CHARACTERS.
| Mrs. Languish, | a Lady who has lately acquired Wealth. |
| Alice, | her Daughter. |
| Lucy Aiken, | } Friends of Alice. |
| Jenny Carter, | |
| Susan Dean, | |
| Bridget, | the Queen of the Kitchen. |
| Aunt Maria Midget, | a little hard of hearing. |
Scene.—Parlor in Mrs. Languish’s house. Small table and chair, L.; arm-chair, C.; rocking-chair, R.
Enter Bridget, L., showing in Lucy Aiken.
Bridget. Tak’ a sate, Miss Lucy, if ye plaze, while I spake to the young misthress. It’s glad she’ll be to see yer, for it’s a hape of throuble we have here ony how.
Lucy. Trouble, Bridget! Why, what’s the matter?
Bridget. Shure, mam, it’s all along of the misthress; she’s too sick intirely, and is failin’, and failin’, and failin.’
Lucy. Mrs. Languish sick? I am sorry to hear that.
Bridget. Oh! indade, and indade she is. Ivery breath she draws is nearer and nearer her last.
Lucy. What seems to be the matter?
Bridget. An’ shure, ma’m, I dont know, except that she’s failin’, and failin’, and failin’; an’ its sorry the day whin she fell ill; she’s the kindest and bist misthress in the world. (Crying.) Oh, musha, musha! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
Lucy. Well, well, Bridget, be calm, and hope for the best.
Bridget. Faith, and that’s what I’m doin’. Oh, here comes Miss Alice, the poor disconsilite orphan. (Exit, L.)
(Enter Alice, R.)
Alice. (Running to Lucy and kissing her.) Why, Lucy Aiken! You dear, good-for-nothing thing! Where have you been all this while?
Lucy. It is an age since we met. I must congratulate you, and I assure you I do, with all my heart, on your altered position. So, the rich and crusty old uncle, who forgot his relations while living, has remembered you in his will?
Alice. Yes, Lucy; thanks to uncle Caleb, we are rich. And, I assure you, we were glad to be remembered.
Lucy. But, dear me, Alice, what a careless creature I am! How is your mother? Bridget tells me she is very sick.
Alice. Poor mother! this sudden turn in the wheel of fortune has been too much for her; she is a confirmed invalid. I don’t know what to make of her. Dr. Tincture can find no symptoms of disease. He says she is in sound bodily health; her suddenly dropping her usual employments has occasioned her seeming illness.
No Cure, No Pay.
Lucy. Seeming! Why, Alice, you treat lightly what your Bridget seems to consider a very serious illness.
Alice. Well, I do; for I am convinced nothing ails mother. Her head is turned with the idea that she is an invalid, because she thinks it fashionable for rich ladies to be ailing, and she has the queerest notions. I suppose you will laugh, but I am going to tell you her last freak. She is highly incensed at Dr. Tincture, refuses to see him, and declares her illness can only be cured by some mysterious agency. Yesterday she bade me prepare this note to be inserted in the evening papers. (Reads.) “No Cure, no Pay.—A lady who is suffering from a disease which baffles the skill of the medical profession, and who is desirous of testifying her appreciation of the efforts now being made to institute a school of female practitioners, offers the sum of five hundred dollars to any female who will cure her. Address, with real name, ‘Bedridden,’ Station A, Boston Post Office; and remember, No cure, no pay.” Did you ever hear of such a nonsensical whim?
Lucy. What an odd idea! And do you propose to send it?
Alice. No, indeed; that is, if I can possibly prevent it. But she believes it has already gone. Dear me! I wish I could find a way to frighten her into health again.
Lucy. That’s just what you must do. If you will be guided by me, her cure can be effected. You remember our “Private Theatricals” last winter, and what fun we had. Let us turn our practice then to profit now. There’s Jenny Carter and Susie Dean all ready for any harmless sport, I know. You leave this to me, and I’ll send your mother a few samples of the new school she so much admires.
Alice. Oh, capital! capital! But are you quite sure you can carry out this scheme?
Lucy. Sure. Remember what Richelieu says about “the bright lexicon of youth,” and leave all to me. Good-by; I must run and see the girls. Set your heart at rest; we’ll have your mother well before she knows it herself. Good-by. (Exit, L.)
