University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—The Seashore.
Enter Homer [L.], writing in a note-book.
Homer.
“The best authority enables me
To state that it's a quarter after three,
And that 'tis somewhat cooler, though still dry:
On this fact your subscribers may rely.
These truths to glean I've shunn'd both food and slumber.”
I think that makes a very good first number.
Footsteps, by Jove! [Writes.]
“Postscript.—I am most happy
To state that certain steps are on the tapis:
The coming man is—”
[Looks off, R.
Here, as I'm alive—
“Expected ev'ry moment to arrive.”
Who can it be? “His name I much regret
Not being privileged to mention yet.”
Where shall I hide? That rock, conceal'd, I'll sit upon—
A famous rock the stranger's acts to split upon.

[Hides behind a rock-piece, L.
Enter Cupid [R.], wheeling a knife-grinding machine, with a tinker's apron, and a patch over his eye.
Cupid.
Any bright eyes to mind, crack'd hearts to mend,
Love-locks to pick, obdurate wills to bend?
Want any matches? Now's your time, my dears!
Any old loves for new ones? There appears
Not e'en a mermaid's head the waves above,
To come and listen to the voice of love.
But yet I'll exercise it; for the fact is,
I've a new part to play, and ought to practise.
SONG.

Homer
[coming forward].
Whose wife, you rascal?

Cupid
[recognising Homer].
Ha! Mæonides!

Homer.
Now, what do you want here?

Cupid.
Mum, if you please,
As to my being even near the camp.

Homer.
Oh! honour amongst—

Cupid
[taking his arm].
Men like us.

Homer.
You scamp!
But say, what rogueries this way impel you?

Cupid.
Close that suspicious note-book, and I'll tell you.

Homer.
Will that do? Now, your news.

Cupid.
Oh! the old story.
Venus likes Mars, but grudges him his glory.
There's too much fighting, and too little kissing;
For many of her fav'rite Trojans missing,
To crush the war she has applied to this chief.

Homer.
What! all alone?

Cupid.
I've an ally named Mischief.

Homer.
I'll back the pair of you.

Cupid
[going L.].
Mind, no attention
You call to me.

Homer.
Surely you'd like some mention
In my new work—impatiently awaited
It's coming out in numbers—illustrated.

Cupid.
I want no puffing. Bless your heart, my boy,
Love, the real author of the Siege of Troy,
Will last you all out—you, Pope, Shakspeare, Maro.

Homer.
Just hold your noise, and move on with your barrow.

[Cupid moves his barrow to L. Music. Thetis is seen rising from the sea.
DUET.—Cupid and Homer.
Cupid.
See from ocean rising,
Like mists of early day,
From yon wave bright Thetis beams,
Fairest of the Nereids, queen of the spray.

Homer.
More of this great event in a future number,
Yet awhile—yet awhile;
I can only say
She's well worth admiring,
Queen-like and gay.

Cupid.
My presence Troy requiring,
I must away.

[Exit Cupid, L. Homer retires to his hiding-place, taking notes.
Achilles
[R., outside].
Mamma!

Thetis.
That voice!
Enter Achilles [R.]; Thetis runs to embrace him.
My own sea dog—my pet!

Achilles.
Yes; that'll do, mamma. You're rather wet.

Thetis.
Reproach'd by him with my moist origin!
Shiver my timbers!

Achilles.
There, now, don't begin.
I wish you'd raise your style of conversation
More to the level of my earthly station.
Sea phrases may at home be all quite well;
But recollect I'm not an ocean swell.
It's hard a grown man, by the seaside stopping,
Cannot escape from the maternal Wapping,
But must a mother recognise whom no man
Can doubt for what she is—a bathing woman.

Thetis
[weeping].
And 'twas for this that him alive I drew
Out of the Styx—he was as cross as two.
For this return I've watch'd his ev'ry whim—
From that height brought him up, and made of him
So much as you perceive. Ungrateful son
Of a sea-cook—
[Impatient gesture of Achilles.
Forgive me, sweet; I've done.
[Aside].
From e'en a word's reproach I ought to spare him,
Since 'tis hard fate's decree I'm not to “rear” him.
What would my darling? Has his purse grown lank?
Draw for what sum you like on ocean's bank
Of trinkets, jewels: should you ask a heap,
Thine are the shipwreck'd treasures of the deep.
Anything in that line to give I'm able,
From a pearl string to an Atlantic cable.

Achilles.
Jewels or gold, mamma, I come to claim none.

Thetis.
What then?

Achilles.
I want to serve out Agamemnon.

Thetis.
His crime? (My own sea-lawyer I'll employ—
A shark of practice keen.) To vex my boy
What has he dared?

Achilles
[blubbering].
He—he—

Thetis.
Take, I entreat, heart.

Achilles
[bursting into tears].
He call'd me out of names, and stole my sweetheart.

Thetis.
He surely could not dare to—?

Achilles.
But he could.

Thetis.
Then I'll tell Jupiter.

Achilles.
I wish you would.
And ask him for at least some months or weeks
To help the Trojans and annoy the Greeks.

Thetis.
My hero-child, I swear it shall be done.

Achilles
[going R.].
Oh! then that's all I want. Good-by.

Thetis.
My son,
Is't thus you leave me?

Achilles
[stops, reflecting].
Well, since you inquire,
No, ma, there's nothing else that I desire.
Of what I next want duly I'll inform—

Thetis.
My child, Achilles! are you wrapp'd up warm?
[Exit Achilles, L.
He's cross'd in love—to harass him were wrong.
Spite of his looks, poor dear! he isn't strong.
Yet Destiny's decree I still might foil,
Could I but make him take cod-liver oil.

Homer
[coming forward].
If I intrude, your pardon don't refuse it.

Thetis
[graciously].
Sir, if you do, your manners quite excuse it.

Homer.
A journey to Olympus you intend?

Thetis.
I do.

Homer.
Pray could you introduce a friend?

Thetis.
Sir, in Olympus mortal feet ne'er step did.

Homer.
I trust the public press may be excepted?

[Gives her a card.
Thetis.
Oh, sir! in that case ev'ry rule breaks through.
I shall feel quite enchanted. So shall you.

[She waves her wand; the scene changes suddenly to