When comes the Southern summer breeze,
That softly blows from tropic seas,
Who lives in impecunious ease!
The bummer.
When borean blasts blow fierce and free,
And winter reigns on land and sea,
Who chuckles then with fiendish glee?
The plumber.
Or warm or cold the breezes blow,
From tropic seas or arctic snow,
Who comes his “sample lot” to show?
The drummer.[26]
E. J. S.
_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.
――――:o:――――
THE FOG.
What stops the nation’s loud lament,
And makes some folks almost content
With Liberals in Parliament?――
The fog!
What, when debaters disagree
And fight on this and that decree,
With Ministers is pol-i-cee?――
Why, fog!
When questioned by Lord RANDY, and――
Well, badgered by an adverse band,
Where takes the Grand Old Man his stand?――
In fog!
_Judy_, November 22, 1882.
――――:o:――――
THE MAHDI.
Everyone just now is hearing a good deal about the Mahdi but no one
seems to know what he is like. Until the London Stereoscopic Company
sell the gentleman’s photo for a shilling, perhaps the following
description may help the public to form some idea of the hero of the
hour.
THAT’S “HIM.”
Who’s forty years――well-nigh, not quite?
Who is about the medium height?
Who has a beard as black as night?
The Mahdi.
Whose eyes with fire and passion gleam?
Whose hue is that of coffee cream?
Whose face shows many a scar and seam?
The Mahdi’s.
Who’s thinner e’en than Sally B?
Who on his cheeks has gashes three?
Who’s quite upset our William G.?
The Mahdi.
Who got his living in the East
By dealing in wild bird and beast,
And then turned hermit――later priest?
The Mahdi.
And yet in town receive we may
As petted lion of the day――
(Perhaps at Labby’s house he’ll stay)――
The Mahdi.
G. R. SIMS,
_The Referee_, May 11, 1884.
――――:o:――――
OUR MARQUIS.
By a long suffering Tory Peer.
Who, by his tyrannous oppression
And obstinate and proud aggression,
Has really caused this Autumn Session?――
Our Marquis!
Who made us vote against the Bill,
And thus defy the people’s will?
Who wants to keep us stubborn still?――
Our Marquis!
Who, much against our inclination,
Forced us to take to “demonstration,”
And foster outdoor dissipation?――
Our Marquis!
Who goaded us by his remarks
To let off fireworks in our parks,
And let in ’Arry, with his “larks”?――
Our Marquis!
Who, too, with malice so prepense,
Made us attempt our own defence,
In feeble words and weaker sense?――
Our Marquis!
Who, in his arrogance and pride,
Brings us to town this autumn-tide,
Decided facts to re-decide?
Our Marquis!
Who spoils our sport, upsets our plans,
And trips to Cannes or Carthage bans,
Whilst popular disgust he fans?――
Our Marquis!
Who takes the time we would allot
To gun and game, to moor or yacht,
To waste it in abortive plot?
Our Marquis!
Who, ’stead of pheasants, gives us fog
Debate in place of horse and dog,
And “Whips” us when our streams we’d flog?――
Our Marquis!
Who class ’gainst class insanely sets
With his “Elizabethan” threats
And “Burleigh-nods” and epithets?
Our Marquis!
Who, knowing we are somewhat dull,
And slow of speech, and thick of skull,
Has found it easy us to gull?――
Our Marquis!
But who, though he our pleas may spurn,
Will find, ere we again adjourn,
That even Tory worms will turn?――
Our Marquis!
_Truth_, October 23, 1884.
――――:o:――――
THE LORDS.
Who, dwelling in ancestral halls,
Surrounded by emblazoned walls,
Are deaf to all the peoples’ calls?
The Lords.
Who, in a manner underhand,
Have stolen from the people land,
And on these stolen riches stand?
The Lords.
Who every measure do reject
Which will the people’s rights protect,
Or in some way their good effect?
The Lords.
Who always did oppress the Jew,
And the Roman Catholic, too,
Refusing to them their just due?
The Lords.
Who, Ireland ever did oppress,
And never would her wrongs redress,
But coercion always did caress?
The Lords.
Who, with well simulated fright,
To every man denies the right
With his wife’s sister to unite?
The Lords.
Who, in a manner uniform,
For years rejected all reform,
Till fearful of the coming storm?
The Lords?
Who, amidst speeches loud and shrill,
Have now thrown out the Franchise Bill,
And so oppose the peoples’ will?
The Lords.
Who, now their rashness recognise,
And by dark deceitful lies,
Attempt their action to disguise?
The Lords.
Who, though they’ve had long to repent,
Now with an air so insolent,
Appear on further follies bent?
The Lords.
Then since the warned ones will not mend,
But still continue to offend,
Let us now take quick means to end
The Lords.
H. E. HARKER.
_Hull Express_, August 30, 1884.
――――:o:――――
THE “COMP.”
Who is it that causes all the woes,
The editor so often knows,
And makes the poor man many foes,
“Setting up” what he don’t propose?
The “comp!”
Who is it eyes “The Force” askance,
Like he was waiting for the chance,
Their local items to enhance,
And cause “The Force” to swear and prance?
The “comp!”
Who is it grins in fiendish glee,
His error on the press to see,
And views all things cynically,
And never gives a big, big “D?”
The “comp!”
_Detroit Free Pree_, January 24, 1885.
――――:o:――――
THE PEOPLES WILLIAM.
How runs the ignominious story,
Since Britain’s ancient fame and glory,
Passed from its famous Premier Tory
To William?
Who fears the Bear’s aggressive paw,
And dare not show the Lion’s claw
But pleads the cause of vile Bradlaugh?
Timid William
Who feasts on legs of roasted lamb,
Of game and fowl, beef, eggs, and ham,
Then recommends the farmer jam?
Sweet William!
Who went to Ireland one fine day,
And promised Pat should have his way,
Then shuffled out as if in play?
Sneaky William!
Who strokes poor Paddy on the back,
And half persuades him white is black,
And irritates him with his clack?
Artful William!
Who sent out Gordon to the fight,
To set affairs in Egypt right,
Then left him in a woeful plight?
Base William!
Who sat with patient smile and sneer
The warning of M.P.’s to hear,
Then said there was no cause to fear?
False William!
Who smilingly went to the play
When news came of the sad affray
Of Gordon’s death and Mahdi’s sway?
Careless William![27]
Whose weak and vacillating sway
Has bartered Britain’s fame away,
And made our hearts to bleed to-day?
Weak William!
Great Britain’s sons are true as steel,
Now put your shoulders to the wheel,
Let him your indignation feel――
This William!
And take from his weak hands the reins,
Who only rules but for his gains;
Then who will thank you for your pains?
Not William!