Alice. Good-by. I have great faith in Lucy. And I do hope this scheme of hers will be a success. Perhaps it is wrong to deceive poor mother; but that advertisement once inserted in the papers, we should have no peace day or night. Here she comes. Poor mother; she works very hard to keep up her sickness. I can hardly refrain from laughing to see her bright, rosy face, and the utter lassitude of her body.
(Enter Mrs. Languish, R., supported by Aunt Midget, very slowly.)
Aunt M. Keerful, Angelina; keerful, my child. Remember you’re a drefful sick woman; drefful sick.
Mrs. L. (Sinking into easy chair, C.) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I know—I am. I know—I am weaker—and weaker—every—day. My camphor-bottle—aunt Midget—fan me—my child. (Aunt M. applies camphor, and Alice fans Mrs. L.)
Alice. Don’t you feel any better, mother?
Mrs. L. No, child; your—poor—mother—is failing rapidly; a few short days—and then—
Aunt M. (Sneezes.) Massy sakes, child! who left that door open? Do you want your marm to catch her death? (Alice shuts door, L.)
Alice. Have you had your breakfast, mother?
Mrs. L. Yes, child—all I wanted—but I have no appetite.
Aunt M. Well, Angelina, how do you feel now?
Mrs. L. Very feeble.
Aunt M. What does she say?
Alice. Very feeble.
Aunt M. Hay?
Mrs. L. Dear—dear! Aunt Midget, don’t speak so loud.
Aunt M. Loud? Why, Angelina! you know how feeble my voice is. I couldn’t speak loud. (Sits in rocking-chair, R., and knits.)
Mrs. L. Alice, do you—hear any thing from the advertisement?
Alice. Oh, yes, mother; I hear from it. Several people are anxious to see you.
Mrs. L. I knew it—I knew it. My cure can only come from such a source. Look in the paper—child—there may be some new discovery advertised.
Alice. (Sits, L., and takes up paper.) Yes, there are a number. (Reads.) “Dr. Kresote’s Extract of Lignumvitæ for the cure of Lumbago”—
Mrs. L. Oh, dear! I must try that. I know I’ve got the lunbago.
Aunt M. Who’s that? Tom Bago! Is that a new doctor?
Alice. (Reads.) “Elias’s Great Cure-all”—
Aunt M. Who’s that’s got a new carry-all?
Mrs. L. Aunt Midget—please, don’t.
Aunt M. Law, Angelina, what’s the use of living, if you don’t know what’s goin’ on?
Alice. “The most Wonderful Discovery of the Age! A Speedy Cure for all Diseases of the Spine”—
Mrs. L. Oh, dear! I know my spine is diseased—
Alice. “Heart Disease”—
Mrs. L. O—O—O—I know I’ve got that! I’ve got such a pain here and here—and here.
Alice. “General Debility”—
Aunt M. General who? What new military man is that?
Alice. “Consumption”—
Mrs. L. Oh, dear! that’s my case! I feel it! I’m sure I’m a victim to that—
Aunt M. Yes, Angelina, I told you this morning at the breakfast-table, when you ate four hard-boiled eggs, six pertaters, a big piece of steak, and so many flap-jacks! sartin’ sure it was a forerunner of consumption.
Alice. “And all diseases which flesh is heir to”—
Aunt M. Diseases of the hair! Do tell! have they got something new for that? I’m glad on it, for my hair is all a comin’ out.
Mrs. L. We must try that. (Bell rings, L.) Dear me, child! you must have that bell muffled; and I think we had better have the street strewn with tan, it’s so soothing.
Bridget. (Outside, L.) Doctor, is it? Away wid yer. We want no doctors in petticoats here at all at all.
Alice. (Runs to door, L.) Bridget, show the lady up here.
Bridget. (Outside, L.) Will I? Oh, come in, Mrs. Doctor, come in.
Alice. This must be one of the ladies whom I expected.
(Enter Bridget, showing in Jenny Carter, who is disguised. Calico dress without crinoline; short-waisted, if possible; a small, red shawl on her shoulders, a large, old-fashioned bonnet, cap, and glasses; under her arm an umbrella.)
Bridget. Here’s the she-doctor, mam. (Exit, L.)
