[Fopdoodle smells of hartshorn, and Whetstone drinks out of a flask.

Scythe.

Time! One, two,—fire!

Fopdoodle.

Humpbacked sham!

Whetstone.

Infamous liar!

Fopdoodle.

You man in buckram! You rambling sham! You blue sham, three-cornered sham, catalectic sham! You panting, rampant sham, black sham, white sham, speckled sham!

Bluegrass [to Scythe].

Stop him! He has opened the menagerie. Foul, foul! He has fired a whole sham battery.

Whetstone.

I’ll slay him on the spot. You catacomb! you catastrophic, cataleptic, catacoustic cat! Pooh! you spotted poodle, you freckled poodle, you yellow-brindled poodle! dogfish! you dogmatic-dogwood-doggerel dog.

[Lightning and thunder.

Tom [supporting Fopdoodle].

Good master, bear up. ’Tis only a shower of cats and dogs.

Fopdoodle [fainting].

Give me a drink of tiger’s blood!

Bluegrass [to Whetstone].

See, you have struck him; he is falling.

[Fopdoodle falls, clasping his dictionary.

Scythe [to Tom].

Run quickly. Catch me a sheep in yonder field. By transfusing blood from its veins to his, I’ll make the weak brave, the faint alive. [Taking up a surgical instrument.] Now, great Science, help me!

Tom.

Good master, I go to get the sheep.

[Exit Tom.

Bluegrass.

Long live and let live the literary duel!

[Lightning and thunder. The scene closes while Whetstone, Bluegrass, and Scythe gather around Fopdoodle, administering to him.

Scene III.—The Glen of Ferns. Midday.

Enter Ideal.

Ideal.

See how great Nature lavishes in this
 Hard wrinkle in the globe a subtle and
 Refining power, as if it were the open
 Volume of the earth with fern-clad cliffs
 For lettered pages. Here the glad sun comes
 In his most favoring hour, with impress of
 A God, in splendor sparkling down the glen.
 Ye ferns that spring along these cliffs with light
 And airy grace, see but my Violet,
 And ye shall take a new and tender charm.
 Yon rainbow, in the sportive mist above
 The cascade glowing, well a brighter bow
 Might grow when it doth catch the arch words of
 Bright Violet. Ye berries crimsoning
 On yonder bushes, were ye roseate
 As are the ripe red lips of Violet,
 Wise men a holiday would take, and go
 A-berrying. E’en weeds along the cliff
 Were like some pretty fault in Violet,—
 Sweet contrast growing but for beauty’s foil.
 Be free and happy, all created things;
 Ye singing birds, your melodies attune;
 And ye, blithe squirrels—Peeping Toms of trees—
 From out your leafy coverts peep, and I’ll
 Not jealous be.

Enter Violet, at top of rustic stairway.

Ay, there she comes, fair Violet!

Violet.

Heigh-ho! Why art thou down so low?

Ideal.

That I may upward gaze at thee. For as
 One in the deep bottom of a well, above
 May see a star at midday, so do I
 See thee from the deep bottom of this glen.

Violet.

With fancy thou dost blithely scale this stair,
 As doth some heavenly singer; yet thou seest
 Thou art still at the bottom of the glen.

Ideal.

Let us be like two notes in music blent;
 Thou high, I low; yet both in sweet accord.

Violet.

Truly, thou art my Ideal. But, alack!
 I’ve called thee by thy name.

Ideal.

Give thou it me, and I will bear no other.

Violet.

Thou hadst it long ago.

Ideal.

To be thy Ideal more real were
 Than to achieve all other reals.

Violet [archly].

Alas! the hard vicissitudes of life!

Ideal.

Why, how now, Violet? I’ll bear them all.

Violet.

All hard vicissitudes?

Ideal.

All.

Violet.

I have an uncle.

Ideal.

If he’s a hard vicissitude, I’ll bear him too.

Violet.

I’ll go tell my uncle. [Going.]

Ideal.

Nay, hold. Within thy words, as in the cinctured
 Filaments of lace thou wear’st, I see the fine
 Transparent tracery of gossamer
 Designs. In such a web I’d fain be caught.

Violet.

And I’d fain catch thee.

Ideal.

