Part 1
ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE.
THE AMATEUR DRAMA.
LITTLE BROWN JUG
BOSTON: GEO. M. BAKER & CO. 149 Washington Street.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873 by GEORGE M. BAKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
LITTLE BROWN JUG
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“Sylvia’s Soldier;” “Once on a Time;” “Down by the Sea;” “Bread on the Waters;” “The Last Loaf;” “Stand by the Flag;” “The Tempter;” “A Drop Too Much;” “We’re All Teetotallers;” “A Little More Cider;” “Thirty Minutes for Refreshments;” “Wanted, a Male Cook;” “A Sea of Troubles;” “Freedom of the Press;” “A Close Shave;” “The Great Elixir;” “The Man with the Demijohn;” “New Brooms Sweep Clean;” “Humors of the Strike;” “My Uncle the Captain;” “The Greatest Plague in Life;” “No Cure, No Pay;” “The Grecian Bend;” “The War of the Roses;” “Lightheart’s Pilgrimage;” “The Sculptor’s Triumph;” “Too Late for the Train;” “Snow-Bound;” “The Peddler of Very Nice;” “Bonbons;” “Capuletta;” “An Original Idea;” &c.
BOSTON: GEO. M. BAKER & CO. 149 WASHINGTON STREET.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, BY GEORGE M. BAKER, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry, 19 Spring Lane.
THE LITTLE BROWN JUG
A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.
CHARACTERS.
JOHN NUTTER, a Shoemaker. WILL NUTTER, his Son. NED HARTSHORN, his Apprentice. HENRY DOUGLAS, a Spendthrift. JARIUS JORDAN, a Yankee Speculator. HANNAH NUTTER, John’s Wife. MARY NUTTER, John’s Daughter. SALLY PEESLEE, Yankee Help.
COSTUMES.
JOHN. Act 1, Bald, gray wig, gray side whiskers, dark pants, colored shirt, sleeves rolled up, leather apron. Act 2, Drab clothes, calico dressing gown. Act 3, same as Act 2.
WILL. Act 1, Dark pants, colored shirt, sleeves rolled up, leather apron, short coat to put on. Act 2, Rusty velvet coat, flaming necktie, dark pants and vest, gold chain, jockey cap, all soiled and worn. Act 3, Neat and tasty dress.
NED. Act 1, About the same as Will’s. Act 2, Dark pants, white shirt, with black tie, dressing-gown. Act 3, Neat business suit.
DOUGLAS. Fashionable dress for each act. Liberal display of jewelry. Kids, hat, and cane.
JARIUS. Act 1, Rusty dark pants, very short, swallow-tailed blue coat, long red hair, shocking bad hat, unblacked boots. Act 2 and 3, Good business suits and hats, neatly arranged hair, polished boots, dress not dandified, but neat and substantial.
HANNAH. Act 1 and 2, Plain calico dresses. Act 3, white dress.
MARY. Act 1, Red or brown dress, white collar, neat apron, sleeves rolled up. Act 2, Figured muslin. Act 3, White.
SALLY. Act 1, Calico dress, white collar and cuffs, bonnet or hat. Acts 2 and 3, Neat calico or muslin.
ACT 1.
_SCENE.--NUTTER’S Shop. Door, C., open, L. of door, against flat, shoemaker’s bench, on which sits NUTTER, at work. Bench, R., on which NED HARTSHORN is at work. Bench, L., on which WILL NUTTER is at work. JARIUS JORDAN seated on a block, R. C., with his hat on, whittling, with a stick and large jack-knife._
_John._ Wal, neow, Jarius, depend upon it, there’s nothin’ like a stiddy, in-door-work life to give a man position in the world. Yeou city fellers may do all the schemin’ yeou like; but when the time comes for action, it’s the farmers and the shoemakers that find the bone and sinew to keep the world a joggin’, whether in provisions or politics. You peddle, and we provide; you scheme, and we vote. My grandsir was a shoemaker, so was my daddy, so am I, and I mean that my boy Will, there, shall foller in the footsteps of his father. P’raps ’tain’t what you might call a high calling; but boots and shoes, taps and patches, are always wanted, and will be jest as long as gineration succeeds gineration; and when you’ve got a trade like mine, p’raps you can’t hoard up much money, but you’ve got a sure hold on the staff of life.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so, John, jes’ so; that’s mighty good argifying, if a feller critter hain’t got no soul above peggin’ souls. But that air Will of yourn has got the city fever the wust kind. He’s hankering for a chance to try his fortune among the money-catchers. Consarn it, give the boy a chance. There’s no hay-seed in his hair.
_Will._ That’s right, Jarius; peg away. I never shall take kindly to this work. Hammer and sew, patch and peg. Bah! I’m tired of it! It’s so awful slow! I want to see the world, rub elbows with bustling fellows, set my wits at work, use my tongue, wrestle with sharp ones for the best end of a bargain. That’s life!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. You’re a lively young colt--you are. It’s a shame you can’t have a prance in the city.
_John._ Yes; you’re a pretty chap to set a lad’s head a whizzing--you are, Jarius Jordan. You’ve been everything by turn, and nothing long.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so, John, jes so. But I calkilate that with every turn I’ve give myself a h’ist in the world, anyhow. I’ve peddled tin ware, wooden ware, hardware, everywhere. I’ve swapped horses, traded in cattle, druv hogs, and raised poultry. I’ve invented cotton gins, reapers, and mowers, cider presses and match safes, travelled with pictures, poetry books, stationery, and Bibles. I’ve dug gold, mined copper, and bored ile; fit Ingins, Mexicans, and sesesh; kept school, led a choir, taught singing-school, been a deacon in regular standing. I’ve been a printer, a book-binder, a counter-jumper, and an insurance agent, and other things too numerous to mention. There’s three things I never took a hand in--swearin’, lyin’, and drinkin’. I’ve got a clean conscience and a bank-book full of figgers. I despise meanness, hate misers, and am down on rascality like all possessed. So, you see, John, with all my rolling, I’ve gathered _some_ moss, and am none the wuss for it.
_Will._ No, indeed. There’s not a better fellow living than Jarius Jordan.
_Jarius._ O, git eout! Don’t yeou go to tootin’ the horn.
_Ned._ It’s the truth. ’Twould have been a hard winter for widow Black, but for the kind care Jarius Jordan bestowed upon her.
_Jarius._ Sho! Don’t you tell tales out of school, young feller.
_Will._ Then there’s old Pearson. Who’d have kept him out of the poorhouse, when he broke his leg, if Jarius Jordan hadn’t stepped in, housed him all winter, and paid the doctor’s bill?
_Jarius._ O, go along! D’ye want to spile my complexion? Now, John, you just give Will a chance. You’ll never regret it.
_John._ I tell you, what’s good enough for the old man is good enough for the boy. I’ll never give my consent to his going into the city--never. I’m not going to send my boy into that sink of iniquity, to be overcome by temptation. So you jest shut up, Jarius. I’ve got an awful temper, and if you rile me, I won’t answer for the consequences.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. But, speaking of temptations--
_Enter HANNAH, L., with a small brown jug._
_Hannah._ Here, father, here’s your “’leven o’clock.”
_John._ (_Dropping his work, and taking the jug._) Ah, that’s good.
_Hannah._ Why, law sakes, Mr. Jerden![1] How do you do? The sight of you’s good for sore eyes.
[1] Hannah and Sally should follow this pronunciation.
_Jarius._ Thank you, marm. I’m pretty well, considerin’. Hope you’re hearty.
_Hannah._ Me? Sakes alive! I never had an ache or a pain in my life, and I’m goin’ on for sixty. There’s nothin’ like good, wholesome work to keep off sickness.
_Jarius._ Jes so, Mrs. Nutter.
“Rubbin’ and scrubbin’ Gives rust a drubbin’.”
_John._ (_After a long pull at the jug._) Ah, that’s good! The raal Holland, sweetened to taste, and rousing hot! Take a pull, Jarius?
_Jarius._ No, I thank ye.
