_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._
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE "INCANTATION."
(_Scene from the Very Latest Version of "Der Freischütz_.")]
* * * * *
[Illustration: RUSTIC POLITENESS.]
_Squire Roadster._ "WHERE ARE THE HOUNDS, MY MAN?"
_Yokel._ "GAR ON WITH YER! DON'T KNAW WHEER THE 'OUNDS BE, AND GOT A
RED COAT AND A BIG 'OSS! YER OUGHTER BE ASHAMED OF YERSELF!"
* * * * *
THE LATEST CATCH-LINE.--Good DAY! Have you read the Report of the
Special Commission?
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