Dion Boucicault

“ The sheriff from New Orleans has taken possession—Terrebonne is in the hands of the law.
Enter Zoe, L. U. E.
Zoe. O, Mr. Scudder! Dora! Mr. Peyton! come home—there are strangers in the house.
Dora. Stay, Mr. Peyton; Zoe, a word! [Leads her forward—aside.] Zoe, the more I see of George Peyton the better I like him; but he is too modest—that is a very impertinent virtue in a man.
Zoe. I'm no judge, dear.
Dora. Of course not, you little fool; no one ever made love to you, and you can't understand; I mean, that George knows I am an heiress; my fortune would release this estate from debt. ”

“ Zoe. No; but I loved you so, I could not bear my fate; and then I stood your heart and hers. When I am dead she will not be jealous of your love for me, no laws will stand between us. Lift me; so— [George raises her head] —let me look at you, that your face may be the last I see of this world. O! George, you may without a blush confess your love for the Octoroon! [Dies.—George lowers her head gently.—Kneels.—Others form picture.]
Darken front of house and stage.
[Light fires.—Draw flats and discover Paul's grave.—M'Closky dead on top of it.—Wahnotee standing triumphantly over him.] ”

“ Zoe. I think so; shall I ask him that too?
Dora. No, dear. I wish he would make love to me. When he speaks to one he does it so easy, so gentle; it isn't bar-room style; love lined with drinks, sighs tinged with tobacco—and they say all the women in Paris were in love with him, which I feel I shall be; stop fanning me; what nice boots he wears.
Sunny. [To Mrs. Peyton.] Yes, ma'am, I hold a mortgage over Terrebonne; mine's a ninth, and pretty near covers all the property, except the slaves. I believe Mr. M'Closky has a bill of sale on them. ”

“ M'Closky. What, you won't, won't ye? If young George Peyton was to make you the same offer, you'd jump at it, pretty darned quick, I guess. Come, Zoe, don't be a fool; I'd marry you if I could, but you know I can't; so just say what you want. Here then, I'll put back these Peytons in Terrebonne, and they shall know you done it; yes, they'll have you to thank for saving them from ruin.
Zoe. Do you think they would live here on such terms?
M'Closky, Why not? We'll hire out our slaves, and live on their wages. ”

“ That Indian is a nuisance. Why don't he return to his nation out West?
M'Closky. He's too fond of thieving and whiskey.
Zoe. No; Wahnotee is a gentle, honest creature, and remains here because he loves that boy with the tenderness of a woman. When Paul was taken down with the swamp fever the Indian sat outside the hut, and neither ate, slept, or spoke for five days, till the child could recognize and call him to his bedside. He who can love so well is honest—don't speak ill of poor Wahnotee. ”

“ Wahnotee. Ugh! [Examines plate.]
Pete. Ya!—as he? Closky tue Paul—kill de child with your tomahawk dar; 'twasn't you, no—ole Pete allus say so. Poor Injiun lub our little Paul. [Wahnotee rises and looks at M'Closky—he is in his war paint and fully armed.]
Scud. What say ye, gentlemen? Is the prisoner guilty, or is he not guilty?
Omnes. Guilty!
Scud. And what is to be his punishment?
Omnes. Death! [All advance.]
Wahnotee. [Crosses to M'Closky.] Ugh!
Scud. No, Injiun; we deal out justice here, not revenge. 'Tain't you he has injured, 'tis the white man, whose laws he has offended. ”

“ But what do we pay for that possession? In cash? No—in kind—that is, in protection, forbearance, gentleness; in all them goods that show the critters the difference between the Christian and the savage. Now, what have you done to show them the distinction? for, darn me, if I can find out.
M'Closky. For what I have done, let me be tried.
Scud. You have been tried—honestly tried and convicted. Providence has chosen your executioner. I shan't interfere.
Pete. O, no; Mas'r Scudder, don't leave Mas'r Closky like dat—don't, sa—'tain't what good Christian should do.
Scud. D'ye hear that, Jacob? ”

“ Zoe is your child by a quadroon slave, and you didn't free her; blood! if this is so, she's mine! this old Liverpool debt—that may cross me—if it only arrive too late—if it don't come by this mail—Hold on! this letter the old lady expects—that's it; let me only head off that letter, and Terrebonne will be sold before they can recover it. That boy and the Indian have gone down to the landing for the post-bags; they'll idle on the way as usual; my mare will take me across the swamp, and before they can reach the shed, I'll have purified them bags—ne'er a letter shall show this mail. ”

