Chapter V: Act 1 (4)

_Wiggins_ (_aside_). He can be trusted. Dennis, my life is in danger. Two ruffians are coming here at the dread hour of midnight, shout blood, blood, blood in my ear, and then murder me.

_Dennis._ Murder and Irish! An’ will they wake yez afterwards?

_Wiggins._ What’s to be done?

_Dennis._ Divil a bit do I know, onyhow. Fasthen the door.

_Wiggins._ But they know a secret entrance.

_Dennis._ Then fasthen the gate and throw the kay down the well.

_Wiggins._ No, no! (_Fingers heard outside crying._) Who is that?

_Dennis_ (_going to door, L._) It’s Major Fingers in trouble. (_Enter Major Fingers, L., rubbing his eyes and bawling. Exit Dennis, L._)

_Major._ Oh, dear! Doctor, what shall I do?--what shall I do? I went home and took a dose of your Great Elixir, and then, oh, dear! I was a goin’ to take another, when “Vene,” sh-sh-she took it away from me and th-th-threw it out of the window, and then boxed my ears. What shall I do?--what shall I do?

_Wiggins._ Do? Why, get a divorce.

_Major._ So I will, see if I don’t. I’ll never sleep, drink, eat-- (_spies doctor’s lunch on table_). Hallo! what’s that? (_Seizes lunch._) Cake, oh, my! (_Stuffs it into his mouth._)

_Wiggins._ Come, come, sir, that’s my lunch.

_Major._ Can’t you allow me a little comfort after I’ve been abused by “Vene”? (_Continues eating. Enter Dennis, L., hurriedly._)

_Dennis._ Oh, murder, murder! Here’s a row. Here’s a shindy. Doctor, you’re a dead man.

_Wiggins._ Oh, Lord! What’s the matter now?

_Dennis._ Mr. Freedley, who took the prescription this morning, took the Great Elixir, and then was took crazy intirely. He’s left his house, and his friends have jist been here after him.

_Wiggins._ Why here?

_Dennis._ Because he’s raving about the doctor, and swearing he’ll have his life.

_Wiggins._ Oh, horror! What’s to be done? Oh, that infernal Elixir!

_Charles_ (_outside, L._). Where is he? Where is the destroyer of my peace?

_Wiggins._ Here comes the madman. (_Gets R. Dennis runs behind the table, seizing the carving-knife. Major Fingers crawls under the table with the lunch. Enter Charles, L., in pantaloons and white shirt, with a sheet draped about his body. A wreath of straw “à la King Lear” on his head, his face whitened._)

_Charles_ (_gesticulating wildly_). There he is! Grinning demon, why do you defy me? (_makes a dash at Wiggins, who escapes to L._)

_Wiggins._ Please, sir, I don’t know. I am an unfortunate man.

_Charles._ Liar! You have robbed me of that which time can never restore.

_Dennis._ Somebody’s stole his watch.

_Charles._ Villain, destroyer of my peace, vile caitiff, thou must die! I will have thy heart’s blood. (_Makes another dash at Wiggins, who escapes to R._)

_Wiggins._ Here’s another wants blood, blood, blood!

_Charles._ Silence, demon! Where’s my wife?

_Major._ Oh, dear, me! where’s mine?

_Charles._ My wife, my wife, my wife!

_Dennis._ That’s three wives. That fellar’s a Mormon.

_Charles_ (_seizing Wiggins and dragging him to centre_). Now, demon, I have thee in my grasp, and if ever you escape, it shall be with the everlasting curses of Black Ralph.

_Wiggins_ (_on his knees_). Murder! He will strangle me.

_Dennis._ Watch! Watch!

_Major._ Barnum! Barnum!

_Charles._ Villain, confess your sins at once.

_Wiggins._ Please, Mr. Black Ralph, I haven’t got any.

_Charles._ ’Tis false! Confess yourself a vile impostor.

_Wiggins._ Well, well, I am.

_Charles._ Your Great Elixir is--

_Wiggins._ A humbug. (_Enter Greenbax and Aspen, L._)

_Charles._ Repeat it before these gentlemen.

_Wiggins._ I am a humbug. My Elixir is a humbug, and everything is a humbug. Now let me go (_rises_).

_Aspen._ Have I been deceived? Oh, you villain!

_Greenbax._ What ails the doctor?

_Dennis._ His nerves are a little shaken.

_Greenbax._ No, no! I don’t want to be shaken.

_Major._ What! sha’n’t I be a tall man?

_Dennis._ Nary at all, at all.

_Major._ Wont “Vene” make me pay for this?

_Charles._ Now, Mr. Doctor, you can go (_removing wreath_). You see I have recovered my senses. I have exposed your quackery. I’ll give you three hours to leave town; if you are not gone then, I’ll hand you over to the police.

_Wiggins_ (_aside_). What a fool I’ve been! (_Enter Harry and Herbert, L._) There are the ruffians. Seize them! I charge those two individuals with a conspiracy to murder me at the dread hour of midnight. Blood! blood! blood!

_Harry._ Why, Charley, what does this mean?

_Charles._ That I have exposed a quack, and saved my Aunt Hopkins from making a fool of herself.

_Wiggins._ But I charge these villains with an attempt to murder me. Did you not a short time since, in this very room, concoct a vile plot to murder me at the dread hour of midnight?

_Herbert._ Ha, ha, ha! Harry, your new play has evidently made an impression on the doctor.

_Wiggins._ Play?

_Harry._ Yes, play. Waiting for you, I entertained my friend, here, with an extract from my new play. Would you like to hear it again?

_Wiggins._ No, I thank you. Fooled again. Here’s a pretty kettle of fish. The Great Elixir exploded and its great inventor obliged to leave town by rail or on a rail. What shall I do? Mr. Greenbax,--you like my Elixir; don’t you?

_Greenbax._ Hey?

_Wiggins._ You like my Elixir; don’t you?

_Greenbax._ Oh, yes, I use it in my house.

