Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

[Additional Transcriber’s Notes] are at the end.

CONTENTS

[INTRODUCTION.]
[THE STAGE AND EFFECTS.]
[DRESS.]
[MAKING UP.]
[EXPRESSION.]
[STAGE FALLS.]
[CASTING THE CHARACTERS.]
[HOW TO MAKE A SCENE PLOT.]
[HOW TO MAKE A PROPERTY-PLOT.]
[CHOOSING PLAYS.]
[DUTIES OF THE PROMPTER.]
[THE DUTY OF THE CALL-BOY.]
[“JUST FROM HOME.”]
[HANS BUMMELSTINE ON LOVE.]
[A PRACTICAL JOKE.]
[McFLYNN’S APPOINTMENT.]
[ORIGINAL IRISH SKETCH.]
[TEMPERANCE.]
[O’RIELLY’S DAUGHTER MARY.]
[LOVE IN THE CANEBRAKE.]
[THE RIVAL DARKEYS.]
[POLITICS.]
[LOVE AND POETRY.]

HOW TO
BECOME AN ACTOR.

Giving complete instructions as to the Duties of the Stage Manager, Prompter, Scenic Artist, Property Man, and how to make out a Scene Plot, Property Plot, etc. Also, how to make up for the Various Characters seen on the Stage.

BY A PROMINENT STAGE MANAGER.

NEW YORK
FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher
24 Union Square

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1900, by

PRANK TOUSEY,

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.

HOW TO
Become an Actor.

HOW TO ACT, DRESS, MAKE UP, AND HOW TO RIG A STAGE FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

[INTRODUCTION.]

In placing this little book before the boys, and the public in general, the author has endeavored to show up the mystic art of stage performances as clearly as possible—explicitly enough to enable the greenest amateur to erect a stage in his own drawing-room, and to place before his friends the accompanying plays in a manner that shall give entire satisfaction.

The growth of private theatricals has been very large of late years, but the one cry has been: “How can we get up a home performance properly, and with as little expense as possible?” Nothing easier, say I; and if my reader will but follow the instructions herein after given, I have not the slightest doubt that he will be fully able to do all he desires in the home-circle in this mystic art; and with this little prelude, we proceed at once to the work in hand.

[THE STAGE AND EFFECTS.]

If the room in which the performances are to be given is furnished with folding doors there will be no need of a proscenium, but if not, any enterprising lad can, by means of a few boards, rig up one to suit, and drape it with colored muslin, to be bought for a few cents per yard at any drygoods store. This done, a sheet may be tacked securely across the top, with a heavy pole at the bottom to facilitate its falling. Four rows of brass rings may next be sewed at intervals of a foot apart, from the top of the curtain to the pole at the bottom. Strings must then be fastened upon this pole, brought up through the lines of rings, and attached to a larger piece of twine running horizontally across the top, and passing through a screw-eye in the proscenium, leaving a long end to dangle down, handy for the person who is to attend to the rising and falling of the curtain. By simply pulling this piece of twine, the drapery will be found to ascend in graceful folds, and at the signal for descent, will drop easily by the weight of the pole. In the following diagram a is the upper cord, b the rings through which the others pass, c the dangling end, e the pole at the bottom.

“Wings,” or side pieces, may be constructed by stretching muslin over an ordinary frame of common wood, and braced by a stout stick to the floor, thus completely obscuring the performers after they have made their exits.

“Flats,” or scenes at the back, upon frames, to draw off and on, will be found too difficult to use in drawing-rooms, as they necessitate the use of grooves above for them to slide in; therefore, I would suggest the use of “drops”—that is, scenes working after the manner of the curtain, and when drawn up, concealed behind the “borders,” or straight rows of muslin, tacked horizontally across the top, and forming the ceiling of the scene, when completed.

In order that there shall be as little cost as possible in furnishing the scenery, let one lad, who has a taste for drawing, stretch the “drop” upon a bare floor (drawn tightly and tacked to the boards), and then, take a wood, a garden, or a parlor, and with a piece of charcoal, copy the trees, etc., upon the muslin, and then paint them in to the best of his ability. The same plan should be followed with the “wings.”

Care should be taken, however, not to remove the paintings from the floor until they are quite dry, and then stretch them over the frames and fasten securely.

