Chapter III: Act V: SCENE I. A room at the Dolphin Inn. A prelude to a serenade (2)

So it does; but it is covered with a mortgage from cellar to roof. One month ago Northlake was a rich man, but, leaving his books and plunging into speculation, he lost not only his fortune, but also that of his niece Violet, who is an orphan, and whose fortune was intrusted to his keeping. Her loss seems to trouble him most.

BLUEGRASS.

When did you become acquainted with him?

WHETSTONE.

Last summer, when they were travelling in the West. I had some business with him, and I then got a glance at his niece. I have since corresponded with him. When I met him to-day he had a book in his hand. I asked him, What’s that book? He replied, It’s a work on speculative philosophy. Said I, Throw it away, and study the market quotations and crops; that’s the kind of speculative philosophy you need.

BLUEGRASS.

What did he say to that?

WHETSTONE.

He opened his book and commenced reading. Said I: Close your book. I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to. I’ve made you a business proposition that’s worth more than all your books. I’ve got the booty, and you’ve got the beauty. Is it a trade?

_Enter_ PUNCH, _who tries to overhear the conversation_.

BLUEGRASS.

How did that impress him?

WHETSTONE.

He replied, You shall have her, but you must first woo her as a tender and gallant lover should, and thus win also her dower of tenderness and fancy.

BLUEGRASS.

How did that strike you?

WHETSTONE.

Oh, said I, I’ll show my good points. I’m rich, noble, and good; she’ll have me.

BLUEGRASS.

How did that affect him?

WHETSTONE.

Come, Whetstone, said he, you’re a practical man. The most practical man in love is the most fanciful. Come to the masquerade to-night in a heroic character.--And I’m going.

BLUEGRASS.

What kind of a hero will you assume to be?

WHETSTONE.

Oh, any kind, just so it’s a hero. I can outdo any of them.

BLUEGRASS [_perceiving_ PUNCH].

Hello! my friend, can you tell us where to get masquerade suits?

PUNCH.

Yonder, gentlemens. [_Pointing to a neighboring shop._] I recommends him. He is a good neighbor and an honest man. Good day, gentlemens.

[PUNCH _slips into his shop by a side door_.

WHETSTONE [_reading the sign over the door_].

Peter Punch. Masquerade Suits and Unk-Weed Liniment. For sale or rent.--That’s a queer sign!

BLUEGRASS.

They are well suited; for the liniment is a lining under the suits.

[_They enter the shop by front door._

SCENE III.--_A costumer’s shop._ PUNCH _arranging his costumes_.

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS.

PUNCH.

Walk into mine shop, gentlemens. You do me great honors.

WHETSTONE.

Are you not the same man we met outside?

PUNCH.

Did he say I was honest?

WHETSTONE.

You have it.

PUNCH.

Mine good friends, that was mine brother.

WHETSTONE.

Why, you have the same marks. What are you up to?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, we were born twins; our own father couldn’t tell us apart.

BLUEGRASS.

Nature must have been in a proud mood when she duplicated you.

WHETSTONE.

What’s your name?

PUNCH.

Peter Punch.

WHETSTONE.

What’s your brother’s name?

PUNCH.

Peter Punch Number Two. We are twins; I swears it. Mine friends, these are my beautiful suits; and in this bottle is the wonder of seven hemispheres, the sublimely famous and justly celebrated unk-weed liniment. By your firesides, rub it in well. With one wing of medicinal gum, and the other of healing balsam, it flies to its proud home in the bones. Gentlemens, rub it in well. There it works its marvels. This, gentlemens, is the unk-weed art gallery [_pointing to two pictures_]. This one is before taking; that one, after taking. Gentlemens, rub it on your skins inside, and put one of my suits on the outside, and then you do marvels. I swears it.

WHETSTONE.

Which do you sell or rent,--the suits, or the liniment? [PUNCH _winks an eye_.] Why do you wink?

PUNCH.

Goodness gracious! you surprises me so. Mine eyelid slips down. Gentlemens, I cannot rent the wonderful unk-weed.

BLUEGRASS.

Peter Punch, you are a compound fraction. Give your doctor fraction a quick drop, and your tailor fraction a fresh seaming. We have good sound characters, but you and your tailor’s goose may mend them. I wish to cast upon a French maid a romantic spell, something in the aurora borealis fashion.

PUNCH.

Gentlemens, I haven’t got it [_winking his eye_].

BLUEGRASS.

Why do you wink?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, it is my little weakness. I swears it.

BLUEGRASS.

Try to keep your blind up. It makes me suspicious that something wrong is going on inside. Peter, have you a rainbow suit?

PUNCH.

Mine dear friend, I’ve just what will suit you. I made it for a gentlemans just like you, but it rained and he didn’t call for it.

BLUEGRASS.

He was only a fair-weather beau; but I’ll be a rainbow as well. [PUNCH _shows him the suit_.] That will suit. Now show me a mask. [PUNCH _shows him a mask_.] Why, it has a nose upon it like a barn-gable.

PUNCH.

Mine friend, a big nose makes a strong character [_laying his finger along his nose_].

BLUEGRASS.

Its cheeks are smooth as a boy’s.

PUNCH.

Mine friend, how would a rainbow look with a beard on it? Oh, mine friend!

BLUEGRASS.

Come out from under your disguise, Peter PUNCH. You have the eternal fitness of things under your thumb, and that makes a good tailor and a shrewd philosopher.

PUNCH.

I thank you, gentlemens.

WHETSTONE.

Show me some clothes worn by kings, princes, and potentates.

PUNCH.

Mine friend, let me take your measure. [_He takes_ WHETSTONE’S _measure with a tape-line_.]

WHETSTONE.

Do you think you can take my measure for a suitable character suit with your puny tape-line? Put up your line, and search Flatpuddle Smith’s Biography of Great Men,--although I must say there are in that book some of the biggest measures of the littlest men on earth; and besides, old Heavyweight, who made his fortune putting sand in sugar, is on the first page. They asked for sugar, and he sandpapered them. It’ll go rough with him. Peter Punch, listen to my measure. I’m a merchant prince, Mayor Whetstone, from Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules after my grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the Mississippi.

PUNCH [_presenting a robe_].

This is the robe that Julius Cæsar wore when he did thrice refuse the crown up at the Capitol.

WHETSTONE.

Why did he refuse it? Didn’t it fit him? I don’t want that.

PUNCH [_presenting a suit_].

This is a suit worn by a shepherd boy as he tends his flocks,--young Norval’s suit.

WHETSTONE.

Confound you! Do you think I want to be a shepherd boy, and herd sheep?

