  \^. 

Bab.  How  fast  the  child  talks!     Where  she  got  her 
fondness  for  chattering,  I  can't  tell;   her  poor  father  was 
as  silent  as  a  post,  and  I'm  sure  its  not  from  me. 
Enter  jAauELiNE,  running^   r.  d.  f. 

Jaq.  Didn't  I  tell  you,  mother,  they  would  never  let 


18  armand;   or,  [Act  II. 

Blanche  come?  She  insisted,  and  the  villagers  insisted  on 
coming  along  with  her,  and  they  intend  to  carry  her  away 
again,  (rustic  music  without.)  Hark !  there  is  the  music, 
they  will  be  here  in  a  moment. 

Bab.  The  villagers  coming  here!  Oh  dear.  Oh  dear, 
I  shall  be  ruined  if  the  Duke  finds  them.  Run,  tell  Blanche 
that  I  want  her  alone,  and  they  must  not  enter.  Tell  her 
my  poor  neck — no,  no, — tell  her  they  must  not  come  in. 

Jaq.  I'll  tell  her,  but  she  wont  mind;  I  would' nt  if  I 
were  she.  [Exit.  c.  of  l..    r.  d.  f. 

Bab.  (music)  There  they  come  sure  enough !  Oh, 
dear,  what  shall  I  do  to  get  rid  of  them!  If  the  Duke 
finds  them  and  gets  angry,  I  shall  die  of  fright !  Oh ! 
my  poor  neck — I  shall  never  again  be  sure  that  I  have  it 
on  my  shoulders.  Blanche  !  Blanche  !  Is  Blanche  coming? 
\_Music,  piano,  through  speech — stop  at  end  of  it. 
Enter  Blanche,  r.  d.  f. 

Blan.  Yes,  Dame,  here  is  Blanche. 

Bah.  Good  child  !  good  child  ! 

Blan.  Nay,  Dame,  pay  homage  to  our  Majesty ! 
I'm  chosen  Queen,   dear  Dame,  the  Queen  of  May! 
You  do  not  smile — prithee,  what  serious  thought 
Has  cast  its  grave  reflection  on  thy  face? 

Bah.  I  was  thinking  how  beautiful  a  crown — a  real 
crown — a  crown  of  gold  and  jewels — would  look  upon  your 
head . 

Blan.  A  crown?  Why  you  are  dreaming,  Dame,  at 
mid-day ! 

Bah.  And  if  I  am,  there's  something,  sometimes,  in 
some  dreams — but  I  say  nothing — only  wouldn't  you  like 
to  dream  of  wearing  such  a  crown. 

Blan.  No,  in  good  sooth,  not  I !    This  woven  band 
Of  dewy  wild  flowers  lightlier  girds  my  head. 
And  circles  in  its  ring  but  happy  thoughts! 
Then  for  my  King — whom  think  you  I  have  chosen! 

Bab.  Wait  'till  you  see  the  King  himself. 

Blan.  Has  he  a  nobler  mien — a  loftier  look — 
A  braver,  truer,  purer  heart  than  Armand? 

Bab.  Have  you  forgotten  the  cavalier  who  walked  with 
us  in  the  Gardens  of  Versailles? 

Blan.  No,  I  remember  him, — 'twas  but  last  night. 

Bah.  Then  listen,   what  would  you  say  if  he  were  the 


Scene  I.]        the   peer  and  teie   peasant.  19 

King !  the  true  King !  Louis  XV.,  the  King  of  France  I 
Oh  dear !  what  woukl  you  say  to  that? 

-  Blan.  Why  if  he  were  the  King — in  truth  the  King— 
I  could  hut  say  that  w^ayward  nature  pLayed 
On  fortune's  favorite  a  most  idle  trick ! 
While  to  the  humble  artizan  she  gave 
The  aspect,   soul,  and  bearing  of  a  king! 

Bab.  Oh  dear.  Oh  dear!  w^iat  a  young  traitor!  Its 
very  fine  talk — yet  for  all  that  there's  a  great  difference 
between  your  Armand  and  the  King — I  mean  the  cava- 
lier. 

Blan.  I  grant  you  that,  dear  Dame,   difference  indeed! 
How  different  seemed  in  each  like  attributes; 
The  lightness  of  the  cavalier  to  me 
Seemed  senseless  levity,  while  Armand's  mirth 
Is  the  o'erflowing  gladness  of  a  heart 
At  ease.     Each  had  his  separate  pride — one  pride. 
The  scorn  that  narrow  minds  from  narrower  minds 
Inherit.     But  our  Armand's  pride  looks  down 
In  scorn  upon  mean  acts  alone — disdains 
But  falsehood — spurns  but  vice — rebels  against 
Injustice  only — while  he  arrogates 
No  merit  to  his  virtues  !     Men  may  bo\v 
The  knee  to  royalty,  but  there's  a  more 
Enduring,  and  more  sacred  homage  all 
Must  feel  for  what  is  better  than  themselves ! 

Bab.  IIow  these  young  ones  talk  to  be  sure !  You'll 
sing  a  new  burden  to  your  song  before  long.  You  must 
think  no  more  of  Armand. 

Blan.  What — think  no  more  of  Armand  ?  is  he  not 
The  very  centre  of  my  thoughts,  round  which 
A\\  feelings  and  all  hopes  alike  revolve. 
As  planets  circle  round  their  sun?     But,   Dame, 
Thou  dear,  mysterious  and  oracular  Dame — - 
What  boding  dreams  have  mocked  you  through  the  night? 
Or  what  portentous  omens  have  you  seen  ? 
Nay,  speak ;   prithee,  what  has  befallen  thee  ? 

Bab.  Oh,  don't  ask  me. — I  say  nothing. — You  know 
I  never  talk. 

CVillacjers  loithout)  Where  is  our  Queen?  our  Queen  ! 
Bring  us  our  Queen  !  [Armand  and  Villagers  appear 

at  window. 


20  armand;   or,  [Act  II. 

Arm.  (without)  Patience,   my  friends,    your  patience 
while  I  seek  her. 
And  for  an  instant  tarry  where  you  are ! 

Enter  Armand  lightly  and  quickly^  r.  d.  f. 

Arm.  Blanche!  Blanche!   Queen  Blanche !  where  are  you 

dallying  ? 
Your  subjects  grow  rebellious  to  behold  you ! 
Ah  !  who  can  wonder  that  they  cannot  live 
From  thy  sweet  sight !     And  I,  the  least  of  all. 
Good-morrow  Dame,  they've  sent  me  here  to  claim 
Our  faithless  sovereign,     Come,  thou  truant  queen. 

Bab.  No  such  thing,    Monsieur  Armand;    Mam^selle 
Blanche  remains  where  she  is. 

Arm.  Hey  day !  what  next?  il/ow5?>z<r  Armand,  forsooth. 
And  Mam''selle  Blanche!  how  courteous  we  have  grown! 
You're  almost  too  polite  Madame  Babette ! 

Bab.  Mam'selle  Blanche  cannot  dance  upon  the  green 
to-day. 

Blan.  Not  dance,  dear  Dame,  when  I  am  chosen  queen? 
And  I,  in  turn,  have  chosen  Armand  king ! 
Good  Dame !  dear  Dame  !  indeed,  but  I  miTst  dance  ! 

Arm.  Are  you  possessed,  my  good  Madame  Babette  ? 
The  villagers  would  tear  your  cottage  down. 
Nonsense !     Come,  little  queen,  they  wait  for  us. 
The  Dame  is  but  our  subject  after  all ! 
Obedience  is  her  duty,  and  not  ours. 
Good-day,  good  Dame — good-day,  Madatne  Babette! 

[Puts  his  arm  around  the  waist  of  Blanche  and 
is  running  with  her  to  the  door.  Babette 
intercepts  them,  and  leads  Blanche  away. 

Bab.  (with  great  dignity)  Stay  where  you  are,  Blanche, 
I  order  you!  You  are  to  receive  a  visitor.  The  Duke  will 
be  here  presently. 

ill]   The  Duke! 

Bab.  "Who  said  anything  about  a  Duke?  I'm  sure  I 
did'nt!  My  foolish  tongue.  But  it's  just  like  me — that 
is,  it's  not  at  all  like  me — I  never  talk.  I  mean  Monsieur 
Antoine  will  be  here,  and  desires  to  sec  Blanche  upon  par- 
ticular business.  Monsieur  Armand,  I  must  request  you 
to  retire. 


Scene  T.]  the    PEER   AND   THE    PEASANT.  21 

Arm.  No;  I  remain  to  bid  Monsieur  Antoine 
jMake  haste,  and  tell  him  we  await  our  queen. 

-  Bah.   (angrily)    Monsieur  Armand,  I  tell  you — 

Blan.   (crosses  c.)  Go,  dear  Armand,  the  Dame  desire 
it — go ! 
Come  for  me  in  an  hour.     May  he,  good  Dame? 
Say  yes — now  do  say  yes — you  smile  the  yes — 
You  will  not  speak — and  a  consent  is  twice 
Consent  that  with  a  smile  is  given.     And  now 
Armand,  for  one  short  hour,  we  say  farewell. 

Arm.  Sweet  sovereign,  I  can  scarcely  disregard 
Your  first  command,  although  this  banishment 
Is  tyranny.     "Farewell,  I  shall  return 
"  Before  our  garlands  wither,  though  to  me 
*^  Their  freshness  and  their  beauty  vanish  with 
"  The  hands  that  wove  them" — fare  thee  well,  my  Blanche! 
Madame  Babette  and  dignity,  good  day!        [Exit.  r.  d.  f, 

Bab.  Such  wonders  as  I  have  to  tell  you! — such  won- 
ders!— but  I  shan't  say  anything  about  it.  Only  suppose 
it  was  the  King  we  saw  at  Versailles!  I  say  suppose — and 
suppose  that  Monsieur  Antoine  was  a  great  Lord!  Only 
suppose — for  I  say  nothing — I  know  how  to  hold  my  peace. 
Hark!  I  hear  the  wheels  of  a  carriage.  Go  to  your  room, 
child,  for  I  must  speak  with  him  alone.     Go  !  Go  ! — 

Blan.  But,  Dame,  I'm  only  queen  for  one  short  day. 
My  crown  may  fade,  my  sceptre  wither  up 
Before  I  use  them — so  I  pray  thee  haste 
To  free  me.     You'll  remember?  will  you,  Dame? 

[Exit  into  chamber,   r.  2  e. 
Enter  Duke  de  Richelieu,  r.  d.  f. — comes  down  l.  h. 

Bab.  Oh  !  dear,  if  she  only  knew  that  the  King  him- 
self— a  real  King — Oh!  your  Highness,  (brings  chair  down 
c.)  the  walls  of  my  poor  habitation  are  so  honored  by  your 
presence  that  they — 

Rich.  "Where  is  Blanche? 

Bab.  In  her  chamber,  your  Highness,  waiting  your 
gracious  pleasure.  They  were  just  going  to  dance  upon 
the  green  when  I  sent  for  her.     Shall  I  summon  her  ? 

Rich.  I  first  must  speak  to  you — mark  well  my  words! 
Blanche  must  be  saved — the  King  must  never  more 
Behold  her — to  remove  her  secretly, 
Would  be  impossible — yet  at  the  risk 


22  armand;   or,  [Act  II. 

Of  life,  be  it  her's  or  mine — or  both — she  shall 
Not  breathe  the  court's  contaminating  air. 

Bab.  But  the  honor,  your  Grace,  the  honor ! 

Rich.  Be  silent,  woman!   at  your  peril  make 
Ready  to  do  my  bidding. 

Bab.  Oh!  How  terrible  these  grand  people  are  I  Mon- 
sieur— I  mean,  my  Lord,  on  my  knees  I  swear  to  obey  you! 

Rich.  That's  well — since  flight  then  is  impossible. 
Death  only  can  protect  her  from  the  King — 

Bab.  Death !  commit  murder  !  Monsieur  Antoine, 
murder  poor  little  Blanche?  Oh!  how  terrible !  But  I 
say  nothing — what  a  Duke  commands  of  course  is  right — 
but  death — Oh !   my  poor  Blanche  ! 

Rich.  A  seeming  death  may  serve — so  that  the  King 
Shall  think  it  real.     There  are  drugs  which  produce 
A  sleep  that  seems  the  very  twin  of  death. 
Yet  do  not  harm  the  sleeper.     Take  this  phial. 
Its  contents  have  played  servants  to  my  wish 
Before  to-day  :  Blanche  too  must  prove  their  power. 
The  liquid,  look,  is  colorless:   'tis  tasteless. 
And  not  immediate  in  its  influence. 
Your  part  is  to  administer  the  draught. 

Bab.  Oh  !  no  Monsieur  Antoine,  I  dare  not  touch  it, — 
I  shall  never  have  courage. 

Rich.  You  have  already  sworn,  you  shall  abide 
Your  oath.     Take  it,  I  say:  act  cautiously. 
And  in  your  act  be  speedy. 

Bab.  This  is  to  deal  with  great  persons !  What  shall 
I  do?     What  shallldo? 

Rich.  Do  as  I  command  you — be  quick  and  silent  I 

Bah.  Silent,  indeed!  your  Grace,  as  if  I  ever  said 
anvthina; ! 

Blan.     f music)  [ope7iing  the  door. 

May  I  come  in?      Dear  Dame,   the  stirring  sound 
Of  the  glad  music  through  my  casement  steals — 
INIy  feet  dance  to  it  of  their  own  accord. 
And  threaten  shortly  to  dance  after  it ! 
I  give  you  warning,  Dame  ! 

Rich.  Come  hither,  Blanche. 

Blan.  (crosses  to  c.)    Monsieur  Antoine — but  is  it  you 
indeed  ? 
Your  face  and  vjice  I  know,  or  this  rich  garb 


SCKNE  I.]  THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  23 

Had  well  clisguised  you — I  could  half  believe 
It  was  no  jest,  when  Dame  Babette  declared 
That  Monsieur  Antoine  was  a  lord ! 

Bab.  Ah  !  your  Highness,  excuse  her — she  will  talk — ■ 
she  won't  learn  to  say  nothing  as  I  do.  Blanche,  control 
that  little  tongue  of  yours,  lest  it  give  offence  to  his  Grace, 
the  Duke — the  Duke  of  Kichelieu  ! 

Blan.  Richelieu!  Oh!  no — Richelieu  that  bold,  had  man, 
Monsieur  Antoine  whom  I  have  known  so  long — 
Have  loved  so  well — the  Duke  de  Richelieu — no — 
That  cannot  be  ! —  [sinks  into  chair. 

Rich.  Who  tauo;ht  the  child  this  follv? 
Bab.  Oh  !  indeed,  your  Grace,  I  didn't — I  never  said 
a  word  about  it  I'm  sure. 

Rich.  Blanche — ha!  she  faints  I  Bring  water  and  take  this. 
Fortune,  I  thank  thee!     Take  it. 

[hands  her  the  phial  unperccived  by  Blanche. 

Bab.  I  dare  not!   I  dare  not! 
Rich.  Take  it !      Fool !   (imperativehj) . 
Bab.  Oh!  dear,  I  must!     [fakes  the  phial,  goes  to  tabhy 
pours  out  water  and  mixes  the  liquid  ivith  it. 

Rich.  Child,  you  are  ill — 

Blan.  No,  no,  I  am  not  ill — I  was  confused — 
Stunned  at  the  thought — don't  heed  me.     I  am  well  ! 

[Babette  hands  her  the  glass,   turning  away  her  head. 
I  do  not  need  it,  Dame. 

Rich,  (taking  the  glass)  Drink,  drink  !  your  lips 
Are  quivering — you  are  fainting — drink !  you  must^— 
Must  drink!  - 

Blan.  (looks  with  surprise  in  his /ace,  and  calmly  takes 
the  glass)     If  you  desire  it,  certainly —  [drinks. 

Rich,   [aside  as  she  is  drinking. 

(laughing)  Richelieu,  when  did  thy  star  abandon  thee! 

Blan.  I  do  not  understand — 

Rich.  Ay,  but  you  shall  1 

Go,  dance,  they  wait  you  on  the  green — 

[crosses  to  Babette  who  stands  motionless. 

Why  stand 
You  there  as  you  were  petrified  1     Come,  rouse 
Yourself.     Bid  her  go  dance — Fool!   rouse  yourself! 
Sweet  Blanche — go  dance — light  foot,  and  joyous  heart! 


24  ARMANDJ    OR,  [AcT  II. 

The  wise  man  cogs  the  dice  and  laughs  at  fate,    (aside) 

[r.  d.  f.  exit  hastily^  o^r. 

Blan.  Why,  Dame — why  do  you  stand  so  motionless  ? 
Why  gaze  upon  me  thus  with  that  fixed  look 
Of  wondering  terror  ?     Dame, — dear  Dame  Babette, 
Will  you  not  speak  1  pray  you — do  speak  to  me! 

Bab.  (recovering  y  throws  herself  weeping  upon  Blanche's 
neck)  My  poor,  poor  Blanche! 

Blan.  Poor  Blanche?  nay  Dame,  I  needs  must  laugh 
at  that. 

Bab.  You  seemed  so  happy ! 

Blan.  Then  did  I — do  I  seem  the  thing  I  am  ! 
Seem  happy — how  could  I  seem  otherwise? 
'Tis  happiness  to  me  to  live — to  be  ! 
My  very  instincts — nay,  the  very  use 
Of  every  separate  sense  by  which  we  hold 
Communion  visible  with  external  being 
Is  happiness!     To  gaze  upon  the  sky 
Arched  in  blue  glory  o'er  my  upturned  head — 
The  forms  of  beauty,  called  by  loving  spring 
Out  of  the  affluent  bosom  of  the  earth; 
The  sun,  beneath  whose  warm,  resplendent  light 
All  nature  teems  :  these  simplest,  daily  things. 
Which  custom  cannot  strip  of  loveliness. 
To  look  on  these  is  to  be  happy ! — is 
To  feel  my  bosom  swell  with  gratitude 
To  him  who  made  them,  to  make  us  more  blest! 

Bab.   Oh!  Blanche!  Blanche! 

\music  heard  at  a  distance. 

Blan.  Hark !  'tis  the  villagers  ;  they  come  for  me. 
And  Armand,  too,  expects  his  queen.     Good  Dame, 
My  subjects  must  not  wait.     Adieu!   Adieu!  [going. 

Bab.  Blanche !  Blanche !  My  child !  my  kind,  light- 
hearted  child,  embrace  me.  Do  not  go  until  you've  said 
that  you  forgive  me. 

Blan.    (embracing  her) 
Forgive  you.  Dame  !  What  crime  have  I  to  pardon. 
Except,  indeed,. too  doting  love  for  me. 
What  ails  you?     You  are  weeping  ?     What's  the  matter? 

Bab.  No,  no,  I'm  not — I'm  not  weeping.  Oh,  my 
darling  Blanche !  [bursts  into  tears. 

Blan.  Can  I  have  wounded  you,  dear  Dame  ? 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  and  the  peasant.  25 

Bab.  Wound  me?  Did  you  ever  wound  a  fly  ?  I've 
seen  you  brush  away  with  careful  hand  the  very  insect  that 
Had  stung  you.  {Music  ivithout.)  They  are  coming  for 
you.     Go  to  the  green.     Go,,  go. 

Blan.  First,  with  a  kiss,  let  me  seal  up  the  fountains 
Of  those  dear  eyes,  where  tear  and  smile  contend, 
Like  April  sun  and  rain,  they  know  not  why. 
Now  for  my  crown  and  sceptre.     Dame,  adieu ! 

\_As  Blanche  is  running  off  Arm  and 
ajppears  at  the  door.    [Exeunt  r.  d.  f. 

Bah.  Blessed  mother,  guard  her !  That  dreadful  drug! 
If  harm  comes  to  her,  I  shall  never  know  a  happy  hour ! 
Oh,  this  it  is  to  deal  with  grand  people.  Yet  for  all  that, 
he  is  a  duke ;  and  to  be  sure,  what  a  duke  says  must  be 
right.     How  could  a  duke  do  anything  wrong? 

[Exit  into  chamhery  r. 

SCENE  II. 

Village  green.  A  maypole  in  the  centre  dressed  with  long 
garlands  hanging  to  the  ground.  jAaxJELiNE,  Eti- 
ENNE,  Jacot,  and  Villagers  busied  about  it.  Music 
playing.  Several  Villagers  as  musicians^  with  pipes 
and  tabors. 

Jac.  Give  another  look  towards  old  Babette's  cottage, 
Etieune,   and  tell  us  if  you  see  our  queen. 

Etien.  I  see  two  figures  yonder,  through  the  trees. 
They  turn  this  way.  Yes,  'tis  Blanche,  and  Armand  is 
with  her. 

Jac.  Then  hurrah  for  the  dance,  hurrah  for  the  king 
and  the  queen!     Finish  with  your  garlands,  and  let  us 

dance. 

Enter  Armand  and  Blanche  r.  u.  e. 

Arm.  Ay,  for  a  dance,  make  ready,  lads  and  lasses, 
And  be  your  hearts  as  light  as  are  your  feet. 
In  honor  of  the  May.     [Blanche  puts  her  hand  to  her  head 

and  ajipears  to  be  ill, 
Blanche,  you  are  ill ! 
Your  eyes  are  heavy,  and  your  cheek  how  pale !  ^ 

Blan.  Oh !  no,  no,  Armand ;  I  am  well — quite  well. 
And  yet  I  think  my  very  happiness 
Oppresses  me ;  a  faintness  steals  upon 

c 


26  armand;   or,  [A^ci  II. 

My  yielding  sense,  as  if  it  were  the  languor 
Of  a  content  so  perfect,  it  could  wish 
For  nothing  on  this  earth  it  hath  not  now, 
But  on  the  far-off  future  shuts  its  eyes. 

Arm.  Our  future,  Blanche!     It  must  indeed  be  bright 
To  vie  in  promise  with  the  present  joy ! 
We  live  in  that  which  is,  and  so  defy 
What  may  be.     Let  the  unknown  future  bring 
Us  years — long  years  of  unimagin'd  woe. — 
It  cannot  steal  the  lustre  from  these  hours, 
**  Whose  very  memory  would  irradiate 
"The  darkest,  time  and  fate  can  hold  in  store!" 

JBlan.  "  How  should  the  placid  current  of  our  lives 
*'  Bear  aught  but  flowers  upon  its  laughing  tide? 
*'  And  yet,  I  sometimes  think  to  see  it  ruffled. 
"  Thou  and  thy  state,  Armand,  are  not  akin ; 
*'  And  thy  ambition  wakes  my  fear — Yet  why! — 
"  Why  should  he  feel  ambition  to  be  greats 
*'  AVhose  nobler  struggle,  in  a  nobler  strife, 
"  Has  made  him  good.'''' 

Arm.  *'  My  nature  is  not  cast, 

*'  Sweet  Blanche !  in  mould  so  true  and  pure  as  thine 
*'  Ambition  winds  itself  about  the  root 
**  Of  every  vigorous  mind.     Ambition  gives 
"  The  startling  impulse  to  its  higher  action ! 
"  Ambition  spurs  it  on — sustains — inspires  ! 
"  And,  rear  the  better  beacon  which  shall  guide 
**  Ambition's  course  aright,  it  is  no  more 
"  A  vice !" 

Blan.         "  Ah!  when  I  listen  to  thee,  Armand, 
"  I  tremble  lest  the  artizan's  poor  garb 
*'  Should  hide  the  warrior's  danger-loving  heart.'* 

Arm.   *'Nay,  Blanche,  to  love  my  country  with  my  soul 
"  Is  nor  to  love  the  warrior's  perils — nor 
**  His  triumphs. — All  men,  be  they  high  or  humble, 
"  Owe  to  the  land  that  gives  them  birth  a  tribute  ! 
"  And  with  his  talents  man  may  pay  the  debt, 
"  Or  with  his  industry,  or  with  his  blood!" 

Blan.  "  Oh,  never  with  the  last!     I  could  not  live 
"  And  see  thee  pay  it !      How  is  this?  we  both 
"  Are  grave,  though  this  bright  morn  would  bid  us  think 
**  Of  gladness  only.     Come,  my  king,  be  sure 


Scene  II.]         THE    PEER    AND   THE    PEASANT.  27 

"  That  I  shall  chide  thee,  if  I  trace  a  shadow 
"  Upon  thy  brow." 

Jnn.  "  And  shall  I  not  chide  thee 

**  For  that  white  lip  and  cheek,  on  which  the  rose 
"  So  lately  bloomed?"     Come,,  let  us  dance,  my  queen! 
To  quicken  in  thy  veins  the  timid  blood. 
And  stain  these  lilies  with  a  healthier  red. 
Jacot,  Etienne,  are  you  not  ready  yet? 

Jac.  Most  excellent  and  worthy  sovereigns!   we  but 
wait  your  pleasure. 

Ann,  Now,  Blanche,  for  thy  light  foot.     Come,  lads,  a 
dance !  [JMaypole  dance  with  garlands.     Towards 

the  close,   B TRANCHE  appears  to  grow 
fatigued,  and  falls  suddenly  in  Ar- 
mand's  arms,  as  if  fainting, 

Blan,  Armand,  I  cannot — I  am  weary — stay — 

Arm.  Thou  weary,  Blanche;  whose  airy  foot  were  match 
For  the  blithe  humming  bird's  untiring  wing? 
Great  Heaven  !   How  pale  thou  art !  thou  tremblest,  too ! 

Blan.  'Tis  only  weariness — so — let  me  rest. — (falls,  c.) 
My  head  is  strangely  heavy,  and  before 
My  eyes  a  floating  vapour  spreads  itself. 
Armand,  I  scarce  can  see  thee. — Art  thou  there  ? 

Arm.  Blanche !   Blanche !  my  own,  my  only  love  ! 
Oh,  Heaven  I  she  grows  more  ghastly  white.     Etienne! 
Quick,  fly  for  help, — and  Jaqueline  bring  Babette ! 

[Exeunt  Jaqueline  and  Etienne,  r.  tj.  e. 
How  cold  thou  art !  Speak  to  me,  Blanche!  thou  hearest  me? 
Tell  me  thou  hearest  me  1 

Blan,  Yes,  Armand,  yes, 

T  hear  thee,  my  beloved,  yet  I  feel — 
That  we  are  parting — death— 

Arm.  We  cannot  part  I 

This  is  not  death  !  no,  no,  we  will  not  part! 

Blan.  Nay,  Armand,  war  not  thou  with  heaven's  high  will ! 
Death  cannot  break  the  bond  that  knits  our  souls ! 
Shall  I  not  be  thy  bride — there — where  I  go 
To  wait  thee?     For  awhile  we  needs  must  part  ! — 
Death's  icy  finger  chills  and  clogs  my  blood. 
Like  frost  it  falls  upon  my  heavy  eyes — 
And  yet  I  seem  to  see!     A  luminous  mist 
Envelopes  all  things  round  me — through  its  veil 

c  2 


28  ARM  and;   or,  [Act.  II. 

A  threshold  paved  with  Hght  appears — beyond, 
A  land  of  flowers — and  now  bright  forms  in  robes 
Of  radiant  white  are  flitting  round  me — ah ! 
They  bear  me  from  thee.     Armand!   Oh!  Armand! 
I  cannot  see  thee — though  I  feel  thine  arms 
Girdle  my  frozen  limbs  ! 

Arm.  Thou  wilt  not  leave  me. 
Distract  me  not — but  once  more  speak — let  me 
Once  more  drink  in  the  music  of  thy  voice! 
Speak  to  me !     Give  me  one  last  proof  of  love. 

Blan.  Armand — I  do — this —     \_raises  herself  ivith  an 
effort,  feebly  kisses  him  and  sinks  back  apparently  dead. 

Arm.  'Twas  her  first  kiss! 

Thou  pitying  heaven, — let  it  not  be  her  last ! 
She  is  not  dead!   dost  thou  not  hear  me,  Blanche  ? 
No,  no,  she  is  not  dead!     It  were  to  lose 
The  sun  that  warms  with  life — to  lose  the  li2;ht 
That  tells  the  presence  of  that  sun, — it  were 
To  lose  the  air  we  breathe,  to  lose  thee,   Blanche! 
I  stifle  at  the  thought !     My  life's  sole  light 
Is  endless  darkness  now — Oh!   Blanche,  my  Blanche! 
My  earth  and  heaven!   all  peace — all  joys — all  dreams — 
All  blessings,  and  all  hopes,  are  gone  with  thee ! 

[Flings  himself  upon  the  ground  beside  Blanche.    Pea- 
sants group  around  them.     Tableau.     Slow  Curtain. 


»ND    OF   ACT   lU 


Scene  I.]        the  peer  and  the  peasant.  29 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Antechamher  in  the  Palace  of  Versailles. 

Enter  Le  Sage  l.  and  Victor  r. 

Vic.  Monsieur  Le  Sage !  our  dear  Monsieur  Le  Sage  ! 
We  are  overwhelmed  by  the  sight  of  his  Majesty's  affliction. 
One  moment  he  is  hke  an  angry  child  disappointed  of  its 
plaything,  the  next  a  very  woman  deluged  in  tears.  But 
we  can  sympathize  with  him ;  we  know  the  pangs  which  a 
passion  for  th'  illusive  sex  too  surely  inflicts.  We  have 
suffered  ourselves. 

Le  Sage.  Possibly. 

Vic.  His  Majesty's  new  despondency  will  once  more 
shed  a  gloom  over  the  whole  court. 

Le  Sage.  Inevitably  I 

E7iter  Dui^F.  d'Antin,  r.  1  e. 

If  Ant.  Be  Sage  ! 

lie  Sage.  Instantaneously ,  your  Highness. 

Lf  Ant,  My  words  are  for  your  ear  alone. 

Vic.   We  shall  withdraw,  my  Lord.  \_Exit  R. 

D" Ant.  The  young  peasant  is  dead. 

Le  Sage.  Definitively  1 

jy Ant.  A  death  so  sudden,  so  improbable,  so  unac- 
countable, excites  mistrust.  If  the  report  be  false, — I  have 
my  doubts,  vague  and  unconfirmed,  still  I  doubt  her  death. 
The  King  must  be  persuaded  to  visit  old  Babette's  cottage, 
and  himself  behold  the  corse,  if  corse  there  be.  This 
Doyish  page  can  at  all  times  gain  the  ear  of  Louis.  Often 
when  the  voices  of  our  most  powerful  courtiers  were  un- 
heeded, his  suggestions  have  received  attention.  You 
comprehend  me? 

Le  Sage.  Distinctly  ! 

D'Ant.  His  Majesty  must  cross  this  antechamber  when 
he  leaves  his  apartment.  You  will  remain  here  and  see 
that  the  opportunity  is  not  lost  ? 

Le  Sage.  Decidedly ! 

D'Ant.  I  shall  be  in  the  gardens  an  hour  hence  (crosses 
L.)     You  will  join  me  there.  [Exit  l.  1  e. 


80  ARMAND  ;    OR,  L^CT  III. 

Le  Sage.  Punctually ! 

Re-enter  r. 

Vic.    We  consider  his  Grace  the   Duke  d'Antin  the 
most  sombre  person  of  our  acquaintance. 

he  Sage.  Incontestably  and  indubitably ! 

Vic.  Henceforth  his  Majesty  may  prove  as  sombre. 
Alas !  unhappy  King ! 

Le  Sage.  Appropriately — ^has  his  Majesty  taken  a  last 
farewell  of  the  poor  little  peasant  1 

Vic.  We  believe  not. 

Le  Sage.  Undeniably  his  Majesty  listens  to  your  voice, 
when  he  is  deajiy  disposed  to  all  others  ? 

Vic.  You  flatter  us. 

Le  Sage.  Had  I  been  you  I  should  urgently  have  per- 
suaded him  to  behold  her  once  more. 

Vic.  It  never  occurred  to  us;  and  you  think  we  should 
do  so? 

Le  Sage.  Seidously;  but  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  would 
inevitably  object. 

Vic.  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  learn  that  we  can  overrule  the 
Duke. 

Le  Sage.  Profoundly  credulous  as  are  my  inclinations, 
I  must  consider  that  assertion  incredibly  dubious. 

Vic.  (roused)  We  will  give  you  proof,  Monsieur  Le 
Sage, — incontestably — incontrovertibly — indisputably — in- 
dubitably multiplied  proo^".  The  King  shall  visit  the  Dame's 
cottage  this  very  day,  and  Richelieu  shall  be  kept  in  ig- 
norance of  his  movements. 

Le  Sage.  Unavoidably  I  shall  believe  when  unexpectedly 
I  see.  But  look  how  opportunely  his  Majesty  approaches. 
T  leave  you  experimentally  to  disprove  or  confirm  your  as- 
severations, [crosses  l. 

Vic.  Do  you  mean  to  doubt.  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  that 
we  shall  do  the  latter? 

Le  Sage.  Indubitably ^  and  I  trust  inoffensively. 

[Exit  L.  H. 

Vic.  We  deem  that  a  malicious  aspersion  upon  our 
character. 

Eriter  King  r.  1  e.,  and  is  pensively  crossing  the  stage. 
Your  Majesty, — 

King.  Victor,  is  it  you  ?  I  scarcely  know  a  face,  save 
yours,  boy,  I  could  to-day  endure  about  me. 

Vic,  We  are  com; —    Your  Majesty  compliments  me. 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  and  the  peasant.  3\ 

Alas !  Sire,  your  grief  has  fallen  heavily  upoa  oiw —  upon 
tny  heart. 

Ki/i(/.  One  by  one  have  all  life's  joys  been  snatched 
away  from  me,  and  now  to  lose  her  too, — never  to  see  her 
more. 

Vie.  Might  not  your  Majesty  find  your  sorrow  assuaged 
by  the  sight  of  her  still  unchanged  loveliness?  Will  your 
Majesty  deign  to  listen  to  the  humblest  of  your  subjects? 
If  you  could  but  be  persuaded  to  visit  the  Dame's  cottage, 
—  TT^e  have  a —  /have  a  presentiment  that  you  will  find  a 
Bad  consolation  in  the  effort. 

King.  What  matters  it  whither  I  go  ?  The  very  wind 
that  blows  upon  me  can  urge  me  on  or  draw  me  back.  I 
have  lost  all  impulses  of  my  own. 