Come, let us walk within this pleasant glen;
 And if we weary,—on a mossy bank,
 In the cool shade of interlacing leaves,—
 We’ll watch the gentle coquetry between
 A burning sunbeam and a shaded fern.
 There’s not a fern-leaf, berry, blade of grass,
 Nor flower, but I’ll gather it for thee.
 If at thy feet it grow, then I’ll kneel there;
 If higher, in a crevice of the cliff,
 Together we will reach for it, and in
 The touching of our finger-tips it shall
 Part company with earth in ecstasy.
 And if, above, thou dost but gladly view
 That most sky-kissing flower, the heavenly bluebell,
 Which with transparent hue embellishes
 The summit of the cliff, why, I’ll climb there.

Violet.

And leave me in the lone recesses of the glen?

Ideal.

If thou didst not detain me with thine eyes;
 For if, in climbing upward, I looked back,
 I’d see the sky and bluebell in thine eyes,
 And so return to thee. Come, Violet, come.

Violet.

Ah, me! See what a deep, deep stair it is.
 [Aside] Aloof the bluebell, lovers joy to see.
 [Aloud] I’ll not descend.

Ideal.

Then I’ll invoke
 The spirit of this lovely glen, that dwells
 In yonder rock, to aid in my petition.

[Turns and calls to rock on further side of glen.

Come, Violet!

[An echo is heard repeating Violet.

Violet.

I think I hear my uncle calling;
 I must go. Adieu!

Ideal.

Think not so. I but now called Violet,
 And what thou heard’st was the far echo of
 Thy name, that’s borne by yonder rock from out
 This cheering vale to listening hills beyond.
 It is a wanton, merry rock that doth
 Delight to sweetly hold discourse in doubling
 Of thy name. But as it hath no beard
 Upon its face, except a fringe of ferns,
 I’ll not be jealous. For such gentle service,
 Violet, give not the rock the hardness
 Of thy uncle’s heart; but stay.

Violet.

Between thee and the rock, I almost am persuaded.

Ideal.

Sweet Violet, do not go,—be persuaded
 Altogether; for although this is
 A sheltered glen, with pleasant sunshine tempered,
 Yet from thy coldness I would perish as
 A homeless midnight traveller, embedded
 ’Mid bewildering snowbanks.

Violet.

Say not so; for if thou, my dear Ideal,
 On such a cruel, frosty bank lay dying,
 And I were Violet beneath the snow,
 As violets do often grow, I’d call
 On all the powers in stars above and in
 The earth below to move the frosty barrier.
 I’ll come to thee.

[The scene closes while Violet descends the stair, and Ideal advances to meet her.

Act the Fifth.

Scene I.—A room at the Dolphin Inn. Evening.

Enter Whetstone with Bluegrass in black dress as his shadow.
Each with guitar and song-book.

Bluegrass.

A day and night,—and now another day hath waned for our recuperation; and our adventures have flown on lightning wings to Cornville. Now do we start on new emprise.

Whetstone.

Major Bluegrass, this serenade must be played on the hard-pan. Put me through to-night, and I’ll make you half-owner of the Cornville Eagle.

Bluegrass.

Trust me, I’ll be your musical secretary! With the Eagle and Ninon, I could soar through life like a bird.

Whetstone.

And I’ll soar with Violet. Why, hello! I’ve forgotten all about Susan. Where’ll I leave Susan?

Bluegrass.

Susan! Your housekeeper! Why, what takes you back to Cornville at such a sky-crisis as this? The great point in a flight of romance is never to approach earth. Susan! Why, Susan will tarry here below and superintend the cuisine, so that you and Violet may have a warm repast when you come down from your sky-parlor.

Whetstone.

I wonder what Susan will say when I bring home my bride.

Bluegrass.

As one good man should say to another, first bridle your bride.

Whetstone.

Why, Major, Susan and I were young together, and we loved, or thought we did. She wanted to marry, I wanted to wait; consequence, compromise. I engaged her as my housekeeper. There’s romance for you!

Bluegrass.

’Tis an ancient parallel.

Whetstone.

In our serenade, what shall I do?

Bluegrass.

The guitar you hold you cannot play; hence I’ll do the mechanical upon the strings, while you twit the circumambient air from the bridge musical of your instrument. And if you’d prove me with a double burden, I’ll bear both words and music; in which event you’ll give the color and visible gesture of description. Stand you beneath some close-leaved tree, where the night overlaps, and I’ll be concealed near you in the shrubbery. Later, I’ll emerge behind you, as your true shadow.

