The Merchant Prince of Cornville
[Illustration: Signature, _Samuel Eberly Gross_]
The
Merchant Prince of Cornville
_A COMEDY_
BY SAMUEL EBERLY GROSS
_Represented in_ LONDON, ENGLAND, _at the_ NOVELTY THEATER,
_on November 11, 1896_.
FOURTH EDITION.
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
Copyright, 1896, by Samuel Eberly Gross.
All rights reserved.
Copyrighted in England, 1896.
PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION.
Prompted by the interest which has arisen since the publication of
former editions of this comedy, the author takes occasion to state that
“The Merchant Prince of Cornville” was written between the years 1875
and 1879. It was circulated and read in manuscript copies until 1895,
when, at the request of many persons, it was placed in the hands of the
printers for publication in book form, from whom printed proofs were
received in July, of that year. In 1896 the first edition appeared in
print from the University Press of Cambridge. In the same year it was
given a single representation at the Novelty Theater, London, with the
object only of securing the acting rights in England.
One of the purposes of the author is to present the poetic and ideal in
dramatic contrast with the materialistic and commonplace spirit, which,
perhaps, somewhat more strongly than to-day, prevailed two decades ago,
when this comedy was completed; the underlying theme intended to be
developed being that the love of a high-minded and refined woman can be
gained only by appealing to her poetic fancy and finer sensibilities.
How well the objects sought have been attained is left to the judgment
of the reader.
S. E. G.
CHICAGO, March 1, 1899.
The Merchant Prince of Cornville.
_A Comedy._
THE CHARACTERS.
WHETSTONE _The Merchant Prince, suitor to Violet._
BLUEGRASS _His secretary._
SCYTHE _A scientist._
IDEAL _A poet, suitor to Violet._
NORTHLAKE _A philosopher._
FOPDOODLE _A fop, suitor to Violet._
TOM _His valet._
PUNCH _A miscellaneous person._
JACK _Son to Northlake and Catharine._
POMPEY _A butler._
HANNIBAL _A servant._
VIOLET _Niece and ward to Northlake._
NINON _Her maid._
CATHARINE _Former wife to Northlake._
SUSAN _Housekeeper to Whetstone._
_Maskers, Musicians, etc._
PLACE _The Seaside._
TIME _The Last Quarter of the Nineteenth Century._
SYNOPSIS OF SCENERY AND INCIDENTS.
ACT I.
SCENE I. _An orchard by the sea. Sunrise. The pursuit and discovery._
II. _A pavilion, with view of the sea. The arrival of the
Merchant Prince._
ACT II.
SCENE I. _On the seashore. Business, science, and romance._
II. _Portico of the Dolphin Inn. A speculation in love._
III. _A costumer’s shop. A study in characters._
IV. _A street. The fop and the ape._
V. _A boudoir. Before the masquerade._
ACT III.
SCENE I. _A masquerade. Assembly of the maskers._
II. _A balcony. The lover in armor._
III. _The same. A minor love affair._
IV. _The same. Hearts unmasked._
ACT IV.
SCENE I. _A room at the Dolphin Inn. The hour before the combat._
II. _A clearing in a wood. The literary duel._
III. _The Glen of Ferns. Love’s high noon._
ACT V.
SCENE I. _A room at the Dolphin Inn. A prelude to a serenade._
II. _A hall in a villa. A speculation in stocks._
III. _A lawn before a villa. The serenade and finale._
The Merchant Prince of Cornville.
_A COMEDY._
Act the First.
SCENE I.--_An orchard by the sea. Sunrise. Birds singing._
_Enter_ IDEAL.
IDEAL.
The hour of dawn!--how thrilling and intense!
The matin songs of birds, that dart and soar
On quivering wings, now break upon the sense
As sharply as the cannon’s voice at mid-day;
In yonder wood that guards the sea-cliff’s wall,
Where sullen shadows shrink away and flee
Before the rising sun’s advancing spears,
The day-detesting owl hath turned his back
Unto the light, and sought the sheltering cowl
Of ivy web about the oak-tree thrown;
And all the glowing world,--wood, sea, and sky,--
Is most sublimely beautiful beneath
This pendulous light, that, like an avalanche
Of golden beams.... But I have spoken the word
That halts my fancy’s flight, and brings me back
To earth and its dull cares, and our dull age,--
Our golden age ’tis called: our age of gold,
Hard and material, when our best ideals
But folly seem, all things are bought and sold,
And even love itself is merchandise.
Alas! the many years that I have known,
And many ills, in this same golden age,
Have brought their bitter harvest to my breast,
Like frozen grain beaten by winds unkind
From out the icy north; but as those seeds
Fall sterile on the earth, nor glow with life,
So shall my sorrows take no living root
Within my bosom.... Now do I recall,
Like a sweet picture in a gallery hung,
How I last eve at early twilight watched
The figure of a lovely maiden bending
Tenderly o’er a vase of new-blown flowers,
Upon a breezy terrace, underneath
A green-hued lattice-work, that, like a shield
Embossed with morning-glories, hides and guards
Her chamber window. Passing there this morn,
I looked upon the flowers as one might
Who, barred from out the walls of Paradise,
Would seize some blossom growing sweetly there;
Then, while my eager heart tumultuous beat,
Sending the tell-tale blushes to my cheek,
I plucked a flower--this crimson, perfumed pink.
’Tis woven from a clod of earth, and yet
To me ’tis fairer than a star of heaven.
Sweet flower! sweet flower! last evening I did see
Thy mistress from her chamber casement lean
And gaze ecstatic on the pilgrim moon
Tracing a silvery path along the sky;
But thou didst woo her from that magic gaze,
Drawing her to thee with the subtler force
Of finer particles than live within
The cold moon’s slanting beams....
But soft! yonder my lady’s self appears,
Slow moving down the orchard path. I’ll seek
A covert by this tree. Seeing the hunter
Doth fright the deer away.
[_He hides behind an orchard tree._
_Enter_ VIOLET.
VIOLET.
Which way’s the robber gone? I’m sure I saw him here.
IDEAL [_aside_].
What! I’m a robber, am I? Well, this tree hath no tell-tale bark, and
I’ll stay here.
VIOLET.
I thought I heard some one speak, but not from underground, for he’s not
a goblin; nor yet from the sky, for he’s not an angel; nor yet from the
earth, for no dreadful man is near. Why, what is that in the sky? ’Tis
last eve’s moon, that will not to her couch by day. To rest! pale
planet. O gentle moon, where is thy blush? Thou art dismantled by the
roseate sun. Alack! what divine dramas are there in the skies!
Oh, would that I within thy circlet’s rim
Might glide by curves of brightening lawns. In thee
The day is half a month till noon, and thoughts
Are gentle as the velvet fawns that glide
From out thy rustling groves. In thee, rare flowers
Their fragrant balms distil, and perfume wreathes
The girdling hours. Let me fancy this!
IDEAL.
Now doth she see her fragile fancies rise on wings of gossamer, like one
who chases golden butterflies, flying before the dawn. What sweet
mysterious alchemy could beauty such as hers persuade!
VIOLET.
But list; what’s this? A spirit in the tree,--a talking spirit, too!
I’ll listen; ’tis my privilege in this orchard. Go on, sweet spirit, I’m
listening. [_Pauses._] Nay, go on, my time is brief; or if thou’dst
rather, I’ll not overhear.
IDEAL.
Nay, hear, sweet maid; I’m fated in this tree to dwell, and ne’er before
so spoke my heart unto a maid.
VIOLET.
Canst thou not speak in rhymes? Why, spirits should be poets too; or is
the tree’s rind too hard? I do pity thee for a poor spirit.
IDEAL.
Nay, hear me. When the tree is in its blossom, then rhymes come
fleetest; when the tree is in its fruitage, then rhymes come sweetest.
Thou once, on such a time, didst sit beneath these ripening boughs, in
sweetest reverie wrapt, and I, while musing on thy beauty and the gentle
spirit within thee, did weave these rhymes.
VIOLET.
I well remember it; and if thou art a truthful spirit I will listen to
thy rhymes. Thou mayst begin.
IDEAL.
What pure mysterious alchemy
Doth beauty chaste as thine persuade
To sublimate its crude degree
In sweetest herbs of earth displayed!
VIOLET.
Stop, stop; I command thee! Thou art much too philosophical for a poet.
I’m weary.
IDEAL.
Thou didst halt me in the middle of my verse.
For I philosophy discern
In quivering lips, in liquid eyes,
In rounded neck, and cheeks that burn
Like rose-leaves ’neath the radiant skies;
In hair as golden as the sun
That wreathes the circling grove, and seems
As fine and delicately spun
As if ’twere woven of his beams.
VIOLET.
Thou’rt much too flattering for a spirit. Thou art not a cold spirit,
but a warm one. Good spirits should be cold. Mend thy rhymes, or I will
leave thee in thy prison.
IDEAL [_aside_].
I’ll learn if she beheld my robbery this morn.
[_Aloud._] Didst thou awake?
Didst thou awake?
That hour when moonbeams glide away
’Neath limpid tints of twinkling day,
When from the wires of its cage,
That string between from bar to bar,
Thy prisoned bird, in tuneful rage,
Awoke unto the morning star,
And sang unto the woodland wild
That hides the sun beyond the hills,
And hides, in wavy foliage isled,
The breezy nest of cooing bills?
Didst thou awake?
Didst thou awake?
VIOLET.
Why, that sounds like a morning serenade. Now indeed do I know thee for
a spirit of light-tripping gayety; but I’ll answer no questions. I was
wakened by a robber who from my chamber-window plucked my favorite
flower. Spirits should know all things, and not be so inquisitive for
ladies’ secrets.
IDEAL.
Give me the wings of yonder lark,
Soaring into the perfumed dawn,
Beyond the chimney’s beckoning spark
That, blackening, strews the beaten lawn.
For I, within this tree immured,
With fervent glances scan the ships
That sail and sail until, obscured,
The ivory fleet the ocean dips;
While swarms of white-winged memories,
Like missive-bearing doves, arise
From out the pure pellucid seas,
And float above these orchard skies.
VIOLET.
Why, what pretty fruit that tree doth bear! I have a mind, but, alas!
not the heart, to leave thee in thy tree, to rhyme to me some other day.
Art done? No answer. Then I’ll rhyme, too. Spirit, thy art’s infectious.
Move slow, thou circlet of the moon,
Turn not to zones thy brightening lawns;
Let day be half a month till noon;
Wake not with light thy distant dawns.
But, fie, why doth the genial sun make the moon so pale? I would not
turn so pale were a man to appear in this orchard. [_Pauses._] Sweet
spirit, appear, appear! No answer. Hast lost thy speech, or doth the
tree’s bark encompass thee too closely? If thou art in the trunk of this
fair tree, I’ll petition it with ardent lips to ope its close-bound rind
and let thee out; but how? The tree cannot hear, being deaf, but the
tree can feel, being alive; so then, I’ll kiss thee, thou hard, hard
tree. [_Bends to kiss the tree, when_ IDEAL _appears and kisses her_.]
What spirit art thou in man’s disguise to thus affright a lady who ne’er
did harm to thee, but wished thee well? How couldst thou treat me so?
IDEAL.
Fair maid, thou fill’st me with such keen delight I know not what to
say, but pause for utterance, my lips being newly laden with a sweet
burden.
VIOLET.
Nay, not so. Thou art too literal. I do entreat thee for an answer.
IDEAL.
Thou art the most fair complainant that e’er did sue for answer, and in
a just cause, too. How could the earth resist the sun? How could the sea
resist the tide? How could a spirit resist heaven?
VIOLET.
I thought thou wert a spirit who’d been in heaven long ago.
IDEAL.
Never before did I even dream of heaven; and for material answer make I
this: Our spirits were kindred, and by that fair relationship I did
salute thee so.
VIOLET.
Now do I know thee: thou art no spirit, but a robber,--a substantial
robber who plucked my favorite pink from my window; but I, rising in
quick haste, followed thee adown this orchard path. Thou thought’st thou
hadst escaped me. I did see thee but half plainly, by the dawn’s most
timorous light that through the lattice wooed my pillow.
IDEAL.
As thou didst wake! Oh, would I were the dawn’s most delicate light that
wooed thy soul’s fair stars exiled within thy crescent-curtained eyes!
VIOLET.
And if thou wert, thou wert but a robber still. Thou hast the flower in
thy hand!
IDEAL.
Oh, I have treasured it; yet will I return to thee the pink. ’Tis thy
property.
VIOLET.
Nay, keep the flower, if thou lovest it so.
IDEAL.
Ay, then I’ll think it had its birth ’neath twilight’s violet sky.
VIOLET.
Think not too lightly of the flower; ’tis most rare,--grown from a seed
found in the tomb of an Egyptian mummy. She was an ancient princess who
died in the flower of her youth from love ill requited: so reads the
antique parchment entombed with her,--a legend pitiful and true; but
then, ’twas three thousand years ago.
IDEAL.
Love has grown more constant since then.
VIOLET.
I hope thou wouldst not jest at love?
IDEAL.
Nay, not I. I’d sooner jest at all fair properties in heaven and earth
than jest at love.
VIOLET.
’Tis a flower of ancient lineage. I planted it with mine own hands, and
watched it grow. What joy I felt to see it grow, I ne’er can tell. When
first its tender bud beseeched the sky, it was athirst; I brought it
water from a crystal spring. From simple bud to leafy stalk it grew, and
then the petals formed, giving sweet promise of a flower; till
yesternight from its green husk the perfect blossom bloomed, and I did
shed a tear upon it, thinking of that poor princess.