_John._ (_Takes a drink._) Ah! Here, Will. (_Passes jug to WILL, who grasps it eagerly, and drinks._)
_Jarius._ Sho! _Yeou_ ain’t a going to drink that stuff!
_Will._ Stuff? Hullo!
_John._ Stuff? Hear the critter!
_Hannah._ Stuff, indeed! When I mixed it myself, and in the little brown jug, that’s been in the family years and years!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. The jug is a relic?
_Hannah._ Yes, indeed; and we wouldn’t part with it for the world. It’s been handed down from father to son ever since the first Nutter landed in America.
_John._ And used year in and year out. It’s seasoned with the good grog of five generations.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Seen some tight times, I reckon. Come, Ned, it’s your turn.
_Ned._ No, I thank you. I never drink.
_Will._ (_Drinks._) No? I stand his watch.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. So Ned don’t like it, hey?
_Ned._ Ned never tasted it, Mr. Jordan. My poor mother’s last request was that I should never touch it. Don’t you think a mother’s last request should be sacred?
_Jarius._ Don’t I? As sacred as the family Bible.
_Ned._ As sacred as the memory of the loved and lost. I had a good mother, Mr. Jordan.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. You show it.
_Hannah._ Yes, indeed; a poor, hard-working woman was Marcy Hartshorn: the best washer and ironer in the place; and such a cook! Her pies would make your mouth water. And turnovers! the young ones would cry for them. O, dear! such a pity she threw herself away on that drunken sot--Jim Hartshorn. Why, when he died--
_John._ Hush, mother, hush!
_Hannah._ Dear me! I forgot. But it always makes me mad when I think--(_sniffs_). Bless me! What’s that? (_Sniffs._) I smell something.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so--gin and sugar.
_Hannah._ It’s my pies a-burning, as sure as I live! And I here gossiping. O, dear! there’s a whole ovenful spoiled by my neglect! (_Exit, L._)
_John._ Don’t mind her, Ned. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. She’d do anything in the world for you.
_Ned._ I know she would. Heaven bless her! You see, Mr. Jordan, liquor has left a stain on my family name; and I’m not likely to be friendly with it.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Stick to the last request, young feller, and you’ll wipe it out. And if ever you want a friend, don’t forget the undersigned, Jarius Jordan, for you’ll find him on hand, like a picked-up dinner.
_John._ There; that job’s done. Here, Will, drop that jug. It’s a leetle strong to-day. Put on your coat, and take these shoes to Mrs. Douglas.
_Will._ (_Rises while speaking, takes off apron, puts on coat and hat, sets the jug on the floor beside JOHN NUTTER’S bench._) That’s just the job for me. Hen Douglas sent me word he wanted to see me. So I can kill two birds with one stone. (_Takes shoes._) The Holland is a leetle strong, and no mistake. (_Exit, C._)
_Jarius._ See here, John Nutter, I’m a b’ilin’ and a b’ilin’, an’ if I don’t let off steam, there’ll be a case of spontaneous combustion in my in’ards. You’re a good deal older than I am; but we’ve been good friends ever since I was knee high to a woodchuck; so, hear me fust, and lick me arterwards, if you don’t like it. Here you’ve been a talking about the temptations of the city, and putting that inter your boy’s mouth that will work his etarnal destruction! Your little brown jug will be his evil genius. Mind what I say. He hankers arter it now; and you, here in the country, are tempting him, and making an appetite that’ll eat him up soul and body. And now he’s off to meet that air Douglas, who always has a bottle at his elbow. He’s a dangerous chap.
_John._ Much you know about it. He’s Will’s friend. He’s taken a shine to him, and, if I’d say the word, would give him a great lift in the city. He’s a well-meaning chap, that Douglas. He’s got a rich father, and need not work. He’s well edicated, and has got good manners. Will’s all the better for being in company with such a man. As for the little brown jug, don’t abuse that. It never did me any harm, and I was as young as Will when I took my first pull at it. So, don’t you meddle, Jarius. When I find things going wrong in my family, I’ll take ’em in hand myself.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Look here, John. I’ve taken a fancy to that boy myself. Give me his time, and I’ll put in your hand, to-day, five hundred dollars, and guarantee you a thousand more, if I don’t make a man of him when he’s twenty-one.
