A RASHER THEORY OF BACON.
Dear Mr. Punch,
I. It is plain that the soi-disant Shakspeare was poor to the end of his days. This is proved by Milton's sonnet beginning—
"What needs my Shakspeare for his 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. Donnelly to decide.
II. It is certain that there is a cypher in the Midsummer Night's Dream. Pyramus has the line, "O, dainty duck. O, 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, "O, dainty cypher, O, dear!" which proves conclusively, that the cypher was dainty,—exquisite, elaborated; and also that Bakspeare 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 of the manuscripts. They were indubitably sold, with the honoured rags and bones to Milton, who has certainly more than one suspicious coincidence of thought and phraseology, 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 remarkably like the bust of the poet in Stratford Church, looks on with every appearance of interest. Underneath is the legend, "Lyttel Francis 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.
Jingulus, Rachel, Philostrate, and others.
Jing. Say, Philostrate, 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 pæan
Of nasal triumph and the drumming foot.
The mother thus bereav'd, such comfort gets
As in the cudgel lies, and joins too soon
Her infant sped. 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!
This we will see. Command it. Lords, away!
[Exit in State.
Hydropathic Art.—"O give me the sweet shady side of Pall-Mall," sang Captain Morris, 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 undoubtedly in the rooms of the Sanatorium presided over by Sir John Gilbert. The Royal Society of Painters in Water Colours is a capital hydropathic establishment at this season of the year.
A Necessary Explanation.—Considerable remark has been excited by the sudden departure from London of Count Corti, the Italian Ambassador. The fact is, Count Corti was compelled to appear at Rome, in person, as an answer to the imperious order of recall which (to translate the legal process exactly) is of the nature of a "County Corti Summons."
