SCENE 3. _CAPULET’S burying-ground. Tomb, C., on which is

written, “No one allowed to pick here without permit of the proprietor.” Graves, R. and L., with headstones facing audience. On R. is painted, “To be occupied by JULIET CAPULET;” on L., “To be occupied by ROMEO MONTAGUE.”_

_Enter JULIET, L., with basket, bottle, and candle._

_Jul._ Here is the place (_dog barks_), our plaguy _Spot_, I say. You should not follow your mistress in this way. (_Clock strikes._) One, two, ’tis now the very time, I think, When I was bid this sleeping draught to drink. Oh, dear! suppose this should not work at all; Suppose this evening Romeo should not call; Suppose, suppose--oh! I’ll leave off supposing, For really I begin to feel like _dozing_: And so I’ll take a _dose_ (_drinks_). Why, this is queer! What new-found sherry-cobbler have we here? Narcotic music in my head is ringing Such blissful airs, I cannot keep from singing.

_Song, “Juliet.” Air, “O Mio Fernando.”_

Oh mio Romeo, my galliant loverier! My father’s house I’ve slipped for to meet thee; But oh! my ducksey, do you be tenderer Or else a broken-hearted maid I’ll be. If by this cup my senses be capsized When I have drank this sherry-cobbler down, Oh! do not, dearest, do not, be surprised, But wake me gently, Romeo, from my nap.

_Jul._ To bed, to bed! it’s really getting late. (_Knock._) What knocking’s that? The watchman’s at the gate. What is undone can’t be done up, ’tis said. My hair is down, and so to bed, to bed!

_Lies down on grave, blows out candle, R. Enter MERCUTIO, L._

_Mer._ Rest, my maid, lie still and slumber: Now for my carriage. I’ve forgot the number: That is too bad, I ne’er can find mine, So many are ordered for just half-past nine. What’s to be done? I’m getting in a muss, I know. I’ll take her off instanter in a buss. Halloo, halloo! Why, here’s the deuse to pay,-- Man with a light, and coming down this way! I’ll step aside and of this light keep dark.

(_Hides R._)

_Enter ROMEO, L., dragging child’s carriage, containing a large bottle of MRS. WINSLOW’S Soothing Syrup._

_Rom._ Bah! I’m chilled through, and hungry as a shark. I do remember where an oysterman did dwell Who opened Providence Rivers passing well, Concocted luscious stews and toothsome roasts And “Fancys,” which are oysters laid on toast. I would that I to-night within his stall Might seat myself, and for a good roast call; But I’m forbid, for I to-night must stir up, My fainting soul with Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. My Juliet, poisoned, in this church-yard lies; And I, poor silly fellow!--I--I--cries. I’ll weep no more, but to my Juliet flee.

_Knocks down gravestone at head of JULIET._

Get out, you pale-faced slab, make way for me!

_Enter MERCUTIO, R._

_Mer._ Halloo, my gallant youth, is that the way You with old Capulet’s costly marbles play?

_Rom._ What wretch art thou that thus beseemst the night?

_Mer._ Why, wretch yourself! it seems to me you’re tight.

_Rom._ Are you Mercutio’s kinsman, Plaster Paris? Or are you Villikins?

_Mer._ Thank you, I am nary; But I am Mercutio, who, upon my life, Had nearly made that maid there be my wife But for your coming. Now that you have come, And I’m not wanted, I think I’ll go home.

_Rom._ Stay, vile Mercutio, I see what you’re about: With this ’ere maid you tried to cut me out; But you shall find that I can cut as well. A game of turn him out, we’ll have, my swell. You are a sneak, so be a little bolder: Let’s see you knock that chip from off my shoulder.

(_Mercutio blows chip off._)

_A blow._ We’ll try the manly art.

_Mer._ The manly art?--oh, no! We can’t do that: it’s not for us, you know. Our legislators keep it for their public play: ’Tis _More-easy_ taught in Washington to-day. Talking of cutting you out here with this lass I call an insult; but we’ll let that pass. I’ll have a pass, and with a cutlass too,

_Produces a pair of cutlasses from side._

Draw, villain, draw! I’ll have a bout with you,-- The old stage combat, that’s the sort, With an accompaniment on the piano forte.

_Combat to the tune of, “Wood up.” MERCUTIO’S stuck._

Hold on! I’m stuck, as narrow as a church-pew, And hardly deep enough: well, it will do. Ask for me to-morrow, if you will; And, if I’m not gone, I’ll be here still. I’m _peppered_ sore, and nearly _mustered_ out. Now, gentle Romeo, mind what you’re about! You have a country house, and one in town: A plague on both your houses! burn ’em down! Have you a cigar? I think I’ve got a match.

_ROMEO gives MERCUTIO a cigar, and holds up his foot, on which MERCUTIO strikes a light, and then lights his cigar._

Thank you, you are a perfect hen to scratch. From all the many ills of married life I would have saved you, carried off your wife; But that’s all over, wish you joy, I’ll swear. Good-by! I’m going home to die--my hair.

