_Stella._ _You_ excel in love-making! That’s good. But I must say, you

act it well.

_Festus._ Yes--that is--I think that circumstances--occurring--which

would make--circumstances--perfectly--that is, I mean to say

that--circumstances--indeed--what were you saying?

_Stella._ Ha, ha, ha! O mighty Festus! you’ve lost your place; but, as

you have a partiality for love-scenes, what is your next?

_Festus._ What say you to a scene from “The Hunchback”? “The secretary of

my lord”? You know the scene,--“Julia” and “Sir Thomas Clifford.”

_Stella._ Oh, yes! I am familiar with it; but I think, as an applicant

for a situation, you are making me perform more than my share of work.

_Festus._ Oh! if you object--

_Stella._ Oh! but I don’t object. Proceed. (_Sits, L. of table. FESTUS

exits, L._)

SCENE FROM “THE HUNCHBACK.”

(_Arranged for this piece._)

_Julia_, STELLA. _Sir Thomas Clifford_, FESTUS.

_Jul._ (_Alone._) A wedded bride?

Is it a dream?

Oh, would it were a dream!

How would I bless the sun that waked me from it!

I am wrecked

By mine own act! What! no escape? no hope?

None! I must e’en abide these hated nuptials!

Hated!--ay, own it, and then curse thyself

That mad’st the bane thou loathest for the love

Thou bear’st to one who never can be thine!

Yes, love! Deceive thyself no longer. False

To say ’tis pity for his fall,--respect

Engendered by a hollow world’s disdain,

Which hoots whom fickle fortune cheers no more!

’Tis none of these: ’tis love, and, if not love,

Why, then, idolatry! Ay, that’s the name

To speak the broadest, deepest, strongest passion

That ever woman’s heart was borne away by!

He comes! Thou’dst play the lady,--play it now!

(_Enter CLIFFORD, L._)

Speaks he not?

Or does he wait for orders to unfold

His business? Stopped his business till I spoke,

I’d hold my peace forever!

(_CLIFFORD kneels, presenting a letter._)

Does he kneel?

A lady am I to my heart’s content!

Could he unmake me that which claims his knee,

I’d kneel to him,--I would, I would! Your will?

_Clif._ This letter from my lord.

_Jul._ Oh, fate! who speaks?

_Clif._ The secretary of my lord.

(_Rises._)

_Jul._ I breathe!

I could have sworn ’twas he!

(_Makes an effort to look at him, but is unable._)

So like the voice!--

I dare not look lest there the form should stand.

How came he by that voice? ’Tis Clifford’s voice

If ever Clifford spoke! My fears come back.

Clifford, the secretary of my lord!

Fortune hath freaks, but none so mad as that.

It cannot be!--it should not be! A look,

And all were set at rest.

(_Tries to look at him again, but cannot._)

So strong my fears,

Dread to confirm them takes away the power

To try and end them. Come the worst, I’ll look.

(_She tries again, and is again unequal to the task._)

I’d sink before him if I met his eye!

_Clif._ Wilt please your ladyship to take the letter?

_Jul._ There, Clifford speaks again! Not Clifford’s breath

Could more make Clifford’s voice; not Clifford’s tongue

And lips more frame it into Clifford’s speech.

A question, and ’tis over! Know I you?

_Clif._ Reverse of fortune, lady, changes friends:

It turns them into strangers. What I am

I have not always been.

_Jul._ Could I not name you?

_Clif._ If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold

When hollow fortune called him favorite,

Now by her fickleness perforce reduced

To take an humble tone, would suffer you--

_Jul._ I might?

_Clif._ You might.

_Jul._ O Clifford! is it you?

_Clif._ Your answer to my lord.

(_Gives the letter._)

_Jul._ Your lord!

_Clif._ Wilt write it?

Or, will it please you send a verbal one?

I’ll bear it faithfully.

_Jul._ You’ll bear it?

_Clif._ Madam,

Your pardon; but my haste is somewhat urgent.

My lord’s impatient, and to use despatch

Were his repeated orders.

_Jul._ Orders? Well (_takes letter_),

I’ll read the letter, sir. ’Tis right you mind

His lordship’s orders. They are paramount.

Nothing should supersede them. Stand beside them!

They merit all your care, and have it! Fit,

Most fit, they should. Give me the letter, sir.

_Clif._ You have it, madam.

_Jul._ So! How poor a thing

I look! so lost while he is all himself!

Have I no pride?

If he can freeze, ’tis time that I grow cold.

I’ll read the letter.

(_Opens it, and holds it as about to read it._)

Mind his orders! So!

Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes!

He serves my lord with all his will! His heart’s

In his vocation. So! Is this the letter?

’Tis upside down, and here I’m poring on’t!

Most fit I let him see me play the fool!

Shame! Let me be myself!

(_She sits awhile at table, vacantly gazing on the letter, then looks at

CLIFFORD._)

How plainly shows his humble suit!

It fits not him that wears it. I have wronged him!

He can’t be happy--does not look it--is not!

That eye which reads the ground is argument

Enough. He loves me. There I let him stand,

And I am sitting!

(_Rises, and points to a chair._)

Pray you, take a chair.

(_He bows as acknowledging and declining the honor. She looks at him

awhile._)

Clifford, why don’t you speak to me!

(_Weeps._)

_Clif._ I trust

You’re happy.

_Jul._ Happy? Very, very happy!

You see I weep I am so happy. Tears

Are signs, you know, of naught but happiness.

When first I saw you, little did I look

To be so happy. Clifford!

_Clif._ Madam?

_Jul._ Madam!

I call thee Clifford, and thou call’st me madam!

_Clif._ Such the address my duty stints me to.

Thou art the wife elect of a proud earl

Whose humble secretary sole am I.

_Jul._ Most right! I had forgot! I thank you, sir,

For so reminding me, and give you joy

That what, I see, had been a burthen to you

Is fairly off your hands.

_Clif._ A burthen to me?

Mean you yourself? Are you that burthen, Julia?

Say that the sun’s a burthen to the earth!

Say that the blood’s a burthen to the heart!

Say health’s a burthen, peace, contentment, joy,

Fame, riches, honors, every thing that man

Desires, and gives the name of blessing to!--

E’en such a burthen Julia were to me

Had fortune let me wear her.

_Jul._ (_Aside._) On the brink

Of what a precipice I’m standing! Back,

Back! while the faculty remains to do’t!

A minute longer, not the whirlpool’s self

More sure to suck thee down! One effort! (_Sits._) There!

(_Recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads._)

To wed to-morrow night! Wed whom? A man

Whom I can never love! I should before

Have thought of that. To-morrow night! This hour

To-morrow,--how I tremble!

At what means

Will not the desperate snatch! What’s honor’s price?

Nor friends, nor lovers,--no, nor life itself!

Clifford, this moment leave me!

(_CLIFFORD retires up the stage out of her sight._)

Is he gone?

Oh, docile lover! Do his mistress’ wish

That went against his own! Do it so soon,

Ere well ’twas uttered! No good-by to her!

No word, no look! ’Twas best that so he went.

Alas the strait of her who owns that best

Which last she’d wish were done! What’s left me now?

To weep, to weep!

(_Leans her head upon her arm, which rests upon the table, her other arm

hanging listless at her side. CLIFFORD comes down the stage, looks a

moment at her, approaches her, and, kneeling, takes her hand._)

_Clif._ My Julia!

_Jul._ Here again?

Up, up! By all thy hopes of heaven go hence!

To stay’s perdition to me! Look you, Clifford!

Were there a grave where thou art kneeling now,

I’d walk into’t and be inearthed alive

Ere taint should touch my name! Should some one come

And see thee kneeling thus! Let go my hand!--

Remember, Clifford, I’m a promised bride--

And take thy arm away! It has no right

To clasp my waist! Judge you so poorly of me

As think I’ll suffer this? My honor, sir!

(_She breaks from him, quitting her seat._)

I’m glad you’ve forced me to respect myself:

You’ll find that I can do so.

_Clif._ There was a time I held your hand unchid;

There was a time I might have clasped your waist:

I had forgot that time was past and gone.

I pray you, pardon me.

_Jul._ (_Softened._) I do so, Clifford.

_Clif._ I shall no more offend.

_Jul._ Make sure of that.

No longer is it fit thou keep’st thy post

In’s lordship’s household. Give it up! A day,

An hour, remain not in it.

_Clif._ Wherefore?

_Jul._ Live,

In the same house with me, and I another’s?

Put miles, put leagues, between us! The same land

Should not contain us.

O Clifford, Clifford!

Rash was the act, so light that gave me up,

That stung a woman’s pride, and drove her mad,

Till in her frenzy she destroyed her peace!

Oh, it was rashly done! Had you reproved,

Expostulated, had you reasoned with me,

Tried to find out what was indeed my heart,

I would have shown it, you’d have seen it, all

Had been as nought can ever be again.

_Clif._ Lov’st thou me, Julia?

_Jul._ Dost thou ask me, Clifford?

_Clif._ These nuptials may be shunned--

_Jul._ With honor?

_Clif._ Yes.

_Jul._ Then take me! Hold!--hear me, and take me, then!

Let not thy passion be my counsellor;

Deal with me, Clifford, as my brother. Be

The jealous guardian of my spotless name.

Scan thou my cause as ’twere thy sister’s. Let

Thy scrutiny o’erlook no point of it,

And turn it o’er not once, but many a time,

That flaw, speck, yea, the shade of one,--a soil

So slight not one out of a thousand eyes

Could find it out,--may not escape thee; then

Say if these nuptials can be shunned with honor!

_Clif._ They can.

_Jul._ Then take me, Clifford--

_Festus._ Stop one moment. (_Looks at watch._) Time’s up.

_Stella._ So soon?

_Festus._ The tone of your voice expresses regret. What is your decision?

_Stella._ My decision?

_Festus._ Upon my application for the situation of reader. Shall I have

it?

_Stella._ Perhaps the terms will not suit.

_Festus._ Madam, I am willing to serve you on any terms. Allow me to

throw off the mask of “Festus,” which of course you have seen through,

and offer myself for a situation under the name of--

_Stella._ Stop: you are not going to pronounce that name before all these

good people?

_Festus._ Of course not. But what shall I do? Stella, I feel that

“Raphael” and “Sir Thomas Clifford” have inspired me to attempt

love-making on my own account. Grant me the opportunity to make

application for the situation made vacant by my unceremonious exit the

other night. Let “Festus” apply once more.

_Stella._ What shall I say? (_To audience._) Would you? He seems to

have found his tongue; and who knows but what he may make an agreeable

beau? I think he had better call again; for to have a lover who can make

love by borrowing, is, at least,--under the circumstances--under the

circumstances--what is it, Festus?

_Festus._ Circumstances? Why, under the circumstances, I should say it

was “_An Original Idea_.”

CURTAIN.

NOTE. The “Readings” and “Scenes” may be varied to suit the

taste of the performers. “The Garden Scene” in “Romeo and

Juliet,” scenes from “Ingomar,” “The School for Scandal,” &c.,

have been used with good effect.

[4] Or the evening of the performance.

“MY UNCLE, THE CAPTAIN.”

CHARACTERS.

MR. SOL HANSCOMB, JR. (landlord of “The Fatted Calf”).

CAPT. NAT SKILLINGS (skipper and owner of the “Jemima Matilda”).

SAM SKILLINGS (his nephew).

