Chapter IV: Act V: SCENE I. A room at the Dolphin Inn. A prelude to a serenade (3)

I’ll do it. I am a connoisseur in epithets; and your animal noun with adjective conjoined is a terrible weapon. O book, how like a poet thou art!--in pleasant moods full of balmlike words, but in anger javelined like a porcupine. Be thou a cage filled to the cover’s brim with fierce animal nouns which fret their paper cage of leaves to pounce upon the enemy. Remember, at each fire call him some outrageous animal, and exploit the animal with an explosive adjective.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll do it. The gourd-headed baboon!

[_Rooster crows._

BLUEGRASS.

Good; a very fine line shot! But don’t waste your ammunition here. Wait until you get your enemy into close quarters, and meanwhile steady your nerves and tongue. Remember, no faltering of the tongue.

WHETSTONE.

How goes the night outdoors?

BLUEGRASS.

All’s well! Now shall I behold the first genuine literary duel ever fought on this magnificent star of ours, while the sun trails his sanguinary banners along the eastern sky.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE.

Why does he crow so often?

BLUEGRASS.

It is the martial bird of morn, brave chanticleer--the vocal lighthouse of the dawn. Six times has the rooster crowed. [_Rooster again crows._] And yet again he crows,--seven times, mysterious number! With crimson comb and whetted spurs, he sniffs this duel from his lofty perch in the heavenly balcony.

WHETSTONE.

How says the time?

BLUEGRASS.

It lacks but little of the hour. We’ll prove no laggards on the field of honor. Come on. Make haste! Away, away, or we’ll be late to join the fray! We’ll get our lanterns on the way. [_Rooster crows._]

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A clearing in a wood._ SCYTHE, _with lantern, arranging surgical instruments_.

_Enter, running_, FOPDOODLE, _attended by_ TOM, _his valet and second, carrying lantern and dictionary_.

FOPDOODLE.

What man is this?

TOM.

Good master, this is the attendant surgeon, agreed upon by Whetstone’s second and myself, your own second and humble valet.

FOPDOODLE.

Kind Mr. Surgeon, if we two fall at once, save me first; and I promise you a great reward from father’s patrimony. And as our wounds we do refer to you, I move to make you referee. Kind Mr. Surgeon, prescribe for me a breathing spell. [SCYTHE _examines him with glass_.] Tom, my man, stand firm! For as we crossed through yonder green and peaceful field, by some ominous mischance a sleeping, low-bred, fiery bull arose, with eyes big as our lanterns, filled with the flaming fat of animal fury. He chased; and as we fled, I thought I was pursued by an infuriated animal noun. Oh, doctor, prescribe for me a breathing spell.

TOM.

Good master, here is your dictionary, if you’d take a breathing spell.

FOPDOODLE.

Unlettered ruffian, uncompassionate fool, do I clothe and fee you for this? Hand me my spirit of hartshorn to brace my spirits up. [_Using smelling-bottle._] Had I but had this spirit of hartshorn in my nostrils, I would have had the spirit to face a thousand bulls. Where’s the infuriated dictionary?

TOM.

Here it is, good master.

FOPDOODLE.

Turn to the fearful B’s; I know some good shots in the B’s.

TOM.

Here they are, good master.

FOPDOODLE.

Do we yet espy the foe?

SCYTHE [_looking through glass_].

I see him coming over the brow of the hill, and he’ll be here in a wink.

FOPDOODLE.

Alas, if I should fall!

TOM.

I’ll raise you up again.

FOPDOODLE.

Base horizontal knave, thou canst again raise up my body, but not my character.

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS, _with lantern and dictionary_.

BLUEGRASS.

A brave salutation, gentlemen! We will pursue the code of honor where it does not conflict with us. Let the principals advance, and shake hands in the usual way, to show that they in humor and honor are not ill. [WHETSTONE _and_ FOPDOODLE _advance and shake hands. To_ TOM] We must compare size, weight, and calibre of type. [_They compare dictionaries._] The weapons are of the same edition. Now for choice of positions; but there are two esteemed objects in the heavens,--Mars and the moon; for them we’ll toss up. [_To_ TOM] Head or tail? [_Tosses up a coin._]

TOM.

Tail.

BLUEGRASS.

Head it is. I’ve won! I place Fopdoodle with the moon in his face, and WHETSTONE with the planet Mars at his back. [_Measures off two paces and places the principals._] In affairs of honor, delay is a vice, despatch a virtue. I propose, between each fire, thirty seconds for loading, that after the words, One, two,--fire! each one shall fire, and that this continue until one be prostrated; also that Surgeon Scythe give the word and be referee. But we’ll try to preserve a gentlemanly harmony.

TOM.

We agree.

[_Each second supports his principal, and_ SCYTHE _times them with his watch_.

FOPDOODLE.

Tom, my man, turn to the C’s; I know a terrible animal noun in the C’s.

BLUEGRASS.

Here, Mayor Whetstone, is your adjective for gunpowder,--Patagonian.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll take bat for a bullet.

BLUEGRASS.

Now, by the planet Mars, you have chosen the most unearthly bullet in the whole menagerie of animal nouns.

FOPDOODLE [_to_ TOM].

I’ve got it. I now turn to U for my gunpowder.

TOM.

Master, I have no gunpowder.

FOPDOODLE.

You unlettered utensil, you! The letter U.

SCYTHE.

Time! One, two,--fire!

WHETSTONE.

Patagonian bat!

FOPDOODLE [_pronouncing calf with broad sound of letter a_].

