Chapter XXXIII: Part III: Programmes for Special Occasions (6)

_Sert._ O, think of the kindred and friends who await
To fall on thy neck, and withhold thee from fate;
O, think of the widow, the orphans to be,
And let thy compassion plead softly with me.

_Reg._ O, my friend, thou canst soften, but canst not subdue;
To the faith of my soul I must ever be true.
If my honor I cheapen, my conscience discrown,
All the graces of life to the dust are brought down;
All creation to me is a chaos once more—
No heaven to hope for, no God to adore!
And the love that I feel for wife, children, and friend,
Has lost all its beauty, and thwarted its end.

_Sert._ Let thy country determine.

_Reg._ My country? Her will,
Were I free to obey, would be paramount still.
I go to my doom for my country alone;
My life is my country’s; my honor, my own!

_Sert._ O, Regulus! think of the pangs in reserve!

_Reg._ What menace should make me from probity swerve?

_Sert._ Refinements of pain will these miscreants find
To daunt and disable the loftiest mind.

_Reg._ And ’tis to a Roman thy fears are addressed!

_Sert._ Forgive me. I know thy unterrified breast.

_Reg._ Thou know’st me but human—as weak to sustain
As thyself, or another, the searchings of pain.
This flesh may recoil, and the anguish they wreak
Chase the strength from my knees, and the hue from my cheek;
But the body alone they can vanquish and kill;
The spirit immortal shall smile at them still.
Then let them make ready their engines of dread,
Their spike-bristling cask, and their torturing bed;
Still Regulus, heaving no recreant breath,
Shall greet as a friend the deliverer, Death!
Their cunning in torture and taunt shall defy,
And hold it in joy for his country to die.

HOW THE MONEY GOES.

(A temperance play.)

CHARACTERS.—_MAN, about thirty-five years old; his WIFE; NELLIE,
his daughter, ten years old; FRIEND, man about husband’s age,
dressed in a man-of-the-world style; A. and B., two young men,
dressed as business men, should appear about thirty years of age._

SCENE I. (_MR. L. and his wife on the stage; MR. L. dressed for his work, and about to go._)

_Mrs. L._ Albert, I wish you would give me seventy-five cents.

_Mr. L._ What do you want seventy-five cents for?

_Mrs. L._ I want to get some braid for my new dress.

_Mr. L._ I thought you had material enough on hand for that.

_Mrs. L._ So I thought I had; but it looks rather plain with no trimming at all. You know I was intending to trim it with that fringe; but it looks too gray, come to try it by the side of the dress.

_Mr. L._ Haven’t you something else that will do?

_Mrs. L._ No. But, then, braid is cheap; and I can make it look quite pretty with seventy-five cents.

_Mr. L._ Plague take these women’s fashions. Your endless trimmings and thing-a-ma-jigs cost more than the dress is worth. It is nothing but shell out money when a woman thinks of a new dress.

_Mrs. L._ I don’t have many new dresses. I do certainly try to be as economical as I can.

_Mr. L._ It is funny kind of economy, at all events. But if you must have it, I suppose you must.

(_Takes out his purse, and counts out carefully seventy-five cents, and puts his purse away, angrily. He starts to go; but when at the door, he thinks he will take his umbrella, and goes back for it. Finds his wife in tears, which she tries hastily to conceal._)

_Mr. L._ Good gracious! Kate, I should like to know if you are crying at what I said about the dress.

_Mrs. L._ I was not crying at what you said, but you were so reluctant to grant the small favor! I was thinking how hard I have to work. I am tied to the house. I have many little things to perplex me. Then to think—

_Mr. L._ Pshaw! What do you want to be foolish for. (_Exit._)

(_In the hall he was met by his little girl_, LIZZIE.)

_Lizzie_ (_holding both his hands_). O, papa, give me fifteen cents.

_Mr. L._ What?

_Lizzie._ I want fifteen cents. _Please_ give me fifteen cents.

_Mr. L._ What in the world do you want it for? Are they changing books again?

_Lizzie._ No. I want a hoop. It’s splendid rolling; and all the girls have one. Mr. Grant has some real nice ones to sell. _Please_, can’t I have one?

_Mr. L._ Nonsense! If you want a hoop, go and get one off some old barrel. I can’t afford to buy hoops for you to trundle about the streets. (_Throws her off._)

_Lizzie_ (_in a pleading tone_). Please, papa?

_Mr. L._ No, I told you!

(_She bursts into tears, and he goes off muttering, “Cry, then, and cry it out.”_)

SCENE II. (_ALBERT enters, his wife entering on the opposite side. She kisses him as a greeting._)

_Mrs. L._ I am glad you are home thus early. How has business gone to-day?

_Mr. L._ Well, I am happy to say.

_Mrs. L._ Are you very tired?

_Mr. L._ No; why?

_Mrs. L._ I want you to go to the sewing circle to-night.

