Mr. Bullywingle.—Hat—white, with black band. Face very red, culminating in a bright crimson on the nose. The face should be colored with vermilion, which can be procured in a powdered state at any color store. If you get it in this state mix it with water, to which add a very small quantity of gum or glue. The best plan, however, is, if convenient, to purchase a cake of vermilion such as is used for water-colors.

Hair, eyebrows, and moustache must be very white. The hair and moustache can be made white by dressing with plenty of pomatum, and then sprinkling them liberally with flour from the flour dredger. The imperial and eyebrows should be painted on the face with flake-white. Procure two ounces of flake-white (in powder) in any paint store; mix it carefully with water till it is about as thick as molasses. A small piece of glue, about the weight of two beans, should be dissolved in the water before it is added to the flake-white.

Spectacles—green, which you can either borrow from a friend, buy at a store, or steal anywhere. If, however, you are too proud to steal, and you cannot get the specs any other way, you may cut them out of card-board and paint the proper color. As Mr. Bullywingle wears his specs on the end of his nose, never using them to look through, it is of little consequence whether they be transparent or not.

Cravat—large and white.

Shirt collar—large; can be cut out of writing-paper.

Coat—blue, with gilt buttons.

Vest and pants—light; the latter short in the legs.

Shoes—low.

Mr. Puttyblow (the artist).—Nose red; eyebrows black, and painted above the natural eyebrows. This gives the eyebrows a continued elevated appearance, which is very comical in effect.

The moustache and beard can either be painted with burnt cork or India-ink, or, which is far better, made out of curled hair and a little diachylon, as described in a previous chapter. If you wish to make the character very comic, you can turn up the nose with a piece of thread and stick a patch of court-plaster over one of your teeth, all of which has been described in earlier chapters.

Cap—something fancy, of bright color if possible.

Coat—anything comical and shabby. The young man is poor.

Pants—short in the legs.

Miss MacSlasher must be attired in walking costume, and make herself look as elegant and pretty as possible. Or in case the ladies won't act, or you happen to be out of pretty girls, you can get Miss MacSlasher up as an old lady, and make her look as comical as you can. You see our play is on a compensating, self-adjusting principle. Now we will give you a list of all the things you will require in the way of "properties," as they are called in stage parlance. Before doing so, however, we must impress upon you the necessity of having a stage manager, otherwise you will surely get into a state of confusion and spoil the play. It is the duty of the stage-manager to collect the properties together and see that they are all in their right places. He will arrange the stage, and, if desirable, act as prompter.

Vermilion—To be procured at a paint store.

Flake-white and green paint—paint store.

Card-board for imitation spectacles, and glue—paint store.

Three or four camel's-hair pencils—paint store.

India-ink or burnt cork.

Pomatum, butter or lard for hair.

Ten cents' worth of diachylon (in lump form, not plaster—remember this; also remember that the diachylon must be warmed before the fire to make it stick), which can be had at any drug store.

Flour for hair can be procured from the kitchen, if the barrel ain't gin' out.

Green spectacles.

White cravat and large shirt-collar.

Blue or green coat, with bright buttons.

Vest and pantaloons, light in color.

Small piece of court-plaster or black silk, for tooth.

Curled hair from stuffing of mattresses.

Cap for artist, of bright color.

Coat for artist.

Pants for ditto, legs short.

Slippers for ditto.

Large portrait of Mr. Bullywingle.

Easel or stand for portrait.

Palette (the palette should be cut out of pasteboard, the cover of a large book, or something of that kind—a wooden palette would break when sat upon); a maul-stick and brushes, pictures, casts, etc., to give the artist's studio an artistic appearance.

Stale hard loaf of bread.

Knife—palette knife if possible.

Tray with two cups.

Tea-pot containing very weak tea.

Plates, butter, and pieces of crockery, to make a clatter.

Sheets, comfortable, shawls, or Turkey-red, to make proscenium and drop-curtain.

Several sheets of tissue-paper, red and blue, to ornament proscenium.

Lamps to light the stage.

Deeds and legal documents for Mr. Bullywingle.

Umbrella for Mrs. Bullywingle.