Unutterable calf!

BLUEGRASS.

A foul! a foul! I claim a foul.

SCYTHE.

Upon what do you base your foul?

BLUEGRASS.

Upon the letter _a_ in calf. In place of rightly firing calf with the Italian sound of _a_, as in bah, he wrongly fired calf with _a_ broad. Therefore he fired _a_ broadside, with sound the same as in ball. I claim the foul is sound.

SCYTHE.

Let me examine your weapon [_examining_ FOPDOODLE’S _dictionary_]. I plainly see a calf with two little dots like budding horns above the letter _a_, denoting the Italian sound; and as you wrongfully fired broad _a_, and as broad _a_ in your weapon is denoted by two little dots below the _a_, I rule you struck below the belt, and hence _a_ foul.

BLUEGRASS.

First foul for Fopdoodle.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

See him tremble.

FOPDOODLE [_aside_].

I struck him badly.

SCYTHE.

Gentlemen, are your honors satisfied?

WHETSTONE.

Never! War to the word knife!

FOPDOODLE.

Never! War to the word hilt!

SCYTHE.

Then sadly be it said: Reload. I’ll see if there is any blood on yonder red and warlike Mars. [_Looks at Mars with glass, while the others reload from dictionaries._] Time! One, two,--fire!

FOPDOODLE.

Hyperborean ibex!

WHETSTONE.

Parabolical goose!

SCYTHE.

Are you satisfied?

FOPDOODLE.

Never! War to the word knife!

WHETSTONE.

Never! War to the word hilt!

SCYTHE.

Reload. [_They reload._] Time! One, two,--fire!

FOPDOODLE.

Impecunious porcupine!

WHETSTONE.

Hypothecated buzzard!

[_Lightning and thunder, while_ SCYTHE _examines the sky with
glass_.

FOPDOODLE.

Listen, Tom! I think I hear the police! The police! Let us be going!

BLUEGRASS.

Hold! ’Tis but the thunder, heaven’s police drilling near the distant horizon. Let their lanterns flash and their clubs smash the sky, but this duel shall go on.

SCYTHE.

Gentlemen, reload. [_They reload._] Time! One, two,--

FOPDOODLE.

Hold! My tongue slipped.

TOM.

And the lightning’s blown my lantern out.

[_Lightning and thunder._

BLUEGRASS [_re-lighting_ TOM’S _lantern_].

I hope I may re-light your lantern without an explosion. A fearful storm is brewing, but we must make them fight until one falls.

TOM.

I’ll stand by my master.

SCYTHE.

Time! One, two,--fire!

WHETSTONE.

Categorical catamount!

FOPDOODLE.

Bog-trotting bull-frog!

BLUEGRASS.

Foul, foul, a most terrible and bulldozing foul,--a double-barrelled fowling-piece; a two-bullet foul.

TOM.

A bull-frog is no fowl.

BLUEGRASS.

A most naked and unfeathered fowl.

SCYTHE.

Upon what purely scientific facts do you now perch your alleged fowl?

BLUEGRASS.

Upon the rail between bull and frog. Bull-frog is a compound animal noun, composed of one bull and one frog, connected by a hyphen, or narrow ligament, like the Siamese twins,--two animals in one. I ask judgment.

[_Lightning and thunder._

SCYTHE.

Listen to my decision; for though it should rain bull-frogs, I’ll decide by analysis. The difference lies between the grammatical bull-frog and the purely animal bull-frog. Grammar does not concern the animal bull-frog, but has much to do with the word bull-frog. The purely animal bull-frog is manifestly not a fowl; but inasmuch as by the rules only one animal noun is allowed at a shot, and whereas the grammatical bull-frog is compounded of two animals linked by a hyphen, I declare them a chain-shot, disallowed in civilized warfare, and a foul of the worst description.

TOM.

Good master, he says ’tis a foul.

FOPDOODLE.

We’re in bad odor with this referee. I smell foul play. Give me my spirit of hartshorn, or I faint.

TOM.

Here it is, good master.

[FOPDOODLE _smells of hartshorn, and_ WHETSTONE _drinks out of a
flask_.

SCYTHE.

Time! One, two,--fire!

FOPDOODLE.

Humpbacked sham!

WHETSTONE.

Infamous liar!

FOPDOODLE.

You man in buckram! You rambling sham! You blue sham, three-cornered sham, catalectic sham! You panting, rampant sham, black sham, white sham, speckled sham!

BLUEGRASS [_to_ SCYTHE].

Stop him! He has opened the menagerie. Foul, foul! He has fired a whole sham battery.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll slay him on the spot. You catacomb! you catastrophic, cataleptic, catacoustic cat! Pooh! you spotted poodle, you freckled poodle, you yellow-brindled poodle! dogfish! you dogmatic-dogwood-doggerel dog.

[_Lightning and thunder._

TOM [_supporting_ FOPDOODLE].

Good master, bear up. ’Tis only a shower of cats and dogs.

FOPDOODLE [_fainting_].

Give me a drink of tiger’s blood!

BLUEGRASS [_to_ WHETSTONE].

See, you have struck him; he is falling.

[FOPDOODLE _falls, clasping his dictionary_.

SCYTHE [_to_ TOM].

Run quickly. Catch me a sheep in yonder field. By transfusing blood from its veins to his, I’ll make the weak brave, the faint alive. [_Taking up a surgical instrument._] Now, great Science, help me!

TOM.

Good master, I go to get the sheep.

[_Exit_ TOM.

