University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—The Summit of a Scandinavian Mountain.
Pinnacles of rock glittering with frost, and various colours in the stone. The Gods of Scandinavia are all ranged at the back, as subsequently mentioned, but at the rise of the curtain, clouds entirely conceal them. Lights down. Voices of Spirit of the Age, and of the Author, heard—Spirit laughingly calling to him to come on, and he grumbling.
Enter Author, L., in his night-shirt.
Aut.
Where wilt thou drag me? Stop; I'll go no higher.
And pray where are we, if one might enquire?
Over these mountain passes I've been jolted
Till—But where are you? Bless my soul—it's bolted.
(bewildered)
I know I'm in a dream, but the deuce take me
If I can shake it off. Will (angrily)
some one wake me?

Enter Spirit, R. 1 E.
Spi.
What for?

Aut.
Ha! there again!

Spi.
What means your rage?

Aut.
What are you?

Spi.
I'm the Spirit of the Age.

Aut.
Why have you brought me here?

Spi.
To do you good.
All must succeed when I am understood.
Where were you, when I found you? Come, avouch!

Aut.
In gentle slumber, on my virtuous couch.

Spi.
(Ahem!) Having dined—well—with certain “fastish” men,
Snoring like one o'clock at half-past ten;
At least three dinner napkins in your pocket,
The burnt-out candle smoking in its socket;
Your fire lit up when there was no occasion,
Your boots, all mud, thrown in the washhand basin;
Your watch upon the hob, your door ajar,
(Signs that a man is gone—and rather far);
And, one more proof of intellectual riches,
Your nightgown on, over your new black—trousers.

Aut.
'Tis true; I feel it here (puts hands to forehead)
that whiskey toddy,
Would steal the soul out of a Solon's body.

Spi.
And the burlesque which you were pledged to write
Which must be played, you know, on Monday night—
You, who with fast young men go out to dine—
How much burlesque is written?

Aut.
Not a line;
To-morrow I'll sit down to joke and rhyme.

Spi.
(solemnly)
“Procrastination is the thief of time.”

Aut.
(contemptuously)
That's old.

Spi.
The ready sneer on folly's tongue,
Just read the “Night Thoughts,” and you'll find it's Young.
But what's your subject?

Aut.
Hang me if I know.
The “Arabian Knights” were used up long ago;
The Genii, Planche's genius makes his own,
Ere we can say (his name) “James Robinson.”
Smith's hammer has been beating, as I'm told,
Alhambra's ore into good fairy gold.
Most of the Operas are atrocious stuff,
And the Bohemian Girl's eloped with Brough.
There's nothing left but the old track to follow,
With Jupiter, and Juno, and Apollo.
They'll do again, and every one confessses
The ladies look so well in classic dresses.

Spi.
Drop your conventional inventions, do,
At least affect to give folks something new.

Aut.
But there is nothing new, and as is writ
In Greek (I think) ex nihilo nihil fit.

Spi.
The Gods of Greece at once to exile sentence!
Have you no other heathenish acquaintance?

Aut.
Yes, with the Roman idols I'm at home.

Spi.
No, England wants no Idol-farce from Rome.
If you need fables, surely history's mouth
Tells more than worn-out legends of the South.

Aut.
Does it? My few historic lights want feeding,
For we smart writers have small time for reading.
Still, if we take without it, what's the odds?

Spi.
Why don't you try the Scandinavian Gods?

Aut.
The Scandy—how much?

Spi.
(sneeringly)
Oh! how new and witty!
The jest of ignorance indeed claims pity.

Aut.
But this mythology—if one could work it—
Does seem a track out of the beaten circuit.

Spi.
In the old days, that is, as history states,
About the year—

Aut.
O, bother, sink the dates.

Spi.
Well, stupid, well—but as I must get near a
Point—long before what Christians call the Era,

Aut.
The Era—yes, I know; I take it in!
It keeps a dog that tells what horse will win.

Spi.
Blockhead—past teaching—how I waste my pains!
Pray, did you ever hear of folks called Danes?

Aut.
Danes! Let me see—Oh yes (thinks)
I've heard of two—
Hamlet, and Schleswig-Holstein—

Spi.
That will do.
These Danes, you see, in olden time, adored
Gods of their own—a wild, fierce, jolly horde,
Who drank, sang, quarrelled, bullied, laughed and flirted,
Much as Greek Gods were pleased to be diverted,
When to the invader we were forced to give in;
These gods were worshipped, in the Land we Live in.
Of Grecian gods an English public tires,
Shew it the jovial idols of its sires.

Aut.
Not a bad thought, by Jove! but then you see
One must read up;—now reading don't suit me.

Spi.
I know it—so, to move that fatal bar,
I'll set the set before you—here they are.

(Music—Spirit stamps, and the clouds open, shewing Odin in centre, with Thor, Balder, Tys, Vidur, Freya, Fylla, Narma, Snowtra, &c, on couches, with goblets, and laughing; Author retires to L. corner)
Chorus of Gods. Nigger Air—“There was once a little man, and his name was Uncle Ned.”

Odin.
Well sung, my children. Odin praise accords you.

All.
Thank you.

Odin.
Moreover, Odin drinks towards you.

All.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!

Odin.
And now for serious business. (All laugh)
Cease that clamour. (laugh)

Thor! keep them quiet.

Thor.
(L. pointing his hammer)
Do you see this hammer?
Notice! whoever doesn't hold his row
Will get a wunner. (gives a great bang)
Pa, (to Odin)
they're quiet now.

Odin.
'Tis well. Now gods, attend! Before we sup,
There is a something which we must fill up—

Tys.
The goblet—I'm agreeable. (goes to Odin's seat, takes up vase, and fills his own cup with wine)
Yes, champagne.

(is turning to go back, when Odin, who looks astonished at his impudence, signs to Thor, who gets up and hits Tys with the flat side of his hammer; cup falls, and he scampers to his place)
Thor.
Is that agreeable? if so, come again.

(Gods laugh)
Frey.
(deprecatingly)
Thor, Tys, sit down—don't let your passions rise,
You're not much hurt.

Tys.
(pouting to Thor)
Hit one of your own size.

Thor.
(going up to him)
Ha!

Tys.
(same manner)
Ha!

Thor.
Ha!

Tys.
Ha!

(like two boys afraid to hit each other—they go back to their places)
Odin.
That little matter pleasantly arranged,
I vote we have the conversation changed.
I said I'd something to fill up. This paper,
The offspring of some queer new fangled caper,
Has been sent here! (indignantly)


Spi.
(steps forward)
Well, governor, and why not?
There's nothing there to make you look so hot.

Odin.
Ha! what—what's that?

Spi.
The Spirit of the Age—
How are you all (takes up a goblet)
good tipple, I'll engage.
Song, Spirit. Air—“Mrs. Johnson.”

Odin.
I see an enemy among us.

Spi.
Fiddle.
Who told you that told a tantaradiddle.

Odin.
Do you mean you're not?

Spi.
An enemy—not I—
The day of enmities has all gone by.
We've found that it's no use to fight and quarrel;
It's jollier to be friends, and much more moral.

Thor.
A milksop doctrine—that don't suit my book.

Spi.
It would, if you'd come down and take a look!
We'll talk of that directly—where's this paper
That makes your father bluster, blow, and vapour.

Odin.
Here, take the document—it seems a rum one—
Take something else—wine to the spirit, some one.

(a Goddess hands wine)
Spi.
(takes goblet)
Wine into good spirit (drinks)
—down you go!
Bad spirit into wine's the rule below.
Odin—permit me to present a friend (pulls Author forward)

Come on, you goose—what do you apprehend!
Your usual apprehension's not so quick.

Aut.
(confidentially in terror)
Are you quite sure that cove is not Old Nick?

(points to Odin)
Odin.
You're welcome.

Spi.
There—come on, I say—all's right.

Thor.
Who and what are you, stranger? Can you fight?

Aut.
Thank you, I'd rather not.

Bal.
(sleepily)
Well, can you sing?

Aut.
I fear my voice would not be quite the thing.

Odin.
Ha! the new comer's no great shakes I think,
But still there's one accomplishment—for drink.

Aut.
Try me. (laughs)


Odin.
That don't sound ill, that laugh of scorn;
Go, three of you, and fetch the Hirlas Horn.

Exit Tys, Vidur, and Snowtra
Aut.
(aside)
Three of 'em for one drink—that's past a joke!
It should be XXX and triple stroke.

Odin.
There's something to go on with—quench your thirst.

Aut.
(aside)
'Twere something to go off with—I shall burst.

Tys, Vidur, and Snowtra re-enter with an enormous horn, on which is painted “A Present for a Good Little God”

Chorus, “Robert le Diable.”
Drink, sir, drink, and don't be frightened!
Drink, you'll find it a wholesome brew:
In the proportion cups are lightened,
Man's sad heart becomes lightened too.

(again)
(a seat has been placed for Author, L. C., and he takes horn between his legs, sometimes sipping during the following)
Spi.
This paper, Odin, is the heavenly census—
Blockheads alone in this can find offences:
Jupiter's filled up his; that pig-tailed file
Fo, the Chinese, and Isis, from the Nile,
And Juggernaut, let numerators call on 'em;
(The last has twenty hands, and wrote with all on 'em.)
Don't you stick out from information giving,
(sotto voce)
Unless ashamed, sir, of the way you're living.
I'll fill it up for you—quite plain the pages is;
I only want your names, pursuits, and ages.

All the Goddesses.
Ages!

Fre.
Did you say ages?

Spi.
'Twas my word.

Fre.
Impertinent, as well as most absurd.


Chorus. Air, “Come fill up my cup, come fill up my cup.”
Come fill up your census, fill if you can—
What, put down their/our ages, you impudent man:
Look in their/our faces, write what you see—
That's all the help that you'll get out of me.

Spi.
Head of the family, I call on you—
Answer the questions, and make answer true.

Odin.
My name is Odin, and my age (I'm thinking)
About two thousand; my pursuit is drinking.
To save mistakes (with which my history's loaden)
Mention that I've an alias, which is “Woden,”
From whence comes Woden's-day, which mortals call
Wednesday, like asses, as they are. That's all.

Spi.
(to Author)
Here, write that down, you undramatic youth—
For once in all your life you'll write the truth.

Aut.
(who is getting drunk)
Don't bother me.
The Saxon word of courtesy, “Drink hael.”

(raises cup)
Odin.
Stranger, you should not fail

Aut.
How that old man exasperates his aitches—
I am a-drinking hale.

Spi.
(aside to author)
No, no, he teaches
Manners. Reply “Waes hael,” he waits for you.

Aut.
(rises, half drunk)
“Waes hael,” old man, and many of 'em too.

Spi.
Now, Thor—

Fre.
(interposing)
Before the question's further carried—
Odin has quite forgotten that he's married.

Odin.
No fear of that, my dear, while you survive—
Write that I married her in anno 5.

Fre.
Odin! (angrily)


Odin.
My Freya.

Fre.
(in high disdain)
Your's indeed

Odin.
I bow—
Whoever's Freya you may be—what now?

Fre.
Insulting creature! talking in that way,
Making your Freya a friar of ringlets grey.

Spi.
Thor, who and what are you?

Thor.
My name is Thor,
This is my hammer—my pursuit is war.
As for my age you'd better ask my mother,
Thor's day's my day, that's Thursday, so don't bother.

Aut.
(to the audience)
I see a joke, one which will be approved,
Jack Frost must be thaw's cousin—once removed.

Spi.
Odin's next hope must our attention claim,
I bawl to Balder, answer to your name.

Aut.
Another joke—what lots of hair, I trow,
He must have had, if he is Balder now.

Bal.
I hate the revels my relations keep,
(sleepily)
My occupation is to go to sleep.
My age I never asked, the entry's blundered,
But of new nightcaps, I've worn out nine hundred.
This will enable you to guess—I've done. (sleeps)


Aut.
The seven sleepers all rolled into one.

Spi.
Vidur, the God of silence, speak up.

Vid.
(very gruffly)
Shan't.

Spi.
Tell us how old you are, old fellow?

Vid.
Can't.

Spi.
Who is your nearest blood relation?

Vid.
(points to Freya)
Aunt.

Spi.
You might as well request (except in lark)
A civil answer from a railway clerk.
Now for the ladies.

(the Goddesses all scream slightly)
Fre.
On their part and mine,
I beg to say the ladies all decline.

Spi.
What, all? You, Freya, wife of Odin bold?
Fylla, her handmaid, with the wreath of gold.
My gentle Narma, next to you I come,
(Spouse of this sleeping beauty) (points to Balder)
you too dumb?
And Snowtra, goddess of good manners, she
Have the bad manners to be dumb to me!
(they all wave him off)
Then I fill up the census with a rhyme—
“They are not of an age, but from all time.”
But are these all—are any out of sight,
Of those who slept in Odin's house last night?

Thor.
The old night watchman's only out of view,
Here (calls loudly)
! Heimdall! watchman, blockhead, where are you?

Enter Heimdall, with ear trumpet, L.
Heim.
Here! master Thor, I'm here—you needn't bawl,
A whisper brings me, I aint deaf at all.
And with this here auricular assistance,
I can hear sounds at any given distance.

Spi.
I'll put him down.

Thor.
And now, with pa's permission,
We'll have a dance.

Odin.
(indulgently)
We grant our boy's petition.

(the Gods and Goddesses stand up; the Orchestra begins a minuet; and they make the first stately motion; Spirit rushes at the middle and signs to Orchestra to stop)
Spi.
No, no, on such stale stuff I place my veto,
Except when danced by Ellsler and Cerito.
Cast it aside (that is if you'll permit, sir) (to Odin)

In favour of the very last Gorlitza.

The Gorlitza is danced.
Heim.
(who has been listening through his trumpet)
By George—by Jove, by jingo, and by gum,
Strike me outrageous! Well, if that aint rum!

Snow.
(starting up)
Manners, good Heimdall, manners; don't you know,
Such language is exceptionably low?

Heim.
I beg your pardon, ma'am, but take this horn,
You never heard such rows since you were born.

(All evince curiosity except Balder)
Thor.
A row, that's my delight (rushes to Heimdall)
, give me the trumpet,
(listens a few moments)
Bah! where's your head? I've a good mind to thump it.
Call that a row indeed?

Odin.
Where, and what is it?

(listens)
Thor.
It's all the world, I think, paying a visit.
Thousands on thousands crowding ships on ships—
And “England” is the word on all their lips;
But there's no clash of arms, no beat of drum—
Signs that its not as enemies they come—
And England don't seem manning her defences;
What is the mad world come to?

Spi.
To its senses.
We've thrown away the scabbard many a day,
But now the sword's thrown after it—away.

Odin.
I think these new arrangements most absurd!
Of course they're all among the vulgar herd.

Spi.
We know no vulgar herd—that folly's dead—
We honour all who work for honest bread.
But those you hear are gathering to a scene
Planned by a prince—directed by a queen—
Where princes, queens, and presidents will lead
Their peaceful armies to a fight indeed;
To the great fight where hatred and distrust
Shall be struck down and trampled in the dust.

Odin.
New-fangled notions! they won't answer long.
Rely on this, whatever's new is wrong.

Thor.
Peace is all stuff, and man was made to fight,
As bulls were made to toss and dogs to bite.

Bal.
(sleepily)
No, I'm for peace, I am. True happiness
Is doing nothing (yawns)
and thinking less.

Spi.
Three old opinions which I hope to shake,
If you'll but condescend a trip to take.
Odin, my jolly bigot, you'll behold
Many new things much better than the old.
Thor, the bold type of violence, shall see
That reason teaches peace and unity:
And indolence, in Balder, own, with shame,
That energy's the trump in all life's game.
I'll do it—(not to keep you in the dark)—
At the Great Exhibition in Hyde Park;
Where I invite the three. To pass the wickets—
I beg to offer you three season tickets.

Odin.
You're very good, but no, I must refuse,
I cannot countenance these novel views.

Spi.
(gives one to Freya)
The sight will be a splendid one on May-day,
And Odin's ticket will admit a lady.

Fre.
That's settled—Odin goes. My will, as you know,
Is law.

Odin.
Henpeckery! Worse than cousin Juno.
Well, if I must, I must. In what disguise
Shall I conceal the god, from mortal eyes?

Spi.
Don't waste a miracle or work a spell—
Tick at a tailor's answers just as well.
Or, if you think the expedient not below you—
Dress seedily, and then your friends won't know you.

Thor.
I shall go down in hopes there'll be a riot.

Spi.
There won't. And if there were, you'd best be quiet,
For the Blue Crushers are a vigorous race,
And you might, perhaps, get pepper for that mace.

Bal.
Can anybody sleep there?

Spi.
If you please.
Roost with the sparrows in the imprisoned trees.
No doubt some visitors will close their peepers—
There is a railway, so there must be sleepers.

Goddesses.
Ain't we to go?

(Spirit shakes his head)
All.
O! isn't that a shame

Nar.
Spirit, you're quite unworthy of your name;
The Spirit of the Age, I've heard, delights
In recognising all a lady's rights.

Spi.
True, she has rights, but she has also duties—
Who wouldn't fill the census up, my beauties?
But come, my malice is exceedingly small,
Ladies, I've season tickets for you all.

(Repeat of the Opening Chorus; as it ends clouds come down in front, forming