Gass VN 1-2 - 9 1 Book JL£i Standard Dialogues IL DESIGNED FOR /^gj Q School and Parlor Entcrtamments^ Temperance Meet- ingfs, Literary Societies, etc. Compiled by REV. ALEXANDER CLARK, A. M. Philadelphia . The Penn Publishing Company J898 a\ oi'do Copyright 1898 by The Penn Publishing Company rWOoOricoRtCtlVED. 2no copy 1898. CONTENTS FAGS Mrs. Smith's, Boarder H. E. McBride 7 La Teune Malade H. C. Hunt 14 Night and Morning Mrs. L. E. V. Boyd ... 15 Scandal on the Brain Blanche B. Beebe .... 17 The Common Bond R. C. Hunt 23 Phrenology D. L. Demorest 24 Correct Habits W. C. Munson 27 The Secret Cousin Fannie 37 The Two Friends America Atheson .... 39 Killed with Kindness Sophie May 41 The Sisters H. C. Hunt 48 Management ; or, the Folly of Passion Mrs. L. E. V. Boyd ... 50 Columbus at the Court of Spain Mrs. L. E, V. Boyd ... 54 The Silver Dollar ..HE. McBride 65 Oil on the Brain S. A. McKeever 68 Going to be an Orator ..... Kate E. Forbes 72 Quackery ..../. TF. Bonjield 75 Two Faults Alice A. Coale 77 Grumbling oyer Lessons .... Hattie Herbert 80 Behind the Scenes Mrs. M. L. Rayne ... 84 The Test HE. McBride 87 Thanksgiving V HE. McBride 92 Matrimonial Advertisement . . Clara Augusta 96 Changing Servants Milotus J. Wine 102 The Eehearsal H. E. McBride 106 Deaf Uncle Zed Ill Egyptian Debate Alf. Burnett 123 Widow Muggins— Her Opinions . /. W. Bonjield 128 Marrying for Money H. E. McBride 133 The Conflict Mary E. Topping .... 138 5 6 CONTENTS PAGE Life :— A School Scene K S. Trafton ..... 143 Ben, the Orphan Boy . , . . o H. E, McBride 145 Convict's Soliloquy; or, the Night before Execution o . . E. H. Trafton 160 John Jones's Fortune . . . c . H. E. McBride 153 In Want of a Servant Clara Augusta . . . » . 157 How they Kept a Secret .... Clara Augusta .... 164 Stealing Apples J. D. Vinton ...... 171 Playing Fourth op July . . . . M. F. Burlingame . . .174 Good for Evil Capt. Howard 179 Not so Easy o . Eliza Doolittle 184 What I Like Eliza Doolittle ..... 184 Fred's First Speech ...... Eliza Doolittle 186 I AVant to be a Soldier ..../. Ward Childs =, ... 186 Blue A. B. Rutledge 187 Walter's First Speech Eliza Doolittle 188 Examination Day Eliza Doolittle .... 189 Close op School Anna Morgan 190 Exhibition Day Eliza Doolittle 191 Charlie's Speech Eliza Doolittle 191 Four Year Old Eliza Doolittle 192 Willie's Speech Eliza Doolittle 192 An Address op Welcome . . . .31.0. Kennedy 193 Old Eye Makes a Speech 194 For a Tiny Girl o . o 195 First Speech in Public o . . . . 195 Introductory Address 196 Very Little Ones are We 196 Lines for an Exhibition 196 When I am a Man Emily Huntington ^filler 197 Modern Chivalry M. D. S. 197 A Little Boy's Speech 199 Declamation by a Little Tot . . Emily Huntington Miller 199 Grandma's Advice to the Girls 200 The Spoiled Face W. 0. C. 200 Naming the Baby Marian Douglas .... 201 Johnny's Opinion of Grand- mothers 201 STANDARD DIALOGUES MRS. SMITH'S BOARDER. CHARACTERS. George Washington Wiggins. Mrs. Jane Sm.th. Scene. — A room in Mrs. Smithes boarding-house. George Washington Wiggins discovered. Wiggins. — Well, I'm getting considerably in debt, and something must be done to raise the wind. Here's my new coat not paid for, and my pantaloons are get- ting somewhat seedy. I got a hole knocked in my hat t'other day, and I ought to have a new one ; but, really, I can't see how I'm going to raise the money to pur- chase the desired article. Beside this, Mrs. Smith is continually growling about her board bill ; and, really,. that is a little bill I ought to settle. I certainly would fork over if I had the tin, but where's the tin to come from? That's the question. I suppose the bill will amount to some forty or fifty dollars b}^ this time, and if I don't square up, I may expect to be required to travel pretty shortl}^, and leave " my bed and board," as the advertisements say. Something must be done, that's certain ! I guess I'll carry my watch to a pawn- broker's, and try to raise a little money for present purposes. [_Knock at the door.^ Come in. [Enter Mrs. Smith.'] Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Smith ? Really, I am delighted to see you. Here, take this chair. Sit down, sit down ; never mind me, I can stand. [_3Irs. Smith sits.'] It gives me great pleasure, Mrs. Smith, to receive a friendly call from you. How is your rheumat- ism this morning ? 7 8 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mrs. Smith. — Oh, somewhat better. But, Mr. Wig- gins, I have brought in your bill. I have no doubt you are prepared to liquidate it this morning? Wiggins. — Let me see it if you please, Mrs. Smith. [Takes bill and reads.'] George Washington Wiggins, to Mrs. Jane Smith, Dr. To ten weeks board, at four dollars and fifty cents, forty-five dollars. Mrs. Smith. — All right, is it ? Wiggins. — Oh, yes, it's all right, I guess ; but really, Mrs. Smith, I am not prepared to settle up this morning. Mrs. Smith. — Not prepared ! Mr. Wiggins, didn't you say you would most certainly settle on Saturday morning, and isn't this Saturday morning ? Wiggins. — Yes, Mrs. Smith, I must confess that this is Saturday morning, but this Saturday morning like last Saturday morning, finds me almost strapped, if J may be allowed to use that not very nice but very ex- pressive word. If you will bear with me a few days longer, my dear Mrs. Smith, I think I will be enabled to square up. Mrs. Smith. — A few days longer ! That's what you said last week and the week before. But I want you to understand that I will not wait a few days longer. A few days longer, indeed ! That's exactly what you said one month ago, and what you have said every time since when I asked you to settle up. I tell you, Mr. Wiggins, I can't be expected to board people for nothing. It tak«>s money to sf t my table and hire my cook ; it takes money to buy coal and oil and the thousands of other things necessary for keeping a boarding-house. Wiggins. — That's very true, Mrs. Smith ; ver}^ true. I expect some money soon, and if you will give me one vreek more, I'll endeavor to settle in that time. Mrs. Smith. — Not another day, Mr. Wiggins! But J have a proposition to offer, which, perhaps, will straighten matters. Wiggins. — Let us hear the proposition. Any thing to straighten matters will be listened to attentively by me. Mrs Smith. — Well, the off'er I have to make, will en- tirely clear you of your indebtedness to me if you accept it. Wiggins. — Good, kind, indulgent Mrs. Smith I What 1 STANDARD DIALOGUES 9 an amiable woman you are I Let us have the offer. Make all possible haste and let us hear it. I would be a hardened wretch, indeed, to decline. Mrs. Smith. — Well, Mr. Wiggins, the proposition is that you consent to be my husband. Wiggins [aside']. — Did mortal ever I What's the world coming to ? Mas. Smith. — I will confess, Mr. Wiggins, there is no great and undying love for you in my heart, such as young persons have, or imagine they have, when they think of entering the state of matrimony. I am not the least bit sentimental. The days of sentimentalism with me have passed away ; but I have come to the conclu- sion that I ought to have a husband. I find that it is very hard to oversee every thing about the house, and I know a man who understood his business would con- siderably lessen my labors ; and, beside this, if I was married again, I would feel more contented and happy than I have felt since my dear Smith left me. Now, if you accept the offer, I will forgive 3^ou your debt and will give you your boarding free. You shall also have an allcwance large enough to keep you in clothes and such nick-nacks as this [pointing to his meerschaum']. But remember, I will expect you to superintend the market- ing, do the carving, and take whatever labor off my hands I may wish. Wiggins [aside]. — They say Mr. Smith led a very hen-pecked sort of a life, and I'm sure I'm not going to step into his shoes. [To Mrs. Smith.] Really — I — I — Mrs. Smith, I thank you for your flattering offer, but it is very unexpected — very. To tell the truth, Mrs Smith, it came like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. I would, therefore, like to have a few days to consider the matter. You know it is of the utmost importance that we consider well before we take a step thut can never be retraced. I hope you will give me a few days to think the matter over, before I give my answer. Mrs. Smith. — And while 3^ou were thinking, you would be living at my expense. Not a day will 1 give you, Mr. Wiggins. Let me have your answer now, fair and 10 STANDARD DIALOGUES square. | If you reject the offer, I will send you to jail for debt inside of two hours. Wiggins ^aside']. — Here's a fix! I'm cornered, and there seems to be no getting out. What an old dragon she is to think of sending me to jail, simply because I don't happen to have a little bit of filthy lucre about me. [ To Mrs. Smith.'] Well, Mrs. Smith, I have thought the matter over, and have concluded to accept your very flattering off'er. Mrs. Smith. — All right, Mr. Wiggins. I thought you would look at the matter in a proper light, and act as a sensible man. Wiggins. — But Mrs. Smith, you will not require the sacrifice — oh — ah — I beg pardon. You will not wish to make me the happy man for five or six months yet, will you? Mrs. Smith. — Five or six months ! Why, Mr. Wig- gins, I need you now ! The marketing and all the oiher work is laborious, and I have been thinking for some time past, of hiring a man to attend to the things about the house. No, Mr. Wiggins, the matter can not be deferred so long. You may be prepared for tho event in tw^o weeks from next Tuesday. Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday Aside. ^ Oh, dear I [To Jirs. Smith.] Why, Mrs. Smith, that will not give 3^ou time to get the new dresses, etc. Mrs. Smith. — New dresses, pooh ! I aint going to bother myself about new dresses. I've got an jld black silk, whi^h, when it is fixed up a little, will look charm- ingly. But I must be down stairs again. Make your- self comfortable here, Mr. Wiggins, and remember the da}' of our wedding is two weeks from next Tuesday \_Exit Mrs. Smith.] Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday ! Isn't it awful to think of it ? Most men feel happy when the wedding-day is so near. I don't ! I'm a miserable dog. Now if it was only Celesta Ann Jones I was going tc be tied to in two weeks, I could bear it. In fact, I be- lieve I could place my hand on my heart and say I was the happiest fellow in creation. Can't do that now though I I'm a sacrificed man if I marry Mrs. Smith. But [with a sudden determination] I loont marry her! STANDAKD DIALOGUES H How could I, when yisions of hen-pecked husbands are continually floating before my eyes ? How could I so far forget myself, as to leave my darling Celesta Ann and jump into the sea of squalls with Mrs. Smith ? Can't do it — I wont do it ! But how am I going to help rflyself? That's the rub. Can't go to jail! Celesta Ann would never look at me again if I did ; and, be- sides this, I'm too well raised to live on bread and water. I can't run away — it would be of no use. I would be nabbed before two da3^s I I know Mrs. Smith's vindictive disposition well. She wouldn't allow me to escape — she would follow me to the ends of the earth. \^After a pause.'] I have it ! I'll act insane — 111 be overjoyed with the bargain — so much so, that reason will take her flight. Ha, ha ! aint I a lucky dog ? Now to commence. \_Takes off his coal and turns it ; after which he commences to shout, and kick the tables and chairs around.] Hello! hello! Mrs. Smith — Smith— Smith — • Mrs. Smith ! Fire, tire, thieves, fire, murder, fire, fire, murder! Mrs. Smith — Smith — Smith — Mrs. Smith- come quick ! Mrs. Smith [^eyitei-ing']. — Wh}^, Mr. Wiggins, what's the matter? You frightened me. Where's the fire? Where's the thieves ? * Wiggins. — George Washington Wiggins, the Presi- dent of the United States, speaks to you. Be very quiet. I have arrayed myself in a new coat — coat cost twenty- two dollars — and I am about to deliver my inaugural [^Stands on a chair.] But, Mrs. Wiggins, that is to say Mrs. Smith, as used to be, I am a happ}?" man. I am about to enter the state sometimes denominated matri* mony. It becomes me then, as the Emperor of France, to say that I think Mrs. Smith. — Ileally, the man's demented. Mr. Wig- gins ! Mr. Wiggins ! what is the matter ? Do come down stairs and have a cup of tea ; it will do 3'ou good. [Aside.] His mind isn't ver^^ strong when it's so easily upset. [To Mr. Wiggins.] Come, Mr. Wiggins, you will ruin thf furniture. Do come down and have a cup of tea. WiGGiN?. — Come down ! 'No, indeed ; not I ! •' To this point T'll stand," as Shakspeare says. I'm a mar- 12 STANDARD DIALOGUES ried man remand I'm not going to be coaxed and ruled by womer. I'll show the world that I'm not a hen-pecked husband, such as the world believes me. I'll show the world that I'm no John Smith. I'll show the world, that when I say, " Mrs. Smith, go to market !" Mrs. Smith will go instantly. [^Becomes calmer.'] Mrs. Smith, I am f}lightl3^ nervous to-day. To tell the truth, I am so completely overjo3^ed at the prospect of becoming your husband, that it has caused reason to totter on her throne. Take care, Mrs. Smith, I feel it coming on again. Ladies and gentlemen, I appear before you this evpning to debate the question, " Should woman have equal rights with man ?" and I find myself altogether unprepared to do the subject justice. [Dances round the room.'] Tol de dol de dol de do, tol de rol de dol de da. Mrs. Smith, will 3^ou honor me with j^our hand in the next dance ? I think it was time we were en- deavoring to thread the mazes of the graceful cotillion. Come on, Mrs. V/iggins — as is to be — come on, fair com- panion of my future life. Mrs. Smith [aside]. — The man is completely insane. [To Wiggins.] Do leave the house, Mr. Wiggins; 3^ou will alarm the whole neighborhood. Wiggins. — Leave the house, Mrs. Smith ! What do you mean ? Have you not consented to be m^- wife, and are we not to be married to-morrow? Mrs. Smith. — No, no, no ! I have no notion whatever of marrying you. Marr\^ a crazy man ? Never 1 Do be kind enough to leave the house, and I'll forgive you the debt. Wiggins. — Mrs. Smith, I couldn't think of it! Would you be so cruel as to wreck my happiness in this manner ? Didn't you promise to be my wife, and didn't you en- gage me to do the marketing? Mrs. Smith. — Yes, but I have changed my mind, and will remain single for a while. Come, hurr^^ out of the house and I'll say no more about the board bill. Wiggins. — Thanks, thanks, Mrs. Smith; that board bill has weighed heavil^^ on my mind for some time past. I will go, Mrs. Smith — and believe me, I part from you I STANDARD DIALOGUES 13 »vith feelings of sincere regret. \^Pret8^ds to weep.] I will send a boy for my baggage, and wilt'conie and foot the bill when my head gets a little more settled, and after I have succeeded in getting into some kind of business. But, Mrs. Smith, let us have a hop before I leave — come. Mrs. Smith [aside]. — This fit is coming on him again, and he may become dangerous. Mr, Wiggins, do leave the house. Wiggins. — I'm going, madam ; I'm going. Tol de lol de lol de la. [^Dances round the room — and exit.] Mrs. Smith. — Well, it's lucky I've got him started. I'm glad I found him out as soon as I did. It would have been awful to have been tied for life to a crazy man. I've lost his board bill, but that's nothing in comparison with the trouble I would have endured had I married him. Wiggins [putting his head in the door]. — Never mind the board bill, Mrs. Wiggins. I'll make that all right some day. Mrs. Smith. — Well, well ; all right. But hurry off, Mr. Wiggins, or j'^ou may take another spell. Wiggins. — No danger of that, Mrs. Smith ; but Vm cil. Good-by. [^xit Wiggins.] [Curtain fdlh.] 14 STANDARD DIALOGUES LA TEUNE MALADE. [The daughter's part in this little colloquy, is from the French of Andre Chenier. It is intended for peasant costumes of Normandy. The mother seated beside the chair of her sick daughter, is occupied in making lace.] Scene. — Enter Julie, a child of ten. Julie. — Good-evening, Marie ! Marie. — Welcome, little coz. ! Mother. — Welcome, sweet child ! you come in a happy hour ! Julie. — I've brought some flowers for Marie, auntie, dea.r. \_Julie fastens a spray of lily of the valley to Mp^rie^s cap, and goes on to say'] : " Sweets to the sweet," " Herself the fairest flower." \_The little cousin here courtesies and trips away. Marie looks at the foivers, holds up a white rose and begins to speak.'] Marie. — See, mamma ! See this rose of stainless snow I Like this my cheek is chill and marble white : Thus droop my languid eyes, while my young brow From heaven's fair sunshine turns, and prays for night * Because I feel the gall of vain desire, Well o'er my sick heart, like a veil of fire : Fainting and exiled here my footsteps rove ; God keep thee, mother ! we shall meet above ! Mother. — Nay, darling ! Lay these gloomy thoughts aside I In May, our Greta comes, a blooming bride : Look forward love to joyous festal hour, When wearing wreaths of freshly-knotted flowers, With gleam of gold amidst thine auburn curls, Thou'lt walk a bridesmaid 'midst our loveliest girls. Marie. — These freshly-knotted flowers, this bracelet fair I clasped so proudly, the gay masque, the ball. Where whispered voices praised my step and air ^ They charm no longer ; smiles seem mockery all My spirit trembtes with the leaf that leaps Down where the still lake, lapped in silence, sleeps j My spirit flutters with the ascending dove : Adiriu, sweet mamma ! I am thine above I STANDARD DIALOGUES 15 Mother. — Mine ever ! wliom to this fair home and me, To be our joy and pride, the Master gave ! I can not yield her from these arms of love. To the darlv bosom of the gloomy grave ! Thou must not go, my darling ! young and bright With all youth's grace and charm, tliou must not die : No heart is lonely in your worlds of light, And Heaven hath not such need of thee as I ! NIGHT AND MORNING. [Let Night be personated by a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl dressed in black, wearing a crown of crescent and stars of silver, and a vail also spangled with stars. Let Morning be represented by a blue-eyed girl with blonde or golden hair, wearing a white dress with a sash of white and blue, with a necklace and bracelet of white beads and a garland of opening buds.] Night. — Canopied with shadows, and attended by the fair moon and gentle stars, I come to earth, bringing dew for the flowers and rest for the weary. I am not silent, and my voices, though still and small, are doubly powerful. I have sheltered all the young birds in their nests, and childhood, forgetful of its mirth, has sunk into soft slumbers. The daylight toil is ended, and I have brought the father home to his loved ones. Beautiful, holy is my reign. A thousand ages gone men looked upon and loved my starlit countenance. On the far hills of Judea I dispensed visions of glory to watching shepherds and rapt prophets. How was I beloved by the parents of mankind when in the garden of Eden they slept in the blooming bowers of innocence! Then the stars sang together for joy, and the moon gleamed silvery soft on rock and tree, stream and fountain, and the fair, sweet face of Eve looked up- ward to the sky in sinless gladness. My moon, beautiful, though ever changing, that glit- tered over Solomon's temple in all its glory, and over the lowly stable in the town of Bethlehem, when the sta~ guided shepherds worshiped there, now lights mil- 16 STANDARD DIALOGUES lions of worshipers to the house of God in the stillness of Sabbath evenings. The poet adores me, for there is something in my shadowy mantle, my starr}^ canopy, and my sweet, low voice that harmonizes with his holiest dreams. The Christian loves me well, for in the «neditation of my quiet hours the light of immortality shines clear and undimmed. I look into human hearts and spy out secrets the day- time never dreamed of, holy and sad, and deep and sacred to memory. It is mine to kiss down the pale eyelids of the broken- hearted, and give to their spirits sweet visions born of sweeter memories. What though I bear not with me the song and bloom of morning, the dazzling splendor of the sun, nor its beams that glitter on the waves like diamonds, I show the many worlds that are unseen by day far off and beautiful, and there are the vales of never-dying flowers, and the fountains of living waters. Far along that shining pathway they go who seek the portals of the celestial city. I say to the children of men that here are the shadows of the tomb, there all is light, here death walks beside love, there is the reign of love only. To mortals I teach " holy lesssons Of the hopes unto sorrow given, That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours, Looking alone to Heaven." Morning. — Rejoice, oh earth ! I come to thee in my glowing loveliness, radiant and glad as when first I awoke on thy face at the voice of God. The tender buds that crown me unfold their leaves but to fling forth odors sweet as if born in heaven, and with my light upon them the dews of night become pearls. I have smiled on the far off isles of the sea, and poured j^Dlden light over gushing fountains, the echoes^-^f yH^se many waters gladden distant solitudes. As my silver car mounts the horizon, every breeze si)reads its pinion to flutter forth its joy, and many sweet voiced birds soar upward and sing after the angels teach- ing the glad and glorious anthem of nature. STANDARD DIALOGUES 17 Darkness is lost ; shadows A^anish ; light that is beauty, light that is poetry, light that gleams from heaven and is divine, reign, and sorrow is vanquished ; for weeping, may endure for a night, but joy cometh with the morning. Blithe are the voices now, when rosy, bright-eyed children awake to the sound of the loving mother's voice among the beautiful homes of the world's many lands. I am an acknowledo:cd blessino^ to all, and darkness flies before my face from country to country. For thee, oh Earth ! I wear the same sweet smile I wore when I heard thy Maker's voice pronounce thee good. And never since my birth have I refused my light to thee save when on Calvary that dread scene was enacted at which I turned away, and shrouded all my beams in sorrow. But the luster of my youth was renewed on the morn- ing of the resurrection, when on a world of sin had dawned the Sun of Righteousness. Death w^as van- quished, and I, a type of the morning land, was seen in saintly visions beyond the tombs, and "there should be no Night there." I have been the loved and welcomed for ages past. I will be the beloved for ages to come. I shall be the glorified in the land of the hereafter. SCANDAL ON THE BRAIN. CHARACTERfc.. Emma. Sue, Lizzie. Fan. Aunt Harding. Emma \is alone, she yawns, throws aside her work, and exclaims'], Oh, dear I oh, dear I How lonesome I am ! I do wish the girls would come soon, it's so dull since the Fair, and I'm dying to hear some news ! I suppose Aunt Harding would lecture me soundly if she heard me say the like. There's the bell ! They are coming now. [Enter Sue and Lizzie, Emma rims to greet them.'] Oh, I am delighted to see you ! Why did you not come sooner ? I have been almost ready to perish with ennui. Le* me have your hats. 18 STANDARD DIALOGUES Lizzie. — I don't know as it is hardly worth while foi the time we will stay ; Sue, what do you sa^^ ? Sue. — Yes, Lizzie, let's stay a little while. You know it has been an age since we've been here. I haA^e a fancy handkerchief to hem, and I heard 3^ou say you had your tatting collar in your pocket. Emma. — Oh, that will be just the thing! Stay all the afternoon with me I Mamma went out to make some calls and I am alone — we will have just the coziest kind of a time I What's the news ? It's so dull! I wished at dinner that some one's house would catch a-fire, and ma scolded me awfully for being so wicked. Sue. — Why were you not at the party last evening? Emma. — I did not feel well, and mamma would not hear to my going. It was such a disappointment ! Who was there ? How was every one dressed ? Tell me all about it ? Sue. — Well, first, Lizzie and I were there, then there were the Tracys, and the Cannons, Miss Williams and Mr. Holland, Mr. and Mrs. St. John, and Mrs. St. John's sister. Emma. — Why, I did not know they were home from their tour. Lizzie. — Yes ; and Mrs. St. John was dressed so handsomely I Emma. — I wonder if she is in debt for her beautiful clothes ? Sue. — I'm sure, I don't know. Then there was a Mr. Furgison with them, and Mrs. St. John told Mr. Lee that he is quite a catch, wealthy and handsome. Emma. — Struck He, I suppose. That's the way people come by fortunes now-a-days. Lizzie. — Emma Gather, you are for ever turning up your nose at people ! What's the difference how one comes by a fortune, so he has it ? • Emma. — Yes, and you go into ecstasies over a man if he has a little money and a mustache, and pronounce him distinguished looking I Oh ! Sue. — Now, Emma, you are too bad. Indeed, Mr. Furgison has a splendid set of whiskers, and father was speaking of him to-day, and he said he was talented be- STANDARD DIALOGUES 19 side belonging to one of the oldest and wealthest fami« lies in Virginia. Tm going to pitch in for him. Emma. — Success to you ; so he has good sense and is not one of the shoddies, and his handkerchief is not scented with coal oil, he will do. Oh I there goes the bell ! I wonder who is coming ! \_Goes and returns with Fannie. ~\ Sue. — I'll bet it's Fan. Butts. You know she said she was coming. Emma. — It's Fan., girls. She has come to stay all the afternoon, too ! Give me yonr things, and take this chair. Lizzie. — Wh3^ you dear girl, how d'ye ! Take this fan. Sue. — How did you enjoy the party last evening? Fan. — Tip-top! Supper was splendid, w^asn't it? Didn't the Dumfrej^s try to put on style ? Lizzie. — Did you get acquainted with that MissBitner ? Fan. — Yes, I noticed Morris trying to shine around her. Don't he go ahead of any one you ever saw to fli7't ? Every strange young lady that comes to the city he must be her gallant ! He is so conceity, too I Sue. — They say he is abominably stingy, but has good habits. Fan. [ironically']. — Yes, so are the habits of most young gents ! Lizzie. — He came honestly by his stinginess. His father was so before him. Why, girls, pa says the wig old Mr. Morris wears is one his brother, who has been dead ten years, used to wear. After he died Morris took it to save bu3dng a new one. Emma. — I do wonder if it is true I I suppose the old gentleman was buried in his bald head Fan. — Oh, Emma ! Emma. — Was Grace at the party? Sue. — Yes, and don't you think Captain Blair was her escort ! I was perfectly surprised I Emma. — Weill I am astonished I I thought he waa not countenanced in society at all. I suppose, tlien, Grace will not discard him. Just like her, though. She said to me one day when I was giving her his pedigree, that she thought he was naturally good, that there was something fine about him, and that he tried to do what was right, and so on. Bah ! She is too smart for him I 20 STANDARD DIALOGUES Sue. — Smart I I say she's a milksop ! I never heard of her doing any thing wonderful ! Lizzie. — Why, Sue, how dare you express yourself so about an authoress ! She writes beautifully I She has written one or two effusions for the Repository, and the editor of one of the juvenile periodicals hails her con- tributions with delight, I've heard. Sue. — Bah I I've read her spoutings ! / can write as well as she an}^ day. She is just a shallow little girl, iind believes herself illustrious Lizzie. — Now girls, I wont hear another word ! You all know she paints well and sings sweetly Emma. — Daubs brightly, and screams loudly, you mean ; her voice, instead of being " sweet as a nightin- gale's," is strong as — onions ! Fan. — Well, gals, let me tell you the joke on her. (xiRLS. — Oh, yes! The joke I tell us ! tell us ! Fan. — Well, if you will promise not to tell on me. I wouldn't have it come to their ears that I told it for any thing ! Girls. — We all promise ! Fan. — Never to tell on me ? Girls. — Never ! Fan. — Well, last week some young ladies sent Capt. Blair a har of soap, to wash Grace's neck and ears 1 Emma. — Not so loud I Aunt Harding will surely hear ! [ The girls laugh.'] Sue. — Now, Fan., you don't mean to say that's true ? Fan. — Of course, it's true I Lizzie. — Well, it's too bad I Grace is careless, but not so bad as that. Emma. — I say it's good ! Sue. — Who were the young ladies? Fan. — Oh, I mus'n't tell that I I wonder if Emma. — That makes me think of Miss Orton. Have you heard the report on her ! Girls. — No ! No ! do tell us ! Emma. — I thought every one knew it 1 The othei evening she was standing at the gate, where she boards, talking with Bob Brandon, and he kissed her I It was bright moonlight, and some folks across the street eaiv them STANDARD DIALOGUES 21 Fan. — Oh ! that is horrible ! Sue. — Why, he is the hardest case in town I I would not believe she would speak to him ! Lizzie. — Only think ! He plays billiards and drinks, and is a gambler, too ! Fan. — But girls do you believe it ? Lizzie. — I do. I never could bear her anyhow ! Sue. — / believe it ! Fan. — / don't ; for Miss Cassell is very intimate with her, and she told me that this Bob Brandon goes with Miss Thomas, who lives the very next door to Miss Orton, and you know a mistake might be made easil}^ besides I heard her say not long since, that Miss Orton only knew Brandon by sight. Emma, — Where there is smoke there is fire. Lizzie. — Speaking of Miss Cassell — ma was there to tea last week, and she said she never sat down to such a table in her life. She could hardly find enough to satisfy her appetite I besides, they had no najDkins nor individual salts ; both of which are awful. Emma. — S'pose we all go there to tea some afternoon I Fan. — Oh, girls, I have a capital idea ! It just struck me ! Let's form an inquisitive club I Girls. — Inquisitive club 1 What's that ? Something new? Fan. — You see, I just thought of it. When I was in Lawrence last summer, the girls had such a club. Emma. — Not so loud, Aunt Harding will surely hear I Fan. — Who cares for Auntie ! [in a lower tone.'] We met once a week at one of the girl's houses. No gentle- men were admitted, so they gave it the name of scandal circle — all of spite you know, and we had the most fun at those meetings ever you heard of? Emma. — But what did you do ? Fan. — Why every member was a committee of one to find out all she could about every body's business. We were posted on every thing that was going on. We knew all the reports in circulation ; what girls were en- gaged, and who were not ; we knew who every body cor- responded with, how much every one was in debt — no one was spared, from the minister's wife down. We dissected e^iery one, and the girl that could give the most 22 STANDARD DIALOGUES information in the most comical manner, was the best fellow, and every one who failed paid a fine. Lizzie. — That would be gay ! But I don't think ma would approve of it. Sue. — That's Lizzie for 3^ou, afraid of ma I Emma. — Don't let ma know anj^ thing about it. Fan. — No, you little goose, that's the fun of it. But the best part was our practical jokes ! We plaj^ed some of the richest ones, I must tell you. — \_Aunt Harding, an old fashioned old woman, with cap and spectacles on rushes in, with her knitting, etc., very much excited.'] Well, gals, if I ever I I didn't mean to hear what you said but I couldn't help it! — \_Girls look at each other scared.] Miss Emily what do 3^ou spose 3^our mar would say if she'd a' heerd you talking 'bout folks as you've bin a' doin' this arternoon ? Say 1 Emma. — Don't, Auntie! Do be still, we were only in fun. Auntie. — I wont be still. I tell you, you're all given over to the wrath to come if you don't mend your wa3^s. Emma \_aside~\. — I knew Auntie would hear us, what will I do ? Auntie. — I heerd what ye was a' sayin' about the party, 'bout what folks had on an' this one an' that one an' t'other, 'bout one feller bein' sting}^ an' 'bout Miss Lane, an' the Lord knows she's smarter than any of ye — Miss Cassell's mar didn't have enough fur [turning to Lizzie] your mar to eat, did she ? I think she must have an awful stomach. Emma. — Auntie, please don't. Auntie. — I wont please [turns to Fan"], but when ye come to talk as ye did 'bout an insquisitive club I could Stan' it no longer! Findin' out other folks' business, medlin' things that ye are — I think j^e'd better be to hum mendin' the holes in yer stockin's or helpin' 3'er mar's wash dishes ! ThaVs what / thinks on't ! Dissec- tin'' the poor creeturs, too ! oh my! what on airth ye comin' to ! Even the minister's family ! Insquistion club ! When / was a gal what would folks said at us if we had done the like o' this! I'll tell your par I will Emel- ine Gather. It's bad enough for ole' wimmin' folks to talk, but I'll d«»clare on it, if ye can't beat 'em alll STANDARD DIALOGUES 23 Emma. — Oh, Auntie, do please be still — girls, never mind. Fan. — Don't mind us. Emma, we deserve it all. Auntie. — Desarve it all an' more too. I should think the men folks would call it scandal circle. I'd advise ye to form a 3^oung ladies female wimmin folks prayer- meeting circle, instead of scandalizing this way. Sue. — Yes, Emma, we have been talking about every body awfully ,hwt I'm sure 7 meant no harm. Lizzie. — Nor I. I am sorry that I forgot the Golden Pvule for an instant. Fan. — And the Inquisitive club ! It was lots of fun, but when I turn it round and think of it as Aunt Har- ding does, it is ridiculous ! Oh, I am ashamed to re- member that I proposed such a thing ! Emma. — Girls ! I do believe we have been suffering this afternoon with scandal on the brain. Auntie. — I guess so, too, gals. Girls. — Yes, scandal on the brain ! that must be what ails us, and if the audience, and Aunt Harding will forgive us, we pledge ourselves [they join hands] hereafter to speak well of our friends and say nothing of our enemies. Auntie. — I'll forgive ye with all my heart, gals [steps in front of the gii^W] ; I guess this is not the only Insquistion club in the world, nor these the only ones with " scandal on the hrain.^^ an' I would advise all per- sons to " mind their own business" if they don't want to catch the orful disease ! [ Curtain falls.'] THE COMMON BOND. Page. — Who are you, my little neighbor, Wandering in the woods so late ? Oft I've seen you at your labor, Loitering near the garden-gate. Peasant-girl. — I'm the Miller Martin's daughter : Gentle Page, I crave your pardon, If I never stopped to heed you, Lingering near the Countess' garden. 24 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mme the task to weed the borders, Mine, the strawberries to gather ; Yours, to serve your lady's orders, Or unhehn her noble father. Yet believe, oh, stately boy ! Dressed in rich and gay profusion, Satin scarf and velvet cap. Plume and tress in bright confusion; Mine as light a heart as thine, Songs as blithe, and sleep as tender I Page. — Yes, my little cottage-maid ! For this grace our thanks we render, Daily at our mistress' board. Nightly at the chapel shrine. Thanks and praise our hearts afford, That thy lot is blest as mine ; That the rich and poor, as one, Share the bounties of Our Father 1 Feel alike the summer sun. And the garden treasures gather ! This the tie that binds, in love, Great and small, sublime and lovely; Lifts our grateful hearts above, Toward the throne of God, most holy I PHRENOLOGY. Dr. Phrenology [with a pompous tone]. — Ah I whut a wondrous age is this ; an age of philosophj^ and intel- lectual light. Who can contemplate the rapid march of intellect, as it rolls onward in proud triumph, and not feel his heart exult in the approaching perfect ability of all human knowledge ; a triumph at which the stars of heaven stand aghast ; but oh ! phrenology, most occult, 3^et most noble of all sciences ; though now ridiculed and scoffed at, thou art destined to burst forth in daz- zling splendor, and sweep away the darkness of ages. March on thou science of scieuceSj thou grand climac- teric of all human discoveries. Oh, happy, thrice happy era, when phrenology STANDARD DIALOGUES • 25 Linguist [interrupting']. — Oh ! circlaso Rexator, are ^ o\\ giving lectures to ghosts and hobgoblins ? Phreu' o^ogy comes from the Greek word Phreno, Phrenoso, Pephronoko, (to bring one to his wits,) and hence also Phresis, Pephriticus, Morbus (a disease which seems to have turned your brains). Inverse ortum, and happy, thrice happy will 3^ou be if phrenology restores j^ou to your wits, before you find the interior of a Hospitium Insanatum ; in plain English, " a bedlam." f*HRENOLOGiST — You impudent, brainless fellow, do you thus address a man of my honorable standing and profession. Perhaps you are not aware of addressing a professor of that most sublime and most profound of all scibflces, phrenology. Have you not heard, sir, of Dr. Bm.ipologies, FRS., AAS., LLD ? L/NGUiST [LLD., Legiim]. — Doctor, the very degree acquired by our honorable President, and also conferred upoYi the celebrated Prince Black Hawk. I am per- suaded of your right to the title Bumpologicus, Phren- ologiv'us, Pompologicus, or any other logicus. Professor Ponderation, a noted philosopher, lives just here, who would be glad, I presume, to learn something of this Occulticimus, Etnohellicimus Scienti- tia from so learned and renowned a professor. I'll call him, sir. [j5'noc/?s] Hallo ! [Servant enters.'] Servant. — What's wanting? Linguist. — Is your master at home ? Servant. — I guess he is, sir; he was here just now. . Linguist. — Tell him Mr. Obstreperosity, a particular friend, wants to see him. Servant. — Ohstrecherosity , I should think so, yes, I will tell him. [Servajit departs.'] Phrenologist [alone ivith linguist]. — I contend, sir, that phrenology is one of the most important discoveries ever invented by man. Wh^^, sir, b}' a careful inspec- tion of the cicibral developments, every trait in a man's character is scientifically^ explained, and infallibly dis- covered. [Enter p)hilosoplier and servant.] Linguist [to philosopher]. — Good-morning, Mr. Pon- deration, I have the honor to introduce you, sir, to Dr. Bumpologicus, Erudicimuset Biimpologiciuius, profes- SG". who can tell at once, by a tangible oj^e ration upon the . 26 * STANDARD DIALOGUES excrescences of y oiir pericranium, whether you are a phi' losopher, phrenologist, physiognomist, fiddler or fool. Philosopher. — I had supposed, sir, that in order to determine a man's genius and character, it was neces- sary to descend beneath the exterior of the skull, but it seems I have been mistaken. Phrenologist. — I presume, sir, you are unacquainted with my theory — which is that each faculty of the mind is appropriated to a particular organ of the brain, which organ is known by the cerebral developments on the skull ; and that every man is scientifically under the necessity of being and thinking what these prominences indicate that he should be and think. Servant. — Now, Mr. Bumpus cornfessor, I know thaVs true, for t'other day I bumped my skull most plaguely, and I tell you I couldn't help thinking fifty things in a half a second. Philosopher. — It will require some phrenological sagacity, sir, to make it appear that a man must neces- sarily act thus and thus, because he has a bump on this Ot that part of the skull. Phrenologist. — I tell you, sir, that careful and ex- tensive observations have clearly proved that all are under the influence of these several organs, and it is morally impossible for them to act otherwise, than these cerebral developments indicate they should. Servant \to Bumpolog ions'], — Sir, a swarm of ponder- ations will fly before you, like grasshoppers before a limping hemp-dresser. You dash at once the scales from our eye-winkers, and in streams light through skulls, though as thick as the staves of a wash-tub, and opens not only the origin of dispositions, but thoughts, which come forth in the character of bumps on the per- icranum ; even if they come as plenty as the flies about my master's fish-pond in summer. \_Linguist speaks to philosopher.'] Linguist. — Such discussions as these, if not instruc- tive, are amusing ; but I must retire to amuse myself at my library, having added some new volumes to my fofnaer stock. Good-day, sir. \_Retires.'] [^Some one calls to the phreiwlogist.'] STANDARD DIALOGUES 27 You will confer a favor by stepping this way. I will, sir, as it gives me as much pleasure to teach in private as well as in public, \_He retires.y^ CORRECT HABITS. CHARACTERS. Salem Town, a distinguished teacher. John W. Newman, Henry D. Wise, \ Salem Town's pupils. William Brewer, Scene 1. — Salem Town's Address. My much-esteemed Pupils: — As our school has now drawn to a close, and I am about to leave you, perhaps to see you no more on earth, I feel it my dutj^ to call your attention to several subjects, which are intimately connected with your future prosperity, usefulness, and happiness. Almost every da}^ since m}^ connection with this school I have given you more or less of advice and counsel, " here a little and there a little." 