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                   The Merchant Prince of Cornville

           [Illustration: Signature, _Samuel Eberly Gross_]




                                  The

                     Merchant Prince of Cornville

                              _A COMEDY_

                        BY SAMUEL EBERLY GROSS

      _Represented in_ LONDON, ENGLAND, _at the_ NOVELTY THEATER,
                        _on November 11, 1896_.

                            FOURTH EDITION.

                         CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
                       RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY,
                              PUBLISHERS.

               Copyright, 1896, by Samuel Eberly Gross.
                         All rights reserved.

                     Copyrighted in England, 1896.




PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION.


Prompted by the interest which has arisen since the publication of
former editions of this comedy, the author takes occasion to state that
“The Merchant Prince of Cornville” was written between the years 1875
and 1879. It was circulated and read in manuscript copies until 1895,
when, at the request of many persons, it was placed in the hands of the
printers for publication in book form, from whom printed proofs were
received in July, of that year. In 1896 the first edition appeared in
print from the University Press of Cambridge. In the same year it was
given a single representation at the Novelty Theater, London, with the
object only of securing the acting rights in England.

One of the purposes of the author is to present the poetic and ideal in
dramatic contrast with the materialistic and commonplace spirit, which,
perhaps, somewhat more strongly than to-day, prevailed two decades ago,
when this comedy was completed; the underlying theme intended to be
developed being that the love of a high-minded and refined woman can be
gained only by appealing to her poetic fancy and finer sensibilities.
How well the objects sought have been attained is left to the judgment
of the reader.

S. E. G.

CHICAGO, March 1, 1899.




The Merchant Prince of Cornville.

_A Comedy._




THE CHARACTERS.


    WHETSTONE      _The Merchant Prince, suitor to Violet._
    BLUEGRASS      _His secretary._
    SCYTHE         _A scientist._
    IDEAL          _A poet, suitor to Violet._
    NORTHLAKE      _A philosopher._
    FOPDOODLE      _A fop, suitor to Violet._
    TOM            _His valet._
    PUNCH          _A miscellaneous person._
    JACK           _Son to Northlake and Catharine._
    POMPEY         _A butler._
    HANNIBAL       _A servant._

    VIOLET         _Niece and ward to Northlake._
    NINON          _Her maid._
    CATHARINE      _Former wife to Northlake._
    SUSAN          _Housekeeper to Whetstone._

    _Maskers, Musicians, etc._

    PLACE          _The Seaside._
    TIME           _The Last Quarter of the Nineteenth Century._




SYNOPSIS OF SCENERY AND INCIDENTS.


ACT I.

SCENE I. _An orchard by the sea. Sunrise. The pursuit and discovery._

     II. _A pavilion, with view of the sea. The arrival of the
          Merchant Prince._

ACT II.

SCENE I. _On the seashore. Business, science, and romance._

     II. _Portico of the Dolphin Inn. A speculation in love._

    III. _A costumer’s shop. A study in characters._

     IV. _A street. The fop and the ape._

      V. _A boudoir. Before the masquerade._

ACT III.

SCENE I. _A masquerade. Assembly of the maskers._

     II. _A balcony. The lover in armor._

    III. _The same. A minor love affair._

     IV. _The same. Hearts unmasked._

ACT IV.

SCENE I. _A room at the Dolphin Inn. The hour before the combat._

     II. _A clearing in a wood. The literary duel._

    III. _The Glen of Ferns. Love’s high noon._

ACT V.

SCENE I. _A room at the Dolphin Inn. A prelude to a serenade._

     II. _A hall in a villa. A speculation in stocks._

    III. _A lawn before a villa. The serenade and finale._




                   The Merchant Prince of Cornville.

                              _A COMEDY._




Act the First.


SCENE I.--_An orchard by the sea. Sunrise. Birds singing._

_Enter_ IDEAL.

IDEAL.

    The hour of dawn!--how thrilling and intense!
    The matin songs of birds, that dart and soar
    On quivering wings, now break upon the sense
    As sharply as the cannon’s voice at mid-day;
    In yonder wood that guards the sea-cliff’s wall,
    Where sullen shadows shrink away and flee
    Before the rising sun’s advancing spears,
    The day-detesting owl hath turned his back
    Unto the light, and sought the sheltering cowl
    Of ivy web about the oak-tree thrown;
    And all the glowing world,--wood, sea, and sky,--
    Is most sublimely beautiful beneath
    This pendulous light, that, like an avalanche
    Of golden beams.... But I have spoken the word
    That halts my fancy’s flight, and brings me back
    To earth and its dull cares, and our dull age,--
    Our golden age ’tis called: our age of gold,
    Hard and material, when our best ideals
    But folly seem, all things are bought and sold,
    And even love itself is merchandise.
    Alas! the many years that I have known,
    And many ills, in this same golden age,
    Have brought their bitter harvest to my breast,
    Like frozen grain beaten by winds unkind
    From out the icy north; but as those seeds
    Fall sterile on the earth, nor glow with life,
    So shall my sorrows take no living root
    Within my bosom.... Now do I recall,
    Like a sweet picture in a gallery hung,
    How I last eve at early twilight watched
    The figure of a lovely maiden bending
    Tenderly o’er a vase of new-blown flowers,
    Upon a breezy terrace, underneath
    A green-hued lattice-work, that, like a shield
    Embossed with morning-glories, hides and guards
    Her chamber window. Passing there this morn,
    I looked upon the flowers as one might
    Who, barred from out the walls of Paradise,
    Would seize some blossom growing sweetly there;
    Then, while my eager heart tumultuous beat,
    Sending the tell-tale blushes to my cheek,
    I plucked a flower--this crimson, perfumed pink.
    ’Tis woven from a clod of earth, and yet
    To me ’tis fairer than a star of heaven.
    Sweet flower! sweet flower! last evening I did see
    Thy mistress from her chamber casement lean
    And gaze ecstatic on the pilgrim moon
    Tracing a silvery path along the sky;
    But thou didst woo her from that magic gaze,
    Drawing her to thee with the subtler force
    Of finer particles than live within
    The cold moon’s slanting beams....
    But soft! yonder my lady’s self appears,
    Slow moving down the orchard path. I’ll seek
    A covert by this tree. Seeing the hunter
    Doth fright the deer away.

[_He hides behind an orchard tree._

_Enter_ VIOLET.

VIOLET.

Which way’s the robber gone? I’m sure I saw him here.

IDEAL [_aside_].

What! I’m a robber, am I? Well, this tree hath no tell-tale bark, and
I’ll stay here.

VIOLET.

I thought I heard some one speak, but not from underground, for he’s not
a goblin; nor yet from the sky, for he’s not an angel; nor yet from the
earth, for no dreadful man is near. Why, what is that in the sky? ’Tis
last eve’s moon, that will not to her couch by day. To rest! pale
planet. O gentle moon, where is thy blush? Thou art dismantled by the
roseate sun. Alack! what divine dramas are there in the skies!

    Oh, would that I within thy circlet’s rim
    Might glide by curves of brightening lawns. In thee
    The day is half a month till noon, and thoughts
    Are gentle as the velvet fawns that glide
    From out thy rustling groves. In thee, rare flowers
    Their fragrant balms distil, and perfume wreathes
    The girdling hours. Let me fancy this!

IDEAL.

Now doth she see her fragile fancies rise on wings of gossamer, like one
who chases golden butterflies, flying before the dawn. What sweet
mysterious alchemy could beauty such as hers persuade!

VIOLET.

But list; what’s this? A spirit in the tree,--a talking spirit, too!
I’ll listen; ’tis my privilege in this orchard. Go on, sweet spirit, I’m
listening. [_Pauses._] Nay, go on, my time is brief; or if thou’dst
rather, I’ll not overhear.

IDEAL.

Nay, hear, sweet maid; I’m fated in this tree to dwell, and ne’er before
so spoke my heart unto a maid.

VIOLET.

Canst thou not speak in rhymes? Why, spirits should be poets too; or is
the tree’s rind too hard? I do pity thee for a poor spirit.

IDEAL.

Nay, hear me. When the tree is in its blossom, then rhymes come
fleetest; when the tree is in its fruitage, then rhymes come sweetest.
Thou once, on such a time, didst sit beneath these ripening boughs, in
sweetest reverie wrapt, and I, while musing on thy beauty and the gentle
spirit within thee, did weave these rhymes.

VIOLET.

I well remember it; and if thou art a truthful spirit I will listen to
thy rhymes. Thou mayst begin.

IDEAL.

    What pure mysterious alchemy
      Doth beauty chaste as thine persuade
    To sublimate its crude degree
      In sweetest herbs of earth displayed!

