Slice of bread prepared with diachylon or hooked pins to stick to Mr.

Bullywingle's coat-tail.

BULLYWINGLE THE BELOVED;

A DRAMA IN ONE ACT.

_Dramatis Personae._

_Mr. Puttyblow_, an artist.

_Mr. Bullywingle_, a bachelor who is beloved by women, or thinks himself so.

_Miss MacSlasher._

SCENE.--_An artist's studio._

Curtain rises, or is pulled down, and discovers Mr. Puttyblow seated at an easel opposite a picture which is so placed that the audience cannot see the face of it.

_Mr. Puttyblow_ (yawning). Oh--on--on--awe--awe--oo--oo! Oh, thunder!

Oh, pickled thunder, turnip-tops, trust, tick, and tomatoes! I wish to goodness, goose-pies, and the G.o.ddess of fame, some one would give me a commission to paint a picture--one thousand dollars--half cash in advance, and the balance on completion of the work--some grand heroic subject, which would send my name and fame resounding through the nations of the earth like the mighty avalanche of the Alps, till the human race with one voice should stand back and exclaim--"That's him!"

Now, I think I could paint a picture of Washington Crossing the Delaware in a style of art equally creditable to my feelings as an artist and an American citizen. I'd make Washington--yes--I would not make him as they generally do, in a great, big, comfortable boat, with a new suit of clothes, looking up to heaven, while a lot of other fellows are shoving the boat through lumps of ice with hooks and pikes, and things of that kind. No! I'd make him swimming across, with the stars and stripes between his teeth and a horse-pistol of the period behind each ear.

That's what I should call something like a picture. But all this is vain; instead of painting big pictures, and building my palatial villa on the Hudson, I am stuck and starved in this miserable chamber--a poor artist with scarcely anything to feed upon but tobacco-smoke and my own ideas. Talking about feed reminds me that I have had no breakfast yet.

Now breakfast is one of those ideas about which I have my own ideas--namely, to wit: that you can't continually do without it--that's to say, not as a steady thing. It grows monotonous after a time. That tea has been standing three-quarters of an hour, and ought to be now fit for human nourishment (pours out tea, which is quite colorless). Rather weak--I may even go so far as to say exceedingly weak. It is like Hanc.o.c.k's veterans, will stand any amount of fire for any length of time without changing color. But you are very weak, poor tea; like women, let us respect your weakness. The b.u.t.ter is strong enough to take care of you (smells b.u.t.ter). I wonder whether this b.u.t.ter is not manufactured near Forty-second street, N. Y. It strikes me I have smelt something very like it near the soap factory on the Hudson River Railroad. Where's the knife (takes knife and loaf)? Ah! here it is (tries to cut loaf, which resists all his efforts). This loaf is beginning to get slightly obstinate. Most extraordinary thing how hard a loaf becomes after you have kept it for a week or two. However, I ain't the kind of man to let any darned baker's bread--ever baked--get the best of me. No! (Takes up hatchet at one side, places bread on floor, and begins chopping it. Cuts off a piece which he b.u.t.ters, and lays upon a chair.) Now, Puttyblow, my boy; you shall have bread and chops for breakfast. C-h-e-o-p-s--chops!

Chops with a large C. (A loud knocking is heard at the door.) Oh, thunder! there's some one at the door--it will never do to let them see these things around (piles up cups and saucers on tray and covers them with towels. He leaves the slice of bread and b.u.t.ter, however, on the chair). It doesn't look prosperous; and n.o.body ever thinks anything of any one who isn't prosperous. (Seats himself at easel, and pretends to be busy painting.) Come in!

Enter _Mr. Bullywingle_.