_Mr. L._ I can’t go; I have an engagement.

_Mrs. L._ I am sorry. You never go with me now. You used to go a great deal.

(_Just then LIZZIE comes in crying, dragging an old hoop, and rubbing her eyes._)

_Mr. L._ What is the matter with you, darling?

_Lizzie._ The girls have been laughing at me, and making fun of my hoop. They say mine is ugly and homely.

_Mr. L._ Never mind; perhaps we’ll have a new one some time.

_Lizzie._ Mayn’t I have one now? Mr. Grant has one left—a real pretty one.

_Mr. L._ Not now, Lizzie; not now. I’ll think of it.

(_LIZZIE goes out crying, followed by her mother. A friend of MR. L. enters._)

_Friend._ Hello, Albert! What’s up?

_Mr. L._ Nothing in particular. Take a chair.

_Friend._ How’s business?

_Mr. L._ Good.

_Friend._ Did you go to the club last night?

_Mr. L._ Don’t speak so loud!

_Friend._ Ha! wife don’t know—does she? Where does she think you go?

_Mr. L._ I don’t know. She never asks me, and I am glad of it. She asked me to go with her to-night, and I told her I was engaged.

_Friend._ Good! I shan’t ask you where, but take it for granted that it was with me. What do you say for a game of billiards?

_Mr. L._ Good! I’m in for that. (_They rise to go._) Have a cigar, Tom?

_Friend._ Yes. (_They go out._)

SCENE III. (_Two men in conversation as they come upon the stage._)

_B._ Billiards? No, I never play billiards.

_A._ Why not?

_B._ I don’t like its tendency.

_A._ It is only a healthy pastime. I am sure it has no evil tendency.

_B._ I cannot assert that the game in its most innocent form is, of itself, an evil, to be sure. But, although it has the advantage of calling forth skill and judgment, yet it is evil when it excites and stimulates beyond the bounds of healthy recreation.

_A._ That result can scarcely follow such a game.

_B._ You are wrong there. The result can follow in two ways. First, it can lead men away from their business. Secondly, it leads those to spend money who have none to spend. Look at that young man just passing. He looks like a mechanic; and I should judge from his appearance that he has a family. I see by his face that he is kind and generous, and wants to do as near right as he can. I have watched him in the billiard saloon time after time, and only last night I saw him pay one dollar and forty cents for two hours’ recreation. He did it cheerfully, too, and smiled at his loss. But how do you suppose it is at home? Suppose his wife had asked him for a dollar or two for some household ornament, or his child, if he has one, for a picture-book or toy, what do you suppose he would have answered? This is not conjecture; for you and I both know plenty of such cases.

_A._ Upon my word, B., you speak to the point; for I know that young man, and what you have said is true. I can furnish you with facts. We have a club for a literary paper in our village, and last year he was one of the subscribers. This year he was obliged to discontinue. His wife was very anxious to take it; but he said he could not afford the $1.25 for it. And his little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed her father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain. My Nellie told me that.

_B._ Yes; and that two hours’ recreation last night, would have paid for both. It is well for wives and children that they do not know where all the money goes.

THE SALUTATORIAN’S DIFFICULTIES.

CHARACTERS.

FRANK CLAYTON.
HARRY THOMPSON.
TOMMY WATKINS.
SAMMY LONG.
JOHNNY WILSON.
WILLIE BROWN.

SCENE.—_A stage. Curtain rises, and FRANK CLAYTON comes forward and speaks._

_Frank._ Ladies and gentlemen: Our performances are now about to commence. We have spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You well know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to give our recitations correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—and we ask you to—and—and—and we ask that—that—

(_Enter HARRY THOMPSON. He comes in front of FRANK and commences to speak._)

“Did you ever hear of Jehosophat Boggs,
A dealer and raiser of all sorts of dogs?
No? Then I’ll endeavor in doggerel verse
To just the main points of the story rehearse.
Boggs had a good wife—”

_Frank._ (_Speaking in a loud whisper._) Harry, what did you come out here for? I’m not through with the introductory speech yet.

_Harry._ (_Turns half way round, puts his hand to his mouth, as if to keep the audience from hearing, and speaks in a loud whisper._) I know you weren’t through, but you stuck, and I thought I had better come on. You know my recitation is second on the programme, and I didn’t want to have a bungle right at the commencement of the exhibition.

_Frank._ Go back to your place, you little rascal, and don’t interrupt me again. I’m going to speak my piece.

_Harry._ (_With his hand up to hide his mouth as before._) Oh, you’re stuck and you’d better retire. (_Turns to audience and continues to speak his piece._)

“Boggs had a good wife, the joy of his life,
There was nothing between them inclining to strife.
Except her dear J.’s dogmatic employment;
And that, she averred, did mar her enjoyment.”

_Frank._ (_Whispering as before._) I say, Harry, get from before me and let me speak my piece.

