A LITERARY FIND.
Dear Mr. Punch,
A very intelligent threadbare man, evidently something of a scholar, has just put me in possession of a manuscript of incalculable importance. It is a drama called Piccoviccius, evidently of the Elizabethan era, though brought into harmony with modern diction and orthography by a later hand. A careful perusal of this priceless survival makes it certain that Shakspeare was not only familiar with it, but that he drew very largely from it even to "cribbing" the names of many of the characters bodily. This is not so remarkable, considering the very slight right Shakspeare has, in the opinion of the best critics, to the authorship of his own plays, as the fact that Dickens also had studied Piccoviccius, and founded upon it his Pickwick Papers, with an effrontery almost worthy of the Swan of Avon himself. Here is a slightly-edited selection from the First Act, so your readers can judge for themselves.
Yours, bursting with importance, Roderick Tweddle.
P.S.—I have just founded a Piccoviccius Society. The subscription is £2 2s., paid in advance. Members can read their own papers at any time, and have them printed, at a reduced price, in our "Transactions."
Scene from Act I.— Romeo's Garden in Kent. Romeo, Bernardo.
Ber. News, news, my Romeo! The world's upso down.
Duke Piccoviccius hath broke the law,
Is under guard, and will be banished.
Rom. Banished? Great Heaven!
Ber. Banished, certainly As eggs dissemble not their property.
Rom. But why, how, when and where? What did the Duke?
Ber. Thou knowest the scheme he long had pondered on,
To go among his people, like themselves,
As went through Bagdad's streets the Caliph wise.
Rom. Yea, I remember; and the hour arrived,
When, having delegated his main pow'rs
To Jingulus, and the Exchequer's charge
To careful Dodson and to subtle Fogg,
He, with no rites of State observ'd, set forth
With Tupman, Snodgrass, Winkle, in his train;
Tupman, who to experience in love
Still superadds the ardour of the boy;
Snodgrass, the poet-treasurer of thought,
And singer of an unexpressive song,
And Winkle, Nimrod's peer. These four set forth,
Due to return the seventh day from hence;
But I that selfsame hour came hitherward,
And since have heard no news of Court at all.
Ber. Thus then I briefly tell thee what hath pass'd.
There came last week with 'plaining to the Court
A comely widow, who made oath that one
Who sojourned as a lodger in her house
Had promised marriage, but had gone away;
Left her, and left his promise unfulfill'd.
Guided by her, the officers had gone
To seize the culprit, and had found 'twas none
But Piccoviccius, whom she claim'd with tears.
So he and those three lords were strait convey'd
Unto the Court, and put to interrogatories,
When this preliminary was advanced:—
The Duke had lodging in Bardella's house—
So is the widow named; and on a day
Came these lords, usher'd by Bardella's son,
Unto his chamber, but on the threshold stay'd
Still as Lot's wife, in mere astonishment.
For there their staid and reverend leader stood,
Silent as they, supporting in his arms
The buxom widow, in a swoon of bliss.
Thus had they stood, confounded and amazed,
Till life returning gave Bardella speech,
But that the urchin, in a filial frenzy,
Butting like petulant kid, assailed the Duke,
And with the puissance of his puny arms
Avenged imagined injury. Then they,
Roused by the pious howlings of the boy
And agonised appeals of whom he smote,
Bore off the pigmy valour, and the mother,
Reviving, led away. The Duke averr'd
That, breaking to her of his new-found wish
To take into his service one Wellerius,
A shrewd and faithful henchman, she at once
Through rapid stages of affection ran,
And threw herself, in fine, upon his neck,
And thus was found, he speechless with surprise,
They, after, silent, striving to believe.
Rom. It is a tale incredible and bald.
Ber. Why so thought many; but this Jingulus
Is all compassion for the widow's case.
Dodson and Fogg, his seconds in the realm,
Albeit unuséd to the melting mood,
Do keep turned on, sans intermission,
Salt pity's main. The people whisper change,
And what they whisper they are fain to make.
The nobles huddle in uncertainty,
Like sheep that meet a cart, the dog behind.
On the Rialto, ere I left this morning,
The hoarse-voiced makers of the books, whose leaves
Are I. O. U.'s to ruin, vainly laid
Long odds upon the widow.
Rom.'Tis not death?
Ber. Nay, only banishment. Whoever breaks
A promise made to wed, to exile goes.
Rom. Will not the widow take a forfeiture?
Ber. It cannot be. There is no power in Brentford
Can alter a decree established.
Besides, the very object of the law
Is to prevent the payment of a price
For feelings wounded. The stern punishment
Makes flighty wooers careful, and restrains
The plots of scheming spinsters, who derive
No personal advantage from their suit.
Rom. Then am I shent!
But here the plot thickens, and we are plunged into the Two Gentlemen of Verona, Hamlet, As You Like It, and A Winter's Tale, with a strong infusion of Dingley Dell, and the Fat Boy floating round, like a materialised Ariel. I ask, Who are the plagiarists?
R. T.
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Transcriber's Note:
Alternative spellings were retained.
Punctuation was made consistent.