B.
_Ipswich Journal_, March, 1885.
――――:o:――――
NOBODY.
When I’m in want, who’ll seek me out,
And in my interest rush about,
And not my truth and honor doubt?
Nobody!
Who’ll clasp me to his manly heart,
Stick up for me, and take my part,
And fresh in life give me a start?
Nobody!
Who’ll give me cash, or give me food,
Who will believe me poor, but good,
And always be in generous mood?
Nobody!
――――:o:――――
HER MOTHER.
Who, when I took my pet for life,
Convinced me, through domestic strife,
That I had married with my wife――
Her mother?
Who, though ’twas clearly understood
That live with friends I never would,
Came for a week, and――stayed for good?
Her mother!
Who, whensoever “tiffs” befell,
Would irritating stories tell,
And chafe the place to make it well?
Her mother!
Who to control my household dares,
Each letter reads, each secret shares,
And takes the lead in my affairs?
Her mother!
Who, when from home I chance to stay,
Hints that work “might,” or business “may”
Detain――but there, no more _she’ll_ say?
Her mother!
Who breaks our peace, destroys our bliss,
Coils on our hearth with frequent hiss――
Connubial rapture’s Nemesis?
Her mother!
Enough! But has it not a flaw,
That Act which says I may not draw
Two wives, and yet makes mine in law,
Her mother!
_Funny Folks._
――――:o:――――
CATTLE-SHOW QUERIES.
_By a Squeamish Visitor._
Who looked at me with oil-cake eyes,
Complaining dumbly of their size――
Agglomerate monstrosities?
The Cattle!
Who pushed me there, and shoved me here,
Who bawled their comments in my ear,
Until I called a Southdown, “steer?”
The Farmers!
Who never more will strive with Tag,
With Bobtail too, and eke with Rag,
Within the portals of the “Ag.”
The Writer.
――――:o:――――
AVITOR.
_An aerial Retrospect._
What was it filled my youthful dreams,
In place of Greek or Latin themes,
Or beauty’s wild, bewildering beams?
Avitor!
What visions and celestial scenes
I filled with aerial machines,――
Montgolfier’s, and Mr. Green’s?
Avitor!
What fairy tales seemed things of course!
The rock that brought Sinbad across,
The Calendar’s own winged-horse?
Avitor!
How many things I took for facts,
Icarus and his conduct lax,
And how he sealed his fate with wax!
Avitor!
The first balloons I sought to sail,
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
Or kites,――but thereby hangs a tail.
Avitor!
What made me launch from attic tall
A kitten and a parasol,
And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
Avitor!
What youthful dreams of high renown
Bade me inflate the parson’s gown,
That went not up, nor yet came down?
Avitor!
My first ascent, I may not tell:
Enough to know that in that well
My first high aspirations fell,
Avitor!
My other failures let me pass:
The dire explosions; and, alas!
The friends I choked with noxious gas,
Avitor!
For lo! I see perfected rise
The vision of my boyish eyes,
The messenger of upper skies,
Avitor!
BRET HARTE.
[Illustration]
Before closing the collection of Parodies on Miss Taylor’s poem, “My
Mother,” a few serious imitations of its style may be given, and in
order to avoid any suspicion of treating these with levity, or
irreverence, they are printed separately from the _Parodies_ properly
so called; as might be expected from the style of the original, these
poems are of a somewhat simple and childlike description.
THE BIBLE, THE BEST OF BOOKS.
What taught me that a Great First Cause
Existed ere Creation was,
And gave a Universe its laws?
The Bible.
What guide can lead me to this power,
Whom conscience calls me to adore,
And bids me seek Him more and more?
The Bible.
When all my actions prosper well,
And higher hopes my wishes swell,
What points where truer blessings dwell?
The Bible.
When passions with temptations join
To conquer every power of mine,
What leads me then to help divine?
The Bible.
When pining cares and wasting pain
My spirits and my life blood drain,
What soothes and turns e’en these to gain?
The Bible.
When crosses and vexations tease,
And various ills my bosom seize,
What is it that in life can please?
The Bible.
When horror chills my soul with fear,
And nought but gloom and dread appear,
What is it then my mind can cheer?
The Bible.
When impious doubts my thoughts perplex,
And mysteries my reason vex,
Where is the guide which then directs?
The Bible.
And when afflictions fainting breath,
Warns me I’ve done with all beneath,
What can compose my soul in death?
The Bible.
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
THE ORANGE.
What is that fruit, so round and sweet,
So nice to smell, so good to eat,
Which gives the children such a treat?
An Orange!
How yellow and how bright its skin,
So smooth without, so sweet within!
To scorn thee surely were a sin――
Bright Orange!
What treat so great for little boys,
When, tired with their games and toys,
They’re safe with thee from tricks and noise,
Kind Orange!
Right glad am I when Christmas comes,
With puddings, mince-pies, tarts, and buns,
And, best of all, thy golden suns,
Round Orange!
Oh! kindly native of Azores,[28]
Round which the broad Atlantic roars,
I bid thee welcome to our shores――
Sweet Orange!
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
The following poems are extracted from a scarce and curious chap book
recently purchased from Mr. Salkeld, of 314, Clapham Road, from whom I
have obtained many literary curiosities, and much useful information
about books and their contents. This little chap book is entitled
FILIAL REMEMBRANCER.
――――――――
_SELECTION_
of the
MUCH ADMIRED POEMS,
MY FATHER, MY MOTHER, MY BROTHER, and
MY SISTER.
with the
Father’s address to his children, in imitation of Cowper.
――――
Banbury, J. G. RUSHER.
No date is given, nor are the names of the authors mentioned, and
although Miss Taylor’s poem is printed in full no acknowledgment is
made to her, whilst the preface states that “the following tender
little poems, _imitating the style of one of Cowper’s_, cannot be too
widely circulated.” It would certainly appear that Miss Taylor’s “My
Mother” had served as the model for imitation, rather than any poem by
Cowper. There are ten poems in all, four addressed to _My Father_,
three to _My Mother_, one to _My Sister_, one to _My Brother_, and one
entitled, _The Father’s Address to his Children_. The preface contains
these quaint remarks:――
“Were something like the following committed to the memory
of children, and the care of their parents employed to
cultivate an early acquaintance with the virtues inculcated
in these little pieces, it might be of infinite service to
them in checking a refractory disposition; or, by a line or
verse running in their minds, melting down a disobedient
will into the most cheerful and ready compliance to a
parent’s wish. And what a delightful task for an enlightened
mother, when the shades of evening collect her young family
round the fire, to treasure these precepts in their tender
minds! Methinks I see her interesting audience, seated on
their little stools, and leaning on their elbows,
attentively listening, while a Mary or a Maria, a Henry or a
William, to show their proficiency, repeat the verses they
have learnt; or sprightly interrupting the reciter by an
appeal to the mother if he be not wrong.”