Jenny. Ahem—ahem! Who’s sick? Who wants the doctor? I am Dr. Higgins, M.D., just graduated from the Female College. Would you like to see my diploma?
Alice. It’s not necessary.
Jenny. Where is the patient? Stop! don’t speak! The eye of science is quick to distinguish suffering. I see her!—that form tottering on the verge of the grave.
Mrs. L. Oh, dear! what did I tell you! (Jenny passes Mrs. L., rushes up to Aunt Midget, seizes her hand.)
Jenny. My poor woman, how are you?
Aunt M. (Shakes Jenny’s hand.) Why, how do you do? My eyesight’s kinder failin’. It’s Jerusha Hoppin—ain’t it? What a handsome bunnet you’ve got!
Jenny. My dear woman, time is precious. Let me see your tongue.
Aunt M. Well, I flatter myself I do look young for one who’s seen so much triberlation.
Alice. Miss—Mrs. Doctor, you’ve made a mistake. This is the patient.
Jenny. Dear me, dear me! what a blunder! (Comes back to table, L., takes off her bonnet, then places chair, L. of Mrs. L., and sits.) What’s the trouble?
Mrs. L. Oh, dear!—doctor—I don’t know. I’m failing rapidly.
Jenny. Let me see your tongue (Mrs. L. shows it.) Ahem! Bad, bad!
Mrs. L. Oh, dear, doctor, do tell me the worst!
Jenny. Have you a cough?
Mrs. L. (Forcing a very slight cough.) Dreadful!
Aunt M. Why, that must be a female woman doctor.
Jenny. Sleep well nights?
Mrs. L. Not a wink.
Jenny. Not a wink? Bad, bad! Any appetite?
Mrs. L. Not a bit.
Jenny. Not a bit? Bad, bad! Madam, yours is a very bad case.
Mrs. L. Oh, do, doctor, tell me the worst!
Jenny. Madam, you are suffering from a terrible disease,—a disease of which the profession know but little. Hum-buga; a disease caused by a depression of the eliminating vesticubia of the scareophagus. Had you fallen into the hands of the masculine butchers of the medical profession, your fate would have been terrible; but we of the new school are destined to lay bare new fountains of health. I propose to treat your case by an entirely new method; one that is destined to make a great revolution in medicine. The Lionian Method,—I will briefly explain. You, madam, are suffering from prostration,—a superabundance of weakness. In your case, madam, it is necessary to throw off this superabundance of weakness; but how to supply the vacuum? What is needed? You see at once: strength. But where shall we find strength?—in the mineral world? No. In the vegetable world? No. Where shall we turn? To the animal world, and there we find strength; and where greater strength than in the lion, the king of beasts? There is our remedy. Madam, I prescribe for you a lion diet. Lion steaks for breakfast, roast lion for dinner, cold lion for supper; and lion broth, lion soup, and lion fricassees promiscuously. Obey me, and you are saved; hesitate, and you are lost.
Mrs. L. Dear me! but where shall I get the lions?
Jenny. That’s none of my business. I prescribe the mode; you must find the means. You are rich; send and catch them. I would recommend your keeping a few live lions in your back garden, that you may have them fresh at all times.
Mrs. L. Lions in our back garden? Mercy! we should be eaten alive!
Aunt M. Lions? What! turn our back garden into a howling wilderness?
Mrs. L. Dear me, dear me! I can never find the means of cure.
Jenny. Then I cannot help you. So, if you will just hand me a check for five hundred dollars, I’ll go. (Puts on bonnet.)
Mrs. L. (Starting up.) A check for what?
Jenny. A check for five hundred dollars.
Mrs. L. But you haven’t cured me. You forget, “No cure, no pay.”
Jenny. Ah, but I’ve prescribed a method that will be sure to cure. If you don’t choose to try it, that’s not my fault.
Mrs. L. You just start yourself out of this house. Quick, or I’ll find a way to send you. Quick, I say.
Jenny. Very well, madam; very well. Remember the law. You’ll find you must pay. Good-morning.
(Exit, L.)
Mrs. L. Who ever heard of such impudence?
Aunt M. Why, Angelina, what are you doing? You’ll kill yourself standing so long.
Mrs. L. (Sinks back into chair.) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! My camphor,—quick! Fan me, child, fan me!