_Wiggins._ You hear that, gentlemen?

_Charley._ What for, Mr. Greenbax?

_Greenbax._ To kill rats. It’s a dead shot.

_Wiggins._ But you like it, Mr. Aspen?

_Aspen_ (_shaking_). No, no, it’s villanous.

_Dennis._ Bedad, if it’s like you, it’s no great shakes.

_Wiggins._ Major, I can still depend upon you for a customer?

_Major._ Not much. “Vene” called you a quack.

_Dennis._ Faith, “Vene” ought to know, for she’s a duck herself.

_Wiggins._ All forsake me. “The Great Elixir” is doomed. No, it isn’t. (_To audience._) Ladies and gentlemen, you have had a dose of it to-night; may I hope that you will recommend it. It may not perform all the wonderful cures it pretends. What medicine can? If it has pleased you, and you are inclined to take another dose, my purpose here is accomplished, and I shall still have great faith in the power of The Great Elixir.

R. Dennis, Fingers, Aspen, Wiggins, Herbert, Harry, Greenbax. L.

[3] This feat of growing is performed by a well-known trick. Bob’s cap is fastened to the cloak behind; he carries a long stick concealed beneath the cloak, one end of which is placed in the cap; after drinking, he turns his back, goes to the wall, and gradually raises the stick, of course raising the cap and cloak. Commencing at R. and going towards the L., raising and lowering the stick, bobbing here and there, it has the appearance of a growing man; when he reaches the door, L., he suddenly lowers it and exits. Should this be found too difficult to perform, the piece is so arranged as to admit of “cutting” by leaving out the characters of Major Fingers and Bob, of course, omitting all the “lines” of Wiggins and Dennis referring to this scene.

THE MAN WITH THE DEMIJOHN.

A TEMPERANCE SKETCH.

CHARACTERS.

ZEKIEL SHORT (Corresponding Secretary of the Rocky-valley Teetotalers).
PHIL CARSON, } anti-teetotalers.
NED HUNTER, }
CHICK (an infantile darkey).

COSTUMES.

_Zeke._--Long white overcoat, checked pants, light wig, white hat.
_Phil._ } Seedy clothes, red noses, and slouched hats.
_Ned._ }
_Chick._--Woolly wig, blackened face, overalls, and checked shirt.

SCENE.--_Back street in Boston. Should it not be convenient
to have scenery, a very good substitute can be obtained by
spreading upon the wall at the back of the stage a variety of
posters, show-bills, advertisements, &c._

_Enter PHIL, L._

_Phil._ Well, if this isn’t particularly pleasant! I’ve been roaming round town ever since the break of day, longing and waiting for my bitters. Dead broke, bank closed, and credit exhausted. Nobody asks me to take a drop. The landlords won’t treat, and I can’t find a copper in the gutter. I have begged of everybody I met; but it’s no use. One man said he would give me a loaf of bread. Bread!--do I look like a man that wants bread? No, I want something to drink: when I can’t get that, I’ll begin to think about bread. Another man said he would give me a breakfast if I would work for him an hour. Work! I never did work, and I don’t think I shall begin now. I’m one of the aristocracy; they don’t work; society takes care of them when they’re unfortunate: so let society take care of me. I wish I could find a dollar, or a half a dollar, or a quarter, or a ten-cent bit, or-- (_Enter NED, R._) Halloo, Ned! is that you?

_Ned._ Yes, all there is left of me! What are you doing down there?

_Phil._ Looking for my diamond pin. But what’s the matter with you? You look as though, like me, you hadn’t had your bitters this morning.

_Ned._ No, I haven’t had my bitters; and that’s what’s the matter. This is an ungrateful country! Why don’t it take care of its “bone and sinew” better. There’s those chaps at the State House mighty civil to you just before election. Plenty of liquor then,--enough to float us all.

_Phil._ That’s why we are called the floating population,--hey, Ned?

_Ned._ But no sooner is election over than they shut themselves up, won’t treat themselves, and go to making laws against selling liquor, which prevents their constituents from obtaining the necessities of life. There’s gratitude for you.

_Phil._ Put not your trust in princes, Ned.

_Ned._ Trust! I wish I could find somebody to trust me. I wasted my valuable time last night in Steve Foster’s bar-room, laying round to get asked to drink; and I was asked. And Steve Foster made money by my being there; and now this morning, when I ask him for a drop of gin, he says, “Where’s your money?”--“Ain’t got any,” was my reply; and then, before I had time to explain things, he gives me a lift, and sends me into the gutter. I say this is an ungrateful country, where a hard-working man like me is used in this way.

_Phil._ Hard-working man you are! What do you work at?

_Ned._ Yes, hard-working indeed. Don’t I inspect liquors that go into Steve Foster’s cellar, to see that they are genuine?

_Phil._ How, pray?

_Ned._ By smelling round his cellar windows. Do you think I don’t _nose_ good liquor?

_Phil._ Well, I guess we don’t either of us “nose” much liquor this morning.

_Ned._ Look here, Phil: when I was in Steve Foster’s just now, a greenhorn was buying some liquor. I don’t know what it was; but it was put up in a demijohn. There he is now (_pointing, L._), coming this way. If we can only manage to get possession of that demijohn, we’re safe for one drink at least.

_Phil._ Good! let’s try it on,--pass ourselves off for State constables, give him a scare.

