The Great Elixir.
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 rebound 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.)