PUNCH [_presenting another suit_].

This is the suit of a Highlander.

WHETSTONE.

That’s high-sounding. Let me see it. What’s this?

PUNCH.

That goes around the waist like a petticoat.

WHETSTONE.

Where’s the other part?

PUNCH.

There is none.

WHETSTONE.

Take back your Highlander. [PUNCH _winks_.] Stop winking!

PUNCH.

Goodness gracious! you surprises me so. But here, mine friend. This is a suit of King Richard the Lion-Heart, who slew thousands of Saracens in one day.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t they stop him, the old villain? Peter Punch, you may as well put down both shutters over your eyes. Business is closed.

[_Going._

PUNCH.

Wait, wait, mine dear friend; I have a beautiful suit of armor, magnificent! I saves it for you. I keeps it wrapped up. It is the suit of a grand knight-errant. [_Takes covering from mounted suit of armor._]

WHETSTONE.

Ah, that’s something like the thing. The business we are on is a sort of a night errand. What line of business was he in? Did he travel much at night?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, you is mistaken. The knight-errant was a great man who went around foreign countries clad in a suit of mail, rescuing beautiful damsels, over seven hundred years ago.

WHETSTONE.

So long ago as that? His clothes must be a little rusty; but you can rub them well. You don’t say the suit is seven hundred years old?

PUNCH.

Over seven hundred years, mine friend [_winking_].

WHETSTONE.

Major, what would they say if they knew of this in Cornville? So the old rascal used to go around in the night, rescuing beautiful damsels; and they called them night errands! Didn’t he rescue the ugly damsels too?

PUNCH.

History is silent, mine friend.

WHETSTONE.

Well, I do declare! I’ll keep up his trade. I’ll build up the old industry on these shores, and I’ll make it hum.

PUNCH.

I have English, French, Spanish, and other cheaper kinds; but I’ll give you the suit of a grand German knight-errant, because he was a great Teuton.

WHETSTONE.

What is the rent to-night for the so-called Teuton knight-errant?

PUNCH.

You shall have him cheap. I will calculate. One cent a year, one dollar for each hundred years,--seven dollars, mine friend.

WHETSTONE.

Isn’t that tooting it rather high for a night errand?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, the Teuton knight-errant was the most substantial and high-toned.

WHETSTONE.

Substantial and high-toned! I’ll invest. I’ll wake up your old Teuton knight-errant, and make him hum.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.--_A street. Evening._ JACK, _disguised as an ape, on his way to the masquerade_.

_Enter_ FOPDOODLE _and_ TOM, _his valet_.

FOPDOODLE.

By Jove, what is it?--Tom, my man, stand firm.--Audacious creature! So much hair on it, you know. I’d kindly thank you for your card.

JACK.

Apes and conundrums, having been made before pockets, do not carry their cards. Did you ever husk an ear of corn?

FOPDOODLE.

Audacious beast! Fopdoodle’s no farmer.

JACK.

Then how do you expect to husk me by the ear? For the ear of an ape stands higher than a vegetable.

FOPDOODLE.

What a misapplication of terms!

JACK.

Why did you not bring your shell with you?

FOPDOODLE.

What shell?

JACK.

The shell of a goose-egg. Go get it, and put yourself in it, or I’ll make an omelet of you by assault and battery.

[_Moving around_ FOPDOODLE.

FOPDOODLE.

By Jove, you’re a ferocious ape. I’ll have you arrested. Ho, there! Oh, policeman, come at once, I pray you, and quell this riot. Come, I command you. But he don’t come. What an abominable government we do have! If we had a king, then I’d be protected,--a nice, sweet king! Then, you know, I’d go to court; then I’d be My Lord Fopdoodle. Oh, I’d dearly love a king.

JACK.

What would you do if an enemy arose?

FOPDOODLE.

Why, then the king would say: Upon the breeze that blows upon the borders of my land, I sniff the enemy. My lord, my good and trusty Lord Fopdoodle, hasten. Gather two hundred thousand men or so of our confiding yeomanry and stanchest citizens. Go put the enemy down.--And I would do it.

JACK.

But suppose he wouldn’t stay down?

FOPDOODLE.

Tom, my man, stand firm.--When a king puts an enemy down, he puts him under ground.

JACK.

How would you raise the cash?

FOPDOODLE.

If I saw the treasury running low, I’d rise and thus address the throne of majesty: Of late, most able king, thy servant, Lord Fopdoodle, whom thou hast ennobled, hath observed sundry of his former friends, shopkeepers, swelling with wealth and aping his nobility. I’ll strip them of their towering ambition by taking off the goods from their top shelves. And then the king would say, Good my lord, thou art aright; go thou and do it. And I would go and do it.

JACK.

Would you have any whims?

FOPDOODLE.

Wouldn’t I have whims!--Tom, my man, stand firm.--Thousands of them. If a king and his lords can’t have their whims, they’re not so good as other people are. Some day, when the king was in a right good humor, I would say: Your valiant Majesty, an ape doth offend me much. I have a whim. I crave a boon, my liege, a boon, my sovereign; and he would say, I’ll grant it thee. Then I would say, I thank thee, good my sovereign. I would that all the apes in thy kingdom were destroyed. And he would say, Take this my signet ring, and let them perish.

JACK.

And you would kill poor Jack?

FOPDOODLE.

Are you Jack? Mr. Northlake’s own son Jack, and cousin to beautiful Miss Violet? Why, Jack, I could love even an ape if he were cousin to the beautiful Miss Violet.

JACK.

Would you cozen an ape?

FOPDOODLE.

[_Aside_] I’ll steal into Miss Violet’s secret heart through this half-open, half-witted gate of a cousin. [_Aloud_] I’m in love. Help me, Jack. About the king, good Jack, I was but joking; and if I were married to Miss Violet, and were the king’s lord, I would not hurt a hair on an ape’s body. Oh, she’s a sweet conundrum; a rose is a conundrum,--why, I’m a sweet conundrum myself. Jack, you’re a stunning good fellow, an awfully good ape. Let me stroke ape’s hair.

JACK.

Paws off! You Miss my cousin, but she’ll not miss you. I represent to-night a missing link which were well found in you. I’m in full dress,--Nature’s regulation costume for the ape; but you commit a barefaced outrage with your ape’s nature minus the hair. Meet me at the masquerade.

[_Going._

FOPDOODLE.

Tom, my man, stand firm!--Don’t go, Jack.--I’ll go too.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE V.--VIOLET’s _boudoir, dimly lighted_.

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE, _with domino on his arm, reading a book_.

