Chapter VI: Part 6

B. Well, ma, what do you think now? Isn’t Eunice the most countrified specimen you ever saw?

MRS. A. I must admit that she is decidedly rustic.

B. But did you notice the blunders she made at dinner?

MRS. A. I saw that she ate with her knife, and didn’t use her napkin.

B. (_much amused_). That reminds me that when I took my napkin from the ring, she asked me if I used a towel in my lap because I was afraid of spoiling my dress. She also said that, at home, the younger children wore bibs, and she wondered we didn’t put one on to Isabel. (_Greatly amused._) Imagine Isabel,—a girl nine years old, with a bib on!

MRS. A. I’m afraid she wouldn’t submit to it very quietly.

B. Then she took butter from the plate with her own knife, and when pa asked her if she would have more of the meat, she said, “No; I’ve had enough for this time.”

MRS. A. I think your father must have noticed her awkwardness.

B. I don’t see how he could help it. But he would not allow her to see that he noticed it.

MRS. A. What did she say to the piano? I heard you playing for her.

B. (_laughing_). She thought it was a queer-looking thing, and said it must be hard to work it.

MRS. A. Where is she now?

B. She has retired. She said she always went to bed as soon as it grew dark. I should think she had been living in the woods all her life.

MRS. A. And yet, with all her blunders, she is quite pretty, and dresses with a good deal of taste.

B. That is true. And yet, with such an ignorance of conventional rules, what sort of a figure will she make at our party?

MRS. A. You will have to make the best of it, and hint to any one that you may introduce to her that she is a country cousin.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE V.—_The same. MRS. ATHERTON, L. C., BLANCHE, R., EUNICE,
C., and MR. WARNER, L., present. Also other guests conversing
in groups. EUNICE dressed in white, with a few simple flowers
in her hair. BLANCHE dressed richly._

B. (_beckoning to MR. W., who comes to her, and speaking in a low but audible tone_). Mr. Warner, I wish to introduce you to a cousin of mine, a rustic damsel, who has never been to the city before. She is fresh from the country, and I doubt not you will be greatly amused by her conversation. There she is near the piano.

MR. WARNER (_surprised_). What, that young lady so tastefully dressed! It cannot be! You are surely joking, Miss Atherton.

B. (_smiling_). You will discover by her conversation that I have spoken truly. But here we are.—Mr. Warner desires the honor of an introduction, Cousin Eunice. Miss Haynes—Mr. Warner.

(_BLANCHE retires to another part of the stage, L. EUNICE bows without any show of embarrassment._)

MR. W. Have you been long in the city, Miss Haynes?

E. But a few days.

MR. W. And how do you enjoy it?

E. You will perhaps laugh at my lack of taste, when I say that, in my judgment, it does not compare favorably with the country. City life is too artificial to satisfy me.

MR. W. And yet city life has many advantages which you probably do not get in the country,—lectures, concerts, and the opera, for example.

E. I confess these are advantages which I should be glad to enjoy, and should fully appreciate. In these latter days, however, most of the lectures are reported in the papers.

MR. W. Yes, but in reading them one does not get the full enjoyment that is had in hearing them delivered.

E. That is true. It is also a great deprivation not to be able to hear the great singers of the day.

MR. W. Then you are fond of music?

E. I am very fond of it.

MR. W. Do you play?

E. A little, sometimes, for my own amusement.

MR. W. Then let me beg a favor of you. There is a pause in the conversation and music is called for. Allow me to lead you to the piano.

E. I will play if you wish it, but I fear you will be disappointed.

(_MR. W. conducts her to the piano, R. C., to BLANCHE’S great astonishment. Guests look on and listen with interest. E. plays a short prelude, and sings in a clear, sweet voice, which excites general admiration, the following song:_)

“I do not love the crowded street
With all its varied show,
Through which a sea of human forms
Keeps heaving to and fro.
My spirit yearns for fairer scenes,
For bird, and flower, and tree;
I cannot bid farewell to these,—
A country life for me!

“The bird has sought his last year’s nest
Within the fairy dell;
The squirrel in the greenwood hides,
His haunts I know full well;
Along the meadows flower-bestrewn,
I hear the humming-bee;
I cannot live apart from these,—
A country life for me!

“’Twas there I roved in years gone by
With careless step and fleet,
And scarcely deigned to pluck the flowers
That blossomed at my feet.
O golden time of childhood’s prime,
When life was blithe and free,
Thy memory lingers in my heart,—
A country life for me!

“I love to climb the steep hillside,
And catch the sun’s first glow,
When, rising from his watery couch,
He gilds the waves below.
My spirit yearns for fairer scenes,
For bird, and flower, and tree;
I cannot live apart from these,—
A country life for me!”

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE VI.—_Drawing-room after the guests have left. BLANCHE,
R., and EUNICE, L., present._

B. Do tell me, Eunice, what this means. I am _so_ curious to have it explained.

E. So I supposed. But confess the truth, Blanche. Didn’t you think me a genuine rustic, very ignorant, and quite countrified?

B. I certainly did, but you surely gave me reason. I give you credit for acting your part well. But what induced you to take upon yourself such a character?

E. I was afraid of disappointing you.

B. (_surprised_). Disappointing me?

E. (_smiling_). Yes. The day of my arrival I was shown by the servant into the room provided for me. I had scarcely laid aside my bonnet and shawl when you and Aunt Matilda came into the chamber adjoining mine. Unintentionally I overheard you conversing of me. You both had the impression that, as I lived in the country, I must be ignorant and uncultivated. I therefore decided to continue the illusion for a short time. When the party came off, it seemed a fitting time for me to appear in my true character.

B. I am glad that you are not what you seemed. I was almost overcome by your vigorous salute, and your talk about pasturing cows in the parks, and so on; and I feared that you might introduce these topics as the subjects of your conversation at the party.

