_Noirtier._ Don't buy or sell, or you'll come to grief, And never get out of the Chateau d'If! _Both._ Poor prisoners we! etc. (_Dance as before._) After "Monte Cristo Junior" there came, at the same theatre and from the pens of the same writers, a travestie of "Frankenstein," produced in 1887, with Miss Farren as the hero, and Mr. Leslie as the Monster that he fashions. Here much ingenuity was shown in the management of the pseudo-supernatural business connected with the Monster. Previous to the vivifying of the figure, Frankenstein thus soliloquised:-- _Frankenstein._ At last I am alone--now let me scan My wondrous figure fashioned like a man. All is now ready--every joint complete, And now to oil the works--and then--_toute suite_! O Science! likewise Magic! lend a hand To aid the awful project I have planned. (_Sings_) I've invented a figure Of wonderful vigour, A gentleman-help, so to speak; A chap automatic Who'll ne'er be erratic, Who'll live upon nothing a week It will fetch and will carry, And won't want to marry, Or try on the wage-raising plan; It will do all my bidding Without any kidding-- My Patent Mechanical Man. Now to my cell I'll post with due cell-erity, And do a deed that shall astound post-erity. But thrills of horror now run through my veins. What if I fail in spite of all my pains? A nameless dread doth in my bosom lurk. My scheme is good--but what if it won't work? The Monster's first utterances were as follows:-- _Monster._ Where am I? also what--or which--or who? What is this feeling that is running through My springs--or, rather, joints?--I seem to be A comprehensive (_feeling joints_) joint-stock companee; My Veins--that's if they are veins--seem to glow---- I've muscles--yea--in quarts--I move them--so! (_Creaks horribly all over: fiddle business in orchestra._) Horror! I've broken something, I'm afraid! What's this material of which I'm made? It seems to be a sort of clay--combined With bits of flesh and wax--I'm well designed-- To see, to move, to speak I can contrive-- I wonder if I really am alive! (_Sings_) If my efforts are vain and I can't speak plain, Don't laugh my attempts to scorn! For, as will be seen, I am but a machine Who doesn't yet know if he's born. I can move my feet in a style rather neat, And to waggle my jaws I contrive; I can open my mouth from north to south, I--I--wonder if I'm a-live, a-live! I wonder if I'm a-live!