The jollity of Nursey is not feigned;

She hoppeth, as a genteel wren or raven,

Upon the neighbouring heath. I’m thrice caress’d;

Caress’d by her who used to bring me cakes!

She’s tidiest of the tidiest; and becomes

In face more youthful through revolving time.

Oft has she, in bygone temperate hour,

Dulled my young ears with jaw and minstrelsy,

And there she’d sit, and tell me queer odd things;

For Nursey used to love the spectred fay,

Foibles, since foiled by Cooke and Maskelyne;

But then, I somehow reck’d them true myself,

And in my mite mind murmured “what’s the odds

When Nursey’s reason just is?” Therefore you,

Though rather bored I see, remember this:

That grateful we should be, each one of us

For early teaching. So I say to Nursey

That her kind care doth prompt us all to tender

The deeds of Nursey!

_Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. (Cambridge, Jones and

Piggott, 1883.)

――――:o:――――

CALVES’ FOOT JELLY.

This quality of jelly must be strained,

And drop through bags like gentle dew from heaven;

And, when the right consistence is obtained,

By Portia ’tis to sick Bassanio given.

_Judy_, September 22, 1880.

[Illustration]

MACBETH.

――――:o:――――

TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE

_Of the New Drury Lane Theatre._

GENTLEMEN,

Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was

suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first

symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain,

accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated

itself to the ears of every body about me, and made me a burthen to my

friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite

servants――that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook;

and George Barnwell, his bookkeeper――I waylaid in one of my fits of

insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful

crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing

Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you

inclosed a more detailed specimen of my case; if you could mould it

into the shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of

your performance, I have no doubt, that I should feel the immediate

affects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell

me one hiss is a dose.

I am, &c.,

MOMUS MEDLAR.

[_Enter MACBETH in a red nightcap. PAGE following with a torch._]

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell

(She knows that my purpose is cruel),

I’d thank her to tingle her bell

As soon as she’s heated my gruel.

Go, get thee to bed and repose――

To sit up so late is a scandal;

But ere you have ta’en off your clothes,

Be sure that you put out that candle.

Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.

My stars, in the air here’s a knife!――

I’m sure it can not be a hum;

I’ll catch at the handle, add’s life!

And then I shall not cut my thumb.

I’ve got him!――no, at him again!

Come, come, I’m not fond of these jokes;

This must be some blade of the brain――

Those witches are given to hoax.

I’ve one in my pocket, I know,

My wife left on purpose behind her;

She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,

The poor Caledonian grinder.

I see thee again! o’er thy middle

Large drops of red blood now are spill’d,

Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,

Good Duncan, pray come and be kill’d.

It leads to his chamber, I swear;

I tremble and quake every joint――

No dog at the scent of a hare

Ever yet made a cleverer point.

Ah, no! ’twas a dagger of straw――

Give me blinkers, to save me from starting;

The knife that I thought that I saw

Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.

Now o’er this terrestrial hive

A life paralytic is spread;

For while the one half is alive,

The other is sleepy and dead.

King Duncan, in grand majesty,

Has got my state-bed for a snooze;

I’ve lent him my slippers, so I

May certainly stand in his shoes.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales!

Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking!

For though a dead man tells no tales,

Dead walls are much given to talking.

This knife shall be in at the death――

I’ll stick him, then off safely get!

Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,

For he’d ne’er stick at anything yet.

Hark, hark! ’tis the signal, by goles!

It sounds like a funeral knell;

O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls

To call thee to heaven or hell.

Or if you to heaven won’t fly,

But rather prefer Pluto’s ether,

Only wait a few years till I die,

And we’ll go to the devil together.

Ri fol de rol, &c.

[This song is taken from the celebrated _Rejected Addresses_ by Horace

and James Smith. The travesties on _The Stranger_ and _George

Barnwell_, (referred to in the above introduction) possess little, or

no interest now, as the originals are obsolete, and it may be said

that neither of these three travesties is equal to the other clever

poems contained in _The Rejected Addresses._]

――――:o:――――

INCANTATION. (1828).

_Scene._――Penenden Plain, In the middle, a caldron boiling.

Thunder――Enter three _Brunswickers_.

1_st Bruns._――Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawl’d.

2_nd B._――Once hath fool Newcastle bawl’d,

3_rd B._――Bexley snores; ’tis time, ’tis time,

1_st B._――Round about the caldron go,

In the poisonous nonsense throw.

Bigot spite, that long hath grown,

Like a toad within a stone,

Sweltering in the heart of Scott

Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

_All._――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,

Eldon, talk, and Kenyon scribble.

2_nd B._――Slaver from Newcastle’s quill

In the noisome mess distil,

Brimming high our Brunswick broth

Both with venom and with froth.

Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill

Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,

With that malty stuff that Chandos

Drivels as no other man does,

Catch (_i. e._ if catch you can)

One idea, spick and span,

From my Lord of Salisbury

One idea, though it be

Smaller than the “happy flea,”

Which his sire, in sonnet terse

Wedded to immortal verse.[36]

Though to rob the son is sin,

Put his _one_ idea in;

And to keep it company,

Let that conjuror Winchelsea

Drop but _half_ another there,

If he hath so much to spare.

Dreams of murders and of arsons,

Hatch’d in heads of Irish parsons,

Bring from every hole and corner,

Where ferocious priests, like Horner,

Purely for religious good,

Cry aloud for Papists’ blood,

Blood for Wells, and such old women,

At their ease to wade and swim in.

_All._――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,

Bexley talk, and Kenyon scribble.

3_rd B._――Now the charm begins to brew;

Sisters, sisters, add thereto

Scraps of Lethbridge’s old speeches

Mix’d with leather from his breeches,

Rinsings of old Bexley’s brains,

Thickened (if you’ll take the pains)

With that pulp which rags create,

In their middle, _nympha_ state,

Ere, like insects frail and sunny,

Forth they wing abroad as money.

There――the Hell-broth we’ve enchanted――

Now but one thing more is wanted.

Squeeze o’er all that orange juice,

Castlereagh keeps cork’d for use,

Which, to work the better spell, is

Colour’d deep with blood of * * *

Blood, of powers far more various,

Even than that of Januarius,

Since so great a charm hangs o’er it,

England’s parsons bow before it.

_All._――Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,

Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2_nd B._――Cool it now with * * * ’s blood,

So the charm is firm and good. [_Exeunt_.

THOMAS MOORE.

――――:o:――――

THE DERBY VOTER’S SOLILOQUY.

(_Spoken in a darkened doorway with his face to the wall._)

Is this a sovereign which I feel behind me.

Slipp’d gently into my hand? Come, let me sack thee:

Art thou not precious metal, sensible

To vision as to touch? or art thou but

A sovereign of the mind, a false sensation,

Proceeding from the beer-oppressed brain?

I feel thee yet, a coin as palpable

As this I now produce.

Thou hint’st to me the side whereon I’m going;

And such a candidate I am to choose.

My conscience is the weakest of my senses,

Which should rule all the rest. I feel thee still――

A blade that has no gudgeon in his blood,

I ne’er was sold before. Pooh! no such thing;

It is the freeman’s privilege which informs

Thus to mine eyes. Now throughout all the land

Protection’s dead; and wicked bribes abuse

The voter’s trust; now COPPOCK celebrates

Corruption’s offerings; and cunning EDWARDS,

Subduing easy principle with pelf,

Prowls on the watch, and thus with hidden face,

The stumpy lavishes wide towards his design,

Mute as a post. Ye men of sense and worth,

Mark not my course, which way I vote, for fear,

My very looks show I’ve been tamper’d with;

And take the present honour from my name

That now rests with it. Whiles I yet shall live,

Votes I for treats and feeds and gold will give.

I go and plump anon: the chink invites me.

Hear it not, BERESFORD! for ’tis a knell

That summons thee to follow JACOB BELL!

_Punch_, August, 1852.

So great was the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” that many

inferior imitations were issued, amongst them being a small Volume,

entitled “Accepted Addresses” published by Thomas Tegg. In it are

poems jocularly ascribed to Lord Byron, and Walter Scott, there is

also a burlesque, entitled “_Macbeth Travestie_, in three acts. With

Burlesque annotations, after the manner of Dr. Johnson, G. Stevens,

Esq., and the various Commentators.” The author acknowledges that the

favorable reception which attended the Travestie on _Hamlet_, by John

Poole, gave him the suggestion for the undertaking, to which it must

be said, it is much inferior. It contains no parodies of sufficient

interest or merit to be quoted.

――――――――

There was another “Macbeth Travestie” in two acts, written by Francis

Talfourd, and performed at Henley-on-Thames, on the day of the

regatta, June 17, 1847. This was published by E. T. Spiers, of High

Street, Oxford, it was afterwards produced, with slight alterations,

at the Strand Theatre, on January 10, 1848; and again at the Olympic

Theatre, on April 25, 1853, when the part of Macbeth was performed by

F. Robson. The London Edition (published by Lacy) has a humourous

preface by William Farren. The Incantation Scene (scene IV., act II.)

commences thus:――

WITCHES (_singing_)

We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!

We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!

We’ll raise a jolly good spell-oh!

Macbeth to terrify!

Macbeth to terrify!

Macbeth to terrify!

It’s a way they had on the stage-oh!

When Melodrame was all the rage-oh!

The audience with spells to engage-oh!

So we’ll at a spell have a shy!

So we’ll, &c.

THE INCANTATION.

1_st_ WITCH.――Apron strings of old maids-tabbies;

Tongues of spifflicated babbies;

Joinville of a greasy gent,

Reeking with unhallowed scent.

2_nd_ WITCH.――Beards of maggots, maws of mummies,

Fingers of flue-strangled chummies

Heap in humbugs all to aid us――

Banjos, bones, and serenaders!

Holloway’s grease, and Frampton’s pills,

Fuel fierce of human ills

Mild emetics――one a dose is;

Seventy-seven street-sweepers’ noses!

Fashion new, that taste perverts――

See “_the last new thing_ in shirts!”

Slangy coats of aspect rare;

And the “gent’s real head of hair!”

ALL THREE.――Double, double, toil and trouble――

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!

_Enter MACBETH._

MACB.――That’s right, my hearties, keep the pot a boiling,

I trust I’m not a family party spoiling.

Perhaps you’ll tell me what it is you brew,

For I’ve dropped in to take _pot luck_ with you;

That is, I’d know my destiny; you see,

I’m not so easy as I’d wish to be.

1_st_ WITCH.――You’ve come to the right shop, my lord, for we

Can read the future.

MACB.―― _Read_? You know full well,

It takes you all you know to raise a _spell_.

2_nd_ WITCH.――Learn, Macbeth, for you’re haughtiness of late,

Yours is a sort of _horti_-cultural _fate_!

MACB.――No matter――let me know it!

1_st_ WITCH.―― If it ease you

But don’t blame me if what you hear don’t please you.

――――:o:――――

MAKING THE PUDDING.

_A Christmas Incantation._

1_st Witch._――Thrice have I the currants picked!

2_nd Witch._――Thrice; and I’ve the raisins stoned.

3_rd Witch._――Then to mix ’tis time, ’tis time.

1_st Witch._――Round about the pan then go,

In the flour and bread crumbs throw;

Salt and spice and suet add――

See the last named is not bad;

And with all your might and main,

Mix and stir and mix again!

_All._――Hark! the pot begins to bubble

We our labour must redouble.

2_nd Witch._――Plums and currants now we take,

And the sugar in we shake;

Candied peel and citron, too――

Get it fresh whate’er you do!

And ere any item sticks

Let us everything re-mix,

_All._――Never mind a little trouble,

Extra praise will pay us double.

3_rd Witch._――Now the eggs well beaten up

Pour in gently from a cup;

Add of milk a little drop,

And from stirring do not stop

Till the wooden spoon you pass

Through a well commingled mass.

Then when you can mix no more,

Over all the brandy pour,

None must idle then remain,

Each in turn must mix again.

_All._――True, it seems a lot of trouble

Ere it in the pot can bubble!

1_st Witch._――Now the basins we prepare,

Butter we each one with care,

Then with pudding them we fill,

And the cloth adjust with skill.

See the water’s boiling hot,

Ere we pop them in the pot,

And not wishing them to spoil,

For ten hours we’ll let them boil.

_All._――Now they’re in, the water bubbles!

Comes the end of all our troubles.

_Enter Mistress of the House._

_M. of H._――Well done, girls, I commend your pains,

One more duty only remains,

You must all join hands and sing

Like elves and fairies in a ring;

And what time your puddings boil

Sing, and thus forget your toil.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE MODERN MACBETH.

CHARACTERS.

Mac Gladstone, Mrs. Mac Gladstone, Joe Mac Caucus.

SCENE.――_The dining-room in Downing Street._

MAC GLAD.――Here now methinks our ministry were safe,

Were the graced person of our Gordon here,

Him do I challenge for his obstinacy

In sticking at Khartoum.

JOE MAC C.―― His absence, sir,

Is hard upon the Government. Please you, sir,

To grace us with your everlasting speech.

MAC GLAD.――There is no seat.

MRS. MAC GLAD.―― Here is a place for you.

MAC GLAD.――Who has played me this trick?

JOE MAC C.―― What, Grand Old Man?

(_Ghost of GORDON rises and sits in MAC GLADSTONE’S seat._)

MAC GLAD.――Thou can’st not say I did it; never shake

Thy gory locks at me.

MRS. MAC GLAD.―― O my good lord!

Read the _Spectator_ and the _Daily News_,

So you shall see your veritable self

No murderer, but simply one who sent

A hero to his death, so you might gain

A fair majority; and now that’s done

You look but on a corse.

