Comediettas and Farces

COMEDIETTAS AND FARCES

BY

JOHN MADDISON MORTON

NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS

1886

PREFACE.

I HAVE been asked to write a few words of Preface to this little book of Plays. I may state that two are original; for the remainder (being too old an offender in this respect to do otherwise), I thankfully admit my indebtedness to French material, claiming, however, for myself, considerable alterations in plot, situations, etc., and complete originality of dialogue.

I beg to call the attention of Amateurs to these pieces—they having been written by me with a special view to Private performance.

JOHN MADDISON MORTON.

CONTENTS.

JOHN MADDISON MORTON.

THE present generation is familiar enough with “Box and Cox,” that best and brightest of good old English farces, and hundreds of other plays of the same kind, that were written years ago by one of the driest of humorists and most genial of gentlemen; but few young play-goers, I take it, are aware how much the stage owes to John Maddison Morton. Of the form and features of one of the most prolific writers for the stage, I believe many of my own contemporaries to be absolutely ignorant. They know little of his antecedents or history, and yet they, and their fathers before them, have laughed right merrily over the quips and cranks, the quaint turns of expression, the odd freaks of humor that distinguished a writer of fun belonging to the old school. No one has ever filled the place left vacant by John Maddison Morton. Managers for many years past have assumed that the public does not want farces, and are content to tolerate badly-acted rubbish before the play of the evening begins. But a strong reaction is setting in. The pit and gallery are not content any longer to remain open-mouthed while the scenes of the play of the evening are being set, or to be deluded into applauding the silly stuff that is nowadays served up as farce, and in which the principal actors and actresses do not condescend to appear. Why, when I first began to consider myself a regular play-goer, some five-and-twenty years ago, when I struggled with the young men of my time into the pit, I could see, quite irrespective of the play of the evening, Webster at the Adelphi in “One Touch of Nature,” say at seven o’clock in the evening; Toole and Paul Bedford and Selby and Billington and Bob Romer, always in some favorite farce that began or ended the evening’s amusement, at the Haymarket; Buckstone, old Rogers, and Chippendale in such plays as “The Rough Diamond,” at the Haymarket, with an after-farce for Compton, Howe, and Walter Gordon; and at the Strand such excellent little plays as “Short and Sweet” or the “Fair Encounter,” in which we were sure to find Jemmy Rogers and Johnnie Clarke, and most probably Belford, Marie Wilton, Fanny Josephs, and Miss Swanborough. In those days artists were not above their business, which was, and ever should be, to amuse the public; they were not taken up and patronized by society; they did not lecture their audiences, but were modest, hard-working, and unassuming. There were no young fops in the ranks of the dramatic profession with extravagant salaries and diminutive talent, and the young ladies who adopted the profession had to work, and work hard, in order to obtain a name. Farces were then well acted, for the simple reason that the best members of the company played in them. It was worth paying for the pit at half or full price when Robson was set down for “Retained for the Defence” or “Boots at the Swan,” and when Leigh Murray, most accomplished of comedians, appeared in “His First Champagne.”

John Maddison Morton was born on January 3, 1811, at the lovely Thames-side village of Pangborne, above Reading. His father was the famous dramatist Thomas Morton, author of “Speed the Plough,” “Town and Country,” “The Way to get Married,” “Secrets worth Knowing,” “Cure for the Heartache,” “School of Reform,” etc. The elder Morton resided at Pangborne for thirty-five years, and only removed to London in 1828. It must have been on the lovely reaches, back-waters, and weirs of the lovely Thames that the future author of “Box and Cox” acquired such a love of angling, and became so enthusiastic and excellent a fisherman. A few years ago I was in the habit of meeting Maddison Morton at the hospitable table of my old friend Robert Reece. They were both members of the old Dramatic Authors’ Society, and on committee days Reece would bring the jovial dramatist home to dinner, when, over a glass of old port-wine, and with frequent intervals of snuff-taking, he would delight us with stories of actors, and many adventures with the rod and line. In fact, he told us that he devoted the best part of his after-life to two principal objects, “Fishing and Farce-writing.”

But to return to his younger days. He was educated in Paris and Germany from 1817 to 1820. After that he went to school at Islington for a short time, and from 1820 to 1827 we find the future dramatist at Dr. Richardson’s celebrated seminary at Clapham. Under the roof of the famous author of the English dictionary he found, and soon took for companions, Julian Young, Charles James Mathews, John Kemble, Henry Kemble, John Liston, Dick Tattersall, young Terry, son of Terry the actor, whose widow subsequently married the lexicographer, Dr. Richardson. In 1832 Maddison Morton was appointed to a clerkship in Chelsea Hospital by Lord John Russell, but he did not appear to relish the desk any more than his subsequent friends, W. S. Gilbert and Robert Reece. He did not wait patiently for a pension, like Tom Taylor, Anthony Trollope, etc., but got sick of government office-work in 1840, when he resigned his situation.