NORTHLAKE.

Not yet! still in her dressing-room. To-night
Fortune shall win a prize more delicate
Than are the velvet leaves of fabled roses.
For years my mind’s best nutriment has come
By night,--and what of night? I’ll think on it,
While Violet arrays herself for this
Night’s masquerade. It would be right in me
To fancy night as a black sea in space,
That hath circumference and depth, and through
Whose clouded elements grim-visaged hawks
Do sleekly plunge like fishes in the sea,
Seeking their prey; and all upon the earth
Dwell on the floor of this aërial sea,
And thence look longingly at moon and stars.
Oh, hasten, sun, drive back this monstrous tide
Of night! See how these trembling night-lights throb
With the sun’s offices. Ten million such
Could not burn up a solitary rood,
Nor make partition for a vaulted league
Of this black night. But I’ll not rail against
The gentle night; for often doth it bear
A princely offering to Mammon’s shrine.
But come, my niece, my gentle Violet,
Make haste; the hours halt not for lagging maids,
Nor fortune either.

VIOLET [_within_].

Patience, my good uncle.

NORTHLAKE.

What is this vaunted love that so doth set
The world on edge? ’Tis but the kindled rapture
Of selfishness, that joys to see its double,
Its fond endearment, its sweet concord, and
Reflection in another. While love is true,
Two doubles come, both blent in one, in love’s
Bright mirror; but when fails the endearing bond
Of selfishness, the passions, then two natures
Rudely clash therein, and love sees double,
Like to an eye disordered. Wonderful
Nature is solved as easily as a scholar
Doth solve his problem on the wall, when lo!
The master’s back is turned, and stealthily
He peeps into the key. O Selfishness,
Thou art the key to all the operations
Of all this globe,--all men and animals,
And all the garniture of fields and forests.
Oft thou art hideous; then thou art distorted,
As is a lovely body racked by torture;
But in thy true and fair proportioned self
Thou’rt beautiful as beauty, and as wise
As wisdom. Thou art plentiful as color,
Sound, motion; and without thee Nature would
Eclipse herself in stark and blank oblivion.
Learn early this misfortune: Envy and Hate
Live on good fortune.... Not ready yet!
I’ll knock upon the door [_knocking_]. Fair Violet,
Make haste, or we’ll be late.

VIOLET [_within_].

Presently, good uncle.

NORTHLAKE.

Dimly these lights do burn, as if this boudoir
A cloister were; but these fair ornaments,
Arranged in chaste profusion, show a maiden
Mind dwells here that doth delight in beauty.
Yonder, enshrined with wreaths of evergreen
And immortelles, a precious picture hangs,--
Her mother and my sister, looking most
Pityingly on me. What is this? Why, here’s
The carven image of a maid at prayer;
And here’s a tender picture of a youth
And maiden in a flower-garden, done
In placid oils upon a patch of canvas.
Methinks the artist had done better had
He put here in the corner of the picture
Some quaint and curious demon, peeping o’er
The garden wall. Why, looking at these toys,
So fitting for a maiden’s bower, almost
Moves me from my purpose. Must all these
Vanish? Will not some angel answer me?
No; Heaven answers not a bankrupt’s prayer.
My fortune and her fortune swallowed in
The hideous maw of speculation; both
Banished, completely banished! Why, I’d rather
Be exiled from my country than my fortune.
But all, all is not lost. She hath a girlish
Beauty and a heart most rare; and in
This age of rude massed gold there’s value in it.
A heaven-dowered woman hath an alchemy
That can refine base gold. The bargain’s good....
Ninon, is not thy lady nearly ready?

NINON [_within_].

My lady does demur to wear ze dress,
And says she’d rather be plain Violet.

NORTHLAKE.

Thy scruples, Violet, are pretty whims;
But more become a simpering maid than thy
Chaste self. [_Aside_] Alas, the plague of poverty!
[_Aloud_] Thou dost obedient service to thy guardian
Uncle, and mayst save him from a plague
That’s worse than all the plagues that e’er beset
The town of Coventry.

VIOLET [_within_].

Plague take the costume! I do not like it.

NORTHLAKE.

Let me turn up these lights--the jewel’s from

[_Turning up the lights._

Its casket brought. I keep no false coin in
My house, no cunning mockery, no smirking
Counterfeit. Why, he shall own, and rightly
Own, that she, in bodily volition,
Movement, and gesture, well doth match a mind
That’s matchless.

_Enter_ VIOLET _in fancy costume, and_ NINON _carrying domino_.

VIOLET.

Dear uncle, art thou pleased?

NORTHLAKE.

Why, thou art richly worth his gold, were his
Possessions fabulous.

VIOLET.

Whose gold, good uncle?
Thou speakest strangely.

NORTHLAKE.

I did but jest a trifle.

VIOLET.

Give me thy arm, good uncle. I’ll tease thee.

[_Taking his arm._

I do mistrust thou’dst sell me in this costume;
For Ninon, chatting as we dressed, and humoring
Me, did say that often thus they sell
Circassian maids unto the Turk.

NORTHLAKE.

Nay, ’tis but idle prattle in Ninon.

VIOLET.

Dear uncle, let Ninon companion be
To me to-night.

NORTHLAKE.

If ’tis thy merry wish.

VIOLET.

I thank thee, my dear uncle.

NORTHLAKE [_taking domino from_ NINON _and putting it on_ VIOLET].

Give me the domino. Thou’lt wear it on
Thy passage to the ball. It is a shield
Which, laid aside, thy beauty’s peerless might
Shall conquer all.

[_Curtain._

Act the Third.

SCENE I.--_A masquerade. Musicians playing. Maskers moving about._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS _in masquerade costume_.

WHETSTONE.

Major, have we any parallels for this?

BLUEGRASS.

Millions of parallels. Nature loves a masquerade as much as she abhors a vacuum.

WHETSTONE.

See if my character is loose. It feels like slipping down over my boots.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold on to your character; never let it slip, or all is lost. Remember, you are a Teuton knight-errant of the Horn of Plenty, and I am Rainbow, your squire. The ancient warrior Achilles carried a shield with amazing scenes beaten thereon.

WHETSTONE.

I can beat Achilles’ shield all hollow. I’ve brought my album, with photographs of my houses, stores, banks, farms, academy, and prize cattle. Here it is. [_Displaying a large album._] But come, my boy, again explain. Why am I called the Horn of Plenty?

BLUEGRASS.

Horn of Plenty signifies wealth. Remember, we are now walking in a romance, and explanations are like stumbling-blocks in a dream. One must imagine more than he sees.