BLUEGRASS.

Long live and let live the literary duel!

[_Lightning and thunder. The scene closes while_ WHETSTONE,
BLUEGRASS, _and_ SCYTHE _gather around_ FOPDOODLE, _administering
to him_.

SCENE III.--_The Glen of Ferns. Midday._

_Enter_ IDEAL.

IDEAL.

See how great Nature lavishes in this
Hard wrinkle in the globe a subtle and
Refining power, as if it were the open
Volume of the earth with fern-clad cliffs
For lettered pages. Here the glad sun comes
In his most favoring hour, with impress of
A God, in splendor sparkling down the glen.
Ye ferns that spring along these cliffs with light
And airy grace, see but my Violet,
And ye shall take a new and tender charm.
Yon rainbow, in the sportive mist above
The cascade glowing, well a brighter bow
Might grow when it doth catch the arch words of
Bright Violet. Ye berries crimsoning
On yonder bushes, were ye roseate
As are the ripe red lips of Violet,
Wise men a holiday would take, and go
A-berrying. E’en weeds along the cliff
Were like some pretty fault in Violet,--
Sweet contrast growing but for beauty’s foil.
Be free and happy, all created things;
Ye singing birds, your melodies attune;
And ye, blithe squirrels--Peeping Toms of trees--
From out your leafy coverts peep, and I’ll
Not jealous be.

_Enter_ VIOLET, _at top of rustic stairway_.

Ay, there she comes, fair Violet!

VIOLET.

Heigh-ho! Why art thou down so low?

IDEAL.

That I may upward gaze at thee. For as
One in the deep bottom of a well, above
May see a star at midday, so do I
See thee from the deep bottom of this glen.

VIOLET.

With fancy thou dost blithely scale this stair,
As doth some heavenly singer; yet thou seest
Thou art still at the bottom of the glen.

IDEAL.

Let us be like two notes in music blent;
Thou high, I low; yet both in sweet accord.

VIOLET.

Truly, thou art my Ideal. But, alack!
I’ve called thee by thy name.

IDEAL.

Give thou it me, and I will bear no other.

VIOLET.

Thou hadst it long ago.

IDEAL.

To be thy Ideal more real were
Than to achieve all other reals.

VIOLET [_archly_].

Alas! the hard vicissitudes of life!

IDEAL.

Why, how now, Violet? I’ll bear them all.

VIOLET.

All hard vicissitudes?

IDEAL.

All.

VIOLET.

I have an uncle.

IDEAL.

If he’s a hard vicissitude, I’ll bear him too.

VIOLET.

I’ll go tell my uncle. [_Going._]

IDEAL.

Nay, hold. Within thy words, as in the cinctured
Filaments of lace thou wear’st, I see the fine
Transparent tracery of gossamer
Designs. In such a web I’d fain be caught.

VIOLET.

And I’d fain catch thee.

IDEAL.

Come, let us walk within this pleasant glen;
And if we weary,--on a mossy bank,
In the cool shade of interlacing leaves,--
We’ll watch the gentle coquetry between
A burning sunbeam and a shaded fern.
There’s not a fern-leaf, berry, blade of grass,
Nor flower, but I’ll gather it for thee.
If at thy feet it grow, then I’ll kneel there;
If higher, in a crevice of the cliff,
Together we will reach for it, and in
The touching of our finger-tips it shall
Part company with earth in ecstasy.
And if, above, thou dost but gladly view
That most sky-kissing flower, the heavenly bluebell,
Which with transparent hue embellishes
The summit of the cliff, why, I’ll climb there.

VIOLET.

And leave me in the lone recesses of the glen?

IDEAL.

If thou didst not detain me with thine eyes;
For if, in climbing upward, I looked back,
I’d see the sky and bluebell in thine eyes,
And so return to thee. Come, Violet, come.

VIOLET.

Ah, me! See what a deep, deep stair it is.
[_Aside_] Aloof the bluebell, lovers joy to see.
[_Aloud_] I’ll not descend.

IDEAL.

Then I’ll invoke
The spirit of this lovely glen, that dwells
In yonder rock, to aid in my petition.

[_Turns and calls to rock on further side of glen._

Come, Violet!

[_An echo is heard repeating_ VIOLET.

VIOLET.

I think I hear my uncle calling;
I must go. Adieu!

IDEAL.

Think not so. I but now called Violet,
And what thou heard’st was the far echo of
Thy name, that’s borne by yonder rock from out
This cheering vale to listening hills beyond.
It is a wanton, merry rock that doth
Delight to sweetly hold discourse in doubling
Of thy name. But as it hath no beard
Upon its face, except a fringe of ferns,
I’ll not be jealous. For such gentle service,
Violet, give not the rock the hardness
Of thy uncle’s heart; but stay.

VIOLET.

Between thee and the rock, I almost am persuaded.

IDEAL.

Sweet Violet, do not go,--be persuaded
Altogether; for although this is
A sheltered glen, with pleasant sunshine tempered,
Yet from thy coldness I would perish as
A homeless midnight traveller, embedded
’Mid bewildering snowbanks.

VIOLET.

Say not so; for if thou, my dear Ideal,
On such a cruel, frosty bank lay dying,
And I were Violet beneath the snow,
As violets do often grow, I’d call
On all the powers in stars above and in
The earth below to move the frosty barrier.
I’ll come to thee.

[_The scene closes while_ VIOLET _descends the stair, and_ IDEAL
_advances to meet her_.

Act the Fifth.

