But he took six more hasty strides Across the stage again-- Six hasty strides, then doubled up, As smit with searching pain; As though to say, "See me create The conscience-stricken Thane!" Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns took he Now up the stage, now down the stage, And now beside Miss B.; And, looking off, he saw her ma, As she read in the R. U. E. "Now, Mrs. B., what is't you read?" Ask'd he, with top-lip curving. "Queen Mary? A play by Mr. Wills, Or something more deserving?" Said Mrs. B., with an upturned glance, "It is 'The Fall of Irving!'" "His fall!" gasped he, "in sooth you jest! O, prithee say what mean ye? Know ye not, they call him Kemble-ish, And speak of his style as Kean-y? On the modern stage he stands alone." She murmur'd one word--"Salvini!" "Avaunt!" he cried; "that name again! Its mention ne'er will cease; Does he still dare my throne to share, And threaten my fame's short lease?" But here the call-boy came to say, That his absence stopped the piece. * * * * * One night, months thence, whilst gentle sleep Had still'd the City's heart, Two bill-stickers set out with paste And play-bills in a cart, And the Eminent I. had his name on them, In a melodramatic part. _The Figaro_, October 9, 1875. When Mr. Henry Irving produced _The Iron Chest_, at the Lyceum Theatre, the Editor of _The World_ offered two prizes for the best two parodies on the subject, the model chosen being Hood's _Dream of Eugene Aram_. The successful parodies were printed in _The World_, October 22, 1879:-- FIRST PRIZE. 'Twas in the Strand, a great demand For seats was quite the rule; The pit and gallery were crammed, The stalls and boxes full. One man remained who could not find A solitary stool. From gods to stall, he paced them all, Unable to find rest; A burning thought was in his heart, Beneath his spotless breast. He'd eaten pork, and knew full well Pork he could not digest. With hollow sound the curtain rose, And then he found a place, Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see The great tragedian's face-- He was so prest, for the _Iron Chest_ He hadn't any space. He saw how Irving walked the stage With ill-dissembled care, To keep the limelight on his brows And on his flowing hair, While all the rest were in the dark-- You only heard them there. His voice was hollow as the grave, Or like an eagle's scream-- Murderers, you know, talk always so-- His eyes like theirs did gleam-- He'd done this sort of thing before. But then 'twas in a dream.