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Full text of "Our village, or, the lost ship : a domestic burletta, in three acts / by Leman Rede, Esq. author of The loves of the angels...&c. ; printed from the acting copy, with remarks, biographical and critical, by D.-G. ; to which are added, a description of the costume,-cast of the characters, entrances and exits,-relative positions of the 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. Cruikshank."

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No. 150 MINOR THEATRE. 6d. 


ISritiet) lR\)ta\xz. 


3 Domestic ISurletts, 



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, 


A Drawing taken in the Theatre 


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 


Translations of Popular Foreign Operas adapted for Representation on the English Stage. 


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 


8 Othello 

9 The Duenna 
'6 The Rivals 

'1 Belle’s Stratagem 

12 Cymbelitie 

13 Venice Preserved 

14 West Indian 


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 


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 


36 Merchant of Venice 

37 Merry Wives of 


38 Virginius 

3y CaiusGracchus 

40 All in the Wrong 

41 King Lear 

42 Cato 


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 

54 Mayor of Garratt 

55 A woman never vext 


56 Maid of the Mill 


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 


70 Two Galley Slaves 


71 Brutus 

72 Ali Pacha 

73 Twelfth Night 

74 Henry the Fifth 

75 Love in humble life 

76 Child of Nature 

77 Bleep Walker 


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 


92 Disagreeable Stir- 

93 Stranger [prise 

94 Village Lawyer 

95 School for Scandal 

96 Spoiled Child 

97 Animal Magnetism 

98 \V heel of Fortune 


99 The Critic 

100 Deaf and Dumb 

101 Castle Spectre 

102 The Revenge 

103 Midnight flour 

104 Speed thePlough 

105 Rosina 


106 Monsieur Tonson 

107 Comedy of Errors 
lOBSpectre Bridegroom 

109 A Cure for the 

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 

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 

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 


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 


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 

COO The Robber’s' 


205 Ice Witch D 
20d st. Patrick’s 

The Will 


148lrishmaninLondonjoJ?, £ Baigaii 

149 Recruiting Officer Robinson Cri 

150 The Slave 

151 Devil’s Elixir 

152 “ Master’s Rival” 

153 The Duel 

154 William Tell 

155 Tom Thumb [Life 

156 Happiestday of my 

157 Fatality [can, 


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- 

man ? 

yfrt /, Scene 2 




Lit Cfjree &ctg, 


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 , 


To which are added, 


As performed at the 



From a Drawing taken in the Theatre, by Mr.R. Cruieshank. 









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. 



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 

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 

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 



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 

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. 



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. 


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. 



SCENE I.— A Corn Field—the sheafs up. — Time, Mid¬ 

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. 



[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¬ 

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.” 




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 !— 

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- 



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 

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. 


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 

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 

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 ! 



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 

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 

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 


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. 


[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 



[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 




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 



[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 

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, 




and my early associations. [Aloud.] Thomas, come here, 

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. 


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 


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 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. 


[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 

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 




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 

Flo. [Relapsing into rage, c.] Ye have, murderer!—ye 
have !—the gibbet is thy home !—it yawns now for its 

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- 


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. 


A lapse of Twelve Moriths is supposed to have taken 


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 ! 




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 

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 

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 

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 ? 





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. 




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¬ 

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 



[act II. 

Jen. Oh, Tom ! the old village has gone to wreck and 
ruin ; Lord Marlington has turned every tenant of his 

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 

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 


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 




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 



[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. 



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 


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 




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 



[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 ! 




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. 


A lapse of Seven Vears is supposed to have taken 


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, 




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 

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 

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 

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. 


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 

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¬ 

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 

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 



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 

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 




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- 


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 


clime, or place will share alike—Providence cares for all 

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 




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 




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 


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 


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. 





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. 


[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 

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 ? 


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 

Flo. The child shall forget the father, and kindred let 
the grass grow up between their dwellings ; but our love 



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 


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. 




[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. 


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. 





Gran. Flo. Cap. 

Fan. Tom. 

Polly. Cach. 




Lliit of Cumberlands's British. Theatre, continued. 






low to glow Rich 
•'ortune’s Frolic 
rhe Haunted Tower 

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- 

Castle of Andalusia 




One o’clock 

The English Fleet 
Widow, or Who Wins ? 
The Camp 


Maid or Wife 
Castle of Sorrento 
All at Coventry 
Tom and Jerry 
Robert the Devil 
Cataract of the Ganges 
The Old Regimentals 

; 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 
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 

; A Bold Stroke for a 

' Sylvester Daggerwood 
! Gil Bias 

























Blue Beard 
John Bull 
'fhe Invincibles 
The Review 
Rob Roy 

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 

Heir at Law 
Netley Abbey 
Raymond and Agnes 

Three and the Deuce 
Past Ten o’Clock 
The Jew 
The Devil to Pay 

Blue Devils 
The Dramatist 
Youth, Love, and Folly 
The Hunter of the Alps 
Sprigs of Laurel 
For England, ho ! 

False Alarms 
The Wedding Day 

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 

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 


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 


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 

353 Bertram 

354 The Curfew 

355 Simpson and Co. 

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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


109 Chain of Guilt 

110 Ion 

111 Mistletoe Bough 

112 My Friend Thompson 


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 


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 


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 


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 

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.