One set of “wings” should be braced firmly to the floor, and when a change of scene is required, the “drop” may be drawn up and the other “wings” slid in and rested against the braced ones. Lamps may be placed on each side of the proscenium, and if footlights are desired, a board may be put across before the curtain, with several lamps placed so as to shine directly upon the stage, while the board prevents them from glaring upon the audience.

The effect can be heightened by a board with a row of candles in tin plates to catch the wax, behind each “border,” so that they may shine down upon the actors; but this is both troublesome and dangerous, as the ceiling is liable to be smutted, and a breath of air may blow the dangling “borders” into the flame and produce a disastrous effect.

This done, the stage may be set as the play requires.

Should the action require a storm, peas may be shaken upon the head of a drum to imitate the rain, a sheet of zinc will furnish thunder, and the effect of lightning may be produced with no danger by filling an ordinary putty blower with licopodium and blowing it into the flame of a candle. (An article for doing this, and called the “flash-box,” is used on the regular stage.)

Colored fires may be produced by following these directions:

These fires when used should be spread either upon a tin pan, or an ordinary fire shovel, and ignited by means of a piece of cotton cord soaked in oil, and forming a quick match. When lit, it should be raised above the head, and will cast a brilliant tinge upon every object. A pail of water should, however, be handy, so that immediately after using it can be plunged into it, as the stench from the cinders is by no means pleasant. The above recipes will furnish enough fire for several performances, and if the trouble of making must be disposed of, they can be bought in tins at all first-class drug-stores, or places where fireworks are sold.

To represent breaking glass, rattle broken crockery in a closed basket; breaking wood, place a few laths over a couple of bricks, lay a heavy book upon them, and strike the volume with force enough to smash the laths.

To imitate the sighing of the wind, draw a piece of silk—an old dress, for instance—over the rough edge of a pine board, or make a wheel, after the manner in which boys make water-wheels, and turn this, with the silk hanging over it—the effect will be found good.

[DRESS.]

In dressing the characters, care should be taken to do it neatly and securely, for to lose a portion of a costume, often turns the most serious scene to ridicule; and besides, a drawing-room audience is one of the most critical.

Ladies with light, airy dresses should not go too near to the footlights, and those with long trains should be careful of the manner in which they are swung around.

The gentlemen must not forget to remove their hats when entering a parlor scene, unless the business of the play requires otherwise; and on the other hand, care should be taken to wear them in exteriors, unless, as before, there should be some reason. In making up the costumes, glazed muslin of various colors will be found quite effective and extremely cheap, and of this, with a few spangles and cheap gilt braid, very tasteful dresses may be made for ancient dramas, Mexicans, Gypsies, fairies, etc.

[MAKING UP.]

The great secret of the entire illusion is the art of making up properly.

For a Mexican, or a Gipsy, the face should be reddened with vermilion, the eyebrows made heavy and extremely black, heavy lines drawn under the lower lashes of each eye, a line should be placed between the two brows, and a rigid one from the corners of the lips. A wig with short hair in front, and long, flowing locks behind, completes the make-up.

For old age, whiten the face with drop chalk, draw the “crow’s feet” around the eyes and mouth with a camel’s hair pencil and India ink, wrinkle the brow, and placing the pencil in the furrows, draw them from temple to temple. The eyebrows should be chalked, and the upper eyelids reddened considerably, although, be governed in all cases by the nearness of your audience and the brightness of the lights. If a white or gray wig is not to be gotten, chalk the hair in lieu, taking care to wash it thoroughly after the performance. For grief, the make-up is much the same as the former, with the cheeks sunken by a slight application of burnt cork.

Mustaches and beards may be made of crape hair, to be bought of any wig maker, and stuck on by an application of pulverized gum-arabic; or, on the other hand, they may be deftly drawn before a glass, by a camel’s hair pencil and a piece of India ink. Negroes should be made up with burnt cork and glycerine, taking care to draw out the lips and eyes before filling in.

To make what is termed a “pug nose,” blacken the sides, which gives the appearance of an enlarged nostril and a decided upward turn.

To show the loss of teeth cover them with black wax, and from the auditorium they will appear missing.

To enlarge the nose, or flatten the cheeks, gum on pieces of cotton batting, and redden with vermilion.

In making up nicely, do not whiten the face too much, and blend the colors neatly from the eyes to the cheeks by means of a hare’s foot, or a “chalk rag.”