VIOLET.

Stop, stop; I command thee! Thou art much too philosophical for a poet.
I’m weary.

IDEAL.

Thou didst halt me in the middle of my verse.

    For I philosophy discern
      In quivering lips, in liquid eyes,
    In rounded neck, and cheeks that burn
      Like rose-leaves ’neath the radiant skies;

    In hair as golden as the sun
      That wreathes the circling grove, and seems
    As fine and delicately spun
      As if ’twere woven of his beams.

VIOLET.

Thou’rt much too flattering for a spirit. Thou art not a cold spirit,
but a warm one. Good spirits should be cold. Mend thy rhymes, or I will
leave thee in thy prison.

IDEAL [_aside_].

I’ll learn if she beheld my robbery this morn.

    [_Aloud._] Didst thou awake?
               Didst thou awake?
    That hour when moonbeams glide away
    ’Neath limpid tints of twinkling day,
    When from the wires of its cage,
      That string between from bar to bar,
    Thy prisoned bird, in tuneful rage,
      Awoke unto the morning star,
    And sang unto the woodland wild
      That hides the sun beyond the hills,
    And hides, in wavy foliage isled,
      The breezy nest of cooing bills?
          Didst thou awake?
          Didst thou awake?

VIOLET.

Why, that sounds like a morning serenade. Now indeed do I know thee for
a spirit of light-tripping gayety; but I’ll answer no questions. I was
wakened by a robber who from my chamber-window plucked my favorite
flower. Spirits should know all things, and not be so inquisitive for
ladies’ secrets.

IDEAL.

    Give me the wings of yonder lark,
      Soaring into the perfumed dawn,
    Beyond the chimney’s beckoning spark
      That, blackening, strews the beaten lawn.

    For I, within this tree immured,
      With fervent glances scan the ships
    That sail and sail until, obscured,
      The ivory fleet the ocean dips;

    While swarms of white-winged memories,
      Like missive-bearing doves, arise
    From out the pure pellucid seas,
      And float above these orchard skies.

VIOLET.

Why, what pretty fruit that tree doth bear! I have a mind, but, alas!
not the heart, to leave thee in thy tree, to rhyme to me some other day.
Art done? No answer. Then I’ll rhyme, too. Spirit, thy art’s infectious.

    Move slow, thou circlet of the moon,
      Turn not to zones thy brightening lawns;
    Let day be half a month till noon;
      Wake not with light thy distant dawns.

But, fie, why doth the genial sun make the moon so pale? I would not
turn so pale were a man to appear in this orchard. [_Pauses._] Sweet
spirit, appear, appear! No answer. Hast lost thy speech, or doth the
tree’s bark encompass thee too closely? If thou art in the trunk of this
fair tree, I’ll petition it with ardent lips to ope its close-bound rind
and let thee out; but how? The tree cannot hear, being deaf, but the
tree can feel, being alive; so then, I’ll kiss thee, thou hard, hard
tree. [_Bends to kiss the tree, when_ IDEAL _appears and kisses her_.]
What spirit art thou in man’s disguise to thus affright a lady who ne’er
did harm to thee, but wished thee well? How couldst thou treat me so?

IDEAL.

Fair maid, thou fill’st me with such keen delight I know not what to
say, but pause for utterance, my lips being newly laden with a sweet
burden.

VIOLET.

Nay, not so. Thou art too literal. I do entreat thee for an answer.

IDEAL.

Thou art the most fair complainant that e’er did sue for answer, and in
a just cause, too. How could the earth resist the sun? How could the sea
resist the tide? How could a spirit resist heaven?

VIOLET.

I thought thou wert a spirit who’d been in heaven long ago.

IDEAL.

Never before did I even dream of heaven; and for material answer make I
this: Our spirits were kindred, and by that fair relationship I did
salute thee so.

VIOLET.

Now do I know thee: thou art no spirit, but a robber,--a substantial
robber who plucked my favorite pink from my window; but I, rising in
quick haste, followed thee adown this orchard path. Thou thought’st thou
hadst escaped me. I did see thee but half plainly, by the dawn’s most
timorous light that through the lattice wooed my pillow.

IDEAL.

As thou didst wake! Oh, would I were the dawn’s most delicate light that
wooed thy soul’s fair stars exiled within thy crescent-curtained eyes!

VIOLET.

And if thou wert, thou wert but a robber still. Thou hast the flower in
thy hand!

IDEAL.

Oh, I have treasured it; yet will I return to thee the pink. ’Tis thy
property.

VIOLET.

Nay, keep the flower, if thou lovest it so.

IDEAL.

Ay, then I’ll think it had its birth ’neath twilight’s violet sky.

VIOLET.

Think not too lightly of the flower; ’tis most rare,--grown from a seed
found in the tomb of an Egyptian mummy. She was an ancient princess who
died in the flower of her youth from love ill requited: so reads the
antique parchment entombed with her,--a legend pitiful and true; but
then, ’twas three thousand years ago.

IDEAL.

Love has grown more constant since then.

VIOLET.

I hope thou wouldst not jest at love?

IDEAL.

Nay, not I. I’d sooner jest at all fair properties in heaven and earth
than jest at love.

VIOLET.

’Tis a flower of ancient lineage. I planted it with mine own hands, and
watched it grow. What joy I felt to see it grow, I ne’er can tell. When
first its tender bud beseeched the sky, it was athirst; I brought it
water from a crystal spring. From simple bud to leafy stalk it grew, and
then the petals formed, giving sweet promise of a flower; till
yesternight from its green husk the perfect blossom bloomed, and I did
shed a tear upon it, thinking of that poor princess.

IDEAL.

Dost think her spirit lives in heaven?

VIOLET.

That do I most truly. I would not that thou thought’st differently. Thou
couldst not be so cruel!

IDEAL.

Thy simple story moves me beyond the power of prayer. Now that the
flower buried with her doth live, let it bequeath a legacy of love most
true and constant to our hearts; so shall the princess from beyond see
within our lives a perfect love wrought by her most heavenly agency. And
here [_kneeling_], on bended knee, by thy dear hand that’s clasped in
mine, I vow, by all the subtle bonds that nature placed within the world
to bind us to the truth, to love thee ever.

VIOLET.

Rise; thou art the planet of my maiden firmament. I do believe thee. My
vow is linked with thine most sweetly and inseparably.

IDEAL.

Thy words are bright flowers, whose subtle sweets I do extract and hide
away. Ay, I shall live on them when thou art absent, as the patient bee
lives on his hoarded store in winter.

VIOLET.

I hope thou speakest truly as thou dost fairly, for thou speakest as a
poet doth, and I have heard,--but pardon me; I’ll not quote the idle
gossip.

IDEAL.

I pray thee, do.

VIOLET.

Well, then, to heed thy prayer. I’ve heard it rumored that poets, in
their grammar, all the moods of love do conjugate in swift succession.

IDEAL.

I’ll prove to thee that gossip is untrue.

VIOLET.

I’ve heard that they are variable; that they contract the four seasons
into the compass of a day,--call the morning spring, the forenoon
summer, the afternoon autumn, and the evening oft the depth of winter;
that they in idle ways say thus: Why, prithee, this forenoon, being in
love beneath the equator, I felt the fervent sun impart his fever to the
earth; but to-night, alack! being out of love, Lapland hath no denizen
colder than I. I pray thou wilt not treat me so.

IDEAL.

By Heaven, ’tis a scandal! I’d have thee try me. Use pique, jest,
coldness, stratagem, and all the dire weapons in a maid’s armory to try
her lover, and if, knowing thou art true, I do not in all love’s humors
love thee still, why then--

VIOLET.

Yes, why then--

IDEAL.

Why, then, I’ll return to dust.

VIOLET.

Alack! that would be unkind.

IDEAL.

Nay, try me.

VIOLET.

Perchance I may. [_Aside_] But only for a moment. [_Aloud_] How high’s
the sun, pray?

IDEAL [_looking at his watch_].

I’ll be precise, and timely guard my answer. ’Tis nigh unto five
o’clock; the minute-hand lacks one, the second-hand--

VIOLET.

Stop, stop! thou outspeedest Time himself. How desperately thou rushest
from the hour to the minute hand--from thence there is but a fraction of
time to the second hand, which I take to be not a good token; for thou
hadst but a minute ago my hand, and yet thus swiftly thou wouldst
approach a second hand.

IDEAL.

Shall we have no watches with second hands?

VIOLET.