_Harry._ (_Turns, puts up his hand, and whispers as before._) Oh, you keep shady until I get through. (_Turns to audience and speaks._)

“She often had begged him to sell off his dogs,
And instead to raise turkeys, spring chickens or hogs.
She made him half promise at no distant day
He would sell the whole lot, not excepting old Tray;
And as good luck would have it,—”

_Frank._ (_Turning Harry by the collar and pulling him back._) I tell you to get out of this until I have spoken my piece.

_Harry._ I won’t. Let me alone, I say. You have stuck fast, and do you want to spoil the exhibition? Didn’t you know enough to keep off the stage until I had spoken my piece?

_Frank._ (_Still holding him by the collar._) It is you that are spoiling the exhibition. (_Leads him off the stage._)

_Harry._ (_Speaking loudly as he goes out._) I call this an outrage.

_Frank._ (_Returning to his place and commencing to speak._) Ladies and gentlemen, my speech has been interrupted, and I will commence again. Our performances are now about to commence. We have spent some time in preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you will be pleased with all the performances that may be given. You know that we have not had much practice in giving school exhibitions, and if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to give our recitations correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—to—and we ask you to—and act our parts truthfully, and we ask you to—and we ask you to—(_In a lower tone._) I’ve forgotten it again; isn’t that too bad? (_Speaking as before._) And we ask you to—to—to—

(_Enter TOMMY WATKINS. He comes in front of FRANK, and commences to speak “The Ghost.”_)

“’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,
A short, round, favored merry
Old soldier of the Revolutionary War,
Was wedded to a most abominable shrew.
The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine
Could no more be compared with hers
Than mine
With Lucifer’s.”

_Frank._ (_In a loud whisper._) Tommy Watkins, get from before me. Don’t you see I’m speaking? I don’t want to be interrupted—I want to finish my speech.

_Tommy._ (_Facing the audience and speaking in the same tone as when reciting his speech._) Oh, you’d better quit! You’ve stuck twice now, and if you don’t go off the stage the audience will become disgusted.

_Sammy Long._ (_Seated in the audience._) The people are disgusted now with that boy’s opening speech. He’d better go home, memorize it, and speak it some time next year.

_Tommy._ There! You hear what they say out there in the audience. They are disgusted, and they think you had better leave the stage.

_Frank._ Oh, that’s nobody but Sammy Long, and he is displeased because we didn’t invite him to take part in the exhibition.

_Tommy._ Well, I’ll go ahead and speak my piece while you are trying to think up the words you have forgotten.

Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh
Face, like a cranberry marsh,
All spread with spots of white and red;
Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,
And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.
The appellation of this lovely dame
Was Nancy; don’t forget the name.

_Frank._ Stop, Tommy; I can finish my speech now.

_Tommy._ So can I. (_Continues his recitation._)

His brother David was a tall,
Good-looking chap, and that was all,
One of your great big nothings, as they say
Out in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes,
And cracking them on other folks.
Well, David undertook one night to play
The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,
He knew,
Would be returning from a journey through
A grove of forest wood
That stood
Below
The house some distance—half a mile or so.

With a long taper
Cap of white paper,
Just made to cover
A wig, nearly as large over
As a corn-basket, and a sheet
With both ends made to meet
Across his breast
(The way in which ghosts are always dressed),
He took
His station near
A huge oak-tree,
Whence he could overlook
The road and see
Whatever might appear.

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel
Had left the table
Of an inn, where he had made a halt,
With horse and wagon,
To taste a flagon
Of malt
Liquor, and so forth, which, being done,
He went on,
Caring no more for twenty ghosts
Than if they had been so many posts.

David was nearly tired of waiting;
His patience was abating;
At length, he heard the careless tones
Of his kinsman’s voice,
And then the noise
Of wagon-wheels among the stones.
Abel was quite elated, and was roaring
With all his might, and pouring
Out, in great confusion,
Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”

His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton;
And jovially he went on.
Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees
With rhymes like these:

(_Sings. Air, “Yankee Doodle.”_)

“See the Yankees
Leave the hill,
With baggernetts declining,
With lopped-down hats
And rusty guns,
And leather aprons shining.”

“‘See the Yankees’—Whoa! Why, what is that?”
Said Abel, staring like a cat,
As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode
Into the middle of the road.

“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!
Some crazy fellow, I suppose.
Hallo! friend, what’s your name? by the powers of gin,
That’s a strange dress to travel in.”
“Be silent, Abel; for I now have come
To read your doom;
Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.
I am a spirit—” “I suppose you are;
But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:
Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—
All spirits must be either good
Or bad—that’s understood—
And be you good or evil, I am sure
That I’m secure.
If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—
And I don’t know but you may be the devil—
If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,
That I am married to your sister Nancy!”