The true and legitimate way of making up is to study character, that is, seek out a person like whom you wish to make up, mark down the wrinkles, etc., and then spend a short time before your glass practicing until you are perfect.

This will prove the surest and the truest teacher.

[EXPRESSION.]

Expression of the face, form and voice is the main point in acting. The former two may easily be acquired, but the latter will be utterly ruined if the student places himself under the tutorship of an elocutionist. They teach a drawly, too-perfect, sound of every vowel, which is both harsh and unnatural, and above all, the student is as apt to copy their faults as their perfections. Seek to imitate no one—be something original—create the parts you play!

In expressing grief, the head is bent down, the eyes partially closed, the mouth slightly open, the corners tightly drawn down, the left hand is pressed upon the heart, and the right clenched at the side.

Fear bends the body forward slightly, the wide open hands are held up before the face, which is half averted, the eyes turned to the object of terror. The lower jaw is dropped, the eyes wide open, showing the ball to its fullest extent.

Love parts the lips, makes the breathing irregular, the eyes gaze fondly at the object of affection, but drop confusedly before hers. A smile wreaths the lips, and the whole demeanor is gentle and tender.

Hate protrudes the head, draws rigid the cords of the neck, shows the eye-balls to their fullest extent, the lower lip is dropped, showing the tightly-set teeth, the eyebrows knit with a heavy scowl, and the hands, hanging by the sides, open and close with a convulsive movement, as if longing to grip the object of hatred.

Jealousy is hate subdued and less forcible, with a nervous twitching of the lips.

Pity clasps the hands, closes the lips in a half pout, drops the head slightly to the left, and gazes longingly from beneath the brows.

Joy opens the lips, radiates the face with a smile, widens the eyes, and extends the hands eagerly.

Passion contracts the brows, dilates the nostrils, draws the lips tightly together, and flushes the face. Some practice will be needed before the rise and fall of color can be completely mastered, however. The body in this emotion is drawn fully up, and towers over the object of its rage, while the hands, as in hate, open and close with a convulsive grip.

Hope is like love, but subdued.

[STAGE FALLS.]

One of the most artistic and catching points with an audience, is that of falling properly.

Do not rise upon your toes when falling, but keep the feet tightly together, let the body drop over to the left side, throw up the arms, put back the head, and break the fall with the palms of the hands.

Do not put out the knee to break it as it ruins the effect of the fall, and is apt to cause injury, if not a lifetime lameness, by maiming the knee-cap.

I would not advise the young student to try a back fall, for few actors in a life-long practice can master the art of breaking the fall upon the shoulder blades.

Fall well, fall heavily, and as the late Barney Williams used to say: “Brace up, my boy, and let her rip.”

[CASTING THE CHARACTERS.]

This, perhaps, is one of the hardest tasks in an amateur organization, but the company must possess, as in a legitimate theater, its leading man, leading lady, walking gent, walking lady, responsible man, utility soubrette, to whom belongs the female comedy parts, (the soubrette is often called the “chamber-maid,” as her parts usually are of that sort), low comedian, juvenile man, juvenile lady, etc., and to these the stage manager should assign the parts coming in their line only.

Order should be strictly enforced.

Allow no grumbling for better parts—make it a thorough business organization.

In this way only can a creditable performance be brought about.

You may, if you choose, give a dance after the performance, and send your audience home well pleased with the night’s entertainment.

With strict adherence to the things set down in this work, I have no doubt but that from the latent talent in private circles, may yet spring up actors and actresses who shall be a credit to that mimic world, that mirror of nature—the stage.

[HOW TO MAKE A SCENE PLOT.]

In explanation of the terms hereinafter used, it will be necessary to inform the student of their uses.

“Cleets” are little niches put on walls, etc., to facilitate climbing. A “brace” is a long wooden implement having a hook on one end and a circular hole at the other. These are used to sustain the vases in my lady’s garden, or to steady the rocks in the mountain haunt of the bloodthirsty robber who dares to defy the law.

The “Traveler” is a truck of wood and iron, elevated some distance above the borders, and works in a grooved receiver. By this means, and the aid of stout wires, fairies and demons are enabled to flit hurriedly through the air from side to side, and the stout tree the wood-man fells, to fall gracefully and naturally to the earth.

