Part 3 — Miscellaneous Selections
Reading edition
COMPRISING
Dramatic, Humorous and Tragic Pieces from the most Celebrated Authors, adapted to the use of Public Schools, Academies and Higher Institutions of Learning, for Public and Social Entertainments.
Wit and Wisdom Represented by a Great Variety of Entertaining Characters.
UNCLE PETE.
Characters.
George Peyton, a planter.
Uncle Pete, a venerable darkey, looking the worse for wear, with more patches than pantaloons.
Scene—Exterior view of a planter’s cabin, with practicable door. George Peyton discovered, seated on a bench, under veranda, reading a newspaper.
Enter Uncle Pete, a limp noticeable in his left leg, the knee of which is bowed outward, hoe on his shoulder.
Uncle Pete. (Pausing as he enters, shading his eyes with his hand, going towards George Peyton.) Yes, dar he is; dar is Marse George, a sittin’ on the porch, a readin’ his papah. Golly, I cotch him at home! (Advancing and calling) Marse George, Marse George, I’s come to see you once mo’, once mo,’ befo’ I leabes you fo’ebber. Marse George, I’se gwine to de odder shoah; I’se far on de way to my long home, to dat home ober acrost de ribber, whar de wicked hab’ no mo’ trouble, and where water-millions ripen all the year! Youns has all bin berry kine to me heah, Marse George, berry kine to de ole man, but I’s gwine away, acrost de dark ribber. I’s gwine ober, an’ dar, on dat odder shoah, I’ll stan’ an’ pick on de golden hawp among de angels, an’ in de company of de blest. Dar I’ll fine my rest; dar I’ll stan’ befo’ de throne fo’ ebber mo’ a singin’ an’ a shoutin’ susannis to de Lord!
George Peyton. Oh, no, Uncle Pete, you’re all right yet—you’re good for another twenty years.
Uncle P. Berry kine o’ you to say dat, Marse George—berry kine—but it’s no use. It almos’ breaks my hawt to leab you, and to leab de missus and de chillun, Marse George, but I’s got my call—I’s all gone inside.
George P. Don’t talk so, Uncle Pete; you are still quite a hale old man.
Uncle P. No use talkin’, Marse George, I’s gwine to hebben berry soon. ’Pears like I can heah the singin’ on de odder shoah. ’Pears like I can heah de voice of ol’ “Aunt Liza” an’ de odders dat’s gone befoah. You’s bin berry kine, Marse George—de missus an’ de chillun’s bin berry good—seems like all de people’s been berry good to poor ole Pete—poor cretur like me.
George P. Nonsense, Uncle Pete (kindly and encouragingly), nonsense, you are good for many years yet. You’ll see the sod placed on the graves of many younger men than you are, before they dig the hole for you. What you want just now, Uncle Pete, is a good square meal. Go into the kitchen and help yourself—fill up inside. There is no one at home, but I think you know the road. Plenty of cold victuals of all kinds in there.
Uncle P. (A smile illuminating his face.) ’Bleedged t’ye, Marse George, ’bleeged t’ye, sah, I’ll go! For de little time I has got to stay, I’ll not go agin natur’; but it’s no use. I’s all gone inside—I’s got my call. I’m one o’ dem dat’s on de way to de golden shoah.
(Exit Uncle Pete through door, his limp hardly noticeable. His manner showing his delight.)
George P. Poor old Uncle Pete, he seems to be the victim of religious enthusiasm. I suppose he has been to camp-meeting, but he is a cunning old fox, and it must have taken a regular hard-shell sermon to convert the old sinner. He was raised on this plantation, and I have often heard my father say, he hadn’t a better negro on the place. Ever since the war, he has been working a little, and loafing a good deal, and I have no doubt he sometimes sighs to be a slave again at work on the old plantation. (Starts and listens.)
Uncle P. (Singing inside:)
Jay bird, jay bird, sittin’ on a limb, He winked at me, an’ I at him; Cocked my gun, an’ split his shin, An’ left the arrow a-stickin’.
George P. (Starting up.) Zounds! if that old thief hasn’t found my bitters bottle! Pete! Pete, you rascal!
Uncle P. (Continues singing:)
Snake bake a hoe cake, An’ set the frog to mind it; But the frog fell asleep, An’ the lizard come an’ find it.
George P. Pete! you rascal, come out of that.
Uncle P. (Who does not hear the planter, continues singing, and dances a gentle, old-fashioned shuffle.)
De debbil cotch the groun’ hog A-sittin’ in de sun, An’ kick him off de back-log, Jes’ to see de fun.
George P. (Furious.) Pete; you infernal nigger, come out of that, I say.
Uncle P. (Still singing and dancing.)
De ’possum up de gum tree, A-playin’ wid his toes, An’ up comes de ginny pig, Den off he goes.
George P. (Thoroughly aroused, throwing down his paper.) You, Pete; blast the nigger.
Uncle P. (Continues singing:)
De weasel went to see de polecat’s wife, You nebber smelt such a row in all yer—
George P. (Rushes in the cabin, interrupts the singing, and drags Pete out by the ear.) Pete! Pete, you infernal old rascal, is that the way you are crossing the river? Are those the songs they sing on the golden shore? Is this the way for a man to act when he has got his call—when he is all gone inside?
Uncle P. (Looking as if he had been caught in a hen-roost.) Marse George. I’s got de call, sah, an’ I’s gwine acrost de dark ribber soon, but I’s now braced up a little on de inside, an’ de ’scursion am postponed—you see, de ’scursion am postponed, sah!
George P. (Folding his arms, looking at Pete, as if in admiration of his impudence.) The excursion is postponed, is it? Well, this excursion is not postponed, you old scoundrel. (Seizes Pete by the coat-collar and runs him off stage, L.) [CURTAIN.]
PAT’S EXCUSE.
Characters:
Nora, a young Irish lass.
Pat Murphy, a gay deceiver.
Curtain rises.—Discovers Nora in kitchen, peeling potatoes.
Nora. Och! it’s deceivin’ that all men are! Now I belaved Pat niver would forsake me, and here he’s trated me like an ould glove, and I’ll niver forgive him. How praties make your eyes water. (Wipes tears away.) Almost as bad as onions. Not that I’m cryin’; oh, no. Pat Murphy can’t see me cry. (Knock without.) There is Pat now, the rascal. I’ll lock the door. (Hastens to lock door.)
Pat (without). Arrah, Nora, and here I am.
Nora. And there ye’ll stay, ye spalpeen.
Pat (without). Ah, come now, Nora,—ain’t it opening the door you are after? Sure, I’m dyin’ of cold.
Nora. Faith, you are too hard a sinner to die aisy—so you can take your time about it.
Pat. Open the door, cushla; the police will be takin’ me up.
Nora. He won’t kape you long, alanna!
Pat. Nora, if you let me in, I’ll tell you how I came to lave you at the fair last night.
Nora (relenting). Will you, for true?
Pat. Indade I will.
(Nora unlocks door. Enter Pat gayly. He snatches a kiss from her.)
Nora. Be off wid ye! Now tell me how you happened to be wid Mary O’Dwight last night?
Pat (sitting down). Well, you see it happened this way; ye know Mike O’ Dwight is her brother, and he and me is blatherin’ good friends, ye know; and as we was going to Caltry the ither day, Mike says to me, says he: “Pat, what’ll you take fur that dog?” and I says, says I—
Nora (who has been listening earnestly). Bother you, Pat, but you are foolin’ me again.
Pat (coaxingly takes her hand). No—no—Nora—I’ll tell ye the truth this time, sure. Well, as I was sayin’, Mike and me is good friends; and Mike says, says he: “Pat, that’s a good dog.” “Yis,” says I, “it is.” And he says, says he. “Pat, it is a blatherin’ good dog.” “Yis,” says I; and then—and then—(Scratches his head as if to aid his imagination.)
Nora (angrily snatching away hand). There! I’ll not listen to another word!
She Sings.
(Tune—Rory O’Moore.) Oh, Patrick Murphy, be off wid you, pray, I been watching your pranks this many a day; You’re false, and ye’re fickle, as sure as I live And your hateful desaivin’ I’ll niver forgive. Ouch! do you think I was blind yester night, When you walked so fine with Mary O’Dwight? You kissed her, you rascal, and called her your own, And left me to walk down the dark lane alone.
Pat (taking up song).