I’ll have no merchandising. Thou a poet and a lover, and lookest at thy
watch to tell the sun’s height! Alas! put up thy watch; lovers do not
time themselves by watches. Thou wouldst not so at night register the
moon’s height; but upon a pressing question, How high’s the moon?
wouldst answer, A little higher than yonder rose-bush, if the moon rose
late; or, perchance, A little higher than yonder tree-top, if the moon
rose early. The sun’s as fine to me by day as the moon by night. Poetry
doth not steal away at dawn of day. But thou must go; good-by for a
moment. [_Looks up the orchard path._] Nay, good-by for all day, for I
do spy my guardian uncle.

IDEAL.

Dreams do not end but oft begin at dawn. Give me leave to walk with thee
at midday in the Glen of Ferns.

VIOLET.

High noon must be high dream-time when poets love. Await me there
to-morrow.

IDEAL.

High noon will brighter grow when thou dost come.

[_Exit_ IDEAL.

VIOLET.

As fair spoken a robbery as e’er the sun shone upon. A fair and gallant
robber, too, who robs me of my heart in broad daylight, detected in the
very act by his own watch. I made the robber tell the hour and minute,
so that in any court no cruel alibi could lie. I’m fain to think I’ll
ne’er again detect so fine a robber. Who’s he? What’s he? I know not, I
care not. I would not ask that question rude and mercenary. I do but
know he’s the most gentle gentleman I e’er did meet. Oh, if this be
love, ’tis very kind and sweet!

NORTHLAKE [_afar in the orchard, calls_].

Violet!

VIOLET.

’Tis very strange, for I have heard in sundry rhymes, and good rhymes
too, that moonlit eves were the only seasons suited for robberies so
thinly veiled as this. Why, my own heart doth beat as if there were two
hearts within, and I had gained another rather than lost my own. How can
it be? But gently,--I’ll not argue the question; ’tis much too deep and
sweet for idle questioning. Sweet argument, wait for my uncle.

NORTHLAKE [_afar, calls_].

Violet!

VIOLET.

Why, I forgot to ask his name! I could not call him did I wish to, and I
might wish, being affrighted. Yet he shall not want so simple a matter;
I’ll give him a name. I’ll call him [_commandingly_] Oliver!
[_Entreatingly_] Oliver! thy Violet calls thee. [_Indifferently_]
Oliver! I do not like the name, ’tis too round.

NORTHLAKE [_afar_].

What, ho, Violet!

VIOLET.

I’ll call him Peter. What, ho [_piquantly_], Peter! ’Tis too piercing;
I’ll none of it. Let me think: I’ll call him [_slowly_] Daniel! Dost
hear me [_inquiringly slow_], Daniel? I like it no better than the
first. ’Tis too long.

NORTHLAKE [_nearer_].

Where art thou, Violet?

VIOLET.

I’ll call him--yes, I’ll call him Joseph. [_Tenderly_] Joseph! wilt thou
not come? Thy Violet calls thee. No, no, ’tis a mistake; I’ll not call
him Joseph,--’tis too, too flat. I’ll call him--let me see--I’ll call
him a name borne by none other, oft dreamed by me, but never met until
this morn. I’ll call him my Ideal, my dear, dear Ideal.

NORTHLAKE [_very near_].

Violet! Where can the maiden be? [_Enter_ NORTHLAKE.] I surely saw her
going down the orchard path. [_Discovers_ VIOLET.] Why, there thou art!
Why didst thou not answer me?

VIOLET.

Didst thou call me?

NORTHLAKE.

Did I call thee? Why, if I called once, I called thee twenty times. I’m
almost hoarse with calling. Why art thou out at break of day? One might
almost think thou wast in love, to rise so early.

Violet [_aside_].

That am I.

NORTHLAKE.

Thy lover comes to-day.

VIOLET [_aside_].

I wonder if he knows!

NORTHLAKE.

He’s rich, a thorough business man and solid gentleman.

VIOLET.

I don’t like solid gentlemen. Who is he?

NORTHLAKE.

A princely merchant in the West, and owner of banks, mills, stores,
houses, and lands. Thou shalt have a list of it all made for thee on
satin. Profits of business are five hundred thousand a year. Think of
it! thy wedding-dresses of white satin!

VIOLET [_abstractedly_].

Shall I have five hundred thousand dresses of white satin a year?

NORTHLAKE.

No, no; thou hast mixed the profits of the business with the number of
dresses.

VIOLET.

Are the profits of the business five hundred thousand white satin
dresses a year?

NORTHLAKE.

Stop, now; this shall all be explained after thou art married.

VIOLET.

But I’ll have it explained before I’m married.

NORTHLAKE.

Be patient, Violet. He will woo thee properly, and explain all things. I
am to meet him at the Dolphin Inn to-day. He’ll be in a very good humor
at my account of thee.

VIOLET.

I’m well enough without his good humor. Pray, what’s his name?

NORTHLAKE.

A merchant prince, the Honorable Hercules Whetstone, Mayor of Cornville.

VIOLET [_laughing_].

What a name! Ha! ha! Couldst thou not add something to it? ’Tis too
short.

NORTHLAKE.

Thou wilt be added to it.

VIOLET.

That will I not be.

NORTHLAKE.

What’s this,--rebellion? Who’s been here? Hast thou seen any one in this
orchard?

VIOLET.

No one but my Ideal.

NORTHLAKE.

That’s too insubstantial.

VIOLET.

More substantial than thou dreamest.

NORTHLAKE.

I’d think thou wast bewitched by love, did I not know thou never hadst a
lover.

VIOLET.

That was true yesterday; but to-day! [_Sighing_] Ah, well-a-day!

NORTHLAKE.

Thou speakest truly. Thou hast a lover now, and before the night passes
thou shalt see him.

VIOLET.

Shall I?

NORTHLAKE.

He’ll be weary from his travels, and to-day, no doubt, will require
rest; but he’ll meet thee to-night at the masked ball. Come, then, to
the villa, so that to-night thou mayst appear refreshed.

VIOLET.

I’m not weary. Oh, that sweet, sweet tree!

NORTHLAKE.

Why, what’s in that tree? ’Tis but an orchard tree.

VIOLET.

I’ll wager thee, ’twill bear sweet fruit.

NORTHLAKE.

Why, what a fever thou art in!

VIOLET.

I’m not in a fever. A child that never ventured in the fields may know a
blossom when it sees it.

NORTHLAKE.

Come, thy maid, Ninon, has risen, and awaits thee. Thy feet are damp
with morning dew from the grass.

VIOLET.

The dew of love is in my heart; and that’s not damp.

NORTHLAKE.

This comes of teaching thee, from childhood, philosophy in my melancholy
moods. I’ll never again teach thee philosophy, though I be as melancholy
as Democritus, since thou dost use the philosophy I teach thee against
thine uncle and teacher, instead of against the world.

VIOLET.

For the good philosophy thou didst teach me, I’ll love thee all my days.
But, uncle, is this marriage good? ’Twere not good, ’twere not
philosophical.

NORTHLAKE.

Alas, dear Violet! [_Aside_] If she but knew! [_Aloud_] I cannot give
thee thy dues except by this marriage. Thou wast my favorite sister’s
only child; and when she left thee and thy fortune to my guardianship, I
promised to protect thy fortune, and watch over thee even as my own
daughter. Now I will get thee a good husband; for he’s rich, and a solid
gentleman.

VIOLET.

Who’s a solid gentleman?

NORTHLAKE.

Why, the Honorable Hercules Whetstone.

VIOLET.

Oh, puzzle thy Whetstone!

NORTHLAKE.

I fear thou’lt puzzle him, Violet. But never mind; come, come now.

VIOLET.

Oh, thou sweet tree; I cannot leave thee!

NORTHLAKE.

Why, there must be some witchery in that tree! I’ll have it cut down and
burnt.

VIOLET.

Nay, good uncle, thou wouldst not have the tree cut down. ’Tis a good
and thrifty tree that never did harm to any one, and therefore I love
the tree. [_Takes his arm._] Dear uncle, do not cut it down. Thou art a
good, dear uncle, and I will go with thee; and thou wilt let the tree
live.

NORTHLAKE [_going_].

Well, then, come, come! I’ll let the tree live.

[_Exeunt._


SCENE II.--_A pavilion, with view of the sea. Forenoon._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE, BLUEGRASS, and SCYTHE.

SCYTHE.

Who knows but, in the chemistry of Heaven, we, this noble race of men,
are but parasites feeding in space upon a crust of earth encompassing a
fiery particle!

BLUEGRASS.

What a glorious thing is one of our ordinary mundane cycles of time!
’Tis only a day; and yet it is a legacy too great for the richest man to
put in his will. Let no one be so brazen as to attempt to belittle this
magnificent star of ours.