“The grooves” receive the flats and wings, and are all numbered, so that when your plot calls for a scene in 1, the stage carpenter at once knows that you mean one down by the footlights, which will enable them to set the one behind ready to draw off at the proper cue. The entrances between these grooves are all numbered as R. 1 E., R. 2 E., R. U. E., etc., which means Right first entrance, Right second entrance, and Right upper entrance; if left remove the “R” and place “L” in its place. D. F. means door in flat. Prac. means practicable—that which is used like a door or window. If we wish a house on the right side we simply put, set house R.; if a bridge for characters to cross from R to L and come down on stage L., you should write: “Steps and platform R. U. E. xing (crossing) to L. U. E. and masked in by bridge with return L. masked in.” “The Tormentors” are the first wings near the proscenium, and are usually painted to represent pillars of marble draped with heavy curtains. They are furnished with a swinging piece, which may shut off all view of the stage from the actors in the wings, and thus derive their name.

After this explanation, I think I may venture to give a diagram of a scene plot.

And so on each act is marked. Where there are no sets, place a mark as in diagram on page following, thus ——.

[HOW TO MAKE A PROPERTY-PLOT.]

Making out a property plot is much the same as making a scene plot. The number of each act and scene is placed upon it, as well as the aids props, and the relative positions of larger ones, as follows:

The end of each act is marked by the word “curtain,” but nothing at the end of the scene.

The property man fashions everything, from a toothpick to an elephant. If the heavy villain is to throw himself carelessly upon a couch of skins, it is the property man’s duty to see that it is there. Again, should the guards of my lord, the duke, close around him, and protect him from the onslaught of the ruffians who are attacking him, the property man fashions the spears they use, and to him should they be returned at the end of the play.

[CHOOSING PLAYS.]

In choosing plays, do not at first take those which call for extensive stage setting and strong acting; rather let your first efforts be confined to those of a lighter character; say, for instance, farces, commediettas and one-act dramas. A pretty little play for home performances, and one that can be done without scenery, is Simpson’s “Dreams of Delusion.” I might also suggest such farces as “Turn Him Out,” “My Turn Next,” and “Should This Meet the Eye.”

[DUTIES OF THE PROMPTER.]

The prompter holds the book or MSS. during the performance, and at every rehearsal, following the actors in their lines, explaining the business to them, and whistling for the change of scene. When alone, his duty is to make out the scene and property plot, but when he has an assistant, it is

[THE DUTY OF THE CALL-BOY.]

The call-boy acquaints the characters of the drama of the approach of the time when they must appear upon the stage, and furnishes them with “side-props,” or properties used in the drama, and not found upon the stage. Such things as rings, vials, daggers, notes, and side props, as they are carried on. Half an hour before the time for ringing up the curtain, the call-boy descends to the dressing-rooms and shouts:

“Half-hour!”

At a quarter of eight he again descends and announces:

“Fifteen minutes!”

Ten minutes after he makes the first call, which for “Romeo and Juliet” would be:

“No. 1:

“Sampson, Gregory, Abram, Balthasar, Benvolio, Tybalt, Montague, Capulet, Supers, etc. First act; everybody up to begin!”

Thus is the call-boy’s plot made out, and opposite each name is placed the properties used by that person.

At the final rehearsal all these properties are used, and the calls made just as at night. In making out a call-boy’s plot make as follows: If there be but one call during each act, place the word “act” after call; if for one scene, the word “scene;” if the person called makes an exit and reappears, put “twice” after his name, thus:

[“JUST FROM HOME.”]

A Lively Negro Sketch, suitable for Parlor Representation.

BY MART W. HANLEY.

CHARACTERS.

Mr. Skidmore.
Mrs. Skidmore.
Billy Buttercup.

Scene.—Ordinary room. Table, chairs, lounges, etc. Curtain rises, disclosing Mr. and Mrs. Skidmore at table. Mr. S., reading, Mrs. S., sewing.

Mr. S. (Puts down the book.) So, Mattie, we have been married a whole week!

Mrs. S. Yes, George.

Mr. S. Are not you perfectly contented, darling, with your new life?

Mrs. S. Yes, George, but—[Sighs.]

Mr. S. What, Mattie?

Mrs. S. I sort of miss my old home, and I sigh for the green fields and the sparkling brook, and the old watch dog, and the cattle—there was my dear old cow, Ella, who was——

Mr. S. Stuff! Your dear old cow, Ella! Mattie, you are in the city now, folks will laugh at you if you talk about such things.

