Manager. Oh, the comedy is easy enough to manage, and as for the hero, I forgot to tell you that he shows up in the first act and wants to marry her, but she gives him the bounce because he’s poor as a crow. Better make him an artist or something of that sort. It might be a good idea to have him a reporter, and then he can read some good strong lines about the dignity of his profession or something of that sort, just so as to catch on with the press boys. Well, the next act shows the girl living in a garret in New York, supporting herself and her mother by type-writing. Lay it on thick about their being poor and industrious and all that, and have some good lines about the noble working-girl or the virtuous type-writer or something of that sort. Livingston’s got an elegant new silk gown that she says she’s going to wear in that act, so you’ll have to give her a few lines to explain that although they’re poor she still has that dress and won’t part with it because her father gave it to her, and so she wears it at home nights when the other one’s in the wash.
Dramatist. Excuse me, but isn’t it rather strange for a poor type-writer to appear in a handsome new silk dress when she’s having hard work to support herself and her mother? Why not put her in a plain gingham gown—?
Manager. Plain gingham be blowed! Say, young feller, when you know that cat Livingston as well as I do, you won’t sit here talking about plain gingham gowns. No, siree; she won’t touch any part unless she can dress it right up to the handle. Well, this act is in two scenes. The first is a front scene showing the humble house on the virtuous-poverty plan, with the old lady warming her bands at a little fire and saying, “Oh, it is bitter cold to-night, and the wind cuts like a knife.” And then we can have the wind whistling through the garret in a melancholy sort of way. The next scene shows a broker’s office where the type-writer is employed. Here you can run in a little comedy and show them having a lot of fun while the old man is out at lunch. Livingston’s got some first-rate music—sort of pathetic-like—and you can write some words to it for her to sing. Write something appropriate, such as, “I’m only a working-girl, but I’m virtuous, noble, and true.” How does that sound, hey? Well, in this act her employer insults her, and she leaves him, though she hasn’t a cent in the world and doesn’t know where to go. You must give her a good strong scene, and have the curtain fall on a tableau of indignant virtue rebuking the tempter. You must have a picture there that we can use on a three-sheet poster. In the next act we have the grand climax. The villain still pursues her to her new place, for she gets a job with the aid of the poor young lover who was bounced in the first act. Just as the old villain is about to seize her and carry her off by main force, the young lover rushes in and knocks him out with a fire shovel. He falls and breaks his skull. In comes the doctor—the lover goes to fetch him—and meanwhile the type-writer gives him some pious talk and converts him. Maybe it would be a good idea to ring in the prayer in this act. Livingston’s dead stuck on having it in the piece. Well, he repents of his wickedness, and when the doctor says he has only ten minutes to live he says, “Oh, if I but had the time I would make a will and leave all my wealth to this noble girl; but there is not time enough to write it.” And then Livingston says, “What’s the matter with my doing it on my faithful type-writing machine?” or words to that effect. So she takes it down like lightning, and he has just time to sign it before he expires. Now, young feller, you’ve got my idea of a play. You go to work and write something on that basis; and mind you don’t forget what I said about Livingston’s prayer and silk dress, but don’t work ’em both in in the same act. Fetch it around to me and maybe we can do business. Do you want to tackle the job?
Dramatist (dubiously). I’ll try, sir, but I’m afraid it’s a little out of my line.
THE CULTURE BUBBLE IN OURTOWN.
You must know, in the first place, that I am a resident of the thriving city of Ourtown, where for twenty years past I have held the position of librarian in the town library—a place which has, of course, brought me into contact with the most intellectual circles of society, and has won for me general recognition as the leader of literary and artistic thought in my native city.
Last winter I returned to Ourtown after a six months’ absence, and found to my dismay that the social life of the place was altered almost beyond recognition. “And is the Coasting Club still flourishing?” I inquired, eagerly, for there was a foot of snow on the ground, and my memory went back to the jolly moonlight slides that we used to enjoy on the North Hill, and the late suppers of fried oysters, beer, cheese, and even hot mince-pie which had no terrors for us.
“The Coasting Club!” retorts Mrs. Jack Symple, to whom my remark was addressed; “mercy, no! We haven’t even thought of coasting this winter. As for me, I’ve been so interested in the Saturday Night Club that I haven’t had a moment’s time for anything else. Oh, you’ll be surprised when you see how much more cultured the town is now than it was when you went away! You never hear anything now about skating or coasting or sleigh-rides or doings of that sort. It’s all Ibsen and Browning and Tolstoï and pre-Raphaelite art and Emerson nowadays, and Professor Gnowital says that there’s as much real culture in Ourtown, in proportion to the number of inhabitants, as there is in Boston.”