SCENE I.--_A room at the Dolphin Inn. Evening._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _with_ BLUEGRASS _in black dress as his shadow.
Each with guitar and song-book._

BLUEGRASS.

A day and night,--and now another day hath waned for our recuperation; and our adventures have flown on lightning wings to Cornville. Now do we start on new emprise.

WHETSTONE.

Major Bluegrass, this serenade must be played on the hard-pan. Put me through to-night, and I’ll make you half-owner of the Cornville Eagle.

BLUEGRASS.

Trust me, I’ll be your musical secretary! With the Eagle and Ninon, I could soar through life like a bird.

WHETSTONE.

And I’ll soar with Violet. Why, hello! I’ve forgotten all about Susan. Where’ll I leave Susan?

BLUEGRASS.

Susan! Your housekeeper! Why, what takes you back to Cornville at such a sky-crisis as this? The great point in a flight of romance is never to approach earth. Susan! Why, Susan will tarry here below and superintend the cuisine, so that you and Violet may have a warm repast when you come down from your sky-parlor.

WHETSTONE.

I wonder what Susan will say when I bring home my bride.

BLUEGRASS.

As one good man should say to another, first bridle your bride.

WHETSTONE.

Why, Major, Susan and I were young together, and we loved, or thought we did. She wanted to marry, I wanted to wait; consequence, compromise. I engaged her as my housekeeper. There’s romance for you!

BLUEGRASS.

’Tis an ancient parallel.

WHETSTONE.

In our serenade, what shall I do?

BLUEGRASS.

The guitar you hold you cannot play; hence I’ll do the mechanical upon the strings, while you twit the circumambient air from the bridge musical of your instrument. And if you’d prove me with a double burden, I’ll bear both words and music; in which event you’ll give the color and visible gesture of description. Stand you beneath some close-leaved tree, where the night overlaps, and I’ll be concealed near you in the shrubbery. Later, I’ll emerge behind you, as your true shadow.

WHETSTONE.

All right, I’ll give the motions. Now, let’s see what we have in the song-book. [_Opening song-book._] Here’s the Midnight Serenade; and Beauteous Lady I Adore Thee. That’s business. Here’s a whole grist of meeting songs: [_reading_] Meet Me at the Lane; Meet Me by Moonlight; Meet Me, Darling, in the Dell; Meet Me down by the Sea; Meet Me in the Arbor; Meet Me in the Twilight. Where’ll this end? Meet Me ’neath the Slippery-Elm Tree. Meet Me in the Willow-Glen. Why, Major, the earth is covered with meeting-places. But wait! [_Examining book and pondering._] What book-carpenter did this work? Here’s Black-Eyed Susan--[_aside_] Susan has brown eyes--[_aloud_] sandwiched between Paddle your own Canoe and the Pirates’ Chorus.

BLUEGRASS.

He was a ship-carpenter who did his work ship-shape.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Comin’ thro’ the Rye, Comin’ thro’ the Rye,--that sounds homelike. Major, my boy, sing and play while I act it.

BLUEGRASS _sings and plays Comin’ thro’ the Rye, while_ WHETSTONE
_accompanies with pantomime_.

BLUEGRASS.

Demosthenes the Athenian, being interrogated, replied that action makes the orator. I may add that it makes the singer.

WHETSTONE.

You’re right. [_Examining song-book._] Here’s a whole nest of love-songs: Love, Beautiful Love; Love in a Cottage; Love Launched a Ferry-boat.

BLUEGRASS.

’Tis not ferry-boat, but fairy boat.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love is at the Helm.

BLUEGRASS.

That’s when love’s at sea.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love is like the Morning Dew.

BLUEGRASS.

We’re approaching land again.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love’s Perfect Cure.

BLUEGRASS.

We don’t need it.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love’s the Greatest Plague.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold on! yes, we do.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love Me Little, Love Me Long; Love, Love, oh, what is Love? Major, my boy, that settles it. We must find out. Hurrah! I feel like a new man! Let’s be going! If I fail, Northlake shall not have a dollar. Violet’s the only collateral he can put up. If I don’t get her, I’ll take the next train to Cornville and marry Susan on the spot. She’s been a good housekeeper to me these many years; and once when I was sick she bathed my feet in hot water and mustard, and put a hot flannel around--I think it was my throat; and her elder-blossom tea can’t be beaten.

BLUEGRASS.

Do you falter?

WHETSTONE.

No; I’ll have what I want. You remember the bay colt that cost me five thousand dollars? People thought I was a fool, but I wasn’t.

BLUEGRASS.

You were a horse diplomat.

WHETSTONE.

Exactly. I saw points, and now the colt has a great record. I see points about that girl Violet that no one else sees. She’s an extraordinary girl, a thoroughbred, and I’ll back my judgment with my money.

BLUEGRASS.

What if she don’t take kindly to you?

WHETSTONE.

Watch me closely, and you’ll see me win her to-night. What’s the use of money, if you can’t get--points, my boy, when you want them? And yet--

BLUEGRASS.

And yet what?

WHETSTONE.

And yet Susan has points too. She can roast a goose splendidly,--and that elder-blossom tea! But enough of this. Away to serenade.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A dining-ball in_ NORTHLAKE’S _Villa_. POMPEY _and_ HANNIBAL _arranging dining-table_.

POMPEY [_merrily_].

Yah! yah! I say, Hannibal, Lake Shore’s g’wone up. I make pile money on dat happy shore, shure. Stocks am de ting to put de money in de stockin’.

