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Captain. That's wine.
Pan. What's wine?
Captain. A fluid very rare;
It's unknown here; we bring it from afar;
Don't speak a word of thanks there, hold your jar
Pan. The jar's a most uncommon sort of shape,
(Smells it ) Oh, oh! may I be shot if it ain't grape!
[Tastes it, and smacks his lips.
Gollopshus! (drinks ). More gollopshus than the first!
It quenches, yet somehow increases, thirst.
(Drinks ) Talk about nectar. These celestial fellers
Have no such drink as this stuff in their cellars.
I must bid Ganymede to earth to fly
Ganymede, brin-g an immed -iate supply.
[Drinks, and becomes gradually elevated hiccups.
Nectar celestial drink's supposed to be;
It's called divine this is de vine for me!
(Sings ) We'll drown it in the bowl! (Staggers ) I see two bottles!
I only wish I'd got a pair of throttles!
My, everything's in two! As for that there tree,
It was a single tree, it's now a pair tree.
That bay I thought Arcadian but, I say,
It seems to me, my friend, you're Dublin bay.
Fact, 'tis a pair of bays. The earth seems reeling,
While this is still so gently o'er me stealing.
To the burlesques by William Brough already mentioned may be added "Endymion, or the Naughty Boy who cried for the Moon" (St. James's, 1860), and "Pygmalion, or the Statue Fair" (Strand, 1867). The former, of course, has to do with the fabled fondness of Diana for Endymion, and vice versâ . The goddess sees the youth lying asleep upon Mount Latmos, and, descending, kisses him: -
Strange weakness thus my beams so bright to dim!
I should be more myself not beam o'er him.
The gods all mock my silvery splendour paling;
Not silvery, but irony, their railing.
Paling and railing! what dread fears that calls up,
Their bitter raillery suggesting All's up !
Oh, no! We men of fashion
Have long ago forsworn the tender passion.
We can't afford it.
Actæ. Why not?
Endym. Well, a wife
May suit folks in the lower walks of life;
But in our station, what girls seek in marriage
Is not a walk in life; they want a carriage.
Then, what with dress and crinoline extensive,
The sex which should be dear becomes expensive .
Once hearts were trumps; that suit no more we follow;
Since a good suit of diamonds beats them hollow.
Our hearts we've not alone to give,
When we to wed incline;
In lowly cots on love to live,
In poetry sounds fine.
But folks to live on love have ceased;
Our hearts when we'd bestow,
Some hundreds sterling, at the least,
Should with the fond hearts go.
Actæ. Not care for shooting, man? What's life without it?
All nature shoots. Say, what's the earliest thing
Boys learn at school? Why, shooting in the ring.
The seed you sow must shoot before it grows;
We feel the very corns shoot on our toes.
We shoot our bolts, our game, our foes what not?
We're told where even rubbish may be shot.
The stars shoot in the sky nay, I've heard say,
Folks sometimes shoot the moon on quarter-day.
Oh long-ear'd, but short-sighted fauns, desist;
To the great Pan, ye little pitchers, list;
Pan knows a thing or two. In point of fact,
He's a deep Pan and anything but cracked.
A perfect oracle Pan deems himself; he
Is earthenwarish so, of course, is delfy .
Trust, then, to Pan your troubles to remove;
A warming-Pan he'll to your courage prove.
A prophet, he foresees the ills you'd fear;
So for them all you have your Pan-a-seer .
Miss Herbert was Diana, and Miss Kate Terry one of the nymphs attending on her. Charles Young was Actæon; Belmore, Pan.
In "Pygmalion" we are asked to suppose that Venus is indignant with the sculptor for his lack of susceptibility to female charms. Cupid therefore undertakes to punish him by making him fall in love with his new statue, Galatea. To this statue Venus, at Pygmalion's request, gives life; but she withholds the power of loving. Galatea, therefore, is for ever slighting the sculptor's affection. Here is the opening of their first interview, which the curious may compare with the similar situation in Mr. Gilbert's "Pygmalion and Galatea: "
Pygmal. My beautiful my own! (embracing her ).
Statue. Oh! don't, sir, please;
I'm sure I'm much too soft to stand a squeeze.
Pygmal. Too soft! What mean you?
Statue. Nay, I hardly know.
I was so firm and hard an hour ago;
Suddenly I grew soft
Pygmal. Nay, speak no farder.
You're getting softer but renews my (h)ardour ;
Unrivalled maid!
Statue. You rivals talk about,
Who've done your best yourself to cut me out;
With chisel mallet sir, 'tis my conviction,
Your mallet ought to have my mallet -diction.
Pygmal. Your sculptor, amorous , implores you madly.
Statue. Yes! sculptors (h)ammer-us poor statues sadly;
Yet I ne'er felt it till an hour ago;
I stood, heigho! there in your stud-i-o ,
Within a niche!
Pygmal. Speak on, oh form bewitching!
Statue. Standing the niche-in , straight I felt an itching ;
Throughout my frame a feeling seemed to tingle,
Bade me go forth with human kind to mingle.
Pygmal. Oh, joy! 'twas life! and life you must go through with me.
Statue. Well, having made me, what d'ye mean to do with me?
Of course I can't disparage what you've done;
But say, can I dis parish claim upon?
Or must I trust of casual wards the mercy?
Have I a settlement, or vice versy?
Pygmal. Come to my arms!
Statue. Nay, as the matter stands,
It's not your arms I'm left upon your hands.
What's to be done with me? I never sought
Into a human figure to be wrought.
You're great at figures; I, a wretched sad stone,
Know nought of figures I'm far from a Glad-stone!
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