_Ned._ All right, stand back, here he is! (_They retire back. Enter ZEKE, L., with demijohn._)

_Zeke._ I declare I feel about as mean as old Deacon Smithers did when he split his bran-new, brass-button, Sunday-go-to-meeting coat clean up the back while he was on his knees to Aunt Nabby’s darter Susan, popping the question, and she wouldn’t have him neither? Here am I Zekiel Short, Corresponding Secretary to the Rocky-valley Teetotalers, sneaking through the streets of Boston with a demijohn in my hand. I daren’t look a decent man in the face; and as for the gals--Christopher! the sight of one on ’em makes me blush way up to the roots of my hair. Catch me in such a scrape again! Got all my groceries and fixin’s up to the cars fust-rate, all ready for a start, when I happened to think that our apothecary wanted me to bring up something for him to make matrimonial wine of--no, that ain’t it; antimonial wine,--something for sick folks: and he wanted to get the poorest and cheapest stuff that I could scare up; and I rather think I have something that will suit him. I can smell turpentine way through that demijohn; and I shouldn’t wonder if it eat its way out afore I got home. I shouldn’t like to have any of our folks see me in this pickle, they’d have me up for backslidin’ sure as preaching. (_Phil and Ned have been prowling round Zeke during this speech eyeing him and the demijohn._) Neow, what’s them are chaps eyeing me for? I wonder if they’re State constables. How do you do, sir?

_Phil._ Sha’n’t I assist you with that demijohn, Mr. Johnson?

_Zeke._ No, I thank you; and my name ain’t Johnson, nor demi-Johnson either.

_Ned._ Sha’n’t I assist you, Mr. Eh---- Mr. Eh----?

_Zeke._ Well, I guess not; and my name ain’t Mr. Eh----.

_Phil._ Do let me take it for you, you look fatigued.

_Zeke._ Do I? well, so do you. You look kinder peaked, as though you’d slept on the top of the meeting-house steeple, and had to shin down the lightning-rod afore breakfast, with nary a streak of lightning to grease your way.

_Ned._ You’d better let my friend carry it for you. He’s used to carrying such things.

_Zeke._ Well, I haven’t the least doubt of that. You both look as though you could carry a great quantity of this article. I’ll carry it myself; but I’m just as much obliged to you; and, to show my gratitude, won’t you take something?

_Ned._ } _eagerly_. Yes, yes!
_Phil._ }

_Zeke._ Well, s’pose you take a walk.

_Phil._ Look here, Mr. What’s-your-name. There’s just enough of this. I’ll take that demijohn. I’m a State constable.

_Zeke._ A what?

_Ned._ A State constable. So am I. Our orders are to arrest all suspicious persons with demijohns.

_Zeke._ Sho, are you, though? State constables! well, I declare, I never should have thought it!

_Phil._ So I’ll thank you for that demijohn.

_Zeke._ _State constables!_ Well, I declare! Want my demijohn too? Do you know where I came from?

_Phil._ Yes: from the Rural District.

_Zeke._ Rural? where’s that? No, sir: I’m from Rocky-valley District; and, when a constable asks us for a demijohn in that style, we say, “Where’s your warrant?”

_Phil._ Oh! you do, do you? Well, a warrant isn’t necessary here; so give up your demijohn.

_Ned._ Come, give it up, and save further trouble.

_Zeke._ Look here, State constables, I’m a peaceable citizen. I’m also a plain-spoken individual. You’re a couple of State constables? Where’s your uniform? There’s nothing uniform about you, except your red noses, which are pretty well matched. Look here! (_Takes off his coat._) That demijohn is under my protection. I’m mighty ashamed of its company; but I’m bound to take it home with me, if it don’t burn up on the way; and, if you want it, come and take it. (_Backs up stage, squares off, and shows fight._)

_Phil_ (_coming forward_). We sha’n’t get it that way.

_Ned._ No, sir. State constables won’t do. We can’t take it. Ah! a lucky thought. There’s that little darkey Chick playing by the water. Go push him in quick.

_Phil._ What’s the joke?

_Ned._ No matter, go and do it; and then come back yelling for help.

_Phil._ Ah! I see it. (_Exit, L._)

_Zeke_ (_resuming his coat_). Well, as there doesn’t seem to be any very great danger of a raid, I’ll move along towards the cars. Them chaps want my demijohn pretty bad. (_Phil cries outside, “Help! Help!”_) Halloo! what’s that? (_Enter PHIL, L._)

_Phil._ Ned, can you swim?

_Ned._ Swim? not a stroke. What’s the matter?

_Phil._ A little darkey has just fallen into the water there. I tried to reach him with a pole, but failed; and I mustn’t go into the water: my physician said it would be the death of me.

_Zeke._ You cursed fools! is that the way you chatter when a fellow-creature is drowning? Where is he?

_Ned._ Can you swim?

_Zeke_ (_throws off his coat_). Of course I can. Where is he, I say?

_Phil._ Right off there: you can see his head just going under for the last time. Do save him!

_Zeke._ I’ll save him if the wool holds. (_Exit ZEKE, L._)

_Phil._ And I’ll save your demijohn! (_Both Phil and Ned rush together to the demijohn._)

_Phil._ Let’s take it home at once.

_Ned._ Hold on, I must have a drop.

_Phil._ Be quick, then; he’ll be back. Let me have the first pull.

_Ned._ No, no: that brilliant idea by which we obtained it was mine.

_Phil._ But I executed it, and nearly executed the darkey at the same time.

_Ned._ Well, well, hurry, hurry!

_Phil._ Then here goes (_drinks and spits out_). Oh! murder, what stuff! Do you suppose it is poison?

_Ned._ It came from Steve Foster’s. You ought to know the taste of every thing in his place.

_Phil._ But this is horrible.

_Ned._ No matter, down with it! “Beggars shouldn’t be choosers,” you know.

_Phil._ Here goes (_drinks, and hands the demijohn to Ned_). I’ve given my stomach a surprise-party, I guess.

_Ned._ Ah! “this is the nectar that Jupiter sips” (_drinks, and spits out_). Phew! concentrated essence of all that is horrible! What stuff!

_Phil._ Here comes the Yankee.

_Ned._ Then here goes! (_Drinks, and then PHIL and NED separate and get in R. and L. corners of the stage, leaving the demijohn in the centre. Enter ZEKE, L. dragging Chick._)

_Zeke._ There, you little specimen of ball-blacking, try and keep out of the water! What sent you there?

_Chick._ Donno, Massa: spec it was a conwulsion.

_Zeke._ Where would you have gone to if I hadn’t pulled you out?