It was in April, 1835, that Maddison Morton produced his first farce at the little theatre in Tottenham Street destined afterwards to flourish as the Prince of Wales Theatre, and to be the nursery of Robertsonian comedy. The farce was called “My First Fit of the Gout,” and the principal parts were played by Wrench, Morris Barrett, and Mrs. Nisbett. As I have said before, Maddison Morton lived in the happy days when farces were popular, when programmes were ample, and when actors were not ashamed of their work. Among the cultivated artists who have played in Maddison Morton’s farces are the elder Farren, Liston, Keeley, Buckstone, Wright, Compton, Harley, Robson, Mrs. Glover, Mrs. Stirling, Charles Mathews, and many more of our own day, such as Toole, Howe, etc.

I once asked Maddison Morton some particulars concerning his subsequent career as a dramatist, when he observed, quaintly enough, “My dear boy, it would never do for me to blow my own trumpet. In the first place, I haven’t got one, and I am sure I could not blow it if I had.” It is sometimes brought as a charge against Maddison Morton that his plays are taken from the French, and as such are devoid of original merit. But how little such as these understand Maddison Morton or his incomparable style. He may have borrowed his plots from France, but what trace of French writing is to be found in the immortal “Box and Cox,” or “Woodcock’s Little Game?” “Box and Cox” is taken from two French farces, one called “Frisette,” and the other “Une Chambre à Deux Lits,” but the writing of the farce as much belongs to the man, and is as distinctly original and personal to him as anything ever said or written by Henry James Byron. For my own poor part, I consider that Maddison Morton is funnier than any writer for the stage in his day. It is the kind of dry, sententious humor that tickles one far more than the extravagances, the puns, and the strained tomfooleries of the modern writer of burlesque—the very burlesque that Maddison Morton considers was the death-blow to the old-fashioned English farce. Players may yet find it profitable to revive the taste for short farces, and they need not hesitate to do so because several excellent and funny plays by the author of “Box and Cox” remain unused. Benjamin Webster told Maddison Morton, not long before his death, that he had made more money by farces than by any other description of drama. This is not difficult to account for. The author was certainly not overpaid; the farces were evidently well acted; it cost next to nothing to produce them, and if successful, the world and his wife went to see them.

Writing to a friend the other day, Maddison Morton observes: “The introduction of ‘Burlesque’ gave the first ‘knock-down blow’ to the old-fashioned farce. I hoped against hope that its popularity would return, and that some employment might still be found for my pen. I was disappointed; and as the only means of discharging liabilities which I had in the mean time unavoidably contracted, I was compelled to part with my copyrights, the accumulation of a life’s laborious and not unsuccessful work.”

It is interesting to note that Maddison Morton’s “Box and Cox” was the pioneer of the movement that resulted in the literary and musical partnership of Gilbert and Sullivan. If it had not been for Burnand’s “Cox and Box,” in all probability the “Sorcerer” and the rest of the operas would never have been written. And happily the reign of Maddison Morton is not yet over. On Monday, December 7, 1885, was produced at Toole’s Theatre a three-act farce called “Going It,” that kept the house in a continual roar of laughter. It is in the old vein, bright, witty, and bristling with verbal quip. When the farce was over the call for “author” was raised, but no one imagined that it would be responded to. To the surprise of all, Mr. Toole led on an elderly gentleman of the old school, prim, neat, well set up, and rosy-cheeked as a winter apple. This was Maddison Morton. At last the young play-goer had seen the author of “Box and Cox.”

In the year 1881, on the nomination of her Majesty, this great and accomplished gentleman, who never mixed in Bohemian or literary society, was appointed a “poor brother of the Charter House.” Who that has read Thackeray is not familiar with the fine old hospital of “Greyfriars,” and its pleasant old “codds,” under whose shadow and in whose society Colonel Newcome breathed his last, and said “Adsum.” Here in this pleasant retreat, quiet and retired although in the heart of the busiest part of the city, Maddison Morton met another “brother,” John A. Heraud, a dramatist and dramatic critic who had often sat in judgment on Morton’s plays. What chats about old times they must have within those venerable walls that circle round the poet-dramatist and the dramatic farce-writer. “Here,” writes Maddison Morton, in his well-known cheerful and contented frame of mind, “I shall doubtless spend the short time I may have to live, and then be laid in the quiet little church-yard at Bow—not, I hope, entirely ‘unwept, unhonored, nor unsung.’”

