The (almost really) Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

Shall soldiers tread the murderous path of war,
Without a notion what they do it for?
Shall pallid mercers drive a roaring trade,
And sell the stuffs their hands have never made?
And shall not we, in this our mimic scene,
Be all that better actors e’er have been?
Awake again a Kemble’s tragic tone,
And make a Liston’s humour all our own?
Or vie with Mrs. Siddons in the art
To rouse the feelings and to charm the heart?
While Shakespeare’s self, with all his ancient fires,
Lights up the forms that tremble on our wires?
Why can’t we have, in theatres ideal,
The good, without the evil, of the real?
Why may not Marionettes be just as good
As larger actors made of flesh and blood?
Presumptuous thought! to you and your applause
In humbler confidence we trust our cause.

Mooney: Who’s you?
Spooney: Why, me.
Mooney: Nonsense, it can’t be, what’s your name?
Spooney: Oh, that’s quite another question: I shan’t tell.
Mooney: Yet there is something familiar in those tones; something which recalls to my memory visions of earlier and happier days. Speak, speak! have you the mark of a grid-iron on the back of your left wrist?
Spooney: No! certainly not; nothing of the sort!
Mooney: Then you are my long-lost friend, my Spooney.
Spooney: My Mooney! (They embrace.)
Spooney: Ah! the joy of this meeting; this does indeed repay me for hours of ’owling, days of despair and nights of gnawing sorrow, for weeks of wailing and—I may add—for fortnights of frowning, and months of making faces; Mooney, I am happy! My friend!
Mooney: My Spooney, there are moments—
Spooney: Yes, yes, Mooney! it’s quite true! there are bolsters.
Mooney: Nonsense, Spooney, how can you talk so? I said “moments”—let me proceed: there are moments, my dear friend, when I find it impossible to express my ’orrid feelings!
Spooney: Yes, I feel it so, too! It’s the same with me! There are moments when I find it impossible to press on my orange peelings!
Mooney: Oh Spooney, Spooney, in the gravest and saddest moments, how can you thus intrude your absurd remarks? Be sensible, Spooney!
Spooney: Mooney, I will! Believe me, believe me, I will! Why do I meet you here? Have you left the king, that best and dearest of monarchs?
Mooney: I have, my friend, yet not willingly. He dismissed me.
Spooney: And wherefore?
Mooney: A mere pleasantry, an innocent joke, which a friend would have pardoned, and even he would have done so, if—Spooney, did you observe lately in our dear sovereign a marked, a decided alteration?
Spooney: I did, Mooney. I know what you allude to, his hair. Yes, Mooney, his hair became as white as—as—as white.
Mooney: True, but I did not mean his hair: mark me.
Spooney: I will.
Mooney: The king lost his luggage, as you are aware, Spooney.
Spooney: He did.
Mooney: And with his luggage, Spooney, he lost—his temper!
Spooney: Woe’s me! woe’s me! are you sure of it?
Mooney: Sartin; it happened thus: The king was sitting, surrounded by his courtiers, as usual, and was remarking in his own light way, “My clothes, my good friends, are not yet returned; they are all gone to the Wash.” I, standing at a little distance, remarked in an undertone: “And much they needed it.” You know my habit, Spooney, of making amusing remarks?
Spooney: No, indeed, Mooney; you never made one yet in my recollection.
Mooney: Well, sir, the king turned upon me and, in a voice a pig tied by the hind leg might have envied, said: “Traitor, begone! I renounce ye!”
Spooney: No! did he really? And did you go?
Mooney: Didn’t I just!
Spooney: Well I never! How very unfortunate! Do you know I was passing by the door at the moment and overheard your remark, and I thought it so good that I resolved to repeat it!
Mooney: You weren’t such an idiot as that, were you?
Spooney: I was, my dear Mooney, I assure you! I went in immediately after and said: “Your Majesty has lost your luggage, have you not?” “Yes,” said the king, in accents of the deepest sadness, “I lost it all when—when I went to the Wash.” “Did your Majesty go to the Wash?” I enquired. He answered, “I did.” Whereupon I remarked with a smile, “And much you needed it!”
Mooney: I never heard anything half as foolish! And what did the king say?
Spooney: Why, sir, he turned upon me and said in a voice that—that a pig’s hind leg might have envied, “Traitor, begone! I pronounce ye!”
Mooney: Stuff! I don’t believe a word of it!
Spooney: But I assure you he did, and I—went away immediately!
Mooney: And since that day you have been, I suppose, adrift?
Spooney: Yes, my dear Mooney; but you, what have you been doing these many years?
Mooney: Oh, I’ve been (singing)
Wandering through the wide world, seeking of my fortune;
But as I couldn’t find it, I was forced to do without it.
And if you’ll believe me, there was no one would receive me;
But as I never told you a lie, you’ve got no cause to doubt it.
Spooney: How particularly nicely you do sing, my dear Mooney! What kind of voice do you call yours?
Mooney: Oh, don’t you know, Spooney? Why it’s an alto-soprano-mezzo-tinto-basso-relievo—
Spooney: No, but is it all that really?
Mooney: As sure as you’re standing there—
Spooney: Well, that’s very curious, I shouldn’t have thought it.
Mooney: Well; but now, Mooney, we must devise some plan to make our living, and put an end to this “Wandering, etc.” (As before)
Spooney: Let me think awhile. (Pause.)
Mooney: See, the morning breaks! (Black scenes removed, lamp put behind; singing of birds.)
Spooney: Mooney! I’ve an idea!
Mooney: Have you really? In all the years, my Spooney, that we have been acquainted such an incident has never occurred before.
Spooney: The railway station near here has vacancies for station-master and for clerk. Let us apply for them. You’d better be station-master, as you’re not so stupid as I am; you are more foolish than I, you know, my Mooney, but you’re certainly not so stupid.
Mooney: True, true, my dear friend. A very good idea, I’ll go and apply at once. (Exit.)
Spooney (soliloquises): Poor Mooney! He’s not much of a genius, but he means well! He is an honest fellow, and I’ll do what I can for him! Yes, yes, he’ll do best for station-master! He’s more foolish than I am, but he’s certainly not so stupid! Ha! here he comes! What success, my Mooney?
Mooney: All right! we’ve got it. (Singing.)
Oh my eye, what jolly fun, only think what we’ve been and done.
They’ve made us railway horficers, and we’ve got a railway station!
Day and night, and night and day, we’ll do the work and call it play.
When one’s awake the other sleeps, in regular rotation!
Spooney: Ebenezer Mooney-o, and Julius Caesar Spooney-o, they’ve made us railway horficers, and we’ve got a railway station.
Mooney: “Oh my eye, etc.” (As before.)