Mrs. S. I don’t care if they do. How I would love to see somebody “just from home,” who could tell me all the news. Oh, I love the old country village, even if it isn’t as fine as this great city, or——

[Knock at the door.

Mrs. S. Who’s there?

Billy. (Outside.) Me.

Mr. S. Deuced definite. Who’s me?

Billy. (Outside.) Billy Buttercup.

Mrs. S. Billy Buttercup! Why, he is the negro who works at the hotel at our village! [Flies to door and opens it.] Come right in.

Enter Billy. Makes a low bow.

Billy. Is dis yere de place whar Mr. Skidmore lives?

Mrs. S. Don’t you know me, Billy?

Billy. Well, I swar! Youse kin strike me wid a cannon ball if dis ain’t Mattie Clamjuice!

Mr. S. Mrs. Skidmore, sir.

Billy. Sure ’nuff. I done forgot, Mattie, dat you had married dat old Turk yonder. Gracious, Mattie, you am looking as putty as a sunflower. Getting hitched seems to agree wid youse, chile.

Mrs. S. Oh, Billy, I’m so glad to see you.

Billy. De mutuality ob de gladness am mutual. You see, I’ve come just from home.

Mrs. S. Just from home? then you know all of the news?

Billy. Ebery bit, but——

Mrs. S. Well, what, Billy?

Billy. You see I is in training for a yacht race, an’ my trainer says dat I must hab a ham-sandwich at eight o’clock ebery night, or——

Mrs. S. Go on, Billy.

Billy. It’s crowding onto eight, now. Tumble?

Mrs. S. What?

Billy. Has the sandwich snap struck you yet?

Mrs. S. Oh, you would like a sandwich?

Billy. I could make love to one beautifully.

Mrs. S. You shall have two, Billy, if you want them.

Billy. Well, make it three; three’s company; two ain’t.

Mrs. S. Certainly. George!

Mr. S. Well, my dear.

Mrs. S. Just go down into the kitchen, will you, and make some sandwiches for this gentleman.

Mr. S. I like that, I must say. Me make sandwiches for a negro. Why don’t he buy his own sandwiches?

Mrs. S. That’ll do, George; remember he is just from home.

Billy. Yes, George, remember that. And don’t be afraid of the mustard. And I say, George, cut the bread fleshy.

Mr. S. Sir, you are insolent!

Billy. I am not. I am a South African Pasha!

Mr. S. Confound that negro! [Exit R. 1 E.

Mrs. S. Now, Billy, he’s gone, we can have a nice talk. How is my father?

Billy. Bully. [Both take seats on lounge.

Mrs. S. Did he send a message to me?

Billy. Oh, yes. Said he wanted five dollars, and sent you his love. Nice old man, your father; folks all like him; going to light up the town when he dies.

Mrs. S. And brother Willy?

Billy. He’s got a new boarding-house. Free clothes, free meals, don’t charge a cent for your room, cuts your hair in the bargain. He stole a ham; judge said thirty days; couldn’t make it less.

Mrs. S. Poor Willy! But how is sister Sue?

Billy. Youse didn’t hear about yer sistah Sue?

Mrs. S. Why, no.

Billy. Oh, big news!

Mrs. S. Oh, tell me! She isn’t dead?

Billy. Next to it. Married, and got eleven children.

Mrs. S. Impossible!

Billy. No, it ain’t. She scooped in a widower; children already made. Dey’re coming down to eat you out ob de house pretty soon.

Mrs. S. I do declare. How are all the rest of the folks?

Billy. You know Squire Jawbone?

Mrs. S. Oh, yes.

Billy. He’s gone to join the band.

Mrs. S. What band?

Billy. De ole man’s skipped de golden gutter. He’s passed in his checks, an’ got off de cars. He is dead!

Mrs. S. Squire Jawbone dead!

Billy. You’d think so, if you saw the undertaker’s bill.

Mrs. S. How did it happen?

Billy. He put some water in his whisky. Never had done it before, broke up his constitution. De jury said dat he died ob internal drounding.

Mrs. S. How awful!

Billy. Youse kin gamble high dat it was. Allus take youse whisky straight. Den youse know little Edwardo Pancake, his father works in a laundry, blowing dirt off of collars?

Mrs. S. Know him well.

Billy. He’s in de hospital. All three of his arms broke off, backbone knocked clear up into his mouth, and he can’t chew.

Mrs. S. You don’t say, Billy?