Alice. Well, mother, your first attempt with the new school is a failure. You’d better give it up, and send for Dr. Tincture.
Mrs. L. Child, don’t mention that horrid name again. (Bell rings.) Who can that be? Another one of those humbugs.
Alice. We will not have any more come in here, if you say so.
Mrs. L. Yes, let them come. Every means must be tried.
Enter Bridget, L.
Bridget. If you plase, mam, there’s another old woman. Says she’s a doctor.
Alice. Show her in, Bridget.
(Exit Bridget, L.)
Aunt M. Seems to me, Angelina, you’re having lots of callers to-day.
(Enter Susan Dean, L., disguised. An old-fashioned “pumpkin” hood upon her head, an old, faded cloak upon her shoulders, a bundle of “roots and herbs” in one hand, a heavy cane in the other.)
Susan. How do you do, folks? Somebody sick here? I’m Dr. Hannah Stebbins, a regular graduated physician.
Alice. So we understand.
Susan. Yes, my medical edication begun with docterin’ with roots and yarbs. But, dear me! which is the sick woman?
Alice. My mother.
Susan. Oh, yes! the old lady in the specs. Well, she does look kinder feeble. (Crosses to Aunt Midget.) Heow do you do, mam? Kinder croning, hay?
Aunt M. Hay?
Susan. They tell me you’re kinder complainin’.
Aunt M. Rainin’, is it? Why, do tell! What lots of rain we do have!
Alice. You’ve made a mistake. This is my mother.
Susan. Why, yeou don’t say so. There’s nothing the matter with her—is there? What’s the matter? Got the rheumatics?
Mrs. L. Oh, dear! I don’t know what’s the matter.
Susan. Kinder stericky—ain’t yer? Let’s see your tongue. It’s awful red! Let me feel your pulse. Dear me! Why, what can be the matter?
Mrs. L. I am very weak.
Susan. Got a crick in your back?
Mrs. L. I don’t know, but I think I have.
Susan. Headache?
Mrs. L. (Putting her hand to her head.) Oh, terrible!
Susan. Purty bad way, yeou are. Let me see. There’s catnip,—that ain’t powerful enough; then there’s penny-rial and wormwood, thoroughwort and hy-sup; them won’t do yeou any good; we must try the new grassalogical treatment.
Mrs. L. The grassalogical treatment! What is that?
Aunt M. Hay?
Susan. A new discovery of our larned sister, Dr. Sally Wiggins. The Scripters tell us, “All flesh is grass.” Therefore, when the flesh is weak, what more nat’ral than that we should fly to its great counterpart in nature, the grass?
Aunt M. (Aside.) Talking about counterpanes,—I’d like to show her my new patch-work quilt.
Susan. On this theory Dr. Sally has founded her new treatment; and I think it will be the best thing yeou can try. Take for breakfast every day grass tea; grass greens biled for dinner, with a leetle pork or bacon; grass tea for supper—nothing else, and sleep on the grass nights. If natur’ won’t work a cure in your case, then I’m much mistaken.
Mrs. L. Sleep on the grass? Why, you’re crazy!
Aunt M. Why, I do believe that woman wants to turn our Angelina out to paster, jest like a cow.
Mrs. L. I confess I do not see the logic of your new treatment.
Susan. Yeou don’t? Well, it does look kinder strange, but it’s the new school; and if woman is ever to find her speare, her speare must be in some new school.
Mrs. L. I shall decline following any such nonsensical prescription.
Susan. Very well, mam. If you won’t, you wont; and that’s all there is about it. So, when you’re ready to settle, I’m ready to start.
Mrs. L. (Starting up.) Ready to settle! What do you mean?
Susan. Five hundred dollars. That was your offer.
Mrs. L. No cure, no pay. What have you done?
Susan. Given you an original mode of treatment. If you do not choose to follow it, that’s not my fault.
Mrs. L. You just take your roots and herbs and your new treatment, and start out of this house, or you’ll get worse treatment.
Susan. Well, well, if this isn’t an ungrateful world! You’re a pretty sick woman, you are.
Mrs. L. Alice, call Bridget.
(Alice Exit, L.)
Susan. Yeou needn’t call any of your hired folks; I’m going; but if there is any law in the land, you shall hear from me. You’re a pretty sick woman, you are.