_Exit, L._

_Rom._ So young to die! Farewell, my gentle friend: Now to my business I will straight attend. Here lies my love so snugly covered up, And near her sits the fatal poisoned cup. Eyes, look your last; but do not look too long. If ’twon’t disturb you, love, I’ll sing a song.

_Song, “Romeo.” Air, “Captain Jinks.”_

My Juliet at last I’ve found, Stretched out at full length on the ground: She shows no signs of coming round, Which causes me much trouble. But I’ve a quietus, you see, tus you see, tus you see And Winslow’s Soothing Syrup for me Will soon end all my trouble. It will be a story to tell the marines That we were driven to such extremes, And came to our end by poisonous means, Through drinking too much of the balmy.

_Rom._ Come, fatal syrup, soothe my aching breast; Come, Mrs. Winslow, come and give me rest. Here’s to my love, hip, hip, hip, hurray!

_Tumbles on grave, L._

That’s given me a settler any way.

_Enter CAPULET, L., ringing a bell._

_Cap._ Lost, lost, lost, strayed, stolen, or run away! A daughter, anybody seen her, pray? Robed in a muslin dress, a tender maid, Of all male creatures very much afraid. I cannot find her: I am tempest tossed, And so I toss this bell--lost, lost, lost!

_Trio: Air, “Dear Father come home.” JULIET, ROMEO, and CAPULET._

_Jul._ Father, dear father! go home, will you, now? You’ll get a bad cold in your head: I’ve put out the candle, and, covered up warm, I’m resting so nicely in bed!

_Rom._ You’d better clear out, old Capulet, now, There hardly is room here for you; Disturb not the rest of a poisoned young pair, But clear out instanter, now, do!

_Jul._ { Come do, now do, dear father, sweet father, go home! _Rom._ { Will you, will you, old buffer, old buffer, go home?

_Cap._ Now, do hear the words of this pair, Which his fingers[2] repeat as they roam. I’ll be blessed if such nonsense I’ll stand, any way, No, looneys, I will not go home.

_Jul._ { Come father, dear father, go home. _Rom._ { Old buffer, old buffer, go home.

_Cap._ Well, here’s a pretty kettle of fish, I’ll swear. Juliet Capulet, what are you doing there?

_Jul._ (_Sitting up._) I’m poisoned, waiting here for Romeo.

_Rom._ (_Sitting up._) Well, here I am: I guess we’d better go.

_Song, “Romeo and Juliet.” Air, “Billy Taylor.”_

_Rom._ Now, Juliet, that we’re free from poison, We will quickly wedded be. The loveliest maid man ever set his eyes on I’ll marry in style, quite gorgeously. Tiddy, iddy, iddy, iddy, ol, lol, li, do.

_Jul._ Tiddy, iddy, iddy, iddy, ol, lol, la.

_Rom._ Tiddy, iddy, iddy, iddy, ol, lol, li, do.

_Tombs._ Tiddy, iddy, iddy, iddy, ol, lol, la.

_Jul._ O Romeo! though you’re my deary, Prithee, listen unto me. When I go to get my wardrobe, I shall feel quite scary If it’s under lock and key.

_Chorus._--Tiddy, iddy, &c.

_Cap._ Humbug! Do you two young ones ’spose I’ll have this billing under my very nose? Vile Montague, begone, or you shall sweat! I’m on my native heath, my name is Capulet.

_Jul._ Give me my Romeo, or I shall die: I’ll cut him up in little stars--

_Rom._ Oh, my!

_Cap._ No, no, my child, you’ll cut up no such capers: Do you want to figure in the Boston papers? Go home and sew, and so your morals mend: This fool I’ll straight about his business send. If you two marry--why, then, I’m a noodle, Who dare dispute me--

_Song. Tomb opens, and MERCUTIO appears as Yankee Doodle. (Allegorical dress of America.)_

_Mer._ Only Yankee Doodle! Old man, within my home across the water, I’ve had my eye upon your handsome daughter, And sighed to think that two fond lovers here Should find a home within a tomb so drear. And so I’ve opened it to have it aired: Really, old gent, you should have it repaired. Being on a yacht race in “The Henrietta,” To give you a passing call, I thought I’d better. I’m of a race that likes to see fair play: My fair one, can I serve you any way?

_Rom._ Why, that’s Mercutio!

_Mer._ Shut up, will you, now! I’ve only doubled, don’t you make a row.

_Rom._ But you were killed--

_Jul._ And now have come to life.

_Mer._ Some one spoke, I think--

_Rom._ It was my wife.

_Mer._ Don’t puzzle yourselves, I’ll straightway make it clear. You know the Spiritualists hold meeting here; You rapped me, and I went, is that not plain? So with another _wrap_, I come again.

_Cap._ Entranced youth, you are not wanted here, So quickly you had better disappear. I want my daughter--

_Mer._ So does Romeo too; And he shall have her straight, in spite of you.

_Cap._ Come, sir, you meddle! Mind what you’re about! I’m a belligerent--

_Mer._ Oh! that’s played out. It will not do all wrongs to redress: You’ll find America in any mess. So, Romeo, take your wife, and pack your bag; We’ll give you shelter ’neath a starry flag.