IDEAL.
Dost think her spirit lives in heaven?
VIOLET.
That do I most truly. I would not that thou thought’st differently. Thou
couldst not be so cruel!
IDEAL.
Thy simple story moves me beyond the power of prayer. Now that the
flower buried with her doth live, let it bequeath a legacy of love most
true and constant to our hearts; so shall the princess from beyond see
within our lives a perfect love wrought by her most heavenly agency. And
here [_kneeling_], on bended knee, by thy dear hand that’s clasped in
mine, I vow, by all the subtle bonds that nature placed within the world
to bind us to the truth, to love thee ever.
VIOLET.
Rise; thou art the planet of my maiden firmament. I do believe thee. My
vow is linked with thine most sweetly and inseparably.
IDEAL.
Thy words are bright flowers, whose subtle sweets I do extract and hide
away. Ay, I shall live on them when thou art absent, as the patient bee
lives on his hoarded store in winter.
VIOLET.
I hope thou speakest truly as thou dost fairly, for thou speakest as a
poet doth, and I have heard,--but pardon me; I’ll not quote the idle
gossip.
IDEAL.
I pray thee, do.
VIOLET.
Well, then, to heed thy prayer. I’ve heard it rumored that poets, in
their grammar, all the moods of love do conjugate in swift succession.
IDEAL.
I’ll prove to thee that gossip is untrue.
VIOLET.
I’ve heard that they are variable; that they contract the four seasons
into the compass of a day,--call the morning spring, the forenoon
summer, the afternoon autumn, and the evening oft the depth of winter;
that they in idle ways say thus: Why, prithee, this forenoon, being in
love beneath the equator, I felt the fervent sun impart his fever to the
earth; but to-night, alack! being out of love, Lapland hath no denizen
colder than I. I pray thou wilt not treat me so.
IDEAL.
By Heaven, ’tis a scandal! I’d have thee try me. Use pique, jest,
coldness, stratagem, and all the dire weapons in a maid’s armory to try
her lover, and if, knowing thou art true, I do not in all love’s humors
love thee still, why then--
VIOLET.
Yes, why then--
IDEAL.
Why, then, I’ll return to dust.
VIOLET.
Alack! that would be unkind.
IDEAL.
Nay, try me.
VIOLET.
Perchance I may. [_Aside_] But only for a moment. [_Aloud_] How high’s
the sun, pray?
IDEAL [_looking at his watch_].
I’ll be precise, and timely guard my answer. ’Tis nigh unto five
o’clock; the minute-hand lacks one, the second-hand--
VIOLET.
Stop, stop! thou outspeedest Time himself. How desperately thou rushest
from the hour to the minute hand--from thence there is but a fraction of
time to the second hand, which I take to be not a good token; for thou
hadst but a minute ago my hand, and yet thus swiftly thou wouldst
approach a second hand.
IDEAL.
Shall we have no watches with second hands?
VIOLET.
I’ll have no merchandising. Thou a poet and a lover, and lookest at thy
watch to tell the sun’s height! Alas! put up thy watch; lovers do not
time themselves by watches. Thou wouldst not so at night register the
moon’s height; but upon a pressing question, How high’s the moon?
wouldst answer, A little higher than yonder rose-bush, if the moon rose
late; or, perchance, A little higher than yonder tree-top, if the moon
rose early. The sun’s as fine to me by day as the moon by night. Poetry
doth not steal away at dawn of day. But thou must go; good-by for a
moment. [_Looks up the orchard path._] Nay, good-by for all day, for I
do spy my guardian uncle.
IDEAL.
Dreams do not end but oft begin at dawn. Give me leave to walk with thee
at midday in the Glen of Ferns.
VIOLET.
High noon must be high dream-time when poets love. Await me there
to-morrow.
IDEAL.
High noon will brighter grow when thou dost come.
[_Exit_ IDEAL.
VIOLET.
As fair spoken a robbery as e’er the sun shone upon. A fair and gallant
robber, too, who robs me of my heart in broad daylight, detected in the
very act by his own watch. I made the robber tell the hour and minute,
so that in any court no cruel alibi could lie. I’m fain to think I’ll
ne’er again detect so fine a robber. Who’s he? What’s he? I know not, I
care not. I would not ask that question rude and mercenary. I do but
know he’s the most gentle gentleman I e’er did meet. Oh, if this be
love, ’tis very kind and sweet!
NORTHLAKE [_afar in the orchard, calls_].
Violet!
VIOLET.
’Tis very strange, for I have heard in sundry rhymes, and good rhymes
too, that moonlit eves were the only seasons suited for robberies so
thinly veiled as this. Why, my own heart doth beat as if there were two
hearts within, and I had gained another rather than lost my own. How can
it be? But gently,--I’ll not argue the question; ’tis much too deep and
sweet for idle questioning. Sweet argument, wait for my uncle.
NORTHLAKE [_afar, calls_].
Violet!
VIOLET.
Why, I forgot to ask his name! I could not call him did I wish to, and I
might wish, being affrighted. Yet he shall not want so simple a matter;
I’ll give him a name. I’ll call him [_commandingly_] Oliver!
[_Entreatingly_] Oliver! thy Violet calls thee. [_Indifferently_]
Oliver! I do not like the name, ’tis too round.
NORTHLAKE [_afar_].
What, ho, Violet!
VIOLET.
I’ll call him Peter. What, ho [_piquantly_], Peter! ’Tis too piercing;
I’ll none of it. Let me think: I’ll call him [_slowly_] Daniel! Dost
hear me [_inquiringly slow_], Daniel? I like it no better than the
first. ’Tis too long.
NORTHLAKE [_nearer_].
Where art thou, Violet?
VIOLET.
I’ll call him--yes, I’ll call him Joseph. [_Tenderly_] Joseph! wilt thou
not come? Thy Violet calls thee. No, no, ’tis a mistake; I’ll not call
him Joseph,--’tis too, too flat. I’ll call him--let me see--I’ll call
him a name borne by none other, oft dreamed by me, but never met until
this morn. I’ll call him my Ideal, my dear, dear Ideal.
NORTHLAKE [_very near_].
Violet! Where can the maiden be? [_Enter_ NORTHLAKE.] I surely saw her
going down the orchard path. [_Discovers_ VIOLET.] Why, there thou art!
Why didst thou not answer me?
VIOLET.
Didst thou call me?
NORTHLAKE.
Did I call thee? Why, if I called once, I called thee twenty times. I’m
almost hoarse with calling. Why art thou out at break of day? One might
almost think thou wast in love, to rise so early.
Violet [_aside_].
That am I.
NORTHLAKE.
Thy lover comes to-day.
VIOLET [_aside_].
I wonder if he knows!
NORTHLAKE.