_Chick._ Donno Massa: spec I’d gone to Dixie.

_Zeke._ Well, go and lay down there and dry yourself.

_Chick._ Spec I will, massa.

(_Chick goes back, and, during the next dialogue, manages to get at the demijohn, and take a drink._)

_Zeke_ (_putting on his coat_). Halloo! where’s my demijohn? Ho, ho! I didn’t leave it there. The “State constables” have been at it, have they? (_Lifts it._) How light it is! Those chaps have helped themselves while I was pulling out the darkey. If they don’t have a convulsion in their insides, then I’m a Dutchman. Here’s a chance for a speculation. I’ll try the effects of a little “moral suasion,” and see if I can’t add a couple of names to the temperance pledge. (_To Phil._) Look here, you’ve been at my demijohn?

_Phil._ I, sir? Why, I am a member of the temperance society, twenty years’ standing.

_Zeke_ (_aside_). Are you? well, you’re a-lying now. (_To Ned._) Did you trouble my demijohn?

_Ned._ Me, sir? No. I’m a reformed drunkard.

_Zeke_ (_aside_). All but the reformed. (_Aloud._) Well, I’m glad it wasn’t you; for whoever did touch it is a dead man. Do you know what’s in that demijohn?

_Ned_ (_aside_). Oh, dear, how queer I feel! (_Aloud._) No.

_Phil_ (_aside_). Good gracious! what’s the matter with me? (_Aloud._) No.

_Zeke._ That demijohn contains-- (_Pause._)

_Ned_ (_aside_). Oh, murder! my vitals! (_Aloud._) Well, well, what does it contain?

_Zeke._ That demijohn contains-- (_Pause._)

_Phil_ (_aside_). Oh, my insides! (_Aloud._) Well, well, speak quick.

_Zeke._ That demijohn contains--

_Ned_ (_aside_). I’m burning up.

_Phil_ (_aside_). I shall howl, I know I shall.

_Zeke._ That demijohn contains-- Did you ever hear of Butler’s New-Orleans Syrup?

_Ned._ } Oh, oh!
_Phil._ }

_Chick._ Ow, ow, ow!

_Zeke._ Well, it isn’t that. Did you ever hear of Sherman’s Rebel Rat Exterminator?

_Phil._ } Oh, oh!
_Ned._ }

_Chick._ Ow, ow, ow!

_Zeke._ Well, it ain’t that. Did you ever hear of--

_Phil._ } Oh, oh!
_Ned._ }

_Chick._ Ow, ow, ow!

_Zeke._ Well, it ain’t that.

_Phil._ Oh, horror! What is it?

_Ned._ Oh, murder! What is it?

_Zeke._ The what-is-it? No: it isn’t that. That’s one of Barnum’s curiosities.

_Ned._ For mercy’s sake tell me what is gnawing at my vitals. I feel my strength failing me. I’m sure I’m a dead man. (_Kneels, R. of ZEKE._) I confess it was I who drank your filthy stuff.

_Phil_ (_kneels, L. of ZEKE_). And I confess too. I did drink your poison. What shall we do? Save us if you can.

_Chick_ (_kneels in front of ZEKE_). O massa! I spec’s I’s a goner.

_Zeke._ Halloo, little nig, what’s the matter with you?

_Chick._ Dunno, massa, spec’s there’s a yearthquake inside me.

_Zeke._ Did you drink from that demijohn?

_Chick._ Yes, massa: spec I did. You tole me to lay down and get dry; and, by golly! I got dry so fast, I couldn’t help drinking. Sartin sure, hope I may die, massa.

_Zeke._ Well, you are a handsome group, you are! Feel puty sick, don’t ye?

_Phil._ } Oh, oh!
_Ned._ }

_Chick._ Ow, ow! want to go to de horsefiddle.

_Zeke._ You want to know the remedy?

_Phil._ } _eagerly._ Yes, yes! the remedy.
_Ned._ }

_Chick._ Yes, massa, de remember me.

_Zeke._ Well, here it is. (_Produces pledge._) Here’s the pledge of the Rocky-valley Teetotalers, whereby the signers promise to indulge in no spirituous liquors. Sign this, and I’ll save you.

_Ned._ What, promise to drink no more liquor! I’ll die first.

_Phil._ What, sign away my liberty! Death first.

_Zeke._ All right, liberty or death. You have swallowed poison, deadly poison: it’s slow, but sure. Good-by. I’ll send the coroner for you in an hour.

_Phil._ } Oh! give us the pledge.
_Ned._ }

_Zeke._ All right; here you are. (_Turns PHIL round, and places paper on his back while NED signs; then places paper on NED’S back while PHIL signs; both groaning during the operation._) Now, then, the best thing you can do is to make a bee-line for that apothecary’s, and get an emetic. (_NED and PHIL start, R._) Hold on! The nature of the poison you have swallowed is such, that, should you ever take a drop of liquor into your stomach, the old symptoms will return.

_Phil._ } Oh, oh!
_Ned._ }

_Zeke._ So look out! beware of any thing in the shape of liquor.

_Phil._ I’ll beware of Yankees, you be sure. Oh!

(_Exit, R._)

_Ned._ Yes, keep clear of the man with a demijohn. Oh!

(_Exit, R._)

_Zeke._ Well, Chick.

_Chick._ Well, massa, ain’t you gwine to make a tea-kettle of me?

_Zeke._ By and by, Chick; but for the present you shall be demijohn-bearer to the corresponding secretary of the Rocky-valley Teetotalers. You’ve had a little too much of water to-day, and I think a little too much of spirits.

_Chick._ Ow, ow, by golly, I feel him now!

_Zeke._ Well, take up the demijohn and go with me. I’ve added two names to the temperance pledge. I haven’t much hope of their sticking; but I rather think they’ll have good cause to remember this day, and their adventure with the man with the demijohn.

(_Exit ZEKE and CHICK, R._)

_Curtain._

AN ORIGINAL IDEA.