WHETSTONE.

Hold! Professor Scythe, is that the so-called sea?

SCYTHE [_examining it with his glass_].

Yonder liquid and corrugated mass is the rumpled outskirts of the sea.
In our scientific formula, it is the correlation of a mighty power.

WHETSTONE [_taking glass and examining_].

I can believe you.

BLUEGRASS.

Hercules Whetstone, patron of the arts and sciences, founder and
president of the Cornville Academy as a paying investment, and nourisher
of its infant civilization, proprietor of the Cornville Eagle--

WHETSTONE.

One moment, Major Bluegrass: that will do for the home market, but not
among strangers. I’ve given you both a summer vacation, so that you may
enjoy yourselves, and work harder when you return. Now, look around,
store up knowledge, and--I won’t deduct the time from your salaries.
That’s business. But you must be more particular about my titles. Always
speak of me to strangers as the Honorable Mayor Hercules Whetstone, the
Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois,--called
Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the
Mississippi. Do you follow me?

BLUEGRASS, SCYTHE.

We do.

BLUEGRASS.

Oh, why was I so long pent up in the heart of a continent? I can remain
on land no longer.

SCYTHE [_taking out his note-book and writing_].

Item,--this is important. Major Bluegrass, long pent up in the heart of
the American continent, upon his first sight of the sea wishes to swim.
This is of great scientific value, as it shows the recurrence, after
long deprivation, of an inherited pre-Adamite instinct; for we read that
Adam walked, but never that he swam, therefore are we driven to the
waters for evidence. It proves the origin of man from the oyster, or
some more ancient inhabitant of the sea.

BLUEGRASS.

I am no fish, nor ever was. I’d rather spring from a rainbow than a
pond.

SCYTHE.

A pond is your rainbow come to earth.

BLUEGRASS.

I must swim. Oh, Mayor Whetstone, let us all swim!

SCYTHE [_writing in his note-book_].

The pre-Adamite instinct in the presence of its primary environment
manifests increasing ratio.

BLUEGRASS.

Professor, take your increasing ratio and slide down to the imponderable
roots of the sea. I must get out of this prison of clothes, and into the
water.

WHETSTONE.

Major, try to feel comfortable with your clothes on, for you’d soon be
imprisoned without them.

BLUEGRASS.

No dungeon of clothes can hold me! What a lofty repose comes over me as
I survey yon glittering expanse of water, like a blue field of
undulating velvet! A tear of joy I give to thee, O mighty sea!

SCYTHE [_writing in his note-book_].

Item,--he returns a saline tear to the sea, in memory of his pre-Adamite
ancestor. This is the pre-Raphaelism of natural selection.

WHETSTONE.

You are my scientist, my threefold Professor of three chairs,--natural
science, hygiene, and agriculture,--in my Cornville Academy. Now, to
create a money-making hunger for science at the Academy we must
popularize it. Therefore, give me the scientific facts about the sea in
a popular sort of way, so that all may understand and enjoy them.

SCYTHE.

Its remote abysses are inhabited by the mammoths of natural history and
evolutionary philosophy; and vast herds of sea-cattle graze upon its
marine meadows, like buffaloes upon the prairies. In fact, our prairies
were once the bottom of the sea, and the buffaloes were supposed to have
been left when the waters receded.

BLUEGRASS.

Your marine buffaloes must wear anchors around their necks, instead of
cow-bells.

SCYTHE.

Not so. Nature always provides for her creatures; for, as birds soaring
above the mountain-tops have great wings of feathers, so, on the other
hand, these cattle have immense hoofs, of a substance resembling lead,
but much heavier than the lead of commerce.

WHETSTONE.

That adds to their commercial value. Major Bluegrass, you’re my private
secretary, and editor of my Cornville Eagle: what do you know about the
sea?

BLUEGRASS.

I only know what I want to see: I want to see the sport the mermaids see
down in their prismatic sea homes, drinking out of beautiful sea-shells,
while pearls drop at their iridescent feet. Oh, Hercules Whetstone, you
are rich! Get me a diving-bell. I’ll interview the mermaids for the
benefit of the Eagle, scoop our rival, the Hawkeye Observer, and send up
the Eagle’s circulation ten thousand.

WHETSTONE.

Blue thunder, Major, be calm! Ever since we arrived here you’ve been as
excited as if you expected to see a drove of fairies and hobgoblins jump
out of every bush and dance in the air.

SCYTHE.

He may have caught the infection of the season: for it is now the
so-called fairies’ season of drolleries and bewitchments. It was a
delusion of the ancients, and yet it had some scientific basis,--for
science shows that this full summer tide heightens and ripens the
natural dispositions of men, so that what is most natural in them often
seems most strange.

WHETSTONE.

Professor, examine his hygiene, and see if he needs any medicine.

SCYTHE [_feeling his pulse_].

What’s this? Why, this pulse beneath my finger is the alarm-bell of a
disordered system! Open wide your eyes. [_Looking into his eye._] What a
distended foresight have we here! The pupil of the eye is dilated like
an owl’s.

BLUEGRASS.

The owl stands for wisdom.

SCYTHE.

Silence! Hold out your tongue! [_He opens his mouth._] It has an
overcoat with a high color. [_Taking out a thermometer._] The
temperature is seventy-two outside [_taking the temperature under his
tongue_], and inside, under the shade of the tongue, it is ninety-nine
and nine-tenths. Why, we are approaching spontaneous combustion!
[_Feeling his forehead._] And your forehead is as hot as a volcano.
Mayor Whetstone, you may in a few hours lose your private secretary.

WHETSTONE.

I cannot afford to lose him yet; save him, Professor, save him!

SCYTHE.

I will obey. The unimpeachable symptoms indicate hypothetical
impoverishment of the blood, complicated by a highly inflamed excitation
of the nerve-tissues. We must at once build up an iron constitution.

WHETSTONE.

Build him up, Professor, he’s too sensitive; make an ironclad man of
him, like myself. Give him ribs of iron.

SCYTHE [_presenting two pills_].

Here are two pills of iron. I’m an Eclectic. This in my right hand is
the mammoth shell of the Allopathic school, and this in my left,
balanced upon a point of my little finger, and no larger than a solitary
grain of mustard-seed, is a fine shot of the Homœopathic school.

BLUEGRASS.

I don’t choose either of your schools. I belong to the Hydropathic
school.

WHETSTONE.

He who will not swallow a school of medicine to save his life, must be
made to do so. Here, Professor, while I hold him, give him a schooling.

[_They try to give_ BLUEGRASS _an iron pill_.

BLUEGRASS.

Friends, have you no philopena? Give me no pill of iron. May you ne’er
sleep with down within your pillow! Oh! put me in a pillory, but put no
pill in me. Oh! [_They succeed in giving him a pill._] I’m pilled; the
iron has entered my system; how very hard I’ll soon lie down upon my
little pillow. And thou, hard Whetstone, thus to sharpen Scythe to mow
me down! Cæsar was stabbed by the iron daggers of the conspirators, but
I am slugged by an iron bolus from the hands of my friends. This is
ironical. Alas! I am a pundit; for as a typical representative of the
pun, e’en while the iron was in my heart I have doubly punn’d it.

SCYTHE.

The iron that enters your blood gives life, not death. Thus does modern
science show her supremacy over ancient passion.

BLUEGRASS.

You speak well. I’m better now. I acquit you both, and greet you as my
friends. [_They all shake hands._] What a weird place for a marine poem!
Would that a seamaid I might be made to see!

WHETSTONE.

Hold on; I have it.

SCYTHE.

What?

WHETSTONE.

Sea-cattle, Professor: they live?

SCYTHE.

Most profoundly! Among wild cattle are the sea-lion, sea-elephant,
sea-unicorn--

WHETSTONE.

Stop! We must get a so-called unicorn for the Cornville Aquarium.

SCYTHE.

Among domestic cattle, vast droves of sea-pigs--in our inland
nomenclature called porpoises--appear upon its surface when the sea
boils, before a storm; and sea-calves, sea-cows, and sea-oxen roam its
salt sea pastures.

BLUEGRASS.

This is the romance of science.

WHETSTONE.

We must land them!

SCYTHE.

What do you purpose to do with the porpoises and other sea-cattle?

WHETSTONE.

How little you know of the grand possibilities of business! Why, I’ll
build up a new industry on these shores. I am the Merchant Prince of
Cornville. Here I’ll be a sea-cattle king; I’ll make a fresh fortune in
my gigantic monster emporium for salted sea-cattle. And now to the
Dolphin Inn, where I’m to meet Northlake. Then for business by the sea.