Orlando: My Sophonisba!
Sophonisba: My Orlando! (Repeat.)
Orlando: Time, my love, is flowing,
And I fear I must be going—
Sophonisba: Oh, no! You don’t say so! (Repeat three times, and vary.)
Orlando: Yet surely we can’t have been here so long?
Sophonisba: Oh, no, we can’t! Your watch must be wrong!
Orlando: Our conversation has been so unimportant.
But my watch is right; it is going as it ought.
Sophonisba: Then it’s not like you, for you’re going as you oughtn’t.
To go all the way to Birmingham for half-a-dozen of port!
Orlando: My beauty, it is my duty!
Sophonisba: But aren’t you sorry to go?
Orlando: Oh, dear no!

Air: “There is no luck.”

Sophonisba: What? Ain’t you grieved to go, my dear!
My husband! Oh, for shame!
How can you go and leave me here?
You’re very much to blame!

For I can’t get on without you, love,
I can’t get on at all!
That is, of course, you know, my love,
When you are out of call.

For puzzles come, and I’ve no skill,
I’m really such a dunce!
The butcher brings his little bill,
And must be paid at once!
For I can’t get on, etc.

And visitors, too, come from town,
Whom I’ve got to receive.
With a patch of flour upon my gown
And some treacle on my sleeve.
For I can’t get on, etc.

’Twas but the other day a man,
When told to leave the door,
Went off—indeed, he almost ran.
I never saw him more.