A DUOLOGUE FOR A LADY AND GENTLEMAN.

IN TWO PARTS.

CHARACTERS.

FESTUS, a rejected suitor.
STELLA, the cruel rejecter.

SCENE.--_A handsomely furnished apartment in the house
of STELLA. Table, C., with rich cover, books, flowers,
&c. Tête-à-tête, R. C., armchairs, R. and L. of table, C.
Entrances, R., L., and C. Enter FESTUS, L., in evening costume._

_Festus._ “Thus far into the bowels of the land have we marched on without impediment.” Here am I once more in the place from which, but one short week ago, I made an unceremonious exit as the rejected suitor of a young, lovely, and talented lady. Rejected suitor!--those words slip very smoothly from the lips, as pleasantly as though they were associated with some high-sounding title of nobility. There is nothing in the sound of them to conjure up the miserable, mean, contemptible, kicked-out feeling which a man experiences who has received at the hands of lovely woman that specimen of feminine handicraft,--the mitten. All my own fault too! I’m a bashful man. Modesty, the virtue which is said to have been “the ruination of Ireland,” is the rock against which my soaring ambition has dashed itself. I have sat in this room, evening after evening, upon the edge of a chair, twirling my thumbs, and saying--nothing. I couldn’t help it. I have brought scores of compliments to the door, and left them in the hall with my hat. I wanted to speak; I kept up “a deuse of a thinking;” but somehow, when I had an agreeable speech ready to pop out of my mouth, it seemed to be frightened at the sight of the fair object against whom it was to be launched, and tumbled back again. It’s no use: when a man is in love, the more he loves, the more silent he becomes; at least it was so in my case. And when I did manage, after much stammering and blushing, to “pop the question,” the first word from the lady set me shivering; and the conclusion of her remarks set me running from the house utterly demoralized,--“I shall always be happy to see you as a _friend_, your conversation is so agreeable.” Here was a damper, after six weeks of unremitting though _silent_ attention. But she likes me, I’m sure of that. It is my silence which has frightened her. I only need a little more variety in my style of conversation to make myself agreeable to her. I have an original idea; and I advise all bashful men to take warning from my past experience, and profit by my future. I will _borrow_ language in which to speak my passion. There’s nothing very original in borrowing, financially speaking; but to borrow another man’s ideas by which to make love, I call original. And, as luck would have it, I have an excellent opportunity to test my new idea. Lounging in the sanctum of my friend Quill, the editor of “The Postscript,” a few days ago, he called my attention to an advertisement which had just been presented for insertion. It ran thus: “Wanted, a reader,--a gentleman who has studied poetic and dramatic compositions with a view to delivery, who has a good voice, and who would be willing to give one evening a week to the entertaining of an invalid. Address, with references, ‘Stella,’ Postscript Office.” I recognized the handwriting as that of the lady to whom I had been paying attentions, the signature as the _nom de plume_ under which she had written several poetic contributions for the press; and I had no trouble in guessing the meaning of the advertisement, knowing she has an invalid uncle. “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” I felt that it was high tide with me, and boldly launched my canoe; answered the advertisement under the assumed name of “Festus,” and waited for a reply. It came: “Stella is satisfied with the references of Festus, and will give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening next,”[4] &c. You will naturally conclude that my heart bounded with rapture on receiving this favorable answer. It did nothing of the sort: on the contrary, the _re_bound almost took away my breath. I began to shiver and shake, and felt inclined to retreat. But “love conquers all things.” I determined to persevere; and here I am, by appointment, to test the practicability of my original idea. The lady is a fine reader. I am well acquainted with her favorite authors; and, if I can but interest her in this novel suit, may at least pass a pleasant evening if I am not unspeakably happy. I was told to wait for Stella. (_Takes a book from table, and sits L. of table, with his back to R._) Shakspeare, ah! Let me draw a little courage from the perusal of this. (_Enter STELLA, R., in evening costume, with flowers in her hair._)

_Stella._ My maid said Festus was in this room. Ah! there he is, deep in a book: that’s so like these literary gentry! No sooner are their roving eyes fastened on a book than it is seized with the avidity with which a starving man grasps a loaf of bread. He seems happy: I will not disturb him. (_Sits on tête-à-tête._) What a strange idea! Here am I to pass the evening listening to the voice of one whom I never saw before. This is one of my uncle’s whims: he fears I am working too hard to entertain him with readings from his favorite authors, and so determines to employ a reader to relieve me. Dear uncle, with all his pain and suffering he has a sharp eye: he notices my want of spirit, and thinks it is caused by weariness. He little knows that the true cause is that stupid lover of mine, who sat here evening after evening as dumb as an oyster, until, out of spite, I started him off. What could have ailed the man? Nothing could he say but “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Fine evening,” “Good-night.” I never was so plagued in all my life, for I should have liked the fellow if he had only tried to make himself agreeable; but he was as silent and stupid as--Festus here. (_FESTUS rises, gesticulating with his hand, his eyes fastened on the book._) What can the man be about?

_Festus._ (_Reading._) “Is this a dagger which I see before me? the handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and yet I see”-- (_Turns and sees STELLA. Drops book, and runs behind chair very confused._)

_Stella._ Good gracious! you here again?

_Festus._ I beg your pardon. You are--I am--

_Stella._ I thought, sir, I was to have no more of your agreeable society.

_Festus._ I beg your pardon, madam: you seem to be in error. I am Festus,--Festus.

_Stella._ You Festus?

_Festus._ Oh, yes: I’m Festus! I came here by appointment.

_Stella._ What do you mean, sir? I expected a gentleman here to read.

_Festus._ Exactly! Pray, are you the invalid?

_Stella._ Sir, you are insulting! You will be kind enough to leave this room at once. I thought the last time you were here--

_Festus._ Excuse me for interrupting; but you evidently mistake me for some other person. I never was in this house before.

_Stella._ Is the man crazy? Do you mean to say you did not make a proposal of marriage to me in this very room a week ago?