MY FATHER.
Who, when my eyes first saw the light,
Upon me fix’t his eager sight,
And bless’d me with unfeign’d delight?
My Father.
When basking on my Mother’s lap,
To win me playful from my pap,
Who would his hands so cheerful clap?
My Father.
When I was breech’d, a rosy boy,
And danc’d, admiring them for joy,
Who shared the bliss without alloy?
My Father.
Who, when the hobby horse aside
Was laid, would set me “Ball” astride,
And hold my leg, and walk beside?
My Father.
When bigger grown,――a paper kite,
Who then would make me, with delight,
Or place the leaping pole upright?
My Father.
When puzzling o’er my task, for play
Oft laid aside, who then would stay,
And teach me soon the easiest way?
My Father.
Or when my task I counted hard,
My mind to study oft prepar’d,
By hopes of pleasure or reward?
My Father.
Who made me tender to a brute,
And told me, though their tongues were mute,
As mine their feelings were acute?
My Father.
Who taught me pity for the poor,
Blessing the beggar at his door,
By me, who oft his bounty bore?
My Father.
* * * * *
Now that thy vigour’s in decline,
Whose strength was spent in rearing mine,
The staff where should thine age recline?
My Father.
No!――tho’ He hung upon a tree,
And bled, and groaned, and died for me,
He will not love if I slight thee,
My Father.
MY MOTHER.
When first my eyes beheld the light,
Who said my little eyes were bright,
And that I was her soul’s delight?
My Mother.
When fell disease her empire spread,
And sickness droop’d my infant head,
Who then the tear of sorrow shed?
My Mother.
Who watch’d my cradle ev’ry hour,
And importun’d Almighty Power,
Upon her babe his gifts to shower?
My Mother.
At length, when pain had fled away,
And rosy health resum’d her sway,
Who prais’d her God for that blest day?
My Mother.
When first my lisping accents came,
And call’d mamma’s beloved name,
Who felt a transport thrill her frame?
My Mother.
And when I stept from chair to chair,
Who watched my steps with anxious care,
Lest I should fall and hurt a hair?
My Mother.
And oh! Who would my food provide,
And little errors gently chide,
And dress me with maternal pride?
My Mother.
Who would my young ideas hoard,
A tale of rapture to afford,
When guests assembled at the board?
My Mother.
Who taught my bosom to rejoice
In God alone, who hears my voice,
And makes His ways my pleasant choice?
My Mother.
Affection’s tear would gem her eye,
And who for me would heave the sigh,
Or wing a secret wish on high?
My Mother.
O! she was kind and good indeed,
Who gave me books that I might read,
And taught me all my Christian creed!
My Mother.
Then let my grateful voice proclaim,
(For else I should be much to blame)
How much I love thy honour’d name,
My Mother.
And should I live to see thee old,
O! may’st thou then in me behold,
Whate’er thy fondest hopes foretold,
My Mother.
And may that pow’r which rules above,
The wish record, thy pray’r approve,
That you may share my filial love,
My Mother.
MY BROTHER.
Who shar’d with me our parents’ love,
And when my tender limbs could move,
Would all my infant ways approve?
My Brother.
Who strove to give my heart delight,
Would blow for me balloons so bright,
And fly his flutt’ring paper kite?
My Brother.
For he was never rude or rough,
And who would make me laugh enough,
When we were playing blindman’s buff?
My Brother.
And if perchance he heard me cry,
O! who would to my succour fly,
And gently wipe my streaming eye?
My Brother.
And who would tell me pleasing tales,
How Vice the wrath of heaven assails,
And Virtue ev’ry where prevails?
My Brother.
He made me love my books indeed;
And who delighted heard me read
Those tales he could recite with speed?
My Brother.
And when a present he had got,
Oh! who was it that ne’er forgot
To share with me his happy lot?
My Brother.
Then I do love thee very well,
Yes, more than any words can tell;
Thy name shall in my bosom dwell,
My Brother.
For well I know thee void of guile,
When others frown’d thy soothing smile
Would many a little woe beguile,
My Brother.
For thou wert always good and kind,
And I could speak to thee my mind,
Sweet solace from thy lips to find,
My Brother.
O may I live to see thee rise
To man’s estate, revered and wise,
To glad your friends’ delighted eyes,
My Brother.
May virtue be thy constant guest,
And sweet contentment charm thy breast,
And ev’ry gen’rous wish be blest,
My Brother.
MY SISTER.
Who was it, when we both were young,
First prais’d me with her artless tongue,
And on my neck delighted hung?
My Sister.
For we would run about all day,
And when at hide-and-seek we’d play,
Who came to find me where I lay?
My Sister.
When I would read of Robin Hood,
Or little Children in the Wood,
Who was it call’d me kind and good?
My Sister.
And when one day (’twas wrong I know)
I trod on grandpapa’s sore toe,
Who strove to shelter me from woe?
My Sister.
For she would cry if I was beat,
And if she got a dainty treat,
Who gave me half of it to eat?
My Sister.
And when to school I went to stay,
(For boys must learn, as well as play,)
Who sobb’d to see me go away?
My Sister.
For it was ever our delight,
To love each other day and night,
Nor would I do a thing to spite
My Sister.
For naughty boys and girls, ’tis true,
Would pinch each other black and blue;
But they were not like me or you,
My Sister.
For thou wert always kind to me,
And it will my ambition be,
To prove a faithful friend to thee,
My Sister.
To guard from hurt thy tender frame,
To shield thy love and spotless name,
And be the champion of thy fame,
My Sister.
For well I know thou would’st disdain,
To be, or haughty, pert, or vain,
And good and modest wilt remain,
My Sister.
O! may it be thy precious choice,
Our aged parents to rejoice,
And soothe them with thy tender voice!
My Sister.
And may that sacred pow’r above,
Still fill thy heart with filial love,
And all thy virtuous ways approve,
My Sister.
[Illustration]
“ANOTHER.”
A Readers idea of the state of the Editor’s mind when surveying his
growing Pile of Parodies.
What gives me endless toil, no rest
As each subscriber sends with zest,
The Parody _he_ thinks the best――?
Another!
When Tennyson was twice laid by,
Ere ink on final proof was dry,
There came to spoil the set, oh my!
Another!
I started them in mood so gay,
“Why this will be――not work――but play,”
For joyfully _I_ then could say――
Another?
Nor ever dreamt would come a day,
That I should view, with grim dismay,
When frequent posts should each convey――
Another!
I said――when grouped all carefully,
And filled each Author’s set “sure he
Is now complete. There cannot be
Another!