Vic.  Your  Majesty  then  will  grant  my  petition? 

King.  I  care  not  to  refuse  it. 

Vic.  And  your  Majesty  will  permit  us — that  is  me,  to 
be  your  sole  attendant?  Your  sorrow  would  be  desecrated 
by  the  presence  of  those  that  did  not  share  it. 

King.  Even  so.  The  very  thought  of  beholding  her 
once  again — beholdino;  her  even  in  the  frostv  arms  of  death, 
reanimates  me.     Yes,  we  will  go, — and  instantly. 

[Exit  R.  H, 

Vic.  (aside)  Monsieur  Le  Sage,  we  shall  convict  you 
of  being  philosophicalhj  and  adverbially  incorrect.  We  at- 
tend your  Majesty.  [Exit  r.  h. 

SCENE  II. 

A  chamber  in  Dame  Babette's  Cottage.  Set  doors,  r.  &  l. 
1^^  E.  In  the  centre  a  Couch  iqwn  which  Blanche 
is  extended  apparent Ig  dead.  White  Jloivers  upon  her 
brow  and  in  her  hands.  A  white  wreath  hung  at  the 
foot  and  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  At  the  head,  a  table 
covered  with  white,  holding  twelve  candles  in  the  form 
of  a  cross,  eleven  lighted  and  one  extinguished.  Around 
the  couch,  a  group  of  Village  Maidens.  jAauELiNE, 
kneeling  at  the  foot.  Arm  and,  standing  at  the  head. 
}M lite  flowers  strewed  on  tlie  ground. 

Arm.  Jaqueline, — my  friends, — grant  what  I  ask. — 
Leave  me  awhile  alone  with  her.  You  loved  her  well, — 
But  I — I —  [^bursts  into  tears. 


32  ARMAND;    or,  [Act  in. 

Jaq.  Our  Blanche  never  denied  a  request  of  yours, 
Armand,  nor  will  we  who  loved  her  so  dearly  do  so. 

[Exit  slowly  and  sorroiDfully ^  followed 
by  all  the  maidens. 

Arm.  (after  gazing  awhile  on  Blanche.) 

Oh!   Blanche!   my  own — though  lost — still,  still  my  own! 
A  little  while  I  yet  may  gaze  on  thee. 
And  in  the  treasury  of  my  soul  may  store 
The  memory  of  each  stiff'ning  lineament 
"Where  beauty  lingers  still!      "It  cannot  be! 
*'  Shall  those  soft  eyes  no  more  look  into  mine, 
"  Nor  veil  themselves  when  with  too  bold  a  joy 
*'  I  gazed  within  their  azure  depths?   shall  love, 
*'  With  its  aurora,   tint  thy  cheek  no  more? 
*'  The  low,  glad  music  of  thy  voice,  no  more 
"  Sunder  those  gentle  lips,   with  words  that  fell 
*'  Like  blessings  on  the  cars  that  took  them  in  ? 
*'  My  Blanche !  my  other  and  my  better  self! 
^'How  weary  seems  the  path  I  thought  to  climb 
*'  Thy  hand  in  mine, — thy  smile  to  light  me  on, 
*'  Thy  sunny  presence  to  make  glad  each  step ! 
'*  Alone  life's  burden  must  be  borne — alone 
"  The  struggling  heart  crush  underneath  its  weight!" 
A  holy  smile  yet  hovers  on  thy  face. 
As  though  the  angels,  when  they  summoned  thee. 
One  golden  glimpse  of  Paradise  revealed. 
And  left  that  happy  print  upon  thy  lip. 
No,  no!   thou  art  not  lost — we  are  not  parted! 
For  Heavenward  as  my  tearful  eyes  I  turn, 
A  radiant  vision  meets  them  there,  and  bids 
Me  guard  my  soul,  unsullied  by  a  deed 
That  could  divide  us  in  that  land  of  joy! 
My  heart  hath  but  one  wish — my  life  one  hope — : 
All  time  one  joy — that  of  rejoining  thee! 

\pinks  at  the  head  of  the  couch,  and  buries 
his  head  in  his  hands. 
JEnter  Victor,  ushering  in  the  King,  l.  d.  1  e. 

[Exit  Victor,  l.  d. 

King.  A  secret  awe  has  paralyzed  my  limbs — 
I  scarcely  dare — (apiwoaching  the  couch,  perceives  Armand) 

Ha!  what  is  this!  a  youth 
Overwhelmed  with  grief,  kneeling  beside  her  corse? 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  AND  THE  peasant.  33 

They  said  she  had  no  kin.     Young  man,  rise  up  : 
What  sorrow  bows  thee  thus? 
Arm.  It  hes  before  you  ! 

-King.  This  maiden,  surely  was  no  kin  of  thine? 
Arm.  No  kin;  yet  more,  far  more,  than  kin  could  be  ' 
Alike,  we  never  knew  those  tender  ties 
Of  kinship,  which  link  man  to  man — yet  all — 
A  father's,  mother's,  sister's,  brother's  place. 
Each  in  the  other's  soul  had  trebly  filled  1 
King.  You  loved  her  then? 

Arm.  Loved  her  ?  the  earliest  page 

In  memory's  record  held  but  that  young  love. 
From  boyhood  up  to  youth — from  youth  to  manhood — 
Each  tenderer  thought- — sublimer  aspiration — • 
And  purer  hope  was  woven  with  that  love. 
Our  very  natures  blended  as  we  grew. 
My  spirit,  gentleness  from  her's  imbibed. 
And  her's  its  strength  and  vigor  caught  from  mine ! 
Our  childish  tears  upon  each  other's  breast 
"Were  ever  shed.     Our  childish  laughter  rang 
The  changes  of  its  mingling  mirth  together, 
And  in  each  other's  joy  all  childhood's  blessings 
Were  mirrored — magnified — and  multiplied  1 
King.  Tell  me  thy  name? 
Arm.  Armand  !   I  have  no  other  ! 
King.  Thy  parentage? 

Arm.  I  know  it  not;   a  foundling 

By  strangers  reared,   I  am  the  people's  child  ! 
From  them  I  know  not  that  I  spring,  yet  would 
Believe  so;   for  I  ask  no  name  save  that 
]Myself  shall  win.     I  bless  the  generous  fate 
That  gave  no  noble  blood  to  swell  my  veins. 
For  had  I  from  the  hands  of  accident 
Nobility  received,  I  could  not  prove 
My  juster  title  to  that  high  noblesse 
No  revolutions  level  and  destroy  : 
The  true  noblesse  of  genius  and  of  worth. 

King.  Would' St  thou  not  serve  thy  country? 
Arm.  With  my  sword 

Or  with  my  life. — She  gave  it — should  she  need  it, 
'Tis  hers  ! 
■  King.  *'  Well  answered.— Dost  thou  love  thy  King? 

3 


34  ARMAND  ;    OR,  [AcT.  III. 

Arm.  ^*  At  least  I  love  all  virtues  of  all  men ! 


ti 


Upon  the  loftier  height  the  man  is  placed, 
"  His  virtues  more  resplendent  shine — his  vices 
"  More  hideous  seem — the  virtues  of  my  King 
*'  Above  the  virtues  of  more  common  men — 
"  I  prize  for  they  have  wider  sphere  of  good. 

King.  "  Thy  speech  is  something  less  than  frank. 

Arm.  *'  I  meant 

''  It  frankly;   I  have  never  yet  had  cause 
"  To  blush  for  my  free  thoughts,  why  should  I  hide  them? 

King.  Thy  boldness  pleases  me ;  Armand,  to  day 
Thy  King  saddles  for  Fontenoye. — Join  thou 
His  battle  line,  and  in  the  warrior  ranks, 
Where  sure  distinction  must  on  valour  wait. 
Upon  the  beaten  foeman's  banner  write 
The  name  thy  worth  shall  win. 

Arm.  My  heart  leaps  up 

Even  at  the  thought. — My  choice  had  asked  no  more — - 
To  die  in  battle  for  my  country  I — What 
Is  left  me  on  this  earth  to  live  for  now  ? 

Kiiig.  Nay,  live,  that  I  may  cancel  valour's  claim 
With  noble  meed. 

Arm.  Who  then  art  thou? 

King.  Thy  King  ! 

Arm.   (kneeling)  My  liege  ! 

King.  Aha  !  thy  words  are  free,  and  yet 

Thy  knee  can  bend,  it  seems. 

Arm.  When  Duty  bids 

My  liege,  it  is  as  proud  to  bend,  as  when 
To  all  compulsion  it  disdains  to  bow.  \_Pause. 

King.  Arise,  Armand;  the  King  but  seldom  sees 
His  subjects'  hearts  unveiled.     I  value  thine 
Because  I  trust  it.     Hence,  without  delay  ; 
At  noon  the  Captain  of  my  Guard  will  know 
Mv  wishes — seek  him  at  that  hour  thou; 
When  next  we  meet,  be  it  at  Fontenove  ! 

Arm.  My  liege,  not  with  my  lips,  but  with  my  sword 
JNIy  gratitude  shall  thank  thee  !  \^going,  returns. 

Must  I  leave 
Thee,  Blanche?     But  no,  I  will  return  to  take 
One  last  farewell.     My  liege,  at  Fontenoye 
My  arm  shall  prove  my  words.  AtFontenoye!    [Exit  l.  1  e. 


Scene  II.]         the    PEER   AND    THE    PEASANT.  35 

King.  (a-pproacJiing  the  couch^  and  gazing  at  Blanche) 
How  potent  is  the  sight  of  thee,  O  death! 
In  quelhng  ruder  passions;     Had  she  lived 
I_should  have  crushed  this  man,  her  lover,  like 
A  worm  beneath  my  foot !     Bereft  of  Blanche, 
His  woe,  is  mine — and  sympathy  would  seem 
To  level  me  half-way  to  him,  or  raise 

Him  to  half-fellowship  with  me  !  \_ffoes  to  couch. 

How  passing  fair !     The  hand  of  death  itself 
Hath  only  robed  her  in  new  loveliness  ! 

Enter  Richelieu,  l.  1  e. 

\after  advancing  a  step  in  the  roomy 
he  starts  at  beholding  the  King. 

Rich,  (aside)  His  Majesty !  great  heaven,   how  came 
he  hither  ? 
The  hour  of  her  reviving  must  be  near. 
Nay,  at  this  very  moment  animation 
May  to  her  dormant  form  return.^ — All's  lost 
Unless — Your  Majesty —  [approaching  him. 

King.  Ah  !  Richelieu,  look  ! 

Rich.  This  vain  indulgence  of  your  sorrow,  sire, 
Is  to  yourself  injurious. 

King.  Richelieu — no — 

Look — death  itself  hath  lost  its  w^onted  terrors, 
Touchino;  her  beauty  but  to  borrow  it ! 
Death,  did  I  say  ?     It  doth  not  seem  like  death  ! 

Rich,  (much  agitated)  Not  seem  like  death  1     I  pray 
your  Majesty, 
Permit  me,  sire — let  me  conduct  you  hence. 

King.  Not  yet — not  yet. 

Rich.  I  do  implore  you,  sire — 

King.  How  came  the  scythe  to  mow  this  lily  down 
So  soon — so  suddenly — so  timelessly  ! 
How  know  I,  but  the  same  unholv  means 
That  robbed  me  of  the  beauteous  Chateauroux, 
Again  have  snatched  away  the  thing  I  loved  ? 
If  'twere  so,  my  rage — 

Rich.  Nay,  good  my  liege. 

Poison  had  left  its  blackening  trace. 

King.  True,  true. 

It  could  not  be.     Oh,  holy  Powers!   what's  this? 
Her  lifeless  hand — is  it  the  warmth  of  mine 


36  armand;   or,  [Act  III, 

That  lends  it  thus  a  heat  unnatural  ? 

No  death-like  ice  is  here — 'tis  scarcely  cold! 

Rich.  Confusion!  she  revives!  (aside)  My  liege,  my  liege. 
These  cheating  phantasies — Your  fevered  brain — 
Pardon — but  you  must  hence  ! 

King.  Surely  a  tinge 

Of  faintest  rose  is  spreading  o'er  her  cheek  ! 
llich.  Sire,  for  the  love  of  Heaven — 
King.  Saw  you  not  that  1 

Her  spotless  drapery  stirs — her  bosom  heaves — 

Rich.         \_passing  between  the  King  and  Blanche  so 
as  to  iirevent  his  seeing  her. 
There  is  no  warmth — no  tint  of  red — no  breath — 
It  was  the  air  that  dallied  with  her  robe  ! 
She's  dead  !     Your  reason,  sire — pardon  this  force 
Which  love  emboldens  me  to  use. — I  fear 
To  see  your  reason  by  these  phantasies 
Unsettled ! 

King.  Ay,  it  is,  or  will  be  soon  ! 

I  cannot  think  her  dead. — I  saw  her  move — 
Look  !  look  !  she  breathes  ! 

Rich.  Nay,  sire,  your  reason  wanders. 

\Jiurries  him  to  the  door. 
King.  I  cannot  leave  her  thus. — But  one  last  look  ! 

\tuvning  hack. 
Rich.         My  liege,  not  for  the  universe — not  one  ! 

\Exit,  forcing  out  ^/ze  King,  l.  1  e. 
Rlan.   (gradually  reviving) 
They  part — they  leave  me — further,  further  still 
They  softly  float, — dimmer  and  dimmer  grow 
The  bright  celestial  forms. — Sing  on,  sing  on. — 
Close  not  my  ears  to  those  seraphic  strains  ! 
They  cease — the  angel  visions  fade — all's  hushed  ! 

Sjgazing  round  her  surprised.  ' 
'Tis  our  own  cottage  !  all  the  rest  has  vanished  ! 
The  tuneful  voices — and  the  flitting  shapes. 
Where  are  they  ?     Flowers  upon  my  brow — spring  flowers 
Within  my  hand  ?     Ah  !   I  remember  now, 
*Twas  May-day — 1  was  chosen  queen — we  danced, 
And  then — Armand — in  Arm.and's  arms  I  swooned  ! 
Where  is  he  ?   (rising.)   I  am  weary — and  how  feeble  ! 
Could  I  but  see  Armand  I  where  lingers  he  ? 


Scene  IL]       the  peer  and  the   peasant.  37 

Enter  Richelieu,  l.  1  e. 

Monsieur  /Vntoiiie — Monsieur — but  no — what  was't 
They  told  me  /  all  my  thoughts  are  so  confused — 
THese  flowers  recall — 'Tis  May-day,  is  it  not  ? 

Rich.  It  was  so  yesterday.'     May-day  is  past ! 

Blan.  *Tis  strange  !  how  could  the  hours  so  swiftly  fly  ? 
Did  they  not  tell  me  you  were  now  a  Duke? 

Rich.  The  Duke  of  Richelieu,  and  'tis  even  so  ! 

Blan.  Ah  !  were  it  any  other  Duke — 

Rich.  Enough  ! 

Your  lips  should  be  the  last  to  breathe  my  name 
In  other  tone  than  that  of  reverent  love  ! 
With  calmness  hear  me — four  and  twenty  hours. 
Nay  more,  you've  lain  upon  that  couch  in  sleep 
So  silent  and  profound  that  all  but  I 
And  Dame  Babette  believe  you  dead  ! 

Blan.  [turning  and  gazing  in  astonishment  at  the 

couch,  ^'c. 
Dead !  dead ! 

Rich.  Aye,  dead  !  and  dead  to  all  but  ns 

You  must  remain,  for  reasons  that  demand 
And  justify  the  harmless  cheat  ! 

Blan.  No  cheat 

Is  harmless,  and —        * 

Rich.  Of  that  not  thou,  but  I 

Am  judge.    All  is  prepared  for  flight — this  hour 
You  will  be  borne  to  a  far-distant  home. 

Blan.  My  lord,  I  own  I  have  been  used  to  bow 
With  reverence  to  your  words. — I  knew  you  then 
But  as  an  humble  citizen,  the  friend 
And  guardian  of  a  child,  who  had,  alas  ! 
No  guardian  else  but  heaven  !     I  loved  you — 
I  obeyed  you — for,  ray  lord,  you  never  asked 
What  in  obeying  I  obeyed  not  heaven  ! 
1  know  you  now  as — Richelieu  !     And  your  first 
Request  should  make  me  shrink  from  you !     My  lord. 
You  bid  me  stoop  to  falsehood — I  refuse  ! 

Rich.  No  more — thy  words  as  little  move  my  will 
As  winds  the  rocks.     Prepare  thou  to  obey ! 

Blan.  Not  that  command  which  in  my  conscience  finds 
No  quick  response.     I  know  your  power,  my  lord, 
I  also  know  the  strength  of  a  resolve 


38  armand;   or,  [Act  III. 

Which  mine  own  heart  approves.  Nay — spare  your  threats— 
They  fright  me  not — I  never  learnt  to  fear ! 

Rich.  Learn  then  my  right  to  claim  and  to  enforce 
Compliance  to  my  wish — it  is  the  right 
Of  a  determined /«^Aer  o'er  a  child  ! 

Blan.  A  father? 

Rich.  This  very  day  completes  the  weary  round 
Of  twenty  years,  since  from  her  friends  and  kin 
Thy  mother  fled. — In  secret  we  were  wed. 
Two  years  she  lived  unknown, — and  died  the  hour 
Thy  infant  head  was  pillowed  on  her  breast! 
My  child !  the  sins  of  Richelieu  are  not  few, 
"  And  every  eye  is  quick  to  magnify, 
"  And  every  voice  is  loud  to  trumpet  them." 
Yet  one — one  ray  of  virtue,  like  a  beam 
Of  sunshine  steahng  in  a  lazar-house, 
Amongst  them  dwells  ;  it  is  his  love  for  thee  ! 

Blan.   (throiving  herself  in  his  arms)  My  father! 

Rich.  Ah,  though  Kichelieu  claims  that  title,— 

Richelieu  from  whom  so  late  you  trembling  shrank, 
My  child,  thou  wilt  not  banish  from  thy  lips 
That  tender  name. 

Blan.  "No,  father!  it  is  not 

For  me,  even  were  I  not  thy  child,  to  judge  thee. 
But  Armand,  dear  Armand,  knows  he  not  this? 

Rich.  Armand  is  henceforth  nought  to  Richelieu's 
daughter. 

Blan.  My  father,  oh!  my  father,  leave  me  still 
My  poverty — leave  me  my  humble  state — 
Take  back  a  father's  name — a  father's  lovCt 
For  lack  of  which,  the  first  warm  tears  that  scorched 
My  infant  eyes  were  shed  ; — but  rob  me  not 
Of  Armand.     Hark!  it  is  his  step.     He  comes. 

[as  she  is  springing  to  meet  him  Richeliet) 
siezes  her. 

Rich.  Hush!  not  a  word.     This  folly  must  end  here. 

Arm.  (without)  Babette!  Babette!  'tis  I. 

Blan.  Armand!     Armand! 

Rich.  Obey  my  will, — this  way  with  me — no  cry  ! 

\Jmrrying  her  to  her  chamber,   r. 
Resistance  would  be  useless. — Girl,  bethink  thee, 
It  is  ihyv^ather  that  commands.  [at  the  last  wordi> 


Scene  II.]       the  pekr  and  the  peasant.  39 

he  releases  her  army  Blanche  hows  her  head 
and  'passes  be/ore  him.     Exeunt  R.  2  E. 
Enter  Armand,  l. 
Arm.  One  more 

Farewell, — the  last,  and  all  is  over  !     Gone!  — 
Why  have  they  borne  her  hence?     It  was  the  sole 
Sad  pleasure  which  I  craved,  but  once  again 
To  look  upon  her. — It  is  better  thus. 
I  would  not  be  unmanned  anew! 

Jjlan.   (in  a  faint  voice  within)  Armand  ! 
Arm.  It  was  her  voice  !  Oh,  Heaven !  the  voice  of 
Blanche  ! 
Angelic  spirit,  didst  thou  breathe  my  name  ? 
Or  is  it  thou — vain  torturer.  Fancy — thou — 
Her  voice !  henceforth  each  wind  that  sweeps  the  earth 
Will  w-aft  it  to  my  ear — rock,  wood,  and  glen 
Repeat  the  sound,  and  all  melodious  tones 
Those  well-known  accents  imitate  I      *'  Her  form 
*'  Will  paint  itself  upon  the  empty  air, 
"  The  iieecy  clouds  will  *ake  no  other  shape, 
"  And  all  things  beauteous  in  that  mould  divine 
*'  Seem  cast."     My  thoughts  will  madden  me  1  and  yet 
I  cannot  tear  myself  away.     Each  dear 
Familiar  object,  by  her  touch  so  hallowed — 
The  casement  where  she  watched  till  I  should  come — 
Yon  couch  where  last  she  lay  in  dreamless  slumber — 
And  these —  (gathering  up  the  Jlowers  which 

Blanche  has  dropped. 
these  flowers  that  in  unconscious  sweetness 
Bloomed  in  her  death-cold  hand,  and  that  shall  now 
Whither  upon  my  breast  as  she  has  withered. 
But  dwell  there  as  she  dwells  in  spite  of  death. 
All,  all,  with  blended  voices,  strangely  real. 
Would  seem  to  bid  me  stay  I  would  chain  me  here. 
As  though  with  cords  invisible  they  bound 
Me  still  to  hope  and  her!     Away!  away  I 
My  nature  grows  too  soft.     Farewell  for  aye 
My  early  dreams — farewell  my  ideal  world. 
Peopled  by  joy  and  hope — farewell  for  ever  !    \Exit  l.  1  e. 
(as  he  rushes  out,  the  door  o/ Blanche's  cham- 
ber opens,  and  she  breaks  from  Richelieu, 
who  is  endeavouring  to  withhold  her. 


40  ARMAND;   or,  [Act  III, 

Blan.  Armand,  come  back.     'Tis  Blanche.     She  lives' 

Rich.  My  child ! 

Hold,  I  command  thee  ! 

Blan.  Call  me  not  thy  child ! 

Oh !  what  to  me  are  nature's  chance-knit  ties 
To  those  that  with  rude  hand  thou  sunderest  now? 
It  is  the  spirifs  purer,  stronger  bonds 
Throu2,h  life — throu";h  death — to  all  eternity 
Unchanging,  holy,  indestructible, — 
That  join  my  soul  to  Armand  !     Part  us  not  I 
My  father — Oh,  my  father,  part  us  not. 

[falls  at  the  feet  q/ Richelieu. 
Quick  curtain. 


BKD    OV    ACT    III* 


Scene  I.]         the   PEER  AND    fliE   peasant.  41 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 
Room  in  an  Hotel  in  Paris.     Babette  and  Jaqxjeline, 

Bab.  Well,  here  we  are  in  Paris  again.  Out  of  that 
old  gloomy  convent  at  last ! 

Jaq.  Only  to  think  of  Mam'selle  Blanche  managing  to 
get  us  all  free,  though  she  did  take  five  years  about  it. 
Now  hosv  did  she  contrive  to  do  that? 

Bab.  By  talking,  child;  it  was  all  done  by  talking. 
Ah  !  she  has  a  tongue  could  wheedle  an  angel  out  of  its 
wings  ;  though,  for  my  part,  I  think  it  best  to  be  silent. 

Jaq.  Why  would  she  come  to  Paris?  Vm  sure  I 
wouldn't  have. 

Bab.  That's  her  affair.  You  know  she  will  have  her 
own  way,  and  does  with  us  all  just  what  she  pleases.  She 
heard  that  the  King  was  holding  his  court  in  Paris,  and 
thought  that  her  father,  the  Duke  de  Richelieu — Oh,  dear, 
to  think  that  the  father  of  our  little  Blanche  should  be  a 
Duke  !  what  an  honor,  though  he  did  shut  her  up  in  a 
convent,  and  made  all  the  villagers  believe  that  she  was 
dead — well,  she  thought  the  Buke,  her  father,  must  be  in 
Paris  too,  so  she  chose  to  come  here.  And  do  you  know 
that  Blanche  has  written  twice  to  the  Duke  and  told  him 
where  we  are. 

Jaq.  Perhaps  the  letters  won't  reach  him  !  I  hope  they 
won't. 

Bab.  Won't  they  though  ?  One  of  them  will  reach 
him  sure  enough,  for  whom  do  you  think  I  gave  it  to  this 
very  morning  ? — But  no  matter,  I  shan't  say  anything 
about  it. 

Jaq.  Well  don't,  mother,  for  its  all  one,  if  the  letter  is 
sure  to  reach  him.  That's  the  very  way  to  make  her  tell 
all  about  it  [aside. 

Bah.  Reach  him  ?  Why,  Monsieur  Le  Sage  said  he'd 
put  it  in  the  Duke's  own  hands.  I  came  upon  our  old  friend, 
Le  Sage,  all  of  a  sudden,  just  in  front  of  this  very  house. 
And.  Low  glad  the  good  man  was  to  see  me  !  so  I  told  him 
all  our  adventures. 

D 


^2  armand;   or,  [Act  IV. 

Jaq.  What!     You  told  him  everything  ? 

Bab.  That  is,  I  told  him  nothing.  He  asked  me  au 
hundred  questions — but  I  never  talk,  so  I  said  nothing. 

Jaq.  Hark !   There  is  a  knock. 

Bab.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  it  is  the  Duke  himself. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  My  neck  grows  so  stiff  again,  just  as  it 
always  does  when  I  think  of  him. 

Jaq.  Nonsense,  mother — don't  be  afraid  of  him — I 
wouldn't.  And  I'm  sure  he  can't  alarm  Mam'selle  Blanche 
very  easily. 

Bab.  That's  true,  send  her  here,  for  I  shall  never  have 
courage  to  face  him. 

Jaq.  But  I  would!  so  w^ould  Mam'selle  Blanche;  you'll 
see  how  quietly  she'll  look  at  him.  I'll  w^arrant  he'll  be 
glad  enough  to  look  away — just  wait  till  she  comes! 

[Exit  Jaqueline,   r.  1  e. 
Enter  Duke  of  Richelieu,   l.  I  e.,  Babette   curtsies 
very  low  and  looks  much  frightened. 

Rich.  So!  it  is  indeed  you,  and  you  are  here  in  Paris, 
in  spite  of  all  my  precautions. 

Bab.  W^ell  I  believe  it  is  I,  your  eminence — and  I  be- 
lieve I  am  here — but  it  was  all  Mam'selle  Blanche;  vou 
see,  your  highness,  she  can  do  what  she  pleases  with 
everybody.     I  hope  you  won't  blame  me,  for  indeed — 

Rich.  Enough  of  this — how  does  Blanche? 

Bab.  Ah,  very  badly  indeed — she  pines  for  Armand 
night  and  day — but  I  forget,  your  highness  does  not  know 
who  Armand  is. 

Rich.  Know  him?    I  would  to  heaven  I  knew  him  not! 
The  peasant-colonel!   Villiers'  aid  de  camp! 
The  king's  new  favorite!   fortune's  chosen  minion! 
No  battle  but  Distinction  and  Success, 
Like  unseen  genii,  wait  upon  his  steps; 
Upon  the  field  he  saved  his  monarch's  life. 
And  when  the  king,  too  weakly  generous, 
Would  have  ennobled  him,  the  nameless  peasant 
Refused  in  scorn  all  title  save  the  one 
His  sword  had  won  him. — Let  him  rise  awhile; 
The  higher  pinnacle,  the  greater  fall! 

Bah.  O  dear,  O  dear!  what  will  Mam'selle  Blanche  say 
to  all  this? 

Rich.   Blanche  say?    Dare  thou  to  breathe  a  simple  word 


ScKNli  I.]  THE    V^ER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  43 

Of  that  my  thoughtless  folly  has  revealed. 
And  ill  a  dungeon's,  not  a  convent's,  walls, 
Siiall  your  next  tale  be  told,  (crosses  r.)  She's  here,  retire! 

[L\rii  Babette,  l.  1  e.;  enter  Jaque- 
LiNE,  ivho  exits  with  Babette. 
£'«^er  Blanche,  r. 

JBlan.  My  lord  Duke  !  [Pauses  and  looks  at  him. 

Nay,  mv  father !  can  I  choose 
But  call  thee  by  that  name  ?  though  in  thy  face 
Too  little  of  a  father's  fondness  greets  me ! 

Rich.  Yield  thou  the  meet  obedience  of  a  child. 
And  all  a  father's  fondness  will  requite  it  I 

Blan.  Command  thou  what  a  child's  pure  heart  must  leap 
To  execute,  and  I  will  yield  a  child's 
Obedience,  with  the  meekness  of  a  child. 

Rich.  What  I  have  done  was  for  thy  surest  good. 
Ay !  for  thy  souVs  best  good  ! 

Blan.  My  soul's  best  good  ! 

Was't  for  my  soul's  best  good  my  tongue  should  mock 
The  consecrated  altar  with  a  lie? 
"Was't  for  my  soul's  best  good  my  lips  should  breath 
A  vow  mv  heart  refused  1  the  holy  oath 
W'hich  gave  the  thought,  the  hope,  the  love  to  heaven, 
Which  were  no  longer  mine  to  give ! 

Rich.  Daughter ! 

Thy  will  opposed  to  mine  is  powerless  ! 

Blan.  My  father,  tempt  me  not  to  evil — think 
Before  you  act !   young  blood  is  warm — young  heads 
Are  rash — young  hearts,  convulsed  like  mine,  are  stubborn  ! 
When  love— the  soul's  first  love  and  last — the  love 
No  absence  changes,  and  which  time  and  sorrow 
Chastise  to  strengthen — is  too  fiercely  curbed. 
Its  passion  breaks  all  other  ties — defies 
All  chances  and  all  perils — leaps  all  barriers. 
That  hold  or  part  it  from  its  idol — or 
Dragged  by  a  chain  too  mighty  to  the  earth. 
The  iron  eats  its  slow  and  silent  way 
Into  the  soul — and  then — we  die — my  father  ! 

Rich.  I  know  thy  sex  too  well,  girl,  at  its  tears 
Or  wrath  to  change  my  pttirpose, — woman's  grief 
Is  wind  and  rain  one  summer  hour  will  end. 

Bhm.  And  canst  thou  thus  the  name  of  woman  scorn, 

D  2 


44  armand;   or,  [A.CT  IV 

Her  holy  mission  lightly  look  upon ; 

Nor  think  that  thy  first  sighs  were  soothed  by  her? 

Thy  first  tears  kissed  away  by  woman's  lips — 

Thy  first  prayer  taught  thee  at  a  woman's  knee — 

Thy  childhood's  blessings  shower' d  from  woman's  hand — 

Thy  manhood  brightened  by  her  watching  smile — 

Thy  age  must  in  her  tenderness  find  prop — 

And  life's  last  murmurs  may  perchance  burst  forth 

Where  they  began — upon  a  woman's  breast? 

Rich.  I  nor  deny  her  virtues,  nor  her  power 
To  gild  them  with  her  tongue.     But  one  word  more 
Of  Armand.     Woman  may  be  constant — when 
Was  man?  what  wouldst  thou  think?  how  wouldst  thou  act 
If  Armand' s  troth  were  plighted  to  another? 

Blan.  Another  1  Armand  love  and  Armand  wed 
Another?     No!  the  present  could  not  thus  . 
Belie  the  past!     Yet  is  it  true  he  thought — 
Still  thinks  me  dead  ;  but  death  could  ouXj  party 
Not  disunite  us  1     Armand  love  another — 
Oh  wretch  !  to  wrong  his  memory  with  the  thought ! 
Armand  has  not  forgotten  me — 'tis  false  ! 
Tell  me  'tis  false !  and  for  the  life  you  give 
Me  back,  I'll  bless  thee  more  than  for  the  life 
I  had  at  first  from  thee ! 

Rich.  In  calmer  tone 

One  question  I  would  have  thee  answer — listen. 
If  I  could  give  thee  proof  unquestionable, 
Would' st  thou  the  cloister  seek  of  thy  free  will? 

Blan.  I  would. 

Rich,  Swear  that  thou  wilt ! 

Blan.  There  needs  no  oath. 

I  know  not  falsehood,  father. 

Rich.  I  believe  thee. 

To  night  I  will  return — remember  thou 
Thy  words — to  night !  Exit  l.  I.e. 

Blan.  Armand  !  was  it  for  this 

For  five  long  years  I  hoped — for  this  I  bore 
With  patient  trust  the  ills  fate  heaped  upon  me ! 
For  this  I  v^^ould  not  wrong  thee  by  a  doubt ! 
All — all — for  this — this  hour  of  agony  I 

[j^inJcs  loeepiny  irpon  a  couch,   and 
after  a  pause  rises  calmly. 


Scene  I.]        the  peer  and  the  peasant.  45 

Let  me  not  murmur  at  thy  high  decrees. 
All-wise,  all-watching,  and  all-guarding  Heaven  I 
I  know  no  withered  leaflet  falls  to  earth — 
No  hlade  of  grass  bursts  from  its  sheath  of  green  ; — 
No  grain  of  sand  is  swallowed  by  the  wave — 
Unnoted  by  that  rulins;  Providence 
That  guides  the  universe,  yet  stoops  to  clothe 
The  flower  with  beauty  !     And  from  seeming  ills 
Works  out  our  truest,  most  enduring  good  ! 
"  Oh !  then  while  grass,  and  sand,  and  leaf  are  cared  for, 
"  How  shall  a  mortal  doubt  thy  guardianship!'^ 
Then  break  not  heart !   the  will  of  Heaven  be  thine ! 
Enter  Jaqueline,   l.  1  e. 

Jaq.  Oh!  Mademoiselle  Blanche !  there's  such  a  hand- 
some young  man  waiting  to  speak  to  you — he  has  a  letter 
to  deliver,  and  he  says,  he  will  only  give  it  into  your  own 
hands- — I  hope  you'll  see  him — I'm  sure  1  would! 

Blan.  A  letter,  and  for  me,  yes,  let  him  enter  ? 

Jaq.  Oh  !  I'm  so  glad  you  will  see  him — that's  just 
what  I  would  have  done — and  he's  such  a  charming  little 
creature.  [Exit  l.  1  e. 

Blan.  Whence  should  he  come?  I  have  no  friends  in  Paris. 
Enter  Jaqueline  with  Victor,  l.  1  e. 

Jaq.  Oh !  the  beautiful  little  fellow !  I  hope  she'll 
listen  to  him!    I  know  I  would!  [Exit  l.  1  e. 

Vic.  Most  lovely  recluse,  pardon  our  intrusion,  and 
pardon  us,  that  we  rejoice  in  this  opportunity  of  performing 
our  m.ission  with  becoming  privacy. 

Blan.  I  think  you  have  a  letter  for  me,   Sir? 

Vic.   We  have  a  letter  to  deliver  and  a  reply  to  learn. 

Blan.  Will't  please  you.  Sir,  to  let  me  see  the  letter  ? 

Vic.  We  intend  to  do  so  forthwith — but  haste  is  most 
uncourtierlike — and  you  perceive  that  ive  are  of  the  Court  ! 

Blan.  I  should  like  much  to  see  the  letter.  Sir. 

Vic.  It  never  yet  has  been  our  study  to  gainsay  the 
wishes  of  the  "illusive  sex,"  of  which  owr  judgment  now 
pronounces  you  the  fairest,  and  your  impatience  thus  we 
gratify.  [venj  pompously  presents  letter, 

Blan.   (reading  aside.) 
One  who  would  serve  you — one  who  learnt  hy  chance 
Your  history,   writes  these  lines — p)erils  unseen 
Are  threat' ninr/  you — the  King  alone  can  save  you  I 


46 


ARMANSk;    OR,  [Act  IV, 


Consent  to  meet  the  page  who  brings  you  this — 

At  sunset  at  the  Tuilleries  eastern  gate. 

It  is  the  custom  of  his  Majestij 

To  walk  within  his  garden  at  that  hour. 

The  page  will  bring  you  to  his  presence — all 

The  rest  lies  with  yourself. — A  Friend.     The  King 

Yes,  he  alone  can  save  me  from  the  cloister, 

Can  give  me  back  to  Armand — Armand — whom 

I  still  think,  true  !  young  Sir,   I  prav  j^ou  thank 

The  writer  of  these  lines — I'll  do  his  bidding. 

Vic.    We  congratulate  you  on  this  wise  decision^  and 
with  regret  must  now  take  our  hasty  leave.      [Exit  bowing 

very  low,  L.  1  e. 

Blan.  All  thanks  to  thee,  kind  Heaven !  for  once  again 
My  path  is  clear!   the  King,  the  King,  shall  guard  me"! 

{Exit  L,.  H.  1  E. 

SCENE  II. 

Garden  of  the  Tuilleries,  at  sunset.     Enter  Kmo  followed 

by  Victor,   r.  u.  e. 
King.  Well,   boy,  what  would'st  thou  from  our  bounty 
now? 

Vic.  My  Liege,  the  boon  I  crave —    [trumpet  without. 

King.  What  trumpet's  that? 

Vic.  News  from  the  seat  of  war,  methinks;  the  bearer — 

King.  Armand  himself! 
Enter  Armand  hastily,  l.  u.  e.,  kneels  to  the  King,  and 

presents  disjjatches. 

Arm.  Pardon,   my  gracious  Liege, 

That  I  appear  thus  hastily  before  thee! 
Good  tidings  should  have  wings,  to  race  the  wind. 
Another  victory! 

King.  Which  could  not  wait 

For  form  thou  think'st?  Armand,  our  favor  gives  thee 
A  license  few  would  dare  to  use  ! 

(^0  Victor)  Retire!    [Exit  Yictor,  j..  v.  e. 

(reading  despatches)  Brave  news — most  glorious  news !  my 

gallant  soldier! 
The  victory  was  thine — the  Marshal,  says  so — 
It  earns  thee  once  again  the  rank  and  title 
Thou  hast  refused  before! 

ylr?n.  My  Liege,  my  sword 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  AND  THE  peasant.  47 

Ilatli  won  me  all  I  covet  or  deserve  ! 

I  would  not  that  your  favor — but  mij  deeds 

Should  of  my  tbrtunes  be  the  artizau! 

King.  But  wherefore,   Armand,  wilt  thou  coldly  spurn 
What  others  as  their  dearest  birth-right  prize? 

Arm.   "  And  why,  the  trappings  and  the  adjuncts  vain 
'*  With  which  the  great  enshroud  themselves,  to  aw-e 
*'  A  gaping  multitude,  should  I  not  scorn? 
"  Free  thought — free  will — the  birth-right  true  of  all — 
*'  Manhood,  the  universal  heritage — 
*'  For  them,  nor  for  a  million  times  their  worth, 
*'  I  would  not  barter!" 

King.  "  Must  thou  scorn  for  this," 

The  rank  and  name  which  proud  posterity 
Might  carve  upon  some  lofty  monument? 

Arm.  I  ask  no  monument,  save  that  which  lives 
Within  the  bosoms  of  my  fellow  men ! 
No  epitaph,  save  that  which  love  inscribes 
Upon  their  memories;   no  chronicle. 
Save  that  the  annals  of  my  country  show; 
Which,  if  I  serve  it,  will  enroll  my  name 
Upon  the  page  of  honored  history,  where. 
Alone,  I  could  be  proud  to  see  it  blazoned ! 

King.  Well,  be  it  so;  and  yet  one  wish  I  have 
Thou  need'st  must  grant,  De  Rohan's  daughter  loves  thee; 
She's  fair  and  rich,  and  virtuous.     Seek  her  hand. 
Nor  be  a  courtier  since  thou  likest  it  not, 
Yet  hold  an  honored  station  in  our  court. 

Arm.  My  liege,  I  cannot  wed — once  hath  my  heart 
In  all  the  glow  of  its  first  warmth  been  given  ! 
Years  have  rolled  by  since  Blanche  hath  pass'd  away — 
In  life's  arena  I  have  stood  alone — 
And  wrestled  on — and  welcomed  each  new  day 
That  led  me  closer  to  the  grave — that  porch 
Which  opens  on  the  palace  of  my  joy! 

King.  Beware!   our  patience  is  not  made  of  stuff 
Too  lasting — try  it  not  beyond  its  strength — 
Marry  De  Rohan's  daughter!     'Tis  thy  King 
Commands! 

Arm.       My  gracious  liege,  no  King  can  tear 
The  land-marks  from  the  honest  path  of  Truth. 
Marry!   call'st  tl.ou  that  marriage  which  but  joins 


48  armand;    ok,  [ajtJV 

Two  hands  with  iron  bonds?   that  yokes,  but  not 
Unites,  two  hearts  whose  pulses  never  beat 
In  unison?     The  legal  crime  that  mocks 
The  very  name  of  marriage — that  invades — 
Profanes — destroys  its  inner  holiness? 
No!   'tis  the  spirit  that  alone  can  wed, 
When  with  spontaneous  joy  it  seeks  and  finds, 
And  with  its  kindred  spirit  blends  itself! 
My  liege,  there  is  no  other  marriage  tie! 

[Enter  Victor  with  Blanche  veiled, 
and  J AQ,VEJ.JNB  /ollowinff,   r.  u.  e. 
King.  This  daring  is  beyond  endurance — nay. 
Beyond  belief.     Since  you  reject  our  grace 
Beware  our  wrath !  retire. 

[x^lRmand  exits  L.  1  e. 
This  stubborn  boy  no  more  shall  thwart  our  wishes! 

[Victor  advances  ivith  Blanche,   r.  h. 

Vic.  Sire,  we  should  not — I  should  not  have  dared  thus 

to  intrude  upon  your  privacy,  but  for  the  fair  excuse  I 

bring.     Your  Majesty  has  but  to  behold  it,  and  we  are — 

that  is,  /  am  secure  of  pardon. 

King.  Excuse,  that  takes  so  soft  a  s^iape  brings  with  it 
The  pardon  that  it  asks.     Leave  us. 

[Victor  pompously  present^  his  arm  to 
Jaqueline,  exeunt  l.  2.  e. 
Now  lady. 
We  pray  thee  speak — what  wouldst  thou  have  of  Louis  ? 

Blan.  Perchance  too  much,  my  liege,  for  you  to  grant. 
Too  little,  it  may  be,  for  my  great  wants! 

King.  Speak  freely  then — what  wouldst  thou  ask? 
Blan.  Protection! 

Protection  aeainst  one  of  rank  so  hi";h 
No  hand  but  thine  could  reach  him — could  save  me ! 
King.  His  name? 

Blan.  llichelieu,  thy  favorite,  and  my  father! 

King.  Thy  father  !  can  it  be  !  has  Richelieu  then 
A  child !      I  pray  thee,  let  ray  hand  remove 
'>  he  jealous  veil  that  clouds  thy  brow. 

\_Blanche  raises  her  veil. 
Great  heaven ! 
What  sorcery  is  this?     I  know  tiiat  face. 
Or  it  hath  visited  my  dreams, — or  else 


SCENK  II.]         THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  49 

It  is — must  be— bow  like,  bow  cbanged! — and  yet 
How  like  !     Wbat  spell  bath  conjured  up  the  dead  ? 

Blan.  Chance  words,  that  strangely  suit  this  stranger 
chance ! 
For  she  who  with  these  warm  and  living  lips 
Pleads  to  thee  here,  is  dead  to  all  who  loved 
Her  best.     Within  a  village  churchyard  lies 
An  humble  stone  that  bears  her  name — and  yet 
Sbe  stands  before  you ! 

Kmg.  And  that  name  was — 

Blan.  Blanche. 

King.  Oh  !  cheat  me  not  enraptured  eyes !  deceive 
Me  not  too  happy  ears!  'tis  Blanche  herself! 
Blancbe  w^iom  I  saw — Blanche  whom  I  mourned  as  dead  i 
Ah  !   Richelieu  hath  wrought  this,  and  bitterly 
Shall  Bichelieu  rue  it !     Bknche  is  mine,  and  mine 
In  spite  of  fate  !   (aside.)     Lady,  this  is  no  time, 
No  place  to  hear  or  to  redress  thy  wrongs. 
The  Duke  de  Rohan's  chateau  yonder  stands, 
There  will  I  place  thee  underneath  the  care 
Of  his  most  gentle  duchess — let  us  haste. 

[As  the  King  advances  impetuously  to  seize 
the  hand  of  Blanche,  she  draws  hack. 
Blan.  My  liege,  I  follow  thee. 

[King  recovers  himself ^  crosses  and  bows. 

Exeunt  r.  I.e. 
Enter  Jaqueline,  Babette,  and  Richelieu,  hastily^ 

L.  U.  E. 

Rich.  Where  is  she  ? 

Jaq.  This  is  the  very  place,  but  I  don't  see  her  at  all ! 
Armand  rushes  in. 

Arm.  She  lives !  she  lives !  she  walks  the  earth !  I  may 
Behold  her — once  more  clasp  her  to  my  heart ! 
Alive !     Oh !  let  me  not  grow  mad  with  joy !      [crosses  r. 

Rich.  Thy  frenzy  may  have  bitterer  cause  ere  long ! 
Where  is  she  1     Woman,  speak.     Where  is  my  child? 

Bah.  Oh,  your  eminence!  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  It 
was  all  Jaqueline. 

Arm.  Jaqueline,  good  girl,  speak  thou — where  is  my 
Blanche  ? 

Jaq.  Oh!  I'll  speak,  Monsieur  Armand;  I'll  tell  you 
everything,  for  Blanche  never  loved  any  body  as  she  loves 
you,  and  so  I  love  you  too.    A  beautiful  little  page  brought 


50  armand;  or,  [Act.  IV. 

her  here,  and  she  made  me  come  with  her ;  then  she  was 
talking  with  a  spendidly- dressed  cavaHer,  and  the  page 
said,  it  was  the  King  ! 

Pdch.  The  King  !     Ah  then  indeed,  all's  lost ! 

A7'm.  All's  gained! 

She  lives  !  and  let  Fate  hide  her  where  it  will. 
The  ample  earth  is  all  too  small  to  part  us ! 

[Crosses  r.  and  up  c. 

Bab.  Ah!  my  lord  Duke,  it's  all  right,  his  Majesty — 

Rich.  Woman,  away. 

Bab.  Oh,  my  poor  neck  ! 

{Exit  hastily  with  Jaqxjejltne,  l.  2  f. 

Bich.  (after  pausing  and  looking  at  Armand,) 
Armand,  I  hated  thee — had  planned  thy  ruin- 
But  yet  I  loved  my  child,  and  would  have  sold 
Myself  to  slavery  to  have  shielded  her 
From  Louis.     Now,  all  feelings  merge  in  one. 
That  one  the  last !     She  lives — may  live  for  thee. 
Find  her,  and  she  is  thine !   or  if,  when  found. 
Thou  canst  not  from  the  royal  libertine 
Defend  her,  save  her  as  a  Roman  would. 

Arm.  Fear  not — the  King  is  but  a  man  !     A  man 
"With  no  more  rights  than  I,  when  on  my  rights 
He  dares  to  trench !     And  by  that  righteous  heaven. 
Which  frowns  upon  this  deed  of  infamy, 
I  swear  to  snatch  her  taintless  from  his  arms ! 

Rich.  Find  her,  she's  thine. 

Arm.  I  will,  or  lose  myself! 

[Exeunt  hastily^  Richelieu  l.,  Armand  k 


END   OF  act   IV. 


SCEJT*  I.]  THE    PEER    AND    THE    PEASANT.  CA 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

An  antechamber  in  the  Palace  of  the  Tuilleries. 

Enter  Richelieu  and  Le  Sage,  r.  h. 

Rich.  How  learnt  you  this?  the  truth — the  truth — 
concealment  now  were  vain — I  overheard  thee  talking  with 
the  page — you  spoke  of  Blanche,  last  night,  again  to-day, 
the  King  refused  me  audience — tell  me,  is  Blanche  then  in 
his  power? 

Le  Sage.  Assuredly! 

Rich.  The  Duke  d'Antin~did  I  not  hear  you  say,  his 
hand  had  dealt  this  blow  ? 

Le  Sage.  Unfortunately! 

Rich.  Where  ?  Where  is  Blanche  ?  Answer !  dost 
thou  not  see  my  agony  ? 

Le  Sage.  Perceptibly! 

Rich.  Dotard!  I  would  not  do  thee  violence!  ha!  the 
Duke  himself  approaches — begone! 

Le  Sage.  Voluntarily!  {bowsj  and  speedily!  (aside.) 

[Exit  R.  H, 

Enter  Duke  d'Antin,  l.  h. 

Rich.  I  would  have  sought  thee,  Duke — ^pardon  this  haste, 
A  father  injured  cannot  wait  on  form. 
Where  is  my  Blanche? 

UAnt.  What  should  I  know  of  Blanche  ? 

Rich.  Answer,  old  man,  I  charge  thee!  Where's  my  child? 

B'Ant.  Oh !  rather,  Duke  de  Richelieu,  answer  thou ! 
Where  is  my  Child  ? 

,    Rich.  Speak  not  of  her — ^'tis  more 

Than  twenty  years,  since  thou  hast  called  her  daughter  I 

jyAnt.  And  if  it  be,  think'st  thou  that  twenty  years 
Are  lethe  for  a  father's  memory  ? 
Be  witness  these  white  locks,  whose  every  hair 
Have  been  the  record  of  a  separate  woe  ! 
Thou  thought' st  my  child's  destroyer  was  unknown, 
I  knew  the  subtle  Richelieu's  arts  too  well 


52  armand;   or,  [ActV- 

To  doubt  what  name  the  heartless  villain  bore. 

I  did  not  brand  thee  as  a  libertine. 

The  Court,  who  knew  thee,  had  but  smiled. — Redress 

I  sought  not — to  proclaim  thy  treachery 

Had  only  been  to  publish  D'Antin's  shame! 

But  on  my  knees,  I  swore  to  dedicate. 

All  that  remained  of  life  to  my  revenge. 

I  swore  that  thou  shouldst  taste  the  self-same  cup 

Which  thou  hadst  poisoned  for  my  lip. — Richelieu, 

It  is  fulfilled — my  hour  of  triumph's  come! 

Rich.  Oh  !  wretched  man,  hadst  thou  but  known — 

jy Ant.  I  knew 

Plnough  1  as  thou  shalt  learn  too  late !  the  ruin 
That  waits  thy  child  is  sure  as  that  of  mine — 
I  watched  her  from  her  earliest  hour — through  me 
The  King  beheld  her  first — her  seeming  death 
I  never  credited — I  tracked  thy  steps. 
And  through  a  venal  priest,  I  set  her  free  ! 
I  brought  her  to  the  King,  and  wove  the  snare 
That  makes  her  his  I — Now  writhe  as  I  have  writhed! 
Now  tear  thine  hair  as  I  tore  mine! — Now  cast 
Thyself  in  maniac  fury  on  the  earth — 
Feel  all  a  father's  agony!   and  pray 
As  I  have  prayed,  the  living  earth  might  yawn 
To  yield  a  grave  for  a  dishonored  child! 

Rich.  Madman!  what  hast  thou  done  ?  thy  Adelaide 
Ne'er  knew  the  blush  of  shame  !     Her  weal  and  mine 
Forbade  the  court  should  know  Richelieu  had  wed; 
And  yet  she  was  my  wife! — Blanche  was  her  child  ! 

jy Ant.  (much  moved)  Her  child!   the  child  of  Adelaide? 
Just  Heaven! 
I  snatched  the  vengeance  which  is  thine  alone. 
Its  gathered  fury  bursts  upon  my  head! 

Rich.  Lose  not  the  moments  thus  in  bootless  anguish, 
Where  is  she  now  ? 

D'Ant.  Alas,  I  know  not ! 

Rich.  Haste  and  learn,  thy  spies. 

For  spies  thou  must  have  used,  can  surely  tell! 

jyAnt.  Oh !  Adelaide  !  my  Adelaide  !  is  Blanche 
Indeed  thy  child  ? 

Rich.  No  more, — thou  wilt  have  time 

Enough  for  tears  when  there  is  none  for  action. 


Scene  IL]       the  peer  and  the  peasant.  53 

(crosses  rJ  Let  us  but  find  her!   should  we  then  have  cause 
To  weep— be  each  fierce  tear  of  blood  alone ! 

[Exeunt  r.  h.  1  e. 

SCENE  II. 

A  sumptuous  apartment  in  the  Chateau  of  theBuke  deRohan. 

Enter  Blanche,  splendidly  attired,  through  centre  doors, 
followed  by  Jaqueline. 

Jaq.  Dear  Mam'selle  Blanche,  to  think  that  I  should 
have  found  you  at  last!  and  through  that  beautiful  Uttle 
page! 

Blan.  But,  Armand!   Oh!  my  best  Jaqueline,  my  friend. 
Thou  hast  seen  Armand — and  he  knows  I  live- 
He  spoke  of  me  as  in  our  early  days — 

Jaq,  Ay,  that  he  did,  Mam'selle,  and  I  am  sure  he 
loves  you  as  much  as  ever. 

Blan.  Bless  thee,  Jaqueline  !  (embracing  her  fervently) 
Oh!   how  one  hour  of  joy 
Can  brighten  a  whole  age  of  agony  ! 
The  weary  years  that  sundered  us  so  long 
Have  vanished — every  pang  that  wrung  my  soul 
Is  blotted  out  from  memory! — The  past. 
Is  one  of  sunbeam  only — and  the  future 
Seems  something  brighter  still — I  am  too  blest ! 

Jaq.  So  will  Monsieur  Armand  be — but  you  will  scarcely 
know  him,  he  looks  so  altered,  for  he  is  a  great  soldier 
now — and  I  think  he  will  hardly  know  you  in  this  grand 
dress. 

Blan.  They  said  the  king  would  visit  me  to-day. 
And  to  receive  him  decked  me  in  these  robes. 

Jaq.  Would  you  not  like  me  to  seek  Monsieur  Armand, 
Mam'selle  Blanche? 

Blan.  Do  !  if  thou  cans' t,  my  kind  Jaqueline. 

Jaq.  Oh !  I'll  fiud  him  if  he's  within  the  walls  of  Paris, 
be  sure  of  that !     I  do  so  like  to  bring  lovers  together. 

[Exit  R.  1  E. 

Blan  What  thronging  thoughts  in  quick  succession  chase 
Each  other  through  my  brain  !     I  pace  these  halls 
As  one  who  walks  them  in  a  dream — and  Fear 
By  turns,  convulses  every  trembling  limb, 
By  turns,  thine  azure  eyes,  immortal  Hope ! 


54  armand;  or,  [Act  V, 

In  visioned  beauty  smile  upon  my  doubts ! 
"While  in  thy  cheating  glass,  whose  magic  brings 
The  wished  for  object  near,  my  spell-bound  sight 
Sees  Armand  only! — Thus — 

Enter  Victor,  c.  d. 

Vic*  His  Majesty! 

Enter  King,  c.  d. 

[Exit  Victor,  c.  d. 

King,  My  Blanche!   (pauses  and  looks  at  her.) 

Why,  this  is  well — this  rich  attire 
Befits  thy  beauty  royally — the  emblem 
Of  greater  change  that  waits  thee! 

Blan.  'Twas  the  Duchess 

That  willed  it,  and  not  I,  my  liege. — 

King.  Thy  tone. 

Fair  Blanche,  is  grave,  yet  should  no  sadness  mar 
Its  music!     Now  thy  life  shall  be  one  pageant 
Of  long  delight!     Thine  every  hour  a  joy 
Newer  and  gladder,  and  thine  every  wish 
Fulfilment. 

Blan.     Sire,  I  have  but  one — restore 
Me  to  mv  childhood's  home,  to  him,  without 
Whose  presence  even  that  home  were  joyless! 

King.  A  fate  more  bright  awaits  thee;  hast  thou  not 
Divined  it?     Knowest  thou  not  thou  art  beloved? 

Blan.  I  do,  my  liege. 

King.  And  by  thy  King  ! 

Blan.  Oh,  heaven! 

King.  Fair  Blanche,  look  not  so  like  the  startled  fawn 
By  friendly  echoes  frighted.     Listen,  love, 
A  splendid  fate  its  golden  page  unrols 
Before  thee.     In  our  court  the  proudest  place 
Is  thine.     The  queen  shall  yield  thee  her  protection — 
All  men  shall  bow  to  her  whom  Louis  loves. 

Blan.  Just  heaven!   can  such  things  be  !  or  doth  seme 
demon 
Whisper  these  horrors  in  my  dreaming  ear ! 

King.  Sweet  Blanche,  the  splendors  that  I  proffer — 

Blan.  Peace! 

Thou  King — by  passions  vile  unkinged!      Thy  words 
Have  scorched  my  brain,  and  should  have  seared  thy  lips 
In  passing  them.     My  liege,  my  liege,  was  it 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  and  the  peasant.  55 

A  kingly  deed  to  snare  a  being  helpless — 
And  friendless— 3-oung  as  I — thus  to  profane 
Her  ears,  and  seek  bv  virtue  of  thv  crown 
To  rob  her  of  the  brightest  diadem 
That  can  encircle  woman's  brow! 

King.  Nay,  Blanche, 

ISIar  not  thy  beauty  with  this  frigid  bearing. 
Frowns  do  not  suit  those  gentle  eyes,  nor  fierceness 
Thy  timid  nature — weak  thou  art — 

Blan.  Not  weak, 

l\Iy  liege,  when  roused  by  insult  and  by  wrong! 
I  tell  thee,  haughty  king — presumptuous  man ! 
That  like  the  unshorn  locks  the  Nazarene 
Vowed  to  his  God — the  purity  of  woman 
Becomes  at  once  her  glory  and  her  might ! 

King.  Ah,  Blanche!   and  is  there  no  excuse  for  love? 

Blan.  Thy  love  is  but  self-love!  that  first  and  worst 
Of  passions — poisoned  spring  of  every  crime — 
Which  hath  no  attribute  of  perfect  love! 

King.  This  to  thy  King? 

Blan.  Art  kingly  in  thy  deeds? 

The  star  that  shines  so  brightly  on  thy  breast 
Is  worthless  if  it  shed  no  light  within! 
The  throne  that  lifts  thee  o'er  thy  fellow  men 
Should  teach  the  virtues  which  alone  can  raise 
Thee  'bove  them! 

King.  At  thy  feet  let  me  implore — 

Blan.  Stand  off !  approach  me  not ! 

King.  Thou  fearest  me  then? 

Blan.  Fear  thee?     Danger  should  be  where  fear  is — I 
See  none! 

King.     Woman!  thou  shalt  not  brave  me  thus  ! 
(seizes  her)  No  human  power  can  save  thee — thou  art  mine! 
What  are  thy  feeble  struggles  in  my  grasp  ? 

Blan.  (sinJdng  on  her  knees)  Spare  me,  my  liege,  spare 

me! 

King.  It  is  thy  turn 
To  sue,  and  all  in  vain !  thou  hast  forgot 
That  I  am  King,  and  thou  hast  no  protector ! 

Blan.   (starting  vp)  I  have!   I  have!     One  who  for 
sakes  me  not ! 
One  whom  thou  darest  not  brave!  unloose  thy  hold 


56  armand;   or,  [Act  V. 

Or  dread  his  fury !     Heaven  protects  me  still ! 

[The  King  releases  her,  awed  by  her  manner. 
Thou  art  my  sovereign — I  a  friendless  subject — 
I  woman,  and  thou  man! — my  helplessness 
"Was  of  itself  a  claim  to  thy  protection — 
A  claim  thou  hast  rejected!     Answer,  King! 
Hast  thou  done  right?     Man,  was  it  well  to  use 
Thy  strength  against  my  weakness?     Thou  art  dumb! 
Thou  canst  not  answer  !     King  of  France,  I  scorn  thee  ! 

[Exit  L.  1  L. 

King.  Why  should  I  shrink  from  one  so  powerless? 
And  can  it  be  that  Virtue's  presence  awes 
Me  thus?     That  Virtue  which  no  weapon  needs 
Except  its  own  resistless  dignity  ! 

She  speaks,  I'm  hushed — she  spurns  me,  and  I  cower — 
She  leaves  me,  and  I  dare  not  follow  her ! 

Enter  Armand  hastili/y   r.  1  e. 
You  here? 

Arm.  My  lips,  my  liege,  might  echo  back 
The  question  ! 

Ki7ig.       Sir,  it  is  thy  monarch's  right 
To  tarry  where  he  will. 

Arm.  It  is  my  right 

To  seek  what  I  am  robbed  of  where  I  may ! 

King.  Darest  thou? 

Arm.  Hadst  thou  not  dared  to  wrong  me — I 

Had  never  dared  to  stand  before  thee  thus. 

King.     "  A  monarch's   state   may  sometimes   sanction 
what — 

Ar}7i.  "A  monarch's  state  that  sanctions  what  would 
shame 
"  A  subject,  doubly  shames  itself!   when  Wrong 
*'  And  Crime  usurp  the  garments  of  that  state, 
"  They  grow  more  hideous  in  those  glittering  robes 
"  Than  when  they  wear  the  branded  felon's  garb." 

King.  Armand !  I  thought  thee  loyal — 

Arm.  So  I  was. 

When  loyalty  was  virtue — Oh!   my  liege. 
Because  my  heart  'neath  ruder  vesture  once 
Hath  beat,  than  e'er  thine  own  hath  throbbed  a2;ainst, 
Think'st  thou  its  feeling  is  less  keen?     Its  sense 
Of  injury  less  delicate?  thinkest  thou 


Scene  IL]         the    PEER   AND    THE    PEASANT.  5/ 

It  v,'\\[  not  leap  as  readily  to  kindness? 
Will  not  revolt  as  quickly  at  oppression  ? 
How  then  shall  I  be  loyal,  when  my  King 
Would  do  me  the  worst  injury  that  mau  ^ 

Cau  do  to  man? 

Ki)}(/.         What  injury,  rash  youth? 

A?'7)i.  Of  my  affianced  bride  would' st  thou  not  rob  me? 
Would' st  thou  not  rob  her  of — how  shall  I  keep 
My  senses  at  the  thought ! — Is  Blanche  not  here  ? 

King.  This  passes  bearing. 

Arm.  Hear  me,  my  gracious  liege,  I  am  too  bold. 
Wrong  has  rough  words,  and  anguish  maddened  me  ! 
Bethink  thee,— on  the  battle  field  I  saved 
Thy  life.     Remembering  that,  oh.  Sire !  forget 
Thy  passion  for  this  maid — my  promised  bride. 
Let  it  be  as  a  cloud  which  dimmed  the  sun 
But  for  a  moment,  that  its  after  light 
Might  show  more  glorious.     Do  a  royal  act. 
And  do  it  royally,  that  men  may  see 
Thy  soul  is  royal  too.     She  does  not  love 
Thee,  give  her  back  to  me ! 

King.  I'll  hear  no  more  ! 

Ann.  Ha ! 

King.  Not  another  word ! 

Arm,  Pause  yet  a  moment. 

King.  Enough! 

Arm.         I  am  no  more  the  suppliant ! 
My  private  injury  grows  public  ivrong. 
The  saviour  or  the  avenger  stands  before  thee. 
Choose  thou. 

King.  Is  this  the  faithful  soldier — 

Arm.  No, 

It  is  the  injured  lover  thou  hast  wronged. 
The  man  his  monarch's  crimes  exasperate. 
Restore  my  Blanche,  and  I  am  what  I  was ! 
Withhold  her,  and  I  know  not  what  I  may  be! 
"  Each  sigh  of  hers  shall  to  a  whirlwind  swell, 
"  And,  in  its  fury,  dash  thee  on  the  rocks 
"  Of  Public  Hate. — Each  prayer  she  breathes  shall  turn 
"  To  thunderbolts  placed  in  thy  people's  hands! 
"  Woe — woe  to  him  on  whom  a  nation's  rage 
"With  Perseus-weapons,  such  as  these,  shall  burst!" 

£ 


58  ARMAND;    OR,  [AcT  V. 

King,  Within  there !  ho !   my  guards  ! 

Enter  Guards  c.from  r.  h.  ivith  Pages. 

[Guards  advance  to  receive  the 
sword  o/"  Armand. 

King.  Yield  up  your  sword. 

Arm.  Pardon,  my  Hege,  but  never  sliall  its  edge 
Flash  upon  battle  field  again.     You  gave  it, 
Take  back  the  gift  unstained,  but  worthless. 

[Breaks  the  sword,  retires  c. 

Enter  Richelieu  and  d'Antin  hastihf,  r.  1  e. 

King.  Sirs, 

Your  ceremonial  is  but  scanty  with  us 
That  ye  intrude  upon  our  presence  thus, 
XJnushered  and  mibidden. 

Rich.  Pardon,  Sire, 

The  courtier  was  forgotten  in  the  father. 
I  seek  my  child. 

King.  Hast  thou  some  new  deceit 

To  hide  her  from  the  world  ?     Another  stone 
To  lay  upon  an  empty  grave  ? 

Rich.  My  Liege, 

A  father's  fears — a  father's  fondness  urged  me  ! 
Be  these  my  plea. 

jy Ant.   (crossing  c.)  Grant  me  a  w^ord,  my  king 
This  head  has  whitened,  and  this  frame  grown  old 
In  serving  France  and  thee.     Blanche  is  my  child 
No  less  than  his — the  child  of  Adelaide, 
Sole  daughter  of  my  house.     Deny  me  not 
My  first  and  only  prayer.     Restore  her  to  us. 

King.  The  warring  elements  of  good  and  ill 
"With  fearful  strife  are  battling  in  my  soul  j 
But  Policy  with  Virtue  sides,  and  makes 
The  victory  hers. — Richelieu,  a  word  with  thee. 
Blanche  is  beneath  this  roof.     Go,  bring  her  hither. 

Rich.  More  gladly  have  I  never  flown  to  do 
My  sovereign's  will.  [Exit  l.  h. 

King.  Armand,  d'Antin,  draw  near. 

Harsh  thoughts  are  written  on  the  brow  of  each. 
And  yet,  I  think  ye  true,  I  know  ye  brave. 
And  would  believe  ye  loyal, — nay,  will  make 
Some  effort  so  to  hold  ye. 


Scene  II.]       the  peer  and  the  peasant.  59 

Ar7n,  Oh,  my  King ! 

Hast  thou,  indeed,  relented? 

King.  See  who  comes. 

JEnter  Richelieu,  l.  1  e.,  leading  Blanche,  her  eyes 
are  bent  upon  the  ground,  she  does  not  perceive  Armand. 

Arm.  Blanche ! 

Blan.  Armand,  is  it  thou?  \with  an  ex- 

clamation of  joy  she  rushes  into  his  arms. 

Arm.  My  own,  my  Blanche ! 

Is  it  no  phantom  dupes  as  it  hath  duped 
So  oft  my  willing  sense?     Is  it  thyself? 
If  joy  could  kill,  this  hour  so  richly  blest 
That  ecstacy  seems  pain,  would  be  our  last. 

Blan.  Ah  !  if  it  were  we  would  not  murmur.     Life 
Hath  not  another  moment  such  as  this. 

Rich.  Mv  child  !  remember  thou  art  not  thine  own 
To  give. 

Blan.  My  dearest  father, — 

Rich.  Nay,  I  know 

"What  thou  wouldst  say.     First  bow  thy  knee  to  one 
"Who  claims  thy  reverence  and  love.     Behold 
Thy  mother's  sire.  [Blanche  kneels  to  d'Antin, 

he  raises  and  embraces  her. 

D'Ant.  My  child  !  [Blanche  returns  to  c. 

King.         Blanche,  {crossing  to  her)  shrink  no  more. 
I  was  thy  lover — I  am  now  thy  King  ! 
We  claim  the  right  to  wed  thee  as  we  will. 
Nay,  traitress — no  rebellion,  for  thy  sire 
Sanctions  our  choice.     Armand,  more  chary  hold 
Our  second  gift  than  thou  hast  done  the  first. 

[points  to  the  sword. 
No  more  of  that. — We  pardon, — Blanche  is  thine. 

[joins  their  hands  and  crosses  to  n.  yl. 

Arm.    My  cup  is  brimming  over, — speak  thou  my 
Blanche, 
My  long  lost  bride, — tell  me  thy  happiness 
Hath  reached  the  blessed  zenith  of  mine  own  ? 

