 | King Alfred and the Cakes |  |
Scene—Neatherd's cottage and public bakehouse of the olden time. Various
placards in the Anglo-Saxon character, such as “Hot Rolls at Eight,” “Best
Bread down again to 5d.,” disposed about the scene.
Alfred (attired, according to the costume of the period, in a cotton nightcap
and apron) is discovered depositing tea-cakes, Sally Lunns, &c. in the oven.
The entire batch being disposed of, he comes forward, and strikes an attitude.
Alf.
This, for a sovereign, is no small change.
“But now a king, now thus!” 'tis passing strange.
A monarch who his land's elite forsakes,
To pass his life amongst a set of cakes;
And close it, far from regal pomp and state,
Though buried 'mongst the ashes of the grate.
Well! Faith, when things are all so dull and rusty,
A baker's situation's none so dusty.
At all events, I'm safe from Dane and danger;
No one suspects the unpretending stranger—
Who, o'er Smith's oven, holds the foreman's post,
Guarding the baked meat—once had ruled the roast!
It's seldom I repine at Fortune's dealings,
Though mem'ry will bring back no end of feelings;
When on the brown crisp rolls my eyes I fix,
I think upon those brave, though crusty, bricks,
Who—e'en as now I stir the dough so barmy—
With me, stirr'd up the flow'r of Guthrum's army;
And the fermenting bread—in size increased—
Oft calls to mind a rising in the (y) east;
Which once I quell'd—when that bold rebel, Jackson,
Was hung on high—although a hang-low Saxon.
SONG (Alfred).
Would be improved by just the slightest sup—
Of moisture. Shop! just mind yourself now, please,
While I step over to the Cheshire Cheese
To get a drain. I've not much time to sport,
So what I do take must be something short.
[Tucks up his apron, takes off his nightcap, and exit.
[Enter Guthrum, disguised as a peasant. He raps with his knuckles on the counter.
Guth.
Shop! Want—ed! Who's at home? Does no one hear?
Who waits? Myself, it seems; egad, its queer:
Far from polite of them, it must be said—
A fancy baker's! and no better bred!
[Sits down.
The news that we've been wopp'd and overthrown,
In this vicinity—is not yet known.
So I may chance to 'scape, and ne'er be scented;
Th' Electric Telegraph not being invented.
[Knocks again.
They are—which makes my strong impatience stronger—
A good time coming— (Sits down again.)
Wait a little longer!
[He becomes furiously impatient.
Shop! It's too bad! A set of careless loons—
'T would serve them right were I to bone the spoons!
I'd do it, too—but that I rather fear
There's little silver to be met with here;
And since my troops the natives chose to settle,
I've had sufficient of Britannia mettle.
Still, out of something this concern I'll chisel:
I'll take—let's see—a quartern loaf! then mizzle.
[He takes a quartern loaf, and tucks it up under his smock-frock.
SONG (Guthrum).
[Enter Alfred, briskly, wiping his lips, and re-arranging his apron for business.
Alf.
I'll make that Cheshire Cheese my favourite haunt—
[Seeing Guthrum.
A customer! (Politely.)
What did you please to want?
Mr. and Mrs. Smith are out to tea.—
Guth.
(Starting.)
That voice!
Alf.
(Starting.)
No!
Guth.
Yes!
Alf.
'Tis!
Guth.
'Tis n't!
Alf.
Can it be?
Villain!
Guth.
(Aside.)
He's found me out, and nothing but it.
Confound his stupid head—I'd better cut it.
[He draws a sword, which has been concealed beneath his smock-frock, suddenly; and aims a treacherous blow at the head of Alfred, which that great monarch is sufficiently wide awake to avoid.
Alf.
Come, that's against the rules. You might have cried,
“Strike!” or, “Come on!” or, “This, then, to decide!”
Just wait a second.
(Fetches a sword.)
Now I'm ready—sixes?
Guth.
Oh! any style you please.
Alf.
Then, make it Hicks's.
[Combat à la Hicks.
Guth.
It's rather warm—a minute please, not more;
A comforter sometimes becomes a bore.
[He takes off his comforter. The fight is resumed.
Alf.
Yield!
Guth.
Not while any drops of blood remain.
I'm more an antique Roman than a Dane.
[He receives a powerful blow.
I say, hit one of your own size. (Another.)
Come, drop it!
[He is struck down.
There's been enough of this—suppose we stop it?
Alf.
(Stabbing him.)
That brings it to a close, my spark, high mettled.
