J Digitized by the internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/entertainingdial00n6rtrich NOBTHENB^S NeW SeRIBS. ^^mmm^BMmm& wim.%B&m,^ irnmatir <§mlmt ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES DBSIGNED FOR THE USE OF YOUNG STUDENTS SCHOOLS AND ACADEMIES. CHARLES NORTHEND, A.M., ^OTHOB OF "tKAOHEE AND PARENT," " TEACHEe's ASSISTANT, '^ "little obatoe," " enteetaininq dialogues," etc. A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY, NEW YORK \ND CHICAGO. THE BEST SCHOOL SPEAKERS. NORTHEND'S SERIES, Northend's Child's Speaker. New in 1870. A ftesh eelection for the smallest order of little folks. Contents are varied between proge, poetry, and dialogue. Also exercises for recitation in concert. Northend's Little Orator. Similar in plan to the " Child's Speaker," and for the same class. Good moral lessons, suggestive thoughts, and entertaining narrative go hend in hand with the cultivation of memory and expression. Northend's National Orator. A compilation for interrotd'ata cla.£se« in ccheols and academies, containing the standard gems of the l>inguage thai are adapted to elocutionary purposes, many of which are to be found in no other School Speaker. Northend's Entertaining Dialognes. A very excellent variety of dialogues, humorous, moral, and classical, in prose and verse, nearly one hundred in all. For exhibitions, parlor entertainments, etc., the work has special " ""gp^g j^^ION DEPT , Swett's Coraraon School Speaker. By the late State Superintendent of California. Contains pieces adapted to the tastes and understanding of school children ; of naodem character, and ex- cluding much of the waste matter which in similar books is never used. Raymond's Patriotic Speaker. A splendid compilation of the choice literature of the last decade— emphatically a book of the times, carefully collated from the best rhetorical models at the Bar, in the Legislature, on the Platform, and in the Pulpit. The poetical selections breathe the spirit of recent events. Of course the topics of the war are prominent, but both sides are impartially represented. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, t»y A. S. BARNES & BURR, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. V^S E. D. REMARKS The practice of rehearsing dialogues in schools has greatly increased within the last ten years, causing quite a demand for new selections. When proper attention is given to the choice of pieces, and to the style of speak- ing, the exercise is at once pleasant and profitable. With a view to cultivate an easy and natural style, it may be found useful for a class, occasionally, to make use of dialogues for an exercise in reading. A further profitable and pleasant use would be the rehearsal of them at the home fireside — as an entertain- ing recreation for evenings. This might be made to take the place of objectionable amusements, or occupy time otherwise spent in idleness. There is no better way for keeping the young from idleness and street-influences than furnishing them with pleasant and rational amuse- ments or occupations at home. In the preparation of this volume, the compiler has endeavored to make a selection of dialogues that should serve to entertain the young, and at the same time to avoid such as were in any degree objectionable in their tendency. M69859 Tl REMARKS. Earnestly hoping that they may prove acceptable to teachers and parents, and useful, as well as amusing, to the youth, they are commended to the kindly considera- tion of those for whose use they have been arranged. New Britain, Conn., August Istj 1859. CONTENTS. DIALOGUES. NCMB^R. PaO> 1. Nothing but Common People, T. S. Arthur, 11 2. On "Writing Compositions, S. ff. EaU, 13 3. The Acquiescing Wife, Sterne, 15 4. Happiness not in Station, Anom/rrums, 17 5. Usefulness Promotes Happiness, Anonymous, 18 6. Dogberry's Charge to the "Watch, Shakspeare, 24 *l. The Porcupine Temper, Miss Edgeworih, 26 8. Modern Education, Anonymous, 29 9. Keep Posted Up, Anonymous, 33 10. Cause of "Winds, Boys^ and Girls' Mag., 36 11. On Slander, Anonymous, 37 12. The Auction, The Schoolmate, 40 13. The Know-Nothing, Anonymous, 43 14. The Thing that's Right, W. B. Fowle, 45 15. A Law Case, Matthews, 47 16. The Folly op Duelino, Anonymous, 52 17 The Candidate for Congress, The Schoolmate, 55 18 On Knowledge, Anonymous, 58 19. Pedigree, W. B. Fowle, GO 20. The Petulant Man, Osborne, 62 VIU CONTENTS. Number. Pace 21. The Debate, The Schoolmate, ... 66 22. On Quackery, Anonymous, 72 23. The "Way to John Smith's, Pmdegast, 74 24 The Insult and the Apology, 76 25. A Lesson on Politeness, Oulton^ 78 26. Dress and Assurance, Anonymous, 82 27. Anger and Obstinacy, Knowles, 85 28. The Actors, Shakspeare, 88 29. Othello and Iago, Shakspeare, 90 30. The Satiric Poet and his Friend, Pope, 93 31. Dialogue from Macbeth, Shakspeare, 95 32. "William Tell and his Countrymen, Knowles, 98 33. Prince Arthur and Hubert, Sluikspeare, 101 34. "WoLSEY AND Cromwell, Shakspeare, 105 35. The Sailor's Mother, Soulhey, 108 36. The Story, J. G. Holland, 112 37. The Churchyard, Karam^in, 119 38. "What we Love, Juvenile Repository,. . 120 39. The Land of Gold, Anonymous, 124 40. The "Watcher on the Tower, Charles Mackay, 126 41. Sunrise and Sunset Marie E. Fellowes,... 128 42. The Drunkard and his Friend, J. 0. Rockwell, 129 43. Pedantry, Anonymous, 131 44. Irish Courtesy, Sedhy, 136 45. A Scene from the Gipsey; or "Whose Son AM I, Metropolitan, 139 46. The Caning, Anonymous, 143 47. Indigestion, Anonymous, 145 48. A Deceiver Deceived, EaU, 148 49. The Landlord and Tenant, Morion, 153 50. A Temperance Meeting, George Gowles, 155 51. The Invalid and the Politician, Murphy, 159 52. The Lawyer and the Politician, Murphy, 161 53. A Nautical Examination Anonymous, 1G4 CONTENTS. IX NnMBCR. Paob. 54. Hard to Suit All, D.P. Page, 167 55. The Student, Farmer, and Minister, Anonymous, 117 66. The Miser, Fielding, 183 57. The Rival Orators, W. Simons, 185 58. Gentleman and Irish Servant, Anonymotts 188 59. The Beauties OP Gossip, Anonymous, 190 60 The Gridiron, W. B. Fowle, 19-1 61. The Will, Anonymous, 197 62. The American Antiquary, ...W.B. Fowle, 200 63 Physiognomy, W. B. Fowle, 204 64 The Court, Jax:oh Abbott, 207 65. Self -Interest, Fielding, (altered,) 218 66. Mercury, Duelist, and Savage . . Dialogue of the Dead, 222 67. Ennui, Alice Bumey, 225 68. The Revolutionaby Pensioner, 228 69. The Fortune-Teller, W. B. Fowle, 231 70. The English Traveler, 234 71. Ollapod and Sir Charles Cropland, Colman, 237 72. Old Fickle and Tristram, AlUngion, 240 73. Benevolence, Anonyrrums, 243 74. "War, Anonymous, 247 75. True Charity, . , Anonymous, 249 76. The Sensitive Author, Sheridan, 251 77. Metaphysics, F. HopUnson, 258 78. Logic, F. HopUnson, 260 79. Natural Philosophy, F. ffopkinson, 261 80. Surgery F. HopMnson, 262 81. Fidelity Rewarded, Anonymmts, 264 82. Order and Disorder, W. D. Swcm, 267 83. A Change in the Programme, .Sterling, 269 84. On an Address to Dr. Franki/n, F HopUnson, 274 85. Extravagance in Talking, Mrs. Barbauid, 277 86. A Littlb too Sharp, , Arthwr, 279 87. NOTHINO IH It, Charts MaUhcm, . .. 285 X CONTENTS. XUMBBR. PaOB 88. A Colloquy — ^History, Anonymous, 281 89. The Man and the Money, Stv^nid; Schoolmate, 296 90. Schoolmaster and School Committee, 299 91. Think for Yourself, Stud'ni& ScTioolmcUe, 306 92. The Gold Fever, FitcJi Poole 309 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGFB -I. NOTHING BUT COMMON PEOPLE. Mrs. Lemington, a lady of education, refinement, and wealth. Mrs. Marygold, formerly a servant girl, hut now the wife of a 'xealthy man. Mrs. Lemington. Are you going to call on Mrs. Clay- ton and her daughter, Mrs. Mary gold? You know they have but recently come among us. Mrs. Marygold. No, indeed I am not, Mrs. Leming- ton. I don't visit every body. Mrs. L. I believe the Claytons are highly respectable and well-educated. Mrs. M. Kespectablel Why, every body is getting respectable nowadays. If they are respectable, it is very lately they have become so. What is Mr. Clayton, I wonder, but a schoolmaster I It's too bad that such Eeople will come crowding themselves into genteel neigh- orhoods. The time was when to live in Sycamore Row was guarantee enough for any one ; but now all kinds of people have come into it. Mrs. L. I have never met Mrs. Clayton, but I am told that she is a most estimable woman, and that her daughters have been educated with great care. Indeed, it is said they are highly accomplished girls. Mrs. M. Well, I don't care what is said of them. I'm not going to keep company with a schoolmaster's wife and daughters ; that's certain. Mrs. L. Do you think there's any thing disgraceful in keeping a school ? Mrs. M. No, nor in making shoes, either. But, then, that's no reason why I should keep company with my shoemaker's wife, is it? Let common people associate together ; that's my doctrine. 12 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Mrs. L. But what do you mean by common' people, Mrs. Mary gold? Mrs. M. Why, I mean what I say : poor people ; peo- ple who have not come of a respectable family. That's what I mean. Mrs. L. I am not sure that I understand your expla- nation much better than; I do your classification. li you mean as you say, ^^uor people, your objection will not aj^piyj with ;fulx ; force , to' the Claytons ; for they are in Ver3? -comfottabl-e' cire'umstances. As to the family of Mr. Clayton, I believe his father was a man of integrity, though not rich. And Mrs. Clayton's family I know to be without reproach of any kind. Mrs. M. And yet they are common people, for all that. Wasn't old Clayton a mere petty dealer in small wares ? And wasn't Mrs. Clayton's father a mechanic ? Mrs. L. Perhaps if some of us should go back a gen- eration or two, we might trace out an ancestor who held no higher place in society. I have no doubt that / should. Mrs. M Thank heaven, /have no fears of that kind, r shall never blush when my pedigree is traced. Mrs. L. Nor I either, I hope. Still I would not won- der if some one of my ancestors had disgraced himself; for there are but few families that are not cursed with a spotted sheep. But I have nothing to do with that, and only ask to be judged by what / am, not by what my progenitors have been. Mrs. M. A standard that but few will respect, let me tell you, Mrs. Lemington. Mrs. L. A standard that far the largest portion of society will regard as a true one, I hope. But surely you do not intend refusing to call upon the Claytons for the reasons you have assigned, Mrs. Mary gold? Mrs. M. Surely I do. They are nothing but common people, and therefore beneath me. I shall not stoop to associate with them, I assure you. Mrs. L. Well, I think I shall call upon them. In fact, I came to ask you to call with me. Mrs. M. I should be glad to oblige you, Mrs. L., in any reasojiahle wsij ; but I can not descend so low as to call upon common people. You will be stooping if you call. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 18 Mrs. L. I long ago learnt that no one stoops in doing a kind act. Mrs. Clayton is a stranger in the neighbor- hood, and is entitled to the courtesy of a call, if nothing more ; and that 1 shall extend to her. If I find her to be uncongenial in her tastes, no intimate acquaintance need be formed. If she is congenial, I will add another to my list of valued friends. You and I, I find, estimate differently. / judge every individual by merit, while' you judge by family or descent. Mrs. M You can do as you please ; but for myself I am particular about my associates. I will visit Mrs. Dash and Mrs. Fashion, and such as move in good socie- ty ; but, as to your school-teachers' wives and daughters, I must be excused. Mrs. L. {Leaving^ with a smile.) Every one to her taste, Mrs. Mary gold. I leave you to enjoy yours, and I will go and exercise mine. DIALOGUE II. ON WRITING COMPOSITION Laura. Teacher, will you please to excuse me from writing composition ? Teojcher. Certainly, if there is any good reason for doing so. Why do you wish to be excused, Laura ? Laura. I don't know what to write ; I can not write any thing fit to be seen. Teacher. Well, Laura, we will converse about it. Do you wish to be excused from spelling, reading, or writ- ing? Laura. No, sir. Teacher. Why not from these, as well as from writing a composition ? Laura. They are easy ; and, besides, we could not do without a knowledge of them. Teacher. Could you always read, Laura? Laura. No, sir. Teacher. How is it that you can read now? Laura. I have learned to read. 2 14 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Teacher, How long were you in trying to learn, be- fore you could read with ease ? Laura. I do not know ; it was a long time. Teacher. Did you tell the teacher that you wished to be excused, and that you never could learn, and that you could not read in a way fit to be heard? Laura. No, I did not. Teacher. I saw you knitting and sewing, the other day; could you always knit and sew? Laura. I could not. Teacher. How, then, can you do so now ? Laura. Because I have learned how to do both. Teacher. How did you learn? Laura. By trying. Teacher. Did you ever tell your mother she must ex- cuse you from knitting and sewing, because you did not know how, and could not sew or knit fit to be seen ? Laura. I did not. TecLcher. Why did you not? Laura., I knew, if I did not keep trying, I never could learn, and so I kept on. Teacher. Do you think it is necessary to know how to write letters, and to express ourselves properly when writing ? Laura. 0, yes, sir. Teacher. You expect to have occasion to write letters, do you not? Laura. I presume I shall, for I have written to my brother and cousin already. Teacher. Then you think, if I should aid you in learn- ing to write a letter or other piece of composition ^rop- erly^ that I should do you a great benefit. Laura. I suppose, sir, you would. Teacher. Is it right for me to benefit you and the school as much as I can ? Laura. I suppose, sir, you ought to aid us all you can. Teacher. Should I do right, if I neglected the means which will benefit you? Laura. No, sir. Teacher. Now I will answer you. You asked if I would excuse you from writing. I will do so, if you ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 16 lliink I could be justified in neglecting to benefit you ad much as I can. If you can say, sincerely, that you be- lieve it is my duty to do wrong to the school, by indulg- ing them in neglecting what they ought to learn, then I will comply with your request. Laura. I see that I am wrong in wishing to be ex- cused ; and, much as I dread to write composition^ I will try, and do the best I can. DIALOGUE III. THE ACQI.IESCING WIFE Mr. SJiandij. We should begin to think, Mrs. ShaP dy, of putting our boy into breeches. Mrs. Shandy. We should so. Mr. Shandy. We defer it, my dear, shamefully. Mrs. Shandy. I think we do, Mr. Shandy. Mr. Shandy. Not but that the child looks extremely well in his vests and tunics. Mrs. Shandy. He does look very well in them. Mr. Shandy. And, for that reason, it would seem al- most a sin to take him out of them. Mrs. Shandy. It would so. Mr. Shandy. But then, Mrs. Shandy, he is growing a very tall lad. Mrs. Shandy. He is very tall of his age, indeed, Mr. Shandy. Mr. Shandy. I can not imagine, for the life of me, who the deuce he takes after. Mrs. Shandy. I can not even conjecture. Mr. Shandy. I certainly am very short, Mrs. Shandy. Mrs. Shandy. You are very short, Mr. Shandy ; very. Mr. Shandy. {After a brief pause.) When he geta his breeches on, he will look like a very beast in them, my dear. Mrs. Shandy. He will be very awkward in them at first. Mr. Shandy. And 'twill be lucky, if that's the worst on't. Mrs. Shandy. It will be very lucky. 16 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Mr. Shandy. {After another pause.) I suppose hell be exactly like other people's children. Mrs. Shandy. Exactly, Mr. Shandy. Mr. Shandy. And I should be sorry for that. His breeches should be made of leather, Mrs. Shandy. Mrs. Shandy. They will last him the longer so. Mr Shandy. But he can have no linings to 'em. Mrs. Shandy. He can not, Mr. Shandy. Mr. Shandy. 'Twere better then to have them of fustian. Mrs. Shandy. Nothing can be better. Mr. Shandy. Except dimity, Mrs. Shandy. Mrs. Shandy. That's best of all, Mr. Shandy. Mr. Shandy. One must not, however, give him his death. Mrs. Shandy. By no means. Mr. Shandy. {After quite a pause.) I am, howevei, resolved on one thing, and that is that he shall have no pockets in his breeches. Mrs. Shandy. There's no occasion for any, Mr. Shandy. Mr. Shandy. I mean in his coat and waistcoat. Mrs. Shandy. I mean so, too. Mr. Shandy. Though if he gets a gig or a top — pooi souls, it is a crown and a scepter to children, you know — he should have where to secure it. Mrs. Shandy. Order it as you please, Mr. Shandy. ifr. Shandy. {Earnestly.) But don't you think it right, my dear Mrs. Shandy ? Mrs. Shandy. Perfectly, Mr. Shandy. If it will only please you it will, of course, be right. Mr. Shandy {Angrily.) There's for you I "Please me!" You never will distinguish, Mrs. Shandy, nor shall I ever teach you to do it, betwixt a point of pleas- ure and a point of convenience. Never, never; no, never. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 17 DIALOGUE IV. HAPPINESS NOT IN STATION. Harry. I wish I had been bom rich or noble, like the little princes, dukes, or counts in the old countries ; then I should not have to drag through the streets, with this heavy basket on my arm. William. Courage, Harry. You are not half so bad off as thousands of poor boys in the city. Harry. I know that, but I'm a great deal worse off than some are. I don't see why I should have to work and drudge all my days, when others, who are no better than I am, have every thing they can wish for, without having to lift a finger. WUliam. But princely and noble children are no more likely to be happy and contented than poorer boys and girls. Harry. Why, how is that? Don't little princes and nobles have parks, and mansions, and palaces, and every thing that any body can want? I think it must be very nice to live in a grand palace, and be dressed in fine clothes, and to ride out every day in a splendid- coach drawn by gay horses, and to have people say, " There is the little Prince^ William. If vou should read some of the stories about the royal children, you would change your mind. They carry heavier loads on their hearts than you do on your arm. Have you ever heard about the little Dau- phin, son of King Louis the Sixteenth ? Harry. No ; was his name Dauphin ? Seems to me they might have given him a better name than that. William. His name was Louis. The oldest son of the king of France is called the Dauphin, just as the old- est son of the sovereign of England is called Prince of Wales. Harry. Oh, that's it. But how about the little prince, lidn't he have a pleasant life ? William. No ; he was a good child, and deserved to be happy, yet trouble came to him when he was very young. The people of France took the crown away 2* 18 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. from his father, and the family were shut up in the pal ace of the Tuilleries. Soon the French people resolved to put King Louis to death. The little prince entreated his father to let him go and implore the people on his knees not to kill his father. Poor boy, his parents and aunt were shortly after led out to die. Harry. Why, I supposed that kings and queens were all loved very much by their people. I'm sure it was very cruel to pat them to death. But what became of the little prince ? William. He was shut up in prison closely, under a brutal keeper. There he was ill-treated and finally left to pine away in sickness, until his body became worn out, and his quiet spirit went to live with the King of Kings. Harry. Well, I'm very sorry for the poor little prince. That wasn't a very happy life, I'm sure. William. No ; the life of a prince, you see, is not al- ways a peaceful and happy one. Crowns and palaces are more troublesome to their owners than heavy baskets to ambitious boys. Take up your load then, and show your- self as brave in spirit as you are strong in body. Ee- member that he only can be truly happy who faithfully and honestly performs all the duties required of him in the situation in which Providence has placed him. The truly great are the truly good, and the truly good are the truly happy. Harry. I have never thought of these things before— but if princes are treated as you represent, I am sure I do not wish to be one. Henceforth my motto shall be, "Contentment with my lot, and happiness in doing my duty." DIALOGUE Y USEFULNESS PROMOTES HAPPINESS. Emma. Well, dear mother, I have been to see Laura Selwyn, as you desired ; but it is of no use. I can nei- ther say nor do any thing to give her comfort. Her own and her parents' misfortunes press so heavily on her spir- its, that she was in tears all the time I staid, and did not ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 19 appear to pay the least attention to one word I said. I was wishing, the other day, that we were rich, like Mr. Selwyn ; but if the loss of riches would render me as miserable as Laura now is, I am sure I hope we may never be rich. Mrs. Davenport. The rich, Emma, are not always mis- erable. Indeed, it is in their power to secure to them- selves happiness of the most pure and exalted kind — tliat of ministering to the wants and necessities of oth- ers — of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and, los- ing sight of self and selfish considerations, doing good to their fellow-beings. Those, also, who are not styled rich^ but have merely a competency, and hardly that, can do much in the same way. Emma. As you and my father do. You have but very little to give away, and yet you are contin- ually assisting the destitute. Many, very many, are the grateful hearts, who are ready to rise up and call you blessed. Mrs. Davenport. A disposition to think of others more than of ourselves, most surely brings its own blessing and reward. Poor Laura's education has been miserably neglected in this particular: she has been allowed to dwell on her own wants — her own accomplishments — her own self — till now, in this time of trial and reverse, she almost believes that she alone, in all the world, is truly miserable. Emma. O yes, mother, I saw that very plainly. Mr. Selwyn is sick, and confined to his bed. Mrs. Selwyn is full of care for him, and yet finds time to try to comfort Laura; telling her, if she can only see her and her father well and happy, she shall little heed the loss of property. Poor George, too, sits neglected on the floor. The servants are dismissed, and his mother is obliged to leave him with Laura ; but all his entreaties for her to look at him, and play with him, are ineffectual: she only says, "Be quiet, George, be quiet; you know not how miserable your sister is." Mrs. Davenport. Miserable indeed, poor child I Emma. I suppose the little fellow does not half under- stand what she means; but, when she speaks thus, he will weep bitterly to see her weep. Mrs. Selwyn does 20 ENTEKTAINING DIALOGUES. not do so, mother. I really love her, and love to look at her. Her whole appearance is even more placid and serene than usual, excepting when she looks at Laura ; and then it is easy to see that she is deeply pained. How can Laura be so unlike her mother ? Mrs. Davenport. You forget, Emma, that, until with- in, a few months, Laura has not lived with her mother since she was a very little girl. When Mr. and Mrs. Sel- wyn decided on going to India, some twelve years since, they determined on taking their whole family with them. They then had three children. Laura was the eldest, and had delicate health ; and, at the earnest entreaties of the aunt for whom she was named, her parents consented to commit their daughter to her care. Their stay abroad was protracted far beyond all expectation, and Laura was educated by her aunt. Mrs. Harcourt spared neither pains nor expense to give her niece every elegant accom- plishment : her talents were cultivated, but her heart was neglected, and she grew up thinking only of herself. Emma. But, mother, Mrs. Harcourt has been dead a long time. Mrs. Davenport. Yes; Mrs. Harcourt died about a year before the return of Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn ; and that year Laura passed at a fashionable boarding-school, a school but ill-calculated to supply the deficiencies in her previous education. Her mother often laments the mis- taken course that has been pursued with her child ; but still she hopes and believes that some of the good seed sown in early infancy may yet spring up, and flourish, and bear fruit. I know she will faithfully labor for the improvement of her daughter, and I trust she will not find herself entirely disappointed in her hopes. Emma. I am very sure she will not. Laura has many kind, and good, and, I believe I may add, great qualities. Mrs. Davenport. I agree with you, Emma; and I shall not be surprised if this very event should prove the means of calling them into action. It is often thus in the course of the divine providence. What we re- gard as calamity, and meet with dread, would not be so regarded, and so met, could we view it in all its bear- ings. Our greatest trials always become our greatest ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 21 blessings, when we permit tliem to humble and instruct us. Ihnma. Mother, I was wishing to ask you what be- came of the rest of Mr. Selwyn's family. You spoke of other children. Mrs. Davenport. Both the children who accompanied their parents, died abroad; and little George is the only one, of several born in India, who lived to return with them. Mr. Selwyn was greatly prospered in his exer- tions for obtaining property ; but his health fell a sacri- fice to those exertions ; and now, in the decline of life, he also has to experience all the evils attendant on pov- erty. I understand that his immense property is entirely gone, either by the negligence, misfortunes, or wicked- ness of those in whom he confided ; but he meets the trial with the firmness of a man and the submission of a Christian ; and his wife's feelings are in perfect unison with his own. T trust they may yet find much comfort in the children who are spared to them, and that their last days may prove to be their best days. {Enter a servant.) Servant. Madam, Miss. Selwyn is below, inquiring for you and Miss Emma. Mrs. Davenport. Let us hasten to Laura, dear Emma It may be in our power to be useful to her. Mrs. Davenport., Emma Dwcenport, and Laura Selwyn.. Laura. Good morning, Mrs. Davenport. My deai Emma, I have called to apologize for my manner of re- ceiving your kind visit this morning. Emma. No apology is necessary, Laura. I saw that your heart was very full, and I had no right to expect much attention, and no wish to receive it. Laura. You should have received it. I well knew that your visit was dictated by motives of the purest kindness, and I also knew that your mother was my mother's most valued friend. But, Emma, I have had a hard, hard week. At the time you came in, I was once more endeavoring to persuade myself that, in the whole world, there was no one more entirely deserving than myself of QYory good thing, and yet so perfectly miser- able 1 But it would not do. I could not really believe it. 22 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. ^ I thought of my parents — of my only remaining little brother; I thought of you, and your parents. I drew a comparison between us, and it was almost too much for me. But now I hope the struggle is past, and that in future I shall find my own happiness in doing good to others. Emma. Mother, dear mother, 'tis as we hoped. Laura. When I was a very little child, long before I went to live with Aunt Harcourt, if, from any cause, I felt particularly sad or unhappy, my mother would al- ways endeavor to draw my attention from my own child- ish sorrows and perplexities, by busily employing me for some other person ; and very often I have entirely for- gotten my own trifling vexations, in doing some little thing for her, or my father, or my little brother and sis- ter. It was not so after I left her ; and, till this very day, I had well nigh forgotten that it ever was thus ; but the remembrance of days long gone by has returned to me, and I feel that it may be so again ; that in striving to do good to others, I may, in some measure, answer' the great end of my being, and therefore be happier than I ever yet have been ; that I may be able even to assist my own dear parents in this hour of need. Emma. My dear, dear Laura, how I rejoice to hear you speak thus ! Mrs. Davenport. ( With much emotion^ hut endeavoring to speak calmly.) Have you formed any plans, Laura? Can I assist you? Both Mr. Davenport and myself will re- joice to do so. Laura. I depend much on your kindness and aid. You well know that I possess very little truly useful in- formation, such as would qualify me for a regular gov- erness or teacher ; but I am said to excel in music and drawing, and it is my wish to obtain pupils in these branches. This will occupy but a part of my time ; the remainder shall be devoted to assisting my mother in her d.)mestic affairs, and in taking care of my father and lit- tle George. Perhaps you will smile to hear me say this; and I doubt not but, at first, I shall appear ignorant and awkward enough to make any one smile ; but my heart is in it, and I trust I may be enabled to learn to be use- ful. It shall no longer be true that Laura Selwyn is liv- ing for herself alone. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 28 Mrs. Davenport. Your good resolutions give me sin- cere joy, dearest Laura. Once more let me repeat mj earnest wish to assist you in every way in my power, though that power is but very limited. Emma. Dear mother, your good word goes a great way with every body who knows you. Laura. Indeed it does, Emma. Your father's and mother's good word is of great consequence to me in tliis neighborhood, where we are so nearly strangers, and where the little that is known of me must be so very un- favorable. I have talked over the whole matter with my own dear mother, and she advised me to consult you. I left her in tears — the first tears I have seen her shed since our misfortunes ; but she assured me they were caused by the joy of her heart at the change in the feelings of her child. Oh, how much grief I have caused to my excellent parents ! Emma. But you will cause them no more sorrow, dearest Laura. You will be a blessing to your parents now. Laura. I feel altogether insufficient, of myself, to do any good thing. How many years of my life have I wickedly misspent! how many advantages miserably perverted ! Mrs. Davenport. Your humility and self-distrust, my dear girl, furnish strong hopes of the sincerity of your good resolutions. I fully believe they will prove neither transient nor delusive. Doubt not but you will find an all-sufficient help in your Heavenly Father. Cast your cares and burthens on Him, and he will sustain you. And, now, my children, let us hasten to Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn, not to mourn, but to rejoice with them. Their property is lost, but their wandering child is re- claimed — their precious daughter is restored to them. 24 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE VI. DOGBERRY'S CHARGE TO THE WATCH. Dogherry — Verges — Watch. Dogberry. Are you good men and true? Verges. Yea, or else it were pity but they should su^ fer salvation, body and soul. Dogberry. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch. Verges. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dog- berry. Dogberry. First, who think you the most desartlesa man to be constable ? 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. Dogberry. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune ; but to write and read cx)mes by nature. 2 Watch. Both which, master constable — Dogberry. You have ; I knew it would be your an- swer. W^ll, for your favor, sir, why give God thanks, and make no boast of it ; and for your writing and read- ing, let that appear when there is no need of such vani- ty. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; therefore, bear you the lantern. This is your charge : — ^you shall com- prehend all vagrom men ; you are to bid any man stand in the prince's name. 2 Watch. How if he will not stand ? Dogberry. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go ; and presently call the rest of the watch togeth- er, and thank God you are rid of a knave. Verges. If he will not stand, when he is bidden, he \s none of the prince's subjects. Dogberry. True ; and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets ; for, for the watch to babble and talk is most tolerable, and not to be endured. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 25 2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk; we know what belongs to a watch. Dogberry. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman ; for I can not see how sleeping should offend : only, have a care that your bills be not stolen : — Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those tliat are drunk get them to bed. 2 Watch. How if they will not? Dogberry. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober ; if they make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are not the men you took them for. Dogberry. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man : and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Dogberry. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company. Verges. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dogberry. Truly, I would not hang a dog, by my will ; much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Verges. If you hear a child cry in the night, you m'ist call to the nurse, and bid her still it. 2. Watch. How if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us? Dogberry. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying: for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baas, will never answer a calf when he bleats. Verges. 'Tis very true. Dogberry. This is the end of the charge. You, con- stable, are to present the prince's own person ; if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. Verges. Nay, by'r lady, that, I think, he can not. Dogberry. Five shillings to one on't, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him : marry, not without the prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch 3 26 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. ought to offend no man ; and it is an offense to stay a man against his will. Verges. By'r lady, I think it be so. Dogberry. Ha, ha, ha! Well masters, good night: an' there be any matter of weight chances, call me up : keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbor. 2. Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here uj)on the church-bench till two, and then all go to bed. Dogberry. One word more, honest neighbors : I pray you watch about Signor Leonato's door ; for the wedding neing there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night ; — adieu, be vigilant, I beseech you. DIALOGUE VII. THE PORCUPINE TEMPER. Mrs. BolingbroTce. I wish I knew what was the mat- ter with me this morning. Why do you keep the news- paper all to yourself, my dear? Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear: I have finished it. Mrs. Bolingbroke. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it — T hate stale news. Is there any thing in the paper? for I can not be at the trouble of hunting it. Mr. Bolingbroke. Yes, my dear; there are the mar- riages of two of our friends. Mrs. Bolingbroke. Who? who? Mr, Bolingbroke. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to hcT cousin, John Nettleby. Mrs. Bolingbroke. Mrs. Nettie])y ! Lord ! But why did you tell me? Mr. Biolingbroke. Because you asked me, my dear. Mrs. Bolingbroke. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleas- anter to read the paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told. WrJJ; whose was the other marriage? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 27 Mr. Bolinghroke. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you ; I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise. Mrs. Bolinghrolce. But you see I can not find it. How provoking you are, my dear! Do pray tell it me. Mr. Bolinghroke. Our friend, Mr. Granby. Mrs. Bolinghrolce. Mr. Granby! Dear! Why did you not make me guess? I should have guessed him di- rectly. But why do you call him our friend? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you may remember, the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no friend of mine. Mr. Bolinghroke. I am sorry for it, my dear; but 1 hope you will go and see Mrs. Granby. Mrs. Bolinghroke. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she? Mr. Bolinghroke. Miss Cooke. Mrs. Bolinghroke. Cooke! But there are so many Cookes: can't you distinguish her in someway? Has she no Christian name ? Mr. Bolinghroke. Emma, I think. Yes, Emma. Mrs. Bolinghroke. Emma Cooke! No; it can not be my friend, Emma Cooke ; for I am sure she was cut out for ah old maid. Mr. Bolinghroke. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife. Mrs. Bolinghroke. May be so — I am sure I'll never gKi to see her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her? Mr. Bolinghroke. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw her two or three times before she was married. Mrs. Bolinghroke. Then, my dear, how could you de- cide that she was cut out for a good wife ? I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was married. Mr. Bolinghroke. Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation. Mrs. Bolingh'oke. I understand that compliment per- icctly, and thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear any thing better than irony. Mr. Bolinghroke. Irony ! my dear, I was perfectly in earnest. 28 ENTERTAININb DIALOGUES. Mrs. Bolinghrohe. Yes, yes : in earnest — so -I perceive I may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough ; I comprehend you too well. Yes — it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience ; you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice. Mr. Bolinghrohe. My dear, what did I say that was like this? Upon my word, I meant no such thing. I really was not thinking of you in the least. Mrs. Bolinghrohe. No — ^}^ou never think of me, now. I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me, in the least. Mr. Bolinghrohe. But I said that, only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear. Mrs. Bolinghrohe. But I would rather that you thought ill of me, than that you did not think of me at all. Mr. Bolinghrohe. {Laughing.) Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you, if that will please you. Mrs. Bolinghrohe. Do you laugh at me? When it comes to this, I am wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the woman he loved. As long as you had the slightest remains of love for me, you could not make me an object of derision : ridicule and love are incom- patible; absolutely incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my yqtj best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Grranby ! Mr. Bolinghrohe. Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be with my friend; but my happiness must depend on you, my love ; so, for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies. Mrs. Bolinghrohe. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is really that Miss Emma Cooke. I'll go and see her directly ; see her I must. Mr. Bolinghrohe. I am heartily glad of it, my dear; for I am sure a visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure. Mrs. Bolinghrohe. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him pleasure, or you either ; but to satisfy mv own — curiosity. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 29 DIALOGUE VIII. MODERN EDUCATION. Teacher. (Alone.) I am "heartily sick of this modern mode of education. Nothing but trash will suit the taste of people at this day. I am perplexed beyond all endurance with these frequent solicitations of parents to give their children graceful airs, polite accomplishments, and a smattering of what they call the fine arts; while nothing is said about teaching them the substantial branches of literature. If they can but dance a little, fiddle a little, flute a little, and make a handsome bow and courtesy, that is sufficient to make them famous, in this enlightened age. Three-fourths of tbe teachers of those arts, which once were esteemed most valuable, will soon be out of employment, at this rate. For my part, I am convinced, that, if I had been a dancing-master, music-master, stage-player, or mountebank, I should have been much more respected, and much better supported, than I am at present. (Enter Parent.) Parent. Your humble servant, sir; are you the prin cipal of this school ? Teacher. I am, at your service, sir. Parent. I have heard much of the fame of your insti- tution, and am desirous of putting a son, of about twelve years of age, under your tuition. I suppose you have masters who teach the various branches of the polite arts. Teacher. We are not inattentive to those arts, sir; but the fame of our school does not rest upon them. Useful learning is our grand object. What studies do you wish to put your son upon ? Parent. I wish him to be perfected in music, dancing, drawing, etc. ; and, as he possesses a promising genius for poetry, I would by all means have that cultivated. T'eacher. These are not all the branches, I trust, in which he is to be instructed. You mention nothing of reading, writing, arithmetic, language, &c. Are these to be wholly neglected ? 