_Festus._ Madam, you surprise me. To the best of my knowledge and belief, I never saw you before.

_Stella._ Was there ever such assurance? Is not your name--

_Festus._ Festus; and yours Stella. Am I not right?

_Stella._ Sir, this is very provoking; but, if you are Festus, what is your object in calling here?

_Festus._ To entertain you.

_Stella._ To entertain me! With what, pray? Sitting on the edge of a chair, and twirling your thumbs?

_Festus._ (_Aside._) That’s a hard hit. (_Aloud._) With readings, if you please.

_Stella._ Readings! Pray, what do you read? Ovid’s “Art of Love”?

_Festus._ Madam, I answered your advertisement, being desirous of securing the situation of reader to an invalid.

_Stella._ You won’t suit.

_Festus._ You haven’t heard me.

_Stella._ No, but I’ve seen you; and your silence cannot be excelled by your reading.

_Festus._ Will you hear me read?

_Stella._ No: you will not suit.

_Festus._ Very well: then I _claim_ the trial. Remember your promise,--“Stella is satisfied with the references of ‘Festus,’ and will give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening,” &c., &c.

_Stella._ Oh, very well! If you insist upon making yourself ridiculous, proceed. (_Sits in chair, R. of table, and turns her back on FESTUS._)

_Festus._ But will you not listen to me? I cannot read to you while you sit in that position.

_Stella._ I told you I did not wish to hear you read: you insist. Proceed: I am not interested.

_Festus._ Oh, very well! My first selection shall be from the writings of one well known to fame,--a lady whose compositions have electrified the world; whose poetic effusions have lulled to sleep the cross and peevish infant, stilled the noisy nursery, and exerted an influence upon mankind of great and lasting power; one whose works are memorable for their antiquity,--the gift of genius to the budding greatness of the nineteenth century. (_Producing a book from his pocket._) I will read from Mother Goose.

_Stella._ (_Starting up._) Mother Goose!

_Festus._ Yes: are you acquainted with the lady?

_Stella._ (_Sarcastically._) I have heard of her.

_Festus._ (_Reads in very melodramatic style._)

“‘We are three brethren out of Spain,
Come to court your daughter Jane.’
‘My daughter Jane she is too young:
She is not skilled in flattering tongue.’
‘Be she young, or be she old,
’Tis for her gold she must be sold.
So fare you well, my lady gay:
We will return another day.’”

How do you like that?

_Stella._ (_Fiercely._) I don’t like it.

_Festus._ No? Perhaps you prefer some other style of delivery. (_Reads with a drawl._)

“‘We awe thwe bwethwen aw-out of Spain,
Come to court-aw your dawtaw Jane-aw.’”

_Stella._ Oh, do read some thing else!

_Festus._ Certainly.

“Hi diddel diddel! the cat and the fiddle!
The cow jumped over the moon”--

_Stella._ (_Jumps up._) Pray, sir, do you intend to read that nonsense the whole evening?

_Festus._ Oh, no! I think I can get through the book in about an hour.

_Stella._ Sir, you have forced yourself here, an unwelcome visitor: you insist upon my hearing such nonsense as Mother-Goose melodies for an hour. Do you call that gentlemanly?

_Festus._ Madam, you advertised for a reader. I have applied, with your permission, for the situation. Under the circumstances, I naturally expected to have your attention during the reading of such selections as I should offer; instead of which, you turn your back upon me, and very coolly bid me proceed. Do _you_ call that ladylike?

_Stella._ Frankly, no. You have asked the trial: you shall have it. For an hour I will hear you; and, though I strongly suspect the situation of reader is not the object of your visit, you shall have no reason to complain of my inattention. Is that satisfactory?

_Festus._ Pray go a step farther. You are said to have fine elocutionary powers. May I not hope to have the pleasure of hearing your voice? Grant me your assistance, and my hour’s trial may perhaps be made agreeable to both.

_Stella._ Oh! not quite certain of your ability, Mr. Festus?

_Festus._ Not in the presence of so fine a reader.

_Stella._ A compliment! Well, I agree.

_Festus._ Let me hear you read: that will give me courage to make the attempt myself.

_Stella._ Oh, very well! Remembering your partiality for juvenile literature, you will pardon me if I read a very short but sweet poem. (_Produces a printed handkerchief from her pocket._)

_Festus._ Ah, a pocket edition!

_Stella._ (_Reads from the handkerchief._)

“Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle-bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sang sweet lullaby,
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My mother.”

There, sir! what do you say to that?

_Festus._ It’s very sweet. But that child had too many mothers. Now, I prefer Tom Hood’s parody. (_Reads “A Lay of Real Life,” by Thomas Hood._)

A LAY OF REAL LIFE.

Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me, and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope the overseer?
My Father.

Who let me starve to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin”?
My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home, and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.

Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated others’ brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”--
Girls always hector over boys--
My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said, “Good lad,”
And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But, when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy, my sole relief?
Myself.

_Stella._ That is very amusing; but, Mr. Festus, if this is the extent of your elocutionary acquirements--

_Festus._ Oh, I beg your pardon! By no means! With your permission, I will read something a little more sombre,--Edgar Poe’s “Raven.”

_Stella._ That is certainly more sombre. Proceed.

_Reading. “The Raven,” by Edgar A. Poe. FESTUS._

_Stella._ Excellent! Mr. Festus, you are certainly a good reader. But this seems to affect you.

_Festus._ It does, it does; for I, too, have lost one--

_Stella._ A raven?

_Festus._ Pshaw! Come, madam, I believe you are to read now, and I to listen.

_Stella._ Certainly. I will read, with your permission, Whittier’s “Maud Muller.”

_Festus._ I should be delighted to hear it.

_Reading. “Maud Muller.” STELLA._

_Festus._ Beautiful, beautiful! Madam, this, too, affects me.

_Stella._ How?

_Festus._ When I think “it might have been.”

_Stella._ Then I wouldn’t think of it, if I were you. What shall we have now?