[_Exeunt._




Act the Second.


SCENE I.--_On the seashore. Afternoon._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE, BLUEGRASS, _and_ SCYTHE.

WHETSTONE.

Well, boys, I’ve seen Northlake, and we’ve all had a good dinner. A good
dinner is also a good romance. Never despise money. Do you follow me?

BLUEGRASS, SCYTHE.

We do.

WHETSTONE.

Then let us come to business at once. I’ve brought you out here to have
a consultation, and to get your opinion on certain things, each in his
own department of learning, according to the salaries I pay you. I’ve
arranged to do a fine piece of business. I’m a man of business, and I’m
a man in love. I’m in love with my business, and I’ll make a business of
my love. Professor, how should a man dress to be a so-called lover?

SCYTHE.

That depends; but this is true: He that loves is like a traveller
between the north and south poles, and he will need different suits of
clothing, and philosophy.

BLUEGRASS.

What an explanation! [_laughing_] ha-ha-ha!

WHETSTONE.

Professor, what is the laugh?

SCYTHE.

My analysis of the laugh is not yet completed, and I am now seeking to
produce the missing link. However, the juxtaposition of two incongruous
yet contemporaneous images in the mind is simultaneous with contrasting
and varying pressures upon the electrically charged nerves. These
varying pressures by reflex action cause the pleasurable action of the
muscles called the laugh. Let me illustrate. By varying and alternating
pressures upon the electrically charged nerves of the eye there is
presented to the mind the image of a lover caressing a maiden; and just
beyond, the one view overlapping the other, we see a donkey eating the
lover’s bouquet, and then [_laughing_] ha--ha--ha!

BLUEGRASS.

The donkey took the bouquet for an offering of beau’s hay.

WHETSTONE.

Be silent. No trifling with science! Professor, analyze me Violet.

BLUEGRASS.

I know! I’m at home in colors.

WHETSTONE.

Attention! We’re now in science.

SCYTHE.

The flower violet is the only organic substance in which science has
discovered a trace of gold.

WHETSTONE.

Gold and Violet found together,--good! Why, science is a fortune-teller.
Go on!

SCYTHE.

It is the most refrangible of the seven primary colors of the solar
spectrum.

WHETSTONE.

What’s refrangible?

BLUEGRASS.

I know!

WHETSTONE.

Steady there, Bluegrass!

SCYTHE.

Let me illustrate. You discover by a violet light a beautiful fish in
the water, and you wish to catch it. Now, you must throw your hook,
dart, or net, not directly at it, but a considerable space this side,
according to the depth.

WHETSTONE.

That’s fishing under difficulties. Do you mean to say that a man can’t
see straight in a violet light?

BLUEGRASS.

I know! let me explain.

WHETSTONE.

Listen to the Professor!

SCYTHE.

Violet light passing from one medium into another of a different density
becomes most refractory, and turned out of a direct course at an angle:
in other words, you must angle for your fish. See my Tables on Molecular
Structure, Density, etc., determined by angles of refraction.

WHETSTONE.

So if I get the hang of the angles and depth, I’m all right, am I?

SCYTHE.

In a scientific sense, you are.

WHETSTONE.

Oh, ho! then I’m pretty well posted on Violet. Now for the next point:
Professor, what is love?

SCYTHE.

With the passionless precision of science, I say unto you, Mayor
Whetstone, though she you love is the most symmetrical duplex pyramidal
aggregation of atoms in the human saccharine conglomeration, shun love,
and court science; for by spectroscopic analysis of the light proceeding
from the eyes of jealous lovers, I have seen their spleen turning a dark
green.

WHETSTONE.

I didn’t know it was so bad as that! Major, how do you regard love, from
the heights of romance?

BLUEGRASS.

A region of enchantment.

WHETSTONE.

Yonder valley with verdure clothed would be a capital place for my
emporium for porpoises, or so-called sea-pigs.

BLUEGRASS.

I implore you, Mayor Whetstone, do not project across my mental line of
sight that animal, either in its terrestrial or marine form.

WHETSTONE.

He fills his destiny to the full; and besides, he is the most
intelligent of animals. It is a historical fact that he was taught to
play whist fifty years before the clever dog.

BLUEGRASS.

He jars on the landscape, and is a discord amidst the dulcet harmony of
the waves.

WHETSTONE.

What would you have? The good pig eats all he can while he can;
therefore he eats like a pig. Major Bluegrass, let me hear no more of
your disparaging comments on the honest and assiduous pig,--the most
useful and business-like of all our domestic animals. He can nobly hold
up his head and represent corn converted. And while he turns the
cornfields into bank-notes, shall we blame him if he does not serenade
us with the notes of a silver flute?

SCYTHE.

I wish to make a moral observation upon a physical basis: Major, if the
formula of your destiny were identical with the pig’s, you would give
rise to more discordant vocalization than even that disgruntled animal.

BLUEGRASS.

He may be the most useful animal upon this magnificent star of ours; but
though his good points were as many as his bristles, they could not
excuse his shortcomings. The limited geographical prospects of his pen
should make him deeply contemplative of the stars; instead of which he
roots deeply in the earth. Hence he takes a step backwards, and, instead
of increasing his wit, he increases only his weight.

SCYTHE.

Man is like a reversed vegetable that has swallowed its roots and walked
off on its branches. Why, what is that at my feet? Let me pick it up
tenderly. Hurrah! I’ve got a geologic pebble! See, Mayor Whetstone, what
a rare, grand specimen for the prehistoric museum of the Cornville
Academy!

WHETSTONE.

What’s it worth?

SCYTHE.

Worth! Mercenary man! Let us reverently take off our hats in its
presence. It’s worth more than all the property in Cornville. See,
Major, see!

BLUEGRASS.

Put it in your pocket, or some one will claim it.

SCYTHE.

Unfeeling man! No one shall claim it. You saw me pick it up. You are my
witnesses.

BLUEGRASS.

To what geologic family does it belong?

SCYTHE.

It is a genuine relic of the cosmic dust. Hurrah! I’ve got a geologic
pebble! See the fluted sheets of color pervading its interior! It must
have been suspended in the pre-Adamite fires for ages. Gentlemen,
remember you have seen no meteors in the sky.

[_Taking out his note-book and writing._

_Enter_ SMALL BOY, _crying_.

BOY.

Give me my marble!

SCYTHE.

Why, boy, this is no marble. ’Tis a very rare specimen of the dewdrop
form of crystallization, precipitated during the prevalence of the
primeval sand-storms, formed by the cooling of the stony vapors.

BOY.

Give me my marble, or I’ll call my mother!

WHETSTONE.

Professor, you may have picked up the wrong specimen.

SCYTHE.

There can be no mistake. Let me examine it with my microscope.
[_Examining it._] I clearly recognize the uniformity of its circular
strata of color, which could be formed only as it revolved on its own
incandescent axis in super-heated fires. Boy, look through this glass,
and then see if you have the youthful cheek to say it is--I tremble to
say it--your marble.

BOY [_looking at it through the glass_].

That’s my colored marble; I was playing with it. [_To_ WHETSTONE _and_
BLUEGRASS.] Make him give it back to me, won’t you? It has a nick and
the first letter of my name on it.

SCYTHE [_surprisedly, re-examining it_].

Why, boy, I cannot afford an unscientific controversy with you or your
mother. Alas! take it. [_Giving marble to the_ BOY.] And when again you
play with it, remember-- [_Exit_ BOY, _hastily_.] Thus do my hopes of a
pre-Adamite museum wither. It was a unique specimen of the circular
group of crystallization dreamed of by science, but hitherto
undiscovered. Major, here comes your seamaid.

_Enter_ CATHARINE _in disguise, with a basket of fish_.

CATHARINE.

Good afternoon, gentlemen landsmen! I have fish in my basket; will you
buy? I have your fortunes in my keeping; will you have them?

BLUEGRASS.

I salute you, by the sea, as a near relative in the fields of romance to
the milking-maid of our inland pastures.

CATHARINE.

I take you to be landsmen, and, therefore, good fresh men. I am a
fortune-teller with varied fortunes. Each summer, for a month, to these
shores I come to renew and perfect the spirit’s vision, which, even like
natural sight, is cleared by good free air and sunshine; and as men with
glasses have seen ten hundred living things upon a pin’s point, so I,
with spiritual lenses, have seen the past, present, and future, each in
proper order, marshalled upon a space no larger than a spectacle glass.

WHETSTONE.

Pardon me,--your name and home?

CATHARINE.

