DON'T "COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS"!
Or, The Sleepy Sage and the Blameful Ethiopians.
A Sea-side Sketch in September.
Scene—A Sea-shore in holiday time. Present—A Sleepy Sage in holiday attire.
Sleepy Sage (soliloquises). "Here cease more questions," as my prototype Prospero says. Why, cert'nly! Here cease—for the time being—all questions, especially political ones, "burning" ones, as the perorating parrots of Party controversy—confound 'em!—call them. Question me no questions! Ask me no questions, and I'll give you no snubs.
"Thou art inclined to sleep,"
continues Prospero. I am.
"'Tis a good dulness
And give it way."
I shall. Dulness of course "in a Shakspearian sense." Like Bottom, "I have an exposition of sleep come upon me," but the "captain of my dreams" is not that of the egregious weaver. Pheugh! 'tis torrid! Nunc est bibendum! Where's that wine-cup lying couched in—sand? Good! Guggle—guggle—guggle! The very glug-glug of lapsing liquor is soporific as the sound of
"Silver rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals."
Sweet "Swan," thy music runneth in my head to-day. Better than the buzzings of the political Bumble-B's, the bray of Bart——but no matter! 'Tis a season when, in sugary summer mood, one wishes soft slumbers even to the blaring Bottoms of the hour. "Blessed be the man who invented sleep!" Right, good Sancho!
"Oh sleep! it is a blessed thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!"
True, oh Ancient Mariner! Come, lord of stretched ease and night-capped noddles. (Drowses.)
Enter certain ebony Minstrels, of sham Ethiopian sort, on raucous row—miscalled popular music—eagerly intent.
First Minstrel (softly). Hist! He's here!
Second M. (pianissimo). See He slumbers!!
Third M. (sotto voce). Now have we Him at vantage!!!
Toby (fortissimo). Yap! Yap! Yap!
Sleepy Sage (drowsily). Down, Dog of dogs, down, Sir!
[Tobias, albeit reluctantly, "downs" accordingly.
First M. Say, what shall we tip him? "The Chucker-Out"?
Second M. Or "Linger longer Lulu!"? Or "Get your Harcourt!"? Or "The Grand Old Man who shied"?
First M. Or "My Poll and my 'Preponderant Partner' John"? Or "My Pretty Primrosers"?
Second M. Or "The Hum of B's"? Or "The Tin Gee (Jay) Gee"?
Third M. By Jabers, no, let's give him something Hibernian—for a change!
First M. (aside). Oh Lords deliver us!
Second M. (aside). For a change?
Third M. (sings fortissimo)—
My name is Patrick Leary,
From the town New Tipperary.
The heart of Bill O'Brien I'm a thorn in.
But for my long-promised pay,
I must wait another day,
For the Peers have chucked me cruel and wid scornin'!
Chorus:—
To my woes could they be coulder?
Since they've give me the could shoulder!
To the poor plan-of-campaigners I'm a warnin'.
Faix! I've lately tuk the notion
I must cross the broiny ocean.
And seek funds in Philadelphy some foine mornin'.
Toby (exploding). Yap! yap!! yap!!!
Sleepy Sage (stirring, and muttering). When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is "February Fill-dyke." Hey! ho! B-rtl-y-Quince B-wl-s the bellows-blower! As-m-ad the State-tinker! We-r the interrogative! Gad's my life! stolen away and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision! I have had a dream,—past the wit of man (as Bottom and the G. O. M. both put it) to say what dream it was: man is but an ass if he go about to expound this (Irish) dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had,—but man is but a patched fool, if he offer to say what I had. Meseemed I was a sort of Hibernian Titania enamoured of——But the eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what I was enamoured of. I will get one of my young men to write a ballad of this Hibernian Midsummer-Madness Dream; it may well be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom. It seemed to be suggested by, and to be set to, music of a music-hally sort, tripping but thunderous and thrasonic, and——(rubs his eyes). Hillo!!! (To the three minstrels tuning up for another try.) Who in the name of Nox are you? I twig, I twig! Cacophony incarnate, Shindy in soot, triple-headed Cerberus of Row, I know you! Get out!!! Have I not had enough of you in town ever since February, but that you must impudently intrude upon my holiday quiet, my rural rest, my sea-side seclusion?
Don't come unto these yellow sands,
Corked mugs and hands!
Hook it! You will not be missed.
Off! off! well-hissed!
Foot it featly anywhere,
So I've not your burden here.
Hark! hark!
(Burden.) Bow-wow!!! (Dispersedly.)
'Tis Toby's bark!
(Burden.) Bow-wow!!! (Dispersedly.)
Hark! Listen! Hear!
Clear out, each cork-smudged Chanticleer!
Get out, and leave me—DO!
[Exeunt Blameful Ethiopians ignominiously. Sage again composes himself to sleep.