Oh, Nora, me darlint, be off wid your airs, For nobody wants you, and nobody cares! For you do want your Patrick, for don’t you see, You could not so well love any but me. When my lips met[1] Miss Mary’s, now just look at me, I shut my eyes tight just this way, don’t you see? And when the kiss came, what did I do?— I shut my eyes tight, and made believe it was you!
Nora.
Be off wid your nonsense—a word in your ear, Listen, my Patrick, be sure that you hear; Last night when Mike Duffy came here to woo, We sat in the dark, and made believe it was you— And when the kiss came, now just look at me,— I shut my eyes tight, just this way, don’t you see? And when our lips met, what did I do, But keep my eyes shut, and make belave it was you!
(Nora, laughing; Pat, disconcerted.)
[QUICK CURTAIN.]
THE DUEL.
Enter Sir Lucius O’Trigger to left, with pistols, followed by Acres.
Acres. (L.[2]) By my valor, then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a good distance. Odds levels and aims!—I say it is a good distance.
Sir Lucius. (R.) Is it for muskets or small field-pieces? Upon my conscience Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me.—Stay, now—I’ll show you. (Measures paces along the floor.) There, now, that is a very pretty distance—a pretty gentleman’s distance.
Acr. (R.) Zounds! we might as well fight in a sentry-box! I tell you, Sir Lucius, the further he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim.
Sir L. (L.) Faith! then I suppose you would aim at him best of all if he was out of sight!
Acr. No, Sir Lucius; but I should think forty or eight-and-thirty yards—
Sir L. Pooh! pooh! nonsense! Three or four feet between the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile.
Acr. Odds bullets, no!—by my valor! here is no merit in killing him so near! Do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring him down at a long shot:—a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me!
Sir L. Well, the gentlemen’s friend and I must settle that. But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is there any little will or commission I could execute for you?
Acr. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius—but I don’t understand—
Sir L. Why, you may think there’s no being shot at without a little risk; and if an unlucky bullet should carry a quietus with it—I say it will be no time then to be bothering you about family matters.
Acr. A quietus!
Sir L. For instance, now—if that should be the case—would you choose to be pickled and sent home?—or would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey?—I’m told there is very snug lying in the Abbey.
Acr. Pickled!—Snugly in the Abbey!—Odds tremors! Sir Lucius, don’t talk so!
Sir L. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in an affair of this kind before.
Acr. No, Sir Lucius, never before.
Sir L. Ah! that’s a pity!—there’s nothing like being used to a thing. Pray, now, how would you receive the gentlemen’s shot?
Acr. Odds files!—I’ve practiced that—there, Sir Lucius—there. (Puts himself in an attitude.) A side front, hey? I’ll make myself small enough: I’ll stand edgeways.
Sir L. Now—you’re quite out—for if you stand so when I take my aim—(Leveling at him.)
Acr. Zounds! Sir Lucius—are you sure it is not cocked?
Sir L. Never fear.
Acr. But—but—you don’t know—it may go off of its own head!
Sir L. Pooh! be easy. Well, now, if I hit you in the body, my bullet has a double chance; for, if it misses a vital part of your right side, ’twill be very hard if it don’t succeed on the left.
Acr. A vital part!
Sir L. But, there, fix yourself so—(placing him)—let him see the broadside of your full front, there, now, a ball or two may pass clean through your body, and never do any harm at all.
Acr. Clean through me!—a ball or two clean through me!
Sir L. Ay, may they; and it is much the genteelest attitude into the bargain.
Acr. Look’ee, Sir Lucius! I’d just as lieve be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel one; so, by my valor! I will stand edgeways.
Sir L. (Looking at his watch.) Sure, they don’t mean to disappoint us. Ha! no, faith; I think I see them coming. (Crosses to R.)
Acr. (L.) Hey!—what!—coming!—
Sir L. Ay. Who are those yonder, getting over the stile?
Acr. There are two of them, indeed! Well—let them come—hey, Sir Lucius! we—we—we—we—won’t run!
Sir L. Run!
Acr. No,—I say,—we won’t run, by my valor!
Sir L. What’s the matter with you?
Acr. Nothing—nothing—my dear friend—my dear Sir Lucius! but I—I don’t feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did.
Sir L. O, fy! Consider your honor.
Acr. Ay—true—my honor. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a word or two every now and then about my honor.
Sir L. Well, here they’re coming. (Looking R.)
Acr. Sir Lucius, if I wa’n’t with you, I should almost think I was afraid! If my valor should leave me!—Valor will come and go.
Sir L. Then pray keep it fast while you have it.
Acr. Sir Lucius, I doubt it is going!—yes—my valor is certainly going!—it is sneaking off! I feel it oozing out, as it were, at the palms of my hands!
Sir L. Your honor! your honor! Here they are.
Acr. O mercy!—now—that I was safe at Clod Hall! or could be shot before I was aware! (Sir Lucius takes Acres by the arm, and leads him reluctantly off, R.)
Sheridan.
READING THE WILL.
Characters:
Swipes, a brewer. Currie, a saddler. Frank Millington, and ’Squire Drawl.
Enter Swipes, R.,[3] Currie, L.
Swipes. A sober occasion this, brother Currie! Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end?
Currie. Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes. Those who live longest outlive the most.
Swipes. True, true; but, since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed?
Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. ’Squire Drawl told me she read every word of her last will and testament aloud, and never signed her name better.
Swipes. Had you any hint from the ’Squire what disposition she made of her property?
Cur. Not a whisper! the ’Squire is as close as a miser’s purse. But one of the witnesses hinted to me that she has cut off her graceless nephew with a shilling.
Swipes. Has she? Good soul! Has she? You know I come in, then, in right of my wife.
Cur. And I in my own right; and this is, no doubt, the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. ’Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your own beer-barrels, brother Swipes. But here comes the young reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. (Enter Frank Millington, R.) Your servant, young gentleman. So, your benefactress has left you, at last!
Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr. Millington.
Frank. It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better, had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value.
Cur. It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread.
Swipes. Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer’s boy, if you were not too old.
Cur. Ay, or a saddler’s lackey, if held with a tight rein.
Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly, as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. (As he is going, R., enter ’Squire Drawl, R.)
’Squire. Stop, stop, young man! We must have your presence. Good-morning, gentlemen: you are early on the ground.
Cur. I hope the ’Squire is well to-day.
’Squire. Pretty comfortable for an invalid.
Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs.
’Squire. No, I believe not. You know I never hurry. Slow and sure is my maxim. Well, since the heirs-at-law are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.
Swipes. (While the ’Squire is breaking the seal.) It is a trying scene to leave all one’s possessions, ’Squire, in this manner!
Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy when I look round and see everything but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the preacher say, All is vanity!
’Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen.
(All sit.—The ’Squire puts on his spectacles, and reads slowly.) “Imprimis: Whereas my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler.” (’Squire takes off his spectacles to wipe them.)
Swipes. (Dreadfully overcome.) Generous creature! kind soul! I always loved her.
Cur. She was good, she was kind! She was in her right mind. Brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I will take the mansion-house.
Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie! My wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it. (Both rise.)
Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes! And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did not I lend her a new chaise every time she wished to ride? And who knows what influence——.
Swipes. Am I not named first in her will? And did I not furnish her with my best small beer for more than six months? And who knows——.
Frank. Gentlemen, I must leave you.
(Going.)
’Squire. (Wiping his spectacles, and putting them on.) Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet. (All sit.) Let me see; where was I?—Ay,—“All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer——”
Swipes. Yes!
’Squire. “And Christopher Currie, Fly Court, saddler——”
Cur. Yes!
’Squire. “To have and to hold in trust, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years; by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him.”
Swipes. What’s all this? You don’t mean that we are humbugged? In trust!—how does that appear? Where is it?
’Squire. (Pointing to the parchment.) There! In two words of as good old English as I ever penned.
Cur. Pretty well, too, Mr. ’Squire, if we must be sent for to be made a laughing-stock of! She shall pay for every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you!
Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here to be made the sport of a graceless profligate! But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie! We will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with!
Cur. That will we!
’Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen; for the instrument is dated three years ago, and the young gentleman must already be of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis?
Frank. It is, your worship.
’Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended to the breaking of this seal according to law, you are released from any further trouble in the premises.
(Exit Swipes and Currie in earnest conversation.)
Sargent.
THE DEBTOR AND THE DUN.
Enter Remnant, R.[4]
Remnant. Well, I am resolved I’ll collect my bill of Col. Blarney this time. He shan’t put me off again. This is the twentieth time, as I’m a sinner, that I have dunned him! His smooth words shan’t humbug me now. No, no! Richard Remnant is not such a goose as to be paid in fine words for fine clothes. (Takes out a long bill and unrolls it.) A pretty collection of items, that! Why, the interest alone would make a good round sum. But hark! He is coming. (Hastily rolls up the bill and returns it to his pocket.)
