Whether ’tis better in a ’bus to suffer
The torments which are ever consequent
Upon the proclamation “Full inside”;
To have your knees impress’d by tons
Of your stout neighbour’s well-drenched bombazine,
And be made a stand for her fast-dripping gamp;
Or, p’haps, a seat which, in your genteel grace,
You charitably give her half-drown’d brat,
And patiently receive the running stream
Which proves the virtues of her waterproof;
To be half-chok’d, half-suffocated
By the steam fumes, condensing as they rise,
From sodden serge and water’d silk or crape;
To bear with patience sundry visits from
The gouty foot of your aged _vis-à-vis_,
Envious of your one only favourite corn;
To feel just like a herring in a tub,
Or sardine, pickled and encased in oil――
To be, in short, a martyr to yourself,
Or victim of your ungentility?
Or be _gallant_, and, for a lady’s sake,
Deny yourself the pleasure of these woes;
Gracefully――that is, if gracefully you can,
Spite of aforesaid hindrances――yield
Your inside station to a fairer fare,
Removing to the knifeboard, there to be
The prey of downright, but more wholesome ills――
The heav’n-sent rain――not tepid drops
Reaching you second-hand, as those inside;
And as you journey on towards your home,
Find consolation in the honest thought
That you have done the very thing you ought?――
That is the question, and I solve it thus:
_A man should always ride outside a ’bus_.
C. B.
_Gossip_, May 16, 1885.
――――:o:――――
TO PRINT, OR NOT TO PRINT.
To print, or not to print――that is the question.
Whether ’tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy,
Or send a well-wrote copy to the press,
And, by disclosing, end them? To print, to doubt
No more, and by one act to say we end
The headache, and a thousand natural shocks,
Of scribbling frenzy――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To print――to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well-bound;
To sleep perchance with Quarles. Ay, there’s the rub
For to what class a writer may be doomed,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes
Th’ unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame,
The price of conscious merit, and ’bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? who would fardels bear?
To groan and sweat under a load of wit?
But that the tread of steep Parnassus’ hill
That undiscover’d country, with whose bays
Few travellers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown
Than run the hazard to be known and damn’d.
Thus Critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sicklied o’er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprisers of great fire and spirit,
With this regard, from Murray turn away,
And lose the name of authors.
REVEREND RICHARD JAGO.
(Before 1780.)
――――:o:――――
To rat, or not to rat, that is the question;――
Whether ’tis safer for a Whig to suffer
The sting of conscious inconsistency;
Or to take arms against this nest of madmen,
And by opposing, leave them. To rat――to vote――
No more; and by a vote to say we’ve done
With Ireland, and the thousand natural ills
Of Dis-establishment. A consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To rat――to vote;――
To lose perchance our seat!――Ay, there’s the rub!
For from that adverse vote what griefs may come,
When we have shuffled off this party mesh,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of Whiggery;
For who would bear the whips and votes of Glyn,
Th’ oppressive Bright, proud Gladstone’s contumely,
The sneer from Tory bench, each night’s delay,
The seeking after office, and the groans
The patient member meets with when he speaks,
When he himself might their quietus make
In the wrong lobby? Who would measures hear
For which, he voting, acts an endless lie;
But that the dread of something afterwards,
The represented “county” from whose poll
No renegade returns,――puzzles the will!
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that will plague us more!
Thus interest doth make puppets of us all;
And thus the native hue of patriotism
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of “self;”
And gentlemen of sturdy truth and honour
With this regard their conscience belie,
And lose all sense of freedom.
_Once a Week_, May 23, 1868.
――――:o:――――
THE SHAVER’S SOLILOQUY.
To shave, or not to shave; the question is,
Whether ’tis better, on the human phiz,
To let accumulation of our hair
Cover the chins and lips which now are bare;
Or to continue still to scrape away
The hirsute ornament from day to day.――
To lather――shave――perchance to gash the face?
Ay, there’s the rub; for, in this latter case,
What mis’ry’s ours! ’Tis this must give us pause,
And makes us rather let alone our jaws,
Than by continuance in the bar’brous use,
Cut, scratch, and lacerate them like the deuce,
For if it actually were the case,
That Nature never meant the human face
To be so teased and tortured as it is――
If so, I say, why then what business
Have mortals virtually to cry out
That Nature knew not what she was about?
Why since the beard was evidently meant
To grow, should men be seemingly intent
On trying to prove Nature was a dunce,
And did not know her trade? Why not at once
Pluck out the eyebrows, and extract the nails,
And shave the heads of females, and of males?
Strange ’tis that men should worship fashion, so
As to be willing thus to undergo
The pains of shaving, rather than permit
Moustache and beard to grow as they think fit.
How singular that men should still delight
In torturing their faces, when they might
Themselves their comfort, ease, and health obtain
By vowing they will never shave again?
But ’tis the dread of ridicule and scorn
Makes the foul fashion easy to be borne.
Thus custom of us all doth cowards make,
And for this savage custom, then, we take
The trouble and the pains our chins to mow,
Because it is the fashion to do so.
But thus our chins will soon no more, I hope,
Be lather’d o’er with the pale suds of soap.
Soon shall moustache and beard once more on all
Our chins wag merrily, in street and hall!
_Diogenes_, March, 1854.
――――:o:――――
A SOLILOQUY WHILST SHAVING.
To shave, or not to shave? that is the question,
Whether ’tis comfortable most to cover
One’s face all over with outrageous lather,
Or by outrageous hair, s(h)ave so much trouble,
And thus soap――pose we end it! To shave――to swear
What for? when by moustache and beard we end
The nuisance thus encouraging the locks
That flesh is _hair_ to――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To shave? To swear?
To swear! perchance, an oath――ay, there’s the rub;
For as we shave, perhaps the razor slips,
And as we _barber_ously hack our chin,
Must we then pause; in every respect
There is calamity in such a shave.
Oh, who would bear shivering in the cold
Ten minutes long to be in misery?
The pangs of getting up, with much delay,
The razor wanting strapping, and the time
The patient shaver usually takes,
When he himself might get on very well
Without a razor?――or who would be shaved,
Tweak’d by the nose as pigs for singeing are,
To groan and sweat under the barber’s hand,
And as the dread of something happening――
A pleasant slice, perhaps, taken off one’s nose;
Of course entirely against one’s will.
It makes us rather wear the honest beard,
Than fly to barbers whom we know not of.
Thus custom makes Gorillas of us all;
Although we falter in our resolution,
As lathered over with best Windsor soap,
Expecting a severe cut every moment,
We contemplate our beard with jaundiced eye,
And so prepare for action――
Soft I vow――’tis done――_Oh, feel here!_
T. F. DILLON CROKER.
_Vagrant Leaves_, Number 2.――November 1, 1866.
“My occupation is no more!” _exclaimed Sylvester Daggerwood, on
assuming the vile occupation of waiter at a country inn where, on
contemplating the preparations for a parish feast he made the
following complaint_:
To starve, or not to starve? that is the question:――
Whether, Sylvester, thou should’st calmly bear
The yearns and gripings of internal wants,
Or take up arms against the parish treat,
And, wille nille, end it?――To eat;――to glut
Thy fill;――and, by this feast, to say thou end’st
Those cravings and the thousand rav’nous wants
That flesh is heir to――’tis an occupation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To eat;――to stuff;――
To gorge, perchance be sick! aye, there’s the rub;
For in that yearning state what pangs may come,
In easing me of superfluities,
Must make me pause:――’tis this alone
That bids me curb my longing appetite;
Else should I tamely bear fell hunger’s cries,
My stomach’s wrongs, my bowels’ piercing shrieks,
My greedy eye’s desire, the cook’s delay,
Who, insolent in office, jade-like taunts
My rav’nous appetite, that sneaking waits,
When quickly force might satisfy desire
With knife and bodkin? What all endure,
And grumbling sweat before the blazing fire,
But that the dread of sickness afterwards,
That painful operation, from whose course
No man is free, affrights my will,
And makes me rather bear those gripes I feel,
Than fly to such as might await the deed?
Thus sickness does make cowards of us all;
And thus fell resolution, arm’d by want,
Sinks, pale and coward-like, the slave of thought;
And mighty feats perform’d with knife and fork
Are left untried; so is my craving turn’d!
I lose the power of eating.――――
From _Rhapsodies_ by W. H. IRELAND, London; Longman and Rees, 1803.
[Concerning this William Henry Ireland, and his Shakespearian
forgeries, it will be necessary to speak at length in some future
number of _Parodies_, for the present it will suffice to mention that
he composed a Tragedy, entitled _Vortigern_, which he passed off as a
newly discovered work by Shakespeare. The forgery deceived some of the
most learned and able critics of the day, and at length, Richard
Brinsley Sheridan was prevailed upon to produce it at Drury Lane
Theatre. It was only played once, on the second of April, 1796, when
Mr. Kemble appeared as Vortigern, Miss Miller as Rowena, and the
beautiful Mrs. Jordan as Flavia. The public, more accurate in their
judgment than the critics, good humouredly laughed the piece down, and
when Kemble had to speak the line:――
“And when this solemn mockery is o’er,”
the audience received it in such a manner that the fate of the tragedy
was sealed. Ireland’s ingenious devices and plausible manner had
convinced several learned and prominent men of the authenticity of the
Shakesperian M.S.S. and, as might have been expected, when the
imposition was discovered, there were many bitter caricatures and
satires published at his expense. One of these, dated December 1797,
is a portrait of Ireland, grasping a volume of Shakespeare, with a
motto, taken from the _Maid of the Mill_:――
“Such cursed assurance
Is past all endurance.”
The following parody of Dryden’s celebrated Epigram on Milton, is
appended; the lines were probably written by the Reverend William
Mason:――
“Four forgers, born in one prolific age,
Much critical acumen did engage:
The first[30] was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d,
Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d.
The next had all the cunning of a Scot[31]
The third, invention, genius――nay, what not[32]
Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense
To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”
It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he
broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.
After _Vortigern and Rowena_ had been once played, and the audience
had testified in the most unmistakable manner their disbelief in its
authenticity, and contempt for its merits, Ireland yet had the
audacity to urge Sheridan and Kemble to have a second trial; Sheridan,
however, dismissed him with an emphatic negative. After Ireland had
left the room, Kemble said, “Well, Sir, you cannot doubt that the play
is a forgery.” “Damn the fellow,” replied Sheridan, “_I believe his
face is a forgery_, he is the most specious man I ever saw!”]
――――:o:――――
OLD TUNBELLY’S SOLILOQUY.
To stick to Hoy, or not――that is the question,
Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer,
The pangs and aches of golden hopes deferred;
Or, trampling on my ancient principles,
Go to the Star at once, To go――to tip the _blunt_,
And thus enable Jack to keep in flesh;
Nay, more, to have my way, and be revenged,
On all those scoundrel writers who have been
Maligning me; O what a glorious day!
What would I give to see it? To go――to win――
To win――perchance to lose――aye, that’s the job――
For if we win, who cares for all they say,
Of rats, and bribes, and Elephants wild and tame,
And Kingsland “little affairs,” but if we lose――
And lose we may, in spite of all my weight――
What I shall do, after the poll is o’er
Should be considered now, and ere I go
Must give me pause. There’s Hoy, I fear he’ll cut
The town, if he cut out; and then poor I,
Old, friendless, and the mock of all the mob,
That once stuck fast to him, but ratting now
By hundreds and by thousands from his side,
Will hoot and hiss me in the streets and lanes;
Unable to enjoy my usual walks,
Whereby I have my health and my body huge,
By wholesome perspiration keep well down,
Within the decent weight of twenty stone――
Shall get no sleep, and then full soon shall sink,
Poor, unlamented, to a nameless grave――
Where, stead of epitaph in prose and verse.
Briefly dilating on my virtuous deeds,
Argus and Obadiah, and the crew,
Penleazers vile, will cry to all around,
“_Here lies a man, who once upheld Reform;
Allured by pelf, he turned, and straight was hither borne._
But hence, ideas like these――avaunt! delusions vain,
Far be from me the thought of coward flight,
Or unmatured resolve.
* * * * *
This is the road to _rhino_ and revenge,
And on this road, in spite of former vows,
In spite of all my ancient predilections,
In spite of Argus, hand bills, nicknames, jeers,
In spite of what the minister may think
In spite of fate, or e’en the devil himself,
This road I’ll travel. (_Exit_ waddling).
_The Argus._ April 16, 1831.
This little Journal was published in Southampton during the stirring
times just previous to the election of the Parliament which settled
the first great Reform Bill. _The Argus_ strongly advocated the cause
of Reform, supporting the candidatures of Messrs. ATHERLEY & PENLEAZE,
in opposition to Messrs. DOTTIN & HOY. At the election ATHERLEY polled
732 votes; PENLEAZE 663, whereas HOY had only 391 votes, and with the
general victory of the Reform question the necessity for such a
political journal as _The Argus_ was at an end. It contains many
parodies satirising the prominent men of Southampton, of whom TUNBELLY
was one.
――――:o:――――
THE JOURNEYMAN TAILOR’S SOLILOQUY.
To stitch or not to stitch――that is the question!
Whether ’tis better on the board to suffer
The stings of needles for capricious masters,
Or throw away one’s thimble, shears, and bodkin,
And so by tramping end them. To stitch and sweat,
No more, and by a tramp to say we end
The head-ache, and the thousand cramps and pains
We cross-legg’d folks are heirs to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To walk, to take a trip,
To rove at large――perchance to beg one’s bread!
Aye, there’s the rub――――
For by this strolling trade what want may come,
When we have shifted from a constant place,
Must give us pain. There’s the respect that keeps
One willing prisoner to the shop board still,
For who would bear the frowns of angry masters,
The jokes and jeers of scavengers and soot-boys
With all the insult of _unmanly title_,
The _honest_ tailor is obliged to take,
When he himself might his quietus make
With trav’ling. Who would slavery bear,
And groan and sweat upon a dreary shop board,
But that the thought of something worse than stitching
That sting of poverty, whose unwelcome gripe,
Few travellers escape――puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
And thus necessity keeps us tailors still:
And thus the native hue of resolution is kept up
By each industrious thought; and tailors too
Of no small pith and moment, by this regard
From tramping turn away, and lose the name
Of _vagrants_.
J――M――――N.
_The Mirror._
――――:o:――――
THE CABMAN’S SOLILOQUY.
To strike, or not to strike, that is the question:――
Whether ’tis nobler on the box to suffer
The persecutions of outrageous bobbies,
Or to take arms against the rising public,
And serve them out by striking. That is, to ply
No more. To make them walk who fain would ride
The ’Busses scorning,――’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished,――to stop the ills
Cabmanic flesh is heir to; there’s the rub,
For in such strike of cabs perchance we starve;
Yet who would bear the inflicted wrongs of [33]MAYNE,
Sixpenny fares, and lamps compulsory,
Woes of backed licenses, police court fines,
The beak’s severity, and the many spurns
That patient cabmen from their riders take
Without a murmur: when each man can strike,
And leave town cabless; each railway station
Without a vehicle of any sort
To greet the luggage-laden traveller,
Until our native hue of resolution
Shall sickly o’er with the pale cast of thought
The members anxious to get home at night,
And force them to repeal the hateful Act.
