RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
Born in Dublin in 1751. Died, July 7, 1816.
Lord Byron said, “Whatever Sheridan has done, has been, par excellence, always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy (“School for Scandal”), the best drama (“The Duenna”), the best farce (“The Critic”), and the best address (“Monologue on Garrick”); and, to crown all, delivered, the very best oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived, or heard in this country.”
In addition to The School for Scandal, The Duenna, and The Critic, Sheridan wrote St. Patrick’s Day, a farce; The Rivals, a comedy; A Trip to Scarborough (partly adapted from Sir J. Vanbrugh’s “Relapse,”) and Pizarro, a tragedy.
Sheridan was indebted to an old play written by the Duke of Buckingham and entitled “The Rehearsal” (1672), for the main idea of “The Critic,” but all the personal allusions in Sheridan’s farce were made to well known contemporary characters. “The Critic” was produced at Drury Lane Theatre in 1779. In 1780 a miserable anonymous imitation was published by H. Kingsbury, entitled “The Critick; or, a Tragedy Rehearsed, a Literary Catchpenny! Prelude to a Dramatic after-piece, by R. B. Sheridan, Esq., with a Dedication, Preface, and Prologue.” This does not appear to have been intended for the stage. Another imitation was entitled “The Critic Anticipated; or, the Humours of the Green Room, as rehearsed behind the curtain of the theatre in Drury Lane, 1779.”
Coming to modern times, Mr. F. C. Burnand founded an amusing burlesque upon the tragedy portion of “The Critic.” This was entitled “Elizabeth; or, The Invisible Armada,” and was published in 1870, by Tinsley Brothers, London. The favourite old characters Tilburina, Don Ferolo Whiskerandos, and the Governor of Tilbury Fort are here introduced; no mention is made in the printed copy as to whether this burlesque was ever performed at any theatre.
In 1884 Sheridan’s comedy, “The Rivals,” was being played at the Haymarket Theatre (London), with a most elaborate mise-en-scene, and, perhaps, a little too much display of antiquarian accuracy in details, to ridicule which an afterpiece, entitled “The Ar-Rivals, or a Trip to Margate,” was produced at the Avenue Theatre on June 24, 1884. It was announced as having been written by “J. M. Banero and A. D. Pincroft” (Pinero and Bancroft are almost too slyly hidden here), and that it would be produced with “Real sand buckets, real wooden spades, real periwinkles which would be eaten with real pins, and, as far as practicable, with real appetites.”
Yet notwithstanding all this wit, the travesty was pronounced by the critics as utterly beneath criticism, and was at once withdrawn.
Passing now from burlesques of Sheridan’s complete plays to parodies of songs contained in them, the favourite appears to be the drinking song which occurs in the third act of “The School for Scandal.”
LET THE TOAST PASS.
Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here’s to the widow of fifty;
Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir:
Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast pass, &c.
Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that’s as brown as a berry:
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that’s merry.
Let the toast pass, &c.
For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e’en toast them together.
Let the toast pass, &c.
These gay and flowing verses, perhaps the most popular of their class in the language, were evidently modelled on the following song in Suckling’s play of the Goblins:
‘A health to the nut brown lass
With the hazel eyes, let it pass,
She that has good eyes, &c.
Let it pass—let it pass.
As much to the lively grey,
’Tis as good in the night as the day,
She that hath good eyes, &c.
Drink away—drink away.
I pledge, I pledge, what ho! some wine,
Here’s to thine—here’s to thine!
The colours are divine;
But ho! the black, the black,
Give me as much again, and let ’t be sack;
She that hath good eyes,’ &c.
This song was appropriated by S. Sheppard, in a comedy called the Committee-man Curried, 1647, without any acknowledgment of the source from whence he stole it.
Song by Sir Robert Peel.
Here’s to each Tory and Radical too;
Just only my Income Tax pass, boys,
And you’ll see how completely John Bull I shall “do,”
By taking the duty off glass, boys.
Let the bill pass,
John’s such an ass,
I’ll warrant he’ll find an excuse in the glass.
Here’s the debater whose speeches we prize,
And here’s to the spouter of twaddle:
To gentlemen gifted with brains, and likewise,
To those who have none in their noddle.
Let the bill pass, &c.
Here’s unto Cobden, and here’s to Friend Bright,
The farmers’ and landowners’ friend, too;
To those who for Corn-Law monopoly fight,
And those for Free Trade who contend, too.
