_ In the usual fashion, Sir JOHN _(ignites blue
fire)_--in smoke!
_[The characters are lost in the fog customary to the occasion.
Curtain._
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SEVERE SABBATARIAN.
_Mr. Bung (Landlord of "Ye Pygge and Whistle")._ "SUNDAY LEAGUE,
INDEED! _I'D_ SUNDAY LEAGUE 'EM, IF I'D A CHANCE!--BREAKIN' THE
LORD'SD'Y, AND HINTERFERIN' WITH MY TRYDE!"]
* * * * *
"SHADOWED!"
Shadowed! Ay, even in the holiday season,
The Statesman, in his hard-earned hour of ease,
Is haunted by forebodings, and with reason.
What is that spectre the tired slumberer sees?
The foul familiar lineaments affright him;
Its pose of menace and its pointing hand
To caution urge, to providence invite him,
To foil this scourge of the Distressful Land.
Who does _not_ fear to speak of Forty-Seven,
When that same Shadow darkened all the isle?
Is _it_ abroad once more? Avert it, Heaven!
On Order's lips it chills the dawning smile;
Awakener of hushed fears and hatreds dying,
Blighter of more than Nature's genial growth,
Herald of hungering lips, of children crying,
To hold thee imminent all hearts are loth.
Vain holiday nepenthe, sport's unbending,
The Statesman's burdened brain may not forget.
His cares are ceaseless and his toils unending,
Memories embarrass and forebodings fret.
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