Good, kindly, gentle heart thus to speak with such fervor and such faith in the long evening of your days! Shut up in your cloistered home, the hearts of those who had the honor and pleasure of knowing you often go out to you! And on the stage the laughter evoked by your fanciful wit, and the true humor that sprung from your merry heart, will soothe you and delight many more who honor your excellent name.

CLEMENT SCOTT.

[BOX AND COX.]

In One Act.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• JOHN BOX, a Journeyman Printer.
• JAMES COX, a Journeyman Hatter.
• MRS. BOUNCER.

COSTUMES.

BOX.—Small swallow-tailed black coat, short buff waistcoat, light drab trousers, short, turned up at bottom, black stockings, white canvas boots with black tips, cotton neck-cloth, shabby black hat.

COX.—Brown Newmarket coat, long white waistcoat, dark plaid trousers, boots, white hat, black stock.

MRS. BOUNCER.—Colored cotton gown, apron, cap, etc.

EXITS AND ENTRANCES.—R. means Right; L., Left; R. D., Right Door; L. D., Left Door; S. E., Second Entrance; U. E., Upper Entrance; M. D., Middle Door; F., the Flat; D. F., Door in Flat.

RELATIVE POSITIONS.—R. means Right; L., Left; C., Centre; R. C., Right of Centre; L. C., Left of Centre.

SCENE.—A room decently furnished. At C. a bed, with curtains closed; at L. C. a door; at L. 3d E. a door; at L. S. E. a chest of drawers; at back, R., a window; at R. 3d E. a door; at R. S. E. a fireplace, with mantle-piece, table, and chairs, and a few common ornaments on chimney-piece. COX, dressed, with the exception of his coat, is looking at himself in a small looking-glass, which is in his hand.

COX. I’ve half a mind to register an oath that I’ll never have my hair cut again! (His hair is very short.) I look as if I had just been cropped for the militia. And I was particularly emphatic in my instructions to the hair-dresser only to cut the ends off. He must have thought I meant the other ends! Never mind—I sha’n’t meet anybody to care about so early. Eight o’clock, I declare! I haven’t a moment to lose. Fate has placed me with the most punctual, particular, and peremptory of hatters, and I must fulfil my destiny. (Knock at L. D.) Open locks, whoever knocks!

Enter MRS. BOUNCER, L.

MRS. B. Good-morning, Mr. Cox. I hope you slept comfortably, Mr. Cox?

COX. I can’t say I did, Mrs. B. I should feel obliged to you if you could accommodate me with a more protuberant bolster, Mrs. B. The one I’ve got now seems to me to have about a handful and a half of feathers at each end, and nothing whatever in the middle.

MRS. B. Anything to accommodate you, Mr. Cox.

COX. Thank you. Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to hold this glass while I finish my toilet?

MRS. B. Certainly (holding glass before COX, who ties his cravat). Why, I do declare, you’ve had your hair cut.

COX. Cut! It strikes me I’ve had it mowed! It’s very kind of you to mention it, but I’m sufficiently conscious of the absurdity of my personal appearance already. (Puts on his coat.) Now for my hat. (Puts on his hat, which comes over his eyes.) That’s the effect of having one’s hair cut. This hat fitted me quite tight before. Luckily I’ve got two or three more. (Goes in at L., and returns with three hats of different shapes, and puts them on, one after the other—all of which are too big for him.) This is pleasant! Never mind. This one appears to me to wabble about rather less than the others. (Puts on hat.) And now I’m off! By-the-bye, Mrs. Bouncer, I wish to call your attention to a fact that has been evident to me for some time past—and that is, that my coals go remarkably fast—

MRS. B. Lor, Mr. Cox!

COX. It is not the case only with the coals, Mrs. Bouncer, but I’ve lately observed a gradual and steady increase of evaporation among my candles, wood, sugar, and lucifer-matches.

MRS. B. Lor, Mr. Cox! you surely don’t suspect me?

COX. I don’t say I do, Mrs. B.; only I wish you distinctly to understand that I don’t believe it’s the cat.

MRS. B. Is there anything else you’ve got to grumble about, sir?

COX. Grumble! Mrs. Bouncer, do you possess such a thing as a dictionary?

MRS. B. No, sir.

COX. Then I’ll lend you one; and if you turn to the letter G, you’ll find “Grumble, verb neuter—to complain without a cause.” Now, that’s not my case, Mrs. B.; and now that we are upon the subject, I wish to know how it is that I frequently find my apartment full of smoke?