8* 80 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Parent Why, as to these every-day branches, I can not say I feel very anxious about them. The boy reads well now, writes a decent hand, is acquainted with the ground rules of arithmetic, and pronounces the English language genteelly. He has been a long time under the care of Mr. Honestus, our town schoolmaster, who has taught him all these things sufficient^. So that I think any more time devoted to them would be wasted. Teacher. Yes, if he is such an adept that there is no room for his progressing in those arts ; yet I think, at least, there is need of practice, lest, at his age, he should forget what he has learned. Parent. That I shall leave to your discretion. But there is one branch, of great importance, which I have not yet mentioned, and to which I would have particular attention paid; I mean the art of speaking. You will find him not deficient in that respect; though perhaps it requires as much practice to make one perfect in that, as in any art whatever. He has already learned by heart a great number of pieces, and has acted a part in several comedies and tragedies, with much applause. It has been the custom of our master to have an exhibition at least once a quarter ; and my son has always been considered as one of his best performers. He lately took the part of Jemmy Jumps, in the farce called The Farmer, and acted it to universal acceptation. Teacher. I must confess, sir, that your account of your son does not appear to me to be very flattering. Parent. Why so, pray ? have you not an ear for elo- quence? Teacher. Indeed I have, sir. No man is more charmed than I am with its enrapturing sounds. No music rests sweeter on my ear than the melodious notes proceeding from the mouth of a judicious, well-instruct- ed, and powerful orator. But I must tell you plainly, that I am by no means pleased to see parents take so much pains to transform their children into monkeys instead of men. What signs of oratory do you imagine you can discern in a boy, rigged out in a fantastical dress, skipping about the stage like a baboon, in the character of Jemmy Jumps, Betty Jumps, or any othei jumper? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 81 Parent, Do you not approve of exhibitions, then ? Teacher. Certainly I do, if they are rightly conducted, and do not occur too often. But a master, who has four in a year, must necessarily rob his pupils of one-quarter of that time which, in my opinion, might be much bet- ter employed in attending to what would be useful for them in life. Parent. What can be more useful for a child, under such a government as ours, than to be able to speak be- fore an audience with a graceful ease, and a manful dig- nity? My son, for aught I know, may be a member of congress before he dies. leacher. For that very reason I would educate him differently. I would lay the foundation of his future fame on the firm basis of the solid sciences ; that he might be able in time to do something more than a mere parrot, or an ape, who are capable only of speaking the words, and mimicking the actions of others. He should first be taught to read. He should likewise be taught to com- pose for himself; and I would not be wanting in my en- deavors to make him a speaker. Parent. Surely, Mr. Teacher, you must be very wrong in your notions. I have ever pursued a different plan with my children ; and there are none in the coun- try, though I say it myself, who are more universally caressed. I have a daughter that has seen but fourteen years, who is capable of gracing the politest circles. It is allowed that she can enter and leave a room with as much ease and dignity as any lady of quality whatever. And this is evidently owing altogether to her polite edu- cation. I boarded her a year in the capital, where she enjoyed every possible advantage. She attended the most accomplished masters in the ornamental branches of science, visited the gen teelest families, and frequented all the scenes of amusement. It is true, her letters are not always written quite so accurately as could be wished ; yet she dances well, plays well on the piano-forte, and sings like a nightingale. Teacher. Does she know the art of making a good pudding? Can she darn a stocking well? or is she ca- pable of patching the elbows of her husband's coat, should she ever be so lucky as to get one ? If she is tc 32 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. remain ignorant of all such domestic employments, as mucli as I value her other accomplishments, and as much as I might be in want of a wife, I would not many her with twice her weight in gold. Parent. Her accomplishments will command her a husbmd as soon as she wishes. But so long as a single cent of my property remains, her delicate hands shall never be so unworthily employed. Teacher. But suppose a reverse of fortune should over- take you, what is to become of the child ; as you say she understands nothing of domestic affairs? Will it be more honorable, do you imagine, for her to be main- tained by the charities of the people than by her own industry ? Parent. There are many ways for her to be support- ed. I would not have you think she is wholly ignorant of the use of the needle, though she never employed it in so disgraceful a manner as that of darning stockings ! or botching tattered garments! But we will waive that subject, and attend to the other. Will you receive the boy, for the purposes beforementioned ? Teacher. Why, indeed, sir, I can not. Though I am far from condemning altogether your fiivorite branches, yet I consider them all as subordinate, and some of them, at least, totally useless. We devote but a small portion of our time to the attainment of such superficial accom- plishments. I would therefore recommend it to you, to commit him to the care of those persons who have been so successful in the instruction of his sister. Parent. I confess I am so far convinced of the propri- ety of your method, that, if you will admit him into your school, I will renounce all right of dictating to you his lessons of instruction, except in one single instance : and in that I am persuaded we shall not disagree ; I mean the art of speaking. Teacher. In regard to speaking I would not have my vnews and feelings misunderstood. I think it a very im- portant exercise, and one which should receive more at- tention in all our schools. But I feel that special care should be used in the selection of pieces, and that ever}^ thing which tends to the cultivation of a perverted or false taste should be strictly avoided. The mxatter no less ':han the manner should be regarded. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 33 Parent On these points we shall not differ, and I shall be happy to intrust my son to one whose views are so correct and sound. DIALOGUE IX KEEP POSTED UP. {Mr. Active is seated^ loohing over the neicspaper, when Mr. Modera- tion enters.) Mr. Active Exciting times these, neighbor Moderation. Mr. Moderation. How's that ? What do you say about the times ? Mr. A. I refer to the war in the East. Mr. M. Wh}^, do tell me if they are at it again. Well them Down Easters always was a quarrelsome set of folks. They ought to be sot off from the rest of the country. Mr. A. Oh, I don't mean them : they are not fighting. It is Turkey and Russia, and England and France have sided with Turkey. Napoleon has sent out quite a fleet. Mr. M Napoleon ! Why I thought he was dead long ago The history says so. Mr. A. Yes, but this is his nephew, Louis Napoleon, they call him. He is the emperor of the French. Mr. M. Why, I thought Louis Philippe was the em- peror. Mr. A, He was ; but he is dead now. Mr. M. Well that beats all : that he is dead, and I not know it. Have you any more news, neighbor Act- ive? Mr. A. I learn from the paper that the Nebraska ]>ill has been disposed of. Mr. M. Hung, you mean, I suppose. Well, I'm glad of it. He deserved it. Mr. A. Why so, neighbor? Mr. M. Why so? Why, any body that'll keep a dozen wives ought to be disposed of, as you call it. Mr. A. What do you mean? I don't understand you. 84 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Mr. M. Why, isn't this Nebraska Bill the same man I've heard tell of, that has set up for a prophet some- where, and married ever so many wives ? Mr. A . Oh, no, Mr. Moderation ; that's quite a differ- ent man, Brigham Young, who lives in Utah. Mr. M. Then who is Nebraska Bill, I'd like to know. Mr. A. It isn't a man at all. It is a law, proposing to annul the Missouri Compromise. Mr. M Oh, that's it. Well, I reckon Daniel Web- 3ter had something to say about that. He's a great man, Daniel is. Mr. A. He was a great man, but not living now^ Mr.M. "What's he dead? Why when did that happen? Mr. A. About five years ago. Mr. M. Five years ago ! And I never heard of it. I'll have to tell Polly of that, for she thinks I know every thing that happens. Now I think of it, neighbor Active, where is your brother now ? 3fr. A. He's in Washington. We heard from him half an hour ago. He arrived early this morning. Mr. M. You don't pretend to say that a letter came from Washington in half an hour? Mr. A. Of course not. The news came by telegraph. Mr. M. By telegraph ? Mr. A. Yes ; it don't take over a minute to come in that way. Mr. M. How you talk! Five hundred miles in a minute! Well, that beats the Dutch. I must tell Polly of that, too. Mr. A. Neighbor Moderation, will you allow me to ask you a plain question ? Mr. M. Certainly; as many as you please, and I will answer them if I can. Mr. A. Wei], then, do you take a newspaper? Mr. M. No, I do not; but why do you ask that? Mr. A. Why, I thought you didn't. I should think you would wish to do so, in order to get the news. Mr. M. Oh, as to that, I usually get the news as quick as most folks. I hear the people talk about it, and learn in that way. Mr. A. And vet you hadn't heard of the European war. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 85 Mr. M. Well, no ; I didn't happen to hear of that. Mr. A. Nor about Louis Napoleon? Mr. M. Why, no. Mr. A. Nor of the Nebraska Bill, and the death of Diiniel Webster? Mr.M. No, but Mr. A. Nor of the telegraph ? Mr. M. No, surely. Well, that beats all. Five "nun drcd miles a minute ! Well, I have all the news now, without having to pay for a newspaper; so I will bid you good night, and hurry home, to tell Polly the news. DIALOGUE X. THE CAUSE OF WINDS. Sidney. Come, children, the weather is too cold, and the wind blows too hard, for you to play in the open air to-day ; and, if you will come near me and listen, I will tell you something about winds. Henry. Oh do, uncle Sidney ; we shall be so glad to hear it. Sidney. Now I am going to tell you about the wind, whicli you hear roaring without ; and you may ask me questions about it, when you do not clearly understand, or when you wish to know more. George. Thank you, uncle; I should like to know what wind is. Sidney. Wind is air in motion. George. But what puts the air in motion ? Sidney. It is put in motion by heat. Heat causes tue air to expand, and thus it becomes lighter than the cold air, and rises up, when the cold air rushes in to fill its place. Henry. What heats the air? Sidney. The rays of the sun heat it. They do not heat it by passing through it, but by contact with the earth. This heat varies in temperature, as the surface of the earth is more or less directly exposed to the influ- ence of the e'un ; hence the air is not all heated alike. George. 1 think I understand you, uncle; and that 36 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. must be the reason why it is so much warmer on the side of a hill toward the sun than on the opposite side. Sidney. Well done — you are right! and that is a good illustration ! Jane. I did not think the air could be made to grow larger, or expand, as you call it, uncle. Sidney. Do you know, Jane, .how George makes his foot-balls ? Jane. Oh yes ; he takes a bladder, and blows into it through a quill, till it will contain no more air; then he ties it up so that no air can escape, and crowds it into a leather case, which he laces up tight. Sidney. Well, when he had blown into the bladder but a little while, it was full of air ; but the bladder was still soft, so he continued to blow into it until the air bo- came very dense, and thus made it hard. Mary. Then air can be made smaller, too, can it 7 Sidney. Yes, Mary ; air can be compressed, or made smaller, as you term it, as well as expanded. Kow I will tell you how you may know that this is so. Take a bladder that is not quite full of air, and be sure it is tied up so tight that no more air can get in or out ; then hold it near the fire, and it will soon be quite full and hard. This is because the air in it has expanded. George. Now I know why the bladder burst, which I blew full of air, and held to the fire to dry, the other day — it was because the heated air swelled so much that the bladder was not strong enough to hold it. Sidney. You are right, George ; and I am glad to see you so thoughtful and ready to apply the knowledge you derive from our conversation to the explanation of things you before thought so strange. Emma. Will the air in the bladder remain swelled all the time ? Sidney. No, my dear ; if you put it in a cold place, it will soon become as small as it was before it was heat- ed. Now 1 trust you all understand that air will expand by heat, and contract by cold. Mary. Yes, I think all of us understand that now ; but I should like to know how to prove that the heated air rises, since we can not see it go up. Sidney. You know that, if you hold your hand over ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 87 a burning candle or lamp, it will burn you when your hand is many inches from the blaze ; but you can hold your hand very near the side of the flame without feeling the heat. It is because hot air rises. When a fire is made in a grate or fire-place, it heats the air around it, and this heated air rises up the chimney, and carries the smoke along with it. If it were not so, chim- neys would be of but little use in conducting the smoke from our rooms. There is a simple experiment whicli will illustrate that the cold air takes the place of warm and light air. George. What is that, uncle? I am fond of experi- ments. Sidney. It is this : when the air in a room is warmer than the air outside, by opening the door a little, so as to leave only a small crack, and holding a lighted candle at the top, the flame will be bent outward. This will show you that the air is flowing out of the room. Then, by placing the candle near the floor, the flame will be bent toward the room, thus showing that a current of air is rushing in to take the place of that which goes out. If the room is very warm, you can easily perceive, from holding the candle in these two currents, which is the warm one and which the cold. Henry. Now I think I know why the wind blew from all directions toward the fire when Mr. Carter's house burned; it was because the heated air ascended so fast that the cold air flowed in from all sides to fill its place. Sidney. A correct conclusion, Henry; and I am pleased that you understand the principles of wind so well DIALOGUE XI, ON SLANDER. Mr. Smith.. Natural — perfectly. " Birds of a feath- er flock together." Afr. Jones. What did you observe, sir ? Mr. Smith. Merely that you, sir, being an intimate 4 38 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. friend of Mr. Brown, can justify acts of his which would, to less partial minds, appear in a very dubious light. Mr. Jones, Say what you please, sir. Mr. Brown ia an estimable citizen, and enjoys, in a high degree, the respect and consideration of the community in which he lives. Mr. Smith. I know of nothing to the contrary ; and shall say naught against him, save that he is the pink of parsimony — as the villagers have it, he is tight as a mackerel barrel. Mr. Jones. Sir, as the friend of Mr. Brown, I take it upon me to defend his name from the foul aspersions of calumny. I pronounce your assertion a libel. Mr. Smith. I might, perhaps, mention an incident which would cause you to change your opinion, and to shower epithets and imprecations upon the head of him you now so warmly defend. Mr. Jones. Impossible ! But I will hear what slander has to say, that I may vindicate the fair fame of my friend. Proceed. Mr. Smith. As you request it, I will. Having been delayed by business one night to a late hour — say eleven or twelve o'clock — I was returning home, and on my route passed neighbor Brown's door. I had not gone far, when suddenly there broke forth the most piercing and agonizing screams I had ever heard. The sounds struck me with terror, and for a moment I was paralyzed. The shrieks continued, and became, if possible, terrifying. Such sounds had never before disturbed the quiet of our little neighborhood. What foul work could the old man be doing? Upon what helpless being was he, at the dead of night, inflicting his vengeance? Was it the death-cry of some wayworn traveler, who had been de- coyed into his habitation in the hope of shelter ; or the ecream wrung in agony from some unfortunate neighbor, who had crossed and baffled him in some manner in his career of gain ? True, the old man has never had the reputation of a murderer ; never did the slightest suspi- cion oi blood rest on him. Avarice was all that had been laid to his charge. But what will that same demon avarice cause frail humanity to do for gold? It never ENTKRTAINING DIALOGUES. 89 pleased me to look into those small, gray, restless eyes of his. And Mr. Jones. You alarm me. Did you ever ascertain the cause ? Mr. SmiOi. Patience! And was the life-blood of a fellow-being flowing so near, and I an idle listener? The very thought inspired me with courage. I rushed to the house, and hurled myself against the barred and bolted oaken door. It gave way with a crash, and, entering, I found myself in the presence of your friend. There he stood — scarcely regarding my sudden entry, so intent was he on the accomplishment of his fell purpose. In one hand he clutched a sharp-pointed, rusty file, while with the long and bony fingers of the other he held, with a miser's grasp, his victim, whence came such despairing, such terrible and heart-rending screams Mr. Jones. The old villain ! Mr. Stnith. A flickering taper cast its sickly rays upon his pale features; and those small, gray eyes sparkled with fiendish glee, as, regardless of my presence, he pro- ceeded with his work ! Jfr. Jones. But, could you render no assistance? Mr. Smith. None, whatever. Mr. Jones. And did the old fiend accomplish the foul work? Mr. Smith. Fully. It was not his first essay at the business; he was an adept. Mr. Jones. Mercy ! And he is still at large ! Are there no means to get rid of such a neighbor ? We are not safe. Are there no laws to protect the innocent ? no chains for the guilty? But who, pray tell me, was the victim ? Mr. Smith. Are you prepared for the worst? Mr. Jones. Entirely. Mr. Smith. I fear not. Mr. Jones. Be assured, my dear sir, I am. Mr. Smith. Can you keep a secret? Mr. Jones. Aye, till the end of time, if need be. Mr. Smith. Still, there is so much deceit and treachery in the world, you must pardon me if I doubt. Mr. Jones. I pledge my word. Mr. Smith. AVell, sir, the victim was — I yet fear to expose your friend. 4:0 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Mr. Jones. My friend I rather say the knave ) the hypocrite! aye, if it must out — the murderer! Mr. Smith Be calm, I entreat you. Excitement availeth nothing. True, misplaced affection and friend- ship, unworthily bestowed, may well make the heart sick. But we should seek to forget the sad cause of our mind's unrest. Mr. Jones. Yet I would fain know all. The law would require of you your knowledge of the affair. Mr. Smith. Indeed ! Mr. Jones. Then do not, I pray you, keep me longer in suspense. Mr. Smith. I have inadvertently disclosed too much. But I will yield to your impatience. Once more — are you prepared for the worst? Mr. Jones. Yes, yes! Mr. Smith. Then, sir, the victim was a FLINT, and the old chap was endeavoring to SKIN it with a file. Hence its outcries. Good evening, sir. Ha! ha! ha! DIALOGUE XII. THE AUCTION. Auctioneer, Bystanders, and Bidders. Scene. — A Variety Store. Auctioneer. Gentlemen ! Here is a great variety be- fore you ; every article in every line, and all of the best quality ; warranted to please. If not, bring them back and exchange. Who bids for this article? First rate suspenders — latest style — never wear out. Who bids gentlemen ? Lasting suspenders — never wear out. Is^ Bystander. Out where ? Auctioneer. Outside. You are a smart youth, though. W here did you have your bringing up ? 1st Bystander. I came up afoot. Auctioneer. I should guess so. For you don't look as though you ever rode^ or ever would. Who bids, gentlemen? Come, bid something ; we have no time to ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 41 talk; wo didn't come here to talk; we came to sell. Give us a bid. 1st Bidder. Twenty-five cents. Aucti'oji-eer. Twenty -five cents; twenty-five cents; twenty-five! One dozen pairs of suspenders going at twenty -five cents. 2d Bidder. Thirty -seven and a half. AiLctioneer. Thirty-seven and a half cents; thirty- seven and a half — thirty-seven and a half — going at thirty -seven and a half One dozen rich, lasting suspend- ers, going at thirty-seven and a half cents. O, gentle- men, go on ; don't let them go at that price ; thirty-seven and a half cents for a dozen pairs of real India-rubber, lasting suspenders ! 2d Bystander. How long will they last f Auctioneer. Longer than you will, if you don't get that color out of your face. Look here, young man! you had better cut acquaintance with that bottle of yours ! Thirty-seven and a half cents for a dozen pairs of sus- penders! Dog cheap, gentlemen; dog cheap. Come, don't let them go at that. Thirty-seven and a half — only thirty-seven and a half. Well, to be sure, this is the first time that I ever sold suspenders at that rate. Sd Bystander. And it will be the last, I guess, if they are so lasting. Auctioneer. Ha, ha! Don't you buy any; you'll get sicspended without. Smart folks always rise in the world, as the Irishman said, when he was going to be hung. Thirty-seven and a half cents for a dozen pairs of suspend- ers ! Thirty-seven and a half cents. Is this all, gentle- men? — this all that you are going to bid? Sd Bidder. Fifty cents. Auctioneer. Ah ! there is a man ! Well, I thought there were some men in this crowd ; though I confess you seem to be very modest in showing it. Fifty cents — iifty cents is bid — fifty cents ; one more bid, gentlemen ; give us one more bid; fifty cents — going — fifty cents for a dozen paiis of suspenders ; going — going — gone! {Down goes the hammer.) Who is the bidder ? Sd Bidder. Cash. {The clerk delivers the article, and takes tJie money.) Auctioneer. Cash — right. Well, there is one man in 4* 42 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUP:S. this crowd, and some money, too. I began to think there was neither one nor the other. Now, gentlemen, I will put up a watch — a real gold watch — no bogus about it. Gentlemen, the gold of which this watch was made came directly from California — overland mail route ; it's new gold — a new watch — and keeps time ivithout vnnding! It is a real self-winder — a curiosity, I tell you ; the very last Boston notion — the very last. Who bids — who bids, gentlemen ? Warranted to please, or return. 4:th Bystander. Who is the maker ? A uctioneer. He is dead and gone. Grentlemen, he was actually so smart in inventing this watch that it killed him. He is the only man, that I ever heard of, that died of smartness ; though there are some that I suspect will. Who bids ? A first-rate, patent, self-winding gold watch ; it never stops going. bth Bystander. Whilst you carry it. Auctioneer. Young man, you had better go and speak for your coffin. Didn't I tell you that some of you would die of smartness ? And of course I meant you — if you would let the bottle alone I Who bids ? 4:th BiMer. Fifty dollars. Auctioneer. Fifty dollars! — ^fifty dollars for a gold watch — a self-winder! 0, say a hundred, and done with it. hth Bidder. One hundred dollars. Auctioneer. One hundred dollars — one hundred dol- lars — one hundred dollars is already bid. Come, gentle- men, don't let it go at that ; why, I tell you, upon the word of a gentleman, that that isn't more than half what it is worth. One hundred dollars only is bid — one hun- dred 6/A Bidder. One hundred and fifty. Auctioneer. One hundred and fifty dollars is bid — one hundred and fifty; gentlemen, that gold, self-winding watch is richly worth three hundred dollars ; but it has got to be sold, to close a concern ; so, who bids? ^tli Bidder. Two hundred. Auctioneer. Two hundred ! Ha, ha, gentlemen ; well, Uere are two men here. That is more than I expected ; for I never find more than one man in a crowd 1 6^. Bystander. Besides yourself, you mean. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 4:8 Auctioneer. I don't mean you I You Lad better go home, and grow a little, or get a pair of stilts. ^iJi Bystander. Or suspenders r Auctioneer. Ah, yes ! you are right — for they would elevate you most ; and you had better put them on now, before the sheriff does! Who bids'? Two hundred dollars for a self-winding gold watch, brand new 1th Bystander. Whose brand ? Auctioneer. Mr. Smarty, you had better go to North Carolina. They brand people there— 3/br stealing. 8th Bystander. Does the watch keep time? Auctioneer. Yes; just as you do your money. Two hundred and fifty dollars — two hundred and fijiyj did you say? 7th Bidder. No, sir ; two hundred dollars. Auctioneer. Two hundred dollars. Going — going — gone I Who is the bidder ? 1th Bidder. Cash. {The clerk receives the money.) Auctiojieer. Gentlemen, the auction is closed till to morrow evening, when please call in again. (Exeunt.) DIALOGUE XIII, THE KNOW NOTHING. Counsel. Sheriff, please to call in John Wilkins. Sheriff. Here comes Mr. Wilkins into court. Counsel. Mr. Wilkins, did you attend the sale of the property of Jonas Dubberly ? Wilkins. I think I did. Counsel. Did you keep the minutes of that sale ? Wilkins. Don't know, sir, but I did. Don't recollect whether I kept the minutes, or the sheriff, or nobody. I think it was one of us. Counsel. Well, sir, will you tell me what articles were sold on that occasion ? Wilkins. {Hesitating.) Well, sir, I can't say. I re* membei there were a good many things sold, out can't say exactly what. Counsel Did you on that occasion sell a threshing- machine ? 44 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Wilkins. Yes, I think we did. Counsel. I wisli you to be positive. Are you sure of it? Wilkins. Can't say that I am sure of it ; and, when I come to think of it, I don't know as we did — think we didn't. Counsel. Will you swear, then, that you did not sell one? Wilkins. No, sir, don't think I would; for I can't say whether we did or didn't. Counsel. Did you sell a horse-power? Wilkins. Horse-power ? Counsel. Yes, horse-power? Wilkins. Horse-power! Well, it seems to me we did. And then, it seems to me we didn't. I don't know now as I can recollect whether I remember there was any horse-power there. I can't say whether we sold it or not. But I don't think we did. Though it may be, perhaps, that we did, after all. It's some time ago, and I don't like to say certainly. Counsel. Well, perhaps you can tell me this: Did you sell a fanning-mill ? Wilkins. Yes, sir, we sold a fanning-mill. I guess I am sure of that. Counsel. Well, you swear to that, do you ? — that one thing, though I don't see it on the list. {Looking at a 'paper.) Wilkins. Why, I may be mistaken about it — perhaps I am. It may be it was somebody else's fanning-mill at some other time — not sure. Counsel. {Addressing the Judge) I should like to know, may it please the court, what this witness does know, and what he is sure of. Wilkins. {To Counsel.) Well, sir, I know one thing, that I'm sure of; and that is, that on that sale we sold either a threshing-machine, or a horse-power, or a fan- ning-mill, or one, or all, or neither cf them ; but I don'l know which. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 45 DIALOGUE XIV. THE THING THAT'S RIGHT. Landlord. That is my new boarder, coming this way. I wonder what his business is in town. At home, though, I will be bound he is a major, colonel, deacon, or squire. 1 will try to find out his business. By his important airs, he thinks himself somebody. {Enter General PunJdn.) Landlord. Good morning, sir. A fine day. General. Sir, your servant. Landlord. Is there any news abroad ? General. Nothing important, I believe. But I have been too busily engaged to look for news. Landlord. Purchasing goods, perhaps ? General. No ; I had a point to carry in the House ; and when I do a thing I make a business of it. Landhrd. Then I have the honor of a member of the legislature in my family ? General. Yes, sir ; I represent the county of Bunkum ; elected by six hundred and fifty-six majority. Landbrd. You have probably had warm work in the House to-day ? General. Yes, pretty warm ; but we clean beat them in the argument. Landlord. You took an active part in the debate then? General. Not exactly ; for those lawyers talked so fast, I could not get a word in edgeways. However I jogged a member from Blarney, and put him up to say- ing a smart thing or two. Landlord. Are you fond of public speaking? General. Yes ; I always make a speech to my regi- ment every muster-day, for you must know, I am a bit of a soldier at home ; but somehow or other, whenever J I ise to speak in the House, I feel something in my throat which says, " General, hold your tongue ; " and, as I can Dot speak a word, I take the advice. Landlord. That is prudent in you. 46 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. General. Why, you see, I always mean to speak to the pomt, anil while I am condensing my ideas, up jumps somebody and gets the start of me. Landlord. You are as bad as the lame man at the pool of troubled water; but you will get used to it in time. General. Yes, so I tell my wife. Now, says I, wile, when I go to the legislature, I mean to do the thing that's right. And when I was getting ready, my wife says she, "Gineral," (for my wife always calls me Gineral,) "Gineral," says she, "you must have a ruffle put on your shirt, as squire Smart has." Now I don't care nothing about such things myself, but my wife says she, " you must do as other folks do." Well, says I, I mean to do the thing that's right — and so you see, she ruffled two of the best linen ones — I always wear cotton at home, and a body must have a change, you know. Landlord. Your wife knows what gentility is. General. Yes, as our preacher says: "General," says he, "your wife's a woman." And so she is, though I say it, that should not say it. Landlord. Why did you not bring her down with you ? General. She asked me ; but says I, my dear, a good soldier leaves his wife at home, when he goes on duty, and I always wish to do the thing that's right, you know. Landlord. Did you take part in the debate on the pe- nal code? General. No; you see I don't know nothing about those things, and as I had not slept any the night before, I took a nap in the lobby. Landlord. But you voted when the question was taken ? General. yes, for my name was called. Landlord. How could you determine on which side to vote? General. Why, you see, I watched the leading mem- ber of our party, and voted as he did, for he generally does the thing that's right. Landlord. You said you had a measure to carry through the legislature. Is it of importance ? General. Yes. You must know there's a brook be- tween our county and the next, and we wanted to steal ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 47 a march on them, and get an act passed to prevent the other side from fishing in it ; so you see they chose me to come and look to it. Not that I wanted to come ; but having a little notion or two to buy for my store, says I to my wife, I wish to do the thing that's right, and I'll go. Landlord. Was this important question settled to-day ? General. Why not exactly settled^ as a body may say, for some one moved that the question be postponed till the thirty-first instant ; and, having a little business to do down town, I seconded the motion, you see, and it was carried ; and I am glad of it, for I wish to do the thing that's right, and the other party can not say I hurried them. Landlord. So I should think; for if they wait till February has thirty-one days, they will have no reason to complain. General. How is that? How — how — ^how's that? Have they outgeneraled me, after all ? "Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November " — I learned that when I was a boy. Faith, they have gained the day ! Landlord. Yes, or the month has. What a kettle of fish you have cooked for your constituents. General. Why, between you and me, they had as good right to fish there as we had, and no doubt Provi- dence overruled the business; for, as our minister says, He always does the thing that's right. DIALOGUE XV. A LAW CASE. GOODY GRIM V. LAPSTONE. Judge. {Standing.) What a profound study is THE LAW I and how difficult to fathom ! Well, let us .consid- er the law, for our laws are very considerable, both in bulk and numbers, according as the statutes declare; 48 ENTERTAINIIJG DIALOGUKS. considerandi^ considerando^ considerandum, and are not to be meddled with bj those who don't understand them. Law always expresses itself with true grammatical pre- cision, never confounding moods, cases, or genders, ex- cept, indeed, when a woman happens accidentally to be slain, there a verdict is always brought in manslaughter. The essence of the law is altercation, for the law can al- tercate, fulminate, deprecate, irritate, and go on at any rate. " Your son follows the law, I think, Sir Thomas? '^ ** Yes, madam ; but I am afraid he will never overtake it : a man following the law is like two boys running round a table ; he follows the law, and the law follows him. However, if you take away the whereofs, where- ases, wherefores, and notwithstandings, the whole mys- tery vanishes : it is then plain and simple." Now the quintessence of the law has, according to its name, five parts. The first is the beginning, or mcipiendum ; the second, the uncertainty, or duhitandum ; the third, delay, or puzzleendum ; fourthly, replication without endum ; and, fifthly, monstrum et hoverendum : all which is clearly exemplified in the following case — Goody Grim against Lapstone. This trial is as follows: — Goody Grim inhab- its an almshouse, No. 2 ; Will Lapstone, a superannuated cobbler, inhabits No. 8 ; and a certain Jew peddler, who happened to pass through the town where those alms- houses are situated, could only think of No. 1. Goody Grim was in the act of killing one of her own proper pigs, but the animal, disliking the ceremony, burst from her hold, ran through the semicircular legs of the afore- said Jew, knocked him in the mud, ran back to Will Lapstone's, the cobbler, upset a quart bottle full of gin, belonging to the said Lapstone, and took refuge in the cobbler's state-bed. The parties being, of course, in the most opulent cir- cumstances, consulted counsel learned in the law. The result was, that Goody Grim was determined to bring an action against Lapstone, for the loss of her pig with a curly tail: and Lapstone to bring an action against Goody Grim, for the loss of a quart bottle full of Hollands gin ; and Mordecai to bring an action against them both, for the loss of a tee-totum, that fell out of his pocket in the rencounter. They all delivered their briefs to counsel, ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 49 before it was considered they were all parties and no witnesses. But Goody Grim, like a wise old lady as she is, now changed her oattery, and is determin(;d to bring an action against Lapstone, and bind over Mordecai as an evidence. The indictment sets forth {reads from paper) "that he, Lapstone, not having the fear of the assizes before ]iis eyes, but being moved by pig, and instigated by pruin- sence, did, on the first day of April, a day sacred in the annals of the law, steal, pocket, hide, and crib divers, that is to say, five hundred hogs, sows, boars, pigs, and i)orkers, with curly tails, and did secrete the said five lundred hogs, sows, boars, pigs, and porkers, with curJy tails, in said Lapstone's bed, against the peace of our Lord the King, his crown and dignity." Mordecai will be examined by Counselor Puzzle. (Tlie Judge seats himself.) Puzzle. Well, sir, what are you ? Mordecai. I sells old clo's, and sealing-wax, and puckles. Puzzle. I did not ask you what you sold : I ask you what you are ? Mordecai. I am about five and forty. Puzzle. I did not ask your age : I ask you what you are ? Mordecai. I am a Jew. Puzzle. Why couldn't you tell me that at first ? Well, then, if you are a Jew, tell me what you know of this affair. Mordecai. As I vas a valking along Puzzle. Man, I didn't want to know where you were walking. Mordecai. Yel, as I vas a valking along Puzzle. So you will walk along, in spite of all that can be said. Mordecai. Pless ma heart, you frighten me out of my vits — as I vas valking along, I seed de unclean animal Jioming toward me, and so says L-Ohl Father A bra- liam, says I Puzzle. Father Abraham is no evidence. Mordecai. You must let me tell my story my own vay, or I can not tell ii at all. As I vas valking along, 5 50 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. I seed tlie unclean animal coming toward me. Oh! Father Abraham, said I, here comes the unclean animal toward me, and he runn'd between my legs, and upset me in te mut. Puzzle. Now, do you mean to say, upon your oath, that that little animal had the power to upset you in the mud? Mordecai, I vill take my oath dat he upshet me in te mut. Puzzle. And pray, sir, on what side did you fall ? Mordecai. On te mutty side. Puzzle. I mean, on which of your own sides did you fall? Mordecai. I fell on my left side. Puzzle. Now, on your oath, was it your left side ? Mordecai. I vill take my oath it vas my left side. Puzzle. And pray, what did you do when you fell down? Mordecai. I got up again as fast as I could. Puzzle. Perhaps you can tell me whether the pig had a curly tail ? Mordecai. I vill take ma oath his tail was so curly as my peerd. Puzzle. And pray, where was you going when this happened ? Mordecai. I vas going to de sign of de Cock and Pottle. Puzzle. Now, on your oath, what had a cock to do with a bottle. Mordecai. I don't know ; only it vas the sign of de house. And all more vat I know vas, dat I lose an ivory tee-totum out of ma pocket. Puzzle. Oh, you lost a tee-totum, did you ? I thought we should bring you to something at last. My Lord, I beg leave to take an exception to this man's evidence I he does not come into court with clean hands. Mordecai. How te devil should I, when I have been polishing ma goods all morning. Puzzle. Now, my Lord, your Lordship is aware that tee-totum is derived from the Latin terms of te and tutum^ which means, " Keep yourself safe." And this man, but for my sagacity, observation, and so forth, would have ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 61 kept himself safe ; but now he has, as the learned Lord Verulam expresses it, "let the cat out of the hag." Mordecai. I vill take ma oath "I had no cat in my bag." Fuzzle. My Lord, by his own confession he was about to vend a tee-totum. Now, my Lord, and gentlemen of the jury, it is my dut}^ to point out to you that a tee-to- tum is an unlawful machine, made of ivory, with letters Erinted upon it, for the purpose of gambling. Now your lOrdship knows the act commonly known by the name of "Little go Act," expressly forbids all games of chance whatever, whether put, whist, marbles, swabs, tee-totum, churck-farthing, dumps, or what not. And, therefore, I do contend that the man's evidence is contra bonos mores^ and he is consequently non compos testimonce. Judge. Counselor Botherem will now proceed. Botherem. My Lord, and gentlemen of the jury, my learned friend Puzzle has, in a most facetious manner, endeavored to cast a slur on the highly honorable evi- dence of the Jew merchant. And I do contend that he who buys and sells is hona-fide inducted into all the mys- teries of merchandise; ergo, he who merchandises is, to all intents and purposes, a merchant. My learned friend, in the twistings and turnings of his argument in hand- ling the tee-totum, can only be called obiter dictum ; he is playing, my Lord, a losing game. Gentlemen, he has told you the origin, use, and abuse, of the tee-totum ; but, gentlemen, he has forgot to tell you what that great luminary of the law, the late learned Coke, has said on the subject, in a case exactly similar to this, in the 234th folio volume of the Abridgement of the Statutes, page 1349, where he thus lays down the law in the case of Hazard verstcs Blacklegs : " Gamblendum consistet, enact- um gamblendi, sed non evendum macheni jplacmdiy My Lord, I beg leave to say that, if I prove my client was in the act of vending, and not playing, with the said instru- ment, the tee-totum, I humbly presume that all my learned friend has said will come to the ground. Judge. Certainly, brother Botherem, there's no doubt the learned Sergeant is incorrect. The law does not put a man extralegium for merely spinning a tee-totum. Botherem. My Lord, one oi the witnesses has owned 52 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. that the pig had a curly tail. Now, my Lord, I presume if I prove the pig had a straight tail, I consider the ob- jection must be fatal. Judge. Certainly; order the pig into court. {The pig being produced^ upon examination^ is found to have a straight tail) In summing up the evidence, gentlemen of the jury, it is wholly unnecessary to recapitulate; for the removal of this objection removes all ground of action. And notwithstanding the ancient statute, which says Serium "pigum et boreum pigum^ et vendi curium tailum^ there is an irrefragable proof, by ocular demonstration, that Goody Grim's grunter had a straight tail, and therefore the pris- oner must be acquitted. And really, gentlemen, if the time of the court is to be taken up with these frivolous actions, the designs of justice will be entirely frustrated; and the attorney who recommends this action should be punished, not in the ordinary way, but with the utmost rigor and severity of the law. DIALOGUE XVI. THE FOLLY OF DUELING. Mr, Fenton. How now, Nero! why are you loading that pistol ? No mischief, I hope ? Nero. O no, Masser Fenton. I only going to fight de duel, as dey call em, with Tom. Mr. Fenton. Fight a duel with Tom ! What has he done to you ? Nero. He call me neger^ neger^ neger^ once, twice, three time, and I no bear him, Masser Fenton. Mr. Fenton. But are you not a negro, Nero ? Nero. Yes, Masser; but den who wants to be told of what one knows already? Mr. Fenton. You would not kill a man, however, for telling so simple a truth as that. Nero. But den de manner^ Masser Fenton, de manner; him every thing. Tom mean more him say, when he call Nero names. Mr. Fenton. It is hard to judge of what a man means ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 53 but if Tom has insulted you, I have no doubt he is sorry for it. Nero. Him say he sorry, very sorry; but what him signify when he honor gone? No, Masser; when de white man be insulted, what him do? he fight de duel. Den why de poor African no fight de duel too ? Mr. FenUm. But do you know it is against the law to fight duels. Nero. De white men fight, and de law no trouble him- self about dem. Why den he no let de African have de same privilege? No, Masser Fenton, "Sauce for de goose, sauce for de gander." Mr. Fenton. The white men contrive to evade the law, Nero, so that it can not punish them. Nero. Ah, Masser Fenton, de law no fair den; him let go de rogue, who outwit him, and take hold of de poor African, who no know what him be. Mr. Fenton. It is a pity that those who know what is right do not set a better example. But, tell me, were not you and Tom always good friends before? Nero. O yes, Masser Fenton ; we always good friend, kine friend, since we boy so high, and dat make me ten time mad to be call neger, neger. him too much for human nature to bear ! Mr. Fenton. But how do you expect to help the mat ter by fighting with Tom ? Nero. When I kill Tom, he no blackguard me more, dat sartain. And den nobody else call Nero name, I know. Mr. Fenton. True, Nero. But suppose Tom should kill youf Tom, you know, never misses his mark. Nero. How ? Masser Fenton ; what dat you say ? Mr. Fenton. Suppose Tom should kill you^ instead of your killing him ; what would people think then? You know you are as liable to be killed as he is. Nero. no, Masser Fenton; de right always kill de w^rong, when he fight de duel. Mr. Fenton. O no, Nero; the chance, at best, is but equal ; and, as bad men are more used to such business, I have no doubt that the instances in which the injured party is slain outnumber those where the aggressor h,'is suffered. 