MAC GLAD.―― Aye, there’s the rub;

Blood I have shed ere now; blood must be shed

If I am to keep office; murders, too

Must be performed; but why does this man rise,

With thousands freshly massacred around him,

To push me from my place? The public curse

Is worse than murder.

JOE MAC C.―― By these affidavits,

So cheaply forged in famous Brummagem,

The Caucus lacks you.

[_Ghost disappears._

MAC GLAD.―― Oh, my perjured friends,

I have a strange infirmity: I see

Red spectres in the watches of the night,

Brave men I sent to death; but that is nothing

To those who vote for me! Here’s wine, fill high,

I drink a health to all my Cabinet;

And to our dear friend Gordon whom we miss:

Would he were here! But yet methinks he saved

The Franchise Bill, and eke the Government,

A truly Christian scapegoat.

ALL.―― Gordon’s health.

[_Ghost appears again._

MAC GLAD.――Avaunt, and quit my sight! the desert hide thee!

I hoped the vultures would have ta’en thy bones;

Thou hast appeals unanswered in thy hands,

A dreadful diary.

MRS. MAC GLAD.――Think of this, good friends,

As but a thing of custom, though ’tis hard

To hear a nation’s curses on his head.

MAC GLAD.――What man dare, I dare;

Approach thou like the hated Beaconsfield,

The Salisbury, or trenchant Randolph Churchill,

Take any shape than that, and my glib tongue

Can argue thee away! Alive again,

Thou pointest to the desert with thy sword,

And trembling I behold thee! Hark, they call

The Grand Old Murderer! Hence, deathless shadow

Accusing victim hence!

(_Ghost disappears, and MAC GLADSTONE goes off to read the

Lessons in Hawarden Church._)

H. SAVILE CLARKE, 1885.

[Illustration]

_Shakespeare’s Recipe for Cooking a Beefsteak._

If when ’twere done ’twere well done, then ’twere well

It were done quickly.

[Illustration]

OTHELLO.

――――:o:――――

_Othello._――Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very noble and approved good masters,

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,

It is most true; true, I have married her;

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,

And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace:

For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used

Their dearest action in the tented field,

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,

And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration and what mighty magic,

For such proceeding I am charged withal,

I won his daughter.

OTHELLO., Act I. Scene III.

――――:o:――――

THE STROLLING PLAYER’S APOLOGY.

Most potent, gay, irreverend signiors,

My very noble and approv’d good fellows;

That I have been a vagrant strolling player,

It is most true; true, I have been a mummer;

The very head and front of my profession,

Hath this extent; no more. Loud am I in speech,

And little bless’d with the smooth phrase of towns;

For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,

’Till now some nine months wasted, they have us’d

Their dearest action in the rafted barn;

And little of the theatre can I speak,

More than pertains to claps, and groans, and hisses;

And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver,

Of my whole course of life; what cork, what brick dust,

What poverty, and what mighty shifts,

(For such calamities I’ve met withal)

Rank me with your honours.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

KENEALY’S SPEECH TO THE SENATE.

Most potent, grave, and reverent seigniors,

My very noble and approved good masters,

That I have pleaded long Sir Roger’s cause

It is most true. True, I have muddled it;

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech,

And little blessed with the set Commons’ phrase;

For since these hands of mine held Roger’s brief

Till now by Stoke elected, they have used

Their dearest action in that troubled field;

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to bearding judge and jury,

And therefore shall I little grace my cause

In speaking of myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will the round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of pleading――“proofs of hair,”

Of “love maternal”――“manners most refined”

(With such were the proceedings charged withal),

I told as records of the Claimant’s life;

From year to year, with wrecks and butchering,

Passed “under the broad canopy of heaven.”

I ran it through even from his boyish days

To the very moment that he bade me tell it;

Therein I spoke of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of Wagga-Wagga wandering to and fro,

And his returning as the Rightful Heir.

These things to hear

The British public seriously inclined;

And many a day did they with greedy ear

Devour up my discourse: which I observing,

Took once a pliant hour, and found the means

To start a newspaper――_The Englishman_――

Where all this pilgrimage I could dilate,

Whereof by parcels they had something heard;

And oft did I beguile them of their pence,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

Which his youth suffered. My story being done,

The judge and jury heeded not my sighs;

They said in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange,

’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful;

They wished they had not said it; yea they wished

That they had never heard the Claimant’s name,

And bade me, if I had a foe I hated,

Go tell him the everlasting story,

And then my client doomed to durance vile.

Then rose the readers of _The Englishman_,

And cried throughout the land with one accord,

“Appeal to Parliament!”

On that hint I spake――

They loved me for my notoriety,

And I loved them since it did profit me――

Therefore unto this Senate I appeal,

That my lost client should at once be free!

_Funny Folks_, May 8, 1875.

――――:o:――――

Iago’s high-sounding words about his reputation:――

“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls;

Who steals my purse steals trash――’tis something, nothing,

’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands:

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him,

And makes me poor indeed!”

were once quoted (so Tom Ingoldsby tells us) by a country baronet at a

general election. Perhaps his memory failed him, or perhaps he thought

to “gild refined gold!” His version was:――

“Who steals my purse steals stuff!

’Twas mine――’tisn’t his――nor nobody else’s!

But he who runs away with my GOOD NAME,

Robs me of what does not do him any good,

And makes me deuced poor!”

――――:o:――――

_Othello._―― O, now, for ever

Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content!

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,

That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!

Farewell, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,

The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,

The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!

And, O you mortal engines,, whose rude throats

The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit,

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!

_Act III. Scene III._

This favorite passage is cleverly imitated in George Colman’s Epilogue

to Sheridan’s “School for Scandal.” Lady Teazle, who has decided to

renounce Scandal, to live in peace with her husband, delivers the

epilogue from which the following is an extract:――

“Farewell, the tranquil mind! farewell, content!

Farewell, the plumed head, the cushioned tête,

That takes the cushion from its proper seat!

That spirit-stirring drum[37]――card drums I mean,

Spadille, odd trick, pam, basto, king and queen;

And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat,

The welcome visitor’s approach denote!

Farewell, all quality of high renown,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!

Farewell, your revels I partake no more,

And Lady Teazle’s occupation’s o’er!”

――――――――

THE UNDERTAKER’S FAREWELL.

O, now, for ever,

Farewell the mourning coach! Farewell the scarf!

Farewell the plumed hearse and the bad gloves,

That make a funeral’s profit! O farewell!

Farewell the sable steeds, and the black crape,

The spirit-swilling mutes, the expensive pall,

Pride, pomp, and vanity of gainful death:

And you, ye undertakers, whose long bills

The beak of snipe or woodcock counterfeit,

Farewell! your knavish occupation’s gone.

_Punch_, December, 1849.

――――――――

O EVANS!

_Middle-aged Man about Town loq._:――

Farewell the quiet chop! the kidneys poached!

Farewell the grizzled bones and the mixed drinks,

That made abstention virtue――O, farewell!

Farewell the ready waiter, the vague bill,

The nose-enlivening pinch, eye-winking smoke,

The kindly hand-shake, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of PADDY GREEN!

And O you ancient Basses, whose rude throats

The immortal Jove’s dread clamour counterfeit,

Farewell!――A fellow’s occupation’s gone!

_Punch_, November 1, 1879. _Othello improved._

――――――――

SHAKESPEARE PACKING UP HIS GOODS.

“I had been happy, if the General Thumb,

Barnum and all, had bought up the old house

In which I ne’er was born. But now for ever

Farewell the pencil’d wall! farewell the prints,

Farewell the well-thumb’d book, and all the names

That made its pages precious! Oh, farewell!

And oh you silver shillings, whose bright face

Our blessed Queen’s fair portrait counterfeits,

Farewell! Poor Shakespeare’s sole support is gone!”

From _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 2.

――――――――

SOLILOQUY OF THE MOOR OF COVENT GARDEN.

An address supposed to be delivered by Mr. John Philip Kemble, in the

character of _Othello_, during the famous O. P. (old price) riots in

Covent Garden Theatre, which commenced on September 18th, 1809. The

public objected to the increased prices charged in the new theatre,

and also to the additional number of small private boxes, which were

intended to be let for the year. The riots continued until December

16th, when the old prices were restored.

I had been _happy_ if th’ united House,

Pit, galleries, and boxes,――all had paid

Their money _cheerily_, and riot we had none.

Oh! now for ever farewell ambition’s hope!

Farewell applause! and side-long glances

From the boxes, thro’ the sticks of fan,

Or from behind the kerchief-veiled face.

Farewell our golden hopes of swelling bags,

And long account at banker’s.

Farewell ye wanton toys of feather’d cupid

In th’ anti-chambers of the private annuals!

Hark! the loud twanging of the bugle-horn,

Th’ ear-piercing whistle, and terrific bell,

The plaguy placard, drum, and deafening rattle;

The voice Stentorian, and the serpent’s hiss!

Sibilant,――all, all awake me

From dreams delusive of eternal triumph!

And ye, ye catcalls, of infernal sound,

Whose barbarous sounds might even split the ears

Of Belzebub himself,――cease your horrific din,

No more the valiant _Dan_, with _host of Israel_,

Flank’d and supported by the Bow-street tribe

Of myrmidons, and bruisers _squaring_ in the pit;――

No more the phalanx dares to face the town.

O’erwhelm’d by numbers and determin’d hate,

No more the _orders_ in the boxes now

Support the managers,――but placards wave,

And O. P.’s shine from every box! _initials hateful_;

All, all, our efforts are in vain, and fate decides

By the loud voice of the people,――_irresistible_,

That prices be reduced, and privacies

Thrown open.――

Farewell,――OTHELLO’S occupation’s gone!

_The Covent Garden Journal_, 1810.

――――:o:――――

_The Royal Dramatic College Annual_, for July, 1868, contains an

imaginary dialogue between Othello (Lord Dundreary) and Iago (Mr.

Buckstone), written by Mr. T. F. Dillon-Croker. It is very amusing,

but it is not strictly a parody.

WILLIAM IV. AND REFORM.

When the great Reform Bill was thrown out by the Lords on May 7,

1832, the Ministry resigned, and the country was on the verge of

Revolution. King William IV. who had hitherto been bitterly opposed

to any Reforms, now induced the Ministers to resume office by

reluctantly granting to Earl Grey full power to secure majorities, by

the creation of new Peers. Henry, Lord Brougham, was then Lord

Chancellor. The following parody appeared in _Figaro in London_,

illustrated with portraits of the Puppet King (“Silly-Billy” he was

styled), Earl Grey, and Lord Brougham.

THE ROYAL PUPPET.

“Here is a representation of a puppet, the movements of

which are occasioned by certain strings, which are held in

the hands of persons who amuse themselves by pulling first

one and then the other according as it may serve their

temporary purposes. The funny little figure wriggles about

first to one side and then the other just as it strikes the

whim of those in whose hands he happens to be, and he is

forced when acted on by them to play whatever antics they

may deem desirable. One jerk may make the little fellow

extend his hand in an attitude of friendship, while the next

moment he may be made grotesquely to throw up his foot, as

if he would kick down the very thing to which he had the

moment before offered his hand, and thus he wriggles about

in every sense of the word, the mere _puppet_ of those who

possess the power to play upon him. Occasionally the funny

little figure is made to take part in a scenic

representation, and here we give to our readers a specimen

of certain interesting

STATE THEATRICALS.

The subject is chosen from Shakespeare’s Othello, and the

following is the cast of the principal characters.”

OTHELLO, by _The Puppet_.

IAGO, by _Lord Brougham_.

DESDEMONA, by _Hibernia, the Sister Country_.

It would be needless and somewhat tedious to print the whole

of the well-known tragedy,――showing how Desdemona was

wronged, and Othello degraded, by the cunning of Iago.

For _Iago_ and _Othello_ we shall for the sake of

verisimilitude insert the names of their representatives,

Brougham and the Puppet.

_Brougham._――Look where he comes, not Ballot nor Church Reform,

Nor e’en a Grant of Universal Suffrage,

Shall ever give to thee that high respect

Thou hadst but yesterday.

ENTER THE PUPPET.

_Puppet._――Ha! ha! pelt at me? at me?

_Brougham._――Why, how now, Governor? no more of that.

_Puppet._――Avaunt! begone! thou’st set me on the rack,

I swear, ’tis better to be much abused

Than but to know’t a little.

_Brougham._――How now, my lord.

_Puppet._――What sense had I, the Bill[38] would raise such a dust,

I saw it not――thought it not――it harm’d not me,

I slept the next night well――was gay and merry,

I heard no curses on the peoples’ lips:

He that is damned, not hearing of the damning,

Let him not know’t and he’s not damned at all.

_Brougham._――I am sorry to hear this.

_Puppet._――I had been happy, if the general camp

Volunteers and all had slaughtered every body,

So I had nothing known! O now for ever

Farewell the people’s love――farewell applause,

Farewell the loud “hurrah” and big “huzzas”

That made my rides so pleasant, O farewell!

Farewell the wave of hats, and the shrill “_bravo_,”

The kerchief-shaking, and all quality

Bows, shouts――the glorious products of Reform.

And O! ye papers! engines, whose anathemas

Th’ immortal Figaro’s dread cuts counterfeit,

Farewell! poor Billy’s occupation’s gone.

_Brougham._――Is it possible, my lord?

_Puppet._――(_Going fiercely to him_)――Villain! be sure you

Prove the Bill was wanted,

Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof,

(_Seizing him by the throat._)

Or by the worth of mine illustrious crown,

Thou had’st better have been born a dog――a dog, Brougham,

Than answer my waked wrath.