My name is Catharine, and my home is wherever I am. I come from the
city, where there are more sharks in one day than you will see here in a
year, and where people in despair come to me for the fortune fate has
denied them. I am more pitiful than fate; and their pleased looks give
me a joy greater than does their pittance. Hence, poor souls, I give
them precious pictures of future good, which, believing in, they
achieve, and thus their griefs assuage.

BLUEGRASS.

We all, to-day, bear our fortunes lightly.

CATHARINE.

And may you at nightfall bear them as lightly! Fine weather makes quick
friends. Come, then, gentlemen, will you buy? Each one in his own humor.
If there be a true merchant among you, I will tempt him with the fish’s
weight; if there be a moralist, with the fish’s moral; if there be a
scientist, with the fish’s complicated structure; if there be a poet,
with the fish’s most poetical history; if there be a gourmand, with the
fish’s flavor. Each one shall see in the fish he buys, his own humor. He
shall have both weight and moral; for a good moral without weight is
immoral, and a good weight without a good moral is a dull measure. You
shall pay me for the weight, for that the fish had in the sea; but for
the moral, that is in my humor, and gain has taken a vacation. Every one
has his pastime, and no one is so poor but he has his humor. Mine is to
see men buy a fish, each in his own humor; for by the fish’s scales will
I weigh him.

SCYTHE.

How came your hair so white at your age?

CATHARINE.

With losing of my husband, and giving of good fortunes. But come,
gentlemen; fair weather makes quick friends, but unfair questions, like
unfair weather, part them. Will you buy?

BLUEGRASS.

Let us buy.

WHETSTONE.

Let us first learn the price of the fish.

BLUEGRASS.

It sounds to me like a romance. Come, let us all sit here in pleasant
converse; the night is afar, and while we buy we’ll enjoy the aroma of
the salt-sea zephyrs blown from off the invisible flower-beds of the
sea.

WHETSTONE.

Stop your perpetual romance!

BLUEGRASS.

Romance that is not perpetual, but goes by fits and starts, is not worth
the reality it feeds upon.

WHETSTONE.

I’d put the price on everything,--trees, fences, houses, the baby’s
rattle, and in its first primer a price-list of its expenses.

BLUEGRASS.

Hercules Whetstone, Mayor of Cornville, there are some things upon this
magnificent star of ours that are not in the market,--things so high
that you cannot reach and put a price upon them in the cold-blooded
shambles of merchandise.

WHETSTONE.

There you go again, trying to throw star-dust in your benefactor’s eyes.
Oh, why did I make you editor of my Cornville Eagle?

BLUEGRASS.

Because your Eagle was asleep, and I was the only one who could wake him
up and make him soar into a higher circulation. He looked like a whipped
buzzard that had dulled his talons upon old newspapers; but I put new
life into him; and now that I have made you the proprietor of a
newspaper which is a household word, and which will be in every
scholar’s library at the close of human learning, you scoff at me. Such
is glory in a commercial age! Columbus may discover, but the merchant
Americus gives his name to two continents.

SCYTHE.

Good woman, some undesirable chemical change may take place in your
fish. I would advise you to put some salt on them. I am a chemist.

CATHARINE.

The fish are dead; they cannot hear.

SCYTHE.

Mayor Whetstone, why do you not change the Eagle to the Hawkeye Review
of Western Science?

BLUEGRASS.

Strip that proud bird of his plumage, and in less than seven revolutions
of this magnificent star of ours he will have fewer followers than a
vanquished rooster.

WHETSTONE.

Major, I cannot resist you. You are my true, my great and only editor.
Give me your hand; let us be friends.

BLUEGRASS.

Now let us go on with our romance. [_To_ CATHARINE.] Bring on your fish!

CATHARINE.

There are as queer fish inside as outside the basket, I’ll warrant you.
[_She presents the basket to_ WHETSTONE; _he selects a codfish_.] That
is a fish in weight and look of much import,--the codfish. He is an
aristocrat among the shoals and schools, and he has done much to build
up our own aristocracy. [_She presents the basket to_ SCYTHE, _and he
selects a Holothurian_.]

SCYTHE.

Why, madam, this is a rare fish, a Holothurian, vulgarly called a
sea-cucumber, from its resemblance to that common garden vegetable. I’ll
mount its skeleton at once. It is the fish of science, and has the power
of analysis; for ’tis written that when attacked, for self-protection it
will divide itself into many pieces, or turn itself inside out.

_She presents the basket to_ BLUEGRASS, _and he selects a flying-fish_.

BLUEGRASS.

How beautiful!

CATHARINE.

Yes, ’tis a flying-fish, which, rising above the heavy and obscurer
element of its kind, and using its fins as wings, in aërial courses,
sparkling like a jewel, beholds the glittering and sunlit scenery of the
upper air. There is much similarity between these excursions and the
poet’s fancies. And as these lower creatures in their airy flights
excite the wonderment of fishes and please men, so may human excursions
in the higher element of fancy excite the wonderment of men and please
the gods.

BLUEGRASS [_in admiration_].

Madam, consider yourself engaged as sea-side correspondent of the
Cornville Eagle: topic, sea-fish and their morals. Please accept my
card, and draw upon me for a month’s salary.

[_Gives his card._

SCYTHE [_writing in his note-book_].

Item,--this is important. In evolution, the grasshopper sprang from the
flying-fish.

WHETSTONE.

What birds are those flying above the waves and darting like flying
squirrels?

CATHARINE.

They are the larks of the sea, and in the wake of a ship are wider awake
than your land larks.

BLUEGRASS.

Madam, with your permission,--upon the first streak of dawn our common
meadow-lark has been known to climb the heavenly vaults above this
magnificent star of ours like a morning-glory of song.

WHETSTONE.

Professor Scythe, explain.

SCYTHE [_examining the birds with his glass_].

Leaving, for a moment, grave mysteries of the deep upon the floor of the
abysmal sea, we ascend to trace in the flight of a simple bird its name
and family. The wings of the bird are the pre-Adamite forefeet of an
animal which, through ceaseless efforts of evolution, became crowned
with feathers. From the movements of these feathered forefeet we can
tell all about the bird. Now, Mayor Whetstone, take this glass. [_He
gives glass to_ WHETSTONE, _who follows the movements of the bird with
it_.] Now watch closely the parabola of dip or curve of flight that puts
it in the great family of web-footed water-fowls. See the unwavering
scoop, the practiced and web-footed ease with which it grazes a wave. We
have before us a genuine sea-gull.

WHETSTONE.

Major, put that in the Eagle, and see how it looks in print. Something’s
bitten me! it must be one of your sea-fleas.

[_Looking up his sleeve._

BLUEGRASS.

Sea-flea; do you see it?

CATHARINE.

To see a flea, you must flee the sea,--unless perchance you may see a
deep-sea flea such as I have at the bottom of my basket. [_Takes out a
lobster._] This is the wicked flea the fisherman pursues. He will give a
biting relish to your codfish.

[_Offers lobster to_ WHETSTONE, _who draws back_.

WHETSTONE.

Is he dead?

CATHARINE.

Such is his seeming.

WHETSTONE.

What a monster! [_Observing the lobster._] Professor, what’s his
scientific history?

SCYTHE [_weariedly_].

I don’t know.

WHETSTONE.

Don’t know! Professor, it cost me a heap of money to build my nursery of
learning, the Cornville Academy, and I’m going to make it the biggest
paying institution on this broad continent. I’ve advertised you in
letters big as fence-posts as our own prided prince of science, engaged
at an enormous salary. There are already applications for next term from
over five hundred anxious fathers of wonderful sons. Can I afford to
disappoint them? No. Can you stand there and calmly tell me you cannot
give me so simple a thing as the history of a deep-sea flea?

SCYTHE [_looking at lobster with his glass_].

In the race for life, he first made his appearance in the epoch of the
mammoth, anterior to the gigantic antediluvians, before the apparition
of man upon the earth, and at a season in the progressive series of
pre-Adamite evolution soon after the separation of the crocodile branch
from the main stem, about forty-five millions of years ago.

WHETSTONE.

Astonishing! so long as that?

SCYTHE.

I will not in detail give his scientific biography. It is sufficient
that during this period he gorged himself with the blood of these
primeval mammoths, which accounts for his size, and often, frenzied by
the harrowing appetite of this parasite, these gigantic and prehistoric
brutes made the primeval forests for a hundred miles ring with their
helpless bellowings. But I will not further excite your pity for the
remote ages.

WHETSTONE.

Go on, Professor, go on!

SCYTHE.