(_Bows and turns to go off. To FRANK._) Now, Frank, you can go ahead again until you come to the sticking place. I hope that, during the time I have generously given you by speaking my piece, you have been collecting your scattered senses, and will now be able to finish what you began. (_Exit TOMMY._)

_Frank._ Ladies and gentlemen, I am not at all pleased with this way of doing business. I think these boys have not treated me with proper respect. I was selected to give the opening or introductory address, and you see how it has been done.

_Sammy._ (_In the audience._) We didn’t see very much of it. Don’t you think it would be well enough for you to retire and memorize your speech?

_Frank._ You boys out there had better keep silent and not create a disturbance. There is an officer in the house.

(_Enter WILLIE BROWN. He comes before FRANK and commences to speak._)

“’Twas night! The stars were shrouded in a veil of mist; a clouded canopy o’erhung the world; the vivid lightnings flashed and shook their fiery darts upon the earth—”

_Frank._ (_Speaking out._) I say, Willie Brown, what did you come here for? I haven’t finished the opening speech yet.

_Willie._ What’s the use of having an opening speech now? The exhibition is half over. (_Continues his speech._)

“The deep-toned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky; the elements were in wild commotion; the storm-spirit howled in the air; the winds whistled; the hail-stones fell like leaden balls; the huge undulations of the ocean dashed upon the rock-bound shore; and torrents leaped from mountain tops; when the murderer sprang from his sleepless couch with vengeance on his brow—murder in his heart—and the fell instrument of destruction in his hand.”

_Frank._ Stop, I say. What kind of an exhibition will this be without an introductory speech? Stop, I say. We will be the laughing-stock of the country if we don’t open our exhibition with an introductory speech.

_Johnny._ (_In the audience._) Oh, nobody cares for the introductory speech. Let the speech go and give us some dialogues and songs.

_Willie._ No dialogues and songs until I have finished my speech. This is my place on the programme. (_Continues his speech. FRANK comes and stands near him and they both speak at the same time, WILLIE giving the concluding portion of his speech and FRANK commencing at the first of his Opening Speech and going as far as he had gone before. WILLIE should finish just before FRANK commences to stammer._)

“The storm increased; the lightnings flashed with brighter glare; the thunder growled with deeper energy; the winds whistled with a wilder fury; the confusion of the hour was congenial to his soul, and the stormy passions which raged in his bosom. He clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp. A demoniac smile gathered on his lip; he grated his teeth; raised his arm; sprang with a yell of triumph upon his victim, and relentlessly killed—a _mosquito_!” (_Bows and turns to go off. To FRANK._) Stuck again, my boy? If we had waited for the opening speech we would not have got our exhibition opened for a week or ten days.

(_Exit WILLIE._)

_Johnny._ (_In the audience._) Well, we haven’t had that introductory speech yet, and I guess we are not going to get it. That was the queerest kind of speech I ever heard. It began, and then balked, and then kicked up, and then braced its feet in front, and finally stopped altogether. I think we would have done better if we had started without any introduction, just as grandpa said the other day he thought Parson Goodwin ought to have begun his sermon at the conclusion and left out all that went before it.

_Frank._ (_Excitedly._) Hold on there! You say we don’t need any speech and yet you are making a long one yourself. You said that I hitched like a balky horse, but you have kicked up your heels and cantered off as if somebody had touched off a pack of fire-crackers under you.

(_Enter HARRY THOMPSON. He comes forward and speaks._)

Our parts are performed and our speeches are ended,
We are monarchs and courtiers and heroes no more;
To a much humbler station again we’ve descended,
And are now but the school-boys you’ve known us before.

Farewell then our greatness—’tis gone like a dream,
’Tis gone—but remembrance will often retrace
The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme,
And the heart-cheering smiles that enlivened each face.

We thank you! Our gratitude words cannot tell,
But deeply we feel it—to you it belongs;
With heartfelt emotion we bid you farewell,
And our feelings now thank you much more than our tongues.

We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us,
That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks;
And we hope to convince you, the next time you hear us,
That praise has but sharpened our relish for books.

(_Bows and turns to go off._) I have spoken the valedictory, and the exhibition is over. Ring down the curtain.

_Frank._ (_Excitedly._) Stop! Hold! Don’t! I haven’t finished my speech yet.

_Johnny._ (_In the audience._) You’ve given us enough for the present. You can finish it out next Christmas.

_Harry._ Ring down the curtain.

_Frank._ Stop! Don’t! Don’t! I want to speak my piece. (_A bell is rung and the curtain falls._)

_Frank._ (_Drawing the curtain aside and looking out._) Here’s a go! How are we going to get along without an Opening Speech? (_Disappears._)

[CURTAIN.]

PYGMALION AND GALATEA.

CHARACTERS.

PYGMALION, _an Athenian sculptor_.
GALATEA, _a statue_.

COSTUMES.