1 am now before you for the last time, and shall proceed to give you my last, m^^ parting counsel and advice, as to the course which, in my opinion, it will be both your duty and interest to pursue. I trust you. will hear me pa- tiently, and with the utmost attention. You will be called upon in a few years, should j^ou live, to battle with the stern realities of life. And as it is indispensably necessarj^ for the soldier, before going to battle, to be properly, armed and equipped, and have the benefit of thorough drilling and discipline in the art of war, so it is quite as necessary for you to undergo a thorough training in mind, morals, and manners, before * This dialogue is intended to ridicule only the quack phren- ological lecturers, who travel over the country and misrepresent and bring into disrepute the science of Phrenology. We wish that triflers could all be rid out of society, and this important subject represented by its more able and conscientious advo- cates 2S STANDARD DIALOGUES you can enter the great arena of active life with any well grounded hope of becoming a really useful memhei of society, and occupying high positions of honor and trust. Life is one great struggle, and he is wise that prepares himself to meet its trials, its duties, and its emergencies. No intelligent person will pretend to deny, that the better a man is educated, the better citizen he will be — the more good will he do — the happier he will be — the more capable of making others happy — and the better will he subserve the great and noble purposes for which his Creator designed him. Early impressions are the most lasting, and have a wonderful influence in forming character. Hence the reason why parents and teachers should take great pains to make good and correct impressions upon the minds of children. It is said, and with good reason, too, that *' youth receives impressions, and manhood ratifies them." How important, then, that correct outlines for future life be presented to the youthful mind, that a broad foundation may be laid for the great temple of Truth. My first advice to you is, study to do right, irrespec- tive of consequences. Do right, and let the conse- quences take care of themselves. In your conduct toward your schoolmates, and others with whom you associate, cultivate high and noble principles of gene- rosit}'' and kindness, and prove your friendship by a willingness to sacrifice your own happiness to secure that of others. Guard against ill temper. Labor to subdue every bad passion. Choose to suffer wrong rather than to do wrong ; and, what I regard as very important, never indulge in speaking ill of any one. If you can not speak well, hold your peace. Cultivate po- liteness everywhere, at home and abroad — first, at home, and then it will be easy and natural for you to practice it abroad. Let these principles grow with your growth, and strengthen with your strength ; and when you shall have completed your labors at school, your correct moral principles will turn your learning into the right channel, and you will enter out upon life with fair pros- pects of gaining the esteem and confidence of the wise STANDAED DIALOGUES 29 and the good. You will be promoted to the highest positions of honor and trust, and 3^ou will fill out the measure of your days in the full enjoyment of the mul- tiplied blessings of life, an ornament to society and an honor to your country. In conclusion, I would say a few words in reference to the best means to be employed to develop and strengthen the mind, and prepare you to search success- fully for the exhaustless treasures of knowledge. The first indisputable requisite is, punctuality in at- tending school. And whenever the hour arrives for study, summon to your aid every faculty of your mind, and never allow it to be diverted from your lesson till it is completely mastered. This going to your task half dreaming and half awake, irresolute and uninterested, is just the way to weaken j^our mind, and to hedge up your way with diflSculties, which accumulate and appear more and more insuperable at every step in your ascent up the hill of science. Bend to your task, my boys. Let every fibre of your minds be tasked to their utmost tension, and soon diflftculties, one after another, will give way, and vanish like dew before the morning sun. Thus will your minds gain strength, and expand, and enlarge, and you will be able to take wider and more comprehen- sive views of nature and of science. Thus go on, from day to day, deporting yourselves in good morals, and habits, and manners, as well as in every thing that pertains to the good student, in such a dignified and sensible manner as will command the love and esteem of your schoolmates, your parents, and of your teachers. Now, my much-esteemed pupils, fill up faithfully the out- lines I have given you — carry out faithfull}^ the doctrines and principles I have oflTered you as your guiding-star up the hill of science — and ir a few yesivs you will have completed your studies, and your worth will be appre- ciated, and societ}^ with one unanimous voice, will shout, " Come up higher !" and you will be promoted to high and honorable positions, and stand preeminenth^ above those of your schoolmates who, though they may have en- joyed equal advantages with you, yet fail to make use of tHe proper means and applian( es for the accomplish- 14 30 STANDARI) DIALOGUES ment of that which those of higher aspirations have at« tained. I submit these well-intended remarks to jour serious reflection, trusting that some of you at least will profit b} them, and thai, after many days, I shall see, with satisfaction and pride, the fruits of my labor. \_Exit all hut John, Henry, and William.'] John. — Well, boys, what do you think of Mr. Town's good-by speech ? Henry. — I think the advice he gave us was excellent, and I'm more than half inclined to make the most of it. William. — Yes, I'd like to see you about it. It will be after this, I reckon. I don't swallow all his doctrines by a long ways. John. — Why, Bill, what did he say that you can take exceptions to ? William. — Why he said a heap of things. John. — Well, let's hear what they were. William. — Oh, I don't remember all he said, but I know I aint going to trouble myself to do half nor quarter of what he recommended. Think I'm going to split my head open studying ? no sir-e-e ! Henry. — Did he say you must do that ? William. — No ; not in those words exactl}^, but that's what he meant, I suppose. John. — He urged the importance of forming correct habits of study, and said it would be greatlj^ to our in- terest to study hard; and I believe it and, as Henry said, I'm resolved to carry out in every particular, as far as I am able, the plan he offered and recommended for our adoption. William. — Two silly boys ! just as though 3'ou can remember half he said over night. He can't cage me, boys, depend upon it ; I'm not going to submit to all this school drudgery for nothing. The great thing in this world is to get a living. Mr. Town kept telling us almost every day that the great object in coming to school was to learn to think. Nonsense ! I could think well enough afore I over went to school at all. Then ag'in he would tell us that the grand object was, to pre- STANDARD DIALOGUES 31 pare us for the great and responsible duties of after life, to use Ms own words. Pshaw, who believes such as that ; I think the great object is to get a good livings and just as though splittin' one's head open tryin' to work hard sums, or conjugate a parcel of nonsensical verbs, would help anybody about hoein' corn and such, or make oak rails split open any easier I It's all nonsense. It's well enough to know how to read and write some, and the like of that. Just look at old John Cross, why he's as rich as a Jew, and he doesn't know a letter. John. — Well, old John Cross, as you call him, is one out of a thousand. He has managed, it is true, by his shrewdness, and avarice, and dishonesty combined, to accumulate what some would call a fortune. But what signifies wealth to such a man as Mr. Cross ! why he's one of tlie most unhappy beings on earth, and everybody knows tliat societ}- is no better off for all his wealth, and he is esteemed as little perhaps as any man in this country. His money does him no good nor any- body else. William. — Well, I know I'd enjoy mj^self mighty well, if I had half his mone}^ Henry. — You seem to forget, or else you never knew in what true happiness consists, William ; for my part, I think there is but little happiness in money, especially when its use is controlled by a spirit of avarice and selfishness. William. — You precious little learned saint j'ou ! do tell me, if you please, what happiness consists in, if it's not in getting mone3^ I heard our teacher say here one day in school, that ever^^ body was eager in pursuit of happiness, now any bod}^ can see with only one eye open that every body's hard at work to get money, and when they get it aint they happy ? now then I Henry. — This kind of happiness is only temporary ; it vanishes as soon as the money has gone. There is a happiness of a higher order ; a happiness that is ever springing up afresh in the heart and which sweetens many of the ills of life. William. — Pray be so kind as to tell what it is ? Henry. — Well, sir, I can in a very few words. It ii 32 STANDARD DIALOGUES the happiness which arises from doing good and making others happy. William. — Yes, yes, I understand. Well I'm too in- dependent to want anybody's help to make me happy. My doctrine is ''let every man take care of himself." If I can manage by hook or crook or in some way to get plenty of money, I'll risk but what I'll be happy enough to do me, and get through the world as respect- ably as either of you who are so crazy about all those hifalutin notions and whims of Mr. Town. John. — Come, boys, we've shown our colors. We are about to separate and go to our respective homes, in different States, and I move we suspend further discus- sion, till old father Time, in future years, assumes the province of Umpire, and then we'll be apt to get a wise and correct decision. Henry. — I second the motion. \^Exit all."] Scene 2. — Salem Town with spectacles on reading a newspaper. A rap is heard at the door. Enter John W. Newman, governor of New York. Governor Newman. — Good-evening, sir. Salem Town. — Good, evening sir, walk in. Governor Newman. — I think I recognize my old friend and teacher Salem Town. [^Shaking hands."] Salem Town. — My name is Town, sir, but really you have the advantage of me — that voice sounds famil- iar, it seeriis as though I ought to know you. \_Gets the candle and holds it up to his face.] I do declare I can come within one of guessing. It is either John New- man or Henry Wise, and if you'll repeat the first line of Brutus's address at the funeral of Caesar, I can tell which it is. Governor Newman. — Friends, Romans, Country- men — Salem Town [overjoyed]. — It's John Newman I it's John Newman, I know it is ! Am I not correct? Governor Newman. — Quite correct — John Newman, your old student at Aurora, New York — I'm glad to see you. Salem Town. — And I'm rejoiced to see you, too. I've been long wishing for this. STANDARD DIALOGUES 33 Governor Newman. — Having business iu Missouri I resolved not to leave the State till I had paid you. a visit, and tendered you my sincerest gratitude for your instructions in early life, and particularly for the trul^^ excellent advice and counsel you gave us on the last day of school. I owe my peculiar success in m^^ studies, and in my political career, and my position in society and in business to the address to which 1 have j ust alluded. Salem Town. — It rejoices my heart, sir, to hear you profited so much by it. But tell me where is Henry Wise. Do you know any thing of him ? Governor Newman. — Oh yes; he's coming to see you. Salem Town. — When, pray? [_A rap at the door. J Governor Newman. — 1 guess he's coming now. \_Enter Judge Wise']. Governor Newman [takes Wise by the arm]. — This is Judge Wise. Salem Town [shaking hands'] — Judge Wise, your most obedient. But I thought 3^ou said you expected Henry Wise, ^-our old class-mate, here to see me to night Governor Newman. — This is he — the very same. He, too, is on precisely the same errand that brought me here. Salem Town. — Why, Henry, how do j'ou do ? Judge Wise. — I am well, and exceeding glad to see you. Why, Governor Newman, isn't this a rich treat ! Salem Town. — Who's this you are calling Governor Newman ; explain yourself. You don't mean to say that my old student John W. Newman here has turned gov- ernor ? Judge Wise. — It is truly so, or rather the people of New York made him governor. Salem Town. — John Newman a governor, and Henry Wise judge. Pretty respectably sounding prefixes to your names, 3^ou've got, boys ; but Governor Newman you didn't tell me what kind of a judge Henr3^ is, but I suppose [laughing] it's one of the commonest kind, probate judge, or something that way. Governor Newman. — Higher than that, Mr. Town. He has the h^uor of being Judge of the Supreme Court of the United States. 34 STANDARD DIALOGUES Salem Town. — Is it possible ! But I am not so much astonished after all, for I often remarked when you were my students, that John Newman and Henry Wise would some day, in my opinion, be men of distinc- tion. I gave as a reason, that they were very studious, and seemed to take great pains to cultivate good morals and manners, and to comply with the rules of school. But what's become of William — the boys used to call him Bill — somebody, I can't think who ? Governor Newman. — You mean William Brewer, I presume. Salem Town. — Yes, that's the name. Have you ever heard what's become of him ? I don't carry a very pleas- ing record of him in my mind. I always thought he would never be of much account in the world. Judge Wise. — I understood several years ago that he had joined a traveling circus, and was serving in the capacity of teamster. I learned, also, that he had become very dissipated, and was, on the whole, rather a worthless character. \^Fnter a servanf] Servant. — Here's a man at the gate, wants to know if he can get to stay all night. He says he's got no money, but he is a tinker and will mend up the old tin pans in the morning. Salem Town. — Tell him to come in. [^Enter tiaker or Bill Brewer,'] Good-evening, gentlemen ; I called to see if I could get supper and lodgings to-night, and I'm pretty tired and hungry, too, having traveled since breakfast with- out dinner, 'cause why plain enough — I had no mone}^, and nobody appeared to want any work (k)ne in my line. If you please allow me to stay with you to-night and in the morning hunt up all your old tin ware and as sure as my name is Bill Brewer \_all look at each, other] I'll mend them all up in the nicest manner for you. Salem Town. — Be seated, sir, you look tired. You can stay with us, sir. I never refused supper and lodg- ing to a traveler whether he has money or not. Did I understmd you to say your name was Bill Brewer? Wm. Brewer. — Yes sir; William Brewer is my name: STANDARD DIALOGUES 35 but the bo3^s used to call me Bill, and evmybody, I be* lieve, calls me Bill now. Salem Town. — Pardon my curiosity ; but did you ever go to school in Aurora, New York ? Wm. Brewer. — Yes, sir, when I was a boy ; and I often think of the discussion John Newman, Henry Wise and me had after our teacher, Mr. Town, had given his farewell address to the school. You see, they indorsed every word he said, and promised themselves they'd do just exactly as he advised us all to do. But I took strong grounds against his speech, and we had quite a warm discussion over it. Salem Town. — Well, who got the best of it ? Wm. Brewer. — Well, we adjourned without any decis- eion, and agreed to call in old Father Time as Umpire, and renew the discussion the next time we met, which we didn't expect would happen for many years, and goodness onl}^ knows whether we'll ever meet or not. Salem Town. — Do you think you would know j^our old teacher, Mr. Town, if you should see him? Wm. Brewer. — Well, I dare say I might ; but he's get- ting pretty old, and may be dead for what I know. Salem Town. — Not dead yet, sir. My name is Salem Town, the ver}^ same j^ou went to school to in Aurora, New York. I don't wonder you didn't recognize me, for sickness and old age have greatly altered my ap- pearance. \_Shaking hands.'] How do you do, William ? Wm. Brewer. — Not to say very well, sir ; and the worst is I'm ashamed to meet you under such circum- stances. Salem Town. — Oh, make yourself easy, William I There's many a one worse off than you in the world, I dare say. Wm. Brewer. — That all may be true ; but when I reflect how stupid I was, not to heed the good advice you gave us, I can hardly forgive myself. The conse- quence of this neglect is that I'm now a poor wanderer through the world, without any home, without friends, and without a respectable trade even, by which to make a living. Salem Town. — I presume you would be glad to meet with your old friends, John and Henry, and renew 36 STANDARD DIALOGUES your acquaintance, and finish up that discussion — - wouldn't you? Wm. Brewer. — Sorter glad and sorter not, as the old clown used to say. Why they've got up so high in the world before this time they wouldn't know me, wouldn't even say "how do?" to such a bundle of rags as I am^ aid a tinker at that, Salem Town. — Oh ! I have no doubt they would both be gla^d to see you. Do j-ou think you would know them if you should meet them in your travels ? Wm. Brewer. — Know them ! yes, in a minute. I shall never forget how they looked. Salem Town. — Pardon my impoliteness. I suppose you are not acquainted with these gentlemen ? Wm. Brewer. — Never saw them before, that I recol- lect of, sir. Salem Town. — Well, William Brewer, allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Judge Wise and Governor Newman, your classmates in Aurora. I will withdraw while 3'ou conclude your long postponed discussion ; trusting that old Father Time, who is now present, and to whom 3^ou agreed to submit your arguments for de- cision at your next meeting, will do you full justice. Wm. Brewer. — Am I dreaming ! The decision is made and I am satisfied. By faithfully filling up the outlines, submitted to us by our worthy teacher, to be our guide in the formation of our habits and character, Henry Wise is now Judge Wise, and John Newman is now Governor Newman, and I, Bill Brewer, by rejecting bis counsel, am — what ? An outcast and a tinker. [ Curtain falls,^ STANDARD DIALOGUES 37 THE SECRET. Hettie [running to overtake Mary on her way to schoof]. — Oh, Mary, wait a minute, won't you ? Don't be in a hurry. Mary. — Why, Hettie, what is the matter ? You look as tired as though you had been running this half hour. Hettie. — Well, I should think I was tired, running clear from the corner, and calling you loud enough to split my throat open. Mary. — Well, Hettie, you know I didn't hear you ; if I had I'd Avaited ; but we musn't stop here, for it's almost time for the bell to ring, and I wouldn't be late for any thing. Hettie. — Oh, well, we sha'n't be late, for it was only eight o'clock, when I started, and I've run all the way. Let's sit down here a few minutes, it's so cool and shady, and I'm so tired. Mary. — Well, I'll wait a few minutes, and only just a few. Hettie. — Why, Mary, I believe you like to go to school, but I don't. It's school, school, school, school, from morning till night. I hate these old books, and this old school. I wish there was no such thing as school. Mary. — Why, Hettie, I don't; I like to go to school, and get m}^ lessons, and write compositions, because mother says I ought to. Hettie. — Well, I don't, if mother does say I ought to. But, oh, Mary [clapping her hands'], I heard some« thing. I know something, Mary. Mary. — Well, Hettie, you'll tell me, wont you ? You know I always tell you every thing. Hettie. — I'd like to, Mary, but then I can't. It's a secret. Mother doesn't know that I know it, nor sister Emily. Mary. — Oh, now, Hettie, you're too bad. If I ever know a secret, I'd tell Dora Yan, would I! I shan't tell you — but come, tell me, please do. Hettie — Oh, I musn't, Mary, indeed I musn't 38 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mother said it was a secret, and I don't know what she'd do to me if she knew that I know it. I'll tell you some, though. Mary. — Oh, now come, tell me. If you will, I'll give you all these flowers [Jiolding a bouquet]. Hettie. — I say I'll tell you some, but I can't tell the secret. Mary. — Well, I'll give these flowers to Dora. But come now, Hettie, if you will tell me all I'll give you my new wax doll that father brought me from New York. Its nose isn't cracked, nor nothing. Hettie. — I can't tell you all, indeed I can't, but I'll tell you some. Mr. White comes to our house, oh, so often I And every time he comes he pats me on the cheek, and says, "Hettie, isn't it most your bedtime ?" just as if I was a little girl and didn't know my own bedtime. But that isn't all. If I ask Emily any thing she says, "never mind now, dear ; run ofl" to your play." And mother comes and calls me, and says, "didn't you know your sister was engaged ?" I suppose she didn't think I knew what that meant, but I did though, and I think she might answer my question if she is engaged. But I don't care, for I know some- thing, and she doesn't know that I know it, either. The other night after Mr. White went away, mother and Emily were talking. It was so warm they opened the bed-room door, and they thought I was asleep, but I wasn't. Emily had a new white dress ; it cost fifty dollars at the City Mill Store, and the best dressmaker in town is making it. And mother is baking such lots of cake ! I just wish you could see it. There is one, I do believe it's that high [ineasuring its height from iJie floor'], all made out of little ones on top of each other, and all covered over with candies and raisins. There is another — I do believe it's that big [inaking a half circle with her arms], and just as white as snow. Mary \_ jumping up and clapping her hands]. — Oh I I know, I know, I know ; Emily is going to be married. — Emily is going to be married. Hettie \_ jumping up and throwing her arms around Mary] — Well, I didn't tell you, did I ? You guessed it — yoii guessed it — you guessed it, didn't you ? STANDAKD DIALOGUES 39 Mary. — Oh, there goes the bell ! I wish we hadn't «vaited. Hettie. — Oh, well, we shan't be late — well run. THE TWO FRIENDS. CHARACTERS. Tom, a school boy. Harry, his friend. James Trueman, son of his employer, late from college. BcENE 1. — A village street. Tom and Harry meet, one well dressed, the other shabbily. Harry. — Good-mornino^, Tom. Going to school to- diy? Tom. — No, Harry ; pa is sick and I can not go any rnore. Harry. — What 1 never ? Tom. — My school days are over, I fear. I did so hope I could continue this session, but ma saj^s it's im- possible — I must work to support the family. Harry. — Too bad, Tom. VVe will miss you so ; our teacher, too, will miss 3'ou sadly. Where will you work ? Tom. — On Mr. Trueman's farm. Harry. — That old curmudgeon. It's a mile to his farm, and, work as you may, 3^ou- can't please him, better come to school and get the prize. Tom. — I can not [^sighs']. But, Harry, I will be at home every evening; I can study, you know. Harry. — Oh, yes, youll be a ripe scholar, no doubt, with your little brothers crying around. Tom [after a pause']. — If somebody would cnly teach me. Harry. — I believe our teacher is too bi/sy to teach around after school hours. Tom. — I did not mean him — if some of the boys would study w'th me— ^^ 40 STANDARD DIALOGUES Harry. — I would like to help 3'ou, Tom, but I have so many engagements. May be Bill Smith would study with you. I'll mention it to him. \^Turns away.'] Tom. — Oh, no ; don't tell anybody. Harry [comes back']. — Well, I won't. I'll be your friend, Tom, through thick and thin. If you want a favor come to me. Good-by, Tom. Good luck to you. IGoes off muttering that's the way father talks to poor people. Curtain falls.] Scene 2. — Tom alone in Mr. Truemaji^s library reading. Enter James. James — Tom, you appear to be devoted to books. I hope you are not reading any thing trashy. \_Looks over his shoulder, steps back surprised.] Is it possible that you read Latin ? Tom. — A little, sir. I have not much time for stud}^ James [_seats himself]. — Any other boy would say, no time for stud3^ But how do you get on by your- self. Tom. — Very slowly, but ma says, as I am learning so many things I must not expect to get on fast. James. — You are not j^erplexing yourself with too many studies I hope ? Tom. — Oh, no, Algebra is m}^ principal study ; but she says I am learning patience, diligence, and self-reliance beside learning to reason widel}^ and think deeply ; these are learned without being studies, and my teacher said the last day I was at school, that the nation needed thinkers. James. — Very true ; I wish there were more such mothers in the land. Tom, could you not stay with us every night? Tom — Don't know, sir; believe pa would let me, now he is well. James. — Get his consent and I will teach you from six till nine every evening. Tom. — Thank you, Mr. Trueman ; I can never thank you enough. But you must only give me a few lessons, then I can get on better ; it will be such dull, tiresome work, that I can not allow my best friend to be more imposed upon. STANDARD DIALOGUES 41 James. — You will confer a favor by becouuDg my pupil. I still prosecute my studies, but only occasionally and I want to learn of you those other things that are not studies. Please see your father to-morrow. Tom.— I will ; thank you, sir. [Picks up his hat.'] Good-night, sir. \_Exit.'] James. — Good-night, Tom. \_Looks after him.'] I will follow his bright example and do my whole duty better in future. [ Curtain falls.] KILLED WITH KINDNESS. Scene 1, — Two girls walking arm-in-arm. Abbt. — When mamma first proposed the idea, it struck me as rather absurd. Kate. — It still seems so to me, I must confess, Abby. What is the use to spend your poeket-mone}^ for people who can't appreciate 3''our kindness ? Whatever we do for Miss Fling, will be sure to give offence. If it's a goose, she'll wish it was a turke}^ ; if it's a turkey, she'll say, " Oh, you foolish Galathians, why didn't you bring a goose ?" Abby [laughing]. — Well, it's a matter of course that we shall not please her. But will it not be all the more generous in us to give, without expecting thanks? She is a poor, crazed old body, any way ; and you know we were sent to her school when we were mere babies. She taught us the alphabet — remember that. Kate — I shall not forget it. It was severe at the time, and now it's awful to remember. She taught us to read in two letters ; that was the extent of her accom- plishments. Abby. — Our parents were afraid our pronunciation would be ruined if we staid longer. Now she hasn't taught for years. She is p^r, and I pity her. Kate. — So do I. I pitj- her for being Mercy Ann Fling, a compound of crab-apples, cambric-needles and vinegar. 42 STANDARD DIALOGUES Abby. — And for living alone. It must have been hard for her to lose the property her father left. Mamma says it affected her mind. Kate. — Dear me ! Did she ever have a mind ? It has dwindled away to a remnant, weak and small. Well, Abby, perhaps you are right. I'm willing to con- tribute the larger half of my pocket-money toward buy- ing the poor creature some holiday presents, if ihe other girls will do the same. Abby. — You dear old Kitty ; you'll give more than the rest of us, I dare say, in spite of your joking. Kate. — Don't flatter me, or I wont give a penny. Let's meet to-night and make our plans ; but we must look out, ever^^ one of us, for a good scolding. [ Curtain faMs."] Scene. 2. — Miss Fling^s parlor, poorly furnished but neat. Miss Fling, respectably but coarsely dressed, with spectacles, frizette and cap, sits alone, knitting ; her face bound up with a red silk handkerchief. Miss Fling. — TJgh, how the wind blows I If it comes from the north, it slams the blinds ; if it comes from the east, it settles in my teeth.' I'm worse off than Job, for I've nobody to speak to. Should think some of the neighbors might come in, when they know I'm alone. But they wont. Nobody remembers me now-a-days, not even my old scholars. If I hadn't been cheated out of my property, I should have been treated with attention. It would have been, "My dear Miss Fling," here, and " My dear Miss Fling,' there. I should have gone to the first houses to eat Christmas dinners, and none of these cold messes lying around in my cupboard. Oh, no ! But here I am, lone and 'lorn, suffering with ague, and nobody comes near me, to see if I'm alive or dead. \^A knock. Miss Fling settles her cap and shakes out her dress.^ I wish people would stay awa}^ ! I should have caught a nice little doze in about a minute ; but I never can have the hause to myself. [Goes to the door."] Good evening, Aboy Fletcher. Walk in, child. Abby. — Good evening. Miss Fling. [Sets a little box on the table- 1 Wish you a happy New Year. STANDARD DIALOGUES 43 Miss Fling. — You needn't. I shall not have one, if you do wish it. \_Looks earnestly at the box.'] Abby. — And a hundred more, Miss Fling. Miss Fling. — Keep to the truth, child. You don't wish me a quarter of a hundred New Years ; or, if you do, you must have lost your senses. You didn't learn such morality at my school! Abby \smiling']. — I merely offer the compliments of the season to my old teacher. I hope she is not offended ? Miss Fling [angrr27?/].— Offended ? One would think, to hear you, that I had the temper of a North American tigress ! Such insinuations. Miss Abby, would never be thought of, if I had not been cheated out of my property. Abby [opens the box']. — My dear Miss Fling, I've been wishing to make you a little holiday present, and hope 3^oull please accept this cap. Miss Fling [taking it']. — Thank you. Miss Abby. Remarkable, I'm sure, that you should happen to re- member a poor lady like me, if I was 3^our first teacher. [Examines the ribbon.'] Purple, upon my word ! If there is a color I can't abide, it's purple. But of course you didn't know that, and I'm just as much obliged to you [Puts it on over her other cap ; looks in the mirror.] Too large over the ears, too small in the crown ; doesn't come far enough forward to meet my hair. Now, child, if you'd only taken the measure of my head ! Abby [smiling]. — Perhaps, dear madam, if you should remove that silk bandage [Knock. Miss Fling opens the door. Enter two girls.'\ Both Girls. — A happy New Year, Miss Fling, and many pleasant returns I Miss Fling. — Two more of my old scholars ! How did it happen ? [Offers chairs.] Please take seats, young ladies. If you had called on me thirt}^ years ago, I could have offered you hair-cloth and mahogany. [Sighs.] But since I've lost m}" property Louise [opening a bandbox]. — Miss Fling, I thought I would like to give you something as a token of my 44 STANDARD DIALOGUES good-will. [Offers a velvet bonnet.'] I hope you will like this. It was made by my own milliner. Miss Fling [su^yrised']. — Why ! Thank you, Miss Louise. Really, this is quite unexpected. [^Turns it over on her hand.'] Some like black bonnets ; but, for m^^ part, I think they are only suitable for ladies in the down-hill of life, [^Girls look at one another, and smile. 3Tiss Fling puts the bonnet over her cap, and it perches upon the back of her head.] Well, Miss Louise, [look- ing in the miry^or,] yovvv " own milliner" may be a French lady, and eat frogs every day of her life, but she doesn't know how to make a bonnet ! Louise. — Miss Fling, if you'll only remove that silk bandage and one of your caps- Miss Fling \_sha7yly]. — I've got the tickle^^oo in my cheeks, and it's likelj^ to stay there I Do you think I'll wear a little nut-shell that wont leave room for so much as this ? Louise. — But it's so thick ! Miss Fling [perching the bonnet on the summit of her head]. — Because I've caught cold in my ear; the tinny- pum is affected. Take home this furbelow, and see if your doll can get it on. [But at the same time she puts the bonnet iri the bandbox, and carefully sets it away in a closet.] Jane [offering a shawl']. — Please accept, Miss Fling, with the compliments of the season. Miss Fling. — Thank you, Jane. Why, really, this is most astonishing ! A shawl is better than nothing. I had a velvet cloak once, with eleo^ant frinoe. But I never exjicct to have a cloak of any kind again ; for when people lose their property Jane. — Excuse me. Miss Fling ; but I once heard you sa}^ you wouldn't take the gift of a cloak, so I ven- tured to offer a shawl. Miss Fling. — You might have heard me say I never would take the gift of a shawd. Those were m}^ words, Jane. [Putting it on.] It is the oldest looking gar- ment in the world, only suitable for a ladj^ in the down- hill of lif^. Jane [grieved]. — I'm so sorry. Miss Fling. STANDARD DIALOGUES 45 Louise [^asidej. — She is delighted at heart. Never mind what she says, Jenny. [Knocks. 3Iiss Fling opens the door, still accoutred ill her new garments ; shawl put on awry ; bonnet perched on the organ of benevolence. Enter Kate.'] Kate. — Good-evening, Miss Fling. [_Shakef hands heartily.'] Ah, ha ! You are dressed cap-a-pie! The happiest of New Years to you, for ever! \_Offers to kiss her.] Miss Fling \_drawing back]. — Why, Kate ! Kate. — Oh ! but you taught me to read in two letters, Miss Fling. Can't you let me kiss you for New Year ? Miss Fling. — I was brought up never to kiss. My father was a gentleman of the old school. He consid- ered kissing a foolish use of the lips. Kate. — A fig for foolishness ! \_Seizes Miss Fling playfully by the shoulders ; kisses her several times.] There, there ! Now I've kissed you for Christmas an(^ New Year, and Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving ; and I'd like to see you help it. Miss Fling! Miss Fling. — Oh, you foolish Galathian ! Yo-ur manners are very uncultivated, and always were You'll ruin my beautiful new cap and shawl. Jane [aside]. — She calls the cap and shawl beautiful! Louise [aside]. — She has the same opinion of the bonnet. She likes it all the better for being in the height of fashion. Kate. — Now, Miss Fling, what a figure you are I What makes j-ou roll up your face in a blanket ? Miss Fling. — A handkerchief, child ! On account of tickleroo ; and also a pain in the ear. The tinnypum is affected. Kate. — No wonder. Miss Fling. You keep your room too cold. Please, Abb}^ put some more coal on, for we came to spend the evening sociall}'^ ; and this is ciirtainly a chill^^ reception. Miss Fling. — You were alwaj^s called a forward child, when you went to m}^ school. You used to creep under the table, and I couldn't make you come out. Vou haven't improved one speck, Kate G-ilman 1 The 15 46 STANDARD DIALOGUES idea of visitors touching my fire ! How do you kno\f I've any coal to spare ? Kate. — Oh ! Miss Fling, you like to be hospitable, you know you do. And now, please step into the next room ; for I've brought you a new dress, and long to see you try it on. Louise, will you light this little lamp for us ? l^Louise takes the lamp and looks r' und for matches.^ Miss Fling. — There is the match-safe, Louise, right under the clock. If it had been a bear, it would have bitten you. I shall be sure to catch my death o' cold, going out of this fire-room, Kate Gilman. But I sup- pose I must do as you say, you foolish child ! Kate. — To be sure, you must do as I say. And I am, as you playfully observe, a foolish child. \^JExeunt together.'] Abby. — Now is our time. \_Goes to the door, followed by the other two girls. They all return with baskets.'] Louise [spreading a white cloth on the table, and putting upon it a large frosted cake, ornamented']. — Behold a peace-offering for our amiable hostess I Abby [putting on pitch^^r and glasses]. — Here's some lemonade, which we will diink to the gentle lady's health. Jane [adding two handsome dishes of confectionery]. — And here are some goodies. May they sweeten her disposition ! Abby [suspending an arch with letters of green, "A Happy New Year,'^ over the table]. — She told me I needn't wish her a Happy New Year ; she shouldn't have one, if I did ; but what do you call this ? Louise. — Poor, unfortunate soul! [Setting lamps on iable and lighting them.] Let us give her a slight illu- mination for once. Abby. — And a little warmth. Don't you perceive a change in the atmosphere since I replenished the fire ? [Rubbing her hands.] Louise. — Yes, and Miss Fling's sad, frozen heart is thawing Do you observe it ? STANDARD DIALOGUES 47 'Tane. — No wonder she gets cross living hx.re with her own gloomy thoughts for company. Oh, we forgot to set chairs. [^Places them around the table. Enter Miss Fling, attired in black silk, loith false front of curls, Abby^s cap on her head, her face free from bandage. Altogether her appearance is strikingly improved. She looks like a lady. Followed by Kate, who laughingly holds a lamp, and exhibits Miss Fling as if she were a painting. ^ Kate. — Look, girls ; here am I, Cinderella's god- mother ! I found my poor Cinderella sitting in the ashes ; I touched my wand and here she is all ready for the prince's ball. Make a courtesy, Miss Fling ! Miss Fling [with a really graceful though oldfash- ioned cou7^tesy~\. — Good-evening, young ladies ! You see Kate is one of the kind that will be obeyed. But what have we here ? [Looking at the table and holding up both hands']. Louise [putting shawl over Miss Fling^s shoulders']. — Oh, you have come to the prince's ball, you know 1 [Offers chair. Miss Fling sits at the table, sur- rounded by the girls, who also seat themselves.] Miss Fling [smiling]. — Why, children, this is — why really this is quite unexpected ! It carries me back thirty years. It reminds me of the beautiful old times before I lost my property. [Draws herself up and looks very happy and proud. Kate as mistress of ceremonies is about to cut the cake, when a loud knocking is heard, also several shrill whistles.] Miss Fling [starting up in alarm]. — Oh! what has happened ! Run, girls, the house is afire ! Put me out! Open the door ! Put me out! Save my bonnet I In the closet ! Save that velvet bonnet ! [ The girls all laugh.] Kate. — Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Fling. It's only the bojs — our brothers. They have come to add their n ite aj il gi'^e you some coal. 48 STANDARD DIALOGUES Miss Fling [^setting back in her chair, putting handkerchief to her face as if undecided ivhether to cry or nof]. — It's first one thing, and then another. You girls and boys, take you both together, have given my nerves a pretty start ! Abby \_going to the door']. — As I have made such free use of your coal, Miss Fling, I suppose it's but fair that I should attend to the management of this. Now, where shall I tell the boys to have it put, if you please ? Miss Fling [laughing']. — Oh, you foolish Galathian I In the cellar, where do you think ? \_Bursts into tears.] You dear, blessed children ! Such a holiday as this I've not known for many a year — not since I lost my property. Come here, every soul of you, and let me kiss you. Kate [laughing]. — Such foolishness, Miss Fling 1 [ They all surround their hostess in a group. Boys still knocking and whistling.] Miss Fling. — You've killed me with kindness. [ They all kiss her at once. Curtain falls.] THE SISTERS. This little piece is founded on a passage in the Colo- nial history of New England, in which it is related that a young girl who had been captured by the Indians, re- maining among them till she reached the age of woman- hood, became the wife of a young chief. Afterward, returning to visit the home of her infancy, she refused the earnest prayers of her parents and sisters to take up her abode with them, and with many tears, and ex- pressions of affection, she bade them farewell, and went back to the wigwam of her savage husband. The com- plete Indian costume of the mother and child may be made to contrast finely with a simple white dress of the STANDARD DIALOGUES 49 colonial fashion, worn by a blue-eyed blonde, as tbc Enolish sister. Sister. — Go not, sweet sister, from our home of peace, Into those dark and gloomy wilds away ! Here, day b}^ day, our household joys increase: There, deeper darkness settles, cla}^ by day. Stay thou beside our hearth of warmth and light, And nurture this fair child in English lore, — And in our mother's faith, that made more brig^lit Those happy girlish da}- s, so bright before I '»" Indian Captiye. — Nay, gentle sister ! Deem not sadness dwells, Nor moral gloom, amidst our wigwams wild I This fair child lifts to heaven, at evening-tide. Hands pure as thine, and prayers as undefiled And thou, my absent lord ! believe not, thou, Thy wife will linger from thy side away I The sweetest sunshine crowns thy noble brow, My soul of home is in thy evening \a,y. I know thy tender trust is strong as death, Unchangeable as heaven, where'er thou art, And the sweet burden of that generous faith Lies safe, a shrined gem, upon my heart. I go, sweet sister ! yet believe thou well. No later love, how fond and close so e'er, Shall ever, from this forest-nurtured breast Unwind one bond to grateful memory dear. I go : but here, at thy beloved feet, I leave a portion of my heart's warm love ; And trust, in shame of narrow creeds, to greet Thee, and our mother, in that home aboA^e. Where thought of race or caste shall ne'er divide The pastor's daughter from the sachem's bride ! 