  YOU start with a murder and somebody’s killed— For the public still dearly delight to be thrilled. You make it a mystery—nobody knows Who gave John Tregennith those terrible blows. Since jealousy’s always a motive for crime, Your heroine’s loved by two men at a time— Poor John, who has gone where the good niggers go, And big Ethelbert Brown, who was always his foe. It is Ethelbert Brown who is charged with the deed; There’s a flaw in the evidence—Ethelbert’s freed. Then he parts with his sweetheart—a heartrending scene— For she vows that John’s body their love lies between; And ne’er, till it’s proved to the world far and wide Who committed the deed, will sweet Grace be a bride. So heavenward Ethelbert raises his eyes And swears he will prove it, and then claim his prize. Now, Ethelbert’s mother has views of her own, For she once found Miss Grace and Tregennith alone; They were both much excited—discussion ran high; But the good dame dissembled, not wishing to pry. Yet when Ethelbert goes his mamma stays behind, One awful—one dreadful idea on her mind. By her boy’s own affianced she thinks John was slain, But she daren’t tell her darling—’twould cause him such pain. From a half-witted servant the son gets a clue— The half-witted servant is known as “Mad Hugh.” But the story he tells blanches Ethelbert’s hair— On the night of the murder his mother was there. It seems she suspected his sweetheart and John, In the words of “Mad Hugh,” “were a-carrying on.” In her anger maternal she picked up a knife, And her boy’s hated rival departed this life. In the mansion paternal Grace lives with her dad, But her face once so sunny grows sallow and sad, For she thinks it a moral, from facts which transpire, John did fall a victim to Ethelbert’s ire. So now you’ve the mother suspecting Miss G., And the son half persuaded ’twas old Mrs. B.; While Miss G. feels convinced that the claret was spilt By her lover, who some day must swing for his guilt. You pile up the agony now to the end, And you’ve three loving bosoms with anguish to rend; If skilfully handled your plot will mislead, Till in turn the fogged reader thinks each did the deed. Then, when you have given your “harrowing” scope, You bring the brave hero right under the rope But just as his lordship assumes the black cap, You come to a startling dÉnouement, ker-slap. The half-witted servant comes in with a rush— There’s a hubbub in court, then a hum, then a hush; And the idiot explains—and gives proof that he’s right— That he did the murder himself, out of spite. Now you wind up your story with weddings and glee, And the young married couple hug old Mrs. B. Then you put in three stars, to show time has flown past, And you drop in some babies in chapter the last. |
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