_John._ (_Rising._) You can’t have him. I’ve just had enough of your meddling. If I wanted him to go, I’d make terms with Mr. Douglas, and not you. He shall never go with my leave; and he knows that if he goes without, he never returns here. You’re pretty flush with your money, Jarius, but you haven’t enough to buy that boy’s time, nor logic enough, sharp as you think yourself, to turn my purpose. (_Exit, L._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Stubborn as a mule. Douglas will get that boy in spite of thunder. I do hate to see that young feller go to the dogs; as he’s sure to do if something don’t hinder. He’s jest the chap to go into Stinson’s good graces, and gain a complete knowledge of agricultural implements in his concern, and jest the lad to keep a sharp eye on my interest in the patent reaper. I do hate to get eucred; but old Nutter’s a hard lot when he gets his back up.
_Enter SALLY, C._
_Sally._ Goodness gracious! If I’ve been here once, I’ve been here twenty times for Mrs. Douglas’s shoes, and she ravin’ distracted about ’em! Such a dawdlin’ set as you shoemakers are!--Sakes, Mr. Jerden, heow dew yeou dew? I didn’t see yeou before.
_Jarius._ (_On her entrance puts up his knife, takes off his hat, and tries to smooth his hair, and appears very sheepish and awkward while she remains._) Jes’ so, Miss Higgins; business first, and pleasure arterwards.
_Ned._ Don’t fret about the shoes, Sally. Will has just taken them to the house.
_Sally._ Well, thank goodness, that’s settled.
_Jarius._ Heow’s yeour marm, Miss Peeslee?
_Sally._ Rather peaked, Mr. Jerden; and jest when I ought to be at home, I’m kept at the big house and worked like a dog. Such a set of cross-grained folks you never did see. Old Mr. Douglas as proud and stiff as a grannydear, Mrs. Douglas frettin’ and worryin’ the livelong day about nothin’, and that good-for-nothin’ Hen of theirs a carryin’ on all sorts of didos. He and the old gentleman had an awful quarrel this mornin’. Somehow Mr. Douglas got it into his head that Hen was sparking Mary Nutter in airnest. Don’t believe such a notion ever entered the feller’s head afore. He’s only flirtin’ with her, same as he has with twenty other girls; but, to spite the old man, he swore--O, awful!--he’d marry her, if he was turned out of doors for it.
_Ned._ He marry our Mary!
_Sally._ Why not? He’s none too good for her.
_Ned._ She’s too good for him.
_Sally._ Why, Ned, you ain’t sweet on her--are you?
_Ned._ Me? I should not dare. But he’s a worthless spendthrift, thinks only of his own pleasure, regardless of others’ feelings, selfish, dissipated, cunning, and crafty. He marry Mary! Heaven forbid!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. He cuts a mighty big swell on an awful small capital.
_Sally._ He’s good looking, and that goes a long way with girls. I don’t think Mary would break her heart if she knew she was to be his wife.
_Ned._ No; but, once in his possession, he would break it. Many whispers of his wild life in the city have been blown to our ears.
_Sally._ He’s a communion merchant--ain’t he?
_Ned._ A commission merchant, Sally.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. I’ve heard of him. He’s got a shingle, a desk, and a chair. The shingle hangs at the door; he sits in the chair and watches his legs on the desk, through tobacco smoke; and that’s the extent of his business.
_Sally._ He wants to take Will Nutter off there, to learn the business.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. And, with the edication he’s receiving here, he’ll make a capital assistant in the smoking department.
_Sally._ Land sakes! I can’t stop here spinning shop yarn. Good by. Nothing new--is there? I haven’t been out of the house for a week.
_Jarius._ Nothing special, Miss Peeslee. Harris has lost the suit and the cow.
_Sally._ I want to know!
_Jarius._ Mrs. Prime as buried her husband last week; has gone to Jarsey to modify her grief.