50 STANDARD DIALOGUES MANAGEMENT; OR, THE FOLLY OF FASHION. [The young girl perlbrmiiig in tliis dialogue will understand she is to be in party costume, without hoops beneath the calico dress, that the mere removal of hoops and dress may be quickly effected.] Scene 1. — Mrs. Snooks in a loose calico dress busily sweeping. Enter Mr. Snooks. Mr. Snooks. — Dear! dear! what a dust! You're always in a hurry. \^Takes the broom from her and leans it up carelessly.'] Mrs. Snooks. — Well, you're not ! Mr. Snooks [^slowly, with hands in his pockets']. — No, I'm waiting for something to turn up. Mrs. Snooks. — Waiting for something to tuini up, are you? I wish you'd turn something up, and sup- pose you begin with my broom. You ought to know, any man ought to know, it ruins a broom to set it that way, the brush end should always be up, so; [shows him] but to-morrow, Mr. Snooks, you'd come in and set that broom up the very same way, I'd be bound you would. \_She slips a bandana from his pocket and begins to dust the furniture, hurriedly.] Mr. Snooks. — Flurry, hurry, flurry! I hate this thing of flying around as though the world were a-fire ! \_Sits down and affects to read a newspaper, but looks from time to time at Mrs. Snooks.] Mrs. Snooks \_witii arms a-kimbo]. — If I were you I'd ^.ot say fire — the world a-fire, indeed ! If 3'ou were to p^'ovide the kindling the world wouldn't burn up soon — that last oven wood you got was a superfine article — • hardly wilted the pies, and left the bread all dough — and a pretty fuss you made about that. Your paper is very interesting, I presume! [Approaching him, and looking over his shoulders.] Mr. Snooks [gruffly]. — Of course, it is ! Mrs. Snooks. — I thought so ; ah ! I was quite sure of it I f Turning it up she shows him he Ji ad held it upside STANDAED DIALOGUES 51 down — a letter falls.'] Ah! there, I had almost forgot- ten ; this is our invitation to Mrs. Stucl^up's part}^ — the greatest affair of the season ! . Mr. Snooks. — Don't ! oh, don't say Mrs. Stuckup's party to me, I know wliat tliat means ! Mrs. Snooks. — What! Mr. Snooks. — Dresses and ribbons, feathers and flow- ers, and Mrs. Snooks. — Fiddlesticks ! Mr. Snooks. — Yes, fiddlestick, and worse than that, oh, far worse ! she'll want me to dance, and I wont ! I wont ! I wont ! Mrs. Snooks. — Oh ! Mr. Snooks, how you do go on 1 Why you are one of Mrs. Stuckup's favorites; how she does admire your taste ! Mr. Snooks. — Yes. Mrs. Snooks. — And she will be pleased with the bon- net you'll choose for me ! Mr. Snooks. — Yes, she will admire the nice new bon- net you'll get out of me, by your blarney. I'll just tell 5^ou I've no notion. [_She goes close up to him, looking very smiling.'] Oh, don't think it ! I feel a contempt for Mrs. Stuckup, and fashion, and you. \_He jumps up.] \_Mrs Snooks at the same time rises, and fakes the cap from his head.] Mr. Snooks. — Oh, I forgot to take my cap off. I didn't mean any disrespect to you. What on earth are you turning that cap around and around for ? and what does that delighted expression on your face mean ? Mrs. Snooks. - Oh, I have it now, Mr. Snooks ! Mr. Snooks. — Have, what? Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, such a capital idea; just let me have my own way, and I'll save you ten dollars, right straight 1 Mr. Snooks. — No, you shan't have your own way, either — not a bit of it ! No, no I Mrs. Snooks. — Yes ! yes ! yes I Mr. Snooks. — No ! no ! n Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, to save ten dollars 1 [Lays her hand on his arm.] Mr. Snooks. — Well, how ? 52 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mrs. Snooks. — Sit down, now, and listen to me You know you don't care about fashion ? Mr. Snooks. — No. Mrs. Snooks. — And I do! Mr. Snooks. — Yes ! oh, yes Mrs. Snooks. — Well, see here, now ; I'll put this piece of vejTet about here, and this feather I'll put here, and, now — oh, isn't it a love, a beauty ? Why, I declare, 'tis beyond my expectations! the effect is decidedly line. Ah I Mrs. Stuckup will admire that ! That, she will say, is some more of your husband's taste — his wonder- ful taste. Mr. Snooks. — Taste ! taste ! rather a bitter taste, I should think ! Woman ! woman ! what do you mean, woman ? Mrs. Snooks. — Don't stand there and call me woman, as if a woman was something you never saw before I Mr. Snooks. — You've taken my best hat ! what am I to do ? Mrs. Snooks [^soothingly, and producing an old and very shocking haf]. — Why, bless your head and your heart, man ! you don't care for fashion, and here, now, is my grandfather's hat, as good as new ; j^ou can wear that, I'm sure — you're very welcome to it. \_She puts it on his head']. There, now ! Mr. Snooks [walks to a mirror and surveys himself] • — Madam, it is not comfortable ! Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, you'll soon get used to it! Mr. Snooks. — No doubt ; well, I will. I will weai the concern provided you will in other respects dress according to my taste — my taste that is so lauded by Mrs. Stuckup. Mrs. Snooks. — Now 'tis time I were dressing. I must be going ; give me your suggestions, quickly ! Mr. Snooks. — Well, see here, I know 3'ou will, as you gave up the ten dollar bonnet to please me, you can't have any objections ; you'll just leave off these circular absurdities — this crinoline. Mrs. Snooks [with hands upraised in astonishment]. — Ah ! [then laughing]. Yes, yes, I will ; I will please you this once ; I'll be ready in a minute, yes, in half a min- ute. [She runs off laughing.] STANDARD DIALOGUES 53 Mr. Snooks [^gazes on the hat, turning it in every post' Hon, and soliloquizes — itsing his watch]. — A minute, in- deed ! she'll keep me half an hour, she'll be sure to ; of course she wont ; I wish she would leave the hoops oif. But, yes, she shall, I can show my authority if I want to; she shall do it ; how I'll laugh to see her, and wont I enjoy madam Stuckup's surprise, I'll tell her that's some of my taste. That minute is rather lengthy, and 1 know it would be useless to call " hurry," she's all hurry now, and will keep hurrying till I'm half crazy. Here, Mrs. Snooks I Mrs. Snooks! come hurry, hurry, we'll be too late ! \_Enter Mrs. Snook's in elegant party dress, but with- out hoops.] Mrs. Snooks. — Oh ! we will make all the greater sen- sation on our entrance. Mr. Snooks [^starting back aghast]. — Why ! What upon earth, you look like a broom-stick ! I'd be likely to go with you I You're a beauty ! Mrs. Snooks. — Thank you, 'tis many a long day since I received such a compliment I Mr. Snooks. — But Mrs. Snooks ! Mrs. Snooks. — What's wrong ? Mr. Snooks. — Mrs. Snooks, I can provide clothing enough for you to make a genteel appearance. My goodness ! how skimpy you do look ! Mrs. Snooks. — Why, Mr. Snooks, this is _your taste • here, put on your hat, Mrs. Stuckup will be delighted I Mr. Snooks. — Oh, 3^ou don't mean ! Oh, dear ! Mrs. Snooks. — Why, come on, I've learned to despise fashion, too Mr. Snooks. — Put one on, please, just one hoop. Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, it's too late now; come, come away, I will be the admired of all IShe hurries him along with her. As they leave the stage he says, ruefully : " If she will, she will, you ma^'^ depend on't, If she wont, she wont, and there's an end on't" 54 STANDARD DIALOGUES COLUMBUS AT THE COURT OF SPAIN. CHARACTERS. Queen Isabella. Juan Perez de Marchena, Dona Beatrix de Bobadilla. Luis de St. Angel. King Ferdinand. Fernando de Talavera. Christopher Columbus. Pedro, a page. In the second scene, an Indian or two. [We leave the costumes of King, Queen and Page, and the court dresses of the rest, to the tastes of teachers and pupils. Prints in any school geography or history will suggest the styles of the times.] Scene 1. — King and Queen seated upon the thi^one, the Lady Beatrix near the Queen, and the Page in view. The Page announces ''Juan Perez.^^ Queen. — Grant him admittance. King. — Oh, Isabella! must we listen again to the wild schemes of this dreamer Columbus ? \_Perp,z eidering.'] Queen [^addressing the Xing']. — Our friend, Juan Perez. It is the part of wisdom, Ferdinand, to listen patiently and consider well of these weighty matters. King. — Well, Perez, go on ; we will hear the old story over again. Perez. — Will your gracious majesties listen to me once more. I would fain have you receive this remark- able man, Senor Christopher Columbus ; he is no idle dreamer, as you have supposed. King. — An enthusiast; a mad enthusiast! Page. — Don Fernando Talavera. Talavera [to Perez]. — What ! you here, Perez. To the King.] Oh, my King ! what is Spain coming to, when she talks of fitting out an expedition in search of a jack-o'-lantern ? Queen. — Nay, Fer Jinand ! we will hear Columbus : if it is folly, call it mine ; if it is glory, you. shall share it. Perez. — Oh, thank you, gentle queen. Talavera. — I beg your pardon, but this man Colum- bus ^s -aurely a little afiected up about here [touching his STANDARD DIALOGUES 65 head']. Why the very children point to their foreheads as he passes. Queen. — Don Talavera, you are too severe ; now pause awhile, for I woul take a w^oman's counsel. Dona Beatrix, will you urge the claims of Columbus to me once more ? You are enthusiastic but not rash. King. — A woman and not rash. Oh ! Queen. — Dear Dona Beatrix, you must win the king over to our side. Proceed. Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella! Gracious queen and dear friend, something within my breast tells me that this man is intimately connected with the highest good and glory of Spain. Do not think of him as a vagrant dreamer, a nameless adventurer, hovering about courts for the sake of gaining honors and titles for himself; think rather of the sublimity of all that noble mind has conceived ; think of all that noble heart has suffered. For eighteen weary years he has toiled and hoped so bravely. Oh! there i.s a grandeur in such hope as his, and God will surely reward it. M3' queen, look not coldly upon such enterprises as his, calling them mere adventure. Know 3^ou not that Adventure is the child of Prosperity ? And now, in these most prosperous da3^s of Spain, it would be madness in 3^ou to let the banner-folds of another nation fly where yours dare not. Perez. — Oh, gracious sovereigns! did you know this man's modest}^ you would not dcubt his honesty; on our first meeting, 'twas but a little bread and water for his child he asked. Page. — Don Luis St. Angel. Queen. — Just in time ; most welcome. King po Talavera']. — We shall be overwhelmed. To the ladies this man is a host — sanguine as they. St. Angel. — Listen, j^our majesties, ere it is too late. If Senor Columbus is not at once patronized, he will quit the country, and this would, I believe, be an irre- parable loss to Spain. Why, oh ! why, when 3'ou have risked so much in so many perilous adventures, fear now to risk so little when the gain would be incalculable ? Consider, with its sue- .^.ess ho^ i^iich ma^^ be done toward extending your owi 56 STANDARD DIALOGUES power and dorninion ; how much for the glory of God and the exaltation of the Church ! Page. — Senor Christopher Columbus. Talavera [aside to the king']. — In a court-dress, too , the last time I saw him he was threadbare and looked most forlorn. Queen. — And is this Columbus ? Welcome, most welcome to our presence ! Now reveal without hesita- tion what thy hopes are should we see proper to grant the wished-for outfit. Columbus. — Ah! your majesties; could you but know of the tumult of wild hope that agitates me now. But I know you will listen patiently. Eighteen weary 3^ears have I sought for the means of traversing the ocean to the westward, and every day of all those years have my convictions grown stronger that all my hope should yet be realized. Far away over the broad and blue Atlantic lie fair islands, whose trees beckon, whose breezes whisper me to come, whose clear gushing fountains alone can cool my spirit's fever. Most gracious sovereigns, these dreams were born in Heaven. The}^ have haunted me from early boyhood. King. — Columbus, do your own words declare you to be a dreamer, then ? Talavera. — This is enchanting ! Do you not think so, Dona Beatrix ? Dona Beatrix. — I do ! I believe this conviction is truly Heaveursent. I believe that far toward the sun- set flowers bloom, forests wave, and waters flow in sweet expectanc}^ of the coming of Columbus. Queen. — I am strangely moved. If it should be so I oh ! if it should be that the banners of Castile and Ara- gon should float over now unknown lands ; that there the heathen should turn from his idols and bow before the cross. St. Angel. — Then act, oh, beloved queen I upon the impulse of this present moment, or our great rivals, Portugal or France or England, may bear thither their flags. The present is the golden moment. I beg that you will, for your own sake and the honor of Spain, grant to Columbus what he asks. King. — But I would have reasons We have sent U- STANDARD DIALOGUES 57 our learned and scientific men to investigate this rare project, and many of them considered to have sound judgment have pronounced in its favor. Wherefore ? Columbus. — I arrange this under three heads. First, the nature of things ; second, the authority of learned writers ; third, the reports of navigators. Talavera. — This is a new story. A moment ago, Islands far beyond nowhere were calling him. King. — Well, hear him. Columbus.— I can not doubt that the world is round — Talavera. — The man is crazy. Columbus. — Its shadow on the moon during an eclipse shows this, and there are man}^ other reasons for believ- ing it to be as other planets. Supposing the world to be round, it is not reasonable that hundreds of leagues should be but an expanse of ocean devoid of land. Fur- ther, there are many reports of navigators to confirm me in m}^ idea of land lying to the westward. The Canary and Cape Yerde Islands were once unknown ; why should we suppose them to be the boundaries of all knowledge we shall ever gain ? Perez. — Oh, let us aid him to explore the wonders and secrets of the universe ! St. Angel. — Here is a splendid opportunity to s*ur- pass all kings and princes. Let it not pass. Even his failure can not reflect disgrace upon you. Columbus, — But I shall not fail, my heart tells me I shall not ! I would that you could see how sometimes before my mental vision is unrolled the broad bright vista of the future. How wonderfully in God's provi- dence do the chariot wheels of human progress roil on ! The newly discovered art of printing has awakened the world on this side the water, and oft I dream it shall be carried to enlighten islands and continents afar. Talavera. — He talks of a world on this side the water, now I believe that I have more faith in that than the one on the other side. King. — Let him go on. What more, Columbus? Columbus. — There can never again be a dark age. Never shall the new light of knowledge spread abroad b\' the power of the printing press be trampled out. There will be no pause now for the career of science ; and should 58 STANDARD DIALOGUES God will that all these high-born hopes of poor Colum- bus should fall to the ground, even then he would not quite despair; some other happier man will take up his theories, while the sphere of navigation will extend, and perhaps, yet, some great discoverer, unshackled b}^ the impediments that have beset my pathway, when he touches upon some beautiful sunset shores toward which this hand pointed him, will remember me — will weep for what I might have been ! Beatrix. — Oh, queen ! this must not be ! Would you could see with me the grandeur of this enterprise ! Tell me, could this man live the good life he has lived, struggling through poverty and ridicule, and wearing disappointments — yet, amid all, cling to this idea — it there was not truth in it ? Queen. — I know not what to think! King. — Great caution is necessary. St. Angel, — To you, my king, that word may have but a slight meaning ; but, oh ! I know, to Columbus, it is a word of almost heart-breaking import— y^ears, and years, and years — and then to speak in his presence of caution. Perez. — But never was man so endowed with pa- tience as this man ; he considers all else light in com- parison with this enterprise to which he has devoted himself. Dividing his scanty means with his aged father at Genoa, traveling on foot with thread-bare garments, with a hungr3^ child, pausing but to ask for a little bread and water. Talavera. — And recompensed j^our kindness with his wild stories. Perez. — Yes, more than recompensed. I received his opinions with unwavering faith. I wish, for his sake, that I were king. King, — A common wish, but for a most uncommon reason, to benfit another. Beatrix. — Good Perez, I thank you for your kind- ness to Columbus, and trust that God will rewaid you for it. Surely, after death, jow will be exalted into a white-winged angel of Hope. Queen. — Go on, Columbus, your talk is pleasant in STANDARD DIALOGUES 59 my ear, whether it be of your dreams or of youi reasons. Columbus. — Oh ! most indulgent queen ! listen, then, a little longer ! It must be that there is land lying to- ward the sunset. Have you not heard how on the coast of the Cape Yerde Islands two men were cast up by the waves of the Atlantic, differing both in color and feature from any known race ? also, a cane curiously wrought, but bearing no mark of iron instruments ? Trunks of strange trees have been found far out at sea, and unknown reeds and grasses. These islands, or this land, then, awaii discovery; and now, that you have conquered the xVIoors. why not turn 3^our attention to a more important expe- dition than you have 3'et fitted out? Queen. — Ah ! why ? King. — Why has not your own country, Genoa, hear- kened to you ? Columbus. — I grieve to sa}^ that my own land, the republic of Genoa, is now in a languishing condition, and can not aid me. Queen. — What do you say, Ferdinand ? King. — Say ! Wh}^ now that we have conquered the Moors, and are acknowledged one of the first, if not the first power in Europe, 3'ou can busy yourself among your jewels — and Queen. — My jewels ! I— must I plaj* with baubles, while the richer jewels of a ro3'al mind are strewn to the winds, and great hopes perish, and heathen souls are shi I) wrecked ? King. — After years of the turmoil of war the natioD needs rest. Perez. — Idleness is the file that wears away pros perity, be it ever so great. St. Angel. — Hope on, Columbus. What though you meet not here the aid 3'ou ask? A recent letter from the King of Portugal invites 3^our return ; and the learned men of France bend, even now, o'er these maps and charts. Conviction must grow to certainty as the3^ gaze. Oh, Isabella, Ferdinand, Beatrix, this is no dream ! Co- lumbus, why linger ? Th3' life is passing ; waste not one moment more ; come away — come away. I will go 60 STANDARD DIALOGUES with you to France, or return with you to Portugal ; of we will set sail for distaut England. Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella, before it is too late, con- sider — can you, will you, allow all this honor, glory, and power, now within your grasp, to pass to another ? Ah ! I sigh to think how much less worthy that other sovereign will be than my own. St. Angel. — We ask so little — but three small vessels. Let us away ! The enterprise promises too much- to be rejected elsewhere, and perchance English sails will first whiten some glad far-distant waters, while the lazy Span- iard hovers about his own shores, as snails coil in their shell tenements, that heed not and know not of aught else. We must go! Perez. — May all good angels attend you ; and I and the good brothers will care for your child. Talavera. — TuaL everlasting child ; give it a little bread and water ! St. Angel. — Time passes. Queen. — I echo it, time passes ! but oh, Columbus, think you, if you do undertake this voyage, this ventur- ing upon the unknown deep, that you will certainly find the wished-for islands ? Perchance they exist only in your own imagination — and you mip^ht go drifting, drift- ing, drifting, the sport of winds and waves for years. Columbus. — One hour, with Heaven's blessing resting on it, is more than time enough to find a world ! King. — I would tha' world were found. Queen. — It shall b^, Heaven willing, for I will pledge my royal jewels that he may go. Beatrix. — 1 am too happy 1 King. — My good Isabella. Columbus. — ^I have not lived in vain ; I could weep like a child ! St. Angel. — I could laugh, and leap and shout like a boy ! Perez. — The saints be praised I Talavera. — I have nothing to say, so say nothing. Queen [to Page']. — Bring me my casket of most pre- cious jewels. [ To Beatrix.'] — Take thou the brightest jewel from my crown; and undo this necklace, worn STANDARD DIALOGUES 61 since ciiildhood. My soul FiOw seems flooded with the grandeur of this enterprise. [Here the Page returns.'\ Beatrix. — But pause ; this is the jewel of jewels in a crown of Castile ! and this lovely necklace — can they not be saved ? QxTEEN. — Nay, nay, they charm me no longer. Co- lumbus, now I feel that thy hopes shall be realized. Noble, patient, long-suffering one, forgive our tardiness. I feel that you will give to Spain her crowning triumph. King. — Columbus, I will hope as the Queen does, and shall ever feel grateful that you have conferred upon us the honor of giving patronage to this great scheme. May it succeed ! Beatrix. — Fair be the winds, and bright the skies, and calm the waves for thee, Columbus. May many a strange fl.ower bloom in thy pathway. May sweetest song-birds cheer thee, and mayest thou drink of the waves of glad fountains, and rest in the shadow of trees even lovelier than those of Andalusia. Queen. — And there will the blessed Cross go, and the story of the dear Redeemer. Columbus. — Yes, lovely Queen, there shall our blessed religion go ; and ever, next to my love for it, will I cher- ish fond memories of thee. All the uncertainty, all the danger before me, are as nothing in this proud and happy hour. Now, indeed, under this new-born rainbow of hope, does the future stand arra3^ed in dazzling sheen I dream that there may, come a time when even all Eu rope may be a field too narrow for the proud step of Freedom ; that an enlightenment far, far beyond what earth has jei known, may rise and stream over lands that lie toward the setting sun. Now I have almost too much, for Isabella, for Ferdinand, for Spain, for the future, for the great interests of humanity, for these dear friends, and for the voice within my own breast, that ridicule, neglect, poverty and time could never silence — and for the religion of .our fathers. Now, for the first time, I feel it all in its awful splen- dor, and it almost overcomes me — St. Angel, Dona Bea- tnx, my Queen ! King. — I will trust that all is well ! Perez — I go to tell the good news to the Brothers I 16 62 STAND AED DIALOGUES Talavera. — There is no mistake ; the man is crazy [ Curtain falls.J Scene 2. — King and queen seated, enter Dona Beatrix. Beatrix. — This is a most glorious day for Spain! the joy bells ring, and the shouts of glad thousands tremble upon the air ! He has returned ! our brightest anticipations have been more than realized ! Thine is a glorious reign, and long to be remembered in history ! Spain stands first amongst Christian nations ! she has now ascended the proudest heights of triumph !• — And now she may rest with her banners furled, On the heights of Fame she hath found a world ! And what hath she more to do ? [_Enter Page, announcing "Don Talavera.^'''] Talavera. — The procession is coming this way, all sorts of gew-gaws along, and some strange red men, too. A terrble fuss in the streets, all the ladies at the windows. I used to think Columbus crazy, now every body else seems to be, [^Page announces '^Father Perez.''^'] Perez. — A happy contrast this, to our last reception here, then fears were mingled with our hopes, now our highest, highest hopes, are lost in perfect triumph! Now, Columbus comes surrounded by the flower of Spain's chivalry, and receives the homage of the bravest and fairest. Queen. — This is the triumph hour of Isabella's life ! This day shall furnish the greatest theme for the greatest painter ! the noblest subject for the noblest poet, for many, many a year to come. King. — I am lost in astonishment and overwhelmed with delight ! This wonderful man ! this great Colum- bus ! why kings are insignificant by his side ! 1 can scarcel}^ realize now, that he is the same follower of the court, who from j^ear to year pressed upon us, what we, with our more limited ideas, conceived to be but wild schemes. Oh, Perez ! your goodness is rewarded now^ ! Perez — Aye, at last. It seems to me but yesterday, he came to our convent gate a poor, unknown stranger, and asl^ed "A little bread and water for his child !" STANDARD DIALOGUES 63 ALAVERA.^ — !>h, preserve me ! must I hear that again ? \_Page announces, "Senor Columbus, Don Louis St. An- gel, and an Indian, a real Indian /"] Columbus. — My noble sovereigns, all the honor is yours, I was but the humble instrument in the hands of God, of giving to Castile and Leon a New World ! St. Angel. — Not Portugal, not France, not England, to have this triumph, but it is for Spain, only for Spain, oh ! how wild are my transports 1 Queen. — Heaven has smiled upon our efforts, and oh, St Angel ! how shall we thank you enough ? It was your eloquence, that persuaded our doubting hearts ! You, too, Beatrix, had your own high part in this, and Perez, your honest friendship is rewarded now, and my noble Indian friend is welcome. Pedro, a chair for Columbus. Beatrix. — I saw all this long ago ; I knew these glad tidings would one day thrill through Spain. St. Angel, we are surely scarce less happy than Columbus. St. Angel. — To me, also, was this day revealed — I knew it must come ; I looked on it as a certainty. Talavera— How apt is every son and daughter of Adam to greet all events, great and small, with " There, I knew it !" Queen. — Speak not lightly, now, my noble Talavera ; the country has been discovered and gold and gems brought thence ; now la}^ aside your caution, and rejoice with us. King. — Yes, Talavera, we have nothing more to risk. I deem myself a good king, but acknowledge Isabella a better queen. Talavera. — I do rejoice with you ; but look you now, when Columbus sailed right in the direction of this land, how could he help finding it ? It was an easy matter enough ; give me ships and men, and I'll go myself. Columbus. — Will your majesty give me an egg? Queen. — An egg? Columbus. — Yes, only an egg. I wish to favor Tala* vera with a trifling illustration of his position. 64 STANDARD DIALOGUES Queen \to page]. — Pedro, bring Senor Columbus an egg. King. — What can he want with an egg ? Queen. — What, Ferdinand I have you cariosity about 3uch a trifle ? King. — Not much ! Queen. — Tell us, oh Columbus, somewhat of that far wondrous heathen land ? Beatrix — Oh, yes ! we long to hear of it. Columbus. — Words can not paint its glories, its won- ders, and its beauties. The waves are as pure as crystal, the flowers are of indescribable beaut}^, the trees are glorious to behold ! Ah, Beatrix, your wishes followed me there. The inhabitants are simple as chil- dren. Their lives beautiful as a dream of romance. And, lovely queen, there was not an hour that I did not think of and bless you. [_Enter page with an egg.] King. — The egg ! Talavera, favor us again with your last remark, that I may feel the full force of this illus- tration. Talavera. — I said 'twas an easy matter to reach this land ; give me men and ships and I'll go. [JETere Columbus takes the egg, and asks Talavera, St. Angel, and Perez to balance it — all try vainly.] King. — Here, I'll tr}^, too. I never thought of such a thing before, and have seen a thousand eggs. {^Trying, he goes on.] Why, I can't. How, now, Columbus ! why I can't do it, and I'm a king ; it looks as though it ought to be done. I wonder if the Kings of England, France, or Portugal can do this. Such a contrar}'' egg ! yet it looks like all others. I'd like to do this ! who ever did ? Here, Isabella, j^ou ma}'^ try ; you, too, Beatrix ; curiosity will surely prompt you ladies to do your utmost. \_Both try in vain.] Queen. — Curiosit}^, patience, perseverance, all are vain I King. — I don't believe any body can do it. Talavera. — Who would want to ? St. Angel. — Columbus, do balance this egg, I am sure you can. \ Columbus taking the egg, balances it by striking ii STANDARD DIALOGUES 65 upon the table, with just force enough to break the shell slightly at the small end, when it stands firmly.'] Talavera. — Any body could do it that way I King. — Ha, ha, ha. Yes, since Columbus has shown you how I Bravo ! bravo ! Perez. — Most excellent ! St. Angel. — Always right ! Beatrix. — How charming ! Queen. — The world contains but one Columbus ! Talavera [offering his hand to Columbus, who takes it]. — Now I am heartily your friend 1 THE SILVER DOLLAR. CHARACTERS. Harry Seetin. Mr. Berkley. A Flower Girl, afterwards Mrs. Berkley. Scene 1. — A counting-house. Harry Seetin discovered with newspaper in his hand. Harry. — Not much doing to-day — that's certain! Well, if I just had the time and the money to spare I'd go to hear Professor Baker lecture to-night, but I must be here until nine o'clock, and besides this, mj' funds are rather low, and I will have to be economical. I wonder if Mr. Patterson isn't going to raise my wages soon I think it is high time he would if he is going to live up to his promise. If he doesn't I'll have to seek employ- ment elsewhere. Hello ! who comes here ? [Enter Eliza, a little girl, with a basket of bouquets.] Eliza. — Please sir, wont you buy a bouquet ? Harry. — Bouquet ? No ! What do I want with a bouquet ? I'm sure I've got no fair lady friend, to pre- sent it to, and, as for mj^self, I either haven't the time to admire bouquets, or else I haven't' any taste. No, little girl, I don't want a bouquet. Eliza. — But please sir, do buy one. I've been trying 66 STANDARD DIALOGUES to sell all da}^ and no one cares any thing for tliem. Please buy one, sir, for we need money very much. lAl- most crying.'] Harry. — Well, well, don't cry little girl. You say we need money very much. Whom besides yourself do you support by selling bouquets ? Eliza. — My mother, sir ; and she has been very sick for a long time and I can scarcely make enough to keep ourselves alive and from being turned out of doors b;y the landlord. Harry. — Well, I don't want a bouquet, but here's a dollar \huncls money']; take it, and may you soon see better times ! Eliza. — Oh, thank j^ou, sir, I will remember you as long as I live, and may God bless you and Harry. — Oh, never mind, little girl — it's nothing. Run home to your poor sick mother and be kind to her. Eliza. — Oh, you are a kind man and I wish there were more like you in the world. \_Exit Eliza.] Harry. — There's another dollar gone. Well, that cuts off my supply of cigars for awhile, but I don't care. Mother used to tell me to cast my bread upon the waters and after many daj^s I would receive it. Well, I've cast a dollar away, or rather, I've cast a good many cigars awa3^ and bestowed a dollar on a poor little girl. Won- der if 'twill ever return. I don't know why it is that all the poor little girls come to me for money and never ask Mr. Patterson. I'm sure he is a thousand times ablei to give than I am. Well, I don't regret giving this little girl the dollar for she certain!}^ is honest — I'm sure of that ; and then her mother is sick, and they are very poor. I wish I had monej^ enough to place all the poor people in the world in comfortable circumstances, and make myself a little more comfortable too. \_Gurtain falls.] Scene 2. — Boom in Mr. Berlcley^s house. Time, even ing. Mr. and 3Irs. Berkley discovered. Ten years are supposed to have elapsed between first and second scenes. Mrs. Berkley. — Who was that man who was in here R »bo"^ time ago ? STANDARD DIALOGUES 67 Mr. Berkley. — His name is Seetiii — Harry Seetin, I believe. He came to apply for the situation of book- keeper. He said he had been at the store and found it closed and thought he would call here. Mrs. B. — Did you give him the situation ? Mr. B. — No, I didn't promise it to him, but told him 1,0 call at the store to-morrow and I would give him an answer. He makes a very poor mouth of it. He says his wife has been sick for some time, and that his two little children have barely enough to keep them alive. One doesn't know whether to believe half the stories one hears or not. However, this man looks honest enough, and from his appearance I know he hasn't a very great share of this world's goods. I told him to call at the store to-morrow and I would give him an answer. Mrs. B. — Give him the situation. I ask it as a favor. Mr. B. — And why, my love, do you take such an in- terest in the man ? Mrs. B. — I will tell you. You know that ten years ago, and long before you married me, I was very poor. I was out one day trying to sell bouquets to make some- thing with which to purchase some delicacy for my mother, who was very sick. I could not sell a single bouquet. No person would buy. They would not even look at them. I went into Mr. Patterson's store and found this young man there and asked him to buy: He replied that he didn't want a bouquet — that he didn't care any thing for them, but he gave me a silver dollar. He would hardly let me thank him for it ; and I ran home ver}^ happy. I have seen Mr. Seetin several times since, but not since we were married until this evening, and never dreamed that he was in such straightened circumstances. When I saw him go out of the door I kxiew him to be the same person who had befriended me ten years ago, and now, as a favor, T ask that you give him the situation. Mr B. — Most assuredly shall he have the situation. There are two other applicants who come with rather better recommendations than does Mr. Seetin, but he shall have the preference. And, my dear, you are very right to remember those who were kind to you long ago, when y ^u were poor and when 3'ou iieeded kindness most 68 STANDARD DIALOGUES I will write a note to Mr. Seetin this evening and send with Thomas, telling him he can have the situation. Fortu- nately he left his address with me. Mrs. B. — You need not go to so much trouble, Wil- liam. You know he will call at the store to-morrow. Mr. B. — I know ; but, somebody has said that delaj'S are dangerous, and it's true. From what Mr. Seetin said, I know that he and his family are very much in want. And, my dear here is a one hundred dollar note [h,anding money']. You shall give that to him — a dollar for every cent he gave you — and write him a note stating that it is given in grateful remembrance of the silver dollar bestowed on a poor little girl ten years ago. [ Curtain falls.] OIL ON THE BRAIN. CHARACTERS. Squire Hopeful, a retired alderman in moderate circumstances Samuel Balmoral, a dry goods clerk. Mr. Simon Fogy, his uncle, a garrulous church deacon. Bob, small son of the squire. Fred, his cousin. Caroline, daughter of the squire, and loved by Samuel. Miss Arabella, her maiden aunt. \^Enter Simon Foyy and his nephew.] Simon. — If you do, you're a fool, that's alL Samuel. — Why, uncle, I see no harm in trying ; be- sides, how can I hope to support Caroline properly, situ- ated as I am. I have now a chance to become, it may be, wealthy; at least to greatly improve m^^ present con- dition. I am assured by those, who are well informed, that this is an excellent company. Simon. — Excellent nonsense I Now mark what I tell you — no good will ever arise from this oil speculation. I have been opposed to it from the first, and I have had no reason to change iny oi)inion. It is nothing more uoi less than ^ambling. STANDAKD DIALOGUES 69 SiMTTEL. — Uncle, I shall beg leave to differ from you. You know Shakspeare says, " There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to for- tune." Simon. — I am pretty sure the bard did not allude to Oil Creek. Samuel. — Well, just as you please. I have decided to invest. [Uxit.'] Simon. — It seems as if every one had gone crazj^ ! From morning until night, I hear nothing but oil ! oil ! OIL ! on the streets, in the cars, at home, abroad, in fact everywhere, it is the only theme of conversation. I have become so sick of the subject that I hate to hear the word oil mentioned. [^Enter squire with papers in his hand.'\ Simon. — Good-morning, squire ; what have you there ? Squire. — Something of importance, I assure you. We are about to organize an oil company, offering ex- cellent inducements to those who, like you and me, have but a small capital and wish to see it increased. I thought that 3^ou, being a particular friend of mine, should be informed of the chance before it became gen- erally known. Just look at this prospectus ! Simon [throwing the pajDer aside^. — Don't talk to me of oil companies and the ruinous speculation which they cause ! I am opposed to it, sir ; conscientiously and re- ligiously opposed to it. I wouldn't invest a dime in any of your boasted companies ; they are swindles, sir, from beginning to end. Squire [aside']. — What a queer old grampus he is. Well, Simon ! if I can not induce you to embrace the present opportunity and make your fortune I must bid you good-morning. [Exit.] Simon. — I, Simon Fog}^ deacon of a church, invest in oil ! that's a pretty idea ! The good book says : '' Lay Dot up for 3^ourselves treasures on earth," and if I do, it shall be something more secure than coal oil. Bah 1 it makes me sick to think of it. [Enter Caroline, singing:"] " And every one is troubled with Oil on the brain." 