_Brougham._――Is it come to this?

_Puppet._――If thou dost wrong poor Erin and humbug me,

Never speak more――abandon all debate――

On taxes, head taxes accumulate,

Pass Bills to make Whigs weep, Tories amazed,

For nothing can’st thou to damnation add

Greater than that.

_Brougham._――O Place! O heaven defend me,

Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense?

Eldon be with you; take mine office――O wretched fool

That liv’st to make thy Whiggery a vice;

To be directly Whiggish is not safe.

I thank you for this profit――and from hence

I’ll be no Whig――since Whigs give such offence.

(_Going._)

_Puppet._――Nay, stay,

I think the Bill is needed and think it’s not,

I think the Whigs are right, yet think they’re not.

Would I were satisfied.

_Brougham._――How satisfied, my lord,

Would you the supervisor, go yourself to Erin,

And see her people.

_Puppet._――Death and damnation! no!

_Brougham._――It were a tedious bore, I think

To take an actual prospect: damn them, then.

_Puppet._――I’ll tear ’em all to pieces.

_Brougham._――Nay, but be wise, tell me but this――

_Puppet._――Oh, that the slaves had forty-thousand lives,

One each is far too poor for my revenge.

Now do I see ’tis time, look here, Brougham,

All my reforming thus I blow to heaven,

’Tis gone――

Assist, black Tories, the blood-thirsty bill,

Yield up, O Whigs, thy former popularity

To hateful tyranny.

_Brougham._――Pray be content.

_Puppet._――Blood, Brougham, blood.

_Brougham._――Patience, I say; our minds perhaps may change.

_Puppet._――Never. Brougham,

By yonder civil list

I here engage my words. (_Kneels._)

_Brougham_.――Do not rise yet:

Witness you ever-turning Whigs above,

You Tories too, still rolling round about,

Witness, that here, Brougham doth give up

The execution of his wit, hand, heart,

To worthy William’s service! let him command,

And to obey shall be in me remorse,

What bloody work soe’er.

_Puppet._――I greet thy love, not with vain thanks,

But with acceptance bounteous,

Within these three months let me hear thee say

O’Connell’s not at large.

_Brougham._――Daniel’s _in quod_,

’Tis done at your desire.

_Puppet._――Now art thou quite my Chancellor.

_Brougham._――I am thine own for ever. _Exeunt._

――――:o:――――

A SCENE FROM OTHELLO.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS.

_Othello_ (on this occasion) by Mr. Punch.

_The Lamp_ (one of the lights of the age) by Lord John Russell.

Enter OTHELLO (PUNCH) taking the LAMP (LORD JOHN RUSSELL) _in his

hand_.

It is the cause, by JOVE, it is the cause;

Let me not name it to you, ye wild Rads.

It is the cause.

Put out LORD JOHN and then put in BOB PEEL.

Yet I’ll not oust the Whigs,

Nor force the really able ones to go:

I’d rather aid them with some sticking plaster.

Yet he must out――or he’ll betray more men.

Put out LORD JOHN and then――put out the Whigs!

If I extinguish thee, thou flaming minister,

I can thy former place restore, should it repent me;

But once put out the Whigs, I know not where

That party is their places can supply.

Othello (PUNCH) sits down in a desponding attitude, and looking at

the Lamp (LORD JOHN RUSSELL) he naturally falls asleep.

_Punch_, July 22, 1848.

――――:o:――――

A SCENE FROM “OTHELLO.”

(_Adapted to Recent Events_).

_Iago_ (_a critic_). How now, dear sir?

[39]_Othello_ (_musing_). What sense had I to be thus madly thrust

Forth as Salvini’s rival? Though his Moor

Was grand and passionate, it harmed not me.

I slept the next night well, was free and merry;

The public hailed me still the coming man.

He that is robbed, not wanting what is stol’n,

Let him not know’t and he’s not robbed at all.

_Iago._ I am sorry to hear this.

_Othello._ I had been happy if a crowded house,

Critics and all, had seen me in the _Bells_,

Or _Hamlet_――but the Moor! O, now for ever

Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!

Farewell the ringing cheer, the loud “brayvo”

That echoed from Olympus! O, farewell

To the young “gusher” of the _Semaphore_,

Who oft such “civil service” did to me;

To the loud _Thunderer_――to the shrilly trump

Of the stern _Tiser_, and the _Echo’s_ fife,

The Royal _Standard_, and all quality.

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious Puff!

And O, you mortal scribblers, whose swift pens

The drama’s “palmy days” did counterfeit,

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!

_Iago._ Is it possible? But, sir――――

_Othello._ Villain, be sure you prove me not the Moor.

Or, by the worth of my Shakespearian fame,

Thou hadst been better――better born a dog

Than answer my waked wrath.

_Iago._ Is it come to this?

_Othello._ Make me to see ’t, or at the least so prove it

That the probation bear no hinge nor loop

To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!

_Iago._ My dear, good sir――――

_Othello._ If thou dost quiz my Moor and mimic me,

Never write more; abandon all remorse,

On horror’s head horrors accumulate,

Do deeds to make your editor amazed,

For nothing canst thou to damnation add

Greater than this.

_Iago._ O grace! O heaven defend me!

_Othello._ I think that thou are just and think thou art not

I’ll have some proof. My fame, that was as fresh

As Dian’s visage, cannot be grimed and black

As mine own face!

I’ll not believe it. Would I were satisfied!

_Funny Folks._

――――:o:――――

“Othello Travestie, an operatic Burlesque Burletta,” by Maurice G.

Dowling, Esq., was first produced at the Liver Theatre, Liverpool,

March, 1834, and was afterwards performed at the Strand Theatre,

London.

This now reads as a very dull and stupid burlesque, in which the only

approach at fun is obtained from causing Othello to speak, and act,

like a negro melodist. The songs introduced are mostly founded on the

Ethiopian melodies then popular, and there are no passages, of any

merit, parodying the original tragedy.

This burlesque can still be obtained from Mr. Samuel French, 89,

Strand, London.

There was a much earlier “Othello Travestie,” published in 1813, of

which details are wanting.

――――:o:――――

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

Take, O, take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;

And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn;

But my kisses bring again, bring again;

Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE, _Act IV. Scene 1._

This song also occurs in Act V. Scene 2, of Beaumont and Fletcher’s

_Bloody Brother_, with the following additional stanza:――

Hide, O, hide those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears,

On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are of those that April wears!

But first set my poor heart free,

Bound in those icy chains by thee.

――――:o:――――

Take, O, take that bill away,

That, alas! long since was due!

Call again some other day,

When the trees do bud anew――

Maybe, dimly distant spring

Some financial change will bring.

――――:o:――――

HIGH GAME.

Take, oh! take the haunch away

Which all sweetness hath forsworn;

Never was more cruel day,

Close and muggy was the morn.

To stop my nose, alas! is vain;

John, bring the salmon up again.

Hide that fat, more white than snow,

Which the ven’son’s bosom bears;

To the haunch mine eyes will grow,

Such a tempting form it wears;

If my tongue from taste were free,

Many a slice I’d eat of thee.

_Rhapsodies_, by W. H. Ireland, 1803.

――――:o:――――

In 1879 a Mr. Tracy Turnerelli acquired a certain notoriety in

consequence of having organized a subscription to purchase a golden

laurel wreath to be presented to Lord Beaconsfield. The subscription

was entitled “The People’s Tribute,” and 52800 pennies were collected,

the wreath was made and publicly exhibited, when, to the great disgust

of Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, the Prime Minister declined the gift. Lord

Beaconsfield’s reasons were given in the following letter, which

cleverly exposes the self-seeking motives of the organiser of this

“Tribute”:――

“10, Downing-street, Whitehall, June 16, 1879.――Sir,――Lord

Beaconsfield desires me to inform you that he has received

and carefully considered your letter of the 8th inst., in

which you ask him to name a day for the presentation of a

laurel wreath procured by the contributions of upwards of

50,000 of the people, which have been collected, according

to your statement, with ‘immense labour and

never-yet-exampled efforts.’ His lordship has, moreover, had

before him the correspondence which during the last five

years you have addressed to him, and he notices especially

your complaints that your services have received no

recognition at the hands of the leaders of the Conservative

party, and the expression of your hope that ‘sooner or later

they will meet with reward.’ Although Lord Beaconsfield

would fully appreciate and value a spontaneous gift from his

fellow-subjects belonging to a class in which he has ever

taken the warmest interest, he cannot but feel that, being

himself intimately connected with honours and rewards, he is

precluded by the spirit in which you have previously

addressed him from accepting a gift thus originated, and

proffered in a manner which he cannot deem satisfactory.――I

have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, ALGERNON

TURNOR.

Tracy Turnerelli, Esq.”

The golden wreath was publicly exhibited at the Crystal Palace,

and afterwards at Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition.

――――:o:――――

“THE WREATH.”

Take, oh take that wreath away,

Which so many pennies cost,

On which labour “ne’er-to-be――

Calculated” has been lost:

But true honour bring again;――

“Peace with honour” is in vain.

Send, oh send those pennies back

To the fools who sent them you:

They will all their pennies lack

When their income tax is due.

Though you’ve cozened such a mass,

Turnerelli, you’re an ass.

_Bits of Beaconsfield, a New Series of Disraeli’s Curiosities of

Literature_, (Abel Heywood & Son, Manchester.)

――――――――

To which Turnerelli is supposed to have replied in the following

parody of Ben Jonson:

THE WREATH.

(After an old model).

I bought thee late a golden wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,

As giving me a hope that I

Thy pensioner might be.

But thou thereat didst only sneer,

And wouldst have none of me;

Since when I hate the thing, I swear,

Not for itself, but thee.

_Funny Folks_, July, 1879.

――――――――

THE WREATH REFUSED.

Take, oh take that wreath away,

Though it shine as bright as morn,

Never shall the Lib’rals say,

I am open to their scorn;

And though you may come again,

You will always come in vain.

Hide, oh hide that saucy head,

Which your portly body bears;

Had you only brought instead

Something which a noble wears,

As they give to Gladstone now,

You would then have saved this row.

True, oh true I should have nipped

This mad scheme when it began;

But I did not think your gift

Would be chaffed by every man.

And, alas, my Honoured Peace,

Does no longer gull the geese!

_Beaconsfield the Immaculate._ (F. E. Longley, London, 1880.)

――――:o:――――

ERIN’S APPEAL TO BRITANNIA.

Take, O, take Parnell away,

Though so loudly he hath sworn;

God forgive me if I say,

Would he never had been born;

And if thou canst take another,

Take his sister;――take his mother!

Take from poor unhappy maid

All the “friends” that prey upon her;

Keep the lot that _hasn’t stayed_――

Prudent Egan and O’Connor;

And if short of patriot vigour,

Try O’Sullivan;――try Biggar!

ANONYMOUS.

_Grins and Groans_, 1882.

[Illustration]

RICHARD THE THIRD.

ACT I.

SCENE I. _London. A street._

_Enter RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus._

_Glou._ Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front

And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks;

Nor made to court an amorous looking glass;

I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

And descant upon mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

I am determined to prove a villain

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,

To set my brother Clarence and the king

In deadly hate the one against the other:

And if King Edward be as true and just

As I am subtle, false and treacherous,

This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,

About a prophecy, which says that G

Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.

This speech was chosen as the original for a parody competition in

_The World_, in September, 1879, the subject to be treated being “The

Return of Lord Chelmsford and other officers from Zululand.”

FIRST PRIZE.

LORD C. _loq._ Now is the night of our despondency

Illumined with the star of victory;

And all the gloom that hung on Afric’s coast

Lost in the glory of Ulundi’s fame.

Now are our battered arms with laurels crowned;

Our stern defences turned to swift pursuit;

Our laagered outposts into merry camps.

Now may the mounted staff in bright array――

Where lurks no more the dangerous ambuscade――

Pursue the track of frightened fugitives,

Cantering as gaily, as on Rotten Row

With amorous glance when Phryne tempts pursuit.

But I, that care not for these showy tricks,

To make sensation pictures for the press;

I, that am plain of speech, and lack the grace

Of smooth reporters to exaggerate

The lame conclusion and unfinished aim

Of a safe skirmish with some half-armed tribes

Into the conduct of a mighty war,

So that the farce makes laughter for the clubs,――

Why I, who bore the burden of the fight,

Can smile to see _his_ swaggering airs,

Who would make me the shadow to his sun,

And boast his strength in my infirmity.

Since, then, I cannot turn a sycophant

To woo the loud-mouthed plaudits of the mob,

I scorn the changing fancies of these days,

And wait the verdict of impartial fame.

Plain can I see the drift of Wolseley’s plots:

By false deductions and imputed blame

To make our victories all imperfect seem,

Our troops superfluous, and his skill supreme.

No matter! For our Queen, as true and just

As meaner minds are vain and envious,

This day hath bid me to her gracious court;

And our Queen’s smile――no prophet needs to say――

Is the sure prelude of a nations praise.

OLD LOG.

――――――――

SECOND PRIZE.

SCENE: _Zululand, the Bush. Enter CETEWAYO, with

an English newspaper._

CET. Now are the grumblings of their discontent

Turned all too strangely into blatant talk;

And all the angry questionings in their House

In the deep mockery of sham welcomes buried.

Now are some brows bound with victorious wreaths,

Their late misdeeds held up for monuments,

Their vacillations changed to themes for greetings,

Their rearward marches to prudential measures.

Grim-visaged warriors seam their laughing fronts

To see how he who breathless urged his steed,

Frightened to death of Zulu adversaries,

Now poses blandly in the festive chamber,

And speaks, when better taste should make him mute.