MRS. B. Why—I suppose the chimney—

COX. The chimney doesn’t smoke tobacco. I’m speaking of tobacco-smoke, Mrs. B. I hope, Mrs. Bouncer, you’re not guilty of cheroots or Cubas?

MRS. B. Not I, indeed, Mr. Cox.

COX. Nor partial to a pipe?

MRS. B. No, sir.

COX. Then, how is it that—

MRS. B. Why—I suppose—yes—that must be it—

COX. At present I am entirely of your opinion—because I haven’t the most distant particle of an idea what you mean.

MRS. B. Why, the gentleman who has got the attics is hardly ever without a pipe in his mouth—and there he sits, with his feet upon the mantle-piece—

COX. The mantle-piece! That strikes me as being a considerable stretch, either of your imagination, Mrs. B., or the gentleman’s legs. I presume you mean the fender or the hob.

MRS. B. Sometimes one, sometimes t’other. Well, there he sits for hours, and puffs away into the fireplace.

COX. Ah, then you mean to say that this gentleman’s smoke, instead of emulating the example of all other sorts of smoke, and going up the chimney, thinks proper to effect a singularity by taking the contrary direction?

MRS. B. Why—

COX. Then, I suppose, the gentleman you are speaking of is the same individual that I invariably meet coming up-stairs when I’m going down, and going down-stairs when I’m coming up!

MRS. B. Why—yes—I—

COX. From the appearance of his outward man, I should unhesitatingly set him down as a gentleman connected with the printing interest.

MRS. B. Yes, sir—and a very respectable young gentleman he is.

COX. Well, good-morning, Mrs. Bouncer.

MRS. B. You’ll be back at your usual time, I suppose, sir?

COX. Yes—nine o’clock. You needn’t light my fire in future, Mrs. B., I’ll do it myself. Don’t forget the bolster! (Going, stops.) A halfpenny worth of milk, Mrs. Bouncer; and be good enough to let it stand—I wish the cream to accumulate.

[Exit at L. C.

MRS. B. He’s gone at last! I declare I was all in a tremble for fear Mr. Box would come in before Mr. Cox went out. Luckily, they’ve never met yet; and what’s more, they’re not very likely to do so; for Mr. Box is hard at work at a newspaper office all night, and doesn’t come home till the morning, and Mr. Cox is busy making hats all day long, and doesn’t come home till night; so that I’m getting double rent for my room, and neither of my lodgers is any the wiser for it. It was a capital idea of mine—that it was! But I haven’t an instant to lose. First of all, let me put Mr. Cox’s things out of Mr. Box’s way. (She takes the three hats, COX’S dressing-gown and slippers, opens door at L. and puts them in, then shuts door and locks it.) Now, then, to put the key where Mr. Cox always finds it. (Puts the key on the ledge of the door, L.) I really must beg Mr. Box not to smoke so much. I was so dreadfully puzzled to know what to say when Mr. Cox spoke about it. Now, then, to make the bed; and don’t let me forget that what’s the head of the bed for Mr. Cox becomes the foot of the bed for Mr. Box—people’s tastes do differ so. (Goes behind the curtains of the bed, and seems to be making it; then appears with a very thin bolster in her hand.) The idea of Mr. Cox presuming to complain of such a bolster as this! (She disappears again behind curtains.)

BOX (without). Pooh—pooh! Why don’t you keep your own side of the staircase, sir? (Enters at back, dressed as a printer. Puts his head out at door again, shouting.) It was as much your fault as mine, sir! I say, sir—it was as much your fault as mine, sir!

MRS. B. (emerging from behind the curtains of bed). Lor, Mr. Box! what is the matter?

BOX. Mind your own business, Bouncer!

MRS. B. Dear, dear, Mr. Box! what a temper you are in, to be sure! I declare you’re quite pale in the face!

BOX. What color would you have a man be who has been setting up long leaders for a daily paper all night?

MRS. B. But, then, you’ve all the day to yourself.

BOX (looking significantly at MRS. BOUNCER). So it seems! Far be it from me, Bouncer, to hurry your movements, but I think it right to acquaint you with my immediate intention of divesting myself of my garments, and going to bed.

MRS. B. Oh, Mr. Box! (going).

BOX. Stop! Can you inform me who the individual is that I invariably encounter going down-stairs when I’m coming up, and coming up-stairs when I’m going down?

MRS. B. (confused). Oh—yes—the gentleman in the attic, sir.

BOX. Oh! There’s nothing particularly remarkable about him, except his hats. I meet him in all sorts of hats—white hats and black hats—hats with broad brims and hats with narrow brims—hats with naps and hats without naps—in short, I have come to the conclusion that he must be individually and professionally associated with the hatting interest.