PETE WHITE (a colored waiter).

STEVE BLACK (a white waiter).

BOBBY SMALL (a boot-black).

COSTUMES.

_Hanscomb._--Modern.

_Nat Skillings._--Sailor rig; blue pants and shirt, pea-jacket,

old fisherman’s hat, gray wig.

_Sam Skillings._--Dark mixed pants, blue coat with brass buttons,

white hat, shawl, red wig.

_Pete and Steve._--Waiters’ dress, white aprons, wigs to suit.

_Bobby Small._--Red shirt, black pants rolled up, glazed cap.

SCENE.--_Room No. 86,“Fatted Calf” Hotel. Table and two chairs,

C. Entrances, R. and L._

_Hanscomb_ (_outside, L._). Steve, Pete, come, come, hurry, hurry, wake

up! (_Enter, L._) This is really encouraging. The Fatted Calf, just

opened, is rapidly filling up, and such customers, too; real upper

crust,--nabobs, millionnaires, heiresses, generals, majors, captains,

colonels, and all sorts of stylish people! Now let’s look at the

situation. I have on my books already thirty permanent boarders at five

dollars a day. Pretty high for the times, but that draws the style. Of

these thirty, ten will pay up promptly, ten wont pay at all, and the

other ten will be obliged to leave their baggage to settle the bill.

Well, I think that will pay. We must give a wide margin for profit, and

in course of time may make a fortune, or manage to fail for seventy-five

or a hundred thousand, either of which will create a sensation. Where can

those waiters be? Ah, here’s Steve at last, as stiff and pompous as one

of the nabobs whom he delights to wait upon. (_Enter Steve, L._)

_Steve._ Mr. Hanscomb, allow me to present for your inspection this

document just left at the bar, with the compliments of the landlord of

the Hotel Bullock. (_Gives Hanscomb printed handbill._)

_Mr. H._ What is it? (_Reads._) “Stop, thief! Nab him! Strayed from the

Hotel Bullock an individual passing by the singular name of John Smith.”

John Smith? I think I’ve heard that name before.

_Steve._ It has a very _distangue_ air.

_Mr. H._ “Tall, red hair, pale, ferocious-looking countenance; wore,

when last seen, dark mixed pants, blue coat with brass buttons, white

hat, and a shawl. A reward of one cent will be given for the arrest of

the missing individual, and fifty dollars for the recovery of one dozen

silver spoons, which said individual, probably accidentally, took with

him.” So, so, a hotel thief. Mr. John Smith will no doubt pay me a visit;

so, Steve, just keep a sharp look-out for this spoony. (_Enter Pete, R.,

muttering and shaking his head._) Well, what’s the matter with you?

_Pete._ Mr. Hanscomb, I don’t wish to be _troubulous_,--I don’t wish to

be _troubulous_, Mr. Hanscomb, but dar are t’ings, Mr. Hanscomb, dat

stir de heart of man, as Deacon Foster eloquentially distresses himself,

and--and--and--well, what I mean--rile him--rile him.

_Mr. H._ What’s the matter, stupid?

_Pete._ Mr. Hanscomb, you’re my massa.

_Mr. H._ Well, well?

_Pete._ You’re my massa, Mr. Hanscomb, and I s’pose you can call me what

you please.

_Mr. H._ Of course I can.

_Pete._ Ob course, ob course, kase I look upon you as my equel.

_Mr. H._ Well, I’m much obliged--

_Pete._ Don’t apologize; no matter ’bout nuffin; but dat ar hostler

down dar, he’s an ignoramus, down dar, he is, down dar; he’s low and

insultin’, he is. By golly! de imperance of dat feller is distressin’.

He says I’m bound to _asswociate_ wid him kase he’s a man and a brudder.

Guess not, Mr. Hanscomb,--guess not; don’t asswociate wid people dat

smell ob de stable.

_Mr. H._ You attend to your business, and he shall not trouble you.

_Pete._ Dat’s all I ask, Mr. Hanscomb,--dat’s all I ask. Jes’ you keep

hisself to hisself, and I wont say nuffin. I’s perfectly dissatisfied,

but if he jes’ trubble me, I’ll brush him off--brush him off.

_Mr. H._ Well, well, you go about your business.

_Steve_ (_at door, L., looking off_). Here’s a queer-looking customer,

and I’m not sure but what it is our friend, John Smith, of the spoon

adventure; just the dress, even to the shawl.

_Mr. H._ Ah, so soon? Now, boys, look sharp and catch him in the act,--in

the act, mind. (_Exit, L. Pete about to follow._)

_Steve._ Where are you going, Pete?

_Pete._ Going? Going after de axe, ob course.

_Steve._ After the axe! What do you want of the axe?

_Pete._ Cotch dat ar spoon feller. Didn’t massa say be sure and cotch him

wid de axe?

_Steve._ Well, you _are_ an ignoramus.

_Sam_ (_outside, L., in Cockney dialect_). Up this way, eh? Oh! never

mind, Mister, I’ll find the way. First turn to the right, second to the

left, and then keep straight on, and here you are. (_Enter, L._) So this

is eighty-six, first floor from the roof. It’s airy, anyhow. (_Steve,

L., Pete, R., step up each side of Sam with the exclamation, “Take your

baggage!” One seizes umbrella, the other carpet-bag, and start for

entrances, R. and L._) Here, you African, bring back that umbrella, and

you, Mr. Upstart, bring back that valise. I choose to have them under my

own observation.

_Pete._ Don’t you want your wardrobe aired?

_Sam._ No, I don’t want it aired. What’s your name, African?

_Pete._ My name, massa, am White; dey calls me Pete.

_Sam._ And what’s your name, Upstart?

_Steve._ My name is Black; I am called here Stephen.

_Pete._ “Steben, Steben; don’t you bleeb ’im.” He’s called Steeb, short

Steeb.

_Sam._ Well, you cut short, African, and cut off. Do you see that

entrance? Well, you both get outside that entrance instantly. (_Steve and

Pete go to entrance, L._)

_Steve._ Pete, that is John Smith.

_Pete._ No! De spoon feller?

_Steve._ The same. Don’t you see the pants and the coat and the shawl?

’Tis the pettifogger.

_Pete._ Petti who? I fought it was Smiff,--John Smiff.

_Steve._ So it is; look out for spoons. Sh! (_Exit, L._)

_Pete._ Look out for de spoons. Sh! (_Exit, L._)

_Sam_ (_during this speech busies himself taking off his shawl, brushing

his clothes, smoothing his hair, etc._). What ails them objects? They

look at me awful hard; they are evidently not accustomed to the presence

of so elegant an individual in this hotel. So this is an hotel; this is

the first time that ever I was in one. I declare, it’s quite elegant. And

this is Boston, the hub of the universe, as Artemus Ward says. I wonder I

have ever lived to get here, after having been cooped up in that horrid

hole, Dismaltown. It is refreshing to get among civilized individuals.

I’ve passed my whole life in that place without ever seeing anybody or

anything, and I should be there now but for my uncle, the captain; and

somehow I do feel quite homesick when I think of my Annastasia; but

then my Annastasia is not there; she is nearer to me in Boston than in

Dismaltown, for my Annastasia is now on a visit to her aunt in Brighton.

I have received epistles often from the object of my heart’s adoration,

and the last one was particularly interesting. She invited me in the name

of her aunt to come and spend Christmas with her. I was particularly

overjoyed at first, but how was I to get there? The people of Dismaltown

never go anywhere, and I should never have got here but for my uncle,

the captain. My uncle has always been called captain, though he never

went to sea, but for years has been behind the counter of the little

grocery at Dismaltown, where he made some money. Well, my uncle took it

into his head to buy a sloop; so he bought a sloop; it was a very good

sloop for a second-hand one. The sloop was well sold, and so, they said,

was my uncle, the captain. My uncle bought her, and then was bent on

going a voyage in her as skipper, and so he invited me to go with him on

his first voyage to Boston. He never went to sea before, and don’t know

anything about a sloop, and he was awful sick all the way, but he had a

good mate, and he is a beautiful skipper; he talks such sea lingo, and

swears so beautifully, though people do say that he knows no more about

the sea than an owl; but that is all envy. Well, after I got aboard, I

happened to think of one sentence in Annastasia’s letter, which read, “Be

sure to learn how to carve before you come, as uncle is away, and aunt

will expect you to carve the Christmas goose.” What an idea! they might

as well ask me to carve an ox or an alligator. However, when I reached

Boston, I bought a little book on the art of carving, and came up to this

hotel to have a little practice. Look here, African. (_Pete and Steve

have been bobbing in and out of the door, L., during the speech, watching

Sam. Enter Pete, L._) Do you know what a goose is?

_Pete._ Yes, massa; one ob dem two-legged fellers dat flops his wings

jes’ so--dis way--so.

_Sam._ Well, I want one of them.

_Pete._ One ob dem flappers? Live one?

_Sam._ No, ignorance,--roasted.

_Pete._ Yes, massa. (_Calls, L._) Roast goose for 86.

_Sam._ No, no, stupid! Not for eighty-six; I only want it for one.

_Pete._ It’s all right, massa; dat’s what I fought,--dat’s what

I fought. Dar wont but one goose come up here, so decompose

yourself,--decompose yourself. (_Exit, L._)

_Sam._ What horrid grammar that African does indulge in! (_Capt.

Skillings outside--“Ship ahoy! ahoy!” through speaking-trumpet._) There’s

my uncle, the captain. (_Enter Captain, L._)

_Capt._ Shiver my timbers, blast my eyes, and keel-haul _me_, if this

here craft ar’n’t the biggest seventy-four that ever I saw in all my

cruisings. Such a climbing up hatchways and over bulkheads is trying to

the narves of a tar with his sea-legs on.

_Sam_ (_aside_). Now, isn’t that beautiful language? It sounds so briny!

(_Aloud._) But I say, uncle, where’s your tar?

_Capt._ Blast my eyes! Shiver my timbers! Do you mean to insult me? Aint

I the skipper of the “Jemima Matilda,” as stanch a craft as ever sailed

out of harbor, with spanker jib-boom hauled taut, and foretop main-truck

flying at the mast-head?

_Sam_ (_enthusiastically_). Oh, aint he a spanker?

_Capt._ Now, look here, nevy, none of your jokes, or, shiver my timbers,

I’ll disinherit you. Aint I the skipper of the “Jemima”--

_Sam._ Oh, uncle, you said that before.

_Capt._ Blast my eyes, I’ll say it again. (_Enter Steve, L._) Look here,

messmate, I’m a sailor; not one of your fresh-water sailors, but a

regular-built old sea-dog.

_Sam_ (_aside_). Eight days old; hasn’t got his eyes open yet.

_Capt._ I’ve climbed the rigging in the darkest night.

_Sam_ (_aside_). So dark nobody could see him.

_Capt._ I’ve seen the waves roll mountains high.

_Sam_ (_aside_). That’s a great idea.

_Capt._ I’ve been alone in the middle of the ocean in a jolly-boat.

_Sam_ (_aside_). That’s a jolly lie.

_Steve._ Well, captain, what can I do for you?

_Capt._ I say, messmate, did you ever hear of the escape of the “Jemima

Matilda” on her trip from Dismaltown to Puddock?

_Steve._ Never did.

_Capt._ Then, blast my eyes, but you shall now, messmate.

_Sam._ I say, uncle, don’t tell that horrid fiction again.