White hat with black band.

Towels, or rags, to cover and conceal artist's breakfast on a chair.

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 PersonÆ.

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 goddess 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 Hancock'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 butter is strong enough to take care of you (smells butter). I wonder whether this butter 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 butters, 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 butter, however, on the chair). It doesn't look prosperous; and nobody 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 amusement, 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 associates; 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 assume 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).

Artist. Ah—yes; that's it—that's it—just so. A little to the left. I'm afraid—keep your head up—I cannot give you a very long sitting to-day—I'm so crowded with sitters. (Mr. B. forgets that he is sitting for his portrait and begins to look very melancholy and miserable.) I am obliged to—smile, if you please. (Mr. B. starts and resumes his exaggerated grin.) I'm obliged to fix certain days and hours to receive my friends and patrons, otherwise they—will you smile, if you please?—otherwise they would not leave me a—will you smile, if you please, sir? Look at me and think of something pleasant. Think of a lady (Mr. B. looks miserable and frightened). (Aside—He doesn't look as if he were thinking of a lady, does he?) Think of something pleasant, now—something pleasing. Think of Hash (Mr. B. brightens up). Yes, hash. Keep on thinking of hash, hash, hash! Good gracious! will you smile, sir? Hash—hash—hash! Keep smiling—hash—that's it; hash! There, sir, will you be kind enough to look at that? You are a little rough and raw (Mr. B. starts), but, of course, I have only rubbed you in. You will come out better at the second painting.

Mr. B. (rising and advancing towards the picture). Oh, yes—yes, very good. The shirt-collar and the cravat are extremely like; but don't you think you might alter the rest?

Artist. Well—ah—umph! I don't know. I think I have hit your eye exactly. (Mr. B. starts slightly.) The hair is very fair, and I've got hold of your nose very satisfactorily. (Mr. B. rubs his nose.) The mouth might look all the better, perhaps, for a little madder, but——

Mr. B. Oh, dear, no, it's quite mad enough. I don't wish to have a severe expression of countenance.

Artist. I refer to the color—the pigment.

Mr. B. The color the pig meant. The pig—the pig. I meant what I said, sir; and if you think to call me a pig with impunity you are very much mistaken.

Artist. Oh, no—no—no, my dear sir; you mistake me. We artists use a beautiful pink color called madder, and I spoke of this as a pigment—no offence, not for the world. But allow me to place the picture in a better light; you can hardly judge of it in its present position. (Turns easel and picture round facing the audience.) (Aside.)—Now won't he be an unreasonable old polypus to object to that as a likeness? (Aloud.)—There, sir, now you can see it better. (They both sit down in chairs, the artist on his own palette and Mr. B. on the slice of bread and butter left by the artist.)

Artist. Now, sir, I think I have caught the expression of your eyes and spectacles; and as for the nose, it literally speaks, while the chin and mouth—

Mr. B. Yes—yes, but I don't think you have stuck quite closely enough to nature. There is nothing like sticking to a thing. (Rises and moves towards picture, showing slice of bread sticking to his coat-tails. Advances and examines picture critically.)

Artist. I declare, if the idiotic old grampus has not been sitting down on my bread and butter. It is most extraordinary that some people will never look where they sit down. (Rises to remove bread and butter, and shows palette sticking to his dressing-gown behind.) The carelessness of some people is marvellous—really astonishing.

Mr. B. The shirt-collar is certainly very like; but don't you think the complexion is a little high? because I am really rather pale, you know.

Artist (making futile endeavors to remove the bread and butter with one hand). Ah, yes, perhaps that might be toned down a little. (Aside.) I'll whitewash the old brute if he likes. (Aloud.) If you will be kind enough to take a seat for two minutes I will try to avail myself of your valuable suggestion (looks around for his palette). Now, where on earth can be my palette? (Looks suspiciously at old Mr. B.) He can't have been sitting down on that too—and yet I do believe he's stupid enough for anything. (Looks for palette again.) No. (At this moment Mr. B. sits down on the chair where Mr. P. has concealed his breakfast, and everything goes with a crash.)