_Mr. B._ Ha! I've found a refuge at last, thank goodness! I'm all in a flutter--she nearly caught me. It was a dooced close shave. Here am I tormented to death by women who will insist upon marrying me. 'Pon my soul it is rather too bad that a man, because he is rather nice-looking and has a little money saved up, cannot leave his house without being pursued by all the women in creation wanting to marry him. I don't want to marry _them_. I don't see any particular fun in dividing all my property, my time, my comfort, my amus.e.m.e.nt, with another individual, besides giving that individual the life-long privilege of--the life-long right to dictate the temperature of the apartment in which I sit, the amount of light which shall illuminate my chamber; who shall be my a.s.sociates; where I shall live; what I shall eat; what I shall drink--there's the rub! actually putting the power into the hands of a mortal like yourself to come between you and your social tod. Oh, it's horrible to think of! Marriage is a humbug. I wouldn't marry the Bearded Lady herself. But I wonder what kind of an office this is I've rushed into--not a lawyer's; no--doesn't smell of Russia leather. Not a Government office; no--don't smell any whiskey. Not p-e-t--yes, r-o--l-e-u-m; there's certainly a smell of oil around. Ah, oh--yes, I see; it's some kind of a paint shop. I must trump up some business with the proprietor as an excuse for coming in. Wonder, by the way, whether there's anybody about, after all? Ah! yes, to be sure; bless my soul, there he is. (Takes a step towards artist, and coughs. Artist pretends to be deeply engaged in his art, and does not hear him.) Ahem! ahem!

wonder whether the poor creature is deef and dumb. Ahem! ah, excuse me, sir, but--ah, that is fine day--ahem! good-morning, sir.

_Artist._ Good-morning, sir.

_Mr. B._ You are a painter, are you not, sir?

_Artist._ That is my name--ah, that is to say, that is my profession.

_Mr. B._ I want you to paint me a sign for my store.

_Artist._ A what, sir?

_Mr. B._ A sign. Jothan H. Bullywingle, wholesale----

_Artist._ Wholesale fiddlestick!

_Mr. B._ Wholesale dealer in----

_Artist._ Sir, I would have you to understand that I don't paint signs, sir. I am an artist--historical and portrait delineator.

_Mr. B._ Oh, ah! yes, exactly; that's what I mean. I want you to paint my portrait--Jothan H. Bullywingle, wholesale--no, exactly as you were saying, my portrait. (Aside)--By Jove, I--I'm in for it.

_Artist._ Would you like a full face?

_Mr. B._ (thoughtfully). Why, pretty full.

_Artist._ Or a side face?

_Mr. B._ Oh, yes--a side face.

_Artist._ Or a three-quarter face?

_Mr. B._ Yes, a three-quarter face. Yes, she was a blue one, I think, this last one.

_Artist_ (prepares seat). Will you take a seat, Mr. Bully--Bully----

_Mr. B._ Wingle.

_Artist._ Will you take a seat, Mr. Wingle?

_Mr. B._ Bully, sir.

_Artist._ Take a seat, Mr. Winglebully.

_Mr. B._ Yes, yes, certainly. (Aside--I'm regularly stuck for a portrait.) Certainly, sir; though you haven't got my name exactly right--not quite correct, my young friend. My name is Bullywingle.

(Aside--The first one was purple and diamonds.)

[Mr. B. seats himself at opposite side of stage to artist, who sits down and prepares to paint.]

_Artist._ Will you smile, sir?

_Mr. B._ (aside.) Really, a very polite young man. Thank you, I don't mind if I do--the least drop in the world; Bourbon, or anything that's handy.

_Artist._ I mean, sir, will you be pleased to smile with your mouth?

_Mr. B._ (aside.) With my mouth? Of course, with my mouth. Does the young man fancy that I propose to drink through my nose, like an elephant? (Aloud.) Oh, yes, I'll smile with my mouth, of course.

_Artist._ I perceive you do not understand me, sir. I allude to the expression.

_Mr. B._ Oh! I'm perfectly familiar with the expression--perfectly familiar with the _expression_.

_Artist._ Mr. Winglebully, I wish you to a.s.sume an agreeable expression of countenance in order that I may transfer your beautiful features to my canvas in a manner satisfactory to yourself, myself, and mankind generally.

_Mr. B._ Oh, ah! yes, certainly--exactly--to be sure--bless my soul--yes. (Mr. B. grins in an exaggerated manner).