Whetstone.

All right, I’ll give the motions. Now, let’s see what we have in the song-book. [Opening song-book.] Here’s the Midnight Serenade; and Beauteous Lady I Adore Thee. That’s business. Here’s a whole grist of meeting songs: [reading] Meet Me at the Lane; Meet Me by Moonlight; Meet Me, Darling, in the Dell; Meet Me down by the Sea; Meet Me in the Arbor; Meet Me in the Twilight. Where’ll this end? Meet Me ’neath the Slippery-Elm Tree. Meet Me in the Willow-Glen. Why, Major, the earth is covered with meeting-places. But wait! [Examining book and pondering.] What book-carpenter did this work? Here’s Black-Eyed Susan—[aside] Susan has brown eyes—[aloud] sandwiched between Paddle your own Canoe and the Pirates’ Chorus.

Bluegrass.

He was a ship-carpenter who did his work ship-shape.

Whetstone [reading].

Comin’ thro’ the Rye, Comin’ thro’ the Rye,—that sounds homelike. Major, my boy, sing and play while I act it.

Bluegrass sings and plays Comin’ thro’ the Rye, while Whetstone
accompanies with pantomime.

Bluegrass.

Demosthenes the Athenian, being interrogated, replied that action makes the orator. I may add that it makes the singer.

Whetstone.

You’re right. [Examining song-book.] Here’s a whole nest of love-songs: Love, Beautiful Love; Love in a Cottage; Love Launched a Ferry-boat.

Bluegrass.

’Tis not ferry-boat, but fairy boat.

Whetstone [reading].

Love is at the Helm.

Bluegrass.

That’s when love’s at sea.

Whetstone [reading].

Love is like the Morning Dew.

Bluegrass.

We’re approaching land again.

Whetstone [reading].

Love’s Perfect Cure.

Bluegrass.

We don’t need it.

Whetstone [reading].

Love’s the Greatest Plague.

Bluegrass.

Hold on! yes, we do.

Whetstone [reading].

Love Me Little, Love Me Long; Love, Love, oh, what is Love? Major, my boy, that settles it. We must find out. Hurrah! I feel like a new man! Let’s be going! If I fail, Northlake shall not have a dollar. Violet’s the only collateral he can put up. If I don’t get her, I’ll take the next train to Cornville and marry Susan on the spot. She’s been a good housekeeper to me these many years; and once when I was sick she bathed my feet in hot water and mustard, and put a hot flannel around—I think it was my throat; and her elder-blossom tea can’t be beaten.

Bluegrass.

Do you falter?

Whetstone.

No; I’ll have what I want. You remember the bay colt that cost me five thousand dollars? People thought I was a fool, but I wasn’t.

Bluegrass.

You were a horse diplomat.

Whetstone.

Exactly. I saw points, and now the colt has a great record. I see points about that girl Violet that no one else sees. She’s an extraordinary girl, a thoroughbred, and I’ll back my judgment with my money.

Bluegrass.

What if she don’t take kindly to you?

Whetstone.

Watch me closely, and you’ll see me win her to-night. What’s the use of money, if you can’t get—points, my boy, when you want them? And yet—

Bluegrass.

And yet what?

Whetstone.

And yet Susan has points too. She can roast a goose splendidly,—and that elder-blossom tea! But enough of this. Away to serenade.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—A dining-ball in Northlake’s Villa. Pompey and Hannibal arranging dining-table.

Pompey [merrily].

Yah! yah! I say, Hannibal, Lake Shore’s g’wone up. I make pile money on dat happy shore, shure. Stocks am de ting to put de money in de stockin’.

Hannibal [gloomily].

So! so! I lose pile money on dat Hudson Ribber. My banker telegram fo’ moh margin every fifteen minutes fo’ foh hours. De agony of dem hours I can nebber tell you, Pompey. De telegram-wire, and de tongue of lightnin’, holler, Moh margin! Hudson Ribber g’wone down,—moh margin! I and de ole woman scrape and scrape, and empty de big stockin’ bank dat de old woman hab under de bed fo’ de rainy day; still it holler, Moh margin! And den de old woman raise de washtub ’gainst her lawful husband. I nebber tink dat ribber railroad could sink so fast. Pompey, it am de fashion to condumdole wid your misfortunate neighbor; how much you condumdole wid me, Pompey?

