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."