I thought him a good riddance then,
But ’ere an hour was gone
I missed the forks—there should be ten—
And all the spoons but one!
For I can’t get on, etc.

Orlando: Was I the only spoon you then possessed?
Sophonisba: No, dear! I missed you more than all the rest!
But now, my love, decide without delay,
What will you have for dinner, dear, to-day?
Orlando: Through feastings and banquetings though we should hurry,
Be it ever so fiery, there’s no dish like curry!
Curry! sweet curry! There’s no dish like curry!
Sophonisba: Through larder and kitchen, I very much fear,
There is no curry-powder, though I search for a year.
Talk of curry-powder, there’s nothing like it here!
What do you say to Irish stew?

Air: “Maidens of Zia.”

Orlando: Not even Irish stew,
With salt and onions, too,
Will for your husband do
So well as mutton,
Roasted, roasted, roast leg of mutton!

Let it be nicely done.
I will be home at one.
Nothing is half such fun
As eating mutton,
Roasted, roasted, roast leg of mutton!

Let it be very hot,
Or else I’ll eat it not,
All woes will be forgot
In eating mutton,
Roasted, roasted, roast leg of mutton!

You know, my love, I never wish
For any other dish,
So don’t get any fish,
But only mutton,
Roasted, roasted, roast leg of mutton!

Sophonisba: Well, love, then roast mutton it shall be.
Orlando: So now, my love, good-bye.

Air: “Dulce Domum.”

Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Then for ever fare thee well,
Sophonisba, Sophonisba!
Listen for the front door bell! (Exit)

Air: “Dih Conte.”

Sophonisba: Fare thee well, my own Orlando,
My husband so blooming and fat,
And remember, oh, my dear one,
To take good care of your hat;
For it’s new and tender,
And it cost you four bob and a bender.
Then don’t sit down upon it, or
You’ll squash it ever so flat!
Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Then for ever, fare thee well.
I’ll expect you home to dinner, and
Be listening for the front-door bell.
Alas! how my duck will suffer
If he gets pitched into by the buffer,
Or if beneath the engine he
Gets squashed like a snail in its shell!

Mooney: Here we are again.
Spooney: Here we are, Mooney.
Mooney: Oh, that won’t do at all; we must change our names, you know.
Spooney: Well, then, you must think of new ones, for I’m sure I can’t; I—I—never was used to that kind of thing.
Mooney: No more was I, my dear Spooney. What do you say to Moggs and Spicer?
Spooney: Moggs and Spicer! Why, it’s the very thing! That’s a singular coincidence! They’re exactly the right names! So I’m to call you Moggs?
Mooney: Certainly, Spicer, you are.
Spooney: Ha, ha, to be sure, Moggs and Spicer!
Mooney: But I say, Spicer!
Spooney: What!
Mooney: Sich a norrid thing!
Spooney: Oh don’t, don’t, please! You frighten me! Are you in joke?
Mooney: In joke? Not I. Hark you, a word in your ear; sich a norrid thing!
Spooney: Oh, I say! Come, come! This is beyond a joke. Don’t, there’s a good fellow! I declare you have made me feel so bad!
Mooney: Do you think I care what it makes you feel, I tell you, it’s as true as day. One of the norridest things—
Spooney: Oh, what is it, Moggs, please! I shall faint if you don’t tell me directly!
Mooney: Why, we’ve got a duty here that I didn’t know of!
Spooney: Oh, what is it, Moggs?
Mooney: We’ve got to sing.
Spooney: Sing? When?
Mooney: Why, always!
Spooney: What, always?
Mooney: Yes, Spicer, all day long. We never ought to speak, we must sing all we have to say! (A pause.)
Spooney: Then I’ll just tell you what it is, my dear Moggs. I can’t do it, and that’s all about it!
Mooney: But you must, my dear Spicer, or else you’ll lose your situation!
Spooney: Well if I must, I must.
Mooney (singing): Now my dear Spicer,
I’d have you to try, sir,
To set all this platform to rights.
Have the engine brought out,
Push the luggage about,
And see to the lanterns and lights.
Spooney: Yes, Mooney, I will, Mooney. Is that anything like singing?
Mooney: Not the least atom, my dear Spicer; and remember, I’m Moggs, not Mooney!
Spooney: Oh, Moggs! To be sure, Moggs! Is that any better?
Mooney: Rather worse, if anything, Spicer; but there’s no difference worth speaking of.
Spooney: Oh dear, then I’m afraid I shall never do it!