_GENTLEMAN, in the habit of a Greek artist. LADY, in
statuesque drapery or ordinary Greek costume._

(A noted Greek sculptor, Pygmalion, makes a most beautiful
statue of woman. Having attained perfection of form he longs to
breathe life into his work, and blames the gods that they have
limited his power. He stands on the stage, to the left, looking
thoughtfully up as if imploring the gods. While apparently
uttering his complaints, Galatea, coming to life, calls to him
from behind the curtain.)

_Galatea_ (_from behind curtain, C._[7]). Pygmalion!

_Pygmalion_ (_after a pause_). Who called?

_Gal._ Pygmalion!

(_PYGMALION tears away curtain and discovers GALATEA alive._)

_Pyg._ Ye gods! It lives!

_Gal._ Pygmalion.

_Pyg._ It speaks!
I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes!

_Gal._ Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion;
Give me thy hand—both hands—how soft and warm!
Whence came I? (_Descends._)

_Pyg._ Why, from yonder pedestal.

_Gal._ That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect,
There was a time when it was part of me.

_Pyg._ That time has passed forever, thou art now
A living, breathing woman, excellent
In every attribute of womankind.

_Gal._ Where am I, then?

_Pyg._ Why, born into the world
By miracle.

_Gal._ Is this the world?

_Pyg._ It is.

_Gal._ This room?

_Pyg._ This room is a portion of a house;
The house stands in a grove; the grove itself
Is one of many, many hundred groves
In Athens.

_Gal._ And is Athens, then, the world?

_Pyg._ To an Athenian—yes—

_Gal._ And I am one?

_Pyg._ By birth and parentage, not by descent.

_Gal._ But how came I to be?

_Pyg._ Well, let me see
Oh! you were quarried in Pentelicus;
I modelled you in clay; my artisans
Then roughed you out in marble; I, in turn,
Brought my artistic skill to bear on you,
And made you what you are, in all but life.
The gods completed what I had begun,
And gave the only gift I could not give.

_Gal._ Then this is life?

_Pyg._ It is.

_Gal._ And not long since
I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect
That by some means I knew that I was stone,
That was the first dull gleam of consciousness;
I became conscious of a chilly self,
A cold immovable identity.
I knew that I was stone, and knew no more;
Then by an imperceptible advance,
Came the dim evidence of outer things,
Seen, darkly and imperfectly, yet seen;
The walls surrounded me, and I alone.
That pedestal—that curtain—then a voice
That called on Galatea! At that word,
Which seemed to shake my marble to the core.
That which was dim before, came evident.
Sounds that had hummed around me, indistinct,
Vague, meaningless—seemed to resolve themselves
Into a language I could understand;
I felt my frame pervaded with a glow
That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh;
Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life,
My limbs grew supple, and I moved—I lived!
Lived in the ecstasy of new born life;
Lived in the love of him that fashioned me;
Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope,
Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves
Into one word, that word, Pygmalion!

(_Kneels to him._)

_Pyg._ I have no words to tell thee of my joy,
O woman—perfect in thy loveliness.

_Gal._ What is that word? Am I a woman?

_Pyg._ Yes.

_Gal._ Art thou a woman?

_Pyg._ No, I am a man!

_Gal._ What is a man?

_Pyg._ A being strongly framed,
To wait on woman, and protect her from
All ills that strength and courage can avert;
To work and toil for her, that she may rest;
To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh;
To fight and die for her, that she may live!

_Gal._ (_after a pause_). I’m glad I am a woman.

(_Takes his hand—he leads her down, L._)

_Pyg._ So am I. (_They sit._)

_Gal._ That I escape the pains thou hast to bear?

_Pyg._ That I may undergo those pains for thee.

_Gal._ With whom wouldst thou fight?

_Pyg._ With any man
Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain.

_Gal._ Then there are other men in this strange world?

_Pyg._ There are, indeed?

_Gal._ And other women?

_Pyg._ (_taken aback_). Yes;
Though for the moment I’d forgotten it!
Yes, other women.

_Gal._ And for all of these
Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep, and fight?

_Pyg._ It is man’s duty, if he’s called upon,
To fight for all—he works for those he loves.

_Gal._ Then by thy works I know thou lovest me?

_Pyg._ Indeed, I love thee. (_Embraces her._)

_Gal._ What kind of love?

_Pyg._ I love thee (_recollecting himself and releasing her_)
as a sculptor loves his work!
(_Aside._) There is diplomacy in that reply.

_Gal._ My love is different in kind to thine:
I am no sculptor, and I’ve done no work,
Yet I do love thee; say—what love is mine?

_Pyg._ Tell me its symptoms, then I’ll answer thee.

_Gal._ Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come.
A sense that I am made by thee for thee.
That I’ve no will that is not wholly thine,
That I’ve no thought, no hope, no enterprise,
That does not own thee as its sovereign;
That I have life that I may live for thee,
That I am thine—that thou and I are one!
What kind of love is that?

