Tho' to use vulgar phrases I've no wish, I may say, here's a pretty kettle of fish! But then the world's all fishy--poets fail To prove that life is not a tearful _wale_! Though fancy's prospect oft in-_witing_ glows, Experience tends to _mull-it_, goodness knows; Grave moralists aver that from our birth We are all _herring_ mortals here on earth. Dancers stick to their _eels_, and live well by 'em; And most folk can appreciate "_carpe_ diem." Some statesmen--theirs is no uncommon case-- Will give their _soul_ in barter for a _place_, And call, to mend a diplomatic mess, The conger-eel's fond mate--a _conger-ess_. Nay, folks strive even in a college cloister Over a rival's head to get a _hoister_. "The Wood-Demon," by "Monk" Lewis, played originally in 1811, suggested to Albert Smith and Charles Kenny a travestie, of the same name, which they brought out at the Lyceum in 1847. "Timour the Tartar," another of Lewis's dramas, received equally satiric treatment at the hands of John Oxenford and Shirley Brooks, whose work made its appearance at the Olympic in 1860. In the last-named year Messrs. Francis Talfourd and H. J. Byron founded on Pocock's "Miller and his Men" (1813) a "mealy-drama," similarly entitled, which was played at the Strand. Jerrold's "Black-ey'd Susan," first performed in 1822, waited till 1866 for the travestie by Mr. Burnand, to which I have already adverted. This "Latest Edition of Black-eyed Susan, or the Little Bill that was Taken Up,"[42] was made specially gay by a wealth of song and dance; but it had other merits. Here, for instance, is an amusing soliloquy by Dame Hatley:-- [42] See p. 41. It's very hard, and nothing can be harder Than for three weeks to have an empty larder; I'm in the leaf of life that's sere and yellar, Requiring little luxuries in the cellar. There are no _cellars_ such as I requires, But there soon will be when there are some _buyers_. Destiny's finger to the "work"-us points, A stern voice whispers, "Time is out of joints." I used to live by washing; now, no doubt, As I can't get it, I must live without. The turncock turned the water off--dear me! I showed no quarter--and no more did he. Thus, with the richer laundress I can't cope, Being at present badly off for soap. My son, the comfort of the aged widdy, Is still a sailor, not yet made a middy, But sailing far away; it may be _my_ son Is setting somewhere out by the horizon. He's cruising in the offing, far away, Would he were here, I very _offing_ say. Here also is the Wolsey-ish speech made by Captain Crosstree, after he has revealed himself as "alive and kicking," at the close:--