MRS. B. Yes, sir. And, by-the-bye, Mr. Box, he begged me to request of you, as a particular favor, that you would not smoke quite so much.

BOX. Did he? Then you may tell the gentle hatter, with my compliments, that if he objects to the effluvia of tobacco, he had better domesticate himself in some adjoining parish.

MRS. B. Oh, Mr. Box! you surely wouldn’t deprive me of a lodger? (pathetically).

BOX. It would come to precisely the same thing, Bouncer; because if I detect the slightest attempt to put my pipe out, I at once give you warning that I shall give you warning at once.

MRS. B. Well, Mr. Box—do you want anything more of me?

BOX. On the contrary—I’ve had quite enough of you!

MRS. B. Well, if ever! What next, I wonder?

[Goes out at L. C., slamming door after her.

BOX. It’s quite extraordinary, the trouble I always have to get rid of that venerable female! She knows I’m up all night, and yet she seems to set her face against my indulging in a horizontal position by day. Now, let me see—shall I take my nap before I swallow my breakfast, or shall I take my breakfast before I swallow my nap—I mean, shall I swallow my nap before— No; never mind! I’ve got a rasher of bacon somewhere (feeling in his pockets). I’ve the most distinct and vivid recollection of having purchased a rasher of bacon— Oh, here it is (produces it, wrapped in paper, and places it on table); and a penny roll. The next thing is to light the fire. Where are my lucifers? (Looking on mantle-piece, R., and taking box, opens it.) Now, ’pon my life, this is too bad of Bouncer—this is, by several degrees, too bad! I had a whole boxful three days ago, and now there’s only one! I’m perfectly aware that she purloins my coals and my candles and my sugar, but I did think—oh, yes, I did think that my lucifers would be sacred! (Takes candlestick off the mantle-piece, R., in which there is a very small end of candle; looks at it.) Now I should like to ask any unprejudiced person or persons their opinion touching this candle. In the first place, a candle is an article that I don’t require, because I’m only at home in the day-time; and I bought this candle on the first of May—Chimney-sweepers’ Day—calculating that it would last me three months, and here’s one week not half over, and the candle three parts gone! (Lights the fire; then takes down a gridiron which is hanging over the fireplace, R.) Mrs. Bouncer has been using my gridiron! The last article of consumption that I cooked upon it was a pork-chop, and now it is powerfully impregnated with the odor of red herrings! (Places gridiron on fire, and then with fork lays rasher of bacon on the gridiron.) How sleepy I am, to be sure! I’d indulge myself with a nap, if there was anybody here to superintend the turning of my bacon. (Yawning again.) Perhaps it will turn itself. I must lie down—so, here goes. (Lies on the bed, closing the curtains round him. After a short pause—

Enter COX, hurriedly, L. C.

COX. Well, wonders will never cease! Conscious of being eleven minutes and a half behind time, I was sneaking into the shop, in a state of considerable excitement, when my venerable employer, with a smile of extreme benevolence on his aged countenance, said to me, “Cox, I sha’n’t want you to-day; you can have a holiday.” Thoughts of “Gravesend and back—fare, One Shilling,” instantly suggested themselves, intermingled with visions of “Greenwich for Fourpence!” Then came the Twopenny Omnibuses, and the Halfpenny boats—in short, I’m quite bewildered! However, I must have my breakfast first—that’ll give me time to reflect. I’ve bought a mutton-chop, so I sha’n’t want any dinner. (Puts chop on table.) Good gracious! I’ve forgot the bread. Holloa! what’s this? A roll, I declare! Come, that’s lucky! Now, then, to light the fire. Holloa! (seeing the lucifer-box on table) who presumes to touch my box of lucifers? Why, it’s empty! I left one in it—I’ll take my oath I did. Heyday! Why, the fire is lighted! Where’s the gridiron? On the fire, I declare! And what’s that on it? Bacon? Bacon it is! Well, now, ’pon my life, there’s a quiet coolness about Mrs. Bouncer’s proceedings that’s almost amusing. She takes my last lucifer—my coals and my gridiron to cook her breakfast by! No, no—I can’t stand this! Come out of that! (Pokes fork into bacon, and puts it on a plate on the table; then places his chop on the gridiron, which he puts on the fire.) Now, then, for my breakfast-things. (Taking key, hung up, L., opens door L. and goes out slamming the door after him with a loud noise.)