54 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Nero. Nero never tink of dat before. {To himself.) Tom good marksman ; I no good. Nero no kill Tom, Tom kill Nero, dat sartain. Poor Nero dead, de world say, dat good for him ; and Nero no here to contradict him. Poor Nero wife no home, no bread, no noting now Nero gone, {Loud.) What Nero do, Masser Fenton? How him save him honor ? Mr. Fenton. The only honorable course, Nero, is to forgive your friend, if he has wronged you, and let your future good conduct show that you did not deserve the WTong. Nero. But what de world tink, Masser Fenton ? He call Nero coward, and say he no dare fight Tom. Nero no coward, Masser Fenton. Mr. Fenton. You need not be ashamed of not daring to murder your friend. But it is not your courage which is called in question. It is a plain case of morality. The success of a a duel must still leave it undecided, while it adds an awful crime and a tremendous accounta- bility to the injury you have already sustained. Nero. True, Masser Fenton, but de world no make de proper distinctions. De world no know Nero honest. Mr. Fenton. Nor does the world know that you are not honest. But what do you mean by the world, Nero? Nero. Why, all de gentlemen of honor ^ Masser Fenton. Mr. Fenton. You mean all the unprincipled men who happen to hear of this affair. Their number must be limited, and they are just such as you should care noth- ing about. Nero. How I Masser Fenton. Dis all new to Nero. Mr. Fenton. The number of people who approve of duels, compared with those who consider them deliberate murder, is very small, and amongst the enemies of duel- ing are always found the wise, humane, and virtuous. Would you not wish to have these on your side ? Nero. yes, Masser Fenton. Mr. Fenton. Well, then, think no more of dueling; for the duelist not only outrages the laws of his country aTid humanity, but he incurs the censure of good men, and the vengeance of that God who has said, " THOU SHALT NOT KILL." Nero. O, Masser Fenton, take de pistol, fore Nere ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 65 shoot himself. Let de world call Nero neger, neger, ne- ger ; what Nero care ? de name not half so bad as mur derer, and Nero take care he no deserve either. Mr. Fenton. Your resolution is a good one ; and happy would it be for all the gentlemen of honor, as you call them, if they would make the laws of God. and tho dictates of common sense, a part of their code. DIALOGUE XVII. THE CANDIDATE FOR CONGRESS Mr. Markman. (WaVdng alone in his counting-room^ This is really quite an unexpected event — to be nomin- ated for Congress. How surprised the old folks at home will be! Who would have thought that I, the poor counting-house clerk, would one day be sent to Congress. No doubt, my wealth and standing as a merchant have induced the party to select me ; for I have never been much engaged in political affairs, and am very far from being a demagogue. My friends, however, urge me to accept the nomination, saying that our party will fail if I do not. Well, if I am elected, I will do the best in my power : but there is the difficulty. Suppose I am defeated. What if I am, though ? it is no disgrace. I will, how- ever, use every honorable means not to be defeated. {EnUr Mr. Puff.) One of the committee, I suppose. {Aside) I am happy to see you, sir. Pray be seated. Mr. Puff. {Speaking rapidly) Thank you, but can't stay — in a great hurry, you know. I am sent by the committee, to announce your nomination as our candidate for Congress. You have heard of it, no doubt, and arc ready to join us. Mr. Markman. I feel highly honored by the choice of our noble party, but have really had no time to reflect upon Mr. Puff. 0, you must accept — your friends expect it Our party will be ruined, if you refuse. 56 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Mr. Marhman. That is a very poor reason for assum- ing such a great responsibility ; but on the whole I have concluded to accept the nomination, and do the best in my power. Mr. Puff. I am rejoiced to hear it, sir; allow me to congratulate you on this event. {They shalce hands.) Mr. Marhman. Thank you; but we have not yet gained our object. We may lose our election. Mr. Puff. No, indeed, we must not lose it — we shall not lose it ; every wire must be pulled. That is my ob- ject in calling upon you this evening. I am to make a great speech in your mvor to-morrow night, at the Hall ; and I wish to ascertain some facts in relation to your pri- vate history, that I may rouse up the people in your behalf. Mr. Marhman. {Laughing.) Ha, ha 1 Upon my word, Mr. Puff, I think the wisest way will be to say nothing about me ; for very little can be said in praise of a quiet merchant like me, except, indeed, that I have always paid my debts. Mr. Puff. Oh ! that wouldn't be a circumstance. We must have something to shout about, or we shall lose the election. Were you ever a fireman ? Mr. Marhman. Never in my life. Mr. Puff. Did you ever save the life of some poor emigrant's child, by jumping into the water, or, in other words, the briny deep ? Mr. Marhman. Never ; for I never learned to swim. Mr. Puff. Did you never save any body's life, in any manner ? Mr. Marhman. Not to my knowledge ; unless an oc- currence last night be so called; but it is not worth mentioning. Mr. Puff. {Eagerly) Let us hear it, by all means {Takes out a memorandura hook and pencil.) Mr. Marhman. I was riding home from my office last night, through the darkness and rain, when the cariiage suddenly stopped, and the coachman told me that a drunken man had fallen in the gutter, directly across the road. I ordered him to lift the man up, and call a police- man to take care of him. Had we left him there, lie ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 67 might have drowned ; but xnj person would have done the same thing. Mr. Puff. Ne\ er mind that, sir. It was done by your orders, and is a great credit to you. {Writes,) Friend «>f the poor; protects the unfortunate; raises the poor inebriate from the lowest depths of — of J//'. Markman. Of the gutter. }fr. Puff. Of his degradation. That will make an i^.xcitement. But is there nothing warlike about you? JVrhaps you were engaged in our glorious struggle foi* independence. Mr. Markman. How could that be, as I was not born till long after that war? Mr. Puff. Ah ! true — I forgot. That's very unlucky. I should like to make a revolutionary hero of you. But, perhaps your father was in that war? Mr. Markman. No ; our family did not come from England until the war closed. Mr. Puff. What ! were you British ? How unfortu- nate ! That will be against you. Mr. Markman. Our family, like your own and many others, came from England ; but how can that make any difference? We always liked the Americans, and sided with them — which was one reason why we came here. Mr. Puff. That makes no difference. If j^our father came from England, it will prejudice the public some- what against you. Mr. Markman. Then the public is very unreason- able. Mr. Puff. Yes ; but it is very powerful, and we musi respect its opinion. Can you not think of some relative who shared in the toil and danger of the Revolution ? Mr. Markman. My grandfather's cousin held tlie rank of sergeant among tlie militia. Mr. Puff. That will do. ( Writes.) Was he wounded? Mr. Markman. I heard my grandfather sa}^ that his right heel was shattered, by foolishly putting out his foot to stop a cannon-ball, which he supposed was nearly spent. Mr. Puff. Good, good ! Of course there is but one way of speaking of that circumstance: it is a remarkable historical fact. {Writes.) Your ancestry poured out 58 ENTERTAIN rNG DIALOGUES. their blood like water upon tlie ensanguined field of — of — what battle was it ? Mr. Markman. I really don't recollect. Mr. Puff. Well, never mind — upon the ensanguined battle- field will do. Did you not engage in the last war ? You surely must have been drafted to serve. Mr. Markman. I was ; but I hired a substitute. Mr. Piff. All the same as though you went yourself. Was your substitute in any engagement ? Mr. Markman. I had the curiosity to make some in- quiries about him, and found that he deserted the first time he heard the report of the enemy's musket, and Mr. Puff. Never mind about telling any further — he was in actual service; it will make a beautiful point in my speech. I wish he had taken a standard ; it would produce a most thrilling effect to wave it over the heads of the people in the Hall. Mr. Markman. I really wish he had taken one. Mr. Puff. We have enough in the military line. 1 shall make a splendid speech. Good evening, sir ; we shall soon be able to assure you of complete success. {They shake hands) Mr. Markman. I can not see what you have learned about me to-night to insure success. Pray do not exag- gerate my virtues. Mr. Puff. Oh ! no fear of that. {Goes out) Mr. Markman. What nonsense ! I really dread the scene of confusion and intrigue that I must pass through ; but I will preserve m.j own integrity through every thing. DIALOGUE XVIII ON KNOWLEDGE. Mr. Sanguine. What an excellent thing knowledge is! AYhy,.my boys know more at six and seven years old than I did at twelve. They can read all sorts of books, and talk on all sorts of subjects. The world is a great deal wiser than it used to be. Books on all sub- jects are numerous and cheap, and every body may know ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 69 something of eveiy thing now. Do you not really think knowledge is an excellent thing, neighbor Thoughtful? Mr. Thoughtful. Why, that depends on circumstances, neighbor. It may be an excellent thing, and it may not. It may prove a blessing, or it may prove a curse. It de- pends entirely on the use that is made of it. Knowledge IS power — but it may be power for evil as well as for good. Mr. Sanguine. That is what I can't understand. ] should like to know how power can be a bad thing. Can you tell me, neighbor Thoughtful ? Mr. Thoughtful. I will try to do so. Listen to me. You have a noble horse, have you not? Mr. Sanguine. A better one was never owned. Mr. Thoughtful. So I thought. Well, when managed by bit and rein, he is very useful in drawing loads, or in carrying his master; but, without bit or bridle, he would dash the carriage in pieces, and endanger life. And yet he is a powerful horse, and very kind and useful, under proper management. Mr. Sanguine. Yes, yes I I see ; I see. Mr. Thoughtful. Yonder is a noble mill-pond. A strong dam keeps the water in its place — allowing only a sufficient quantity to move out to run the machinery of the factory below. It is very powerful and useful. But once tear away the dam, and the same pond will do much harm. Mr. Sanguine. I see ; I see, neighbor Thoughtful. Mr. Thoughtful. If a ship is rightly managed, the more sail she carries the sooner she will reach her port ; but, if steered in the wrong direction, the faster she sails the further she will go from the desired haven. Mr. Sanguine. 0, yes ! I see, I sec clearly. Mr. Thoughtful. Well, then, if you see these thing? clearly, I hope you can also see that knowledge is a good thing only when rightly directed and applied. With God's favor and aid, knowledge will prove a blessing and a power for good ; but, otherwise, it may prove a power for evil — a curse, and not a blessing. Mr. Sajiguine. I see ; I see. You are right ; you are right. 60 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XIX. PEDIGREE Mary. Aunt Betty, why are you always mending that old picture ? Aunt Betty, Old picture! miss; and pray, wbo told you to call it an old picture ? Mary, Pray, aunt, is it not an old picture? I am sure it looks ragged enough. Aunt B. And pray, neice, is it not ten times more valuable on that account? I wish I could ever make you entertain a proper respect for your family. Mary. Do I not respect the few that remain of them, and yourself among the rest? But what has that old — what shall I call it, to do with our family? Aunt B. It is our family coat-of-arms ; the only docu- ment which remains to establish the nobility and purity of our blood. Mary. What is purity of blood, aunt? I am sure I have heard Mrs. Pimpleton say your complexion was almost orange, and she believed it arose from some im- purity of the blood. Aunt B. Tut, tut ! you hussy. I am sure my com- plexion will not suffer by a comparison with any of the rimpleton race. But that is neither here nor there: it matters not what the complexion is, or the present state of the blood, provided the source is pure. Do people drink the less water because it filtrates through clay? Mary. But what is pure and noble blood, aunt ? Aunt B. Blood, my dear, which has proceeded from some great and celebrated man, through the veins of many generations, without any mixture with vulgar blood. Mary. Then whom do we proceed from, aunt Bettj^ ? Aunt B. From Sir Gregory Mac Grincell, who lived in the time of Elizabeth, and left sons a dozen, from the youngest of whom, James Mac Grincell, gentleman, we are descended. Mary. What does a gentleman mean, aunt ? Aunt B. It means one who has too high a sense, of ENTERTAINING DIALOCiUES. 61 his ancestry to engage in any of what are vulgarly cj-lled the useful employments. Mary. It must mean a lazy man, then, I should think. Was he not extremely poor, aunt? Aunt B. Poor! What is poverty in the scale of nobility ? It is the glory of our house that they have always preferred honorable poverty to disgraceful in- dustry. Afary. Why, aunt, every body does not think as yr^u do. I heard the parson's wife say you would be a better Christian, and serve your Maker more fliithfully, by doing something profitable, than by spending your time in idleness, and depending upon the church for support. Aunt B. She had better mind her own business, and not slander her parishioners. Mighty well, indeed, if the descendant of Sir Gregory Mac Grincell is to be taught her duty to her ancestors by the daughter of a plough- man, and the wife of a country parson. Mary. I am sure she is a very good woman, and my mother considers her a pattern of humility. ■ Aunt B. Did she display her humility in walking be- fore me at the deacon's funeral ? Answer me that. Mary. She had not the arrangement of the procession, aunt. Aunt B. She ought to have known her place, how- ever. I shall take care how I go to any more vulgar funerals, to be insulted, I promise you. Mary. I can not see what should make us better than our neighbors ; for my mother once told me that your grandfather was only an hostler. Aunt B. Your mother takes a great deal of pains to expose the dark spots in our escutcheon. But did she ever tell you that, when my grandfather was engaged in that profession, it was customary for gentlemen to be their own grooms? No; I'll warrant not. Mary. Then there is no disgrace in any employment, if it be only fashionable ? Aunt B. None at all, my dear; for Count Rumf^rd was a cook, and Sir Isaac Newton a spectacle maker. Mary. But of what use is our noble blood in this country, aunt, where merit alono is respected ? Aunt B. Merit, indeed! and what have ?<;c to do with 6 62 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. merit? It is well enougTi for those of v^ulgar origin to possess merit; the well-born do not need it. Mary. How did our great ancestor obtain bis title, then? Aunt B. 0, to be sure, the founder of a family must do something to deserve his title. Mary. What did Sir Gregory do ? Aunt B Do ! why, he painted so flattering a likeness of Queen Elizabeth that she knighted him immediately. Mary. Then he was a painter by trade ? Aunt B. By trade! The minx will drive me dis- tracted. Be it known to you, miss, we have never had a tradesman in our family, and I trust I never shall live to see it so degraded. Painting was merely Sir Gregory's profession. Mary. I hope I shall learn, in time, to make the proper distinctions, but I fear it will be difficult ; for my mother always taught me to allow no other distinction than that of personal worth ; and I must confess I do not see the propriety of any other. Aunt B. No ; and I. presume you never will, while your mother entertains her present low ideas of meritori- ous industry^ as she is pleased to call the occupation of those who are mean enough to work for their living. I did hope to make you sensible of the dignity of your descent; but I now find I must look elsewhere for an heir to my invaluable legacy, this precious, precious coat-of-arms. DIALOGUE XX. THE PETULANT MAN. Mr. Grim, Michael, and Cousin Mary. Cousin Mary. More breezes? What terrible thing has happened now, Cousin Grim ? What's the matter ? Qririi. Matter enough, I should think ! I sent this stupid fellow to bring me a pair of boots from the closet ; and he has brought me two rights, instead of a right and left. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 6S Ccmsin. What a serious calamity ! But, perhaps he thought it was but right to leave the left. Grim. None of your jokes, if you please! This is nothing to laugh at. Coiisin. So it would seem, from the expression on your face; rather something to storm at, roar at, and fall into a frenzy about. Michael. That's right, miss; give him a piece of your mind ! He's the crossest little man I have met with in the new country. You might scrape old Ireland with a fine-tooth comb, and not find such another. Orim. How dare you, you rascal 1 — how dare you talk to me in that style? I'll discharge you, this very day! Michael. I'm thinking of discharging you^ if you don't take better care of that sweet temper of yours. Grim. Leave the room, sir ! Michael. That I will — in search of better company, saving the lady's presence. {Exit.) Grim. There, cousin I there is a specimen of my prov- ocations I Can you wonder at my losing my temper ? Cousin. Cousin Grim, that would be the most fortu- nate thing that could befall you. Grim. What do you mean ? Cousin. I mean, if you could only lose that temper of yours, it would be a blessed thing for you ; though I should pity the poor fellow who found it. Grim. You are growing satirical, in your old age, cousin Mary. Cousin. Cousin Grim, hear the plain truth : your ill- temper makes you a nuisance to yourself and every body about you. Grim. .Really, Miss Mary Somerville, you are getting to be complimentary ! Cousin. No; I am getting to be candid. I have passed a week in your house, on your invitation. I leave you this aflernoon ; but, before I go, I mean to speak my mind. Grim. It seems to me that you have spoken it rather freely already. Cousin. What was there, in the circumstance of poor Michael's bringing the wrong boots, to justify your flying 64 E^TTBRTAINING DIALOGUES. into a rage, and bellowing as if your life had been threatened ? Grim. That fellow is perpetually making just such provoking blunders ! Cousin. And do you never make provoking blun- ders ? Didn't you send me five pounds of Hyson tea, when I wrote for Souchong? Didn't you send a carriage for ine to the cars half an hour too late, so that I had to hire one myself, after great trouble? And did I roar at you, when we met, because you had done these things? Grim. On the contrary, this is the first time you have alluded to them. I am sorry they should have happened. But, surely, you should make a distinction between any such little oversight of mine and the stupidity of a scrv ant, hired to attend to your orders. Cousin. I do not admit that there should be a dis- tinction. You are both human : only, as you have had the better education, and the greater advantages, stupid- ity or neglect on your part is much the more culpable. Grim. Thank you ! Go on. Cousin. I mean to ; so don't be impatient. If an un- cooked potato, or a burnt mutton-chop, happens to fall to your lot at the dinner-table, what a tempest follows! One would think that you had been wronged, insulted, trampled on, driven to despair. Your face is like a thunder-cloud, all the rest of the meal. Your poor wife endeavors to hide her tears. Your children feel timid and miserable. Your guest feels as if she would like to see you held under the nose of the pump, and thoroughly ducked. Grim. The carriage is waiting for you. Miss Somer- ville, and the driver has put on your baggage. Cousin. I have hired that carriage by the hour, and so am in no hurry. Your excuse for your irritability will be, I suppose, that it is constitutional, and not to be controlled. A selfish, paltry, miserable excuse! I have turned down a leaf in Dr. Johnson's Works, and will read what he says in regard to tempers like youi"s. Grim. You are always quoting Dr. Johnson ! Cousin, I can not endure it ! Dr. Johnson is a bore 1 Cousin. 0, yes ! to evil-doers — but to ncne else. Hear him: — "There is in the world a class of moital? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 65 known, and contentedly known, by the appellation of passionate men; who imagine themselves entitled, by this distinction, to be provoked on every slight occasion, and to vent their rage in vehement and fierce vocifera- tions, in furious menaces, and licentious reproaches." Orim. That will do. Cousin. Men of this kind, he tells us, are often pitied rather than censured, and are not treated with the severity which their neglect of the ease of all about them might justly provoke. But he adds: "It is surely not to be observed without indignation, that men may be found of minds mean enough to be satisfied with this treatment ; wretches who are proud to obtain the privilege of mad- men, and " Grim. I will hear no more ! Have done ! Cousin. So the shaft went home ! I am not sorry. Grim. No one but a meddlesome old maid would think of insulting a man in his own house I Cousin. So, when at a loss for a vindication, you re- proach me with being an old maid ! Cousin, it does not distress me either to be an old maid, or to be called one. I must, however, remark that the manhood that can charge against a woman her single state, either as a mat- ter of ridicule or reproach, is not quite up to my standard. Grim. Cousin Mary, I ask your pardon ! But am I indeed the petulant, disagreeable fellow you would make me out ? Cousin. My dear Caspar, you are generous enough in large things ; but, oh ! consider that trifles make up a good portion of the sum of life ; and so " a small unkind- ness is a great offense." Why not be cheerful, sunny, genial, in all things? Why not look on the bright side? why not present an unruffled front to petty annoyances? why not labor — aye, labor — to have those around you liappy and contented, by reflecting from yourself such a frame of mind upon them ? Life is short, at the best; why not make it cheerful? Do you know that longevity is promoted by a tianquil, happy habit of thought and temper? Do you know that cheerfulness, like mercy, is twice blessed — blessing "him that gives, and him that takes?" Do you know 6* 6& ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. that good manners, as well as good sense, demand that we should look at objects on their bright side? Do you know that it is contemptible selfishness in you to shed gloom and sorrow over a whole family by your morose- ness and ill-humor? Grim, Cousin Mary, the patience with which I liave listened to your cutting remarks will prove to you, I hope, that, notwithstanding my angry retorts, I am afraid there is much troith in what you have said of me. I have a favor to ask. Send away your carriage ; stay a week longer — a month — a year — if you will. Hold the lash over this ugly temper of mine — and I give you my word that I will set about the cure of it in earnest. Cousin. You should have begun earlier — in youth, when the temper is pliable, and strong impressions can work great changes. But we will not despair. I will tarry with you a while, just to see if you are serious in your wish for a reformation, and to help you bring it about. Grim. Thank you. We hear of reformed drunkards, and reformed thieves ; and why may not a petulant temper be reformed, by a system of total abstinence from all harsh, unkind moods and expressions? Come, we will try. DIALOGUE XXI. THE DEBATE. Question. — "Are civilized nations justified in seizing and occupying countries inhabited by savages ? " The Chairman, John Bubbleton, Deacon Herring, nbn. Ja51es Willful, Jffon. Samuel Soundsense, Solomon Thrashem, Sergeant O'Trigger, Richard Slowthink, Benjamin Blowhard. Chairman. Gentlemen, I highly appreciate the honor conferred on me as chairman of this assembly. I will not, however, weary you, or waste your time by attempt- ing a speech, but proceed at once to the business before us. Will the first speaker commence the debate ? Bubbleton. Mr. Chairman. EXTERTAIMNG DIALOGUES. 67 Ohairmaii. Mr. Bubbleton, gentlemen. Bvbhlcion. The law of civilized nations sanctions the claim to a country by the right of discovery ; and this law, sir, is founded on a basis of sound political wisdom. When the enlightened Christian nations of the world adopted this law, they were not influenced by personal intenjst, or by the wish for an accession of territory. They had in view the prosperity, happiness, and moral elevation of the poor, the ignorant, and the degraded savage. This flourishing land, which now stands first among nations, was, when in the Indian's possession, a howling wilderness, a dreary waste, the abode of wild beasts and serpents. The refinement and ingenuity of the white man have wrought this change ; and, sir, would any gentleman here have had civilized nations stand idly by, and see what may be, and has been, converted into the fairest land on God's earth lying useless in the hands of savages, without the probability of ever having its condition, or the condition of its owners, bettered until it changed masters? {Several cry^ " Mr. Chairman.") Chairman. Deacon Ilerring, gentlemen. Herring. Sir, my views of this question coincide with those of the gentleman who has preceded me. I am a man of peace; and, as such, I can not but condemn the cruelties which, on various occasions, have been perpe- trated upon the poor, defenseless Indian. But, sir, not- withstanding the Indians sometimes experienced harsh treatment from the ha:ids of unprincipled adventurers, I think the amount of good done in wresting their lands from them more than overbalances the evil. The great Creator of the universe never intended that there should be a barren spot on this fair and fertile earth. We are told that man was created in Asia. The human race extended over the whole of the eastern continent. The wisdom of Providence, amid tempest and storm, di- rected the frail barks of the aborigines to the shores of North America. The inhabitants of the eastern conti- nent advanced slowly but steadily in knowledge. Chris- tianity was diffused among them, and the arts and sciences progressed more ra])idly than ever, and a spirit of mari- time enterprise took possession ot them. 68 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Sir, tbere is a divinity that shapes our ends. The light of Christianity is rapidly diffusing itself among the un- lettered savages of the forest. Surely, sir, the overruling hand of Providence is seen in these things. Ghairjnan. Honorable James Willful, gentlemen. Willful. Sir, I am really surprised at the part which my two friends have taken in this debate. Here have I been, the Honorable James Willful, listening to the rig- ma7-oles of Mr. Bubblington and Buhhleton. Mr. Chairman, I beg leave to say that my name is Bubbleton. Willful. ! O ! Ah ! yes. Beg pardon, sir. Well, Mr. Chairman, as I was saying, here have I been listen- ing to the rigmaroles of Mr. Puddleton there, and Parson Herrings Herring. Herrings, sir! Herrings! No, sir; but Her- ring. I am not one of the finny tribe, sir. I don't be- long to the red herring aristocracy, sir. I am decidedly against them. But, sir, my name is Herring — Zebediah Herring. Not Parson, but Deacon Zebediah Herring, at your service, sir. Willful. Well, Mr. Chairman, here have I been list- ening to the rigmaroles of Mr. Puzzleton there, and "Deacon Herring, till I'm a'most Thra^shem. Mr. Chairman, s'pose the speaker stop his ■seigmaseroling, and git in order. Willful. Ain't I in order, you rascal? Chairman. {Raps) No personalities, Mr. Willful. Willful. What d'ye see out of order about me? Didn't Prudence fix my coat last night, and didn't my daughter Sally darn my stockings this morning? Chairman. He means, sir, that he wishes you to speak to the subject we are discussing. Willful. Well, if he can do any better, I should like to see him try , that's all. Chairman. Honorable Samuel Soundsense, gentle- men. Soundsense. Sir, in an enlightened and patriotic assembly, such as this, I am surprised at the views which gentlemen take of the subject. They deny that the In- dians have a right to claim the land they own, and assert that every foreign robber, who may be lucky enough to ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 09 fall in witli it, can claim it, and have that claim allowed by similar robbers. Sir, is this just? Is it honorable? Is it manlj ? Is it becoming the dignity of enlightened Christian citizens? But, sir, religion — the propagation of Christianity — is argued as the plea for this high -handed theft. Under the guise of peace and charity, ambition, cruelty, avarice, murder, crime of QYQry hue, and all the baser passions of man, are allowed free scope. The innocent, simple- hearted sons of the forest were the victims. The heart- less outrages of Cortez, the demoniac tortures of Pizarro, all proceeded from an excess of zeal in promulgating the Christian religion. And these are specimens of the kind ness of the civilized nations who had the interest of the natives at heart. {Cries of "Mr. Chairman.") Chairman. Mr. Solomon Thrashem, gentlemen. Thrashem. Mr. Chairman, sir I I don't keer nothin' about what the gentleman hopes. I guess I have a voice here as well as any other man ; and, although you moughtn't keer much fur my 'pinion o' things, you must have it, whether or no. You see I was raised up in ole Varmount, 'mong the Inj uns and painters. ( Cries of order^ order.) Gentlemen, you ought to know more manners than to interrupt me Well, Mr. Chairman, as I was say- ing, I was raised among the Injuns and painters of Var- mount, and I liked the Injuns as well as I did the wild- cats any day, and no more; so you see 'tis only natural for me to want to give my vardict on 'em. Well, then, here it is, squire, " plump and plain," as " Lawyer Jones said to Peggy Bilkinson." The Injuns hain't got no right to a fut of the sile, if a decent white man wants it. That's my 'pinion, Mr. Chairman, and I'll allers stand to it. Chairman. Sergeant Timothy O'Trigger, gentlemen. W Trigger. Sir, being myself a sojer, and happening to come along this way, I thought I would drop in, and see how you were getting alcng. Well, cap'n, I have been listening all the time since I came in, cap'n, and at the same time, cap'n, I was thinking of the great and glorious — ahem ! ahem 1 hem ! Mr. Chairman, cap'n, I'd been listening since I came in, cap'n, until my blood got 70 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. SO riled up with patriotism, cap'n, I thought I could not stand it any longer. So up I get, and says what you've just heard me say. Now I've done, I'll sit down, cap'n. {Cries of "Mr. Chairman.") Chairman. Mr. Kichard Slowthink, gentlemen. Slowthinh. Sir, this is a very — very momentous ques^ tion ; ah — really, sir, it is. Perhaps, sir, it is one of the most serious questions I — I — ever heard on, and I have no doubt that "it is. I see that some of you gentlemen say one thing, and some another. But I — I — really — have forgotten the question, Mr. President — ah — Mr. Chairman ; else — else — I might be tempted to speak on it, sir ; and — sir — although I am no — no — Demosthenes, nor no — no — no — there, hang it! I forget who I was going to say. Well, sir, I think — that — although — I am no Demosthenes, sir, m}^ eloquence would produce — some effect, sir. Chairman. Mr. Benjamin Blowhard, gentlemen. Blowhard. Let me ask of you, sir, what good havt savage nations ever done to mankind, or what have they ever contributed to science? Nothing, Mr. Chairman. The savage knows nothing of refinement. Besides, Mr. Chairman, there are great countries, all belonging to a few lazy savages, that roam over them in search of game, while other countries are so crowded that folks can scarcely support themselves on the produce of the soil. Now, Mr. Chairman, d'ye suppose any body will stand by and see countries capable of supporting all the sur- plus population of the civilized world in the hands of a few pagan savages, that don't know any better than to make their ladies work for them ? Chairman. Sergeant Timothy O'Trigger, gentlemen. O Trigger. Mr. Chairman, as I said before, I am i» sojer, and seed more in my day, mayhap, than mari}^ people here. Mr. Blowhard talks about taking countries away from savages because they are so few, and wants to know who wouldn't. Well, so do I, Mr. Chairman But suppose we try the experiment among ourselves. There is Mr. Blowhard, himself. He is a hachelo7% and has a large extent of territory in the shape of a farm, which he roams over at pleasure; while here I am, a poor fellow, with fourteen young ones, and a wife to ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 7\ boot, all endeavoring to live on the produce of a bit of land not one-twentieth part as large as Mr. Blowhard's. Then, again, I verily believe Mr. Blowhard is a pagan, or some such biped, for I never saw him go to church. Now, sir, d'ye suppose I'll stand by and see all this fine territory — capable of supporting all my surplus popula- tion — in the hands of a single pagan, and a bachelor at that? No; by my valor, I won't! I expect Mr. Blow- hard '11 justify me, seeing he's a lawyer, and argued so well for others in the same case. {Cries of "Mr. Chairman."^ Chairman. Mr. Blowhard, gentlemen. Blowhard. Sir, I spoke of the savages only, when I said that nobody would stand by and see countries lying useless in their hands. O Trigger. The savage is a man, as well as you, sir, and should be allowed the same privileges as other men. Blowhard. Then, if that's the case, I suppose I was wj-ong in what I said, and that every body has a right to his own property. But why is Deacon Herring on the other side of the question ? Chairman. {Raps.) Order, order, gentlemen. If any body wishes to speak, he must address the chair. {Cries of " Mr. Chairman."^ Chairman. Deacon Zebeaiah Herring, gentlemen. Herring. Mr. Chairman, my reason for being on the opposite side of the question is, as I've said before, be- cause I wished to have the savages converted to Cliris- tianity. But I suppose I must submit to being convert- ed myself now, as I see clearly that the measures taken by civilized nations do not attain that object, and are any thing but desirable. {A pause ensues.) Chairman. Gentlemen, if nobody else wishes to speak, I'll put the question. All in favor of the affirm- ative — that civilized nations are justified in seizing ard occupying countries inhabited by savages, will signify it by saying Aye. {No response.) All in favor of the negative will please signify it All. Aye, aye. Chairman. The negative has it 72 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XXII. QUACKERY. Volatile. Your "humble servant, sir — walk in, sir— -sit down, sir. {Bringing a chair.) My master will wait on you in a moment, sir — he's busy dispatching some pa tients, sir — I'll tell him you are here, sir — be back in a twinkling, sir. Sinclair. No, no ; I will wait till he has done ; I wish to consult him about Volatile. Eight, sir ; you could not have applied to a more able physician. My master is a man that under- stands physic as fundamentally as I do my mother tongue, sir. Sinclo'-^. He appears to have an able advocate in you. Volat'i'^.. I do not say this, sir, because he is my mas- tc;r ; but 'tis really a pleasure to be his patient ; and I should i-ather die by his medicines than be cured by those of any other ; for, whatever happens, a man may be cer- tain that he has been regularly treated ; and, should he die under the operation, his heirs would have nothing to reproach him for. Sinclair. That's a mighty comfort to a dead man. Volatile. To be sure, sir; who would not wish to die methodically? Besides, he's not one of those doctors who husband the disease of their patients. He loves to dispatch business ; and, if they are to die, he lends them a helping hand. Sinclair. There's nothing like dispatch in business. Volatile. That's true, sir. What is the use of so much hemming, and hawing, and beating round the bush ? I like to know the long and short of a distemper at once. Sinclair. Eight, undoubtedly. Volatile. Eight ! Why, there were three of my chil- dren, whose illness he did me the honor to take care of, who all died in less than four days ; when, in another's hands, they would have languished three months. (Enter Doctor.) Volatile. Sir, this gentleman is desirous of consult ing ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 78 Doctar. I perceive it, sir; he is a dying man. Do you eat well, sir? Sinclair. Eat I Yes, sir ; perfectly well. Doctor. Bad, very bad ; the epigastric region must be shockingly disordered. How do you drink, sir ? Sinclair. Nobody drinks better, sir. Doctor. So much the worse. The great appetition of frigid and humid is an indication of the great heat and aridity within. Do you sleep soundly? Sinclair. Yes, when I have supped heartily Doctor. This indicates a dreadful torpidity of the sys- tem ; and, sir, I pronounce you a dead man. After con- sidering the diagnostic and prognostic symptoms, I pronounce you attacked, affected, possessed, and disor- dered by that species of mania termed hypochondria. Volatile. Undoubtedly, sir. My master never mis- takes, sir. Doctor. But, for an incontestible diagnostic, you may perceive his distempered ratiocination, and other pathog- nomonick symptoms of this disorder. Volatile. What will you order him, sir ? Doctor. First, a dozen purges. Volatile. But should these have no effect ? Doctor. We shall then know the disease does not pro- ceed from the humors. Volatile, What shall we try next, sir ? Doctor. Bleeding ; ten or fifteen ounces twice a day. Volatile. If he grow worse and worse, what then ? Doctor. It will prove the disease is not in his blood. Volatile. What application would you then recom- mend? Doctor. My infallible sudorific. Sweat him off five pounds a day, and his case can not long remain doubtful. Volatile, I congratulate the gentleman upon falling into your hands, sir. He must consider himself happy in having his senses disordered, that he may experience the efficacy and gentleness of the remedies you have pro- posed. Sinclair. What does all this mean, gentlemen? I do not understand your gibberish and nonsense. Doctor. Such injurious language is a diagnostic we wanted to confirm our opinion of his distemper. 