"HARD TO BEER!"
(Advance-sheet from a projected Anti-Bacchanalian Tragi-farce, to be called "By Order of the Kaiser.")
SCENE—A Market Place in Berlin. German Students carousing. Emissary of the Emperor seated at table apart watching them. Apprehensive Waiters nervously supplying the wants of their Customers.
First German Student. Another flagon of beer, Kellner!
Waiter. Here, Mein Herr! (Brings glass and, as he places it on the table, whispers aside.) Oh, beware, my good Lord—this is your second glass.
First Ger. Stu. (with a laugh). I know what I am about! And now, my friends, I give you a toast—The Liberty of the Fatherland!
Chorus of Students. The Liberty of the Fatherland! [They all drink.
Em. of the Emp. (apart). Ha!
[He makes an entry in his note-book.
First Ger. Stu. And now fill another glass. Fill, my comrades—I pray you, fill! Kellner! glasses round—for myself and friends.
Kellner (as before—supplying their wants and warning them). Oh, my gracious Lord, be careful! Your third glass—mind now, your third glass; you know the risk you are running! But one false drop and you are lost!
First Ger. Stu. (as before). Well, my good friend, be sure you supply us with no drop that is not good! Ha, ha, ha! Eh, KARL! eh, CONRAD! eh, HANS! Did you hear my merry jest?
[They all laugh.
Em. of the Emp. (as before). Ha! (making an entry in his note-book). And they laugh at a witless joke! Good! Very good!
First Ger. Stu. (joyously). And now, my comrades, yet another toast—The Prosperity of the People!
Chorus of Ger. Stu. (raising their glasses). The People!
[They all drink.
Em. of the Emp. (apart) Ha!
[He makes an entry in his note-book.
First Ger. Stu. And now, a final flagon! Kellner!
Kellner (as before). Oh, high-born customer, beware! This is your fourth glass! You know the law!
First Ger. Stu. (as before). That indeed I do! And I also know that my daily allowance is—or rather was—twelve quarts per diem! And now, comrades, our last toast—The Freedom of the Press!
Chorus of Ger. Stu. (raising their glasses). The Freedom of the Press!
[They all drink.
Em. of the Emp. (apart). This is too much! (He rises, and approaches the Students.) Your pardon, Gentlemen! But do you really believe in the toasts you have just drunk?
Chorus of Stu. Why, certainly!
Em. of the Emp. What, in the Liberty of the Fatherland?
Chorus of Stu. To be sure—why not?
Em. of the Emp. And the Prosperity of the People—mind you, only the People?
Chorus of Stu. Exactly—don't you?
Em. of the Emp. And further. You wish well to the Freedom of the Press?
Chorus of Stu. That was our toast! What next?
Em. of the Emp. (producing staff of authority). That, in the name of His Majesty, I arrest you!
Chorus of Stu. (astounded). Arrest us! Why?
Em. of the Emp. Because, if you believe in the Liberty of the Fatherland, ask for the Prosperity of the People, and admire the Freedom of the Press, you must be drunk!—very drunk! In virtue of the new law (which punishes the crime of intoxication), away with them!
[The Students are loaded with chains, and imprisoned, for an indefinite period, in the lowest dungeon beneath the castle's moat. Curtain.
OUR HUMOROUS COMPOSER.—What Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN said or sung before deciding on taking a Villa at Turbie, on the Riviera,—"Turbie, or not Turbie, that is the question." He is now hard at work writing a new Opera (founded, we believe, on Cox and Box), and "I am here," he says, in his quaint way, "because I don't want to be dis-turbie'd."
THE "RETURNED EMPTY."
Returned Prodigal sings, to the tune of "Randy Pandy, O!":—
Well, here I'm back from Mashonaland!
Mine's hardly a proud position.
My ideas in going were vaguely grand,
And—look at my present condition!
I may cool my heels on this packing-case;
'Tis a little mite like me, Sir!
Say my "candid friends," as they watch my face,
"O.I.C.U.R.M.T., Sir!"
I'm the prodigal GRANDY-PANDY, oh!
Returned to my native landy, oh!
With a big moustache, and but little cash,
Though the latter would come in handy, oh!
Like the nursery Jack-a-dandy, oh!
I may "love plum-cake and candy," oh!
But tarts and toffies, or sweets of office,
Seem not—at present—for GRANDY, oh!
Well, I chucked them up,—was it nous or pique?
Is the prodigal worst of ninnies?
The fatted calf, and the better half
Of his father's love—and guineas,—
May fall to his share as he homeward lies,
When the husks have lost their flavour.
My calf? Well, it does not greet my eyes,
And I don't yet sniff its savour.
I'm a prodigal GRANDY-PANDY, oh!
Retired from Mashona-landy, oh!
I'm left like a laggard. Grim RIDER HAGGARD
(Whose fiction is "blood-and-brandy," oh!)
Says Africa always comes handy, oh!
For "something new." It sounds grandy, oh!
But a telling new plot I'm afraid is not
The fortune of GRANDY-PANDY, oh!
Did they miss me much? Well, I fancy not;
(Though a few did come to greet me;)
The general verdict's "A very queer lot!"
Nor is SOL in a hurry to meet me.
He does not spy me afar off. No!
He would rather I kept my distance;
And if to the front I again should go,
'Twon't be with his assistance.
He deems me a troublesome GRANDY, oh'
In political harness not handy, oh!
I am out of a job, while BALFOUR is a nob,
That lank and effeminate dandy, oh!
Well, a prodigal son may be "sandy." oh!
I am off for a soda-and-brandy, oh!
And a "tub" at my Club, where I'm sure of a snub
From the foes of returning GRANDY, oh!
