REMARKS ABOUT OTHELLO.
Do I sleep? Do I dream?
Do I wonder and doubt?
Are things what they seem,
Or is libels about?
Has the Eminent I. scored a failure?
Or is the tragedian played out?
Which questions is strong;
Yet I would but imply
That to them I much long
To get a reply—
Seeing things is kinder mixed up so,
Or, leastways, they seem so to I.
How he got up his name
I needn't relate;
Though, regarding that same,
He owed Colonel Bate-
Man some thanks for the way that he publish'd
The fact that his genius was great.
Then 'twas said with one breath
Perfection was he,
From the "Bells" to "Macbeth"
He was as good as could be—
He came, and he play'd, and he conquer'd—
Like a melodramatic J. C.
And all London went wild
O'er this Eminent I.,
Save a party that smiled,
And thought it good fun;
But as for the late William Shakespeare,
He never had had such a run.
And the public fell down
As though in a trance;
And the West-End of town
Booked their stalls in advance;
Whilst the critics wrote furlongs of praises,
His triumph to further enhance.
And the management, gaily,
Its hand on its heart,
Did advertise, daily,
Its love of high art;
Whilst FIGARO smiled somewhat drily,
And murmured, "O here's a droll start!"
But at last came a night—
'Twas "Othello" you'll guess;
And thought I (well I might),
"Ah! another success!"
But the papers next morning—O pizen!
They upset this view, I confess.
For I dare not repeat
The things that were said:—
Of a mop-stem on feet—
In one weekly I read—
With its arms like a pair of pump-handles,
And the mop dipped in ink for the head.
And another remarked
That his voice wasn't clear,
And the more the Moor barked,
The less he could hear;
Whilst a third liken'd him in the death scene,
To a curate whose dreams had been queer.
Scarce a paper I scann'd
Had the old-fashioned praise;
But on every hand
I read with amaze,
That the Eminent I. got a "slating"
Not frequently giv'n in these days.
And, thought I, this is odd!
To turn round in this way:
One day he's a god—
Or, so they all say—
And the next night they call him eccentric,
Which isn't to my mind, fair play.
He ain't a-gone wrong
Like this in a day;
He's been wrong all along
In the same kind of way;
And the faults they have damned in "Othello"
They praised in—well, "Hamlet," I'll say.
So that's why I remark,
And would wish to maintain,
That for hair long and dark,
And a voice that was pain-
Ful, the Eminent I. was peculiar—
But I don't think he'll try it again.
The Figaro, March 4, 1876.
GALAHAD. "A superficial imitation is easy enough, but I shall certainly fail to reproduce his subtle wit and pathos." (Reads.)