Enter Kaffir.

Mooney: Who are you, sir?
Spooney: Yes, sir, who are you, sir? It is Mr. Moggs that speaks to you, sir, and Mr. Moggs is a very talented man; you must answer him directly, sir. Is that more like singing, Mooney?
Mooney: Moggs, Moggs, idiot!
Spooney: Oh, Moggs! Well I never shall remember—
Mooney: But the man hasn’t answered yet.
Spooney: No, more he has! Are you going to answer, sir?
Kaffir: —
Mooney: What’s that, Spicer? I don’t understand French.
Spooney: But it ain’t French, it’s German.
Mooney: No, that I’ll declare it isn’t; it must be Dutch.
Spooney: I don’t think it’s that either; let’s ask him. I say, old feller, what language is that?
Mooney: What a donkey you are, Spicer, he can’t understand that, you must talk to him in his own language.
Spooney: How in the world am I to do that, Moggs, when I don’t even know what it is?
Mooney: Do as I tell you, sir, and don’t be impertinent!
Spooney: Well, here goes, then:—
Kaffir: —
Mooney: Well, what did he say?
Spooney: Oh, he understood me well enough; the difficulty is, I can’t understand him!
Mooney: Stop a moment, I begin to recollect. It’s our old friend Tamaha, etc. What a’ stupid you are, Spicer, not to think of that before!
Spooney: No, no, Moggs, fair play if you please! You’re the most stupid, you know.
Mooney: That I’m not; you are, I’m sure!
Spooney: Oh, well, perhaps, but you’re the most foolish at any rate, ain’t you?
Mooney: H’m! Don’t you talk nonsense; leave me to deal with him, I understand the language.

Mooney and Kaffir converse. Exit Kaffir.

Spooney: What did he want?
Mooney: He wanted the situation of stoker, and I’ve given it him!
Spooney: What? Without consulting me?
Mooney: Without consulting you indeed! I should think so!
Spooney: Well, you know best, I suppose; but you certainly are the most foolish of the two.
Mooney: No more of that! Spicer, why ain’t you singing?
Spooney: Why should I?
Mooney: It’s so ordered by Bradshaw—
Spooney: Bother Bradshaw! You’re not singing, either.
Mooney: Why the fact is I don’t choose, and I don’t care for Bradshaw! (Roar heard. Both start.)
Spooney: What’s that?
Mooney: Don’t know, I’m sure.
Spooney: Did you say you didn’t care for Bradshaw?
Mooney: I did.
Spooney: Why, no more do I! (Roar.) Oh, I say, don’t let’s talk any more about it, think of something else.
Mooney: Well, what do you think of the weather?

Enter Mrs. Muddle.

Mrs. Muddle: Which I never did see so ill-regulated a station. Railway horficers, indeed; I know what I’d do with sich horficers!
Mooney: What do you want, my good woman?
Mrs. Muddle: Why, here have I been waiting a good half-hour to get a docket, and there’s no one to give it me!
Spooney: What does she mean, Moggs?
Mooney: Oh, if it’s a ticket you want, ma’am, I’ll get you one in a moment—where to?
Mrs. Muddle: Birmingham.

Exit Moggs.

Mrs. Muddle: Now, young man, will you see to the luggridge and baggridge, if you please.
Spooney: Will you show me which is your luggage, ma’am?
Mrs. Muddle: Why, it’s all mine, himperence! What then?
Spooney: Oh, nothing, ma’am, it’s all right here, the train won’t be here yet.

Enter Moggs.

Mooney: Here’s your ticket, ma’am. Five and fourpence.
Mrs. Muddle: There’s your money, then. Now young man, attend. There’s a little basket I left in the office, sir, which contains … something imported.
Mooney: What, ma’am?
Mrs. Muddle: Never you mind what it is, himperence, it’s something imported.
Spooney: Oh, Moggs, it’s something smuggled! Don’t have anything to do with it!
Mooney: Nonsense, Spicer, she means important. Well, ma’am, do you wish to have it with you?
Mrs. Muddle: No, himperence, I don’t wish to have it with me. I wishes it to be sent.