70 STANDARD DIALOGUES Simon. — I repel the insinuation with scorn ; I, foi one, remain uncontaminated by the prevailing reckless infatuation, Caroline. — Why, is it possible, Mr. Fogy ! that you have failed to take the necessary steps to enrich your- self, at a time when fortunes are made in a day, and millionaires are almost as plentiful as beggars ! But see, what a splendid piece of music Mr. Balmoral has given me I Simon. — A most miserable subject at any rate. Caroline. — Do you really think so ? I don't ; and if 3^ou will come and hear me play it, perhaps, you will think differently. Well ! if you wont I must go alone. Simon. — Now, one might think that women and girls would be exempt from such foolishness ; but, alas I I'm afraid it is not the case. Ah I here comes the charming Miss Arabella. [Enter Miss Arabella.'] Simon. — Pleasant morning, ma'am. Arabella. — Very pleasant, indeed, Mr. Fogy. Have you seen the Squire this morning ? Simon. — Yes, ma'am, and am sorry to hear from his own lips that he has been foolish enough to put his money into oil stocks. Arabella. — He always was a fool as far as money was concerned. Simon. — What could have prompted him to take so rash a step ? Arabella. — I really can not tell. I suppose he be- lieves it will make a wealthy man of him • but in my opinion, he will never realize a single cent of the money he has been dunce enough to invest. Simon. — I agree with you on that point. Arabella. — You can not imagine, Mr. Fogy, how changed he has become. Now, last night, for instance, instead of coming home at the proper time, as a decent man should do, he staid away until far after tea time, and when he did come, he brought with him a great crowd of men, and insisted on us getting supper for them. After they had stuffed themselves full of every thing eatable in the house, they all marched into the best room ; and there they sat and smoked their filthy STANDAKD DIALOGUES 71 tobacco, and talked of oil and stocks, and flowing-wells and certificates, till my head reeled, and it required a pretty good dose of the old legitimate castor oil to set me right again. Simon. — In my opinion the world has gone mad, and not content with performing its daily and annual revo- lutions in the customary manner, has conceived the idea of greasing its axis and orbit, in order to move more expeditiously, and with less effort. Arabella. — Yery true ! very true ! ! But who have we here ? [^Enter Fred and Bob, singing.'] Bob. — My dear Aunt Bell, did 3^ou never hear tell, of the man that drowned himself in a fifty barrel well ? Fred. — When he found out his stocks he couldn't sell. lExit.'] Arabella. — Why, even the children seem to have caught the infection ! \_Enter Caroline hastily.] Caroline.^ — Have you heard the news ? Arabella. — No ! what is it ? Caroline. — I don't know as I can tell you properly, but papa's compau}^ has, as he says, "struck oil," and the yield is so great, that the stock has risen — I don't know how much and he is going to sell his shares im- mediately. Arabella. — I don't believe a word of it I Simon. — Nor I, either. ^Enter Samuel.] Samijel. — Now, my dear Caroline, congratulate me. The stock which I bought, has, in this short time, risen 60 much per share, that I have been induced to sell, and have realized again far beyond my greatest expectations. • Caroline. — I am so glad ! \_Enter Squire.] Squire. — Hurrah ! Our fortunes are made, Arabella I 1 knew money was to be made out of this oil business Why, how are you, Sam ? I hear that you, too, have been successful ? Sam. — It is indeed true, and through the beneficial influence of such success, I am enabled to ask you for the hand of your daughter, without experiencing the disagreeable sensation of being unable to support lier Squire. — I admire your candor, Sam — ^j'ou shal. have her with all my heart. \_Joining their hands.'} May God bless you both ! 72 STANDARD DIALOGUES \^Exit all hut Miss Arabella and Simon.'] Arabella — I believe there is some substance in this oil speculation after all, Mr. Fogy. Simon. — It begins to look so, indeed ; and my dear Arabe lai, as we have just seen, success in love followed fast success in the oil business. May I not hope, then, in case similar good fortune should fall to mj^ lot, that the lovely Miss Arabella will accept the proffered heart and hand of Simon Fogy ? May I not ? do not say no. [Affectedly. 2 Arabella [with emotion']. — There is no refusing you, Simon! [FalU into his arms.] Simon. — It's oil right ; never venture never win. As far as oil's concerned, I'm in. [Uxit.] GOING TO BE AN ORATOR. Scene. — Two boys meeting; one with Webster^ s large dictionary under his arm. Harry, — Halloo, John I where are you going with that big book ? John. — I'm going to return it to Professor Niles, of whom I borrowed it. Harry. — What is it ? John. — Webster's unabridged vocabulary of the En- glish language. Harry. — What have you been doing with it ? John. — Wh}^, you see, I intend to be a public orator, and I wish to insert some large words occasionallj'', to make my oration sound more grand and eloquent. Harry. — Grandiloquent, you mean. I hope 3^ou will let me know when you deliver your maiden speech, for I wouldn't miss hearing it for considerable. John. — 1 see you are making fun of me, Harry. But you shall hear my maiden speech, and be made to ac- knowledge its merits. Harry. — I hope I am always willing to acknowledge t7^ue meritf John ; but how long have you been searching th« dictionary for big words ? STANDARD DIALOGUES 7S John. — Oh ! about three weeks ; and I assni-e 3^011 1 have a fine catalogue of them all cut and dried for my advanta2:e. Harry. — They iai2iy prove to your disadvantage ; but come, here you have been studying big words for three weeks, and I believe that I can use as many as you can, now! John. — Well, I'll try you, my boy ! Now, when I say some high sounding word or phrase, you see if you can get one to match it, will you ? Harry. — Yes ; go ahead I John. — Harry. — Demagogue, Pedagogue. Exaggerate, Refrigerate. Levigation, Amalgamation. Aristocratic, Epigrammatic. Antagonism, Anachronism. Ecclesiastical, Euthusiastical. Latitudinarian, Uniformitarian. Uncharacteristically, Ineffervescibility. Vicissitudinary, Usufructuary. Indiscrimination, Individualization. Valculiferous, Antiomniferous. Transubstantiate, Pulmonibranciate. American institutions, Voluntary contributions. Evangelical denominations, Multitudinous associations John. — The ebon opaqueness of the nocturnal hour. Harry. — The concentrated quintessence of every thing sour. John [^scratches his head, and apparently tries to think of other examples']. — Why, Harry, I guess you've been picking big words out of the dictionary, too. Are you preparing yourself for an orator ? Harry. — Not at all ; my inclinations run in a differ- ent direction. But do you intend to devote your life to speechifying ? John. — To be sure I do. Harry. — Well, ma}^ I inquire to what subject you in- tend chiefly to apph^ your eloquence ? John. — Oh! I shall not limit myself to any particular subject, but take up whatever is most popular, and dropit as soon as I find something better calculated to win public applause. I have made up ray mind to create a eensatioy in the world, and I am determined to do it. 74 STANDARD DIALOGUES I shall yet see the day that my praises are in every man'a mouth. Harry. — Well, that would be very pleasant, to be sure, provided you merit such adultation John [interrupting him]. — Of course I shall merit it. I shall study eloquence and elegance until I become perfectly irresistible. Harry. — But what is your primary object, John ? You surely have some purer, nobler motive than self- aggrandizement ? John. — Why — why — I don't know as I understand what you mean. What do you think should be my pri- mary object, as you call it? Harry. — I think the first object in the life of every person should be to do good. John. — Pshaw, Harry ! you know as well as I do, that the world is full of persons who take all the respon- sibility of doing good upon themselves ; besides, 1 should have to give up my darling project of becoming an oratoi, if I attempt to play the philanthropist. '^- Harry. — By no means, John ; you could so combine the orator and philanthropist as to form a most desira- ble character, instead of pursuing the useless, selfish career you have marked out for yourself. John. — Convince me of that if you can. Harry. — Well, then, let your first object be to benefit others ; next, remember that every subject has two sides ; and instead of advocating the most popular side and running after strange gods, and still stranger whims and theories, study carefully which side is right, and then oring all your eloquent artillery against the opposing side ; devote yourself to the redress of real grievances ; bravely battle for the right ; and you will not be unde- serving the praise that will surel3^ attend you. John. — Why, Harry, you are really growing eloquent^ and I aih half inclined to adopt your suggestions, and try to live for something high and noble. Harry. — If you should, the world might be both wisei and better for your having lived in it. John. — Well, I will think of it and tell you my decio Bion when we meet again. Good-morning I Harry. — Good-morning, sir. STANDARD DIALOGUES 75 QUACKERY. CHARACTERS. Dr. Pedanticus. Mike Miligan, an Irishmaa Scene. — A doctor^s office. Dr. Pedanticus putting viaU in his saddle-bags. Enter Mike. Mike. — Good-mornin' docthur. Pr. — Good-morning, Mike. Take a chair. \^Mike sits doivn.^ Well, Mike, how is your health ? Mike. — Oh, bad enough, docthur. I'm afeard I'm a-goin' to have the blood}" [^oo as in lookli cholera, what's on it's way across the say. Oh, docthur, caiiH you pre- vint me from havin' the bloody disase ? Can't you, docthur ? say now, sure you can. Dr. — Well, Mike, what induces j^ou to onceive the idea that you are about to be visited with an attack of the terrible Asiatic epidemic ? Mike. — Well, you see, docthur, about a wake ago I got into a little fight with Jimmy Malooney, and the bloody spalpeen hit me a lick agin the stomach, and iver since that time I've had a quare falin, sort a-like cholera. Say, docthur dear, what can you do for me ? Dr. — Well, Mike, I will derivicate the diagnosis per- taining to the symptomatic indications, and then ascer- tain what remedial remedies to apply. Mike.— Yis, docthur, do ; sa [.see] what you can do for me, docthur, for I'm afeard I'm a goin' to have the blood}^ cholera. Dr. — Let me see j'our tongue, Mike. [^Mike puts out his tongue.^ The indications are of a rather heterogi- nary character. How is j^our appetite, Mike ? Mike. — Me appetite is very wake, docthur, very wake indade. I don't ate more'n half a loaf of r3'e bread, six paces of mate, and fourteen petaties at one male, and as dhrink, nothin' will lay on m}" sthomach but whisk^^ Dr. — I would not advise you to indulge very greatly in whisky, as it has a deleterious effect upon the sub- linguinary diaphoritic periosteum of the diaphragm. 76 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mike. — Oh, docthiir, I can't git along without whisky, at all at all. Me health wo aid give way inthirely if it vasn't for the dhrop of dhrink. Dr. — Let me feel your pulse, Mike. [^Feels his pulse.'] Mike. — Does it bate regular, docthur ? Dr. — It's action is rather efferoesical. Mike. — Yis, sir. I thought so, raeself, docthur. Dr. — How do you rest at night, Mike ? Mike. — I rest on a bed, now ; but before I got siciv Bridget made me slape on the floor. \^Pronounce Jiure.] Dr. — I mean do you sleep well ? Mike. — Yis, sir. Excipt whin little Pat hollers like a wild cat for a dhrink of wather, and whin I git the wather he wants a pace of bread ; and so he kapes me runnin' all night long. Dr. — Well, Mike, I'll tell you exactly what is the matter with .you. I'm not one of the class of physicians that keep their patients in the dark as respects tiie nature of their complaints. Mike. — Yis, do, docthur ; let me hare all aboot it, for I'm dreadfully afeard of cholera, bad luck to the bloody disase. Dr. — The transverse colon of the recto lymphatics is prevented from performing its proper functions, in con- sequence of the duplicatures of the posterior auricular teraporo malillary esophagus, pressing against the facial artery of the duodenum, located upon the meso rectum of the four layers of the great omentum. Also the aper- ture of the meatus auditorius externis is obstructed, by coagulated secretions formed in the heart of the thorax. Also the seratus porticus superior is very much dilated, from the pressure upon it of the levator angali scapulae, and the flexor longus poUicis pedus tendon. Mike. — Oh, docthur, I knode it was something li that was the mather with me. Oh, be-gorra, docthur, I kin niver git over so many ailments. Oh, docthur, do you think I can git all thim things fixed up all right Hgin. Dr. — Oh, 3'es; you needn't be alarmed if you will faithfully follow my prescriptions. [^Doctor prepares medicine.'] Here [^giving him a vial] is the double ex- tract of Kramfria ^rianda ; take half a teaspoonful upou STANDARD DIALOGUES 77 going to bed, and the same quantity half an hour before each meal. You see, Mike, I always let my patients know exactl^y what I give them. Here is an infusion of Lauro Oerusus Yirginiana, intended to promote the proper action of the external plantar of the internal cal- canean. Take twenty drops twice a da}^ ; at three o'clock and again at seven. After taking these reme- dies three days, you will be entirely well. Here is also a small box of pills, consisting of Hydrargyri chloridi mitis cum ipecacuanhae. Mike. — There is none of the bloody mercury in 'em, is there ? Dr. — Oh, none at all, they are perfectly safe ; take six pills at a time, twice a day, at ten A. m., and again at two p. M. Mike. — Good-by, docthur, God bless you. Dr. — Good-day, Mike. TWO FAULTS. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Nellie and Sarah, sisters at a boarding-school ; Sarah aged sixteen, Nellie, fourteen and a-half. Mary, their mutual friend, aged seventeen. Mr. Orabster, professor of mathemirics. Scene 1. — A room in the building, Sarah and Mary, busy at their books. Enter Nellie, humming softly to herself. Ma-RT. — Nellie please don't sing any more, that's a good child, it disturbs me and I do so want to under- stand this problem. Sarah. — Take your book, Nellie, and attend to your lessons immediately. If you don't alter your conduct, I will positively write to papa. You are a perpetual mortification to me. Nellie. — Really, Miss Perfection, it grieves me be- yond measure, to see you lay the matter so much to heart. I am afraid your angelic spirit will yet be 17 78 STANDAED DIALOGUES further tried. I know not what dark deed I may yet commit. irins a green ribbon to Sarah'' s dress and goes offJ] Sarah. — That girl grows more careless and provoking every day. I almost despair of ever making any im- pression upon so vain and trifling a nature. Mary. — Really it grieves me, Sarah, to hear yon speak so unsparingly of your sister's faults. The truly gen- erous mind can not but look with compassion upon those to whom nature has given inferior endowments to its own. When I hear persons arrogate to themselves vir- tues, which the}^ blame others for not possessing, I can not but remember the injunction of St. Paul, " Let him that thiuketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall." \_A hell sounds, and they both go off.'] Scene 2. — Recitation hall. Mr. Grabster — old gentleman, with sharp nose and spectacles. Sarah and Mary with the other girls of their class. Mr. Grabster. — Step to the blackboard in order. [^Beads an example ; each one performs it, and returns to her seat.] Take the pointer, Sarah, and explain the example. \_Sarah advances with great dignity, amid the sup- pressed giggling of the class.] Mr. Grabster. — Silence ! Miss Sarah, before you proceed any further, please to remove that string from your dress. Sarah [staring at him. blankly and turning red]. — There's no string to my dress, Mr. Grabster. Mr. Grabster. — Yes, but there is Sarah [;very indignant], — There isn't ; I don't wear strings to my clothes. Mr. Grabster. — Leave the hall immediatelyi and go to your room, miss, and remain there until I give you permission to leave it. [^Curtain falls,'} STANDAED DIALOGUES 79 Scene 3. — Mr. Grabster, at his desk alone, busily writing. Nellie enters, and approaches him looking very con- fused and ashamed. Mr. Grabster [^ruffly~\. — Well, what do you want? Nellie. — To go to Sarah's room in her place, for I was the one in fault. I pinned the ribbon to her dress ; I only did it to tease her. I did not think of her wear- ing it to the hall. Please let me be punished ! Mr. Grabster [resuming his writing']. — I'll do \\9 such thing. I did not punish her for wearing the string, but for contradicting me, and speaking so unlady-Iike as she uJd. Nellie. — But she did not know the ribbon was there ; and any thing slovenly about her dress always makes her so angry. And now you see that I am the one who deserves to be punished, and will let me go be a prisoner, and release Sarah, Mr. Grabster [meditatively']. — In consideration of the extraordinary features of the case, I s-uppose that I will have to pardon you both, for this time, if Miss Sarah will make a suitable apology for her rude behavior, and you promise to give up your mischievous pranks for the future, and attend more closely to your studies. [ Curtain falls.] Scene 4. — Sarah and Mary in the latter^s room. Mary. — Sarah, you must not say you will never for- give her, it is both childish and wicked. If you were truly grieved to see these faults in your 3^oung sister, as you say you are, you should.be willing to use every means in your power to correct them. If I must speak with the candor of a true friend, I think you generally take the way least calculated to effect a reformation in Nellie's character, and often succeed in placing your- self as much in fault as she. If you would only learn to control your temper, and meet her lively sallies in the spirit of banter, in which they are given, it would be half the battle. In the present instance, if you had not lost your good humor the moment Mr. Grabster spoke to you about the ribbon, the whole affair might have passed off without occasioning any annoyance to any on<». 80 STANDARD DIALOGUES GRUMBLING OYER LESSONS. CHARACTERS. Olive, a large girl. Alma, same size. Sarah. Carrie. Mary. Salome. Magoib. Charlie, a mischievous boy, who can whistle Dixie. Scene. — The girls stand in groups, playing, and eating dinner, as it is noon-time. Olive. — Now, girls, the teacher has gone after her dinner, the boys are at play, so let us have a good time studying our lessons. Carrie. — Yes. Hurrah ! let's get our books and study. [ They run and procure them, and study for a minute.'] I do think [pouting'] the teacher is real mean not to let us whisper, or hardly move in school ; now, when we study, we can stand up or walk around, and learn ever so much better. Can't we, Mary ? Mary. — Yes, that we can. / think she's mean, too. SAkAH. — So do I. Salome. — And I, too. Olive. — Now, girls, stop talking so. You know we couldn't study a bit well if it was nois}^ Maggie. — That's true. Girls, keep still. How can I study now ? [ They keep quiet until Maggie exclaims] — Oh, dear ! I never can get this lesson in spelling I How hard it is ! I can never remember these definitions. And what good will they ever do ? There ! — [throwing the speller on the desk] — I'll give it up — can't learn it. Olive. — Remember the motto, Maggie, "I'll try." Maggie. — Well, 1 will try a little. [Reluctantly takes up her hook and studies aloud.] M-o-r-t-a-r, a short piece of ordnance used for throwing shells. C-a-r-b-i-n-e, a short gun, borne by light horsemen, carried over the left shoulder, and has a ball weighing twenty-four pounds. Olive. — Why, Maggie ! you had better think. It must be a large gun to carry a ball weighing twenty- four pounds. STANDARD DIALOGUES 81 Magqie. — Well, it says something about twenty-four pounds. Olive. — It says twenty-four balls weigh one pound. Maggie. — Well, that's a sad mistake. I'm most dis- couraged. Sarah. — That is as bad a mistake as our class in geography made the other day. We were going by water from Cleveland to Quebec, and going, too, right down the Niagara river over the Falls, forgetting all about Welland Canal. Teacher says we must learn to think, and that is so hard ; isn't it, Maggie ? Maggie. — Yes, indeed it is. Olive. — But if you do not learn to think, you will not make much of a scholar. Alma [who stands at the blackboard with chalk in hand']. — Well, I never can write this sentence, if I think a week. A sentence whose principal parts are each limited by a word, phrase, and sentence. [Sits down for awhile in despair, then arises and goes to work.] Sarah [with a frown, scribbling on slate]. — What a hard arithmetic lesson ! To write a rule of our own for long division. I never can do it without Olive. — Without thinking, Sarah. No, of course you can't. Sarah [contemj^tuously]. — Oh, Miss Preacher, I didn't mean that. I meant without looking in my book. Olive. — Oh, girls, j^ou ought not to grumble ! Our teacher gives j^ou lessons which will teach you to think for yourselves. You must not be dependent on others, but learn to depend on your own energies. " Good scholars must be thorough in every thing." That is a good text. Alma [half laughing]. — And you are as good as a preacher. Say, Olive, how much salary would you ask to give us a sermon like the one just delivered, every noon until close of term ? [Sarcastically.] No doubt we would daily grow wiser and better. Carrie. — Now stop, Alma, j^ou are using the lan- guage of irony too much. Olive. — Well, girls, I think you are most too bad You know I say the truth, and sometime you will be sorry When you grow old 82 STANDARD DIALOGUES Sarah. — As old as the reverend Olive ! Girls let us count the gray hairs [touching Olivers locks \ on her ven- erable head. \_All laugh.'] Salome [croasly']. — I never in the world can make sentences which contain these words — discooraged, ven- erably, and contented. Alma [going to her and taking speller]. — Yes you can. Say Alma is discouraged about learning to write sentences, Olive's grave words sound venerably, and she is contented to lecture ugly girls, and so on. Mary [throwing down geography]. — Come, girls, let us go and play. Carrie. — Oh, no ! not yet. We couldn't get to the door before Olive, the preacher, would say. Girls remem- ber what the teacher sa3^s — "Lessons first, play af- terwards ;" and then we would be conscience smitten. [They all study, till Mary, with a sour face, exclaims] — Oh, what a hard geography lesson ! How to go by water from Grand Rapids to Buffalo. I shall sink before I get there ! Dear me I Carrie [cyphering]. — I never can perform this ex- ample ! Olive [cheerfully]. — Find a way, or make a way, Carrie. Alma. — Well, Olive, I've got a kind of a sentence. It's the best I can do. I wouldn't have tried, if I had not been anxious to be benefited by your sober sermon. Olive. — I'm glad it has done some good. If you have done the best you can, you have " done well — acted nobly! Angels do no more!" Charlie [coyning in whistling]. — Why, girls, what are you doing now ! Girls [all together, pushing and striking him]. — Go away ! Stop bothering ! You're always teasing ! We are studying. Charlie [looking surprised, and giving a long whis- tle]. — Studying ! nonsense ! stud3dng ! You look cross as bears ! You never can learn with such sour faces I Olive. — The}' are complaining, and pouting, and grumbling over hard lessons. Charlie. — Now, girls ! I'd be ashamed ! To spoil such a nice jlaytime by acting so ! Come, let us sing " I STANDARD DIALOGUES 83 wish I had my lesson," and then go and play awhile; and when school calls, if you stop looking cross, and study liard, the wish will surely come to pass. Sarah. — Yes ; the singing comes next in order after sermon. Olive, say the congregation will sing hymn on 173d page, common, particular, length}^ short metre, Olive. — Now behave, Sarah, or I will not help you. Sarah. — Well, I suppose I must mind, but it's tough. Olive, you commence, and I'll lengthen my face and sing with all the strength of my powerful lungs. [^They all sing "I wish I had my le s son, ^^ tune, ^^Dixie.^^ Charlie whistles. All go off with life and energy.'] I'm glad I live in the land of learning, Wisdom's heights I'm just discerning, Far away, far away, away, far away. Although sometimes I'm sad and weary, And the way looks dark and dreary, I'll away, 1^11 away, away, I'll away. Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, I do, I do ; In learning I will end my days, And live and die in wisdom's ways. I'll try, I'll try, I'll try to learn my lesson ; • I'll try, I'll try, I'll try to learn my lesson. Sarah. — Sometimes, w^hen I have hard lessons, I'm almost sorr}^ I live in the land of learning. It will be a long time before I can ever discern wisdom's heights. Too many children fret and worry, Because the^;- can't learn in a hurry, Right away, right away, away, right away. But as for me, as I grow stronger, I will strive to study longer, Work away, work away, away, work away. Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, &c. Charlie. — Yes, too many children''have been fretting and worrjdng this noon, I should judge. Alma. — Now, Charlie, stop teasing; we've reformed. Don't you ever fret and worry ? Charlie. — Well, j^es, sometimes ; but I don't often draw my face so prodigiously long. 84 STANDARD DIALOGUES Sometimes I think of the simny hours, The golden bees and pretty flowers, Far away, far away, away, far away. But then I know when school is over, I can run in the fields of clover, Skip away, skip away, away, skip away. Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, &c. Mary. — Well, I wish school was over now. I long to oe out in the woods and among the flowers, witl books, lessons, and teacher out of sight and hearing. I love my school next to my mother. Next to father, sister, brother. Work away, work away, away, work a\Y«»y. While I'm young and while I'm ruddy. I will work and I will study. Work away, work away, away, work away. Chorus. — Oh ! I know I'll learn my lesson, &c. Carrie. — I love my school pretty well, but I love play and fun next to my mother, " next to father, sister, brother." And now hurrah! let's leave our books and have a grand, good time before the bell rings. \_They exit with shouts and laughter.'] BEHIND THE SCENES. CHAEACTEES. Maria, ) Three girls, who remain Kate, \- after school to study Nellie. I their lessons. ScENE.^ — Chairs or benches to represent school-room. Desks. Cloaks hanging up. Curtain rises. Nellie. — There 1 I have finished my algebra lesson at last. Oh 1 how tiresome it is to study so much! I wish I was a queen, then I should never have to go to school. Kate. — But you would, when you were a princess, and have far more to study ; and you know " There is no royal road to learnfng.'' So you must make a better ^ish than ♦^hat. STANDAED DIALOGUES 85 Nellie. — Then I will wish my studies were over. My heart seems to be full of bees. Philosophy buzzes in it, and grammar buzzes, and algebra buzzes, till I am almost distracted. 1 shall be glad when my studies are done. Katf — What a hive of learning and sweetness it must be! But, Nellie, dear, do you remember wliat our teacher told us the other da}^, that our studies would not be ended while we lived ; we must always be learn- ing something new. Maria. — Congratulate me, girls ! I have committed to memory a difficult history lesson, and can say it perfectly — now listen : " The victorious general" Nellie [interrupting^. — Oh ! don't, Maria ! We have enough of that through study hours. Let us talk of something not quite so learned, and more interesting. Kate. — My party, for instance. You know, girls, my birthday comes next week, and I have been promi-ed a birthday party. Mamma is to manage it all. There will be dancing, and refreshment, just like a grown up party, and I am to have a new white dress with eight tucks. I am so glad we staid this afternoon, because we can arrange whom to invite. Of course, you two, Nellie and Maria, and the Smiths and Browns will come. I shall have to leave some out. I must con- sider whom. Nellie. — Be sure and invite Minerva Barry; you know her father has "struck ile" [mimicking'], and made his everlastin' forchune. She will be likely to wear her flame color silk that cost " a heap of money." Kate. — Now, Nellie, you are too bad. If you had been brought up with such disadvantages as Minerva has, you would be awkward and ignorant, too. Nellie. — Then I should have staid in the backwoods, where I belonged. Why, she brings bread and ham to school to eat in the classes, and says she likes it "power fully." " You needn't mind an}^ thing I dew," she said to Miss Horton, "my pa's rich, he's struck ile." Kate. — Poor ';hing! if an}- one would be kind enough to tell her how "rightful she looks in those rich silks she wears to sclool, and how much more becoming a 86 STANDARD DIALOGUES neat gingham would be, it would be doing her a real service. Maria. — Let her wear what she likes, girls, but for pity's sake don't invite her to your party, Kate. Wh}-, she would eat ice-cream with a fork, and cold turkey with her fingers, and she would wear the flame color silk with 3^ellow bows ; and then just imagine her telling every one in the room, " My pa's rich, he's struck ile" [draivling']. Nellie. — Or playing Yankee Doodle with one hand, on the piano, to show off her accomplishments. Kate. — Girls, you are too bad. Nothing is ever accomplished by ridicule. It is the weapon of weak minds. I think something may yet be made of Minerva, for she has a good heart. A Voice. — Thank you, Kate. [^The girls look up in astonishment and see Minerva just stepping from helmid a cloak that was hung iq?.'] Nellie [scornfully']. — Listeners never hear any good of themselves. Minerva [^angrily]. — I wasn't listening, I just went in behind there to frighten you ; I didn't think you were mean enough to talk about a schoolmate behind her back, that way. I — I wont like you ever again, nor speak to you either, except Kate. Nellie [aside]. — Oh, don't we feel hurt! aint it dreadful! and our pa's aint rich, and haven't struck ile. [Aloud.] Oh, Minerva ! forgive us ! we didn't mean any thing bad — girls always talk about each other. Minerva. — Oh, I don't mind if you are sorry for it I suppose I can afford to forgive you. My pa's rich — but I like Kate the best, after all. [Exit Minerva.] Maria. — What a muss we have got into. Who would have thought there was any one listening ? Kate [gravely]. — There is always One listening to our idle words ; so we should be careful, girls, and not go too far in talking nonsense. But now about the party. Of course, we must have our usher, Mr. Jacobs, to make fun for the children ; he knows so man}^ games, and tells such funny stories. Nellie. — But suppose he should forget, and cry, & STANDARD DIALOGUES 87 "First class in geo-o-grapb3% this wa^^" or " boys 1 boys! girls ! girls ! less noise ! wouldn't it sound funny"? Maria. — And he is so absent-minded ; he will take snulfall the time, and A yoiCE. — Stop, girls, till I get out of this ! Mr. Jacobs, a little old man, with spectacles on and a pen in his hand, steps from behind a desk. 2 Mr. Jacobs [m a most comical tone']. — ''My pa's rich, he's struck ile !" Girls [^altogether]. — Oh! Mr. Jacobs! Kate. — Did you hear all our foolish talk? We thought you had gone home. Mr. Jacobs. — I am afraid, my dear children, you struck deeper than "ile." Poor Minerva must feel both angry and ashamed. Let me suggest that here- after you imagine a listener near, and always temper justice with mercy, when speaking of the defects of another. There is a very beautiful little verse I would like you to commit to memor3\ I think, Kate, 3^ou know it already. Let me repeat it, after which we will go home. "Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the faults I see ; That mercy I to others show, 'I'liat mercy show to me," [ Curtain falls.'] THE TEST. CHARACTERS. Mr. Wallace. Mrs. Watson. Tom Wallace. John Watson. Scene 1. — A room. Mrs. Watson and John Watson discovered. Mrs. Watson. — Ah, it is very hard to live in this way after having been reared in a palace of luxury. Every thing is gone from me now, but you, my son. The house has been s'^ld, and we have scarcely enough 88 .STANDARD DIALOGUES to keep us alive for a few short weeks, while I have such poor health that I am scarcely able to move about. John. — Do not despond, dear mother. I will soon find something to do, and then we will get along nicely. I can make money enough to keep us alive, but I do feel sorr}^ that I must give up going to school. I had become very much interested in that arithmetic that used to seem so dry, and I was getting along finely. Mrs. W. — I did not like to have you leave school just now when j^ou so much need schooling, but grim poverty is looking us in the face and we must endeavor in some way to keep ourselves alive. If I vrere only able I could make something, but as it is I can do noth- ing. I am only a weight on your hands. John. — You must not talk so, mother. I shall feel ver}'' much displeased if you do. You are no weight on my hands. What would I have been without you ? But I must get my cap and see if I can not find a situa- tion. We have a little money yet, you know, and I think it will last until I find something to do. \_Going, meets Tom Wallace.'] Tom. — Hallo, John ! where away so fast ? You seein to be in a great hurry. John. — I'm just going out to see if I can't find a situa- tion. You know since our recent misfortunes we are in rather straitened circumstances, and I want to see if I can't find something to do. But come in and sit down. I'll not go out now. Tom [to Mrs. Watsori]. — Good-morning, Mrs. Wat- son. I hope you are better this morning. Mrs. W. — Not much, my young friend. I am very weak, and the troubles that have come upon us seem rather to have made me worse. Tom. — John has said that he was about to go out to seek a situation. I have just come in in the nick of time. Father wants a boy, and he told me to speak to John the first time I should meet him and ask him if he would accept a situation in his store. I thought I would no*^^ wait until I would meet him on the street, but ran over here immediately. If 30U feel like going, John, he will be glad to have you. STANDARD DIALOGUES 89 John. — I will go, gladly. I had a great deal rather work for a man I knew than for a stranger. Mrs. W. — I am ver}^ glad that you have obtained a situation for John. I know it is a very difficult matter at present to find employment of an^^ kind, and I feel truly grateful to both you and your father for what you have done. Tom. — No thanks, Mrs. Watson. Father was in need of a boy, and as he knew John to be sober and industri- ous and supposing he would be anxious for steady em- ployment, he decided to ask him to come. You will come to-morrow morning ? John. — Yes ; I will be on hand early. Tom. — All right. Good-morning. Mrs. W. and John. — Good-morning. [^Curtain falls']. Scene 2. — Mr. Wallace^s store. John Watson and Tom Wallace discovered. Tom. — Come now, John ; don't be so puritanical in your notions. Here is some tip-top wine. I got it down at Harlan's, and I know you will like it. Take a drop, do ! John. — Indeed, Tom, I will not. I know something of the evils of intemperance and I am fully determined that I will never drink intoxicating liquor of any kind, Tom. — John, don't be a fool. There is a wide differ- ence between beinor a drunkard and taking a glass of wine occasionally. John. — Not a very wide difference, I assure you. Can you point to a single drunkard who didn't com- mence his downward course bj- drinking a little "pru- dently," "temperately," as it is sometimes called? Point me to a single instance, will you ? Tom. — I don't know that I can, but I can point you to a great many who have been drinking temperately for a long time and yet there is no prospect of their be- coming drunkards. John. — I have no doubt there are some temperate drinkers who will net become drunkards, but they are few. The greatei oart of them will fill drunkards' graves. 90 STANDARD DIALOGUES Tom. — Well, this wine will not hurt you, but on the sontrary it will make you feel like a new man. Come now, take a drop, and don't be a goose. John. — Indeed I will not. You have my answer. But, Tom, I am surprised to see you have a bottle of wine with you. I thought you were strictly temperate. Tom. — There's no use in a fellow being so awful strict. I think I can take a little pull occasionally and yet not be a drunkard. I was at Alice Craig's birthday party last week, and when we were all about to pledge the fair Alice in a glass of wine, one of 3'our strictly tem- perate fellows refused to drink. He said he would drink hef health in a glass of water, but he had given his mother a promise that he would never drink wine, nor any other kind of intoxicating liquor, and he meant to keep that promise. Of course all the boys laughed at him, and Alice herself looked very much displeased but said nothing. Now, how would you have done if you had been in that fellow's place ? You certainly would not have refused to drink on an occasion of that kind. John. — Yes ; I would have refused. I would have done just exactly the same as that young man did, even if every person in the room had laughed at me, and if I had been turned out of doors by the young lady's father. I tell you, Tom, I have seen enough of the evils of intemperance to make me bitter in my denunciations of the wine cup. I havp seen the promising youth — the pride of the father and the delight of the mother — in a few short years become a driveling sot. I have seen the father, who should have been looked up to for coun- sel and, advice, go staggering to his home, there to meet a number of starving, frightened children, and a heart- broken wife. I am 3"oung yet, but I have seen enough to make me detest the wine-cup ; and I have determined that, b}^ the help of God, I wiWnever let one drop of in toxicating liquor pass my lips. Tom. — I declare, John, you have turned temperance Icctui-er. Well, I can't stand this speechifying, so I'll go out. lExit Tom..^ John. — I am really surprised to see Tom with a bot- tl»v I supposed that he hated intoxicating liquors as STANDARD DIALOGUES 91 much as I do. Plis father doesn't know of it or there would be a rumpus. I sincerely hope he may not be led away. I intend to talk to him again, but I must be careful how I talk, for if I offend him he may persuade his father to discharge me. [Sees note on the floor.'] Hallo ! what's this ? [Picks it up.'] A twent}^ dollar note, as sure as I'm alive ! I wonder who could have dropped it. Probably some one who was in the store this evening. Oh, won't that buy lots of nice things for my poor sick mother ? Aint I glad that I found it instead of Tom ? It is a wonder he didn't see it. Let me see — what will I buy ? First, we must have some coal, for our stock is getting low ; and then we will have a nice turkey for Thanksgiving, and mother shall have a new shawl and — [pauses a few moments.] I don't be- lieve I ought to keep this mone3^ It isn't mine if I did find it. It would buy some things we need very much, but it isn't mine, and I must not keep it. Oh, I wish I was rich ! It would be so much easier to do right if I was rich. Well, I'll not keep the money — thaVs settled ! I'll do as near right as I know how even if we are poor and have hard getting along. It is settled. I'll hand the money to Mr. Wallace and he can find out who lost it and return it to the rightful owner. [Enter Mr. Wallace.] Mr. Wallace. — Well, John ; did you take that pack- age down to Marshal's ? John. — Yes, sir. Here's a twenty dollar note I found here on the floor a few minutes ago. I suppose it was dropped by some of the customers this evening. You can find out the owner, if yow please, sir, and hand it back. Mr. W, — And why not keep the note, John ? It isn't probable the owner can be found. John — But the money isn't mine, and I will not keep it. I was tempted to keep it when I found it, and thought how mau}^ nice things it would buy for my poor mother; but right triumphed over wrong and I deter- mtned that I would not keep it. Mr. W. — I will tell j^ou all. I was just outside and h'^ard all your soliloqu3^ and your conversation with 92 StANDAKD DIALOGUES Tom. It was all a little plan to test you. Tom does not drink but, at my request, he tried to induce you to join him in a glass of wine. I am proud to say that he is the strictly temperate fellow he spoke of who would not pledge Alice Craig in a glass of wine. Whilst you were talking he dropped the note to give you another test. It was rather severe, but you have stood it man- fully and henceforth you shall have a permanent situa- tion in my store, and your mother shall want for noth- ing. As an earnest of what I intend to do, I present you with the twenty dollar note. Take it and buy what- ever you need, and remember that as long as you are as honest as you have proved yourself this evening, and that as long as you are as strictly temperate and as good a temperance lecturer as you have proved yourself this evening, 3^ou will always find a friend in me. John. — Oh, sir ; how can I ever thank you for your kindness? [Curtain falls. ^ THANKSGIVING. CHARACTERS. Henry "Wentworth. Robert Allen. Emily Melvillb. Scene. — A room in Mrs. Melville^s house. Mr. Went- worth discovered. Mtt. Went WORTH. — Well, here I am, ei, sconced in my new boarding-place, and a snug little place it is, but the villagers seem most awful slow. I really don't know t\^hat is to become of me. It is about thirty years since I found myself a rich man, and since that time I have been a miserable dog. I've traveled all over p]urope, and still I am not satisfied with myself, nor satisfied with ^wy body else. I didn't like Russia ; it was far too cold, and Italy was far too hot. Holland was inexpress- ibly dull, and France was inexpressibi}' gay. Nothing pleases me. I am all out of sorts. 