BOX (suddenly showing his head from behind the curtains). Come in! if it’s you, Mrs. Bouncer—you needn’t be afraid. I wonder how long I’ve been asleep? (Suddenly recollecting.) Goodness gracious—my bacon! (Leaps off bed and runs to the fireplace.) Holloa! what’s this? A chop! Whose chop? Mrs. Bouncer’s, I’ll be bound. She thought to cook her breakfast while I was asleep—with my coals, too—and my gridiron! Ha, ha! But where’s my bacon? (Seeing it on table.) Here it is. Well, ’pon my life. Bouncer’s going it! And shall I curb my indignation? shall I falter in my vengeance? No! (Digs the fork into the chop, opens window, and throws chop out; shuts window again.) So much for Bouncer’s breakfast; and now for my own! (With the fork he puts the bacon on the gridiron again.) I may as well lay my breakfast-things. (Goes to mantle-piece at R., takes key out of one of the ornaments, opens door at R. and exit, slamming door after him.)

COX (putting his head in quickly at L.). Come in—come in! (Opens door, L. C. Enters with a small tray, on which are tea-things, etc., which he places on drawers, L., and suddenly recollects.) Oh, goodness! my chop! (running to fireplace). Holloa—what’s that? The bacon again! Oh, pooh! Zounds—confound it—dash it—damn it—I can’t stand this! (Pokes fork into bacon, opens window and flings it out; shuts window again, returns to drawers for tea-things, and encounters BOX coming from his cupboard with his tea-things. They walk down C. of stage together.) Who are you, sir?

BOX. If you come to that—who are you?

COX. What do you want here, sir?

BOX. If you come to that—what do you want?

COX (aside). It’s the printer! (Puts tea-things on the drawers.)

BOX (aside). It’s the hatter! (Puts tea-things on table.)

COX. Go to your attic, sir—

BOX. My attic, sir? Your attic, sir!

COX. Printer, I shall do you a frightful injury if you don’t instantly leave my apartment.

BOX. Your apartment? You mean my apartment, you contemptible hatter, you!

COX. Your apartment? Ha! ha!—come, I like that! Look here, sir. (Produces a paper out of his pocket.) Mrs. Bouncer’s receipt for the last week’s rent, sir—

BOX (produces a paper, and holds it close to COX’S face). Ditto, sir!

COX (suddenly shouting). Thieves!

BOX. Murder!

BOTH. Mrs. Bouncer! (Each runs to door, L. C., calling.)

MRS. BOUNCER runs in at door, L. C.

MRS. B. What is the matter? (COX and BOX seize MRS. BOUNCER by the arm and drag her forward.)

BOX. Instantly remove that hatter!

COX. Immediately turn out that printer!

MRS. B. Well, but, gentlemen—

COX. Explain! (Pulling her round to him.)

BOX. Explain! (Pulling her round to him.) Whose room is this?

COX. Yes, woman—whose room is this?

BOX. Doesn’t it belong to me?

MRS. B. No!

COX. There! You hear, sir—it belongs to me!

MRS. B. No—it belongs to both of you! (sobbing).

COX and BOX. Both of us?

MRS. B. Oh, dear gentlemen, don’t be angry—but, you see, this gentleman (pointing to BOX) only being at home in the daytime, and that gentleman (pointing to COX) at night, I thought I might venture, until my little back second-floor room was ready—

BOX and COX (eagerly). When will your little back second-floor room be ready?

MRS. B. Why, to-morrow—

COX. I’ll take it!

BOX. So will I!

MRS. B. Excuse me—but if you both take it, you may just as well stop where you are.

COX and BOX. True.

COX. I spoke first, sir—

BOX. With all my heart, sir. The little back second-floor room is yours, sir—now, go—

COX. Go? Pooh—pooh!

MRS. B. Now don’t quarrel, gentlemen. You see, there used to be a partition here—

COX and BOX. Then put it up!

MRS. B. Nay, I’ll see if I can’t get the other room ready this very day. Now do keep your tempers.

[Exit L.

COX. What a disgusting position! (walking rapidly round stage).

BOX (sitting down on chair at one side of table, and following COX’S movements). Will you allow me to observe, if you have not had any exercise to-day, you’d better go out and take it.

COX. I shall not do anything of the sort, sir (seating himself at the table opposite BOX).

BOX. Very well, sir.

COX. Very well, sir! However, don’t let me prevent you from going out.

BOX. Don’t flatter yourself, sir. (COX is about to break a piece of the roll off.) Holloa! that’s my roll, sir. (Snatches it away, puts a pipe in his mouth, lights it with a piece of tinder, and puffs smoke across to COX.)

COX. Holloa! What are you about, sir?

BOX. What am I about? I’m about to smoke.

COX. Wheugh! (Goes and opens window at BOX’S back.)

BOX. Holloa! (Turns round.) Put down that window, sir!

COX. Then put your pipe out, sir!

BOX. There! (Puts pipe on table.)