(Pause.)

Mooney: Sent how, ma’am?
Mrs. Muddle: How dare you interrupt me, sir? I wishes it to be sent by the—by the Electric Diagrams—
Mooney: Electric Telegraph, do you mean, ma’am?
Mrs. Muddle: I should hope I did, sir!
Spooney: Oh, Moggs, she must be mad!
Mooney: I’m sorry to say, ma’am, it can’t go.
Mrs. Muddle: Then I’ll write to the nugepaper! As sure as my name’s Muddle, I’ll write to the nugepaper! (Exit.)

Mooney: Spicer, where’s Mrs. Muddle?
Spooney: In the waiting room talking about Electric Diagrams.
Mooney: Do you know, Spicer, what an awful thing I saw just now?
Spooney: No, what?
Mooney: A Bradshaw’s Railway Guide on legs stood visibly before me, and at the same moment heard a hollow voice.
Spooney: Oh, I say, how you terrify me!
Mooney: Yes, sir, a hollow voice which said: “Mooney, why singst thou not. Spooney, why singst thou not? Spooney hath murdered singing. And, therefore, Mooney shall sing no more, Spooney shall sing no more.”
Spooney: Did it say any more?
Mooney: Oh, ever such a lot more! It said:
“Oh, I have passed a miserable day.
Spooney sings worse than any man can say.”
Spooney: Any more?
Mooney: Rather. It said:
“Tunes, music, thorough—bass, lend me your ear,
I came to see if Spooney sang: he didn’t!
He doesn’t know a note or any tune,
I never heard so shocking bad a singer!”
Spooney: Oh dear, this is past bearing! What impertinence!
Mooney: Hush, don’t interrupt me.
“When Spooney tried to sing, I really wept!
I couldn’t bear it! It was agony!
His listeners should be made of sterner stuff!
Did this in Spooney look like knowing music?
Yet Spooney thinks he knoweth how to sing.
But Spooney he is very much mistaken!
Each time he tried he always missed the note,
Now sharp, now flat, but never natural,
Yet Spooney thinks he knoweth how to sing,
But Spooney he is very much mistaken!”
Spooney: But, Moggs, that’s not true! I don’t think I know how to sing, and I’d much rather not try!
Mooney: The figure then said “Tell Spooney from me that he shall suffer for his doings and mis-doings.”
Spooney: Oh dear, oh dear! I never bargained for this when I took the situation; I’d rather be 100 miles off, a great deal!
Mooney: Well, I can’t stay now, I hear somebody in the office. (Exit.)
Spooney: Such an odd thing! To think of a book coming and talking Shakespeare like a human being—I never!
(Voice calling “Spicer! Spicer! come quick, I can’t manage him without help.”

Exit Spooney.

Voices outside: “Oh I say—it’s no business of yourn!” “Hold your tongue!” “Hands off, villain!”)

Enter Orlando, Mooney and Spooney.

Air “Come é Gentil—”

Orlando: He won’t give me the ticket, the brute, the brute.
Mooney: I won’t give you the ticket, you cheat, you cheat!
Spooney: You see, sir, he considers it his duty, and therefore he won’t give you the ticket, because you won’t give him the money, the money, the money!
Orlando: Then will you let me go as luggage, you brute, you brute!
Mooney: I won’t let you go as luggage, ’cos you ain’t, ’cos you ain’t!
Spooney: You see sir, you’re a gentleman, and not a parcel, and so he won’t let you go as luggage, because you ain’t done up in brown paper, brown paper—
Orlando: Well then, I must go and get the money. See to my luggage—I’m going to Birmingham. (Exit.)

Whistle heard.

Mooney: That’s the Birmingham train: It’s no use waiting for him: Let it go.

Exit Spooney.

Whistle, etc., heard. Enter Spooney.

Spooney: Train’s gone—

Enter Orlando.

