SCENE III. (_Two men in conversation as they come upon the stage._)

_B._ Billiards? No, I never play billiards.

_A._ Why not?

_B._ I don’t like its tendency.

_A._ It is only a healthy pastime. I am sure it has no evil tendency.

_B._ I cannot assert that the game in its most innocent form is, of itself, an evil, to be sure. But, although it has the advantage of calling forth skill and judgment, yet it is evil when it excites and stimulates beyond the bounds of healthy recreation.

_A._ That result can scarcely follow such a game.

_B._ You are wrong there. The result can follow in two ways. First, it can lead men away from their business. Secondly, it leads those to spend money who have none to spend. Look at that young man just passing. He looks like a mechanic; and I should judge from his appearance that he has a family. I see by his face that he is kind and generous, and wants to do as near right as he can. I have watched him in the billiard saloon time after time, and only last night I saw him pay one dollar and forty cents for two hours’ recreation. He did it cheerfully, too, and smiled at his loss. But how do you suppose it is at home? Suppose his wife had asked him for a dollar or two for some household ornament, or his child, if he has one, for a picture-book or toy, what do you suppose he would have answered? This is not conjecture; for you and I both know plenty of such cases.

_A._ Upon my word, B., you speak to the point; for I know that young man, and what you have said is true. I can furnish you with facts. We have a club for a literary paper in our village, and last year he was one of the subscribers. This year he was obliged to discontinue. His wife was very anxious to take it; but he said he could not afford the $1.25 for it. And his little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed her father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain. My Nellie told me that.

_B._ Yes; and that two hours’ recreation last night, would have paid for both. It is well for wives and children that they do not know where all the money goes.

THE SALUTATORIAN’S DIFFICULTIES.

CHARACTERS.

FRANK CLAYTON. HARRY THOMPSON. TOMMY WATKINS. SAMMY LONG. JOHNNY WILSON. WILLIE BROWN.

SCENE.—_A stage. Curtain rises, and FRANK CLAYTON comes forward and speaks._

_Frank._ Ladies and gentlemen: Our performances are now about to commence. We have spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You well know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to give our recitations correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—and we ask you to—and—and—and we ask that—that—

(_Enter HARRY THOMPSON. He comes in front of FRANK and commences to speak._)

“Did you ever hear of Jehosophat Boggs, A dealer and raiser of all sorts of dogs? No? Then I’ll endeavor in doggerel verse To just the main points of the story rehearse. Boggs had a good wife—”

_Frank._ (_Speaking in a loud whisper._) Harry, what did you come out here for? I’m not through with the introductory speech yet.

_Harry._ (_Turns half way round, puts his hand to his mouth, as if to keep the audience from hearing, and speaks in a loud whisper._) I know you weren’t through, but you stuck, and I thought I had better come on. You know my recitation is second on the programme, and I didn’t want to have a bungle right at the commencement of the exhibition.

_Frank._ Go back to your place, you little rascal, and don’t interrupt me again. I’m going to speak my piece.

_Harry._ (_With his hand up to hide his mouth as before._) Oh, you’re stuck and you’d better retire. (_Turns to audience and continues to speak his piece._)

“Boggs had a good wife, the joy of his life, There was nothing between them inclining to strife. Except her dear J.’s dogmatic employment; And that, she averred, did mar her enjoyment.”

_Frank._ (_Whispering as before._) I say, Harry, get from before me and let me speak my piece.

_Harry._ (_Turns, puts up his hand, and whispers as before._) Oh, you keep shady until I get through. (_Turns to audience and speaks._)

“She often had begged him to sell off his dogs, And instead to raise turkeys, spring chickens or hogs. She made him half promise at no distant day He would sell the whole lot, not excepting old Tray; And as good luck would have it,—”

_Frank._ (_Turning Harry by the collar and pulling him back._) I tell you to get out of this until I have spoken my piece.

_Harry._ I won’t. Let me alone, I say. You have stuck fast, and do you want to spoil the exhibition? Didn’t you know enough to keep off the stage until I had spoken my piece?

_Frank._ (_Still holding him by the collar._) It is you that are spoiling the exhibition. (_Leads him off the stage._)

_Harry._ (_Speaking loudly as he goes out._) I call this an outrage.

_Frank._ (_Returning to his place and commencing to speak._) Ladies and gentlemen, my speech has been interrupted, and I will commence again. Our performances are now about to commence. We have spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to give our recitations correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—to—and we ask you to—and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—and we ask you to—(_In a lower tone._) I’ve forgotten it again; isn’t that too bad? (_Speaking as before._) And we ask you to—to—to—

(_Enter TOMMY WATKINS. He comes in front of FRANK, and commences to speak “The Ghost.”_)

“’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, A short, round, favored merry Old soldier of the Revolutionary War, Was wedded to a most abominable shrew. The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine Could no more be compared with hers Than mine With Lucifer’s.”

_Frank._ (_In a loud whisper._) Tommy Watkins, get from before me. Don’t you see I’m speaking? I don’t want to be interrupted—I want to finish my speech.

_Tommy._ (_Facing the audience and speaking in the same tone as when reciting his speech._) Oh, you’d better quit! You’ve stuck twice now, and if you don’t go off the stage the audience will become disgusted.

_Sammy Long._ (_Seated in the audience._) The people are disgusted now with that boy’s opening speech. He’d better go home, memorize it, and speak it some time next year.

_Tommy._ There! You hear what they say out there in the audience. They are disgusted, and they think you had better leave the stage.

_Frank._ Oh, that’s nobody but Sammy Long, and he is displeased because we didn’t invite him to take part in the exhibition.

_Tommy._ Well, I’ll go ahead and speak my piece while you are trying to think up the words you have forgotten.

Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh Face, like a cranberry marsh, All spread with spots of white and red; Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. The appellation of this lovely dame Was Nancy; don’t forget the name.

_Frank._ Stop, Tommy; I can finish my speech now.

_Tommy._ So can I. (_Continues his recitation._)

His brother David was a tall, Good-looking chap, and that was all, One of your great big nothings, as they say Out in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes, And cracking them on other folks. Well, David undertook one night to play The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, He knew, Would be returning from a journey through A grove of forest wood That stood Below The house some distance—half a mile or so.

With a long taper Cap of white paper, Just made to cover A wig, nearly as large over As a corn-basket, and a sheet With both ends made to meet Across his breast (The way in which ghosts are always dressed), He took His station near A huge oak-tree, Whence he could overlook The road and see Whatever might appear.

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel Had left the table Of an inn, where he had made a halt, With horse and wagon, To taste a flagon Of malt Liquor, and so forth, which, being done, He went on, Caring no more for twenty ghosts Than if they had been so many posts.

David was nearly tired of waiting; His patience was abating; At length, he heard the careless tones Of his kinsman’s voice, And then the noise Of wagon-wheels among the stones. Abel was quite elated, and was roaring With all his might, and pouring Out, in great confusion, Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”

His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton; And jovially he went on. Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees With rhymes like these:

(_Sings. Air, “Yankee Doodle.”_)

“See the Yankees Leave the hill, With baggernetts declining, With lopped-down hats And rusty guns, And leather aprons shining.”

“‘See the Yankees’—Whoa! Why, what is that?” Said Abel, staring like a cat, As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode Into the middle of the road.

“My conscience! what a suit of clothes! Some crazy fellow, I suppose. Hallo! friend, what’s your name? by the powers of gin, That’s a strange dress to travel in.” “Be silent, Abel; for I now have come To read your doom; Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. I am a spirit—” “I suppose you are; But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why: Here is a fact which you cannot deny;— All spirits must be either good Or bad—that’s understood— And be you good or evil, I am sure That I’m secure. If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil— And I don’t know but you may be the devil— If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy, That I am married to your sister Nancy!”

(_Bows and turns to go off. To FRANK._) Now, Frank, you can go ahead again until you come to the sticking place. I hope that, during the time I have generously given you by speaking my piece, you have been collecting your scattered senses, and will now be able to finish what you began. (_Exit TOMMY._)

_Frank._ Ladies and gentlemen, I am not at all pleased with this way of doing business. I think these boys have not treated me with proper respect. I was selected to give the opening or introductory address, and you see how it has been done.