Guth.
(Faintly.)
Yes; a receipt in full—I may say settled.
[Alfred kneels upon the prostrate body of Guthrum, and
disposes of him in the following manner.
Alf.
Down, down, to what-d'ye-call the place, and say
I sent you there to make a longish stay.
What's to be done with him? It's very clear
This defunct Ferguson can 't lodge here.
Were I the master here, I might be led—
To grind his bones to make the people bread;
But as I play the workman's humble part,
I've not the int'rest of the firm at heart.
He 's got no parish! No, a Dane 's a foreigner.
The coal-hole! Yes; I'll keep him for the coroner.
He won't keep many days!—a nose would then mark
Something.—Ahem!—Gone, in the state of Denmark.
[Drags Guthrum to the coal-hole door, and shuts him in.
Good gracious—though—the cakes! I quite forgot.
[Runs precipitately to oven door, and opens it. He starts back with horror.
Oh! here 's a horrid, burning shame! all hot!
Soot black! What fire could thus to ashes turn 'em?
Unless 't was kindled with the wood of Birnam.
No wonder that my mind tow'rds Scotland turns,
Methinks I'm in the Land of Cakes and Burns.
I've been and done it. Yes; there'll be a row
When Mrs. Smith comes in; she won't allow
For my neglected baking—an excuse
That I was busy, cooking Guthrum's goose.
Enter Mrs. Smith.
Already!
Mrs. S.
Have you drawn the batch yet?
Alf.
(Uneasily.)
No!
It is n't drawn. (Aside.)
She 'll find it's coloured, though.
Mrs. S.
(Running to oven door.)
What do I see? What sight my soul amazes?
The cakes all burning like—in fact, like blazes!
Wretch! you shall pay for this.
Alf.
(Humbly.)
Send in the bill!
Mrs. S.
You will repent it.
Alf.
Possibly I will;
Nor need materials for repentance lack,
I've made the ashes and expect the sack.
Mrs. S.
Come, your Assurance, sir, I don't require,
Unless it will make good our loss by fire.
Where have you been, and what have you been takin'?
Would I had been in time to save my bakin'!
Alf.
Now, pray with those black gloomy looks have done.
Mrs. S.
Black looks, indeed! Behold this Sally Lunn!
Alf.
I may explain this accident unpleasant,
Although things do look rather black at present—
Enter Smith, excited.
Smi.
News! news! The Danes, with suddenness surprising,
Have been defeated, and the stocks are rising.
On Guthrum's head a heavy price is set—
Alf.
Huzza! my friends. We may be happy yet.
Haste! claim the sum the posters advertise,
For Guthrum's head in yonder coal-hole lies.
[The coal-hole is suddenly opened from within, and Guthrum walks out, alive, and appearing in excellent health and spirits.
Guthrum!—alive!
Guth.
Yes, for a short time more;
I was but stunn'd against the bakehouse floor;
And, by a very wondrous piece of fort'n'—
Instead of me, you only stabb'd this quart'n.
[Producing the quartern loaf which he had concealed under his smock-frock; by means of which, to the intense astonishment of the audience, his life has been saved.
Alf.
The staff of life, then, warded off my blows?
Ah, well! You must be pardon'd, I suppose.
Smi.
(Astonished.)
Why, who are you?
Alf.
Who? (Aside.)
With surprise I'll scare 'em.
I'm simply Alfred—Rex Britanniarum!
[Strikes an attitude.
Mr. & Mrs. Smi.
(Kneeling.)
The king!
Alf.
Yes, you the royal hand may kiss.
Smi.
(Aside.)
A good week's wages I shall save by this.
Alf.
Rise, rise, my friends! and, for past kindness' sake,
You, Smith, the Master of the Rolls I'll make;
And, in remembrance of this baking fun,
Henceforth I'll take the name of Alfred Bun.
Curtain falls.
4
Alf.
This, for a sovereign, is no small change.
“But now a king, now thus!” 'tis passing strange.
A monarch who his land's elite forsakes,
To pass his life amongst a set of cakes;
And close it, far from regal pomp and state,
Though buried 'mongst the ashes of the grate.
Well! Faith, when things are all so dull and rusty,
A baker's situation's none so dusty.
At all events, I'm safe from Dane and danger;
No one suspects the unpretending stranger—
Who, o'er Smith's oven, holds the foreman's post,
Guarding the baked meat—once had ruled the roast!