He’s rich, a thorough business man and solid gentleman.
VIOLET.
I don’t like solid gentlemen. Who is he?
NORTHLAKE.
A princely merchant in the West, and owner of banks, mills, stores,
houses, and lands. Thou shalt have a list of it all made for thee on
satin. Profits of business are five hundred thousand a year. Think of
it! thy wedding-dresses of white satin!
VIOLET [_abstractedly_].
Shall I have five hundred thousand dresses of white satin a year?
NORTHLAKE.
No, no; thou hast mixed the profits of the business with the number of
dresses.
VIOLET.
Are the profits of the business five hundred thousand white satin
dresses a year?
NORTHLAKE.
Stop, now; this shall all be explained after thou art married.
VIOLET.
But I’ll have it explained before I’m married.
NORTHLAKE.
Be patient, Violet. He will woo thee properly, and explain all things. I
am to meet him at the Dolphin Inn to-day. He’ll be in a very good humor
at my account of thee.
VIOLET.
I’m well enough without his good humor. Pray, what’s his name?
NORTHLAKE.
A merchant prince, the Honorable Hercules Whetstone, Mayor of Cornville.
VIOLET [_laughing_].
What a name! Ha! ha! Couldst thou not add something to it? ’Tis too
short.
NORTHLAKE.
Thou wilt be added to it.
VIOLET.
That will I not be.
NORTHLAKE.
What’s this,--rebellion? Who’s been here? Hast thou seen any one in this
orchard?
VIOLET.
No one but my Ideal.
NORTHLAKE.
That’s too insubstantial.
VIOLET.
More substantial than thou dreamest.
NORTHLAKE.
I’d think thou wast bewitched by love, did I not know thou never hadst a
lover.
VIOLET.
That was true yesterday; but to-day! [_Sighing_] Ah, well-a-day!
NORTHLAKE.
Thou speakest truly. Thou hast a lover now, and before the night passes
thou shalt see him.
VIOLET.
Shall I?
NORTHLAKE.
He’ll be weary from his travels, and to-day, no doubt, will require
rest; but he’ll meet thee to-night at the masked ball. Come, then, to
the villa, so that to-night thou mayst appear refreshed.
VIOLET.
I’m not weary. Oh, that sweet, sweet tree!
NORTHLAKE.
Why, what’s in that tree? ’Tis but an orchard tree.
VIOLET.
I’ll wager thee, ’twill bear sweet fruit.
NORTHLAKE.
Why, what a fever thou art in!
VIOLET.
I’m not in a fever. A child that never ventured in the fields may know a
blossom when it sees it.
NORTHLAKE.
Come, thy maid, Ninon, has risen, and awaits thee. Thy feet are damp
with morning dew from the grass.
VIOLET.
The dew of love is in my heart; and that’s not damp.
NORTHLAKE.
This comes of teaching thee, from childhood, philosophy in my melancholy
moods. I’ll never again teach thee philosophy, though I be as melancholy
as Democritus, since thou dost use the philosophy I teach thee against
thine uncle and teacher, instead of against the world.
VIOLET.
For the good philosophy thou didst teach me, I’ll love thee all my days.
But, uncle, is this marriage good? ’Twere not good, ’twere not
philosophical.
NORTHLAKE.
Alas, dear Violet! [_Aside_] If she but knew! [_Aloud_] I cannot give
thee thy dues except by this marriage. Thou wast my favorite sister’s
only child; and when she left thee and thy fortune to my guardianship, I
promised to protect thy fortune, and watch over thee even as my own
daughter. Now I will get thee a good husband; for he’s rich, and a solid
gentleman.
VIOLET.
Who’s a solid gentleman?
NORTHLAKE.
Why, the Honorable Hercules Whetstone.
VIOLET.
Oh, puzzle thy Whetstone!
NORTHLAKE.
I fear thou’lt puzzle him, Violet. But never mind; come, come now.
VIOLET.
Oh, thou sweet tree; I cannot leave thee!
NORTHLAKE.
Why, there must be some witchery in that tree! I’ll have it cut down and
burnt.
VIOLET.
Nay, good uncle, thou wouldst not have the tree cut down. ’Tis a good
and thrifty tree that never did harm to any one, and therefore I love
the tree. [_Takes his arm._] Dear uncle, do not cut it down. Thou art a
good, dear uncle, and I will go with thee; and thou wilt let the tree
live.
NORTHLAKE [_going_].
Well, then, come, come! I’ll let the tree live.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--_A pavilion, with view of the sea. Forenoon._
_Enter_ WHETSTONE, BLUEGRASS, and SCYTHE.
SCYTHE.
Who knows but, in the chemistry of Heaven, we, this noble race of men,
are but parasites feeding in space upon a crust of earth encompassing a
fiery particle!
BLUEGRASS.
What a glorious thing is one of our ordinary mundane cycles of time!
’Tis only a day; and yet it is a legacy too great for the richest man to
put in his will. Let no one be so brazen as to attempt to belittle this
magnificent star of ours.
WHETSTONE.
Hold! Professor Scythe, is that the so-called sea?
SCYTHE [_examining it with his glass_].
Yonder liquid and corrugated mass is the rumpled outskirts of the sea.
In our scientific formula, it is the correlation of a mighty power.
WHETSTONE [_taking glass and examining_].
I can believe you.
BLUEGRASS.
Hercules Whetstone, patron of the arts and sciences, founder and
president of the Cornville Academy as a paying investment, and nourisher
of its infant civilization, proprietor of the Cornville Eagle--
WHETSTONE.
One moment, Major Bluegrass: that will do for the home market, but not
among strangers. I’ve given you both a summer vacation, so that you may
enjoy yourselves, and work harder when you return. Now, look around,
store up knowledge, and--I won’t deduct the time from your salaries.
That’s business. But you must be more particular about my titles. Always
speak of me to strangers as the Honorable Mayor Hercules Whetstone, the
Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois,--called
Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the
Mississippi. Do you follow me?
BLUEGRASS, SCYTHE.
We do.
BLUEGRASS.
Oh, why was I so long pent up in the heart of a continent? I can remain
on land no longer.
SCYTHE [_taking out his note-book and writing_].
Item,--this is important. Major Bluegrass, long pent up in the heart of
the American continent, upon his first sight of the sea wishes to swim.
This is of great scientific value, as it shows the recurrence, after
long deprivation, of an inherited pre-Adamite instinct; for we read that
Adam walked, but never that he swam, therefore are we driven to the
waters for evidence. It proves the origin of man from the oyster, or
some more ancient inhabitant of the sea.
BLUEGRASS.
I am no fish, nor ever was. I’d rather spring from a rainbow than a
pond.
SCYTHE.
A pond is your rainbow come to earth.
BLUEGRASS.
I must swim. Oh, Mayor Whetstone, let us all swim!
SCYTHE [_writing in his note-book_].