_Capt._ Fiction! You young dog, I’ll have you court-martialed. (_Steve

takes out tobacco-box and takes a chew._) Well, you must know,

messmate--What you got there?

_Steve._ Tobacco; will you have a chew?

_Capt._ No, I thank you; I don’t chew.

_Steve._ You don’t? Well you are the first sailor I ever saw who didn’t

chew.

_Capt._ I say, messmate, give us a chew. (_Aside._) If sailors chew this,

I can.

_Sam._ Don’t, uncle, don’t chew that horrid stuff; it’ll make you as sick

as a horse.

_Capt._ Shiver my timbers, nevy, what’s the use in being a sailor, if

you don’t do as sailors do? Give us another chew, messmate. Thank ye.

You must know, messmate, that the “Jemima Matilda,” of which I am the

skipper, left the harbor of Dismaltown on the second of July for a trip

to Puddock.

_Sam._ With a cargo of onions.

_Capt._ We hauled off from the wharf wing and wing.

_Sam_ (_aside_). It takes a pretty good sailor to put a sloop wing and

wing.

_Capt._ As the wind freshened, we put more sail on the mizzenmast, and

took a reef in the capstan, and set a hen-coop on top of the caboose,

as a look-out. Then came on a perfect hurricane. We were within the

latitude of forty-two degrees below zero, when I went below to take an

observation. I hadn’t been gone long before there was a cry from the

look-out of “There she blows!” I rushed on deck, and sure enough it

did blow strong from the nor-nor-east, nor-east-by-nor, and the ship

was nearly on her bulkheads. The crew clung around me and entreated

me to save the ship. I alone was calm. I had all the heavy furniture

of my cabin, consisting of a pine table, a musquito netting, and a

looking-glass, brought up and consigned to the waves; but all in vain.

Desperation nerved my arm, and seizing a hatchet, I rushed abaft the

hen-coop, and with one terrific blow cut away--

_Steve._ The mast!

_Capt._ No, three feet of the cook’s stove-pipe. But she righted, and we

were saved. Then a new danger arose on our weather bow. Three fathoms

to windward arose a rock with a shelving surface nearest us even with

the water, but the farthest part rising four feet. We were in danger of

striking, when I rushed to the helm, bore hard on the compass, doused the

binnacle lights, and steered straight for the rock. Fortune favored the

bold manœuvre, for a sudden squall from the sou-sou-west raised the ship

upon the rock. She slid swiftly over, and came down into the water with

such a shock that, blast my eyes, if all the salt junk in the caboose

didn’t turn of its own accord. Give us another chew, messmate.

_Sam_ (_aside_). If my uncle aint a sailor, it isn’t for want of ability

to lie.

_Steve._ Captain, is there anything I can do for you?

_Capt._ Ay, ay, messmate; show me a room, and give me something

comfortable.

_Steve._ Ay, ay, sir! A warm room and a good pipe.

_Capt._ Pipe! Blast my eyes, I don’t smoke!

_Steve._ You are the first sailor that ever I saw who didn’t smoke.

_Capt._ Oh, shiver my timbers, let’s have the pipe!

_Sam._ I say, uncle, don’t smoke a horrid pipe; you’ll be awful sick.

_Capt._ Blast my eyes, nevy, do you take me for a land-lubber? You just

keep a sharp look-out here on the quarter-deck, while I turn in and take

a shot in the locker. Heave ahead, my hearty (_to Steve_), or, shiver my

timbers, I’ll rake you fore and aft. (_Exit Steve and Captain, L._)

_Sam._ My uncle knows a thing or two, but I’m afraid that, with smoking

and chewing, he’ll get awful sick of this sailor business. Ah, here comes

my goose. (_Enter Steve and Pete, L., with table-cloth, dishes, and a

roast goose. They spread the cloth on table, C., and arrange dishes._)

What an elegant spread!

_Pete._ Anything else, massa?

_Sam._ Let me see: there’s no ale; bring me some ale; and--why, there’s

no spoons!

_Steve._ Spoons?

_Pete._ Spo-spo-spo-spoons?

_Sam._ Yes, spoons. How do you suppose an individual is to eat without

spoons?

_Steve._ I’ll bring them, sir. (_Exit, L._)

_Sam._ Well, African, what are you grinning at?

_Pete._ At de goose, massa,--at de goose. (_Enter Steve, L., with

spoons._)

_Sam._ Now leave. Get out. (_Steve and Pete come down._)

_Steve._ Keep your eye on the spoons.

_Pete._ By golly, Steve, if he take de spoons, he must take African too.

(_Exit Pete, R., Steve, L._)

_Sam._ It seems to me that those individuals have a great deal of anxiety

on my account. Well, now to business. Where’s my “Art of Carving”?

(_Pulls small book from his pocket._) Now let me see. No. 1 is the head,

this must be it. (_Points to tail._) No, this is the head. Now for it.

(_Reads._) “Grasp the knife firmly in the right hand,”--that’s so,--“take

the fork in the left;” but what shall I do with the “Art of Carving”?

It doesn’t say anything about that: I’ll fix it. (_Places book on the

table._) Now (_reads_), “stick the fork in No. 8.” That must be No. 8.

“Draw your knife across No. 11”-- (_Enter Pete, R._)

_Pete._ Did you ring, sar?

_Sam._ No, I didn’t ring, you outrageous ignorant--

_Pete._ Beg pardon, sar. Must have been 84. (_Aside._) Spoons are dar.

(_Exit, R._)

_Sam._ Blast 84! What does he ring for just as I’ve got my knife across

No. 11? I must go all over it again. (_Reads._) Put your fork in No. 4,

draw your knife across No. 11-- (_Enter Steve, L._)

_Steve._ Did you ring, sir?

_Sam._ Ring, you blasted upstart? (_Aside._) With my fork in No. 4 and my

knife across No. 11! How was I to ring? (_Aloud._) Ring?--no.

_Steve._ Beg pardon, sir; it must have been 82. (_Aside._) Spoons all

right. (_Exit, L._)

_Sam._ 82 be blowed! This is a queer proceeding. I’ll try it again. Put

your fork in No. 4, draw your knife across No. 11, force yourself, and

off comes the (_pulls the goose on to the floor_) blasted animal. (_Enter

Pete, R., and Steve, L._)

_Pete._ } Did you ring, sir?

_Steve._ }

(_Sam stands by the table trying to hide the goose with the table-cloth,

looking first at Pete then at Steve._)

_Sam._ Ring? Blast your ignorance, no! Where’s your bell?

_Steve._ (_Pointing, R._) There it is, sir.

_Sam._ When I want you, I’ll ring it loud, and open the door,--so get

out. (_Exit Pete, R., Steve, L._) After all my trouble, I must go back to

No. 4. (_Places goose on platter._) No, I wont; I’ll push ahead and trust

to luck. (_During the remainder of this speech tries in various places to

carve the goose._) This is the toughest old gander that ever I saw. I can

do nothing with it. O Annastasia! that leg wont come off. O Annastasia!

if you could only see me now,--I can’t start that wing. Why did you not

ask me to get a horn of the moon, or extinguish the Etna volcano. O

Annastasia!--there’s a piece of the breast; what a horrid looking object!

What shall I do with him? I can’t eat him, and I should get laughed at

if it should be seen. I’ll give him away to some poor individual. (_Looks

out of door, L._) Nobody about--yes, there’s an urchin. Sh! look here.

_Bobby Small_ (_outside, L._) Shine your boots? (_Enter, with box and

brush, L._) Yes, sir, all right; put yer foot there, and I’ll give yer

true Union polish in about forty-five seconds.

_Sam._ I don’t want my boots polished.

_Bobby._ Oh, can’t stand the press? Look ahere, gent, stand on my head,

play yer a tune on my chin, and give yer the Union polish, all for five

cents.

_Sam._ I don’t want your Union polish. I’m an Englishman.

_Bobby._ Oh, yer an Englishman! Say, don’t yer want to go over to Bunker

Hill? Stand on my head, play yer a tune, and carry yer over to Bunker

Hill, for five cents.

_Sam._ I don’t want to go to Bunker Hill.

_Bobby._ Well, say what do you want?

_Sam._ Sh! Do you want a goose?

_Bobby._ Do I want--Say that again, gent.

_Sam._ Do you want a goose? This one?

_Bobby._ What’s the matter with the poor old gobbler? somebody’s been

mauling on him.

_Sam._ Yes, all right, just cooked; here, take him and leave. (_Ties up

goose in a napkin, accidentally slipping in a gravy spoon._)

_Bobby._ Thank yer. I’ll take him right down among the Union Polishers,

and if we don’t polish his bones, my name is not Bobby Small.

_Sam_ (_giving goose_). Well, Bobby, here you are.

_Bobby._ Thank yer, sir; may yer live forever! But I say, can’t I do

something for yer? Stand on my head? No! Play yer a tune on my chin?

No! Union polish yer? Oh! yer don’t like that. Well, when yer do want

a shine, just drop down into Brattle Square. You’ll find me there in

business hours, ready to stand on my head, give yer a tune on my chin, or

give yer the Union polish. (_Sings “Jordan:”_)

“Take off yer coat, boys, roll up yer sleeves,

Spread well de blacking on de boots,

De people bound to shine, and no make believes,

And de Union am de polish dat suits.”

(_Exit, L._)

_Sam._ Well, I’ve got rid of that unfortunate animal, and now let’s see

if I can find my uncle, the captain. (_Enter Pete, L._) Here, African,

clear away this truck. (_Exit, L._)

_Pete._ Clear away de truck? By golly! I t’ink it pretty well cleared

itself, bones and all. (_Enter Steve, L._) I say, Steve, de old gobbler

am clean gone.

_Steve._ Is it possible? Look under the table.

_Pete._ By golly! dere am no goose dar. Dat are feller is a what yer call

him, he is.

_Steve._ What do you mean by a what yer call him?

_Pete._ Why, one of dem fellers, connubial, connubial.

_Steve._ Connubial? You mean a cannibal.

_Pete._ Dat’s what I said, a connubial.

_Steve._ Well, cannibal or connubial, our gravy spoon is missing.

_Pete._ By golly! Steve, it’s Smiff,--John Smiff. Cotch him wid de axe!

cotch him wid de axe!

_Steve._ Here, take these things right down, and tell Mr. Hanscomb. Be

quick, for the gong will sound for dinner in three minutes. (_Enter Sam,

L._) More spoons, monsieur. (_Exit, L._)

_Pete._ More spoons, spoons, monster! (_Exit, R._)

Sam. What does this mean? Oh, horror! a light dawns upon me. Spoons,

spoons! I must have given away one of the spoons with the goose. I

remember there was one in the dish. Oh, heavens! what’s to be done?

They’ll have me arrested. Where can my uncle, the captain, be? I can’t

find him anywhere, and he’s got all the money. Oh, Annastasia, why did

you ask me to learn the horrid art of carving? Oh, what will become

of me? Oh, agony, agony! I’ll ring the bell and disclose all. (_Rings

the bell, R. As the gong sounds outside, Sam stumbles back over the

carpet-bag, then over a chair, falls behind table, and crawls out in

front as the gong ceases._) Oh, what have I done, what have I done? Hear

the crockery go! I’ve pulled down a whole crockery shop. (_Enter Steve,

L._)

_Steve_ (_fiercely_). Did you ring?

_Sam._ No, I didn’t touch anything,--I say, much broke?

