SCENE V.--VIOLET’s _boudoir, dimly lighted_.

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE, _with domino on his arm, reading a book_.

NORTHLAKE.

Not yet! still in her dressing-room. To-night

Fortune shall win a prize more delicate

Than are the velvet leaves of fabled roses.

For years my mind’s best nutriment has come

By night,--and what of night? I’ll think on it,

While Violet arrays herself for this

Night’s masquerade. It would be right in me

To fancy night as a black sea in space,

That hath circumference and depth, and through

Whose clouded elements grim-visaged hawks

Do sleekly plunge like fishes in the sea,

Seeking their prey; and all upon the earth

Dwell on the floor of this aërial sea,

And thence look longingly at moon and stars.

Oh, hasten, sun, drive back this monstrous tide

Of night! See how these trembling night-lights throb

With the sun’s offices. Ten million such

Could not burn up a solitary rood,

Nor make partition for a vaulted league

Of this black night. But I’ll not rail against

The gentle night; for often doth it bear

A princely offering to Mammon’s shrine.

But come, my niece, my gentle Violet,

Make haste; the hours halt not for lagging maids,

Nor fortune either.

VIOLET [_within_].

Patience, my good uncle.

NORTHLAKE.

What is this vaunted love that so doth set

The world on edge? ’Tis but the kindled rapture

Of selfishness, that joys to see its double,

Its fond endearment, its sweet concord, and

Reflection in another. While love is true,

Two doubles come, both blent in one, in love’s

Bright mirror; but when fails the endearing bond

Of selfishness, the passions, then two natures

Rudely clash therein, and love sees double,

Like to an eye disordered. Wonderful

Nature is solved as easily as a scholar

Doth solve his problem on the wall, when lo!

The master’s back is turned, and stealthily

He peeps into the key. O Selfishness,

Thou art the key to all the operations

Of all this globe,--all men and animals,

And all the garniture of fields and forests.

Oft thou art hideous; then thou art distorted,

As is a lovely body racked by torture;

But in thy true and fair proportioned self

Thou’rt beautiful as beauty, and as wise

As wisdom. Thou art plentiful as color,

Sound, motion; and without thee Nature would

Eclipse herself in stark and blank oblivion.

Learn early this misfortune: Envy and Hate

Live on good fortune.... Not ready yet!

I’ll knock upon the door [_knocking_]. Fair Violet,

Make haste, or we’ll be late.

VIOLET [_within_].

Presently, good uncle.

NORTHLAKE.

Dimly these lights do burn, as if this boudoir

A cloister were; but these fair ornaments,

Arranged in chaste profusion, show a maiden

Mind dwells here that doth delight in beauty.

Yonder, enshrined with wreaths of evergreen

And immortelles, a precious picture hangs,--

Her mother and my sister, looking most

Pityingly on me. What is this? Why, here’s

The carven image of a maid at prayer;

And here’s a tender picture of a youth

And maiden in a flower-garden, done

In placid oils upon a patch of canvas.

Methinks the artist had done better had

He put here in the corner of the picture

Some quaint and curious demon, peeping o’er

The garden wall. Why, looking at these toys,

So fitting for a maiden’s bower, almost

Moves me from my purpose. Must all these

Vanish? Will not some angel answer me?

No; Heaven answers not a bankrupt’s prayer.

My fortune and her fortune swallowed in

The hideous maw of speculation; both

Banished, completely banished! Why, I’d rather

Be exiled from my country than my fortune.

But all, all is not lost. She hath a girlish

Beauty and a heart most rare; and in

This age of rude massed gold there’s value in it.

A heaven-dowered woman hath an alchemy

That can refine base gold. The bargain’s good....

Ninon, is not thy lady nearly ready?

NINON [_within_].

My lady does demur to wear ze dress,

And says she’d rather be plain Violet.

NORTHLAKE.

Thy scruples, Violet, are pretty whims;

But more become a simpering maid than thy

Chaste self. [_Aside_] Alas, the plague of poverty!

[_Aloud_] Thou dost obedient service to thy guardian

Uncle, and mayst save him from a plague

That’s worse than all the plagues that e’er beset

The town of Coventry.

VIOLET [_within_].

Plague take the costume! I do not like it.

NORTHLAKE.

Let me turn up these lights--the jewel’s from

[_Turning up the lights._

Its casket brought. I keep no false coin in

My house, no cunning mockery, no smirking

Counterfeit. Why, he shall own, and rightly

Own, that she, in bodily volition,

Movement, and gesture, well doth match a mind

That’s matchless.

_Enter_ VIOLET _in fancy costume, and_ NINON _carrying domino_.

VIOLET.

Dear uncle, art thou pleased?

NORTHLAKE.

Why, thou art richly worth his gold, were his

Possessions fabulous.

VIOLET.

Whose gold, good uncle?

Thou speakest strangely.

NORTHLAKE.

I did but jest a trifle.

VIOLET.

Give me thy arm, good uncle. I’ll tease thee.

[_Taking his arm._

I do mistrust thou’dst sell me in this costume;

For Ninon, chatting as we dressed, and humoring

Me, did say that often thus they sell

Circassian maids unto the Turk.

NORTHLAKE.

Nay, ’tis but idle prattle in Ninon.

VIOLET.

Dear uncle, let Ninon companion be

To me to-night.

NORTHLAKE.

If ’tis thy merry wish.

VIOLET.

I thank thee, my dear uncle.

NORTHLAKE [_taking domino from_ NINON _and putting it on_ VIOLET].

Give me the domino. Thou’lt wear it on

Thy passage to the ball. It is a shield

Which, laid aside, thy beauty’s peerless might

Shall conquer all.

[_Curtain._

Act the Third.

SCENE I.--_A masquerade. Musicians playing. Maskers moving about._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS _in masquerade costume_.

WHETSTONE.

Major, have we any parallels for this?

BLUEGRASS.

Millions of parallels. Nature loves a masquerade as much as she abhors a

vacuum.

WHETSTONE.

See if my character is loose. It feels like slipping down over my boots.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold on to your character; never let it slip, or all is lost. Remember,

you are a Teuton knight-errant of the Horn of Plenty, and I am Rainbow,

your squire. The ancient warrior Achilles carried a shield with amazing

scenes beaten thereon.

WHETSTONE.

I can beat Achilles’ shield all hollow. I’ve brought my album, with

photographs of my houses, stores, banks, farms, academy, and prize

cattle. Here it is. [_Displaying a large album._] But come, my boy,

again explain. Why am I called the Horn of Plenty?

BLUEGRASS.

Horn of Plenty signifies wealth. Remember, we are now walking in a

romance, and explanations are like stumbling-blocks in a dream. One must

imagine more than he sees.

_Enter_ SCYTHE _with glass, examining_ WHETSTONE, _and especially_

JACK, _among the masqueraders_.

WHETSTONE.

Then she might imagine I was a dinner-horn, a trombone-horn, a

tooting-horn, the moon’s horn, a horned beast, or some other horn, or

that I took a horn as a matter of business.

BLUEGRASS.

Don’t talk of business; stick to your character.

WHETSTONE.

Confound you, my boy! I am sticking to my character, and my character

sticks to me. I feel like a rooster in an iron nightgown.

BLUEGRASS.

Solid in solid.

WHETSTONE.

I’m the only one here who seems to have his clothes riveted and anchored

to him.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold! you must talk in the language of knight-errantry: My sweet, fair,

or beauteous lady, wilt tread a measure in the dance? I am listed in the

tournament of love.--Something in that strain.

WHETSTONE.

Will my clothes bear the strain?

BLUEGRASS.

Seemingly, but if you should feel rusty, either in character or memory,

ask me to polish you; for such is my traditional duty as your faithful

squire.

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE, VIOLET, _and_ NINON.

WHETSTONE [_observing_ VIOLET].

Oh, ho! look there, Major, my boy,--there comes the prize of the market.

She’s pretty as a pet kitten. She’s sweet as a box of honey. She’s worth

a barrel of money. I wish it were Violet; I’d throw in the farm on Pearl

Creek.

BLUEGRASS.

Steady, steady; hang on to your character!

CATHARINE [_recognizing_ BLUEGRASS].

[_Aside_] That is he with the blue ribbon. I’ll hail this rainbow.

[_Aloud_] Sir Rainbow, you make fair promises, and keep them fairly.

BLUEGRASS.

Rainbows bespeak fair weather and fair maids.

CATHARINE.

You have bespoken fair weather with bright words, and you shall bespeak

a fair maid with bright eyes, as I promised you to-day on the seashore.

BLUEGRASS.

Oh, where is she?

CATHARINE.

Yonder she stands while the fates work her destiny,--the fair Ninon.

Come, give me your arm.

[_They join_ NINON.

WHETSTONE.

Going, going, gone; knocked down to the first bidder! What a weakness he

has developed for women!

NORTHLAKE.

[_Aside_] Why, that’s the voice of Mayor WHETSTONE. I’ll address him.

[_Aloud_] Ho, most gallant knight, thy squire hath left thee in a

lonesome plight!

WHETSTONE.

I am the so-called Teuton knight of the Horn of Plenty. Do you know me?

NORTHLAKE.

Have you the mettle of the true knight?

WHETSTONE.

I’m covered with metal seven hundred years old. Northlake, I know you!

Where is she?

NORTHLAKE.

Yonder, with her maid. Go, woo and win the lady. You could not have

chosen a better suit in which to press your suit.

WHETSTONE.

She shall be mine, and you shall be rewarded. [_To_ VIOLET.] Beauteous

lady, I am the resplendent knight of the Horn of Plenty. [_Aside_]

What’s the rest? [_Aloud_] Please wait a moment till I see my squire.

[_He goes to consult with_ BLUEGRASS.

NORTHLAKE.

He is the antipodes of that ancient gentleman whose dress he wears. But,

alas! the rudest oft give most thanks for a gentle wife, and he’ll make

her a comfortable husband. To do this, some would say was villanous in

me; but ’tis a convenient fashion. Wealth is a rude mountain, from which

the gentle win gentle treasures. The Decorator of the fields hath placed

the flower and sturdy plant side by side, and the one doth shield the

other. From dankest earth the whitest lily grows; from keen-edged sands

the fairest blossom blows. E’en frozen clods have flowers, and flowers

their frozen clods.