The pre-Adamite instinct in the presence of its primary environment
manifests increasing ratio.
BLUEGRASS.
Professor, take your increasing ratio and slide down to the imponderable
roots of the sea. I must get out of this prison of clothes, and into the
water.
WHETSTONE.
Major, try to feel comfortable with your clothes on, for you’d soon be
imprisoned without them.
BLUEGRASS.
No dungeon of clothes can hold me! What a lofty repose comes over me as
I survey yon glittering expanse of water, like a blue field of
undulating velvet! A tear of joy I give to thee, O mighty sea!
SCYTHE [_writing in his note-book_].
Item,--he returns a saline tear to the sea, in memory of his pre-Adamite
ancestor. This is the pre-Raphaelism of natural selection.
WHETSTONE.
You are my scientist, my threefold Professor of three chairs,--natural
science, hygiene, and agriculture,--in my Cornville Academy. Now, to
create a money-making hunger for science at the Academy we must
popularize it. Therefore, give me the scientific facts about the sea in
a popular sort of way, so that all may understand and enjoy them.
SCYTHE.
Its remote abysses are inhabited by the mammoths of natural history and
evolutionary philosophy; and vast herds of sea-cattle graze upon its
marine meadows, like buffaloes upon the prairies. In fact, our prairies
were once the bottom of the sea, and the buffaloes were supposed to have
been left when the waters receded.
BLUEGRASS.
Your marine buffaloes must wear anchors around their necks, instead of
cow-bells.
SCYTHE.
Not so. Nature always provides for her creatures; for, as birds soaring
above the mountain-tops have great wings of feathers, so, on the other
hand, these cattle have immense hoofs, of a substance resembling lead,
but much heavier than the lead of commerce.
WHETSTONE.
That adds to their commercial value. Major Bluegrass, you’re my private
secretary, and editor of my Cornville Eagle: what do you know about the
sea?
BLUEGRASS.
I only know what I want to see: I want to see the sport the mermaids see
down in their prismatic sea homes, drinking out of beautiful sea-shells,
while pearls drop at their iridescent feet. Oh, Hercules Whetstone, you
are rich! Get me a diving-bell. I’ll interview the mermaids for the
benefit of the Eagle, scoop our rival, the Hawkeye Observer, and send up
the Eagle’s circulation ten thousand.
WHETSTONE.
Blue thunder, Major, be calm! Ever since we arrived here you’ve been as
excited as if you expected to see a drove of fairies and hobgoblins jump
out of every bush and dance in the air.
SCYTHE.
He may have caught the infection of the season: for it is now the
so-called fairies’ season of drolleries and bewitchments. It was a
delusion of the ancients, and yet it had some scientific basis,--for
science shows that this full summer tide heightens and ripens the
natural dispositions of men, so that what is most natural in them often
seems most strange.
WHETSTONE.
Professor, examine his hygiene, and see if he needs any medicine.
SCYTHE [_feeling his pulse_].
What’s this? Why, this pulse beneath my finger is the alarm-bell of a
disordered system! Open wide your eyes. [_Looking into his eye._] What a
distended foresight have we here! The pupil of the eye is dilated like
an owl’s.
BLUEGRASS.
The owl stands for wisdom.
SCYTHE.
Silence! Hold out your tongue! [_He opens his mouth._] It has an
overcoat with a high color. [_Taking out a thermometer._] The
temperature is seventy-two outside [_taking the temperature under his
tongue_], and inside, under the shade of the tongue, it is ninety-nine
and nine-tenths. Why, we are approaching spontaneous combustion!
[_Feeling his forehead._] And your forehead is as hot as a volcano.
Mayor Whetstone, you may in a few hours lose your private secretary.
WHETSTONE.
I cannot afford to lose him yet; save him, Professor, save him!
SCYTHE.
I will obey. The unimpeachable symptoms indicate hypothetical
impoverishment of the blood, complicated by a highly inflamed excitation
of the nerve-tissues. We must at once build up an iron constitution.
WHETSTONE.
Build him up, Professor, he’s too sensitive; make an ironclad man of
him, like myself. Give him ribs of iron.
SCYTHE [_presenting two pills_].
Here are two pills of iron. I’m an Eclectic. This in my right hand is
the mammoth shell of the Allopathic school, and this in my left,
balanced upon a point of my little finger, and no larger than a solitary
grain of mustard-seed, is a fine shot of the Homœopathic school.
BLUEGRASS.
I don’t choose either of your schools. I belong to the Hydropathic
school.
WHETSTONE.
He who will not swallow a school of medicine to save his life, must be
made to do so. Here, Professor, while I hold him, give him a schooling.
[_They try to give_ BLUEGRASS _an iron pill_.
BLUEGRASS.
Friends, have you no philopena? Give me no pill of iron. May you ne’er
sleep with down within your pillow! Oh! put me in a pillory, but put no
pill in me. Oh! [_They succeed in giving him a pill._] I’m pilled; the
iron has entered my system; how very hard I’ll soon lie down upon my
little pillow. And thou, hard Whetstone, thus to sharpen Scythe to mow
me down! Cæsar was stabbed by the iron daggers of the conspirators, but
I am slugged by an iron bolus from the hands of my friends. This is
ironical. Alas! I am a pundit; for as a typical representative of the
pun, e’en while the iron was in my heart I have doubly punn’d it.
SCYTHE.
The iron that enters your blood gives life, not death. Thus does modern
science show her supremacy over ancient passion.
BLUEGRASS.
You speak well. I’m better now. I acquit you both, and greet you as my
friends. [_They all shake hands._] What a weird place for a marine poem!
Would that a seamaid I might be made to see!
WHETSTONE.
Hold on; I have it.
SCYTHE.
What?
WHETSTONE.
Sea-cattle, Professor: they live?
SCYTHE.
Most profoundly! Among wild cattle are the sea-lion, sea-elephant,
sea-unicorn--
WHETSTONE.
Stop! We must get a so-called unicorn for the Cornville Aquarium.
SCYTHE.
Among domestic cattle, vast droves of sea-pigs--in our inland
nomenclature called porpoises--appear upon its surface when the sea
boils, before a storm; and sea-calves, sea-cows, and sea-oxen roam its
salt sea pastures.
BLUEGRASS.
This is the romance of science.
WHETSTONE.
We must land them!
SCYTHE.
What do you purpose to do with the porpoises and other sea-cattle?
WHETSTONE.
How little you know of the grand possibilities of business! Why, I’ll
build up a new industry on these shores. I am the Merchant Prince of
Cornville. Here I’ll be a sea-cattle king; I’ll make a fresh fortune in
my gigantic monster emporium for salted sea-cattle. And now to the
Dolphin Inn, where I’m to meet Northlake. Then for business by the sea.
[_Exeunt._
Act the Second.