But I, that know not much of party tricks,

Nor how defeats seem through their looking-glass;

I, that have rudely stamped upon their majesty,

Nor failed to chase them oft from veld and drift;

I, though curtailed of all my realm’s proportions,

Cheated of fealty by their politic measures,

Dethroned, diminished, sent in double time

Into this uttermost bush, with peace made up

So lamely and of such apparent patchwork

That men laugh at it as I talk to them,――

Why I, in this weak parody on peace,

Should scorn like these to pass away the time,

Mistaking much the shadow for the sun,

And braying forth their own deformity;

And therefore――though I cannot fall much lower

In all things needful in these latter days――

I envy not the braggartdom of Britain,

And hate the rampant rubbish of her ways,

As shown me in this paper――dangerous

And morbid prophecies, libels, and schemes

To set my brother chiefs against their king,

In deadly hate the one against the other.

And if Cetewayo views the future just

Of these same English, false and treacherous――

If ‘penny dreadfuls’ be not close mew’d up――

This is his prophecy: _That they and G.

Of England’s fame the murderers shall be_.

Brim up, thoughts o’er my soul! my time yet comes.

LINDENFELD.

_The World_, September 10, 1879.

――――:o:――――

“Kinge Richard ye Third, or ye Battel of Bosworth Field; a merry

mysterie,” in one act, by Charles Selby, was produced at the Strand

Theatre, on February 26, 1844. This burlesque can be obtained from Mr.

Samuel French, 89, Strand, London.

A much more ambitious burlesque of the same tragedy was produced at

the New Royalty Theatre, Soho, during the management of Miss Oliver,

on September 24, 1868. This was written by F. C. Burnand, and was

entitled “The Rise and Fall of Richard III; or a new Front to an old

Dicky.”

The cast was as follows:――

_Duke of Gloster_, afterwards, in Scene 2, Richard the Third

(a character drawn, from the ideal of a Richardsonian

playwright and a Colley-_Cibber-wright_). He is a

humpbacked, knocknee’d, generally hideous; altogether a

‘_beautiful part_’ played by Mr. DEWAR.

_Henry_, _Earl of Richmond_ (original Proprietor of the Star

and Garter). Henry Richmond “passed the best years of his

life in Brittany, and was more of a Frenchman than an

Englishman” Miss CHARLOTTE SAUNDERS.

_Lord Stanley_ (Richmond’s stepfather devoted to his cause

unless Richard wins the day) Mr. RUSSELL.

_The Duke of Buckingham_ (Richard’s friend and then his

enemy) Miss ANNIE COLLINSON.

_Sir John Catesby_, or _Cats-by_

(Richard’s ally) Miss NELLIE BROMLEY.

_Tyrrel_ (a descendant of the gentleman who killed William

Rufus). An hereditary villain. Richard’s “creature” Mr. DAY.

_The Lord Mayor of London_ Mr. KENWARD.

_The Recorder_, by the gentleman who wrote the celebrated

history, _i.e._ Mr. COBBETT.

_The Mace_ Mr. CHARLES.

_Pages of History_ By LADIES of the BALLET.

_Duchess of York_ (mother of Richard the Third) Mr. DANVERS.

_Lady Anne_ Miss THOMPSON.

and

_Princess Elizabeth_ (betrothed to Richmond) Miss M. OLIVER.

There have been several other burlesques of this tragedy; Richard III.

Travestie, with annotations, by William By, 1816; Richard III.

Travestie, 1823; and Richard III. burlesqued, by J. Sterling Coyne,

1844.

[Illustration]

KING HENRY VIII.

_Cardinal Wolsey_

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new open’d. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours!

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

_Act III., Sc. II._

――――――――

LAMENT OF THE EMINENT ONE.

_Henry Irving_

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is mistaken man: to night he puts forth

The jingling Bells; then Charles; then the mad Dane,

And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:

Then comes a sudden frost, a fearful frost;

And,――when he thinks, good easy man full surely

His eminence is admitted――stops his flight

And down, kerslap! he tumbles! I have fancied,

L ike frogs puffed up with pride, myself an ox;

And grew so swollen with my own vain-glory,

That I was doomed to burst. My fragments fell

Upon that new laid stage expressly built,

[40]By Mrs. B., to bear me stiffly up.

Thus I am left a prey

For some rude knaves that will for weeks yet hide me.

Remorseless scribblers of the press, I hate ye!

I feel ye at my throat,――yet there is one――

One silver-haired old man who swears by me,

Who comforts me be _Times_ with lines of praise,

And says ’tis quite O. K. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on critics’ favors:

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet incense of printer’s ink, and blame,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have.

No matter! _He_ proclaims me eminent,

And in his burning words no trace of slate――

Thus may I hope again.

_The Figaro_, October 2, 1875.

――――――――

MR. GLADSTONE AND HIS OLD CHINA.

The following, which purports to be a meditation of our junior member

for Greenwich on his past career, called forth by the recent sale of

his Pictures and Old China, was according to the _Morning Advertiser_,

picked up in the sale room at Christie’s, at the close of Mr.

Gladstone’s sale on Saturday last. Our spirited contemporary admits

that the only evidence as to its authorship is internal, and is

inclined to think it by no means reliable, but this is a matter

respecting which all who read it are at liberty to form their own

opinion:――

“Farewell, a long farewell to all my teapots;

My tazzas, plaques, medallions, dishes, cups;

For all are gone――no shred remains behind.

This is the way with man. To-day he buys

The choice, cracked specimens of divers wares;

Collects with ardour Dresden, Chelsea, Bow,

And ransacks town for Derby and Berlin;

With taste eclectic, if not critical,

Fills all his rooms. To-morrow, hugs his store,

And swears that not one vase, one plate shall go.

The third day comes, and straightway in _The Times_

Doth Christie set forth in advertisement

The details of that once-loved china store,

And sells by public auction every piece.

This is the fashion――I have followed it,

My china, like my former fame, is gone;

I have outlived my greatness and my ware;

My Wedgwood and my power alike have passed.

The thought is very bitter. Oh how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on people’s favor!

Two years ago I was the ‘People’s William,’

My name a power at Greenwich and elsewhere.

The Churches trembled, and the Income Tax

Shook lest its last twopenny pieces went.

I was Dictator then.” * *

* * * * *

_The Kentish Mercury_, July 3, 1875.

――――――――

_College Rhymes_ (Oxford) contains a long parody of this scene from

Henry VIII. See p. 178, vol. 14.

[Illustration]

JULIUS CÆSAR.

_Brutus._――Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause,

and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine

honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may

believe: censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses,

that you may the better judge. If there be any in this

assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar’s, to him I say that

Brutus’ love to Cæsar was no less than his. If then that

friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my

answer:――Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome

more. Had you rather Cæsar were living and die all slaves,

than that Cæsar were dead, to live all free men? As Cæsar

loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at

it; as he was valiant I honour him; but, as he was

ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for

his fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his

ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If

any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude

that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I

offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his

country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for

a reply.

ACT iii. SCENE ii.

A POACHING ACTOR.

A poor itinerant player, caught performing the part of a poacher, and

being taken before the magistrates assembled at a quarter sessions for

examination, one of them asked him what right he had to kill a hare?

when he replied in the following parody on Brutus’ speech to the

Romans in defence of the death of Cæsar:――

“Britons, hungrymen, and epicures! hear me for my cause; and

be silent――that you may hear; believe me for mine honour,

and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe:

censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses that you

may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any

dear friend of this hare, to him I say, that a player’s love

for hare is no less than his. If, then, that friend demand

why a player rose against a hare, this is my answer――not

that I loved hare less, but that I loved eating more. Had

you rather this hare were living, and I had died

starving――than that this hare were dead, that I might live a

jolly fellow? As this hare was pretty, I weep for him; as he

was nimble, I rejoice at it; as he was plump, I honour him;

but, as he was eatable, I slew him. There are tears for his

beauty; honour for his condition; joy for his speed; and

death for his toothsomeness. Who is here so cruel would see

a starved man? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who

is here so silly that would not take a tit-bit? If any,

speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so sleek that

does not love his belly? If any, speak, for him have I

offended.”

“You have offended justice, sirrah,” cried one of the

magistrates, out of all patience at this long and strange

harangue.

“Then,” cried the culprit, guessing at the hungry feelings

of the bench, “since justice is dissatisfied, it must needs

have something to devour; heaven forbid I should keep any

gentleman from his dinner――so, if you please, I’ll wish your

worships a good day, and a good appetite.”

――――:o:――――

_Marc Antony._――

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Cæsar answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest――

For Brutus is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honourable men――

Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause:

What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?

O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;

My heart is in the Coffin there with Cæsar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

_Act III., Sc. II._

――――:o:――――

This oration was recently selected as the original for a parody

competition in _The Weekly Dispatch_, the subject treated being the

political situation on the resignation of Mr. Gladstone.

The Prize was awarded to Mr. T. Alderson Wilson, 3, Church Terrace,

Queen’s Road, South Lambeth, S.W., for the following:――

SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT (LOQ.);

Whigs, Lib’rals, Radicals, lend me your ears;

I cannot speak of Gladstone and not praise him,

The work that statesmen do lives after them,

Though it is oft imperilled by their fall.

So will it be with Gladstone. The noble marquis

Hath told you Gladstone was ambitious.

If it were so, now by the late default

Of his supporters he hath answered it.

Here, under leave of Cecil and the rest

(For Cecil is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honourable men),

Come I to speak on Gladstone’s overthrow.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me;

But Cecil says he was ambitious;

And Cecil is an honourable man.

He hath brought many markets to our trade,

Whose commerce doth the general coffers fill.

Did this in Gladstone seem ambitious?

When “Tax the Corn!” they cried, Gladstone hath kept

Taxation from the tables of the poor,

Yet Cecil says he was ambitious;

And Cecil is an honourable man.

You all did see that in her audience-room

The Queen did offer him a coronet,

The which he did refuse. Was this ambition?

Yet Cecil says he was ambitious;

And Cecil is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Cecil spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did rally round him and his cause,

What cause withholds you now to vote for him?

O Judgment, thou hast passed from Radicals,

And Whigs have lost their reason! Bear with me;

My heart is on the benches Ministerial,

And I must sigh till I get back to them!

――――――――

The following were highly commended:――

JOHN BRIGHT (LOQ.):

Friends, Britons, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to speak of Gladstone, not to praise him.

The evil that men do is loudly bruited;

The good should live to answer in their praise.

So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill

Hath told you Gladstone is disloyal:

If he be so, it is a grievous fault,

And grievously shall Gladstone answer it.

Here under leave of Churchill and the rest

(For Churchill is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honourable men),

Come I to speak of Gladstone my free mind.

He is my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Churchill says he is disloyal;

And Churchill is an honourable man.

He hath in many a Budget swept away

The taxes that oppressed your daily wants.

Did this in Gladstone seem disloyal?

When that the poor were dumb he gave them voice――

Disloyalty’s not made of trustful stuff:

Yet Churchill says he is disloyal;

And Churchill is an honourable man.

You all do know that when he sought repose

You, trumpet-tongued, did call him from his rest

To remedy your wrongs. Was this disloyal?

Yet Churchill says he is disloyal;

And sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once――not without cause;

What cause withholds you, then, to vote for him?

O Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;

My heart’s in Opposition there with Gladstone,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

H. L. BRICKEL.

――――――――

Friends, voters, countrymen, lend me your ears;

’Tis yours to judge of Gladstone, not to jeer him.

The evil statesmen do, lives after them,

The good is oft forgotten when they go.

So let it be with Gladstone. The noble Churchill

Hath told you Gladstone was a traitor:

If he were so, his was a grievous fault,

And at the polls will Gladstone answer it.

Here, begging leave of Randolph and the rest

(For Randolph is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honourable men),

Come I to speak of Gladstone’s recent deeds.

He was our friend, faithful and just to us:

But Churchill says he was a traitor;

And Churchill is an honourable man.

He hath to twice a million given votes,

Who, ransomed, now the land with gladness fill.

Did this in Gladstone seem as trait’rous?

When that the Irish groaned, Gladstone hath risked

His reputation to remove their woes:

Yet Churchill says he was a traitor;

And Churchill is an honourable man.

You all did see that ere he office left

The Queen presented him a fossil’s crown,

Which humbly he refused. Perhaps this was trait’rous?

For Churchill says he was a traitor;

And sure the bauble he’d have grasped himself.

I speak not to disprove what Churchill spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause,

What cause withholds you all to love him now?

O Office, thou art gone to Brag and Bung!

But voters still have reason. And this mark――

Their hearts are in the good cause, and with Gladstone;

And he will work till reeling Jingo’s crushed.

GEORGE MALLINSON.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, June 28, 1885.

[Illustration]

CYMBELINE.

SONG.

_Guiderius._ Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy worldly task has done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

_Arviragus._ Fear no more, the frown o’ the great;

Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

_Guiderius._ Fear no more the lightning flash.

_Arviragus._ Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

_Guiderius._ Fear not slander, censure rash;

_Arviragus._ Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:

_Both._ All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

_Guiderius._ No exorciser harm thee!

_Arviragus._ Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

_Guiderius._ Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

_Arviragus._ Nothing ill come near thee!

_Both._ Quiet consummation have;

And renowned be thy grave!

Act IV. Scene II.

――――:o:――――

TO L. P. ON TAKING HIS DEGREE.

Fear no more the voice of the don,

Nor the oft-cut tutor’s rages,

Thou thy Oxford course hast run,

And art numbered with the sages.

