A Tender Attachment

[Exit, R.

Eben. He’s gone. I breathe again. O, Lord, what’s that? (Loopstitch in the white robe passes slowly across stage, from R. to L., with his arm outstretched, hand pointing straight before him. Exit, L.) An apparition! What infernal place have I got into? I’ll go home at once. (Goes to R. The door is locked. Loopstitch, without the robe, creeps in, L., and gets behind lounge.)

Loop. Sacre! I vill give him a touch of my needles!

Eben. What an old donkey I am, to get into such a scrape! What shall I do? I can’t get out. Suppose I alarm the neighborhood! That won’t do; I should have the whole set upon me. I’ll try to sleep. (Lies upon lounge. Loopstitch leans over and runs a needle into his arm.) O, murder! What’s that? Confound this infernal place! (Loopstitch sticks another needle.) O, my arm, my arm! (Jumps up.) I can’t stand this! Here! Help, help, help, help!

Enter Oakum, R. Creeps in very mysteriously; takes Ebenezer by the wrist, and leads him down to the front of the stage.

Oak. Silence! Sh – !

Eben. O, take me out of this! I’m a poor old man.

Oak. Silence! Sh – ! Listen to me. You received a note from somebody —

Eben. Yes, I did. Confound somebody!

Oak. Silence! Sh – ! “Tender attachment!” It’s all true, by jiminy!

Eben. I knew it.

Oak. Your son – has a tender attachment. The object of it is approaching. It will soon be here.

Eben. You don’t say so!

Oak. Old man, you have a son; that son has a tender attachment; the object of that tender attachment – sh – ! – will soon be here.

Eben. Confound you, you said that before!

Oak. Be wise, be cautious, and you shall triumph. Silence! It comes! the – object – comes! (Creeps off, R.)

Eben. Well, that’s the queerest customer that ever I met. Hallo! who’s this?

Enter Timothy, dressed as the Goddess of Liberty, with a veil thrown over his face

’Tis she, at last! Now to unmask the villain!

Tim. Idol of me sowl!

Eben. Irish, as I’m alive!

Tim. Och, yees illigent darlint! and did yees think yer own Kathleen, accushla, would deny yees the comfort of her prisence?

Eben. So, madam, you are found out! Know, to your sorrow, that you stand in the presence of the father of the unhappy young man you came to meet?

Tim. It’s the ould man – is it? Faith, ould chap, how is yes, onyhow?

Eben. Insolent!

Tim. It’s a foine-looking ould fellow yees are; and is that yer own hair, or is it a wig, I’d like to know.

Eben. Young woman, no more of this. I came to snatch my son from your society.

Tim. My society! Faix, yes might do better. It’s a comfort I am to him anyhow. You would be afther parting us at all at all!

Eben. Hold your tongue, and leave the room!

Tim. Hould yees blarney yerself, or I’ll – I’ll pull the hair from your head!

Eben. Leave this room, instantly, or I’ll put you out!

Tim. You put me out, is it? Begorra! the sooner yees commince that same, the better’s to the liking of Tim Tiupan.

Eben. (Taking hold of him.) Leave the room, I say!

Tim. Off wid yees, or I’ll break ivery bone in yees body!

Eben. You will – will you? (Takes hold of him.)

Tim. (Throws off veil.) Arrah, boys, here’s a shindy! Come on, old gint! (Flourishes his fist.)

Eben. Here! Help, help, help! (Timothy clinches him.) Leave the room!

Enter Horace, L., Oakum, Clapboard, and Picket, R. Loopstitch crawls from behind lounge

Hor. Why, father! what’s the matter?

Eben. O, you villain! you scamp! you renegade! You have come just in time to save your father from a terrible fate! But I’ve found you out! Your “tender attachment” is known to me. Look upon her! Can you look upon your father’s face, and confess a tender attachment to such a thing as that?

Hor. Not a tender attachment, father; but I will confess I am under great obligations to that individual, Timothy Tinpan, the tinker.

Eben. What! is that woman a man?

Tim. Troth, and a foine ould Irish gintleman!

Hor. Yes, father, he is one of my models.

Tim. Faith, a model Irishman, by yer lave!

Eben. Models! What do you mean?

Hor. That I have been endeavoring to overcome your repugnance to my becoming a painter, by attempting the execution of a painting which you see upon that easel. These individuals have been my models. Timothy Tinpan, the tinker.

Tim. That’s me, sure.

Hor. Obed Oakum, the sailor.

Oak. Ay, ay; second mate of the Harriet Jones.

Hor. Louis Loopstitch, the tailor.

Loop. Oui, oui; sal I make you a pair of pantaloons, monsieur?

Hor. And Peter Picket, the soldier.

Pic. Yaw, dat ish me, mit my gun upon mine pack.

Eben. What, and the note I received —

Hor. Is one of Harry Jones’s jokes. He confessed it to me an hour ago.

Eben. Clapboard, we’ve been making donkeys of ourselves!

Clap. Speak for yourself, Mr. Crotchet, I can’t join you in that.

Eben. Horace, I’m a meddling old fool. I should have trusted you. I’ll go home. You may go on with your picture; and if out of the material which I find here you can produce anything satisfactory, I’ll give my consent to anything you ask.

Hor. Thank you, father. I’m rather discouraged at present; but if these individuals can cure you of “a tender attachment,” they may be of use to me; and if they can help me to achieve my purpose, you will be obliged to admit that there are worse companions than a soldier —

Pic. Yaw, what fight mit Sigel.

Hor. A sailor —

Oak. Tarnal cute, when his bark’s on the sea.

Hor. A tinker —

Tim. A broth of a boy for minding the broken nose of a tay-kittle.

Hor. And a tailor —

Loop. Oui, oui; vith vat you call ze tender attachment for ze needle.

Disposition of Characters at fall of the Curtain.