Scene.—Wiggins’ Office. Table, C. Chairs, R. and L. of table. Entrances, R. and L. Letters and bottles on table.
Enter Wiggins, L.
Wiggins. I am a lucky man! I should like to know how many times an hour, by the most approved rules of computation, that sentence escapes my lips; to how many mirrors have I uttered those memorable words; how many sheets of paper have been devastated with that multum in parvo of sentences, I am a lucky man? Look at me, Waldimer Wiggins, seventh son of Waldimer Wiggins, the blacksmith, who was the seventh son of Wigglesworth Wiggins, the cooper. I, who have been knocked about the world like a shuttlecock, buffeted by everybody and everything; who never saw but one schoolhouse in all my life, and that from the outside,—here am I puzzling all the learned doctors, creating a frenzy among the apothecaries, and setting the whole town to taking medicine by the pint, quart, and even demijohn, and hauling greenbacks into my capacious pockets with an agility and velocity that would astonish the father of greenbacks. I am the lucky possessor of the greatest remedy of modern times,—a medicine that will cure anything and everything, anybody and everybody; and where there is nothing to cure, will make something, and then cure that. Men praise it, women dote on it, and children cry for it. I am the lucky possessor of this treasure, and yet I never received a diploma, or even amused myself with the graceful but rather monotonous exercise of the pestle and mortar. As I before suggested, it’s all luck. I’ll tell you all about it (seats himself familiarly before the audience). Like Byron, that beautiful but dyspeptic poet, “I had a dream.” It was one night after I had partaken of oysters. I generally indulge in a light supper before retiring. Upon this occasion it consisted of cold chicken, mince pie, pigs’ feet, and, as I before remarked, oysters. I had retired to my downy couch, when the following striking tableau was presented in a vision. I beheld the great Barnum, surrounded by greenbacks. On his right were the Albino woman and Joyce Heath, on his left, Tom Thumb and his Bride; while the “What is it?” a little elevated, was crowning the great showman with a wreath of posies. Of course my attention was first attracted to the free exhibition of curiosities, but after a careful examination of them, my eyes were fixed upon the great “Supporter of the Moral Drama,” by whom I was greeted with this characteristic original remark, “How are you, Wiggins?” to which I answered, as is customary in all polite circles, “How are you, Barnum?” “Wiggins,” said he, “do you want to make a fortune?” to which I responded, “I do.” “Then look in ‘The Daily Slungshot,’ outside, first column, top line, and obey the injunction there given.” I thanked the great man, signified to him that I thought him an immense individual, but that he could not keep “The Aquarial Gardens.” He pronounced my remark very of fish ous; and with this scaly joke, vanished. I awoke, purchased “The Slungshot,” sought the designated spot, and read this cabalistic word, “Advertise.” It was enough. I remembered a recipe an Indian woman had given me when a child. It was for curing corns. I resolved to make a fortune from that. Now everybody is not afflicted with corns; so, to have a striking effect on all diseases, I call my medicine “The Great Elixir,” and warrant it to cure everything. I might easily show you how all diseases are first taken into the system through the medium of corns, but as it would take some time to convince you, I will not make the attempt. Advertising has done the business for me, and now everybody is taking The Great Elixir and blessing the name of Waldimer Wiggins. (Rises, takes a seat at table R., and opens letters, making memorandums on each as read.) Now, here is a string of correspondents that would puzzle a regular physician, but which I, with my superior skill, can dispose of in a very few moments. (Reads.) Hm! an old lady has fits. (Mem.) Take The Elixir three times a day. (Reads.) An old gentleman with a bald head wants his hair to grow. (Mem.) Apply The Elixir externally and internally three times a day. (Enter Dennis, L.) Well, Dennis, what is it?
Dennis. Faith, I don’t know; there’s the kitchen fire don’t burn at tall, at tall, and there’s a gintleman wants to say the dochter.
Wiggins. Show the gentleman in here, and put “The Great Elixir” on the fire. If that wont make a blaze, then nothing will. (Exit, R., with letters.)
Dennis. Faith it’s an illigant man is the dochter. It’s the—the learning he has onyhow, and it’s the fine physic he makes. The Great Elixir. Put it in the fire? by my sowl, I will do that same; and—and in the blacking and in the soup. It’s meself that has a mind to take a wee dhrap meself, for the sthrong wakness I have for Judy Ryan. Bless her purty face! (Enter Charles Freedley, L.)
Charles. Did you tell Dr. Wiggins I wished to speak with him?
Dennis. Indade I did, sir, and he’ll say yez in a minute. (Exit, L.)
Charles. So this is the office of the Great Doctor. Great Fiddlesticks! He’s no more a doctor than I am, and he shall own it, too, before I’ve done with him. There’s my Aunt Hopkins, whose heir I expect to be, crazy about this Dr. Wiggins. Calls his “Great Elixir” delightful, and vows she will leave him a legacy. Now I have set my heart on possessing all the property of Aunt Hopkins, and have no idea of parting with it to such a humbug as this; and here I am on a voyage of discovery, which will, I hope, end in the unmasking of this quack. (Enter Wiggins, R., slowly, his eyes fastened on an open book in his hand.)
Wiggins. Why is the privacy of the Seventh Son of the Seventh Son thus intruded upon?