_Judy_, December 11, 1867.
――――:o:――――
THE SOLILOQUY OF A WOULD-BE BLOOMER.
Trousers, or no trousers――that is the question;
Whether ’tis better on the legs to suffer
The dirt and scrapings of bespatter’d crossings,
Or to take arms against this present Fashion,
And with new dresses, change it? To fix――to change――
No more; and by this change to say we stop
Mud splashings, and the thousand natural woes
The legs are heir to.――’tis an emendation
Devoutly to be wished. To fix――to change――
To change! perchance the gown;――ay, there’s the rub;
For in that change of dress what jeers may come
When we have shuffled off this flounced coil,――
Must we then pause? Where’s the respect
That makes the petticoats for so long rife?
For who would bear the great constraint of gowns,
The dresses long, the small feet hid thereby,
The pangs of tight-laced stays, the waist’s display,
The dirtiness of stockings, and the turns
The patient follower of fashion takes,
When she herself might her own comfort make
With pairs of trousers? Who would flounces wear
To brush and sweep the mud,――a weary wife,――
But that the dread of some one’s sneering breath,――
That unforgiven sarcasm from whose spurn
The maiden e’er recoils,――puzzles the will;
And makes us rather wear the dress we have
Than change for others that we know not of?
Thus custom does make cowards of us all;
And thus the very name of resolution
Is passed o’er by the frail cant of the law,
And novel dresses of great use and beauty
Meet no regard: the trousers they despise,
And spurn the name of BLOOMER!
_The Month_, by ALBERT SMITH and JOHN LEECH, November, 1851.
――――:o:――――
HAMLET ON VACCINATION.
To vaccinate or not, that is the question,
Whether ’tis better for a man to suffer
The painful pangs and lasting marks of smallpox
Or to bare arms before the surgeon’s lancet,
And, by being vaccinated, end them. Yes,
To feel the tiny point, and say we end
The chance of many a thousand awful scars
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.――Ah! soft you now,
The Vaccinator! Sir, upon thy rounds
Be my poor arms remembered!
_Punch_, May 28, 1881.
――――:o:――――
CLEAN LINEN!
_Or, The Housewife’s Soliloquy._
To wash, or not wash?――that is the question!
Whether ’tis nobler on th’ whole person to suffer
The grime and lankness of the long-worn garment,
Or to take soap against a siege of stain-spots,
And by stout scrubbing, end them. To wash――to scrub
No more; and by that toil to say, we end
The mud-splash, and the thousand various soils
Which linen catches――’tis a consummation
With both fists to be strove for! To wash, to dry,
To dry, perchance in frost――ay there’s the rub!
For in that chance of frost what coals must burn,
When we have soused, and wet a whole month’s cloaths,
Must make us pause!――There’s the respect
That makes a muslin gown be worn so long:――
For who would bear the dingy-looking tail,
The crumpled ruff, the chair-press’d, crease-mark’d shawl;
Dance-dusted turban, or, trod Turkish robe;
The oft’ turned petticoat, kerchief and hose
Which tho’ well-coak’d within the shoe――will peep;
When she herself might mend appearances
By a soap-lather:――Who’d white bonnets wear
That took the goblin of a foul-cloathes bag?
But that the dread of price per chaldron charg’d,
(That bill by coal man drawn, from whose sum total
Abatement ne’er was made) puzzles the choice,
And makes us rather bear be-grim’d nankeens
Than fly too rashly to the measur’d purse!
――――Thus saving does make slovens of us all,
And thus the native hue of milk-white Irish
Is sicklied o’er by three days perspiration,
And smug-tied neckcloths of great length and wideness
In this regard are turned all ways awry,
And lose the name of cravat!
From _Fugitive Verse and Prose_, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester,
1803.
――――:o:――――
SOME PARODIES ON THE MARRIAGE QUESTION.
THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY.
_In Imitation of a celebrated Speech._
To wed, or not to wed――That is the question:
Whether ’tis happier in the mind to stifle
The heats and tumults of outrageous passion,
Or with some prudent fair in solemn contract
Of matrimony join――to have――to hold――
No more――and by that have to say we end
The heartache, and a thousand love-sick pangs
Of celibacy――’twere a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d――in nuptial band
To join till death dissolves.――Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that space what dull remorse may come,
When we have ta’en our solemn leave of liberty,
Must give us pause――There’s the respect
That slacks our speed in suing for a change.
Else――who would bear the scorns and sneers which bachelors
When aged feel, the pains and flatt’ring fevers
Which each new face must give to roving fancy,
When he might rid himself at once of all
By a bare Yes. Who would with patience bear
To fret and linger out a single life,
But that the dread of something yet untry’d,
Some hazard in a state from whose strict bond
Death only can release, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather chuse those ills we have,
Than fly to others which we fancy greater?
This last reflection makes us slow and wary,
Filling the dubious mind with dreadful thoughts
Of curtain lectures, jealousies, and cares
Extravagantly great, entail’d on wedlock,
Which to avoid the lover checks his passion,
And, miserable, dies a _bachelor_.
T. C――――BRE.
The New Lady’s Magazine_, March, 1786.
――――――――
To woo, or not to woo――that is the question:
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to suffer
The screws and pinches of a straiten’d fortune,
Or to take arms against some rich widow’s suitors,
And, by opposing, beat them. To woo――to wed:
No more:――and by a wedding to say we silence
The creditor, and thousand barking pests
That snap at poor men,――though the consummation
Were little to be wished. To woo;――to wed:――
To wed――perchance be henpeck’d!――There’s the rub!
For in that unison what jars may come
When we have shuffled on the fatal yoke,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes our celibacy last so long;
For who would bear the plagues of poverty,
The fair’s neglect, the coxcomb’s contumely,
The dearth of dinner, and the mournful waste
That active Time in galligaskins wears,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a gold ring? Who’d live a subaltern,
To drill and dress under a martinet?
But that the dread of something after marriage,
That knot indissoluble, from whose noose
No sufferer can be freed, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear our own mishaps,
Than fly to others that a wife would bring!
For women do make noodles of us all;
And thus, the bare design of a flirtation
Is strangled by the terror of a match,
And many a pleasant and free hearted youth,
With this regard his courtship turns awry,
And shuns the name of husband.
From “_Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces_, composed by several of
our MOST CELEBRATED POETS, but _not_ published in any former edition
of their works.” London, John Miller, 1814.
――――――――
To wed, or not to wed? That is the question.
Whether it is advisable to bear
The dull privations of a single life,
Or marry, and in wedlock seek relief
From many woes? To desperately woo
Some charming woman decked with seraph lips
And eyes that speak an ocean-stream of love?
To marry her? It is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished; but where’s the chance?
To wed――to set up an establishment
And have “a lot of bairns?” Ay, there’s the rub;
For it may be I shall not have the means
To do my duty to them all, and leave
My mortal reckoning; bequeathing merit.
Hence reasoning makes me pause, and show respect
That dates celibacy a lengthy term;
For how could I, chief party to a deed
In what is promised, faithfully and true,
A constant, generous, and a manly aid,
Fulfil my trust, unless I could afford it?
I’d like to wed, for who would single be,
Or snore in solitude the livelong night,
But that the fear of curtain lectures, and
A yearly levy of “incumbrances”
(As heathen, churlish men their offspring call),
Perplexes me, and makes me rather bear
The ills I have than fly to those unknown.
ANONYMOUS.
From W. A. Clouston’s _Literary Curiosities and Eccentricities_.
――――――――
Marry, or not to marry? that is the question――
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The sullen silence of these cob-webbed rooms
Or seek in festive halls some cheerful dame,
And, by uniting, end it?――to live alone
No more: and by marrying say we end
The heartache, and the thousand make-shifts
Bach’lors are heirs to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To marry to live
In peace! Perchance in war; ay, there’s the rub;
For in the marriage state what ills may come,
When we have shuffled off our liberty,
Must give us pause――there’s the respect,
That makes us dread the bonds of wedlock,
For who could bear the noise of scolding wives,
The fits of spleen, th’ extravagance of dress,
The thirst for plays, for concerts and for balls,
The insolence of the servants, and the spurns
That patient husbands from their consorts take
When he himself might his quietus gain
By living single. Who would wish to hear
The jeering name of bachelor,
But that the dread of something after marriage
(Ah, that vast expenditure of income,
The tongue call scarcely tell) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather choose the single life,
Then go to jail for debts we know not of――
Economy thus makes bachelors of us still;
And thus our melancholy resolution
Is still increased upon more serious thought.
From Geo. Wentworth’s _Poetical Note Book_, London, 1824.
――――――――
To wed, or not to wed――that is the question――
Whether ’tis wiser in a man to banish
The tempting visions of domestic comfort,
Or to lead some damsel of our times to the altar,
And, by marriage, end them? To wed, to doubt
No more, and by that act to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand well-planned tricks
Of enterprising mothers! ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To wed――to enrich
The tradesmen, and to feed bad servants!
To wed, perchance, a spend thrift! ay, there’s the rub;
For to what sort of wife we may be mated
When we have shuffled off our bachelorhood,
Must give us pause.――――There’s the respect
That makes celibacy of so much practice;
For who would bear the impatient thirst for bliss,
The yearnings for some gentle confidant
The amatory frenzies of one’s loneliness,
The loss of buttons, and of large joints of meat,
When he himself, might his quietus make
With a bare Wedding ring? Who would lodgings bear,
To groan and sweat under extortionate landladies,
But that the dread of helpless and expensive wives――
Those prodigies of modern training――puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than hazard being thus ta’en in and done for.
Thus women do make cowards of us all:
And thus the hopeful heart of many a bachelor,
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprisers of good will and spirit,
With this regard from marriage turn away,
And lose the name of Husband.
_Echoes from the Clubs_, April 8, 1868.
――――――――
THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITIONS.
On September 26, 1880, the following Prize Parody appeared in the
_Weekly Dispatch_:――
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis better in this life to suffer
The petty trials of unmarried life
Or add one more unto a list of troubles,
And thus by marriage end them? To wed, to sleep
No more; or, if to sleep, to say we end
The yearnings and the sentimental fudge
Young flesh is heir to――’tis a consummation
Too blessed to be true. To love, to wed――
What then? Perchance repent; ay, there’s the rub.
For in the meekest maid what changes come
When we have wriggled on the golden coil,
Must give us pause. There’s reason good
That makes so many choose a single life――
For who could bear to give up his quiet pipe,
The close society of bosom friends,
The interchange of bright congenial thoughts,
Which sparkle like the glasses on the board,
For squalling children and a shrewish wife,
While he can cook a herring, or a steak,
And ply a bodkin. None would ever dare
To grunt and growl at lovely maidenhood!
But there’s a something after marriage vows――
The trap where foxes lose their tails, and then
Advise their fellows that its much the best――
Which makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than marry troops of others with a wife――
For woman breeched makes cowards of us all.
And, somehow, all our boasted resolution
Gets sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear;
And enterprises, which we might have held
In great regard, must then be put aside,
Because, forsooth, “I’m married!”
WILLIAM H. EDMUNDS.
――――――――
OPHELIA (_aside_)
Perhaps he will! Perhaps he won’t! Who knows?
(_pensively_) How hard it is to make the men propose!
(_Sighs and sits down away from Hamlet._)
HAMLET――
To pop, or not to pop the fatal question.
Can any husband give me a suggestion?
Whether ’tis nobler to endure the woes
Of stockings holey at the heels and toes,
Of lonely evenings, solitary mutton,
And ragged shirt-fronts innocent of button,
Or to take arms against the ills of life,
Swallow the necessary pill――a wife,
Give up tobacco, latch-keys and late hours,
And take an interest in cows and flowers,
Adopt a country life, and, if you can,
Become a nice domestic married man.
The prospect’s tempting. Shall I? Yes, here goes.
Ophelia, I’ve determined to propose.
From _Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks_; by the Author of “The
Light Green.” W. METCALFE & SON, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1882.
――――:o:――――
THE BARD’S SOLILOQUY
To write――or not to write――that is the question――
Whether ’twere nobler in the mind to stifle
The hungry cravings of an empty stomach,
To sleep on bed of straw, in garret high,
As is Parnass, or in the dark abyss
Of cellar, low as Tartarus――To be
The game of sporting critics――Or to die――
To sink in vile obscurity, and rot
Among the senseless rabble――Aye! to drop
Unknown, and unlamented!――Hateful thought!
Detestable oblivion!
To write――to live!――――immortal as great Jove!
To be a second Shakespeare, and inroll’d
Among the list of Poets, and perchance
Some monarch’s fav’rite, counsellor, and friend,
In more retired hours――Or the fond theme
Of after ages――Soul inspiring thought!
Ambition!――Witchcraft!――Sorcery divine!
To write――perchance to cringe――aye, there’s the rub!
For who could brook to do an action mean,
Unworthy man, and basely stoop to praise
Some letter’d bookworm, or pedantic fool;
To sell his muse for hire, and thus belie
The dictates of his conscience――Be a sycophant,
And flatter titled scoundrels?――There’s the respect――
Must give us pause, and make the bard forbear:
_This_ infant genius checks, but that the hope
Of living after death in mem’ry’s praise
Hurries him on――As erst the hot-brain’d,
Yclep’d Phaeton, who, of old, they say,
Deaf to advice, by hot ambition fir’d,
Mounted the flaming chariot of his sire
With fatal eagerness――So he, nor mov’d
By kind intreaties, nor the sage advice
Of prudent friends regarding; but spurr’d on
By evil genius, baneful love of fame,
The dangerous height of Helicon assails:
Or with mad fury mounts the nettled steed
Call’d Pegasus――Anon, with giddy brain,
And aspect woful, the tremendous depth
Of space immensurable while he views,
His tott’ring limbs their wonted duty fail;
Or while, disdainful of his rider’s strength,
The snorting courser cuts the distanc’d winds
With wing’d velocity――――Too late, alas!
His rashness he repents, and headlong hurl’d
Through ether’s all-unfathomable void――
(Dreadful to think)――he falls――to rise no more!
H. R. E.
_Chancery-Lane. The New Lady’s Magazine_, November, 1786.
[Illustration]
DAME TILLER discovered washing; she takes out of her tub a veil, and
a pair of small socks, which she hangs on the line, sighs, and
regards them sorrowfully._
DAME. Tubby or not tubby――there’s the rub,
Whether I shall get anything to scrub,
Or, overcome by all my numerous troubles,
Dive headlong down into that sea of bubbles;
As to my bus’ness it is something shockin’,
Of stockings I’ve got but that small _stock in_.
People won’t send their things, complaining (bosh)
That, like King John, they’d lost them in the _Wash_.
I used to do for schools, and so it follers
I used to have a lot of _scholars’ collars_;
Now I have none, no collars smooth, nor ruffs,
I’ve got to make the best of fortune’s cuffs.