Blan.  My  happiness  ?  [to  the  audience. 

Its  bounds  are  fixed  by  these. 
Who've  made  so  light  our  earnest  task  to  please. 
By  lenient  eyes,  that  only  beauties  seek. 


60  ARMAND,    ETC.  [AcT  V. 

And  lenient  lips,  that  mildest  judgment  speal< ! 

Who,  if  some  passing  good  they  chance  to  find. 

Seem  to  all  else  so  kindly,  gently  blind  ! 

Our  faces  are  of  yours  the  mirrors  true. 

Cloud  'neath  your  frown — grow  bright  at  smiles  from  you. 

What  fiat  then  to-night  may  we  expect  ? 

Shall  we  your  censure,  or  your  smiles  reflect  ? 


DISPOSITION    OF    CHARACTERS    AT    THE    FALL    OF    CURTAIN. 

R.    King.     Armand.     Blanche.     Richelieu.     jyAntin.    L. 
Guards  and  pages  in  the  hack  ground. 


THE    END. 


FASHION; 


OR, 


LIEE    IN    NEW    YORK. 


2.    €ome^2» 


IN     FIVE     ACTS 


"  Howe'er  it  be  —  it  seems  to  me 
'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good  ; 
Kind  hearts  axe  more  than  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood." 

Tennyson. 


PREFACE 

TO    THE    LONDON    EDITION. 


The  Comedy  of  Fashion  was  intended  as  a  good-natured 
satire  upon  some  of  the  follies  incident  to  a  new  country, 
where  foreign  dross  sometimes  passes  for  gold,  where 
the  vanities  rather  than  the  virtues  of  other  lands  are  too 
often  imitated,  and  where  the  stamp  o^  fashion  gives  cur- 
rency even  to  the  coinage  of  vice. 

The  reception  with  which  the  Comedy  was  favoured 
proves  that  the  picture  represented  was  not  a  highly 
exaggerated  one.  -k 

It  was  first  produced  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York, 
in  March,  1845. 

The  splendid  manner  in  which  the  play  was  put  upon 
the  stage,  and  the  combined  efforts  of  an  extremely  talented 
company,  ensured  it  a  long  continued  success.  It  was 
afterwards  received  with  the  same  indulgence  in  all  the 
principal  cities  of  the  United  States,  for  which  the  au- 
thoress is  doubtless  indebted  to  the  proverbial  gallantry 
of  Americans  to  a  countrywoman. 

A.  C.  M. 

London,  January,  1850. 


COSTUMES. 

ADAM  TRUEMAN.— First  Dress :  A  fanner's  rough  overcmt,  roarse  blue 
trousers,  heavy  boots,  broad-brimmed  liat,  dark  coloured  neckerchief,  stout 
walking  stick,  large  bandanna  tied  loosely  around  his  neck. — Second  dress  : 
Dark  grey  old-fashioned  coat,  black  and  yellow  waistcoat,  trousers  as  be- 
fore.—Third  dress  :  Black  old-fashioned  dress  coat,  black  trousers,  white 
vest,  white  cravat. 

COUNT  JOLIMAITRE.— First  dress:  Dark  frock  coat,  li{:ht  blue  trousers, 
patent  leather  boots,  gay  coloured  vest  and  scarf,  profusion  of  jewellery, 
light  overcoat. — Second  dross  :  Full  evening  dress  ;  last  scene,  travelling  cap 
and  cloak. 

MR.  TIFFAXY.— First  dress:  Dark  coat,  vest,  and  trousers.— Second  dress: 
FhU  evening  dress. 

MR.  TWINKLE.— First  dress  :  Green  frock  coat,  white  vest  and  trousers,  green 
and  white  scarf.— Second  dress  :  Full  evening  dress. 

MR.  FOGG,— First  dress  :  Entire  black  suit.— Second  dress  :  Full  evening  dress, 
same  colour. 

SNOBSON.— First  dress  :  Blue  Albert  coat  with  brass  buttons,  yellow  vest,  red 
and  black  cravat,  broad  plaid  trousers.- Second  dress:  Evening  dross. 

COL.  HOWARD,— First  dress:  Blue  undress  frock  coat  and  cap,  white  trou- 
sers.— Second  dress  :  Full  military  uniform. 

ZEKE.— Red  and  blue  livery,  cocked  hat,  &:c. 


MRS.  TIFFANY.— First  dress:  Extravagant  modern  dress.— Second  dress: 
Hat,  feathers,  and  mantle,  with  the  above.— Third  dress  :  Morning  dress.— 
Fourth  dress:  Rich  ball  dress, 

SERAPHINA.-^irst  dross:  Rich  modern  dress,  lady's  tarpaulin  on  one  side  of 
head.— Second  dress  :  Morning  dress.— Third  dress  :  Handsome  ball  dress, 
profusion  of  ornaments  and  flowers.— Fourth  dress  :  Bonnet  and  mantle. 

GERTRUDE.— First  dress  :  White  muslin.— Second  dress :  Ball  dress,  very 
simple. 

MILLINETTE.— Lady's  Maid's  dress,  very  gay. 

PRUDENCE.— Black  satin,  very  narrow  in  the  skirt,  tight  sleeves,  white 
muslin  apron,  neckerchief  of  the  same,  folded  over  bosom,  old-fashioned 
cap,  high  top  and  broad  frill,  and  red  ribbons. 


DEAMATIS   PESSON/E. 

As  produced  at  the  Royal  Olympic  Theatre,  January  9,  1850,  under  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Oeorge  Ellis,  Stage  Manager. 

Adam  Trueman,  a  Farmer  from  Catteraugus.       -  ?  t/w  S^  (3  SaAa,  . 
Count  Jolimaitre,  a  fashionable  European  Importation. 
Colonel  Howard,  an  Officer  in  the  U.  S.  Army. 
Mr.  Tiffany,  a  New  York  Merchant. 
T.  Tennyson  Twinkle,  a  Modern  Poet. 
Augustus  Fogg,  a  Drawing  Room  Appendage. 
Snobson,  a  rare  species  of  Confidential  Clerk. 
Zeke,  a  colored  Servant. 

Mrs.  Tiffany,  a  Lady  ivho  imagines  herself  fashionable. 
Prudence,  a  Maiden  Lady  of  a  certain  age. 
MiLLiNETTE,  a  French  Lady''s  Maid. 
Gertrude,  a  Governess. 
Seraphina  Tiffany,  a  Belle. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Ball  Room. 

CAST   OF   CHAKACTEES. 

Adam  Trueman Mr.  Davenport. 

Count  Jolimaitre —  A.  Wigan. 

Colonel  Howard —  Belton. 

Mr.  Tiffany —  J.  Johnstone. 

Twinkle —  Kinloch. 

Fogg —  J.  Howard. 

Snobson —  H.  Schavf. 

Zeke —  J,  Herbert. 

Mrs.  Tiffany Mrs.  H.  Marston. 

Prudence —  Parkeji, 

MiLLiNETTE —  A.  Wigan. 

Gertrude Miss  F.  Vining. 

Seraphina —  Gousrenheim. 


EXITS  AND   ENTRANCES. 

R.  means  Hight;   L.,  Left;  R.  1  E.,   Right  First  Entrance;  2  E.,  Second 
Entrance  ;  D.  F.,  Dour  in  the  Flat. 

RELATIVE   POSITIONS, 

R.  means  Right;  L.,Lcft:    C,  Centre;    R.  C,  Right  of  Centre:  L.  C,  Left 
of  Centre. 

*4.*    The  render  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage  facing  the  Audience. 


FASHION. 

ACTL 

SCENE  I. 

d  sjilendid  Drawing  Boom  in  the  House  of  Mrs.  Tiffany. 
Open  folding  doors  c.  f.,  discovering  a  Conservatory . 
On  either  side  glass  windows  down  to  the  ground. 
Doors  on  r.  and  l.  u.  e.  Mirror^  couches,  ottomans^ 
a  table  with  albums,  ^r.,  beside  it  an  arm  chair. 
MiLLiNETTE  R.  dusting  furniture,  ^r.  Zeke  l.  in 
a  dashing  livery,  scarlet  coat,  ^'C. 

Zeke.  Dere's  a  coat  to  take  de  eyes  ob  all  Broadway  ! 
Ah  !  jNIissy,  it  am  de  fixins  dat  make  de  natural  born  gem- 
man.  A  libery  for  ever  !  Dere's  a  pair  ob  insuppressibles 
to  'stonish  de  colored  population. 

Millinette.  Oh,  oui.  Monsieur  Zeke  (very  politely). 
I  not  comprend  one  word  he  say  !  (aside.) 

Zeke.  I  tell  'ee  what.  Missy,  I'm  'stordinary  glad  to 
find  dis  a  bery  'spectabul  like  situation  !  Now  as  you've 
made  de  acquaintance  ob  dis  here  family,  and  dere  you've 
had  a  supernumerary  advantage  ob  me — seeing  dat  I  only 
rcceibed  my  appointmicnt  dis  morning.  What  I  wants  to 
know  is  your  publicated  opinion,  privately  expressed,  ob 
de  domestic  circle. 

Mil.  You  mean  vat  espece,  vat  kind  of  personnes  are 
IMonsieur  and  Madame  Tiffany  ?  Ah !  Monsieur  is  not  de 
same  ting  as  Madame, — not  at  all. 

Zeke.  Well,   I  s'pose  he  aint  altogether. 

Mil.  Monsieur  is  man  of  business, — Madame  is  lady  of 

fashion.     IMonsieur   make   de   money, — Madame  spend  it. 

Monsieur  nobody  at  all, — Madame   everybody  altogether. 

\h  1  Monsieur  Zeke,  de  money  is  all  dat  is  necessaire  m 

6 


2  FASHION.  [Act  I. 

dis  country  to  make  one  lady  of  fashion.     Oh  !  it  is  quite 
anoder  ting  in  la  belle  Finance  ! 

Zeke.  A  bery  lucifer  explanation.  Well,  now  we've 
disposed  ob  de  beads  ob  de  family,  who  come  next  ? 

Mil.  First,  dcre  is  Mademoiselle  Seraphina  Tiffany. 
Mademoiselle  is  not  at  all  one  proper  j^er^o^^ze-.  Mademoi- 
selle Seraphina  is  one  coquette.  Dat  is  not  de  mode  in  la 
belle  France  ;  de  ladies,  dere,  never  learn  la  coquetrie  until 
dev  do  get  one  husband. 

Zeke.  I  tell  'ee  what.  Missy,  I  disreprobate  dat  pro- 
ceeding altogeder  ! 

Mil.  Vait!  I  have  not  tell  you  all /«/(7mz7/eyet.  Dere 
is  Ma'mselle  Prudence — Madame's  sister,  one  very  bizarre 
personne.  Den  dere  is  Ma'mselle  Gertrude,  but  she  not 
anybody  at  all ;  she  only  teach  Mademoiselle  Seraphina  la 
musique. 

Zeke.  Well  now^.  Missy,  what's  your  own  special  de- 
functions  ? 

Mil.  I  not  understand.  Monsieur  Zeke. 

Zeke.  Den  I'll  amplify.  What's  de  nature  ob  your  ex- 
clusive services  ? 

Mil.  Ah^  oui  !  je  comprend.  I  am  Madame's /e>w we  de 
chambre — her  lady's  maid,  Monsieur  Zeke.  I  teach  Ma- 
dame les  modes  de  Paris,  and  Madame  set  de  fashion  for 
all  New  York.  You  see,  Monsieur  Zeke,  dat  it  is  me, 
moi-?ncme,  dat  do  lead  de  fashion  for  all  de  American  beau 
trionde  ! 

Zeke.  Yah !  yah !  yah  I  I  hab  de  idea  by  de  heel. 
Well  now,  p'raps  you  can  'lustrify  my  officials? 

Mil,  Vat  you  will  have  to  do  ?  Oh  I  much  tings, 
much  tings.  You  vait  on  de  table, — you  tend  de  door, — • 
you  clean  de  boots, — you  run  de  errands, — you  drive  de 
carriage, — you  rub  de  horses, — you  take  care  of  de  flowers, 
— you  carry  de  water, — you  help  cook  de  dinner, — you 
wash  de  dishes, — and  den  you  always  remember  to  do 
every  ting  I  tell  you  to ! 

Zeke.  Wheugh,  am  dat  all  ? 

Mil.  All  I  can  tink  of  now.  To-day  is  Madame's  day 
of  reception,  and  all  her  grand  friends  do  make  her  one 
petite  visit.     You  mind  run  fast  ven  de  bell  do  ring. 

Zeke.  Run?  If  it  was'nt  for  desc  superfluminous  trim- 
mings, I  tell  'ee  what,  Missy,  I'd  run — 


Scene  L]  FASHION.  3 

Mrs.  Tiffany,  (outside)  Millinette ! 

Mil.  Here  comes  Madame  !  You  better  go.  Monsieur 
Zeke. 

Zeke.  Look  ahea,  Massa  Zeke,  does'nt  dis  open  rich ! 
(aside).  [Exit  Zeke,  l. 

Enter  Mrs.  Tiffany  r.  3  e.  dressed  in  the  most  extravagant 

height  of  fashion. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Is  everything  in  order,  INIilliuette  ?  Ah ! 
very  elegant,  very  elegant  indeed  !  There  is  a  jenny-say s- 
ipioi  look  about  this  furniture, — an  air  of  fashion  and  gen- 
tility perfectly  bewitching.     Is  there  not,  Millinette  ? 

Mil.  Oh,  oui,  Madame! 

Mrs.  Tif.  But  where  is  jMiss  Seraphina  ?  It  is  twelve 
o'clock ;  our  visitors  will  be  pouring  in,  and  she  has  not 
made  her  appearance.  But  I  hear  that  nothing  is  more 
fashionable  than  to  keep  people  waiting. — None  but  vulgar 
persons  pay  any  attention  to  punctuality.  Is  it  not  so, 
Millinette  ? 

Mil.  Quite  comme  il  faut. — Great  personnes  always  do 
make  little  personnes  wait,  Madame. 

Mrs.  Tif.  This  mode  of  receiving  visitors  only  upon 
one  specified  day  of  the  week  is  a  most  convenient  custom ! 
It  saves  the  trouble  of  keeping  the  house  continually  in 
order  and  of  being  always  dressed.  I  flatter  myself  that  / 
W'as  the  first  to  introduce  it  amongst  the  New  York  ee-light. 
You  are  quite  sure  that  it  is  strictly  a  Parisian  mode,  Mil- 
linette? 

Mil.  Oh,  Old,  Madame  ;  entirely  7node  de  Paris. 

Mrs.  Tif  This  girl  is  worth  her  weight  in  gold  (aside). 
Millinette,   how  do  vou  sav  arm-chair  in  French  1 

Mil.  Fauteuil,  Madame. 

Mi's.  Fo-tool !  That  has  a  foreign — an  out-of-the- 
wayish  sound  that  is  perfectly  charming — and  so  genteel  ; 
There  is  something  about  our  American  words  decidedly 
vulgar.  Foivtool !  how  refined.  Fowtool  !  Arm-chair  I 
what  a  difference ! 

Mil.  Madame  have  one  charmante  pronunciation.  Fow- 
tool !  (mimicking  aside)  charmante,  Madame  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Do  you  think  so,  Millinette  ?  Well,  I  believe 
I  have.  But  a  woman  of  refinement  and  of  fashion  can 
always  accommodate  herself  to  everything  foreign  !  And 
a  week's  study  of  that  invaluable  work — "  French  without 


B  2 


4  FASHION.  [A-CT  I. 

a  Master^'*  has  made  me  quite  at  home  in  the  court  lan- 
guage of, Europe  !  But  where  is  the  new  valet  1  I'm  rather 
sorry  that  he  is  black,  but  to  obtain  a  white  American 
for  a  domestic  is  almost  impossible ;  and  they  call  this  a 
free  country  !  What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  this 
new  servant,  Millinette  ? 

Mil.  He  do  say  his  name  is  Monsieur  Zeke. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Ezekiel,  I  suppose.  Zeke  !  Dear  me,  such 
a  vulgar  name  will  compromise  the  dignity  of  the  whole 
family.  Can  you  not  suggest  something  more  aristocratic, 
Millinette  ?     Something  French  ! 

Mil.   Oh,  oui,  Madame ;   Adolph  is  one  very  fine  name. 

Mrs.  Tif.  A-dolph  !  Charming  !  Ring  the  bell,  Mil- 
linette !  (Millinette  rings  the  bell).  I  will  change  his 
name  immediately,  besides  giving  him  a  few  directions. 

Enter  Zeke,   l.  u.  h.     Mrs.  Tiffany  addresses  him  with 

great  dignity. 
Your  name,  I  hear,  is  Ezekiel. — I  consider  it  too  plebeian 
an  appellation  to  be  uttered  in  my  presence.  In  future  you 
are  called  A-dolph.  Don't  reply, — never  interrupt  me  when 
I  am  speaking.  A-dolph,  as  my  guests  arrive,  I  desire 
that  you  will  inquire  the  name  of  every  person,  and  then 
announce  it  in  a  loud,  clear  tone.  That  is  the  fashion  in 
Paris.  [Millinette  retires  up  the  stage. 

Zeke.  Consider  de  office  discharged.  Missus. 

[speaking  nery  loudly. 
Mrs.  Tif.  Silence  !     Your  business  is  to  obey  and  not 
to  talk. 

Zeke.  I'm  dumb.   Missus  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  (pointing  up  stage)  A-dolph,  place  i\idXfow- 
tool  behind  me. 

Zeke.  (looking  about  him)  I  hab'nt  got  dat  far  in  de 
dictionary  yet.  No  matter,  a  genus  gets  his  learning  by 
nature.  [takes  up  the  table  and  places  it   behind  Mrs. 

Tiffany,    then    expresses  in  dumb  show 

great  satisfaction.     Mrs.  Tiffany,  «s  5^e 

goes  to  sit,  discovers  the  mistake. 

Mrs.  Tif.  You  dolt !     Where  have  you  lived  not  to 

know  that /b?(;-^ooZ  is   the  French  for  arm-chair?     What 

isrnorance  !      Leave  the  room  this  instant. 

[Mrs.  T IFF A'NY  draws  forward  an  arm-chair  and 


Scene  L]  FASHION.  5 

sits.  MiLLiNETTE  couies  fovward  sup- 
pressing  her  merriment  at  Zeke's  mistake 
and  removes  the  table. 

Zeke.  Dem's  de  defects  ob  not  having  a  libery  education. 

[Exit  L.  3.  E. 
Prudence  peeps  in,  r.  u.  e. 

Pru.  I  wonder  if  any  of  the  fine  folks  have  come  yet. 
Not  a  soul, — I  knew  they  hadn't.  There's  Betsy  all  alone 
(ivalJis  in) .     Sister  Betsy  ! 

Mrs,  Tif.  c.  Prudence  !  how  many  times  have  I  desired 
you  to  call  me  Elizabeth  ?  Betsy  is  the  height  of  vul- 
garity. 

Pru.  L.  Oh  !  I  forgot.  Dear  me,  how  spruce  we  do  look 
here,  to  be  sure, — everything  in  first  rate  style  now,  Betsy. 

[Mrs.  T.  looks  at  her  angrily. 
Elizabeth  I  mean.  Who  would  have  thought,  when  you 
and  I  were  sitting  behind  that  little  mahogany-colored 
counter,  in  Canal  Street,  making  up  fiashy  hats  and  caps — 

Mrs.  Tif.  Prudence,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Millinette, 
leave  the  room. 

Mil.  R.  Oui,  Madame. 

[Millinette  pretends  to  arrange  the  books 
upon  a  side  table,  but  lingers  to  listen. 

Pru.  But  I  always  predicted  it, — I  always  told  you  so, 
Betsy, — I  always  said  you  were  destined  to  rise  above  your 
station  ! 

Mrs,  Tif.  Prudence  !  Prudence  !  have  I  not  told  you 
that— 

Pru.  No,  Betsy,  it  was  I  that  told  you,  when  we  used 
to  buy  our  silks  and  ribbons  of  Mr.  Antony  Tiffany — ^^  talk- 
ing Tony,^'  you  know  we  used  to  call  him,  and  when  you 
always  put  on  the  finest  bonnet  in  our  shop  to  go  to  his, — 
and  when  you  staid  so  long  smiling  and  chattering  with  him, 
I  alwavs  told  you  that  something  would  grow  out  of  it — and 
didn't  "it? 

Mrs.  Tif.  Millinette,  send  Seraphina  here  instantly. 
Leave  the  room. 

Mil.  Oui,  Madame.  So  dis  Americaine  ladi  of  fashion 
vas  one  milliner  ?  Oh,  vat  a  fine  countrv  for  les  merchandes 
des  modes  !  I  shall  send  for  all  my  relation  by  de  next 
packet !      (aside).  [Exit  Millinette  r.  w.  u.  e. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Prudence !   never  let  me  hear  you  mention 


FA^riHION. 


[Act  ^' 


this  subject  again.     Forget  what  we  haveheen,  it  is  enough 
to  remember  that  we  are  of  the  upper  ten  thousand  f 

[Prudence  ffoes  up  l.  c.  and  sits  down. 
Enter  Seraphina  r.  u.  e.,  veri/  extravagantly  dressed. 

Mrs.  Tif.  How  bevvitchingly  you  look,  my  dear  !  Does 
MiHinette  say  that  that  head  dress  is  strictly  Parisian  ? 

Seraphina  r.  Oh  yes,  Mamma,  all  the  rage !  They 
call  it  a  ladifs  tarpaulin,  and  it  is  the  exact  pattern  of  one 
worn  by  the  Princess  Clementina  at  the  last  court  ball. 

Mrs.  Tif.  L.  Now,  Seraphina  my  dear,  don't  be  too 
particular  in  your  atten^ons  to  gentlemen  not  eligible. 
There  is  Count  Jolimaitre,  decidedly  the  most  fashionable 
foreigner  in  town, — and  so  refined, — so  much  accustomed, 
to  associate  with  the  first  nobility  in  his  own  country  that 
he  can  hardly  tolerate  the  vulgarity  of  Americans  in  general. 
You  may  devote  yourself  to  him.  Mrs.  Proudacre  is  dying 
to  become  acquainted  with  him.  By  the  by,  if  she  or  her 
daughters  should  happen  to  drop  in,  be  sure  you  don't 
introduce  them  to  the  Count.  It  is  not  the  fashion  in 
Paris  to  introduce — MiHinette  told  me  so. 

Enter  Zeke,  l.  u.  e. 
Zeke.    (in   a   very   loud  voice)    Mister   T.   Tennyson 
Twinkle ! 

Mrs.  Tif.   Show  him  up. 

\Exit  Zeke  l. 

Pru.  I  must  be  running  away  !  [ffoing. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  T.  Tennyson  Twinkle — a  very  literary 

young  man  and  a  sweet  poet  !      It  is  all  the  rage  to  patronize 

poets  !     Quick,  Seraphina,  hand  me  that  magazine. — Mr. 

Twinkle  whites  for  it. 

[Seraphina  hands  the  magazine,  Mrs.  T.  seats 
herself  in  an  arm-chair  and  opens  the  book. 
Pru.    (returning  l.)  There's  Betsy  trying  to  make  out 
that  reading  without  her  spectacles. 

[takes  a  pair  of  spectacles  out  of  her  pocket 
and  hands  them  to  Mrs.  Tiffany. 
There,  Betsy,  I  knew  you  were  going  to  ask  for  them. 
Ah!  they're  a  blessing  when  one  is  growing  old  ! 

Mrs.  Tif  What  do  you  mean.   Prudence  ?     A  woman 

of  fashion  7iever  grows  old  !     Age  is  always  out  of  fashion. 

Pru.  Oh,   dear  !   what  a  delightful  thing  it  is  to  be 


Scene  I,]  FASHION  7 

fashionable.         [Exit  Prudence,  r.  u  e.  Mrs.  Tiffany 

resumes  her  seat. 

Enter  Twinkle,  l.  u.  e.  {salutes  Seraphina.) 

Twin.  Fair  Serapliina !  the  sun  itself  grows  dim, 
Unless  you  aid  his  light  and  shine  on  him  ! 

Sera.  Ah  !  Mr.  Twinkle,  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
ansvverino;  vou. 

Twin,  (loo/is  around  and  perceives  INIrs.  Tiffany)  The 
*' New  Mosithly  Vernal  Galaxy."  Reading  my  verses  by 
all  that's  charming !  Sensible  woman  !  I  wo'nt  interrupt 
her.  (aside).  * 

Mrs.  Tif.  (rising  and  coming  forward)  Ah  !  Mr.  Twin- 
kle, is  that  you?  I  was  perfectly  ahime  at  the  perusal  of 
your  very  distingue  verses. 

Twin,  I  am  overwhelmed,  Madam.  Permit  me  (taking 
the  magazine).  Yes,  they  do  read  tolerably.  And  you 
must  take  into  consideration,  ladies,  the  rapidity  with  which 
they  were  written.  Four  minutes  and  a  half  by  the  stop 
watch !  The  true  test  of  a  poet  is  the  velocity  with  which 
he  composes.  Really  they  do  look  very  prettily,  and  they 
read  tolerably — quite  tolerably — very  tolerably, — especially 
the  first  verse,     (reads)     "  To  Seraphina  T ." 

Sera.  Oh  !  IMr.  T^N^inkle  ! 

Twin,   (reads)  "  Around  my  heart" — 

Mrs.  Tif.  How  touching !  Really,  Mr.  Twinkle,  quite 
tender  ! 

Twin,   (recommencing)  "  Around  my  heart" — 

Mrs.  Tif.  Oh,  I  must  tell  you,  Mr.  Twinkle  !  I  heard 
the  other  day  that  poets  w^ere  the  aristocrats  of  literature. 
That's  one  reason  I  Hke  them,  for  I  do  dote  on  all  aris- 
tocracy ! 

Twin.  Oh,  Madam,  how  flattering  !  Now  pray  lend 
me  your  ears !     (reads) 

"Around  my  heart  thou  weavest"-^ 

Sera.  r.  That  is  such  a  sweet  commencement,  Mr. 
Twinkle ! 

Twin.  L.  I  wish  she  wouldn't  interrupt  me  !^^  (aside) 
(reads)  "  Arouud  my  heart  thou  weavest  a  spell" — 

Mrs.  Tif.  c.  Beautiful !  But  excuse  me  one  moment, 
while  I  say  a  word  to  Seraphina  !  Don't  be  too  affable, 
my  dear !     Poets  are  very  ornamental  appendages  to  the 


8  FASHION.  [Act  I. 

drawing  room,  but  they  are  always  as  poor  as  their  own 
verses.     They  don't  make  ehgible  husbands  ! 

(aside  to  Seraphina). 

Twin.  Confound  their  interruptions  !  (aside)     My  dear 

Madam,  unless  you  pay  the  utmost   attention  you  cannot 

catch  the  ideas.     Are  you  ready  ?     Well,   now  you  shall 

hear  it  to  the  end!      (reads) — 

"  Around  my  heart  thou  w^avest  a  spell 
«  Whose"— 

Enter  Zeke,  l. 
Zeke.  Mister  Augustus  Fogg  !     A  bery  misty  lookin 
young  gemman  ?   (aside). 

Mrs.  Tif.  Show  him  up,  Adolph  ! 

[Exit  Zeke  l. 
Twin.  This  is  too  much  ! 

Sera.  Exquisite  verses,  Mr.  Twinkle, — exquisite  ! 
Twin.  Ah,  lovely  Seraphina  !   your   smile  of  approval 
transports  me  to  the  summit  of  Olympus. 

Sera.  Then  I  must  frown,  for  I  would  not  send  you  so 
far  away. 

Twin.  Enchantress  !     Its  all  over  with  her.     (aside) 

[Retire  up  r.  and  converse, 
Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Fogg  belongs  to  one  of  our  oldest  fami- 
lies,— to  be  sure  he  is  the  most  difficult  person  in  the  world 
to  entertain,  for  he  never  takes  the  trouble  to  talk,  and 
never  notices  anything  or  anybody, — ^but  then  I  hear  that 
nothing  is  considered  so  vulgar  as  to  betray  any  emotion, 
or  to  attempt  to  render  oneself  agreeable  ! 
Enter  Mr.  Fogg,   l.,  fashionably  attired  hut  in  very  dark 

clothes. 
Fogg,   (bowing  stiffly)  Mrs.  Tiffany,  your  most  obedient. 
Miss  Seraphina,  yours.     How  d'ye  do  Twinkle  ? 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Fogg,  how  do  you  do  ?     Fine  weather, 
— delightful,  isn't  it  ? 

Fogg.  I  am  indifferent  to  weather.  Madam. 
Mrs.  Tif.  Been  to  the  opera,  Mr.  Fogg  ?     I  hear  that 
the  bow  monde  make  their  debutt  there  every  evening. 
Fogg.  I  consider  operas  a  bore.   Madam. 
Sera,  (advancing)  You  must  hear  Mr.  Twinkle's  verses, 
Mr.  Fogg ! 

Fogg.  I  am  indifferent  to  verses.  Miss  Seraphina. 
Sera,  But  Mr.  Twinkle's  verses  are  addressed  to  me  ! 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  9 

Tivin.  Now  pay  attention,  Fogg  !  (reads) — 
"Around  my  heart  thou  weavest  a  spell 
"Whose  magic  1" — 

Enter  Zeke  l.,u.  e. 

Zeke.  Mister — No,  he  say  he  aint  no  Mister — 

Tivin.   "  Around  my  heart  thou  weavest  a  spell 
"Whose  masic  I  can  never  tell  !" 

Mis.  Tif.   Speak  in  a  loud,  clear  tone,  A-dolph  ! 

Twin,  This  is  terrible  ! 

Zeke.  Mister  Count  Jolly-made-her  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Count  Jolimaitre  !  Good  gracious  !  Zeke, 
Zeke- — A-dolph  I  mean. — Dear  me,  what  a  mistake !  (aside) 
Set  that  chair  out  of  the  way, — put  that  table  back.  Sera- 
phina,  my  dear,  are  you  all  in  order  ?  Dear  me  !  dear 
me  !  Your  dress  is  so  tumbled  !  (arranges  her  dress) 
What  are  you  grinning  at  ?  (to  Zeke)  Beg  the  Count  to 
honor  us  by  walking  up  !  \Exit  Zeke,  l. 

Seraphina,  my  dear  (aside  to  her),  remember  now  what  I 
told  you  about  the  Count.  He  is  a  man  of  the  highest, — 
good  gracious !  I  am  so  flurried  ;  and  nothing  is  so  ungen- 
teel  as  agitation  !  what  will  the  Count  think  !  Mr.  Twin- 
kle, pray  stand  out  of  the  way  !  Seraphina,  my  dear, 
place  yourself  on  my  right !  Mr.  Fogg,  the  conservatory 
— beautiful  flowers, — pray  amuse  yourself  in  the  conser- 
vatory. 

Fogg.  I  am  indifferent  to  flowers,  Madam. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Dear  me  !  the  man  stands  right  in  the  way, 
— just  where  the  Count  must  make  his  entray  !  [aside, 
Mr.  Fogg, — pray — 

Enter  Count  Jolimaitre,  L.u.E.verij  dashingly  dressed, 

icears  a  moustache. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Oh,   Count,  this  unexpected  honor — 

Sera.  Count,  this  inexpressible  pleasure — 

Count.  Beg  you  won't  mention  it,  !Madam  !  Miss  Sera- 
phina, your  most  devoted  !      (crosses  to  c.) 

Mrs.  Tif.  What  condescension  !  (aside)  Count  may 
I  take  the  Hberty  to  introduce — Good  gracious  !  I  forgot. 
(aside)  Count,  I  was  about  to  remark  that  we  never  intro- 
duce in  America.     All  our  fashions  are  foreign,   Count. 

[Twinkle,  tvho  has  stepped  forward  to  he 
introduced,  shows  great  indignation. 

Count,  c.  Excuse  me,  Madam,  our  fashions  have  grown 


10  FASHION.  [-^CT  I. 

antideluvian  before  you  Americans  discover  their  existence. 
You  are  lamentably  behind  the  age — lamentably  !  'Pon 
my  honor,  a  foreigner  of  refinement  finds  great  difficulty 
in  existing  in  this  provincial  atmosphere. 

Mrs.  Tif.  How  dreadful,  Count !  I  am  very  much 
concerned.     If  there  is  anything  which  I  can  do,   Count — 

Sera.  r.  Or  I,  Count,  to  render  your  situation  less  de- 
plorable— 

Count.  Ah  !  I  find  but  one  redeeming  charm  in  America 
— the  superlative  loveliness  of  the  feminine  portion  of  crea- 
tion,— and  the  wealth  of  their  obliging  papas,    (aside) 

3Irs.  Tif.  How  flattering  !  Ah !  Count,  I  am  afraid 
you  will  turn  the  head  of  my  simple  girl  here.  She  is  a 
perfect  child  of  nature,  Count. 

Cou7it.  Very  possibly,  for  though  you  American  women 
are  quite  charming,  yet,  demme,  there's  a  deal  of  native 
rust  to  rub  off ! 

3Trs.  Tif.  Rust.?  Good  gracious,  Ct»unt !  where  do 
you  find  any  rust  ?  \lookimj  about  the  room. 

Count.  How  very  unsophisticated  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Count,  I  am  so  much  ashamed, — pray  ex- 
cuse me  !  Although  a  iady  of  large  fortune,  and  one. 
Count,  who  can  boast  of  the  highest  connections,  I  blush 
to  confess  that  I  have  never  travelled, — while  you.  Count, 
I  presume  are  at  home  in  all  the  courts  of  Europe. 

Count.  Courts  ?  Eh  ?  Oh,  yes,  Madam,  very  true. 
I  believe  I  am  pretty  well  known  in  some  of  the  courts  of 
Europe — police  courts,  (aside^  crossing,  l..)  In  a  word. 
Madam,  I  had  seen  enough  of  civilized  life — wanted  to 
refresh  myself  by  a  sight  of  barbarous  countries  and  cus- 
toms— had  my  choice  between  the  Sandwich  Islands  and 
New  York — chose  New  York  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  How  complimentary  to  our  country  !  And, 
Count,  I  have  no  doubt  you  speak  every  conceivable  lan- 
guage 1     You  talk  English  like  a  native. 