_Sammy._ (_In the audience._) We didn’t see very much of it. Don’t you think it would be well enough for you to retire and memorize your speech?

_Frank._ You boys out there had better keep silent and not create a disturbance. There is an officer in the house.

(_Enter WILLIE BROWN. He comes before FRANK and commences to speak._)

“’Twas night! The stars were shrouded in a veil of mist; a clouded canopy o’erhung the world; the vivid lightnings flashed and shook their fiery darts upon the earth—”

_Frank._ (_Speaking out._) I say, Willie Brown, what did you come here for? I haven’t finished the opening speech yet.

_Willie._ What’s the use of having an opening speech now? The exhibition is half over. (_Continues his speech._)

“The deep-toned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky; the elements were in wild commotion; the storm-spirit howled in the air; the winds whistled; the hail-stones fell like leaden balls; the huge undulations of the ocean dashed upon the rock-bound shore; and torrents leaped from mountain tops; when the murderer sprang from his sleepless couch with vengeance on his brow—murder in his heart—and the fell instrument of destruction in his hand.”

_Frank._ Stop, I say. What kind of an exhibition will this be without an introductory speech? Stop, I say. We will be the laughing-stock of the country if we don’t open our exhibition with an introductory speech.

_Johnny._ (_In the audience._) Oh, nobody cares for the introductory speech. Let the speech go and give us some dialogues and songs.

_Willie._ No dialogues and songs until I have finished my speech. This is my place on the programme. (_Continues his speech. FRANK comes and stands near him and they both speak at the same time, WILLIE giving the concluding portion of his speech and FRANK commencing at the first of his Opening Speech and going as far as he had gone before. WILLIE should finish just before FRANK commences to stammer._)

“The storm increased; the lightnings flashed with brighter glare; the thunder growled with deeper energy; the winds whistled with a wilder fury; the confusion of the hour was congenial to his soul, and the stormy passions which raged in his bosom. He clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp. A demoniac smile gathered on his lip; he grated his teeth; raised his arm; sprang with a yell of triumph upon his victim, and relentlessly killed—a _mosquito_!” (_Bows and turns to go off. To FRANK._) Stuck again, my boy? If we had waited for the opening speech we would not have got our exhibition opened for a week or ten days.

(_Exit WILLIE._)

_Johnny._ (_In the audience._) Well, we haven’t had that introductory speech yet, and I guess we are not going to get it. That was the queerest kind of speech I ever heard. It began, and then balked, and then kicked up, and then braced its feet in front, and finally stopped altogether. I think we would have done better if we had started without any introduction, just as grandpa said the other day he thought Parson Goodwin ought to have begun his sermon at the conclusion and left out all that went before it.

_Frank._ (_Excitedly._) Hold on there! You say we don’t need any speech and yet you are making a long one yourself. You said that I hitched like a balky horse, but you have kicked up your heels and cantered off as if somebody had touched off a pack of fire-crackers under you.

(_Enter HARRY THOMPSON. He comes forward and speaks._)

Our parts are performed and our speeches are ended, We are monarchs and courtiers and heroes no more; To a much humbler station again we’ve descended, And are now but the school-boys you’ve known us before.

Farewell then our greatness—’tis gone like a dream, ’Tis gone—but remembrance will often retrace The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme, And the heart-cheering smiles that enlivened each face.

We thank you! Our gratitude words cannot tell, But deeply we feel it—to you it belongs; With heartfelt emotion we bid you farewell, And our feelings now thank you much more than our tongues.

We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us, That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks; And we hope to convince you, the next time you hear us, That praise has but sharpened our relish for books.

(_Bows and turns to go off._) I have spoken the valedictory, and the exhibition is over. Ring down the curtain.

_Frank._ (_Excitedly._) Stop! Hold! Don’t! I haven’t finished my speech yet.

_Johnny._ (_In the audience._) You’ve given us enough for the present. You can finish it out next Christmas.

_Harry._ Ring down the curtain.

_Frank._ Stop! Don’t! Don’t! I want to speak my piece. (_A bell is rung and the curtain falls._)

_Frank._ (_Drawing the curtain aside and looking out._) Here’s a go! How are we going to get along without an Opening Speech? (_Disappears._)

[CURTAIN.]

PYGMALION AND GALATEA.

CHARACTERS.

PYGMALION, _an Athenian sculptor_. GALATEA, _a statue_.

COSTUMES.

_GENTLEMAN, in the habit of a Greek artist. LADY, in statuesque drapery or ordinary Greek costume._

(A noted Greek sculptor, Pygmalion, makes a most beautiful statue of woman. Having attained perfection of form he longs to breathe life into his work, and blames the gods that they have limited his power. He stands on the stage, to the left, looking thoughtfully up as if imploring the gods. While apparently uttering his complaints, Galatea, coming to life, calls to him from behind the curtain.)

_Galatea_ (_from behind curtain, C._[7]). Pygmalion!

_Pygmalion_ (_after a pause_). Who called?

_Gal._ Pygmalion!

(_PYGMALION tears away curtain and discovers GALATEA alive._)

_Pyg._ Ye gods! It lives!

_Gal._ Pygmalion.

_Pyg._ It speaks! I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes!

_Gal._ Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion; Give me thy hand—both hands—how soft and warm! Whence came I? (_Descends._)

_Pyg._ Why, from yonder pedestal.

_Gal._ That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect, There was a time when it was part of me.

_Pyg._ That time has passed forever, thou art now A living, breathing woman, excellent In every attribute of womankind.

_Gal._ Where am I, then?

_Pyg._ Why, born into the world By miracle.

_Gal._ Is this the world?

_Pyg._ It is.

_Gal._ This room?

_Pyg._ This room is a portion of a house; The house stands in a grove; the grove itself Is one of many, many hundred groves In Athens.

_Gal._ And is Athens, then, the world?

_Pyg._ To an Athenian—yes—

_Gal._ And I am one?

_Pyg._ By birth and parentage, not by descent.

_Gal._ But how came I to be?

_Pyg._ Well, let me see Oh! you were quarried in Pentelicus; I modelled you in clay; my artisans Then roughed you out in marble; I, in turn, Brought my artistic skill to bear on you, And made you what you are, in all but life. The gods completed what I had begun, And gave the only gift I could not give.

_Gal._ Then this is life?

_Pyg._ It is.

_Gal._ And not long since I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone, That was the first dull gleam of consciousness; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold immovable identity. I knew that I was stone, and knew no more; Then by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen, darkly and imperfectly, yet seen; The walls surrounded me, and I alone. That pedestal—that curtain—then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core. That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless—seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand; I felt my frame pervaded with a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved—I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of new born life; Lived in the love of him that fashioned me; Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope, Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves Into one word, that word, Pygmalion!

(_Kneels to him._)

_Pyg._ I have no words to tell thee of my joy, O woman—perfect in thy loveliness.

_Gal._ What is that word? Am I a woman?

_Pyg._ Yes.

_Gal._ Art thou a woman?

_Pyg._ No, I am a man!

_Gal._ What is a man?

_Pyg._ A being strongly framed, To wait on woman, and protect her from All ills that strength and courage can avert; To work and toil for her, that she may rest; To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh; To fight and die for her, that she may live!

_Gal._ (_after a pause_). I’m glad I am a woman.

(_Takes his hand—he leads her down, L._)

_Pyg._ So am I. (_They sit._)

_Gal._ That I escape the pains thou hast to bear?

_Pyg._ That I may undergo those pains for thee.

_Gal._ With whom wouldst thou fight?

_Pyg._ With any man Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain.

_Gal._ Then there are other men in this strange world?

_Pyg._ There are, indeed?

_Gal._ And other women?

_Pyg._ (_taken aback_). Yes; Though for the moment I’d forgotten it! Yes, other women.

_Gal._ And for all of these Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep, and fight?

_Pyg._ It is man’s duty, if he’s called upon, To fight for all—he works for those he loves.