'Tis a great pity thai I am '^ot still poor. It was an unlucky day for me STANDARD DIALOGUES 93 when I became possessor of m}^ immense fortune. Well, I find myself now in a snug little house, and I think I'll stay a few weeks. It must be very lonely for the lady and her daughter to live here all alone. They seem to be only in tolerable circumstances, and I think I'll help them along a little, if I can find a way of doing it with- out offending them. To-morrow is Thanksgiving, and from the way the pretty little Emily is flying round, we may expect a sumptuous dinner of turkey, pumpkin- pies, etc. She's a famous little cook. I'll wager she can't be beaten in the State. Well, here's the morning paper — the Star. It's a stupid old thing, but I'll look it over, and take a smoke, on the porch. [^Betires.'] [^Entei" Emily.'] Emily. — Mr. Wentworth is gone out, and I'll brush things up a little. \_Proceeds to arrange furniture, etc.'] He's a nice old gentleman, but a little crusty sometimes. Well, while he boards with us, we will endeavor to make him feel happy and contented. They say that riches make a man happy, but I don't believe it. Mr. Went- worth is reputed a very wealthy man, and he doesn't seem to be the least bit happy. IHums a tune as she pro- ceeds with her work; knock at the door; opened by Emily.] [Enter Robert] Good morning, Robert. What's the matter, that you are out so early this morning ? Robert. — I came over to see if you wanted Mr. Gray's pony, to ride to church to-morrow. I can get him for 3^ou. Emily.— Oh, no, Robert! I'll walk. Our old bachelor boarder is going to church, and we'll all walk together. You must remember what I told you last Monday, and come here for dinner. We will have a nice time. Arn't you glad, Rol^ert, when Thanksgiving comes around ? Robert. — I can't say I am. Emil}^, I have been won- dering what we have to be thankful for. What's the use of pretending to be thankful when yon don't feel so ? Emily.— Oh, Robert! Robert. — I'm in earnest. Just look at it in every light, and tell me why we should be thankful. Is there any thing we ought to be particularly thankful for ? 18 94 STANDARD DIALOGUES Emily. — Oh, yes, Robert ! We ought to be thankfiiV for the sunshine and the rain. We ought to be thankful for the bread we eat, and for the many blessings that surround our daily life. Robert. — Yes, I know ; but I am not thinking of these common-place affairs. Emily, you know we are both poor. I am totally without employment, although I have been seeking in the city for something to do for the last three weeks. While this lasts you know we can not be married. I would be willing to work, and work hard, from daylight to dark, that I might earn something, and that I might be enabled to lay some- thing by, and be able to look forward to the bright day when I could claim you as my own. Emily [coming to his side, and loohingup in his/ace.^ — Dear Robert, don't be disheartened. A brighter and a happier day will dawn. We will yet be happy. Let us put our trust in God, and all will be well. He will pro- vide for us if we will implicitly rely on Him, and bide his own good time. , Robert. — I believe — I — I know I have been talking like a great blockhead, but I can't help feeling discour- aged and disheartened. It seems hard that we must wear out our lives in this endless waiting. Our best dsijs are passing away, and we are becoming poorer and poorer. Oh ! will there never be any change ? Must we still drag along in this wretched, miserable wa}*- ? Emily. — ^Robert, do not talk in this way. If we but trust in God, all will yet be well. [A noise is heard as of a chair being moved. ~\ Robert. — What's that ? Emily. — Oh, my ! The window is open, and perhaps Mr. Wentworth is on the porch. What if he has heard our conversation ? Robert. — I hope he hasn't. Let us get out of this anyhow. \_Exeunt to kitchen.'] [Enter Mr. Wentworth.] Mr. Wentworth. — Well, I must confess I have a sort of a hang-dog feeling just now. I didn't want to hear what the two young folks were talking about, but I couldn't get up and leave without disturbing them, and, to tell the truth, I couldn't help listening. I think, STANDARD DIALOGUES 95 however, they will forgive me for eavesdropping; for I will put them on a plan whereby they can get married right off; and then that young fellow will stop his whin- ing. Poor fellow, I pity him ! I know it is a dreadful thing to be in love, and not have enough of the filthy lucre to enable you to step into matrimony. I can sym- pathize with the-3'oung dog, for I was once in the same ugly predicament. Ah ! that vision of sunny curls and soft brown eyes haunts me still, but, unfortunately, the possessor of the sunny curls and soft brown ej^es hadn't the true heart that my little hostess has. But enough ; I will not think of the past. I'll make these two young lovers happy, and then Til run off. I couldn't stay aud hear the thousands of thanks they would rain on me. Indeed I couldn't ! I'll be sorry to lose the Thanksgiv- ing dinner, too. The pumpkin-pies will be superb, and the turkey will be done to a turn. [To,kes out pocket- book.^ Here's a check for three thousand. That will give them a start in the world. Now I'll pencil a little note to Emily, and be off. [Writes and encloses the check.'] Now, my hat. Thank fortune I 've no baggage. [Goes to door leading to porch. Calls back.] Emily! I mean Miss Mellville ! [Emily appears.] I'm off now. Emily. — Wh}^ Mr. Wentworth, what's the matter ? Why are you going to leave so soon ? Mr. Wentavorth. — Oh! I've suddenly taken a notion to go back to the city. I'm restless, you know ; can't stay long in one place. There's a note on the table for you, explaining my sudden departure, and containing money enough to pa}^ m}^ board bill. I'll come back and see 3'ou someday. Good-by ! [Exit Mr. Wentivorth.] Emily. — Well, I declare ; this is funny. What a strange kind of a man ! I believe he doesn't know one minute what he'll do the next. I will read his note. [Opens and reads.] Robert, Robert, come here ! [En- ter Robert.] Would you believe it ! That strange old gentleman has run off, and left me three thousand dollars. Robert. — What ! Emily. — Three thousand dollars ! just think of it ! 96 STANDARD DIALOGUES And he says I must many you immediately ; but here's the letter ; read for yourself. Robert [takes the letter and reads alo^id']. — " My little friend Emily : I unintentionally overheard your conver- sation a few minutes ago. Here's a check for three thousand dollars. Take it, marry the young man im- mediately, and be happy. I have piles of money, and the only good it does me is to give it away to deserving persons. It makes a man feel good to do a benevolent action. Take the money, and don't forget your old friend Wentworth." Three thousand dollars ! Well, I'm astonished ! What did he run away for ? Emily. — I don't know, unless it was because he didn't want to hear us thank him for his kindness. I am real sorry he is gone. Robert. — And you will accept the present ? Emily. — Certainly, Robert. We are rich people now, and when Mr. Wentworth comes back, wont we over- power him with our thanks? Oh, what a kind-hearted man he is 1 But yon will now keep Thanksgiving from your heart, will you not, Robert ? Robert. — I will. Emily. — And should sorrows surround us, and the dark clouds lower over our pathway, you will still trust in the Great Benefactor. Ro n rt [reverently.^ — The Lord helping me, I will. [Curtain falls.2 THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT. CHARACTERS i Mary Cole. GRANDiMoxHER Cole, who is very deaf. Jack Cole. Aunt Martha Gordon. Cyrus Gordon. Scene 1. — The sitting-room of the Cole family. Mary reading a newspaper. Grandmother Cole knitting. Aunt Martha crochetting. Jack playing with the balls in Aunt Martha'^s icork-basket. Mary Cole. — Oh, Aunt Martha ! onl}^ hear this ! it's m the Chronicle. What a splendid chance 1 I declare, I've a great mind to answer it m^^self ! STANDARD DIALOGUES 97 Aunt M. — What have you got hold of no-w ? You're allez a-making some powerful diskiveiy somewheres What now? Something to turn gray eyes black, and blue eyes gra^^ ? Mary. — No ; it's a matrimonial advertisement. What a splendid fellow this *' C. G." must be ! Aunt M. — Oh, shaw ! A body must be dreadfull}^ put to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. Thank goodness ! I never got in such a strait as that 'ere. The Lord has marcyfully kept me thus fur from having any dealings with the male sect, and I trust I shall be presarved to the end. Jack Cole. — Didn't you ever have an offer, Aunt Mattie? Aunt M. [^indignantly^. — Why, Jack Cole ! What an idee! I've had more chances to change my condition than you're got fingers and toes. But I refused 'em all. A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks adrift — they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come over to our 'ouse, and I give him to understand that he needn't trouble hisself ; and he felt so mad that he went rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month was out. Jack. — Poor fellow ! How he must have felt ! And Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at you a great deal in meeting, since j^ou've got that pm^: feather on your bonnet. What if he should want you to be a mother to his ten little ones ? Aunt M. [simpe^^ing']. — Law, Jack Cole! What a dreadful boy 3^ou be ! [Finchea his ear.'] The deacon never thought of such a thing ! But if it should please Providence to appoint to me such a fate, I should try and be resigned. Granny Cole. — Resigued ! Who's resigned ? Not the President, has he? Well, I don't blame him. I'd resign, too, if I was into his place. Nothing spiles a man's character so quick as being President or Congress. Yer gran'father got in justice of the peace and chorus, once, and he resigned afore he was elected. Sed be didn't want his repetition s'^iled. 98 STANDARD DIALOGUES Jack. — Three cheers for Gran 'father Cole I Granny C. — Cheers? What's the matter with the cheers now ? Yer father had them bottomed last 3- ear, and this year they were new painted. What's to pay with 'em now ? Mary [impatiently']. — Do listen, all of you, to this advertisement. Aunt M. — Mary Cole, I'm sorry your head is so turned with the vanities of this world. Advertising for a pardner in that way is wicked. I hadn't orter listen to it. Mary. — Oh, it wont hurt you a bit, auntie. [Beads.] "A gentleman of about forty, very fine looking; tall, slender, and fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and side whiskers, and some property, wishes to make the acquaintance of a young lady with similar qualifica- tions Jack. — A young lady with expressive eyes and side whiskers Mary. — Do keep quiet. Jack Cole! [Beads.'] ''With similar qualifications as to good looks and amiable temper, with a view to matrimony. Address, with stamp to pay return postage — C. G., Scrubtoivn ; stating when and where an interview may be had." There ! what do you think of that ? Jack. — Deacon Goodrich to a T. " C. G." stands for Calvin Goodrich. Aunt M. — The land of goodness ! Deacon Goodrich, indeed ! a pillar of the church ! advertising for a wife ! No, no, Jack ; it can't be him ! He'd never stoop so low! Jack. — But if all the women are as hard-hearted as you are, and the poor man needs a wife. Think of his ten little olive plants ! Granny C. — Plants? Cabbage plants? 'Taint time to set them out yet. Fust of August is plenty airly enuff to set 'em for winter. Cabbages never begin to head till the nights come cold. Jack. — Poor Mr. C. G! Why don't you answer it, Aunt Mattie ; and tell him you'll darn his stockings for him, and comb that fair hair of his ? Aunt M. — Jack Cole! if you don't hold j^our tongue, I'll comb yoiu* hair for you in away you wont like. Me STANDARD DIALOGUES 99 answering one of them low advertisements ! Me, indeed 1 I haint so eager to get married as some folks I know. Brother Cyrus and I have lived all our lives in maiden meditation, fancy free — the only sensible ones of the family of twelve children ; and it's my idee that we shall continner on in that way. Maky. — 'Why, don't you believe that Uncle Cyrus would get married if he could ? Aunt M. — Your Uncle C^tus ! I tell you, Mary Cole, he wouldn't marry the best woman that ever trod ! I've heern him say so a hundred times. Mary. — Wont you answer this advertisement, auntie ? I'll give 3^ou a sheet of my nicest gilt-edged note-paper if you will ! Aunt M. [furiously^. — If 3^ou weren't so big, Mary Jane Cole, I'd spank you soundly! I vow I would I Me answer it, indeed ! [^Leaves the room in great indignation.'] Mary. — Look here. Jack. What'll you bet she wont reply to that notice ? Jack. — Nonsense ! Wouldn't she blaze if she could hear you ? Mary. — I'll wager my new curled waterfall against your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie replies to Mr. " C. G." before to-morrow night. Jack. — Done ! I shall wear a curled waterfall after to-morrow. Mary. — No, sir ! But I shall wear a ruby pin. Jack, who do you think " C. G." is ? Jack. — Really, I do not know ; do you ? Ah ! I know you do, by that look in your eyes. Tell me, that's a darling. Mary. — Not I. I don't expose secrets to a fellow who tells them all over town. Besides, it would spoil the fun. Jack. — Mary, you are the dearest little sister in the world ! Tell me, please. [ Taking her hands.] Mary. — No, sir ! You don't get that out of me. Take care, now. Let go of mj hands. I'm going up stairs t© keep an e3^e on Aunt Mattie. She's gone up now to write an answer to '' C. G." And if there is any fun by- aud-by, Jack, if you're a goed boy you shall be there to see. 100 STANDARD DIALOGUES Granny C. — To sea? Going to sea? Why, Jack Cole ! you haint twenty-one yet and the sea's a dreadful place ! There's a sarpmt lives in it as big as the Scrub- town meeting-'us', and whales that swaller folks alive, clothes and all I I read about one in a book a great while ago that swallered a man of the name of Jonah, and he didn't set well on the critter's stummuck, and up lie come, lively as ever ! \_Gurtain falls.'] Scene 2. — The garden of a deserted house, in the vicin' ity of Mr. Golems. Mary leading Jack cautiously along a shaded path. Mary. — There ; we'll squat down behind this lilac bush. It's nearly the appointed hour. I heard Aunt Mattie soliloquizing in her room this morning, after this manner — "At eight o'clock this night I go to meet my destiny ! In the deserted garden, under the old pear- tree. How very romantic !" Hark ! there she comes ! Jack. — Well, of all the absurd things that ever I heard tell of! Who would have believed that our staid old maid aunt would have been guiltj^ of answering a matri- monial advertisement ? Mary. — Hush! Jack, if you make a noise and spoil the fun now, I'll never forgive you. Keep your head still, and don't fidget so. Aunt Mattie [^sloivly walking down the path — solilo- quizing]. — Eight o'clock ! It struck just as I started out. He ought to be here. Why does he tarry ? If he aint punctual I'll give him the mitten. I swow I will! Dear gracious ! what a sitivation to be in ! Me, at my time of life ! though, to be shure, I haint so old as — as I might be. The dew's a-falling, and I shall get the rheumatiz in these thin shoes, if he don't come quick. What if Jack and Mar}/ should git hold of this.? I never should hear the last of it! Never! I wouldn't have 'em know it for a thousand dollars ! Goodness me ! What if it should be the deacon ? Them children of his'n is dread- ful youngsters ; but, the Lord helping me, I'd try to train 'em up in the way they should go. Hark I is that him a-cominof ? No ; it's a toad hopping through the carroi; STANDAED DIALOGUES 101 bed. My soul and bod}^ ! what if he should want to kiss me? I'll chew a clove for fear he should. I wonder if it would be properous to let him ? But then, I s'pose if it's the deacon I couldn't help myself. He's an awful cZeetarmined man ; and if I couldn't help it I shouldn't be to blame I Deary me 1 how I trimble ! There he comes ! I hear his step ! What a tall man ! 'Taint the deacon I He's got a shawl on ! Must be the new schoolmaster ! he wears a shawl ! [^ man approaches. Miss Mattie goes up to him cautiously.'] Is this Mr. c. a.? C. G._Yes ; it is. Is this Miss M. G. ? ' Aunt M. — It is. Dear sir, I hope you wont think me bold and unmaidenly in coming out here all alone in the dark to meet you ? C. G. — Never ! Ah, the^ happiness of this moment I For forty years I have been looking for thee 1 [_Futs his arm around her.] Aunt M. — Oh, dear me! don't! don't! my dear sir! I aint used to it ! and it aiut exactly proper out here in this old garden ! It's a dreadful lonely spot, and if peo- ple should see us they might talk. C. G.— Let 'em talk! They'll talk still more when you and I are married, I reckon. Lift your vail and let me see your sweet face. Aunt M. — Yes, if you'll remove that hat and let me behold your countenance. C. G. — Now, then ; both together. [^Aunt M. throws hack her vail. G. G. removes his hat. They gaze at each other a moment in utter silence.] Aunt M. — Good gracious airth! 'tis brother Cyrus 1 C. G. — Jubiter Ammon ! 'tis sister Martha! Aunt M. — Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus Gordon! Who'd ever a-thought of you, at your time of life, cut- ting up such a caper as this ? You old, bald-headed, graj^-whiskered man ! Forty years old ! My gracious I You were fifty-nine last July 1 C. G. — Well, if I am, you're two year older. So it's as broad as 'tis long ! Aunt M. — Why I thought shure it was Deacon Good- rich that advertised. C. G. stands for Calvin Goodrich 102 STANDARD DIALOGUES C. G. — Yes; and it stands for Cyrus Gordon, too. And Deacon Goodrich was married last night to Peggy Jones. Aunt M. — That snub-nosed, red-haired Peggy Jones ! He'd ort to be flayed alive ! Married agin ! and his wife not hardly cold ! Oh, the desatefulness of men ! Thank Providence ! I haint tied to one of the abominable sect I C. G. — Well, Martha, we're both in the same boat. If you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it's a terrible disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant Marion Giles, the pretty milliner. Aunt M. — Humph! What an old goose 1 She wouldn't look at you! I heerd her lafflng at your swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last Sunday. But I'm ready to keep silence if you will. Gracious I if Jack and Mary should get wind of this, shouldn't we have to take it ? C. G.— Hark! what's that? [ Voice behind the lilac-bush sings^ : "Oh, there's many a bud the cold frost will nip, And there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." Aunt. M. — That's Jack's voice ! Goodness me I Let us scoot for home I Jaok. — Did he kiss you. Aunt Mattie ? Mary. — Do you like the smell of cloves, Uncle Cyrus ? C. G — Confound you both! If I had hold of ye I'd tet you know if I like the smell of cloves, and birch, too. [^Curtain falls.'] CHANGING SERVANTS. CHAEACTERS. BiR William, a crusty master. John, a faithful servant. George, his waiting boy. Bob, a servant recently hired. Sir William [^seated, with George standing]. — George, have yo'i seen any thing of John this morning ? George. — Yes, sir; he is at work in the garden. Sir Wm. — I wonder if he has attended to the horses ? STAND AKD DIALOGUES 103 George. — I suppose so, sir, for he has just come in from the stables. Sir. Wm. — Tell him to come in. I want to talk with him. George. — I will, sir. [Exit.'] Sir Wm. [^John comes in']. — John, did you feed the horses ? John. — Yes, sir, and watered and curried them. Sir Wm. — Well, you always do either too much or too little. You ought to have spent the time in the garden that you occupied rubbing the skin of the poor creatures. Don't you know you are too strong to curry a horse ? John. — But, if you please, sir, don't you recollect you told me yesterday, you would turn me off if I ne- glected to curry the horses another morning ? Sir Wm. — Oh, pshaw! That's another subject alto- gether. Tell me whether you fed them corn or oats. John. — Which did 3^ou want them to have ? Sir Wm. — Come, sir ! Can't you answer my question without asking half a dozen others ? Did you give them hay or corn ? John. — No, sir. Sir Wm. — Well, that is a satisfactory answer, indeed 1 Tell me what you mean b}^ "no, sir." ? John. — I mean that I didn't give them hay nor corn. Sir Wm. — Then what did you give them ? John. — Well, sir, I fed them oats. Sir Wm. — Well, you could have done half a day's work while you were answering me a simple question. But I'll bet the lazy fellow didn't give them any salt with it. John. — Why, no, sir ; who ever heard of feeding salt with oats? Sir Wm. — Oh, you are so provoking I I'll have no more of your impudence, sir. Tell me why you didn't ask me what you should feed the horses. John. — Because, sir, when I ask you how any thing shall be done, you always quarrel with me for pestering you. Sir. Wm. — Just listen at the impudent fellow ! Don't you know 3^ou never do any thing as I want it ? John. — Yes, sir; and it is just because you never 104 STANDARD DIALOGUES choose to be pleased with what I do. If I give the horses corn, you want them to have oats ; and if I give ihem oats, you want them to have corn. If I give them salt, you quarrel ; and if I donH give it to them, yon quarrel. Sir Wm. — The mischief I I'll not be talked to in this way by my own servants ! Get out of my house, and I'll see if I can't get some one that will obey my orders. \_John starts.'] Hold on ! Where are you going ? John. — To see if I can please you once. \_Starts.'] Sir Wm. — Comeback! \_Stops.'] Get out! \^Starts again.'] Come back, I say ! Let me hire you over. Maybe you'll suit me better next time. Will you promise to please me ? John. — Will you promise to be pleased with me ? SirWm. — How's that? No! What makes you ask me that ? Begone, sir ! \_Starts.] Come back ! Come back ! I want to tell you something. [ Turns round.] John. — What is it, sir ? Sir Wm. — Nothing. \_John goes out. George comes in.'] George, where's that fellow Bob I hired the other day : Tell him to bring me my tea forthwith, immediately. [^George goes out and returns.] George. — Master, Bob's asleep in the kitchen, anerLntendent) will. But I have heard some persons say that you will be called on for an extemporaneous speech. If you should be, what will you do ? Alfred. — Make the attempt, of course. John. — Ho ho ! I wouldn't ! I'd decline. Why you'll make a fool of yourself if you try. Alfred. — I don't care. Of course they will not ex- pect much of me, and even if I do not get along very well, I can have it to say I made the attempt, and after having made the first attempt it will not be so hard to make the second. STANDARD DIALOGUES 109 John, — Suppose j^ou step out, now, and give us an extemporaneous speech. Alfred, — Well — really — I don't know what to say. John, — Ha, ha ! That's the way it will be to-morrow evening. You'll not think of any thing to say, and when it comes to the point you'll back down. Alfred, — No, sir ; I'll make the attempt, if I should only say ten words, John. — Well, suppose you saj^ ten words now. Alfred, — I'll tell you what I'll do. If I am to be asked for an off-hand speech to-morrow night I will say something now that will bear repeating, John. — Well go ahead. Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen, you know I am no speech-maker. I am only a school-boy of number . But why may we not have great orators and great statesmen in number ? I believe there are smart boys here — some perhaps as smart as were numbered in the schools to which Henr}^ Clay and Daniel Webster and Thomos H. Benton belonged. We are a great people — and [Pawse]. John. — Stuck, are you ? Alfred. — No, I'm waiting for a cheer. John. — Well, here it is. ^Cheers.'] Alfred [^continues']. — There have been a great many people in this country. John. — Ha! ha! ha I Alfred. — I mean there have been a great many great people in this countr}'^, and why may we not have a great man in number ? John. — That's what I want to know ? Alfred. — Don't interrupt me, and I'll say something grand after while. If Daniel Webster made a big dictionary and a spelling-book why ma}^ not John. — 'Twasn't Dan made the big dictionary and the spelling-book — 'twas Noah. Alfred. — Oh, so it was ! Well, if Noah Webster made a big dictionarj", and if Daniel Webster was great on speech making, ma}" we not find a Daniel or a Noah in this school ? John. — Yes; there's a Daniel in our school — Dan 19 110 STANDARD DIALOGUES Jones. He's a smart fellow when it comes to sock ball. Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen — My name is Norval John. — Hold on, old fellow ! We want something original. Alfred. — We are but a band of small boys ; not very small either, we feel pretty large — but I feel sure the time will come when we will be big boys, and go home with the girls from singing school just as [introduce names to suW] Jim Wilson and John Harrison and Sam Hayes do now. \_Alfred applauds tremendously.'] And the time will come yes — ladies and gentlemen — the time will come when the little girls of our school will spread themselves and feel as big as [introduce names to suit'] Sallie Jones and Jane White and Suzy Wilson do now. And, ladies and gentlemen, when that time does come, Sallie Jones and Jane White and Suzy Wilson will be considerably up in years. Yes, Mr. President and fellow-citizens, they will be, to speak plainly, old maids \ or if they are not old maids who knows but their names may be Sallie Wilson or Jane Harrison or Suz}^ Hayes and perhaps they will be thumping little boys and little girls and sending them off to school just as certain little boys and little girls are being thumped and sent off to school now. [Alfred applauds and. shouts "good, good /"] Somebody says that the world moves, and I believe it's a fact. The people in the world keep moving too. One man goes up like a rocket and creates a noise in the world and makes a flash, and then he goes out and all is darkness. But they don't all go up like a rocket and then die out. Some shine on, and shine on, and shine on, and the longer they shine the brighter they shine. That's the way the boys of number in- tend to shine. [Alfred applauds and shouts " thaVs so .'"] Now if I was as old as Mr. , and Mr. , and Mr. , [naming some of the young men present] I'll tell you what I would do. I'd get married I I don't know wh}^ it is that some persons will live on and live on and not get married. I don't think that's right! Do you? The Bible is a good book, and the Bible says people ought to get married. Now if I was a young lady and if such a fellow as Jim Wilson or John HarHso" o** I STANDARD DIALOGUES 111 Sam Hayes was coming to see me, and taking me home from singing school and if he wouldn't propose, I'll tell you how I'd bring him to the point. I'd tell him that I thought a great deal of John Clark or Alfred Smith, that they were two very suiart young men, and that if they were just a little older I would marry one of them. John. — Ha! ha! ha! I don't think that would frighten them into a proposal. Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen [introduce names to suif] Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Powell, and Mr. Adams and Mr. Jones are present, and as they are learned and intelligent men I had better not say any thing more, or they may lose their good opinion of me. Haven't I made a pretty long speech ? I didn't know what I would say when I got up, but I was determined to say something. You all know it isn't right for a boy to have too much brass in his face, but I think you wilJ all agree with me that he ought to have enough to at- tempt to make a speech w^hen called upon. And now having said my say, I make my best bow and retire. John \_applauds.'] — Instead of giving us ten words yov have given us quite a long speech. You have dom? yourself credit, Alfred, and if you do as well to-morrow night, Mr. {su'perintendeiit) will open bis eyes in astonishment. Alfred. — Thank you, John. But come, let \is be off and prepare for rehearsing that " Contentious CQCftuau- nity" dialogue. John. — All right — come ahead. \_Exeunt.'] [ Curtain falls.'] DEAF UNCLE ZED. Jack Fairweather [enters with letter']. — Mrs. Cather- ine Lavina Fairweather ; that must mean the old lady herself Yes, sir-e-e it's for her ; looks like it might contain a bit of the sentimental. Plenty of room for it in that dainty envelope. Ha, ha ! Mrs. Fairweather. — Jack, what are j^ou talking »bouf ? What's that ? Come here, sir. 112 STANDARD DIALOGUES Jack. — Oh, I've just brought you a "billy-d'icks." Mrs. F.— a what ? Jack. — No, a " billj^-ducks," that's what my educated sister Sophronia Janette Amerette calls 'em. Mrs. F. — Explain yourself; how dare you talk thus to your mother ? Jack. — Reckon that's the Latin of it — here it is in English. {^Holding up the letter.^ Mrs. F. [taking the letter^. — A letter, you young ras- cal. Post-marked Manchester, too. It is from your Uncle Zedekiah Fairweather. [Proceeds to open it.'] Well that's good. I only hope the old curmudgeon has opened his heart and sent us some of the needful. Jack. — So do I. Hello, Tim [enter Tim] I here's a letter from Uncle Zed. Tim. — Who cares ! Jack. — But there's lots of money in it. Tim.— Three cheers. Bully for Uncle Zed I Jack. — Now we'll get our new skates. Tim. — And go to the show and ride the elephant. Both Boys. — Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Mrs. F. — Hush boys, don't be quite so fast. Call your sister. Jack. — And Lucy, too ? Mrs. F. — No difference about her. [Jack goes out — enters with the girls.] Janette. — What do you want, mother ? Mrs. F. — rListen, children. I have received a letter from your Uncle Zedekiah. You know I wrote to him some time since, asking him for some mone}^ which we need very badly. He has plenty, and I hoped when be heard the story of our needs, he would open his miserly old heart and lend a helping hand to the family of his only brother. Here is his reply : — My dear sister. I have just received yours of the 24th inst. My health is in a very precarious condition ; my hearing is also somewhat impaired ; nevertheless I have decided to visit you. If my life is spared, you may expect me to arrive next Tuesday, and by my presence I will endeavor to cheer your lonely home. Until then, adieu. Your brother, Zedekiah. Janette. — Oh! horrible 1 STANDARD DIALOGUES 113 Jack. — Why, sis, aiiit he going to bring us presents ? Tim. — Hurrah, we'll have capital fun. Janette. — Oh, my poor nerves ! Only think of screaming at the top of one's voice for weeks. I sup- pose that he is as deaf as a post. Lucy. — That's his misfortune, not his fault. Mrs. r. — Hush, Miss Impertinence. Now, children, we must make the best of it. Janette. — Do write to him not to come. Jack. — Guess that wont do much good now. This is Tuesday, he will be here to-day. You can save your postage, and tell him when he arrives. Tim. — Hope he will come, and wear the same suit he did six years ago. 'Twould be better than a show. Mrs. F. — Now boys, listen to me. Your uncle will doubtless arrive soon. There's no help for it, and, as I said before, we must make the best of it. He's rich, and we are poor. We must be civil to him while he lives, or we will never be benefited by his death. Jack. — And maybe not then. Mrs. F. — Go, now, boys, put on your best suits, and go to the depot to meet him. I will follow you as soon as I set things to right here. \_Exit hoys.'] Lucy, Lucy. W here is that numbskull ? Lucy. — Yes — ma'am. Mrs. F. — I have called you half a dozen times. Go arrange the east room for our uncle. Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. \_Exit Lucy.] Mrs. F. — Now, daughter, compose yourself; do only win the favor of your uncle, and your fortune's made. Janette. — Oh, the dreadful old-fashioned, cross, deaf, old creature ! How can we have him around here. You know he will be in the parlor, whether he is wanted or not. Then, too, he will be bound to know every word that is said. All deaf folks do I Oh, I shall faint if Don Pedro happens to meet him. Mrs. F. — Cheer up, my daughter. Perhaps he will keep his room ; 3'ou know his health is poor. Janette. — That's all the consolation I have. Mrs. F. — Hope for the best, Janette Ameretti, my dear. But I must be going ; it's nearly train time Look bright when we come in; that's a good girl I 114 STANDARD DIALOGUES \^Enter Lucy.'] Well, miss, have you done as I ordered you? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F.— Did you light the fire ? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F. — Did you dust the furniture? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F. — Did 3^0 u air the room ? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F. — Did you arrange that arm-chair? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F. — And prepare the dressing-gown ? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F. — And the slippers ? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am.* Mrs. F. — And the smoking-cap ? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F. — Very well ; now you keep out of the way ontil called for. \_Exit Mrs. F.] Janette. — What's to become of us ! Must we submit to be bored to death with that crusty, cross, deaf, old bachelor ? Lucy. — Have you seen him lately, Miss Janette ? Janette. — No, and I wish I could be spared the in- fliction now. Lucy. — He may prove pleasanter than you imagine him to be. We should not be too rash in our judgment of others. Janette. — Oh, you'd better talk to me, Miss Charity ; you are always setting yourself as a model of perfec- tion. No doubt you will do all you can to get my uncle's money. It's plain to me that's all you are after now. Lucy. — Oh, Jennie, how can you speak so ? \_Exit.'] Janette [alone]. — Only think of me, Sophronia Jan- ette Amerette Fairweather, primped up in the parlor, screaming at the top of my voice, " I hope you are well, Uncle Zedekiah," only I don't. Oh, my poor lungs. Well there's one consolation ; one can say just what she chooses about him, and he will never know it. But here they come. \_Enter boys with large trunk.] Jack. — Gracious me I put it down. I'm all out of breath. STANDARD DIALOGUES 115 Tim. — Oh, sis, you ought to see him ; here he goes ! [ Walks across the stage imitating Uncle Zedekiah.'] Janette. — Where is he ? Jack. — Oh, he is coming with mother. He can't walk very fast, you know. Janette. — Suppose he has the gout, too ? Tim. — Oh, sis, I should like to see him dance a jig with you. Janette. — I onl}^ wish I were rich, he would dance his jigs alone, and in some other localit}^ I imagine. Jack. — You had better begin to look pleasant. He will be here soon. I think from the appearance of his trunk, his presence will be considerable, if not more. Tim. — Yes, we will all enjoy it muchly. Sis looks the very conglomeration of sweetness now. Janette. — There, there's the bell now. Lucy will open the door of course ! [Exit Janette.^ \_Enter Mrs. F., with Uncle Z. leaning on her arm, followed by Lucy, with numerous bundles. Boys remain seated on the trunk. Mrs. F. speaks very loud.'] Mrs. F. — There, my dear brother, we have arrived at last. IJncle Z.— What, ha I Mrs. F. — I say we are at home. Jack. — And wish you were too. Uncle Z. — Please speak a little louder. Mrs. F. — Pray be seated in this chair ; Lucy, wheel it around here. You must be fatigued with such a journey ? Uncle Z.— Ha? Mrs. F. [^sci^eams out]. — Fatigued, tired, I say ? Uncle Z. — I don't just hear right ? Mrs. F. — You must be tired after your long ride ? Tim. — I wonder where Noah was old feller, when you took that coat out of the ark ? Uncle Z. — Ha ? [Seating himself in the arm-chair,] Mrs. F. — He was asking 3^ou to. give him your coat, to hang up for jou in the hall. Uncle Z. — Give him — what ? Mrs. F. — Your great-coat. UrcLE Z. — Can't spare it yet awhile, young man. 116 STANDARD DIALOGUES Seems to me if you would go honestly to work, you might earn one for yourself. Here, my little girl [to Lucy'], wont you help me take this coat off. \_Lucy helps him.'] Mrs. F. — You didn't understand Timothy, uncle I Uncle Z. — Oh, yes. Mrs. F. — Now, boys, hold your tongues. [Boys tak^ hold of their tongues.] Behave yourselves, I say, or you will spoil all. Jack. — He's most bare-footed on top of his head, aren't he, Tim ? Tim. — Shouldn't woxider. Let's recommend him to use " Spaulding's glue ;" that will bring har out, I guess. Uncle Z. [to boys]. — What are j^ou saying ? Tim. — It's a fine day, sir, but likely to rain. Uncle Z. — Oh yes, yes. Mrs. F. — Now, my dear brother, do try to be com- fortable. Don't mind those boys. You must see mj charming daughter. Uncle Z. — Ha? Mrs. F. — Janette j^merette will be delighted to see you. Jack. — In Ballehack, or some other place as faraway. Mrs. F. — Hush, Jack. She was so happy to hear you were coming to stay awhile with us. Indeed, she was quite agitated. Uncle Z. [to Lucy]. — My little girl, will you please put that chair up this way ? My foot pains me most dreadful bad. Mrs. F. — Set it up here. Move, I say. [Lucy obeys.] Uncle Z. — There, thank you. Tim. — Jack, I say, aint he what Dickens might call a ''fine figure of a man." Bow to the aged. [Boys bow. Uncle Z. looking around, sees them.] Uncle Z. — Seems to me you are rather late making your manners, boys ; but it's better late than never. Mrs. F. — But better never late. Bo3^s are so thought- less. [To boys.] It's lucky he doesn't hear you, my lads. If 3^ou don't behave, I will send you out of the room in disgrace. Boys. — What ! send us from our uncle ? Jack. — You could not be so cruel, mother 1 If I STANDARD DIALOGUES 117 only had an organ, he would make such a nice monkey Wouldn't we go traveling ! Uncle Z.— Ha ? Mrs. F. — He says it's pleasant traveling with guod company. Uncle Z. — No doubt, no doubt ! Jack. — Hurrah ! Mother, you're trump I Mrs. F. — Lucy, Lucy ? Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. Mrs. F.— Go call Janette. Uncle, do take some of this nice red wine, it will strengthen 3^ou. Uncle Z. — Ha ! What did you say ? Mrs. F. — Wine, to strengthen you. Uncle Z. — I never taste liquor. Mrs. F. [to boys']. — The old curmudgeon, when I bought it on purpose for him. [Enter Lucy and Janette.'] Mrs. F. — Brother Zedekiah, this is your affectionate niece. [Uncle Z. rises, puts out his hand. Janette puth her arms around his neck.] Janette. — My dear, good uncle, I have been dying to see you ! Uncle Z.— What, ha ? Janette. — I have been dying to see you. Uncle Z. — What, dying ^ What appears to be the matter ? Jack. — Upon confounded consideration, I have con- cluded that her pride is wounded, and mortification has sot in. Uncle Z.