_Sally._ Poor Mrs. Prime! How I pity her!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. She lost a prime husband, that’s a fact. He was the best feller on a fishing frolic you ever see. Parson Lucas has resigned, and they do say the parish is resigned to his resigning, too. They’ve got a new bell-rope onto the second parish. Mrs. Jones’s expectations has turned out a bouncing boy--
_Sally._ What! another?
_Jarius._ That’s what they say. Molly Moses had a candy scrape last night, and Si Jones went home with his hair full. Bunsen has got a new lot of calicoes--prime ones, fast colors. And Joe Britton has killed his hog. But there’s no news.
_Sally._ No weddin’, no nothin’? I don’t hear anythin’ about your marriage, Mr. Jerden.
_Jarius._ Don’t you? Well, that’s queer. I ben about it every time I come home. But it’s all talk and no cider. No, Miss Peeslee, I’m an unplucked apple on the tree of life. But, to return the compliment, I don’t hear nothin’ ’bout your gittin’ spliced.
_Sally._ Me? I guess not. It’s time enough to think about that when mother is able to take care of herself. I won’t say I haven’t had a chance, Mr. Jerden; but my first duty is to her; and I mean to work my fingers to the bone, if need be, that the old home may shelter her as long as she lives.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. So you gave Si Slocum the mitten?
_Sally._ Yes, I did,--the worthless scamp!
_Jarius._ Then Deacon Sassafras wanted you to take the place of his late departed--didn’t he?
_Sally._ He wanted a drudge, the mean old skinflint!
_Jarius._ Why, he’s rich--the deacon is.
_Sally._ But awful mean. I don’t see how they trust him up behind the singing-seats with the contribution box Sundays. I wouldn’t.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Josh Higgins was kinder smitten one time--hey, Miss Peeslee.
_Sally._ Well, p’raps he was, and p’raps he wasn’t. He was too much smitten with whiskey for me.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Well, Sally--Miss Peeslee--you’re a smart gal; and if I want so pesky busy with my new reaper--I’d--I’d--
_Sally._ Well, what would you do, Mr. Jerden?
_Jarius._ I’d jest look round and pick out a smart husband for you.
_Sally._ You needn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Jerden. I can pick for myself when I git ready. Better be lookin’ out for yourself. You do want slicking up, and a wife would soon reduce that crop of hair to its proper dimensions, mend that hole in your elbow, iron out that ruffled, seedy-looking hat, and find a blacking-brush for those rusty boots. If I wasn’t so busy, Jarius--Mr. Jerden--I’d look round and find you a wife, for you do need one awfully. (_Exit, C._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Neow there’s a gal I’ve been hankerin’ arter for five years, and never so much as dared ask her to lecter or singin’-school. Consarn it, Jarius, you’re a mealy-mouthed critter among the gals, smart as you are at tradin’ and swappin’. It’s no sorter use; the minute that gal comes a-near me, there’s a sinkin’ at my stomach that no end of vittles can’t fill up. Smart? Why, she beats all nater; and I kinder think she likes me, and gin those chaps the go-by on my account. Come, come, Jarius, spunk up! Don’t be a fool! Say the word, and she’s yourn for better or for wus. I’ll put arter her, and spit it out to once. (_Goes to door, C._)
_Enter SALLY, C._
_Sally._ Here, Ned; I forgot to pay for the boots. (_Gives money._)
_Ned._ One dollar. All right. Thank you, Sally.
_Sally._ Was you going my way, Mr. Jerden?
_Jarius._ Yes--no--no. I was going to see Joe Bristles’ hog.
_Sally._ O, yes. “Birds of a feather,” you know. (_Exit, C. to R._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Consarn it, Jarius, you are a hog, and no mistake. (_Exit, C. to L._)
_Ned._ Hen Douglas marry Mary Nutter! O, Heaven forbid! What a dear good girl she is! The sound of her voice, as she merrily sings at her work, sets my hammer flying glibly, and my heart beating quickly, too. ’Twill be called a good match, for he has money, and she is the most capable girl in the place. She would grace the handsomest house that his money could furnish. But could he make her happy? He, with his foppish airs, his love of display, delight in reckless dissipation! No, no. He would tire of her in a week, and then, with some new fancy luring him, turn coldly from her, perhaps abuse her, and break her heart. Break her heart! O, Mary, Mary! For the first time in my life I long for wealth, for then I should have the power to enter the field, and, if I could not win you for myself, at least save you from a heartless man.