_Gal._ Then by thy works I know thou lovest me?

_Pyg._ Indeed, I love thee. (_Embraces her._)

_Gal._ What kind of love?

_Pyg._ I love thee (_recollecting himself and releasing her_) as a sculptor loves his work! (_Aside._) There is diplomacy in that reply.

_Gal._ My love is different in kind to thine: I am no sculptor, and I’ve done no work, Yet I do love thee; say—what love is mine?

_Pyg._ Tell me its symptoms, then I’ll answer thee.

_Gal._ Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come. A sense that I am made by thee for thee. That I’ve no will that is not wholly thine, That I’ve no thought, no hope, no enterprise, That does not own thee as its sovereign; That I have life that I may live for thee, That I am thine—that thou and I are one! What kind of love is that?

_Pyg._ A kind of love That I shall run some risk in dealing with.

_Gal._ And why, Pygmalion?

_Pyg._ Such love as thine A man may not receive, except, indeed, From one who is, or is to be, his wife.

_Gal._ Then I will be thy wife.

_Pyg._ That may not be; I have a wife—the gods allow but one.

_Gal._ Why did the gods then send me here to thee?

_Pyg._ I cannot say—unless to punish me (_Rises._) For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer! I pray’d that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer, And now I see the fearful consequence That must attend it!

_Gal._ Yet thou lovest me? (_Rises._)

_Pyg._ Who could look on that face and stifle love?

_Gal._ Then I am beautiful?

_Pyg._ Indeed thou art.

_Gal._ I wish that I could look upon myself, But that’s impossible.

_Pyg._ Not so, indeed, (_Crosses, R._) This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold!

(_Hands her a mirror from table, R. C._)

_Gal._ How beautiful! I am very glad to know That both our tastes agree so perfectly; Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think That aught could be more beautiful than thou, Till I behold myself. Believe me, love, I could look in this mirror all day long. So I’m a woman.

_Pyg._ There’s no doubt of that!

_Gal._ Oh! happy maid, to be so passing fair! And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze At will upon so beautiful a face!

_Pyg._ Hush! Galatea—in thine innocence

(_Taking glass from her._)

Thou sayest things that others would reprove.

_Gal._ Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong To think that one is exquisitely fair?

_Pyg._ Well, Galatea, it’s a sentiment That every other woman shares with thee; They think it—but they keep it to themselves.

_Gal._ And is thy wife as beautiful as I?

_Pyg._ No, Galatea; for in forming thee I took her features—lovely in themselves— And in marble made them lovelier still.

_Gal._ (_disappointed_). Oh! then I am not original?

_Pyg._ Well—no— That is, thou hast indeed a prototype, But though in stone thou didst resemble her, In life, the difference is manifest.

_Gal._ I’m very glad that I am lovelier than she. And am I better? (_Sits, L._)

_Pyg._ That I do not know.

_Gal._ Then she has faults.

_Pyg._ Very few, indeed; Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show That she and I are of one common kin. I love her all the better for such faults.

_Gal._ (_after a pause_). Tell me some faults and I’ll commit them now.

_Pyg._ There is no hurry; they will come in time: (_Sits beside her, L._) Though for that matter, it’s a grievous sin To sit as lovingly as we sit now.

_Gal._ Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk As we are sitting, be indeed a sin, Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love, Is this great fault that I’m committing now, The kind of fault that only serves to show That thou and I are of one common kin?

_Pyg._ Indeed, I am very much afraid it is.

_Gal._ And dost thou love me better for such fault?

_Pyg._ Where is the mortal that could answer “no?”

_Gal._ Why then I’m satisfied, Pygmalion; Thy wife and I can start on equal terms. She loves thee?

_Pyg._ Very much.

_Gal._ I’m glad of that. I like thy wife.

_Pyg._ And why?

_Gal._ (_surprised at the question_). Our tastes agree We love Pygmalion well, and what is more, Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife; I’m sure we shall agree.

_Pyg._ (_aside_). I doubt it much.

_Gal._ Is she within?

_Pyg._ No, she is not within.

_Gal._ But she’ll come back?

_Pyg._ Oh! yes, she will come back.

_Gal._ How pleased she’ll be to know when she returns, That there was someone here to fill her place.

_Pyg._ (_dryly_). Yes, I should say she’d be extremely pleased. (_Rises._)

_Gal._ Why, there is something in thy voice which says That thou art jesting. Is it possible To say one thing and mean another?

_Pyg._ Yes, It’s sometimes done.

_Gal._ How very wonderful! So clever!

_Pyg._ And so very useful.

_Gal._ Yes. Teach me the art.

_Pyg._ The art will come in time. My wife will not be pleased; there—that’s the truth.

_Gal._, I do not think that I shall like thy wife. Tell me more of her.

_Pyg._ Well—

_Gal._ What did she say When she last left thee?

_Pyg._ Humph! Well, let me see: Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife— Her solitary representative; (_Tenderly_) She feared I should be lonely till she came, And counselled me, if thoughts of love should come, To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont To speak to her.

_Gal._ That’s right.

_Pyg._ (_releasing her_). But when she spoke Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood, Which makes a difference.

_Gal._ It’s a strange world; A woman loves her husband very much, And cannot brook that I should love him too; She fears he will be lonely till she comes, And will not let me cheer his loneliness: She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone, And when that stone is brought to life—be dumb! It’s a strange world, I cannot fathom it.

(_Crosses, R._)

_Pyg._ (_aside_). Let me be brave, and put an end to this. (_Aloud._) Come, Galatea—till my wife returns, My sister shall provide thee with a home; Her house is close at hand.

_Gal._ (_astonished and alarmed_). Send me not hence, Pygmalion—let me stay.

_Pyg._ It may not be. Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.

_Gal._ (_resignedly_). Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion! But we shall meet again?—and very soon?

_Pyg._ Yes, very soon.

_Gal._ And when thy wife returns, She’ll let me stay with thee?

_Pyg._ I do not know. (_Aside._) Why should I hide the truth from her? (_Aloud._) Alas! I may not see thee then.

_Gal._ Pygmalion, What fearful words are these?

_Pyg._ The bitter truth. I may not love thee; I must send thee hence.

_Gal._ Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love! Was it for this that Heaven gave me life? Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see I am thy work, thou hast created me; The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine, Thine! only and unalterably thine! (_Music._) This is the thought with which my soul is charged. Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love, That thou hast love for her alone! Alas! I do not know these things; I only know That Heaven has sent me here to be with thee. Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife, Of vows that thou wilt love but her; alas! I do not know these things; I only know That Heaven, who sent me here, has given me One all-absorbing duty to discharge— To love thee, and to make thee love again!

(_During this speech Pygmalion has shown symptoms of irresolution; at its conclusion he takes her in his arms and embraces her passionately._)

W. S. GILBERT.

[7] _C._ indicates _centre_; _R._, _right_, and _L._, _left_ of stage.

QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

(A dialogue for two men. From Act IV. of _Julius Cæsar_. Before rendering the dialogue it is presumed that the participants will read the whole play from a volume of Shakespeare, and familiarize themselves with the spirit of the selection. The interest will be enhanced by the use of proper costumes. Where these cannot be hired—as they generally may in cities and large towns—they may be easily improvised by observing the simple Roman dress as illustrated in historical works.)

(_Curtain rises, revealing BRUTUS and CASSIUS in heated conversation on the stage._)

_Cassius._ That you have wronged me doth appear in this; You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of Sardinians; Wherein my letters (praying on his side Because I knew the man) were slighted of.

_Brutus._ You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.

_Cas._ At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment.

_Bru._ Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers.

_Cas._ I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last!

_Bru._ The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.

_Cas._ Chastisement!

_Bru._ Remember March, the ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice?—What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers,—shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus?— I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman!

_Cas._ Brutus, bay not me! I’ll not endure it. You forget yourself To hedge me in: I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions.

_Bru._ Go to! you’re not Cassius!

_Cas._ I am.

_Bru._ I say you are not.

_Cas._ Urge me no more: I shall forget myself: Have mind upon your health: tempt me no further!

_Bru._ Away, slight man!

_Cas._ Is’t possible?

