William Shakespeare.
(1564-1616.)
Prologue.
Most potent, grave, and Reverend Signiors,
My very noble and approved good Masters
Of Arts, ye Bachelors and Commoners,
Ye Doctors, Proctors, Scholars, Dons, and Men,
And last, not least, Subscribers, to whose kindness
We owe our life; that we have rushed to print
It is most true, true we have headlong rushed,
The very head and front of our offending,
Hath this extent, no more: and pray you all
If any chaff be found amongst our Parodies,
For the wheat’s sake, oh! pardon it!
——:o:——
N giving the following Parodies on detached passages from the plays of Shakespeare, it must be stated, (though such a statement ought to be perfectly unnecessary,) that not the slightest disrespect is intended, either to the works themselves, or to that great author whose name, and fame, are dear to every Englishman.
Nearly every play written by Shakespeare has been burlesqued, and whenever one of the London theatrical managers produces a grand revival of a Shakespearian tragedy, a travestie of it is almost immediately produced, at one, or another, of the smaller houses, which provide fun for the laughter-loving public. There are many worthy people who take offence at this, and fail to see that such fun is of a very harmless description, and that no disrespect is intended to the immortal bard, who was not, himself, above introducing burlesques of his contemporaries, even in his most serious works.
This question was fully discussed in the London daily papers in August, 1883, àpropos of burlesques of The Tempest, and Hamlet, produced by Mr. John Hollingshead, at the Gaiety Theatre. Some of the letters then published throw considerable light on what had been previously done in the way of Shakespearian burlesques, and are also of interest as summing up the arguments, for and against, Parody and Burlesque in general.
Mr. Moy Thomas, the theatrical critic of the Daily News, thus introduced the subject in his weekly column, entitled—
THE THEATRES.
“We have received the following letter on the subject of the impending burlesques of ‘The Tempest,’ and ‘Hamlet,’ at the Gaiety Theatre. We may remind our readers that we described the project as ‘somewhat startling,’ while we called attention to the facts that the productions in question are to be avowedly ‘elaborate parodies,’ and that there is reason to believe that ‘if this experiment should be found to be suited to the tastes of the town Mr. Burnand’s process of adapting Shakespeare to “nineteenth century audiences” may be expected to continue.’ More than this, in the way of protest, it did not in the present stage of the project seem to us necessary to say in a column which is mainly devoted to dramatic news.”
“‘May I ask if it is possible that the dramatic critic of the Daily News means to pass over without a word of disapprobation the proposal to burlesque “Hamlet” and “The Tempest?” I think many people must have been as surprised as I was to read your intimation of it in last Monday’s issue uncoupled with any word of disapproval or disgust. Surely the English stage may well be thought by Englishmen to have reached its lowest point of degradation, and one strangely in contrast with the honour we profess to pay to it, when two of the finest plays and finest works in all literature are to be sacrificed to the passion for burlesque. We had better consider ourselves no longer the same nation, and cease to pride ourselves on having produced the foremost man in all literature when we descend to this without protest. I do not think any language can be too strong on such a subject from a lover of Shakespeare and of the stage, and one who cannot but contrast the present tastes of the public with the opinion formed of them by Milton two centuries ago;—“What wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil but wise and faithful labourers to make a knowing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies.’”—I am yours faithfully, W. Kennedy.—Hampstead, August 16.”
——:o:——
A few days later the following replies were published in The Daily News:—
Sir,—Your correspondent “Mr. Kennedy” speaks of a proposed new version of The Tempest, of a more or less burlesque character, as if I and Mr. Burnand had discovered a new crime. The World (in the absence of Mr. Yates) also follows suit. Messrs. F. Talfourd, Andrew Halliday, Robert Brough, and others were not afraid to to draw upon Shakespeare for their burlesques, and in the so-called “palmy days” of the drama the parodies of Shakespeare were frequent, coarse, and brutal. The subjects of many of Shakespeare’s plays were the common property of the dramatist long before the advent of the master, and if he were now alive he would probably be the last to object to treatment such as Goethe has received in every city in Europe.—I am, &c., John Hollingshead.—Gaiety Theatre, Strand.”
Sir,—This stir about The Tempest seems a storm in a teacup. Both “Mr. W. Kennedy, of Hampstead,” who naturally takes high ground, and your dramatic critic would have acted more justly to my forthcoming piece had they waited to see what it was before attempting to excite public prejudice against my work. There is an important distinction between what is commonly understood by “burlesquing Shakespeare,” by which is meant taking his lines and sentiments and giving them an absurd turn, and writing what is now-a-days styled a “burlesque version” (which is really an extravaganza) of a fairy tale which Shakespeare has immortalised, especially when Shakespeare himself has given the keynote for the fun, as he has done in The Tempest, no doubt with a full consciousness of its humour.
As the lawyer’s wisdom is popularly supposed to reside mainly in the wig, so the poet has made all Prospero’s magic art lie in his book, wand, and magic robes, without which he is powerless. When he does not wish to be professionally engaged he puts aside his “magic properties” and says “lie there my art.” When he is renouncing conjuring he buries his books of legerdemain, and has done with it for ever, retaining no sort of power independently of this magic receipt book, or as I shall struggle not to call it, in deference to Mr. Kennedy, of Hampstead to whom a pun on anything Shakespearian must appear quite too-too dreadful, his “spelling book.” Caliban is aware of this, and directs his efforts to possessing himself of this book. This perfectly admissible view of Prospero, together with the notion that he himself gives as to Ariel’s true character, has furnished me with the materials for an extravaganza at the Gaiety, which will be entitled Ariel, or, the King of the Caliban Island, of which the critics and public will form their judgment when it appears. En attendant, to raise a prejudice against my work is clearly unjust. Let me have fairplay even for an extravaganza founded on a Shakespearian fairy tale. “Atlas,” in the World, had an unfair note on this subject. I have written to him much as I have to you, but with a special “P.S.,” which I trust he will have the generosity to publish, pointing out that “Atlas” should be the last to brand as a crime burlesquing anything Shakesperian, as in his own paper a few weeks ago appeared the story of Hamlet travestied, and adapted to “nineteenth century” readers.—Yours faithfully,
F. C. Burnand.
——:o:——
(To the Editor of the Daily News.)—Sir,—We are told that a parody in three or four acts of The Tempest is in preparation, and we are asked by the author to suspend judgment until its production. The appeal is at any rate superficially fair. But Mr. Burnand’s letter is not very reassuring. For instance, he calls the great play “a fairy tale,” i.e., he seems to put it on a level with “The White Cat” and “Puss in Boots.” But let that pass. All who reverence the great name of Shakespeare, and who are grateful for his noble plays (and they are numerous, whatever Mr. Burnand and Punch may think), will patiently await The King of the Caliban Island (what charming wit and taste!) leaning upon their swords. In any case Shakespeare’s memory cannot suffer. What is to be feared is the degradation of the stage which he ennobled, and of the actors and dramatic authors of whom he ought to be the proudest and most sacred boast.—I am, Sir, yours faithfully, An Old Playgoer.
August 20, 1883.
——:o:——
In the next weekly column of The Theatres (August 27, 1883,) Mr. Moy Thomas inserted another long letter, which had been addressed to him by Mr. F. C. Burnand, referring to his forthcoming burlesque upon Shakespeare’s Tempest:—
“I know you are not friendly to burlesques—and probably not to burlesque writers; still, as a critic, as a judge who will have to try the case, it is hardly fair to range yourself on the adverse side, and to make your verdict a foregone conclusion. Patience a moment, and hear—or read. The existence of Robson was an excuse for a burlesque on Shylock, and for one on Macbeth; also on Medea. Now, in looking about for a character, a novelty, for Miss Nelly Farren, who is a genius in her way, as Robson was in his—the notion of an Ariel struck me, and the more I considered it the more I liked it. I read the Tempest carefully, and saw how Shakespeare had given the chance of such a view of Ariel as the spirit of enterprise, and had struck the keynote of any amount of fun in the humorous notion of Prospero being absolutely dependent upon his “properties” for his magic power. Evidently he had not had them with him when he was turned adrift by Gonzago in a boat with his child; or rather, as he must have had them with him (according to his own account) they were so packed up he couldn’t get at them; otherwise, where would his enemies have been? Caliban’s one idea was to possess himself of the book. Well, in him I see a backward boy (done out of his rights, by the way), who, however, wants to acquire knowledge, and who does so in the end. How dull Miranda found the island you can judge from her speeches, and from her going to sleep when her father is prosing. The conspirators, and the remorseful king, are minor characters, calling for no particular remark, except as padding to sustain a weakish plot. Now what do I do? Burlesque it? Not in the sense in which I understand burlesque, as, for instance, I burlesqued Fédora, Diplomacy, Ouida’s Strathmore, &c., &c. No; but I take the story and give it a turn similar (though not the same) to what Thackeray gave to Ivanhoe in Rebecca and Rowena. He took up the tale where Scott left off, but he reproduced the scenes and characters under changed conditions. I take the story with its leading characters; I omit the tempest entirely (only a sea-fog, when Prospero had forecasted a “disturbance”), and Ariel, capable of assuming all sorts of shapes and forms, does so and wrecks the ship. The arrangement of scenes doesn’t follow the play. Of course Trinculo and Stephano are not in it, for no one making a new comic story could take them or Caliban as far as he is associated with them and make them more funny, whether in dialogue or in business (I know it all, having studied it) than they are in the piece. No one could take the Midsummer Night’s Dream and produce a modern extravaganza, though they might (as Planché did) use the fairies out of it, who are immortal. No one deprecates a vulgar, coarse piece of buffoonery by way of burlesque more than I do. I have undertaken this very work as an advance on Blue Beard, as Blue Beard was (though you would not recognise it) a distinct advance on what had preceded it. It forms one of the “burlesque drama” series—a generic title to which I have objections, but by which Mr. John Hollingshead sets store—and as it is a matter of indifference to the public whether what is really an extravaganza comes under the above heading, I havn’t any more to say, but the sum is that I am distinctly not burlesquing Shakespeare’s Tempest, as by burlesquing I understand my mode of treatment of Sardou’s Fédora, Diplomacy, Ouida’s Strathmore, &c., &c.”
In September 1883, Mr. Hollingshead also wrote to the Daily News as follows:—
“It may interest those who are curious in theatrical history to learn that the last London performance of “The Enchanted Isle,” a burlesque upon Shakespeare’s “Tempest,” by William and Robert Brough, was played at Drury Lane Theatre on the 25th July, 1860, for the benefit of the widow and children of Robert Brough, one of the authors. The cast was as follows: Ariel, Miss Kate Terry, (then in the height of her popularity); Ferdinand, Mrs. Alfred Mellon (Miss Woolgar); Miranda, Miss Fanny Stirling (a daughter of Mrs. Stirling, her first appearance on the stage); Caliban, Mr. F. Talfourd; Alonzo, Mr. George Cruikshank; Prospero, Mr. Leicester Buckingham; and Trinculo, by the writer of this note.”
Mr. Moy Thomas followed up this letter by stating that:—
“Mr. Burnand and has unearthed in the British Museum library an acting copy of Davenant and Dryden’s version of the “Tempest; or the Enchanted Isle,” which he will probably expound for the benefit of readers in an early number of Punch. Sir Walter Scott’s account of this piece is perhaps worth transcribing here:—‘It seems probable that Dryden furnished the language, and Davenant the plan, of the new characters introduced. They do but little honour to his invention, although Dryden has highly extolled it in his preface. The idea of a counterpart to Shakspeare’s plot by introducing a man who had never seen a woman, as a contrast to a woman who had never seen a man, and by furnishing Caliban with a sister-monster, seems hardly worthy of the delight with which Dryden says he filled up the characters so sketched. In mixing his tints Dryden did not omit that peculiar colouring in which his age delighted. Miranda’s simplicity is converted into indelicacy…. The play seems to have succeeded to the utmost wish of the authors. It was brought out in the Duke’s house [Lincoln’s-inn-fields Theatre, November, 1667], of which Davenant was the manager, with all the splendour of scenic decoration of which he was the inventor. The opening scene was described as being particularly splendid, and the performance of the spirits with mops and mows excited general applause!’”
——:o:——
Hamlet’s Soliloquy.
No one passage from the plays of Shakespeare has been so frequently parodied, and imitated, as the celebrated Soliloquy commencing “To be, or not to be.” The following version of the original is taken from the famous Folio edition of Shakespeare’s works put forth in 1623. In addition to the quaint orthography, there are one or two verbal differences between this, and the version given in modern editions of the poet’s works; notably the expression “the poor man’s contumely,” which is now generally printed as “the proud man’s contumely:”—
Enter Hamlet.
Ham.—To be, or not to be, that is the Question:
Whether ’tis Nobler in the minde to suffer
The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune,
Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleepe
No more; and by a sleepe, to say we end
The Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockes
That Flesh is heyre too? ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To dye, to sleepe,
To sleepe, perchance to Dreame; I, there’s the rub,
For in that sleepe of death, what dreames may come,
When we have shuffle’d off this mortall coile,
Must give us pawse. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life;
For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time,
The Oppressors wrong, the poore man’s Contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d Love, the Lawes delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himselfe might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardles beare,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Countrey, from whose Borne
No Traveller returnes, Puzels the will,
And makes us rather beare those illes we have,
Than flye to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hew of Resolution
Is sicklied o’re, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard their Currants turne away,
And loose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The faire Ophelia? Nimph, in thy Orizons
Be all my sinnes remembred.
The Tragedie of Hamlet.
——:o:——
Amongst the announcements for April, 1846, in George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack appeared the following:—
April.
The Shakespeare Jubilee Festival will be celebrated at the “Only National Theatre” on the 23rd, with the following performances:—
The Grand Opera of ‘Hamlet;’ the Music by Mr. Balfe; the libretto by Messrs. Shakespeare and Bunn.
From the Opera, the following song may be predicted to be sung by the first tenor, Hamlet:—
“To be, or not to be.”
“Oh say! To be, or not to be?
That is the question grave;
To suffer Fortune’s slings and darts,
Or seas of troubles brave.
To die, to sleep! perchance, to dream!—
Ay, there’s the rub! when we
Have shuffled off this mortal coil!—
To be, or not to be!
Oh! who would bear time’s whips and scorns,
The pangs of disprized love;
When he might his quietus make
By one bare bodkin’s shove?
Who would these fardels bear, unless
That bourne he could foresee,
From which no traveller returns!—
To be, or not to be!”
Arrangements will be made for the characters to promenade in the daytime full dressed, upon the top of the Portico, to the Music of the Orchestra in Beef-eaters dresses. The pageant will be very splendid.
——:o:——
To be or not to be?—that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
Vile strokes and scratches from outrageous Pens,
Or to take up Thatcher’s, ’gainst a sea of others,
And, using it, to end them? To write—with ease—
For ever! And with that ease to say we end
The headache and the thousand natural shocks
Which clerks are heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To write—with ease—
With ease! enhanced to speed! Aye, there’s the rub!
As ’tis with ease of Pen our thoughts will flow,
Now we have shuffled off that mortal toil
We cease to pause! Here’s the good Pen
That lessens the calamities of life;
For who will suffer the whips and scorns of time,
The writer’s wrongs, the schoolmaster’s contumely?
The fangs of despised Pens, cause of delays
A nuisance in an office, and the spurns
Which patient merit of Pen unworthy takes,
When he himself can his quietus make
By using Thatcher’s? Who would Gillott’s bear,
Or grunt and sweat over a Mitchell’s J,
When but the act of trying Thatcher’s Pen,
That well-discovered luxury, from which boon
No traveller will turn, puzzles no will,
And makes us cease to bear the ills we had—
To write with comfort, which we knew not of?
As knowledge should make wise men of us all,
Then let the native hue of resolution
Stick fast no more, ’til this good Pen is sought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this resolve their currents turn or glide
The Pen, the spring, of action!
Shakespen.
This trade Parody was written by Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol.
——:o:——
The following Parody appeared originally in Punch, February 9, 1884, and was afterwards reprinted, without the slightest acknowledgement, in a silly little pamphlet entitled “The Burlesque of Liberal Government,” published by Stoneham, of Cheapside, in 1884. It referred to Sir William Vernon Harcourt’s proposals to reform the abuses in the government of the Metropolis:—
Irresolution.
Scene—The Home Office—Tables covered with huge heaps of official returns, from the Corporation, the Metropolitan Board of Works, and the Thirty-Eight Districts of the Metropolis.
The Home Secretary discovered, looking weary and worn. He throws himself back in his uneasy chair, and soliloquises—
To be, or not to be, that is the question;—
Whether ’tis better for awhile to suffer
The harmless follies of the Corporation;
Or to bring on myself a sea of troubles,
Much easier raised than ended? To pass my Bill,—
No more: and by a Bill, to say we end
The headache, and the thousand natural worries
That place is heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d? To pass my Bill;—
To pass! perchance to fail;—ay, there’s the rub!
And in that fierce debate what Cads will come,
When they have shuffled much in that turmoil,
And give me their paws! There’s the respect
That makes calamity of my bored life;
For who would bear the patronage of Firth,
The oppressive candour of that proud man Beale,
The pangs of chaffing Dilke, Selborne’s delay,
The insolence of Chamberlain, and the spurns
My patient merit of the Premier takes,
When he himself might peace and quiet make
By mere inaction? Who would boredom bear,
To groan and sweat under official life,
But that the thought of doing something great—
That undiscovered thing, that seldom comes
To poor Home Secretaries—urges me on,
Though I would rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that I know not of?
Thus, too, sharp Londoners, poor cowards all,
May think—if so, I pall in resolution.
My enterprise, though of great pith and moment,
Which none regard, and which seems all awry,
Loses the name of action.
“Messrs. Chatto and Windus—Heaven bless them for their generosity!—sent me the other day a copy of Mark Twain’s new book, ‘Huckleberry Finn.’ The book is an extremely funny book; but, for all that, I couldn’t make out why it was sent to me until I came upon an entirely new reading of Hamlet’s soliliquy. Messrs. C. and W. evidently wish me to say, and I do so with great pleasure, that Mr. Mark Twain’s new reading is at least as original, and very much more entertaining, than the new readings with which we are nowadays so constantly inundated. Let readers judge for themselves:”
To be or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,
But that the fear of something after death
Murders the innocent sleep,
Great nature’s second course,
And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune
Than fly to others that we know not of.
There’s the respect must give us pause:
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The law’s delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take,
In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn
In customary suits of solemn black,
But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns,
Breathes forth contagion on the world,
And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage,
Is sicklied o’er with care,
And all the clouds that lowered o’er our housetops,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia;
Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws,
But get thee to a nunnery—go!
Carados.
The Referee, Dec. 21, 1884.
——:o:——
Soliloquy on Speculation.
To act, or not to act, that is the question?
Whether ’tis better for the purse to suffer,
The stocks and shares to fall without a “spec”
Or to proceed against this sea of bubbles
And venture a transaction? To bull, to bull
No more; but by a bear to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
The “House” is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To bear—to sell
To bear—watch settling day! ay—there’s the rub
For in that sale of stock what wealth may come
Ay, marry and go, if we bear not in mind,
We must buy back.—There’s the respect.
That makes a bubble stock of so long life
For who would bull, who now can see the past,
Directors deeds and chairmen’s soft smooth words;
The pangs of broken faith, the laws delay
The insolence of office, and the spurns,
Impatient shareholders are forced to take,
When he himself might a large fortune make,
With a “Bear Broker”? Who would railways bull
To grunt and sweat as each account comes round,
But for the hope that things may take a turn
That “Boards” may learn a lesson from the “Times”
And travellers increase—puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than bear the stocks and shares we know not of.
Thus fear of risk makes cowards of us all,
And thus the bull’s enticing dream of hope
Is sicklied o’er with the misdeeds of Boards.
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard, their interest turn awry,
And cause us doubt in action.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
To the L. H. A. S. T. M.—“I have the honour to announce that, as an earnest searcher after truth, my recent efforts have been rewarded beyond my most sanguine expectations. To the subscriber has been accorded the distinguished honour of being the medium of exposing to the world a literary gem, which, under other auspices, would probably never have seen the light; and mankind would have remained in utter ignorance of the great treasure herewith reproduced for the delectation of the S. T. M.’s. Those distinguished archæologists and Biblicists exhumed the original manuscript from beneath the corner-stone of the first Solomonial edifice; therefore its authenticity and antiquity are indubitable, while the sound philosophy, immense depth of thought and convincing logic, reminds us of the divine Shakespeare. Let it speak for itself.”
Bricks, Jr.
Pome—Fragment.
Hemlock, Prince of Dunkirk.
Hemlock (solus)—To affiliate, or not to affiliate, that is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and taunts of official lunkheads
Or to take up arms against their petty torments
And, by opposing, end them. To affiliate—to disburse
No more—and by disbursing, to say we end
The contemptuous glances and the frowning looks
That non-affiliation brings us, ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To be willing to pay—to be proposed—
To be proposed; perchance to be rejected. Ay, there’s the rub,
For, in that rejection, what heart-burnings, what bitter
thoughts may come when the finger points—unworthy!
Must give us pause. There’s the consideration
That produces doubt and misgiving,
For who would bear the whips and scorn of temporizers
The pains and penalties of Section Forty-two—
The deprivation of visitation—the interment
Prohibited—the funeral interdicted—the Charity
Recalled—that great channel through which
God passes all his mercy upon mankind;
The insolence of office-holding rings, and sich,
When he himself might be relieved by disbursing
“Four dollars and nine-shilling”—but for a knowledge
That a lust for power (precursor of dissolution) the ambition
Which with haughty tread doth trample Charity in the dust,
While judgment, directed by circumspection,
Hath taken wings and flown to parts unknown,
To know our offerings at Charity’s shrine are diverted
To organs grand, and gorgeous halls,
Services of plate, banquets grand, and the pendant liquids
And ten thousand other reasons, which salary lists proclaim,
Make us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to those we know too much of.
——:o:——
Paterfamilias as Hamlet.
Ham.—To bake, or not to bake, that is the question:—
Whether ’tis better for ourselves to make
Digestive, light, sweet, wholesome home-made bread;
Or to take in tradesmen’s loaves against our sense,
And, nothing heeding, eat them?—To eat—eat what?—
The trough’s abominations without end:
The cockroach! a thousand unnatural things
The bakehouse teems with,—’tis adulteration
Devoutly to be shun’d. Impure? Or pure?
’Praps pure! perchance impure:—ay, there’s the rub;
For in this loaf of bread what dirt may come
From unclean baker at his midnight toil,
Must give us pause: There’s the respect
That takes all relish from the staff of life:
For who that reads his Lancet, or his Times,
Would eat this stuff the baker sends, contentedly,
Knowing full well from analysts’ reports
And sanitary officers’ returns,
The noisome mysteries of the baker’s art,
When he himself bread, cakes, and scones may make
With Borwick’s Baking Powder?
Funny Folks, December, 1883.
——:o:——
Hamlet’s Soliloquy on the Turkish Bath.
Scene—Opposite the Turkish Bath, West Street, Brighton.
Ham.—To bathe, or not to bathe,—that is the question;
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer
The aches and pangs of disordered nature,
Or to take baths against a sea of troubles
And by so doing end them? To strip—to sweat,
No more; and, by a roast, to say we end
The headache, and a thousand natural ills
That flesh is heir to,—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To strip,—to sweat:—
To sweat! and be shampooed:—aye, there’s the rub;
For in that heat such evils may remove
We need not shuffle off this mortal coil,
But save our lives. ’Tis this experience
That makes so many take the Turkish Bath;
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The consumptive’s cough, the fat man’s obesity,
The pangs of dyspepsia, or Bright’s disease,
The torturings of asthma, or the woes
That Alcohol upon the inebriate brings,
When he himself might his deliverance take
With a bare body? Who would rheumatism bear,
And grunt and groan under a weary life?
But that an ignorance of Turkish baths,
Those re-discovered pleasures, unto which
Wise travellers return, doth still prevail,
And makes us tamely bear those ills we have,
Heedless of remedies that we know not of.
Thus ignorance oft makes wretches of us all;
And thus the native hue of health and vigour
Is sicklied o’er with the pallor of disease.
But thus, I ween, it shall not be with me;
The good I know, and oft have tried, again
I will embrace. Clerk, in thy dressing rooms
Hast thou a place for me?
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Seasonable Soliloquy.
To Bee, or not to Bee, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous spelling,
Or to take arms ’gainst orthographic troubles,
And, by the Dictionary, end them!
——:o:——
A Pugilistic Soliloquy.
To box, or not to box? That is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous passions,
Or to take heart, like Humphreys and Mendoza,
And, by opposing, end them. To strip, to bare,
No more! and by this movement, say we end
The heart-ache, and a thousand galling jeers
The passive’s heir to;—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To strip—to square—
To fight;—perchance be beat:—aye, there’s the rub!
For by that daring step, what blows may come,
When we have shuffled off our coats and shirts,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect,
That makes this diffidence of so long life;
For who would bear the taunts and sneers o’ the mob,
The pangs of being unknown, and fame’s delay,
The porter’s wrongs, the coal heaver’s contumely
The ins’lence of profession, and the spurns
That patient merit of the pug’list takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a well-planted blow? Who’d reproaches bear,
To fret and fume beneath a doubtful state,
But that a dread of something on the Stage,
(The undetermin’d trial, from whose bourne
Earle ne’er returned,) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
This fear of drubbing makes us cowards all;
And thus the wish of native resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear,
And the skill’d manœuvres in each well-graced ring,
With this respect their profits turn away,
And lose the fame of boxing.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Electors of Barrhead, by 570 to 317, have gone against erecting their town into a Burgh. Coatbridge, with a population of 20,000 or 30,000, is also agitating on this subject. Saltcotians are meantime deeply interested in the question—and the struggle between the burgh and anti-burgh party, as must always be the case when the powers of dirt and darkness, and light and cleanliness, come into collision with each other, promises to be a keen one. According to a native residing in Glasgow, “Insider” ruminates and thus soliloquises:—
“Insider’s” Soliloquy.
(With apologies to the shade of Shakespeare.)
Burgh, or No-Burgh—that’s the question:—
Whether ’tis nobler in the town to suffer
The gibes and scorn of all who visit it;
Or to become a Burgh, and so end,
Once and for ever end them?—Being then
A Burgh, it will end its dirt and darkness,
Ruin and danger.—’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To be a Burgh!
Perchance to pay a tax;—ay, there’s the rub;
For in that tax what shillings we may pay,
When we have wakened from our old-world sleep,
Must give us pause; there’s the respect
That makes our slothfulness of so long life:
For who would bear to walk, with fear and care,
Adown the ruined Quay, or try to gain,
O’er heaps of broken walls, the sandy shore;
Or pick his steps in the dim-lighted streets,
Through muddy holes and ancient filthiness,
When he himself his safety might ensure
By voting for the Burgh? Who would bear
To see his native town a laughing stock;
But that the thought of something afterwards—
The dread of Burgh taxes, which may grow
Greater each year—puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of;
Thus does our greediness become our bane;
And thus, to save our purses, we oppose
The Burgh movement; for we fondly hope
To dupe the working men, and frighten all
Who love their purses better than their health,
And lapse into our old inaction.
The Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald, February, 1884.
——:o:——
The Weekly Dispatch Parody Competition, No. 197.
The prize of two guineas for the best original parody of Hamlet’s soliloquy, with reference to the Suez Canal question, was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, 96, Gore Road, Victoria Park, for the following:—
Gladstone’s Soliloquy.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis prudent for the House to suffer
The fierce, protracted, venomous discussion,
Or to shake off the coils of this agreement,
And for the present waive it? To win: to lose
What more? entail defeat and ne’er regain
The faith, esteem, and people’s confidence
That we are used to, ’tis humiliation
Liberals must avoid. To win, to lose;
To lose the love of France: ay, there’s the rub;
For with that loss of love what may arise
When we’ve insulted her, and can’t retract,
Must give us pause; there is the chance
To shake our alliance of so long time.
And who would have to bear the blame of all?
The enormous loan, the widespread disapproval,
The present shareholders, the law against us,
The snubs when out of office, and the hate
Of all our vast commercial agencies,
When he in time can extricate himself
Without a blemish? Who would these risks incur
To put the test under an adverse fire,
But with the hope that some good may arise?
The overgrowing country from whose shores
The mariner departs, enters the mind
And makes us rather look ahead to-day
Than lie asleep whilst others claim the palm.
Yet second thoughts are wiser, after all;
And thus my former full determination
Gives way before the strong opposing force;
The enterprise, though great and costly also,
I still regard, but now must turn away
Amidst dissatisfaction.
The four following parodies, on the same topic, were also printed:—
To yield, or not to yield; that is the question;
Whether ’tis wiser that my party bear
The jeers and scoffings of the Tory rabble,
Or to stand bravely ’gainst their blust’ring onset,
And by opposing beat them? To vote; to win;
No more; and by a vote to say we end
The torture and the thousand natural fears
That we are heirs to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To vote, to win;
To win: perchance to fail; ay, there’s the rub;
For in that dread event what woes may come
When we are left in thin minority,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of party life;
For who would bear Sir Stafford’s taunting smile,
Cynic Cecil’s chuckle, country’s contumely,
The pangs of sore defeat, the law’s delay,
Conservatives in office, and the spurns
That fallen power from parasites must take,
When I myself can calm commotion’s roar
With my well-known talent? Who would office bear,
To toil and legislate for thankless men,
But that the fear of Tories gaining pow’r,
Those owl-tongued peace-disturbers from whose tongues
No sound but hate can come, puzzles the will
And makes us bear content the ills we have
Than risk the presence of a Jingo curse?
Thus consequence makes cowards of us all;
And thus my native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And my pet project of a Suez Canal,
With this regard its current fails to take;
Let Northcote take his action.
Aramis.
Canal, or no canal: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The wrath of shipowners who’d mend their fortune,
Or take upon us more Egyptian troubles,
And by “investing” vex them? To spend; to spout;
No more; and by a “vote” to say we’ll end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That greed is heir to. Is this a consummation
Devoutly to be wished? To vote, to lend;
Perchance to lose eight millions; there’s the rub;
For in this loan of ours what loss may come
Ere we would shuffle off responsibility,
There’s time to pause: there’s the respect,
That makes “annexing” fruitful of long strife;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of foes,
The oppressor’s wrong, the victor’s contumely,
The pangs of despised race, their rights’ delay,
The insolence of conquest, and the spurns,
The patient fellah (fellow) of the unkindly takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bayonet? Should we burdens bear,
To pay stockjobbers and their risks to share,
But that the hope of something afterwards,
The undiscovered but expected boon,
The speculator’s rich return, pleases the will
And makes us rash to dare this foreign venture,
And buy up “shares” we have no warrant of.
Thus Mammon does make victims of us all;
And thus our native, honest resolution
Is weakened e’er by greedy thought of gain,
And enterprises of more pith and moment
We disregard, their currents turn awry,
And thus we lose the means of nobler action.
F. Beaumont Cottier.
To dig, or not to dig; that’s what doth pest one:
Whether ’tis wiser on our part to offer
Eight millions—and it is no narrow fortune—
Or fold our arms because we see these troubles,
And end the din of words? To pause: to take our chance;
E’en so; and by the act to say we’re sick
Of all the bosh men talk; and to hear more
We cannot bear to. ’Twere a realisation
That must please us. To pause, to take our chance;
To take our chance; perhaps be fooled; ay, that’s the point;
For in the Frenchmen’s hand what cards may come
When he alone doth shuffle them! He’d spoil
For us the game. He can’t expect
We’ll cease, for love of amity, from strife;
For who would bear, forsooth, for so long time,
The outrageous wrong, the proud man’s triumphing,
The being beat, the excessive dues to pay,
The chaff of grinning Frenchmen, and the sneers
That easy John Bull far too often brooks,
When we ourselves may our conditions make,
Nor do an odd thing? Who would knuckle down,
And pay the piper as we’re asked to do,
But that the dread of being talked to death,
A fate to be discovered none too soon
As hanging over us, quite makes us ill,
And makes us rather rest with what we have
Than try to get what others owe not of?
Thus love of quiet doth make noodles of us all:
And thus, though we discern rare elocution,
We fickly fail, alas! so to be taught,
One criticises till there comes a moment
When we can have no finger in the pie,
And all through our inaction.
T. M. Dron.
To pay, or not to pay: that was the question;
Whether ’twas best with one canal to suffer,
And trade to harass for the Frenchman’s fortune,
Or to take heart ’gainst this canal of troubles,
A scheme propose, and end them? To make it deep;
Nay, more; both wide and deep is, p’r’aps, a way to end
And obviate the thousand natural blocks
That ships declare to. ’Tis hallucination,
And scarcely to be wished, to try and keep
As ’tis, perchance, this stream where vessels rub;
For with increase of trade what ships may come
When we have shuffled off this monstrous toll?