All Oxford men, its my belief,

Must graduate or come to grief.

Fear no more the snarl of the sub[41],

Thou art past that tyrant’s stroke.

No more buttery beer, and grub,

No more rows with sported oak!

Even X.―――― himself, its my belief,

Must graduate or come to grief!

Fear no more the bull-dog’s dash,

Nor pursuing proctor’s tone.

Fear not rustication rash,

Thou art now a graduate grown!

All we, like thee, its my belief,

Must do the same or come to grief!

No dun’s accountant harm thee!

No ugly woman charm thee!

Tick unpaid forbear thee!

Never bill come near thee!

Prosper, flourish, gain renown,

Ere you take the master’s gown!

_Odd Echoes from Oxford_, by A. Merion, B.A. (London, J. C. Hotten,

1872).

[Illustration]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

ACT II. SCENE VII. _The Forest._

_A table set out. Enter_ DUKE senior, AMIENS, _and_ Lords _like_

outlaws.

_Duke S._ I think he be transform’d into a beast;

For I can no where find him like a man.

_First Lord._ My lord, he is but even now gone hence;

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

_Duke S._ If he, compact of jars, grow musical,

We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.

Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.

_Enter JAQUES._

_First Lord._ He saves my labour by his own approach.

_Duke S._ Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What, you look merrily!

_Jaq._ A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,

A motley fool; a miserable world!

As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,

And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms,

In good set terms and yet a motley fool.

“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he,

“Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune;”

And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock:

Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.

’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,

And after one hour more ’twill be eleven;

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;

And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

And I did laugh sans intermission

An hour by his dial. O noble fool!

A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

――――――――

A COLD RENDERING.

The open-air performances of _As You Like it_ at Combe are all very

well, but under the influences of an east wind and damp ground, colds

in the head come on very rapidly, just imagine the melancholy Jaques

speaking thus:――

A fool, a fool!――I bet a fool i’ the forest,

A botley fool;――a biserable world!

As I do live by――attishu――food, I bet a fool;

Who laid hib dowd ad bask’d hib id the sud,

Ad rail’d od Lady Fortude id good terbs,

Id good set terbs――attishu――ad yet a botley fool.

“Good borrow, fool,” quoth I, “Dough, Sir,” quoth he.

“Call be dot fool till heaved has sed be fortude.”

Ad――attishu――thed he drew a dial frob his poke,

Ad lookid od it with lack lustre eye,

Says very wisely, “It’s ted o’clock;

Thus we bay see” quoth he, “how the world wags,

Tis but ad hour ago sidce it was dide;

Ad after ad――attishu――hour bore, ’twill be eleved;

Ad so frob hour to hour, we ripe ad ripe,

Ad thed frob hour to hour we rot ad rot,

Ad thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear,

The botley fool thus boral od the tibe,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep-codtebplative;

Ad I did laugh, sads idterbissiod.

Ad――attishu――hour by his dial. O doble fool!

A worthy fool! Botley’s the odly wear――attishu!

_Funny Folks_, 1885.

――――――――

MELANCHOLY JAQUES ON THE DUDE.

A dude――a dude! I met a dude i’ the avenue;

A silly dude;――a most conceited blockhead!――

As I do live by toil, I met a dude,

Who sucked his cane, and basked him in the sun,

And ogled all the ladies with his grin;

With good broad grin, and yet a silly dude.

“Good morrow, dude,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he.

“Call me not dude till I have put on corsets;”

And then he drew an eye-glass from his poke,

And looking through it with lack-lustre eye,

Said, very softly, “She’s the proper soot!

Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags:

The last that passed was ugly as my cane;

The next that comes may be a very angel.

And, so from hour to hour, we bloom and bloom,

And then, from hour to hour, we fade and fade,

And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear

The silly dude thus comment on the girls,

My toes began to itch like chilblain toes,

That dudes should be so deep-nonsensical;

And I did kick, sans intermission,

That dude for half an hour. Oh, noble dude!

A worthy dude!――skin-tight’s the only wear.

――――:o:――――

All the world’s a Newspaper!

And all our men and women merely _readers_:

They have their tastes and their hobby horses,

And each one in his turn receives a part,

The number being _seven_――First the Poet,

Fond of the jingling line and tinsel smile,

Enjoying tortur’d sense and strangling art,

But if the line flows smoothly to its end,

For ever bathing in the Aonean font;

Him nought but sonnets, stanzas, odes, delight,

And so he reads his part. Next comes in view

The sober, softly-sighing Sentimentalist,

Seeking for rapture in the――dashy――line,

The Shandean tale, ill told compar’d with Sterne’s,

They fragments choose, and tales and anecdotes.

Next the Wit, relishing the fun obscene

If but the point be gross――Him repartees,

Bon mots and gummy epigrams must please.

And then the Politician, full of strange whims;

Seeking essays, strictures, observations,

With solemn phiz, talking of revolutions,

Patriot armies, sieges, and leagues of despots;

Of neutral powers and of neutral rights, cabals,

Of foreign interference, suability of states,

And all the mazes of the court police.

He marks each signature――what Brutus writes he reads,

And turns his eye from Cassius――sees in some men

The wish to bond us to a foreign yoke;

In others, sees the wish for nature’s state,

And have the curbed bit of law destroy’d,

That like the savage all might rove at will,

Free as the air they breathe; while some he sees,

Who wish the government of purest source

And subordination, might secure

Our fair inheritance――These form the general mass.

Next comes the Economist, hunting for recipes,

Receipts, experiments.――With up turn’d nose

He runs o’er prose and verse, and like to Hotspur

Had rather be a Kitten and cry mew

Than, one of these same metre ballad loves.

The grade of Moralist next advance to view!

Fond of the maxim sage, and sober precept:

They once a week expect their frugal fare,

To mend the manners and instruct the mind,

Last comes the pale and slipper’d Wonder Hunter,

Intent on dying speeches,――hurricanes,

Malignant fevers, pestilence and want.――

Of thousands butcher’d on the bloody field,

And thousands starving in the wasted land,

They thunder storms delight in, and seek

With earnest eye for deaths and murders,

Of people drown’d, or burnt, or suffocated,

Learn whom the Knot of Hymen has fast tied,

And whom the Knot of Justice faster noos’d;

With the long list of every human ill.

These all must have their part. The printer, else,

Is but the standing mark of censure loud,

These tastes _not_ gratified, they will all growl,

And cry the papers barren, empty, dull,

Sans news, sans sense, sans art, sans everything.

From _The British Minstrel_, a collection of Songs, Recitations, &c.

September 25, 1824.

――――――――

BUD, BLOSSOM, AND DECAY.

“All the world’s a stage” in several stages;

Great Shakespeare says our acts are seven ages,

“And all the men and women players merely.”

See “As you like it,” which informs us clearly

We have our entrances and exits here,

And many of us no great shakes appear.

“King John,” “Macbeth,” and others of his plays,

Confirm our wickedness in many ways;

First, the Infant in its nurse’s arms, it

“Mewles and pukes,” and as it cries she calms it.

Next there’s the Schoolboy constantly declining

The verb “to work,” and with his satchel whining,

As on he creeps, like snail, at _slug_-gard’s pace――

A _sun_ not always “with a shining face:”

Until he learns ’tis easier to be good,

His master being in th’ imperative mood;

And if the youth is backward in the school,

He has his knuckles reddened with the rule.

The rule of three he does not deem much fun,

While he is flinching at the rule of one,

Who makes him only ten times more perplexed;

The lover, _à la_ Vilikin comes next,

And who, like Vilikin, trolls out a ballad

As neatly garnished as a lobster salad;

“Made to his mistress’ eyebrow;” to some air,

Which howsome’er she says she cannot bear.

Sometimes this age betokens noisy gent

Not coming home till midnight is far spent

Who cannot from the knockers quite abstain,

Of which the quiet inmates will complain.

Sometimes these fast young men after the play,

At Cyder Cellars turn night into day,

This they call “Killing time,” until they learn

Old Time may, perhaps the compliment return.

Then come the Soldiers and the Volunteers――

In other words the prime of life appears――

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, zealous when on guard;

Seeking without the least intimidation,

What Shakespeare calls “the bubble reputation.”

’Tis strange they are not _bored_ with so much _drilling_,

While practising the noble art of killing!

Next is the Justice, and he just is fat,

Living on law――not always justice that!

Proving beyond all doubt, by frequent panting,

The law he lives on is not that of Banting;

His body (outside) like a water butt

But not within! His beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws (such as are seldom seen

Excepting at a carpenter’s I ween)

And modern instances; and so he plays

His part, until he sees declining days

Announce another age, when enters soon

The sixth, “the lean and slippered Pantaloon,”

“With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,

“His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide

“For his shrunk shank;” his voice begins to fail,

And whistles up and down the vocal scale.

Last scene of all this history that ends,

Is mere oblivion of those trusty friends

Who gather round us, and who thus endeavour

To cheer and comfort ’ere we leave for ever

This busy, meddling, moneymaking world;

Sans teeth, as into it we once were hurled

Indeed, for time can no more changes ring,

“Sans sight, sans taste, sans smell, sans everything,

And so the curtain falls, thus ends the play

Which might be named “Bud, Blossom and Decay”!

The time is short between each act, and we

Should note the changes, and our errors see

And thus a wholesome lesson may be gained,

The proper sentiment being yet retained

Without a jest against the reader’s will,

Though slightly altered, “As you like it” still.

T. F. DILLON-CROKER.

From _The Ladies’ Companion_, March, 1865.

――――――――

“All the world is but a stage,” Shakespeare told us long ago,

Had he graced the present age, still the Bard had found it so;

All that from existence springs, in a theatre’s compass lies,

Happy moments find the “wings” time itself takes those and “flies,”

Hopes that light us on the way may be called of life “the floats,”

Turning gloomy night to day, as the prompter Fate denotes;

Fortune gives the glare of gas, and oft causing sad mishaps,

With unsteady hand, alas! speculation work “the traps,”

Fate gives out the parts to play, various “lengths” assigned to each,

Happy who their “tag” can say, in a good concluding speech;

Every act applause will get, if the action be correct,

Ending with a kind of “set” most productive of effect.

Suppers should take place in both――cheering signs of lively chats;

Some too often show “a cloth” closed in by a “pair of flats.”

Help our brethren, worn with age――Shakespeare was of truth a sayer

“All the world is but a stage,” you and I alike――a player.

E. L. BLANCHARD.

From _The Royal Dramatic College Annual_, July, 1866.

――――――――

LIFE AT OXFORD.

――――Oxford is a stage,

And all the men in residence are players:

They have their exeats and examinations;

And one man in his time plays many parts.

His acts being seven ages. At first the Freshman,

Stumbling and stuttering in his tutor’s rooms.

And then the aspiring Classman, with his white tie

And shy desponding face creeping along

Unwilling to the schools. Then, at the Union,

Spouting like fury, with some woeful twaddle

Upon the “Crisis.” Then a Billiard-player,

Full of strange oaths, a keen and cunning card

Clever in cannons, sudden and quick in hazards,

Seeking a billiard reputation

E’en in the pocket’s mouth. And then the Fellow,

His fair round forehead with hard furrows lined,

With weakened eyes and beard of doubtful growth,

Crammed with old lore of useless application,

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and study-worn Professor,

With spectacles on nose and class at side;

His youthful nose has grown a world too large

For his shrunk face; and his big manly voice,

Turning again towards childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is utter donnishness and mere nonentity,

Without respect, or tact, or taste, or anything.

_The Oxford Spectator_, May 19, 1868.

――――:o:――――

A SHAKESPEARIAN RECITATION AFTER DINNER.

――――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,

In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad,

In his sound childish treble: then the lean

And slipper’d schoolboy, whistles, with side on

Pouch and pipes, and his big manly voice

Full of wise oaths; and then the whining lover,

With spectacles on nose, and eyes severe,

Seeking his well-saved mistress’ eyebrow

Even in his satchel: Then a soldier,

His youthful hose, of formal cut, sans taste,

Made to his shank, and full of modern saws,

Creeping like snail, sans everything, to school:

And then the justice, full of strange instances,

Jealous in honor, like the ’pard bearded

In quarrel, turning again, sudden and quick,

Towards childishness, with shining morning face

A world too wide for his shrunk nurses arms,

And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts,

Unwillingly, the bubble reputation,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, into the cannon’s mouth,

Mewling and puking: Then, last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second pantaloon, and mere oblivion.

FREDERIC UPTON, 1885.

――――:o:――――

SONG.

_Amiens._ Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

“As you like it.”――Act II. Scene V.

――――:o:――――

THE LAMBETH CATCH.

(Written after the revelations of the “Amateur Casual.”)

Under the Greenwood shed

Who loves to go to bed,

And tune his husky note

To paupers’ coughing throat?

Come hither, come hither, come hither.

Here shall he see

Such thin Skillèe

Keep body and soul together.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1866.

[Illustration]

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

ACT I.――A MIDSUMMER NIGHTMARE.

SCENE,――_The Marquis of Salisbury’s House, Arlington Street_.

NORTHCOTE. Are we all met?

SALISBURY. Pat, pat; and this is a marvellous convenient place for

our rehearsal. This stuffed settee shall be our Speaker’s chair, these

tongs the Mace, and we will do it in action as we will do it before

the House.

NORTHCOTE. Salisbury――――

SALISBURY. What say’st thou, bully Stafford?

NORTHCOTE. There are things in this comedy of _Jingo and Whisky_

that will never please. First, Jingo must draw his sword, which

Radicals can never abide.

LORD JOHN MANNERS. By’r lakin, a parlous fear.

