Lochinvar himself wore gray pasteboard armor, a pair of carpet slippers with ferocious spurs, red mittens, and carried a huge carving-knife. His costume alone was food for amusement, but the manner in which he careered wildly about the stage, displaying his valorous horsemanship as he rode to the wedding, was perfectly irresistible.
The next scene opened in Netherby Hall, showing the bridal party all assembled in gala dress. Into this family gathering presently strode the determined lover, with his carving-knife sheathed for politeness' sake. Then followed a comical pantomime between the angry parents, who demanded his intentions, and the adroit Lochinvar, who declared them to be peaceful. The father (Geoffrey Strong) at last gave him unwilling permission to drink one cup of wine and tread one measure with the bride. She kissed the goblet (a tin quart measure), he quaffed off the spirit, and threw down the cup. Pair Ellen bridled with pleasure, and promenaded about the room on his arm, while the bridegroom looked on wretchedly, the parents quarreled, and the bride-maidens whispered:
“'Tivere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with
young Lochinvar.”
At the first opportunity, the guests walked leisurely out, and young Lochinvar seized an imaginary chance to draw Ellen hastily back into the supper room. He whispered the magic word into her ear, she started in horror and drew back; he urged; she demurred; he pleaded; she showed signs of surrender; he begged on his bended knees; she yielded at length to the plan of the elopement, with all its delightful risks. Then Lochinvar darted to the outside door and brought in his charger,—rather an unique proceeding, perhaps, but necessary under the circumstances, inasmuch as the audience could not be transported to the proper scene of the mounting. As the flight was to be made on horseback, much ingenuity and labor were needed to arrange it artistically. The horse's head was the work of Geoff's hand, and for meekness of expression, jadedness, utterly-cast-down-and-worn-out-ness, it stood absolutely unrivalled. A pair of trucks were secreted beneath the horse-blankets, and the front legs of the animal pranced gaily out in front, taking that startling and decided curve only seen in pictures of mowing-machines and horseraces. Lochinvar quieted his fiery beast, and swung Ellen into the saddle, leaped up after her, waved his tall hat in triumph, and started off at a snail's pace, the horse being dragged by a rope from behind the scenes. When half way across the stage, Ellen clasped her lover's arm and seemed to have forgotten something. Everybody in the room at once guessed it must be some part of her trousseau. She explained earnestly in pantomime; Lochinvar refused to return; she insisted; he remained firm; she pouted and seemingly said that she wouldn't elope at all unless she could have her own way. He relented, they went back to Netherby Hall, and Ellen ran up a secret stairway and came down laden with maidenly traps. Greatly to the merriment of the observers, she loaded them on the docile horse in the very face of Lochinvar's displeasure—two small looking-glasses, a bird-cage, and a French bonnet. She then leisurely drew on a pair of huge India rubbers, unfurled a yellow linen umbrella, and just as her lover's patience was ebbing, suffered herself to be remounted. The second trip across the stage was accomplished in safety, though with anything but the fleetness common to elopements either in life or in poetry.
Then came the pursuit—a most graphic and stirring scene, giving large opportunities to the supernumerary characters. Four bridemen on dashing hobbyhorses, jumping fences, leaping bars and ditches in hot excitement; four bride-maids, with handkerchiefs tied over their heads, running hither and thither in confusion; the old mother and father, limping in and straining their eyes for a sight of their refractory daughter; and last of all, poor Jack, the deserted bridegroom, on foot, with never a horse left to him, puffing and panting in his angry chase.
It was done! How people laughed till they cried, how they continued to laugh for five minutes afterward, I cannot begin to tell you. The performance had been the perfection of fun from first to last, and seemed all the more inspiring because it was original with the bright bevy of young folks who had enacted the poem. Uncle Harry had renewed his youth, and received the plaudits of the crowd with unconcealed pleasure. The hero and heroine, Lochinvar and fair Ellen, had so generously provided dramatic opportunities for the minor actors that all had enjoyed an equal chance in the favor of the audience. There was neither envy, jealousy, nor heartburning; each of the girls gloried in the achievements of the others, and confessed that the mechanical ingenuity of the boys had made the triumph possible.
At length the lights were all out, the finery bundled up, the many farewells said, and as the girls, escorted by their faithful young squires, trudged along the path through the orchard for the last time, sad thoughts would come, although the party was much too youthful and cheery to be gloomy.
“Depart, fun and frolic!” sighed Lilia, in mournful tones. “Depart, breakfasts at any hour and other delights of laziness! Enter, boarding-school, books, bells, and other banes of existence!”