SCENE.--_A Tailor's Show-room, Jermyn-street, handsomely fitted up
with cheval glass, large round table in centre, fashionable chairs,
&c. A dummy figure, dressed in the extreme mode, near window. Articles
of gentlemen's attire exhibited in window, L. U. E. Door of entrance
to street, L. S. E. Fireplace and chimney-glass, R. E. Door to
Widgetts' chamber, R. S. E. Large pair of folding-doors, C. F.,
opening towards the stage; beyond these doors, a passage to the
kitchen, in which stands a stillion, with a water-butt standing on it.
At the end of this passage, the door of the kitchen. A round table,
C., with writing materials and lighted candle upon it. A print of the
fashions and tailor's patterns cut in brown paper on the wall. Table
at back, L., on which is a table lamp. Another table at back, R., on
which is a bottle of brandy and glasses. TWILL discovered brushing the
coat on the dummy figure, and singing a verse of an Irish song. A
postman's knock at door, L._
TWILL. Whist! I'll bet a pinny that's the post.
(_Runs to door and opens it._)
_POSTMAN appears._
POST. Mr. Widgetts!
(_Gives letter to Twill._)
TWILL. Thank you, sir. Maybe you've got a bit of a letter for me, from
my poor mother in Ireland? I'm not particular--the first that comes to
hand in the bundle will do.
POST. No, I haven't one for you.
TWILL. Thank you, sir. Maybe you'd have one the next time. Good-bye,
sir.
[_Postman goes away. Twill, reading the address on the letter._
"Whittington Widgetts, Esquire." Ow wow! Esquire! the devil a ha'porth
less. "Whittington Widgetts, Esquire, Hierokosma, Jarmyn Street."
Hierokosma! That's French for a tailor's shop. By the Attorney-General
'twould give a man a headache in his elbow to write such a cramp word.
(_Smells the letter._) Why then it smells elegant intirely. (_Goes to
door, R., and enters while speaking._) Mr. Widgetts, here's a letter
for you, sir.
(_Returns immediately from the room, re-commences his song, and begins
to brush the figure again. A church clock in the neighbourhood strikes
eight._)
WID. Twill!
(_Speaking from the door of chamber, R._)
TWILL. There, listen to that row. That master of mine will persist in
calling me Twill, though he knows my name is Barney Toole, because
Twill, he says, is genteeler.
WID. What o'clock is that, Twill?
TWILL. Eight o'clock, sir.
WID. Put up the shutters.
TWILL. What the devil can he mean? We never shut until nine o'clock.
_Enter WIDGETTS from chamber, R., kissing a note which he holds._
WID. Well, don't you hear me? Put up the shutters and close the
establishment, directly.
TWILL. Of coorse, sir. Never say it twice.
(_Twill runs out by door, L., and is seen putting up the window
shutters outside._)
WID. This night I devote to the tender union of love and lobsters. The
adorable Ma'amselle Cheri Bounce, the ballet dancer, at last consents
to partake a little quiet supper with me here this evening. I must
read her charming note once more. (_Reads._) "Ma'amselle Cheri Bounce
presents compliments to Mr. Whittington Widgetts, will feel happy to
sup with Mr. W. W. this evening. Ma'amselle C. B. fears that female
notions don't correspond with supping with a single gent, but lobsters
is stronger than prudence, therefore trusts to indulgence; at nine
o'clock precise. P.S.--I'll come in my blue visite and my native
innocence, and hopes you'll treat them with proper delicacy."
Glorious! Angelic creature! (_Kisses the letter and puts it in his
waistcoat pocket._) Oh! Widgetts, you lucky rascal, to have the
happiness of a private and confidential supper with that magnificent
girl, whose image has never left my mind since the evening I danced
with her at the Casino. (_Calls._) Twill!
TWILL. (_entering from door, L._) Sir?
WID. You must run directly to the tavern, over the way, and order them
to send a roast fowl and lobster, in the shell, here, at nine o'clock.
TWILL. Roast fowl, sir?
WID. And lobster. He--hem! I expect a particular party to sup with me.
TWILL. Coorse you'll want cigars, sir?
WID. No. The party, Twill, is a lady and don't smoke.
TWILL. A lady! Tare my agers, sir. Does the lady bring the lady's maid
with her?
WID. Don't be impertinent, Twill, but listen to me. The party I expect
is Ma'amselle Cheri Bounce, a splendid creature, who dances on a
limited income, with the strictest regard to propriety, at the Opera
House, and gives lessons to private pupils in the _pokar_ and the
waltz _ah do tongs_.
TWILL. Whoo! She must be a switcher. (_Going._) I'll run directly,
sir.
WID. Stay! I must make myself attractive for the interesting occasion.
Give me the coat that has just been finished for Sir Chippin Porrage,
and the waistcoat that's to be sent home to-morrow morning for the
Honourable Cecil Harrowgate's wedding. (_Twill hands a dress coat and
waistcoat from the table, L._) I'll give them an air of gentility by
wearing them this evening. That will do. There, be off now.
TWILL. Ha, ha! By the powers o' war, when you get them on your back,
sir, you'll be like Mulligan's dog, your own father wouldn't know you.
_Widgetts carries the coat and waistcoat into his bed-room, R., Twill
is going towards door, L., when MARY WHITE, the laundress, enters,
carrying a basket of clothes under her arm._
MARY. Here, Twill, take my basket, good chap. Is master at home?
TWILL. (_Takes basket._) Yes, he _is_ at home. (_Aside._) Take my
basket, good chap. Well, there's no bearing the impudence of the lower
orders. (_Sets down basket, R., and calls at door, R._) Please, sir,
here's the laundress come for your clothes. (_Crosses to door, L.
Aside._) Good chap!
[_Exit, R._
WID. (_entering, R., aside._) She always comes at an awkward crisis.
(_Mary takes off her shawl and sits, L._) Mary, my dear, you're rather
late this evening.
MARY. Oh dear, yes! I've been half over the town for my customers'
washing, and I'm almost tired to death, but I left yours for last,
that we might have a comfortable chat together. Stop a minute though
till I take off my clogs.
[_She goes into the kitchen passing through the folding-doors._
WID. (_Apart._) The poor creature loves me to distraction, but she's
painfully familiar; she forgets that our positions are materially
altered since I was a journeyman tailor in a two pair back, struggling
to make love and trousers for the small remuneration of fifteen
shillings a week. Mary White is an uncommon nice girl--as a laundress,
but my sentiments is changed respecting her as a wife.
_MARY WHITE re-enters and comes down, L._
MARY. Now, Widgy, dear---- Oh, good gracious, what a love of a
waistcoat you've on! Let me look at it, do? Well, it's a real beauty.
WID. Stylish, eh? The last Paris touch.
MARY. You used not to wear such waistcoats as that when you lived in
Fuller's Rents.
WID. Oh, no, no! Ha, ha! (_Aside._) I wish she'd cut Fuller's Rents.
MARY. Do you know, Widgy, I don't think you're at all improved since
you fell in for that fortune, by a legacy you never expected. When you
lived in Fuller's Rents you used to walk out with me on a Sunday. You
never walk with me at all now.
WID. Walking's vulgar, my dear.
MARY. And you sometimes used to take me at half-price to the theatres.
WID. Theatres is low, my dear.
MARY. And you remember how we used to go together to Greenwich, with a
paper of ham sandwiches in my basket, and sit under the trees in the
park, and talk, and laugh--law! how we used to laugh to be sure!--and
then you used to talk of love and constancy and connubial felicitude
in a little back parlour, and a heap of beautiful things.
WID. (_Aside._) A heap of rubbish.