— Ha? Mrs. F. — Jack, leave the room. [ To uncle.] He says he is glad 3^ou have come to cheer his sister. Uncle Z. — No doubt ! no doubt ! Janette, you've been sick, have you? You don't exercise enough. That's the way with you yo-ungsters now-a-days. Tim. — Shall I hit him, sis ? Uncle Z. — But while I stay, you've got to jump around smart and wait on me. Maybe it will do you some good. Janetie. — It will afford me much pleasure to serve you, dear nncle I 118 . STANDARD DIALOGUES Jack. — " Over the left," 3^ou know. Uncle Z. — Speak a little louder ? Janette. — You can't please me better than to let me wait on you ! Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand ; then I will let you do it. I always try to please the ladies. Just hand me that bundle. Janette [to Lucy']. — Get that bundle. [Lucy hands the bundle to Uncle Z., who begins to open it.] Jack. — Audience please give contention. The inform- pince is about to commence. [Uncle Z. takes out an immense ear4rumpet, and puts it up to his ear. Boys sing out .-] '' The elephant now goes 'round, the band begins to play, the boys about the monkey's cage had better keep away." Uncle Z. — Maybe this will be some help to us. Janette. — Oh, I don't mind speaking out loud to you. Mother, do take him to his room. Uncle Z. [hands bundle to Janette]. — Now do this up, and put it away. [Janette hands it to Lucy. Jack takes it, puts it on a cane over his shoulder, and promenades behind Uncle Z. Boor-bell rings.] Janette. — Oh, horror, mother! That's Don Pedro nc'W. Do take him away. [Lucy starts to the door.] Wait a minute, you minx. [Boys begin to gather up bundles.] Uncle Z. [to Janette], — Can't you get a pillow now jmd put to my back, Janette ? Mrs. F. — Wont 3^ou retire, uncle, you must be tired ? Uncle Z. [using the ear-trumpet].— Ra? Mrs. F. — Wont you retire, you must be tired ? Uncle Z. — Of course I'm tired, but will be very com- fortable if I only get a pillow. Mrs. F. — I think 3'ou'd best go to bed ! Uncle Z. — Oh, no ; not to bed these three hours yd ! It's earl}^, yet ! [Bell rings again.] Mrs. F. — Well, then, step out in the other room and have some tea. Unclb Z. — Some what f STANDAED DIALOGUES 119 Mrs. F. — Some tea. Uncle Z. — Well, yes. Bring it in here. [Bell rings."] Janette. — Oh, what shall I do. Uncle, dear uncle, the tea is in the other rooni. Come and get it, wont you ? [Bell rings. Exit Lucy.'\ Jack. — We might ride him out on this ane, Tim, free gratis for nothing, wont cost him two cents. Janette. — I wish he had some sense. Tim. — I wish we had some of his c-e-n-t-s. Yes, and dollars, too. Mrs. F. — Come, uncle. [Exit all except Janette. Enter Lucy with a dandy. Lucy retires.'] Don Pedro. — Bon soir, mademoiselle. Janette. — Tres bien, monsieur. I am so glad you have come ! Don. — I am delighted to see mon cher looking so well, ce soir. [ They sit down on a sofa.] Janette. — This is a delightful evening I Don. — Yes, very. The moon looks down in splendah. Janette. — Yes. It reminds me of the words of the poet : " The moon shines bright." Don. — Bon, bon. You have such a magnificent bump of memory, mon cher ! Wont you sing " Meet me by moonlight alone, love?" Janette [affectedly]. — Oh, dear, I can't. I have such a cold. Don. — Oh, those lovely strains ! It would fill my soul with joy to hear your sweet voice 1 Janette. — Indeed, I can't. Don. — Please just try, for my sake, Janette, dear ? Janette. — Well, then, for your sake, remember I [Janette sings. Uncle Z. comes hobbling into the room, followed by the rest of the family. She stoj)s singing — looks confused.] Mrs. F. [screams]. — Here, this way, this door, this door Uncle Z. [making himself comfortable]. — Oh, this Joes very well. Don. — 'Pon my word, now, who's that ? Both Boys. — Put him out, put him out. Janette. — Oh, he's an old superannuated Methodist 120 STANDARD DIALOGUES preacher, who once met pa. Ma, do take him to his room. This is an imposition. Jack. — I sa}^ Mr. Don, don't you want to be intro- duced to this here new arrival, just from your town — Paris ? Maybe you've met before ? Uncle Z. po Lucy']. — My little girl, will you gut me the paper ? Lucy [handing it to him\ — Yes, sir. [ Uncle Z. puts on his glasses, takes some snuff, and begins to read.] Mrs. F. [speaks through the trumpet]. — Will you go to your room ? Uncle Z.— What ! Where ! Ha ? Mrs. F. — Up stairs to your room. Uncle Z. — Oh, don't trouble yourself, I am very com- fortable here. But who's this ? you haven't introduced me 3^et ? Mrs. F. — This is Do' Pedro, Mr. Jones. [^Says Mr Jones in a low tone.] [Don Pedro bows very low. Uncle Z. shakes his hand very hard.] Uncle Z — How dy'e do. Your folks all well ? Janette. — Oh, I shall faint. Don. — Happy to meet you, Mr. Jones I Uncle Z. — Ha ? Speak a little louder ? Don [speaks through the trumpet]. — Happy to meet you, Mr. Jones ! Are you well, Mr. Jones ? Uncle Z.— Who ? Mrs. F.— Do you know Mr. Jones ? Uncle Z. — What do 3^ou mean ? I don't know Jones. Don [out of breath]. — Oh I Oh! moncherl He ought to be in the lunatic asylum. Janette. — Don't talk to him any more. Don. — Not if I can avoid it, I do assure you, made- moiselle ! Mrs. F. — I fear j^ou are exerting yourself too much ? Uncle Z. [to Don]. — How's the crops in your section ? [Don Pedro looks confused.] Jack [aside]. — Every thing's green, I reckon 1 Uncle Z. — 1 say, young man Mrs. F. — This young gentleman lives in the city. Uncle Z. — Ha 1 Speak louder. STANDARD DIALOGUES 121 Mrs. F. — Don Pedro lives in the city. Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand now ! Your name is John, is it ? John Peters ! Well now it appears to me I ought to know your folks ? Don. — They live in a foreign clime. Uncle Z. — Oh, in former times, of course I I knew the Peters's down behind old Lancaster, in Pennsyl- vany. \^Boy8 laugh heartily.'] Janette. — You didn't understand him, sir. Uncle Z. — No, no. I don't pretend to mind the youngsters ; but 3^our father I dare say, was as honest a shoemaker as lived in them parts. Do you follow his trade, John ? Don. — I am a foreigner, sir ! Uncle Z. — A farmer I ah yes. What's the price of squashes ? Jack [very loud']. — He can tell you that better after he offers his head for sale, and somebody bids on it I \Janette faints. Don Pedro snatches his hat and leaves. General confusion. Curtain falls.] Scene 2d. — Mother and daughter seated by a table. Janette. — Well, well, something must be done. I have endured this as long as I can. Three months to- day, since he arrived, and no hope of his leaving yet. No compensation for our trouble either. I have sub- mitted to mortifications enough. I wont endure it. Mrs. F. — Have patience, my child ! Don't be too hasty. I don't like the old clod-hopper any better than you do, but I have an eye on his money; and if 3^011 are not more considerate we shall lose all. Janette. — I think our prospects of having any of it to lose are not very bright at present. Mrs. F. — No ; and all on account of 3'our own folly and rashness, I do assure you. If you had acted the part that little pauper Lucy has, 3'ou might now stand just as high in the estimation of your uncle as she does. Janette [angrily]. — Don't talk to me about that minx. She is always out of the way when she ought to be in, and in the way when she ought to be ort. 122 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mrs. F. — Well, we must make the best of it. To turn her out of the house would be certain death to all our hopes. So you must try and make amends for your past bad conduct toward your uncle, and undermine his confidence in her as far as possible. That's our only hope, now. Janette. — Bad conduct, indeed! Who has suffered more at his hands than I ? Who has done more to try to please the quarrelsome old bachelor than I? Yes, 1 say who has suffered. Only think of him insulting Don Pedro, so that he never entered the house again. Just as he was about to propose, too. I say I wont stand it. I wish old Zedekiah Fairweather were in the bottom of the Mississippi. Mrs. F. — So do I, I am sure, but I don't want him to take his money with him. I intend to have that. \_Enter Uncle Z. fashionably dressed, with traveling satchel in hand.'] Uncle Z. — You've taken a poor way to obtain it, I fear. [_Janette and Mrs. F. scream. Enter the whole family.] Janette. — Eaves-dropper ! Eaves-dropper I Mrs. F. — Hush, Janette. My dear brother — what can be the matter ? Uncle Z. — Hear, madam. I beg of you to listen to me a moment. I am about to take my departure, and have come to bid you farewell. Mrs. F. — What ! leave us so soon ? Impossible ! Uncle Z. — Yes, madam. My baggage has been sent to the train, and I must soon follow. Janette \^very loud]. — Why did you not tell us ? Uncle Z. — Oh, I can hear ver}'^ well. Don't exert yourself Mrs. F. — Oh — oh — oh, sir — dear uncle, we— we beg your pardon. Uncle Z. — For your hospitality, accept my sincere thanks ; and when your hopeful sons want to go travel- ing with a hand-organ and monkey, please call on me, and 1 will furnish their outfit. And when they have traveled all the country round, and grown old and bald, I will recommend the use of " Spauldiug's glue." [Boys droj) their heads.] STANDARD DIALOGUES 123 Mrs. F. — Oh, we are undone, we are undone. Uncle Z. [to Lucy']. — And to you, my faithful little friend, I donate a scholarship in one of our best schools, where you can have every advantage, and become fitted for the station in life which nature intended you to occupy. Lucy. — Oh, sir, how can I thank you for your kindness. Uncle Z. — But I must not forget my dear niece, who has been so deeply injured by the loss of John Peters, alias Don Pedro. To compensate her, I give her this package [presents a box], which is to be opened after my departure. Janette. — Oh, my dear, good uncle, 3^our kindness quite overcomes me ! Do stay longer with us. Uncle Z. — No, I can't now. Come, Lucy, get your bonnet, child, we must be going, Good-by, one and all [Exit Uncle Z. and Lucy.'] Mrs. F. — We are well rid of both of them. What if he did hear us ! I knew he would not have it in his heart to leave us nothing. The box is quite heavy. Open it, quick I Boys. — Yes, quick ; you must share with us ? Jack. — I knew our time would come. Who cares if [Janette, after removing many wrappings, holds up to view the ear-trumpet. Curtain falls.] EaYPTIAN DEBATE. Between Hon. Felix Garrote, and Ebenezer Slabside, Esq. [Subject of Debate — Who desarves the greatest praise, Kris- terfer Kerlumbus for diskiverin' Amerika, or Mr. Washington for defendin' on't ? Scene. — Lyceum in, Egypt, Illinois.] Hon. Felix Garrote arose : — Mr. President, & gentlemens of this here Lyceum : Kerlumbus was born in the year 1492, durin* the rain of Julius Caesar at Rome, a small town in grease, situated on the banks of the Nile, a small creek 124 STANDARD DIALOGUES which takes its rise in the Alps, and flows in a southwest course and emties into the gulf of Mexico. Mr. Ker- lumbuses parients was pore. His pap was a basket ma- ker, and bein' so low in their sarcumstances, they were tetotally unable fur to give their orphant son that edu- cation which his genius and talent demanded. They therefore bound him to a shephurd who sot L >m to watchin' swine on the sea-beat shores of the Nile ; and it was thar, Mr. President, it was thar, sir, by the corn- stalk and rush-light fire, that this immortle youth fust larnt to read, write, and syphur, and all the other var- ious and useful accomplishments of English and foren literature. It was thar, sir, by this corn-stalk and rush- light fire, that, readin' the history of Robertson Crusoe, it conspired in his youthful breast the seeds of sympathy and ambition ; sympathy, sir, to rescue that unfortunate hero from his solitary and alone situation on the island of Mr. John Fernandez, and return him once more to the bosom of his family in Jarmany — ambition, sir, to diskiver a island which no white person had ever yit diskivered, (except Crusoe,) and he warn't considered nobody at home. To place upon the mariner's com- pass that island, and tharby render his name immortler. He accordin'ly made immediate application to Julius Caesar for two canoos and a yawl, eight men, and per- visions to last him a two weeks' cruise ; but, sir, he was indignantly refused ! He was took up next day — tried by a court martial for treason — found guilty, and sen- tenced to three months' banishment upon the island of Cuba, a small island in the Mediterranean ocean, a island at present hankered after by the Southern Con- federacy as the seat of government, becase a capital of a rival and jealous Confederacy never can exist on the same continent with ourn. There must be, gentlemen of this here Lyceum, there must be at least a consider- able slice of ocean between our capital city and the throne of a traitor or tyrant, who would dare to destroy the union ! But to return to the pint. Kerlumbus were far from bein' unintimidated or discouraged, howsumever, by this here mean treatment, but on the contrary, he was Inspired with increased energy and renewed hopes and STANDARD DIALOGUES 125 ambition — and, sir, I can put into the moutli of mj^ hero, tne immortle words whicli Milton put into tlie mouth of the Duke of Wellingtown at the siege of Bun- ker Hill "Once more into the breeches, dear friends, once more." When the tarm of his banishment had expired, he re- turned to Rome, and found that Caesar had died again, and that Alexander the Great had succeeded him. He made the same demand of Ellick that he made to Mr. Caesar, and met with a similar denial — but finally at last, through the intermediation of Cleopatra, (Ellick's fust wife,) he succeeded. It is onneccessary for me to enter into the detail of his outfit and voyage — suffice it to say, as there is no needcessity, as I hinted before, for to particiderize on the incidental and numerical sarcum stances of his — a — a —his blockade — I mean of his a — fleet, suffice it to say, as I said before, that after having been absent from his Dwn native shores two long weeks, he diskivered, one day, from the mast-head, not the long-sought island of John Fernandez, Esq., but a severe gail! 1 will not tell you how the}' hove to, and how they hove up, and every thing of that there kind, but after they had been tossed on waves that run mountain gs high, he was at last wrecked, and his crew all lost, (except hisself and one other man,) and they was throwed upon a state of insen- sibility. When he come to, he rose up in the majesty of his strength and found he was on a island. So he pulled out his red cotton palmetto handkercher, tied it onto a fish-pole and rared the standard of South Carolina, and took formal possession of the territory in the name of Alexander the Great, and called it San ^'<2?-vador, in honor of Cleopatra's only dater. Now Cleopatra was so well pleased with the honor conferred upou her dater, that she migrated to this country for to settle. Hence, sir, the long line of descendants so distinguished in our gelorious countrj^'s history, and known as PATriots from the Hebrew varb, Cleopatra. Now, sir, having accomplished the great and para- mount object of his sub/imary career, he was ready for 20 126 STANDARD DIALOGUES to die. The natives, therefore, for intrudin' upon thei^ sile, took him prisoner, maltreated liim with Carolina tar and goose feathers, and eventuallj^ at last rid him on a rail ! And thus did rails become notorious as the means of carrying contemporary great men of more modern ages, into the most highest orifice within the gift of a gelorious empire, to the terror and dismay of the patriots of the region of swamps and rattlesnakes. And thus perished one of the truly great and good men of the antediluvean period of the middle century, the prince of navigators, who lived and died for mankind, (and that of course includes us Egyptians,) therefore we are doubly indebted to him for gratitude ! One more remark allow me to say, Mr. President, and gentlemen of this here Lyceum, and I am done, and I want to impress it upon your mind. If it had not have l)een for Keristofer Kerlumbus, Mr. Washington would have never have been born, so he wouldn't — besides all this, Mr. Washington was a coward. With these remarks I leave the floor for abler hands. \_Mr. Slabside rises highly excited.^ Mr. President : — I am dumbfounded — I am tetotal- istically and surrupticiously surprised at the quiet man- ner in which you have listened and hearn the susper- sions of character of that great and good man — my blood's been "bilin hot, to think of the audacious propin- quity of the speaker who had the last floor — Mr. Wash- ington a coward ! — Mr. Washington a coward ! His character, sir, is as pure and as spotless as the African snows, thrice bleached by the howling zephyrs of the northern hem — Mr. Washington a coward ! Lock- jaiued be the mouth that spoke it ! Why, sir, look at him at Lundy's Lane — look at him at Tippecanoe — look at him at Waterloo, and, sir, look at him at New h'leansl Did he display cowardice thar, sir, or at any of the thousand similar battles that he font — and Hon. Felix GtARROTe [interrupting']. — Mr. Wash- ington never fitu-the battle of New ^rleans — he wasn't thar, sir ; he'd been dead two years and seving months and thirty-one days afore that battle was fit, so he had. He never font that battle 1 STANDARD DIALOGUES 127 Mr, Slabside. — Who did fight the battle of New ^T-leans ? Hon. Felix Garrote. — If j^ou will jist take the trouble to refer to Josephus, or read Benjamin Frank ling's History of the Crimean and Black Hawk wars, 30 Q will thar find, Mr. President, that Gen. Bore-your- gourd fit the battle of New ^vleans. Mr. Slabside. — I thank my very larned friend, not only for interruptin' me, but more particularly for his corrections, in which he has showed himself totally ig- norant of history, men and things. I contend, notwithstanding the gentleman's assertion to the contrary, that Mr. Washington not only fit at the battle of New h^leans, but that he is alive now, sir. I have only to pint you, Mr. President, and gentlemen of this here Lj^ceum, to his quiet and retired home at San- doval, on the banks of the Tombigbee river, in the state of Missouri, whar he now resides conscious of his private worth, and of the great and brilliant sarvice he has rendered his countr^^ and in the enjoyment of those distinguished honors heaped upon his grateful brow b}^ his aged countrymen ; and allow me to call the attention of my very learned opponement, that Gen. Bo?Tgard was not at the battle of New ^rleans. He couldn't have font that battle. He was dead, sir! Yes, Mr. President, if you will have the patience to turn and look over Horace Greeley's History of the Kansas Hymn Book war, you will there learn that Gen. Bo-re-gurd and Col. Buchanan, at the head of an army of negroes, made a desperate charge upon Mason's and Dixie's ly'in; and they've been dead ever since I I ^Immense sensation among the Egyptians, during which the president pronounced the debate closed, and introduced the speakers to the audience. Or eat shaking of hands.'] 128 STANDARD DIALOGUES THE WIDOW MUGGINS. HER OPINIONS OF COOKS, SUITORS, AND HUSBANDS. DRAMATIS PERSON^.. Mrs. Muggins, a widow. Cousin Hannah Jane. Betty, Mrs. Muggins' cook. Scene. — A room in Mrs. Muggins^ Jiouse. Cousin Han- nah Jane sewing. Mrs. M. [without']. — Betty, what in the world are you doing ? Why don't you hurry up with your work. I'll declare to gracious, you are the slowest creature I ever saw in all my born da3^s. Betty [withouf]. — Why, Mrs. Muggins, I'm hurryin' jest as fast as I can. Mrs. M. — Oh, Betty ! yo're very slow, very slow. [Enter Mrs. M., who sits down and commences knitting.] Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, a body has a sight of trouble with the cooks a body has to hire now- a-days. When I was a young woman, the servant- girls did a great deal better than they do now, cousin Hannah Jane. C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, in our young days, the servants were of some account. Mrs. M. — Yes, that they were, cousin Hannah Jane. They didn't break a bowl or a pitcher every other day, as most of 'em do now ; and they were not afraid to work. I tell you, the wa}^ my mother's servants worked ! oh, it was a sight I Them was the days when a-body could get the worth of a-body's money out of a hired girl, cousin Hannah Jane C. H. J. — Yes, the servants earned their wages then. . Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, you don't know how much trouble I have had with the shiftless, trifling cooks I've had this year. Would you believe it, cousin Hannah Jane ? I've had as many as eight cooks since Ihe 1st of January. C. H. J. — Sakes a-live ! 3^ou don't say so ^ [Enter Betty.] STANDARD DIALOGUES 129 Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want them taters baked or biled ? Mrs. M.— Biled, Betty, biled ! Betty. — Yes, marm. [^Going out.'] Mrs. M. \_calling']. — Betty ! Betty [retuiming'l.—W q\\. Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said hiled ! Betty. — Yes, marm. \_Exit.'] Mrs. M. — I always am obleeged to tell Betty twice over, before she understands me, cousin Hannah Jane. But Betty does a sight better than most of the other servai^ts I've had, cousin Hannah Jane ; she don't break as many things, and she's a heap neater about her work than most of 'em were, cousin Hannah Jane. Then she's tolerable industrious, only she's so slow ; that's her wust fault, cousin Hannah Jane. Now the fust cook I had, the arly part of the year, was the awfulest laziest, sleepy-headedest thing you ever saw, cousin Hannah Jane. Wh}', she never had breakfast read}^ before ten o'clock, cousin Hannah Jane. You know I couldn't put up with that, cousin Hannah Jane. So I sent her away. C. H. J. — That was right. I'd have done so, too, cousin Jemima. Mrs. M. — Well, my next cook wasn't any better than the fust, cousin Hannah Jane. Her name was Jane Short. She was a awful slovenly, untidy critter. She didn't keep herself clean, cousin Hannah Jane. Khe would often git breakfast without washing her fac^ or combin' her hair, cousin Hannah Jane. \^Gouiiin Hannah Jane holds up her hands in amazement'] C. H. J. — Goodness, mercy, did I ever ! Mrs. M. — It's a fact, cousin Hannah Jane, true as my name's Jemima Muggins. Cousin Hannah Jane. Wasn't it awful '( [ Cousin Hannah Jane again holds up her hands in amazement.'] C. H. J.— Oh, horrid ! Mrs M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Alaggina {Enter Betty.] 130 STANDARD DIALOGUES Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want them eggs fried or biled. Mrs. M. — Biled, Betty, biled ! Betty [^going']. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M.— Betty ! Betty [^refurning^. — Well. Mrs. M. — Don't forgit, Betty, biled; recollect Betty. Betty. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — My next cook was an awful proud thing, cousin Hannah Jane, especiall}^ for a servant-girl. Her name was Mary Toots. She would sometimes wash her face in butter-milk to make it white, and then pour the butter-milk in the pitcher, and put it on the table for me and my niece Peggy Ann to drink, cousin Han- nah Jane. C. H. J. [^again raising her hands in wonder and dis- gusQ. — Sakes a mercy ! Did I ever ? Mrs. M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Muggins. lE7iter Betty.'] Betty. — How many eggs must I use in makin' them pan-cakes ? Mrs. M. — Six, Betty, six! Betty \_going]. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Betty ! \_Betty returns.'] Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said six. Betty. — Yes, marm. ^\_Exit.'\ Mrs. M. — My fourth cook was too fond of gaddin' about, cousin Hannah Jane. I soon got rid of her. My fifth cook had the awfulest temper j'ou ever saw in your life, cousin Hannah Jane. What do you think, cousin Hannah Jane ; she broke a whole set of cups and sassers, because I said she had red hair. C. H. J. [i-aising her hands]. — Oh, horrid I Mrs. M. — Don't that beat any thing you ever heerd on, cousin Hannah Jane ? C. H. J. — Oh, sakes a' mercy I it was awful 1 Mrs. M. — My sixth cook w^as too fond of reading books, cousin Hannah Jane. You know it wont do fcr a servant-girl to be too fond of readin'. She didn't suit me. M}-" seventh \^ihe last one before Belly], 1 sent away, because ehe made fun of my churcli, and you know I wouldn't stand that, cousin Hannah Jane. So STANDARD DIALOGUES 131 I soon gave her leave of absence, as people sa}^ So you see, Betty is my eighth cook this year. As I said be- fore, she does a heap better than any of the others, but still she has a heap of faults, cousin Hannah Jane ; but the wust one she's got, is she's so slow, so pokm\ Now yoa might think I am hard to please, cousin Hannah Jane, out I aint. Not a bit. If a servant will try and come any ways near doin- right, I am satisfied, cousin Hannah Jane. You know I have a very mild temper, cousin Hannah Jane. C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, no one has a better, disposition than 3^ou have. \_Enter Betty.'\ Betty. — How much sugar shall I put in the rice- puddin', Mrs. Muggins ? Mrs. M. — Three ounces of sugar to four ounces of rice, Bett3^ Put in four eggs, Betty ; two ounces of butter, melted in a tea-cup full of cream — put in a piece of lemon peel, Betty. Betty [^oz«^]. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Betty ! \_Betty returns.'\ Remember to put jn the lemon peel. Betty. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M.— Now, Betty, aint a bad sort of a girl. She'd do tolerable well, if she wasn't so slow. Betty is very fond of my niece, Peggy Ann ; she'll do almost any thing for her. What do 3^ou think, cousin Hannah Jane, Jake Stubbins, the tooth doctor, has been comin' to see Peggy Ann every Sunday night for the last six months and 3^et he has never axed her to have him. Now, I'm a guin' to put a stop to this here kind of work. If he don't ax her to marry him the very next time he comes, I'll give him to understand his company isn't wanted here any longer. What's the use of comin', and comin', and comin' from June to etarnit}', and never sayin' nothin' about marryin', cousin Hannah Jane ; besides that, he often comes before supper-time, in fact, nearly alwa^'s. Now, I say it's a shame to be a livin' off of a body that way, and then not say a word to the gal about marryin'. It's too bad, cousin Hannah Jane, too had. C. H. J. — Yes, that's so, cousin Jemima. I wouldn't stand it neither. 132 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mrs. M. — Now, Jake Stubbins, jest for all the world puts me in mind of the fellows that used to come to vay Uncle Timothy's. Uncle Timothy had eight grown gals; and on Sunday afternoon and Sunday night, it was a sight to see the way the young men and the old bachelors and widowers did gather in ! oh, it was awful And what do you think, cousin Hannah Jane, but one out of the eight ever married, although they had more beaus than 3^ou could shake a stick at. [^Enter Betty.'] Betty. — What's your wa}^ of makin' plum-cakes, Mrs. Muggins ? Mrs. M. — Take two quarts of fine fiour, Betty, and a pound of dry loaf sugar. With your plums, use half a pound of raisins, a quarter of an ounce of cloves, half a pound of almonds, a grated nutmeg, twelve eggs, and a little brandy. Betty [^going']. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Betty ! [Betty returns.'] Mind to put in the brandy. Betty. —Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Well, cousin Hannah Jane, I'm a lone widder, and I sometimes think I had better take a com- l^anion, but I'm afraid I can never meet with such another dear, good man, as poor Mr. Muggins was ; oh, he was sich a dear, good soul ! He was so keerful of me, cousin Hannah Jane. He was always afraid I would injure my health by hard work, cousin Hannah Jane. He would alwa3^s want to do his own work and mine too, cousin Hannah Jane. Oh, no ! I will never see a man like my poor husband ! Oh, Obadiah Muggins I It's been twelve years since the dear, good soul went to the kingdom, cousin Hannah Jane. [^Sighs.] My friends often tell me I ought to take another companion, cousin Hannah Jane, and I have plenty of chances, plenty of 'em, cousin Hannah Jane, but I'm not easily suited, cousin Hannah Jane. Now, I could get old man Wiggins jest as easy as slippin' on ice ; but the old critter has sort of curious ways that I don't like much. Then there's Uriah Thompson ; I could git him, but he has too many children. Then there's old Deacon Doo- little; I know I could get him, but he's too sharp and close-fisted, he'd want to handle more of m^^ money STANDAED DIALOGUES 133 than I'd care about letting him have, and then we'd have to quarrel. Then there's Dan Dempster, he's nearly dyin^ to marry me, but he's sich a rank pisin copperhead, and I hate them. Then there's plenty of others I could git, cousin Hannah Jane, but I don't know any one as reminds me of poor Obadiah what's dead and gone to the kingdom. Well, cousin Hannah Jane, suppose we go into Peggy Ann's room and persuade her to pla}^ for us on the pyanner. She plays so nice. I do love to hear her sing that sweet song, " There's three little kittings who have lost their mittins !" \_Singing heard without.'] Jest listen, she's a singin' now ; come along, cousin Hannah Jane, come along. [Exit. Curtain falls.'] MARRYING FOR MONET. CHARACTERS. Harry Brown. Robert Bruce. Eliza Greely Scene I. — A room in Mrs. Whitens boarding-house. Brown [looking in his pocket-book]. — Only five dollars in my pocket, and ten dollars due for board. Aint I in a pretty fix ? I must raise the wind somehow; that's certain ; but the query is, how am I to do it ? Beside my board bill I have sundry other little bills that ought to be squared up. I really don't know why it is. but as soon as I get out of money every bod}^ commences dup- ning me. Bruce [outside]. — Hello, Brown ! Brown. — Hello yourself! Bruce. — Will you let a fellow come in ? Brown. — Come in, of course, and don't stand there hallooing at a fellow when he's in trouble. Come in right away ; I want to talk with you. [Enter Robert Bruce.] Bruce. — You reall}^ want to talk to me, do you ; Well, go ahead. You're talking nearly all the time. If you don't have any one to talk to, you talk to yourself 134 STAND AED DIALOGUES I think you were indulging in that pastime when T came to the door. Brown. — Well, that's nothing. Somebod^^ has said that all great men talk to themselves, and I believe it's a fact. But, Bob, I wish it to be distinctly understood ihat I do not consider myself a great man, but perhaps I will be a great man some day. There's one thing cer- tain, Bob, I've got a great load of trouble to bear, and ihe question naturally arises, how am I going to rid my- self of that trouble ; how am I going to pitch the great load from off my shoulders, and stand once more in the free light of day a relieved man, a free man, an untram- meled man — a man who feels that a great load has been jerked from off his shoulders — a man that — ah — ahem. [^Pauses.2 Bruce. — Well, that's good ! go on. Brown. — Bob, are you laughing at me ? Come now, that wont do. Would you laugh at one who was floun- dering in the mud of despondency ? Would you let a smile wreathe your lips when a fellow -being was in trouble? Answer me, Bob. As Shakspeare says, "Let me not burst in ignorance." Bruce. — No, I wouldn't. How could I laagh ataman when his misery makes him so very eloquent ? I couldn't do it, indeed. But, Harry, what's the matter now? What new trouble have you got into ? Brown. — I haven't got into any new trouble. I'm in the same old trouble — want of money. Bruce. — Oh, is that all ? I can lend you an X, if that will get you through. Brown. — Bob, you're a good old fellow, but I can't take any thing more from you until I have squared off the old account. You know I owe you a ten now, Bruce. — Yes, I know ; but you needn't trouble your- self on that score. I can wait. By-the-way, Harry, have you seen the new boarder yet ? Brown. — No ; who is he ? Bruce. — Who is she, you mean. Her name's Eliza G reely. Brown. — A relative of Horace, is she ? Bruce. — Can't say, indeed. Brown. — Well, is she pretty ? STANDARD DIALOGUES 135 Bruce. — No, not killingly beautiful. Wont smash many hearts, I judge. Brown. — One more question, Bob. Is she rich ? Bruce. — She is. She told Mrs. White she had a few thousands, and asked her where she had better invest. Brown. — Good! hurrah! I'll marry her. Bruce.. — Ha ! ha ! Wait until 3^ou see her before you get excited. And then remember that it takes two to make a baro-ain. Remember, also, ' It's easier far to like a girl Than to make a girl like y you." Brown. — Well, I'll do my best any how; but stop, is she young ? Bruce. — About your own age, I should say, perhaps younger. Brown. — Well, that's good so far. Now let's see, how am I to manage? I'll get an introduction to her to- night, of course. Bruce. — Oh ! of course you will. And then what next ? Will you propose before 3'ou go to bed ? Brown. — No, Bob, that would be rushing things. No, no ; I'll take time and work carefully. As old Hopkins used to sa)^ "I'll make haste slowly." Bruce. — And perhaps in the meantime you'll have the pleasure of seeing the fair lady carried off by some fel- low who makes haste fastJy. Brown. — I'll be on the lookout for all such fellows. Bruce. — Perhaps the lady is engaged. Brown. — Well, to be sure. [ With a puzzled air.~\ I never thought of that ; but if she is, I'll find out before I ask the momentous question. I say, Bob, wouldn't you enter the ring 3'ourself if it wasn't for your darling little Alice ? Bruce. — I might ; I don't know ; wiser men have done more foolish things. Brown. — Well, it's all arranged ! I'll marry the new boarder, and then with our few thousands in our pockets we'll laugh at povert}^ We'll "walk the water like a thing of life," or, rather, like two things of life. We'll live in a big house, and have a coach, and servants, and horses, and every thing we tvant. In sliort. we'll be 136 STANDARD DIALOGUES as happy as the day is long. I wish it was night. I am anxious for the introduction. Roll swiftly round ye wheels of time. Make every thing scatter, and bring the night with all possible speed. I'm in haste. I'm all in a shiver of expectation and excitement. Bruce. — Keep cool, Harry ; tlie night will come soon enough. I must be off now, but before I go allow me to wish you success in your pursuit of a wife with golden charms. [Exit Robert.~\ Broavn. — I believe I'm going to make a raise at last. Now, if brother Tom was here, and knew all, he would give me a regular scolding for attempting to rush head- long into matrimony. But Tom is too slow and too careful. There's no use in courting a girl a year, nor half a year, nor two months. It's all nonsense ; if a man likes a girl, and the girl likes him, they'll know it before two days. I believe in rushing right ahead, and never stopping to think. This stopping to think has ruined many a man, and spoiled thousands of good matcties. Now, if this new boarder isn't engaged, I'll lay a wager she'll be mine before three months ; I'm going to be in ahurry; I'm going to rush things; she's got the tin, and that's what I 'm after. Wont Tom open his eyes wide when he hears that I'm married ? But wont he open his eyes very wide when he hears that I'm living in a brown-stone front? But I can't sit here ; it's impossible for me to stay here until supper-time ; I must go out and walk the streets until nightfall ; my impatience will not let me be quiet. \_Gets up and takes his hat.^ Good-by poverty, and hur- rah for the new boarder and her thousands of dollars \^JSxit Harry Brown.^ \_Gurtain Falls.'] Scene 2. — A room in Mrs Whitens hoarding-house. Harry Brown discovered. Brown. — I'm married, thank fortune, I'm married at last. My wife, although not the most beautiful woman in the world, is, I think, a good sort of a woman. She will be liberal ; I know she will ; she will shell out the dollars as though they were cents ; there's one thing mystifies me a little ; I think she might have bought herself a grander outfit ; her bonnet might have been just STANDAED DIALOGUES 137 a little better. But then she looked well in it, and I sup pose she uuAerstands the mysteries of dressing bettet than I do. Now, there's some women who look a thou- sand times better in calico than they do in silk, and I have no doubt Eliza is one of that number. I've been married two days now, and I think it is about time I was finding out just exactly how many thousands she has. It's a delicate matter to talk on, but then I needn t care; the knot is tied and can't be severed. Hello! here comes my wife now. My wife ! how funny that sounds I [Enter Eliza.'] Eliza. — Well, duck}^ not gone out yet, I see. Brown. — No, mj^ little darling, I aint gone out yet. Fact is, 'Liza, I don't like to be awa^^ very long from you. Eliza. — Don't you. Brownie dear ? Ah, you'll get over that b}^ and l3y. Brown. — No, Eliza ; I don't think I will. I may even say I am sure I will not. I am convinced that there is, away down in my heart of hearts, a long, strong, broad, deep flame of love, that will blaze on and blaze on through countless nights of waking and days of woe. There rolls not a billow of sorrow nor salt water that can extinguish that flame. That flame will burn as long as — yes, Eliza, that flame will burn as long as — ahem — yes, Eliza Eliza. — Is there any thing the matter with you, Brownie, dear? Brown. — No, Eliza, nothing ; I was only soaring. But to come to business, wifey tifey, where is your money deposited ? Eliza. — My money I ha ! ha I That's good I Brownie dear, I haven't ten dollars to my name. Brown. — Ah I I see ; a good joke, Eliza ; a good joke indeed. You want to make me believe for a little while that you haven't any money, and then tell me all at once what an awful pile you have. But don't do it, Eliza ; the news would be too good ; I couldn't bear it; reason might totter and throw herself Eliza. — Brownie, 3'ou are talking kind of shallow this ix'orning. Is there any thing the matter with your head ? Brown.- -No, ducky, nothing; but do tell me just 138 STANDARD DIALOGUES how many thousand dollars you have, and where it is deposited. Eliza.— I told jow before, and I tell you again, I haven't ten dollars to my name. There's my port-mon- Die. \_Hands it.~\ Examine for yourself. It contains pvery cent of my money. Brown. — Great Constan Eliza. — Stop, Brownie ; don't swear. Did you think I was wealthy ? Brown. — To be sure I did. Didn't you tell Mrs. White 3^ou had a few thousand ? Eliza, — I believe I did say something of that kind ; but I meant a few thousand cents. Of course I didn't say it to lead any person to believe I was wealthy. Brown. — Oh, I'm sold. I'm a wretched man ! Eliza. — No, you iiin't, Brownie, dear. \^Puts her arms around Ms neck.'] Cheer up ; perhaps you'll find I'm worth more than a few thousand dollars. Brown. — Eliza, I believe you are right. I believe I have found a treasure, but not the kind of a treasure I expected. Anyhow, the knot is tied, and we may as well make the best of a bad arrangement; not saying at all, duckey tifey, that it is a bad arrangement. Oh, no ; not at all. Eliza. — No, no ; it isn't a bad arrangement, Brownie dear. We'll get along swimminglj^ I know we will. Brown. — Yes, we'll get along swimmingly ; at least I hope we will. But still I think it is a bad arrangement to marry in haste and repent at leisure. \_Gur tain falls.] THE CONFLICT. Scene. — William Thoughtful, a young man who is form- ing new resolutions and plans on New Yearns day, ia seated in a room, alone, thinking aloud. Thoughtful. — This day I wish to begin life anew. What is my future destiny ? Shall I continue to climb the " Hill of Science," as I trust I have begun, till I reach the summit, and all the world reverence the name of Thoughtful ? Or, shall I still remain near my own STANDARD DIALOGUES 139 loved home, toiling with willing hands to gain the glit- tering gold ? not for mere show, but that I might minis- ter to the loving ones who have, by example and care, made me what I am ! Oh ! that the future was not a sealed book to me ! If some good fairy would only have the kindness to point out the path which would be the safest for me to pursue I \_Enter Vanity. A young girl gaily dressed; dis- playi7ig much gold and jeivels.'] Yanity. — Beautiful creature ! Thy brow is clothed with thought. How much more charming in the e^^es of all, must one be, the expression of whose face shows that he thinks and feels, than one whose only expression is love for the world and its pleasures. Listen to me ! You have talents, great talents ; with a little exertion you might gain gold enough to dress with all the pomp and splendor of a prince. The wealthiest would bow to you, and nothing would be lacking to complete your happiness. Your personal beauty, wealth, and towering mind would attract all the world, even from the least to the greatest. Thoughtful. — I think I know who thou art : is not Yanity tliy name ? Surely, no honest person is ashamed of nis name ? Yanity. — Oh, no, indeed 1 Yanity would advise thee to do nothing that would really benefit thee ; but / would have thee improve thy mind, and attain to great- ness. Oh, follow my advice ! Think of the enjoyment to be derived from being one to whom every one will bow and render praise. Thoughtful. — I know thee! Yanity ts thy name! Are we to live merely for our own selfish enjoyment ? Thou hast been trying to deceive me ; but I understand thy wiles. Retire from my presence ! I hope I will not harbor Vanity. Yanity {j^etires, murmuring']. — I thought he would not know me. Thoughtful, — There, I have vanquished one enem}^ ! Oh ! that I might know equally well all who, with their flattering words, would lure me from the path of duty. \ Enter Mammon. A hoy represented as an old man, rather plainly dressed.