To emigrate the best thing now would be――
Yes! _Washington_ would be the place for me.
From “_Poll and Partner Joe_”; a Nautical Burlesque by F. C. Burnand.
First produced at St. James’s Theatre, May 6th, 1871.
――――:o:――――
THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY.
To wed, or not to wed? That is the question
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pangs and arrows of outrageous love
Or to take arms against the powerful flame
And by opposing quench it.
To wed――to marry――
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to――’tis a consummation.
Devoutly to be wished! to wed――to marry
Perchance a scold! aye, there’s the rub
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There’s the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? O who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wedlock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of Wedlock.
[Copied from an Album――Author unknown.]
――――:o:――――
CREMATION.
(_By a Burning admirer of Sir Henry Thompson._)
To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler for our frames to suffer
The shows and follies of outrageous custom,
Or to take fire――against a sea of zealots――
And by consuming end them? To Urn――to keep――
No more: and while we keep, to say we end
Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills
That flesh is heir to――’tis a consume-ation
Devoutly to be wished! To burn――to keep――
To keep! Perchance to lose――aye, there’s the rub:
For in the course of things what duns may come,
Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes inter-i-ment of so long use.
For who would have the pall and plumes of hire,
The tradesman’s prize――a proud man’s obsequies,
The chaffering for graves, the legal fee,
The cemetery beadle and the rest,
When he himself might his few ashes make
With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear,
And lie beneath a lying epitaph,
But that the dread of simmering after death――
That uncongenial furnace from whose burn
No incremate returns――weakens the will,
And makes us rather bear the graves we have
Than fly to ovens that we know not of?
This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all.
And thus the wisdom of incineration
Is thick-laid o’er with the pale ghost of nought,
And incremators of great pith and courage
With this regard their faces turn awry,
And shudder at cremation.
WILLIAM SAWYER.
In April, 1884, there was a discussion in the House of Commons on a
Bill, brought in by Dr. Cameron, for regulating Cremation.
――――:o:――――
There are numbers of other Parodies of this Soliloquy scattered about.
William Hone, when on his trial for publishing a Parody entitled “The
Political Litany,” mentioned one which had appeared in the _Morning
Herald_ in 1808, commencing thus:――
“To stand, or not to stand――that is the question
Whether ’tis nobler for us to lose th’ Election,
And all the honours that attend upon it,
Or to demand a poll, and risk th’ expense.”
Unfortunately the file of the above named journal in the British
Museum Library is incomplete, so that the remainder of the parody
cannot here be given.
One of the best burlesques of Shakespeare ever written was the “Hamlet
Travestie, in three Acts, with annotations after the manner of Dr.
Johnson and George Steevens, Esq., and other Commentators,” 1810. This
was written by John Poole, the author of Paul Pry; the notes at the
end are amusing burlesques of the word-splitting, and quibbling over
trifles, to be found in the writings of many authors who have done
their best to obscure some of the clearest, and noblest utterances of
Shakespeare.
In this burlesque first appeared the well-known lines, (spoken by
Ophelia in the Mad Scene,)
Three children sliding on the ice,
All on a summer’s day;
The ice it broke――they all fell in――
The rest they ran away.
Now had these children staid at home,
And slid upon dry ground;
They broken necks had had, perchance,
But never had been drown’d.
However the whole burlesque is so good that it will be republished
complete in this collection; for the present it will be sufficient to
quote the parody of the Soliloquy, which is in rhyme:――
_Song_, HAMLET.――Tune, “_Here we go up, up, up_.”
When a man becomes tired of his life,
The question is, “to be, or not to be?”
For before he dare finish the strife,
His reflections most serious ought to be.
When his troubles too numerous grow,
And he knows of no method to mend them,
Had he best bear them tamely, or no?――
Or by stoutly opposing them end them?
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
To die is to sleep――nothing more――
And by sleeping to say we end sorrow,
And pain, and ten thousand things more――
O, I wish it were _my_ turn to-morrow!
But, perchance, in that sleep we may dream,
For we dream in our beds very often――
Now, however capricious ’t may seem,
I’ve no notion of dreams in a coffin.
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
’Tis the doubt of our ending all snugly,
That makes us with life thus dispute,
For who’d bear with a wife old and ugly,
Or the length of a chancery suit?
Or who would bear fardels, and take
Kicks, cuffs, frowns, and many an odd thing,
When he might his own quietus make,
And end all his cares with a bodkin?
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
Truly, death is a fine thing to talk of,
But I’ll leave to men of more learning;
For my own part, I’ve no wish to walk off,
For I find there’s no chance of returning.――
After all ’tis the pleasantest way,
To bear up as we can ’gainst our sorrow,
And if things go not easy to-day,
Let us hope they’ll go better to-morrow.――
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
――――:o:――――
O. P. Q. PHILANDER SMIFF, of _The Figaro_, (London,) once suggested
that the play of _Hamlet_ might be made use of as an advertising
medium, with a few minor alterations, as, to take the Soliloquy for
example:――
“To sleep, or not to sleep――that is the question,
Whether ’tis well to suffer indigestion;
Or bear the burden of a dozen ills,
Whilst Mr. Cockle offers me his pills.
To have a headache, and a tongue that shocks,
Whilst they are sold at thirteen-pence a box.”
or, on another evening we might have:――
“To be in debt or not, that is the question,
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to go to Mr. Howse, in Staples Inn,
And thus take arms against a sea of trouble.”
――――:o:――――
ON BLOWING YOUR BRAINS OUT.
I would put the question to any sensible man, whether he does or does
not consider it nobler in the mind to suffer many inconveniences, to
which slings and arrows are mere flea-bites by comparison――and
especially I might indicate blighted affections, the procrastination
of your family solicitor when there is property to be distributed, in
which you have a share, losses on the Derby, tightness of the
money-market, the impertinence of the fellow who keeps on calling for
the Queen’s taxes, and, generally, the spurns that patient merit is
obliged to put up with from all kinds of cads and humbugs, and
stuck-up little beasts, who give themselves no end of airs, and try to
ride rough-shod over everybody who has not had the same luck that they
have――than to terminate one’s existence by an act of _felo-de-se_?
Well, you know, the fact is that nobody would be fool enough to go on
day after day standing this sort of thing, if it wasn’t for a deuced
strong objection to becoming a body, and being sat upon by a dozen
tradesmen, some of whom perhaps have been confoundedly rude to one in
one’s life, when one has not happened to be able to pay one’s bills
the moment one has been called upon in a sudden and peremptory, not to
say insolent, manner to do so. There’s the rub! On consideration, most
people will rather bear the ills they have than do anything desperate
to get rid of them. (I have but this moment met with a passage in a
shocking tragedy, by the well-known Shakespeare, that bears a decided
family likeness to my philosophic proposition. It will scarcely be
expected that I should expunge the foregoing observations, because of
their likeness to what was written at a distant period of English
literature.)――_Punch._
――――:o:――――
The libretto to Ambroise Thomas’s opera of _Hamlet_ was by M.M.
Barbier and Carré, and their rendering of the Soliloquy shows the
difficulty of translating Shakespeare’s blank verse, and metaphysical
reasoning, into the orthodox French rhymed measure:――
Être ou ne pas être――O mystère!
Mourir――dormir――rêver.
Ah! s’il m’était permis pour t’aller retrouver,
De briser le lien qui m’attache à la terre!
Mais après? Quel est-il ce pays inconnu,
D’où pas un voyageur n’est encore revenu?
Être ou ne pas être――O mystère!
Mourir-dormir! rêver peut-être!
――――:o:――――
SHAKESPEARE AMENDED.
_Punch_ for 30 April, 1881, contained the following――
“Mr. Furnivall is of opinion that the text of _Hamlet_ known to
commentators as ‘The First Quarto,’ furnishes a far better and
more compact acting play than the modern stage-version. He, and
‘a strong body of amateurs,’ essayed, on the afternoon of
Saturday, the 16th April, at St. George’s Hall, to convert the
public and the critics to their view of the case――apparently with
indifferent success. Mr. FURNIVALL has sent to the _Daily News_,
what he calls ‘a hasty try to set right’ the celebrated
soliloquy, ‘To be or not to be,’ in the Quarto No. 1. Mr.
FURNIVALL’S version is, of course, a thing of beauty; yet is it
hardly so jerky, creaky, spasmodic, incoherent,
scansion-proof,――in short, so Utter, as in the interests of the
Bard might be desired. Here, therefore, is ‘a hasty try to set
right’ Mr. FURNIVALL himself.”
To be or not to be? There you are, don’tcherknow!
To die, to sleep! is that all? Forty winks?
To sleep, to dream! Ah, that’s about the size of it!
For from that forty winks when we awake
In the undiscovered cotton-nightcap country
From which no passenger ever took a return-ticket――――
Why――ah, yes――humph!――exactly――very much so!
Who, but for what the vulgar call “blue funk,”
Would bear the rough and tumble of the world,
Be down’d on by the rich, plagued by the poor,
Married by widows, and by orphans worried?
Who’d bear
April’s east wind or June’s perpetual rain,
The Income-tax, Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL’S questions,
Middlesex Magistrates, Mud-Salad Market,
Crass commentaries on Shakespearian quartos.
And all earth’s ills, from FURNIVALL to toothache,
When that himself he might his gruel give
In half a jiffy? _Who_’d put up with it,
But for the thought of worse things turning up
In the Micawber Limbo――By-and-by?
Quite so! ’Tis bother, doubt, hope, fear, cant, gush.
The fads of noodles and of nincompoops,
Fogging the brain and flooring common sense,
Which make us grin and bear the ills we have
Rather than, _à la_ FURNIVALL, to make
“A hasty try to set ’em right.” Ah, yes,
’Tis noodledom makes cowards of us all!!!
Mr. F. J. Furnivall’s fussy and hasty “tries to set everybody right”
about all that relates to Shakespeare are well-known, as is also his
objection to any contradiction of his favorite theories.
The “New Shakspere Society” was apparently founded by Mr. F. J.
Furnivall for two purposes, firstly, for the glorification of Mr.
Furnivall, and secondly, to instruct the British public to spell the
name of Shakespeare in a different manner to that commonly adopted,
and which was generally used by his contemporaries. If the Society has
partially succeeded in its first object, it has totally failed in the
second; when the press does condescend to notice its proceedings it
is almost invariably styled the New _Shakespeare_ Society,
notwithstanding the anger, and the constant protests of Mr. F. J.
Furnivall. A pretty controversy was raised on the question of
_Shakespeare_ or _Shakspere_ between J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps――who is
an authority, and Mr. Furnivall, who is――simply Mr. Furnivall. The
latter gentleman’s arguments, expressed in peculiar diction, and still
more peculiar orthography, consisted principally of personalities, and
Mr. A. C. Swinburne (who happened to disagree with him) was styled a
_minor_ poet, and his name translated into pigs-brook (from swine――a
pig, and burne――a brook) by the courteous founder of the “New
Shakspere Society.”[34]
A very humorous account of the origin of this Society was given in a
little pamphlet entitled _Furnivallos Furioso!_ and “The Newest
_Shakespeare_ Society;” a Dram-Attic Squib of the Period. (T.
Richards, 37, Great Queen Street, London, 1876). The _Dramatis
Personæ_ are thus described:――
FURNIVALLOS, surnamed FURIOSO, a great Critic, and Founder
of the “Newest Shakespeare Society.”
TUPPERIUS, his Friend and A-bettor, Poet-Critic, and
“Proverbial” Philosopher (in his own estimation).
DIXONUS, Reviewer and Author in general. A great admirer of
Himself, “with scarce time to steal from Spiritual.”
CARLYLUS, an aged Philosopher of the Anglo-Saxon-and-Water
School.
General Members and Ass-ociates of the Society.
The first scene opens thus――
_A Library._――FURNIVALLOS, (in his shirt sleeves) sitting at
a table.
_Furnivallos._ A year or two ago, and I
Had hardly read a line of Shakespeare’s works――
Or so-call’d works. For why?
Have I not found them, in such transient time,
A nest of fledgings, and of mixèd rhyme
Without much reason――Heav’n save the mark!――
Cribb’d from Boccaccio’s self, or Chaucer’s pages dark?
In later days, the hands,
Or rather quills, of Jonson, Beaumont too,
Have serv’d to make a hash of what this
William Shakespeare drew!
And I alone of all the wits can show it;
For am I not the Critic of our Poet?
A thought occurs――it is not always so
Since my poor brains are like my means, too low;
And when I want them sharp, alas! they’re slow!
I’ll found a fresh Society, call’d “New,”
And try if I can’t, by much reading hard,
Impart “new readings” to th’ “Immortal Bard,”
Shifting the false lights from the dazzling true――
Though I for one, find _them_ but very few!――
And thus prove Shakespeare’s after all a myth,
And muff!――akin to Jones, or Brown, or Smith.”
_Furnivallos_ having with the aid of _Tupperius_ founded the
Society, a meeting is held, at which _Furnivallos_ takes the
chair, and makes a speech, in which he asserts――
“Nothing that Shakespeare wrote, came from his head,
Which was a Warehouse stored with stolen goods,――
And thus he warbled of the hills and woods
In Cuckoo notes.
* * * * *
So now to work, and bring before your Eyes,
The fact that Shakespeare’s Plays are only Lies!”
_Dixonus (jumping up indignantly, thus speaks)_――
This “bosh” your Chairman talks of Shakespeare’s Plays is
But hideous Nonsense, and my Anger raises;
For though to some extent he may be right,
His Tests are wrong, and here I take a sight
At his Foot-rule, his Measures, Pauses, Endings.
Since Shakespeare, in despite such Tinker’s mendings,
Must e’er remain――whatever Dolts may say――
“The Wonder of all Time.” And now, good-day
Furnivallos, and your slavish, fawning Crew,
With whom again I’ll nothing have to do;
Though, ere I go, or quit this “New Society,”
Let me advise all, and with strict sobriety,
To change its Name, and so coin heaps of guineas,
And call it Shakespeare’s “Newest Nest of Ninnies!”
(_Great confusion as DIXONUS quits the room._)
TABLEAU.
――――:o:――――
When Mr. Wilson Barrett announced that he was about to produce
“Hamlet” at the Princess’s Theatre, someone wrote the following,
not very profound, criticisms upon the tragedy:――
HAMLET FROM A NEW POINT OF VIEW.
“Seeing an announcement to the effect that ‘Hamlet’ is in
preparation at the Princess’s Theatre, set me thinking a bit
about the matter; and I give in a free and unstudied manner
the fruits of my thoughts. First, I wondered if one out of
ten who’d read the bills would know anything really about
either the play or the poet? Of the difference between the
Hamlet of the first edition, of 1623, and that, say of
Knight’s, of 1843.
Open the two at random, and Ophelia says in the first, in
Actus Secundus, Scena Secunda:――
‘O, what a noble minde is here o’re-throwne?
The Courtiers, Soldiers, Schollers, Eye, tongue, sword.’
In Knight’s the like words occur, only slightly altered in
spelling; and in the ordinary acting edition the lines
run:――
O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The expectancy and rose of the fair state.’