SCENE I.--_On the seashore. Afternoon._
_Enter_ WHETSTONE, BLUEGRASS, _and_ SCYTHE.
WHETSTONE.
Well, boys, I’ve seen Northlake, and we’ve all had a good dinner. A good
dinner is also a good romance. Never despise money. Do you follow me?
BLUEGRASS, SCYTHE.
We do.
WHETSTONE.
Then let us come to business at once. I’ve brought you out here to have
a consultation, and to get your opinion on certain things, each in his
own department of learning, according to the salaries I pay you. I’ve
arranged to do a fine piece of business. I’m a man of business, and I’m
a man in love. I’m in love with my business, and I’ll make a business of
my love. Professor, how should a man dress to be a so-called lover?
SCYTHE.
That depends; but this is true: He that loves is like a traveller
between the north and south poles, and he will need different suits of
clothing, and philosophy.
BLUEGRASS.
What an explanation! [_laughing_] ha-ha-ha!
WHETSTONE.
Professor, what is the laugh?
SCYTHE.
My analysis of the laugh is not yet completed, and I am now seeking to
produce the missing link. However, the juxtaposition of two incongruous
yet contemporaneous images in the mind is simultaneous with contrasting
and varying pressures upon the electrically charged nerves. These
varying pressures by reflex action cause the pleasurable action of the
muscles called the laugh. Let me illustrate. By varying and alternating
pressures upon the electrically charged nerves of the eye there is
presented to the mind the image of a lover caressing a maiden; and just
beyond, the one view overlapping the other, we see a donkey eating the
lover’s bouquet, and then [_laughing_] ha--ha--ha!
BLUEGRASS.
The donkey took the bouquet for an offering of beau’s hay.
WHETSTONE.
Be silent. No trifling with science! Professor, analyze me Violet.
BLUEGRASS.
I know! I’m at home in colors.
WHETSTONE.
Attention! We’re now in science.
SCYTHE.
The flower violet is the only organic substance in which science has
discovered a trace of gold.
WHETSTONE.
Gold and Violet found together,--good! Why, science is a fortune-teller.
Go on!
SCYTHE.
It is the most refrangible of the seven primary colors of the solar
spectrum.
WHETSTONE.
What’s refrangible?
BLUEGRASS.
I know!
WHETSTONE.
Steady there, Bluegrass!
SCYTHE.
Let me illustrate. You discover by a violet light a beautiful fish in
the water, and you wish to catch it. Now, you must throw your hook,
dart, or net, not directly at it, but a considerable space this side,
according to the depth.
WHETSTONE.
That’s fishing under difficulties. Do you mean to say that a man can’t
see straight in a violet light?
BLUEGRASS.
I know! let me explain.
WHETSTONE.
Listen to the Professor!
SCYTHE.
Violet light passing from one medium into another of a different density
becomes most refractory, and turned out of a direct course at an angle:
in other words, you must angle for your fish. See my Tables on Molecular
Structure, Density, etc., determined by angles of refraction.
WHETSTONE.
So if I get the hang of the angles and depth, I’m all right, am I?
SCYTHE.
In a scientific sense, you are.
WHETSTONE.
Oh, ho! then I’m pretty well posted on Violet. Now for the next point:
Professor, what is love?
SCYTHE.
With the passionless precision of science, I say unto you, Mayor
Whetstone, though she you love is the most symmetrical duplex pyramidal
aggregation of atoms in the human saccharine conglomeration, shun love,
and court science; for by spectroscopic analysis of the light proceeding
from the eyes of jealous lovers, I have seen their spleen turning a dark
green.
WHETSTONE.
I didn’t know it was so bad as that! Major, how do you regard love, from
the heights of romance?
BLUEGRASS.
A region of enchantment.
WHETSTONE.
Yonder valley with verdure clothed would be a capital place for my
emporium for porpoises, or so-called sea-pigs.
BLUEGRASS.
I implore you, Mayor Whetstone, do not project across my mental line of
sight that animal, either in its terrestrial or marine form.
WHETSTONE.
He fills his destiny to the full; and besides, he is the most
intelligent of animals. It is a historical fact that he was taught to
play whist fifty years before the clever dog.
BLUEGRASS.
He jars on the landscape, and is a discord amidst the dulcet harmony of
the waves.
WHETSTONE.
What would you have? The good pig eats all he can while he can;
therefore he eats like a pig. Major Bluegrass, let me hear no more of
your disparaging comments on the honest and assiduous pig,--the most
useful and business-like of all our domestic animals. He can nobly hold
up his head and represent corn converted. And while he turns the
cornfields into bank-notes, shall we blame him if he does not serenade
us with the notes of a silver flute?
SCYTHE.
I wish to make a moral observation upon a physical basis: Major, if the
formula of your destiny were identical with the pig’s, you would give
rise to more discordant vocalization than even that disgruntled animal.
BLUEGRASS.
He may be the most useful animal upon this magnificent star of ours; but
though his good points were as many as his bristles, they could not
excuse his shortcomings. The limited geographical prospects of his pen
should make him deeply contemplative of the stars; instead of which he
roots deeply in the earth. Hence he takes a step backwards, and, instead
of increasing his wit, he increases only his weight.
SCYTHE.
Man is like a reversed vegetable that has swallowed its roots and walked
off on its branches. Why, what is that at my feet? Let me pick it up
tenderly. Hurrah! I’ve got a geologic pebble! See, Mayor Whetstone, what
a rare, grand specimen for the prehistoric museum of the Cornville
Academy!
WHETSTONE.
What’s it worth?
SCYTHE.
Worth! Mercenary man! Let us reverently take off our hats in its
presence. It’s worth more than all the property in Cornville. See,
Major, see!
BLUEGRASS.
Put it in your pocket, or some one will claim it.
SCYTHE.
Unfeeling man! No one shall claim it. You saw me pick it up. You are my
witnesses.
BLUEGRASS.
To what geologic family does it belong?
SCYTHE.
It is a genuine relic of the cosmic dust. Hurrah! I’ve got a geologic
pebble! See the fluted sheets of color pervading its interior! It must
have been suspended in the pre-Adamite fires for ages. Gentlemen,
remember you have seen no meteors in the sky.
[_Taking out his note-book and writing._
_Enter_ SMALL BOY, _crying_.
BOY.
Give me my marble!
SCYTHE.
Why, boy, this is no marble. ’Tis a very rare specimen of the dewdrop
form of crystallization, precipitated during the prevalence of the
primeval sand-storms, formed by the cooling of the stony vapors.
BOY.
Give me my marble, or I’ll call my mother!
WHETSTONE.
Professor, you may have picked up the wrong specimen.
SCYTHE.
There can be no mistake. Let me examine it with my microscope.
[_Examining it._] I clearly recognize the uniformity of its circular
strata of color, which could be formed only as it revolved on its own
incandescent axis in super-heated fires. Boy, look through this glass,
and then see if you have the youthful cheek to say it is--I tremble to
say it--your marble.