_Steve._ Much broke! you’ll find out what’s broke. (_Exit, L._)

_Sam._ What’s to be done? That upstart’s gone for an officer. It wont do

for me to stop here. I’ll make a run of it. (_Starts for door, L. Enter

Steve, with a broom._)

_Steve._ You can’t pass here.

_Sam._ Oh, excuse me; I’ll go the other way. (_Enter Pete, R., with a

paper._) This port blockaded?

_Pete._ Yes, massa, by Burnside. (_Touches him in side with poker._)

_Sam._ Oh, oh, you ignoramus! do you want to torture me?

_Pete._ Only a little game of poker, massa.

_Sam_ (_fiercely_). This is insulting! What do you mean by stopping an

Englishman in this way?

_Steve._ Want to overhaul you, to see if there is anything contraband

aboard.

_Pete._ ’Taint de fust time a British _mail_ has been stopped.

_Sam._ I must submit. What would Annastasia say? It must be that

unfortunate goose. I can’t pay my bill till I find my uncle, the captain.

(_Enter Bobby, stealthily, L., with the goose. Makes frantic efforts to

attract Sam’s attention._) There’s that urchin again. What is he making

such awful faces for?

_Bobby_ (_aside_). The gent gave me a spoon with the goose. It must have

been by mistake, so I brought it back. Perhaps the gent will stand a

dime. (_To Sam._) Sh, sh! I’ve got it.

_Sam_ (_seizing him_). Got it! so have I. Audacious! (_Seizes goose._)

Here’s the goose (_takes out spoon_), and here’s the spoon. Hurrah! I’m

saved. (_Enter Mr. Hanscomb, L._)

_Hanscomb._ Are you? That’s a very ingenious dodge, Mr. John Smith, but

it wont do. Steve, seize that man; and you, Pete, look after the boy.

(_Steve seizes Sam; Pete takes Bobby by the collar._) You’re a handsome

couple, you are! What have you to say for yourselves?

_Bobby._ Look here, contraband, don’t soil my linen. I say, gent, what

kind of a scrape have you got me into?

_Sam._ I am innocent, I am innocent, I am innocent!

_Pete._ Dat’s a lie, dat’s a lie, dat’s a lie! Jest look at dat poor old

gobbler; somebody’s massacred him.

_Hanscomb._ Take them to the station-house at once.

_Sam._ Oh, dear! is there no escape? Oh, Annastasia, if thou couldst only

see the agony of thy unfortunate Samuel! Will nobody save me?

_Capt._ (_outside, L._) O Sammy, Sammy! where are you, Sammy?

_Sam._ My uncle, the captain, at last. (_Enter captain, L., his face very

pale, wrapped in a blanket, and shivering._)

_Capt._ Oh, Sammy, oh, Sammy, I’m so sick! I want to go home, I want to

go home. I went down-stairs, and a chap there as was a sailor wanted me

to go over to Chelsea, and the horrid ferry-boat made me sick, and the

awful pipe made me sick, and I want to go home. (_Falls into Sam’s arms._)

_Sam._ In the “Jemima”?

_Capt._ No, never; don’t let me see the water again, or a ship, or a

sailor. I hate the sea, and I want to go home. (_Falls into Sam’s arms

again._)

_Sam._ But I can’t go; I’m arrested for stealing.

_Capt._ Arrested for stealing! Who accuses the nephew of Capt. Nat

Skillings of stealing?

_Hanscomb._ Capt. Nat Skillings, of Dismaltown, Nova Scotia?

_Capt._ Just so.

_Hanscomb._ I used to know a Capt. Skillings, of Dismaltown, but he was

not a sea captain.

_Capt._ Well, I guess it’s the same man. I sha’n’t be one after to-day.

_Hanscomb._ Captain, don’t you remember your old friend, Sol Hanscomb?

_Capt._ To be sure I do.

_Hanscomb._ Well, I’m his son.

_Capt._ Be you, though? Why, how you have grown! But what have you been

doing to my nephew?

_Hanscomb._ That your nephew! I thought it was John Smith.

_Capt._ Not a bit of it. That’s Sam Skillings.

_Hanscomb._ Not John Smith! I’m confounded.

_Steve._ Not Smith? I’m dumb.

_Pete._ Not Smiff? I’m (_Bobby touches him with the poker, which he has

rescued_) scorched.

_Sam._ Yes, Sam Skillings, who would scorn to do a mean action, but who

accidentally purloined one of this gentleman’s spoons, for which he is

willing to make all possible reparation.

_Capt._ Oh, I see how it is; Sam has been practising the art of carving.

_Hanscomb._ The art of carving? Why, I’ll teach him that in twenty

minutes.

_Sam._ Will you, though? I’ll be greatly obliged to you; so will

Annastasia, and my uncle, the captain, skipper of the “Jemima”--

_Capt._ Sammy, sink the ship. I’ve concluded that the sea don’t agree

with my constitution. I’ll sell her. (_To audience._) Is there anybody

here wants her? She’s A1¾, stanch and well-built, copper-bottomed, and

tarred throughout, especially the cabin; Morgan stock, sound and kind in

harness; will stand all winds, especially nor-nor-east, nor-east by nor,

shiver my timbers--

_Steve_ (_offering tobacco-box_). Have a chew, captain?

_Capt._ (_falls into Sam’s arms._) Oh, Sam, Sam, take me home!

_Hanscomb._ Ladies and Gentlemen, “The Fatted Calf” has been opened under

rather unfavorable circumstances, but if you will give us another call,

you shall find a hospitable landlord--

_Steve._ Accommodating waiters--

_Pete._ Who--who--who will gib you ebery detention, wid--wid--

_Bobby._ De Union polish.

_Sam._ And if a word from me would not be out of place, I would recommend

this house, as I expect to stop here with my Annastasia on our bridal

tour, on which occasion we expect to be accompanied by that extraordinary

seaman--

_Capt._ Oh, Sammy, don’t.

_Sam._ My uncle, the captain.

DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS.

L. Steve, Hanscomb, Capt., Sam, Bobby, and Pete. R.

NOTE.--The characters of Sam and Capt. Skillings were

originally performed as “Cockney Englishmen.” The performers

can use their own discretion,--make them Cockneys by placing

“h’s” before the vowels and dropping the “h’s” where they

belong, or they can be performed as Yankees from down East.

As Artemus Ward says, “You pay your money, and you has your

choice.”

NO CURE, NO PAY: A FARCE.

FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. LANGUISH, a Lady who has lately acquired Wealth.

ALICE, her Daughter.

LUCY AIKEN, }

JENNY CARTER, } Friends of Alice.

SUSAN DEAN, }

BRIDGET, the Queen of the Kitchen.

AUNT MARIA MIDGET, a little hard of hearing.

SCENE.--_Parlor in MRS. LANGUISH’S house. Small table and

chair, L.; arm-chair, C.; rocking-chair, R._

_Enter BRIDGET, L., showing in LUCY AIKEN._

_Bridget._ Tak’ a sate, Miss Lucy, if ye plaze, while I spake to the

young misthress. It’s glad she’ll be to see yer, for it’s a hape of

throuble we have here ony how.

_Lucy._ Trouble, Bridget! Why, what’s the matter?

_Bridget._ Shure, mam, it’s all along of the misthress; she’s too sick

intirely, and is failin’, and failin’, and failin.’

_Lucy._ Mrs. Languish sick? I am sorry to hear that.

_Bridget._ Oh! indade, and indade she is. Ivery breath she draws is

nearer and nearer her last.

_Lucy._ What seems to be the matter?

_Bridget._ An’ shure, ma’m, I dont know, except that she’s failin’, and

failin’, and failin’; an’ its sorry the day whin she fell ill; she’s the

kindest and bist misthress in the world. (_Crying._) Oh, musha, musha!

Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

_Lucy._ Well, well, Bridget, be calm, and hope for the best.

_Bridget._ Faith, and that’s what I’m doin’. Oh, here comes Miss Alice,

the poor disconsilite orphan. (_Exit, L._)

(_Enter ALICE, R._)

_Alice._ (_Running to LUCY and kissing her._) Why, Lucy Aiken! You dear,

good-for-nothing thing! Where have you been all this while?

_Lucy._ It is an age since we met. I must congratulate you, and I assure

you I do, with all my heart, on your altered position. So, the rich and

crusty old uncle, who forgot his relations while living, has remembered

you in his will?

_Alice._ Yes, Lucy; thanks to uncle Caleb, we are rich. And, I assure

you, we were glad to be remembered.

_Lucy._ But, dear me, Alice, what a careless creature I am! How is your

mother? Bridget tells me she is very sick.

_Alice._ Poor mother! this sudden turn in the wheel of fortune has been

too much for her; she is a confirmed invalid. I don’t know what to make

of her. Dr. Tincture can find no symptoms of disease. He says she is in

sound bodily health; her suddenly dropping her usual employments has

occasioned her seeming illness.

[Illustration: NO CURE, NO PAY.]

_Lucy._ Seeming! Why, Alice, you treat lightly what your Bridget seems to

consider a very serious illness.

_Alice._ Well, I do; for I am convinced nothing ails mother. Her head

is turned with the idea that she is an invalid, because she thinks it

fashionable for rich ladies to be ailing, and she has the queerest

notions. I suppose you will laugh, but I am going to tell you her last

freak. She is highly incensed at Dr. Tincture, refuses to see him,

and declares her illness can only be cured by some mysterious agency.

Yesterday she bade me prepare this note to be inserted in the evening

papers. (_Reads._) “NO CURE, NO PAY.--A lady who is suffering from a

disease which baffles the skill of the medical profession, and who is

desirous of testifying her appreciation of the efforts now being made

to institute a school of female practitioners, offers the sum of five

hundred dollars to any female who will cure her. Address, with real name,

‘BEDRIDDEN,’ Station A, Boston Post Office; and remember, No cure, no

pay.” Did you ever hear of such a nonsensical whim?

_Lucy._ What an odd idea! And do you propose to send it?

_Alice._ No, indeed; that is, if I can possibly prevent it. But she

believes it has already gone. Dear me! I wish I could find a way to

frighten her into health again.

_Lucy._ That’s just what you must do. If you will be guided by me, her

cure can be effected. You remember our “Private Theatricals” last winter,

and what fun we had. Let us turn our practice then to profit now.

There’s Jenny Carter and Susie Dean all ready for any harmless sport, I

know. You leave this to me, and I’ll send your mother a few samples of

the new school she so much admires.

_Alice._ Oh, capital! capital! But are you quite sure you can carry out

this scheme?

_Lucy._ Sure. Remember what Richelieu says about “the bright lexicon

of youth,” and leave all to me. Good-by; I must run and see the girls.

Set your heart at rest; we’ll have your mother well before she knows it

herself. Good-by. (_Exit, L._)

_Alice._ Good-by. I have great faith in Lucy. And I do hope this scheme

of hers will be a success. Perhaps it is wrong to deceive poor mother;

but that advertisement once inserted in the papers, we should have no

peace day or night. Here she comes. Poor mother; she works very hard

to keep up her sickness. I can hardly refrain from laughing to see her

bright, rosy face, and the utter lassitude of her body.

(_Enter MRS. LANGUISH, R., supported by AUNT MIDGET, very slowly._)

_Aunt M._ Keerful, Angelina; keerful, my child. Remember you’re a drefful

sick woman; drefful sick.