(Exit, L.)
Aunt M. Why, Angelina, there you are standin’ ag’in! You’ll ruin your constitution jest as sure as can be.
Mrs L. (Sinks back.) Oh, dear, what a trial!
Enter Bridget, L.
Bridget. Did you ax for me, mam?
Mrs L. Bridget, don’t you let any more of these people into the house; they’ll be the death of me. Do you hear?
Bridget. Faith, I do, mam; and sorry a one will I let in at all at all.
(Exit, L.)
Aunt M. Trial and triberlation, child! that’s the lot of us weak mortals.
Enter Alice, L., disguised as an old lady; shawl, large bonnet, spectacles, &c.
Massy sakes! who’s that?
Alice. Somebody’s sick here—hain’t there?
Mrs. L. Where did you come from?
Alice. Hay?
Mrs. L. Where did you come from?
Alice. I’m a leetle hard of hearing. You’ll have to speak louder.
Mrs. L. Dear me! who sent you here?
Alice. Thank you; I don’t care if I do take a cheer. (Sits, L.)
Mrs. L. Dear, dear! where can Alice be! Who sent you here?
Alice. Oh, yes, I hear now, when yer speak loud.
Mrs. L. Aunt Midget—
Aunt M. Well, child.
Mrs. L. Do try and talk to this woman; she’s deaf as a post, I’m sure.
Aunt M. Poor, is she? Wants cold victuals, I s’pose.
Mrs. L. No, no; she’s a doctor.
Aunt M. (Pulling her chair close to Mrs. L., and speaking across her to Alice.) What’s the matter?
Alice. (Moving her chair close to Mrs. L., they both speak very loud.) Hay?
Aunt M. What’s—the—matter?
Alice. I’m deaf. (Pronounce deef.)
Aunt M. Dear me! she want’s some beef. Well, if poor folks ain’t gitting proud! I guess you’ll have to content yourself with good cold bread.
Alice. Yes; it is caused by colds in the head.
Mrs. L. Dear me! set the blind to lead the blind. Aunt Midget, this old lady is very deaf.
Aunt M. You don’t say so. (Very loud.) What do you want?
Alice. To treat the lady.
Aunt M. Hay?
Mrs. L. Gracious! what a confusion! My good woman, aunt Midget, this lady, is also very deaf.
Alice. I want to know. (Very loud to Aunt M.) I want to treat this lady.
Aunt M. Want to treat her? (Very loud.) What with?
Alice. (Louder.) I’m a doctor.
Aunt M. Doctor, hey! Medical or dedical?
Alice. I’m a female physician.
Aunt M. Musician too! What do you play on?
Mrs. L. Stop, stop, stop! Do you want to craze me, you two? Bridget, Bridget! My good woman, I do not require your services.
Enter Bridget, L.
Here, show this woman out of the house, quick!
Alice. I’m a regular—
Bridget. Oh, no more of yer blarney! Start yourself quick!
Alice. But, my dear lady, you advertised—
Bridget. (Pushing her off, L.) Ah, away wid yer! Away wid yer!
Mrs. L. (Sinks into her chair.) Oh, dear! was ever a poor sick woman so abused! My camphor, aunt Midget; my camphor! Where can Alice be?
Enter Alice, L.
Alice. Here I am, mother; I was called down stairs to see a lady, a healing medium. She is very desirous of seeing you.
Mrs. L. I will not see her. Those we have had have nearly killed me.
Alice. But, mother, this is an entirely different sort of person. You must see her, for she is coming up stairs now.
Mrs. L. Oh, dear, dear! Am I never to have any peace?
(Enter Lucy, disguised. A bloomer costume (a bathing-dress will answer the purpose), an old-fashioned “front” of hair with side curls, a straw hat and parasol.)
Lucy. My dear child, which is your afflicted parent!
Alice. This is her.
Lucy. (Seats herself, L. of Mrs. L.) She does, indeed, seem afflicted! That care-worn face, those weak and feeble limbs, are sure signs of the presence of disease.
Mrs. L. Here is one who understands me at last.
Lucy. The power has been given me to heal the sick. (Twitches her right arm.)
Mrs. L. Mercy! what’s the matter?
Aunt M. That girl’s going into a fit.
Lucy. It’s nothing; be as quiet as you can. (Left arm twitches.)