7 74 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Sinclair. Are you crazy, gentlemen? {Spit'i in his hand, and raises his cane.) Doctor. Another diagnostic. Frequent sputation. Sinclair. You had better be done, and make off. Doctor. Another diagnostic! Anxiety to change place. We will fix you, sir. Your disease Sinclair. I have no disease, sir. Doctor. A bad symptom when a patient is insensible of his illness. Sinclair. I am well, sir, I assure you. Doctor. We know best how that is, sir. We ph3'si- cians see through your constitution at once. Sinclair. You are then a physician, sir? Volatile. Yes, sir; this is my master, sir, the cele- brated Dr. Pumpwater, sir, the enemy of human diseases, sir. Sinclair. Who has traveled over the country ? Doctor. The same, sir. Sinclair. I am happy to hear it, gentlemen. I have long been in search of you, and have a warrant for your apprehension, on an indictment for vagrancy. A lucky mistake has enabled me to become a useful witness. You will please to follow your patient to the work-house. DIALOGUE XXIII. THE WAY TO JOHN SMITH'S. Traveler. Good morning, sir. Will you direct me the way to John Smith's ? Squatter. Certainly, sir; if there is any thing in the world I do know, it is the way to John Smith's. Traveler. Glad to hear it. Please direct me the wa3^ Squatter. That I will, sir. As I was saying, if there is any thing in the world I do know, it is the way to John Sm^ith's. John and me moved out from North Car« olina together ; and he has got the truest pulling yoke of oxen you ever saw in your born days. The way they can pull Traveler. My dear sir, I am in a hurry to get oa Will you be so good as to direct me ? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 75 Squatter. Will I? Why that's what I am just going to do. As I was saying, John and me moved out to- gether. He settled just over there, t'other side of the maple swamp — but he don't live there now. Traveler. In the name of wonder, where does he live, then ? Now do, my good sir, just inform me the way f Squatter. I will that; for, as I was saying, if there is any thing in the world I do know, it is the way to John Smith's Why, John and me married sisters, and he's got a smart wife, I tell you. She can spin her six cuts a day, and attend to family fixins into the bargain. And Traveler. I declare, sir, I shall get impatient present- ly. My business is with John Smi^ — not his wife, or her family iixins either. Squatter, Exactly, sir; I understand that. But, as I was saying, John's nigger man Bob is, I do reckon, the valublest nigger in all these diggins. Why, he can pick out his 150 pound of cotton in the day, and then shell a turn of corn for mill at night. He's a clinker ; now mind, I tell you. Traveler, Well, I would be glad to see so smart a negro as Mr. Bob ; so do, I pray, direct me to his mas- ter's. Squatter. Don't be in such a sivivii, mister; I can tell you something more about John's family you'd like to know. He's got the smartest little gal that's in all Ar- kansas. She's only been to school two years, and she's got as far as amplification. Traveler. Confound John Smith's daughter, and you with her ! I think you have got as far as amplification yourself. For I asked you a simple question, and you have been amplifying for half an hour on different sub- jects, and I am no nearer getting an answer, it seems, than at first Squatter. Look'e here, stranger; don't you confound John's darter: for she's my niece, and a smart one she is too. Besides, it is not respectful to talk so about the child, seeing you know nothing about her. TVaveler. I beg your pardon, sir. I did speak too hastily. But come, tell me the way to John Smith's, for that is all I want to know just now Which road sBhall Ttake? 76 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Squatter. Tell you the way? Yes, that I will. Why, my Bill knows the way to his uncle John's. Bill, didn't you go to your uncle John's the other afternoon by your- self? And didn't you ride old Dick, and carry a bag of cotton to the gin for spinnin' truck ? And didn't old Dick skeer and like to flung you? And Traveler. Good da}^, sir; and good riddance to you, and John Smith's daughter, nigger Bob, and the whole family! {Exit^i Squatter. The same to you and yourn. Well, sich another man I never did see. Why, he's as techous as a half-skinned eel. Only to think; — ^he kept axin' and axin', and I kept tellin' and tellin', and he wouldn't stay to hear the answer at last. Well, let him go ahead ; but if he goes that road, he'll never get to John Smith's, that's sartin. DIALOGUE XXIY. THE INSULT AND THE APOLOGY. Miss Prim sits reading^ when Servant ushers in Mr. Ready. Mr. Ready. Ah ! good evening, Miss Prim ; happy to see you ; hope you are quite well this evening. Miss Prim. Yqyj well, I thank you. Please be seat- ed, Mr. Eeady. Mr. Ready. ( Very hlandly.) Excuse me, Miss Prim, 1 am in great haste just now. I called only to ask if I might have the pleasure of your company on a short ride to-morrow afternoon. Miss Prim. I am sorry to inform you that I have other arrangements for to-morrow afternoon. Mr. Ready. ( Very graciously^ Indeed ! well, how will it be for next day ? Miss Prim. I have engagements for that day also. Mr. Ready. And next? Miss Prim. Then also I shall be particularly en- gaged. Mr. Ready. {Very patronizingly.) Excuse me, Misa Prim. I would not interfere with any of your plans. Will vou do me the honor to name some day, within a ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 77 month, when I may have the pleasure of your company on a ride to the lake ? Miss Prim. My time is all engaged, Mr. Ready, and T can not name a day. Mr. Ready. {Leaving.^ 'petulantly says,) Go to blazes. Miss Prim. {Alone.) Good riddance. I am thankful that he does know enough to take a hint at last. But here comes brother John, I must tell him of the fellow's impudence. (John enters.) I wish you had been hero, brother, a minute ago. That disagreeable fellow, Mr. Ready, has been here, and he was quite insulting in his remarks. John. {Earnestly^) Do you mean to say that he has been impudent. {To servant.) Here, Peter, run and ask that chap if he will just please to walk back. Tell him he's wanted : that's all. {Exit servant.) I will teach Mr. Ready a lesson. I'll teach him that, if he insults any of the Prim family, he will have to repent of it. A pretty pass, surely, if Mr. Jonathan Ready has insulted Miss Cinderilla Matilda Prim. But he's coming, and I'll {Enter servant with Mr. Beady.) John. {To Mr. Ready, angrily.) I hear, sir, that you have insulted the house of Prim. Yes, sir ; my sister says you have used language entirely unbecoming a gen- tleman, and I demand satisfaction, and that immediately. Mr. Ready. {Very demurely.) I am certainly very sorry if I have injured any one, and am ready to do whatever you say. I should like to know in what way I have insulted your worthy sister. John. She can tell you what you already know — and I shall insist on a retraction before you leave this house. Mr. Ready. I am ready to make any apology or re- traction that the case may demand. John. {To Miss Prim.) Here, sister, you hear what the fellow says I turn him to you. Mr. Ready. I am very sorry, Miss Prim, that you feel insulted by any remark of mine. If you will tell me in what my insult consisted, I will most cheerfully retract. Miss Prim. You know very well, Mr. Ready, that you spoke to me very impudently. You asked me to accompany you to a ride; and, after I had refused several 78 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES times, you in a very petulant tone said to me, " Go to blazes." Mr. Ready. ( Very meekly.) Did I tell you to "go to blazes," Miss Prim? Miss Prim. {Earnestly.) Yes, you did. Mr. Ready. {Condescendingly.) Well, Miss Prim, you needn't go. And now I hope it's all right. {Exit.) John. {Alone.) Now the stain is removed, and the house of Prim stands where it did. DIALOGUE XXY. A LESSON IN POLITENESS. Dr. Wisepate — Thaddy O'Keen — Robert. Dr. Wisepate. Plague on her ladyship's ugly cur! — ^it has broken three bottles of bark, that I had prepared my- self for Lord Spleen. I wonder Lady Apes troubles me with it. But I understand it threw down her flower-pots and destroyed all her myrtles. I'd send it home this minute, but I'm unwilling to offend its mistress ; for, as she has a deal of money, and no relation, she may think proper to remember me in her will. {Noise within.) Eh ! what noise is that in the hall ? (Enter Thaddy CKeen^ wet and dirty, followed hy Robert) Thaddy OKeen. But I must and will, do you see. Very pretty, indeed, keeping people standing in the hall, shivering and shaking with the wet and cold. Robert. The mischief's in you, I believe ; you order me about as if you were my master. Dr. Wisepate. Why, what's all this? Who is this un- mannerly fellow? T. OKeen. There 1 your master says you are an un- mannerly fellow. Robert. Sir, it's Lady Apes' servant : he has a letter, and says he won't deliver it into any one's hands but your honor's. Now, I warrant my master will teach you better behavioi-. {Exit.) ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 79 T. GKeen. Ocli, are you sure you arc Doctor Wise- pate? Dr. Wisepate. Sure I certainly I am. T. OKeen. Och! plague on my hat, how wet it is! (Shakes his hat about the room, IAL0GUES. When she heard Blue Beard was coming. He did not appear to notice her pain ; But he took his keys, and seeing the stain. He stopped in the middle of the refrain That he had been quietly humming. " Mighty well, madam ! " said he, " mighty well I What does this little blood-stain tell ? You've broken your promise; prepare to dwell With the wives I've had before you ! You've broken your promise, and you shall die." Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh, Fell on her knees and began to cry, " Have mercy, I implore you ! " "No! " shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword; " You shall die this very minute," he roared. " Grant me time to prepare to meet my Lord,** The terrified woman entreated. "Only ten minutes," he roared again ; And holding his watch by its great gold chain, He marked on the dial the fatal ten. And retired till they were completed. " Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower ! Look for release from this murderer's power ! Our brothers should be here this very hour ; — Speak ! Does there come assistance ? " *' No : I see nothing but sheep on the hill." "Look again, sister! " "I'm looking still, But naught can I see, whether good or ill, Save a flurry of dust in the distance." " Time's up ! " shouted Blue Beard, out from his room; "This moment shall witness your terrible doom. And give you a dwelling within the room Whose secrets you have invaded." ** Comes there no help for my terrible need ? " " There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed.** " Oh ! tell them to ride very fast indeed. Or I must meet death unaided." ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 117 " Time's fully up ! Now have done with your prayer," Shouted Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair; Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair. Swung his glittering weapon around him ; But a loud knock rang at the castle-gate. And Fatima was saved from her horrible fate, For, shocked with surprise, he paused too late ; And t^fn the two soldiers found him. They were her brothers, and quick as they knew What the fiend was doing their swords they drew, And attacked him fiercely, and ran him through, So that soon he was mortally wounded. With a wild remorse was his conscience filled When he thought of the hapless wives he had killed ; Bnt quickly the last of his blood was spilled, And his dying groan was sounded. As soon as Fatima recovered from fright, She embraced her brothers with great delight; And they were as glad and as grateful quite As she was glad and grateful. Then they all went out from that scene of pam, And sought in quietude to regain Their minds, which had come to be quite insane, In a place so horrid and hateful. 'Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had ; For the people knew he was very bad, And, though they said nothing, they all were glad For the fall of the evil-doer ; But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made, And there the unfortunate ladies were laid, And after some painful months, with the aid Of her friends, her spirits came to her. Then she cheered the hearts of the suflfering poor, And an acre of land around each door. And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more, 118 ENTERTAINING DIALOCJUES. To her tenantry she granted. So all of them had enough to eat, And their love for her was so complete They would kiss the dust from her httle feet, Or do any thing she wanted. Samuel, Capital I Capital 1 Wasn't it good I I should like to have been her brother ; If I had been one, you may guess there would Have been Httle work for the other. I'd have run him right through the heart, just so ! And cut pflf his head at a single blow, And killed him so quickly he'd never know What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe? Joseph. You are very brave with your bragging tongue ; But if you had been there, you'd have sung A very different tune. Poor Blue Beard 1 He would have been afraid - Of a httle boy with a penknife blade, Or a tiny pewter spoon ! Samuel. It makes no difference what you say, (Pretty little boy, afraid to play !) But it served him rightly any way, And gave him just his due. And wasn't it good that his little wife Should hve in his castle the rest of her lifia^ And have all his money too ? Rebehah. I'm thinking of the ladies who Were lying in the Chamber Blue, With all their small necks cut in two. I see them lying, half a score, In a long row upon the floor, Their cold, white bosoms marked with gorei ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 119 I know the sweet Fatima would Have put their heads on if she could ; And made them live — she was so good ; And washed their faces at the sink ; But Blue Beard was not sane, I think : I wonder if he did not drink ! For no man in his proper mind Would be so cruelly inclined As to kill the ladies who were kind. DIALOGUE XXXVII. THE CHURCH-YARD. First Voice. How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear 1 With the howls of the storm-wind — the creaks of the bioT, And the white bones all clattering together ! Second Voice. How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep : Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flowerets perfume it with ether. First Voice. There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skuIi serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss. Second Voice. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : No tempests are there : — but the nightingales come And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. First Voice. The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave : Tis the vulture's abode ; — 'tis the wolfs dreary cave. Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. 120 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Second Voice. There the cony at evening disports with his love. Or rests on the sod ; — while the turtles above Repose on the bough that o'erhangs. First Voice. There darkness and dampness with poisonous breathy And loathsome decay, fill the dwelling of death ; The trees are all barren and bare ! Second Voice. 0, soft are the breezes that play 'round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamine fair. First Voice. The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, "Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is launched on the wreck-covered river 1 Second Voice. . The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staflf, like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes forever. DIALOGUE XXXVIII. WHAT WE LOVE. Mary, Ellen, Charles, and Alfred I love the spring, the gentle spring ; I love its balmy air — I love its showers, that ever bring To us the flow'rots fair. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 121 All* Come, let us sing, we love the spring — We love the summer too — While autumn's fruit each one will suit, To winter give his due. JSllen. I love the summer's sky, so bright ; ' I love the fragrant flowers ; I love the long, long days of light ; But more the shady bowers. All Gome, let us sing, we love the spring, &G. Charles. I love the autumn's clust'ring fruit. That in the orchard lies ; I love its ever-changing suit. Its trees of brilliant dyes. All. Come, let us sing, we love the spring, Ac. Alfred. I love stem winter's ice and snow ; I love his blazing fire ; — I love his winds that freshly blow — Yes, winter I desire. All. Come, let us sing, we love the spring, Aa Mary. I love the merry birds, that sing, So sweet, their morning song — I love to see them on the wing Speed gracefully along. •To be aung. ]1 122 ENTERTAINING LIALOGUEfi. All Yes, we will love the gentle dove — The birds that sing so sweet, The fishes all, and insects small, The beasts we daily meet Ellm. I love beneath the limpid wave To see the fishes glide ; I love to watch them as they lave So gayly in the tide. All Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &a Charles. I love each prancing, noble steed ; I love the dog, so true ; I love the gentle cow ; indeed. Without, what could we do ? All Yes, we will love the gentle dove, ke, Alfred. I love the little busy bee ; I love the patient ant : For they this lesson teach to me — "We need not ever want." All Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &a Man'y. I love the blue and far-off sky ; I love the beaming sun ; The moon and stars, that, up on high. Shine bright when day is done. All We love, on high, to see the sky ; We love the broad, blue sea ; We love the earth, that gave us birth ; We love the air, so free. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 123 Ellen. I love the very air we breathe ; I love, when flow'rets bloom, At early morn, or dewy eve, To inhale the sweet perfume. All We love, on high, to see the sky, &a Charles. I love the ocean, vast and grand ; I love to hear its roar — I love its waves that kiss the sand. And those that proudly soar. All. We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. Alfred. I love the broad and fruitful earth ; I love each hill and dale ; I love the spot that gave me birth — My own dear native vale 1 All. We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. I love my father, ever kind ; I love to meet his smile — I love to see him pleasure find In watching me the while. All. Our firiends are dear, that we have here, But, better far than all, There's one we love, who dwells above, And on His name we call. Ellen. I love full well my mother dear ; I love her cheering voice — Her gentle words I wait to hear— They make my heart rejoice * 124 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. All. Our friends are dear, tkat we have here, 4c Charles. I love my little brother sweet ; I love his words of glee — I love his playfiil glance to meet, His beaming smile to see. All. Our friends are dear, that we have here, &c. Alfred. I love my little sister fair ; I love her rosy cheek — I love with her each joy to share, Her happiness to seek. All. Our friends are dear, that we have here, &c. DIALOGUE XXXIX. THE LAND OF GOLD.* First Voice. Dost thou know that bright land in the far distant West, Where the sun in his splendor, o'er mountains of gold, Casts his beams as at evening he sinks to his rest, And the sands in each river hide treasures untold ! Second Voice. Ah ! I know — I have seen — and the desolate hearth Bears me witness how strong the allurement has been ; When the home, once so happy, is left for the path That shall lead, must I say, but to sorrow or sin. ■ Written by one who had lo^ t a Vjrotber on his route to California. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 125 Both Voices* Oh ! home, give us home, though our dtjstiny lies In a happy estate, or in trouble and care ; Oh 1 home, give us home, with the friends that we prize, All our sorrows to comfort, our pleasures to share. First Voice. But the land, it is pleasant, the grove and the plain, With the murmuring rill and the beautiful vale : Call they not in an accent that never in vain Calls the eye to the lovely — though gold it should fail Second Voice. Yes, I know, and the desert wide open to view Shows the dead and the dying — the wild torrent roars, In its tide, bears the loved one — his struggles are through. And his soul to the mansion of happiness soars. Both Voices. Oh ! home, give us home, though our destiny lies In a happy estate, or in trouble and care ; Oh ! home, give us home, with the friends that we prize, All our sorrows to comfort, our pleasures to share. First Voice. Yet I see in the eye of the fortunate one, • As it falls on the riches his labors have gained, The proud, satisfied glance, that success can alone Give his eye, who in danger and hardship has strained. Second Voice. I have seen the sad tear in the father's stem eye, And the mother in bitterness weep for her son ; The fond wife mourn a husband — heard the orphan's lone ciy, But all mourning is vain, for the evil is done. Both Voices. Oh ! home, give us home, though our destiny lies In a happy estate, or in trouble and care ; Oh ! home, give us home, with the friends that we prize, All our sorrows to comfort, our pleasures to share. * This part may be simg. 11* 126 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XL. THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER Traveler. What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower? Is the day breaking? comes the wished-for hour? Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand, If the bright morning dawns upon the land. Watcher. The stars are clear above me — ^scarcely one Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun ; But lo ! I see on the horizon's verge Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge. Traveler. Look forth again, ! watcher on the tower — The people wake and languish for the hour ; Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine For the full daylight that they know must shine. Watcher. • I see not well — the morn is cloudy still ; There is no radiance on the distant hill — Even as I watch the glory seems to glow ; But the stars blink, and the night-breezes blow. Traveler. Look forth again ; it must be near the hour. Dost thou not see the snowy mountain-copes, And the green beneath them on the slopes ? Watcher. A mist envelopes them : I can not trace Their outline ; but the day comes on apace, The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes, And all the !»tars grow dim. The morning breaks I ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 127 Traveler. We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower ; But look again, and tell us, hour by hour, All thou beholdest ; many of us die Ere the day comes ; Oh 1 give them a reply. Watcher. I see the hill- tops now ; and chanticleer Crows his prophetic carol on my ear ; I see the distant woods, and fields of com, And ocean gleaming in the light of mom. Traveler. Again, again, 1 watcher on the tower — We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour, Patient but longing. Tell us, shall it be A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free? Watcher. I hope, but can not tell. I hear a song, Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong As of a lark — young prophet of the noon, Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune. TroAjeler. What doth he say, ! watcher on the tower ? Is he a prophet ? Doth the dawning hour Inspire his music ? Is his chant sublime With the full glories of the coming time ? Watcher. . • iJe prophesies — his heart is full — his lay Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day ! A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm, But sunny for the most, and clear and warm. Traveler. We thank thee, watcher on the loneiy tower, For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour When error shall decay, and truth grow strong ; When right shall rule supreme, and vanquish wrong ? 128 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Watcher. He sings of brotherhood, and joy, and peace ; Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease ; When war shall die, and man's progressive mind Soar as unfettered as its God designed. Traveler. Well done ! thou watcher on the lonely tower I Is the day breaking? dawns the happy hour? We pine to see it Tell us yet again, If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain ? Watcher. It breaks — it comes — the misty shadows fly — A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky ; The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear ; 111% plain is yet in ahade^ but day is near! DIALOGUE XLI. SUNRISE AND SUNSET. ' At evening-time it shall be ligKt." First Voice. How beautiful is morning, . • The childhood of the day ; Fair as an infant's smiling Beams its first rosy ray. How pure and sweet the flowers, Its holy dews have kissed ; How gorgeoi .5 are its cloudlets Of gold and amethyst. Oh ! then, earth, air, and sky with music ring, And like the lark, our souls at heaven's gate sing. Such be the morning of thy life's young day, Without a care to dim its rosj' ray. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 129 Second Voice. But morn, sweet morn, must vanish ; The sun ascendeth higher ; The purple clouds are scattered Before his glance of fire ; The flowers bend pale and drooping, Robbed of their pearly dew ; No lark's glad song is thrilling Yon sky of burning blue. ThcE comes the heat and burden of the day, Then must we toil beneath the scorching ray. Toil bravely on, with patient, willing feet, For there remaineth yet a rest more sweet. Third Voice. Then, lovelier than the morning, With soft and rosy ray, Shall come the peaceful evening, To crown the well-spent day. As balmy are the blossoms Its holy dews have kissed ; As rich its sunset-glories Of gold and amethyst. Then is the time to rest : 'neath angel-wings To slumber safe, till a new morning springs. Thus beauteous be thy life's declining ray, Thus may est thou sleep, and wake to endless day. DIALOGUE XLII. THE DRUNKARD AND HIS FRIENf Friend. Pray, Mr. Dram-drinker, how do you do ? What in perdition's the matter with you? How did you come by that bruise on the head ; Why are your eyes so infernally red ? Why do you mutter that infidel hymn? Why do you tremble in every limb? Who has done this? — let the reason be shown, And let the offender be pelted with stone. 130 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Drunkard. I had a father ; — the grave is his bed : I had a mother ; she sleeps with the dead. Truly I wept when they left me alone ; But I shed all my tears on their grave and their stona I planted a willow, I planted a yew, And left them to sleep till the last trumpet blew. Fortune was mine ; I mounted her car — Pleasure from virtue had beckoned me far. Onward I went, like an avalanche, down, And the sunshine of fortune was changed to a frown. Fortune was gone, and I took to my side A young, and a lovely, and beautiful bride ! Her I entreated with coldness and scorn — Tarrying back till the break of the morn ; Slighting her kindness, and mocking her fears — Casting a blight on her tenderest years ! Sad, and neglected, and weary I left her: Sorrow and care of her reason bereft her ; Till, like a star, when it falls from its pride, She sunk on the bosom of misery, and died. I had a child, and it grew like a vine ; — Fair as the rose of Damascus was mine : Fair — and I watched over her innocent youth, As an angel of heaven would watch over truth. She grew like her mother, in feature and form ; Her blue eye was languid, her cheek was too warm. Seventeen summers had shone on her brow — The seventeenth winter beheld her laid low ! Yonder they sleep in their graves, side by side— A father, a mother, a daughter, a bride. Go to your children, and tell them the tale : Tell them his cheek, too, was lividly pale ; Tell them his eye was bloodshot and cold ; Tell them his purse was a stranger to gold ; Tell them he passed through the world they are in The victim of sorrow, and misery, and sin ; Tell them, when life's shameful conflicts were passed, fn horror and anguish he perished at last. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. IHl DIALOGUE XLIII. PEDANTRY. Dion, a mathematician; Trill, a musician; Sesquipedalia, a itn- guist and philosopher ; Dkone, a servant of Mr. Mon'ell^ in whose house the scene is laid. Digit. (Alone.) If theologians are in want of a proof that mankind are daily degenerating, let them apply to me, Archimedes Digit. I can furnish them with one as clear as any demonstration in Euclid's third or fifth book; and it is this — the sublime and exalted science of Mathe- matics is falling into general disuse. Oh ! that the patri- otic inhabitants of this extensive country should suffer so degrading a circumstance to exist! Why, yesterday, I asked a lad of fifteen which he preferred. Algebra or Geometry; and he told me — oh, horrible I he told me he had never studied them 1 I was thunderstruck, I was astonished, I was petrified ! Never studied Geometry I never studied Algebra I and fifteen years old ! The dark ages are returning. Heathenish obscurity will soon over- whelm the world, unless I do something immediately to enlighten it ; and for this purpose I have now applied to Mr. Morrell, who lives here, and is celebrated for nis pat ronage of learning and learned men. {A knock at th/>. door.) Who waits there ? (Enter Drone.) Is Mr. Morrell at home ? Drone. {Speaking very slow.) Can't say ; s'pose he is ; indeed, I am sure he is, or was just now. Digit. Why, I could solve an equation while you arc answering a question of five words — I mean if the uii- known terms were all on one side of the equation. Can I see him ? Drone. There is nobody in this house by the name of Quation. Digit. {Aside.) Now, here's a fellow that can not dis- tinguish between an algebraic term and the denomination 132 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. of Lis master ! — I wish to see Mr. Morrell upon an affair of infinite importance. Drone. Oh, very likely, sir. I will inform him that Mr. Quation wishes to see him {mindcking) npon an affair of infinite importance. Digit No, no. Digit — Digit. My name is Digit. Drone. Oh, Mr. Digy-Digy! Yqxj likely. {Exit Drone.) Digit. {Alone.) That fellow is certainly a negative quantity. He is minus common sense. If this Mr. Mor- rell is the man I take him to be, he can not but patronize my talents. Should he not, I don't know how I shall obtain a new coat. I have worn this ever since I began to write my theory of sines and cotangents; and my el- bows have so often formed right angles with the plane surface of my table, that a new coat or a parallel patch is very necessary. But here comes Mr. Morrell. {Enter Sesquip^dalia.) Sir {bowing hu\) I am your most mathematical servant. I am sorry, sir, to give you this trouble ; but an affair of consequence — {pulling the rags over his elbows) — an affair of consequence, as vour sci-vant informed you Sesquipedalia. &rvus non est mihi Domine ; that is, I have no servant, sir. I presume you have erred in your calculation ; and Digit. No, sir. The calculations I am about to pre- sent you are founded On the most correct theorems of Euclid. You may examine them, if you please. They are contained in this small manuscript. {Producing a folio.) Sesquipedalia. Sir, you have bestowed a degree of in- terruption upon my observations. I was about, or, ac- cording to the Latins, futurus sum^ to give you a little information concerning the luminary who appears to have deceived your vision. My name, sir, is Tullius Marc I'itus Crispus Sesquipedalia ; by profession a linguist and philosopher. The most abstruse points in physics or metaphysics are to me transparent as ether. I have come to this house for the purpose of obtaining the pat- ronage of a gentleman who befriends all the literati ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 133 Now, sir, perhaps I have induced conviction in mente tua^ that is, in your mind, that jour calculation was erroneous Digit. Yes, sir, as to your person, I was mistaken; but my calculations, I maintain, are correct, to the tenth part of a circulating decimal. Sesqnipcdalia. But what is the subject of your manu- script? Have you discussed the infinite divisibility of matter? Digii. No, sir; I can not reckon infinity ; and I have nothing to do with subjects that can not be reckoned. Sesquipedalia. Why, I can not reckon about it. I reckon it is divisible ad infinitum. But perhaps your work is upon the materiality of light; and, if so, which side of the question do you espouse ? Digit. Oh, sir, I think it quite immaterial. Sesquipedalia. What ! light immaterial I Do you say light is immaterial? Digit. No ; I say it is quite immaterial which side of the question I espouse. I have nothing to do with it. And, besides, I am a bachelor, and do not mean to es pouse any thing at present. Sesquipedalia. Do you write upon the attraction ot cohesion? You know matter has the properties of at- traction and repulsion. Digit. I care nothing about matter, so I can find enough for mathematical demonstration. SesquipedcUia. I can not conceive what you have wrii ten upon, then. Oh, it must be the centripetal and cen trifugal motions. Digit. {Peevishly.) No, no! I wish Mr. Morrell woula come ! Sir, I have no motions but such as I can make with my pencil upon my slate, thus. {Figuring upon hit hand.) Six, minus four, plus two, equal eight, minus six^ plus two. There, those are my motions. Sesquipedalia. Oh, I perceive, you grovel in the depths of Arithmetic. I suppose you never soared into the re- gions of Philosophy. You never thought of the vacuum which has so long filled the heads of philosophei'S. Digit. Vacuum ! {Putting his hand to his forehead.) Let me think. Sesquipedalia. Ha I what ! have you got it, sub manu, that is, under your hand? Hal ha I ha! 12 i3-i ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. ^ Digit. Eh I under my hand ? "What do you mean, sir ? that my head is a vacuum ? Would you insult me, sir? insult Archimedes Digit? Why, sir, I'll cipher you into infinite divisibility. I'll set you on an inverted cone, and give you a centripetal and centrifugal motion out of the window, sir I I'll scatter your solid contents ? Sesquipedalia. Da veniam, that is, pardon me, it was merely a lapsus Unguoe, that is Digit Well, sir, I am not fond of lapsus linguces^ at all, sir. However, if you did not mean to offend, I ac- cept your apology. I wish Mr. Morrell would come. Sesquipedalia. But, sir, is your work upon mathemat- ics? Digit. Yes, sir. In this manuscript I have endeav ored to, elucidate the squaring of the circle. Sesquipedalia. But, sir, a square circle is a contradic tion in terms. You can not make one. Digit. I perceive you are a novice in this sublime science. The object is to find a square which shall be equal to a given circle ; which I have done by a rule drawn from the radii of the circle and the diagonal of the square. And by my rule the area of the square will equal the area of the circle. Sesquipedalia. Your terms are to me incomprehens- ible. Diagonal is derived from the Greek; Dia and gomeo, that is, "through the corner." But I don't see what it has to do with a circle; for, if I understand aright, a circle, like a sphere, has no corners. Digit. You appear to be very ignorant of the science of numbers. Your life must be very insipidly spent in poring over philosophy and the dead languages. You never tasted, as I have, the pleasure arising from the in- vestigation of a difficult problem, or the discovery of a new rule in quadratic equations. Sesquipedalia. Poh! poh! {Turns round in disgust, and hits Digit with his cane.) Digit. Oh, you villain ! Sesquipedalia. I wish, sir Digit. And so do I wish, sir, that that cane was raised to the fourth power, and laid over your head as manj times as there are units in a thousand. Oh ! oh ! Sesquiptdalia. Did my cane come in contact with the ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 185 Bpliere of attraction around your shin ? I must confess, sir (Enter Trill) But here is Mr. Morrell^ Salve Dominef Sir, your servant. Trill. Which of you, gentlemen, is Mr. Morrell ? Sesquipedalia. Oh 1 neither, sir. I took you for thai gentleman. Trill. No, sir ; I am a teacher of music. Flute, harp, viol, violin, violoncello, organ, or any thing of the kind; any instrument you can mention. I have just been dis- playing my powers at a concert, and come recommended to the patronage of Mr. Morrell. Sesquipedalia. For the same purpose are that gentle- man and myself here. Digit. (Still rubbing his shin.) Oh ! oh I Trill. Has the gentleman the gout ? I have heard ot its being cured by music. Shall I sing you a tune? Hem I hem I Faw Digit. No, no ; I want none of your tunes. I'd make that philosopher sing, though, and dance, too, if he hadn't made a vulgar fraction of my leg. Sesquipedalia. In veritat^, that is, in truth, it happened forte, that is, by chance. Trill. (Talking to himself.) If B be flat, me is in E. Digit. Aye, sir; this is only an integral part of your conduct, ever since you came into this house. You have continued to multiply your insult«? in the abstract ratio of a geometrical progression, and at last have proceeded to violence. The dignity of Archimedes Digit never experienced such a reduction descending before. THll. (To himself.) Twice /a, sol^ la, and then comes me again. Digit. If Mr. Morrell does not admit me soon, I'll leave the house, while my head is on my shoulders. Ti'ill. Gentlemen, you neither keep time nor chord. But, if you can sing, we will carry a trio before we go. Sesquipedalia. Can you sing an ode of Horace or Ana- creon ? I should like to hear one of them. Digit. I had rather hear you sing a demonstration of the forty -seventh proposition, first book. 126 ENTERTAIN [NG DIALOGUES. Trill. I never heard of those performers, sir ; where did they belong ? Sesquipedalia. They did belong to Italy and Greece. Trill Ah ! Italy I There are our best masters, such as Morelli and Fuselli. Can you favor me with some of their compositions ? Sesquipedalia. Oh yes ; if you have a taste that way, I can furnish you with them, and with Virgil, Sallust, Cicero, Caesar, and Quintilian ; and I have an old Greek Lexicon, which I can spare. 2HII. Ad libitum^ my dear sir, they will make a hand- some addition to my musical library. Digit. But, sir, what pretensions have you to the pat- ronage of Mr. Morrell ? I don't believe you can square the circle. Trill. Pretensions, sir ! I have gained a victory over the great Tantamarrarra, the new opera singer, who pre- tended to vie with me. 'Twas in the symphony of Han- del's Oratorio of Saul, where you know every thing de- pends upon the tempo giusto^ and where the primo should proceed in smorgando^ and the secundo, agitati. But he was on the third ledger line, I was an octave below, when, with a sudden appoggiatura, I rose to D in alt^ and conquered him. {Enter Drone.) Drone. My master says how he will wait on you, gen- tlemen. Digit. What is your name, sir? Drone. Drone, at your service. Digit. No, no ; you need not drone at my service. A very applicable name, however. Sesquipedalia. Drone? That is derived from the Greek Draon^ that is, flying or moving swiftly. Trill. He seems to move in andante measure, that is, to the tune of Old Hundred. Drone. Yery likely, gentlemen. Digit. Well, as I came first, I will enter first. Sesquipedalia. Eight. You shall be the antecedent, I the subsequent, and Mr. Trill the consequent. Trill. Eight. I was always a man of consequence — Fa, sol, la, Fa, sol, &c. {Exeunt.) ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 187 DIALOGUE XLIV. IRISH COURTESY. Stranger — O'Callaohan. Stranger. I have lost my way, good friend ; can you assist me in finding it ? GCallaghan. Assist you in finding it, sir? aye, by mv faith and troth, and that I will, if it was to the world s end, and further too. Stranger. I wish to return by the shortest route to the Black Rock. O Callaghan. Indade, and you will, so plase your honor's honor — and O'Callaghan's own self shall show you the way, and then you can't miss it, you know. Stranger. I would not give you so much trouble, Mr. O'Callaghan. G' Callaghan. It is never a trouble, so plase your honor, for an Irishman to do his duty. (Bowing.) Stranger. Whither do you travel, friend ? 0^ Callaghan. To Dublin, so plase your honor — sure all the world knows that Judy O'Flannaghan will be married to-morrow, God willing, to Pat Ryan ; and Pat, you know, is my own foster-brother — because why, we had but one nurse betwane us, and that was my own mother; but she died one day — the Lord rest her swate soul ! and left me an orphan, for my fixther married again, and his new wife was the devil's own child, and did nothing but bate me from morning till night. Och, why did I not die before I was born to see that day ! for, by St. Patrick, the woman's heart was as cold as a hailstone. Stranger. But what reason could she have for treating you so unmercifully, Mr. O'Callaghan? 0' Callaghan. Ah, your honor, and sure enough there aie always rasons as plenty as pratees for being hard- hearted. And I was no bigger than a dumpling at the time, so I could not help myself, and my father did not care to help me, and so I hopped the twig, and parted old Nick's darling; och, may the devil find her wherever she goes. But here I am alive and lapeing, and going to see Pat married: and faith, to do him justice, he's as 12* 138 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. honest a lad as any within ten miles of us, and no dis- paragement, neither; and I love Pat, and I love all his family ; aye. b}^ my shoul do I, every mother's son of them — and by the same token, I have traveled many a long mile to be present at his wedding. Stranger. Your miles in Ireland are much longer than ours, I believe. O Callaghan. Indade, and you may belave that, your honor, because why, St. Patrick measured them in his coach, you know. Och, by the powers ! — the time has been — but, 'tis no matter, not a single copper at all at all now belongs to the family — but, as I was saying, the day has been, aye, by my troth, and the night too, when the O'Callaghans, good luck to them, held their heads up as high as the best ; and though I have not a rod of land belonging to me, but what I hire, I love my country, and would halve my last pratee with every poor creature that has none. Stranger. Pray how does the bride appear, Mr. O'Cal laghan ? O Callaghan. Och, by my shoul, your honor, she's a nate article; and then she will be rigged out as gay as a lark and as fine as a peacock; because why, she has a great lady for her godmother, long life and success to her, who has given Judy two milch cows and five pounds in hard money; and Pat has taken as dacent apartments as any in Dublin — a nate comely parlor as you'd wish to see, just six fate under ground, with a nice, beautiful ladder to go down — and all so complate, and gentale, and comfortable, as a body may say Stranger. Nothing like comfort, Mr. O'Callaghan. 