_Festus._ Suppose we read together.

_Stella._ Together?

_Festus._ Yes, a scene from some play. There’s “The Marble Heart.”

_Stella._ Oh, there’s nothing in that but love-scenes!

_Festus._ It’s a favorite play with me; and I have been thinking, while you were reading, that the character of “Marco” is one in which you might excel.

_Stella._ Indeed! I have studied the character.

_Festus._ (_Aside._) I should think so. (_Aloud._) Let us attempt a scene. Come, you shall have your choice.

_Stella._ Thank you. Then I will choose “the rejection scene.”

_Festus._ (_Aside._) Of course you would! (_Aloud._) Very well.

_Stella._ Do you know, Mr. Festus, I think there is something very odd in your attempting a love-scene?

_Festus._ Do you? I have attempted them, and with success too.

_Stella._ Ah! I remember there was one attempted here.

_Festus._ Indeed!

_Stella._ Yes; but the gentleman’s name was not Festus.

_Festus._ Shall we try the scene?

_Stella._ You must prompt me if I fail.

_Festus._ Fail! “In the bright lexicon of youth, there’s no such word as fail.”

_Stella._ Ah! but, in attempts at acting, there are many failures.

_Festus._ True; but yours will not be one of them.

_Stella._ (_Aside._) Another compliment! I begin to like the fellow.

_Festus._ Now, then, the scene! (_STELLA takes a bouquet from the table, sits on tête-à-tête, R._)

SCENE FROM “THE MARBLE HEART.”

(_Arranged for this piece._)

_Marco_, STELLA. _Raphael_, FESTUS.

_Raph._ I have endured the sarcasms of Monsieur de Veaudore,
the disavowal of your love, the reproaches and anger of my only
friend, who insulted me in my last adieu: for your sake, I have
become a coward, a crawling, abject wretch, without heart,
without mind, without shame. (_Throws himself into chair, L.,
and covers his face with his hands. A pause. MARCO pulls the
bouquet to pieces. RAPHAEL raises his head, looks at her, and
endeavors to speak with firmness._) What did that man say to
you? I have a right to ask.

_Marco._ (_Smiling in derision._) Right!

_Raph._ Yes, Marco, the right of a man, who, knowing he is to
die, would learn the time and manner of his death. He told you
he loved you?

_Marco._ (_Carelessly._) Perhaps he did: what then?

_Raph._ (_Violently._) You accepted his love?

_Marco._ I will not answer you.

_Raph._ But you must, you shall!

_Marco._ (_Disdainfully._) Shall!

_Raph._ He offered you his hand? (_A pause._) Speak, Marco,
speak: in mercy let me know the worst.

_Marco._ He did.

_Raph._ And you accepted?

_Marco._ (_Coldly._) Yes.

_Raph._ (_Greatly agitated._) O Marco, Marco! (_Violently,
rising._) You shall not marry him!

_Marco._ (_With contempt._) Who shall prevent me?

_Raph._ (_With a burst of fury._) The man you have wronged!
(_Suddenly losing all command over himself, and throwing
himself at her feet in an agony of grief._) No, no! Pity,
pity for the wretched maniac who cannot live without
you--humanity--remorse--

_Marco._ (_Taking away her hand, and rising, with contempt
and rage._) Remorse! I am weary of this persecution, these
clamors, these maledictions. You think me a monster of
falsehood, inconstant as the wind, perfidious as the ocean,
the incarnation of caprice, selfishness, and cruelty? And why?
Because I am too wise to rush headlong to ruin, and too proud
to be pitied.

_Raph._ Pitied, Marco!

_Marco._ Yes (_vehemently_), pitied, insulted, and despised.
Look at me now, surrounded with every luxury that art can
invent and gold can purchase. Everybody bows to me. I am a
queen. Divest me of these gilded claims to the world’s respect,
and what am I? (_Bitterly._) The dust--the friends who now
follow my carriage, and fight for my smiles, will mock me,
spurn me, and trample upon me.

_Raph._ Marco, Marco! in mercy--

_Marco._ I have known poverty, and have suffered such tortures
in its hideous grasp that my heart sickens and my soul shudders
at facing it again. You will perhaps laugh at my fear, and say
there is happiness in poverty. (_Laughing in scorn._) Yes, for
those who are born to it; but to have known better days, and
fall! Oh the misery, the heart-desolation, the despair! My
father was rich and proud, the descendant of a noble family. He
lived in splendor, and brought me up to despise every thing but
wealth. He showed me its power: it surrounded him with friends
and flatterers, and made life a perpetual summer. An evil day
arrived: he speculated, and was reduced to his last crown.
Where were his friends? (_Laughing in scorn, and speaking
in a hoarse voice._) They passed him in the street without
recognition, they maligned, they despised, they forgot him.
(_Sinks into a chair, sobbing, and wiping her eyes._)

_Raph._ Forbear, Marco, forbear!

_Marco._ Ten years (oh, how long the days and months!) we lived
in poverty,--abject, squalid, starving poverty. I saw my father
in the prime of his life grow old, decrepit, and insane. In his
ravings he had but one thought, “Money, money, money!” “Cling
to it, my child,” he would say to me with glaring eyes and
grinding teeth,--“cling to it, Marco, as you would to a raft
in shipwreck: it is the all in all of our existence. See what
the loss of it has brought to me. Let your heart be marble to
_every thing_ but gold, gold, gold!”

_Raph._ O misery!