_Enter_ SCYTHE _with glass, examining_ WHETSTONE, _and especially_
JACK, _among the masqueraders_.

WHETSTONE.

Then she might imagine I was a dinner-horn, a trombone-horn, a tooting-horn, the moon’s horn, a horned beast, or some other horn, or that I took a horn as a matter of business.

BLUEGRASS.

Don’t talk of business; stick to your character.

WHETSTONE.

Confound you, my boy! I am sticking to my character, and my character sticks to me. I feel like a rooster in an iron nightgown.

BLUEGRASS.

Solid in solid.

WHETSTONE.

I’m the only one here who seems to have his clothes riveted and anchored to him.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold! you must talk in the language of knight-errantry: My sweet, fair, or beauteous lady, wilt tread a measure in the dance? I am listed in the tournament of love.--Something in that strain.

WHETSTONE.

Will my clothes bear the strain?

BLUEGRASS.

Seemingly, but if you should feel rusty, either in character or memory, ask me to polish you; for such is my traditional duty as your faithful squire.

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE, VIOLET, _and_ NINON.

WHETSTONE [_observing_ VIOLET].

Oh, ho! look there, Major, my boy,--there comes the prize of the market. She’s pretty as a pet kitten. She’s sweet as a box of honey. She’s worth a barrel of money. I wish it were Violet; I’d throw in the farm on Pearl Creek.

BLUEGRASS.

Steady, steady; hang on to your character!

CATHARINE [_recognizing_ BLUEGRASS].

[_Aside_] That is he with the blue ribbon. I’ll hail this rainbow. [_Aloud_] Sir Rainbow, you make fair promises, and keep them fairly.

BLUEGRASS.

Rainbows bespeak fair weather and fair maids.

CATHARINE.

You have bespoken fair weather with bright words, and you shall bespeak a fair maid with bright eyes, as I promised you to-day on the seashore.

BLUEGRASS.

Oh, where is she?

CATHARINE.

Yonder she stands while the fates work her destiny,--the fair Ninon. Come, give me your arm.

[_They join_ NINON.

WHETSTONE.

Going, going, gone; knocked down to the first bidder! What a weakness he has developed for women!

NORTHLAKE.

[_Aside_] Why, that’s the voice of Mayor WHETSTONE. I’ll address him. [_Aloud_] Ho, most gallant knight, thy squire hath left thee in a lonesome plight!

WHETSTONE.

I am the so-called Teuton knight of the Horn of Plenty. Do you know me?

NORTHLAKE.

Have you the mettle of the true knight?

WHETSTONE.

I’m covered with metal seven hundred years old. Northlake, I know you! Where is she?

NORTHLAKE.

Yonder, with her maid. Go, woo and win the lady. You could not have chosen a better suit in which to press your suit.

WHETSTONE.

She shall be mine, and you shall be rewarded. [_To_ VIOLET.] Beauteous lady, I am the resplendent knight of the Horn of Plenty. [_Aside_] What’s the rest? [_Aloud_] Please wait a moment till I see my squire.

[_He goes to consult with_ BLUEGRASS.

NORTHLAKE.

He is the antipodes of that ancient gentleman whose dress he wears. But, alas! the rudest oft give most thanks for a gentle wife, and he’ll make her a comfortable husband. To do this, some would say was villanous in me; but ’tis a convenient fashion. Wealth is a rude mountain, from which the gentle win gentle treasures. The Decorator of the fields hath placed the flower and sturdy plant side by side, and the one doth shield the other. From dankest earth the whitest lily grows; from keen-edged sands the fairest blossom blows. E’en frozen clods have flowers, and flowers their frozen clods.

WHETSTONE [_returning to_ VIOLET].

Wilt tread a measure with me? I am listed in the tournament of love.

VIOLET.

Thy words bespeak a gallant knight. I’ll grant thy wish.

NORTHLAKE [_to_ CATHARINE].

I pray thee for a partner.

_A dance._ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET, BLUEGRASS _and_ NINON, NORTHLAKE
_and_ CATHARINE; SCYTHE _inspects_ JACK _with his glass and takes
him for a partner_.

[_Curtain._

SCENE II.--_A balcony._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET.

VIOLET.

Sir Knight of the Horn of Plenty, did thy grand-uncle slay the Indians?

WHETSTONE.

All of them. The banks of the Mississippi were covered. He had hired soldiers under him who harvested their scalps while he slew them. In my life in Flatpuddle Smith’s Biography of Great Men, you will find him given as my great collateral ancestor.

VIOLET.

Thy family is warlike, but surely thou art a gentle knight.

WHETSTONE.

Oh, I’m gentle now; but if one of those savage Indians rose up against me, I’d heap this illustrated album of civilization, like a burning coal, upon his head! Do you know, when I was in Europe they offered to make me a reigning prince--if I’d pay for it. There were several vacant thrones, and I was about making a bid, when my gigantic business interests called me back to Cornville, and the throne fell through.

VIOLET.

When you were in Europe, did you visit Rome?

WHETSTONE.

Passed through in the night-time, and didn’t stop. No business done there; only a lot of fellows cutting figures in stone, and painting pictures under the old masters.

VIOLET.

’Tis cruel in thee to jest so. Thy figure shows a gallant knight, and thou dost speak by contraries to make thy showing finer. How doth the moon shine in Europe?

WHETSTONE.

The same old moon.

VIOLET.

’Tis very fair.

WHETSTONE.

Why, there is the so-called fair moon now, sure enough! [_Looking at the moon._] It shines like a new tin pan.

VIOLET.

The moon shines on thy armor, and thou thyself dost shine like a new tin pan.

WHETSTONE.

There’s the new moon, the quarter moon, the full moon, and the dark of the moon. The moon is good enough in its place.

VIOLET.

Why, where is the moon’s place, if not in heaven?

WHETSTONE.

In the almanac.

VIOLET.

Why, gallant knights and lovers gather substantial sustenance from moonlight. ’Tis prescribed by Heaven and the poets. And thou revilest the moon? Thou art a traitor to nature. Thy best place were in an almanac, in the dark of the moon, in the sign of Capricorn.

WHETSTONE.

Off with the mask! [_Removes head-piece._] Behold the real Honorable Mayor Whetstone, Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois; called Hercules after his real grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the real Indians reeling down the real Mississippi. Do you follow me?

VIOLET.

Heaven guide me in this whirlwind of contraries!

WHETSTONE.

Take yours off, too.

VIOLET.

As I hate disguises, and this moonlight is a gentle vapor, I’ll unmask without more argument.

[_She unmasks._

WHETSTONE.