E. Fortunately no such mishap occurred, and since you prefer me in my present character, I will still retain it, trusting that you may never again have cause to be disturbed at the rusticity of your Country Cousin.

(_Curtain falls._)

TAKING POISON.

CHARACTERS.

MR. LEWIS FISHER, A very Nervous Man.
MRS. SUSAN FISHER, His Wife.
MISS HELEN FISHER, His Sister.
DR. GIBBS, Physician.
MARY, Servant.

SCENE.—_Parlor at MRS. FISHER’S. MR. F. comes in, and sinks
into a chair, R._

MR. FISHER. How weak I am! I wonder what can be the matter? (_Presses his hand first on one cheek, and then the other._) I think I’m a little feverish. (_Coughs as if it pained him._) And then this cough; I’m sure my lungs must be affected. But then that’s no wonder, for most of our family died of consumption, and I dare say I shall go in the same way. (_Petulantly._) I wonder where Susan is; she’s always gone when I want her. (_Rings the bell; servant enters, L._) Mary, where is Mrs. Fisher?

MARY. She went an hour ago, sir. Your sister, Miss Helen, came for her to go shopping, and the two of them went out then.

MR. F. (_sighing, and leaning back in his chair_). Did she say what time she would be back?

M. She did not, then. May be they won’t be home till dark.

MR. F. I shall be sick in bed before that time.

M. Couldn’t I do something for you, sir?

MR. F. (_shaking his head mournfully_). No. (_A pause._) Do you know where Mrs. Fisher keeps the cough drops?

M. I do not, sir.

MR. F. Well, then, it’s no matter. I’ll wait till she comes.

M. Very well, sir.

(_Exit MARY, L._)

(_MR. F. leans back in his chair, and rocks for a few moments with closed eyes. He then opens his eyes, and rises slowly._)

MR. F. It must be that Susan keeps the cough mixture in the closet. I’ll see. (_Goes to closet, L., and returns, bringing a bottle, having no label on it, with him._) Yes, here it is. I will take a teaspoonful. (_He takes a spoon from the table, and filling it carefully, swallows the contents._) I hope that will make me feel better. (_Sits down again in the rocking-chair._) I don’t see what keeps Susan away so long. It always was a mystery to me how women could enjoy shopping as they do. (_Begins to cough._) I believe I’ll go into the dining-room and get some water. (_Goes out, R.; enter MARY, L._)

M. (_looking around_). So master’s gone out. It’ll do him good, I’m thinking. Sure I don’t see how missis gets along wid him, when he’s so fussy. (_Goes to closet, L., and after a short stop, returns and exit, L. MR. F. reappears, R., bearing a glass of water, which he places on the table. He continues to cough._)

MR. F. The water does not remove the irritation in my throat. I must take some more of the drops. (_Goes to closet, L., and returns with a bottle; a label on it this time. He gazes at the label, and starts back in terror._) What’s this? Poison? And I’ve already taken a spoonful of it! That was what made me feel so strangely. Oh, I’m a doomed man! (_He rings the bell violently, and sinks into a chair. MARY enters, L._)

M. Oh, lor sakes, what makes you look so pale, sir?

MR. F. (_excitedly_). I’ve taken poison, Mary. I feel a pain in my side, already. Why doesn’t Mrs. Fisher come home? Oh, dear, what shall I do?

M. Can’t I get you something to take, sir?

MR. F. (_impatiently_). Oh, no, no. I’ve taken too much already. Nothing would help me now. I feel the poison coursing through my veins already, and cold chills are passing over me. Bring a blanket to cover me, Mary. I hope I shan’t die before Susan comes.

(_MARY brings a pillow, which she places behind him, and puts a blanket over his knees._)

M. Don’t you feel a little better now, sir?

MR. F. (_with an injured look._) Better! People don’t usually feel better when they are dying. (_Sound of a bell is heard outside._)

M. Mrs. Fisher is come.

(_Exit MARY, L., and, in a moment, enter MRS. FISHER and HELEN, R._)

MRS. FISHER (_with solicitude; going toward her husband_). Why, Lewis, what’s the matter? Are you sick?

MR. F. Yes, Susan; not merely sick, but dying.

MRS. F. (_perplexed_). What can you mean, Lewis? You left home this morning apparently well, and, after an hour’s absence, I return to find you nervous and excited. You look sick, too. Do tell me what is the cause.

MR. F. (_excited_). That I can very easily do. I was sick—quite feverish—and had a bad cough, so I thought I’d take some drops to relieve it.

MRS. F. That was right.

MR. F. I went to the closet, and took a spoonful, and thought they helped me. So, in half an hour, I went and got some more to take, when I noticed the label on the bottle, and found that, instead of cough-drops, I had been taking poison.

MRS. F. O Lewis, how could you make such a mistake? (_Clasping her hands._) What shall we do?

HELEN (_coolly_). Send for the doctor, I should say, if you haven’t both taken leave of your senses.

MRS. F. Yes, send Mary for the doctor at once. Why didn’t we think of it sooner?

MR. F. (_dismally_). It will do no good. Nothing can be done now. I feel cold chills passing over me. I shall not probably be alive when he reaches here. It will only take up the little time there is left.

H. I shall send Mary for the doctor, at all events.

(_Exit, L._)

(_MR. F. moans frequently. MRS. F. is occupied in chafing his wrists. Suddenly MR. F. speaks._)

MR. F. Susan.

MRS. S. (_through her tears_). Well, Lewis.

MR. F. You’ve been a good wife to me, Susan.

MRS. F. I’ve tried to be, Lewis.