_Pyg._ A kind of love
That I shall run some risk in dealing with.

_Gal._ And why, Pygmalion?

_Pyg._ Such love as thine
A man may not receive, except, indeed,
From one who is, or is to be, his wife.

_Gal._ Then I will be thy wife.

_Pyg._ That may not be;
I have a wife—the gods allow but one.

_Gal._ Why did the gods then send me here to thee?

_Pyg._ I cannot say—unless to punish me (_Rises._)
For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer!
I pray’d that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer,
And now I see the fearful consequence
That must attend it!

_Gal._ Yet thou lovest me? (_Rises._)

_Pyg._ Who could look on that face and stifle love?

_Gal._ Then I am beautiful?

_Pyg._ Indeed thou art.

_Gal._ I wish that I could look upon myself,
But that’s impossible.

_Pyg._ Not so, indeed, (_Crosses, R._)
This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold!

(_Hands her a mirror from table, R. C._)

_Gal._ How beautiful! I am very glad to know
That both our tastes agree so perfectly;
Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think
That aught could be more beautiful than thou,
Till I behold myself. Believe me, love,
I could look in this mirror all day long.
So I’m a woman.

_Pyg._ There’s no doubt of that!

_Gal._ Oh! happy maid, to be so passing fair!
And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze
At will upon so beautiful a face!

_Pyg._ Hush! Galatea—in thine innocence

(_Taking glass from her._)

Thou sayest things that others would reprove.

_Gal._ Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong
To think that one is exquisitely fair?

_Pyg._ Well, Galatea, it’s a sentiment
That every other woman shares with thee;
They think it—but they keep it to themselves.

_Gal._ And is thy wife as beautiful as I?

_Pyg._ No, Galatea; for in forming thee
I took her features—lovely in themselves—
And in marble made them lovelier still.

_Gal._ (_disappointed_). Oh! then I am not original?

_Pyg._ Well—no—
That is, thou hast indeed a prototype,
But though in stone thou didst resemble her,
In life, the difference is manifest.

_Gal._ I’m very glad that I am lovelier than she.
And am I better? (_Sits, L._)

_Pyg._ That I do not know.

_Gal._ Then she has faults.

_Pyg._ Very few, indeed;
Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show
That she and I are of one common kin.
I love her all the better for such faults.

_Gal._ (_after a pause_). Tell me some faults and I’ll commit them now.

_Pyg._ There is no hurry; they will come in time: (_Sits beside her, L._)
Though for that matter, it’s a grievous sin
To sit as lovingly as we sit now.

_Gal._ Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk
As we are sitting, be indeed a sin,
Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love,
Is this great fault that I’m committing now,
The kind of fault that only serves to show
That thou and I are of one common kin?

_Pyg._ Indeed, I am very much afraid it is.

_Gal._ And dost thou love me better for such fault?

_Pyg._ Where is the mortal that could answer “no?”

_Gal._ Why then I’m satisfied, Pygmalion;
Thy wife and I can start on equal terms.
She loves thee?

_Pyg._ Very much.

_Gal._ I’m glad of that.
I like thy wife.

_Pyg._ And why?

_Gal._ (_surprised at the question_). Our tastes agree
We love Pygmalion well, and what is more,
Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife;
I’m sure we shall agree.

_Pyg._ (_aside_). I doubt it much.

_Gal._ Is she within?

_Pyg._ No, she is not within.

_Gal._ But she’ll come back?

_Pyg._ Oh! yes, she will come back.

_Gal._ How pleased she’ll be to know when she returns,
That there was someone here to fill her place.

_Pyg._ (_dryly_). Yes, I should say she’d be extremely pleased.
(_Rises._)

_Gal._ Why, there is something in thy voice which says
That thou art jesting. Is it possible
To say one thing and mean another?

_Pyg._ Yes,
It’s sometimes done.

_Gal._ How very wonderful!
So clever!

_Pyg._ And so very useful.

_Gal._ Yes.
Teach me the art.

_Pyg._ The art will come in time.
My wife will not be pleased; there—that’s the truth.

_Gal._, I do not think that I shall like thy wife.
Tell me more of her.

_Pyg._ Well—

_Gal._ What did she say
When she last left thee?

_Pyg._ Humph! Well, let me see:
Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife—
Her solitary representative;
(_Tenderly_) She feared I should be lonely till she came,
And counselled me, if thoughts of love should come,
To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont
To speak to her.

_Gal._ That’s right.

_Pyg._ (_releasing her_). But when she spoke
Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood,
Which makes a difference.

_Gal._ It’s a strange world;
A woman loves her husband very much,
And cannot brook that I should love him too;
She fears he will be lonely till she comes,
And will not let me cheer his loneliness:
She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone,
And when that stone is brought to life—be dumb!
It’s a strange world, I cannot fathom it.