_Bru._ Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

_Cas._ Must I endure all this?

_Bru._ All this? Ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break! Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I’ll use you for my mirth,—yea, for my laughter,— When you are waspish.

_Cas._ Is it come to this?

_Bru._ You say you are a better soldier, Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

_Cas._ You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus: I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better?

_Bru._ If you did, I care not.

_Cas._ When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

_Bru._ Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

_Cas._ I durst not?

_Bru._ No.

_Cas._ What! durst not tempt him?

_Bru._ For your life you durst not.

_Cas._ Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for.

_Bru._ You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;— For I can raise no money by vile means: I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions; Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces!

_Cas._ I denied you not.

_Bru._ You did.

_Cas._ I did not: he was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart, A friend should bear a friend’s infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

_Bru._ I do not, till you practice them on me.

_Cas._ You love me not.

_Bru._ I do not like your faults.

_Cas._ A friendly eye could never see such faults.

_Bru._ A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

_Cas._ Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius; For Cassius is a-weary of the world— Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from my eyes!—There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold; If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth: I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know, When thou didst hate him worse, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

_Bru._ Sheathe your dagger: Be angry when you will, it shall have scope: Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O, Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.

_Cas._ Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?

_Bru._ When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.

_Cas._ Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

_Bru._ And my heart, too.—

_Cas._ O, Brutus!

_Bru._ What’s the matter?

_Cas._ Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

_Bru._ Yes, Cassius; and, henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

[CURTAIN.]

SHAKESPEARE.

_TABLEAU._—FRIENDSHIP RESTORED.

_Curtain rises, revealing BRUTUS and CASSIUS with one hand laid upon the other’s shoulder, while the right hands firmly clasp. On the face of each beams the light of noble love and manly friendship, showing their mutual joy. The bearing should be dignified and manly._

SCENE BETWEEN HAMLET AND THE QUEEN.

(Dialogue for elderly lady and young man. From Act III. of the tragedy of _Hamlet_. The part of HAMLET is a very difficult one to play, and should be thoroughly studied. The whole tragedy should be read from Shakespeare, any illustrated volume of which will suggest appropriate costume. The GHOST may be impersonated by a voice, unless a suitable costume and staging are available.)

(_Curtain rises and reveals HAMLET approaching his MOTHER, who may be seated and apparently in much distress._)

_Hamlet._ Now, mother, what’s the matter?

_Queen._ Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

_Hamlet._ Mother, you have my father much offended.

_Queen._ Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

_Hamlet._ Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

_Queen._ Why, how now, Hamlet!

_Hamlet._ What’s the matter now?

_Queen._ Have you forgot me?

_Hamlet._ No, by the rood, not so. You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife; And—would it were not so—you are my mother.

_Queen._ Nay, then, I’ll set those to you that can speak.

_Hamlet._ Come, come, and sit you down you shall not budge: You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.

_Queen._ What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther me? Help, help, ho!

_Polonius_ (_behind_). What, ho! help, help, help!

_Hamlet_ (_drawing_.) How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!

(_Makes a pass through the arras._)

_Polonius_ (_behind_). O, I am slain!

(_Falls and dies._)

_Queen._ O me, what hast thou done?

_Hamlet._ Nay, I know not; Is it the king?

_Queen._ O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!

_Hamlet._ A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

_Queen._ As kill a king!

_Hamlet._ Ay, lady, ’twas my word.—

(_Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius._)

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better: Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, And let me wring your heart; for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff, If damned custom have not braz’d it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

_Queen._ What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me?

_Hamlet._ Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows As false as dicers’ oaths; O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words: heaven’s face doth glow, Yea, this sondity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act.

_Queen._ Ay me, what act, That roars so loud and thunders in the index?

_Hamlet._ Look here, upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now, what follows: Here is your husband; like a mildew’d ear. Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love, for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment Would step from this to this? O shame! where is thy blush?

_Queen._ O Hamlet, speak no more; Thou turns’t mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. O, speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet!

_Hamlet._ A murtherer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket!

_Queen._ No more!

_Hamlet._ A king of shreds and patches,—

(_Enter GHOST._)

Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards!—What would your gracious figure?

_Queen._ Alas! he’s mad!

_Hamlet._ Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O, say!

_Ghost._ Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look, amazement on thy mother sits O, step between her and her fighting soul: Speak to her, Hamlet.

_Hamlet._ How is it with you, lady?

_Queen._ Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

_Hamlet._ On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, Would make them capable. Do not look upon me; Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects; then what I have to do Will want true color; tears perchance for blood.

_Queen._ To whom do you speak this?

_Hamlet._ Do you see nothing there?

_Queen._ Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

_Hamlet._ Nor did you nothing hear?

_Queen._ No, nothing but ourselves.

_Hamlet._ Why, look you there! look, how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal.

(_Exit GHOST._)

_Queen._ This is the very coinage of your brain; This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in.

_Hamlet._ Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music: it is not madness That I have utter’d; bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word, which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks; It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven; Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come.

_Queen._ O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

_Hamlet._ O, throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. For this same lord, (_Pointing to Polonius._) I do repent; I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him,—So, again, good-night. I must be cruel, only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

[CURTAIN.]

SHAKESPEARE.

LOCHIEL’S WARNING.

(This piece is frequently recited by one person, but is much more effective in dialogue. LOCHIEL, a Highland chieftain, while on his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the certain ruin and disaster which await the unfortunate prince and his followers on the field of Culloden. When used as a dialogue, a blast of trumpet is heard. The curtain being drawn, LOCHIEL enters, attired in the Highland fighting costume, and following him should appear in the doorway of the stage two or three armed Scotch soldiers to give the idea of a large number behind them. The SEER meets him from the other direction, dressed in flowing robes, and with long white hair and beard, and, raising his hands in the attitude of warning, speaks imploringly as follows:)

_Seer._

Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in flight: They rally, they bleed, for their country and crown,— Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But, hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? ’Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair! Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! O! weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead! For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave— Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave!

_Lochiel._

Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright!

_Seer._

Ha! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North? Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad: But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? ’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of Heaven. O, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements’ height, Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood!

_Lochiel._

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall’d my clan: Their swords are a thousand; their bosoms are one: They are true to the last of their blood, and their breath, And like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided, and plum’d in their tartan array—

_Seer._

Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, Yet man cannot cover what God would reveal: ’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden’s dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath, Behold where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness, and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise! Rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! ’Tis finish’d.—Their thunders are hush’d on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner! Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish’d, forlorn, Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding, and torn? Ah! no; for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters, convuls’d in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accurs’d be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale—

_Lochiel._

Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale, For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor—so foul with retreat. Tho’ his perishing ranks should be strow’d in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap’d on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight, or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

CAMPBELL.

[CURTAIN.]

_TABLEAU._

_A very pretty tableau may be quickly formed behind the curtain, and at the close of applause from the audience the curtain be raised, showing LOCHIEL standing proud and imperious, his clan gathered around him, and the old SEER upon his knees, head thrown back, with hands and face raised imploringly._

MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTLAND.

(Adapted from Schiller, Scene II., Act III. Arranged for two ladies and two gentlemen.)

CHARACTERS:

MARY, _Queen of Scotland_. ELIZABETH, _Queen of England_. ROBERT, _Earl of Leicester_. TALBOT, _a friend of Mary_.

COSTUMES.

_Elizabethan age of England and Scotland._

_Enter MARY and TALBOT._

_Mary._ Talbot, Elizabeth will soon be here. I cannot see her. Preserve me from this hateful interview.

_Talbot._ Reflect a while. Recall thy courage. The moment is come upon which everything depends. Incline thyself; submit to the necessity of the moment. She is the stronger. Thou must bend before her.

_Mary._ Before her? I cannot!

_Tal._ Thou must do so. Speak to her humbly; invoke the greatness of her generous heart; dwell not too much upon thy rights. But see first how she bears herself towards thee. I myself did witness her emotion on reading thy letter. The tears stood in her eyes. Her heart, ’tis sure, is not a stranger to compassion; therefore place more confidence in her, and prepare thyself for her reception.

