SIR WINDBAG, (_eagerly_): His name? his name? that I may quick engage This champion to bolster up my cause. COUNT LUIE, (_whispers mysteriously_): He is but small in stature, but, ye goods, His valor fits his name, which is, La Mutt. [Illustration] AN IMAGINARY OFFICIAL CONSULTATION Dramatis Personae _Francos:_ . . . . . _High Cockalorum._ _Sir Higgs:_ . . . . _First High Councillor._ _Sir Henmart:_ . . . _Second Councillor._ _Sir Windbag:_ . . . _Third Councillor._ _Scene: Official Residence._ FRANCOS: I greet thee, gentlemen, to conclave sweet. Wisdom hath whispered in mine willing ear That we uncumbered by the darker tint Of those who meet us at official board Could better sound the depths of special woes Which daily do beset us as we toil With earnest hearts to boost the public weal By filling vacant posts with Democrats! SIR WINDBAG: But, Francos, list; a more disturbing mob, Whose crop is filled with discord and contempt, On which they daily feed, I ne'er have sized. 'Twere well to laws enact to hold in curb These brainless cubs who wield a pricking quill And words indite with vitriol for an ink, Which burns the meaning into quiv'ring brain And leaveth scars which time can ne'er efface. A son of Erin in official place Did eulogize my effort at the club; And I, elated, loaned it to the press For publication if the writer willed; But scruples seemed to fill his vacuous mind, Hence it was hidden from the public gaze. Now it hath disappeared, and Rumor saith 'Tis to be published in a stealthy way. Zounds! 'tis enough to cause the blood to course Like mercury adown the burning veins. Could I but lay my eager hands upon The thiefly neck, I'd wring it with good zest. FRANCOS: But, Windbag; why didst thou thy tongue unloose, And set it wagging vaporings and froth? Thou mightest have known the foe didst ready stand To thrust thy words adown thy choking throat. Imprudence on its shoulders ever bears A burden which may crush its author down; 'Twere best to keep the pen in constant leash, For, words, indited not, work little harm. SIR WINDBAG: But softly, Sire, Thy record is not clean, If but tradition wears a truthful garb. Plug hats and coats of a latest Tammany style And "pleasure saturnine" did figure cut When first thy mouth did voice the burning thoughts That trickled from a brain much overwrought By meditation on conditions here Which bore so heavy on this downtrod race.