Artist. There goes that old porpoise again! All my breakfast gone—my beautiful tea and my elegant bread and butter. (To Mr. B., who apologizes.) Ah, never mind, sir—no consequence; only a few paint saucers, that's all. No consequence; take a seat over here. (Seats old gent in the chair which Mr. B. first occupied, and which artist has since used.) But my palette—where can it have gone? Where's that d—d palette? Let me see; I think I laid it on that chair. Will you kindly rise for one moment, Mr. Winglebully? (Looks at Mr. B.'s back.) No! strange—let me see—oh! ah! yes—I—he sat over there. (A thought seems to have struck him. He begins to feel behind his own coat, where he finds the palette. Produces it—his own fingers covered with paint.) There it is—I knew I'd put it somewhere. (Here a knocking is heard at the door. Mr. B. jumps up and grasps the artist by the hand, getting his own covered with paint in the operation.)

Mr. B. Here she is! For heaven's sake, conceal me!

Artist. Here is who?

Mr. B. The blue woman.

Artist. The blue woman?

Mr. B. Yes—they pursue me wherever I go. It's a blue woman now. Yesterday it was a red woman. Oh, all sorts of women—black women—green women—white women—for pity's sake, conceal me! They'd make a Mormon or polygamist of me. (Wipes his painted fingers over his face.) Oh, my dear sir, you would not have me commit trigamy—you would not—but hide me somewhere—hide me!

Artist. Here—here, behind the curtain.

Lady enters.

Lady. Is there a gentleman here?

Artist. Em—ah! gentleman? no—no; that is to say, not exactly.

Lady. This is an artist's studio, is it not?

Artist. Yes, madam; this is an artist's studio.

Lady. There is no other studio in this building?

Artist. This is the only studio in this building. Will you take a seat, madam?

Lady. I was to meet an elderly gentleman here—my father—who was going to have his portrait taken.

Mr. B. (aside.) Her father—that's a deep dodge. Pretends to be after her father, the artful thing.

Artist. Yes, madam.

Lady. He should have been here some time ago—that is to say, if I have come to the right place.

Artist. Ah, yes; this is the right place. (Aside.) Hooray! here's another job.

Mr. B. (aside.) Send her away! send her away! Ah, you villain, are you going to betray me?

Lady. You seem to have a great many pretty pictures here.

Artist. Ah—oh—well, a few little trifles. Are you fond of art?

Lady. Oh, yes—very.

Artist. I shall be happy to show you some of my sketches. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will bring them from the other room.

Lady. Certainly, It will give me great pleasure to look at anything in the shape of pictures. I once studied Poonah Painting and Potichomanie myself; and mamma's uncle, who was a great artist, and used to draw things with a red-hot poker, said he couldn't tell my pictures from life, almost—only I could never learn to do trees. Don't you find trees very difficult? Mamma's uncle used to say the only fault with my trees was that they looked like cabbages. I can paint cabbages very well; but then they don't look pretty in a picture, you know.

Artist. Indeed, I doubt not your delicate hand would lend a charm to any object it might portray. Nature is full of beauties, and there is a world of loveliness even in a cabbage.

Mr. B. (aside.) In a cabbage-head.

Artist. But I will bring you my portfolio—a few unworthy sketches which may serve to while away the moments till the arrival of your estimable father.
[Exit.

Mr. B. (aside.) Good heaven! He is going to keep me here all day while he makes a fool of himself to that young woman. This will never do! I must escape. I must throw myself on her mercy. She has an awful vicious expression of countenance, though. However, she must have the heart of a woman. Perhaps she has a brother; and how would she like to have him married against his will by fifteen women in blue? I will—yes, I will throw myself on her mercy. I will implore her to spare me. Poor thing! I shall be sorry to break her heart—but it must be done.——Courage, Bullywingle—courage! (Rushes out and throws himself at her feet.) My good young woman, spare me! Think of your own brother, and spare me!
[Lady screams and rushes off.

I cannot marry you all. If I did marry you I should make the red lady miserable for life, and the green lady would die of jealousy, and the yellow lady might commit suicide.

Enter Artist, with portfolio, which falls on the floor.