Billy. Yes, I do. I wouldn’t tell a lie for less than a dollar. Poor Edwardo’s all broke up. They’ve got him gummed together with mucilage, and it makes him awful stuck up, won’t notice anybody. But he’s in a bad way. His little sister came in and called him a liar yesterday, and he only had animation enough to kick one of her teeth out.

Mrs. S. How did it happen, Billy? What hurt him?

Billy. Youse see, he borrowed de meat-knife to clean his nails with. He soon got tired ob dat, an’ thought dat he would carve his monogram on de stern ob his father’s mule. He tried it! De mule braced right up—whoosh!—bang!—Edwardo lived in Boston, an’ dey picked him up in New Orleans.

Mrs. S. Too bad. How is the cow, Billy?

Billy. What, de ole cow dat you an’ me used to ride bareback on?

Mrs. S. That’s the one.

Billy. Ki, didn’t we have fun?

Mrs. S. Lots.

Billy. ’Member how I used to grab hold ob her tail an’ try fo’ to steer her? Golly, dat was fun.

Mrs. S. You and I used to be great friends.

Billy. Yes, indeedy. I’d neber steal a piece ob sponge-cake widout I’d lay it on you; we used to slide up hill togedder, play rock on a duck, shinny on you own side, let her fly, an’ all de other games. Tell you what, youse folks were powerful disappointed, cos I wouldn’t hab youse.

Mrs. S. Why, Billy!

Billy. Dat’s so. But say, Mattie, how much did de chance cost?

Mrs. S. What chance?

Billy. De chance at de raffle, dat you drew de riddle dat’s gone out to juggle wid de sandwiches!

Mrs. S. Don’t speak of him that way, Billy. He’s a good husband.

Billy. I know it. One ob de kind dat come done up in bunches—ten cents a bunch.

Mrs. S. But maybe I might have married better.

Billy. Ob course; me, for example.

Mrs. S. Nonsense—now there was Captain Charley.

Billy. I remember him. Used to wear his nose in joints, and had his hair cracked in the middle. Nice gemmen.

Mrs. S. He was that, Billy. I should like to see him again.

Billy. So would the boss ob de hash-house where he boarded. Captain skipped, and nebber paid a cent.

Mrs. S. But he loved me, Billy.

Billy. Ob course—it’s catching.

Mrs. S. And he would come and sit on the sofa by me, same as we are sitting.

Billy. (Aside.) Oh, yum!

Mrs. S. He would draw closer to me.

Billy. (Drawing closer to her. Aside.) You little rascal.

Mrs. S. He would reach my side.

Billy. (Sitting by her.) Ain’t youse awful. Go way dah, or I’ll hit youse wif a suspender.

Mrs. S. He would pass his arm around my waist.

Billy. (Passing arm around her waist.) What do yer say? I should blush if anybody should see me.

Mrs. S. And he would——

Billy. Would what?

Mrs. S. Kiss me.

[Billy kisses her. She springs up in surprise.

Enter Mr. S. R. 1 E.—Throws sandwiches at Billy.

Mr. S. Aha, villain! you have kissed my wife. Your blood be on your head!

Billy. No, my hat. I guess it is about time for me to dust.

Mr. S. You will never leave this place alive.

[Seizes Billy by the collar; lively melee ensues. Finally Mr. S. gets Billy on the floor, and draws a big pistol.

Mr. S. Scoundrelly wretch—die!

[Mrs. S. rushes forward and knocks up the pistol.

Mrs. S. Spare him, George: for he’s——

Billy. Just from home!

[Tableau. Flats close in.

[CURTAIN.]

[HANS BUMMELSTINE ON LOVE.]

A Burlesque German Stump Speech.

BY LARRY TOOLEY.

Mine Frendts:—At the earnest solicidation of several frendts of mine, now in states brison, I have succeeded in getting permission to afflict you mid dis lecdure. Dis lecdure vos written while I was demporarily insane, and consequently everyding indo it vos displeasing.

The subject which I haf chosen is Lofe. As the poet says, “Lofe—lofe! oh, vot vos lofe?” Id is a conundrum. My exberience of lofe—my brudder vos engaged seventeen dimes—deaches me dat it vos someding in dis style.

Before you vos spliced your girl throws pop-corn balls at you, and calls you “Daisy.” After you vos spliced she does the same ding; except dat she uses stones und flad-irons instead of pop-corn balls, und calls you “Devil.”