0' Callaghan. Faith, and you may say that, your hon- or. {Ruhhing his hands.) Comfort is comfort, says I to Mrs. O'Callaghan, when we are all sated so cleverly around a great big turf fire, as merry as grigs, with the dear little grunters snoring so swately in the corner, de- fying wind and weather, with a dry thatch, and a sound conscience to go to slape upon Stranger. A good conscience makes a soft pillow. O* Callaghan. Och, jewel, sure it is not the best beds that make the best slapers ; for there's Kathleen and my- self can slape like two great big tops, and our bed is ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 189 uonc of the softest — because why, we slape on the ground, and have no bed at all at all. Stranger. It is a pity, my honest ifellow, that you should ever want one. There — {giving him a guinea) — good-by, Mr. O'Callaghan. 0' Callaghan. I'll drink your honor's health, that I will • and may God and the blessed Virgin bless you and yours, as long as grass grows and water runs. DIALOGUE XLV. A SCENE FROM THE GIPSEY ; OR, WHOSE SON AM 1 Scene. — A room in a country inn. Enter Captain Etheridgb and Captain Mertoun, ushered in by the Landlord.) Landlord. Will you be pleased to take any thing, gentlemen ? Capt. Eih. I can answer for myself — nothing. Capt. Mer. I agree and disagree with you ; that is, 1 coincide with you in — nothing. Capt. Eth. Then I trust, Mr. Harness, that you will coincide with us in expediting the greasing of that radi- cal wheel as soon as possible, and let us know where the horses are put to. Landlord. Most certainly, Captain Etheridge ; I will superintend it myself {Exit Landlord.) Capt. Eth. An old butler of my father's, who set up many years ago, with a few hundred pounds, and the Etheridge Arms as a sign. He has done well. Capt. Mer. That is to say, the Etheridge Arms have put him on his legs, and drawing corks for your father nas enabled him to draw beer for himself and his cus- tomers. Of course he married the lady's maid. Capt. Eth. No, he did more wisely ; he married the cook. Capl. Mer. With a good fat portion of kitchen-stuff, and a life interest of culinary knowledge. I have no 140 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. doubt but that he had a further benefit from your liberal father and mother. Capt. Eih. By the by, I have spoken to you of my father repeatedly, Edward ; but you have not yet heard any remarks relative to my mother. Capt. Mer. I take it for granted, from your report of your father, and my knowledge {bowing) of the offspring, that she must be equally amiable. Capt. Eth. Had she been so, I should not have been silent ; but, as I have no secrets from you, I must say she is not — the yqtj paragon of affection. Capt. Mer. I am sorry for it. Capt. Eth. My father, disgusted with the matrimonial traps that were set for the post-captain, and baronet of ten thousand a year, resolved, as he imagined wisely, to marry a woman in inferior life ; who, having no preten- sions of her own, would be humble and domestic. He chose one of his tenant's daughters, who was demure to an excess. The soft paw of a cat conceals her talons. My mother turned out the very antipodes of his expect- ations. Capt. Mer. Hum ! Capt. Eth. Without any advantages, excepting her alliance with my father, and a tolerable share of rural beauty, she is as proud as if descended from the house of Hapsburg, insults her equals, tramples on her inferi- ors, and — what is worse than all — treats my father very Capt. Mer. Treats him ill ! What ! he that was such a martinet, such a disciplinarian on board! She does not beat him ? Capt. Eth. No, not exactly; but so completely has she gained the upper hand, that the admiral is as subdued as a dancing-bear, obeying her orders with a growl, but still obeying them. At her command, he goads himself into a passion with whomsoever she may point out as the object of his violence. Capt. Mer. How completely she must have mastered him I How can he submit to it ? Capt. Eth. Habit, my dear Mertoun, reconciles us to such ; and he, at whose frown hundreds of gallant fellows trembled, is now afraid to meet the eye of a woman. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 141 To avoid anger with lier, he affects anger ^nih. every one else. This I mention to you, that you may guide your conduct toward her. Aware of your partiality to my sister, it may be as well CajJt. Mer, To hold the candle to the demon, you mean. Your pardon, Etheridge, for the grossness of the prov- erb. Capt. Elh. No apology, my dear fellow. Hold the candle when you will, it will not burn before a saint, and that's the truth. Follow my advice, and I will insure you success. I only wish that my amatory concerns had so promising an appearance. Capt. Mer. Why, I never knew that you were struck. Capt. Eth. The fact is that I am not satisfied with myself; and, when I am away from my Circe, I strive all I can to drive her from my memory. By change of scene, absence, and occupation, I contrive to forget her indifferent well. Add to all this, I have not committed myself by word or deed. I have now been three years in this way ; but the moment I find myself within two miles of my fair one, as the towers of my house rise upon my sight, so rises the passion in my bosom ; and what I supposed I had reasoned away to a mere dwarf- ish inclination, becomes at once a mighty sentiment. Capt. Mer. That looks very like attachment. Three years, did you say? My dear brother in affliction, make me your confident. dapt. Eth. I intended to do so, or I should not have originated the subject. My father brought up the daugh- ter of our steward, Bargrove, with my sister Agnes. I have, therefore, known Lucy from her infancy, and ought I to be ashamed to say how much I am in love with her? Capt. Mer. Etheridge, this is a point on which I am afraid my advice would not be well-received. Capt. Eth. Of course you would imply that she must be renounced. Capt, Mer. Most assuredly ; that is my opinion, on a first view of the case. You have your father's example. Capt. Eth. I have; but still tli*'re are many points in my favor. Bargrove is of a very old, though decayed, family ; indeed, much more ancient than our own. Capt. Mej. I grant you, there is one difficulty re- 142 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. moved. But still your relative position; tie is now your father's steward. Capt. Eth. That is certainly a great obstacle ; but, on the other hand, she has really been well-educated. Capt. Mer. Another point in your favor, I grant. Capt. Eth. With respect to Lucy herself, she is Capt. Mer. As your father thought your mother — per- fection. Recollect, the soft paw of the cat conceals the talons. Capt. Eth. Judge for yourself, when you see and con- verse with her. I presume I am to consider myself blind. At all events, I have decided upon nothing; and have neither, by word or deed, allowed lier to suppose an attachment on my part : still it is a source of great anx- iety. I almost wish that she :were happily married. By the by, my mother hates her. Capt. Mer. That's not in your favor, though it is in her's. Capt. Eth. And my father dotes upon her. Capt. Mer. That's in favor of you both. Capt. Eth. Now you have the whole story, you may advise me as you please ; but remember, I still preserve my veto. Capt. Mer. My dear Etheridge, with your permission. I will not advise at all. Your father tried in the same lottery, and drew a blank ; you may gain the highest prize ; but my hopes with your sister render it a most delicate subject for my opinion. Your own good sense must guide you. Capt. Eth. Unfortunately it often happens that, when a man takes his feelings for a guide, he walks too fast for good sense to keep pace with him. Capt. Mer. At all events be not precipitate ; and do not advance one step which, as a man of honor, you may not retrace. Capt. Eth. I will not, if I can help it. But here comes Mr. Harness. {Exeunt^ ENTERTAINING DIA1.0GUE3. 143 DIALOGUE XLVI. THE CANING ALDERMAN SMUGGLER — SIR HARRY WILDAIR — JOHN. Sir Harry. Dear Mr. Alderman, I'm your most de voted and humble servant. Alderman Smuggler. My best friend, Sir Harry, you're welcome to England. Sir Harry. I'll assure you, sir, there's not a man in the king's dominions I am gladder to meet, dear, dear Mr. Alderman. {Bowing very low.) Alderman Smuggler. Oh ! my good sir, you travelers have the kindest, the most obliging ways with you. Sir Harry. There is a business, Mr. Alderman, fallen out, which you may oblige me infinitely by — I am very sorry that I am forced to be troublesome — but necessity, Mr. Alderman Alderman Smuggler. Aye, sir, as you say, necessity. But, upon my word, dear sir, I am very short of money at present, but Sir Harry. That's not the matter, sir ; I'm above an obligation that way ; but the business is, I am reduced to an indispensable necessity of being obliged to you for a beating. Here, take this cane. Alderman Smuggler. A beating. Sir Harry I ha, ha, ha I I beat a knight baronet! An alderman turned cudgel-pla3^er ! ha, ha, ha! Sir Harry. Upon my word, sir, you must beat me, or I'll beat you ; take your choice. Alderman Smuggler. Pshal pshal you jest. Sir Harry. Nay, 'tis sure as fate ; so, my dear, dear Mr. Alderman, 1 hope you'll pardon my curiosity. (Strikes him.) Alderman Smuggler. Curiosity! Deuce take youi curiosity, sir. What d'ye mean ? Sir Harry. Nothing at all. I'm but in jest, good sir. Alderman Smuggler. Oh! I can take any thing in jest; but a man might imagine, by the smartness of the stroke, that you were in downright earnest. 144 ENTEETAINING DIALOGUES. jSir Harry. Not in tlie least^ sir; {strikes him) not in tlie least, indeed, dear sir. Alderman Smuggler. Pray, good sir, no more of your jests ; for they are the bluntest jests that I ever knew. Sir Harry. {Strikes him.) I heartily beg your pardon, with all my heart, sir. Alderman Smuggler. Pardon, sir! Well, sir, that is satisfaction enough from a gentleman; but seriously now, Sir Harry, if you pass any more of your jests upon me, I shall grow angry. Sir Harry. I humbly beg your permission to break one or two more. {Strikes him.) Alderman Smuggler. Oh! oh! sir, you'll certainly break my bones. Are you mad, sir ? John ! John I murder^ felony, manslaughter, murder ! {Runs about.) Sir Harry. Sir, I beg you ten thousand pardons ; but I am absolutely compelled to it, upon my honor, sir ; nothing can be more averse to my inclination than to jest with my honest, dear, loving, obliging friend, the alderman. {Striking him all the time.) (Enter John.) John. Oh! goodness! Sir Harry's murdering the poor old man. Alderman Smuggler. Oh! John, oh! John, I have been beaten in jest till I am almost murdered in good earnest. John. Oh! for charity's sake, Sir Harry, remember what you are doing ; forbear, sir, or I'll raise the neigh- borhood. {Aside) Though, to tell the truth, the old rogue richly deserves it, and, for my part, I enjoy the joke. {Sir H. takes snuff.) Alderman Smuggler. Now, sir, I will have amends, sir, before I leave the place, sir ; how durst you use me thus? Sir Harry. Sir? Alderman Smuggler. Sir, I say that I will have satis- faction. Sir Harry. Oh ! sir, with all my heart. {Throws snuff in his eyes.) Alderman Smuggler. Oh! murder, blindness, fire I ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 146 Oh. John, John I get me some water I water, fire, water! {Exit with Jokn.\ Sir Harry. How pleasant is resenting an injury with- out passion I 'tis the beauty of revenge. Let statesmen plot, and under business groan, And, settlinp: public quiet, lose their own ; I make the most of liib — no hour misspend, Pleasure's thn mean, and pleasure is my end. No spleen, no trouble, shall my time destroy; Life's but a span, I'll every inch enjoy. DIALOGUE XLVII. INDIGESTION. Scene. — Dr. Qregory\ Study. Enter a plump Glasgow Merchant. Merchant. Good morning. Doctor Gregory. I am just come into Edinburgh, about some law business, and I thought, when I was here, at any rate, I might just as well take your advice, sir, about my trouble. Doctor. Pray, sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be ? Merchant. Indeed, doctor, I am not very sure ; but I am thinking it is a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pinkling about my stomach ; — I am not just right. Doctor. You are from the west country, I should sup- pose, sir? Merchant. Yes, sir, from Glasgow. Doctor. Aye ; pray, sir, are you a glutton ? Merchant. God forbid, sir ; I am one of the plainest men living in all the west country. Doctor, Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard? Merchant. No, Dr. Gregory ; thank God, no one can accuse me of that. I am of the dissenting persuasion, doctoi', and an elder ; so you may suppose I am no drunk- ard. Doctor. I'll suppose no such thing, till you tell me your mode of life. I am so much puzzled with your symptoms^ sir, that I should wish to hear, in detail, what IS 146 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. jou do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it ? Merchant. I breakfast at nine o'clock ; take a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or smoked salmon, or may be both, if they are good, and two or three rolls and butter. Doctor. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam at breakfast ? Merchant. Oh, yes, sir ! but I do not count that as any thing. Doctor. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make? Merchant. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed. Some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled ; for I do not care for made dishes. I think some way they never satisfy the appetite. Doctor. Do you take a little pudding then, and after- ward some cheese ? Merchant. Oh, yes ! though I do not care much about them. Doctor. You take a glass of ale or porter with your cheese ? Merchant. Yes, one or the other ; but seldom both. Doctor. You west country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner. Merchant. Yes, we do ; it's good for digestion. Doctor. Do you take any wine during dinner? Merchant. Yes, a glass or two of sherrv ; but I am indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer. Doctor. What quantity of port do you drink ? Merchant. Oh, very little ; not above a half dozen glasses or so. Doctor. In the west country it is impossible, I hear, to dine without punch ? Merchant. Yes, sir; indeed, it is punch we drink chiefly ; but for myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate. Doctor. Oh, exceedingly moderate, indeed ! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and but ter? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 147 Merchant. Yes, before I go to the counting-liouse to read tlie evening letters. Doctor, And, on your return, you take supper, I sup- pose? Merchant, No, sir, I can not be said to take supper ; just something before going to bed ; a broiled haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or a half-hundred of oysters, or the like of that, and may be two-thirds of a bottle of ale ; but I take no regular supper. Doctor. But you take a little more punch after that? Merchant. No, sir; punch does not agree with me at bed-time. I take a tumbler of warm whiskey toddy at night ; it is lighter to sleep on. Doctor. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every-day life ; but, upon great occasions, you per- haps exceed a little? Merchant. No, sir ; except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen. Doctor. Not above twice a week ? Merchant. No ; not oftener. Doctor. Of course you sleep well and have a good ap- petite ? Merchant. Yes, sir, thank God, I have; indeed, any ill health that I have is about meal-time. Doctor. {Assuming a severe look, knitting his brow, and lowering his eyebrows.) Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow, indeed. You come here, and tell me you are a moderate man ; but, upon examination, I find, by your own showing, that you are a most voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man ; yet, by your own show- ing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. 1 see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what 1: uman stomach can stand this? Go home, sir, and leave your present course of riotous living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors. Merchant. I am sure, doctor, I am very much obliged to you. {Taking out a pocket-book) I shall endeavor to 148 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Doctor. Sir, you are not obliged to me. Put up youi money, sir. Do you think I will take a fee for telling you what you know as well as myself? Though you are no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or take my word for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase. DIALOGUE XLVIII. A DECEIVER DECEIVED. Sir Christopher. And so, friend Blackletter, you are just from college ? Quiz. Yes, sir. Sir Oh. Ah, Mr. Blackletter, I once loved the name of a college, until my son proved so worthless. Quiz. In the name of all the literati, what do you mean? You fond of books, and not bless your stars in giving you such a son ? Sir Gh. Ah, sir, he was once a youth of promise. But do you know him ? Quiz. What! Frederick Classic? Aye, that I do; heaven be praised ! Sir Gh. I tell you, Mr. Blackletter, he is wonderfully changed. Quiz. And a lucky change for him. What I I sup- pose he was once a wild young fellow ? Sir Gh. No, sir ; you don't understand me, or I don't you. I tell you, he neglects his studies, and is foolishly in love ; for which I shall certainly cut him off with a shilling. Quiz. You surprise me, sir I must beg leave to un- deceive you ; you are either oat of your senses, or some wicked enemy of his has undoubtedly done him this injury. Why, sir, he is in love, I grant you ; but it is only with his book. He hardly allows himself time to eat; and, as for sleep, he scarcely takes two hours in the twenty-four. {Adde>j This is a thumper; for the dog has not looked into a book these six months, to my certain knowledge. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 149 jSir Ch. I have received a letter from farmer Down right this very day, who tells me he has received a letter from him, containing proposals for his daughter. Quiz. This is very strange. I left him at college, as close to his books as — oh, oh — I believe I can solve this mystery, and much to your satisfaction. Sir Ch. I should be verj happy, indeed, if you could. Quiz, Oh, as plain as that two and three are five. 'Tis thus: An envious fellow, a rival of your son's — a fellow who has not as much sense in his whole corpora- tion as your son has in his little finger — ^yes, I heard this very fellow ordering a messenger to farmer Downright witn a letter ; and this is, no doubt, the very one. Whv, sir, your son will certainly surpass the Admirable Crich- ton. Sir Isaac Newton will be a perfect automaton, com- pared with him ; and the sages of antiquity, if resusci- tated, would hang their heads in despair. Sir Ch. Is it possible that my son is now at college, making these great improvements? Quiz. Aye, that he is, sir. Sir Ch. {Rvbhing his hands.) Oh, the dear fellow! the dear fellow I Quiz. Sir, you may turn to any part of Homer, and repeat one line, he will take it up, and, by dint of mem ory, continue repeating to the end of the book. Sir Ch. Well, well, well I I find I was doing him great injustice. However, I'll make him ample amends. Oh, the dear fellow! the dear fellow! the dear fellow ! ( With great joy.) He will be immortalized ; and so shall I ; for, if I had not cherished the boy's genius in embryo, he would never have soared above mediocrity. Quiz. True, sir. Sir Ch. I can not but think what superlative pleas- ure I shall have, when my son has got his education. No other man's in England shall be comparative with it, of that I am positive. Why, sir, the moderns arc such dull, plodding, senseless barbarians, that a man of learn- ing is as hard to be found as the unicorn. Quiz. 'Tis much to be regretted, sir; but such is the lamentable fact. Sir Ch. Even the shepherds, in days of yore, spoke 13* 160 ENTERTAINLISTG DIALOGUES. their motliDr tongue in Latin ; and now hic^ hcec, hoc ia as little understood as the language of the moon. Quiz. Your son, sir, will be a phenomenon ; depend upon it. Sir Gh. So much the better, so much the better. I expected soon to have been in the vocative ; for, you know, you found me in the accusative case, and that's very near it — ha ! ha I ha ! Quiz. You have reason to be merry, sir, I promise you. Sir Oh. I have, indeed. Well, I shall leave off in- terjections, and promote an amicable conjunction with the dear fellow. Oh I we shall never think of address- ing each other in plain English — no, no, we will converse in the pure classical language of the ancients. You re- member the Eclogues of Yirgil, Mr. Blackletter? Quiz. Oh, yes, sir, perfectly ; have 'em at my finger ends. {Aside.) Not a bit of a one did I ever hear of in my life. Sir Gh. How sweetly the first of them begins I Quiz. Yery sweetly, indeed, sir. {Aside.) Bless me, I wish he would change the subject. Sir Gh. " Tyiere tu patulce recubans ;''^ faith 'tis more musical than fifty hand-organs. Quiz. {Aside.) I had rather hear a jewsharp. Sir Gh. Talking of music, though — the Greek is the langaage for that. Quiz. Truly, it is. Sir Gh. Even the conjugations of the verbs far excel the finest sonata of Pleyel or Handel. For instance, " tupto^ tupso, tutuphaJ'' Can any thing be more musical? Quiz. Nothing. '' Stoop low, stoop so, stoop too far." Sir Gh. Ha! ha! ha! "Stoop too far!" That's a good one. Quiz. {Aside..) Faith, I have stooped too far. All's over now, by Jupiter ! Sir Gh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! a plaguy good pun, Mr. Black- letter. Quiz. Tolerable. {Aside) I am well out of that scrape, however. Sir Gh. Pray, sir, which of the classics is your favor- ite? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 151 Quiz. Why, sir, Mr. Frederic Classic, I think— he is BO ffreat a scholar. Sir Ch. Po I po ! you don't understand me. I mean which of the Latin classics do you admire most? Quiz. {Aside.) Hang it! what shall I say now ? The Tiatin classics? Oh, really, sir, I admire them all so ri\ach it is difficult to say. Sir Oh. Virgil is my favorite. How very expressive IS his description of the unconquerable passion of Queen Pido, where he says, ^'' Hceret lateri lethalis arundo/^^ Is pot that very expressive? Quiz. Very expressive, indeed, sir. (Aside.) I wish we were forty miles asunder. I shall never be able to hold out much longer, at this rate. Sir Ch. And Ovid is not without his charms. Quiz. He is not, indeed, sir. Sir Ch. And what a dear, enchanting fellow Hor ace is! Qiws. Wonderfully so I Sir Oh. Pray, what do you think of Xenophon ? Quiz. (Aside.) Who the plague is he, I wonder? Xenophon! Oh, I think he unquestionably wrote good Latin, sir. Sir Ch. Good Latin, man! he wrote Greek — good Greek, you meant. Quiz. True, sir, I did. Latin, indeed! (In great con- fusion.) I meant Greek; did I say Latin? I really meant Greek. (Aside.) Bless me ! I don't know what I mean myself. Sir Ch. Oh, Mr. Blackletter, I have been trying a long time to remember the name of one of Achilles' horses, but I can't for my life think of it. You doubtless can tell me. Quiz. O yes, his name was — ^but which cf them do you mean? What was he called? Sir Ch. What was he called ? Why, that's the very thing I wanted to know. The one I allude to was born of the Harpy Celaeno. I can't, for the blood of me tell it. Quiz. (Aside.) Bless me! if I can either. (To him. ^ Born of the Harpy — oh! his name was — (striking his forehead.) Gracious ! I forget it now. His name was— 152 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. was — waii — strange ! ' 'tis as familiar to me as my A, B, C. Sir Gh. Oh I I remember — 'twas Xanthus, Xantbus — I remember now — 'twas Xantbus — plague o' tbe name I — tbat's it. Quiz. Egad I so it is. " Tbankus, Tbankus " — tbat's it. Strange, I could not remember it I {Aside.) 'Twouli ]iave been stranger if I bad. Sir Ch. You seem at times a little absent, Mr. Black- letter. Quiz. Dear me I I wisb I was absent altogetbei. {Aside.) Sir Gh. We sball not disagree about learning, sir. I discover you are a man, not only of profound learning, but correct taste. Quiz. {Aside.) I am glad you bave found tbat out, for I never sbould. I came bere to quiz tbe old fellow, and be'll quiz me, I fear. {To him.) 0, by tbe by, I bave been so confused — I mean, so confounded — psbaw! so mucb engrossed witb tbe contemplation of tbe Latin classics, I bad almost forgotten to give you a letter from your son. Sir Gh. Bless me, sir I wby did you delay tbat pleas- ure so long? Quiz. I beg pardon, sir; bere 'tis. {Gives a letter.) Sir Gh. {Puts on his spectacles and reads.) "To Miss Clara." Quiz. No, no, no — tbat's not it — ^bere 'tis. {Takes the letter, and gives him another.) Sir Gh. Wbat ! are you tbe bearer of love epistles, too, Mr. Blackletter? Quiz. {Aside.) Wbat a borrid blunder! {To him.) Ob, no, sir; tbat letter is from a female cousin, at a boarding-scbool, to Miss Clara Uprigbt — no, Down- rigbt — tbat's tbe name. Sir Gh. Truly, sbe writes a good masculine fist. Well, let me see wbat my boy bas to say. {Beads.) "Dear Fatber : — Tbere is a famous (jreek manuscript just come to ligbt. I must bave it. Tbe price is about a thousand dollars. Send me tbe money by tbe bearer." Short and sweet. There's a letter for you, in tbe true Lacedaemonian style — laconic. Well, tbe boy ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 153 shall have it, were it ten times as much. I should like to see this Greek manuscript. Pray, sir, did jou ever see it? Quiz, I can't say I ever did, sir. {Aside.) This is the only truth I have been able to edge in yet. Sir Gh. I'll just send to my bankers for the money. In the meantime we will adjourn to my library. I have been much puzzled with an obscure passage in Livy. Wo must lay our heads together for a solution. But I am sorry you are addicted to such absence of mind at times. Quiz. 'Tis a misfortune, sir; but I am addicted to greater than that, at times. Sir Gh. Ah ! what's that? Quiz. I am sometimes addicted to an absence of body. Sir Gh. As how ? Quiz. Why, thus, sir. {Takes up his hat and sticky and walks off.) Sir Gh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! that's an absence of body sure enough — an absence of body with vengeance I A very merry fellow this. He will be back for the money, I suppose, presently. He is, at all events, a very moaest man, not fond of expressing his opinion — ^but that's a mark of merit. DIALOGUE XLIX. THE LANDLORD AND TENANT. Sir Philip Blandford — Ashfield. Sir Philip. Come hither. I believe you hold a farm of mine. Ashfield. Ees, zur, I do, at your zarvice. Sir Philip. I hope a profitable one. Ashfield. Zometimes it be, zur. But thic year it bo all t'other way, as 'twur ; but I do hope, as our landlords have a tightish big lump of the good, they'll be zo kind- hearted as to take a little bit of the bad. Sir Philip. It is but reasonable. I conclude, then, you are in my debt. 154 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Ashfield. Ees, zur, I be ; at your zarvice. Sir Philip. How mucli? Ashfield. I do owe ye a hundred and fifty pounds at your zarvice. Sir Philip. Which you can't pay. Ashfield. Not a varthing, zur ; at your zarvice. Sir Philip. Well, I am willing to allow you every in- dulgence. Ashfield. Be you, zur? that be deadly kind. Dear heart ! it will make my auld dame quite young again, and I don't think helping a poor man will do your hon- or's health any harm ; I don't, indeed, zur. I had a thought of speaking to your worship aboat it ; but then, thinks I, the gentleman mayhap be one of those that do like to do a good turn, and not have a word zaid about it: zo, zur, if you had not mentioned what I owed you, I am zure I never should ; should not, indeed, zur. Sir Philip. Nay, I will wholly acquit you of the debt, on condition Ashfield. Ees, zur. Sir Philip. On condition, I say, that you instantly turn out that boy — that Henry. Ashfield. Turn out Henry ! Ha, ha, ha ! Excuse my tittering, zur; but you bees making your vun of I, zure. Sir Philip. I am not apt to trifle : send him instantly from you, or take the consequences. Ashfield. Turn out Henry ! I do vow I shouldn't know how to set about it ; I should not, indeed, zur. Sir Philip. You hear my determination. If you dis- obey, you know what will follow. I'll leave you to re- flect on it. (Exit.) Ashfield. Well, zur, I'll argify the topic, and then you may wait upon me, and I'll tell ye. {Makes the motion 0/ turning out.) I should be deadly awkard at it, vor zar- tain. However, I'll put the case. Well ! I goes whizt- ling whoam; noa, drabbit it! I shouldn't be able to whiztle a bit, I'm zure. Well ! I goes whoam, and I zees Henry sitting by my wife, mixing up someit to com- fort the wold zoul, and take away the pain of her rheu- matics. Yery well ! Then Henry places a chair vor I Dy the vire-side, and zav& — "Yarmer the horses be fed, ENTERTilNING DIALOGUES. 155 the sheep be folded, and you have nothing to do but to zit down, smoke your pipe, and be happy I " Very well! {Becomes affected.) Then 1 zays, "Henry, you be poor and friendless; so you nnust turn out of my house di- rectly." Very well ! Then my wife stares at I ; reaches her hand toward the vire-place, and throws the poker at my head. Very well ! Then Henry gives a kind of aguish shake, and, getting up, sighs from the bottom of liis heart ; then, holding up his head like a king, zays, " Varmer, I have too long been a burden to you. Heav- en protect you, as you have me. Farewell 1 I go." Then 1 zays, "If thee doez, I'll be smashed." {With great energy.) Hollo ! you Mister Sir Philip I you may come in. {Enter Sir Philip Blandford.) Zur, I have argified the topic, and it wouldn't be pret- ty ; zo I can't. Sir Philip. Can't! Ashfield. Well, zur, there is but another word: I won't. /Sir Philip. Indeed ! Ashfield. No, zur, I won't. I'd see myself hanged first, and you too, zur ! I would, indeed. {Bowing.) Sir Philip. You refuse, then, to obey ? Ashfield. I do, zur ; at your zarvice. {Bowing.) Sir Philip. Then the law must take its course. Ashfi£ld. I be zorry for that too. I be, indeed, zur ; but, if corn wouldn't grow, I couldn't help it : it weren't poisoned by the hand that zowed it. Thic hand, zur, be as free from guilt as your own. Good morning to you. I do hope I have made myself agreeable ; and zo I'll go whoam. {Exeunt.) DIALOGUE L A TEMPERANCE MEETING. (Parody on the DeoUration of lodependenec) John. Mr. Chairman and ladies and gentlemen:— When, in the course of human events, it becomes nece& 156 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. sary for one class of citizens to dissolve the bands whict have connected them with another class, and to assume, among their fellow-citizens, that station and character to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of community re- quires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident : that all American citizens are created free and equal ; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness ; that to secure these rights, associations are formed, deriving their powers from the consent of the members of the as- sociation, and that, whenever any custom, habit, or prac- tice becomes destructive of the good order, peace, and happiness of society, it is the right of any portion of the community, if they can not alter, abolish, or amend such evil habit, or practice, to declare themselves free and in- dependent, and that they will not be enslaved by any custom, habit, or practice, which is calculated to dishonor the name or endanger the liberties of our glorious re- public. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that customs long estab- lished should not be changed for light and transient causes ; and, accordingly, all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are suf- ferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms and customs to which they have long been accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pur- suing invariably the same object, evinces a design to re- duce a people under absolute despotism, it is the people's right, it is their duty, to throw off such tyranny, and to provide new guards for their safety and respectability ; and such has been the sufferance of the virtuous part of our youthful community, and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their course with respect to the use of alcoholic drinks as a beverage, that they will no longer give countenance to such a practice, thougn it may have had the patronage of wealth and the sanc- tion of years. Therefore^ We, the members of this school, including officers and teachers, and all others friendly to the enter- prise. ^) declare ourselves free and independent^ and we do ENTERTAIN 12^' G DIALOGUES. 157 hereby invite our fellow-citizens, of every age, sex, and color, to abstain from the use of all intoxicating drinks iis a beverage, and that for the following reasons, whb^h my worthy colleague will now state. Joseph. The history of the reign of alcohol is a his- tory of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having a direct tendency to reduce the free citizens of the United States to a vassalage more deplorable than the worst slavery with which the earth has ever been cursed. To prove this, let facts be submitted to every thinking mind. The demon of intemperance has refused his assent to laws the most necessary for the public good. And. if he could not hinder our legislative bodies from passing laws calculated to restrict and limit his influence. he has prevented their being put into execution. He has, on certain occasions, called together numbers of our citizens, at certain places, rendered noisy and un- comfortable by his presence, for the sole purpose of de- priving them of their money, their reason, their health, and their good character. He has ridiculed, despised, and persecuted religious bodies, and temperance societies, for opposing with manly firmness his invasion on the rights of the people. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this tyrant of intemperance has invaded the domestic circle, and broken up the peace of thousands of fiimilies ; laid in hopeless ruin the bright- est prospects of some of our best citizens ; robbed wealthy farmers of their landed estates, women of their patrimo- ny, and children of their inheritance ; he has also stirred up insurrection within our borders, and exposed us to invasions from without. He has, moreover, induced many of our citizens to convert the fruits of the earth into liquid poison, for the purpose of increasing their wealth, and has erected a number of offices, and. licensed a multitude of officers, to settle among us to harass our people and eat out their substance. He has sent among us, in time of peace, standing armies, without the consent of our legislatures. Those bodies of armed troops have produced the greatest misery imaginable. Under the command of officers, commis- sioned and non-commissioned, tliey have inflicte'ea''a/i^/^.) Sir, I hope I shall profit by this day's lesson. I have only to Sfiy, that I am perfectly satisfied we are all wrong ; and that is, perhaps, the best assurance I can give 3^ou that I think you are right. That's all I have to say. Saunders. Right ! right ! neighbor Fosdick. We are all — ye see — we are all come out on the wrong side this time ; a'nt we, squire ? I tell ye what, Mr. Schoolmas- ter — 'Miah Saunders never is ashamed to back out (suits the action^ &c.^) when he's wrong I I says, I — ye see — 'Miah Saunders is all for good order I Whip that boy of mine — ye see — as much as you please I I'll not complain again — ye see; whip him — says I — ye see — whip him, and I — tell ye — if 'Miah Saunders don't back ye up — then, ye see — may I be chosen president of — cold water society I {Exit.) DIALOGUE LV. STUDENT, FARMER, and MINISTER. Student. What can be more calculated to fill the mind with pleasure than the study of philosophy and astron- omy? For, while they entertain and enlarge our under- standing, they lead us to contemplate the supreme sourco .of beauty and harmony. Deity himself. Farmer. {Outside.) Haw buck here, whoa, haw whoa. (Enters.) How d'ye do, how d'ye do, my young friend ? Student Very well, I thank you, how are you ? Farmer. I don't know, moving 'bout a little, but 1 don't know but I have 'sturbed you ; you seem to be talking to yourself Student. Not in the least, sir. I was contemplating the beauties of creation, and admiring the order in whicn 178 ENTEBTAINING DIALOGUES. the planets move ; but, as I am ever fond of parental instruction, I shall with no less pleasure listen to your observations. Farmer. Well, I'm willing to tell you any thing I know, and there ain't many more sperienced, though T say it myself; but I want to know what under heaven there is in creation so dreadful, that you make such a bustle about? Student. Sir, I think there is an infinite variety of objects to entertain the rational mind, which we may contemplate, and still find ourselves lost in the works of the Creator. Farmer. Why — why — why — I s'pose there's some- thing 'markable 'nough in creation ; but, for my part, I can't find any thing so dreadful in creation. I find more profit in contriving how to fat my pork and beef in one year, than in thinking 'bout creation from July to 'tar- nity. (Turning around.) Don't let that ox hook the old mare, John. Student. Those employments are indeed necessary, and truly commendable ; yet I find I have an opportunity to improve many superior pleasures, which demand and force my admiration. Farmer. O I you're one of them colleges larnt ; I want to 'spute 'long with some of you noddies, some time ; pray, let a body hear what them 'markable things be? Student. I think the order of the solar system, the regularity in which the planets move round the sun, their center, the motion of the earth, which occasions that pleasing variety of seasons, afibrd a fullness for our con- templation. Farmer. The motion of the world ! — 'pon my word, your college wit's got something new ! Do you mean this great masterly world ever moves, or what a plague do you mean ? Student. I had reference to the annual and diurnal motions of the earth. Farmer. "What under heaven do you mean by your ludurnal motion ? That's something new. Student. ] mean revolving on its own axis, from west to east, once in twenty *"four hours. ENTERTAINING DIAIiOGUES. IV i) Farmer. What I do you say this great masterly world turns over every day, and nobody know nothing 'bout it? If this world turns over, what's the reason my mill- pond never got upset, and all the water spilt out, long ago ? Do you think my farm ever turned over ? Student. Your farm, being connected with the rest of the globe, undoubtedly turns with it. Farmer. What do you say ? — all the world turns over, and my farm turns too ? Though I s'pose my farm lie^ about in the middle here, so 'twouldn't affect that so much ; but what if any body should get close to the edge, and it should get to whirling and whirling, I guess 'twould make their hairs whistle, and like enough 'twould throw them ofi^. Student. I don't know what you mean by the edge ; this world is round, like an orange. Farmer. Why, you talk more and more like a fool. What ! this world round ? Don't you see 'tain't round ? Why, 'tis as flat as a pancake. Student. The greatesf philosophers give it as their opinion that it is round. Farmer. What do you think I care what your boloso- phors say, when I know, '■^hona 'pidaj'' 'taint so, and any other half-witted fool might know better. Student. Unless you bring some argument to confute theirs, I don't see why you should disbelieve them. Farmer. Why, I know 'tain't so ; and that's reason enough. What! this world round, and folks live on't, and turn over too ! That's a plaguy likely story ; but, if you want to hear my arguments, you shall hear them in full. How d'ye think folks can stand with their heads downward? Why, why, if this world should only' turn up edgeways, all our houses, and walls, and fences would get slidin' and slidin', and as soon as they got to the edge would fall down, down, down, and finally would never 8top. That would be plaguy good 'conomy. Student. The atmosphere turns with us. It would not affect us in the least ; our feet would point to the center, as they now do. Farmer. Why, yes, 'twould ; if any body should get to the edge, and it should get to whirling round, 'twould give 'em a plaguy hist, and like aF, not 'twould throw 180 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 'em off ; and that ain't all ; 'twould make their heady swim so they couldn't stand. What d'ye think of that, ha ? Why, I tell ye this world is flat, and laid on its foundation, or it couldn't stand. Student. What supports this foundation? Farmer. Hem ! hem I hem ! — why, how a plague do you think I know ? But I know 'tis so ; and that's rea- son enough. But what do you ask such plaguy foolish questions for? Any body knows this great masterly world could not stand without it had something to stand on. Student. But, if it has a foundation, how does the sun get through ? Farmer. Hem ! hem ! hem ! — that's another plaguy foolish question. But there's no difficulty at all in that. Why, there's a hole made just big enough for the sun to get through, without weakening the foundation. Student. But there's one more difficulty ; the sun is much larger than this earth, and therefore must destroy your foundation. » Farmer. What I do you say the sun is bigger than this great world ? You great foolhead ! 