CUMBERLAND’S
No. 150 MINOR THEATRE. 6d.
BEING A COMPANION TO
ISritiet) lR\)ta\xz.
OR, THE LOST SHIP
3 Domestic ISurletts,
IN THREE ACTS,
BY LEMAN REDE, esq
PRINTED FROM THE ACTING COPY,
With Remarks, by D.--G.
ast'of the Characters
A Description of the Costume
Entrances and Exits, Relative Positions of the Per¬
formers, and the whole of the Stage Busines, as now
performed in the mktkoi’olitan minor theatres.
Embellished with a
fine wood engraving,
from
A Drawing taken in the Theatre
Mr. R. CRU1KSIJANK
LONDON: G. H. DAVIDSON, lh PETER’S HILL, DOCTORS’ COMMONS,'
Between the South ot St. Paul’s and Thames Street;
.Publisher of “The Musical Treasury,” the popular Music for the Million, in Three¬
penny Sheets, elegantly and correctly printed in Music Folio, for the Pianoforte; also of
DAVIDSON'S DRAMATIC OPERAS, 6d. each,
Translations of Popular Foreign Operas adapted for Representation on the English Stage.
LIST OF CUMBERLAND’S BRITISH THEATL
The Price now reduced to Sixpence each Play
VOL. I.
1 Romeo and Juliet
2 She Stoops to Con-
3 Macbeth [quer
4 Pizarro
5 Richard III.
0 Douglas
7 SuspiciousIIusband
VOL. II.
8 Othello
9 The Duenna
'6 The Rivals
'1 Belle’s Stratagem
12 Cymbelitie
13 Venice Preserved
14 West Indian
VOL. III.
15 Much Ado about
Id Hypocrite [nothing
17 As You Like it
18 Provoked Husband
iy Beggars’ Opera
20 Way to Keep Him
21 The Padlock
VOL. IV.
22 King John
23 Henry IV. Part I.
24 The Wonder
25 Hamlet
2d Trip to Scarborough
27 Road to Ruin
28 The Gamester
VOL. V.
29 Winter’s Tale
30 Man of the World
31 The Inconstant
32 Love in a Village
33 Jane Shore
31 King Henry VIII.
35 Julius Caisac
VOL. VI.
36 Merchant of Venice
37 Merry Wives of
Windsor
38 Virginius
3y CaiusGracchus
40 All in the Wrong
41 King Lear
42 Cato
VOL. VII.
43 New Way to Pay
Old Debts [sure
44 Measure for Mea-
45 Jealous Wife
46 Tempest [age
47 Clandestine Marri-
48 Coriolanus [Fault
4y Every One has his
vol. via.
.50 The Alcaid
Si Busy Body
i2 Tale of Mysteiy
33 Know your Own
Mind
54 Mayor of Garratt
55 A woman never vext
Der-
56 Maid of the Mill
VOL. IX.
57 Barber of Seville
58 Isabella
59 Charles the Second
do The Fair Penitent
61 George Barnwell
62 Fall of Algiers
63 Der Freischutz
VOL. X.
64 Fatal Dowry
65 Shepherd of
went Vale
66 Father and Son
67 Wives as they were
68 Lofty Projects
69 Every Man in his
Humour
70 Two Galley Slaves
VOL. XI.
71 Brutus
72 Ali Pacha
73 Twelfth Night
74 Henry the Fifth
75 Love in humble life
76 Child of Nature
77 Bleep Walker
VOL. XII.
78 Orestes in Argos
79 Hide and Seek
80 Tribulation
81 Rival Valets
82 Roses and Thorns
83 Midas [a Wife
84 Rule a Wife & have
VOL. XIII.[wife
85 A Bold Stroke fora
86 Good-natured Man
87 Oberon
88 Lord of the Manor
89 Honey-Moon
90 DoctorBolus[Stairs
91 High Life Below
VOL XIV.
92 Disagreeable Stir-
93 Stranger [prise
94 Village Lawyer
95 School for Scandal
96 Spoiled Child
97 Animal Magnetism
98 \V heel of Fortune
VOL. XV.
99 The Critic
100 Deaf and Dumb
101 Castle Spectre
102 The Revenge
103 Midnight flour
104 Speed thePlough
105 Rosina
VOL. XVI.
106 Monsieur Tonson
107 Comedy of Errors
lOBSpectre Bridegroom
109 A Cure for the
Heart-ache
110 Aimteur.s&Actors
111 Inkle and Yarico 167 Love law&g.
112 Education 168 Rienzi
VOL. XVII. 169 Cjari
113 Children in the
170 The Brigand
114 Rendezvous [wood \~ n > h t > it : 7en
115 Barbarossa i 1itle citizen
Ll6 Gambler’s Fate ( VOL. XXV
117 Giovanni in Loud. 173 Grecian Dau
118 School of Reform, 174 CharlesX.il
119 Lovers’ Vows 175 Teddy the T
VOL. XVIII. U(6 Popping the 1
120 Highland Reel V? u . ,
121 Two Gentlemen of ill Maid or .1 udai
Vcrons ■**•» x f
122 Taming the Shrew [79 Droonoko
123 Secretsworthknow-[ t,.° ne , st n ^ ue '
124 Weathercock[ing Blind Boy
125Somnambulist[well| VOL. XXV
126 All’s well thatends 182 Notoriety
V(/L. XIX.
127 Artaxerxes
128 The Serf
129 The Lancers
130 Love for Love
131 The Merchant’s
Wedding
132 Race for a Dinner
133 Raising the \Y indj
1 183 Matrimony
1184 Husband at
|185 First of Apn
II86 John of Paris
187 Miller&hisn
188 Prisoner at I
189 1 imon of At:
190 The Prize
VO L. XXVI
VOL. XX. 1I91 Henry IV. P;
134 Siege of Belgrade|l92 Forty Thieve
135 Who wants a Gui-
136 PoorSoldier[nea
137 Midsummer nights
Dream [ried
138 Way to get mar-
139 Turnpike Gate
140 Paul and Virginia
VOL. XXL
141 The Cabinet,
142 Youthful Queen |2oi Magpieorthel
143Green-eyedmonster 202 Shakspeare’si-
144 Country Girl Days
145 Irish Tutor (203 Point of Hon.
141) Beaux’ Stratagem 204 High ways A:
193 My Grandmi.
194 The Vampire
195 The Farmer
lc6 Ella Rosenbe
197 1 he Two Fri«
198 Valentine Ac C
199 Folly as it Fli
VOL. XXV11
COO The Robber’s'
147
205 Ice Witch D
20d st. Patrick’s
The Will
VOL. XXII.
148lrishmaninLondonjoJ?, £ Baigaii
149 Recruiting Officer Robinson Cri
150 The Slave
151 Devil’s Elixir
152 “ Master’s Rival”
153 The Duel
154 William Tell
VOL. XXIII.
155 Tom Thumb [Life
156 Happiestday of my
157 Fatality [can,
VOL. XXIX
209 Maid of Hon
210 Sleeping Dra
21) Timour the T
212 Modern Anti
213 King Rich arc
214 Mrs. Wiggins
215 Comfortable 1
CIO I lie Exile.Is.
158 Laugh'when you 217 Day after the
159 William Thomson 218 Adopted Chi
leolUustnousStranger VOL. XXX
58 5t d ^t2SS"' «8 Bride or*
‘ 63 vm" vv[r try <*'A ifS
\ A OL. XXI\. £22 Bee-llive
lf>4 N o Song no Supper
165 Look and Key
166 Snakes in the grass
223 Hartford Bii
224 Two stringstc
225 Hauntedluu
A". Crutkthank , ■?>(•/.
CI>ur FtUage.
. Did you call ?
Did I call! can’t you say “sir,” when you a Idress a gentle-
Tom
Sne.
man ?
yfrt /, Scene 2
0 U II VILLAGE,
OR, THE LOST SHIP.
A DOMESTIC BURLETTA,
Lit Cfjree &ctg,
BY LEMAN REDE, Esq.
sluthor oj The Lives of the shigelt — Sirtrrn-Strivg Jarh—Jack in the fT'at'r—
Lije’i a Lottery — sin s!£ a i r of Horn ur—Hi* Firtt Chum pug n>—I he Irish
Nigger—The FroiicsjoJ t . e Fairies—Hero and Leander ,
PRINTED FROM THE ACTING COPY, WITH REMARKS,
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL, BY D. — G.
To which are added,
A INSCRIPTION OF THE COSTUME-CAST OP THE CHARACTERS,—
ENTRANCES AND EXITS,— RELATIVE POSITIONS OF TDK
PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE,—AND THE WHOLE
OF THE STAGE BUSINESS.
As performed at the
THEATRES ROYAL, LONDON.
EMBELLISHED WITH A FINE ENGRAVING,
From a Drawing taken in the Theatre, by Mr.R. Cruieshank.
LONDON:
G. H. DAVIDSON, PETER’S HILL, DOCTORS’ COMMONS
BETWEEN ST. PAUL’S AND THAMES STREET.
THE
UNIVERSITY
OF
WARWICK
LIBRARY
The Gift of
C,. r. Ha.lL
R E M A 11 K S.
(Dur 1711139 ?; or, tlje ICost Sljip.
Rural scenery has ever been a favourite theme with the poet and
the painter. The one has described it with all the beauties of diction
and sentiment; the other portrayed it in lively colours, sparkling with
the morning dews, glowing with the setting sun, melting away in the
lovely twilight, or silvered by the pale moon and the countless stars l
Yet neither the poem nor the landscape has done justice to the glorious
original,—for who can paint like nature? Her works baffle the highest
ingenuity of man. The village is rife with pleasing associations,— the
village pastor, the village church and churchyard, the village green,
that reverend and dreaded dame, and that pragmatical pedagogue the
village schoolmistress and schoolmaster! the bustling village doctor,
the village lawyer,the village barber, (a locomotive news monger!) the
village pound for strayed cattle, and the village stocks for refractory
clowns !—are familiar objects. Then the ancient road side inn, or vil¬
lage ale-house, “The Old King’s JHead”—“ The Rodney Arms”—or
“The Admiral Benbow,” with their respective effigies—the crowned
head, resplendent with faded scarlet and gold—and the bluff seaman,
with his true blue, tarnished epaulettes, weather-beaten cheeks, flaring
eye, and copper nose! The village host, too, was a round rubicund
merry functionary; and the village hostess, wife or widow, though
consequential and stately, was withall, good-humoured and obliging.
Even the village poor-house (unlike the modern “ Union” pandemoni¬
ums!) was not an unsightly edifice; and the village alms-houses, with
their well-cultivated little gardens, looked smiling and happy ! All
these were once peculiar to the village; which had its dark side, too—
its drunkards, idlers, &c.; but such were marked characters, shunned
and pitied for their vices;—the village, irrespective of them, was a com¬
pact and well-ordered community, cheerful in its social relations, and
each member of it dependent on his neighbour for friendly offices, and
kindly intercourse. But the old-fashioned village is, in the present
day, metamorphosed into a rail-road station, and its interesting pecu¬
liarities are wholly and irremediably destroyed.
There are three characters, of very opposite natures, that, more es¬
pecially. were wont to visit the village of the olden time. The first was
the absentee landlord and town rake, who, satiated with the excite¬
ments of the gay metropolis, tetired thither to brow beat his steward,
rack-rent his tenants, and achieve a cowardly victory over humble
virtue whom poverty or strong temptation had placed in his power.
The second was the money-grub, who, having made the town too hot
to hold him, sought an obscure retreat wherein to quiet his troubled
conscience; a hiding-place from the pointed finger of scorn:—and the
third was the honest citizen, who having, in early youth, sought his
fortune in the busy world, and found it; returned to the home of his
childhood to pass, in deeds of charity, the winter of his days; and to
lay his bones in the humble sepulchre of his fathers. To him—of to
such a kindred spirit—perchance, that goodly row of almshouses ow#
their foundation and support.
c
REMARKS.
This drama opens merrily The villagers are assembled to hail, with
song, dance, and good cheer, the seventieth birthday of the benevolent
Lord Mornington. The fun is heightened by the grotesque marriage
of the widow Watkins to one Hobson his lordship’s bailiff, an ill-con¬
ditioned churl, of whom nobody speaks well. Their joy, however, is
suddenly turned to sorrow by the news of my lord’s unexpected de¬
cease; and their sympathies are keenly awakened when Florence Hal-
lidav, his illegitimate daughter, rushes distractedly on the scene. A
mournful history belongs to this lady.—She had been nursed in luxury,
but having married avoung smuggle- Jack Halliday, the earl discarded
her ; and Jack, subsequently reduced to beggary, meets a violent death,
in which one Bill Bowyer, a sottish outcast of the village, is supposed
to have had a hand. In a moment of phrenzy, over the mangled corpse
of her husband, she cursed her pitiless father, and swore never to for¬
give him ! It was in vain that he since offered her his protection and
support; she refused to see him or to accept his bounty—dwelling in
a mean hut on the beach, and wandering about half-crazed and broken
hearted.
The old earl is hardly entombed, ere his nephew the young one
visits “ Our Village,” in order to take possession of his mansion and
estates. He is accompanied by a valet, one Sneakey, a whiskered
rapscallion But my lord has another errand besides that of taking
possession; it is, to seduce Fanny Grantham the daughter of one of
his tenants, who had indignantly spurned his dishonourable proposals
when she chanced to meet him in London, before he became the un¬
worthy Lord of Caversham.
Mr. Sneakey had broached the benign intentions of his master to an
old acquaintance, an inmate of the “ Star and Garter,” Tom Tulloch.