HICKS-BEACH. I believe we must leave the killing out when all is

done.

SALISBURY. Not a whit. I have a desire to make all well. Write me

a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with

our swords, and for the more better assurance tell them that I, Jingo

the Foreign Secretary, am not Jingo, but Salisbury, who barks more

than he bites. This will put them out of fear.

GIFFARD. Well, we shall have such a prologue, and it shall be

written for six and eight.

LORD JOHN MANNERS. Will not the ladies be afeard of the tea tax?

SIR R. CROSS. I fear it, I promise you.

NORTHCOTE. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves. To bring

in――God shield us!――a tea tax among ladies, is a dreadful thing, for

there is not a more fearful wild fowl living than your tea tax, and we

ought to look to it.

LORD JOHN MANNERS. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not

a tax.

NORTHCOTE. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be

seen in the teapot, and he himself must speak, saying thus, or to the

same defect: “Ladies, or fair ladies, I would wish you, or I would

request you, or I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble. If

you think I have come hither as a tax, it were pity of my life; no, I

am no such thing; I am an indirect impost, as others are”――and there,

indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is

Hicks-Beach, the member for Gloucestershire.

SALISBURY. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things; that

is to bring Coercion into Ireland.

HICKS-BEACH. Have we a majority that night we play our play?

SALISBURY. ’Tis doubtful. One must come in with a rifle and a

Bobby’s lantern, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the

person of Coercion. Then there is another thing; we must have a

Protection Bill in the great Chamber.

HICKS-BEACH. You can never bring in Protection What say you,

Northcote?

NORTHCOTE. Some man or other――Lowther, say――must present Protection;

and let him have some false statistics to signify its benefits. Or let

him hold his finger to his nose, and through that sign let “buncombe”

thus be known.

SALISBURY. If that may be, then all is well. Come sit down, every

mother’s son, and rehearse your parts.

_Funny Folks_, June 27, 1885.

ACT II.――THE CASTING OF THE CABINET.

SCENE――_Room in Arlington House_.

_Enter Members of the Conservative Party._

SALISBURY. Is all our company here?

CHURCHILL. You were best to call them generally, man by man,

according to _my_ list.

SALISBURY. Here is the scroll of every man’s name which is thought

fit by Churchill and myself to play in our interlude before the Houses

of Parliament, and all England.

CHURCHILL. First, good Salisbury, say what the play treats on; then

read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point.

SALISBURY. Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy and

laughable tragedy――_A Conservative Government_.

CHURCHILL. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry.

Now, good Salisbury, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters,

spread yourselves.

SALISBURY. Answer as I call you: Randolph Churchill, the “Woodstock

Wonder” and “Champion of the Universe.”

CHURCHILL. Ready! Name the part I set myself down for, and proceed.

SALISBURY. You, Randolph Churchill, are set down as Secretary for

India.

CHURCHILL. What is Secretary for India?――a statesman or a fool?

SALISBURY. A statesman that spends himself most loyally for the State.

CHURCHILL. That will require some brains in the true performance of

it. If I do it, let the country look to’t. I will move storms; I will

be wise in _some_ measure. To the rest――Yet my chief humour is for a

fool. I could play a fool rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make

all split.

The raging Rads

Are blackguardly cads,

With lots of fads,

About men’s rights.

But Churchill’s star

Shall shine from far,

And make and mar

All lesser lights.

This was lofty. Now name the rest of the players.

SALISBURY. Stafford Northcote, the Antiquated.

STAFFORD NORTHCOTE. Here, my lord.

SALISBURY. You must take what Churchill and I choose to give you.

We will attend to you when the others are all served. Hicks-Beach, the

Tea-Taxer, you must play at being Chancellor of the Exchequer and

Leader of the House of Commons. But disobey Churchill at your peril.

Richard Cross, the Waterman.

CROSS. Here, sir.

SALISBURY. You can take the Home Office. Smith, the Stallkeeper, you

must take the lion’s part――the Secretary for War. And I hope here is a

Cabinet fitted.

SMITH. Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it

me, for I am slow of study.

SALISBURY. You may do it extempore, as I do, for it is nothing but

roaring.

CHURCHILL. Let me play the lion too. I will roar, that it will do

any man’s heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the

Tories say, “_Let him roar again! Let him roar again!_”

SALISBURY. An’ you should do it too terribly, you would fright the

Liberals, that they would shriek; and that would turn us all out.

ALL. That would turn us all out, every mother’s son.

CHURCHILL. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the

Liberals out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to

turn us out; but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as

gently as any Liberal, I will roar you an ’twere any Radical.

SALISBURY. You can play no part but Secretary for India; for you

took a Cook’s tour there, wear an indigo-dyed suit, use India tea for

breakfast――therefore, who knows India as you do?

CHURCHILL. Well, I will undertake it. What way had I best to play it?

SALISBURY. Why, what you will.

CHURCHILL. I will discharge it in either your Tory way, your Whig

manner, your Liberal-Conservative manner, your Democrat, Republican,

Socialist, Communist manner, or no manner at all.

SALISBURY. Play it as you have your former parts――bare-faced. But,

masters, here are your parts; and I am to entreat you, request you,

and desire you to con them by to-morrow night. In the meantime, I will

draw a bill of taxes such as Tories usually want.

CHURCHILL. We will meet again――and rehearse our parts most obscenely

and courageously. Adieu!

[_Exeunt._

――――――――

THE NEW MINISTRY’S STATEMENT TO THE COUNTRY.

If we offend, it is with our good will.

That you should think, we come not to offend,

But with good will. To show our simple skill,

That is the true beginning of our end.

Consider, then, we come not in despite,

We do not come as minding to content you,

Our true intent is. All for your delight

We are not here. That you should here repent you,

The Cabinet is formed; and by their show,

You shall know all that you are like to know.

THE PUBLIC.

Their speech is like a tangled chain.

Truly this is hot ice, and wondrous strange snow.

Where shall we find the concord of this discord?

_Funny Folks_, July 4, 1885.

――――:o:――――

_Oberon._

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:

And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,

And make her full of hateful fantasies.

ACT II.,――SCENE I.

――――:o:――――

A MONODY ON MONEY.

DEDICATED TO OUR “VERY” PARTICULAR BANKERS.

“I know a bank” where busy men are daily seen to pore

Over their books with earnest zeal from ten o’clock till four,

From whose retreat are issued forth more rich and treasured _notes_

Than ever have been known to come from sweetest song-birds’ throats.

Where _crowns_ abound, and _sov’reigns_ rule the place with despot

sway,

For no one there will _check_ their power, so well belov’d are they.

There seems a _money mania_ for everything that’s dear,

And, strange as it may seem, I’ve heard that far-things here are near.

Cleopatra drank pearls, they say, but here she is outvied,

If pork they wish, they’ve _guinea_ pigs; if beef, the _silver_ side.

Their drink is pure _aqua d’ora_, and I have heard it’s true

Their servant men are _Bills_ and _Franks_, their housemaid is a

_Sou_.

And now, before I end my lay, I ought to make it known

That though this bank is always thronged, each one may get _a-loan_;

And though these bankers care for gold, it never can be said

_Matter-o’-Money_ it will be if ever they are wed.

_Fun_, 1879.

――――:o:――――

SHAKESPEARE AT PADDINGTON.

I know a bank whereon foul road-slush flows,

Where passing one hath need to hold one’s nose;

Where the familiar slop-carts do combine

To store malodorous muck in fetid line.

There drowses heavy BUMBLE day and night,

Lulled into stupor to his soul’s delight.

He, with his pompous Paddingtonian kin,

With well-plumped pocket and with well-filled skin,

Allows the fetid foul fermenting mass

To nauseate the souls of all who pass.

_Addendum by Mr. Punch_

BUMBLE’s _our_ “_Bottom_”!――written down an Ass!

_Punch_, October 27, 1883.

――――:o:――――

Shakespeare, who knew everything, was aware of the coming of Lord

Randolph Churchill when he wrote――

“I am that merry wanderer of the night.

I jest to Salisbury and make him smile,

When I a fat and bean-fed squire beguile,

Speaking in likeness of a Tory _rôle_.

And sometimes lurk I in the Lib’ral’s bowl,

In very likeness of a Democrat;

And when he speaks, against his lips I bob,

And contradict him with my Tory tale.”

_Funny Folks_, May 5, 1884.

[Illustration]

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN.

As long ago as November, 1883, my valued friend Mr. T. F.

Dillon-Croker, hearing that I contemplated publishing a collection of

“Parodies and Burlesques,” wrote a characteristic letter, generously

placing his accumulated stores of materials at my disposal. How fully

and frankly I have availed myself of that kind offer may be judged

from the fact that scarcely a single part of “Parodies” has appeared

which has not contained one, or more, contributions furnished by Mr.

Dillon-Croker.

In the letter above-mentioned, he remarked:――“You may not be aware

that the late Mr. Gilbert A’ Beckett wrote a burlesque on _King John_

(with the benefit of the Act,) 1837, so that irreverence in this

direction is no novelty. Hubert was acted by Edward Wright, afterwards

so popular at the Adelphi, and who, though often inclined to be

coarse, made me as a boy laugh more than I have ever done since, and

Madame Sala (the mother of the genial and accomplished G. A. Sala,)

was Lady Constance.

Faulconbridge remarks:

We are two brothers of the same Mama,

But there are reasons for suspecting rather,

By some mistake there was an extra father.

Arthur, instead of losing his eyes, is condemned to have a tooth out,

and Hubert enters with a large pair of pinchers:

“And you’ll take out my tooth――If you will, come,

I’ll not resist, here is my tooth by gum!”

This, at the present day sounds very insipid, if not, irreverent

fooling. A’ Beckett also turned Manfred into a burlesque ballet opera

in 1834. These pieces were considered worth publishing, and are

curious, as shewing the style of composition that amused an audience

nearly 50 years ago.”

Following up the clue given in this letter, it appears that this

burlesque was first produced at the St. James’s Theatre October 29,

1837, when the cast was as follows:――

NATIVES.

_King John the first._ (Successor to Richard

the Second) Mr. H. Hall.

_Hubert._ (Dentist and Cupper to the Court) Mr. Wright.

_Ruffian._ (Attached to Hubert, but a member

of the Animal’s Friend Society) Mr. Hart.

_Faulconbridge._ (Illegitimate & bar Sinister) Mr. Gardner.

_Robert._ (His brother, bar Illegitimate, but

Sinister) Mr. Long.

_Prince Arthur._ (A royal duodecimo, a pledge

of affection taken in by his uncle) Miss C. Booth.

_Herald._ (In accordance with the Times) Mr. Post.

_Lady Constance._ (Wife to her son Arthur’s

father, and mother to Arthur’s father’s

son) Madam Sala.

_Lady Elinor._ (John’s father’s widow, and

Arthur’s uncle’s mother Mrs. Pensor.

FOREIGNERS.

_King Philip of France_. (Successor to his

predecessor) Mr. Sidney.

_Lewis._ (Suspected of being the Dauphin) Mr. Moore.

_Chatillon._ (Upon speaking and singing

terms with Philip) Mr. Burnett.

_Duke of Austria._ (Founder of the Skinner’s

Company, bound in calf, but unlettered) Mr. Halford.

_Cardinal Pandulph._ (Full of point) Mr. Brooks.

Mr. Hall, who impersonated King John, wore a chimney cowl as a helmet,

surmounted by a weather cock, of which the letters N. E. W. S.,

translated, burlesque fashion, became “Naughty English Wrongful

Sovereign.” Undoubtedly the best scene in the burlesque is that which

treats of Hubert and Prince Arthur, the first scene of the fourth act

in the original. This approaches more nearly to a parody of the

language of Shakespeare, than is usual in most burlesques of his

tragedies.

SCENE V.――_A Room in a Castle._

_Enter HUBERT, with a large pair of pinchers, followed by a

Ruffian._

_Hubert._ Just hold the pinchers, I’ve got here a youth,

And I’ve got orders to take out his tooth.

So when I stamp my foot come in and bind him――

His legs together and his arms behind him.

_Ruffian._ I hope there arn’t no gammon in the matter?

_Hubert._ That’s my look out. What right have you to chatter?

Vanish! [_Exit_ Ruffian.

SONG.――HUBERT.

Air.――“_There’s light in her laughing eye._”

There’s a tooth in his little gum;

’Tis a pearl a garnet broach within,

And they say that it out must come,

’Tis a job, I know, is quite a sin.

There’s a tongue in his little head,

A tongue that always wags away;

Like a clock at the back of a bed,

Which keeps on tick tick night and day.

There’s a tooth, &c.

_Hubert._ Young lad come forth, I’ve got a word to say.

_Enter_ Arthur.

_Arthur._ Hubert, good Hubert, how are you to-day?

_Hubert._ I must not listen to his childish chatter,

For if I do he’ll melt my heart like batter.

Look here, young Arthur

(_Gives warrant._)

Can you understand

This paper written in a large text hand?

_Arthur._ Oh, can I read it. Oh, unhappy youth!

Must you with pinchers then take out my tooth?

_Hubert._ Young boy I must.

_Arthur._ And will you?

_Hubert._ Yes I will.

_Arthur._ Oh, it’s too bad――When you were taken ill

Who was it to the chemist’s ran full gallop,

To get a penny dose of salts and jalap?

And when I’ve seen you, after dining out,

When you’ve made free at some hot drinking bout,

Have I not always been extremely willing

To give for soda-water my last shilling?

And you’ll take out my tooth? If you will, come,

I’ll not resist, here is my tooth, by gum!

_Hubert._ Young boy, I’ve sworn to do it――do not flinch,

These instruments must help me at a pinch.

Come forth. (_Stamps._)

_Enter_ Ruffian _with a pewter basin, towel, &c._

(_To Ruffian_) Do as I bid you.

_Arthur._ Hubert stay

My tooth is out, do send that man away.

(Ruffian _seizes_ Arthur.)

_Hubert._ Now for the pinchers――now for one bold tug.

_Arthur._ Why be so boisterous I will hold my mug?

For Heaven’s sake Hubert send that man away,

And not a word against it I will say.

Hubert, your word indeed shall be my law

My tooth is out, see I will hold my jaw!

_Hubert._ (_To_ Ruffian.) Go stand without, I by myself will do it.

_Ruffian._ Indeed ’twould make me ill were I to view it.

[_Exit_ Ruffian.

_Hubert._ Come, now prepare yourself my gentle youth.

_Arthur._ Is there no plan?

_Hubert._ None but to lose your tooth.

_Arthur._ Oh, would that your’s good Hubert did but ache,

That I to stop your pain, great pains might take.

_Hubert._ Is this your promise? Hold your tongue, sir, do.

_Arthur._ Oh, take my tongue, I want my tooth to chew,

Leave only that, e’en if it be to eat,

With you good Hubert, some delicious meat,

Which I have ordered for a little treat.

_Hubert._ Boy, you have touched me hard, as I’m a sinner,

I’ll leave your tooth at least till after dinner,

Your uncle’s heard that dentists who ain’t clever

Will sometimes lock a person’s jaw for ever.

_Arthur._ Hubert, I thank thee.

_Hubert._ Mind you ne’er unfold it.

Your jaw is safe――be good enough to hold it.

[Illustration]

A WINTER’S TALE.

A burlesque of this play was produced at the Lyceum Theatre on

September 15, 1856, entitled “_Perdita, or the Royal Milkmaid_, being

the legend upon which Shakespeare is supposed to have founded his

_Winter’s Tale_,” a new and original burlesque by William Brough. A

reproduction of the cast on that occasion will interest old

playgoers:――

LEONTES (_King of Sicilia; a King who, in

spite of the belief to the contrary,

could do wrong_) MR. S. CALHAEM.

POLIXENES (_King of Bithynia_). MR. WILLIAM BROUGH.

(_His first appearance on any stage_).

FLORIZEL (_his Son and Heir――disobedient

as usual, but charming as ever_)

MRS. ALFRED MELLON (late MISS WOOLGAR).

AUTOLYCUS (_a Rogue, and it is

hardly necessary to add, a Vagabond_) MR. J. L. TOOLE.

CAMILLO (_a Sicilian Lord_) MR. J. G. SHORE.

ANTIGONUS (_a Nurse_) MR. BARRETT.

THE BEAR (_an Ursa_) MR. H. MARSHALL.

BLOCUS (_an old Shepherd, supposed――by

everybody but the Audience, who

know better――to be Perdita’s Father_). MR. HOLSTON.

TIME, as CHORUS (_up to everything,

including, of course, the time of day_) MISS HARRIET GORDON.

HERMIONE (_Leontes’ Queen, always

elegant, and finally quite Statuesque_) MRS. BUCKINGHAM WHITE.

PERDITA (_the Royal Milkmaid_) MISS MARIE WILTON.

PAULINA (_a strong-minded Matron;

considerably the better-half of Antigonus_) MRS. WESTON.

――――――――

In 1817 Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote a dramatic poem, entitled

“_Zapolya_, a Christmas Tale,” to which he prefixed the remark, “The

form of the following dramatic poem is in humble imitation of the

Winter’s Tale of Shakespeare.”

Beyond the mere form, however, _Zapolya_ has little or no resemblance

to Shakespeare’s play.

[Illustration]

KING HENRY V.

ACT IV.

PROLOGUE.

Chorus.

Now entertain conjecture of a time

When creeping murmur and the poring dark

Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

From camp to camp through the foul womb of night

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fixed sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each others watch:

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames

Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face;

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs

Piercing the night’s dull ear, and from the tents

The armourers, accomplishing the knights,

With busy hammers closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

――――:o:――――

LORD MAYOR’S DAY (1827).

Now countless turbots and unnumbered soles

Fill the wide kitchens of each livery hall:

From pot to spit, to kettle, stew, and pan,

The busy hum of greasy scullions sounds,

That the fixed beadles do almost perceive

The secret dainties of each others watch.

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames

Each table sees the other’s bill of fare:

Cook threatens cook in high and saucy vaunt

Of rare and new-made dishes; confectioners,

Both pastrycooks and fruiterers in league,

With candied art their rivets closing up,

Give pleasing notice of a rich dessert.

[Illustration]

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

On November 21, 1866, an Extravaganza, founded on the above tragedy,

was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, then under the

management of Mr. J. B. Buckstone. This burlesque was entitled “Antony

and Cleopatra; or, His-tory and Her-story in a modern nilo-metre,” by

F. C. Burnand, and the principal parts were played by Mr. and Mrs.

Charles Matthews, Mr. Compton, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Clark. The best

parody it contained was that of the well-known passage descriptive of

the meeting of Antony and Cleopatra on the river of Cydnus, commencing

thus:――

“The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,

Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that

The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,

It beggar’d all description: she did lie

In her pavilion――cloth-of-gold of tissue――

O’er-picturing that Venus where we see

The fancy outwork nature: on each side her

Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,

With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem

To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,

And what they undid did.”

In the Burlesque _Lepidus_ enquires:――

Tell me how they met?

_Eros._ I will: And first then you must know that Marc

Met Cleopatra driving in the park.

The trap she sat in, like the Sun-God’s car,

Shone in the drive, the seats were damask white,

Tawny the rugs, and all so scented, that

The swells sniffed curiously. Her whip of silver,

Half parasol, which dared the sun; and flicked

The ponies, which she beat to trot the faster,

As amorous of her lash. For her own person

It beggared all description; she reclined

Upon those cushions I’ve described before,

And high in front, and round, rose dangerous waves

Of foaming frothy muslin petticoats,

Art’s fancy outworks: in the seat behind her

Sat two quick natty boys, like perky Cupids,

With white pip’d breeches and pale salmon tops,

To guard whose knees a pretty oilskin apron

They both undid and did.

_Lepi._ O rare for Anthony!

_Eros._ And when she’d pass’d, young Egypt at the rails

Look’d in each other’s eyes, then after _her_,

Then gazed about at――well, they knew not what,

As dazed as is the poor unlatch-key’d husband

After a late carousal, when his spouse,

Candle in hand, unchains the guardian door;

So they: so Anthony: who whipped and spurred

Up to her side, and _whip-spered_ in her ear

Soft nothings, which, though nothing in themselves,

Lead oft――

_Lepi._ Sir, I’m the father of a family.

Never could Tony pretty woman’s lip shun,

No wonder he was caught by this Egyptian.

In the end, Cleopatra, instead of being stung by an asp, as in the

tragedy, pretends to commit suicide by the use of a Pharoah’s serpent.

[Illustration]

HAMLET.

BENJAMIN CÆSAR REDIVIVUS.

(_On the happy 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:――――

THE SPANIARD’S SOLILOQUY.

To fight or not to fight, that is the question,

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind

To bear a patient drubbing by the French

Or take up arms against old Louis

And by opposing end him

And exterminate the Bourbons?

To fight――to beat――no more;

And by our beating end a thousand ills

Which we were born to.

’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

To fight――to beat――perchance to be beat

Ah! there’s the rub.

For by our being beat what ills may come;

There’s the respect that makes our liberty so dear,

For who would bear the sneers and scoffs of tyrants,

The oppressor’s wrong, the insolence of office

When we can still our liberty maintain

With the bare rapier?

Who would mind our constitution being altered

But that a dread of something more

(That _Alliance_ from whose unholy laws

No state is free) puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear these ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of.

_The Mirror_, April 5, 1823.

――――:o:――――

A FISHERMAN’S SOLILOQUY.

To sniggle or to dibble, that’s the question!

Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble,

Or to take up arms of any sea, some trouble

To fish, and then home send them. To fly, to whip――

To moor and tie my boat up by the end

To any wooden post, or natural rock

We may be near to, on a Preservation

Devoutly to be fished. To fly――to whip――

To whip! perchance two bream; and there’s the chub!

* * * * *

F. C. BURNAND.

As a singular instance of the popularity of Hamlet’s famous Soliloquy,

it may be mentioned that a Hebrew version of it was printed in 1880,

in _Kottabos_, a College journal published in Dublin.

――――:o:――――

THE DANISH WAR.

(_From our own Correspondent._)

Elsinore, May 20, 1848.

The army under General Fortinbras remains inactive. The

Crown Prince Hamlet has been appointed to the command, but

he is in a state of doubt as to whether he ought to accept

it. A good many intrigues are believed to exist at the

Danish Court, and two noblemen named Rosencrantz and

Guildenstern are suspected of being employed on a delicate

and dangerous mission. Gertrude, the Queen, does not appear

to enjoy good health, and rumours are rife of violent scenes

between her and Hamlet. The death of the late Lord

Chamberlain does not seem to have been at all satisfactorily

accounted for; and the consequent derangement of his

daughter, who it appears has been going about singing very

improper songs, has occasioned a great deal of scandal. The

King, however, swills his draught of Rhenish down as usual,

and even had some private theatricals lately. The monarch,

however, could not sit out the first piece, and no wonder,

for _entre nous_ being legitimate it was awfully slow.

Meantime Hamlet’s conduct is quite unaccountable: some

people hint that he is mad; and the fact of his having got

up a cock-and-bull story of a ghost, which he says is always

walking about with a certain MARSHALL STALK, supposed to be

a Prussian from the name, would seem to countenance the

theory. For my own part, whether he be mad or no, I think

his proceedings very stupid and tiresome.

_The Man in the Moon._――Vol. III, 1848.

[Illustration]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

SONG.

_Balthasar_,――Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever,

One foot in sea and one on shore,

To one thing constant never:

Then sigh not so, but let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,

Since summer first was leafy:

Then sigh not so, &c.

――――――――

NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ.

Rail no more, Tories, rail no more;

Whigs are but asses ever,

On land, on wave, on sea, on shore,

All rascals of white liver.

Then rail not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting sounds of wrath and woe

Into hey Ninny! nonny.

Sing merry ditties, and no mo

Of lumps so dull and heavy;

The heads of Whigs were ever so,

Since summer first was leavy.

Then rail not so, &c.

_Blackwood’s Magazine_, July, 1823.

――――:o:――――

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING IN THE CITY.

Sigh no more, dealers, sigh no more,

Shares were unstable ever,

They often have been down before,

At high rates constant never.

Then sigh not so,

Soon up they’ll go,

And you’ll be blithe and funny,

Converting all your notes of woe

Into hey, money, money.

Write no more letters, write no mo

On stocks so dull and heavy.

At times on ’Change ’tis always so,

When bears a tribute levy.

Then sigh not so,

And don’t be low,

In sunshine you’ll make honey,

Converting all your notes of woe

Into hey money, money.

_Punch_, September 28, 1867.

[Illustration]

THE TEMPEST.

“The Enchanted Isle; or Raising the Wind on the most approved

principles; a Drama without the smallest claim to Legitimacy,

Consistency, Probability, or anything else but absurdity; in which

will be found much that is unaccountably coincident with Shakespeare’s

‘_Tempest_.’” This burlesque, written by the Brothers R. B. and W.

Brough, was first performed at the Adelphi Theatre, London, on Monday,

November 26, 1848. Beyond the general foundation of the plot, it

contains no parodies of Shakespeare, but is full of allusions to the

political revolutions and events of 1848, and has many parodies of

songs which were then popular, but which are now, for the most part,

obsolete. It was no doubt a very amusing burlesque, having a good deal

of lively music, songs, and dances, and the cast was a powerful one,

including Paul Bedford, Miss Woolgar, Madame Celeste, and O. Smith. It

was afterwards revived at the Haymarket Theatre, when Miss P. Horton,

Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Mr. Buckstone, Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Clark performed

the leading parts. The following amusing parody of the Ghost-scene in

“Hamlet” was spoken as a

PROLOGUE.

SCENE――_representing various illustrations of the life of

Shakespeare_.

_Enter the GHOST of SHAKESPEARE, followed by the POPULAR COMEDIAN. The

GHOST paces round the stage._

_P. Com._ Whither wilt thou lead me?

Speak――I’ll go no farther.

_Ghost._ Mark me!

_P. Com._ I will.

_Ghost._ I am old Shakespeare’s spirit,

Doomed for a certain term to walk the earth;

And on the stage draw tolerable houses,――

Till by the _taste_ of a _discerning_ age,

For monster drums and Ethiopian bards

Driven to make a way; but that I am forbid

To charm the public is not what has caused

My troubled spirit to revisit earth:

I can a tale unfold of recent wrongs,

Whose lightest word would harrow up a soul

Of gutta-percha toughness――freeze thy blood――

Make thy two eyes like cabs start from their stands――

And each particular orb to roll and stretch

Like pictures of the fretful hippopotamus

At the Zoological! List! List! oh, list!

If e’er thou did’st old Stratford William love――

_P. Com._ Good gracious!

_Ghost._ Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

_P. Com._ Murder?

_Ghost._ Murder most foul I’ve been accustomed to――

And in the ordinary way don’t mind it――

But this most foul, strange and unnatural――

_P. Com._ Haste me to know it, that I,

With wings as swift as carrier pigeon on the Derby Day,

May sweep to my revenge.