Now let us pause: there’s the respect
We yield Lesseps, his useful and long life,
Who bore for this the scorns of other times,
His opponents’ wrong, the proud “Pam’s” contumely,
The pangs of jealous hate: the long delays,
The insolence of scoffers and the turns
The patient Frenchman saw this project take,
While he his channel still successful made—
Unlike Sir Watkin! Oh, if ’twas hard to bear
The grudged four millions during Dizzy’s life
(That give but doubtful ’vantage since his death),
An undiscovered boon from which we get
No adequate returns, this puzzle o’ Will’s
Would make us rather bear the tolls we have
Than strive for others at so vast a price?
Thus caution does make now our statesmen pause;
And thus was fated soon this resolution;
For, sicklied o’er with the pale cast of cost,
This enterprise who could hold with a moment?
In this regard ’twas bound to turn awry,
Or lose the nation’s sanction.
Leonard Harding.
The Weekly Dispatch, August 5, 1883.
——:o:——
By an Attorney.
To cheat or not to cheat, that is the question;
Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer
The stings and gnawings of a troubled conscience,
Or bravely spurn corruptions gilded baits,
And, by rejecting, ’scape ’em? To cheat, to need
No more; and by such gain, to say we end
The thousand hardships which the poor man seems
To be born heir to; ’tis a consummation
Too often wished by us; to cheat unseen
To cheat—perchance be caught; ay, there’s the rub;
For by discovery what shame may come
When we have lost the necessary mask,
Must give us pause; there is the respect
That makes dishonesty embitter life:
For who would bear the gibes and taunts of men,
The oppressed’s curse, the good man’s contumely,
The pangs of unpaid fees, the laws severity
In taxing bills, and the harsh reprimands
That merit often to th’unworthy gives,
When he in peace might his quietus make
On a poor farm. Who would long parchments write,
And scrawl and pause amidst a heap of nonsense?
But that the dread of ghastly poverty,
Whose horrid visage, like the Gorgon’s head,
No mortal dares behold, startles the mind
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than suffer others that we dread far worse.
Thus avarice makes rascals of us all,
And thus the comely face of honesty,
Is tarnished o’er by ill-designing knaves,
Who toil among the labyrinths of law,
In search of matter to perplex mankind
And leave the paths of wisdom.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Hamlet on the Situation.
(Perplexed Premier Ponders.)
Clôture, or no Clôture? That is the question:—
Whether ’tis better, on the whole, to suffer
The waste and worry of malign obstruction,
Or to take arms against the plague of spouters,
And, by mouth-closing, foil them. To rise—to vote—
No more; and, by a vote, to find we end
The boredom and the thousand Warton “blocks”
The Session’s heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To rise—to vote—
To vote! Perchance to gag. Ay, there’s the rub;
For from that Vote what tyranny may come,
When we have wriggled from Obstruction’s coil
Must give us pause. There’s the consideration
That makes endurance of so long a life.
For who would bear the quips and quirks of Bartlett,
Tart Biggar’s tongue, O’Donnell’s contumely,
The gibes of gadfly Gorst, Warton’s delay,
The cheek of callow Churchill, and the spurns
That patient Forster of rude Healy takes,
When he to them might their quietus give
With a bare majority? Who’d night sittings bear,
To yawn and faint for twenty weary hours,
But that the fear of after-hurt to freedom—
That glory of our country, whose wide bourn
No Liberal would limit, clogs the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we may not measure.
Thus caution does make cowards of us all;
And thus the Statesman’s native resolution,
Is hampered by the cobweb coils of doubt,
And politicians of great pith and prowess,
From this reform their faces turn aside,
Dreading the name of—Clôture.
Punch, February 4, 1882.
——:o:——
To come! or not to come? That’s the question!
Whether it is better to take French leave,
Or to obey the calls of an outrageous audience,
And by appearing end them? To come! to speak! no more;
And by that speech to say, I thank ye for this crowded house.
This is a consummation devoutly to be wished.
To come! to speak! to speak, perchance to stick;
Aye, there’s the rub, for after this final speech,
I wish those dreams may come,
When I have shuffled off this mimic toil,
That tell me I have merited your applause.
There’s the respect that makes the memory
Of your favours of so long life;
For who would strut, and rehearse long parts,
To groan and sweat under some worrying manager,
But that the dread of a bad benefit,
An empty theatre, from whose pit and boxes
No profits are returned—puzzles the pocket,
And makes us rather keep those shin-plasters we have,
Than fly to dollars that we know not of;
Thus interest does make converts of us all,
And thus my resolution to leave New York
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And though my speech is not quite pithy at this moment,
As on the East River’s current I do turn away,
Your kindness I’ll remember, till I lose the name of Finn.
Henry J. Finn.
——:o:——
Compromise or no compromise, that is—one must of course quote from Hamlet just now—the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind—I mean the Marquis—to suffer the Franchise Bill to pass, or to take arms against the Commons, and, by opposing, end the Lords—or mend them. To speak, to vote—no more; and by a vote to end the heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks their Lordships have of late received. To vote, perchance to lose the day. Ay, there’s the rub; for in that loss what——? But it’s quite impossible to go on any longer in this strain. In fact, the strain’s too much. Perhaps it will prove too much for his Lordship. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!
Funny Folks, Nov. 1, 1884.
——:o:——
Whether Married Ladies Ought to Dance?
To dance, or not to dance: that is the question:
Whether ’tis better in the matron to avoid
The turns and whirls of an outrageous waltz,
And to take arms against the steps of ball-rooms,
And by opposing, shirk them? To skip; to whirl;
No more. And for a dame to say, she’ll not thus end
The day, and all the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—it is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To skip—to whirl—
To reel; perchance to fall: ay! there’s the rub;
For in that fall what sad mishaps may come,
If not to shuffle off her mortal coil,
Must give her pause. Then to reflect—
Whether a dance is necessary to her life
Why should she bear the wheels and turns of time
The orchestra inflicts, her partner’s impetuosity,
The pangs of dissipated time, the late hours’ delay,
The rotation of the ball-room, and the chills
That she may feel, when she departure takes,
When she herself might her quietus make
By her own fireside? Who would fardels bear,
And puff and stew under a gas-lit roof,
Did she not think there’s something pleasant there—
Some undiscover’d measure, from whence to charm
With renew’d returns, puzzles the will
And makes her bear the pills and draughts,
Or fly to other drugs she knows not of?
So conscience may cause refrain from all
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sickled o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And entertainments of great glare and moment,
With less regard, the current of her thoughts
May turn away, and lose the name of action.
The Swan’s Ghost (Second Appearance).
Judy, December 13, 1871.
——:o:——
Hamlet in a State of Liquor.
To drink, or not to drink, that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler for a man to suffer
The desperate longings of outrageous thirst,
Or take up the bottle against a sea of troubles,
And by drinking, end them? To drink—to
Stagger—no more, and by a fall to say we get
Headache, and the thousand natural shocks
Which the drunkard is heir to.—’Tis a
Consummation devoutly to be dreaded!
To fall—to sleep perchance—and waken
In the station-house! Aye! there’s the rub!
For in that drunken scene what falls, what
Bruises, what fines from the Mayor may come
When we have shuffled off the Jailer
Should well be pondered.—
There’s the cause that makes the drunkard’s
So short a life. For who would bear
The jeers and scorns of men; the employer’s
Wrong; the sober men’s contumely; the pang
Of rejected love; the uncertainty of office;
And the spurns that patient sobriety to inebriates
Gives, when he himself might his life prolong
By taking “the pledge?” Who would then
“Mint Juleps” drink, to reel and totter
Into a dirty gutter? When the dread of something
After one gets home, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather throw the spirits
That we have away! than fly
To a wife’s angry spirits we know too well of.
Thus whisky does make drunkards of us all
Who lack the native hue of resolution;
And man’s nose is sicklied o’er with the red cast
Of drink! and all his limbs
Their motions turn awry,
And lose their power of—Equilibrium.
American Paper.
——:o:——
To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to suffer
The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,
Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic,
And by imbibing, end it? To drink—to sleep—
To snore; and, by a snooze, to say we end
The headache, and the morning’s parching thirst,
That drinking’s heir to;—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink—to pay—
To pay the waiter’s bill? Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that snipe-like bill a stop may come,
When we would shuffle off our mortal score,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes sobriety of so long date;
For who could bear to hear the glasses ring
In concert clear—the chairman’s ready toast,
The pops of out-drawn corks—the “hip hurrah!”
The eloquence of claret—and the songs
Which often through the noisy revel break,
When a man might his quietus make
With a full bottle? Who would sober be,
Or sip weak coffee through the livelong night;
But that the dread of being laid upon
That stretcher by policemen borne, on which
The reveller reclines,—puzzles me much,
And makes me rather tipple gingerbeer,
Than fly to brandy, or to Hodge’s gin,
Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men.
X. X. Teetotaller.
Punch, October 30, 1841.
——:o:——
Enter Hamlet (advances thoughtfully to front,
and produces a bottle, labelled “Old Tom.”)
To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.
Whether ’tis better to let cares infest one,
And put up with misfortunes, such as are
A wicious mother and a poison’d Pa,—
Or, with this pocket pistol to my brain,
Plunge in Blue Ruin the Blue Devil’s train!
To drink—to feel with each successive “go”
Some pang depart, till Hope alone doth glow,
As in Pandora’s reticule—the plan
Looks a good opening for a nice young man!
So easy too—to drink, to sleep, to dream—
There’s more in that though than at first doth seem;
For I have heard the restless toper knows
(When he has shuffled off his bed the clothes)
Nocturnal horrors! Spirits, floor’d by day,
Rise up in vengeance, and assert their sway:—
Some grin like gurgoyles; like night-mares infest
His sleep, and chaff him; some upon his breast
Dance endless Polkas; some fan fever’s flame,—
Vex him with thirst, and of his thirst make game;
Bring Schweppe’s ic’d waters to his dreaming gaze—
Just to his mouth the claret cup they raise—
And while, like Tantalus, he may not sip,
Cool lumps of “Wenham” bob against his lip!
——I will not drink! No bottle imp shall make
Of me a Sponge, and then a Tipsy Cake.
Yet I’ve a deed to do, and need to prime,
Like a mild lover at the “popping” time;
Like cockney fox-hunter of lily heart,
Who needs the jumping-powder ere he start;
Like the dread toothache’s victim, ere he try
The artist who can draw on ivory;
Like waking men who find, that over-night
They’ve lost a sum, ’tis not convenient quite
To pay; or those by whose bed-side doth stand
The punctual Second, pistol-case in hand!
Like—Soft, she comes, I must feign mad a-while;
If the cook flirts, the goose is sure to spile.
From Hamlet Travestie, a clever Burlesque in two acts, written by a son of the late Serjeant Talfourd, and published by J. Vincent, of Oxford, in 1849.
——:o:——
To dun, or not to dun? That is the question!
Whether ’tis better that the purse should suffer
For lack of cash, by baneful emptiness,
Or by a gentle dun to fill it up?
To dun—to be denied—denied with “call again;”
Ah! there’s the rub! for in that “call again”
What evils come—what disappointment sore—
Chagrin and woe; what time is wasted?
What shoes are worn, in consequence,
Must give us pain.
’Tis this that makes so many debts not worth collecting;
’Tis this which sickens business to despair,
And keeps from honest labour its reward!
While thus in language of complaint we speak,
We dont forget our many many friends;
To them our gratitude we owe,
To them our gratitude we freely pay;
Buoyed by their kindness, still our bark shall sail,
Enjoy the pleasing calm—
Nor dread the boist’rous gale.
The Mirror, July 19, 1823.
——:o:——
An Apropos Soliloquy.
By a Girl of the Period.
To dye, or not to dye, that is the question:—
“Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer”
Th’ outrageous colour of Dame Nature born,
The very “head and front of my offending”
Against the fiat of chameleon Fashion,
Or summon Art to aid me? Shall I end
This heart-ache by the “hazard of a dye”
That Fashion dooms my hair to?—Dye:—a wash:—
No more:—Poison, perhaps? ay, that’s the rub
To bring paralysis: the ‘harmless wash’
With lead and sulphur, from the depths profound
Of Acheron, is loaded: and who knows
But when I shuffle off last season’s coil,
And tone the little hair I call my own
To match my latest chignon’s altered hue,
Disease in my ‘frizzettes’ may lurk unseen,
Stride my back-comb, or stalk with cat-like tread
Along the parting? Let me pause, and think
How much respect to chemistry be due—
For who would bear the sneers and up-turned nose
Of female friend, the criticising eye
Of street-cad,—when (as all the papers tell)
She can herself the remedy procure
For thirteen stamps—but that a hazy dread
Of something that may happen cramps the will,
And knowledge makes a coward of the purse?
’Tis too much proved:—yet I obey thy call,
Stern mother of invention! Truefitt, in thy orisons
Be all my fears remembered.
The Tomahawk, January 30, 1869.
——:o:——
A Midsummer Night’s Soliloquy.
A flea or not a flea? that is the question:
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer
The stings and arrows of this insect torture,
Or to take arms against the flea that troubles,
And, by well squeezing, end him. I’ll try to sleep
Once more, and in that sleep I may some rest
In part take, and forget the thousand shocks
My flesh is bare to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. I’ll try to sleep
A sleep without a dream, (Oh, there’s a rub!)
Yet in that sleep of mine what fleas may come,
When this perchance has ceased his awful toil,
And fill their maws! There’s the respect
That keeps me wide awake through all the night,
Oh! did I bear a whip, ’twould be no crime
To work the oppressor’s wrong. For who would bear
The pangs of flea-bit nose, what people say
The insolence of scoffers, and the turns
Which, all impatient, through the night he takes,
When he himself could his quietus make
Could he but catch his foe? Who would bear
Candles, and sweat under a weary search,
And set, perhaps, the bed-clothes in a blaze,
And thereby haply reach that burn from which
No traveller returns? Puzzle who will,
I’d rather bear this single flea I have
Than wake up others that I know not of;
My conscience tells me ’tis a coward’s thought.
Another bite! Another resolution!
Without avail is further waste of thought.
Thus from my couch uprise I in a moment,
With swift regard the bed-clothes turned awry,
And take the field of action.
James Robinson.
The Weekly Dispatch, September 26, 1880
——:o:——
Ophelia’s Version.
To go, or not to go, that is the question
Whether ’tis nobler in the maid, to share
The slights and sorrows of a faded train,
Or to take steps unto the “Tempus Sale,”
And, by a purchase, end them? To go,—to buy,
No more; and at a glance to find I end
The heartache, and the thousand horrid rents
My dress is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To go—to buy,
To buy! perchance too much; aye, there’s the rub;
For in that Sale of Sales, what dreams may come,
When I have shuffled off this wretched robe
Must give me pause: Still there’s the ancient dress
That marks gentility in well-worn silk,—
Yet who would bear the flaunts and scorns of Kate,
The Mantua Maker’s grief, Pall Mall’s contumely,
The pangs of last year’s shade, the Christmas bills.
The insolence of duns, and the spurns
That Modistes give to the impecunious,
If I myself might a sensation make
With a cash purchase? Who would old garments wear
And weep and pine under a withered life,
But that the dread of what Papa may say,
The library’s scold, that always
Leaves me sad, puzzles my will;
And makes me rather wear the dress I have,
Than try on others that I wot of?
Thus credit does make cowards of us all;
And thus the natural cash transaction
Is sicklied o’er by the pale cast of thought;
And purchases of great value and amount
With this regard are nearly turned awry.
Yet this once I must—Parker, now!
A cab!
An Advertisement in The Daily News, February 1, 1878
——:o:——
A Dental Soliloquy.
To have it out or not? that is the question—
Whether ’tis better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth,
Or to take steel against a host of troubles;
And, by extracting, end them? To pull—to tug!
No more; and by a tug to say we end
The tooth-ache, and a thousand natural ills
The jaw is heir to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished? To pull—to tug!
To tug—perchance to break! Ay, there’s the rub
For in that wrench what agonies may come,
When we have half-dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife’s nostrum, dentist’s contumely,
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep’s delay
The insolence of pity, and the spurns
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make,
For two-and-sixpence? Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat beneath a load of pain?
But that the dread of something lodged within
The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs
No jaw at ease returns!—puzzles the will,
And makes it rather bear the ills it has
Than fly to others that it knows not of.
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all—
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear;
And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turn away,
Scared at the name of dentist.
C. A. W.
From Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, April 29, 1837.
——:o:——
The Gent’s Soliloquy.
To hiss, or not to hiss, that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in a gent to suffer
The ten-act plays of Alexandre Dumas;
Or to take arms against a troupe of Frenchmen,
And by opposing, smash them? To shout—to row—
No more; and, by a row, to say we end
This Monte Christo, which so strangely shocks
The blush I’m heir to;—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To shout; to row;—
To row! and go to Quod?—ay, there’s the rub
For if that be the case, what fine may come
Next day, for kicking up this great turmoil,
Must give us pause; there’s the respect
That makes these foreigners of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and spurs of the Cirque
Franconi’s stud within Old Drury’s walls,
The jokes of foreign clowns, and all they say,
Their insolence in coming, which, in turn,
These fresh arrivals do but imitate,
When he himself might a quietus make
With a mere cat-call? Who would quietly sit,
And nothing understand of ten long acts,
But that the dread of something after quod—
That well-discovered country, from whose bourn
The van so oft removes,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear this foreign trash
Than walk to Bow-street, ’twixt two New Police!
Thus Jardine does make cowards of us all;
And thus our stock in trade of resolution
Goes oozing out at his most dreaded name;
And all our plans and projects, in a moment,
From great regard for it are all my eye,
And, what’s more—Betty Martin.
The Puppet Show June 24, 1848.
(The production of Mr. Alexandre Dumas’ Drama, Monte Christo by the French Company of the Theâtre Historique, at Drury Lane Theatre, gave rise to most discreditable scenes of disorder, owing to the jealousy then felt of foreign dramatic talent.)
——:o:——
The Hunter’s Soliloquy.
To hunt, or not to hunt? that is the question—
Whether ’tis prudent in the soul to suffer
The pangs of self denial, or to urge
With enthusiastic rage and bold defiance
The rapid chase;—to hunt—to ride—
No more, and by that ride to say we fly
From thought, that canker-worm to gay desires,
From cares that feed upon the lamp of life.
’Tis a fruition devoutly to be wished,
To hunt—to ride—to ride? perchance to fall;
Ay, there’s the rub—
For in the mad pursuit what falls may come,
When ev’ry hound each hardy sinew strains,
And ev’ry breeze conveys enrapt’ring sounds,
Must give us pause!—There’s the respect
That gives the fatal blow to promis’d joys,
That taints with baleful light each blooming hope,
Who would forego this madness of delight;
Who without pain could hear a chase describ’d,
Or silent sit while others boast their feats,
When he himself might mount the neighing steed,
And urge the sprightly chase? Beneath a roof
Who would wear out the tedious, doleful day,
Oppress’d with discontent and dire remorse?
But that the dread of fall precipitate,
That unknown field, where, destitute of aid,
With shiver’d limb he haply may repent
His forward zeal and fury uncontrol’d
Puzzles the will; and makes us rather pine
In humble cell, than seek for distant joys
Where pain and death th’ advent’rous hunter wait.
But hark——
The hunter’s notes, on Zephyr’s pinion borne,
Assail my ears——
Already Phœbus gilds the mountain
Great Phœbus, patron of the hunting crew,
Propitious smile, and vanish ev’ry doubt!
The Mirror. February 8, 1823.
——:o:——
The Debtor’s Soliloquy.
After Stocktaking.
To pay, or not to pay, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the man to suffer
The duns and threats of overpressing tradesmen,
Or to take arms against a sea of bills,
And, by compounding, end them? To fail, to owe
No more,—and by that act to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand front-door knocks
A debtor’s used to:—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To fail—to smash:—
To smash, perchance to starve; ay, there’s the rub;
For in that bankruptcy what strain may come,
When we have shuffled off this coil of bills,
Must give us pause:—There’s the respect
That makes calamity of commercial life.
For who would bear the slights of those he patronises
The oppressor’s writ, the bailiff’s forced possession,
The pangs of declined credit, the lawyer’s threats,
The insolence of agents, and the frequent calls
Impatient tradesmen make to get their money
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare petition? Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat under this weary strife,
But that the dread of something after failure,—
The discontented lawyer from whose clutch
No debtor ’ere escapes,—puzzles the will;
And makes us rather hear the bills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus insolvency makes cowards of us all,
And thus the anxious heart of him who struggles on
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And shaky merchants of great name and business
With this regard some sly “arrangements” make
And lose the name of debtor.
Q. E. D.
This amusing Parody appeared in The Walsall Observer. January, 1881. It was written by Mr. F. J. Overton, of Walsall.
——:o:——
Ought a Gentleman to go Outside
an Omnibus to Oblige a Lady?
To be or not to be polite, that is the question;
Whether ’tis better in a ’bus to suffer
The torments which are ever consequent
Upon the proclamation “Full inside”;
To have your knees impress’d by tons
Of your stout neighbour’s well-drenched bombazine,
And be made a stand for her fast-dripping gamp;
Or, p’haps, a seat which, in your genteel grace,
You charitably give her half-drown’d brat,
And patiently receive the running stream
Which proves the virtues of her waterproof;
To be half-chok’d, half-suffocated
By the steam fumes, condensing as they rise,
From sodden serge and water’d silk or crape;
To bear with patience sundry visits from
The gouty foot of your aged vis-à-vis,
Envious of your one only favourite corn;
To feel just like a herring in a tub,
Or sardine, pickled and encased in oil—
To be, in short, a martyr to yourself,
Or victim of your ungentility?
Or be gallant, and, for a lady’s sake,
Deny yourself the pleasure of these woes;
Gracefully—that is, if gracefully you can,
Spite of aforesaid hindrances—yield
Your inside station to a fairer fare,
Removing to the knifeboard, there to be
The prey of downright, but more wholesome ills—
The heav’n-sent rain—not tepid drops
Reaching you second-hand, as those inside;
And as you journey on towards your home,
Find consolation in the honest thought
That you have done the very thing you ought?—
That is the question, and I solve it thus:
A man should always ride outside a ’bus.
C. B.
Gossip, May 16, 1885.
——:o:——
To Print, or not to Print.
To print, or not to print—that is the question.
Whether ’tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy,
Or send a well-wrote copy to the press,
And, by disclosing, end them? To print, to doubt
No more, and by one act to say we end
The headache, and a thousand natural shocks,
Of scribbling frenzy—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To print—to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well-bound;
To sleep perchance with Quarles. Ay, there’s the rub
For to what class a writer may be doomed,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes
Th’ unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame,
The price of conscious merit, and ’bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? who would fardels bear?
To groan and sweat under a load of wit?
But that the tread of steep Parnassus’ hill
That undiscover’d country, with whose bays
Few travellers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown
Than run the hazard to be known and damn’d.
Thus Critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sicklied o’er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprisers of great fire and spirit,
With this regard, from Murray turn away,
And lose the name of authors.
Reverend Richard Jago.
(Before 1780.)
——:o:——
To rat, or not to rat, that is the question;—
Whether ’tis safer for a Whig to suffer
The sting of conscious inconsistency;
Or to take arms against this nest of madmen,
And by opposing, leave them. To rat—to vote—
No more; and by a vote to say we’ve done
With Ireland, and the thousand natural ills
Of Dis-establishment. A consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To rat—to vote;—
To lose perchance our seat!—Ay, there’s the rub!
For from that adverse vote what griefs may come,
When we have shuffled off this party mesh,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of Whiggery;
For who would bear the whips and votes of Glyn,
Th’ oppressive Bright, proud Gladstone’s contumely,
The sneer from Tory bench, each night’s delay,
The seeking after office, and the groans
The patient member meets with when he speaks,
When he himself might their quietus make
In the wrong lobby? Who would measures hear
For which, he voting, acts an endless lie;
But that the dread of something afterwards,
The represented “county” from whose poll
No renegade returns,—puzzles the will!
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that will plague us more!
Thus interest doth make puppets of us all;
And thus the native hue of patriotism
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of “self;”
And gentlemen of sturdy truth and honour
With this regard their conscience belie,
And lose all sense of freedom.
Once a Week, May 23, 1868.
——:o:——
The Shaver’s Soliloquy.
To shave, or not to shave; the question is,
Whether ’tis better, on the human phiz,
To let accumulation of our hair
Cover the chins and lips which now are bare;
Or to continue still to scrape away
The hirsute ornament from day to day.—
To lather—shave—perchance to gash the face?
Ay, there’s the rub; for, in this latter case,
What mis’ry’s ours! ’Tis this must give us pause,
And makes us rather let alone our jaws,
Than by continuance in the bar’brous use,
Cut, scratch, and lacerate them like the deuce,
For if it actually were the case,
That Nature never meant the human face
To be so teased and tortured as it is—
If so, I say, why then what business
Have mortals virtually to cry out
That Nature knew not what she was about?
Why since the beard was evidently meant
To grow, should men be seemingly intent
On trying to prove Nature was a dunce,
And did not know her trade? Why not at once
Pluck out the eyebrows, and extract the nails,
And shave the heads of females, and of males?
Strange ’tis that men should worship fashion, so
As to be willing thus to undergo
The pains of shaving, rather than permit
Moustache and beard to grow as they think fit.
How singular that men should still delight
In torturing their faces, when they might
Themselves their comfort, ease, and health obtain
By vowing they will never shave again?
But ’tis the dread of ridicule and scorn
Makes the foul fashion easy to be borne.
Thus custom of us all doth cowards make,
And for this savage custom, then, we take
The trouble and the pains our chins to mow,
Because it is the fashion to do so.
But thus our chins will soon no more, I hope,
Be lather’d o’er with the pale suds of soap.
Soon shall moustache and beard once more on all
Our chins wag merrily, in street and hall!
Diogenes, March, 1854.
——:o:——
A Soliloquy Whilst Shaving.
To shave, or not to shave? that is the question,
Whether ’tis comfortable most to cover
One’s face all over with outrageous lather,
Or by outrageous hair, s(h)ave so much trouble,
And thus soap—pose we end it! To shave—to swear
What for? when by moustache and beard we end
The nuisance thus encouraging the locks
That flesh is hair to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To shave? To swear?
To swear! perchance, an oath—ay, there’s the rub;
For as we shave, perhaps the razor slips,
And as we barberously hack our chin,
Must we then pause; in every respect
There is calamity in such a shave.
Oh, who would bear shivering in the cold
Ten minutes long to be in misery?
The pangs of getting up, with much delay,
The razor wanting strapping, and the time
The patient shaver usually takes,
When he himself might get on very well
Without a razor?—or who would be shaved,
Tweak’d by the nose as pigs for singeing are,
To groan and sweat under the barber’s hand,
And as the dread of something happening—
A pleasant slice, perhaps, taken off one’s nose;
Of course entirely against one’s will.
It makes us rather wear the honest beard,
Than fly to barbers whom we know not of.
Thus custom makes Gorillas of us all;
Although we falter in our resolution,
As lathered over with best Windsor soap,
Expecting a severe cut every moment,
We contemplate our beard with jaundiced eye,
And so prepare for action—
Soft I vow—’tis done—Oh, feel here!
T. F. Dillon Croker.
Vagrant Leaves, Number 2.—November 1, 1866.
——:o:——
“My occupation is no more!” exclaimed Sylvester Daggerwood, on assuming the vile occupation of waiter at a country inn where, on contemplating the preparations for a parish feast he made the following complaint:
To starve, or not to starve? that is the question:—
Whether, Sylvester, thou should’st calmly bear
The yearns and gripings of internal wants,
Or take up arms against the parish treat,
And, wille nille, end it?—To eat;—to glut
Thy fill;—and, by this feast, to say thou end’st
Those cravings and the thousand rav’nous wants
That flesh is heir to—’tis an occupation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To eat;—to stuff;—
To gorge, perchance be sick! aye, there’s the rub;
For in that yearning state what pangs may come,
In easing me of superfluities,
Must make me pause:—’tis this alone
That bids me curb my longing appetite;
Else should I tamely bear fell hunger’s cries,
My stomach’s wrongs, my bowels’ piercing shrieks,
My greedy eye’s desire, the cook’s delay,
Who, insolent in office, jade-like taunts
My rav’nous appetite, that sneaking waits,
When quickly force might satisfy desire
With knife and bodkin? What all endure,
And grumbling sweat before the blazing fire,
But that the dread of sickness afterwards,
That painful operation, from whose course
No man is free, affrights my will,
And makes me rather bear those gripes I feel,
Than fly to such as might await the deed?
Thus sickness does make cowards of us all;
And thus fell resolution, arm’d by want,
Sinks, pale and coward-like, the slave of thought;
And mighty feats perform’d with knife and fork
Are left untried; so is my craving turn’d!
I lose the power of eating.——
From Rhapsodies by W. H. Ireland, London;
Longman and Rees, 1803.
[Concerning this William Henry Ireland, and his Shakespearian forgeries, it will be necessary to speak at length in some future number of Parodies, for the present it will suffice to mention that he composed a Tragedy, entitled Vortigern, which he passed off as a newly discovered work by Shakespeare. The forgery deceived some of the most learned and able critics of the day, and at length, Richard Brinsley Sheridan was prevailed upon to produce it at Drury Lane Theatre. It was only played once, on the second of April, 1796, when Mr. Kemble appeared as Vortigern, Miss Miller as Rowena, and the beautiful Mrs. Jordan as Flavia. The public, more accurate in their judgment than the critics, good humouredly laughed the piece down, and when Kemble had to speak the line:—
“And when this solemn mockery is o’er,”
the audience received it in such a manner that the fate of the tragedy was sealed. Ireland’s ingenious devices and plausible manner had convinced several learned and prominent men of the authenticity of the Shakesperian M.S.S. and, as might have been expected, when the imposition was discovered, there were many bitter caricatures and satires published at his expense. One of these, dated December 1797, is a portrait of Ireland, grasping a volume of Shakespeare, with a motto, taken from the Maid of the Mill:—
“Such cursed assurance
Is past all endurance.”
The following parody of Dryden’s celebrated Epigram on Milton, is appended; the lines were probably written by the Reverend William Mason:—
“Four forgers, born in one prolific age,
Much critical acumen did engage:
The first[30] was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d,
Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d.
The next had all the cunning of a Scot[31]
The third, invention, genius—nay, what not[32]
Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense
To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”
It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.
After Vortigern and Rowena had been once played, and the audience had testified in the most unmistakable manner their disbelief in its authenticity, and contempt for its merits, Ireland yet had the audacity to urge Sheridan and Kemble to have a second trial; Sheridan, however, dismissed him with an emphatic negative. After Ireland had left the room, Kemble said, “Well, Sir, you cannot doubt that the play is a forgery.” “Damn the fellow,” replied Sheridan, “I believe his face is a forgery, he is the most specious man I ever saw!”]
——:o:——
Old Tunbelly’s Soliloquy.
To stick to Hoy, or not—that is the question,
Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer,
The pangs and aches of golden hopes deferred;
Or, trampling on my ancient principles,
Go to the Star at once, To go—to tip the blunt,
And thus enable Jack to keep in flesh;
Nay, more, to have my way, and be revenged,
On all those scoundrel writers who have been
Maligning me; O what a glorious day!
What would I give to see it? To go—to win—
To win—perchance to lose—aye, that’s the job—
For if we win, who cares for all they say,
Of rats, and bribes, and Elephants wild and tame,
And Kingsland “little affairs,” but if we lose—
And lose we may, in spite of all my weight—
What I shall do, after the poll is o’er
Should be considered now, and ere I go
Must give me pause. There’s Hoy, I fear he’ll cut
The town, if he cut out; and then poor I,
Old, friendless, and the mock of all the mob,
That once stuck fast to him, but ratting now
By hundreds and by thousands from his side,
Will hoot and hiss me in the streets and lanes;
Unable to enjoy my usual walks,
Whereby I have my health and my body huge,
By wholesome perspiration keep well down,
Within the decent weight of twenty stone—
Shall get no sleep, and then full soon shall sink,
Poor, unlamented, to a nameless grave—
Where, stead of epitaph in prose and verse.
Briefly dilating on my virtuous deeds,
Argus and Obadiah, and the crew,
Penleazers vile, will cry to all around,
“Here lies a man, who once upheld Reform;
Allured by pelf, he turned, and straight was hither borne.
But hence, ideas like these—avaunt! delusions vain,
Far be from me the thought of coward flight,
Or unmatured resolve.
* * * * *
This is the road to rhino and revenge,
And on this road, in spite of former vows,
In spite of all my ancient predilections,
In spite of Argus, hand bills, nicknames, jeers,
In spite of what the minister may think
In spite of fate, or e’en the devil himself,
This road I’ll travel. (Exit waddling).
The Argus. April 16, 1831.
This little Journal was published in Southampton during the stirring times just previous to the election of the Parliament which settled the first great Reform Bill. The Argus strongly advocated the cause of Reform, supporting the candidatures of Messrs. Atherley & Penleaze, in opposition to Messrs. Dottin & Hoy. At the election Atherley polled 732 votes; Penleaze 663, whereas Hoy had only 391 votes, and with the general victory of the Reform question the necessity for such a political journal as The Argus was at an end. It contains many parodies satirising the prominent men of Southampton, of whom Tunbelly was one.
——:o:——
The Journeyman Tailor’s Soliloquy.