Tom, a rough diamond, all over in love with Miss Polly Marygold,
listens with staring eyes and open mouth to the diabolical detail; and
Mr. Sneaky’s pestilent carcase is more than once in jeopardy from
Tom’s honest resentment! This does not escape the recreant’s pene¬
tration ; and as Tom, who knows his early history, is likely to prove a
somewhat inconvenient biographer, it occurs to Mr. Sneakey that, as
there are plenty of ships in the harbour, it mnv be politic to select Tom
for her majesty’s service. This is soon accomplished, and the lover of
Miss Marvgold is pressed and hurried off' to sea
A year passes away, and “ Onr Village” goes all to rack and ruin.
The new earl had turned Fanny’s father and every tenant off his land ;
Widow Halliday had wandered no one knew whither; and Polly had
taken herself off to London. At this juncture the Rattlesnake arrives
at Portsmouth, bringing home Tom Tulloch, and the long-lost son of
the widow, now a smart lieutenant, and about to become the husband
of Fanny! At the “Shark and Compasses,” where Tom is regailing
himself, he once more encounters Mr. Sneakey, to whom he tells some
tough yarns; in the midst of which he receives from Dabchick, a non¬
descript tapster, the unwelcome intelligence, that his captain having
been suddenly summoned to the locker of Davy Jones, Lieutenant
Halliday was appointed to the vacant command, with orders to sail
immediately. Thus is Tom again afloat—aye, and for seven long
years!
After this weary absence, behold Captain Halliday and the ubiquit¬
ous Tom again at “ Our Village !” The Captain’s motive is to seek
out his widowed mother; and Tom’s is to hunt up his locomotive
Polly. A sad change has been wrought in the health and fortunes of
Lord Mornington; dissipation and the dice-board have well-nigh
ruined both ; and to crown his humiliation, Mr. Hobson (who, by the
bye, has caught a tartar in the Widow Watkins!) makes him this
modest proposal—That being in possession of the important secret
that Captain Halliday is heir to the Caversham title and estates; (his
RliMAUKS.
7
mother being the legitimate, not, as was supposed, base-born child of
the old earl) this secret (unknown, as he imagines, to everybody but
himself) he (Mr. Hobson) promises to keep most religiously, provided
my lord will condescend to metamorphose his only daughter Maid
Marian into My Lady Marlington!
Florence Hailiday returns to the ruined village. But Mr. Hobson
and his myrmidons are on the look out—No pauper shall lie down and
die in their parish ! She must “ Move on !”—and he is about to coerce
her into obedience, when the captain enters; otters the poor suppliant
relief; and after some mutual explanations, he discovers in her the
beloved object of bis anxious search.
In the meantime Tom and his shipmate Tramp had agreed to knock
at every door in London until they found Polly Marigold ! They have
finished one street; and might have proceeded with their interminable
job, had not the identical Polly, very meanly clad, entered singing
ballads, in her vocation of itinerant melodist. Tom instantly recog¬
nises the voice ; a broadside of kisses ensues; she is extemporaneously
rigged n-la-mode at an adjoining slop-shop; and it remains only for
the ring to be bought, the parson to be bespoke, and then, hey for the
bridal!
Lord Mornington rejects Mr. Hobson’s terms; resigns his posses¬
sions to their right owner; and receives from him a liberal provision
in return. The mystery of Florence Halliday’s birth is satisfactorily
cleared up — Hobson, being identified as the murderer of poor Jack, is
in a fair way of being hanged— Tom is spliced to his darling Polly—
and, under happier auspices, “ Our Village” promises once more to
be the cheerful and contented spot it was in the '* Olden Time.”
Tom Tulloch was played at the Olympic by Mr. Wild with his ac¬
customed hearty jollity; and Mr. John Douglas, at the Mary-le-bone
theatre, was not much behind him in eccentricity and fun. Sneakey
lost none of his foppish rascality in the hands of Mr. Rogers; and
Mr. M. Howard (a denizen of St. Mary) was very entertaining in the
part. The other characters were well acted; and the reception of
“Our Village” was such, that Mr. Leman Rede had to congratulate
himself on the production of another successful drama.
D.-G.
STAGE DIRECTIONS.
The Conductors of this Work print no Plays but those which they
have seen acted. The Stage Directions are given from personal ob¬
servations, during the most recent performances.
R. means Right; L. Left; C. Centre: R. C. Right of Centre;
Jj C. Left of centre; D. F. l)oor in the Flat, or Scene running across
the back of the Stage; C. D.F. Centre Door in the. Flat: It. D. F.
Right Door in the Flat: L. D. F. Left Door in the Flat; R. D. Right
Door; L. D. Left Door: S.E. Second Entrance; U.E. Upper En¬
trance; C. D. Centre Door.
%* The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience.
(East of tfje Characters.
As performed at the Metropolitan Theatres.
Olympic. Mary-le-bone.
Earl of Marling ton . Mr. C. Baker. Mr. Harrington.
Grantham . Mr. Scott. Mr. G. Pennett.
Giles . Mr. Bologna. Mr. Robberds.
Tramp . Mr. Tumour. Mr. Merchant.
Bill Bowyer . Mr. Searle. Mr. Potterly.
Tom Tulloch . Mr. G. Wild. Mr. John Douglas.
Sam . Master Hill.
Sneakey . Mr. Rogers. Mr. M. Howard.
Lieutenant Hallitlay . Mr. Fitzjames. Mr. Bickford.
Hobson . Mr. Brookes. Mr. D. Lewis.
Florence Halliday . Mr3. W. West. Mrs. Campbell.
Fanny Grantham . Miss. L. Melville. Mrs. Robberds.
Polly Marigold . Miss Lebatt. Miss Laporte.
Jenny . . Miss Granby. Miss Robberds.
Mrs. Hobson . Mrs. Lickford.
Sailors, Villagers, fyc.
Ci'ostume.
EARL OF MARLINGTON.—F’ashionable green dress coat—
figured waistcoat white cravat—light brown pantaloons—hessian
boots—black hat.
GRANTHAM.—Drab coat—breeches, with striped gaiters—waist¬
coat—black hat.
TRAMP. — Countryman’s blue coat — striped waistcoat — drab
breeches and gaiters—black hat.
BILL BOWYER —Countryman’s ragged drab coat—brown waist¬
coat-soiled leather breeches—gray stockings—shoes—black hat.
TOM TULLOCH.— First dress: White jacket—velveteen breeches
striped waistcoat white stockings — boots. Second dress: Blue
jacket, trimmed with white — blue trowsers—blue stockings_blue
shirt—glazed hat, with ribbon—shoes, &c.
SNEAKEY. First dress: Green fashionable dress coat—blue
figured waistcoat—white breeches—top boots—white hat. Second
diess: Fashionable white coat—white leather breeches—blue waist¬
coat—top boots—black hat, &c.
LIEU 1ENAN I HALLIDAY.—Naval uniform.
HOBSON.—Light brown coat and waistcoat—black breeches—
white wig stockings—shoes, with buckles.
FLORENCE HALLIDAY.—Widow’s dress—crape scarf.
OUR VILLAGE
ACT I.
SCENE I.— A Corn Field—the sheafs up. — Time, Mid¬
day.
Jenny, Tramp, Giles, Grantham, and Villagers, dis¬
covered, c., enjoying their repast.
CHORUS.— Air, “ See ye swains .”
Yellow harvest smiles around;
Health and peace and joy abound ;
Pleasure fills a brimming glass ;
Every lad shall toast his lass.
Men. Here’s to mine, and here’s to thine,—
Wherefore should we fret or pine ?
Chorus. Yellow harvest, &c.
Jen. Arter ail, work be a famous thing ; it makes one so
pure and pleasant.
Tramp. A chap as won’t work doesn’t ought to be kept.
Giles. P'raps that’s the reason why so many o’ they idle
chaps gets country to keep ’em.
Tramp. And much good may it do ’em. I never knew
an idler that was happy yet,—look at Bill Bower,—it’s a
sort of feast, ’cause it’s the old lord’s birthday, and he
crawls here for what he can get—ugh !
Giles. Well, well, another time, lad ;—never tell a man
o’ his faults when he’s hungry.
Tramp. Can’t bear to see it, I tell you : Bill spent every
penny his old father scraped up, ruined his widowed mo¬
ther and his half-sister, and now, he’s a beggar where he
might ha’ been a squire.
Giles. Quiet, I say ; he is a beggar—that’s hard lines.
Then ain’t there plenty to-day for he and fifty beside ?
Tramp. Why, if Jenny ain’t giving him money! [ Calling
loudly.'] Jane, I say! Jane!—So theest throwing away
money on yon scamp ! Why, you know he’s not spoken to
by any a man in the village.
10
OUR VILLAGE.
[ACT I.
Jen. T. he moie leason he should be pitied bv a woman,
poor cretur !—He says he ain’t slept in a bed for a fort¬
night.
Tramp. He don’t deserve to sleep in a bed at all.
Gran. [Coining forward. ] Tramp, if none but those who
deserved it slept in a bed, how many would have to trust
to that counterpane that covers every sin.
Omnes. Aye, aye, Master Grantham.
Gran. But come, lads,—to-day’s a day of jollity ; our
noble master has reached his seventieth vear,—I’ve been
his tenant torty-six on 'em ; a better landlord never man
knew. Fill, lads—aye, to the brim.
Omnes. The Earl of Marlington 1 r Then drink
Bill. The Earl of-
Tramp. [ Knocking the cup down. j Out with ye ! your
1 and is in every man’s cup.—How dare you come here ?
Bill. Where am I to go ? workhouse won’t have me ;_
who’ll give work to poor drunken Bill Bowyer ?—and
for what? ’cause I’ve been taken up, and tried. Well, I
was acquitted, warn’t I ?
Tramp. Yes, you were acquitted; but everybody felt
you were guilty.
Gran. Hush—hush ! a jury said no—not guilty—not
guilty all the world over. [Handing the jug.] Here, Bill!
Jen. And here, Bill. [Giving him bread and meat.]
Here’s suramat to relish it.
Bill. Bless your bright eyes ! I could light mv pipe at
’em 1 cou !^* [Retires up, c.
Gian. \\ here are the rest of our merry-makers ? 1 don’t
see Tom Tulloch.
Tramp. It’s busy day at “ Star and Garter,” and I sup¬
pose Tom can’t get leave. 1
BUI. I warrant me he does though. He’s to meet Pollv
Marigold, which is one thing ; and, moreover, he promised,
in honour of the day, to bring a can of flip, which is another!
Polly. [Singing without.]
‘‘To the fields I carry my milking pails
All in the morning early.”
Giles. Ha ! here’s Polly.
Enter Polly Marigold, l. u. k.
Gran. Welcome to thee, lass ! Hast seen ought of Tom 5
Polly. I wish that young fellow was with me just now,
“ On a may-day morning early.”
OUR VILLAGE.
11
SCENE I.]
Gran. Always merry, Polly—always singing.
Polly. Yes, old uncle says I was born with a singing in
my head. But ah ! girls, what do you think? I’ve such
news ! Who do you suppose is married ?
Jen. Betty at the “ Tnree Pigeons.”
Kate. Old Morris’s daughter.
Sally. That squinting-eyed upstart cretur at old Ferrett’s ?
Polly. No, no, no ! but such a wedding 1 and not far
away either. What do you say to Widow Watkins?
Gran. Why, she’s had three husbands already.
Tramp. And who’s the fourth fool ?
Polly. Old Hobson.
Omnes. What !
Gran. My lord’s under-bailiff.
Polly. The same. It-was all kept snug and cosey; no
one knew, and this very morning at Caversham church
they were married—so— [Singing.]
Hey let us all to the bridal.
For there’ll be tilting there ;
Old Hobson has gone and got married
To sweet Widow Watkins the fair.
Jen. Four husbands 1 Dont’ee now think that a shame,
while so many poor girls can’t get one,—and main good-
looking girls, too.
Polly. But here, boys and girls—come here. The old
lady thought she'd have the first of the laugh ; so, knowing
that we had a little feasting here on my lord’s birthday,
down she’s coming, dizened out in her bride’s clothes.
Jen. Four husbands ! Well, I do wonder how she
manages it ! [Boys shout without.
Enter Sam, l. u. e.
Sam. Here she comes 1 it beats cockfighting hollow !—
Hurrah!
Omnes. Hurrah !
Enter Mrs. Hobson, l. u. e., and Servants bringing
in liquor.
Mrs. H. Well, friends and neighbours, and you, and
you, and all of you,—come, I’ve ordered something to
make you merry. What, Mr. Grantham ! you’ll wish me
joy, I’m sure.
Gran. That will I ; though it be the fourth time on
similar occasions.
Mrs. H. Fie, fie ! how can you bring up the tender re-
12
OUR VILLAGE. [ACT I.
collections of the poor dear fellows ! [Crying.] Well, they
are best where they are. [Saw* laughs. ] What are you
grinning at, jackanapes ?
Gran. Well, widow—psha ! Mrs. Hobson, I mean—I
give you joy. [5am and others hand round liquor, brought
in by the Set'vants, with Mrs. Hobson.] We were drinking
the health of my lord; you’ll join in that I’m sure.
Mrs. H. Aye, that will I. Let’s see,—why, it’s full—
hem ! well, no matter. How many years ago when my
poor Hartley was courting me, and I was a mere child at
the time.
Polly. [To Jenny.] Hartley 1 Spouse Number one I
Mrs. H. There was junketting 1 eh, neighbour?
Gran. The day my lord came of age. Aye, aye, that,
was a day ! I was then a lusty youth, all health and vigour
—gay as a lark—swift as a deer—and you—you widow—
Mistress, I mean—you were pretty then.
Bill. [Aside.] That must be a precious long time ago.
Gran. Talking of days, do you remember the rejoicing
there was on my lord’s wedding-day ?
Mrs. H. I do, I do : that was about the time when poor
dear Dilberry came to solace me in my widowhood.
Polly. Dilberry ! Spouse Number two !
Gran. I mind that day well. What a great awful lady
the countess was.