MR. F. I’m glad you will be left in comfortable circumstances at my death. I’ve left my whole property to you. In my little black trunk you will find all my valuable papers. Here is the key. (_Passes it to her._)

MRS. F. (_sobbing, but takes the key_). Don’t think of such things, Lewis. You must live—for me. I’m sure that the doctor can help you.

MR. F. (_mournfully_). No, it’s too late—too late. I would like to have lived longer, but I must submit to my fate.

(_Enter DR. GIBBS, L._)

DR. GIBBS (_cheerily_). Well, my friend, what’s the matter with you?

MR. F. (_tragically_). Poison!

DR. G. (_surprised_). What! Got tired of living, hey?

MR. F. (_wearily_). Tell him about it, Susan.

MRS. F. It was a terrible mistake, doctor. He intended to take some cough drops, but, instead, took some laudanum.

DR. G. (_feeling his pulse_). How do you feel?

MR. F. I feel cold chills passing over me, and it seems us if a thousand needles were pricking my flesh; and I have got a terrible headache.

DR. G. But those are not the symptoms of poison. How long is it since you took it?

MR. F. More than an hour and a half ago.

DR. G. I don’t believe it was poison at all. I see no signs of it.

MR. F. But I saw the label.

DR. G. Let me see the bottle. (_MRS. F. brings the bottle from closet, L. DR. G. smells of the mixture, and then prepares to taste it._)

MRS. F. Oh, don’t taste it, doctor. It may be the death of you too.

(_The doctor lifts the bottle to his lips._)

DR. G. This is not poison. It is cough-drops, as I expected. Moreover, it is some that I mixed myself, and I know there’s no poison in it. But how came that label on it?

MRS. F. I prepared the label just before I went away, and told Mary to paste it on the bottle of laudanum. But it seems she must have pasted it on the wrong bottle.

MR. F. (_eagerly_). And haven’t I swallowed poison, after all?

DR. G. (_dryly_). Not unless you’ve taken it from some other bottle.

MRS. F. How thankful I am that it was a mistake; aren’t you, Lewis?

MR. F. Indeed I am. (_A pause._) By the way, Susan, you might as well hand me back the key of the little black trunk.

(_Curtain falls._)

DEACON ROBINSON’S PRESENT.

CHARACTERS.

DEACON JONATHAN ROBINSON, Delegate to Political Convention.
MRS. IRENE ROBINSON, His Wife.
DOCTOR LEWIS CUMMINGS, Physician of Rossville.
MR. CHAS. HERBERT FITZ HOWARD, A Young Exquisite.
LANDLORD.
JOHN.
TWO POLICEMEN.

(_DEACON ROBINSON is attired in a blue suit. The coat is short-waisted, old-fashioned, and ornamented with brass buttons. He wears a broad-brimmed beaver, far from new. CHARLES HERBERT FITZ HOWARD is dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a jaunty little hat on the side of his head, and a suit of clothes cut in the most fashionable style._)

SCENE I.—_Office of a hotel. Table, C. LANDLORD present, R. C.
Enter DEACON ROBINSON, L._

LANDLORD. Good-evening, deacon.

DEA. ROBINSON. Good-evening. I’ve come down from Morristown to ’tend the convention. I may be here two or three days. Can you give me a room?

L. (_suavely_). Oh, yes, certainly; a nice room, too. Will you order supper before going up stairs?

DEA. R. Supper! No, indeed! It’s nine o’clock, and I’m going to bed. Besides, I took supper afore I left home.

L. But you’ll register your name, first? (_Passes pen to him._)

DEA. R. (_takes from his pocket a tin case, which he opens, takes therefrom a pair of spectacles, which he adjusts upon his nose_). Wal, yes, I hain’t no objection. (_Writes._)

L. Here, John, take this lamp and show the gentleman up to Number 33.

JOHN. Yes, sir. (_Takes lamp and goes out, followed by the DEACON._)

(_Enter CHARLES HERBERT FITZ HOWARD, L._)

FITZ HOWARD. Aw—I say—aw—can you give me a good room?

L. Yes sir, directly. But, beg pardon, sir; perhaps you’d like some supper first?

F. H. Aw—yes, but I’ll go to my room first—aw, and make my toilet—remove the dust and travel—aw.

L. Your name, sir! (_Offers pen._)

F. H. Aw—yes—I had forgotten. (_Looking at pen—tries it._) What a deuced poor pen! (_Enter JOHN, R._)

L. Here is another. (_Offers it._)

F. H. (_takes it; gazes at book before him_). Deacon Jonathan Robinson—aw. What a name! Not much like the next one. (_Writes._) Charles Herbert Fitz Howard—aw.

J. Ain’t he a swell, though?

L. (_in a warning tone_). John.

J. Yes, sir.

L. Show this gentleman up to number 35.

J. Yes, sir. (_To FITZ HOWARD._) This way, sir.

(_Exeunt, R. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_A bed-chamber. DEACON ROBINSON is seen, C., dressed
in ruffled shirt and tightly fitting pants. He surveys them
meditatively._