Let us look at this Prince, almost a fairy one, thirty years
of age, too good for the earth, not good enough for Heaven.
You know what he says: ‘What should such fellows as I do
crawling between earth and heaven?’
Well, instead of being thin as in the picture, and fancy he
is; by his mother’s, the queen’s, words, ‘He’s fat, and
scant of breath. Heere’s a napkin, rub thy browes, the Queen
carowses to thy fortune, Hamlet.’ Of course it’s very well
to wriggle and say oh, that, like the ‘beard,’ was put in to
suit Burbage. Even letting this be the case, Shakespeare
studied an actor more than the reputation of his first work.
Then he is so poetical and wanting in action, so unable to
grapple with the wicked things of this world.
Oh! is he. When the king ships him to Britain, he puts the
names of his false friends where his own stood, so that the
British king has them beheaded and not Hamlet.
Now for the Queen, and Laertes, and the King. Of a sudden,
like acted upon by a magician’s wand, they turn bad all at
once. It even worries and bothers Hamlet. He can’t
understand why his mother should have taken so queer a fancy
as to prefer his uncle to his far handsomer father. And
Laertes who gives such nice advice to his sister, and for
his cad-like conduct receives a very proper rebuke from her,
turns from a seemingly-virtuous young gentleman to a mean
and despicable assassin. And Ophelia, that beauteous and
correct damsel, is easily made to act as a spy upon her
lover. And this without one word of caution to him, or the
least expression of regret for such, at the mildest,
unlady-like, unwoman-like, and altogether unchristian-like
conduct.
Other minor faults and absurdities occur, as Hamlet’s remark
after he had seen his father’s spirit:――
‘The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller
returns.’
This Hamlet may in some shadowy way or other forecast our
life here and what the majority of us do in it――nothing.
Leave all to the crack of doom and then down we go all
together. Our talking as angels, some of us, and acting
like fools, most of us, may be all here parabled out.”
As Mr. Wilson Barrett’s revival of _Hamlet_ was a success, it was
quite in the order of things that it should be burlesqued, and that he
and the members of his company should be caricatured.
“Very Little Hamlet,” by W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety
Theatre, London, in November, 1884, and Mr. Wilson Barrett’s absurd
speech about his early ambition to play _Hamlet_ was made the leading
idea in the prologue, the scene representing the exterior of the
Princess’s twenty-five years ago, with costumes, &c., archæologically
correct. The future proprietor appears as a ragged street boy, and
takes his solemn oath, to mysterious music, that he will, one day,
play _Hamlet_ in that theatre, while his companions of the gutter,
being called upon to swear, exclaim in a hoarse whisper, “D――――n!” and
a ghostly actor undertakes to see the scheme carried out. Miss Nelly
Farren appeared as the hero, and Miss Phyllis Broughton as Ophelia,
with a tow-like wig. The treatment of the play scene was novel and
amusing. It was announced that the principal player was ill and could
not perform, whereupon King Claudius kindly volunteered to go on and
read the part, which he did, until he discovered the meaning of the
show.
――――:o:――――
Quotations have already been made from _The Hamlet Travestie_, in
three acts, by John Poole (London, Samuel French); _Hamlet Travestie_,
by Mr. F. Talfourd (Oxford, J. Vincent, 1849); and from _Hamlet; or
not such a Fool as he looks_ (Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Son, 1882);
in addition to these there are many parodies of detached passages from
_Hamlet_.
The following is founded upon the advice given by Polonius to his son,
Laertes:――
A PARENT’S COUNSEL.
You are about to go away my son,
So take away with you the wise advice of one
Who knows the world, boy, and don’t think much of it,
“Neither a borrower, nor a lender be,”
Of course from _choice_, the former certainlee.
If in a scrape and in the wrong, declare it,
Never attempt to justify it; square it.
Learn to say “No” to most things――seldom “yes.”
If you should see a female in distress,
Remember the advice of your sage sire,
Call the police and gracefully retire.
As the apparel oft proclaims the man,
Why, do as many tailors as you can.
In short, if you attend to all I tell,
You’ll find that you will get on very well.
HENRY J. BYRON.
――――:o:――――
In the Burlesque of Norma by W. S. Gilbert, entitled _The Pretty
Druidess_, which was produced at the Charing Cross Theatre on the 19th
June, 1869, Norma announces her intention to have a Fancy Fair with a
view of raising the funds necessary to fight the Romans, and drive
them out of the country. This scene contains a parody of Hamlet’s
instructions to the players:――
_Norma._――Now this sound code of business we’ll arrange,
We’ll only take bank notes, and give no change,
And won’t sell anything to any buyer
That any one could possibly require.
Now, priestesses, be good enough to tell
The articles that you’ve prepared to sell.
_Adalgisa_.――(_producing cap_) a smoking cap――
_Norma._――Ah, there, at least, he’s thwarted,
For (hush) tobacco isn’t yet imported!
_Adalgisa._――Some scented soap.
_Norma._――They’re certain to refuse it――
Italians, generally, do not use it!
_Adalgisa._――A razor-case, completely stocked.
_Norma._――That’s brave!
For warriors are not allowed to shave!
_Adalgisa._――Braces, embroidered with initial letter.
_Norma._――Embroidered braces? Nothing could be better!
No Roman wears, in all the martial train,
The garments they’re intended to sustain!
_Adalgisa._――How shall we bear ourselves to-morrow, pray?
_Norma._――Attention, and I’ll point you out the way.
With pretty speech accost both old and young,
And speak it trippingly upon the tongue.
But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,
With clumsy ogling, and uncomely chaff,
As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,
I had as lief a huckster sold my wares.
Avoid all so-called “beautifying,” dear.
Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear,
The things that men among themselves will say
Of some _soi-disant_ beauty of the day,
Whose face, when with cosmetics she has cloyed it,
Out-Rachel’s Rachel! Pray you, girls, avoid it!
Neither be ye too tame, but, ere you go,
Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe,
Offer them coyly to the Roman herd,
But don’t you “suit the action to the word,”
For in the very torrent of your passion,
Remember modesty is still in fashion.
Oh, there be ladies whom I’ve seen hold stalls――
Ladies of rank, my dears, to whom befalls
Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies;
So clumsily “made up” with Bloom of Cadiz,
Powder, rouge, lip-salve――that I’ve fancied then
They were the work of Nature’s journeymen!
Let her, whose hair is black with lustre mellow,
Not dream of using dye to turn it yellow――
She’ll find it argues (when at length she loses it)
A sad ambition in the fool that uses it!
Now get you ready.
_Exit Norma._
――――:o:――――
_Hamlet’s_ meditation on the new station of the Midland Railway at St.
Pancras:――
See what an incubus sits on our city?
Pentonville’s gloom, the front of a huge workhouse
A draught like ice to palsy and to pierce;
A station like a leaden Limbo-waste,
Dim-lighted as a fog-bound Ludgate Hill.
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every hideousness doth set its seal
To give the world assurance of――a Horror!
Such is our Terminus!
_Punch_, December 1882.
――――:o:――――
The enterprising proprietors of a celebrated brand of Cigarettes have
recently advertised their wares, by a picture representing two
smokers, under which appeared the lines:――
Look here upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two smokers;
See what a grace is seated on this brow;
Luxuriant smile, the type of joy itself!
An eye all beams, so pleasant and upturned,
Expressing pleasure at the dainty ‘Cig.’
New lighted; mark the heaven-kissing curl:
’Tis fascination to that precious weed;
Wherefore men doth feverishly break the seal
That gives the world assurance ’tis the GEM.
This is one smoker; look you now what follows:
Here is the other, like a sickly child
Taking its nauseous powder; hath he taste,
That he can suck at such a weed,
That scatters out its dust? Ha! has he eyes?
You cannot say he has; for he would sure
Seek out a better brand; the weed is humble,
And palls upon the palate; and what palate
Would take such stuff as his?
Oh, man! for modest cash ‘THE RICHMOND GEM.’
Is sweet and fragrant to the smoker’s mouth;
To youth its virtues are as plain――
To smoke is to admire.
(_Vide_ Hamlet, Act iii., Scene iv.)
_St. Stephens’ Saturnalia_, December 1884.
――――:o:――――
The following Scene is taken from the _Hamlet Travestie, a Burlesque
in Two Acts_, written by Mr. Francis Talfourd, and published by J.
Vincent, Oxford, in 1849:――
ACT II.
SCENE I.――_Room in Polonius’ House._
_Enter POLONIUS and OPHELIA._
_Oph._――O, dear Papa, I’ve been in such a fright!
Sewing just now a button on your night――
_Pol._ [interrupting],――My love, I blush!
_Oph._―― (Well you know what I mean)
In came Lord Hamlet, anything but clean!
Pale as his hose, or Hosier’s Ghost the rather;
His stockings were so very dirty, Father
His old and seedy neckerchief awry!
_Pol._――My daughter, reverence an _ancient tie_.
_Oph._――Unbrac’d his doublet! And O, such a hat!
_Pol._――I know it well: _the Prince invented that_![35]
_Oph._――Uncomely, and uncombed about the head,
I don’t believe he’d really been in bed;
Or, if he had been, why he’d been and slept
In that bin where the Palace flour is kept.
And then his boots! At those I up and spoke:――
“Is then _the Warren stopp’d_ and has _Day broke_?
Go to the scraper! to the door-mat run!
Our _Turkey’s_ getting rather _overdone_.”
_Pol._――And did the scraper clear him from his scrape?
_Oph._――By no means――with a look, black as the crape
Upon his four and ninepenny, he came
And took my hand; and then he press’d the same
Which seem’d to do him good――for then he smil’d――
And came it strong, and wouldn’t draw it mild――
In fact he kiss’d me!
_Pol._―― O, the man is mad!
_Oph._――For kissing me! I can’t see that, my dad!
_Pol._――Well, on reflection, ’tis not strange my puss!
Being in a hurry, why he took _the Bus_.
_Oph._――A _stage box_ on that _bus_ he might have ta’en.
But since to be his debtor I disdain,
I would not keep his kiss but gave it back!
_Pol._――Bestowed, in short, another kind of _smack_.
_Oph._――His was a blunder-bus, and so my sire,
A small _salute_ I from my _smack_ did fire.
_Pol._――What did he say?
_Oph._―― He never told his love,
But look’d it most uncommon!
_Pol._―― Like a dove
With a sore throat; What then?
_Oph._―― O such a sigh!
_Pol._――You prick’d him with your needle.
_Oph._―― No, not I!
O, such a sigh, my Father, as would fill
The great Nassau Balloon, or turn a mill.
_Pol._――Few men can raise the wind like that, my duckey!
And then what next?
_Oph._―― The Prince, Pa, cut his lucky.
_Pol._――He’s mad, and mad for love of you.
_Oph._―― O la!
How very nice! can madmen marry, Pa?
_Pol._――Doubtless, my daughter. Nay, it has been said
None are quite _compos_ when about to wed.
I do remember much confusion here [_pointing to forehead_]
When first I called your future mother “dear,”
Saw Hymen’s torch-light in her glowing e’e,
And _caught her eyes a cauterising_ me,
And O, the pride, when first in joyous vein,
“Mrs. Polonius!” I said――“Champagne?”
To which she answered (every word I treasure)
“Aaron Polonius, I will with pleasure.”
POLONIUS _sings_. _Air_――“_The light of other days._”
But all that sort of thing has faded,
The honeymoon’s o’ercast!
The horse, you know, is soonest jaded,
Who goes at first too fast!
The very deuce no long time after
She play’d upon my life;
And all our mirthsome love and laughter,
She turn’d to weary strife.
_Pol._――Yes! Love is like some grand new Railway Line
Which (the Prospectus tells us) must combine
All the advantages to railways known,
With much peculiar merit of its own:
How easy, then the gradients to our sight,
Surveyed thro’ Cupid’s false Theodolite.
Trivial the outlay, small the risks appear
(For then our telescope’s invert). But near,
And huge the profits to our eye, for Hope
Lends us her Hydrogen Gas Microscope.
Mammas, as managing directors, sit;――
Hear our petition, and the Act permit;――
Our Scrip, the License, then we proudly claim;
And Hymen’s Company enrols our name!
_Oph._――What then, Papa?
_Pol._―― The newly-married pair
_Pay_ their _first calls_――a somewhat _triste_ affair!
Awhile the shareholders in peace repose;
Dream Love’s young Dream――and all’s _couleur de rose_
Till, on the waking ear (and purse) shall fall,
Fearful and frequent the loud _railway call_!
_Oph._――What does that typify?
_Pol._―― In married life,
The shrill accostals of a scolding wife!
Who, like an engine, when she’s _on the rail_
At every obstacle must shriek and wail;
Who like an engine (do not sneer my daughter)
Cannot get on unless she’s _in hot water_;
Who like an engine――
_Oph._―― O, I do beseech
This _train_ of thought some Terminus may reach!
Rake out your fire! or damp it: shall I ring
For liquors?
_Pol._―― No! If you would sooth me, sing!
Cut out the Lind! for Denmark loves indeed
To have a little _turn-up_ with the _Swede_!
Ophelia mia, beat that “Figli-a
Del Reggimento!”
_Oph._―― I’ve sore throat, Papa!
_Pol._――These singer’s ailment all _lie in their throats_!
Stick some “Pulmonic _Wafers_” on your _notes_.
Now to the Palace, for the king must know
This news of Hamlet.
_Oph._―― Yet, before you go――
For dear Mama, myself, and sex combin’d,
I’ll quote some verses just recall’d to mind:
“When you were that unpleasant thing,
A baby, who would smile and sing,
‘The like o’ this hath never bin’”?
_Pol._――[_abruptly_] My Mother!
_Oph._――Who thought that nothing would suffice
But costly lace on frocks so nice,――
And dare not tell Papa the price?
_Pol._――[_less abruptly_] My Mother!
_Oph._――Who told the tale, in twilight gloom?
Who read of witch astride her broom,
And poor Cock Robin’s early tomb?
_Pol._――[_somewhat affected_] My Mother!
_Oph._――Who lov’d you, a mischievous boy?
Who spread the jam? who bought the toy?
Rejoicing in your every joy?
_Pol._――[_much affected_] My Mother!
_Oph._――If aught went wrong who bore the blame?
Who wept, when first the “half-year” came?
Who sent _those_ hampers, fruit and game?
_Pol._――[_with epicurean empressement_] My Mother!
_Oph._――Who when you wrote some doggrel verse,
Crimson with pride assured old nurse,
‘That parts of Milton were much worse?’
_Pol._――[_as conscious of genius_] My Mother!
_Oph_.――Who when the loutish age began,
And boyhood’s thoughts on razors ran,
Call’d you ‘the gentlemanly man?’
_Pol._――[_pulling up his collar, as though the maternity
had well spoken_] My Mother!
_Oph._――Who when they “pluck’d” you in the schools
At “Little Go” ’bout Grammar Rules,
Stoutly maintained “the Dons” were fools?
_Pol._――(_approvingly_) My Mother!