And yet, e’en now, I cannot bear
To weed them out, and e’re I’d spare
One――this volume finished, I’ll prepare
Another!
I would not one kind friend repel,
Nor stay his help, for each may swell
My readers if he’ll only tell
Another!
For when I’m feeble, old, and grey,
And volumes stand in long array.
There’ll yet be “copy” to essay
Another!
For when these Parodies are read
And all the older poets bled,
The yet unwritten ones may head
Another!
So each fresh parody I’ll prize,
Nor look with sorrow in mine eyes
At growing piles, nor e’er despise
Another!
J. W. G. W. April, 1885.
[Illustration]
THE VULTURE.
AFTER EDGAR ALLEN POE’S “RAVEN.”
1.
I once, upon a summer’s day,
Strove to solve a solvent way
To escape from skulking sharks;――
For my heart was very sore,
And I ponder’d, ah, how sadly!
How I wanted money badly;
My salvation I’d sell gladly
For nimble notes, or gold galore,
To pay those damn’d and dastard duns,
And be, as I have been before,
Safe from duns for Evermore.
2.
While I ponder’d, nearly sleeping,
Sad at soul, and nigh on weeping,
I reckon’d up my many friends;――
Care corroding my heart’s core,
Those for years that I had known,
Those who truth and trust had shown,
And those, alas! who rich had grown
And forgot they once were poor,
And could not see a seedy chum,
But in his face would close the door.
And neigh or bray him――“Nevermore.”
3.
Yes, I’m like a dotless i,
And want and woe my wretched cry,
With stress of sad starvation,
Ah, me! it is a world of poor.
There’s not a little cur that barks,
Nor tiny birds, from wrens to larks,
Nor even skulking sheriff’s sharks,
Feel so sad, so sick and sore,
As I, most wretched, dotless I,
Doom’d for ever to be poor,
And dunn’d by tradesmen Evermore.
4.
Even while I thus was thinking,
All my soul within me sinking,
Fathoms deep in dark despair,
A knock I heard at my front door,
Which set my heart most wildly beating,
And my blood to fever heating,
As, coward-like, I kept retreating,
Retreating to the basement floor,
There I whisper’d to the slavey,
Aged, I fancy, twenty-four,
“Say I’ve left for――Evermore.”
5.
For my nerves received a shock,
I felt I knew that beastly knock,
The knock of man who takes possession;――
And it went to my heart’s core
To lose my little household gods,
My wear, my gear, and fishing-rods,
All, all my sacred ends and odds,
That cost at least of pounds a score,――
All to go at one fell swoop,
With tearful eyes I glanced them o’er,
And sadly murmur’d,――“Nevermore.”
6.
Yes, it was the sheriffs man;
Like all his ugly kith and clan――
The seedy, dirty, beery lot,
Blood-shot eyes and red and sore.
Then this vile and venomous vulture,
Devoid of every civil culture,
And meanly meaning to insult yer,
Spits upon your carpet floor,
Lights his foul, ill-smelling pipe,――
Stuft’d with plug of negro core,――
Sits and spits for――Evermore.
7.
“Wretch!” I cry, with sudden start
“From this second let us part,
Get thee gone, possessing devil,
Let me never see thee more.”
My voice I raise as thus I cry,
And anger gleams within my eye;
Then the demon made reply,――
“’Tis only thirty pounds, not more,
So, sir, ’tis you, not I, must ‘part,’
If not, why then”――here he swore――
“I shall stay here――Evermore.”
8.
And that vulture, never soaring,
Still is sitting, still is snoring,
On my best Morocco chair,
That I shall sit on now no more;
And his visage is denoting,
As my furniture he’s noting,
A grim and ghastly gloating,
As he gloats my sadness o’er;
And my dreams by that vile vulture,
Who my sadness does ignore,
Will be nightmared――Evermore.
SOMERS BELLAMY.
_Under the Clock._ March, 21, 1885.
――――――――
A WELCOME TO BATTENBERG.
Shortly after it was publicly announced that the Queen had given her
consent to the marriage of the Princess Beatrice with Prince Henry of
Battenberg, the following paragraph appeared in _Funny Folks_:
“Certain members of the Royal Family do not like the betrothed of the
Princess Beatrice. This may be; but, anyway, nobody will deny that if
we have a Poet Laureate, he ought now and again do something for his
salary. Whether any rumours have reached Lord Tennyson on the subject,
I can’t say; but it is a remarkable fact that the day after such an
opinion was expressed in this office the following communication was
dropped into the editorial box:
_A New Welcome in an old Form._
Serenity’s son from over the sea,
Prince Henry!
English and Scotch and Welsh are we,
But we all shall pay taxes through welcoming thee,
Prince Henry!
Welcome him, thunders of fleet and of fort!
(It costs us five pounds or so, every report)
Welcome him, now let the joy bells begin!
(We shall pay forty pounds for that steamer he’s in)
Break, happy land, into earlier flower!
(Trixy, thank fate! ’s the last girl we’ve to dower)
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer――
If it so be you are _not_ a tax-payer!
Warble, O bugle! and trumpet, O blare!
True, we must pay, but we won’t seem to care.
Welcome him, welcome him, then, to our stand!
Blow ye his praises, ye huge German band!
Penniless bridegroom, yet happy is he,
Knowing his bride will have much £ s. d.
So come to our heart, and accept, if you will,
Posts and positions our own sons might fill!
Come to us, love us, and make England your home,
Draw your pay quarterly, never more roam;
For English or Scotch or Irish we,
Taffys or Cockneys, whatever we be,
We shall all pay our share towards the keeping of thee,
_Dear_ Prince Henry!
[Illustration]
Lord Tennyson.
THE FLEET.
(ON ITS REPORTED INSUFFICIENCY.)
You――you――_if_ you have fail’d to understand――
The Fleet of England is her all in all――
On you will come the curse of all the land,
If that Old England fall,
Which Nelson left so great――
This isle, the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle, the lord of every sea――
Poor England, what would all these votes be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame of “Free,”
Wert thou a fallen State?
You――you――who had the ordering of her Fleet,
If you have only compassed her disgrace,
When all men starve, the wild mob’s million feet
Will kick you from your place――
But then――too late, too late.
TENNYSON.
The above lines appeared in large type, and a prominent position, in
the _Times_ of Thursday, April 23rd, 1885. Many persons thought a hoax
had been played on the _Times_, refusing to believe that such a dismal
appeal ad _captandum vulgus_ could have been penned by the Poet
Laureate. Although it is true that all his recent productions have
given signs of failing powers, both intellectual and poetical, nothing
yet has been published so damaging as this to the reputation of the
author of “The Idylls of the King.” It is, indeed, greatly to be
regretted that he has no sincere and discriminating friend who could
kindly, but firmly, dissuade him from the publication of such lines,
which pain his friends, and give rise to endless satires at his
expense. Journals representing all parties and every shade of opinion,
at once set to work to ridicule _The Fleet_, and numerous parodies of
it have already appeared, from which the following are selected:――
THE BARD.