HANNIBAL [_gloomily_].

So! so! I lose pile money on dat Hudson Ribber. My banker telegram fo’ moh margin every fifteen minutes fo’ foh hours. De agony of dem hours I can nebber tell you, Pompey. De telegram-wire, and de tongue of lightnin’, holler, Moh margin! Hudson Ribber g’wone down,--moh margin! I and de ole woman scrape and scrape, and empty de big stockin’ bank dat de old woman hab under de bed fo’ de rainy day; still it holler, Moh margin! And den de old woman raise de washtub ’gainst her lawful husband. I nebber tink dat ribber railroad could sink so fast. Pompey, it am de fashion to condumdole wid your misfortunate neighbor; how much you condumdole wid me, Pompey?

POMPEY.

You hear me, chile! I lose moh money on dat Hudson Ribber dan you ebber see.

HANNIBAL.

Why, honey, how am dat? You hab no Hudson Ribber stock.

POMPEY.

I was g’wone down de ribber on de canal-boat, when I losed it. Yah, yah!

HANNIBAL.

Pompey, you am too friv’lous and vis’nary fo’ de bus’ness man,--fo’ de stock op’rator.

POMPEY.

Hannibal, I hab de call on you. Now let us confabulate togedder like sensible people. Ober two hours ago, I see de mess’nger boy bring de telegram. It ware from Mr. Northlake’s banker, and it read: You made five hundred thousand dollars to-day on Lake Shore stock. Now you hab seen Mr. Northlake cast down, way down,--tremendously, moh dan usual, fo’ ’bout a month,--way down, ’cause he lose all his own and Miss Violet’s fortune speculatin’,--way down; but when he read dat, he smile like de little chile; and he say to me: Pompey, dere’ll be a surprise-party yere to-night. Spread de banquet fo’ de guests. And now we doin’ it, ain’t we?

HANNIBAL.

I’m glad ob dat, fo’ Miss Violet’s sake, and de tings she gibs me; but dis am de point I must determinate before de limbs work easy: Ware am de margin g’wone dat I don’t hab,--de one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents?

POMPEY.

Dat, chile, am g’wone ware de weasel’s g’wone wid de egg.

HANNIBAL.

Dat am a big weasel to get away wid one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents. I’ll write my banker, shure, in de mornin’ ’bout de wrong p’ints he gibs me. Dat’s my p’intin’ ’pinion ’bout him. Maybe he’ll loan me it back again,--dat one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_The lawn in front of_ NORTHLAKE’S _Villa_.

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS, _with guitars, stealthily
advancing through the shrubbery, and appearing upon the lawn_.

BLUEGRASS.

Now do we stand upon the green lawn of fresh enterprise. Stand yourself ’neath yonder tree, and fix your eyes on the balcony [WHETSTONE _takes position accordingly_], while I, from behind this green projecting wing of shrubbery, project our ripening song [_moving behind the shrubbery_]. First, our song of salutation, with fresh words.

BLUEGRASS, _under cover of the shrubbery, sings and plays, while_
WHETSTONE _accompanies with pantomime_.

The moon is on the hills,
The glow-worm’s in the grass;
The nightingales have bills,
The owls have singing-class.

BLUEGRASS _ceases singing while_ WHETSTONE _continues pantomime_.

WHETSTONE.

Give me more words!

BLUEGRASS.

I’ve forgotten the rest, and therefore take a rest.

WHETSTONE.

Look! the door is opening. [_Door partly opens, and_ POMPEY _shows his head_.] Great thunder--a black walnut!

BLUEGRASS.

Vanish, thou black January! [POMPEY _vanishes_.] We’ll strike a mellower melody, and yonder balcony shall bear fruitage brighter than October. The prize of the troubadours in the courts of love was the golden violet.

WHETSTONE.

Give me no more sentimental nonsense. Sing a song of business.

BLUEGRASS.

That’s clever. I feel the inspiration. I’ll improvise a matter-of-fact descriptive ballad illustrating the moral maxim, Business before love.

BLUEGRASS _sings and plays_; WHETSTONE _accompanies with pantomime,
and joins in singing last line of each stanza_.

Katie and Jack got up at morn,
And she came with two ears of corn,
And he came with his brassy horn,
To drive the ducks to market, O!

Now Katie’s ducks were white as snow,
But Jackie’s ducks were black as crow;
So o’er the hills away they go,
Driving the ducks to market, O!

Then Jackie blew his brassy horn,
And Katie shelled her ears of corn,
While the rooster crowed upon the thorn,
Driving the ducks to market, O!

Now Katie loved, and so did he,
And he his horn hung on a tree;
Oh, they were glad as the busy bee,
Keeping the ducks from market, O!

The moon fell down behind a hill;
The sun winked at the miller’s mill;
The lark got up upon his quill,
Keeping the ducks from market, O!

Alas! alas! green grew the grass,
The duckies, hunting garden sass,
Fell in a trap. Alas! alas!
Keeping the ducks from market, O!

Then he cried chuckie, duckie, O!
Then she cried duckie, chuckie, O!
But oh, alas! it was no go,
Driving the ducks to market, O!

MORAL.

The moral’s plain as the bumble-bee,
Clear on the top of a tall tree.
Oh, wait! if lovers you may be;
First drive your ducks to market, O!

_Enter_ VIOLET _upon the balcony_.

VIOLET.