_Oph._――Who, in your youth’s hot giddy day,
Revealed a better brighter way
And kindled first-love’s glorious ray?
_Pol._――[_fondly_] Your Mother!
_Oph._――Who upon earth, who only, knows
Th’ exact location of your clothes?
Who marks your linen? darns your hose!
_Pol._――[_gratefully_] Your Mother!
_Oph._――Who best your pipe and glass can fill?
Whose _taper fingers_ light the spill?
Who, if you’re poorly, knows _Pa’s_ pill?
_Pol._――[_ruefully._] Your Mother!
Oph.――Who, when in sulky mood you fret――
P’raps kick your corn, or lose a bet――
Sings still, “We may be happy yet!”
_Pol._――[_cheerfully._] Your Mother!
_Oph._――What tho’ sometimes o’er married life
A cloud may come, a moment strife.
Who makes the sunshine?
_Pol._――[_enthusiastically._] O my wife!
Your Mother!
Who checks her Daddy in his spleen?
Who makes his brow once more serene?
And bids him say, “I’ve hasty been?”
_Pol._――[_embracing._] My Daughter!
_Pol._――Woman for ever! Scold they as they will,
Marriage! with all thy faults, I love thee still!
_Exeunt to Music._
_Air_――“_Here’s a health to all good lasses._”
――――:o:――――
In 1839 Messrs. Whittaker & Co., of Ave Maria Lane, London, published
a quarto volume entitled “The Barrow Diggers, a Dialogue in imitation
of the Grave Diggers in Hamlet.” The work, which was published
anonymously, had numerous illustrations of Barrows found in various
parts of the country, and of the Antiquities, Arms, Pottery, and human
remains found in them. The parody relates entirely to the excavations
in the Barrows, carried on by antiquaries in search of curiosities,
and the notes explanatory of the parody, form the chief and most
interesting portion of the work.
SCENE. A Barrow on a Common.
_Enter three Barrow Diggers with spades, shovels, &c._
1st B. D.――Is this a Roman, or a British Barrow?
2nd B. D.――I tell thee ’tis a British Barrow, therefore straightways
open it; Antiquarius hath set on it, and finds it British
Burial.
1st B. D.――How can that be, if Roman Ornaments and arms should here
be found?
2nd B. D.――They may be found.
1st B. D.――It must be Roman, it cannot be British Burial. For here
lies the point; if Roman arms and ornaments are found in
it, it argues a Roman Act; and a Barrow Act hath three
Branches, to Act, to Dig, to Shovel; we go to work
willingly.
3rd B. D.――Nay; but hear you good friend!
1st B. D.――Give me leave. Here is a Common; good; here is the Barrow;
good; if the Barrow contains Roman Arms, or urns, it must
be a Roman Barrow; mark you that; but if spear heads made
of flints, and British Arms are here, it must be a
British Barrow; if nought but an empty cist, _tumulus
inanis_, (or an empty tomb raised by the Romans in memory
of a friend whose body could not be found.) He that is
not inclined to dig, shortens not our work.
2nd B. D.――But is this Barrow Law?
1st B. D.――Ay, marry is’t Antiquarius’s Barrow Law.
2nd B. D.――Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had been a Roman
relic of funeral pomp, it would have been a very
different sort of Burial. The Romans raised not Barrows
o’er their Dead.
1st B. D.――Why there thou say’st: and the more pity that great folks
shall countenance the grandeur of gaudy funerals, more
than their poorer neighbours. To my mind they are mighty
like representations of Death carrying off his wealthy
victims in Triumph. Come my spade, There are no antient
gentlemen, but Gardeners Geologists, and Barrow Diggers;
they hold up Adam’s profession.
3rd B. D.――Was he a Gentleman?
1st B. D.――He was the first that ever bore Arms, a mattoc shovel,
and a spade.
2nd B. D.――Why he had none.
1st B. D.――What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the
Scripture? The scripture says, Adam digged. Could he dig
without arms? I’ll put another question to thee; if thou
answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself.
3rd B. D.――Go to work.
_After having taken an observation with a Compass, and marked out a
section, they commence opening the Barrow._
1st B. D.――What is that earthly form all skin and bone, which eludes
the Sexton, the Mason, and the Carpenter?
2nd B. D.――The Living Skeleton, for that fragile frame outlives a
thousand Harry’s.
1st B. D.――Now where is he?
2nd B. D.――Eating soup maigre!
1st B. D.――Eating soup maigre! Where?
2nd B. D.――Not where fat King’s are eaten: a certain convocation of
politic worms are e’en at them. Your worm is your only
Emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us;
and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat King and your
lean skeleton is but variable service; two dishes, but to
one table that’s the end.
1st B. D.――Alas! alas! shall I feed worms when I am dead?
2nd B. D.――Ay, and a living skeleton may fish with the worm that
hath eat of a King; and eat of the fish that hath fed of
that worm.
1st B. D.――What dost thou mean by this?
2nd B. D.――Nothing but to show you how a King may go a progress
through the carcase of a living skeleton.
1st B. D.――I like thy wit well in good faith. To’t again; come, what
is this Barrow?
2nd B. D.――Cudgel thy brains no more about it; when you are asked
this question next say ’tis a British Barrow, a house
that will last till doomsday. Go get thee to Shapwicke,
and fetch me a stoup of liquor.
_1st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings_
Britons rais’d an earthy mound,
When e’re their Chieftains died,
And I am digging under ground,
Where delvers have not tried.
_Antiquarius and Discipulus enter._
ANT.――Has this fellow no feeling of his business, he sings at Barrow
opening?
DIS.――He knows not that he treads on hallow’d Mould!
ANT.――’Tis e’en so, the hand of Antiquaries only hath the Barrow
Sense.
1_st Bar. Dig. continues Digging and Sings_;
Clasps, Celts, and Arrowheads, I’ll try
To claw within my Clutch,
And if a Shield I should espy,
I’ll vow there ne’er was such.
With Popish Tricks, and Relics rare,
The Priests their Flocks do gull
In casting out the earth take care,
Huzza! I’ve found a skull!
ANT.――That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the
knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were a slave’s
jaw-bone, or that of the first Murderer! That might be
the pate of a Druid which this ass now o’erreaches: one
that would gorge his Deities with human blood; might it
not?
DIS.――It might.
ANT.――Or of a Warrior, who could say kill and burn Captives to
appease the Dead.
DIS.――Ay, Antiquarius! or it might be a Slave’s!
ANT.――Why even so; and now my lady Worm’s chapless and knocked about
the mazzard with a Sexton’s shovel. Here’s fine
revolution an’ we had our spectacles to see’t, Prodigious
to think on’t.
1_st Bar. Dig. continues digging and sings_
A Mattoc, Shovel, and a Spade,
Will dig up human bones;
To play at Marbles Britons made,
Some small round Portland Stones.
If Casques we find, or iron arms,
Of curious form and make,
Why surely they’re Roman charms,
Your British creed to shake.
ANT.――Cease prattler cease! Why should they not be the Casques,
arms, or Bosses of British Chieftains in Roman service?
No golden filagree work nor carved ivory; No amethystine
Beads, nor Crystal Balls, no Coins, no Medals, no
well-formed urns, nor colour’d stones from Rome will here
be found; but Tin, Glass, or Amber Beads, the Tusks of
Boars, or unbaked Urns of rudely shape with limpet shells
will denote ’tis a British Barrow.
1_st B. D. continues Digging, and comes to a Cist, and sings_
This Cist of Chalk just like a grave
For such a guest is meet,
As if asleep here rests the brave,
Below the turf three feet.
ANT.――How independent the knave is! How long hast thou been a Barrow
Digger?
1st B. D.――Of all the Ages of the World I came not to’t in that Age
when the whole Earth was in a state of Fusion.
ANT.――How long’s that since?
1st B. D.――Cannot you tell that? Every mechanic can tell that. It
was that very day that young Pluto was born: he that was
a Geologist. He that gave a New System by Posting through
the bowels of the Earth in his chariot drawn by four
Horses.
ANT.――Ay, marry! how did he do that?
1st B. D.――With Lucifer Matches.
ANT.――Why?
1st B. D.――Because he was mad after Proserpine.
ANT.――Peace I pray you! How long will the jaws of a Leviathan, or
the bones of a Megatherium, lie in the earth e’er they
crumble into dust?
1st B. D.――Faith if they be not fused in Pluto’s crucible for many
thousand years.
[The remainder of the conversation relates to a controversy, now
well-nigh forgotten, as to the identification of a skull said to have
been that of Eugene Aram, who was executed at Tyburn, in 1759 for the
murder of Daniel Clark. At the Newcastle Meeting of the British
Association in 1838, a skull was produced as that of Eugene Aram, but
as it had passed through many hands during the eighty years that had
elapsed since his death, its authenticity was much questioned,
especially as one eminent anatomist declared it to be the skull of a
female.
In quoting this imitation of a scene from Hamlet, justice can hardly
be done to the scarce volume from which it is taken, without quoting
the instructive explanatory notes which accompany it.
Since 1839 great strides have been made in the general knowledge of
the subjects this book deals with, yet considering the date at which
it was produced it is remarkable not only for the facts it records,
but for the theories it advances.
Barrows are artificial heaps of earth, sometimes surrounded by a
narrow trench. They were reared by the early inhabitants of these
isles, and their contents afford almost the only insight we have into
the history of the Ancient Britons. Antiquaries are generally agreed
that they were raised for sepulchral interments, as in them are
usually found cists, with urns, human bones, spear and arrowheads of
flint, hammers, and celts of stone, beads, buckles, pins, etc.
The Cists, which vary in size and shape from two to eight feet deep by
three and four feet in diameter, are usually cut in chalk, and contain
the urns, skeletons, etc.]
――――:o:――――
SHAKESPEARIAN READINGS.
Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where,
To be a cold obstruction and to groan!
This sensible, warm woman, to become
A prudish clod, and the delighted spirit
To live and die alone, or to reside
With married sisters, and to have the care
Of half a dozen children, not your own;
And driven, for no one wants you,
Round about the pendant world; or worse than worst,
Of those that disappointment and pure spite
Have driven to madness: ’Tis too horrible!
The weariest and most troubled married life
That age, ache, penury, or jealousy
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To being an old maid.
――――――――
That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,)
Walking between the garden and the barn,
Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took
At a young chicken, standing by a post,
And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,
As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.
But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot
Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,
And the domesticated fowl passed on,
In henly meditation, bullet free.
――――――――
My father had a daughter got a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I good looking,
I should, your lordship.
And what’s her residence?
A hut, my lord, she never owned a house,
But let her husband, like a graceless scamp,
Spend all her little means,――she thought she ought,――
And in a wretched chamber, on an alley,
She worked like masons on a monument,
Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed?
From _Poems and Parodies_, by PHŒBE CAREY, Boston, U.S., 1854.
――――:o:――――
BENJAMIN CÆSAR REDIVIVUS.
(_On the recovery of Lord Beaconsfield from an attack of gout_).
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day,
Not like old Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
Will still go on in his corrupting play,
Nor “stop a hole to keep the wind away.”
_Fiz_, January 18, 1879.
――――:o:――――
AN IRISH PLAYBILL.
_Kilkenny Theatre Royal._
By His Majesty’s Company of Comedians.
The last night, because the Company go to-morrow to Waterford.
On Saturday, May 14, 1793, will be performed, by command of several
respectable people in this learned metropolish for the benefit of
Mr. Kearns, the tragedy of
HAMLET.
Originally written and composed by the celebrated Dan Hayes, of
Limerick, and insarted in Shakespeare’s works.
Hamlet, by Mr. Kearns (being his first appearance in this character),
who, between the acts, will perform several solos on the patent
bagpipes, which play two tunes at the same time.
Ophelia, by Mrs. Prior, who will introduce several favourite airs
in character, particularly “The Lass of Richmond Hill” and “We’ll
all be unhappy together,” from the Reverend Mr. Dibdin’s
oddities.
Polonius, the comical politician, by a young gentleman, being his
first appearance in public.
The Ghost, the Gravedigger, and Laertes by Mr. Sampson, the great
London comedian.
The parts of the King and Queen, by directions of the Rev. Father
O’Callaghan, will be omitted, as too immoral for any stage.
The characters to be dressed in Roman shapes.
To which will be added an Interlude, in which will be introduced
several sleight-of-hand tricks by the celebrated surveyor, Hunt.
The whole to conclude with the Farce, by Mr. Kearns, of
MAHOMET.
Tickets to be had of Mr. Kearns, at the sign of the Goat’s Beard, in
Castle-street.
[Illustration]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.
_Jaques._――――All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
AS YOU LIKE IT.――Act II.――Scene III.
――――:o:――――
THE STAGE COACH COMPANY.
――――MOTLEY is a Stage;
Where men and women all are passengers.――
They have their middle and their corner seats;
Which no one on the road presumes to change,
Altho’ close-wedg’d with seven! And first the _Lap-child_,
Mewling and pewking o’er your shoes and boots.
And next the down-cast _School-Boy_, with his boxes,
And pockets shilling-fill’d――and large plum cake,
Which somewhat sweetens school! And next the _Ensign_,
Cramming hot-rolls, and eyeing, at each cup,
Molly, who serves the breakfast.――Next a _Slumberer_;
Full of sour wine, with ill-look’d, unshav’d beard,
Rolling his noddle, sudden in naps and wakings,
Seeking the banish’d, chaste sobriety,
Ev’n in the jolting coach!――And then the _Vicar_,
In sloping belly, with fat tithe pig lin’d;
With grizzled wig, and silken scarf-form’d vest,
Strew’d with rappee; his elbows lifted high,
’Tis so he digs your ribs!――The sixth niche shows
A meagre, mortified, warm-wrapp’d _Old Maid_;
With morning cap snug-drawn, and muff up-held,
Her curving nose and chin, seeking approach,
The sole good _points_ she shews, and her shrill voice
Pour’d forth against the boldness of the age,
Full oft repeats the theme!――Last plac’d of all,
Which ends this “Worshipful Society,”
Sits a young Nymph, in ev’ry thing reverse,
Sans sleeves, sans coats, sans cap, sans everything!
From _Fugitive Verse and Prose_, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester,
1803.
――――:o:――――
THE PATRIOT’S PROGRESS.
――――St. Stephens is a stage,
And half the opposition are but players:
For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects,
Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts,
Their acts being sev’n. At first the Demagogue,
Railing and mouthing at the hustings’ front:
And then the cogging Candidate, with beer,
Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters
Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member,
Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story
Made on the country’s fall. Then he turns Courtier,
Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife,
Pleas’d with all rulers, zealous for the church,
Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy,
Ev’n from the _Canon’s_ mouth. And then a Secretary,
In fair white waistcoat, with boil’d chicken lin’d
With placid smile, and speech of ready answer,
Lib’ral of promises and army contracts,
And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him
To be a snug retired old baronet,
With ribband red on breast, and star on side:
His early zeal for change a world too hot
For his cool age: and his big eloquence,
Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes――
And we must pay the piper. Scene the last,
That ends this comfortable history,
Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage,
With cash, with coronet――with all but conscience.