Enter Col. Blarney, R.
Blarney. Ah! my dear Remnant, a thousand welcomes! How delighted I am to see you! And what stupidity on the part of my people not to make you enter at once! True, I had given orders that they should admit nobody; but those orders did not extend to you, my dear sir, for to you I am always at home.
Rem. Much obliged, sir. (Fumbling in his pocket for his bill.)
Blar. (calling to his servants.) What, ho! John! Martha! confound you! I will teach you to keep my friend Remnant kicking his heels in the entry! I will teach you to distinguish among my visitors!
Rem. Indeed, sir, it is no sort of consequence.
Blar. But it is consequence! To tell you—you, one of my best friends—that I was not in!
Rem. I am your humble servant, sir. (Drawing forth bill.) I just dropped in to hand you this little—
Blar. Quick, there, quick! A chair for my friend Remnant!
Rem. I am very well as I am, sir.
Blar. Not at all! I would have you seated.
Rem. It is not necessary. (Servant hands a common chair.)
Blar. Rascal!—not that! An arm-chair!
Rem. You are taking too much trouble. (An arm-chair is placed for him.)
Blar. No, no; you have been walking some distance, and require rest. Now be seated.
Rem. There is no need of it—I have but a single word to say. I have brought—
Blar. Be seated, I say. I will not listen to you till you are seated.
Rem. Well, sir, I will do as you wish. (Sits.) I was about to say—
Blar. Upon my word, friend Remnant, you are looking remarkably well.
Rem. Yes, sir, thank heaven, I am pretty well. I have come with this—
Blar. You have an admirable stock of health—lips fresh, skin ruddy, eyes clear and bright—really—
Rem. If you would be good enough to—
Blar. And how is Madam Remnant?
Rem. Quite well, sir, I am happy to say.
Blar. A charming woman, Mr. Remnant! A very superior woman.
Rem. She will be much obliged, sir. As I was saying—
Blar. And your daughter, Claudine, how is she?
Rem. As well as can be.
Blar. The beautiful little thing that she is! I am quite in love with her.
Rem. You do us too much honor, sir. I—you—
Blar. And little Harry—does he make as much noise as ever, beating that drum of his?
Rem. Ah, yes! He goes on the same as ever. But, as I was saying—
Blar. And your little dog, Brisk,—does he bark as loud as ever, and snap at the legs of your visitors?
Rem. More than ever, sir, and we don’t know how to cure him. He, he! But I dropped in to—
Blar. Do not be surprised if I want particular news of all your family, for I take the deepest interest in all of you.
Rem. We are much obliged to your honor, much obliged. I—
Blar. (Giving his hand.) Your hand upon it, Mr. Remnant. Don’t rise. Now, tell me, do you stand well with the people of quality?—for I can make interest for you among them.
Rem. Sir, I am your humble servant.
Blar. And I am yours, with all my heart. (Shaking hands again.)
Rem. You do me too much honor.
Blar. There is nothing I would not do for you.
Rem. Sir, you are too kind to me.
Blar. At least I am disinterested; be sure of that, Mr. Remnant.
Rem. Certainly I have not merited these favors, sir. But, sir,—
Blar. Now I think of it, will you stay and sup with me?—without ceremony, of course.
Rem. No, sir, I must return to my shop; I should have been there before this. I—
Blar. What ho, there! A light for Mr. Remnant! and tell the coachman to bring the coach and drive him home.
Rem. Indeed, sir, it is not necessary. I can walk well enough. But here— (Offering bill.)
Blar. O! I shall not listen to it. Walk? Such a night as this! I am your friend, Remnant, and, what is more, your debtor—your debtor, I say—all the world may know it.
Rem. Ah! sir if you could but find it convenient—
Blar. Hark! There is the coach. One more embrace, my dear Remnant! (Shakes hands again.) Take care of the steps. Command me always; and be sure there is nothing in the world I would not do for you. There! Good-by.
(Exit Remnant, conducted by Col. B.)
Altered from Molière.
THE DISAGREEABLE MEDDLER.
Enter Doubledot and Simon, L.[5]
Doubledot. Plague take Mr. Paul Pry! He is one of those idle, meddling fellows, who, having no employment themselves, are perpetually interfering in other people’s affairs.
Simon. Ay, and he’s inquisitive into all matters, great and small.
Doub. Inquisitive! Why, he makes no scruple of questioning you respecting your most private concerns. Then he will weary you to death with a long story about a cramp in his leg, or the loss of a sleeve-button, or some such idle matter. And so he passes his days, “dropping in,” as he calls it, from house to house at the most unreasonable times, to the annoyance of every family in the village. But I’ll soon get rid of him.
Enter Pry, L., with umbrella, which he places against the wall.
Pry. Ha! how d’ye do, Mr. Doubledot?
Doub. Very busy, Mr. Pry, and have scarcely time to say, “Pretty well, thank ye.” (Turns from him as if writing in memorandum book. Simon advances.)
Pry. Ha, Simon! you here? Rather early in the morning to be in a public house. Been taking a horn, eh? Sent here with a message from your master, perhaps? I say, Simon, when this wedding takes place, I suppose your master will put you all into new liveries, eh?
Simon. Can’t say, sir.
Pry. Well, I think he might. (Touches Simon’s sleeve.) Between ourselves, Simon, it won’t be before you want ’em, eh?
Simon. That’s master’s business, sir, and neither yours nor mine.
Pry. Mr. Simon, behave yourself, or I shall complain of you to the colonel. By the way, Simon, that’s an uncommon fine leg of mutton the butcher has sent to your house. It weighs thirteen pounds five ounces.
Doub. And how do you know that?
Pry. I asked the butcher. I say, Simon, is it for roasting or boiling?
Simon. Half and half, with the chill taken off. There’s your answer.
(Exit Simon, R.)
Pry. That’s an uncommon ill-behaved servant! Well, since you say you are busy, I won’t interrupt you; only, as I was passing, I thought I might as well drop in.
Doub. Then you may now drop out again. The railway ’bus will be in presently, and—
Pry. No passengers by it to-day, for I have been to the hill to look for it.
Doub. Did you expect any one by it, that you were so anxious?
Pry. No; but I make it my business to see the coach come in every day. I can’t bear to be idle.
Doub. Useful occupation, truly!
Pry. Always see it go out; have done so these ten years.
Doub. (Going up.) Tiresome blockhead! Well; good morning to you.
Pry. Good-morning, Mr. Doubledot. Your tavern doesn’t appear to be very full just now.
Doub. No, no.
Pry. Ha! you are at a heavy rent? (Pauses for an answer after each question.) I’ve often thought of that. No supporting such an establishment without a deal of custom. If it’s not an impertinent question, don’t you find it rather a hard matter to make both ends meet when the first of the month comes round?
Doub. If it isn’t asking an impertinent question, what’s that to you?
Pry. O, nothing; only some folks have the luck of it: they have just taken in a nobleman’s family at the opposition house, the Green Dragon.
Doub. What’s that? A nobleman at the Green Dragon!
Pry. Traveling carriage and four. Three servants on the dickey and an outrider, all in blue liveries. They dine and stop all night. A pretty bill there will be to-morrow, for the servants are not on board wages.
Doub. Plague take the Green Dragon! How did you discover that they are not on board wages?
Pry. I was curious to know, and asked one of them. You know I never miss any thing for want of asking. ’Tis no fault of mine that the nabob is not here, at your house.
Doub. Why, what had you to do with it?
Pry. You know I never forget my friends. I stopped the carriage as it was coming down the hill—brought it to a dead stop, and said that if his lordship—I took him for a lord at once—that if his lordship intended to make any stay, he couldn’t do better than to go to Doubledot’s.
Doub. Well?
Pry. Well,—would you believe it?—out pops a saffron-colored face from the carriage window, and says, “You’re an impudent rascal for stopping my carriage, and I’ll not go to Doubledot’s if there’s another inn to be found within ten miles of it!”
Doub. There, that comes of your confounded meddling! If you had not interfered I should have stood an equal chance with the Green Dragon.
Pry. I’m very sorry; but I did it for the best.
Doub. Did it for the best, indeed! Deuce take you! By your officious attempts to serve, you do more mischief in the neighborhood than the exciseman, the apothecary, and the attorney, all together.
