uw 
Dramas of the Dead. 507 
Of penal fire, which I long to be using, 
And will apply to great state purposes. 
You have, of course, the necessary number 
Of Radicals; if not, T-well know how 
To raise a crop. 
Satan. But art thou qualified 
To serve me? 
Fingerlace. Qualified! Sir? (To Stitchrag.) Dost thou hear 
The spooney ? 
Satan. When your neighbours stole your beef 
And your plum-pudding, what was thy employment ? 
Fingerlace. Furnishing tinsel. 
Satan. When your working paupers 
By millions died of want, what then didst thou ? 
Fingerlace. 1 measured ribbon. 
-Satan. But my subjects here 
Eat victuals highly season’d.. Should we have 
A scarcity of pitch, or brimstone-broth, 
Would the poor shine of tinsel fill their bellies ? 
Fingerlace. No; but Id yerk their guts with Stitchrag’s shears. 
Napoleon. Happy the land whose tailors are the law. 
Satan. (To Fingerlace.) I like thy humour. : 
Fingerlace. Yes; I'll make you like it 
And, Sire, I will commence my reign. 
Satan. Thy reign ? 
Fingerlace. J hate all radical appendages— 
I will commence my reign with an improvement 
Wrought on your person. [hate this exposure 
Of the Imperial tai!. Besides, ’tis not 
The fashion to wear tails ; I never wore one. 
Satan, Thou hatest radicals, and yet thou art one— 
A dangerous fire-flinging innovator. 
Fingerlace. Let Stitchrag, Sire, make you a pair of breeches, 
And I will find the trimming. — 
Satan. I wear breeches ? 
Fingerlace. Yes, Sire, you shall. 
Satan. I won't. 
Fingerlace. You shall. 
Satan. I won’t. 
Fingerlace. Measure him, Stitchrag, and I'll hold him. 
Satan. (Knocks Fingerlace down.) There, 
Measure your bungler by his own dear rule. 
Fingerlace. (Rising.) Out with the clod! he won’t: wear breeches, 
Stitchrag. 
Oh, could I die again! 
Stitchrag. Die? Would it not 
Be quite as well to live, and— 
Fingerlace. Clip his tail off? 
Stitchrag. Clip? that’s a tell-tale word. Say amputate, 
_ As brother Bolus would. 
Fingerlace. What! amputate 
The sacred tail ? 
Stitchrag. And live to bless the deed. 
Fingerlace. By tweezers, so I will, (Zo Satan.) Sire, by your leave, 
Your fundamental ornament is rather— 
I humbly beg to slice your—(He gets behind Satan). 
Satan. You be flogged! (Kicks Fingerlace on the back front.) 
Fingerlace, Oh, foul dishonour! oh, indignity ! 
Hell, thou art lost, like Europe! and, once more, 
I'll perish for the public good. A moment, 
And this Corinthian column, this great pillar 
Of state, shall fall once more. Oh, Atlas, Atlas! (wit Fingerlace.)\ 
Stitchrag. Wide Peterlgo; immortaler than some, ones! bas 
Legitimate as any! Not so foreign oe 