Beauteous Violet, you are my future wife. Let, oh, let me take a kiss.

VIOLET.

Our acquaintance is too brief for a jest so durable.

WHETSTONE.

Come, no one sees us. Just one little kiss. [_Enter_ SCYTHE, _looking at them through his glass_.] Professor, get out! Take notes, hunt specimens, and shelve your knowledge; but never let me see you here again. [_To_ VIOLET] Did not your uncle tell you?

[_Exit_ SCYTHE.

VIOLET.

Why, thou art a sportive knight, indeed. Oh, thou art a deep dissembler! But, no, thou art a gallant knight! This is some stratagem of words and dress, invented by my good uncle for my diversion. If thou wilt keep a secret, I will tell it thee.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll keep it. But, oh, how I’d like a kiss!

VIOLET.

Kissing is an idle fashion but lightly spoken of by our best authors, and well missed by young misses. But to my secret. This morn my uncle told me in the orchard that he had chosen for me a lover,--a most substantial gentleman, a very merchant prince--

[_Pauses._

WHETSTONE.

Go on; give me all your secret.

VIOLET.

Why, thou art he in name and title; but I know thou art not, from thy discord in guise, speech, and action; and thou dost carry out a jest too literally with thy contraries.

WHETSTONE.

I swear I am the real he. See, here is my album! [_Opening album._] Here is my picture, in my shirt-sleeves, before my store. See the sign above the door: Hercules Whetstone’s Gigantic Store. Here’s my banking-house. See, see! Now, do you believe and love me? Be my wife, and I’ll bind the bargain with a kiss.

VIOLET.

Surely thou art the prince of jesters; and if ’tis thy humor, in part I’ll not deny thee; but no maid should bind a bargain with betrothal kiss until she knows the true worth of it. Hast thou any castles in thy domain?

WHETSTONE.

Castles? Why, I own the half of Cornville. See [_showing the album_], here’s my town-house. I’ll have its hall set in solid mahogany. Then we’ll be the Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Mayor Whetstone, of Mahogany Hall, Cornville, solid people,--if you like, in our castle.

VIOLET.

When thou dost in a day change thy house into a castle, then it will have a gallant knight.

_Enter_ FOPDOODLE _concealing himself_.

WHETSTONE [_showing a picture in the album_].

See, this is my stately dairy farm. Yonder pearly stream that through the middle of the farm doth run and wind about, and then run in and out as if ’twere playing tag between its wave-kissed banks, is called Pearl Creek. It is a curious stream. Here, once, the wild goose, while he plucked the toothsome grass from its banks of verdure, listened to an Indian maid. Here, beneath this spacious sycamore, we’ll sit and fish for speckled trout; I’ll bait the hook. And when ’tis winter we’ll skate upon it. See yonder latticed arbor perched upon the bank: it is the hen-house, with hens and their companions from many lands. Here will we gather eggs through all the seasons; and to have fresh eggs in winter is no mean luxury. See yonder moss-covered house of stone picturesquely wading in the water. It is the milk-house, with all its crocks of golden cream. Here, with sparkling water, without a murmur from the world, we’ll fill our crocks of fortune to the brim. Here, amid these scenes of thrift and beauty, bustling hens, pensive geese, lowing herds, crocks of cream, and gleaming fishes, we’ll wander hand in hand, spending our full-orbed honeymoon, while the rude outsiders stare in dreamy wonder at so much happiness on earth. Does not the prospect charm you?

VIOLET.

Do not end thy bright illumined catalogue. Give me it all.

WHETSTONE.

Give you it all! I’ll give you your share, but not all. Come, Violet, that’s asking too much!

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh for a dagger to assassinate him! O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Continue.

WHETSTONE.

Oh! Now we leave the country, and come to town [_referring to the album_]. Here is my edifice of learning, my Cornville Academy, my spring of knowledge. I own the whole of it. Here’s my Cornville Eagle, which shall brighten its plumage when we are married; and here’s my Bank, whose president craves your hand. Do let me take it now; no one is looking.

SCYTHE _appears stealthily for a moment, observing them with his glass_.

VIOLET.

They who love moonlight must not forget the man in the moon; and I must first ask my uncle. But I did not know that knights of late had grown so rich. I must put on my spectacles.

WHETSTONE.

Bless me, are you near-sighted? I’ll come nearer.

VIOLET.

Nay, at dawn I was near-sighted, but to-night I am far-sighted.

WHETSTONE.

Bless me, I almost forgot it,--I own half a church, and built the steeple out of my own pocket.

VIOLET.

Art thou a pious knight?

WHETSTONE.

Heaven must have a share. Besides, it was a sharp business project. It is the highest steeple in the State; and some day I’ll ride into the governor’s chair on it.

VIOLET.

Thy steeple should turn thy thoughts to heaven, instead of to the earth.

WHETSTONE.

That reminds me of the lightning-rod. [_Aside_] I’ll give her a sample of my business talents. [_Aloud_] A pedler one day said to me: Mayor Whetstone, I wish to introduce into your community my patent flanged galvanized lightning-rods. Said I to him, pointing to the steeple: Eureka! Excelsior! Do you climb? Do you follow me? Do you donate? Is the advertisement worth the rod? Will you spare the steeple, and spoil the rod? He climbed. He donated. Before the next thunderstorm he received orders for over forty rods from members who were afraid the lightning would strike their property if they didn’t buy a rod.

VIOLET.

I much mistrust thou’rt not a redoubtable, but only a doubtful, knight.

WHETSTONE [_kneeling_].

Heaven knows ’tis true. I pray for your hand.

VIOLET.

Pray for thine own heart. Rise; for when thou kneelest, thou half liest. So stand up, and be not prone to lie upon thy knees.

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh, how I want to be a noble husband! O dazzling Violet! Oh, oh!

WHETSTONE [_rising_].

I thought I heard some one owe me something!

VIOLET.

No one here owes thee anything. Take thy mind off thy gains.

WHETSTONE.

Let me call your uncle.

VIOLET.

Nay, thy jest in greed lacks no ingredient.

WHETSTONE.

That’s not all; I have more stores, houses, cattle, stocks, barrels of money, stacks of it--

VIOLET.

Well, go on; give me it all.

WHETSTONE.

Give you it all!

VIOLET.

All, everything.

WHETSTONE.

Give you it all! That’s practical. Who’d have thought it in one so young? Would you outwit me? Would you outmatch me? Would you ruin me?

VIOLET.

Thou art a gentle stupid. I only meant, give me a description of all,--thy catalogue of all thou hast. Thy lips label better thy goods than thy love.