Count.  Eh,  what  ?  Like  a  native  ?  Oh,  ah,  demme, 
yes,  I  am  something  of  an  Englishman.  Passed  one  year 
and  eight  months  with  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  six  months 
"with  Lord  Brougham,  two  and  a  half  with  Count  d'Orsay 
■ — knew  them  all  more  intimately  than  their  best  friends — 
no  heroes  to  me — hadn't  a  secret  from  me,  I  assure  you, — 
esjpecially  of  the  toilet,     (aside). 


Scene!,]  FASHION.  11 

Mrs.  Tif.  Think  of  that,  my  dear  !  Lord  Wellington 
and  Duke  Broom  !  [aside  to  Seraphina. 

Sera.  And  only  think  of  Count  d'Orsay,  Mamma ! 
{aside  to  Mrs.  Tiffany)  I  am  so  wild  to  see  Count  d'Or- 
say  ! 

Count  L.  Oh  !  a  mere  man  milliner.  Very  little  refine- 
ment out  of  Paris  ?  Why  at  the  very  last  dinner  siven  at 
Lord — Lord  Kuowswho,  would  you  believe  it.  Madam, 
there  was  an  individual  present  who  wore  a  black  cravat 
and  took  soup  twice  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  c.  How  shocking!  the  sight  of  him  would 
have  spoilt  my  appetite  !  Think  what  a  great  man  he 
must  be,  my  dear,  to  despise  lords  and  counts  in  that  way. 
(aside  to  Seraphina.)  I  must  leave  them  together,  (aside.) 
Mr.  Twinkle,  your  arm.  I  have  some  really  \&Yy  foreign 
exotics  to  show  you. 

Twin.  I  fly  at  your  command.  I  wish  all  her  exotics 
were  blooming  in  their  native  soil ! 

[aside^  and  glancing  at  the  Count. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Fogg,  will  you  accompany  us  ?  My 
conservatory  is  well  worthy  a  visit.  It  cost  an  immense 
sum  of  money. 

Fogg.  I  am  indifferent  to  conservatories.  Madam ; 
flowers  are  such  a  bore ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  I  shall  take  no  refusal.  Conservatories  are 
all  the  rage, — I  could  not  exist  without  mine  !  Let  me 
show  you, — let  me  show  you. 

\_places  her  arm  through  Mr.  Fogg's,  without 
his  consent.  Exeunt  Mrs.  Tiffany,  Fogg, 
and  Twinkle  into  the  conservatory^  where 
they  are  seen  walking  ahout. 

Sera.  America,  then,  has  no  charms  for  you.  Count  1 

Count.  Excuse  me, — some  exceptions.  I  find  you,  for 
instance,  particularly  charming  !  Can't  say  I  admire  your 
country.  Ah  !  if  you  had  ever  breathed  the  exhilarating 
air  of  Paris,  ate  creams  at  Tortoni's,  dined  at  the  Cafe 
Royale,  or  if  you  had  lived  in  London — felt  at  home  at  St. 
James's,  and  every  afternoon  driven  a  couple  of  Lords  and 
a  Duchess  through  Hyde  Park,  you  would  find  America 
— where  you  have  no  kings,  queens,  lords,  nor  ladies — in- 
supportable 1 

Sera.  Not  while  there  was  a  Count  in  it  ? 


12.  FASHION.  [Act  1. 

Miter  Zeke,  l.  u.  e.  veri/  indignant. 

Zeke.  Where's  de  Missus  ? 
Enter  Mrs.  Tiffany,  Fogg,  and  Twinkle,  fi^om  the 

conservatory. 

3frs.  Tif.  Whom  do  you  come  to  announce,  A-dolph  ? 

Zeke.  He  said  he  wouldn't  trust  me — no,  not  eben  wid 
so  much  as  his  name;  so  I  wouldn't  trust  him  up  stairs, 
den  he  ups  wid  his  stick  and  I  cuts  mine. 

3Irs.  Tif.  Some  of  Mr.  Tiffany's  vulgar  acquaintances. 
I  shall  die  with  shame,  (aside)  A-dolph,  inform  him  that 
I  am  not  at  home.  [Exit  Zeke,  l..  u.  e. 

My  nerves  are   so  shattered,  I  am  ready  to  sink.     Mr. 
Twinkle,  that/ow;  tool,  if  you  please  ! 

Twin.  What  ?  What  do  you  wish.  Madam  ? 

Mrs.  Tif.  The  ignorance  of  these  Americans !  (aside) 
Count,  ma}'^  I  trouble  you  ?     That/bz^;  tool,  if  you  please! 

Count.  She's  not  talking  English,  nor  French,  but  I 
suppose  it's  American,   (aside.) 

True,  (outside.)  Not  at  home! 

Zeke.  No,  Sar — Missus  say  she's  not  at  home. 

True.  Out  of  the  way  you  grinning  nigger! 

Enter  Adam  Trueman,  l.  u.  e.,  dressed  as  a  farmer, 
a  stout  cane  in  his  hand,  his  boots  covered  with  dust. 
Zeke  jum^s  out  of  his  way  as  he  enters. 

[Exit  Zeke,  l. 

True.  Where's  this  woman  that's  not  at  home  in  her 
own  house?  May  I  be  shot!  if  1  wonder  at  it!  I  should' nt 
think  she'd  ever  feel  at  home  in  such  a  show-box  as  this! 

(looking  round.) 

Mrs.  Tif.  What  a  plebeian  looking  old  farmer!  I  wonder 
who  he  is  ?  (aside.)  Sir — {advancing  very  agitatedly)  what 
do  you  mean.  Sir,  by  this  oii^dacious  conduct?  How  dare 
you  intrude  yourself  into  my  parlor?  Do  you  know  who 
I  am,  Sir  ?  (with  great  dignity)  You  are  in  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Tiffany,  Sir' 

True.  Antony's  wife,  eh?  Well  now,  I  might  have 
guessed  that — ha!  ha!  ha!  for  I  see  you  make  it  a  point 
to  carry  half  your  husband's  shop  upon  your  back!  No 
matter;  that's  being  a  good  helpmate — for  he  carried  the 
whole  of  it  once  in  a  pack  on  his  own  shoulders — now  you 
bear  a  share! 


Scenic  I.]  FASHION.  13 

Mrs.  Tif.  How  dare  you,  you  impertinent,  o^^dacious, 
ignorant  old  man  !  Its  all  an  invention.  You're  talking 
of  somebody  else.     What  will  the  Count  think  !      (aside) 

True.  Why,  I  thoue-ht  folks  had  better  manners  in  the 
city  !  This  is  a  civil  welcome  for  your  husband's  old  friend, 
and  after  my  coming  all  the  way  from  Catterangus  to  see 
you  and  yours !  First  a  grinning  nigger  tricked  out  in 
scarlet  resiimentals — 

Mi-s.  Tif.  Let  me  tell  you.  Sir,  that  liveries  are  all  the 
fashion ! 

True.  The  fashion,  are  they  1  To  make  men  wear  the 
bndfje  df  servitude  in  a  free  land, — that's  the  fashion,  is  it? 
Hurrah,  for  republican  simplicity  !  I  will  venture  to  say 
novv,  that  you  have  your  coat  of  arms  too  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Certainly,  Sir  ;  you  can  see  it  on  the  panels 
of  my  voyture. 

True.  Oh  !  no  need  of  that.  I  know  what  your  es- 
cutcheon must  be  !  A  bandbox  rampant  with  a  bonnet 
couchanti  and  a  pedlar's  pack  passant  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  that 
shows  both  houses  united  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Sir !  you  are  most  profoundly  ignorant, — 
what  do  you  mean  by  this  insolence.  Sir  ?  How  shall  I 
get  rid  of  him  ?     (aside) 

True.  {looJdng  at  Seraphina)  I  hope  that  is  not  Ger- 
trude !      (aside) 

Mrs.  Tif.   Sir,   I'd  have   you   know   that — Seraphina, 
my  child,  walk  with  the  gentlemen  into  the  conservatory. 
\_Fxeimt  Seraphina,  Twinkle,  Fogg  i?ito 
conservatoi'y. 

Count  Jolimaitre,  pray  make  due  allowances  for  the  errors 
of  this  rustic !     I  do  assure  you.  Count —  {whispers  to  him) 

True.  Count !  She  calls  that  critter  with  a  shoe  brush 
over  his  mouth.  Count !  To  look  at  him,  I  should  have 
thought  he  was  a  tailor's  walking  advertisement!     (aside) 

Count,  (addressing  Trueman  ivhom  he  has  been  in- 
specting through  his  eije-glass)  Where  did  you  say  you 
belonged,  my  friend  1  Dug  out  of  the  ruins  of  Pompeii, 
eh? 

True.  I  belong  to  a  land  in  which  I  rejoice  to  find  that 
you  are  a  foreigner. 

Count.  What  a  barbarian  !  He  doesn't  see  the  honor 
I'm  doing  his  country !     Pra}',  Madam,  is  it  one  of  the 


14  FASHION.  [Act  I. 

aboriginal  inhabitants  of  the  soil  ?  To  what  tribe  of  Indians 
does  he  belong — the  Pawnee  or  Choctaw  ?  Does  he  carry 
a  tomahawk  ? 

True.  Something  quite  as  useful, — do  you  see  that  ? 

[Shaking  his  stick.     Count  imns  to  r.  h. 
behind  Mrs.  Tiffany. 
Mrs.  Tif.  Oh,  dear  !   I  shall  faint  !     Millinette  !    {ajp- 
'groaching  r.  d.)     Millinette  ! 

Enter  Millinette,  r.  d.,  without  advancing  into  the  room. 

Milli.  Oui,  Madame. 

Mrs.  Tif.  A  glass  of  water !  [Exit  Millinette,  r. 
Sir,  {crossing  l.  to  Trueman)  I  am  shocked  at  your  ple- 
beian conduct  !  This  is  a  gentleman  of  the  highest  stand- 
ing, Sir  !     He  is  a  County  Sir  ! 

Enter  Millinette,  r.,  hearing  a  salver  with  a  glass  of 
water.  In  advancing  towards  Mrs.  Tiffany,  she  passes 
in  front  of  the  Count,  starts  and  screams.  The  Count, 
after  a  start  of  sur 'prise,  regains  his  composure^  plays  with 
his  eye  glass i  and  looks  perfectly  unconcerned. 

Mrs.  Tif  What  is  the  matter?     What  is  the  matter? 

Milli.  Noting,  noting, — only —  {looks  at  Count  and 
turns  away  her  eyes  again)     only — noting  at  all  ! 

True.  Don't  be  afraid,  girl  !  Why,  did  you  never  see 
a  live  Count  before  ?  He's  tame, — I  dare  say  your  mistress 
there  leads  him  about  by  the  ears. 

Mrs.  Tif.  This  is  too  much  !  MiUinette,  send  for  Mr. 
Tiffany  instantly ! 

[crosses  to  Millinette,  who  is  going,  3  e.  l. 

Milli.  He  just  come  in,  Madame ! 

True.   My  old  friend  !     Where  is  he  ?     Take  me  to 
him, — I  long  to  have  one  more  hearty  shake  of  tlje  hand  ! 
Mrs.  Tif.  {crosses  to  Mm.)     Count,  honor  me  by  join- 
ing my  daughter  in  the  conservatory,  I  will  return  imme- 
diately. 

[Count  bows  and  walks  towards  conservatoj'y. 
Mrs.  T IFF AisiY  following  part  of  the  way 
and  then  returning  to  Trueman. 

True.  What  a  Jezebel !  These  women  always  play  the 
very  devil  with  a  man,  and  yet  I  don't  believe  such  a 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  15 

damaged  bale  of  goods  as  that   {looldng  at  Mrs.  Tiffany) 
has  smothered  the  heart  of  httle  Antony ! 
Mrs.  T'lf.  This  way.   Sir,   sal  vous  plait. 

\Tlxit  L.  with  great  dignity. 

True.  Sal  voifs  jjlait.     Ha,   ha,  ha !     We'll  see  what 
Fashion  has  done  for  hira. 

[Exit  L. 


EN1>  OF  ACT  I. 


16  FASHION.  [Act  II. 


ACT  11. 

SCENE  I. 

Inner  apartment  q/*Mr.  Tiffany's  Counting  House.  Mr. 
Tiffany,  r.  c,  seated  at  a  desk  looking  over  papers. 
Mr.  Snobson,  l.  c,  on  a  high  stool  at  another  desk, 
with  a  pen  behind  his  ear. 

Snobson.  (rising  l.,  advances  L.  to  the  front  of  the 
stage,  regards  Tiffany  and  shrugs  his  shoulders)  Ho\\ 
the  old  boy  frets  and  fumes  over  those  papers,  to  be  sure  ! 
He's  working  himself  into  a  perfect  fever — ex-actiy, — there- 
fore bleeding's  the  prescription  !  So  here  goes  !  (aside) 
Mr.  Tiffany,  a  word  with  you,  if  jou  please,  Sir  ? 

Tif.   (sitting  still)  Speak  on,   Mr.  Snobson,   I  attend. 

Snob.  What  I  have  to  say.  Sir,  is  a  matter  of  the  first 
importance  to  the  credit  of  the  concern — the  credit  of  the 
concern,   Mr.  Tiffany ! 

Tif.  Proceed,  Mr.  Snobson. 

Snob.  Sir  you've  a  handsome  house — fine  carriage — 
nigger  in  livery — feed  on  the  fat  of  the  land— everything 
first  rate — 

Tif  Well,  Sir? 

Snob.  My  salary,  Mr.  Tiffany ! 

Tif.  It  has  been  raised  three  times  within  the  last  year. 

Snob.  Still  it  is  insufficient  for  the  necessities  of  an  * 
honest  man, — mark  me,  an  honest  man,   Mr.  Tiffany. 

Tif.  (crossing  l.)  What  a  weapon  he  has  made  of  that 
word  !  (aside)  Enough — another  hundred  shall  be  added. 
Does  that  content  you  ? 

Snob.  There  is  one  other  subject  which  I  have  before 
mentioned,  Mr.  Tiffany, — your  daughter, — w-hat's  the  rea- 
son you  can't  let  the  folks  at  home  know  at  once  that  I'm 
to  bo  the  man  ? 

Tif.  Villain  !  And  must  the  only  seal  upon  this  scoun- 
drel's lips  be  placed  there  by  the  hand  of  my  daughter  1 
(aside)     Well,  Sir,  it  shall  be  as  you  d(5Sire. 

Snob.  x\nd  Mrs.  Tiffany  shall  be  informed  of  your  re- 
solution ? 

Tif.  Yes. 


Scene  I.]  fashion. 


17 


Snob.  Enough  said  !     That's  the  ticket !     The  credit 
of  the  concern! s  safe,  Sir  ! 

[^returns  to  his  seat. 
JTif.  How  low  have  I  howeJ  to   this   insolent   rascal  ! 
To  rise  himself  he  mounts  upon  my  shoulders,   and  unless 
I  can  shake  him  olf  he  must  crush  me  !     (aside) 
Unter  Trueman,  c,  doivn  on  l.  h. 
True.  Here  I  am,    Antony,  man  1     I  told  you  I'd  pay 
you  a  visit  in  your  money-making  quarters,    (loo/cs  around) 
But  it  looks  as  dismal  here  as  a  cell  in  the  States'  prison  ! 
^i/"-  {forcing  a  laugh)  Ha,  ha,  ha  !      States'  prison  ! 
You  are  so  facetious  !     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

True.  Well,  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see  anything  so 
amusing  in  that  !     I  should  think  the  States'  prison  plaguy 
uncomfortable  lodgings.     And  you  laugh,  man,  as  though 
you  fancied  yourself  there  already. 
Tif.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

True,  (imitating  him)  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  "What  on  earth 
do  you  mean  by  that  ill-sounding  laugh,  that  has  nothing 
of  a  laugh  about  it !  This  fashioii-worship  has  made  hea- 
thens and  hypocrites  of  you  all !  Deception  is  your  house- 
hold God  !  A  man  laughs  as  if  he  were  crying,  and  cries 
as  if  he  were  laughing  in  his  sleeve.  Everything  is  some- 
thing else  from  what  it  seems  to  be.  I  have  lived  in  your 
house  only  three  days,  and  I've  heard  more  lies  than  were 
ever  invented  during  a  Presidential  election  !  First  your 
fine  lady  of  a  wife  sends  me  word  that  she's  not  at  home — 
I  walk  up  stairs,  and  she  takes  good  care  that  I  shall  not 
be  at  home — wants  to  turn  me  out  of  doors.  Then  gou 
come  in — take  your  old  friend  by  the  hand — whisper,  the 
deuce  knows  what,  in  your  wife's  ear,  and  the  tables  are 
turned  in  a  tangent !  Madam  curtsies — says  she's  enchanted 
to  see  me — and  orders  her  grinning  nigger  to  show  me  a 
room. 

Tif.  We  were  exceedingly  happy  to  welcome  you  as 
our  guest ! 

True.  Happy  ?  You  happy  ?  Ah  !  Antony  !  Antony  ! 
that  hatchet  face  of  your's,  and  those  criss-cross  furrows 
tell  quite  another  story  !  It's  many  a  long  day  since  you 
were  happg  at  anything !  You  look  as  if  you'd  melted 
down  your  flesh  into  dollars,  and  mortgaged  your  soul  in 
the  bargain !     Your  warm  heart  has  grown  cold  over  your 


18  FASHION.  [Act  II. 

ledger — your  light  spirits  heavy  "with  calculation  !  You 
have  traded  away  your  youth — your  hopes — your  tastes  for 
wealth  !  and  now  you  have  the  wealth  you  coveted,  what 
does  it  profit  you?  Pleasure  it  cannot  buy  ;  for  you  have 
lost  your  capacity  for  enjoyment — Ease  it  will  not  bring ; 
for  the  love  of  gain  is  never  satisfied  !  It  has  made  your 
counting-house  a  penitentiary,  and  your  home  a  fashionable 
museum  where  there  is  no  niche  for  you !  You  have  spent 
so  m.uch  time  ciphering  in  the  one,  that  you  find  yourself 
at  last  a  very  cipher  in  the  other !  See  me,  man  !  seventy- 
two  last  August! — strong  as  a  hickory  and  every  whit  as 
sound ! 

Tif.  I  take  the  greatest  pleasure  in  remarking  your 
superiority.   Sir. 

True.  Bah !  no  man  takes  pleasure  in  remarking  the 
superiority  of  another?  Why  the  deuce,  can't  you  speak 
the  truth,  man?  But  it's  not  the  fashion  I  suppose!  I 
have  not  seen  one  frank,  open  face  since — no,  no,  I  can't 
say  that  either,  though  lying  is  catching !  There's  that 
girl,  Gertrude,  who  is  trying  to  teach  your  daughter  music 
— but  Gertrude  was  bred  in  the  country  ! 

Tif.  A  good  girl ;  my  wife  and  daughter  find  her  very 
useful. 

True.  Useful  ?  Well  I  must  say  you  have  queer  no- 
tions of  use  ! — But  come,  cheer  up,  man  !  I'd  rather  see 
one  of  your  old  smiles,  than-  know  you'd  realized  another 
thousand !  I  hear  you  are  making  money  on  the  true, 
American,  high  pressure  system — better  go  slow  and  sure 
— the  more  steam,  the  greater  danger  of  the  boiler's  burst- 
ing !     All  sound,  I  hope  ?     Nothing  rotten  at  the  core  ? 

Tif.  Oh,  sound — quite  sound  ! 

True.  Well  that's  pleasant — though  I  must  say  you 
do'nt  look  very  pleasant  about  it ! 

Tif.  My  good  friend,  although  I  am  solvent,  I  may  say, 
perfectly  solvent — yet  you — the  fact  is,  you  can  be  of  some 
assistance  to  me ! 

True.  That's  the  fact  is  it?  I'm  glad  we've  hit  upon 
onQfact  at  last !     Well — 

[Snobson,  who  during  this  conversation  has 
been  employed  in  writing^  but  stops  occa- 
sionally to  listen^  now  gives  vent  to  a  dry 
chuckling  laugh» 


Scene  II.]  fashion.  19 

True.  Hey  ?  What's  that  ?  Another  of  those  deuced 
ill-sounding,  city  laughs  !  {sees  Snobson)  Who's  that  perched 
up  on  the  stool  of  repentance — eh,  Antony  ? 

'Siiob.  The  old  bov  has  missed  his  text  there — that^s 
the  stool  of  repentance ! 

[aside  and  looking  at  Tiffany's  seat. 
Tif.  One  of  my  clerks — my  confidential  clerk ! 
True.  Confidential?  Why  he  looks  for  all  the  world 
like  a  spy — the  most  inquisitorial,  hang-dog  face — ngh  ! 
the  sight  of  it  makes  ray  blood  run  cold  !  Come,  {crosses 
R.)  let  us  talk  over  matters  where  this  critter  can't  give  us 
the  benefit  of  his  opinion !  Antony,  the  next  time  you 
choose  a  confidential  clerk,  take  one  that  carries  his  cre- 
dentials in  his  face — those  in  his  pocket  are  not  worth 
much  without ! 

[Uxemit  Trueman  atid  Tiffany,  r.  1  e. 
Snob,  {jumping  from  his  stool  and  advancing  c.)  The 
old  prig  has  got  the  tin,  or  Tiff  would  never  be  so  civil ! 
All  right — Tiff  will  work  every  shiner  into  the  concern — 
all  the  better  for  me  !  Now  I'll  go  and  make  love  to 
Seraphina.  The  old  woman  needn't  try  to  knock  me  down 
with  any  of  her  French  lingo !  Six  months  from  to-day  if 
aint  drivino;  mv  two  footmen  tandem,  down  Broadway — 
and  as  fashionable  as  Mrs.  Tiffany  herself,  then  I  aint  the 
trump  I  thought  I  was!  that's  all.  {looks  at  his  watch) 
Bless  me!  eleven  o'clock  and  I  haven't  had  my  julep  yet? 
Snobson,   I'm  ashamed  of  you! 

[Exity  L. 

SCENE  II. 

The  intej'ior  of  a  beautiful  conservatory  ;  walk  through  the 
centre ;  stands  of  flower  pots  iii  bloom;  a  couple  of 
rustic  seats.      Gertrude,   r.  c,   attired  in   whitCy 
with  a  ivhite  rose  in  her  hair;  watering  the  flowers. 
Colonel  Howard,  l.,  regarding  her. 

How.y  L.  c.  I  am  afraid  you  lead  a  sad  life  here,  Miss 
Gertrude? 

Ger.,  r.  c.  {turning  round  gaily)  What !  amongst  the 
flowers  ?  {continues  her  occupation) 

How.  No,  amongst  the  thistles,  with  which  Mrs.  Tif- 
fany surrounds  you  ;  the  tempests,  which  her  temper  raises ! 

Ger.  They   never  harm  me.     Flowers  and  herbs  are 

c  2 


20  FASHION.  [A^CT  II. 

excellent  tutors.  I  learn  prudence  from  the  reed,  and  bend 
until  the  storm  has  swept  over  me ! 

How.  Admirable  philosophy  I  But  still  this  frigid  at- 
mospbere  of  fashion  must  be  uncongenial  to  you?  Accus- 
tomed to  the  pleasant  companionship  of  your  kind  friends 
in  Geneva,  surely  you  must  regret  this  cold  exchange  ? 

Ger.  Do  you  think  so?  Can  you  suppose  that  1  could 
possibly  prefer  a  ramble  in  the  woods  to  a  promenade  in 
Broadway  ?  A  wreath  of  scented  wild  flowers  to  a  bouquet 
of  these  sickly  exotics  ?  The  odour  of  new-mown  hay  to 
the  heated  air  of  this  crowded  conservatory  ?  Or  can  you 
imagine  that  I  could  enjoy  the  quiet  conversation  of  my 
Geneva  friends,  more  than  the  edifying  chit-chat  of  a 
fashionable  drawing  room?  But  I  see  you  think  me  totally 
destitute  of  taste? 

How.  You  have  a  merry  spirit  to  jest  thus  at  your 
grievances ! 

Ger.  I  have  my  mania, — as  some  wise  person  declares 
that  all  mankind  have, — and  mine  is  a  love  of  independ- 
ence !  In  Geneva,  my  wants  were  supplied  by  two  kind  old 
maiden  ladies,  upon  whom  I  know  not  that  I  have  any  J 

claim.  I  had  abilities,  and  desired  to  use  them.  I  came 
here  at  my  own  request ;  for  here  I  am  no  longer  depend- 
ent!      Voila  tout,  as  Mrs.  Tiffany  would  say. 

How.  Believe  me,  I  appreciate  the  confidence  you  re- 
pose in  me ! 

Ger.  Confidence  !  Truly,  Colonel  Howard,  the  confi- 
dence is  entirely  on  your  part,  in  supposing  that  I  confide 
that  which  I  have  no  reason  to  conceal !  I  think  I  informed 
you  that  Mrs.  Tiffany  only  received  visitors  on  her  reception 
day — she  is  therefore  not  prepared  to  see  you.  Zeke — Oh! 
I  beg  his  pardon — Adolph,  made  some  mistake  in  admitting 
you. 

How.  Nay,  Gertrude,  it  was  not  Mrs.  Tiffany,  nor 
Miss  Tiffany,  whom  I  came  to  see  ;  it — it  was — 

Ger.  The  conservatory  perhaps  ?  I  will  leave  you  to 
examine  the  flowers  at  leisure !        (crosses  i..) 

How.  Gertrude — listen  to  me.  If  I  only  dared  to 
give  utterance  to  what  is  hovering  upon  my  lips!  (aside) 
Gertrude ! 

Ger.  Colonel  Howard ! 

How.  Gertrude,  I  must — must — 


Scene  II.]  fashion,  21 

Ger.  Yes,  indeed  you  7;w5^,  must  leave  me!  I  think 
I  hear  somebody  coming — Mrs.  Tiffany  would  not  be  well 
pleased  to  find  you  here — pray,  pray  leave  me — that  door 
will  lead  you  into  the  street. 

[Hurries  him  out  tJirovgh  door,  c.  f.  ;  takes  up 
her  watering  pot,  and  commences  watering 
jiowers,   tying  up  branches,   ^^c. 

What  a  strange  being  is  man!  Why  should  he  hesitate 
to  say — nay,  why  should  I  prevent  his  saying,  what  I 
would  most  delight  to  hear?  Truly  man  is  strange — but 
woman  is  quite  as  incomprehensible ! 

{walks  about  gathering  flowers^ 

Enter  Count  Jolimaitre,  l.  u.  e. 

Count.  There  she  is — the  bewitching  little  creature ! 
Mrs.  Tiffany  and  her  daughter  are  out  of  ear-shot.  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  their  feathers  floating  down  Broadway,  not  ten 
minutes  ago.  Just  the  opportunity  I  have  been  looking 
for !  Now  for  an  engagement  with  this  captivating  little 
piece  of  prudery!  'Pon  honor,  I  am  almost  afraid  she 
will  not  resist  a  Count  long  enough  to  give  value  to  the 
conquest,  {approaches  her)  Ma  belle  petite,  were  you  ga- 
thering roses  for  me  ? 

Ger.  {starts  on  first  perceiving  him,  but  instantly  re- 
gains  her  self-possession)  The  roses  here.  Sir,  are  carefully 
guarded  with  thorns — if  you  have  the  right  to  gather,  pluck 
for  yourself! 

Count.  Sharp  as  ever,  little  Gertrude !  But  now  that 
we  are  alone,  throw  off  this  frigidity,  and  be  at  your  ease. 

Ger.  Permit  me  to  be  alone,  Sir,  that  I  may  be  at  my 
ease ! 

Count.  Very  good,  ma  belle,  well  said !  {applauding  her 
with  his  hands)  Never  yield  too  soon,  even  to  a  title!  But, 
as  the  old  girl  may  find  her  way  back  before  long,  we  may 
as  well  come  to  particulars  at  once.  I  love  you ;  but  that 
you  know  already,  {rubbing  his  eye-glass  unconcernedly  with 
his  handkerchief)  Before  long  I  shall  make  Mademoiselle 
Seraphina  my  wife,  and,  of  course,  you  shall  remain  in 
the  family  ! 

Ger.  {indignantly)  Sir — 

Count.  'Pon  my  honor  you  shall!  In  France  we  arrange 
these'  little  matters  without  difficulty  ! 


22  FASHION.  [A.CT1I. 

Ger.  But  I  am  an  American!  Your  conduct  proves 
that  you  are  not  one  !  [[/oiny,  crosses,  r.  h. 

Count,  (preventing  her)  Don't  run  away,  my  immacu- 
late petite  Americaine!  Demme,  you've  quite  overlooked 
my  condescension — the  difference  of  our  stations — you  a 
species  of  upper  servant — an  orphan — no  friends. 

Enter  Trueman  unj)e7'ceived,  r.  u.  e. 

Ger.  And  therefore  more  entitled  to  the  respect  and 
protection  of  every  true  gentleman  !  Had  you  been  one, 
3^ou  would  not  have  insulted  me ! 

Count.  My  charming  little  orator,  patriotism  and  decla- 
mation become  you  particularly !  {approaches  her)  I  feel 
quite  tempted  to  taste — 

True,  {thrusting  him  aside)  An  American  hickory  switch! 
(strikes  him)     Well,  how  do  you  like  it  ? 

Count.  Old  matter-of-fact!  {aside)    Sir,  how  dare  you? 

True.  My  stick  has  answered  that  question ! 

Ger.  Oh  !  now  I  am  quite  safe ! 

True.  Safe !  not  a  bit  safer  than  before  !  All  women 
would  be  safe,  if  they  knew  how  virtue  became  them  !  As 
for  you,  Mr.  Count,  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself? 
Come,   speak  out! 

Count.  Sir, — aw — aw — you  don't  understand  these 
matters ! 

True.  That's  a  fact !  Not  having  had  your  experience, 
I  don't  believe  I  do  understand  them! 

Count.  A  piece  of  pleasantry — a  mere  joke — 

True.  A  joke  was  it?  I'll  show  you  a  joke  worth  two 
of  that !  I'll  teach  you  the  way  we  natives  joke  with  a 
puppy  who  don't  respect  an  honest  woman!     (seizing  him) 

Count.  Oh  !  oh !  demme — ^y  ou  old  ruffian  1  let  me  go. 
What  do  you  mean? 

True.  Oh!  a  piece  of  pleasantry — a  mere  joke — very 
pleasant  isn't  it? 

[Attempts  to  strike  him  again  ;  Count  strug-^ 
gles  with  him.  £'?2^er  Mrs.  Tiffany  Aas- 
tily,  L  2  E.,  in  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 

3Irs.  Tif.  What  is  the  matter?     I  am  perfectly  aUm6 
with  terror.     Mr.  Trueman,  what  has  happened? 
True.  Oh  !  we  have  been  joking  I 
Mrs.  Tif.  {to  Count,  who  is  re-arranging  his  dress) 


Scene  II.]  FASHION.  23 

My  dear  Count,  I  did  not  expect  to  find  jou  here — how 
kind  of  you ! 

True.  Your  dear  Count,  has  been  showing  his  kindness 
in'a  xtxy  foreign  manner.  Too  foreign  I  think,  he  found 
it  to  be  relished  by  an  U7i fashionable  native!  What  do  you 
think  of  a  puppy,  who  insults  an  innocent  girl  all  in  the 
way  of  kindness?  This  Count  of  your' s — this  importation 
of — 

Count,  My  dear  Madam,  demme,  permit  me  to  explain. 
It  would  be  unbecoming — demme — particularly  unbecoming 
of  you — aw — aw — to  pay  any  attention  to  this  ignorant 
person,  (crosses  to  Trueman.)  Anything  that  he  says 
concerning  a  man  of  my  standing — aw — the  truth  is, 
Madam — 

True.  Let  us  have  the  truth  by  all  means, — if  it  is  only 
for  the  novelty's  sake! 

Count,  (turning  his  hack  to  Trueman)  You  see,  madam, 
hoping  to  obtain  a  few  moments'  private  conversation  with 
Miss  Seraphina — with  3Iiss  Seraphina  I  say — and — aw — 
and  knowing  her  passion  for  flowers,  I  found  my  way  to 
your  very  tasteful  and  recherche  conservatory,  (looks  about 
him  approvingly)  Very  beautifully  arranged — does  you  great 
credit,  madam!  Here  I  encountered  this  young  person. 
She  was  inclined  to  be  talkative ;  and  I  indulged  her  with 
— with  a — aw — demme — a  few  commonplaces!  What  passed 
between  us  was  mere  harmless  badinage — on  my  part.  You, 
madam,  you — so  conversant  with  our  European  manners — 
you  are  aware  that  when  a  man  of  fashion — that  is,  when 
a  woman — a  man  is  bound — amongst  noblemen,  you  know — 

Mrs.  Tif  I  comprehend  you  perfectly — parjittement, 
my  dear  Count. 

Count.  'Pon  my  honor,   that's  very  obliging  of  her. 

(aside) 

Mrs  Tif.  I  am  shocked  at  the  plebeian  forwardness  of 
this  conceited  girl ! 

True,  (walking  up  to  Count)  Did  you  ever  keep  a 
reckoning  of  the  lies  you  tell  in  an  hour? 

Mrs  Tif  'Mx.  Trueman,  I  blush  for  you! 

(crosses  c,  to  Trueman) 

True.  Don't  do  that — you  have  no  blushes  to  spare ! 
Mrs.  Tif,  It  is  a  man  of  rank  whom  you  are  addressing, 


24:  FASHION.  [Act  II. 

True.  A  rank  villain,  Mrs.  Antony  Tiffany !  A  rich 
one  he  would  be,   had  he  as  much  (/old  as  brass! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Pray  pardon  him,  Count ;  he  knows  nothing 
of  how  ton! 

Count.  Demme,  he's  beneath  my  notice.  I  tell  you 
what,  old  fellow — (Trueman  raises  his  stick  as  Count 
approaches,  the  latter  starts  back)  the  sight  of  him  discom- 
poses me — aw — I  feel  quite  uncomfortable — aw — let  us  join 
vour  charming  daughter?  I  can't  do  you  the  honor  to 
shoot  you,  Sir — {to  Trueman)  you  are  beneath  me — a 
nobleman  can't  xight  a  commoner!  Good  bye,  old  True- 
penny!     I — aw — I'm  insensible  to  your  insolence! 