DEA. R. I don’t see but I’ve got to wear these clothes, as long as the others are gone, for the convention meets at nine, and I shan’t have much more’n time to eat my breakfast. But it beats all where them other clothes went to, and where these come from. I declare, I never heard o’ such a thing in my born days. (_He thinks a moment—his face brightens._) Yes, it must be—there’s no other way. Some of my friends here in Rossville must ha’ clubbed together, and bought me this new suit, knowing I was to be here to the convention. But when could they ha’ brought them in, and taken my others away, for I’ve had my door locked ever since I came into the room? Oh, I remember now, last night, when there was an alarm of fire, I slipped on my overcoat, and went into the entry to see where ’twas; but findin’ ’twas a false alarm, I came back in less than ten minutes. They must ha’ been dreadful spry to ha’ made the change so quick. (_Apprehensively—taking up the coat._) I’m afraid they’re too gay for me, but I seem to be ’bleeged to wear ’em. (_Puts on the vest._) I wonder if the coat fits as well as the rest. (_Puts it on and stands up before the glass, R. Complacently._) Well, it’s a complete fit, and it does really improve me amazin’ly—makes me look a good deal younger. The cloth seems good too. They must ha’ cost a good deal. Really, my friends have been very kind, but I do wish they’d brought a different hat. (_Puts on the hat, which looks very jaunty for one of his years._) Perhaps I can exchange it to-morrow, but I’ve got to wear it to-day, at any rate. There’s one thing I haven’t thought of afore (_feeling in pockets_). I wonder whether they thought to change things in the pockets from the old to the new. There aint a single thing in any of ’em. (_Irresolutely._) And what shall I do without money? (_Goes quickly to overcoat, and puts his hand in pocket._) Ah, here is the old wallet. (_With a sigh of relief._) Lucky for me I bought a newspaper last evening, or that pocket-book would ha’ been gone too. I must go down and see if I can hear anything about the rest of the things.

(_Exit, L. Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_The same. FITZ HOWARD is seen, L. C., sitting
disconsolately with Deacon’s home-made shirt and pants on._

F. H. Well—aw—I’m sure, I don’t see what I’m going to do. I never can go out on the street—aw—wearing such wretched-looking clothes. (_Standing up suddenly and gazing upon them._) Why, they’re absolutely horwid. It’s strange—aw—how anybody could have been quick enough—aw—to change those clothes in the five minutes I was out—aw—last night at the alarm of fire. I should just like to get hold of the thief—aw—that’s all. I guess—aw—he’d never steal anything else. (_A pause. Emphatically._) I won’t wear this horwid-looking coat (_lifting it up._) What would Dick Hayes or Harwy Nichols say—aw—to see me dressed in this style! I won’t wear the shabby ole thing. (_Throws it to the other end of the room, R._) I should feel—aw—as if I was my own grandfather. And this horwid old hat. (_Takes it in his hand, and with a kick sends it after the coat._) Aw—I’ll ring for the landlord. (_Rings furiously. JOHN enters, R._)

F. H. Aw—where’s the landlord—aw?

J. He’s gone away.

F. H. When he comes back—aw—I want to see him.

J. Yes, sir; but he may not be back till noon, but I’ll tell him when he comes.

(_Exit JOHN, R._)

F. H. (_solus_). Well—aw—there’s no help from that quarter. I don’t see but I’ve got to come to it, for if I don’t wear these clothes—aw—what shall I wear? There isn’t any shop that sells ready-made clothing that I’d be willing to wear—aw—and if there was I haven’t money enough to spare to buy another suit. (_Groaning._) I don’t see but I _must_ wear it. (_Puts on vest and coat—looks in mirror._) Oh, dear! Aw—what a fright! And I was going to call on Arabella Meade this morning. (_Puts on hat, which, being a little too large for him, settles down on the back side of his head. He paces back and forth, looking down._) But there’s no use in my going there to-day. The servants would take me—aw—for a ragamuffin, and thrust me out of the house—aw—if I attempted to enter it. I suppose I shall have to go down in this costume—aw—and see if I cannot find some clue to my own clothes—aw.

(_Exit, L. Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_Parlor of the hotel. DEACON ROBINSON, C., looking
over morning paper. Enter DR. CUMMINGS, L., who does not
recognize the occupant of the room. Deacon Robinson advances to
meet him warmly._

DEA. R. (_cordially_). How do you do, Dr. Cummings?

DR. C. (_distantly_). Really, sir, you have the advantage of me!

DEA. R. What, don’t you recognize me? You’ve known me for the last twenty-five years. I’m Deacon Jonathan Robinson, of Morristown.

DR. C. Why, bless my soul, so you are! But, good gracious, deacon, what possessed you to dress in this strange way?

DEA. R. Strange?

DR. C. (_sternly_). Yes. I consider it discreditable to one of your years, sobriety, and position in the community, to make such a popinjay of yourself.

DEA. R. (_uncomfortably_). But it isn’t my doings.

DR. C. Isn’t your doings? Then whose is it? I don’t understand it. Surely Mrs. Robinson doesn’t countenance such folly!

DEA. R. She doesn’t know anything about it.

DR. C. No; I thought not.

DEA. R. (_a little vexed_). If you won’t be in such a hurry, Dr. Cummings, I’ll explain it all. You see I came over to Rossville last evening and put up here. I went to bed early, but about midnight there was a cry of fire. I slipped on my overcoat, and went into the entry to learn whether it was near by. In a few minutes I heard that it was a false alarm. I hurried back to my room, which I couldn’t have been out of more’n ten minutes, and locked my door. Then I went to bed and to sleep. When I waked in the morning my old clothes, which have done me such faithful service, were gone, and these were left in their place.

DR. C. How do you suppose they came there?

DEA. R. It is my opinion that my friends in Rossville, knowing that I was to attend a convention, took this way of presenting me with a new and fashionable suit of clothes.

DR. C. (_shaking his head_). It’s a strange story.

(_Enter MRS. R. R. She starts back, surprised at the appearance of her husband._)

MRS. ROBINSON (_sharply_). I should like to know, Deacon Robinson, what has put it into your head to dress in this ridiculous style; you, a man most sixty years old!

DEA. R. I’m only fifty-eight.

MRS. R. And you dress as if you were eighteen. You refuse me a silk dress, and then go and squander your money on this foolish rig. I should think you had gone stark, staring mad.

DEA. R. (_anxiously_). Stop, Reeny, I’ll explain it all. My friends in Rossville came and brought me this suit in the night.

