III. My play, _Piccoviccius_, contains the clue to the whole matter. There is a picture on the title-page of a boy blowing an egg, while an elderly gentlewoman, who is remarkably like the bust of the poet in Stratford Church, looks on with every appearance of interest. Underneath is the legend, "Lyttel FRANCIS teaching his Crypto-gra'mother." I am firmly convinced that _Piccoviccius_ was _written by both of them_. The style is not the least like that of either, which proves that they didn't want everyone to know. I subjoin a specimen. The scene is the palace of the usurping Duke _Jingulus_, who is about to wed the Lady _Rachel_. Yours, RODERICK TWEDDLE. JINGULUS, RACHEL, PHILOSTRATE, _and others_. _Jing._ Say, PHILOSTRATE, what abridgment have you for This dull, three-volumed day? _Phil._ There is, my lord, A show of cats and tame canary birds. The cats, sleek sleepy creatures, well content, Doze fur in fur, the while the nimble birds Climb ladders, carry baskets, beg for pence: Which given, they in bills receive, and take With hops, well-satisfied unto their keepers, Then the sleek cats sit up and 'gin to spar, And get sleek heads in furry chancery. _Jing._ That will we not see at our wedding-time, No sparring, nor no caging. Well, what next? _Phil._ A hunch-back'd man, long-nosed, there is, my lord, Who in a curtained tabernacle dwells, Himself, his wife, his child, a helpless babe, His dog, of rare sagacity, though small, Is full as large as all the family. The man a cudgel bears, and carries it As though he lov'd it. Spurning household cares, To pity dead, he through the window flings His wailing, helpless babe, nor spares the pæan Of nasal triumph and the drumming foot. The mother thus bereav'd, such comfort gets As in the cudgel lies, and joins too soon Her infant sped. Again the nasal song Shrills, and the blood-stained tabernacle shakes With heels triumphant tapping. All who come-- Many there are who come--learn soon or late The flavour of the cudgel. At the end All human powers defied, the hangman trick'd By childlike wile, and hois'd with his own halter, A day of reckoning comes. The unseen world A minister sends forth who terrifies The heart that knew no terror; turns the song Of triumph to a long wail of despair; And this most wicked puppet goes below The curtain of his booth. _Jing._ A moral play! This we will see. Command it. Lords, away! [_Exit in State._ * * * * *