From _Posthumous Parodies_, published by John Miller, Bow Street,
London, 1814.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.
――――“The world’s a stage,”
And Man has seven ages,”――
So Shakespeare writes (king of dramatic sages!)
But he forgot to tell you, in his plan,
That Woman plays her part, as well as Man.
First, how the Infant heart with triumph swells,
When the red coral shakes its silver bells;
She, like young statesmen, when the rattle rings,
Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings.
Next, little Miss, in pinafore so trim,
With nurse so noisy, and mamma so prim;
Eager to tell you all she has learned to utter,
Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter;
Type of her sex, who, though no longer young,
Holds everything with ease――except her tongue!
A Schoolgirl then, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father’s gout, and mother’s vapours;
Tramples alike on customs and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows:
“Betty” (she cries), “it comes into my head,
Old maids grow cross, because their cats are dead;
My governess has been in such a fuss
About the death of her old tabby puss;
She wears black stockings! Ha! ha! what a pother
’Cause one old cat’s in mourning for another!”
――The child of Nature, free from pride and pomp,
And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.
Next, riper Miss, who, nature more disclosing,
Now finds some traits of art are interposing;
And, with blue laughing eyes behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor――Man!
Behold her now――an ogling vain Coquette,
Catching male gudgeons in her silver net;
Whilst the fair forehead tresses, frizzled full,
Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull!
Then comes that sober character――the Wife,
With all the dear distracting cares of life;
A thousand cards a thousand joys extend,
For what may not upon a card depend?
Now she’ll snatch half a glance at opera, ball,
A meteor traced by none, though seen by all;
’Till “spousy” finds, while anxious to immure her,
A patent coffin only can secure her.
At last the Dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles, she folly trounces,
And, moralising, thus the age denounces:
“How bold and forward each young flirt appears!
Courtship, in my time, lasted seven years;
Now seven little months suffice, of course,
For courting, marrying, scolding, and divorce;
They say we have no souls; but what more odd is――
Nor men nor women now have any bodies!
When I was young, my heart was always tender,
And would, to every spouse I had, surrender;
Their wishes to refuse, I never durst,
And my fourth died as happy as my first!”
Truce to such splenetic and rash designs,
And let us mingle candour with our lines:
In all the stages of domestic life――
As child or sister, parent, friend, or wife――
Woman, the source of every fond employ,
Softens affliction, and enlivens joy.
What is your boast, male rulers of the land?
How cold and cheerless all you can command!
Vain your ambition, vain your wealth and power,
Unless kind woman share the raptured hour;
Unless ’midst all the glare of pageant art,
She adds her smile, and triumphs in your heart!
ANONYMOUS.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN STAGES OF ÆSTHETICISM.
――――All the world’s Æsthetic,
And all the men and women merely æsthetes;
They have their yearnings and their ecstasies;
And each man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven stages. First, the Philistine,
Sneering at Art’s high transcendental charms;
And next the clinging Pupil, with his lily
And elongated chin, gliding like snake
To study in the school. Then, the Acolyte,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful sonnet
Made to a dado. Then, the full-fledged Poet,
Full of strange whims, long-haired as Absalom,
Jealous of fame, profuse of attitude,
Seeking the bubble reputation
E’en at the tea-pot’s spout. Then, the Professor,
With bilious mien and clothes not wisely cut,
His monologues quite too idealised,
Bursting with Culture and the Infinite;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
Into the lank and velvet-suited Humbug,
With nippers on his nose and tuft on chin;
His mystic style, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk audience; while his croaky voice,
Striving again to rouse to rapture, seems
But senseless in its sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is utter idiotcy and mere oblivion,
Sans mind, sans taste, sans Art, sans everything.
[This parody was quoted in “The Æsthetic Movement in England” by
Walter Hamilton (Third Edition, Reeves and Turner, London 1882), in
which work will be found full particulars of the peculiar form of Art
revival here satirised. Though the cant of Æstheticism is fashionable
no longer, the good that was effected by the serious devotees of the
worship of Beauty and Culture is very visible in our domestic
architecture, our house decorations, furniture, and china, as compared
with the styles in vogue thirty years since.]
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF INTEMPERANCE.
――――All the world’s a bar room
And all the men and women merely tipplers:
They have their bottles and their glasses;
And one man in his time takes many quarts,
His drink being seven kinds.――At first the infant,
Taking cordial in the nurse’s arms;
And then, the whining school-boy with his drop
Or two of porter, just to make him creep
More willingly to school.――And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, o’er his lemonade
Brewed into whisky-punch.――Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and reeling mad with brandy.
Brutal and beastly, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the fiend Intemperance
E’en in the gallon’s mouth.――And then the justice
In fair round belly, with Madeira lined,
Most elegantly drunk, superbly corned,
Full of wise saws against the use of gin,
And so he swallows wine.――The sixth drink
Shifts into the lean and bloated dram-drinker,
A spectacle his nose, he’s scorched inside;
The wretch’s ragged hose, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank: and his once manly hand,
Shaking the cup of tea, well lined with rum,
Seems now five palsied bones. Last drink of all,
That ends intoxication’s history,
Is laudanum, self murder’s long oblivion
Sans Faith, sans Hope, sans Life, sans everything.
_The Comic Magazine._ Fourth series 1834.
――――:o:――――
JAQUES IN CAPEL COURT.
――――All the world are stags!
Yea, all the men and women merely jobbers!
They have their brokers and their share-accounts,
And one man in his time tries many lines,
The end being total ruin. First, the greenhorn,
Dabbling and dealing in a lucky spec;
And then the prosperous seller, with his profits
And joyous winning face, buying like mad,
Unwilling to sell out; and then, the loser,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful prospect
Of the next settling day! Then the director,
Full of strange schemes, and lodged at the west-end,
Keeping a cab, and sudden growing rich,――
Getting a bubble reputation
Even in Capel Court. And then the bankrupt,
With his debts’ schedule large, and no assets:
By all his decent friends entirely cut,――
Full of bad scrip, and fertile of fresh schemes;
And so he plays his game. The sixth step sinks
Into the low and herring-gutted stag,
With spectacles on nose and list in hand;
His youthful gains all spent, the world too wide――
――Awake to be ta’en in, and his long line
Of hapless creditors that idly wait
And whistle for their cash. Last scene of all,
That ends this sad but common history,
Is――Union pauperism, and oakum picking;
Sans beer, sans beef, sans tea, sans everything.
_Punch_. November 1, 1845.
[This was published during the period of the Railway Mania, when
speculation in the new Railroad stock was at its height. One of the
entrances to the London Stock Exchange is in Capel Court, and it is a
favourite rendezvous for Stockbrokers, and their clients. _Stags_, in
Stock-Exchange phraseology, are persons who apply for shares in a
newly formed Company, not because they wish to hold the shares, but
because they hope to sell the allotment at a premium.]
――――:o:――――
THE POETRY OF STEAM.
――――The world’s ruled by Steam,
And all the men and women are its subjects:
It guides their movements and their whereabouts;
And this steam, in its time, plays many parts,
Its acts being Seven Ages. At first, the kettle,
Hissing and sputtering on a kitchen hob,
And then NEWCOMEN’S Engine, to its piston,
By atmospheric pressure, giving force
Imperfectly to pump; Then WATT’S condenser;
More economic, with its stuffing box
And double acting movement: Then a steam-boat,
Full of strange smells, and cramm’d like NOAH’S ark,
(It, on high pressure, sudden and quick to explode)
Raising up FULTON’S reputation
In every body’s mouth: Then the steam horse,
By STEPHENSON devised, on Wall’s End fed,
With boiler grimed and――wheels of clumsy cut,
Spurning brass knobs, and copper ornaments――
And so he plays his part. The Sixth age shifts
Into the war of broad and narrow gauge;
BRUNEL on one, HUDSON on t’ other side――
Their several lines stretching a world too wide
For the Committees, and Steam’s manly voice,
That, in the kettle’s childish treble piped,
Now whistles o’er the world. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is general brotherhood, and mere oblivion
Of troops, of wars, of blood, and all such things.
_Punch_, July 25, 1846.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF THE REPUBLIC.
――――France is a stage,
And all her heroes little more than players.
Her Kings their exits have, and entrances;
And the Republic runs its round of parts,
Its acts being seven ages. First, Young France,
_Emeuting_ and plotting, e’en in the nurse’s arms;
Then _ouvrier_ out of work, casquette on head,
And frowning hairy face, going, in faith,
To LOUIS BLANC to school. Then LAMARTINE,
Spouting away, writing a score of sonnets
Unto Dame Liberty’s eyebrow; then _Mobile_,
Clapped in strange clothes, and bearding barricades,
Zealous against old friends in sudden quarrel,
Taking a sight at death and devastation
E’en in the cannon’s mouth; then CAVAIGNAC,
In power despotic and a state of siege,
With frown severe, and beard of Algiers cut,
O’er-riding Law with a soldier’s insolence――
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shows
Poor Liberty, with Constitution weak,
Halting ’twixt Anarchy and Despotism,
Her youthful _bonnet rouge_ a world too wide
For her shrunk brains, and the big boastful voice,
Turning again to the old treble, pipes
LOUIS NAPOLEON in. Last scene of all
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans trade, sans tin, sans press, sans everything.
[This Parody appeared in _Punch_, November 25, 1848, at which time the
form of government in France was nominally Republican, though very
unsettled. King Louis Philippe had been forced to abdicate in
February, 1848, and a republic was proclaimed, of which Louis Napoleon
(afterwards Emperor) was elected President. Around the Parody were
seven illustrations, drawn by the celebrated Richard Doyle,
representing “Young France mewling and puking in the Nurse’s arms;”
“The Ouvrier creeping like snail unwillingly to school;” “Lamartine
inditing a sonnet to Liberty’s Eyebrow;” “The Garde Mobile seeking the
Bubble reputation in the Cannon’s mouth;” “The Justice with eyes
severe,” a portrait of General Cavaignac; and, last scene of all, poor
France with her feet in Hot Water, and Louis Napoleon in the back
ground carrying the fatal _Idées Napoliennes_, which finally brought
him, and his country, to defeat and ruin.]
――――:o:――――
ALL THE TOWN’S A SLIDE.
(_A Parody for the Frost._)
――――All the town’s a slide,
And all the men and women merely skaters.
They have their slippings and their flounderings,
And one man in his life has many falls:
His fate having seven stages. At first, the infant,
Shivering and shaking in his nurse’s arms;
And then the shuffling school-boy, with his highlows
And hobnailed sole and heel, cutting-out slides
Instead of going to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, till with woeful tumble
He and his mistress lie low. Then a soldier,
Wearing odd skates, and bearding all the park;
Jealous of others, sudden and quick in turning,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the deepest holes. And then the iceman
In fair round hat, with a good cape on, lined
With oilskin clear, and coat of formal cut,
Full of ice-saws and modern instruments;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage slips
Into the lean and slippery pantaloon,
With icicle on nose, and stick in hand,
His India-rubber shoes a world too large
For his shrunk feet; and his poor trembling knees
Straggling apart like childish helplessness,
He tumbles on the ground! Last scene of all
That ends this cold and frosty history
Is a sharp wind――upsetting everyone,
Sans stick, sans cloak, sans hat, sans everything.
_Punch_ 1850.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF A PUBLIC MAN.
――――Public Life’s a stage,
And all the men in office merely players:
They have their characters and salaries
And one man in his course plays many parts,
And acts through seven ages. First the infant,
High born, inheriting a coat of arms,
And then the Public School-boy, with his satchel,
And shining lot of fag, going by rail,
Uncaringly to school; then the Collegian
Boating and driving, with a comic ballad,
And supercilious eyebrow. Then the Patriot
Full of strong oaths, and moustached like the pard,
Anxious for honour, not disposed to quarrel
With any decent situation,
Suffice that can one’s mouth. And then the Member,
Quoting old saws and modern instances,
In fair round paunch, with public dinners lined;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered Minister;
With spectacles, and prose, and votes on side,
His youthful views renounced, a world too wide
For his shrunk wits and his once manly voice,
Trying in vain to hoax the people, pipes
A miserable sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this sad disgraceful history,
Is childish Red-tapism, and mere routine:
Sans heart, sans brains, sans pluck, sans everything.
_Punch_, May, 1855.
――――:o:――――
CATALOGUE OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
――――All the thing’s a farce,
And all the time and labour merely wasted.
It has its entries and its indexes,
And one man with his time plays but the fool
In poring o’er the pages. First the Volume,
Bulky and ponderous in the porter’s arms,
And then the heavy binding, with its edges
And greasy leather backs, letting it slide
Gradually to the ground. And then the titles,
Mixed up like hodge-podge――here a book of ballads
Publish’d by BEALE or BOOSEY. Then a quarto,
Full of strange types, and letter’d all in black,
Printed on vellum――ancient in type and paper,
Cramming the author’s reputation
Right down the student’s mouth. And then the law-book
In pale brown calfskin, with gross humbug lined,
With rules severe, and forms of rigid cut,
Full of strange laws and musty precedents:
And so this forms a part. The volume shifts
Like change to clown or slipper’d pantaloon,
To subjects no one knows――from side to side
The eye may roll――the topics are too wide
To be embraced――and the loud public voice,
Turning again to childish treble, pipes
And whistles for its wants. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange mysterious catalogue,
Is perfect uselessness and mere oblivion,
_Sans_ head――_sans_ tail――in fact, _sans_ everything.
[In these lines, which appeared a good many years ago, Mr. Punch was
unduly severe on the Catalogue of the British Museum, which is a
marvel of industry, and accuracy. By the system adopted it is only
necessary to know the name of an author to be able to procure any of
his works, and should any difficulty arise the courteous Librarians
and attendants are ever ready to render the most valuable assistance.]
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES.
_By Mincing Lane Esq._,
――――Mincing-lane’s a stage,
And all the workers there are merely _players_:
Each plays the part his manager may choose,
And in his part must mind his P.’s and Q.’s――
His acts being seven ages. At first the boy,
Untimely breeched in galling corduroy;
His eyes wide opened, and his lower jaw
Meekly depressed in reverential awe――
Bound for three miserable years to do
A shopboy’s drudgery without his screw,
Then the meek junior, with a moonlike face,
Creeping like snail unwilling to his place,
Sleepy from last night’s going to the play
And youthful soakings of convivial clay.
And then the lover, in resplendent scarf
And gorgeous pin, and boots too tight by half,
Spending with her he loves in lanes――away
From town――his one brief blissful holiday,
Seated in cosy arbour with his lass,
Pledging his love in cups of sparkling Bass.
And then the Volunteer, with gun in hand,
Scaring invaders from his native land,
Seeking, good man, the bubble reputation
In hebdomadal perambulation
In quiet spots――his partner by his side
Taking his youthful progeny for a ride.