_Rom._ What say you, Juliet? shall we westward go? Speak up, my darling, do not color so.

_Jul._ I like those colors well, I do confess: Those stripes are just the style of my new dress.

_Rom._ To seek that blissful land, I think we’d orter.

_Jul._ But I’m so horrid sick upon the water!

_Mer._ Come, Capulet, your blessing I command; Then pack up trunks, and off for Yankee land.

_Cap._ What! end a tragedy without a death? It’s horrible: you take away my breath!

_Mer._ Then we shall have one sure, let’s move along: We’ll end our tragedy with a yachting song.

_Finale, “A Yankee Ship and a Yankee Crew.”_

A Yankee yacht and a Yankee crew, Tally, hi, ho, you know, Can beat the world on the waters blue. Sing high, aloft and alow. Her sails are spread to the fairy breeze, The spray sparkling as thrown from her prow; Her flag is the proudest that floats o’er the seas; Her way homeward she’s steering now.

_Chorus._--A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew, &c.

_Curtain._

[1] Half a cheese box covered with cotton cloth, on which is painted a very jolly face, with the letters S. T. 1860 X. upon it, illuminated by a candle placed behind, and drawn up by a pully and string, is the original moon prepared for this piece.

[2] The pianist or leader of the orchestra.

THE GREAT ELIXIR.

CHARACTERS.

WALDIMER WIGGINS (the seventh son of a seventh son). GUNNYBAG GREENBAX, } Wiggins’ patients. NERVOUS ASPEN, } MAJOR FINGERS (a discontented Bridegroom). CHARLES FREEDLEY (a dissatisfied heir). HARRY QUILLDRIVER (an author). HERBERT EASEL (his friend). DENNIS MCGRATH (the Doctor’s help). BOB (the Doctor’s boy).

COSTUMES.

_Wiggins._--Eccentric gray wig, with cue, white necktie, crimson vest, dressing-gown, and slippers. _Greenbax._--Long brown coat, gray wig, broad brimmed hat. _Aspen._--Brown wig, nankeen pants and vest, dark coat, hat and cane. _Fingers._--(Very short man.) Undress uniform. _Freedley, Quilldriver, and Easel._--Modern costume. _Dennis._--Red wig, white jacket, yellow vest, dark pants.

SCENE.--_Wiggins’ Office. Table, C. Chairs, R. and L. of table. Entrances, R. and L. Letters and bottles on table._

_Enter WIGGINS, L._

_Wiggins._ I am a lucky man! I should like to know how many times an hour, by the most approved rules of computation, that sentence escapes my lips; to how many mirrors have I uttered those memorable words; how many sheets of paper have been devastated with that _multum in parvo_ of sentences, I am a lucky man? Look at me, Waldimer Wiggins, seventh son of Waldimer Wiggins, the blacksmith, who was the seventh son of Wigglesworth Wiggins, the cooper. I, who have been knocked about the world like a shuttlecock, buffeted by everybody and everything; who never saw but one schoolhouse in all my life, and that from the outside,--here am I puzzling all the learned doctors, creating a frenzy among the apothecaries, and setting the whole town to taking medicine by the pint, quart, and even demijohn, and hauling greenbacks into my capacious pockets with an agility and velocity that would astonish the father of greenbacks. I am the lucky possessor of the greatest remedy of modern times,--a medicine that will cure anything and everything, anybody and everybody; and where there is nothing to cure, will make something, and then cure that. Men praise it, women dote on it, and children cry for it. I am the lucky possessor of this treasure, and yet I never received a diploma, or even amused myself with the graceful but rather monotonous exercise of the pestle and mortar. As I before suggested, it’s all luck. I’ll tell you all about it (_seats himself familiarly before the audience_). Like Byron, that beautiful but dyspeptic poet, “I had a dream.” It was one night after I had partaken of oysters. I generally indulge in a light supper before retiring. Upon this occasion it consisted of cold chicken, mince pie, pigs’ feet, and, as I before remarked, oysters. I had retired to my downy couch, when the following striking tableau was presented in a vision. I beheld the great Barnum, surrounded by greenbacks. On his right were the Albino woman and Joyce Heath, on his left, Tom Thumb and his Bride; while the “What is it?” a little elevated, was crowning the great showman with a wreath of posies. Of course my attention was first attracted to the free exhibition of curiosities, but after a careful examination of them, my eyes were fixed upon the great “Supporter of the Moral Drama,” by whom I was greeted with this characteristic original remark, “How are you, Wiggins?” to which I answered, as is customary in all polite circles, “How are _you_, Barnum?” “Wiggins,” said he, “do you want to make a fortune?” to which I responded, “I do.” “Then look in ‘The Daily Slungshot,’ outside, first column, top line, and obey the injunction there given.” I thanked the great man, signified to him that I thought him an immense individual, but that he could not keep “The Aquarial Gardens.” He pronounced my remark very of _fish_ ous; and with this scaly joke, vanished. I awoke, purchased “The Slungshot,” sought the designated spot, and read this cabalistic word, “Advertise.” It was enough. I remembered a recipe an Indian woman had given me when a child. It was for curing corns. I resolved to make a fortune from that. Now everybody is not afflicted with corns; so, to have a striking effect on all diseases, I call my medicine “The Great Elixir,” and warrant it to cure everything. I might easily show you how all diseases are first taken into the system through the medium of corns, but as it would take some time to convince you, I will not make the attempt. Advertising has done the business for me, and now everybody is taking The Great Elixir and blessing the name of Waldimer Wiggins. (_Rises, takes a seat at table R., and opens letters, making memorandums on each as read._) Now, here is a string of correspondents that would puzzle a regular physician, but which I, with my superior skill, can dispose of in a very few moments. (_Reads._) Hm! an old lady has fits. (_Mem._) Take The Elixir three times a day. (_Reads._) An old gentleman with a bald head wants his hair to grow. (_Mem._) Apply The Elixir externally and internally three times a day. (_Enter DENNIS, L._) Well, Dennis, what is it?