_Mary._ (_Taking his hand._) Thou wert ever my faithful friend. Oh, that I had always remained beneath thy kind guardianship, Talbot! Their care of me has indeed been harsh. Who attends her?

_Tal._ Leicester. You need not fear him; the earl doth not seek thy fall. Behold, the queen approaches. (_Retires._)

_Enter ELIZABETH and LEICESTER._

_Mary._ (_Aside._) O heavens! Protect me! her features say she has no heart!

_Elizabeth._ (_To LEICESTER._) Who is this woman? (_Feigning surprise._) Robert, who has dared to—

_Lei._ Be not angry, queen, and since heaven has hither directed thee, suffer pity to triumph in thy noble heart.

_Tal._ (_Advancing._) Deign, royal lady, to cast a look of compassion on the unhappy woman who prostrates herself at thy feet.

[_MARY, having attempted to approach ELIZABETH, stops short, overcome by repugnance, her gestures indicating internal struggle._]

_Eliz._ (_Haughtily._) Sirs, which of you spoke of humility and submission? I see nothing but a proud lady, whom misfortune has not succeeded in subduing.

_Mary._ (_Aside._) I will undergo even this last degree of ignominy. My soul discards its noble but, alas! impotent pride. I will seek to forget who I am, what I have suffered, and will humble myself before her who has caused my disgrace. (_Turns to ELIZABETH._) Heaven, O sister, has declared itself on thy side, and has graced thy happy head with the crown of victory. (_Kneeling._) I worship the Deity who hath rendered thee so powerful. Show thyself noble in thy triumph, and leave me not overwhelmed by shame! Open thy arms, extend in mercy to me thy royal hand, and raise me from my fearful fall.

_Eliz._ (_Drawing back._) Thy place, Stuart, is there, and I shall ever raise my hands in gratitude to heaven that it has not willed that I should kneel at thy feet, as thou now crouchest in the dust at mine.

_Mary._ (_With great emotion._) Think of the vicissitudes of all things human! There is a Deity above who punisheth pride. Respect the Providence who now doth prostrate me at thy feet. Do not show thyself insensible and pitiless as the rock, to which the drowning man, with failing breath and outstretched arms, doth cling. My life, my entire destiny, depend upon my words and the power of my tears. Inspire my heart, teach me to move, to touch thine own. Thou turnest such icy looks upon me, that my soul doth sink within me, my grief parches my lips, and a cold shudder renders my entreaties mute. (_Rises._)

_Eliz._ (_Coldly._) What wouldst thou say to me? thou didst seek converse with me. Forgetting that I am an outraged sovereign, I honor thee with my royal presence. ’Tis in obedience to a generous impulse that I incur the reproach of having sacrificed my dignity.

_Mary._ How can I express myself? how shall I so choose every word that it may penetrate, without irritating, thy heart? God of mercy! aid my lips, and banish from them whatever may offend my sister! I cannot relate to thee my woes without appearing to accuse thee, and this is not my wish. Towards me thou hast been neither merciful nor just. I am thine equal, and yet thou hast made me a prisoner, a suppliant, and a fugitive. I turned to thee for aid, and thou, trampling on the rights of nations and of hospitality, hast immured me in a living tomb! Thou hast abandoned me to the most shameful need, and finally exposed me to the ignominy of a trial! But, no more of the past; we are now face to face. Display the goodness of thy heart! tell me the crimes of which I am accused! Wherefore didst thou not grant me this friendly audience when I so eagerly desired it? Years of misery would have been spared me, and this painful interview would not have occurred in this abode of gloom and horror.

_Eliz._ Accuse not fate, but thine own wayward soul and the unreasonable ambition of thy house. There was no quarrel between us until thy most worthy ally inspired thee with the mad and rash desire to claim for thyself the royal titles and my throne! Not satisfied with this, he then urged thee to make war against me, to threaten my crown and my life. Amidst the peace which reigned in my dominions, he fraudulently excited my subjects to revolt. But heaven doth protect me, and the attempt was abandoned in despair. The blow was aimed at my head, but ’tis on thine that it will fall.

_Mary._ I am in the hand of my God, but thou wilt not exceed thy power by committing a deed so atrocious?

_Eliz._ What could prevent me? Thy kinsman has shown monarchs how to make peace with their enemies! Who would be surety for thee if, imprudently, I were to release thee? How can I rely on thy pledged faith? Nought but my power renders me secure. No! there can be no friendship with a race of vipers.

_Mary._ Are these thy dark suspicions? To thine eyes, then, I have ever seemed a stranger and an enemy. If thou hadst but recognized me as heiress to thy throne—as is my lawful right—love, friendship, would have made me thy friend—thy sister.

_Eliz._ What affection hast thou that is not feigned? I declare thee heiress to my throne! Insidious treachery! In order, forsooth, to overturn the state, and—wily Armida that thou art—entrap within thy snares all the youthful spirits of my kingdom, so that during my own lifetime all eyes would turn towards thee—the new constellation!

_Mary._ Reign on in peace! I renounce all right to thy sceptre. The wings of my ambition have long drooped, and greatness has no longer charms for me. ’Tis thou who hast it all; I am now only the shade of Mary Stuart! My pristine ardor has been subdued by the ignominy of my chains. Thou hast nipped my existence in the bud. But pronounce those magnanimous words for which thou cam’st hither; for I will not believe that thou art come to enjoy the base delight of insulting thy victim! Pronounce the words so longed for, and say, “Mary, thou art free! Till now thou hast known only my power; now know my greatness.” Woe to thee, shouldst thou not depart from me propitious, beneficent, like an invoked Deity. O sister! not for all England, not for all the lands the vast ocean embraces, would I present myself to thee with the inexorable aspect with which thou now regardest me!

_Eliz._ At length thou confessest thyself vanquished! Hast thou emptied thy quiver of the artifices it contained? Hast thou no more assassins? Does there not remain to thee one single hero to undertake in thy defence the duties of knight-errant? Gone, Mary, gone forever are those days. Thou canst no longer seduce a follower of mine; other causes now inflame men’s hearts. In vain didst thou seek a fourth husband among my English subjects; they knew too well that thou murderest thy husbands, as thou dost thy lovers.

_Mary._ (_Shuddering._) O heavens! sister! Grant me resignation.

_Eliz._ (_To LEICESTER, with contempt._) Earl, are these the boasted features, on which no mortal eye could gaze with safety? Is this the beauty to which no other woman’s could be compared? In sooth, the reputation appears to have been easily won. To be thus celebrated as the reigning beauty of the universe seems merely to infer that she has been universal in the distribution of her favors.

_Mary._ Ah, ’tis too much.

_Eliz._ (_With a smile of satisfaction._) Now thou showest thyself in thine own form. Till now thou hast worn a mask.

_Mary._ (_With dignified pride._) They were mere human errors that overcame my youth. My grandeur dazzled me. I have nought to conceal, nor deny my faults; my pride has ever disdained the base artifices of vile intriguers. The worst I ever did is known, and I may boast myself far better than my reputation. But woe to thee, thou malignant hypocrite, if thou ever lettest fall the mantle beneath which thou concealest thy shameless amours! Thou, the daughter of Anne Boleyn, hast not inherited virtue! The causes that brought thy sinful mother to the block are known to all.

_Tal._ (_Stepping between them._) Is this, O Mary, thine endurance? Is this thy humility?

_Mary._ Endurance? I have endured all that a mortal heart can bear. Hence, abject humility! Insulted patience, get ye from my heart! And thou, my long pent-up indignation, break thy bonds, and burst forth from thy lair! Oh, thou gavest to the angry serpent his deadly glance; arm my tongue with poisonous stings.

_Tal._ (_To ELIZABETH._) Forgive the angry transports which thou hast thyself provoked.

_Lei._ (_Inducing ELIZABETH to withdraw._) Hear not the ravings of a distracted woman. Leave this ill—

_Mary._ The throne of England is profaned by a base-born—the British nation is duped by a vile pretender! If right did prevail, thou wouldst be grovelling at my feet, for ’tis I who am thy sovereign. (_ELIZABETH retires. LEICESTER and TALBOT follow._) She departs, burning with rage, and with bitterness of death at heart. Now happy I am! I have degraded her in Leicester’s presence. At last! at last! After long years of insult and contumely, I have at least enjoyed a season of triumph. (_Sinks upon the floor._)

[CURTAIN.]