Pompey.

You hear me, chile! I lose moh money on dat Hudson Ribber dan you ebber see.

Hannibal.

Why, honey, how am dat? You hab no Hudson Ribber stock.

Pompey.

I was g’wone down de ribber on de canal-boat, when I losed it. Yah, yah!

Hannibal.

Pompey, you am too friv’lous and vis’nary fo’ de bus’ness man,—fo’ de stock op’rator.

Pompey.

Hannibal, I hab de call on you. Now let us confabulate togedder like sensible people. Ober two hours ago, I see de mess’nger boy bring de telegram. It ware from Mr. Northlake’s banker, and it read: You made five hundred thousand dollars to-day on Lake Shore stock. Now you hab seen Mr. Northlake cast down, way down,—tremendously, moh dan usual, fo’ ’bout a month,—way down, ’cause he lose all his own and Miss Violet’s fortune speculatin’,—way down; but when he read dat, he smile like de little chile; and he say to me: Pompey, dere’ll be a surprise-party yere to-night. Spread de banquet fo’ de guests. And now we doin’ it, ain’t we?

Hannibal.

I’m glad ob dat, fo’ Miss Violet’s sake, and de tings she gibs me; but dis am de point I must determinate before de limbs work easy: Ware am de margin g’wone dat I don’t hab,—de one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents?

Pompey.

Dat, chile, am g’wone ware de weasel’s g’wone wid de egg.

Hannibal.

Dat am a big weasel to get away wid one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents. I’ll write my banker, shure, in de mornin’ ’bout de wrong p’ints he gibs me. Dat’s my p’intin’ ’pinion ’bout him. Maybe he’ll loan me it back again,—dat one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.—The lawn in front of Northlake’s Villa.

Enter Whetstone and Bluegrass, with guitars, stealthily
advancing through the shrubbery, and appearing upon the lawn.

Bluegrass.

Now do we stand upon the green lawn of fresh enterprise. Stand yourself ’neath yonder tree, and fix your eyes on the balcony [Whetstone takes position accordingly], while I, from behind this green projecting wing of shrubbery, project our ripening song [moving behind the shrubbery]. First, our song of salutation, with fresh words.

Bluegrass, under cover of the shrubbery, sings and plays, while
Whetstone accompanies with pantomime.

The moon is on the hills,
 The glow-worm’s in the grass;
 The nightingales have bills,
 The owls have singing-class.

Bluegrass ceases singing while Whetstone continues
pantomime.

Whetstone.

Give me more words!

Bluegrass.

I’ve forgotten the rest, and therefore take a rest.

Whetstone.

Look! the door is opening. [Door partly opens, and Pompey shows his head.] Great thunder—a black walnut!

Bluegrass.

Vanish, thou black January! [Pompey vanishes.] We’ll strike a mellower melody, and yonder balcony shall bear fruitage brighter than October. The prize of the troubadours in the courts of love was the golden violet.

Whetstone.

Give me no more sentimental nonsense. Sing a song of business.

Bluegrass.

That’s clever. I feel the inspiration. I’ll improvise a matter-of-fact descriptive ballad illustrating the moral maxim, Business before love.

Bluegrass sings and plays; Whetstone accompanies with pantomime,
and joins in singing last line of each stanza.

Katie and Jack got up at morn,
 And she came with two ears of corn,
 And he came with his brassy horn,
 To drive the ducks to market, O!
Now Katie’s ducks were white as snow,
 But Jackie’s ducks were black as crow;
 So o’er the hills away they go,
 Driving the ducks to market, O!
Then Jackie blew his brassy horn,
 And Katie shelled her ears of corn,
 While the rooster crowed upon the thorn,
 Driving the ducks to market, O!
Now Katie loved, and so did he,
 And he his horn hung on a tree;
 Oh, they were glad as the busy bee,
 Keeping the ducks from market, O!
The moon fell down behind a hill;
 The sun winked at the miller’s mill;
 The lark got up upon his quill,
 Keeping the ducks from market, O!
Alas! alas! green grew the grass,
 The duckies, hunting garden sass,
 Fell in a trap. Alas! alas!
 Keeping the ducks from market, O!