_Dennis._ Faith, I don’t know; there’s the kitchen fire don’t burn at tall, at tall, and there’s a gintleman wants to say the dochter.

_Wiggins._ Show the gentleman in here, and put “The Great Elixir” on the fire. If that wont make a blaze, then nothing will. (_Exit, R., with letters._)

_Dennis._ Faith it’s an illigant man is the dochter. It’s the--the learning he has onyhow, and it’s the fine physic he makes. The Great Elixir. Put it in the fire? by my sowl, I will do that same; and--and in the blacking and in the soup. It’s meself that has a mind to take a wee dhrap meself, for the sthrong wakness I have for Judy Ryan. Bless her purty face! (_Enter CHARLES FREEDLEY, L._)

_Charles._ Did you tell Dr. Wiggins I wished to speak with him?

_Dennis._ Indade I did, sir, and he’ll say yez in a minute. (_Exit, L._)

_Charles._ So this is the office of the Great Doctor. Great Fiddlesticks! He’s no more a doctor than I am, and he shall own it, too, before I’ve done with him. There’s my Aunt Hopkins, whose heir I expect to be, crazy about this Dr. Wiggins. Calls his “Great Elixir” delightful, and vows she will leave him a legacy. Now I have set my heart on possessing all the property of Aunt Hopkins, and have no idea of parting with it to such a humbug as this; and here I am on a voyage of discovery, which will, I hope, end in the unmasking of this quack. (_Enter WIGGINS, R., slowly, his eyes fastened on an open book in his hand._)

_Wiggins._ Why is the privacy of the Seventh Son of the Seventh Son thus intruded upon?

_Charles._ Privacy? Why, aint you a regular physician?

_Wiggins._ I am, very _regular_. My office hours are from 10 A. M. to 2 P. M. The balance of my time is devoted to the study of the human system; to poring over the open book of nature, or to gazing in quiet, tranquil solitude upon the sublime spectacles performed by stars of the first magnitude.

_Charles._ Oh! you mean at the theatres.

_Wiggins._ Theatres, sir! No, sir, the study of the heavens is enough for my inquiring mind. What want you with me?

_Charles._ I have a very painful malady.

_Wiggins._ What is it?

_Charles._ An itching sensation in my hand. (_Aside._) Itching to get hold of you.

_Wiggins._ Let me look at it (_offering to take it_).

_Charles_ (_raising his arm quick, hits the doctor in the stomach_). It hurts me when I raise it thus.

_Wiggins_ (_jumping back_). Oh! confound you! Then why in the deuce do you raise it thus?

_Charles._ I want it cured.

_Wiggins_ (_looking very wise_). Let me see. Mars in the seventh heaven, and Jupiter in an eclipse, Venus in a brown study, and Mercury in the blues. Young man, the stars tell me you can be cured.

_Charles._ Much obliged to the stars. How?

_Wiggins_ (_speaking very quick, as though repeating an old story_). By a plentiful application of “The Great Elixir,” which will cure coughs, colds, burns, bruises, consumption, fits, fevers, earache, heartache, headache, toothache, corns, bunions, etc., etc. Whose virtues are known and appreciated from one end of the continent to the other. Prepared under the special directions of the stars, and sold by all respectable druggists at the low price of one dollar a bottle.

_Charles_ (_aside_). Just as I thought, an ignorant quack. (_Aloud._) I will procure a bottle, and give it a fair trial. (_Aside._) I’d sooner take poison than his infernal stuff. (_Exit, L._)

_Wiggins._ It is thus that science blesses her devotees with the glow of success. (_Looking at watch._) 10 o’clock! We must prepare for the patients. Here, Dennis (_Enter DENNIS, L._), prepare the paraphernalia.

_Dennis_ (_puzzled_). The what is it?

_Wiggins._ Prepare the paraphernalia.

_Dennis._ Yis, sir, directly (_going, L._).

_Wiggins._ Where are you going?

_Dennis._ For the razor, sir.

_Wiggins._ Razor! What do you want of a razor?

_Dennis._ To pare your nails ouv course. You wouldn’t expect me to bring an axe.

_Wiggins._ Oh, pshaw! Set out the table and put the instruments upon it; it is time to receive patients.