_Mrs. L._ (_Sinking into easy chair, C._) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I know--I

am. I know--I am weaker--and weaker--every--day. My camphor-bottle--aunt

Midget--fan me--my child. (_AUNT M. applies camphor, and ALICE fans MRS.

L._)

_Alice._ Don’t you feel any better, mother?

_Mrs. L._ No, child; your--poor--mother--is failing rapidly; a few short

days--and then--

_Aunt M._ (_Sneezes._) Massy sakes, child! who left that door open? Do

you want your marm to catch her death? (_ALICE shuts door, L._)

_Alice._ Have you had your breakfast, mother?

_Mrs. L._ Yes, child--all I wanted--but I have no appetite.

_Aunt M._ Well, Angelina, how do you feel now?

_Mrs. L._ Very feeble.

_Aunt M._ What does she say?

_Alice._ Very feeble.

_Aunt M._ Hay?

_Mrs. L._ Dear--dear! Aunt Midget, don’t speak so loud.

_Aunt M._ Loud? Why, Angelina! you know how feeble my voice is. I

couldn’t speak loud. (_Sits in rocking-chair, R., and knits._)

_Mrs. L._ Alice, do you--hear any thing from the advertisement?

_Alice._ Oh, yes, mother; I hear from it. Several people are anxious to

see you.

_Mrs. L._ I knew it--I knew it. My cure can only come from such a source.

Look in the paper--child--there may be some new discovery advertised.

_Alice._ (_Sits, L., and takes up paper._) Yes, there are a number.

(_Reads._) “Dr. Kresote’s Extract of Lignumvitæ for the cure of Lumbago”--

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear! I must try that. I know I’ve got the lunbago.

_Aunt M._ Who’s that? Tom Bago! Is that a new doctor?

_Alice._ (_Reads._) “Elias’s Great Cure-all”--

_Aunt M._ Who’s that’s got a new carry-all?

_Mrs. L._ Aunt Midget--please, don’t.

_Aunt M._ Law, Angelina, what’s the use of living, if you don’t know

what’s goin’ on?

_Alice._ “The most Wonderful Discovery of the Age! A Speedy Cure for all

Diseases of the Spine”--

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear! I know my spine is diseased--

_Alice._ “Heart Disease”--

_Mrs. L._ O--O--O--I know I’ve got that! I’ve got such a pain here and

here--and here.

_Alice._ “General Debility”--

_Aunt M._ General who? What new military man is that?

_Alice._ “Consumption”--

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear! that’s my case! I feel it! I’m sure I’m a victim to

that--

_Aunt M._ Yes, Angelina, I told you this morning at the breakfast-table,

when you ate four hard-boiled eggs, six pertaters, a big piece of steak,

and so many flap-jacks! sartin’ sure it was a forerunner of consumption.

_Alice._ “And all diseases which flesh is heir to”--

_Aunt M._ Diseases of the hair! Do tell! have they got something new for

that? I’m glad on it, for my hair is all a comin’ out.

_Mrs. L._ We must try that. (_Bell rings, L._) Dear me, child! you must

have that bell muffled; and I think we had better have the street strewn

with tan, it’s so soothing.

_Bridget._ (_Outside, L._) Doctor, is it? Away wid yer. We want no

doctors in petticoats here at all at all.

_Alice._ (_Runs to door, L._) Bridget, show the lady up here.

_Bridget._ (_Outside, L._) Will I? Oh, come in, Mrs. Doctor, come in.

_Alice._ This must be one of the ladies whom I expected.

(_Enter BRIDGET, showing in JENNY CARTER, who is disguised. Calico dress

without crinoline; short-waisted, if possible; a small, red shawl on her

shoulders, a large, old-fashioned bonnet, cap, and glasses; under her arm

an umbrella._)

_Bridget._ Here’s the she-doctor, mam. (_Exit, L._)

_Jenny._ Ahem--ahem! Who’s sick? Who wants the doctor? I am Dr. Higgins,

M.D., just graduated from the Female College. Would you like to see my

diploma?

_Alice._ It’s not necessary.

_Jenny._ Where is the patient? Stop! don’t speak! The eye of science is

quick to distinguish suffering. I see her!--that form tottering on the

verge of the grave.

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear! what did I tell you! (_Jenny passes MRS. L., rushes

up to AUNT MIDGET, seizes her hand._)

_Jenny._ My poor woman, how are you?

_Aunt M._ (_Shakes JENNY’S hand._) Why, how do you do? My eyesight’s

kinder failin’. It’s Jerusha Hoppin--ain’t it? What a handsome bunnet

you’ve got!

_Jenny._ My dear woman, time is precious. Let me see your tongue.

_Aunt M._ Well, I flatter myself I do look young for one who’s seen so

much triberlation.

_Alice._ Miss--Mrs. Doctor, you’ve made a mistake. This is the patient.

_Jenny._ Dear me, dear me! what a blunder! (_Comes back to table, L.,

takes off her bonnet, then places chair, L. of MRS. L., and sits._)

What’s the trouble?

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear!--doctor--I don’t know. I’m failing rapidly.

_Jenny._ Let me see your tongue (_MRS. L. shows it._) Ahem! Bad, bad!

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear, doctor, do tell me the worst!

_Jenny._ Have you a cough?

_Mrs. L._ (_Forcing a very slight cough._) Dreadful!

_Aunt M._ Why, that must be a female woman doctor.

_Jenny._ Sleep well nights?

_Mrs. L._ Not a wink.

_Jenny._ Not a wink? Bad, bad! Any appetite?

_Mrs. L._ Not a bit.

_Jenny._ Not a bit? Bad, bad! Madam, yours is a very bad case.

_Mrs. L._ Oh, do, doctor, tell me the worst!

_Jenny._ Madam, you are suffering from a terrible disease,--a disease

of which the profession know but little. Hum-buga; a disease caused by

a depression of the eliminating vesticubia of the scareophagus. Had

you fallen into the hands of the masculine butchers of the medical

profession, your fate would have been terrible; but we of the new school

are destined to lay bare new fountains of health. I propose to treat your

case by an entirely new method; one that is destined to make a great

revolution in medicine. The Lionian Method,--I will briefly explain. You,

madam, are suffering from prostration,--a superabundance of weakness.

In your case, madam, it is necessary to throw off this superabundance of

weakness; but how to supply the vacuum? What is needed? You see at once:

strength. But where shall we find strength?--in the mineral world? No. In

the vegetable world? No. Where shall we turn? To the animal world, and

there we find strength; and where greater strength than in the lion, the

king of beasts? There is our remedy. Madam, I prescribe for you a lion

diet. Lion steaks for breakfast, roast lion for dinner, cold lion for

supper; and lion broth, lion soup, and lion fricassees promiscuously.

Obey me, and you are saved; hesitate, and you are lost.

_Mrs. L._ Dear me! but where shall I get the lions?

_Jenny._ That’s none of my business. I prescribe the mode; you must find

the means. You are rich; send and catch them. I would recommend your

keeping a few live lions in your back garden, that you may have them

fresh at all times.

_Mrs. L._ Lions in our back garden? Mercy! we should be eaten alive!

_Aunt M._ Lions? What! turn our back garden into a howling wilderness?

_Mrs. L._ Dear me, dear me! I can never find the means of cure.

_Jenny._ Then I cannot help you. So, if you will just hand me a check for

five hundred dollars, I’ll go. (_Puts on bonnet._)

_Mrs. L._ (_Starting up._) A check for what?

_Jenny._ A check for five hundred dollars.

_Mrs. L._ But you haven’t cured me. You forget, “No cure, no pay.”

_Jenny._ Ah, but I’ve prescribed a method that will be sure to cure. If

you don’t choose to try it, that’s not my fault.

_Mrs. L._ You just start yourself out of this house. Quick, or I’ll find

a way to send you. Quick, I say.

_Jenny._ Very well, madam; very well. Remember the law. You’ll find you

must pay. Good-morning.

(_Exit, L._)

_Mrs. L._ Who ever heard of such impudence?

_Aunt M._ Why, Angelina, what are you doing? You’ll kill yourself

standing so long.

_Mrs. L._ (_Sinks back into chair._) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! My

camphor,--quick! Fan me, child, fan me!

_Alice._ Well, mother, your first attempt with the new school is a

failure. You’d better give it up, and send for Dr. Tincture.

_Mrs. L._ Child, don’t mention that horrid name again. (_Bell rings._)

Who can that be? Another one of those humbugs.

_Alice._ We will not have any more come in here, if you say so.

_Mrs. L._ Yes, let them come. Every means must be tried.

_Enter BRIDGET, L._

_Bridget._ If you plase, mam, there’s another old woman. Says she’s a

doctor.

_Alice._ Show her in, Bridget.

(_Exit BRIDGET, L._)

_Aunt M._ Seems to me, Angelina, you’re having lots of callers to-day.

(_Enter SUSAN DEAN, L., disguised. An old-fashioned “pumpkin” hood upon

her head, an old, faded cloak upon her shoulders, a bundle of “roots and

herbs” in one hand, a heavy cane in the other._)

_Susan._ How do you do, folks? Somebody sick here? I’m Dr. Hannah

Stebbins, a regular graduated physician.

_Alice._ So we understand.

_Susan._ Yes, my medical edication begun with docterin’ with roots and

yarbs. But, dear me! which is the sick woman?

_Alice._ My mother.

_Susan._ Oh, yes! the old lady in the specs. Well, she does look kinder

feeble. (_Crosses to AUNT MIDGET._) Heow do you do, mam? Kinder croning,

hay?

_Aunt M._ Hay?

_Susan._ They tell me you’re kinder complainin’.

_Aunt M._ Rainin’, is it? Why, do tell! What lots of rain we do have!

_Alice._ You’ve made a mistake. This is my mother.

_Susan._ Why, yeou don’t say so. There’s nothing the matter with her--is

there? What’s the matter? Got the rheumatics?

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear! I don’t know what’s the matter.

_Susan._ Kinder stericky--ain’t yer? Let’s see your tongue. It’s awful

red! Let me feel your pulse. Dear me! Why, what can be the matter?

_Mrs. L._ I am very weak.

_Susan._ Got a crick in your back?

_Mrs. L._ I don’t know, but I think I have.

_Susan._ Headache?

_Mrs. L._ (_Putting her hand to her head._) Oh, terrible!

_Susan._ Purty bad way, yeou are. Let me see. There’s catnip,--that ain’t

powerful enough; then there’s penny-_rial_ and wormwood, thoroughwort and

hy-sup; them won’t do yeou any good; we must try the new grassalogical

treatment.

_Mrs. L._ The grassalogical treatment! What is that?

_Aunt M._ Hay?

_Susan._ A new discovery of our larned sister, Dr. Sally Wiggins. The

Scripters tell us, “All flesh is grass.” Therefore, when the flesh is

weak, what more nat’ral than that we should fly to its great counterpart

in nature, the grass?

_Aunt M._ (_Aside._) Talking about counterpanes,--I’d like to show her my

new patch-work quilt.

_Susan._ On this theory Dr. Sally has founded her new treatment; and I

think it will be the best thing yeou can try. Take for breakfast every

day grass tea; grass greens biled for dinner, with a leetle pork or

bacon; grass tea for supper--nothing else, and sleep on the grass nights.

If natur’ won’t work a cure in your case, then I’m much mistaken.

_Mrs. L._ Sleep on the grass? Why, you’re crazy!