[Exeunt  Count  and  Mrs.  Tiffany,  r.  h.  u.  e. 

True.  You  won't  be  insensible  to  a  cow  hide  in  spite  of 
your  nobility!  The  next  time  he  practises  any  of  his  foreign 
fashions  on  you,  Gertrude,  vou'll  see  how  I'll  wake  up  his 
sensibilities! 

Ger.  I  do  not  know  what  I  should  have  done  without 
you,   sir. 

True.  Yes,  you  do — you  know  that  you  would  have  done 
well  enough!  Never  tell  a  lie,  girl!  not  even  for  the  sake 
of  pleasing  an  old  man !  When  you  open  your  lips  let 
your  heart  speak.  Never  tell  a  lie!  Let  your  face  be  the 
looking-glass  of  your  soul — your  heart  its  clock — while 
your  tongue  rings  the  hours!  But  the  glass  must  be  clear, 
the  clock  true,  and  then  there's  no  fear  but  the  tongue  will 
do  its  duty  in  a  woman's  head! 

Ger.  You  are  very  good.   Sir  ! 

True.  That's  as  it  may  be  ! — How  my  heart  warms  to- 
wards her !  {aside)  Gertrude,  I  hear  that  you  have  no 
mother  ? 

Ger.  Ah !   no.    Sir  ;    I  wish  I  had. 

True.  So  do  I !  Heaven  knows,  so  do  I !  {aside,  and 
with  emotion)     And  you  have  no  father,    Gertrude  ? 

Ger.  No,  Sir — I  often  wish  I  had ! 

True,  {hui'riedly)  Don't  do  that,  girl!  don't  do  that ! 
"Wish  you  had  a  mother — but  never  wish  that  you  had  a 
father  again !  Perhaps  the  one  you  had  did  not  deserve 
such  a  child ! 

Enter  Prudence,   r.  u.  e.,  down  l.  h. 

Pru.  Seraphina  is  looking  for  you,  Gertrude. 

Ger.  I  will  go  to  her.  {crosses  to  r.  h.)  Mr.  Trueman, 


Scene  II.]  fashion.  25 

you  will  not  permit  me  to  thank  you,   but  you  cannot  pre- 
vent my  gratitude  !  [^Exit,   r,  u.  e. 
True,  (looking  after  her)   If  falsehood  harbours  there, 
I'll  give  up  searching  after  truth ! 

[ci'osses  R.,  retires  up  the  stage  musingly,    and 
commences  examining  the  fowers. 
Pru.  What  a  nice  old  man  he  is  to  be  sure  !     I  wish 
he  would  say  something  !    (aside) 

[crosses  r.,   ivalks  after  him^   turning  when  he 
turns — after  a  j^ause. 
Don't  mind  me,  INlr.  Trueman ! 

True.  Mind  you  ?    Oh  !  no,  don't  be  afraid  (crosses  l.) 
— I  was'nt  minding  you.  Nobody  seems  to  mind  you  much  ! 
[continues  walking  and  examining  the  flowers — 
Prudence  follows. 

Pru,  Very  pretty  flowers,  aint  they?  Gertrude  takes 
care  of  them. 

True.  Gertrude  ?  So  I  hear — (advancing  l.  c.)  I  sup- 
pose you  can  tell  me  now  who  this  Gertrude — 

Pru.  Who  she's  in  love  with?  I  kneio  you  were  going 
to  say  that !  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it !  Gertrude,  she's 
in  love  with — Mr.  Twinkle  !  and  he's  in  love  with  her. 
And  Seraphina  she's  in  love  with  Count  Jolly — what-d'ye- 
call-it :  but  Count  Jolly  don't  take  to  her  at  all— but  Colonel 
Howard — he's  the  man  — he's  desperate  about  her! 

True.  Why  you  feminine  newspaper !  Howard  in  love 
with  that  quintessence  of  affectation  !  Howard — the  only, 
frank,  straightforward  fellow  that  I've  met  since — I'll  tell 
him  my  mind  on  the  subject !  And  Gertrude  hunting  for 
happiness  in  a  rhyming  dictionary!  The  girl's  a  greater 
fool  than  I  took  her  for  ?  [crosses  r. 

Pru.  So  she  is — you  see  I  know  all  about  them  ! 

True.  I  see  you  do  !  You've  a  wonderful  knowledge — 
wonderful — of  other  people  s  concerns!  It  may  do  here, 
but  take  my  word  for  it,  in  the  county  of  Catteraugus  you'd 
get  the  name  of  a  great  husy-hody.  But  perhaps  you  know 
that  too  ? 

Pru.  Oh!  I  always  know  what's  coming.  I  feel  it  be- 
forehand all  over  me.  I  knew  something  was  going  to 
happen  the  day  you  came  here — and  what's  more  I  can 
ahvavs  tell  a  married  man  from  a  single —I  felt  right  off 
that  you  were  a  bachelor? 


26  FASHION.  [Act  II. 

True.  Felt  right  off  I  was  a  bachelor  did  you  ?  you  were 
sure  of  it — sure? — quite  sure?  (Prudence  assents  de- 
lightedly) Then  you  felt  wrong! — a  bachelor  and  a  wi- 
dower are  not  the  same  thing! 

Pr'u.  Oh  I  but  it  all  comes  to  the  same  thing — a  wi- 
dower's as  good  as  a  bachelor  any  day !  And  besides  I 
knew  that  you  were  a  farmer  right  of. 

True.  On  the  spot,  eh?  I  suppose  you  saw  cabbages 
and  green  peas  growing  out  of  my  hat? 

Pru.  No,  I  did'nt — but  I  knew  all  about  you.  And  I 
knew — (looking  down  and  fidgetting  with  her  ajyron)  I  knew 
you  were  for  getting  married  soon  !  For  last  night  I 
dream't  I  saw  your  funeral  going  along  the  streets,  and 
the  mourners  all  dressed  in  white.  And  a  funeral  is  a  sure 
sign  of  a  wedding  you  know  !   (nudging  him  with  her  elbow) 

True,  (imitating  her  voice).  Well  I  can't  say  that  I 
know  any  such  thing  I  you  know  !   (nudging  her  back) 

Pru.  Oh  !  it  does,  and  there's  no  getting  over  it !  For 
my  part,  I  like  farmers — and  I  know  all  about  setting  hens 
and  turkeys,  and  feeding  chickens,  and  laying  eggs,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing  ! 

True.  May  I  be  shot !  if  mistress  newspaper  is  not  put- 
ting in  an  advertisement  for  herself!  This  is  your  city 
mode  of  courting  I  suppose,  ha,  ha,  ha !    (aside) 

Pru.  I've  been  west,  a  little ;  but  I  never  was  in  the 
county  of  Catteraugus,    myself. 

True.  Oh  !  you  were  not  ?  And  you  have  taken  a  par- 
ticular fancy  to  go  there,  eh  ? 

Pru.  Perhaps  I  should' nt  object — 

T7'ue.  Oh! — ah!— so  I  suppose.  Now  pay  attention 
to  what  I  am  going  to  say,  for  it  is  a  matter  of  great  im- 
portance to  yourself. 

Pru.  Now  it's  coming — I  know  what  he's  going  to  say  ! 
(aside) . 

Time.  The  next  time  you  want  to  tie  a  man  for  life  to 
your  apron-strings,  pick  out  one  that  don't  come  from  the 
county  of  Catteraugus — for  green  horns  are  scarce  in  those 
parts,   and  modest  women  plenty  !  [Exit,  r. 

Pirn.  Now  who'd  have  thought  lie  was  going  to  say 
that !     But  I  won't  give  him  up  yet — I  won't  give  liim  up. 

[JEjcitj  R. 

END  OF  ACT  II. 


Scene  I.]  fashion.  27 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

Mrs.  Tiffany's  Parlor.     Enter  Mrs.  Tiffany,  r.  1  e., 
followed  by  Mr.  Tiffany. 

Tif.   *'  Your  extravagance  will  ruin  me,  Mrs.  Tiffany  i" 

Mrs.  Tif.  "  And  your  stinginess  ■v^'ill  ruin  me,  Mr. 
*^  Tiffany  I  It  is  totaUy  and  toot  a  fate  impossible  to  con- 
*'  vince  you  of  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  appearances. 
**  There  is  a  certain  display  which  every  woman  of  fashion 
"  is  forced  to  make!" 

Tif.   "  And  pray  who  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion  ?" 

Mrs.  Tif.  "  What  a  vulgar  question !  Ail  women  of 
"  fashion,    Mr.  Tiffany—" 

Tif  '*  In  this  land  are  self-constituted,  like  you,  INIadam 
" — 2in(\.  fashion  is  the  cloak  for  more  sins  than  charity  ever 
"  covered  !  It  was  iov  fashion's  sake  that  you  insisted  upon 
**  my  purchasing  this  expensive  house — it  was  for  fashion's 
*'  sake  that  you  ran  me  in  debt  at  every  exorbitant  uphol- 
*•  sterer's  and  extravagant  furniture  warehouse  in  the  city — 
"  it  was  for  fashion's  sake  that  you  built  that  ruinous  con- 
**  servatory — hired  more  servants  than  they  have  persons 
"  to  wait  upon — and  dressed  your  footman  like  a  har- 
*'lequin!" 

Mrs.  Tif.  *'  Mr.  Tiffany,  you  are  thoroughly  plebeian, 
"  and  insufferably  American,  in  your  grovelling  ideas ! 
**  And,  pray,  what  was  the  occasion  of  these  very  mal-ap- 
*^ 2wo-2)os  remarks'?  Merely  because  I  requested  a  paltry 
*'  fifty  dollars  to  purchase  a  new  style  of  head-dress — a  Lijou 
*'  of  an  article  just  introduced  in  France." 

Tif.  "  Time  was,  Mrs.  Tiffany,  when  you  manufactured 
"  your  own  French  head-dresses — took  off  their  first  gloss 
"  at  the  public  balls,  and  then  sold  them  to  your  shortest- 
*'  sio-hted  customers.  And  all  you  knew  about  France,  or 
"  French  either,  was  what  you  spelt  out  at  the  bottom  of 
"  your  fashion  plates — but  now  you  have  grown  so  fashion- 
*'  able,  forsooth,  that  you  have  forgotten  how  to  speak  your 
**  mother  tongue !" 

Mrs.  Tif  "  Mr.  Tiffany,  Mr.  Tiffany !    Nothing  is  more 


28  FASHION.  [Act  III. 

"  positively  vulgarian — more  unaristocratic  than  any  allu- 
"  sion  to  the  past !" 

Tif.  "  Why  I  thought,  my  dear,  that  aristocrats  lived 
"  principally  upon  the  past — and  traded  in  the  market  of 
"  fashion  with  the  bones  of  their  ancestors  for  capital?" 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Tiffany,  such  vulgar  remarks  are  only 
suitable  to  the  counting  house,  in  my  drawing  room  you 
should — 

Tif.  Vary  my  sentiments  with  my  locality,  as  you 
change  your  manners  with  your  dress! 

Mrs.  Tif  Mr.  Tiffany,  I  desire  that  you  will  purchase 
Count  d'Orsay's  "  Science  of  Etiquette,"  and  learn  how  to 
conduct  yourself — especially  before  you  appear  at  the  grand 
ball,  which  I  shall  give  on  Friday ! 

Tif  Confound  your  balls.  Madam ;  they  make  foot- 
balls of  my  money,  while  you  dance  away  all  that  I  am 
worth !  A  pretty  time  to  give  a  ball  when  you  know  that 
I  am  on  the  very  brink  of  bankruptcy ! 

Mrs.  Tif  So  much  the  greater  reason  that  nobody 
should  suspect  your  circumstances,  or  you  would  lose  your 
credit  at  once.  Just  at  this  crisis  a  ball  is  absolutely  ne- 
cessary to  save  your  reputation  !  There  is  Mrs.  Adolphus 
Dashaway — she  gave  the  most  splendid  fete  of  the  season — 
and  I  hear  on  verv  eood  authority  that  her  husband  has 
not  paid  his  baker's  bill  in  three  months.  Then  there  was 
Mrs.  Honeywood — 

Tif  Gave  a  ball  the  night  before  her  husband  shot 
himself — perhaps  you  wish  to  drive  me  to  follow  his  ex- 
ample? [crosses  r.  l.  h. 

Mrs.  Tif  Good  gracious  !  Mr.  Tiffany,  how  you  talk ! 
I  beg  you  won't  mention  anything  of  the  kind.  I  consider 
black  the  most  unbecoming  color,  I'm  sure  I've  done  all 
that  I  could  to  gratify  you.  There  is  that  vulgar  old  tor- 
ment, Trueman,  who  gives  one  the  lie  fifty  times  a  day — 
have'nt  I  been  very  civil  to  him  ? 

Tif  Civil  to  his  wealth,  Mrs.  Tiffany !  I  told  you  that 
he  was  a  rich,  old  farmer — the  early  friend  of  my  father — 
my  own  benefactor — and  that  I  had  reason  to  think  he 
might  assist  me  in  my  present  embarrassments.  Your  ci- 
vility was  bought — and  like  most  of  your  own  purchases 
has  yet  to  be  paid  for.  [crosses  to  r.  h. 

Mrs.  Tif.  And  will  be,  no  doubt !     The  condescension 


Scene  1.1  FASHION.  29 

of  a  woman  of  fiisliion  should  command  any  price.  Mr. 
Trueman  is  insupportablj  indecorous — he  has  insulted 
Count  Jolimaitre  in  the  most  outrageous  manner.  If  the 
Count  was  not  so  deeply  interested — so  ahime  with  Sera- 
phina,  I  am  sure  he  would  never  honor  us  by  his  visits 
again ! 

Tif.  So  much  the  better — he  shall  never  marry  my 
daughter! — I  am  resolved  on  that.  Why,  Madam,  I  am 
told  there  is  in  Paris  a  regular  matrimonial  stock  company, 
who  fit  out  indigent  dandies  for  this  market.  How  do  I 
know  but  this  fellow  is  one  of  its  creatures,  and  that  he  has 
come  here  to  increase  its  dividends  by  marrying  a  fortune  ? 

Mrs.  Tif.  Nonsense,  Mr.  Tiffany.  The  Count,  the 
most  fashionable  young  man  in  all  New  York — the  intimate 
friend  of  all  the  dukes  and  lords  in  Europe — not  marry  my 
daughter?  Not  permit  Seraphina  to  become  a  Countess? 
Mr.  Tiffany,  you  are  out  of  your  senses! 

Tif.  That  would  not  be  very  wonderful,  considering  how 
many  years  I  have  been  united  to  you,  my  dear.  Modern 
physicians  pronounce  lunacy  infectious! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Tiffany,  he  is  a  man  of  fashion — 
-  Tif.  Fashion  makes  fools,  but  cannot  feed  them.  By 
the  bye,  I  have  a  request, — since  you  are  bent  upon  ruining 
me  by  this  ball,  and  there  is  no  help  for  it, — I  desire  that 
you  will  send  an  invitation  to  my  confidential  clerk,  Mr. 
Snobson. 

Mrs.  Tif  Mr.  Snobson!  Was  there  ever  such  an 
you-nick  demand!  Mr.  Snobson  would  cut  a  pretty  figure 
amon^jst  my  fashionable  friends!    I  shall  do  no  such  thing, 

Mr.  Tiffany. 

Tif.  Then,  Madam,  the  ball  shall  not  take  place.  Have 
I  not  told  you  that  I  am  in  the  power  of  this  man?  That 
there  are  circumstances  which  it  is  happy  for  you  that  you 
do  not  know— which  you  cannot  comprehend, — but  which 
render  it  essential  that  you  should  be  civil  to  Mr.  Snobson? 
Not  you  merely,  but  Seraphina  also?  He  is  a  more  appro- 
priate match  for  her  than  your  foreign  favorite. 

Mrs.  Tif.  A  match  for  Seraphina,  indeed!  {crosses)  Mr. 
Tiffany,  you  are  determined  to  make  ?ijjgw  pas. 

Tif,  Mr.  Snobson  intends  calhng  this  morning. 

\crosses  to  l.  h. 


30  FASHION.  [Act  III. 

Mrs  Tif.  But,  Mr.  Tiffany,  this  is  not  reception  clay — 
my  drawing-rooms  are  in  the  most  terrible  disorder — 

Tif.  Mr.  Suobson  is  not  particular — he  must  be  admitted. 

Enter  Zeke,  l. 
Zeke,  Mr.  Snobson. 

Enter  Snobson,  l,.;    exit  Zeke,  l. 

Snob.  How  dye  do,  Marm  ?  (crosses  to  c.)  How  are 
you?     Mr.  Tiffany,   your  most!  — 

Mrs.  Tif.  (formally)  Bung  jure.  Comment  vow  porte 
vow,  Monsur  Snobson  ? 

Snob.  Oh,  to  be  sure — very  good  of  you — fine  day. 

Mrs.  Tif.  (pointing  to  a  chair  with  great  dignity)  Sas- 
soyez  vow,   Monsur  Snobson. 

Snob.  I  wonder  what  she's  driving  at?  I  aint  up  to 
the  fashionable  lingo  yet!  {aside)  Eh?  what?  Speak  a 
little  louder,  Marm? 

Mrs.  Tif.  What  ignorance!  (aside) 

Tif.  I  presume  Mrs.  Tiffany  means  that  you  are  to  take 
a  seat. 

Snob.  Ex-actly — very  obliging  of  her — so  I  will,  (sits) 
No  ceremony  amonst  friends,  you  know — and  likely  to  be 
nearer — you  understand?  O.  K.,  all  correct.  How  is 
Seraphina? 

Mrs.  Tif.    Miss  Tiffany  is  not  visible  this  morning. 

[7'etires  vp. 

Snob.  Not  visible?  (jumping  up,  crosses,  r.)  I  suppose 
that's  the  English  for  can't  see  her?  Mr.  Tiffany,  Sir — 
(ivalking  up  to  him)  what  am  I  to  understand  by  this  de- 
jfal-ca-tion,  Sir?  I  expected  your  word  to  be  as  good  as 
your  bond — beg  pardon.  Sir — I  mean  better — considerably 
better — no  humbug  about  it,   Sir. 

Tif  Have  patience,  Mr.  Snobson.  (rings  bell) 

Enter  Zeke,  l,. 
Zeke,  desire  mv  dauo-hter  to  come  here. 

Mrs.  Tif   (coming  down,  c.)  Adolpli — I  say,  Adolph — 
[Zeke  straightens  himself  and  assumes  f>p pish 
airs,   as  he  tmms  to  Mrs.  Tiffany, 
Tif.  Zeke. 

Zeke.  Don't  kn^w  any  such  uigga,  Boss. 
Tif.  Do  as  I  bid  you  instantly,   or  off  with  your  livery 
and  quit  the  house!  * 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  31 

Zehe.  Wheugh!   I' se  all  dismission!  \exity-R.. 

Mrs.  Tif.  A-dolph,  A-doIph !    (calling  after  him) 

Snob.  I  brought  the  old  boy  to  his  bearings,  didn't  I 
though  !  Pull  that  string,  and  he  is  sure  to  work  right. 
(aside)  Don't  make  any  stranger  of  me,  Marm — I'm  quite 
at  home.  If  you've  got  any  odd  jobs  about  the  house  to 
do  up,  I  sha'nt  miss  you.  I'll  amuse  myself  with  Sera- 
phina  when  she  comes — we'll  get  along  very  cosily  by  our- 
selves. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Permit  me  to  inform  you,  Mr.  Snobson,  that 
a  French  mother  never  leaves  her  daughter  alone  with  a 
young  man — she  knows  your  sex  too  well  for  that! 

S?iob.  Very  <:;?i>-obliging  of  her — but  as  we're  none 
French — 

Mrs.  Tif,  You  have  yet  to  learn,  Mr.  Snobson,  that  the 
American  ee-liglit — the  aristocracy — the  how-ton — as  a  mat- 
ter of  conscience,  scrupulously  follow  the  foreign  fashions. 

Snoh.  Not  when  they  are  foreign  to  their  interests, 
Marm — for  instance — {enter  Seraphina,  r.)  There  you 
are  at  last,  eh.  Miss?  How  dye  do?  Ma  said  you  weren't 
visible.     Managed  to  get  a  peep  at  her,  eh,  Mr.  Tiffany  ? 

Sera.  I  heard  you  were  here,  Mr.  Snobson,  and  came 
Tvithout  even  arranging  my  toilette;  you  will  excuse  my 
negligence? 

Snob.  Of  everything  but  me^  Miss. 

Sera.  I  shall  never  have  to  ask  your  pardon  for  that^ 
Mr.  Snobson. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Seraphina — child — really — 

\as  she  is  approaching  Seraphina,  Mr.  Tit- 
T ANY  plants  himself  i7i  front  of  his  wife. 

Tif.  Walk  this  way.  Madam,  if  you  please.  To  see 
that  she  fancies  the  surly  fellow  takes  a  weight  from  my 
heart,     (aside) 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Tiifany,  it  is  highly  improper  and  not 
at  all  distingue  to  leave  a  young  girl — 

Enter  Zeke,   l. 

Zeke.  Mr.  Count  Jollv-made-her  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Good  gracious  !  The  Count— Oh,  dear  !  — 
Seraphina,  run  and  change  your  dress, — no  there's  not 
time  !     A-dolph,   admit  him.  [Exit  Zeke,   j.. 

Mr.  Snobson,  get  out  of  the  way,  will  you  ?     Mr.  Tiffany, 
what  are  you  doing  at  home  at  this  hour  ? 
7 


32  FASHION.  ~  [Act  III. 

Enter  Count  Jolimaitre,  l.,  ushered  hy  Zeke. 
Zeke.  Dat's  de  genuine  article  ob  a  gemman.   (aside) 

\_Exit,  L. 
Mrs.  Tif,  My  dear  Count,  I  am  overjoyed  at  the  very 
sight  of  you. 

Count.  Flattered  myself  you'd  be  glad  to  see  me.  Madam 
— knew  it  v/'as  not  '^ouv  jour  de  reception. 
Mrs.  Tif.  But  for  you.   Count,  all  days — 
Count.  I  thought  so.     Ah,  Miss  Tiffany,   on  my  honor 
you're  looking  beautiful.  [crosses  r. 

Sera.  Count,  flattery  from  you — 
Snob.  What  ?     Eh  ?     What's  that  you  say  ? 
Sera.  Nothing  but  what  etiquette  requires. 

[aside  to  him. 

Count,  (regarding  Mr.  Tiffany  through  his  eye  glass) 
Your  worthy  Papa,  I  believe?     Sir,  your  most  obedient. 

[Mr.  Tiffany  hows  coldly ;  Count  regards 
Snobson  through  his  glass,  shrugs  his 
shoulders  and  turns  away. 

Snob,  (to  Mrs.  Tiffany)  Introduce  me,  will  you?  I 
never  knew  a  Count  in  all  my  life — what  a  strange-looking 
animal ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Mr.  Snobson,  it  is  not  the  fashion  to  intro- 
duce in  France ! 

Snob.  But,  Marm,  we're  in  America.  (Mrs.  T.  crosses 
to  Count,  R.)  The  woman  thinks  she's  somewhere  else  than 
where  she  is — she  wants  to  make  an  alibi?  (aside) 

'  Mrs.  Tif.  I  hope  that  we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  on  Friday  evening.  Count? 

Count.  Really,  madam,  my  invitations — my  engage- 
ments— so  numerous — I  can  hardly  answer  for  myself: 
and  you  Americans  take  offence  so  easily — 

Mrs.  Tif.  But,  Count,  everybody  expects  you  at  our 
ball — you  are  the  principal  attraction — 

Sera.  Count,  you  must  come! 

Count.  Since  you  insist — aw — aw — there's  no  resisting 
you.  Miss  Tiffany. 

Mrs.  Tif.  I  am  so  thankful.  How  can  I  repay  your 
condescension!  (Count  and  Seraphina  converse)  Mr. 
Snobson,  will  you  walk  this  -way? — I  have  such  a  cactus  in 
full  bloom — remarkable  flower  I  Mr.  Tiffany,  pray  come 
here — I  have  something  particular  to  say. 


SCEXE  I.]  FASHION.  23 

Tif.  Then  speak  out,  my  dear — T  thought  it  was  highly 
improper  just  now  to  leave  a  girl  with  a  young  man? 

[(iside  to  her, 

2I?'s.  Tif.  Oh,  hut  the  Count — that  is  different ! 

Tif.  I  suppose  you  mean  to  say  there's  nothing  of  Ihe 
man  about  him  ? 

Enter  MiLLiNETTE,  L.,  witk  a  scarf  in  her  hand. 

Mil.  Adolph  tell  me  he  vas  here,  (aside)  Pardon, 
Madame,  I  bring  dis  scarf  for  Mademoiselle. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Very  well,  Millinette ;  you  know  best  what 
IS  proper  for  her  to  wear. 

[Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tiffany  and  Snobson  retire 
up ;  she  engages  the  attention  of  both 
gentlemen. 

[Millinette  crosses,!..,  towards  Seraphina, 
gives  the  Count  a  threatening  look,  and 
commences  arranging  the  scarf  over  Sera- 
phina's  shoidders. 

Mil.  Mademoiselle,  permettez-moi.  Perfide  !  (aside  to 
Count)  If  Mademoiselle  vil  stand  trampdlle  one  petit 
moment.  (^z<n?5  Seraphina's  hack  to  ^Ae  Count,  and  pre- 
tends to  arrange  the  scarf)  I  must  speak  vid  you  to-day, 
or  I  tell  all — you  find  me  at  de  foot  of  de  stair  ven  you 
go.     Prend  garde!  (aside  to  Count) 

Sera.  What  is  that  yoil  say,  Millinette? 

Mil.  Dis  scarf  make  you  so  very  beautiful,  Mademoiselle 
— Je  vous  salue,  mes  dames,  (curtsies)  [exit  l. 

Count.  Not  a  moment  to  lose!  (aside)  Miss  Tiffany, 
I  have  an  unpleasant — a  particularly  unpleasant  piece  of 
intelligence — ^you  see,  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  my 
friend — the — aw — the  Earl  of  Airshire ;  the  truth  is,  the 
Earl's  daughter — beg  you  won't  mention  it — has  distin- 
guished me  by  a  tender  penchant. 

Sera.  I  understand — and  they  wish  you  to  return  and 
marry  the  young  lady ;  but  surely  you  will  not  leave  us. 
Count? 

Count.  If  you  bid  me  stay — I  shouldn't  have  the  con- 
science— I  couldn't  afford  to  tear  myself  away.  I'm  sure 
that's  honest  (aside) 

Sera'.  Oh,  Count! 

Count,  Say  but  one  word — say  that  you  shouldn't  mind 

D 


34  FASHION.  '  [Act  III. 

being  made  a  Countess — and  I'll  break  witb  the  Earl  to- 
morrow. 

Sera.  Count,  this  surprise — ^but  don't  think  of  leaving 
the  country,  Count — we  could  not  pass  the  time  without 
you!     I — yes — yes,  Count — I  do  consent! 

Count.  I  thought  she  would  !  (aside,  while  he  embraces 
her)  Enchanted,  rapture,  bliss,  ecstacy,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing — words  can't  express  it,  but  you  understand.  But  it 
must  be  kept  a  secret — positively  it  iniist !  If  the  rumour 
of  our  engagement  were  whispered  abroad — the  Earl's  daugh- 
ter— the  delicacy  of  my  situation,  aw — you  comprehend  ? 
It  is  even  possible  that  our  nuptials,  my  charming  Miss 
Tiffany,   our  nuptials  must  take  place  in  private  ! 

Sera.  Oh,  that  is  quite  impossible  ! 

Count.  It's  the  latest  fashion  abroad — the  very  latest! 
Ah,  I  knew  that  would  determine  you.     Can  I  depend  on 
your  secrecy  ? 

Sera.  Oh,  yes  !     Believe  me. 

Snob,  (coming  forward  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Tiffany's 
efforts  to  detain  him)  Why  Seraphina,  havn't  you  a  word 
to  throw  to  a  dog  ? 

Tif.  I  shouldn't  think  she  had  after  wasting  so  many 
upon  a  puppy,     (aside) 

Enter  Zeke,  l.,  wearing  a  three-cornered  hat. 

Zeke.  Missus,  de  bran  new  carriage  am  below. 
Mrs.  Tif.  Show  it  up, — I  mean,  Very  well,  A-dolph. 

\Exit  Zeke,  l. 

Count,  my  daughter  and  I  are  about  to  take  an  airing  in 
our  new  voyture, — will  you  honor  us  with  your  company  ? 

Count.  Madam,  I — I  have  a  most  pressing  engagement. 
A  letter  to  write  to  the  Earl  of  Airshire — who  is  at  present 
residing  in  the  Isle  of  Skye.    I  must  bid  you  good  morning. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Good  morning,  Count. 

[Exit  Count,  L. 

Snob.  Tm  quite  at  leisure,  (crosses  to  Mrs.  T.)  Marm. 
Books  balanced — ledger  closed — nothing  to  do  all  the  after- 
noon,— I'm  for  you 

Mrs.  Tif.  (without  noticing  him)  Come,  Seraphina, 
come  !  \_as  they  ai'e  going  SsoBsoiyi  follows  them. 

Snob.  But  Marm — I  was  saying,  Marm,  I  am  quite  at 
leisure — not  a  thing  to  do  ;  have  I,  Mr.  Tiffany  ? 


Scene  II.]  FASHION.  35 

Mrs.  Tif.  Serajihina,  child — your  red  shawl — remember 
— Mr.  Suobson,   ho)i  swear  ! 

[Exit,  L.,   leading  Seraphina. 

Snob.  Swear  !  INIr.  Tiffany,  Sir,  am  I  to  be  fobbed  off 
with  a  Ijo}i  swear  ?     D — n  it,  I  will  swear  ! 

Tif.  Have  patience,  Mr.  Snobson,  if  you  will  accom- 
pany me  to  the  counting  liouse — 

Snob.  Don't  count  too  much  on  me.  Sir.  I'll  make 
up  no  more  accounts  until  these  are  settled!  I'll  run  down 
and  jump  into  the  carriage  in  spite  of  her  bon  swear. 

\_Exit,   L. 

Tif.  You'll  jump  into  a  hornet's  nest,  if  you  do  !  Mr. 
Snobson,  Mr.  Snobson  !  [Exit  after  him. 

SCENE  II. 

HouseJieeper^ s  Boom.     Enter  INIillinette,  r. 

Mil.  I  have  set  dat  bete,  Adolph,  to  vatch  for  him.  He 
say  he  would  come  back  so  soon  as  Madame's  voiture  drive 
from,  de  door.  If  he  not  come — but  he  vill — he  vill — he 
bien  etourdi,  but  he  have  bon  coeur. 

Enter  Count,  l. 

Count.  Ah  !  Millinette,  my  dear,  you  see  what  a  good- 
natured  dog  I  am  to  fly  at  your  bidding — 

Mil.  Fly  ?  Ah  !  trompeur  !  Yat  for  you  fly  from  Paris  ? 
Vat  for  vou  leave  me — and  I  love  vou  so  much  1  Ven  you 
sick — you  almost  die — did  I  not  stay  by  you — take  care  of 
you — and  you  have  no  else  friend  1  Vat  for  you  leave 
Paris  ? 

Count.  Never  allude  to  disagreeable  subjects,  mon  en- 
fant !  I  was  forced  by  uncontrollable  circumstances  to  fly 
to  the  land  of  liberty — 

Mil.  Vat  you  do  vid  all  de  money  I  give  you?  The 
last  sou  I  had — did  I  not  give  you  ? 

Count.  I  dare  say  you  did,  ma  petite — wish  you'd  been 
better  supplied  I  (aside)  Don't  ask  any  questions  here — 
can't  explain  now — the  next  time  we  meet — 

Mil.  But,  ah  !  ven  shall  ve  meet — ven  ?  You  not  de- 
ceive me,  not  any  more. 

Count.  Deceive  you  !  I'd  rather  deceive  myself — I  wish 
I  could  !  I'd  persuade  myself  you  were  once  more  wash- 
ing linen  in  the  Seine !    (aside) 


36  FASHION.  [Act  III. 

Mil.  I  vil  tell  you  ven  ve  shall  meet — On  Friday  night 
Madame  give  one  grand  ball — -you  come  sans  doute — den 
Ten  de  supper  is  served — de  Americans  tink  of  noting  else 
ven  de  supper  come — den  you  steal  out  of  de  room,  and 
you  find,  me  here — and  you  give  me  one  grand  explanation  ! 

Enter  Gertrude,  r.,  imperceived. 

Count.  Friday  night — while  supper  is  serving — parole 
d''honneur  I  will  be  here — I  will  explain  every  thing — my 
sudden  departure  from  Paris — my — demme,  my  countship 
— every  thing !  Now  let  me  go — if  any  of  the  family 
should  discover  us — 

Ger.  (who  during  the  last  speech  has  gradually  ad' 
vanced,  l.)  They  might  discover  more  than  you  think  it 
advisable  for  them  to  know ! 

Comit.  The  devil ! 

3Iil.  Mon  Bieu  !  Mademoiselle  Gertrude ! 

Count,  (recovering  himself  J  My  dear  Miss  Gertrude, 
let  me  explain — aw — aw — nothing  is  more  natural  than  the 
situation  in  which  you  find  me — 

Ger.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that,  Sir. 

Count.  Now — 'pon  my  honor,  that's  not  fair.  Here  is 
Millinette  will  bear  witness  to  what  I  am  about  to  say — 

Ger.  Oh,  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  that,   Sir. 

Count.  You  see,  Millinette  happened  to  be  lady's-maid 
in  the  family  of — of — the  Duchess  Chateau  D'Espagne — 
and  I  chanced  to  be  a  particular  friend  of  the  Duchess — 
vem/  particidar  I  assure  you  !  Of  course  I  saw  Millinette, 
and  she,  demme,  she  saw  me!     Didn't  you,  Millinette? 