To stitch or not to stitch—that is the question!
Whether ’tis better on the board to suffer
The stings of needles for capricious masters,
Or throw away one’s thimble, shears, and bodkin,
And so by tramping end them. To stitch and sweat,
No more, and by a tramp to say we end
The head-ache, and the thousand cramps and pains
We cross-legg’d folks are heirs to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To walk, to take a trip,
To rove at large—perchance to beg one’s bread!
Aye, there’s the rub——
For by this strolling trade what want may come,
When we have shifted from a constant place,
Must give us pain. There’s the respect that keeps
One willing prisoner to the shop board still,
For who would bear the frowns of angry masters,
The jokes and jeers of scavengers and soot-boys
With all the insult of unmanly title,
The honest tailor is obliged to take,
When he himself might his quietus make
With trav’ling. Who would slavery bear,
And groan and sweat upon a dreary shop board,
But that the thought of something worse than stitching
That sting of poverty, whose unwelcome gripe,
Few travellers escape—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
And thus necessity keeps us tailors still:
And thus the native hue of resolution is kept up
By each industrious thought; and tailors too
Of no small pith and moment, by this regard
From tramping turn away, and lose the name
Of vagrants.
J—M——N.
The Mirror.
——:o:——
The Cabman’s Soliloquy.
To strike, or not to strike, that is the question:—
Whether ’tis nobler on the box to suffer
The persecutions of outrageous bobbies,
Or to take arms against the rising public,
And serve them out by striking. That is, to ply
No more. To make them walk who fain would ride
The ’Busses scorning,—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished,—to stop the ills
Cabmanic flesh is heir to; there’s the rub,
For in such strike of cabs perchance we starve;
Yet who would bear the inflicted wrongs of [33]Mayne,
Sixpenny fares, and lamps compulsory,
Woes of backed licenses, police court fines,
The beak’s severity, and the many spurns
That patient cabmen from their riders take
Without a murmur: when each man can strike,
And leave town cabless; each railway station
Without a vehicle of any sort
To greet the luggage-laden traveller,
Until our native hue of resolution
Shall sickly o’er with the pale cast of thought
The members anxious to get home at night,
And force them to repeal the hateful Act.
Judy, December 11, 1867.
——:o:——
The Soliloquy of a would-be Bloomer.
Trousers, or no trousers—that is the question;
Whether ’tis better on the legs to suffer
The dirt and scrapings of bespatter’d crossings,
Or to take arms against this present Fashion,
And with new dresses, change it? To fix—to change—
No more; and by this change to say we stop
Mud splashings, and the thousand natural woes
The legs are heir to.—’tis an emendation
Devoutly to be wished. To fix—to change—
To change! perchance the gown;—ay, there’s the rub;
For in that change of dress what jeers may come
When we have shuffled off this flounced coil,—
Must we then pause? Where’s the respect
That makes the petticoats for so long rife?
For who would bear the great constraint of gowns,
The dresses long, the small feet hid thereby,
The pangs of tight-laced stays, the waist’s display,
The dirtiness of stockings, and the turns
The patient follower of fashion takes,
When she herself might her own comfort make
With pairs of trousers? Who would flounces wear
To brush and sweep the mud,—a weary wife,—
But that the dread of some one’s sneering breath,—
That unforgiven sarcasm from whose spurn
The maiden e’er recoils,—puzzles the will;
And makes us rather wear the dress we have
Than change for others that we know not of?
Thus custom does make cowards of us all;
And thus the very name of resolution
Is passed o’er by the frail cant of the law,
And novel dresses of great use and beauty
Meet no regard: the trousers they despise,
And spurn the name of Bloomer!
The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech, November, 1851.
——:o:——
Hamlet on Vaccination.
To vaccinate or not, that is the question,
Whether ’tis better for a man to suffer
The painful pangs and lasting marks of smallpox
Or to bare arms before the surgeon’s lancet,
And, by being vaccinated, end them. Yes,
To feel the tiny point, and say we end
The chance of many a thousand awful scars
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.—Ah! soft you now,
The Vaccinator! Sir, upon thy rounds
Be my poor arms remembered!
Punch, May 28, 1881.
——:o:——
Clean Linen!
Or, The Housewife’s Soliloquy.
To wash, or not wash?—that is the question!
Whether ’tis nobler on th’ whole person to suffer
The grime and lankness of the long-worn garment,
Or to take soap against a siege of stain-spots,
And by stout scrubbing, end them. To wash—to scrub
No more; and by that toil to say, we end
The mud-splash, and the thousand various soils
Which linen catches—’tis a consummation
With both fists to be strove for! To wash, to dry,
To dry, perchance in frost—ay there’s the rub!
For in that chance of frost what coals must burn,
When we have soused, and wet a whole month’s cloaths,
Must make us pause!—There’s the respect
That makes a muslin gown be worn so long:—
For who would bear the dingy-looking tail,
The crumpled ruff, the chair-press’d, crease-mark’d shawl;
Dance-dusted turban, or, trod Turkish robe;
The oft’ turned petticoat, kerchief and hose
Which tho’ well-coak’d within the shoe—will peep;
When she herself might mend appearances
By a soap-lather:—Who’d white bonnets wear
That took the goblin of a foul-cloathes bag?
But that the dread of price per chaldron charg’d,
(That bill by coal man drawn, from whose sum total
Abatement ne’er was made) puzzles the choice,
And makes us rather bear be-grim’d nankeens
Than fly too rashly to the measur’d purse!
——Thus saving does make slovens of us all,
And thus the native hue of milk-white Irish
Is sicklied o’er by three days perspiration,
And smug-tied neckcloths of great length and wideness
In this regard are turned all ways awry,
And lose the name of cravat!
From Fugitive Verse and Prose,
by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester, 1803.
——:o:——
SOME PARODIES ON THE MARRIAGE QUESTION.
The Bachelor’s Soliloquy.
In Imitation of a celebrated Speech.
To wed, or not to wed—That is the question:
Whether ’tis happier in the mind to stifle
The heats and tumults of outrageous passion,
Or with some prudent fair in solemn contract
Of matrimony join—to have—to hold—
No more—and by that have to say we end
The heartache, and a thousand love-sick pangs
Of celibacy—’twere a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d—in nuptial band
To join till death dissolves.—Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that space what dull remorse may come,
When we have ta’en our solemn leave of liberty,
Must give us pause—There’s the respect
That slacks our speed in suing for a change.
Else—who would bear the scorns and sneers which bachelors
When aged feel, the pains and flatt’ring fevers
Which each new face must give to roving fancy,
When he might rid himself at once of all
By a bare Yes. Who would with patience bear
To fret and linger out a single life,
But that the dread of something yet untry’d,
Some hazard in a state from whose strict bond
Death only can release, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather chuse those ills we have,
Than fly to others which we fancy greater?
This last reflection makes us slow and wary,
Filling the dubious mind with dreadful thoughts
Of curtain lectures, jealousies, and cares
Extravagantly great, entail’d on wedlock,
Which to avoid the lover checks his passion,
And, miserable, dies a bachelor.
T. C——BRE.
The New Lady’s Magazine, March, 1786.
To woo, or not to woo—that is the question:
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer
The screws and pinches of a straiten’d fortune,
Or to take arms against some rich widow’s suitors,
And, by opposing, beat them. To woo—to wed:
No more:—and by a wedding to say we silence
The creditor, and thousand barking pests
That snap at poor men,—though the consummation
Were little to be wished. To woo;—to wed:—
To wed—perchance be henpeck’d!—There’s the rub!
For in that unison what jars may come
When we have shuffled on the fatal yoke,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes our celibacy last so long;
For who would bear the plagues of poverty,
The fair’s neglect, the coxcomb’s contumely,
The dearth of dinner, and the mournful waste
That active Time in galligaskins wears,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a gold ring? Who’d live a subaltern,
To drill and dress under a martinet?
But that the dread of something after marriage,
That knot indissoluble, from whose noose
No sufferer can be freed, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear our own mishaps,
Than fly to others that a wife would bring!
For women do make noodles of us all;
And thus, the bare design of a flirtation
Is strangled by the terror of a match,
And many a pleasant and free hearted youth,
With this regard his courtship turns awry,
And shuns the name of husband.
From “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of our Most Celebrated Poets, but not published in any former edition of their works.” London, John Miller, 1814.
To wed, or not to wed? That is the question.
Whether it is advisable to bear
The dull privations of a single life,
Or marry, and in wedlock seek relief
From many woes? To desperately woo
Some charming woman decked with seraph lips
And eyes that speak an ocean-stream of love?
To marry her? It is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished; but where’s the chance?
To wed—to set up an establishment
And have “a lot of bairns?” Ay, there’s the rub;
For it may be I shall not have the means
To do my duty to them all, and leave
My mortal reckoning; bequeathing merit.
Hence reasoning makes me pause, and show respect
That dates celibacy a lengthy term;
For how could I, chief party to a deed
In what is promised, faithfully and true,
A constant, generous, and a manly aid,
Fulfil my trust, unless I could afford it?
I’d like to wed, for who would single be,
Or snore in solitude the livelong night,
But that the fear of curtain lectures, and
A yearly levy of “incumbrances”
(As heathen, churlish men their offspring call),
Perplexes me, and makes me rather bear
The ills I have than fly to those unknown.
Anonymous.
From W. A. Clouston’s Literary Curiosities and Eccentricities.
Marry, or not to marry? that is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The sullen silence of these cob-webbed rooms
Or seek in festive halls some cheerful dame,
And, by uniting, end it?—to live alone
No more: and by marrying say we end
The heartache, and the thousand make-shifts
Bach’lors are heirs to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To marry to live
In peace! Perchance in war; ay, there’s the rub;
For in the marriage state what ills may come,
When we have shuffled off our liberty,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect,
That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock,
For who could bear the noise of scolding wives,
The fits of spleen, th’ extravagance of dress,
The thirst for plays, for concerts and for balls,
The insolence of the servants, and the spurns
That patient husbands from their consorts take
When he himself might his quietus gain
By living single. Who would wish to hear
The jeering name of bachelor,
But that the dread of something after marriage
(Ah, that vast expenditure of income,
The tongue call scarcely tell) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather choose the single life,
Then go to jail for debts we know not of—
Economy thus makes bachelors of us still;
And thus our melancholy resolution
Is still increased upon more serious thought.
From Geo. Wentworth’s Poetical Note Book, London, 1824.
To wed, or not to wed—that is the question—
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to banish
The tempting visions of domestic comfort,
Or to lead some damsel of our times to the altar,
And, by marriage, end them? To wed, to doubt
No more, and by that act to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand well-planned tricks
Of enterprising mothers! ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To wed—to enrich
The tradesmen, and to feed bad servants!
To wed, perchance, a spend thrift! ay, there’s the rub;
For to what sort of wife we may be mated
When we have shuffled off our bachelorhood,
Must give us pause.——There’s the respect
That makes celibacy of so much practice;
For who would bear the impatient thirst for bliss,
The yearnings for some gentle confidant
The amatory frenzies of one’s loneliness,
The loss of buttons, and of large joints of meat,
When he himself, might his quietus make
With a bare Wedding ring? Who would lodgings bear,
To groan and sweat under extortionate landladies,
But that the dread of helpless and expensive wives—
Those prodigies of modern training—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than hazard being thus ta’en in and done for.
Thus women do make cowards of us all:
And thus the hopeful heart of many a bachelor,
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprisers of good will and spirit,
With this regard from marriage turn away,
And lose the name of Husband.
Echoes from the Clubs, April 8, 1868.
The Weekly Dispatch Parody Competitions.
On September 26, 1880, the following Prize Parody appeared in the Weekly Dispatch:—
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis better in this life to suffer
The petty trials of unmarried life
Or add one more unto a list of troubles,
And thus by marriage end them? To wed, to sleep
No more; or, if to sleep, to say we end
The yearnings and the sentimental fudge
Young flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation
Too blessed to be true. To love, to wed—
What then? Perchance repent; ay, there’s the rub.
For in the meekest maid what changes come
When we have wriggled on the golden coil,
Must give us pause. There’s reason good
That makes so many choose a single life—
For who could bear to give up his quiet pipe,
The close society of bosom friends,
The interchange of bright congenial thoughts,
Which sparkle like the glasses on the board,
For squalling children and a shrewish wife,
While he can cook a herring, or a steak,
And ply a bodkin. None would ever dare
To grunt and growl at lovely maidenhood!
But there’s a something after marriage vows—
The trap where foxes lose their tails, and then
Advise their fellows that its much the best—
Which makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than marry troops of others with a wife—
For woman breeched makes cowards of us all.
And, somehow, all our boasted resolution
Gets sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear;
And enterprises, which we might have held
In great regard, must then be put aside,
Because, forsooth, “I’m married!”
William H. Edmunds.
Ophelia (aside)
Perhaps he will! Perhaps he won’t! Who knows? (pensively) How hard it is to make the men propose!
(Sighs and sits down away from Hamlet.)
Hamlet—
To pop, or not to pop the fatal question.
Can any husband give me a suggestion?
Whether ’tis nobler to endure the woes
Of stockings holey at the heels and toes,
Of lonely evenings, solitary mutton,
And ragged shirt-fronts innocent of button,
Or to take arms against the ills of life,
Swallow the necessary pill—a wife,
Give up tobacco, latch-keys and late hours,
And take an interest in cows and flowers,
Adopt a country life, and, if you can,
Become a nice domestic married man.
The prospect’s tempting. Shall I? Yes, here goes.
Ophelia, I’ve determined to propose.
From Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks; by the Author of “The Light Green.” W. Metcalfe & Son, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1882.
——:o:——
The Bard’s Soliloquy
To write—or not to write—that is the question—
Whether ’twere nobler in the mind to stifle
The hungry cravings of an empty stomach,
To sleep on bed of straw, in garret high,
As is Parnass, or in the dark abyss
Of cellar, low as Tartarus—To be
The game of sporting critics—Or to die—
To sink in vile obscurity, and rot
Among the senseless rabble—Aye! to drop
Unknown, and unlamented!—Hateful thought!
Detestable oblivion!
To write—to live!——immortal as great Jove!
To be a second Shakespeare, and inroll’d
Among the list of Poets, and perchance
Some monarch’s fav’rite, counsellor, and friend,
In more retired hours—Or the fond theme
Of after ages—Soul inspiring thought!
Ambition!—Witchcraft!—Sorcery divine!
To write—perchance to cringe—aye, there’s the rub!
For who could brook to do an action mean,
Unworthy man, and basely stoop to praise
Some letter’d bookworm, or pedantic fool;
To sell his muse for hire, and thus belie
The dictates of his conscience—Be a sycophant,
And flatter titled scoundrels?—There’s the respect—
Must give us pause, and make the bard forbear:
This infant genius checks, but that the hope
Of living after death in mem’ry’s praise
Hurries him on—As erst the hot-brain’d,
Yclep’d Phaeton, who, of old, they say,
Deaf to advice, by hot ambition fir’d,
Mounted the flaming chariot of his sire
With fatal eagerness—So he, nor mov’d
By kind intreaties, nor the sage advice
Of prudent friends regarding; but spurr’d on
By evil genius, baneful love of fame,
The dangerous height of Helicon assails:
Or with mad fury mounts the nettled steed
Call’d Pegasus—Anon, with giddy brain,
And aspect woful, the tremendous depth
Of space immensurable while he views,
His tott’ring limbs their wonted duty fail;
Or while, disdainful of his rider’s strength,
The snorting courser cuts the distanc’d winds
With wing’d velocity——Too late, alas!
His rashness he repents, and headlong hurl’d
Through ether’s all-unfathomable void—
(Dreadful to think)—he falls—to rise no more!
H. R. E.
Chancery-Lane.
The New Lady’s Magazine, November, 1786.
Dame Tiller discovered washing; she takes out of her tub a veil, and a pair of small socks, which she hangs on the line, sighs, and regards them sorrowfully.
Dame. Tubby or not tubby—there’s the rub,
Whether I shall get anything to scrub,
Or, overcome by all my numerous troubles,
Dive headlong down into that sea of bubbles;
As to my bus’ness it is something shockin’,
Of stockings I’ve got but that small stock in.
People won’t send their things, complaining (bosh)
That, like King John, they’d lost them in the Wash.
I used to do for schools, and so it follers
I used to have a lot of scholars’ collars;
Now I have none, no collars smooth, nor ruffs,
I’ve got to make the best of fortune’s cuffs.
To emigrate the best thing now would be—
Yes! Washington would be the place for me.
From “Poll and Partner Joe”; a Nautical Burlesque by F. C. Burnand. First produced at St. James’s Theatre, May 6th, 1871.
——:o:——
The Bachelor’s Soliloquy.
To wed, or not to wed? That is the question
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pangs and arrows of outrageous love
Or to take arms against the powerful flame
And by opposing quench it.
To wed—to marry—
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to—’tis a consummation.
Devoutly to be wished! to wed—to marry
Perchance a scold! aye, there’s the rub
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There’s the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? O who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wedlock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of Wedlock.
[Copied from an Album—Author unknown.]
——:o:——
Cremation.
(By a Burning admirer of Sir Henry Thompson.)
To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler for our frames to suffer
The shows and follies of outrageous custom,
Or to take fire—against a sea of zealots—
And by consuming end them? To Urn—to keep—
No more: and while we keep, to say we end
Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills
That flesh is heir to—’tis a consume-ation
Devoutly to be wished! To burn—to keep—
To keep! Perchance to lose—aye, there’s the rub:
For in the course of things what duns may come,
Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes inter-i-ment of so long use.
For who would have the pall and plumes of hire,
The tradesman’s prize—a proud man’s obsequies,
The chaffering for graves, the legal fee,
The cemetery beadle and the rest,
When he himself might his few ashes make
With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear,
And lie beneath a lying epitaph,
But that the dread of simmering after death—
That uncongenial furnace from whose burn
No incremate returns—weakens the will,
And makes us rather bear the graves we have
Than fly to ovens that we know not of?
This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all.
And thus the wisdom of incineration
Is thick-laid o’er with the pale ghost of nought,
And incremators of great pith and courage
With this regard their faces turn awry,
And shudder at cremation.
William Sawyer.
In April, 1884, there was a discussion in the House of Commons on a Bill, brought in by Dr. Cameron, for regulating Cremation.
——:o:——
There are numbers of other Parodies of this Soliloquy scattered about. William Hone, when on his trial for publishing a Parody entitled “The Political Litany,” mentioned one which had appeared in the Morning Herald in 1808, commencing thus:—
“To stand, or not to stand—that is the question
Whether ’tis nobler for us to lose th’ Election,
And all the honours that attend upon it,
Or to demand a poll, and risk th’ expense.”
Unfortunately the file of the above named journal in the British Museum Library is incomplete, so that the remainder of the parody cannot here be given.
One of the best burlesques of Shakespeare ever written was the “Hamlet Travestie, in three Acts, with annotations after the manner of Dr. Johnson and George Steevens, Esq., and other Commentators,” 1810. This was written by John Poole, the author of Paul Pry; the notes at the end are amusing burlesques of the word-splitting, and quibbling over trifles, to be found in the writings of many authors who have done their best to obscure some of the clearest, and noblest utterances of Shakespeare.
In this burlesque first appeared the well-known lines, (spoken by Ophelia in the Mad Scene,)
Three children sliding on the ice,
All on a summer’s day;
The ice it broke—they all fell in—
The rest they ran away.
Now had these children staid at home,
And slid upon dry ground;
They broken necks had had, perchance,
But never had been drown’d.
However the whole burlesque is so good that it will be republished complete in this collection; for the present it will be sufficient to quote the parody of the Soliloquy, which is in rhyme:—
Song, Hamlet.—Tune, “Here we go up, up, up.”
When a man becomes tired of his life,
The question is, “to be, or not to be?”
For before he dare finish the strife,
His reflections most serious ought to be.
When his troubles too numerous grow,
And he knows of no method to mend them,
Had he best bear them tamely, or no?—
Or by stoutly opposing them end them?
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
To die is to sleep—nothing more—
And by sleeping to say we end sorrow,
And pain, and ten thousand things more—
O, I wish it were my turn to-morrow!
But, perchance, in that sleep we may dream,
For we dream in our beds very often—
Now, however capricious ’t may seem,
I’ve no notion of dreams in a coffin.
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
’Tis the doubt of our ending all snugly,
That makes us with life thus dispute,
For who’d bear with a wife old and ugly,
Or the length of a chancery suit?
Or who would bear fardels, and take
Kicks, cuffs, frowns, and many an odd thing,
When he might his own quietus make,
And end all his cares with a bodkin?
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
Truly, death is a fine thing to talk of,
But I’ll leave to men of more learning;
For my own part, I’ve no wish to walk off,
For I find there’s no chance of returning.—
After all ’tis the pleasantest way,
To bear up as we can ’gainst our sorrow,
And if things go not easy to-day,
Let us hope they’ll go better to-morrow.—
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
——:o:——
O. P. Q. Philander Smiff, of The Figaro, (London,) once suggested that the play of Hamlet might be made use of as an advertising medium, with a few minor alterations, as, to take the Soliloquy for example:—
“To sleep, or not to sleep—that is the question,
Whether ’tis well to suffer indigestion;
Or bear the burden of a dozen ills,
Whilst Mr. Cockle offers me his pills.
To have a headache, and a tongue that shocks,
Whilst they are sold at thirteen-pence a box.”
or, on another evening we might have:—
“To be in debt or not, that is the question,
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to go to Mr. Howse, in Staples Inn,
And thus take arms against a sea of trouble.”
——:o:——
On Blowing your Brains out.
I would put the question to any sensible man, whether he does or does not consider it nobler in the mind to suffer many inconveniences, to which slings and arrows are mere flea-bites by comparison—and especially I might indicate blighted affections, the procrastination of your family solicitor when there is property to be distributed, in which you have a share, losses on the Derby, tightness of the money-market, the impertinence of the fellow who keeps on calling for the Queen’s taxes, and, generally, the spurns that patient merit is obliged to put up with from all kinds of cads and humbugs, and stuck-up little beasts, who give themselves no end of airs, and try to ride rough-shod over everybody who has not had the same luck that they have—than to terminate one’s existence by an act of felo-de-se? Well, you know, the fact is that nobody would be fool enough to go on day after day standing this sort of thing, if it wasn’t for a deuced strong objection to becoming a body, and being sat upon by a dozen tradesmen, some of whom perhaps have been confoundedly rude to one in one’s life, when one has not happened to be able to pay one’s bills the moment one has been called upon in a sudden and peremptory, not to say insolent, manner to do so. There’s the rub! On consideration, most people will rather bear the ills they have than do anything desperate to get rid of them. (I have but this moment met with a passage in a shocking tragedy, by the well-known Shakespeare, that bears a decided family likeness to my philosophic proposition. It will scarcely be expected that I should expunge the foregoing observations, because of their likeness to what was written at a distant period of English literature.)—Punch.
——:o:——
The libretto to Ambroise Thomas’s opera of Hamlet was by M.M. Barbier and Carré, and their rendering of the Soliloquy shows the difficulty of translating Shakespeare’s blank verse, and metaphysical reasoning, into the orthodox French rhymed measure:—
Être ou ne pas être—O mystère!
Mourir—dormir—rêver.
Ah! s’il m’était permis pour t’aller retrouver,
De briser le lien qui m’attache à la terre!
Mais après? Quel est-il ce pays inconnu,
D’où pas un voyageur n’est encore revenu?
Être ou ne pas être—O mystère!
Mourir-dormir! rêver peut-être!
——:o:——
Shakespeare Amended.
Punch for 30 April, 1881, contained the following—
“Mr. Furnivall is of opinion that the text of Hamlet known to commentators as ‘The First Quarto,’ furnishes a far better and more compact acting play than the modern stage-version. He, and ‘a strong body of amateurs,’ essayed, on the afternoon of Saturday, the 16th April, at St. George’s Hall, to convert the public and the critics to their view of the case—apparently with indifferent success. Mr. Furnivall has sent to the Daily News, what he calls ‘a hasty try to set right’ the celebrated soliloquy, ‘To be or not to be,’ in the Quarto No. 1. Mr. Furnivall’s version is, of course, a thing of beauty; yet is it hardly so jerky, creaky, spasmodic, incoherent, scansion-proof,—in short, so Utter, as in the interests of the Bard might be desired. Here, therefore, is ‘a hasty try to set right’ Mr. Furnivall himself.”
To be or not to be? There you are, don’tcherknow!
To die, to sleep! is that all? Forty winks?
To sleep, to dream! Ah, that’s about the size of it!
For from that forty winks when we awake
In the undiscovered cotton-nightcap country
From which no passenger ever took a return-ticket——
Why—ah, yes—humph!—exactly—very much so!
Who, but for what the vulgar call “blue funk,”
Would bear the rough and tumble of the world,
Be down’d on by the rich, plagued by the poor,
Married by widows, and by orphans worried?
Who’d bear
April’s east wind or June’s perpetual rain,
The Income-tax, Lord Randolph Churchill’s questions,
Middlesex Magistrates, Mud-Salad Market,
Crass commentaries on Shakespearian quartos.
And all earth’s ills, from Furnivall to toothache,
When that himself he might his gruel give
In half a jiffy? Who’d put up with it,
But for the thought of worse things turning up
In the Micawber Limbo—By-and-by?
Quite so! ’Tis bother, doubt, hope, fear, cant, gush.
The fads of noodles and of nincompoops,
Fogging the brain and flooring common sense,
Which make us grin and bear the ills we have
Rather than, à la Furnivall, to make
“A hasty try to set ’em right.” Ah, yes,
’Tis noodledom makes cowards of us all!!!
Mr. F. J. Furnivall’s fussy and hasty “tries to set everybody right” about all that relates to Shakespeare are well-known, as is also his objection to any contradiction of his favorite theories.
The “New Shakspere Society” was apparently founded by Mr. F. J. Furnivall for two purposes, firstly, for the glorification of Mr. Furnivall, and secondly, to instruct the British public to spell the name of Shakespeare in a different manner to that commonly adopted, and which was generally used by his contemporaries. If the Society has partially succeeded in its first object, it has totally failed in the second; when the press does condescend to notice its proceedings it is almost invariably styled the New Shakespeare Society, notwithstanding the anger, and the constant protests of Mr. F. J. Furnivall. A pretty controversy was raised on the question of Shakespeare or Shakspere between J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps—who is an authority, and Mr. Furnivall, who is—simply Mr. Furnivall. The latter gentleman’s arguments, expressed in peculiar diction, and still more peculiar orthography, consisted principally of personalities, and Mr. A. C. Swinburne (who happened to disagree with him) was styled a minor poet, and his name translated into pigs-brook (from swine—a pig, and burne—a brook) by the courteous founder of the “New Shakspere Society.”[34]
A very humorous account of the origin of this Society was given in a little pamphlet entitled Furnivallos Furioso! and “The Newest Shakespeare Society;” a Dram-Attic Squib of the Period. (T. Richards, 37, Great Queen Street, London, 1876). The Dramatis Personæ are thus described:—
Furnivallos, surnamed Furioso, a great Critic, and Founder of the “Newest Shakespeare Society.”
Tupperius, his Friend and A-bettor, Poet-Critic, and “Proverbial” Philosopher (in his own estimation).
Dixonus, Reviewer and Author in general. A great admirer of Himself, “with scarce time to steal from Spiritual.”
Carlylus, an aged Philosopher of the Anglo-Saxon-and-Water School.
General Members and Ass-ociates of the Society.
The first scene opens thus—
A Library.—Furnivallos, (in his shirt sleeves) sitting at a table.
Furnivallos. A year or two ago, and I
Had hardly read a line of Shakespeare’s works—
Or so-call’d works. For why?
Have I not found them, in such transient time,
A nest of fledgings, and of mixèd rhyme
Without much reason—Heav’n save the mark!—
Cribb’d from Boccaccio’s self, or Chaucer’s pages dark?
In later days, the hands,
Or rather quills, of Jonson, Beaumont too,
Have serv’d to make a hash of what this
William Shakespeare drew!
And I alone of all the wits can show it;
For am I not the Critic of our Poet?
A thought occurs—it is not always so
Since my poor brains are like my means, too low;
And when I want them sharp, alas! they’re slow!
I’ll found a fresh Society, call’d “New,”
And try if I can’t, by much reading hard,
Impart “new readings” to th’ “Immortal Bard,”
Shifting the false lights from the dazzling true—
Though I for one, find them but very few!—
And thus prove Shakespeare’s after all a myth,
And muff!—akin to Jones, or Brown, or Smith.”
Furnivallos having with the aid of Tupperius founded the Society, a meeting is held, at which Furnivallos takes the chair, and makes a speech, in which he asserts—
“Nothing that Shakespeare wrote, came from his head,
Which was a Warehouse stored with stolen goods,—
And thus he warbled of the hills and woods
In Cuckoo notes.
* * * * *
So now to work, and bring before your Eyes,
The fact that Shakespeare’s Plays are only Lies!”
Dixonus (jumping up indignantly, thus speaks)—
This “bosh” your Chairman talks of Shakespeare’s Plays is
But hideous Nonsense, and my Anger raises;
For though to some extent he may be right,
His Tests are wrong, and here I take a sight
At his Foot-rule, his Measures, Pauses, Endings.
Since Shakespeare, in despite such Tinker’s mendings,
Must e’er remain—whatever Dolts may say—
“The Wonder of all Time.” And now, good-day
Furnivallos, and your slavish, fawning Crew,
With whom again I’ll nothing have to do;
Though, ere I go, or quit this “New Society,”
Let me advise all, and with strict sobriety,
To change its Name, and so coin heaps of guineas,
And call it Shakespeare’s “Newest Nest of Ninnies!”
(Great confusion as Dixonus quits the room.)
Tableau.
——:o:——
When Mr. Wilson Barrett announced that he was about to produce “Hamlet” at the Princess’s Theatre, someone wrote the following, not very profound, criticisms upon the tragedy:—
Hamlet from a new point of view.
“Seeing an announcement to the effect that ‘Hamlet’ is in preparation at the Princess’s Theatre, set me thinking a bit about the matter; and I give in a free and unstudied manner the fruits of my thoughts. First, I wondered if one out of ten who’d read the bills would know anything really about either the play or the poet? Of the difference between the Hamlet of the first edition, of 1623, and that, say of Knight’s, of 1843.
Open the two at random, and Ophelia says in the first, in Actus Secundus, Scena Secunda:—
‘O, what a noble minde is here o’re-throwne?
The Courtiers, Soldiers, Schollers, Eye, tongue, sword.’
In Knight’s the like words occur, only slightly altered in spelling; and in the ordinary acting edition the lines run:—
‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The expectancy and rose of the fair state.’
Let us look at this Prince, almost a fairy one, thirty years of age, too good for the earth, not good enough for Heaven. You know what he says: ‘What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?’
Well, instead of being thin as in the picture, and fancy he is; by his mother’s, the queen’s, words, ‘He’s fat, and scant of breath. Heere’s a napkin, rub thy browes, the Queen carowses to thy fortune, Hamlet.’ Of course it’s very well to wriggle and say oh, that, like the ‘beard,’ was put in to suit Burbage. Even letting this be the case, Shakespeare studied an actor more than the reputation of his first work. Then he is so poetical and wanting in action, so unable to grapple with the wicked things of this world.
Oh! is he. When the king ships him to Britain, he puts the names of his false friends where his own stood, so that the British king has them beheaded and not Hamlet.
Now for the Queen, and Laertes, and the King. Of a sudden, like acted upon by a magician’s wand, they turn bad all at once. It even worries and bothers Hamlet. He can’t understand why his mother should have taken so queer a fancy as to prefer his uncle to his far handsomer father. And Laertes who gives such nice advice to his sister, and for his cad-like conduct receives a very proper rebuke from her, turns from a seemingly-virtuous young gentleman to a mean and despicable assassin. And Ophelia, that beauteous and correct damsel, is easily made to act as a spy upon her lover. And this without one word of caution to him, or the least expression of regret for such, at the mildest, unlady-like, unwoman-like, and altogether unchristian-like conduct.
Other minor faults and absurdities occur, as Hamlet’s remark after he had seen his father’s spirit:—
‘The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.’
This Hamlet may in some shadowy way or other forecast our life here and what the majority of us do in it—nothing. Leave all to the crack of doom and then down we go all together. Our talking as angels, some of us, and acting like fools, most of us, may be all here parabled out.”
As Mr. Wilson Barrett’s revival of Hamlet was a success, it was quite in the order of things that it should be burlesqued, and that he and the members of his company should be caricatured.
“Very Little Hamlet,” by W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, London, in November, 1884, and Mr. Wilson Barrett’s absurd speech about his early ambition to play Hamlet was made the leading idea in the prologue, the scene representing the exterior of the Princess’s twenty-five years ago, with costumes, &c., archæologically correct. The future proprietor appears as a ragged street boy, and takes his solemn oath, to mysterious music, that he will, one day, play Hamlet in that theatre, while his companions of the gutter, being called upon to swear, exclaim in a hoarse whisper, “D——n!” and a ghostly actor undertakes to see the scheme carried out. Miss Nelly Farren appeared as the hero, and Miss Phyllis Broughton as Ophelia, with a tow-like wig. The treatment of the play scene was novel and amusing. It was announced that the principal player was ill and could not perform, whereupon King Claudius kindly volunteered to go on and read the part, which he did, until he discovered the meaning of the show.