Pry. Well, there’s gratitude! Now, really, I must go. Good-morning.
(Exit Paul Pry.)
Doub. I’m rid of him at last, thank fortune! (Pry re-enters.) Well, what now?
Pry. I’ve dropped one of my gloves. Now, that’s very odd—here it is in my hand all the time!
Doub. Go to confusion!
(Exit.)
Pry. Come, that’s civil! If I were the least of a bore, now, it would be pardonable—But—Hullo! There’s the postman! I wonder whether the Parkins’s have got letters again to-day. They have had letters every day this week, and I can’t for the life of me think what they can—(Feels hastily in his pockets.) By the way, talking of letters, here’s one I took from the postman last week for the colonel’s daughter, Miss Eliza, and I have always forgotten to give it to her. I dare say it is not of much importance. (Peeps into it—reads.) “Likely—unexpected—affectionate.” I can’t make it out. No matter; I’ll contrive to take it to the house—though I’ve a deal to do to-day. (Runs off and returns.) Dear me! I had like to have gone without my umbrella.
[CURTAIN.]
John Poole.
SPARTACUS AND JOVIUS.
Enter Spartacus, L.,[6] Jovius, R.
Spartacus. Speak, Roman! wherefore does thy master send Thy gray hairs to the “cut throat’s” camp? Jovius. Brave rebel— Spart. Why, that’s a better name than rogue or bondman; But in this camp I am called General. Jov. Brave General,—for, though a rogue and bondman, As you have said, I’ll still allow you General, As he that beats a consul surely is. Spart. Say two—two consuls; and to that e’en add A proconsul, three prætors, and some generals. Jov. Why, this is no more than true. Are you a Thracian? Spart. Ay. Jov. There is something in the air of Thrace Breeds valor up as rank as grass. ’Tis pity. You are a barbarian. Spart. Wherefore? Jov. Had you been born A Roman, you had won by this a triumph. Spart. I thank the gods I am barbarian; For I can better teach the grace-begot And heaven-supported masters of the earth How a mere dweller of a desert rock Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot-wheels, Their regal necks to be his stepping-blocks. But come, what is thy message? Jov. Julia, niece Of the prætor, is thy captive. Spart. Ay. Jov. For whom Is offered in exchange thy wife, Senona, And thy young boy. Spart. Tell thou the prætor, Roman, The Thracian’s wife is ransomed. Jov. How is that? Spart. Ransomed, and by the steel, from out the camp Of slaughtered Gellius! (Pointing off.) Behold them, Roman! Jov. (Looking as Spart. points.) This is sorcery! But name a ransom for the general’s niece. Spart. Have I not now the prætor on the hip? He would, in his extremity, have made My wife his buckler of defence; perhaps Have doomed her to the scourge! But this is Roman. Now the barbarian is instructed. Look! I hold the prætor by the heart; and he Shall feel how tightly grip barbarian fingers. Jov. Men do not war on women. Name her ransom. Spart. Men do not war on women! Look you: One day I climbed up to the ridgy top Of the cloud-piercing Hæmus, where, among The eagles and the thunders, from that height, I looked upon the world, as far as where, Wrestling with storms, the gloomy Euxine chafed On his recoiling shores; and where dim Adria In her blue bosom quenched the fiery sphere. Between those surges lay a land, might once Have matched Elysium; but Rome had made it A Tartarus. In my green youth I looked From the same frosty peak where now I stood, And then beheld the glory of those lands, Where Peace was tinkling on the shepherd’s bell And singing with the reapers. Since that glad day, Rome’s conquerors had passed With withering armies there, and all was changed. Peace had departed; howling War was there, Cheered on by Roman hunters. Then, methought E’en as I looked upon the altered scene, Groans echoed through the valleys, through which ran Rivers of blood, like smoking Phlegethons; Fires flashed from burning villages, and Famine Shrieked in the empty cornfields! Women and children, Robbed of their sires and husbands, left to starve— These were the dwellers of the land! Say’st thou Rome wars not, then, on women? Jov. This is not to the matter. Spart. Now, by Jove, It is! These things do Romans. But the earth Is sick of conquerors. There is not a man, Not Roman, but is Rome’s extremest foe: And such am I; sworn from that hour I saw Those sights of horror, while the gods support me, To wreak on Rome such havoc as Rome wreaks, Carnage and devastation, woe and ruin. Why should I ransom, when I swear to slay? Begone! This is my answer! Bird.
THE RESOLVE OF REGULUS.—Sargent.
(Regulus, a Roman consul, having been defeated in battle and taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, was detained in captivity five years, and then sent on an embassy to Rome to solicit peace, under a promise that he would return to Carthage if the proposals were rejected. These, it was thought, he would urge in order to obtain his own liberty; but he urged contrary and patriotic measures on his countrymen; and then, having carried his point, resisted the persuasions of his friends to remain in Rome, and returned to Carthage, where a martyr’s death awaited him. Some writers say that he was thrust into a cask covered over on the inside with iron spikes, and thus rolled down hill. The following scene presents Regulus just as he has made known to his friends in Rome his resolution to return to Carthage.)
Enter Regulus, followed by Sertorius.
Sertorius. Stay, Roman, in pity!—if not for thy life, For the sake of thy country, thy children, thy wife. Sent, not to urge war, but to lead Rome to peace, Thy captors of Carthage vouchsafed thee release. Thou return’st to encounter their anger, their rage;— No mercy expect for thy fame or thy age! Regulus. To my captors one pledge, and one only, I gave: To return, though it were to walk into my grave! No hope I extended, no promise I made, Rome’s Senate and people from war to dissuade. If the vengeance of Carthage be stored for me now, I have reaped no dishonor, have broken no vow. Sert. They released thee, but dreamed not that thou wouldst fulfil A part that would leave thee a prisoner still; They hoped thy own danger would lead thee to sway The councils of Rome a far different way; Would induce thee to urge the conditions they crave, If only thy freedom, thy life-blood, to save. Thought shudders, the torment and woe to depict Thy merciless foes have the heart to inflict! Remain with us, Regulus! do not go back! No hope sheds its ray on thy death-pointing track! Keep faith with the faithless? The gods will forgive The balking of such. O, live, Regulus, live! Reg. With the consciousness fixed in the core of my heart, That I had been playing the perjurer’s part? With the stain ever glaring, the thought ever nigh, That I owe the base breath I inhale to a lie? O, never! Let Carthage infract every oath, Be false to her word and humanity both, Yet never will I in her infamy share, Or turn for a refuge to guilt from despair! Sert. O, think of the kindred and friends who await To fall on thy neck, and withhold thee from fate; O, think of the widow, the orphans to be, And let thy compassion plead softly with me. Reg. O, my friend, thou canst soften, but canst not subdue; To the faith of my soul I must ever be true. If my honor I cheapen, my conscience discrown, All the graces of life to the dust are brought down; All creation to me is a chaos once more— No heaven to hope for, no God to adore! And the love that I feel for wife, children, and friend, Has lost all its beauty, and thwarted its end. Sert. Let thy country determine. Reg. My country? Her will, Were I free to obey, would be paramount still. I go to my doom for my country alone; My life is my country’s; my honor, my own! Sert. O, Regulus! think of the pangs in reserve! Reg. What menace should make me from probity swerve? Sert. Refinements of pain will these miscreants find To daunt and disable the loftiest mind. Reg. And ’tis to a Roman thy fears are addressed! Sert. Forgive me. I know thy unterrified breast. Reg. Thou know’st me but human—as weak to sustain As thyself, or another, the searchings of pain. This flesh may recoil, and the anguish they wreak Chase the strength from my knees, and the hue from my cheek; But the body alone they can vanquish and kill; The spirit immortal shall smile at them still. Then let them make ready their engines of dread, Their spike-bristling cask, and their torturing bed; Still Regulus, heaving no recreant breath, Shall greet as a friend the deliverer, Death! Their cunning in torture and taunt shall defy, And hold it in joy for his country to die.
HOW THE MONEY GOES.
(A temperance play.)
Characters.—Man, about thirty-five years old; his Wife; Nellie, his daughter, ten years old; Friend, man about husband’s age, dressed in a man-of-the-world style; A. and B., two young men, dressed as business men, should appear about thirty years of age.
Scene I. (Mr. L. and his wife on the stage; Mr. L. dressed for his work, and about to go.)
Mrs. L. Albert, I wish you would give me seventy-five cents.
Mr. L. What do you want seventy-five cents for?
Mrs. L. I want to get some braid for my new dress.
