SCENE II.--_A balcony.

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET.

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

When you were in Europe, did you visit Rome?

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

The same old moon.

VIOLET.

’Tis very fair.

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

In the almanac.

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

Heaven guide me in this whirlwind of contraries!

WHETSTONE.

Take yours off, too.

VIOLET.

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

[_She unmasks._

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

Our acquaintance is too brief for a jest so durable.

WHETSTONE.

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

[_Exit_ SCYTHE.

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

[_Pauses._

WHETSTONE.

Go on; give me all your secret.

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

_Enter_ FOPDOODLE _concealing himself_.

WHETSTONE [_showing a picture in the album_].

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

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

VIOLET.

Continue.

WHETSTONE.

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

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

Art thou a pious knight?

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE [_kneeling_].

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

VIOLET.

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

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

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

WHETSTONE [_rising_].

I thought I heard some one owe me something!

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

Let me call your uncle.

VIOLET.

Nay, thy jest in greed lacks no ingredient.

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

Well, go on; give me it all.

WHETSTONE.

Give you it all!

VIOLET.

All, everything.

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

What’s that?

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

Am I dreaming?

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

What can it be? I’ll buy it.

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

Nay, thou gentle stupid, try again.

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh, let me tell! O dazzling Violet!

WHETSTONE.

I can think of nothing else besides.

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE [_putting his hand over his heart_].

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

VIOLET.

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

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

Maids are no doctors, except for hearts in love.

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

FOPDOODLE _leaves his concealment_.

FOPDOODLE.

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

WHETSTONE [_rising_].

Who are you?

FOPDOODLE.

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

WHETSTONE.

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

FOPDOODLE.

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

[_Throws down a glove._

WHETSTONE.

Pick it up yourself, you villain!

VIOLET.

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

[_Exeunt_ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET.

FOPDOODLE.

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

[_Exit._