This was the summer of his race; but, alas! then came the glacial
period. He was frozen up with the mammoths, and remained so for probably
twenty millions of years; but such was his tenacity of life, that when
the world thawed out, he again appeared, his skin somewhat hardened by
exposure,--a fact which you will recognize,--but otherwise cheerful, and
in his usual health. Well may his kind be grateful; for, wrapped in ice
for æons of time, he was the slender thread upon which their future
hung.

WHETSTONE.

But why did he take to the sea?

SCYTHE.

After the apparition of man upon the earth he was driven into the sea by
the excited inhabitants.

WHETSTONE.

Major, this is truly wonderful. The Academy will succeed.

BLUEGRASS.

’Tis the very romance of science.

WHETSTONE.

But, Professor, what was the glacial period?

SCYTHE.

Well, sir, the glacial period was an epoch when, from a business point
of view, ice was cheaper than dirt. Had the apparition then occurred,
man could have gone all over the globe on skates. But as it was a vast
ball of ice, he would probably have slipped off into space, and nothing
more would have been heard of him. And so this star of ice for countless
ages rolled on through the sky like a big snow-ball; but at last the
great electric sun struck the earth on the equator, which accounts for
the equatorial bulge which exists to this day. Then commenced the
greatest drama of the elements ever witnessed upon our planet. The vast
ice-fields were riven in twain, with terrific reports which reverberated
through the heavenly spaces, and to which our present thunder is but as
an elemental whisper. Icebergs formed, and in fantastic and sublime
shapes, towering mountain high and illuminated by the sun, floated down
towards the equator.

WHETSTONE.

Go on, don’t stop; go on.

SCYTHE.

Then commenced the great oscillation of the land-masses; then the
eruptive rocks and sedimentary strata were moved from their foundations.
Then occurred the geologic epoch of the denudation and washdown of hills
and mountains, and then were formed the ocean floors, the islands, and
the continental areas which we inhabit.

WHETSTONE.

Put that in the Eagle. [_The lobster clings to him._] Hello! What’s the
matter now? Professor! Major! Woman! Take off your flea!

BLUEGRASS.

Be a hero!

WHETSTONE.

Great thunder! take him off. He has claws to his eyes. [_Takes off his
coat, with the lobster clinging to it._] Major, this is your fault.
Don’t speak to me again until you apologize. Come, Professor.

     [_Exeunt_ SCYTHE _and_ WHETSTONE _carrying his coat with lobster
     clinging to it_.

CATHARINE.

Fair is your prairie wit, and these sea-scenes have keen spices which
well try its mettle. He that is young and fresh shall have the salt of
experience. Many that come here to be salted by the sea are seasoned by
love. Would you be so seasoned?

BLUEGRASS.

If it be a fair, good seasoning.

CATHARINE.

At yonder villa by the sea I well know Mademoiselle Ninon, a French maid
who is in friendly service to one Violet. She has a dainty wit, with a
foreign flavor that will season you well.

BLUEGRASS.

Acquaint us. I would be so seasoned.

CATHARINE.

To-day she comes that I may tell her fortune. Be at the masquerade
to-night; wear a blue ribbon,--there you shall meet her. Trust me. Fare
thee well.

[_Exit_ CATHARINE.

BLUEGRASS.

This is genuine romance. ’Tis sweeter than ambrosia. Oh, why was I so
long pent up in the heart of a continent? Farewell, dull facts of
business which have stung me sharper than thistles. Roll on, magnificent
star, and bring night and romance.

[_Exit._


SCENE II.--_Portico of the Dolphin Inn._

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS _in conversation_.

WHETSTONE.

Northlake is a most melancholy man. I believe if he had a warehouse full
of anchors, and the market for anchors was booming, he’d be hopelessly
unhappy. Said I to him, to-day: Northlake, don’t look so confoundedly
gloomy; cheer up! the day I marry your niece Violet, you shall have five
hundred thousand dollars.

BLUEGRASS.

His villa looks like the residence of a prince.

WHETSTONE.

So it does; but it is covered with a mortgage from cellar to roof. One
month ago Northlake was a rich man, but, leaving his books and plunging
into speculation, he lost not only his fortune, but also that of his
niece Violet, who is an orphan, and whose fortune was intrusted to his
keeping. Her loss seems to trouble him most.

BLUEGRASS.

When did you become acquainted with him?

WHETSTONE.

Last summer, when they were travelling in the West. I had some business
with him, and I then got a glance at his niece. I have since
corresponded with him. When I met him to-day he had a book in his hand.
I asked him, What’s that book? He replied, It’s a work on speculative
philosophy. Said I, Throw it away, and study the market quotations and
crops; that’s the kind of speculative philosophy you need.

BLUEGRASS.

What did he say to that?

WHETSTONE.

He opened his book and commenced reading. Said I: Close your book. I
don’t understand it, and I don’t want to. I’ve made you a business
proposition that’s worth more than all your books. I’ve got the booty,
and you’ve got the beauty. Is it a trade?

_Enter_ PUNCH, _who tries to overhear the conversation_.

BLUEGRASS.

How did that impress him?

WHETSTONE.

He replied, You shall have her, but you must first woo her as a tender
and gallant lover should, and thus win also her dower of tenderness and
fancy.

BLUEGRASS.

How did that strike you?

WHETSTONE.

Oh, said I, I’ll show my good points. I’m rich, noble, and good; she’ll
have me.

BLUEGRASS.

How did that affect him?

WHETSTONE.

Come, Whetstone, said he, you’re a practical man. The most practical man
in love is the most fanciful. Come to the masquerade to-night in a
heroic character.--And I’m going.

BLUEGRASS.

What kind of a hero will you assume to be?

WHETSTONE.

Oh, any kind, just so it’s a hero. I can outdo any of them.

BLUEGRASS [_perceiving_ PUNCH].

Hello! my friend, can you tell us where to get masquerade suits?

PUNCH.

Yonder, gentlemens. [_Pointing to a neighboring shop._] I recommends
him. He is a good neighbor and an honest man. Good day, gentlemens.

[PUNCH _slips into his shop by a side door_.

WHETSTONE [_reading the sign over the door_].

Peter Punch. Masquerade Suits and Unk-Weed Liniment. For sale or
rent.--That’s a queer sign!

BLUEGRASS.

They are well suited; for the liniment is a lining under the suits.

[_They enter the shop by front door._


SCENE III.--_A costumer’s shop._ PUNCH _arranging his costumes_.

_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS.

PUNCH.

Walk into mine shop, gentlemens. You do me great honors.

WHETSTONE.

Are you not the same man we met outside?

PUNCH.

Did he say I was honest?

WHETSTONE.

You have it.

PUNCH.

Mine good friends, that was mine brother.

WHETSTONE.

Why, you have the same marks. What are you up to?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, we were born twins; our own father couldn’t tell us apart.

BLUEGRASS.

Nature must have been in a proud mood when she duplicated you.

WHETSTONE.

What’s your name?

PUNCH.

Peter Punch.

WHETSTONE.

What’s your brother’s name?

PUNCH.

Peter Punch Number Two. We are twins; I swears it. Mine friends, these
are my beautiful suits; and in this bottle is the wonder of seven
hemispheres, the sublimely famous and justly celebrated unk-weed
liniment. By your firesides, rub it in well. With one wing of medicinal
gum, and the other of healing balsam, it flies to its proud home in the
bones. Gentlemens, rub it in well. There it works its marvels. This,
gentlemens, is the unk-weed art gallery [_pointing to two pictures_].
This one is before taking; that one, after taking. Gentlemens, rub it on
your skins inside, and put one of my suits on the outside, and then you
do marvels. I swears it.

WHETSTONE.

Which do you sell or rent,--the suits, or the liniment? [PUNCH _winks an
eye_.] Why do you wink?

PUNCH.

Goodness gracious! you surprises me so. Mine eyelid slips down.
Gentlemens, I cannot rent the wonderful unk-weed.

BLUEGRASS.

Peter Punch, you are a compound fraction. Give your doctor fraction a
quick drop, and your tailor fraction a fresh seaming. We have good sound
characters, but you and your tailor’s goose may mend them. I wish to
cast upon a French maid a romantic spell, something in the aurora
borealis fashion.

PUNCH.

Gentlemens, I haven’t got it [_winking his eye_].

BLUEGRASS.

Why do you wink?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, it is my little weakness. I swears it.

BLUEGRASS.

Try to keep your blind up. It makes me suspicious that something wrong
is going on inside. Peter, have you a rainbow suit?

PUNCH.

Mine dear friend, I’ve just what will suit you. I made it for a
gentlemans just like you, but it rained and he didn’t call for it.