Then he cried chuckie, duckie, O!
 Then she cried duckie, chuckie, O!
 But oh, alas! it was no go,
 Driving the ducks to market, O!

MORAL.

The moral’s plain as the bumble-bee,
 Clear on the top of a tall tree.
 Oh, wait! if lovers you may be;
 First drive your ducks to market, O!

Enter Violet upon the balcony.

Violet.

I plainly see there’s business in this night. [Perceiving Whetstone.] Why, ’tis the self-same knight that did bedight another night, but far more musical. There’s a sad want of unity here, as no music, however rich, can me unite to yonder knight. [Addressing Whetstone.] Do my two eyes behold that Mayor Whetstone, of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the Mississippi?

Whetstone.

You do behold with two, unless with one you kindly wink upon me, which I half believe you do.

Violet.

Is thy meaning double or single?

Whetstone.

Sweet Miss Violet, I have been a man with an eye single to business, but who would double his business.

Bluegrass.

Don’t give her any quandaries.

Violet.

Why, thou hast changed thy voice!

Whetstone [aside].

Major, you rascal, assume my voice!

Bluegrass [assuming Whetstone’s voice].

Sweet Violet, it is the air, that’s sometimes tuneful and sometimes not, that doth effect the change.

Violet.

Thou art an artful man.

Bluegrass [assuming Whetstone’s voice].

Sweet Violet, ’tis even noted so.

Whetstone [aside].

Confound you, ’tis not so!

Bluegrass [assuming Whetstone’s voice].

I meant to say the air is so.

Violet.

If thou sowest the air with so, so, thy harvest will be no, no. The air upon this balcony well balances its fruitage.

Whetstone [aside].

You villain, we’re caught!

Violet.

I’ll not complain if thou wilt sing me another song.

Whetstone [aside].

Major, you rascal, another song!

Bluegrass [aside].

I don’t know any more.

Whetstone [kneeling].

Sweet Miss Violet, upon this green grass I vow to love you as long as grass grows. Oh, Miss Violet, you’re too young to know what you may lose. You may lose the real Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the real Indians reeling down the real Mississippi.

Violet.

Rise, thou mighty chief of merchandise. I set much store by thee.

Whetstone [rising and aside].

Major, my boy, did you hear that?

Violet.

Great Prince, it is my humor to be enamoured of thy union of business and romance. [Calls to Ninon within. Ninon enters. Bluegrass leaves the shrubbery and goes behind Whetstone, as his shadow.] Take no leaves from my shrubbery. What is’t that’s back of thee, Prince?

Whetstone.

’Tis but the shadow cast from me by the moonlight.

Violet.

The tree ’neath which thou standest is cedrine, and its laced boughs, filtering the moonlight, cast an interlacing shadow on the lawn; upon this plot, now, in part, a deeper shadow rests, like shadow upon shadow.

Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with pantomime].

’Tis but a shadow, ’tis but a shadow cast from me by the moonlight.

Ninon.

I hear ze voice of ze shadow, ze pretty shadow. Oh, zat I had ze shadow up on ze balcony! Charmant!

Violet.

Fie, Ninon, what wouldst thou with the fleeting shadow of this Merchant Prince? Thou hadst not even the shadow of sentiment.

Ninon.

Dear mistress, I see ze rainbow in ze shadow. Superbe!

Bluegrass [aside].

I’ve been too long a shadow.

Whetstone [aside].

You rascal, make yourself shorter!

Bluegrass.

Black slave that I am, thus to serve this merchant prince of merchandise!

Whetstone.

I’m a solid man, and my shadow lies solid.

Ninon.

Poor shadow, come off ze cold, cold ground!

Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with
pantomime].

The shadow is slave to the substance. Who can separate them? None. Who can separate them? None,—none but Ninon.

Violet.

Ninon, ’tis marvellously good,—but we must go. [Slowly going.] Good-night alike to substance and shadow. Yet, stay! [Advancing.] Didst ever study arithmetic?

Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with
pantomime].

Addition I have at my finger-tips. [Counting notes upon his guitar.] One, two, three, four, five. Multiplication I have by heart.

Whetstone [aside].

Throw in all the multiplication-table.

Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with
pantomime].

Come, come, let us learn, let us sing. Come, come, let us learn the multiplication-table. Come, let us sing the multiplication-table.

Violet.