_Dennis._ Oh, yis, sir. (_Aside._) Why don’t he spake his mother tongue in the first place (_sets table in C., takes from a drawer in the table a long carving-knife, a saw, and other instruments, places them upon the table. Wiggins seats himself at back of table pompously. Bell rings outside_).

_Wiggins._ Our first patient. Show him in, Dennis.

_Dennis._ Yis, sir. (_Exit, L._)

_Wiggins._ Talk about your colleges! What is the good of them while there’s newspapers to advertise in, and people with throats large enough to swallow anything. (_Enter DENNIS with GREENBAX, L._) Hallo, who’s this?

_Dennis._ Here you are, sir; that’s the doctor; be quick, for he’s awful busy.

_Greenbax._ Dizzy! I should think so; it’s enough to make anybody dizzy climbing so many stairs. Where’s the doctor?

_Dennis._ There he is in his place!

_Greenbax._ Wrong place! Why didn’t you tell me so before?

_Dennis._ What a stupid ould man.

_Wiggins_ (_coming forward_). Here’s a queer customer. What do you want?

_Greenbax._ Hey?

_Wiggins._ Do you want the doctor?

_Greenbax._ Of course I do (_going_).

_Wiggins._ Hold on, I am the doctor.

_Greenbax._ Hey?

_Wiggins._ I am the doctor.

_Greenbax._ Yes, yes, I want the doctor.

_Wiggins_ (_very loud_). I am the doctor. Stupid!

_Greenbax._ No, no! Dr. Wiggins, not Dr. Stupid.

_Wiggins_ (_shouting_). I am Dr. Wiggins. Who are you?

_Greenbax_ (_holding out his hand_). Pretty well, I thank you; a little deafness for you to cure, that’s all.

_Wiggins._ How long have you been so?

_Greenbax._ Yes, it does look like snow, but I think it will turn to rain.

_Wiggins._ How long have you been in this condition?

_Greenbax._ Awful bad condition. I went over shoes in mud getting here.

_Wiggins._ Oh, pshaw! what’s to be done with him? (_Still louder._) Does your deafness increase?

_Greenbax._ Hey?

_Wiggins_ (_shouting_). Do you keep getting worse?

_Greenbax._ Oh, yes! I keep a horse,--fast one, too.

_Wiggins._ I am speaking about your ear.

_Greenbax._ Yes, I’ve had him about a year. He has the heaves a little.

_Wiggins_ (_shouting_). I’m talking about you--you--you!

_Greenbax._ Me! oh, no! I never had the heaves.

_Wiggins._ Oh, dear, dear! what shall I do? (_Shouting._) Have you ever tried The Elixir?

_Greenbax._ No, sir, I never do. The hostler he licks her sometimes.

_Wiggins_ (_desperately takes bottle from table_). Here, take this three times a day.

_Greenbax._ Certainly, with pleasure. I’ll take it to Mr. Day. Go right by his house.

_Wiggins_ (_shouting_). No, no; take it yourself.

_Greenbax._ Oh, yes; for my ear.

_Wiggins._ Apply it externally and internally.

_Greenbax_ (_looking at bottle_). It does have an infernal look. Oh, I’ve tried this, it wont do. Must have something stronger,--something to shake me up.

_Wiggins._ I must try something else. What shall it be? I’ll mix something to warm him up. I will return in a moment. (_Exit, R._)

_Dennis._ What an ould heathen! he’s as deaf as ould Mother Mullin’s cow, that was so deaf she couldn’t say straight. What’s the matter wid his ears? they’re long enough onyhow. (_To Greenbax._) Servant, sir!

_Greenbax._ Hey?

_Dennis._ It’s a fine day, sir.

_Greenbax._ No. Nothing to give away. Go to the poorhouse.

_Dennis._ Poorhouse, is it, you thaif!

_Wiggins_ (_outside_). Dennis!

_Dennis._ Coming, sir. Away wid yez, you deaf ould haddock. (_Exit, R._)

_Greenbax._ So many beggars about. Strange the police will allow it. (_Re-enter DENNIS, R., with a phial._)

_Dennis._ I’m to give the deaf fellow, then, this bottle, and he’s to follow the directions. What’s that? (_Reads label._) “To be well shaken before taken.” Faith, my boy, I’ll do that same for yez. (_Seizing Greenbax and shaking him._) Ye’d have me go to the poorhouse, would yez?

_Greenbax._ Murder, murder!

_Dennis_ (_shaking him_). Howl away, ye spalpeen. ’Twill help the circulation.

_Greenbax._ Murder, murder!

_Dennis._ Once more, ould man, and then ye’ll do.

_Greenbax._ Murder, help, murder! (_Enter WIGGINS, R._)

_Wiggins._ What are you doing, you scamp?

_Dennis._ Faith, obeying orders, to be sure. “To be well shaken before taken.”

_Wiggins._ You stupid blockhead! I meant the medicine, and not the patient.

_Dennis._ Oh, murder! I thought it was the ould man.

_Wiggins_ (_shouting_). I’m sorry this happened; ’twas all a mistake.

