Dr. B. My wife-no, sir, she is a person I can never look upon again. O'Cal. Well, sir, of course I can't refuse you but as the way to manage it must be considered, perhaps, for the present, you'll enter this room. Dr. B. This room? R.] O'Cal. Let you out? not I, sir; don't I know you're a madman that's not fit to be trusted, and ain't you now safe enough in the arms of your keeper? Dr. B. Open the door, sir, or I'll take the law! O'Cal. The law, sir? do you know what says O'Cal. There you'll not be interrupted, and- the law? That you shall live with your wife like Dr. B. I may rest, then, on your friendship? a good, decent man, and not leave her to live O'Cal. You may, sir; and in the meantime you with herself and the devil. I stand here, sir, as can rest on that sofa. [DR. BANKS enters room, the embodied genius of the law, as the voice of the A thought strikes me here's this man and immortal Coke and the illustrious Lyttleton, which woman, that have been parted for ten years, now says on this point that a wife being flesh of your only parted by ten paces, estranged, perhaps, flesh, and bone of your bone, becomes bony fide a the whole while for want of explanation. Isn't it part of your body; which part to cut off is a capimy duty, then, to bring them together, and give tal crime aud subject to judgment! "Cum ropi them a chance of confessing their folly it is. suspendo." [Pauses and listens.] That's settled But stop what if, when brought together, my him-he'll not be in a hurry to talk of the law philanthropic wish should be defeated? What again. They're silent-awfully silent. A thought if these bodies, like a couple in chemistry, having strikes me-what if this old maniac should have exhausted their attraction, should exhibit repul- strangled her with the bell rope, and escaped up sion? Why, then, I'll lock the door till the fer- the chimney! By my soul I must look. [Places ment is over, and see if I can't produce a new a chair on sofa, mounts it, and looks through a combination. \ fanlight.] It's all right; there she is in a chair, rocking ten miles an hour, and he, fixed as fate, looking ready to eat her. What's coming now. I wonder? On the next minute hangs my destiny Enter RIVERS from L. C. Riv. Joy, doctor, joy! I've discharged my task. I've disclosed all to your wife, and she waits to approach you in a tumult of happiness. O' Cal. She does? Riv. You have only to go to her, andO'Cal. Why, upon reflection, I think not, sir. Riv. No-I hope you don't waver? O'Cal. Not I, sir; if you'll be kind enough to step for Mrs. Banks. In that room she'll find her husband. sage. Riv. Never did I deliver a more welcome mes[Exit through door, L. C. O'Cal. Now, then, to use the language of history, I perceive the approach of a domestic convulsion. There'll be as fine a fight in that room presently as the renowned encounter between the lion Nero and the dog Billy. Where shall I go to witness it? Eh, that sofa! the very thing. They're coming-but stop, I'll first give my friend a hint. [Opens the door, R., and speaks in a low voice.] Now, sir, prepare yourself, the lady is approaching. [Retreats L. RIVERS comes from c., supporting MRS. BANKS, whose head is on his shoulder. stop, he asks a question, she sobs an answerthat's the course of inquiry. Now he begins to walk, and she begins to bellow-that's the course of nature. After the thunder, we're sure to have rain. Now she begins to speak, and he begins to cool-that's a good sign. She asks a question, and he's forced to answer it. Better and better. She can only sob-he's compelled to soothe. Go on, my darlings. He says something kind-she looks delighted. By the powers, it's coming; he opens his arms-she rushes into them. Phililoo! it's all right, by Jupiter! [Waves his handkerchief. Enter RIVERS, followed by CHARLES, JULIA and MRS. MONTAGUE, C. Riv. What do I see? O'Cal. The human mind, sir, in it's finest aspect, sympathizing with the happiness of others. Riv. Then who's in that room with Mrs. Banks? O' Cal. Who should it be, sir, but he who has a right to be, her husband? Riv. Which you are not, sir? O'Cal. No, sir, but merely his friend, who entertained the wish that you did to see his misery put an end to. Rw. But, but-how did he get in there? O'Cal. My dear sir, what can it matter how he got there, if he has the right to stay there? Riv. Now, courage-courage, my dear madame, a few steps more, and you are there. You must remember you do not go to him with any doubt; he is anxious to meet you, anxious to fold you to his bosom, and banish every difference. [She [RIVERS goes to the door and opens it. pauses a moment, then enters room, R. He closes Riv. Yes, Julia, there is indeed your father, by the door and listens.] Now for their meeting. your mother's side. [JULIA enters room R., folThere's the window that opens on the lawn-cap-lowed by RIVERS