WHETSTONE.

What’s that?

VIOLET.

I insist upon all. I do mistrust--for I’m no trusting miss--that thou art a poor ignoble man withal, hired by my jesting uncle withal to put on this chivalrous disguise withal to jest with me withal. What false knight art thou that thou wilt not endow the lady of thy love with all thou dost possess, that lovest thy goods better than love? Thou art of crude metal. Go to thy farm on Pearl Creek; I do not want thy goods.

WHETSTONE.

Am I dreaming?

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh for a carmine dagger to hack, to stab, to prostrate him! Oh, how I crave to be a noble husband. O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Thou hast kept from thy catalogue and basely concealed that which loving knights and ladies prize the highest.

WHETSTONE.

What can it be? I’ll buy it.

VIOLET.

’Twere better guessed, for by purchase it loses its value.

WHETSTONE.

I know nothing like it. But if it be concealed and of the highest value, it must be a gold mine.

VIOLET.

Nay, thou gentle stupid, try again.

WHETSTONE.

Ah, now I’ve got it. A coal mine. Why, Violet, you are wiser than I thought. You look beneath the surface. There is a rich vein of coal beneath my farm; but it’s not worked.

VIOLET.

Neither is the vein of love well worked by thee. Try again, and for lack of discovery and my sentence, thou shalt bear no complaint to my uncle.

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh, let me tell! O dazzling Violet!

WHETSTONE.

I can think of nothing else besides.

VIOLET.

Put thy hand to thy left side. Hast thou no heart?

WHETSTONE [_putting his hand over his heart_].

I have a heart; and oh, I feel it beat tremendously.

VIOLET.

He is a poor merchant in love, who, having a heart, hath no value to it. He’s a bankrupt who can declare no dividend unto his lady creditor. A true and loving heart hath larger dividends than banks, richer harvests than farms, finer goods than stores, and more happiness than all the world besides.

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

O Violet, I’ve got a heart. O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Methinks that soon the silver moon will yonder mantling cloud enrich, and leave thee a knight quite poor.

WHETSTONE.

I cannot lose you. Your worth grows upon me at the rate of a thousand dollars a minute. [_Kneeling_] Here on my knees let me explain.

VIOLET.

Rise. I cannot help thee, although ’tis sadly said. Hadst thou discovered thy heart earlier, and put the true worth of a heart upon it, then I had thought more deeply. But now, alas! thy discovery comes too late. I am a young judge, yet my sentence shall be a just one, and I’ll not revoke it. Thou art a guileful knight. I sentence thee to perpetual banishment; and that thou mayst study the phases of a maid’s heart and of the moon, I will allow thee no book but thy almanac.

WHETSTONE.

Let the heavens hear me! I am not through yet. I have, a fearful fever!

VIOLET.

Maids are no doctors, except for hearts in love.

WHETSTONE.

Oh, I am in love, and now I know it.

VIOLET.

Thy complaint comes too late. Be patient, but be no patient of mine. I’ll practice on thee no further. Thou hast thy sentence.

FOPDOODLE _leaves his concealment_.

FOPDOODLE.

Stay, you villain! If I had my dagger, I’d stab you. O dazzling Violet!

WHETSTONE [_rising_].

Who are you?

FOPDOODLE.

You caitiff knight, I am Augustus Fopdoodle and your deadly rival. O dazzling Violet!

WHETSTONE.

You rascal rat! you eavesdropper! If I had my knightly sword, I’d hack you into a thousand pieces and make you bait for catfish. Where’s my sword?

FOPDOODLE.

Aha, vain boaster! There is my gage of battle; pick it up.

[_Throws down a glove._

WHETSTONE.

Pick it up yourself, you villain!

VIOLET.

Hold, gentlemen, brave gentlemen! ’Twere a pity that two such gentlemen should end a harmless jest in sanguinary strife. Come. Your brave humors make the rash current of your words more harmful than your sword-blades. Believe me. Come.

[_Exeunt_ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET.

FOPDOODLE.

I’ll challenge him this very night to fight a duel. Fopdoodle, thou art a brave man. Bless thee, Augustus Fopdoodle. Bless thee, O dazzling Violet! I am a terribly quick man, and I should have killed thousands of men had I but done it when I thought to do it. Let me think.--No, I must not think so much upon the bloody deed, the grim and horrid spectacle. Thinking cools me off like an evaporation; yet truly there is a manifold vigor in me, O dazzling Violet, else why am I so brave when heated? Fire brings out my bravery. What is the coward quality that on a sudden chokes my valor so? I have it: it comes of too much thinking. Let me pluck it out.--But no, I cannot pluck out my brains; yet I will admonish my head not to think so much. But still, thinking is wisdom; therefore too much wisdom makes me a thinking coward. I must cultivate less wisdom. O dazzling Violet! I’ll send him a challenge, and he’ll not fight. A bloodless triumph. Now thinking comes to my rescue. Animals have not this process of thinking, for I have seen terrible animals fight ferociously until they were dead, dead. O dazzling Violet! Therefore I bless thee, Augustus Fopdoodle, that thou hast the spirit of bravery; but I do bless thee more that thou hast the process of thinking. I do not think he’ll fight. O dazzling Violet!

[_Exit._

SCENE III.--_The same._

_Enter_ SCYTHE, _with glass. He seats himself in a corner, observes
the moon, and takes notes. Enter_ BLUEGRASS _and_ NINON, _who do
not observe him_.

BLUEGRASS.

We have tripped into the hour of midnight, the fairies’ hour. Now the fairest face, night-blooming like a mystic flower, may unmask its sweetness.

NINON.

Charmant! Monsieur Rainbow, you delight me all ze night.

BLUEGRASS.

Here I’ll unmask, for your two eyes have kindled a flame in my breast such as could not be lighted by all the stars burning in yonder heavens.

[_He unmasks._

NINON.

Monsieur Rainbow, you is ze fiery lover,--ze grand gentleman. Take away ze bad mask.

BLUEGRASS.

In the nineteenth century, bright little sister of Venus, I’ll unmask you.

[_He unmasks and kisses her._

NINON.

Très joli! Oh, Monsieur Rainbow, you is ze grand American lover.

BLUEGRASS.

You are the sweetest little maid upon this magnificent star of ours.

NINON.

Charmant! Monsieur, you are ze Rainbow more sparkling zan ze wine-cup.

BLUEGRASS.

There is a wine finer than that of the grape to-night. Let this sparkling envelope of air be our distraction. See, Ninon, how it holds this globe like a cup star-jewelled, and proffered to our senses with all its myriad distilments of rapturous motions, varied colors, gladsome odors, and sweet sounds.