——:o:——
Quotations have already been made from The Hamlet Travestie, in three acts, by John Poole (London, Samuel French); Hamlet Travestie, by Mr. F. Talfourd (Oxford, J. Vincent, 1849); and from Hamlet; or not such a Fool as he looks (Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Son, 1882); in addition to these there are many parodies of detached passages from Hamlet.
The following is founded upon the advice given by Polonius to his son, Laertes:—
A Parent’s Counsel.
You are about to go away my son,
So take away with you the wise advice of one
Who knows the world, boy, and don’t think much of it,
“Neither a borrower, nor a lender be,”
Of course from choice, the former certainlee.
If in a scrape and in the wrong, declare it,
Never attempt to justify it; square it.
Learn to say “No” to most things—seldom “yes.”
If you should see a female in distress,
Remember the advice of your sage sire,
Call the police and gracefully retire.
As the apparel oft proclaims the man,
Why, do as many tailors as you can.
In short, if you attend to all I tell,
You’ll find that you will get on very well.
Henry J. Byron.
——:o:——
In the Burlesque of Norma by W. S. Gilbert, entitled The Pretty Druidess, which was produced at the Charing Cross Theatre on the 19th June, 1869, Norma announces her intention to have a Fancy Fair with a view of raising the funds necessary to fight the Romans, and drive them out of the country. This scene contains a parody of Hamlet’s instructions to the players:—
Norma.—Now this sound code of business we’ll arrange,
We’ll only take bank notes, and give no change,
And won’t sell anything to any buyer
That any one could possibly require.
Now, priestesses, be good enough to tell
The articles that you’ve prepared to sell.
Adalgisa.—(producing cap) a smoking cap—
Norma.—Ah, there, at least, he’s thwarted,
For (hush) tobacco isn’t yet imported!
Adalgisa.—Some scented soap.
Norma.—They’re certain to refuse it—
Italians, generally, do not use it!
Adalgisa.—A razor-case, completely stocked.
Norma.—That’s brave!
For warriors are not allowed to shave!
Adalgisa.—Braces, embroidered with initial letter.
Norma.—Embroidered braces? Nothing could be better!
No Roman wears, in all the martial train,
The garments they’re intended to sustain!
Adalgisa.—How shall we bear ourselves to-morrow, pray?
Norma.—Attention, and I’ll point you out the way.
With pretty speech accost both old and young,
And speak it trippingly upon the tongue.
But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,
With clumsy ogling, and uncomely chaff,
As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,
I had as lief a huckster sold my wares.
Avoid all so-called “beautifying,” dear.
Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear,
The things that men among themselves will say
Of some soi-disant beauty of the day,
Whose face, when with cosmetics she has cloyed it,
Out-Rachel’s Rachel! Pray you, girls, avoid it!
Neither be ye too tame, but, ere you go,
Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe,
Offer them coyly to the Roman herd,
But don’t you “suit the action to the word,”
For in the very torrent of your passion,
Remember modesty is still in fashion.
Oh, there be ladies whom I’ve seen hold stalls—
Ladies of rank, my dears, to whom befalls
Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies;
So clumsily “made up” with Bloom of Cadiz,
Powder, rouge, lip-salve—that I’ve fancied then
They were the work of Nature’s journeymen!
Let her, whose hair is black with lustre mellow,
Not dream of using dye to turn it yellow—
She’ll find it argues (when at length she loses it)
A sad ambition in the fool that uses it!
Now get you ready.
Exit Norma.
——:o:——
Hamlet’s meditation on the new station of the Midland Railway at St. Pancras:—
See what an incubus sits on our city?
Pentonville’s gloom, the front of a huge workhouse
A draught like ice to palsy and to pierce;
A station like a leaden Limbo-waste,
Dim-lighted as a fog-bound Ludgate Hill.
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every hideousness doth set its seal
To give the world assurance of—a Horror!
Such is our Terminus!
Punch, December 1882.
——:o:——
The enterprising proprietors of a celebrated brand of Cigarettes have recently advertised their wares, by a picture representing two smokers, under which appeared the lines:—
Look here upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two smokers;
See what a grace is seated on this brow;
Luxuriant smile, the type of joy itself!
An eye all beams, so pleasant and upturned,
Expressing pleasure at the dainty ‘Cig.’
New lighted; mark the heaven-kissing curl:
’Tis fascination to that precious weed;
Wherefore men doth feverishly break the seal
That gives the world assurance ’tis the GEM.
This is one smoker; look you now what follows:
Here is the other, like a sickly child
Taking its nauseous powder; hath he taste,
That he can suck at such a weed,
That scatters out its dust? Ha! has he eyes?
You cannot say he has; for he would sure
Seek out a better brand; the weed is humble,
And palls upon the palate; and what palate
Would take such stuff as his?
Oh, man! for modest cash ‘The Richmond Gem.’
Is sweet and fragrant to the smoker’s mouth;
To youth its virtues are as plain—
To smoke is to admire.
(Vide Hamlet, Act iii., Scene iv.)
St. Stephens’ Saturnalia, December 1884.
——:o:——
The following Scene is taken from the Hamlet Travestie, a Burlesque in Two Acts, written by Mr. Francis Talfourd, and published by J. Vincent, Oxford, in 1849:—
Act II.
Scene I.—Room in Polonius’ House.
Enter Polonius and Ophelia.
Oph.—
O, dear Papa, I’ve been in such a fright!
Sewing just now a button on your night—
Pol. [interrupting],—
My love, I blush!
Oph.—
(Well you know what I mean)
In came Lord Hamlet, anything but clean!
Pale as his hose, or Hosier’s Ghost the rather;
His stockings were so very dirty, Father
His old and seedy neckerchief awry!
Pol.—
My daughter, reverence an ancient tie.
Oph.—
Unbrac’d his doublet! And O, such a hat!
Pol.—
I know it well: the Prince invented that![35]
Oph.—
Uncomely, and uncombed about the head,
I don’t believe he’d really been in bed;
Or, if he had been, why he’d been and slept
In that bin where the Palace flour is kept.
And then his boots! At those I up and spoke:—
“Is then the Warren stopp’d and has Day broke?
Go to the scraper! to the door-mat run!
Our Turkey’s getting rather overdone.”
Pol.—
And did the scraper clear him from his scrape?
Oph.—
By no means—with a look, black as the crape
Upon his four and ninepenny, he came
And took my hand; and then he press’d the same
Which seem’d to do him good—for then he smil’d—
And came it strong, and wouldn’t draw it mild—
In fact he kiss’d me!
Pol.—
O, the man is mad!
Oph.—
For kissing me! I can’t see that, my dad!
Pol.—
Well, on reflection, ’tis not strange my puss!
Being in a hurry, why he took the Bus.
Oph.—
A stage box on that bus he might have ta’en.
But since to be his debtor I disdain,
I would not keep his kiss but gave it back!
Pol.—
Bestowed, in short, another kind of smack.
Oph.—
His was a blunder-bus, and so my sire,
A small salute I from my smack did fire.
Pol.—
What did he say?
Oph.—
He never told his love,
But look’d it most uncommon!
Pol.—
Like a dove
With a sore throat; What then?
Oph.—
O such a sigh!
Pol.—
You prick’d him with your needle.
Oph.—
No, not I!
O, such a sigh, my Father, as would fill
The great Nassau Balloon, or turn a mill.
Pol.—
Few men can raise the wind like that, my duckey!
And then what next?
Oph.—
The Prince, Pa, cut his lucky.
Pol.—
He’s mad, and mad for love of you.
Oph.—
O la!
How very nice! can madmen marry, Pa?
Pol.—
Doubtless, my daughter. Nay, it has been said
None are quite compos when about to wed.
I do remember much confusion here [pointing to forehead]
When first I called your future mother “dear,”
Saw Hymen’s torch-light in her glowing e’e,
And caught her eyes a cauterising me,
And O, the pride, when first in joyous vein,
“Mrs. Polonius!” I said—“Champagne?”
To which she answered (every word I treasure)
“Aaron Polonius, I will with pleasure.”
Polonius sings. Air—“The light of other days.”
But all that sort of thing has faded,
The honeymoon’s o’ercast!
The horse, you know, is soonest jaded,
Who goes at first too fast!
The very deuce no long time after
She play’d upon my life;
And all our mirthsome love and laughter,
She turn’d to weary strife.
Pol.—
Yes! Love is like some grand new Railway Line
Which (the Prospectus tells us) must combine
All the advantages to railways known,
With much peculiar merit of its own:
How easy, then the gradients to our sight,
Surveyed thro’ Cupid’s false Theodolite.
Trivial the outlay, small the risks appear
(For then our telescope’s invert). But near,
And huge the profits to our eye, for Hope
Lends us her Hydrogen Gas Microscope.
Mammas, as managing directors, sit;—
Hear our petition, and the Act permit;—
Our Scrip, the License, then we proudly claim;
And Hymen’s Company enrols our name!
Oph.—
What then, Papa?
Pol.—
The newly-married pair
Pay their first calls—a somewhat triste affair!
Awhile the shareholders in peace repose;
Dream Love’s young Dream—and all’s couleur de rose
Till, on the waking ear (and purse) shall fall,
Fearful and frequent the loud railway call!
Oph.—
What does that typify?
Pol.—
In married life,
The shrill accostals of a scolding wife!
Who, like an engine, when she’s on the rail
At every obstacle must shriek and wail;
Who like an engine (do not sneer my daughter)
Cannot get on unless she’s in hot water;
Who like an engine—
Oph.—
O, I do beseech
This train of thought some Terminus may reach!
Rake out your fire! or damp it: shall I ring
For liquors?
Pol.—
No! If you would sooth me, sing!
Cut out the Lind! for Denmark loves indeed
To have a little turn-up with the Swede!
Ophelia mia, beat that “Figli-a
Del Reggimento!”
Oph.—
I’ve sore throat, Papa!
Pol.—
These singer’s ailment all lie in their throats!
Stick some “Pulmonic Wafers” on your notes.
Now to the Palace, for the king must know
This news of Hamlet.
Oph.—
Yet, before you go—
For dear Mama, myself, and sex combin’d,
I’ll quote some verses just recall’d to mind:
“When you were that unpleasant thing,
A baby, who would smile and sing,
‘The like o’ this hath never bin’”?
Pol.—[abruptly]
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who thought that nothing would suffice
But costly lace on frocks so nice,—
And dare not tell Papa the price?
Pol.—[less abruptly]
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who told the tale, in twilight gloom?
Who read of witch astride her broom,
And poor Cock Robin’s early tomb?
Pol.—[somewhat affected]
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who lov’d you, a mischievous boy?
Who spread the jam? who bought the toy?
Rejoicing in your every joy?
Pol.—[much affected]
My Mother!
Oph.—
If aught went wrong who bore the blame?
Who wept, when first the “half-year” came?
Who sent those hampers, fruit and game?
Pol.—[with epicurean empressement]
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who when you wrote some doggrel verse,
Crimson with pride assured old nurse,
‘That parts of Milton were much worse?’
Pol.—[as conscious of genius]
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who when the loutish age began,
And boyhood’s thoughts on razors ran,
Call’d you ‘the gentlemanly man?’
Pol.—[pulling up his collar, as though the maternity had well spoken]
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who when they “pluck’d” you in the schools
At “Little Go” ’bout Grammar Rules,
Stoutly maintained “the Dons” were fools?
Pol.—(approvingly)
My Mother!
Oph.—
Who, in your youth’s hot giddy day,
Revealed a better brighter way
And kindled first-love’s glorious ray?
Pol.—[fondly]
Your Mother!
Oph.—
Who upon earth, who only, knows
Th’ exact location of your clothes?
Who marks your linen? darns your hose!
Pol.—[gratefully]
Your Mother!
Oph.—
Who best your pipe and glass can fill?
Whose taper fingers light the spill?
Who, if you’re poorly, knows Pa’s pill?
Pol.—[ruefully.]
Your Mother!
Oph.—
Who, when in sulky mood you fret—
P’raps kick your corn, or lose a bet—
Sings still, “We may be happy yet!”
Pol.—[cheerfully.]
Your Mother!
Oph.—
What tho’ sometimes o’er married life
A cloud may come, a moment strife.
Who makes the sunshine?
Pol.—[enthusiastically.] O my wife!
Your Mother!
Who checks her Daddy in his spleen?
Who makes his brow once more serene?
And bids him say, “I’ve hasty been?”
Pol.—[embracing.]
My Daughter!
Pol.—
Woman for ever! Scold they as they will,
Marriage! with all thy faults, I love thee still!
Exeunt to Music.
Air—“Here’s a health to all good lasses.”
——:o:——
In 1839 Messrs. Whittaker & Co., of Ave Maria Lane, London, published a quarto volume entitled “The Barrow Diggers, a Dialogue in imitation of the Grave Diggers in Hamlet.” The work, which was published anonymously, had numerous illustrations of Barrows found in various parts of the country, and of the Antiquities, Arms, Pottery, and human remains found in them. The parody relates entirely to the excavations in the Barrows, carried on by antiquaries in search of curiosities, and the notes explanatory of the parody, form the chief and most interesting portion of the work.
Scene. A Barrow on a Common.
Enter three Barrow Diggers with spades, shovels, &c.
1st B. D.—Is this a Roman, or a British Barrow?
2nd B. D.—I tell thee ’tis a British Barrow, therefore straightways open it; Antiquarius hath set on it, and finds it British Burial.
1st B. D.—How can that be, if Roman Ornaments and arms should here be found?
2nd B. D.—They may be found.
1st B. D.—It must be Roman, it cannot be British Burial. For here lies the point; if Roman arms and ornaments are found in it, it argues a Roman Act; and a Barrow Act hath three Branches, to Act, to Dig, to Shovel; we go to work willingly.
3rd B. D.—Nay; but hear you good friend!
1st B. D.—Give me leave. Here is a Common; good; here is the Barrow; good; if the Barrow contains Roman Arms, or urns, it must be a Roman Barrow; mark you that; but if spear heads made of flints, and British Arms are here, it must be a British Barrow; if nought but an empty cist, tumulus inanis, (or an empty tomb raised by the Romans in memory of a friend whose body could not be found.) He that is not inclined to dig, shortens not our work.
2nd B. D.—But is this Barrow Law?
1st B. D.—Ay, marry is’t Antiquarius’s Barrow Law.
2nd B. D.—Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had been a Roman relic of funeral pomp, it would have been a very different sort of Burial. The Romans raised not Barrows o’er their Dead.
1st B. D.—Why there thou say’st: and the more pity that great folks shall countenance the grandeur of gaudy funerals, more than their poorer neighbours. To my mind they are mighty like representations of Death carrying off his wealthy victims in Triumph. Come my spade, There are no antient gentlemen, but Gardeners Geologists, and Barrow Diggers; they hold up Adam’s profession.
3rd B. D.—Was he a Gentleman?
1st B. D.—He was the first that ever bore Arms, a mattoc shovel, and a spade.
2nd B. D.—Why he had none.
1st B. D.—What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The scripture says, Adam digged. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee; if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself.
3rd B. D.—Go to work.
After having taken an observation with a Compass, and marked out a section, they commence opening the Barrow.
1st B. D.—What is that earthly form all skin and bone, which eludes the Sexton, the Mason, and the Carpenter?
2nd B. D.—The Living Skeleton, for that fragile frame outlives a thousand Harry’s.
1st B. D.—Now where is he?
2nd B. D.—Eating soup maigre!
1st B. D.—Eating soup maigre! Where?
2nd B. D.—Not where fat King’s are eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at them. Your worm is your only Emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us; and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat King and your lean skeleton is but variable service; two dishes, but to one table that’s the end.
1st B. D.—Alas! alas! shall I feed worms when I am dead?
2nd B. D.—Ay, and a living skeleton may fish with the worm that hath eat of a King; and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
1st B. D.—What dost thou mean by this?
2nd B. D.—Nothing but to show you how a King may go a progress through the carcase of a living skeleton.
1st B. D.—I like thy wit well in good faith. To’t again; come, what is this Barrow?
2nd B. D.—Cudgel thy brains no more about it; when you are asked this question next say ’tis a British Barrow, a house that will last till doomsday. Go get thee to Shapwicke, and fetch me a stoup of liquor.
1st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings
Britons rais’d an earthy mound,
When e’re their Chieftains died,
And I am digging under ground,
Where delvers have not tried.
Antiquarius and Discipulus enter.
Ant.—Has this fellow no feeling of his business, he sings at Barrow opening?
Dis.—He knows not that he treads on hallow’d Mould!
Ant.—’Tis e’en so, the hand of Antiquaries only hath the Barrow Sense.
1st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings;
Clasps, Celts, and Arrowheads, I’ll try
To claw within my Clutch,
And if a Shield I should espy,
I’ll vow there ne’er was such.
With Popish Tricks, and Relics rare,
The Priests their Flocks do gull
In casting out the earth take care,
Huzza! I’ve found a skull!
Ant.—That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were a slave’s jaw-bone, or that of the first Murderer! That might be the pate of a Druid which this ass now o’erreaches: one that would gorge his Deities with human blood; might it not?
Dis.—It might.
Ant.—Or of a Warrior, who could say kill and burn Captives to appease the Dead.
Dis.—Ay, Antiquarius! or it might be a Slave’s!
Ant.—Why even so; and now my lady Worm’s chapless and knocked about the mazzard with a Sexton’s shovel. Here’s fine revolution an’ we had our spectacles to see’t, Prodigious to think on’t.
1st Bar. Dig. continues digging and sings
A Mattoc, Shovel, and a Spade,
Will dig up human bones;
To play at Marbles Britons made,
Some small round Portland Stones.
If Casques we find, or iron arms,
Of curious form and make,
Why surely they’re Roman charms,
Your British creed to shake.
Ant.—Cease prattler cease! Why should they not be the Casques, arms, or Bosses of British Chieftains in Roman service? No golden filagree work nor carved ivory; No amethystine Beads, nor Crystal Balls, no Coins, no Medals, no well-formed urns, nor colour’d stones from Rome will here be found; but Tin, Glass, or Amber Beads, the Tusks of Boars, or unbaked Urns of rudely shape with limpet shells will denote ’tis a British Barrow.
1st B. D. continues Digging, and comes to a Cist, and sings
This Cist of Chalk just like a grave
For such a guest is meet,
As if asleep here rests the brave,
Below the turf three feet.
Ant.—How independent the knave is! How long hast thou been a Barrow Digger?
1st B. D.—Of all the Ages of the World I came not to’t in that Age when the whole Earth was in a state of Fusion.
Ant.—How long’s that since?
1st B. D.—Cannot you tell that? Every mechanic can tell that. It was that very day that young Pluto was born: he that was a Geologist. He that gave a New System by Posting through the bowels of the Earth in his chariot drawn by four Horses.
Ant.—Ay, marry! how did he do that?
1st B. D.—With Lucifer Matches.
Ant.—Why?
1st B. D.—Because he was mad after Proserpine.
Ant.—Peace I pray you! How long will the jaws of a Leviathan, or the bones of a Megatherium, lie in the earth e’er they crumble into dust?
1st B. D.—Faith if they be not fused in Pluto’s crucible for many thousand years.
[The remainder of the conversation relates to a controversy, now well-nigh forgotten, as to the identification of a skull said to have been that of Eugene Aram, who was executed at Tyburn, in 1759 for the murder of Daniel Clark. At the Newcastle Meeting of the British Association in 1838, a skull was produced as that of Eugene Aram, but as it had passed through many hands during the eighty years that had elapsed since his death, its authenticity was much questioned, especially as one eminent anatomist declared it to be the skull of a female.
In quoting this imitation of a scene from Hamlet, justice can hardly be done to the scarce volume from which it is taken, without quoting the instructive explanatory notes which accompany it.
Since 1839 great strides have been made in the general knowledge of the subjects this book deals with, yet considering the date at which it was produced it is remarkable not only for the facts it records, but for the theories it advances.
Barrows are artificial heaps of earth, sometimes surrounded by a narrow trench. They were reared by the early inhabitants of these isles, and their contents afford almost the only insight we have into the history of the Ancient Britons. Antiquaries are generally agreed that they were raised for sepulchral interments, as in them are usually found cists, with urns, human bones, spear and arrowheads of flint, hammers, and celts of stone, beads, buckles, pins, etc.
The Cists, which vary in size and shape from two to eight feet deep by three and four feet in diameter, are usually cut in chalk, and contain the urns, skeletons, etc.]
——:o:——
Shakespearian Readings.
Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where,
To be a cold obstruction and to groan!
This sensible, warm woman, to become
A prudish clod, and the delighted spirit
To live and die alone, or to reside
With married sisters, and to have the care
Of half a dozen children, not your own;
And driven, for no one wants you,
Round about the pendant world; or worse than worst,
Of those that disappointment and pure spite
Have driven to madness: ’Tis too horrible!
The weariest and most troubled married life
That age, ache, penury, or jealousy
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To being an old maid.
That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,)
Walking between the garden and the barn,
Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took
At a young chicken, standing by a post,
And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,
As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.
But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot
Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,
And the domesticated fowl passed on,
In henly meditation, bullet free.
My father had a daughter got a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I good looking,
I should, your lordship.
And what’s her residence?
A hut, my lord, she never owned a house,
But let her husband, like a graceless scamp,
Spend all her little means,—she thought she ought,—
And in a wretched chamber, on an alley,
She worked like masons on a monument,
Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed?
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey,
Boston, U.S., 1854.
——:o:——
Benjamin Cæsar Redivivus.
(On the recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout).
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day,
Not like old Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
Will still go on in his corrupting play,
Nor “stop a hole to keep the wind away.”
Fiz, January 18, 1879.
——:o:——
An Irish Playbill.
Kilkenny Theatre Royal.
By His Majesty’s Company of Comedians.
The last night, because the Company go to-morrow to Waterford.
On Saturday, May 14, 1793, will be performed, by command of several respectable people in this learned metropolish for the benefit of Mr. Kearns, the tragedy of
Hamlet.
Originally written and composed by the celebrated Dan Hayes, of Limerick, and insarted in Shakespeare’s works.
Hamlet, by Mr. Kearns (being his first appearance in this character), who, between the acts, will perform several solos on the patent bagpipes, which play two tunes at the same time.
Ophelia, by Mrs. Prior, who will introduce several favourite airs in character, particularly “The Lass of Richmond Hill” and “We’ll all be unhappy together,” from the Reverend Mr. Dibdin’s oddities.
Polonius, the comical politician, by a young gentleman, being his first appearance in public.
The Ghost, the Gravedigger, and Laertes by Mr. Sampson, the great London comedian.
The parts of the King and Queen, by directions of the Rev. Father O’Callaghan, will be omitted, as too immoral for any stage.
The characters to be dressed in Roman shapes.
To which will be added an Interlude, in which will be introduced several sleight-of-hand tricks by the celebrated surveyor, Hunt.
The whole to conclude with the Farce, by Mr. Kearns, of
Mahomet.
Tickets to be had of Mr. Kearns, at the sign of the Goat’s Beard, in Castle-street.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
The Seven Ages of Man.
Jaques.——All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
As you Like it.—Act II.—Scene III.
——:o:——
The Stage Coach Company.
——Motley is a Stage;
Where men and women all are passengers.—
They have their middle and their corner seats;
Which no one on the road presumes to change,
Altho’ close-wedg’d with seven! And first the Lap-child,
Mewling and pewking o’er your shoes and boots.
And next the down-cast School-Boy, with his boxes,
And pockets shilling-fill’d—and large plum cake,
Which somewhat sweetens school! And next the Ensign,
Cramming hot-rolls, and eyeing, at each cup,
Molly, who serves the breakfast.—Next a Slumberer;
Full of sour wine, with ill-look’d, unshav’d beard,
Rolling his noddle, sudden in naps and wakings,
Seeking the banish’d, chaste sobriety,
Ev’n in the jolting coach!—And then the Vicar,
In sloping belly, with fat tithe pig lin’d;
With grizzled wig, and silken scarf-form’d vest,
Strew’d with rappee; his elbows lifted high,
’Tis so he digs your ribs!—The sixth niche shows
A meagre, mortified, warm-wrapp’d Old Maid;
With morning cap snug-drawn, and muff up-held,
Her curving nose and chin, seeking approach,
The sole good points she shews, and her shrill voice
Pour’d forth against the boldness of the age,
Full oft repeats the theme!—Last plac’d of all,
Which ends this “Worshipful Society,”
Sits a young Nymph, in ev’ry thing reverse,
Sans sleeves, sans coats, sans cap, sans everything!
From Fugitive Verse and Prose,
by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester, 1803.
——:o:——
The Patriot’s Progress.
——St. Stephens is a stage,
And half the opposition are but players:
For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects,
Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts,
Their acts being sev’n. At first the Demagogue,
Railing and mouthing at the hustings’ front:
And then the cogging Candidate, with beer,
Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters
Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member,
Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story
Made on the country’s fall. Then he turns Courtier,
Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife,
Pleas’d with all rulers, zealous for the church,
Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy,
Ev’n from the Canon’s mouth. And then a Secretary,
In fair white waistcoat, with boil’d chicken lin’d
With placid smile, and speech of ready answer,
Lib’ral of promises and army contracts,
And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him
To be a snug retired old baronet,
With ribband red on breast, and star on side:
His early zeal for change a world too hot
For his cool age: and his big eloquence,
Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes—
And we must pay the piper. Scene the last,
That ends this comfortable history,
Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage,
With cash, with coronet—with all but conscience.
From Posthumous Parodies, published by John Miller,
Bow Street, London, 1814.
——:o:——
The Seven Ages of Woman.
——“The world’s a stage,”
And Man has seven ages,”—
So Shakespeare writes (king of dramatic sages!)
But he forgot to tell you, in his plan,
That Woman plays her part, as well as Man.
First, how the Infant heart with triumph swells,
When the red coral shakes its silver bells;
She, like young statesmen, when the rattle rings,
Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings.
Next, little Miss, in pinafore so trim,
With nurse so noisy, and mamma so prim;
Eager to tell you all she has learned to utter,
Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter;
Type of her sex, who, though no longer young,
Holds everything with ease—except her tongue!
A Schoolgirl then, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father’s gout, and mother’s vapours;
Tramples alike on customs and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows:
“Betty” (she cries), “it comes into my head,
Old maids grow cross, because their cats are dead;
My governess has been in such a fuss
About the death of her old tabby puss;
She wears black stockings! Ha! ha! what a pother
’Cause one old cat’s in mourning for another!”
—The child of Nature, free from pride and pomp,
And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.
Next, riper Miss, who, nature more disclosing,
Now finds some traits of art are interposing;
And, with blue laughing eyes behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor—Man!
Behold her now—an ogling vain Coquette,
Catching male gudgeons in her silver net;
Whilst the fair forehead tresses, frizzled full,
Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull!
Then comes that sober character—the Wife,
With all the dear distracting cares of life;
A thousand cards a thousand joys extend,
For what may not upon a card depend?
Now she’ll snatch half a glance at opera, ball,
A meteor traced by none, though seen by all;
’Till “spousy” finds, while anxious to immure her,
A patent coffin only can secure her.
At last the Dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles, she folly trounces,
And, moralising, thus the age denounces:
“How bold and forward each young flirt appears!
Courtship, in my time, lasted seven years;
Now seven little months suffice, of course,
For courting, marrying, scolding, and divorce;
They say we have no souls; but what more odd is—
Nor men nor women now have any bodies!
When I was young, my heart was always tender,
And would, to every spouse I had, surrender;
Their wishes to refuse, I never durst,
And my fourth died as happy as my first!”
Truce to such splenetic and rash designs,
And let us mingle candour with our lines:
In all the stages of domestic life—
As child or sister, parent, friend, or wife—
Woman, the source of every fond employ,
Softens affliction, and enlivens joy.
What is your boast, male rulers of the land?
How cold and cheerless all you can command!
Vain your ambition, vain your wealth and power,
Unless kind woman share the raptured hour;
Unless ’midst all the glare of pageant art,
She adds her smile, and triumphs in your heart!
Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Seven Stages of Æstheticism.
——All the world’s Æsthetic,
And all the men and women merely æsthetes;
They have their yearnings and their ecstasies;
And each man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven stages. First, the Philistine,
Sneering at Art’s high transcendental charms;
And next the clinging Pupil, with his lily
And elongated chin, gliding like snake
To study in the school. Then, the Acolyte,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful sonnet
Made to a dado. Then, the full-fledged Poet,
Full of strange whims, long-haired as Absalom,
Jealous of fame, profuse of attitude,
Seeking the bubble reputation
E’en at the tea-pot’s spout. Then, the Professor,
With bilious mien and clothes not wisely cut,
His monologues quite too idealised,
Bursting with Culture and the Infinite;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
Into the lank and velvet-suited Humbug,
With nippers on his nose and tuft on chin;
His mystic style, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk audience; while his croaky voice,
Striving again to rouse to rapture, seems
But senseless in its sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is utter idiotcy and mere oblivion,
Sans mind, sans taste, sans Art, sans everything.
[This parody was quoted in “The Æsthetic Movement in England” by Walter Hamilton (Third Edition, Reeves and Turner, London 1882), in which work will be found full particulars of the peculiar form of Art revival here satirised. Though the cant of Æstheticism is fashionable no longer, the good that was effected by the serious devotees of the worship of Beauty and Culture is very visible in our domestic architecture, our house decorations, furniture, and china, as compared with the styles in vogue thirty years since.]
——:o:——
The Seven Ages of Intemperance.
——All the world’s a bar room
And all the men and women merely tipplers:
They have their bottles and their glasses;
And one man in his time takes many quarts,
His drink being seven kinds.—At first the infant,
Taking cordial in the nurse’s arms;
And then, the whining school-boy with his drop
Or two of porter, just to make him creep
More willingly to school.—And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, o’er his lemonade
Brewed into whisky-punch.—Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and reeling mad with brandy.
Brutal and beastly, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the fiend Intemperance
E’en in the gallon’s mouth.—And then the justice
In fair round belly, with Madeira lined,
Most elegantly drunk, superbly corned,
Full of wise saws against the use of gin,
And so he swallows wine.—The sixth drink
Shifts into the lean and bloated dram-drinker,
A spectacle his nose, he’s scorched inside;
The wretch’s ragged hose, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank: and his once manly hand,
Shaking the cup of tea, well lined with rum,
Seems now five palsied bones. Last drink of all,
That ends intoxication’s history,
Is laudanum, self murder’s long oblivion
Sans Faith, sans Hope, sans Life, sans everything.
The Comic Magazine. Fourth series 1834.
——:o:——
Jaques in Capel Court.
——All the world are stags!
Yea, all the men and women merely jobbers!
They have their brokers and their share-accounts,
And one man in his time tries many lines,
The end being total ruin. First, the greenhorn,
Dabbling and dealing in a lucky spec;
And then the prosperous seller, with his profits
And joyous winning face, buying like mad,
Unwilling to sell out; and then, the loser,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful prospect
Of the next settling day! Then the director,
Full of strange schemes, and lodged at the west-end,
Keeping a cab, and sudden growing rich,—
Getting a bubble reputation
Even in Capel Court. And then the bankrupt,
With his debts’ schedule large, and no assets:
By all his decent friends entirely cut,—
Full of bad scrip, and fertile of fresh schemes;
And so he plays his game. The sixth step sinks
Into the low and herring-gutted stag,
With spectacles on nose and list in hand;
His youthful gains all spent, the world too wide—
—Awake to be ta’en in, and his long line
Of hapless creditors that idly wait
And whistle for their cash. Last scene of all,
That ends this sad but common history,
Is—Union pauperism, and oakum picking;
Sans beer, sans beef, sans tea, sans everything.
Punch. November 1, 1845.
[This was published during the period of the Railway Mania, when speculation in the new Railroad stock was at its height. One of the entrances to the London Stock Exchange is in Capel Court, and it is a favourite rendezvous for Stockbrokers, and their clients. Stags, in Stock-Exchange phraseology, are persons who apply for shares in a newly formed Company, not because they wish to hold the shares, but because they hope to sell the allotment at a premium.]
——:o:——
The Poetry of Steam.
——The world’s ruled by Steam,
And all the men and women are its subjects:
It guides their movements and their whereabouts;
And this steam, in its time, plays many parts,
Its acts being Seven Ages. At first, the kettle,
Hissing and sputtering on a kitchen hob,
And then Newcomen’s Engine, to its piston,
By atmospheric pressure, giving force
Imperfectly to pump; Then Watt’s condenser;
More economic, with its stuffing box
And double acting movement: Then a steam-boat,
Full of strange smells, and cramm’d like Noah’s ark,
(It, on high pressure, sudden and quick to explode)
Raising up Fulton’s reputation
In every body’s mouth: Then the steam horse,
By Stephenson devised, on Wall’s End fed,
With boiler grimed and—wheels of clumsy cut,
Spurning brass knobs, and copper ornaments—
And so he plays his part. The Sixth age shifts
Into the war of broad and narrow gauge;
Brunel on one, Hudson on t’ other side—
Their several lines stretching a world too wide
For the Committees, and Steam’s manly voice,
That, in the kettle’s childish treble piped,
Now whistles o’er the world. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is general brotherhood, and mere oblivion
Of troops, of wars, of blood, and all such things.