Mrs. H. Too grand by half,—a proud, disdainful-
Gran. Hush! she’s gone long years since ; and ’taint
for us to judge and condemn the dead.
Mrs. H. Well, I suppose we may condemn the living ;
and I do say that my lord’s marrying that proud Frenchified
madam, and deserting poor Mary Morrison, was a burning
shame.
Gran. Done, will ye!—It was all his relation’s doings,
and formed the one great error of his life ;—it should be
forgotten now, when, for near fifty years, he’s been the
poor man’s friend.
Mrs. H. Well, I can’t forget it; I see her now, poor
thing, pining away—till at last she died of a broken heart.
My poor, dear, deceased Watkins buried her !
Polly. Watkins! Spouse Number three !
Gran. Well, didn’t my lord do all he could—at least, all
my lady would let him do, for her child ?
Mrs. H. And what came of it ? The girl married that
scamping, smuggling fellow, Jack Halliday.
SCENE I.J OUR VILLAGE. 13
Bill. [Angrily.] Who speaks of Jack Halliday ? That’s
Oeen thrown in my teeth twice to-day.
Gran. Silence, man! How Ae died heaven best knows;
we throw no blame on you ; you were tried amid the rest;
if you didn’t bring the subject up, no one else would.
Tramp. Conscience brings it up. Everybody knows that
Jack was suspected of turning snitch upon his smuggling
companions ; Bill was one of them. What, it sobers you,
does it? You know you darn’t walk through churchyard
where he is, or touch tombstone that tells of his foul
murder.
Bill. [Rushing at Tramp.] I dare do bolder things !—
[The Countrymen restrain him.
Mrs. II. Aye, well, bad beginnings have bad endings.—
Mary Morrison’s daughter made a bad match of it: her
husband was killed, and her boy either murdered or carried
away that very night. Poor soul 1 no wonder it crazed her.
Gran. You talk like the rest. Florence Halliday, poor
widowed, childless creature, is no more crazed than thou
art.
Mrs. H. Not crazed? Hasn’t she refused my lord’s
bounty ? has she not for twenty years refused to see him—
her—her own father ? doesn’t she live in a hut on the
beach, when she might be almost mistress of the castle?
Gran. My lord was maddened at her marriage; his dis¬
carding her reduced Jack Halliday to beggary, drove him
to evil courses, and he met his death heaven knows how.
Over the mangled corpse of poor Jack she swore never in
life to forgive her father’s cruelty.
Mrs. H. And a very wicked thing it was to do ; she
ought to have loved her father.
Gran. So she did; but she loved her husband better
than some women do, Mistress Hobson. [Crosses to R.
Polly. Hurrah ! here comes Tom Tulloch.
Giles. Aye, and with lots of comfort, too.
Tom. [Without, l. u. e.] Now see if you can’t upset
that again, young strike-a-light, will you ?
Sam. [Without .] Well, I didn’t go to do it.
Tom. [Without.] Go to do it! but you did do it.
Enter Tom Tulloch and Sam, l. u. e. — Reapers , Lads
and Lasses get around Sam, and hide a grand prize for
centre , which sinks, and a slider covers over the place.
Tom. Ah ! Kate, how dost do ?—Madge—hey, Polly
love ! [To Jenny.] Ah, sweet lips !
w
14 OUR VILLAGE. [ACT I.
Jen. Sweet lips 1 Thee doan’t know whether they be
sweet or not.
Tom . Don’t I? Well, I will soon.
[.Attempts to kiss her.
Mrs. H. [ Interposing .] I cannot allow such disgusting
familiarities.
Tom. Well, I’m sure! [Whistles.] Seeing you’ve had
three husbands, I should think you allowed it often enough.
But I say a harmless kiss isn’t disgusting.
Jenny ^ | Certainly not— hem ! [They retire up, r.
Tom. And let me tell you, Widow Watkins-
Mrs. H. Widow Watkins ! Mrs. Hobson, sir !—you’ll
remember for the future I am the bride of Mr. Hobson !
Tom. Well, you may be Hobson’s choice, but I’m hanged
if you’d be mine !
Polly. So, Tom, you have managed to get away.
Tom. Yes, and a hard job I had to do it. Master’s an
old skinflint—makes me do everything: I’m ostler, waiter,
barman,—I suppose he’ll want to make me chambermaid
soon.
Polly. I should like to see that. What a bungler you’d
be with a warming-pan.
Tom. Yes, I should be a better hand at a frying-pan.
Talking of frying-pans, Sam’s brought lots of bub and
grub. The “ Star and Garter” may hop for me, for we’ll
have a jolly night of it 1 Here’s Bill Bower can scrape a
bit on the fiddle—can’t you, Bill ?
Bill. Aye, Thomas, I can; but-
Tom. I know; popped it last night at the “Flying
Horseman” for a pint of gin, a dab, a soger, and a half¬
penny buster. [ Taking the fiddle from his basket.] I took
it out of pawn.
Gran. I’ll send my lads down with the boards and tres-
sals. Meantime, as Hobson won’t come, Tom, you will
lead off with the bride.
Polly. [Going up, r.] Well, I’m sure !
lorn. I say, she s caught four of ’em—I’m not going to
be Number five.
Gran. Come, it will please the old one, Tom.
[They retire up, expostulating.
Mrs. H. I really have a great mind, though I don’t know
what Mr. Hobson will say, if he comes to know I’ve been
dancing ; and the young fellows now-a-days are so pre¬
suming! ' r
SCENE I.] OUR VILLAGE. 15
Polly. Oh ! but Mr. Hobson, when they learn that you
have blessed— [Singing.]
Another with your heart,
They’ll bid expiring passions cease,
And act a brother’s part.
Gran. That’s right, Polly ; a cup, a song, and a merry
dance to follow. [Exit, r., and Sam, l.
DUETT AND CHORUS.— Air, “ Fie let us .”
Polly. Foot it away to the fiddle,
Frolicksome, careless, and gay ;
Tom. Hands across, then up the middle,
Odds hang it 1 I’ll show you the way.
Polly. Yield not to sleep or to vapours,
A bridal day’s given to glee ;
Tom. So, if you’re for cutting of capers,
Odds ! hang it, ma’am ! cut 'em with me 1
Chorus. Foot it away to the fiddle,
All frolicksome, careless, and gay ;
As life is at best but a riddle,
We’ll merrily laugh it away.
Polly. Jenny, such glances she throws out,
Poor Bobby can never withstand ;
Tom. So Bobby, my lad, turn your toes out,
And take the dear lass by the hand.
Polly. Come, come, Master Tom, you’re a bold one,
So lead without further delay;
Tom. Odds, hang it 1 here goes for the old one—
Dear ma’am, let us trip it away.
Chorus. Aye, foot it away, &c.
THE OLD CUSHION DANCE.
[Tom, who has in the dance kissed Mrs. Hobson,
conies in turn to Polly, l., and with Mrs. Hobson
and a Countryman, r. —after the first verse, skips
across with Mrs. Hobson and back to l. —Polly
and a Countryman do the same—after the second
verse, Tom and Countryman stop on the opposite
side, letting Mrs. Hobson and Polly advance to¬
gether in lines, set, and turn round, hands four
across, ditto, and back again—first couple cast off
each side, and come down the middle, {slap,) cushion
thrown, Mrs. Hodson dodges, Tom follows, catches
b 2
1G
OUR VILLAGE.
[ACT I.
her, she kneels on the cushion, Tom kisses her—all
laugh Mrs. Hodson retires—the same again with
Polly for partner—at the end of the kiss, they all
join hands, and wind Polly and Tom up, and then
■unwind.—A bell tolls three times without.
Re-enter Grantham, r., pale and agitated.
Gran. Nae more sports, lads, nae more sports !
Giles. What’s come now ?
Gran. Death has come ; the news is all over the village ;
our good, kind, noble master is no more. [Chord.—
Tableau.] Peace to his soul! the poor man’s friend claims
the poor man’s blessing !
Re-enter Sam, hastily, l.
Sam. Run for your life, Tom ; company’s coming to
house, and master’s swearing his very head off. [Exit, l.
lorn. So he may; he’ll do as well without it as with it.
Rye, bye, Polly ; one kiss.
Polly. [Crying.] Not now—not now, Tom.
Tom. Well, my heart’s sunk into my heels. Poor old
earl, gone at last! I could cry too. if I had time.
Sam. [Calling without.] Tom ! Tom Tulloch ! *
Tom. Coming 1 Drat “ Star and Garter Coming !
[Exit, l.
Enter Fanny Grantham, r. u. e.
tj ^ at ^ er ’ ( * ear father! hither comes poor widow
liallulay, maddened by the news of the earl’s death.
Bill. [Aside.] Aye! 1 can’t—I can’t meet her!
„ c ^ i „ , [Rushes off, l.
Fan. Soothe her, father; / speak iu vain ; your words
have power over her.
Polly and Jenny run off, r. u. e., and re-enter with
Florence Halliday.
Flo. (c.) Don’t breathe to me—his breath is hushed for ever
another torn away—the parent root uptorn—husband—
Ch “ her 1 . W h y 1 left to mourn and whither on >
Fan. Remember, ’tis His will.
Flo. Remember ! ’Tis my curse to remember. I had a
lusband, others saw his errors, he had none to me ; thev
slaughtered him—I remember that ! I had a son, gone 1
know not whither ! To be knowledgeless of my boy’s fate
is worse than death—that too, I remember !
Fan. Dear Florence, remember you the lessons you
SCENE I.]
OUR VILLAGE.
17
taught me in my childhood ? When the lightning struck
the oak at Caversham, you bade me mark that He who
gave life unto the tree, gave power to the thunderbolt—
that ’twas ours to suffer, not to question.
Flo. Ah ! I was a calm spectator then, I looked on de¬
solation—now 1 feel it; 1 am that blasted tree, crushed
root and trunk—branch and bough.
Omnes. Nay, nay, widow—calm thee, now—calm thee !
Gran. Let her weep ; let her weep. Heaven sends us
griefs, but yields us tears to solace them.
[Fanny enfolds Florence, and as she recovers gazes
tenderly on her.
Flo. Fanny Grantham, from infancy you’ve been as a
child to me. Now mark a sinner’s words !— [To Polly and
Jenny ]—and you. and you ! One thing weighs upon my
heart, heavier, aye, far heavier than a child’s loss—a hus¬
band’s murder! Girls, ye are not like me. children of
shame; you can look upon your fathers with pride, on
your mothers, and bluSh not 1 1—1—(years gone when I
was a prattling, sinless child ; they jeered me for it) I was
a wanton’s daughter—a poor girl’s sin and shame—a rich
lord’s youthful error.
Gran. These recollections wear and madden thee.
Flo. No, farmer, no ; to be mad* is to be happy, for
madness is the grave of memory. I mind the past too
well. To you girls 1 speak the words of warning:—1 wedded
against my father’s will ; he cast me forth ; want, sorrow
came. [To Grantham .] One tempestuous morn I saw my
husband’s bleeuing corse upon the beach ; my child was
borne away, nor ever heard I of my heart’s hope more;
in the frenzy of that bitter moment. I cursed my father!
[All turn away from her with horror .] Aye, shrink from
me—do—all tiv from Florence Halliday. I cursed him as
the cause of all my sorrows—cursed him with the deep
vengeance of a bereaved and spirit-broken woman.
Gran. He forgave thee, Florence—he forgave thee—
sent thee gold—wept for thee—sought to see thee-
Flo. And I spurned him thence ! My own father prayed
to me, and I, his living flesh, refused to hear him. Mark
me ! mark me, a soul-despairing woman.—the measure of
whose agony is full! Is it not—is it not written, “Honour
thy father, and thy mother?’’—The cold grave had her
long years ago—and now. the white-haired old man, that
knelt to me, has gone down to the tomb with the curse
of his wicked child upon him! [The bell tolls with-
b 3
OUR VILLAGE.
18
[act r.
out—they approach her—she throws them off.] Father of
my blood—forgive thy child !
[SAe falls in a swoon. — Music. — Tableau, and the
scene closes.
SCENE II.— A Room in the “ Star and Garter”—three
chairs brought on.
Enter Sneakey, l., followed by Sam.
Sne. [Sitting, r. c.] It is a fact, that of all. the demmed
countries 1 ever travelled in, this is the demdest. Where
are your waiters, rascal ?
Sam. Our what’s ?
Sne. Your what’s, you !—Disappear ! Send boots,
waiter, cook, chambermaid !
Sam. [Aside.~\ Oh ! don’t I wish he may get ’em !
[Exit, l.
Sne. Here we are to take possession. Prospect pleasant!
process demnable ! That confounded horse has jolted
me to a jelly.
Enter Tom Tulloch, l
Tom. Did you call ?
Sne. Did 1 call! Can’t you say “sir,” when you ad¬
dress a gentleman ?
Tom. (i>.) I does when I addresses a gentleman, but
here it’s all t’other.
Sne. You’re demned impertinent, sir! Ah! you may
well look terrified, for I’ve a great mind to horsewhip
you.
Tom. Horsewhip me! That’s a man’s job, spindle-
shanks. Hark ye ! they say it takes nine tailors to make
a man. Why, hang me, it ’ud take eighteen of you !
Sne. Where is the demned bell ? I’ll ring for the land¬
lord, and have you extirpated from the hotel.
[Rises, and walks up and down.
Tom. Now, don’t flurry your little top-boots, Master
Barnabas Sneakey.
Sne. [Hi-hZe.] Gracious Providence ! the creature will
discover my incognitoes. [Aloud.] Who are you, man ?
Tom. Tom Tulloch, waiter ; used to be at the “ Bear
and Ragged Staff,” Smithfied, when you were a cross
between an errand-boy and a foreman to old Swizzle, the
one-eyed tailor of Turnmill-street.
Sne. [A<?hZ(\] lie knows my baptismal appellations,
OUR VILLAGE.