and CHARLES. ital. I'll step round there, and witness all that passes. [Exit at back, R. C.; O'CALLAGHAN comes from behind the sofa, L. O'Cal. All silent still-what a pause before a battle. I'm dying with desire to hear the first gun. [DR. and MRS. BANKS heard within. Dr. B. Susan! Mrs. B. John! O' Cal. And now, my darling, what do you say? O'Cal. Am I the monster you thought me just now? Mrs. M. You are, but certainly a classic one, for you're a sphinx; there's no understanding you. O'Cal. And yet if 'twas necessity caused my deceptions, will you refuse me the means of my deceiving no longer? Mrs. M. Not if I was sure of your sinceritybut ought I to trust you? O'Cal. You ought, my darling, for nobody else will. Mrs. M. Can you blame me if I doubt ? O' Cal. Of course not; but you should imitate the law courts, and give your doubt in favor of the criminal. [She gives him her hand. DR. BANKS, JULIA, MRS. BANKS, RIVERS and CHARLES come from R. Dr. B. Mr. O'Callaghan, in my present happy feelings I can't be angry at your stratagem, but pray explain to me by what means you O'Cal. My dear sir, if I have been so fortunate as to restore your peace of mind, never mind the means. To explain would only confuse me, and, and you one question. [DR. and MRS. BANKS turn away with CHARLES and JULIA.] In getting your friend here, pray, how did you contrive to blind his suspicions? O'Cal. How, sir? Why, you know my magnetic influence. [Makes passes with his hands. Riv. Oh, that way-that's enough. [Turns away to the party; CHARLES advances. Cha. Well, old fellow, I find you're a trump after all; but, I say, I should like to know how you've contrived to do the old woman so nicely? O' Cal. How? why, in the way I did you. [Makes passes; then telegraphs. Cha. Oho, I'm satisfied. [Turns to JULIA. Dr. B. Tell me, then, what return I can offer? O'Cal. But I'm not satisfied unless the experiO'Cal. Why, sir, if you're anxious to be even ments I have made this evening meet with others' with me, here's my friend, Mr. Charles Rivers, is approbation-unless, now the tide has turned attached to this young lady, and if, now you've got back a wife, you've no objection to part with a daughter Dr. B. I can have none, sir, if Mr. Rivers has not. Riv. I certainly not. I wish, however, to ask with me, and I am restored to fortune, that for- THE END. COSTUMES. O'CALLAGHAN-Black coat buttoned up, black pantaloons, etc RIVERS.-Nankeen coat breeches, and gaiters. DR. BANKS.—A suit of black. MRS. MONTAGUE.-A lilac silk gown, cap, etc. The farce of His Last Legs," like most other of Mr. Bernard's dramatic productions is destined for a long career of public favor. The part of O'Callaghan was written for the late Tyrone Power, and by him of course admirably personified; as enacted in New York by Mr. Collins, the performance left us nothing to desire. It was peculiarly suited to that gentleman's powers. In some characters Power was unapproachable; but if we could divest ourselves of the prejudice which we have obtained in favor of that lamented actor, we should perhaps be compelled to acknowledge that in O'Callaghan Mr. Collins is little, if any, his inferior. He was evidently quite at home in the part, and looked and acted it as though he were the very hero himself. The character of O Callaghan is well drawn (allowing of course for the usual exaggeration in afterpieces), the situations quite embarrassing enough for any but an Irishman to parry off or blunder through, and the dialogue is full of very neat play upon phrases and words. The piece has also the great merit, that whilst the hero is continually before the audience, the subordinate characters are enabled to stand forth with a due degree of vitality, and elicit the powers of respectable artistes. This piece was first produced at the Haymarket Theatre, on the 15th of October, 1839 the cast of which is given on the first page. It was highly successful, as may well be imagined, and has ever since continued to be a favorite, both with the public and the delineators of Irish characters. It was first performed in this country at Mitchell's Olympic, ou the 6th of April, 1840, Mr. S. Johnson being the O'Callaghan. "That which pleases long, and pleases many, must possess some merit.”—DR. JOHNSON, THE NEW YORK DRAMA TRAGEDIES, A CHOICE COLLECTION OF COMEDIES, WITH FARCES. ETC. CASTS OF CHARACTERS, STAGE BUSINESS, COSTUMES, RELATIVE POSITIONS, &c., ADAPTED ΤΟ THE HOME CIRCLE, PRIVATE THEATRICALS, AND THE AMERICAN STAGE. VOL. 2. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by WHEAT & CORNETT, in the Office NO. 17. Well, perhaps she was right. [Comes down and looks round.] What a nice, snug room-I wonder LOCKED IN WITH A LADY: what sort of a person it belongs to [Examines A Farce, in One Act. BY II. R. ADDISON. CHARACTERS. PETER FOLLET. A VOICE. vials, etc., on the mantel-piece.] "Parr's Life Pills "Syrup of Rhubarb"-"Holloway's Ointment" "Essence of Quinine". "Revalenta Arabica""Pectoral Lozenges "-faugh! how nasty-it's evident he must be an apothecary-perhaps he's gone on a tour to sell his drugs-he's what they call an itinerant quack. [Takes the candle, examines the pictures.] "The Death of Addison ". "The Execution of Louis the Sixteenth"-"The Death of Lord Chatham"-"The Death of❞— [comes forward and puts down the light.] How SCENE.-A bachelor's room, third floor, Adam dreadfully gloomy; I won't look at any more, or I Street, Adelphi; to the R. an alcove, in which shall dream of them. He's not an apothecarystands a practicable bed with curtains; L. of he's evidently an undertaker-most likely the man door a practicable window, which opens on neigh- who advertises cheap funerals; but it don't signibors' roofs; R. side down the wings, a good prac-fy much, as I shall never see him. [Takes off her ticable fireplace with fire lit, and mantel-piece cap and shawl, dress, etc., puts on a coquettish with looking-glass; on the L. a practicable door nightcap and jacket before the glass.] It's past with practicable lock, the chamber carpeted; a twelve, and I'm to be called at five. I must try small table stands beside the bed-head, with a and get a few hours' sleep-I've no time to undispatch box, closing with a spring lock, open; dress, so I'll just lie down as I am-I shall sleep two chairs, a centre table; on the hearth a cof- just as soundly. [Gets into bed and puts out the fee-pot and kettle; on the mantel-piece, several candle.] Yes, to-morrow on my arrival at St. Alvials and pill-boxes; hanging on the wall is bans the settlements are to be signed-I shall double bass and a warming pan; some music on see my future husband's family for the first time. a stool; a small portmanteau and carpet-bag: I can't say I feel much elated, but still I'll try to the walls have several dark-looking prints on sleep and dream of Hymen. [Closes curtains. them; an easy-chair beside the fireplace; a Cupid, Hymen's favored twin, small wardrobe, L.; a chamber candlestick, with Soon his chains enthrall me, light burning, on the table; books on shelves, Fixed that heart he strove to win, To the altar call me. etc.; MARY discovered writing. Her voice by degrees gets lower and lower, until she falls asleep; music continues low for a few seconds; PETER FOLLET enters cautiously with a latch-key through the door; he has a dark lantern-he carefully shuts the door and tries it ; he has on a Templar's traveling cap under his hat, two great-coats, several shawls round his neck, and a pair of lined fur boots and long stockings over his regular boots; he is muffled up in every way, and walks slowly, as an invalid. Mary. [reads as she writes.] "My dearest aunt -I arrived in town quite safely; I drove direct from the Paddington Station to Mrs. Briggs', and she has been good enough to give me a bed for the night. All the chambers are full, but she has allowed me to sleep in one belonging to a gentleman who has gone to Cheltenham for the benefit of the waters. Mr. Edward Brown will call for me at daybreak, to take me to St. Albans. I am rather tired, but quite well. Your affectionate niece, Fol. Ha, ha! I'm absolutely trembling with Mary Markham." [She folds up the letter, seals cold, although it is in the middle of June. Well and addresses it.] "To Mrs. Markham, care of might Horace Walpole, in writing, declare that Ezekiel Bird, farmer, Reading." That will do- summer had set in with its accustomed severity. that will make dear aunty happy, and allay the fright she was in at my traveling alone to London. By-the-by, let me see that I've made myself safe. [Examines door.] Yes-all right, though there's no bolt. Mrs. Briggs has evidently locked it outside, for it's closed firmly, though there's no key in it. Oh, yes, the climate of England is frightful-here am I half frozen, though I've been down to Torquay and Cheltenham, as the Montpeliers of England, and go about as well wrapped up as I can. This railway traveling after all is very bad-carriages full of draughts, and occasionally, as it has just happened, two hours too late-detained by doubtlessly rob me of several days of my existthe bursting of your boiler. It's now half-past ence. Let me see-yes-I'll put my latch-key twelve, and I should have been here at a quarter- and watch in my dispatch box. [Does so and past ten; I shall write to the "Times" in the morn- prepares slightly to go to bed-leaves the box open.] ing. I suppose Mrs. Briggs got tired of waiting Egad! I was just going to close the lid of my box for me, but, good soul, I see she has left all ready if I had, I could not have opened it again—it's for me. [Lights the candle on the table and puts a spring lock. Bless me! Mrs. Briggs has forout his dark lantern.] Well, thank the stars, here gotten