COX. There! (Slams down window and reseats himself.)

BOX. I shall retire to my pillow. (Goes up, takes off his jacket, then goes towards bed, and sits down upon it, L. C.)

COX (jumps up, goes to bed, and sits down on R. of BOX). I beg your pardon, sir—I cannot allow any one to rumple my bed. (Both rising.)

BOX. Your bed? Hark ye, sir—can you fight?

COX. No, sir.

BOX. No? Then come on (sparring at COX).

COX. Sit down, sir, or I’ll instantly vociferate “Police!”

BOX (seats himself. COX does the same). I say, sir—

COX. Well, sir?

BOX. Although we are doomed to occupy the same room for a few hours longer, I don’t see any necessity for our cutting each other’s throats, sir.

COX. Not at all. It’s an operation that I should decidedly object to.

BOX. And, after all, I’ve no violent animosity to you, sir.

COX. Nor have I any rooted antipathy to you, sir.

BOX. Besides, it was all Mrs. Bouncer’s fault, sir.

COX. Entirely, sir (gradually approaching chairs).

BOX. Very well, sir!

COX. Very well, sir! (Pause.)

BOX. Take a bit of roll, sir?

COX. Thank ye, sir (breaking a bit off. Pause).

BOX. Do you sing, sir?

COX. I sometimes join in a chorus.

BOX. Then give us a chorus. (Pause.) Have you seen the Bosjemans, sir?

COX. No, sir—my wife wouldn’t let me.

BOX. Your wife!

COX. That is—my intended wife.

BOX. Well, that’s the same thing! I congratulate you (shaking hands).

COX (with a deep sigh). Thank ye. (Seeing BOX about to get up.) You needn’t disturb yourself, sir. She won’t come here.

BOX. Oh! I understand. You’ve got a snug little establishment of your own here—on the sly—cunning dog (nudging COX).

COX (drawing himself up). No such thing, sir; I repeat, sir, no such thing, sir; but my wife—I mean, my intended wife—happens to be the proprietor of a considerable number of bathing-machines—

BOX (suddenly). Ha! Where? (grasping COX’S arm).

COX. At a favorite watering-place. How curious you are!

BOX. Not at all. Well?

COX. Consequently, in the bathing season—which luckily is rather a long one—we see but little of each other; but as that is now over, I am daily indulging in the expectation of being blessed with the sight of my beloved (very seriously). Are you married?

BOX. Me? Why—not exactly!

COX. Ah—a happy bachelor!

BOX. Why—not—precisely!

COX. Oh! a—widower?

BOX. No—not absolutely!

COX. You’ll excuse me, sir—but at present I don’t exactly understand how you can help being one of the three.

BOX. Not help it?

COX. No, sir—not you, nor any other man alive!

BOX. Ah, that may be—but I’m not alive!

COX (pushing back his chair). You’ll excuse me, sir, but I don’t like joking upon such subjects.

BOX. I’m perfectly serious, sir. I’ve been defunct for the last three years.

COX (shouting). Will you be quiet, sir?

BOX. If you won’t believe me, I’ll refer you to a very large, numerous, and respectable circle of disconsolate friends.

COX. My dear sir—my very dear sir—if there does exist any ingenious contrivance whereby a man on the eve of committing matrimony can leave this world, and yet stop in it, I shouldn’t be sorry to know it.

BOX. Oh! then I presume I’m not to set you down as being frantically attached to your intended?

COX. Why, not exactly; and yet, at present, I’m only aware of one obstacle to doating upon her, and that is, that I can’t abide her!

BOX. Then there’s nothing more easy. Do as I did.

COX (eagerly). I will! What was it?

BOX. Drown yourself!

COX (shouting again). Will you be quiet, sir?

BOX. Listen to me. Three years ago it was my misfortune to captivate the affections of a still blooming, though somewhat middle-aged widow, at Ramsgate.

COX (aside). Singular enough! Just my case three months ago at Margate.

BOX. Well, sir, to escape her importunities, I came to the determination of enlisting into the Blues, or Lifeguards.

COX (aside). So did I. How very odd!

BOX. But they wouldn’t have me—they actually had the effrontery to say that I was too short—

COX (aside). And I wasn’t tall enough!

BOX. So I was obliged to content myself with a marching regiment—I enlisted!

COX (aside). So did I. Singular coincidence!

BOX. I’d no sooner done so than I was sorry for it.

COX (aside). So was I.

BOX. My infatuated widow offered to purchase my discharge, on condition that I’d lead her to the altar.

COX (aside). Just my case!

BOX. I hesitated—at last I consented.

COX (aside). I consented at once!