'Tain't a bit bigger than a cart-wheel. Student. If it be so small, how can it light this whole earth, when it is so far from us ? Farmer. Why, hem ! hem ! hem ! — I don't raly see into that myself; but then I don't s'pose 'tis such a des- put ways from us ; I don't think 'tis more than a mile and a half, or two miles, or sich a business. But I don't quite see how it gets through the foundation, I confess. Student. O, I just see into it! I guess it don't go through ; only just gets down behind the trees, out of sight, and comes right back again, in the same place, and it is so small a thing we can't see it in the night. Farmer. That's about as cunning as the rest of your talk ; why, you plaguy fool ! you could see the sun in the night as plain as you could a star, though it be ever so cloudy. Student. Then I don't see but you must give up your Farmer. Give it up? Kot I! Think I'll give up any thing that I know ? I've— less me see— how old is ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 181 my Niib ? — I've lived in thfe place sixty -four yean< ; and for nine years I was first corporal in the company ; and for twelve years I've been the oldest deacon in the church ; and I never heard of the world's turning over : 'tis impossible for it to go so fast as to turn over every day. Student. But, look here, Deacon Homespun, how many thousand times faster than for the earth to turn round once in twenty-four hours, must the sun go, when it is so far from us ? Farmer. Hem I hem I hem 1 — that's a plaguy foolish question ; I don't quite see into that myself, but the Bi- ble says so, and nobody's any business to conspute the Bible, you young blasphemer, you ! Student. But the Bible was not given to teach phil- osophy. However, it says the earth was turned as clay to seal ; therefore it proves nothing about it. Farmer. Why, hem I hem ! hem I — but what makes you think 'tis round ? Don't you see 'tis flat as far as you can see ? Student. For several reasons: it casta a circular shadow when it eclipses the moon, and, besides, it has been sailed round several times. Farmer You plaguy fool you, the earth never eclipses the moon ; and, as for sailing round it, they only sail round close to the edge, and take plaguy good care that they don't sail off. But if this world turns over once in twenty-four hours, they might chain up a vessel to a tree, and it would go round itself every day. Student. But how happens it that the moon is always eclipsed when the sun is creeping through your under- pinning ? Farmer. Hem ! hem I Well, I ain't goin' to give up any thing I know ; and I shan't believe this world turns round till I find I can stand upon my head; for I know the world can't stand without it has something to stand on. Student... How do the sun, moon, and stars stay uji without their~proper foundation ? Farmer. How the old boy do you think I know? But if the world turns round, what's the reason our min- ister never said nothing 'bout it ? 16 182 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. StyxH^nt He'll tell you so now, or lie is not fit for a minister. Farmer. You're an impudent scamp I Do you mean to consult me to my face, and a deacon too ? Student. If you are oflPended, I have no more to say. Farmer. Well, I'll make you know better than to con- spute me I {strikes Mm.) {Enter Minister.) Minister. Hold, deacon I I'm surprised to find you fighting ! Farmer. I hain't been fighting. Minister. But I saw you fighting. Farmer. Well, he's a villain, and ought to be kicked by every good man, and much more by a deacon I Minister. Why, what has he done ? Farmer. Done ! why he's done every thing. He ought to be hung I Minister. Let us hear what it is ? Farmer. Why, he's a blasphemer; he holds to the most conbominable doctrine that ever was under heaven. Minister. But what has he said. Deacon Homespun, that so exasperates you ? Farmer. Why, he 'nies the Bible, and says you ain't no more fit for a minister than my old one-horned ram. Minister. Wherein has he denied the Bible, pray ? Farmer. Why, he says this world is round, and yet folks live on't ; and turns over, too ; and that ain't all — he 'nies the sun's rising and setting ; and, if a man won't fight when such conbominable doctrine's held up, he can't be a Christian. Minister. I don't see any thing in that criminal or con- trary to Scripture. Student. Did I not tell you your minister would say so ? Farmer. Well, you're all a pack of blasphemers ; you 'nie the Bible, and I won't stay to talk with you ! {Leaves^ and is heard in the distance saying :) Haw long here, whoa, git up, whoa hish I ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 188 DIALOGUE LVI. THE MISER LovEGOLD and James. Lovegold. Where have you been? I have wanted you above an hour. James. Whom do you want, sir — your coachman or your cook ? for I am both one and t'other. Lovt. I want my cook. Jairies. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman , for you have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses were stai'ved ; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an instant. {Puts off his coachmari's great-coat^ and appears as a cook.) Now, sir, I am ready for your commands. Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper. James. A supper, sir I I have not heard the word this half-year ; a dinner, indeed, now and then ; but for a supper, I'm almost afraid, for want of practice — my hand is out. Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide a good supper. James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir. Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money I Can you say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money. Jamp.s. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table? Jjove. About eight or ten ; but I will have a supper dressed but for eight ; for, if there be enough for eight, there is enough for ten. James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup ; at the other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens ; one side, a fillet of veal ; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bus- tard, which may be had for about a guinea Love. Zounds ! is the fellow providing an entertain* ment for my lord mayor and the court of aldermen ? Jamss. Then a ragout 184 ENTERTAINING DIALOG PES. Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good people, you dog ? James. Then pray, sir, say what will you have? Lave. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs : let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre ; a large suet-pudding ; some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat ; a line, small, lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. There ; that's plenty and variety. Jamee. 0, dear Love. Plenty and variety. James. But, sir, you must have some poultry. Love. No ; I'll have none. Jo^mes. Indeed, sir, you should. Love. Well, then — kill the old hen, for she has done laying. Jam£s. Mercy ! sir, how the folks will talk of it ; in- deed, people say enough of you already. Love. Eh ! why, what do the people say, pray ? James. Ah, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry. Love. Not at all ; for I'm always glad to hear what the world says of me. James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a jest of you every where ; nay, of your servants, on your account. One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to find an excuse to pay them no wages. Love. Poh! poh! James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing your own oats from your own horses. Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any. James. In a word, you are the by-word every where ; and you are never mentioned, but oy the names of cov- etous, stingy, scraping, old Love. Get along, you impudent villain ! Jam^s. Nay, sir, you said you wouldn't be angry. Love, Get out, you dog ! you ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 185 DIALOGUE LYII. THE RIVAL ORATORS* ScKTTB. — The platform of a tchool-room. Characters. — Thomas Trotter, a large hoy, with a ^^big voice;'''' and Samuel Sly, a small boy, whose vocal organ is pitched on a high Tcey. Thomas enters, and bows to the audience, followed by Samuel, who goes through the same ceremony, a little in his rear.) Thomas. (Turning partially round.) What do you want here ? Samuel. I want to speak my piece, to be sure. Thomas. Well, you will please to wait until / get through ; it's my turn now. Samuel. No, 'tain't your turn, either, my learned friend ; excuse me for contradicting ; but, if I don't stick out for my rights, nobody else will. My turn came be- fore»that fellow's who said " his voice was still for war ; " but I couldn't think how my speech began, then, and he got the start of me. Thomas. Yerj well ; if you were not ready when your turn came, that's your fault, and not mine. Go to your seat, and don't bother me any more. Samitel. Well, that's cool, I declare — as cool as a load of ice in February. Can't you ask some other favor, Mr. Trotter? Thomas. Yes ; hold your tongue. Samuel. Can't do that; I'm bound to get off my speech first. You see it's running over, like a bottle of beer, and I can't keep it in. So here goes: — " My name is Norval ; on the Grampian Hills My father feeds " Thoma^i. (Interrupting him, commences his piece in a loud tone.) " Friends, Romans, countrymen ! " Samuel. Greeks, Irishmen, and fellow-sojers I Thomas. " Lend me your ears." Samuel Don't you do it ; he's got ears enough of his own. * Taken, by permission, from " Whistler,''* one of the Aimwell Story Books, published by Gould & Lincoln, Boston. 16* 186 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Thomas " I come to bury CaBsar, not to praise him." Samuel. {Afimicking his gestures.) I come to speak my piece, and I'll do it, Ceesar or no Caesar. " My name is i^orval ; " Thomas. {Advancing toward him^ in a threatening atti- tude.) Sam Sly, if you don't stop your fooling, I'll put you off the stage. Samuel. {Retreating.) Don't, don't you touch me, Tom ; you'll joggle my piece all out of me again. Thomas. Well, then, keep still until I get through. {Turns to the audience.) " Friends, Romans, countrymen I lend me your ears ; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him." Samuel. I say. Tommy, what are you bla-a-a-a-r-ting about ; have you lost your calf? Thomas. " The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones ; So let it be with Caesar." {He is again brought to a stand by Sam^ who is standing behind him, mimicking his gestures in a ludicrous manner.^ Now, Sam, I tell you to stop your monkey-shines ; if you don't, I'll make you I Samuel. You stop your spouting about Caesar, then, and let me have my say. You needn't think you can cheat me out of my rights because you wear higher heeled shoes than I do. Thomas. I can tell you one thing, sir — nothing but your size saves you from a good flogging. Samuel. Well, that is a queer coincidence ; for I can tell you that nothing but your size saves you from a good dose of Solomon's grand panacea. {To the audience.) I don't know what can be done with such a long-legged fellow — he's too big to be whipped, and he isn't big enough to behave himself. Kow, all keep still, and let me begin again. " My name is Norval ; ■ " Thomas. " I come to bury Caesar, • " Samuel. I thought you'd buried him once, good deeds, bones, and all ; how many more times are you going to Jo it ? Thomas. Sam, I'm a peaceable fellow ; but, if you go much further, I won't be responsible for the conse- quences. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 187 Samuel I'm for piece^ too ; but it's my piece, and not your long rigmarole about Caesar, that I go in for. As I said before, " My name is " Thomas. " The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious ; If it were so, it were a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answered it." Samuel. {In a loud whisper.) I say, Tom, did you know you had got a hole in your unwhisperables ? Thomas. " Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, (For Brutus is an honorable man — So are they all, all honorable men,) Come I to speak at Caesar's funeral." Samuel. This isn't Caesar's funeral — it's the exhibition of the Spankertown Academy, and it's my turn to offi- ciate, so get out with Caesar. " My name is Nor " Tlwmas. "He was my friend, faithful and just to me ; But Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honorable man." Samuel. Brutus be hanged; who cares for what he said ? Come, you've sputtered enough ; now give me a chance to say something. " My name is " Thomas. Come, Sammy, dont interrupt me again ; that's a clever fellow. Let me finish my piece, and then you shall have the whole platform to yourself Samuel. You're very kind, Mr. Trotter — altogether too kind ! Your generosity reminds me of an Irish gen- tleman, who couldn't live peaceably with his wife, and so they agreed to divide the house between them. " Bid- dy," says he, " ye'll jist be after taking the outside of the house, and I'll kape the inside." Thomas. {To me audience.) Ladies and gentlemen : — You see it is useless for me to attempt to proceed, and I trust you will excuse me from performing my part. {Bows and withdraws.) Samuel. Yes, I hope vou will excuse him, ladies and gentlemen. The fact is, he means well enough ; but, be- tween you and me, he doesn't know a wheelwright from a right wheel. I'm sorry to say, his education has been sadly neglected, as you all perceive. He has'nt enjoyed the advantages that I have for learning good manners. And, then, did you ever hear such a ridiculous spouter ! 188 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Ho might make a very decent town-crier, or auctioneer, or something of that sort — but, to think of Tommy Trotter pretending to be an orator, and delivering a funeral oration over Caesar ! my ! its enough to make a cat laugh ! And, now, ladies and gentlemen, as the interruption has ceased, I will proceed with my part : — " My name is Norval ; on the Grampian Hills My father feeds his flocks " And — and — and — {aside, to a boy near him.) — what is it? {To the audience.) " Feeds his flocks " — and — and — and — there I I'll be bio wed if I haven't got dead stuck, a'ready I Just as I expected ; that lubber, that came to bury Caesar, has bullied all the ideas out of my head 1 (Beats an inglorious retreat, with his hands over his face.) DIALOGUE LYIII. GENTLEMAN AND IRISH SERVANT. Gentleman seated at a table ; Irish Servant enters, in search of employment. Irishman. {Taking off his hat and bowing.) An' plaze yer honor, would ye be after giving employment to a faithful servant, who has been recimmended to call upon yer honor? Gentleman. You appear to have walked some dis- tance ; does it rain ? Irish. Never a drop, plaze yer honor. Gent. (Looking out at tvindow.) Ah I I see the sun shines now ; post nubila Phoebus. Irish. The post has not yet arrived, sir. Gent. What may I call your name ? Irish. My name is Michael Carnes, and I have always been called Mike, and you are at liberty to call me that same. Gent. Well, Mike, who was your late master ? Irish. Mr. Jacobs, plaze yer honor ; and a nicer man never brathed. Gent. How long did you live with Mr. J. ? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 189 Irish. Ill troth, sir, I can't tell. I passed my time so pleasantly in his sarvice, tiiat I niver kept any account of it, at all, at all. I might have lived with him all the days of my life, and a great deal longer, if I had plazed to do so. Gent. Why, then, did you leave him ? Irish. It was by mutual agrament. The truth was, a slight difference arose between us, and he said I should not live^with him longer ; and at the same instant, you see, I declared I would not live with him : so we parted on good terms — by agrament, you see. Gent. Was not your master a proud man ? Ii-ish. Indade he was — bless his honest sowl ! He would not do a mane act for the univarse. Gent. Well, Mike, how old are you now ? Irish. I am just the same age of Patrick O'Leary ; he and I were born the same wake. Gent. And how old is he ? Irish. He is just my age. He and I are just of an age, you see, only one of us is older than the other; but which is the oldest I can not say, neither can Patrick. Gent. Were you born in Dublin ? Irish. No, sir, plaze yer honor, though I might have been, if I had desired ; but, as I always preferred the country, I was born there ; and, plaze God, if I live and do well, I'll be buried in the same parish I was born in. Gent. You can write, I suppose. Irish. Yes, sir ; as fast as a dog can trot. Gent. What is the usual mode of traveling in Ire- land? Irish. Why, sir, if you travel by water, you must take a boat ; and, if you travel by land, either in a chaise or on horseback ; and they who can not afford either of them are obliged to trudge it on foot, which, to my mind, is decidedly the safest and chapest mode of moving about. Gent. And which is the pleasantest season for trav- eling ? Irish. Faith, sir, I think that season in which a man has most money in his pocket. Gent. I think your roads are passably good. 190 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Irish. They are all quite passable, if you only pay tlie toll-man. Gent. I understand you have many black cattle in Ireland. Irish. Faith, we have plenty of every color. Gent. I think you have too much rain in joiir country. Irish. So every one says; but Sir Boyle has prom ised to bring in an act of parliament in favor of fair weather, and I am sure the poor hay-makers and turf- cutters will bless him for it. It was he that first proposed that every quart bottle should hold just two pints. Gent. As you have many fine rivers, I suppose you have an abundance of nice fish. Irish. And well may you say that ; for water never wet better ones. Why, master, I won't tell you a lie ; but, if you were at the Boyne, you could get salmon and trout for nothing; and, if you were at Ballyshanny, you'd get them for much less. Gent. Well, you seem to be a clever fellow, and, if you will call again to-morrow, I will see what I can do for you. Irish. Pace to your good sowl ! I will surely do so. {Bowing^ leave^.) DIALOGUE LIX. BEAUTIES OF GOSSIP. Four Girls — Miss Marvel, Miss Gad, Miss Slander, Miss Upham. Miss Marvel Who would have thought it. Miss Slander ? Miss Gad. You don't say so. Miss Slander ! Miss Slander. Oh, but it is quite true. It must be. Besides, my brother William heard it at the barber's shop. Miss M. Well, now, I always had my suspicions — there was always a something — a what-do-ye-call-it sort of a look about the Uphams, that I never liked. Miss S. They say it is all over town — at least, my ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 191 brother William says it must be. But, whether or no — that's the fact. John Upham's shop is shut up this morning. Miss O. Well, well, it is no more than I always said it would come to. Miss S. They certainly always lived abo\ e their sta- tion. As my brother William often said to me, "Nancy," says he, " mark my words ; for all that them Uphams hold up their noses like conceited peacocks, as they are, pride will have a fall," says he, "pride will have a fall I " Miss M. And such goings on. Miss Slander, to be s'lre — such goings on! Parties, parties, parties, from Monday till Saturday — the best joint at the butcher's, the nicest loaf at the baker's, always bespoke for the Up- hams. Well, they must be content, now, with poor people's fare I Miss S. If they can get even that I For my brother William says they will be sold out and out— down to the baby's go-cart. Dear me, dear me I Miss G. Only to think. How different it was this time last year. Miss Slander — Miss Upham with her new velvet dress, the finest Genoa, and Mr. Upham with his new gig, and Master Upham with his new watch, and little Emma Upham with her new fancy hat ! Miss M. But every body could see what was coming. It could not go on so forever. That's what I said. But Upham was always such a proud man. Miss S. Never would take any body's advice but his own — there — it was no later than Wednesday week, when my brother William civilly asked him, in the most neighborly way in the world, if he wanted a little con- versation with a friend about his affairs, like as they were going backward visible; and what do you think the brute said? "William," said he, "you and your sister Nancy go chattering about the parish like a couple of human magpies, only the bird's instinct is better than your reason. That's just what he said, the vile brute I Miss M. Brute, indeed, Miss Slander, you may weh say that. Bird's instinct, forsooth I Miss G. Set him up to talk reason ! Had he reason enough to keep himself out of the constable's hands ? 192 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Miss M. I should not be surprised, Miss Slander if he were to take to drinking. Miss S. And, for that matter, my dear, Thompson told Green, who told Lilley, who told our Becky, who told William, that Upham was seen coming out of Tim Smith's dram-shop this very morning. Miss G. Drunk, of course. Miss S. Well, I don't know, exactly ; but I think it is much more likely that he was drunk than that he was sober. Miss M. Well, well, 'tis poor Miss Upham that I pity ; I'm sure I shan't have a wink of sleep all this blessed night, for thinking of her. Miss G. Poor girl ! I'm sure I feel for her. Not that she was ever much better than he. They do say — but I don't know of my own knowledge, and I'm the last per- son in the world to slander any body to the back — but they do say that, before they came to our place, there were reports, you know, insinuations, stories like, though I don't exactly know the rights of it, but they do say something about Miss Upham's being guilty of stealing a nice gold watch I But I dare say it is all nonsense ; only, of course, there are some people, you know, that will talk. Miss M There, now — who would have thought it ? Did you ever ? But there was always something nqtj sly about Miss Upham — I've seen it often. Miss G. What I hope is, that little Emma won't take after her aunt — poor thing ! Miss S. Oh, as for that, bless you, like aunt like niece — but I say nothing, not I. No, no ! nobody ever heard Nancy Slander go beyond the line in that way. Mum is my word — mum, mum! What I say is, that people ought to keep people'cJ tongues between people's teeth ; that's all. Emma Upham ! — ha, ha, bless you ! Miss M. Hush, hush, if here is not Miss Upham herself. Enter Miss Upham. Miss G. Well, my dear Miss Upham, I am very sorry, indeed. Miss M. I could almost shed tears for you, my dear Miss Upham. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 198 Miss S. B\it, Miss Upham, there is one consolation for you — you are not without a friend in the hour of misfortune- —you know that. Miss U. I must beg you to explain yourselves, ladies. Miss S. Well, Miss Upham, I do not think you have any reason now to put on those j)roud airs. Miss 0. It is hardly worth while to keep a secret tliat is known all over the town. Miss S. You would do better to remember, Miss (J]>- ham, that pride will have a fall, Miss Upham, pride will have a fall I Miss U. Well, ladies, I must ask you once more to explain yourselves. Miss M. Well, Miss Upham, does not your brother's shop look very different to-day from what it did yester- day ? Miss S. And did not my brother William find, this morning, the door of your brother's shop locked ? Miss G. And would not some people get some very queer answers if they were to ask you. Miss Upham, why your brother's shop was shut up this morning? Miss U. Well, I believe it is a very common thing for merchants to take an account of stock at certain sea- sons of the year; at least, that is the reason why my brother's shop was shut up this morning. He is taking an account of stock. Miss M. Taking an account of stock I Miss U. Yes, Miss Marvel. Miss G. And that is the reason why the door of your brother's shop was shut up this morning ? Miss U. Yes, Miss Gad. Miss S. And you are not to be sold out and out ? Miss U. Not that I know of, Miss Slander. Miss M. I wish you a very good evening, Miss Upham. Miss U. Good evening. Miss Marvel. {Exit Miss M.) Miss G. I hope no offense given, Miss Upham ? Miss U. Not in the least. Miss Gad. {Exit Miss G.) Miss S. Give my love to your sweet niece, Emma, Miss Upham. Miss U. With great pleasure, Miss Slander. {Exit Miss S.) There go Marvel, God, and Slander; how ful] - ' 17 194 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. of spite and mischief they are ! May I take warning from them, and keep altogether from gossiping and mis- representation. DIALOGUE LX. THE GRroiRON. The Captain, Patrick, and the Frenchman. Patrick. Well, captain, whereabouts in the wide -world are we ? Is it Eoosia, Proosia, or Jarmant oceant ? Captain. Tut, you fool, it's France. Pat. Tare an' ouns ! do you tell me so ? And how do you know it's France, captain dear ? Capt. Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay, when the vessel was wrecked. Pat. Troth, I was thinkin' so myself And now, captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron. Capt. Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a grid- iron into your head ? Pat. Becase Pm starving with hunger, captain dear. Capt. Surely, you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you? Pat. Ate a gridiron ! bad luck to it ! No. But, if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak. Capt. Yes ; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick. Pat. Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork ? Capt. I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick. {Laughing.) Pat. There's many a thrue word said in joke, captain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there bey ant, and ax some of them to lind me the loan of a gridiron. Capt. But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners here. Pat Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furrincr myself as any o' them. Capt. What do you mean, Patrick ? Pat. Parley voo frongsaj^ ? Capt. O, you un ierstand French, then, is it ? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 195 P able salt-box ? Student It is a salt-box in the hand of one going to a EK PERTAINING DIALOGUES. 259 shop to buy salt, and who hath two pence in his pocket, to pay the shopkeeper; and a positive salt-box is one which hath actually and bona fide got salt in it. Professor. Very good ; what other division of salt- boxes do you recollect ? Stmknt. They are divided into substantive and pend- ent. A substantive salt-box is that which stands by it- self, on the table or dresser; and the pendent is that which hangs by a nail, against the wall. Professor. What is the idea of a salt-box ? Student It is that image which the mind conceives of H salt-box when no salt is present. Professor. What is the abstract idea of a salt-box? Student. It is the idea of a salt-box abstracted from the idea of a box of salt, or of a salt-box, or of a box of salt. Professor. Very right ; by this means you acquire a most perfect knowledge of a salt-box ; but tell me, is the idea of a salt-box a salt idea ? Student. Not unless the ideal box hath the idea of Rait contained in it. Professor. True; and therefore an abstract idea can not be either salt or fresh, round or square, long or short; and this shows the difference between a salt idea and an idea of salt. Is an aptitude to hold salt an essential or an accidental property of a salt-box ? Student. It is an essential ; but if there should be a crack in the bottom of the box, the aptitude to spill salt would be termed an accidental property of that salt-box. Professor. Very well, very well, indeed. What is the salt called, with respect to the box ? Student. It is called its contents. Professor. And why so ? Student. Because the cook is content to find plenty of salt in the box. Professor. You are very right. You have given clear evidence that you comprehend the subject clearly. 260 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE LXXVIII. LOGIC. Professor. {To the audience.) I now call your alten tion to an examination of our class in Logic. {To Situ- ilent.) How many parts are there in a salt-box ? 1st Student. Three. Bottom, top, and sides. Professor. How many modes are there in salt-boxes? 2d Student. Four. The formal, the substantial, the accidental, and the topsy-turvy. Professor. Define these several modes. ^d Student. The formal respects the figure or shape of the box — such as round, square, oblong, and so forth ; the substantial respects the work of the joiner; and the accidental depends upon the string by which the box is hung against the wall. Professor. Very well. And what are the consequen- ces of the accidental mode ? ^th Student. If the string should break, the box would fall, the salt be spilt, the salt-box broken, and the cook in a iDitter passion ; and this is the accidental mode, with its consequences. Professor. How do you distinguish between the top and bottom of a salt-box? 1st Student. The top of the box is that part which is uppermost, and the bottom that part which is lowest, in all positions. Professor. You should rather say the lowest part is the bottom, and the uppermost part is the top. How is it then if the bottom should be the uppermost! 2d Student. The top would then be the lowermost; and so the bottom would become the top, and the top would become the ooctcm : and this is called the topsy- turvy mode, which is nearly allied to the accidental, and frequently arises trcm it. Professor. Yery good. But are not salt-boxes some- times single and sometimes double? 2>d Student They are. Professor. Well, then mention the several combina- tions of salt-boxes, with respect to their having salt ot not. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 261 4:ih Student. They are divided into single salt- boxes having salt, single salt-boxes having no salt, double salt- boies having salt, double salt-boxes having no salt, and single double salt boxes having salt and no salt. Professor. Hold I hold ! you are going too far. DIALOGUE LXXIX NATURAL PHILOSOPHY Professor. Pray, sir, what is a salt-box ? 1st Student. It is a combination of matter, fitted, framed, and joined by the hands of a workman in the form of a box, and adapted to the purpose of receiving, containing, and retaining salt. Professor. Very good. What are the mechanical powers concerned in the construction of a salt-box? 2d Student. The axe, the saw, the plane, and the hammer. Professor. How are these powers applied to the pur- pose intended? '6d Student. The axe to fell the tree, the saw to split the timber. Professor. Consider. Is it the property of the mall and wedge to split ? Ath Student. The saw to slit the timber, the plane to smooth and thin the boards. Professor. How I Take time ! take time I bth Student. To thin and smooth the boards. Professor. To be sure — the boards are first thinned, and then smoothed — go on. 1st Student. The plane to thin and smooth the boards, and the hammer to drive the nails. Professor. Or rather tacks. Have not some philoso- phers considered glue as one of the mechanical powers ? 2d Student. Yes ; and it is still so considered, but it IS called an inverse mechanical power: because, whereas it is the property of the direct mechanical powers to generate motion, and separate parts, glue, on the con- trary, prevents motion, and keeps the parts to which it is appliea fixed to each other. 262 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Professor, Yery true. What is the mechanical law of the saw ? ^d Student. The power is to the resistance as the number of teeth and force impressed multiplied by the number of strokes in a given time. Professoi, Is the saw only used in slitting timber into boards ? Uh Student. Yes; it is also employed in cutting boards into lengths. Professor. Not lengths ; a thing can not properly bo said to have been cut into lengths. bth Student. Into shortnesses. Professor. Certainly — into shortnesses. That will su- fice. Your examination is very satisfactory. DIALOGUE LXXX. SURGERY AND THE PRACTICE OF PHYSIC. Professor. Mention a few of the principal disorders to which a salt-box is liable? 1st Student. A cracked and leaky fundamental ; a gap- ing of the joint in the laterals ; luxation of the hinges ; and an accession and concretion of filth and foulness ex- ternal and internal. Professor. Yery well. How would you treat those disorders ? Begin with the first. 2c? Student. I would caulk the leak fundamental with pledgets of tow wnich I would secure in the fissure by a strip of linen or paper pasted over. For the starting of the lateral joints, I would administer powerful astringents, such as the gluten corneum ; and would bind the parth together by tripple bandages, until the joints should knit. Professor. Would you not assist with chalybeates ? ^d Student. Yes; I would BX-tack the disease vith prepared iron, in doses proportioned to the strength of the parts. Professor. How would you manage the luxation of the hinge ? 4:th Student. I would first examine whether it was oc- ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 263 caaioned by the starting of the points which annex the processes to the superlateral or its antagonist, or to a loss of the fulcrum, or to an absolute fracture of the sutures. In the first case, I would secure the process by a screw ; in the second, I would bring the sutures together, and introduce the fulcrum; and, in the last, I would entirely remove the fractured hinge, and supply its place, i^ro tertipore, with one of leather. Professor. Very well, sir ! — very well ! — now for 3 our iieatment in case of accumulated foulness, external and internal — but first tell me, how is this foulness con- tracted ? Is^ Student. Externally, by the greasy hands of the cook ; and, internally, by the solution and adhesion of the saline particles. Professor. True. And now for the cure. 2d Stitdent. I would first evacuate the abominable vessel, through the prima via. I would then exhibit de- tergents and diluents ; such as the saponaceous prepara- tion, with great plenty of aqua fontana. Professor. Would not aqua caelestis do better ? Sd Student. Yes; plenty of aqua caelestis, with the marine sand. I would also apply the friction-brush with a brisk and strong hand, until the excrementitious con- crete should be totally dissolved and removed. Professor. Very proper. What next? 4:ih Student. I would recommend the cold bath, by means of a common pump ; and then apply lintal ab- sorbents; and finally exsiccate the body by exposition either in the sun or before the kitchen-fire. Professor. In what situation would you leave the su- perlateral valve during the exsiccating operation ? 1st Student. 1 would leave it open to the extent, in order that the rarefied humidities might freely exhale from the abominable cavities or sinuses. 264 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE LXXXI. FIDELITY REWARDED. King, Miller, Courtier. King. {Enters alone^ wrapped in a cloak) No, no, this can be no public road, that's certain. I have lost my way, undoubtedly. Of what advantage is it now to be a king ? Night shows me no respect ; I can not see better, nor walk so well, as another man. When a king is lost in a wood, what is he more than other men? His wis- dom knows not which is north, and which is south ; his power a beggar's dog would bark at, and the beggar him- self would not bow to his greatness. And yet how often are we puffed up with these false attributes ! Well, in losing the monarch I have found the man. But hark ! somebody sure is near. What were it best to do ? Will my majesty protect me ? No. Throw majesty aside, then, and let manhood do it. {Enter the Miller.) Miller. I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there. King. No rogue, I assure you. Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun ? King. Not I, indeed. Miller. You lie, I believe. King. {Aside.) Lie, lie ! how strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style. {Aloud.) Upon my word, I don't, sir. Miller. Come, come, sirrah, confess ; you have shot one of the king's deer, haven't you ? King. No, indeed ; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, to be sure, and was afraid some rob- bers might have been near. Miller. I am not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you ? What's your name ? King. Name ! Miller. Name ! ay, name. You have a name, haven't you ? Where do you come from ? What is your busi- ness here ? ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 266 King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man. Miller. May be so ; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer ; so, if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, if you please. JGng. With you! What authority have you to Miller. The king's authority, if I must give you an account. Sir, I am John Cockle, the nliller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in the forest of Sherwood ; and I will let no suspicious fellow pass this way, unless he can give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you. King. Very well, sir, I am very glad to hear the king has so good an officer ; and, since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favor to hear it. Miller. You don't deserve it, I believe ; but let's heai what you can say for yourself. King. I have the honor to belong to the king, as well as you, and perhaps should be as unwilling to see any wrong done. I came down with him to hunt in this for- est, and the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way. Miller. This does not sound well ; if you have been hunting, pray where is your horse ? King. I have tired my horse so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him. Miller. If I thought I might believe this now. King. I am not used to lie, honest man. Miller. What, do you live at court and not lie ? that's 3 likely story, indeed ! King. Be that as it may, I speak truth now, I assure you ; and to convince you of it, if you will attend me to Nottingham, or give me a night's lodging in your house, here is something to pay you for your trouble, {offering jnoney,) and if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire. Miller. Aye, now I am convinced you are a courtier ; here is a little bribe for to-day and a large promise fop to-morrow, both in a breath. Here, take it again ; Johi} 23 266 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Cockle is no courtier. He can do what he ought wilhom a bribe. King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own ; and I should be glad, methinks, to be further ac- quainted with thee. Miller. Prithee, don't thee and thou me at this rate. I Fuppi )se I am as good a man as yourself, at least. King. Sir, I beg pardon. Miller. Nay, I am not angry, friend ; only I don't love to be too familiar with you until I am satisfied as to your bonesiy. King. You are right. But what am I to do ? Miller. You may do what you please. You are twelve miles from Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood ; but, if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road and direct you the best I can ; or, if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay all night, and in the morning I will go with you myself. King. And can not you go with me to-night? Miller. I would not go with you to-night if you were the king himself King. Then I must go with you, I think. {Enter a courtier in haste.) Courtier. Ah ! is your majesty safe ? We have hunted the forest over to find you. Miller, How ! are you the king ! {Krieels.) Your majesty will pardon the ill-usage you have received. (The king draws his sword.) His majesty surely will not kill a servant for doing his duty too faithfully. King, No, my good fellow. So far from having any thing to pardon, I am much your debtor. I can not think but so good and honest a man will make a worthy and honorable knight. Rise, Sir John Cockle, and receive tliis sword as a badge of knighthood and a pledge of my protection ; and to support your nobility, and in some measure requite you for the pleasure you have done us, a thousand crowns a year shall be your revenue. KXTERTAINING DIALOGUES. » 267 DIALOGUE LXXXII. ORDER AND DISORDER. Sarah. Mother, our teacher is always talking abcat order. Why does she say so much about it ? Mother. Not always, my daughter ; but I do not won- der that she insists upon it a great deal. Children arc very apt to be disorderly. Sarah. But I have often heard people say that the whole world of mankind is full of disorder. Mother. That is true. And that is why it is so nec- essary to strive to bring children into order, that when they grow up they may make the world more orderly. Sarah. But, mother, has the fixing my books rightly in my desk, having my clothes arranged, having a place for every thing and every thing in its place — has all this any thing to do with making the world more orderly ? Mother. A great deal more, Sarah, than some people think. Get your work and sit down beside me, and I will try to make it plain to you. Do you recollect the fire that happened near us, about a year ago ? Sarah. Indeed I do, mother; such a hurrying and driving, and exclamations and orders — it seemed as if people were crazy. Mother. Do you remember that some people threw looking-glasses out of the window, and brought feather beds carefully down stairs in their arms? Do you recol- lect how one ran this way and another that, with different parts of the same article, till things were scattered about, and ruinously piled and jumbled together? Sarah. It was distressing, but almost laughable. People seemed to have lost their wits. Mother. • But how soon Was all this changed, when the chief engineer arrived and took command of the crowd I He placed his assistants in their order, calmly led the hose to where it would do the most good, and set certain men to one kind of work, and certain men to another. Do you remember how at once order reigned every where, and how much was accomplished in a little time? Sarah. Yes, mother, I remember all this very distinct* 2G8 , ^ ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. ly, and I perceive that, without order, people lose their wits, and have not the proper command of even theii ordinary faculties. Mother. Look abroad into the animal world; how could there be growth, preservation, existence even, without the orderly arrangement of vessels, fibers, mus- cles, bones, and various organs? Sarah. I have just been studying Botany, and I am sure there is order there ; and I see that beauty, and use- fulness, and even existence, would be lost without it. Mother. It is the same in the mineral world ; in every particle of matter, and in all worlds. Order reigns every where in nature, throughout the universe of God, so that the Bible says, " God is a God of order, and not of confurion." Sarah. I see it very plainly. Will you now explain how order is connected with good morals and relig- ion ? Mother. We find that, in the confusion of the fire near us last winter, people could not command their thoughts nor themselves. Kow, if people can not think correctly except there be order, how can they receive truth in their midst, and make a proper use of it, unless there be order ? Sarah. Yes, mother; but it was mental order that was wanting. Mother. But did not the disorder and confusion of the material things around create and increase the disorder of their minds ? And did not the putting in order of the things about them, the orderly arrangement of external things, bring their minds into order again ? Sarah. I suppose we can learn grammar, arithmetic, geography, and all other sciences, in much less time, and with much less labor, in consequence of their being ar- ranged in our school-books in an orderly manner. Mother. Yes ; without this order we could not master any science, much less all sciences. Sarah. I think I have always noticed that the })est sort of people are the most orderly. Mother. No doubt it is so : hence the poet tells us that " Order is Heaven's first law." Sarah. It seems to me that people that were slovenly ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 269 about their houses, and in their personal habits, were generally slovenly in their moral habits, if not vicious. Mother. Frequently, at least, thev are so, my daugh- ter. And as the habits of the mind and heart, as a per- son grows older, express themselves in the lineaments of the countenance, so will they express themselves in what surrounds us. Sarah. I recollect that you once told me that cleanli- ness was a help to virtue, and a want of it a help to vice. I suppose that order acts and reacts upon our habits in the same way. MotJier. If you try the experiment a short time, you will perceive the effects of disorder very plainly. You will find that order in the arrangement of your dress, books, and work-box will assist your temper, save your time, help your efficiency, and give you the power to do right and be useful ; while disorder will produce the con- trary effects. Order in the distribution and allotment of your time will give tenfold usefulness to your life. Order in the disposal of your thoughts will give you clearness of conception, and beauty and force in express- ing your ideas. Order in the government, control, and direction of your affections will secure you peace and happiness. Sarah. Can you not give me some rules for securing this last and most important kind of order ? Mother. The ten commandments are the best rules I can give you, my dear child ; and these are summed up in the two great precepts of divine order given by our Saviour, namely: — " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and all thy strength, and thy neigh- bor as thyself." DIALOGUE LXXXIII. A CHANGE IN THE PROGRAMME. Sir John Melvil and Sterling. Sterling. What are your commands with me, Sir John? 23* 270 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Sir John. After having carried the negotiation be* tween our families to so great a length, after having as- sented so readily to all your proposals, as well as received so many instances of your cheerful compliance with the demands made on our part, I am extremely concerned, Mr. Sterling, to be the involuntary cause of any unejisi- ness. Sterling. Uneasiness ! what uneasiness ! Where bus- iness is transacted as it ought to be, and the parties un- derstand one another, there can be no uneasiness. You agree, on such and such conditions, to receive my daugh- ter for a wife ; on the same conditions, I agree to receive you as a son-in-law ; and, as to all the rest, it follows of course, you know, as regularly as the payment of a bill after acceptance. Sir John. Pardon me, sir ; more uneasiness has arisen than you are aware of. I am, myself, at this instant, in a state of inexpressible embarrassment ; Miss Sterling, I know, is extremely disconcerted, too ; and, unless you will oblige me with the assistance of your friendship, I foresee the speedy progress of discontent and animosity through the whole family. Sterling. What the deuce is all this ? I do not un- derstand a single syllable. Sir John. In one word, then, it will be absolutely im- possible for me to fulfill my engagements in regard to Miss Sterling. Sterling. How, Sir John? Do you mean to put an affront upon my family ? What ! refuse to Sir John. Be assured, sir, that I neither mean to af- front nor forsake your family. My only fear is that you should desert me ; for the whole happiness of my life depends upon my being connected with your family by the nearest and tenderest ties in the world. Sterling. Why, did not you tell me, but a moment ago, it was absolutely impossible for you to marry my daughter ? Sir John. True: but you have another daughter, sir Staling. Well? Sir John. Who has obtained the most absolute do- minion over my heart. I have already declared my pas* ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 271 sion to her; nay. Miss Sterling herself is also apprised of it, and, if you will but give sanction to my present ad- dresses, the uncommon merit of Miss Sterling will no doubt recommend her to a person of equal if not superior rank to myself, and our famiUes may still be allied by my union with Miss Fanny. Sterling, Mighty fine, truly! Why, what the plague do you make of us. Sir John ? Do you come to market for my daughters, like servants at a statute-fair? Do you think that I will suffer you, or any man in the world, to come into my house, like the Grand Siguier, and throw the handkerchief first to one and then to t'other, just as he pleases? Do you think I drive a kind of African slave- trade with them .'' and Sir John. A moment's patience, sir ! Nothing but the excess of my passion for Miss Fanny should have induced me to take any step that had the least appearance of dis- respect to any part of your family : and even now I am de- sirous to atone for my transgression, by making the most adequate compensation that lies in my power. Sterling. Compensation I what compensation can you possibly make in such a case as this, Sir John ? Sir John. Come, come Mr. Sterling ; I know you to ])e a man of sense, and a man of business — a man of the world. I will deal frankly with you ; and you shall see that I do not desire a change of measures for my own gratification, without endeavoring to make it advanta- geous to you. Sterling What advantage can your inconstancy be to me. Sir John ? Sir John. I will tell you, sir. You know tbat, by the articles' at present subsisting between us, on the day of my marriage with Miss Sterling, you agree to pay down the gross sum of eighty thousand pounds. Sterling. Well ! Sir John. Now, if you will but consent to my waiv- ing that marriage Sterling. I agree to your waiving that marriage ? Im- possible, Sir John ! Sir John. I hope not, sir ; as, on my part, I will agree to waive my right to thirty thousand pounds of the for- t'vne I was to receive with her. 272 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Sterling. Thirty thousand, do you say ? Sir John. Yes, sir ; and accept of Miss Fanny with fifty thousand, instead of fourscore. Sterling. Fifty thousand Sir John. Instead of fourscore. Sterling. Why, why, there may be something in that. Let me see ; Fanny with fifty thousand instead of Bet- sey with fourscore. But how can this be. Sir John? VoT you know I am to pay this money into the hands of my Lord Ogleby ; who, I believe, betwixt you and me, Sir John, is not overstocked with ready-money at pres- ent; and threescore thousand of it, you know, is to go to pay off the present incumbrances on the estate. Sir John. Sir John. That objection is easily obviated. Ten of the twenty thousand, which would remain as a surplus of the fourscore, after paying off the mortgage, was in- tended by his lordship for my use, that we might set off with some little 6clat on our marriage ; and the other ten for his own. Ten thousand pounds therefore I shall be able to pay you immediately ; and for the remaining twenty thousand you shall have a mortgage on that part of the estate which is to be made over to me, with what- ever security you shall require for the regular payment of the interest, till the principal is duly discharged. Sterling. Why, to do you justice, Sir John, there is something fair and open in your proposal; and, since I find you do not mean to put an affront upon the family Sir John. Nothing was ever further from my thoughts, Mr. Sterling. And, after all, the whole affair is nothing extraordinary; such things happen every day; and as the world had only heard generally of a treaty between the families, when this marriage takes place nobody will be the wiser, if we have but discretion enough to keep our own counsel. Sterling. True, true ; and, since you only transfer from one girl to the other, it is no more than transferring so much stock, you know. Sir John. The very thing. Sterling. But stop ! I had quite forgot. We are reck oning without our host here. There is another diffi- culty ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 273 Sir John. You alarm me. What can that be ? Sterling. I can not stir a step in this business, without consulting my sister Heidelberg. The family has very great expectations from her, and we must not give her any offense. Sir John. But if you come into this measure, surely slie will be so kind as to consent Sterling. I do not know that. Betsey is her darling, and I can not tell how far she may resent any slight that seems to be offered to her favorite niece. However, I will do the best I can for you. You shall go and break the matter to her first, and, by the time that I may sup- pose that your rhetoric has prevailed upon her to listen to reason, I will step in to re-enforce your arguments. Sir John. I will fly to her immediately: you promise me your assistance ? Sterling. I do. Sir John. Ten thousand thanks for it ! and now suc- cess attend me I Sterling. Harkee, Sir John ! ISTot a word of the thirty thousand to my sister. Sir John. Sir John. Oh, I am dumb, I am dumb, sir. Sterling. You remember it is thirty thousand. Sir John. To be sure I do. Sterling. But, Sir John! one thing more, my lord must know nothing of this stroke of friendship be- tween us. Sir John. Not for the world. Let me alone ! let me alone ! Sterling. And, when every thing is agreed, we must give each other a bond to be held fast to the bargain. Sir John. To be sure. A bond by all means ! a bond, or whatever you please. {Exit.) Sterling. {Alone.) I should have thought of more conditions; he is in a humor to give me every thing. Why, what mere children are your fellows of quality; that cry for a plaything one minute, and throw it by the next! as changeable as the weather, and as uncertain as the stocks. Special fellows to drive a bargain I and yet they are to take care of the interest of -the nation, truly. Here does this whirligig man of fashion offer to give up thirty thousand pounds in hard money, with as much inv 274 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. difference as if it was a China orange. By this mor^ gage I shall have a hold on his terra firma ; and, if be wants more money, as he certainly will, let him have children by my daughter or no, I shall have his whole estate in a net, for the benefit of my family. Well, thus it is that the children of citizens, who have acquired fortunes, prove persons of fashion ; and thus it is that Dersons of fashion, who have ruined their fortunes, re- duce the next generation to common citizens. Dialogue lxxxiv. ON THE ADDRESS OF THE PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY TO DR. FRANKLIN. A. I am surprised that our Philosophical Society, from whom we might expect, on sueh an occasion, at least, ease and propriety, if not something more, should exhibit so barren, so stiff, and costive a performance as their address seems to be. It must certainly have been seethed too long in the author's brain, and so become hard like an overboiled egg. B. I perceive, sir, you are not a member of the Phil- osophical Society. A. No, sir ; I have not that honor. B. So I thought by your mentioning brains. Why, sir, we never make use of any in writing letters, or draw- ing addresses : we manage these things in quite a differ- ent way. How do you imagine our address was pro- duced ? A. Some member, I suppose, was appointed to draft the address, which was afterward read before the society; and, being corrected, was finally approved of, and so de- livered. B. When you become a philosopher you will know better: no, sir, we conduct all our business by ballot, as they choose magistrates — according to the spirit of our excellent constitution. A. No doubt, when new members or ofl&cers of the institution are to be elected ; but how an address can be composed by ballot, I confess, I can not comprehend. B Well, I will inform vou. You must know we ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 276 have four boxes: in one are put a number of substan- tives, the best the dictionary affords , in the second, an equal number of adjectives; in the third, a great number of verbs, with their participles, gerunds, &;c. ; and, in the fourth, a still greater number of pronouns, articles, and particles, with all the small ware of the syntax. The secretary shakes these boxes for a considerable time, and then places them side by side on a table, each bearing its proper label of distinction. This done, the members Eroceed to ballot for the composition, whatever it may e ; each member taking out one substantive, one adjec- tive, two verbs, and four particles, from the boxes re- spectively ; and so they proceed, repeating the operation, until they have drawn the number of words of which, according to a previous determination, the composition is to consist. Some ingenious member is then requested to take all the ballots, or words, so obtained, and arrange them in the best order he can. In the present case this task fell to ***** ; and you can see how he has worked up the materials which chance threw in his way. A. If this is your method it will sufficiently account for the short, broken sentences, the harshness of the periods, and general obscurity which distinguish your address. B. What do you mean by obscurity ? I am sure our address, if not elegant, is at least intelligible. A. Pray inform me, then, what is meant by this para- graph : " The high consideration and esteem in which we hold your character, so intimately combine with our re- gard for the public welfare, that w^e participate eminently in the general satisfaction which your return to America produces." And of this "We derive encouragement and extraordinary felicity from an assemblage of recent memorable events ; and, while we boast in a most pleas- mg equality, permanently ascertained," &c., &c. B. The meaning of your first quotation is, that our high consideration for the doctor, combining and inti- mately mixing with our regard for the public welfare, occasion a kind of chymical solution or effervescence in our minds, producmg a tertium quid, which causes us to participate eminently, and so on; if you know any thing of chymistry, you would have understood it well enough. 276 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. « A. Well, it appears to me something very like non* sense ; but, I confess, I am no philosopher. B. As to the other passage you mentioned, the truth is we were a little unlucky — it would have been the most elegant paragraph in the whole composition but for an unfortunate accident. You must know that, whilst *-5f*-K-* ^j^g arranging the ballots, a puff of wind blew away a number of excellent explanatory words, and car- ried them out of the window ; the whole sentence had like to have gone ; a careful search was made in the street but no more could be recovered than what you see. It was, indeed, proposed to ballot over again for as many words as had been lost ; but some members were of opinion that this might prove a dangerous precedent, and so the passage was suffered to pass as it now stands. A. I observe, further, that you mention " the growth of sciences and arts." Would it not have read better "the growth of arts and sciences," according to the usual mode of expression? which has this to justify it, that arts were known and practiced before sciences were in- vestigated ; and, besides, the expression is more musical and pleasing to the ear. B. We had a long debate upon this subject, and the very reasons you now give were urged in favor of the common way of placing those words ; but the learned compositor insisted that, as the sciences were more ab- struse and more eminent in dignity than the arts, they ought to be mentioned first, especiall}^ by a philosophical society. A. This reminds me of what the town -clerk says in Shakspeare's Much Ado About Nothing: (" To. CI) '' Write down that they hope they serve God : and be sure to write God first; for God defend, but God should go before such villains." B, It is in vain to attempt explanation to a mind so prejudiced as yours. I perceive you are determined to find fault, and so let us drop the subject. A. Why, do you imagine I believe one word of your boxes and your ballots? You are either ridiculing oi endeavoring to excuse a performance which would in- deed disgrace a school-boy. When I compare this address with the president's ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 277 short but elegant reply, I can not but observe how strongly the difference is marked between an author who sits down to think what he shall write and one who only sits down to write what he thinks. DIALOGUE LXXXV. EXTRAVAGANCE IN TALKING Susan. My dear mother, who worked this scarf lor you ? It is excessively pretty. Mother. I am very sorry- for it, my dear. Susan. Sorry ! Why, mother ! are you sorry it is pretty? Mother. No ; but I am sorry it is excessively pretty. Susan. Why so ? A thing can not be too pretty, can it? Mother. If so, it can not be excessively pretty. Pray, what do you mean by "excessively pretty?" Su^an. Why, "excessively pretty" means — it means very pretty. Mother. What does the word "excessively" come from? What part of speech is it? You know your grammar, I suppose? Susan. It is an adverb ; the words that end in ?y are adverbs. Mother. Adverbs are derived from adjectives by add- ing ly, you should have said — as, excessive, excessiveZi/ ; and now what is the noun from which they are derived ? Susan. Excess. Mother And what does "excess" mean? Stisan. It means too much of any thing. Mother. You see, then, that it implies a fault, and therefore can not be applied as a commendation. We say a man is excessively greedy, excessively liberal ; a woman excessively fine ; but not that a man is excess- ively wise, a woman excessively faithful to her husband; because in these qualities there can be no excess ; nor is there any in beauty — that being the true and just pio- portion which gives pleasure. Susan. But we say excessivelv kind. 24 278 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Mother. We do, because kindness has its limits. A person may be too kind to us, who exposes himself to a great and serious inconvenience to give us only a slight pleasu]"e ; we also may mean by it exceeding that kind- ness which we have a right to expect. But when people use it as they often do, on the slightest occasion, it is cer- tainly as wrong as "excessively pretty." Susan. But, mother, must we always consider so much the exact meaning of words? Every body says "excessively pretty," and "excessively tall," and "infi- nitely obliged to you." What harm can it do ? Mother. That every body does it, I deny — that the generality do it, is very true ; but it is likewise true that the generality are not to be taken as a pattern in any thing. As to the harm it does — in the first place, it in- jures our sincerity. Susan. Why, it is not telling a lie, surely? Mother. Certainly I do not mean to say it is ; but it tends to sap and undermine the foundations of our in- tegrity by making us careless, if not in the facts we as- sert, yet in the measure and degree in which we assert them. If we do not pretend to love those for whom we have no aflPection, nor to admire those we despise, at least we lead them to think we admire them more, and love them better, than we really do ; and this prepares the way for more serious deviations from the truth. So much for its concern with morality ; but it has like- wise a very bad effect on o* "^ taste. What, think you, is the reason that young peo^ e, especially, run into these vague and exaggerated expressions ? Susan. What does "vague" mean, mother? Mother. It means what has no precise or definite sig- nification. Young people run into these, sometimes, in- deed, from having more feeling than judgment, but more commonly from not knowing how to separate their ideas, and to tell what it is with which they are pleased. They either do not know or will not give themselves the trouble to mark the qualities, or to describe the scenes, which disgust or please them ; and they hope to conceal their deficiency by these extravagant expressions ; as if your dress-maker, not knowing your shape, should ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 279 make a large, lose dress, that would cover you over were you twice as tall as you are. Now you would have shown your taste if, in commend- ing my scarf, you had said that the pattern was light, or that it was rich, or that the work was neat and exact ; but, by saying it was "excessively" pretty, you showed you had not considered what it was that you admired m it. Did you never hear of the man who said, "There will be monstrous few apples this year ; and those few will be mighty little ? " Poets run into this fault when they use unmeaning epithets, instead of appropriate description. Young ladies, too, commit the same fault when, in writ- ing letters, they run into exaggerated expressions of friendship. You have admired, in the painting we have just plir- chased, the variety of tints, shaded into one another. Well, what would you think of an artist who should spread one deep blue over all the sky, and one deep green over the grass and trees ? Would you not say he was a dauber, and made near objects and distant objects, and objects in the sun and objects in the shade, all alike? I think I have some of your early performances, in which you have painted pic- tures pretty much in this style ; but you would not paint so now. Susan. No, indeed ! I should not. Mother. Then do not talk so ; do not paint so with words. DIALOGUE LXXXVI. A LrTTLE TOO SHARP. Scene I. — Mr. Smith and the Chairman of the Committee. Chairman. Mr. Smith, are you the owner of those lots of land at the North End ? Smith. I am, sir. Chairman. Will yo'i sell a part of one of them, say five acres, to the city ? 280 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Smith. For what purpose do you want it ? Chairman. The city authorities have decided to pur- chase a lot of about five acres, and improve it as a kind of park or public promenade. Smith. Ah, indeed! Well, I like that idea; for it shows the right kind of public spirit. Chairman. We have also decided that the best loca* tion for such an improvement will be in that part cf the Smith. That is my opinion, decidedly. Ghairm^an. Will you sell us the required number of acres ? Smith. That will depend somewhat upon the particu lar spot where you desire to locate the park. Chairman. The committee are instructed to negotiate for what lies between the two proposed streets running north from Main street. Smith. {Promptly.) The very place where I have decided to erect four rows of dwellings ! Chairman. It is too far out of the city for that, is it not? Smith. no ; not a rod too far. The city is rapidly growing in that direction. I have only to put up the dwellings referred to, and dozens will be anxious to pur- chase lots and build all around them. Will not the ground to the left of that you speak of do as well ? Chairman. We were directed to purchase this piece, if we could ; and we do not feel authorized to go beyond our instructions. But, if you are not willing to sell it, we will waste no more words about it. {Chairman rises to leave.) Smith. Stop a moment. I do not know but I might be persuaded to part with the piece you want, piovided I could get what it is worth. Chairman. Very well, sir. What is yoir price for it? Smith. {After hesitating some time) I must have a good price. Chairman. Certainly ; we are willing to pay what is fair and right. Smith. Of course. No doubt you have fixed a limit to which you will go. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 281 Chairman. We are not absolutely restricted in that respect. Smith. Are you prepared to make an offer ? Chairman. We are prepared to hear your price, and report thereon. Smith. That's a very valuable lot of ground. Chairman. {Impatiently.) Will you name your price ? Smith. (After thinking a while.) One thousand dollars per acre. Chairman. We should not feel warranted to pay such a price as that. Good day, sir. Scene XL —Mr. Smith alone. Smith. I am afraid the committee will not purchase jhe land. I wish I had been a little easier in my terms. I would rather take half that sum than not sell it, for I have some heavy payments to make in a few weeks ; and I must sell some land to meet them. But I can not afford to furnish a beautiful park for the city for nothing. Besides, I think they will finally come up to my price. At all events an article is always worth what it will bring. (Enter Mr. Weston.) Weston. I hear that the committee had the subject of a public square under consideration again this morning. Smith. {Much delighted.) Indeed! 1 hope they con- cluded to buy one. Weston. Yes ; and I also heard that they had decided to pay the extravagant price you asked for a lot of ground at North End. Smith. A thousand dollars an acre ? Weston. Yes. Smith. That is only its real value, and not a cent more. Weston. People differ about that ; however, you are lucky. The city is able to pay. Smith. So I think ; and I mean it shall pay. I am half inclined to increase my price. That is a beautiful spot ; and it will soon be in the most business part of the city. 24* 282 ENTER PAINING DIALOGUES. {Enter Committee.) Chairman, Well, Mr. Smitli, we have concluded to pay you your price for the land. Smith. The offer is no longer open ; you declined it when it was made. My price for that property is now twelve hundred dollars per acre I A Member. I hardly think it right, Mr. Smith, for you to take such an advantage. This park is for the public good. Smith. Let the public pay for it, then ; they are able. A Member. The location of this park in that part of the city will greatly enhance the value of your other property in that neighborhood. Smith. I am not so sure of that. I have some very strong doubts on that point. It is my opinion that the buildings I intend to erect will be far more to my ad- vantage. Be that as it may, however, I am determined not to sell the lot for any thing less than six thousand dollars. Chairman. We are not authorized to pay over five thousand. If you will agree to take that sum, we will close the bargain on the spot. Smith. No, sir ; you can not have the land now for less than twelve hundred dollars an acre. A Member. At that price, we may understand, then, that you will sell ? Smith. Yes ; and that is the lowest cent. I am not anxious to sell even at that price. I can do quite as well by keeping it in my own .possession ; but, as it will ac- commodate the public so well, I will not stand in the way. When will the committee meet again ? Chairman. Not until next week. Smith. Yery well ; but, understand me, if the offer is not accepted then, it no longer remains open. It is a matter of no importance to me which, way the thing goes. Scene TIL — The Committee in session. {Enter Mr. Jones.) Chairman. Good morning, Mr. Jones; we were just consulting about the propriety of paying Mr. Smith six ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 288 thousand dollars for a five-acre lot at the North End. We think it an exorbitant price ; and therefore should not be justified in paying it. Jones. Six thousand dollars!- Is it possible that Smith asks six thousand dollars for the lot? I can hard- ly believe it I Why, I would give the city a lot of twice the size, and do it with pleasure. A Member. You would ? Jones. Certainly I would. Chairman. Are you really in earnest? Jon£s. To be " sure I am. Go and select a lot for a public park from any of my unappropriated lands on the west side of the city, and J will pass you the title as a free gift to-morrow ; and I shall feel pleasure in doing so. A Member. That is what I call genuine public spirit. Jones. Call it what you please. I am happy in mak- ing the offer; and T will cheerfully assist in carrying out a suggestion which will add so much to the beauty and health of the city. Scene IV. — Mr. Wilson^ the Cliairman of the Committee^ reading a neuospaper. {Enter Mr. Smith.) Wilson. Ah, friend Smith, how are you this pleasant evening? Smith. Well, I thank you. What news do you get? for I see you are reading the papers. Wilscm,. Nothing of consequence. All, as usual, are complaining of scarcity of money and hard times. Smith. I called to see what your committee con- cluded to do about buying that lot of mine. Wilson. We have concluded to do nothing further about it. Smith. Nothing, did you say ? Wilson. Yes; you declined our offer, or rather re- fused to accept the high price you first asked for the lot. Smitli. You refused to buy it at five thousand dollars when it was offered for that sum. Wilson. I know we did; because we thought your demand was exorbitant. Smith. Exorbitant! Not at all so. 284 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Wilson. In that we only differ in opinion. However, tlie committee have decided not to pay the price you ask. Smith. Unanimously? Wilson. There was not a dissenting voice ; for we .all thought it quite too much. Smith. Possibly I might be induced to take some- thing less, as it is for the public welfare. Wilson. It is now too late, sir. Smith. Too late ? How so, pray ? If you think my price too high, seeing a park will be so much for the pub- lic good and an ornament to the city, you may have the lot at my first offer. Or I will leave it to the generosity of the committee to say what I ought to have for it. Wilson. We could not parley any more with you ; so we procured a lot in another part of the city. Smith. Mr. Wilson ! I am surprised ! Wilson. Yes ; we have taken one of Mr. Jones' lots, on the west side of the city. It is a most beautiful lot of ten acres! Smith. {Much surprised.) You have ? Wilson. We have; and the parties are now making out the title-deed. Smith. Why, really, I never was more astonished in my life ! But how much did Jones ask for that beauti- ful lot, as 3^ou call it ? Wilson. Nothing. He presented it to the city as a gift. Smith. A gift I What consummate folly ! Wilson. No, not folly, but true worldly wisdom, though I believe Jones did not think of advantage to himself when he generously made the offer. He is worth twenty thousand dollars more to-day than he was yes- terday, simply in the advanced value of his land for building-lots ; and I know of no man in the city whose good fortune gives me more pleasure. Smith. What a fool I have been, in not accepting your offer ! I have a payment of four thousand dollars to make next month, on a mortgage co veering that very piece of ground you wanted ; and I have no other means of raising the money. I don't know what I shall do, or how to avoid a failure. Wilson, I much regret your unpleasant position ; but ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 285 I always thought it better to accept the real worth of a piece of property when offered, than to try to obtain an exorbitant price for it by taking advantage of the neces- sities of others. Smith. I agree with you most fully; and I have learned a lesson from this transaction which, I trust, will be of practical benefit to me through life. Good eve- DIALOGUE LXXXYII. NOTHING IN IT. Leech. But you don't laugh, Coldstream I Come, man, be amused, for once in your life. You don't laugh. Sir Charles. 0, yes, I do. You mistake ; I laughed twice distinctly — only, the fact is, I am bored to death. Leech. Bored? What ! after such a feast as that you have given us ? Look at me. I am inspired. I'm a king at this moment, and all the world is at my feet. Sir C. My dear Leech, you began life late. You are a young fellow — forty-five — and have the world yet be- fore you. I started at thirteen, lived quick, and ex- hausted the whole round of pleasure before I was thirty. I've tried every thing ; and here I am, a man of thirty- three, literally used up — completely hlasL Leech. Nonsense, man ! Used up, indeed ! with youi wealth, with your twenty estates of the sunniest spots in England — not to mention that Utopia within four walls, in the Rue de Provence^ in Paris. Sir C. I'm dead with ennui. Leech. Ennui ! poor Croesus. Sir G. Croesus ! — no, I'm no Croesus. My father — you've seen his portrait, good old fellow ! — he certainly did leave me a little matter of twelve thousand pounds a year ; but, after all Jjecch. 0, come ! Sir G. O, I don't complain of it. Leech I should think not. Sir G. 0, no ; there are some people who can manage to do on less — on credit. 286 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Leech. I know several. My dear Coldstream, yoii should try change of scene. Sir G. I have tried it. What's the use ? Leech. But I'd gallop all over Europe. Sir C I have. There's nothing in it. Ijcech. Nothing in all Europe ? Sir 0. Nothing ! 0, dear, yes. I remember, at one time, I did somehow go about a good deal. Leech. You should go to Switzerland. Sir G. I have been. Nothing there — people say so much about every thing. There certainly were a few glaciers, some monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and Mont Blanc ; yes, and there was ice on the top, too ; but I prefer the ice at Gunter's — less trouble, and more in it. Leech. Then, if Switzerland wouldn't do, I'd try Italy. Sir C. My dear Leech, I've tried it over and over again — and what then ? Leech. Did not Eome inspire you ? Sir G 0, believe me, Tom, a most horrible hole. People talk so much about these things! There's the Coliseum, now — round, very round — a goodish ruin enough ; but I was disappointed with it. Capitol — tol- erably high ; and St. Peter's — marble, and mosaics, and fountains — dome certainly not badly scooped — but there wa&^othing in it. Leech. Come, Coldstream, you must admit we have nothing like St. Peter's in London. Sir G. No, because we don't want it; but, if we want- ed such a thing, of course we should have it. A dozen gentlemen meet, pass resolutions, institute, and in twelve months it would be run up ; nay, if that were all, we'd buy St. Peter's itself, and have it sent over. Tjeech. Ha, ha ! well said — you're quite right. What say you to beautiful Naples ? Sir G. Not bad — excellent watermelons, and goodish opera. They took me up Vesuvius — a horrid bore ! It smoked a good deal, certainly ; but altogether a wretched mountain — saw the crater — looked down — but there was nothing in it. Leech. But the bav ? EXTERTAININQ DIALOGUES. 287 Sir C. Inferior to Dublin. Leech. The Campagna ? Sir 0. A swamp. Leech. Greece ? Sir Q. A morass. Leech. Athens ? Sir G. A bad Edinburgh. Leech. Egypt ? Sir C. A desert Leech. The pyramids ? Sir G. Humbugs! — nothing in any of them. You bore me. Is it possible that you can not invent some- thing that would make my blood boil in my veins, my hair stand on end, my heart beat, my pulse rise ; that would produce an excitement, an emotion, a sensation, a palpitation ? But no ! Leech. I've an ideal Sir G. You? What is it? Jjcech. Marry ! Sir G. Hum I — well, not bad. There's novelty about the notion ; it never did strike me to O, but no ; I should be bored with the exertion of choosing. If a wife, now, could be had like a dinner— for ordering ! Leech. She can, by you. Take the first woman that comes; on my life, she'll not refuse twelve thousand pounds a year. Sir G. Come, I don't dislike the project ; I almost feel something like a sensation coming. I haven't felt so excited for some time ; it's a novel enjoyment — a sur- prise. I'll try it. DIALOGUE LXXXCIIl. A COLLOaUY ON HISTORY. (Mary enters in a great hurry, history -hooJc in hand."" Evie. What's your hurry, Mary? Come, sit down with us a few minutes. Mary. Don't stop me, now. Alice. Why, what's the matter ? 