_Marco._ My father died, and I was left dependent on the
charity of my relations. (_With savage scorn._) Charity! I wore
their cast clothes, waited on their will,--their servant, their
encumbrance, their hopeless slave. One happy day, Providence
came to my relief: I was left a small fortune. (_Rising._)
From that moment I became a statue. The recollection of my
days of misery extinguished the glowing impulses of my youth;
and I lived on the surface of the world, mixing in all its gay
pleasures, caressed and _fêted_, the idol of the hour, hating
and despising the smiling monster, and devising means to secure
my independence. A wealthy marriage was the only course; and
for that I have devoted myself, heart and mind; for that I
have been cruel, false, and pitiless; for that I am deaf to
reproaches, dead to remorse. (_Sits._)

_Raph._ (_In amazement._) I hear you, Marco, and disbelieve
my ears: I see you, and doubt my eyes. Those fearful words,
those evil looks,--is it possible such hideousness can dwell
in such a heavenly shrine? (_Growing gradually frantic._) But
I am glad, very glad, you have at last been candid with me: it
relieves me from a world of sorrow, it rescues me from despair.
Yet I hoped you had some regard for me, some little regret
for--Ah, well! it was my accursed vanity. How could I ever
hope to?-- (_Laughing hysterically, and speaking in a hoarse
whisper._) I, too, am a deception: I have pretended to devote
to you my heart, my life, my soul--no such thing! I, too, wore
a mask--ha, ha, ha! When my eyes looked fondest, my heart was
plotting treachery; when I swore you were my happiness, I felt
you were my curse; when I vowed I could not live without you,
I was devising means to break with you--ha, ha, ha! We owe
each other nothing; we are both demons: but the comedy is over
now, and the actors have returned to their every-day costumes
and natures. I wish to be a gentleman, like Monsieur Veaudore.
Mademoiselle Marco, I ask pardon for having annoyed you so
long. I leave you to your pleasures. (_He endeavors to kiss her
hand; but she recoils, alarmed by the wildness of his tone and
looks._) What do you fear? (_With a burst of maniac laughter._)
There is no venom on my lips: it is in my heart! (_Kisses her
hand._)

_Marco._ (_Alarmed, trying to pacify him._) Come, come,
Raphael, let us be friends.

_Raph._ (_With a vacant stare._) Friends!--oh, yes! delighted!
(_Bowing with cold politeness, in the manner of his first
introduction._) Mademoiselle Marco, I believe--beautiful, very
beautiful, but (_shaking his head mournfully_) false, false,
fatally false. (_Sighing, and putting his hand to his head._)
Ah, yes! and now we are friends (_shaking both her hands, and
looking at her earnestly_),--yes, yes, real friends; for we no
longer love, no longer deceive each other.

_Marco._ Raphael!

_Raph._ We thought we were happy. (_Laughing._) Vain delusion!
we were breaking our hearts. (_With a sudden alteration of tone
and countenance conveying that the recollection of his home
had suddenly come to his mind._) Yes, yes (_with a tremulous
voice_), breaking our hearts; but we were not the only
sufferers. No, no: there were other hearts breaking, others
(_in an agony of suppressed grief_) I had forgotten. But my
absence is desired, and some older friends claim my politeness.
Adieu! (_Going._)

_Marco._ You will call and see me sometimes in Paris?

_Raph._ (_Gayly bowing with affected politeness._) You are very
kind; but I fear I shall not often be able to profit by your
politeness, for my work--you understand--it is necessary that
I should repair the time I have lost; and besides, when I and
the persons who reside with me have recovered our happiness,
it would be indiscreet to revive recollections that might
jeopardize it.

_Marco._ (_Coldly._) Well, then, at least you’ll try? (_Sits on
sofa._)

_Raph._ (_Suffocating with suppressed emotion._) Yes, yes:
I will try. (_Puts his hand hastily to his heart with an
exclamation of acute pain._)

_Marco._ (_Alarmed._) Raphael!

_Raph._ (_After a violent effort to calm himself._) ’Tis
nothing, ’tis nothing! (_Staggering to go off, L._)

_Marco._ Are you going to Paris?

_Raph._ Yes, yes, oh, yes! Don’t you know--they are waiting for
me.

_Marco._ Take my carriage.

_Raph._ (_With scorn._) No, no (_with a maniac smile_): I shall
walk, walk. (_Bitterly._) Poverty should walk: the weather
is superb (_endeavoring to be gay_)--and (_his forces nearly
abandoning him_)--my heart--is so light--I--I (_staggering to
table, and taking his hat_)--Adieu, Mademoiselle Marco, adieu
(_faintly_)--adieu, adieu! (_Staggers off, L._)

_Marco._ (_Rising from sofa, and looking after him with deep
emotion._) O Raphael, Raphael! my heart is not quite marble;
no, no, not quite! (_Falls back on sofa, covers her face with
her handkerchief, and weeps._)

_Re-enter RAPHAEL._

_Marco._ (_With a smile, holding out her hand._) Thank you for
returning; thank you for not taking my follies in earnest: this
goodness endears you to me more than ever. (_RAPHAEL stands
fixed, looking at her with a cold, immovable countenance._)
You love me still? (_Trying to draw him to her._) Yes, yes: I
see you do; and you will pardon me! (_She is about to put her
arm round his neck: he looks sternly at her, and repels her by
extending his arms with an action of disdain._) Oh! do not look
at me thus: you frighten me--

_Raph._ (_With terrible calmness._) Give me my portrait.
(_Pointing to it on her neck._)

_Marco._ Nay, I am sure--

_Raph._ (_Sternly._) Give it me! (_MARCO gives it him._) Don’t
be alarmed, it is only the painting I reclaim. (_Taking it from
the frame._) I leave you the diamonds. (_Gives back the frame
and chain._)

_Marco._ Raphael!

_Raph._ Marco, shall I tell you why for a moment you have love
on your lips and in your eyes? ’Tis because you have learned
that in recalling me you could break another heart: the feeling
which guided you was not the happiness of Raphael, but the
despair of Marie. (_MARCO starts._) Now, adieu. But first give
me your wreath.

_Marco._ My wreath?

_Raph._ (_Approaching._) I would have it.

_Marco._ (_Recoiling alarmed._) Are you mad?

_Raph._ (_Wildly._) Take it off, take it off! White roses are
the symbols of purity; they make _you_ hideous: they are only
for the brows of innocence and truth. (_Tears the crown from
her head, and dashes it on the ground._)

END OF PART I.