SCENE II.]
19
and my early associations. [Aloud.] Thomas, come here,
Thomas.
Tom. Tom’s my name. ‘‘Torn, t’other pint, and 1’il
pay you on Saturday”—one and eightpence three fardens.
Sue. I confess it, u is a fact.
Torn. And sevenpence ha’penny which you’d run up
with the poor hot plumb-pudding woman afore you bolted.
S?ie. 1 don’t deny it.
Tom. Don’t deny it ! But you don’t pay it.
Sue. There’s half-a-crown ; keep the difference.
'Tom. I means it.
Sne. And now, Tom, I want to unbosom myself.
Tom. What!
Sne. Things has changed. I’m now confidential attend¬
ant upon the Earl of Marlington.
Tom. What, the new one ?
Sne. It is a fact,—nephew of the late earl, and heir to
his riches. I met his lordship abroad—in fact, at Paris.
Tom. I heard you’d been sent abroad, but I didn’t
think it was to Taris.
Sne. Thomas, bygones are bygones. You wouldn’t
betray an old acquaintance ?
Tom. What, split ? not I ! Didn’t I always take your
part agin the drovers when they was sarcy ?
S?ie. Thomas, you did; and I’m grateful. What sort
of a place have you of it here ?
Tom. Queer—makes nothing a quarter, and lives on it.
The old inn’s like a wrecked vessels, ship’s company re¬
duced to captain, one man, and a boy. [Calling off.] Here,
Sam !
Re-enter Sam, l. — Tom ivhispers him.—Exit Sam. i..
Sne. What is the meaning of that pantomimic displav ?
Tom. Deaf and dumb talk of my own invention, mean¬
ing brandy and water, hot, strong, and sweet.
Re-enter Sam with brandy and water, l.
Cut—strike a light. [Sitting.] Squat, Sneakey.
Sam. Sneakey ! Oh cry ! what a name ! [Exit, l.
Sne. [Sitting, r. c.] You have betrayed me, Thomas,
vou have betrayed me : in my lord’s family I’m known
onlv as Adolphus Ricardo.
Tom. Adolphus Kickhardo ! I’ll remember. I’ll stop
Sam’s snag. So now. Adolphus, up and tell us all and
how. [Offering J he glass.] Here.
Sne. Hot liquor ! I should faint away if I touched it.
20 OUR VILLAGE. [ACT I.
Tom. And I should faint away if I didn’t. [. Stirring up
the sugar .] Fingers was made afore spoons.
Sne. Then in the first place, my lord is demdably dipped
in debt.
Tom. Never knew a young lord as wasn’t.
Sue. So of late years we’ve been visiting foreign lands.
Tom. What they calls taking a tower.
Sue. Yes ; we carried our own foxes, and, whilst we
evaded our debts, taught the pardonnez mois hunting.
Tom. I see,—fox chasing to evade your debts, a sort of
hunting tower.
Sue. But we are not down here solely to take possession :
no, my lord is impulsive ; in fact, demnably susceptible—•
you—understand ?
Tom. Bless ye, yes : as Cooke says in Richard the Third,
womanish and weak.
Sue. Incontrovertiblv ;—we saw a demned fine creature
in town some months ago, at my lord’s—she repulsed us.
Tom. Us ! What, were you both arter her ?
Sne. In fact, no; only my lord ; when I say we, I
mean he.
Tom. I see ; cut on.
Sne. The more we keep on imploring, the more she
keeps no, no. no-ing. By the death of the earl, we be¬
come her papa’s landlord : so now, if the girl won’t listen
to reason, we shall turn the old rascal, her father, out of
house and home.
Tom. [Suppressing his anger , rising, and leaning on the
back of the chair.'] But the old man’s got a lease of his
farm. 1 suppose?
Sne. No, no, it is a fact that there is not a lease upon
the whole estate. The poor old stupe-that is—kicked
the bucket.
Tom. The old earl—yes-
Sne. Y"es, the old earl always said to his tenants, “ Pay
me what you paid to my father:” so the creatures have
been for years enjoying their farms at half price.
Tom. Yes, and the new earl means-
Sne. To do w-hat he likes with his own.
Tom. And when the Old Gentleman comes for you and
your master, I hope he’ll follow the example.
Sne. How d’ye mean ?
Tom. Why, do what he likes with his own.
Sne. [Laughing.] He, he, he !—But to return to the
girl: we’re resolved to have her at any rate ; so, if she has
SCENE II.] OUR VILLAGE. 21
any of her nonsense, we shall carry her off. In that case,
you can aid us, and shall be well rewarded.
Tom. Carry oft' the girl !—perhaps an only child, hey ?
"W hat’s your price for breaking a father’s heart ?
Sue. Now, do you really think one of these rustic crea¬
tures has a heart—like mine for instance ?
Tom. No, I’m d—d if he has ! [About throwing the
glass at him .] It isn’t worth while to break the glass.
Before I pound you into paste, tell me—Who is the girl ?
Sne. Thomas, don’t be violent—Thomas, don’t look so
angry— [Calling.'] Landlord, I—I am-1 say you ought
to be taken care of—this is mono-mania—if you go on in
this mad way, you must be sent to Coventry.
Tom. Oh, if it’s mono-mania, I’m sure to be taken care
of—no, 1 mustn’t!—I must be sent to Oxford! Tell me
her name, 1 say !
Sne. [Aside.] He’ll foam at the mouth in a minute.
[Aloud.] I’ll tell you all I know—Fanny Grantham.
Tom. [^46‘irfe.] Dang’d if I didn’t think it was my Poll, for
I’ll swear she’s prettiest girl.in the village. [Aloud.] Now,
you—you—you nothing in two boots !—Fanny’s the pride
of the country round ; old rector gave her an education
fit for a lady ; she’s the core of her father’s heart; and if
my lord dare say a wrong word to her, let him look to it !
As to you. I’d—I’d break you on my knee, if it warn’t for
siling my breeches—I would !
Sne. Thomas, Thomas, this to an old friend !
Tom. Friend ! Get out, you thread-paper ! I w r on’t be¬
lieve my lord’s nephy’s what you make him out ! It’s
lickspittle sarvants iike you that make the poor think ill of
the rich, it is, in nine cases out of ten ; it ain’t the lords
but their lacqueys. But I’ll settle your ash!— [The bell
rings without.] —Coming!—as sure as ever I see my lord—
[The bell rings again] —Coming!—I’ll up and tell him.
[The bell rings violently .] Odd rat it!—Coming ! [Exit, L.
Sne. It is a fact, that, that fellow’s a perfect beast ! I
declare, from my head to my heel, I’m all goose’s flesh.
He’ll betray me to my lord, will he? Luckily our yatcii
is in the neighbouring harbour, and plenty of men of war
are in the downs, press gangs plentiful, sailors scarce.
Thomas, you shall serve his majesty in less than four and
twenty hours. [Exit, r.
OUR VILLAGE.
[ACT I.
SCENE III.— The Village , as before.
Enter the Earl of Marlington and Fanny, r.
Fan. My lord, this persecution must proceed no further.
Earl. Persecution ! Do you give that name to the
avowal of a love-fervent and unchanging-
Fan. My lord, did your rank permit you to ask my
hand, I could not yield it. The protection I cannot hope
from your principles, I may perhaps find in your polite¬
ness ; you will not insult me further?
Eail. It to plead my passion be insult, I implore vour
pardon, though my heart tells me, I shall again relapse''into
the error.
Fan. \ our passions, my lord, not your heart.
Earl. My passions then. My pretty casuist, for one
moment hear me : you have been educated, Miss Grantham,
far above your sphere; it was a fatal kindness in your
patron.
Fan. I feel it so, now I have lost him.
Earl. You cannot mate with the peasantry around you ;
you will live here envied, maligned, and lonely. I offer
you the gaiety of the metropolis, wealth, splendour, all
things but name.
Fan. You offer that too—a name, that from the hour
of woman’s fall is never once forgotten—a name, that
clings to her and her’s—a name, to blight her here and
whither her hereafter. My lord, may not our conference
close now ?
Earl. One thing more. ’Tis a pain to me to speak thus
haishlv ; your father has dwelt for years upon the lands
that now are mine—he dwells here no longer ; the debt
due to my late lord, my steward must collect. *
Fan. Does Heaven give thee the power, and permit thee
thus to use it ?
Earl It is you who make him homeless in his a* e , and
reduced from the happy holder of a thriving farm, to be¬
come a houseless pauper. [Retires, r. s. e.
Fan. I will go home—Home ! how long shall I possess
one . how long will a roof shelter his aged head ? Hither
comes my father. Oh! with what a heavy heart shall I
reveal these tidings!
Enter Grantham and Florence Halliday, l.
Flo. I am calm now, old man. I bow to his decree
OUR VILLAGE.
SCENE III.]
23
but bear, bear with me yet ; the wounded heart bleeds on,
though all the world may preach philosophy.
Re-enter the Earl of Marlington, r. s. e.
Earl. Every farm without exception. I can listen to
no idle tales ; it is enough, 1 want my land ; they can ad¬
duce no title to it, and 1 will have it.
Gran. What 1 our farms ?
Fan. Be silent, father; you have no legal claim upon
the land you hold ; you were verbally a kind man’s tenant.
You may hold your land anew, but the tenure must be your
daughter’s shame.
[Grantham and Fanny retire up, l., she explaining.
Flo. You have begun well, Lord Marlington, lor the
first time you set foot upon your newly-acquired land;
your first deed is, to call the poor man’s hatred.
Earl. When I know whom I have the honour to address,
I may perhaps reply.
Flo. 1 am Florence Hallidav, your uncle’s child.
Earl. Yes, I have heard—his—hem !—daughter.
Flo. His illegitimate daughter. I did not weave my
destiny, nor you your’s. I was the happy occupant of yon
proud castle ’ere you were sent; from that hour until this,
(my fate apart,) Happiness has reigned around me ; you
found content and joy—you work despair and^lesolation.
Be warned !—Peace is not for him who maketh the poor
man’s home a wilderness !
Enter Giles, Tramp, Bill Bowyer, Villagers , fyc.,
L. V. E.
Giles. It can’t be, I tell you ! What! turn us all adrift!
Why, neighbour Grantham-
Gran. It is too true; we must e’en bear it as we may.
I am reft of hope and home !
Bill. Well, my lord can’t take away my home—I have
none.
Flo. [Relapsing into rage, c.] Ye have, murderer!—ye
have !—the gibbet is thy home !—it yawns now for its
tenant!
Fan. [Advancing, l. c.] You said you would be calm.
Flo. I am so. There stands the man who saw my hus¬
band slaughtered—yet never denounced the murderer!
[Bill cowers beneath her glances.
Enter Sneakey, r. s. e.
Sne . I have executed your lordship’s orders ; the labour-
24 OUR VILLAGE. [aCTI.
ers will be here in a moment. Thomas, Thomas, you are
doubled up and done for by this time.
Enter Tom Tulloch, Polly, Sailors, Sfc., r. s. e.
Tom. I will see my lord—there he is. Please, my lord,
I’m Tom Tulloch, waiter at the “ Star and Garter,” my
lord : the crew of your yatch, and that snivelling warmint,
pointed me out to the press gang.
Polly. Please you, my lord, to release him, he’s going
to marry me in a day or two. Set him at liberty, my lord,
I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do if you don’t.
Earl. His majesty’s service demands you. ’Tis not my
province to interfere.
Tom. Thank you for nothing, my lord. Cheer up,
Polly, they can’t press you.
Gran. Come, release the lad. [ Pointing to Bill Bowyer.]
There is a fitter object for your purpose.
First Sailor. Aye, we’ll have him too.
Bill. Well, take me—anything—anywhere, to free me
from her gaze.
Flo. Be the waves more merciful to you, than you were
to him who was my own. Droop not, friends and neigh¬
bours—elsewhere are yielding lands and fertile pastures—
the same Power that made you happy here, shall guard
you hence 1 Smile once again—gloom is for him who has
wrought this desolation. [Music. — Tableau.
END OF ACT I.
A lapse of Twelve Moriths is supposed to have taken
place.
ACT II.
SCENE I. —An Apartment in Grantham's Lodgings.
Enter Grantham, r., reading a letter.
Gran. [Reading.'] The sum has been long over due,
and your conduct to Lord Marlington entitles you to no
clemency. Well, be it so—“entitled to no clemency !” And
what’s my crime ?—I won’t sell my child to shame.—
[Reading.] The law must take its course. Let it; it
may make me a beggar, but it can’t make me a villain.
[Calling.] Polly ! Polly, I say !
OUR VILLAGE.
25
SCENE I.]
Polly. [Singing without.']
Merrily rang the village bells,
The morning that Maud was married ;
Merrily played old piper Tom
As the bride to the church was carried.
Enter Polly Marigold, r.
Gran. Bless thee, girl! nothing but wedding runs in thy
head.
Polly. Why, if a poor girl can’t get married, it’s some
comfort to think about it; and I’m sure, ever since poor
Tom Tulloch’s gone to sea, all the pleasure I have, is, to
sing the bits of songs he loved to hear.
Gran. Long be thy heart light as ’tis now, ray girl,
and may it never know the heaviness that weighs upon
mine. We, Mary, have now been twelve months in Lon¬
don ; my scanty savings have nearly wasted away ;—this
letter sends me to a prison.
Polly. A prison !
Gran. And we must part, girl: you have thus far shared
our fortunes.
Polly. And will still. Can’t 1 work for you, and won’t
I ? Don’t ye be so cast down, now don’t. Though poor
Miss Fanny can’t get employment just now, she will soon ;
and as to your prison, why, we can be cheerful even there;
she’ll sit and sketch old scenes, and I’ll sing you the old
songs.
Gran. You’ve a kind heart, girl, but you little know
what a prison is ; it will rest with my jailer whether I am
to be solaced even by my child—you could not share my
cell.