WHETSTONE [_returning to_ VIOLET].

Wilt tread a measure with me? I am listed in the tournament of love.

VIOLET.

Thy words bespeak a gallant knight. I’ll grant thy wish.

NORTHLAKE [_to_ CATHARINE].

I pray thee for a partner.

_A dance._ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET, BLUEGRASS _and_ NINON, NORTHLAKE

_and_ CATHARINE; SCYTHE _inspects_ JACK _with his glass and takes

him for a partner_.

[_Curtain._

SCENE II.--_A balcony._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET.

VIOLET.

Sir Knight of the Horn of Plenty, did thy grand-uncle slay the Indians?

WHETSTONE.

All of them. The banks of the Mississippi were covered. He had hired

soldiers under him who harvested their scalps while he slew them. In my

life in Flatpuddle Smith’s Biography of Great Men, you will find him

given as my great collateral ancestor.

VIOLET.

Thy family is warlike, but surely thou art a gentle knight.

WHETSTONE.

Oh, I’m gentle now; but if one of those savage Indians rose up against

me, I’d heap this illustrated album of civilization, like a burning

coal, upon his head! Do you know, when I was in Europe they offered to

make me a reigning prince--if I’d pay for it. There were several vacant

thrones, and I was about making a bid, when my gigantic business

interests called me back to Cornville, and the throne fell through.

VIOLET.

When you were in Europe, did you visit Rome?

WHETSTONE.

Passed through in the night-time, and didn’t stop. No business done

there; only a lot of fellows cutting figures in stone, and painting

pictures under the old masters.

VIOLET.

’Tis cruel in thee to jest so. Thy figure shows a gallant knight, and

thou dost speak by contraries to make thy showing finer. How doth the

moon shine in Europe?

WHETSTONE.

The same old moon.

VIOLET.

’Tis very fair.

WHETSTONE.

Why, there is the so-called fair moon now, sure enough! [_Looking at the

moon._] It shines like a new tin pan.

VIOLET.

The moon shines on thy armor, and thou thyself dost shine like a new tin

pan.

WHETSTONE.

There’s the new moon, the quarter moon, the full moon, and the dark of

the moon. The moon is good enough in its place.

VIOLET.

Why, where is the moon’s place, if not in heaven?

WHETSTONE.

In the almanac.

VIOLET.

Why, gallant knights and lovers gather substantial sustenance from

moonlight. ’Tis prescribed by Heaven and the poets. And thou revilest

the moon? Thou art a traitor to nature. Thy best place were in an

almanac, in the dark of the moon, in the sign of Capricorn.

WHETSTONE.

Off with the mask! [_Removes head-piece._] Behold the real Honorable

Mayor Whetstone, Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of

Illinois; called Hercules after his real grand-uncle Hercules, who drove

the real Indians reeling down the real Mississippi. Do you follow me?

VIOLET.

Heaven guide me in this whirlwind of contraries!

WHETSTONE.

Take yours off, too.

VIOLET.

As I hate disguises, and this moonlight is a gentle vapor, I’ll unmask

without more argument.

[_She unmasks._

WHETSTONE.

Beauteous Violet, you are my future wife. Let, oh, let me take a kiss.

VIOLET.

Our acquaintance is too brief for a jest so durable.

WHETSTONE.

Come, no one sees us. Just one little kiss. [_Enter_ SCYTHE, _looking at

them through his glass_.] Professor, get out! Take notes, hunt

specimens, and shelve your knowledge; but never let me see you here

again. [_To_ VIOLET] Did not your uncle tell you?

[_Exit_ SCYTHE.

VIOLET.

Why, thou art a sportive knight, indeed. Oh, thou art a deep dissembler!

But, no, thou art a gallant knight! This is some stratagem of words and

dress, invented by my good uncle for my diversion. If thou wilt keep a

secret, I will tell it thee.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll keep it. But, oh, how I’d like a kiss!

VIOLET.

Kissing is an idle fashion but lightly spoken of by our best authors,

and well missed by young misses. But to my secret. This morn my uncle

told me in the orchard that he had chosen for me a lover,--a most

substantial gentleman, a very merchant prince--

[_Pauses._

WHETSTONE.

Go on; give me all your secret.

VIOLET.

Why, thou art he in name and title; but I know thou art not, from thy

discord in guise, speech, and action; and thou dost carry out a jest too

literally with thy contraries.

WHETSTONE.

I swear I am the real he. See, here is my album! [_Opening album._] Here

is my picture, in my shirt-sleeves, before my store. See the sign above

the door: Hercules Whetstone’s Gigantic Store. Here’s my banking-house.

See, see! Now, do you believe and love me? Be my wife, and I’ll bind the

bargain with a kiss.

VIOLET.

Surely thou art the prince of jesters; and if ’tis thy humor, in part

I’ll not deny thee; but no maid should bind a bargain with betrothal

kiss until she knows the true worth of it. Hast thou any castles in thy

domain?

WHETSTONE.

Castles? Why, I own the half of Cornville. See [_showing the album_],

here’s my town-house. I’ll have its hall set in solid mahogany. Then

we’ll be the Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Mayor Whetstone, of Mahogany Hall,

Cornville, solid people,--if you like, in our castle.

VIOLET.

When thou dost in a day change thy house into a castle, then it will

have a gallant knight.

_Enter_ FOPDOODLE _concealing himself_.

WHETSTONE [_showing a picture in the album_].

See, this is my stately dairy farm. Yonder pearly stream that through

the middle of the farm doth run and wind about, and then run in and out

as if ’twere playing tag between its wave-kissed banks, is called Pearl

Creek. It is a curious stream. Here, once, the wild goose, while he

plucked the toothsome grass from its banks of verdure, listened to an

Indian maid. Here, beneath this spacious sycamore, we’ll sit and fish

for speckled trout; I’ll bait the hook. And when ’tis winter we’ll skate

upon it. See yonder latticed arbor perched upon the bank: it is the

hen-house, with hens and their companions from many lands. Here will we

gather eggs through all the seasons; and to have fresh eggs in winter is

no mean luxury. See yonder moss-covered house of stone picturesquely

wading in the water. It is the milk-house, with all its crocks of golden

cream. Here, with sparkling water, without a murmur from the world,

we’ll fill our crocks of fortune to the brim. Here, amid these scenes of

thrift and beauty, bustling hens, pensive geese, lowing herds, crocks of

cream, and gleaming fishes, we’ll wander hand in hand, spending our

full-orbed honeymoon, while the rude outsiders stare in dreamy wonder at

so much happiness on earth. Does not the prospect charm you?

VIOLET.

Do not end thy bright illumined catalogue. Give me it all.

WHETSTONE.

Give you it all! I’ll give you your share, but not all. Come, Violet,

that’s asking too much!

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh for a dagger to assassinate him! O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Continue.

WHETSTONE.

Oh! Now we leave the country, and come to town [_referring to the

album_]. Here is my edifice of learning, my Cornville Academy, my spring

of knowledge. I own the whole of it. Here’s my Cornville Eagle, which

shall brighten its plumage when we are married; and here’s my Bank,

whose president craves your hand. Do let me take it now; no one is

looking.

SCYTHE _appears stealthily for a moment, observing them

with his glass_.

VIOLET.

They who love moonlight must not forget the man in the moon; and I must

first ask my uncle. But I did not know that knights of late had grown so

rich. I must put on my spectacles.

WHETSTONE.

Bless me, are you near-sighted? I’ll come nearer.

VIOLET.

Nay, at dawn I was near-sighted, but to-night I am far-sighted.

WHETSTONE.

Bless me, I almost forgot it,--I own half a church, and built the

steeple out of my own pocket.

VIOLET.

Art thou a pious knight?

WHETSTONE.

Heaven must have a share. Besides, it was a sharp business project. It

is the highest steeple in the State; and some day I’ll ride into the

governor’s chair on it.

VIOLET.

Thy steeple should turn thy thoughts to heaven, instead of to the earth.

WHETSTONE.

That reminds me of the lightning-rod. [_Aside_] I’ll give her a sample

of my business talents. [_Aloud_] A pedler one day said to me: Mayor

Whetstone, I wish to introduce into your community my patent flanged

galvanized lightning-rods. Said I to him, pointing to the steeple:

Eureka! Excelsior! Do you climb? Do you follow me? Do you donate? Is the

advertisement worth the rod? Will you spare the steeple, and spoil the

rod? He climbed. He donated. Before the next thunderstorm he received

orders for over forty rods from members who were afraid the lightning

would strike their property if they didn’t buy a rod.

VIOLET.

I much mistrust thou’rt not a redoubtable, but only a doubtful, knight.

WHETSTONE [_kneeling_].

Heaven knows ’tis true. I pray for your hand.

VIOLET.

Pray for thine own heart. Rise; for when thou kneelest, thou half liest.

So stand up, and be not prone to lie upon thy knees.

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh, how I want to be a noble husband! O dazzling Violet! Oh, oh!

WHETSTONE [_rising_].

I thought I heard some one owe me something!

VIOLET.

No one here owes thee anything. Take thy mind off thy gains.

WHETSTONE.

Let me call your uncle.

VIOLET.

Nay, thy jest in greed lacks no ingredient.

WHETSTONE.

That’s not all; I have more stores, houses, cattle, stocks, barrels of

money, stacks of it--

VIOLET.

Well, go on; give me it all.

WHETSTONE.

Give you it all!

VIOLET.

All, everything.

WHETSTONE.

Give you it all! That’s practical. Who’d have thought it in one so

young? Would you outwit me? Would you outmatch me? Would you ruin me?

VIOLET.

Thou art a gentle stupid. I only meant, give me a description of

all,--thy catalogue of all thou hast. Thy lips label better thy goods

than thy love.

WHETSTONE.

What’s that?

VIOLET.

I insist upon all. I do mistrust--for I’m no trusting miss--that thou

art a poor ignoble man withal, hired by my jesting uncle withal to put

on this chivalrous disguise withal to jest with me withal. What false

knight art thou that thou wilt not endow the lady of thy love with all

thou dost possess, that lovest thy goods better than love? Thou art of

crude metal. Go to thy farm on Pearl Creek; I do not want thy goods.

WHETSTONE.

Am I dreaming?