MRS. R. (_contemptuously_). Fiddlestick! Do you expect me to believe that ridiculous story? I’m really afraid you’ve been drinking. Nothing else could ha’ brought you to make such a fool of yourself.

DEA. R. (_excitedly_). Mrs. Robinson, I command you to be silent. It’s you that are makin’ a fool o’ yourself, I’d have you to know. It’s enough for you to think of your own dress, and not interfere with mine.

MRS. R. (_wringing her hands_). O Jonathan, is this the way you speak to me, who’ve been a faithful wife to you for more than thirty years?

(_FITZ HOWARD, clad in the DEACON’S old-fashioned garments, bursts into the room, L., and rushes up to DEA. R., assuming a belligerent attitude._)

F. H. So you’re the thief—aw—you rascal—

DR. C. (_rising and coming forward_). What does this mean?

F. H. (_gesticulating violently_). It means—aw—that this fellah has run off with my clothes—a hundred-dollar suit, and left—aw—this worthless rubbish (_extending his arms as if to show the clothes_) in its place. (_In a loud tone._) Help! Police—aw—where’s the police?

MRS. R. (_indignantly_). O Jonathan, have you brought disgrace upon your innocent wife and family by this strange conduct?

DR. C. (_in tones of horror_). O Deacon!

DEA. R. Hear me; hear me. There’s some strange mistake.

F. H. There’s no mistake about it. Bring the police.

(_Police enter, L., and endeavor to handcuff him. DEA. R. struggles furiously._)

DEA. R. I won’t go to jail. Call the landlord.

MRS. R. (_earnestly_). Yes; call the landlord. Perhaps he can explain about it.

(_One of the policemen goes out, R., and immediately returns with the Landlord._)

F. H. This man—aw—has stolen my clothes, and I demand his arrest.

DEA. R. Well, landlord, you’ve known me a good many years. Do you think I should be likely to steal now—at my age?

L. Impossible; there must be some mistake.

F. H. But there can’t be any mistake; don’t you see—aw—he’s got on my clothes, and I his?

L. (_smiling_). Yes; but if he intended to steal them he wouldn’t come in, and sit quietly in the parlor with the garments on. But I haven’t heard how it came about. Did either of you leave your room last night?

F. H. I only left it for five minutes—aw—when the alarm of fire was raised—aw—and this morning when I waked—aw—my new suit was changed into these horwid things. (_Glances with contempt upon them._)

L. (_to DEACON_). And did you leave your room, too?

DEA. R. Yes; but only long enough to go into the entry and back again.

L. I see how it is; your rooms were side by side. You both left them, and when you returned, you each went into the other’s room. That accounts for the change of clothing. (_One policeman beckons to the other, and they go out, L._)

DEA. R. By George, that must ha’ been the way ’twas done. But I declare to goodness, I never should ha’ thought about it. (_To LANDLORD._) Thank you, landlord, for gettin’ me out o’ this scrape. (_To FITZ HOWARD._) And look here, young man, suppose we just go up stairs and swap clothes again. I guess these aint any more becomin’ to me than them are to you.

F. H. You’re right there—aw—old man. (_Exeunt DEA. R. and F. H., L._)

MRS. R. Well, I thank goodness things have turned out as they have. I wouldn’t ha’ had Jonathan gone to the convention in that rig for nothin’ in the world.

DR. C. (_sarcastically_). Not even if they had been a present to him from his friends in Rossville!

(_Curtain falls._)

MRS. MARDEN’S LESSON.

CHARACTERS.

MR. JOHN MARDEN, A clerk,
MRS. MARY MARDEN, His Wife.
MR. EDWIN HASTINGS, His Friend.
AUNT REBECCA, Mrs. Marden’s Aunt.
SERVANT.

SCENE I.—_Sitting-room at MR. MARDEN’S. MRS. MARDEN, present,
L._

JOHN (_entering room, R., with boots in his hand_). It’s most time for me to go to the store, Mary. (_Sits down, C., and puts on boots._) I declare it’s astonishing how soon eight o’clock comes these short mornings.

MARY (_who is dusting the room_). It brings to mind the mornings, in the days gone by, when you were obliged to go to school, I suppose.

J. Yes; and I can’t say I enjoy one any more than the other. It’s about as disagreeable as leaving a nice, cosey fire on a winter’s night and getting into a cold bed.

M. But then I think one appreciates his home more, and enjoys the time he is able to pass in it more fully, than if he remained at home.

J. Perhaps you are right, Mary; but I shouldn’t object to try the other way for awhile. (_Tosses slippers under the sofa._)

M. John, dear, hadn’t you better put your slippers in their place?

J. Oh, we’ll consider this their place. Then I shan’t have to go searching after them to-night.

M. There won’t be any need of _searching_ for them. If you put them where they belong, they will be sure to remain there.

J. But it’s a great bother to go out of one’s way for such trifles. They’re much handier lying there, and will be all ready for me to put on to-night.

M. But life is made up of trifles, and leaving things round clutters up the room so.

J. Why, no; a thing looks as well in one place as another. Besides, what’s the use of having a house if you can’t keep things where you want to? But there (_pushing them still farther under the sofa with his foot_), they’re out of sight now. They will be handy, and no one will be the wiser for their being there.

M. But I have to go around every day and pick things up after you.

J. Oh, well, don’t pick them up; just let them stay where they are, and then I can find them when I want them. (_Takes up overcoat from chair, where he had left it on previous evening, puts it on, takes hat from table, and exit, L._)

M. (_alone_). Something must be done to cure John of this careless habit of leaving things around; but how it can be arranged, I cannot tell yet. I must think it over.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_The same. Room in disorder. Two hats on the piano,
a vest on the table, and two coats on as many chairs. A
dressing-gown thrown carelessly on the sofa, and slippers on
the floor near them. AUNT REBECCA and MARY enter, L._

AUNT REBECCA. And you have married since I saw you last; married happily, I hope. (_They sit down, C._)

M. Yes; I couldn’t wish for a kinder or pleasanter husband. But between you and me, Aunt Rebecca, he has one fault that distresses me exceedingly.