Artist. You venerable reptile, what are you about! What do you mean, sir? Get up, sir! I'll knock you down, sir! You've driven away one of my best customers. (They scuffle.)

Mr. B. But my dear sir—my good young friend, what was I to do? Hear me—listen—leave go—you'll tear my coat—let go, or she'll be back, and then I'm lost! Do you hear, you rascal! You'll tear my coat—there go my suspenders—there goes something else! I'll have you arrested for intent to do grievous bodily battery and commit violent matrimony—let go!

Artist. You old rascal—you old polypus—you old humbug—you are ruining me! (Rushes to one side and returns with club or stick. A fight ensues. Old gent strikes an attitude with umbrella.)

Mr. B. Come on, Mac what's your name! and damned be he who first cries hold—enough!

Artist (aside). I'll be hanged if the old buffer ain't swearing! (Aloud.) By all the powers I'll be revenged! As sure as my name is Puttyblow I will be re-ve-n-ged! (Is about to rush at old gent.)

Mr. B. Pause, rash man! Did you say Puttyblow?

Artist. I did.

Mr. B. Have you a strawberry mark on your left arm?

Artist. Nature has ornamented me in the manner you describe.

Mr. B. Are you short-sighted in your left eye?

Artist. Such is my affliction.

Mr. B. Do you snore at nights?

Artist. So I have been informed by the people over the way, who have sent over several times to expostulate with me in the most offensive terms possible.

Mr. B. And sleep late in the morning?

Artist. I do.

Mr. B. (rushing forward.) My long-lost son!

Artist. Excuse me for one moment. Have you a gooseberry bush on your left arm?

Mr. B. Gooseberry? No—no—not specially.

Artist. Do you wear corns or paper collars?

Mr. B. Well, I've had chilblains.

Artist. Are you subject to hydrophobia?

Mr. B. Well, not precisely; but I've been run over by a Broadway omnibus.

Artist. Are you in the habit of committing suicide?

Mr. B. Well—I—I—don't know—I travel on the Hudson River Railroad sometimes.

Artist. Come to my arms, my long-lost father!
[They embrace.

Mr. B. Bless you, my boy—bless you! bless you!

Enter Lady. Artist sees her, and struggles to escape from Mr. B.'s grasp.

Artist. Let go—let me go—drat it all, let go.

Mr. B. Bless you, my boy—bless you!

Lady. I have left my portemonnaie in your studio—will you be kind enough to let me have it?

Mr. B. Young woman, spare me!

Lady (to Artist). Pray protect me from this venerable ruffian.

Mr. B. (aside.) Venerable ruffian! Come, now, that is what the boys call rather rough. (Aloud.) Then you don't love me?

Lady. If you insult me further, I shall inform my father.

Mr. B. Then you have a father?—wonderful! Are you sure of it—no deception? What is his name? Where does he live? Tell me quick—quick—do not deceive me!

Lady. My father, sir, is General MacSlasher, who will not allow his daughter to be insulted with impunity.

Mr. B. MacSlasher! The brave MacSlasher, who married my half-cousin Columbia Ann, of Pickleville, Indiana?

Lady. Indeed, it is true.

Mr. B. Come to my arms, my long-lost niece! No, not niece; cousin—second cousin—oh, hang the relationship! Come to my arms, any way! But hold—you are the richest heiress in New York. I have the deeds in my pocket to prove it. By the will of your late grandfather Grampus you are the sole possessor of six blocks on Broadway, Trinity Church, Erie Railroad, two steamboats on the Hudson River that won't burst, and vast territories on Coney Island.

Artist. Good gracious!

Mr. B. Happy hour—auspicious moment! to have thus met my son and niece on the same day. Puttyblow, my son—no longer Puttyblow, but Bullywingle—this is the lady I have destined for you for ten long years, if I could only have found you. She is rich and beautiful. I know you love each other; and if you don't, make believe you do, or you'll spoil the play. Bullywingle, junior, embrace your bride! Take her and be happy! Bless you, my children—bless you!

Grand tableau. Mr. Puttyblow and Miss MacSlasher embrace. Mr. Bullywingle opens his umbrella, and, standing on one leg, holds it over them.