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh for a carmine dagger to hack, to stab, to prostrate him! Oh, how I

crave to be a noble husband. O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Thou hast kept from thy catalogue and basely concealed that which loving

knights and ladies prize the highest.

WHETSTONE.

What can it be? I’ll buy it.

VIOLET.

’Twere better guessed, for by purchase it loses its value.

WHETSTONE.

I know nothing like it. But if it be concealed and of the highest value,

it must be a gold mine.

VIOLET.

Nay, thou gentle stupid, try again.

WHETSTONE.

Ah, now I’ve got it. A coal mine. Why, Violet, you are wiser than I

thought. You look beneath the surface. There is a rich vein of coal

beneath my farm; but it’s not worked.

VIOLET.

Neither is the vein of love well worked by thee. Try again, and for lack

of discovery and my sentence, thou shalt bear no complaint to my uncle.

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

Oh, let me tell! O dazzling Violet!

WHETSTONE.

I can think of nothing else besides.

VIOLET.

Put thy hand to thy left side. Hast thou no heart?

WHETSTONE [_putting his hand over his heart_].

I have a heart; and oh, I feel it beat tremendously.

VIOLET.

He is a poor merchant in love, who, having a heart, hath no value to it.

He’s a bankrupt who can declare no dividend unto his lady creditor. A

true and loving heart hath larger dividends than banks, richer harvests

than farms, finer goods than stores, and more happiness than all the

world besides.

FOPDOODLE [_from his concealment_].

O Violet, I’ve got a heart. O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Methinks that soon the silver moon will yonder mantling cloud enrich,

and leave thee a knight quite poor.

WHETSTONE.

I cannot lose you. Your worth grows upon me at the rate of a thousand

dollars a minute. [_Kneeling_] Here on my knees let me explain.

VIOLET.

Rise. I cannot help thee, although ’tis sadly said. Hadst thou

discovered thy heart earlier, and put the true worth of a heart upon it,

then I had thought more deeply. But now, alas! thy discovery comes too

late. I am a young judge, yet my sentence shall be a just one, and I’ll

not revoke it. Thou art a guileful knight. I sentence thee to perpetual

banishment; and that thou mayst study the phases of a maid’s heart and

of the moon, I will allow thee no book but thy almanac.

WHETSTONE.

Let the heavens hear me! I am not through yet. I have, a fearful fever!

VIOLET.

Maids are no doctors, except for hearts in love.

WHETSTONE.

Oh, I am in love, and now I know it.

VIOLET.

Thy complaint comes too late. Be patient, but be no patient of mine.

I’ll practice on thee no further. Thou hast thy sentence.

FOPDOODLE _leaves his concealment_.

FOPDOODLE.

Stay, you villain! If I had my dagger, I’d stab you. O dazzling Violet!

WHETSTONE [_rising_].

Who are you?

FOPDOODLE.

You caitiff knight, I am Augustus Fopdoodle and your deadly rival. O

dazzling Violet!

WHETSTONE.

You rascal rat! you eavesdropper! If I had my knightly sword, I’d hack

you into a thousand pieces and make you bait for catfish. Where’s my

sword?

FOPDOODLE.

Aha, vain boaster! There is my gage of battle; pick it up.

[_Throws down a glove._

WHETSTONE.

Pick it up yourself, you villain!

VIOLET.

Hold, gentlemen, brave gentlemen! ’Twere a pity that two such gentlemen

should end a harmless jest in sanguinary strife. Come. Your brave humors

make the rash current of your words more harmful than your sword-blades.

Believe me. Come.

[_Exeunt_ WHETSTONE _and_ VIOLET.

FOPDOODLE.

I’ll challenge him this very night to fight a duel. Fopdoodle, thou art

a brave man. Bless thee, Augustus Fopdoodle. Bless thee, O dazzling

Violet! I am a terribly quick man, and I should have killed thousands of

men had I but done it when I thought to do it. Let me think.--No, I must

not think so much upon the bloody deed, the grim and horrid spectacle.

Thinking cools me off like an evaporation; yet truly there is a manifold

vigor in me, O dazzling Violet, else why am I so brave when heated? Fire

brings out my bravery. What is the coward quality that on a sudden

chokes my valor so? I have it: it comes of too much thinking. Let me

pluck it out.--But no, I cannot pluck out my brains; yet I will admonish

my head not to think so much. But still, thinking is wisdom; therefore

too much wisdom makes me a thinking coward. I must cultivate less

wisdom. O dazzling Violet! I’ll send him a challenge, and he’ll not

fight. A bloodless triumph. Now thinking comes to my rescue. Animals

have not this process of thinking, for I have seen terrible animals

fight ferociously until they were dead, dead. O dazzling Violet!

Therefore I bless thee, Augustus Fopdoodle, that thou hast the spirit of

bravery; but I do bless thee more that thou hast the process of

thinking. I do not think he’ll fight. O dazzling Violet!

[_Exit._

SCENE III.--_The same._

_Enter_ SCYTHE, _with glass. He seats himself in a corner, observes

the moon, and takes notes. Enter_ BLUEGRASS _and_ NINON, _who do

not observe him_.

BLUEGRASS.

We have tripped into the hour of midnight, the fairies’ hour. Now the

fairest face, night-blooming like a mystic flower, may unmask its

sweetness.

NINON.

Charmant! Monsieur Rainbow, you delight me all ze night.

BLUEGRASS.

Here I’ll unmask, for your two eyes have kindled a flame in my breast

such as could not be lighted by all the stars burning in yonder heavens.

[_He unmasks._

NINON.

Monsieur Rainbow, you is ze fiery lover,--ze grand gentleman. Take away

ze bad mask.

BLUEGRASS.

In the nineteenth century, bright little sister of Venus, I’ll unmask

you.

[_He unmasks and kisses her._

NINON.

Très joli! Oh, Monsieur Rainbow, you is ze grand American lover.

BLUEGRASS.

You are the sweetest little maid upon this magnificent star of ours.

NINON.

Charmant! Monsieur, you are ze Rainbow more sparkling zan ze wine-cup.

BLUEGRASS.

There is a wine finer than that of the grape to-night. Let this

sparkling envelope of air be our distraction. See, Ninon, how it holds

this globe like a cup star-jewelled, and proffered to our senses with

all its myriad distilments of rapturous motions, varied colors, gladsome

odors, and sweet sounds.

NINON.

Monsieur Rainbow, we will drink from zat cup, and hunt ze buffalo in ze

West. Magnifique!

BLUEGRASS.

[_Aside_] Beautiful simplicity! Arcadia had no better than this

untutored Parisian. [_Aloud_] Dear Ninon, the advance-guard and

keen-eyed pickets of civilization have driven the buffalo from our

future home in Cornville; but you shall have amusement.

NINON.

[_Aside_] Oh, he is ze grand American lover!

BLUEGRASS.

Ninon, in Paris were you ever courted,--that is to say, were you ever in

a court of love or law?

NINON.

Why, Major Bluegrass, I did not know ze court was for ze love. I thought

ze court was only for ze law.

BLUEGRASS.

Give me simplicity! O Love, the entangler, do not unravel us! Let no

frog croak in Cornville.

SCYTHE _takes a glance at them through his glass_.

NINON.

Très beau! Good Monsieur Rainbow, ze frog is ze great beau in ze

springtime, with his fine green coat and gold buttons.

BLUEGRASS.

Now I remember me, the frog has a gallant look when the spring is in the

meadows and the banks are grassy. Now I remember me more closely, he

also has a romantic look; for once, when a boy, I watched him sitting,

like a sybarite Turk, upon a dewy bank in the pale moonlight, enjoying

the downward fragrance of an o’erbending lily, which o’er him hung like

a wedding bell. He gazed upon the moon sailing above him, and then upon

the moon below him, glistening in the pond which was his bed,--Neptune’s

trundle-bed, made for frogs,--until, between these two perplexities of

light, his eyes like diamonds shone. Shall I halt here?

SCYTHE _looks at the earth and moon alternately with his glass_.

NINON.

No, no, dear Monsieur; go on, good Monsieur Rainbow. I have ze grand

interest. His eyes shone like ze diamonds, ze beautiful diamonds.

Superbe!

BLUEGRASS.

Well, his eyes, like twin solitaires encrusted in rims of red gold,

shone more translucently than any that e’er sparkled in the betrothal

ring of an expectant bride. It seems this gentleman in green had grown

fixedly practical between the real moon and the ideal moon, and would

not have an ideal when he had not the real; for he, poor frog, like some

of our practical humans, did not know that the ideal moon in a pond was

much finer than a pond in the real moon. Now do I see him, as plainly as

if it were to-night, there coolly sitting and meditating, quite

philosophical.

NINON.

Oui, oui; zat was a foolish froggie, Monsieur Rainbow. Beware of ze

philosophy. Ah, Major Bluegrass, you have ze fervent language zat

thrills me.

BLUEGRASS.

Dear Ninon, my description, like your own pretty costume with all its

frills, tucks, and love-knots, has a moral with it. Before this

philosophic gentleman in green had reconciled himself to an ideal, a

flying cloud curtained the moon; and thus in his philosophy he let

bright opportunity slip, and went dark below.

SCYTHE _discontinues using glass_.

NINON.

Oui, oui; too true. I pity ze poor froggie.

BLUEGRASS.

Dear Ninon, render him no pity; for although I was but a green boy, I

then resolved that opportunity was greater than philosophy. Ninon,

yonder glorious moon shines brightly as on that memorable night in the

meadows. ’Tis a bright opportunity; let me kiss thee again.

NINON.

Pardon, sweet Monsieur Rainbow; wait for ze grand opportunity when ze

honeymoon upon our wedding shines; then you shall have ze thousand

kisses. Charmant!

[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.--_The same._

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE _and_ CATHARINE.

NORTHLAKE.

Fair lady, I have led thee to this spot,

Removed from all the merry throng of maskers;

For love grows best in solitude, and thrives

But poorly when too many eyes look on;

So saying, I unmask [_unmasking_], and ask that thou

Wilt move that vestment from thy cheek, to whose

Illumined page thine eyes are bright indexes.

Pray let me draw the envious curtain back;

For though I’ve scored some years, yet ne’er ’twas said

That I ungallant proved.

