JOE, THE JAM-EATER.
Dramatis Personæ.
Jam-Loving Joe. By that renowned Melodramatic Serio-Comic, Miss Connie Curdler.
Joe's Mother (the very part for Mrs. Bancroft if she can only be induced to make her reappearance).
John, a Gardener. By the great Pink-eyed Unmusical Zulu.
Jim-Jam, the Fermentation Fiend. By Mr. Beerbohm Tree (who has kindly consented to undertake the part).
Chorus of Plum and Pear Gatherers, from the Savoy (by kind permission of Mr. D'oyly Carte).
Scene—The Store-room at sunset with view of exterior of Jam Cupboard, and orchard in distance.
Enter Joe.
"As Joe was at play, Near the cupboard one day, When he thought no one saw but himself."—Vide Poem.
Joe (dreamily.) 'Tis passing strange that I so partial am
To playing in the neighbourhood of Jam!
[Here Miss Curdler will introduce her great humorous Satirical Medley illustrative of the Sports of Childhood, and entitled, "Some little Gymes we all of us 'ave Plied;" after which, Enter Joe's Mother, followed by John and the Chorus, with baskets, ladders, &c., for gathering fruit.
"His Mother and John, To the garden had gone, To gather ripe pears and ripe plums."—Poem.
Joe's Mother (with forced cheerfulness)—
Let's hope, my friends, to find our pears and plums,
Unharmed by wopses, and untouched by wums.
[Chorus signify assent in the usual manner by holding up the right hand.
Solo—John.
Fruit, when gathered ripe, is wholesome—
Otherwise if eaten green.
Once I know a boy who stole some—
[With a glance at Joe, who turns aside to conceal his confusion.
His internal pangs were keen!
Chorus (virtuously). 'Tis the doom of all who're mean,
Their internal pangs are keen!
Joe's Mother (aside). By what misgivings is a mother tortured!
I'll keep my eye on Joseph in the orchard.
[She invites him with a gesture to follow.
Joe (earnestly). Nay, Mother, here I'll stay till you have done.
Temptation it is ever best to shun!
Joe's M. So laudable his wish, I would not cross it—
(Mysteriously.) He knows not there are jam-pots in yon closet!
Chorus. Away we go tripping,
From boughs to be stripping
Each pear, plum, and pippin
Pomona supplies!
When homeward we've brought 'em,
Those products of Autumn,
We'll carefully sort 'em
(One of our old Music-hall rhymes),
According to size! [Repeat as they caper out.
[Joe's Mother, after one fond, lingering look behind, follows: the voices are heard more and more faintly in the distance. Stage darkens: the last ray of sunset illumines key of jam-cupboard door.
Joe. At last I am alone! Suppose I tried
That cupboard—just to see what's kept inside?
[Seems drawn towards it by some fatal fascination.
There might be Guava jelly, and a plummy cake,
For such a prize I'd laugh to scorn a stomach-ache!
[Laughs a stomach-ache to scorn.
And yet (hesitating) who knows?—a pill ... perchance—a powder!
(Desperately.) What then? To scorn I'll laugh them—even louder!
[Fetches chair and unlocks cupboard. Doors fall open with loud clang, revealing Interior of Jam Closet (painted by Hawes Craven). Joe mounts chair to explore shelves.
"How sorry I am, He ate raspberry jam, And currants that stood on the shelf!"—Vide Poem.
Joe (speaking with mouth full and back to audience).
'Tis raspberry—of all the jams my favourite;
I'll clear the pot, whate'er I have to pay for it!
And finish up with currants from this shelf ...
Who'll ever see me?
The Demon of the Jam Closet (rising slowly from an immense pot of preserves).
No one—but Myself!
[The cupboard is lit up by an infernal glare (courteously lent by the Lyceum Management from "Faust" properties); weird music; Joe turns slowly and confronts the Demon with awestruck eyes. N.B.—Great opportunity for powerful acting here.
The Demon (with a bland sneer). Pray don't mind me—I will await your leisure.
Joe (automatically). Of your acquaintance, Sir, I've not the pleasure.
Who are you? Wherefore have you intervened?
The Demon (quietly). My name is "Jim-Jam;" occupation—fiend.
Joe, (cowering limply on his chair). O Mr. Fiend, I know it's very wrong of me!
Demon (politely). Don't mention it—but please to come "along of" me?
Joe (imploringly). Do let me off this once,—ha! you're relenting,
You smile——
Demon (grimly). 'Tis nothing but my jam fermenting!
[Catches Joe's ankle, and assists him to descend.
Joe. You'll drive me mad!
Demon (carelessly). I may—before I've done with you!
Joe. What do you want?
Demon (darkly). To have a little fun with you!
Of fiendish humour now I'll give a specimen.
[Chases him round and round stage, and proceeds to smear him hideously with jam.
Joe (piteously). Oh, don't! I feel so sticky. What a mess I'm in!
Demon (with affected sympathy). That is the worst of jam—it's apt to stain you.
[To Joe, as he frantically endeavours to remove the traces of his crime.
I see you're busy—so I'll not detain you!
[Vanishes down star-trap with a diabolical laugh. Cupboard-doors close with a clang; all lights down. Joe stands gazing blankly for some moments, and then drags himself off stage. His Mother and John, with Pear-and-Plum-gatherers bearing laden baskets, appear at doors at back of Scene, in faint light of torches.
Re-enter Joe bearing a candle and wringing his hands.
Joe. Out, jammed spot! What—will these hands never be clean?
Here's the smell of the raspberry jam still! All the powders of Gregory cannot unsweeten this little hand ... (Moaning.) Oh, oh, oh!
[This passage has been accused of bearing too close a resemblance to one in a popular Stage Play; if so, the coincidence is purely accidental, as the Dramatist is not in the habit of reading such profane literature.
Joe's Mother. Ah! what an icy dread my heart benumbs!
See—stains on all his fingers, and his thumbs!
"What Joe was about, His mother found out, When she look'd at his fingers and thumbs."—Poem again.
Nay, Joseph—'tis your mother ... speak to her!
Joe (tonelessly, as before). Lady, I know you not (touches lower part of waistcoat); but, prithee, undo this button. I think I have jam in all my veins, and I would fain sleep. When I am gone, lay me in a plain white jelly-pot, with a parchment cover, and on the label write—but come nearer, I have a secret for your ear alone ... there are strange things in some cupboards! Demons should keep in the dust-bin. (With a ghastly smile.) I know not what ails me, but I am not feeling at all well.
[Joe's Mother stands a few steps from him, with her hands twisted in her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.
Joe (to the Chorus). I would shake hands with you all, were not my fingers so sticky. We eat marmalade, but we know not what it is made of. Hush! if Jim-Jam comes again, tell him that I am not at home. Loo-loo-loo!
All (with conviction). Some shock has turned his brine!
Joe (sitting down on floor, and weaving straws in his hair.) My curse upon him that invented jam. Let us all play Tibbits.
[Laughs vacantly; all gather round him, shaking their heads, his Mother falls fainting at his feet as curtain falls upon a strong and moral, though undeniably gloomy dénoûment.
iii.—THE MAN-TRAP.
This Drama, which, like our last, has been suggested by a poem of the Misses Taylor, will be found most striking and impressive in representation upon the Music-hall stage. The dramatist has ventured to depart somewhat from the letter, though not the spirit, of the original text, in his desire to enforce the moral to the fullest possible extent. Our present piece is intended to teach the great lesson that an inevitable Nemesis attends apple-stealing in this world, and that Doom cannot be disarmed by the intercession of the evil-doer's friends, however well-meaning.