But lofe vos nice.

Oh, yes, vot can be nicer than to dake your girl oud for a ride in a piano truck and visper tales of agony amongst her back hair. Und den you dell her dat she lofes some other feller better than she does yourself, and haf her tell you dat yot vos a liar. Oh, dat vos bully.

Courting, dough, dat is the best dime of a young man’s life.

Dot vos de period ven he puts herosene oil mit his hair, gets his collar vhite-vashed, ties his father’s suspender around his neck for a gravat, und polishes up his rubber boots mit stove-placking.

Den he goes out to mash his girl.

She has been leaning out of the garret vinder vatching for him for most of the afternoon, but as soon as she sees him come around the corner she goes down to the door, is much surprised to see him, und gifs him liquorice to de effect dat she didn’t expect him for the next six weeks, und vos shust coming oud to see dat somebody didn’t sdeal the sdoop.

Then you go into the parlor und dake a seat on the mantel piece, und you ax her vos her fader sick, vhether her mother had the group yet, how long before her brudder vould come off the island, und so forth.

Den you carelessly insert your hand into your pocked und ask her does she like rock candy.

She smiles und says yes.

Den you dell her you know vhere there vos a store vhere dey keep pully rock candy, und den you pull avay your hand from oud of your pockeds mit a cigar in it, und light it.

She don’t see the joke und gets mad und goes avay to the other end of the beer saloon, vhile you dink vot a funny cuss you vos.

By-und-by she says dat she expegts other company; dat dere vos a young man who vos rich und owned two chicken-houses in Hobogen vos coming to see her, und dat if dere vos anybody dat vanted to see you, you had petter not keep dem waiting.

Den you get mad.

You dell her dat dere vos sixdeen young ladies dat vos dying because you von’t speak mit dem, und dat you von’t come into her old house again if it vos to be struck mit thunder. After dat you get up und valk like a funeral towards the door.

Dat fetches her.

She casts a glance at you und asks vhere you vos going, und you rebly dat you vos going to drown yourself, or else go ’round und pick up anodder mash.

She looks sad und remarks oud of the vinder dat you don’t lofe her, but vos only playing her for a flat.

You say it vos a lie, und say dat you lofe her so much dat you could pawn her vooden sleeves-buttons to buy yourself a Christmas present mit.

Den she gets up und flies to your arms, und by-und-by you take her around the corner and hang up the Italian for one plate of cream mit two spoons. Ah, dat vos de panorama of lofe.

Let me say, my fellow drunkard, dat a veller who marries a girl for her money is a scoundhrel, I vould villingly be a scoundhrel mineself, did opportunity permit.

A man should lofe a girl for herself not for her relations, und if she was born an orphan or her parents vos avay at her birth, so much the better.

Den when summer time comes he von’t haf to cart his vife, und her sister, und her mother, und her bruther dat vos out of vork, to the country, und haf the pleasure of paying all the bills.

Lofe it vos a funny ting.

Lofe vas vot makes a young man of America git six dollars a veek und spend seven of it in buying collars. Lofe is vot makes him feel dat his face vos never clean, dat his pants vas busted behind und dat his feet are the size of tea chests.

Lofe is vot makes him clean his teeth mit the shoe-brush twelve dimes a day, und wear a coffe-rose mit his button-hole every dime dat he passes his sweedheart’s door.

But de vorst of lofe is ven id turns oud der best. Dat ish to say, ven you ged married.

It vas nice to be a fader, some grazyman remarked, but I don’d see id. Maybe it vos peyewtiful to dake de smallest kid up mit your arms, und haf him tickle you under de chin as innocent as a fall sheep, und den, five minutes lader, draw picters all over your new glean shird mit de gravy-spoon. Some folks may like dat, but as for me, I pass id every dime.

But ven de children ingrease, two or dree at a dime, den de picnic begins. How nice id vos to ged up in de nighd mit de dwins, und valk aroundt de plock mit dem, in your nighd shird, to keeb dem from keebing avake. Dat is vot makes murderers oud of men.

But I dink dat I must conglude. I am a married man, und—vell, my vife keebs de nighd-key, I might lose id, und—vell, however, those of you who are married men, know how id vos yourselves, don’d id?

Thanking you all for the very kind vay in vich you haf been baying attention to someding else during my remarks, I conglude, hoping to come before you mit a new lecture before long.