“ M'Closky. Yonder is the boy—now is my time! What's he doing; is he asleep? [Advances.] He is sitting on on my prize! darn his carcass! I'll clear him off there—he'll never know what stunned him. [Takes Indian's tomahawk and steals to Paul.]
Paul. Dam dat Injiun! is dat him creeping dar? I daren't move fear to spile myself. [M'Closky strikes him on the head—he falls dead.]
M'Closky. Hooraw! the bags are mine—now for it!— [Opens mail-bags.] What's here? Sunnyside, Pointdexter, Jackson, Peyton; here it is—the Liverpool post-mark, sure enough!— [Opens letter—reads.] ”

“ It is in the hearts of brave men, who can tell right from wrong, and from whom justice can't be bought. So it is here, in the wilds of the West, where our hatred of crime is measured by the speed of our executions—where necessity is law! ”

“ Yes—when I saw him and Miss Zoe galloping through the green sugar crop, and doing ten dollars' worth of damage at every stride, says I, how like his old uncle he do make the dirt fly.
George. O, aunt! what a bright, gay creature she is!
Scud. What, Zoe! Guess that you didn't leave anything female in Europe that can lift an eyelash beside that gal. When she goes along, she just leaves a streak of love behind her. It's a good drink to see her come into the cotton fields—the niggers get fresh on the sight of her. ”

“ Pete. [To the men.] Dar, do ye hear dat, ye mis'able darkies, dem gals is worth a boat load of kinder men dem is. Cum, for de pride of de family, let every darky look his best for the judge's sake—dat ole man so good to us, and dat ole woman—so dem strangers from New Orleans shall say, Dem's happy darkies, dem's a fine set of niggars; every one say when he's sold, "Lor' bless dis yer family I'm gwine out of, and send me as good a home." ”

“ M'Closky. I know then that the boy was killed with that tomahawk—the red-skin owns it—the signs of violence are all round the shed—this apparatus smashed—ain't it plain that in a drunken fit he slew the boy, and when sober concealed the body yonder?
Omnes. That's it—that's it.
Ratts. Who defends the Injiun?
Scud. I will; for it is agin my natur' to b'lieve him guilty; and if he be, this ain't the place, nor you the authority to try him. How are we sure the boy is dead at all? There are no witnesses but a rum bottle and an old machine. Is it on such evidence you'd hang a human being? ”

“ M'Closky. I'd be darned glad if somebody would tear my past life away from me. Sorry I can't help you, but the fact is, you're in such an all-fired mess that you couldn't be pulled out without a derrick.
Mrs. P. Yes, there is a hope left yet, and I cling to it. The house of Mason Brothers, of Liverpool, failed some twenty years ago in my husband's debt.
M'Closky. They owed him over fifty thousand dollars.
Mrs. P. I cannot find the entry in my husband's accounts; but you, Mr. M'Closky, can doubtless detect it. Zoe, bring here the judge's old desk; it is in the library. ”

“ M'Closky. D'ye hear it—nearer—nearer—ah! [Wahnotee rushes on, and at M'Closky, L. H.]
Scud. The Injiun! by thunder.
Pete. You'se a dead man, Mas'r Clusky—you got to b'lieve dat.
M'Closky. No—no. If I must die, give me up to the law; but save me from the tomahawk. You are a white man; you'll not leave one of your own blood to be butchered by the red-skin?
Scud. Hold on now, Jacob; we've got to figure on that—let us look straight at the thing. Here we are on the selvage of civilization. It ain't our sile, I believe, rightly ”

“ I feel so big with joy, creation ain't wide enough to hold me. Mrs. Peyton, George Peyton, Terrebonne is yours. It was that rascal M'Closky—but he got rats, I avow—he killed the boy, Paul, to rob this letter from the mail-bags—the letter from Liverpool you know—he sot fire to the shed—that was how the steamboat got burned up. ”

“ O, you horrible man! go on.
[Exit George and Dora to house.
M'Closky. Now, ma'am, I'd like a little business, if agreeable. I bring you news; your banker, old Lafouche, of New Orleans, is dead; the executors are winding up his affairs, and have foreclosed on all overdue mortgages, so Terrebonne is for sale. Here's the Picayune [producing paper] with the advertisement.
Zoe. Terrebonne for sale!
Mrs. P. Terrebonne for sale, and you, sir, will doubtless become its purchaser.
M'Closky. Well, ma'am, I spose there's no law agin my bidding for it. The more bidders, the better for you. ”

“ P. My dear George, you are left in your uncle's will heir to this estate.
George. Subject to your life interest and an annuity to Zoe, is it not so?
Mrs. P. I fear that the property is so involved that the strictest economy will scarcely recover it. My dear husband never kept any accounts, and we scarcely know in what condition the estate really is.
Scad. Yes, we do, ma'am; it's in a darned bad condition. Ten years ago the judge took as overseer a bit of Connecticut hardware called M'Closky. The judge didn't understand accounts—the overseer did. ”