_Greenbax._ Yes. It was a pretty good shake.

_Wiggins._ My man will be more careful in future. (_Gives him phial._)

_Greenbax._ Shall I take this?

_Wiggins._ Yes, morning and night.

_Greenbax._ Oh, no! I wont get tight. I belong to the temperance society. Good-by. (_Exit, L._)

_Wiggins._ There’s one disposed of. Who’s the next, Dennis?

_Dennis._ Mr. Aspen, the shaky gintleman.

_Wiggins._ Oh, yes! Show him in, Dennis. (_Exit DENNIS, L._) My nervous patient; we must shake _him_ up a little. (_Re-enter Dennis with Aspen, who is very nervous; drops first his hat, in picking that up drops his cane, and then his gloves (to be continued). Wiggins takes his seat at back of table. Dennis sits R. of table, and during the scene with Aspen flourishes the carving-knife, scrapes it on the table, etc., to frighten Aspen._)

_Wiggins._ Good-morning, Mr. Aspen. Take a seat. How do you feel this morning?

_Aspen_ (_sits L. of table_). Oh, I don’t know, I guess--I think--I should say--I must be-er--kind-er--sort-er--I don’t know.

_Dennis._ Faith! He’s getting no better very fast.

_Wiggins._ A decided improvement. How much of the Elixir have you taken?

_Aspen._ Two dozen bottles.

_Wiggins._ Not enough. You must take a gross.

_Dennis._ Not enough. You must take a gross (_flourishing knife_).

_Aspen_ (_shaking_). A gross? Oh, dear!

_Wiggins._ Perhaps a barrel.

_Dennis._ A barrel (_flourishing knife_).

_Wiggins._ Your nervous, bilious organization is completely prostrated by sudden and repeated attacks of dorrammomphia, and an enlargement of the ambigular excrescences in the influctions of the cornicopia.

_Dennis._ D’ye mind that now? (_knife._)

_Wiggins._ You must continue the Elixir night and day, and in six or seven years you will be entirely cured.

_Dennis._ Yes, skewered (_knife_).

_Aspen._ But it makes me so horrid sick.

_Wiggins._ What if it does?

_Dennis._ What if it does? (_knife._)

_Aspen_ (_rising_). Well, no matter, I’ll take it. Take a barrel of that nasty stuff. Oh, dear! (_Exit with Dennis, L._)

_Wiggins._ That is one of my best patients. With a little moral suasion, I shall be able to make him swallow a hogshead of the Elixir. (_Enter Dennis, L._) Well, Dennis, who now?

_Dennis._ Major Fingers, sir. (_Exit Dennis, L._)

_Wiggins._ Major Fingers! who the deuce is Major Fingers? It must be a military man. I’m afraid of those chaps. I’ll tell Dennis I can’t receive him. (_Starts for door, L., and nearly upsets Major Fingers, who enters._) Excuse me, sir, I didn’t see you.

_Major_ (_fiercely_). Didn’t see me, stupid, swords and bayonets! Is this the way you receive patients?

_Wiggins._ Excuse me, sir; but you are so diminutive.

_Major._ Diminutive, sir! Look at my face! look at that moustache! Is there anything diminutive about that? I’d have you know, sir, that I am the equal of any man, in intellect, sir.

_Wiggins._ I really beg your pardon. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?

_Major._ My name is Fingers. I called to see you about my wife.

_Wiggins._ Your wife? You mean your mother.

_Major._ Swords and bayonets! sir, what do you mean? My wife, I said. Didn’t you know I was married? I thought everybody knew it. Married in New York. Great _eclat_. Everybody turned out. Married in style, style. Yes, sir, style.

_Wiggins_ (_aside_). What a young bantam.

_Major._ Now, sir, I have come to you on a very important matter. No listeners about, hey?

_Wiggins._ Not a soul.

_Major._ Then listen. When I was married I took a beautiful young lady of my own size. Perhaps you’d like to know the reason. I had been my own master so long that I could not bear to have a woman rule over me, so, although I have had many ladies at my feet, I waited until I met my “Vene.”

_Wiggins._ Your Vene?

_Major._ Yes, my “Vene,”--short for Lavinia, my wife.

_Wiggins._ Oh! I see. Short wife, short name.

_Major_ (_fiercely_). Sir!

_Wiggins._ Oh, no offence intended.

_Major._ Well, sir, soon after my marriage, my “Vene” undertook to tell _me_, her lord and master, that if I stopped out after ten o’clock, she would turn the key on me. Think of that!

_Wiggins._ It’s outrageous.

_Major._ Now, sir, seeing the advertisement of your “Great Elixir,” I have called to see if it will do what it pretends,--a miracle,--and make a tall man of me.

_Wiggins._ Make a tall man of you? (_Aside._) Here’s a job. What’s to be done? I must get him for a customer; he’s rich. (_Aloud._) Yes, sir, the Elixir will cause you to grow right out of your boots. You shall see a specimen of its working. Dennis! (_Enter Dennis, L._) Where’s Bob?

_Dennis._ Down-stairs, sir.