Win.  Oh  !   oui — Mademoiselle  I  knew  him  ver  veil. 

Count.  Well,  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that — being  in  cor- 
respondence with  this  very  Duchess — at  this  very  time — 

Ger.  That  is  suflScient,  Sir — I  am  already  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  your  extraordinary  talents  for  improvisation, 
that  I  will  not  further  tax  your  invention — 

Mil.  Ah !  Mademoiselle  Gertrude  do  not  betray  us — 
have  pity! 

Count,  (assufning  an  air  of  dignity)  Silence,  Millinette! 
My  word  has  been  doubted — the  word  of  a  nobleman!  I 
will  inform  my  friend,  Mrs.  Tiffany,  of  this  young  person's 
audacity.  Q/oing) 

Ger.  His  own  weapons  alone  can  foil  this  villfi*'^ !  (aside) 


Scene  II.]  FASHION.  37 

Sir — Sir — Count!  (at  the  last  word  the  Count  turns)    Per- 
haps, Sir,  the  least  said  about  this  matter  the  better! 

.  Count,  {(Mi<jhtcdly)  The  least  said?  ^Ve  won't  say 
anything  at  all.  She's  coming  round — couldn't  resist  me! 
(aside)     Charming  Gertrude — 

Mil.  Quoi  ?     Vat  that  you  say  ? 

Count.  My  sweet,  adorable  Millinette,  hold  your  tongue, 
♦ill  you  ?      (aside  to  her) 

Mil.  (aloud)  No,  I  vill  not  !  If  you  do  look  so  from 
out  your  eyes  at  her  again,  I  vill  tell  all ! 

Count.  Oh,  I  never  could  manage  two  women  at  once, 
— jealousy  makes  the  dear  creatures  so  spiteful.  The  only 
valor  is  in  flight  !  (aside)  Miss  Gertrude,  I  wish  you 
good  morning.     Millinette,  mon  enfant^  adieu. 

'[Exit,  L. 

Mil.  But  I  have  one  word  more  to  say.     Stop,  Stop  ! 

[exit  after  him. 

Ger.  (musingly)  Friday  night,  while  supper  is  serving, 
he  is  to  meet  Millinette  here  and  explain — what  ?  This 
man  is  an  impostor  !  Ilis  insulting  me — his  familiarity 
with  Millinette — his  whole  conduct — prove  it.  If  I  tell 
Mrs.  Tiffany  this  she  will  disbelieve  me,  *and  one  word  may 
place  this  so-called  Count  on  his  guard.  To  convince  Sera- 
phina  would  be  equally  difficult,  and  her  rashness  and  in- 
fatuation may  render  her  miserable  for  life.  No — she  shall 
be  saved  !  I  must  devise  some  plan  for  opening  their  eyes. 
Truly,  if  I  cannot  invent  one,  I  shall  be  the  first  woman 
■who  was  ever  at  a  loss  for  a  stratagem — especially  to  punish 
a  villain  or  to  shield  a  friend.  [Exit,  r. 


END  OF  ACT  III, 


38  FASHION.  [Act  IV. 

ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Ball  Rooin  splendidly  illuminated,  A  curtain  hung  at  the 
further  end.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tiffany,  Seraph ina, 
Gertrude,  Fogg,  Twinkle,  Count,  Snobson, 
Colonel  Howard,  a  number  of  guests — some  seate<i, 
some  standing.  As  the  curtain  rises,  a  cotillion  is 
danced  J  Gertrude  dancing  with  Howard,  Sera- 
PHiNA  with  Count. 

Count,  (advancing  with  Seraphina  to  the  front  of  the 
stage)  To-morrow  then — to-morrow — I  may  salute  you  as 
my  bride — demme,  my  Countess ! 

JEnter  Zeke,  l.,  with  refreshments. 
Sera.  Yes,  to  morrow. 

[as  the  Count  is  about  to  reply,  Snobson 
thrusts  himself  in  front  q/ Seraphina. 
Snob.  You  said  you'd  dance  with  me.  Miss — now  take 
my  fin,  and  we'll  walk  about  and  see  what's  going  on. 

[Count  raises  his  eye-glass,  regards  Snobson, 
and  leads  Seraphina  away ;  Snobson 
follows,  endeavoring  to  attract  her  atten- 
tion, but  encounters,  on  l.h.,  Zeke,  bear- 
ing a  waiter  of  refreshments ;  stops,  helps 
himself,  and  puts  some  in  his  pockets. 
Here's  the  treat !  get  my  to-morrow's  luncheon  out  of  Tiff. 

Enter  Trueman,  r,  yawning  and  rubbing  his  eyes. 

True.  What  a  nap  I've  had,  to  be  sure!  (looks  at  his 
watch)  Eleven  o'clock,  as  I'm  alive!  Just  the  time  when 
country  folks  are  comfortably  turned  in,  and  here  your 
grand  turn-out  has  hardly  begun  yet! 

[to  Tiffany,  who  apiwoaches. 

Ger.  (advancing  r.)  I  was  just  coming  to  look  for  you, 
Mr.  Trueman.  I  began  to  fancy  that  you  were  paying  a 
visit  to  dream-land. 

True.  So  I  was  child — so  I  was — and  I  saw  a  face — 
— like  your' s — but  brighter! — even  brighter,  (^o  Tiffany) 
There's  a  smile  for  you,  man  I  It  makes  one  feel  that  the 
world  has  something  worth  living  for  in  it  yet !     Do  you  re- 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  39 

member  a  smile  like  that,  Anthony  ?     Ah !  I  see  you  don't 
— but  I  do — I  do!    {much  moved) 

How.  (advancing  c.)  Good  evenings   Mr.  Trueman. 

[offers  his  hand. 
True.  That's  right  man ;   give  me  your  whole  hand ! 
When  a  man  offers  me  the  tips  of  his  fingers,   I  know  at 
once  there's  nothing  in  him  worth  seeking  beyond  his  fin- 
gers ends. 

[Trueman  and  Howard,  Gertrude  and 
Tiffany  converse. 
Mrs.  Tif.   {advancing  c.)  I'm  in  such  a  fidget  lest  that 
vulgar  old  fellow  should  disgrace  us  by  some  of  his  ple- 
beian remarks  !     What  it  is  to  give  a  ball,  when  one  is 
forced  to  invite  vulgar  people ! 

[Mrs.  Tiffany  advances  towards  Trueman  ; 
Seraph iNA  stands  conversing  Jiippantly 
with  the  gentlemen  who  surround  her ; 
amongst  them  is  Twinkle,  who  having 
taken  a  magazine  from  his  'pockety  is  read- 
ing to  her,  much  to  the  undisguised  annoy- 
ance*of  Snobson. 
Dear  me,  Mr.  Trueman,  you  are  very  late — quite  in  the 
fashion  I  declare ! 

True.  Fashion!  And  pray  what  \s  fashion,  madam? 
An  agreement  between  certain  persons  to  live  without  using 
their  souls !  to  substitute  etiquette  for  virtue — decorum  for 
purity — manners  for  morals !  to  affect  a  shame  for  the 
works  of  their  Creator !  and  expend  all  their  rapture  upon 
the  works  of  their  tailors  and  dressmakers! 

Mrs.  Tif.  You  have  the  most  ow-tray  ideas,  Mr.  True- 
man — quite  rustic,  and  deplorably  American  I  But  pray 
walk  this  way.  [Mrs.  Tiffany  and  Trueman  go  up. 

Count,  {advancing  l.,  to  Gertrude,  who  stands  c, 
Howard  r.,  a  short  distance  behind  her)  Miss  Gertrude- — ■ 
uo  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you  before — in  demand  you 
know! 

Ger.  I  have  no  choice,  I  must  be  civil  to  liim.  (aside.) 
What  were  you  remarking,  Sir? 

Count.  Miss    Gertrude — chantiing    Ger — aw — aw — 1 
never  found  it  so  difficult  to  speak  to  a  woman  before,  {aside) 
.   Ger.  Yes,  a  very  charming  ball — many  beautiful  faces 
here. 


40  FASHiOxN.  [Act  IV. 

Coant.  Only  one! — aw — aw — one — the  fact  is — 

\talks  to  her  in  dumb  show,  up  C. 
How.  What  could  old  Trueman  have  meant  by  saying 
she  fancied  that  puppy  of  a  Count — that  paste  jewel  thrust 
upon  the  little  fing-er  of  society. 

Count.  Miss  Gertrude — aw — 'pon  my  honor — you  don't 
understand — really — aw — aw — will  you  dance  the  polka 
with  me  ? 

[Gertrude  hoivs  and  gives  him  her  hand ;  he 

leads  her  to   the  set  forming ;  Howard 

remains  looJdng  after  them. 

How.  Going  to  dance  with  him  too  !     A  few  days  ago 

she  would  hardly  bow  to  him  civilly — could  old  Trueman 

have  had  reasons  for  what  he  said  ?  \i'etires  up. 

\JDance,  the  polka  ;  Seraphina,  after  having 

distributed  her  bouquet,  vinaigrette  and 

fan  amongst  the  gentlemen,  dances  with 

Snobson. 

Pru.   (peeping  in  l.,   as  dance  concludes)   I  don't  like 

dancing  on  Friday ;   something  strange  is  always   sure  to 

happen!     I'll  be  on  the  look  out. 

[remains  peeping  and  concealing  herself  when 

any  of  the  company  approach. 

Ger.  {^advancing  hastily   c.)   They   are   preparing   the 

supper — now  if  I  can   only  dispose   of  Millinette  while   I 

unmask  this  insolent  pretender!  \_Exit  r. 

Fru.   (peeping)  What's  that  she  said?     Its  conjing! 

Re-enter  Gertrude,  r.,  hearing  a  small  basket  filled  with 
bompiets ;    approaches  Mrs.   Tiffany;  they  walk  to  the 

front  of  the  stage. 

Ger.  Excuse  me.  Madam — I  believe  this  is  just  the 
hour  at  which  you  ordered  supper? 

Mrs.  Tif  Well,  what's  that  to  you  !  So  you've  been 
dancing  with  the  Count — how  dare  you  dance  with  a 
nobleman — you  ? 

Ger.  I  will  answer  that  question  half  an  hour  hence. 
At  present  I  have  souictliing  to  propose,  which  I  tliink 
will  gratify  you  and  yjlease  your  guests.  I  have  heard  that 
at  the  most  elegant  balls  in  Paris,   it  is  customary  — 

Mrs.  Tif.  What?  what? 

Ger.  To  station  a  servant  at  the  door  with  a  basket  of 


Scene  I  ]  FASHION.  41 

flowers.  A  bouquet  is  then  presented  to  every  lady  as  she 
passes  in — I  prepared  this  basket  a  short  time  ago.  As 
the  company  walk  in  to  supper,  might  not  the  flowers  be 
distributed  to  advantage? 

M?-s.  Tif.  How  distingue!  You  are  a  good  creature, 
Gertrude — there,  run  and  hand  the  boketfes  to  them  your- 
self !     You  shall  have  the  whole  credit  of  the  thing. 

Ger.  Caught  in  my  own  net!  (aside)  But,  madam,  I 
know  so  little  of  fashions — Millinette,  being  French,  herself 
will  do  it  with  so  much  more  grace.    I  am  sure  Millinette — 

Mrs.  Tif.  So  am  I.  She  will  do  it  a  thousand  times 
better  than  you — there  go  call  her. 

Ger.  (giviny  basket)  But  madam,  pray  order  Millinette 
not  to  leave  her  station  till  supper  is  ended — as  the  com- 
pany pass  out  of  the  supper  room  she  may  find  that  some 
of  the  ladies  have  been  overlooked. 

Mrs.  Tif.  That  is  true — very  thoughtful  of  you,  Ger- 
trude. [j^o^zY  Gertrude,  r. 
What  a  recherche  idea! 

Enter  Millinette,  r. 
Here  Millinette,  take  this  basket.  Place  yourself  there, 
(c")  and  distribute  these  bokettes  as  the  company  pass 
ni  to  supper ;  but  remember  not  to  stir  from  the  spot  until 
suj)per  is  over.  It  is  a  French  fashion  you  know,  Milli- 
nette. I  am  so  deli2;hted  to  be  the  first  to  introduce  it — it 
will  be  all  the  rage  in  the  bow-monde  ! 

Mil.  Mon  Dieu !  dis  vill  ruin  all !  (aside)  Madame, 
Madame,  let  me  tell  you,  Madame,  dat  in  France,  in  Paris, 
it  is  de  custom  to  present  les  bouquets  ven  every  body  first 
come — long  before  de  supper.  Dis  vould  be  outre!  bar- 
bare  !  not  at  all  la  mode  !  Ven  dey  do  come  in  dat  is  de 
fashion  in  Paris ! 

3Irs.  Tif.  Dear  me!  Millinette  what  is  the  difference? 
besides  I'd  have  you  to  knov/  that  Americans  always  im- 
prove upon  French  fashions !  here,  take  the  basket,  and  let 
me  see  that  you  do  it  in  the  most  you-nick  and  genteel 
manner. 

[Millinette  poutinyly  takes  the  basket  and 
retires  np  stage,  l.  A  march.  Curtain 
hung  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  is 
drawn  back,  and  discloses  a  room^  in  the 
centre  of  which  stands  a  supper  table,* 


42  FASHION.  [Act  IV. 

heautifally  decorated  and  illmninated ;    the 
comi)any  'promenade  two  by  two  into  the  sup- 
per room;  Millinette  ^jre^e/z^*  bouquets  as 
they  pass  ;   Count  leads  Mrs.  Tiffany. 
True,  {encountering  Fogg,  ivho  is  hurrying  alone  to  the 
supper  room)     Mr.    Fogg,    never  mind  the    supper,   man ! 
Ha,  ha,  ba !     Of  course  you  are  indifferent  to  suppers  ! 

Fogg.  Indifferent !   suppers — oh,  ah — no,  Sir — suppers  ? 
no — no — Fm  not  indifferent  to  suppers ! 

[hurries  away  towards  table. 
True.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Here's  a  new  discovery  I've  made 
in  the  fashionable  world  !  Fashion  don't  permit  the  critter 
to  have  heads  or  hearts,  but  it  allows  them  stomachs  !  {to 
Tiffany,  who  advances)  So  it's  not  fashionable  to  feel, 
but  it's  fashionable  to  feed,  eh,  Anthony?  ha,  ha,  ha! 

[Trueman  a?ic?  Tiffany  retire  towards  snipper 
room.     Enter   Gertrude,  followed   by 
Zeke,  r. 
Ger.  Zeke,  go  to  the  supper  room  instantly, — whisper 
to  Count  Jolimaitre  that  all  is  ready,  and  that  he  must  keep 
his  appointment  without  delay, — then  watch  him,  and  as 
he  passes  out  of  the  room,  place  yourself  in  front  of  Milli- 
nette  in  such  a  manner,   that  the  Count  cannot  see  her  nor 
she  him.     Be  sure  that  they  do  not  see  each  other — every 
thing  depends  upon  that.  \crosses  ^o  r.  h. 

Zeke.  Missey,  consider  dat  business  brought  to  a  sci- 
entific conclusion. 

\Exit  into  supper  room.  Exit.  Gertrude,  r.  h. 
Pru.  {who  has  been  listening ^  What  can  she  want  of 
the  Count?  I  always  suspected  that  Gertrude,  because 
she  is  so  merry  and  busy  !  Mr.  Trueman  thinks  so  much 
of  her  too — I'll  tell  him  this!  There's  something  wrong — ■ 
but  it  all  comes  of  giving  a  ball  on  a  Friday  !  How  asto- 
nished the  dear  old  man  will  be  when  he  finds  out  how 
much  I  know ! 

[advances  timidly  towards  the  sup)per  room. 

SCENE  II. 

Housekeeper's  room  ;  dark  stage  :  table,  two  chairs.    Enter 
Gertrude,   ivith  a  lighted  candle  in  her  hand. 

Ger.  So  far  the  scheme  prospers !  and  yet  this  impru- 


Scene  11/  FASHION.  43 

dence — if  I  fail  1     Fail !   to  lack  courage  in  a  difficultyj  or 
ingenuity  in  a  dilemma,  are  not  woman's  failings  I 

JtjTiier  Zeke,  r.,  ivith  a  napkin  over  his  arm,   and  a  bottle 
of  champuyne  in  his  hand. 

Well  Zeke— Adolph ! 

Zeke.  Dat's  right,  Missey  ;  I  feels  just  now  as  if  dat 
was  my  legitimate  title;  dis  here's  de  stuff  to  make  a  nigger 
feel  like  a  gemmani 

Ger.  But  is  he  coming? 

Zeke.  He's  coming!  {sound  of  a  champagne  co7'k  heard) 
Do  you  hear  dat,  Missey?  Don't  it  put  you  all  in  a  froth, 
and  make  you  feel  as  light  as  a  cork?  Dere's  nothing  like 
the  luiion  brandy  to  wake  up  de  harmonies  ob  de  heart. 

[drinks  from  bottle. 

Ger.  Remember  to  keep  watch  upon  the  outside — do 
not  stir  from  the  spot ;  when  I  call  you,  come  in  quickly 
with  a  light — now,  will  you  be  gone  ! 

Zeke.  I'm  off,  Missey,  like  a  champagne  cork  wid  de 
strings  cut.  [Exit  r. 

Ger.  I  think  I  hear  the  Count's  step,  (crosses  l.,  stage 
dark  ;  she  blows  out  candle)  Now  if  I  can  but  disguise  my 
voice,  and  make  the  best  of  my  French. 

Enter  Count,  r.  h. 

Count.  Millinette,  where  are  vou?  How  am  I  to  see 
you  in  the  dark  ? 

Ger.  (imitating  Millinette's  voice  in  a  whisper) 
Hush  !  parte  bas. 

Count.  Come  here  and  give  me  a  kiss. 

Ger.  Non — non — (retreating  alarmed,  Covi<iT  follovjs) 
make  haste,  I  must  know  all. 

Count.  You  did  not  use  to  be  so  deuced  particular. 

Zeke.  (ivithout)  No  admission,  gemman  !  Box  office 
closed,   tickets  stopped  ! 

True,  (without)  Out  of  my  way;  do  you  want  me  to 
try  if  your  head  is  as  hard  as  my  stick  ? 

Ger.  What  shall  I  do  I     Ruined,  ruined  ! 

[she  stands  luith  her  hand  clasped  in  speechless 
despair. 

Count.  Halloa !  they  are  coming  here,  Millmette ! 
Millinette,  why  don't  you  speak  ?  Where  can  I  hide  my- 
self? (runrdng' about  stage,  feeling  for  a  door)     Where  are 


44  FASHION.  [^"^CT   IV. 

all  your  closets  ?  If  I  could  only  get  out—or  get  in  some- 
where ;  may  I  be  smothered  in  a  clothes'  basket,  if  you 
ever  catch  me  in  such  a  scrape  again  I  {his  hand  accidental /'i/ 
touches  the  knob  of  a  door  opening  into  a  closet,  l.  f.)  For- 
tune's favorite  yet !     I'm  safe  ! 

[_gets  into  closet  and  closes  door.     Enter  Pru- 
dence, Trueman,  Mrs.  Tiffany,   and 
Colonel  Howard,  r.,  followed  by  Zeke, 
hearing  a  light ;  lights  up. 
Pru.  Here  they  are,  the  Count  and  Gertrude  !     I  told 
you  so !  [sto2)s  iti  surprise  on  seeing  only  Gertrude. 

True.  And  you  see  what  a  lie  you  told ! 
Mrs.  Tif.  Prudence,  how  dare  you  create  this  disturb- 
ance in  my  house  1    To  suspect  the  Count  too — a  nobleman ! 
How.  My   sweet   Gertrude,    this    foolish    old   woman 
would — 

Pru.  Oh!  you  needn't  talk — I  heard  her  make  the 
appointment — I  know  he's  here — or  he's  been  here.  I 
wonder  if  she  hasn't  hid  him  away ! 

[runs  peeping  about  the  room. 

True,   (following  her  angrily)  You're  what  I  call  a  con- 

fi;umded — troublesome — meddling — old  —  prying — {as    he 

says    the  last  word,    Prudence   openc  closet  where  the 

Count  is  concealed)  Thunder  and  lightning ! 

Pru.  I  told  you  so  ! 

[they  all  stand  aghast;  Mrs.  Tiffany,   r., 
with  her  hands  lifted  in  sii?'p7'ise  and  anger  ; 
Trueman,    r.  c,    clutching  his   stick  ; 
Howard,  l.  c,   looking  with  a7i  expres- 
sion of  bewildered  horror  from  the  Count 
to  Gertrude. 
Mrs.  Tif.  {shaking  her  fst  at  Gertrude)   You   de- 
praved little  minx  !  this  is  the  meaning  of  your  dancing 
with  the  Count  I 

Count,  {stepping  from  the  closet  and  advancing  l.  h.) 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it !  Millinette  not  here  ! 
Miss  Gertrude — oh!  I  see — a  disguise — the  girl's  desperate 
about  me — the  way  with  them  all.     (aside) 

True.  I'm  choking — I  can't  speak — Gertrude — no — no 
— it  is  some  horrid  mistake!  (partly  aside,  changes  his  tone 
suddenly)  The  villain !  I'll  hunt  the  truth  out  of  him,  if 
there's  any  in — {crosses  l.,  approaches  Count  threatening hj) 


Scene  II.]  FASHION.  45 

do  you  see  this  stick  ?  You  made  it's  first  acquaintance  a 
few  days  ago  ;  it  is  time  you  were  better  known  to  each 
other. 

[as  Trueman  attempts  to  seize  him,  Count  escapes, 

crosses   r.,    and  shields  himself  behind  Mrs. 

Tiffany,  Trueman  following. 

Count.  You  ruffian  !  would  you  strike  a  woman  ? — 
Madam — my  dear  Madam — keep  off  that  barbarous  old 
man,  and  I  will  explain!  Madam,  with — aw — your  natural 
hon  gout — aw — your  fashionable  refinement — aw — ^your — 
aw — your  knowledge  of  foreign  customs — 

Mrs.  Tif  Oh  !  Count,  I  hope  it  aint  a  foreign  custom 
for  the  nobility  to  shut  themselves  up  in  the  dark  with 
young  women  1    We  think  such  things  dreadful  in  America. 

Count.  Demme — aw — hear  what  I  have  to  sav.  Madam 
—1 11  satisfy  all  sides — I  am  perfectly  innocent  in  this  affair 
— 'pon  my  honor  I  am !  That  young  lady  shall  inform  you 
that  I  am  so  herself  !^ — can't  help  it,  sorry  for  her.  Old 
matter-of-fact  won't  be  convinced  any  other  way, — that 
club  of  his  is  so  particularly  unpleasant !  (aside)  Madam, 
I  was  summoned  here  malgre  moi,  and  not  knowing  whom 
I  was  to  meet — Miss  Gertrude,  favor  this  company  by  say- 
ing whether  or  not  you  directed — that — aw — aw — that 
colored  individual  to  conduct  me  here  ? 

Ger.  Sir,  you  well  know — 

Count.  A  simple  yes  or  no  wull  suffice. 

Mrs.  Tif  Answer  the  Count's  question  instantly,  Miss. 

Ger.  I  did — but — ■ 

Count.  You  hear,  Madam — 

True.  I  won't  believe  it — I  can't!  Here  you  nigger, 
stop  rolling  up  your  eyes,  and  let  us  know  whether  she 
told  you  to  bring  that  critter  here  ? 

Zeke.  I'se  refuse  to  gib  ebidence  ;  dat's  de  device  ob  de 
skilfuUest  counsels  ob  de  day  !  Can't  answer^  Boss — neber 
git  a  word  out  ob  dis  child — Yah!    yah!  [Exit. 

Ger.  Mrs.  Tiffany, — Mr.  Trueman,  if  you  will  but  have 
patience — 

True.  Patience  !  Oh,  Gertrude,  you've  taken  from  an 
old  man  something  better  and  dearer  than  his  patience — the 
one  bright  hope  of  nineteen  years  of  self-denial — of  nineteen 
yea.rs  of — ■ 

[throws  himself  upon  a  chair,  his  head  leaning  on  table. 


46  FASHION.  [Act  IV. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Get  out  of  my  house,  you  o2(7clacious — you 
ruined — you  «ime  young  woman!  You  will  corrupt  all  my 
family.  Good  gracious  !  don't  touch  me, — don't  come  near 
me.     Never  let  me  see  your  face  after  to-morrow.     Pack. 

\j;oes  up. 

How.  Gertrude,  I  have  striven  to  find  some  excuse  for 
you — to  doubt — to  disbelieve — but  this  is  beyond  all  en- 
durance !  [Exit,  R.  H. 

JEnter  Millinette  in  haste,  r. 

Mil.  I  could  not  come  before —  (stops  in  sm'p7'ise  at 
seeing  the  persons  assembled)  Mon  Die  a  !  vat  does  dis 
mean  1 

Count.  Hold  your  tongue,  fool !  You  will  ruin  every- 
thing, I  will  explain  to-morrow,  {aside  to  her)  Mrs.  Tif- 
fany— Madam — my  dear  Madam,  let  me  conduct  you  back 
to  the  ball-room,  (she  takes  his  arm)  You  see  I  am  quite 
innocent  in  this  matter ;  a  man  of  my  standing,  you  know, 
— aw,  aw — you  comprehend  the  whole  affair. 

[Exit  Count  leading  Mrs.  T.,  r.  h. 

Mil.  I  vill  say  to  him  von  vord,  1  will ! 

[Exit,  R. 

Ger.  Mr.  Trueman,  I  beseech  you — I  insist  upon  being 
heard, — I  claim  it  as  a  right  ! 

True.  Right  ?  How  dare  you  have  the  face,  girl,  to 
talk  of  rights  ?  (comes  down)  You  had  more  rights  than 
you  thought  for,  but  you  have  forfeited  them  all  !  All 
right  to  love,  respect,  protection,  and  to  not  a  little  else 
that  you  don't  dream  of.  Go,  go  !  I'll  start  for  Catter- 
augus  to-morrow, — I've  seen  enough  of  what  fashion  can 
do  !  [Exit,   R.  H, 

Pru.  (Wiping  her  eyes)  Dear  old  man,  how  he  takes 
on  !      I'll  go  and  console  him  !  [Exit,   r.  h. 

Ger.  This  is  too  much  !  How  heavy  a  penalty  has  my 
imprudence  cost  me  ! — his  esteem,  and  that  of  one  dearer 
— my  home — my —  (burst  of  lively  music  from  ball-room) 
They  are  dancing,  and  I — I  should  be  weeping,  if  pride 
had  not  sealed  up  my  tears. 

[She  sinks  into  a  chair.     Band  plays  the  polka 
behind  till  Curtain  falls. 

END  OF  ACT  IV. 


Scene  I.]  fashion.  47 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

Mrs.  Tiffany's  Draiving  Room — same  Scene  as  Act  1st.. 
Gertrude  *e«^ec^,  r.  at  a  table,  with  her  head  leaniny 
on  her  hand  ;  in  the  other  hand  she  holds  a  i^en.     A 
sheet  of  2^aper  and  an  inkstand  before  her. 
Ger.  How  shall  I  write  to  them  ?     What  shall  I  say  ? 
Prevaricate  I  cannot —  {rises  and  comes  forward)  and  yet 
if  I  write  the  truth — simple  souls  !   how  can  they  compre- 
hend the  motives  for  my  conduct  1     Nay — the   truly  pure 
see  no  imaginary  evil  in  others  !      It  is  only  vice,  that  re- 
flecting its  own  image,  suspects  even  the  innocent.     I  have 
no  time  to  lose — I   must  prepare  them  for  my  return,   {re- 
sumes her  seat  and  writes)     What  a  true  pleasure  there  is 
in  daring  to   be   frank  !      {after  writing  a  few  lines  more 
pauses)     Not  so  frank  either, — there  is  one  name   that   I 
cannot  mention.     Ah !    that   he   should   suspect — should 
despise  me.     {writes) 

Enter  Trueman,  l. 

True.  There  she  is  !  If  this  girl's  soul  had  only  been 
as  fair  as  her  face, — yet  she  dared  to  speak  the  truth, — I'll 
not  forget  that  !  A  woman  who  refuses  to  tell  a  lie  has  one 
spark  of  heaven  in  her  still,    {approaches  her)     Gertrude, 

[Gertrude  starts  and  looks  up. 
What  are  you  writing  there  ?     Plotting  more  mischief,  eh, 

Ger.  I  was  writing  a  few  lines  to  some  friends  in  Geneva. 

True.  The  Wilsons,  eh  ? 

Ger.  {surprisedy  rising)  Are  you  acquainted  with  them, 
Sir? 

Ti'ue.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  was.  I  suppose  you  have 
taken  good  care  not  to  mention  the  dark  room — that  foreign 
puppy  in  the  closet — the  pleasant  surprise — and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,   eh  ? 

Ger.  I  have  no  reason  for  concealment.  Sir  !  for  I  have 
done  nothing  of  which  I  am  ashamed  ! 

True.  Then  I  can't  sav  much  for  your  modesty. 

Gpr.  I  should  not  wish  you  to  say  more  than  I  deserve. 

Irae.  Tliere's  a  bold  minx  !      [aside) 

8 


48  FASHION.  [Act  V. 

Ger.  Since  my  affairs  seem  to  have  excited  your  interest 
— I  will  not  say  curiosity,  perliaps  you  even  feel  a  desire 
to  inspect  my  correspondence  ?  There,  (Jianding  the  letter^ 
I  pride  myself  upon  my  good  nature, — you  may  like  to  take 
advantage  of  it  ? 

True.  With  what  an  air  she  carries  it  off !  (aside)  Take 
advantage  of  it  ?  So  I  will,  {reads)  What'^  this  ?  *'  French 
chambermaid — Count — impostor — infatuation  —  Seraphina 
Millinette — disguised  myself — expose  him."  Thunder  and 
lightning!  I  see  it  all!  Come  and  kiss  me,  girl!  (Ger- 
trude evinces  surprise)  No,  no — I  forgot — it  won't  do 
to  come  to  that  yet !  She's  a  rare  girl!  I'm  out  of  my 
senses  with  joy  !  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself! 
Tol,  de  rol,  de  rol,  de  ra  !  [capers  and  sings. 

Ger.  What  a  remarkable  old  man!  (aside)  Then  you 
do  me  justice,  Mr.  Trueman? 

True.  I  say  I  don't  1  Justice?  You're  above  all  depend- 
ence upon  justice  !  Hurrah  !  I've  found  one  true  woman 
at  last?  True  ?  (pauses  thoughtfully)  Humph!  I  didn't 
think  of  that  flaw!  Plotting  and  mancEuvering — not  much 
truth  in  that?  An  honest  girl  should  be  above  stratagems ! 
Ger.  But  my  motive.  Sir,  was  good. 

True.  That's  not  enough — your  actions  must  be  good 
as  well  as  your  motives  !  Why  could  you  not  tell  the  silly 
girl  that  the  man  was  an  impostor  ? 

Ger.  I  did  inform  her  of  my  suspicions — she  ridiculed 
them  ;  the  plan  I  chose  was  an  imprudent  one,  but  I  could 
not  devise — 

True.  I  hate  devising  !  Give  me  a  woman  with  the 
firmness  to  he;  frank  !  But  no  matter — I  had  no  right  to 
look  for  an  angel  out  of  Paradise  ;  and  I  am  as  happy — as 
ha})py  as  a  Lord !  that  is,  ten  times  happier  than  any  Lord 
ever  was!  Tol,  de  rol,  de  rol!  Oh!  you — you — I'll  thrash 
every  fellow  that  says  a  word  against  you ! 

Ger.  You  will  have  plenty  of  employment  then.  Sir, 
for  I  do  not  know  of  one  just  now  who  would  speak  in  my 
favor  ! 

True.  Not  one,  eh?  W^hy,  where's  your  dear  Mr. 
Twinkle  ?  I  know  all  about  it — can't  say  that  I  admire 
your  choice  of  a  husband  !  But  there's  no  accounting  for 
a  girl's  taste. 

Ger.  Mr.  Twinkle  1     Indeed  you  arc  quite  mistaken ! 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  49 

True.  No — reallv?   Then  you're  not  taken  with  him,  eh? 

Ger.  Not  even  with  his  rhymes. 

True.  Hang  that  old  mother  meddle-mnch  !  What  a 
fool  she  has  made  of  me.  And  so  you're  quite  free,  and  I 
may  choose  a  husband  for  you  myself?     Heart-whole,  eh  ? 

Ger.  I — I — I  trust  there  is  nothing  unsound  about  my 
heart. 

True.  There  it  is  again.  Don't  prevaricate,  girl !  I 
tell  you  an  evasion  is  a  lie  in  contemplation,  and  I  hate 
lying  !     Out  with  the  truth  !      Is  your  heart /ree  or  not  ? 

Ger.  Nay,  Sir,  since  you  demand  an  answer,  permit 
me  to  demand  by  what  right  you  ask  the  question  ? 

Enter  Howard,  l. 
Colonel  Howard  here ! 

True.  I'm  out  again  !     What's  the  Colonel  to  her? 

Sj'etires  up. 

How.  (crosses  to  lie?')  I  have  come,  Gertrude,  to  bid 
you  farewell.  To-morrow  I  resign  my  commission  and 
leave  this  city,  perhaps  for  ever.  You,  Gertrude,  it  is  you 
who  have  exiled  me  !     After  last  evening — 

True,  (coming  forward  c.  Howard)  What  the  plague 
have  you  got  to  say  about  last  evening  ? 

How.  Mr.  Trueman  ! 

True.  What  have  you  got  to  say  about  last  evening  ? 
and  what  have  you  to  say  to  that  little  girl  at  all  ?  Its 
Tiffany's  precious  daughtei*  you're  in  love  w'ith. 

Hoio.  i\liss  Tiffany  ?  Never !  I  never  had  the  slightest 
pretension — 

True.  That  lying  old  woman  !  But  I'm  glad  of  it ! 
Oh!  Ah!  Um !  (looking  significantly  at  Gertrude  «??f/ 
then  at  Howard)  I  see  how  it  is.  So  you  don't  choose  to 
marry  Seraphina,  eh  ?  Well  now,  whom  do  you  choose 
to  marry?  [^glancing  at  Gertrude. 