288 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Jennie. It is something uncommon for you, Mary, to be in such a hurry. Mary. That may be ; but I have a long and difficult history lesson to learn to-night. Louisa. Well, well, sit down and tell us aboiy^ it. . Anna. Why, it's a review, and I didn't think it very hard. Mary. But I find it so difficult to remember about those invasions of the Danes, and the times in which they occurred previous to Egbert's uniting the seven kingdoms of the heptarchy in one, under the name of England. Alice. That didn't trouble me as learning the names of those first kings, from Egbert to the Norman conquest in 1066, when William the Conqueror ascended the throne. Evie. It is very fortunate for the English that all these sovereigns were not as despotic as William the Conqueror. Anna. How cruel some of his acts were : for instance his treatment of the English. Louisa. Only to think of his driving the inhabitants of thirty villages from their homes. Jennie. Yes, and converting those homes into a vast forest, in which to hunt, just for his own gratification. Louisa. Wasn't it William the Conqueror that intro- duced the pernicious feudal system. Jennie. Yes ; but that was not more unjust than the exchange of trial by jury for the barbarous one of single combat. Mary. It is true William had his failings ; but he per- formed some useful arts, one of which was the compiling of the Doomsday -book, which contained a registry of all the estates in the kingdom. Anna. After William's death what a long and con- stant succession of contests for the throne of England arose. Alice. I am a little anxious to know how the ladies employed themselves during these stormy times. Evie. While they were not employed in attending the wounded soldiers, they were accustomed to employ them- selves with various kinds of needle-work, and cookery, ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 289 and often sat surrounded by their damsels, setting them tasks, similar to the mantua-makers and milliners of the present day. Mary. This might serve, I think, as an example to some of the 6lite of modern days. Jennie. So it strikes me ; but how funny one of our a la mode matrons would look cutting and dividing work for her fashionable daughters ; and they, with their jew- eled, dainty fingers, making their own clothing. Louisa. The ladies and gentlemen could not have spent much time in reading and study, else Henry the First would not have been surnamed the Scholar merely because he could write his own name. Anna. It seems that this fashion of ladies doing their own work began gradually to decline ; for a cotemporary of Richard tells us that they were accustomed to hire sew- ing-women. Anna. You refer to Richard the Lion-Hearted, do you not? Anna. Yes; the same one whose famous exploits with the infidel Saracens made him so renowned. Evie, How different was Richard's reign and charac- ter from that of his brother John's : the former was courageous, active, and brave — the latter weak and im- becile. Jennie. His son too, Henry the Third, was just like his father ; and still, more good, perhaps, resulted from their inglorious reigns, than from those of any other two monarchs that ever occupied the throne of England. For the incapacity of John was the means of his granting the famous Magna Charter, and the people, finding Henry was too weak to make any resistance, took the power into their own hands, and this established the House of Commons in 1265. Louisa. But the character of Henry was redeemed by hifl son, who was a king of great activity and beauty, and whose reign was productive of much good to the people of England. Jennie. He ought to have been smart, for he was sur- named Long-Shanks, and the gtrides which he took in walking corresponded to the steps with which he raised Ji4gland from her former degraded level. ' - ■ 25 290 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Alice. I admire Edward the Third most of any of the English sovereigns. Mary. Perhaps jou admire his son quite as much as his father. Alice. Indeed I do. I think there wab Qever a Prince so worthy to be loved, respected, and admired as Ed- "v^ard the Black Prince — distinguished for so much bravery, or esteemed for so many good qualities. Mary. Yes, he was handsome as well as brave. But wJiat a glorious "victory that was which was gained at Cressy ? Alice. It was, indeed ; and the valorous acts of Ed- ward and his son will forever remain enshrined in the hearts of the nation. Evie. I often wished I had lived during this reign ; for it was at this time that chivalry was at its hight in England, and it always seemed that this mode of life would exactly suit my disposition. Anyia. It seems a great misfortune that Edward the Black Prince should have died so young ; not oniy on account of his many virtues and heroism, but because it involved the country in such long and sanguinary wars regarding the succession between the Houses of York and Lancaster. Evie. Now, in your honest opinion, Mary, which do you think had the best right to the crown ? Mary. The House of York. It always seemed to me, before I knew the real point of claim, that theirs was the most just. The symbol which they adopted, that of a white rose, seemed so pure, while the red one of the Lancastrians seemed symbolical of their determination to gain the throne by blood. Louisa. Let me see ; these wars lasted about thirty years, didn't they — and wern't they finally terminated by the accession of Henry the Seventh ? Jennie, Why, yes ; don't you remember he was a Lancastrian, and so he married Elizabeth, who was one of the House of York, and thus these two families were united. Alice. It was about this time that the kings began to think more of the English navy. You know Henry the ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 291 Sevcntli spent £14,000 in building one ship, which he styled the Great Harry. Evie. Well, it was about the only good he did accom- plish ; for he was so avaricious that he would not spend money for the public good, but hoarded it, as is quite common nowadays, for reckless sons to squander. Anna His son, Henry the Eighth, was exactly the reverse of his father ; for, by his expensive pleasures and ill-managed wars, he soon wasted the riches left by his father. Jennie. It was always a mystery to me how Henry the Eighth ever got so many wives. I am sure the crown must have had great attractions, to have induced so many to thus connect themselves with such an ungrate- ful and unfeeling monarch. Mary. Still, many, and women of merit, did marry him ; for instance, Catharine of Aragon, a woman dis- tinguished for her virtues. Louisa. I don't think it strange that she should have married him, for his character was then not fully known. Mary. He was quite handsome, and personal appear- ances are always attractive. I don't wonder that others married him, even after his cruel treatment of former wives. Alice. Now, you don't really think so, do you, Mary ? Mary. Indeed I do, Alice. Evie. I suppose they didn't think he would treat them so. Each fancied that her power over him would be permanent, and that she would thus escape the fhte of her predecessor. Alice. I do dislike to hear any one take part with Henry the Eighth ; for I think he deserved hanging as much as any of his wives. Mary. I think Henry's character was not so much to be despised as some of the present day, who do not, per- haps, behead or kill them outright, but by their neglect and infidelity strike a dagger to their hearts, from which they never recover. Now, suppose, Alice, he had asked you to share the crown with him and enjoy all the ad- vantages arising therefrom, wouldn't you have accepted ? Alia'. I would have given him a similar answer to 292 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. that of a lady to wkom lie proposed the same question . "If I had two heads I might accept ; but as I have but one I prefer keeping it." Evie. But still, Alice, you must acknowledge that the crown offers some very great attractions ; for instance, occupying a position where you would receive the hom- age of the whole nation. This, with some, would com- pensate for all the faults in their husbands. Alice. And for having your head cut off, perhaps. Evie. He probably wouldn't have taken mine. Louisa. Seems to me we are extemporizing consider- ably ; coming back to sober things, I think he did a great deal of good by the Keformation. Anna. But that was without any good intention on his part. The pope refusing to grant him a divorce from Catharine of Aragon, Henry became displeased, and, withdrawing himself from the Eomish Church, declared himself supreme head of the Church of England, in 1584. Jennie. After his son Edward's death, how many dis- putes and troubles there were concerning the succession. Mary. There were, indeed ; but Mary, eldest daughter of Henry, finally triumphed, and commenced her bloody reign by burning at the stake several learned divines — Cranuier, Latimer, and John Eogers. Evi^.: I think her character was much more detestable than that of her father ; for, being a woman, she ought to have been more beautiful and feminine in spirit. Mary. There was hardly ever a sovereign whose death caused so much rejoicing as that of Bloody Mary; scarcely had the breath departed from her body, when the members of parliament proceeded to Hatfield, where Elizabeth, her youngest sister, was then residing, and escorted her in triumph to London. Louisa. The London citizens could hardly restrain their joy : they rang the bells, lighted bonfires, and drank health to Queen Elizabeth. Anna. It is not strange, after all the sufferings they had endured from Mary, that they should thus welcome a Protestant queen. Her personal appearance too was calculated to inspire her subjects with love and re- spect. ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 298 Alice. But ho\i proud she was, and fond of flattery. Still, those kre no very remarkable traits in an old maid. Anna. How set, too, in her ways ; she would never marry, for fear her husband would have more power over the nation than herself Jennie. And, to show her selfish disposition, she tried to prevent others from marrying. Evie. She aspired to the reputation of a wit, on one occasion. Philip of Spain sent an embassador by the name of Gus-man to Elizabeth, and she in return sent Dr. Man, who conducted the affair with which he had been intrusted so badly that the queen thought of pun- ishing him ; but, happening to remark to one of her court- iers that Philip had sent a goose-man to her but she had sent a man-goose to him, her supposed wit pleased her so much that she let the matter pass, and Dr. Man es- caped. Alice. She was ridiculously vain ; and to call her crooked was bad enough, but to call her old was still worse. So great was her dread of being thought aged that she contrived, when nearly seventy, tQ be surprised by the French embassador in the act of dancing to the music of a little fiddle upon which she played. 3fary. She has been charged with treachery and cruelty in her treatment of Mary Queen of Scots. Louisa. And justly, too, I think. Anna. What reason could she have had for her cruel treatment of Mary ? Jennie. It was jealousy more than any thing else. Mary. But still, Mary assumed the title of Queen of England, and, had she not been checked, would have, undoubtedly, usurped the throne. Alice. But it seems so cruel to have confined such a beautiful woman in those gloomy castles, depriving her of those pleasures of which she was so fond. Buie. Her beauty and misfortunes seem to have thrown a veil over tne defects in her character in your eyes as well as in those of many others. Jjouisa. After a life of sorrows and misfortunes, she was finally beheaded by the cruel order of Elizabeth. Jennie, Notwithstanding her enmity toward Mary 25* 294 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Queen of Scots, at her death she nominated her son foi her successor. Alice. That she could not very well help; for had she done otherwise there would certainly have been civil war. Mary. What a detestable character James was. I think he well deserved the appellation given him by Bishop Burnet, that of being the wisest fool in Europe. Anna. It is fortunate for us that James was such an arbitrary monarch ; for, had it not been for his cruel per- secutions, the Puritans might never have come to this country. Evie. Some very useful acts were accomplished during his reign, one of which was the translation of the Bible ; and it is a pity that both he and his son Charles the First did not adhere better to the principles contained therein. Jennie. For had they done so perhaps Charles would not have lost his head. Louisa. I think the people of England ought to be forever grateful to Cromwell for his interposition and dethronement of Charles the First. Alice, Notwithstanding he has been universally cen- sured by the English people, and others, I think ha deserves great merit for awakening a spirit of republican liberty among the people. Mary. What a curious set those sovereigns of the House of Stuart were — so arbitrary in their principles — not ovl\j Charles and James the First, but Charles and James the Second. Anna. Was it during the reign of James the Third that the glorious revolution of 1688 took place? Evie. Yes ; at the time when William and Mary as- cended the throne. Theirs was a short reign ; but how much poor Mary did suffer from her stern and passionate husband. Louisa. So she did : but not so much as the Princess Annie, the sister of Mary, afterward Queen of England. Which do you like best, Jennie, Queen Annie or Eliza- beth? Jennie. Annie, decidedly ; she was so gentle and amiable, so kind and affectionate. Mary. Yes; but her gentleness and timidity were EN'IERTAINING DIALOGUES. 296 more on account of her love of ease ; and, for my part, I admire rather the ruling, queenly Elizabeth rather than the indiscreet, lazy Annie, whose ministers took care of 1 he government while she reclined at home. Anna. Elizabeth, also, encouraged literature. Louisa. So did Annie encourage science ; and hers as well as Elizabeth's reign has been styled the August an age of England. Uvie. How curiously they dressed at this period. Alice. One of the greatest novelties introduced by Queen Annie were hoops; and it is related of some country ladies, as a proof that they were unfashionable, that they could actually walk through a moderately-sized doorway without inconvenience. JSvie. How singular it is that all those old styles come into fashion again. Jennie. The ladies seem to have retained these fash- ions a long time ; for in the reign of George the Third thev wore them, and also laced tight, so that their heads and shoulders looked as if they were rising out of a tub. JEvie. George the Third That's the one that made war with the American colonies, wasn't it ? Mary. Yes, and became crazy, poor fellow, because he lost them. Anna. We have spoken thus far only about the ladies, and said nothing about the gentlemen. For my part I think their fashions were quite as ridiculous. Louisa. Yes, indeed, they were ; they were accus- tomed to wear their hair very long ; and one of their ministers, being very much displeased at this mode, preached a long sermon against it one Sabbath, and afler awakening their feelings upon the subject, on the impulse of the moment, drew a large pair of shears from his pocket and sheared the whole flock. Alice. I think none of the queens of England are to be compared with their present sovereign. Queen Victoria. Jennie. So do I, Alice. Uvie. Her reign thus far has been more successful and prosperous than any preceding one. All. God save the Queen. 296 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE LXXXIX, THE MAN AND THE MONEY. Characters. — M.is. Leech; Julia, her daughter , Mary, her niece; Uncle Nathan, an East Indiaman. Scenz. — Mrs. Leech and Mary seated ; Julia impatiently walking the stage. Julia. I do wish Uncle Nathan would come, if he is coining. I suppose he is a great bear — a sort of half- civilized monster. Mrs. Leech. But you must be very gentle with him, Julia ; for he is very rich, and I have no doubt he will leave all his money to one of you. You know he said in his letter he should give it to the one he liked best. Julia. 0, I shall be as loving as a kitten, mother. I know how to manage such an old bear as he is. Mary. How can you apply such names to your uncle, Julia? You shock me. Eemember, he was your father's brother. Julia. Those who have seen him say he is very rude and rough. Mary. But they also say he is kind-hearted and gen- erous. I am sure I shall love him very much. Julia. Of course you will ; so shall I, for I want his fortune. Mary. I don't care so much for his fortune. I like his character. Julia. Pooh ! I don't care for his character. If he will leave me his fortune, you may have the rest. Mary. Do you mean to be a hypocrite, and treat him well when you care nothing at all about him ? Julia. I shall love him to distraction. I shall be his slave. Mary. I shall not. I shall treat him just as I should if he was a poor man. I think of the man, and not of the money. Julia. You are welcome to your notions. I am going to get the fortune, if I can ; and I am willing to work for it. Mrs. L. That is right, Julia ; you be very attentive to him, and he will make you as rich as a princess. ENTERTAINING DIALOCJUES. 297 tfulicu That I shall. I wish he would come; and, though he is a bear, I will treat him as Beauty did the Beast. Mrs. L. Here he comes. Smooth down your hair, Julia. {Enter Uncle Nathan, with hat and coat on. Mrs. L. and Julia rush to meet him ; Mary keeps her seat.) Julia. {Grasping both his hands.) My cfear uncle I I am delighted to see you ! Uiicle N. Are you ? That is hearty. How do you do, sister? Mrs. L. {Taking his hand.) I am glad you have come. You are welcome. Uncle K Thank you, ma'am. But who is this other little puss ? Mary. I am Mary Wade. I hope you are well, uncle. Uncle K {Taking her hand.) Hearty as a buck. Julia. Take a chair, uncle. Do rest yourself. You must be very tired. {Offers him a chair.) Uncle N. {Seats himself.) Thank ye. My feet are sore. My boots hurt me. Julia. Let me pull them off for you. {Kneels^ and takes hold of his boot.) Uncle N.. No, no, girl ; that's the servant's work. Mary. How foolish you are ! I will get the bootjack. Uncle N. Never mind ; I can get them off. Julia. Poor, dear uncle. I hope it hasn't hurt you much. Uncle N. Eh ? {Looking sharp at her. Aside.) Poor, dear uncle! If I was poor, that girl wouldn't love me half so much. Julia. Let me get you some refreshment, dear uncle. Will you have a glass of water, a cup of tea or coffee? Uncle N. No, nothing of the sort. Julia. Let me help you take off your coat. Uncle N. No, you needn't. Julia. Can't I do any thing for you, dear uncle — any thing to show you how much I love you and how glad I am to see you ? 298 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. [fncle N. Nothing just yet. By and by you may; for I expect to be sick about to-morrow or next day. Julia. O, I hope not. Mrs. L. I hope not. Julia. But, if you are, I will watch by you night and day, and not leave you for a minute. I will be the most faithful and patient nurse in the world. Uncle N. Will you, you little puss ? Julia. Certainly, I will. Uncle N. I suppose you would let me die — wouldn't you, Mary? Mary. I should endeavor to do my duty. Mrs. L. Why do you say you shall be sick, brother Nathan ? UncU N. I know I shall be. Julia.. Why, dearest uncle ? Uncle N. I have good reasons. Julia. Do you feel sick now ? Uncle N. I do ; I have a dreadful pain in the small of my back, and my head aches as though it would split open. Julia. Poor, dear uncle. Pray let me do something for you. ( Uncle Nathan rubs his back, and seems to be suffering severe pain.) Uncle N. {Groaning.) The fact is, ma'am, I have got the small-pox ! I was exposed to the disease on board the ship. Julia. O ! (Screams^ and rushes off.) Mrs. L. Mercy ! The small-pox I We shall all catch it. (Rushes off.) Mary. I think you had better go to bed, uncle, and have something done for you. Uncle N. Who will take care of me? Mary. I will. Uncle N. Did you ever have the disease ? Mary. No, sir. Uncle N. You may catch it. Mary. I will do my duty, even if I do. Uncle N. {Jumping up and taking her hind.) Ah! ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 299 Mary, you are the true woman ! There is my hand, and my fortune shall go with it. Mary. But, uncle, the small-pox is Uncle N. Ha I ha ! ha I Plow quick they ran when I said small-pox ! Fair-weather friends are not the ones for me, or for my money. Mary. But haven't you got the small-pox, uncle? Uncle N. No more than you have. I was a little sus- picious of Miss Julia's devotion. I thought I would try It. She has been weighed, and found wanting. Now, Mary, let me tell you never to bow too low to a rich man, unless he is a fool. Mary. I never mean to do so I look at the man, and not the money. DIALOGUE XC. THE SCHOOLMASTER AND SCHOOL COMMITTEE. Scene. — A public house^ in the town of . Enter Schoolmastkk, with a pack on his hack. Schoolmaster. How fare you, landlord ? What have you got that's good to drink ? Landlord. I have gin, West India, genuine New England, whiskey, and cider-brandy. Master. Make us a stiff mug of sling. Put in a gill and a half of your New England, and sweeten it well with 'lasses. Land. It shall be done, sir, to your liking. Master. Do you know of any vacancy in a school in your part of the country, landlord ? fjand. There is a vacancy in our district ; and I ex* pect the parson, with our three school committee-men, will be at my house directly, to consult on matters rela- tive to the school. Master. Well, here's the lad that will serve them as cheap as any man in America ; and I believe I may ven- ture to say as well too ; for I profess no small share of skill in that business. I have kept school eleven winters, and have often had a matter of fifty scholars at a time. 300 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. I Lave teached a child its letters in a day, and to read m the Psalter in a fortnight : and I always feel very much ashamed if I use more than one quire of paper in larnin' a boy to write as well as his master. As for government, I'll turn my back to no man. I never flog my scholars : for that monstrous doctrine of whippin' children, which has been so long preached and practiced by our rigid and Fuperstitious forefathers, I have long since exploded I have a rare knack of flattering them into their duty. And this, according to a celebrated doctor at Philadel phia, whose works I have heard of, though I never read them, is the grand criterion of school government. It is, landlord, it is the very philosopher's stone. I am told, likewise, that this same great doctor does not believe that Solomon and others really meant lichen^ in the proper sense of the word, when they talked so much about using the rod, &c. He supposes that they meant confining them in dungeons, starving them for three or four days at a time, and then giving them a potion of tatromat- tucks, and such kinds of mild punishment. And, zounds, landlord, I believe he's above half right. Land. {Giving the cup to the master.) Master What may I call your name, sir, if I may be so bold ? Master. Ignoramus, at your service, sir. Land. Master Ignoramus, I am glad to see you. You are the very man we wish for. Our committee won't hesitate a moment to employ you, when they be- come acquainted with your talents. Your sentiments on government I know will vsuit our people to a nicety. Our last master was a tyrant of a fellow, and very extrava- gant in his price. He grew so important, the latter part of his time, that he had the 'frontery to demand ten dollars a month and his board. And he might truly be said to rule with a rod of iron ; for he kept an ironwood cudgel in his school, four feet long ; and it was enough to chfil one's blood to hear the shrieks of the little innocents, which were caused by his barbarity. I have heard my wife say that Sue Gossip told her that she has seen the marks of his lashes on the back of her neighbor Eymple's son. Darling, for twelve hours after the drubbing. At least, the boy told her with his own mouth that they might be seen, if they would only take the trouble to KNTERTAII^ ING DIALOGUES. 801 examine him. And, besides, Master Ignoramus, he was the most niggardly of all the human race. I don't suppose that my bar-room was one dollar the richer fof him in the course of the whole time which he tarried with us. While the young people of the town were rec- reating themselves, and taking a sociable glass of an eve- ning, at my house, the stupid blockhead was etarnally in his chamber, poring over his musty books. But finally he did the job for himself, and I am rejoiced. The wretch had the 'dacity to box little Sammy Puny's ears at such an intolerable rate that his parents fear the poor child will be an idiot all the days of tis life. And all this for nothing more than, partly by design and partly through mere accident, he happened to spit in his master's face. The child being nephew to the 'squire, you may well suppose that the whole neighborhood was soon in an uproar. The indignation of the mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, and indeed the whole circle of acquaint- ance, was roused; and the poor fellow was hooted out of town in less than twenty-four hours. Master. {Drinking off his liquor.) This is a rare dose. Believe me, landlord, I have not tasted a drop before since six o'clock this morning. {Enter parson and com- mittee-men.) Your humble sarvant, gentlemen. I under- stand you are in want of a schoolmaster. Parson. Yes, sir ; that is the occasion of our present meeting. We have been so unfortunate as to lose one good man ; and we should be very glad to find another. Is^ Committee-man. Pray don't say unfortunate^ parson. 1 think we may consider ourselves as very fortunate^ in having rid the town of an extravagant coxcomb, who was draining us of all the money we could earn, to fill his purse and rig himself out with fine clothes. 2d Com. Ten dollars a month and board, for a man whose task is so easy, is no small sum. 3o? Com. I am bold to affirm that we can procure a better man for half the money. Master. That I believe, friend ; for, though I esteem myself as good jis the best — that is to say, in the com- mon way — yet I never ax'd but five dollars a month in all my life. Parson. For mv own part, whattiver these geutle- 26 802 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. men s opinion may be, I must tell you that I am much less concerned about the wages we are to give than I am about the character and abilities of the man with whom we intrust the education of our children. I had much rather you had said you had received forty dollars a month than five. 1st Com. Dear sir, you are beside yourself. You will encourage the man to rise in his price ; whereas I was in hopes he would have fallen at least ^ne dollar. Parson. Before we talk any further about the price, it is necessary that we examine the gentleman according to law, in order to satisfy ourselves of his capability to serve us. Friend, will you be so obliging as to inform us where you received your education, and what your pretensions are with respect to your profession ? Master. Law, sir ! I never went to college in my life. Parson. I did not ask you whether you had been to college or not. We wish to know what education you have had, and whether your abilities are such as that you can do yourself honor in taking the charge of a common English school. Master. Gentlemen, I will give you a short history of my life. From seven to fifteen years of age I went to school perhaps as much as one year. In which time I went through Dil worth's Spelling-book, the Psalter, the New Testament, and could read the newspaper without spelling more than half the words. By this time, feel- ing a little above the common level, I enlisted a soldier in the army, where I continued six years, and made such proficiency in the military art that I w^as frequently talked of for a corporal. I had likewise larn'd to write considerably, and to cipher as fur as division. The multiplication-table I had at my tongue's end, and have not forgot it to this day. At length, receiving a severe flogging for nothing at all, I am not ashamed to own that I deserted, and went into one of the back settlements, and offered myself as a teacher. I was immediately em- ployed in that service ; and, though I am obliged to say it myself, I do assure you I soon became very famous. Since that time, which is eleven years, I have followed the business constantly — at ""east every winter ; for in the summer it is not customary, in the towns in general, t-^ ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 808 continue a man's school. One thing I would not forget to mention ; and that is, I have traveled about the country so much, and been in the army so long, (which is allowed to be the best school in the world,) that I consider myself as being thoroughly acquainted with mankind. You will not be insensible, gentlemen, of what great import- ance this last acquisition is to one who has the care of 3'outh. Sd Com. I admire his conversation. I imagine, by this time, you have ciphered clear through ; have you not, sir? Master. Why, as to that, 1 have gone so fur that I thought I could see through. I can tell how many min- utes old my great-grandfather was when his first son was born, how many barley-corns it would take to measure round the world, and how old the world will be at the end of six thousand years from the creation. 1st Com. It is very strange 1 You must have studied hard, to learn all these things, and that without a master, too. Master. Indeed I have, sir ; and, if I had time, I could tell you things stranger still. Parson. Can you tell in what part of the world you were born — whether in the torrid, frigid, or temperate 7.one ? Master. I was not born in the zoon, sir, nor in any other of the West India islands; but I was born in New England, in the state of New Jersey, and commonwealth of the United States of America. Parson. Do you know how many parts of speech there are in the English language ? Master. * How many speeches ! Why, as many as there are " stars in the sky, leaves on the trees, or sanda on the sea-shore." Ist Com. Please to let me ask him a question, parson. IIow many commandments are there? Master. Ten, sir ; and I knew them all before I went mto the army. Id Com. Can you tell when the moon changes, by tlie almanac ? Master. No I But I'll warrant you I could soon tell by ciphering. 304 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Sd Com. How many varses are there in the 119th psalm ? Master. Ah! excuse me there, if you please, sir; I never meddle with psalmody or metaphysics. Parson. Will you tell me, my friend, what is the dif ference between the circumference and the diameter of the globe? Master. There you are too hard for me again. I never larn'd the rule of circumstance nor geometry. I'll tell you what, gentlemen, I make no pretensions to minister larnin', lawyer larnin', or doctor larnin' ; but put me upon your clear schoolmaster larnin', and there I am even with you. 1st Com. I am satisfied with the gentleman. He haa missed but one question ; and that was such a metatistical one that it would have puzzled a Jesuit himself to have answered it. Grentlemen, shall the master withdraw a few minutes, for our further consultation ? {JExit master.) 2d Com. I am much pleased with the stranger. He appears to be a man of wonderful parts ; and I shall cheerfully agree to employ him. Sd Com,. For my part, I don't think we shall find a cheaper master ; and I move for engaging him at once. Parson. Gentlemen, how long will you be blind to your own interest? I can say, with you, that I am per- fectly satisfied — that the man is, in his profession, em- phatically what he calls himself l3y name, an ignoramus; and totally incapable of instructing our children. You know not who he is, or what he is — whether he be a thief, a liar, or a drunkard. The very terms, on which he offers himself, ought to operate as a sufficient objection against him. I am sensible that my vote will now be of no avail, since you are all agreed. I have been for years striving to procure a man of abilities and morals suitable for the employment — and such a one I had obtained ; but, alas ! we were unworthy of him. We aspersed his char- acter, invented a multitude of falsehoods, magnified every trifling error in his conduct, and even converted his vir- tues into vices. We refused to give him that pecuniary reward which his services demanded ; and he, knowing his own worth and our unworthiness, has left us forever. 1st Corn. Come, come, parson, it is easy for salary ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 806 men to talk of liberality, and to vote away money which they never earned ; but it won't do. The new master, I dare engage, will do as well or better than the old one. Landlord, call him in for his answer. Parson. I protest against your proceeding, and with- draw myself forever from the committee. But I must tell you, your children will reap the bitter consequences of such injudicious measures. It has always been sur- prising to me that people in general are more willing tc pay their money for any thing else than for "the om thing needful " — that is, for the education of their chil dren. Their tailor must be a .workman, their earpentei a workman, their hair-dresser a workman, their hostler a workman ; but the instructor of their children must — work cheap ! {Exit parson.) {Re-enter Schoolmaster.) \st Cora. We have agreed to employ you, sir ; and have only to recommend to you not to follow the steps of your predecessor. This is an " age of reason ; " and we do not imagine our children so stupid as to need the rod to quicken their ideas, or so vicious as to require a moral lesson from the ferule. Be gentle and accommo- dating, and you have nothing to fear. Land. I'll answer for him. He's as generous and merry a lad as I've had in my house this many a day. •DIALOGUE XCI. THINK FOR YOURSELF. Henry, Charles, and Uncle Peter, the politician. {Enter Henry and Charles.) Henry. What do you think of the lecture that we had last night,- Charles ? Charles. Think of it ? I like it, of course. Henry. Of course! Yes, and that is the way that most lectures are liked ; and a poor way it is. For every thing should be liked or disliked according to its merits. 26* S06 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Charles. I know that ; but surely you wouldn't ex pect me to be so unlike the rest of the world as to like a thing irrespective of the opinions of others ? Henry. So, then, you think as others do ? Charles. Indeed, I am no philosopher, nor oddity either, and don't mean to be. Why, Henry, the great thing in life — the magnum honum^ as the Latins say — is to be popular. Henry. And so you must have no opinion of your own? Charles. Why, yes; you must have every body's opinion. Do you want to be odd, or a sage ? Henry. I don't want to be either. I want to be a man. Charles. You do I Well, you will never be a man till you can think as other men do. You remember what Uncle Peter said of the sermon last Sunday — don't you? Henry. Why, yes ; he said that it was a very good one — and it was. Charles. So it was ; but he hadn't heard a word of it, for he slept all the time. Henry. And how, then, could he say that it was a very good one ? Charles. Why, he knew that it was safer to say so than the contrary ; that is, more popular — for you know that every body likes the preacher. Henry. Pshaw ! It is no such thing, Charles. Uncle Peter never would say a thing unless it was so ; and, be- sides, he doesn't care a fig about popularity. Charles. He doesn't? Why, hasn't he an office al- ready ? And doesn't he expect a higher one ? Henry. He has no office in the church, and I pre- sume that he doesn't expect any there. Charles. Why, Henry, he is maneuvering every day to get one — if not in church, in state ; and that is what makes him so pleasing and polite. Why, he is polite to every body he meets. Henry. Polite ? I hope he is. Every body is polite, or ought to be. Charles. No; but Uncle Peter is very polite, ex- tremely polite now, and he never was before he engaged ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 307 m politics, and expected an office. And that isn^t all ; he likes every body and every thing that he sees or hears — indeed, every thing that he doesn't see or hear — just as he liked the sermon last Sunday, which he didn't hear at all. And Uncle Peter would say that he liked the lecture, too, last evening, if you should ask him, oven though he didn't hear one word of it I Henry. Charles, I am astonished to hear you talk so. Indeed, I think it is slander — real, downright slander; for Uncle Peter- is a man of sense, and a man of judg- ment ; and besides Charles. Hush, Henry — there comes Uncle Peter; and now just ask him if he didn't think the lecture an extremely good one, just as he did the sermon last Sun- day ; and yet he slept all the time that he was present, for the lecturer told me so himself. {Enter Uncle Peter, very grave and dignified.) Henry. Good evening, Uncle Peter ; I am very hap • py to see you. I hope you are very well, sir. Uncle Peter. Very well, indeed. And whom have you here, discussing so warmly with you ? Henry. My school-fellow, Charles Morton, sir. Uncle Peter. Ah I Charles, have you begun to de- bate already ? Kather too soon in life, I think, to begin, sir Charles. Why, sir, Henry Dormer was advocating the old fogy doctrine that every person should think for himself Uncle Peter. Very dangerous doctrine, Henry, very. Henry. Why so. Uncle Peter ? Uncle Peter. It makes one so unpopular. Henry. And shouldn't a man have an opinion of his own, sir? Uncle Peter. He shouldn't be singular, if he means to succeed. Fall in with the world, fall in, Henry. This is the safest maxim. Henry. But isn't it better to be right than to be popu- lar ? Mr. Clay thought that it was, you remember, sir. UncU Peter. 0, he was an. old fogy, my son ; the times are changed since his day. If you mean to do 308 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. any good these days, jou must fall in with the multitude, and try to be their leader. Then you can conduct them wherever you will, and do what you have a mind to do with them. That was the way Napoleon did, and Grcn- eral Jackson. Charles. Uncle Peter, what do you think of the lec- ture, last evening ? Uiicle Peter. 0, it was excellent, truly excellent, every part of it. Charles. And which part did you like best. Uncle Peter? Unch Peter. It was all good, Charles, all of it; 1 shouldn't like to discriminate. It might be invidious. Charles. Then you agree, with the people generally, that the lecturer acquitted himself most handsomely ? Uncle Peter. Indeed, I do. I do not see how he could have done better. Henry. But, Uncle Peter, he said that every man should think for himself Uncle. Peter. Ah ! He did, Henry ! Well, really, ] have forgotten that part of his lecture. Why — why — Henry! {Confused) Henry. And he said, too, that politicians were greatl^r in fault at the present day for falling in with the senti- ments of the people. Uncle Peter. Is it possible, Henry? Surely, I must have been off my guard, for I don't recall that expres- sion now. Henry. And he said, moreover, that politicians were a time-serving set of people, any way, and ought to be kicked out of the community. Uncle Peter. He did ! Well, really, really ! But it was his lecture as a whole that I admired, Henry. Good evening. {Exit ZTncle Peter.) Charles. There, Henry, is a popular man ; and, if you wish to succeed in the world, you must be like him ; foi every body is going to vote for him, and he will get into office as sure as your name is Henry Dormer. {Exeunt) ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. 309 DIALOGUE XCII. THE GOLD FEVER. Mr. Sanguine. (Alone, seated, and reading a paper.) Here it is again ! gold, gold, gold — nothing but Califor- nia gold I I can't take up a newspaper, but the first thing I see is all about the gold in California. ! how rich the people of that country must be ! I really wish I was there. Well, why can't I be there ? Why can't I have some of the yellow stuff as well as other folks ? It can be had for the digging, I suppose. (Rises.) Faith, I'll go I — ^yes, I'll go and set right about it (Enter Mr. Prudent.) Mr. Prudent. How do you do, Mr. Sanguine ? (Shalic hands.) Am glad to see you. Any news to-day ? I see you have the paper. Mr. S. Kews, 'Squire Prudent ? — yes, news enough — glorious news — all about the gold in California. One man digs a hundred dollars' worth in a day, another a cool thousand, while another picks up ten pounds in a single lump ; and there is no end to it. I want my share, and I've just determined that I "will set off and dig for it. Mr. P. But don't be in haste, friend Sanguine. Have you considered the difficulties of such an under- taking ? Mr. S. No, nor do I wish to. What's the use of considering at all about it? I've been pounding on a lapstone long enough ; and now I'm going to throw aside my awl and last, and go to digging gold, just as you would dig potatoes. Mr. P. Your new occupation may prove to be very small potatoes to you, after all, and I advise you to take time to think of it. Mr. S. Think of it! That's just like ycu, 'Squire Prudent — you are always taking time to think of it. I have been thinking of it. I've thought how much bet- ter it is to be washing out a cool hundred dollars of yel- low gold every day than it is for me to be here pounding 810 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. pegs into sole-leather for a paper dollar made of old rags. Mr. P. But have you thought of leaving Peggy and the children? Your good wife would cry her eyes out if she thought you was going to leave her. Mr. S. Well, let her cry ; — she'll laugh enough to pay for it by and by, and the children too. I'd have you to know that I'm coming back again, and with a pretty smart lot of gold, too. Then how Peggy's eyes will brighten up ! The first thing I'll do after I get home will be to throw all my old crockery and spoons out of the window, and make a bonfire of all my best furni- ture. Mr. P. Well, what next ? Mr. S. Why, I'll buy Peggy a thousand-dollar shawl, and a diamond breastpin worth five hundred. Mr. P. But how will your wife's dress correspond with your snug little cottage ? Mr. S. The snug little cottage? why, I'll make a pig-sty of it, and build a better house than you can find in Beacon street, I'll assure you. Mr. P. What next ? Mr, S. {Scratching his head.) Well, let's see — 0, that confounded old lapstone ! I'll take a big sledge-hammer and break it into a thousand pieces. I'll pound it into grains no bigger than gold-dust. Mr. P. What will you do with your other tools ? Mr. aSI Why, I'll run my awl into the first man that iares say I ever was a shoemaker ; and, if he persists vn it, I will knock him down with my last. Mr. P. Before making any further disposal of your treasure, would it not be well to look at the difficulties of getting it ? Mr. _S. Difficulties again I I tell you there's no diffi- culty about it. In the first place, {counts on his fingers,) there's the gold in California ; secondly, there's a great deal of it ; thirdly, I'm going to dig it ; fourthly, I'll bring it home ; and, fifthly, I'll spend it. Isn't that good logic ? Mr. P. Capital ! But it may prove false logic, after all; for our old friend, Skipper Seago, has just come home from the famous gold region, without a bit of gold. ENTERTAINING DIALOGLES. 811 Mr. S. {Scratching his head, and looking blank.) Whew I whew I you don't say so. What's the reason, hey? Mr. P. Ah I here he comes now and he will answer for himself. {Sengo enters.) Mr. S. How are you, Captain Seago ? (Shake handa) They tell me you are right from the gold region. Uaptain Seago. Yes, and glad enough to get home again too, I can tell you. Mr. S. Why so? — ain't there any gold there ? Gapt. S. Yes, gold enough, and "nothing else," as the saying is. Mr. S. Well, what do you want any thing else for, if there's plenty of gold? Won't that get you all you want, and more too, hey ? Gapt. S. May be 'twill here, but it won't in the gold country. I left the ship, like a fool, and spent seven months in working in the hot sun like a dog, and now I've got home without a single shot in the locker, and only wish I'd never seen any gold-dust. Mr. S. How is it that all others do so well ? Gapt. S. So well, hey ? I tell you, Mr. Sanguine, of eight men who left our ship, I am the only one lucky enough to get home at all. Mr. S. Are all the others still digging gold ? Gapt S. Ah, no! the poor fellows have all dug their own graves long ago. Our captain was sunstruck in the Sacramento, while washing gold; two more died of hard work and exposure ; one died from the bite of a copper- head snake ; two were robbed and murdered, while on their way to the coast with their gold ; and the last one was lost in the mountains, and died of starvation. I was lucky enough to reach the coast, after giving all my gold to an Indian squaw for nursing me while I had the "fever and ague." Mr. P. So you see, friend Sanguine, there are diffi- culties in your way, after all. Mr. S. Yes, and I'll be hanged if I'll go near the gold. 312 ENTERTAINING DIALOGUES. Mr. P. But how is it about the crockery, and the spoons, and the thousand-dollar shawl, and the grand house that you was going to build f Mr. S. Ah! 'Squire Prudent, I shall never again despise the comforts of our snug little cottage, with its humble furniture ; and I am proud to say that Peggy has got more good sense than her husband, as she values the solid blessings of a New England home more than all the thousand -dollar shawls in the universe. Mr. P. I am glad to find you giving your wife credit for so much wisdom ; but what are you going to do with that confounded old lapstone of yours ? Mr. S. The lapstone ! why I am going to keep that lapstone, 'Squire Prudent, as my best friend ; and people will yet say that Simeon Sanguine is the happiest shoe- maker that ever pounded sole-leather. The lapstone for me, after alL YB 3689 iyi69859 lEPT. THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY