University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I

The Park, in front of the debtors' jail. Whitey-blue posts seen in endless perspective. The City-Hall clock strikes eleven.
Enter Keeper of the Park and Officer.
Keeper.
Has Fungus, sir, walked forth this morning?

Off.
No;
It was his usual time an hour ago.

Keep.
At any time, sir, when you see him here,
Let no unfeeling creditor come near;
I would not have him stared at. See! who 's that,
Now entered at the gate, so plump and fat?

Off.
Sir, 't is the Mirror's principal collector,
With pockets lined like some pet-bank director.

Keep.
Leave me awhile, but be within my call.

[Exit Officer.
Enter Finance.
Good morning, sir, you 're welcome to the hall.
I heard last night you had arrived express,
With news of your unparalleled success.

Fin.
Yes, sir; and I am proud to be the man
That served the Mirror since it first began.
Defeated Fungus will attempt no more
To cross our path, as he has done before;
No longer will his Mushroom work be known—
The Mirror, now, securely reigns alone.

Keep.
Near Tewksbury, I think, in Jersey state,
Your agent got two thousand names of late!
Has Fungus, sir, lost any friends of note?

Fin.
Sir, I was posted home by the first boat,
Ere an account was taken of his loss;
But as I left the place, to come across
Upon the railroad, it was boldly said,
The Mushroom never more could raise its head!

Keep.
That work, I fear 's, unlike the Mirror, sir,
Too tame and spiritless to make a stir;
Worse news than this poor Fungus never met,
For on his agent's luck his all was set.

Fin.
Ill fortune is to Fungus nothing new, sir;
He bets at random, and is still the loser;
Yet his chagrin he has the tack to hide well—
How does he pass his time, sir, here in Bridewell?

Keep.
As one whose income ne'er was half a crown,
But as an editor he 's much cast down.
Sometimes he reads and walks, and wishes fate
Had blest him with a less conspicuous state.

Fin.
Were it not possible to see this editor?
They say he'll talk with any but a creditor.

Keep.
This is his usual hour of walking out,
Here, in the Park; we'll see him soon, no doubt;
After his morning draught he seldom fails.
Here we may stand unseen, behind these pales,
Awhile to observe how he at fortune rails.

[They retire.
Enter Fungus.
Fun.
By this time the decisive blow is struck—
Either my agents have been blessed with luck,
Or I no more can send the Mushroom forth,
For eighteen pence is all that I am worth!
Would I had wealth, if fate's stern will were so,
For what have we poor editors but wo!
While the rich reader pays us, if he chooses,
And is content with nothing he peruses!

Fin.
He seems extremely moved.

Keep.
He 's ill at ease,
I'll introduce you to him, if you please.

[Coming forward.
Fun.
Why, there's another check to proud ambition.
That man, through me, obtained his late commission;
And now I am his prisoner—he 's my bail,
For the extended limits of the jail.
Such an unlooked-for change who could believe,
That saw him for his unpaid salary grieve,
When I employed him as my out-door clerk?
Good morrow, Mr. Keeper of the Park.
The grass looks cheerful, and the day is fair.
Has any news arrived? Whom have you there?

Keep.
A gentleman of breeding and address,
Who came last night from Tewksbury, express.

Fun.
Comes he to me with letters or advice?

Keep.
He serves the Mirror, sir, let that suffice.

Fun.
Then he wont dun me—so good morning, sir,
You 're welcome, though the friend of Philus, for
I'm almost such myself—could I forget
That he grows rich, while I'm confined for debt;
Were he not called the great belles-lettres leader,
I might be truly happy, and his reader.
You 've canvassed in New Jersey!—what success?

Fin.
Ah! that will reach your ears too soon, I guess.

Fun.
If to my loss it can't too soon. But tell,
Are all my agents and collectors well?
And does the list of their subscribers swell?

Fin.
Since my arrival, sir, another post
Came in, which brought us word a numerous host,
Of your subscribers 'mong the Jersey hills,
Have stopped their papers, and not paid their bills!

Fun.
Fate, do thy worst! the Mushroom then must slumber,
I have not paper for another number;
No cash—no credit—sighs and prayers are all
I have to give—the work, alas! must fall!

Fin.
Our Philus, sir, depends on perseverance,
Patience and toil, and faithful friends' adherence,
Talent, and taste, and tact—for these have made him,
Yet he pays liberally to all who aid him.
His writers love a bold and active leader,
And so does every male and female reader.
Patrons, like women, must be warmly wooed,
Such is the course our Philus has pursued.

Fun.
Alas! I thought them children, all together,
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a feather.
And rather hoped to win their hearts and cash
With stale, old stories, anecdotes, and trash!
But literary editors, I find,
Are put in trust for tastes of every kind;
And when themselves are void of wit and tact,
Who can say how their patrons may not act?

Enter Officer.
Off.
Sir, here's a man, who told me, with a groan,
He wished to see the doctor, all alone.

Keep.
I come to him.

[Exit Keeper.
Fin.
His business must require
Your private ear, and so I will retire;
Wishing you all the earthly good I can,
Not wronging him I serve—the Mirror man.

[Exit Finance.
Fun.
Farewell; alas! who can this fellow be?
A sudden chill is running over me.
I fear some heavy news.
Enter Keeper.
Who is't, O'Hare?

Keep.
A man whose looks bespeak a world of care.
A melancholy messenger, I dread,
For when I asked the news, he shook his head.
He comes express from Tewksbury to you,
I fear his news is fatal, so adieu!

[Exit.
Fun.
Fatal, indeed! his brow 's a running title,
That speaks the page below, a sad recital.
Enter Trustall.
Say, friend, how goes the work?—do many stop?
Of new subscribers have you reaped a crop?
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness of thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue, the news to speak.
E'en such a man, so faint and wo-begone,
So dead in look, so dull, and so forlorn,
Drew Simpson's curtain, when the night was lowery,
And told him Forrest had redeemed the Bowery.
Now wouldst thou say—“your pen did thus and thus,
And thus your scissors, both enraptured us:”
Stopping my greedy ear with flattery's meed,
Till in the end, to stop my ear indeed,
Thou hast a sigh to change this dew to frost,
Ending with scissors—pen—and—all—are lost.

Trust.
Your scissors yet remain, from hook impending,
But for your pen—

Fun.
Why that, perhaps, wants mending;
Although I scarcely use it once a week.
Yet, say, good Trustall—speak, I charge thee, speak!
Must we yield up our editorial fame,
And let the Mirror every honor claim?
Must each competitor still lose the prize!
Tell thou thy master his suspicion lies,
And I will take it as a kind disgrace,
And thank thee for such insult to my face.

Trust.
Your fears are true; the Mirror “goes ahead.”

Fun.
Yet, for all this, say not the Mushroom's dead.

Trust.
I'm sorry I must force you to believe,
A sad disaster nothing can retrieve;
But all your Jersey patrons, sir, are lost;
They 've stopped the Mushroom, and not paid the cost;
While each of them now takes, oh! cursed chance,
The New York Mirror, paid for in advance!
They say, “that sheet, beside our Mushroom paper,
Is like the sun compared to farthing taper!
Its active spirit lends a fire, that's fanned
E'en to the dullest peasant in the land;
And makes its way against all opposition,
Though ever courting generous competition.”
A nobler work, or one in richer dress,
Was never issued from the weekly press.
In fine, its editor has won the field,
And your sharp scissors and dull pen must yield.

Fun.
Yet, hold! for oh, this prologue lets me in
To a vile plot—where have our agents been?
Why suffered they such chances to befall?
They should have given every one a call.

Trust.
The lucky Philus, seeking our defeat,
Called for the Mushroom, and was shown a sheet;
Asking what reparation we could make,
For all the articles our scissors take
Without acknowledgment. When I with pride,
Impatient of such taunts, indignant cried,
“Hold! most ambitious editor of York,
At champagne parties first to draw a cork,
While speaking with my master's mouth, you see,
I now propose the selfsame words to thee,
Which thou wouldst have me answer to.” From these
More words arose, and we had quite a breeze,
Till, in the end, two thousand names were struck
From our subscription list! Confound the luck!
Low in the dust our scissors' journal lies,
From whence, with life 't will never more arise.

Fun.
Oh! hadst thou stabbed, at every word thou'st uttered,
Sharp scissors in my flesh, I 'd not have muttered
A single oath! Oh, heavens! methinks I see
My little pet in mortal agony!
Gorging the ravenous wolf's insatiate crop!
But, say, did all—did all our patrons stop?

Trust.
All but the free list—fifteen hundred, ten.

Fun.
Let them, too, stop. Inhospitable men!
Against our rigid rules, a balance due,
To discontinue without paying too!
Was't not enough to have the secret blown,
That we ne'er wrote a sentence of our own;
That all our pictures were from worn-out plates;
Our newest fashions all of last year's dates;
But must you cheat us out of all we sent you?
Nor could the editor's lost fame content you?
You never published, monsters, if you had,
You 'd know the pang of being driven mad!

Trust.
Take comfort, sir, and hope a better day;
Another work, perhaps, will better pay.

Fun.
Oh! who can tamely, and with patience fast,
By thinking on an alderman's repast,
Or wander coatless, when 't is damp and chill,
By bare remembrance of a tailor's bill?
Away! by heavens, I shall abhor to see
The man who talks of publishing to me.
And when thou sitt'st up late, with good old folks,
In tedious winter nights, to crack your jokes,
Amuse them with the marvellous relation
Of many a poor, ill-fated publication,
Which, like my own, have toiled, with heart and hand,
To mar the brightest Mirror in the land,
And toiled in vain, but died at last unread—
And send your hearer laughing to his bed.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE II.

A street in New York, near St. Paul's Church.
Enter Philus, with arms folded, à la Kean.
Phi.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this bright event;
And all the clouds, which on the Mirror frowned,
In the deep bosom of the ocean drowned.
Now are our brows with laurel chaplets twined;
Our doubts and fears are given to the wind;
Eleven volumes, bound at great expense,
Are now displayed as gilded monuments
Of our success, filled with the choicest treasures,
Engraving, music, and delightful measures;
Grim Opposition smooths his wrinkled face,
And now, instead of jockeying in the race,
To check our course, convinced of his mistake,
Has struck his flag, and follows in our wake.
But I, that am not shaped for fawning tricks,
To bite, and snarl, and lick the foot that kicks,
Why I shall still, without remorse or dread,
In duty's path, like Crockett, go ahead.
Mid flowers of literature I'll toil and delve,
And my next step commences Volume Twelve.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Park. Fungus reading a pamphlet.
Enter Philus and the Keeper.
Phi.
Good-day, my lord; what subject is't you read?
I fear, I bother you.

Fun.
You do indeed.

Phi.
Friend, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

[Exit Keeper.
Fun.
I owe you nothing; what 's your business, sir?

Phi.
Suspicion haunts the guilty, like a ghost,
He sees a bailiff in each painted post.

Fun.
Where guilt without controlment, holds his sway,
And steals a rival's patronage away,
An editor might fear each post a Turk;
And I, proprietor of one sweet work,
Have now the fatal object in my eye,
Who caused my periodical to die.

Phi.
Why, what a dunce was Æsop's bird of night,
To ape the eagle in his mid-day flight,
Till Sol's bright rays did all his powers confound,
And so, for all his wings, the fool was drowned.
Thou shouldst have been content as carrier, sir,
And not aspired to be an editor.
With a poor, frothy brain, half-crazed with rhyming,
Nor broken thus thy neck with foolish climbing.

Fun.
Hadst broken thine, when first thou chased a bubble,
It might have saved Jack Ketch a little trouble;
But thou wast born to edify mankind,
Amuse the ladies, and improve their mind;
To reach the top of fame and fortune's ladder,
While I, beneath its foot, have played the adder.
How many love-sick lines and maiden sighs
Hast thou to answer for! how many eyes
Of liquid blue hast thou gemmed round with pearls
Bright as thy wit; how many lovely girls
Will bless the hour that gave thy Mirror birth!
The tuneful cricket chirruped in the hearth;
The mocking-bird sung, a plagiaristic sign,
Foreboding many a sweet, but stolen line;
Æolian harps were heard upon the breeze,
And, though 't was August, blossoms decked the trees;
The kittens gambolled in their frolic play,
And thrilling expectation held its sway;
Canaries warbled with their sweetest glee,
And currant tarts were all the rage for tea;
More than a printer's pains thy printer took,
(Thy types were not by Connor nor by Cooke,)
Yet brought forth less of hope—I mean in size,
Mottoes it had, and Algebra sublime,
With much of Woodworth's amatory rhyme;
Types in its head, like German text appeared,
And if the rest be true, that I have heard,
It came into the world—

Phi.
I'll hear no more.
Take this bank-note, and pay thy paper score;
I'll puff thy work; my censures were but feigned;
For this, among the rest, was I ordained.

Fun.
Oh! and for much more generous acts than this,
Just Heaven reward thee with a life of bliss!

Phi.
What! shall the aspiring hopes of talent sink,
Which should have mounted? see what tears of ink,
My pen shall shed in sympathy for him,
Who sought the Mirror's downfall; he shall swim;
And, if a doubt remain, thy hopes to wither,
Down, down to Wall street, say I sent thee thither;
Cash it—'t is genuine.
[Exit Fungus.
Indeed, 't is true,
What Fungus told me of; our work, when new,
Came forth into the world with some acclaim,
For all admired the Mirror and its frame;
The men all wondered, and the female tribe
Cried, “Heaven bless us, let us all subscribe!”
And so they did, which plainly showed they prized it,
And, till this hour they've always patronized it.
Stay, let me see—the eleventh volume 's done,
No sharing spoils before the field is won.
I'll quickly sell each copy that remains;
When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Exit.