5
Though mem'ry will bring back no end of feelings;
When on the brown crisp rolls my eyes I fix,
I think upon those brave, though crusty, bricks,
Who—e'en as now I stir the dough so barmy—
With me, stirr'd up the flow'r of Guthrum's army;
And the fermenting bread—in size increased—
Oft calls to mind a rising in the (y) east;
Which once I quell'd—when that bold rebel, Jackson,
Was hung on high—although a hang-low Saxon.
SONG (Alfred).
(Air—Mary Blane.)
My upper G--- (which means, of course, G--- up!)
Oh! once I was a happy king,
And led as gay a life
As Cole himself, in all his pride
Of fiddle, pipe, and fife.
At home we lived so happily,
Quite free from grief and pain,
Till, one fine day, we found ourselves
Invaded by the Dane.
And led as gay a life
6
Of fiddle, pipe, and fife.
At home we lived so happily,
Quite free from grief and pain,
Till, one fine day, we found ourselves
Invaded by the Dane.
But mind your eye, my wary Dane,
A rod in pickle soaks for you;
With lots of fleas your ears to pain,
We'll send you home again.
A rod in pickle soaks for you;
With lots of fleas your ears to pain,
We'll send you home again.
As going through the woods one day,
I hook'd it in disguise
(For he who fights and runs away,
You know, is reckon'd wise),
I of this situation heard,
So came, the place to seek—
Agreed to terms—and here I am,
At thirteen bob a-week.
I hook'd it in disguise
(For he who fights and runs away,
You know, is reckon'd wise),
I of this situation heard,
So came, the place to seek—
Agreed to terms—and here I am,
At thirteen bob a-week.
But mind your eye, &c.
Would be improved by just the slightest sup—
Of moisture. Shop! just mind yourself now, please,
While I step over to the Cheshire Cheese
7
So what I do take must be something short.
[Tucks up his apron, takes off his nightcap, and exit.
[Enter Guthrum, disguised as a peasant. He raps with his knuckles on the counter.
Guth.
Shop! Want—ed! Who's at home? Does no one hear?
Who waits? Myself, it seems; egad, its queer:
Far from polite of them, it must be said—
A fancy baker's! and no better bred!
[Sits down.
The news that we've been wopp'd and overthrown,
In this vicinity—is not yet known.
So I may chance to 'scape, and ne'er be scented;
Th' Electric Telegraph not being invented.
[Knocks again.
They are—which makes my strong impatience stronger—
A good time coming— (Sits down again.)
Wait a little longer!
[He becomes furiously impatient.
8
'T would serve them right were I to bone the spoons!
I'd do it, too—but that I rather fear
There's little silver to be met with here;
And since my troops the natives chose to settle,
I've had sufficient of Britannia mettle.
Still, out of something this concern I'll chisel:
I'll take—let's see—a quartern loaf! then mizzle.
[He takes a quartern loaf, and tucks it up under his smock-frock.
SONG (Guthrum).
(Air—One Bumper at parting.)
One buster at parting (though many
The act down as thieving would set),
I'll take—and not suffer from any
Such feelings as shame or regret.
The alum and ground bones within it,
Are cramm'd so remarkably tight,
That really, instead of a sin, it
Is serving the baker quite right.
Then, Oh! may such villainous ruffi'ns
Be all, at the Bailey, had up;
And, on their own poisonous muffins,
Be forced to dine, breakfast, and sup.
One buster at parting (though many
The act down as thieving would set),
9
Such feelings as shame or regret.
The alum and ground bones within it,
Are cramm'd so remarkably tight,
That really, instead of a sin, it
Is serving the baker quite right.
Then, Oh! may such villainous ruffi'ns
Be all, at the Bailey, had up;
And, on their own poisonous muffins,
Be forced to dine, breakfast, and sup.
[Enter Alfred, briskly, wiping his lips, and re-arranging his apron for business.
Alf.
I'll make that Cheshire Cheese my favourite haunt—
[Seeing Guthrum.
A customer! (Politely.)
What did you please to want?
Mr. and Mrs. Smith are out to tea.—
Guth.
(Starting.)
That voice!
Alf.
(Starting.)
No!
Guth.
Yes!
Alf.
'Tis!
Guth.
'Tis n't!
Alf.
Can it be?
Villain!
10
(Aside.)
He's found me out, and nothing but it.
Confound his stupid head—I'd better cut it.
[He draws a sword, which has been concealed beneath his smock-frock, suddenly; and aims a treacherous blow at the head of Alfred, which that great monarch is sufficiently wide awake to avoid.