NINON.

Monsieur Rainbow, we will drink from zat cup, and hunt ze buffalo in ze West. Magnifique!

BLUEGRASS.

[_Aside_] Beautiful simplicity! Arcadia had no better than this untutored Parisian. [_Aloud_] Dear Ninon, the advance-guard and keen-eyed pickets of civilization have driven the buffalo from our future home in Cornville; but you shall have amusement.

NINON.

[_Aside_] Oh, he is ze grand American lover!

BLUEGRASS.

Ninon, in Paris were you ever courted,--that is to say, were you ever in a court of love or law?

NINON.

Why, Major Bluegrass, I did not know ze court was for ze love. I thought ze court was only for ze law.

BLUEGRASS.

Give me simplicity! O Love, the entangler, do not unravel us! Let no frog croak in Cornville.

SCYTHE _takes a glance at them through his glass_.

NINON.

Très beau! Good Monsieur Rainbow, ze frog is ze great beau in ze springtime, with his fine green coat and gold buttons.

BLUEGRASS.

Now I remember me, the frog has a gallant look when the spring is in the meadows and the banks are grassy. Now I remember me more closely, he also has a romantic look; for once, when a boy, I watched him sitting, like a sybarite Turk, upon a dewy bank in the pale moonlight, enjoying the downward fragrance of an o’erbending lily, which o’er him hung like a wedding bell. He gazed upon the moon sailing above him, and then upon the moon below him, glistening in the pond which was his bed,--Neptune’s trundle-bed, made for frogs,--until, between these two perplexities of light, his eyes like diamonds shone. Shall I halt here?

SCYTHE _looks at the earth and moon alternately with his glass_.

NINON.

No, no, dear Monsieur; go on, good Monsieur Rainbow. I have ze grand interest. His eyes shone like ze diamonds, ze beautiful diamonds. Superbe!

BLUEGRASS.

Well, his eyes, like twin solitaires encrusted in rims of red gold, shone more translucently than any that e’er sparkled in the betrothal ring of an expectant bride. It seems this gentleman in green had grown fixedly practical between the real moon and the ideal moon, and would not have an ideal when he had not the real; for he, poor frog, like some of our practical humans, did not know that the ideal moon in a pond was much finer than a pond in the real moon. Now do I see him, as plainly as if it were to-night, there coolly sitting and meditating, quite philosophical.

NINON.

Oui, oui; zat was a foolish froggie, Monsieur Rainbow. Beware of ze philosophy. Ah, Major Bluegrass, you have ze fervent language zat thrills me.

BLUEGRASS.

Dear Ninon, my description, like your own pretty costume with all its frills, tucks, and love-knots, has a moral with it. Before this philosophic gentleman in green had reconciled himself to an ideal, a flying cloud curtained the moon; and thus in his philosophy he let bright opportunity slip, and went dark below.

SCYTHE _discontinues using glass_.

NINON.

Oui, oui; too true. I pity ze poor froggie.

BLUEGRASS.

Dear Ninon, render him no pity; for although I was but a green boy, I then resolved that opportunity was greater than philosophy. Ninon, yonder glorious moon shines brightly as on that memorable night in the meadows. ’Tis a bright opportunity; let me kiss thee again.

NINON.

Pardon, sweet Monsieur Rainbow; wait for ze grand opportunity when ze honeymoon upon our wedding shines; then you shall have ze thousand kisses. Charmant!

[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.--_The same._

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE _and_ CATHARINE.

NORTHLAKE.

Fair lady, I have led thee to this spot,
Removed from all the merry throng of maskers;
For love grows best in solitude, and thrives
But poorly when too many eyes look on;
So saying, I unmask [_unmasking_], and ask that thou
Wilt move that vestment from thy cheek, to whose
Illumined page thine eyes are bright indexes.
Pray let me draw the envious curtain back;
For though I’ve scored some years, yet ne’er ’twas said
That I ungallant proved.

CATHARINE.

Stay for a moment,--I am strangely faint.

NORTHLAKE.

The ball-room’s heat I fear has wearied thee.

[_Tenderly supporting her._

CATHARINE [_recovering_].

Nay, heed it not; I long have been aweary.

NORTHLAKE.

Fair lady, tenderest fruit and hidden clings
Within its husk until full season. Now
Thou mayst remove thy mask, for in my heart
There’s sympathy that makes occasion ripe.

CATHARINE.

I see thou art a gallant gentleman;
I’d converse hold with thee, but pray that thou
Wouldst leave me to my mask.

NORTHLAKE.

Be it as thou dost wish;
But at the close of our sweet interview
I beg thou wilt disclose to me the face
Of her whose gentle hand I now do press
With all the ardor of my youthful days.

CATHARINE.

Oh, thou shalt have thy asking, never fear;
But first thou’lt answer questioning,--’tis but
A foolish, idle question, yet thou mayst
True answer make. But to be brief: Didst ever
Love before? Good gentleman, I pray thee
Answer me truly.

NORTHLAKE.

Briefly, but once.

CATHARINE.

Speak not beyond. I thank thee. Sweeter sound
Was never borne upon the air to woman.
But of this once? Answer me that.

NORTHLAKE.

Truly but once, and once most truly, I
Did love her. [_Pausing._] Well, I’ll pause no further; yet
Her voice and gesture much resembled thine.
We parted, years ago, in sad estrangement;
And though within that sombre lapse of time
We’ve often met, yet never have we spoken.
For we indeed are to each other--dead!

CATHARINE.

Dead to each other! ’tis a woful word
To those who’ve loved. Thou fickle man! thou dost
Deceive thyself,--for true love never dies.
Thy fate doth mirror mine.

NORTHLAKE [_taking her hand_].

I beg thee tell it me.

CATHARINE.

Thou hold’st my hand close as my husband did
Upon our wedding morn, when he did make
Such noble vows of constancy as troops
Of angels swift delight to register.
And so we lived for many happy years;
They now do seem a vanished paradise;
And, looking back, beyond my later years,
It seems to me as fair as tender Eden
Did unto our first mother, Eve. And oft
I’ve wept most burning tears in memory
Of the adored one who did hold me there.

NORTHLAKE.

Why, thou dost clasp my hand with feverish zeal;
Let’s walk upon the cliff.

CATHARINE.

Nay, stay, and listen.

NORTHLAKE.

I’ll do as thou desirest.

CATHARINE.