A. R. And what is that?

M. He is so careless about his things. You have only to look about you, and you will see at once what I mean. I haven’t been in this room until now since he went to the store this morning. There are (_looking at each as she speaks_) two hats, two coats, dressing-gown, vest and slippers lying around. He is in such a hurry when he goes away, that he doesn’t notice anything about it, and when he comes home, I have put them all in their places, so I don’t think he realizes what an untidy appearance the room presents.

A. R. That _is_ rather a disagreeable habit. Have you spoken to him about it?

M. (_laughing_). Spoken? Yes; I’ve delivered whole lectures on the subject.

A. R. And what does he say?

M. Oh, he makes light of it, and manages to change the subject whenever it is brought up. I don’t like to spoil the peace of our cosey home by scolding, but I feel as if something must be done.

A. R. I see how it is, Mary. You must declare war.

M. (_looking up surprised_). In what way?

A. R. I haven’t fully matured a plan yet, but we will open the campaign to-night, and, my word for it, if you follow my directions, you will come off victorious.

M. I am filled with curiosity to know how it is all to come about.

SERVANT (_entering, R._) A littir for you, ma’am. (_Passes letter to M. and exit, R. MARY reads the letter._)

M. It is a line from John, saying that he will bring his friend, Mr. Hastings, home to dine with us. I suppose he thought it possible I might be out.

A. R. What kind of a man is Mr. Hastings?

M. Very pleasant indeed, and as fond of a good joke as any one I know of. He and John are great friends.

A. R. Then it will be just the time for us to open the campaign.

M. You have it all arranged, then?

A. R. Yes; draw your chair this way, and I will explain it to you. (_MARY moves near A. R._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_Room in confusion. Slippers under the sofa, coats
on chairs, two of MARY’S dresses on sofa, and her shawl and
bonnet on JOHN’S arm-chair. Two of JOHN’S hats on table. MARY
crocheting, R. JOHN and EDWIN HASTINGS enter, L._

JOHN (_glancing in surprise, first around the room, then at his wife_). What! house-cleaning, Mary?

M. Oh, no. (_Turns to greet his companion._) I’m glad to see you, Mr. Hastings. Sit down, do. (_Takes coat from chair, and tosses it carelessly on sofa._) You haven’t been here for a long time.

EDWIN (_looking round with an amused smile_). It _is_ a long time for me to be away.

J. (_taking M.’S shawl and bonnet from easy-chair_.) Say, Mary, what shall I do with these dry-goods?

M. Oh, lay them on the table.

J. But there isn’t room.

M. Isn’t there? Well, put them on the piano.

J. But I was just going to open it, so that we might have some music.

M. Well, put them on the sofa, then. There’s certainly room enough there.

J. But some one may sit on them there.

M. I guess not.

J. (_glancing uneasily around_). Hadn’t you better pick up things a little, Mary?

M. (_carelessly_). Oh, no, just let them lie as they are.

J. But they look so bad. And you know we frequently have callers in the evening.

M. Oh, they don’t look bad. I don’t see but a thing looks as well in one place as another.

J. I never saw your room look like this before, Mary.

M. (_apparently surprised_). Didn’t you? But I thought we might as well keep things handy. What’s the use of having a house, if you can’t keep things where you want to?

J. Oh, that’s it. So you’re giving an imitation of me, are you?

M. (_smiling_). I’ve tried to. But don’t you like it?

J. No, I don’t; that’s a fact.

M. Well, then, if you’ll agree not to do so again, I’ll straighten up the room; but if you have a relapse, mind, I shall have one, too.

J. Oh, I shan’t; don’t fear. If I’m in danger of it, the recollection of this scene will bring me back to the paths of rectitude.

E. (_coming forward, and bowing with mock deference_). I congratulate you, on the success of your scheme, Mrs. Marden, and have no doubt it will prove efficacious. It is worth a dozen scoldings, and is a far more agreeable remedy.

J. (_exultantly_). I rather think it touches you a little, old fellow, too, judging from the appearance of your bachelor apartments when I have called there.

E. I am sure of that, and have taken a part of it to myself already. When next you come to my rooms, you will, without doubt, be struck with the transformation, and will perceive at once, that I, as well as yourself have profited by Mrs. Marden’s lesson.

(_Curtain falls._)

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

CHARACTERS.

MADAME DEVINERESSE, ⎫ Fortune-tellers.
MADAME MARIE, ⎭
TOM, DICK, HARRY, ⎫ School-boys.
WALTER, JOE, NAT, ⎭
FAUSTINA, A Little Servant.

SCENE I.—_Room at a country boarding-school. HARRY, C., TOM, R.
C., and WALTER, R., present. Enter DICK, L. He advances to L.
C._

HARRY. Hallo, Dick, what’s up?

DICK (_with a significant smile_). Who says anything’s up?

H. There is, I know there is; I can tell it by your looks. Come, tell us, like a good fellow.

D. You must have a very vivid imagination to suppose one of my dignity (_straightening himself up_) would descend to such trifles.

TOM. One of _your_ dignity! That’s a good one. But come now, Dick, do tell us if anything is going on. It’s been the perfection of dulness here for the last three weeks. Any change would be welcome.

D. (_dryly_). Does your last remark refer to your pockets, or some other part of your habiliments?

T. (_smiling_). Apply it where you choose. But come, you’ve got some plan, I know. What is it?

D. You are right, boys, I _have_ got a plan. But remember (_impressively_), it must be a profound secret with us.

WALTER. We are willing to make the most solemn protestations of secrecy. Who’s to be the victim?