SCHILLER.

_TABLEAU._

_Curtain rises. MARY reclines upon the floor, disheveled hair, face buried in hands, shaking with emotion. ELIZABETH stands glaring at her, face livid with anger, clenched fists. LEICESTER is restraining her; his hand is raised as if admonishing her not to yield to her rage and do an act unbecoming a queen. TALBOT leans over MARY, to whom he appears to offer words of hope and consolation, at the same time lifting his right hand imploringly to ELIZABETH._

A CASE OF INDIGESTION.

SCENE—_DR. GREGORY’S study. A table and two chairs._

_Enter PATIENT (an unhappy Scotch merchant) from left. DR. GREGORY discovered reading (on right)._

_Patient._ Good morning, Dr. Gregory! I’m just come into Edinburgh about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice, sir, about my trouble.

_Doctor._ Pray, sir, sit down. (_Patient sits on left._) And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be?

_Pa._ Indeed, doctor, I’m not very sure, but I’m thinking it’s a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pinkling about my stomach—I’m just na right.

_Dr._ You are from the west country, I should suppose, sir?

_Pa._ Yes, sir; from Glasgow.

_Dr._ Ay, pray, sir, are you a glutton?

_Pa._ Heaven forbid, sir! I am one of the plainest men living in the west country.

_Dr._ Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard?

_Pa._ No, Dr. Gregory, thank Heaven, no one can accuse me of that! I’m of the dissenting persuasion, doctor, and an elder, so you may suppose I’m na drunkard.

_Dr._ I’ll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of living. I’m so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I should wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it?

_Pa._ I breakfast at nine o’clock; take a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kippered salmon, or, maybe, both, if they’re good, and two or three rolls and butter.

_Dr._ Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast?

_Pa._ O, yes, sir! but I don’t count that as anything.

_Dr._ Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make?

_Pa._ O, sir, I eat a very plain dinner, indeed. Some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite.

_Dr._ You take a little pudding, then, and afterwards some cheese?

_Pa._ O, yes! though I don’t care much about them.

_Dr._ You take a glass of ale or porter with your cheese?

_Pa._ Yes, one or the other; but seldom both.

_Dr._ You west-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner?

_Pa._ Yes, we do; it’s good for digestion.

_Dr._ Do you take any wine during dinner?

_Pa._ Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I’m indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer.

_Dr._ What quantity of port do you drink?

_Pa._ O, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so.

_Dr._ In the west country, it is impossible, I hear, to dine without punch?

_Pa._ Yes, sir; indeed, ’tis punch we drink chiefly; but, for myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that’s moderate.

_Dr._ O, exceedingly moderate, indeed! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter?

_Pa._ Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters.

_Dr._ And on your return you take supper, I suppose?

_Pa._ No, sir, I canna be said to take supper; just something before going to bed;—a rizzered haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or a half-hundred oysters, or the like o’that, and, maybe, two-thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no _regular_ supper.

_Dr._ But you take a little more punch after that?

_Pa._ No, sir; punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I take a tumbler of warm whiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to sleep on.

_Dr._ So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your everyday life; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little?

_Pa._ No, sir; except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen.

_Dr._ Not above twice a week?

_Pa._ No, not oftener.

_Dr._ Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite?

_Pa._ Yes, sir, thank Heaven, I have; indeed, any ill health that I have is about mealtime.

_Dr._ (_Rising with a severe air—the PATIENT also rises._) Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow, indeed! You come here and tell me you are a moderate man; but, upon examination, I find, by your own showing, that you are a most voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand this? Go home, sir, and leave your present course of riotous living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors.

_Pa._ I’m sure, doctor, I’m very much obliged to you. (_Taking out a bundle of bank notes._) I shall endeavor to——

_Dr._ Sir, you are not obliged to me:—put up your money, sir. Do you think I’ll take a fee for telling you what you know as well as myself? Though you’re no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word for it, your life is not worth half a year’s purchase.

_Pa._ Thank you, doctor, thank you. Good-day, doctor.

(_Exit on right, followed by DOCTOR._)

MR. CROSS AND SERVANT JOHN.

_Mr. Cross._ Why do you keep me knocking all day at the door?

_John._ I was at work, sir, in the garden. As soon as I heard your knock, I ran to open the door with such haste that I fell down and hurt myself.

_Mr. C._ Why didn’t you leave the door open?

_John._ Why, sir, you scolded me yesterday because I did so. When the door is open, you scold; when it is shut, you scold. I should like to know what to do?

_Mr. C._ What to do? What to do, did you say?

_John._ I said it. Shall I leave the door open?

_Mr. C._ No. I tell you, no!

_John._ Shall I keep the door shut?

_Mr. C._ Shall you keep the door shut? No, I say.

_John._ But, sir, a door must be either open or——

_Mr. C._ Don’t presume to argue with me, fellow!

_John._ But doesn’t it hold to reason that a door——

_Mr. C._ Silence, I say. Hold your tongue!

_John._ And I say that a door must be either open or shut. Now, how will you have it?

_Mr. C._ I have told you a thousand times, you provoking fellow—I have told you that I wished it—— But what do you mean by cross-questioning me, sir? Have you trimmed the grape-vine, as I ordered you?

_John._ I did that three days ago, sir.

_Mr. C._ Have you washed the carriage? Eh?

_John._ I washed it before breakfast, sir, as usual.

_Mr. C._ You haven’t watered the horses to-day!

_John._ Go and see, sir, if you can make them drink any more. They have had their fill.

_Mr. C._ Have you given them their oats?

_John._ Ask William; he saw me do it.

_Mr. C._ But you have forgotten to take the mare to be shod. Ah! I have you now!

_John._ I have the blacksmith’s bill here.

_Mr. C._ My letters!—Did you take them to the post-office? Ha! You forgot, did you?

_John._ I forgot nothing, sir. The letters were in the mail ten minutes after you handed them to me.

_Mr. C._ How often have I told you not to scrape on that abominable violin of yours? And yet this very morning——

_John._ This morning? You forget, sir. You broke the violin all to pieces for me last Saturday night.

_Mr. C._ I’m glad of it! Come, now; that wood which I told you to saw and put into the shed—why is it not done? Answer me!

_John._ The wood is all sawed, split, and housed, sir; besides doing that, I have watered all the trees in the garden, dug over three of the beds, and was digging another when you knocked.

_Mr. C._ Oh, I must get rid of this fellow! He will plague my life out of me. Out of my sight, sir! (_John rushes out._)

HOW TO BREAK BAD NEWS.

_Mr. H._ Ha, steward! how are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home?

_Steward._ Bad enough, your honor; the magpie’s dead.

_Mr. H._ Poor Mag! so he’s gone. How came he to die?

_Steward._ Over-ate himself, sir.

_Mr. H._ Did he, indeed? a greedy villain! Why, what did he get he liked so well?

_Steward._ Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse-flesh.

_Mr. H._ How came he to get so much horse-flesh?

_Steward._ All your father’s horses, sir.

_Mr. H._ What! are they dead, too?

_Steward._ Ay, sir; they died of over-work.

_Mr. H._ And why were they over-worked, pray.

_Steward._ To carry water, sir.

_Mr. H._ To carry water! What did they carry water for?

_Steward._ Sure, sir, to put out the fire.

_Mr. H._ Fire! What fire?

_Steward._ Oh, sir, your father’s house is burned to the ground.

_Mr. H._ My father’s house! How come it set on fire?

_Steward._ I think, sir, it must have been the torches.

_Mr. H._ Torches! What torches?

_Steward._ At your mother’s funeral.

_Mr. H._ Alas! my mother dead?

_Steward._ Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it!

_Mr. H._ After what?

_Steward._ The loss of your father.

_Mr. H._ My father gone, too?

_Steward._ Yes, poor man, he took to his bed soon as he heard of it.

_Mr. H._ Heard of what?

