KING (jumping up)—
Not if I know it.
*They've kept me back until the very last.
Now I'll speak the tag. Friends—
QUEEN (getting up)—
Not so fast.
Your notion. King defunct, is most absurd;
The lady always utters the last word!
GHOST (entering)—
Except when there's a goblin in the way.
OPHELIA (entering)—
Then I, a female goblin, hold the sway.
HAMLET—
Let's have a chorus then—tune up—here goes:
Sing to a tune that everybody knows.
* The King does not enter until the play scene, at the end.
Then followed a verse, to the catching air of "The Great Sensation." This we stood still and sung; but here it was that the representative of the Queen suddenly became overpowered with excitement, and could not restrain his feelings. What had hitherto been "reserved force" now became force without the slightest reserve. Irrespective of his costume, he danced violently and kicked wildly in the air. The audience indiscriminatingly laughed and applauded with delight! The vicar got up and held up his hands to the audience, to obtain silence, but without effect. He motioned to us to go off, and we all left the platform, with the exception of the Queen, who, positively mad with excitement, seized the reverend gentleman by the arms and swung him round two or three times. That was my last appearance at those particular Penny Readings.
I do not in the least despise Penny Readings. They are a very good school for beginners at all events.
At a party given at Manor Lodge, about 1869, John Oxenford, Andrew Halliday, and several others were all chatting to me about my songs, and advised me to get my father to write a short sketch, a la John Parry, to enable me to better introduce these sketches. The next year he did so. The sketch was entitled "Human Oddities," and lasted about forty minutes. I supplied the music: and the "Gay Photographer," since published, was one of the songs introduced; the words by G. G. pere, and the music by G. G. fils. Dr. Croft, who then had great interest in the Polytechnic, and was, I fancy, one of the directors, introduced me to Professor Pepper, and I started on a trial trip on Nov. 11th, 1870; and observe, O ye superstitious ones, that I began on a Friday.
The following month I gave "The Yellow Dwarf," which I wrote myself, and which, I must admit, was exceedingly puerile. It was accompanied by dissolving views, and this Christmas entertainment was produced to oblige Prof. Pepper; but I did not relish being stuck at a piano in the corner and in complete darkness. If I am not seen, I am no good at all. I do not infer I am much good when I am seen. The only thing that went really well in "The Yellow Dwarf" was my setting of some words which appeared in Punch. The refrain, I remember, was: