Punch (93.1887)

278

PUNCH OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [Decembeb 17, 1887.

ALTERAM PARTEM.

Sir,—The reason why phave'not
hitherto contributed to the contro-
versy on the recent unhappy (Police)
Divisions is, because I have been
laid up in the Hospital. Never mind
which Hospital—but I have not been
so comfortable since I had the mumps,
years and years ago, at school. Being
a born economist, I naturally turned
out in my myriads to assist at a
gratis show in Trafalgar Square;
and, Sir, I never came so near realis-
ing what a " dead head " was in the
whole course of a chequered (not to
say chuckered) career. But do I
turn round and abuse the Police ?
Why, ever since that fortunate
Sunday, I have eDjoyed, at no ex-
pense to myself, the most delicate of
viands, the tenderest of nursing,
and a complete immunity from even
the suggestion of getting anything
to do ; and, in addition to all this,
the satisfaction of having employed
the services of a force to whose main-
tenance I have never contributed
one farthing. But soft, a nurse
approaches, and I must dissemble.
Yours, in Clover,

Ebeeman Gtbtjbbee.

A RASHER THEORY OF BACON.

Dear Me. Punch,

I. It is plain that the soi-disant Shaks-
peabe was poor to the end of his days. This
is proved by Milton's sonnet beginning—

" What needs my Shakspeare for Ma honour'd
bones ?"

This shows that the person in question was
in the habit of selling his kitchen refuse, and
more noteworthy still, that Milton was in
the habit of buying it. Whether out of respect
for the vendor, which would go a long way
towards proving the esteem in which he was
held, or because Milton was in the marine
store line at this period, I leave to Mr. Don-
nelly to decide.

II. It is certain that there is a cypher in
the Midsummer Night's Dream. Pyramus
has the line, "0, dainty duck. 0, dear!"
Now "duck" stands with cricketers for 0,
and 0 is a cypher (or is it figures that are
cyphers ? but, never mind). Therefore we
have here the expression, "0, dainty cypher ,
0, dear!" which proves conclusively, that
the cypher was dainty,—exquisite, elabo-
rated ; and also that Bakspeaee was heartily
tired of it, unless, "dear" refers to the
terms he had to pay to Shakon to hold his
tongue. But the fact that the supposed
author used to sell bones, and inferentially
rags, to Milton, rather militates against
this hypothesis. And here note what a flood
of light is thrown upon the disappearance
0£,j ^nuscripts. They were indubitably
sold, with the honoured rags and bones to
Milton, who has certainly more than one
suspicious coincidence of thought and phrase-
ology, especially in his earlier poems.

III. My play, Piccoviccius, contains the
clue to the whole matter. There is a picture
on the title-page of a boy blowing an egg,
while an elderly gentlewoman, who is remark-

ably like the bust of the poet in Stratford
Church, looks on with every appearance
of interest. Underneath is the legend,
" Lyttel Fbancis teaching his Crypto-
gra'mother." I am firmly convinced that
Piccoviccius was written by both of them.
The style is not the least like that of either,
which proves that they didn't want everyone
to know. I subjoin a specimen. The
scene is the palace of the usurping Duke
Jingulus, who is about to wed the Lady
Rachel. Yours, Roderick Tweddle.

Jingtjltjs, Rachel, Philosteate, and others.

Jing. Say, Philosteate, what abridgment
have you for
This dull, three-volumed day ?

Phil. There is, my lord,

A show of cats and tame canary birds.
The cats, sleek sleepy creatures, well content,
Doze fur in fur, the while the nimble birds
Climb ladders, carry baskets, beg for pence:
Which given, they in bills receive, and take
With hops, well-satisfied unto their keepers,
Then the sleek cats sit up and 'gin to spar,
And get sleek heads in furry chancery.

Jing. That will we not see at our wedding-
time,

No sparring, nor no caging. Well, what next ?
Phil. A hunch-back'd man, long-nosed,

there is, my lord,
Who in a curtained tabernacle dwells,
Himself, his wife, his child, a helpless babe,
His dog, of rare sagacity, though small,
Is full as large as all the family.
The man a cudgel bears, and carries it
As though he lov'd it. Spurning household

cares,

To pity dead, he through the window flings
His wailing, helpless babe, nor spares the
psean

Of nasal triumph and the drumming foot.
The mother thus bereav'd, such comfort gets
As in the cudgel lies, and joins too soon

" Re-Joyce! »

The Woodford tenants
Must have liquor'd

To hear of the penance
Of Lord Claneicaede.

Her infant Fped. Again the nasal song
Shrills, and the blood-stained tabernacle
shakes

With heels triumphant tapping. All who
come—

Many there are who come—learn soon or late
The flavour of the cudgel. At the end
All human powers defied, the hangman trick'd
By childlike wile, and hois'd with his own
halter,

A day of reckoning comes. The unseen world
A minister sends forth who terrifies
The heart that knew no terror ; turns the song
Of triumph to a long wail of despair ;
And this most wicked puppet goes below
The curtain of his booth.

Jing. A moral play 1

This we will see. Command it. Lords, away I

[Exit in State.

Hydbopathic Aet.—"0 give me the
sweet shady side of Pall-Mall," sang Captain
Mobbis, the Laureate of the Old Beef-steak
Club. At the present period of the year we
have a greater liking for the sunny side. And
the sunniest spot on the sunny side we have
discovered during the last week is un-
doubtedly in the rooms of the Sanatorium
presided over by Sir John Gilbeet. Ths
Royal Society of Painters in Water Colours is
a capital hydropathic establishment at this
season of the year.

A Necessaey Explanation. — Consider-
able remark has been excited by the sudden
departure from London of Count Coeti, the
Italian Ambassador. The fact is. Count
Coeti was compelled to appear at Rome, m
person, as an answer to the imperious order
of recall which (to translate the legal process
exactly) i3 of the nature of a " County Corti
Summons."