Thou art too multitudinous, and wert born for the opera; yet I will give thee a problem that thou shalt solve, not with thy digits, but with thy pedals. I will teach thee subtraction, and separate thy shadow from thy substance by plane trigonometry.

Whetstone [aside].

Major, steady! Listen for the click of the trigger.

Violet.

A triangle is a sweet instrument in the mathematics of love; for oft, about the first of April nights, I’ve watched the merry wild geese in the sky flying northward in musical and far-sounding triangles.

Whetstone.

I know them well. I have one in my brass band in Cornville.

Violet.

And yet triangulation by moonlight were a pleasant death, betwixt substance and shadow. Ninon, girl, quick! bring me my bronze-covered trigonometry.

[Exit Ninon.

Whetstone.

Hold on! There must be some mistake here. Please don’t pull any trigger on us!

Bluegrass [aside].

And make angels of us!

Whetstone.

Hold on, Miss Violet! I don’t want to be an angel yet.

Violet.

There’s no fairer weapon than a book, and I’ll make no angel of thee.

Bluegrass [aside].

Let’s cap the climax and capitulate.

Re-enter Ninon, with book.

Ninon.

Mistress Violet, here is ze book.

Violet.

I do not need it now. My memory serves me as well. Prince, fear not; trigonometry is a peaceful art that maids may practice, and thou beneath my patient yoke shalt help me draw this triangle. One side thereof shall be betwixt thy stationed shadow and myself, another ’twixt thy shadow and thyself, and the base side thereof shall be the distance ’twixt thee and me,—whose baseness shall increase if it decrease.

[Pauses.

Ninon.

Kind mistress, wilt thou have ze book?

Violet.

No book can help me. Now do I pause [pausing], for in this triangle one angle is obtuse and two acute; but my good angel shall help me. ’Tis better to be right than be acute; therefore it shall be a right-angled triangle. [To Whetstone.] Hence move you backward in the light. [Whetstone moves backward.] But also from your right. [He moves from his right.] Ninon, girl, see, the shadow doth not follow!

Bluegrass.

Now from this angle do I see my angel.

Ninon.

I know ze shadow, ze rainbow, ze major, ze grand lover!

Violet [to Whetstone, who has moved until he forms a right angle
with Bluegrass and Violet].

Move no further. Thy shadow keeps no pace with thee, and fear might well oppress a wondering maid less mathematical. Ninon, take and reflect upon yon shadow. ’Tis thy sum total, and a happy one.

Enter Fopdoodle.

Fopdoodle.

Dear Miss Violet, I’m cured. The sheep’s blood is all out of me. Pa says I may bring you home with me; and Ma says I am a lamb with a golden fleece, but I must not alarm them by bleating—ba-bah. I have been badly off—but I assure you I am shorn of my malady. There is no longer any impediment of speech to our happiness. Oh, how I want to be a noble husband! Dear Miss Violet, may I, may I address you up so high, and I down so low? May I? May I?

Violet.

Thou hast too many Mays in thy calendar, but thou mayst have a cold March ere thou comest to a timely May.

Fopdoodle.

Star of Violet, come down to the earth. No, no. O earth of black, go up to the star of Violet. Yes, yes; but the earth can’t do it. What the deuce is the proper thing? Well, well—

Violet.

Thy question lies at bottom of a well too deep for a maid to fathom, looking down from a balcony.

Fopdoodle.

Dear Miss Violet, may I come up?

Violet.

Thy ardor is alarming!

Fopdoodle.

Dear Miss Violet, my servant, Tom, has a ladder waiting for me, and I will climb to thee. Don’t be alarmed; I am harmless, O dazzling Violet!

Violet.

Lovers should have in their hearts ladders of words better than any made with hands. Where is thy ladder?

Fopdoodle.

[Calling to Tom, around the corner] Tom, my man, bring your master love’s ladder.

Tom.

Good master, I come.

[Tom enters with a ladder and sets it against the wall.

Fopdoodle.

Don’t let it slip! Tom, my man, stand firm.

[He ascends.

Tom.

I obey, good master.

Bluegrass [sings in recitative and plays].

See! see! the bold burglar. Help! help! He ascends! he ascends!

Fopdoodle [halting].

I—I—I, Augustus Fopdoodle, a bad burglar man! I—I, the son of my father, Fopdoodle! Pray, sweet Miss Violet, who are those rude, bad men?