I plainly see there’s business in this night. [_Perceiving_ WHETSTONE.] Why, ’tis the self-same knight that did bedight another night, but far more musical. There’s a sad want of unity here, as no music, however rich, can me unite to yonder knight. [_Addressing_ WHETSTONE.] Do my two eyes behold that Mayor Whetstone, of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the Mississippi?

WHETSTONE.

You do behold with two, unless with one you kindly wink upon me, which I half believe you do.

VIOLET.

Is thy meaning double or single?

WHETSTONE.

Sweet Miss Violet, I have been a man with an eye single to business, but who would double his business.

BLUEGRASS.

Don’t give her any quandaries.

VIOLET.

Why, thou hast changed thy voice!

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Major, you rascal, assume my voice!

BLUEGRASS [_assuming_ WHETSTONE’S _voice_].

Sweet Violet, it is the air, that’s sometimes tuneful and sometimes not, that doth effect the change.

VIOLET.

Thou art an artful man.

BLUEGRASS [_assuming_ WHETSTONE’S _voice_].

Sweet Violet, ’tis even noted so.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Confound you, ’tis not so!

BLUEGRASS [_assuming_ WHETSTONE’S _voice_].

I meant to say the air is so.

VIOLET.

If thou sowest the air with so, so, thy harvest will be no, no. The air upon this balcony well balances its fruitage.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

You villain, we’re caught!

VIOLET.

I’ll not complain if thou wilt sing me another song.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Major, you rascal, another song!

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

I don’t know any more.

WHETSTONE [_kneeling_].

Sweet Miss Violet, upon this green grass I vow to love you as long as grass grows. Oh, Miss Violet, you’re too young to know what you may lose. You may lose the real Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the real Indians reeling down the real Mississippi.

VIOLET.

Rise, thou mighty chief of merchandise. I set much store by thee.

WHETSTONE [_rising and aside_].

Major, my boy, did you hear that?

VIOLET.

Great Prince, it is my humor to be enamoured of thy union of business and romance. [_Calls to_ NINON _within_. NINON _enters_. BLUEGRASS _leaves the shrubbery and goes behind_ WHETSTONE, _as his shadow_.] Take no leaves from my shrubbery. What is’t that’s back of thee, Prince?

WHETSTONE.

’Tis but the shadow cast from me by the moonlight.

VIOLET.

The tree ’neath which thou standest is cedrine, and its laced boughs, filtering the moonlight, cast an interlacing shadow on the lawn; upon this plot, now, in part, a deeper shadow rests, like shadow upon shadow.

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with pantomime_].

’Tis but a shadow, ’tis but a shadow cast from me by the moonlight.

NINON.

I hear ze voice of ze shadow, ze pretty shadow. Oh, zat I had ze shadow up on ze balcony! Charmant!

VIOLET.

Fie, Ninon, what wouldst thou with the fleeting shadow of this Merchant Prince? Thou hadst not even the shadow of sentiment.

NINON.

Dear mistress, I see ze rainbow in ze shadow. Superbe!

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

I’ve been too long a shadow.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

You rascal, make yourself shorter!

BLUEGRASS.

Black slave that I am, thus to serve this merchant prince of merchandise!

WHETSTONE.

I’m a solid man, and my shadow lies solid.

NINON.

Poor shadow, come off ze cold, cold ground!

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with
pantomime_].

The shadow is slave to the substance. Who can separate them? None. Who can separate them? None,--none but Ninon.

VIOLET.

Ninon, ’tis marvellously good,--but we must go. [_Slowly going._] Good-night alike to substance and shadow. Yet, stay! [_Advancing._] Didst ever study arithmetic?

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with
pantomime_].

Addition I have at my finger-tips. [_Counting notes upon his guitar._] One, two, three, four, five. Multiplication I have by heart.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Throw in all the multiplication-table.

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with
pantomime_].

Come, come, let us learn, let us sing. Come, come, let us learn the multiplication-table. Come, let us sing the multiplication-table.

VIOLET.

Thou art too multitudinous, and wert born for the opera; yet I will give thee a problem that thou shalt solve, not with thy digits, but with thy pedals. I will teach thee subtraction, and separate thy shadow from thy substance by plane trigonometry.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Major, steady! Listen for the click of the trigger.

VIOLET.

A triangle is a sweet instrument in the mathematics of love; for oft, about the first of April nights, I’ve watched the merry wild geese in the sky flying northward in musical and far-sounding triangles.

WHETSTONE.

I know them well. I have one in my brass band in Cornville.

VIOLET.

And yet triangulation by moonlight were a pleasant death, betwixt substance and shadow. Ninon, girl, quick! bring me my bronze-covered trigonometry.

[_Exit_ NINON.

WHETSTONE.

Hold on! There must be some mistake here. Please don’t pull any trigger on us!

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

And make angels of us!

WHETSTONE.

Hold on, Miss Violet! I don’t want to be an angel yet.

VIOLET.

There’s no fairer weapon than a book, and I’ll make no angel of thee.

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

Let’s cap the climax and capitulate.

_Re-enter_ NINON, _with book_.

NINON.

Mistress Violet, here is ze book.

VIOLET.

I do not need it now. My memory serves me as well. Prince, fear not; trigonometry is a peaceful art that maids may practice, and thou beneath my patient yoke shalt help me draw this triangle. One side thereof shall be betwixt thy stationed shadow and myself, another ’twixt thy shadow and thyself, and the base side thereof shall be the distance ’twixt thee and me,--whose baseness shall increase if it decrease.

[_Pauses._

NINON.

Kind mistress, wilt thou have ze book?

VIOLET.