Mr. L. I thought you had material enough on hand for that.
Mrs. L. So I thought I had; but it looks rather plain with no trimming at all. You know I was intending to trim it with that fringe; but it looks too gray, come to try it by the side of the dress.
Mr. L. Haven’t you something else that will do?
Mrs. L. No. But, then, braid is cheap; and I can make it look quite pretty with seventy-five cents.
Mr. L. Plague take these women’s fashions. Your endless trimmings and thing-a-ma-jigs cost more than the dress is worth. It is nothing but shell out money when a woman thinks of a new dress.
Mrs. L. I don’t have many new dresses. I do certainly try to be as economical as I can.
Mr. L. It is funny kind of economy, at all events. But if you must have it, I suppose you must.
(Takes out his purse, and counts out carefully seventy-five cents, and puts his purse away, angrily. He starts to go; but when at the door, he thinks he will take his umbrella, and goes back for it. Finds his wife in tears, which she tries hastily to conceal.)
Mr. L. Good gracious! Kate, I should like to know if you are crying at what I said about the dress.
Mrs. L. I was not crying at what you said, but you were so reluctant to grant the small favor! I was thinking how hard I have to work. I am tied to the house. I have many little things to perplex me. Then to think—
Mr. L. Pshaw! What do you want to be foolish for.
(Exit.)
(In the hall he was met by his little girl, Lizzie.)
Lizzie (holding both his hands). O, papa, give me fifteen cents.
Mr. L. What?
Lizzie. I want fifteen cents. Please give me fifteen cents.
Mr. L. What in the world do you want it for? Are they changing books again?
Lizzie. No. I want a hoop. It’s splendid rolling; and all the girls have one. Mr. Grant has some real nice ones to sell. Please, can’t I have one?
Mr. L. Nonsense! If you want a hoop, go and get one off some old barrel. I can’t afford to buy hoops for you to trundle about the streets. (Throws her off.)
Lizzie (in a pleading tone). Please, papa?
Mr. L. No, I told you!
(She bursts into tears, and he goes off muttering, “Cry, then, and cry it out.”)
Scene II. (Albert enters, his wife entering on the opposite side. She kisses him as a greeting.)
Mrs. L. I am glad you are home thus early. How has business gone to-day?
Mr. L. Well, I am happy to say.
Mrs. L. Are you very tired?
Mr. L. No; why?
Mrs. L. I want you to go to the sewing circle to-night.
Mr. L. I can’t go; I have an engagement.
Mrs. L. I am sorry. You never go with me now. You used to go a great deal.
(Just then Lizzie comes in crying, dragging an old hoop, and rubbing her eyes.)
Mr. L. What is the matter with you, darling?
Lizzie. The girls have been laughing at me, and making fun of my hoop. They say mine is ugly and homely.
Mr. L. Never mind; perhaps we’ll have a new one some time.
Lizzie. Mayn’t I have one now? Mr. Grant has one left—a real pretty one.
Mr. L. Not now, Lizzie; not now. I’ll think of it.
(Lizzie goes out crying, followed by her mother. A friend of Mr. L. enters.)
Friend. Hello, Albert! What’s up?
Mr. L. Nothing in particular. Take a chair.
Friend. How’s business?
Mr. L. Good.
Friend. Did you go to the club last night?
Mr. L. Don’t speak so loud!
Friend. Ha! wife don’t know—does she? Where does she think you go?
Mr. L. I don’t know. She never asks me, and I am glad of it. She asked me to go with her to-night, and I told her I was engaged.
Friend. Good! I shan’t ask you where, but take it for granted that it was with me. What do you say for a game of billiards?
Mr. L. Good! I’m in for that. (They rise to go.) Have a cigar, Tom?
Friend. Yes. (They go out.)
Scene III. (Two men in conversation as they come upon the stage.)
B. Billiards? No, I never play billiards.
A. Why not?
B. I don’t like its tendency.
A. It is only a healthy pastime. I am sure it has no evil tendency.
B. I cannot assert that the game in its most innocent form is, of itself, an evil, to be sure. But, although it has the advantage of calling forth skill and judgment, yet it is evil when it excites and stimulates beyond the bounds of healthy recreation.
A. That result can scarcely follow such a game.
B. You are wrong there. The result can follow in two ways. First, it can lead men away from their business. Secondly, it leads those to spend money who have none to spend. Look at that young man just passing. He looks like a mechanic; and I should judge from his appearance that he has a family. I see by his face that he is kind and generous, and wants to do as near right as he can. I have watched him in the billiard saloon time after time, and only last night I saw him pay one dollar and forty cents for two hours’ recreation. He did it cheerfully, too, and smiled at his loss. But how do you suppose it is at home? Suppose his wife had asked him for a dollar or two for some household ornament, or his child, if he has one, for a picture-book or toy, what do you suppose he would have answered? This is not conjecture; for you and I both know plenty of such cases.
A. Upon my word, B., you speak to the point; for I know that young man, and what you have said is true. I can furnish you with facts. We have a club for a literary paper in our village, and last year he was one of the subscribers. This year he was obliged to discontinue. His wife was very anxious to take it; but he said he could not afford the $1.25 for it. And his little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed her father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain. My Nellie told me that.
B. Yes; and that two hours’ recreation last night, would have paid for both. It is well for wives and children that they do not know where all the money goes.
THE SALUTATORIAN’S DIFFICULTIES.
Characters.
Frank Clayton.
Harry Thompson.
Tommy Watkins.
Sammy Long.
Johnny Wilson.
Willie Brown.
Scene.—A stage. Curtain rises, and Frank Clayton comes forward and speaks.
Frank. Ladies and gentlemen: Our performances are now about to commence. We have spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You well know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to give our recitations correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—and we ask you to—and—and—and we ask that—that—
(Enter Harry Thompson. He comes in front of Frank and commences to speak.)
“Did you ever hear of Jehosophat Boggs, A dealer and raiser of all sorts of dogs? No? Then I’ll endeavor in doggerel verse To just the main points of the story rehearse. Boggs had a good wife—”
Frank. (Speaking in a loud whisper.) Harry, what did you come out here for? I’m not through with the introductory speech yet.
Harry. (Turns half way round, puts his hand to his mouth, as if to keep the audience from hearing, and speaks in a loud whisper.) I know you weren’t through, but you stuck, and I thought I had better come on. You know my recitation is second on the programme, and I didn’t want to have a bungle right at the commencement of the exhibition.
Frank. Go back to your place, you little rascal, and don’t interrupt me again. I’m going to speak my piece.
Harry. (With his hand up to hide his mouth as before.) Oh, you’re stuck and you’d better retire. (Turns to audience and continues to speak his piece.)
“Boggs had a good wife, the joy of his life, There was nothing between them inclining to strife. Except her dear J.’s dogmatic employment; And that, she averred, did mar her enjoyment.”
Frank. (Whispering as before.) I say, Harry, get from before me and let me speak my piece.
Harry. (Turns, puts up his hand, and whispers as before.) Oh, you keep shady until I get through. (Turns to audience and speaks.)
“She often had begged him to sell off his dogs, And instead to raise turkeys, spring chickens or hogs. She made him half promise at no distant day He would sell the whole lot, not excepting old Tray; And as good luck would have it,—”
Frank. (Turning Harry by the collar and pulling him back.) I tell you to get out of this until I have spoken my piece.
Harry. I won’t. Let me alone, I say. You have stuck fast, and do you want to spoil the exhibition? Didn’t you know enough to keep off the stage until I had spoken my piece?
Frank. (Still holding him by the collar.) It is you that are spoiling the exhibition. (Leads him off the stage.)
Harry. (Speaking loudly as he goes out.) I call this an outrage.
Frank. (Returning to his place and commencing to speak.) Ladies and gentlemen, my speech has been interrupted, and I will commence again. Our performances are now about to commence. We have spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to give our recitations correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—to—and we ask you to—and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—and we ask you to—(In a lower tone.) I’ve forgotten it again; isn’t that too bad? (Speaking as before.) And we ask you to—to—to—
(Enter Tommy Watkins. He comes in front of Frank, and commences to speak “The Ghost.”)
“’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, A short, round, favored merry Old soldier of the Revolutionary War, Was wedded to a most abominable shrew. The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine Could no more be compared with hers Than mine With Lucifer’s.”
Frank. (In a loud whisper.) Tommy Watkins, get from before me. Don’t you see I’m speaking? I don’t want to be interrupted—I want to finish my speech.