Spooney: And all his luggage in it.
Orlando: Has the train gone, do you know?
Mooney: Yes, sir, an hour ago.
Orlando: Bradshaw says half-past nine!
Mooney: He has not rightly expressed it.
Orlando: Then I suppose I’m not in time?
Mooney: Why you’ve exactly guessed it!
Orlando: That Bradshaw—
I only wish I had him here!
Just wouldn’t I give it him? Oh no!
Mooney: No, you wouldn’t!
Orlando: And why not, I should like to know?
Mooney: ’Cos you couldn’t: He’s half as big again as you,
You little feller!
He’d beat you black and brown and blue,
And green and yeller!
Orlando: Is my luggage gone, too?
Spooney: Just so, sir.
Orlando: Send a message by the Electric Telegraph directly; and I’ll wait here.

Exit Mooney and Spooney.

Air: “Auld Lang Syne.”

Orlando: Should all my luggage be forgot,
And never come to hand,
I’ll never quit this fatal spot,
But perish where I stand.

But should it all come back again,
I’ll say: “How glad I am!”
And I’ll take a ticket by the train for Bir-ming-ham.

In every carriage there’s a seat
More cosy than the rest,
And when I’ve room to stretch my feet,
I always like it best.

Should such a lot be mine, I’ll say:
“What a lucky dog I am!”
And joyfully I’ll go my way to Bir-ming-ham.

Though wind be cold, and air be damp,
It cannot pierce my rug,
I’ll read my book by the light of the lamp,
Wrapped up all tight and snug.

If I get there in time to sup,
I’ll say: “How glad I am!”
And I’ll proudly give my ticket up, at Bir-ming-ham.

Spooney: I quite agree with you, Moggs, we won’t sing any more in future.
Mooney: That we won’t! A fig for Bradshaw!

Roar heard.

Spooney: Oh, I say, Moggs, don’t you mention his name again! I am so frightened!
Mooney: So am I, Spicer; my heart is troubled with fears of future sorrow. Coming events, my dear Spicer, cast their shadows before.
Spooney: Except at midday, you know, Moggs; shadows go the other way after midday.
Mooney: My poor Spicer! You have no soul for poetry, I see!

Enter Huntsman.

Lost: Where’s the stationmaster? I want to go to London by the 9.45.
Mooney: The 9:45, sir? That’s gone rather more than half-an-hour ago.
Lost: Oh dear, dear, how unlucky I am! When’s the next train?
Spooney: The next train is 11.5.
Lost: Oh, that’ll do! Give me a ticket for that!
Mooney: But that train goes to Lincoln, sir.
Lost: Oh, never mind, never mind; I’m sure to miss it, so it don’t signify! Only give me a ticket.
Mooney: Now, sir, just be advised by me: wait for the half-past eleven train, which goes to London; there’s a waiting room in there. (Exit Lost.) (Train heard approaching).
Spooney: What train is this, Mooney?
Mooney: Moggs, if you please. This will be the Birmingham train. (Whistle heard.) Where’s that old woman, I wonder? She’ll be late after all.
Spooney: I’ll run and fetch her. (Exit, and returns with Mrs. Muddle.)
Mooney: Now, mum, look sharp, if you please. Here’s your train coming. Is all this your luggage?
Mrs. Muddle: Yes, sir, it be; but it’s not the luggridge I cares for, no, nor the baggridge neither. Young man.
Mooney: Madam.
Mrs. Muddle: I wishes you to—to—to ensnare my life!
Spooney: Oh, Moggs, hold me up a moment, I am took so bad!
Mrs. Muddle: Now himperence, what are you a-grumbling about? Are you going to ensnare my life, or not?
Mooney: Ensnare your life, ma’am!
Mrs. Muddle: Yes, sir! What with all these collections and accidings as is so perpetually ’appening, I daren’t go without you do!
Spooney: We couldn’t do it, really, mum. I don’t know what the consequences would be! Don’t consent, Moggs!
Mooney: I haven’t a notion what she means! No, ma’am, we can’t do it on any considerations!
Mrs. Muddle: Then, young men, mark my words! If any of them collections happens, or the steam Indian blows up, or I get run over and killed in one of your funnels, which I never could see the sense of yet, and they never light ’em up, mark my words, it’ll be manslaughter! And if it be, which I’m mortally certain it will, I’ll write to the nugepaper! There!
Spooney: But, my dear madam, it can’t be manslaughter, in any case. It will only be woman-slaughter.
Mrs. Muddle: Well, and what then, you young Spooney, ain’t that just as bad?
Spooney: How does she know my name?
Mooney: She doesn’t; don’t betray yourself!
Mrs. Muddle: No, I don’t know your name, nor I don’t want to; your face is bad enough, in all conscience!

