Part 9

Then GILBERT, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore He’d know the reason why if she refused to tell him more; And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes) “You mustn’t ask no questions, and you won’t be told no lies!

“Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you, Of chopping off a rival’s head and quartering him too! Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!” And GILBERT ground his molars as he answered her, “I will!”

Young GILBERT rose from table with a stern determined look, And, frowning, took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook; And ANNIE watched his movements with an interested air— For the morrow—for the morrow he was going to prepare!

He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill, He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, until This terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.

And ANNIE said, “O GILBERT, dear, I do not understand Why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?” He said, “It is intended for to lacerate and flay The neck of that unmitigated villain PETER GRAY!”

“Now, GILBERT,” ANNIE answered, “wicked headsman, just beware— I won’t have PETER tortured with that horrible affair; If you appear with that, you may depend you’ll rue the day.” But GILBERT said, “Oh, shall I?” which was just his nasty way.

He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart, For ANNIE was a woman, and had pity in her heart! She wished him a good evening—he answered with a glare; She only said, “Remember, for your ANNIE will be there!”

* * * * * * * *

The morrow GILBERT boldly on the scaffold took his stand, With a vizor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand, And all the people noticed that the Engine of the Law Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.

The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock, And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block. The hatchet was uplifted for to settle PETER GRAY, When GILBERT plainly heard a woman’s voice exclaiming, “Stay!”

’Twas ANNIE, gentle ANNIE, as you’ll easily believe. “O GILBERT, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve, It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago, And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow.

“I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, GILBERT CLAY, And as I’d quite surrendered all idea of PETER GRAY, I quietly suppressed it, as you’ll clearly understand, For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand.

“In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before), To lacerate poor PETER GRAY vindictively you swore; I told you if you used that blunted axe you’d rue the day, And so you will, young GILBERT, for I’ll marry PETER GRAY!”

AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS

I’VE painted SHAKESPEARE all my life— “An infant” (even then at “play”!) “A boy,” with stage-ambition rife, Then “Married to ANN HATHAWAY.”

“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”), His “First appearance on the stage,” His “Call before the curtain”—then “Rejoicings when he came of age.”

The bard play-writing in his room, The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk. The bard a lawyer {287a}—parson {287b}—groom {287c}— The bard deer-stealing, after dark.

The bard a tradesman {288a}—and a Jew {288b}— The bard a botanist {288c}—a beak {288d}— The bard a skilled musician {288e} too— A sheriff {288f} and a surgeon {288g} eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock) That, though it’s evident I try, Yet even I can barely mock The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning as a work I framed, There passed a person, walking hard: “My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed, “How very like my dear old bard!

“Oh, what a model he would make!” I rushed outside—impulsive me!— “Forgive the liberty I take, But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he.

“You needn’t waste your breath or time,— I know what you are going to say,— That you’re an artist, and that I’m Remarkably like SHAKESPEARE. Eh?

“You wish that I would sit to you?” I clasped him madly round the waist, And breathlessly replied, “I do!” “All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”

I led him by his hallowed sleeve, And worked away at him apace, I painted him till dewy eve,— There never was a nobler face!

“Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grand Is yours, by dint of merest chance,— To sport his brow at second-hand, To wear his cast-off countenance!

“To rub his eyes whene’er they ache— To wear his baldness ere you’re old— To clean his teeth when you awake— To blow his nose when you’ve a cold!”

His eyeballs glistened in his eyes— I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; “Bravo!” I said, “I recognize The phrensy of your prototype!”

His scanty hair he wildly tore: “That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.” He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore— “Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”