And then the market clerk――rotund is he;
A man of substance; knowing to a T
What shares are discount, premium, or par――
What “mule twist” was, and what “grey shirtings” are:
And so he plays his part. The next age shifts
Into the book-keeper who seldom lifts
His eyes from off his book――who measures time
Not by the grass covered with glist’ning rime,
Nor song of blackbirds, nor the budding May,
Nor scent of meadows filled with new-mown hay,
Nor falling dew of autumn time――yet stay,
He notes the falling due of quarter-day.
Last scene of all that ends this strange career
Is utter friendlessness. Not one kind tear
On his account philanthropists can wring;
He dies sans home, sans friends, sans everything.
_The Hornet_, January 1, 1868.
――――:o:――――
THE POLITICIAN’S SEVEN AGES.
[The seven ages of a politician might be enumerated somewhat as
follows. It may be necessary to premise that _Cranbourne Alley_ was
the name given by the profane to the followers of Lord Salisbury, then
Lord Cranbourne, when he voted against the Ministerial Reform Bill.]
――――At first the _Tory_,
Pompous and prosing in his elbow chair;
And then the doubtful _Dizzyite_, with suffrage,
And firm belief in rates,――sneaking, like lamb,
Quite patiently, to “school.”
Then _Cranbourne Alley_,
Sighing for novelty, with woeful back-glance
Made at the Tory benches.
Then the _Liberal_
Full of strange whims, and reckless as a Rad;
Jealous for office, sudden at wrong conclusions;
Seeking the bubble alteration,
E’en gainst his country’s welfare.
Then the _Brightite_,
With fair round periods, with bad logic lined;
With ayes and noes aye in minority;
Full of wise schemes, and wild philosophy:
And so he plays his game.
The sixth age shifts
Into the _Beales_ and _Potter Demagogue_,
With banner overhead, and pole in hand;
His common sense all gone,――the world too small
For his bold flight;――his once persuasive voice,
Turning tow’rds pot-house politicians, rants and vapours to a mob.
Last scene of all,
That generally ends this history,
Is second Toryism, or utter lassitude;――
Sans hope, sans care, sans mind, sans everything.
_Once a Week_, June 27, 1868.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF ACTING.
1. First the Infant mewling and puling in the dresser’s arms――waiting
to go on at eighteenpence a night.
2. Then the Pantomime Imp, with his whistle and dirty morning face,
crawling like snail unwillingly to rehearsal.
3. And then the _Jeune Premier_, smoking like a furnace, with woeful
bad legs. “Made-up,” too, in moustache and eyebrows.
4. Then the Melodramatic Artist, full of strange oaths, bearded, and
wearing pads, jealous in liquor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
seeking bubble reputation, even at an East-end theatre.
5. And then the Low Comedian, in big ulster, with good flannel lined.
6. Sixth age, scene shifts, and at Christmas plays the lean and
slippered pantaloon. The wardrobe hose, a world too wide for
his shrunk shank.
7. Last scene of all in this strange, eventful history in second-
sightedness, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans
everything――but hot gin toddy.
WALLIS MACKAY.
_St. Stephens’ Saturnalia_, December, 1884.
――――:o:――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF LOVE.
Man in his day loves many times and oft,
For Nature’s made him uncontent with one;
He breathes a hundred vows in accents soft
Ere on the earth his pilgrimage is run.
First comes the baby, in his nurse’s arms,
With button mouth stretched wide for pap-filled spoon;
Or else with clutching fingers, eager palms,
Waiting and weeping for his love――the moon.
The schoolboy next, with hungry, longing gaze
Fixed on the face of one of thirty years;
Unversed, as yet, in guileful worldly ways,
Bemoaning youth with bitter sobs and tears.
Later the man, all furious in Love’s pains,
Yet humbly sighing soft on bended knee;
Swearing his heart out that the globe contains
But one adorable and perfect she.
And then the soldier, fierce in love as fight,
With twirled moustache and rugged, sun-browned cheek,
Claiming young Beauty as the warrior’s right,
Then scorning conquest as a passing freak.
The Justice next, with pockets golden lined,
With money bags to lure and satyr leer;
Resolved at fifty years a maid to find,
As wife for two and nurse for twenty years.
Sixth stage, the pantaloon, wan, shrunk, and thin,
With limbs half paralysed and senses numb,
Chucking the nurs’ry maid beneath the chin
And mumbling nonsense with a toothless gum.
Last scene of all. Blear-eyed, with shrivelled neck,
Laid by, for Death to claim, upon the shelf;
A fretful, peevish, crabbed, and cross-grained wreck,
Loving but one thing, and that one thing――self.
So wags the world! From life’s first blush of light,
Through happy morning to bright afternoon,
Till falling shades of evening lead to night――
And love?――The last is self, the first the moon!
_Judy_, January 19, 1881.
――――――――
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.
_By a Cantankerous Old Curmudgeon._
――――All the world’s a Wardrobe,
And all the girls and women merely wearers:
They have their fashions and their fantasies,
And one she in her time wears many garments
Throughout her Seven Stages. First, the baby,
Befrilled and broidered, in her nurse’s arms.
And then the trim-hosed schoolgirl, with her flounces
And small-boy scorning face, tripping skirt-waggling,
Coquettishly to school. And then the flirt,
Ogling like Circe, with a business _œillade_
Kept on her low-cut corset. Then a bride
Full of strange finery, vestured like an angel,
Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance,
Seeking the Woman’s heaven, Admiration,
Even at the Altar’s steps. And then the matron,
In fair rich velvet with suave satin lined,
With eyes severe, and skirts of youthful cut
Full of dress-saws and modish instances,
To teach her girls _their_ part. The sixth age shifts
Into the grey yet gorgeous grandmamma,
With gold _pince-nez_ on nose and fan at side,
Her youthful tastes still strong, and worldly wise
In sumptuary law, her quavering voice
Prosing of Fashion and _Le Follet_, pipes
Of robes and bargains rare. Last scene of all,
That ends the Sex’s _Mode_-swayed history,
Is second childishness and sheer oblivion
Of youth, taste, passion, all――save love of Dress!
_Punch_, May 20, 1882.
――――:o:――――
There are many other parodies of this speech. One was contained in a
burlesque operatic tragedy performed at the Lyceum Theatre in July,
1812, entitled “Highgate Tunnel, or the Secret Arch,” of which the
argument was that “All the world’s a stable.” Unfortunately this play
is not to be found in the Library of the British Museum, consequently
the parody cannot be reproduced, but the following, on the subject of
_Carriages_, is of a somewhat kindred nature. It is taken from _The
Sporting Times_ of April 18, 1885, but is here given without the
illustrations which embellished it, when it first appeared, in that
sportive, and very facetious journal:
THE SEVEN CARRIAGES OF MAN.
“All the world’s a stage, &c., &c.,
And one man in his time tries many traps.”
First, the baby in _his_ carriage. Observe the animal’s expression,
he is mewling and puking.
Next comes the schoolboy on his tricycle. Special attention has been
bestowed on his “shining morning face.”
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
On tricycle to school.
Then the lover, in spite of proctors and bulldogs, tries to drive a
very scratch tandem with the idea of impressing the lady of his
heart for the time being.
And then the lover.
Who in scratch tandem drives a Tottie
With golden hair and jet black eyebrows.
The soldier, full of strange oaths as in Willy Shakespeare’s
time, but not now bearded like a pard――_vide_
Queen’s Regulations, sec. vii., par. 20――drives the regimental
coach.
The justice stows “his fair round belly” into a
brougham. A view of the said lower portion of his bosom
is obtained through the window.
The lean and slippered pantaloon hides his infirmities in
a bath chair.
And, last carriage of all, the hearse, in which we all
take our final drive.
An economic funeral ends the list
Sans plumes, sans mutes, sans pall, sans everything.
――――:o:――――
A fortnight later the same paper contained another parody, on the same
speech, entitled _The Seven Drinks of Man_, and fortunately for the
readers of “Parodies” the Editor of “The Sporting Times” has kindly
lent the wood engravings which accompanied it. These distantly remind
one, in their effects of light and shade, of some of the best works of
Rembrandt, and whilst it may perhaps be said that they lack in
execution, in conception they are immense.
THE SEVEN DRINKS OF MAN.
――――“All the world’s a bar,
And all the men and women merely drinkers.”
[Illustration]
“First the infant, mewling and pewking in his nurse’s arms, and
for his bottle crying.”
[Illustration]
Then the schoolboy, quaffing his ginger-beer,
Until “he well nigh bursts.”
[Illustration]
“Then the lover, with a woful ballad,
Made to his mistress’ eye-brow ’neath the subtle inspiration of
the Boy.”
[Illustration]
“Then the soldier, slaking his parched throat,
Made dry by last night’s mess, with many a brandy and soda.”
[Illustration]
“Then the justice, with fair, round belly,
With good claret lined.”
[Illustration]
“The lean and slippered pantaloon,
Who, with his feet in foot-bath, sits and drinks his gruel.”
[Illustration]
“Last drink of all, beef-tea.”
I feel quite mixed after the variety.――Yours,
P.M.T.
_The Sporting Times_, May 2, 1885.
――――:o:――――
AS YOU LIKE IT.
“Rosalind MRS. LANGTRY.”――_Playbill._
Crutch, in cosy box enshrin’d,
Showers bouquets on Rosalind;
Gallery is not behind
In its praise of Rosalind;
Common “pro’s” for years may grind,
Not so gentle Rosalind.
Beauty and high birth combin’d
_Must_ produce a Rosalind!
Where can we an equal find
To our latest Rosalind?
Critics sour and critics kind
Battle over Rosalind.
To the charms who can be blind
Of this pretty Rosalind?
Streets with carriages are lined,
Audiences for Rosalind,
Braving chill September’s wind
For the sake of Rosalind;
Rank and fashion, lately dined,
Flock to feast on Rosalind.
But I can’t make up _my_ mind,
To accept this Rosalind!
_Judy_, October 4, 1882.
――――:o:――――
Poetry and snow do not blend well. Sleet extinguishes all _feu sacré_
in the bard. Early one morning last week, when a few gentle flakes
were falling, I thought of the song of my friend Amiens in “As you
Like It,” and laughing at the elements, attempted a rough parody of
the first verse. It was as follows:――
Blow, blow thou Winter wind;
Snow, too, if so inclined:
I cannot change your mood.
I’ll order Toddy hot
And drink of it a lot――
The strongest can be brewed.
Heigh ho! Sing heigh ho! Away with melancholy.
To grumble at the weather is nought but folly.
Then heigh ho! The holly!
This life is most jolly.
(_An interval of six hours is supposed to elapse._)
Freeze! Freeze! The wind _does_ blow!
I’m “Boycotted” by the snow,
I search and search in vain
For cab, or bus, or train.
Miles off is home――and worse,
I’ve no coin in my purse!
In the snow, sing heigh ho! to the green folly
Of a fellow feigning to be happy or jolly.
Heigh ho!
’Tis folly, by golly!
To hope to be jolly!
ANONYMOUS.
[Illustration]
ROMEO AND JULIET.
――――:o:――――
A BACHELOR.
(_After Romeo’s description of an apothecary._ Act v. Scene i.)
I do remember an old BACHELOR,
And hereabouts he dwells――whom late I noted
In suit of sables, with care worn brow,
Conning his books――and meagre were his looks:
Celibacy had worn him to the bone;
And in his silent parlour hung a coat,
The which the moth had used not less than he.
Four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk,
Made up its furniture; and on his shelves
A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug,
Two tablets, and a box of old cigars;
Remnants of volumes, once in some repute,
Were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye
Of prying stranger――_this man had no wife_.
His tatter’d elbow gap’d most piteously;
And ever as he turned him round, his skin
Did through his stockings peep upon the day.
Noting his gloom, unto myself I said,
“And if a man did covet single life,
Reckless of joys that matrimony gives,
Here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him
In such most dismal colours, that the shrew,
Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse,
Were each a heaven compared with such a life.”
_The Maids, Wives, and Widows Penny Magazine_, October 27, 1832.
――――――――
I do remember a cook’s shop――
And here about it stands――him late I noted
In tuck’d up sleeves, with night cap o’er his brows,
Cutting up joints――pleas’d were his looks,
The fatt’ning trade had cover’d well his bones,
And in his reeky shop a sirloin hung,
A buttock stuff’d; nice tripe, and other strings
Of well spic’d sausages――and upon his board
A sovereign remedy for empty stomachs,
Green peas and ducks, pork, steaks, and mutton chops,
Remnant of goose, pigeon-pye and plates of ham,
Were amply set out to make up a show,
Noting this plenty to myself I said;
An’ if a man did need a dinner now,
Whose dainty smell is present appetite,
Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one.
If I may trust the flattering truth of nose,
This should be Porridge Island――
Being twelve o’th’clock――the knives and forks are laid.
――――――――
I do remember a young pleader,
And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted
In coat once black, with overwhelming brow,
Pondering o’er cases――sallow were his looks,
And midnight thought had worn him to the bone;
And in his sombre chambers lay confused,
Black dusty papers, “general issues” here,
“Demurrers special” there――matter apt to teach
That, to our noble law, justice and form
Alike are dear――and o’er his shelves
A beggarly account of dusty volumes――
Wentworth, and Coke, and Saunders――old editions all,
With a few numbers of the late reports,
Were thinly scattered to make up a show.
Noting his little practice, thus I said:
“An’ if a man would patch a rotten case,
Give to transaction dark a face of snow,
Here lives the lawyer that might draw the pleas,
Oh! this same thought doth but forerun my need――
I have a cause, and will retain him quickly,
As I remember, this should be the chamber;
But it not being term the door is closed.”
What, ho!
From _The Poetical Note Book and Epigrammatic Museum_; by GEORGE
WENTWORTH, London, 1824.
――――:o:――――
The following parody was written by Robert Surtees, Esq., M.A. F.S.A.,
author of a history of the County Palatine of Durham:――
I do remember a strange man, a herald――
And hereabouts he dwells――whom late I noted
In parti-colour’d coat like a fool’s jacket,
Or morrice-dancer’s dress――musty his looks,
Like to a piece of ancient shrivell’d parchment,
Or an old pair of leather brogues twice turn’d;
And round the dusky room he did inhabit,
Whose wainscot seem’d as old as Noah’s ark,
Were divers shapes of ugly, ill-formed monsters,
Hung up on scutcheons like an old church aisle――
A blue boar rampant, and a griffin gules,
A gaping tyger, and a cat-o’-mountain,
What nature never form’d, nor madman dream’d,
Gorgons and hydras and chimæras dire;
And straight before him lay a dusty heap
Of ancient legers, books of evidence,
Old blazon’d pedigrees and antique rolls,
(Which made full oft the son beget the father,
And give to maiden ladies fruitful issue.)
Torn parish registers, probates, and testaments――
From which, with cunning art and sage contrivance,
He fairly culled divers pedigrees;
And next, by act of transmutation rare,
Did change his musty vellum into gold――
For straight comes in a gaudy city youth,
(Whose father, for oppression and vile cunning,
Lies roaring low in Limbo lake the while,)
And straight depositeth some forty guineas,
And after some few words of mystic import,
Of Mowbray, Howard, Vere, Plantagenet,
And other necromantic terms of art,
Most gravely utter’d by the smoke-dried sage,
He takes, in lieu of gold, the vellum roll,
With arms emblazon’d and Earl Marshal’s signet,
And struts away, a well-born gentleman.
