_Patience._ If we have a leisure hour, it cannot be better employed than in the per-per—reading of a useful book. _Maria._ That's so. (_Goes to_ R., _and calls_.) Here, Job, bring Miss Patience the dictionary. Come, girls, let's have a sing. _Augusta_ (_aside to_ MARIA). Hateful old thing! _Bessie._ Let us look over the music; perhaps we can find something sweet and soft, that will not disturb the invalid. _Jane._ Good! "Mulligan Guards," or, "Gentle Spring." (_They go to the piano, which should be placed with back to audience._ BESSIE _opens a musicbook; and they gather about her, turning over the leaves_. PATIENCE _sits on lounge_, L.) _Patience._ Thoughtless girls! they lack the wisdom and ripe ex-ex—Dear me! it's so hard to remember these words!—experience of my ma-ma—older years. But I, in what the poet calls "the fresh bloom of womanhood," can curb their flightiness. Ah, this life is so con-con-gealing to my ambitious spirit! I am so rapidly mastering the ru-ru—first steps of learning! I feel that I shall de-de-velop a gi-gi-_antic_ mind, and burst upon the rude boors of Razorly like some glorious starry con-con-consternation. (_Enter_ JOB, R., _with a large quarto dictionary in his arms. He stops at entrance; sees_ PATIENCE, _clasps the dictionary to his breast, and heaves a sigh_.) _Maria_ (_at piano_). Hush! there's Job. Now watch the pair. _Job._ There she is, "a-sittin' on the style, Mary," the stylish lounge. Oh, would I were the plush upon that lounge, that I might clasp that form! That's Romeo, altered for the occasion. Oh, I'm chock full of these frenzied ideas! I do nothing but read Shakspeare and them other poet-chaps—when I ain't handling plates, or scouring knives; for I'm in love, oh, so bad! with Patience Plunkett. Oh that name! it runs in my head. It is so musical, so full of poetry! With fair, bewitching Patience Plunkett I'm in love. Who would have thunk it? There's poetry, all out of my own head too. (_Comes down._) Miss Patience! dear Patience! _Patience._ Why, Job, is that you? How you startled me! I was rume-rume— _Job._ Not rheumatic. Oh, don't say that you are suffering, beloved Patience! _Patience._ I was ruminating upon some lines in Homer's _Ilyd_, the original Greek. You are not acquainted with Greek, Job? _Job._ Well, Patience, I'm not acquainted with many on 'em. There was old Pat Haggerty, in Razorly: they used to call him an Original Greek— _Patience._ O Job! I have no patience with you. How can you expect me to stoop from my high speer to mate with you, unless you cultivate your head more ass-ass-iduously? _Job._ Well, I've had it cut and shampooed three times since I've been here. If that ain't cultivating it, I'll have it ploughed next time. Here's your dictionary, Patience.