Punch, July 25, 1846.
——:o:——
The Seven Ages of the Republic.
——France is a stage,
And all her heroes little more than players.
Her Kings their exits have, and entrances;
And the Republic runs its round of parts,
Its acts being seven ages. First, Young France,
Emeuting and plotting, e’en in the nurse’s arms;
Then ouvrier out of work, casquette on head,
And frowning hairy face, going, in faith,
To Louis Blanc to school. Then Lamartine,
Spouting away, writing a score of sonnets
Unto Dame Liberty’s eyebrow; then Mobile,
Clapped in strange clothes, and bearding barricades,
Zealous against old friends in sudden quarrel,
Taking a sight at death and devastation
E’en in the cannon’s mouth; then Cavaignac,
In power despotic and a state of siege,
With frown severe, and beard of Algiers cut,
O’er-riding Law with a soldier’s insolence—
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shows
Poor Liberty, with Constitution weak,
Halting ’twixt Anarchy and Despotism,
Her youthful bonnet rouge a world too wide
For her shrunk brains, and the big boastful voice,
Turning again to the old treble, pipes
Louis Napoleon in. Last scene of all
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans trade, sans tin, sans press, sans everything.
[This Parody appeared in Punch, November 25, 1848, at which time the form of government in France was nominally Republican, though very unsettled. King Louis Philippe had been forced to abdicate in February, 1848, and a republic was proclaimed, of which Louis Napoleon (afterwards Emperor) was elected President. Around the Parody were seven illustrations, drawn by the celebrated Richard Doyle, representing “Young France mewling and puking in the Nurse’s arms;” “The Ouvrier creeping like snail unwillingly to school;” “Lamartine inditing a sonnet to Liberty’s Eyebrow;” “The Garde Mobile seeking the Bubble reputation in the Cannon’s mouth;” “The Justice with eyes severe,” a portrait of General Cavaignac; and, last scene of all, poor France with her feet in Hot Water, and Louis Napoleon in the back ground carrying the fatal Idées Napoliennes, which finally brought him, and his country, to defeat and ruin.]
——:o:——
All the Town’s a Slide.
(A Parody for the Frost.)
——All the town’s a slide,
And all the men and women merely skaters.
They have their slippings and their flounderings,
And one man in his life has many falls:
His fate having seven stages. At first, the infant,
Shivering and shaking in his nurse’s arms;
And then the shuffling school-boy, with his highlows
And hobnailed sole and heel, cutting-out slides
Instead of going to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, till with woeful tumble
He and his mistress lie low. Then a soldier,
Wearing odd skates, and bearding all the park;
Jealous of others, sudden and quick in turning,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the deepest holes. And then the iceman
In fair round hat, with a good cape on, lined
With oilskin clear, and coat of formal cut,
Full of ice-saws and modern instruments;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage slips
Into the lean and slippery pantaloon,
With icicle on nose, and stick in hand,
His India-rubber shoes a world too large
For his shrunk feet; and his poor trembling knees
Straggling apart like childish helplessness,
He tumbles on the ground! Last scene of all
That ends this cold and frosty history
Is a sharp wind—upsetting everyone,
Sans stick, sans cloak, sans hat, sans everything.
Punch 1850.
——:o:——
The Seven Ages of a Public Man.
——Public Life’s a stage,
And all the men in office merely players:
They have their characters and salaries
And one man in his course plays many parts,
And acts through seven ages. First the infant,
High born, inheriting a coat of arms,
And then the Public School-boy, with his satchel,
And shining lot of fag, going by rail,
Uncaringly to school; then the Collegian
Boating and driving, with a comic ballad,
And supercilious eyebrow. Then the Patriot
Full of strong oaths, and moustached like the pard,
Anxious for honour, not disposed to quarrel
With any decent situation,
Suffice that can one’s mouth. And then the Member,
Quoting old saws and modern instances,
In fair round paunch, with public dinners lined;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered Minister;
With spectacles, and prose, and votes on side,
His youthful views renounced, a world too wide
For his shrunk wits and his once manly voice,
Trying in vain to hoax the people, pipes
A miserable sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this sad disgraceful history,
Is childish Red-tapism, and mere routine:
Sans heart, sans brains, sans pluck, sans everything.
Punch, May, 1855.
——:o:——
Catalogue of the British Museum.
——All the thing’s a farce,
And all the time and labour merely wasted.
It has its entries and its indexes,
And one man with his time plays but the fool
In poring o’er the pages. First the Volume,
Bulky and ponderous in the porter’s arms,
And then the heavy binding, with its edges
And greasy leather backs, letting it slide
Gradually to the ground. And then the titles,
Mixed up like hodge-podge—here a book of ballads
Publish’d by Beale or Boosey. Then a quarto,
Full of strange types, and letter’d all in black,
Printed on vellum—ancient in type and paper,
Cramming the author’s reputation
Right down the student’s mouth. And then the law-book
In pale brown calfskin, with gross humbug lined,
With rules severe, and forms of rigid cut,
Full of strange laws and musty precedents:
And so this forms a part. The volume shifts
Like change to clown or slipper’d pantaloon,
To subjects no one knows—from side to side
The eye may roll—the topics are too wide
To be embraced—and the loud public voice,
Turning again to childish treble, pipes
And whistles for its wants. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange mysterious catalogue,
Is perfect uselessness and mere oblivion,
Sans head—sans tail—in fact, sans everything.
[In these lines, which appeared a good many years ago, Mr. Punch was unduly severe on the Catalogue of the British Museum, which is a marvel of industry, and accuracy. By the system adopted it is only necessary to know the name of an author to be able to procure any of his works, and should any difficulty arise the courteous Librarians and attendants are ever ready to render the most valuable assistance.]
——:o:——
The Seven Ages.
By Mincing Lane Esq.,
——Mincing-lane’s a stage,
And all the workers there are merely players:
Each plays the part his manager may choose,
And in his part must mind his P.’s and Q.’s—
His acts being seven ages. At first the boy,
Untimely breeched in galling corduroy;
His eyes wide opened, and his lower jaw
Meekly depressed in reverential awe—
Bound for three miserable years to do
A shopboy’s drudgery without his screw,
Then the meek junior, with a moonlike face,
Creeping like snail unwilling to his place,
Sleepy from last night’s going to the play
And youthful soakings of convivial clay.
And then the lover, in resplendent scarf
And gorgeous pin, and boots too tight by half,
Spending with her he loves in lanes—away
From town—his one brief blissful holiday,
Seated in cosy arbour with his lass,
Pledging his love in cups of sparkling Bass.
And then the Volunteer, with gun in hand,
Scaring invaders from his native land,
Seeking, good man, the bubble reputation
In hebdomadal perambulation
In quiet spots—his partner by his side
Taking his youthful progeny for a ride.
And then the market clerk—rotund is he;
A man of substance; knowing to a T
What shares are discount, premium, or par—
What “mule twist” was, and what “grey shirtings” are:
And so he plays his part. The next age shifts
Into the book-keeper who seldom lifts
His eyes from off his book—who measures time
Not by the grass covered with glist’ning rime,
Nor song of blackbirds, nor the budding May,
Nor scent of meadows filled with new-mown hay,
Nor falling dew of autumn time—yet stay,
He notes the falling due of quarter-day.
Last scene of all that ends this strange career
Is utter friendlessness. Not one kind tear
On his account philanthropists can wring;
He dies sans home, sans friends, sans everything.
The Hornet, January 1, 1868.
——:o:——
The Politician’s Seven Ages.
[The seven ages of a politician might be enumerated somewhat as follows. It may be necessary to premise that Cranbourne Alley was the name given by the profane to the followers of Lord Salisbury, then Lord Cranbourne, when he voted against the Ministerial Reform Bill.]
——At first the Tory,
Pompous and prosing in his elbow chair;
And then the doubtful Dizzyite, with suffrage,
And firm belief in rates,—sneaking, like lamb,
Quite patiently, to “school.”
Then Cranbourne Alley,
Sighing for novelty, with woeful back-glance
Made at the Tory benches.
Then the Liberal
Full of strange whims, and reckless as a Rad;
Jealous for office, sudden at wrong conclusions;
Seeking the bubble alteration,
E’en gainst his country’s welfare.
Then the Brightite,
With fair round periods, with bad logic lined;
With ayes and noes aye in minority;
Full of wise schemes, and wild philosophy:
And so he plays his game.
The sixth age shifts
Into the Beales and Potter Demagogue,
With banner overhead, and pole in hand;
His common sense all gone,—the world too small
For his bold flight;—his once persuasive voice,
Turning tow’rds pot-house politicians, rants and vapours to a mob.
Last scene of all,
That generally ends this history,
Is second Toryism, or utter lassitude;—
Sans hope, sans care, sans mind, sans everything.
Once a Week, June 27, 1868.
——:o:——
The Seven Ages of Acting.
1. First the Infant mewling and puling in the dresser’s arms—waiting to go on at eighteenpence a night.
2. Then the Pantomime Imp, with his whistle and dirty morning face, crawling like snail unwillingly to rehearsal.
3. And then the Jeune Premier, smoking like a furnace, with woeful bad legs. “Made-up,” too, in moustache and eyebrows.
4. Then the Melodramatic Artist, full of strange oaths, bearded, and wearing pads, jealous in liquor, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking bubble reputation, even at an East-end theatre.
5. And then the Low Comedian, in big ulster, with good flannel lined.
6. Sixth age, scene shifts, and at Christmas plays the lean and slippered pantaloon. The wardrobe hose, a world too wide for his shrunk shank.
7. Last scene of all in this strange, eventful history in second-sightedness, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything—but hot gin toddy.
Wallis Mackay.
St. Stephens’ Saturnalia, December, 1884.
——:o:——
The Seven Ages of Love.
Man in his day loves many times and oft,
For Nature’s made him uncontent with one;
He breathes a hundred vows in accents soft
Ere on the earth his pilgrimage is run.
First comes the baby, in his nurse’s arms,
With button mouth stretched wide for pap-filled spoon;
Or else with clutching fingers, eager palms,
Waiting and weeping for his love—the moon.
The schoolboy next, with hungry, longing gaze
Fixed on the face of one of thirty years;
Unversed, as yet, in guileful worldly ways,
Bemoaning youth with bitter sobs and tears.
Later the man, all furious in Love’s pains,
Yet humbly sighing soft on bended knee;
Swearing his heart out that the globe contains
But one adorable and perfect she.
And then the soldier, fierce in love as fight,
With twirled moustache and rugged, sun-browned cheek,
Claiming young Beauty as the warrior’s right,
Then scorning conquest as a passing freak.
The Justice next, with pockets golden lined,
With money bags to lure and satyr leer;
Resolved at fifty years a maid to find,
As wife for two and nurse for twenty years.
Sixth stage, the pantaloon, wan, shrunk, and thin,
With limbs half paralysed and senses numb,
Chucking the nurs’ry maid beneath the chin
And mumbling nonsense with a toothless gum.
Last scene of all. Blear-eyed, with shrivelled neck,
Laid by, for Death to claim, upon the shelf;
A fretful, peevish, crabbed, and cross-grained wreck,
Loving but one thing, and that one thing—self.
So wags the world! From life’s first blush of light,
Through happy morning to bright afternoon,
Till falling shades of evening lead to night—
And love?—The last is self, the first the moon!
Judy, January 19, 1881.
——:o:——
The Seven Ages of Woman.
By a Cantankerous Old Curmudgeon.
——All the world’s a Wardrobe,
And all the girls and women merely wearers:
They have their fashions and their fantasies,
And one she in her time wears many garments
Throughout her Seven Stages. First, the baby,
Befrilled and broidered, in her nurse’s arms.
And then the trim-hosed schoolgirl, with her flounces
And small-boy scorning face, tripping skirt-waggling,
Coquettishly to school. And then the flirt,
Ogling like Circe, with a business œillade
Kept on her low-cut corset. Then a bride
Full of strange finery, vestured like an angel,
Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance,
Seeking the Woman’s heaven, Admiration,
Even at the Altar’s steps. And then the matron,
In fair rich velvet with suave satin lined,
With eyes severe, and skirts of youthful cut
Full of dress-saws and modish instances,
To teach her girls their part. The sixth age shifts
Into the grey yet gorgeous grandmamma,
With gold pince-nez on nose and fan at side,
Her youthful tastes still strong, and worldly wise
In sumptuary law, her quavering voice
Prosing of Fashion and Le Follet, pipes
Of robes and bargains rare. Last scene of all,
That ends the Sex’s Mode-swayed history,
Is second childishness and sheer oblivion
Of youth, taste, passion, all—save love of Dress!
Punch, May 20, 1882.
——:o:——
There are many other parodies of this speech. One was contained in a burlesque operatic tragedy performed at the Lyceum Theatre in July, 1812, entitled “Highgate Tunnel, or the Secret Arch,” of which the argument was that “All the world’s a stable.” Unfortunately this play is not to be found in the Library of the British Museum, consequently the parody cannot be reproduced, but the following, on the subject of Carriages, is of a somewhat kindred nature. It is taken from The Sporting Times of April 18, 1885, but is here given without the illustrations which embellished it, when it first appeared, in that sportive, and very facetious journal:
The Seven Carriages of Man.
“All the world’s a stage, &c., &c.,
And one man in his time tries many traps.”
First, the baby in his carriage. Observe the animal’s expression, he is mewling and puking.
Next comes the schoolboy on his tricycle. Special attention has been bestowed on his “shining morning face.”
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
On tricycle to school.
Then the lover, in spite of proctors and bulldogs, tries to drive a very scratch tandem with the idea of impressing the lady of his heart for the time being.
And then the lover.
Who in scratch tandem drives a Tottie
With golden hair and jet black eyebrows.
The soldier, full of strange oaths as in Willy Shakespeare’s time, but not now bearded like a pard—vide Queen’s Regulations, sec. vii., par. 20—drives the regimental coach.
The justice stows “his fair round belly” into a brougham. A view of the said lower portion of his bosom is obtained through the window.
The lean and slippered pantaloon hides his infirmities in a bath chair.
And, last carriage of all, the hearse, in which we all take our final drive.
An economic funeral ends the list
Sans plumes, sans mutes, sans pall, sans everything.
——:o:——
A fortnight later the same paper contained another parody, on the same speech, entitled The Seven Drinks of Man, and fortunately for the readers of “Parodies” the Editor of “The Sporting Times” has kindly lent the wood engravings which accompanied it. These distantly remind one, in their effects of light and shade, of some of the best works of Rembrandt, and whilst it may perhaps be said that they lack in execution, in conception they are immense.
The Seven Drinks of Man.
——“All the world’s a bar,
And all the men and women merely drinkers.”
“First the infant, mewling and pewking in his
nurse’s arms, and for his bottle crying.”
Then the schoolboy, quaffing his ginger-beer,
Until “he well nigh bursts.”
“Then the lover, with a woful ballad,
Made to his mistress’ eye-brow ’neath the subtle inspiration of the Boy.”
“Then the soldier, slaking his parched throat,
Made dry by last night’s mess, with many a brandy and soda.”
“Then the justice, with fair, round belly,
With good claret lined.”
“The lean and slippered pantaloon,
Who, with his feet in foot-bath, sits and drinks his gruel.”
“Last drink of all, beef-tea.”
I feel quite mixed after the variety.—Yours,
P.M.T.
The Sporting Times, May 2, 1885.
——:o:——
“Rosalind Mrs. Langtry.”—Playbill.
Crutch, in cosy box enshrin’d,
Showers bouquets on Rosalind;
Gallery is not behind
In its praise of Rosalind;
Common “pro’s” for years may grind,
Not so gentle Rosalind.
Beauty and high birth combin’d
Must produce a Rosalind!
Where can we an equal find
To our latest Rosalind?
Critics sour and critics kind
Battle over Rosalind.
To the charms who can be blind
Of this pretty Rosalind?
Streets with carriages are lined,
Audiences for Rosalind,
Braving chill September’s wind
For the sake of Rosalind;
Rank and fashion, lately dined,
Flock to feast on Rosalind.
But I can’t make up my mind,
To accept this Rosalind!
Judy, October 4, 1882.
——:o:——
Poetry and snow do not blend well. Sleet extinguishes all feu sacré in the bard. Early one morning last week, when a few gentle flakes were falling, I thought of the song of my friend Amiens in “As you Like It,” and laughing at the elements, attempted a rough parody of the first verse. It was as follows:—
Blow, blow thou Winter wind;
Snow, too, if so inclined:
I cannot change your mood.
I’ll order Toddy hot
And drink of it a lot—
The strongest can be brewed.
Heigh ho! Sing heigh ho! Away with melancholy.
To grumble at the weather is nought but folly.
Then heigh ho! The holly!
This life is most jolly.
(An interval of six hours is supposed to elapse.)
Freeze! Freeze! The wind does blow!
I’m “Boycotted” by the snow,
I search and search in vain
For cab, or bus, or train.
Miles off is home—and worse,
I’ve no coin in my purse!
In the snow, sing heigh ho! to the green folly
Of a fellow feigning to be happy or jolly.
Heigh ho!
’Tis folly, by golly!
To hope to be jolly!
Anonymous.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
——:o:——
A Bachelor.
(After Romeo’s description of an apothecary. Act v. Scene i.)
I do remember an old BACHELOR,
And hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted
In suit of sables, with care worn brow,
Conning his books—and meagre were his looks:
Celibacy had worn him to the bone;
And in his silent parlour hung a coat,
The which the moth had used not less than he.
Four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk,
Made up its furniture; and on his shelves
A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug,
Two tablets, and a box of old cigars;
Remnants of volumes, once in some repute,
Were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye
Of prying stranger—this man had no wife.
His tatter’d elbow gap’d most piteously;
And ever as he turned him round, his skin
Did through his stockings peep upon the day.
Noting his gloom, unto myself I said,
“And if a man did covet single life,
Reckless of joys that matrimony gives,
Here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him
In such most dismal colours, that the shrew,
Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse,
Were each a heaven compared with such a life.”
The Maids, Wives, and Widows Penny Magazine,
October 27, 1832.
I do remember a cook’s shop—
And here about it stands—him late I noted
In tuck’d up sleeves, with night cap o’er his brows,
Cutting up joints—pleas’d were his looks,
The fatt’ning trade had cover’d well his bones,
And in his reeky shop a sirloin hung,
A buttock stuff’d; nice tripe, and other strings
Of well spic’d sausages—and upon his board
A sovereign remedy for empty stomachs,
Green peas and ducks, pork, steaks, and mutton chops,
Remnant of goose, pigeon-pye and plates of ham,
Were amply set out to make up a show,
Noting this plenty to myself I said;
An’ if a man did need a dinner now,
Whose dainty smell is present appetite,
Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one.
If I may trust the flattering truth of nose,
This should be Porridge Island—
Being twelve o’th’clock—the knives and forks are laid.
I do remember a young pleader,
And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted
In coat once black, with overwhelming brow,
Pondering o’er cases—sallow were his looks,
And midnight thought had worn him to the bone;
And in his sombre chambers lay confused,
Black dusty papers, “general issues” here,
“Demurrers special” there—matter apt to teach
That, to our noble law, justice and form
Alike are dear—and o’er his shelves
A beggarly account of dusty volumes—
Wentworth, and Coke, and Saunders—old editions all,
With a few numbers of the late reports,
Were thinly scattered to make up a show.
Noting his little practice, thus I said:
“An’ if a man would patch a rotten case,
Give to transaction dark a face of snow,
Here lives the lawyer that might draw the pleas,
Oh! this same thought doth but forerun my need—
I have a cause, and will retain him quickly,
As I remember, this should be the chamber;
But it not being term the door is closed.”
What, ho!
From The Poetical Note Book and Epigrammatic Museum;
by George Wentworth, London, 1824.
——:o:——
The following parody was written by Robert Surtees, Esq., M.A. F.S.A., author of a history of the County Palatine of Durham:—
I do remember a strange man, a herald—
And hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted
In parti-colour’d coat like a fool’s jacket,
Or morrice-dancer’s dress—musty his looks,
Like to a piece of ancient shrivell’d parchment,
Or an old pair of leather brogues twice turn’d;
And round the dusky room he did inhabit,
Whose wainscot seem’d as old as Noah’s ark,
Were divers shapes of ugly, ill-formed monsters,
Hung up on scutcheons like an old church aisle—
A blue boar rampant, and a griffin gules,
A gaping tyger, and a cat-o’-mountain,
What nature never form’d, nor madman dream’d,
Gorgons and hydras and chimæras dire;
And straight before him lay a dusty heap
Of ancient legers, books of evidence,
Old blazon’d pedigrees and antique rolls,
(Which made full oft the son beget the father,
And give to maiden ladies fruitful issue.)
Torn parish registers, probates, and testaments—
From which, with cunning art and sage contrivance,
He fairly culled divers pedigrees;
And next, by act of transmutation rare,
Did change his musty vellum into gold—
For straight comes in a gaudy city youth,
(Whose father, for oppression and vile cunning,
Lies roaring low in Limbo lake the while,)
And straight depositeth some forty guineas,
And after some few words of mystic import,
Of Mowbray, Howard, Vere, Plantagenet,
And other necromantic terms of art,
Most gravely utter’d by the smoke-dried sage,
He takes, in lieu of gold, the vellum roll,
With arms emblazon’d and Earl Marshal’s signet,
And struts away, a well-born gentleman.
Observing this, I to myself did say,
“And if a man did need a coat of arms,
Here lives a caitiff that would sell him one.”
——:o:——
The Shakespeare of the Period.
Shakespeare pur et simple will soon be beyond the comprehension of audiences accustomed to burlesque, sensation drama, and the cancan. An enterprising manager (we believe he thinks of turning Somerset House into a theatre, with hotel accommodation, so that visitors from the country can take a ticket, including entrance, supper, bed, and breakfast) has offered a prize for the best modern version of Shakespeare’s plays. We have been favoured with a perusal of the M.S.S. sent in, and give the following versions of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, without the kind permission of the authors:—
ROMEO.
by William Shakespeare and T. W. Robertson.
ACT THE SECOND.—ASSIGNATION!
SCENE.—CAPULET’S Garden.
Enter ROMEO.
Rom.—That board says “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” I am a trespasser; but what matters prosecution so that I can stand beneath the window of the girl I love? What is love? Men live for it, die for it, and lose caste for it; but—
Juliet appears on balcony, with watering-pot.
Jul.—I have been thinking so much about that young man I met at the ball that I nearly forgot my poor flowers. There’s somebody in the garden. Who can it be?
Rom.—Have you forgotten me so soon, then?
Jul.—I have not forgotten you. But you have done wrong to come here; if my father saw you he would give you in charge.
Rom.—I have been thinking of you for the last two hours.
Jul.—And I have been thinking of you. How strange that we should think of one another!
Rom.—We must be in love.
Jul.—What is love?
Rom.—The very question I asked myself five minutes ago.
Jul.—What a lovely night! And look at the stars! Are they far off?
Rom.—Ah! hundreds and thousands of million miles.
Jul.—They seem about a mile-and-a-half from the earth.
Rom.—But they are not so far from the earth as you are from me.
Jul. (leaning over)—We are nearer now.
Rom. (holding spout of water-pot)—And the waterpot join us. For how long?
Jul.—Until I am tired of holding it, I suppose.
Rom.—Will you be out to-morrow morning?
Jul.—I always go to the village to get an egg for papa’s breakfast.
Rom.—Meet me at the Friar’s.
Jul.—What for?
Rom.—To be married, of course.
Jul.—How nice! And I can take back the egg as if nothing had happened.
Rom.—Then you think more of the egg than you do of me! Good night!
Jul.—Good night! Be careful of the wall. And beware of the dog.
Rom.—After all, what is a wall?
Jul.—And what is a dog?
[Juliet waters flowers. Romeo retreats a few steps and watches her. Curtain falls—should it be raised Juliet has dropped the water-pot, and is lost in reverie; Romeo is halfway over the wall.]
——:o:——
ROMEO AND HIS JULIET.
By William Shakespeare and T. Maddison Morton.
Scene.—A garden.
Romeo discovered on wall.
Rom.—If there’s one thing damps a fellow’s ardour it’s broken bottles. Now then for a jump.
(Romeo slides off wall, and falls into cucumber frame.)
I always disliked cucumbers, and now they have had their revenge. Now then to reach my charmer’s window.
Climbs up water-butt and falls in. Juliet appears on balcony.
Jul.—I heard something. It must have been the cats.
Romeo’s head appears from water-butt.
O, Romeo, Romeo, what a cold you will get!
Rom.—Suppose you help us out, and pity us afterwards. (She pulls him out.) My lovely Julio—I mean Romlet—bother it, Capulo—no, no, Montaget. I shall forget my own name next.
Jul.—What’s in a name?
Rom.—A great deal—especially when you can’t remember it. Will you quit the domicile of your paternal parent, and slope off with your’s truly?
Jul.—But how can we marry? I haven’t a copper of my own.
Rom.—And seven-and-sixpence is all I possess. Have you no jewels?
Jul.—Only a coral necklace, and a silver spoon given to me by my godfather and godmothers at my baptism.
Rom.—With such treasures and our love kings might envy us.
Dog enters.
I’m off. Down, Ponto! Good night, Jupulet. Good dog?
Jul.—Come here, Ponto!
[Dog chases Romeo; he climbs the wall; dog seizes his coat tails, tears them off, and runs about with them in his mouth.]
ROW ME O TO JULIA YET!
OR,
THE COVE! THE LOVE!! AND THE TURTLE DOVE!!!
By William Shakespeare and H. J. Byron.
Scene.—Capulet’s Back Garden.
[Music, “Come into the Garden, Maud.”—Enter Romeo, dressed as a young man of the day, smoking cigar.]
Rom.—
For walls and gates I do not care a farden,
And so I make my way into the garden;
My conduct may seem like that of a rash’un,
But on this plot I’ll give vent to my passion.
I met her at the ball. We danced together,
’Tis true we only talked about the weather;
But then our idle eyes spoke volumes nearly;
And now I know I idolize her dearly,
And come what will I never can forget
Earth’s brightest jewel, lovely Jewelet.
Enter Juliet on balcony.
Jul.—
Bother the cats! They quite disturb my rest.
Rom.—
Now is my time.
Jul.—
They are getting quite a pest.
Rom.—
The creature basking in your beauty’s glow
Is not a Thomas Cat, but Romeo.
Jul.—
A Montague!
Rom.—
Who’s aim’s your hand to claim;
But as no doubt you’ll say, “What’s in an aim?”
Jul.—
Aimey-vous me?
Rom.—
My very little game. I
Adore you more than Leicester did his Aimey.
Wilt fly with me? My love you cannot doubt it.
Jul.—
Well, Romeo, I must romeonate about it.
What is to-day?
Rom.—
Days, months, I quite forget,
It may be June—I know but Julyet.
I’ll take you to the Friar.
Jul.—
Let me see—
Rom.—
Why, surely you are not afraid of me?
Jul.—
I’ll meet you at the cell.
Rom.—
And cell I bring
A marriage license.
Jul.—
Yes; also a ring.
Duet,—Air, “Burlesque Galop.”
Both.—
The Montagues and Capulets will be in such a way,
When they hear that Romeo and Juliet one fine day,
Ran off and got married both together on the sly,
Regardless of the hatred of each other’s family.
O toodlee um, te oodleum, &c.
(Juliet plays tambourine—Romeo dances a breakdown.)
JULIET AND ROMEO.
(An Original Drama)
By Dion Boucicault.
Act 2.—Scene 2.—Terrace and grounds of Capulet Castle Balcony, L., with flowers on stand, and vine trees climbing up sides. Wall, R., on which grows real stone fruit. Italian view at back (to be painted on the spot.) Enter Retainers.
GRAND DANCE OF THE PERIOD BY A
HUNDRED REAL VERONESE.
(Exeunt Retainers.
Enter Romeo, dropping from wall by aid of a branch. Presently Juliet appears. They talk (but never mind the dialogue.) Enter Watchmen. They struggle with Romeo. Juliet throws flower-pots at watchmen. Exeunt Watchmen, with broken heads. Here the lovers might speak; but perhaps words will only delay the action. Capulet enters with Retainers. Romeo is bound to a tree. During struggle Juliet descends from balcony by aid of vine, and fills Retainers’ muskets with water from a patent garden tube. Capulet and Retainers retire. They point their muskets at Romeo, Capulet gives the word, but the muskets are harmless. Juliet picks up pruning knife and releases Romeo. They are discovered. Romeo is again a prisoner, when he tells Capulet that amongst the papers to be opened at his death is the last will of Capulet’s father, leaving all to charity. The old man blesses his children, and for a time, at least, the lovers are happy. But there are more sensations to come.
The Grasshopper, July 1, 1869.
——:o:——
Mercutio’s Description of Queen Mab.
Mercutio.—
Here comes Romeo—poor fellow he’s mooney
Sweet on Rosaline! Oh, regular spooney,—
Found him this morning at the lady’s door,
Waving up kisses to the second floor—
Radiant with joy, as Phœbus or Aurora,
Wooing with warm smiles a second Flora!
And then unto his lady love he played
Upon the Jewish harp a serenade;
While ever and anon there came a flow
Of voice with “Sweep!” and then of “Milk below!”
Romeo enters in a melancholy mood.
Mercu.—
His bosom swells, the heavy sighs rise on it;
The man’s in love—that’s about the size on it.
Romeo. (taking out photograph and kissing it)—
Sweet Rosaline!
Nor yet as sweet by half
As represented in this photograph.
The sun was envious of those dainty hands—
So fist-like has he drawn them—and he brands
The sweetest smile that ever heart did win,
In likeness of a silly sort of grin!
Mercu. (looking over his shoulder)—
Sixpence in frame complete, that’s about it.
Romeo.—
Now there you’re wrong, my friend; perhaps you doubt it?
But fourpence is the figure now-a-days—
The walks of art are now but common ways.
(Kisses photograph and sighs.)
Mercu.—
Good Romeo, are you ill?
Romeo.—
Yes, I’m queer.
Mercu.—
Where do you feel it?
Romeo. (laying hand on heart)
Oh! I feel it here.
Mercu.—
Oh! you are in love—over head and ears—
But why so sad? Your eyes are set with tears,
When you should smile.
Romeo.—
Rosy!
Mercu.—
Pooh! forget her.
You’ll see some other girl you’ll like much better.
Romeo.—
I’ve dreamt a dream—Oh! ’twas a horrid dream!
Mercu.—
Queen Mab’s been with your worship, it would seem.
She is the very deuce, and goes to work
By aid of pickled salmon and roast pork;
Sits on the stomach of an Alderman;
O’er every drowsy sense does hold her ban.
Her waggon-spokes of grill’d and devilled bones,
Her wheels give out a constant sound of groans;
Her whip, a knotted lash of champagne wires;
Her chariot, a stew-pan wrapped in fires;
Her shouts are pepper, and her oaths are spice;
She’s something nasty, after something nice.
In fact, my buck, to speak out plain and fair,
What you’ve been suffering from is the nightmare!
This extract is taken from “Romeo and Juliet Travestie, or the Cup of Cold Pison,” by Andrew Halliday.
The burlesque was produced at the Strand Theatre, on Thursday, November 3rd, 1859, when the part of Romeo was taken by Miss C. Saunders, whilst Miss Marie Wilton (now Mrs. Bancroft) performed Juliet, “a belle whom all the young fellows in Verona are anxious to ring.”
At the end of the burlesque the ghost of Shakespeare rises, frowning, and holding up his finger menacingly.
Mercutio.—
I see it’s Shakespeare.
He’s angry with us.
All.—
Pray what have we done?
Romeo.—
His noble tragedy we’ve turned to fun;
And he don’t like it.
All.—
Oh, what shall we do?
Apothecary.—
Some of you speak to him. Romeo, you
Are the hero here, face it out—dare him,
Soften him over a bit.—you know—square him!
Romeo. (going up to him)—
I’ll try. Immortal bard—illustrious Swan of Avon,
Towards you, we own, we have not been behavin’,
With that respect which we should like to pay,
But the fact is, if we essayed your play,
As you did write it—the boxes and the pit
Would say we could not act the play a bit.
And so that with us, not at us they may laugh,
We’ve winnowed your fine corn into chaff.
(Shakespeare bows.)
Nurse. (going up)—
Another thing you must remember, Poet,
You wrote burlesques yourself, and well you know it.
In “The Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
(Shakespeare disappears.)
Messrs. T. and G. Shrimpton, of Broad Street, Oxford, published another burlesque on this tragedy. It was entitled “Romeo and Juliet; or the Shaming of the True;” an Atrocious Outrage perpetrated at Oxford, by the St. John’s College Amateurs, during Commemoration, 1868. The author’s name is not given.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
——:o:——
A burlesque of “The Merchant of Venice” was produced at the Olympic Theatre, London, on Monday July 4th, 1853. It was entitled “Shylock or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved. An entirely new reading of Shakespeare, from an edition hitherto undiscovered by modern authorities, and which it is hoped may be received as the stray leaves of a Jerusalem Hearty-Joke.”