“ Zoe. [Takes fan from Minnie.] Go, Minnie, tell Pete; run!
[Exit Minnie, R.
Mrs. P. Grace, attend to Mr. M'Closky.
M'Closky. A julep, gal, that's my breakfast, and a bit of cheese,
George. [Aside to Mrs. Peyton.] How can you ask that vulgar ruffian to your table?
Mrs. P. Hospitality in Europe is a courtesy; here, it is an obligation. We tender food to a stranger, not because he is a gentleman, but because he is hungry.
George. Aunt, I will take my rifle down to the Atchafalaya. Paul has promised me a bear and a deer or two. I see my little Nimrod yonder, with his Indian companion. ”

“ Dem little niggers is a judgment upon dis generation.
Enter George, from house, L.
George. What's the matter, Pete.
Pete. It's dem black trash, Mas'r George; dis ere property wants claring; dem's getting too numerous round; when I gets time I'll kill some on 'em, sure!
George. They don't seem to be scared by the threat.
Pete. Top, you varmin! top till I get enough of you in one place!
George. Were they all born on this estate?
Pete. Guess they nebber was born—dem tings! what, dem?—get away! Born here—dem darkies? What, on Terrebonne! Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r George ”

“ Put your hands on your naked breasts, and let every man as don't feel a real American heart there, bustin' up with freedom, truth, and right, let that man step out—that's the oath I put to ye—and then say, Darn ye, go it! ”

“ Mrs. P. George, you are incorrigible. Ah! you remind me so much of your uncle, the judge.
George. Bless his dear old handwriting, it's all I ever saw of him. For ten years his letters came every quarter-day, with a remittance and a word of advice in his formal cavalier style; and then a joke in the postscript, that upset the dignity of the foregoing. Aunt, when he died, two years ago, I read over those letters of his, and if I didn't cry like a baby—
Mrs. P. No, George; say you wept like a man. And so you really kept those foolish letters?
George. Yes ”

“ THE OCTOROON. ACT I. Scene I.—A view of the Plantation Terrebonne, in Louisiana.—A branch of the Mississippi is seen winding through the Estate.—A low built, but extensive Planter's Dwelling, surrounded with a veranda, and raised a few feet from the ground, occupies the L. side.—A table and chairs, R. C.
Grace discovered sitting at breakfast-table with Children.
Enter Solon, from house, L.
Solon. Yah! you bomn'ble fry—git out—a gen'leman can't pass for you. ”

“ Fifteen thousand bid for the Octoroon.
Enter Dora, L. U. E.
Dora. Twenty thousand.
Omnes. Bravo!
M'Closky. Twenty-five thousand.
Omnes. [Groan.] O! O!
George. [L.] Yelping hound—take that. [Rushes on M'Closky—M'Closky draws his knife.]
Scud. [Darts between them.] Hold on, George Peyton—stand back. This is your own house; we are under your uncle's roof; recollect yourself. And, strangers, ain't we forgetting there's a lady present. [The knives disappear.] If we can't behave like Christians, let's try and act like gentlemen. Go on, Colonel.
Lafouche. He didn't ought to bid against a lady. ”

“ Thar's Miss Dora—that girl's in love with you; yes, sir, her eyes are startin' out of her head with it; now her fortune would redeem a good part of this estate.
Mrs. P. Why, George, I never suspected this!
George. I did, aunt, I confess, but—
Mrs. P. And you hesitated from motives of delicacy?
Scud. No, ma'am; here's the plan of it. Mr. George is in love with Zoe.
George. Scudder!
Mrs. P. George!
Scud. Hold on now! things have got so jammed in on top of us, we ain't got time to put kid gloves on to handle them. He loves Zoe, and has found out that she loves him. [Sighing.] ”

“ Pete. Hole yer tongue, Dido. Whar's de coffee? [Pours out.] If it don't stain de cup, your wicked ole life's in danger, sure! dat right! black as nigger; clar as ice. You may drink dat, Mas'r George. [Looks off.] Yah! here's Mas'r Sunnyside, and Missey Dora, jist drov up. Some of you niggers run and hole de hosses; and take dis, Dido. [Gives her coffee-pot to hold, and hobbles off, followed by Solon and Dido, R. U. E.]
Enter Sunnyside and Dora, R. U. E.
Sunny. Good day, ma'am. [Shakes hands with George.] I see we are just in time for breakfast. [Sits, R.]
Dora. O, none for me; I never eat. ”