BOY [_looking at it through the glass_].
That’s my colored marble; I was playing with it. [_To_ WHETSTONE _and_
BLUEGRASS.] Make him give it back to me, won’t you? It has a nick and
the first letter of my name on it.
SCYTHE [_surprisedly, re-examining it_].
Why, boy, I cannot afford an unscientific controversy with you or your
mother. Alas! take it. [_Giving marble to the_ BOY.] And when again you
play with it, remember-- [_Exit_ BOY, _hastily_.] Thus do my hopes of a
pre-Adamite museum wither. It was a unique specimen of the circular
group of crystallization dreamed of by science, but hitherto
undiscovered. Major, here comes your seamaid.
_Enter_ CATHARINE _in disguise, with a basket of fish_.
CATHARINE.
Good afternoon, gentlemen landsmen! I have fish in my basket; will you
buy? I have your fortunes in my keeping; will you have them?
BLUEGRASS.
I salute you, by the sea, as a near relative in the fields of romance to
the milking-maid of our inland pastures.
CATHARINE.
I take you to be landsmen, and, therefore, good fresh men. I am a
fortune-teller with varied fortunes. Each summer, for a month, to these
shores I come to renew and perfect the spirit’s vision, which, even like
natural sight, is cleared by good free air and sunshine; and as men with
glasses have seen ten hundred living things upon a pin’s point, so I,
with spiritual lenses, have seen the past, present, and future, each in
proper order, marshalled upon a space no larger than a spectacle glass.
WHETSTONE.
Pardon me,--your name and home?
CATHARINE.
My name is Catharine, and my home is wherever I am. I come from the
city, where there are more sharks in one day than you will see here in a
year, and where people in despair come to me for the fortune fate has
denied them. I am more pitiful than fate; and their pleased looks give
me a joy greater than does their pittance. Hence, poor souls, I give
them precious pictures of future good, which, believing in, they
achieve, and thus their griefs assuage.
BLUEGRASS.
We all, to-day, bear our fortunes lightly.
CATHARINE.
And may you at nightfall bear them as lightly! Fine weather makes quick
friends. Come, then, gentlemen, will you buy? Each one in his own humor.
If there be a true merchant among you, I will tempt him with the fish’s
weight; if there be a moralist, with the fish’s moral; if there be a
scientist, with the fish’s complicated structure; if there be a poet,
with the fish’s most poetical history; if there be a gourmand, with the
fish’s flavor. Each one shall see in the fish he buys, his own humor. He
shall have both weight and moral; for a good moral without weight is
immoral, and a good weight without a good moral is a dull measure. You
shall pay me for the weight, for that the fish had in the sea; but for
the moral, that is in my humor, and gain has taken a vacation. Every one
has his pastime, and no one is so poor but he has his humor. Mine is to
see men buy a fish, each in his own humor; for by the fish’s scales will
I weigh him.
SCYTHE.
How came your hair so white at your age?
CATHARINE.
With losing of my husband, and giving of good fortunes. But come,
gentlemen; fair weather makes quick friends, but unfair questions, like
unfair weather, part them. Will you buy?
BLUEGRASS.
Let us buy.
WHETSTONE.
Let us first learn the price of the fish.
BLUEGRASS.
It sounds to me like a romance. Come, let us all sit here in pleasant
converse; the night is afar, and while we buy we’ll enjoy the aroma of
the salt-sea zephyrs blown from off the invisible flower-beds of the
sea.
WHETSTONE.
Stop your perpetual romance!
BLUEGRASS.
Romance that is not perpetual, but goes by fits and starts, is not worth
the reality it feeds upon.
WHETSTONE.
I’d put the price on everything,--trees, fences, houses, the baby’s
rattle, and in its first primer a price-list of its expenses.
BLUEGRASS.
Hercules Whetstone, Mayor of Cornville, there are some things upon this
magnificent star of ours that are not in the market,--things so high
that you cannot reach and put a price upon them in the cold-blooded
shambles of merchandise.
WHETSTONE.
There you go again, trying to throw star-dust in your benefactor’s eyes.
Oh, why did I make you editor of my Cornville Eagle?
BLUEGRASS.
Because your Eagle was asleep, and I was the only one who could wake him
up and make him soar into a higher circulation. He looked like a whipped
buzzard that had dulled his talons upon old newspapers; but I put new
life into him; and now that I have made you the proprietor of a
newspaper which is a household word, and which will be in every
scholar’s library at the close of human learning, you scoff at me. Such
is glory in a commercial age! Columbus may discover, but the merchant
Americus gives his name to two continents.
SCYTHE.
Good woman, some undesirable chemical change may take place in your
fish. I would advise you to put some salt on them. I am a chemist.
CATHARINE.
The fish are dead; they cannot hear.
SCYTHE.
Mayor Whetstone, why do you not change the Eagle to the Hawkeye Review
of Western Science?
BLUEGRASS.
Strip that proud bird of his plumage, and in less than seven revolutions
of this magnificent star of ours he will have fewer followers than a
vanquished rooster.
WHETSTONE.
Major, I cannot resist you. You are my true, my great and only editor.
Give me your hand; let us be friends.
BLUEGRASS.
Now let us go on with our romance. [_To_ CATHARINE.] Bring on your fish!
CATHARINE.
There are as queer fish inside as outside the basket, I’ll warrant you.
[_She presents the basket to_ WHETSTONE; _he selects a codfish_.] That
is a fish in weight and look of much import,--the codfish. He is an
aristocrat among the shoals and schools, and he has done much to build
up our own aristocracy. [_She presents the basket to_ SCYTHE, _and he
selects a Holothurian_.]
SCYTHE.
Why, madam, this is a rare fish, a Holothurian, vulgarly called a
sea-cucumber, from its resemblance to that common garden vegetable. I’ll
mount its skeleton at once. It is the fish of science, and has the power
of analysis; for ’tis written that when attacked, for self-protection it
will divide itself into many pieces, or turn itself inside out.
_She presents the basket to_ BLUEGRASS, _and he selects a flying-fish_.
BLUEGRASS.
How beautiful!
CATHARINE.
Yes, ’tis a flying-fish, which, rising above the heavy and obscurer
element of its kind, and using its fins as wings, in aërial courses,
sparkling like a jewel, beholds the glittering and sunlit scenery of the
upper air. There is much similarity between these excursions and the
poet’s fancies. And as these lower creatures in their airy flights
excite the wonderment of fishes and please men, so may human excursions
in the higher element of fancy excite the wonderment of men and please
the gods.
BLUEGRASS [_in admiration_].
Madam, consider yourself engaged as sea-side correspondent of the
Cornville Eagle: topic, sea-fish and their morals. Please accept my
card, and draw upon me for a month’s salary.
