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."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "M. LE PRÉSIDENT FAUTE-DE-MIEUX."]
* * * * *