Attached to the soil!  Pretty optimist phrase
  We are so, and have been, from Gurth’s simpler days,
  Though now platform flowers of speech—­pleasant joke!—­
  May wreath the serf’s ring till men scarce see the yoke. 
  Attached to the soil!  The soil clings to our souls! 
  Young labour’s scant guerdon, cold charity’s doles,
  The crow-scarer’s pittance, the poor-house’s aid
  All smell of it!  Tramping with boots thickly clayed
  From brown field or furrow, or lowered at last
  In our special six-feet by the sexton up-cast,
  We smack of the earth, till we earthy have grown,
  Like the mound that Death gives us—­best friend—­for our own. 
  We tramp it, we delve it, we plough it, this soil,
  And a grave is the final reward of our toil. 
  Attached?  The attachment of love is one thing,
  The attachment of profit another. Gurth’s ring
  Is our form of attachment at bottom, Sir, still,
  And to favour that bond HODGE doubts not your good will. 
  But when others talk of improving our lot
  By possession of more than a burial plot,
  By pay for our toil, and by balm for our troubles,
  You ban all such prospects as “radiant bubbles.” 
  Declare “under-currents of plunder” run through
  All plans for our aid save those favoured by you,
  Attached to the soil!  Ah! how many approve
  That attachment, when founded on labour and love! 
  But about “confiscation” they chatter and fuss
  At all talk of attaching the soil to poor us!

* * * * *

FREE AND INDEPENDENT.

    SCENE—­Manager’s Room of the Ideal Theatre. 
    Present—­Committee of Taste.

[Illustration]

Manager.  Now, you fellows, I think we have settled what to do next.  Carry out the notion of an afternoon performance of the Ideal Drama.  We have got the moderate guarantee, and the good stock company, and hope to receive the cooperation of the leading artists from other theatres.  Isn’t that so?

Auditor.  Yes, I can answer for the moderate guarantee—­about L20—­in the bank.

Stage Manager.  And the good stock company was imported early this morning from Ireland.  All very good Shakspearian actors with a taste of a brogue to give their remarks pungency.

Manager.  That’s all right.  And what is the play?

First Member of the Committee of Taste. “Demons,” by the Master.

Second Ditto.  No, let us have something newer.  Why not an adaptation (by myself) of that charming work by SODALA—­I call it Blood and Thunder?

Manager (producing halfpenny).  By the rules of the Company we toss for it. (Throws up coin.) Heads!—­Blood and Thunder wins.  We will do Blood and Thunder.  Well, now as to casting it.  Anything for IRVING in it?