Observing this, I to myself did say,
“And if a man did need a coat of arms,
Here lives a caitiff that would sell him one.”
――――:o:――――
THE SHAKESPEARE OF THE PERIOD.
Shakespeare _pur et simple_ will soon be beyond the comprehension of
audiences accustomed to burlesque, sensation drama, and the cancan. An
enterprising manager (we believe he thinks of turning Somerset House
into a theatre, with hotel accommodation, so that visitors from the
country can take a ticket, including entrance, supper, bed, and
breakfast) has offered a prize for the best modern version of
Shakespeare’s plays. We have been favoured with a perusal of the
M.S.S. sent in, and give the following versions of the balcony scene
in _Romeo and Juliet_, without the kind permission of the authors:――
ROMEO.
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND T. W. ROBERTSON.
ACT THE SECOND.――ASSIGNATION!
SCENE.――CAPULET’S _Garden_.
_Enter ROMEO._
_Rom._――That board says “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” I am a
trespasser; but what matters prosecution so that I can stand
beneath the window of the girl I love? What is love? Men live
for it, die for it, and lose caste for it; but――
_JULIET appears on balcony, with watering-pot._
_Jul._――I have been thinking so much about that young man I met at
the ball that I nearly forgot my poor flowers. There’s somebody
in the garden. Who can it be?
_Rom._――Have you forgotten me so soon, then?
_Jul._――I have not forgotten you. But you have done wrong to come
here; if my father saw you he would give you in charge.
_Rom._――I have been thinking of you for the last two hours.
_Jul._――And I have been thinking of you. How strange that we should
think of one another!
_Rom._――We must be in love.
_Jul._――What is love?
_Rom._――The very question I asked myself five minutes ago.
_Jul._――What a lovely night! And look at the stars! Are they far off?
_Rom._――Ah! hundreds and thousands of million miles.
_Jul._――They seem about a mile-and-a-half from the earth.
_Rom._――But they are not so far from the earth as you are from me.
_Jul._ (_leaning over_)――We are nearer now.
_Rom._ (_holding spout of water-pot_)――And the waterpot join us.
For how long?
_Jul._――Until I am tired of holding it, I suppose.
_Rom._――Will you be out to-morrow morning?
_Jul._――I always go to the village to get an egg for papa’s breakfast.
_Rom._――Meet me at the Friar’s.
_Jul._――What for?
_Rom._――To be married, of course.
_Jul._――How nice! And I can take back the egg as if nothing had
happened.
_Rom._――Then you think more of the egg than you do of me! Good
night!
_Jul._――Good night! Be careful of the wall. And beware of the dog.
_Rom._――After all, what is a wall?
_Jul._――And what is a dog?
[_JULIET waters flowers. ROMEO retreats a few steps and watches her.
Curtain falls――should it be raised JULIET has dropped the
water-pot, and is lost in reverie; ROMEO is halfway over the
wall._]
――――:o:――――
ROMEO AND HIS JULIET.
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND T. MADDISON MORTON.
SCENE.――_A garden._
_ROMEO discovered on wall._
_Rom._――If there’s one thing damps a fellow’s ardour it’s
broken bottles. Now then for a jump.
(_ROMEO slides off wall, and falls into cucumber frame._)
I always disliked cucumbers, and now they have had their
revenge. Now then to reach my charmer’s window.
_Climbs up water-butt and falls in. JULIET appears on balcony._
_Jul._――I heard something. It must have been the cats.
_ROMEO’S head appears from water-butt._
O, Romeo, Romeo, what a cold you will get!
_Rom._――Suppose you help us out, and pity us afterwards. (_She
pulls him out._) My lovely Julio――I mean Romlet――bother it,
Capulo――no, no, Montaget. I shall forget my own name next.
_Jul._――What’s in a name?
_Rom._――A great deal――especially when you can’t remember it. Will
you quit the domicile of your paternal parent, and slope off
with your’s truly?
_Jul._――But how can we marry? I haven’t a copper of my own.
_Rom._――And seven-and-sixpence is all I possess. Have you no jewels?
_Jul._――Only a coral necklace, and a silver spoon given to me by my
godfather and godmothers at my baptism.
_Rom._――With such treasures and our love kings might envy us.
_Dog enters._
I’m off. Down, Ponto! Good night, Jupulet. Good dog?
_Jul._――Come here, Ponto!
[_Dog chases ROMEO; he climbs the wall; dog seizes his coat tails,
tears them off, and runs about with them in his mouth_.]
――――――――
ROW ME O TO JULIA YET!
OR,
THE COVE! THE LOVE!! AND THE TURTLE DOVE!!!
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND H. J. BYRON.
SCENE.――_CAPULET’S Back Garden._
[_Music, “Come into the Garden, Maud.”――Enter ROMEO, dressed as
a young man of the day, smoking cigar._]
_Rom._――For walls and gates I do not care a farden,
And so I make my way into the garden;
My conduct may seem like that of a rash’un,
But on this _plot_ I’ll give vent to my passion.
I met her at the ball. We danced together,
’Tis true we only talked about the weather;
But then our _idle eyes_ spoke volumes nearly;
And now I know I _idolize_ her dearly,
And come what will I never can forget
Earth’s brightest _jewel_, lovely _Jewelet_.
_Enter JULIET on balcony._
_Jul._――Bother the cats! They quite disturb my rest.
_Rom._――Now is my time.
_Jul._―― They are getting quite a pest.
_Rom._――The creature basking in your beauty’s glow
Is not a Thomas Cat, but Romeo.
_Jul._――A Montague!
_Rom._―― Who’s _aim’s_ your hand to claim;
But as no doubt you’ll say, “What’s in an _aim_?”
_Jul._――_Aimey_-vous me?
_Rom._―― My very little game. I
Adore you more than Leicester did his _Aimey_.
Wilt fly with me? My love you cannot doubt it.
_Jul._――Well, _Romeo_, I must _romeonate_ about it.
What is to-day?
_Rom._―― Days, months, I quite forget,
It may be _June_――I know but _Julyet_.
I’ll take you to the _Friar_.
_Jul._―― Let me see――
_Rom._――Why, surely you are not _afraid_ of me?
_Jul._――I’ll meet you at the cell.
_Rom._―― And _cell_ I bring
A marriage license.
_Jul._―― Yes; also a ring.
DUET,――_Air_, “_Burlesque Galop_.”
_Both._――The Montagues and Capulets will be in such a way,
When they hear that Romeo and Juliet one fine day,
Ran off and got married both together on the sly,
Regardless of the hatred of each other’s family.
O toodlee um, te oodleum, &c.
(_JULIET plays tambourine――ROMEO dances a breakdown._)
――――――――
JULIET AND ROMEO.
(An Original Drama)
BY DION BOUCICAULT.
ACT 2.――SCENE 2.――_Terrace and grounds of Capulet Castle Balcony, L.,
with flowers on stand, and vine trees climbing up sides. Wall, R., on
which grows real stone fruit. Italian view at back (to be painted on
the spot.) _Enter Retainers._
GRAND DANCE OF THE PERIOD BY A HUNDRED REAL VERONESE.
(_Exeunt Retainers._
Enter ROMEO, dropping from wall by aid of a branch. Presently JULIET
appears. They talk (but never mind the dialogue.) Enter Watchmen.
They struggle with ROMEO. JULIET throws flower-pots at watchmen.
Exeunt Watchmen, with broken heads. Here the lovers might speak; but
perhaps words will only delay the action. CAPULET enters with
Retainers. ROMEO is bound to a tree. During struggle JULIET descends
from balcony by aid of vine, and fills Retainers’ muskets with water
from a patent garden tube. CAPULET and Retainers retire. They point
their muskets at ROMEO, CAPULET gives the word, but the muskets are
harmless. JULIET picks up pruning knife and releases ROMEO. They are
discovered. ROMEO is again a prisoner, when he tells CAPULET that
amongst the papers to be opened at his death is the last will of
CAPULET’S father, leaving all to charity. The old man blesses his
children, and for a time, at least, the lovers are happy. But there
are more sensations to come.
_The Grasshopper_, July 1, 1869.
――――:o:――――
MERCUTIO’S DESCRIPTION OF QUEEN MAB.
_Mercutio._――Here comes Romeo――poor fellow he’s mooney
Sweet on Rosaline! Oh, regular spooney,――
Found him this morning at the lady’s door,
Waving up kisses to the second floor――
Radiant with joy, as Phœbus or Aurora,
Wooing with warm smiles a _second Flora_!
And then unto his lady love he played
Upon the Jewish harp a serenade;
While ever and anon there came a flow
Of voice with “Sweep!” and then of “Milk below!”
_ROMEO enters in a melancholy mood._
_Mercu._――His bosom swells, the heavy sighs rise on it;
The man’s in love――that’s about the _size_ on it.
_Romeo._ (_taking out photograph and kissing it_)――
Sweet Rosaline!
Nor yet as sweet by half
As represented in this photograph.
The sun was envious of those dainty hands――
So fist-like has he drawn them――and he brands
The sweetest smile that ever heart did win,
In likeness of a silly sort of grin!
_Mercu._ (_looking over his shoulder_)――
Sixpence in frame complete, that’s about it.
_Romeo._――Now there you’re wrong, my friend; perhaps you doubt it?
But fourpence is the figure now-a-days――
The _walks_ of art are now but common _ways_.
(_Kisses photograph and sighs._)
_Mercu._――Good Romeo, are you ill?
_Romeo._―― Yes, I’m queer.
_Mercu._――Where do you feel it?
_Romeo._ (_laying hand on heart_) Oh! I feel it here.
_Mercu._――Oh! you are in love――over head and ears――
But why so sad? Your eyes are set with tears,
When you should smile.
_Romeo._―― Rosy!
_Mercu._――Pooh! forget her.
You’ll see some other girl you’ll like much better.
_Romeo._――I’ve dreamt a dream――Oh! ’twas a horrid dream!
_Mercu._――Queen Mab’s been with your worship, it would seem.
She is the very deuce, and goes to work
By aid of pickled salmon and roast pork;
Sits on the stomach of an Alderman;
O’er every drowsy sense does hold her ban.
Her waggon-spokes of grill’d and devilled bones,
Her wheels give out a constant sound of groans;
Her whip, a knotted lash of champagne wires;
Her chariot, a stew-pan wrapped in fires;
Her shouts are pepper, and her oaths are spice;
She’s something nasty, after something nice.
In fact, my buck, to speak out plain and fair,
What you’ve been suffering from is the nightmare!
This extract is taken from “_Romeo and Juliet Travestie_, or the Cup
of Cold Pison,” by Andrew Halliday.
The burlesque was produced at the Strand Theatre, on Thursday,
November 3rd, 1859, when the part of _Romeo_ was taken by Miss C.
Saunders, whilst Miss Marie Wilton (now Mrs. Bancroft) performed
_Juliet_, “a belle whom all the young fellows in Verona are anxious to
ring.”
――――――――
At the end of the burlesque the ghost of Shakespeare rises, frowning,
and holding up his finger menacingly.
_Mercutio_.――I see it’s Shakespeare.
He’s angry with us.
_All._―― Pray what have we done?
_Romeo._――His noble tragedy we’ve turned to fun;
And he don’t like it.
_All._―― Oh, what shall we do?
_Apothecary._――Some of you speak to him. Romeo, you
Are the hero here, face it out――dare him,
Soften him over a bit.――you know――square him!
_Romeo._ (_going up to him_)――
I’ll try. Immortal bard――illustrious Swan of Avon,
Towards you, we own, we have not been behavin’,
With that respect which we should like to pay,
But the fact is, if we essayed your play,
As you did write it――the boxes and the pit
Would say we could not act the play a bit.
And so that _with_ us, not _at_ us they may laugh,
We’ve winnowed your fine _corn_ into _chaff_.
(_SHAKESPEARE bows._)
_Nurse._ (_going up_)――Another thing you must remember, Poet,
You wrote burlesques yourself, and well you know it.
In “The Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
(_SHAKESPEARE disappears._)
――――――――
Messrs. T. and G. Shrimpton, of Broad Street, Oxford, published
another burlesque on this tragedy. It was entitled “Romeo and Juliet;
or the Shaming of the True;” an Atrocious Outrage perpetrated at
Oxford, by the St. John’s College Amateurs, during Commemoration,
1868. The author’s name is not given.
[Illustration]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
――――:o:――――
A burlesque of “The Merchant of Venice” was produced at the Olympic
Theatre, London, on Monday July 4th, 1853. It was entitled “_Shylock
or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved._ An entirely new reading of
Shakespeare, from an edition hitherto undiscovered by modern
authorities, and which it is hoped may be received as the stray leaves
of a _Jerusalem Hearty-Joke_.”
This burlesque was written by Mr. Francis Talfourd with a special view
to furnishing F. Robson, with a character adapted to his peculiar
abilities, and _Shylock_ suited him admirably.
There are however no distinct parodies of any passages of the original
which could be quoted without making long extracts. This is
unnecessary, as the burlesque can be readily obtained from the
theatrical publishers.
_Bassanio._ What find I here?
(_Opening the leaden casket._)
Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips,
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
The painter plays the spider and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,――
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his
And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how far
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
In underprizing it, so far this shadow
Doth limp behind the substance.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, Act III. Scene II.
――――:o:――――
_Bassanio_. What find I here?
Fair Portia’s counterfeit? What demi-god
Hath come so near creation, and what
Doth the demi-god, forsaken caitiff, charge
Per dozen? Move these eyes? Or, whether riding
On the balls of mine, seem they in motion?
Ask me an easier one.
Here are severed lips parted with sugar breath;
Wonder if Jones――but, no! Perish
The thought! And, also, perish Jones,
The ringboned, spavined Jobberwock,
If ever I do catch him hereabouts again!
Here in her hair the painter plays the spider,
And hath woven a mesh to entrap
The hearts of men, one of whom am I,
By a large majority, and several counties
And unbribed districts to hear from.
But her eyes! How could he see to do them?
Having made one, methinks it would have power
To steal both his――Ah! blessed thought! I’ll steal
Her picture, now I hear her foot
Upon the stairs!
_Merry Folks._
――――:o:――――
SONG.
Tell me where is fancy bred
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy’s knell;
I’ll begin it,――Ding, dong, bell.
――――――――
SONG.
(DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR OF “GERMAN YEAST.”)
Tell me what is Fancy Bread,
Is it alum, or white lead?
How begot, how fashioned?
Reply, Reply.
It is engendered from old bones
With glazing fed; the eater moans,
’Neath its weight his stomach groans;
Bread of Fancy, hear thy knell
Sounded by the Muffin-Bell;
Ding dong Bell.
_The Tomahawk_, November 9, 1867.
――――:o:――――
NURSEY.
_By a young and over-ambitious poet, on visiting the guardian of his
childhood._