CATHARINE.

Stay for a moment,--I am strangely faint.

NORTHLAKE.

The ball-room’s heat I fear has wearied thee.

[_Tenderly supporting her._

CATHARINE [_recovering_].

Nay, heed it not; I long have been aweary.

NORTHLAKE.

Fair lady, tenderest fruit and hidden clings

Within its husk until full season. Now

Thou mayst remove thy mask, for in my heart

There’s sympathy that makes occasion ripe.

CATHARINE.

I see thou art a gallant gentleman;

I’d converse hold with thee, but pray that thou

Wouldst leave me to my mask.

NORTHLAKE.

Be it as thou dost wish;

But at the close of our sweet interview

I beg thou wilt disclose to me the face

Of her whose gentle hand I now do press

With all the ardor of my youthful days.

CATHARINE.

Oh, thou shalt have thy asking, never fear;

But first thou’lt answer questioning,--’tis but

A foolish, idle question, yet thou mayst

True answer make. But to be brief: Didst ever

Love before? Good gentleman, I pray thee

Answer me truly.

NORTHLAKE.

Briefly, but once.

CATHARINE.

Speak not beyond. I thank thee. Sweeter sound

Was never borne upon the air to woman.

But of this once? Answer me that.

NORTHLAKE.

Truly but once, and once most truly, I

Did love her. [_Pausing._] Well, I’ll pause no further; yet

Her voice and gesture much resembled thine.

We parted, years ago, in sad estrangement;

And though within that sombre lapse of time

We’ve often met, yet never have we spoken.

For we indeed are to each other--dead!

CATHARINE.

Dead to each other! ’tis a woful word

To those who’ve loved. Thou fickle man! thou dost

Deceive thyself,--for true love never dies.

Thy fate doth mirror mine.

NORTHLAKE [_taking her hand_].

I beg thee tell it me.

CATHARINE.

Thou hold’st my hand close as my husband did

Upon our wedding morn, when he did make

Such noble vows of constancy as troops

Of angels swift delight to register.

And so we lived for many happy years;

They now do seem a vanished paradise;

And, looking back, beyond my later years,

It seems to me as fair as tender Eden

Did unto our first mother, Eve. And oft

I’ve wept most burning tears in memory

Of the adored one who did hold me there.

NORTHLAKE.

Why, thou dost clasp my hand with feverish zeal;

Let’s walk upon the cliff.

CATHARINE.

Nay, stay, and listen.

NORTHLAKE.

I’ll do as thou desirest.

CATHARINE.

Thou art a gallant gentleman. I’ll swift

Unveil to thee a heart that’s worthier

Than is the poor masked face thou pray’st to see.

Oh, how can I portray to thee my joy

When I was wife and mother! Think of it,--

For I am sure thou art a good, true man,

And gallant gentleman.--In my full flush

Of joy I was estranged from my dear husband,

Whom I did love so well I would have pledged

My soul upon his honor. Then I was wild

With sudden doubt and frenzied jealousy.

His goodness seemed but evil,--as by the quick

Hot-bolted lightning blasted, or as poison

Transforms the fairest ornaments. In this

Mad frenzy, at this same hour of midnight,

I fled from him. Since then I’ve been a restless

Wanderer on the earth. But, oh! on me

The blame harder doth rest than it doth rest--

On thee!

NORTHLAKE.

On me? Why, who art thou?

CATHARINE [_unmasking_].

Thy lady Catharine.--Thou gallant gentleman,

I may again return to thee. Good-night!

[_Exit_ CATHARINE.

NORTHLAKE.

Lost wife, return! ’Tis pitiful! By thee

These lonely years my life’s been haunted. Once

In each year thy visits, like untimely

Seasons, come upon me, when and where

I never know; but once in each year, lightening

My weary path. Mysterious and strange,

Thou ne’er before hast spoken. Thou blameless Catharine,

Return. Our sins of jealousy have borne

Such fruit as grows from poisoned ground; and yet

Nor Time nor forcing Will can make us what

We were in our first wedded life. These agents

Are far too weak; they never can restore

To us the faith that’s lost in our past lives,--

Lost like a pearl dropped in dissolving flame,

Its white and saintly fabric gone in a moment.

Unhappy Catharine, and thou my more

Unhappy self! These revels mock us. Poor mask!

[_Lays down his mask._

The mask that hath been torn from off my heart

This night hath left a shadow tenfold darker

Than is thine own. I’ll go seek Violet,

For she is like the beauteous sunlit day.

[_Listening to strains of music from the ball-room._

Music doth hold melodious discourse.

[_Walks, in meditation and soliloquy._

Why, I am growing melancholy. My sun’s

Across the line and courses the horizon;

My nights are growing longer than my days;

The glad days wane, until, as in the deepening

Winter, near the northern pole, they’ll come

But for a moment, a wedge of light between

Two nights. Oh, hasten, come, thou blank, perpetual

Night! [_Music ceases._] The instruments are dumb, the players

Are at rest; but their unceased vibrations

On struggling chords yet tremble in my breast.

Alas! such is the growth of melancholy.

[_Exit._

Act the Fourth.

SCENE I.--_A room at the Dolphin Inn. Guns, pistols, swords, and

other weapons scattered around._ WHETSTONE _in armor, lying upon a

sofa, disquietly sleeping_.

_Enter_ BLUEGRASS _carrying a large dictionary_.

BLUEGRASS.

He sleeps. ’Tis well. For centuries men, with eager eyes fixed upon the

horizon, have awaited the coming of the purely literary duel. The

auspicious morn is about to dawn, in fact, to bloom upon this

magnificent star of ours, when, in affairs of honor, bloody swords,

odious gunpowder, and slaughtering bullets no longer shall disgrace the

planet.

WHETSTONE [_dreaming_].

Take away the sword! Do not say I killed you!

BLUEGRASS.

He dreams of the combat. Rest, warrior, rest! Safe within this volume,

and at your timely service, are such dire missiles, fearful and

momentous cartridges, bombs, shells, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses,

mortars, and battering-rams, as have rent nations asunder and awed the

world. Can base gunpowder and lead do so much? O puissant volume,

armory and magazine, I will select from your mighty stores, for my

principal’s sake, weapons which shall strike terror and dismay to his

adversary’s heart. Yes, a full dozen of as bold bad words as were ever

conned from out thy depths by a dyspeptic writer at midnight hour in

editorial den.

[_A rooster crows._

WHETSTONE [_still dreaming_].

See how he glares upon me!

BLUEGRASS.

Rest, warrior, rest! You go forth not to death, but to glorious

immortality.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE [_starting up_].

Take him away; he is killing me! Oh, oh! [_Observing_ BLUEGRASS] Who are

you?

BLUEGRASS [_cheerfully_].

Your trusty friend and second in this valiant enterprise. I’ve just

returned from Fopdoodle’s second. We have arranged the place, time,

weapons, and conditions of the duel very satisfactorily.

WHETSTONE.

You seem to enjoy it!

BLUEGRASS.

Listen, and you’ll enjoy it too.

WHETSTONE.

Let me know the worst.

BLUEGRASS.

Place, the little clearing in the darkened wood behind the hill.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t you make it in the West, behind the Rocky Mountains?

BLUEGRASS.

Time, one hour before sunrise.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t you make it next year, in the dark of the moon? Major, I feel

that my blood will be upon your so-called head.

BLUEGRASS.

Not if my head can save you, and I think it can. With some acuteness, I

secured Scythe as attendant surgeon, in case of an accident, and he has

already gone to the spot with all his surgical implements of healing.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE.

What’s that? Is’t the signal?

BLUEGRASS.

Listen! now for the weapons.

WHETSTONE.

Don’t, Major, don’t!

BLUEGRASS.

With some archness in archery, I first chose crossbows as most fitting

for lovers’ duels, but abandoned them as too crosswise. Blunderbusses I

rejected, as too blundering for us; and, noting the weakness of our

enemy in diction, I at last chose dictionaries, big and unabridged, and

made by the most celebrated word-smiths.

WHETSTONE.

Dictionaries! Did you say dictionaries? Major, now my anger is reviving.

Now, by all that’s terrible, I’ll fight till there’s not a leaf or lid

left. Why, the first blow I give him shall be a jaw-breaker. He’ll think

himself smitten, like the Philistines, by a jawbone. Major, get me a

dictionary with iron clasps; but one is not enough, my boy. I’ll strike

him with two dictionaries.

[_Rooster crows._

BLUEGRASS.

Erroneous hero! You are in honor bound not to deal him any blows with

vulgar material-bound paper.

WHETSTONE.

How then, my boy, how then?

BLUEGRASS.

Listen to the conditions of the duel. At a distance of two paces, you

and Fopdoodle, each aided by his respective second, will each

respectively select, for each fire from his inexhaustible dictionary or

armory, one animal noun for his projectile, and one adjective,--for your

adjective is your gunpowder to your bullet of a noun. These two, to wit:

one animal noun and one adjective, each of you will form into a

cartridge, or epithet, and at the word _Fire_ each will fire it at his

adversary.

WHETSTONE.

Bless you, my boy, we are saved! You shall always be editor of the

Eagle. My boy, you must have known I didn’t want to kill him. Major,

stand by me to the last.

BLUEGRASS.

I’ll do it. I am a connoisseur in epithets; and your animal noun with

adjective conjoined is a terrible weapon. O book, how like a poet thou

art!--in pleasant moods full of balmlike words, but in anger javelined

like a porcupine. Be thou a cage filled to the cover’s brim with fierce

animal nouns which fret their paper cage of leaves to pounce upon the

enemy. Remember, at each fire call him some outrageous animal, and

exploit the animal with an explosive adjective.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll do it. The gourd-headed baboon!

[_Rooster crows._

BLUEGRASS.

Good; a very fine line shot! But don’t waste your ammunition here. Wait

until you get your enemy into close quarters, and meanwhile steady your

nerves and tongue. Remember, no faltering of the tongue.

WHETSTONE.

How goes the night outdoors?

BLUEGRASS.

All’s well! Now shall I behold the first genuine literary duel ever

fought on this magnificent star of ours, while the sun trails his

sanguinary banners along the eastern sky.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE.

Why does he crow so often?

BLUEGRASS.