BOX. Well, sir, the day fixed for the happy ceremony at length drew near—in fact, too near to be pleasant—so I suddenly discovered that I wasn’t worthy to possess her, and I told her so; when, instead of being flattered by the compliment, she flew upon me like a tiger of the female gender. I rejoined—when suddenly something whizzed past me, within an inch of my ear, and shivered into a thousand fragments against the mantle-piece—it was the slop-basin. I retaliated with a teacup—we parted, and the next morning I was served with a notice of action for breach of promise.

COX. Well, sir?

BOX. Well, sir, ruin stared me in the face—the action proceeded against me with gigantic strides. I took a desperate resolution; I left my home early one morning, with one suit of clothes on my back, and another tied up in a bundle under my arm. I arrived on the cliffs, opened my bundle, deposited the suit of clothes on the very verge of the precipice, took one look down into the yawning gulf beneath me, and walked off in the opposite direction.

COX. Dear me! I think I begin to have some slight perception of your meaning. Ingenious creature! You disappeared—the suit of clothes was found—

BOX. Exactly; and in one of the pockets of the coat, or the waistcoat, or the pantaloons—I forget which—there was also found a piece of paper, with these affecting farewell words: “This is thy work, oh, Penelope Ann!”

COX. Penelope Ann! (Starts up, takes BOX by the arm, and leads him slowly to front of stage.) Penelope Ann?

BOX. Penelope Ann!

COX. Originally widow of William Wiggins?

BOX. Widow of William Wiggins.

COX. Proprietor of bathing-machines?

BOX. Proprietor of bathing-machines!

COX. At Margate?

BOX. And Ramsgate!

COX. It must be she! And you, sir—you are Box—the lamented, long lost Box!

BOX. I am.

COX. And I was about to marry the interesting creature you so cruelly deceived.

BOX. Ha! then you are Cox?

COX. I am.

BOX. I heard of it. I congratulate you—I give you joy! And now I think I’ll go and take a stroll (going).

COX. No you don’t! (stopping him). I’ll not lose sight of you till I’ve restored you to the arms of your intended.

BOX. My intended? You mean your intended.

COX. No, sir—yours!

BOX. How can she be my intended, now that I’m drowned?

COX. You’re no such thing, sir! and I prefer presenting you to Penelope Ann.

BOX. I’ve no wish to be introduced to your intended.

COX. My intended? How can that be, sir? You proposed to her first!

BOX. What of that, sir? I came to an untimely end, and you popped the question afterwards.

COX. Very well, sir!

BOX. Very well, sir!

COX. You are much more worthy of her than I am, sir. Permit me, then, to follow the generous impulse of my nature—I give her up to you.

BOX. Benevolent being! I wouldn’t rob you for the world! (Going.) Good-morning, sir!

COX (seizing him). Stop!

BOX. Unhand me, hatter! or I shall cast off the lamb and assume the lion!

COX. Pooh! (snapping his fingers close to BOX’S face).

BOX. An insult! to my very face!—under my very nose! (rubbing it). You know the consequences, sir—instant satisfaction, sir!

COX. With all my heart, sir! (They go to the fireplace, R., and begin ringing bells violently, and pull down bell-pulls.)

BOTH. Mrs. Bouncer! Mrs. Bouncer!

[MRS. BOUNCER runs in, L. C.

MRS. B. What is it, gentlemen?

BOX. Pistols for two!

MRS. B. Yes, sir (going).

COX. Stop! You don’t mean to say, thoughtless and imprudent woman, that you keep loaded fire-arms in the house?

MRS. B. Oh no—they’re not loaded.

COX. Then produce the murderous weapons instantly!

[Exit MRS. BOUNCER, L. C.

BOX. I say, sir!

COX. Well, sir?

BOX. What’s your opinion of duelling, sir?

COX. I think it’s a barbarous practice, sir.

BOX. So do I, sir. To be sure, I don’t so much object to it when the pistols are not loaded.

COX. No; I dare say that does make some difference.

BOX. And yet, sir, on the other hand, doesn’t it strike you as rather a waste of time for two people to keep firing pistols at each other with nothing in ’em?

COX. No, sir—not more than any other harmless recreation.

BOX. Hark ye! Why do you object to marry Penelope Ann?

COX. Because, as I’ve observed already, I can’t abide her. You’ll be very happy with her.

BOX. Happy? Me! With the consciousness that I have deprived you of such a treasure? No, no, Cox!

COX. Don’t think of me, Box—I shall be sufficiently rewarded by the knowledge of my Box’s happiness.

BOX. Don’t be absurd, sir!

COX. Then don’t you be ridiculous, sir!

BOX. I won’t have her!

COX. I won’t have her!