This burlesque was written by Mr. Francis Talfourd with a special view to furnishing F. Robson, with a character adapted to his peculiar abilities, and Shylock suited him admirably.
There are however no distinct parodies of any passages of the original which could be quoted without making long extracts. This is unnecessary, as the burlesque can be readily obtained from the theatrical publishers.
Bassanio. What find I here?
(Opening the leaden casket.)
Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips,
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
The painter plays the spider and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,—
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his
And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how far
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
In underprizing it, so far this shadow
Doth limp behind the substance.
The Merchant of Venice,
Act III. Scene II.
Bassanio. What find I here?
Fair Portia’s counterfeit? What demi-god
Hath come so near creation, and what
Doth the demi-god, forsaken caitiff, charge
Per dozen? Move these eyes? Or, whether riding
On the balls of mine, seem they in motion?
Ask me an easier one.
Here are severed lips parted with sugar breath;
Wonder if Jones—but, no! Perish
The thought! And, also, perish Jones,
The ringboned, spavined Jobberwock,
If ever I do catch him hereabouts again!
Here in her hair the painter plays the spider,
And hath woven a mesh to entrap
The hearts of men, one of whom am I,
By a large majority, and several counties
And unbribed districts to hear from.
But her eyes! How could he see to do them?
Having made one, methinks it would have power
To steal both his—Ah! blessed thought! I’ll steal
Her picture, now I hear her foot
Upon the stairs!
Merry Folks.
——:o:——
Song.
Tell me where is fancy bred
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy’s knell;
I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.
Song.
(DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR OF “GERMAN YEAST.”)
Tell me what is Fancy Bread,
Is it alum, or white lead?
How begot, how fashioned?
Reply, Reply.
It is engendered from old bones
With glazing fed; the eater moans,
’Neath its weight his stomach groans;
Bread of Fancy, hear thy knell
Sounded by the Muffin-Bell;
Ding dong Bell.
The Tomahawk, November 9, 1867.
——:o:——
Nursey.
By a young and over-ambitious poet, on visiting the guardian of his childhood.
The jollity of Nursey is not feigned;
She hoppeth, as a genteel wren or raven,
Upon the neighbouring heath. I’m thrice caress’d;
Caress’d by her who used to bring me cakes!
She’s tidiest of the tidiest; and becomes
In face more youthful through revolving time.
Oft has she, in bygone temperate hour,
Dulled my young ears with jaw and minstrelsy,
And there she’d sit, and tell me queer odd things;
For Nursey used to love the spectred fay,
Foibles, since foiled by Cooke and Maskelyne;
But then, I somehow reck’d them true myself,
And in my mite mind murmured “what’s the odds
When Nursey’s reason just is?” Therefore you,
Though rather bored I see, remember this:
That grateful we should be, each one of us
For early teaching. So I say to Nursey
That her kind care doth prompt us all to tender
The deeds of Nursey!
Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley.
(Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.)
——:o:——
Calves’ Foot Jelly.
This quality of jelly must be strained,
And drop through bags like gentle dew from heaven;
And, when the right consistence is obtained,
By Portia ’tis to sick Bassanio given.
Judy, September 22, 1880.
MACBETH.
——:o:——
TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE
Of the New Drury Lane Theatre.
Gentlemen,
Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of every body about me, and made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite servants—that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; and George Barnwell, his bookkeeper—I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you inclosed a more detailed specimen of my case; if you could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt, that I should feel the immediate affects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.
I am, &c.,
Momus Medlar.
[Enter Macbeth in a red nightcap. Page following with a torch.]
Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell
(She knows that my purpose is cruel),
I’d thank her to tingle her bell
As soon as she’s heated my gruel.
Go, get thee to bed and repose—
To sit up so late is a scandal;
But ere you have ta’en off your clothes,
Be sure that you put out that candle.
Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.
My stars, in the air here’s a knife!—
I’m sure it can not be a hum;
I’ll catch at the handle, add’s life!
And then I shall not cut my thumb.
I’ve got him!—no, at him again!
Come, come, I’m not fond of these jokes;
This must be some blade of the brain—
Those witches are given to hoax.
I’ve one in my pocket, I know,
My wife left on purpose behind her;
She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,
The poor Caledonian grinder.
I see thee again! o’er thy middle
Large drops of red blood now are spill’d,
Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill’d.
It leads to his chamber, I swear;
I tremble and quake every joint—
No dog at the scent of a hare
Ever yet made a cleverer point.
Ah, no! ’twas a dagger of straw—
Give me blinkers, to save me from starting;
The knife that I thought that I saw
Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.
Now o’er this terrestrial hive
A life paralytic is spread;
For while the one half is alive,
The other is sleepy and dead.
King Duncan, in grand majesty,
Has got my state-bed for a snooze;
I’ve lent him my slippers, so I
May certainly stand in his shoes.
Blow softly, ye murmuring gales!
Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking!
For though a dead man tells no tales,
Dead walls are much given to talking.
This knife shall be in at the death—
I’ll stick him, then off safely get!
Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,
For he’d ne’er stick at anything yet.
Hark, hark! ’tis the signal, by goles!
It sounds like a funeral knell;
O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls
To call thee to heaven or hell.
Or if you to heaven won’t fly,
But rather prefer Pluto’s ether,
Only wait a few years till I die,
And we’ll go to the devil together.
Ri fol de rol, &c.
[This song is taken from the celebrated Rejected Addresses by Horace and James Smith. The travesties on The Stranger and George Barnwell, (referred to in the above introduction) possess little, or no interest now, as the originals are obsolete, and it may be said that neither of these three travesties is equal to the other clever poems contained in The Rejected Addresses.]
——:o:——
Incantation. (1828).
Scene.—Penenden Plain, In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder—Enter three Brunswickers.
1st Bruns.—Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawl’d.
2nd B.—Once hath fool Newcastle bawl’d,
3rd B.—Bexley snores; ’tis time, ’tis time,
1st B.—Round about the caldron go,
In the poisonous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite, that long hath grown,
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Scott
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.
All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eldon, talk, and Kenyon scribble.
2nd B.—Slaver from Newcastle’s quill
In the noisome mess distil,
Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill
Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,
With that malty stuff that Chandos
Drivels as no other man does,
Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of Salisbury
One idea, though it be
Smaller than the “happy flea,”
Which his sire, in sonnet terse
Wedded to immortal verse.[36]
Though to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;
And to keep it company,
Let that conjuror Winchelsea
Drop but half another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatch’d in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests, like Horner,
Purely for religious good,
Cry aloud for Papists’ blood,
Blood for Wells, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.
All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley talk, and Kenyon scribble.
3rd B.—Now the charm begins to brew;
Sisters, sisters, add thereto
Scraps of Lethbridge’s old speeches
Mix’d with leather from his breeches,
Rinsings of old Bexley’s brains,
Thickened (if you’ll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle, nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There—the Hell-broth we’ve enchanted—
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o’er all that orange juice,
Castlereagh keeps cork’d for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Colour’d deep with blood of * * *
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o’er it,
England’s parsons bow before it.
All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
2nd B.—Cool it now with * * * ’s blood,
So the charm is firm and good. [Exeunt.
Thomas Moore.
——:o:——
The Derby Voter’s Soliloquy.
(Spoken in a darkened doorway with his face to the wall.)
Is this a sovereign which I feel behind me.
Slipp’d gently into my hand? Come, let me sack thee:
Art thou not precious metal, sensible
To vision as to touch? or art thou but
A sovereign of the mind, a false sensation,
Proceeding from the beer-oppressed brain?
I feel thee yet, a coin as palpable
As this I now produce.
Thou hint’st to me the side whereon I’m going;
And such a candidate I am to choose.
My conscience is the weakest of my senses,
Which should rule all the rest. I feel thee still—
A blade that has no gudgeon in his blood,
I ne’er was sold before. Pooh! no such thing;
It is the freeman’s privilege which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now throughout all the land
Protection’s dead; and wicked bribes abuse
The voter’s trust; now Coppock celebrates
Corruption’s offerings; and cunning Edwards,
Subduing easy principle with pelf,
Prowls on the watch, and thus with hidden face,
The stumpy lavishes wide towards his design,
Mute as a post. Ye men of sense and worth,
Mark not my course, which way I vote, for fear,
My very looks show I’ve been tamper’d with;
And take the present honour from my name
That now rests with it. Whiles I yet shall live,
Votes I for treats and feeds and gold will give.
I go and plump anon: the chink invites me.
Hear it not, Beresford! for ’tis a knell
That summons thee to follow Jacob Bell!
Punch, August, 1852.
So great was the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” that many inferior imitations were issued, amongst them being a small Volume, entitled “Accepted Addresses” published by Thomas Tegg. In it are poems jocularly ascribed to Lord Byron, and Walter Scott, there is also a burlesque, entitled “Macbeth Travestie, in three acts. With Burlesque annotations, after the manner of Dr. Johnson, G. Stevens, Esq., and the various Commentators.” The author acknowledges that the favorable reception which attended the Travestie on Hamlet, by John Poole, gave him the suggestion for the undertaking, to which it must be said, it is much inferior. It contains no parodies of sufficient interest or merit to be quoted.
There was another “Macbeth Travestie” in two acts, written by Francis Talfourd, and performed at Henley-on-Thames, on the day of the regatta, June 17, 1847. This was published by E. T. Spiers, of High Street, Oxford, it was afterwards produced, with slight alterations, at the Strand Theatre, on January 10, 1848; and again at the Olympic Theatre, on April 25, 1853, when the part of Macbeth was performed by F. Robson. The London Edition (published by Lacy) has a humourous preface by William Farren. The Incantation Scene (scene IV., act II.) commences thus:—
Witches (singing)
We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!
We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!
We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!
Macbeth to terrify!
Macbeth to terrify!
Macbeth to terrify!
It’s a way they had on the stage-oh!
When Melodrame was all the rage-oh!
The audience with spells to engage-oh!
So we’ll at a spell have a shy!
So we’ll, &c.
THE INCANTATION.
1st Witch.—
Apron strings of old maids-tabbies;
Tongues of spifflicated babbies;
Joinville of a greasy gent,
Reeking with unhallowed scent.
2nd Witch.—
Beards of maggots, maws of mummies,
Fingers of flue-strangled chummies
Heap in humbugs all to aid us—
Banjos, bones, and serenaders!
Holloway’s grease, and Frampton’s pills,
Fuel fierce of human ills
Mild emetics—one a dose is;
Seventy-seven street-sweepers’ noses!
Fashion new, that taste perverts—
See “the last new thing in shirts!”
Slangy coats of aspect rare;
And the “gent’s real head of hair!”
All Three.—
Double, double, toil and trouble—
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
Enter Macbeth.
Macb.—
That’s right, my hearties, keep the pot a boiling,
I trust I’m not a family party spoiling.
Perhaps you’ll tell me what it is you brew,
For I’ve dropped in to take pot luck with you;
That is, I’d know my destiny; you see,
I’m not so easy as I’d wish to be.
1st Witch.—
You’ve come to the right shop, my lord, for we
Can read the future.
Macb.—
Read? You know full well,
It takes you all you know to raise a cheerily.
2nd Witch.—
Learn, Macbeth, for you’re haughtiness of late,
Yours is a sort of horti-cultural fate!
Macb.—
No matter—let me know it!
1st Witch.—
If it ease you
But don’t blame me if what you hear don’t please you.
——:o:——
Making the Pudding.
A Christmas Incantation.
1st Witch.—
Thrice have I the currants picked!
2nd Witch.—
Thrice; and I’ve the raisins stoned.
3rd Witch.—
Then to mix ’tis time, ’tis time.
1st Witch.—
Round about the pan then go,
In the flour and bread crumbs throw;
Salt and spice and suet add—
See the last named is not bad;
And with all your might and main,
Mix and stir and mix again!
All.—
Hark! the pot begins to bubble
We our labour must redouble.
2nd Witch.—
Plums and currants now we take,
And the sugar in we shake;
Candied peel and citron, too—
Get it fresh whate’er you do!
And ere any item sticks
Let us everything re-mix,
All.—
Never mind a little trouble,
Extra praise will pay us double.
3rd Witch.—
Now the eggs well beaten up
Pour in gently from a cup;
Add of milk a little drop,
And from stirring do not stop
Till the wooden spoon you pass
Through a well commingled mass.
Then when you can mix no more,
Over all the brandy pour,
None must idle then remain,
Each in turn must mix again.
All.—
True, it seems a lot of trouble
Ere it in the pot can bubble!
1st Witch.—
Now the basins we prepare,
Butter we each one with care,
Then with pudding them we fill,
And the cloth adjust with skill.
See the water’s boiling hot,
Ere we pop them in the pot,
And not wishing them to spoil,
For ten hours we’ll let them boil.
All. —
Now they’re in, the water bubbles!
Comes the end of all our troubles.
Enter Mistress of the House.
M. of H.—
Well done, girls, I commend your pains,
One more duty only remains,
You must all join hands and sing
Like elves and fairies in a ring;
And what time your puddings boil
Sing, and thus forget your toil.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Modern Macbeth.
CHARACTERS.
Mac Gladstone, Mrs. Mac Gladstone, Joe Mac Caucus.
Scene.—The dining-room in Downing Street.
Mac Glad.—
Here now methinks our ministry were safe,
Were the graced person of our Gordon here,
Him do I challenge for his obstinacy
In sticking at Khartoum.
Joe Mac C.
His absence, sir,
Is hard upon the Government. Please you, sir,
To grace us with your everlasting speech.
Mac Glad.—
There is no seat.
Mrs. Mac Glad.—
Here is a place for you.
Mac Glad.—
Who has played me this trick?
Joe Mac C.—
What, Grand Old Man?
(Ghost of Gordon rises and sits in Mac Gladstone’s seat.)
Mac Glad.—
Thou can’st not say I did it; never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
Mrs. Mac Glad.—
O my good lord!
Read the Spectator and the Daily News,
So you shall see your veritable self
No murderer, but simply one who sent
A hero to his death, so you might gain
A fair majority; and now that’s done
You look but on a corse.
Mac Glad.—
Aye, there’s the rub;
Blood I have shed ere now; blood must be shed
If I am to keep office; murders, too
Must be performed; but why does this man rise,
With thousands freshly massacred around him,
To push me from my place? The public curse
Is worse than murder.
Joe Mac C.—
By these affidavits,
So cheaply forged in famous Brummagem,
The Caucus lacks you.
[Ghost disappears.
Mac Glad.—
Oh, my perjured friends,
I have a strange infirmity: I see
Red spectres in the watches of the night,
Brave men I sent to death; but that is nothing
To those who vote for me! Here’s wine, fill high,
I drink a health to all my Cabinet;
And to our dear friend Gordon whom we miss:
Would he were here! But yet methinks he saved
The Franchise Bill, and eke the Government,
A truly Christian scapegoat.
All.—
Gordon’s health.
[Ghost appears again.
Mac Glad.—
Avaunt, and quit my sight! the desert hide thee!
I hoped the vultures would have ta’en thy bones;
Thou hast appeals unanswered in thy hands,
A dreadful diary.
Mrs. Mac Glad.—
Think of this, good friends,
As but a thing of custom, though ’tis hard
To hear a nation’s curses on his head.
Mac Glad.—
What man dare, I dare;
Approach thou like the hated Beaconsfield,
The Salisbury, or trenchant Randolph Churchill,
Take any shape than that, and my glib tongue
Can argue thee away! Alive again,
Thou pointest to the desert with thy sword,
And trembling I behold thee! Hark, they call
The Grand Old Murderer! Hence, deathless shadow
Accusing victim hence!
(Ghost disappears, and Mac Gladstone goes off
to read the Lessons in Hawarden Church.)
H. Savile Clarke, 1885.
Shakespeare’s Recipe for Cooking a Beefsteak.
If when ’twere done ’twere well done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly.
OTHELLO.
——:o:——
Othello.—Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters,
That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field,
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration and what mighty magic,
For such proceeding I am charged withal,
I won his daughter.
Othello., Act I. Scene III.
——:o:——
The Strolling Player’s Apology.
Most potent, gay, irreverend signiors,
My very noble and approv’d good fellows;
That I have been a vagrant strolling player,
It is most true; true, I have been a mummer;
The very head and front of my profession,
Hath this extent; no more. Loud am I in speech,
And little bless’d with the smooth phrase of towns;
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
’Till now some nine months wasted, they have us’d
Their dearest action in the rafted barn;
And little of the theatre can I speak,
More than pertains to claps, and groans, and hisses;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience
I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver,
Of my whole course of life; what cork, what brick dust,
What poverty, and what mighty shifts,
(For such calamities I’ve met withal)
Rank me with your honours.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Kenealy’s Speech to the Senate.
Most potent, grave, and reverent seigniors,
My very noble and approved good masters,
That I have pleaded long Sir Roger’s cause
It is most true. True, I have muddled it;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little blessed with the set Commons’ phrase;
For since these hands of mine held Roger’s brief
Till now by Stoke elected, they have used
Their dearest action in that troubled field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to bearding judge and jury,
And therefore shall I little grace my cause
In speaking of myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will the round unvarnished tale deliver
Of my whole course of pleading—“proofs of hair,”
Of “love maternal”—“manners most refined”
(With such were the proceedings charged withal),
I told as records of the Claimant’s life;
From year to year, with wrecks and butchering,
Passed “under the broad canopy of heaven.”
I ran it through even from his boyish days
To the very moment that he bade me tell it;
Therein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of Wagga-Wagga wandering to and fro,
And his returning as the Rightful Heir.
These things to hear
The British public seriously inclined;
And many a day did they with greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found the means
To start a newspaper—The Englishman—
Where all this pilgrimage I could dilate,
Whereof by parcels they had something heard;
And oft did I beguile them of their pence,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
Which his youth suffered. My story being done,
The judge and jury heeded not my sighs;
They said in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange,
’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful;
They wished they had not said it; yea they wished
That they had never heard the Claimant’s name,
And bade me, if I had a foe I hated,
Go tell him the everlasting story,
And then my client doomed to durance vile.
Then rose the readers of The Englishman,
And cried throughout the land with one accord,
“Appeal to Parliament!”
On that hint I spake—
They loved me for my notoriety,
And I loved them since it did profit me—
Therefore unto this Senate I appeal,
That my lost client should at once be free!
Funny Folks, May 8, 1875.
——:o:——
Iago’s high-sounding words about his reputation:—
“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls;
Who steals my purse steals trash—’tis something, nothing,
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed!”
were once quoted (so Tom Ingoldsby tells us) by a country baronet at a general election. Perhaps his memory failed him, or perhaps he thought to “gild refined gold!” His version was:—
“Who steals my purse steals stuff!
’Twas mine—’tisn’t his—nor nobody else’s!
But he who runs away with my Good Name,
Robs me of what does not do him any good,
And makes me deuced poor!”
——:o:——
Othello.— O, now, for ever
Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O you mortal engines,, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!
Act III. Scene III.
This favorite passage is cleverly imitated in George Colman’s Epilogue to Sheridan’s “School for Scandal.” Lady Teazle, who has decided to renounce Scandal, to live in peace with her husband, delivers the epilogue from which the following is an extract:—
“Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content!
Farewell, the plumed head, the cushioned tête,
That takes the cushion from its proper seat!
That spirit-stirring drum[37]—card drums I mean,
Spadille, odd trick, pam, basto, king and queen;
And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat,
The welcome visitor’s approach denote!
Farewell, all quality of high renown,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!
Farewell, your revels I partake no more,
And Lady Teazle’s occupation’s o’er!”
The Undertaker’s Farewell.
O, now, for ever,
Farewell the mourning coach! Farewell the scarf!
Farewell the plumed hearse and the bad gloves,
That make a funeral’s profit! O farewell!
Farewell the sable steeds, and the black crape,
The spirit-swilling mutes, the expensive pall,
Pride, pomp, and vanity of gainful death:
And you, ye undertakers, whose long bills
The beak of snipe or woodcock counterfeit,
Farewell! your knavish occupation’s gone.
Punch, December, 1849.
O Evans!
Middle-aged Man about Town loq.:—
Farewell the quiet chop! the kidneys poached!
Farewell the grizzled bones and the mixed drinks,
That made abstention virtue—O, farewell!
Farewell the ready waiter, the vague bill,
The nose-enlivening pinch, eye-winking smoke,
The kindly hand-shake, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of Paddy Green!
And O you ancient Basses, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove’s dread clamour counterfeit,
Farewell!—A fellow’s occupation’s gone!
Othello improved.
Punch, November 1, 1879.
Shakespeare packing up his goods.
“I had been happy, if the General Thumb,
Barnum and all, had bought up the old house
In which I ne’er was born. But now for ever
Farewell the pencil’d wall! farewell the prints,
Farewell the well-thumb’d book, and all the names
That made its pages precious! Oh, farewell!
And oh you silver shillings, whose bright face
Our blessed Queen’s fair portrait counterfeits,
Farewell! Poor Shakespeare’s sole support is gone!”
From The Man in the Moon, Vol. 2.
Soliloquy of the Moor of Covent Garden.
An address supposed to be delivered by Mr. John Philip Kemble, in the character of Othello, during the famous O. P. (old price) riots in Covent Garden Theatre, which commenced on September 18th, 1809. The public objected to the increased prices charged in the new theatre, and also to the additional number of small private boxes, which were intended to be let for the year. The riots continued until December 16th, when the old prices were restored.
I had been happy if th’ united House,
Pit, galleries, and boxes,—all had paid
Their money cheerily, and riot we had none.
Oh! now for ever farewell ambition’s hope!
Farewell applause! and side-long glances
From the boxes, thro’ the sticks of fan,
Or from behind the kerchief-veiled face.
Farewell our golden hopes of swelling bags,
And long account at banker’s.
Farewell ye wanton toys of feather’d cupid
In th’ anti-chambers of the private annuals!
Hark! the loud twanging of the bugle-horn,
Th’ ear-piercing whistle, and terrific bell,
The plaguy placard, drum, and deafening rattle;
The voice Stentorian, and the serpent’s hiss!
Sibilant,—all, all awake me
From dreams delusive of eternal triumph!
And ye, ye catcalls, of infernal sound,
Whose barbarous sounds might even split the ears
Of Belzebub himself,—cease your horrific din,
No more the valiant Dan, with host of Israel,
Flank’d and supported by the Bow-street tribe
Of myrmidons, and bruisers squaring in the pit;—
No more the phalanx dares to face the town.
O’erwhelm’d by numbers and determin’d hate,
No more the orders in the boxes now
Support the managers,—but placards wave,
And O. P.’s shine from every box! initials hateful;
All, all, our efforts are in vain, and fate decides
By the loud voice of the people,—irresistible,
That prices be reduced, and privacies
Thrown open.—
Farewell,—Othello’s occupation’s gone!
The Covent Garden Journal, 1810.
——:o:——
The Royal Dramatic College Annual, for July, 1868, contains an imaginary dialogue between Othello (Lord Dundreary) and Iago (Mr. Buckstone), written by Mr. T. F. Dillon-Croker. It is very amusing, but it is not strictly a parody.
William IV. and Reform.
When the great Reform Bill was thrown out by the Lords on May 7, 1832, the Ministry resigned, and the country was on the verge of Revolution. King William IV. who had hitherto been bitterly opposed to any Reforms, now induced the Ministers to resume office by reluctantly granting to Earl Grey full power to secure majorities, by the creation of new Peers. Henry, Lord Brougham, was then Lord Chancellor. The following parody appeared in Figaro in London, illustrated with portraits of the Puppet King (“Silly-Billy” he was styled), Earl Grey, and Lord Brougham.
THE ROYAL PUPPET.
“Here is a representation of a puppet, the movements of which are occasioned by certain strings, which are held in the hands of persons who amuse themselves by pulling first one and then the other according as it may serve their temporary purposes. The funny little figure wriggles about first to one side and then the other just as it strikes the whim of those in whose hands he happens to be, and he is forced when acted on by them to play whatever antics they may deem desirable. One jerk may make the little fellow extend his hand in an attitude of friendship, while the next moment he may be made grotesquely to throw up his foot, as if he would kick down the very thing to which he had the moment before offered his hand, and thus he wriggles about in every sense of the word, the mere puppet of those who possess the power to play upon him. Occasionally the funny little figure is made to take part in a scenic representation, and here we give to our readers a specimen of certain interesting
STATE THEATRICALS.
The subject is chosen from Shakespeare’s Othello, and the following is the cast of the principal characters.”
Othello, by The Puppet.
Iago, by Lord Brougham.
Desdemona, by Hibernia, the Sister Country.
It would be needless and somewhat tedious to print the whole of the well-known tragedy,—showing how Desdemona was wronged, and Othello degraded, by the cunning of Iago.
For Iago and Othello we shall for the sake of verisimilitude insert the names of their representatives, Brougham and the Puppet.
Brougham.—
Look where he comes, not Ballot nor Church Reform,
Nor e’en a Grant of Universal Suffrage,
Shall ever give to thee that high respect
Thou hadst but yesterday.
ENTER THE PUPPET.
Puppet.—
Ha! ha! pelt at me? at me?
Brougham.—
Why, how now, Governor? no more of that.
Puppet.—
Avaunt! begone! thou’st set me on the rack,
I swear, ’tis better to be much abused
Than but to know’t a little.
Brougham.—
How now, my lord.
Puppet.—
What sense had I, the Bill[38] would raise such a dust,
I saw it not—thought it not—it harm’d not me,
I slept the next night well—was gay and merry,
I heard no curses on the peoples’ lips:
He that is damned, not hearing of the damning,
Let him not know’t and he’s not damned at all.
Brougham.—
I am sorry to hear this.
Puppet.—
I had been happy, if the general camp
Volunteers and all had slaughtered every body,
So I had nothing known! O now for ever
Farewell the people’s love—farewell applause,
Farewell the loud “hurrah” and big “huzzas”
That made my rides so pleasant, O farewell!
Farewell the wave of hats, and the shrill “bravo,”
The kerchief-shaking, and all quality
Bows, shouts—the glorious products of Reform.
And O! ye papers! engines, whose anathemas
Th’ immortal Figaro’s dread cuts counterfeit,
Farewell! poor Billy’s occupation’s gone.
Brougham.—
Is it possible, my lord?
Puppet.—(Going fiercely to him)—
Villain! be sure you
Prove the Bill was wanted,
Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof,
(Seizing him by the throat.)
Or by the worth of mine illustrious crown,
Thou had’st better have been born a dog—a dog, Brougham,
Than answer my waked wrath.
Brougham.—
Is it come to this?
Puppet.—
If thou dost wrong poor Erin and humbug me,
Never speak more—abandon all debate—
On taxes, head taxes accumulate,
Pass Bills to make Whigs weep, Tories amazed,
For nothing can’st thou to damnation add
Greater than that.
Brougham.—
O Place! O heaven defend me,
Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense?
Eldon be with you; take mine office—O wretched fool
That liv’st to make thy Whiggery a vice;
To be directly Whiggish is not safe.
I thank you for this profit—and from hence
I’ll be no Whig—since Whigs give such offence.
(Going.)
Puppet.—
Nay, stay,
I think the Bill is needed and think it’s not,
I think the Whigs are right, yet think they’re not.
Would I were satisfied.
Brougham.—
How satisfied, my lord,
Would you the supervisor, go yourself to Erin,
And see her people.
Puppet.—
Death and damnation! no!
Brougham.—
It were a tedious bore, I think
To take an actual prospect: damn them, then.
Puppet.—
I’ll tear ’em all to pieces.
Brougham.—
Nay, but be wise, tell me but this—
Puppet.—
Oh, that the slaves had forty-thousand lives,
One each is far too poor for my revenge.
Now do I see ’tis time, look here, Brougham,
All my reforming thus I blow to heaven,
’Tis gone—
Assist, black Tories, the blood-thirsty bill,
Yield up, O Whigs, thy former popularity
To hateful tyranny.
Brougham.—
Pray be content.
Puppet.—
Blood, Brougham, blood.
Brougham.—
Patience, I say; our minds perhaps may change.
Puppet.—
Never. Brougham,
By yonder civil list
I here engage my words. (Kneels.)
Brougham.—
Do not rise yet:
Witness you ever-turning Whigs above,
You Tories too, still rolling round about,
Witness, that here, Brougham doth give up
The execution of his wit, hand, heart,
To worthy William’s service! let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody work soe’er.
Puppet.—
I greet thy love, not with vain thanks,
But with acceptance bounteous,
Within these three months let me hear thee say
O’Connell’s not at large.
Brougham.—
Daniel’s in quod,
’Tis done at your desire.
Puppet.—
Now art thou quite my Chancellor.
Brougham.—
I am thine own for ever.
Exeunt.
——:o:——
A Scene from Othello.
Principal Characters.
Othello (on this occasion) by Mr. Punch.
The Lamp (one of the lights of the age) by Lord John Russell.
Enter Othello (Punch) taking the Lamp (Lord John Russell) in his hand.
It is the cause, by Jove, it is the cause;
Let me not name it to you, ye wild Rads.
It is the cause.
Put out Lord John and then put in Bob Peel.
Yet I’ll not oust the Whigs,
Nor force the really able ones to go:
I’d rather aid them with some sticking plaster.
Yet he must out—or he’ll betray more men.
Put out Lord John and then—put out the Whigs!
If I extinguish thee, thou flaming minister,
I can thy former place restore, should it repent me;
But once put out the Whigs, I know not where
That party is their places can supply.
Othello (Punch) sits down in a desponding attitude, and looking at the Lamp (Lord John Russell) he naturally falls asleep.
Punch, July 22, 1848.
——:o:——
A Scene from “Othello.”
(Adapted to Recent Events).
Iago (a critic).
How now, dear sir?
[39]Othello (musing).
What sense had I to be thus madly thrust
Forth as Salvini’s rival? Though his Moor
Was grand and passionate, it harmed not me.
I slept the next night well, was free and merry;
The public hailed me still the coming man.
He that is robbed, not wanting what is stol’n,
Let him not know’t and he’s not robbed at all.
Iago.
I am sorry to hear this.
Othello.
I had been happy if a crowded house,
Critics and all, had seen me in the Bells,
Or Hamlet—but the Moor! O, now for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!
Farewell the ringing cheer, the loud “brayvo”
That echoed from Olympus! O, farewell
To the young “gusher” of the Semaphore,
Who oft such “civil service” did to me;
To the loud Thunderer—to the shrilly trump
Of the stern Tiser, and the Echo’s fife,
The Royal Standard, and all quality.
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious Puff!
And O, you mortal scribblers, whose swift pens
The drama’s “palmy days” did counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!
Iago.
Is it possible? But, sir——
Othello.
Villain, be sure you prove me not the Moor.
Or, by the worth of my Shakespearian fame,
Thou hadst been better—better born a dog
Than answer my waked wrath.
Iago.
Is it come to this?
Othello.
Make me to see ’t, or at the least so prove it
That the probation bear no hinge nor loop
To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!
Iago.
My dear, good sir——
Othello.
If thou dost quiz my Moor and mimic me,
Never write more; abandon all remorse,
On horror’s head horrors accumulate,
Do deeds to make your editor amazed,
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than this.
Iago.
O grace! O heaven defend me!
Othello.
I think that thou are just and think thou art not
I’ll have some proof. My fame, that was as fresh
As Dian’s visage, cannot be grimed and black
As mine own face!
I’ll not believe it. Would I were satisfied!
Funny Folks.
——:o:——
“Othello Travestie, an operatic Burlesque Burletta,” by Maurice G. Dowling, Esq., was first produced at the Liver Theatre, Liverpool, March, 1834, and was afterwards performed at the Strand Theatre, London.
This now reads as a very dull and stupid burlesque, in which the only approach at fun is obtained from causing Othello to speak, and act, like a negro melodist. The songs introduced are mostly founded on the Ethiopian melodies then popular, and there are no passages, of any merit, parodying the original tragedy.
This burlesque can still be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.
There was a much earlier “Othello Travestie,” published in 1813, of which details are wanting.
——:o:——
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
Take, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn;
But my kisses bring again, bring again;
Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.
Measure for Measure, Act IV. Scene 1.
This song also occurs in Act V. Scene 2, of Beaumont and Fletcher’s Bloody Brother, with the following additional stanza:—
Hide, O, hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears!
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.
——:o:——
Take, O, take that bill away,
That, alas! long since was due!
Call again some other day,
When the trees do bud anew—
Maybe, dimly distant spring
Some financial change will bring.
——:o:——
High Game.
Take, oh! take the haunch away
Which all sweetness hath forsworn;
Never was more cruel day,
Close and muggy was the morn.
To stop my nose, alas! is vain;
John, bring the salmon up again.
Hide that fat, more white than snow,
Which the ven’son’s bosom bears;
To the haunch mine eyes will grow,
Such a tempting form it wears;
If my tongue from taste were free,
Many a slice I’d eat of thee.