Alf.
Come, that's against the rules. You might have cried,
“Strike!” or, “Come on!” or, “This, then, to decide!”
11
Now I'm ready—sixes?
Guth.
Oh! any style you please.
Alf.
Then, make it Hicks's.
[Combat à la Hicks.
Guth.
It's rather warm—a minute please, not more;
A comforter sometimes becomes a bore.
[He takes off his comforter. The fight is resumed.
Alf.
Yield!
Guth.
Not while any drops of blood remain.
I'm more an antique Roman than a Dane.
[He receives a powerful blow.
I say, hit one of your own size. (Another.)
Come, drop it!
[He is struck down.
There's been enough of this—suppose we stop it?
Alf.
(Stabbing him.)
That brings it to a close, my spark, high mettled.
Guth.
(Faintly.)
Yes; a receipt in full—I may say settled.
12
Alf.
Down, down, to what-d'ye-call the place, and say
I sent you there to make a longish stay.
What's to be done with him? It's very clear
This defunct Ferguson can 't lodge here.
Were I the master here, I might be led—
To grind his bones to make the people bread;
But as I play the workman's humble part,
I've not the int'rest of the firm at heart.
He 's got no parish! No, a Dane 's a foreigner.
The coal-hole! Yes; I'll keep him for the coroner.
He won't keep many days!—a nose would then mark
Something.—Ahem!—Gone, in the state of Denmark.
[Drags Guthrum to the coal-hole door, and shuts him in.
13
[Runs precipitately to oven door, and opens it. He starts back with horror.
Oh! here 's a horrid, burning shame! all hot!
Soot black! What fire could thus to ashes turn 'em?
Unless 't was kindled with the wood of Birnam.
No wonder that my mind tow'rds Scotland turns,
Methinks I'm in the Land of Cakes and Burns.
I've been and done it. Yes; there'll be a row
When Mrs. Smith comes in; she won't allow
For my neglected baking—an excuse
That I was busy, cooking Guthrum's goose.
14
Already!
Mrs. S.
Have you drawn the batch yet?
Alf.
(Uneasily.)
No!
It is n't drawn. (Aside.)
She 'll find it's coloured, though.
Mrs. S.
(Running to oven door.)
What do I see? What sight my soul amazes?
The cakes all burning like—in fact, like blazes!
Wretch! you shall pay for this.
Alf.
(Humbly.)
Send in the bill!
Mrs. S.
You will repent it.
Alf.
Possibly I will;
Nor need materials for repentance lack,
I've made the ashes and expect the sack.
15
Come, your Assurance, sir, I don't require,
Unless it will make good our loss by fire.
Where have you been, and what have you been takin'?
Would I had been in time to save my bakin'!
Alf.
Now, pray with those black gloomy looks have done.
Mrs. S.
Black looks, indeed! Behold this Sally Lunn!
Alf.
I may explain this accident unpleasant,
Although things do look rather black at present—
Enter Smith, excited.
Smi.
News! news! The Danes, with suddenness surprising,
Have been defeated, and the stocks are rising.
On Guthrum's head a heavy price is set—
Alf.
Huzza! my friends. We may be happy yet.
16
For Guthrum's head in yonder coal-hole lies.
[The coal-hole is suddenly opened from within, and Guthrum walks out, alive, and appearing in excellent health and spirits.
Guthrum!—alive!
Guth.
Yes, for a short time more;
I was but stunn'd against the bakehouse floor;
And, by a very wondrous piece of fort'n'—
Instead of me, you only stabb'd this quart'n.
[Producing the quartern loaf which he had concealed under his smock-frock; by means of which, to the intense astonishment of the audience, his life has been saved.
Alf.
The staff of life, then, warded off my blows?
Ah, well! You must be pardon'd, I suppose.
17
(Astonished.)
Why, who are you?
Alf.
Who? (Aside.)
With surprise I'll scare 'em.
I'm simply Alfred—Rex Britanniarum!
[Strikes an attitude.
Mr. & Mrs. Smi.
(Kneeling.)
The king!
Alf.
Yes, you the royal hand may kiss.
Smi.
(Aside.)
A good week's wages I shall save by this.
Alf.
Rise, rise, my friends! and, for past kindness' sake,
You, Smith, the Master of the Rolls I'll make;
And, in remembrance of this baking fun,
Henceforth I'll take the name of Alfred Bun.
Curtain falls.
| King Alfred and the Cakes | |