It is the martial bird of morn, brave chanticleer--the vocal lighthouse

of the dawn. Six times has the rooster crowed. [_Rooster again crows._]

And yet again he crows,--seven times, mysterious number! With crimson

comb and whetted spurs, he sniffs this duel from his lofty perch in the

heavenly balcony.

WHETSTONE.

How says the time?

BLUEGRASS.

It lacks but little of the hour. We’ll prove no laggards on the field

of honor. Come on. Make haste! Away, away, or we’ll be late to join the

fray! We’ll get our lanterns on the way. [_Rooster crows._]

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A clearing in a wood._ SCYTHE, _with lantern, arranging

surgical instruments_.

_Enter, running_, FOPDOODLE, _attended by_ TOM, _his valet and second,

carrying lantern and dictionary_.

FOPDOODLE.

What man is this?

TOM.

Good master, this is the attendant surgeon, agreed upon by Whetstone’s

second and myself, your own second and humble valet.

FOPDOODLE.

Kind Mr. Surgeon, if we two fall at once, save me first; and I promise

you a great reward from father’s patrimony. And as our wounds we do

refer to you, I move to make you referee. Kind Mr. Surgeon, prescribe

for me a breathing spell. [SCYTHE _examines him with glass_.] Tom, my

man, stand firm! For as we crossed through yonder green and peaceful

field, by some ominous mischance a sleeping, low-bred, fiery bull arose,

with eyes big as our lanterns, filled with the flaming fat of animal

fury. He chased; and as we fled, I thought I was pursued by an

infuriated animal noun. Oh, doctor, prescribe for me a breathing spell.

TOM.

Good master, here is your dictionary, if you’d take a breathing spell.

FOPDOODLE.

Unlettered ruffian, uncompassionate fool, do I clothe and fee you for

this? Hand me my spirit of hartshorn to brace my spirits up. [_Using

smelling-bottle._] Had I but had this spirit of hartshorn in my

nostrils, I would have had the spirit to face a thousand bulls. Where’s

the infuriated dictionary?

TOM.

Here it is, good master.

FOPDOODLE.

Turn to the fearful B’s; I know some good shots in the B’s.

TOM.

Here they are, good master.

FOPDOODLE.

Do we yet espy the foe?

SCYTHE [_looking through glass_].

I see him coming over the brow of the hill, and he’ll be here in a wink.

FOPDOODLE.

Alas, if I should fall!

TOM.

I’ll raise you up again.

FOPDOODLE.

Base horizontal knave, thou canst again raise up my body, but not my

character.

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS, _with lantern and dictionary_.

BLUEGRASS.

A brave salutation, gentlemen! We will pursue the code of honor where it

does not conflict with us. Let the principals advance, and shake hands

in the usual way, to show that they in humor and honor are not ill.

[WHETSTONE _and_ FOPDOODLE _advance and shake hands. To_ TOM] We must

compare size, weight, and calibre of type. [_They compare

dictionaries._] The weapons are of the same edition. Now for choice of

positions; but there are two esteemed objects in the heavens,--Mars and

the moon; for them we’ll toss up. [_To_ TOM] Head or tail? [_Tosses up a

coin._]

TOM.

Tail.

BLUEGRASS.

Head it is. I’ve won! I place Fopdoodle with the moon in his face, and

WHETSTONE with the planet Mars at his back. [_Measures off two paces and

places the principals._] In affairs of honor, delay is a vice, despatch

a virtue. I propose, between each fire, thirty seconds for loading,

that after the words, One, two,--fire! each one shall fire, and that

this continue until one be prostrated; also that Surgeon Scythe give the

word and be referee. But we’ll try to preserve a gentlemanly harmony.

TOM.

We agree.

[_Each second supports his principal, and_ SCYTHE _times them with his

watch_.

FOPDOODLE.

Tom, my man, turn to the C’s; I know a terrible animal noun in the C’s.

BLUEGRASS.

Here, Mayor Whetstone, is your adjective for gunpowder,--Patagonian.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll take bat for a bullet.

BLUEGRASS.

Now, by the planet Mars, you have chosen the most unearthly bullet in

the whole menagerie of animal nouns.

FOPDOODLE [_to_ TOM].

I’ve got it. I now turn to U for my gunpowder.

TOM.

Master, I have no gunpowder.

FOPDOODLE.

You unlettered utensil, you! The letter U.

SCYTHE.

Time! One, two,--fire!

WHETSTONE.

Patagonian bat!

FOPDOODLE [_pronouncing calf with broad sound of letter a_].

Unutterable calf!

BLUEGRASS.

A foul! a foul! I claim a foul.

SCYTHE.

Upon what do you base your foul?

BLUEGRASS.

Upon the letter _a_ in calf. In place of rightly firing calf with the

Italian sound of _a_, as in bah, he wrongly fired calf with _a_ broad.

Therefore he fired _a_ broadside, with sound the same as in ball. I

claim the foul is sound.

SCYTHE.

Let me examine your weapon [_examining_ FOPDOODLE’S _dictionary_]. I

plainly see a calf with two little dots like budding horns above the

letter _a_, denoting the Italian sound; and as you wrongfully fired

broad _a_, and as broad _a_ in your weapon is denoted by two little

dots below the _a_, I rule you struck below the belt, and hence _a_

foul.

BLUEGRASS.

First foul for Fopdoodle.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

See him tremble.

FOPDOODLE [_aside_].

I struck him badly.

SCYTHE.

Gentlemen, are your honors satisfied?

WHETSTONE.

Never! War to the word knife!

FOPDOODLE.

Never! War to the word hilt!

SCYTHE.

Then sadly be it said: Reload. I’ll see if there is any blood on yonder

red and warlike Mars. [_Looks at Mars with glass, while the others

reload from dictionaries._] Time! One, two,--fire!

FOPDOODLE.

Hyperborean ibex!

WHETSTONE.

Parabolical goose!

SCYTHE.

Are you satisfied?

FOPDOODLE.

Never! War to the word knife!

WHETSTONE.

Never! War to the word hilt!

SCYTHE.

Reload. [_They reload._] Time! One, two,--fire!

FOPDOODLE.

Impecunious porcupine!

WHETSTONE.

Hypothecated buzzard!

[_Lightning and thunder, while_ SCYTHE _examines the sky with

glass_.

FOPDOODLE.

Listen, Tom! I think I hear the police! The police! Let us be going!

BLUEGRASS.

Hold! ’Tis but the thunder, heaven’s police drilling near the distant

horizon. Let their lanterns flash and their clubs smash the sky, but

this duel shall go on.

SCYTHE.

Gentlemen, reload. [_They reload._] Time! One, two,--

FOPDOODLE.

Hold! My tongue slipped.

TOM.

And the lightning’s blown my lantern out.

[_Lightning and thunder._

BLUEGRASS [_re-lighting_ TOM’S _lantern_].

I hope I may re-light your lantern without an explosion. A fearful storm

is brewing, but we must make them fight until one falls.

TOM.

I’ll stand by my master.

SCYTHE.

Time! One, two,--fire!

WHETSTONE.

Categorical catamount!

FOPDOODLE.

Bog-trotting bull-frog!

BLUEGRASS.

Foul, foul, a most terrible and bulldozing foul,--a double-barrelled

fowling-piece; a two-bullet foul.

TOM.

A bull-frog is no fowl.

BLUEGRASS.

A most naked and unfeathered fowl.

SCYTHE.

Upon what purely scientific facts do you now perch your alleged fowl?

BLUEGRASS.

Upon the rail between bull and frog. Bull-frog is a compound animal

noun, composed of one bull and one frog, connected by a hyphen, or

narrow ligament, like the Siamese twins,--two animals in one. I ask

judgment.

[_Lightning and thunder._

SCYTHE.

Listen to my decision; for though it should rain bull-frogs, I’ll decide

by analysis. The difference lies between the grammatical bull-frog and

the purely animal bull-frog. Grammar does not concern the animal

bull-frog, but has much to do with the word bull-frog. The purely animal

bull-frog is manifestly not a fowl; but inasmuch as by the rules only

one animal noun is allowed at a shot, and whereas the grammatical

bull-frog is compounded of two animals linked by a hyphen, I declare

them a chain-shot, disallowed in civilized warfare, and a foul of the

worst description.

TOM.

Good master, he says ’tis a foul.

FOPDOODLE.

We’re in bad odor with this referee. I smell foul play. Give me my

spirit of hartshorn, or I faint.

TOM.

Here it is, good master.

[FOPDOODLE _smells of hartshorn, and_ WHETSTONE _drinks out of a

flask_.

SCYTHE.

Time! One, two,--fire!

FOPDOODLE.

Humpbacked sham!

WHETSTONE.

Infamous liar!

FOPDOODLE.

You man in buckram! You rambling sham! You blue sham, three-cornered

sham, catalectic sham! You panting, rampant sham, black sham, white

sham, speckled sham!

BLUEGRASS [_to_ SCYTHE].

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

sham battery.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll slay him on the spot. You catacomb! you catastrophic, cataleptic,

catacoustic cat! Pooh! you spotted poodle, you freckled poodle, you

yellow-brindled poodle! dogfish! you dogmatic-dogwood-doggerel dog.

[_Lightning and thunder._

TOM [_supporting_ FOPDOODLE].

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

FOPDOODLE [_fainting_].

Give me a drink of tiger’s blood!

BLUEGRASS [_to_ WHETSTONE].

See, you have struck him; he is falling.

[FOPDOODLE _falls, clasping his dictionary_.

SCYTHE [_to_ TOM].

Run quickly. Catch me a sheep in yonder field. By transfusing blood from

its veins to his, I’ll make the weak brave, the faint alive. [_Taking up

a surgical instrument._] Now, great Science, help me!

TOM.

Good master, I go to get the sheep.

[_Exit_ TOM.

BLUEGRASS.

Long live and let live the literary duel!

[_Lightning and thunder. The scene closes while_ WHETSTONE,

BLUEGRASS, _and_ SCYTHE _gather around_ FOPDOODLE, _administering

to him_.

SCENE III.--_The Glen of Ferns. Midday._

_Enter_ IDEAL.

IDEAL.

See how great Nature lavishes in this

Hard wrinkle in the globe a subtle and

Refining power, as if it were the open

Volume of the earth with fern-clad cliffs

For lettered pages. Here the glad sun comes

In his most favoring hour, with impress of

A God, in splendor sparkling down the glen.