_Aunt M._ Why, I do believe that woman wants to turn our Angelina out to

paster, jest like a cow.

_Mrs. L._ I confess I do not see the logic of your new treatment.

_Susan._ Yeou don’t? Well, it does look kinder strange, but it’s the new

school; and if woman is ever to find her speare, her speare must be in

some new school.

_Mrs. L._ I shall decline following any such nonsensical prescription.

_Susan._ Very well, mam. If you won’t, you wont; and that’s all there is

about it. So, when you’re ready to settle, I’m ready to start.

_Mrs. L._ (_Starting up._) Ready to settle! What do you mean?

_Susan._ Five hundred dollars. That was your offer.

_Mrs. L._ No cure, no pay. What have you done?

_Susan._ Given you an original mode of treatment. If you do not choose to

follow it, that’s not my fault.

_Mrs. L._ You just take your roots and herbs and your new treatment, and

start out of this house, or you’ll get worse treatment.

_Susan._ Well, well, if this isn’t an ungrateful world! You’re a pretty

sick woman, you are.

_Mrs. L._ Alice, call Bridget.

(_ALICE Exit, L._)

_Susan._ Yeou needn’t call any of your hired folks; I’m going; but if

there is any law in the land, you shall hear from me. You’re a pretty

sick woman, you are.

(_Exit, L._)

_Aunt M._ Why, Angelina, there you are standin’ ag’in! You’ll ruin your

constitution jest as sure as can be.

_Mrs L._ (_Sinks back._) Oh, dear, what a trial!

_Enter BRIDGET, L._

_Bridget._ Did you ax for me, mam?

_Mrs L._ Bridget, don’t you let any more of these people into the house;

they’ll be the death of me. Do you hear?

_Bridget._ Faith, I do, mam; and sorry a one will I let in at all at all.

(_Exit, L._)

_Aunt M._ Trial and triberlation, child! that’s the lot of us weak

mortals.

_Enter ALICE, L., disguised as an old lady; shawl, large bonnet,

spectacles, &c._

Massy sakes! who’s that?

_Alice._ Somebody’s sick here--hain’t there?

_Mrs. L._ Where did _you_ come from?

_Alice._ Hay?

_Mrs. L._ Where did you come from?

_Alice._ I’m a leetle hard of hearing. You’ll have to speak louder.

_Mrs. L._ Dear me! who sent you here?

_Alice._ Thank you; I don’t care if I do take a cheer. (_Sits, L._)

_Mrs. L._ Dear, dear! where can Alice be! Who sent you here?

_Alice._ Oh, yes, I hear now, when yer speak loud.

_Mrs. L._ Aunt Midget--

_Aunt M._ Well, child.

_Mrs. L._ Do try and talk to this woman; she’s deaf as a post, I’m sure.

_Aunt M._ Poor, is she? Wants cold victuals, I s’pose.

_Mrs. L._ No, no; she’s a doctor.

_Aunt M._ (_Pulling her chair close to MRS. L., and speaking across her

to ALICE._) What’s the matter?

_Alice._ (_Moving her chair close to MRS. L., they both speak very

loud._) Hay?

_Aunt M._ What’s--the--matter?

_Alice._ I’m deaf. (_Pronounce_ deef.)

_Aunt M._ Dear me! she want’s some beef. Well, if poor folks ain’t

gitting proud! I guess you’ll have to content yourself with good cold

bread.

_Alice._ Yes; it is caused by colds in the head.

_Mrs. L._ Dear me! set the blind to lead the blind. Aunt Midget, this old

lady is very deaf.

_Aunt M._ You don’t say so. (_Very loud._) What do you want?

_Alice._ To treat the lady.

_Aunt M._ Hay?

_Mrs. L._ Gracious! what a confusion! My good woman, aunt Midget, this

lady, is also very deaf.

_Alice._ I want to know. (_Very loud to AUNT M._) I want to treat this

lady.

_Aunt M._ Want to treat her? (_Very loud._) What with?

_Alice._ (_Louder._) I’m a doctor.

_Aunt M._ Doctor, hey! Medical or dedical?

_Alice._ I’m a female physician.

_Aunt M._ Musician too! What do you play on?

_Mrs. L._ Stop, stop, stop! Do you want to craze me, you two? Bridget,

Bridget! My good woman, I do not require your services.

_Enter BRIDGET, L._

Here, show this woman out of the house, quick!

_Alice._ I’m a regular--

_Bridget._ Oh, no more of yer blarney! Start yourself quick!

_Alice._ But, my dear lady, you advertised--

_Bridget._ (_Pushing her off, L._) Ah, away wid yer! Away wid yer!

_Mrs. L._ (_Sinks into her chair._) Oh, dear! was ever a poor sick woman

so abused! My camphor, aunt Midget; my camphor! Where can Alice be?

_Enter ALICE, L._

_Alice._ Here I am, mother; I was called down stairs to see a lady, a

healing medium. She is very desirous of seeing you.

_Mrs. L._ I will not see her. Those we have had have nearly killed me.

_Alice._ But, mother, this is an entirely different sort of person. You

must see her, for she is coming up stairs now.

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear, dear! Am I never to have any peace?

(_Enter LUCY, disguised. A bloomer costume (a bathing-dress will answer

the purpose), an old-fashioned “front” of hair with side curls, a straw

hat and parasol._)

_Lucy._ My dear child, which is your afflicted parent!

_Alice._ This is her.

_Lucy._ (_Seats herself, L. of MRS. L._) She does, indeed, seem

afflicted! That care-worn face, those weak and feeble limbs, are sure

signs of the presence of disease.

_Mrs. L._ Here is one who understands me at last.

_Lucy._ The power has been given me to heal the sick. (_Twitches her

right arm._)

_Mrs. L._ Mercy! what’s the matter?

_Aunt M._ That girl’s going into a fit.

_Lucy._ It’s nothing; be as quiet as you can. (_Left arm twitches._)

_Aunt M._ Gracious goodness! I tell you, Angelina, that gal’s in a fit!

(_LUCY’S head jerks, and she stares fixedly at AUNT M._) See her glare at

me! I tell you she’s crazy. Angelina, if you don’t have that woman taken

away, I’ll holler right eout!

_Lucy._ Sh--! I behold a vision! I see a woman before a wash-tub--a

stout, rosy, healthy woman. She looks like you; and she rubs and sings,

rubs and sings. (_With imitation of rubbing._)

_Mrs. L._ That’s me--that’s just like me!

_Lucy._ I see her again! She’s ironing now; and she irons and sings,

irons and sings. (_Imitates._)

_Mrs. L._ Just like me--just like me!

_Lucy._ And now she sweeps (_imitates_), and now scrubs (_imitates_),

singing all the while. Hark! what is it she sings?

_Mrs. L._ (_Singing._)

“Let us sing merrily, lightly, and cheerily,

Let us be gay,

Let us be gay;

Throw away sorrow; why should we borrow

Tears from to-morrow

To darken to-day?”

(_To be found in the “Excelsior Song-Book.”_)

_Lucy._ Yes, yes! That’s it! But now it changes. I see her again:

she appears feeble and weak, and complains. Oh, how she complains!

(_Imitates._)--“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I’m so weak--I’m so weak! My

camphor, aunt Midget! Fan me, my child!”

_Mrs. L._ Oh, dear! that’s me.

_Lucy._ (_Gesticulating, as though shaking somebody._) What is this that

now urges me to seize this woman and shake her?

_Aunt M._ Angelina, that gal’s going to fight somebody. Don’t yer come

a-near me.

_Lucy._ (_Slowly approaching MRS. L._) All this woman needs is exercise,

and I must give her exercise. (_Imitating shaking._)

_Aunt M._ (_Jumping into chair._) Massy sakes! this is a raving lunatic.

_Mrs. L._ (_Starts up._) Come, come, young woman, this is quite enough.

_Alice._ You musn’t touch my mother.

_Aunt M._ That gal’s a Shaker; I know she is.

_Lucy._ (_Still approaching her._) To shake this woman--to shake this

woman!

_Mrs. L._ This woman declines being shaken. I’ll do all the shaking

myself. (_Seizes LUCY and shakes her._) What do you mean by such conduct?

Who are you? (_Shakes her again, which shakes off her “front” and hat._)

Lucy Aiken! Why, what does this mean?

_Lucy._ That I have turned physician, owing to the extraordinary

inducements held out in an advertisement entitled “No Cure, no Pay.”

_Mrs. L._ What?

_Alice._ Yes, mother, I thought it a pity to waste money in advertising

when we had three such good female physicians in the neighborhood.

_Enter JENNY CARTER and SUSAN DEAN, L., disguised as before._

Here are the other two.

_Mrs. L._ And pray, who are they? (_JENNY and SUSAN throw off their

bonnets._)

_Jenny._ A disciple of the lionian school!

_Mrs. L._ Jenny Carter!

_Susan._ And a student of the grassalogical treatment.

_Mrs. L._ Susan Dean! Well, I am amazed.

_Aunt M._ (_Getting down from chair._) If that gal’s got through her

tantrums, I’d like to get down!

_Mrs. L._ But there was another--a deaf old lady.

_Alice._ (_Imitating._) Hay?

_Mrs. L._ Why, Alice! have you been concerned in this too? Do you know it

was very wrong to deceive your mother in this way?

_Alice._ Perhaps it was, mother; but I think you are better for the very

singular treatment you have met with.

_Aunt M._ Law, child, what are you thinking of? You have been standing

nearly five minutes.

_Mrs. L._ And I propose to stand five minutes more, for the purpose of

thanking these young ladies for the very excellent manner in which they

have treated my complaint. Ah, Lucy, that little touch of the old life

you gave me has awakened my slumbering energies. I think I shall be able

to go about and do a portion of that duty which is given the rich to

perform--succor the needy and relieve the distressed. In such employment

I need fear no return of my complaint. But how can I reward you?

_Alice._ Remember your promise; five hundred dollars--

_Lucy._ Which we gladly renounce, looking for reward in the approval of

our friends here.

_Mrs. L._ But will they grant it? If, like me, in your practice they have

found a cure for idle complainings, they certainly will; if not, you must

all remember the conditions--NO CURE, NO PAY.

DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS AT END:

L. Susan, Jenny, Lucy, Mrs. Languish, Alice, Aunt Midget. R.

HUMORS OF THE STRIKE. A FARCE.

FOR MALE CHARACTERS ONLY.

CHARACTERS.

GREENBAX, President of the Broadaxe Horse Railroad.

HARTSHORN, a Director.

TRUMPS, Superintendent.

KNOCKDOWN, Conductor.

WHIPSTOCK, Driver.

HARDHEAD (a little deaf).

FINNEGAN, a Fenian.

DAN, a New-York Butcher’s Boy.

COSTUMES, MODERN.

SCENE.--_President’s Room. Chair, L. Table, C._

_Enter KNOCKDOWN, L. WHIPSTOCK, R._

_Knock._ Whipstock, my boy, how goes the strike?

_Whip._ As well as could be expected. It’s evident we shall have to give

in. Old Greenbax is still determined not to pay the advance asked for.

_Knock._ Won’t he? We’ll see about that. The strike has continued but

eight days, and they have used up all means in their power to get

conductors and drivers. I saw the seven o’clock car standing before the

station, waiting for somebody to put it through. We have taken good care

nobody shall be found; and I rather think this predicament will bring our

worthy president to terms. There’s nothing like a little pluck, my boy.

