THE INCANTATION SCENE.
Freely Adapted from "Der Freischütz."
Caspar, Mr. L-b-ch-re.
Zamiel, Mr. P-rn-ll.
Scene—Stage in complete shadow. An Irish Glen surrounded by bare mountains covered with dwarf oaks, overhanging a big bog. The Moon is shining dimly. Caspar discovered with a pouch and hanger, busily engaged in making a Circle of fairy lanterns, in the middle of which is placed a turnip-skull, a shillelagh, a bunch of shamrock, a crucible, and a bullet-mould. Distant mutterings heard.
Chorus of Distant Party-Spirits.
Shindy now would be a boon,
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
Interest in M-tch-llst-wn hath died,
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
Mischief must be stirred up soon.
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
And Obstruction once more tried.
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
Ere this S-ss-n's course is run
We must really have some fun.
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
[At the end of chorus, a Big Bell booms twelve times; the Circle being finished, Caspar within it, draws his hanger round the lanterns, and at the twelfth stroke strikes it into the turnip-skull.
Caspar (kneeling, and raising the skull on the hanger at arm's length).
Zamiel, Zamiel, hear me, hear!
By this bogey-skull appear!
Zamiel, rise, for things look queer!
[A confused noise is heard, a Meteor (looking rather like a long-expected Blue-Book) falls on the Circle, and Zamiel, looking coldly triumphant, appears.
Zamiel. Why callest thou?
Caspar. Well, hang it! I like that!
But, by St. Patrick's beard, your advent's pat,
Our foes boast three years longer they may live.
Zamiel. No!
Caspar. Then good reason you and I must give.
Zamiel. Who says so?
Caspar. One who hardly dared—till now—
To face thy really rayther freezing brow;
But, moved by reason, and a late Report,
He's on the job; and we shall have some sport.
Zamiel. What doth he seek?
Caspar. To be supplied
With bullets which thy skill shall guide.
Zamiel. Six shall obey,
The seventh—who'll say?
Caspar. Lord of the mystic League,
I hope, by sly intrigue,
To rule the seventh also,
And let it kill—you know!
Zamiel. Too risky.
Caspar. Oh, I say,
Let's have no more delay.
Three long years yet to sway?
Pooh, Zamiel! It's child's-play.
Zamiel. Enough—no more! I'll tell thee now
By this day month there'll be—a row?
[More mutterings are heard and repeated in chorus. The skull and hanger sink, and in their place a hearth with lighted coals and faggots, rise out of the earth, within the Circle. The Moon becomes red.
Caspar. Well served! Bless thee, Zamiel!
The day will be ours!
[Caspar moves to and fro, places faggots on the coals, blows the fire, which blazes and fumes. In the smoke certain cabalistic letters appear.
Now for it! Every moment is precious. "Every bullet hath its billet," saith the old saw. Rather! Black C-c-l, beware! Bland William H., look out! Brutal B-lf-r, mind your eye! Shrewish G-sch-n, be warned! Haughty H-rt-ngt-n, take care! Perfidious J-s-ph, watch it! That accounts for Six out of the fatal Seven. 'Twill suffice, even if the seventh—bah! that's silly superstition. Here goes! First this lead—heavy as Sm-th's speeches; then this glass, brittle as the bond between the Unionists; some quicksilver of Randolphian shiftiness; three charmed balls which have already hit their mark. See, they are marked. "P-g-tt," "P-rn-ll," "C-mm-ss-n"!!! Probatum est! Now for the blessing of the balls.
[Caspar bowing down his head three separate times (as to three Judges) before he commences his incantation.
Thou who hast Fate's mystic dower,
Zamiel, Zamiel, work thy power!
Spirit of the evil dead
(At Madrid), bless, bless the lead!
May they be as featly sped
As the one that pierced his head.
I am sick of shilly-shally,
May they—metaphorically,
For, of course, I don't mean murder,
Nothing could be—well, absurder—
May they spifflicate our foes.
Neither progress nor repose,
On Bench or in Cabinet,
May they any of them get
Till they get their last quietus
From these bullets (That will seat us
Comfortably in their places,
To the rapture of three races)
How the fire fumes! There'll be ruction.
Characters look like Obstruction!
But they mean—and that's their beauty!—
Merely, simply, purely Duty!
Therefore, 'tis my occupation
So at present, Incantation!
G. O. M. won't take a part;
He objects to the Black Art.
Though he rather shirks my cult,
He will relish the result.
Zamiel! you're the chap I like,
Charm the bullets that they strike.
Zamiel, lend thy might to kill
To each burning drop we spill!
Now then for it! Out on fear!
Zamiel, Zamiel, be thou near!
[Sets to work at—The Casting of the Bullets. Music.