(_Crosses, R._)

_Pyg._ (_aside_). Let me be brave, and put an end to this.
(_Aloud._) Come, Galatea—till my wife returns,
My sister shall provide thee with a home;
Her house is close at hand.

_Gal._ (_astonished and alarmed_). Send me not hence,
Pygmalion—let me stay.

_Pyg._ It may not be.
Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.

_Gal._ (_resignedly_). Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion!
But we shall meet again?—and very soon?

_Pyg._ Yes, very soon.

_Gal._ And when thy wife returns,
She’ll let me stay with thee?

_Pyg._ I do not know.
(_Aside._) Why should I hide the truth from her?
(_Aloud._) Alas!
I may not see thee then.

_Gal._ Pygmalion,
What fearful words are these?

_Pyg._ The bitter truth.
I may not love thee; I must send thee hence.

_Gal._ Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love!
Was it for this that Heaven gave me life?
Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see
I am thy work, thou hast created me;
The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine,
Thine! only and unalterably thine! (_Music._)
This is the thought with which my soul is charged.
Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love,
That thou hast love for her alone! Alas!
I do not know these things; I only know
That Heaven has sent me here to be with thee.
Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife,
Of vows that thou wilt love but her; alas!
I do not know these things; I only know
That Heaven, who sent me here, has given me
One all-absorbing duty to discharge—
To love thee, and to make thee love again!

(_During this speech Pygmalion has shown symptoms of irresolution; at its conclusion he takes her in his arms and embraces her passionately._)

W. S. GILBERT.

[7] _C._ indicates _centre_; _R._, _right_, and _L._, _left_ of stage.

QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

(A dialogue for two men. From Act IV. of _Julius Cæsar_. Before
rendering the dialogue it is presumed that the participants will
read the whole play from a volume of Shakespeare, and familiarize
themselves with the spirit of the selection. The interest will
be enhanced by the use of proper costumes. Where these cannot
be hired—as they generally may in cities and large towns—they
may be easily improvised by observing the simple Roman dress as
illustrated in historical works.)

(_Curtain rises, revealing BRUTUS and CASSIUS in heated conversation on the stage._)

_Cassius._ That you have wronged me doth appear in this;
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of Sardinians;
Wherein my letters (praying on his side
Because I knew the man) were slighted of.

_Brutus._ You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.

_Cas._ At such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.

_Bru._ Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold,
To undeservers.

_Cas._ I an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last!

_Bru._ The name of Cassius honors this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.

_Cas._ Chastisement!

_Bru._ Remember March, the ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice?—What! shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers,—shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honors
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?—
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman!

_Cas._ Brutus, bay not me!
I’ll not endure it. You forget yourself
To hedge me in: I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

_Bru._ Go to! you’re not Cassius!

_Cas._ I am.

_Bru._ I say you are not.

_Cas._ Urge me no more: I shall forget myself:
Have mind upon your health: tempt me no further!

_Bru._ Away, slight man!

_Cas._ Is’t possible?

_Bru._ Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

_Cas._ Must I endure all this?

_Bru._ All this? Ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break!
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humor?
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I’ll use you for my mirth,—yea, for my laughter,—
When you are waspish.

_Cas._ Is it come to this?

_Bru._ You say you are a better soldier,
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

_Cas._ You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus:
I said an elder soldier, not a better.
Did I say better?

_Bru._ If you did, I care not.

_Cas._ When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

_Bru._ Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

_Cas._ I durst not?

_Bru._ No.

_Cas._ What! durst not tempt him?

_Bru._ For your life you durst not.

_Cas._ Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.

_Bru._ You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;—
For I can raise no money by vile means:
I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions;
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!

_Cas._ I denied you not.

_Bru._ You did.

_Cas._ I did not: he was but a fool
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart,
A friend should bear a friend’s infirmities;
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

_Bru._ I do not, till you practice them on me.

_Cas._ You love me not.

_Bru._ I do not like your faults.

_Cas._ A friendly eye could never see such faults.

_Bru._ A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.

_Cas._ Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come!
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius;
For Cassius is a-weary of the world—
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from my eyes!—There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold;
If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth:
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know,
When thou didst hate him worse, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

_Bru._ Sheathe your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope:
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O, Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,
That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

_Cas._ Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?

_Bru._ When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.

_Cas._ Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

_Bru._ And my heart, too.—

_Cas._ O, Brutus!

_Bru._ What’s the matter?

_Cas._ Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humor which my mother gave me
Makes me forgetful?

_Bru._ Yes, Cassius; and, henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

[CURTAIN.]

SHAKESPEARE.

_TABLEAU._—FRIENDSHIP RESTORED.

_Curtain rises, revealing BRUTUS and CASSIUS with one hand laid upon the other’s shoulder, while the right hands firmly clasp. On the face of each beams the light of noble love and manly friendship, showing their mutual joy. The bearing should be dignified and manly._

SCENE BETWEEN HAMLET AND THE QUEEN.

