Fortunately I went on from the O.P. side, which enabled me to put my best leg foremost. In the centre of the stage I met Simpkin, who had entered from the prompt side. The widow gazed with rapture on us both, until, oh, horror! after a short scene it was necessary that each of us should retire to the place from whence we came. We advanced towards it, backwards, and mutually stumbling, our other legs became exposed to view. A yell from the audience, the sack from the management, and a week's notice from the widow, subsequently greeted us. Besides which, Simpkin and myself are not on the best of terms. We get into argument when we meet in the streets. I stay at home a good deal now.
(By permission of the Author.)
THE CALIPH'S JESTER.
(FROM THE ARABIC.)
On a musnud of state was reclining the Caliph, the Mighty Haroun;
His brow like the sun it was shining, his face it was like the full moon,
And his courtiers around him were standing, like stars in an indigo sky,
And the saki the wine-cup was handing—for the monarch, though pious, was dry.
And the poets their works were reciting in Arabic numbers divine,
The hearts of all hearers delighting with verses like Afdhal's or mine.
Then the Caliph glared round the assembly, as a lion glares round on the herd,
And the knees of the courtiers grew trembly, and their hearts fluttered e'en as a bird;
And cold drops were distilled from each forehead, and each tongue to its palate did cling,
For their fear of their Caliph was horrid—he was such a passionate king!