_Steward._ The bad news, sir, an’ please your honor.

_Mr. H._ What! more miseries? more bad news? No! you can add nothing more!

_Steward._ Yes, sir; your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a dollar in the world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news.

HOW TO DRAFT CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS FOR THE ORGANIZATION AND CONDUCT OF LITERARY SOCIETIES.

All permanent associations formed for mutual benefit must have a Constitution by which they shall be governed.

Where it is intended to organize a society for the intellectual improvement or social enjoyment of its members, a number of persons meet together and select a name for the organization. The next step is to appoint a committee, whose duty it shall be to prepare a _Constitution_ and code of _By-Laws_ for the society. These must be reported to the society at its next meeting, and must be adopted by the votes of a majority of that body before they can take effect.

The Constitution consists of the rules which form the foundation upon which the organization is to rest. It should be brief and explicit. It should be considered and adopted section by section; should be recorded in a book for that purpose, and should be signed by all the members of the society.

Amendments to the Constitution should be adopted in the same way, and should be signed by each member of the society.

In addition to the Constitution, it is usual to adopt a series of minor rules, which should be explanatory of the principles of the Constitution. These are termed _By-Laws_, and should be recorded in the same book with the Constitution, and immediately after it. New by-laws may be added from time to time, as the necessity for them may arise. It is best to have as few as possible. They should be brief, and as clear that their meaning may be easily comprehended, and should govern the action of the body.

CONSTITUTION.

As growth and development of mind, together with readiness and fluency of speech, are the result of investigation and free discussion of religious, education, political, and other topics, the undersigned agree to form an association, and for its government, do hereby adopt the following Constitution:

ARTICLE I.—The name and title of this organization shall be

“The Philomathian Literary Society,”

and its objects shall be the free discussion of any subject coming before the meeting for the purpose of diffusing knowledge among its members.

ARTICLE II.—The officers of the Association shall consist of a President, two Vice-Presidents, a Corresponding Secretary, a Recording Secretary, a Treasurer and a Librarian, who shall be elected annually by ballot, on the first Monday in January of each year, said officers to hold their position until their successors are elected.

ARTICLE III.—It shall be the duty of the President to preside at all public meetings of the Society. The first Vice-President shall preside in the absence of the President, and in case of the absence of both President and Vice-President, it shall be the duty of the second Vice-President to preside.

The duty of the Secretary shall be to conduct the correspondence, keep the records of the Society, and read at each meeting a report of the work done at the preceding meeting.

The Treasurer shall keep the funds of the Society, making an annual report of all moneys received, disbursed, and the amount on hand.

It shall be the duty of the Librarian to keep, in a careful manner, all books, records and manuscripts in the possession of the Society.

ARTICLE IV.—There shall be appointed by the President, at the first meeting after his election, the following standing committees, to consist of three members each, namely: On lectures, library, finance, and printing, whose duties shall be designated by the President.

The question for debate at the succeeding meeting shall be determined by a majority vote of the members present.

ARTICLE V.—Any lady or gentleman may become a member of this Society by the consent of the majority of the members present, the signing of the Constitution, and the payment of two dollars as membership fee. It shall be the privilege of the Society to elect any person whose presence may be advantageous to the Society, an honorary member who shall not be required to pay membership fees or dues.

ARTICLE VI.—This Association shall meet weekly, and at such other times as a majority, consisting of at least five members of the Association, shall determine. The President shall be authorized to call special meetings upon the written request of any five members of the Society, at which meetings one-third of the members shall be sufficient to constitute a quorum for the transaction of business.

ARTICLE VII.—It shall be the duty of the Finance Committee to determine the amount of dues necessary to be collected from each member, and to inform the Treasurer of the amount, who shall promptly proceed to collect the same at such times as the committee may designate.

ARTICLE VIII.—The parliamentary rules and general form of conducting public meetings, as shown in “Cushing’s Manual of Practice,” shall be the standard authority in governing the deliberations of this Association.

ARTICLE IX.—Any member neglecting to pay dues, or who shall be guilty of improper conduct, calculated to bring this Association into disrepute, shall be expelled from the membership of the Society by a two-thirds vote of the members present at any regular meeting. No member shall be expelled, however, until he shall have had notice of such intention on the part of the Association, and has been given an opportunity of being heard in his own defense.

ARTICLE X.—By giving written notice of change at any regular meeting, this Constitution may be altered or amended at the next stated meeting by vote of two-thirds of the members present.

BY-LAWS.

RULE 1.—No question shall be stated unless moved by two members, nor be open for consideration until stated by the chair. When a question is before the Society, no motion shall be received, except to lay on the table, the previous question, to postpone, to refer, or to amend; and they shall have precedence in the order in which they are here arranged.

RULE 2.—When a member intends to speak on a question, he shall rise in his place, and respectfully address his remarks to the President, confine himself to the question, and avoid personality. Should more than one member rise to speak at the same time the President shall determine who is entitled to the floor.

RULE 3.—Every member shall have the privilege of speaking three times on any question under consideration, but not oftener, unless by the consent of the Society (determined by vote); and no member shall speak more than once, until every member wishing to speak shall have spoken.

RULE 4.—The President, while presiding, shall state every question coming before the Society; and immediately before putting it to vote shall ask: “Are you ready for the question?” Should no member rise to speak, he shall rise to put the question; and after he has risen no member shall speak upon it, unless by permission of the Society.

RULE 5.—The affirmative and negative of the question having been both put and answered, the President declares the number of legal votes cast, and whether the affirmative or negative have it.

RULE 6.—All questions, unless otherwise fixed by law, shall be decided by a majority of votes.

RULE 7.—After any question, except one of indefinite postponement, has been decided, any member may move a reconsideration thereof, if done in two weeks after the decision. A motion for reconsideration the second time, of the same question, shall not be in order at any time.

RULE 8.—Any two members may call for a division of a question, when the same will admit of it.

RULE 9.—The President, or any member, may call a member to order while speaking, when the debate must be suspended, and the member take his seat until the question of order is decided.

RULE 10.—The President shall preserve order and decorum; may speak to points of order in preference to other members; and shall decide all questions of order, subject to an appeal to the Society by any member, on which appeal no person shall speak but the President and the member called to order.

RULE 11.—No motion or proposition on a subject different from that under consideration shall be admitted under color of an amendment.

RULE 12.—No addition, alteration, or amendment to the Constitution, By-Laws, etc., shall be acted upon, except in accordance with the Constitution.

RULE 13.—No nomination shall be considered as made until seconded.

RULE 14.—The President shall sign all proceedings of the meetings.

RULE 15.—No member shall vote by proxy.

RULE 16.—No motion shall be withdrawn by the mover unless the second withdraw his second.

RULE 17.—No extract from any book shall be read consuming more than five minutes.

RULE 18.—No motion for adjournment shall be in order until after nine o’clock.

RULE 19.—Every motion shall be reduced to writing, should the officers of the society desire it.

RULE 20.—An amendment to an amendment is in order, but not to amend an amendment to an amendment of a main question.

RULE 21.—The previous question shall be put in this form, if seconded by a majority of the members present: “Shall the main question be put?” If decided in the affirmative, the main question is to be put immediately, and all further debate or amendment must be suspended.

RULE 22.—Members not voting shall be considered as voting in the affirmative, unless excused by the Society.

RULE 23.—Any member offering a protest against any of the proceedings of this Society may have the same, if, in respectful language, entered in full upon the minutes.

RULE 24.—No subject laid on the table shall be taken up again on the same evening.

RULE 25.—No motion shall be debatable until seconded.

RULE 26.—Points of order are debatable to the Society.

RULE 27.—Appeals and motions to reconsider or adjourn are not debatable.

RULE 28.—When a very important motion or amendment shall be made and seconded, the mover thereof may be called upon to reduce the same to writing, and hand it in at the table, from which it shall be read, open to the Society for debate.

RULE 29.—The mover of a motion shall be at liberty to accept any amendment thereto; but if an amendment be offered and not accepted, yet duly seconded, the Society shall pass upon it before voting upon the original motion.