Polly. It’s a very hard thing I can’t go to prison when
I want.
Enter Fanny Grantham, l., with a newspaper.
Fan. Father 1 dear father 1 news, happy news !—Here
it is. [Reading.] “ From Bengal with dispatches, Lieutenant
John Halliday.^
Gran. The widow’s long-lost son !
Polly. What, handsome Jack Halliday, that used to
come late and early to bring you little presents ! Do let
me look. [Reads the paper.
Gran. You have let your wishes speak, my girl. What
reason have you to think that this Lieutenant Halliday is
poor Jack, long lost to us ?
c
26
OUK VILLAGE.
[ACT II.
Fan. My heart whispers me it is so.
Gran. Think it a dream, and forget it, girl. If fortune
has thus far favoured him, he is above our station ; for,
Fanny, I am a beggar, and in a few hours shall be a pri¬
soner. Read that letter.
Polly. Well, now, I would not give twopence for such a
paper as this ; here’s a whole load of ship’s news, and not
one word about my Tom in it.
Fan. Cheer up, dear father; we know the worst his malace
can achieve. We live in a land, where the poor and honest
debtor can regain his freedom, despite the mandate of a
merciless creditor ; fortune will smile again ; I must strive
anew; do not weep, ’tis for woman, weak woman, to
weep, not for man.
Polly. I could weep my own eyes out, and tear his eyes
out. An earl ! lord of the manor !—the deuce take such
manners, say I !—A peer! to go and oppress a poor old
farmer and two young innocent ducks like us !
Fan. Father, one effort at least let me make. If I may
not see Lord Marlington, let me call upon his steward.
Mr. Hobson.
Gran. ’Twill be in vain ; but I will not thwart thee.
Let the worst come, girl ; whilst thou art left to thy poor
old father, happiness will yet be the tenant of his heart.
[Exit with Fanny, r.
Polly. Poor dear girl!— Go to Hobson, the nasty sneak¬
ing old wretch ! I do believe, when that chap was made,
Nature was short of hearts, and put in a flint instead of
one. Then he was always sniggering after every girl in
the village. Well, lie’s married, and settled now, for old
Widow Watkins is a proper match for him. No, no, there
is no hope for us in that quarter—no—but—here [Look¬
ing at the newspaper.] Lieutenant John Halliday. How
nice it sounds ! 1 wonder what they’ve made of my Tom 1
I shouldnt’t be surprised if he was an admiral, or a general,
or a corporal by this time. I never knew what & a good
thing learning was until now. If poor Tom had only known
how to write, how many a heart-ache had been spared me 1
If them as build churches are good Christians, them as
build schools ain’t far behind ’em. [Folding up the paper.]
I’ll put this under my piliow this blessed night, and I’ll
lay my shoes across, and then I know I shall have pleasant
dreams of old times and poor Tom Tulloch.
SCENE II.]
OUR VILLAGE.
27
SONG.— Polly.
Oh, sad is her fate, who, left on the shore,
Sighs for her lover a ranger,
Gone to tack the wide world o’er
In the land of the foe and stranger.
The night’s deep gloom, and the whistling wind,
Bid the hapless girl bewail her ;
And the rising storm but brings to her mind
What storms may wreck her sailor.
But sweet is the breath of the rising gale,
When her lover’s bark espying ;
She watches the gleam of the snow-white sail,
And sees the bright pennant flying.
He nears the shore, she hears the voice
Tiiat in weal or in woe won’t fail her ;
And she hails her heart’s first only choice,—
Her dear, returning sailor.
{Exit, R.
SCENE II.— The “ Shark and Compasses” Inn, at Ports¬
mouth.
Enter Dabchick and Jenny, r.
Dab. Bustle, bustle, you Jenny; here’s the crew of the
Rattlesnake bearing down upon us—flip for forty, and make
it strong and sweet. {Exit, L.
Jen. Here they come ; I do love a sailor, he’s bold-
hearted as a lion, tender-hearted as a lamb.
Tom Tulloch. {Singing without, L.]
Here, my jolly Jack Linstock of Dover,
He thought for to take her in tow ;
But Poll answer’d, “ My covey, I’m leary,
And you’ll never do for my Joe.”
Enter Tom Tulloch, l.
Bear a hand, my lads ! here we are on true British ground
once more, and now— {Pauses and stares at Jenny.] Bless
vour sweet eyes ! what a pretty craft your are !—Why,
let’s look again—Jenny Johnson !
Jen. Tom Tulloch !
Tom. Drat my old shoes if it ain’t! Why, Jenny, girl,
it brings my heart back to its old moorings to see you.
Well, and how’s my Poll ? how are all at Caversham ?
c 2
OUR VILLAGE.
28
[act II.
Jen. Oh, Tom ! the old village has gone to wreck and
ruin ; Lord Marlington has turned every tenant of his
land.
Tom. Yes, but Poll-
Jen. Poor old Grantham and his daughter were forced
to leave.
Tom. Yes, yes, but Poll-
Jen. Poor \\ idow Halliday has wandered no one knows
where.
Tom. Yes, yes, bnt d—n it! tell me of Poll.
Jen. Polly went to London with ’em.
Tom. Hurrah! then I’m safe to see her; Lieutenant
Halliday and I are off to London.
T i j' Lieutenant Halliday! what, poor Jack, Widow
llal.uday’s son, him as thev said was dead ?
Tom. He ain’t been dead at all, don’t vou go to believe
it: he was stolen away by the gang that killed his father -
the whole crew were taken by a king’s ship ; captain took
pity on the boy ; he turned out a true bit of stuff; was the
pet of the ship ; they made him a middy ; now he’s a lieu¬
tenant, and if he don’t die an admiral, I’m a grampus_
Give us your left flipper! it’s twelve months since Pve
looked in the face of a woman. No ring, hev ? Whv
what sort of lubbers are they here at Portsmouth, that vou
am t got a husband yet ? Those sparkling eves of your’s
ought- J
Jen. Psha ! what’s the use of my eyes, when the puppies
of 1 ortsmouth won’t open their’s ? [Exit, R.
■A bell heat'd.—Entev Sneakey, r.
.. S ? e ' Cin’tlha™ a room where there are none of these
pitch-and-tar fellows ?
Tom. Pitch and tar! Why, you son of nobody out of
nothing ! who are you rating after that fashion >
Sue. Can I believe my ocular vision ? Why, Thomas-
lorn. Thomas! you lot of no use at all, and not quite
T0mT “ ,l0Ch! - He t»at you g „t pressed and
pressed
i . . , a nomas, tne ocean has lmnrovpd
you what a tail you have, surely ! *
7om. \Y by, you swab ! I ought to maciate you if I did
thouVh I’rl 0r fA and f ° rgive is a sailor ’ s maxim;—and
ugh I thought being pressed hard lines then, I’m happy
OU It VILLAGE.
29
SCENE II ]
Sne. And, in fact, you really like the seafaring life ?
Torn. Like it!—loves it: there’s something about a
ship that lays hold of a fellow’s heart,—there she lies in a
hull with all her guns and her powder, silent on the waters,
like thunder asleep ;—but, when she does wake, when the
war-cry rouses her-
Sue. War-crv ! then vou have been in battle, Thomas ?
W ere you not demnably afraid ?
Tom. Why, to tell you the truth, I was afraid. I was
bred a land-lubber, no better than yourself, and when the
enemy neared us, I couldn’t understand why a lot of French
and Englishmen should in cold blood murder one another.
A short of shiver caine over me, and I asked myself one or
two awkward questions ; and the bad things as all of us do
(good as we may seem) came crowding to my memory, and
though 1 ain't done half as much harm as your thing of a
master Lord Marlington, 1 began to think as I was scarcely
fit to live.
Sne. Scarcely fit to live !
Tom. And so the more unfit to die ! —and them’s awk¬
ward lines, them are. Well, she neared us, opened her
throat,—’twas the first time I had ever heard a two-and-
thirtv pounder,—swelling its way through water. Just at
that moment, there was a young middy, a little yellow-
haired bov, no bigger than this, looking at the conflict with
toe eve of an eagle ; there lie stood, a harmless child ; the
next moment the shot came, and there lav a headless corse,
mangled and bleeding,—every drop of blood rose within
me—1 stood to my gun—smoke, fire, raged around us—I
saw nothing, felt nothing, but a wish for vengeance! —
The powder room had taken fire—masts, spars, sheets,
every bit of her flew upwards—one horrid shriek, one sharp
cry, and the next moment there they were, men and boys,
as many as Heaven spared, floating round the ship, and
looking up to us their enemies for safety. “ Man rim
boats—they’re no longer foes!” says the captain. That
was a scene, Barnabv, I never can forget.
Sue. And you saved these French creturs ?
Tom. Saved ’em ! aye, that we did : but now comes the
worst on it.—These men, that we snatched from the very
jaws of the ocean, were our prisoners—it’s hard lines, isn’t
it. to save a man with one hand, and shackle him with the
other of ’em. One of the mounseers, a poor deaf and
dumb chap that had had his tongue taken out bv the Al-
c 3
30
OUR VIUUAGB.
[act II.
gerine pirates, turned out to have been an old pal of Bill
Bowyer’s. You remember Bill?
Sue. A filthy fellow, who smoked short pipes and drank
spirituous lluids—oh yes !
Tom. Ever since that there Frenchman’s been aboard.
Bill’s pined away just as if tnounseer knowed summat of
him as he didn’t ought to have done.
Sue . What., you think something concerning poor Hal-
Iiday, the murdered mate of that poor crazy creature ?
Tom. Yes. I’ve marked Bill in the night-watch ; he
couldn’t iook straight forward at me, or upwards there.—
Depend on it, things are wrong inwards when a man shrinks
from his fellow, and fears what he ought to pray to.
Enter Darchick, l.
Dab. I’ve pleasant news for you. Captain Hawser, who
died here the other day, commanded the Rattlesnake, which
was to have sailed out of port a week since : the admiralty
has appointed Lieutenant Halliday her commander, with
orders for instant sailing; there’s news for you'. Why,
you don’t seem glad !
Tom. Glad! I could jump out of my shoes for joy, and
the same time blubber like a babe—I’m glad for the
lieutenant, sorry for myself.
Dab. I’ll tell you something to make you gladder : the
lieutenant’s married, or will be married.
Tom. Married ! who to ?
Dab. A Miss Grantham.
Sne. Death to our hopes ! he’s got the girl of our hearts.
But how—how, I say—how are they married ?
Tom. How, you swab ?—How does everybody get mar¬
ried ? Drat it! if 1 had but time to see my Foil, 1 might
be doing summat in that line myself! Well, dutv afore
pleasure, though 1 could have wished it wisev warcy. Scud
and make a bowl of ruinbo ! [Exit Dabchick, l.] What a
thing it is not to be a schollard. Here, you little snivelling
scamp ! you can write, can’t you?
Sne. Upon any topics.
Tom. What do you know of the tropics ? You see, I’m
off into blue water once more, and I must tell Poll all in a
letter—say I loves her more than ever, that I’ll be as true
as a needle to the north, and that I loves her more than
ever, and that I’m sailing under Captain Halliday—and
mind, I loves her more than ever—and that the idea of
sailing without her brought salt water aboard my ogles—
OU It VII, LAG e.
SCKN K III. j
31
and that 1 loves her more than ever—and—and—and—
that's all.
Sue. Very well; you love her and will be as trne to her
as the compass.
Tom. As the needle—tailor. Now, don’t you forget to
say all I’ve said, and above ail be particular about this,—
that I love her more than ever—aye, drat it ! and more
than that too. [Music. — Exeunt , i..
SCENE 111.— The Country House of Hobson.
Enter Hobson and Florence IIalliday, r.
Hob. Duty’s a stern tiling, Mrs. IIalliday; my heart is
as tender us a babe’s, but a landlord must be protected for
all that.
Flo. On that point, Mr. Hobson, I shall urge no fur¬
ther ; there is a subject much nearer to my heart—
vague rumours reach me of one Lieutentant IIalliday, and
hope told me he was niv child.
Hob. Never believe your hopes, ma'am—deceptive things
—I never hoped after I was eighteen—1 worked, Mrs. Hal-
liday, worked night and day, till I scraped together the
trifle I have ; that wasn’t done by hoping.
Flo. You are a wealthy man, 1 am a houseless wretch ;
your wishes are all fulfilled ; what more have you to hope
for ?
Hob. A good deal more, ma’am : I have a little money,
it’s true, but I hope to have more, more, more.
[ Crosses to r.
Flo. Then you do have hopes.—Cherish them ; but chide
not one, who. reft of home and husband, guide and child,
has nothing left to bear her up but hope.
Hob. Why, it’s a very pretty thing when one has no¬
thing left to live upon ;—you, for instance, hoped to find
your son. Now, had you not indulged in a false hope, you
wouldn’t have suffered this disappointment.
Flo. Still, dear w\as that hope—so dear, I cannot even
now resign it. Pardon me for intruding further—but are
you certified fully, fatally certified, that he 1 seek is not
my son ?
Hob. Fully certified. I couldn’t learn who his family
were, to be sure, but he’s patronized highly at head quarters
—and then—we generally guess all about the family, hey ?
[She turns from him.] No; this young Halliday, some
off-shoot of nobility, and little better than a boy, couldn’t
32 OUR VIUUAGR. [ACT II.
else be made a captain, depend upon it; mere merit never
yet got such speedy promotion.
Flo. And his vessel, you say, has sailed—for what part?
Hob. Mum—not known—gone out with sealed orders—
all done at a moment’s notice—came ashore, got promo¬
tion and a wife the same day, and off to sea the next.
Flo. Providence watch over the waters !—guard the good
ship through peril and through storm in the hour of danger!
—shield him who commands her, though he be not my
child !
Hob. Ave, very proper; for when ships are lost, it’s a
dreadful thing for the under-writers.