BLUEGRASS.

He was only a fair-weather beau; but I’ll be a rainbow as well. [PUNCH
_shows him the suit_.] That will suit. Now show me a mask. [PUNCH _shows
him a mask_.] Why, it has a nose upon it like a barn-gable.

PUNCH.

Mine friend, a big nose makes a strong character [_laying his finger
along his nose_].

BLUEGRASS.

Its cheeks are smooth as a boy’s.

PUNCH.

Mine friend, how would a rainbow look with a beard on it? Oh, mine
friend!

BLUEGRASS.

Come out from under your disguise, Peter PUNCH. You have the eternal
fitness of things under your thumb, and that makes a good tailor and a
shrewd philosopher.

PUNCH.

I thank you, gentlemens.

WHETSTONE.

Show me some clothes worn by kings, princes, and potentates.

PUNCH.

Mine friend, let me take your measure. [_He takes_ WHETSTONE’S _measure
with a tape-line_.]

WHETSTONE.

Do you think you can take my measure for a suitable character suit with
your puny tape-line? Put up your line, and search Flatpuddle Smith’s
Biography of Great Men,--although I must say there are in that book some
of the biggest measures of the littlest men on earth; and besides, old
Heavyweight, who made his fortune putting sand in sugar, is on the first
page. They asked for sugar, and he sandpapered them. It’ll go rough with
him. Peter Punch, listen to my measure. I’m a merchant prince, Mayor
Whetstone, from Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules
after my grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the
Mississippi.

PUNCH [_presenting a robe_].

This is the robe that Julius Cæsar wore when he did thrice refuse the
crown up at the Capitol.

WHETSTONE.

Why did he refuse it? Didn’t it fit him? I don’t want that.

PUNCH [_presenting a suit_].

This is a suit worn by a shepherd boy as he tends his flocks,--young
Norval’s suit.

WHETSTONE.

Confound you! Do you think I want to be a shepherd boy, and herd sheep?

PUNCH [_presenting another suit_].

This is the suit of a Highlander.

WHETSTONE.

That’s high-sounding. Let me see it. What’s this?

PUNCH.

That goes around the waist like a petticoat.

WHETSTONE.

Where’s the other part?

PUNCH.

There is none.

WHETSTONE.

Take back your Highlander. [PUNCH _winks_.] Stop winking!

PUNCH.

Goodness gracious! you surprises me so. But here, mine friend. This is a
suit of King Richard the Lion-Heart, who slew thousands of Saracens in
one day.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t they stop him, the old villain? Peter Punch, you may as well
put down both shutters over your eyes. Business is closed.

[_Going._

PUNCH.

Wait, wait, mine dear friend; I have a beautiful suit of armor,
magnificent! I saves it for you. I keeps it wrapped up. It is the suit
of a grand knight-errant. [_Takes covering from mounted suit of armor._]

WHETSTONE.

Ah, that’s something like the thing. The business we are on is a sort of
a night errand. What line of business was he in? Did he travel much at
night?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, you is mistaken. The knight-errant was a great man who went
around foreign countries clad in a suit of mail, rescuing beautiful
damsels, over seven hundred years ago.

WHETSTONE.

So long ago as that? His clothes must be a little rusty; but you can rub
them well. You don’t say the suit is seven hundred years old?

PUNCH.

Over seven hundred years, mine friend [_winking_].

WHETSTONE.

Major, what would they say if they knew of this in Cornville? So the old
rascal used to go around in the night, rescuing beautiful damsels; and
they called them night errands! Didn’t he rescue the ugly damsels too?

PUNCH.

History is silent, mine friend.

WHETSTONE.

Well, I do declare! I’ll keep up his trade. I’ll build up the old
industry on these shores, and I’ll make it hum.

PUNCH.

I have English, French, Spanish, and other cheaper kinds; but I’ll give
you the suit of a grand German knight-errant, because he was a great
Teuton.

WHETSTONE.

What is the rent to-night for the so-called Teuton knight-errant?

PUNCH.

You shall have him cheap. I will calculate. One cent a year, one dollar
for each hundred years,--seven dollars, mine friend.

WHETSTONE.

Isn’t that tooting it rather high for a night errand?

PUNCH.

Mine friend, the Teuton knight-errant was the most substantial and
high-toned.

WHETSTONE.

Substantial and high-toned! I’ll invest. I’ll wake up your old Teuton
knight-errant, and make him hum.

[_Exeunt._


SCENE IV.--_A street. Evening._ JACK, _disguised as an ape, on his way
to the masquerade_.

_Enter_ FOPDOODLE _and_ TOM, _his valet_.

FOPDOODLE.

By Jove, what is it?--Tom, my man, stand firm.--Audacious creature! So
much hair on it, you know. I’d kindly thank you for your card.

JACK.

Apes and conundrums, having been made before pockets, do not carry their
cards. Did you ever husk an ear of corn?

FOPDOODLE.

Audacious beast! Fopdoodle’s no farmer.

JACK.

Then how do you expect to husk me by the ear? For the ear of an ape
stands higher than a vegetable.

FOPDOODLE.

What a misapplication of terms!

JACK.

Why did you not bring your shell with you?

FOPDOODLE.

What shell?

JACK.

The shell of a goose-egg. Go get it, and put yourself in it, or I’ll
make an omelet of you by assault and battery.

[_Moving around_ FOPDOODLE.

FOPDOODLE.

By Jove, you’re a ferocious ape. I’ll have you arrested. Ho, there! Oh,
policeman, come at once, I pray you, and quell this riot. Come, I
command you. But he don’t come. What an abominable government we do
have! If we had a king, then I’d be protected,--a nice, sweet king!
Then, you know, I’d go to court; then I’d be My Lord Fopdoodle. Oh, I’d
dearly love a king.

JACK.

What would you do if an enemy arose?

FOPDOODLE.

Why, then the king would say: Upon the breeze that blows upon the
borders of my land, I sniff the enemy. My lord, my good and trusty Lord
Fopdoodle, hasten. Gather two hundred thousand men or so of our
confiding yeomanry and stanchest citizens. Go put the enemy down.--And I
would do it.

JACK.

But suppose he wouldn’t stay down?

FOPDOODLE.

Tom, my man, stand firm.--When a king puts an enemy down, he puts him
under ground.

JACK.

How would you raise the cash?

FOPDOODLE.

If I saw the treasury running low, I’d rise and thus address the throne
of majesty: Of late, most able king, thy servant, Lord Fopdoodle, whom
thou hast ennobled, hath observed sundry of his former friends,
shopkeepers, swelling with wealth and aping his nobility. I’ll strip
them of their towering ambition by taking off the goods from their top
shelves. And then the king would say, Good my lord, thou art aright; go
thou and do it. And I would go and do it.

JACK.

Would you have any whims?

FOPDOODLE.

Wouldn’t I have whims!--Tom, my man, stand firm.--Thousands of them. If
a king and his lords can’t have their whims, they’re not so good as
other people are. Some day, when the king was in a right good humor, I
would say: Your valiant Majesty, an ape doth offend me much. I have a
whim. I crave a boon, my liege, a boon, my sovereign; and he would say,
I’ll grant it thee. Then I would say, I thank thee, good my sovereign. I
would that all the apes in thy kingdom were destroyed. And he would say,
Take this my signet ring, and let them perish.

JACK.

And you would kill poor Jack?

FOPDOODLE.

Are you Jack? Mr. Northlake’s own son Jack, and cousin to beautiful Miss
Violet? Why, Jack, I could love even an ape if he were cousin to the
beautiful Miss Violet.

JACK.

Would you cozen an ape?

FOPDOODLE.

[_Aside_] I’ll steal into Miss Violet’s secret heart through this
half-open, half-witted gate of a cousin. [_Aloud_] I’m in love. Help me,
Jack. About the king, good Jack, I was but joking; and if I were married
to Miss Violet, and were the king’s lord, I would not hurt a hair on an
ape’s body. Oh, she’s a sweet conundrum; a rose is a conundrum,--why,
I’m a sweet conundrum myself. Jack, you’re a stunning good fellow, an
awfully good ape. Let me stroke ape’s hair.

JACK.

Paws off! You Miss my cousin, but she’ll not miss you. I represent
to-night a missing link which were well found in you. I’m in full
dress,--Nature’s regulation costume for the ape; but you commit a
barefaced outrage with your ape’s nature minus the hair. Meet me at the
masquerade.

[_Going._

FOPDOODLE.

Tom, my man, stand firm!--Don’t go, Jack.--I’ll go too.

[_Exeunt._


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.