D. Joe Sherman.

H. Good! What’s the programme?

D. He is to have his fortune told. (_The boys crowd around DICK._)

T. (_eagerly_). How is it to be done?

D. Perhaps you have learned that Madame Devineresse, the fortune-teller, is stopping at the Everett House. It wouldn’t be very difficult for her to flatter Joe into the belief that he was born for some great and glorious end.

W. He’s satisfied on that point, already.

D. But you don’t understand. We will give her some hints of what he will expect, and then can have the fun of listening to the whole performance, and be better prepared to enjoy his remarks about it afterward. I have had a little conversation with Madame Devineresse, and I feel sure she will consent to co-operate with us.

T. (_excitedly_). I’ll wager an inkstand that Dick’s already had his fortune told by madame.

H. That’s nothing strange. He has had it told by every fortune-teller that’s visited the town for the last two years.

D. (_coolly_). What difference does that make, when every one tells a different story? A fellow must have some excitement in a little country village like this. Of course I don’t believe a word said by any one of them. But Sherman would. He’s just one of that kind. If she told him anything he wished to believe, he would put implicit faith in it.

W. (_shaking his head_). I don’t know about that. Joe is pretty cunning. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he should discover the plot.

D. Trust me for that. I’ve got things arranged so it is impossible he could suspect anything.

T. When is it to come off?

D. This evening, at the rooms of Madame Devineresse. We are to be concealed in the ante-room, and hear all that is said. It will be rich, I assure you. Come to my room at seven o’clock, and we will be ready to follow him. He will be there by half-past seven.

H. How do you know he is going at all?

D. I don’t expect he is thinking of it at present; but I must plan some way to induce him to go, and to be there at that hour. So I must leave you now. Don’t fail to be on hand at the appointed time.

(_Exit DICK, L. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_The room of MADAME DEVINERESSE. She is seated in
an arm-chair, R. C. On the table before her are placed an
hour-glass and a pack of cards, a small mirror, and an open
book. Charts covered with mystical characters are hung on the
walls. A sickle, a stuffed eagle, and any other emblematic
figures which can be obtained, are disposed around the room.
A small picture (of any design) is hung up where it will be
reflected into the mirror when held by JOE. Each time he lays
down the mirror, the picture is changed without attracting his
attention. JOE is ushered in by FAUSTINA, L._

JOE. You are the fortune-teller, I presume, madame.

MADAME DEVINERESSE. Yes; I am called so by those whom I serve. I unveil the secrets of the future to those who desire to know them. Do you wish to look into the magic mirror?

J. I should like to know something of the future.

MME. D. You shall do so. Bring me the magic mirror, Faustina. (_F. passes mirror to her._) Young man, approach. (_J. draws near._) You wish to learn something of the future. (_J. bows._) You are permitted to look three times into this mirror, where you will see three scenes in your future life. Take it into your own hands. (_J. does so._) What do you see?

(_Exit FAUSTINA, R._)

J. I see a school-room. There are many people present. It must be examination day.

MME. D. Do you see yourself there?

J. Yes; the other scholars are all crowding about me, and seem to be congratulating me for some reason. The teacher has come forward, and presents me with a richly bound book.

MME. D. That picture represents a scene in your life _three_ years hence, when you will leave this school. You will graduate as first scholar in your class. You see yourself as having just delivered the valedictory. The other pupils are congratulating you, but many of them are envious at the distinction accorded you, and which you have so richly merited.

(_JOE’S face beams with pleasure. MME. D. holds out her hand for the mirror. Taking it, she wipes it carefully, lays it on the table, waves her wand over it three times, and then returns it to JOE._)

MME. D. What see you now, young man?

J. A crowded court-room. A case has just been tried. I am the centre of a crowd of people, who are pressing up to shake hands with me. The opposing lawyer sits at a little distance, casting glances of bitterness toward me.

MME. D. That picture represents a scene _fifteen_ years hence. You have gained a famous law-suit, which has placed you, though young, in the front ranks of your profession. Envious persons have maligned you, and opponents assailed you; but, without deigning to notice them, you have steadily gone on, till you have attained a high position in the profession which you adorn.

(_MME. D. again takes the mirror. Taking a box from the table, she shakes on the surface of the mirror a white powder. Wiping it carefully, she makes passes over it with her wand, and hands it to the young man. He gazes upon it for a moment in silence, and with pleased wonder. MME. D. looks on benignantly._)

MME. D. The picture pleases you, then. What does the mirror disclose?

J. I see a beautiful house. On the balcony a gentleman is standing. He is addressing a throng of people who are assembled before the house. They wave their hats, and are full of enthusiasm. What does it mean?

MME. D. Do you not recognize the gentleman?

J. It looks like myself, but cannot be, for it is too old.

(_MME. D. takes the mirror, and gazes on it for a moment._)

MME. D. It does look somewhat older, and more mature. But why should it not? It represents you as you will appear _thirty_ years hence. You have steadily pressed onward, distancing all with whom you started at school. You have just been elected as member of Congress, and the people, wild with enthusiasm, are shouting your name, and calling for a speech. (_JOE gazes, as if spellbound, on the mirror._) Are you satisfied with the glimpses of the future which I have given you?

J. (_with dignity befitting his future position, and, returning the mirror to her_). Yes, my good woman, you have done very well.

MME. D. There are few persons to whom such a brilliant future opens. Whenever the glass has mirrored such scenes as I have shown you, it loses power ever after to delineate scenes in _common_ lives. I therefore present it to you, that, when depressed by the trials of life, you may gain courage by gazing at its magic surface. I will place it in a box, in which it must always be kept. Otherwise, it will lose all its power.