Mrs. Hobson. [Calling without, r.] Hobson, I say!
Hob. (r.) Coming, my dove. Mrs. Hallidav, do vnu
hear that voice ? You have your troubles, 1 have mine.
Enter Mrs. Hobson, r.
Mrs. H. Hobson, pray didn’t you hear me?
Hob. I did, love.
Mrs. H. Then why didn’t you fly to me! Ugh ! vou’re
a he bear!
Hob. [ Aside .] Yes, and I know who's the she bear.—
Luckily we haven’t any cubs.
Flo. I have detained you too long with my sorrows.
Should you learn ought of that vessel’s fate, you will, I’m
sure, relieve my heart, for delusion as it may be, still do I
cling to hope.
Hob. Oh. certainly, yes—good day, Mrs. Hallidav.
Mrs. H. Mrs. Hallidav ! [Crossing to her.] Why, how
you are altered !—you stare—have you forgotten me ?
Flo. Why, I-Widow Watkins, 1 believe.
Mrs. M. Oh, no ! poor dear felhrtv, he’s dead !
Hob. [Aside.] Yes, worse luck. [Aloud.] I’m the
happy man now.
Mrs. H. Hobson, you’re a brute ! Is this the way you
receive Mrs. Hallidav ? keeping her kicking her heels" in
your office, never sending for me—nor offering her any
refreshment, I’ll be sworn !
Hob. My love, I forgot. [To Mrs. Holliday.] Will you
take anything before you go?—don’t sav no.
Mrs. II. Is that the way to ask, you old dotard ? Leave
the room !
Hob. Yes. my dear, and glad to get out of it. [Exit, R.
Mrs. H. Never mind, Mrs. Hallidav; I’ll teach the old
fool to behave so to old acquaintances ! Come, come, you
OUR VII.I- VUK.
33
SCENE III.J
mustn’t be so east-down ; you look young and pretty yet.
Why don’t you follow my example ? I couldn’t remain a
lone woman ; it’s a wretched state of existence,—so I took
him after I lost poor dear Watkins—for even that idiot is
better than no husband at all.
Flo. Long may you live to be happy with him.
Mrs. H. Oh ! I’m happy enough, dear—though he has
little to do with my happiness. But tell me now, do you
still live at Caversham ?
Flo. None live there ; my little cottage on the beach
(my father’s gift) was the last building razed to the ground.
Mrs. II. Wiiat, your cottage razed !—that love of a
place, with the roses in front, and the peaches in summer¬
time 1
Flo. Yes ; it excluded the view from his lordship’s lodge.
Mrs. H. (l. c.) It’s a shame—a burning shame ! But
they made you ample compensation ?
Flo. (t„.) I had no claim to any, no title to produce ; it
was only a verbal gift, and the law does not permit me to
retain it longer.
Mrs. II. And they’ve turned you out —you ! own blood
to that racketting rascally Lord Marlington—you ! Oh !
Mr. Hobson ! you shall pay for this !—turn you out !
Flo. Even so. I came here with some faint hope that
my lord-but no matter, I am used to sorrow, and can
year it. Good morrow, madam.
Mrs. H. But you don’t go in that way if I know it.
I’m not proud, though I have had four husbands—no ! I
remember, too, that in my poverty I was beholden to you ;
it’s my turn now. \_Qfferiug a pocket-boolc .] Take this—
houseless and a stranger in London—you must take it.
Flo. I cannot—indeed, I cannot !
Mrs. H. But you must. What d’ye think I married
that old booby for, but to have plenty of cash at my com¬
mand. Don’t I remember when my poor dear Hartley
was lying at death’s door, that no one came to pray with
him or relieve me, but you—you, Florence Halliday !
Flo. [ Taking the pocket-book .] I do accept it, and shall
pray anew for her who has snatched from the jaws of des¬
truction, a widow and an outcast. Farewell, and Heaven
bless you ! [Exit, l.
Mrs. H. What a fool I am to cry ; and I’m sure I don’t
know what I cry for, for I feel as happy—won’t I worry
that old villain of mine ! won’t I, that’s all !—not a wink
of sleep does he get this blessed night!—Who knows what
OUR VILLAGE.
34
[act II.
perpetual vexation may do ? If I ever should live to marry
again—aye, no matter, there’s no knowing what’s reserved
for one. [J Exit, r.
SCENE IV.— The Cabin of the Rattlesnake.
Enter Lieutenant Halliday and Tom Tulloch, c. f.
Lieu. Our bark can make no head against this sea ; she
reels as if she was drunk. [A crash heard ivithout.
Enter Bill Bowyer and Cachet, r.
Bill. Four feet in the hold ! Oh, save me ! save me !
Lieu. Your dastard fears alarm our crew—be a man!
we can but die.
Bill. It’s well for vou that vou can die: you have not
any cause to be afraid.
Lieu. Afraid, man ! I am a British seaman, fulfilling to
the best my duty. How does a man feel when he’s afraid ?
—I need not ask how he looks.
Bill. Oh, your honour! there is no water in all the
mighty ocean about us to drown Bill Bowyer; I’ve that
here that weighs me down to death. [Observing Cachet.]
He knows it—he knows it all !—don’t turn away from a
dying man ! it’s not dastard fear, but the heavy curse of a
stricken-conscience man. John Haliidav, 1 saw your fa-
ther murdered !
Lieu. What !
Bill. I did not strike the blow—by heaven, I did not!
But now I hear an accusing voice in every crash of the
billow—fear, fear, is freezing up my heart!
Lieu. Innocent of his murder, what have you to fear?
Bill. He that permits crime is kin to him who commits
it. It was said your father, my schoolfellow jolly Jack
Halliday, meant to turn snitch to betray us his confeder¬
ates ; it was a lie, a damning lie !—but there was one who
had cause to ship him far, far away—he resisted—I struck
the first—no, no, not the fatal blow !—others fell upon
him—the last struggle came, and I saw him fall dead as a
stone. This paper contains the particulars of his fate, and
the proof of your fortune. Do not break the seal until
Bill Bowyer lies low. [Giving papers.] Here is the fatal
evidence; [Pointing to Cachet] there the living witness.
[.4 crash again heard.] 1 dare not, cannot die !
OUR VJ ULAGE.
CFNE l.J
35
Lieu. Up, guilty man, up! the waters gain upon us—
let us make one more effort, though that one be a death
struggle 1 [Music. — Exeunt , l., Cachet ordering Bill off.
SCENE Y. —The Deck—the sea in commotion.
END OF ACT IT.
A lapse of Seven Vears is supposed to have taken
place.
ACT III.
SCENE I.— The Mill of Caversham.
Enter Captain Halliday, l.
Cap. Well, well do I remember the old spot ! and bit¬
terly recall that fatal night when I saw my father—my own,
dear, kind father, stricken down by the murderous crew
that surrounded him; one face amid the murderers I never
can forget. Father, father ! I loved thee living—I saw
thee die. I cannot avenge thy fate, ’tis left for me to weep
above thy grave.—These tears are blinding me—where is
my mother—dead too ?—pining in poverty, or worse, far
worse, withering in a workhouse ! No, no ! heaven will
have spared her that! Arouse, Jack Halliday! hope is
the sailor’s beacon ; we shall be happy yet,—for the bright¬
est flashes always follow the darkest storm.
[Tom heard singing without.
Enter Tom Tulloch, l. s. e.
Tom. [Crossing to r.] I’m blessed if I ain’t as much
puzzled as a Thames waterman would be to steer a 74
through the needles, as to make ont a single craft I ever
hailed before.—Is that you, your honour ? Be^ pardon,
but vour honour seems taken a little a-baclc.
Cap. A few sad thoughts of the old home, Tom Tulloch.
I rejoice to find you merry—yet I’m the most miserable
man alive.
Tom. Axing your honour’s pardon, were I in your place
J wouldn’t care to call the lord high admiral my first cousin.
I’m the most miserablest warmint on the earth ; and you,
spliced to the girl of your heart—haven’t you turned pretty
Miss Fanny Grantham into Mrs. Captain John Halliday,
36
OUR VILLAGE.
[ACT III.
and scudded down to these parts to come alongside your
mother?—as to me, I never had one, worse luck ; I’ve
only pretty Poll, and I’m afeard she’s drifted from her
moorings.
Cap. Cherish hope as I do, and you’ll hail her yet.
Tom. And I’m a Dutchman when I do, if I don’t lay
a shower of kisses on her lips as thick as the first coat of
paint on a seventy-four ! but I’m afeard she may have sup¬
posed that all on us went to Davy Jones seven years ago
with the Rattlesnake.
Cap. Fear not that: she is doubtless aware that we es¬
caped the horrors of that frightful night.
Torn. She is!—Huzza ! your honour makes me as happy
as a middy on a pay-day.
Cap. Tom, you have stood by me in peril; to your
powerful arm on that dreadful night 1 owe the life of dear
Fanny.
Torn. Don’t mention it, your honour.—Why, I’d help
the very devil himself if he was drowning, and it’s hard if
I couldn’t do as much for such an angel as that.
Cap. The papers given to me by Bowyer make me heir
to Caversham. Cheer up ! your Poll shall be found.
[Exeunt, r.
SCENE II.— Lord Marling ton's House — chairs, and a
table, r. c., with wine, papers, books, &fc., on it.
The Earl of Marlington discovered walking to and fro,
Hobson in waiting , r.
Hob. You find all as I said, my lord ?
Earl. I know it, I know it.
Hob. All squandered—gone—made ducks and drakes
of—but then, you’ve had your pleasure for’t.
Earl. Pleasure 1 Look upon me, old man—have eight
years wrought this change ? I have blasted my youth and
fortune in the vortex of dissipation, and the world terms it
pleasure.
Hob. But you’ve had your enjoyments, equipage—all
were yours—gaming—wine—women-
Earl. Yes, madness at the dice board; drunkenness to
drive away the sense of loss—and women—such women !
one smile from her who can truly love, is worth all the
caresses the wantons of the world can proffer.
[Goes to the table, r. c.
Hob. Just what I said when I married Mrs. Hobson_
forgive me for lying, [Aside.] 1 have him now.
SCENE II.J OUR VILLAGE. 37
Earl. [Sitting.] I see by this, that l am no longer
master even in my own mansion.
Hob. Just so, my lord; you would mortgage all.
Earl. The Caversham estates still tied up in chancery
unuer an idle pretence of a will that no one ever saw.
Hob. They may not have seen it, and yet they may.
Earl. Well then, I am a beggar. [jS7/s and drinks .]
Here I sit, the wreck of pleasure—the monument of vice !
Drink, man, drink 1 sorrow never yet proved a remedy for
ruin.
Hob. I could devise a remedy— [The Earl —
reinstate your lordship in wealth and power. [ The Earl
again laughs.'] 1 am no jester, my lord ; all this I can do.
Earl. What is this remedy ?
Hob. Will your lordship bear with your old servant ?_
To you I owe all I possess: I should be happy to yield up
the fruits of my years of labour to you—from whose family
my fortune sprang.
Earl. Nobly offered, Hobson. Accept my thanks, but
keep your gold, old man; ’twould not become Lord
Marlington to be the pensioner of his steward.
Hob. No pensioner: grant but one condition, I will be
your servant—your slave—toil anew for you on one con¬
dition.
Earl. Name it.
Hob. My lord, you have looked upon me as a relentless
man, fattening on your folly ;—but I have feelings—even
lawyers can love,—I married early—have an only daughter
—wed Marian Hobson.
Earl. Mr. Hobson, this is the first time my servant
dared to insult me. Quit my house !
Hob. My house, my lord 1 my house ! I hold the mort¬
gage—the bill of sale ; in this house your lordship is a
trespasser.
Earl. [Aside.] Now I feel to the full the degradation
vice entails ; my own servant braves me thus. Hold 1 there
is one hope 1 [Aloud.] Come hither. Mr. Hobson, what
if I should comply ?
Hob. My dear lord, forgive me if I was presumptuous,
but you wounded my heart. I love my child—even lawyers
have feelings—shall I live in the hope that I may call you
my son ?—say but that—another glass of wine. [Goes up.
Earl. [Aside.] I must swallow the bait, or seem to do
so. To woman my life has been one long lie—I need not
D
38 OUR VILLAGE. [ACT III.
pause to outlie my steward. [. Aloud .] Here’s to Marian
Hobson !
Hob. One word more.
Earl. Here’s to the Countess of Marlington !
Hob. Forgive me for daring to drink in your lordship’s
presence. Here’s to my child, my dear, my lovely child—
Marian, the future Countess of Marlington !
Earl. [ Aside.] I said not that. [Aloud.'] And now,
Hobson, your scheme, your scheme. [ They sit.
Hob. In one word, Captain John Halliday is rightful
heir—not alone to Caversham, but to all lands, money,
title— [ The Earl starts.] None know it but me ; all thought
Florence Halliday a bastard : she was none ; her mother
was secretly married ;—I have the proofs, and can destroy
them. There is indeed a will, a copy of which exists; the
certificate of marriage I hold. Bless me ! you turn pale—
more wine 1
Earl. No—a sudden faintness—leave me alone for a few
minutes.
Hob. It’s merely joy of your recovered fortune.
Earl. No doubt—leave me, I entreat you.
Hob. Entreat! command me ! I'll fly to Marian—I go,
my lord—entreat, indeed—to the last shilling—to the worst
act—even to murder, if it was to serve you, my lord—my
son-in-law — you may, you shall command me! [Exit, l.
Earl. I have sunk low indeed, when living man dare ask
Marlington to connive at robbery. What, what can tear
this agony from my breast ?—what retribution ! Sweet
Fanny Grantham, how fain would I make thee mine—mine
at the altar!—fall a repentant libertine at thy feet, and
pray for pardon ! That dream is over, you are another’s,
but I can aid your fortune ; I may meet them all with
fallen fortune and humbled pride, but I shall boast of
something better—a generous purpose and a guiltless
heart! [Exit, l.