_Mary._ (_Outside, L., sings._)
“Come, arouse thee, arouse thee, My merry Swiss maid; Take thy _pail_, and to labor away.”
_Enter, L., with pail._
Ah, Ned, all alone, and still at work? The old adage will never do for you--“When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
_Ned._ No, indeed, Mary. I like work too well to slight it when the master’s eye is not upon me. It’s such a jolly companion! With every peg I drive away poverty; with every punch of my awl I see success; with every pull of the threads I gain a long pull and a strong pull up the ladder of life. O, work is a man’s best friend, and when he turns his back upon that, he richly deserves what he is sure to get--a gloomy life and a nameless grave.
_Mary._ Well done, Ned!
“With bench for horse, and awl for lance, Through stubborn leather you gayly prance; Shouting your war-cry, with cheery ring, ‘Make way, make way for the shoemaker king!’”
_Ned._ Mary, Mary, don’t laugh at me!
_Mary._ Laugh at you? No, indeed; not I. You were philosophical, so I, to keep you company, became poetical. But you’re right, Ned, as you always are. Work has been your best friend, for it has enabled all of us to find in you its best companion--merit.
_Ned._ Ah! thank you, Mary. If you only knew how proud I feel to hear you praise me!
_Mary._ If I did? Why, then, I suppose I should feel it my duty to be silent. So don’t let me know it. Good by.
_Ned._ Where are you going?
_Mary._ To the well for water.
_Ned._ No; I’ll go for you. (_Jumping up._) Give me the pail.
_Mary._ Thank you. (_Gives pail. NED goes to door._) I say, Ned, ain’t you afraid to leave your awl behind?
_Ned._ (_At door._) Mary, you’re laughing at me.--(_Aside._) She little knows I leave my _all_--my heart--behind. (_Exit, L._)
_Mary._ (_Sits on bench._) Dear fellow! What a shame his father turned out so bad! And no mother to care for him! (_Takes up lapstone and strap._) I wonder what kind of a shoemaker I should make! (_Takes awl._) Dear me, I’ve pricked my finger! Where’s the hammer? O, here it is. I don’t believe it’s very hard work to mend a shoe. As he is doing my work, I should be doing his. I wonder where he left off!
_Enter DOUGLAS, C._
_Douglas._ Beautiful, beautiful!
“She had a hammer in her hand, The day when first we met.”
_Mary._ (_Jumping up._) Mr. Douglas!
_Douglas._ Ah, Mary, I’ve caught you cobbling.
_Mary._ No, you haven’t, for I hadn’t commenced.
_Douglas._ So, so, the pretty Mary has turned cobbler!
_Mary._ The pretty Mary has done nothing of the kind. She was only amusing herself while waiting--
_Douglas._ For me--her adorer, who languishes in her absence, and whose heart beats with rapture at sight of her beautiful face.
_Mary._ Don’t, Henry, be so sentimental. You know I don’t like it. Why not say, plain and plump, “I’m glad to see you!” instead of all that palaver about languish and heart-beats? You know I don’t like it.
_Douglas._ O, you don’t? Then hereafter this rapturous--
_Mary._ Henry!
_Douglas._ Mary, I’ve done. But what in the world were you doing on that dirty bench?
_Mary._ Well, I never! Dirty, indeed! Sit down there at once!
_Douglas._ What! I? You’re joking.
_Mary._ Very well, if you don’t choose to obey me, I’m off to my work. (_Going, L._)
_Douglas._ O, very well, if you mean it. (_Sits on bench._)
_Mary._ Now, Henry, I’ve made a vow that I will never marry a man who cannot mend a shoe. I’ve just made it. And if you have any expectation of making me your wife, the sooner you learn the trade the better.