Thou art a gallant gentleman. I’ll swift
Unveil to thee a heart that’s worthier
Than is the poor masked face thou pray’st to see.
Oh, how can I portray to thee my joy
When I was wife and mother! Think of it,--
For I am sure thou art a good, true man,
And gallant gentleman.--In my full flush
Of joy I was estranged from my dear husband,
Whom I did love so well I would have pledged
My soul upon his honor. Then I was wild
With sudden doubt and frenzied jealousy.
His goodness seemed but evil,--as by the quick
Hot-bolted lightning blasted, or as poison
Transforms the fairest ornaments. In this
Mad frenzy, at this same hour of midnight,
I fled from him. Since then I’ve been a restless
Wanderer on the earth. But, oh! on me
The blame harder doth rest than it doth rest--
On thee!

NORTHLAKE.

On me? Why, who art thou?

CATHARINE [_unmasking_].

Thy lady Catharine.--Thou gallant gentleman,
I may again return to thee. Good-night!

[_Exit_ CATHARINE.

NORTHLAKE.

Lost wife, return! ’Tis pitiful! By thee
These lonely years my life’s been haunted. Once
In each year thy visits, like untimely
Seasons, come upon me, when and where
I never know; but once in each year, lightening
My weary path. Mysterious and strange,
Thou ne’er before hast spoken. Thou blameless Catharine,
Return. Our sins of jealousy have borne
Such fruit as grows from poisoned ground; and yet
Nor Time nor forcing Will can make us what
We were in our first wedded life. These agents
Are far too weak; they never can restore
To us the faith that’s lost in our past lives,--
Lost like a pearl dropped in dissolving flame,
Its white and saintly fabric gone in a moment.
Unhappy Catharine, and thou my more
Unhappy self! These revels mock us. Poor mask!

[_Lays down his mask._

The mask that hath been torn from off my heart
This night hath left a shadow tenfold darker
Than is thine own. I’ll go seek Violet,
For she is like the beauteous sunlit day.

[_Listening to strains of music from the ball-room._

Music doth hold melodious discourse.

[_Walks, in meditation and soliloquy._

Why, I am growing melancholy. My sun’s
Across the line and courses the horizon;
My nights are growing longer than my days;
The glad days wane, until, as in the deepening
Winter, near the northern pole, they’ll come
But for a moment, a wedge of light between
Two nights. Oh, hasten, come, thou blank, perpetual
Night! [_Music ceases._] The instruments are dumb, the players
Are at rest; but their unceased vibrations
On struggling chords yet tremble in my breast.
Alas! such is the growth of melancholy.

[_Exit._

Act the Fourth.

SCENE I.--_A room at the Dolphin Inn. Guns, pistols, swords, and
other weapons scattered around._ WHETSTONE _in armor, lying upon a
sofa, disquietly sleeping_.

_Enter_ BLUEGRASS _carrying a large dictionary_.

BLUEGRASS.

He sleeps. ’Tis well. For centuries men, with eager eyes fixed upon the horizon, have awaited the coming of the purely literary duel. The auspicious morn is about to dawn, in fact, to bloom upon this magnificent star of ours, when, in affairs of honor, bloody swords, odious gunpowder, and slaughtering bullets no longer shall disgrace the planet.

WHETSTONE [_dreaming_].

Take away the sword! Do not say I killed you!

BLUEGRASS.

He dreams of the combat. Rest, warrior, rest! Safe within this volume, and at your timely service, are such dire missiles, fearful and momentous cartridges, bombs, shells, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, mortars, and battering-rams, as have rent nations asunder and awed the world. Can base gunpowder and lead do so much? O puissant volume, armory and magazine, I will select from your mighty stores, for my principal’s sake, weapons which shall strike terror and dismay to his adversary’s heart. Yes, a full dozen of as bold bad words as were ever conned from out thy depths by a dyspeptic writer at midnight hour in editorial den.

[_A rooster crows._

WHETSTONE [_still dreaming_].

See how he glares upon me!

BLUEGRASS.

Rest, warrior, rest! You go forth not to death, but to glorious immortality.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE [_starting up_].

Take him away; he is killing me! Oh, oh! [_Observing_ BLUEGRASS] Who are you?

BLUEGRASS [_cheerfully_].

Your trusty friend and second in this valiant enterprise. I’ve just returned from Fopdoodle’s second. We have arranged the place, time, weapons, and conditions of the duel very satisfactorily.

WHETSTONE.

You seem to enjoy it!

BLUEGRASS.

Listen, and you’ll enjoy it too.

WHETSTONE.

Let me know the worst.

BLUEGRASS.

Place, the little clearing in the darkened wood behind the hill.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t you make it in the West, behind the Rocky Mountains?

BLUEGRASS.

Time, one hour before sunrise.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t you make it next year, in the dark of the moon? Major, I feel that my blood will be upon your so-called head.

BLUEGRASS.

Not if my head can save you, and I think it can. With some acuteness, I secured Scythe as attendant surgeon, in case of an accident, and he has already gone to the spot with all his surgical implements of healing.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE.

What’s that? Is’t the signal?

BLUEGRASS.

Listen! now for the weapons.

WHETSTONE.

Don’t, Major, don’t!

BLUEGRASS.

With some archness in archery, I first chose crossbows as most fitting for lovers’ duels, but abandoned them as too crosswise. Blunderbusses I rejected, as too blundering for us; and, noting the weakness of our enemy in diction, I at last chose dictionaries, big and unabridged, and made by the most celebrated word-smiths.

WHETSTONE.

Dictionaries! Did you say dictionaries? Major, now my anger is reviving. Now, by all that’s terrible, I’ll fight till there’s not a leaf or lid left. Why, the first blow I give him shall be a jaw-breaker. He’ll think himself smitten, like the Philistines, by a jawbone. Major, get me a dictionary with iron clasps; but one is not enough, my boy. I’ll strike him with two dictionaries.

[_Rooster crows._

BLUEGRASS.

Erroneous hero! You are in honor bound not to deal him any blows with vulgar material-bound paper.

WHETSTONE.

How then, my boy, how then?

BLUEGRASS.

Listen to the conditions of the duel. At a distance of two paces, you and Fopdoodle, each aided by his respective second, will each respectively select, for each fire from his inexhaustible dictionary or armory, one animal noun for his projectile, and one adjective,--for your adjective is your gunpowder to your bullet of a noun. These two, to wit: one animal noun and one adjective, each of you will form into a cartridge, or epithet, and at the word _Fire_ each will fire it at his adversary.

WHETSTONE.

Bless you, my boy, we are saved! You shall always be editor of the Eagle. My boy, you must have known I didn’t want to kill him. Major, stand by me to the last.

BLUEGRASS.