SCENE III.— The Ruined Village.
Enter Florence Halliday, l.
Flo. Heaven be thanked ! I am not strengthless yet.—I
have reached the ruin that was once a home. There is the
old church to which a mother led my infant steps : within
the crumbling altar, where 1 breathed the vow of love and
honour,—say, murdered dear one, has not Florence Halli¬
day kept that vow, even to the letter ? As I clung to thee
SCENE III.]
OUll VILLAGE.
3U
living, so I adore thee dead,—thou wert everything to me
—lite of my life—care of my heart; and now, after the
long sad years, one joy is left me—to perish at thy grave !
Why should a hopeless wretch live on with none to love,
and none who love her ?—lonely, lonely, lonely ! Oh !
there is no solitude like the solitude of the heart. Fare¬
well, bright sky—sweet vision of hereafter! [Kneeling.]
Eternal power ! forgive a suppliant sinner—and now comes
the deep, the long sleep—when it is thy will—thy will-
[Faints.
Enter Hobson and Officers, l.
Hob. I tell you we can’t have such goings on ;—I’ll not
have anything of the kind occur on the estate. Raise her!
[Calling.] Hoy, you—good woman, (if you are a good
woman,) what do you want here ?
Flo. I want to die.
Hob. Die! then go into the next parish—you can’t die
here—you’ll become chargeable to us.
Flo. I shall soon be chargeable to none ; I am dying.
Hob. Oh ! pooh, pooh ! that’s what all you paupers
say.—Dying indeed! what should make you die? [The
Officers raise her.] There, you’ll do well enough now—on
with you !
Flo. You have forgotten me—aye, no matter, all forget
Florence Haliiday—do you not know me now ?
Hob. In the performance of my duty I know nobody.
Flo. Do your duty, then—heaven asks no more of any
man. My duty calls me hither—yonder is the grave of
Haliiday. I do not crave your charity ; I ask but leave to
die beside my husband. [Kneels.
Hob. Can’t allow it! paupers must be separated ! Away
with her ! [The Officers raise her, and are dragging her off'.
Enter Captain Halliday, l.
Cop. [Looking back.] I know the fields, the streams ;
but where, where are the dwellings ? The village that was
once so happy— [Turning.] Whither are they taking yon
poor woman ?
Hob. Not far—just beyond the bounds of the parish.
Cap. And whence then ?
Hob. Oh! where she pleases—she may go wherever she
likes, so she don’t become burthensome to our parish.
[Crosses to l. c.
Cap. When the long reckoning comes, old man, title,
d 2
40 OUR VILLAGE. [ACT III.
clime, or place will share alike—Providence cares for all
parishes.
Hub. Yes, but then providence isn’t a church-warden.
Cap. Here my good woman is something to help you on
veur way. Why do you refuse my offer ?
Flo. Kindness is a stranger to me ;—but if you would
indeed be kind, send these fellows hence. I want no gold,
a little spot of earth here, here, beside my husband’s
grave, is the only boon man can grant to Florence Halliday.
Cap. Florence Halliday !—Heart, heart!—why do you
not speak, since my tongue cannot ?—Mother!
Flo. Ye shall stand from me! [Breaks from the men .]
Come—no nearer—I see a form long since shrouded in the
grave—I hear a voice—the voice of other days ! Your
name ?
Cap. John Halliday,—and your’s is-
Flo. Florence—your mother! your happy, happy mo¬
ther ! [Rushing into his arms.] My boy, my boy—blessed
image of thy father !—Heaven has heard my prayer!
[Faints in his arms.
Cap. Do I hold thee once again? [The Men advance.']
1 do not need your aid—’tis but the sudden gush of joy—
she’ll be better soon—she breathes again, her lips regain
their colour. Mother, dear mother !
Hob. Young man, I don’t know who you are ; you seem
to be a sailor, and perhaps don’t know the law ; you are
resisting authority; that woman must be removed. [To
the Men.] Take charge of her.
Cap. Touch her, and I crush you, minions !—touch her,
dare to look upon her, or to breathe one word, and I’ll
send you to the grave that yawns for you ! Mother, source
of my life, fountain of my heart—cling to me—Ah, thou
art strengthless ! Come, then, I’ll bear thee in mv arms.
How often have I been borne in thine ! [To Hobson.] Old
man, we shall meet again.
[Music.—Exit , r., carrying Florence.
Hob. Heels for two ? [Exit, r., followed by Officers.
SCENE IV .—A Street.
Enter Tom Tulloch and Tramp, l.
Tramp. So, you can’t trace your Polly yet. Have you
found out Sneakey and Dabchick ? they might tell you :
where are they ?
Tom. Where ? going up them everlasting stairs as ain’t
OUR VILLAGE.
SCENE IV.]
41
got no banisters ; and here I am adrift, steering without
port or compass.
Tramp. But you, a sailor, shouldn't fret in this way
about a woman.
Tom. Why, what the devil should one fret about but a
woman ? Man’s a bit of d—d mouldy biscuit, woman’s
the grog that sweetens it. Take all the men in the warsal
world, and boil ’em down, you wouldn’t make a good woman
out of them. Woman ! why, paradise warn’t paradise
without one.
Tramp. Don’t take it so to heart, you’ll find her.
Tom. Drat me if I don’t knock at every door in London
but I will!
Tramp. Knock at every door in London ! that will be a
toughish job, Master Tulloch.
Tom. Yes; I expect I shall be an old man before I’ve
done it, so let’s lose no time in beginning. Scud, Tramp !
you take the right side, I’ll take the left ; and mind you
axes proper for Mary Marigold.
[Exeunt, Tom r., Tramp, l. — Loud knocking heard
at the doors—they gradually die away.
Enter Polly Marigold, as a ballad singer, l. s. e.
Polly. I’ve no heart to siug, and no bread if I don’t,—
it’s “ No song no Supper” in earnest with me. I wonder
what rich people think when on the cold winter’s night they
hear the poor ballad girl singing, “ Home sweet home ?”
[.Knocking heard without.
Polly. [Singing. - ]
“ ’Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.’’
[.Knocking again heard.
Ah ! that dear old village, and that dearer Tom Tulloch !—
shall I ever see him again ? [ Knocks heard.] No, there is
no hope ; he sleeps in*the deep waters, and I can’t even
shed a tear over his grave. [Knocks heard again.] Not a
farthing have I taken this blessed morning. I must try a
merry song—Merry ! ah ! it’s one thing to amuse others—
another to feel joy oneself.
[Knocking heard without , r. and l.
MEDLEY.— Polly.
I’ve lays of love and songs of sorrow—
Of happy days and joyless morrow—
d 3
42
OUR VILLAGE.
[ACT III.
Of lonely maid in bower waiting—
Her lover’s lost ’mid battles war—
Or wilder’d wife her husband sailing—
Or breathless cast upon the shore.
For merrier maids I’ve a merrier song,
Row de dow, derro.
Of warriors cheerily marching along,
Row de dow.
For the trumpet calls the soldier far,
Yet one fond tie shall bind him ;
To the king he serves—the land he loves—and the girl he
left behind him.
But dearer far to woman’s heart—
The fond, the warm emotion—
She feels for him who sails afar
Upon the boundless ocean.
For a sailor’s the lad that first caught Polly’s fancy,
Though hard fate compelled them to part;
He might jest with young Sue, or might prattle to Nancy,
But Polly alone had his heart.
He loved her he swore dearer far than his life,
And returning with rapture would hail her ;
And this the toast he loved the most,—
The w r ind that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass that loves a sailor.
Re-enter Tom Tulloch, r.
Tom. [ Entering .] Drat me, if that voice arn’t shaken
me from stem to starn. I say, old girl-eh ! shiver my
timbers !—my heart’s taken aback, and my glims turned
into dead eyes !—Poll ?
Polly. Tom ! [They embrace.
Tom. My Poll! my own Poll! 1 hug me again, Poll!! 1
Polly. [Rushing to him, hut suddenly stopping.] You
arn’t gone and got married, have you, Tom ?
Tom. Married ! no ! if a mermaid had asked me, I
wouldn’t have had her.—But Poll—how is this, my Poll
bawling ballads in the public streets ?
Poll. Misfortune, Tom : master was bankrupt, and I
cast on the world ; then you were at sea, taken by that
horrid pressgang, and forced to be a sailor.
Tom. Poll, don’t say a word agen the sea ; it’s a hard
life to be sure, but it has it’s joys ; and if we are penned
up for a few months, what sprees we have when on liberty
ashore!
SCENE IV.] OUR VILLAGE. 43
Polly. Ah ! Tom, to press a man and make him a sailor
whether he will or no—do you call that liberty ?
Tom. Yes, it’s the liberty of the press. [Polly picks up
the basket .] But Poll, why how you are rigged !—drat it!
it breaks my heart to see you in such togs.
Polly. Never mind, Tom ; I could have had fine clothes,
but you know the price 1 must have got them at.
Tom. You shall have fine clothes now, and the price
shall be an honest sailor’s love. Hurrah ! here’s a slop¬
shop 1 in with you, Poll! [ Putting her into the shop.]
Here, missus ; don’t stand for the shiners, Poll, there’s
plenty more in the locker. [ Polly enters the shop , c. f.]
Poor Poll a ballad singer ! Well, there ain’t no shame in
that. [Knocking heard without.] Where is that swab now,
I wonder ? [Calling.] Tramp, ahoy 1 you needn’t knock no
more, I’ve found Poll, so come alongside, messmate ! [Pulls
Tramp on, r.] Tip us your flipper! I’m as happy as a
middy the first day he’s rated. [Calling.] Poll, arn’t you
rigged yet ?
Tramp. Well, but you take away my breath—how—
where—tell me all.
Tom. Why, d—me, I’ve found Poll, and that’s enough.
[Calling again.] Poll, I say, are you not rigged yet? bear
a hand, my lass, do !
Tramp. [Kicking Polly's things about.] What rubbish
is this here ?
Tom. Don’t you go to kick it;—it’s a shocking bad
bonnet ’tis true; but it was my Poll’s, and the man’s no
man who doesn’t reverence the verriest rag that ever co¬
vered the form of a woman.
[Picks up the ’kerchief, and ties it round his neck.
Tramp. This is great luck, to be sure : but how did you
find her, promiscuous ?
Tom. Promiscuous! no, singing. Why, drat my old
shoes ! Poll, are you coming yet ? Here, Tramp, off with
you to the “ Rodney’s Head”—order—order-
Tramp. What ? what am I to order ?
Tom. Order ’em to boil everything that’s in the house,
and roast the rest.
Tramp. And the grog-
Tom. Let ’em turn the waterbutt into a punchbowl—
hail all my messmates—won’t we make a night of it!
[Calling.] Poll Marigold, ahoy !
Poll. [Within.] Be with you in a minute, Tom.
Tom. Bless your sweet voice ! it rang in my ears when
44 OUR VILLAGE. [ACT III.
the storm was at its full, and I thought all was over with
poor Tom Tulloch.
Polly. [ Within , singing.]
“ There’s a sweet little cherub sits perch’d up aloft
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.’’
Tom. [ Taking off his hat.] Why don’t you take off your
hat, you lubber, when prayers is saying ?
Tramp. Prayers ! a trumpery song.
Tom. Trumpery ! our captain says it’s as good as a
hymn : it was written by old Charley Dibdin, who did as
much to cheer a sailor’s heart as any parson as ever
preached. [Calling.] Ain’t you rigged yet, Poll?
Re-enter Polly from the shop, c. f.
Polly. [Singing as she enters.]
“ The wind that blows, the ship that goes,
And the lass that loves a sailor.”
Tom. There’s a craft, look at her stem and stern ! Bless
your figure-head ! [To Tramp.] Heave a-head, messmate!
1 and Poll will follow.
Polly. [Gathering up her bonnet and ’ kerchief, and
making them into a bundle.] And take these things with
you, sir, please.
Tramp. Oh, leave em, Poll, they arn’t no use.
Polly. Yes, they are, I’ll keep ’em the longest day I
live to remind me of the happy moment when I met you,
Tom. [Exit Tramp with the apparel, r.
Tom. [Calling after him.] Take care of them there
things ; they’re more precious than diamonds. 1 say,
Poll, you arn’t got a watch ; here, take one of mine. [She
puts it on.] Here, d—me, put ’em on t’other side. [Look¬
ing at her.] 1 could sail round you for a year; why, Poll,
you’re prettier than ever.
DUET.— Polly and Tom.
Polly. Though ribbons and laces adorn pretty faces,
Give me the fond bosom devoid of all art;
1 night eyes, luddy lips, and a hundred fine graces
All fade into nothing compared to the heart.
Tom. Long life to the petticoats, big ones or small,
For women, ecod, I’m in love with them all 1
The lubber who’d marry for land or for pelf,
May go—to the devil and shake himself.
Go to the devil, &c.
Both.
OUR VI LI,AGE.
45
SCENE V.]
Tom. A woman to bless him, to cheer and caress him,
What wants a man more on the ocean of life ?
Polly. And of all the dear words that the language possesses,
The dearest of all is that little word wife.
Tom. Oil Poll, what a scrimmage the morning of marriage;
Polly. The fare shall be good, though I served it on delf ;
And the creature that sighs for a title and carriage
Tom. May go to the devil and shake herself.
Both. Go to the devil, &c.
A DOUBLE HORNPIPE.
[Exeunt, l.
SCENE Y .—A Room.
Enter Marlington and Captain Halliday, l.
Cap. Marlington, you have acted nobly.
Mar. Justly, no more; believe me, though I may not
resign my possessions without a sigh, yet I rejoice that
wealth and title are so worthily disposed.
Enter Fanny and Mrs. Hobson, l.
