----Of course I wrote the prologue I was asked to write. I did not see the play, though. I knew there was a young lady in it, and that somebody was in love with her, and she was in love with him, and somebody (an old tutor, I believe) wanted to interfere, and, very naturally, the young lady was too sharp for him. The play of course ends charmingly; there is a general reconciliation, and all concerned form a line and take each others' hands, as people always do after they have made up their quarrels,--and then the curtain falls,--if it does not stick, as it commonly does at private theatrical exhibitions, in which case a boy is detailed to pull it down, which he does, blushing violently.
Now, then, for my prologue. I am not going to change my caesuras and cadences for anybody; so if you do not like the heroic, or iambic trimeter brachycatalectic, you had better not wait to hear it.
A Prologue? Well, of course the ladies know;--
I have my doubts. No matter,--here we go!
What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor teach: _Pro_ means beforehand; _logos_ stands for speech. 'Tis like the harper's prelude on the strings, The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings;-- Prologues in metre are to other _pros_ As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.
"The world's a stage,"--as Shakspeare said, one day; The stage a world--was what he meant to say. The outside world's a blunder, that is clear; The real world that Nature meant is here. Here every foundling finds its lost mamma; Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa; Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid, The cheats are taken in the traps they laid; One after one the troubles all are past Till the fifth act comes right side up at last, When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all, Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall. --Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, And black-browed ruffians always come to grief. --When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon her knees On the green--baize,--beneath the (canvas) trees,-- See to her side avenging Valor fly:-- "Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!" --When the poor hero flounders in despair, Some dear lost uncle turns up millionnaire,-- Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy, Sobs on his neck, "My boy! My Boy!! MY BOY!!!"