(On his reported imbecility.)
You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand――
The bard of England is no bard at all――
And but a thumb on great St. Jingo’s hand.
See lines of his that sprawl
Across the _Times_ so great.
That bard, the mightiest bard on all the earth,
That one great bard is very much at sea;
Poor England, what would poetry be worth
If thou could’st boast no wiser bards than he?
A pitiable state.
You――you――who wrote those verses indiscreet,
If you have only covered so much space
With lines as bad as these, or rather worse,
Why then we’ll take your place,
And not too soon――too soon.
_The Weekly Echo_, April 25, 1885.
――――:o:――――
A LAUREL.
You――_you!_――and neither He nor She nor It,
But _if_; if _but_, you fail to understand,
Oh! shaker of this tiny English land,
Eagle in war; in peace a mild tomtit――
That Runnymede and Ashmead are the same,
And blood is after all your little game,
And peace an endless heritage of shame!
You――you――who watch the Baltic and the Belt,
Commingling verses to the whale and smelt.
Great Nelson’s heart would melt
If he could read’em.
For such a Hanwell Muse,
The public’s myriad shoes
Would kick themselves with freedom,
You――you!――if but a single soul would heed’em.
J. FOX TURNER.
_The Manchester Examiner and Times._
――――:o:――――
“WE WE” TO THE POET-LAUREATE.
On reading a (surely!) misreported insufficiency called
“The Fleet.”
You――you!――we do not fail to understand――
You, Laureate, are not England’s all in all;
On you is poured the laughter of the land
For your wild Jingo call;
Although you once were great.
Wild jingo cry!――“We mightiest upon earth,
Our naval power supreme on every sea.”
Poor England! What are all these howlings worth
And what avails thy poet’s fame to thee?――
A drivelling Laureate!
You――you――possessed with such a dervish heat,
Spinning and raving to your own disgrace!
While all men laugh, the wild mob’s million feet
Shall kick you from your place.
Ah, then――too late, too late!
E. S. WATSON.
_The Christian Leader_, April 30, 1885.
――――:o:――――
TENNYSON.
(On his reported Lunacy.)
You――you――if you have failed to understand
That England thought you knew the poet’s trick,
On you now comes the laughter of the land
For that mysterious kick
Which falls too late――too late.
Poet of perfect diction highly wrought,
Poet whom England loved in every sea,
Poor Baron, what shall million kicks be drought,
And what avails the ancient fame of thee
Whom once we called “the Great?”
You――you――who had the ear of all the world,
_If_ you can compass only pathos, see!
When all men laugh, a million lips are curled,
To send a jeer at thee,
Our laughed-at Laureate!
_The Liverpool Mercury._
――――:o:――――
TENNYSON TACKLED.
I.
THE FLIGHT!
_Companion Poem to_ “The Fleet.” _A Rejoinder._
You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand
How ships are built on paper at Whitehall,
Have picked up from the _Pall Mall_, second-hand,
Facts which but after all
Make circulation great.
Your Isle――where you possess the snuggest berth,
The tangled lanes, clear stretches of the sea――
Might feed your Muse; of matter you’ve no dearth,
So why this unprovoked attack on me,――
This――regular slate?
You――you――who, I admit, _can_ write,
_If_ you have talked of “kicking” to my face:――
Well, pr’aps I ought to seek the Isle of Wight,
And kick you at your place;
And may――though late, though late.
II.
THE BARD.
Another Companion Poem. A Reply.
Yum-yum,[29]――_if_ I have failed to understand
The tons, and guns, and “ends,” whereof they brawl,
At me, at least, can no man paint the hand,
For hypothetical
Purely, is all I state.
Yum-yum――_if_ any man has starved the Fleet,
_If_ any man has his head punched for this,
Kicked by a million boots along the street,
That sight I would not miss,
Nay, nor arrive too late!
And what, _if_ flying collars and a face
Familiar once in Highland tour with me,
I saw thus pelted in the market-place?
Well, well, so might it be;
And, _if_ deserved, First-rate!
_Punch_, May 2, 1885.
――――:o:――――
OUR FLEET.
You――you――if you have read the silly rhymes
About our Fleet just published in the _Times_――
Should raise your hands and righteously exclaim:
“If this be poetry,
What the de’il is fame?”
“This isle the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle――the land of every sea――
Poor England!”――what are Poets Laureate worth?
And what avail thy ancient fame, oh T.,
When thou art fallen from thy high estate?
You――you――who had the penning of those lines――
If you have compassed your own disgrace,
When all men laugh――“the wild mob’s million feet”
Will kick thee to a place――the name’s not long――
It’s called by the polite――“Hong Kong!”
_Moonshine_, May 9, 1885.
――――:o:――――
“I am informed by a perfectly unreliable correspondent that the following
poem――evidently composed by a dynamiter who reads his _Times_ and his
Tennyson attentively――was picked up in Mr. Swainson’s room at the Admiralty
after the recent explosion.”
You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand
The lesson taught by previous blow-ups,
Learn that on you the weight of Rossa’s hand――
When he’s not in his cups――
Still falls, despotic State!
This man, the noisiest Fenian on the earth,
Has sworn a swear to ne’er let Britain be.
Poor England! what are all thy bobbies worth,
And what avail detectives unto thee,
To guard thee from his hate?
You――you――who catch a Cunningham or so,
_If_ you imagine that the danger’s o’er,
You’re much mistaken, as you’ll shortly know,
So now to gain the door
And slope――ere it’s too late!
_Funny Folks_, May 9, 1885.
[This poem is founded upon two erroneous assumptions, namely that the
explosion at the Admiralty was caused by dynamite, and that it was of
Fenian origin. Colonel Majendie has expressed his confident opinion
that the explosion was caused by the firing of about 12-lbs. of
gunpowder enclosed in a metal pot; and the personal unpopularity of
the unfortunate Mr. Swainson is considered a far more likely cause for
the outrage, than any political motive.]
――――――――
The eight following parodies of _The Fleet_, were published in _The
Weekly Dispatch_ Prize Competition of May 10th, 1885, the First Prize
of Two Guineas was awarded to Mrs. Emily Lawrence, for the
following:――
Whew! whew! _if_ you are hailed the master-hand――
The Laureate of England over all――
On you will come the laugh of all the land
If you to bathos fall,
Who erst did things so great.