Here’s to the few for class interests who vote,
With a view to the loaves and the fishes;
Here’s to the many who strive to promote
Their constituents objects and wishes.
Here’s to young England and here’s unto old!
For all parties I care not a feather:
So long as you all are contented to hold,
In support of my Budget, together.
Let the Bill pass, &c.
Punch. March 8, 1845.
Love, You must Own, is a Comical Thing.
Love, you must own is a comical thing,
’Tis hoaxing, and coaxing, and teasing,
Its power is so great it can conquer a king,
Still its heaviest chains are oft pleasing.
Its praise let us sound,
For I will be bound,
There are nine out of ten in love all the year round.
Stoics may preach against love if they please,
Still, still I’ll declare it a pleasure;
For though a fair maiden may often times tease,
Still the girl of my heart is a treasure.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
Husbands may say when they’re wed a few years,
A wife’s a hard bargain to deal with;
But I value not their lamentations and tears,
For some lass I will soon sign and seal with,
Its praise let us sound, &c.
Let single or married rail as they will,
Yet love is the sunshine of life, sirs.
And I will stand forth as its advocate still,
Nor stop till I get me a wife, sirs.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
I am in love, as before I have said,
And no cynic my passion shall smother,
I’ll marry a wife, and when she is dead,
Why, then, I will marry another.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
Then come in our dreams, love, love it shall be,
Our joy it shall sweeten our glasses;
We’ll drink it by land, and we’ll drink it by sea,
For without it we lose all our lasses.
Its praise let us sound, &c.
Bryant.
Election Song.
Here’s to the Voter whose terms are fifteen;
Here’s to the vote that costs fifty;
Here’s to the Candidate shabby and mean,
And here’s to the one that’s not thrifty.
Let the Bill[52] pass;
’Tis but a farce;
I warrant they’ll find an excuse for a glass.
Here’s to the Voter whose freehold we prize,
Here’s to the tenant with none, Sir;
Here’s to the host who the liquor supplies,
Here’s to the beer-taps that run, Sir.
Let the Bill pass, &c.
Here’s to the Candidate, pure as the snow,
With an agent as black as a berry;
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And here’s to the bribe makes her merry.
Let the Bill pass, &c.
For let them be clumsy or cautiously trim,
Snug or open, I care not a feather;
So fill all the pewter-pots up to the brim,
And let both sides get drunk altogether.
Let the Bill pass,
He’s but an ass,
Who’s puzzled to find an excuse for a glass.
Punch. April 3, 1852.
The Bookmaker’s Toast.
Here’s to the Ringman that’s made a grand coup,
And here’s to the loser, the duffer!
And here’s to the Ringman that hasn’t a screw,
And here’s to his dupes that all suffer!
Yet, don’t scruple to spend, but pay to the end,
And I’ll warrant you’ll find that the layer’s your friend.
Here’s to the ninny backs all in the race,
And here’s to the cautious beginner!
Who’s surely, though quietly, learning the pace,
While the old hands are spotting the winner.
Then let the toast swing, and drink to the Ring,
For I’ll warrant in time they’ll let outsiders in.
The Globe.
Easter.
Easter for maidens of bashful fifteen,
Easter for lovers of fifty.
Easter for all should be mild and serene,
Not gusty and shifty and drifty.
Easter (alas!
Soon may it pass)
I warrant ’twill prove an excuse for a glass.
Easter might brighter be as to the skies,
What has become of the sun, sirs?
Easter our temper exceedingly tries,
When Easter is not a fine one, sirs.
Coughing Chorus—Easter, alas, &c.
Easter is made up of drizzle and snow,
Easter is changeable very,
Easter’s unlike what it was years ago;
But still let us all drink and be merry.
Sneezing Chorus—Easter, alas. &c.
A Toast to Mankind.
Here’s to the man with a balance in hand—
Here’s to the party who’s minus,
Here’s to the friend who’s unable to stand,
And here’s to the swell that will dine us.
Let the toast gee—
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be!
Here’s to the swell with a landed estate,
Here’s to the chap who has nil, sir,
Here’s to the card who’s presented with plate,
And, to him who’s presented a bill, sir,
Let the toast gee—
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.
Here’s to the cove with the shirt-front of snow,
Now to him who’s not even a dickey;
Here’s to him on whom Fortune all gifts doth bestow,
And to him now, with whom she is tricky.
Let the toast gee—
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.
For whether they’re sinking, or whether they swim,
Poor or wealthy, I care not a dump’s sum.