Fan. Husband! dear husband! the papers are secure,
and you, love, are now Earl of Marlington.
Cap. (r. c.) But my mother-
Mrs. Id. (l. c.) Ah, you men think yourselves very clever,
but your best schemes are generally aided by the wit of
woman.
Fan. (c.) Come, let us fly with the welcome news to her
that I love even as a parent.
Mar. (r.) Madam, years since you saw in me a persecutor,
you now behold a penitent. Your pardon is a balm to my
heart, though I go forth a beggar.
Cap. No, never ! He that was once Earl of Marlington,
shall share the fortunes of him who now claims that title.
[Exit with Fanny and Marlington, r.
Mrs. H. What clever noddies these men are !—But
there’s a little more to be done yet. [Calling off.] Here,
mister !
Enter Tom Tulloch, l.
Your name is Tulloch ?
Tom. Yes, marm.
Mrs. H. You have got this poor deaf and dumb man in
readiness ?
46 OUR VILLAGE. [ACT III.
Tom. Ready, marm, as old seamen when they pipe all
hands to grog.
Mrs. H. Be at hand the moment I call, and bring with
you those I desire.
Tom. Aye, aye, inarm. I say, I’ve found my Poll, and
I can’t cut her adrift at a moment like this.
Mrs. IT. Certainly not, bring her too. And now, Tom
Tulloch, will you have a glass of grog, a dram, or a sneaker
of punch ?
Tom. Why, if you please, ma’am, I’ll have the dram
now, and I can have the grog while you’re a mixing the
punch. [Exeunt, L.
SCENE VI.— The Village , as in Act /, Scene I.
Enter Captain Halliday, Florence Halliday, Fanny
and Mrs. Hobson, l. u. e.
Cap. Up, mother, up ! we tread no stranger’s land ; I
am Lord of Caversham.
Fan. Here is the certificate that proves thy mother the
wife of the late earl.
Flo. Not for the gold—not for the gold—not for the
wealth, honour, dignity, do I thank thee, my Father! Ye
have washed away the stain from my mother’s name—ve
have swept off the bolt from my brow ! Mother, from thv
throne in heaven bless thy child !
[Music.—She kneels , c. —The Captain raises her.
Enter Hobson, it.
Hob. I’ve been plundered—my secret safe has been ex¬
tracted from the wall—but I’ll have justice—the robber
shall be punished—let me know the thief!
Mrs. H. [Coming forward, l. c.] Here, my love, I’m the
thief; don’t rave, dear, you know the law—a wife can’t
rob her own husband. With all your worldly goods you
me endowed, and I’ve given some of those goods to their
rightful owners. i
Hob. Devil—devil !
Mrs. H. No, dear, at the worst only the devil’s wife.
Cap. My sum of happiness is full—my mother, my
wife—Jack Halliday has no more to ask. You smile not
mother.
Flo. The child shall forget the father, and kindred let
the grass grow up between their dwellings ; but our love
47
SCENE VI.] OUR VILLAGE.
lives on through all—a love unkindness cannot crush, nor
long years whither. Go, boy, be happy ; and happiness
to thee, fair girl. Florence Halliday has but one thought
—the memory of an only love—the cry of retribution on
her husband’s murderer.
Hob. Murderer 1 these slanders shall be answered for.
Enter Tom Tulloch, Cachet, and Villagers, l.
Tom. Oh, d—me ! I’ll answer ’em—I wish I had you
at the gratings.
Hob. What evidence have you to sustain that woman’s
charge ?
Flo. What! thy cowering eye, that dare not meet my
g aze i—thy faltering lip, that quivers now with conscious¬
ness of guilt!—thy coward heart, where dwells the gnawing
agony of the first cursed one—murder !
Hob. Bowyer is graved ; show me a living evidence.
Tom. Come alongside, messmate; you saw the blow
struck ? [ Cachet intimates that he did.
Flo. Bid him point out the wretch that struck the fatal
blow. [Cachet points at Hobson.
Tom. John Hobson 1
Cap. Wretch !
Hob. This is no court of law, nor you my judge ; let
the worst come, I have one comfort left me, that death will
rid me of the devil. {Exit, R.
Mrs. H. The same to you, dear. Well, time will show;
who knows but I may have a fifth husband yet! {Exit, r.
Flo. It is accomplished, and Florence Halliday has no
more to ask—no, my son, your mother shares this general
j°y.
Tom. General joy ! then drat me, if Poll shan’t come m
for a share. {Calling off.'] Polly, ahoy !
Polly. [ Without , l.] Tom Tulloch, ahoy ! {Singing.]
“ She hails her heart’s first only choice,
Her dear, her returning sailor.”
Enter Polly Marigold, l.
Polly. Beg pardon, Pm sure.
Cap. No pardon is needed ; Tom Tulloch’s wife shall
alwavs find a welcome.
Tom. D’ye hear that, Poll ? [They retire up.
48
OUR VILLAGE
I
[act III.
Flo. And now, my son, the ruined waste shall bloom
once more ; Caversham shall be what Caversham was,—
for with happy hearts and grateful souls, all who have so
long been wanderers shall return to “ Our Village 1”
FINALE.— Air, “ The Campbells are coming.”
Polly. Back, back to our village with joy we go,
Back, back to our village with joy we go ;
Old Grantham shall teach you to reap and to sow,
When back to our village with joy we go.
Fan. The banner shall wave on the lordly hall;
The lowly vassal shall come at thy call;
The ox shall be roasted, the barrel shall flow,
When back to our village with joy we go.
CHORUS.
Back, back to our village with joy we go,
Back, back to our village with joy we go ;
The ox shall be roasted, the barrel shall flow,
When back to “ Our Village” with joy we go.
DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE
FALL OF THE CURTAIN.
Villagers.
Villagers.
Villagers.
Gran. Flo. Cap.
Fan. Tom.
Polly. Cach.
R.]
[L.
THE END.
Lliit of Cumberlands's British. Theatre, continued.
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
low to glow Rich
•'ortune’s Frolic
rhe Haunted Tower
VOL. XXXI.
Silling no Murder
Mr. and Mrs. Pringle
The Antiquary
Agreeable Surprise
The Son-in-Law
Open House
Falls of Clyde
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, by Adver- 289
tisement [try 290
Peeping Tom of Coven-
VOL. XXXII.
Castle of Andalusia
286
287
288
One o’clock
Julian
Comus
Fontainbleau
The English Fleet
Widow, or Who Wins ?
The Camp
Personation
VOL XXXIII.
Maid or Wife
Castle of Sorrento
Faustus
All at Coventry
Tom and Jerry
Robert the Devil
Lestocq
Cataract of the Ganges
The Old Regimentals
VOL. XXXIV.
; Presumptive Evidence
Wild Oats
i Hit or Miss
i Ambition
i Jew and the Doctor
Knights of the Cross
1 Is he Jealous?
; Hundred Pound Note
1 Rugantino
i The Steward
VOL. XXXV.
i Zarah
r The Miser
> The Iron Chest
I The Romp
i Mountaineers
The Lottery Ticket
Nettlewig Hall
Quite at Home
Make your Wills
My Husband’s Ghost
VOL. XXXVI.
; A Bold Stroke for a
Husband
' Sylvester Daggerwood
! Gil Bias
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315'
Aladdin
Blue Beard
John Bull
'fhe Invincibles
Malvina
The Review
Rob Roy
VOL. XXXVII.
The Mendicant
Poor Gentleman
The Quaker
Jack Brag
My Daughter, Sir!
The Young Quaker
Battle of Hexham
Exchange no Robbery
St.David’sDay [smiths
Love Laughs at Lock
VOL. XXXVIII.
Heir at Law
Netley Abbey
Raymond and Agnes
Foscari
Management
Venoni
Three and the Deuce
Past Ten o’Clock
The Jew
The Devil to Pay
VOL. XXXIX.
Blue Devils
The Dramatist
Youth, Love, and Folly
The Hunter of the Alps
Adelgitha
Kenilworth
Sprigs of Laurel
For England, ho !
False Alarms
The Wedding Day
VOL. XL.
316 The Surrender of Calais
*317 Therese
18 Foundling of the Forest
319 Love’s Labour’s Lost
320 How to Die for Love
321 The Delinquent
322 The Invisible Girl
323 The Peasant Boy
224 Catch Him who Can
325 Love
VOL. XLI.
326 The Love- Chase
327 The Young Hussar
328 The Secret
329 The First Floor
380 The Broken Sword
331 The Travellers
332 Plot and Counterplot
(333 Lodoiska
334 My Spouse and I
335 Chrommhotonthoiogoa
VOL. XLII.
336 The Hunchback
337 Court and City
338 Free and Easy
339 Cobbler of Preston
340 Five Miles Off
341 The Devil’s Bridge
342 Uncle Rip
343 Love’s Sacrifice
344 Attic Story
345 The Mogul Tale
VOL. XLIII.
346 The Postilion
347 The Africans
348 Of Age To-Morrow
349 Bombastes Furioso
350 Love Makes a Man
351 Guy Mannering
352 Amoroso,King of Little
Britain
353 Bertram
354 The Curfew
355 Simpson and Co.
VOL. LXIV.
356 His First Ghampagve
357 Anthony and Cleopana
358 Affair of Honour
(To be continualt)
Price 6d. each,
By Post 9d.
Any Volume may bo pur¬
chased separately in board*.
List of Cumberland's Minor Theatre
VOL. I.
1 The Pilot
2 Heart of Mid-Lothian
3 The Inehcape Bell
4 The Mason of Buda
5 The Scapegrace
6 Suil Dhuv, the Coiner
7 The Earthquake
8 “ My Old Woman”
9 Massaniello
VOL. II.
10 Don Giovanni
11 Paul Jones
12 Luke the Labourer
13 Crazy Jane
14 The Flying Dutchman
15 “Yes!!!”
16 The Forest Oracle
17 Ivanhoe
18 The Floating Beacon
VOL. III.
19 Sylvanna
20 Tom Bowling
21 Innkeeper of Abbeville
22 The Lady of the Lake
23 Billy Taylor
24 The Two Gregories
25 The Wandering Boys
26 Paris and London
27 A Day after the Fair
VOL. IV.
28 Humphrey Clinker
29 Mischief Making
30 Joan of Arc
31 The Ruffian Boy
32 The Fortunes of Nigel
33 The Wreck
34 Everybody’s Husband
35 Banks of the Hudson
36 Guy Faux
VOL. V.
37 The Devil’s Ducat
38 Mazeppa
39 Mutiny at the Nore
40 Pedlar’s Acre
41 “No!!!”
42 Peveril of the Peak
43 Thalaba
44 Waverly
45 Winning a Husband
VOL. VI.
46 Hofer, the Tell of the
47 Paul Clifford [Tyrol
48 Damon and Pythias
49 The Three Hunchbacks
50 Tower of Nesle
51 Sworn at Highgate
52 Mary Glastonbury
53 The Red Rover
54 The Golden Farmer
VOL. VII.
55 Grace Huntley
56 “ The Sea! ”
57 Clerk of Clerkenwell
58 Hut of the Red Mountain
59 John Street, Adelphi
60 Lear of Private Life
61 John Overy
62 The Spare Bed
63 Smuggler’s Daughter
VOL. VIII.
64 The Cedar .Chest
65 W’ardock Kennilsou
66 The Shadow
67 Ambrose Gwinett
68 Gilderoy
69 The Fate of Calas
70 The Young Reefer
71 Revolt of theWorkhouse
72 Man and the Marquis
VOL. IX.
73 Gipsey Jack
74 Lurline
75 The Fire Raiser
76 The Golden Calf
77 Man-Fred
78 Charcoal Burner
79 “MyPollandmyPartner
80 The Sixes [Joe”
81 Good-Looking Fellow
82 Wizard of the Moor
VOL. X.
83 Roof Scrambler
84 Diamond Arrow
85 Robber of the Rhine
86 Eugene Aram
87 Eddystone Elf
88 My Wife’s Husband
89 Married Bachelor
90 Shakspeare’s Festival
91 Van Dieman’s Land
92 Le Pauvre Jacques
VOL. XI.
93 Rochester
94 The Ocean of Life
95 An Uncle too Many
96 The Wild Man
97 Rover’s Bride
98 Beggar of Cripplegate
99 Paul the Poacher
100 Thomas h. Becket
101 Pestilence of Marseilles
102 UnfortunateMissBailey
VOL. XII.
109 Chain of Guilt
110 Ion
111 Mistletoe Bough
112 My Friend Thompson
VOL. XIII.
113 Battle of Sedgemoor
114 The Larboard Fin
115 Frederick the Great
116 The Turned Head
117 Wapping Old Stairs
118 Man with the carpet bag
119 Hercules
120 Female Massaroni
121 Reform
122 Fatal Snow Storm
VOL. XIV.
123 Venus in Arms
124 Earl of Poverty
125 Siamese Twins
126 Austerlitz
127 Payable at Sight
128 The Bull-Fighter
129 Rich Man of Frankfort
130 Richard Plantagenet
131 Don Quixote
132 Black-Eyed Sukey
133 The Great Devil
VOL. XV.
134 Curse of Mammon
135 Jack Sheppard
13G Paul the Pilot
137 The Boarding House
138 Rule Britannia
139 The Twins of Warsaw
140 The Venetian
141 The Bashful Man
142 Ravens of Orleans
VOL. XVI.
143 Ten Thousand a-Year
1+4 Under the Rose
145 Sally in our Alley
146 Haunted Hulk
147 Susan Hopley
jl48 Jack in the Water
149 Marianne
(To be continued.)
103 Humpbacked Lover
104 Bound ’Prentice to a
Waterman
105 March of Intellect
Price 6 d. each.
By Post 9d,
106 Joconde
107 The Koeuba [dusa
108 Shipwreck of the Me-1
Any Volume may bo pur¬
chased separately in boards.
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11