_Whip._ Oh, yes; it’s all very well for you to talk, who have a chance

at the pickings; but as for me, I’m pretty well played out; and if old

Greenbax don’t come down soon, I shall, with a rush.

_Knock._ Nonsense! Never say die, my boy.

_Whip._ I don’t mean to; but if this thing continues much longer, Mrs.

Whipstock will say it for me, emphasized with a broomstick. Halloo!

here’s old Greenbax. Now for a breeze.

_Enter GREENBAX, R._

_Green._ (_As he enters._) Trumps! Trumps! I say, where can that fellow

be? Trumps! (_Sees KNOCKDOWN and WHIPSTOCK._) Halloo! what are you doing

here? Ready to go to work, hey!

_Knock._ Yes, sir, ready to go to work--at the advance prices.

_Green._ Hum! (_To WHIPSTOCK._) And are you ready to drive?

_Whip._ Certainly--at the advance prices.

_Green._ (_C._) Hum! Will you both serve us faithfully?

_Whip and Knock._ (_Advancing eagerly on each side of him, and speaking

quickly._) Oh, yes, sir; yes, indeed!

_Green._ At the advance prices? I’ll see you farther, first, and then I

won’t. No, sir; we pay you too much now. Clear out, both of you. I don’t

want you around here. Quit! Exit! Vamose!

_Whip._ Did you ever! The old curmudgeon! _Exit R._

_Knock._ No, I never! The skinflint! _Exit, R._

_Green._ (_Seating himself at desk._) Here’s a pretty condition for

the Broadaxe Horse Railroad to find itself placed in. A parcel of

whipsnappers dictating to Horatio Greenbax, president of the corporation.

Strike away, you scoundrels! You’ll find those who have the longest

pockets can strike the hardest and stick the closest. (_Enter TRUMPS,

R._) Well, Trumps, what’s up now?

_Trumps._ We are, I should say. Here’s the seven o’clock car waiting for

both driver and conductor, and none to be had.

_Green._ Then get new ones.

_Trumps._ It’s very well to say get new ones; but where to get them,

is the question. Our discharged men have induced everybody in the

neighborhood to refuse.

_Green._ They have, have they? (_Voices heard outside shouting, “Halloo!”

“Conductor!” “Time’s up!” “Halloo!” “Hurry up!” “Hurry up!”_)

_Trumps._ There, you hear that; the passengers are impatient.

_Green._ Well, well; drive it yourself.

_Trumps._ I can’t do that; somebody must look after the company’s

property. (_Voices heard again impatiently shouting._)

_Enter HARTSHORN, L._

_Harts._ Mr. Pwesident, what is the meaning of this wow, and wiot, and

wumpus? ’Pon my word, this is decidedly wulgaw; we shall be disgwaced

with such an outwageous disturbance in fwont of our door--we shall,

indeed.

_Green._ The fact is, Mr. Hartshorn, the company finds itself destitute

of both drivers and conductors, in consequence of the strike.

_Harts._ Stwike! what a wevolution! You alawm me--you do, indeed.

_Green._ Well, don’t get frightened; you won’t be struck.

_Harts._ What’s to be done?

_Green._ Don’t know; unless you volunteer to drive that car down.

_Harts._ I volunteaw to dwive a paiw of vulgaw howses down Bwoadway,

and one of these filthy caws too! I nevaw! The effluviaw fwom those

cadavewous cweatures is howible! ’pon my word, howible! (_Voices again._)

There’s the wow again!

_Enter HARDHEAD, R._

_Hard._ Where’s the president of this confounded road?

_Green._ I believe I have the honor to be its presiding officer.

_Hard._ Hey?

_Green._ I am he.

_Hard._ Hey? Speak louder; what are you mumbling about?

_Green._ (_Very loud._) I am the presiding officer.

_Hard._ Coffee, sir? I didn’t say any thing about coffee. I’ve had my

breakfast, and, if it hadn’t been for that infernal car, should have been

down town before this.

_Green._ This old gent is a little hard of hearing.

_Trumps._ It hasn’t affected his vocal organs, anyhow.

_Harts._ Yaas; he’s got an impediment in his eaw.

_Hard._ What do you all stand there growling for? Why don’t you answer me?

_Green._ I am the person you want.

_Hard._ Hey?

_Green._ (_Very loud._) I--am--the--President. (_Lower._) Confound your

picture!

_Hard._ Oh, you are; then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What’s

that car waiting for?

_Green._ Somebody to drive.

_Hard._ Hey?

_Green._ (_Very loud and angrily._) Want somebody to drive.

_Hard._ Somebody’s wife? What business have you to keep a car waiting for

somebody’s wife? I don’t ask you to wait for my wife--do I? Where’s your

conductor?

_Green._ He’s on a strike.

_Hard._ Hey?

_Green._ (_Very loud and excitedly, and flourishing his arms._) I tell

you he’s indulging in a strike.

_Hard._ (_Raising his cane._) Oh, that’s your little game, is it? You

want to indulge in a strike! Well, indulge, then. Come on, you scoundrel;

I’ll strike!

_Green._ No, no! (_Dodging behind HARTSHORN._) I don’t mean any thing of

that kind. Keep off!

_Harts._ Good gwacious! what a tewible monstaw!

_Hard._ (_To HARTSHORN_,)--Oh, you’ll have it--will you, Whiskers? You

want a crusher--do you?

_Harts._ No, no; I don’t want a cwusher! (_Dodges behind GREENBAX._) I

won’t have a cwusher!

_Trumps._ (_Stepping before HARDHEAD, and speaking very loud._) Beg

pardon, sir; but you misunderstand. Our drivers have struck for higher

wages.

_Hard._ Oh, that’s it. Why didn’t he say so? (_To GREENBAX._) Well, what

are you going to do about it? I must go down town at once.

_Green._ (_Loud._) If you will be patient a few minutes, we will try to

accommodate you.

_Hard._ Look here, Mr. ---- (_to TRUMPS_), what is that individual’s name?

_Trumps._ Greenbax.

_Hard._ Look here, Mr. Beeswax; if you don’t hurry up that car, I’ll have

you arrested as a swindler. (_Voices outside again._)

_Trumps._ Come, Mr. Greenbax, something must be done at once.

_Green._ What can I do?

_Trumps._ Hire the men at the new prices.

_Green._ Never! I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t, if no cars run to-day.

_Trumps._ Very well, sir; I have done all I can do. (_Exit._)

_Hard._ Are we going down to-day or not?

_Green._ I wish you was down where you belong, with all my heart.

(_Louder._) Very warm to-day, sir.

_Hard._ Hey?

_Green._ It’s very warm to-day.

_Hard._ Pay? I’ll pay you if you don’t start that car soon. (_Goes up to

table and sits._)

_Green._ O, pshaw! it’s no use talking to him. Well, Hartshorn, what’s to

be done?

_Harts._ ’Pon my word, I don’t know. S’pose you dwive down yourself.

_Green._ Me? When I do, just inform me--will you? (_Noise again

outside._) Halloo! Who’s this?

_Enter FINNEGAN, R._

_Fin._ Is the prisidint widin, I dunno?

_Green._ Well, I do. He is; and I am he.

_Fin._ Yer are--are yez? O, yer spalpeen! and it’s there ye are, thaif!

_Green._ Come, come; be a little more respectful.

_Fin._ Respictful, is it? By my sowl, and ain’t you the sarvant of the

public? and ain’t I the public, bedad? What do yer mean by kaping me

standing outside there squatting in a car, and waiting to be took to the

arms of Biddy and the childers, afther I’ve fit, bled, and died for ould

Ireland up in Can-a-dy, shure I’d like to know?

_Hart._ Good gwacious! what a fewocious foweigner!

_Fin._ And who the deuce are you, onyhow? You chatter like a monkey, and

you look like a baboon! By my sowl, I believe you’re Barnum’s What Is It!

_Green._ Come, come; this won’t do.

_Fin._ Won’t it? and who’s to hinder, I’d like to know? Faith, do ye mind

who I am? I’m a full-blooded Fenian; ready to sthrike for ould Ireland;

and if that car don’t start soon, I’ll strike you, ye blackguard.

(_Flourishing his shillalah._)

_Green._ Come, come; be quiet. (_Dodging behind HARTSHORN._) Pacify him,

Hartshorn.

_Harts._ Pacify him? Good gwacious! here’s another stwiker! Don’t

flouwish that club in that mannaw. Gweenbax will talk to you. (_Dodges

behind GREENBAX._)

_Green._ Put up that stick. You shall have a conveyance in five minutes.

_Fin._ Conveyance, is it? I want no conveyance. I want a car, and that

quick.

_Hard._ (_Starting up and shouting._) Is that car going or not?

_Fin._ Faith, here’s another belated gint. (_To GREENBAX._) Don’t yer

hear the gintleman?

_Green._ Confound the gintleman, and the car too. Was ever a president in

such a fix? Here’s another! Well, come on all at once.

(_Enter DAN, R._)

_Dan._ Say! where’s the president of this here road? Say!

_Hard._ Is that car going?

_Fin._ Fetch on your conveyance, ould chap.

_Green._ One at a time, if you please. (_To DAN._) I am the president.

What do you want?

_Dan._ Well, say, old cove, what do yer mean by keepin’ folks waitin’ in

this style, say?

_Fin._ Faith, ould gint, if yer don’t spake up, there’ll be “say” enough

to dhrown ye.

_Green._ There’s a little delay on account of the strike.

_Fin._ Sthrike, is it? A sthrike, bedad! I’m on hand like a picked-up

dinner. I sthruck a blow for ould Ireland in Can-a-dy, and then I sthruck

for home; and, bedad, I’ll sthrike for any thing at all, at all.

_Dan._ I say, Pat, hush yer jaw; we’ll jest clean out this institution.

_Fin._ Faith, that we will. It’s a dirthy place onyhow.

_Hart._ Good gwacious! there’s going to be more stwiking!

_Dan._ Look here, Smellin’ Bottle! (_Seizes HARTSHORN by the collar, and

brings him to the centre._)

_Hart._ Good gwacious! Welease my coat! You awe too polite--you awe

indeed!

_Dan._ Am I? Jest look a here, Smellin’ Bottle! and you too, prez--look

sharp! fur I’m a goin’ to talk to yer like a first-class sermon! I drives

fur old Swizel, I does; and I kills fur Swizel too; and I’m goin down

town in that car in five minutes! You understand?

_Hard._ (_Shouting._) Is that car going, or is that car not going?

_Dan._ Say, old gent, you jest subside.

_Hard._ Hey?

_Fin._ Faith, the ould gint’s as dafe as a haddock. (_Goes up to table

and talks to HARDHEAD in dumb show._)

_Dan._ Now, prez, I want yer to understand I’m a goin’ down town; and I

want a driver and a conductor.

_Green._ But I tell you there is a strike.

_Dan._ Yes; and there’ll be another very soon. Here, Smellin’ Bottle, I

guess you can drive pretty well.

_Harts._ Good gwacious! Me? O, nevaw. I should be exhausted at once! I

should indeed!

_Dan._ Then we’ll exhaust you. Come, heave ahead, and take the ribbons.

_Harts._ But, good gwacious! considaw; I should soil my dwess; I should

indeed!

_Dan._ Well, we’ll fix that. Here, Pat.

_Fin._ (_Coming down._) Here yer are, my darlint.