No book can help me. Now do I pause [_pausing_], for in this triangle one angle is obtuse and two acute; but my good angel shall help me. ’Tis better to be right than be acute; therefore it shall be a right-angled triangle. [_To_ WHETSTONE.] Hence move you backward in the light. [WHETSTONE _moves backward._] But also from your right. [_He moves from his right._] Ninon, girl, see, the shadow doth not follow!

BLUEGRASS.

Now from this angle do I see my angel.

NINON.

I know ze shadow, ze rainbow, ze major, ze grand lover!

VIOLET [_to_ WHETSTONE, _who has moved until he forms a right angle
with_ BLUEGRASS _and_ VIOLET].

Move no further. Thy shadow keeps no pace with thee, and fear might well oppress a wondering maid less mathematical. Ninon, take and reflect upon yon shadow. ’Tis thy sum total, and a happy one.

_Enter_ FOPDOODLE.

FOPDOODLE.

Dear Miss Violet, I’m cured. The sheep’s blood is all out of me. Pa says I may bring you home with me; and Ma says I am a lamb with a golden fleece, but I must not alarm them by bleating--ba-bah. I have been badly off--but I assure you I am shorn of my malady. There is no longer any impediment of speech to our happiness. Oh, how I want to be a noble husband! Dear Miss Violet, may I, may I address you up so high, and I down so low? May I? May I?

VIOLET.

Thou hast too many Mays in thy calendar, but thou mayst have a cold March ere thou comest to a timely May.

FOPDOODLE.

Star of Violet, come down to the earth. No, no. O earth of black, go up to the star of Violet. Yes, yes; but the earth can’t do it. What the deuce is the proper thing? Well, well--

VIOLET.

Thy question lies at bottom of a well too deep for a maid to fathom, looking down from a balcony.

FOPDOODLE.

Dear Miss Violet, may I come up?

VIOLET.

Thy ardor is alarming!

FOPDOODLE.

Dear Miss Violet, my servant, Tom, has a ladder waiting for me, and I will climb to thee. Don’t be alarmed; I am harmless, O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Lovers should have in their hearts ladders of words better than any made with hands. Where is thy ladder?

FOPDOODLE.

[_Calling to_ TOM, _around the corner_] Tom, my man, bring your master love’s ladder.

TOM.

Good master, I come.

[TOM _enters with a ladder and sets it against the wall_.

FOPDOODLE.

Don’t let it slip! Tom, my man, stand firm.

[_He ascends._

TOM.

I obey, good master.

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative and plays_].

See! see! the bold burglar. Help! help! He ascends! he ascends!

FOPDOODLE [_halting_].

I--I--I, Augustus Fopdoodle, a bad burglar man! I--I, the son of my father, Fopdoodle! Pray, sweet Miss Violet, who are those rude, bad men?

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative and plays_].

We are a triangle, and we’ll make a parallelogram of you. We are--we are--an accurate right-angled triangle, and we’ll make, we’ll make, a p-a-r--par, a-l--paral, l-e-l--parallel, o--parallelo, g-r-a-m--parallelogram--of you.

WHETSTONE.

Get down off the ladder!

FOPDOODLE.

’Tis the voice of the barbarian, Whetstone,--my animal noun, my enemy!

_Enter_ JACK.

JACK [_to_ FOPDOODLE].

Put the ladder back in the garden!

FOPDOODLE.

Help me, good Jack!

[JACK _takes hold of ladder, and_ FOPDOODLE _tumbles from it_.

FOPDOODLE [_rising_].

O dazzling Violet, my heart’s in ruins, and I’m turned down.

[FOPDOODLE, JACK, _and_ TOM _move a short distance with ladder; when_ TOM _holds, and_ FOPDOODLE _leans upon it_.

_Enter_ SCYTHE, _observing no one, and with hand-net, in pursuit of
a night-beetle buzzing in the air_.

SCYTHE.

Where flies the beetle, I pursue. There, I hear it now! [_The buzz of a flying beetle is heard._] Lovely night-beetle! Now you rise, and now you sink in curving flight. [_He pursues, listening, till the sound ceases._] Now you’ve rested on a night-blooming flower, and I’ll approach more softly than lover does a dreaming maid, nor wake with rude-paced step your finer sense of airy motion. [_He advances cautiously in search._]

VIOLET.

See, Ninon; he sees no one. In our time let maids be jealous. Science has its votaries as deeply rapt as love’s suitors.

SCYTHE [_stopping, and observing the beetle on a flower_].

What a rare and beautiful specimen for the Academy! Since early eve I’ve followed in the moonlight, through gardens, groves, and lawns. Now I’ll capture thee. [_He throws his net over the flower, but the beetle, escaping, flies away with a buzzing sound, while he watches its course through his glass._] ’Tis a peerless beetle, with wings of purple filigreed with gold and silver, which leave in sparkling flight a trail of light. I’ll follow it till morning, but I’ll capture it.

[_Exit_ SCYTHE _in pursuit, and without having observed any one_.

VIOLET.

Alack! few lovers are so ardent in their pursuit, and some do lag most grievously. [_To_ NINON] One was to come to-night, beneath my window, whom I’ve yet not seen.

NINON.

But see, my mistress, something is coming up ze orchard path.

VIOLET [_intently observing_].

’Tis distant, and yet ’tis bigger than a man’s hand. Why, Ninon, ’tis a man. How near wouldst thou say he is?

NINON.

Courage, my mistress! he has ze fleet pace of ze lover.

_Enter_ IDEAL.