Ye ferns that spring along these cliffs with light

And airy grace, see but my Violet,

And ye shall take a new and tender charm.

Yon rainbow, in the sportive mist above

The cascade glowing, well a brighter bow

Might grow when it doth catch the arch words of

Bright Violet. Ye berries crimsoning

On yonder bushes, were ye roseate

As are the ripe red lips of Violet,

Wise men a holiday would take, and go

A-berrying. E’en weeds along the cliff

Were like some pretty fault in Violet,--

Sweet contrast growing but for beauty’s foil.

Be free and happy, all created things;

Ye singing birds, your melodies attune;

And ye, blithe squirrels--Peeping Toms of trees--

From out your leafy coverts peep, and I’ll

Not jealous be.

_Enter_ VIOLET, _at top of rustic stairway_.

Ay, there she comes, fair Violet!

VIOLET.

Heigh-ho! Why art thou down so low?

IDEAL.

That I may upward gaze at thee. For as

One in the deep bottom of a well, above

May see a star at midday, so do I

See thee from the deep bottom of this glen.

VIOLET.

With fancy thou dost blithely scale this stair,

As doth some heavenly singer; yet thou seest

Thou art still at the bottom of the glen.

IDEAL.

Let us be like two notes in music blent;

Thou high, I low; yet both in sweet accord.

VIOLET.

Truly, thou art my Ideal. But, alack!

I’ve called thee by thy name.

IDEAL.

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

VIOLET.

Thou hadst it long ago.

IDEAL.

To be thy Ideal more real were

Than to achieve all other reals.

VIOLET [_archly_].

Alas! the hard vicissitudes of life!

IDEAL.

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

VIOLET.

All hard vicissitudes?

IDEAL.

All.

VIOLET.

I have an uncle.

IDEAL.

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

VIOLET.

I’ll go tell my uncle. [_Going._]

IDEAL.

Nay, hold. Within thy words, as in the cinctured

Filaments of lace thou wear’st, I see the fine

Transparent tracery of gossamer

Designs. In such a web I’d fain be caught.

VIOLET.

And I’d fain catch thee.

IDEAL.

Come, let us walk within this pleasant glen;

And if we weary,--on a mossy bank,

In the cool shade of interlacing leaves,--

We’ll watch the gentle coquetry between

A burning sunbeam and a shaded fern.

There’s not a fern-leaf, berry, blade of grass,

Nor flower, but I’ll gather it for thee.

If at thy feet it grow, then I’ll kneel there;

If higher, in a crevice of the cliff,

Together we will reach for it, and in

The touching of our finger-tips it shall

Part company with earth in ecstasy.

And if, above, thou dost but gladly view

That most sky-kissing flower, the heavenly bluebell,

Which with transparent hue embellishes

The summit of the cliff, why, I’ll climb there.

VIOLET.

And leave me in the lone recesses of the glen?

IDEAL.

If thou didst not detain me with thine eyes;

For if, in climbing upward, I looked back,

I’d see the sky and bluebell in thine eyes,

And so return to thee. Come, Violet, come.

VIOLET.

Ah, me! See what a deep, deep stair it is.

[_Aside_] Aloof the bluebell, lovers joy to see.

[_Aloud_] I’ll not descend.

IDEAL.

Then I’ll invoke

The spirit of this lovely glen, that dwells

In yonder rock, to aid in my petition.

[_Turns and calls to rock on further side of glen._

Come, Violet!

[_An echo is heard repeating_ VIOLET.

VIOLET.

I think I hear my uncle calling;

I must go. Adieu!

IDEAL.

Think not so. I but now called Violet,

And what thou heard’st was the far echo of

Thy name, that’s borne by yonder rock from out

This cheering vale to listening hills beyond.

It is a wanton, merry rock that doth

Delight to sweetly hold discourse in doubling

Of thy name. But as it hath no beard

Upon its face, except a fringe of ferns,

I’ll not be jealous. For such gentle service,

Violet, give not the rock the hardness

Of thy uncle’s heart; but stay.

VIOLET.

Between thee and the rock, I almost am persuaded.

IDEAL.

Sweet Violet, do not go,--be persuaded

Altogether; for although this is

A sheltered glen, with pleasant sunshine tempered,

Yet from thy coldness I would perish as

A homeless midnight traveller, embedded

’Mid bewildering snowbanks.

VIOLET.

Say not so; for if thou, my dear Ideal,

On such a cruel, frosty bank lay dying,

And I were Violet beneath the snow,

As violets do often grow, I’d call

On all the powers in stars above and in

The earth below to move the frosty barrier.

I’ll come to thee.

[_The scene closes while_ VIOLET _descends the stair, and_ IDEAL

_advances to meet her_.

Act the Fifth.

SCENE I.--_A room at the Dolphin Inn. Evening._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _with_ BLUEGRASS _in black dress as his shadow.

Each with guitar and song-book._

BLUEGRASS.

A day and night,--and now another day hath waned for our recuperation;

and our adventures have flown on lightning wings to Cornville. Now do we

start on new emprise.

WHETSTONE.

Major Bluegrass, this serenade must be played on the hard-pan. Put me

through to-night, and I’ll make you half-owner of the Cornville Eagle.

BLUEGRASS.

Trust me, I’ll be your musical secretary! With the Eagle and Ninon, I

could soar through life like a bird.

WHETSTONE.

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

Where’ll I leave Susan?

BLUEGRASS.

Susan! Your housekeeper! Why, what takes you back to Cornville at such a

sky-crisis as this? The great point in a flight of romance is never to

approach earth. Susan! Why, Susan will tarry here below and superintend

the cuisine, so that you and Violet may have a warm repast when you come

down from your sky-parlor.

WHETSTONE.

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

BLUEGRASS.

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

WHETSTONE.

Why, Major, Susan and I were young together, and we loved, or thought we

did. She wanted to marry, I wanted to wait; consequence, compromise. I

engaged her as my housekeeper. There’s romance for you!

BLUEGRASS.

’Tis an ancient parallel.

WHETSTONE.

In our serenade, what shall I do?

BLUEGRASS.

The guitar you hold you cannot play; hence I’ll do the mechanical upon

the strings, while you twit the circumambient air from the bridge

musical of your instrument. And if you’d prove me with a double burden,

I’ll bear both words and music; in which event you’ll give the color and

visible gesture of description. Stand you beneath some close-leaved

tree, where the night overlaps, and I’ll be concealed near you in the

shrubbery. Later, I’ll emerge behind you, as your true shadow.

WHETSTONE.

All right, I’ll give the motions. Now, let’s see what we have in the

song-book. [_Opening song-book._] Here’s the Midnight Serenade; and

Beauteous Lady I Adore Thee. That’s business. Here’s a whole grist of

meeting songs: [_reading_] Meet Me at the Lane; Meet Me by Moonlight;

Meet Me, Darling, in the Dell; Meet Me down by the Sea; Meet Me in the

Arbor; Meet Me in the Twilight. Where’ll this end? Meet Me ’neath the

Slippery-Elm Tree. Meet Me in the Willow-Glen. Why, Major, the earth is

covered with meeting-places. But wait! [_Examining book and pondering._]

What book-carpenter did this work? Here’s Black-Eyed Susan--[_aside_]

Susan has brown eyes--[_aloud_] sandwiched between Paddle your own Canoe

and the Pirates’ Chorus.

BLUEGRASS.

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

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Comin’ thro’ the Rye, Comin’ thro’ the Rye,--that sounds homelike.

Major, my boy, sing and play while I act it.

BLUEGRASS _sings and plays Comin’ thro’ the Rye, while_ WHETSTONE

_accompanies with pantomime_.

BLUEGRASS.

Demosthenes the Athenian, being interrogated, replied that action makes

the orator. I may add that it makes the singer.

WHETSTONE.

You’re right. [_Examining song-book._] Here’s a whole nest of

love-songs: Love, Beautiful Love; Love in a Cottage; Love Launched a

Ferry-boat.

BLUEGRASS.

’Tis not ferry-boat, but fairy boat.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love is at the Helm.

BLUEGRASS.

That’s when love’s at sea.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love is like the Morning Dew.

BLUEGRASS.

We’re approaching land again.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love’s Perfect Cure.

BLUEGRASS.

We don’t need it.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love’s the Greatest Plague.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold on! yes, we do.

WHETSTONE [_reading_].

Love Me Little, Love Me Long; Love, Love, oh, what is Love? Major, my

boy, that settles it. We must find out. Hurrah! I feel like a new man!

Let’s be going! If I fail, Northlake shall not have a dollar. Violet’s

the only collateral he can put up. If I don’t get her, I’ll take the

next train to Cornville and marry Susan on the spot. She’s been a good

housekeeper to me these many years; and once when I was sick she bathed

my feet in hot water and mustard, and put a hot flannel around--I think

it was my throat; and her elder-blossom tea can’t be beaten.

BLUEGRASS.

Do you falter?

WHETSTONE.

No; I’ll have what I want. You remember the bay colt that cost me five

thousand dollars? People thought I was a fool, but I wasn’t.

BLUEGRASS.

You were a horse diplomat.

WHETSTONE.

Exactly. I saw points, and now the colt has a great record. I see points

about that girl Violet that no one else sees. She’s an extraordinary

girl, a thoroughbred, and I’ll back my judgment with my money.

BLUEGRASS.

What if she don’t take kindly to you?

WHETSTONE.

Watch me closely, and you’ll see me win her to-night. What’s the use of

money, if you can’t get--points, my boy, when you want them? And yet--

BLUEGRASS.

And yet what?

WHETSTONE.

And yet Susan has points too. She can roast a goose splendidly,--and

that elder-blossom tea! But enough of this. Away to serenade.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A dining-ball in_ NORTHLAKE’S _Villa_. POMPEY _and_ HANNIBAL

_arranging dining-table_.

POMPEY [_merrily_].

Yah! yah! I say, Hannibal, Lake Shore’s g’wone up. I make pile money on

dat happy shore, shure. Stocks am de ting to put de money in de

stockin’.

HANNIBAL [_gloomily_].