This verse――the veriest doggrel verse on earth――
For this small beer were you a lord to be?
Poor Tennyson! what is your purple worth?
And what avails thine ancient fame to thee,
Now in thy fallen state?
Whew! whew! with all your orders thus replete,
If you can only compass your disgrace,
When all men read these lines of halting feet.
They’ll hurl you from your place
As England’s Laureate!
――――――――
A CONSERVATIVE,――(ON HIS LEADER’S REPORTED INEFFICIENCY.)
You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand
That hope of office is our all in all――
On you will come the curse of all our band
If that old Party fall,
Which Beaconsfield made great――
This hope, our mightiest motive power on earth,
This one great hope, that fills our hearts with glee――
Poor Party, what would all thy votes be worth,
And what avail our love of place and fee,
Wert thou a fallen State?
You――you――who should have led to Downing-street
If you have been too laggard in the race,
Ere we all starve, our roused rebellious feet
Will kick you from your place――
But then――too late, too late!
HENRY L. BRICKELL.
――――――――
THE GOVERNMENT.――(ON ITS REPUTED INEFFICIENCY.)
You――you if you should fail to understand
That _Peace_ for England is her all in all――
On you will come the curse of all the land
If that old England fall,
Which _Peace_ has made so great――
This isle, the mightiest _moral_ power on earth,
This one small isle, the lord of all the sea――
Poor England, what would all thy Fleet be worth,
And what avail thine ancient name of “Free.”
Wert thou a _tyrant_ State?
You――you――who have the ordering of her choice,
If you shall only compass her disgrace,
When all men know, the wild mob’s million voice
Shall hurl you from your place――
But then――too late, too late!
JOHN CARTER
――――――――
THE LAUREATE.――(ON HIS REGRETTABLE DECADENCY).
You――you――_if_ you have ceased to understand
Why once your song did England’s heart enthral――
On you will come the gibes of all the land
If that old grandeur fall
From eminence so great.
’Tis vile, thou sweetest singer upon earth――
’Tis very vile, thou bard of every sea――
Poor poet, what will bygone praise be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame to thee,
If bathos blur thy state?
You――you――whose Muse had dainty, dancing feet,
If with a careless pen you mar her grace,
While true men sigh, the million, as ’tis meet,
Will laugh you from your place――
But then――too late, too late!
EXE.
――――――――
THE CORPORATION (ALDERMAN LOQ.)
We――we――who have not failed to understand
That Soup of turtle is our all in all――
On us may fall the anger of the land,
And that old charter fall,
Which kings have left so great――
That charter, noblest instrument on earth,
That grand old charter, gift of royalty――
Poor charter, what will all thy words be worth,
And what avail thine ancient liberty,
When in a lapsed state?
We――we――who strove to hold our powers complete,
If we have only fought and toiled in vain,
When all men kick, the region of our seat
Will suffer mortal pain――
Too hard――too hard a fate!
THOMAS H. KNIGHT, JUN.
――――――――
TO THE JINGO.――(ON HIS REPORTED REAPPEARANCE.)
YOU――you――since you have failed to understand
The Brag of England serves no turn at all――
Will never rise to curse again this land,
And never have the fall
Five years ago your fate.
This creed, the maddest vainest creed on earth,
That one small isle should lord o’er all lands be――
Poor jingo! what would this small isle be worth,
Where its great wealth, its ancient name of “Free,”
Wert thou to rule our state?
You――you――when you’d the ordering of the Fleet,
Did you not strive to compass our disgrace?
Do you forget ’twas once the “wild mob’s” feat
To kick you from your place?
You’ll mend――too late, too late!
GEORGE MALLINSON.
――――――――
Few――few――so few can really understand
Why all this fighting to our share should fall――
Or why Old England should protect a land
That is not hers at all,
Although she is so great――
This isle, the mightiest meddling power on earth,
The would-be lord of every land and sea――
Poor England, what is all the honour worth,
To crush a people struggling to be free,
And help a rotten state?
Few――few――there are who would not wish to fight
If Russia should encompass our disgrace,
And make for India――why, then with right
We’d kick her from the place――
But now――we’ll wait, we’ll wait.
EDWARD SCOTT.
――――――――
GLADSTONE’S REBUKE.
You――you――if you have failed to understand
The peace of nations is our all in all――
On you will come the blame of all the land
If those strong efforts fall
That we have used of late.
This isle, once fairest spot in all the earth,
This one small isle that boasts the name of “Free”――
Poor England! what will that fair name be worth,
And what will be thy “prestige” presently,
At war with every State?
You――you――who grovel still at Jingo’s feet,
If you shall plunge us in this dark disgrace
While thousands, starving, walk about the street,
They’ll hiss you to your face;
But all――too late, too late!
JESSE H. WHEELER.
[Illustration]
The two following parodies àpropos of present circumstances, also
appeared in a Prize competition:
BRITANNIA TO GLADSTONE.
You must save me from the Jingoes, from the Jingoes, Gladdy dear――
To morrow’ll be the wretchedest time of all this tragic year;
Of all this tragic year, Gladdy, the maddest, wickedest day,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy――there’ll be a war they say.
The Russians come and go, Gladdy, and seize upon each pass,
And with the savage Turcomans they drain the social glass;
The Tories shout and yell, Gladdy, awhile the Quakers pray,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy――there’ll be a war, they say.
All in the wild March morning I heard the trumpet call,
As Russian upon Afghan did mercilessly fall;
The shots began to whistle, and the drums began to roll,
And in the wild March morning fled many a trooper’s soul.
O, strange it seems to me, Gladdy, that ere this year is done
Some thousands of my bravest may be rotting ’neath the sun,
Just like my noble Gordon, the gallant and the true――
But what of that, the Jingoes say, why make ye such ado?
For ever, and for ever, they rave and stamp and roam――
Why can’t they wait a little while, until th’ elections come?
For then you’ll go up, Gladdy to yon House and wear a crest,
And the Russian cease from troubling, and the Jingo be at rest!
J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.
――――:o:――――
HODGE’S EMANCIPATION.
The elections will be early, will be early, brother dear;
There is no doubt we’ll have to vote before another year.
The parson and the squire, they say, are quite polite to-day,
And think it will be most unkind if we don’t vote their way.
They forget we were the black sheep――the blackest of our time――
Were only fit to till the ground and feed our master’s swine;
Now they declare by us to stand for ever and a day,
If we will vote their way, brother――will only vote their way.
As I came up the valley brother, whom think ye I should see
But the parson arm-in-arm with Hodge, as merry as could be?
He thought of those sharp words, brother, I gave him yesterday――
When I refused to tell him, brother, if we should vote his way.