Aunt M. Gracious goodness! I tell you, Angelina, that gal’s in a fit! (Lucy’s head jerks, and she stares fixedly at Aunt M.) See her glare at me! I tell you she’s crazy. Angelina, if you don’t have that woman taken away, I’ll holler right eout!
Lucy. Sh—! I behold a vision! I see a woman before a wash-tub—a stout, rosy, healthy woman. She looks like you; and she rubs and sings, rubs and sings. (With imitation of rubbing.)
Mrs. L. That’s me—that’s just like me!
Lucy. I see her again! She’s ironing now; and she irons and sings, irons and sings. (Imitates.)
Mrs. L. Just like me—just like me!
Lucy. And now she sweeps (imitates), and now scrubs (imitates), singing all the while. Hark! what is it she sings?
Mrs. L. (Singing.)
“Let us sing merrily, lightly, and cheerily,
Let us be gay,
Let us be gay;
Throw away sorrow; why should we borrow
Tears from to-morrow
To darken to-day?”
(To be found in the “Excelsior Song-Book.”)
Lucy. Yes, yes! That’s it! But now it changes. I see her again: she appears feeble and weak, and complains. Oh, how she complains! (Imitates.)—“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I’m so weak—I’m so weak! My camphor, aunt Midget! Fan me, my child!”
Mrs. L. Oh, dear! that’s me.
Lucy. (Gesticulating, as though shaking somebody.) What is this that now urges me to seize this woman and shake her?
Aunt M. Angelina, that gal’s going to fight somebody. Don’t yer come a-near me.
Lucy. (Slowly approaching Mrs. L.) All this woman needs is exercise, and I must give her exercise. (Imitating shaking.)
Aunt M. (Jumping into chair.) Massy sakes! this is a raving lunatic.
Mrs. L. (Starts up.) Come, come, young woman, this is quite enough.
Alice. You musn’t touch my mother.
Aunt M. That gal’s a Shaker; I know she is.
Lucy. (Still approaching her.) To shake this woman—to shake this woman!
Mrs. L. This woman declines being shaken. I’ll do all the shaking myself. (Seizes Lucy and shakes her.) What do you mean by such conduct? Who are you? (Shakes her again, which shakes off her “front” and hat.) Lucy Aiken! Why, what does this mean?
Lucy. That I have turned physician, owing to the extraordinary inducements held out in an advertisement entitled “No Cure, no Pay.”
Mrs. L. What?
Alice. Yes, mother, I thought it a pity to waste money in advertising when we had three such good female physicians in the neighborhood.
Enter Jenny Carter and Susan Dean, L., disguised as before.
Here are the other two.
Mrs. L. And pray, who are they? (Jenny and Susan throw off their bonnets.)
Jenny. A disciple of the lionian school!
Mrs. L. Jenny Carter!
Susan. And a student of the grassalogical treatment.
Mrs. L. Susan Dean! Well, I am amazed.
Aunt M. (Getting down from chair.) If that gal’s got through her tantrums, I’d like to get down!
Mrs. L. But there was another—a deaf old lady.
Alice. (Imitating.) Hay?
Mrs. L. Why, Alice! have you been concerned in this too? Do you know it was very wrong to deceive your mother in this way?
Alice. Perhaps it was, mother; but I think you are better for the very singular treatment you have met with.
Aunt M. Law, child, what are you thinking of? You have been standing nearly five minutes.
Mrs. L. And I propose to stand five minutes more, for the purpose of thanking these young ladies for the very excellent manner in which they have treated my complaint. Ah, Lucy, that little touch of the old life you gave me has awakened my slumbering energies. I think I shall be able to go about and do a portion of that duty which is given the rich to perform—succor the needy and relieve the distressed. In such employment I need fear no return of my complaint. But how can I reward you?
Alice. Remember your promise; five hundred dollars—
Lucy. Which we gladly renounce, looking for reward in the approval of our friends here.
Mrs. L. But will they grant it? If, like me, in your practice they have found a cure for idle complainings, they certainly will; if not, you must all remember the conditions—No Cure, No Pay.
DISPOSITION OF CHARACTERS AT END:
L. Susan, Jenny, Lucy, Mrs. Languish, Alice, Aunt Midget. R.