So! so! I lose pile money on dat Hudson Ribber. My banker telegram fo’

moh margin every fifteen minutes fo’ foh hours. De agony of dem hours I

can nebber tell you, Pompey. De telegram-wire, and de tongue of

lightnin’, holler, Moh margin! Hudson Ribber g’wone down,--moh margin! I

and de ole woman scrape and scrape, and empty de big stockin’ bank dat

de old woman hab under de bed fo’ de rainy day; still it holler, Moh

margin! And den de old woman raise de washtub ’gainst her lawful

husband. I nebber tink dat ribber railroad could sink so fast. Pompey,

it am de fashion to condumdole wid your misfortunate neighbor; how much

you condumdole wid me, Pompey?

POMPEY.

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

see.

HANNIBAL.

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

POMPEY.

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

HANNIBAL.

Pompey, you am too friv’lous and vis’nary fo’ de bus’ness man,--fo’ de

stock op’rator.

POMPEY.

Hannibal, I hab de call on you. Now let us confabulate togedder like

sensible people. Ober two hours ago, I see de mess’nger boy bring de

telegram. It ware from Mr. Northlake’s banker, and it read: You made

five hundred thousand dollars to-day on Lake Shore stock. Now you hab

seen Mr. Northlake cast down, way down,--tremendously, moh dan usual,

fo’ ’bout a month,--way down, ’cause he lose all his own and Miss

Violet’s fortune speculatin’,--way down; but when he read dat, he smile

like de little chile; and he say to me: Pompey, dere’ll be a

surprise-party yere to-night. Spread de banquet fo’ de guests. And now

we doin’ it, ain’t we?

HANNIBAL.

I’m glad ob dat, fo’ Miss Violet’s sake, and de tings she gibs me; but

dis am de point I must determinate before de limbs work easy: Ware am de

margin g’wone dat I don’t hab,--de one thousand seven hundred and

ninety-seven cents?

POMPEY.

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

HANNIBAL.

Dat am a big weasel to get away wid one thousand seven hundred and

ninety-seven cents. I’ll write my banker, shure, in de mornin’ ’bout de

wrong p’ints he gibs me. Dat’s my p’intin’ ’pinion ’bout him. Maybe

he’ll loan me it back again,--dat one thousand seven hundred and

ninety-seven cents.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_The lawn in front of_ NORTHLAKE’S _Villa_.

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS, _with guitars, stealthily

advancing through the shrubbery, and appearing upon the lawn_.

BLUEGRASS.

Now do we stand upon the green lawn of fresh enterprise. Stand yourself

’neath yonder tree, and fix your eyes on the balcony [WHETSTONE _takes

position accordingly_], while I, from behind this green projecting wing

of shrubbery, project our ripening song [_moving behind the shrubbery_].

First, our song of salutation, with fresh words.

BLUEGRASS, _under cover of the shrubbery, sings and plays, while_

WHETSTONE _accompanies with pantomime_.

The moon is on the hills,

The glow-worm’s in the grass;

The nightingales have bills,

The owls have singing-class.

BLUEGRASS _ceases singing while_ WHETSTONE _continues

pantomime_.

WHETSTONE.

Give me more words!

BLUEGRASS.

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

WHETSTONE.

Look! the door is opening. [_Door partly opens, and_ POMPEY _shows his

head_.] Great thunder--a black walnut!

BLUEGRASS.

Vanish, thou black January! [POMPEY _vanishes_.] We’ll strike a mellower

melody, and yonder balcony shall bear fruitage brighter than October.

The prize of the troubadours in the courts of love was the golden

violet.

WHETSTONE.

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

BLUEGRASS.

That’s clever. I feel the inspiration. I’ll improvise a matter-of-fact

descriptive ballad illustrating the moral maxim, Business before love.

BLUEGRASS _sings and plays_; WHETSTONE _accompanies with pantomime,

and joins in singing last line of each stanza_.

Katie and Jack got up at morn,

And she came with two ears of corn,

And he came with his brassy horn,

To drive the ducks to market, O!

Now Katie’s ducks were white as snow,

But Jackie’s ducks were black as crow;

So o’er the hills away they go,

Driving the ducks to market, O!

Then Jackie blew his brassy horn,

And Katie shelled her ears of corn,

While the rooster crowed upon the thorn,

Driving the ducks to market, O!

Now Katie loved, and so did he,

And he his horn hung on a tree;

Oh, they were glad as the busy bee,

Keeping the ducks from market, O!

The moon fell down behind a hill;

The sun winked at the miller’s mill;

The lark got up upon his quill,

Keeping the ducks from market, O!

Alas! alas! green grew the grass,

The duckies, hunting garden sass,

Fell in a trap. Alas! alas!

Keeping the ducks from market, O!

Then he cried chuckie, duckie, O!

Then she cried duckie, chuckie, O!

But oh, alas! it was no go,

Driving the ducks to market, O!

MORAL.

The moral’s plain as the bumble-bee,

Clear on the top of a tall tree.

Oh, wait! if lovers you may be;

First drive your ducks to market, O!

_Enter_ VIOLET _upon the balcony_.

VIOLET.

I plainly see there’s business in this night. [_Perceiving_ WHETSTONE.]

Why, ’tis the self-same knight that did bedight another night, but far

more musical. There’s a sad want of unity here, as no music, however

rich, can me unite to yonder knight. [_Addressing_ WHETSTONE.] Do my two

eyes behold that Mayor Whetstone, of Cornville, near the capital of

Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the

Indians down the Mississippi?

WHETSTONE.

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

half believe you do.

VIOLET.

Is thy meaning double or single?

WHETSTONE.

Sweet Miss Violet, I have been a man with an eye single to business, but

who would double his business.

BLUEGRASS.

Don’t give her any quandaries.

VIOLET.

Why, thou hast changed thy voice!

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Major, you rascal, assume my voice!

BLUEGRASS [_assuming_ WHETSTONE’S _voice_].

Sweet Violet, it is the air, that’s sometimes tuneful and sometimes not,

that doth effect the change.

VIOLET.

Thou art an artful man.

BLUEGRASS [_assuming_ WHETSTONE’S _voice_].

Sweet Violet, ’tis even noted so.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Confound you, ’tis not so!

BLUEGRASS [_assuming_ WHETSTONE’S _voice_].

I meant to say the air is so.

VIOLET.

If thou sowest the air with so, so, thy harvest will be no, no. The air

upon this balcony well balances its fruitage.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

You villain, we’re caught!

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Major, you rascal, another song!

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

I don’t know any more.

WHETSTONE [_kneeling_].

Sweet Miss Violet, upon this green grass I vow to love you as long as

grass grows. Oh, Miss Violet, you’re too young to know what you may

lose. You may lose the real Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the

capital of Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who

drove the real Indians reeling down the real Mississippi.

VIOLET.

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

WHETSTONE [_rising and aside_].

Major, my boy, did you hear that?

VIOLET.

Great Prince, it is my humor to be enamoured of thy union of business

and romance. [_Calls to_ NINON _within_. NINON _enters_. BLUEGRASS

_leaves the shrubbery and goes behind_ WHETSTONE, _as his shadow_.] Take

no leaves from my shrubbery. What is’t that’s back of thee, Prince?

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

The tree ’neath which thou standest is cedrine, and its laced boughs,

filtering the moonlight, cast an interlacing shadow on the lawn; upon

this plot, now, in part, a deeper shadow rests, like shadow upon shadow.

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with

pantomime_].

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

NINON.

I hear ze voice of ze shadow, ze pretty shadow. Oh, zat I had ze shadow

up on ze balcony! Charmant!

VIOLET.

Fie, Ninon, what wouldst thou with the fleeting shadow of this Merchant

Prince? Thou hadst not even the shadow of sentiment.

NINON.

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

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

I’ve been too long a shadow.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

You rascal, make yourself shorter!

BLUEGRASS.

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

merchandise!

WHETSTONE.

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

NINON.

Poor shadow, come off ze cold, cold ground!

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with

pantomime_].

The shadow is slave to the substance. Who can separate them? None. Who

can separate them? None,--none but Ninon.

VIOLET.

Ninon, ’tis marvellously good,--but we must go. [_Slowly going._]

Good-night alike to substance and shadow. Yet, stay! [_Advancing._]

Didst ever study arithmetic?

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with

pantomime_].

Addition I have at my finger-tips. [_Counting notes upon his guitar._]

One, two, three, four, five. Multiplication I have by heart.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

Throw in all the multiplication-table.

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative, and_ WHETSTONE _accompanies with

pantomime_].

Come, come, let us learn, let us sing. Come, come, let us learn the

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

VIOLET.

Thou art too multitudinous, and wert born for the opera; yet I will give

thee a problem that thou shalt solve, not with thy digits, but with thy

pedals. I will teach thee subtraction, and separate thy shadow from thy

substance by plane trigonometry.

WHETSTONE [_aside_].

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

VIOLET.

A triangle is a sweet instrument in the mathematics of love; for oft,

about the first of April nights, I’ve watched the merry wild geese in

the sky flying northward in musical and far-sounding triangles.

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

And yet triangulation by moonlight were a pleasant death, betwixt

substance and shadow. Ninon, girl, quick! bring me my bronze-covered

trigonometry.

[_Exit_ NINON.

WHETSTONE.

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

on us!

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

And make angels of us!

WHETSTONE.

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

VIOLET.

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

BLUEGRASS [_aside_].

Let’s cap the climax and capitulate.

_Re-enter_ NINON, _with book_.

NINON.

Mistress Violet, here is ze book.

VIOLET.

I do not need it now. My memory serves me as well. Prince, fear not;

trigonometry is a peaceful art that maids may practice, and thou beneath

my patient yoke shalt help me draw this triangle. One side thereof shall

be betwixt thy stationed shadow and myself, another ’twixt thy shadow

and thyself, and the base side thereof shall be the distance ’twixt thee

and me,--whose baseness shall increase if it decrease.

[_Pauses._

NINON.

Kind mistress, wilt thou have ze book?

VIOLET.

No book can help me. Now do I pause [_pausing_], for in this triangle

one angle is obtuse and two acute; but my good angel shall help me. ’Tis

better to be right than be acute; therefore it shall be a right-angled

triangle. [_To_ WHETSTONE.] Hence move you backward in the light.