Now they may lose our votes brother, they think we’re in the right,
Although they failed to see our wrongs till Gladstone gave them light.
They may call us cruel-hearted――I care not what they say――
For we will vote by ballot, brother――why should we vote their way?
You must wake me and poll early――poll early, my brother dear――
That morrow will be the merriest time of all this glad new year!
That morrow may be to all of us our emancipation day,
If we vote for those who helped, brother――who helped us on our way!
JOHN H. GIBSON.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, April 26, 1885.
――――:o:――――
PICKED UP OUTSIDE THE LYCEUM.
You must wake and call me early――call me early mother dear,
Our Irving, as you’ll recollect, does now once more appear,
And so I’m bound, ere yet ’tis dawn, my humble couch to quit,
For I have to book for the pit, mother――I have to book for the pit.
_Funny Folks._
LYCEUM――Special Notice――With a desire to increase the comfort of the
people, all seats in the pit and gallery of this theatre may, during
Mr. Irving’s management, in the future be booked, and the pit and
gallery will be reseated for this purpose by Mr. J. C.
Phipps.――_Advertisement in the Daily Papers_, April, 1885.
[This arrangement did not meet with general approval, and was soon
abandoned.]
[Illustration]
WAGES.
Hundreds of sovereigns, hundreds of sterling, hundreds of cash,
Paid with a cheerfulness, eager to gain a poem from me;
Hundreds of sterling to write, to utter, to make a dash――
Nay, but the Editor aim’d not at poetry, no lover of poetry he:
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!
The wages of rant is great: if the wages of merit be just
Would the publishers scramble who should be first to bargain with me?
I desire them not to come hither, unless it be with the “dust,”
To make me a golden grove, or to add to my stock of gree;
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!
_Judy_, February 19, 1868.
――――:o:――――
GIVE ME NO MORE,
(_With apologies to_ LORD TENNYSON.)
Give me no more: a man might drink the sea――
If it were drinkable, and yours to give――
Might drink while Heaven allowed him grace to live
And not exhaust your hospitality;
Give me no more.
Give me no more: I’m nearly tight already,
Behold my flaming cheek and bloodshot eye;
Yes, O my friend, ’tis time to say good bye,
My tongue feels thick, my knees are far from steady
Give me no more.
Give me no more: ofttimes I might be glad
To drink with you all night, and glass for glass,
But not just now――my honest word I pass――
_Your liquor is so execrably bad_,
_Give me no more!_
――――:o:――――
THE ONION-EATERS.
“Courage!” she said, and pointed with one hand
(A hand that held a heavy metal spoon),
“Ere dies the day ye all will understand
The solemn myst’ry of this afternoon,
The luscious dish will ready be full soon!”
Above the cauldron rose a fragrant steam,
Through which her face gleam’d like a misty moon:
The boiling broth, with energy extreme,
Within the pot to bubble up did seem.
The dancing fire flicker’d up and down,
Fann’d by the murm’ring bellows gentle gale,
And by its crimson light was plainly shown
The kitchen-dresser and the housemaid’s pail.
Upon the table stood a jug of ale,
Some plates and knives and forks were near the same;
A frying-pan hung greasy on a nail.
With faces ruddied by the leaping flame,
The eager, hungry onion-eaters came.
Large roots they bore of that full-flavour’d stem,
Of pungent taste and odour. These they gave
To Cook, who gladly did receive of them.
With careful hands these roots she well did lave
In pure spring water’s clear and limpid wave;
Then toss’d them in the pot, a stew to make.
’Tis for this mess the greedy gluttons crave;
The echoes with their eager cries they wake,――
“Oh, give us some, we pray, for mercy’s sake!”
They sat them down, a longing, hungry band,
To eat, as if they ne’er had ate before,
Within the savoury dish each dipp’d a hand,
Until ’twas empty. Then arose a roar――
“’Tis not enough! Oh, give us more, _more_, MORE!
’Tis not more filling than the ocean’s foam.”
Then some one said,――“Eat not, friends, I implore!
Or how, when back to our own shores we roam,
Dare we kiss wives and sweethearts left at home?”
_Judy_, September 25, 1872.
――――:o:――――
In _Punch_, May 9, 1885, will be found a rather weak parody of “Tears,
idle tears,” it is à propos of the farewell performance of Adelina
Patti, at San Francisco, and commences “Tears, maudlin tears.”
――――:o:――――
GENERAL GORDON.
In reply to a letter from the poet Whittier respecting General Gordon,
Lord Tennyson has written as follows――
“Dear Mr. Whittier,――Your request has been forwarded to me,
and I herein send you an epitaph for Gordon in our
Westminster Abbey――_i.e._ for his cenotaph:――
“‘Warrior of God, man’s friend, not here below
But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan;
Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know
This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.’
“With best wishes, yours very faithfully,
“TENNYSON.”
On which the _Globe_ (May 7th, 1885,) remarked――“Lord Tennyson must
really decline to be prodded. The poet Whittier has been egging him on
to write about Gordon, and the result is an epitaph of four lines,
giving the information that Gordon is not “here below” (_i.e._, in
Westminster Abbey), but in the Soudan. The _Times_, in giving this
epitaph, heads it “Gordon, Tennyson, and Whittier,” and the
association of three such names with the starveling verse under them,
is an ideal example of the short and simple step from the sublime to
the ridiculous.”
[Illustration]
“MY MOTHER.”
[Illustration: T]HE kind correspondent who sent the pathetic poem
entitled “Another,” which appeared in the May number of _Parodies_,
correctly described the difficulty of compiling this collection so as
to make it fairly complete, without being tedious, especially as new
Parodies on every popular poem are continually appearing. Since Part
18 appeared many other parodies on “My Mother” have been sent in, some
of which are so good that they are here inserted, although it had not
been intended again to refer to that particular poem in this volume.
THE SLUG.
No more this silent grief I’ll hug,
What shall I do to kill the slug,
That haunts the beds which I have dug?――
Curst slug!
I’ve sprinkled soot upon its trail,
But less than naught does that avail,
Over it pass’d th’ unconscious snail――
Vile slug!
I dogg’d its footsteps then with lime,
Dropping it where I saw the slime,
But it did change its route next time――
Sly slug!
I keep some salt mixed in a jug,
In which I hoped to pop it snug,
But it declined to show its mug――
Shy slug!
What lots of mischief it can do――
Would you believe it bit in two
My _Vincitoxis Thunbergu_?
Base slug!
Could it not e’en have spared me this?
My bulb _Incomparabilis
Hookeri Walkeri insignis_――
Low slug!
If I could find its hidden lair!
I can’t! Ah, cry of wild despair,
That breaks upon the tortured air――
Oh, slug!