^ 140 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mammon. — Listen to me, and I will give thee advice worth more than that of any other being. Hast thou not heard of me — of my wealth ? M^^ coffers are filled to the brim ! It will be well for thee to do as I have done. I will tell thee how to gain this great amonnt of treasure Only follow m}^ advice, and thou shalt be happy ! Thoughtful. — Who art thou that advisest me ? One who really seeks my good, or art thou trying to deceive me ? But speak on ; 1 would learn more of thy char- acter. Mammon. — I will speak on till thou knowest cer- tainly that 1 would do thee good. Dost thou not know that gold is a blessing ? See here ! [ Taking a handful of shining metal from his pocket.'] See this gold and silver I Here is enough to procure comforts for thine aged pa- rents that would last them all their lives ; and yet, this is not a hundredth part of what / possess. Do as I have done, and thou shalt not only gain enough to make thy parents comfortable and happy, but can aid many poor and stricken ones. I would not have thee restricted to any one particular employment ; choose whatever you like; onl^^ remember that it is your duty to gain gold! For, how could the poor, the benighted, and the suffer- ing sick ones who can not help themselves be benefited if there was not some aljle as well as willing hand to help them ? Listen to the call of the numerous benevo- lent societies all over our land ! Oh, give us gold ! more gold to send bibles to the heathen who have dwelt in darkness all their lives. Or, how could we obey the divine command — " Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel," if it were not for gold ? Thou mightest choose to be a minister of the gospel ; but while seeking to do good be careful not to offend your wealthy par- ishioners ; for. if you should gain their ill-will, they might refuse to part with any of their precious gold ; then your benevolent plans would be thwarted. With- out this valuable treasure, 3'ou could not soothe the wailing cry for help, which is being sent up from all over the face of our globe. Or, if you should choose to be a physician, and be called to attend some wealthj'" patient for the sake of obtaining gold, with which you STANDARD DIALOGUES 141 might minister to the wants of the poor and needy, it would be better not to be in too much haste to have him recover, so that he would no longer need your ser- vices. Or, if you should choose to be a merchant, be sure and let thy motto be gold. Obtain all thou canst f jr an article, if the purchaser does not know that he can buy it for less at other places ; that is Ms business, not thine. [ Winking slyly.'] Get all thou canst, for how much good couldst thou do, if thou only possessed a great amount of gold. [Enter Truth, a boy with a helmet and shield, bear- ing a banner wreathed with evergreens, and hav- ing the word, Truth, inscribed upon it.] Truth [waving his banner]. — Is gold to be bought at the expense of Truth, Justice, or Honesty ? Mammon [frowning upon Truth]. — And who art thou ? to intrude upon us, when I have been advising my good friend Thoughtful ? Truth. — -One who loves justice, and will never, no never, see one who loves it as well as I do, deceived by thy flattering words ! [ Turning to Thoughtful.] Friend Thoughtful, didst thou not know him ? Although he would gladly make it seem to thee that it is thy duty to wrench the glittering treasure from thy fellow men, canst thou not see that he would have thee use deceit smd fraud in every possible way? Oh, consider! before resolving to follow his advice ! Thoughtful [rising hastily to his feet, and grasping the hand of Truth]. — Oh! my good friend, Truth! Words can not express my thanks to thee, for coming just in time to prevent my following this deceitful Mammon ! I know him now, and ought to have known him before ; but his seemingly benevolent purpose blinded me. But from henceforth, honesty will be my first motto, and Mammon. — Far be it from me to advise thee to be dishonest ! But gold is a blessing, and we could never minister to the wants of the poor and needy without it. Truth. — Oh, misguided Mammon ! go to your gilded cell, and ponder on the inconsistency of your statement ! What less is it than dishonesty, to receive more than you know an artii^le is worth from an unsuspecting cus- 21 142 STANDARD DIALOGUES tomer ? Or. d3 in the case of a physician, to knowingly and wilfully prevent your patient from recovering? Nay, worse than that, not only wa'ongfully obtaining his gold, but depriving him of his health ; and to whom is not health dearer than gold ? Mammon [walks slowly away, muttering']. — I am van quished ! Thoughtful. — Oh, Truth ! wilt thou ever be my champion, and open my eyes to all deceit? Truth. — If tliou wilt receive and ever acknowledge me as thy friend, most certainl}^ I will. I would gladly use my weapons to defend all ; but those who will not listen to me, I can not aid. [Enter Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility ; each hears a banner with her name inscribed upon it. Benevolence, a large girl, dressed in a lourple or drab dress, and a large cloak of some dark ma- terial thrown over her shoulders, enters first : she is followed by Earnestness, who has on a scarlet dress, trimmed with evergreens, and a wreath of the same about her head. Lastly, Humility, a little girl dressed in white, enters. They take their places upon the stage, and wave their ban- ners."} Benevolence.^ — Deceptive Mammon would have thee think that I follow in his footsteps ! But true Benevo- lence follows Truth. Thou hast chosen him as thy champion, wilt thou accept my friendship ? [She smil- ingly extends her hand ; he takes it.~\ Thoughtful. — Most gladly, I will ! Earnestness. — Thou hast chosen Benevolence as thy friend. I would make thee more earnest in every good work I [ Thoughtful clasps her hand.] Thoughtful. — Most thankful am I for thy friendship. Humility. — Thou hast vanquished Vanity, wouldst thou have Humility instead ? [He clasps her hand also.] Thoughtful. — Ah, yes ! With Truth for my chara^ pion. Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility for my friends, I trust I shall conquer all m}^ enemies. How sad if I had chosen Mammon and Vanity instead I I now regard them as deadly foes. [Curtain falls.'] STANDARD DIALOGUES 143 LIFE: A SCHOOL SCENE. CHAEAOTERS. Pleasure. Beauty. Wealth. Fame. Pistt. Dress: Pleasure. — White dress, looped with flowers ; covered with butterflies, spangles of gold, etc. Wreath of flowers on her head. Flowers on bosom. Beauty. — The same as Pleasure, nearly. Wealth. — Rich black silk, with trail. Rings, pins, bracelets, chains, jewels, etc, in profusion. Crown of black silk or velvet, with half moon and stars of gold. Black vail covered with gold stars flowing back from crown. Fame. — Plain dress of some dark stuff". Plain linen collar and cuff's. Collar fastened with a single brilliant gem. Hair done back from forehead. Piety. — Pure white, with a single rose-bud on bosom. Position on Stage. — Pleasure enters first, from left of stage ; speaks center; takes place right. Beauty enters right, takes place and speaks left. Wealth enters left, speaks ce7v^er, takes place right. Fame enters right, takes place and speaks left. Piety enters, takes place and speaks center — thus forming a beautiful tableau. Pleasure \_Enter lightly, trilling a gay song. Stops singing and says :] — Oh, life to me is a thing of pleasure ! For sorrow and care I find no leisure. Like a butterfly gay with gaudy wings — Or like a birdling wild that trills and sings, I'll away from bower to bower. Tasting the sweets of every flower, Singing my wild, glad measure ; — Ever seeking some new pleasure. My friends shall be All like me, Giddy and gay The live long day. We have but one life to live — so the records say, Let us drink and be merry while we may: With rich, red wines our glasses we'll fill. With jest and with laugh dull care we'll kill. 144 STANDARD DIALOGUES Soft, sensuous music causes my bosom to beat, Away, away, to its time, ye restless feet. Time to repent when death draws nigh :— Till then, wild heart, cause me not a sigh. Life to me is a song of pleasure — Keep step, wayward feet, to its changeful measuie Beauty: — Sister, thou dost live for pleasure: In beauty I find the rarest treasure ; You would live thoughtless and gay ; I would be a beauty fair as the day ; I would have features faultless and fair With no trace of frailty ling'ring there : I would have a form like that of a queen — Yes, far more lovely than mortal has seen, Then I'd be the wonder of all that should see — Oh, that would be pleasure if pleasure there be I Wealth : — Foolish things ! Prate of beauty and pleasure I I would have coffers crammed with treasure. What beaut}^ is there like that of gold ? — E'en though it does make the heart stony and cold I What earthly pleasure like that to feel Hands full of gold, till senses reel? Oh, give me jewels, sparkling and bright. That shame the stars which fill the night. Bring me diamonds from the mine, — Bring me pearls from ocean's brine ; Fill m}^ houses with all that there be Of what's costly and rare from over the sea. Then I'll not care for Old Time as he flies, When with gold and with jewels I can feast my eyes. Fame :— Ye groveling earth-worms with wishes vain ! I seek for that which few may obtain. What pleasure is there in a cup of wine ? Who years from now will care for that form divine f And none but a sordid, soulless mind In the chink of gold would a pleasure find. STANDAED DIALOGUES 145 Care 3^e not for something more high ? That something which 3^our gold can nevtr buy 'f Have 3'e no longings in A^our inmost self Other than those for pleasure and pelf? I would have mine a proud, immortal namey Which shall for ever live in Fame 1 I'JETY : — I would have life to me Just what our Father designed it should be. True wisdom I'll seek Ever to guide me w-hen I'm weak. In doing His will mj pleasure I'll find ; To what seemeth Him good, I'll be resigned. My treasure I'll seek to lay up above, In the Better-land, where God dwells, who is lofkHS. \_Music, while the curtain slowly falls.'] BEN, THE ORPHAN BOY; OR, ''HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY." CHARACTERS. Ben Wilson, Martha Raymond. Mr. Holland. Mrs. Holland. Servant. Scene 1. — A street, Martha Raymond, a keeper of a fruit stand, and Ben Wilson discovered. Ben. — How nice the windows look this evening ; I wish I was rich and could buy some of the pretty things I see. But if I could but get enough to eat and a good fire to stay by at night, I would be satisfied. But I can not. I am compelled to wander through the streets and can get nothing but what I beg from the passers-by. Martha. — Are jow hungry now, Ben ? Ben. — Yes, ver3^ hungry ; I have had nothing to eat to-day. Dave sent me out this morning without a 146 STANDARD DIALOGUES mouthful lo eat before I started, and would have whipped me, too, if I had not run away. And now I am afraid to 0:0 back ao^ain. Martha. — Here, Ben \_hands cakes'], you shall not want for something to eat as long as I have any thing to give 3"ou. I have very hard getting along, but am a little better off than you. I have stood here all this cold, dreary day, and have only sold a half dollar's worth yet. My poor mother is sick at home, and if things do not turn out better, I shall soon be as badly off as you. Ben. — Oh, how good that cake is ! Martha. — Here's a couple more, Ben. I know you are hungry. We are poor, but God will provide for us if we but trust in him and are honest and upright. Ben [looking off]. — Do you see that fine lady and gentleman getting into that carriage ? Arn't they grand ? Martha, why is it that some people are allowed to be so rich and comfortable, while others are so poor and miserable ? Martha. — I can not tell, Ben. God's ways are dark and past finding out. It seems hard that it should be so, but if it were not right it would not be. We must trust in the Lord and bear all without murmuring. [Ben darts out and returns bearing a large pocket-book.] Ben. — Look, Martha! See ! I've found a great big pocket-book, and I guess it's chuck full of money. [Opens it.] Oh, see what a lot of gold pieces ! Martha. — Put it in your pocket — quick, Ben I It is not safe for you to be displaying it on the street. [Ben puts it away.] Come here, Ben. Do you know who lost the pocket-book ? Ben. — I guess it was that fine lady or gentleman who came out of the store and got into the carriage. Martha. — Do j^ou know who they are ? Ben.— No I Martha. — It is Mr. Holland and his wife ; they are very wealthy. But what are you going to do with the money ? Ben. — Going to keep it, of course, and buy lots of good things to eat. But, I'm going to give you half of it, so that 3''ou can get the medicine for your mother and buy a whole heap of coal STANDARD DIALOG t/EiS 147 MAKi'HA. — Is the money 3^011 rs, Ben ? Ben. — Yes — well — I don't know. I found it and those people*" are rich folks, and, you know, they don't need it. Martha. — Ben, you would be doing A'ery wrong to keep this money. It would be as bad to keep the money, belonging, as it does, to a rich man, as it would l)e to keep it, if it belonged to a poor man. It would not be honest to keep it ; and let me advise you to return it immediately. Ben. — Oh, how can I ? Just think how I am suffering every day for something to eat and for clothes to wear ; and think of your mother, who is lying sick and in need of assistance. The man is rich and will never miss the money. Oughtn't I to keep it ? Martha. — No, Ben ; you ought not. I know you suffer for want of bread and clothes and a comfortable home ; but trust in the Lord and be honest, and all will yet be well. Ben. — Well, I felt like a rich man a few minutes ago, but it is all gone now. I will take your advice, Martha, for you have alwaj^s been kind to me, and I know j^ou always do right. If you will tell me where the gentle- man lives, I will take the money to him right away. Martha. — He lives at No. 28 Seventh street, in the large brown-stone front. Remember the number — 28. Ben. — Yes. May I go home with you to-night, when I come back ? I am afraid to go back to my home ; I know old Dave will beat me if I do. Martha. — Yes, come back here and I will take you with me. [Exit Ben."] Scene 2. — M7\ Holland's parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Holland discovered. Mrs. Hollanp. — I am rather tired. It certainly was a long ride for i.^e after my illness, but I know it will do me good, and I will feel a great deal better after I become rested a little. [Putting her hand into her pocket.^ Oh, dear ! I've lost my pocket-book ! Or, perhaps, m}^ pocket w^as picked while I was in the store. No, it couldn't have been. It .must have dropped as I was getting into the carriage It contained something over a hundred dollars. 148 STANDARD DIALOGUES Mr. H0LLA.ND. — Oh, well ; don't wony about it. You are not likely to get it again, but 'tis no difference. 1 hope some poor person will find it and use the money to make himself comfortable. \_Enter servant.'] Servant. — Mr. Holland, here is a little boy who says he must see you. \_Exit servant.'] \_Enter Ben.] Ben. — Here, sir, is a pocket-book you or the lady heie dropped about half an hour ago in front of Mason's store. I have not disturbed the contents. Good even- ing, sir [about to retire], i^^ Mr. Holland. — Come back ; come back ; I want to talk to you. Be seated, my little man. Ben \with cap in hand]. — If you please, sir, I'd rather not. My clothes are ragged and dirty, and your chairs are grand. I will stand. Mr. Holland. — Pooh! You shant stand! Don't mind your clothes and the chairs — sit down — sit down ! The chairs have been occupied by persons who hadn't hsiif your honesty. Sit down, my honest little fellow — sit down ! Don't be afraid. \_Ben sits.] And you say you found this in front of Mason's store ? Ben. — Yes, sir. Mr. Holland. — Do you know how much money it contains ? ^ Ben. — No, sir; I opened it and looked in, but did not touch the money. Mr. Holland. — Here, Alice ; this is the pocket-book you dropped, isn't it ? Reward the honest little fellow as you see fit. Mrs. Holland. — Such honesty isn't often seen or heard of in this great wicked city, and I propose to reward him liberally. Here, my little friend, is the pocket-book as you found it. It contains something over one hundred dollars. Take it all and spend it as you choose. I know you will not spend it foolishly. Ben.— What ! All ? Oh, ma'am 1 I couldn't do that 1 I will be very glad to have a few dollars, though, as I have no home and can hardly get enough bread to keep me alive. Mrs. Holland. — Have you no father or mother ? Ben. — ^No, ma'am. I have been living with a cross STANDARD DIALOGUES 149 mail, who says he is my uncle. His name is Dave Han- son. He was going to beat me this morning, because I would not steal a package he told me to steal. I ran off, and do not like to go back again. Mr. Holland. — How would you like to stay with us ? Ben. — Oh, sir ; I would be delighted ! I would do any thing for you if you would only give me a good home. Mr. Holland. — Well, it is settled; you shall stay. Ben [yoith demonstrations of joy']. — Oh, sir; how kind 3^ou are I I thank 3^ou very much and will do any thing for you. Mrs. Holland. — ^What is your name, my honest little friend ? Ben. — Ben Wilson, ma'am. I have no friends in the city except Martha Raymond, who keeps a cake and apple stand on North street. I was talking to her to- night at her stand, when I saw your pocket-book. She knew you, and told me where to find you. And — oh, I forgot ! I promised to go back there to-night, and she said she would take me home with her, as 1 had no place to stay. She is far honester than I am, for I wanted to keep the money, but she said it would be wrong, and talked so good to me about doing right and trusting in God, that I coukcn't keep the pocket-book. She is very poor and has a sick mother, and she says she needs medicine and refreshments. Mr. Holland. — Very well ; we will go to see them to-morrow morning and make them both comfortable. They shan't want for 2iny thing. Ben. — Thanks, kind sir ; and now how happy I am, and \_turning to audience'] how happy I will be, if the fair ladies and gentlemen before us will agree, tfiat " Honesty is the best policy^^ and approve the cours* of Ben, the Orphan Boy. [ Curtain falls.l 150 STANDARD DIALOGUES THE CONVICT'S SOLILOQUY THE NIGHT BEFORE EXECUTION. [The convict should have on striped clothes— a shirt and pants — to represent a criminal; his face pale, eyes hollow, hair uncombed and matted. He should represent a person of about thirty years of age ; his feet fastened to the floor by a long-, heavy chain ; his hands confined by handcuffs. The light should be very dim, which will add to the effect. The piece requires a good actor and speaker ; one who has a good control of his voice.] Scene. — A prison cell, containing a low mattrass of straw, a table, and a pitcher. Curtain rises, and discovers him sleeping uneasily. He awakes with a wild start. As he gets deeply into the subject he rises and walks the floor. I have just dreamed a dream. Yes, with dreams my nights of slee])less horror are filled. Those half unreal, yet so terrible ; so full of horrid phantasy ; but 'tis not of those. No! I have dreamed a dream. I dreamed that / was a boy again and had not here this gnawing pain. I was still by m}^ mother's side. Oh, my God ! my mo- ther I Why do /call on God? But that dream, oh, that dream. That it might be real again. Yes, I knelt at her knee in prayer. In prayer ? Yes, in prayer, for I prayed then. And if I had been told that /should some time see this, feel this, this, aZ^ this, and this but mj?- just part, I would have said and thought he lied who told me of it. But I was in prayer, at my mother's knee, my little hands, then innocent of guilt — my God ! how guilty now! by every crime they're stained— were clasped within her own, hers so loving, while her eyes of blue were hid from sight by those veined lids the while ; and there she prayed for her only child, for her boy, for me ; and such a prayer as touched my heart ; and such a praj^er as might cause angels to weep and fiends to cower. I have no heart ; I cast it from me long, long ago, in the dim past ; dimmed by the sins and crimes that rise up be- tween that time and this — the da3^s of happy 3^outh. Happy, did I say ? happiness is a word forgotten and unknown to me. STANDARD DIALOGUES 161 And then I saw her anguish when she heard of my first sin. How pale she looked ! With what anguish unspeakable she looked on me, once her pride, now so fallen. Yet she loved me ; tried to woo me ba,ck to the paths of rectitude ; but in vain ; I was hardened ; I would not listen ; there was no hope, I said ; I spurned her love ; I was cold and cruel, though it broke my heart, for it was not stone then. At last she died. Oh I such a death ! Her last breath of agony a prayer for me, her hoy. And then that bright-eyed, merry girl ! Ha ! ha I I'll take to myself the bitter pleasure of thinking of her now for the last time. I loved her so well. How true, how good she was ! how like an angel ! Yes, with all my soul I loved her, and she returned my love two-fold. She would not believe that I had sinned ; she said they lied ; but the proof came all too strong ; it dazed her brain, and she ivas mad ! Oh God ! How fast I went down — down to the mouth of hell I Oh ! those fiends in angel form that first led me to drink wine ; those fiends that the world calls women — fiends ! How she held the red wine to my lips ! I drank ; I was lost — lost for ever. Ah ! how well do I remember the first time that I took the bright coin, that burned^ into my soul like a thing ac- cursed — took it from my employer's drawer to pay for the drink that my insatiable thirst demanded. It soon got to be an old story to me. Then I was found out. I fled. Oh God ! accursed, accursed ! My home gone, friends gone, soul ruined. I got money then ; ha ! ha ! and that game was soon stopped. I was pursued too closely. The fiends of darkness that gather round me begone I begone for a time ! There, what a fool I How I quake with fear ; for oh, I see his eyes — those eyes 1 Oh! 'Twas in the dim wood at nightfall that I turned at bay. Ah ! they'd better have let me alone. The tiger, when it feels the pangs of hunger, is more merci- ful than was I — maddened with the liquid fires of hell — RUM I They became scattered ; I heard them searching; I crouched down under the bushes, down in the thick, black darkness that choked me ; he was close upon me ; I clutched the knife ; one step more ; with a spring I was upon him. Staggered for a moment he sprang back ; 152 STANDARD DIALOGUES with my wild strength I clutched him ; I drove the knife into his bosom ; the hot blood squirted full in my face ; with a groan he fell on the ground. Again I was upon him ; this time, with truer aim, I drove the knife- blade to his heart's core ; there, in the ghostly moon- light, with his wild, startled gaze full upon me, and that terrible rattle in his throat — I fell back like one dead — it was my brother I I was his murderer ! How that white face stares out at me now ! those eyes ! I knew no more until I found myself Inere. They took me out for the eager rabble to gaze upon ; and I thought how many of you, fine folks, are yourselves making murderers with your accursed, demoniac, hellish drink '^ They condemned me to death — that jury of stern men — without leaving the room they returned their verdict. 'Twas but a mockery, a mere form, though I asked not for pity. I got none. When that murmur of applause went through the room, I sprang to my feet; he who had returned the verdict guilty — the foreman — was the damnable wretch who had sold me the poison which had brought me there ; he who had made me what I was ; he whose vile stuff had fired my brain when I did the deed, stood there before heaven and the world — pronounced me unfit to live ; he ! and he to live and curse the world yet longer with his hellish traffic — his traffic in souls ; he ! There in the gallery among the crowd of women who had come to hear the words which sealed my doom, was she who first held the wine cup to my lips ! She who scoffed when I scrupled to take it. I drank it. The serpent has stung me sore — aye, poisoned my soul to its death for all eternity. How I gave vent to the surging, fiery waves within ! They thought me mad. He, the vile wretch, sank down as if he had received his death blow. And well had it been for the world had it been so, and with all such as he. Pale and panting he cried for them to take me out; they dared not touch me, though my hands were fet- tered ; she, with a wild shriek, swooned, and they bore her away; well they might shrink as from the voice of doom. Oh 1 my lost spirit shall take keen pleasure, to which the joys of heaven were feeble, in haunting them. At last I sank back exhausted ; they led me passive out, while tbe crowd opened right and left, and stared as STANDARD DIALOGUES 153 on an awful something — they knew not what. . . And to-morrow I die ! For the last time have I seen the sun set ; but once more am I to see the blue sky of heaven ; and then only to be suspended between it and the earth, in which m}' body is to lie. Hark ! the clock tolls the hour. [_A clock slowly and distinctly strikes twelve.'] Soon they will be at work on the — gallows. Listen I yes, there is the sound of the saw and hammer. \_Sound of car- penter'' s tools heard at work outside, and continue until cur- tain falls.'] Oh God ! can it be for me ? ani I to die ? To die — so soon ? God of mercy hear me ! Visit those who tempted me to fall as they deserve! And Jam lost! Pro- bation ended — lacking six short hours. And I am lost ! My mother! oh! my mother ! Nevermore to meet! my God! MY MOTHER ! [^Curtain slowly falls, while a dirge is •played.'] JOHN JONES'S FORTUNE. CHAKAGTERS. John Jones, a tailor. Sally Jones, his wife. David Aiken, a neighbor. Scene. — A room scantily furnished. John Jones seated cross-legs on a table, sewing. Sally i^reparing dinner. John. — Well, Sally, we are getting along swimmingly now, aint we ? We are poor, very poor, but I think you will agree with me that we are happy. I think you will agree with me that we are the happiest couple in the county. Sally. — Yes, John, I agree with you; I believe I always agree with you, and you alwa3's agree with me, and that's the way we happen to get along so well to- gether. John. — That's so, Sally ! Now there's the Smiths that live in the big brick house up on the hill 3'Onder, they don't get along ver^^ well. They say the old man and the old woman are continuall}^ fighting, and the boys have taken to drink and are fast becoming drunk 154 STANDARD DIALOGUES ards. Tom was carried home tlie other night by two of his companions. He had been at a carousal in the village, and got so beastly drunk he couldn't ride. Sally. — I pity his parents, but, perhaps, they do not deserve pity, because if they had brought up their chil- dren properly they would not have turned out so. I'm glad we are not rich. If we were, something would go wrong. I might become lazy or you might become lazy, or — well, I don't know what might happen, but I'm sure we wouldn't be as happy as we are now. John. — That's so, Saflly ; but I don't think you need feel uneasy about it. It will be a long time before we are rich. But, you know, we are out of debt, and I think, if I work hard, I can make as much as we can eat and wear ; and, perhaps, in a year or two I can lay up a few dollars. \_Sally proceeds with her work, John sings a verse of the Star Spangled Banner."] *' Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gledming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. Oh, say, does that star spangled banner yet wave, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ?" [ Whistles the same tune a minute or two."] John. — I say, Sally, hav'n't you got dinner ready ? I'm as hungry as an ox. Sally. — Yes, it is nearly ready; but, you see, we hav'n't ver3^ much to eat to-day. I don't care for my- self, but I would like to have something better for you when you have to work so hard. John. — Oh, never mind me, Sally, I'll get along. But you work as hard as I do, Sall}^ — you know you do. I'll get a nice cut of beef this evening and some fresh fish, and we'll dine like kings to-morrow ; wont we, Sally ? Sally. — I'm sure, I'm satisfied with what we have. 1 have no complaints to make so long as we have no sick- ness nor trouble. You know it is better to have a table scantih^ spread and be happy, than to have a table loaded with the richest viands and be unhappy. But come, now ; dinner is reidy for you. STANDARD DIALOGUES 155 John. — And I'm ready for dinner. \^Puts down his sewing, and gets off the table.'] It's a glorious thing to have a good appetite, even if it does cost a little more than to have a poor one. \^Knock at the door — opened by John. David Aiken discovered.] Hallo, Dave I How do you do? Come in I David — No ; havn't time. John. — Oh, yes, come in, and have a bite of dinner ; we havn't much, but you know you are welcome. David [fumbling in his coat pocket]. — I know, but I can't stop. I've got a letter for you, but it has got mixed up with some of my papers, and I can't find it. Here it is. It came in this morning's mail, and as I was coming past I thought I'd bring it to you. John. — Thank ye, Dave, thank ye 1 [Uxit David.] Sally, I guess we'll let the dinner cool a few minutes till we read this letter — wonder who it can be from. [Opens letter.] It is dated from Bently. [Beads.] " Sir: — This is to inform you that your mother's uucle is dead, and has left you the sum of forty thousand dol- lars." [Stops reading, and shouts.] Hurrah I hurrah! Isn't that grand news, Sally ? Sally. — It is. Oh ! John, I'm so glad ! But I never heard you speak of the old gentleman who has left you the fortune. John. — Well, to tell the truth, I didn't know much about him. I knew m}'^ mother used to have an uncle out there somewhere, but I thought the old fellow was dead long ago. Sally. — Well, we are rich people now. We can buy that house and farm that is for sale down in Magoffin valley. John. — I guess we wont squander our money buying such poor land as that! We'll goto the city and live, and I'll set up an extensive clothing store. Sally. — Yes, and squander all your money before two years. John. — Sally, you'd better be careful ! You don't mean to say that I would go to drinking and gambling? Sally. — No, that wasn't what I meant, but that's what it will come to. Lots of people have tried to keep store in the city, and it has always ended in their break- 156 STANDARD DIALOGUES ing tip ; !ind that's the way it will be with you ; and then after you have squandered all 3'our money that way you'll take to drink, and leave your poor wife and chil- dren to starve, and John. — Sally, shut up ! You are making a fool of yourself. I reckon I know something about buying and selling, and can take care of m}^ money. ^Sharply.'] Put the potatoes on the fire again ; I aint going to eat cold potatoes. Sally. — Well, if you don't like cold potatoes, you can put them on the fire 3^ourself I I aint going to run after you and be your nigger any longer. You're get- ting mighty big all at once ! John.— Sally, if you don't keep quiet I'll strap you Here, if you wont warm the potatoes I'll give them to the pigs. The}^ are little bits of things anj^how, and you didn't half wash them. \_Th7^ows the potatoes out of the window.'] You always were a dirty thing, and you never could wash potatoes. Sally. — There! take that, you low-lifed tailor [ Throws a plate at him.'] And that ! and that ! \_Throw$ cups and so.ucers.] You are the ugliest, hatefulest man in the world, and you ought to be John. — Sal., you old hag, I'll trounce you — I will I \_J'ohn raises a stick to strike her — she slaps him in the face, and screams.] [Enter David.] David [seizing John]. — Hello ! John ! what are you about? I'm ashamed of you I Here, I've run back to give you your letter. I gave you the wrong one. John. — Did you ? And I never looked at the en- velope. [Picks up the envelope.] Why, it's for John Jacobs. Tell him I opened it in a mistake. David. — Here's your letter. The envelopes are so much alike, and the names, too, that I very naturally made the mistake. Good-by, John ; and let me tell you if I see you trj-ing to whip your wife, the next time I come, I'll take you in hands m3^self, and give you a sound thrashing. John. — I'm ashamed of m^^self, Dave. Please say nothing about it. David. — All right. I'm mum. Good-by. [Exit David. STANDARD DIALOGUES 157 ilonN.--^0\v, Sally, we'll read another letter. [Beads.^ " iSJB. : — Tlie cloth will be ready for you next Saturday, lours, etc., Hanley . Frank. — Mud Digger ! Kate [reads:]. — Third, Song, Star Spangled Banner, by the celebrated Prima Donna, Lucina D'Ane. Fourth, Oration, by the world-renowned orator. Professor Samuel Deane, LL. D. John. — Long-Legged Dunce ! [Sail Columbia is played.] Harry [rising and bowing]. — Beloved brethren and sisters — Willie. — He's a-goin' to preach. Harry. — Most talented hearers. I call your attention to the most remarkable document of modern times, the Declaration of Independence, [unrolls a piece of tvall- jmper or a window-shade, and reads :] We hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, except the " heathen Chinee," that — Sam. — Hold on ! that wont do. It conflicts with my oration. By virtue of that Declaration, America wel- comes to her shores the down-trodden of every nation. Frank. — It's just right. A Chinaman run to pig-tail isn 't half as good as I am. STANDARD DIALOGUES 177 Sam. — He's a sight better. Harry.— What shall I do ? Sam. — Say all men. Harry. — Well, then ; [reads ;] We hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, that — Mary. — I wont stand that. You 've got to say some- thing about the women. Harry. — The word men, here, means women too. Mary.' — Oh, yes ! but when you get a little further along, to the voting and holding office, you say it means men only. Frank. — Ho, ho ! woman rightist ! Harry. — Anything to please the crown. \_Reads ;] We hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men, women and children are created equal ; that they have the right to earn their bread and molasses, to pay for their ice-cream, to go hunting, to play base ball, and to stand on their heads. The man, at present perched on the British throne, having meddled with these rights, oppressed us in various ways, insulted and abused us, and acted like a tyrant, we hereby declare ourselves out of the clutches of the British lion, and determined to whale any fellow who dares hint that we are not a little ahead of everybody else. [ Cheers.'] [Lucy sings Star Spangled Banner.] Sam. — Ladies [botes'] and gentlemen, [botvs,] fellow- citizens [boivs] and countrymen [bows] : This is an occa- sion that thrills every American heart with flaming patri- otism. We have met here to-day for the purpose of cele- brating the anniversary of one of the most thrilling events of history, the escape from the jaws of the British lion. We also meet to perpetuate the infinite, immutable doc- trine of universal liberty promulgated in the bewildering document just vocalized. Frank. — He's swallowed a dictionary! Sam. — It is fitting, on this day of days, to remember our fore-fathers, who planted their bare feet on the ice^ bound Plymouth rock, and made the howling wilderness blossom like a delightful rose of Sharon. John. — He got that out of an almanac. Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-fathers, who rebelled and took wp arms against oppressive tyranny; who fit, bled and died. 178 STANDARD DIALOGUES Kate. — What did our fore-mothers do ? Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-mothers, who cooked, spun and cried. Fellow-citizens, I am celestially proud to stand under the waving American flag. Frank. — You 're not, you 're before it. Sam. " Flag of the frte, heait's only home ! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have li*t the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven," John. — Stolen thunder ! Sam. — I am proud of the American eagle, that glorious bird who stands with one foot on the shores of the Atlantic, and the other on the shores of the Pacific, with his stately head lost in the illimitable blue above, and who gathereth the people of all nationalities — French, Dutch, Irish, Afri- can, China, and Camanche — under his wings, as a hen gathereth her chickens. {Immense opplause.'] My friends, the United States government is a magnifi<3ent engine, with a train of Pullman cars. Ere long, we shall hitch on San Domingo, Cuba, Mexico, Central and South America, Canada, Labrador, and Greenland, and then take a grand excursion around the world. John. — How that eagle will have to stretch ! Sam. — Be patient, my verdant friends. The power of the American eagle is unmeasured. The principles of universal freedom shall become more universal. For you, my dear hearers, a new day is dawning. To you, ladies, I repeat what Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson, " Every tub must soon stand on its own bottom." Kate. — Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson ? Frank. — He 's crazy, away with him ! Sam. — Curb your noble rage, dear friends ; I am not mad, but a boot-black by trade, and an orator by pro- fession. Yes ! the grand doctrine of universal freedom shall go on and on, sounding from brush-heap to brush- heap, from pig-pen to pig-pen, from ocean to ocean ; and the sun, moon and stars, sailing in all their primeval glory, shall catch up the bewildering strain, and — and — and — my friends, my emotions overwhelm me ! Thanking you for your attention, I close. \^Uses a red handkerchief vigorously. Applause, explosion of torpedoes, music.'] Kate. — Form into procession, and march out to din- ner ! [All march ouf] [Curtain falls.