Rhapsodies, by W. H. Ireland, 1803.
——:o:——
In 1879 a Mr. Tracy Turnerelli acquired a certain notoriety in consequence of having organized a subscription to purchase a golden laurel wreath to be presented to Lord Beaconsfield. The subscription was entitled “The People’s Tribute,” and 52800 pennies were collected, the wreath was made and publicly exhibited, when, to the great disgust of Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, the Prime Minister declined the gift. Lord Beaconsfield’s reasons were given in the following letter, which cleverly exposes the self-seeking motives of the organiser of this “Tribute”:—
“10, Downing-street, Whitehall, June 16, 1879.—Sir,—Lord Beaconsfield desires me to inform you that he has received and carefully considered your letter of the 8th inst., in which you ask him to name a day for the presentation of a laurel wreath procured by the contributions of upwards of 50,000 of the people, which have been collected, according to your statement, with ‘immense labour and never-yet-exampled efforts.’ His lordship has, moreover, had before him the correspondence which during the last five years you have addressed to him, and he notices especially your complaints that your services have received no recognition at the hands of the leaders of the Conservative party, and the expression of your hope that ‘sooner or later they will meet with reward.’ Although Lord Beaconsfield would fully appreciate and value a spontaneous gift from his fellow-subjects belonging to a class in which he has ever taken the warmest interest, he cannot but feel that, being himself intimately connected with honours and rewards, he is precluded by the spirit in which you have previously addressed him from accepting a gift thus originated, and proffered in a manner which he cannot deem satisfactory.—I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, Algernon Turnor.
Tracy Turnerelli, Esq.”
The golden wreath was publicly exhibited at the Crystal Palace, and afterwards at Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition.
——:o:——
“The Wreath.”
Take, oh take that wreath away,
Which so many pennies cost,
On which labour “ne’er-to-be—
Calculated” has been lost:
But true honour bring again;—
“Peace with honour” is in vain.
Send, oh send those pennies back
To the fools who sent them you:
They will all their pennies lack
When their income tax is due.
Though you’ve cozened such a mass,
Turnerelli, you’re an ass.
Bits of Beaconsfield, a New Series of Disraeli’s Curiosities of Literature, (Abel Heywood & Son, Manchester.)
To which Turnerelli is supposed to have replied in the following parody of Ben Jonson:
The Wreath.
(After an old model).
I bought thee late a golden wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving me a hope that I
Thy pensioner might be.
But thou thereat didst only sneer,
And wouldst have none of me;
Since when I hate the thing, I swear,
Not for itself, but thee.
Funny Folks, July, 1879.
The Wreath Refused.
Take, oh take that wreath away,
Though it shine as bright as morn,
Never shall the Lib’rals say,
I am open to their scorn;
And though you may come again,
You will always come in vain.
Hide, oh hide that saucy head,
Which your portly body bears;
Had you only brought instead
Something which a noble wears,
As they give to Gladstone now,
You would then have saved this row.
True, oh true I should have nipped
This mad scheme when it began;
But I did not think your gift
Would be chaffed by every man.
And, alas, my Honoured Peace,
Does no longer gull the geese!
Beaconsfield the Immaculate. (F. E. Longley, London, 1880.)
——:o:——
Erin’s Appeal to Britannia.
Take, O, take Parnell away,
Though so loudly he hath sworn;
God forgive me if I say,
Would he never had been born;
And if thou canst take another,
Take his sister;—take his mother!
Take from poor unhappy maid
All the “friends” that prey upon her;
Keep the lot that hasn’t stayed—
Prudent Egan and O’Connor;
And if short of patriot vigour,
Try O’Sullivan;—try Biggar!
Anonymous.
Grins and Groans, 1882.
RICHARD THE THIRD.
ACT I.
Scene I. London. A street.
Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, solus.
Glou. Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks;
Nor made to court an amorous looking glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant upon mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,
About a prophecy, which says that G
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.
This speech was chosen as the original for a parody competition in The World, in September, 1879, the subject to be treated being “The Return of Lord Chelmsford and other officers from Zululand.”
First Prize.
Lord C. loq.
Now is the night of our despondency
Illumined with the star of victory;
And all the gloom that hung on Afric’s coast
Lost in the glory of Ulundi’s fame.
Now are our battered arms with laurels crowned;
Our stern defences turned to swift pursuit;
Our laagered outposts into merry camps.
Now may the mounted staff in bright array—
Where lurks no more the dangerous ambuscade—
Pursue the track of frightened fugitives,
Cantering as gaily, as on Rotten Row
With amorous glance when Phryne tempts pursuit.
But I, that care not for these showy tricks,
To make sensation pictures for the press;
I, that am plain of speech, and lack the grace
Of smooth reporters to exaggerate
The lame conclusion and unfinished aim
Of a safe skirmish with some half-armed tribes
Into the conduct of a mighty war,
So that the farce makes laughter for the clubs,—
Why I, who bore the burden of the fight,
Can smile to see his swaggering airs,
Who would make me the shadow to his sun,
And boast his strength in my infirmity.
Since, then, I cannot turn a sycophant
To woo the loud-mouthed plaudits of the mob,
I scorn the changing fancies of these days,
And wait the verdict of impartial fame.
Plain can I see the drift of Wolseley’s plots:
By false deductions and imputed blame
To make our victories all imperfect seem,
Our troops superfluous, and his skill supreme.
No matter! For our Queen, as true and just
As meaner minds are vain and envious,
This day hath bid me to her gracious court;
And our Queen’s smile—no prophet needs to say—
Is the sure prelude of a nations praise.
OLD LOG.
Second Prize.
Scene: Zululand, the Bush. Enter Cetewayo, with an English newspaper.
Cet. Now are the grumblings of their discontent
Turned all too strangely into blatant talk;
And all the angry questionings in their House
In the deep mockery of sham welcomes buried.
Now are some brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Their late misdeeds held up for monuments,
Their vacillations changed to themes for greetings,
Their rearward marches to prudential measures.
Grim-visaged warriors seam their laughing fronts
To see how he who breathless urged his steed,
Frightened to death of Zulu adversaries,
Now poses blandly in the festive chamber,
And speaks, when better taste should make him mute.
But I, that know not much of party tricks,
Nor how defeats seem through their looking-glass;
I, that have rudely stamped upon their majesty,
Nor failed to chase them oft from veld and drift;
I, though curtailed of all my realm’s proportions,
Cheated of fealty by their politic measures,
Dethroned, diminished, sent in double time
Into this uttermost bush, with peace made up
So lamely and of such apparent patchwork
That men laugh at it as I talk to them,—
Why I, in this weak parody on peace,
Should scorn like these to pass away the time,
Mistaking much the shadow for the sun,
And braying forth their own deformity;
And therefore—though I cannot fall much lower
In all things needful in these latter days—
I envy not the braggartdom of Britain,
And hate the rampant rubbish of her ways,
As shown me in this paper—dangerous
And morbid prophecies, libels, and schemes
To set my brother chiefs against their king,
In deadly hate the one against the other.
And if Cetewayo views the future just
Of these same English, false and treacherous—
If ‘penny dreadfuls’ be not close mew’d up—
This is his prophecy: That they and G.
Of England’s fame the murderers shall be.
Brim up, thoughts o’er my soul! my time yet comes.
Lindenfeld.
The World, September 10, 1879.
——:o:——
“Kinge Richard ye Third, or ye Battel of Bosworth Field; a merry mysterie,” in one act, by Charles Selby, was produced at the Strand Theatre, on February 26, 1844. This burlesque can be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.
A much more ambitious burlesque of the same tragedy was produced at the New Royalty Theatre, Soho, during the management of Miss Oliver, on September 24, 1868. This was written by F. C. Burnand, and was entitled “The Rise and Fall of Richard III; or a new Front to an old Dicky.”
The cast was as follows:—
Duke of Gloster, afterwards, in Scene 2, Richard the Third (a character drawn, from the ideal of a Richardsonian playwright and a Colley-Cibber-wright). He is a humpbacked, knocknee’d, generally hideous; altogether a ‘beautiful part’ played by
Mr. Dewar.
Henry, Earl of Richmond (original Proprietor of the Star and Garter). Henry Richmond “passed the best years of his life in Brittany, and was more of a Frenchman than an Englishman”
Miss Charlotte Saunders.
Lord Stanley (Richmond’s stepfather devoted to his cause unless Richard wins the day)
Mr. Russell.
The Duke of Buckingham (Richard’s friend and then his enemy)
Miss Annie Collinson.
Sir John Catesby, or Cats-by (Richard’s ally)
Miss Nellie Bromley.
Tyrrel (a descendant of the gentleman who killed William Rufus). An hereditary villain. Richard’s “creature”
Mr. Day.
The Lord Mayor of London
Mr. Kenward.
The Recorder, by the gentleman who wrote the celebrated history, i.e.
Mr. Cobbett.
The Mace
Mr. Charles.
Pages of History
By Ladies of the Ballet.
Duchess of York (mother of Richard the Third)
Mr. Danvers.
Lady Anne
Miss Thompson.
and
Princess Elizabeth (betrothed to Richmond)
Miss M. Oliver.
There have been several other burlesques of this tragedy; Richard III. Travestie, with annotations, by William By, 1816; Richard III. Travestie, 1823; and Richard III. burlesqued, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844.
KING HENRY VIII.
Cardinal Wolsey
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new open’d. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Act III., Sc. II.
Lament of the Eminent One.
Henry Irving
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is mistaken man: to night he puts forth
The jingling Bells; then Charles; then the mad Dane,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
Then comes a sudden frost, a fearful frost;
And,—when he thinks, good easy man full surely
His eminence is admitted—stops his flight
And down, kerslap! he tumbles! I have fancied,
Like frogs puffed up with pride, myself an ox;
And grew so swollen with my own vain-glory,
That I was doomed to burst. My fragments fell
Upon that new laid stage expressly built,
[40]By Mrs. B., to bear me stiffly up.
Thus I am left a prey
For some rude knaves that will for weeks yet hide me.
Remorseless scribblers of the press, I hate ye!
I feel ye at my throat,—yet there is one—
One silver-haired old man who swears by me,
Who comforts me be Times with lines of praise,
And says ’tis quite O. K. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on critics’ favors:
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet incense of printer’s ink, and blame,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
No matter! He proclaims me eminent,
And in his burning words no trace of slate—
Thus may I hope again.
The Figaro, October 2, 1875.
Mr. Gladstone and his Old China.
The following, which purports to be a meditation of our junior member for Greenwich on his past career, called forth by the recent sale of his Pictures and Old China, was according to the Morning Advertiser, picked up in the sale room at Christie’s, at the close of Mr. Gladstone’s sale on Saturday last. Our spirited contemporary admits that the only evidence as to its authorship is internal, and is inclined to think it by no means reliable, but this is a matter respecting which all who read it are at liberty to form their own opinion:—
“Farewell, a long farewell to all my teapots;
My tazzas, plaques, medallions, dishes, cups;
For all are gone—no shred remains behind.
This is the way with man. To-day he buys
The choice, cracked specimens of divers wares;
Collects with ardour Dresden, Chelsea, Bow,
And ransacks town for Derby and Berlin;
With taste eclectic, if not critical,
Fills all his rooms. To-morrow, hugs his store,
And swears that not one vase, one plate shall go.
The third day comes, and straightway in The Times
Doth Christie set forth in advertisement
The details of that once-loved china store,
And sells by public auction every piece.
This is the fashion—I have followed it,
My china, like my former fame, is gone;
I have outlived my greatness and my ware;
My Wedgwood and my power alike have passed.
The thought is very bitter. Oh how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on people’s favor!
Two years ago I was the ‘People’s William,’
My name a power at Greenwich and elsewhere.
The Churches trembled, and the Income Tax
Shook lest its last twopenny pieces went.
I was Dictator then.” * *
* * * * *
The Kentish Mercury, July 3, 1875.
College Rhymes (Oxford) contains a long parody of this scene from Henry VIII. See p. 178, vol. 14.
JULIUS CÆSAR.
Brutus.—Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love to Cæsar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer:—Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all free men? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
Act iii. Scene ii.
A Poaching Actor.
A poor itinerant player, caught performing the part of a poacher, and being taken before the magistrates assembled at a quarter sessions for examination, one of them asked him what right he had to kill a hare? when he replied in the following parody on Brutus’ speech to the Romans in defence of the death of Cæsar:—
“Britons, hungrymen, and epicures! hear me for my cause; and be silent—that you may hear; believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of this hare, to him I say, that a player’s love for hare is no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why a player rose against a hare, this is my answer—not that I loved hare less, but that I loved eating more. Had you rather this hare were living, and I had died starving—than that this hare were dead, that I might live a jolly fellow? As this hare was pretty, I weep for him; as he was nimble, I rejoice at it; as he was plump, I honour him; but, as he was eatable, I slew him. There are tears for his beauty; honour for his condition; joy for his speed; and death for his toothsomeness. Who is here so cruel would see a starved man? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so silly that would not take a tit-bit? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so sleek that does not love his belly? If any, speak, for him have I offended.”
“You have offended justice, sirrah,” cried one of the magistrates, out of all patience at this long and strange harangue.
“Then,” cried the culprit, guessing at the hungry feelings of the bench, “since justice is dissatisfied, it must needs have something to devour; heaven forbid I should keep any gentleman from his dinner—so, if you please, I’ll wish your worships a good day, and a good appetite.”
——:o:——
Marc Antony.—
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men—
Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the Coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
Act III., Sc. II.
This oration was recently selected as the original for a parody competition in The Weekly Dispatch, the subject treated being the political situation on the resignation of Mr. Gladstone.
The Prize was awarded to Mr. T. Alderson Wilson, 3, Church Terrace, Queen’s Road, South Lambeth, S.W., for the following:—
Sir William Harcourt (LOQ.);
Whigs, Lib’rals, Radicals, lend me your ears;
I cannot speak of Gladstone and not praise him,
The work that statesmen do lives after them,
Though it is oft imperilled by their fall.
So will it be with Gladstone. The noble marquis
Hath told you Gladstone was ambitious.
If it were so, now by the late default
Of his supporters he hath answered it.
Here, under leave of Cecil and the rest
(For Cecil is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men),
Come I to speak on Gladstone’s overthrow.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Cecil says he was ambitious;
And Cecil is an honourable man.
He hath brought many markets to our trade,
Whose commerce doth the general coffers fill.
Did this in Gladstone seem ambitious?
When “Tax the Corn!” they cried, Gladstone hath kept
Taxation from the tables of the poor,
Yet Cecil says he was ambitious;
And Cecil is an honourable man.
You all did see that in her audience-room
The Queen did offer him a coronet,
The which he did refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Cecil says he was ambitious;
And Cecil is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Cecil spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did rally round him and his cause,
What cause withholds you now to vote for him?
O Judgment, thou hast passed from Radicals,
And Whigs have lost their reason! Bear with me;
My heart is on the benches Ministerial,
And I must sigh till I get back to them!
The following were highly commended:—
John Bright (LOQ.):
Friends, Britons, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to speak of Gladstone, not to praise him.
The evil that men do is loudly bruited;
The good should live to answer in their praise.
So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill
Hath told you Gladstone is disloyal:
If he be so, it is a grievous fault,
And grievously shall Gladstone answer it.
Here under leave of Churchill and the rest
(For Churchill is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men),
Come I to speak of Gladstone my free mind.
He is my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Churchill says he is disloyal;
And Churchill is an honourable man.
He hath in many a Budget swept away
The taxes that oppressed your daily wants.
Did this in Gladstone seem disloyal?
When that the poor were dumb he gave them voice—
Disloyalty’s not made of trustful stuff:
Yet Churchill says he is disloyal;
And Churchill is an honourable man.
You all do know that when he sought repose
You, trumpet-tongued, did call him from his rest
To remedy your wrongs. Was this disloyal?
Yet Churchill says he is disloyal;
And sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once—not without cause;
What cause withholds you, then, to vote for him?
O Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart’s in Opposition there with Gladstone,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
H. L. Brickel.
Friends, voters, countrymen, lend me your ears;
’Tis yours to judge of Gladstone, not to jeer him.
The evil statesmen do, lives after them,
The good is oft forgotten when they go.
So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill
Hath told you Gladstone was a traitor:
If he were so, his was a grievous fault,
And at the polls will Gladstone answer it.
Here, begging leave of Randolph and the rest
(For Randolph is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men),
Come I to speak of Gladstone’s recent deeds.
He was our friend, faithful and just to us:
But Churchill says he was a traitor;
And Churchill is an honourable man.
He hath to twice a million given votes,
Who, ransomed, now the land with gladness fill.
Did this in Gladstone seem as trait’rous?
When that the Irish groaned, Gladstone hath risked
His reputation to remove their woes:
Yet Churchill says he was a traitor;
And Churchill is an honourable man.
You all did see that ere he office left
The Queen presented him a fossil’s crown,
Which humbly he refused. Perhaps this was trait’rous?
For Churchill says he was a traitor;
And sure the bauble he’d have grasped himself.
I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause,
What cause withholds you all to love him now?
O Office, thou art gone to Brag and Bung!
But voters still have reason. And this mark—
Their hearts are in the good cause, and with Gladstone;
And he will work till reeling Jingo’s crushed.
George Mallinson.
The Weekly Dispatch, June 28, 1885.
CYMBELINE.
Song.
Guiderius.
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task has done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Arviragus.
Fear no more, the frown o’ the great;
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Guiderius.
Fear no more the lightning flash.
Arviragus.
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Guiderius.
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Arviragus.
Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:
Both.
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
Guiderius.
No exorciser harm thee!
Arviragus.
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Guiderius.
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Arviragus.
Nothing ill come near thee!
Both.
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
Act IV. Scene II.
——:o:——
TO L. P. ON TAKING HIS DEGREE.
Fear no more the voice of the don,
Nor the oft-cut tutor’s rages,
Thou thy Oxford course hast run,
And art numbered with the sages.
All Oxford men, its my belief,
Must graduate or come to grief.
Fear no more the snarl of the sub[41],
Thou art past that tyrant’s stroke.
No more buttery beer, and grub,
No more rows with sported oak!
Even X.—— himself, its my belief,
Must graduate or come to grief!
Fear no more the bull-dog’s dash,
Nor pursuing proctor’s tone.
Fear not rustication rash,
Thou art now a graduate grown!
All we, like thee, its my belief,
Must do the same or come to grief!
No dun’s accountant harm thee!
No ugly woman charm thee!
Tick unpaid forbear thee!
Never bill come near thee!
Prosper, flourish, gain renown,
Ere you take the master’s gown!
Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A.
(London, J. C. Hotten, 1872).
AS YOU LIKE IT.
Act II. Scene VII. The Forest.
A table set out. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and Lords like outlaws.
Duke S. I think he be transform’d into a beast;
For I can no where find him like a man.
First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.
Enter Jaques.
First Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.
Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily!
Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,
A motley fool; a miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,
And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms and yet a motley fool.
“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he,
“Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune;”
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock:
Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.
’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more ’twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative,
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.
A Cold Rendering.
The open-air performances of As You Like it at Combe are all very well, but under the influences of an east wind and damp ground, colds in the head come on very rapidly, just imagine the melancholy Jaques speaking thus:—
A fool, a fool!—I bet a fool i’ the forest,
A botley fool;—a biserable world!
As I do live by—attishu—food, I bet a fool;
Who laid hib dowd ad bask’d hib id the sud,
Ad rail’d od Lady Fortude id good terbs,
Id good set terbs—attishu—ad yet a botley fool.
“Good borrow, fool,” quoth I, “Dough, Sir,” quoth he.
“Call be dot fool till heaved has sed be fortude.”
Ad—attishu—thed he drew a dial frob his poke,
Ad lookid od it with lack lustre eye,
Says very wisely, “It’s ted o’clock;
Thus we bay see” quoth he, “how the world wags,
Tis but ad hour ago sidce it was dide;
Ad after ad—attishu—hour bore, ’twill be eleved;
Ad so frob hour to hour, we ripe ad ripe,
Ad thed frob hour to hour we rot ad rot,
Ad thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear,
The botley fool thus boral od the tibe,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-codtebplative;
Ad I did laugh, sads idterbissiod.
Ad—attishu—hour by his dial. O doble fool!
A worthy fool! Botley’s the odly wear—attishu!
Funny Folks, 1885.
Melancholy Jaques on the Dude.
A dude—a dude! I met a dude i’ the avenue;
A silly dude;—a most conceited blockhead!—
As I do live by toil, I met a dude,
Who sucked his cane, and basked him in the sun,
And ogled all the ladies with his grin;
With good broad grin, and yet a silly dude.
“Good morrow, dude,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he.
“Call me not dude till I have put on corsets;”
And then he drew an eye-glass from his poke,
And looking through it with lack-lustre eye,
Said, very softly, “She’s the proper soot!
Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags:
The last that passed was ugly as my cane;
The next that comes may be a very angel.
And, so from hour to hour, we bloom and bloom,
And then, from hour to hour, we fade and fade,
And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
The silly dude thus comment on the girls,
My toes began to itch like chilblain toes,
That dudes should be so deep-nonsensical;
And I did kick, sans intermission,
That dude for half an hour. Oh, noble dude!
A worthy dude!—skin-tight’s the only wear.
——:o:——
All the world’s a Newspaper!
And all our men and women merely readers:
They have their tastes and their hobby horses,
And each one in his turn receives a part,
The number being seven—First the Poet,
Fond of the jingling line and tinsel smile,
Enjoying tortur’d sense and strangling art,
But if the line flows smoothly to its end,
For ever bathing in the Aonean font;
Him nought but sonnets, stanzas, odes, delight,
And so he reads his part. Next comes in view
The sober, softly-sighing Sentimentalist,
Seeking for rapture in the—dashy—line,
The Shandean tale, ill told compar’d with Sterne’s,
They fragments choose, and tales and anecdotes.
Next the Wit, relishing the fun obscene
If but the point be gross—Him repartees,
Bon mots and gummy epigrams must please.
And then the Politician, full of strange whims;
Seeking essays, strictures, observations,
With solemn phiz, talking of revolutions,
Patriot armies, sieges, and leagues of despots;
Of neutral powers and of neutral rights, cabals,
Of foreign interference, suability of states,
And all the mazes of the court police.
He marks each signature—what Brutus writes he reads,
And turns his eye from Cassius—sees in some men
The wish to bond us to a foreign yoke;
In others, sees the wish for nature’s state,
And have the curbed bit of law destroy’d,
That like the savage all might rove at will,
Free as the air they breathe; while some he sees,
Who wish the government of purest source
And subordination, might secure
Our fair inheritance—These form the general mass.
Next comes the Economist, hunting for recipes,
Receipts, experiments.—With up turn’d nose
He runs o’er prose and verse, and like to Hotspur
Had rather be a Kitten and cry mew
Than, one of these same metre ballad loves.
The grade of Moralist next advance to view!
Fond of the maxim sage, and sober precept:
They once a week expect their frugal fare,
To mend the manners and instruct the mind,
Last comes the pale and slipper’d Wonder Hunter,
Intent on dying speeches,—hurricanes,
Malignant fevers, pestilence and want.—
Of thousands butcher’d on the bloody field,
And thousands starving in the wasted land,
They thunder storms delight in, and seek
With earnest eye for deaths and murders,
Of people drown’d, or burnt, or suffocated,
Learn whom the Knot of Hymen has fast tied,
And whom the Knot of Justice faster noos’d;
With the long list of every human ill.
These all must have their part. The printer, else,
Is but the standing mark of censure loud,
These tastes not gratified, they will all growl,
And cry the papers barren, empty, dull,
Sans news, sans sense, sans art, sans everything.
From The British Minstrel, a collection of Songs, Recitations, &c.
September 25, 1824.
Bud, Blossom, and Decay.
“All the world’s a stage” in several stages;
Great Shakespeare says our acts are seven ages,
“And all the men and women players merely.”
See “As you like it,” which informs us clearly
We have our entrances and exits here,
And many of us no great shakes appear.
“King John,” “Macbeth,” and others of his plays,
Confirm our wickedness in many ways;
First, the Infant in its nurse’s arms, it
“Mewles and pukes,” and as it cries she calms it.
Next there’s the Schoolboy constantly declining
The verb “to work,” and with his satchel whining,
As on he creeps, like snail, at slug-gard’s pace—
A sun not always “with a shining face:”
Until he learns ’tis easier to be good,
His master being in th’ imperative mood;
And if the youth is backward in the school,
He has his knuckles reddened with the rule.
The rule of three he does not deem much fun,
While he is flinching at the rule of one,
Who makes him only ten times more perplexed;
The lover, à la Vilikin comes next,
And who, like Vilikin, trolls out a ballad
As neatly garnished as a lobster salad;
“Made to his mistress’ eyebrow;” to some air,
Which howsome’er she says she cannot bear.
Sometimes this age betokens noisy gent
Not coming home till midnight is far spent
Who cannot from the knockers quite abstain,
Of which the quiet inmates will complain.
Sometimes these fast young men after the play,
At Cyder Cellars turn night into day,
This they call “Killing time,” until they learn
Old Time may, perhaps the compliment return.
Then come the Soldiers and the Volunteers—
In other words the prime of life appears—
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, zealous when on guard;
Seeking without the least intimidation,
What Shakespeare calls “the bubble reputation.”
’Tis strange they are not bored with so much drilling,
While practising the noble art of killing!
Next is the Justice, and he just is fat,
Living on law—not always justice that!
Proving beyond all doubt, by frequent panting,
The law he lives on is not that of Banting;
His body (outside) like a water butt
But not within! His beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws (such as are seldom seen
Excepting at a carpenter’s I ween)
And modern instances; and so he plays
His part, until he sees declining days
Announce another age, when enters soon
The sixth, “the lean and slippered Pantaloon,”
“With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
“His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
“For his shrunk shank;” his voice begins to fail,
And whistles up and down the vocal scale.
Last scene of all this history that ends,
Is mere oblivion of those trusty friends
Who gather round us, and who thus endeavour
To cheer and comfort ’ere we leave for ever
This busy, meddling, moneymaking world;
Sans teeth, as into it we once were hurled
Indeed, for time can no more changes ring,
“Sans sight, sans taste, sans smell, sans everything,
And so the curtain falls, thus ends the play
Which might be named “Bud, Blossom and Decay”!
The time is short between each act, and we
Should note the changes, and our errors see
And thus a wholesome lesson may be gained,
The proper sentiment being yet retained
Without a jest against the reader’s will,
Though slightly altered, “As you like it” still.
T. F. Dillon-Croker.
From The Ladies’ Companion, March, 1865.
“All the world is but a stage,” Shakespeare told us long ago,
Had he graced the present age, still the Bard had found it so;
All that from existence springs, in a theatre’s compass lies,
Happy moments find the “wings” time itself takes those and “flies,”
Hopes that light us on the way may be called of life “the floats,”
Turning gloomy night to day, as the prompter Fate denotes;
Fortune gives the glare of gas, and oft causing sad mishaps,
With unsteady hand, alas! speculation work “the traps,”
Fate gives out the parts to play, various “lengths” assigned to each,
Happy who their “tag” can say, in a good concluding speech;
Every act applause will get, if the action be correct,
Ending with a kind of “set” most productive of effect.
Suppers should take place in both—cheering signs of lively chats;
Some too often show “a cloth” closed in by a “pair of flats.”
Help our brethren, worn with age—Shakespeare was of truth a sayer
“All the world is but a stage,” you and I alike—a player.
E. L. Blanchard.
From The Royal Dramatic College Annual, July, 1866.
Life at Oxford.
——Oxford is a stage,
And all the men in residence are players:
They have their exeats and examinations;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
His acts being seven ages. At first the Freshman,
Stumbling and stuttering in his tutor’s rooms.
And then the aspiring Classman, with his white tie
And shy desponding face creeping along
Unwilling to the schools. Then, at the Union,
Spouting like fury, with some woeful twaddle
Upon the “Crisis.” Then a Billiard-player,
Full of strange oaths, a keen and cunning card
Clever in cannons, sudden and quick in hazards,
Seeking a billiard reputation
E’en in the pocket’s mouth. And then the Fellow,
His fair round forehead with hard furrows lined,
With weakened eyes and beard of doubtful growth,
Crammed with old lore of useless application,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and study-worn Professor,
With spectacles on nose and class at side;
His youthful nose has grown a world too large
For his shrunk face; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is utter donnishness and mere nonentity,
Without respect, or tact, or taste, or anything.
The Oxford Spectator, May 19, 1868.
——:o:——
A Shakespearian Recitation after Dinner.
——All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad,
In his sound childish treble: then the lean
And slipper’d schoolboy, whistles, with side on
Pouch and pipes, and his big manly voice
Full of wise oaths; and then the whining lover,
With spectacles on nose, and eyes severe,
Seeking his well-saved mistress’ eyebrow
Even in his satchel: Then a soldier,
His youthful hose, of formal cut, sans taste,
Made to his shank, and full of modern saws,
Creeping like snail, sans everything, to school:
And then the justice, full of strange instances,
Jealous in honor, like the ’pard bearded
In quarrel, turning again, sudden and quick,
Towards childishness, with shining morning face
A world too wide for his shrunk nurses arms,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts,
Unwillingly, the bubble reputation,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, into the cannon’s mouth,
Mewling and puking: Then, last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second pantaloon, and mere oblivion.
Frederic Upton, 1885.
——:o:——
Song.
Amiens. Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
“As you like it.”—Act II. Scene V.
The Lambeth Catch.
(Written after the revelations of the “Amateur Casual.”)
Under the Greenwood shed
Who loves to go to bed,
And tune his husky note
To paupers’ coughing throat?
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
Such thin Skillèe
Keep body and soul together.
Shirley Brooks, 1866.
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.
Act I.—A Midsummer Nightmare.
Scene,—The Marquis of Salisbury’s House, Arlington Street.
Northcote. Are we all met?
Salisbury. Pat, pat; and this is a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This stuffed settee shall be our Speaker’s chair, these tongs the Mace, and we will do it in action as we will do it before the House.
Northcote. Salisbury——
Salisbury. What say’st thou, bully Stafford?
Northcote. There are things in this comedy of Jingo and Whisky that will never please. First, Jingo must draw his sword, which Radicals can never abide.
Lord John Manners. By’r lakin, a parlous fear.
Hicks-Beach. I believe we must leave the killing out when all is done.
Salisbury. Not a whit. I have a desire to make all well. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and for the more better assurance tell them that I, Jingo the Foreign Secretary, am not Jingo, but Salisbury, who barks more than he bites. This will put them out of fear.
Giffard. Well, we shall have such a prologue, and it shall be written for six and eight.
Lord John Manners. Will not the ladies be afeard of the tea tax?
Sir R. Cross. I fear it, I promise you.
Northcote. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves. To bring in—God shield us!—a tea tax among ladies, is a dreadful thing, for there is not a more fearful wild fowl living than your tea tax, and we ought to look to it.
Lord John Manners. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a tax.
Northcote. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen in the teapot, and he himself must speak, saying thus, or to the same defect: “Ladies, or fair ladies, I would wish you, or I would request you, or I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble. If you think I have come hither as a tax, it were pity of my life; no, I am no such thing; I am an indirect impost, as others are”—and there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Hicks-Beach, the member for Gloucestershire.
Salisbury. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things; that is to bring Coercion into Ireland.
Hicks-Beach. Have we a majority that night we play our play?
Salisbury. ’Tis doubtful. One must come in with a rifle and a Bobby’s lantern, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the person of Coercion. Then there is another thing; we must have a Protection Bill in the great Chamber.
Hicks-Beach. You can never bring in Protection What say you, Northcote?
Northcote. Some man or other—Lowther, say—must present Protection; and let him have some false statistics to signify its benefits. Or let him hold his finger to his nose, and through that sign let “buncombe” thus be known.
Salisbury. If that may be, then all is well. Come sit down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts.
Funny Folks, June 27, 1885.
Act II.—The Casting of the Cabinet.
Scene—Room in Arlington House.
Enter Members of the Conservative Party.
Salisbury. Is all our company here?
Churchill. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to my list.
Salisbury. Here is the scroll of every man’s name which is thought fit by Churchill and myself to play in our interlude before the Houses of Parliament, and all England.
Churchill. First, good Salisbury, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point.
Salisbury. Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy and laughable tragedy—A Conservative Government.
Churchill. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Salisbury, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.
Salisbury. Answer as I call you: Randolph Churchill, the “Woodstock Wonder” and “Champion of the Universe.”
Churchill. Ready! Name the part I set myself down for, and proceed.
Salisbury. You, Randolph Churchill, are set down as Secretary for India.
Churchill. What is Secretary for India?—a statesman or a fool?
Salisbury. A statesman that spends himself most loyally for the State.
Churchill. That will require some brains in the true performance of it. If I do it, let the country look to’t. I will move storms; I will be wise in some measure. To the rest—Yet my chief humour is for a fool. I could play a fool rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.
The raging Rads
Are blackguardly cads,
With lots of fads,
About men’s rights.
But Churchill’s star
Shall shine from far,
And make and mar
All lesser lights.
This was lofty. Now name the rest of the players.