How.  I  shall  not  marrv  at  all  ! 

True.  You  won't?  (looking  at  them  both  again)  Why 
you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  like — 

[jpoints  with  his  thumb  to  Gertrude. 

Ger.  Mr.  Trueman,  I  may  have  been  wrong  to  boast  of 
my  good  nature,  but  do  not  presume  too  far  upon  it. 

How.  You  like  frankness,  Mr.  Trueman,  therefore  I 
will  speak  plainly.  I  have  long  cherished  a  dream  from 
which  I  was  last  night  rndelv  awakened. 


60  FASHION.  [Act  v. 

True.  And  that's  what  you  call  speaking  plainly  1 
Well,  I  differ  with  you !  But  I  can  guess  what  you  mean. 
Last  night  you  suspected  Gertrude  there  of —  (angrily)  of 
what  no  man  shall  ever  suspect  her  again  while  I'm  above 
ground!  You  did  her  injustice, — it  was  a  mistake  !  There, 
now  that  matter's  settled.  Go,  and  ask  her  to  forgive  you, 
— she's  woman  enough  to  do  it  !     Go,  go  ! 

IIoiv.  Mr.  Trueman,  you  have  forgotten  to  whom  you 
dictate. 

True.  Then  you  won't  do  it  ?  you  won't  ask  her  pardon? 
Hoiv.  Most  undoubtedly  I  will  not — not  at  any  man's 
bidding.  I  must  first  know — 

True.  You  won't  do  it  ?     Then  if  I  don't  give  you  a 
lesson  in  politeness — 

How.  It  will  be  because  you  fin(J  me  your  tutor  in  the 
same  science.     I  am  not  a  man  to  brook  an  insult,  Mr. 
Trueman  !  but  we'll  not  quarrel  in  presence  of  the  lady. 
True.  Won't  we  ?     I  don't  know  that — 

[crosses  r.  h. 

Ger.  Pray,    Mr.  Trueman — Colonel  Howard,   {crosses 

to  c.)   pray  desist,  Mr.  Trueman,  for  my  sake !  {taking 

hold  of  his  arm  to  hold  him  back)     Colonel  Howard,  if  you 

will  read  this  letter  it  will  explain  everything. 

[Iiands  letter  to  Howard,  who  reads. 
True.  He  don't  deserve  an  explanation  !     Did'nt  I  tell 
him  that  it  was  a  mistake  ?     Refuse  to  beg'  your  pardon  ! 
I'll  teach  him,   I'll  teach  him  ! 

How.   (after  reading)   Gertrude,  how  have  I  wronged 
you  ! 

True.  Oh,  you'll  beg  her  pardon  now  ? 

\hetween  them. 

How.  Her's,   Sir,   and  your's  I      Gertrude,   I  fear — 

True.  You   needn't, — she'll   forgive  you.      You   don't 

know  these  women  as  well  as  I  do, — they're   always   ready 

to  pardon  ;  its  their  nature,  and  they  can't  help  it.     Come 

along,  I  loft  Antony  and  his  wife  in  the  dining  room  ;  we'll 

go  and  find  them.     I've  a  story  of  my  own  to  tell  !     As  for 

you,  Colonel,  yon  may  follow.     Come  along,   Come  along! 

\_Leads  out  Gertrude,   r.,  followed  hy  How^ard. 

Enter  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tiffany,  l.  u.  e.    Mr.  Tiffany  with 
a  bundle  of  bills  in  his  hand. 
Mrs»  Tf.  I  beg  you  won't  mention  the  subject  again. 


SCKNE  I.]  FASHION.  51 

Mr.  Tiffany.  Nothing  is  more  plebeian  than  a  discussion 
upon  economy — nothing  more  ungenteel  than  looking  over 
and  fretting  over  one's  bills  ! 

Tif.  Then  I  suppose,  my  dear,  it  is  quite  as  ungenteel 
to 2^(iy  one's  bills? 

Mrs.  Tif.  Certainly!  I  hear  the  ee-light  never  con- 
descend to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  The  honor  of  their 
invaluable  patronage  is  sufficient  for  the  persons  they  em- 
ploy ! 

Tif.  Patronage  then  is  a  newly  invented  food  upon 
which  the  working  classes  fatten?  What  convenient  appe- 
tites poor  people  must  have !  Now  listen  to  what  I  am 
going  to  say.  As  soon  as  my  daughter  marries  Mr.  Snob- 
son — 
Enter  Prudence,   r.,  a  three-cornered  note  in  her  hand. 

Pru.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  what  shall  we  do!  Such  a 
misfortune!     Such  a  disaster!     Oh,  dear!   oh,  dear! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Prudence,  you  are  the  most  tiresome  creature! 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

■Pin(.  (pacing  up  and  doiv7i  the  stage)  Such  a  disgrace 
to  the  whole  family!  But  I  always  expected  it.  Oh,  dear! 
oh,  dear! 

Mrs.  Tif.  (following  her  up  and  down  the  stage)  What 
are  you  talking  about.  Prudence?  Will  you  tell  me  what 
has  happened? 

Pra.  {still pacing,  Mrs.  Tiffany  folloivi)ig)  Oh!  I 
can't,  I  can't !  You'll  feel  so  dreadfully  !  How  could  she 
do  such  a  thing  !  But  I  expected  nothing  else  I  I  never 
did,   I  never  did  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  (still  following)  Good  gracious  !  what  do  you 
mean,  Prudence  ?  Tell  me,  will  you  tell  me  ?  I  shall 
get  into  such  a  passion  !     What  is  the  matter  ? 

Pru.  (still  pacing)  Oh,  Betsy,  Betsy  !  That  your 
daughter  should  have  come  to  that !     Dear  me,  dear  me  ! 

Tif.  Seraphina  ?  Did  you  say  Seraphina  ?  What  has 
happened  to  her  ?  what  has  she  done  ? 

I  following  Prudence  up  and  down  the  staga 
on  the  opposite  side  from  J\Irs.  Tiffany, 

Mrs  Tif  (still  following)  What  has  she  done  ?  what 
has  she  done  ? 

.  Pru.  Oh  !   something  dreadful — dreadful — shocking  ! 

Tif.  (si  III  folio  wing)  Speak  quickly  and  plainly — you 

E  2 


52  FASHION.  [Act  V. 

torture  me  by  this  delay, — Prudeoce,  be  calm,  and  speak  ! 
What  is  it  ? 

Pru,  (stopping)  Zeke  just  told  rae — he  carried  her 
travelling  trunk  himself — she  gave  him  a  whole  dollar ! 
Oh,  my! 

Tif.  Her  trunk?  where?  where? 

Pru.  Round  the  corner! 

Mrs.  Tif.  What  did  she  want  with  her  trunk?  You 
are  the  most  vexatious  creature.  Prudence !  There  is  no 
bearing  your  ridiculous  conduct! 

Pru.  Oh,  you  will  have  worse  to  bear — worse!  Sera- 
phina's  gone! 

Tif.  Gone !  where? 

Pi'u.  Off! — eloped — eloped  with  the  Count!  Dear  me, 
dear  me!      I  always  told  you  she  would! 

Tif.  Then  I  am  ruined! 

[stands  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Oh,  what  a  ridiculous  girl  !  And  she  might 
have  had  such  a  splendid  wedding  !  What  could  have 
possessed  her  ? 

Tif  The  devil  himself  possessed  her,  for  she  has  ruined 
me  past  all  redemption !  Gone,  Prudence,  did  you  say 
gone  ?     Are  you  sure  they  are  gone  ? 

Pru.  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  !  Just  look  at  this  note — one 
might  know  by  the  very  fold  of  it— 

Tif.  (snatching  the  note)  Let  me  see  it !  {opens  the  note 
and  reads)  "  My  dear  Ma, — When  you  receive  this  I 
shall  be  a  countess  !  Isn't  it  a  sweet  title  ?  The  Count 
and  I  were  forced  to  be  married  privately,  for  reasons  which 
I  will  explain  in  my  next.  You  must  pacify  Pa,  and  put 
him  in  a  good  humour  before  I  come  back,  though  now 
I'm  to  be  a  countess  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  care  !"  Un- 
dutiful  huzzy  !  "  We  are  going  to  make  a  little  excursion 
and  will  be  back  in  a  week 

"Your  dutiful  daughter — Seraphina." 

A  man's  curse  is  sure  to  spring  up  at  his  own  hearth, — here 
is  mine  !  The  sole  curb  upon  that  villain  gone,  I  am 
wholly  in  his  power !  Oh  !  the  first  downward  step  from 
honor — he  who  takes  it  cannot  j)ause  in  his  mad  descent 
and  is  sure  to  be  hurried  on  to  ruin  ! 

Mrs,  Tif,  Why,  Mr.  Tiffany,  how  you  do  take  on  ! 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  53 

And  I  dare  say  to  elope  was  the  most   fashionable  way 
after  all ! 

Enter  Trueman,   r.,   leading  Gertrude,    and  followed 

by  Howard. 

True.  Where  are  all  the  folks  ?  Here,  Antony,  you  are 
the  man  I  want.  We've  been  hunting  for  you  all  over  the 
house.  Why — what's  the  matter  1  There's  a  face  for  a 
thriving  city  merchant !  Ah  !  Antony,  you  never  wore  such 
a  hang-dog  look  as  that  when  you  trotted  about  the  country 
with  your  pack  upon  your  back !  Your  shoulders  are  no 
broader  now — but  they've  a  heavier  load  to  carry — that's 
plain  ! 

Mj's.  Tif.  INIr.  Trueman,  such  allusions  are  highly  im- 
proper !     What  would  my  daughter,  the  Countess,  say  ! 

Ger.  The  Countess  ?     Oh  !  Madam  ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Yes,  the  Countess  !  My  daughter  Seraphina, 
the  Countess  dee  Joliraaitre !  What  have  you  to  say  to 
that?  No  wonder  you  are  surprised  after  your  recherche, 
ahime  conduct  !  I  have  told  you  already.  Miss  Gertrude, 
that  you  were  not  a  proper  person  to  enjoy  the  inestimable 
advantages  of  my  patronage.  You  are  dismissed — do  you 
understand  ?     Discharged  ! 

True.  Have  you  done?  Very  well,  it's  my  turn  now. 
Antony,  perhaps  what  I  have  to  say  don't  concern  you  as 
much  as  some  others — but  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me.  You 
remember,  Antony,  {his  tone  becomes  serious),  a  blue-eyed, 
smiling  girl — 

Tif.  Your  daughter.  Sir?     I  remember  her  well. 

True.  None  ever  saw  her  to  forget  her!  Give  me  your 
hand,  man.  There — that  will  do  !  Now  let  me  go  on.  I 
never  coveted  wealth — yet  twenty  years  a2:o  I  found  mvsclf 
the  richest  farmer  in  Catteraugus.  This  cursed  money 
made  my  girl  an  object  of  speculation.  Every  idle  fellow 
that  wanted  to  feather  his  nest  was  sure  to  come  courting 
Ruth.  There  was  one — my  heart  misgave  me  the  instant 
I  laid  eyes  upon  him — for  he  was  a  city  chap,  and  not  over 
fond  of  the  truth.  But  Ruth — ah  !  she  was  too  pure  her- 
self to  look  for  guile  !  His  fine  words  and  his  fair  looks — 
the  old  storv — she^vas  taken  with  him — I  said,  **uo'' — 
but  the  girl  liked  her  own  way  better  than  her  old  father's 
—girls  always  do !  and  one  morning — the  rascal  robbed  me 


54  FASHION.  [Act  V. 

— not  of  my  money,   he  would  have  been  welcome  to  that 
— but  of  the  only  treasure  I  cherished — my  daughter ! 

Tif.  But  you  forgave  her ! 

True.  I  did  1  I  knew  she  would  never  forgive  herself 
— that  was  punishment  enough !  The  scoundrel  thought 
he  was  marrying  my  gold  with  my  daughter — he  was  mis- 
taken !  I  took  care  that  they  should  never  want ;  but  that 
was  all.  She  loved  him — what  will  not  woman  love?  The 
villain  broke  her  heart — mine  was  tougher,  or  it  wouldn't 
have  stood  what  it  did.  A  year  after  they  were  married, 
he  forsook  her  !  She  came  back  to  her  old  home — her  old 
father !  It  could' nt  last  long — she  pined — and  pined — and 
— then — she  died !  Don't  think  me  an  old  fool — though  I  am 
one — for  grieving  won't  bring  her  back,  (bursts  into  tears.) 

Tif.  It  was  a  heavy  loss  ! 

True.  So  heavy,  that  I  should  not  have  cared  how  soon 
I  followed  her,  but  for  the  child  she  left !  As  I  pressed 
that  child  in  my  arms,  I  swore  that  my  unlucky  wealth 
should  never  curse  it,  as  it  had  cursed  its  mother !  It  was 
all  I  had  to  love — but  I  sent  it  away — and  the  neighbors 
thought  it  was  dead.  The  girl  was  brought  up  tenderly 
but  humbly  by  my  wife's  relatives  in  Geneva.  I  had  her 
taught  true  independence — she  had  hands — capacities — and 
should  use  them !  Money  should  never  buy  her  a  husband ! 
for  I  resolved  not  to  claim  her  until  she  had  made  her 
choice,  and  found  the  man  who  was  willing  to  take  her 
for  herself  alone.  She  turned  out  a  rare  girl!  and  it's 
time  her  old  grandfather  claimed  her.  Here  he  is  to  do  it! 
And  there  stands  Ruth's  child!  Old  Adam's  heiress! 
Gertrude,  Gertrude  ! — my  child  1 

[Gertrude  rushes  into  his  ar7ns. 

Pru.  (After  a  pause)  Do  tell;  I  want  to  know!  But 
I  knew  it !  I  always  said  Gertrude  would  turn  out  some- 
bod  v,  after  all! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Dear  me!  Gertrude  an  heiress!  My  dear 
Gertrude,  I  always  thought  you  a  very  charming  girl — ■ 
quite  You-NICK — an  heiress  !  I  must  give  her  a  ball!  I'll 
introduce  her  into  society  myself — of  course  an  heiress 
must  make  a  sensation  !   {aside) 

How.  I  am  too  bewildered  even  to^'ish  her  joy.  Ah! 
there  will  be  plenty  to  do  that  now — but  the  gulf  between 
us  is  wider  tlian  ever,  {aside) 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  55 

True.  Step  forward,  young  man,  and  let  us  know  what 
you  are  muttering  about.  I  said  I  would  never  claim  her 
until  she  had  found  the  man  who  loved  her  for  herself.  I 
have  claimed  her — yet  I  never  break  my  word — I  think  I 
have  found  that  man  !  and  here  he  is.  (strikes  Howard 
on  the  shoulder)  Gertrude's  your's!  There — never  say  a 
word,  man — don't  bore  me  with  your  thanks — you  can 
cancel  all  obligations  by  making  that  child  happy  1  There 
• — take  her  ! — Well,  girl,  and  what  do  you  say  ? 

Ger.  That  I  rejoice  too  much  at  having  found  a  parent 
for  mv  first  act  to  be  one  of  disobedience! 

\_gives  her  hand  to  Howard. 

True.  How  very  dutiful!  and  how  disinterested! 

[Tiffany  retires  up — and  paces   the  stage, 
exhibiting  great  agitation, 

Pru.  (to  Trtjeman)  All  the  single  folks  are  getting 
married ! 

True.  No  they  are  not.  You  and  I  are  single  folks, 
and  we're  not  likely  to  get  married. 

Mrs.  Tif.  My  dear  Mr.  Trueman — my  sweet  Gertrude, 
when  my  daughter,  the  Countess,  returns,  she  will  be  de- 
lighted to  hear  of  this  deenooment!  I  assure  you  that  the 
Countess  will  be  quite  charmed! 

Ger.  The  Countess  ?    Pray  Madam  where  is  Seraphina? 

Mrs.  Tif.  The  Countess  dee  Jolimaitre,  my  dear,  is  at 
this  moment  on  her  way  to — to  AVashington!  Where  after 
visiting  all  the  fashionable  curiosities  of  the  day — including 
the  President — she  will  return  to  grace  her  native  city  1 

Ger.  I  hope  you  are  only  jesting,  Madam  ?  Seraphina 
is  not  married  ? 

Mrs.  Tif.  Excuse  me,  my  dear,  my  daughter  had  this 
morning  the  honor  of  being  united  to  the  Count  dee  Joli- 
maitre ! 

Ger.  Madam!     He  is  an  impostor! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Good  gracious !  Gertrude,  how  can  you  talk 
m  that  disrespectful  way  of  a.  man  of  rank  ?  An  heiress, 
my  dear,  should  have  better  manners!     The  Count — 

Enter  Millinette,  r.,  crying. 
Mil.  Oh!  Madame!  I  will  tell  every  ting — oh!  dat  mon- 
stre !     He  break  my  heart ! 


56  FASHION.  [Act  V. 

Mrs.  Tif.  IMillinette,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Mil.  Oh  !  he  promise  to  marry  me — I  love  him  much 
— and  now  Zeke  say  he  run  away  vid  Mademoiselle  Sera- 
phina ! 

Mrs.  Tif.  What  insolence!  The  girl  is  mad!  Comit 
Jolimaitre  marry  my  femmy  de  chamber  ! 

Mil.  Oh  !  Madame,  he  is  not  one  Count,  not  at  all ! 
Dat  is  only  de  title  he  go  by  in  dis  country.  De  foreigners 
always  take  de  large  title  ven  dey  do  come  here.  His  name 
h  Paris  vas  Gustave  Tread-mill.  But  he  not  one  Frenchman 
at  all,  but  he  do  live  one  long  time  «  Paris.  First  he  live 
vid  Monsieur  Vermicelle — dere  he  vas  de  head  cook !  Den 
he  live  vid  Monsieur  Tire-nez,  de  barber  !  After  dat  he 
live  vid  Monsieur  le  Comte  Frippon-fin — and  dere  he  vas  le  , 
Comte's  valet !  Dere,  now  I  tell  everyting  I  feel  one  great 
deal  better! 

3Irs.  Tif.  Oh !  good  gracious !  I  shall  faint !  Not  a 
Count  !  What  will  every  body  say  ?  It's  no  such  thing  1 
I  say  he  is  a  Count !  One  can  see  the  foreign  jenny  says 
quoi  in  his  face  !  Don't  you  think  I  can  tell  a  Count  when 
I  see  one  ?     I  say  he  is  a  Count ! 

Enter  Snobson,   l.,  his  hat  on — his  hands  thrust  in  his 
pocket — evidently  a  little  intoxicated. 

Snob.  I  won't  stand  it !      I  say  I  won't ! 

Tif  (rushing  up  to  him)  Mr.  Snobson,  for  heaven's 
sake —  (aside) 

Snob.  Keep  off!  I'm  a  hard  customer  to  get  the  better 
of!     You'll  see  if  I  don't  come  out  strong! 

True,  (quietly  knocking  off  Snobson's  hat  with  his 
stick)  Where  are  your  manners,  man? 

Snob.  My  business  aint  with  you,  Catteraugus ;  you've 
"waked  up  the  wrong  passenger  I — Now  the  way  I'll  put  it 
into  Tiff  will  be  a  caution.  I'll  make  him  wince  !  That 
extra  mint  julep  has  put  the  true  pluck  in  me.  Now  for 
it?  (aside)  Mr.  Tiffany,  Sir — you  needn't  think  to  come 
over  me.  Sir — you'll  have  to  get  up  a  little  earlier  in  the 
morning  before  you  do  that.  Sir!  I'd  like  to  know.  Sir, 
how  you  came  to  assist  your  daughter  in  running  away 
with  that  foreign  loafer  1  It  was  a  downright  swindle,  -Sir. 
After  the  conversation  I  and  you  had  on  that  subject  she 
wasn't  }our  property,  Sir. 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  57 

True.  What,  Antony,  is  that  the  way  your  city  clerk 
bulhes  his  boss? 

Snob.  You're  drunk,  Cattcraugus — don't  expose  your- 
seh' — you're  drunk  !  Taken  a  Httle  too  much  toddy,  my  old 
boy!  Be  quiet!  I'll  look  after  you,  and  tliey  won't*  find 
it  out.  If  you  want  to  be  busy,  you  may  take  care  of  my 
hat — I  feel  so  deuced  weak  in  the  chest,  I  don't  think  I 
could  pick  it  up  myself. — Now  to  put  the  screws  to  TiflP. 
(aside)  Mr.  Tifiany,  Sir — you  have  broken  your  word,  as 
no  virtuous  individual — no  honorable  member— of — the — 
com — mu — ni — ty — 

Tif.  Have  some  pity,  Mr.  Snobson,  I  beseech  you !  I 
had  nothing  to  do  with  my  daughter's  elopement!  I  will 
agree  to  anything  you  desire — your  salary  shall  be  doubled 
— trebled —  [aside  to  him. 

Snob,  {aloud)  No  you  don't.  No  bribery  and  corruption. 

Tif.  I  implore  you  to  be  silent.  You  shall  become 
partner  of  the  concern,  if  you  please — only  do  not  speak. 
You  are  not  yourself  at  this  moment.  [aside  to  him. 

Snob.  Aint  I  thouo;h.  I  feel  twice  myself.  I  feel  like 
two  Snobsons  rolled  into  one,  and  I'm  chock  full  of  the 
spunk  of  a  dozen!      Now  INIr.  Tiffany,  Sir — 

Tif.  I  shall  go  distracted !  Mr.  Snobson,  if  you  have 
one  spark  of  manly  feeling —  [aside  to  him. 

T'rue.  Antony,  why  do  you  stand  disputing  with  that 
drunken  jackass  1  AVhere's  your  nigger  ?  Let  him  kick 
the  critter  out,   and  be  of  use  for  once  in  his  life. 

Snob.  Better  be  quiet,  Catteraugus.  This  aint  your 
hash,  so  keep  your  spoon  out  of  the  dish.  Don't  expose 
yourself,  old  boy. 

True.  Turn  him  out,  Anthony! 

Snob.  He  daren't  do  it!  Aint  I  up  to  him?  Aint  he 
in  mv  power?  Can't  I  knock  him  into  a  cocked  hat  with  a 
word  ?     And  now  he's  got  my  steam  up — I  vjill  do  it! 

Tif.   {beseechingly)  Mr.  Snobson — my  friend — 

Snob.  It's  no  go — steam's  up — and  I  don't  stand  at 
anything! 

*  True.  You  won't  starid  here  long  unless  you  mend  your 
manners — you're  not  the  first  man  I've  upset  because  he 
did'nt  know  his  place. 

Snob.  I  know  where  Tiff's  place  is,  and  that's  in  the 


58  FASHION.  [ActV. 

States^  Prison  !  It's  bespoke  already.  He  would  have  it! 
He  wouldn't  take  pattern  of  me,  and  behave  like  a  gentle- 
man!    He's  a/or^er,  Sir! 

[Tiffany  throws  himself  into  a  chair  in  an 
attitude  of  despair ;  the  others  stand  trans- 
fixed with  astonishment. 

He's  been  forging  Dick  Anderson's  endorsements  of  his 
notes  these  ten  months.  He's  got  a  couple  in  the  bank 
that  will  send  him  to  the  wall  any  how — if  he  can't  make 
a  raise.  I  took  them  there  myself!  Now  you  know  what 
he's  worth.     I  said  I'd  expose  him,  and  I  have  done  it! 

Mrs.  Tif.  Get  out  of  the  house  !  You  ugly,  little, 
drunken  brute,  get  out !  It's  not  true.  Mr.  Trueman, 
f  u'  ±i\m.  out;  you  have  got  a  stick — put  him  out! 

Enter  Seraphina,  l.,  in  her  bonnet  and  shawl — a  parasol 

in  her  hand. 

Sera.  I  hope  Zeke  hasn't  delivered  my  note. 

\stops  in  surprise  at  seeing  the  persons  assembled. 

Mrs.  Tif.  Oh,  here  is  the  Countess ! 

[advances  to  embrace  her. 

Tif.  {starting  from  his  seat^  and  seizing  Seraphina 
violently  by  the  arm)  Are — you — married  ? 

Sera.  Goodness,  Pa,  how  you  frighten  me !  No,  I'm 
not  married,  quite. 

Tif.  Thank  heaven. 

Mrs.  Tif.  [drawing  Seraphina  aside^  l.)  What's  the 
matter?     Why  did  you  come  back? 

Sera.  The  clergyman  wasn't  at  home — I  came  back  for 
my  jewels — the  Count  said  nobility  couldn't  get  on  without 
them. 

Tif.  I  may  be  saved  yet  J  Seraphina,  my  child,  you 
will  not  see  me  disgraced — ruined !  I  have  been  a  kind 
father  to  you — at  least  I  have  tried  to  be  one — although 
your  mother's  extravagance  made  a  madman  of  me !  The 
Count  is  an  impostor — you  seemed  to  like  him — (pointing 
to  Snobson)  Heaven  forgive  me !  {aside)  Marry  him  and 
save  me.  You,  Mr.  Trueman,  you  will  be  my  friend  in 
this  hour  of  extreme  need — you  will  advance  the  sum  which 
I  require — I  pledge  myself  to  return  it.  My  wife — ray  child 
' — who  will  support  them  were  I — the  thought  makes  me 
frantic !     You  will  aid  me  ?     You  had  a  child  yourself. 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  59 

True,  But  I  did  not  sell  her — it  was  her  own  doings. 
Shame  on  you,  Antony  !  Put  a  price  on  your  own  flesh 
and  blood  !     Shame  on  such  foul  traffic  ! 

Tif.  Save  me — I  conjure  you — for  my  father's  sake. 

True.  For  your  father  s  son's  sake  I  will  not  aid  you 
in  becoming  a  greater  villain  than  you  are ! 

Ger.  (c-)  Mr.  Trueman — Father,  I  should  say — save 
him — do  not  embitter  our  happiness  by  permitting  this 
calamity  to  fall  upon  another — 

True.  Enough — I  did  not  need  your  voice,  child.  I 
am  going  to  settle  this  matter  my  own  way. 

[Goes  up  to  Snobson — who  has  seated  himself 
and  fallen  asleep — tilts  him  out  of  the  chair. 

Snob,  (waking  up)  Eh?  Where's  the  fire?  Oh!  it's 
you,  Cateraugus. 

True.  If  1  comprehend  aright,  you  have  been  for  some 
time  aware  of  your  principal's  forgeries? 

[as  he  says  this,  he  beckons  to  Howard,  c, 
who  advances  as  witness. 

Snob.  You*ve  hit  the  nail,  Catteraugus  !  Old  chap  saw 
that  I  was  up  to  him  six  months  ago  j  left  oflf  throwing  dust 
into  my  eyes — 

True.  Oh,  he  did ! 

Snob.  Made  no  bones  of  forging  Anderson's  name  at 
my  elbow. 

True.  Forged  at  your  elbow?     You  saw  him  do  it? 

Snob.  I  did. 

True.  Repeatedly? 

Snob.  Re — pea — ted — ly 

True.  Then  you,  Rattlesnake,  if  he  goes  to  the  States* 
Prison,  you'll  take  up  your  quarters  there  too.  You  are 
an  accomplice,   an  accessory  ! 

[Trueman  walks  away  and  seats  himself  r. 
Howard  rejoins  Gertrude.  Snobson 
stands  for  some  time  bewildered. 

Snob.  The  deuce,  so  I  am  !  I  never  thought  of  that! 
I  must  make  myself  scarce.  I'll  be  off!  Tif,  I  say  Tif! 
{going  up  to  him  and  speaking  confidentially)  that  drunken 
old  rip  has  got  us  in  his  power.  Let's  give  him  the  slip 
and  be  off.  They  want  men  of  genius  at  the  West, — we're 
sure  to  get  on  !  You — you  can  set  up  for  a  writing  master, 
and  teach  copying  signatures  ;  and  I — I'll  give  lectures  on 


60  FASHION.  [A-CT  V. 

temperance  !  You  won't  come,  eh  ?  Then  I'm  off  with- 
out you.  Good  bye,  Catteraugus  !  Which  is  the  way  to 
Cahfornia  ?  [steals  off^  l. 

True.  There's  one  debt  your  city  owes  me.  And  now 
let  us  see  what  other  nuisances  we  can  abate.  Antony, 
I'm  not  given  to  preaching,  therefore  I  shall  not  say  much 
about  what  you  have  done.  Your  face  speaks  for  itself, — 
the  crime  has  brought  its  punishment  along  with  it. 

Tif.  Indeed  it  has.  Sir !  In  one  year  I  have  lived  a 
century  of  misery. 

Trae.  I  believe  you,  and  upon  one  condition  I  will  assist 
you— 

Tif.  My  friend — my  first,  ever  kind  friend, — only  name 
it! 

True.  You  must  sell  your  house  and  all  these  gew  gaws, 
and  bundle  your  wife  and  daughter  off  to  the  country. 
There  let  them  learn  economy,  true  independence,  and 
home  virtues,  instead  of  foreign  follies.  As  for  yourself, 
continue  your  business — but  let  moderation,  in  future,  be 
your  counsellor,  and  let  honesty  be  your  confidential  clerk. 

Tif.  Mr.  Trueman,  you  have  made  existence  once  more 
precious  to  me  !  My  wife  and  daughter  shall  quit  the  city 
to-morrow,   and — 

Pru.  It's  all  coming  right  !  Its  all  coming  right  ! 
We'll  go  to  the  county  of  Catteraugus. 

[walking  up  to  Trueman. 

True.  No  you  won't, — I  make  that  a  stipulation,  An- 
tony ;  keep  clear  of  Catteraugus,  None  of  your  fashionable 
examples  there ! 

JoLiMAiTRE  appears,  l,.  h.  3  e.,   in  the  Conservatory  and 
peeps  into  the  room  unperceived. 

Count,  What  can  detain  Seraphina  ?  We  ought  to  be 
off! 

Mil.  {turns  rounds  perceives  him,  runs  and  forces  him 
into  the  room)  Here  he  is  !  Ah,  Gustave,  mon  cher  Gus- 
tave !  I  have  you  now  and  we  never  part  no  m.orc.  Don't 
frown,   Gustave,  don't  frown — 

True.  Come  forward,  Mr.  Count !  and  for  the  edifi- 
cation of  fashionable  society  confess  that  you're  an  impostor. 

Count.  An  impostor?     Why,  you  abominable  old  — 

True.  Oh,  your  feminine  friend  has  told  us  all  about  it. 


Scene  I.]  FASHION.  51 

the  cook — the  valet — barber  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
Come,  confess,  and  something  may  be  done  for  you. 

£ount.  Well  then,  I  do  confess  I  am  no  count  ;  but 
really,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  may  recommend  myself  as 
the  most  capital  cook. 

Mrs,  Tif.  Oh,  Seraphiua ! 

Sera.  Oh,  Ma !  [they  embrace  and  retire  up. 

True.  Promise  me  to  call  upon  the  whole  circle  of  your 
fashionable  acquaintances  with  your  own  advertisements 
and  in  your  cook's  attire,  and  I  will  set  you  up  in  business 
to-morrow.     Better  turn  stomachs  than  turn  heads ! 

Mil.  But  you  will  marry  me  ? 

Count.  Give  us  your  hand,  Millinette  !  Sir,  command 
me  for  the  most  delicate  pate — the  daintiest  ci-oquette  a  la 
royale — the  most  transcendent  omelette  soujflee  that  ever 
issued  from  a  French  pastry-cook's  oven.  I  hope  you  will 
pardon  my  conduct,  but  I  heard  that  in  America,  where 
you  pay  homage  to  titles  while  you  profess  to  scorn  them 
— where  Fashion  makes  the  basest  coin  current — where 
you  have  no  kings,  no  princes,  no  nobility — 

True.  Stop  there  !  I  object  to  your  use  of  that  word. 
"When  justice  is  found  only  among  lawyers — health  among 
physicians — and  patriotism  among  politicians,  then  may 
you  say  that  there  is  no  nobility  where  there  are  no  titles  ! 
But  we  have  kings,  princes,  and  nobles  in  abundance- — of 
Natuj'e''s  stamp,  if  not  of  Fashion's, — we  have  honest  mien, 
warm  hearted  and  brave,  and  we  have  women — gentle,  fair, 
and  true,  to  whom  no  title  could  add  nobility. 


EPILOGUE. 


Pru.  I  told  you  so  !     And  now  you  hear  and  see. 
I  told  you  Fashion  would  the  fashion  be ! 

True.  Then  both  its  point  and  moral  I  distrust. 

Count.  Sir,  is  that  liberal  ? 

How.  Or  is  it  just  ? 

True.  The  guilty  have  escaped  ! 

Tif.  ^  Is,  therefore,  sin 

INIade  charming  ?     Ah  !  there's  punishment  within  ! 
Guilt  ever  carries  his  own  scourge  along. 


b2  FASHION. 

Ger.  Virtue  her  own  reward  ! 

True.  You're  right,  I'm  wrong. 

Mrs.  Tif.  How  we  have  been  deceived  ! 

Pru.  I  told  you  so. 

Sera.  To  lose  at  once  a  title  and  a  beau  ! 

Count.  A  count  no  more,   I'm  no  more  oi  account. 

True.  But  to  a  nobler  title  you  may  mount. 
And  be  in  time — who  knows  ? — an  honest  man  ! 

Count.  Eh,  Millinette  ? 

Mil.  Oh,  oui, — I  know  you  can  ! 

Ger.  (to  audience)  But,  ere  we  close  the  scene,  a  word 
with  you, — 
We  charge  you  answer, — Is  this  picture  true  ? 
Some  little  mercy  to  our  efforts  show. 
Then  let  the  world  your  honest  verdict  know. 
Here  let  it  see  portrayed  its  ruling  passion, 
And  learn  to  prize  at  its  just  value — Fashion. 


DISPOSITION  OF  THE  CHARACTERS. 

L.   Count.     Millinette.     Howard.      Gertrude.     Trueman, 
Mrs.  Tiffany.     Tiffany.     Seraphina.     Prudence. 


THE    END. 


<w 


J 


Plays.  BOSS 


■■■lilitll 

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