} STANDARD DIALOGUES 179 GOOD FOR EVIL. CHAEACTERS. Mb. Durant. Mrs. Durant. LiLLIE, ) Eddie, [ their Children. Charlie, j A Beggar, A Rich Lady. Scene 1. — A Parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Durant, Eddie and Charlie, seated. Mr. Durant sits engaged in reading. Mrs. Durant. — Oh! how the wind blows; how cold it is ! I fear winter has come in earnest now. God help the poor ! Mr. Durant. — There you are again, wife, talking about the poor. There is work for them in the city, if they would only go at it. You gave that beggar some clothes yester- day, didn 't you ? Mrs. D. — Yes, husband, I did. I pitied him so ; he looked so pale and wan. Mr. D. — I want no more such work ; if we give every beggar something, we would soon have a host at the door. They'll not get another thing at John Darant's. Mrs. D. — Oh, John, remember how rich we are. You are worth your tens of thousands, and yet refuse to give to God's poor. In heaven, He will make no distinction. There, all shall be alike, the rich and the poor. Mr. D. {^somewhat angry']. — Don't preach to me, Sarah. I know what I am about. I know I 'm rich ; but not a cent of my money goes to feed vagabonds. Kot a cent, I tell you ! Mrs. D. [iviping her eyes']. — John, I fear you will rue those words. But listen, here comes Lillie, and some one is with her. Mr. D. — One of those beggars, I guess. She must love them. But I will tame her. 180 STANDARD DIALOGUES \_Enter Lillie, accompanied by a girl dressed in rags, less and honnetless.'] Mr. D. \_angrily]. — What did you bring that vagabond in here for, Lillie ? Lillie. — She is a poor girl, papa, without any parents. Mr. D. — She told you that, eh ? Well, it is the old tale. Beggar. — Kind people, I am very poor ; so poor, that I am forced to beg for a living. Mr. D. — Why don 't you work ? Beggar. — The folks will not hire me, I look too bad ; if I had better clothes, I could find work, I know. Mr. D. — Yes, no doubt, you could. You came here to tell me that story, I reckon. You'll get nothing from me. Lillie, take her out ! Mrs. D. — Oh, do not send her away so ! She needs clothes. Lillie. — Yes, mamma. She shall have my shawl, and warm hood. Charlie. — And my shoes. Eddie. — And the silver dollar that's in my bank. Beggar. — You are very kind, children. You are very kind. Mr. D. — Children, you shall give her nothing ! If she wants clothes and money, let her steal them, if she likes. She has done the like before, I dare say. Lillie, lead her to the door, I say ! Lillie. — Oh, papa, don't drivfe her away. Mr. D. \_rising to his feef]. — Lillie, dare you disobey me ? Take her away, this minute ! [^Exit Lillie, followed by Beggar.^ Mr. D. — There, wafe, is one of your poor, as you choose to term them. Mrs. D. — One of His poor, husband. How dared you refuse to give her something ? Mr. D. — Oh, easily enough. I must not tell you the secret of it. I go to the store, now ; but mind you, wife, allow no more vagabonds to ste]) over our threshold. lExit Mr. Duranf] Mrs. D. — If any come, they shall be fed. [ Curtain falls.'] STANDARD DIALOGUES 181 Scene 2. — Mr. Durant, seated in an arm-chair, his head resting tqjon his hand. Mr. D. — Well, thus is life ! Five years ago, I was a millionaire, admired by a large circle of friends. But where am I now? Upon the brink of ruin ! Already men point to me, and say, " bankrupt ! " My wife, Charlie, and Eddie, have gone to the far-off better land, and none is left to me but Lillie. It almost drives me mad, when I think about her. If I cannot raise ten thousand dollars to-morrow, I will be a bankrupt, and Lillie will be a beggar. Where that amount is to come from, I know not ! Oh, Thou who feedest the ravens, take care of my Lillie; for before another sun shines, my body will be — . Oh, must this be the end of John Durant? — the death of a suicide? \_E)iter Lillie, who merrily climbs upon her father's lap, and raises his head.'\ Lillie. — What is the matter with you, papa? you are sad. Mr. D. — Sad ! Yes, darling Lillie ; to-morrow, your papa will be a beggar, if — Lillie. — If what, papa ? Mr. D. — If I cannot command ten thousand dollars. Lillie. — That is a large sum; but can't we sell our costly furniture ? Mr. D. — Alas, no, Lillie ! It is under the auctioneer's hammer ! We are lost, Lillie ! I hoped to leave you to buffet the world, with gold ; but I must leave you a beggar. What will become of you, then ? \_Kissing her.'] Lillie. — God will take care of me. I will wait till He comes for me. He has said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." Mr. D. — He has, Lillie. But, hush ! a carriage is stopping before our door. Run and see who it is ! \_Exit Lillie, in a hurry.'] Who can it be ? A creditor, no doubt. One who wants money ; but it cannot be had. Every person I meet is a creditor, who duns me. There is but one refuge from them, and that is in — [^Enter Lillie, hurriedly.] Lillie. — Oh, papa, there is such a nice lady coming here ! She is so nicely dressed ! Who can it be ? 182 STANDARD DIALOGUES « Mr. D. — I know not, daughter ; but we shall soon see. [J. hnoch at the door. Lillie opens it. A richly-dressed lady enters, and seats herself.^ Lady [to Mr. Duranf]. — Have I the honor of address- ing John Durant ? Mr. D. — You have, madam. Lady. — I see, you do not recognise me, Mr. Durant. Mr. D. — I do not, madam ; but, I suppose, you are a creditor. Lady. — I am Mrs. Chalpin ; and thank God, John Durant, I am not your creditor ; but you are mine. Mr. D. [rising']. — What ! Mrs. Chalpin, the wife of the millionaire, a debtor of mine ? Impossible ! Please explain. Lady. — With pleasure, sir. Years ago, when you rev- eled in wealth, a beggar came to your house, and asked for food and raiment. You refused her, and even forbade your children to help her. You drove her from your home. Your Lillie followed her to the door, and placed in her hand a ten-dollar gold piece. With that money the little beggar managed to keep from starving, until a kind rich man took her to his house and supplied all her wants. She lived with her benefactor, and, not long since, was married, and is now wealthy. Mr. Durant, I am that beggar girl, whom you drove from your house. Mr. D. [grasping her hands']. — I have repented of that act. Will you forgive me ? Lady. — Forgive you ? Yes ; and I now wish to repay you ; to return good for evil. I hear that you stand on the verge of bankruptcy. Mr. D. — It is too true, madam. I am utterly unable to meet my liabilities. Lady. — What would save you ? Mr. D. — Ten thousand dollars. Lady [tahes out paper and writes]. — Here, then, is a check on my bank for that amount ; take it, it is yours. [Hands cheek to Mr. Durant.] Mr. D. — Oh ! you are too kind. I do not deserve this kindness at your hands. Lady. — Say not so, though you yourself do not, your name does. It was this little child, who saved me. [Stoops down and kisses Lillie.] STANDARD DIALOGUES 183 LiLLiE. — Oh ! I am so glad that you saved papa. God has heard my prayers. Lady. — And answered them, Lillie. [^Then to Mr. Durant ;] I go now, Mr. Durant. I am happy, for I have repaid a great debt. Let me admonish you to remember the golden rule : " Do unto others, as ye would that others should do unto you." Good-bye. [Exit Lady.'] Lillie. — Oh, papa, you are saved now ! Mr. D. — Yes, I am saved, Lillie. For your sake, God has saved me ! and ever, henceforth, my motto will be, " Remember the poor." [^Curiam falls.'] LITTLE PIECES FOR LITTLE FOLKS, NOT SO EASY. Now you may think it very nice, And very easy, too, For a little boy to stand up here, With little else to do. But make his bow, and say a piece — To speak up loud and plain, — Then make another bow to close, And take his seat again. But I can tell you, one and all. Which ever way you view it, — To face this crowd of gentle folks, It takes some pluck to do it. The saying is as true as old, '' Who gets a name must buy it ; " If you don't credit what I say, Just walk up here and try it ! WHAT I LIKE. [for two little boys.] Geobge. — All the seasons I like, as they pass along, But winter I love the best. For it brings a joy, To the glad school boy, More pleasing than all the rest. 184 STAND AED DIALOGUES 185 I like to ride o'er the fleecy snow, When the air is crisp and clear ; For the jingle, jingle, jing, Of the sleiffh-bells' rino^, Sounds sweet to my own little ear. Then I like to skate on the ice so smooth, — Ah, me ! how swiftly I go ; All the boys must look out. When I am about, Or beat them I surely will do. But my hand sleigh I must not forget, For my Monitor carries the day ; Then tell me each one, Since my piece is nigh done, If this isnH the season for frolic and play ? CeiRLES. — / love the winter, too, and hail Its coming with rare joy ; I love my skates and sled, as well As any other boy. Like George, I like to find myself In the robes so snug and nice, Behind a fleet, black, pon}^ team, Gliding o'er snow and ice. Ah, yes I for winter and its joys, A word I'll ever speak. For it makes me strong and vigorous, And gives color to my cheek. I love its cold and bracing air, I love the fleecy snow. And just for fun and exercise, A snow ball like to throw. But there are other things I love, Which must not be forgot, More to be prized than skates or sled. Or a two-forty trot. I mean my pleasant, happy school, My books and studies too, — This cheerful room — these teachers kind, To whom my love is due. 186 STANDARD DIALOGUES My sports and plays are only means To nerve me for my work ; In the first I'll heartily engage, While the last I'll never shirk. FRED'S FIRST SPEECH. You've heard the fable, "Mouse and Pussy," And know it all by heart, no doubt — How Mouse's pains gave Pussy pleasure, As she tossed the little thing about ; And how Mouse said to cruel Pussy, With quivering lip and panting breath, " Though this, to you, may seem quite funny, To me 'tis only certain death." Now we're not mice, nor you tormentors ; Yet the fable, here, its moral brings ; For though these scenes to you give pleasure, They're aught huXi fun to us, poor things I For if you deem it very easy For such as we to mount this place, And do the duties here assigned us, And meet these people face to face. Then let me tell you, you're mistaken ; And if you doubt my word, my friends, Just walk up here by me and try it. And you'll see how the matter ends. If you don't feel the color rising, And your strong voice begin to shake, And a misty cloud come o'er your vision, Why WiQn—^you may the premium take. I WANT TO BE A SOLDIER. A PARODY. I want to be a soldier, And with the soldiers stand, A knapsack on my shoulder, A musket in my hand ; And with my bayonet gleaming, So glorious and so bright, I'd join the gallant army. And for my country fight. STANDAKB DIALOGUES 187 Though I should oft be wounded, I would not shed a tear ; Though in the midst of danger, I ne'er would feel a fear : But brave s.nd patriotic, Like our bru,ver sires I'd fight, And with ten thousand soldiers Put rebels all to flight. Then let me be a soldier. And with the soldiers stand, A knapsack on my shoulder, A musket in my hand ; And with my bayonet gleaming, So glorious and so bright, I'd join the gallant army, And for my country fight. I know I'm young and tender, But, mother, dry your tears. For many young as I am Have joined the volunteers; And mother, should I perish, And for m}^ country die, — I'd think of you and sister, And meet you in the sky. BLUE. As I was going up the street one day, I passed a wagon new, — I put my hand upon its side. And it was painted blue. I saw a maiden bright and fair, (For she was passing, too,) I put my hand upon her cheek, And it was painted blue. Her cheeks changed color very soon- Were variegated, too, — For while one side of them was red The other side was blue. 188 STANDARD DIALOGUES Her anger very soon arose, Which very soon I knew; And all because her rosy cheek Had just been painted blue. And now she will not me forgive ; Dear me ! what shall I do ? And all the wrong that I have done, Her cheek I painted blue. Well, well ! it can not now be helped- I can not it undo ; But then I will not after this Young maiden's cheeks paint blue. WALTER'S FIRST SPEECH. While other boys have had their say Upon this platform here, Have stood up firm before you all, Without a blush or fear, / come with trembling heart and lips To make my little bow, And make m}^ first attempt to speak Before an audience now. And should 1 falter in my speech, You'll pardon me, I know, Since greater folks have done the same. Who could not make their speeches go. But if I do the best I can Here to fulfill my task, The best could not do more, you know> And 'tis all that y«u can ask. These boys have talked and sung to-day, Of our country and its cause ; I, too, must testify my love For her before I pause. I'm a Union hoy from head to foot, This fact just bear in mind ; True to my country and its flag, No copper here"^ you'll find 1 * Pointing to his head. STANDARD DIALOGUES 189 EXAMINATION-DAY. Examination-day I How many little hearts Within these walls, have shuddered at that word. And do you wonder much, that timid boys, And modest misses, such as these you see. Should shrink from being marshaled out Before this gazing crowd, to sing, declaim, And answer all the questions, plain and right, The teachers choose to ask, though it require To ransack through their Jcnowledge-box, from top To bottom, ere they find the answers clear, And all these people looking on, to see If we should chance to fail ? I wonder what these wise committee-men Would think, if they were yearly marshaled out, And made to stand up here, like us, and tell This audience all they knew about the world, Its countries and their products, — all they knew About the people, and their modes of life. And then to tell us about this "house we live in," Its bones and muscles, v«ins, and brains, and nerves. (I guess they'd find they had the nerves.) ' And then to think of all these puzzling sums In Stoddard, to say nothing of the work Of Thompson's written ones. How would they like To stand up here, with chalk in hand, and add, Subtract, divide, and multiply in fractions. Simple, compound, proper, and improper ? (By the way, / think they're all improper.) And then I'd like to know how you would feel, To stand up in this place and bear your part In dialogue, or declamation, while Every eye and ear was watching you — Was watching every word and motion. And you, poor soul, a-trembling in your shoes. I think you'd say, as did the mouse of old. To pussy cat, " This may be fun to you, But it is death to me." * * * Say, then, do you not pity us ? I know The ladies do. I see it in their eyes : Our wise committee, too, look kindly on us. And from our very hearts we thank you all. 24 190 STANDARD DIALOGUES CLOSE OF SCHOOL. Kind Friends — Within oar school-room walls we gladly see you meeting, And haste to bid you welcome ; pray receive our heartfelt greeting. You've come to listen to our songs, orations and discourses. Pray look not for broad rivers, friends, so near their tiny sources. We'll gladly do our best for you, and kindly you'll remember. The April of our lives can't yield the rich fruits of September; But if our offering you'll accept — the early leaves of Spring — We'll make no more apologies, but will read, converse and sing. We schoolboys, honored friends, are like a hive of busy bees, As they their waxen cells do store, so we store our memories. As they enjoy the bright sunshine, and oft wing their way aloft, So love we well the summer shine, and we wish for wings full oft? They sip the honey from the flowers .; we have what's no less sweet, For candy of molasses made doth yield us many a treat ! Troubles they have, and so, friends, we have some troubles of our own ; Some big ones have they that wont work, — we are not without a drone. Yet differ we in some respects, for we must obey our rule ; They buzz at work ; 'tis very hard I but we may not buzz in school. They have a queen, and hard they work to win her approba- tion ; We have no queen, but teachers kind, and love their commen* dation. And happy are the hours, dear friends, which we spend within these walls, Attentive to Instruction's voice, obedient to her calls. And to our God we raise our hearts in most loving, grateful praise. That in this land of Public Schools we may spend our youth ful days. Where knowledge free as sunshine is, and as plentiful as dew, And learning's precious stores wide-spread, like flowers of va- ried hue ! And not for us alone the good of public education, For gills and boys the blessing will endure while we're a nation. STAND A ED DIALOGUES 191 EXHIBITION DAY. Youth and childhood are the seasons, We are told, for mirth and joy, Sighs and cares were not intended For a lassie or a boy. But if not, we see not wherefore Were invented days like these, When each boy and girl's expected To astonish and to please Such a crowd of goodl}^ persons As before us now appear — Such a crowd as ever greet us, In this place from year to year. Now, we ask you — here we ask you. Think you that this costs us naught? If so, you are quite mistaken. Days like these are dearly bought; Bought with anxious fear and trembling, With some thought and study, too ; For it takes not much, to puzzle Smaller brains, whate'er they do. Tho' we are not wise or learned, Let me tell }■ ou, every one Who to-day appears before you. Thinks this any thing hut fun. Now and here again we ask you. Would 3'ou, could you, stand up here— Take our place and face these people, Without trembling, care, or fear ? If not, then you will not blame us. Or expect too much to-day. But look kindly on our errors. And with smiles cheer on our way CHARLIE'S SPEECH. Brother Will has said his piece, I'll try my little hand, Although I own it's pretty hard Before so many folks to stand. 192 STANDARD DIALOGUES Little folks should not be heard, Only seen, some people say, So I will end my little speech, Since you have all seen me to-day. THE FOUR -YEAR -OLD. If 3'ou expect great things of me, I fear you'll be mistaken. Though it is something great, I own. Which I have undertaken. To let my little voice be heard In such a place as this, And all these people here to see How wondrous hard it is. But I will brave it like a man In hopes some day to stand In a larger place than this, Within our noble land, And let my voice be heard once more, In stirrinof tones, the nation o'er. WILLIE'S SPEECH. X am sure you can't expect great things From one so young as I, And yet, to do my very best, I here, and now, will try. The greatest men who ever lived, Were once but little boys ; They had their sports as well as we, And played with tops and toys. They had to learn first lessons, too — To read, and write, and spell ; To speak their lessons on the stage, And try to do them well. I doubt if Everett or Webster, Or even Henry Clay, Didn't tremble in his shoes, when first He tried his piece to saj^ So you must not expect too much Nor criticise us here, While we appear before you all With trembling and with fear. STANDARD DIALOGUES 193 AN ADDRESS OF WELCOME. They say, sometimes, that walls have ears. I don't know how that is ; but I do know that if these old walls have ears, they will hear some wonderful things to-night ; and if they have eyes, will see a sight worth beholding ; and if they had a tongue, it would find utterance in a shout — a long, loud, triumjjhant shout of iveleome. Welcome, loved parents ; welcome, kind friends ; wel- come, dear schoolmates ; welcome, one and all, to the anniversary of the , this glorious day of , 18 ! {Fill blanks to suit.) But alas! the walls are dumb ; and I am afraid that if they have any hearts, they are as cold and hard as the materials of which they are built. But no matter; for within them are gathered human beings, whose hearts beat warmly, and tenderly, and lovingly, this night of all nights; and the one cord to which each thrills is — Wel- come ! As all could not give this feeling utterance, they have appointed me to express it; to embody in the one voice the united cry of ivelcome. Dear friends, let me beg you not to measure this wel- come by my size ; my love can be great, though my inches are few ; if my body don't take up much room, my heart is large enough to contain you all. il/^ heart! I beg pardon. Oi/r heart! for our pastor bids you welcome to this gathering of the lambs of his flock. Even now, the words of the Master ring in his ears, "Whoso shall receive one such little child in my name, receiveth me." 3fe! Blessed Jesus, may each one here to-night indeed receive into his heart the children's Saviour. (To be said with clasped hands and closed eyes, taking care that it is indeed a prayer from the heart.) Our superintendent greets and welcomes you ; and in the name of Him who has said, " Suflfer the little children to come unto me," thanks you for all your kindness — past, present, and yet to come. Our teachers take up the cry, and fain would shout it out, that all the earth might hear — welcome! welcome at all times ! but thrice welcome on this, our anniversary night ! 194 STANDARD DIALOGUES My dear brothers and sisters of the school will tell you that — " Many are the sorrows, many are the tears, Many are the hopes, and many are the fears, That have crossed our pathway since we last did meet : But we are come again, our kindred and our friends to greet," And welcome you, my dear friends, this festal night. Even my cherished schoolmates, the little "larabs of the flock," echo the shout, and cry — come, come, come! (First come ivith almost a shout, arid decreasing to a low hut perfectly distinct tone?) But hark ! What is that ? I thought I heard another, afar off, and yet near, echo of come, come, come! (Com- mence in a loud whisper, and gradually increase the voice.) Ah ! yes. Jesus himself, the children's friend, is in our midst to-night, and bids you welcome ; but calls to each, " Come unto me," for " verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." Dear, kind friends — old and young, rich and poor, learned and unlearned — let us obey this call, for he loves us all ; then at the last, great anniversary meeting, on the other shore — " The angels will stand, on the heavenly strand, And sing their welcome home." OLD EYE MAKES A SPEECH. I was made to be eaten. And not to be drank ; To be thrashed in a barn. Not soaked in a tank. I come as a blessing When put through a mill; As a blight and a curse When run through a still. Make me up into loaves, And your children are fed ; But, if into a drink, I will starve them instead. STANDAKD DIALOGUES 195 Id bread, I'm a servant, The eater shall rule ; In drink, I am master, The drinker a fool. Then remember the warning, My strength I'll employ — If eaten, to strengthen ; If drunk, to destroy. FOR A TINY GIRL. A tiny girl, from a tiny class, I have only a tiny speech to make ; But my dear teacher and kind schoolmates Bid me welcome you here, for love's sweet sake. Our tiny hearts with joy are filled. As we look at our pleasant room to-day, And our tiny lips thank our Father in heaven For every blessing he throws in our way. These tiny offerings of flowers we've brought, And as their fragrance fills the air. May they bring you a message from tiny hearts, That we thank you truly for all your care. We trust you have been pleased to-day With each and every thing we've done, And hope our friends will not regret They to our pleasant school have come. FIRST SPEECH IN PUBLIC. I never made a speech before, And cannot say I shall make more ; But if you'll let me look at you. And say to all, " How do you do ? " I'm sure I'll let you look at me — It won't take long, I am so " wee." But then I won't be always small ; And now I'll throw a kiss to all ! And if I live I'll speak next year With stronger voice, and have no fear. 196 STANDARD DIALOGUES INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. Ladies and Gents : We give to you A warm aod kindly greeting, And hope you will be fully paid For the labor of this meeting. We don't expect to do great things, But then we'll try to please you ; Our object is not to instruct, But only to amuse you. For life is full enough of what Is tangible and real ; And sometimes greater good is got In what is but ideal. Be pleased to pass our blunders by, And only note successes. And if you cannot give applause. Pray do not give us hisses. VERY LITTLE ONES ARE WE. Very little ones are we, But we've learned our ABC. We can read, and we can spell, And obey our teacher well. When we old and wiser grow, Much we'll learn, and much w^e'll know. Please excuse us, friends, to-day, -For we have not much to say. LINES FOR AN EXHIBITION. Kind friends, and dear parents, we welcome you here, To our nice, pleasant school-room, and teachers so dear, We wish but to show you how much we have learned. And how to our lessons our hearts ha^'-e been turned. But we hope you'll remember we all are quite young. And when we have spoken, recited, and sung, You will pardon our blunders, which, as all are aware, May even ex:tend to the President's chair. STANDAED DIALOGUES 197 We seek your approval with hearty good-will, And hope the good lessons our teachers instil May make us submissive, and gentle, and kind, As well as enlighten and strengthen the mind. For learning, we know, is more precious than gold ; But the worth of the heart's jewels ne'er can be told ; We'll strive, then, for virtue, truth, honor, and love. And thus lay up treasures in mansions above. Our life is a school-time ; and till that shall end, AVith our Father in heaven for teacher and friend, O let us perform well each task that is given. Till our time of probation is ended in heaven. WHEN I AM A MAN. When I am a man — and I'm going to be one some time — there are several things I mean to find out. One is, why men make themselves sick learning to chew dirty stuiF that even the pigs will not eat. It makes their breath smell bad ; it makes their teeth grow black ; it makes their faces yellow, and it makes every clean person want to get away from them. I wonder why they do it. Another thing is, why boys begin drinking wine, and cider, and ale, and beer, and keep on taking something a little stronger, till they get to be drunkards. My father says nobody means to be a drunkard at first, but when they begin they cannot well stop. I think the safest way is not to begin. I am a temperance boy — a teetotal temperance boy — and I mean to be a teetotal temperance man. Then I shall know a great deal more than I do now, and I'll make you another speech. MODEKN CHIVALRY. [for a little boy dressed up as a soldier.] My friends, I'm glad to see you all, You're welcome to this stately hall. You needn't be afraid of me, Altho' I look so bold and free ; I once was very thin and small, Tho' now, you see, I'm rather tall 198 STANDARD DIALOGUES I'm growing very fast, they say ; I grew an inch since yesterday. I think I'm nearly five feet high, Tho' you can judge as well as I. My bosom swells with generous fire ; I feel as big as old Goliah. I'll have a fortress on a hill ; I'll be a hero — so I will; I'll meet the foemen of the land. And battle with them, hand to hand ; Break down their towers, and drive them out, And dare and scare them all about. I'll rout them all with horrid slaughter, And drive them down into the water ; Jump in a brig, and follow o'er The ocean, to the other shore; And o'er the continent I'll chase 'em, And from the nations' map erase 'em. I'll see nobody treated ill ; I'll punish all the rogues, I will. The rulers must be just and true. Or else with 7ne they'll have to do. I'll jump astride a comet's tail. All eyes shall wink and hearts shall quail, And everybody's face turn pale. As through the midnight air I sail ; And then, as silent as a mouse. We'll glide down to the old Courthouse ; And in the sight of all the people, We'll set fire to the very steeple. Then swiftly, swiftly, up the sky. We are gone again, comet and I. You never saw a comet, boys : It makes an awful whizzing noise. You'll find you have some cause to fear it, If ever you should venture near it. Ladies, don't let me frighten you ; The last thing I could wish to do. You have no cause to be afraid, Tho' fighting seems to be my trade. I am as gentle as a dove. When once I look on those I love. STAND AED DIALOGUES 199 Here is my heart that beats for you, And here my sword, so strong and true. Now, in the light of this blue sky, I pledge you till my parting sigh Your lives and honor to defend, Your humble and devoted friend. A LITTLE BOY'S SPEECH. I've stayed here watching all the folks. And heard the big boys crack their jokes, And seen you laugh, and heard you cheer, I didn't want to interfere ; But I did wish they would get through. And let me do my talking too. I hope you have had a jolly time ; It takes ten cents to make a dime ; Birds in their little nests agree. And sugar candy does with me ; Grandmother says it makes me sick, But I get better very quick. I hope you like all you have heard ; I didn't hark to every word, For I was thinking all the time How I should say my little rhyme ; I've done it now, and feel all right ; I hope you do so too. Good-night ! DECLAMATION. [by a little tot.] They thought I couldn't make a speech, I'm such a little tot. I'll show them whether I can do A thing or two, or not. Don't be afraid to fight the wrong. Or stand up for the right — And when you've nothing else to say, Be sure you say — " Good-night." 200 STANDARD DIALOGUES GKANDMA'S ADVICE TO THE GIRLS. [by A LITTLE GIRL IN COSTUME.] If I were in your places, girls, I'll tell you what I'd do : I'd gently lecture, now and then, The boys that smoke and chew. I'd tell them that it seems to me A crying sin and shame ; I wonder what they'd think to see Their sisters do the same. I'd point them to the vile effects Resulting from its use — Discolored teeth and poisoned breath, And lips besmeared with juice. I'd talk to Harry like a friend. To Will and Charlie, too, And tell them frankly how it looks To see them smoke and chew. If you would learn to think of boys As friends, instead of beaux. And act yourselves the part of friends, I'm sure nobody knows What good you might accomplish thus, For wise and gentle words Will nestle in the hearers' hearts Like softly-singing birds. Just do your duty bravely, girls; Begin this very night. And seek, in loving ways, to win Your brothers to the right. THE SPOILED FACE. Did you ever see little John Peter ? He had as pretty a face as ever you need to see, but he spoiled it. Shall I tell you how he spoiled it? When his mother said, " Now, my boy, come in and get ready for school," little John Peter began to whine and say (makes his face out of shape and whines out), "I don't want to go to school." STANDARD DIALOGUES ^01 When his mother wouldn't let him have any more sweet cake, he said {rubs one eye ivith the back of his hand and whines out), " Boo-hoo ; I want some more s^^eet cake." So, by-and-by, little John Peter spoiled his pretty face, and it grew all twisted up crooked, just like this [draws down his mouth and looks very cross and ugly). NAMING THE BABY. You have birds in a cage, and you've beautiful flowers, But you haven't at your house what we have at ours ; 'Tis the prettiest thing that you ever did see. Just as dear and as precious as precious can be, 'Tis my own baby sister, just seven days old. And too little for any but grown folks to hold. Oh ! I know you would love her ; she's as fresh as a rose. And she has such a queer, tiny bit of a nose. And the dearest and loveliest pink little toes. Which, I tell mother, seem only made to be kissed ; And she keeps her wee hand doubled up in a fist. She is quite without hair, but she's beautiful eyes, She always looks pretty except when she cries. And what name we shall give her there's no one can tell, For my father says Sarah ; and mother likes Belle; And my great-uncle John — he's an old-fashioned man — Wants her named for his wife that is dead, Mary Ann. But the name / have chosen the darling to call Is a name that is prettier far than them all; And to give it to baby my heart is quite set — It is Violet Martha Rose Stella Marzette. JOHNNY'S OPINION OF GRANDMOTHERS. .Grandmothers are very nice folks ; They beat all the aunts in creation ; They let a chap do as he likes. And don't worry about education. I'm sure I can't see it at all What a poor fellow ever could do For apples, and pennies, and cakes, Without a grandmother or two. 202 STAKBARB DIALOGUES Grandmothers speak softly to " ma " To let a boy have a good time ; Sometimes they will whisper, 'tis true, T'other way when a boy wants to climb. Grandmothers have muffins for tea, And pies, a whole row in the cellar, And they're apt (if they know it in time) To make chicken pies for a " feller." And if he is bad now and then. And makes a great racketing noise, They only look over their specs And say, "Ah, these boys will be boys! Life is only so short, at the best; Let the children be happy to-day." Then they look for awhile at the sky, And the hills that are far, far away. Quite often, as twilight comes on, Grandmothers sing hymns very low To themselves, as they rock by the fire, About heaven, and when they shall go ; And then, a boy, stopping to think. Will find a hot tear in his eye To know what will come at the last — For grandmothers all have to die ! I wish they could stay here and pray, For a boy needs their prayers every night; Some boys more than others, I s'pose — Such as I — ^need a terrible sight ! Qood=Humor FOR Reading and Recitation ^jIjOMOR ^PennPublishrngmW By Henry Firth Wood Humorist and Reciter Paper Binding, 30 Cents Cloth, 50 Cents The title of this volume accurately and faithfully describes the character of its contents. It is believed to be "good humor," and the rendition of the selections is calculated to put the audience in an equally " good-humor." Mr. Wood, one of the most popular humorists of the day, presents in this volume one of the very best collec- tions of humorous recitations ever offered to the public. Many of the pieces make their first appearance in this book, several among the number being original creations of the compiler. Considerable space has been devoted to the popular dialect fancies of the day, which are so much in demand at the present time. While all of the selections are exceedingly laughable, special pains have been taken to prevent overstepping the bounds of pro- priety, and there is, therefore, nothing that cannot be appropriately given before the most cultured and refined audiences. No reader, who wishes to keep abreast of the times, can afford to be without this volume, as its selections are indispensable to his repertoire. Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt of price. The Penn Publishing Company 923 Arch Street, Philadelphia Choice Humor = "^^^Hlij'vSs FOR READING AND RECITA- TION By Charles C. Shoemaker f^^H Paper Binding, 30 Cents I HH^^^^H Cloth, 50 Cents i ^^^^^^H -^s its name implies, the selections are chosen with the greatest care, avoiding the coarse and vulgar on the one hand, and the flat and insipid on the other. The compiler has had unequaled facilities for securing the best readings of every character, and the present volume may be considered without a rival. The pieces are new, but few of them having previously appeared in any similar publication, and the range of subjects is un- usually wide. The repertoires of many of the best amateur and professional readers have been examined and the choicest bits of humor have been carefully culled and bound up in this rich, golden sheaf, and are here offered to the public for the first time in book form. This book was prepared to meet a widespread demand, it became popular immediately upon its publication, and its continuous and increasing sale ever since has been almost phenomenal. No public reader or reciter can afford to be without it, as it contains some of the best selections in print. Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt ofcrice. The Penn Publishing Company 923 Arch Street, Philadelphia Choice Dialect FOR READING AND RECITA- TION By Charles C. Shoemaker Paper Binding, 30 Cents Cloth, 50 Cents This popular and attractive volume contains a rare collection of Choice Dialect of every variety, covering a broad range of sentiment, and suited to any public or private occasion where readings or recitations are the order of entertainment. The transi- tions from grave to gay, from humorous to pathetic, and from the simply descriptive to the highly dramatic, will be found unusually wide. Many of the selections have never before appeared in print, and a number of others have been specially ar- ranged for this volume. It is believed that the book will meet the wants of those who are partial to selections in dialect, but whose good taste and good sense are often shocked by the coarseness that too frequently prevails in books of this character. Among its contents will be found selections in all dia- lects, such as Irish, Scotch, German, Negro, etc., and representing all phases of sentiment, the humorous, pa- thetic, dramatic, etc., thus affording full scope to the varied attainments of the reader or reciter, and adapting it emi- nently to the needs of the amateur and professional elocu- tionist. Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt of price. The Penn Publishing Company 923 Arch Street, Philadelphia Choice Dialogues FOR SCHOOL AND SOCIAL ENTER- ^ ^^^^m\ TAINMENT I ^^^^J By Mrs. J. W. Shoemaker Entirely New and Original Paper Binding, 30 Cents Cloth, 50 Cents The topics have been arranged on a comprehensive plan, with reference to securing the greatest possible variety; and the matter has been pre- pared especially by a corps of able writers. Each pro- duction has been critically examined as to its moral tone, its literary structure and expression, and its adaptation to the purpose intended. Loftiness of conception, purity of tone, elevated moral sentiment, and perfect adaptabihty are some of the many good points to be found in this volume, which shows on every page indisputable evidence of thorough and care- ful preparation. This is probably the best all-round dialogue book ever published, being adapted as it is to the Sunday- school or day-school, to public and private entertain- ments, and to young people or adults. It gained popular favor as soon as issued, and the demand ever since has been very great. Any person in need of a book of this kind will be sure to be satisfied with this volume. Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt of price. The Penn Publishing Company 923 Arch Street, Philadelphia Humorous Dialogues and Dramas By Charles C, Shoemaker Paper Binding, 30 Cents Cloth, 50 Cents After the severe labors of the day every one enjoys that which will af- ford relaxation and relieve the mind of its nervous tension. For this rea- son the humorous reading is so hfeartily received and the humorous dialogue so vigor- ously applauded. . Humor has its legitimate field, but it .s always attended with one great danger, that of de- scending to the coarse and vulgar. And just at this point lies the merit of this book. The dialogues are humorous without being coarse, and funny without being vulgar. Many of them are selected from standard authors, but a number of others have been specially prepared for the book by experienced writers. All the dialogues are bright and taking and sure to prove most successful in their presentation. They can be given on any ordinary stage or platform, and require nothing out of the ordinary in the way of costuming. They are adapted to old and young of both sexes, and are suitable to all occasions where good, wholesome humor is appropriate and will be appreciated. ^ Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt of price. The Penn Publishing Company T 933 Arch Street, Philadelphia Classic Dialogues and Dramas By Mrs. J. W. Shoemaker Paper Binding, 30 Cents Cloth, 50 Cents This book embraces scenes and dialogues selected with the greatest care from the writings of the best dramatists. It is, therefore, valuable not alone for public and private en- tertainments, but to individuals for the opportunity it affords for literary study. It is rarely, if at all, that such a collection of articles from the truly great writers is found in one volume. As would be expected a number of the strongest and most familiar scenes from the plays of Shakespeare have been inserted, but selections from Sheridan, Bulwer, Schiller, and others equally prominent have also been made. Many of the dialogues are such as would prove acceptable in the form of readings or recitals, and for this reason the value of the book to many persons is greatly increased. It is a volume that appeals most forcibly to the teacher and advanced student, and its contents will find acceptance most readily with audiences of the highest culture and refinement. With such environ- ment the dialogues will prove very acceptable and en- joyable. ^ Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt of price. The Penn Publishing Company 923 Arch Street, Philadelphia ■|0 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Nov. 2007 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 (724)779-2111