(_Exit MME. D., R._)

J. (_pacing back and forth_). And this is to be the end of my career! No, not the end, for I may yet become President. I wonder what Harry, Dick, and Walter would say, if they knew what I do. They have always thought I put on airs; but they will, some time, realize that it was only my natural dignity, which could not fail to assert its superiority to the common herd around me. (_Enter MME. D., with box, which she hands to JOE._)

MME. D. Here is the precious mirror. (_J. takes it._) Handle it carefully. When not in use, on no account leave it out of the box. It is capable of producing other scenes in your life than those which I have shown you. Whenever you wish to test it, you have but to wipe its surface carefully, wave your hand over it three times, and it will produce your image and surroundings more faithfully than they have yet been shown you.

J. Thank you, madame, for your great, your inestimable gift. I will guard it sacredly, and, when I become famous and powerful, I will reward you as you deserve.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_DICK’S room. JOE enters, R. He goes to table, C.,
and takes up book._

J. (_solus_). I thought I should find a dictionary _here_. Dick told me this morning I was the most “stultiloquent orator” he ever listened to. I never heard the word before, but it has quite a grand sound, and I mean to use it the first chance I get, but I want to know its meaning. (_Turns over the leaves, and finds between them a letter not yet folded._) Hallo, what’s this? (_Takes up letter._) A letter to Tim Bellamy. How I’d _like_ to read it! But then it wouldn’t be just the thing. (_Glances towards bottom of sheet._) What’s this? (_Reads._) “Now I tell you how we duped Joe Sherman.” Why, that’s me. I must find out about that. (_Sits down and reads._) “You know Joe is one of the most conceited boys in school. Well, some of us fellows thought we’d have a little fun at his expense through this failing. I heard, one evening, that a fortune-teller had arrived at the hotel. You know I always had a weakness for having my fortune told. So I went to see her, and finding her very pleasant and obliging, I arranged with her to tell Joe’s fortune in a way that would tickle his vanity. As I agreed to pay her for it, she was nothing loth to do her part, and she did it well. Several of us fellows were in the next room, and heard all that was said. She flattered him with glimpses of the future which raised his opinion of himself so much that, since then, he carries his head like a peer of the realm. By the way, these glimpses of the future were had by looking into a seven-by-nine mirror, which reflected pictures hung up behind Joe, and which we changed each time he looked into it. We enjoyed, hugely, listening to the interview, as I think we ought, for it took three of us several hours to draw the three pictures. It was also quite a tax on the imagination, which had to be stretched to the utmost to make Joe satisfied with his fortune. But we were successful. I can’t help laughing when I think how carefully he carried that little mirror home, promising to guard it sacredly. The fortune-teller told him that when next he looked in it it would reflect his image even more faithfully than it had yet done. I wonder what he thought when he _did_ look in it and saw nothing but his own homely countenance just as it was?” (_Puts back letter and closes the book._)

J. (_solus_). Well, that’s the meanest thing I ever knew Dick to do. I wonder who were with him; Harry and Tom most likely. But Dick was the ringleader. He always is. The idea of my being made such a laughing stock! (_Paces back and forth._) It was the climax of meanness. But I’ll turn the table on them. I guess Nat and I are capable of planning something which will pay up old scores. We’ll have a consultation to-night, for I want it done before Dick sends his letter, so he can not only tell the story of his exploit, but also give the sequel. (_A noise is heard, L._) Ah, somebody’s coming; I mustn’t be seen here.

(_Exit, R. Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_Same as Scene II. The room is darkened. In the
background is placed a large screen, from behind which—whenever
they can escape observation—several boys peer out. Enter DICK,
R., with an open letter. He advances to R. C._

D. I don’t see who could have sent me this notice. The handwriting is evidently that of a lady. Possibly it is that of Mme. Marie herself. But the puzzle is, how she happened to send it to me. I suppose, though, some one informed her that I liked to have my fortune told occasionally. (_Reads._) “Madame Marie, the veiled prophetess of the East, respectfully gives notice that she has taken up her residence at Number 27 Osborne Street, where she will remain for seven days only, during which time she is willing to unfold the future of those who may wish to become acquainted with its secrets. Madame Marie will disclose the mysteries of the past, as well as the hidden events of the future. As her stay is of limited duration, those wishing to consult her will do well to call at once.” (_Places note in his pocket and paces back and forth with his hands clasped behind him._) I received this note only an hour ago, and hastened to call upon her. But although I have been here full fifteen minutes, I have as yet seen no one. Where _is_ Madame Marie? (_Enter MME. MARIE, L., shrouded with a black veil._)

MME. MARIE (_in measured tones._) She is here. What would you have? Shall I tell you the past, or only the future?

D. I would hear something of the past as well as of the future, if you please, madam.

MME. M. That is well. I will consult the oracles, and give you their testimony. (_A pause. DICK looks expectant._) Ah, yes, the events of our past life come crowding up before me. I see that you are credulous, impulsive, and somewhat superstitious.

D. Credulous and superstitious! Oh, no.

MME. M. (_waving her hand_). Silence. It is not meet that you interrupt the disclosures of the oracles. Superstition signifies a fondness for the unknown and mysterious; therefore you are superstitious. You are also credulous; for did you not believe the revelations of Madame Devineresse, who came here a short time ago, and who is an arrant impostor? You were the means of bringing to her a young man who wished to look into the magic mirror.

D. (_smiling at the recollection_). Yes, and he went away with higher aspirations, and a feeling of inward pleasure which cannot be described. I think praise rather than blame is due me for this deed.

MME. M. I need not tell you of the deception which you practised on him. Even now circumstances are at work which will bring to you direful consequences on account of that deed.

D. (_somewhat troubled_). What do you mean? Has he discovered the trick?