Whistle heard. Lost rushes across back of stage.

Mooney: Run and stop the train, Spicer, and see what that gentleman is after. (Exit Spicer.) Really, madam, you shouldn’t go by the railway alone; why haven’t you somebody with you?
Mrs. Muddle: Because I’m suffidgent by myself, himperence! My missis was a sayin’ to me only this mornin’, says she: “Mrs. Muddle,” says she, “won’t you have someone with you?” “No, mum,” says I, “I won’t; I knows all about the dockets, and the collections, and the steam Indians,” says I, “and I knows the himperence of the railway horficers,” I says, “and I can manage it all, and when I gets to the station I wants to get out at,” says I, “why, I’ll just nudge the conductor with the pint of my rumberoller!”
Mooney: My good woman, you are under some mistake. A railway train is not a bus!
Mrs. Muddle: Oh, it ain’t, ain’t it, sir? Then what does it go and conduct itself as a bus for, I’d like to know?
Mooney: I don’t understand you, ma’am—
Mrs. Muddle: Why, one of them steam Indians went and bust only last seek, at least so my neege Eliza telled me.
Mooney: Bust? Madam, what in the world do you mean?
Mrs. Muddle: Well, it did bust; don’t you go for to denige it, himperence! And now, sir, are you going to ensnare my life for me, or not?

Enter Spicer and Mr. Lost.

Lost: Oh, whatever will become of me, I’m sure I don’t know!
Spooney: Here’s this gentleman was a-running like mad into the wrong train.
Lost: And so I ought to, oughtn’t I? It was just on the point of starting.
Mrs. Muddle: Just going, is it? and I haven’t got my life ensnared yet! Oh, you villains!

Exit Mrs. Muddle. Whistle and train heard going.

Enter Mrs. Muddle.

Mrs. Muddle: There now! there’s the train gone, and all my luggridge in it!
Lost: Gone! Then it’s all up!
Spooney: No, sir, that was the down train.
Mrs. Muddle: Well, young men, I’ll write to the nugepaper immediate, and what’ll it’ll do, I’m sure I can’t tell, but I ’ope it’ll give you six months in the treadmill, or else hard labour at the gallows! Mark my words—I says to you, says I, “See to the luggridge and baggridge”—that were the depression I made use of—and you’ve been and sent it off without me!
Mooney: But, my dear madam, you shall go by the next train—won’t that do?
Mrs. Muddle: No, sir, it will not do!
Mooney: What do you want then?
Mrs. Muddle: Well, I’ll say nothing’ more about it, so long as you’ll send me by the—the electric Diagrams.

Mooney, Spooney and Lost rush out.

Mrs. Muddle: (Singing. Air: “Norma.”)
Oh, dear! Whatever am I to do?
Dear, whatever am I to do?
Here’s all my luggridge is gone,
I haven’t the least idea where to!
There was three trunks and an oblong box
And none of them had got any locks;
And they’ll be robbed on the way, as sure
As my name is Muddle, they will.
Oh, dear! Whatever am I to do?

Sophonisba: Ah, how my heart beats with fear!
Would that my beloved husband were here!
I wish he wasn’t quite so late!
The dinner’ll be spoilt as sure as fate!

Air: “Non Piu Mesta.”

Is the mutton roasting, Sarah Jane?
And are the potatoes boiled?
If we have to send them out again
The dinner-party will be spoiled!

Enter Sarah Jane.