_Dan._ Bring some old clo’s in here from that next room--the dirtiest yer

can find.

_Harts._ Good gwacious!

_Fin._ Faith, that I will. (_Exit, R._)

_Green._ I protest against this proceeding. You are trespassing upon the

premises of the Broadaxe Railroad.

_Dan._ Oh, simmer down, now; your turn will come soon.

(_Enter FINNEGAN, R., with a couple of dirty old overcoats and a couple

of shocking bad hats._)

_Fin._ Here you are.

_Dan._ Now, Smellin’ Bottle, jump into this. (_Holding up the dirtiest

overcoat._)

_Harts._ Good gwacious! what a howible coat! No, nevaw; twy the

pwesident. (_Dodges behind GREENBAX._)

_Dan._ All right. (_Seizes GREENBAX._) Prez, jump in.

_Green._ No; I will submit to no such outrage. I am the president of this

corporation.

_Fin._ Thin we’ll invist you wid this robe of office.

(_DAN and FINNEGAN seize GREENBAX, and thrust him into the coat._)

_Green._ Oh, you shall suffer for this!

_Fin._ We do, my darlint; now for your crown. (_Claps hat on his head._)

Ivery inch a king!

_Dan._ Now, then, for Smellin’ Bottle. (_Seizes HARTSHORN._)

_Harts._ Good gwacious! I’m innocent; I am indeed! I’m only a poor

diwector.

_Fin._ Thin come here directly. (_Seizes him, puts on coat and hat, he

all the time protesting._)

_Green._ Oh, if there is any law, you shall suffer for this!

_Hard._ Is that car going?

_Dan._ Directly. We’ve procured a driver and conductor, and now we’re

off. Come, Pat, lead off with the prez--I mean driver.

_Fin._ Faith, that I will.

_Dan._ And I’ll take Smellin’ Bottle. (_They take GREENBAX and HARTSHORN

by the arm, who struggle and protest._)

_Green._ (_To HARDHEAD, who comes down._) This is an outrage. I call upon

you to protect me.

_Hard._ Hey?

_Harts._ Yes, yes; pwotect me, pwotect me!

_Hard._ Hey?

_Fin._ Bedad! that ould gint is like a horse; he’s full of hay!

_Dan._ Now we’ll be down town in a jiffy. Come on.

_Enter TRUMPS, R._

_Trumps._ What’s the meaning of this?

_Dan._ We’ve procured a conductor and a driver for the seven o’clock car.

_Trumps._ We don’t want them.

_Dan._ Yes; but we do.

_Trumps._ No; for the conductor and driver have come to terms; and if

you’ll jump aboard, we’ll be off in a jiffy.

_Green._ Strike over?

_Trumps._ Entirely.

_Harts._ Good gwacious! that’s lucky!

_Dan._ You can bless your lucky stars, prez.

_Green._ I do; and if ever there’s another strike on this road, I’ll

resign at once.

_Fin._ (_To HARDHEAD._) Strike’s over!

_Hard._ Hey?

_Fin._ (_Loud._) The strike’s over.

_Hard._ Anybody knocked down?

_Dan._ The conductors will attend to that part of the business.

_Trumps._ Come, gentlemen, jump on; can’t wait any longer.

_Green._ Jump on, gentlemen; the strike has concluded to our

satisfaction; let us hope it has to the satisfaction of all who have

taken this little trip with us on the Broadaxe Horse Railroad.

DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS.

R. Trumps, Finnegan, Greenbax, Hartshorn, Dan, Hardhead, L.

BREAD ON THE WATERS.

A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

DR. HARLEM, Principal of Greenlake Seminary.

HARRY HARLEM, his son.

FRED HASTINGS, } Pupils.

SOB WINDERS, }

JONATHAN WILD BUTTS, the Town Constable.

LUCY HARLEM, the Doctor’s Daughter.

MRS. LORING, Housekeeper.

DILLY (picked from the streets).

COSTUMES.

DR. HARLEM. Act 1, Black suit, white cravat, long white hair. Act 2,

Dressing-gown, &c.

HARRY. Act 1, Lad of eighteen. Roundabout jacket, rolling collar, &c. Act

2 (disguised), Gray wig and beard, sailor’s blue shirt, white trousers.

FRED. Act 1, Lad of eighteen. Roundabout jacket, rolling collar, &c. Act

2, Stylish modern costume.

BOB. Act 1 (Very fat), Costume same as Harry and Fred. Act 2 (genteel

figure), Very fashionable.

BUTTS. Act 1, Blue coat, brass buttons, short pants, iron-gray wig,

shabby hat. Act 2, same as in Act 1.

MRS. LORING. Act 1, Old lady’s suit. Act 2, Same as in Act 1, with the

addition of cap and spectacles.

DILLY (aged 13). Act 1, Short dress, curls, &c. Act 2, Young lady’s

modern dress.

LUCY (aged 16). Act 1, Dress neat and pretty. Act 2, Young lady’s modern

dress.

ACT 1. SCENE.--_Parlor in the house of DR. HARLEM. Table, L.,

with chair R. of it; arm-chair, L. C.; small table with chair,

R.; LUCY, R., sewing; MRS. LORING seated in arm-chair, reading._

_Mrs. L._ Lucy, my child, how very quiet you are!

_Lucy._ Indeed, Aunt Loring, I cannot help it. You know to-day is the

very last of the term. School closed; all the pupils gone except Fred

Hastings and Bob Winders, and they leave us to-day: the thought of the

quiet humdrum life we are to lead for the next two months makes me feel

very sad.

_Mrs. L._ The change will be a relief to all of us. Think of your father:

he needs the rest which the close of the term will bring.

_Lucy._ I do think of him; and for his sake I am glad. But still we lose

many friends in the young gentlemen who have left us. I’m sure we shall

miss them.

_Mrs. L._ Especially your particular friend, Fred Hastings; hey, Lucy?

_Lucy._ Oh! of course. You know he is very agreeable, Aunt Loring, and

has been very kind to us.

_Mrs. L._ He is no favorite of mine. He has been very agreeable,

especially to you; while to your brother Harry he has been altogether too

kind.

_Lucy._ Why, Aunt Loring! Harry thinks there never was such a friend.

_Mrs. L._ Harry is young; he has seen little of the world: and the gay,

dashing style of Fred Hastings has won his admiration. But Master Fred

Hastings has already led him into mischief. Their pranks in the village

have reached my ears, and, I fear, those of your father. Fred Hastings is

not a fit companion for our Harry; and it will be a relief to me when he

quits this place never to return.

_Lucy._ Don’t talk so, Aunt Loring. You are mistaken in him.

_Mrs. L._ I hope I am. But, during the ten years I have been housekeeper

for your father, I have seen a great many young men, and learned to read

their characters; and I say that Master Fred Hasting has too much money,

too much assurance, and too much love for what is called sport, ever to

make a good man.

_Lucy._ I do hope you are mistaken. I’m sure you must be.

_Mrs. L._ Well, well, child, we shall see.

_Butts._ (_Outside, C._) Don’t tell me. How do you know? None of your

lying. I’ll find out for myself. (_Enter BUTTS, C._) How do you do, marm?

Hope you’re well, Miss Lucy. Where’s the doctor?

_Mrs. L._ He’s out, Mr. Butts. What is the matter?

_Butts._ Matter! What should be the matter, when a set of jackanapes are

allowed to roam through the village, pillaging, burning, and insulting? I

won’t have it: the law shall be respected.

_Mrs. L._ Burning and pillaging! Why, Mr. Butts, have any of our young

gentlemen been engaged in such disreputable proceedings?

_Butts._ Worse than that, marm. Worse than that. I’m disgusted with

seminaries. If I could have my way, there shouldn’t be any thing like a

school in the land.

_Mrs. L._ Then I’m very glad you do not have your way. What is the cause

of complaint now?

_Butts._ The majesty of the law has been outraged; and I, as the

representative of the law, have been insulted. Those rascals of yours

have been at their pranks. Going to my office this morning, I found a

crowd of the rag, tag, and bobtail of the village gathered about it,

hooting and yelling at some object in the window. Madam, imagine my

indignation when I found that object to be a stuffed figure wrapped in my

dressing-gown, with a foolscap on its head, and labelled “Jonathan Wild

Butts, Thief-taker,”--seated in my arm-chair too, at the open window.

Think of that, marm!--an outrage, a diabolical outrage, upon justice!

_Mrs L._ Who could have done it?

_Butts._ You ask that, marm?--you who have lived for ten years in this

den of iniquity, this nursery of roguery, this incubating machine of

vice? Who did it?--why, Dr. Harlem’s pupils, of course.

_Lucy._ Why, Mr. Butts! They’re all gone except Fred Hastings and Bob

Winders.

_Butts._ Except--Add your brother Harry, and you have the ringleaders

in every assault upon the peace and quiet of the place. I know them.

I’ve winked at many of their misdeeds; but, when they assault justice, I

tell you Jonathan Wild Butts has his eye on ’em. I say, respect the law,

respect the law.

_Mrs. L._ I assure you, Mr. Butts, I have a great respect for the law and

its officers. Take a seat. The doctor will soon return.

_Butts._ No, I thank you, marm. I’ll call again. It’s my duty to keep

an eye on rogues; and I flatter myself I know my duty. Let the wicked

tremble; for justice is on their track. (_About to exit, C., runs against

DILLY, who enters, C._)

_Dilly._ Dear me, Mr. Butts. Don’t knock a body down.

_Butts._ (_Taking her by the ear, and bringing her down stage._) Ah, ha,

you little baggage! I’ve got you at last.

_Dilly._ Don’t, Mr. Butts: you hurt. I ain’t done nothing.

_Butts._ Look me in the eye.

_Dilly._ Which one, Mr. Butts?

_Butts._ Silence!

_Dilly._ Well, you needn’t holler so: I ain’t deaf.

_Butts._ Silence! You took my horse and chaise yesterday while I was in

Mr. Bates’s house, drove through the town like mad; and, when I found

them, they were locked up in the pound, the horse in a perspiration, and

the chaise nearly stove to pieces. What have you to say to that?

_Dilly._ Let my ear alone. I won’t tell you a word until you do.

_Butts._ Speak out, quick! What did you take my chaise for?

_Dilly._ La, Mr. Butts! I didn’t mean to hurt it. You posted a notice on

the church-door, warning people to beware of leaving horses in the street

over twenty minutes; for, if they did, their horses should be put in the

pound, and their owners fined.

_Butts._ What’s that got to do with my horse?

_Dilly._ Respect the law, Mr. Butts. I saw your horse stand at Mr.

Bates’s door over half an hour; and you know what’s sauce for the goose

is sauce for the gander: and so I drove him to the pound. Ain’t you much

obliged?

_Butts._ Much obliged, you young jackanapes? If ever I find you meddling

with my horse again, I’ll have you locked up in a pound where you won’t

get out in a hurry.

_Dilly._ La, Mr. Butts, don’t get angry! What’s the use of making laws,

if you break them yourself.

_Butts._ Oh, bother! Precious little you know about law. Good-morning,

Mrs. Loring; good-morning, Miss Lucy (_going, C._).

_Dilly._ Good-morning, Mr. Butts: going to have a ride?

_Butts._ Oh, bother!

_Dilly._ I say, Mr. Butts--

_Butts._ Well, what now?

_Dilly._ Respect the law.

_Butts._ Oh, pshaw! (_Runs off, C._)