IDEAL.

Dear Violet, in hastening by the orchard path to meet thee ’neath thy window, I was detained by thy sweet sisters of the field, which sprang along my path in myriad gayety, while I in blissful fantasy did win them; and here, accompanied with my love, I tender thee this bunch of golden-hearted violets.

VIOLET.

Why, ’tis my Ideal! I’ll ne’er forsake thee; for were I to forsake my Ideal, that which were forsaken were better than that which were taken. To thee I’ll swift descend, and, descending, I’ll ascend.

[_Exit_ VIOLET.

NINON [_following_].

And I’ll descend to ze grand Major, for ze willing mistress makes ze willing maid.

[_Exit_ NINON.

WHETSTONE.

Major, I’m for a flank movement. We’re in the heat of battle. Let’s head them off! Let us on! She’s a prize! She’s a thoroughbred! What points she has! See the points and angles she gave us. She’s worth all! [_Enter_ VIOLET _and_ NINON, _who are joined by_ IDEAL _and_ BLUEGRASS.] She must not escape me; I’ll throw in the Eagle.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold! Not the Eagle.

WHETSTONE.

The bank, the steeple, the stores, the Academy, my farm on Pearl Creek,--all, all, everything,--but I’ll have her!

NINON.

Dear Major, save ze Eagle!

BLUEGRASS.

Fear not; we’ll always share ze Eagle between us.

NINON.

Ze grand Major will not share ze Eagle,--cut ze fedders off?

BLUEGRASS.

Never, my child of innocence, never! We’ll have one sparkling hearthstone, one sprightly boudoir, one full panoplied Eagle.

NINON.

Oui, oui, très joli! charmant!

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE _and_ CATHARINE.

NORTHLAKE.

Good friends, and Mayor Whetstone, welcome all!
It is a happy and auspicious time.
This day the turn of Fortune’s fickle wheel
Hath brought a double gift of joy to me.
This is my wife, from whom I was estranged,--
My Catharine, light of my youthful life,--
Now reunited by a tenderer tie
Than held our earlier years of wedded love.
And this same day, by sudden rise of stocks
On the Exchange, my fortune and my niece’s
Have been restored to us. Swiftly hath flown
The time since when, upon a troublous day,
Yon Merchant Prince and I together planned
Without her leave, as men too oft have done,
To violate a gentle maiden’s heart.
But she by maiden wit and nimble mirth
Hath warded off and foiled our ruder blows;
For Nature gives to helpless maids such powers
To guard their hearts as are undreamt of men.
Let us be glad that naught but harmless mirth
Hath been the kind result of deeper plans.
For, friends, good mirth is better than fine gold;
’Tis Heaven’s mercy shown to weary man,
And falls upon the heart of melancholy
As fall refreshing dews on earth at eve.
And as in sparkling drops of crystal dew
Night-clouded Earth doth clasp the light of stars,
So doth the heart of melancholy catch,
In sparkling laughter, the light of merry hearts.

WHETSTONE.

Major, now for my revenge! Send for my housekeeper, my castle-keeper. Order Susan. I’ll celebrate my nuptials on this sea-girt strand.

BLUEGRASS.

Shall I order the nuptial plumage?

WHETSTONE.

For both. At once.

_Enter_ PUNCH _with garments on each arm_.

PUNCH.

Ladies and gentlemens, I have some beautiful wedding garments.

_Enter_ SCYTHE, _enthusiastically, with hand-net and beetle_.

SCYTHE.

I’ve caught the beetle!

[_Exhibiting a large beetle._

WHETSTONE.

Send it to my Cornville Museum!

NORTHLAKE.

A word with thee, my gallant Mayor Whetstone:
There’s one within, who, having heard afar
Thy strange adventures in this seaside town,--
Thy loves, thy titles, and thy masquerades,
And more especially thy fearful duel
In the wood,--instanter boarded cars at Cornville
To rescue and to succor thee in peril;
She’s here,--she waits,--and now she doth appear.

_He opens a door and_ SUSAN _enters_.

WHETSTONE.

Susan!

SUSAN.

Hercules!

WHETSTONE.

Dear Susan!

SUSAN.

Dear Hercules!

[_They embrace._

WHETSTONE.

Oh, Susan!

SUSAN [_surveying him_].

Why, Hercules, how you’ve changed! I do declare! your clothes are full of wrinkles. How thin you’ve grown! you must have lost twenty pounds! I must make you, this very night, a cup of my elder-blossom tea; I’ve brought the blossoms with me [_taking package from pocket_]. Hercules, can it be that you would have forsaken your Susan?

WHETSTONE.

Why, Susan!

SUSAN.

I knew it could never be.

WHETSTONE [_petting her_].

That’s right, Susan; we’ll be married. Think of it, we’ll be married, Susan!

[_Music._ POMPEY _and_ HANNIBAL _open doors on veranda, showing
dining-hall; and_ POMPEY _announces that dinner is served_.

NORTHLAKE.

May you all be my guests! There’s indoors spread a merry cap-sheaf to this mirthful wooing. Let all proceed within.

VIOLET [_presenting_ IDEAL].

Uncle, my Ideal.

NORTHLAKE.

Violet, my niece, happy art thou who hast for real thy Ideal.

VIOLET [_persuasively_].

Good uncle, thou wilt not cut down the tree in the orchard?

NORTHLAKE.

Nay, ’twill bear good fruit in good season.

VIOLET [_to the company_].

A philosophic uncle, and a kind one.

CURTAIN.