(Dialogue for elderly lady and young man. From Act III. of the
tragedy of _Hamlet_. The part of HAMLET is a very difficult one
to play, and should be thoroughly studied. The whole tragedy
should be read from Shakespeare, any illustrated volume of which
will suggest appropriate costume. The GHOST may be impersonated
by a voice, unless a suitable costume and staging are available.)

(_Curtain rises and reveals HAMLET approaching his MOTHER, who may be seated and apparently in much distress._)

_Hamlet._ Now, mother, what’s the matter?

_Queen._ Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

_Hamlet._ Mother, you have my father much offended.

_Queen._ Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

_Hamlet._ Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

_Queen._ Why, how now, Hamlet!

_Hamlet._ What’s the matter now?

_Queen._ Have you forgot me?

_Hamlet._ No, by the rood, not so.
You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife;
And—would it were not so—you are my mother.

_Queen._ Nay, then, I’ll set those to you that can speak.

_Hamlet._ Come, come, and sit you down you shall not budge:
You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.

_Queen._ What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther me?
Help, help, ho!

_Polonius_ (_behind_). What, ho! help, help, help!

_Hamlet_ (_drawing_.) How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!

(_Makes a pass through the arras._)

_Polonius_ (_behind_). O, I am slain!

(_Falls and dies._)

_Queen._ O me, what hast thou done?

_Hamlet._ Nay, I know not;
Is it the king?

_Queen._ O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!

_Hamlet._ A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

_Queen._ As kill a king!

_Hamlet._ Ay, lady, ’twas my word.—

(_Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius._)

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
I took thee for thy better:
Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down,
And let me wring your heart; for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff,
If damned custom have not braz’d it so
That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

_Queen._ What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me?

_Hamlet._ Such an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows
As false as dicers’ oaths; O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: heaven’s face doth glow,
Yea, this sondity and compound mass,
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.

_Queen._ Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud and thunders in the index?

_Hamlet._ Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.
This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildew’d ear.
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love, for at your age
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble,
And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment
Would step from this to this?
O shame! where is thy blush?

_Queen._ O Hamlet, speak no more;
Thou turns’t mine eyes into my very soul,
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.
O, speak to me no more;
These words like daggers enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet!

_Hamlet._ A murtherer and a villain;
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,
And put it in his pocket!

_Queen._ No more!

_Hamlet._ A king of shreds and patches,—

(_Enter GHOST._)

Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards!—What would your gracious figure?

_Queen._ Alas! he’s mad!

_Hamlet._ Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command?
O, say!

_Ghost._ Do not forget. This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But, look, amazement on thy mother sits
O, step between her and her fighting soul:
Speak to her, Hamlet.

_Hamlet._ How is it with you, lady?

_Queen._ Alas, how is’t with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
O gentle son,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

_Hamlet._ On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares!
His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones,
Would make them capable. Do not look upon me;
Lest with this piteous action you convert
My stern effects; then what I have to do
Will want true color; tears perchance for blood.

_Queen._ To whom do you speak this?

_Hamlet._ Do you see nothing there?

_Queen._ Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

_Hamlet._ Nor did you nothing hear?

_Queen._ No, nothing but ourselves.

_Hamlet._ Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!
My father, in his habit as he liv’d!
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal.

(_Exit GHOST._)

_Queen._ This is the very coinage of your brain;
This bodiless creation ecstasy
Is very cunning in.

_Hamlet._ Ecstasy!
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: it is not madness
That I have utter’d; bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word, which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass but my madness speaks;
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come.

_Queen._ O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

_Hamlet._ O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
For this same lord, (_Pointing to Polonius._)
I do repent;
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him,—So, again, good-night.
I must be cruel, only to be kind;
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

[CURTAIN.]

SHAKESPEARE.

LOCHIEL’S WARNING.

(This piece is frequently recited by one person, but is much more
effective in dialogue. LOCHIEL, a Highland chieftain, while on
his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland
seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the
certain ruin and disaster which await the unfortunate prince and
his followers on the field of Culloden. When used as a dialogue,
a blast of trumpet is heard. The curtain being drawn, LOCHIEL
enters, attired in the Highland fighting costume, and following
him should appear in the doorway of the stage two or three armed
Scotch soldiers to give the idea of a large number behind them.
The SEER meets him from the other direction, dressed in flowing
robes, and with long white hair and beard, and, raising his hands
in the attitude of warning, speaks imploringly as follows:)

_Seer._

Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in flight:
They rally, they bleed, for their country and crown,—
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But, hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
’Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair!
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
O! weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead!
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave—
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave!

_Lochiel._

Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright!

_Seer._

Ha! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad:
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of Heaven.
O, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements’ height,
Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood!

_Lochiel._

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall’d my clan:
Their swords are a thousand; their bosoms are one:
They are true to the last of their blood, and their breath,
And like reapers, descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;
All plaided, and plum’d in their tartan array—

_Seer._