[WHETSTONE _moves backward._] But also from your right. [_He moves from

his right._] Ninon, girl, see, the shadow doth not follow!

BLUEGRASS.

Now from this angle do I see my angel.

NINON.

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

VIOLET [_to_ WHETSTONE, _who has moved until he forms a right angle

with_ BLUEGRASS _and_ VIOLET].

Move no further. Thy shadow keeps no pace with thee, and fear might well

oppress a wondering maid less mathematical. Ninon, take and reflect upon

yon shadow. ’Tis thy sum total, and a happy one.

_Enter_ FOPDOODLE.

FOPDOODLE.

Dear Miss Violet, I’m cured. The sheep’s blood is all out of me. Pa says

I may bring you home with me; and Ma says I am a lamb with a golden

fleece, but I must not alarm them by bleating--ba-bah. I have been badly

off--but I assure you I am shorn of my malady. There is no longer any

impediment of speech to our happiness. Oh, how I want to be a noble

husband! Dear Miss Violet, may I, may I address you up so high, and I

down so low? May I? May I?

VIOLET.

Thou hast too many Mays in thy calendar, but thou mayst have a cold

March ere thou comest to a timely May.

FOPDOODLE.

Star of Violet, come down to the earth. No, no. O earth of black, go up

to the star of Violet. Yes, yes; but the earth can’t do it. What the

deuce is the proper thing? Well, well--

VIOLET.

Thy question lies at bottom of a well too deep for a maid to fathom,

looking down from a balcony.

FOPDOODLE.

Dear Miss Violet, may I come up?

VIOLET.

Thy ardor is alarming!

FOPDOODLE.

Dear Miss Violet, my servant, Tom, has a ladder waiting for me, and I

will climb to thee. Don’t be alarmed; I am harmless, O dazzling Violet!

VIOLET.

Lovers should have in their hearts ladders of words better than any made

with hands. Where is thy ladder?

FOPDOODLE.

[_Calling to_ TOM, _around the corner_] Tom, my man, bring your master

love’s ladder.

TOM.

Good master, I come.

[TOM _enters with a ladder and sets it against the wall_.

FOPDOODLE.

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

[_He ascends._

TOM.

I obey, good master.

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative and plays_].

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

FOPDOODLE [_halting_].

I--I--I, Augustus Fopdoodle, a bad burglar man! I--I, the son of my

father, Fopdoodle! Pray, sweet Miss Violet, who are those rude, bad men?

BLUEGRASS [_sings in recitative and plays_].

We are a triangle, and we’ll make a parallelogram of you. We are--we

are--an accurate right-angled triangle, and we’ll make, we’ll make, a

p-a-r--par, a-l--paral, l-e-l--parallel, o--parallelo,

g-r-a-m--parallelogram--of you.

WHETSTONE.

Get down off the ladder!

FOPDOODLE.

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

_Enter_ JACK.

JACK [_to_ FOPDOODLE].

Put the ladder back in the garden!

FOPDOODLE.

Help me, good Jack!

[JACK _takes hold of ladder, and_ FOPDOODLE _tumbles

from it_.

FOPDOODLE [_rising_].

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

[FOPDOODLE, JACK, _and_ TOM _move a short distance with

ladder; when_ TOM _holds, and_ FOPDOODLE _leans upon it_.

_Enter_ SCYTHE, _observing no one, and with hand-net, in pursuit of

a night-beetle buzzing in the air_.

SCYTHE.

Where flies the beetle, I pursue. There, I hear it now! [_The buzz of a

flying beetle is heard._] Lovely night-beetle! Now you rise, and now you

sink in curving flight. [_He pursues, listening, till the sound

ceases._] Now you’ve rested on a night-blooming flower, and I’ll

approach more softly than lover does a dreaming maid, nor wake with

rude-paced step your finer sense of airy motion. [_He advances

cautiously in search._]

VIOLET.

See, Ninon; he sees no one. In our time let maids be jealous. Science

has its votaries as deeply rapt as love’s suitors.

SCYTHE [_stopping, and observing the beetle on a flower_].

What a rare and beautiful specimen for the Academy! Since early eve I’ve

followed in the moonlight, through gardens, groves, and lawns. Now I’ll

capture thee. [_He throws his net over the flower, but the beetle,

escaping, flies away with a buzzing sound, while he watches its course

through his glass._] ’Tis a peerless beetle, with wings of purple

filigreed with gold and silver, which leave in sparkling flight a trail

of light. I’ll follow it till morning, but I’ll capture it.

[_Exit_ SCYTHE _in pursuit, and without having observed any one_.

VIOLET.

Alack! few lovers are so ardent in their pursuit, and some do lag most

grievously. [_To_ NINON] One was to come to-night, beneath my window,

whom I’ve yet not seen.

NINON.

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

VIOLET [_intently observing_].

’Tis distant, and yet ’tis bigger than a man’s hand. Why, Ninon, ’tis a

man. How near wouldst thou say he is?

NINON.

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

_Enter_ IDEAL.

IDEAL.

Dear Violet, in hastening by the orchard path to meet thee ’neath thy

window, I was detained by thy sweet sisters of the field, which sprang

along my path in myriad gayety, while I in blissful fantasy did win

them; and here, accompanied with my love, I tender thee this bunch of

golden-hearted violets.

VIOLET.

Why, ’tis my Ideal! I’ll ne’er forsake thee; for were I to forsake my

Ideal, that which were forsaken were better than that which were taken.

To thee I’ll swift descend, and, descending, I’ll ascend.

[_Exit_ VIOLET.

NINON [_following_].

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

willing maid.

[_Exit_ NINON.

WHETSTONE.

Major, I’m for a flank movement. We’re in the heat of battle. Let’s head

them off! Let us on! She’s a prize! She’s a thoroughbred! What points

she has! See the points and angles she gave us. She’s worth all!

[_Enter_ VIOLET _and_ NINON, _who are joined by_ IDEAL _and_ BLUEGRASS.]

She must not escape me; I’ll throw in the Eagle.

BLUEGRASS.

Hold! Not the Eagle.

WHETSTONE.

The bank, the steeple, the stores, the Academy, my farm on Pearl

Creek,--all, all, everything,--but I’ll have her!

NINON.

Dear Major, save ze Eagle!

BLUEGRASS.

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

NINON.

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

BLUEGRASS.

Never, my child of innocence, never! We’ll have one sparkling

hearthstone, one sprightly boudoir, one full panoplied Eagle.

NINON.

Oui, oui, très joli! charmant!

_Enter_ NORTHLAKE _and_ CATHARINE.

NORTHLAKE.

Good friends, and Mayor Whetstone, welcome all!

It is a happy and auspicious time.

This day the turn of Fortune’s fickle wheel

Hath brought a double gift of joy to me.

This is my wife, from whom I was estranged,--

My Catharine, light of my youthful life,--

Now reunited by a tenderer tie

Than held our earlier years of wedded love.

And this same day, by sudden rise of stocks

On the Exchange, my fortune and my niece’s

Have been restored to us. Swiftly hath flown

The time since when, upon a troublous day,

Yon Merchant Prince and I together planned

Without her leave, as men too oft have done,

To violate a gentle maiden’s heart.

But she by maiden wit and nimble mirth

Hath warded off and foiled our ruder blows;

For Nature gives to helpless maids such powers

To guard their hearts as are undreamt of men.

Let us be glad that naught but harmless mirth

Hath been the kind result of deeper plans.

For, friends, good mirth is better than fine gold;

’Tis Heaven’s mercy shown to weary man,

And falls upon the heart of melancholy

As fall refreshing dews on earth at eve.

And as in sparkling drops of crystal dew

Night-clouded Earth doth clasp the light of stars,

So doth the heart of melancholy catch,

In sparkling laughter, the light of merry hearts.

WHETSTONE.

Major, now for my revenge! Send for my housekeeper, my castle-keeper.

Order Susan. I’ll celebrate my nuptials on this sea-girt strand.

BLUEGRASS.

Shall I order the nuptial plumage?

WHETSTONE.

For both. At once.

_Enter_ PUNCH _with garments on each arm_.

PUNCH.

Ladies and gentlemens, I have some beautiful wedding garments.

_Enter_ SCYTHE, _enthusiastically, with hand-net and beetle_.

SCYTHE.

I’ve caught the beetle!

[_Exhibiting a large beetle._

WHETSTONE.

Send it to my Cornville Museum!

NORTHLAKE.

A word with thee, my gallant Mayor Whetstone:

There’s one within, who, having heard afar

Thy strange adventures in this seaside town,--

Thy loves, thy titles, and thy masquerades,

And more especially thy fearful duel

In the wood,--instanter boarded cars at Cornville

To rescue and to succor thee in peril;

She’s here,--she waits,--and now she doth appear.

_He opens a door and_ SUSAN _enters_.

WHETSTONE.

Susan!

SUSAN.

Hercules!

WHETSTONE.

Dear Susan!

SUSAN.

Dear Hercules!

[_They embrace._

WHETSTONE.

Oh, Susan!

SUSAN [_surveying him_].

Why, Hercules, how you’ve changed! I do declare! your clothes are full

of wrinkles. How thin you’ve grown! you must have lost twenty pounds! I

must make you, this very night, a cup of my elder-blossom tea; I’ve

brought the blossoms with me [_taking package from pocket_]. Hercules,

can it be that you would have forsaken your Susan?

WHETSTONE.

Why, Susan!

SUSAN.

I knew it could never be.

WHETSTONE [_petting her_].

That’s right, Susan; we’ll be married. Think of it, we’ll be married,

Susan!

[_Music._ POMPEY _and_ HANNIBAL _open doors on veranda, showing

dining-hall; and_ POMPEY _announces that dinner is served_.

NORTHLAKE.

May you all be my guests! There’s indoors spread a merry cap-sheaf to

this mirthful wooing. Let all proceed within.

VIOLET [_presenting_ IDEAL].

Uncle, my Ideal.

NORTHLAKE.

Violet, my niece, happy art thou who hast for real thy Ideal.

VIOLET [_persuasively_].

Good uncle, thou wilt not cut down the tree in the orchard?

NORTHLAKE.

Nay, ’twill bear good fruit in good season.

VIOLET [_to the company_].

A philosophic uncle, and a kind one.

CURTAIN.