Come fill up a bumper—nay, fill to the brim,
And drink to mankind as a lump sum.
Let the toast, pray,
Pass, sir, for they
Will prove an excuse for our moistening the clay.
Fun.
Here’s to the Fresher!
Here’s to the Fresher not out of his teens;
Here’s to the fellow of forty;
Here’s to the feud with our ‘vis à vis’ Queen’s;
And here’s to the “town and gown” sortie!
Chorus.—Toss the wine down,—
Drink to the gown,
I’ll warrant they’ll prove quite a match for the town.
Here’s to old Univ. whose trophies we prize;
Here’s to the college with none, sir:
Here’s to our “pet” with a pair of black eyes,
And here’s to his foe with but one, sir!
Chorus.—Toss the wine down, &c.
Here’s to our “Firsts” which the Honour lists shew,
Here’s to the blows we deliver;
Here’s to our “Drag” as they merrily go;
Here’s to us Head of the River!
Chorus.—Toss the wine down, &c.
Here’s to our time honoured “esprit de corps,”
Past or present I care not a feather;
Old Univ. will always be well to the fore,
As long as we all pull together!
Chorus.—Toss the wine down, &c.
A. Haskett Smith.
Univ: Coll: Oxford.
A New Song for the New Times.
Here’s to the motley, mellifluous host
Whose agreement might well be more hearty,
Who, of all creeds and none, yet their Unity boast—
Here’s to the Liberal Party.
Radical, Whig,
Little and big,
We all for the moment must dance the same jig.
Chamberlain rushes he doesn’t care where;
Derby is timidly backing;
Hartington sideways is dragged here and there;
Goschen keeps trimming and tacking.
Still let us pray
That for one day
We all, when the tug comes, may pull the same way.
And now for the man who can never do wrong,
Who’s name’s an electoral lever,
Whose temper is short, and whose speeches are long—
Here’s to the grand old Deceiver:
More than once tried,
Found a blind guide,
Yet still finding legions to fight at his side.
Only for plunder, and only for power,
(Fools may for principle fight on).
But for one object and but for one hour,
Interest let us unite on.
Though they look glum,
Whigs must be dumb,
And all discords be drowned by the Radical drum.
In office again shall our bonds be untied,
On that point we own no illusion;
Then as before we shall break and divide,
And all as before be confusion.
Once fairly there,
Why need we care
If Europe deride and if England despair?
Blood may flow vainly and commerce decay,
Let not your cheers be less hearty.
Honour and Empire in dust pass away,
But flourish the Liberal Party!
At his feet fall,
Vote at his call,
Whose grand old Umbrella will cover us all.
St. James’s Gazette. November 16, 1885.
——:o:——
Pot and Kettle.
(Some way after Sheridan.)
Smart Churchill, ’cute Chamberlain flouting and slanging,
His speeches compares to a cracked tin-pot clanging.
The mode in which Randy the argument carries on
Suggests to tired hearers another comparison.
For noise and for nuisance the claims who may settle
’Twixt Chamberlain’s pot and Lord Randolph’s old kettle?
For, alas! as a source of detestable din,
Men find sounding brass quite as bad as cracked tin.
Punch. November 8, 1884.
——:o:——
HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne’er could injure you;
For though your tongue no promise claimed,
Your charms would make me true;
To you no soul shall bear deceit
No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you’ll meet,
And lovers in the young.
For when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They’ll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother’s part;
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you’ll meet,
And lovers in the young.
R. B. Sheridan.
From The Duenna.
Stewed Steak.
Had I a pound of tender steak,
I’d use it for a stew;
And if the dish you would partake,
I’ll tell you what to do,
Into a stew-pan, clean and neat,
Some butter should be flung;
And with it stew your pound of meat,
A tender piece—but young.
And when you find the juice express’d
By culinary art,
To draw the water off, were best,
And let it stand apart.
Then, lady, if you’d have a treat,
Be sure you can’t be wrong
To put more butter to your meat,
Nor let it slew too long.
And when the steak is nicely done,
To take it off, were best;
And gently let it fry alone,
Without the sauce or zest
Then add the gravy—with of wine
A spoonful in it flung;
And a shalot cut very fine:
Let the shalot be young.
And when the whole has been combined,
More stewing ’twill require;
Ten minutes will suffice—but mind,
Don’t have too quick a fire.
Then serve it up—’twill form a treat!
Nor fear you’ve cook’d it wrong;
Gourmets in all the old ’twill meet,
And gourmands in the young.
Punch. March, 1852