Salisbury. Stafford Northcote, the Antiquated.
Stafford Northcote. Here, my lord.
Salisbury. You must take what Churchill and I choose to give you. We will attend to you when the others are all served. Hicks-Beach, the Tea-Taxer, you must play at being Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House of Commons. But disobey Churchill at your peril. Richard Cross, the Waterman.
Cross. Here, sir.
Salisbury. You can take the Home Office. Smith, the Stallkeeper, you must take the lion’s part—the Secretary for War. And I hope here is a Cabinet fitted.
Smith. Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study.
Salisbury. You may do it extempore, as I do, for it is nothing but roaring.
Churchill. Let me play the lion too. I will roar, that it will do any man’s heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the Tories say, “Let him roar again! Let him roar again!”
Salisbury. An’ you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Liberals, that they would shriek; and that would turn us all out.
All. That would turn us all out, every mother’s son.
Churchill. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the Liberals out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to turn us out; but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any Liberal, I will roar you an ’twere any Radical.
Salisbury. You can play no part but Secretary for India; for you took a Cook’s tour there, wear an indigo-dyed suit, use India tea for breakfast—therefore, who knows India as you do?
Churchill. Well, I will undertake it. What way had I best to play it?
Salisbury. Why, what you will.
Churchill. I will discharge it in either your Tory way, your Whig manner, your Liberal-Conservative manner, your Democrat, Republican, Socialist, Communist manner, or no manner at all.
Salisbury. Play it as you have your former parts—bare-faced. But, masters, here are your parts; and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you to con them by to-morrow night. In the meantime, I will draw a bill of taxes such as Tories usually want.
Churchill. We will meet again—and rehearse our parts most obscenely and courageously. Adieu!
[Exeunt.
THE NEW MINISTRY’S STATEMENT TO THE COUNTRY.
If we offend, it is with our good will.
That you should think, we come not to offend,
But with good will. To show our simple skill,
That is the true beginning of our end.
Consider, then, we come not in despite,
We do not come as minding to content you,
Our true intent is. All for your delight
We are not here. That you should here repent you,
The Cabinet is formed; and by their show,
You shall know all that you are like to know.
THE PUBLIC.
Their speech is like a tangled chain.
Truly this is hot ice, and wondrous strange snow.
Where shall we find the concord of this discord?
Funny Folks, July 4, 1885.
——:o:——
Oberon.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Act II.,—Scene I.
——:o:——
A Monody on Money.
Dedicated to Our “Very” Particular Bankers.
“I know a bank” where busy men are daily seen to pore
Over their books with earnest zeal from ten o’clock till four,
From whose retreat are issued forth more rich and treasured notes
Than ever have been known to come from sweetest song-birds’ throats.
Where crowns abound, and sov’reigns rule the place with despot sway,
For no one there will check their power, so well belov’d are they.
There seems a money mania for everything that’s dear,
And, strange as it may seem, I’ve heard that far-things here are near.
Cleopatra drank pearls, they say, but here she is outvied,
If pork they wish, they’ve guinea pigs; if beef, the silver side.
Their drink is pure aqua d’ora, and I have heard it’s true
Their servant men are Bills and Franks, their housemaid is a Sou.
And now, before I end my lay, I ought to make it known
That though this bank is always thronged, each one may get a-loan;
And though these bankers care for gold, it never can be said
Matter-o’-Money it will be if ever they are wed.
Fun, 1879.
——:o:——
Shakespeare at Paddington.
I know a bank whereon foul road-slush flows,
Where passing one hath need to hold one’s nose;
Where the familiar slop-carts do combine
To store malodorous muck in fetid line.
There drowses heavy Bumble day and night,
Lulled into stupor to his soul’s delight.
He, with his pompous Paddingtonian kin,
With well-plumped pocket and with well-filled skin,
Allows the fetid foul fermenting mass
To nauseate the souls of all who pass.
Addendum by Mr. Punch
Bumble’s our “Bottom”!—written down an Ass!
Punch, October 27, 1883.
——:o:——
Shakespeare, who knew everything, was aware of the coming of Lord Randolph Churchill when he wrote—
“I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Salisbury and make him smile,
When I a fat and bean-fed squire beguile,
Speaking in likeness of a Tory rôle.
And sometimes lurk I in the Lib’ral’s bowl,
In very likeness of a Democrat;
And when he speaks, against his lips I bob,
And contradict him with my Tory tale.”
Funny Folks, May 5, 1884.
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN.
As long ago as November, 1883, my valued friend Mr. T. F. Dillon-Croker, hearing that I contemplated publishing a collection of “Parodies and Burlesques,” wrote a characteristic letter, generously placing his accumulated stores of materials at my disposal. How fully and frankly I have availed myself of that kind offer may be judged from the fact that scarcely a single part of “Parodies” has appeared which has not contained one, or more, contributions furnished by Mr. Dillon-Croker.
In the letter above-mentioned, he remarked:—“You may not be aware that the late Mr. Gilbert A’ Beckett wrote a burlesque on King John (with the benefit of the Act,) 1837, so that irreverence in this direction is no novelty. Hubert was acted by Edward Wright, afterwards so popular at the Adelphi, and who, though often inclined to be coarse, made me as a boy laugh more than I have ever done since, and Madame Sala (the mother of the genial and accomplished G. A. Sala,) was Lady Constance.
Faulconbridge remarks:
We are two brothers of the same Mama,
But there are reasons for suspecting rather,
By some mistake there was an extra father.
Arthur, instead of losing his eyes, is condemned to have a tooth out, and Hubert enters with a large pair of pinchers:
“And you’ll take out my tooth—If you will, come,
I’ll not resist, here is my tooth by gum!”
This, at the present day sounds very insipid, if not, irreverent fooling. A’ Beckett also turned Manfred into a burlesque ballet opera in 1834. These pieces were considered worth publishing, and are curious, as shewing the style of composition that amused an audience nearly 50 years ago.”
Following up the clue given in this letter, it appears that this burlesque was first produced at the St. James’s Theatre October 29, 1837, when the cast was as follows:—
NATIVES.
King John the first. (Successor to Richard the Second)
Mr. H. Hall.
Hubert. (Dentist and Cupper to the Court)
Mr. Wright.
Ruffian. (Attached to Hubert, but a member of the Animal’s Friend Society)
Mr. Hart.
Faulconbridge. (Illegitimate & bar Sinister)
Mr. Gardner.
Robert. (His brother, bar Illegitimate, but Sinister)
Mr. Long.
Prince Arthur. (A royal duodecimo, a pledge of affection taken in by his uncle)
Miss C. Booth.
Herald. (In accordance with the Times)
Mr. Post.
Lady Constance. (Wife to her son Arthur’s father, and mother to Arthur’s father’s son)
Madam Sala.
Lady Elinor. (John’s father’s widow, and Arthur’s uncle’s mother
Mrs. Pensor.
FOREIGNERS.
King Philip of France. (Successor to his predecessor)
Mr. Sidney.
Lewis. (Suspected of being the Dauphin)
Mr. Moore.
Chatillon. (Upon speaking and singing terms with Philip)
Mr. Burnett.
Duke of Austria. (Founder of the Skinner’s Company, bound in calf, but unlettered)
Mr. Halford.
Cardinal Pandulph. (Full of point)
Mr. Brooks.
Mr. Hall, who impersonated King John, wore a chimney cowl as a helmet, surmounted by a weather cock, of which the letters N. E. W. S., translated, burlesque fashion, became “Naughty English Wrongful Sovereign.” Undoubtedly the best scene in the burlesque is that which treats of Hubert and Prince Arthur, the first scene of the fourth act in the original. This approaches more nearly to a parody of the language of Shakespeare, than is usual in most burlesques of his tragedies.
Scene V.—A Room in a Castle.
Enter Hubert, with a large pair of pinchers, followed by a Ruffian.
Hubert.
Just hold the pinchers, I’ve got here a youth,
And I’ve got orders to take out his tooth.
So when I stamp my foot come in and bind him—
His legs together and his arms behind him.
Ruffian.
I hope there arn’t no gammon in the matter?
Hubert.
That’s my look out. What right have you to chatter?
Vanish!
[Exit Ruffian.
Song.—Hubert.
Air.—“There’s light in her laughing eye.”
There’s a tooth in his little gum;
’Tis a pearl a garnet broach within,
And they say that it out must come,
’Tis a job, I know, is quite a sin.
There’s a tongue in his little head,
A tongue that always wags away;
Like a clock at the back of a bed,
Which keeps on tick tick night and day.
There’s a tooth, &c.
Hubert.
Young lad come forth, I’ve got a word to say.
Enter Arthur.
Arthur.
Hubert, good Hubert, how are you to-day?
Hubert.
I must not listen to his childish chatter,
For if I do he’ll melt my heart like batter.
Look here, young Arthur
(Gives warrant.)
Can you understand
This paper written in a large text hand?
Arthur.
Oh, can I read it. Oh, unhappy youth!
Must you with pinchers then take out my tooth?
Hubert.
Young boy I must.
Arthur.
And will you?
Hubert.
Yes I will.
Arthur.
Oh, it’s too bad—When you were taken ill
Who was it to the chemist’s ran full gallop,
To get a penny dose of salts and jalap?
And when I’ve seen you, after dining out,
When you’ve made free at some hot drinking bout,
Have I not always been extremely willing
To give for soda-water my last shilling?
And you’ll take out my tooth? If you will, come,
I’ll not resist, here is my tooth, by gum!
Hubert.
Young boy, I’ve sworn to do it—do not flinch,
These instruments must help me at a pinch.
Come forth. (Stamps.)
Enter Ruffian with a pewter basin, towel, &c.
(To Ruffian) Do as I bid you.
Arthur.
Hubert stay
My tooth is out, do send that man away.
(Ruffian seizes Arthur.)
Hubert.
Now for the pinchers—now for one bold tug.
Arthur.
Why be so boisterous I will hold my mug?
For Heaven’s sake Hubert send that man away,
And not a word against it I will say.
Hubert, your word indeed shall be my law
My tooth is out, see I will hold my jaw!
Hubert. (To Ruffian.)
Go stand without, I by myself will do it.
Ruffian.
Indeed ’twould make me ill were I to view it.
[Exit Ruffian.
Hubert.
Come, now prepare yourself my gentle youth.
Arthur.
Is there no plan?
Hubert.
None but to lose your tooth.
Arthur.
Oh, would that your’s good Hubert did but ache,
That I to stop your pain, great pains might take.
Hubert.
Is this your promise? Hold your tongue, sir, do.
Arthur.
Oh, take my tongue, I want my tooth to chew,
Leave only that, e’en if it be to eat,
With you good Hubert, some delicious meat,
Which I have ordered for a little treat.
Hubert.
Boy, you have touched me hard, as I’m a sinner,
I’ll leave your tooth at least till after dinner,
Your uncle’s heard that dentists who ain’t clever
Will sometimes lock a person’s jaw for ever.
Arthur.
Hubert, I thank thee.
Hubert.
Mind you ne’er unfold it.
Your jaw is safe—be good enough to hold it.
A WINTER’S TALE.
A burlesque of this play was produced at the Lyceum Theatre on September 15, 1856, entitled “Perdita, or the Royal Milkmaid, being the legend upon which Shakespeare is supposed to have founded his Winter’s Tale,” a new and original burlesque by William Brough. A reproduction of the cast on that occasion will interest old playgoers:—
LEONTES (King of Sicilia; a King who, in spite of the belief to the contrary, could do wrong)
Mr. S. Calhaem.
POLIXENES (King of Bithynia).
Mr. William Brough.
(His first appearance on any stage).
FLORIZEL (his Son and Heir—disobedient as usual, but charming as ever)
Mrs. Alfred Mellon
(late Miss Woolgar).
AUTOLYCUS (a Rogue, and it is hardly necessary
to add, a Vagabond)
Mr. J. L. Toole.
CAMILLO (a Sicilian Lord)
Mr. J. G. Shore.
ANTIGONUS (a Nurse)
Mr. Barrett.
THE BEAR (an Ursa)
Mr. H. Marshall.
BLOCUS (an old Shepherd, supposed—by everybody but the Audience, who know better—to be Perdita’s Father).
Mr. Holston.
TIME, as CHORUS (up to everything, including, of course, the time of day)
Miss Harriet Gordon.
HERMIONE (Leontes’ Queen, always elegant, and finally quite Statuesque)
Mrs. Buckingham White.
PERDITA (the Royal Milkmaid)
Miss Marie Wilton.
PAULINA (a strong-minded Matron; considerably the better-half of Antigonus)
Mrs. Weston.
In 1817 Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote a dramatic poem, entitled “Zapolya, a Christmas Tale,” to which he prefixed the remark, “The form of the following dramatic poem is in humble imitation of the Winter’s Tale of Shakespeare.”
Beyond the mere form, however, Zapolya has little or no resemblance to Shakespeare’s play.
KING HENRY V.
ACT IV.
PROLOGUE.
Chorus.
Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to camp through the foul womb of night
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each others watch:
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face;
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night’s dull ear, and from the tents
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
——:o:——
Lord Mayor’s Day (1827).
Now countless turbots and unnumbered soles
Fill the wide kitchens of each livery hall:
From pot to spit, to kettle, stew, and pan,
The busy hum of greasy scullions sounds,
That the fixed beadles do almost perceive
The secret dainties of each others watch.
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each table sees the other’s bill of fare:
Cook threatens cook in high and saucy vaunt
Of rare and new-made dishes; confectioners,
Both pastrycooks and fruiterers in league,
With candied art their rivets closing up,
Give pleasing notice of a rich dessert.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
On November 21, 1866, an Extravaganza, founded on the above tragedy, was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, then under the management of Mr. J. B. Buckstone. This burlesque was entitled “Antony and Cleopatra; or, His-tory and Her-story in a modern nilo-metre,” by F. C. Burnand, and the principal parts were played by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Matthews, Mr. Compton, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Clark. The best parody it contained was that of the well-known passage descriptive of the meeting of Antony and Cleopatra on the river of Cydnus, commencing thus:—
“The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar’d all description: she did lie
In her pavilion—cloth-of-gold of tissue—
O’er-picturing that Venus where we see
The fancy outwork nature: on each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid did.”
In the Burlesque Lepidus enquires:—
Tell me how they met?
Eros.
I will: And first then you must know that Marc
Met Cleopatra driving in the park.
The trap she sat in, like the Sun-God’s car,
Shone in the drive, the seats were damask white,
Tawny the rugs, and all so scented, that
The swells sniffed curiously. Her whip of silver,
Half parasol, which dared the sun; and flicked
The ponies, which she beat to trot the faster,
As amorous of her lash. For her own person
It beggared all description; she reclined
Upon those cushions I’ve described before,
And high in front, and round, rose dangerous waves
Of foaming frothy muslin petticoats,
Art’s fancy outworks: in the seat behind her
Sat two quick natty boys, like perky Cupids,
With white pip’d breeches and pale salmon tops,
To guard whose knees a pretty oilskin apron
They both undid and did.
Lepi.
O rare for Anthony!
Eros.
And when she’d pass’d, young Egypt at the rails
Look’d in each other’s eyes, then after her,
Then gazed about at—well, they knew not what,
As dazed as is the poor unlatch-key’d husband
After a late carousal, when his spouse,
Candle in hand, unchains the guardian door;
So they: so Anthony: who whipped and spurred
Up to her side, and whip-spered in her ear
Soft nothings, which, though nothing in themselves,
Lead oft—
Lepi.
Sir, I’m the father of a family.
Never could Tony pretty woman’s lip shun,
No wonder he was caught by this Egyptian.
In the end, Cleopatra, instead of being stung by an asp, as in the tragedy, pretends to commit suicide by the use of a Pharoah’s serpent.
HAMLET.
Benjamin Cæsar Redivivus.
(On the happy recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout.)
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day,
Not like old Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
Will still go on in his corrupting play,
Nor “stop a hole to keep the wind away.”
Fiz, January 18, 1879.
——:o:——
The Spaniard’s Soliloquy.
To fight or not to fight, that is the question,
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind
To bear a patient drubbing by the French
Or take up arms against old Louis
And by opposing end him
And exterminate the Bourbons?
To fight—to beat—no more;
And by our beating end a thousand ills
Which we were born to.
’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
To fight—to beat—perchance to be beat
Ah! there’s the rub.
For by our being beat what ills may come;
There’s the respect that makes our liberty so dear,
For who would bear the sneers and scoffs of tyrants,
The oppressor’s wrong, the insolence of office
When we can still our liberty maintain
With the bare rapier?
Who would mind our constitution being altered
But that a dread of something more
(That Alliance from whose unholy laws
No state is free) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear these ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of.
The Mirror, April 5, 1823.
——:o:——
A Fisherman’s Soliloquy.
To sniggle or to dibble, that’s the question!
Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble,
Or to take up arms of any sea, some trouble
To fish, and then home send them. To fly, to whip—
To moor and tie my boat up by the end
To any wooden post, or natural rock
We may be near to, on a Preservation
Devoutly to be fished. To fly—to whip—
To whip! perchance two bream; and there’s the chub!
* * * * *
F. C. Burnand.
As a singular instance of the popularity of Hamlet’s famous Soliloquy, it may be mentioned that a Hebrew version of it was printed in 1880, in Kottabos, a College journal published in Dublin.
——:o:——
The Danish War.
(From our own Correspondent.)
Elsinore, May 20, 1848.
The army under General Fortinbras remains inactive. The Crown Prince Hamlet has been appointed to the command, but he is in a state of doubt as to whether he ought to accept it. A good many intrigues are believed to exist at the Danish Court, and two noblemen named Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are suspected of being employed on a delicate and dangerous mission. Gertrude, the Queen, does not appear to enjoy good health, and rumours are rife of violent scenes between her and Hamlet. The death of the late Lord Chamberlain does not seem to have been at all satisfactorily accounted for; and the consequent derangement of his daughter, who it appears has been going about singing very improper songs, has occasioned a great deal of scandal. The King, however, swills his draught of Rhenish down as usual, and even had some private theatricals lately. The monarch, however, could not sit out the first piece, and no wonder, for entre nous being legitimate it was awfully slow. Meantime Hamlet’s conduct is quite unaccountable: some people hint that he is mad; and the fact of his having got up a cock-and-bull story of a ghost, which he says is always walking about with a certain Marshall Stalk, supposed to be a Prussian from the name, would seem to countenance the theory. For my own part, whether he be mad or no, I think his proceedings very stupid and tiresome.
The Man in the Moon.—Vol. III, 1848.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
Song.
Balthasar,
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never:
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leafy:
Then sigh not so, &c.
Noctes Ambrosianæ.
Rail no more, Tories, rail no more;
Whigs are but asses ever,
On land, on wave, on sea, on shore,
All rascals of white liver.
Then rail not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting sounds of wrath and woe
Into hey Ninny! nonny.
Sing merry ditties, and no mo
Of lumps so dull and heavy;
The heads of Whigs were ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then rail not so, &c.
Blackwood’s Magazine, July, 1823.
——:o:——
Much ado about nothing in the City.
Sigh no more, dealers, sigh no more,
Shares were unstable ever,
They often have been down before,
At high rates constant never.
Then sigh not so,
Soon up they’ll go,
And you’ll be blithe and funny,
Converting all your notes of woe
Into hey, money, money.
Write no more letters, write no mo
On stocks so dull and heavy.
At times on ’Change ’tis always so,
When bears a tribute levy.
Then sigh not so,
And don’t be low,
In sunshine you’ll make honey,
Converting all your notes of woe
Into hey money, money.
Punch, September 28, 1867.
THE TEMPEST.
“The Enchanted Isle; or Raising the Wind on the most approved principles; a Drama without the smallest claim to Legitimacy, Consistency, Probability, or anything else but absurdity; in which will be found much that is unaccountably coincident with Shakespeare’s ‘Tempest.’” This burlesque, written by the Brothers R. B. and W. Brough, was first performed at the Adelphi Theatre, London, on Monday, November 26, 1848. Beyond the general foundation of the plot, it contains no parodies of Shakespeare, but is full of allusions to the political revolutions and events of 1848, and has many parodies of songs which were then popular, but which are now, for the most part, obsolete. It was no doubt a very amusing burlesque, having a good deal of lively music, songs, and dances, and the cast was a powerful one, including Paul Bedford, Miss Woolgar, Madame Celeste, and O. Smith. It was afterwards revived at the Haymarket Theatre, when Miss P. Horton, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Mr. Buckstone, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Clark performed the leading parts. The following amusing parody of the Ghost-scene in “Hamlet” was spoken as a
Prologue.
Scene—representing various illustrations of the life of Shakespeare.
Enter the Ghost of Shakespeare, followed by the Popular Comedian. The Ghost paces round the stage.
P. Com.
Whither wilt thou lead me?
Speak—I’ll go no farther.
Ghost.
Mark me!
P. Com.
I will.
Ghost.
I am old Shakespeare’s spirit,
Doomed for a certain term to walk the earth;
And on the stage draw tolerable houses,—
Till by the taste of a discerning age,
For monster drums and Ethiopian bards
Driven to make a way; but that I am forbid
To charm the public is not what has caused
My troubled spirit to revisit earth:
I can a tale unfold of recent wrongs,
Whose lightest word would harrow up a soul
Of gutta-percha toughness—freeze thy blood—
Make thy two eyes like cabs start from their stands—
And each particular orb to roll and stretch
Like pictures of the fretful hippopotamus
At the Zoological! List! List! oh, list!
If e’er thou did’st old Stratford William love—
P. Com.
Good gracious!
Ghost.
Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
P. Com.
Murder?
Ghost.
Murder most foul I’ve been accustomed to—
And in the ordinary way don’t mind it—
But this most foul, strange and unnatural—
P. Com.
Haste me to know it, that I,
With wings as swift as carrier pigeon on the Derby Day,
May sweep to my revenge.
Ghost.
I find thee apt;—
And duller shouldst thou be than the dead cats
That rot in countless shoals on Thames’s banks,
Did’st thou not stir in this?—You’ve seen my “Tempest?”
P. Com.
Some time ago.
Ghost.
Ah—well—’twas given out that—(pardon me,
A ghost must have his feelings)—rumour reached me,
That the whole ear of London
Was by a forged process of my “Tempest”
Rankly abus’d—and know, thou noble youth—
With serpents and trombones disguised, my piece
Now scares the town.
P. Com.
O, my prophetic soul! the opera!
Ghost.
Aye, that most queer and het’rogeneous dish,—
With witchcraft and old fairy tales dress’d up,—
(Singular taste! that could on Shakespeare graft
Old “Mother Bunch”) bringing to “Tom Thumb’s” level
The plot of my most seeming perfect play.
Oh, gracious! what a dreadful sight was there
For me, or any other anxious parent!
My tricksy Ariel in a ballet skirt—
The fairy of a Christmas pantomime!
My Caliban—a melodrama villain—
Bearing Miranda off—(stol’n incident
From Grindoff in the “Miller and his Men!”)
And then resorting to an ancient scheme
From “Harlequin and the Three Wishes” borrowed
Oh horrible! oh horrible!—most horrible!—
If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not—
Do something, please—I’m not particular what—
But soft—an odour wafts along the wall—
Methinks I scent an early breakfast stall.
I must get home—I’m not allowed a key—
Adieu! adieu! adieu! remember me?
[Exit.
P. Com.
Remember thee! Aye, thou poor Ghost! e’en while
Memory holds seat ’neath this distracted tile,
I will avenge thee for this outrage vile,
But how? Stop! yes—“The Enchanted Isle.”
Beat them on their own ground, the play’s the thing.
We’ll out-burlesque them!—Ho! there! Prompter, ring!
From this it will be seen that something in the nature of an apology was deemed necessary for this burlesque on “The Tempest,” and more recently when Mr. Burnand produced his “Ariel,” there was an angry discussion in the press, in which many maintained that it was not in good taste, nor was it advisable for the credit of our stage, that this beautiful play (supposed to have been the last written by Shakespeare), should be thus irreverently treated. On [page 144] of “Parodies” will be found extracts from this correspondence. “Ariel” was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, in October, 1883, and though a very harmless burlesque in itself, and in far better taste than the Broughs, “Enchanted Isle,” it was received with many signs of disapprobation, and had but a short run. There was nothing very original, nor very comical, in the conception of Prospero as a magician, entirely dependent upon his conjuring apparatus without which he was absolutely powerless, whilst as to the plot, it was that of the “Tempest” with modern variations cut to a comic pattern, and represented by a clever company, among whom were Miss Phyllis Broughton as Ferdinand, Miss Farren as Ariel, Miss Harcourt as the Captain, Mr. Wyatt as Sebastian, and Mr. Elton as Caliban. The burlesque teemed with popular allusions, and the Fisheries Exhibition, naturally, was not in high favour; there were some lively songs, and, of course, plenty of dances for Miss E. Farren, and Miss Connie Gilchrist.
——:o:——
Ariel sings—
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry,
On the bats back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Parody sung by J. P. Harley in Planché’s Sleeping Beauty, Covent Garden, April 20, 1840.
Who would be Great Grand Lord High?
All the blame on him must lie;
Everywhere for him they cry
Up and down stairs he must fly—
After all folks verily!—
Verily! Verily!—Few could live now
Under the honours beneath which I bow!
——:o:——
Prospero
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
It is possible that this passage was suggested to Shakespeare by some lines in Lord Stirling’s Tragedie of Darius, 1604:—
Those golden pallaces, those gorgeous halles,
With fourniture superfluouslie faire;
Those statelie courts, those sky encountring walles,
Evanish all like vapours in the aire.
End of the Parodies.
Our parodies are ended. These our authors,
As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air.
And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,
The Critic’s puff, the Trade’s advertisement,
The Patron’s promise, and the World’s applause,
Yea, all the hopes of poets,—shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial fable fated,
Leave not a groat behind!
Posthumous Parodies, 1814.
A Few Parodies of Detached Passages.
“Flirting.”
(After Portia.)
The quality of flirting is not strained;
It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the favoured ones. It is twice blest:
It blesses her that flirts, and him that’s flirted with.
It profiteth the husband better than
His deeds; and he becomes in truth renowned
The time his wife doth gad about and flirt
With men. It’s mightiest in the ugliest. Oh!
It is the attribute of love itself;
And wives do think themselves most loved when they
Do drive or walk with other man than they
Who are their lawful husbands. But, O wife!
Though loving be thy plea, remember this,
That flirting doth beget unto the pair
A reputation far from enviable.
Scraps, July, 1885.
——:o:——
Song from J. R. Planche’s extravaganza, “Fortunio”
(1843), sung by Miss P. Horton as Fortunio:—
Tell me, tell me
Tell me, tell me
New, d’ye fancy bread?
Smoking hot from oven red
Or prefer you stale instead?
Reply, reply, reply.
——:o:——
Lines spoken by F. Robson as Prince Richcraft in J. R. Planché’s extravaganza, “The Discreet Princess,” produced at the Olympic Theatre, December 26, 1855:—
Ha! I remember a low sort of shop
Where they sold peppermint and lollipop,
And lozenges in boxes by the score
With the inscription o’er them “cough no more.”
I gazed upon the things red—green—and blue,
And others of a still more sickly hue;
And thought if one for poison had a whim
There lived a seedy chap would sell it him,
And prove the truth that brief inscription bore
For in his coffin he would “cough no more!”
——:o:——
Dreary Song for Dreary Summer.
Mr. Punch Sings with accompaniment
of a Pipe and Tobacco.
Well, don’t cry, my little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Amuse yourself, and break some toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
Alas, for the grass on papa’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
How cross she gets about four or five,
For the rain it raineth every day.
If I were you I’d be off to bed,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago this song was done,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun,
But the Dyces[42] and the Colliers[42] can—they say.
Shirley Brooks.
1860.
——:o:——
Shakespoke’s Epigram.
Young friend, for Cyclus’s sake forbear
To bite the dust that’s ever near.
Blest is the man avoids the stones,
And curst is he that breaks his bones.
Lyra Bicyclica, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Boston. E. C. Hodges and Co. 1885.)
The same volume contains several imitations of Shakespeare’s sonnets in praise of the pleasures of bicycle riding.
——:o:——
“The First Sitting of the Committee on the Proposed Monument to Shakspeare, carefully taken in shorthand by Zachary Craft, amanuensis to the Chairman.”
“Come in shadows—so depart.”—Macbeth.
Cheltenham. Printed for G. A. Williams, 1823. This little volume of 88 pages contains the supposed remarks of the following individuals:—The Chairman, a member of the Committee, and the shades of Aristotle, Longinus, Æschylus, Euripides, Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, Lope de Vega Del Carpio, Molière, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Voltaire, Diderot, D’Alembert, La Harpe, Gray, Garrick, Mademoiselle Claison, Warburton, Johnson, Malone, Steevens, Susanna Shakespeare, John-a-Combe, Alfieri, R. B. Sheridan, Porson, and a number of other less distinguished persons. Very few of the remarks are either witty or clever, nor have they many of the characteristics of the personages to whom they are ascribed.
——:o:——
Coriolanus Travestie, by J. Morgan, was produced in Liverpool in 1846, and a burlesque of King Lear, entitled, King Queer and his Daughters Three, was played at the Strand Theatre, London, in 1855. It will therefore be seen that travesties have been written upon nearly every one of William Shakespeare’s Tragedies, and that not even his comedies, or historical plays, have quite escaped burlesque. The enumeration here given is probably incomplete, as many burlesques which have been produced in provincial towns, and some which have been played in London, enjoyed too short a run to obtain the advantage of being printed.
Before closing this chapter on the burlesques of Shakespeare, the following remarks on the subject which appeared in The Daily News, of October 25, 1884, may be quoted:—
Few more striking proofs could be given of the great and growing popularity of the theatre than the most recent fluctuations of stage humour. The experience of the present thus far confirms the judgment formed during the two preceding seasons, that the comic element in stage representation has undergone an important mutation both in motive and in method. Fun is aimed at, and probably achieved, as frequently as of yore; but the kind of fun and the means employed to produce it are entirely different, and possible only under the new conditions of the theatre. Only a few years ago, when London had comparatively few theatres, and supported, after a fashion, two opera-houses, the theatrical world filled a ludicrously small space in English life.
Only when the public are so keenly interested in the dramatic world as they are at present could success attend the profuse introduction of personal parody or caricature into the lightest of stage plays. It would be poor fun to present an elaborate caricature of a serious actor to a spectator who knew little, and cared less about him, and probably had not seen him in the part more especially selected for ridicule. Recent burlesque or travesty depends almost entirely for success upon such caricature, and assumes perfect knowledge of all the mannerisms of prominent actors and actresses. The art of inverting a noble story so that it may appear grotesque occupies quite a secondary position in the category of effects. It would not, for instance, be considered funny at this present juncture to travesty the Venetian Senate into policemen drinking pots of porter, and Othello himself into a negro, with plantation songs, dances and accent. Nor would it be thought amusing to dress Shylock with three hats upon his head, and make him in the intervals of the Trial Scene try to sell cigars to the young Venetians present in court. Yet this is precisely what Frank Talfourd, the great master of the word torturing school, and the inventor of the agglutinate system of punning, did. Henry J. Byron, too, made perhaps his greatest burlesque hit in The Lady of Lyons by making up Beauseant as Napoleon III. and Claude Melnotte as Napoleon I. Again, Talfourd in The Merchant of Venice Preserved wrote amazingly funny dialogue and songs for Robson, but depended in no kind of way upon imitations of Charles Kean and Phelps, which Robson could have done to perfection. What would now be required in Othello would be a low-comedy imitation of Signor Salvini with an Iago made up like Mr. Irving, and a Desdemona who could at least give a general impression of Miss Ellen Terry. We are not propounding that the words should be witless and senseless, all that we maintain is that the caricaturists would in theatrical parlance “get all the laughs.” An instance in point is that the song of the hermit in Paw Clawdian neatly written by Mr. Burnand, and capitally sung by Mr. E. D. Ward, although received with hearty merriment, by no means threw the audience into the convulsions provoked by Mr. Toole’s appearance as Mr. Wilson Barrett. It is not the perversion of motive and character, not the curious piling of pun upon pun, which makes the success of modern travesty. What is looked for is a clever presentment of the surface peculiarities of the serious artist, such as those of the Misses Linden in Silver Guilt, Stage Dora, and Paw Clawdian, in which by turns Miss Eastlake, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, and Mrs. Bernard Beere were parodied with exceeding cleverness. It is only a few nights since Miss Farren “brought down the house” by her brilliant caricature of Mr. Kyrle Bellew, as Gilbert Vaughan in Called Back.
The amusement to be obtained from putting counterfeit presentments of statesmen, lawyers, and soldiers upon the stage has been forbidden in theatres properly so-called, and is only endured in music-halls in a modified shape. Plenty of fun in the worst possible taste could be produced by this ancient expedient, but as public opinion and police reasons forbid it, recourse is had to the device of hoisting the histrion with his own petard. All the clever devices of his own art, all his mysteries of “make-up,” and his talent for characterization, are devoted to the object, not of parodying either Shakespeare or Sardou, but the aspect of their creations embodied by the foremost artists at present on the stage.