Bluegrass [sings in recitative and plays].

We are a triangle, and we’ll make a parallelogram of you. We are—we are—an accurate right-angled triangle, and we’ll make, we’ll make, a p-a-r—par, a-l—paral, l-e-l—parallel, o—parallelo, g-r-a-m—parallelogram—of you.

Whetstone.

Get down off the ladder!

Fopdoodle.

’Tis the voice of the barbarian, Whetstone,—my animal noun, my enemy!

Enter Jack.

Jack [to Fopdoodle].

Put the ladder back in the garden!

Fopdoodle.

Help me, good Jack!

[Jack takes hold of ladder, and Fopdoodle tumbles
from it.

Fopdoodle [rising].

O dazzling Violet, my heart’s in ruins, and I’m turned down.

[Fopdoodle, Jack, and Tom move a short distance with
ladder; when Tom holds, and Fopdoodle leans upon it.

Enter Scythe, observing no one, and with hand-net, in pursuit of
a night-beetle buzzing in the air.

Scythe.

Where flies the beetle, I pursue. There, I hear it now! [The buzz of a flying beetle is heard.] Lovely night-beetle! Now you rise, and now you sink in curving flight. [He pursues, listening, till the sound ceases.] Now you’ve rested on a night-blooming flower, and I’ll approach more softly than lover does a dreaming maid, nor wake with rude-paced step your finer sense of airy motion. [He advances cautiously in search.]

Violet.

See, Ninon; he sees no one. In our time let maids be jealous. Science has its votaries as deeply rapt as love’s suitors.

Scythe [stopping, and observing the beetle on a flower].

What a rare and beautiful specimen for the Academy! Since early eve I’ve followed in the moonlight, through gardens, groves, and lawns. Now I’ll capture thee. [He throws his net over the flower, but the beetle, escaping, flies away with a buzzing sound, while he watches its course through his glass.] ’Tis a peerless beetle, with wings of purple filigreed with gold and silver, which leave in sparkling flight a trail of light. I’ll follow it till morning, but I’ll capture it.

[Exit Scythe in pursuit, and without having observed any one.

Violet.

Alack! few lovers are so ardent in their pursuit, and some do lag most grievously. [To Ninon] One was to come to-night, beneath my window, whom I’ve yet not seen.

Ninon.

But see, my mistress, something is coming up ze orchard path.

Violet [intently observing].

’Tis distant, and yet ’tis bigger than a man’s hand. Why, Ninon, ’tis a man. How near wouldst thou say he is?

Ninon.

Courage, my mistress! he has ze fleet pace of ze lover.

Enter Ideal.

Ideal.

Dear Violet, in hastening by the orchard path to meet thee ’neath thy window, I was detained by thy sweet sisters of the field, which sprang along my path in myriad gayety, while I in blissful fantasy did win them; and here, accompanied with my love, I tender thee this bunch of golden-hearted violets.

Violet.

Why, ’tis my Ideal! I’ll ne’er forsake thee; for were I to forsake my Ideal, that which were forsaken were better than that which were taken. To thee I’ll swift descend, and, descending, I’ll ascend.

[Exit Violet.

Ninon [following].

And I’ll descend to ze grand Major, for ze willing mistress makes ze willing maid.

[Exit Ninon.

Whetstone.

Major, I’m for a flank movement. We’re in the heat of battle. Let’s head them off! Let us on! She’s a prize! She’s a thoroughbred! What points she has! See the points and angles she gave us. She’s worth all! [Enter Violet and Ninon, who are joined by Ideal and Bluegrass.] She must not escape me; I’ll throw in the Eagle.

Bluegrass.

Hold! Not the Eagle.

Whetstone.

The bank, the steeple, the stores, the Academy, my farm on Pearl Creek,—all, all, everything,—but I’ll have her!

Ninon.

Dear Major, save ze Eagle!

Bluegrass.

Fear not; we’ll always share ze Eagle between us.

Ninon.

Ze grand Major will not share ze Eagle,—cut ze fedders off?

Bluegrass.

Never, my child of innocence, never! We’ll have one sparkling hearthstone, one sprightly boudoir, one full panoplied Eagle.

Ninon.

Oui, oui, très joli! charmant!

Enter Northlake and Catharine.

Northlake.