_Ghost._ I find thee apt;――

And duller shouldst thou be than the dead cats

That rot in countless shoals on Thames’s banks,

Did’st thou not stir in this?――You’ve seen my “TEMPEST?”

_P. Com._ Some time ago.

_Ghost._ Ah――well――’twas given out that――(pardon me,

A ghost must have his feelings)――rumour reached me,

That the whole ear of London

Was by a forged process of my “TEMPEST”

Rankly abus’d――and know, thou noble youth――

With serpents and trombones disguised, my piece

Now scares the town.

_P. Com._ O, my prophetic soul! the opera!

_Ghost._ Aye, that most queer and het’rogeneous dish,――

With witchcraft and old fairy tales dress’d up,――

(Singular taste! that could on Shakespeare graft

Old “Mother Bunch”) bringing to “Tom Thumb’s” level

The plot of my most seeming perfect play.

Oh, gracious! what a dreadful sight was there

For me, or any other anxious parent!

My tricksy _Ariel_ in a ballet skirt――

The fairy of a Christmas pantomime!

My _Caliban_――a melodrama villain――

Bearing _Miranda_ off――(stol’n incident

From _Grindoff_ in the “Miller and his Men!”)

And then resorting to an ancient scheme

From “Harlequin and the Three Wishes” borrowed

Oh horrible! oh horrible!――most horrible!――

If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not――

Do something, please――I’m not particular what――

But soft――an odour wafts along the wall――

Methinks I scent an early breakfast stall.

I must get home――I’m not allowed a key――

Adieu! adieu! adieu! remember me?

[_Exit._

_P. Com._ Remember thee! Aye, thou poor Ghost! e’en while

Memory holds seat ’neath this distracted tile,

I will avenge thee for this outrage vile,

But how? Stop! yes――“THE ENCHANTED ISLE.”

Beat them on their own ground, the play’s the thing.

We’ll out-burlesque them!――Ho! there! Prompter, ring!

From this it will be seen that something in the nature of an apology

was deemed necessary for this burlesque on “_The Tempest_,” and more

recently when Mr. Burnand produced his “_Ariel_,” there was an angry

discussion in the press, in which many maintained that it was not in

good taste, nor was it advisable for the credit of our stage, that

this beautiful play (supposed to have been the last written by

Shakespeare), should be thus irreverently treated. On page 144 of

“Parodies” will be found extracts from this correspondence. “_Ariel_”

was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, in October, 1883, and though a

very harmless burlesque in itself, and in far better taste than the

Broughs, “_Enchanted Isle_,” it was received with many signs of

disapprobation, and had but a short run. There was nothing very

original, nor very comical, in the conception of Prospero as a

magician, entirely dependent upon his conjuring apparatus without

which he was absolutely powerless, whilst as to the plot, it was that

of the “_Tempest_” with modern variations cut to a comic pattern, and

represented by a clever company, among whom were Miss Phyllis

Broughton as Ferdinand, Miss Farren as Ariel, Miss Harcourt as the

Captain, Mr. Wyatt as Sebastian, and Mr. Elton as Caliban. The

burlesque teemed with popular allusions, and the Fisheries Exhibition,

naturally, was not in high favour; there were some lively songs, and,

of course, plenty of dances for Miss E. Farren, and Miss Connie

Gilchrist.

――――:o:――――

_ARIEL sings_――

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry,

On the bats back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Parody sung by J. P. Harley in Planché’s _Sleeping Beauty_, Covent

Garden, April 20, 1840.

Who would be Great Grand Lord High?

All the blame on him must lie;

Everywhere for him they cry

Up and down stairs he must fly――

After all folks verily!――

Verily! Verily!――Few could live now

Under the honours beneath which I bow!

――――:o:――――

_Prospero_

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind.

It is possible that this passage was suggested to Shakespeare by some

lines in Lord Stirling’s _Tragedie of Darius_, 1604:――

Those golden pallaces, those gorgeous halles,

With fourniture superfluouslie faire;

Those statelie courts, those sky encountring walles,

Evanish all like vapours in the aire.

END OF THE PARODIES.

Our parodies are ended. These our authors,

As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air.

And, like the baseless fabric of these verses,

The Critic’s puff, the Trade’s advertisement,

The Patron’s promise, and the World’s applause,

Yea, all the hopes of poets,――shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial fable fated,

Leave not a groat behind!

_Posthumous Parodies_, 1814.

[Illustration]

A FEW PARODIES OF DETACHED PASSAGES.

“FLIRTING.”

(After _Portia_.)

The quality of flirting is not strained;

It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the favoured ones. It is twice blest:

It blesses her that flirts, and him that’s flirted with.

It profiteth the husband better than

His deeds; and he becomes in truth renowned

The time his wife doth gad about and flirt

With men. It’s mightiest in the ugliest. Oh!

It is the attribute of love itself;

And wives do think themselves most loved when they

Do drive or walk with other man than they

Who are their lawful husbands. But, O wife!

Though loving be thy plea, remember this,

That flirting doth beget unto the pair

A reputation far from enviable.

_Scraps_, July, 1885.

――――:o:――――

Song from J. R. Planche’s extravaganza, “Fortunio” (1843), sung by

Miss P. Horton as _Fortunio_:――

Tell me, tell me

Tell me, tell me

New, d’ye fancy bread?

Smoking hot from oven red

Or prefer you stale instead?

Reply, reply, reply.

――――:o:――――

Lines spoken by F. Robson as _Prince Richcraft_ in J. R. Planché’s

extravaganza, “The Discreet Princess,” produced at the Olympic

Theatre, December 26, 1855:――

Ha! I remember a low sort of shop

Where they sold peppermint and lollipop,

And lozenges in boxes by the score

With the inscription o’er them “cough no more.”

I gazed upon the things red――green――and blue,

And others of a still more sickly hue;

And thought if one for poison had a whim

There lived a seedy chap would sell it him,

And prove the truth that brief inscription bore

For in his coffin he would “cough no more!”

――――:o:――――

DREARY SONG FOR DREARY SUMMER.

MR. PUNCH SINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENT OF A PIPE AND TOBACCO.

Well, don’t cry, my little tiny boy,

_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,

Amuse yourself, and break some toy,

_For the rain it raineth every day_.

Alas, for the grass on papa’s estate,

_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,

He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate,

_For the rain it raineth every day_.

Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive,

_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,

How cross she gets about four or five,

_For the rain it raineth every day_.

If I were you I’d be off to bed,

_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,

Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,

_For the rain it raineth every day_.

A great while ago this song was done,

_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain_,

And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun,

_But the Dyces[42] and the Colliers[42] can――they say_.

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

1860.

――――:o:――――

_Shakespoke’s Epigram._

Young friend, for Cyclus’s sake forbear

To bite the dust that’s ever near.

Blest is the man avoids the stones,

And curst is he that breaks his bones.

_Lyra Bicyclica_, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Boston. E. C. Hodges and Co.

1885.)

The same volume contains several imitations of Shakespeare’s sonnets

in praise of the pleasures of bicycle riding.

――――:o:――――

“The First Sitting of the Committee on the Proposed Monument to

Shakspeare, carefully taken in shorthand by ZACHARY CRAFT, amanuensis

to the Chairman.”

“_Come in shadows――so depart._”――MACBETH.

Cheltenham. Printed for G. A. Williams, 1823. This little volume of 88

pages contains the supposed remarks of the following individuals:――The

Chairman, a member of the Committee, and the _shades_ of Aristotle,

Longinus, Æschylus, Euripides, Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, Lope de

Vega Del Carpio, Molière, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Voltaire,

Diderot, D’Alembert, La Harpe, Gray, Garrick, Mademoiselle Claison,

Warburton, Johnson, Malone, Steevens, Susanna Shakespeare,

John-a-Combe, Alfieri, R. B. Sheridan, Porson, and a number of other

less distinguished persons. Very few of the remarks are either witty

or clever, nor have they many of the characteristics of the personages

to whom they are ascribed.

――――:o:――――

_Coriolanus Travestie_, by J. Morgan, was produced in Liverpool in

1846, and a burlesque of King Lear, entitled, _King Queer and his

Daughters Three_, was played at the Strand Theatre, London, in 1855.

It will therefore be seen that travesties have been written upon

nearly every one of William Shakespeare’s Tragedies, and that not even

his comedies, or historical plays, have quite escaped burlesque. The

enumeration here given is probably incomplete, as many burlesques

which have been produced in provincial towns, and some which have been

played in London, enjoyed too short a run to obtain the advantage of

being printed.

Before closing this chapter on the burlesques of Shakespeare, the

following remarks on the subject which appeared in _The Daily News_,

of October 25, 1884, may be quoted:――

Few more striking proofs could be given of the great and

growing popularity of the theatre than the most recent

fluctuations of stage humour. The experience of the present

thus far confirms the judgment formed during the two

preceding seasons, that the comic element in stage

representation has undergone an important mutation both in

motive and in method. Fun is aimed at, and probably

achieved, as frequently as of yore; but the kind of fun and

the means employed to produce it are entirely different, and

possible only under the new conditions of the theatre. Only

a few years ago, when London had comparatively few theatres,

and supported, after a fashion, two opera-houses, the

theatrical world filled a ludicrously small space in English

life.

Only when the public are so keenly interested in the

dramatic world as they are at present could success attend

the profuse introduction of personal parody or caricature

into the lightest of stage plays. It would be poor fun to

present an elaborate caricature of a serious actor to a

spectator who knew little, and cared less about him, and

probably had not seen him in the part more especially

selected for ridicule. Recent burlesque or travesty depends

almost entirely for success upon such caricature, and

assumes perfect knowledge of all the mannerisms of prominent

actors and actresses. The art of inverting a noble story so

that it may appear grotesque occupies quite a secondary

position in the category of effects. It would not, for

instance, be considered funny at this present juncture to

travesty the Venetian Senate into policemen drinking pots of

porter, and Othello himself into a negro, with plantation

songs, dances and accent. Nor would it be thought amusing to

dress Shylock with three hats upon his head, and make him in

the intervals of the Trial Scene try to sell cigars to the

young Venetians present in court. Yet this is precisely what

Frank Talfourd, the great master of the word torturing

school, and the inventor of the agglutinate system of

punning, did. Henry J. Byron, too, made perhaps his greatest

burlesque hit in _The Lady of Lyons_ by making up Beauseant

as Napoleon III. and Claude Melnotte as Napoleon I. Again,

Talfourd in _The Merchant of Venice Preserved_ wrote

amazingly funny dialogue and songs for Robson, but depended

in no kind of way upon imitations of Charles Kean and

Phelps, which Robson could have done to perfection. What

would now be required in _Othello_ would be a low-comedy

imitation of Signor Salvini with an Iago made up like Mr.

Irving, and a Desdemona who could at least give a general

impression of Miss Ellen Terry. We are not propounding that

the words should be witless and senseless, all that we

maintain is that the caricaturists would in theatrical

parlance “get all the laughs.” An instance in point is that

the song of the hermit in _Paw Clawdian_ neatly written by

Mr. Burnand, and capitally sung by Mr. E. D. Ward, although

received with hearty merriment, by no means threw the

audience into the convulsions provoked by Mr. Toole’s

appearance as Mr. Wilson Barrett. It is not the perversion

of motive and character, not the curious piling of pun upon

pun, which makes the success of modern travesty. What is

looked for is a clever presentment of the surface

peculiarities of the serious artist, such as those of the

Misses Linden in _Silver Guilt_, _Stage Dora_, and _Paw

Clawdian_, in which by turns Miss Eastlake, Madame Sarah

Bernhardt, and Mrs. Bernard Beere were parodied with

exceeding cleverness. It is only a few nights since Miss

Farren “brought down the house” by her brilliant caricature

of Mr. Kyrle Bellew, as Gilbert Vaughan in _Called Back_.

The amusement to be obtained from putting counterfeit

presentments of statesmen, lawyers, and soldiers upon the

stage has been forbidden in theatres properly so-called, and

is only endured in music-halls in a modified shape. Plenty

of fun in the worst possible taste could be produced by this

ancient expedient, but as public opinion and police reasons

forbid it, recourse is had to the device of hoisting the

histrion with his own petard. All the clever devices of his

own art, all his mysteries of “make-up,” and his talent for

characterization, are devoted to the object, not of

parodying either Shakespeare or Sardou, but the aspect of

their creations embodied by the foremost artists at present

on the stage.

[Illustration]

Isaac Watts, D.D.,

_Born at Southampton in_ 1674. _Died November_ 25, 1748.

――――――――

AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF.

How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower.

How skillfully she builds her cell,

How neat she spreads the wax,

And labours hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill

I would be busy too;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,

Let my first years be past;

That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

DR. WATTS.

――――――――

THE FLEA.

The flea, so called because it always “flees” the foe, is an

industrious insect, and has been immortalized by Dr. What’s-his-name

in those beautiful lines commencing:

How doth the busy little flea

Improve each starry night,

And gather food from you and me

With all his little might.

How skilfully it hops away,

When it we try to squeeze;

And waits until the close of day

Its hunger to appease.

The flea may be said to come under the denomination of “game,” being

eagerly hunted by various animals, and especially by woman. To see a

woman flea-hunting is a never-to-be-forgotten sight. What ardour

glistens in her eyes! what determination is shown in her mouth! It is

probably the only time in a woman’s life when she doesn’t know, or

doesn’t care, whether her back-hair is up or down; and if she _does_

catch the flea, the pride of the successful fox-hunter is small in

comparison with hers.

The flea’s favourite song is “Put me in _your_ little bed.”

――――――――

HYMNS FOR CHILDREN.