_Wiggins._ Send him up. (_Dennis going._) And hark you, Dennis. (_Whispers._)

_Dennis._ All right. I understand. (_Exit, L._)

_Wiggins._ Be seated, major, and you shall see a specimen of the miraculous effects of the Elixir. (_Enter Bob, with a long cloak on his shoulders and a fur cap on his head._) What are you doing in that rig? Do you think it is winter?

_Bob._ Please, sir, I can’t help it. I’ve got the influendways awful, and I’m so cold.

_Wiggins._ I’ll soon warm you. (_Takes bottle from the table._) Here, show this gentleman its power as a growing medicine. (_Bob takes the medicine and grows._)[3]

_Bob._ Oh, dear! oh, dear! Stop me,--stop me! Give me air,--give me air! (_Exit, L._)

_Wiggins._ Well, major, what do you say to that?

_Major._ It’s wonderful. But will it do the same for me?

_Wiggins._ Certainly it will.

_Major._ Then send a dozen bottles to my hotel, at once. Oh, “Vene,” “Vene,” you shall find _I_ am the head of the family. (_Struts out, L._)

_Wiggins._ That’s a queer case; first of the kind on my list. Hope it will prove a success. (_Enter Dennis, L._)

_Dennis._ There’s two snobs want to see the doctor.

_Wiggins._ Snobs? Come, come, sir, a little more respect.

_Dennis._ Well, then, gents.

_Wiggins._ Bring them in, and I will see them in a moment. (_Exit, R._)

_Dennis_ (_calling, L._). Hallo, you, this way. (_Enter Harry and Herbert, L._) The doctor will see you in a jiffy. (_Exit, L._)

_Herbert._ So, Harry, you have at last followed the fashion and been caught by the advertisement of a quack?

_Harry._ Not caught, as you imagine. The fact is, Herbert, I want something novel for my new play, and hearing this fellow pretends to be an astrologer, I want to know what he can tell me through the medium of the stars.

_Herbert._ Stars? I should think you were pretty well posted regarding them. By the way, what is the plot of your new piece?

_Harry._ About as usual. A man who possesses a secret, another who would go through fire and water to find it out.

_Herbert._ Blood and thunder school?

_Harry._ Rather. But my villain,--he’s a character,--he does the murder admirably.

_Herbert._ Murder! (_Enter Wiggins, R._)

_Wiggins._ Murder! (_Starts back and conceals himself, R._)

_Harry._ Listen. (_In melodramatic style recites._) “He possesses the secret by which I might obtain gold! gold! gold! He keeps me from that secret. But I have him in my power. I am now beneath his roof. I know all the secret windings of the various passages, and at the dread hour of midnight I will steal to his apartment, and with my dagger over his head will shout in his ear, Blood! Blood! Blood! and bury it in his heart. Then the secret is mine and mine alone.” Sh! (_Enter Wiggins, R._) The doctor.

_Wiggins_ (_aside_). Oh, dear! I see it all. I’m a doomed man. It’s all up with me. But I must appear calm. (_Trembles violently._) Wh-wh-wh-at d-d-d-o you w-w-want?

_Harry._ Are you the physician?

_Wiggins._ Yes. That is--no--no--oh! Blood! Blood! Blood!

_Harry._ Blood? I thought it was Wiggins.

_Wiggins._ It is. It is Wh-Wh-Wh-ig-ig-ins.

_Harry._ I have a nervous affection for which I wish to be doctored. A spasmodic moving of the arm at times.

_Wiggins._ Yes, I know. “At the dread hour of midnight.”

_Harry._ What shall I do for it?

_Wiggins_ (_fiercely_). Go home, put your head in a basin of gruel--no--no; put a basin of gruel on your feet and--The dread hour of midnight! Oh! oh! (_Sinks into a chair._)

_Harry._ Why, what’s the matter?

_Wiggins_ (_jumps up_). Matter? Murder, robbery, cold steel! That’s what’s the matter. Go home; stay at home. Your disease is fatal if you stir from home for the next fourteen years, especially (_aside_) at the dread hour of midnight. (_Sinks into chair._)

_Harry._ But the remedy, your great secret?

_Wiggins_ (_aside_). There it is, my great secret (_jumping up_). Go home, I say. Do as I tell you, or your life isn’t worth a lucifer match.

_Harry._ This is a very queer doctor. Come, Herbert, let’s go. I will call again, when you are more calm and quiet. (_Exit Harry and Herbert, L._)

_Wiggins._ Yes, I know, “at the dread hour of midnight.” What’s to be done? This sanguinary ruffian who is bound to obtain the secret of “The Great Elixir.” I always had an idea that I should be martyred for the knowledge I possess. I wish I was rid of the Great Elixir. Oh, Wigglesworth Wiggins, I wish you had been in the seventh heavens, ere you had made me the seventh son of a seventh son! (_Enter Dennis, L., with lunch on a waiter._)

_Dennis._ Here’s your lunch, sir (_places it on table_).

_Wiggins._ Lunch! A pretty time to think of lunch. (_Aside._) I must make a confidant of Dennis. Perhaps he can assist me. Dennis!

_Dennis._ Yes, sir.

