The Art of Amusing / Being a Collection of Graceful Arts, Merry Games, Odd Tricks, Curious Puzzles, and New Charades. Together with Suggestions for Private Theatricals, Tableaux, and All Sorts of Parlor and Family Amusements.

Enter some passengers, running and hailing car. Bell rings, by knocking goblet with spoon. Car stops.

Passengers rush towards car. Gentleman is in the act of stepping on car when bell rings, and car suddenly starts off, throwing gentleman violently to the ground. Great screaming and wailing; friends gather round and try to raise him; find he is insensible; all immediately begin shaking their fists at conductor; then simultaneously they bethink themselves of the propriety of taking the number of the car. All draw out their memorandum-books and commence writing. Conductor and driver make gestures of defiance.

Grand tableau.

ACT II.

—— Pet.

Dramatis Personæ,

Husband and Wife.

Enter lady poutingly, followed by her husband, who tries to coax her into a good humor, but without avail. She persists in being in a pet. Husband

by his gestures promises to buy her shawls,

dresses,

a piano,

and even

a riding-horse.[A]

Finding all these promises are of no use, he begins to get excited; declares she shall have nothing; lady remains sulky; gentleman seizes his hat, rams it on his head, and exits. Lady walks off in the opposite direction, clenching her fists.

ACT III.

Carpet.

Dramatis Personæ,

Irishman.     Colored Man.     Servant Girl.

Scene—Street-door of fashionable house—door-plate of white paper on door bearing the name of Swab.

Enter colored man,[A] with his face well spotted with whitewash, who rings at door of fashionable house.

Irish servant appears with her sleeves rolled up and her dress pinned in the form of a dress-coat behind. She turns up her nose at darkey, who humbly intimates that he has called for the carpet. Girl slams the door in his face. Colored man considers this outrageous conduct, as he has been specially requested to call for orders, and produces the following note from Mr. Swab:

He points to note and name on door to show he has come to the right house.

Enter Irishman, who approaches Mr. Swab's door and rings bell; reappear girl, who smiles as she produces a roll of carpet. Cuffy steps forward and expostulates, showing Mr. Swab's letter. Irishman pitches into Cuffy, and a furious fight ensues, in which the girl joins with a broom.

THE END OF CARPET.

CATASTROPHE.

Enter cat (head done up in brown paper, with cat's face painted on it, brown paper ears, tail made out of lady's boa, black silk handkerchief, or any suitable thing).

Cat commences to meow and caterwaul. Old gentleman appears at window with nightcap on and sheet wrapped round him, and shakes his fist at cat. Cat continues to make a noise.

Old gentleman gets very angry, shakes both his fists, withdraws into room, reappears with hair-brush, which he throws at cat. Cat continues to make a noise. Old gentleman commences a fusilade of boots, books, combs, and toilet articles generally. Cat makes more noise than ever, putting up her back and spitting at the objects as they fell around her. The old gentleman is almost in despair, when suddenly a bright idea strikes him, which he expresses by pantomime, placing his finger to the side of his nose and winking. He disappears from the window. Presently is heard the rattling of a chain and barking of a dog.

Enter dog, barking furiously, and pursues cat out of yard. Old gentleman rubs his hands with glee, and pats dog on head. Dog frisks about.

ACT II

Ass.

Dramatis Personæ,

Ass.     Rag and Soap-fat Man.     Servant Girl.

Scene—Public Street.

Enter rag and soap-fat man dragging donkey after him. Donkey dragging cart made of chair with bandbox-lid wheels, cart filled with odds and ends of tinware, old rags, etc. Donkey very obstinate; driver beats him with roll of stiff paper. Servant hails soap-fat man and offers for sale several large jarsful of drippings, sheets, pillow-cases, etc., belonging to her mistress. They chaffer for some time over the bargain, but finally agree upon a price. The money (all copper pennies) is about to change hands when the donkey, close by, gives an unearthly bray, which, to their guilty consciences, sounds like the voice of some avenging spirit; both scream, drop the money on the floor, and rush off; donkey turns round and runs off too.

ACT III.

Trophy.

Dramatis Personæ,

Soldiers.

Scene—A camp, tents made of sheets hung over chairs, etc.

Enter soldiers, leading prisoners, and bearing ragged and shot-torn flag on broomstick, band playing trumpets (sheets of music rolled up), and beating drums (tin pails); they halt and form in line; the officer, by suitable gestures, calls attention to the trophy.

Enter general and staff. General makes a speech, pointing to the trophy, and then decorates their captain by pinning a medal (a circular soda-cracker fastened to a bit of red ribbon will do) on his breast. All strike an attitude, and the scene closes.

ACT IV.

Catastrophe.

Dramatis Personæ,

Gentlemen.     Ladies.     Horses and Policemen.

Scene—Central Park.

A superb carriage, made out of the lounge with bandbox-lid wheels, and drawn by a span of spirited bay gentleman, is discovered; an elegant youth is seated on the box driving, whilst the carriage is filled with a gay and festive party of youthful ladies and gentlemen.

Presently the horses become restive, plunge wildly about, and, in spite of all the efforts of the driver, dash the vehicle against a post; the inmates scream and tumble out. Enter two policemen, who seize the horses, put the driver on his legs, and carry the rest of the party to the hospital on stretchers made of the clothes-horse.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Nix has for some time past made himself very wearisome with continual allusions to Vishnu, Siva, Buddhism, and so forth. We gained one idea, however, from his jest. We have written a Hindoo play, the plot of which turns on the love of a devout Brahmin. The play is entirely finished save the last act, which is complete up to the point where Neer Je Haun declares his love for the Unblown Rose.

THE LAST ACT OF THE PLAY.

We took our play to the Adams' to-night, and told Bud that it was nearly completed, but we were in some embarrassment how to conclude it. We had consequently come to consult her on the subject, begging at the same time she would give it her most careful attention, as her decision was of vital importance. We were alone. We had read the whole play through with the utmost care, till we came to the final sentence in our manuscript, where the hero declares his passion for the Unblown Rose. It runs thus:

Neer Je Haun. "Light of my soul, whose voice is sweeter than the murmur of the Ganges, whose name is incense to my nostrils, whose eyes are brighter than the fire-flies by night—my highest ambition is to be thy slave, my greatest hope to guard thee from harm, to bask in the radiance of thine eyes. For thee I would sacrifice all other earthly happiness. When I pray thee to share my humble fortunes, turn not away thy proud head; parch not my soul with scorn, though well I should deserve such a fate for my temerity."

Now turning to Bud, we asked her to decide what answer the lover should receive; should he be accepted or rejected?

"Oh, accepted, of course!" eagerly exclaimed Bud, her bright eyes kindling with sympathy for the ardent Hindoo.

"It is well!" we replied, and wrote down the maiden's answer.

"I will trust my life in thy hands from this day till death."

"Is that right?" we asked.

She said it was, though perhaps a little cold.

We then drew from our breast pocket one sheet of the manuscript she had not yet seen. It was the title of the play:

THE WORSHIP OF BUD.

Bud colored—looked at us in an embarrassed way, and then with much hesitation was about to speak, when we stretched out our hand and said:

"You will not make us alter what we have written?"

She gave no answer, but from the pressure of her hand we knew we need doubt no more.

Now this heathen idolator would not change places with the greatest Christian monarch in Europe.

THE END.

"There is a kind of physiognomy in the titles of
books no less than in the faces of men,
by which a skilful observer will
know as well what to expect
from the one as the
other."—Butler.

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