Cook: Why, I’m sorry to say, mum, the meat took a jump.
And into the ashes did rush;
But I’ve bin and I’ve scrubbed it under the pump,
With soap and a blacking-brush!
And the taties, mum, they was bilin’ so well,
When just as turned my back,
A whole lot of soot down the chimbley fell,
And now they’re as black as black!
Sophonisba: You don’t say so! Is it quite spoilt?
Cook: Quite, mum! It’ll only do for me and perliceman to ’ave for supper this night.
Sophonisba: Then what are we to have for dinner?
Cook: Oh, mum, I’ll run you up some little thing in a jiffey! What d’you say to Irish stew?
Sophonisba: Irish stew, cook? The very thing!
Cook: Why, I thought as much, mum, so I’ve just done some; it’s down to the fire now! (Exit.)

Enter Orlando.

Orlando: Dinner ready, my dear?
Sophonisba: Very nearly, I believe, love—
Orlando: What, the roast leg of mutton? That’s right!
That roast leg of mutton, of mutton, of mutton,
That roast leg of mutton I’ve thought of all day.
So let us get at it, get at it, get at it,
So let us get at it without more delay!
Sophonisba: Why, the fact is, dear, it’s not—
Orlando: Not hot mutton!
Sophonisba: No, my love, don’t be angry.

Air: “La ci darem.”

Orlando: I don’t like cold mutton.
Sophonisba: I know that as well as you.
Orlando: But whatever it is, I don’t care a button!
Sophonisba: Why, my dear love, it’s Irish stew!
Orlando: Then what has become of the joint?
Sophonisba: That doesn’t matter to you!
Orlando: Where is it?
Sophonisba: That’s nothing to the point,
For we’re to dine on Irish stew.
Orlando: Then since it must be so, must be so, must be so,
Into the dining room let us go, let us go.
Come with me—
Sophonisba: I agree. (Exeunt both.)

A short pause.

Enter both by other door.

Sophonisba: Now, my love, that we have dined,
Tell me, if you feel inclined,
How you travelled and got on.
Orlando: All my luggage, dear, is gone!
I’ve been the sport of cruel fate,
For every train I was too late!
It’s all along of Bradshaw!

Air: “Long, long ago.”

When I arrived at the sta-ti-on
Long, long ago, etc.
I found that the train which I wanted was gone,
Long, long ago, etc.
The train-time in Bradshaw was printed all wrong,
And that is the reason that I’ve been so long,
And I only wish he had gone to Hong-Kong,
Long, long ago, etc.

Air: “Go, forget me.”

Sophonisba: Oh! forget it. Why should Bradshaw
O’er that brow a shadow cast?
Let us think no more about it,
Since you have got home at last.
Orlando: Home? But where ’s the roasted mutton?
And I’ve got no clothes to put on;
May that Guide of Bradshaws be
Put behind the fire by me!

Air: “Paloma”

Orlando: That Bradshaw, I wish he’d caught it as he ought; that Bradshaw’s Railway Guide—“That Bradshaw!” etc.
Sophonisba: Ditto, as above.

Enter Bradshaw.

Orlando: Oh horror!

Enter all.

Bradshaw: “Enter my minions all and hear my words:
I made a rule my servants were to sing.
That rule they disobeyed, and in revenge
I altered all the train-times in my book,
And made the world go wrong, what then? ’twas just;
And ever thus shall virtue be rewarded,
And vice be punished, ye that hear me now,
Say, do not I speak truly; let applause
Be ours if now our conduct be commended;
But hisses, groans, and howlings as of beasts,
If we have failed your hopes to satisfy!”

Air: “Admiral.”

How gallantly, how merrily, we’ve spent our time to-day!
The audience are delighted, delighted with our play,
Or so at least they seem to be, by making such a noise,
The cause for which, I fancy, is, there are so many boys!

Both strangers and relations, we thank you, one and all,
We asked you for your plaudits and you answered to our call,
Pit, gallery (if such there be) and stalls, and private boxes,
Spectators all of many names, especially Wilcoxes!

I hope you’ve all been satisfied with music, sound, and sight,
And now I think it’s fully time to wish you all good-night.
I’ve but two words to say to you, so patient as you’ve been,
Which are “Good health to each one here,” “Long live our gracious Queen!”