_Wiggins._ What would you do to get hold of such a secret as that of the Great Elixir?

_Dennis._ Faith! I’d go through fire and water to get a hould of it.

_Wiggins_ (_aside_). Oh, murder! Suppose he should forestall the ruffians! Would you shed blood, blood, blood?

_Dennis._ No, no, no, divil a hape.

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

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

_Wiggins._ What’s to be done?

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

_Wiggins._ But they know a secret entrance.

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

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

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

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

_Wiggins._ Do? Why, get a divorce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Wiggins._ Why here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Dennis._ Somebody’s stole his watch.

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

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

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

_Major._ Oh, dear, me! where’s mine?

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

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

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

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

_Dennis._ Watch! Watch!

_Major._ Barnum! Barnum!

_Charles._ Villain, confess your sins at once.

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

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

_Wiggins._ Well, well, I am.

_Charles._ Your Great Elixir is--

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

_Charles._ Repeat it before these gentlemen.

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

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

_Greenbax._ What ails the doctor?

_Dennis._ His nerves are a little shaken.

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

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

_Dennis._ Nary at all, at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Wiggins._ Play?

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

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

_Greenbax._ Hey?

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

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

_Wiggins._ You hear that, gentlemen?

_Charley._ What for, Mr. Greenbax?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MAN WITH THE DEMIJOHN.

A TEMPERANCE SKETCH.

CHARACTERS.

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

COSTUMES.

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

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

_Enter PHIL, L._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Phil._ How, pray?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Zeke._ Well, s’pose you take a walk.

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

_Zeke._ A what?

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

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

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

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

_Phil._ Yes: from the Rural District.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Phil._ What’s the joke?

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

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

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

_Phil._ Ned, can you swim?

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

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

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

_Ned._ Can you swim?

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

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

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

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

_Phil._ Let’s take it home at once.

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

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

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

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

_Ned._ Well, well, hurry, hurry!

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

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

_Phil._ But this is horrible.

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

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

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

_Phil._ Here comes the Yankee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Chick._ Spec I will, massa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Zeke._ That demijohn contains--

_Ned_ (_aside_). I’m burning up.

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

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

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

_Chick._ Ow, ow, ow!

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

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

_Chick._ Ow, ow, ow!

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

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

_Chick._ Ow, ow, ow!

_Zeke._ Well, it ain’t that.

_Phil._ Oh, horror! What is it?

_Ned._ Oh, murder! What is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Zeke._ Did you drink from that demijohn?

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

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

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

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

_Zeke._ You want to know the remedy?

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

_Chick._ Yes, massa, de remember me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(_Exit, R._)

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

(_Exit, R._)

_Zeke._ Well, Chick.

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

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

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

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

(_Exit ZEKE and CHICK, R._)

_Curtain._

AN ORIGINAL IDEA.

A DUOLOGUE FOR A LADY AND GENTLEMAN.

IN TWO PARTS.

CHARACTERS.

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

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

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

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

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

_Stella._ Good gracious! you here again?

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

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

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

_Stella._ You Festus?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Festus._ To entertain you.

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

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

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

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

_Stella._ You won’t suit.

_Festus._ You haven’t heard me.

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

_Festus._ Will you hear me read?

_Stella._ No: you will not suit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you like that?

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

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

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

_Stella._ Oh, do read some thing else!

_Festus._ Certainly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Stella._ A compliment! Well, I agree.

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

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

_Festus._ Ah, a pocket edition!

_Stella._ (_Reads from the handkerchief._)

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

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

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

There, sir! what do you say to that?

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

A LAY OF REAL LIFE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Stella._ That is certainly more sombre. Proceed.

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

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

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

_Stella._ A raven?

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

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

_Festus._ I should be delighted to hear it.

_Reading. “Maud Muller.” STELLA._

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

_Stella._ How?

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

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

_Festus._ Suppose we read together.

_Stella._ Together?

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

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

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

_Stella._ Indeed! I have studied the character.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Festus._ Indeed!

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

_Festus._ Shall we try the scene?

_Stella._ You must prompt me if I fail.

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE FROM “THE MARBLE HEART.”

(_Arranged for this piece._)

_Marco_, STELLA. _Raphael_, FESTUS.

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

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

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

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

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

_Marco._ I will not answer you.

_Raph._ But you must, you shall!

_Marco._ (_Disdainfully._) Shall!

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

_Marco._ He did.

_Raph._ And you accepted?

_Marco._ (_Coldly._) Yes.

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

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

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

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

_Raph._ Pitied, Marco!

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

_Raph._ Marco, Marco! in mercy--

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

_Raph._ Forbear, Marco, forbear!

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

_Raph._ O misery!

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

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

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

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

_Marco._ Raphael!

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

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

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

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

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

_Marco._ (_Alarmed._) Raphael!

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

_Marco._ Are you going to Paris?

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

_Marco._ Take my carriage.

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

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

_Re-enter RAPHAEL._

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

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

_Marco._ Nay, I am sure--

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

_Marco._ Raphael!

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

_Marco._ My wreath?

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

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

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

END OF PART I.