to warm my bed. [Sees the warming-pan.] I am again at home-no more badly-closing win- But never mind, careful creature, she has left me dows and damp sheets. [He begins to take off his the warming-pan; I'll do it myself. [Takes it wrappers, etc., goes to wardrobe, takes out his down and puts coal into it.] Heigho! if I had a dressing-gown and slippers and puts them on.] wife now, she would do all this for me. If I had Aye, aye, there's no place like home-all one's lit- gone down and married my little cousin, Mary tle comforts about one; I'm never so happy as Markham, whom I never saw- But stay, I must when I'm in this house; I fear the change of air chase away such ideas, even if I dream of matrihas not done me much good. [Coughs and takes mony, it may hurt me. Edward Brown declares out a lozenge.] Ah! Peter, Peter! it's a sad sound; if I were to marry the morrow would see me a my cough is evidently getting deeper and deeper corpse. No, no, I must hate the other sex-upon every day. [Throws himself into an easy-chair be- my life I must. [As he has been speaking he has side the fire.] Heigho! I watched the foliage as I approached the bed, and without looking has opencame along the leaves are still strong on the ed the curtains and put in the warming-pan; as trees, and all nature seemed in its prime. Poor he does so a scream is heard, MARY starts from leaves! alas, like myself, they must soon fall! the bed, and in so doing upsets the small table on Yes, Edward Brown is a clever young surgeon, which is the dispatch box and candle; the box and he has pronounced that I shall fall with the closes, and light is extinguished; PETER drops on leaf. Yes, when the verdant leaves become yel- his knees with fright; MARY does the same. low my fate is sealed; with them I shall fall, and Mary. [calls.] Murder, murder! never hope again to see them reappear. It's very Peter. [calls. Robbers! help! dreadful I wish I could doubt it, but Brown is Mary. Take my money, but spare my life! very clever and seems much attached to me. Peter. My watch is on the table! Let me see, the almanac says the fifteenth of November is the fall of the leaf, and here we are in June-it's truly frightful. According to his advice, I have quitted London, I've lived in Devonshire, I've drank the waters of Matlock, Leamington and Cheltenham, I've lived strictly according to rulea dreadful life of privation-yet I feel no better. [Coughs.] On the contrary, I feel that dreadful appetite-those pulses of seemingly robust health, which he tells me are the very worst symptoms I could have. Yes, he has given me an invaluable book on this subject. [Reads and speaks.] Consumptive persons digest their food easilynothing seems to disagree with them." My very case; it's really dreadful to think upon it. [Reads.] "Consumptive persons are generally inclined to melancholy, and give way to violent feelings of admiration of the opposite sex." My very case to a T! Do I not admire every pretty woman I see? Do I not feel emotions-but stay, I must not indulge even in the thought! Edward says if I fell in love, my life would not be worth nine days' purchase. [Reads.] "They also often become poets in the last stages of their illness." [Shuts the book and puts it down with horror.] The writer must have foreseen my very case! this evening only, as I came along, I caught myself mentally writing my own epitaph: "Here lies, most suddenly cast off- For which there's no assuagement or relief- In spring he lived, and fell with the leaf." Mary. Have mercy! have mercy! [The above passage quick; they both get up and approach the fire, and as one lights his lantern with a lucifer, the other lights her candle at the fire; they turn round and confront one another. Mary. You're not a robber, then, sir. Peter. A woman, as I live! Oh, that's worse and worse. Mary. [recovering herself.] Leave the room, sir! How dare you come in here? Leave, sir! Peter. What! turned out of my own room? Mary. Your room? Peter. I should think so, indeed! This is my room-that is my bed-everything around me is mine. Now please to answer me one question Where the devil did you spring from? Mary. [confused.] Why, sir-that is, I arrived this evening from Reading, with a letter of introduction to Mrs. Briggs. Peter. Oh! and she lodged you in my room! Peter. Pooh! I wrote to her to say I was coming. [Aside.] Can it be a trap laid to ensnare me? Mary. Doubtlessly she never received your letter. Peter. You libel the post office-no-I myself put it in and I-[feeling about his pockets] I that is-I-[suddenly pulls it out.] Hang me if the letter is not here! Mary. Well-now you see— Peter. Yes I see I forgot it; it is not mother Heigho! such thoughts unman me-it's like the. swan who sings in dying. [Coughs.] Ah! I think it sounds deeper. I'll write to Reading to Brown to come up to-morrow. He does not