Stranger! who read’st, yet sittest still,
I’ll leave you something in my will――
Give me a recipe to kill
That slug!
_Judy_, July 30, 1873.
――――:o:――――
THE FIRST FOG OF THE SEASON.
_By a Victim._
“What may perhaps be said to be the first fog of the season occurred
in London on Wednesday last. All through the forenoon the weather was
so dark as to make the use of gas requisite within doors. The fog was
especially dense in the Northern and Eastern suburbs. In the morning
there was a sharp frost.”――_Daily Paper._
What comes this year before its time,
To make us execrate our clime,
And doth the City streets begrime?
The fog!
What makes the trains late up in town,
And much disgusts Smith, Jones, and Brown;
And stops them when they would go “down?”
The fog!
What spreads destruction round one’s feet
By dark’ning every crowded street――
Invades the most secure retreat?
The fog!
What fills the atmosphere with smoke,
Till all who breathe it, all but choke;
And much bad language doth provoke?
The fog.
What hurts the eyes and makes them red,
Gives one a bad cold in the head,
And makes one think one’s nearly dead?
The fog!
What in the day produces night,
And keeps the flaring gas alight,
And takes away one’s appetite?
The fog.
What doth all London discompose,
Yet whence it comes and where it goes
No living human being knows?
The fog!
_Judy_, November 1, 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE NERVOUS.
Who taught me when there was a draught,
And showed me perils fore and aft
And frowned when I untimely laughed?
The Nervous.
Who told me when the glass would rise
Or fall, and with their prophecies,
Or recollections, made me wise?
The Nervous.
Who heard a crash before it fell
And knew things were not going well,
And would some warning story tell?
The Nervous.
Who, when I was a pachyderm,
By many a proper piercing term
Thinned my coarse skin so hard and firm?
The Nervous.
_The Argosy Magazine_, 1866.
――――:o:――――
MY BANKER.
_Dedicated (without respect) to certain Bank Mis-Directors._
BY A MAN OF NO ACCOUNT.
“I know a bank which when a wild time rose,
Stopped payment, and resolved its doors to close.”
――_Shakespeare perverted._
Though times are hard, who is’t one sees
Enjoying life’s luxurious ease
By spending others’ £. s. d’s?
My Banker.
Who cows the trader with a glance,
And eyes poor shopkeepers askance,
And wastes their money in――“finance”?
My Banker.
Whose style the ignorant delights,
Who orphans’ confidence invites,
And freely takes the widows’ mites?
My Banker.
Who finds religion’s cloak to pay
And client’s money ev’ry day
In charity, who gives away?
My Banker.
Who’s he whose fame spreads far and wide
For wealth and ostentatious pride
Until for peculation tried?
My Banker.
Who makes of roguery a trade,
Who, by his conscience undismayed,
To other rascals lends his aid?
My Banker.
Who is’t would have us to believe
A child in arms he’d not deceive,
Yet all the while will lie and thieve?
My Banker.
Who, when my Banker stares aghast
At prison walls which hold him fast,
Rejoices that he’s caught at last?
My-self.
_Judy_, January 29, 1879.
――――:o:――――
MY BROTHER.
Who held the tempting apple nigh
And always tried to make me cry,
And stuck the scissors in my eye?
My Brother.
Who left us all on Christmas Day
And to the cupboard made his way
And on the tree left not a spray?
My Brother.
Who threw my playthings on the floor.
And broke my doll behind the door,
And my best ribbons always tore?
My Brother.
Who pinched my kitten’s ear, or tail,
And ducked her in the water-pail
And pinched my cheek for turning pale?
My Brother.
Who spilt his coffee on his lap,
And tore his mother’s new lace cap,
And blurred with ink my atlas map?
My Brother.
Who’s glad he is at school now,
And not at home to make a row
I know who’s happy, anyhow,
His Sister.
――――:o:――――
VALENTINE.
Why at my church do I select a pew,
Commanding always one particular view
Alas! I fear it is to look at you
The Curate.
When do I shun the theatre or the ball,
For spinsters’ tea that’s weak, and talk that’s small
’Tis when I think it probable you’ll call
Our Curate.
Why, by my hands, industriously were tied
The holly wreaths in church at Christmas-tide?
Because I loved to labour by your side
Dear Curate.
And when the living fat shall fall to thee,
Shall all thy flock forgotten be,
Or wilt thou then begin to think of me
My Curate.
――――:o:――――
MY BAEDEKER.
Who teaches me to go abroad
To Paris, Rome, or Venice-ward,
Or Norway’s fjeld and deep fjord?
My Baedeker.
Who gives the annals of each nation,
Maps, money, language, vegetation,
And what’s about the population?
My Baedeker.
Who says what galleries there may be
For which one pays, which open free
From ten to four, or nine to three?
My Baedeker.
Who says what churches I’m to visit
And if a picture’s framed which is it?
And puts a star lest I should miss it?
My Baedeker.
From _Tracks in Norway_.
――――――――
Who are the anxious watchers o’er
The slumbers of a little bore,
That screams whene’er it doesn’t snore
Why, Mothers.
Whose pity wipes its piping eyes,
And stills maturer childhood’s cries,
Stopping its mouth with cakes and pies?
Oh, Mothers!
_The Humorist_, 1861.
MY TUTOR.
Who was’t when I came fresh from School
Up here, was so polite and cool,
And showed me each Collegiate rule?
My Tutor.
Who bade me shun those friends of vice
Which undergraduates entice,
In shape of billiards, cards, and dice?
My Tutor.
Let Paley be my constant friend,
Eight hours each day in studies spend,
And chapels night and morn attend?
My Tutor.
By such a course that worthy planned
First class in Little Go I’d land,
A credit to my College, and
My Tutor.
But who next day, by all that’s odd,
Happened to note me as I trod
Across the grassplots in the quad?
My Tutor.
And saw (what fools some people are!)
Me puffing at my first cigar,
And called it “most irregular”?
My Tutor.
Who’s now my foe inveterate,
Who every night at half-past eight
Keeps me within the College gate?
My Tutor.
Because I chanced to skip, you know,
And thought intolerably slow
His lectures on the Little Go?
My Tutor.
Who is so shy he shuns to meet
One of his College in the street?
Who dare not let you see his feet?
My Tutor.
Who always is agreable with
Lord Jones, but keeps a great broad frith
Between himself and Sizar Smith?
My Tutor.
Who is it whom I ought to dread
And hang on every word he’s said
But whom I caricature instead?
My Tutor.
From _Paulopostprandials_, published by Jones and Piggott, Cambridge,
1883.
[Illustration]
William Shakespeare.
(1564-1616.)
[Illustration]
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:――――
[Illustration: I]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.
――――:o:――――
“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.
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.)
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?