Tommy. (Facing the audience and speaking in the same tone as when reciting his speech.) Oh, you’d better quit! You’ve stuck twice now, and if you don’t go off the stage the audience will become disgusted.
Sammy Long. (Seated in the audience.) The people are disgusted now with that boy’s opening speech. He’d better go home, memorize it, and speak it some time next year.
Tommy. There! You hear what they say out there in the audience. They are disgusted, and they think you had better leave the stage.
Frank. Oh, that’s nobody but Sammy Long, and he is displeased because we didn’t invite him to take part in the exhibition.
Tommy. Well, I’ll go ahead and speak my piece while you are trying to think up the words you have forgotten.
Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh Face, like a cranberry marsh, All spread with spots of white and red; Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. The appellation of this lovely dame Was Nancy; don’t forget the name.
Frank. Stop, Tommy; I can finish my speech now.
Tommy. So can I. (Continues his recitation.)
His brother David was a tall, Good-looking chap, and that was all, One of your great big nothings, as they say Out in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes, And cracking them on other folks. Well, David undertook one night to play The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, He knew, Would be returning from a journey through A grove of forest wood That stood Below The house some distance—half a mile or so. With a long taper Cap of white paper, Just made to cover A wig, nearly as large over As a corn-basket, and a sheet With both ends made to meet Across his breast (The way in which ghosts are always dressed), He took His station near A huge oak-tree, Whence he could overlook The road and see Whatever might appear. It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel Had left the table Of an inn, where he had made a halt, With horse and wagon, To taste a flagon Of malt Liquor, and so forth, which, being done, He went on, Caring no more for twenty ghosts Than if they had been so many posts. David was nearly tired of waiting; His patience was abating; At length, he heard the careless tones Of his kinsman’s voice, And then the noise Of wagon-wheels among the stones. Abel was quite elated, and was roaring With all his might, and pouring Out, in great confusion, Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.” His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton; And jovially he went on. Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees With rhymes like these: (Sings. Air, “Yankee Doodle.”) “See the Yankees Leave the hill, With baggernetts declining, With lopped-down hats And rusty guns, And leather aprons shining.” “‘See the Yankees’—Whoa! Why, what is that?” Said Abel, staring like a cat, As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode Into the middle of the road. “My conscience! what a suit of clothes! Some crazy fellow, I suppose. Hallo! friend, what’s your name? by the powers of gin, That’s a strange dress to travel in.” “Be silent, Abel; for I now have come To read your doom; Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. I am a spirit—” “I suppose you are; But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why: Here is a fact which you cannot deny;— All spirits must be either good Or bad—that’s understood— And be you good or evil, I am sure That I’m secure. If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil— And I don’t know but you may be the devil— If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy, That I am married to your sister Nancy!”
(Bows and turns to go off. To Frank.) Now, Frank, you can go ahead again until you come to the sticking place. I hope that, during the time I have generously given you by speaking my piece, you have been collecting your scattered senses, and will now be able to finish what you began.
(Exit Tommy.)
Frank. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not at all pleased with this way of doing business. I think these boys have not treated me with proper respect. I was selected to give the opening or introductory address, and you see how it has been done.
Sammy. (In the audience.) We didn’t see very much of it. Don’t you think it would be well enough for you to retire and memorize your speech?
Frank. You boys out there had better keep silent and not create a disturbance. There is an officer in the house.
(Enter Willie Brown. He comes before Frank and commences to speak.)
“’Twas night! The stars were shrouded in a veil of mist; a clouded canopy o’erhung the world; the vivid lightnings flashed and shook their fiery darts upon the earth—”
Frank. (Speaking out.) I say, Willie Brown, what did you come here for? I haven’t finished the opening speech yet.
Willie. What’s the use of having an opening speech now? The exhibition is half over. (Continues his speech.)
“The deep-toned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky; the elements were in wild commotion; the storm-spirit howled in the air; the winds whistled; the hail-stones fell like leaden balls; the huge undulations of the ocean dashed upon the rock-bound shore; and torrents leaped from mountain tops; when the murderer sprang from his sleepless couch with vengeance on his brow—murder in his heart—and the fell instrument of destruction in his hand.”
Frank. Stop, I say. What kind of an exhibition will this be without an introductory speech? Stop, I say. We will be the laughing-stock of the country if we don’t open our exhibition with an introductory speech.
Johnny. (In the audience.) Oh, nobody cares for the introductory speech. Let the speech go and give us some dialogues and songs.
Willie. No dialogues and songs until I have finished my speech. This is my place on the programme. (Continues his speech. Frank comes and stands near him and they both speak at the same time, Willie giving the concluding portion of his speech and Frank commencing at the first of his Opening Speech and going as far as he had gone before. Willie should finish just before Frank commences to stammer.)
“The storm increased; the lightnings flashed with brighter glare; the thunder growled with deeper energy; the winds whistled with a wilder fury; the confusion of the hour was congenial to his soul, and the stormy passions which raged in his bosom. He clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp. A demoniac smile gathered on his lip; he grated his teeth; raised his arm; sprang with a yell of triumph upon his victim, and relentlessly killed—a mosquito!” (Bows and turns to go off. To Frank.) Stuck again, my boy? If we had waited for the opening speech we would not have got our exhibition opened for a week or ten days.
(Exit Willie.)
Johnny. (In the audience.) Well, we haven’t had that introductory speech yet, and I guess we are not going to get it. That was the queerest kind of speech I ever heard. It began, and then balked, and then kicked up, and then braced its feet in front, and finally stopped altogether. I think we would have done better if we had started without any introduction, just as grandpa said the other day he thought Parson Goodwin ought to have begun his sermon at the conclusion and left out all that went before it.
Frank. (Excitedly.) Hold on there! You say we don’t need any speech and yet you are making a long one yourself. You said that I hitched like a balky horse, but you have kicked up your heels and cantered off as if somebody had touched off a pack of fire-crackers under you.
(Enter Harry Thompson. He comes forward and speaks.)
Our parts are performed and our speeches are ended, We are monarchs and courtiers and heroes no more; To a much humbler station again we’ve descended, And are now but the school-boys you’ve known us before. Farewell then our greatness—’tis gone like a dream, ’Tis gone—but remembrance will often retrace The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme, And the heart-cheering smiles that enlivened each face. We thank you! Our gratitude words cannot tell, But deeply we feel it—to you it belongs; With heartfelt emotion we bid you farewell, And our feelings now thank you much more than our tongues. We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us, That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks; And we hope to convince you, the next time you hear us, That praise has but sharpened our relish for books.
(Bows and turns to go off.) I have spoken the valedictory, and the exhibition is over. Ring down the curtain.
Frank. (Excitedly.) Stop! Hold! Don’t! I haven’t finished my speech yet.
Johnny. (In the audience.) You’ve given us enough for the present. You can finish it out next Christmas.
Harry. Ring down the curtain.
Frank. Stop! Don’t! Don’t! I want to speak my piece. (A bell is rung and the curtain falls.)
Frank. (Drawing the curtain aside and looking out.) Here’s a go! How are we going to get along without an Opening Speech? (Disappears.)
[Curtain.]
PYGMALION AND GALATEA.
Characters.
Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor.
Galatea, a statue.
Costumes.
Gentleman, in the habit of a Greek artist. Lady, in statuesque drapery or ordinary Greek costume.
(A noted Greek sculptor, Pygmalion, makes a most beautiful statue of woman. Having attained perfection of form he longs to breathe life into his work, and blames the gods that they have limited his power. He stands on the stage, to the left, looking thoughtfully up as if imploring the gods. While apparently uttering his complaints, Galatea, coming to life, calls to him from behind the curtain.)
Galatea (from behind curtain, C.[7]). Pygmalion! Pygmalion (after a pause). Who called? Gal. Pygmalion! (Pygmalion tears away curtain and discovers Galatea alive.) Pyg. Ye gods! It lives! Gal. Pygmalion. Pyg. It speaks! I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes! Gal. Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion; Give me thy hand—both hands—how soft and warm! Whence came I? (Descends.) Pyg. Why, from yonder pedestal. Gal. That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect, There was a time when it was part of me. Pyg. That time has passed forever, thou art now A living, breathing woman, excellent In every attribute of womankind. Gal. Where am I, then? Pyg. Why, born into the world By miracle. Gal. Is this the world? Pyg. It is. Gal. This room? Pyg. This room is a portion of a house; The house stands in a grove; the grove itself Is one of many, many hundred groves In Athens. Gal. And is Athens, then, the world? Pyg. To an Athenian—yes— Gal. And I am one? Pyg. By birth and parentage, not by descent. Gal. But how came I to be? Pyg. Well, let me see Oh! you were quarried in Pentelicus; I modelled you in clay; my artisans Then roughed you out in marble; I, in turn, Brought my artistic skill to bear on you, And made you what you are, in all but life. The gods completed what I had begun, And gave the only gift I could not give. Gal. Then this is life? Pyg. It is. Gal. And not long since I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone, That was the first dull gleam of consciousness; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold immovable identity. I knew that I was stone, and knew no more; Then by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen, darkly and imperfectly, yet seen; The walls surrounded me, and I alone. That pedestal—that curtain—then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core. That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless—seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand; I felt my frame pervaded with a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved—I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of new born life; Lived in the love of him that fashioned me; Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope, Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves Into one word, that word, Pygmalion! (Kneels to him.) Pyg. I have no words to tell thee of my joy, O woman—perfect in thy loveliness. Gal. What is that word? Am I a woman? Pyg. Yes. Gal. Art thou a woman? Pyg. No, I am a man! Gal. What is a man? Pyg. A being strongly framed, To wait on woman, and protect her from All ills that strength and courage can avert; To work and toil for her, that she may rest; To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh; To fight and die for her, that she may live! Gal. (after a pause). I’m glad I am a woman. (Takes his hand—he leads her down, L.) Pyg. So am I. (They sit.) Gal. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear? Pyg. That I may undergo those pains for thee. Gal. With whom wouldst thou fight? Pyg. With any man Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain. Gal. Then there are other men in this strange world? Pyg. There are, indeed? Gal. And other women? Pyg. (taken aback). Yes; Though for the moment I’d forgotten it! Yes, other women. Gal. And for all of these Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep, and fight? Pyg. It is man’s duty, if he’s called upon, To fight for all—he works for those he loves. Gal. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me? Pyg. Indeed, I love thee. (Embraces her.) Gal. What kind of love? Pyg. I love thee (recollecting himself and releasing her) as a sculptor loves his work! (Aside.) There is diplomacy in that reply. Gal. My love is different in kind to thine: I am no sculptor, and I’ve done no work, Yet I do love thee; say—what love is mine? Pyg. Tell me its symptoms, then I’ll answer thee. Gal. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come. A sense that I am made by thee for thee. That I’ve no will that is not wholly thine, That I’ve no thought, no hope, no enterprise, That does not own thee as its sovereign; That I have life that I may live for thee, That I am thine—that thou and I are one! What kind of love is that? Pyg. A kind of love That I shall run some risk in dealing with. Gal. And why, Pygmalion? Pyg. Such love as thine A man may not receive, except, indeed, From one who is, or is to be, his wife. Gal. Then I will be thy wife. Pyg. That may not be; I have a wife—the gods allow but one. Gal. Why did the gods then send me here to thee? Pyg. I cannot say—unless to punish me (Rises.) For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer! I pray’d that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer, And now I see the fearful consequence That must attend it! Gal. Yet thou lovest me? (Rises.) Pyg. Who could look on that face and stifle love? Gal. Then I am beautiful? Pyg. Indeed thou art. Gal. I wish that I could look upon myself, But that’s impossible. Pyg. Not so, indeed, (Crosses, R.) This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold! (Hands her a mirror from table, R. C.) Gal. How beautiful! I am very glad to know That both our tastes agree so perfectly; Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think That aught could be more beautiful than thou, Till I behold myself. Believe me, love, I could look in this mirror all day long. So I’m a woman. Pyg. There’s no doubt of that! Gal. Oh! happy maid, to be so passing fair! And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze At will upon so beautiful a face! Pyg. Hush! Galatea—in thine innocence (Taking glass from her.) Thou sayest things that others would reprove. Gal. Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong To think that one is exquisitely fair? Pyg. Well, Galatea, it’s a sentiment That every other woman shares with thee; They think it—but they keep it to themselves. Gal. And is thy wife as beautiful as I? Pyg. No, Galatea; for in forming thee I took her features—lovely in themselves— And in marble made them lovelier still. Gal. (disappointed). Oh! then I am not original? Pyg. Well—no— That is, thou hast indeed a prototype, But though in stone thou didst resemble her, In life, the difference is manifest. Gal. I’m very glad that I am lovelier than she. And am I better? (Sits, L.) Pyg. That I do not know. Gal. Then she has faults. Pyg. Very few, indeed; Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show That she and I are of one common kin. I love her all the better for such faults. Gal. (after a pause). Tell me some faults and I’ll commit them now. Pyg. There is no hurry; they will come in time: (Sits beside her, L.) Though for that matter, it’s a grievous sin To sit as lovingly as we sit now. Gal. Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk As we are sitting, be indeed a sin, Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love, Is this great fault that I’m committing now, The kind of fault that only serves to show That thou and I are of one common kin? Pyg. Indeed, I am very much afraid it is. Gal. And dost thou love me better for such fault? Pyg. Where is the mortal that could answer “no?” Gal. Why then I’m satisfied, Pygmalion; Thy wife and I can start on equal terms. She loves thee? Pyg. Very much. Gal. I’m glad of that. I like thy wife. Pyg. And why? Gal. (surprised at the question). Our tastes agree We love Pygmalion well, and what is more, Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife; I’m sure we shall agree. Pyg. (aside). I doubt it much. Gal. Is she within? Pyg. No, she is not within. Gal. But she’ll come back? Pyg. Oh! yes, she will come back. Gal. How pleased she’ll be to know when she returns, That there was someone here to fill her place. Pyg. (dryly). Yes, I should say she’d be extremely pleased. (Rises.) Gal. Why, there is something in thy voice which says That thou art jesting. Is it possible To say one thing and mean another? Pyg. Yes, It’s sometimes done. Gal. How very wonderful! So clever! Pyg. And so very useful. Gal. Yes. Teach me the art. Pyg. The art will come in time. My wife will not be pleased; there—that’s the truth. Gal., I do not think that I shall like thy wife. Tell me more of her. Pyg. Well— Gal. What did she say When she last left thee? Pyg. Humph! Well, let me see: Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife— Her solitary representative; (Tenderly) She feared I should be lonely till she came, And counselled me, if thoughts of love should come, To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont To speak to her. Gal. That’s right. Pyg. (releasing her). But when she spoke Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood, Which makes a difference. Gal. It’s a strange world; A woman loves her husband very much, And cannot brook that I should love him too; She fears he will be lonely till she comes, And will not let me cheer his loneliness: She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone, And when that stone is brought to life—be dumb! It’s a strange world, I cannot fathom it. (Crosses, R.) Pyg. (aside). Let me be brave, and put an end to this. (Aloud.) Come, Galatea—till my wife returns, My sister shall provide thee with a home; Her house is close at hand. Gal. (astonished and alarmed). Send me not hence, Pygmalion—let me stay. Pyg. It may not be. Come, Galatea, we shall meet again. Gal. (resignedly). Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion! But we shall meet again?—and very soon? Pyg. Yes, very soon. Gal. And when thy wife returns, She’ll let me stay with thee? Pyg. I do not know. (Aside.) Why should I hide the truth from her? (Aloud.) Alas! I may not see thee then. Gal. Pygmalion, What fearful words are these? Pyg. The bitter truth. I may not love thee; I must send thee hence. Gal. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love! Was it for this that Heaven gave me life? Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see I am thy work, thou hast created me; The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine, Thine! only and unalterably thine! (Music.) This is the thought with which my soul is charged. Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love, That thou hast love for her alone! Alas! I do not know these things; I only know That Heaven has sent me here to be with thee. Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife, Of vows that thou wilt love but her; alas! I do not know these things; I only know That Heaven, who sent me here, has given me One all-absorbing duty to discharge— To love thee, and to make thee love again!
(During this speech Pygmalion has shown symptoms of irresolution; at its conclusion he takes her in his arms and embraces her passionately.)
W. S. Gilbert.
QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.
(A dialogue for two men. From Act IV. of Julius Cæsar. Before rendering the dialogue it is presumed that the participants will read the whole play from a volume of Shakespeare, and familiarize themselves with the spirit of the selection. The interest will be enhanced by the use of proper costumes. Where these cannot be hired—as they generally may in cities and large towns—they may be easily improvised by observing the simple Roman dress as illustrated in historical works.)
(Curtain rises, revealing Brutus and Cassius in heated conversation on the stage.)
Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear in this; You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of Sardinians; Wherein my letters (praying on his side Because I knew the man) were slighted of. Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last! Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice?—What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers,—shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus?— I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman! Cas. Brutus, bay not me! I’ll not endure it. You forget yourself To hedge me in: I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to! you’re not Cassius! Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself: Have mind upon your health: tempt me no further! Bru. Away, slight man! Cas. Is’t possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? Cas. Must I endure all this? Bru. All this? Ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break! Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I’ll use you for my mirth,—yea, for my laughter,— When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say you are a better soldier, Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus: I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not? Bru. No. Cas. What! durst not tempt him? Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;— For I can raise no money by vile means: I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions; Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces! Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not: he was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart, A friend should bear a friend’s infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius; For Cassius is a-weary of the world— Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from my eyes!—There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold; If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth: I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know, When thou didst hate him worse, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. Bru. Sheathe your dagger: Be angry when you will, it shall have scope: Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O, Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart, too.— Cas. O, Brutus! Bru. What’s the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful? Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
[CURTAIN.]
Shakespeare.
TABLEAU.—Friendship Restored.
Curtain rises, revealing Brutus and Cassius with one hand laid upon the other’s shoulder, while the right hands firmly clasp. On the face of each beams the light of noble love and manly friendship, showing their mutual joy. The bearing should be dignified and manly.
SCENE BETWEEN HAMLET AND THE QUEEN.
(Dialogue for elderly lady and young man. From Act III. of the tragedy of Hamlet. The part of Hamlet is a very difficult one to play, and should be thoroughly studied. The whole tragedy should be read from Shakespeare, any illustrated volume of which will suggest appropriate costume. The Ghost may be impersonated by a voice, unless a suitable costume and staging are available.)
(Curtain rises and reveals Hamlet approaching his Mother, who may be seated and apparently in much distress.)
Hamlet. Now, mother, what’s the matter? Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. Hamlet. Mother, you have my father much offended. Queen. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. Hamlet. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet! Hamlet. What’s the matter now? Queen. Have you forgot me? Hamlet. No, by the rood, not so. You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife; And—would it were not so—you are my mother. Queen. Nay, then, I’ll set those to you that can speak. Hamlet. Come, come, and sit you down you shall not budge: You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you. Queen. What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther me? Help, help, ho! Polonius (behind). What, ho! help, help, help! Hamlet (drawing.) How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead! (Makes a pass through the arras.) Polonius (behind). O, I am slain! (Falls and dies.) Queen. O me, what hast thou done? Hamlet. Nay, I know not; Is it the king? Queen. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! Hamlet. A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his brother. Queen. As kill a king! Hamlet. Ay, lady, ’twas my word.— (Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius.) Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better: Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, And let me wring your heart; for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff, If damned custom have not braz’d it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense. Queen. What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me? Hamlet. Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows As false as dicers’ oaths; O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words: heaven’s face doth glow, Yea, this sondity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act. Queen. Ay me, what act, That roars so loud and thunders in the index? Hamlet. Look here, upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now, what follows: Here is your husband; like a mildew’d ear. Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love, for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment Would step from this to this? O shame! where is thy blush? Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more; Thou turns’t mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. O, speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet! Hamlet. A murtherer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket! Queen. No more! Hamlet. A king of shreds and patches,— (Enter Ghost.) Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards!—What would your gracious figure? Queen. Alas! he’s mad! Hamlet. Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O, say! Ghost. Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look, amazement on thy mother sits O, step between her and her fighting soul: Speak to her, Hamlet. Hamlet. How is it with you, lady? Queen. Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look? Hamlet. On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, Would make them capable. Do not look upon me; Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects; then what I have to do Will want true color; tears perchance for blood. Queen. To whom do you speak this? Hamlet. Do you see nothing there? Queen. Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. Hamlet. Nor did you nothing hear? Queen. No, nothing but ourselves. Hamlet. Why, look you there! look, how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal. (Exit Ghost.) Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain; This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. Hamlet. Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music: it is not madness That I have utter’d; bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word, which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks; It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven; Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come. Queen. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. Hamlet. O, throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. For this same lord, (Pointing to Polonius.) I do repent; I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him,—So, again, good-night. I must be cruel, only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
[CURTAIN.]
Shakespeare.
LOCHIEL’S WARNING.
(This piece is frequently recited by one person, but is much more effective in dialogue. Lochiel, a Highland chieftain, while on his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the certain ruin and disaster which await the unfortunate prince and his followers on the field of Culloden. When used as a dialogue, a blast of trumpet is heard. The curtain being drawn, Lochiel enters, attired in the Highland fighting costume, and following him should appear in the doorway of the stage two or three armed Scotch soldiers to give the idea of a large number behind them. The Seer meets him from the other direction, dressed in flowing robes, and with long white hair and beard, and, raising his hands in the attitude of warning, speaks imploringly as follows:)
Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in flight: They rally, they bleed, for their country and crown,— Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But, hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? ’Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair! Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! O! weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead! For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave— Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave! Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright! Seer. Ha! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North? Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad: But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? ’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of Heaven. O, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements’ height, Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood! Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall’d my clan: Their swords are a thousand; their bosoms are one: They are true to the last of their blood, and their breath, And like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided, and plum’d in their tartan array— Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, Yet man cannot cover what God would reveal: ’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden’s dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath, Behold where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness, and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise! Rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! ’Tis finish’d.—Their thunders are hush’d on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner! Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish’d, forlorn, Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding, and torn? Ah! no; for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters, convuls’d in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accurs’d be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale— Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale, For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor—so foul with retreat. Tho’ his perishing ranks should be strow’d in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap’d on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight, or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. Campbell.
[CURTAIN.]
TABLEAU.
A very pretty tableau may be quickly formed behind the curtain, and at the close of applause from the audience the curtain be raised, showing Lochiel standing proud and imperious, his clan gathered around him, and the old Seer upon his knees, head thrown back, with hands and face raised imploringly.
MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTLAND.
(Adapted from Schiller, Scene II., Act III. Arranged for two ladies and two gentlemen.)
Characters:
Mary, Queen of Scotland.
Elizabeth, Queen of England.
Robert, Earl of Leicester.
Talbot, a friend of Mary.
Costumes.
Elizabethan age of England and Scotland.
Enter Mary and Talbot.
Mary. Talbot, Elizabeth will soon be here. I cannot see her. Preserve me from this hateful interview.
Talbot. Reflect a while. Recall thy courage. The moment is come upon which everything depends. Incline thyself; submit to the necessity of the moment. She is the stronger. Thou must bend before her.
Mary. Before her? I cannot!
Tal. Thou must do so. Speak to her humbly; invoke the greatness of her generous heart; dwell not too much upon thy rights. But see first how she bears herself towards thee. I myself did witness her emotion on reading thy letter. The tears stood in her eyes. Her heart, ’tis sure, is not a stranger to compassion; therefore place more confidence in her, and prepare thyself for her reception.
Mary. (Taking his hand.) Thou wert ever my faithful friend. Oh, that I had always remained beneath thy kind guardianship, Talbot! Their care of me has indeed been harsh. Who attends her?
Tal. Leicester. You need not fear him; the earl doth not seek thy fall. Behold, the queen approaches. (Retires.)
Enter Elizabeth and Leicester.
Mary. (Aside.) O heavens! Protect me! her features say she has no heart!
Elizabeth. (To Leicester.) Who is this woman? (Feigning surprise.) Robert, who has dared to—
Lei. Be not angry, queen, and since heaven has hither directed thee, suffer pity to triumph in thy noble heart.
Tal. (Advancing.) Deign, royal lady, to cast a look of compassion on the unhappy woman who prostrates herself at thy feet.
[Mary, having attempted to approach Elizabeth, stops short, overcome by repugnance, her gestures indicating internal struggle.]
Eliz. (Haughtily.) Sirs, which of you spoke of humility and submission? I see nothing but a proud lady, whom misfortune has not succeeded in subduing.
Mary. (Aside.) I will undergo even this last degree of ignominy. My soul discards its noble but, alas! impotent pride. I will seek to forget who I am, what I have suffered, and will humble myself before her who has caused my disgrace. (Turns to Elizabeth.) Heaven, O sister, has declared itself on thy side, and has graced thy happy head with the crown of victory. (Kneeling.) I worship the Deity who hath rendered thee so powerful. Show thyself noble in thy triumph, and leave me not overwhelmed by shame! Open thy arms, extend in mercy to me thy royal hand, and raise me from my fearful fall.