know my London address. [He mixes some sugar and water and drinks it-takes a pill and puts on the ket-me the key. tle to boil.] It's nothing but extreme care keeps Mary. I have none. Mrs. Briggs took it away me alive I'll at once to bed-this sitting up will with her. Peter. Never mind-I have a duplicate oneput it into my writing box. [Takes it off the floor. Mary. Oh, then, give it me. Peter. I can't-it's a spring lock, and it has shut in falling. Mary. [indignantly.] I see through the shallow artifice-I insist, sir, on leaving the room. Peter. Artifice, indeed! I like that. Why, it's Mary. What is to be done? Oh, [Goes and half opens it. I closing.] Ah! what is this? I dreamed that-- Mary. Ah! what's that? It comes from the tiles. [PETER throws open the window and leaps in—his coat is torn, and his face and hands scratched. Peter. Ah, cursed libertines! Peter. Slightly-slightly only. It seems I interrupted a tête-à-tête, and not content with screaming at me, the midnight monsters have left their marks upon me. Mary. But what took you on the tiles? Mary. [holding him.] No, no-don't do that-the cry of "Fire" so I went to see. you will ruin my character. Peter. You then think we had better remain here alone by ourselves? Mary. Don't be a monster! Mary. No, I say-no, no-what will they say if they find us at one o'clock in the morning, locked up together? Peter. Well! what? Mary. Why, you know very well, I shall be compromised, and Peter. Oh, I don't care for public opinion. Mary. No more would I, if I were a man. Peter. [aside.] The little angel! Aye, if she were a man, and I a pretty girl like her-I think —but stay, I must not indulge in such thoughts— she's certainly very well-looking- Stop, Peter. [Aloud.] I must then only remain quietly here till morning? Mary. I throw myself upon your honor. Peter. You may with safety. [Aside.] My feelings belie my words. Mary. We must only amuse ourselves as well as we can till morning. Peter. [aside.] Oh! I could-but no-she certainly has the fairest skin I ever saw, but I must not look at it or think of it. Ah! a bright thought I have it; art shall rule over nature. [Runs and takes down his double bass and speaks.] I have it. Mary. Ah! you are a musician, then? Mary. [taking up music.] You sing also? Mary. Here is a sweet duet; if you will play it, we will try and sing it together. Peter. With all my heart. [Song introduced; as the last couplet finishes MARY falls fast asleep; PETER finishes energetically, and as he turns to her finds her asleep.] What, asleep? Poor lamb, and so near a wolf, a dreadful wolf! Yes; I feel like a wolf; I could attack that sleeping lamb, and- But stay-no-alas! my poor health, a dying man, one who must fall with the leaf, should be more discreet. [Puts away double bass.] What devilish pretty hands she has got! what arms! and what a foot! I feel- [Coughs.] Ah, blessed warning! I have but one course to pursue-I'll fly! I'll fly! [Opens the window and runs off over the tiles. Mary. [awakening from the noise of the window I'm wet through and tremble in every limb. Peter. [aside.] That's just what I fear. Peter. [starting up from his chair.] You know not what you say, wretched girl! and this death brought on in flying from you. Mary. Eh! what do you say? Peter. Anything!-everything!-nothing!Don't mind me I'm mad! [Throwing himself in a chair.] I feel the admiration the book speaks of-I'm in the last stage. Mary. Come near and warm yourself. Peter. Ah! you're right. I'm cramped with cold in every limb-I've not tasted food since eight o'clock this morning. Mary. Well, suppose I invited you to supper? Peter. [aside.] The cockatrice! She wants to take me to some of the late supping houses in the Haymarket; but fortunately we are shut in. [Aloud.] I should be happy, but you forget we can't get out. Mary. Exactly so. I know that, but I still invite you. You must know my kind aunt filled my basket with all kinds of good things to eat and drink on the road, and I've not touched them yet. Peter. Your basket, then, is a sort of traveling larder? Mary. Precisely. Peter. Well, here is the table and I'll act as waiter. [Aside.] Upon my life, she's dangerously pretty. Mary. Be good enough to lay a table-cloth. Ah, I forgot! never mind, we'll do without one. Peter. Well, I don't see that a table-cloth is absolutely necessary. Here is water. Mary. Glasses ? [Places water jug on table. Peter. Oh! the deuce! I forgot them-here is one. Stay, I recollect I have a gutta-percha one in my traveling companion. [He takes a leather glass from his pocket and places it on table.] Upon my life, it don't look badly. Mary. Here is half a cold chicken and a bottle of ginger wine. Peter. Delicious! already I feel my appetite. Peter. I have it. [Goes to the drawers and takes them out.] I have a knife, fork and spoon, a present from my godmamma when I was a |