RULE 30.—Every officer, on leaving his office, shall give to his successor all papers, documents, books, or money belonging to the Society.

RULE 31.—No smoking, and no refreshments except water, shall be allowed in the Society’s hall.

RULE 32.—When a motion to adjourn is carried, no member shall leave his seat until the President has left his chair.

RULE 33.—No alteration can be made in these rules of order without a four-fifth vote of the society, and two weeks’ notice; neither can they be suspended, but by a like vote, and then for the evening only.

SUGGESTED SUBJECTS FOR DEBATE

1. Should there be a Board of Arbitration appointed by the Government for Settling Disputes between Employees and Employers?

2. Is England Rising or Falling as a Nation?

NOTE.—Compare the Elements of Modern with the Elements of Ancient Prosperity.

3. Has Nature or Education the Greater Influence in the Formation of Character?

4. From which does the Mind gain the more Knowledge, Reading or Observation?

5. Is the Character of Queen Elizabeth deserving of our Admiration?

6. Is an Advocate Justified in Defending a Man whom he Knows to be Guilty of the Crime with which he is Charged?

7. Which does the most to Produce Crime—Poverty, Wealth, or Ignorance?

8. Is a Limited Monarchy, like that of England, the Best Form of Government?

9. Is not Private Virtue essentially requisite to Greatness of Public Character?

10. Is Eloquence a Gift of Nature, or may it be Acquired?

11. Is Genius an Innate Capacity?

12. Is a Rude or a Refined Age the More Favorable to the Production of Works of Imagination?

13. Is the Shakespearian the Augustan Age of English Literature?

14. Ought Pope to Rank in the First Class of Poets?

15. Has the Introduction of Machinery been Generally Beneficial to Mankind?

16. Which Produce the Greater Happiness, the Pleasures of Hope or of Memory?

17. Is the Existence of Parties in the State Favorable to the Public Welfare?

18. Is there any Ground for Believing in the Ultimate Perfection and Universal Happiness of the Human Race?

19. Is Co-operation more Adapted to Promote the Virtue and Happiness of Mankind than Competition?

20. Was the Banishment of Napoleon to St. Helena a Justifiable Proceeding?

21. Ought Persons to be Excluded from the Civil Offices on Account of their Religious Opinions?

22. Which Exercises the Greater Influence on the Civilization and Happiness of the Human Race, the Male or the Female Mind?

23. Which did the Most to Produce the French Revolution, the Tyranny of the Government, the Excesses of the Higher Orders, or the Writings of Voltaire, Montesquieu and Rousseau?

24. Which was the Greater Poet, Byron or Burns?

25. Is there Reasonable Ground for Believing that the Character of Richard the Third was not so Atrocious as is Generally Supposed?

26. Does Happiness or Misery Preponderate in Life?

27. Should the Press be Totally Free?

28. Do Modern Geological Discoveries Agree with Holy Writ?

29. Did Circumstances Justify the First French Revolution?

30. Could not Arbitration be Made a Substitute for War?

31. Which Character is the More to be Admired, that of Loyola or Luther?

32. Are there Good Grounds for Applying the Term “Dark” to the Middle Ages?

33. Which was the Greater Poet, Chatterton or Cowper?

34. Are Public or Private Schools to be Preferred?

35. Is the System of Education Pursued at our Universities in Accordance with the Requirements of the Age?

36. Which is the More Healthful Exercise, Bicycle Riding or Walking?

37. Does the Game of Foot-Ball Produce more Evil than Beneficial Effects?

38. Would the Free and Unlimited Coinage of both Silver and Gold be better than the Single Gold Standard in America?

39. Should Women be Granted the Right to Vote on all State and National Questions?

40. Would Absolute Prohibition be a Benefit to the Country?

TABLEAUX FOR PUBLIC ENTERTAINMENTS.

JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE.

CHARACTER AND COSTUME.

MAIDEN.—Loose, white robe, wing-like sleeves, displaying arm; hair long, loose, and flowing over shoulders.

THE TABLEAU.

A large post in centre of stage, around which are piled fagots. Fastened to the post by means of a chain around the waist stands the maiden, with eyes cast upward, and the whole attitude that of exaltation. A strong red light suddenly thrown upon the lower part of the picture, from both sides, will produce the effect of ignited wood.

Music, if any, triumphant.

WINTER IN THE LAP OF SPRING.

CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES.

WINTER.—Black, loose dress to the feet, fur cap, white wig, and long white beard; dress flecked with bits of cotton, to represent snow; face full and florid. The part may be taken by a lady.

SPRING.—Trailing loose dress of white, sleeves draped so as to show arm to elbow; scarf and sash of pink; long, flowing, yellow hair; sprays of roses and other flowers gracefully fastened on the dress; wealth of flowers on the head.

THE TABLEAU.

Spring is seated on a chair, over which may be thrown a covering of white or pink, upon which are scattered profusely sprays of flowers. She holds at her side a golden sceptre.

Winter is seated in the lap of Spring holding extended in his right hand a sceptre of black.

THERE’S NO ROSE WITHOUT A THORN.

The scene is a parlor.—Standing in the foreground is a young girl, simply dressed. In her left hand she has a rose, and holding out her right hand shows to her companion the scratches made by the thorns (a little carmine paint, put on with a fine camel’s-hair pencil, makes very painless scratches.) Her companion, a young man dressed as a mechanic’s apprentice (a carpenter’s, butcher’s, shoemaker’s or any other trade), is, with a look of sympathy, raising the wounded hand to his lips. Behind the young man stands his employer, with an expression of rage, raising a rope about to strike the apprentice. He is not perceived by either of the young people.

In the background is a child, with a look of great glee, putting its fingers into a jar, marked jam, while the mother, behind the child, is raising her hand to box its ears.

A NUN AT HER DEVOTIONS.

It hardly needs description. A background of dark brown gauze, very faintly lighted at the upper right-hand corner; a dress of black serge or stuff, with black veil and white coif; a crucifix and rosary—these are the very simple materials needed. Let the light fall from the left-hand upper corner in front. Choose your nun for the beauty of her eyes, the regularity and refinement of feature, and the elegance of her hands.

TABLEAU WITH RECITALS.

_Characters._

POET.—A young man with long hair and wide linen collar turned down over coat collar.

STATUE.—Personated by a young woman in white, with arms bare.

(_The Poet speaks._)

Thou holdest me, thou holdest me, O marble presence, cold and fair. I cannot draw my feet past thee Within thy niche above the stair.

I found thee in a mossy cave— The entrance to a buried shrine; The rocks around a shudder gave As thence I bore my prize divine.

What master wrought thee long ago— Who but Pygmalion’s scholar apt? The rose upon thy cheek of snow Ofttimes he saw in vision rapt.

The day upspringing in thine eye He fancied now, and now it seemed A hovering smile, a gradual sigh, Thy lips from silence dead redeemed;

But, dying ere the moment ripe When thou should’st gather vital fire, He left thee, a half-conscious type Of Love and Love’s unvoiced desire.

Thou holdest me, thou holdest me, O marble presence, cold and fair! Now let thy prisoned soul be free, Thy breast its long-sealed fate declare.

(_The Statue speaks._)

Thou troublest me, thou troublest me! A thousand years unused to speech, Why should the charm dissolve for thee, Or why to thee my secret teach?

Not Paros, nor Pentelicus, E’er held me in its quarried hill; Nor master’s chisel carved me thus, With lofty thought and patient skill.

Ah, surely, not Pygmalion’s hand Unprisoned me, through loving art— I, who in marble moveless stand, Once held quick veins and pulsing heart;

Love, changed to hate, wrought this cold change I froze beneath his bitter eye; Love, changed to Hate—transformer strange— Forbade me live, forbade me die!

Thou troublest me, thou troublest me; No further question; go thy way! He, only, who could set me free, Hath long since crumbled back to clay!

Thy soul in peace if thou would’st save, And give forgetfulness to mine, Restore me to that mossy cave, The entrance to a buried shrine!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

CINDERELLA’S SLIPPER.

(This beautiful tableau may be represented in three or four scenes, with fine dress effect.)