[_Gives his card._
SCYTHE [_writing in his note-book_].
Item,--this is important. In evolution, the grasshopper sprang from the
flying-fish.
WHETSTONE.
What birds are those flying above the waves and darting like flying
squirrels?
CATHARINE.
They are the larks of the sea, and in the wake of a ship are wider awake
than your land larks.
BLUEGRASS.
Madam, with your permission,--upon the first streak of dawn our common
meadow-lark has been known to climb the heavenly vaults above this
magnificent star of ours like a morning-glory of song.
WHETSTONE.
Professor Scythe, explain.
SCYTHE [_examining the birds with his glass_].
Leaving, for a moment, grave mysteries of the deep upon the floor of the
abysmal sea, we ascend to trace in the flight of a simple bird its name
and family. The wings of the bird are the pre-Adamite forefeet of an
animal which, through ceaseless efforts of evolution, became crowned
with feathers. From the movements of these feathered forefeet we can
tell all about the bird. Now, Mayor Whetstone, take this glass. [_He
gives glass to_ WHETSTONE, _who follows the movements of the bird with
it_.] Now watch closely the parabola of dip or curve of flight that puts
it in the great family of web-footed water-fowls. See the unwavering
scoop, the practiced and web-footed ease with which it grazes a wave. We
have before us a genuine sea-gull.
WHETSTONE.
Major, put that in the Eagle, and see how it looks in print. Something’s
bitten me! it must be one of your sea-fleas.
[_Looking up his sleeve._
BLUEGRASS.
Sea-flea; do you see it?
CATHARINE.
To see a flea, you must flee the sea,--unless perchance you may see a
deep-sea flea such as I have at the bottom of my basket. [_Takes out a
lobster._] This is the wicked flea the fisherman pursues. He will give a
biting relish to your codfish.
[_Offers lobster to_ WHETSTONE, _who draws back_.
WHETSTONE.
Is he dead?
CATHARINE.
Such is his seeming.
WHETSTONE.
What a monster! [_Observing the lobster._] Professor, what’s his
scientific history?
SCYTHE [_weariedly_].
I don’t know.
WHETSTONE.
Don’t know! Professor, it cost me a heap of money to build my nursery of
learning, the Cornville Academy, and I’m going to make it the biggest
paying institution on this broad continent. I’ve advertised you in
letters big as fence-posts as our own prided prince of science, engaged
at an enormous salary. There are already applications for next term from
over five hundred anxious fathers of wonderful sons. Can I afford to
disappoint them? No. Can you stand there and calmly tell me you cannot
give me so simple a thing as the history of a deep-sea flea?
SCYTHE [_looking at lobster with his glass_].
In the race for life, he first made his appearance in the epoch of the
mammoth, anterior to the gigantic antediluvians, before the apparition
of man upon the earth, and at a season in the progressive series of
pre-Adamite evolution soon after the separation of the crocodile branch
from the main stem, about forty-five millions of years ago.
WHETSTONE.
Astonishing! so long as that?
SCYTHE.
I will not in detail give his scientific biography. It is sufficient
that during this period he gorged himself with the blood of these
primeval mammoths, which accounts for his size, and often, frenzied by
the harrowing appetite of this parasite, these gigantic and prehistoric
brutes made the primeval forests for a hundred miles ring with their
helpless bellowings. But I will not further excite your pity for the
remote ages.
WHETSTONE.
Go on, Professor, go on!
SCYTHE.
This was the summer of his race; but, alas! then came the glacial
period. He was frozen up with the mammoths, and remained so for probably
twenty millions of years; but such was his tenacity of life, that when
the world thawed out, he again appeared, his skin somewhat hardened by
exposure,--a fact which you will recognize,--but otherwise cheerful, and
in his usual health. Well may his kind be grateful; for, wrapped in ice
for æons of time, he was the slender thread upon which their future
hung.
WHETSTONE.
But why did he take to the sea?
SCYTHE.
After the apparition of man upon the earth he was driven into the sea by
the excited inhabitants.
WHETSTONE.
Major, this is truly wonderful. The Academy will succeed.
BLUEGRASS.
’Tis the very romance of science.
WHETSTONE.
But, Professor, what was the glacial period?
SCYTHE.
Well, sir, the glacial period was an epoch when, from a business point
of view, ice was cheaper than dirt. Had the apparition then occurred,
man could have gone all over the globe on skates. But as it was a vast
ball of ice, he would probably have slipped off into space, and nothing
more would have been heard of him. And so this star of ice for countless
ages rolled on through the sky like a big snow-ball; but at last the
great electric sun struck the earth on the equator, which accounts for
the equatorial bulge which exists to this day. Then commenced the
greatest drama of the elements ever witnessed upon our planet. The vast
ice-fields were riven in twain, with terrific reports which reverberated
through the heavenly spaces, and to which our present thunder is but as
an elemental whisper. Icebergs formed, and in fantastic and sublime
shapes, towering mountain high and illuminated by the sun, floated down
towards the equator.
WHETSTONE.
Go on, don’t stop; go on.
SCYTHE.
Then commenced the great oscillation of the land-masses; then the
eruptive rocks and sedimentary strata were moved from their foundations.
Then occurred the geologic epoch of the denudation and washdown of hills
and mountains, and then were formed the ocean floors, the islands, and
the continental areas which we inhabit.
WHETSTONE.
Put that in the Eagle. [_The lobster clings to him._] Hello! What’s the
matter now? Professor! Major! Woman! Take off your flea!
BLUEGRASS.
Be a hero!
WHETSTONE.
Great thunder! take him off. He has claws to his eyes. [_Takes off his
coat, with the lobster clinging to it._] Major, this is your fault.
Don’t speak to me again until you apologize. Come, Professor.
[_Exeunt_ SCYTHE _and_ WHETSTONE _carrying his coat with lobster
clinging to it_.
CATHARINE.
Fair is your prairie wit, and these sea-scenes have keen spices which
well try its mettle. He that is young and fresh shall have the salt of
experience. Many that come here to be salted by the sea are seasoned by
love. Would you be so seasoned?
BLUEGRASS.
If it be a fair, good seasoning.
CATHARINE.
At yonder villa by the sea I well know Mademoiselle Ninon, a French maid
who is in friendly service to one Violet. She has a dainty wit, with a
foreign flavor that will season you well.
BLUEGRASS.
Acquaint us. I would be so seasoned.
CATHARINE.
To-day she comes that I may tell her fortune. Be at the masquerade
to-night; wear a blue ribbon,--there you shall meet her. Trust me. Fare
thee well.
[_Exit_ CATHARINE.
BLUEGRASS.
This is genuine romance. ’Tis sweeter than ambrosia. Oh, why was I so
long pent up in the heart of a continent? Farewell, dull facts of
business which have stung me sharper than thistles. Roll on, magnificent
star, and bring night and romance.
[_Exit._